Only Human

1.

"Do you want the bite?"

The question came out of nowhere, and Stiles stared at Peter in shock. "What?" he asked.

"Do you want the bite?" Peter repeated, more forcefully. "If it doesn't kill you, and it could, you'll become like us."

"Like you?" Stiles was acutely aware that he sounded like a broken record, but he was still reeling from the unexpected offer and for the most part couldn't bring himself to care. One second he had been kidnapped by a deranged serial killer, and now he was being offered…what, exactly? None of this made sense, but Peter actually seemed serious.

Peter's increasingly irritated voice pulled Stiles away from his racing thoughts, and he couldn't help but internally roll his eyes at the trademark familial snark. But he grew sober as Peter continued. "That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed him in the pack. It could just as easily have been you." The words resonated with thoughts that Stiles had been desperately trying to avoid, and his heart began to pound against his chest as the memories resurfaced. There had been nights, when Scott was out with Allison, and Stiles had found himself in the dredges of forums filled with well-meaning but ultimately useless idealists, that his mind had drifted back to that night in the woods, and he had allowed himself to consider the what ifs.

What if it had been him that night? Peter's soft voice drew an enticing picture, and despite himself Stiles felt a warmth unfold in his chest, as he had on those lonely nights at home. If he was stronger, he had mused, or more popular, maybe he could achieve something other than a history of minor legal transgressions. Maybe he would be able to become someone worthy of Lydia's attention, instead of her last resort. Maybe his father's expression of exasperation could instead be one of pride, and maybe it would soothe that sickening guilt that swelled in his gut at every mention of his mother's name.

And really, argued a part of him that Stiles usually kept tightly locked away, but which occasionally seeped through the cracks, maybe he deserved it. Scott was a wonderful person, but then again, he had taken a gift and used it to play lacrosse. If it had been Stiles, he would have done things differently. There had been so many disappointments over the years, so many unfinished plans that he might finally be able to complete. He could help people, become better, stronger; he could finally be the person that he had given up on becoming so long ago, when he held his mother's hand as she died and realised that no matter how hard you try, the universe doesn't give a shit.

It was that final thought that brought Stiles back to reality, and he jerked his arm out of Peter's reach. "I don't want to be like you," he spat.

He ignored the churning in his stomach, and the doubting voice in his mind. Because maybe his life would be magically fixed with a bite and some superpowers. But if the universe really doesn't care, then he could just as easily become the broken, twisted creature that was standing before him. So he fought his instincts, pushed his dreams into a dark recess of his mind and steeled himself as he stared into Peter's incredulous eyes.

Peter knew he was lying, but it didn't matter. The moment had passed, and the offer was gone.

2.

Scott had been dwelling on something, Stiles was sure of it. Thirteen years of friendship had taught him a thing or two, and he had long since memorised that slight narrowing of the eyes and the hesitant tone of voice as Scott talked about the latest email he had received from Isaac. Stiles let the words wash over him, studying his friend's face and weighing his options. Ordinarily, he wouldn't hesitate to poke and prod until Scott told him what was on his mind, but recently he had much more reason to be cautious. It had been three weeks since Isaac and Argent left, and in that time Stiles had been working hard to recreate his façade of brashness and humour. One wrong conversation, one ill-timed reminder of swords and riddles and oh God, Allison, I'm so sorry and it could all come tumbling down.

His hands were trembling, Stiles realised, and he clenched his fists, willing them to still. They continued to shake, and his breath caught as his heart began to pound and his teeth clenched. Stop it, he demanded, and heard a phantom laugh in the back of his mind. Numbness spread through his fingers and he faintly realised that his breathing had become erratic, but he couldn't stop staring as his traitor hands. Inside his head he was screaming, begging his body to obey him, but his hands kept trembling, and there was so much blood, all over the desks and the floors and his hands, and his ears were ringing with the moans of the dying, and oh God he had destroyed them all, he had built that bomb, and he couldn't even move to help them, couldn't even shout, all he could do was watch, oh God, oh God –

"Oh God, Stiles, come on, I need to you to focus!"

His chest felt like it was going to explode, his vision obscured by flecks of light, and he could feel a warm pressure on his arms where hands were gripping him tightly. Scott, Stiles realised. He was in Scott's house.

"Breathe with me, Stiles, come on, nice and slow." His vision swam, and Stiles tried to focus on his too-fast breathing. He pulled in a lungful of air, but his chest pumped it out again just as quickly and for a moment, Stiles felt his anxiety surge again as he struggled to control himself.

