Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4711583.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski, Background_Scott_McCall/Kira_Yukimura,
      Background_Stiles_Stilinski/Malia_Tate
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, Road_Trips, Collars, Praise_Kink, Rimming, Polyamory
  Series:
      Part 1 of drive.
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-02 Words: 14874
****** swerving on the 405. ******
by katarama
Summary
     Scott feels it slowly settling in, the feeling of being on the road,
     the tension he’s had coiled up so tightly it’s formed knots slowly
     starting to ease. He’s giving Stiles a break, giving them both a a
     few weeks with no responsibility except not going prematurely broke
     or getting lost. There are no expectations from anyone except a
     required call at the end of each day to their parents.
     It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
     (Scott and Stiles road trip fic.)
Notes
     Alex and I had a long talk about Scott being collared and taken care
     of, and then I finally listening to Badlands. When I started getting
     feelings about Drive, I decided this fic needed to happen. Have some
     Skittles road trip, praise!kink, collaring fic.
     Just a note: I am keeping this mostly canon-compliant leading up to
     season 5. In canon, Stalia and Scira are together. I’m not splitting
     them up. One thing I’ve noticed about fandom with regards to
     polyamorous ships is that there seems to be a perception that
     everything needs to be inclusive triads and quads, and that isn’t
     true. There are lots of healthy ways to do polyamory, and if you have
     any questions about it, feel free to ask.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles could never handle stillness.
It was true when Scott met him, when they were kids and Stiles refused to go
back inside after recess because he didn’t want to sit in his desk for hours.
It was true when Stiles dragged Scott headfirst into skateboarding because it
was a chance to go burn off steam and get out of the house. It was true when
Stiles got ahold of a police scanner and started sneaking into Scott’s house
late at night to tell him with bright eyes about the cases his dad was
investigating, when he started tugging Scott along to investigate for
themselves, getting caught by the sheriff every single time.
Now that Scott is a werewolf, things have only gotten worse. For all Stiles
loves Beacon Hills, he’s never been suited for the small town life. Stiles is
all buzz and brightness and vibrance in a way that isn’t always positive. He’s
in need of constant stimulation, but he’s also always brimming with nervous
energy and anxiety and spikes of panic.
He’s had constant stimulation, the last year or so; they’ve been constantly
under threat, always running and fighting and planning and worrying and
struggling to maintain any sort of balance in their lives. Stiles has gotten
used to it, though he doesn’t enjoy it. He could deal with fewer bruises and
cuts, fewer moments questioning if they’re going to walk out with their lives.
Fewer moments where he watched his best friend stepping away, taking too much
responsibility for himself, trying to save everyone at the expense of his
happiness. Fewer moments with his heart in his throat, terrified and sick, the
sharp, overwhelming smell of gasoline making his head ache, and only stepping
closer, reaching out his hand to hold the flare that Scott was clinging to.
Long, sleepless nights turned into sleepless nights haunted by more, restless
nights spent covered in sweat that wasn’t from tossing and turning, but from
running, voices becoming real as they filled Stiles’ head, speaking in riddles
and telling Stiles to let them in.
Stiles got used to constant movement, and then everything was forced to a halt,
days with Stiles’ head filled with thoughts that were not his own, with words
leaving his mouth that he didn’t put there. Days when he was left with nothing
but the way his body was taking in pain and suffering. The thing inside his
head was so perfectly in control; he’d never felt so still, and it was heady
and dizzying. He was high on it until the moment when he felt his hand plunge a
sword into the boy he’d give his life to save, until he drank in every bit of
the pain, knowing that he was the one who caused it.
Now, the nogitsune’s gone. Stiles has had things to apply himself to, working
on school stuff, teaching Malia to adjust to normal human life and figuring out
their relationship. Saving the supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills. But now
it’s summer and the benefactor is gone and his life is not being directly
threatened. None of theirs are; they’ve had time to breathe, time to piece
themselves together.
Stiles can already feel his skin start to itch. He can’t handle stillness
anymore.
===============================================================================
 
Scott can see that Stiles has been needing to go for a while now. He can see it
in the set of his shoulders, the constant tap tap tapping of his fingers, the
constant hypervigilance. He can’t say he knows the feeling. He spent the first
week or two of summer being on edge, unsure of when the next threat would pop
up, but things have settled down for him.
Since, he’s been trying to take advantage of the time they have free, working
with Deaton to save up some money and spending time with Kira and actually
getting full nights of sleep. He hadn’t realized how much he missed sleep until
he got it back, and now he doesn’t know how he’s going to part with it when the
school year starts back up again. He spends time with his mom and with the
pack, practicing lacrosse with Liam and watching movies with Lydia and looking
into college stuff with Stiles, relishing in the fact that everything is quiet
for the first time in a year.
He gets a lot of worried glances that he can’t really explain. He’s doing fine,
really. At least, he says he is, and he’s working on believing it. He’s got his
friends, and he came out of junior year with respectable grades. He worked hard
and he did well on the PSAT, and if he can do just as well on the SAT, he can
get into UC Davis and go there with Stiles, like they planned. No one’s dying.
Stiles says the police scanner has been quiet, even for a normal summer in
Beacon Hills.
But Stiles isn’t okay, Scott can feel it in his bones. Stiles hadn’t had much
time to process things, and he’s on his way to coping, but he’s still not
there, still wrapped in guilt and hurt. He still smells sour with anxiety when
Scott leaves him to sleep alone in his bed, reason 3 on Scott’s mental list of
reasons why Malia Tate is one of the best things to ever happen to Stiles.
She’s unashamed of physical (and sexual) contact, of needing touch and of
giving touch when it’s needed of her. It makes Stiles look better and smell
better.
It still isn’t enough to totally soothe Stiles’ frayed nerves. This time off
means that Stiles has time to think, which has always been dangerous. Now that
there’s so much darkness and pain that is right there on the surface, easy for
Stiles to access, Scott can’t let him just sit there and stew in it.
Stiles must have had the same thought, because, out of nowhere, Stiles is
frantic motion and stealing knowing glances with Malia and dragging Kira to the
side to have secret, mumbled conversations just far enough away that Scott
can’t overhear. Kira looks deadly serious and Stiles looks nervous, and Scott
is worried. Stiles is up to something, something that everyone around him seems
to know but that Stiles has been meticulously keeping from him.
Scott is terrified, actually, because Stiles only manages to keep secrets from
him when things are either inconsequential or when they’re extremely serious.
From the way Kira’s sending him concerned glances and biting at her lip and
looking at him like he’s a ticking time bomb when they’re on dates, Scott
suspects Stiles’ secret is more of the second.
He bides his time and waits. Stiles will have to tell him eventually, and they
can deal with whatever this is together.
===============================================================================
 
