It didn't take long for the other shoe to drop.
Stiles couldn't sleep. Not on a new bed, at a strange place, without knowing exactly what's going on. So he tossed and turned, too awake to even close his eyes for a second, until Lydia finally had enough and kicked him out of bed, telling him to stop interrupting her beauty sleep. The sun was almost rising, and Stiles needed to know, which is how he ended up walking out of the house and into the woods surrounding it, following gentle whisper of magic coming from the property line.
And that was where he found them.
Gigantic, black runes. Dripping in powerful magic—far too powerful.
The runes were nothing like Stiles had ever seen before, but it took him less than a few shocked minutes to understand what he was seeing, what it meant. After that, he ran—back to the house, back to his pack.
Maybe he yelled, maybe his panic alerted the others—Stiles didn't know, and he didn't care. What mattered was that they were all there when he shoved the door open and all but stormed into the living room, panting for breath, muscles trembling.
"Runes," Stiles said, looking at Scott. "There are runes forming a circle around us, Scott. Carved on the ground."
Lydia inhaled sharply.
"Runes? Stiles, can't you—," Scott began, frowning.
"Dude, are you kidding me? I've never seen them in my life. Who knows how many centuries old they are. I tried to sense them a little, but… the amount of magic weighting on them is like nothing I've ever heard."
"Wait," Malia asked, crossing her arms. "What does that mean?"
Peter rolled his eyes at his daughter, even as they all say the muscles in his jaw locked tight. "She trapped us here. There's no way out."
"Why would she want us here?" Theo asked.
"She's an old as fuck Fae, Theo. We don't know shit about her—maybe she thinks it's funny."
"Actually, I think she's trying to help us," Stiles admitted, dropping his body on the couch behind him. "There's a feeling… I don't know. I think this is her idea of a helpful exercise."
"She wants us to figure out how to get the hell out of here together?"
"No," Stiles shook his head. "She wants us to be a proper pack, remember? We're in a controlled environment with no outside interventions. This is the grown-up version of parents who put two kids who were in a fight sitting together and demand they stay there until they hugged it out."
"So we should just sit in this house until the psycho decides to let us go?" Allison asked.
"Not like we have a choice here, babe," Scott said with a wince. "There's truly nothing we can do—she could wipe us all with a swipe of hands. If she wants us to stay here, that's what we'll do."
Derek winced. "We have to stay in this house all summer?"
"All summer? You think she'll keep us here for months?"
'"What is a couple of months for someone who has lived for centuries?" Jordan asked, quite reasonably.
"I don't think I wanna stay here," Kira said. "This is weirding me out."
Chris crossed his arms over his chest. "It doesn't look like she left us with many choices."
"No help is ever for free," Peter said, rather darkly.
"I agree with doom face, here. She's not doing this out of the goodness of her heart."
Lydia tilted her head, with a considering face. "What do you think the point is, Stiles?"
"What?"
"C'mon, you know what I mean. She's keeping us here because she wants us to learn some lesson, it's obvious. Which one though?"
"How to be a pack," Derek stated.
Allison frowned. "That doesn't make sense. We've been pack for years now."
"Have we?" Stiles asked, his eyes lowered to the floor. Had they, really? Or had they done what they could to survive while tripping over their own feet?
"Stiles…"
"No, Scott, it's the truth. We did what we could as teenagers, but as the pack who's gonna watch over an entire town? No way, dude. Other than you, me, and Lydia, the others came and left more than stayed."
This time it was Derek who said. "Stiles…"
"What?" He asked, narrowing his eyes. "You gonna pretend that you didn't leave?"
Derek said nothing. He had nothing to say, Stiles thought uncharitably, feeling the tension rising inside him as the situation became clearer. It was bullshit—the whole thing was complete and utter bullshit. Of course the crazy Fae left them trapped inside a house, in the middle of nowhere, without means of communications, and of course his pack would freak out about it, would fray at the edges.
Derek said nothing, so Stiles turned and left the room, the house.
It was bullshit.
The days passed.
At first, most of them spent their free time roaming around the forest surrounding the house, stretching their legs, while also clinging to the last thread of privacy they could muster. However, after a week, almost as if she had been waiting for them to relax and get complacent, the rain started. Not just any rain, though. Fucking pouring rain, with thunder and lighting, rumbling over their heads day in and day out, without a freaking minute of peace.
Stiles knew precisely what the message was. Either resolve your issues by yourselves, or I'll have to get involved. It was bullshit, considering Althea was the one forcing them together in the first place. However, in the back of his mind, he could help but agree that it was for the best. They needed that. They needed to resolve their issues, and it needed to be soon rather than later.
