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It’s been ten days since Donovan.
Stiles isn’t sleeping, really. His shoulder aches all the time. He wonders if there’s maybe something wrong with the wound but he can’t bring himself to look at it. Changes clothes turned away from the mirror.
He can’t stop replaying that night in his mind, either. The shock of the wrench connecting with Donovan’s jaw. The frantic run to the library where maybe he’d be safe because Donovan wasn’t a student and shouldn’t have a key card. The terror and rage mixing together in his head to where he couldn’t distinguish one from the other because Donovan was taunting him about their fathers’ mistakes. The bruise from the bookshelf he was pulled through that he didn’t notice until two days later. The desperate climb up the scaffolding with Donovan trying to pull him down, trying to bite through his jeans. The pin just out of reach. The beams falling and then the moment the world just stopped.
He’s honestly not sure how it even happened, what the odds of a beam going straight through Donovan’s chest are. They’ve gotta be pretty small, right? With that angle and being close to the floor? (He bets Lydia could figure it out, she’s always been better at math than him) But then Stiles has never had good luck before.
He wonders what it says about him that he thinks the option where his legs weren’t eaten is the bad luck option. Probably nothing good. But at least… at least his Dad is safe from a psychopath that threatened to kill him. There’s always a silver lining, right? Or maybe it’s just mercury from Donovan’s corpse.
So it’s ten days later and Stiles is dealing. He is. He’s fine. He’s always fine. The hallucination of himself impaled in the library in place of Donovan barely even phased him, see? The guilt and regret and feeling of wrongness aren’t overwhelming. They're not suffocating him. They're not making every waking moment feel like the edge of a panic attack. They're not making him terrified of sleeping.
Stiles is fine because no one notices that he’s not fine. He’s fine because no one notices that he’s about as far from fine as a person could actually be. No one notices so that means he’s fine. If no one notices then there’s nothing there to notice, right? That’s totally how that works.
He hasn’t been able to tell anyone else. Tried, a couple times. Chickened out at the prospect of losing the last few people left in his life because he’d wanted Donovan dead. Felt good after he was, glad that his Dad was safe, that he was safe.
But the night after Donovan. The night after, they’re at Eichen House to visit Valack about some weird-ass book and he’s trying to ask Scott if he could be forgiven for surviving. If self-defence is enough to put his demons to rest, or at least to keep him from losing Scott. But it isn’t, according to Scott. It isn’t enough to justify surviving. So Stiles chokes on his words. Can’t make the confession come out, because then… then he’s going to lose Scott and what the hell is Stiles without Scott?
He almost tells Lydia while they’re out looking for the creepy tree stump that’s ruined all their lives. He thinks maybe Lydia would understand, you know? She’s smart. She’d get that Stiles didn’t mean it even if he wanted it, right? But the words die somewhere in his chest because he thinks about Scott and thinks about his Dad and thinks about the way Lydia would look at him differently. She’d have to look at him differently, right? So he manages the lame excuse of “maybe one of the bodies is a clue” and is vaguely surprised that Lydia doesn’t even seem to notice how idiotic that sounds. Maybe she’s just frustrated and distracted from passing the same tree three times over.
Stiles can’t get his brain to even comprehend telling his Dad. The Sheriff would probably disown and arrest him on the spot. Stiles wouldn’t blame him.
But Theo saw Donovan. Theo saw Donovan and promised he’d keep the secret if Stiles kept the secret about Josh. He's all for Mutually Assured Destruction, it seems.
Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to drown in all the secrets someday. Probably soon.
So yeah, it’s ten days later and he has no idea how he’s going to keep this up. Keep any of it up. He’s not felt right since the psychotic fox, but he’s pretty sure he’s been pretending well. At least he’s pretty sure he’s convinced most people that he doesn’t constantly feel like he’s drowning. But Stiles does feel a bit like Atlas and that the world just keeps getting heavier. Eventually he’s pretty sure it’s all just going to collapse on him and he’ll sink under the surface and disappear forever. Or at least he hopes it’s that painless. But, again, Stiles has never had good luck.
