Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Stiles, come on, help me," All Stiles could see was his best friend since childhood, Samantha, struggling to walk in a borrowed pair of her mother's high heels, red and sparkly in the sun, but oh so useless when walking on the cobblestone path leading up to her house. Granted, she was on the last few steps towards it, but her ankles felt like collapsing in on themselves if she took any steps further. In her hands, she was carrying about two bags of thrifted items, because she insisted on taking Stiles' bag for him, despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of doing so.

Stiles, with no immediate plan of action, simply stared at her struggling, before he quickly jumped in to help her walk the last few steps towards her front door. "Jesus, Sammie, you looked like you were going to tumble down at any second."

Samantha huffed a piece of her long hair out of her face, the strand floating up before falling back down smack dab onto the middle of her face, before she actually bothered to tuck the strand behind her ear. "I mean," She started fanning herself for relief from the Californian sun, "I gotta practice. It's our first school dance. I might as well try to make an impression."

"Yeah, I get that, but heels? Come on, dude, you can't be serious," Stiles said, taking off his shoes on the porch, "They look extremely uncomfortable. I mean, I get you barely started to try to use them, but we were only walking for a good 40 minutes. And you're dying."

"I'm not dying, Stiles. I just…" She paused, trying to find the right words, "…I just need practice. Then I'm gonna be a pro in these heels." Samantha said, taking the heel's strap off her ankle, then taking them off. She noticed it had left a mark there, most likely from her insistence from tightening them, but it was better than accidentally leaving them on the sidewalk.

It wasn't like she was forced to even bring the heels on the walk either. She insisted on it herself. It was their first school dance that they genuinely bothered to think about coming to, and they didn't really want to be the two losers who didn't do anything fun their entire middle school careers. It was ridiculous, but they figured they should've at least gone out to a few school functions instead of staying inside these past three years arguing on whether or not Supernatural was a better viewing experience than Sherlock (spoilers, Sammie said Supernatural was better, although Stiles theorizes she just prefers it because she shares a name with Sam). Either way, they both realized those arguments made them sound like loser shut-ins when they could've been enjoying themselves outside, socializing with other kids their age.

But really, what did it matter? Deep down they knew that they probably would've been stuck near the snack table, awkwardly standing against the walls of the sweaty, hot, and stuffy school gymnasium wondering what time it was so they could ask their parents to pick them up. Maybe they just wanted to say they had a social life outside of each other, but they both also knew nobody would believe them.

Samantha's train of thoughts were interrupted by Stiles, complaining about the heat, how he felt like melting on her porch, and just all-around begging for Sammie to open the door so he could find relief in there. She laughed, shaking her head before taking out her keys and inserting it into the door's keyhole and twisting it.

The moment she opened the door, Stiles walked in with his arms spread wide, letting out an obnoxiously loud sigh of relief before flopping down onto the couch in the living room. Samantha quickly followed suit, putting her hair, frizzy from the heat and humidity from the outside, up into a loose ponytail as she walked in. Immediately, she found Stiles on the couch, head on the armrest with his eyes closed, mouth open wide. he sort of looked like his childhood dog when it was napping on the couch. Maybe that's where the dog got it from.

She smiled to herself, then immediately jumped on top of him, earning a noise of surprise and slight pain from the boy. "Sammie! Ow!"

Samantha laughed, flicking his forehead. "Sorry, Sty. But you're taking up prime real estate on my couch. Sit up."

Stiles grumbled, sitting up to let Sammie actually have sitting room on the couch, grumbling about how it was "unfair." Sammie proceeded to joke about how it was typical of the white boy to take the brown kid's space, and that seemed to shut the both of them up pretty quickly. That was, until she started to laugh at her own joke. By then, they couldn't shut themselves up, trying to stop their laughing before they killed their lungs (for Sammie, it was a real possibility, she had her inhaler out).

After a few more minutes of laughter, they finally calmed down, bodies still shaking from the remaining giggles in their systems before they managed to push them down completely.

Sammie looked down at the bags that were set down on the floor, picking them up before getting up from the couch. Stiles followed her upstairs to her room, closing the door behind them.

Inside, they looked through their bags of stuff that they had bought from the local Goodwill, mostly consisting of trinkets and books, and other miscellaneous things, including a statue of two cats drinking milk that Stiles had grown attached to despite looking at it for two seconds. But the one thing that the both of them had found: a worn out Fleetwood Mac Tshirt. 1978 tour.

