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"So, are you gonna tell her?" Stiles asks, craning his neck forward, eyes wide and nose poking into other people's business as usual. He has a startling resemblance to a stork.
"Tell her what?" Scott asks, his voice comes out more raspy than he would've liked. He sways slightly on his feet and turns his head to the side, looking out his window - the blessed darkness outside.
Stiles does that spluttering, hand-flailing, eye-boggling thing he does whenever he can't fathom the sheer density slash stupidity of his best friend. "About her psycho-ass mom nearly murdering you and then getting bitten by an Alpha!? Scott!"
He squeezes his eyes shut, his head's pounding from the wolfsbane, and the lights in his room are unbearably bright. His best friend's voice feels like tiny needles stabbing his skull.
The bright glow behind his closed eyelids flickers out, right after he hears a switch flipping off. He knows it's Stiles's way of saying, "No excuses now, look at me!"
He opens his eyes, slowly, still facing the window. "No."
"No!?"
"No." He repeats calmly. He bends over to take his shoes off, and gives an involuntary gasp.
"Hey, hey, Scotty, what's wrong?" He feels Stiles's hands on his arm, pulling him upright.
He hadn't expected his stomach to still be hurting from the car hit. The wolfsbane must be messing with his healing.
"Scott, Scott, dude -" Stiles is flapping a hand in front of his face. Scott pushes it away.
"I'm fine," he snaps.
It's nearly dawn now. Nearly six hours since he'd been poisoned and taken to Deaton. Stiles had waited outside, still a little out of it- he'd have to ask why he was being quiet again later- while he'd talked with Derek in his- he didn't even know what it was- a garage?
"Sit down, man," Stiles mumbles, guiding him onto a chair. "I thought Deaton fixed up the poison with his magic powers?"
Scott nods. "Yeah, this is- this is just from the car hit."
Stiles gapes, "She slammed a car into you?"
Scott waves his hand again. Stiles slaps it away.
"Don't wave your hand at me! Scott, this is- why aren't you telling her!?"
He groans, pushing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Stiles purses his lips.
"Did you have dinner?"
He shakes his head. He doesn't really want to anyway. But he just... he just needs to be alone for a minute.
Stiles nods, patting his back, "I'll go get something from the fridge." He walks to the door and then stops, spinning back. "Don't get up."
Scott holds his hands up in mock surrender.
He leans his head back as he listens to Stiles jogging down the stairs and then rifling through the fridge. He hears cupboard doors opening, a few frustrated groans. Yeah. There probably isn't anything to eat.
"I'm ordering takeout!" Stiles yells from downstairs. Scott nods hazily, before remembering his best friend can't see, and then yells out an "OK," in reply. His stomach still hurts.
His phone pings. It's probably Allison. Maybe she's trying to apologise for telling her dad. Scott was such a jerk to her. He should apologise first.
"Victoria won't be a problem, Scott."
"But if she's going to turn- I mean, what would they even do? Would they kill her? Even if she's family?"
Derek kept his eyes on him, not saying anything. Aren't they past the stage of not trusting each other now?
"No." He said finally.
"OK..." He started unsurely, "But, won't she like, need an Alpha? And you're the one who bit her so-"
"-Scott," Derek interrupted. He stood up from his chair, arms crossed and legs wide in that bossily confident pose. "They're not going to kill her. Because she's going to do it herself."
"I ordered Mexican. Should be here in a few. Are you gonna clean up or...?"
His phone pings again.
And again.
"Are you... going to... pick that up...?" Stiles is doing a lot of head wiggling again.
Scott shakes his head.
He's being a really, terribly, horrible boyfriend right about now. Stiles picks up his phone. Scott isn't bothered, for a second, until he remembers he knows his password. Since, well, it's Stiles.
He jerks up, "Don't-"
"It's Allison," he tells him, having the good grace not to actually open the messages. His phone pings again in quick succession. "Looks like it might be important. Maybe she knows...?"
Yeah. Maybe her mom's already gone and done it. Scott wants to throw up.
He doubles over, stomach heaving as he retches on the floor and his shoes. Shit. He tilts forward and feels Stiles's hands on his arms, holding him up and stopping him from faceplanting on his own sick. He seems a little unsure about what exactly to do, considering the fact that Scott hasn't really thrown up in a long while. But he settles for rubbing his back awkwardly. Scott can appreciate that.
"I'll- I'm going to shower," he mumbles. He feels gross.
"Need help?" Stiles asks, sounding very much like he hopes he'll say no.
Scott gives him a look. "No."
"Don't give me the look!"
"What look?"
"The look! The thing you did with your face just now! You look ready to pass out, it's a very valid question!"
Scott sighs, hoisting himself onto his feet. "I feel better now. Maybe the last of it got out with... this.." His shoes make disgusting squelchy noises. Stiles grimaces.
"Fine. Early warning though, I can't lift you if you end up unconscious in the bathtub."