When Stiles finally lets things out, Scott feels ridiculous.
Stiles wants to go on a road trip. He comes with an actual, paper road map,
huge enough to take up half of Scott’s bed. There are ten cities starred,
including Beacon Hills, an odd mix of big cities and cities that Stiles picked
because they were ‘on the way, see how they fit in with our route, and there’s
enough to see there that it’s not a waste of time’.
Scott wants to tell Stiles no, that he needs to stay behind in Beacon Hills,
that there’s too much going on for him to pack up and leave for a few weeks.
But there isn’t actually that much going on in Beacon Hills right now, and he
can see that as much as there’s excitement written on Stiles’ face as he talks
about how he may have picked some of the places because they have their own
unique style of pizza, there’s also something deeper, something heavier. Scott
knows that Stiles needs this, needs to get out of Beacon Hills, needs the
physical break from this place.
It’s hard to disagree, with that in mind, especially when Stiles singlehandedly
dismantles his biggest argument by saying that he’d annoyed Braeden until he’d
gotten a definite yes that she and Derek would stick around until Scott and
Stiles were back.
“Pack your stuff, then,” Stiles tells him. “We’re leaving in a few days. I’ve
cleared it with your mom. She gave me an emergency inhaler and everything. Kira
okayed it, too, and Malia was totally on board, mostly because she says that
it’s hard to sleep next to me when I smell so gross with anxiety, but…”
“Okay,” Scott says.
He hasn’t been out of Beacon Hills in a long time, and he can’t deny the fact
that it makes him nervous leaving. He’s rooted to life there, to the nemeton,
to the high school, to the hospital, now more than ever. To the cemetery just
outside of town
It’s been months since Allison died, but he still thinks about her every day
when he sees the thick black lines of his tattoo. It was once a promise to
himself, a reward for keeping his distance, for respecting her boundaries. It’s
now more, the lines of a target, the rings of the tree where they first let
themselves die and be born again with darkness in their hearts.
He doesn’t need the visual reminder. He can feel it when it creeps in. He’s
carrying darkness in his heart, and the pain of losing Allison next to it. The
tattoo is a daily reminder of how he’s grown in all the wrong ways, and what
once felt like strength now feels like a burden.
Maybe he needs to get out of the town for a while just as much as Stiles, after
all.
===============================================================================
 
The days leading up to the trip are a whirlwind, a rush of Stiles getting the
jeep ready to take on a long trip and of Scott’s mom giving him frantic advice
but telling him to just have fun. Trying to figure out how much stuff he and
Stiles can comfortably bring with them on the road takes a good day and a half.
Scott and Stiles throw half of Scott’s belongings into a suitcase and then have
to take stuff out.
Stiles doesn’t let Scott help him pack. He says it’s something he needs to do
alone, which seems suspicious to Scott. Stiles doesn’t budge, though, so Scott
goes back to figuring out which shirts are least likely to show dirt quickly.
Scott is glad he has money from working with Deaton, because he doesn’t know
how else this trip could possibly work. As much as Stiles rambles about taking
shifts sleeping in the car, he did look into places to stay in each of the
cities, and he did book extremely cheap motels ahead of time. It’s more than
Scott expected; as much as Stiles is a big ideas person, he’s really not great
at the details part of planning. He gets sidetracked and distracted and leaves
out something important and critical, every single time.
Scott is reassured when Lydia tells him that she helped Stiles, though less so
when she informs him that some of the motels they’re staying at are reminiscent
of the Motel Glen Capri. She says that Stiles mostly booked singles, so they’re
going to have to share a bed. Scott accepts that for what it is - they’re on a
budget, and Scott and Stiles have shared closer quarters than that before.
Lydia hovers, though, watching for Scott’s reaction like she expects something,
some sort of adverse reaction. Scott doesn’t know what she’s waiting for; sure,
Stiles has a lot of bad sleeping habits, he talks in his sleep and he’s a bed
hog, but it’s not going to ruin Scott’s trip.
Everyone but Stiles seems to be a little bit weird, honestly. Malia keeps
telling Scott to enjoy himself, like if she says it enough times, he’ll
understand what secret meaning she’s giving it. Kira talked to Scott, too,
after kissing, when they were laying in Scott’s bed.
“I’ll miss you,” Scott tells her. “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think Stiles
needed it.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” she says, smiling softly. “Take care of Stiles. And let
him take care of you, too. Trust him.”
The words prickle in the back of Scott’s mind. It’s an odd thing for her to
say, considering the fact that trusting Stiles comes as easy as breathing for
Scott. He’s spent most of his life with Stiles, knows every flat look and every
fidget, knows the way Stiles sounds when he’s edging around an important point
and has spent enough time staring at Stiles’ mouth that he knows the difference
between a nervous lip bite and a bored lip bite. Scott can’t think of a single
thing that would make him stop trusting Stiles.
But Kira seemed sure that it was the right thing to say, and Scott is left
wondering what he’s missing.
===============================================================================
 