The both of them started at the shirt, set down on Sammie's bed. It was the most beautiful thing in their entire life. Finding it at the Goodwill was like fate. The both of them loved Fleetwood Mac. So when Sammie found it in one of the clothing racks, the both of them couldn't help but let out a noise of excitement, which caused other shoppers to look at them with both concern and annoyance.

That excitement lasted for three seconds before they realized there wasn't another Fleetwood Mac shirt in any of the other racks. Granted, they should've expected that, it was thrift store after all, a lot of the clothing items there weren't exactly donated in bulk.

But it wasn't really a problem for them either. the two of them weren't exactly strangers with sharing clothes. The two regularly swapped shirts all the time, Sammie's love of oversized band shirts never posed a problem for Stiles, who regularly borrowed them and vice versa. So they decided to "share custody" of the shirt, just like they did with every other shirt they had.

They looked at each other, then back at the shirt, wondering who should wear it first. Though, it was no surprise that Sammie decided to take the shirt first. Their general rule was that whoever bought/picked out their shirt should have first dibs on everything with it. Wearing it, using it, washing it, drying it first. She took the shirt off her bed, setting it down on her desk before reaching for the lower hem of the shirt she was currently wearing.

Quickly, Stiles looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. They weren't strangers to each other, but it was really out of respect for her, he looked away.

After a few more seconds, Sammie looked at herself in the mirror, feeling generally satisfied with how the shirt looked. It was a pretty creamy color, the band's name plastered right above her chest, Rumours right next to the name. Below it, the image of Mick Fleetwood standing next to Stevie Nicks sitting down on the chair.

She smiled slightly, eyes then flickering up to her face. Pausing, she looked closer, inspecting herself.

It was her. Of course it was. Who else would she be looking at in the mirror? But. it wasn't really her. Which was ridiculous. Of course she was there, in the mirror, looking at herself. But some days she didn't really see herself like that. She didn't know how to feel when she looked at herself lately. It felt like a creepy, sinking feeling that the girl in the mirror wasn't really her. But that girl was real. That girl was slightly short. That girl had brown, tanned skin. that girl had brown eyes. that girl had a sharp jawline, slightly crooked despite trying to hide it. That girl had long, brown hair. That girl had her father's nose. but it wasn't her.

Stiles wouldn't understand.

And she kept quiet about everything she's been feeling. And it was terrifying.

"Sammie? You decent?" She turned around, eyes widened for a second before realizing it was just Stiles, eyes still squeezed shut.

Samantha chuckled, nodding as if Stiles could see her. "Yeah, I'm decent, dude."

Stiles quirked an eye open, then blinked his other one opened. He stared at Sammie for a second or two, expression unreadable.

"That's a cool fucking shirt, dude."

"You think so?"

Stiles nodded. "We got so lucky."

"Yeah, we did."

Sammie looked at it again in the mirror, trying not to look at her face.

Focus on the shirt. Just focus on the shirt.

"So, uh…" She started, "About those heels…"

"No heels, you looked like you were dying," Stiles said, sitting up on her bed.

"Come on man, it's formal attire. We sorta need that for a dance," She said, sitting herself down on her rolling chair.

"Flats exist, you know."

"This is a school dance, not church."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Do you even have a dress?"

Sammie's face scrunched up. She hadn't really thought of that yet. it wasn't that she hated dresses. She thought they were pretty. Sometimes. Occasionally. She just didn't really like the way they felt. Or the way they looked on her. Or the way they made her feel. Or the way they made her want to disappear forever.

Okay, maybe she did hate dresses. She really didn't want to.

"So, that's a no on the dress?" Sammie shook her head, cheeks burning up slightly as Stiles asked her.

"…I could ask my mom, maybe." Sammie said, leaning her head onto her hand.

Stiles nodded, "Yeah, I mean, she has to have something that you don't hate."

"It's decided then. We ask my mom for a dress that I could wear to the dance."

When Stiles saw Samantha McCall in that dress with sparkly black lipstick on and her hair loose with heated curls rather than her usual ponytail, all he could think about was how utterly uncomfortable and tense she looked. That wasn't the Sammie he knew. That wasn't the Sammie that Sammie knew. But there she was, on top of the stairs, holding onto the railing for dear life because God, she just wouldn't let go of the heels.

