Author's Notes:

WARNING FOR MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.

Well, yeah. I mean, this level of investment in the fandom means I have to do something for it, right? First foray into the TW fandom; hope you like it. (:

I would also appreciate it if you could leave a comment telling me whether this story was confusing to follow. I'm wondering if I should actually group the entire flashback together for easier understanding.

"How fast can you run?"
"Fast enough."

It is a Monday when Stiles realizes that Melissa McCall is no longer outside the door to wave him and her son off to school. It takes him a while (even though throughout the whole time, there is a nagging feeling eating at him) to realize it, and when he does, he pauses and stares at Scott. Scott stops just a step after he does, because he is keeping an inexplicably tight look on Stiles (it is as if he is afraid that Stiles will be whisked into the far lands of the non-existent). So, the first thing that Stiles says is - "you're being creepy," and does not understand when Scott freezes. It is only a moment, though, and then Scott smiles, eyes crinkling in a magnitude far less than normal, says - "not as creepy as you". They both laugh, and Stiles forgets about the first matter at hand.

He never remembers to ask Scott.

This is what Stiles remembers - that he had been eleven when they first met. Or rather, when Stiles had first seen him. Because Stiles' never ceasing movement, curiosity and propensity for trouble is a habit borne from young, he had been there when his father arrived at the crime scene (he reasons, till this day, that he only follows his dad because his dad is the sheriff and Stiles fears for him, because Stiles will never admit to himself that he enjoys the seeking of a thrill). He had seen the house razed to the ground, smelled the acrid scent of smoke and charred flesh that was permeating the air. There were body bags on the floor, bleak in their dark color. He had seen him, seen the arms of his sister wrapped around him, hiding his face. He wondered, then, if she did it because she was trying to comfort him, or because she was trying to reassure herself. Stiles had been watching from behind a tree, and when the siblings both shifted, Stiles saw that his face was a blank mask.

Stiles breaks out of the memory, turns, sees that same empty face running alongside him now.

"I'm pretty sure I know everyone you know, man, and I don't know her, but she's coming over right now."

The girl is walking over to them, in all her brunette beauty, her eyes on Scott. Stiles thinks that there is a sort of hardness about her (the tight lines of her mouth, the age of her eyes), as if she had been solidly molded into the person she is now. Stiles scratches his head, fingers reaching through short hair to pick at his scalp easily. Scott gets a pinched look on his face. Stiles thinks he hears him mutter the name "Allison," but he can't be sure.

"You don't remember her," Scott manages, and Stiles can't tell if it is a resigned statement or a question.

"Nope," he says anyway, and watches as Scott's face becomes unreadable.

"Have you ever tried talking to them? You know, using your words? Those things that come out of your mouth to communicate effectively with others?"

Derek gives him a look, and Stiles interprets it as - "they are severely demented, revenge-hungry people, do you think sitting around a table and reasoning with them would actually work".

Derek isn't wrong. Still, because he can, Stiles says - "I bet you didn't even try."

Stiles has the feeling that Scott wants to tell him something, that there is something lodged in Scott's throat, but he does not push. He thinks that Scott will tell him in time, if he ever wants to.

"Why are they even coming after all of us? I mean, technically, you're the one that killed her."
"You're pack."

Stiles grimaces. "And they won't stop till you and everyone connected to you is dead and buried in the ground, huh. Or maybe just bleeding on the ground. Thanks, man."

"You're my best friend," Stiles tells Scott one day, and expects Scott to slap his shoulder, say "you too," (because this is their thing, this is what they have done for the longest time) but the thing about Scott is this - he still surprises Stiles. He chokes, "no, I'm not," and Stiles knows it is not because Scott hates him (Scott would never, they mean the world to each other, the only one who understands the other), and so cannot understand, because while Scott may be utterly dense and with the intelligence of a goldfish at times, Stiles still loves him, knows that Scott knows that.

"What," he says, and he can hear the confusion seeping into his tone.

"Best friends look out for each other." Scott runs a hair through his hair, and his fingers crook into hooks. Stiles thinks Scott looks like he wants to tear his hair out, but does not know why. "You have," Stiles says instead, and Scott shakes his head.

"You don't remember."

It feels like a curse.

"Stiles, I don't know if I want you to."

"Keep going."

Stiles laughs, and it is breathless on his lips. "I don't know what you think I'm doing, but I am running. One leg in front of the other. In rapid succession. Covering ground. Leaping like a gazelle." A smirk curls on Stiles' mouth when he hears a tense huff behind him, then a low growl. "You're not running fast enough if you can still talk."

