Chapter Text
Stiles spent years running for his life until survival became the only way he knew how to live. High school had gone by with him constantly looking over his shoulder, hunted by shadows he barely understood and dodging danger that never stopped chasing him.
Structure felt like the only way to make sense of what was left of his life. The FBI internship offered a clear set of rules and expectations, and for a while he thought that was what he needed. But his concentration slipped easily, breaking apart under the smallest distraction.
Days blurred together until the lessons became background noise and he couldn’t remember why he’d wanted it so badly in the first place. Eventually, he walked away before it ended, exhausted and defeated by his own inability to keep up.
Returning to Beacon Hills meant stepping into a town that had moved on without him. Most of his friends already planned their next chapters, and the world kept turning while he was stuck somewhere in the past.
Even home, once a refuge, felt tense in the spaces he used to move through freely.
His dad’s worried eyes followed him everywhere, a constant reminder that someone was watching, waiting for him to open up. The thought of that concern turning into questions he didn’t have answers to made his chest tighten.
There were heavy burdens pushing down on him. Things that ate away at him from the inside, too painful to explain without sounding unhinged, or worse, proving he was trapped in the darkness he swore he left behind.
Sleep didn’t come easy these days. Some nights he bolted upright at the sound of footsteps, frozen in terror that something was coming. Only when he forced himself to breathe did he realize it was his dad lingering outside; he rarely had the courage to open the door and face Stiles.
Other nights, he didn’t sleep at all, lying on his back with his arms stiff at his sides, staring blankly at the ceiling. It wasn’t until the first light of sunrise crept through the curtains that he realized it was too late to close his eyes.
Eating wasn’t much better. He pushed food from one side of the plate to the other, trying to convince himself he was hungry. Each bite went in mechanically, chewed and swallowed without thought or taste.
His coffee sat forgotten until he stirred it absentmindedly, watching the dark swirls fold over themselves, and took a small sip that didn’t really register on his tongue. Then he poured it out and leaned his elbows on the sink, sensing his dad there, silent, holding back everything he didn’t know how to say.
Most mornings, with dark circles under his eyes and hair that refused to be tamed, Stiles went for a jog through town. His legs ached with every step, muscles screaming and breath ragged, sweat stinging his eyes, but he mustered the strength to keep moving.
People waved at him, faces bright with laughter, kids skipping along the sidewalks, dogs tugging at leashes, lives untouched by ruin. Each step carried the anguish and anger he couldn’t escape.
It was frustrating, because it felt like so fucking long ago.
A year had passed since his body hadn’t been his own, since something dark had taken control. Months since someone had died at his hands, and even though it hadn’t been planned, he couldn’t stop reliving it.
He kept reminding himself that he was supposed to do something with his life, but he couldn’t figure out what. His dad never said it out loud, but Stiles knew staying in his childhood home forever wasn’t an option. So he started looking for a way forward—anything to give his days some shape again.
——————
The Reading Nook sat on the quieter side of town, wedged between a pawn shop and a dry cleaner, its white paint yellowed by the sun and the bell above the door hanging on by a thread. He’d been driving aimlessly when he saw the Help Wanted sign taped crookedly in the window. The letters were fading, like whoever owned the place stopped expecting anyone to read them.
Still, he parked the Jeep, stared at the steering wheel for a full minute, then got out before he could talk himself out of it. When Stiles stepped inside, it smelled of dust and ink, with a faint trace of something stale, like old coffee.
The owner, Jean, had golden-brown skin and silver streaks in her hair that glinted under the light. She studied him, taking in the twitch of his fingers and the steady tap of his foot. “Are you any good at organizing?”
“Exceptional,” Stiles answered, though his voice cracked in the middle of the word. She tilted her head slightly, then asked if he would show up on time. When he nodded, she handed him a shirt a size too big, probably older than him, and pointed at the shelves.
That was how it started. He worked afternoons mostly, when the store was nearly empty and tiny specks of dust drifted through the stillness. His tasks were simple—sorting books, updating price tags, running the register, and sweeping up at closing—but that was exactly what he needed.
Something simple. Something that didn’t require saving anyone.
He found a strange comfort in the silence between the rows. Every now and then, a customer would wander in asking for a book he’d never heard of, and he’d look it up on the ancient computer that hummed louder than it worked. Most of the time though, it was just him, Jean, and the soft whir of the ceiling fan.
Scott had even come by for a visit during a break from college, his smile too bright, his laughter too loud. Seeing someone who’d survived what he had and seemed okay made Stiles wonder if there was something wrong with him, something off in his head that kept him from being happy with life.
Except he knew Scott wasn’t truly okay. He could see it in the spaces between smiles, when Scott’s gaze lingered on nothing or his laugh faltered, remembering Allison wasn’t there to hear it. He was still grieving her on his hard days—Stiles knew that much—but Scott learned how to hide it, to smooth the edges of his pain so no one could see where it hurt.