They hit the road before the sun goes up, after Stiles has forced himself to
ingest enough coffee to survive being awake early enough to beat rush hour
traffic. He’s planning on driving the first four or five hours straight through
before finding a rest stop to pee and switching off to let Scott drive.
Scott knows that is a real show of trust for Stiles, letting Scott drive his
baby. Stiles literally sat him down and explained to him how to work with the
jeep’s idiosyncrasies, told him exactly how long it should take for the engine
to kick on and in what temperatures the windows will behave the way they’re
supposed to. It was all stuff Scott already knew, almost as instinctively as
Stiles. He remembers winters spent driving to school with the window cracked,
teeth chattering, praying he didn’t have an asthma attack from the cold, sharp
air. He knows the sound of the engine whirring on, can hear the uptick in
Stiles’ heartbeat that means it’s been too long, that if he tries again and it
doesn’t roar to life, he’ll have to drag out the duct tape again.
Scott knows the jeep, though he’s a bit relieved Stiles will be waiting until
they’re out into the empty highways in the middle of nowhere to pass along
driving responsibilities to Scott. The hugeness of the jeep will take some
getting used to, and this early in the morning, Scott isn’t ready to figure
that out. He’s starting out the trip with everything hazy and blurred, sleep in
his eyes and exhaustion in his bones. Stiles has his coffee and his music with
enough screaming to wake the dead. Scott has the maps and the google maps
instructions just to be on the safe side, but Stiles has his phone’s GPS turned
on loud, a mechanical voice guiding Scott and Stiles away from home and out
into the world.
Stiles starts to talk, energized by coffee and the buzz of adventure, of
starting something new. Scott lets it lull him slowly to sleep, eyes slipping
closed as Stiles switches lanes on the highway.
===============================================================================
 
Scott startles awake to the sound of screeching tires and cursing. His mouth is
dry and sticky, sour with the taste of morning breath. He fumbles blindly for
the glove compartment, groping for the tin of mints Stiles always keeps there,
before he finally manages to lift his heavy eyelids.
“Time to wake up,” Stiles says as Scott blinks, eyes adjusting to the light. He
has a crick in his neck already, which doesn’t bode well; Stiles plans on
swapping out back and forth the entire way to Denver, which is about an 18-hour
drive.
Scott checks the clock. 14-hour drive, now.
They’re in a rest stop parking lot, mountains in the distance but not much
else. “Where are we?”
“Mill City, Nevada,” Stiles announces proudly, glancing at the GPS. “We’re on
80, but that probably doesn’t mean much to you, since we’re on 80 forever. All
you need to know is that all that coffee I drank is hanging out in my bladder,
so, seriously, wake up, if you wanna pee or grab something to eat, do it now.
We’ll grab gas and hit the road again after.”
Scott groans but unbuckles his seatbelt. They find the bathroom in the giant
rest stop, and although Stiles is eyeing the coffee menu, Scott moves him
along. He wants Stiles to actually get some rest while it’s his turn;
otherwise, not only will Stiles be exhausted when he’s driving, but Stiles will
be awake when Scott’s driving, fidgeting and shifting around and making himself
restless and uncomfortable. They pass up the breakfast snacks there, too,
because Scott’s mom gave them some chocolate chip bagels for breakfasts while
they travel. Stiles grabs two from the bag once they get back to the car and
settle in, stuffing one in his mouth as he tosses the other to Scott, sloppily
refastening the twisty tie.
It’s a known fact that Stiles can sleep literally anywhere, as long as he’s
tired enough, the product of too many years dozing off in hospital chairs. It’s
just a matter of him falling asleep in the first place, of finding the balance
of anxiety and exhaustion and excitement that lets his brain find the space to
doze off.
They’re lucky, this time. Stiles holds out for an hour, snagging another bagel
and scarfing it down, fussing his way through the first part of Scott’s road
trip playlist. They’re passing the exit to Battle Mountain when Scott glances
over and sees that Stiles has finally conked out, lips parted and head tipped
down, the sound of his breathing slow and even.
Scott turns on the poppiest part of his playlist and refocuses on the road,
lamenting the fact that the jeep doesn’t have functioning cruise control.
===============================================================================
 
