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januarylight) wrote2012-01-13 02:02 am
januarylight) wrote2012-01-13 02:02 am
Entry tags:
headlong 78/?
The bagel is gone before he’s down the first flight of steps, but he’s still smiling when he gets outdoors. He stops at a deli, pretty sure Stephanie had been eating his food because there’s no way Derek thinks one bagel is enough for him; he doesn’t get anything for Scott because if he does that often enough Scott will forget his mom isn’t around forcing him to eat and shower and eventually Stiles will be forced to do Scott’s laundry out of guilt. Nobody wants that, not even Scott. Stiles can’t do laundry.
Scott is awake when Stiles gets to his room, huddled under the covers and moaning piteously.
“Thank god,” Jeremy says, gratitude obvious, and grabs his jacket.
“Jeremy!” Scott says. “You can’t abandon me just because Stiles is here! He doesn’t understand!”
“He will after you’ve spent five hours explaining it to him,” Jeremy says, checking for his wallet, keys. “I have to go, I have—“ It’s Sunday morning; Jeremy has nothing. “—to get out of here, I need a break, dude, sorry. I might be back tonight.” Jeremy squeezes past Stiles, tells him, “Sorry,” sincerely this time, and makes a couple of intricate full body gestures that Stiles interprets as your problem now and call me when it’s safe to come back.
Stiles looks at Scott, already submerging into his nest of bedding and misery. Jeremy might be waiting.
“So,” he starts. He thinks he can hear a faint whine, muffled under all those feathers, so he lifts Scott’s tangle of quilt and comforter and duvet and dumps the whole mess into the hallway.
Scott flops onto his back, stares with wide, tragic eyes at the ceiling. “I can’t believe Jeremy left me too,” he carps. “You’re the only one I can rely on.”
“No sulking,” Stiles says, because he’s been Scott’s friend for a long, long time, and he knows. “I’m not listening to you bitch about everybody for the next month.” Scott doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twitch on the sheet like he’s about to pull it off the mattress and over his head. “Didn’t go well last night?”
“No,” Scott says, mouth a hard, unhappy line.
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
Scott rubs at his eyes, says, “I think this might be it,” and clenches his hand when it starts shaking.
“Sorry,” Stiles says, because he’s afraid it is.
“She said it wasn’t anything Lydia said,” Scott says. His face is blank. “She said it was me. She wasn’t happy with me.”
Stiles’ instinct is to deny that, because the situation is more complicated, but that’s what it comes down to and if Allison has decided that having Scott isn’t worth the trouble there isn’t anything he can say that will change that. Lying would only prolong things.
But, “You really don’t think you can work around it?” he tries. “Compromise?” Allison has, Stiles knows, accepted Scott’s differences and all the difficulty they brought her, put up with Scott’s weird requests, protested when they became demands, but buckled under, willing to try things his way until she wasn’t. He isn’t sure Scott has tried.
“I don’t know,” Scott says, and quietly, “No, I don’t think so.”
He gets up after that, hauls himself off to the showers and has the temerity to make a face at Stiles when he returns. “Your turn,” he says, throwing a towel Stiles’ way.
“Hey!” Stiles says, flinging it back at him. It flares wide and ends up a rumpled rug on the floor.
“You smell gross,” Scott says.
“I do not!”
“You smell like Derek. It’s gross.”
“I don’t understand why we’re friends,” Stiles says. He does. “I could be at home having sex right now.” He couldn’t. “I will not subject myself to your tyranny.”
Scott’s face closes off. “Sure,” he says. “Mine.”
“Yeah, yours.”
“Maybe you should check in on Allison,” Scott says flippantly, “since you seem to be in such agreement.”
“No, I—“
“But I’d rather go to Jackson and Danny’s.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, and dives for the towel.
Scott is awake when Stiles gets to his room, huddled under the covers and moaning piteously.
“Thank god,” Jeremy says, gratitude obvious, and grabs his jacket.
“Jeremy!” Scott says. “You can’t abandon me just because Stiles is here! He doesn’t understand!”
“He will after you’ve spent five hours explaining it to him,” Jeremy says, checking for his wallet, keys. “I have to go, I have—“ It’s Sunday morning; Jeremy has nothing. “—to get out of here, I need a break, dude, sorry. I might be back tonight.” Jeremy squeezes past Stiles, tells him, “Sorry,” sincerely this time, and makes a couple of intricate full body gestures that Stiles interprets as your problem now and call me when it’s safe to come back.
Stiles looks at Scott, already submerging into his nest of bedding and misery. Jeremy might be waiting.
“So,” he starts. He thinks he can hear a faint whine, muffled under all those feathers, so he lifts Scott’s tangle of quilt and comforter and duvet and dumps the whole mess into the hallway.
Scott flops onto his back, stares with wide, tragic eyes at the ceiling. “I can’t believe Jeremy left me too,” he carps. “You’re the only one I can rely on.”
“No sulking,” Stiles says, because he’s been Scott’s friend for a long, long time, and he knows. “I’m not listening to you bitch about everybody for the next month.” Scott doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twitch on the sheet like he’s about to pull it off the mattress and over his head. “Didn’t go well last night?”
“No,” Scott says, mouth a hard, unhappy line.
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
Scott rubs at his eyes, says, “I think this might be it,” and clenches his hand when it starts shaking.
“Sorry,” Stiles says, because he’s afraid it is.
“She said it wasn’t anything Lydia said,” Scott says. His face is blank. “She said it was me. She wasn’t happy with me.”
Stiles’ instinct is to deny that, because the situation is more complicated, but that’s what it comes down to and if Allison has decided that having Scott isn’t worth the trouble there isn’t anything he can say that will change that. Lying would only prolong things.
But, “You really don’t think you can work around it?” he tries. “Compromise?” Allison has, Stiles knows, accepted Scott’s differences and all the difficulty they brought her, put up with Scott’s weird requests, protested when they became demands, but buckled under, willing to try things his way until she wasn’t. He isn’t sure Scott has tried.
“I don’t know,” Scott says, and quietly, “No, I don’t think so.”
He gets up after that, hauls himself off to the showers and has the temerity to make a face at Stiles when he returns. “Your turn,” he says, throwing a towel Stiles’ way.
“Hey!” Stiles says, flinging it back at him. It flares wide and ends up a rumpled rug on the floor.
“You smell gross,” Scott says.
“I do not!”
“You smell like Derek. It’s gross.”
“I don’t understand why we’re friends,” Stiles says. He does. “I could be at home having sex right now.” He couldn’t. “I will not subject myself to your tyranny.”
Scott’s face closes off. “Sure,” he says. “Mine.”
“Yeah, yours.”
“Maybe you should check in on Allison,” Scott says flippantly, “since you seem to be in such agreement.”
“No, I—“
“But I’d rather go to Jackson and Danny’s.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, and dives for the towel.