Chapter Text
“Mieczyslaw Stilinski.”
Amid the chaos of flames, the stench of death hung heavy in the air. Stiles struggled to breathe, a baseball bat dangling uselessly at his side. Derek's lifeless body lay nearby. The pack was gone. His dad was gone. All of it was his fault.
He should have anticipated Gerard's return to this cursed town. The acrid smell of burning flesh churned his stomach. “Where are you!” he yelled, lifting his bat again. His arm trembled. His shoulder was not just injured—it was wrecked. Skin torn, blood oozing, bone out of place. He barely registered the pain anymore.
A blinding light erupted before him. He shielded his eyes, dread pooling in his gut. This couldn’t be how it ended.
"I'm the Nemeton."
“Wait, you’re the fucking tree stump? Are you serious?”
“I can offer you a chance to escape to another place,” the voice intoned, unnervingly calm. “This was not the future I envisioned. I was mistaken. I am never mistaken.”
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, feeling the weight of despair. He had lost everything the moment his world burned. Now, he was just a shell. At last, he understood Derek's darkness.
“I can send you to a different reality, where none of this happened. But there will be consequences.”
Stiles stood blankly, confusion clouding his mind. “I don’t get it.”
“You were always my favorite, Stiles. I had high hopes for you. I trust you won’t fail.”
What kind of twisted game was this?
“Do you not want happiness again?”
"Yes, but at what cost? I need to know."
The weight of his choices loomed over him, heavier than the ashes around him.
"Nobody there lived what you lived, child. You will be alone with your memories. Can you bear that?"
Stiles clenched his jaw, the weight of those words dropping like boulders in his chest. “I can’t just leave everyone behind,” he replied, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and despair that echoed in the empty space around him. “What’s the point of living if I can’t bring them back?” Scott, dad, Lydia, even Peter—his mind reeled at their absence. And he can’t even say his name out loud. Here he stood, on the precipice of a decision that felt as vast and dark as the void itself.
The voice softened, wrapping around him like mist. “You can carry their memories. They will guide you in this new place. But you must choose quickly. Time is not on your side.” Each word twisted like a dagger into his heart, and Stiles glanced at Derek’s lifeless form, the haunting reminder of a world stripped bare. “I can’t live with just memories. That’s not enough.”
“I do not have enough power to take your memory, I’m dying as the last hale died. But let me ask you, Is it not enough to be free from this pain? To start over?” The voice persisted; a thread of desperation woven into its tone. Stiles shook his head, tears stinging his eyes like bitter raindrops. “What if I mess it up again? What if I lose them all over again?” His thoughts raced back through time, each choice unfolding like a tragic tapestry, woven with mistakes that felt forever etched into his very soul.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Mieczyslaw. What matters is how you rise from them. You have the chance to rewrite your story.” The light pulsated before him, radiating urgency. Stiles hesitated, torn between the flicker of hope for a fresh start and the bone-deep terror of isolation that gripped him fiercely. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drum announcing his fear of being the last one standing, the sole survivor of his own life.
Finally, he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “What if I can’t handle it? What if I forget them?” Silence draped over him like a heavy cloak.
The voice coaxed softly, “You won’t. They will always be a part of you.” Stiles felt the bat in his hand, cold and solid—a symbol of his struggle and survival. He had to choose. Would he plunge into the unknown? Would he step into a new life, shadows of those he loved echoing in his heart? The choice was his, and it was now or never. Stiles nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak. A searing pain shot through his body, and he screamed, agony tearing through him.
And then he fell.
Stiles blinked, desperately trying to stitch together the fragments of his surroundings. The hospital room felt sterile, the white walls closing in like a suffocating prison. Pain blossomed in his body, yet it was the familiar, soothing sound of his dad's voice that reached out, anchoring him to reality. He turned his head slightly, a movement that sent a jolt of pain slicing through him. His father sat at his side, worry etched deeply into his features. “You scared me there, kiddo,” he murmured, his voice trembling like a fragile leaf in the wind.
Stiles wanted to smile, to offer his dad a shred of relief. But the memories surged back—flames licking at the edges of his mind, the suffocating darkness. “Dad… what happened?” His voice emerged hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Panic flickered across his father's face, and Stiles noticed the way he clenched his hands, knuckles white.