"If I can talk through being bludgeoned by a fairy being controlled by a gnome," Stiles starts (and the sad, sad thing is, that that had happened, it was a fact, it was a thing in his life), and then stops, because he feels a broad hand on his hand, pushing him forward. "Alright, alright, jeez, we can't all be all-powerful supernatural creatures with pre natural speed and grace," he grumbles, but grins when he is met with - "shut up, Stiles".

Derek's hand never leaves his back.

"Oh my god." There is a man stalking towards them, and Stiles stares obviously, because what he wants is to stare subtly, but his body rarely ever listens to him. He stares, and then he double takes and stares harder, because this man is getting increasingly familiar. It takes a while, but when Stiles' brain drags a name to the forefront for him to articulate, he hisses, says - "Scott. That's Derek. Hale. Remember the fire?"

Scott shifts beside him, and Stiles tears his eyes away to look at Scott. "I don't know him," Scott says eventually, and Stiles never manages to say "liar", because Derek has his face in Scott's space, and Stiles says "hey", manages to make it sound highly indignant.

"Scott," the man says (hah, Stiles knew that Scott was a big fat liar somewhere deep within, do not be fooled by his Bambi brown eyes, there is evil underneath). And then he sniffs the air (actually sniffs, like he's a dog, or a wolf or something), and it must be a trick of the light, because Stiles could swear his eyes flashed red. "He's here."

"Who?" Stiles is looking back and forth between Scott and Derek. He thinks he can feel cricks in his neck already. They ignore him.

"Derek." There is a note of warning in Scott's voice. Stiles is frowning. "What," he says, and Stiles feels like he has been saying this word far too often. Scott's lips are pressed tightly against each other, and there is clear tension when he speaks again. "Leave him alone."

"Scott," Stiles says, "are you in trouble? Because you know I can help, I can do things. I have my mouth and my voice, and you know how it goes, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will always hurt me". Come on, Scott, what's - "

"Stiles, shut up, " Scott hisses, and Stiles watches as Derek tenses. Scott is looking at Derek, and there is defiance in his eyes.

"He's here," Derek says, and there is something in his voice that is new to Stiles (it sounds like grief and sadness and a slight tinge of hope). "Who," Stiles asks, allows a little of his impatience to bleed through to his words. Scott winces, but does not answer the question. "Yes," he says instead, and Stiles has to restrain himself from cuffing Scott across the back of his head.

"You need to tell him -"
"No."

There is a curt coldness in Scott's voice that stops Derek short. Stiles is not surprised; he has known Scott for twelve years, has never heard that tone. He would never have thought that Scott was capable of it.

"Scott -"
"You did this."

Stiles' breath catches in his throat.

"You know that's not how it happened -"
"Yes, it was."

Stiles blinks. "Who," he stresses, "are we talking about here?" He is feeling light-headed, feels like he is going to black out. He does not know why.

"Stiles," Scott starts, turns to him. He has a pained look on his face, and Stiles does not like it. "It's -"

Stiles feels like he's fading away.

He hears - "Stiles!" - before he sees Scott, crashing through the trees and landing hard on his feet beside Stiles. "You're a disgrace to werewolves," Stiles tells him, but Scott's face remains a mess of worry and panic and anxiety. Stiles' face sobers, and he reaches to grab Scott on the arm. "Hey, man. It's gonna be alright, okay."

"We gotta go. We gotta go, Stiles." Stiles nods, glances at Derek.

"That way." Derek jerks his head in a vague direction, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Does he even know what he's doing?"
Scott shakes his head, shrugs. "He's all we got."
"We're doomed," Stiles says, and resolutely ignores the glare that Derek throws his way.

They run.

"Stiles! Hey, hey, don't do this, don't do this, come on!"

Stiles blinks, starts backwards because Scott's face is too close to him. It takes him a moment to realize that Scott's hands are hovering at the sides of his face, bracketing him, but they do not touch skin.

"Don't do what," he says, and his words are a mumble in his mouth. Stiles swallows, repeats the question. He sees Derek from the corner of his eyes, and the man is still, but his eyes are searching (Scott's hands, the area just in front of Scott, the space between Scott's hands). Stiles thinks it is as if he does not know where to look. His voice matches the grimness of his face when he speaks. "Help him, Scott."

"Stiles," Scott says, dragging his attention back to his best friend. "You need to remember."

Stiles thinks he has heard this before.

"Goddamn witches," Stiles breathes, and he is wheezing now.

