Chapter Text
Stiles wanders into the locker-room with his eyes on his phone, texting Lydia to ask exactly why she wants him to hack into his Dad's personnel files for Parrish's transfer papers. Stiles is also wondering where his phone charger could be if it isn't in his locker, because he's searched literally everywhere else, and shit, what if he's actually lost it? He has precisely zero dollars available to buy a new one. He is also dimly aware that he's running late for History, and that's not something he wants to happen on the first day of senior year.
The one thing Stiles isn't anticipating is an ambush.
He walks right into one.
As ambushes go, it is by far the least deadly that Stiles has encountered. In fact, it's probably the best. One minute he's opening his locker to search for his phone charger, and the next he's being shoved up against the wall and passionately and insistently kissed. And Scott, who is doing the kissing, apparently can't see anything out of place with this scenario at all. Which, Stiles thinks as he nibbles on Scott's lower lip, there sort of isn't. Because they do this now, apparently, except-
The words 'public place' echo around Stiles' mind, totally spoiling his fun, and he pushes Scott away, struggling to engage the speech centre of his brain.
"Hey, Scott. Not that this isn't awesome, but remember how we had a long discussion and came up with the whole 'secret relationship' plan?"
"Yeah, I think I hate that plan now." Scott's voice is husky, and he's staring at Stiles' mouth.
"No, Scotty, you don't hate the plan. It was your plan, remember? And I agreed to it wholeheartedly for very good and noble reasons. I think."
"I could smell you all through Math," says Scott. He licks his lips. "You smell really good. It makes me horny."
"It's always about the romance with you werewolves, isn't it? Flowers and poetry. It's a beautiful thing, really, it is."
"You want flowers? I could get you flowers."
Stiles realises that they are holding hands - he can't even remember how that happened - and Scott is moving his thumb over Stiles' knuckles. He looks worried.
"No, I don't want flowers," Stiles says.
"That's what I figured. We've known each other so long, it would be weird, right? But I would, totally, if you wanted."
Of course he would. Scott is the most romantic person in the world. And weird as it unquestionably is, it would at least be easier to handle than the time Malia brought him a dead rabbit.
Scott squeezes his hand. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Look, no flowers, no poems. It's great that I smell good, and I promise I'll still smell good at the end of the school day, and then we'll go back to your house and you can ravage me to your heart's content. Okay?"
Scott leers at him. Clearly he approves of ravaging, and Stiles' dick is like a steel bar right now, so that's all good. "Until then, situation normal," Stiles continues. "Stiles and Scott, best bros, partners in crime, double-act extraordinaire. That way nobody gets hurt feelings, nothing gets complicated and we all survive 'til Tuesday."
Scott frowns. "What's happening Tuesday?"
"Nothing, Scott, it's a figure of speech. Now, unhand me before I change my mind and we're all placed in terrible danger, okay?"
"You're right." Scott squeezes his hand again. "It's just that-"
"-I smell good. Yeah, yeah, I know. What can I say? It's a talent."
"No, I mean… well, yes, but that's not… You haven't really seen Malia since the end of last year, and if it's weird when you do see her, or if you change your mind, it's okay, dude. I'll understand."
"She broke up with me, remember?"
"She might want to un-break-up with you."
Stiles sighs. "No, Scott. She won't. And that's okay. Whatever happened on that road trip with Derek changed things. I just wish… I dunno."
"What, man?" Scott has moved in close again; the warmth of his body is comforting and Stiles' arm slides remarkably easily around Scott's waist, like it belongs there.
"I wish we could still be friends. I mean, the sex was great, but it was more… She understood things, things no-one else really gets. I miss talking to her."
"Give it time, Stiles. It's only been a couple of months."
"You and Kira still talk."
A muscle twitches deep in Scott's back.
"That's different."
"Because she still holds out some hope that you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." Scott's head bangs down on Stiles' shoulder.
"Yeah, and as if our break-ups weren't complicated enough, now we're doing whatever the hell this is."
"It's good," says Scott, plaintively. "This is good."
The thing is, Scott is right. Having him like this, for all that it's only been twenty four hours and came completely out of left field, not to mention that it's incredibly inconvenient - it's heart-flutteringly, dick-achingly, soul-warmingly good. And Stiles wants it.
