A/N: So HUGE thanks to Roxanne's Diary for giving me ideas and supporting me! Also, title belongs to lyrics inside the Sick Puppies song 'White Balloons'. Stiles's memories of his mother I made up. They don't really offer much about that on the show. Please tell me what you guys think! :)

1. Okay, so it wasn't a big deal or anything. It wasn't like a Godfather movie marathon was number one priority. But Stiles had had it planned for a month now, because every other time he had asked Scott, he'd been too busy trying to make up a chem lab or hanging out with Allison or spending time with his mom or working at the vet's, or, ya know, hanging out with Allison. And it's not like, the worst thing in the world to be dumped by your best friend for a girl. Except that, it kinda is. He had just put the popcorn in the microwave and was going to grab the soda when Scott called.

"Hey, man."

"Hey, so – I just put the popcorn in, everything's all set. Which do you prefer…Coke or diet Coke? Personally, I'm all for regular Coke but dad's always telling me I should stick to caffeine free but you know to me it just tastes like fizz-"

"Stiles."

Stiles paused, hand resting on the refrigerator door handle. He knew that tone of voice. It was the, I'm about to attempt to let you down easy when I tell you that I'm ditching you for someone better voice.

"I mean, I'm all ready to watch some Francis Ford Coppola magic and everything but…" Scott trailed off; knowing they both had a feeling what was going to be said next.

"It's Allison?" Stiles guessed glumly.

"…yeah. Look, I mean, I would come! Without a doubt. We've had this planned – I know! But…Allison's upset and I don't want to leave her alone."

Stiles nodded even though Scott couldn't see him. "No, yeah…I get it. It's cool. Go…go be with Allison."

"Thanks, man. Bye."

"Bye." Stiles said, but Scott had already hung up.

He looked around the kitchen, at the popcorn still humming inside the microwave and then back at his phone before tossing it onto the counter.

2. The other time was when Stiles had Derek hoisted in his arms floating in the pool for hours. The whole goddamn thing of it was, though, that Stiles could have just booked it, ran out of the pool, and ran to safety, something – anything. But then the kanima – Jackson – was there and he was being pushed by Derek, being told to run and all he could do was stay frozen. Because, duh. He wasn't in this just to run. Stiles wasn't a werewolf – that much was obvious – he was weak compared to the keen sense of smell and sight and whatever else. He ran on sarcasm, dry wit. But when Derek went down, he knew he couldn't just run. Scott, for better or worse, had pulled him into this. So he had done the only thing he could – he held on to Derek. He feebly attempted small talk with the alpha while he kept them above the surface, he even hummed beats to Muse songs after a while, when he got bored. And when he finally got the courage, when he finally got the courage to let go of Derek and get his phone to call in the cavalry…he was denied. Again. And it was discouraging and a little disheartening, yeah, but when Scott finally arrived and pulled them out, he felt a relieving sensation in his chest. Like there'd been this moment of doubt where he thought maybe Scott wouldn't show and he didn't care but then there he was and completely wolfed out and defending him and Derek. But as he'd walked in his bedroom and peeled off his wet clothes he couldn't help but revert back to that dropping sensation in his stomach when Scott had hung up and he was left struggling to stay afloat.

3. The third time, Stiles was kind of desperate.

He'd gotten detention again for mouthing off in class – it may have had something to do with his chemistry teacher's impeccable lack of human emotions and Stiles's inability to let things go – and when he got home, his dad was sitting at the kitchen table, a near-empty bottle of scotch in front of him.

Stiles exhaled heavily. His dad had never used to drink this much before – but an unfortunate chain of events upset the fabric of their lives. Once his mom died, his dad became more fragile and Stiles guarded himself. All of a sudden, it became massively important to fill the silences with words. Stiles became accustomed to the fact that, when there was silence, there was trouble. When it was silent his dad was hiding in the bathroom, crying. He didn't think Stiles could hear, with the door closed, but Stiles found himself morbidly fascinated, inching closer to hear the muffled sounds of his father's sobs. It was a terrible sound. So from then on, he made jokes – he made himself a joke. He was the comic relief, the guy that could find humor in any dire situation. He refused to be seen in any other light.

