Chapter Text
There you were
Wrapped in a red flag
Wearing a warning sign
For me
Now every night
When my eyes are closed
I host a banquet
For ghosts
The jeep had seen better days; rust spots skirted the edges and it squeaked a little when it stopped. But Stiles wouldn't let it go; he held onto it like it was a member of his family. He'd run his fingers over the claw marks on the driver's side door every time he climbed in, a bittersweet memory of their tragic past.
Stiles turned the wheel and slowly crept through the wrought iron gate, tires crunching the gravel below. The jeep inched along at a snaillike pace before stopping quietly under a decaying oak tree. Stiles was glad that his jeep had, for once, cooperated. He didn't want any werewolves with super hearing to know that he'd already arrived; he knew he would need a minute to collect himself. He strummed his thin fingers over the center of the steering wheel and tried to control his breathing. This, of course, was as useful as the time he tried switching to decaf. He sighed, muttering to himself "Come on. Calm Down. It's fine. Everything is fine. This is what we all agreed on right?"
That was the deal after all; for the four of them to reunite on this day, the second anniversary their last meeting. Five funerals in three days had been more than any of them could handle. On the edge of breaking—between tears, hugs, and blank stares—they made a pact. The pain outweighed any possible comfort they could give each other and they knew that a year would be both too much and not enough. There wasn't much of goodbye, a few questioning glances and whatever smiles they could muster. And by the end of that week the four survivors had departed Beacon Hills.
Stiles huffed out another stiff breath and pushed up the sleeves of this too worn red hoodie until they reached his elbows. He chewed his bottom lip, looking down at his arm. Though they didn't hurt today, the scars that wrapped up the entirety of his left arm like vines around a lamppost, would never let him forget. Whether it be phantom pain or actual discomfort (who knew the long term effects of an alpha scratch anyway?) he'd always just grin and bear it. The scars don't look nearly as bad as they used to though, having faded from an angry red to a softer tone more fitting to his pale skin. And the tattoo sleeve provided decent camouflage.
A year after what Stiles would come to think of as "The Incident," he'd found himself walking aimlessly around his college town. His eyes were too puffy to make it through his classes and his limbs were too wired to sit in his dorm. After a brief chat with his dad, who wanted verbal proof that his son was okay, he found himself stumbling over the threshold of a tattoo parlor. He'd been thinking about getting a tattoo for ages, the thoughts clouding his mind and weaving into his dreams at night. A few sketches later and the needle was buzzing over his skin, leaving tufts in its wake. Weeks passed and he parted the shop for the final time, his face painted with the first honest smile he'd had that year.
Looking down at it again, the corners of Stiles' mouth couldn't help but twitch into the start of a grin. Portraits of wolves started at his wrist and traveled just above his elbow. Seven of them—Scott, Derek, Isaac, Boyd, Cora, Erica, and even Peter—all black ink and glowing eyes. Scattered among the masses of fur were a hunter, armed with a bow and arrow; a wailing woman, cascaded by bright orange curls; and a human, masked by a red hood. Hidden from prying eyes and wrapped completely around his bicep was a tribal marking of two thick black bands. Atop that sat a triskelion, the start of the scar clinging to it in an almost perfect arc.
Stiles was startled back to reality by the sound of tires grating over stone, as an unfamiliar car came to a stop behind him. He glanced at the rearview mirror, waiting hopelessly for the other driver to emerge. A meek grumble escaped his lips as he shoved his sleeves back down and opened the door. Even after twenty years of practice, Stiles still didn't have full control of his spastic limbs and tangled himself in the seatbelt, landing face first on the ground. He shot up quickly, untwisting his clothes in hopes that at least part of his dignity remained intact. The chuckle from behind said otherwise. "Unbuckle, then get out. Not a difficult concept," he mumbled to himself, before slowly turning around. Finally making eye contact with an old friend, he stepped forward to lessen the gap between them.
"Hey," Stiles said, smiling around his bitten lip. "Can you believe it's been two years? I mean, sometimes it feels like I just saw you yesterday and sometimes it feels like it's been so long that it maybe never really happened at all. You know, maybe it's just a bad story that happened to somebody else...Shit, sorry. I'm rambling. I practiced for hours what I would say to everyone today, and now we're here and..." He trailed off allowing a few seconds to catch his breath and tried again, "I...I missed you."
A muted smile.
"I'm gonna take that as you missing me too?"
Another small smile. One that couldn't quite meet Stiles' eyes.
"Don't feel like talking today, huh?"
A slight shake of a head.
"It's okay. I didn't feel like talking for a while after either. It scared the hell out my dad. He'd call and I couldn't make a sound, just kind of opened and closed my mouth like a fish. Took a few tries before he figured it out I was still listening."
An appreciative glance.
"Should we...?" Stiles asked, gesturing toward the graves. "The others will be here soon."
A stern nod and an outstretched hand.
They walked slowly between the rows of markers, Stiles only stumbling a few times, and looked for a familiar name.
"Here." Stiles spotted it first. He stood completely still for a few moments, staring at the engraving until his eyes lost focus. He hummed quietly and traced his fingertips over the lettering, letting himself get lost in the last happy memories they had shared. The clearing of a throat brought him back to the present.
"I miss him too," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "And you two, of course," she added, giving them each a stilted hug as she tried to not crush the bouquet.
Stiles responded with a bleak grin. "So, it's just us then? I didn't know if he'd even..."
She cut him off gently, "Oh, he's here. Just over a few rows. I think he needed a little more time there, not that I could get him to tell me that though."
Stiles' lip curled in a knowing way as he nudged his shadow with his shoulder. "Yeah, seems like a popular coping mechanism today. Might be a good idea though, it'd keep my foot out of my mouth."
A half amused huff escaped her nose. "Let's go then," she gestured forward.
They came upon their old friend, sitting cross-legged in front of the gravestone, stoically pulling blades of grass from the earth. They wordlessly sat around him, offering brief touches to a shoulder or a knee.
The afternoon continued in a similar manner, as they moved almost silently between their fallen pack members. Kind words were offered, tears were stifled, and flowers were left behind.
It wasn't until the last marker that Stiles broke down. Sobs wracked his body as the others tried to hold him together. He went limp with exertion and barley managed to mutter a " . . . miss you so much, bro."
It took a few moments for him to pull himself back together and he looked around at the group with a timid smile, "What happens now?"
"We could try to ..." she stopped herself, unsure of the idea. "My number's still the same."
"Mine too," Stiles added.
A nod and a grunt of agreement.
"I think we both parked by the south gate, so I'm going to head back that way," she awkwardly took a few steps backward and glanced at their companion, who seemed to have the same idea. "Bye," he murmured, giving a slight wave before following in her path.
Stiles turned toward the figure next to him, jerked his head in the direction of their cars, and set forward.
An eye roll and footsteps in tow.
"Um, so I'm staying at my dad's. I might stick around for a bit, I mean it might be nice. He's on the night shift tonight...not that that's relevant. But if you want to maybe stop by later, we could talk. Or I can talk? So, um, yeah, I'll be at home." He took a few hesitant steps toward the jeep and glanced back over his shoulder. "I'll leave the window open... in case you're feeling nostalgic."