"It's okay, Stiles, you're here with me," Scott's voice reached him, and Stiles felt his breathing slow by a hair. Scott was here, and Stiles would never not feel safe with him, it was as natural as anything he had ever known. "That's it, I'm here, you're going to be okay, I promise." The tight fist gripping his chest began to relax, and Stiles felt the cool floorboards under his hands, Scott's face coming into focus inches from his own as his breathing finally settled.

"I'm okay," Stiles croaked out. Exhaustion flooded him, and he vaguely wondered when he had ended up on the floor as he contemplated standing before deciding against it. His limbs were limp and his head was still floating, there was every chance he would end up back here if he tried to stand. He focussed instead on taking a few deliberate deep breaths, the pain in his chest slowly receding as his heart gradually returned to a normal rate. His vision had improved, but there was a tingling in his hands that had yet to fade, and he knew from experience that it would be a while yet before he felt back to strength.

Another panic attack, great. He had been fairly successful at restricting them to the early hours of the morning, but he supposed it was just a matter of time before he had one in front of someone. Better Scott than his father, he reasoned. He had put him through enough as it was, the last thing he wanted was to add his stupid anxiety issues to everything else his dad had to deal with.

He felt the release of pressure as Scott pulled his hands from his shoulders and settled onto the floor beside him. He didn't need to look at him to know that Scott was staring at him with concerned eyes, brow furrowed, but he raised his head to confirm it.

"Another panic attack?" Scott questioned quietly, and Stiles nodded half-heartedly. "How many?"

The question took him by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"How many have you had?" Scott clarified. Stiles bit his lip, considering.

"A few," he said slowly. Scott raised an eyebrow, and Stiles shook his head, gaze returning to his lap. He knew that Scott had good intentions, just like Scott knew he was lying through his teeth, but this was something that he didn't want to go into. It would be a painful conversation that ultimately wouldn't change anything, and he hoped that Scott realised the same thing.

He heard a sigh, and looked up to see Scott repositioning himself on the floor. His expression was an odd mix of concern and defeat, but Stiles knew him well enough to realise with a surge of gratefulness that Scott was letting it go, for now. Thank god. He wasn't out of the woods yet, however, as Scott visibly steeled himself before speaking again.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," Scott started, and Stiles threw a thankful smile in his direction. "But there's something else I've been thinking about." Despite his exhaustion, curiosity grew in Stiles - he was finally going to find out what Scott had been mulling over for so long.

Scott took a deep breath. "When we first found the scroll," and Stiles felt a rush of dread flood him again, before sternly pulling his thoughts back to the present, "we were talking about whether I should give you the bite to try to save you." Still not sure where this was headed, Stiles nodded uncertainly. He remembered that conversation, all too well. "And it got me thinking. Despite everything that we've been through, you've never asked for the bite."

Well, that was unexpected. Of all the things that Scott could have been thinking about, Stiles had never even considered this. It seemed so insignificant, considering. He realised that Scott had trailed off, waiting for an explanation. Stiles shrugged weakly. "It never came up?" he offered.

Scott narrowed his eyes in disbelief, but seemed to realise it wasn't worth the fight right now, and pushed on instead. "So I've been wondering. Deaton thinks that our sacrifice to the Nemeton will bring more supernatural creatures to Beacon Hills, and not all of them will be friendly. There's every chance that we'll get caught in the middle of more fights in the future, and I don't know how bad it's going to get."

Stiles had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He pressed his lips together, forcing himself to remain silent and hear Scott out.

"I guess what I'm saying is, maybe we need to be more careful, more prepared. Maybe we need to do everything that we can to protect ourselves before they get here." Scott hesitated, holding Stiles' gaze with his own. "I don't want to see you get hurt, knowing that there's something I could have done to help you defend yourself. Do you want the bite?"

And there it was. Stiles felt the familiar surge of temptation rise in his chest, before tamping down on it firmly. This time, he was prepared. He had spent countless hours considering this question, weighing the pros and cons, debating with himself, scrawling incomprehensible arguments on crumpled pieces of paper that became scattered around his room. He had an answer pre-prepared, but what came out of his mouth was something altogether different.

"Allison," and that all-too-familiar pain stabbed through him as he swallowed, "Allison could defend herself." He watched as tears welled in Scott's eyes, and his throat burned in response. It was harsh, but he needed Scott to understand.

"I've thought about it a lot," Stiles continued. "Some days it seems like having the bite would solve so many problems, and I want it so badly that it scares me. But it's not worth the risk. No matter how strong I would be, there would always be something bigger, and stronger, and more evil out there. Having the bite didn't save Erica or Boyd, it didn't save the Hale family years ago, and it wouldn't save me."