"Dad?" Stiles questioned, noticing the way his father's ice-blue eyes weren't focused on anything in particular.

"S…Stiles?" he looked up at his son, who was becoming hazy as his vision dulled around the edges. "Where've ya been?"

Stiles shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Uh…I may or may not have had detention with a teacher that doesn't appreciate my humor. Don't worry about it. Let's just…get you into bed, okay?" he walked over to the table, ready to help his dad out of the chair when he stopped him, putting a hand on his arm.

"What's been going on with you?" he asked, the scotch giving him a new voice.

Stiles froze for the smallest of moments, wondering if that was it, if his façade had been broken. "What…what do you mean?"

His dad fixed him with a look, swaying slightly. "You haven't been…talking lately. Haven't been around. Kinda quiet."

Stiles felt something like guilt settle in his stomach. He had been a little preoccupied lately, with researching and driving and taking care of werewolves and homework and studying and generally keeping his dad far, far away from anything supernatural that didn't make an appearance in his daily job. Despite the fact that he was only trying to protect his dad, he still felt guilty about the hush-hush of it all. But there wasn't exactly a way to break it to one's father that one's best friend was a werewolf.

"I'm fine, dad," Stiles lied, easing him out of the kitchen chair and propping him against his shoulder. "Just a lot of homework, that's all."

Sheriff Stillinski snorted. "My ass that's what it is." He stopped in his walk up the stairs to his bedroom. "Something else is going on. What is it?" his lopsided gaze bore into Stiles's, knowing he didn't need a verbal confirmation to see the answer reflected back in his son's expressive brown eyes.

"It's…" Stiles searched his brain for something, anything to say, but proper syllables could not be reached.

"Is it a…girl?" His father pushed.

Stiles shook his head. "No, dad, it's not…it's not a girl."

"Well, what is it then?" Sheriff Stillinski's voice rose an octave, causing Stiles to jump a little, standing there on the staircase.

Stiles was reluctant to say a word.

"You know, if your mother was here, you'd talk to her." The sheriff spat. The words were like a tremendous explosive, knocking Stiles back in surprise. He gaped at his father, mouth wide open at the state of the declaration. He sounded so…angry.

"That's…that's not true." Even though he didn't know the answer to that question.

"You don't tell me anything!" his father slurred, managing to look both drunk and visibly angry at the same time. "The only time I ever see you anymore, you're asleep."

"Well, maybe if you didn't come home so late-"

"You think I want that?" the sheriff shouted, banging his fist against the railing. "You think I want to be up all hours of the night on these cases? No. But I do it for you, Stiles. I do it to make sure that you're safe. And all I get is…" he gestured to his son, who just stood there, shell-shocked. "That. Silence."

Stiles desperately wanted to explain himself, wanted to throw out the declaration he'd kept inside for months, I'm doing all of this to protect you. It was a dance they were doing, Stiles and his father. One day the music would change and Stiles would be caught, with no moves left.

It was too complicated, too intricate to ever explain to his father. And he couldn't do it now, not with his dad reeking of scotch and harbored resentment. There would never be a good time to say any of this.

"Dad…" Stiles tried, hoping it would be enough.

Sheriff Stillinski looked at him with a glare he had never seen. "Just go," he said quietly.

Stiles still stood, blinking, frozen.

"GO!" the sheriff said again, louder this time.

Stiles tore himself away, running down the steps, grabbing his keys, bolting out the door and speeding down the road to Scott's. It was the only place he could think of to go. Scott would know what to do. He had to.

Stiles parked his jeep in the driveway, hands shaking. He wondered if his father was right – if he would have talked to his mother about all of this. If he would just spill everything, all the hidden emotions, the words he never let himself say, the things he wished he could have done.

Finally, he inhaled a deep breath, exhaled slowly and got out of the car. Hesitantly, his hand hovered above the door before he finally knocked, once, twice, three times.