Being on the road involves a lot more thinking than Scott would like.
Even with Stiles snoring, loud and obnoxious as ever, and with Scott’s music
playing, there’s too much empty space in the car for thinking. Even with the
smattering of mountains and the steady flow of the river along the road,
everything is open space, few people to keep Scott distracted or occupied.
Driving only keeps Scott’s hands busy, leaving his mind to wander.
He still can’t believe they’re doing this. He feels it slowly settling in, the
feeling of being on the road, the tension he’s had coiled up so tightly it’s
formed knots slowly starting to ease. He’s giving Stiles a break, giving them
both a a few weeks with no responsibility except not going prematurely broke or
getting lost. There are no expectations from anyone except a required call at
the end of each day to their parents.
It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and he wishes Stiles was awake to feel it
with him.
Not that they’ve ever been totally in sync when it comes to feelings, Scott
knows. It’s not just that they feel things differently, Stiles loud and
consuming and impossible to ignore and Scott much quieter and subtler. It’s
that they never process things the same way, Stiles rushing to anger and
annoyance and fear while Scott struggles towards rationalization and calm. It’s
the reason they grew into each other, the precarious balancing act they
maintain, two parts of a whole.
Scott knows they share one feeling, though. The bone-deep, settling kind of
love that feels like too much, like it’s enough to fill him up.
Stiles just doesn’t feel it for Scott, not the way Scott does for him. It’s the
one thing they never talk about, this Thing between them that goes
unacknowledged. Scott is grateful. Stiles has Malia, and though he doesn’t say
the words, the way he loves her is written all over his face. And Scott loves
Kira, too, loves the shy, soft way she expresses herself, loves the brightness
of her laugh and the way she fits comfortably under his arm.
Sometimes Scott feels like he should be out love, that his well should have run
dry already. Allison is written on his heart, letters cutting small but quick,
sudden and overwhelming in their sweetness, in the way every moment with her
made him feel fluttery and important. Lasting, even now that she’s gone.
There’s Kira scrawled in next to her, letters growing darker as they grow into
each other, slow but sure, confident and comfortable.
But Stiles was the first name there, the big, sloppy letters that have been
there so long they don’t look written anymore. They’re carved there, present in
every beat of Scott’s overflowing heart.
The boy snoring in the seat next to him is his always, even if he’ll never be
his everything.
===============================================================================
 
Stiles wakes up and falls back to sleep when they’re driving into Utah, stirs
and mumbles a few words about Isaac’s scarves and then dozes off again. Scott
only shakes his head, letting him rest. He drives through the Bonneville Salt
Flats, cranking up the music to cope with the fact that there’s nothing for
miles.
As they approach Salt Lake City, though, Scott’s stomach starts to grumble, and
he has to wake Stiles up to figure out where they should stop. Stiles’ body on
his ADHD meds (which had been a requirement from Melissa, he had to take his
meds if he would be driving) deals with exhaustion and stress by shutting down
hunger for everything but one or two specific things that he’s craving, and
Scott doesn’t want Stiles starting the trip off not eating.
Stiles is disoriented but compliant once he realizes that there’s the promise
of food. Stiles insists on a place with curly fries and milk, which Scott
suspects is going to be a common theme. There’s an exit that has signage saying
there’s an Arby’s and a gas station, so Scott turns off. They can deal with
traffic going through Salt Lake City after they have food in their bellies and
a full tank of gas.
They go inside for their late lunch, just to make sure they both have time to
stretch their legs and use the restroom. Stiles inhales his food and waits,
watching Scott finish his food in a way that would be disconcerting if it
weren’t for the fact that Scott is used to it, after years of lunches with just
Stiles for company.
“Will you be good for driving tonight?” Scott asks Stiles.
“Yeah, dude,” Stiles says. “I feel so ready for this. You’re gonna be starting
out when it’s dark, though. I’m planning on driving all the way through to
Cheyenne, and you can take it the rest of the day down to Denver.”
“That’s only like… an hour and a half, right?”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “We should get there late, but I booked the room in the
motel starting tonight, and there’s 24-hour check-in. You get an hour and a
half tonight and you get to drive around in Denver for the first half of
tomorrow.”
“You were trying to stick me with the all the city driving all along, weren’t
you?” Scott says, and the enormous grin that splits across Stiles’ face tells
him all he needs to know.
They talk and eat, and Scott can feel the weight that had been pressing down on
him lift. This is him and Stiles, the same as they’ve always been, and that’s
something he can handle.
There’s not much he can’t handle, with Stiles along for the ride.
===============================================================================
 