"But it would give you a fighting chance," Scott argued, voice cracking.

"I'm sorry," Stiles replied, shaking his head. He hurt for Scott, he really did, but he wouldn't give in on this one. "Maybe it would, but it's still not worth the risk. What if it didn't take? What if I became something else instead, another kanima or something even worse?"

Scott was studying him, Stiles noticed, and with a sinking feeling he realised that he wasn't going to get away with this one. Scott knew he was hiding something, just as Stiles had known Scott had been dwelling on something, and this time Scott wasn't going to let him talk around it. Stiles sighed as Scott's expression hardened with determination, and he cut him off before he could begin.

"What if I can't control it?" There. It was out. Stiles paused, choosing his words carefully. "I couldn't stop the nogitsune, and there are dozens of people dead because of it. I can't control my anxiety, I can't control my ADHD, I can't even control my own goddamn memories." He shook his head miserably. "I'd be a monster, Scott."

Scott stared at him for a minute, expression inscrutable, and Stiles returned his gaze to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting anxiously. He felt Scott move, and a moment later there were warm arms wrapped tightly around him.

"It wasn't your fault," Scott whispered, and tears stung Stiles' eyes. "None of us could have stopped Void, it could just as easily have been me, or Allison." He voice choked slightly, and he paused to collect himself before continuing. "You held on longer than any of us could have hoped, and I'm so grateful that you did. He tried to convince us that you were gone, but none of us believed him for a second because we knew that you would never give up fighting him." He seemed to find his resolve, voice now firm. "So don't you ever call yourself a monster, or say that what happened was your fault. You're the strongest person I know, and even if you feel like things are spinning out of control that's not going to change."

A sob escaped Stiles' throat, and he gripped Scott in return as he struggled to even out his breathing. He was still damaged, and broken, but the clouds were starting to thin and he felt that tight knot in his stomach start to relax. He hadn't realised how much he needed to hear that, to be absolved of his failures by the one person he had hurt the most. The one person who had been there when he was a gawky sarcastic kid, who had watched him struggle and fall apart and still thought him strong.

Maybe the world really was spinning out of control, but maybe, Stiles mused, that was okay. For just one moment, it wasn't his failure, wasn't his fault, wasn't his problem, and maybe control really was overrated.

Stiles had been falling apart for so long, but it was time to start picking up the pieces.

3.

Of course it had to be fucking fairies.

Never mind that they had survived psychotic werewolves and kanimas and chimeras and all sorts of beasts with teeth and claws and enough strength to bench press a truck, of course it would be fairies that finally defeated them.

Stiles was well aware that he should be focussing on more important things, like how to escape from the tree that he was currently tied to, but he couldn't quite get over the fact that all the strange disappearances and hallucinations that people had been having recently came down to these odd creatures with the long fingers and pointed noses that were currently circling him. He had stumbled across them in his research, and had a page on them filed away in his developing beastiary, but the degree of desecration of the corpses they had found had been suggestive of something much more primal and animal than fairies, and he had never considered them a possibility.

It was just his luck, he thought wryly, that Beacon Hills would attract a particularly violent-minded group of fairies who not only kidnapped people but committed ritual sacrifice on them with a horrifying degree of brutality. And of course, the pack had gone investigating a little too close to home, and Stiles had been snatched out from right under their noses. Which brought him to his current situation, which would be downright terrifying if he stopped rambling and allowed himself to actually think about it. And…well, damn. He thought he could distract himself for longer than that.

The walls he had built to keep the fear at bay were starting to crack, and he experimentally gave the ropes around his wrists another tug, twisting his hands until they bit into his skin hard enough to draw blood. It was pointless, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. He was never one to sit still at the best of times, and the adrenaline flowing through his veins forced him to keep twisting, tugging, pulling, trying something to free his hands. He grunted against the rag forced unceremoniously into his mouth, and gagged a little as it hit the back of his throat. He worked his jaw, trying to force it out, and screamed internally in frustration as it stubbornly refused to move. Stiles had never realised before how much he relied on his ability to reason and provoke and argue his way out of any situation. This was too much, and with a moan of pain he went limp against his bonds, panting as he temporarily gave up the fight.

One group of fairies had been gathered off in the corner, but now they were walking over with that odd gait of theirs to join the rest of their creepy crew, standing silently in a circle watching Stiles with beady eyes. Stiles stared back, heart rate ticking upwards as they approached him and the decorated one directly in front of him started speaking in a garbled guttural voice. There was a pause when he finished, and the rest of the fairies chorused a response in the same unintelligible language.

