Epilogue

On February 25th 2014, Stiles Stilinski came home.

After Scott released him from their hug, Stiles found his arms filled with Lydia instead, and after that the floodgates opened. Malia had dragged him into a fierce kiss, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh at Dean's impressed expression and enthusiastic thumbs-up. He had grown serious, though, when she leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "Don't you ever leave me behind again," she had said in a rough voice, and Stiles had held her tightly to his chest and whispered a shaky promise in return.

Liam had a strangely torn expression as he went in for a handshake, as though he wished he could get away with a hug without suffering years of teasing afterward. Isaac, thankfully, had hung back, giving Stiles a clap on a back and making a sarcastic remark about taking so long to come back, to which Stiles had rolled his eyes and asked how France had treated Isaac's scarf collection. There was an undercurrent of warmth to the teasing that Stiles didn't like to think too much about, although he'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate it.

Once everyone had welcomed him back, and Stiles had recovered from a minor panic attack over the realisation of how much schoolwork he would have to catch up on, the group had dispersed. Stiles made sure to drag a promise out of Parrish before he left to keep his mouth shut to his dad about his stealing a car, and he still wasn't sure if Parrish had been serious or not when he gave his word. It made him uncomfortable, and he had narrowed his eyes as Parrish's retreating back.

"Don't worry about it, Stiles," Scott had reassured him. "Your dad's really not going to care right now, trust me."

The door slid shut behind Parrish, and suddenly Scott was the last of the pack left in the room. "Your dad's probably at home right now – I can give you a ride, if you want?" he asked hesitantly.

Stiles shook his head. "Thanks, but I'll catch a lift with Bobby. I told you before, there's no way you're getting me on that death trap."

Scott smiled a little, before his face sobered and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Stiles," he started, voice small, "about Donovan –"

"Scott, don't," Stiles interrupted. The bubble of happiness in his chest deflated, and he felt the too-familiar darkness threaten to return. A small lump was forming in his throat, and he fought it off with an effort. He had come too far to return to the mess of anxiety and depression that he had been before.

Scott pressed his lips together unhappily, so Stiles took a deep breath and continued. "Look, did you mean what you said earlier?"

Scott nodded firmly. "Every word."

"Then can we just forget that it ever happened?" Stiles implored. "It feels like a lifetime ago. And I don't know if I can go through that again." He meant it too. There was a burning in his throat and a fluttering in his chest and he couldn't bear the thought of falling apart all over again.

Scott inhaled shakily. "Okay, but before we do – I need to say that I'm sorry." His mouth was tight, and there were faint lines around the corners of his eyes. "I was so fucked up back then with everything that was going on, and then Theo was messing with my head and I didn't know what to believe or what to do. Everything was falling apart, and I took it out on you." He shook his head slightly. "I didn't realise how badly I'd messed up until after you'd gone, and I never got the chance to say I'm sorry. I should have trusted you. I do trust you."

Stiles swallowed harshly, blinking back tears before he found his voice. "It's okay," he said softly. "I didn't trust you either, we both screwed up. So I'm sorry too, for my part."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Stiles reached out an arm and squeezed his shoulder gently. "So we're good?"

Scott hesitated, then smiled slightly. "We're good."

"Then let's never speak of this again."

"Deal," Scott replied.

And then Scott had left, taking off on his bike, and Bobby had offered Stiles a ride home. The truck was blissfully quiet, and Stiles took a moment to put himself back together during the short trip, letting the events of the day finally sink in. Neither of them spoke, and eventually Bobby pulled up in front of the house, the engine falling silent.

Lights were on inside, and Stiles could see a faint shadow moving through the curtains. This was it.

He should have been racing to the door, but Stiles hesitated. Turning to Bobby, he tried to figure out how to voice his thoughts, but Bobby beat him to it.

"I meant what I said earlier," Bobby said gently. "You've still got us, if you want us."

Stiles' throat burned, and he smiled gratefully. "Of course I do, Bobby, I just don't know how to thank you. You took me in when I had no one else, you were there for me when I needed you. I'll never be able to make it up to you."

"You don't have to," Bobby replied. "That's what family's for."

Tears pricked Stiles' eyes, and he moved in for a rough hug before he could stop himself. He might not have the words, but he hoped Bobby realised just how much that sentence meant to him. Bobby squeezed him gently, and somehow Stiles knew that the message was received.

After a long moment, they broke apart, and Stiles discreetly wiped at his eyes. "I'll give you a call later?" he asked hesitantly.

"If you don't, we'll be breaking down your door looking for you, kid," Bobby replied with a smile, and with that Stiles cracked open the truck door and jumped down to the sidewalk.

The driveway had never seemed longer, and the wait after Stiles knocked on the door stretched out for what seemed like hours. Finally, though, the door swung open and just like that his dad was there. Lined, gaunt, worn but wonderfully real, the Sheriff looked at him with shock.

Then he took a step forward and pulled Stiles to his chest, wrapping his arms around him fiercely, and for the first time in forever, Stiles breathed. He was home.