Something I Can Never Have
If anyone asks, he would say that no, nothing really significant has happened in his life. Of course, the second he turned away; he'd snicker into his palm and subtly slide his other hand into Scott's. Their fingers would lace together and they'd go back to whispered arguments over Superheroes or better movies. Nothing significant indeed. Sometimes he thinks about what it would have been like if they'd been normal, if they hadn't had to worry about murderers and prying fathers, and they could have just been kids. Sometimes Scott will catch him in these thoughts and slide an arm around him.
"Normal's boring," he'll murmur, and his form won't flicker at all to betray what they both know is a lie. Normal is safe. Normal means bruises that fade, means that Band-Aids are enough for the scratches they receive, means that nightmares are of claws in the dark.
But if not normal gives him Scott, he'll take that any day.
Stiles is five years old the first time he visits a cemetery. He doesn't remember much of what he actually came to see. He remembers some of the ceremony, the way that it was too cold to be fall, the way the weather seemed to reflect the mood of Beacon Hills after one of their long time deputies had died. The sky was this odd gray, humid and half-raining, draining the life and color out of every living thing, and some that weren't. There was a funeral party after, which didn't really make sense to him. Why would you have a party to celebrate somebody dying?
Anyways, he escaped from the funeral homes to look for secret lairs in the graves. He made sure to stay far away from the freshly turned dirt, keeping to the line of modern graves up front. Names stuck out to him: Argent, Boyd, Hale, Martin, Yukimura, Lahey, these sleek black graves made of marble or granite, shining in the little sun that peeked through the clouds.
He ran his fingers over the top of a rough sort of concrete, checking for a trigger. He moved around to the front and gasped at the defaced grave. His short, stubby five year old fingers danced clumsily over the words, half broken by sharpie: Scott McCall: Beloved Son, 1996-2000.
Stiles liked to think that he was pretty good at math for his age, and he figured that Scott was about his age, just a couple months younger. He might have known this kid in another life. Anyway, whoever Scott McCall might have been, he certainly didn't deserve to have his grave all marked up. His fingers made their way across Scott's name one more time.
"It's okay, Scotty. I'll get this taken care of." The words stuck in his throat and made his stomach ache for a reason he couldn't quite place. He shook it off, beginning to run back the home to get his dad when a voice stopped him.
"Please don't." The boy's voice was small, scared, like the kids from the elementary school shooting he had seen on the news before his mom turned off the TV, but even younger somehow. He slowly turned around, slowly so as not to scare the boy that had been hiding in the cemetery.
The kid standing in front of him was nearly his age, with golden skin that wasn't affected by the aforementioned horrible weather, and big eyes like the warm cocoa he hoped to have once he got inside. He looked closer, eyes narrowing as he scanned the yellowing purple tinging this kid's face, instantly protective, but still curious.
"Don't what?" He asks, slowly raising his hands, as he looks a little closer at the blood on the edge of the boy's shirt. He knows that if he can't get close to this jumpy, nervous kid then he can't help him, and even if Stiles is the least threatening five year old he knows, he's not going to take any chances. He's going to help this kid. Like Batman. Like his Dad.
"Don't tell your dad about the grave." The boy's hands are fiddling nervously with the edge of his red stained shirt, and the sight of this innocent boy wearing such a shirt makes something in his heart stutter.
"Why not?" How did this boy get here in the first place, and in such a condition? Could it have been some sort of animal? Wait-how did he even know I was going to my dad?
"Mom doesn't want my dad's name on there. She'll be mad if you take it off." The boy is blinking up, innocent and scared and tired.
"Did your mom do this?" The boy nods sheepishly, head down. "Hey, hey look at me. It's not your fault, okay. I just needed to know. So, is this your brothers?" He's trying so desperately to calm the boy down, because no way can he leave now, not with this kid here about to cry.
The boy shakes his head and whispers, "it's mine." Stiles reels back, information spinning fast, so fast in his head, so quickly that it makes him feel dizzy.
Scott McCall, a dead boy, sitting right in front of him.
"Okay, then." He says, and he knows he's off to the right start because the b- Scott is grinning at him like he's the best person in the world just for staying. So he decides to continue the way he was going. "Why did your mom deface your grave?" He's scared but excited at the same time, so it confuses him when Scott's face falls the tiniest bit before picking right back up.
"My mom says that he doesn't deserve to share a name with me, but she can't afford to change it. Please don't tell your dad. Then they'll take it off and she'll be sad again." Scott's unselfish motivations astonish him; it takes both his parents to make him give up a pack of skittles.
"Okay, I won't tell him. So, um, you are a ghost, right?" He asks, somewhat nervously, looking for proof before he can quite believe it.
Scott puts his hand through his tombstone, "I guess so." His voice wavers. "I can't even remember how it happened. The look of extreme sadness on Scott's face should be enough to deter him from the oncoming adventure.
"You can't remember how you died?" He can tell that there's a light growing in his eyes, exited and mischievous and happy.
Scott steps up to him earnestly, just looking for help in a world that has obviously betrayed him, "Will you help me find out what happened?"
Stiles slings an arm across Scott's shoulders, grin widening when his arm doesn't go straight through, like in the only ghost movie he's ever seen. "Yeah, of course I will.
Eleven years later and Scott is still following him around like a puppy. Or maybe he's following Scott. But as he looks over at Scott's curled up, sleeping form, he decides that there isn't anything he'd rather have. He snuggles down beside him, wondering for the billionth time how someone dead could be so warm, alive under his fingers. Scott has a theory that he's more solid when he's with Stiles, which is why they decided to have Scott stop going to school. They can't have anyone notice them again.
Scott had been aging normally, which is something that no research he had found was able to explain. He looked like a normal teenage, hell, an attractive normal teenage. No way would he and Scott have been friends in the real world. He laughed at himself; what even was the real world anymore?
They go to the hospital often enough, to patch up the effects of Stiles' various misadventures, and, of course, to see Scott's mom, Melissa McCall. Scott's face breaks out into this huge grin every time he sees her, and Stiles always turns away so he doesn't have to see it fall when she walks right through him.
Every time they come home from one of those trips, it always starts with Scott being an insanely protective, watching him move up the stairs like he's going to fall, climbing into bed on the side closest to the door, so that if anything tries to get to Stiles it will have to go through him first.
But Stiles has no illusions about what is going to happen. All he can do in the long night is cling onto Scott's hand to keep him there while his form wavers wildly. He always starts out facing Stiles, and Stiles hates that he can't even ask why, but soon enough he turns to curl up facing the door, trying to hide the crying. Needless to say, it doesn't really work.
"Scott?" Stiles hates this, hates that Scott's all curled up like there's nothing left in the goddamn world for him, and something inside him just breaks. "Hey, Scotty." He leans into curl around Scott, whispering reassurances and promises that are all he has to offer. "Hey, buddy, it's okay. I promise. It's all gonna be okay."