Melissa ran upstairs to help Sammie get down from the stairs safely, Noah and Stiles watching from the doorway of the living room.

Stiles walked over and stood at the bottom of the staircase in his own suit, a nice, navy blue to compliment Sammie's own maroon dress. It wasn't something overly-fancy, only stopping by the lower part of her knee. Her hair was curled, and Stiles could smell the heat coming off of them.

Her makeup wasn't overly dramatic either. Simple eyeliner and some mascara. The black lipstick was her idea, though he knew she wasn't a big fan of the look either way.

Stiles helped her down the last two steps, giving her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Something was off with Sammie.

He could feel it.

Melissa was gushing over how beautiful she looked, how her baby girl was growing up, taking her into a long hug. Noah only awkwardly joined the hug after an awkward silence and upon Stiles' silent push.

Sammie only laughed, her lips pursed into a tight smile as they posed for the cameras. Sammie and Stiles were each other's dates for the dance after all; though it wasn't romantic. They only had each other, of course they were going to be each other's "dates."

After a few more tense photos, awkward family photos, and one normal one where Sammie and Stiles made finger guns towards the cameras, they were lead by Noah to his cop car (after Sammie and Stiles both begged him to take it), where they sat in the backseat on their way to their school.

Sammie was looking out the window, and Stiles wondered what exactly she was thinking. He never really understood what was going on in her mind when she was acting differently. usually he'd read her pretty well, the both of them considering themselves in sync with each other, but he was utterly useless when Sammie started acting differently. He was used to her acting a certain way.

"I figured the two of you would've been a little more talkative on the car ride here," The Sheriff said, watching Sammie walk up the stairs towards the entrance of the school, disappearing through the doors of the gates. Stiles had asked her to go in first so he could talk to his dad about something.

"Yeah, that's the thing. I'm worried about her, dad. She.. she's never really been this quiet. It's like she isn't telling me something." Sammie wasn't this closed off. A little quiet compared to Stiles? yes, she was, but she was never closed off when it came to Stiles. So when she started to quiet down more than usually these past few weeks, Stiles didn't know what to do, or how to force whatever she was thinking out of her.

"Well, the both of you are growing. There's some things that you guys are going to keep from each other, and some things you're going to tell each other," Ugh, girl talk. just thinking about it made Stiles feel weird. Yes, they were growing and changing, but… it wasn't like they were hiding things from each other. Of course not. They were always going to tell each other things. "You guys aren't always going to tell each other every single one of your thoughts, and that's okay. If something's bothering her,. she'll let you know if and when she's ready."

Bzzt.

Samantha McCall

Sty

hurry up I'm getting lonely :(

there's so many people here sos

He looked down at the texts, shoving his phone into his pocket. "That's my cue to leave," He said, looking at his dad. "Do you have the..?"

His dad nodded quickly, taking something from the passenger seat and handing it to Stiles. It was a satchel bag. He made a mental note to put it somewhere within the school in case it was needed.

Once Stiles successfully hid the bag, he made his way to the school gym, and it was just as stuffy and hot as he imagined it would've been. It was absolutely packed with the entire eighth grade year, although a few students were outside in the quad, couples scattered everywhere. He tried not to stare at Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittenmore making out in a dark corner while he was on the way to the gym.

He immediately searched for Sammie, head darting around quickly before finally spotting her and walking over to her.

Sammie stood against a wall of the gym, red solo cup full of strawberry fanta in her hand. She looked bored out of her mind, though it only really showed in her eyes.

"Sammie!" Her head perked up quickly upon hearing Stiles' voice, smiling.

"Stiles! Thought you ran out on me," She said, rubbing the back of her neck. Stiles shook his head, explaining he just stayed behind with his dad to talk about a few things. Sammie listened intently, whoever Stiles knew her mind wasn't in place. She was thinking about whatever the hell she's been thinking about for the past few weeks.

"You okay?" He asked a little loudly, but who could blame him? The music was practically vibrating through everybody's bodies and the chatter from the excited students had only made it harder for the both of them to communicate with ease. but yelling out that question felt like an open invitation for others to listen in.

Which is why Stiles shouldn't have been surprised when Sammie shook her head.

Stiles dropped the question after that. Never had they ever had such an awkward silence between the both of them. Sure, they always had silences at some point in their never ending career as best-friends-for-life, but this silence was just… unnatural. Unnerving.

