By the end of his junior year, Scott McCall has dealt with life or death situations more times than he can count.

He's put up with werewolves and kanimas and darachs and berserkers and banshees and every other supernatural creature under the sun— not to mention he's almost died in the process on several occasions.

His life has been a shit-show, filled with so much pain and strife and tragedy and chaos it could feed a thousand nogistunes.

So by the time he's finally turned seventeen he's seen a lot, he's done a lot, and somehow, throughout it all, throughout every new emotional and physical trauma that comes wandering into his life, with every new problem and supernatural creature that Beacon Hills attracts, he's survived.

With the help of his friends, he's somehow managed to get through it all.

And yet, he's having trouble doing this— this one simple task that every other high school student has to deal with, this daunting prospect that's been hanging over his head for the past few months and making his insides squirm.

It's weird—he's almost forgot what it like to have, well, normal problems; problems that every teenager deals with and not something that might mean life or death.

It's almost unnerving.

But here he is, standing by Stiles' locker, trying to figure out how he's going to word this, his heart skipping frantically in his chest and his stomach doing nervous backflips.

Prom.

The word has been sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting impatiently behind his pursed lips for a while now, with mounting frustration, as his mind tries to come up with excuses to put it off further, to delay the inevitable embarrassment, to wait for the perfect moment.

As if he needed any more unnecessary stress in his life.

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"Hey, Scotty, you okay? You don't look so good, buddy."

Scott takes a deep breath and decides fuck it—it's now or never, and Stiles is right here in front of him, and the rest of the pack isn't there to eavesdrop on their conversation, and he has to do this.

So he clears his throat and stands up a little straighter and does his best to control his voice, to keep it from going all high and squeaky like it does sometimes when he's nervous.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. But uh…well…could I ask you something?"

Stiles raises his eyebrows and looks at him questioningly, but just shrugs and says "Okay, shoot."

"Okay, so… remember back in uh, middle school, I think? When we promised each other that if neither of us had dates for prom when we got to high school that we'd, you know, go together? Like, as each other's dates or something? I'm not really sure if that was meant to be a joke or not but…uh…I was wondering if…if maybe that promise still stands? You know, neither of us have dates yet, and prom is only like a week away, and—"

Stiles cuts him off as Scott stumbles over the words and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, his face beginning to turn a distinct shade of red.

"Wow, Scott. Really? That's how you're asking me to prom? Are you serious, dude? I expected better from my best friend, the hopeless romantic extraordinaire."

Stiles is smirking as he says this, and as Scott splutters indignantly ("I'm not—what do you—I don't—hey wait—") he's not sure whether he wants to punch him in the face or hug him.

Because this is the Stiles he knows and loves, this sarcastic little asshole he's known his entire life, and after everything that's happened, he'll never really get tired of finally having that back.

Plus, he notes the way that Stiles' heartbeat speeds up at the question and the stupid, genuinely pleased smile he can't get off his face afterwards, and realizes that this is basically Stiles' way of saying yes—or at least not saying no.

Scott gives his shoulder a shove and rolls his eyes.

"I hate you."

Stiles smirks and throws an arm around Scott's shoulder.

"No, you don't."

(He really doesn't.)

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Later that day, Scott is sitting alone in his room, mentally kicking himself and cursing his over-eagerness, because fuck—Stiles is right.

He knows he was joking and he knows that in all honesty Stiles probably doesn't care (it's true—Scott has always been the hopeless romantic out of the two of them), but God, it's bothering him.

Because he should have done something big—he should have asked in some elaborate and ridiculously cheesy and clever way that would embarrass the shit out of Stiles but that would also have him smiling for days.

But he had been so intent on getting it over with, so nervous about asking in the first place that it completely slipped his mind.

The only possible solution he can think of is to just kind of…do it anyway. Ignore the fact that he's already asked and stage some big, extravagant plan to ask Stiles to prom that he'll never forget.

Besides, if he asked him again it would be like…double the love, or something…right?

He knows he's grasping at straws at this point, but he sighs and decides he really has nothing left to lose as he picks up his phone and sends off a frantic text:

'Need your help! It's urgent! Come over ASAP.'

If he's going to do this right, he's going to need a little help from a pro.

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Not even fifteen minutes later, he hears the doorbell ring and yells a quick "I'll get it" to his mom as he sprints down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and skids to a stop seconds before smacking his face into the front door.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and once he's composed himself, gently opens the door and peers outside.

And there she is, standing at his doorstep with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently, eyeing his disheveled appearance with a raised eyebrow and amusement dancing in her eyes, while doing her best to look determinedly bored.

"Lydia Martin, have I ever told you how wonderful you are? Because you are absolutely wonderful. You're the best. You're like…the smartest, coolest person I know. Did I mention you look lovely today? I really—"

Lydia holds up a perfectly manicured hand to silence him.

"Cool it, McCall. Flattery will get you nowhere," she says and waves her hand dismissively in the air as if she's swatting a fly (and yet Scott can tell that she's appeased as a small smile curls her lips).

"However, out of the pure goodness of my heart, and because I am such a wonderful person, I have decided to help your sorry ass plan a proper prom proposal."

Scott doesn't even bother to ask her how she knew why he asked her over in the first place as Lydia pats him on the chest and pushes past him into the house, throwing a knowing smirk over her shoulder. He learned a long time ago never to question Lydia Martin and her uncanny ability to just know things without anyone really telling her.

(Scott just supposes she really does know everything, after all.)

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Lydia plops herself down on his bed and makes herself at home, making sure to spare a disappointed glance at the mess of schoolwork, books, and clothes scattered all over the floor.

She motions for Scott to take a seat (it's amazing how she can make him feel like a guest in his own house, his own room) and claps her hands together.

"So! Just to clarify—I'm going to help you, and I'm going to make sure you don't mess this up, but I need you to know that no matter how good this prom proposal is going to be, it's not going to top how I'm going to ask Allison. And I'm winning that stupid contest, okay? I have to, Scott. It's in my blood."

Scott can't help but smile at this, at Lydia's fierce competitive streak rearing its head even in something as frivolous as a prom proposal competition. It's what makes Lydia, Lydia, and he can't really imagine her being any other way.

"Yeah, okay. That's fine. I think I kind of already have an idea; I just need some help planning out the details."

"Well then," Lydia says, her sharp, intelligent eyes following Scott's every move as he jumps back to his feet and anxiously paces around the room, "what are we waiting for? Let's get started, shall we?"