The next morning was the exact opposite of the night before. The sky was a bright, clear blue, with white clouds drifting lazily across it. Birds sang in the trees outside Stiles' bedroom window as water from the previous night's storm dripped from the leaves of the trees. Stiles woke up more rested and comfortable than he had since he could remember; the blankets draped over him like a cocoon, feeling warm and comfortable and incredibly safe. He buried his head in the pillow, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep. But then he remembered where he was.
Stiles shot up as though he'd been burned as he remembered that he was at Ms. Givens' house, that he had slept there for the night because mother nature and lady luck had both decided that he was their enemy, because his day hadn't already been crappy enough. Stiles groaned and covered his face with his hands, digging his fingers into his skull. Scott would find it hilarious to learn he'd been forced to stay the night at their teacher's place. Which was why, Stiles thought determinedly as he slowly removed the covers and stepped out of the bed, he would never know.
The wood floor was cold beneath Stiles' feet and he quickly made his way over to his clothes that he had left in the corner; they still might be damp, but at least they were somet –.
Stiles came to an abrupt stop, frowning as he stared down at the, decidedly empty, corner of the room. He looked around, searching for his clothes and the towel he had left on the floor the night before, but there wasn't a single trace of any of it. Stiles took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Yesterday had been a disaster – he was not about to start freaking out when this day had barely begun.
Walking over to the dresser and vanity, Stiles picked up the clothes he had worn the night before, the ones belonging to Ms. Givens' grandfather, and reluctantly put them on. He had to admit, they weren't that bad looking, and they were even – dare he say – comfortable.
He walked over to the door as he finished putting on his shirt; after he slid the last button through its hole he reached out and grabbed the door handle. He twisted it and pulled, and –
Nothing happened.
Stiles frowned and pulled the doorknob again. The door did not move. Stiles jiggled the handle, trying to get the door unstuck and banged on the door with his fist, hoping to dislodge whatever it was that had decided to lock him in; but no matter what he tried or how hard he tried it, the door did not open. Stiles rested his forehead against the door with a groan. How embarrassing. Not only had he been forced to stay at his teacher's place for the night and take advantage of her hospitality and kindness, but he had now – somehow – locked himself in her guestroom. And the only way to get out would be to…
Call her.
Great.
Stiles cleared his throat; better now than never. "Ms. Givens?" he called, hoping that she'd hear him and he wouldn't have to yell her name at the top of his lungs. He jiggled the door-handle again. "Ms. Givens!" He paused, listening for any sign of movement from anywhere in the house, but he heard nothing. Stiles growled in frustration and began banging on the door with earnest. Suddenly he heard something creak. He stopped what he was doing, looking around for the source of the noise. His eye caught a movement from the other side of the room and he leaned back, trying to get a better look, and saw that it was – a closet?
The door of the closet was slightly ajar, most likely having fell open from the banging Stiles had given on the wall. Stiles frowned and walked over to it; he hadn't realised the room had a closet, but it made sense, as most rooms did – he just must not have noticed it the night before.
Stiles grabbed the closet handle and opened the door further, expecting to see old hangers filled equally with old clothes, but instead he saw –
Holy shit.
Stiles' eyes widened as he realised that the closet door wasn't a closet door, but rather, it was a doorway into another part of the attic. Stiles took a few steps forward and peered inside.
The room was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from a small window high above near the ceiling. The old wooden floors creaked beneath Stiles' feet as he walked; he knew he shouldn't be in here, that he should have permission before he went snooping around things that weren't his, but something about the room drew him in – whether it was his own curiosity or the room's mystery Stiles didn't know – but he simply couldn't stop himself from walking inside.
The room was filled with old furniture and knickknacks, most of which looked old enough to be in an antique shop. An old rocking chair sat along the wall, cobwebs and dust blanketed overtop of it from disuse. A number of dressers were scattered across the room, along with countless dust-covered boxes and chests. Stiles' eyes fell over each of them as he scanned the room, before catching something in particular. He stared at the item for a moment, then began walking towards it.