Scott hums and forces his feet out of his shoes, nearly ripping them. He pinches the edges of his socks and peels them off, letting them drop to the floor with a sad splat.
Stiles helps by standing behind the chair and making disgusted noises.
"I'll clean it up after," he mutters. At least his feet aren't wet.
Stiles is biting his nails and typing furiously on his phone when he comes out. Now that the nausea and most of the headache have gone, he realises the reek of anxiety in the room.
"Hey, man, you ok?"
His best friend looks up, confused. "Hmm?" Scott blinks, waiting for his brain to catch up. "Oh, uh, yeah no, I'm fine." He clears his throat. "Rich coming from you, Mr. Puke."
Scott tilts his head, worried by his below-par nickname. "You sure...? You've been kinda quiet."
"Oh, have I?" Stiles scoffs non-committally.
He waits for him to elaborate as he dries himself and pulls on a pair of pants. Stiles continues typing.
"Who're you texting?" He tries.
Stiles must've really cooled down while he was in the bathroom, if he's staying quiet and letting Scott do most of the talking. The worry has probably worn off.
"Uh, just, telling my dad I'm staying over here tonight." He wipes at his nose.
"Oh. You are?"
He gets a dirty glare for his lack of enthusiasm.
"Sorry, just- you don't have to. You should go be with your dad if he's home." Scott knows how much Stiles cherishes time with the Sheriff. Between his dad's night shifts nearly every day and their supernatural escapades, also nearly every day, their time together has been reduced to the rare minutes they catch each other outside when their paths cross during investigations. "I'll be fine," he reassures.
Stiles snorts disbelievingly, not bothering to look at him. "Are you cleaning that up or what?"
Ah, yes, anxiety wasn't the only thing stinking up the room. At least Stiles had dumped a bunch of cleaning stuff next to the puddle.
They settle, shoulders almost touching, against the wall, on his bed. The food is laid out in front of them, and Stiles fidgets with the laptop, trying to put on a movie, before muttering something about wifi and ditching his attempts.
They eat in comfortable silence, Stiles's bony elbow poking into various parts of his side. Stiles has sprayed a whole lot of perfume to block out the lingering smell, but Scott can still feel it hiding beneath.
"How much is this?" Scott asks, trying to sound casual as he waves a piece of taco.
Stiles waves his hand dismissively. "On me."
"Stiles, I'm not that broke."
"He-" He mumbles through a mouthful, "Lee I can do afer oo almo die."
Scott pats his thigh. "Sure, man."
More silence.
"Are you gonna tell me why you're acting weird?"
Stiles snorts. "Only if you tell me."
"I asked first."
Another snort. Stiles diligently licks his fingers clean. "My dad got sacked."
Scott blinks. "Why?"
"Cause of me." Stiles sways his head, glances at him for a split second, and looks away again, pursing his lips in frustration.
Scott doesn't really know what to say to that. "Oh."
He nudges him. "Your turn. Why are you ignoring Allison? You went through all that trouble to get her in the first place. Seems kinda late to be playing hard to get, Scotty."
He's the one who looks away this time. "I just- she told her dad about Jackson."
Stiles nods. "Figures that's why the whole clan was there." He can practically feel the eye roll.
"And I... said some stuff. About her not trusting me." He doesn't have to look to know that Stiles's face is doing something really expressive. "It's my fault. I should apologise."
"And nothing says sorry like ignoring her texts. Yeah." The bed creaks as he rocks next to him.
Scott sighs. "I can't tell her what her mom did, Stiles." His friend, if noone else, should understand. "I can't let that be her last memory of her."
Stiles jerks up. "Wait, what? The last memory?" He yelps, grabbing his forearm tight, "Did the bite not work?"
Ah, he'd forgotten he hadn't mentioned that little detail.
"Oh, God, that's bad. The Argents are gonna kill you!" He's practically on Scott's lap at this point. "I mean- more than they were going to in the first place. Wait, does Allison know!? Oh my God that's why you're ignoring her! Fu-"
Scott stuffs his taco in Stiles's mouth and pushes him off. "The Bite's fine. That's the problem."
Stiles frowns in confusion, and then his eyes widen as he realises. He pulls the half eaten taco out. "Shit."
"Yeah." Scott looks away again. "So I can't tell her."
He feels a sigh, and then his weight settles down again. Stiles has his lips twisted when he turns. He has his own fair share of unpleasant memories with his mom, during the time the dementia had gotten really bad. He knows how much it had hurt.
Stiles deflates in defeat. "Yeah. Fine... But you know she'll learn eventually, right? Somehow. And if it comes from one of the Argents, they'll twist it to make it your fault. Yours and Derek's." His mouth pulls to the side. "She might hate you."
Scott takes a deep breath. Picks at his blanket. "I know." It's better than her having to hate her mom. "It's fine."
He knows they both know it's not.