"After school, dude," says Stiles. "Your mom gonna be out?"
"Yep. Overtime again."
"Great. We'll get takeout. No flowers."
"No flowers. Got it." Scott kisses Stiles' neck before he pulls away.
It tickles all the way through History.
*
Lunch is a socially dangerous time at any stage of high school, but perhaps especially so in senior year. Which is why the sight of Lydia sitting at an empty table in the senior section of the cafeteria, calmly slicing an apple into slender, perfectly equal wedges, is a relief to Stiles. He takes a seat opposite her.
"Did you find anything?" she asks him.
"Not yet. They monitor log-ins so I have to wait 'til Dad's on shift, or it'll be obvious it's not him. What's the hurry?"
"It's been three months, and we're no closer to finding out what he is. He's getting very despondent."
"No clues at all?"
She glares at him.
"Okay, okay. I'll get the papers tomorrow. But I'm sure if there'd been anything there Dad would have said something." Stiles stabs the straw into his juice-box, ignoring the spray of orange that splatters the rest of his lunch as a result. "Hey, where is everyone?"
"Coach dragged Scott off somewhere. Kira's gone to sit with Malia, in case she's lonely."
"Shit." Stiles should have thought of that. It must be crappy for Malia getting held back a year, and now he's rubbed salt into her wounds by ignoring her at lunch.
"Stop that," says Lydia. "She's doing fine. She needs more time to catch up, that's all. They should never have put her in junior year to start with."
"Social reasons." Stiles scans the crowded room for Malia and Kira. "They put her with us because we're her friends and they thought we'd be able to help her with social skills."
"Oh. That actually makes sense."
"It was my dad's idea. He's had a lot of experience with anti-social behaviour."
He spots her, sharing a table with Kira, Liam and Mason. She's laughing at something Mason just said, and although Mason looks a bit startled, Malia seems relaxed and happy. Properly happy.
"Stiles?" Lydia's noticed where he's looking and there's concern in her voice. "Are you okay?"
"Kind of," says Stiles. "It's a work in progress."
Lydia gives him a tiny smile, and pops a segment of apple into her mouth.
*
The rest of the school day consists of a series of identical lectures from teachers telling everyone how important senior year is, how it will decide their college, their livelihood, their value to society itself. Failure, they insist, would be devastating.
Stiles has experienced so much devastation since Scott got bitten that he can barely rustle up a twinge of low-level anxiety at the prospect of the SATs and college applications. Besides, he has other things to think about. Like Scott. And Malia. And Kira. And Scott. Fucking hell, Scott, who he'd had sex with last night. His best friend.
"Stilinski?"
Stiles tries to push the image of Scott sucking his dick to the back of his mind (not to get rid of it altogether, obviously) and blinks up at Coach.
"Never mind," says Coach, glaring from him to Scott and back again. "As I was saying, this year is full of defining moments. So defining, in fact, that if you put them all together you would have an actual dictionary of vital, epic moments. And if any of them include failing Economics, I promise you that it will induce a regret so profound that it will haunt you for the rest of your lives."
Stiles and Scott exchange a brief glance, and then Stiles notices Kira. She's sitting one row ahead and one to the right of him, and she's looking at Scott, biting her lip, turning away again, only to look back a few moments later. She seems anxious and sad.
Stiles stares down at his desk, at the textbook and handout and pen that sit there, and feels like shit.
*
Stiles drives to Scott's house after school as promised. He parks outside, where he sits, trying to classify the feeling in his belly. It's butterfly-ish, for certain, but he's not sure if it's excited-butterflies or nervous-butterflies or guilt-butterflies. The one person who could help him to identify one belly-butterfly from another is Scott, which is no use at all, because whichever butterfly it is, Scott put it there. Scott was the caterpillar from which the butterfly has grown. And fuck, isn't that just a creepy, terrifying thought? Caterpillar-Scott spinning a cocoon in Stiles' belly.
Stiles stops that train of thought right there, before it can get any worse.
He glances up at his reflection in the rear view mirror.