Lydia wasn’t wrong about the first motel that Stiles booked. It’s worn down,
though not nearly as remote as the Motel Glen Capris.
“It was cheap,” Stiles says defensively, “and Lydia didn’t get bad vibes when I
showed her the pictures. Yelp said there weren’t bed bugs.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Scott says, following Stiles in to check in.
They get two keys for a room with one small bed.
While Scott has no qualms about ribbing Stiles about how small the bed is, but
they’re both too tired and too grateful for a bed to complain. Scott strips
without thinking, getting down to his boxers and tossing his clothes
haphazardly into his suitcase. Stiles easily gets his khakis off, but he
hesitates over his shirt.
“You’re gonna be hot, dude, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Scott
says, and Stiles only hesitates longer.
“Maybe I’m saving this,” Stiles says, gesturing to his top half, “for someone
who would appreciate it.”
“I appreciate it,” Scott argues. “I appreciate it a lot.”
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Stiles is staring at Scott, eyes
narrowed like he’s just said something more revelatory than he intended, but
Scott isn’t going to stutter an apology or backtrack. Scott doesn’t understand
how things went weird, why Stiles is acting like this. He has no reason to be
nervous about his body with Scott, especially since Scott has seen him through
his most awkward of awkward phases, when Stiles was too-big feet and hands and
swimming trunks that wouldn’t stay up over his hips without him tying them as
tight as they could go. He’s seen Stiles when he first decided to give himself
a buzz cut, when he took the clippers to his head himself and everything was
uneven and chopped, Stiles’ gappy grin bright and proud. Now, when Stiles is
older, filling out and gaining muscle, it’s hard for Scott not to be attracted
to him.
Stiles pauses a moment longer before he slips his shirt off and sits down on
the bed. “Do you know why we’re here?”
“Because it’s cheap?” Scott asks. “Or in Denver? You said you wanted to see the
mountains and didn’t mind nosebleeds.”
Stiles doesn’t even give Scott a flat look, which is how Scott knows that this
is important, after all. “No. On this trip.”
Scott sits down on the bed next to Stiles. “Because it’s too quiet?” he
guesses.
“Partly,” Stiles says. “But we’ve had quiet summers before. Last summer was a
quiet summer.”
“The nogitsune?”
Stiles considers that. “No. Not that either, exactly.”
“Then what’s it about?” Scott asks.
“Sort of the nogitsune,” Stiles says, picking at the loose thread of the motel
comforter with his bitten nails. “I figured that would be a good excuse to get
you on the road, at least. I can tell you worry about it. The others don’t. Or,
well, not as much as you, at least. You’re constantly looking at me like I’m
haunted, and at first I thought it was that you thought I was gonna start
running around stabbing people with swords again. Like you couldn’t believe it
was gone. But it is, and that’s not what you were doing. You were worrying
about me. Like you do about everyone, all the time. Literally everyone, even
assholes like Isaac or Jackson, and you just… can’t stop.”
Scott has no idea where this is going, and he’s pretty sure that what Stiles
just said isn’t any more of a reason why they’re there than Scott’s first few
statements. Stiles is staring at him, though, totally stilled, his warm eyes
fixed on Scott’s, like he can convey everything he’s struggling to get out just
by staring intensely. There are times when it would work, times when Stiles
could send Scott a glance and Scott would know, when Scott would understand
without words what Stiles was trying to say.
This is just one part of the way this whole trip has felt, though. Scott
thought he understood what was going on, thought that this was just a mental
break. A chance for both of them to breathe. But now that he’s confronted with
the question of why they’re there, he’s thinking about it, and there’s so much
that he can’t explain. The girls’ weirdness before leaving - Stiles’ weirdness
before leaving, even. None of it makes sense. And now they’re sitting in a
motel room in the Denver on a tiny bed, shoulders so close they knock against
each other, thoughts from the road fresh in Scott’s head, Stiles telling him
that he can’t stop worrying like it’s a bad thing.
“I don’t understand,” Scott finally admits, and Stiles reaches over to grip his
hands firmly.
“You spend all your time taking care of other people,” Stiles says. “As an
alpha, as a friend. As the person you are. You waste all your energy trying to
fix other people and make them better and you don’t do fuck-all for yourself.
You don’t think about yourself, like, ever, and it scares the shit out of me.
You’re carrying the world on your shoulders, and I’m not gonna be the best
friend who sits there and lets everything fall to shit because I wasn’t doing
everything to make sure you have what you need.”
It’s Scott’s first instinct to stop Stiles, to tell him that he’s wrong. Scott
does plenty of taking care of himself; he makes sure he has at least a few
hours per week set aside for time with his mom, and at least twenty minutes
every day of just him and Kira time. He eats healthy even when his mom isn’t
home, and he’s staying in shape for when lacrosse season rolls back around. But
as soon as he opens his mouth to argue, Stiles settles a hand on his thigh.
“I remember the last time we were in a motel like this,” Stiles says, words
slow and heavy. “I remember standing outside in a parking lot and watching you,
the only person I’ve ever met who had so much faith in me, so much faith in
anyone, doused in gasoline, holding a torch, telling me there was no hope.
Telling me that maybe he should be no one, because people were getting killed.
I know it was the wolfsbane making you act that way, the same as with Boyd and
the safe. But I’m not convinced you don’t still believe it sometimes. That
someone else could do better than you, that anyone else could be better for
your pack. You’re not nice to yourself the way you’re nice to others, and no
one takes care of you the way you take care of them.”
“Stiles, I’m fi-”
“No,” Stiles says. “You’re not fine. I know… back when Allison was around, you
two used to do stuff together, right? Stuff that made things better for you.”
“She was my anchor,” Scott says. It’s something that Stiles should remember as
well as Scott, since he was the one who figured it out. Scott can still picture
the way it felt, painfully clearly, the way it was easy reaching down and
letting her calm him, the way even a quick, reassuring squeeze of her hand or a
bright, dimpled smile was enough to soothe the new, intense feelings that made
him spiral out of control. He could bury himself in the way she loved him, in
the way she could take charge when he needed, let him pause to slow down when
everything around him was forcing him to a sprint.
“She was,” Stiles agrees. “That wasn’t what I was talking about, though.”
He gets up from the bed, leaving Scott’s shoulder and thigh cold from the
absence of warm, constant contact. Stiles unzips his bag and fishes around for
a minute before finally coming back up. There’s a familiar silver necklace
clutched in his fist, the Argent seal etched on the pendant. Scott’s heart
stops. He knows that necklace, on an intimate level. When Allison learned what
the necklace meant, learned more about the woman who wore it before her, its
meaning changed and soured. But it meant something different, found a new life
around his neck, the long, thin chain dangling down and resting next to his
heart as Allison ran her fingers down his back, through his hair. He’s carried
it in his pocket, wrapped around his fingers when he needed a boost of courage,
a reminder of who he was and whose he was.
“She told you.” Scott’s heart is in his throat, thinking about Allison sitting
down with Stiles, handing him the necklace and talking about the things they
did in the privacy of their bedroom. It feels like a betrayal of trust.
“She did,” Stiles says seriously. “Just me. No one else knows, and I didn’t
tell anyone. She thought you had already told me about it, and then she was
talking, and I didn’t understand any of it, so she backtracked. She wanted
someone to help you be good to yourself. I just wasn’t the right person for it
until now.”
“And you’re the right person now?” Scott asks.
“I want to help,” Stiles says. “After the nogitsune, I know that this would be
good for me. But I mostly want to make you feel good. I want to take some of
the pressure off you. You put enough of it on yourself, and I want to make
things easier for you, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. That’s why
we’re here. Not just because I was bored. We’re here because I wanted to be
somewhere away from normal life to try something new that could be good for
you. For both of us.”
“I’d let you,” Scott admits. “I trust you. I’d…” The words stick in his throat,
because they mean something to him, and he hasn’t used them in a long time. Has
tried not to think about them in a long time, trying to put some emotional
distance between himself and how things used to be. The summer after he broke
up with Allison, things were brutal, trying to adjust back to being on his own
while also losing something that steadied him, kept him solid and whole. He
doesn’t have that luxury, now. He can’t take that kind of time off if
everything goes south. He can’t afford to break down because it’s something he
doesn’t have.
But if Stiles is offering this - seriously offering this - then Scott doesn’t
know how he can say no. He trusts Stiles with everything, and if he loses
Stiles, he wouldn’t be able to function, no matter what, regardless of whether
he had this from someone else or not. No one knows him better than Stiles, and
while he worries about Stiles’ focus when Stiles is trying to complete
assignments for economics, he doesn’t doubt Stiles’ laser focus when it comes
to him. Stiles could give him what he needs, let his brain slow and his body
relax.
“I’d let you collar me,” he finally says, and a huge, hopeful grin bursts
across Stiles’ face.
===============================================================================
 