"This rain is never stopping, right? We'll just stay trapped inside this stupid house."
"It could be worse," Jordan tried to reason, although he too looked uncomfortable with the idea of closed spaces.
"This is bullshit," Stiles announced, frustrated with their lack of understanding of the situation.
"Yeah, it sucks," Malia agreed, as though Stiles had been merely adding to their never-ending lamentation.
"No, you guys are the bullshit," he corrected, pacing in a circle. For a moment his eyes met with Scott's, and he could see his frustration mirrored in his best friend's eyes.
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. We're a pack. Pack is about family, about friendship, about wanting to be together and sucking to be apart. God, we've been here for days, and you all make it seem like it's the end of the world. No wonder she trapped us here—we're barely a functioning group, let alone a pack."
That time, it was Scott who got up and left. Stiles went after him, not sparing the others even a fleeting glance.
He trailed after Scott like a puppy. He knew he was far too close to his best friend's back, leaving barely any distance at all between their bodies, and he understood that it made no sense—it wasn't any less likely that something would separate the two of them if he walked a couple more steps behind. It was an irrational fear—Stiles needed the constant confirmation that his pack was still there.
That the people he loved hadn't disappeared.
Scott said nothing about it.
Stiles was left wondering if that was better or worse.
It took him hours to go back. Hours to face the music, so to speak.
What was waiting for him was not the fight he had imagined in his head—not even close.
Lying on the bed—their bed for the time being, apparently—with several open bars of chocolate surrounding her, was Lydia. She was still wearing her dress, but her hair was tied up in an unruly bun, rebellious strands falling around her face, and her heels were throw in the carpet.
She didn't even glance at him when he entered the room, instead, looking pointedly at the chocolate melting between her fingers.
"You know, it tastes much better when it's in your mouth," Stiles said casually. "Or so I've heard."
She turned her head sharply, a full-on glare on her face. "I've already eaten five, Stiles."
"So? You look like you want that one in your hands," he shrugged, pulling his sweaty shirt over his head.
She ran her eyes over his chest, a mixture of resentment and pain crossing her face, and it was all Stiles could do not to cross the room and hug her. Lydia's body insecurities were ridiculous in his opinion, something so far fetched that he had still had trouble coming up with the right words to say whenever she got in one of those moods.
"Ugh, I hate you," she said, twisting her lips, yet Stiles knew the anger wasn't directed at him. She didn't hate him, she hated the whole situation where he had just come back from a long run, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff her face full of sweets. "Go shower."
"You are the one who's gonna get the bed dirty from melted chocolate if you don't get to eating that. It is a deadly sin to waste chocolate, Lydia. Hasn't anybody taught you that?"
She pursed her lips, but her eyes shifted down. "I had too much already. I should go train or... something," she said, the words so misplaced coming from her it was almost comical.
"Lydia, we've dealt with more shit in the past four years than most people will ever deal with in their entire lives," Stiles reasoned, crossing the room to lean on the doorway of the bathroom, throwing his wet shirt inside. "If some days you want to mop around and eat, no one will blame you. Stop holding yourself to such impossible standards. You can still be incredible and have moments of weakness."
"That's easy for you to say. You, Theo, Derek, Allison... You get stressed or nervous, and the first thing you guys do is exercise," Lydia snapped, sitting up and waving her hands around. "I feel bad, and all I want to do is stay in my bed and stuff my face with the shittiest crap I can get my hands on. Which ends up with me feeling twice as stressed out, instead of being any help."
"Scott does the same thing, Lydia. Since we were kids. He feels even remotely sick? He'll spend an entire weekend playing video games and eating ice cream and nuggets."
Lydia grabbed an unopened chocolate bar lying beside her and threw it at him with her free hand, nailing his head and ignoring his yell of protest. "Shut up. Scott's a werewolf. He'll never gain a single pound because of his binge eating—unlike me, who will soon not fit into any of these stupid clothes."
Stiles cannot believe they are even having that conversation. It's stupid and pointless. People valued so much the exterior when it was but a bunch of skin put together randomly.
"Come here," Stiles demanded, grabbing her arm, pulling her up and toward the bathroom with him. She made a noise in complaint, dropping the chocolate in the process of struggling against his hold.
Stiles refused to release her, however, until they both entered the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. "Take off your dress," he ordered.
"I don't—"
"Lydia, just, for the love of—just do it, alright? For once in your life, work with me here, ok?" Stiles begged, trying to make his point.
It was a gamble. Lydia looked more willing to hit him and storm out than she did to comply with his request, but Stiles was nothing if not a risk-taker. There was a point to be had there—a picture he needed to show her, sooner rather than later. So he shifted to stand behind her, meeting her eyes on the reflection and waited.