"Come on, Stiles. It's just Scott. Scott who you met in the sandbox when you were four. Scott who hit Gary in third grade because he was mean about your mom. Scott who wouldn't kill you even when you were possessed by an evil spirit and twisting a sword in his gut. That Scott. Your Scott. Talk to Scott. Just talk to Scott."
There's something in the mirror.
Something that isn't Stiles, or Jeep.
A dark, fleeting shape that Stiles can't make anything of, except he's pretty sure it has wings.
He twists around to see, but there's nothing there. Just his lacrosse socks bundled into a knot on the back seat, a towel from their trip to the beach, his phone charger.
Hey! His phone charger!
Stiles checks the mirror again and it tells him the same story. There's nothing there. A couple of years ago he would have laughed at himself, dismissed it as his imagination running away with him, or a trick of the light. But Stiles has seen a lot things now, and he's learned not to dismiss anything that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck like that.
"Stiles! What's the matter?"
Scott's peering anxiously at him from his front doorstep. Stiles grabs his keys from the ignition, opens the door. Scott jogs over to him.
"Nothing, I'm fine. And hey, are we so used to Beacon Hills now that we say 'Dude, is your life in danger?' instead of 'Hi, good to see ya!'?" Stiles twists around to grab his backpack, butterflies swarming again. Whatever he saw, he isn't about to bother Scott with it. Not yet. Maybe never, because maybe it will never happen again, and that would save a whole lot of Scott worrying that Stiles is losing his mind again.
"Your heartbeat spiked like crazy. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Cracked my elbow on the steering wheel. Hurt like fuck."
Scott immediately reaches for Stiles' elbow, shoving his shirt sleeve up, running his fingers over the delicate bones.
"Other elbow," says Stiles. "And it's fine now."
Stiles half-jumps, half-falls out of the Jeep and lets Scott catch him. He kisses Scott, the kind of kiss that steals breath and stops thought, and feels Scott relax into it. How many times did Allison kiss Scott to stop him from thinking? How many times did she not tell him she'd seen strange things, heard things at home that didn't make sense?
"I thought I saw something in the mirror," he says, pulling back far enough that he can see Scott's face in the streetlights. "Stupid, corner-of-the-eye thing. I'm nervous, I guess. Shall we go inside? I think we should go inside."
"What kind of thing?" Scott looks worried.
"Nothing. A shadow, headlights, I don't know." Stiles starts moving towards the house, and Scott follows.
Scott's home is pleasantly cool and smells of clean laundry and old wood. Stiles leads Scott upstairs to a room every bit as familiar as his own.
"Why so nervous?" Scott closes the door behind them as if they don't have the whole house to themselves. Stiles likes that. He likes doors properly closed or wide open, not-
"Hey." Scott pulls Stiles in, lacing their fingers together as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "We don't have to do anything you don't want, okay?"
Stiles stares at him. "Scott, did you just boyfriend me? Seriously?"
"What? That makes no sense."
"I'm not your boyfriend. I know things have changed, but I'm not your… I'm… I-"
"Stiles." Scott smiles at him, heart-wrenchingly sincere. "You're my Stiles."
"How do you even do that? You say all these ridiculous things and somehow it's okay. How does that work?"
"It's because I'm the Alpha," says Scott, deadpan.
"It is so not because of that. You've been doing it since you were ten, dude."
Scott shrugs happily and sits on the bed, tugging Stiles down with him because they're still holding hands. Stiles tries not to be nervous, and Scott watches him, which isn't helping, to be honest.
"This is kinda weird, isn't it?" Scott says eventually.
"This is totally weird. This is beyond weird. But we can do weird. We're good at weird. Aren't we?"
"Yeah. I think we're pretty cool with weird."
"Thank God, because I don't think I'd know normal if it smacked me in the-"
There's a blur of dark hair and uneven jaw, and then Scott's kissing him. This is easier. Much easier. Scott's fingers are curling at the nape of Stiles' neck, and things are tingling. A lot of things are tingling. Stiles really likes the tingling. It slows his brain down and makes him very aware of his body and how amazing it would be to come all over Scott's ass.
Like most of Stiles' fantasies the image is specific, vivid and shocks him.