Case in point: It’s raining so hard he can barely see and the Jeep doesn’t want to start. (He wonders later if that wasn’t some kind of omen. Roscoe warning him not to go to the vet clinic, not to step into what feels like the end of his world) He arrives at the clinic and Scott meets him out back and he’s holding something in his fist.
“Hey, sorry… I had trouble starting the Jeep again. Thing’s barely hanging on. I couldn’t get in touch with Malia or Lydia.” Stiles stumbles to a pause. “…Scott?” A glint of metal and Stiles’ heart stops. His blood turns to ice. It’s his wrench. His wrench and Donovan’s blood. The world is collapsing around him and he can’t breathe and he knows that Theo, the shady motherfucker, sold him out. Told Scott about libraries and metal beams and blood. Manages to choke out “…Where did you get that?”
“This is yours?” Scott sounds betrayed, sounds like Stiles hit Scott with the wrench instead of a crazy Wendigo trying to eat his legs. ”Why didn’t you tell me?”
All the reasons fly through Stiles’ mind and he has trouble thinking as he takes his damnation from Scott’s fist. Has trouble trying to figure out which reason for surviving could get Scott to forgive him.
“I was going to.” His voice is foreign in his own ears. Wrong. (Then again, everything about Stiles has felt wrong to him for a long time now. But this is different. This is worse)
“But why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” Hurt and suspicion colour Scott’s words into dark, awful things.
Stiles goes for honesty, because why not? “I couldn’t” lose you, couldn’t lose my Dad. He doesn’t voice the end of the thought. Can’t.
“You killed him? You killed Donovan?” The accusation is burning in Scott’s words and in his eyes and Stiles feels sick to his stomach.
He desperately tries to think of something, anything that might get Scott to forgive this. He can’t be forgiven for surviving, but maybe…“He was gonna kill my Dad. Was I supposed to just let him?” Stiles hopes his voice isn’t shaking as much as his body is. Maybe killing to protect someone else could be enough for forgiveness.
Scott sounds like disbelief and disappointment and betrayal. “You weren’t supposed to do this. None of us are.”
Stiles feels like he’s crumbling, like the very core of himself is falling to pieces, and no horses or king’s men are ever going to be able to put him back together again. Still, he feels like maybe he should try to defend himself. Try to make Scott understand that even if Stiles wanted Donovan dead, Stiles didn’t want Donovan dead. “You think I had a choice?”
“There’s always a choice.” And there’s some kind of recrimination in Scott’s voice. Some kind of judgement. Because clearly everyone should be able to fight off a supernaturally strong guy with mouths and fucking teeth in his hands without killing him. Or being killed.
Stiles is suddenly angry. Furious. He’s not a fucking werewolf so how does Scott expect him to be able to do that? “Yeah, well, I can’t do what you can, Scott. I know you wouldn’t have done it. You would’ve just figured something out, right?” The anger is seething under his skin, growing unchecked.
“I’d try.” Scott’s voice is so goddamn calm. So goddamn condemning. So goddamn condescending.
Something in Stiles snaps. His voice rises through his rant until he’s screaming at Scott, angry and desperate. “Yeah because you’re Scott McCall! You’re the true alpha! Well guess what? All of us can’t be true alphas. Some of us have to make mistakes. Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes. Some of us are human!” The words feel like fire and poison on his tongue. Why can’t he make Scott understand?
“So you had to kill him?” Stiles could swear that Scott’s voice almost sounds tired. Like this argument about Stiles’ world ending isn’t worth the effort.
Stiles is nothing if not persistent, though, even in the face of pathetically unrealistic dreams. “Scott, he was gonna kill my Dad.” He’s pretty sure that making Scott understand, making him forgive, is too rapidly becoming a pathetically unrealistic dream.
“But the way that it happened… There’s a point when it’s… It’s not self-defence anymore!” Scott is disgust and accusation. Betrayal and condemnation. And Stiles doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what about him surviving isn’t self-defence, even if he didn’t really deserve to survive.