Someone was bound to give in.
After many tense moments, in which she crossed and uncrossed her arms under her chest, seeming like she was arguing with herself, Lydia exhaled strongly and reached for her dress. She pulled in over her head, much in the same brisk way he had done it with his shirt a few minutes before, taking the time to fold it and rest it next to the sink.
Lydia stood in only her pink bra and panties, meeting his eyes once again. "Well?" She asked, and her tone made it clear that she was one wrong word away from a meltdown.
Good. Stiles worked well under pressure—he always had.
He stepped to the side, so she could see him in the mirror as well. "Look at us. What do you see?"
She frowned. "I know what I see, Stiles. A person who gained eight pounds in the last six months and thinks she can still gorge in the way you've just seen me do. Is that what this is about?"
Stiles frowned back. "Look closer."
Unable to back down from a challenge, Lydia straightened her posture, her eyes slightly more clinical as it studied the bodies reflected there. "A couple of young adults, caucasians, one reasonably taller than the other, no immediate signs of body defects. I'm clean, you're gross from sweat. I've put on weight and you..." Her eyes went a bit softer as she traced his features. "You have moles. Many. Too many."
Lydia turned, so she faced him instead of his reflection, her hands going straight to his chest. "You have scars. Not too noticeable at first glance, but visible if one takes a second look. On you clavicle," she pointed out, tracing the knife wound there. She proceeded. "On your shoulder, on your hips. I know you have two on your back."
"I do," Stiles agreed easily, not giving her anything else.
"What's the point here, Stiles? It's not the same, you know it's not. I don't have a problem with your body," Lydia explained, her voice tired now, like the fight had left her at once.
"But could you?" He asked, and when she looked puzzled at the question, he added, "If I change—and I'll probably change a whole lot, with the luck we have—then what? What's the limit that you have for me? When will you have a problem with my body?"
"I won't!" She said, offended. "I love you, and I would never give up on you because of something as ridiculous as a scar."
Stiles gave her a tiny smile. "Then why do you not trust me and lean on my just as heavily? Have I not loved you for years?" He asked, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against his chest. "Believe in me when I say that this—this body—is precious to me because it is what holds you. Lydia Martin. And that's not conditional. I find you the most attractive woman alive, and numbers on a scale don't determine that."
Lydia looked at him, and her eyes had a glossy shine to them, and she squeezed back just as tightly, their naked skin pressing together. Stiles kissed her forehead, knowing precisely what she was thinking about.
"If you want to lazy around and eat, baby, you do that. You're not depressed, or sick—you're dealing with a shitty past couple of years, just as we all are. I cannot stress enough how much I do not mind. I don't care much for appearance Lydia, that's always been your thing and not mine. I was the scrawny kid whose best friend was an asthmatic goofball, and I was fucking delighted by it. Tall, short, skinny, or fat, that doesn't, and shouldn't matter. I love you because of who you are."
"You're such a dork," Lydia accused, but she rested her head on his sternum, her heart pounding in her chest so strongly he could feel it.
Stiles laughed. "You are the one who's with me. I think that says more about you than it does about me," he said, kissing the top of her head. God, he hoped at least a quarter of what he had just said stuck with her.
Lydia breathed and whispered. "Jackson used to say that—"
"Jackson is an asshole," Stiles cut with a much-too-wolfly growl. "He had enough insecurities to scare even the most professional therapist alive, and he dumped all that onto the lap of whoever was closest to him. You do not have to live according to his bullshit views on body and worthiness."
"I don't, do I?" Lydia breathed once more, and it seemed to be the first time she considered that.
"You don't," Stiles stated firmly, as though he could declare it law by force of will alone. "Fuck Jackson."
Lydia kissed his stomach. "Fuck Jackson," she agreed, her lips never leaving his skin. "You're salty."
"I need a bath," he said, a grin threatening to make its way onto his face. "Since you saw fit to rub yourself all over me, you require one as well. Perhaps I can tempt you to save the planet's resources?"
Lydia looked up, an overall teasing expression even if her eyes remained the tiniest bit reserved. This wouldn't be the last time they had that conversation, he knew, but it was all good, because Lydia reached behind her back to unclasp her bra and nodded, saying, "for the planet," with a solemn voice, and Stiles also knew that they would do whatever it took to find happiness together.
Later, when Stiles walked into Scott's room, a warning that dinner was ready at the tip of his tongue, he saw his best friend sitting alone in the middle of the bed, a couple of sheets of papers in his hand, and the words died out before leaving his mouth.
"Yo, bro, what's up?" He asked, instantly knowing that something was up.