"I'm thinking less clothes," Scott mumbles into Stiles' neck.
"Excellent." Stiles tugs at Scott's tee-shirt and runs a hand underneath, touching his belly, making him shiver when it tickles. Scott pulls back far enough to get his shirt off over his head, and Stiles tries to do the same. But he's wearing layers and they tangle, and he thinks how much easier this was last night, when he wasn't expecting it. They'd fallen asleep watching a dumb movie, and when Stiles woke he was all snuggled up to Scott on the couch, and his dick was randomly hard, and Scott noticed and offered, half-asleep, to help him out. Things happened. Then, still dazed, they took a shower and more things happened. Good things. Mutual Things. Getting out of shirt-layers hadn't been an issue.
"Here," says Scott. "Let me help."
Stiles stops struggling and sits there while Scott pulls off his shirts in three seconds flat.
"Huh, look at that." Stiles glances down at his own pale chest, and shivers. "You make it look so easy."
"Practice," says Scott, sliding one warm arm around Stiles' waist, pulling him in close again.
Stiles imagines Scott stripping Kira and Allison, which he doesn't need in his head right now at all, and it must show on his face, because Scott looks horrified.
"I didn't mean that! I meant on myself! Undressing myself! Of guy clothes!"
"I guess I'm easier." Stiles points at his chest. "No bra."
Scott laughs. "You remember that time we borrowed one of my mom's bras and took it in turns practising on each other?"
"Oh yeah," says Stiles. "Really good training, turns out. Useful."
"Totally."
They look at each other, remembering a lot of things, and Stiles lets his hand rest on Scott's thigh, rubbing gently.
"It's okay," Stiles says. "We both know where we've been. Who we've… what we've done. It's not like we have anything to hide."
"Never," says Scott.
"So. Wanna get nekkid?"
Scott hesitates. He drops his head to one side and squints, which is Scott for 'please don't hate me but….' "Could we just make out for a little bit first?"
"Actually, that would be awesome. I'm a big fan of making out. No hickeys above the neckline, though, I have my reputation to consider."
"Yeah, right. C'm'ere."
Scott falls back on the bed, pulling Stiles down on top of him, which is interesting, makes it like it's up to Stiles to decide what they do next. Scott's mouth looks soft and tempting, so Stiles kisses him, bracketing his head with his arms, wriggling around a bit until he finds the best position to grind his cock against Scott's hip. A bit of pressure to take the edge off.
Scott answers Stiles' kisses confidently and touches Stiles' hair, his neck, the ridges of his spine, the belt loops of his jeans, and then, just briefly, skims over his ass. Stiles moans, really liking that, liking it a lot. He can feel the thrum of energy under Scott's skin, the spark. The wolf.
It occurs to Stiles that he's only ever had sex with shape-shifters. Never a human. He can't help laughing, hiding his face in Scott's neck.
"What?" says Scott.
"This is so weird. Good. But weird." Stiles licks around the curve of Scott's ear, noting how Scott goes all trembly.
"Yeah." Scott's voice is rough, deep. "Wanna see if it gets less weird with our pants off?"
"Sure! It's bound to help, right?"
Jeans, underwear and socks are so much easier to get off than shirts, and Stiles manages to render himself naked without further assistance from Scott. They lay back on the bed side-by-side, and Stiles' tummy flips as he notices Scott has a tube of lube in his hand. Ass-lube or dick-lube? Would Scott know the difference? Does it matter?
"Hey." Scott strokes Stiles' arm with the non-lube-holding hand. "You okay?"
"You can fuck me if you like." Stiles words come out in a rush, startling himself almost as much as they startle Scott.
"I'd like that," Scott says, despite the startling.
"Or I could fuck you. You know, I'm versatile. I think."
"Me too. I want to. All of it. Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"I figure we could work up to that stuff."
"Right! Yeah. Definitely."
"Unless…?"
"No! No, that's fine, it's just…." He nods towards the lube in Scott's hand. Scott looks at it, surprised, as if it had appeared there of its own volition.