“What are you even talking about? I didn’t have a choice, Scott! God! It was as much an accident as anything!” Stiles feels like the world is tilting to the side, whirling, like a shitty carnival ride, and he wants off now thanks.
“Accident?” Incredulity drips from Scott’s mouth. “You don’t crush someone’s skull by accident, Stiles!” and wait, what?
The whole world stops. Again.
Stiles is made of ice and nausea. He can’t have heard that right. He can’t have. Scott couldn’t… He couldn’t think Stiles capable of cold-blooded murder. Could he? Is Stiles capable of cold-blooded murder? The thought terrifies him and his voice is oddly flat when it comes out. “What did you just say?”
“Stiles. …Theo told me, ok? He saw you cave Donovan’s skull in. …Jesus, Stiles, how could you do that?” The disgust is thick in Scott’s voice but Stiles is pretty sure he hears actual hate somewhere in there too.
Everything is terrifyingly calm around and inside of Stiles right now. He kind of feels like he’s drifted out above his own skull somehow. The voice that comes out of his throat doesn’t sound, doesn’t feel like his own. Then again, he doesn’t really feel like his own right now.
“Theo said this ….Theo said this and you believed him.” There’s something cold and burning hiding at the back of Stiles’ brain. Something that feels like rage and tears and electricity.
“Yeah.” Like believing Theo should be the obvious and correct action for everyone. And that is the nail in Scott’s coffin.
Stiles can’t even process what he’s feeling right now. How? How could the friend he’s had since he was in diapers trust this asshole, that’s practically a stranger, over him? What has he done in his life, what the hell is wrong with him, that Scott never believes him? Why is he never enough for anyone?
Stiles has turned away, has got a hand on the door of the Jeep, about to open it, before he realizes that he’s moved at all. Scott’s voice sounds like it’s very, very far away when he speaks. “Stiles, wait.” He can see Scott take a step towards him in his periphery. The cold rage in his mind flares and sparks and utterly consumes.
“No! We’re done here.” It’s hate and betrayal and having his soul ripped out all at once. He’s spun his head to glare at Scott and he’s fairly certain he’s never actually glared at anyone or anything like this ever before. He’s pretty sure he’d be horrified of whatever is in the glare, if he could see it. And then something, he can’t find the words for what the sensation is like, maybe electricity and wind twisted together, is coming out of him, flying towards Scott and knocking him on his ass in the rain. Scott looks utterly dumbfounded and Stiles snarls, actually fucking snarls, at him.
Before Stiles can process (read: freak out about) what the hell he just did, he’s in the Jeep and pulling away, onto the dark streets. The rain’s stopped by the time he’s back at the house.
He takes a moment, finally, to think about the something he did back there. It’s actually not the first time a something has happened to him. Like he sometimes feels much stronger than he should.
There was Derek, and the pool, and he just never quite let himself think about the fact that he tread water for 2 hours, holding a heavy-ass werewolf, and how impossible that should have been. (Jesus, Stiles barely ever even swims)
The bat that actually, literally, exploded over the twins’ head. (He googled that later and lets just say he was a little bit terrified)
The restraint breaking in Eichen House’s basement.
Holding supernaturals down and back like he really, really shouldn’t be able to.
Then there’s the other weird shit that happens around Stiles sometimes.
Like The Chemist, back when people were being paid to murder kids in Beacon Hills, with the silencer pressed to Stiles’ forehead, a literal second away from death. (Stiles can’t quite figure out, to this day, what exactly happened. Because if Agent McCall really did save his life, why the fuck was the entrance wound on the wrong side of the head?)
Willing more mountain ash into existence and, yeah, you know, just using telekinesis to break the line for Derek. No big deal.
The door in the hospital with Malia, after Brunski tried to murder Lydia and gave Stiles a concussion.
The cell phone call in the middle of an Aztec temple under a town destroyed by an earthquake in Mexico.
