Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
He left when it all came to a close. After the Nogitsune had been purged from his body, after Allison and Aiden had been buried. He found himself sitting on his bed beside Lydia, both of them staring at the floor in silence and he just knew. He had to get away from Beacon Hills.
Not forever. Just for now.
Probably.
“Europe, I think,” he said and she just nodded. “I just need to not be here for a while.”
The thought of going alone was daunting, but the thought of being around the people he’d hurt most was unbearable.
“Come back,” Lydia said softly. “Do what you need to do, but promise me you’ll come back.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“I promise. Will you stay here?”
Here in the town where the memory of dead friends would haunt her.
She gave a little huff, like a hollow laugh. “I hadn’t thought of leaving.”
“Maybe you should. Even if it’s just to take a break.”
And they both knew he was probably right.
The Sherriff wasn’t happy about letting him go, but who was John kidding? A backpacking trip on another continent was probably safer than sticking around Beacon Hills. Not to mention it held a hint of normalcy that Stiles needed so badly. Kids did this sort of thing all the time. He had half a mind to hand in his vacation slip and join the boy.
But no. There were some things he couldn’t fix and so he made no plans at the station. Of course he fought it at first (it was his duty as a worried father) but his arguments were half hearted. He finally agreed to the trip on the condition that Stiles go after the school year ended. That plan lasted exactly one night of panicked nightmares before John went online and bought the plane ticket himself; one for the end of the week.
Scott took some convincing. And Stiles almost cancelled his plans to quell the guilt sitting in his chest for leaving him. Scott had lost his first love in the most permanent way possible. He needed his best friend, he needed Stiles—was adamant about that. It wasn’t until he really looked into the other boy’s eyes and saw the pain there that Scott realized that while he needed comfort, Stiles needed distance. And he had Kira. He had his mother. And there was such a thing as Skype, as Stiles reminded him.
So it was set. There was a plane ticket, essentials bought and packed, and Stiles’ savings consolidated and at the ready. A quiet, long and tense ride to the airport with his father ended in a tight embrace and threat of death should he forget to stay in regular contact. And then there was nothing but the sounds of engines and a toddler kicking the back of his seat.
He was gone.
Lydia was reading a book. The sun was warm on her face as she absentmindedly sipped at her coffee, focused on the words in front of her and totally not on the figure standing by the nearby newsstand, poring over a paper. And she was definitely not checking out the tattoo that wrapped around his bicep and disappeared beneath his t-shirt, only to poke up by his neck again. Certainly not the area where his narrow waist met his legs in a perfectly pinchable…
“Stiles?!”
He turned and she was up out of her seat in seconds, wrapping her arms around his neck. There was a tense moment where she was lifted off her feet and his hold on her felt not altogether friendly. But the second he saw her face, his own flashed with recognition and his hands became gentle as he set her on her feet.
“Lydia! What’re you—!”
“Oh my god, how are—?”
Stiles took a step back from her and they eyed each other with foolish grins spreading across their faces.
He looked so incredibly different and yet…he was still Stiles.
He had filled out quite nicely, though he was still tall and slim. Except now, well now there were clearly defined muscles. Wrapped in tattoos. Lydia cleared her throat, suddenly flushed. Several tattoos actually, all over the place. And there were scars, she saw. They would definitely be having a chat about the one that split his left brow in two. And the ones that looked like small crop circles burned along his forearm. She was quickly filled with worry. What had he been doing to himself?
“What’re you doing in Prague?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She took his hand and led him to the table she’d been sitting at.
“Vacation,” she replied primly as they sat, intent on not bombarding him with her concern. He was so changed from the last time she’d seen him. Less broken looking. There was still a sense of damage—still the tiredness she remembered—but he was grinning at her and it had been so long since he’d done that. “I could ask you the same thing. The last time I spoke to your dad he said you were in Ireland.”
He looked slightly taken aback by that and then very much guilty.
“I take it you haven’t been in Ireland,” she ventured with an arched brow.