A full-length mirror stood at the end of the room, its ancient feet standing proud and strong in its old age. The silver brass that surrounded the mirror was faded and lined; the mirror itself was smudged around the edges, causing its reflection to appear blurred and dull. Stiles brushed the dust away from the mirror's surface, restoring a small amount of clarity to its reflection. As he did, something caught the corner of his eye and he squinted, confused. Everything was still for a moment, and Stiles began to wonder if he had seen anything at all; but then it moved again, and Stiles' eyes widened in shock. He tried to move back but something stopped him, and soon he couldn't move away, his eyes transfixed on the sight in front of him. The mirror shimmered, and the image of Stiles disappeared and was replaced with another. It was –
"What are you doing in here?"
Stiles jumped and spun around, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in his chest.
Ms. Givens stood in the doorway, looking at Stiles with raised eyebrows and a dark stare. She remained silent, waiting for Stiles to answer.
"Um, I was – I was… I thought it was a closet and the door was open, so I wanted to see what was inside –."
"The door was open," Ms. Givens repeated. Stiles nodded vigorously. Givens' stare deepened into a glare, something so completely different than Stiles had ever seen her wear before. The uncommon reaction made his palms sweat, and he wondered just how angry she was going to get.
Ms. Givens looked Stiles up and down, as though sizing him up. They remained that way for a few moments, before suddenly the atmosphere completely changed, and Ms. Givens broke into a wide smile. "Why don't you come join me downstairs for some breakfast; I made French toast with eggs. I even have orange juice in the fridge." Stiles stared at Givens uneasily, hesitating for a moment before slowly stepping towards her and following her out of the room.
When he entered the bedroom he felt a wave of fresh air wash over him and he paused, blinking in surprise. He heard Ms. Givens close the closet door behind them and he waited for her to finish locking it, before they made their way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Stiles asked if he could help her with anything, but Ms. Givens just shook her head with a smile and politely declined. A few minutes later she set down two plates of French toast and scrambled eggs on the table along with a pitcher of orange juice, and the they both began to eat.
"It's a beautiful day out," Ms. Givens said after a few minutes of silence. "Why don't we go out for a walk after we finish eating? There are some nice trails that lead through the woods behind the house. If you want."
Stiles nodded between mouthfuls of food. He swallowed and said, "Yeah, sure – that sounds great." He glanced out the window at the trees and watched as the breeze sifted through the leaves, the sun's reflection making them appear like gold.
They finished eating ten minutes later and Stiles helped dry as they washed the dishes. Eventually they made their way to the door and put on their shoes and jackets; Stiles followed as Ms. Givens led them on a path behind the house. An old swing-set sat in the backyard along with a yellowed teeter-totter. A tire-swing spun lazily beneath a tall oak tree.
"These were what my mother and her siblings played on growing up," Ms. Givens said, motioning to the playsets. "And they were what I played on too, as a little girl."
"You must have had pretty nice summers here," Stiles replied as they made their way through the backyard.
"Yes. They were great summers; very fun and… educational."
"Was your grandfather a teacher?" Stiles asked curiously.
Ms. Givens paused when they reached the treeline, before answering, "Of a sort." They made their way into the trees and began walking down the trail. Stiles had to admit, it was a beautiful day for a walk. Birds sang in the trees, squirrels chippered on branches, and the leaves swayed gently in the wind above them. Stiles peered up through the leaves, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. Sunlight shone brightly through the leaves and the branches, almost hurting Stiles' eyes as he looked at it. They continued walking down the path for nearly twenty minutes; Stiles didn't know where they were going or how long they'd be, but for the first time in a long time he felt calm and relaxed, and he wasn't about to ruin that with unnecessary questions.
His eyes stayed glued to Ms. Givens' back, watching her hair sway as she walked. A long while later, after what felt like over an hour of walking, they suddenly broke through the trees and into a clearing. There was nothing in the open space except grass and… a well? Stiles furrowed his eyebrows and followed Ms. Givens as she made her way over to the stone structure.
The well looked like one that came from a medieval storybook; stone sat upon stone and gathered around in a circle, completed with wooden stands and a wooden roof above it. A rope hung down from the top and disappeared into the hole beneath it. Stiles walked forward until he reached the well and peered over the edge, trying to see how deep the well went. It didn't go far, perhaps twenty-feet in depth. The bucket attached to the rope floated at the bottom, already half-filled with water. Stiles jumped when the bucket started to move, and he looked up to see Ms. Givens turning the handle at the side. She gave Stiles a small smile.