"I don't know, buddy. I was hoping you could fill me in. School called, telling me you slipped down the stairs." His dad's voice wavered, the words falling heavy. “You were unconscious for days. We thought…” He trailed off, the unsaid words wrapping around them like a shroud. Stiles wished he could pull his father into a tight hug, to show that together, they could weather the storm. But the connection felt so fragile, as if it could shatter at the slightest touch.
“Where’s Scott?” Stiles asked, a wave of dread crashing over him. His heart raced, pounding a frantic rhythm of worry.
His father's expression shifted, confusion spilling from his features. “Who?”
Stiles felt his stomach drop. “Dad, you know Scott. Scott McCall?” he pressed, his voice firm as iron. He needed answers—craved them like air.
His father hesitated, casting a glance at the door as though expecting someone who would never arrive. “Melissa's kid?”
"Yeah, him."
"Kiddo, why are you asking about the McCalls? They moved away after the fire."
“Fire?”
“Yeah, the Hale fire? Stiles, are you alright? Do you want me to call the doctor?"
"No!" he snapped, pulse racing. "Just... just tell me about the fire. I need to know." His father looked concerned, yet the words spilled forth.
"There was a fire at the Hale house. The whole family died, except for Peter Hale and two other Hale kids. They moved to New York with some other families. You know this, Kiddo. You’re scaring me."
A chill swept through Stiles, a bitter frost that gripped his heart. Yet watching the terrified look on his father's face, he forced himself to breathe. “Yeah, I—I thought I saw them. Might've been a dream.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but his dad nodded, though the worry lingered, casting a shadow between them. In that moment, Stiles felt truly alone.
John didn't let Stiles back to school for another month. But he seemed to understand his dad's apprehension to send him back, when he finally gets to go. And for not having better words Stiles was less than pleased with this reality. It's not like he was popular in his own reality, but at least he had Scott.
Stiles felt the weight of the world pressing down on him as he walked through the school halls. The whispers swirled around him like a storm. He was back, but it was as if he had never left. The faces he recognized were painted with apathy or disdain. No Scott. No friends. Just a sea of indifference. It stung. More than he expected.
Holloway’s taunts echoed. “Come on Stilinski, use those big gay muscles of yours.” The words were sharp, each one a reminder of his isolation. Stiles knew he could stop him. He could take Holloway down in seconds. But he wouldn’t. Not here. Not now. He had to stay invisible. Had to avoid bringing danger to the only people who cared about him. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to retaliate.
But anger bubbled inside him. It wasn’t just the bullying. It was the memories of the fight against Kanimas, the terror of hunters. He had faced death and survived. And now? He was reduced to this. To a scrawny kid who couldn’t catch a break. Each insult felt like a punch, each laugh like a knife. He hated it. He hated feeling weak.
'It's fine. Just take it. It will get better.'
He ignored the cynical part of him that reminded him it was never that simple when it comes to Stiles' luck, while he'd pressed wet hand towels against a blooming bruise on his cheek. He avoided looking into the mirror right in front of him. Stiles Pressed the wet towel little too hard to where Matt punched him fully expecting to his in pain, he needs to feel something, anything. But he frowned at the lack of pain the feeling of somebody just got a bruise should have. The skin didn’t even pull tight. Stiles curiously lifted his face to look at the mirror, shocked to see that the skin wasn’t even red, much less bruised. “The hell?”
He prodded the skin, eyes widening. It was completely healed.
That stupid tree had done something to him before zapping him to this hell hole. A ‘gift,’ it had said right before he blacked out. Fuck. Stiles closed his eyes to understand what he is.
Derek told him a long time ago that each were can feel their own wolf if you concentrate enough. But what Stiles felt was not a wolf rather a spark. Like when he manipulated mountain ash when Deaton asked, but stronger.
“Aw, shit, man,” he said. “Not cool, dude.”
Stiles had to talk to someone. He needed guidance. He thought of Deaton. The veterinarian knew things. His mind raced with possibilities. If he could learn about this power, maybe he could use it to protect himself and those he cared about. But he hesitated. Would Deaton even help him? Would he see Stiles as a threat, or an experiment?