He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar gesture that sent warmth spreading through her. God, she’d missed him!
“Well, I mean, I was in Ireland…”
“Stiles.”
It was a warning tone under which he shrank a little. “I was,” and then under his breath, “threemonthsago…”
She glared at him until irritation clouded his features and he stiffened. “I didn’t realize this was an interrogation.”
There it was. The grin had slipped away and now she was seeing a bit more of what he’d left as. Ah, and here was her guilt at bringing it out in him. Well she wasn’t going to give into it. Her own defenses came up and she sat up straighter and shrugged one delicate shoulder. “I’m not the one lying here.”
A small part of her balked at the accusation. Great, Lydia, she thought, you haven’t seen him in ages and you cold open with “bitch”?
But as happy as she was to see him, apparently there was a bit of anger too; a pinch of abandonment that she’d mostly ignored up until now. Up until seeing his face.
Stiles sat back in his seat, his mouth forming a tight line. After a tense moment he spoke up but this time with a flat and guarded tone.
“How is everyone? Scott and…everyone?”
She turned her coffee cup around slowly and avoided his eyes.
“I wouldn’t really know. They were fine when I left but that was...” she silently counted the days, “two weeks ago.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t been calling them?”
“Have you?” she asked pointedly.
He had done the whole Skype thing at first, but it hadn’t taken long before his correspondence had dwindled down to a weekly email to his father and the odd game of silent online Scrabble with her. Scott got sporadic emails and had received a postcard or two. All in all it had felt inadequate and by the look on his face he knew it.
They both fell into an uncomfortable silence broken only by the church bells in the distance that marked the noon hour.
“This is stupid,” she finally sighed.
Stiles lost a bit of his rigidity and slumped into his chair. “Agreed. Sorry, it’s just…”
“It’s been a while,” she finished for him.
“How long are you in the city for?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“Two more days. I fly out on Friday—heading home.”
He looked into her eyes and exhaled deeply, running his hand through his hair. “Okay, I uh…I have a thing now but…where are you staying? Are you free tonight? Say…eightish?”
She wasn’t but she would change that. And she was a little miffed that he wasn’t cancelling his thing to stay with her now. “Le Palais Art Hotel, do you know it?”
He chuckled but it sounded tight and a bit forced. “I think we can agree that you and I have probably been staying in very different places while we’ve been here. But don’t worry, I’ll find it. See you tonight.”
He was getting up and quite suddenly she was alone again, the entire reunion ending rather abruptly. He turned the first corner and it was as if he hadn’t been there at all. Lydia stared into her coffee and frowned.
What the actual fuck?
“What the actual fuck, dude?!”
His body was slammed against the stone wall and pain ripped through his side as a rather sacrificial looking dagger barely missed sticking him like a pig. Still, his sliced ribs did not appreciate the gesture.
Stiles pushed his assailant back with a grunt and as much physical force as he could muster, all the while chanting under his breath. He could feel the tattoo on his right forearm burning, almost to the point of being unbearable. Good. The more the ink broiled, the worse the djinn looked. Its eyes rolled and a sort of shriek ripped through its entire being. Once it lay flat against the opposite wall of the alley, Stiles moved his hand from the thing’s chest to its face.
“Ignis internum in extremis, ignis internum in extremis, ignis internum in extremis, ignis internum in extremis…”
The fire within at the point of death…
The djinn’s flesh was hot to the touch now, and soon Stiles would be unable to hold it down without being burned himself.
And then all at once it was over and all that remained of the altercation was a black shadow scorched into the stone and a dagger at Stiles’ feet. He grunted in pain as he bent down to pick it up. It was silver, curved and no less deadly looking then when it had been trying to gut him. Lorek would find it interesting, no doubt. He slipped the blade into the hip of his pants, tucking the hilt into his belt so it wouldn’t slip out and slice him while he walked.
Holding his side gingerly, Stiles staggered out of the privacy of the alley and onto the street.
Yeah, this was going to need stitches.