A moment later the door swung open and Scott stood there, eyes wide in surprise. "Stiles?" he asked. And it was a little sad, honestly, that he was surprised to see his best friend. But he would worry about that later. "Listen…could I…" Stiles paused when Scott opened the door a fraction wider and he could see Allison on the couch in the living room, hastily adjusting her shirt.

"Oh…" Stiles's breath caught. "I…"

Scott shrugged sheepishly with a small smirk like, ya caught me. "Sorry, man. Allison and I are kinda…" he let himself trail off, like making out with his girlfriend trumped everything else. Which it did, in his world.

"Oh, no…I get it." Stiles shook his head. "It's not really that important. I can tell you tomorrow." He didn't even try to sound convincing.

For a moment, Scott looked like he would ask Stiles if he was sure, but he just nodded, said, "Okay…see you tomorrow," and shut the door.

4. See, what they don't tell you in all those superhero movies is that sometimes the sidekick resents his place. Sometimes he doesn't like the fact that he's the reinforcement, the loyal buddy, the fading star to the bright and burning comet.

Stiles was idly tapping his fingers against his desk's surface, having finished an English essay long before everyone else and sneaking glances at Scott. His focus was fixed intently on the essay but for some reason he looked a little…off. He knew it wasn't the full moon because that whole fiasco had happened last week. So what was it this time? Allison? His mom again?

Suddenly, the pencil in Scott's hand snapped in half.

Stiles jumped back in surprise and quickly found his opportunity, hurling his own pencil at his best friend. "Dude," he whispered, handing the Ticonderoga #2 to him. "What's going on?"

Scott turned his coffee-brown eyes on him. "It's Derek," he whispered, looking pained. "He-"

"Mr. Stillinski! Mr. McCall – need I remind you both we are in the middle of a test?"

Stiles tore himself away reluctantly, staring back down at his essay again.

Once class finally let out and Stiles made his way through the mass of students over to Scott's locker, he was feeling a little…anxious, almost. It had only been a week since anything remotely exciting happened but compared to how life had been normally, it felt like there had been a year between last week and now. He wasn't elated at the sight of his best friend in peril or anything, he just liked being…needed.

"So, what's up?" Stiles asked, peering around the door of Scott's locker, where his best friend was currently hiding his face in it, clearly trying to conceal his rage.

"It's just…" Scott heaved a heavy sigh. "Derek kind of…sort of…found this werewolf…"

"What?" Stiles hissed, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping in. "Where? How? Is it someone that goes to our school?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. He wants me to come over after school and help him out." His eyes seemed darker at the thought of it. Stiles sympathized with that, at least, knowing that they had a lot on their plates as it was, without throwing another werewolf into the mix.

"Help him out with…?"

Scott looked apprehensive. "Finding out who he is, I guess."

Stiles was a little fearful at that prospect, knowing Derek's violent tendencies, but nevertheless was eager to be doing something again. "Okay, so I'll drive you – cool? I can even bring snacks? Does Derek like Bugles? Well, actually, everyone loves Bugles…" he stopped, looking at Scott's expression.

"What?" he asked, already knowing.

Scott shrugged. "Derek…he wants us to do it alone. Well…he wants the werewolves to do it alone."

Stiles felt caught. Honestly, he thought they'd surpassed that whole you're not one of us shtick. So he didn't have claws and fangs and scary golden eyes when he got angry. He was still Scott's best friend that practically knew more about werewolves than he did! He spent hours researching and poring over ancient books in old English! Didn't that merit some kind of Pack Access Card?

Seeing Stiles's facial response, Scott quickly backpedaled. "Look, Stiles, I would totally have you tag along but I don't even know what this is yet and I don't want anyone…getting hurt." He finished.

Stiles wanted to remind his best friend that he had gone through countless things over the past few months that could have gotten him hurt but he suddenly felt his typical enthusiasm melting away and he just straightened his shoulders. "I get it," he said crisply. "Tell me how it goes." And this time, he walked away from Scott.