"Oh shit! No, I didn't mean, I wasn't going to…. It's just for handjobs, I swear. You use it for handjobs, right? You said you do, and I do, I mean, just the hand, nothing else, no ass-stuff, I… oh God."
Stiles gets the giggles and can't stop; Scott looks totally flustered and it helps so, so much. Everything feels more him and Scott, more normal. "Come here." Stiles tugs on Scott's arm, and Scott lets himself be tugged, still clutching the lube tight. Stiles kisses him, lets the tingles build up again before gently prising Scott's fingers open and taking the warm plastic tube from him.
Scott watches, breathing fast, as Stiles flips the cap and squirts lube over his dick, then over Scott's. Spreads it around, hissing at the sweet-harsh friction on his cock and the warm, hard twitch of Scott's. He adds more, everything wet and slick now, skin gliding against skin. Scott takes over, jerking them both in his broad strong hand. It gets simple, then. Hands and cocks and bellies and kissing and slow, rolling thrusts. Easy. Safe. Good.
God, so, so good.
"Stiles."
Stiles opens his eyes to see Scott watching him. Cheeks flushed, lips wet and full from kissing, shoulders tight with the effort of jerking his dick and Stiles' at the same time.
"Yeah," says Stiles. "C'mon."
Scott's eyes close, his face scrunched up, and for an instant Stiles thinks he might shift. He lets out a yell, thrusts up one last time and Stiles glances down to see Scott's come spurting out across his belly. When he looks back up, Scott's eyes are open, pulsing red with each throb of his cock.
Awesome.
Stiles grabs his own dick and finishes himself off quickly, so ready, wanting to come, hard and loud and then things go tight and fuck, he's there. Covering Scott's hand and cock with jizz, and fuck, Scott just scoops it up and rubs it in and nuzzles at Stiles' neck, and Stiles can barely breathe, but in a good way. A very good way. Not-breathing in a good way. That.
He collapses onto his back, sticky and throbbing and fuck, everything smells of spunk and man-sweat. And wolf.
Stiles chuckles weakly to himself, and Scott flicks a ball of tacky jizz at his face. "Not cool, dude," says Stiles, although it totally is.
"Not sorry," says Scott, grinning. "Jizz-face."
"So fucking romantic," says Stiles, and promptly falls asleep.
*
He isn't out for long, just a few minutes. He wakes feeling sticky and languid and he can't stop grinning. Sex is awesome, Scott is awesome, and this thing that's blossoming between them - whatever it is - is awesome too.
He turns his head to find Scott sprawled out next to him, face down.
"Hey, Scott. You awake, man?"
Scott mumbles something into the pillow.
"Cool, just checking." Stiles follows the lines of Scott's body, from his broad shoulders to the dip of his back to the generous curve of his ass. "So, I have a question."
Scott turns his head, so he can see Stiles with one eye. He looks kinda wrecked and fuzzy. Stiles can't resist a smirky grin.
"What?" says Scott.
"When did you find out you like guys?"
Scott frowns. "I like girls, dude."
Anyone else might have been alarmed by this contradiction, but Stiles is as familiar with Scott's thought processes as he is with his own, so he waits for Scott to catch up.
"Oh," says Scott, as the epiphany strikes. "You're not a girl."
"And there it is. Nothing gets past my ol' buddy Scott, huh?"
Scott pushes himself up to kneeling, running his fingers through his hair. "I never thought about it."
"Are you insulting my manliness? Because I have it on very good authority that I am, in fact, a very manly man. I'm practically dripping in testosterone. Although it probably seems pretty unremarkable in werewolf terms."
"No, I know, of course, it's just I…. It's different. You're different."
"So you're just gay for me, then?"
"So far? I guess?"
"That's cool. It's not like it matters. Just curious." Stiles flicks a bit of fluff off his knee.
Something sly creeps into Scott's eyes. Something knowing. "You want me to be. You want to think you turned me with the power of your awesome dick."
"Well, you have to admit, my dick is pretty awesome."
"So's mine."
Stiles can't help glancing at it; it's sitting quiet and plump on Scott's thigh, foreskin wrinkling over the head. He licks his lips.
"It's just labels, right?" says Scott. "Labels don't matter."
