Plan B

The fifty empty feet in front of him sit there mockingly, daring him to magically come up with more mountain ash to connect the two lines, somehow knowing he doesn't have enough.

Believe, Dr. Deaton had said over and over.

Yeah, okay, crackpot. Shows what you know. I can and have fucked this up. Thanks for that.

For as long as he can remember, Stiles has always been the comic relief. Tension diffuser, master of witticisms, king of often poorly-timed wisecracks, you name it. You want a one-liner or lightheartedness, he's always been your guy. Which is fine—he likes sarcasm and misanthropy just as much as Scott likes Allison.

But at the same time, he'd like to be acknowledged as…acknowledged period. He loves his humor, but comedy's a dime a dozen. He'd wondered before, but especially since Scott became a werewolf, he's wondered why he's even kept around. For his "I've got an idea"s? Those mostly end up with them in trouble. For his ability to divert attention? Again, mostly ends up with them in trouble. It's something a psychologist would say, but sometimes he feels like his constant jokes are just that—a way to divert attention.

He doesn't doubt that Scott considers him his best friend—let's be honest, he's a damn fucking good best friend—but still, on a scale from one to superpower werewolf, well.

Don't get him wrong: he doesn't think of himself as insecure, per se. You've got to have at least an average amount of confidence to be best friends with a werewolf and thus being in constant life-threatening situations. But every once in a while he'd like some validation. You know? Just a little.

The kick in the head is that for whatever reason even the things at which he's excellent don't get recognized. Prominently, for instance, he can probably count on one hand the amount of times he's received a "Congrats, Stiles, that's awesome, keep it up" for his grades. He's had straight A's all throughout school—despite Mr. Harris's almost pathological distaste for him, he still carries a 92% in the course—yet the only reactions he ever gets are some combination of "Shit, dude, really? You?", "The computer must have made a mistake," or, his favorite, "If only you'd tone down the behavioral issues, you might actually approach your full potential."

He always brushes it off (really, what do they know? They're just reading a piece of paper), but it needles him. True, his borderline ADHD grates on people's nerves after a while and probably causes them to only remember the smartass comments instead of the smarts, but still. Even his dad does it. Not as bad, of course, but it's present. He'll ask, "So, son, still doing well in school?" Then he'd answer, "Yeah, Dad, 'course. Four-point." Then there would be a split-second flash of surprise in his eyes, like every time he asks he expects Stiles to say, "All these years have been a joke. I've actually been failing classes." His dad always follows up with, "Good. I'm proud of you, Stiles," but as his dad had always told him, mannerisms speak much louder than words. Words lie, expressions don't.

After which Stiles would give an easy smile, say he was heading to his room to study but thanks for dinner, and then…actually study. Oh, trust him, he really rather detests the fact that guys his age would be getting drunk and having sex on Friday nights whereas he sits at home and does work. He doesn't always, of course, he gets drunk now and again, but the fact remains that inebriation only lasts a couple hours. Getting good grades in school provides you a future.

It just grinds his gears at all the underestimation that's gone on his entire life. That people always assume he's a fuck up. That people assume he got a bad grade on a test because he always flips it over quickly when really it's to hide the A from Scott who got a C. That even though he's acing their classes his teachers always eye him suspiciously when he answers a question right. That the thought of him actually being good at something other than sarcasm is so unrealistic it's not even worth considering. That he's not worth considering.

He knows Scott knows he's smart, which is why it's usually Scott going "So what do we do, Stiles?" or "Tell me you've come up with a Plan B, Stiles" or "Help me out with this math homework, will you, Stiles?" Which he appreciates, but it's not quite the same. He and Scott literally grew up together, spend more time together than they do separated. Secrets are nonexistent. But it's just not the same. Getting validation from Scott is about as satisfying as patting himself on the back.

Getting validation from someone else, however, that gives him sparks of aptitude. Especially if it's from a particular someone. It's what sent him on the fast track to falling in love with her, actually.

In the third grade he was just as high percentile as he is now, but let it manifest only a handful of times throughout the year. As children—people in general, really—are wont to do, they formed instant opinions of him the instant a witty rejoinder came out, and from then on only saw him as Sarcastic Stiles.

All except for one person. The new girl in town, Lydia Martin. She was beautiful, everyone could see that, but Stiles saw in her what he saw in himself: a mask. Every time she answered a question, there was a brief moment of indecision. Not, like most people thought, indecision over the right answer, but indecision over how she should wrongly answer it.

She must have felt his intense stares at her all the time, because she began scrutinizing him as well. Watched him as he answered questions wrongly, as he quickly turned over tests so that no one would see he got the best grade in the class. Overheard him as he begged the teacher not to say anything about those grades. Were it anyone else, they would assume he meant don't tell anyone about failing grades. But Lydia Martin, oh no. Even her eight-year-old self was sharp, and she put it all together.

