Several (thankfully) uneventful days pass before Stiles gets a chance to talk to Scott. Scott promised to keep Thursday free for Stiles this week - no Allison, no practice, no training, no pack bullshit - just him and Stiles alone to talk. It's a chilly afternoon, and Stiles sits at his desk, anxiously twiddling his thumbs and staring down at the fragile leather-bound book that Deaton gifted to him, which sits smack in the middle of the clutter on his desk. He's been trying so hard to formulate what exactly he wants to write. He's been staring at the damn thing for days, considering every new discovery over the past few years. He has so many ideas about what he'd like to write down, but nothing he can think of seems significant enough to be written on the first page, because somehow, it holds some significance to him. What, he wonders, is the most essential, and ultimately the most paramount thing I've come to realize?

He's snapped out of his trance when he hears the muffled sound of his ringtone buried somewhere in his bed. He sees the time - 3:47pm - he's over 45 minutes late. He answers the call, "This had better be good."

"Yeah, uh, I can't come over today. I failed a test in economics, and Finnstock said I could make it up tomorrow before school, and Allison told me she'd come over and help me cram." Scott can almost hear Stiles roll his eyes one the other end of the line. "You know, you could totally come over too, and we -"

"I'll pass. Sorry, I really don't feel like being the third wheel with you two. Not anymore."

"Dude, we're just studying! We're not even -"

"Scott - when in your life have you ever actually studied?" There is a pause. He's trying to think of something redeeming to say, but Stiles answers for him. "Exactly. I get it, man, sexytimes before brotimes."

"I'm sorry, bro."

"But you're not sorry. If you were sorry, you would've asked me to help you study before you asked her. Or you would've blown off 'studying' anyway, because you knew I needed to talk to you."

"I-I'm -" He huffs into the receiver. "Whatever, Stiles. I know you think we're like soulmates or something, but you know, there's room for other people in my life too."

"No, Scott. You just make room for them by pushing me out."

"Things change, Stiles. People change. I changed. It's life, dude.'

Stiles can feel himself on the brink of tears. "That's what you've always said, you know - friends for life."

"Grow up, Stiles." Stiles can't take the arguing anymore - he hangs up before he says something unforgivable and lies face-down on his bed, burying his face in the pillow to muffle his sobs. He's now on the outs with the only two people that have remained constant his entire life. And now, he's determined to try to fix that, any way that he can.

Stiles waits anxiously until his father arrives home at 5:30pm, per usual for a weekday. When the Sheriff walks in, there is a hot meal waiting for him, just off the stove onto serving plates on the table. Stiles is sitting on the counter, and flashes a huge smile when his dad walks in the kitchen.

They eat in silence as Stiles still struggles to formulate what exactly he wants to say. He fiddles with his fork, playing with the food on his plate. He's too nervous to eat. His father periodically looks up from his plate to raise an eyebrow in Stiles' direction, but Stiles just keeps his head down. They're about 10 minutes into the meal when his father finally asks, "So are you going to tell me why you've suddenly taken up cooking again? And why you haven't spoken a word to me since we sat down?"

Stiles drops his fork, unintentionally, onto his plate. He puts both elbows on the table and sighs, burying his face in his hands. He begins, speaking muffled words into his hands. "I-I wanted to try to explain myself to you." His moves his hands to fold his arms on the table, looking in every direction but his father's. "I've been a shit son, I know. You deserve to know why I've been distant and weird lately, so...I'm just - I'm trying." His father stops mid-chew, his eyebrows fixed in their constant raised state whenever he has a conversation with his son. Stiles opens his mouth to talk about a dozen times before they finish eating, each time deciding the sentence he'd picked wouldn't work out the way he wanted. His father cleared the table, putting the dishes into the sink, and Stiles finally says, "Can we talk in the living room?" It wasn't really a question – Stiles was already heading out of the kitchen. The Sheriff stands still for a moment, questioning the order, but soon follows his son into the living area. He takes a seat on the couch across from Stiles and the armchair - their usual seating arrangement. "I...okay, I'll start with the basics. Please just listen before you say anything. I'll try to explain this the best I can."

"You've always had a way with words, son."