Scott is beside him, and Stiles knows that he is pacing himself, slowing himself down to keep Stiles close. "They have Lydia and Jackson," he says, and Stiles internally curses Scott for not sounding winded at all. "Are we leaving them," Stiles manages, pushes the words past his lips. He chances a look to the side, sees that Scott has his brows furrowed. "I don't want to," he says, and Stiles knows, just knows, because he loves them too, loves them as he does family.

"They can handle themselves." Derek voice drifts back, and even with a distance between them, Stiles can hear the tightness in them. "Right," Stiles says (he knows that Lydia is a seer and Jackson is another strong werewolf all on his own, but Stiles worries anyway).

Then something catches his ankle, and he stumbles and falls.

"Stiles."

He looks at Derek. "Rude," Stiles mutters, because he is not looking at him, is looking to the side as if he cannot bear to look at Stiles, or as if he cannot see Stiles. "I can't see you," Derek adds (Stiles is taken aback for the moment, wonders if Derek can read his mind), and Stiles quirks his eyebrows. He's there, and he knows he's there, because Scott can see him. Stiles snorts, tells Scott - "tell him he's delusional or going blind, or most probably both, and that's a crying shame, because he's got the most gorgeous gray - Scott?"

Scott is looking at him in the eye, and his hands are still hovering. "I can't tell you, Stiles," he says, and he sounds utterly wretched. "I can't tell you, but you're smart, and you need to do this, you need to figure this out."

Stiles knows that he does not have the best motor control over his limbs, but he knows this as well - there is a cold grip on his shin, tight and unrelenting. He hears Scott and Derek shout his name, and he almost chuckles, because this is the only time, the only word that they have ever spoken in unmediated agreement. Then he looks down, sees rotting flesh and decayed tendons over the bones of a hand on him, and he yells, flails. The hand crumbles.

"Stop right there."

Stiles is staring at Scott, and his heart is a thundering drum. He sees the desperation and need in Scott's voice, sees it on his face, knows that there's something here, that there's a puzzle he needs to figure out. "Scott?" Stiles barely hears himself, because there is a roaring noise in his ears. He reaches up, tries to grab Scott's arm, and recognizes that somewhere deep down inside of him, he is not surprised when his hands go directly through Scott.

"I can't tell you," Scott says miserably, "because every time I do, you go away."

The words are not directed at him, but Stiles stills. Behind him, he can hear nothing, and he assumes that Scott and Derek have done the same.

"Let him go." The words are a growl, and Stiles does not even need to look back to know that it is Derek. There is a shape in the shadows that the trees are providing. Stiles wonders if he should feel relieved that he can see that it is humanoid in shape.

"There is no harming one of ours without repercussion," the voice hisses, and then it steps out of the shadows.

Stiles gapes, because he imagines that it is a hunched figure with a disfigured face, with warts and boils and everything else. He imagines that it is everything but this - a young girl (Stiles thinks that she is younger than him, that she probably has a sweet smiles with dimples to match). And then he flinches, because she speaks again, and there is a steel and loathing in her voice that makes Stiles' heart beat faster in his chest.

"You killed my mother."

"I did no such thing," Derek snaps, and Stiles can hear the wolf slipping into his voice.

The girl narrows her eyes, and there is hatred etched across her face. "New York," she snarls, the sound ugly and grating on Stiles' ears. "I've never been there," Derek says, and Stiles does not need to be a werewolf with enhanced hearing to know that he is lying. "You killed my mother," she repeats again, steps closer.

"She was a werewolf-hunting bigot who tried to kill me." Derek's voice is derisive, and Stiles closes his eyes at the admission, because this cannot end well.

"You're a monster!" Her chest is heaving with the exertion of the scream, and Stiles' ears throb with the intensity of it. Stiles opens his eyes, watches the girl as she visibly calms herself down. "It's a rule. The balance of the world has to be kept," she says. "A life for a life." Then she grins, and Stiles shudders in return, because he knows that look, knows that it is the look of unmitigated vengeance. "No one said anything about the afterlife."

"Stiles, listen to me." Scott's voice is an anchor in the churning sea of Stiles' mind, and he grasps on to it. He latches on to Scott's face, to his words. "Listen, man. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, and I wanted to help you sooner, I did, but I want you here, do you understand? I want you with me, and I didn't think I'd be able to handle it when you're gone, so I couldn't. I was scared to touch you that first time, because I saw your hand slip through my desk, and I thought you'd be angry with me, but then you never brought it up, and then I realized you never even remembered, and so it was alright. But Derek's right, and this isn't fair to you, so you need to remember, but please, I'm sorry -"

Her lips are moving, enunciating words of arcane past, and Stiles is moving -

"Oh," Stiles breathes, and it is like a release. He feels a wall collapse somewhere in his mind, and knows that this is it.