He tries not to think about all the times he should have gotten a nasty bruise and didn’t. Or about how fast the wounds from Gerard healed.
So yeah. Maybe there’s something weird about Stiles. Which is cool. You know. In that utterly terrifying sort of way. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to be able to tell his Dad about whatever the hell it is that he is, though. Hell, he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to tell his Dad that he’s bi, so coming out as maybe supernatural is just straight up out of the question.
Anyway, this is shit he doesn’t need to think about right now. He doesn’t much want to think about anything. Especially screaming in the rain at his best friend. Ex-best friend? Whatever.
Stiles tries to shut his mind off as he goes up to his room by muscle memory alone. He’s changed into drier clothes and he’s staring out the window. It’s dark and he’s pretty sure the stars are out, so why not? He’s heading back downstairs and out into the backyard before he thinks twice. He lays down in the wet grass, face up to the sky. So much for the drier clothes. For a moment he’s startled by the fact that he’s still holding the goddamn wrench in his hand. But then he’s just sighing, so fucking exhausted, and setting it on his stomach. It almost feels like company.
Stiles watches the stars. Just stares up at them and lays on the grass until he loses all sense of time. The cold and the wet stop bothering him. He feels sort of hollow. Tired. Stiles is pretty sure that he just… he just wants to stop. Everything. But he’s really not sure how to. Or if he even could.
There’s a small sound behind him and somehow he doesn’t even need to look to know it’s Lydia.
“Hey, Lyds.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure that’s his voice.
Coming up beside him, Lydia spreads her jacket on the grass and arranges herself comfortably on it. They both just stare at the stars for a while. He’s not actually sure why Lydia’s here, or if he wants to know. He thinks it’s probably because she’s talked to Scott and he kind of really doesn’t want to think about that possibility.
He’s not sure how much later it is when she speaks, softly but kindly, which is a nice change of pace for the evening if he’s being honest, “What happened, Stiles?”
He can’t find his voice for a long time, can’t make words crawl out of his throat, can’t really find the words in his brain, even. When he does speak it’s a deflection, and he’s sure she knows it, but he tries anyway. His voice is still a weird, scratchy, foreign thing. “They’re beautiful aren’t they? The stars? …We never get to just stop and look at them anymore, do we? Always too busy running for our lives.”
Lydia breathes beside him and he figures that’s as good a reason as any to keep talking. “My Mom got me a telescope when I was little. She loved stargazing. Almost every night before bed we’d look at the stars together and she’d teach me the constellations and things. Right up until the hospital. …I always hated that she couldn’t see the stars from her room there.”
A small, warm hand is on his shoulder and he tries not to flinch as it brushes the painful wound he’s not willing to think about. Of course Lydia notices the flinch. It’s Lydia after all. “What happened, Stiles?”
It’s the same question, but this time it seems less huge. Less like it’s going to swallow him whole, chew him up and spit him out. So maybe… maybe he can try.
Stiles pulls the neck of his shirt and hoodie to the side. Tries, and fails, not to flinch at Lydia’s soft gasp. He finally glances at her for the first time tonight.
“I killed Donovan.” and he’s not sure if he meant to lead with that, but oh well. He’s holding the fucking wrench out to her before he can even think about it, and she takes it carefully, and somehow he’s minus more than just the weight of the wrench. His chest feels just a tiny bit looser than it has since he got out of Roscoe in the pouring rain and lost everything.
“With this?” her voice is still soft, words kinder than Stiles has any right to.
“No. Well, sort of? I hit him with that to get him off me. Tried to hide in the library.” And then he’s stumbling over words catching in his throat. Feels his eyes burn. Stares at the stars. Or at least tries to stare at the stars. Instead he’s just seeing Donovan dead and bloody in front of his eyes. Stops and breathes for a moment. Maybe two. Then, when he sees more of the stars than Donovan’s blood, “There was scaffolding. Beams up top. I pulled a pin and just… it went right through him. ...You know I thought that maybe you’d be able to work out the probability on that since you’re better at physics with the angles and shit. Well, and statistics. Basically just all the math-y stuff in general.”