"In a world full of shape-shifters and magic trees? No, I'd say labels are pretty redundant. I'm just curious as to why you've been holding out on me all this time."
He isn't. He's stalling. He's keeping the conversation away from the thing he needs to talk about, because he doesn't want to talk about it. And at some level, Scott knows this, and is enabling their ridiculous conversation. Which is decent of him, really.
"Anyway," says Stiles, trying to stop looking at Scott's dick and failing completely. "We made it through the first day of senior year, dude."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did."
"What happened to you at lunch? You missed all the excitement of senior table."
"Coach dragged me off to talk about lacrosse training. He thinks we can get to nationals this year, if Liam stays on form."
"That would be a cool way to end your high school lacrosse career."
"And yours."
"Ha! I've got to get on the team first."
Scott gives Stiles a little smile. "You're on the team, Stiles."
"How d'you know? We don't have tryouts 'til the season starts. Do we? Did we? Oh God, did I miss tryouts?"
"No, you didn't miss tryouts. But there's no way you're not going to get on the team. Coach says he sees the three of us as a unit. The 'indispensable heart of the team'."
"Ah, I get it. He knows it'll take both of us to keep Liam in line. What about Kira?"
Scott looks away. "She'll have to try out with everyone else."
"That's not fair. She's better than me! She's loads better than me!"
"She'll make the team then, won't she?"
"What if she thinks it's favouritism?"
"She won't. Anyway, it's months away yet."
"Maybe she won't want to play lacrosse any more," says Stiles. It's a horrible thought.
Scott scrubs his hands over his face. "Maybe. I dunno. I'm gonna get a shower, 'kay?"
"Sure."
Stiles watches Scott pad off to the bathroom, wondering if he should follow, or if Scott wants to be alone, to contemplate Kira and the lacrosse team, or Kira in general. He's also still thinking about the blow job Scott gave him in the shower yesterday, and maybe this would be a good opportunity to repay the favour, if only he didn't feel like a complete bastard about it.
Stiles hears the shower start, and sits on the edge of the bed.
He catches sight of his reflection in the window, clear against the dark gathering outside. He notices his bed-head hair, his hunched shoulders, his skinny elbows. There's something moving outside. A cat? A bird? Wait. It's not outside.
It's not outside.
Stiles looks over his shoulder but sees only the battered old armchair by the radiator. There's nothing else there.
He could have sworn…
Stiles gets to his feet and rushes for the main light switch, grateful when the room loses its shadows, flooding with bright, white light. He hears Scott call his name from the bathroom and is about to go and join him in the shower when he glances back, a detective's reflex.
On the arm of the chair, stark and terribly real, is a single, jet-black feather.
*
"It could be from a bird," says Scott. He's naked apart from a towel slung around his hips, and he's dripping onto the rug he's standing on. He's twirling the feather between his thumb and forefinger.
All of which makes it difficult for Stiles to form sentences. "It could be not from a bird," he manages. "Or it could. We should consider not."
"Why? Not everything in the world is supernatural. We mustn't get paranoid."
As far as Stiles is concerned, paranoia has kept them alive on many occasions where logic failed. He deliberately diverts his gaze back to the chair, so that he can think more clearly. "How did it get there, then? Did a bird just fly in, moult an enormous feather on your chair and fly out again, without us noticing? Did it waft in on a breeze?"
"Maybe. Or maybe a cat brought it in."
"A cat? You don't have a cat, Scott. You have to make that funny little purring noise at the cats in the Animal Clinic before they'll let you anywhere near their cages. What the hell kind of cat would casually drop in on a werewolf's den and leave you a feather? Apart from, oh, maybe a werecat?" Stiles waves his arms about. "In which case oh, look, supernatural!"
"Okay, a cat does seem unlikely," Scott admits.
"And another thing - have you seen the size of that feather? It's freakin' huge! Can you imagine the bird that came from? Hm? That's not normal."
"Eagles can get pretty big."
"Eagles? Seriously, buddy, eagles?"
"Or a vulture. There was this thing on Animal Planet where-"
"I promise you, Scott, I promise you, that is not a normal feather. It didn't get here by normal means. You know what it is? It's a sign. A judgement. A signal from fate that what we're doing here is bad, really bad, and we should stop."