Beyond their eerie chanting, it was unnaturally silent in the clearing. There were no birds or animals to be heard, and when he thought about it, Stiles realised that even the leaves in the trees had fallen silent. A sense of foreboding washed over him, and he redoubled his efforts to escape, twisting futilely against his bonds. The leader of the fairies approached him, and Stiles' eyes widened as he watched him draw a long, silver-plated knife from the holster at his waist. He tried to let out a yell of protest, only to double over gagging as the rag again hit the back of his throat, and before he knew what was happening there was a searing pain in his chest and he was screaming and choking alternately as he watched his own blood flow down his torso and fall into the ceremonial bowl below him. His chest was agony, and with three more quick slashes the pain increased exponentially, and Stiles' eyes burned with tears.

His heart was pounding, vision blurred with tears, and the pain was excruciating as his chest heaved for breath. The worst part of it, though, was the expectation. Stiles had studied the other bodies, and he had a pretty good idea of what was ahead of him, and the thought of it sent a wave of nausea crashing over him. He forced it back down through sheer force of will, not even daring to think of the consequences of vomiting inside his crude gag. Still, he couldn't help but picture the mangled bodies that they had found, with their half-eaten intestines and missing limbs. The official reports had suggested that the victims were alive at the start of the torture, but were unable to speculate at what point they had died. Stiles panted, breaths harsh against his gag, and sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that he died sooner rather than later.

There was a pause as the fairy stepped back slightly, tilting his head and clearly admiring his handiwork. Stiles knew without looking that his chest was undoubtedly bearing the ritualistic symbol that they had found on the remnants of the other bodies, and he couldn't stop a desperate moan from escaping his throat. He weakly pulled against his bonds once more, but moving his arms was agony, rivers of blood were running down his chest, and his head was starting to feel a little fuzzy. With any luck, he would pass out from blood loss before long.

Of course, Stiles thought somewhat hysterically, he had never really been on good terms with luck. The fairy leader was approaching him again, brandishing the knife, and before Stiles even had a chance to panic the knife was buried to its hilt in his abdomen. Fire burned through him and Stiles head wrenched back as he screamed, tears flowing down his face. That fucking rag hit the back of his throat, and he convulsed before acid burned its way up his chest and the next thing he knew he was choking, and vomiting, and screaming, and the world around him dissolved until all he knew was agony.

He had no idea how much time had passed, or how he ended up here, but somehow Stiles was lying on his side on the rough ground, and he coughed and spat until finally he could breathe again. He was sure he was lying still, but the ground was spinning around him, and he could just make out a distinctly human-shaped figure kneeling in front of him.

"Scott, he's dying!" The voice was female, and terrified, and Stiles realised that it was familiar. Lydia, he was sure. When did Lydia get here? He felt warm hands pressing around his wound, and he squinted, picking out strawberry blonde hair and a distinctly small frame on the figure before him. "There's got to be internal bleeding, and he's already lost a lot of blood. I don't know if he'll make it back," she continued, and Stiles realised she was looking past him to somebody else.

There were footsteps, and Scott's familiar face entered his line of vision. His eyes were glowing red, and there was a strange coloured fluid covering his arms, but his expression was distraught. "I could…I could try to turn him?" Scott suggested hesitantly. Lydia turned back to Stiles, pressing harder on his wound with one hand as she reached for his wrist with the other. She looked at Scott and bit her lip, tears in her eyes as she nodded in agreement.

"I think that might be our best bet," she said, sounding miserable.

Stiles coughed again, and for a few moments he lost track of the conversation as a buzzing sound filled his ears and vision faded. When he came to, his vision was obscured by a leg, and he felt Scott hovering over him. He frowned, confused, but then his mind finally caught up with his senses and his eyes widened in panic.

"Don't," he croaked out, desperately. He heard a sharp intake of breath above him, before the leg moved and Scott and Lydia were once again visible, watching him in shock.

"Stiles, you're hurt," Lydia started, but Stiles shook his head, then immediately regretted it as the world swayed and his stomach clenched. He took a deep breath, which caused all of his wounds to immediately flare again with pain, and finally he squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself until it died down slightly.

"It's too late," Stiles managed to say, opening his eyes again. He saw Scott and Lydia start to protest, and gathered his strength to continue on before they could. "Not for me, for the bite," he clarified. "It takes too long to work, there's no way I would turn in time to heal."