As he walked through the halls, he felt the weight of eyes on him again. Holloway snickered from a distance, his friends egging him on. Stiles felt the anger rise. It was like a fire igniting. He could feel the spark inside him responding, urging him to fight back. But he pushed it down. Not here. Not now. He had to keep his head down. He had to survive.
In the end Stiles what he always does, he convinced himself that he can practice himself. He was in no way a rookie, he could totally do this. And Stiles was right. After a few weeks of trying, he got it. It wasn't that hard really; the feeling was like when he had used mountain ash. He could do small stuff. Light the candle, move a pen and make the chair to fall. It was great.
The problem was that after a few months his magic grew. At first it was a bit scary but after a while tattoo started to manifest all over his body, which was not easy to hide. Not at all. Especially if your dad was the town, Sheriff. But still Stiles managed, and not easily. Stiles couldn’t hide the tattoos forever. The ink spread like secrets, dark and intricate, curling around his arms and neck. He felt exposed, raw. Each new mark was a reminder of his growing power—and the danger that came with it. He couldn’t keep this from his dad. The Sheriff had enough on his plate.
Stiles was fine. He was.
It was at the middle of the October when he saw them. Transfer students, there were already whispers about them even before the lunch. They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where he sat as possible in the long room. Obviously, Stiles was not surprised by that. What really the surprise was Derek Hale sitting along with them. He was the same age as Stiles here. Nine of them. They were talking, well everybody except Derek, who just sit there with a scowl on his face. Guess somethings never change, no matter what reality you are in. They weren't looking at Stiles, like every other student, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. Being a wall flower does have its benefits after all. Stiles couldn't look away. They were alive. Everybody.
They looked exactly like the ones he knew. But without all the trauma in their shoulders. The weight of the world was absent, except the two Hales. After all the fire did happen here too. As if sensing his gaze on them Derek looked towards Stiles. He looked away quickly, more quickly than he thought he could, though in a flush of embarrassment flushed through him. In that brief flash of a glance, Derek's face held nothing of interest but in true Derek fashion anger as if Stiles looking at his way truly made his day worse. Maybe they are like the others. Rich asshats who enjoy pushing Stiles to the lockers.
"Stilinski!!!!" Greenberg's snappy voice startled Stiles from his ogling. "Huh looks like you got a crush there." He said tipping his head towards the pack, a wide cruel smirk on his face.
Stiles felt his ears redden and shook his head. He knows the pack is hearing every single word coming out of his bully’s mouth. "No." Stiles felt fear of coursed through him. He knows what Holloway is going to do next. He just closed his eyes and waited for the daily dose of food pouring through his shirt. But nothing came. Instead, he heard a loud thump and a whimper.
"What the fuck dude?!" Greenberg shouted prompting Stiles to open his eyes, out of all people he never thought Jackson would be the one to defend him.
"Mean girl is so last season asshat " Jackson's voice was a low growl, the menace radiating from him like a physical force.
"I-uh... no.. " Greenberg stammered.
Stiles blinked at Jackson, stunned. The tension in the cafeteria shifted. Everyone was watching. Greenberg's bravado vanished. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Greenberg spat, trying to regain control. But Jackson stepped closer, fists clenched. “I’m someone who’s tired of your crap on the very first day of this godforsaken school. You think you’re tough? You’re just a bully hiding behind a pack of friends. Now say sorry to my friend here. Or you and your clique need all my other friend come here?”
The threat was clear. Greenberg hesitated; the fear evident in his eyes. At last, he muttered a quick apology before fleeing from the cafeteria, followed closely by his posse. Jackson as soon as he came get back to the table where the rest of the pack stood without sparing a glance towards Stiles. He has no idea whether to be relieved or broken about it.
"Move, you are in my seat." Lydia's voice sliced through the air like a sharpened blade, snapping Stiles back to a reality he’d rather escape. He sighed, resigned to his fate as the perennial sidekick, watching the queen of the school reign effortlessly over her domain. Lydia Martin, the girl who commanded attention with a single glance, was a genius and a goddess embodied—a force of nature that left everyone, including him, feeling like mere ripples in her wake. Just as he rose, she halted him with a flick of her wrist, her gaze igniting a spark of hope laced with dread. "No, not you, the other one. You, I like. You can sit here."