There’s a small, fond huff of a laugh to his right and then it’s quiet for a moment and Stiles has no idea why but he speaks again before Lydia can. “Did you talk to Scott?” He doesn’t want to know the answer. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t. So of course he asks anyway.
“Sort of. He wasn’t making much sense.” Her voice is still kind and he can’t figure out why. Can’t figure out why she’s not screaming at him, hating him. He’s not strong enough to look over at her so he just keeps staring at the stars.
“And you still came here?” Yeah, his voice cracks and catches, but he’s not outright bawling like a little kid so he still counts it as a win.
“Why wouldn’t I, Stiles?” Her hand is careful, gentle, on his shoulder again, avoiding the wound that he can’t think about. (Though he does kind of wonder if maybe it’s infected or something because it really shouldn’t hurt this much ten days later, should it?)
“I don’t… I killed him and Theo told Scott I crushed his skull with that,” nods his head vaguely towards the wrench sitting between them, “and he believed him and I just… I can’t… Jesus. I can’t do this anymore Lyds.” His voice feels brittle, like 100 year old paper. His throat feels just as dry. His eyes sting and the stars blur.
She doesn’t respond and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s exactly what he needs or exactly what he doesn’t need. Stiles doesn’t know much of anything anymore, if he’s being honest.
A short silence and he’s barely whispering, “I keep losing pieces of myself and I’m pretty sure I’m just finally empty. I’ve got nothing left.” Long silence this time, ‘cause it’s always good to mix things up, right?
“I did something to Scott. After the… after the fight. I don’t know how, but I think… I think I knocked him over. Like… telekinetically.” And why the fuck is he confessing this to Lydia? This was supposed to be the dark secret he took to his grave. Stiles is pretty sure he just turns into babbling idiot when he’s around Lydia. Well. More of a babbling idiot.
“Huh. That’s odd. Has something like that ever happened before?” It’s her puzzle-solving voice, but it’s still kind, still not calling him a freak or a murderer, and he still has no idea why not.
“Uh. Sort of, I guess? I mean, I think so? Maybe?” Yep, King of Smooth Talkers, right here. Jesus Christ, Stiles. “I mean, uh. Some weird stuff has happened over the last couple years. Like. I dunno. Sometimes I’m stronger than I should be? Like, able to hold down angry werewolves strong. I, uh, exploded a wood bat over the Twins’ head when they were trying to kill Ms. Blake. There was… uh, back with Jackson, we tried to catch him with a mountain ash barrier around the rave and I, uh, kind of covered, like, 50 feet with just a handful of ash because I’d run out?”
Somehow his voice is smoothing out. Or maybe his nerves are. Or something. Something’s smoothing out, anyway. It’s making it easier to talk. Or maybe it’s that this isn’t talking about the fact that he’s a murderer that makes it easier. Whatever, he’ll take what he can get. “There was the time Jackson paralyzed Derek and then trapped us in the pool and I had to keep him from drowning for two hours. I think… I think I might have made the Chemist’s gun backfire and kill him when he was going to shoot me? Oh, and I got a cell phone call from Dad when we where in the middle of that ancient temple in Mexico rescuing Scott.”
He looks at the stars. Stalls until somehow he’s got enough courage to turn his face towards Lydia. “I dunno. It seems like… I guess it’s usually, like, high emotion, or stress, or something, triggering it? I have no idea how it happens or why or what the hell kind of thing I am or might be and I’m pretty sure Dad will never speak to me again if he knows.” Breathes for a beat. Needs to stop the overly fast pouring out of words. Tilts his head slightly, “Then again, pretty sure he'll never speak to me again for being a murderer, so I guess it’s moot.”
Lydia’s giving him this stern but compassionate look and it makes Stiles want to hide because he doesn’t deserve to have anyone look at him like that, least of all Lydia Martin. “You are not a murderer, Stiles Stilinski.”