"Come here," Scott called, patting the bed with his hand. When Stiles sat down, Scott shoved the letter—it was obvious what it was from up close—in his hands. "It's my anniversary with Allison tomorrow. I tried to write her a letter—do you think it's awful? He asked, a vulnerable look on his face.
"You really want me to read this?" Stiles asked. "Allison is so in love with you it's not even funny, man. I'm sure she'll love whatever it is that you wrote."
Scott shook his head. "Please. Just—Just read, Stiles. I need a second opinion."
"Okay… Yeah, okay, Scott," Stiles agreed, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "I got you."
"Thanks," Scott said, and that was it.
Stiles lowered his eyes and began to read, hoping beyond hope that Scott had kept things PG-13 and he would still have his appetite after reading the letter.
As he carried on reading, though, turning to the second page when he finished the first, Stiles began to wonder if he wouldn't lose his appetite for entirely different reasons. The letter was painfully intimate. So achingly honest and real—no pretenses or desire to be poetic about it, just the raw honesty that one could see clinging to his frame whenever they spoke.
It was sort of uncomfortable to read it, to be honest. Like Stiles had opened a window to his neighbor's house, uninvited, and was now being privy to their personal life, to their intimate routine. The sort of casual and particular little mannerisms that one could only learn about another with time and intimacy.
Yet, at the same time, it also felt humbling, to have witnessed their love happening and growing right in front of his eyes, knowing that they had fought and bled for it and that they deserved every second they had together.
God, after all they had gone through, their love was more than earned and deserved.
When he finished, Stiles' eyes blurred a little as he tried to fight the tears away. "Fuck you, Scott."
"What? Is it terrible?" He demanded, frowning his forehead, looking ready to rip the paper from Stiles' hands and throw it in the trash.
Stiles raised his head, allowing his brother to see this unshed tears. "It's perfect," he said, smiling when Scott's jaw dropped. "She's lucky to have you, you know? This is… Don't change anything, man. This is it."
"You think so?"
"Trust me," Stiles said, leaning forward to hug him, 'cause that letter deserved a proper hug. "You perfect idiot. Trust me."
It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since Stiles had dragged his heavy body to the furthest away tree from the house he could manage before his morning cup of coffee, sitting down against the trunk, eyes closed, before Scott found him.
And it was Scott. Stiles didn't need to open his eyes to know his best friend's steps.
"Dude, are you ok?" He inquired softly, not even asking before sitting down right next to him. "We could all hear you guys screaming last night. Well, apart from Kira. She slept through all of it, surprisingly."
"Yeah? I figured. We're cool, I think. Or we will be," Stiles said, with a twisted smile. "It's Lydia and me, man. Individually we're complicated, together...well, no one thought this would be easy." He elbowed Scott, although he refused to meet his eyes. "And you know me. I have one hundred and fifty hang-ups about self-esteem. Sometimes I look at Lydia, and it just doesn't feel real."
"Stiles…"
Stiles looked down, ashamed at the words building on his lips. "That's how it started last night, too. I... My fingers, you know? I kept counting them, Scott," he said, deciding to get it over with and just open his eyes, needing to see what Scott would think of all that. "Lydia tried to get me to stop, and God, I tried, but I couldn't, just couldn't."
Scott had that knowing look on his face. "You thought you were dreaming?"
"Fuck, Scott," Stiles grimaced, more than a little disgusted with himself. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still dreaming, and I never woke up. None of this feels real. I'll wake up, look around, and for some reason, my body still feels like a cage." He took a deep breath. "Scott, I don't know how to explain it, 'kay? It's just something that consumes me. I'll be fine one second, and then for no reason whatsoever, I'll look down at my hands and feel the uncontrollable desire to count my fingers, to count everyone else's, to make sure. And I—and I think it kills Lydia a little bit that there's nothing she can do to help me, that no matter how many times she tells me that I'm me, that I'm still here, I can't get myself to believe it. I don't know what to do."
Scott said nothing, waiting for him to continue, probably aware that there was more to it, so Stiles added, almost whispering. "I love her. I love Lydia like I never thought I would get to. After spending so many years of my life picturing how it would be, you know, the two of us together... and now that I have her, now that she's right here next to me, it's better than anything I could have ever hoped for, because this time I know her, and I get the real version of Lydia, the one who's not a figment of my imagination. She's real, and she has a shit ton of stuff that drives me crazy, and I love her."