For once in his life, Stiles didn't know how to comfort Sammie.

Sammie excused herself to the bathroom, talking about how she needed to check onto her makeup, but Stiles knew she just needed some time away from everything.

Stiles stood there, standing in a crowd of 8th graders, wondering what his best friend was thinking.

He thought back to his conversation with his dad, "Well, the both of you are growing. There's some things that you guys are going to keep from each other, and some things you're going to tell each other."

Did Sammie just not trust him enough? Even though it was fine that they didn't tell each other everything, he couldn't help but feel a little bit hurt.

He started to walk towards where he had hidden the bag.

Samantha McCall was a mess.

Out of everywhere she could have a life-changing revelation, she chose to do that in the middle of the school bathroom.

Great, just great. All she wanted to do was disappear forever, but she just couldn't. She couldn't leave her mom. She couldn't leave her. She couldn't leave the Sheriff, she couldn't leave Stiles.

As if on cue, she heard him calling out her name.

"Sammie!"

Fuck.

"Sammie!" Again.

She sniffled, wiping a few stray tears away. She was certain her makeup was ruined by now. But at this point, she didn't care. She just wanted to get the thing she had been thinking about out of her system, and she didn't care if Stiles looked at her differently. She hated keeping things from him. She always told him everything. Keeping this in was practically killing her.

So she opened the door to the bathroom stall she was in.

Stiles looked at her, shocked, but walked on over to her. "Sammie. What happened? Are you okay?"

Sammie didn't answer, but her eyes landed on Stiles' satchel. Of course he brought that thing to the dance. He was always prepared with everything. She laughed at the absurdity of it.

Then she started to cry again.

Stiles pulled her into a hug though it was a little hard considering he was a good two inches shorter than her. (Not including the heels she was wearing.) "Hey, hey, Sammie, it's okay, don't cry."

She shook her head, "No."

"No?"

"No, Stiles it's not okay. None—" She sobbed, "None of this is okay."

Stiles' eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but then morphed into worry. "Sammie, I don't know what you're talking about, if you just tell me what's—"

"No, Stiles, you wouldn't understand!"

"I don't understand now because you're not telling me anything. Sammie, you've been acting off these past few weeks and it's worrying me! Whatever it is, trust me, I don't care. I just want you to be okay!"

Sammie stood silent, mascara running down her cheeks. She looked like the protagonist of some cheesy high school movie, makeup ruined from crying in the school bathroom. She turned around, opening stalls to make sure nobody was in there with them.

Once she was absolutely sure that it was the two of them alone, she turned to Stiles. her heart was beating out of her chest, eyes burning with tears that threatened to spill over. She couldn't stay still, her shoulders tense and shaking from her trying to stop herself from crying. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Stiles hugged her again, rubbing her back soothingly. "It's okay, Sammie. It's okay, you can tell me."

Sammie mumbled something.

"What?"

She mumbled it again.

"Sammie, I couldn't—"

"I said that's not my name."

Stiles stood there, confused. "…Uh. I think it is?"

"But it's not."

Okay, that didn't help at all. "Do you… not like me calling you Sammie?"

"It's not just that." She said, refusing to meet his eyes. She felt like crying again.

"Do you not like Sam?"

"I don't like the name Samantha. At all." Stiles squinted his eyes, trying to figure out what exactly that meant.

"I'm trans, Stiles. I'm a boy."

Oh.

Oh.

Stiles didn't know what to say to that. And that silence wasn't very reassuring to Sammie.

He started to tear up again. "I knew it, I freaking knew you were going to react this way. You're gonna look shocked and when you finally come to your senses, you're gonna call me a freak and leave me alone and stop being friends with me and—"

Stiles tackled his best friend into a hug. And he let him cry into his shoulder. He didn't care if he was wetting and smearing his suit with makeup and tears. He just wanted to be there for him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Stiles, I should've—" He sobbed, holding onto Stiles for dear life.

Stiles cut him off, "It's okay, it's totally okay, dude. I'm glad you told me."

That just made him cry harder.

"I'm a fucking freak," He said.

"Dude, no you're not." Stiles said. "You're not a freak, okay?" 

"Yes I am. I can't even be happy in my own body. I mean, I don't even think I like just guys. That already made me feel like shit, but this is just on another level." He said in between sobs. "Apparently, I can't be satisfied with already being a major freak, now I have to be some double freak who can't decide whether he likes girls or boys, because he can't figure out if he's either!"