"Let's hope that's enough." Stiles sighs and rubs both hands over his face, putting pressure to his tired eyes and feeling the heat radiating from his skin. "Okay. Here goes nothing." He sighs, then stays silent. His father motions for him to spit it out, so he does. He then begins to ramble on quickly like he does whenever he's nervous: "So it all started when Scott got a girlfriend, plus a new group of friends. I know I don't own him or anything, but they ended up changing him, like, a lot, and he's too cool for me now. We haven't hung out in months without his girlfriend or his other friends being around, and today he was supposed to come over so we could talk but blew me off to be with freaking Allison. He said he has to study, which is bullshit, because he never studies. We both know what studying means. And that's not the first time it's happened, where he blew me off. We got in an argument over the phone and he told me that it's just life and I kind of lost it, and he told me to grow up, which is kind of hypocritical, and I hung up on him, and...and -"

His father places a hand on his knee, shushing him and saying softly, "It's alright, kid. Slow down. So you and Scott grew apart? Is that it? Because honestly, I was expecting much, much -"

"No," he sniffles hard and wipes the tears from his face on his sleeve. "That's not it."

"Oh, uh – right. Awesome."

"I've been...seeing someone." His father smirks, knowing exactly the extent of heartache that a teenage romance can cause. "But, dad, if you could just listen and not interrupt for like, one freaking minute, you'll understand... hopefully."

"Stiles, you know I'm here for -"

"Shh! That wasn't even ten seconds! One minute I ask of you - no interruptions, no matter what. Okay? Just bear with me." His father nods. He raises his left hand, and his right index finger draws an X over his heart. Stiles smiles solemnly, mirroring his father's pained expression. "Okay...okay, good. So, uhm, I said that I've been seeing someone. I've been... I've b-been -" He exhales hard and closes his eyes, attempting to calm his nerves, but ultimately prolongs the suspense. "I've been seeing a... a guy." His father furrows his brow and sits back on the couch, but doesn't say a word, keeping his promise to stay silent. "And he has helped me through a lot of bad stuff that I can't talk to anyone else about – no, dad, not even to you. He's...he makes me feel... good. He makes me happy, dad." Stiles sighs and stuffs his face in his palm, using the other to motion to his father that he's permitted to speak again.

His father sits forward and inflects the tone he uses when he's perplexed with a case, or when he's trying to break bad news to someone. "Stiles, I don't think I understand what you're saying. I mean, in the past few months, you've been so far from happy." He exhales deeply. "What is this, a...a cry for help or something? Is that what it is? Because Stiles, you can just tell me if -"

Stiles clenches his fists; fury, frustration, and grief echo through his whole body. He grits his teeth and tears pour down his face. "Jesus, Dad, will you just listen? I'm trying -" he gulps, more tears pouring down his face. "I'm trying to explain what's going on with me, something you've been trying to figure out for a while, and you're shooting me down because what I'm telling you is something you don't want to hear!" He calms himself and his voice loses its piercing tone, replacing the grit with a painful, shrill sound of sorrow. "With everything we've been through together, with every genuine freaking emotion you've witnessed me show, how do you still find it so hard to believe me? Look at me, dad! Look at my face! How could you possibly look me dead in the eye and say that I'm not telling the truth?"

Stiles' father has never been good with words. His son always did the talking, the communication for them. Stiles wrote the birthday cards and the letters 'to whom it may concern.' So his father communicates his feelings to his son the best way he knows how: by showing him. He moves to kneel in front of his son, taking hold of both of his biceps with a firm grip. He stares into his son's eyes for a long moment, communicating a sort of tacit response, saying, "Yes, son, I believe you. As furious as I may become, no matter what you tell me, you are my son - and I will always love you." Stiles throws his arms around his father's neck. He returns the hug, squeezing him gently, with one hand on the small of his back and the other holding the nape of his neck, directing his son's audible sobs into the shoulder of his jacket. After what seems like hours, Stiles lets go. His father returns to his seat and closes his eyes, massaging the lines on his forehead – lines caused purely by raising his eyebrows at his son so often. Something clicks in his mind: his constant distrust and disbelieving of whatever Stiles tries to tell him is so extensive that it is quite literally displayed on his face. Feeling the lines on his forehead causes him to realize that as many times as he's assured Stiles that he'd always be there for him, he'd never actually listened when Stiles came to him for guidance. It's entirely his fault. He sits back into the sofa and states plainly, "I want to meet this boy over dinner."

