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voidfxndoms · 16 hours

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can i request a stiles stilinski oneshot with angst prompt 15: "I don't want your help." (around when he k.lled donovan in self-defense) thank you in advance! ‹𝟹

Omg, I love this idea so much! Thanks so much, anon <3 I'm so terribly sorry for only posting this now, but I've had the filthiest migraine for the past two days, ugh

Can you keep a secret? // Stiles Stilinski

After an unfortunate event at the high school library, Stiles turns to a friend as a burden weighs heavier and heavier on his shoulders.

Warnings: none? except spoilers, if you haven't seen S5 of TW

W/C: 2,426

A/N: Since your request is quite specific about the timeframe, I've decided to follow the actual events of the show, only mentioning the characters that are part of that season :) I hope you like it!

The library was empty. Spotless. If Stiles hadn't known better, he'd think the entire thing had happened in his head. But a simple glimpse at his hands was enough to see the blood — Donovan's blood. His hands were covered in it. But how was the library cleared up so quickly? And not just Donovan's body being removed, but all of the blood, the bars… Everything. It was all gone. In disbelief, he made his way to where, just minutes ago, the lifeless body of the Wendigo was standing, impaled. As thorough as the clean-up had been, Stiles spotted a smear of something atop the scaffolding he had climbed upon in his frantic escape from Donovan's hold. The room was too dark for Stiles to make out exactly what smeared the steel beam, so he wiped some with his finger. The crimson blood on his fingertip glistened in the dim light of the moon. The same blood the rest of Stiles's hand was covered in.

The buzz of his phone brought him back to reality, startling him, though only slightly. It was a text from his father, asking him when he'd be home. To say that it was late was an understatement, and Stiles should have probably replied to the text. But the emotions were still too fresh, too strong, too raw for him to think straight. So, instead of answering his father, Stiles slowly backed out of the library, got in his car, and started driving. Not knowing where to go, he drove aimlessly. Or so he thought.

"Stiles? What the hell are you doing here, it's two in the morning!" Lydia shouted through the rolled-up window.

Stiles's head slowly turned towards her. His face was trembling, and the deep lines on it indicated he had been crying for a while. Lydia's face shifted from annoyed to confused and then, finally, to highly worried. He looked at her for a few seconds, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, the car still running.

Then his head turned to face the front again, his face scrunching up in confusion. Why was he at Lydia's house? Why was he in her driveway? How long had he been there?

A sudden, yet tender touch stopped his train of thought.

"Your knuckles are ghostly white, under all that blood." Lydia remarked, softly. Her hand was on top of his on the steering wheel.

A trembling "Hm?" was all Stiles's brain managed to produce at that moment.

"Loosen your grip, Stiles. It's okay, I've got you."

Soon after the amber-eyed hands were loosely hanging on the steering wheel, color quickly making its way back to them.

And then there was silence. Why was there silence?

"Did you turn off my car?" Stiles asked turning to Lydia, his voice still weak.

She nodded in response, dangling the keys of the Jeep in front of his eyes.

"I told you, I've got you. Now, why don't you get out of this old thing and come inside? Let's get you cleaned up." she smiled.

Taking him by his hand, Lydia walked him inside her house, where they made their way to the bathroom.

She opened a drawer under the wash basin and took out a small towel. She waited until the water was warm, then called Stiles over. First, she cleaned his face from all the dirt and the tears. Then she let him wash his hands as thoroughly and for as long as he wanted to. Finally, she sat him across from her, cleaned the wound on his shoulder and made sure to clean up all the remains of dirt and blood that had collected around and under his nails.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles asked when she was done.

"Because I know that, whatever happened, there's a reason why it did." she answered.

"I killed Donovan." he blurted out.

Lydia didn't seem fazed, or shocked. But she didn't say anything. She finished tidying up the wash basin, washing away the mixture of blood and water that had collected on its walls. Then, after putting the towel in the laundry chest, she returned to where she was sitting, took Stiles's hands in hers, sighed, and said "Go on".