"No, dude! You're not! You're not a freak!" Stiles repeated. "You're my best friend. I'm not going to let you think this is going to 'destroy' our friendship. because trust me, you're the best person in my life, man!" He stared at him for a while, arms gripping at his shoulders. "Now. You're gonna let go of me right now, shake my hand, and introduce yourself."

"What?"

"Introduce yourself," Stiles said again.

He wiped his tears off of his face, further smudging the still-wet mascara on his cheeks. "Do I have to?"

"Well, I don't know your name."

"…My name's Scott." Stiles nodded.

"Scott McCall." He repeated, taking it in. "I like that name."

Scott smiled at him. "Thanks, I picked it out myself." Stiles laughed at that stupid joke. 

"Well, Scott, it's nice to meet you. You look sort of uncomfortable in those heels." He said, gesturing down to his feet.

Scott took a look, deflating slightly, "…Yeah. They're killing me."

Stiles reached into his satchel, pulling out a pair of socks and Scott's sneakers. "I figured you'd want these."

Scott laughed out loud, hugging Stiles tightly before taking his shoes. "Thanks, Stiles," He said, looking down at the pair of shoes before going to put them on. 

"Anytime, Scotty."

Chapter Text

Scott wasn't really expecting a driving lesson from Stiles. Nor was he expecting Stiles to be drinking during said driving lesson.

But here they were, in downtown Beacon Hills, driving in the rain in the ungodly late hours of the night, all while a very tense Scott was behind the wheel of Stiles' brand new (old) jeep that he had lovingly named Roscoe. Also, Stiles was on his third bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade, slurring out vague instructions on what to do when driving. Scott was grateful that Stiles was willing to help him learn, don't get him wrong, but he really wanted him to be sober for his driving lessons. Something told him it wasn't a good idea for his driving instructor to be a drunk guy who barely got his license around two weeks ago.

But when Stiles slunk in through his bedroom window with the faint jingle of his keys with an absurd amount of energy, he knew he couldn't pass up that chance.

"Okay, okay.. turn here. I think this street goes to your neighborhood," It didn't. It just went towards Old Town Beacon Hills, which was mostly quiet, a lot different than how it is during the day.

Older streetlamps illuminated the dimly lit road, reflecting off the windows of the businesses closed for the night, bold lettering on each of the windows catching his eye. The drive was quiet, aside from the soft humming of the broken radio and Stiles' own little comments about Scott's driving here and there, though Scott knew not to trust a drunk guy when it came to driving. Mostly because that's how they ended up lost in Old Town anyway.

Scott's shoulders were tense as he drove down the streets, trying to make sense of Stiles' slurred directions and drunken rambling. He loved the guy, he really did, but if he had suddenly gone quiet, he wasn't going to complain.

All of a sudden, Stiles gasped loudly, "Stop! Scotty, brake! Brake!"

Scott immediately tensed, slamming onto the brake pedal of the jeep, which caused the both of them to slam forward towards the car's dashboard. Once Scott gathered all his bearings and stopped feeling dizzy from the way his head slammed into the wheel, he turned to Stiles. "What?! What happened?! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Stiles, who had previously been screaming, nodded, chest heaving as he leaned back onto the car seat. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily from either annoyance or relief, "You nearly crashed into that streetlight, Scott."

Scott turned his head quickly towards the streetlight Stiles was gesturing towards, only to find that not only was he nowhere near it, but that they were still in the middle of the street.

Scott sighed, slamming his head on the steering wheel (willingly this time), before bursting out into a fit of quiet giggles. He was sure Stiles was unimpressed, but he couldn't help it. "You made me think like I was about to run over a deer, dude."

Stiles still wasn't impressed.

Scott figured the guy needed some fresh air, and maybe, well, maybe a place where he wouldn't be constantly rocking unevenly in his drunken state, so he pulled onto the diagonal parking lot that the streets had offered. Though, it did take him a while to park (He'll ask Stiles to teach him another time. Maybe when he isn't drunk.)

He got down from the driver's seat, careful to open his door so he wouldn't hit the car next to him, which, mostly was his fault, considering his parking wasn't exactly parallel. Stiles stumbled out of the car, and Scott was suddenly very glad there was no car on Stiles' side, because if there was, the hypothetical car would be damaged by now.