"This used to be the only way my grandfather and his family could get water," she said.
"And it's still good to drink?" Stiles asked.
"Of course. Here." A few moments later the bucket reached the top and Ms. Givens grabbed it, setting it on the side of the well. She tilted it gently towards Stiles. "Go ahead and take a handful of water; it's some of the best tasting water in the county."
Stiles reached in and cupped his hands, lifting out a handful of water. The water sparkled in the sunlight and Stiles suddenly smelled a hint of lilacs in the air. He brought his hands up to his mouth and closed his eyes, about to drink when suddenly, as though a switch had been turned, the light dimmed and the entire forest and clearing was cast in shadow.
Stiles looked up, surprised, and saw that where seconds before there had been white clouds drifting against the back of a bright-blue sky, there were now dark, angry billows encompassing the whole sky, moving swiftly towards the east. The wind whistled loudly through the trees, beating against Stiles' back and nearly knocking him off his feet. The old well that had appeared so perfectly intact a moment before was now broken and decrepit, the roof splintered and torn in half; what had once been perfectly placed stones were now crumbled and strewn across the ground. Stiles looked down at the bucket Ms. Givens was holding and realised with a start that it was splintered and rotted. The water inside looked filthy and stale, dead insects floating on the surface. Stiles looked towards Ms. Givens, his eyes wide as revulsion surged through him, but was suddenly distracted by a voice shouting in the distance, nearly lost amongst the roaring of the wind.
"STOP! Don't drink the water! DON'T DRINK WATER!"
Stiles turned, searching for the source of the voice. His eyes landed on a young woman running towards him through the trees, a look of terror stricken across her face; he frowned and was about to move, when suddenly Ms. Givens' hands were beneath his and pushing them towards his face. "Drink," she said quickly. "Drink, Stiles." His handful of water was shoved into his face and splashed into his open mouth.
In an instant the darkness disappeared and the day returned, dousing the clearing in bright, warm sunlight. The roaring of the wind was replaced with the singing of birds; leaves that were nearly being torn from their branches moments before were now rustling quietly in the breeze.
The water from the well tasted like nothing Stiles had ever tasted before; he closed his eyes and instinctually brought his hands closer, drinking until all the water was gone. When he was finished, he looked up to see Ms. Givens looking at him with a gentle smile.
"Did you like it?" she asked. She appeared oddly out of breath, though Stiles didn't know why. He nodded.
"Yeah, that – that was amazing. You weren't kidding when you said this was the best water in the county."
"You'll find I'm not much of a jokester," Ms. Givens replied with a smile.
Stiles reached towards the bucket, intending to take another drink, when Ms. Givens' hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his wrist, squeezing it tightly. "You can't have anymore, I'm afraid," she said. Her voice was light, but the grip she maintained on Stiles' wrist was fierce. Stiles winced and Ms. Givens let go. She let the bucket swing back into the well and lowered the handle until the bucket fell back into the water with a splash. She turned back to Stiles. "Shall we head back?" Stiles nodded and they made their way back onto the path and back towards the house.
They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon playing board-games and card-games, chatting about everything from family and friends to what their favourite subjects were in school. There was no TV in the room and Stiles had yet to see a radio or even a clock, but he was far from bored. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever had so peaceful and enjoyable a day as this in his life – certainly at least in the past few years.
"Would you like to help me make cookies?" Ms. Givens asked after they had finished another round of Monopoly. "Baking is a favourite pastime of mine." She reached over to take Stiles' cards and put them away, her fingers brushing lightly against the back of Stiles' hand.
A feeling of deep unease coursed through Stiles' body and warning bells rang loudly in the back of his mind; he frowned, trying to figure out where the feeling was coming from, when he was interrupted by Ms. Givens rising to her feet. Stiles looked up, confusion still wrinkling his forehead, but at the sight of Ms. Givens' gentle smile the confusion and unease faded away, and Stiles suddenly wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon baking. He rose to his feet with a smile and followed her into the kitchen, where they began pulling out baking sheets and bowls and ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
Ms. Givens began putting the various ingredients into the bowl, then took a wooden spoon and began stirring them together. Stiles measured and poured whatever she asked, turning on the oven as she worked and tearing out tin-foil for the cookie sheets. He felt very content, unable to remember the last time he had helped bake cookies; it was most likely before his mom had died.
