Fandom: Teen Wolf
Category: Fluff/Schmoop, Friendship, General, Pre-Series
Characters/Pairing: Scott & Stiles
Summary: Everyone deserves a constant.
Word Count: 740 words.
Date Written: 05/31/15
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf does not belong to me. Written for fun, not profit.
Feedback: Bring it. dodger_sister / TheArtofDodger@comcast.net
Author's Notes: Scott & Stiles’ friendship is one of the best things about the show and one of the best friendships on TV. And I love the image of them as wee little besties. I know ceitfianna loves pre-series, wee!fics and Stiles and friendship and the family we make - all things I also love, so I wrote this for her.
Dedication: Happy Birthday to my girl, ceitfianna! Enjoy, darling!
When he was six, Scott gave up his swing on the playground for Stiles. Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes and stuttered out a ‘thank you’.
“I can push you,” Scott told him.
“I like to pretend I am an astronaut,” Stiles said meekly, waiting for this boy to make fun of him.
“I can be mission control!” Scott answered with enthusiasm.
“Kay,” Stiles said and beamed at his new friend.
When he was eight, Scott and Stiles went to different summer camps.
“Maybe it’ll be good for them to make new friends,” Stiles heard his dad telling Mrs. McCall.
When he came home at the end of the two weeks away, Stiles told Scott about the paper-mache head mask of a dragon he had made at camp.
“Where is it?” Scott asked. “I want to see it.”
“Oh, Gavin smashed it,” Stiles told him nonchalantly.
“Who is Gavin?” Scott demanded. “I’ll smash his mask!”
Stiles just raised an eyebrow at his friend.
“No, I won’t,” Scott said with a sigh. “Cuz that’s mean. But I’ll go with you to camp next year and stop him from doing it again.”
“What if your mom sends you to a different camp like this year?”
“Then I’ll run away and come to your camp,” Scott told him with authority.
“I’ll run away and come to your camp,” Stiles said with delight. “No Gavin Shaw at your camp.”
The next summer they both went to the same camp and when Gavin Shaw smashed both their face masks, they helped each other build new ones.
When he was ten, Scott sat next to Stiles at his mother’s funeral, placed a soft hand on the small of Stiles’ back.
“People shouldn’t leave other people,” Stiles said softly, against the curve of Scott’s neck.
“I won’t leave you, Stiles,” Scott told him. “You’re my best friend. I’d never leave you.”
When he was twelve, Scott took the fall for Stiles.
“You rode your bike off the top of Peak Hill?” the sheriff asked Stiles, face red with exertion of control, to say the least.
“I did it!” Scott shouted. “I rode it off the hill. I smashed Stiles’ bike.”
“Really?” the sheriff asked, turning dubious eyes on his son’s sidekick.
“Scott…” Stiles started, but Scott gave him ‘the look’, the one that said Stiles should just keep quiet and roll with it. Stiles knew that look, had seen it many times. Would see it many more.
“Really?” the sheriff asked again and eyed the way Stiles was holding his left arm.
“That’s how I roll,” Scott told him and puffed out his chest.
“Okay then,” the sheriff said and told Scott’s mom.
Two days later, Stiles confessed the truth, holding out his left arm - now black and swollen and looking like death - to his father.
“I did it, it was me. I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“Two days?” the sheriff asked. “I thought you would make it longer, but clearly that injury is worse than I thought. Go get in the car, son.”
Stiles’ bike was lost for the summer, until he could save enough money to buy himself a new one. Mrs. McCall took Scott’s bike away for the summer too.
“Until Stiles can save enough money for a new one,” she said.
Scott and Stiles saved money together and had a new bike for Stiles by the time school started that fall.
When he was fourteen, Scott helped a drunken Stiles sneak in through his own bedroom window.
“Mom always had the best birthdays,” Stiles muttered against Scott’s back, as Scott helped haul him up to the roof, Stiles pushing ineffectually with his feet. “We always did the coolest stuff, like bungee-jumping. My mom liked to bungee-jump.”
“I know, man, I remember,” Scott told him. “Your mom was fearless.”
“Not like me,” Stiles said and clambered through his bedroom window, Scott wincing at the amount of noise he made when he fell face first onto the carpet. “I can’t handle anything.”
“I think you are more like your mom than you give yourself credit for,” Scott told him and tucked Stiles into bed.
When he was sixteen, Stiles chained Scott up to a radiator and listened to him scream, listened to him change into a thing, a monster.
‘Not a monster,’ Stiles reminded himself. ‘My best friend. And I’ll never leave him.’