He’s not sure what expression is on his face, probably the ‘yeah-fucking-right’ one, because Lydia scowls a little at him. The scowl is still kind and he’s not sure that’s supposed to be possible.
“You aren’t. I’m not sure why Scott believed Theo, but it’s plain to see that Theo lied to him.” She has a tiny, almost-not-there, smile on her lips as she lifts the wrench into his line of sight. “You are the son of a cop. What does this physical evidence say to you?”
He clears his throat, not sure why “son of a cop” made it tighten painfully. (Ok, he knows why, he just really likes the weather here in the state called Denial) Donovan’s blood is dried on one end, a small smattering. He’s not entirely certain how he kept the wrench from getting wet while screaming in the rain, but he’s not going to think on that too hard. “Blood spatter. Probably used as a weapon.”
She smiles a really-there smile this time and presses gently, “And what would you say if the story to go with this physical evidence was that it was used to crush a man’s skull?”
He knows what she’s doing. He does. And he shouldn’t be letting it make him feel better. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve to feel better, because even though Theo told the stupidest lie possible to go with the evidence he had, Stiles did still kill Donovan. But he thinks he might have a tiny, fragile smile on his face when he responds. “That that story is pretty unlikely. The blood spatter pattern looks like the wrench hasn’t been washed, so there should be much more blood on it. Maybe brain matter too.”
And it’s good to say that out loud, (well, not the bit about the brain matter, because eugh) but he feels a stab of… something in his gut. Anger? Betrayal? He’s not sure, but a stab of something at the unwelcome thought that if Scott had looked at Theo’s story with a shred of common sense or basic reasoning skills that Stiles wouldn’t have lost him. But then again, Stiles did kill, and even without Theo, he’s pretty sure he would’ve lost Scott anyway, because of that.
Lydia is looking at him like he’s about to break and like he’s something she doesn’t want to break, like a favourite glass ornament. Maybe an owl. He could totally be a glass owl. “We’ll figure this out, Stiles. That is, after we skin Theo, of course.” And that’s a terrifying little smile, if he does say so himself. He reminds himself to never piss Lydia Martin off because he likes his organs right where they are, thank you very much.
“I don’t… why don’t you think I’m a murderer? I still killed Donovan. I… I wanted him dead. I was glad he was dead.” His voice is so small he’s not totally sure he’s even heard it himself. Bonus to being friends with a Banshee, though, he supposes, because Lydia’s face softens again. And then there’s a gentle hand running through his hair and Jesus that feels so nice, so comforting.
“Wanting someone dead, or being glad that they’re dead because that means you and yours are safe, is worlds apart from murdering someone, Stiles. You know that.” He wants to believe it. He really, really does. He wants to be forgiven and be worthy of forgiveness and to believe that he didn’t mean it, he really didn’t.
It’s like the night of sleeplessness, high emotion and laying on the cold ground crashes down on him all at once, then, and he’s just kind of done and miserable. He sort of feels like he’s falling apart, truth be told. Lydia takes pity on him and helps him up and back into the house. He wants… He’s not sure what he wants. Not sure if he deserves to want anything. But Stiles is a pretty selfish bastard, so.
“Would you… would you stay?” And Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever heard his voice sound quite that vulnerable before. He’s pretty sure Lydia is the only person he’d actually be able to be that vulnerable for. Stiles is pretty damn grateful that Lydia gets him so well, because she understands all the things he didn’t, couldn’t, say there. She’s nodding softly, and smiling even more softly, and Stiles is certain he doesn’t deserve this. But, you know, selfish bastard and all that.
They curl up on Stiles’ bed, close and touching. Holding each other for comfort. It’s nothing more than that and it’s everything Stiles needs and still doesn’t think he deserves. They don’t talk more. They don’t talk about murder or blood. They don’t talk about terrifying supernatural abilities. They leave all the talking until tomorrow. It can all wait until tomorrow. And maybe, tomorrow, Lydia can help him work on this whole “deserving” thing he’s so bad at.
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