His heart raced at the implication. The pack wanted him—a kaleidoscope of emotions swirled inside him. Was this a lifeline or a noose? "Umm... why?" he managed to stutter, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
"Because you are cute, and we need more cute faces around here," she declared, her playful wink igniting an inferno of embarrassment that crept up to his ears. "I'm Lydia Martin, by the way."
Stiles blinked, grappling with the clash of disbelief and disbelief in equal measure. It felt unreal, almost like an out-of-body experience, as if the universe had decided to play a cruel joke on him. Lydia, the shining star, had extended her orbit to include him—yet doubt loomed large. He glanced around the cafeteria, half-expecting a crowd of mirthful haunts to declare the illusion shattered. Instead, he felt the weight of their stares—not judgment, but expectation.
"Seriously, why me?" he whispered, the question hanging morosely in the air, pregnant with uncertainty. Lydia's smirk was a weapon forged from confidence, bright and blinding. "You have this... charm about you. It’s refreshing."
Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that he was a mere placeholder, a distraction from the true stars of her world. Was she truly seeing him, or merely the untouched canvas of a boy struggling with the shadows of his own self-worth?
Before he could spiral further into his internal chaos, Cora, seated quietly by Lydia, leaned in, her voice cutting through like a lifebuoy. “You know what? Lydia’s right. You’re different. You don’t try too hard to fit in.” The frankness of her words sent a flicker of hope through him, igniting embers long buried under the ashes of his insecurities. The idea of stepping out from behind the shadows, of finally claiming a place in their brilliant light, sent a tremor of exhilaration down his spine. But doubt twisted in his stomach—what if he was just fooling himself? What if the pack expected someone he wasn't, someone who could withstand the crushing weight of their realities?
Kira, perched across from him, noticed his turmoil, and her invitation felt like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. “You wanna come back to our house after class? We are planning on watching a movie.” Her smile was warm, a soft glow in a landscape that often felt suffocating. Stiles couldn’t deny that strange warmth; weirdness had always been his mantle in a world obsessed with perfection. But could his quirks really be enough to hold the attention of these titans? Last time he risked drawing close, Gerard had burned them all—he’d set his world ablaze, and he couldn’t bear the thought of risking them again.
Sensing his hesitation, Lydia leaned in, conspiratorial whispers wrapping around them like tendrils of smoke. “Look, Stiles, we’re new here. Right now, we could use someone like you.”
His heart fell into disarray, the churning thoughts of danger overpowering the thrill of being wanted. “I…I have plans. Sorry.” The words felt like quicksand as they slipped from his lips, the panic rising within him like bile. He couldn’t drag them into his darkness—not again. He was a magnet for chaos; everything he touched seemed to twist into despair.
"You know Cora and Kira have this superpower," Lydia quipped, causing him to raise an eyebrow, intrigued yet wary. "They can sense when someone is lying. Don’t make us bring out the big guns, Sheriff’s kid."
"Big guns? What might that be?" Stiles retorted, sarcasm dripping from his words like poison.
"The puppy dog eyes of Scott McCall. It’s lethal." Kira’s serious headshake sent another wave of warmth through him, but also deepened his trepidation.
"I think I can handle it," he replied, trying to muster confidence in the face of engulfing dread. But inside, he knew they had already ensnared him in their spell, and it terrified him more than he could say.
The next day was better… and worse. It was better because nobody tried to shove him to the locker yet, though from the looks Donnavan shooting at him from the corner were anything to go by shoving will be here soon. It was easier because Stiles knew to expect shove. So better. Worse was it was getting more and more difficult to avoid the pack. Suddenly they are everywhere. He was tired; he still couldn’t sleep with smell of burning flush coming through his nostrils every time he closed his eyes. It was worse because Mr. Harris called on him in chemistry and put him on detention. It was miserable because he had to pretend, he doesn’t know anybody from the pack or their secrets. And it was getting harder each passing second.
The hallways were crowded, loud, and chaotic. Students rushed from class to class, their voices blending into a constant hum. Stiles moved through the throng, weaving in and out like a fish swimming upstream. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. He could feel the tension in the air, thick and heavy. It pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. He hated this feeling. It felt like everyone was watching him, waiting for him to slip up.
