Author's Note: This is my first Teen Wolf fanfiction. I hope you all like it. I might turn it into a story depending on the response I get. If you like it please take a moment and leave a comment. They are greatly appreciated!

"This movie is stupid," Malia groaned, throwing her head back against Stiles' couch in boredom.

"It's not stupid," Stiles sighed, raising the remote and pausing the film. "It's a classic piece of cinema. An epic tale of good versus evil."

"It's stupid," Malia disagreed immediately. "It's not even in order. Who starts with the fourth movie, finishes the series, and then does the first three?"

"A genius by the name of George Lucas," Stiles said reverently. "Besides, the first three are a prologue to the final three. The first three films help explain the past that leads to the last three films."

"But the first three films ARE the last three films..."

"No," Stiles said, then paused as he thought about it. "Well, yes, technically the first three films Lucas created are meant to be an end to the story, but when you look at them in a numbered perspective it all flows together."

"But that's cheating," Malia said, looking at Stiles as if he were crazy. "It's like reading the ending of the book before you read the rest. You already know what's going to happen."

Stiles stared at the werecoyote for half a second, attempting to organize his thoughts before he exploded in a rage over the fact that none of his friends seemed to understand the genius of Star Wars except for him. Finally, unwilling to allow anything to ruin his appreciation of the Skywalker saga, he said, "Just watch the movie. It'll make sense when it's done."

He gave the play button a firm push and settled back to watch the movie. Not that he hadn't seen the damn things a thousand times. He could practically recite them word for word, but watching the movies allowed him precious time to simply think. He had a lot to think about, after all. It had only been two weeks ago that he'd been possessed by an evil fox spirit, nearly killed everyone he cared about, lost his virginity and, oh yeah, murdered the love of his best friend's life.

Stiles swallowed and bit his tongue as the guilt he'd grown so familiar with clenched tightly in his stomach. He could already hear Scott's rebuke in his mind. It wasn't you, Stiles. Don't blame yourself, Stiles. But, Stiles did blame himself. How could he not? He should have been stronger, should have stopped the nogitsune from taking control of him in the first place. Or, even if he couldn't of kept the nogitsune from tearing his mind apart he should have stopped it sooner. Stopped himself sooner. If he had simply allowed Ms. Morrell to kill him when she had first suggested it, Allison would still be alive; Aiden would still be alive. And Stiles wouldn't have to face his friends, knowing that, even though they murmured all the assurances in the world, they would never forget that Stiles had been the reason their lives would never be the same. Scott, Lydia, Argent, Isaac, Ms. McCall, Ethan, Coach Finstock, his father. He had hurt so many people and all because he'd been weak. He had always been a liability to their little league of super heroes, but he had never felt it more than he had in the past two weeks.

It hadn't helped that everyone treated him like he was seconds from a nervous breakdown. Regardless of how true that statement may or may not have been it irritated Stiles to no end that his friends walked around him on eggshells. That was when they came at all. Stiles hadn't seen Scott or Lydia more than once or twice since Allison's funeral a week and a half ago. He couldn't say he blamed them for not coming around. In fact, he would have preferred it if they hadn't come at all, but their visits were made worse because they spoke to him like he was a skittish horse. He wanted anger from them, disgust, something more than their constant reassurances that everything was going to be okay. That they loved him and would be there for him if he ever wanted to talk.

Even his own father had been driving Stiles up the wall. He had refused to allow Stiles to go back to school until the dark circles had completely disappeared from beneath his eyes, until his skin had regained some of its color, although Stiles had argued that he'd had little color to begin with. The sheriff had followed Stiles everywhere for the first week of his path to physical recovery as if his son was on the verge of collapsing at any moment. Every tremor of Stiles' hands was met with a frown, every pained grimace as his body reset itself from whatever the hell the nogitsune had done to him was cause for concern. Stiles wanted to tell his father that the scars were never going to go away, that the tired sickly rings around his eyes were probably going to be a permanent addition and that he just wanted to be left the hell alone, but he couldn't do that to his dad. The man was already stressed enough as it was. Attempting to hide the fact that a demon that happened to look an awful lot like your son went on a killing spree in a hospital full of cameras and witnesses was enough to drive anyone of out of their mind with nerves, but add werewolves, banshees and a psychologically fucked up kid to the mix and it could give a man a heart attack. So far their luck had held out in regards to hospital CCV tapes miraculously disappearing, and though Stiles slightly wished he could have been caught because retribution of some sort seemed only fair, he supposed he should be happy that his dad's job seemed safe enough. For the moment anyway. And, against all odds, his father had finally relented on Stiles going back to school. He would be starting up again tomorrow and with all the work he had to make up from his initial spiral into nogitsune spurned insanity to now he would have little time to think about anything else. To an outsider it would seem that Stiles life was getting infinitely better, but he had never felt more miserable.