Scott's face crumpled as the words sunk in, and Stiles watched him take a steadying breath. Lydia looked to him in confusion. Scott explained, "It took over a day for me to start to turn after I was bitten; Liam too. Stiles is right, it won't work." His voice was cracking, and Lydia's eyes widened in horror as she turned back to Stiles, before setting her jaw with determination.

"Alright then," she said firmly, "hospital it is." She nodded to Scott, who took a deep breath and turned to Stiles.

"I'm sorry," Scott whispered, before gathering Stiles into his arms. Vaguely, Stiles noted that it didn't hurt as much as he was expecting, and that was his last thought before he finally passed out.

4.

He had been having an unexpectedly quiet afternoon, settled at a table outside the local coffee shop with his nose buried in a textbook and laptop open before him. College exams were coming up and he had been going stir-crazy in the library, so he had escaped for a rare afternoon of sun and his usual dose of double shot coffee. So far, he had achieved more in the last hour than in the last two days combined, so Stiles didn't think it was inappropriate to give himself a quiet pat on the back.

A shadow fell over him, and Stiles groaned internally as he heard someone pull out the seat across from him. "It's taken," he grunted, not looking up from his book.

"I'm sure I won't be long," a soft voice replied. There was something familiar about that voice, something that set Stiles' nerves on edge, and he looked up in surprise.

The person sitting across from him was perhaps the last person Stiles would have expected. His glasses were new, but aside from that Deucalion looked exactly the same as the last time Stiles had laid eyes on him, a good five years ago. His good mood evaporated, and Stiles closed his textbook with a snap, leaning forward to grab his laptop.

"No, I'm not having this conversation. I don't care why you're here or what you have to say. I'm leaving, and you're going to leave me alone, and that is that." Stiles' seat scraped against the concrete as he stood, but Deucalion moved one spidery hand to grasp his wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Stay," Deucalion insisted. "Just hear me out, you might find you like what I have to say."

Stiles snorted, but Deucalion wasn't letting go of his wrist so he gave in and sat back down, glaring across the table. "What is it? Another offer to murder all of my friends and family? Except for Scott, of course, who you really need to stop obsessing over. Seriously, it's weird to the point of being creepy."

Deucalion's face twisted in the imitation of a smile. Stiles' apprehension increased, and he glanced toward the unfortunately empty coffee shop. The barista was out back, apparently, and there hadn't been any other customers for a while. No witnesses, then. Shit.

"Actually," Deucalion said, "I came to offer penance." Stiles' eyebrows climbed in surprise. "Scott could have killed me that day, but he gave me a second chance. That's not something that you come across very often in this world, so it took me by surprise. And when the dust settled, I realised something. Everything that I had tried to achieve had come to nothing, and I had a rare chance to start over. So I did."

"Uh huh." The story didn't sit right, but Stiles couldn't figure out what Deucalion was after, so he let him continue without interruption.

"You might not know this, but a long time ago I craved peace, not war. Gerard Argent changed that, but he's long gone now, thanks to Scott. I was too caught up in revenge to notice that I had gone too far, but now I know, and I've spent five long years trying to make up for it."

Stiles stared at him incredulously. "This is a great story and all, but I have an exam next week, so if you don't mind," he hinted. Either Deucalion was a really good actor or he was telling the truth, either way Stiles didn't particularly care. He could do all the penance he wanted, so long as he stayed out of Stiles' life. Stiles didn't have much patience for someone who had caused the level of damage that Deucalion had done.

Deucalion shifted in his seat, looking somewhat irritated that his story wasn't having the desired effect. Good, Stiles thought, maybe he would leave him alone and sort out his guilt issues elsewhere.

"Okay, I can tell you don't want me here. But let me make my offer," Deucalion said as Stiles sighed heavily. "I know that Scott is cautious about giving the bite. And that's understandable, there's always risks associated with it and I'm sure he doesn't want anything on his conscience if it goes wrong. So there's my offer. I'll give you what Scott has never been able to."

Stiles' eyebrows climbed even higher. What the fuck? This afternoon was definitely not turning out as planned. He had been surprised before, but this made no sense. What was Deucalion playing at? "Thanks, but no thanks," he replied stiffly. "If that's all?"

"Think about it," Deucalion urged quietly. "If not for yourself, then consider someone who might benefit from the healing effects of the bite. Your father, maybe?"

For the first time, a surge of fear and anger tore through Stiles and his eyes burned into Deucalion. "Leave my father out of it," he said furiously. "You don't speak about him and you don't go near him, understand?"