Donavan was there, lurking like a shadow. Every time Stiles glanced in his direction, he saw that familiar smirk, the kind that hinted at trouble. The locker was just a few steps away, and Stiles felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He couldn’t let himself be pushed into that metal box again. Not today. He picked up his pace, heart racing. The bell rang, and he ducked into the nearest classroom, relief washing over him.
But inside, things were just as tense. The pack was sitting together, huddled in the back like they were plotting something. Their laughter was loud, carefree, a stark contrast to the anxiety swirling in Stiles’ mind. He wanted to join them, wanted to feel that sense of belonging, but he couldn’t. He was an outsider, a stranger in his own life. He kept his distance, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. They were all so different, yet so familiar. It was infuriating.
Chemistry class was a nightmare. Mr. Harris droned on, but Stiles couldn’t focus. He could still smell that burning flush. It was like a ghost, haunting him. When Mr. Harris called his name, the room went quiet. Stiles felt the weight of their stares. The words “detention” echoed in his ears. He wanted to protest, but what could he say? He didn’t have a good excuse. He was trapped in his own silence.
After class, the hallways seemed emptier. The pack had scattered, but Stiles felt their presence lingering like a shadow. He took a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling of dread. He had to get through this day. He had to survive. He turned a corner and bumped into someone. It was Derek. The tension in the air shifted. Stiles felt a mix of fear and intrigue. Derek’s eyes were intense, searching. “You okay?” he asked, voice low.
Stiles shrugged, not ready to confess the chaos in his mind. He didn’t want to drag Derek Hale of all people into his mess. But Derek wasn’t just some random guy. He knows him. Well at least the grown-up version of him. Stiles could feel the gravity of that connection. “Yeah, just… you know, high school,” he replied, trying to sound casual. But the words felt hollow, and he could see the concern in Derek’s expression.
“Look,” Derek said, stepping closer, “if you need to talk—”
Stiles cut him off, the panic rising. “I don’t need to talk. Just leave it.” He turned away before Derek could respond, the weight of the interaction heavy on his shoulders. He walked away, heart pounding. He didn’t want to deal with this. Not now. Not ever. The truth was, he felt lost, stuck in a web he couldn’t escape. And the longer he waited, the more tangled it became.
Stiles rounded the corner, his mind racing. The hallway felt like a maze, filled with faces he barely recognized. The chatter of students faded into a dull roar, each laugh like a mocking reminder of his isolation. He could almost hear Donavan's laughter echoing in the distance, a predator stalking his prey. Stiles picked up his pace, heart hammering in his chest. He needed to find a way to blend in, to disappear even for a moment.
As he slipped into the empty restroom, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Stiles leaned against the cool tile wall, closing his eyes. He focused on the sound of water dripping from a leaky faucet. It was a small comfort. But even in this solitude, the smell of burning flesh lingered, a cruel reminder of the chaos he felt trapped in. He opened his eyes and splashed cool water on his face, hoping to wash away the panic.
He thought of the pack. They were supposed to be his friends, but every interaction felt like a tightrope walk because of their unfamiliarity around Stiles. He need himself to remind they are not his, they are not the same one he lost. Derek’s concern haunted him. That look in his eyes—was it pity or something deeper? Stiles didn’t want to find out. He didn’t want to pull them into his mess, didn’t want to drag anyone down with him. He was done feeling like a burden.
Stepping back into the hallway, he took a deep breath. But the pressure was still there. His gaze flickered to a group of students laughing by the lockers. Was that a glance directed his way? He couldn’t tell. The uncertainty gnawed at him. He kept walking, each step heavy with the weight of unspoken words and hidden truths. He longed for connection but felt more isolated than ever. Time was running out. He had to figure this out before it swallowed him whole.
Panic raised in Stiles’ throat as he tried to breath. Stiles' breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The hallway stretched on before him like an endless tunnel, the low hum of conversations growing louder, a dissonant symphony that grinded against his nerves. He couldn’t escape the feeling that everyone could see through him. The weight of their stares pressed against his skin, suffocating.
Donavan's voice cut through the noise.
“Hey, freak. You better watch where you're walking.”