"What are you thinking about?" Malia asked suddenly, snapping Stiles out of his melancholy reverie. She was staring at him in that intense way of hers and Stiles felt his face flush.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely, gesturing halfheartedly at the tv. "Just watching the movie."

If Malia sensed he was lying she didn't call him out on it. Instead she looked at the tv screen with thinly veiled disgust, grabbed the remote and promptly turned it off.

"Hey," Stiles protested, reaching for the remote. "Nobody puts baby in a corner and nobody, I mean nobody, turns off Han Solo."

"I have something better than Han Solo," Malia said, rolling into his lap like she belonged there.

"What could possibly be better than-" His breath hitched as she lowered her lips to his and moved her hips so they were perfectly aligned with his own. She kissed him hard as if the pressure of her lips would keep him from unraveling, keep him from spiraling down into the dark tunnel that had become his life. And, God help him, he responded. He didn't deserve her affection, didn't deserve much of anything from anyone. He should stop her, stop himself from kissing her, from moving his hands across her skin, feeling the heat of her above him. But he was weak. And it felt so damned good to forget, even for the smallest moment.

"You were right," Stiles whispered between kisses. "This is way better."

Malia growled in frustration at his interruption and pulled him back in for another kiss. Her fists were entwined in his hair tightly and he briefly allowed himself a small pat on the back for finally growing it out the previous summer. It was a decision he had pondered long and hard during those boring summer months. When Lydia had first seen it she had simply cocked her head, pouted her lips and made a noise rather like acceptance. Or dismissal. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference when it came to Lydia. But Allison had told him that it made him look more grown up. She'd approved and Stiles had spent the next week preening over his new do, much to Scott and Isaac's annoyance.

The thought of Allison brought Stiles' brief reprieve to an abrupt end. Malia, sensing something was off, pulled back and looked at him questioningly. He blinked once and attempted to arrange his features into something neutral. She stared at him, her expression so similar to that of her animal counterpart, that he couldn't help a small smile.

"What?" Malia finally snapped when he didn't say anything.

Stiles winced. She still hadn't mastered the art of tact, but it was a work in progress. EVERYTHING with Malia was a work in progress, but what do you expect when you spent eight years as a wild animal. She'd only recently grasped the concept that meat was supposed to be cooked. He could still recall the look on his father's face as the female coyote threw balls of raw hamburger meat in her mouth like they were kernels of popcorn.

"Nothing," Stiles said after a moment.

"You keep saying that," Malia accused, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I'm just tired," Stiles said, shifting his weight so that Malia slid off his lap. He tried to ignore the glare she sent him at his obvious slight.

"You don't sleep," Malia said. She wasn't asking, but telling, as if she knew about the countless hours Stiles spent tossing and turning each night. About the waking nightmares that left him covered in a sheen sweat of terror, biting his own fist to keep himself from screaming and waking his father.

"I sleep," Stiles replied awkwardly.

"No," Malia said. "You don't."

"How would you know?" Stiles heard himself asking, irritation clearly present in his voice.

"I watch you," Malia told him.

"You what?"

"I watch you. At night."

Stiles almost accused her of joking with him, but the harsh reality was that Malia rarely joked. She was rather like Derek in that way. But, where Derek was simply grumpy and antisocial by choice, Malia was serious because she hadn't learned how to be anything else. Stiles swallowed once in an attempt to find words that wouldn't come out angry, but he was furious. Perhaps he should have been flattered...if not slightly creeped out...but the only thing he could think about was Malia seeing him sweating and shaking. Seeing him broken. He'd worked so hard at keeping up his mask, making everyone around him think he was fine because he couldn't bear the thought of his friends, who had already been through so much because of him, having to handle his pain on top of their own.