And he did. He told her everything, in the comfort of the small guest bathroom. When he was done his face was stained with tears all over again, he was sitting on the floor, shaking and gasping for air. But Lydia was right there with him, on the ground, cradling him and rocking them both back and forth.

They stayed like this until he calmed down. Despite her efforts to get him to stay the night, just so she could keep an eye on him, Stiles told Lydia he was okay to go home. She walked him out of the house and back to his Jeep.

"Text me when you get home." She said as he put his seatbelt on. He nodded in response.

There was a moment of silence.

"You're gonna have to tell Scott, you know?" she asked. Her voice was soft, even softer than when she had found him in the car.

This time she didn't get a nod, but a deep sigh as a response.

She reached out and placed her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Stiles turned around, giving Lydia a weak smile, which she returned. Then he started the car, backed out of her driveway, and made his way home, where his murder board was waiting for him.

***

"Have you told him?" Lydia whispered, as Dr. Fenris buzzed the gate to the supernatural section of Eichen House open.

"Not yet." Stiles answered through gritted teeth.

"He's gonna get suspicious. Sooner or later he's also going to notice that you keep wincing whenever you move your shoulderblade." She shook her head.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't seem too forgiving of self-defense. Did you not hear what he said about five seconds ago, when I asked him if there's ever a time where killing in self-defense is alright?"

Lydia sighed, "What I'm trying to say is- don't wait too long."

"Yeah... I know." Stiles answered weakily.

He tried to calm down, but it was too late. Lydia set off the trigger to his paranoia, and Scott's words echoed in his head in an aggressive way. Shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid picking at the skin of his nails, Stiles came in contact, once again, with the pin of the scaffolding. A painful reminder of what had happened and, more importantly, what was at stake.

Glancing at the prisoners in the cell, he noticed one of them looked surprisingly familiar. As he and the prisoner locked eyes, a wave of pure panic hit Stiles. It was Donovan. In the flesh. Standing there, staring at him with those void, wendigo eyes. At first, Stiles averted his gaze but then took a step back to double-check that it was really him.

And it wasn't. Of course it wasn't, it couldn't have been. After all, Donovan was dead. And he had killed him.

***

The Beacon Hills Preserve, a place Stiles knew very well, had never seemed as unfamiliar as it did in that moment. Him and Lydia had been looking for the Nemeton for the majority of the morning, but it seemed they were going around in circles. They were trying to prove a point about Parrish, but without the Nemeton, the point seemed very unlikely to be proven.

Puzzled, Stiles sighed. "It's almost like this thing doesn't want to be found."

"Maybe it knows we're late for class. Because we've been here twice." Lydia observed, annoyance oozing off of her.

"Crap." Stiles stated, looking at the two big Xs on a tree Lydia marked with white chalk as they were passing by.

Emphasizing her annoyance with a loud sigh, Lydia asked if they could talk to Parrish. Stiles tried to convince her to keep looking by explaining that since the Nemeton was full of bodies Lydia, as a banshee, should be able to find it. Her reply was a dry and sarcastic remark about having an off day, and she proposed, once again, that they speak to Parrish instead.

"We can't." Stiles answered, slumping as his gaze fell.

"Why not?" Lydia asked, too irritated to think about the reason behind Stiles's hostility about talking to Parrish.

"You know why."

"Okay yeah but, come on Stiles, it was self-defense. Plus, I'll be there to back you up. And I'm sure so will Scott and your dad, who is the sheriff, by the way."

When Stiles didn't answer, Lydia's mouth fell open and she scoffed in disbelief.

"Jesus Stiles, you still haven't told him?"

"Them. Told them." Stiles whispered in response.

"Them? You're telling me neither Scott nor your father, the two people who would never leave your side, know about you defending yourself from a blood-thirsty chimera?!"

"Okay, can you keep it down a notch? It's-"

"We're in the middle of a forest, Stiles!" Lydia shouted, irritated.

"It's not that simple!" Stiles shouted back, before clearing his throat and composing himself. "It's not that simple. My dad is the sheriff, which is a double-edged sword. And Scott... I'm scared he won't look at me the same. I mean you heard what he said."