He's not quite sure how, but Scott sniffs and suddenly his face is buried in the place between Stiles' neck and shoulder. Their legs are tangled, and it's then that he feels Scott getting taller, but still trying to make himself so goddamn small. "It's gonna be okay. We're going to find out who did this to you. I promise."
Something about the promise makes it hurt even more when Scott just cries harder.
They had been looking for Scott's cause of death since he figured out how to pick a lock, about seven years ago. Until then, they had had to rely on what Melissa had told him and the few newspaper articles there were on the subject. Once he had finally managed to steal the files, he wished he hadn't. He couldn't open them without hyperventilating, the bruises on Scott's skin and the pale, unbreathing corpse that cannot possibly his Scott just terrify him, and he spends hours in Scotts arms, reassuring himself with his steadily breathing best friend.
What scares him the most about all this, is that the bruises are still on Scott's face. Even as he ages, even as he gets older and needs Stiles to cut his hair, voice cracking and beating Stiles in a height contest for a full month, the bruises and the bloodstains stay the same, appearing on every shirt he wears, and disappearing the second he takes it off. In short, he tries to keep Scott away from mirrors.
Anyways, the autopsy said that the actual cause of death was a wound to the stomach, although bruises like that on a five year old couldn't have helped. The police report said that Mr.— now Agent McCall had taken his son to the park, left to use the bathroom, and come back to find his son bleeding out. The details of the report were vague and confusing, especially for a child death, especially for one that was to this day unsolved.
He kept his suspicions away from Scott. The fact that someone had actually wanted to kill him had messed him up for months. If Stiles had suggested to him that his own father was in on it, then everything that made Scott himself would disappear.
He had only asked his dad about the Scott McCall case only once and the closed answer he received shocked him. His dad had looked up from the stacks of paper on the Hale fire, and then spent the rest of the night neck deep in a bottle of Jack, and Stiles decided to never ask again.
Melissa McCall was another story. Stiles had broken his arm once, the first time he ever went to see her. They had been following Stiles' stupid idea to climb a tree, when Stiles had fallen too quickly for Scott to catch him. He looked at her, checking his pulse and taking care of him so painstakingly that he accidentally let slip, "You would make a great mom." She got this tired, far off look in her eyes, and then she told him a story.
"I had a son. He'd be about your age now, actually. His name was Scott." At this, it's all Stiles can do to not grab her hand and squeeze it at how incredibly tired she sounds. Tired, but wistful somehow, still hopeful. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scott who looks almost delirious at getting to see his mother, to hear more about a past he can barely remember,
"When he was about four, I took him to one of those overnight daycares, because his-his father—" and he barely notices the stumble but he does- "his father and I both had to work the late night.
"Scott was always so quiet. There was never any trouble with him unless it was necessary, and even then, it was the quiet kind of trouble. From what the caretaker told us, he just plopped down on a beanbag and read his comic book. Of course-you know what kids are like- all the other kids were so hopped up on the opportunity to be away from their parents for a night that it was chaos in there." At this, Stiles grimaced because yes he remembers what three and four year olds are like, and they're not good memories. Scott sticks his tongue out at him, settled in a blue chaise armchair in the corner of the room.
"So, Scott was trying to get to bed at a reasonable time, just by habit, but there were still so many screaming kids that no one really had time to pay attention to one of them trying to sleep. Scott told me that he found a sign that said restroom, so he went to sleep in there. The day care guy found him there at two in the morning." The way she tells the story makes her seem even more like a mom, laughing with bright blue eyes and dark curls falling into her face.
Stiles bursts out laughing, and in the corner, he can see Scott's eyes widening. "Nope. Nope I didn't do that. That's a lie. She's kidding."
Ever since then Melissa had had a soft spot for Stiles. It helped that she was the main hospice nurse who helped to care for his mom when she got sick. When Stiles would come to visit his mom, and she would fall asleep, Melissa would tell him stories, ones that popped up in Scott's head a few hours later.
Stiles' mom had something called frontotemporal dementia, which did all kinds of awful things, which left her with crippling muscle spasms, changing speech patterns, and depression so severe that it was all she could do to smile when her son and husband came in.
At the time, neither Scott nor Stiles had known what was actually going on. The only thing they knew of being –sick, really sick- was the one time Stiles had gotten salmonella from raw cookie dough. It had never even occurred to Scott that people could die from sickness.
They had just come from a long day at school, the sun had beaten down on them the whole way to the hospital, and Stiles' textbook was weighing down his backpack. Scott stole two of the lollipops from the boxes for the really little kids, and then they walked solemnly into the hospital room of Mrs. Claudia Stilinski. She'd been half-asleep for a few days, tired even when they shot adrenaline through her so she could do some more tests.
Scott sat in his corner of the room, reading his— Stiles' comic books quietly, pretending not to notice the way Stiles clung to his mother.
Claudia was deeply asleep, but Stiles didn't mind. He held her hand and he just stared. She kind of looked like she used to, before she got sick. Really, it was amazing how not bored he was. You'd think an ADHD kid would get bored just sitting there for a couple hours, but he really didn't mind.
But then the alarms started blaring and screaming, red neon lights flashed and burned in his eyes and panicking nonsense came out of his mouth because ohmygodwhatshappening? He backed away, yelling for nurses and doctors who burst into the room near instantly. Scott ran over to him, holding his hand tightly, so tightly. Someone pushed Stiles to the side, into the row of black plastic waiting room chairs, and he clung to Scott's hand, pulling him to his chest, out of the way of the doctors pushing though.
Scott wrapped his arms around him, turning him away from the scene. Numbly, Stiles lowered his head into Scott's shoulder, into warmth and safety, and away from the too many people surrounding his mom, pressing in needles and pressing buttons. His arms hung limply by his sides, because he knew, he just knew that nothing in this world was safe for him. Not Scott, not his mom not anyone. He spun out of Scott's arms, turning back to face the cold machines.
"It's gonna be okay. Your mom's gonna be fine, just fine. It's okay, Stiles." He's crying now, so scared and so tired, and so tired of being scared, and he barely hears the sound of Scott's voice.
"What's wrong?" He asks, and his voice is thick, scared, small. "Is she gonna be okay." And Scott's mom turns around.
"Oh, honey." The look on her face says everything he can't hear. The world around him blurs and he clings to Scott's hand like it's the only thing keeping him grounded because it is. Stiles and Scott are left alone in the room with one last look from Melissa McCall, a promise to call his dad, and advice to say your goodbyes.
In short, Melissa didn't mind seeing Stiles a couple of times a month, especially since he came bearing leftovers. She would usually take a break and they would talk about Scott, about anything, over wheat noodles lasagna or vegetable casserole (his dad's last check up report said that he was eating too much unhealthy fast food, so Stiles, at gunpoint he might add, began to stealthily replace all the calorie-ridden bacon strips with something-anything else. Scott helps a lot with this kind of thing, grabbing what they need and, grinning cheekily, floating through the store detectors. Long story short, the store detectors have been known to never really work).