5. The fifth time was just embarrassing.

It was right after practice on a sunny Friday, all the lacrosse guys showering and shouting to each other about weekend plans. Stiles was hastily shoving his equipment in his locker, hoping it would all fit without him having to fold anything, when he heard Scott talking with one of the first lines guys.

"So…you in?" the guy was asking Scott, lacing up his Adidas sneakers.

Scott nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, totally. Could I…" he glanced over at Stiles, who pretended to be extremely invested in his jersey and not the conversation, "Could I bring a friend?"

First Line Guy looked over at Stiles with a skeptical eyebrow. "Him? Uh…no offense, Scott, but he doesn't look like party material."

Stiles inwardly scoffed. As far as he was concerned, parties at Beacon Hills consisted of heavy drinking that resulted in fist fights, vomiting and waking up in a stranger's bed. Nothing he wanted to partake in. But still!

"Um…" Scott looked back again at Stiles, who was folding and refolding his jersey.

"So…does that mean you're not coming?" the guy asked, looking miffed.

"No, no, I'll be there." Scott promised. He walked away then, heading in the direction of the showers, avoiding Stiles's what-the-hell-is-going-on glare.

Stiles slammed his locker shut.

Stiles rolls over in his bed Monday morning, staring up at his white ceiling with dread. The fact that it's a Monday morning is a bit depressing, yeah, but it's more of the fact that on this day exactly – May fourteenth – his mom died.

Every year he and his father have the same routine of sorts – Sheriff Stillinski will pretend like his son is sick and he won't show up to school and he will immerse himself in work and then cap the night with some whiskey or scotch, whatever is in the cabinet. Neither father nor son talks much at all, unless the sheriff has too much t0 drink and then he's like a fountain of information. As useful as that will be someday, right now Stiles just finds it sad.

By the deafening silence in the house, Stiles can gather that his dad's already left for work, which leaves him to his private ritual: he leans off his bed slightly, grappling for control so he doesn't fall while his hands blindly search for the item under his bed. Once he retrieves it, he lifts it up onto his lap.

It's a photo album of him and his mother when he was small, right up until the year before she died. Stiles doubts his father knows he even took this from his bedroom a couple years ago and if he has noticed, he sure hasn't said anything. Every year he flips through the pages and just kind of…reflects on how everything has gone since that day. He remembers moments, places and times and wonders how his mom would fit into those folds, given the chance.

He flips past a few embarrassing pictures of himself as a baby, swaddled in blankets and being held by various relatives, to one of him and Scott, four years old, outside of their shared pre-school, where they first met. Stiles vaguely remembers that day – something to do with an argument about Star Wars and Scott pushing the bigger kid out of harm's way.

There are snapshots of him and Scott playing in each other's backyards – even a rare one with Scott's dad in the background, before he left – and one of them where Scott is in a Superman costume and Stiles looks like a cross between a ninja and Robin Hood.

The next one always has Stiles hesitant to move any farther. The last good picture he has of his mother is absolutely beautiful. She has her long, toffee-colored hair down, her eyes shining bright and a small smile on her face like she only at that moment realized a camera was trained on her. It's autumn, in the picture. There are leaves everywhere and Stiles remembers that day vividly – remembers making forts out of the piles and declaring himself king of his backyard. He remembers getting cold and his mom ushering him inside, making him a grilled cheese sandwich and watching cartoons with him even though his dad claimed it was a waste of valuable time. He even remembers the faint strains of Frank Sinatra floating through the kitchen later that evening as his mom bustled about making surprise brownies for his dad when he got home from work. Every time he looks at that photo, his mind reverts back to that day, his fingers stay frozen and he just can't flip the pages forward. Because after that…after that there are all of the telltale signs. In the next few pictures he will notice how thin she starts to become, how her radiant complexion turns almost ghostly and her smile seeming just a little too forced.

Riiingggg! Stiles is jolted out of his thoughts at the sound of the doorbell. Seriously? Who would even come to his house right now? He debates whether or not to even get up to answer it but finally he rolls over, meets the carpet and jumps back up again before jogging downstairs.