Stiles wipes the wetness from his face. "It-it's not really anything serious, like, at all yet. I'm not even sure if this is going anywhere, but I swear to you, if I feel at any point that this may become something serious, I would like you to meet him." He takes hold of his father's forearm. "But please, can you just wait for that - just, can you wait until I'm ready?"

The Sheriff closes his eyes and replies, "You're asking a lot of me today, son."

"I-I know, dad, but I swear -"

Sheriff takes one of his son's hands in both of his, squeezing softly. "I will wait until you're ready. I won't insist, I promise." His tone shifts sharply from sincere to something much more stern and serious. "But if this boy hurts you, I swear to you - I will rip every one single of his appendages off with my bare hands."

Coming from anyone else, Stiles would think that sounded suggestive.

Later that night, though his heart is warmed, Stiles finds himself laying in bed unable to sleep. He can't stop thinking; he can't stop thinking about Derek, about his Dad, about Scott, about Derek again (this time in a much less innocent way), about the homework he forgot to do, about how badly he wants to drive to the diner just for some god damn curly fries, about his Dad finding out who he's seeing, about becoming an emissary...

Stiles throws his covers off and rolls out of bed, scrambling to turn on the small light over his desk. The dim glow shows Stiles' desk, cluttered beyond recognition, save for the space around the leather-bound book in the middle of the tabletop. He fumbles for a pen – there has to be one somewhere... got it! - and opens the front cover, lingering for a moment before skipping past the first page. He begins scribbling onto the second page.

I don't think that anything I've learned will ever be important enough to belong on the first page.
Maybe it's because I'm indecisive. Maybe it's because it's true.
Maybe it's because the most important thing to know hasn't been discovered yet.

But I do believe that a few things I've learned are important enough to tie for second place.
They're things I think are worth reminding myself.

#1. Werewolves are real.

#2. Magic is real.

#3. Love is real.

#4. Sarcasm and wit can't heal all wounds.

#5. Always keep a bat.

#6. She's not coming back. She's never coming back.

#7. Life isn't going to be the way we plan it to be. It's not going to be like: "breakfast, school, lunch, school, homework, dinner, sleep, repeat." It's more like: "I overslept and don't have time for breakfast, I failed my chem test, there wasn't anywhere to sit at lunch so I sat alone outside, my drugs are wearing off and I fell asleep last period, I'd rather stab myself in the face with a fork than do English homework, Dad's working late tonight, so no family dinner, I did mindless shit until the wee hours of the morning and didn't fall asleep until 4:30 am, repeat."

#8. Friends blow you off for other people. You will be randomly ambushed by the latest Big Bad. The Jeep will stall out. Dad will work late and eat unhealthy food. People die, or they graduate and move away (it's the same thing – either way, you'll never see them again, except for in photographs, where the people stop for just a moment to smile, whether they're happy or not, to capture that fabricated moment forever). You'll feel useless being human in a pack of werewolves.

Shit happens. The most you can do is let it happen. Find better friends. Shake off the dirt from the battle and wear your war wounds with pride. Restart the Jeep, or get out and walk. Roll your eyes and accept the fact that Dad won't be home for dinner. Shake hands at the viewings; pay your respects to their families. Hug the kids in their caps and gowns, holding in their hearts huge, unrealistic plans for the future, and say, "we should definitely stay in touch," even if you don't want to. Remind yourself that even though your eyes don't glow, and you don't sprout muttonchops in the blink of an eye, you're still important.

You live the life of no other – the trials and hardships of a one Stiles Stilinski: sarcastic, sexually confused teenage druid-in-training, with a heart of gold and wit of steel. You're the human amongst beasts – the boy who runs with wolves. And don't you ever even dare to think that who you are isn't absolutely incredible.

~ The End ~

A/N:

Thank you to everyone who followed this story to the very end.

I really appreciate reviews - let me know what you think!