So, Melissa makes it a point to keep a prescription of Adderall, a story about her son, and about five of the lollipops on hand for unexpected visits. (Stiles always shared them with Scott, and she would always give this astounded look at how he managed to eat them in the time he was with her-never more than an hour). There were days when Stiles came to her and asked questions about where Scott was or what happened to him, or why haven't I seen him in school, always with Scott's permission, and always with Scott looking away, face buried into a pillow, or Stiles' neck. She always got really silent on those days, looking at him as though she could see her son clinging to his hand, or as though she was trying to. Her mouth pressed together and the light that was always in her eyes seemed to fade. And then she would resume the puzzle they were working on, or keep eating and talk about something else, anything else. It frustrated him to no end, but he just nodded, and pretended not to notice as Scott's grip eased.
Scott had only been discovered once, by a boy named Isaac Lahey. Isaac was new in his grade, moving to Beacon Hills the year of eighth grade with the intent to stay for a long while. Scott had still been going to school with him, making witty comments about the teachers, and playing a game where he tried to make Stiles laugh without attracting the attention of anyone else. It usually worked, at least, until Isaac.
Ever since the new boy had come, Scott had been fascinated with him, and although Stiles asked Isaac the questions Scott wanted answers to, the jealousy of Scott finding someone outside of him was immense. It made him feel like he was being replaced, and by someone who couldn't even see Scott. His blood started to boil every time Isaac was even mentioned. It was supposed to be the two of them against the world. It was irrational, he would admit that. Lydia was one of his favorite people, and Scott never got jealous of her, even putting up with Stiles' endless praise of her knowledge and piercing remarks.
It was only after watching the way Isaac would flinch at a raised tone or hand, the way he scared so easily, that he began to understand. His suspicions, the ones about Scott's father, had reached their full development by the time he was twelve, so at thirteen, he had developed a hypothesis that Agent— even the words came out with a snarl in his head— McCall had been abusing Scott and Melissa, even if Scott couldn't remember it. He had been only four when he died, and reports showed that he had hit his head pretty hard, so who knew which memories were real.
Scott and Isaac had an undeniable connection, and he resolved to not get in the way, even if it hurt a little bit to think of Scott abandoning him. Okay, hurt a lot. Once he had asked Scott if he knew about Isaac's father, and the look on Scott's face was enough to make him regret it. Sometimes he thought that Scott could even remember some of his father, but just kept it to himself.
The day after that, Scott had begged for them to go sit next to Isaac, and Stiles, faced with big, brown, pleading eyes, had had no choice but to comply. However, when he had noticed the hand-shaped marks around Isaac's neck, when Scott had, everything changed. Scott clung to his hand, looking imploringly at him without saying a word.
"Isaac?" He had asked, and the flinch that the taller boy gave was unmistakable. "What's up, dude?" Isaac stared down into whatever the school was trying to pass off as food this week and murmured something hoarsely. Behind him, Stiles could feel the intense curiosity of Scott's gaze.
"You know you can tell me if you need help, right?" Scott's grip grew tighter, but Isaac shrunk back.
"Why would I need help?" The expression on Isaac's face is so completely lost, that it is all Stiles can do not to fall apart. This could have been Scott, this has been Scott and he can't stand to think of his best friend in a state like this. A gentle smile makes its way onto his face, the kind that normally only Scott can draw from him. He can feel Isaac's walls softening.
"You can tell me the truth. I won't be mad. We can take you away from him." He's almost whispering, but not quite, because then someone will notice them, and no one can notice until Isaac's ready. Scott is gripping his hand so tightly now that he can feel his the blood to his hand stopping. Isaac is pale, stuttering and crying just a little bit, and it's honestly a wonder that no one has noticed them yet.
"You can get me taken away from him?" Isaac bit his lip, looking around nervously, and the way he is scared of a father miles away makes Stiles' stomach clench.
"Dude, my dad's the sheriff. Physical evidence and a testimony will be more than enough to get you safe." He's speaking like he actually knows something about this process, but it seems to be enough to reassure Isaac, and if that's enough to get him down to the station then he doesn't care if he has to make Isaac believe the world is made of cheese.
No way is he letting another kid die because of this.
And then they're smiling, Scott beaming like the sun and Isaac's teeth revealed in a way other than a growl. It feels like nothing in the world can go wrong until Isaac looks just past him and screams.
Scott's fingers had instantly let go of his, and blood flowed through his fingers so quickly that, for a moment, it was all he could register. What was Isaac screaming at? He was looking past Stiles, through Scott.
Realization hit him like a bullet. At Scott.
Isaac was looking at Scott.
People were staring, and Stiles' heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his throat. He looked from Scott to Isaac, and back again, but it was plain from the way that Isaac's eyes kept darting around that Scott had disappeared from his sight. Scott looked completely elated and terrified at the same time, looking at his hands like he had never seen them before.
The room was completely silent, the kids all around them looking around for the source of the scream. He knew it was only a matter of time before the teachers came over to investigate.
"Scott, get out of here." His voice wasn't harsh or loud, but it was scared, and Scott seemed to get the message, dissolving into the air as Mr. Jones rushed over to Stiles and Isaac.
"What happened, Isaac?" He asked, eyes careful to avoid the prominent bruises over Isaac's throat. Isaac swallowed, hands clenching as the room slowly lost tension and began murmuring.
"Nothing. Nothing, I just," his eyes meet Stiles' and it's impossible not to see the fear and doubt there, "I thought I saw something."
Isaac doesn't come to school the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that.
When he asks, his teacher tells him that Isaac transferred to another school, but Stiles can't get the other boy he couldn't save out of his head.
Once they had figured out that it was dangerous for Scott to keep going to school, they tried to make due with Stiles teaching him. However, high school began to take it's toll, and soon enough, Stiles came home too exhausted to move, let alone teach. Stiles had started Scott on an online school program, and had the hope that by the time Stiles graduated, Scott could go with him to college, be there with him, and even understand. Scott wasn't even doing badly in school, only having trouble when his fingers weren't solid enough to hold a pencil or type on a keyboard.
But at this point, Stiles doesn't really care about school. Scott generally agrees, usually affirming the statement when faced with a particularly difficult geometry equation.
They come fairly close to normal, as close as it can be for what they are. They have routines and cooking schedules, Stiles has friends like Lydia, and Scott has online friends like Liam. They manage to find a way to coexist with the supernatural phenomenon that is Scott McCall, and there isn't any word, at least in the English language that can describe what exactly they have (he's still examining Greek parabatai, which is a deeper translation for "soul mate.") but for what it is, he'll call it good.
He talks a lot, and Scott often interjects with things that are sometimes relevant and sometimes not, and he thinks that it's a good balance. They talk for hours about everything under the sun, about things that matter in a way they'll never forget, or about meaningless nothings that will never matter again.