"I'm coming, I'm coming-" he stops as he swings open the door.

He's staring right at Scott.

"Scott? What are you…?" Stiles doesn't get to answer because his best friend is carting in bags of cookies and chips and a few cartons of curly fries, a stack of DVDs and some random video games.

"Hey," his best friend says breathlessly after he dumps it all into a big heap on the kitchen table.

"Hey…" Stiles looks at the mound of junk food and movies. "Um…what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at school?" he studies Scott carefully.

"Um…about that…" Scott shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. "I kind of skipped."

Stiles shakes his head. "Dude, you're going to get in huge trouble. Do you know what happened the last time?" he's of course referring to when his mom and Allison's parents went absolutely crazy and there was that whole fiasco in the school's parking lot.

Scott looks down in embarrassment. "Yeah, yeah. But this is different."

Stiles knows that Scott knows what today is and he's honestly flattered that he's decided to show up and do all of this for him but he's always spent the day alone.

"I, uh…" Stiles tries to think of a polite way to tell him to go back to class but finally he just admits defeat. His eyes scan over the contents on the table and he grabs The Godfather. "We can start with this one."

In the middle of The Godfather Part Two, Stiles stops concentrating on the movie. He's thinking about his mom again, about the way she always used to keep the house clean without him ever realizing it had been dirty. It's actually kind of dirty right now.

"What?" Scott asks, looking over at Stiles.

Stiles looks up from the empty curly fry carton in his lap. "Huh?"

"You were saying something about the house?" Scott asks, confused.

"Yeah…" Stiles looks down again at the carton. "I was just, uh, thinking out loud." He doesn't offer anything else and Scott presses on.

"About what?" he actually looks concerned and Stiles knows this isn't the first time he's ever talked about his mom out loud but it still feels foreign, especially when it's Scott sitting there, wanting details and Stiles just barely remembers them at all.

"My mom…" Stiles finally says. "She used to keep the house clean. But ever since…my dad and I aren't really the best at telling the difference between Pledge and peroxide."

Scott nods. "Remember when your dad tried to make us grilled cheese sandwiches with those bagels and taco cheese?"

Stiles chuckles. "Oh my God – and we had to pretend like they were the best things ever and then we snuck out and ate all that ice cream."

"And then my mom spent the night yelling at us 'cause our stomachs hurt so much!" Scott laughs out loud.

"Oh, dude – the lectures from your mom! She used to despise the things we did!"

"Remember when we tried to drive her car when she left us in the parking lot?" Scott asks.

"And then we crashed into that tomato stand at the farmer's market!" Stiles remembers the look on the poor Cuban man's face as his tomatoes flew across Scott's mom's windshield.

"I distinctly remember not getting allowance money for about two years." Scott laments.

A silence falls between the two for a moment and Scott's voice suddenly breaks through.

"Do you…miss her?"

"Hm?"

"Your mom…do you…miss her?" Scott asks tentatively.

Stiles doesn't need to think about this one. "Yeah, of course. It's…it's been tough on my dad…he doesn't really…he's not as…" he stops. "He's just different."

Scott nods, listening.

"And it's not like it's terrible. I mean, we eat regular food now, instead of just takeout. But…" Stiles shrugs. "It's still hard."

"When my dad left, my mom was a wreck," Scott offers.

"Remember when she made us watch all those Oprah specials about self-empowerment?" Stiles asks, eyes sparkling.

"How could I not? She ran them twenty four seven!" Scott chimes in. He stops for a moment. "It was…it was hard at first. But I think we're doing pretty well."

"That's…that's good."

They both turn back to the movie but Scott says, "I think that you and I get along well…you know, for everything that's gone on." He looks at Stiles for a confirmation.

Stiles looks at him and in that moment, he knows - knows that for all of Scott's faults, he's actually not that bad, knows that he can sometimes come off as ignorant and even a bit of a dumbass but when everything is important he can be impenetrable, menacing and downright badass and he also knows that sometimes Scott can't really say how he feels and that this moment is rare.

He nods at his best friend. "Yeah…I think so, too."

The end