Deucalion smiled again, and this time the mask dropped from his face and he gripped Stiles' wrist again, crushingly hard. Stiles gasped in pain, trying to pull his arm away to no avail.

"Then we have a deal?" Deucalion asked. "You accept the bite, and I leave him out of it. Agreed?"

Stiles breathed heavily, pausing for a moment to collect his racing thoughts. All of the titbits of knowledge regarding supernatural lore were stored away in there somewhere, and there was something about this whole situation that was ringing a bell. Finally, it clicked, and he stared at Deucalion with wide eyes.

"Consent!" he blurted. For a moment, Deucalion frowned, and Stiles knew he was right. "You need consent!"

"You know very well that I don't," Deucalion replied, baring fangs across the table.

"Theoretically, no, but if you want to be able to control me, which I'm assuming you do, it's always much easier if you turn me with my consent," Stiles said. "There's never been a single recorded case of an alpha being able to fully control a beta turned without consent, not for more than a few minutes at a time. And you'll need me for longer than that if you plan to use me to get to Scott." Stiles felt triumphant for figuring it out which, when he thought about it, was probably not the most appropriate reaction to his current situation, but oh well. He might as well enjoy being right before he gets ripped to pieces.

Deucalion growled at him, and Stiles felt that familiar fear wash over him, but before he could respond there were pounding footsteps behind him, and suddenly Deucalion was releasing his arm and standing. Confused, Stiles twisted in his seat.

Malia, Kira, Scott and Lydia stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, glaring as one at Deucalion.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Scott asked, not looking at him.

"Fine," Stiles blinked in response. "Not that I'm complaining, but why are you guys here?"

"We were coming to surprise you," Lydia responded. "And it's a good thing we did."

Scott growled, eyes flashing red as he advanced toward Deucalion. "I gave you a second chance. I warned you about what would happen if you returned. What happens next is entirely on you."

Deucalion arched an eyebrow, releasing a short burst of derisive laughter. "Come on, Scott, we both know you're not going to kill me."

Scott continued to move toward him, and Malia and Kira slipped around to flank Deucalion and halt his retreat. "No," Scott replied, "but I know of a nice cosy prison cell where you won't be able to do any damage. You can try to fight me, but Malia is behind you, and she is much less restrained than I am when it comes to killing people trying to threaten her family. I'd suggest you come quietly."

Stiles allowed himself to relax, watching as Deucalion deflated and raised his hands and Lydia pulled out her phone to call Argent. A small smile spread across his face. Somehow, he mused, he didn't think he'd be passing this exam. Right then, though, he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

5.

He returned to the living room with a beer in one hand and coke in the other, only to find Scott staring at him with his forehead creased in concern.

"What?" Stiles asked, suddenly much more sober than he had been seconds earlier. He dropped the glasses on the table, readying himself for whatever disaster had struck now. "What's happened?"

Scott opened his mouth, hesitated, and then closed it again without speaking. Instead, he held his hand out to Stiles, revealing the pill bottle he had been holding in a tight fist.

Stiles slowly reached out an arm, taking his bottle from Scott. Anxiety was giving way to confusion, and he looked back up at his friend, baffled. "What's the problem?"

"They're yours?" Scott confirmed, sounding distraught. Stiles couldn't help but feel as though he was missing something.

"Yeah. They're cholesterol medication, nothing major."

If anything, Scott looked even more terrified. "Stiles, you're in your thirties! You shouldn't be on tablets!"

Stiles snorted a little at his best friend's concern, although a part of him was touched that Scott cared so much. "Relax, Scott, I'm fine. High cholesterol runs in the family, Dad's been on these for decades. It's really not a big deal."

Scott looked slightly mollified, although he was still staring at the bottle as though it might bite him. Stiles clapped him on the shoulder and pressed the coke into his hands, guiding Scott to a seat as he changed the topic to Scott's newest family member.

Several hours and a few beers later, the conversation had lulled to a comfortable silence. Stiles was sleepily tipsy, and Scott seemed to be mulling over something. Stiles eyed him quietly, waiting for him to find the words he needed. He was rewarded a short time later, when Scott turned to him, face set.

"Lydia pointed something out to me a while ago, and I can't stop thinking about it." He paused, and Stiles nodded encouragingly. "You know Noshiko, Kira's mum? She's over nine hundred years old." Having found his momentum, Scott continued without waiting for a response. "And you remember Satomi? I don't even know how old she is, just that Noshiko says she's even older than her. She's old to someone who's nearly a millennia old, Stiles."

