Epilogue

"Hey, Scott." The Sheriff steps aside and sweeps an inviting hand inside the house. "Come on in."

Scott smiles, hopping through the doorway. "Thanks," he says, eyes falling on the large pile of boxes and bags next to the bottom of the stairs. He sees some familiar books and pots and pans in them, and is that Stiles' binder of Pokemon cards sticking out?

"He's been on a cleaning kick," the Sheriff provides, noticing his gaze. "I guess he decided we have too much clutter and need to get rid of some stuff. Spent all morning reorganizing all of the kitchen cupboards, which means I'll get to spend the next month trying to figure out where he put everything. He's upstairs now, probably doing the same to my closet."

Scott arches an eyebrow, unsure whether that's a good or bad thing. Sometimes Stiles tends to throw himself a little too enthusiastically into random projects when he's trying to avoid something else. The Sheriff merely holds up a hand, shaking his head. "If he's back to micromanaging my life, I'm taking it as a good sign."

"Good point," Scott agrees, the corner of his mouth quirking in relief. His eyes wander up the stairs to where he can hear music playing.

As if sensing his impatience, the Sheriff jerks his head in the direction of his gaze. "Don't feel like you have to stick around and talk to me. Go keep him busy so I can go through these boxes before they get donated. Make sure he's not getting rid of any stuff I want."

Toeing off his shoes, Scott flashes him a smile before bounding up the steps, skipping the squeaky second one out of habit.

He finds Stiles in his room, knocking even though the door is open. "Hey, dude," he greets cheerfully as Stiles glances up at him from where he's sitting on the floor with his back against the bed.

His room is indeed a lot cleaner than it was earlier this week—the piles of lacrosse equipment and untidy stacks of books have disappeared, as has a lot of the clutter that used to grace the desk and shelves. Even the bed has been made. A little sloppily, but since Scott can't remember the last time Stiles made his bed, it's definitely an improvement.

There is, however, a rather large pile of colored pencils dumped unceremoniously on the floor next to Stiles.

"Yo," Stiles answers as Scott flops across the bed where he can see the screen on the iPod.

"Zeppelin?" he asks. No wonder he didn't recognize it. "Thought you hated Zeppelin."

"It's growing on me," Stiles murmurs distractedly.

Scott scoots up so he can peek at the notebook Stiles is hunched over. "What's that?"

Stiles doesn't answer immediately, is too busy poking his tongue out in concentration as he meticulously colors in his drawing. He finishes up his flourish of purple and sits back to study it. "The Argents' bestiary has been a bit lacking lately with some of the stuff we've been dealing with," he explains as he spins the pencil between his fingers. "So I'm making my own."

Scott lets out a hum, tilting his head so he can read the chicken scratch notes beside the picture.

As if reading his mind, Stiles adds, "This is just a rough draft. Lydia's gonna make the actual book, she just wanted me to lay it out for her."

Nodding, Scott smiles. That's good, because Stiles is kind of a terrible artist. But it's actually a great idea. "Don't forget the flowers," he suggests. "There were a ton of flowers."

Grunting in agreement, Stiles adds some chicken scrawl that might say something about flowers before snapping the notebook shut and finally turning toward Scott. "You're here early. I thought you guys weren't coming until dinner."

Scott looks at his watch with a frown. "I'm not that early," he says defensively. "And, what? I'm not allowed to have some bro time with my best friend before the girls get here and nix all the poop jokes and baseball talk?"

Stiles narrows his eyes, and Scott figures it's pointless to pretend he's not here an hour early to see how he's doing. They've all been taking turns since he got out of the hospital to make sure he's never alone for very long. To take one-on-one time with him, because it's harder for him to hide things that way. They never told him explicitly that's what they're doing, but Stiles isn't dumb.

"All right, then let's talk baseball," Stiles says smartly. "What do you think of the Mets' bullpen this year?"

"Uh, well, you know…" Scott doesn't know a thing about baseball. He doesn't know why he used that as an example. "It's… Good?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and lets out a long, exasperated sigh, getting up and dropping the notebook back on his desk. "Scott, I appreciate the concern, but I promise, I'm fine. Seriously. You guys don't have to keep checking in on me."

Scott sits up on the bed. "Well, yeah, we kinda do. I mean, I know it's probably annoying, but…" But you hid things from me, from all of us. You walked knowingly into danger because you didn't care if you died. You almost gave up.

