Chapter 9: It's a Phobia
A/N: May I just say that Scott and Stiles are awesome bros? They crack me up and make me cry. Enjoy!
"We're running out of money." Fishlegs told them softly as the twins took turns slamming the other's head in the microwave. "We'll have enough to maybe get all of us back to Beacon Hills, but we can't do another trip somewhere."
"Maybe we won't have to," Stiles said, thinking back to what Ruffnut said, 'We can handle anything! We'll protect your home!'
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
Stiles untangled his arms and flung them out, "How easy has this been?" He demanded. "We found Snotlout in a few days—and Scott just happened to fall and knock himself out until the lights came on and pointed him to the cave where one tragically frozen Viking was? Or how the riddle—which was said to be hundreds of years old led us to the Statue of Liberty where some kids crashed into me and I happened to find the twins in the forms of three inch carvings in one tile out of thousands?"
He looked at his audience; Fishlegs was gaping, his mouth open in a small 'o'. Scott was nodding slightly in agreement. Lydia looked unchanged, and Stiles knew that, once again, he and Lydia were on the same page.
"This is way easier than anything else we've done in Beacon Hills, guys." He said. "I don't trust this, but I feel like this is all directed at us, y'know? Fishlegs knew exactly where Snotlout was being kept—he didn't give us very good directions, but he knew where it was. Due to the technology of this time, Lydia could easily find out about the Statue of Liberty—which is a freaking symbol of our Nation, okay? These things are hitting close to home and it's like they're directed right at us."
"If-if that's true, then someone planned for those dragons to attack Beacon Hills," Fishlegs stuttered. "Someone meant for you guys to go on this trip and find the Riders and—but what does that mean?"
"It's close to home," Stiles repeated, and Lydia gave a small gasp of understanding. "The next Rider is in Beacon Hills."
"Oh," Scott said softly.
"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "Oh."
"So are we gonna go blow something up now?" Tuffnut asked plaintively, seemingly not realizing his sister was trying to stab him with a plastic fork she'd procured.
"No," Stiles said. His stomach gave a large growl, and he winced slightly. "We're gonna introduce you two to the magic that is American food," he said, walking towards the twins and directing them to the door.
"Sweet!" Tuffnut yelled. "Roasted mutton!"
"Uh, not exactly." Stiles grinned.
"It is so weird seeing you talk to thin air, dude." Scott called to Stiles.
"I know!" Stiles winked.
"Okay, so we need to get back to California." Scott said. "When can we leave?"
"I'm working on it!" Lydia snapped, leaning against a lamppost as she typed furiously. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Fishlegs buying hotdogs from a street cart and passing several to the twins. Stiles's stomach growled again, letting him know that he'd had very little to eat this entire trip—basically the snack bars his dad packed him and bottled water Lydia had bought upon landing in Greenland. The still unconscious Snotlout was lying like a hobo on a nearby bench under Scott's watchful eye.
Lydia let out a little growl of frustration, still typing at a speed that Stiles envied.
"Calm down, Lydia." Scott told her softly. "You don't need to stress out trying to get us home."
"Our town is being attacked by mythical creatures, we're seeking help from thousand year old psychotic Vikings, and I'm not supposed to stress out?" Lydia glowered.
Scott held up his hands defensively. "I didn't mean—"
Lydia sighed, cutting him off. "I know you didn't mean," she said wearily, "but I just—I want to get home, I want those dragons as far away as possible and I just want to some rest. We haven't had much time to breathe since the Nogitsune—" she cut herself off, half glancing at Stiles.
Stiles found the nearby buildings very interesting suddenly.
He began edging away from the conversation towards the twins—if nothing else, they could distract him from his thoughts.
"So, what are these?" Ruffnut was asking Fishlegs as the trio wandered towards Stiles and away from the very relieved hotdog man.
"Meat." Fishlegs told them delicately. "Just try it."
The twins looked at one another, shrugged as one, and bit into the hotdog in sync.
"Do they practise that?" Stiles asked Fishlegs, watching the twins chew—in sync. It was very odd.
"I have no idea." Fishlegs replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if they did or didn't."
"What was it like on their poor parents?" Stiles mused.
Fishlegs laughed awkwardly. "Their parents eventually just built another house for them and kind of . . . uh, kept them like really annoying yak. The twins didn't seem to notice."
"This is AWESOME!" Tuffnut yelled, punching the air with his fist. He crammed the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and tried to chew, but couldn't. So Stiles and Fishlegs were treated to half-ground up meat and the bread (a bit of mustard dribbled down his chin, and Tuff rubbed it off with the back of his hand).
People were staring at the hotdog that had mysteriously disappeared into the air.
"Yeah," Ruffnut agreed, though she, at least, refrained from shoving the whole hotdog in her mouth. "Pretty good."
"Migmah, orrumph!" Tuffnut agreed.
"You said it!" Ruffnut cackled, taking a large bite out of her meal.
"Did she actually understand what he said, or was she just agreeing?" Stiles asked—the fact that he felt the need to ask was way more than he wanted to handle.
"Well, they can speak fluent post-lightning bolt victim, so I don't know." Fishlegs shrugged. "Maybe. It wouldn't surprise me."
"They can what?"
"Snotlout was hit by lightning—I believe the final count before he died was fifty-two times. Tuffnut had learned to speak that when the number was at twelve when we were sixteen."
"How the hell did you all live for so long?" Stiles asked, horrified.
Fishlegs grinned. "We're Vikings," he said proudly.
He left Stiles standing their gob smack, and Stiles could swear he heard the blonde chuckle as he left.
They were insane.
The flight to Beacon Hills was done quietly—mostly because Lydia managed to locate sedatives, and so the twins spent the flying snoozing.