"What do you mean you watch me at night?" Stiles asked softly, still attempting to control his anger.

"I climb up through your window and then I watch you," Malia answered, looking at him as if what she had just said was the most normal thing in the world.

"What the hell, Malia? You can't do shit like that!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's...weird, Malia. REALLY weird. And a complete invasion of privacy. We talked about personal boundaries, remember?"

"People need space," Malia recited, rolling her eyes. "Or else they'll think you're a pervert."

"Right," Stiles said, his anger webbing away as quickly as it had come. "And people don't like perverts, Malia." He smiled at her, hoping she would leave the subject alone.

"What are you dreaming about?" Malia asked quietly, dashing Stiles' hopes of her dropping the subject. "I see you and I know your in pain, but I don't know why."

"Malia," Stiles began.

"Is it the Nogitsune thing?" She took his silence as affirmation and continued. "It's gone, Stiles. You don't have to worry about it anymore."

"It's not that simple," Stiles said, gritting his teeth.

"Then explain it to me."

"I can't," Stiles said lamely.

"Nobody blames you for Allison," Malia said to him.

Her words were like a punch to his stomach and he winced as if she had actually hit him. He couldn't do this with her, couldn't talk about Allison with someone who would never understand what she had meant to him. What she had meant to Scott. And what it would mean now that she was gone.

"For someone so clueless about the world you sure assume a lot, don't you?" He could hear the cruelty in his voice and he instantly regretted it, but he wouldn't apologize. He needed to be alone, desired it in a way that made his heart squeeze with need.

"For someone who thinks he knows everything you sure are blind," Malia snapped back. "You aren't alone, Stiles. People care about you. I...I care about you."

"You shouldn't," Stiles said instantly.

"Stop being an idiot," Malia growled at him. "This isn't you."

"You don't know me, Malia."

"I know your a fighter," Malia said. "You fought the nogitsune and you WON, Stiles. What happened to the guy who refused to give up even when everything was at its worst? You helped save me. You help save everyone. Why can't you remember that?"

"Because Allison is gone," Stiles whispered, his voice tortured. "Because my best friend can't even look at me for more than a few seconds. Because the girl I was in love with has to pretend she doesn't flinch when I touch her. And because every time I look in the mirror all I can see is him staring back at me."

"Stiles," Malia whispered. "You can't just shut everyone out."

"Watch me," Stiles croaked. The lump of emotion in his throat was almost too much to handle and he had to turn away from her to wipe the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes away with one hand. When he turned back she was staring at him with a mix of frustration and concern. She looked fierce and the urge to kiss her, to pretend for a little while longer, was so intense that Stiles actually took a step toward her before he was able to stop himself. Instead, he gestured listlessly at the door and said, "You should go."

"I don't want to."

"Please," Stiles whispered. "Please, Malia. Just go."

She went with an angry growl, slamming the door behind her. Stiles listened to the ringing silence her absence had left behind. He could hear his heart beating rapidly, reminding him that he was only mortal. Reminding him that he was weak and needed to stay away from those he loved lest he kill them too. He was better off alone. Just him and the malicious demon that hadn't really gone away. Would never go away. A shadow on his soul that would eventually destroy him.

"Everyone has it but no one can lose it," Stiles whispered emotionlessly before crawling back to the couch.

He turned on the TV and pressed play on the remote, turning his attention back to Star Wars. Only this time it was to get away from his thoughts.

"Only at the end do you realize the power of the Dark Side," Stiles said along with Emperor Palpatine.

And, Stiles realized, it was as true for him in that moment as it was for Luke Skywalker. He had thought he could beat the darkness inside him, but he was wrong. His arrogance had cost people their lives. And, maybe, it would one day return for him. He would welcome it like an old friend. Because anything was better than the empty pain he felt. Darkness would be a relief, an answered prayer.

After all, darkness was simply the absence of everything.