Stiles stood up on shaky legs, grappling onto his jeep for balance. Scott rushed to his side, gently helping him up onto the sidewalk. Stiles muttered a few more things under his breath, but the clearest that he had heard was "Nice parking, Scotty."

Scott felt a swell in pride for about a second before he realized Stiles was being sarcastic. Which, to be fair, he should've expected, "Come on dude, get some fresh air," he said, ignoring more of Stiles' very helpful (not) critiques. Eventually, they settled into silence as they sat down on a bench near an old building made of red bricks, the both of them leaning their heads on it. From across the street, they could see one of the lanes splitting toward the city hall, an impressive architectural feat whose main building called out to them with its dome and bell. Next to it where walls, and every corner had its own impressive tower, however the dome outshone them all. From inside, there was a dim, warm glow, which they could see through the three arched columns of the entrance.

Both boys looked at each other, seemingly getting the same idea. They got up from their bench, walking toward the city hall.

Once they were by the staircase near the entrance, they truly saw the city hall. All around the walls were beautiful arched columns, The main building towered over them at an insane 206 feet just from the base of the stairs leading up to it. For a second, Scott imagined a giant of the same height looming over them, being able to pick them up with ease, squish them like little ants between its fingers.

He walked up the stairs of the city hall, Stiles leaning onto him for support, as he was still drunk.

Walking into the city hall brought them into a courtyard, warmly lit by the lights that they had seen from the outside. Surrounding the courtyard was an arcade, leading inside different doors and more hallways that lead to the towers. The courtyard was filled with different types of plants, trimmed bushes surrounding colorful flowers, a few succulents here and there, and many, many, many trees. Dirt pathways led to each section of the courtyard's garden, but they all led to the center, where a fountain resided.

Stiles whistled looking around the place. "Damn," He simply mumbled. "You think this place does weddings?"

Scott laughed, shrugging, "Place like this, I'm pretty sure it does." He looked around, the light bouncing off of each wall in a dim glow. "Are we sure this is a city hall?"

"Right? I thought they were, like, boring white buildings. Not… not this," Stiles sat down on the edge of the fountain. "Oh my God, even the city hall has streetlights!" He pointed to another pole, that was next to a tree just across the fountain. Before Scott could register the sight, Stiles bolted straight to the pole, holding onto it.

"This place is freaking magical," He whispered, looking up at the streetlight like he was looking at the General Sherman Tree they had visited during their visit to Sequoia a few years ago (which, yes, he did hug the good old General when they visited. He was fourteen, leave him alone.)

But all in all, that was just Stiles. It was expected.

Then, Stiles started to dance. That was unexpected.

Okay, it wasn't really dancing. It was just Stiles doing the sprinkler, making weird noises under the streetlight. Scott couldn't help it, alright? He needed to keep that memory forever. So he pulled out his phone and started recording. Did he have any intention of showing anybody? No. Did he have any intention of showing Stiles? Not really, no. Maybe someday, but he was mostly keeping this for memories. Really funny memories.

He decided to drag Stiles back to the jeep before he got the idea to do a rendition of Gene Kelley's dance from Singing in the Rain. That would've been a disaster. A really funny disaster, but a disaster nonetheless.

The drive back was filled with silence, as it had been on the drive to Old Town. The only difference was that the room in the air was no longer taken by Stiles' inchoherent mumbling, but now by Stiles' soft snores.

Scott had taken a few wrong turns, however finally drove up a familiar hill that he knew by heart was Stiles' neighborhood. A neat array of houses sparked into view, Stiles' house finally appearing on their left.

He pulled into the driveway, parking still sloppy, but Roscoe remained uninjured. He gently shook Stiles awake, who protested but nonetheless still followed Scott into the house. Scott took out his spare key that had been given to him a few years back, putting it in the keyhole and turning it with a click. He took off both their shoes, not wanting to track any possible dirt or germs inside the house before they went upstairs to Stiles room.

Inside, Scott set Stiles down on his bed, taking off the other boy's flannel, tossing it onto his rolling chair before he covered him with the blanket. Stiles snuggled under the blanket, his eyebrows raising subconciously in his sleep before he truly relaxed under them.

Scott smiled at his best friend, sitting down on the rolling chair as he looked out the window. He caught a glimpse of the lights coming from downtown, barely visible in the distance, falling asleep.