****Important notes about canon. This story is canon up to the finale of 3b. However, things are taking a bit of a turn from anything after that. Stiles/Malia likely won't be a thing. Yes, everything that happened at Eichen House will still have been a thing, but their relationship has become strictly platonic here. I'm hesitant to write any ships in this story, but only time will tell. Just think of this as an alternate season 4.
This is my first story, so I hope you guys enjoy it! Let me know what you think in the comments.
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It had been three weeks since life went back to normal. Well….as close to normal as possible, this is Beacon Hills. Considering everything that had happened with the Nogitsune and the Oni, the weeks following the ordeal were emotionally draining but much needed. The pack grieved for Allison and even Aiden. Ethan had left town soon after his brother died, with Chris and Isaac following not long after. Kira and Malia joined the pack, which led to a bit of adjustment and training. The remaining members clung to each other, and helped each other heal. The idea of recovering from so much loss and destruction seemed impossible, but the saying "time heals all wounds" seemed to hold true. Scott grew into his alpha power, using his responsibility to anchor himself and move past the death of his first love. Lydia found strength in her remaining friendships, fostering her relationships with Scott and Stiles to allow herself to accept the loss of Aiden and Allison. Even Stiles found a way to move past the crushing guilt the Nogitsune left him with, however his coping mechanisms weren't quite as healthy as those of his friends. Stiles friends and family saw the way Stiles threw himself into helping Malia adjust to life as a human. Through each "were-coyote" training and tutoring session, Stiles seemed to become more grounded and less damaged. However, what the pack failed to see was that it was something else entirely that helped Stiles rebound. The signs were there. The lies, lack of hunger, occasional loss for words, and glossy eyes. If that wasn't enough of a sign, surely the werewolves and werecoyote noticed the slower heartbeat and heavy sweating, or smelled the stench of alcohol. But in the end, they all wanted so much for Stiles to be better that it was easy to ignore the warning signs until they were thrust into their faces.
***2 and a half weeks prior
It started innocently. Stiles had finally worked up the courage to cleanse his room of all of the "Evidence" and string he had obsessed over before the Nogitsune took over full time. Maybe it was less courage, and more anger that needed an outlet. He had finished clearing the walls and was left with a pile of trash and walls covered in holes from the numerous tacks. When searching in the back of his closet for a poster to cover the worst of the holes, he found something else. Something he had hidden from his father years ago, when the sheriff was facing demons of his own. In a few shoeboxes under a pile of outgrown shoes and old lacrosse gear, Stiles found four bottles of whiskey. Stiles had a habit of stashing the stuff until his dad got the point and stopped buying it all together, but thanks to his short attention span he had clearly forgotten to dispose of it. Curiosity made him take the first sip. He had never particularly liked the taste of whiskey, and found himself wondering if things really did get better with age. Maybe spending a few years, buried in the bottom of his closet were what it would take for him to finally acquire a taste for the bottle his father once loved. Stiles abandoned his search for a poster, and brought the bottles to his desk. He inspected each bottle, choosing the one with the already broken seal, and took a swig. Immediately a harsh malt flavor assaulted his taste buds. But as he began to adjust to the taste he noticed another sensation, the smooth heat that made its way down his throat and settled into the center of his being. He had heard people describe drinking straight liquor as a burning feeling, regarded with such a negative connotation, but he found this sensation to be soothing. He felt a type of warmth that he hadn't known to be possible anymore. He took another swig. As the first sip began to settle in the pit of his stomach and this one began working its way down his throat, the constant chatter in his head quieted down. He savored the silence, finally being able to escape the guilt, emotions, and nerves that had wracked his mind since the Nogitsune ordeal ended. He found an opaque glass on his bedside table and poured himself some more whiskey, storing the remaining bottles in his bottom desk drawer. He decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet in his mind, and resumed his previous project of cleaning his room. Hours later, he sat on his bed after he had cleaned his room, bathroom, and completed a week's worth of homework that he was behind on. He laid his head on his pillow, reveling in the fact that he was more productive in those few hours than he had been in weeks and in this moment he was actually relaxed. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he felt so at ease. Eventually Stiles drifted off into a peaceful sleep, something that came rarely for him now days.
The Sheriff got home from the station early that night. He had purposefully been clocking out a few hours before the end of his shift, always eager to check up on Stiles. Arriving home to a quiet house made him nervous. The lights were off, but it was only 8pm and Stiles' jeep was in the driveway. Nothing about this situation was usual, at least not as of lately. He ascended the stairs quickly, making his way to Stiles room. He pushed the door open, only to be shocked by what he found. Stiles, his anxiety, guilt stricken son, was slumbering away. There was no quivering, shaking, or rolling around. Stiles was still and tranquil. Looking around the room, the Sheriff noticed that Stiles wasn't the only thing unusual. It was almost as if everything had returned to a time before the supernatural. The walls of his son's room were clear of maps, mugshots, and news clippings. His desk was organized, books stacked neatly and the surface was clear of clutter. The Sheriff sighed in relief. He had stopped expecting any sort of normalcy in their lives since he learned the truth about the world Stiles had become wrapped up in, but what he was seeing right now gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, things had a chance of returning to normal. He walked over to Stiles bed and pulled a quilt over the boy. His hand lingered a bit over Stiles hand, squeezing it out of compassion. The Stilinski's weren't an emotional bunch, but after nearly losing his only son, the Sheriff needed the occasional touch to remind himself that Stiles was still there. The Sheriff turned away, only stopping on his way out of the room to grab an empty glass from Stiles' desk. As Stilinski left the room, he chuckled a bit. Maybe they would soon return to the point where the only mess they had to deal with were dirty dishes being left around the house.
If only he knew what that dish really represented.