- and he intercepts the jet of white light streaking towards Derek, accepts it squarely in the middle of his torso. He thinks he hears a gasp being torn out of him, and then there is a guttural roar. There are hands on him, soft hands, flitting and panicked, and Stiles thinks that this is Scott, because Derek is steady as a rock, the port in the storm. Then Scott is pulling him up against his chest, and Stiles catches a glimpse of Derek, tearing towards the witch.

And Derek -

Derek is the storm.

When he opens his eyes again, it's Derek in front of him. "I still can't see you," Derek says, and his voice is soft, softer than Stiles has ever heard it. "You're an idiot," are the next words that Derek says, and Stiles opens his mouth to retort, because no, he's not an idiot, he's only second to Lydia in school, but then Lydia is a certified genius, so he's really not that bad. Then Derek whispers - "And I'm sorry," and Stiles' words just crumble in his mouth.

"I don't know why Scott can see you," Derek continues. "The spell was meant for me. Lydia thinks," - and here Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, because Lydia is safe - "that it was meant to kill me, but bind me here, and from what we can tell, although we don't know why, is that only someone you're close to, and not human, can see you." Derek pauses, turns to look at Scott, and Stiles finds that Scott still has his eyes on him. "He's still here," Scott says quietly. Then he echoes Stiles' sentiment, says - "I think this is it."

He can taste the blood, and it's exactly like when he bites his lip, or the one time when he accidentally slammed his head into an opening door and bit his tongue. It doesn't taste any different, and Stiles kind of wishes that it does, because he is dying, and he thinks that he would have preferred a distinction from the mundane. He hears a shriek, but it is far off, and he's concentrating on pulling short (and then shorter still) gasps of air into his lungs. Scott has his arms around his chest, and Stiles hears him chanting - "hang on, Stiles, hang on, come on, you can do this, just breathe for me, just breathe" - and he tries to listen to Scott, but there is darkness eating at the sides of his sight like a malignant disease.

He hears a soft -thump- beside him, and then there's Derek, and he has Stiles' face in his hands. "You're fine, Stiles," he says. Stiles laughs, but what comes out of him is a choked sound, the sound of a man drowning in his own blood. "You're fine," Derek repeats, and Stiles wants to tell him that repetition does not make truth.

Stiles should know it; he's spent years telling himself that he's not just a weak and frail human.

"Judging from what Scott said, you don't remember meeting me, nothing after that. You don't remember anyone or anything new since that point in time, either." Derek looks at Scott again, and Scott nods. "If it were for me, it would have meant that I wouldn't remember any of you. Would never have had the chance to, again. It would mean that no one would be able to see me, because I had no one close to me. It would have meant that I'd -'

"Be alone," Stiles says (he does not say the - angry, desperate, mistrustful - that comes to his mind), and Derek looks at the ground. He does not agree, but they all know that it is true. "She wanted to make me suffer," he says instead. "She thought I'd have no one to help me out of it. You should have let her."

"My dad," Stiles manages. Scott keens behind him. "Shut up, Stiles," Derek says tersely. Stiles can feel his weight on his chest, fighting to plumb the gaping hole in his chest. It's not working.
"Gotta take care of him," Stiles chokes, feels Derek press down harder. "Yes," Derek says. "Now, shut up."
"Careful what you wish for," Stiles mumbles, closes his eyes.

"You've gotta say it, man." Scott's voice is almost inaudible. "You've got to remember, then you've got to accept it."
Stiles looks at him. "Can you?"
"I will." Scott says, and it's a promise. "But I'll never forget."

Scott stumbles backwards when Stiles comes to greet him one night. "What," he says, and his voice is strangled.
"We promised to hang out," Stiles says, and he is perplexed at the look of terrorized surprise on Scott's face. "What, did your mom find your porn?"
Scott's back hits his wall. "You're dead," he says, and Stiles is offended.
"Uh, no. I didn't make you buy all those magazines, okay. I offered you the internet and my powers of Google-fu, dude, you can't blame this on me."
Scott flees from the room.

Stiles doesn't remember it when he sees Scott again the next day.

Stiles inhales, deep, smells the grass and the freshness of the air from newly fallen rain.

"I'm dead," he says. Then he looks at Derek, at Scott. "And it's not your fault."

He doesn't hear the choked sob pushing itself past Scott's throat, or see the tightening of Derek's jaw, because by then, Stiles is gone.