Scott wakes up before Stiles the next morning to text Kira. It’s early, but
she’s up, and she responds almost immediately telling him to call.
“Is this what you meant when you told me to trust him?” Scott asks quietly from
the bathroom, trying to keep his voice down. He doesn’t want to wake Stiles up,
partly because Stiles is a pain in the morning, and partly because he needs to
have this conversation with Kira uninterrupted.
“Yeah,” she tells him, her voice sweet and soothing. The fact that she doesn’t
even need to ask what he means is like a balm on Scott’s nerves, reassuring him
that this is something that Stiles really has thought through, something he’s
taken all the necessary steps on. “He talked to me. I’m okay with everything he
wants, as long as it’s what you want, too. I know you love him.”
Hearing it coming from Kira’s mouth is a weird feeling, but it’s a moment when
Scott can’t help but love her from the pit of his gut. She seems so calm and
unflustered, secure in the knowledge of what Stiles is to Scott. Scott can’t
help but need to reassure her, though, a quiet, “You know I love you, too,
right? I love us.”

“I know,” she says. “Stiles talked to me a lot about that, too. It would be
harder for me if it were anyone but Stiles. You and Stiles…”
“Yeah,” Scott replies. He knows exactly what she means without having to ask
her to put it to words. “Okay. I just… needed to check. Before I did anything.
I agreed to let him collar me last night, but I didn’t want to go forward with
anything until I was sure you were okay with it.”
“You can do anything with Stiles, and I won’t be upset. Just make sure you send
me lots of texts that I’m beautiful and wonderful, and we’re all good,” she
teases.
Scott laughs. “I can do that. It’s true, anyway. You’re incredible.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kira says. “Tell Stiles hello from me. Go have fun.”
===============================================================================
 
Scott doesn’t remember a lot of what they do in Denver.
He remembers the mountains, purple and blue from distance and smog, the way
they made him feel closed in, like the earth was pressing in around them. He
remembers ditching their car in a parking garage for a ridiculous amount of
money early on their first day and just walking. He remembers not minding the
way his muscles ached, because Stiles stared out into the city with bright
eyes, small next to the towering skyscrapers, and it made Scott’s stomach
swoop. He remembers running his and Stiles’ conversation through his head again
and again, questioning himself, but never Stiles.
They don’t do anything but sleep at night, but Scott can’t help but be aware of
the way Stiles touches him where they’re pressed together. He feels like he’s
on the edge, biding his time until Stiles decides to do something. The night
before they leave for the next city, he’s restless and impatient, nervous and
eager all at once, and sleeping’s almost impossible. Scott tosses and turns,
trying to get comfortable but only getting more frustrated, until Stiles
finally stirs awake.
“Sleep,” he says blearily. “You drive first tomorrow.” He reaches a hand up and
runs his fingers through Scott’s hair, heavy handed and clumsy. Scott’s body
still relaxes. He takes a deep, slow breath and settles into the feeling of
Stiles’ hand gently tugging his hair.
“Oh,” Stiles says, hand stilling. Scott glances up at him to see that his eyes
are wide open, all traces of sleepiness gone. Scott’s embarrassed for a moment,
but he lets it fade as Stiles’ hand starts to move again.
“Sleep,” Stiles repeats gently, and Scott closes his eyes and lets his mind
drift.
===============================================================================
 