Seeing him fidgeting, Lydia made her way to him and took his hands in hers, a habit she only had around him.

"Look at me," she told him. His gaze met hers, his eyes glassy due to the tears that had welled up. "Noah is your dad first, and only after that is he the sheriff. I don't know him too well, but he doesn't seem the heartless kind. And Scott, well, you said it yourself. Scott is your brother. Brothers fight, that's what they do, but in the end, they always find their way back to each other."

Stiles shook his head, "I can't tell him."

"Why not? He's gonna find out, sooner or later."

Stiles's face went white with fear.

"Oh God Stiles, no. I didn't mean it like that. I'm not gonna tell on you."

"You won't..." he mumbled.

"What do you mean 'you won't'. Who else would? We are the only ones who know, right?"

Stiles's face was pale, but it lacked any trace of an expression.

"Stiles... you can't say anything."

"Right?" Lydia repeated her question, worry slowly creeping up on her.

"Please, don't say anything."

"Stiles?" Lydia grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were empty, his body stiff. He was looking at a random spot on the ground, but it didn't seem like he was actually looking at it. He seemed to be in a completely different world.

"Why not?"

"Because I never said anything about Donovan."

"He never said anything about Donovan." Stiles mumbled, a stray tear tumbling down his cheek.

Lydia froze, and Stiles finally looked up at her.

"He?" Lydia stuttered.

Stiles shoved her arms off him and made his way to the path that led out of the preserve.

"What do you mean he?" Lydia shouted after him. When she got no answer, she started running after him.

"Stiles," she breathed out when she caught up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He quickly removed it, turning around to face her.

"Leave it, Lydia, it's nothing." he said through gritted teeth.

Ignoring his remark, she asked, "Who is he?"

"I said, leave it." Stiles repeated, stressing every word.

But Lydia was determined to get a reply out of him; "Who else knows?"

And that's when anger got the best of him.

"Jesus, Lydia, will you just let it go? For once in your life, will you just stay out of it?" He shouted. Then, calmly, he added "I told you it's nothing. Now let me be."

He started to walk again, taking big steps to get as far as possible before Lydia could speak again. Because where he preferred avoiding confrontation, he knew that it was number one on Lydia's priority list.

And sure enough, she called after him, reprimand in her voice — "I'm just trying to help you."

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks.

"I don't want your help." he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What'd you say? I couldn't hear you from back here."

He'd had enough of her sarcasm for the day.

"I said," he started, turning back and making a beeline for her petite figure at the other end of the path. "I don't want your help. Did you hear me now, hm? Or should I say it louder? I. Don't. Want. Your. Help. As a matter of fact, I don't even need your help."

He was now standing in front of Lydia, his tall figure somehow still towering over hers, despite her heels. His gaze was firm, his eyebrows furrowed. The hand that was already holding the keys to his car was so tight around them, that his knuckles had turned the exact shade of white as the night he had pulled into her driveway. Only this time, it wasn't fear that he was feeling. It was pure, uncut anger.

"I don't need your reassurance. I don't need you to babysit me. I don't need you to guide me. This is not about you, it's about me, it's about Scott. You're irrelevant in this whole situation. So when I say let it go, you let it go. Because I don't want anything from you now, but to leave me alone."

His words cut like a dagger, but it was reassuring to know that he didn't mean any of it, that it was all coming from a place of immense fear. Or at least that's what Lydia wanted to believe.

By the time everything had sunk in, Stiles was already well ahead of her. Her understanding of the situation, however, wasn't a justification for the way he had spoken to her. So, in an attempt to trigger his rational side, she shouted one last question.

"If I'm so irrelevant, why did you come to me the night you killed Donovan?"

For just a moment, Stiles stopped walking, and Lydia thought he'd turn around, maybe to argue some more, maybe to apologize.

But he didn't. She saw his shoulders rise and fall, probably due to a deep sigh, and then he walked off, grip still tight around his car keys.

And in the silence of the preserve, they both knew that Lydia was right. And that Stiles hated himself for how he had treated her.