He thinks about Scott too, about his uneven jaw and the dimples that appear when he smiles, and about the laugh lines carved into his face. He thinks about how lucky he is to have him, about all the things that he would do for him. He thinks about how he wants kisses, and holding hands, and something else that he's not even going to try and describe.
He thinks about how every article he's ever read says that one day, Scott will leave, and then he doesn't feel like thinking anymore.
They wake up the way they always do, with alarms and silent grumbles, and Scott's back to his chest, turning so brown curls press at his nose and begging for five more minutes. After all this time, Scott has given up on making him breakfast every morning, so they leave with a shouted goodbye to a father he's forgotten isn't there. He puts it out of his mind, thinking it must be some kind of work thing.
Holding hands while they walk is something they've adapted out of necessity, making sure that Scott is still there, still is something that they both depend on-that contact that proves reality. It's also the only way they can touch without making Stiles look absolutely insane.
They're holding hands and quietly arguing over which Le Mis character had it the worst when they see the people gathered around Scott's memorial. They flash each other the look they haven't used since Isaac-the one that means there's something going on.
Scott's face is terrified and exited all at once, but he still runs to catch up. They push their way through the crowd of ten or twenty people- and it isn't hard, because they all know him, and none of them want to have to answer his questions-until they get to yellow caution tape surrounding wood and iron, marred by the smoky ruins of fire.
Stiles' dad is shaking his head at some official looking people, his fingers twitching the way they always do when he's nervous or worried.
Scott's memorial-a bench with his name carved in a bronze plaque- lies in ruins, smashed and burned so that only the plaque remains- only bit with Scott's name. He notices that McCall is gone-the way it was at the grave- and for the tiniest second he considers that Melissa McCall might be involved in this. Then, he sees the weapon, a crowbar that a couple of men in suits are sealing away. No way would Mrs. McCall ever touch that thing, let alone carry it. Besides, there are probably fingerprints on it or something.
"Dad!" He called, ducking under the yellow tape with Scott at his heels, looking for a corner of a shirt, a familiar badge, until he found his father talking to an important-looking man in a suit.
"Dad!" They skid to a stop right behind his father and the-holy crap- FBI Agent. Scott's hand is on his shoulder to balance himself, and he looks with wide eyes at the Agent. His father turns around, and behind the "I'm the sheriff of this county, I know what you can and cannot do here, and I won't take any crap from you just because you have a hair regulation" look, Stiles can see fear.
He's dark haired, and he looks like the most pompous person Stiles has ever seen; he's dressed in a suit that screams money, despite the fact that it's August in the middle of a park. An FBI badge glistens around his throat and as he grabs at it, the only sign of nervousness, the smirk on his face widens.
"You'll lose your job, Stilinski. I warned you."
"I won't fall as far as you." And in that moment, Stiles sees exactly where the mile-long stubborn streak comes from. The way his dad is glaring… It makes him glad that Scott is still next to him.
The agent glares right back, but it isn't any match for John Stilinski's crossed arms. He walks away with a scowl and a glare, a second look back at them, but he keeps watching, and all Stiles can think about is the way that an FBI Agent, holy crap had told his father that he was going to lose his job. Over Scott.
God, he knew all about the unsolved case, but his dad's involvement in it wasn't something he was willing to look into. Not yet, not ever.
The memorial stood broken and blurry in the silence between them. Somehow, like it always did, Scott's hand found it's way into his, and he squeezed, clinging, really.
"Dad? Is this about the Scott McCall case?" Suddenly he's very aware of just how many people are watching, just how many people are listening because that's what you do in a town this small, you listen, and you gossip and you hope that it doesn't touch you. He's suddenly aware of how many people can see him grasping at air, and so he lets go, hard as it is to do.
If only they could have avoided this.
"If I don't tell you, are you going to steal my laptop tonight?" His dad asks, hands in graying blonde hair, tired but still making an effort. After the agent had left, it was like all the fight had gone from him.
"You know I will." The smile Stiles plastered on his face was fake and brittle, and he longed for Scott's hand in his.
"Fine." He replied, "but only what's going in the public report.
"The person who sabotaged the memorial was trying to send a message. They left some pictures, they're files from a private investigator. Apparently, a family living near here took some pictures the night of the murder, some kind of late night party. Apparently, there's a blurry shot of the murder. We called them to confirm, and we're going to collaborate to complete this case." His voice was determined.
"But blurs are never going to hold up in a court case, especially not one from what, ten years ago?" Stiles asked, angry at the lack of anything substantial.
"Right, but the PI doesn't have the tech to accurately zoom in on the photo. Neither do we, to be honest, they're really not good shots, and it really wasn't a good camera. So we contacted the state, but only the FBI has the kind of tech we need, and they sent him."
"McCall," Scott whispers, and he's put all the pieces together at last, the ones that have been arranging themselves in Stiles' head for years. They know exactly who is going to show up on those photos, all three of them.
"That's Agent McCall." His dad says, and then, as though it needs clarifying, "Scott McCall's father."
From there, everything blurs.
He knows that it sounds cliché to say that he doesn't know quite when he fell in love with Scott McCall, but he's going to say it anyways: he has no clue when he fell in love with Scott McCall. However, he can pinpoint the exact moment he realized it.
Stiles turned thirteen three months and ten days after Isaac left. Not left, he tells himself spitefully sometimes, was taken. There were little moments, movies, waking up in the mornings, walking home from school, where there were little smiles, or a laugh here and there. They were few, though, and far in-between.
He missed Scott's smiles, he missed smiling, and he missed the little touches that used to accompany every movement. He missed sleeping curled together, fingers laced, layered over each other, and he missed whispered secrets in the dark. It wasn't accusatory; Scott doesn't have it in him to be resentful, even if Stiles deserves it.
At midnight, Scott's breathing sounds next to him (he doesn't really need to breathe, but it's not a habit that Stiles is going to try and break. There's something reassuring about a breathing Scott McCall, like it proves that his best friend won't disappear. Like Isaac did.)
Suddenly, he's sobered up, and it's hard to inhale. He hasn't had a panic attack in such a long time, and he doesn't want to have another one, not now, not ever. He has enough screwed up half-nightmares without including another panic attack.
Really, Stiles had never noticed how interesting the ceiling was. Usually when he was awake, Scott was, too, or he was at least working on some caffeine-fueled-F-destined-project.
He couldn't count how many times they had stayed awake for hours, letting words and hands describe whatever they wanted to say. Sometimes they talked about nothing at all, and sometimes about everything that ever mattered. They talk about Lydia Martin (Stiles' best friend in the world, besides Scott of course) and they talk about movies they're not supposed to be watching. He praises the broken memories that have finally fallen to Scott's reach and they argue about favorite ice cream flavors. They used to talk about Isaac and now they don't talk at all.
It's sometime around one in the morning when he finishes sorting through his feelings and drifts to sleep.
He dreams of fragmented, imperfect pieces of things he doesn't want to remember. Close ups of Scott's corpse, exhausted glimpses of a murder in a park that no one could solve, but never to be confused with bruises around the throat of a blond boy who no one could save.