As soon as they get to St. Louis, Scott makes a beeline for the shower. Stiles
uses up all the hot water when he goes first, and Scott needs to wash the road
off his skin. He leaves Stiles on their bed and spends twenty minutes soaking
in the warm water, still bone tired, but feeling a little bit more like a human
being.
When he finally talks himself into getting out of the shower and drying off,
Stiles is on the phone with his dad, Stiles’ words clearly audible to Scott
through the door.
“Kansas is the worst,” Stiles says. “Seriously, it’s the flattest, and there’s
literally nothing there, it’s just tall grass and farms. Scott slept better
there, though, at least. He couldn’t sleep in Colorado at all, it was weird.”
Scott wishes he could hear what Stiles’ dad said, but it’s too far, through the
door. Stiles is quiet for a moment before he loudly, exasperatedly sighs. “I’m
being careful, Dad. We both are.”
There’s an even longer pause. “I promise,” Stiles finally says. “I’ve spent way
too much time keeping him alive to let sleepy driving get him in the end.”
“I know. I’m looking out for him. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Night, Dad.”
Scott hears the thump of Stiles’ phone going onto the bed next to him and
ventures outside the bathroom. Stiles glances up at him, smile tired but
genuine. “Have fun eavesdropping?” he asks.
“Couldn’t hear your dad,” Scott admits. He goes to sit down on his side of the
bed and finds a crinkled up piece of paper on his pillow. He unfolds it and
smooths it out on the bedside table, glancing through. It’s a list of all the
things Stiles wants to do while they’re there, and one thing stands out almost
immediately to Scott.
“The City Museum?” Scott asks skeptically. “Stiles, you hate museums, you
always want to rush through them and move on.”
“Scotty, this is no ordinary museum. It’s like a giant playground, I spent
hours looking up stuff about it.”
Scott accepts that and glances through the list again, snorting. “I didn’t know
that St. Louis was known for their food. You have two pizza places, a frozen
custard place, gooey butter cake, which isn’t even a place… is there anything
you want to do here that isn’t food?”
“You,” Stiles casually, not missing a beat. Scott waits for the laugh, but it
doesn’t come. Stiles reeks of nerves under the blanket of exhaustion and stale
cheetos and spilled orange soda, and everything snaps into focus for Scott.
This is what he had been waiting for, the moment he’d been thinking about since
Stiles had taken out Allison’s necklace. “Unless, like,” Stiles rushes out, “I
know that the sex stuff was separate for you and Allison, but I kind of want to
have sex with you a lot, and I thought maybe it could be something we could do
both ways? If that’s-”
“Yes,” Scott says, forcing Stiles to a halt. “I want to have sex with you.”
He’s breathless with the thought of it, of having Stiles on top of him, Stiles’
fingers slicked up inside of him. It’s not a new thought, but he’s always
thought of it as that last step, the one line that even he and Stiles couldn’t
blur. “I just... have one thing, though.”
“What?”
“Can we not use the necklace?” Scott asks carefully. He’s been thinking about
that most of all, how Allison’s Argent necklace would feel around his neck.
Before, it meant something positive, a sign that she was there with him, even
when her family kept them apart, a feeling deep down in his gut that he was
hers. It would feel heavy and wrong to wear it now, just another reminder of
her loss, of the way things are different.
Stiles takes a deep breath out and reaches down for his bag, and Scott doesn’t
know what to expect this time. Last time, when he did that, it shifted
everything, and Scott doesn’t know how many more surprises from Stiles he can
handle.
When Stiles comes up holding a dark strip of leather with a silver buckle,
Scott’s heart stops. He wants to reach out and touch, to feel the soft leather
against his fingertips, around his neck. It’s hard to string words together
that could convey the rush of emotions, longing and awe and gratitude and
relief.
“I may have driven way out of Beacon Hills to find a sex shop that won’t
recognize me as the sheriff’s son?” Stiles says hesitantly. “With a fake ID. I
have no idea how to figure out if it’s the right size, but I thought… I mean,
the color. Would look nice.”
“It’s perfect,” Scott breathes out. “Stiles, thank you, it’s… can I…?”
“We should test the fit,” Stiles says, cheeks flushed. It’s reassuring to Scott
that Stiles seems just as flustered, just as overwhelmed as he is. This is
nothing either of them ever could have fully prepared for, nothing Scott
could’ve dreamed up in even his wildest fantasies. Stiles’ hands are cold
against his skin, but the leather’s warm as Stiles carefully wraps it around
the back of his neck, tongue between his teeth. The edges are firmer, sturdier
where it presses against him, even as he’s totally still. He feels glued to the
spot by the heat and intensity of Stiles’ gaze, by the heavy calmness of Stiles
looping the belt through the buckle, considering carefully before finally
choosing a hole.
“There,” Stiles says, pulling away and looking at Scott. Scott feels warm and
full of the knowledge that this moment could change everything between them,
that this could be the moment when things become more. He’s pinned by the way
the collar rests against his skin and even more by Stiles’ assessing gaze. He
needs desperately for Stiles to see how it fits around his neck and to want it
to stay there. He needs Stiles to want him like this, to want to take him apart
and piece him back together, to give him the peace of mind he didn’t know he
needed so desperately until now, thousands of miles from home with nothing but
time to think.
“It’s perfect,” Stiles repeats back at Scott. “You’re perfect,” he says, and
Scott is so happy he could cry.
Scott knows he’d never say this any other time. Stiles has a running tally in
his head of the flaws of every person he’s close to, every person he loves. He
always volunteers the bad with the good, like his only settings are harsh and
objective. Scott’s used to it - it’s part of being Stiles’ friend, growing a
bit of a thick skin and learning which jibes to take seriously.
But right now, with his collar sitting high on Scott’s neck, with Scott
vulnerable and open, there for Stiles to tear to shreds if he wanted, Stiles
gentles Scott down, giving him exactly what he needs.
That night, Scott’s head barely hits the pillow before he’s out.
===============================================================================
 