"What? Stiles-"
"I mean, what are we doing, huh? What is this that keeps happening between us? I'll tell you what it is. It's a fucking recipe for disaster, that's what, and for once, just for once, I'm going to heed the warnings and not go trotting down the forest path wearing the red cloak, okay?"
Scott stares at him, hurt and confused. Stiles avoids looking back, scrambling into his clothes as fast as he can, more convinced by the second that he's right.
"Stiles, nothing's changed," says Scott, voice thick and hesitant, a voice from years ago, before the bite. "You're my best friend. Sex isn't… if you don't want-"
"That's great, then, we'll stop with the sex and pretend it never happened, no harm done. I gotta go. See you tomorrow."
He's braced for Scott to argue with him, ask him to stay, but he doesn't. Stiles runs down the stairs, out of the door, into his Jeep, starts the engine and screeches away from the sidewalk, muttering an apology for abusing the gear box.
He takes a few deep breaths, and slows down. His dad's made it very clear that terrible things would happen if he ever has to give Stiles a ticket.
Stiles' phone pings several times on the way home, but he leaves it in his pocket, hands white-knuckled from gripping the steering wheel, eyes firmly on the road. His dad's car is in the drive when he gets home, and there are lights on downstairs. Stiles realises he's hungry and heads straight from the front door to the fridge, yelling to ask his dad if he wants dinner. The fridge is woefully empty, apart from milk, a limp, long-neglected bit of broccoli and some ancient leftover salad.
He has a bowl in one hand and a box of Fruit Loops in the other when his dad appears at the kitchen door. He's kind of rumpled-looking and wearing a robe.
"Sorry," says Stiles. "Did I wake you?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah. Long shift, I was taking a nap. Wasn't expecting you back tonight, I thought you were at Scott's?"
"Yeah, change of plan. Have you eaten?"
"Not yet. Hey, I have an idea. How about pizza from that place we went last week? I've got a real hankering for that thing with the chicken strips on."
"Okay. Have you got the number?"
"Sorry, son, don't think they deliver. Would you mind going? I really need a shower."
"Sure, if you promise to eat whatever green salad stuff I add to the order. Deal?"
"Card's in my inside jacket pocket. Single-use only, okay?"
"'Course!" It's not as if Stiles doesn't have the number memorised already. He grins fondly at his dad's retreating back.
Stiles' phone pings again as he climbs back into the Jeep. He ignores it.
*
The first thing Stiles thinks about the next morning is Scott.
Alarmingly, the thought is connected to the enthusiastic erection he woke with. He thinks about how good it felt to fuck into Scott's fist. How good his dick felt rubbing against Scott's. How warm Scott's body was, how familiar and vulnerable and how easy it was to lust after him.
Stiles turns over and burrows his face into his pillow.
His alarm goes off.
When he picks up his phone to turn it off, he can't avoid the list of texts from Scott. He braces himself, and reads.
> You okay, dude? I don't really get what happened.
> I don't want things to be weird.
> I mean, not weird in a bad way. ;)
> If I did anything wrong, I'm sorry. :(
> I'll bring the feather to school tomorrow to show Lydia.
Lydia? He absolutely does not need to be explaining to Lydia that he thinks the feather is a Bad Omen to tell him his almost-relationship with Scott is wrong. Just. No.
Stiles swears and scrambles his way out of bed, pausing only to text Scott back before he grabs a towel and rushes to the shower.
>No Lydia! Not weird! See you at school. SSxx
He's half-way to school before he realises he has never in his life signed a text with his initials and two kisses before.
Crap.
*
Stiles checks his rear view mirror obsessively all the way to school, but he sees nothing but the back of the Jeep and, through the windows, the road behind him. He doesn't trust the world enough for it to be a relief, but it's one less thing to deal with for now. When he pulls into the parking lot he sees Kira and Scott standing by Scott's bike. They're talking and smiling in a relaxed sort of way, and something settles in Stiles' stomach. A little bit of his world is how it should be. And Kira doesn't have any reason to be upset with him any more, because he's not boning the object of her affections ever again.