Stiles didn’t turn. He kept his head down, shoulders tight. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t Donnavan’s words that haunted him anymore, but the smell. The acrid scent of burnt flesh that still clung to his senses. Every time he breathed in, it felt like the world was suffocating him.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and tell them all what was happening, tell them about the fire that never stopped burning in his memory. But the words wouldn’t come. His chest was too tight, his throat too raw. So, he kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Like a zombie, like he wasn’t really there.
The pack loomed in his peripheral vision, and even though they weren’t close, they were there, always there. Every glance, every shift in their posture, felt like a reminder that he didn’t belong. They were everything he couldn’t be — strong, powerful, whole — and he was just… Stiles. Broken.
Stiles turned the corner into the empty restroom. For once, the silence was welcomed.
He leaned against the sink, hands gripping the edge, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, his face drawn with exhaustion. But it wasn’t just the lack of sleep that made him look so empty. It was the hollow feeling inside of him, the gnawing sense that nothing would ever feel normal again.
The door creaked open, and for a split second, Stiles tensed, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t alone anymore.
He turned just as Derek Hale stepped inside
Stiles froze. There was no mistaking that familiar intensity in Derek’s eyes, like he was searching for something in Stiles that Stiles couldn’t even find in himself.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles managed to rasp, trying to sound annoyed, trying to push him away, but his voice faltered under the weight of everything he was holding back.
Derek didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked closer, his heavy boots echoing in the silence. He stopped just a few feet away, watching Stiles carefully.
“You’re not okay.” Derek’s voice was low, but it carried an urgency that made Stiles’ chest tighten.
“I’m fine.” The words were automatic, but they didn’t feel like his own. He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t anywhere near fine.
“No, you’re not.” Derek’s gaze softened, and for a moment, Stiles thought he saw something close to sympathy. The last thing Stiles wanted was sympathy. “You are panicking.”
Stiles swallowed hard. The air felt thicker now, like the walls were closing in. The fire. The burning flesh. The screams. He clenched his fists, pushing the memories back down where they belonged. Where he hoped they would stay.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed, his voice shaky.
Derek took a step forward, his expression hardening. “I’ve seen that look before. You can’t hide it forever.”
The frustration bubbled up in Stiles. He couldn’t keep pretending. But what else could he do? His whole life had been a lie. He couldn’t trust anyone, not even the people who *should* understand him the most.
“I’m not your problem, Derek,” Stiles snapped. “I’m not part of your clique, and I don’t need saving and I certainly don’t need your pity. Just… leave it.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Stiles could feel his heart racing, the pulse in his temples hammering against the pressure in his chest. Derek stared at him, silent, as if weighing something in his mind. Then, in the same low tone, Derek said, “You think you can fix this alone?”
Stiles wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. Fix what? There was nothing to fix. Everything was broken. His life, his mind, his entire existence—it was all a mess of twisted, fragmented pieces.
But before Stiles could retort, a voice cut through the tension from behind them.
“Stiles?”
It was Scott. He stepped into the restroom, his eyes wide with concern. He must’ve heard the exchange.
For a moment, Stiles’ heart skipped, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in his chest. He wanted to run to Scott, to wrap himself in the comfort of their friendship, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. Not when everything felt so wrong.
Scott hesitated, glancing between Stiles and Derek, sensing the palpable tension in the room. “Are you alright?” Scott asked again, his voice softer now.
Stiles tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He repeated the lie, his throat tight with the effort.
Scott studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he walked over to Stiles, placing a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was simple, but it sent a ripple of warmth through Stiles, a reminder of what he used to have. A reminder of what he was losing.
“You don’t have to go through this alone, you know,” Scott said quietly.
Stiles’ breath hitched, and for a moment, he almost let himself believe that everything might be okay. But the doubt, the fear, and the suffocating sense of isolation quickly clawed their way back into his chest.
He pulled away from Scott’s touch, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice cold. “I’m just… tired.”
Scott’s face softened, but Stiles turned away before he could say anything more. He couldn’t let anyone in, not even his best friend. Not when he didn’t even know how to save himself.
He walked past them both, his heart heavy with unsaid words, with the weight of secrets that were starting to crush him from the inside.
Outside the restroom, the hallway seemed quieter now, the voices fading into the background. But the tension remained. The pressure against his chest didn’t let up.