When he finally wakes up, there's such an acute sense of something missing, that it's all he can do not to scream when he notices that Scott is gone.
He's not above yelling, though. "Scott? Scott!" He was half-screaming, really, not caring that his father was right there to listen to every word he said, his missing, goddamnit, friend the only thing on his mind.
He scrambles out of the bed, tripping over half-assembled Lego sets, nearly falling down the stairs and grabbing onto corners as he sprints downstairs.
"Scott? Scott!" He ran into the kitchen, so fast that he wasn't able to stop himself from barreling into Scott.
"Scott! He exclaimed, throwing his arms around his friend for the first time in what felt like years. He was so busy holding on that he didn't notice the water that had now soaked the two of them as well as the better part of the kitchen floor. Scott's arms are tight around him, and he buries his face into Scott's shoulder, gripping tighter.
"Hey, buddy, what's wrong?" Scott knows instantly what to do, to bring the two of them gently to the floor, so that they're breathing the same air, curled together on the same tiles. Scott's the more comforting of them, and Stiles is grateful beyond everything that he's there.
"Where did you go?" He asks into Scott's shoulder, inhaling vanilla and musk.
"I was right here, Stiles. I wouldn't leave you." His words are so serious, so truthful, that the lighter tone that accompanies his next words is both surprising and familiar at the same time, and that makes it easier to let go. "Especially on your birthday."
When he looks up, Scott's eyes are warm and happy even before he starts laughing.
"What?" He's playfully defensive now that the seriousness of everything is over. His fingers move slowly over the buttons on his shirt as they search for something to do, something to grab on to so he doesn't reach for Scott again, but his fingers touch something wet. He looks up, and Scott just laughs harder at the bewildered look he must have on his face.
Scott's face is absolutely radiant, brighter than any sun could ever pretend to be. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and they're filled with something so utterly alive that Stiles can convince himself for a moment that nothing in the universe is wrong, that it's his birthday and he's having a sleepover with his best friend.
They've spent hours waving up stories where Scott never died, where some of them are utterly ridiculous, with Scott as Jackson's best friend. Some are more realistic, where they grow up together and they join the lacrosse team, and after they graduate, they get a dog, and a motorcycle. Scott becomes a vet and Stiles takes over the Sherriff position. Sometimes they talk about how Scott's parents would still be together, and they would tell stories over Melissa's chocolate chip cookies about how Scott was attacked, but they caught the asshole that did it.
"I'll kill him." Stiles had promised. "I'd never let him touch you again.
"You can't." Scott had said. "And it's not like he can hurt me anymore. You can't kill anyone. Not for me. Promise."
And Stiles had.
And these thoughts are so perfect, but there's a reason they stopped playing this game, the way it hurts somewhere deep and fierce when he realizes that he can't stay here forever.
Scott's so perfect, happy and oblivious to the shattering world around him, seeing only his best friend soaked in water. God, Stiles loves his laugh.
Wait, what? Scott's laugh, he loves Scott's laugh. That's all. It's good to enjoy his best friend's laugh. But he knows that isn't the truth.
He loves Scott. He knows he does, too. He loves the dimples and the laugh lines, and the sunshine that accompanies every blinding smile. He loves the way that Scott accepts an apology, with a reassuring "you're fine," because everything he does is for other people. He loves how Scott woke up early-which he hated doing- just to make Stiles breakfast on his birthday.
"Stiles?" His dad had called blearily, pulling Stiles out of his trance, woken from the noise they had caused. "Who's Scott?" He was still half-asleep. It wouldn't take much of a lie to subdue him.
"Great Scott," he called back, watching Scott's face light up again at the reference before he continued, "I dropped the pancake mix!"
"Okay, son." The Sherriff was already falling back to sleep.
"So." He spins in a circle to take in the contents of the counter. "What kind of pancakes were you going to make me?" He can wait.
Stiles is tired, exhausted really, but he's still standing at the scene of the murder that killed his best friend. The murder that there is new evidence on now, the murder that puts everything into a horrible perspective, the murder that keeps his hands cold and linked with someone only he can see. Next to him, Scott cranes his neck to look around at the memorial that stands where the police found his body.
"It's almost over," The ghost breathes out, voice cracking as his fingers brush over his name on the stone. Stiles instinctively clasps their hands closer together because he knows, he fucking knows what happens to a ghost when the circumstances of their death has been cleared up. He wishes to whatever screwed up higher power exists that he didn't, or that he could find some way to stop this, but he can't.
"You're not gone yet. Not until whoever did it is locked up for good. Or dead." His voice darkens as he thinks about what he wants to do to the man who killed Scott.
"You promised." Scott says, squeezing his fingers tighter, eyes closing so he didn't have to see the world in front of him and what it had become.
"I know, just-" Their fingers have become a lifeline in what he cannot say. "He doesn't deserve to get off that easy." Somehow he conveys his opinion without falling apart completely.
"He's still my dad. I'm sure he had a reason we don't know about." Sometimes Scott's innocence is blinding and sometimes it is sputtering but trying valiantly to stay bright. Stiles hates that he can't do anything to keep it going. That he has to be the night to gently put the sun to rest. But he can't just let Scott believe-hope that his father did nothing wrong.
Or maybe he can let Scott have this for just a little longer. So he nods and pulls Scott to him because it's all he can do, and it's a start on escaping this hopelessness.
The rest of the day moves slowly; despite the growing darkness, there's homework to be done and people to ridicule. His dad doesn't come home that night, and Scott isn't fantastic company at the moment, so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't breathe until Stiles puts a shoulder on his hand. At some point, he finds himself reading the same page over and over until he's memorized some useless fact about the Soviet Union's last leader. Eventually he gives up and goes to lie next to Scott.
He hasn't moved since they got home, and he doesn't move when Stiles lies next to him. It's so different from the hazy memories of just that morning. It seems so distant, far away from all closeness they shared.
In every memory he has, there's Scott, holding his hand; they're always touching. Their palms find each other in any situation: in happiness, boredom, exhaustion, or loneliness, their fingers are intertwined. They sleep together every night, in a bed that's far too small, or sprawled together, close even on a couch with miles of space. There isn't anything that feels more natural than slinging an arm over Scott's shoulder. They do so many 'couple things' that sometimes it drives Stiles crazy.
But today, no part of this innocent, light-hearted touching is for him. He won't pretend he doesn't enjoy it, but tonight, this is for Scott.
They don't sleep that night, but they listen to the breathing in the silence, and for now, that's enough.
In the morning, they move together as usual, and Stiles can see Scott trying to smile through the dark circles under his eyes. It's the hardest thing, but for Scott he'd wrangle the stars and fight Jackson Whitmore, so really, one fake smile isn't going to break them any further.
Scott walks him to school like always, but today they don't talk, and when they get to the building, Scott sighs like it's impossible to let him go. His eyes are pleading with Stiles to make it better, even though they both know that he can't.