Malia's standing with Liam and Mason a little way away from Kira and Scott, and Stiles waves to her as he jumps down from the Jeep. She sees him, he catches her looking, but she doesn't wave back. She ducks her head and murmurs something to Liam, and Liam looks at Stiles and then Malia's walking away.
"Hey, Stiles." Scott's there, squeezing his shoulder, radiating concern.
"Nothing, I'm fine. Time for first period? Chemistry, I think."
"Yeah, think so."
Stiles grabs his bag and locks the Jeep. "I wonder who's gonna take us for science this year? Hope it's Lydia's mom. She's nice."
"You are so biased, man." They fall into step together as they head to the doors. "She gave me detention and extra homework last term."
"Still better than Harris," says Stiles, and Scott nods and grins sideways at him.
It feels easy. Comfortable. Maybe they can do this. Carry on as if nothing had ever happened involving nudity, and erections, and spectacular come shots. Maybe it can all be okay.
"I showed Lydia the feather," says Scott.
Or maybe not.
"Christ, Scott, didn't you get my text?"
"Too late. She says she'll look it up for us. Why wouldn't you want to ask?"
"It's senior year, dude, she's got way better things to do. Oh, look, there's Ms Martin! Score!"
"But Stiles, wait, I-"
Stiles has never got into a chemistry class so fast in his life.
*
Stiles makes a beeline for their old table at lunchtime, but Kira stands in his path looking apologetic and awkward, and tells him he should be at the senior table with Lydia and Scott.
"So should you," Stiles points out.
"I have to go over some math notes with Malia."
"Great! Let me help. I worked with her loads on math last year, she said she always got it when I explained stuff."
"Sorry, Stiles."
Kira sounds genuinely sorry for him, and there's a bit of something else that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. He doesn't like it.
"She doesn't want to speak to me, does she?" he says, flatly.
"I'm really sorry."
She's full of compassion that Stiles can't quite accept, because part of his mind is still screaming 'you want to steal her boyfriend!' at him, and that makes him feel like a terrible person, even now he's decided not to actually steal her boyfriend at all, and even though Scott isn't technically her boyfriend at this exact moment. It's all a horrible mess of feelings he can't untangle, so he gives her a pathetic smile, and traipses off to the senior table, where Lydia and Scott are sitting side by side with the stupid big, black feather of doom on the table between them.
Stiles slides in opposite Lydia, plonking his tray down with a clatter.
"I thought maybe it came from a vulture," Scott says, acknowledging Stiles' arrival with a nod and a smile.
"I don't remember ever seeing a vulture in Beacon Hills," Lydia says. "And even a California condor doesn't have feathers that big."
"Told you," says Stiles.
"What is it, then?" says Scott. "It is a bird feather, right?"
"Probably," says Lydia. "What did it look like, Stiles?"
"Like a feather. Exactly like it looks now."
"Not the feather, the thing it came from. Scott said you saw something before it appeared."
Lydia has this way of looking at a person, like she can see all the way into their soul, and she's using it on Stiles right now. After all they've been through together it still leaves him a gibbering wreck, and all he can stammer out is something vague about it being a mild hallucination. Of course, Lydia doesn't buy it. Lydia, of all people, never dismisses the possible implications of a hallucination, and Stiles knows he hasn't heard the last of it. And this is exactly why he didn't want her to know.
"Stiles thinks it's an omen," Scott says.
Stiles' heart sinks.
"What sort of omen?" asks Lydia, stroking her forefinger along the spine of the feather.
"Just non-specific evil," says Stiles, before Scott can leap in with incriminating details. "Bad luck, forewarnings, prophecy of doom. That kind of thing."
Lydia shrugs. "Feathers are supposed to be a reminder of the dead. A sign to the living that their lost loved ones are thinking of them and wish them well."
"Allison," Scott says, at the very moment Stiles is thinking Mom.
"It could be a lot of people," says Lydia, softly. "But it's only a folk tale."
"Whatever," says Scott. "If there's a chance this isn't a normal feather we should find out what it belongs to, and how it got here."
"It's probably nothing," says Lydia.
Stiles and Scott both murmur agreement. But no-one believes it.
*