"Stiles," Ms. Givens asked, "could you grab some baking soda from the cupboard? It should be on the second shelf." Stiles did so, leaning on his tip-toes and moving various jars aside as he searched for the ingredient. As he looked, he noticed a dusty jar tucked away in the back corner, holding what appeared to be some sort of liquid. He pushed a few jars aside, trying to get a better look. He reached towards it and grasped the edges with his fingers, slowly pulling it towards him. As it turned, Stiles realised that not only was there liquid in the jar, but there was something else in there, too. He squinted, trying to get a better look; it was pickled-something, he was sure, but as to what it was, he couldn't quite make out. Suddenly, the items inside shifted; Stiles stared for a long moment in shock, before fully comprehending what the items were.
They were eyeballs.
Stiles' eyes widened and his hand jerked back as though burned. Ms. Givens' voice broke the silence. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "Did you manage to find the baking soda?"
Stiles shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the revolting image, trying to understand if what he was seeing was actually real. "That – that jar," he stuttered. "It's filled with – with –."
Ms. Givens reached past him and grabbed the jar, bringing it out into the light. "This?" she asked, holding it in front of Stiles. "These are pickled pears. It is rather dusty, though. I can understand if it's a bit hard to see them."
Stiles shock gave way to confusion, as he took a closer look at the jar and realised that instead of eyeballs, a number of sliced pears floated in the water. Stiles was speechless. Givens set the jar back in the cupboard and grabbed the baking soda beside it. Stiles stared at the jar a moment longer, unable to let go of the feeling of unease that now sat deep in his stomach. Finally when he heard the sound of beaters against the porcelain bowl, Stiles turned his attention back to the task at hand, trying to gather himself back together and ignore the feeling of embarrassment at having thought something so absurd.
After a while his attention began to wander, and his eyes began to roam across the kitchen absently. They landed on the fridge on the other side of the room, in particularly on a small picture held by a magnet on the front; Stiles stared at it for a long moment, before walking over to it. He took the picture in his hand and frowned.
The image was of a family; a father, a mother, and their three children, along with who appeared to be the grandfather at the back. The two girls and one boy crouched at the front with big smiles on their faces, each holding onto the family dog. The picture had clearly been taken in the seventies, and if Stiles wasn't mistaken, it had been taken on this property. Part of Stiles knew that the picture was of Ms. Givens and her family, but for some reason his eyes were drawn to the dog in the middle of the picture. The dog was clearly tame, but its breed didn't look like that of an average farm-dog. Its coat was a mixture of black and white, and its face was narrow, its eyes reflecting a dark shade of yellow. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd say that the dog was related to a wolf. Something stirred in the back of Stiles' mind as he stared at the animal, before an image of a young man appeared began to form. Stiles' fingers brushed over the photo, trying to figure out what the wolf-like dog was reminding him of, when –
Suddenly the photo was ripped from his hands by Ms. Givens, who hastily asked if there was a problem. Stiles didn't hear her, though, as suddenly his head began to ache and he slowly started to realise what he was doing.
"That's right," he said, turning around. "I was… my jeep. I was going to call someone and… and have them pick me up. I forgot." Stiles' head hurt and he felt incredibly confused, trying to understand how he could have forgotten about calling someone for help. He began patting his pockets, searching for his phone. "Do you… where's my phone?" he asked, his movements growing frantic. "I can't find my phone. I need to call Scott, or – or my dad. I didn't mean to stay this long –." Panic began to rise in his chest and his breathing grew short and quick.