"I'm aware," Stiles responded lightly. He had been expecting this conversation for a while now, and he had been wondering what would eventually prompt Scott into starting it. He hadn't even considered it would be his pills.

"Kira was asked for ID when she went out for drinks after work the other day. Lydia doesn't look a day over twenty, and I get mistaken for a student all the time when people bring their pets in." Scott looked at Stiles earnestly, forehead creased.

"I always thought it was all the moisturising crap that Lydia buys," Stiles quipped, before sighing at the unamused expression on Scott's face. He dropped the act, turning to Scott, speaking in a soft voice. "You guys don't age; or if you do, it's so slow that you don't notice it," he started. "And I get a lot of shifty expressions from people when I hang out with you guys, because I actually look my age. I've noticed, Scott, don't think I haven't."

He inhaled deeply, before turning back to the bottle in his hands and slowly starting to peel away the label. "It's something I've come to terms with, and I guess you will too. You guys are going to have to watch me get old, and you'll watch me get sick, and eventually I'll die and you guys will continue on. That's life, Scott."

He heard Scott's breath catch, and when he spoke his voice was strangled. "It doesn't have to be," he heard him say. "You know it doesn't."

The label was falling to pieces in his hands, and Stiles gave up on it with a sigh. He raised his head to meet Scott's eyes, and shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I've thought about it, and God knows I've considered saying yes, but I can't."

Scott's voice was shaking when he replied. "Why? I don't understand, Stiles."

Stiles hesitated, before deciding that after twenty years of friendship he owed Scott the truth. "Do you remember the first time you offered me the bite?" he asked. Scott nodded slowly, so he continued. "I told you then that it wasn't worth the risk. That's still the truth, Scott. Back then, it wasn't worth it because I wasn't sure who I was, or if I could control it, and honestly that's still part of it. But even if it wasn't…what if it didn't take? You know that the chances of rejecting the bite increase with age, and it would already be a pretty huge risk. If it failed, I know you would blame yourself. I can't put you through that, Scotty. I can't."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Stiles forged onwards, cutting him off. "And honestly? I'm not willing to risk it myself. Life's pretty good right now. Back in high school, I never expected that we'd all make it this far, let alone all still be friends. You and Kira have a family, Lydia's changing the world, and Malia's found someone who accepts her for who she is. More often than not, I make it through the night without waking, and things have been peaceful for a while now. I'm happy, Scott." Stiles smiled crookedly. "I'm enjoying the ride, so why rock the boat?"

There was silence from beside him, and when he looked closer Stiles noticed Scott was swallowing tears. Scott smiled tightly in return, and raised his glass to Stiles in a half-hearted salute. It wasn't a glowing show of support, but given that he was staring down centuries of loneliness Stiles wasn't sure he could expect much better. For now, it was enough.

+1.

Stiles shifted his weight from side to side, tentatively raising a fist to knock. He hesitated, taking a deep breath and reconsidering. Maybe he should wait. Maybe nobody was home. Maybe he should have called first. "Fuck it," he muttered, spinning on his heel to beat a hasty retreat, only to run headfirst into Scott.

"Stiles," Scott greeted, clearly amused. "You know the door doesn't usually open until you knock."

Stiles rolled his eyes in response, but stood aside to allow Scott to pass by him, unlocking the door and gesturing Stiles inside. Stiles crossed the threshold and found himself in Scott's kitchen, the soft sound of Kira's voice playfully arguing with one of the kids drifting through the wall.

"I wasn't sure if you were home," Stiles finally replied.

"There's an easy way to find out," Scott countered, fetching himself a glass of water and offering another to Stiles. Stiles took the glass, grateful to have a distraction for his hands. His heart was fluttering, and he wondered abstractly whether or not Scott had noticed. He thought not, but then again, Scott didn't miss much these days. It had taken years, but eventually he had grown into his alpha werewolf status, and it suited him well.

Scott was watching him, Stiles realised, eyes narrowed in concentration. Stiles swallowed nervously; he hadn't felt this unprepared since he was a teenager. He didn't miss the sensation; it was thoroughly unpleasant. He clamped down on a shudder, instead taking a deep drink from his glass.

"Stiles," Scott's voice was soft, but clear. "What's happened?"

Stiles inhaled deeply, and slowly blew the air out through his cheeks. It was a breathing pattern he had perfected during his college years, and it did wonders for settling his anxiety. It had been quite a while since he last had to use it, but he was relieved to find that it still worked. He glanced over to find Scott looking at him with concern.