But he still comes to Stiles' arms the instant they open, and they hang on for what feels like years. A bell rings somewhere in the distance, and Scot jerks away like he's been burned, whispering goodbye as though it hurts to speak. He's gone before Stiles can protest, and it's all Stiles can do to keep moving towards the school.
He's distracted the entire day, unable to talk with Lydia about their history project, unable to snark back at Jackson's insults, unable to listen to Allison drone on about her father's business trip.
He couldn't even pretend to sit through class, so he has dropped down on the stairwell to think of anything except what was happening. He was lost in the posters hanging over the lockers when a backpack fell beside him, Danny following.
"Hey there." He said, completely oblivious to the fact that Stiles had been brooding all day and clearly wanted to be alone. But then again, none of his friends were ever willing to leave him alone.
"Hi, Danny. Aiden acknowledged you yet?" He replied, hoping to annoy him into going away.
"No." He said, pouting. "How bout your boy? You ask him out yet?" Danny was never deterred by his biting sarcasm, and was useful for a sparring match. And he knew that Stiles was Bi, and that there was a guy he was interested in.
"We're dealing with other stuff." He wasn't ever going to ask Scott out. They were best friends, and that would be enough for him.
"Then he found someone else?" Danny asks, sympathetic, and ready to tell Stiles to get over him all at once.
"No, Sc- He isn't dating anyone. He can't." He relaxes back into the staircase.
"So if he's not dating anyone, and you're inflicting your own misery by not asking him out, what's the issue?"
"It's his dad."
"Homophobic or something? Unless your friend isn't gay. Well, last time we had this fascinating conversation, you told me he was experimenting-slash-not sure, so what's the deal now?"
"Or something. He was an asshole before he left, and it's even worse now. And I don't even know if he's queer at this point."
"That sucks, man. I mean both parts of it. Unrequited love's a bitch."
Silence followed, thick and awkward.
"Just talk to him, Stiles." Danny sounded tired. "Tell him that it's going to be okay."
With a clap on the shoulder, Danny left, and Stiles was more confused than ever.
It was Stiles' night to make dinner, but Scott always helped, so as not to turn the kitchen into a disaster area of food coloring and raw chicken. The cheerful noises of spaghetti filled the kitchen, pots and pans moving, clinking together. Eventually, they started to speak.
It was slow going, Stiles doing most of the talking, and Scott only occasionally interrupting.
"And Lydia just told him that it was over. God, you should have seen the look on his face. Only good thing to happen in weeks."
Giggling, Scott replied, "I think you've told this one before."
Stiles grinned right back. "This is a tale you should remember for the rest of your life."
The room got quiet as he realized what he had just said. Water ran through a strainer as a microwave timer went off. He busied himself, face burning.
"Hey, Scott?" He asked, retrieving Parmesan to hide expired sauce.
"Yeah?" He replied, quietly.
"Everything is going to be okay."
When they're tangled together in a whirl of limbs and warmth, he asks if Scott wants to kiss him.
Scott sits up immediately, and if they still slept in bunk beds, he would have hit his head, which is so the opposite of how Stiles wanted tonight to go. He hadn't even known that he was going to start this conversation until it happened.
Scott's face is flushed, and some part of him takes pride in that he can put the surprised, flustered look on his friend's face, but most of him is too busy being nervous.
"I-I'm sorry if I was that obvious." Scott stammers, avoiding looking up, or in Stiles' direction at all. Stiles can barely believe it.
"You weren't being obvious at all, Scott. God, if I had known you wanted to be a couple, I would have asked you much, much, sooner." He sighs, half-relieved, half-giddy. "Scott I never in a million years thought you wanted me."
"We're always touching." Scott whispered. "Always holding hands, like Lydia and Jackson do-did, always sleeping together, even though I could totally just sleep on the floor, or not sleep at all, or—" Stiles swallows his words as they kiss, and suddenly, they're moving together, breathing together even more than they usually do, and Scott's crushed underneath him. He doesn't believe in God, or maybe he does, but he thanks whatever higher power exists for giving him this one real moment.
Everything about everything is perfect, and his thoughts are a tangled mess of Icannotbelievethisishappening in flashing neon lights. He's kissing Scott and Scott's kissing him back. His hands tangle in Scott's hair, pale against a deep brown, a reflection of the sky in waves. And he's always thought that he's the moon revolving around Scott, but the gravity between them is too strong to handle anymore.
Somehow Scott's tongue finds its way into his mouth, and his hands cling tighter to Stiles' waist. It's just kissing, but it's amazing and wonderful, nothing like Lydia, or Danny, or anyone.
This is Scott, and this is right.
When he wakes up, Scott's laughing. It's a bright and beautiful sound, like his friend (boyfriend?) has forgotten that anything at all is wrong with the world.
"Morning," he says, stretching and reaching at the same time, and Scout bounds over happily, leaning down to press their lips together.
"I could stay here today, if you want." He says, smiling at Scott's enthusiastic nod. His dad is already gone, so all it takes is a call into the school saying that he's sick, and then he flops down next to Scott, arm automatically slipping over thin shoulders. And Scott slides into him, leaning up to kiss him.
They spend the day talking the way they haven't in forever. His words and stories slur together, about the new girl, Allison, who's some kind of psychic, about Danny's ever-changing quest to find a new boyfriend, about Scott's friends online, Erica and Boyd. Sometimes he'll breathe between words and Scott will smile fondly and lean forward.
They get lost in each other again, hands in places that are familiar and new. Maybe they're taking things a little too fast, but Scott's tongue in his mouth is enough to keep his foot on the accelerator for hours.
Reality pulled them back when someone rapped loudly on the front door. He got up mournfully, pulling Scott by the hand.
"It's probably just the mailman or something." But there were too many knocks, too loud, too desperate. He takes a look back at Scott, and his face is still blissed out from all the kissing, but it's starting to fade as the knocking gets more desperate.
He finally opens the door, and a whirl of long limbs and blonde hair instantly throws himself inside. He nearly slams into Scott as he hurries to close the door. The slam echoes throughout the room. Curls cover his face as he breaths heavily, and when he brushes them out of his eyes, they're a bright, piercing blue, radiant with excitement and adrenaline.
"Isaac?" He asks, looking intently at the boy backed up against his front door. The teen grins, stretching into a frame nearly six inches taller than him.
"Hey, Stiles." He says conversationally, as though he didn't just burst through his door after years of radio silence. But then his gaze shifts, and it doesn't matter anymore. "Scott."
Scott's cure-all formula is hot chocolate with half a bag of marshmallows and something else (he refuses to tell Stiles) added. Its always delicious, always comforting, and it always tastes like home. There are three steaming mugs of it on Stiles' desk, but no one's touched them.
Isaac tells his story like it isn't his, like he's recounting someone else's story. The way he tells it, it's like he's still trying to make sense of everything.
