Title: i search for something i'm missing
Summary: They order breakfast the next morning.
Disclaimer: Not mine / title from Drake's "From Time" / quote from Sandra Cisneros' "One Last Poem for Richard"
Notes: NGL I stopped watching the show after the second episode of season 4 lmao but like, heartbeats? I've been into Daredevil lately so that's where the inspo comes from.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
There's a tapping at the window – one that goes on long enough to make into Stiles' dreams, the garish colors of an exaggerated grocery store fading to a single-minded tap-tap-tap of a woman's nails on a conveyer belt. When he blinks his eyes open he's almost surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling. His bed feels cold.
But the tapping doesn't stop – gets louder, even. Stiles stands, stretches, and doesn't bother to worry about who might be trying to get his attention in the middle of the night. If it were someone dangerous, they wouldn't have bothered trying to wake him in the first place.
When he looks out, he can't even say he's surprised. It's Scott. Scott, who's staring at him from the roof with puppy eyes and a pout to his mouth. Stiles, no doubt, makes a ridiculously clownish face at him before unlocking his window and hauling it open. When Scott clambers in it's with the grace of a squirrel.
"Stiles," Scott breathes, and he's standing too close – not that Stiles really cares. He's half-asleep, still, but he blinks to clear his vision a bit, rests a hand on Scott's shoulder when he sways. "Hey," Scott tries this time, snaggle-toothed when he smiles. Stiles snorts.
"Hi," he says, and the words are molasses in his mouth. Scott leans in closer, enough that Stiles takes a step back, bracing himself on the wall with his other hand. "Dude," he says, "what – even, what. Time is it?"
"Two am," Scott supplies after a moment, and reaches around to shut the window. He locks it as an afterthought. Stiles watches his movement with the air of someone moving underwater, Scott's visage fading into black for a few seconds before he manages to keep his eyes open long enough to be considered awake.
"Mm…kay," Stiles says, and pushes off the wall to get into Scott's space, who acquiesces and takes a few steps back to watch as Stiles lets himself collapse back into bed. Spread-eagled, he asks, "Scott. Scott…y. Scotty. Not that. Not that I'm not happy to see you, I'm always. So happy to see you but. Uh. It's way too early. Uh, late. I guess what I'm saying –"
"Nightmare," Scott interrupts, and he isn't smiling anymore. He cracks his knuckles, the noise jarring Stiles enough to make him squint at his friend. Scott's in a red shirt, too tight across the shoulders of course, poor-lighting be damned, and grayish basketball shorts. His shoes are scuffed: an old pair from sophomore year it looks like. He looks tense, and when Stiles looks closer he can see his hands are shaking, pupils blown from an adrenaline rush that hasn't faded yet.
Stiles is willing to admit the shadows in his room seem more sinister than comforting, even as a kid with too much energy for his tiny body.
"Oh," Stiles says, and straightens up so he's sitting, feet planted on the floor, rather than lounging while Scott stares at him morosely. It's just dark enough for everything to feel a little hazy, but Stiles knows Scott's expressions better than his own. He's staring at the face of a sad otter. Or something. "Uh," he says, "do you…do you want to talk about it?"
Scott's mouth twists; "No." He scuffs his shoe on the carpet, and glances outside. Stiles does the same, and sees that it's a murky atmosphere despite the streetlights.
"Okay," he says next, and then, "do you want to spend the night?"
"Yeah," Scott says immediately, and he gets his shoes off without untying them. Stiles is still slouched on the edge of his bed, bracing himself there, not feeling quite awake. He's in an old dark tee that's a size too big, flannel pants worn thin.
"Do you…want me to get you some pillows?" he says after a minute, the words slow, when both he and Scott just stare at each other. Usually Scott's quick to head to the hallway closet to grab a spare one, along with blankets; the Stilinski household has been stocked with extra everything since before elementary school even started. Impromptu sleepovers are to be expected, at this point – Scott's as familiar with Stiles' floor as Stiles is with his.
This time, though, Scott just sort of looks at him, mouth half-open like he's trying to get the right words out. Stiles, meanwhile, is finding it harder to keep his eyes open for longer than two seconds, and he says, "Man, what."
Scott says, "Can I sleep with you?" and Stiles, once again, probably makes the ugliest face possible. Scott's expression crumples, and Stiles says, "Fuck. What?" in a way that hopefully won't make Scott cry.
Stiles isn't any good at emotions, especially not after that suicidal motel incident. He still has nightmares about it, which –
"Oh," he says again, "I'm a dick," and Scott cracks a smile at that. "Are you okay?" he says next, straightening up, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but…I mean. We can."
"Nah," Scott says, still smiling, a tiny peculiar thing that makes Stiles want to lurch forward and just hold him, "I just." He breaks off, laughs. "I'm really on edge right now."
"Really?" Stiles says, and nods at his hands. At least, he tries to – his aim somehow manages to be more towards Scott's crotch, but he gets it, Scott always does.
Of course, Scott looks nearly surprised to see his hands shaking, and laughs it off, awkwardly, endearingly. His teeth are white, even in the dimness of the room. "Yeah," he says, "bad nightmare. Awful. Maybe, ah, what you'd call a night terror? I'm not sure, but, um. Yeah. Can I sleep with you?" he asks again, earnest this time, big eyes and a twist to his mouth that's more sweet than bitter.
Stiles never had a chance, but he tries: "You sure that'll work?"
"Your heartbeat," Scott says, no hesitation, "it's. Grounding. I mean, it's almost always too fast, no matter what, but. I know you best," and he smiles, crooked and sloppy, "why wouldn't I like your heartbeat?"
"Like a built-in lullaby," Stiles deadpans, and he feels only a little bit slack-jawed. Mostly he feels sleepy, and kind of flattered, and little bit overwhelmed. He wonders if his heart rate's shot up. "Well, sure. Yeah," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. It's Saturday, he realizes, or was Saturday. No school the next day. Nothing to worry about.
"Yeah, okay," he says again, a little louder, "come on." He scoots back toward the wall and under the covers. He flips the corner down from where it's tangled up over him, an offering, and Scott climbs right in, shoulders almost too broad for the two of them to fit. Stiles is shoving a pillow at him when he gets a hand on his shoulder, and that's when Stiles finds himself staring at the ceiling again, Scott's face tucked into his neck, left knee between his own. Scott's half on Stiles, face down, and warm. Comfortable.
"This okay?" Scott says, and already Stiles can feel the tremors fading. He feels sleepy. And safe. Something about being between a wall of dry-wall and a wall of muscle will do that to you, he figures, barely noticing the hand that Scott tucks against his hip, or the soothing shuffle of Scott's breath against his skin.
"Mhm," he says, on the precipice of consciousness, "just perfect, Scotty." And then he's asleep.
a/n: my precious bisexual sons. love u. btw, the sheriff finds scott mostly on top of stiles the next day and after laughing for 34803 years, makes stiles call their fave breakfast joint to add an order of chocolate chip pancakes and a 2 egg sampler (over-medium) for said-werewolf. stiles gets back by replacing all the regular bacon with turkey bacon. all is well.