Stiles and Lydia managed to forge passports for the twins and Snotlout and while they got Snotlout through security (which was such a hassle) the twins were invisible and simply walked through.
Stiles had covered up the twins with a blanket and placed large blonde wigs that he (maybe sort-of illegally) had found so that both twins looked like they were wrapped in a burrito with bird's nest hair.
"They have Aviophobia," Stiles told the ticket inspector as they walked past. "It's very bad,"
"And—and this one?" She asked, apprehensively looking at Snotlout, who was being supported by Fishlegs.
"Narcolepsy," Stiles said cheerfully. "He'll wake up soon enough."
"Your friends have problems," the ticket inspector told him.
"Oh, I know." Stiles said. "All the problems."
And one point in time from New York to Sacramento (the earliest flight available) Tuffnut woke up.
"Whoa," Stiles heard and looked over to see the blonde boy looking out the window. Stiles was sitting with Tuffnut and Ruffnut—Ruffnut was squished between the two boys—while the rest of the group was scattered around the plane; Lydia and Snotlout were near the front, Scott was behind Stiles and across the aisle and Fishlegs was at the very back, looking quite uncomfortable next to an arguing couple.
"What?" Stiles asked Tuffnut.
"We're so high up."
"Um, yeah." Stiles said. "We're thousands of feet up—" he remembered that the twins really couldn't count higher than nine. "Um, we're really high up. Haven't you been this high up before? With the dragons and all?"
"Yeah," Tuffnut said. "But that was when we were outside."
"Right," Stiles said. Of course, he thought, being inside and high up is different from being on a dragon's back. What was I thinking?
"Would it be bad if I shoved Ruffnut outside?" Tuffnut asked conversationally.
Yeah, no, we're veering into weird again, Stiles thought before he reached over and tapped Tuffnut's shoulder.
"No," he said sternly.
Tuffnut visibly wilted. "It'd be funny." He protested.
"You've been dead for a thousand years already!" Stiles hissed.
"Yeah, together apparently. I can't get away from my stupid sister even in death." Tuffnut grumped.
"Will you just be quiet?" Stiles asked. "You break anything on this place and it could kill everyone on this plane!"
"Really?" Oh for the love of—Tuffnut was treating this like it was a viable option.
"Really," Stiles said sarcastically. "But you wouldn't be strong enough to break anything—here, eat this and you will be." He offered Tuffnut a small pill. Tuffnut took it gleefully.
What a sucker.
"Alright!" He crowed before his eyes rolled back and he slouched against the window.
Stiles sighed in relief.
"Stiles," Scott said, and Stiles looked over to see his bud grinning.
"No," Stiles said. "Don't say anything. These two are menaces. We were never, ever this bad."
Scott held up his hands in mock-surrender, still grinning. "Okay," he said. "Fine. Let's talk about the clue."
"What about it?" Stiles muttered, irritably poking at a hole in his jeans.
"Where would we go to find a place that holds only bad with cogs and stuff made of tin?" Scott asked. The person in the other row next to Stiles (in front of Scott) had their headphones on and were apparently sleeping. Stiles took that as a sign they could talk without being snapped at.
"I don't know." Stiles said, still feeling miffed. "Let's talk with the pack and figure it out then. We've been going nonstop for a week with barely any sleep or food. I just want to get to Beacon Hills and see my dad and the pack and go from there."
Scott's eyes softened. "Are you okay?" He asked softly.
Scott and Stiles leaned back into their seats as an attendant strolled past them with a cart, offering drinks and snacks and smiles. When she was gone they leaned closer again.
Scott let Stiles collect his thoughts for a moment.
Stiles couldn't on principle tell his dad everything—a dude has privacy needs after all—and he didn't trust the pack as much as he trusted Scott. Scott was the only one he could actually trust with how he was doing, because even though they'd both been insanely busy with the supernatural and girlfriends and guerrilla wars they'd been fighting, Scott was still there when it counted.
Well, he was now. In the beginning when Stiles was getting beaten up by creepy grandpas? Not so much. But, well, past is past. Moving on.
Stiles would always trust Scott. "I'm tired." Stiles said finally. "And that scares me, Scott. But I'm doing good. I've got—I've got something to do, a goal that isn't focused on me personally. It's good. I'm . . . I'm doing okay."
Scott sighed softly. "You've been less sarcastic lately. " He said. "And quieter. Is it just because you're recovering, or is something else going on?"
Stiles shook his head. "Just recovering." He said. "The Nog—Void. Dark me. Evil fox. Whatever. He, uh, liked my humor and he used it and it feels tainted . . ."
"It's not." Scott said.
"Logically I know that," Stiles ducked his head slightly, unable to look at Scott in the face. "But emotionally—I just feel violated, Scott, in every way, and Allison . . ."
He trailed off, glancing up to see an answering flash of guilt in Scott's eyes.
"You were split into two people, Stiles." Scott said. "You had absolutely nothing to do with that."
"I keep telling myself that." Stiles said. "It's not making it easier."
They both leaned back again as the attendant rolled her cart back down the aisle, going to opposite direction this time.
"Stiles, I'm just worried." Scott said. "You've been through a lot lately."
"So've you," Stiles argued.
Scott shook his head. "Not as much as you," he said. "I just . . . Stiles, I just want you to be okay."
"I'm not going to be okay for a long time." Stiles said. "It's too fresh right now, and we barely got a break before the dragons attacked. It's been one thing after another, Scott, and I feel like I'm drowning."
"Yeah," Scott said. "Just . . . if it gets too much, you let me know."
Stiles wouldn't. Scott knew that.
But he'd be watching Stiles for the signs that Stiles was cracking.
And that—that was why Scott was a Good Friend.