"As soon as I saw you, I kind of freaked, so I'm sorry about that." He gestures to Scott, drinking him in like he's proven something. "But, after that, I started seeing you in all my memories, it was like you were just appearing there. I figured it out, once I realized that only Stiles and I could see you. And then, I found out who you are. It took me a while because the growing thing threw me off. After that, it wasn't hard.
"Then I screwed up one too many times and my dad kicked me out. I found a job at Hale Private Investigations, and I found the files from your case. Before then, I had only every seen the vaguest news and police reports ever.
"I asked Derek, he's my supervisor, kind of an asshole, more abut the case, and he told me what he could, and showed me his theories, but they were nothing he could prove. He told me that if I wanted to know more, I'd have to ask the police, which, no way in hell was I doing, no offense, Stiles. Or I'd have to ask Peter. Do you guys remember the Hale fire a few years ago?" They both nod; it had been all over the news; papers from various arsonists scattering every surface in the house. "Okay, so that's the one survivor. He was in the hospital for a year before he got out. He quit the whole PI thing, but when I do see him, he's never very friendly.
Basically, Peter was hanging around, and I convinced him to tell me more about the case. He seemed really weird, but I figured it was just Peter being Peter. He was pretty unhelpful, mostly just a bunch of sarcastic comments and stuff I already knew. But he sounded pretty hostile when he was talking about how the Agent had murdered a kid. I'm pretty sure that he's the one who set the fire at your memorial. But Peter isn't on your side. He can't help you; he doesn't want to, and even if he did, he'd manipulate you into getting his way. He's insane.
"But I didn't come here to warn you off Peter. The police came knocking, and they asked me all these questions about the fire and the files. I thought that was the end of it. But then your dad showed up." He's not staring directly at Scott anymore, but he nods in his general direction, and they know he's talking about Agent McCall.
"He offered me a ton of money, like several thousand cash, for me to tell the police that the picture was from another case. I told him no, right off the bat, and he got pissed, like really angry. The look on his face… it reminded me of my dad." They all know that story.
"I do have some good news, though. Even if they can unblur the picture, there's no guarantee that it would be anything incriminating. But I recorded him trying to bribe me into corrupting evidence. If the picture doesn't prove him guilty, this will." Isaac looks up, pleased with the solution he's come up with.
Scott looks close to devastated, uncertain of what he's hearing. He had known that his father was probably the culprit, but here was real, concrete proof that it was true.
"No." He said, confused and unwilling to believe. "I don't remember much of my dad, but I don't ever remember him hurting me." When he looks up, his eyes are fierce.
But Isaac doesn't flinch. "Scott, I know that it's hard to believe. It took me months to sort through my issues, and I'm not even dead. I can show you the recording if you don't believe me. But it's true. I wouldn't lie to you about this. You know I wouldn't."
And it's true. They all know it is.
"I know." Scott whispers, "I just don't want it to be true."
Usually Stiles is the one to come forward in situations like this, but this time, it's Isaac, not even hesitating to curl around the smaller boy. They share something that Stiles can't, and he quickly pushes away the jealous feeling that rises up again. This can't be about him.
So he looks away, not wanting to intrude on this private moment, and finally takes a sip of the hot chocolate. Except it isn't hot anymore-it's freezing cold. He doesn't want to disturb Scott and Isaac if he doesn't have to, so he leaves, cradling the cold mug in his hands.
"Hello?" He calls, stupidly. It isn't like this is some horror movie. There may be such things as ghosts, but there isn't any other sort of supernatural creature. No way.
"Hey, Stiles." He jumps at the feminine voice, instantly scared of someone unfamiliar in his house. But then he realizes-it's Allison.
"Sorry about that," she says as he steps out of the hallway. "I had to get your attention so we didn't bother the boys. I think the transition for Scott will be easier if he has some people who know what he's going through."
He's stuck in a kind of fog-unable to process exactly what she means-wait… She knows about Scott. "How—" he begins, confused, but then she interrupts.
"I've known about Scott since I moved here. You never went anywhere without him. It was cute, kind of." She smiled. "You didn't believe me when I told you I was a psychic, Stiles. But I'm here to help, don't worry. I've set everything in motion. Agent McCall," She snarled the name "is back, and soon enough, everyone will know that he was the murderer. And then Scott will leave. I don't mean him any harm, but you have to know that it's time for him to go."
"If you don't want to hurt him, then why are you making him leave?" Stiles asks, still slightly disoriented, but knowing now more than ever that he doesn't want Scott to leave.
"Do you really think that he's going to be happy here forever? Once he turns eighteen, everything will stop. He'll be a real ghost. He'll be trapped. I have to fix it before that happens."
"He'll be happy with me." Stiles says weakly.
"Forever? If you don't fix this now, he'll be trapped here, and eventually, you'll die too, except you'll move on. He won't." She's getting louder and louder, and then running footsteps come from downstairs.
"Allison?" Isaac asked, knowing instantly the girl who had broken into Stiles' house. "What are you doing here?" Scott followed right after him, rounding the corner and staring.
"Same as you." After all this time, it was still disconcerting to see someone else staring at Scott. Scott still seemed dull, a little tired and glassy-eyed. But he lit up when he saw someone else staring at him.
"So you're Allison. I've heard a bit about you. Isaac says that you can give me some proof about my dad." She smiled at him, entranced by the sight of a ghost.
"Yeah, I can. But only if you're sure that you want to see."
"I'm sure. I-I need to know. So, what exactly is going to happen?"
"Wait what's going on? What are you going to do?" Stiles interrupts, completely overwhelmed by the complacency of everyone involved.
"I'm going to show him the night that he died." Allison says simply, as though it isn't something that would make most people run away screaming.
"No." He looks around. "No. No way. Scott, you're not actually thinking of doing this, are you? We know that it was your dad, and we know exactly how to get that information out of him. If you really want to know, you don't have to do it like this."
"Stiles, you can come with him. I can send you both." Allison says, completely sold with the idea of showing Scott how he was murdered for God's sake. But if he can go with Scott…
"How am I supposed to trust you? The only proof I have of your supernatural abilities is that you can see Scott, and I can do that without being wolverine."
Allison grins at him, the same grin that made Lydia fall in love with her near instantaneously, the same grin that he's seen day after day in school, and he almost trusts her. Just not with Scott. But then lights start flickering. Wind flows through cracks in windows that shouldn't exist, but somehow do. It's every cheesy horror movie he's ever seen all rolled into one display of power that he feels in his bones.
"Well, looks like that settles it." Isaac says, smiling. "Good luck."
It's strange, seeing this, like he's the ghost, and Scott's the solid one next to him. The night is cold, even though it shouldn't be, even though they're only there to observe and Allison told them that they couldn't change anything. Theoretically, there's nothing to feel. It's nearly midnight, he can see on a clock, and Stiles remembers a nauseating file.
Time of death, it proclaimed, unaware of the weight it held. Between 12 and 12:30 AM. He shivers, and Scott's hand squeezes his.
It's okay, he seems to be saying, but the shake in his hands proves that he's scared too.