Suddenly long, gentle fingers ran through his hair and Stiles froze. He looked down to see Ms. Givens in front of him, looking at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. "Shh, shh," she whispered quietly, tucking Stiles' hair behind his ears. "Calm down my dear one, calm down. You've no need to worry." The panic from moments before began to fall away and was replaced with a an unexplainable feeling of calm and safety. A feeling of peace washed over him and suddenly he felt very tired, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Why don't we go upstairs to your room, hm?" Ms. Givens asked, tugging Stiles' arm and leading him through the living room and to the stairs. "You look like you could use a long nap, I'm sure." Stiles followed her up the stairs and into the attic room, collapsing on his bed in a heap, his legs nearly having given out from beneath him. Ms. Givens moved the blankets and draped them across his body, tucking them him in. Stiles watched her as she moved, his eyes never leaving hers. She smiled at him and brushed his hair back from his face. "There, there," she said quietly. "Go to sleep. I'll see you when you wake." With her words Stiles' eyes closed, and he knew no more.
Scott stared at his phone, gripping it tightly in his hand, his thumb hovering over the name of one particular contact.
Stiles.
Ever since their fight last Friday, Scott had felt nothing but guilt. The look on Stiles' face when he'd said those words made him feel as though he had just personally taken a knife and stabbed him in the back, and twisting it for added measure. And then he'd just left him standing there, alone in the middle of the parking lot, looking after him as he drove away until he was nothing but a speck in his rear-view mirror.
He hadn't meant it. Not really. He meant it only in the ways in which he wanted Stiles to be safe; but he knew that it was a selfish, unrealistic, and unfair desire that could never be met. Not in the long run. But at the time he had just really wanted Stiles to stay away from the supernatural world until he found a way he could keep him safe, along with the rest of his pack.
His pack. That had been perhaps the biggest lie of them all. Of course Stiles was a part of the pack; he'd been the first, really. Ever since they'd met in pre-school they had been a pack; and for the longest time it had been just the two of them, until certain events occurred and their outlooks on life and their friend-base expanded in ways they never thought possible. Scott thought he could keep Stiles with them forever, that Stiles would just magically remain unhurt each and every time, but he was wrong. And that's why Stiles had to stay away.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He hadn't really thought about it until a couple months ago when a stray werewolf pack had come through Beacon Hills. By then Scott had dealt with a number of packs that passed through the county, learning that some werewolves were more nomadic than others. The visiting wolves had been surprised when they saw just how many non-werewolves were apart of Scott's pack, but they'd been most surprised by their human member – Stiles. That had caused a bit of a stir, but Scott had remained largely indifferent to their disapproval. At least, until one of their members took him aside and spoke to him.
She'd identified with him about love for humans, and relayed her own story about a human friend that had almost become like a pack to her. She had let her friend join them in hunts and sometimes even in fights; the human was her best friend, and despite the dangers, she didn't want to keep her away. But then another pack came through and a fight broke out, and when her friend had tried to defend her, she'd been caught in the crossfire. She'd tried to save her, but the wound had been too great and her friend died. After that, the werewolf said, she never befriended another human again. When she had finished her story, Scott had felt physically sick, thinking of all the times Stiles had been in danger and nearly lost his life, all because he was too stubborn to stay away.
The werewolf went on to relay all the dangers that humans were vulnerable to, and that, unless an alpha was willing to risk both the life of their human and the lives of their pack-members, the alpha would let their human go; and if their human wouldn't go, the alpha would force them to leave. Because otherwise, all that waited for that human was death. And Scott knew. He knew that while he could survive the death of Allison and even the death of pack-members, he knew that he would never survive the death of Stiles. If Stiles died, then he would too.
So he kicked Stiles out. It had hurt, and Scott never hated himself more than when he had done it, but it was the right thing to do.
It had to be.
Except now Stiles wouldn't answer his phone, no matter how many times Scott called or texted. It was Sunday afternoon and he hadn't heard from Stiles all weekend; Scott couldn't even remember the last time they'd gone so long without communicating. He wanted to chalk it up as Stiles merely being pissed at him, and rightly so, but Scott could not get rid of the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him something wasn't right. He didn't know why he needed to see Stiles so badly, he knew he needed to see him; if for nothing else, than to tell him he was sorry, and try and put their friendship back together.
Scott took out his phone, and deciding to try one last time, pressed Stiles' number. Unlike previous attempts that resulted in being sent directly to voicemail, this time the phone finally began to ring, and Scott held his breath, hoping that Stiles would finally pick up.