"Something's happened," Stiles started, before silently berating himself for his weak opening. Gathering his thoughts, he managed to continue. "The last few months, I've been having nightmares. Blackouts." He watched as Scott's hand tightened on his glass, and shuddered a little at the memory. The first time it had happened, he had brushed it away as just another nightmare, a product of too much work and a traumatic youth. But then he had found himself strapped down to a table, cold metal masks of the Dread Doctors before him, and when he screamed himself awake there were a few moments when he was frozen, muscles not responding to his commands. The familiar riddle had echoed through his mind as his heart hammered against his chest and he drenched the sheets in sweat. Only once before had he had a night terror like that, and when he realised that his veins flooded with ice and his stomach churned with dread.

That night, he had been determined to keep the nightmares to himself, and had begun trawling forums and his beastiary for answers. It was the development of other symptoms that forced his hand in the end, convincing him to seek help. "The other day," Stiles continued, realising that Scott was watching him fearfully, "I woke up two suburbs away from my house. It was the middle of the day, and I have no idea how I got there. One minute I was in the kitchen, the next walking barefoot down a street I'd never heard of before. And then a few days ago there was a kid in the street and I swear to god I thought he was a changeling. I was halfway out the door before I realised how irrational I was being and dragged myself back inside."

That event had been the most terrifying of all, when he thought about it. The kid had been five, maybe six, and had been living in the street before Stiles even moved there. He was riding his bike up and down the street, training wheels squeaking, and Stiles had glanced at him and immediately felt a surge of terror. Something wasn't right, and he narrowed his eyes, studying his clothes, his hands, his face, searching for anything that would explain his instinct. There was something in the kid's expression, he finally decided, that was giving him away. Faint memories of researching changelings in his senior year floated to the surface, and Stiles knew in his gut that he was right. He had learned to listen to his instincts over the years, so he grabbed his baseball bat in one hand, gun in the other, and had been marching determinedly to the door before an icy sensation washed over him, the spell broke, and he was left wondering what the hell he had been thinking.

Scott circled the counter, moving urgently toward Stiles even as he visibly tried to calm himself. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, voice strained.

"I needed to be sure," Stiles whispered. There was a lump in his throat, but he looked at Scott and silently begged him to understand. Scott's eyes softened, and he knew that he was forgiven. Stiles continued, "I went to Deaton first. He tested for everything he could think of, including the nogitsune, but as far he could tell I'm still completely human."

"Okay," Scott said. Stiles could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he searched for any answer other than the truth. "But Deaton doesn't know everything. Maybe we could try one of his contacts?" Scott suggested.

"I tried that too." That was the truth. Stiles had called anyone and everyone, desperate for any supernatural explanation, but none was evident. Eventually, one of Deaton's contacts, a grizzled man in a baseball cap, had finally put into words the conclusion that Stiles was desperately trying to avoid. His symptoms, the man had said gently, were as human as he was.

He took a deep breath. "Scott, I had an MRI today."

Scott held his gaze but didn't reply. That was okay, though, Stiles had enough words for both of them. "It was positive," he said.

Scott's face crumpled and he shook his head, protesting silently, hand trembling as he reached out to Stiles and tightly gripped his shoulder. "No," he protested. "Stiles, there's got to be something else. There's another explanation, or another doctor. There's always something else!"

Even as he shook his head in denial, Stiles couldn't help but marvel at the opening he had been given. Still, he hesitated. Decades of arguing with himself, of pros and cons and what ifs and maybes filled him with doubt, and it would be so easy to say no. The part of him that listened to riddles in the dark and woke with panicked breaths begged him to stay silent, but he had spent many long years learning to ignore that voice. His thoughts, which for so long had been occupied with seeking out every possible way that a situation could go wrong, now revolved around plans and dreams for the future. He already had the next five Christmases planned out, the different locations and meals and presents for all of his family detailed in his mind. Scott, Kira, Lydia, Malia. His father. He had accepted the idea that he would have to leave them behind eventually, but God help him, he wasn't ready to give them up just yet.

He had been pausing for too long, Stiles realised, and Scott's expression was verging on terrified as he watched him space out. Stiles raised his hands to pacify him, and finally spoke. "Maybe…maybe there is something else," he said, cautiously. He licked his lips, and finally gathered the courage to form the words. "Once, you told me you'd do something for me, if it came to this."

Scott's eyes rounded in realisation and his jaw dropped open for a moment, before his face became set with determination. "Stiles," Scott began, voice steady. "Do you want the bite?"

Stiles drew a deep breath. "Yes."