Work Text:
Moments of impact are important. They can change everything. For better. For worse. And, sometimes, forever. Scott should know this already. Should. He learns that he doesn’t the hard way. Through his best friend.
When they were younger, Stiles forced Scott to sit down with him and watch the entire trilogy of Lord of the Rings – since Stiles knew that there was no way he was going to get his friend to actually read them. Watching it, Scott liked the characters and the world. He liked Frodo. But, more importantly, he liked Samwise. As the whole story illustrates, it takes a great man to be a hero like Frodo Baggins. But, in Scott’s mind, it takes an even better and greater man to be the hero’s best friend. Scott always saw Sam in a higher position than he saw Frodo – although he couldn’t get Stiles to see it that way. Scott now wished that he had stayed on top of that argument. Considering.
Scott wanted to cast blame elsewhere. Like Lydia told him to do. Like Allison and Isaac told him to do. Cast it on the dark druid. Cast it on the alpha pack, since they were the reason that the druid was staking killings in the first place. Cast it on the stupid haunted motel. But, no matter how hard Scott tried, he couldn’t find anyone to blame but himself.
Scott found it harder and harder to sleep. Memories replayed in his head. The heat of the flare. The sound of Stiles’ voice and the concern in it. You’re my best friend. Scott… you’re my brother. Scott would give anything if he could just turn back time and fix things. Fix Stiles. The sound of Stiles’ head cracking against the pavement echoed in his mind every time that he closed his eyes. The broken echo of Lydia choking out past the dying fire, He’s not waking up. God, Scott. Why isn’t he waking up? He’s not – he doesn’t look hurt!
His best friend was in a coma and it was all his fault. No amount of fixing things could erase that. No amount of going after the alphas. No amount of hunting the druid down. Nothing. Scott couldn’t wing his way out of this one. Especially not with his best friend at his side.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t try. Three months into it, him, Lydia, and Derek finally found the Darach. Cornered it in the woods. They planned on just catching it alive. But, just seeing it made Scott feel almost… feral. Derek dismissed Lydia the moment that Scott was on top of the Darach. Scott ripped it apart. Derek watched. And then helped Scott pick up the pieces.
Three months and a week into it, they caught the alpha pack. Killed Kali and Deucalion. Let the twins go free – with the warning that if they ever as much as touched any one in Beacon Hills in a harmful manner, their heads would be as good as removed from their bodies. So they left town.
Three months and two weeks into it, Scott was finding nothing to keep himself together. Nothing to keep his mind off how his best friend was fighting for his life in the hospital because of a mistake that he made. Because Stiles was trying to save him. Three months and two weeks into it, Scott finally fell apart. And no one was there to put him back together.
Three months and three weeks into it, Scott was just going through the motions. Going to school. Taking tests. Working with Deaton. And then – he got the call.
Scott was called out of class on a Tuesday, concern instantly seeping into his bones when they said that his Mom was on the phone for him. He took it quickly. His mom was at work – or at least she was supposed to be. “Mom? What is it? What’s wrong? Is Stiles okay? Is-“
His mom cut the teenager off, “Slow down, Scott. Breathe. Stiles is fine. Just fine, actually. He’s completely awake now and –“
“He’s awake? When did he start waking up? Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve been there and-“
Once again she had to stop him mid-sentence, “A lot of times, coma patients waking up can be false alarms. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But, he’s awake now. And he’s asking for you.” Scott was already out the door and on the way to his motorbike before she even finished.
It didn’t take him long to arrive at the hospital, and took him even less time to find Stiles’ familiar room. It was when he heard Stiles’ heart beat from inside that he remembered … Stiles was supposed to be angry with him. Was supposed to hate him for what he did. And Scott knew that. But, that didn’t stop his heart from aching painfully when he thought about Stiles being angry with him when Scott thought that he was going to lose him. He sucked in a breath and walked in the door.
Stiles was sitting up. He looked like he had lost a little weight over the three and a half months (seven pounds, actually). He needed a haircut and probably needed a real shower. His entire weight was leaned against the raised bed- as he knew that the boy lacked his usual strength – and would for a while. His long and trembling fingers were trying to adjust the oxygen tube where it had fallen from his ear, eyes darting up to meet Scott’s. He looked weak (“As weak as a freakin’ baby fawn”), but that didn’t stop the familiar crooked smile that pulled at his lips. It was refreshing and made Scott want to cling to him and cry. Seeing Stiles motionless was… hard. Not flailing around. Not talking. Not doing the things that Stiles did. Not having that spark in his eyes that made him Stiles. But, he was back. And giving him a weak version of that grin he wore so well. His voice when he spoke was hoarse and raw from months of disuse, and later Scott would ask him to stop talking until he gained strength back. When he spoke, Scott looked at him like he was made of precious gold.
“Miss me, Scotty?”