He had that enduring light about him, refusing to be dimmed by darkness. Stiles envied that, wishing he could keep a flame alive in his chest, a persistent spark that refused to be extinguished by grief or fear.
One day, his best friend propped himself against the counter, fingertips tracing the grooves in the old wood, a spark of curiosity in his eyes as he asked, “Thinking of giving the FBI thing another try? You’ve gotta have some big plan, right?”
The question hit harder than Stiles ever could’ve predicted. For a second, he couldn’t draw a full breath, his pulse thundering in his ears, the tension in his chest coiling tighter with every beat.
God, didn’t he wish that’s what he’d actually been doing. Instead, all he felt was a gnawing sense that he was just passing time, waiting for something to matter again. He’d been back for months now, circling the same streets he’d once promised himself he’d never return to.
Why the hell did he come back here?
Scott tilted his head, reaching out to gently touch his hand. “You good?”
Stiles nodded, keeping his eyes low. “I’m fine.”
Fine didn’t even begin to cover it, but Scott didn’t push. It could’ve been that he sensed Stiles was at his breaking point and realized pressing the issue would only make things worse. And even if he had pushed, Stiles wouldn’t have known what to say. None of it was something Scott needed to hear.
Some burdens were meant to be carried alone. It was easier that way, safer even, than risking someone else feeling the same pain.
After an awkward silence stretched on longer than Stiles was comfortable with, he adjusted his stance, putting his hands on his hips, trying to sound casual. “So… you learning anything useful, or just finding life boring without me?”
They continued on from there, with Scott ranting and waving, showing a glimpse of the boy who once had nothing on his shoulders. It was nice to see, and Stiles allowed a flicker of hope that his best friend could feel true peace again.
When Scott was about to leave, he turned back, a frown on his face that said he knew far more than he let on. “Hey,” his fingers clenched tight on the doorknob. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll all be okay.”
The squeak of the door followed Scott as he walked away. It felt too quiet after that—too void of noise except for Jean snoozing in the back in a rickety rocking chair.
Craving a breath of fresh air, Stiles locked the front door and slipped out the back. The alley smelled skunky and damp, mixed with the sourness of old trash, the kind of stench that would cling stubbornly to his clothes.
He scanned the narrow space and spotted a guy about his age huddled near the dumpster. A cloud of smoke drifted through the air, unmistakable to anyone who smelled it before. He spent enough nights partying at the Jungle in high school to recognize it instantly.
Call him irresponsible, or someone flirting with a death wish, but he inched closer. The guy lifted his head in a slow, cautious motion, hood masking most of his face, muscles tightening as he brought the joint down.
“Relax, I’m not a cop,” Stiles sighed. He could’ve been, if things had gone differently.
With a crooked grin, the guy blew smoke into his face, chuckling at Stiles’ not-so-subtle attempt to inhale it. “Clearly too eager for that,” he rasped, voice low but amused.
That’s when Stiles recognized him. He was one of those kids who stayed at the back of class where no one bothered him, the type who always seemed to be plotting his next move. Even now, he looked like he belonged on America’s Most Wanted. “Ryland? What the hell are you doing out here?”
Ryland tilted his head, squinting through the haze. “Could say the same thing, Stilinski,” he taunted, tapping ash from the end of the joint with practiced ease. “Your dad know you’re out here all horny for a hit or what?”
Stiles scoffed, pretending he wasn’t thrilled about the joint being thrust toward him. “I’ve kept secrets from my dad that he’d have a heart attack over,” he said, his hand trembling as he lifted it between his lips and took a deep drag. Almost immediately, a coughing fit tore through him, leaving him gasping and sputtering, completely unprepared for just how intense it hit.
A hand smacked his back, firm but not unkind, and Ryland’s laughter rang out. Stiles stumbled, heat rushing up his neck as the sound bounced off the alley walls. It didn’t stop him from joining in though, and for the first time in a while, he felt a little less alone.
They passed the joint back and forth, smoke curling into Stiles’ lungs while they mumbled words that hardly mattered. Stiles thought that was how these things usually went—puff, puff, say something absolutely useless, laugh like it’s profound, pass it on.
After a couple hits, a lightness spread through his body, everything around him blurring and fading, yet a twinge of anxiety reminded him he was still in over his head. He knew he’d be cutting work short. Staying any longer would have him fumbling through every interaction, missing cues, and turning even the simplest conversation into a disaster.
And yeah, he probably shouldn’t be getting high at work, but his prefrontal cortex was still under construction, so scientifically speaking, none of this was his fault.