Of course he's scared, he's about to see his own death, Stiles thinks, but he squeezes back, hard enough that the circulation cuts off.
Scott holds his breath as two people, one no larger than three feet, and one an even six, pass by them, nearly walking right through.
"Dad? What're we doing here so late?" Stiles flinches at the sound of Scott's voice, so small, and still living. There's something horrific and beautiful about it all at once.
"Shh, Scott. We're going on a walk. Just walk." His stomach clenches, but they keep moving. Scott wants answers; they're going to get them. Even if he has to watch him die.
The pair in in front of them keeps walking, and they follow close behind. The wind blows harder, and younger Scott shivers, clearly freezing.
"Dad, it's cold out here, why don't we go home—"He's cut off by a sickening noise, as Rafael slaps him across the face. Scott's hand goes to his face, at the bruise that never got a chance to heal.
"I said quiet!" He yells, so loud that all three of them flinch. The voice echoes and cracks through the park, and Stiles wonders how it went undiscovered. The smaller version of his best friend remains standing, and Stiles instantly knows that it's because of past experience.
Despite the world falling to pieces in front of them, they keep moving. And it keeps getting worse.
When they come back, they're both crying. It takes him about a minute to register that it's dark outside. He looks back at Scott, marveling at what he had just seen. Allison and Isaac slip away quietly once they check them over, going to talk to the police so that the two of them don't have to.
They crawl to each other and they pick up the pieces broken in the night.
"You're alive." He mumbles. "Scott, you're here. Nothing else matters."
"And I still have you." Scott whispers back.
"Still got me."
They don't try to talk about how there's going to be a trial. About how Rafael will be found guilty, and about how Scott will have to leave. They research and research a way for him to stay, but eventually they give up and lay in the comfort of each other's arms. There isn't a way to say goodbye that won't hurt.
It is three in the morning and Rafael McCall is banging on the front door. His dad isn't there; he's been at the station for nearly seventy-two hours, especially after the statement that's been given.
"I know you're in there, Stilinski!" He yells, not drunk, but terrifyingly sober.
"It always hurt more when he was sober." Scott says quietly from behind the safety of closet doors and hidden shotguns. His memories, all of the ones that he was missing, were slowly coming back, haunting them in the day and night.
"Come on! I know you're going to turn me in! The least you could do is face me!" He's angry; his voice reverberates in the crevices of the house, knocking down fragile safety walls.
They both cringe as the front door breaks down, and Stiles is dialing 9-1-1 faster than lightning, knowing exactly how much danger he's in.
The footsteps coming in the door are surprisingly light, but they keep getting closer, closer as the phone rings. The volume is the lowest it can be, but it's still too loud.
"9-1-1 what's your emergency?"
"There's someone in my house. I need the police."
"Okay, buddy. I need your name and address. Do you know who the person is?"
"I'm Stiles Stilinski, the Sherriff's son. I live on Elm and Meriwether, house 423. The person in my house is Agent McCall. My dad's handling his son's murder case. Please send someone." His voice is as steady as he can make it, but the light footsteps have gotten heavier, and he's shaking just as hard as Scott is.
"Not again." Scott whispers, and it's like everything is heightened. Clocks tick louder, and every breath he takes feels like it's being broadcasted. Stiles has never been more scared.
"Alright, there's a deputy on their way. Everything is going to be okay, Stiles. Can you stay on the phone with me?"
"Yes, I can." He squeezes Scott's hand.
"Alright, are you in a safe hiding place?"
"I'm in my bedroom closet."
"Do you have any weapons?" Another squeeze.
"I have my dad's shotgun. I don't remember how to fire."
"Well, you can hit him with it if he's not expecting it."
"Okay. He's coming, I can hear him." His calm, unflinching voice scares him, and his blood turns to ice in his veins.
"Just stay quiet, Stiles. He can't hurt you."
"There's heavy breathing right outside the door, and Stiles has never been more sure that he's going to die. Scott stops breathing, and he's pretty sure that he stops too. The darkness of the closet, and the loud footprints right outside of it are suffocating. Slowly, slowly they pass, and he breathes. His heart races, keeping time with the sirens that he can hear now, in the close distance. He's almost safe.
"Stiles?" Scott whispers, ever so quietly.
"Yes?"
"I love you."
He's close, so close to saying it back, but he doesn't get the change, because a door breaks down somewhere in the distance, and suddenly their time is gone. He holds his breath for a long time, and then there's yelling, and all he can see in his head is fire. He clings on to Scott, listening for anything that will let him know what's happening.
"Agent McCall! Agent McCall, you're under arrest! Put the gun down or we will be forced to assume that you are still a threat!" It's not his dad's voice, but he vaguely recognizes it as the voice of a police officer.
"I killed my son! I killed him, and it's over!" Scott's dad exclaims, hysterical, and they both flinch at how close the voice is, at the words that mean everything will be over. Once the murderer is caught, Scott has nothing keeping him here, at least, not in the ghost handbook.
"Sir, please lower your gun. You have five seconds before we'll shoot."
"No. No. No." He doesn't sound sober anymore, and Stiles almost feels sorry for him. But the part of him that hates Rafael McCall with every fiber of his being reminds him that this man deserves to bleed, and that now, he's killed Scott twice.
There's a single gunshot.
His eyes close, and when they open, Scott's gone.
Rafael McCall died the night he tried to kill Stiles, charged with breaking and entering, and murder. There was a hospital, and a therapist, and Allison and Isaac stopped by everyday. Danny, Lydia, even Jackson came by around one a week. But the IV line in his arm didn't change. The only thing that did was the name on Scott's tombstone- the one he wasn't allowed to visit.
"He had to leave. You know he did. It's better this way."
"Sorry about that guy, Stiles. You'll find another one."
He thinks about everything that he didn't say through the silence, about Scott and how it'll be an eternity until they meet again. His dad thinks that PTSD is the reason that he isn't talking, that he's traumatized by the gunned officer who broke into their house. Well he is, but the doctors were right when they said that it's almost like he's grieving.
"Hey." It's Scott's voice, and he looks up, seeing a faint glimmer of what's left of his soulmate. (turns out that the simplest phrase was the one that fit.) "I have to go now, but I needed to see you." Scott's drinking in the sight of him like it's the last time. And it might be. He's speechless until Scott starts moving towards the window.
"Wait!" He calls, unable to get up, to move, to rip the needle out of his arm.
For the tiniest second, he sees Scott, but without any bruises, without any blood, just Scott, whole and real, and happy, like he's on the edge of a cliff he's been waiting his whole life to jump.
"I love you too." He chokes out, and Scott smiles sadly before he's gone.
Hey, guys! Thanks for reading! Thank you to the lovely Cindi, or kavinskysmitsubishi on tumblr for creating this beautiful cover. I've had a lot of fun writing this, for my first mini bang, so I hope you enjoyed. Drop me a review if you have the time! I love you all!
-Abby