She cornered him one afternoon at recess, all vivacious personality and strawberry blonde pigtails, and then said almost accusingly, "You're smart."

He'd shrugged and replied, "Nah, I'm obnoxious."

But her conviction remained, and she poked him in the chest. "You're smart."

Which got his ire up. Who was she to say that? "Who are you to say that?" he'd asked. "You're smart."

The legitimately shocked look on her face had surprised him. "You…I don't know what you mean."

"You shouldn't pretend, y'know," he'd said, for the first time noticing how green and beautiful her eyes were. "You can be pretty and smart."

She'd looked like she wanted to hit him or something, but instead settled for, "And you can be funny and smart."

Then she'd flounced away and rarely spoke to him, despite them sharing that monumental secret. A reputation ruiner it could be, if that knowledge got out, the knowledge that Lydia and Stiles—Lydia and Stiles—were not only intelligent, but scarily intelligent. But from that moment when she'd said those words to him, he was done for. Scott never could figure out why since by all accounts she was constantly a bitch, but Stiles had a good reason.

Has a good reason. That night at prom, he brought up her intelligence last because after all they had made an unofficial pact to never speak of That Subject ever again. Which is why she froze the moment the words left his mouth, glanced around them to see if anyone had overheard (they hadn't). It gave Stiles a massive sense of pride, that she didn't dance with him when he'd flattered her or when he'd bossed her around, but when he pointed out her—their—secret.

He'd tell Scott later that she had succumbed to his charms, and she'd tell her friends that she felt sorry for him, but both know the truth.

For now, he supposes, that'll have to be enough. He knows it's impossible to realistically think people will suddenly start realizing that truth, or that someone would put Stiles's face with Stiles's transcript that reports he's sixth in the junior class. To be honest, there are times he thinks maybe he doesn't want them to. As smart as he is, he enjoys the look of shock on people's faces when he comes up with a good solution to a problem or the very grudging tones of his teachers at conferences when they're forced to admit his stellar grades.

He doesn't know if he'll ever get academic recognition from his peers or instructors. But he's come to learn since Scott's transformation that being able to do calculus or analyze 1984 gives you next to no advantage in a life-or-death situation. No, the precarious horror movie his life has become doesn't give one shit about academics. It requires ingenuity of a different sort, and behavioral issues, of which Stiles is conveniently chock full.

He glances for the thousandth time between the gaping chasm that must still be filled to the pathetically small pile of magic dust in his hand. His eyes close as he goes over in his head what the vet-plus-supernatural-encyclopedia had said, as he goes over the parameters of the current life-threatening situation, at all the lives that depend directly on him.

He exhales and then begins walking, feeling a strange but not unpleasant rush flow through him with every breath. He tries not to think about what's happening—he's fairly certain that pile of dust should have run out a while ago—just keeps walking and letting the sand trickle from his fist. He tries not to picture what's going on with everyone else, only on believing. It still sounds so childish, so Disney, but then, who is he to judge? He's best friends with a fucking werewolf, who's dating a werewolf hunter, who's buddies with the lacrosse co-captain who happens to be a homicidal lizard-man.

When he feels the sand run out, his shoulders slump and he sighs. But then he glances down and notices the circle had completed. A new rush spreads through him, entirely different, one he hadn't felt since he and young Lydia Martin had shared a secret.

I did it. Me.

He's used to being good in school, to acing tests and papers. He knows he's a smart guy. The fact he's never been really recognized had always irked him. He has a feeling it will always irk him. But looking down at that beautifully connected line of ash, knowing he not only did something but did something important and crucial…it feels better than if he were to walk down the high school's halls every day and get high fives for academic achievement.

There's a small part of him that wonders if maybe he's magical, if maybe the I-know-something-you-don't-know expression the vet had had meant something. Because if he's honest there are times he wishes he could be on a similar level as Scott, and being a witch or shaman or whatever would be a thrill. But an even bigger part of him is proud he's not. He has no trace of supernatural blood in him, yet he'd done this vital act.

Later, he'd be depressed when Derek tells him to sever the line, but when Scott wakes up and says You were awesome, Stiles, or when Erica comes up to him with a smirk the next day at school and says Nice job, Batman, or when Allison calls him and says My grandfather was impressed, Stiles before quickly hanging up, the sense of pride he feels is overwhelming. He still has fifty thousand issues to deal with, including the fact that he'd gotten his father fired, but for once in his life, he'd gotten acknowledgement for his intelligence and talent.

And that's enough for now.