Ryland stubbed the joint out and pocketed what was left, then smirked, wiggling his fingers. “Gimme your phone.” Stiles didn’t hesitate, fumbling it between his hands before Ryland snatched it away. “Probably a bad idea to give my number to the Sheriff’s kid,” he muttered as he typed. “Guess I’m feeling generous today. Call if you ever need a pick-me-up,” he winked.
Stiles just stood there, kind of stunned, watching his old classmate trudge out of the alley. When he walked back inside, Jean was slouched in her chair, head tilted at an angle she’d probably complain about later. He lifted his shirt to his nose, sniffing himself with the urgency of a bloodhound.
Cologne and denial were a lost cause.
Not that it mattered. Jean grunted awake from her nap, snorting as she waved at the air. “Jeez, you get in a fight with a skunk? You’re stinkin’ up the whole place, boy. Go home and wash up.”
The lady was a lot of things, but aware wasn’t one of them. Stiles gave a half-hearted nod, feeling the room spin as he walked to the front door. “You closing up or working a few more hours?”
“Well, if you want to see another paycheck, I might as well put some time in to make it happen, huh.” She stood up to stretch, wincing as her back protested. “Tell that old man of yours to send some more folks down here before I gotta close up shop,” she teased, a hint of sadness flickering across her face.
Stiles avoided driving home, feeling floaty and disoriented. Not just from the high, but from the terrifying thought that he could lose another piece of himself all over again. If The Reading Nook closed, what would he do next?
This might’ve been the wake-up call he needed—to go back to school, finish his criminal justice degree, and reach for a job that would probably drain every bit of his freedom.
Realistically, it wasn’t happening anytime soon. He was scraping by on ten dollars an hour at a part-time job, while his savings account gathered cobwebs. Just thinking about bills and keeping up with the responsibilities that came with being an adult was enough to make his head throb.
At least his dad wasn’t strict, didn’t pressure him to grow up too fast, but that only highlighted how useless he felt. Every wrong choice, every missed opportunity felt larger than life, and he could almost feel the invisible walls stacking up around him. Changing anything felt out of reach when even breathing took effort. Maybe tomorrow Stiles would care enough to try.
——————
Weeks went by with Stiles chatting up Jean, tossing around ideas to brighten the store, or huffing when customers asked too many questions only to leave without buying anything. The days moved faster now, and his dad only asked if he was okay every other day, which felt like much needed progress.
He followed a set schedule—sleep, get up, try to eat, and go for a run. If he was working, he’d tidy up before losing himself in a book, letting the story carry him somewhere else until someone came by.
Ryland even showed up at his house sometimes, tossing him a sandwich bag twisted into a dense nug of weed, pocketing the money Stiles felt really stupid for handing over. He’d rip through a handful of papers, crumpling and flattening them over and over before finally rolling a lumpy joint.
It hit like shit, but he felt a lot less stupid as he sank into the grass, drawing the smoke deep. He’d hum made-up melodies and laugh into the night sky, convinced the moon looked close enough to bite. Grass would press cool and damp against his back, every blade distinct against his skin.
The air buzzed with the sound of crickets and the distant whirring of streetlights. Each noise felt louder than it should’ve, clearer somehow, the world bending in his direction. Even the stars pulsed when he stared too long, winking at him through the dark.
Sometimes when the high lingered too long, he’d gulp down water bottle after water bottle, trying to wash out the fuzziness in his head. Guilt would creep in then, whispering that getting high to dull the pain wouldn’t make it disappear.
He’d imagine his dad showing up during his shift, some neighbor having called to complain about the smell. The gate would creak open, a flashlight slicing across the ground where he lay. He could already hear the lecture of a lifetime, every word sharp and disappointed before it even left his dad’s mouth.
“Everyone does it,” Stiles would say, a slow, strained grin spreading across his face. “This is what people do now. How people have fun.”
His dad would shake his head, voice deadpan. “Son, I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I saw you have fun.”
Stiles would groan, sitting up to glare back at his dad. “Well, maybe I just never know how!” he’d shoot back, words tumbling out faster than thought. “Maybe I just needed… I don’t know, to do something that felt good for once!”
A few days would go by after his imaginary fight, then he’d roll another joint and settle back into the same spot. He’d light it, inhale, and with his limbs sprawled out, he’d melt into the grass, every muscle loosening in relief.
Occasionally, his mind drifted to a version of himself from the future, uniform crisp, gun at his hip, stepping into a life that demanded focus and guts. He’d stay late, digging through files no one else wanted to touch, piecing together mysteries until everything made sense.
Satisfaction would burn through his body as he solved a case, slapping cuffs on the right person, watching justice land exactly where it belonged. For a fleeting moment, he was the hero, and the villain in his story was nowhere to be found.
As the high began to fade, he would find his way to bed, body heavy and drifting to sleep. No matter what, he’d close his eyes and fall backward into flashes of faces he couldn’t save, hands slick with blood that wasn’t always his.