He took another deep breath, hoping to keep it together long enough to get all these words out. He needed them out—out of his brain, out of his mind, out of him. "Which is why it kills me that I cannot make her happy. I'm trying. God knows I'm trying the best way I can, but I'll go to sleep, and it's inevitable—I'll have nightmares. So many nightmares, Scott, and I'll wake up screaming, and sweating, and aggressive, and I'll try to hurt her because I don't know who she is, and I'm crying. I'm just a mess. That's the truth: I'm a mess. I still am, even after all this time, and sometimes I can see it in her eyes—she has no idea how to deal with this."
"Stiles, I know that you think you have to have all the answers, all the time, and I know a lot of it is my fault," Scott said, and when Stiles opened his mouth to protest, he raised his hand. "No. Shut up. It is, and you don't have to deny it. I know that I've always dumped a lot of the responsibility on your shoulders—to find out what was happening, and how to solve it, and how to make it go away, and I never apologized for it, but I feel like I should. So this is me, apologizing.
I'm sorry that I took you for granted. That I assumed that because you're so smart, and my best friend, and my brother, and you always put up a front like you're alright, like you're okay, that you weren't hurting. I don't want to make this about me, but fuck, getting thrown into this whole supernatural mess was so out of my league, to be honest.
I always felt that you would have handled it better—the whole being a werewolf thing. You were always the thinker, the one coming up with the plans, the ideas, telling me where to go, and what to do. Stiles, I was just a kid with asthma before all of this. And it might be crazy for someone to imagine that if they saw me now, without having seen me all those years, but that was who I was, and the truth was: you were the most exciting thing to happen to me back then. You told me where to go, and I followed you.
"Scott and Stiles, that's how it was," Scott said, sounding so nostalgic and almost reverent with the way he wrapped his mouth around the words. Stiles wanted so badly to say that they were still Scott and Stiles, despite all the shit that had happened since the day in the preserve, but Scott had already carried on speaking. "It was easy for me to just follow that after I was bitten. Kind of. But it was unfair with you, dropping all that weight on your shoulders, and basically putting my life on your hands, and telling you to watch over it, lest I die."
"You did great." When Stiles raised an eyebrow at that, Scott shook his head. "No, seriously, you did. Despite all the truly exceptional things that happened to us, you were there, and you saved my life all the times I needed you to. Lydia loves you—I don't need to be a werewolf to know that. You look at her, you talk to her, and she glows, or something, alright?
The other day, I woke up early, and Lydia was talking to Allison about you. They were sitting on the couch, whispering to each other, like some sort of girl moment that I didn't want to interrupt, so I just sat at the stairs and listened. She was talking about you, and she was crying, you know, at the end. Because you made her feel safe, and you made her feel wanted in a way she had never felt with Jackson.
Don't look at me like that. I get that I shouldn't have eavesdropped on their conversation—I'm not even going to give an excuse, they were whispering and smiling, and I didn't want to interrupt. But yeah, I stood there and felt like a jerk for never having thought about how much Jackson damaged Lydia's self-esteem with his own problems, and to hear her so happy, smelling like excitement and love, telling Allison about you and all the shit you do for her... Like an alpha, that makes me content and proud. Like a brother? It makes me wanna hug you and cry.
Don't allow the past to get in the way of the future, dude. You have shit, of course you have shit, with all that happened. No one expects you to be fine, not even Lydia. Maybe she's just afraid because she sees you pulling away every time you feel bad, instead of allowing her to be there for you."
"When did you get so wise, man?" Stiles asked, feeling the tears gathering on his eyes, ready to roll down at any minute, with the slightest of pressure.
It soothed something deep inside of him that he never acknowledged that needed soothing when Stiles saw that Scott was not in his condition—that he looked concerned, understanding, and even empathetic, yet still no closer to breaking down than he had been when he first sat down. Scott was there for him, giving him advice and being his usual exasperating, hopeful self, and at that moment, he didn't need Stiles to do absolutely anything for him or to pretend he was on top of things. Stiles could break down if he wanted, and Scott looked ready to steady him.
Scott gave him a sorrowful smile. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly what Stiles was thinking, and it saddened him. "I'm ready, Stiles. Let it out," he said, nothing more than a whisper. "I'm here now."
And, without any conscious decision on his part, Scott's words nudged open whichever door he had closed two years ago and kept locked all that time, and it all came rushing out, pouring out, like a wave. Stiles was crying before he even realized it, his head tilting forward, maybe to hide it, but Scott slid closer, gently led Stiles' head to his shoulder, and hugged him.
He said nothing, not a single word. Not even when the grunts of pain came, or when Stiles sunk his nails on his back, or when he mumbled incoherent crap, or when their position became painfully uncomfortable to hold.
They stood there until Stiles' tears ran dry, and he felt tired and gross, unable to get up, so he just readjusted his grip and fell asleep clinging to Scott like a child.