Things have calmed down since the pack was able to rid Stiles of the nogitsune. Their lives are practically back to normal – or, well, as normal as their lives in Beacon Hills can possibly be. Everyone's resumed their roles, attempting to continue on business as usual.
Except Stiles.
Of course, it's not exactly a surprise that after being possessed and going after every person he gave a damn about, he is having a little struggle adjusting.
But a little struggle is putting it mildly.
He is paranoid, rightfully so. He can't sleep still, constantly worrying that he will wake up and not be himself once again. He can't eat; every time he tries he pictures everything he did. 'It wasn't you,' they all tell him, but it was his body. He remembers it all, can feel himself doing it all. He jumps at every little noise, refuses eye contact, and prefers not to be touched, afraid that his own hands will once again betray him.
But it's different with Scott.
Of course it's different with Scott. Scott, who held him after the death of his mother and never once let go of his hand at her funeral; Scott, who didn't even hesitate in slamming Jackson's head into his desk after he rudely told Stiles to go take his medication; Scott, who had his back even when it felt like the entire world was conspiring against him. Scott is his security. Stiles knows, he knows that if anyone could protect him from everything in the world, supernatural or not, it's Scott. So he clings.
And, well, clinging might be putting it lightly.
Stiles stays at the McCall's place after the nogitsune, too shaken up to be moved to his own house and not ready to be apart from his best friend. Stiles follows Scott - whatever room Scott is in, so is Stiles. Scott goes into the kitchen to make them breakfast, Stiles hops up on the counter and watches his every move. Scott goes upstairs to take a shower, Stiles sits on the toilet and waits for him to finish. Scott doesn't need to be told to do the same when Stiles showers. When they go downstairs to watch a movie as Melissa prepares lunch, Stiles sits as close to Scott as physically possible without ending up in Scott's lap. Though, honestly, he is about halfway there anyway.
Scott doesn't mind. He never does. Scott just puts his arm around Stiles's constantly shaking shoulders and holds him even closer, hoping to still the tremors. Scott doesn't mind when his mom finishes making lunch and brings it out to the two boys sitting on the couch and Stiles's hands tremble so badly that Scott has to help feed him while simultaneously not relinquishing his hold on the boy. Scott doesn't mind when the two stay there on the couch, well after the credits have rolled and the menu selection screen for whatever movie they had watched (Scott doesn't even know anymore) plays in an annoying, continuous loop, as Stiles stares blankly at the screen, hands still fisted tightly in Scott's shirt. Scott doesn't mind when, still covered in crumbs, Stiles begins to nod off with his cheek pressed firmly against Scott's chest. Scott doesn't mind when nodding off turns to basically sleeping and he gently slides an arm beneath Stiles's knees before lifting him and making his way upstairs. He doesn't mind when Stiles shifts at the sudden movement, thankfully not waking, and buries his head in Scott's neck where his warm breath tickles Scott's skin.
He doesn't mind when, the second he lays Stiles down in his bed, Stiles reaches out blindly, refusing to break contact for even a moment. After shedding his jeans, Scott complies, as always, and carefully moves Stiles over just enough to join him on his bed. Scott doesn't mind when Stiles is quick to burrow into his side, head resting heavily on Scott's chest, long fingers desperately clinging to Scott's shirt, impossibly cold feet pressed up against Scott's exposed shins. Scott holds him close, one hand tightly gripping Stiles's hip, the other delicately running through Stiles's hair. Scott doesn't mind forgoing dinner so he doesn't have to move and disturb the sleeping boy on top of him.
Scott doesn't mind when Stiles screams them both awake at one in the morning. Scott doesn't mind when he has to literally drag Stiles into his lap to barely avoid a panic attack. He doesn't mind when he has to reassure Stiles for over an hour that "you're safe, I'm right here, you're okay, I've got you" as Stiles desperately pleads for Scott not to leave him, to protect him, to "help me, Scott. Scotty, please." Scott doesn't mind when Stiles does finally fall asleep, still in his lap, with his snot-and-tears-streaked face buried in the crook of Scott's neck. Scott doesn't mind when, only an hour later, Stiles's frantic heartbeat rouses him from half-consciousness and he has to spend another fifteen minutes rocking a still unconscious Stiles until his whimpers subside.
Scott doesn't mind when he wakes up in the morning, Stiles's deadweight uncomfortable on top of him, covered in Stiles's tears, snot, and sweat. He doesn't mind that Stiles has drooled all over his collarbone, that his shirt is certainly ruined from the death grip Stiles had it in, and that the both of them along with the sheets are soaked from Stiles's sweat. He doesn't mind that Stiles's breath is still tickling his neck. He doesn't even care that he knows this whole process will repeat itself again today. He doesn't care because Stiles is everything to him. He doesn't mind remaining in his horribly uncomfortable position until Stiles wakes. He doesn't care because he knows the boy in his arms is safe, feels safe as long as Scott is with him. And Scott would give the world just for Stiles to feel safe.