Stiles knew it wouldn’t be long before it all came crashing down.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
Stiles decided do what he does the best, research — he needs to understand who this Stiles was to fit in, and that's what he was doing when his dad came home. He lost track of the time, and he hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out and put the steak in to broil.
"Stiles?" his dad called out when he heard Stiles on the stairs. Who else? he thought to himself.
"Up here, Dad," Stiles called back, feeling the familiar weight of his dad's gaze even without seeing him.
Sheriff Stilinski’s footsteps creaked on the stairs, a sound that Stiles had grown so used to over the years, it was practically a rhythm. The kind of steady beat that told you everything was alright, even when it wasn’t.
He continued to scramble in the kitchen, checking the potatoes in the oven and glancing at the timer on the microwave. Steak. Broil. He'd been so caught up in the search for answers about the *other* Stiles that he nearly forgot about dinner. And about his dad, of course.
"Smells good," his dad’s voice came from the kitchen doorway. Stiles could hear the weariness in it. It wasn’t often his dad made it home in time for dinner. In fact, lately, he'd been working late more than usual.
“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, standing upright and brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Gotta keeps up appearances. You know, make sure you’re not the one who burns the house down."
His dad snorted. "You're not wrong. What are we having tonight? If you're trying to impress me, this better be a five-star meal."
Stiles smirked. “Potatoes and steak. Maybe a little burnt, but you’ll survive.”
"Better than that frozen lasagna you tried last month," Sheriff Stilinski said, stepping into the kitchen and eyeing the contents of the stove. "What’s the occasion? You usually don’t take over dinner duty without a reason."
Stiles hesitated, then shrugged, playing it casual. “Nah, no big deal. Just… I don’t know, needed to do something. Been a weird day.”
His dad arched an eyebrow. "Weird how?"
Stiles glanced over at the timer, trying to distract himself. "You know, just... research." He kept his voice light, but his mind was still racing. Still processing everything he'd learned about the other Stiles. The more he dug, the more he realized how much he didn't know about himself, and it was driving him crazy. "School stuff. History stuff. Just… trying to figure out what’s going on."
Sheriff Stilinski didn’t seem convinced but let it slide. He was probably used to Stiles's odd answers by now. "Alright," he said, giving a quick nod. "But if you’re turning into some sort of gourmet chef, I’m gonna need to know. I’ll start making reservations instead of dinner."
"Ha ha," Stiles said, pulling the steak out of the broiler and letting it rest for a moment. "Maybe I’ll surprise you with a five-course meal someday. But not today."
The two of them settled into the easy silence that they’d perfected over the years. Stiles focused on plating the food, but his thoughts were still preoccupied with the mystery of his new… old life. The *other* Stiles. The one who was real, but not. What did it mean? Why was he suddenly so important? Why had he never heard of him before? And why did it feel like everything was connected, like there was something he *should* remember but couldn’t?
His dad’s voice broke through his thoughts again. “You’ve been acting a little different lately, you know that?”
Stiles froze, the knife in his hand still hovering over the steak. “What do you mean?”
His dad leaned against the counter, studying him. “I don’t know, Stiles. You’ve been quieter. More distracted. It's not like you. Is everything okay?”
Stiles’ stomach twisted. He didn’t want to lie. But at the same time, he wasn’t ready to tell his dad about this version of the truth. The version where he wasn’t quite himself, or at least, not the only one.
“Yeah,” Stiles said finally, setting the knife down. “Just… stuff. Nothing to worry about.” He forced a smile. “Dinner’s almost ready, okay?”
Sheriff Stilinski didn’t press any further, though Stiles saw the concern lingering in his eyes. He could always tell when his dad was worried—he had a sixth sense for it.
“Alright,” his dad said, offering a small smile. “I’ll grab some drinks. And don’t try to stop me. I’ve earned this one, kid.”
Stiles nodded and turned back to the stove, but as the timer dinged and he plated their dinner, his thoughts once again drifted to the research. The other Stiles. The connections. Everything that felt like it was falling apart, even as everything else in his life—like his dad—seemed to be perfectly in place.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever he was uncovering, whatever mystery he was trying to solve, would change everything.