Slumping into his desk chair, Stiles sighs again. "Yeah, I know," he says quietly. He tugs on the drawstring on his hoodie, biting his lip. "I'm going to therapy now." He says it casually, as if they're just catching up like normal, but Scott can smell the spike of anxiety as he says it. "I mean, only twice so far, but…"

Scott raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. He'd known, because he overheard his mom talking to the Sheriff about it on the phone, but he's a little surprised that Stiles brought it up. For as much as he talks, he rarely treads into serious, touchy-feely territory.

"Oh?" Scott says, trying to sound as nonchalant as Stiles. "How… How is it?"

Stiles is still preoccupied with his hoodie's drawstrings, wrapping them around his finger and then letting them unravel, over and over. "Uh, good, actually. Like, different than I thought it would be, but in a good way. Doctor Travers is pretty cool." He smiles to himself. "He likes cats."

His heartbeat is a little fast, but it doesn't jump. Scott doesn't really get the cat comment, he thought Stiles hated cats, but he smiles at the rest. "Hey, that's awesome, man."

"Yeah, who would've thought therapy could actually help?" Stiles agrees with a snort. He gives up on the drawstrings and starts drumming on his bouncing knee instead. "In fact, I was kinda thinking, you know… Maybe you should try it, too."

As much as Scott wasn't expecting to be talking about Stiles' therapy in the first place, that really catches him off-guard. "Uh…" He doesn't really know what to say to that.

"Scott." Stiles goes still, looking him straight in the eye, very serious all of a sudden. "Come on, dude. I'm not the only one who's gone through a bunch of shit lately. Allison died. You've spent the last year and a half surviving alphas and kanimas and hunters who all wanted to kill you. Don't tell me you're not a little messed up from all of that."

He's right. Scott can't deny it without being completely hypocritical. And he can't argue that it would never work due to his being a werewolf, because somehow Stiles is doing it despite most of his problems revolving around being possessed by the nogitsune. It's his turn to pick nervously at a hole in his jeans. "I'll think about it," he promises. And he means it.

"Good." Stiles slaps his knees as if that's settled. "So. What are we doing tonight?" he asks, abruptly changing the subject. He's apparently done with feelings talk.

"Well," Scott says slowly, a smile sneaking onto his face. "I was talking with the girls, and it may have come up that I've never seen Star Wars… And then we realized that Malia's never seen it either, and Kira might actually be more offended by this than you are…"

Stiles' jaw actually drops in shock. "Oh my God, Scott. Are you…? Don't you mess with my emotions, dude."

"I mean, we're probably not going to get through all of them," Scott qualifies, holding up a hand as Stiles starts bouncing with excitement. "Cause aren't there, like, six of them? And Lydia said she can only take so much—"

"This is gonna be epic!" Stiles jumps out of his chair, running to his closet and digging through it, throwing things out haphazardly behind him. So much for his clean room. "Scott, you don't even…" He chucks a plastic lightsaber at Scott, who barely manages to catch it before it takes out the lamp on the nightstand. "After all these years, I can't believe it's finally happening!"

Another lightsaber whacks Scott in the knee. "Stiles," he complains with a laugh. "What are you doing?"

Stiles pops his head out of the closet and tosses a t-shirt at him. "If we're doing this, we are doing it right," he says, disappearing back into the closet. "Now, put that on."

Shaking his head fondly, Scott complies, taking off his plain tee and replacing it with the one Stiles gave him. "You know, I might not even like these movies," he points out, looking down at the navy shirt. It has a picture of the logo and some of the characters on it.

Stiles reappears, pulling on the vest and toy blaster from a Han Solo Halloween costume he wore a couple years back. "Oh, stop it. You're gonna love them. And even if you don't, Kira's totally gonna think you look hot in that. So. You're welcome."

He laughs, knowing Stiles is right, as usual. And, more importantly, Stiles is happy. Like actually, genuinely happy.

For the first time since all of this started, Scott feels like maybe, just maybe, they'll be okay.

Then as it was

Then again it will be

And though the course may change sometimes

Rivers always reach the sea

END

That's all, folks!

Thanks so much to everyone who read, left kudos, followed, and/or commented on this story. It is, to date, my longest completed story, and while it's not perfect, I'm pretty proud of it!

Now to see if I can finish off a few of these other fics... ;)

~Minnicoops