Scott feels like Stiles definitely planned for the next leg of the trip to be a
lot less focused on the destinations and a lot more focused on the two of them
spending time in the motel together. Stiles has precisely two items written
down on his list of things to do in Cleveland, Cedar Point and the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame. They’re connected by a bracket that says, “Pick one, they’re
both expensive.”
“Why did you plan all these cities if you didn’t plan to do anything in them?”
Scott asks Stiles, staring down at the sheet of paper. “You could’ve just
planned a few cities, and we wouldn’t have to drive from place to place.”
“There are multiple versions of the lists for all the cities,” Stiles reassures
him. “Just in case you took some time to adjust. These are the ones that make
space for motel time.”
“St. Louis was still literally just food,” Scott points out.
“And I regret none of it,” Stiles says proudly. “You can’t tell me that gooey
butter cake wasn’t the best decision we’ve made this trip so far.”
Scott snorts and runs a hand along his neck, looking up at Stiles through his
eyelashes. “The trip’s not over yet, but I can already think of one better
decision we’ve made so far, and some that could easily be even better.”
Stiles leans in close to Scott’s face, eyes closed and lips parted, and Scott
prepares himself to press his lips against Stiles’. It feels sudden and rushed,
with the way everything else has been building up, but he wants Stiles’ mouth
touching his more than just about anything right now.
He’s stunned when, instead, Stiles takes the list from Scott’s hand and waves
it in the air in front of his face.
“Don’t knock the list,” Stiles says, leaving Scott frustrated but begrudgingly
amused.
===============================================================================
 
“I take everything back. Kansas isn’t the worst.”
Scott laughs, but he can’t help but agree. They’re two thirds of the way
through Illinois, slowly approaching Indiana, and Scott doesn’t think he’s seen
this much corn or soy in his entire life. He didn’t even know there was a
difference until Stiles told him. He just knew that driving through Illinois
was miles and miles and miles of endless rows of green plants, spotted with the
occasional silo and the occasional turn-off into a small town with a gas
station, a motel, a diner, and a McDonalds.
That’s where they are right now, sitting with the engine killed and the windows
rolled down in a McDonalds parking lot in Bumfuck, middle of nowhere Illinois.
Stiles is sitting behind the wheel clinging to his box of chicken tenders for
dear life. The air is hot and muggy, though not as bad as in St. Louis, where
Scott could feel the air sticking to his clothes just walking around. It’s set
to storm while they’re in Cleveland, and Scott wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles
used it as an excuse to stay the entire time in the motel.
Not that Scott would mind that as much as he lets on. It would mean saving
money on attractions. As well as they’ve been doing at budgeting so far, Scott
isn’t confident in their ability to stretch their money out all the way,
especially once they get to New York. They could easily order in food or stop
at the grocery store; from their adventure in trying to find food in St. Louis,
Scott and Stiles had a lesson in Midwestern supermarket chains.
Stiles jumps out of the car to throw away his carton, and Scott doesn’t really
feel like getting out of the car. He’s already buckled up, ready to get back on
the road so they can try to beat some of the congestion in the construction
zones in Indiana. He calls Stiles around to his side of the car, reaching his
hand out of the window to pass Stiles his trash.
“You’re not just gonna pass that off on me without a thank you, are you dude?”
Stiles asks.
Scott goes to thank him out loud and then pauses, getting a better idea. He
shifts in his seat, getting up on his knees and moving his upper half out of
the window, tilting his head and leaning his face close, lips parted so Stiles
can press up that last little bit, their lips aligning like they were meant to
fit together. Stiles tastes like barbecue sauce and chicken, and Scott can feel
the roughness of Stiles’ lips where they’re bitten and chapped. It’s nothing
Scott would’ve imagined for their first kiss, not that what he imagined was
very realistic. His head was full of images of them drunk and handsy in Stiles’
bed back in Beacon Hills or of ditties reminiscent of old black and white
movies, Scott and Stiles saving the day and, overwhelmed with the adrenaline
and the mutual attractiveness of their heroism, Stiles planting a stomach-
swooping, heel-lifting kissing on him.
This is somehow better, the glass from the jeep’s window digging into his skin,
Stiles clearly disgruntled and disoriented by not being the person higher up in
this kissing situation. It’s real, awkward and unexpected and unplanned.
When Scott finally pulls away, Stiles is totally distracted, his lips pink and
puffy and his eyes wide, like after everything, he still can’t believe this is
something they can have. Scott understands the feeling; he’s still trying to
come to grips with it himself.
“Does that work as a thank you?” Scott asks lightly, and Stiles startles back
to life.
“You’re setting the bar too high too early on, Scott,” Stiles warns over his
shoulder as he walks towards the trash can. “Better pace yourself, or I’ll
start expecting this all the time.”
“I’m okay with that,” Scott says as Stiles climbs back in the car. “I’m okay
with you expecting it for a long, long time.”
“Save your sap and feelings for at least the fifth city,” Stiles jokes, turning
the key carefully and letting the engine roar to life. “We’ve got a schedule to
keep to here.”
===============================================================================
 
They don’t see much of Cleveland. They go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and
are disappointed by how little is there. Stiles says it wasn’t worth the
admission, and that they would’ve been better of just going ahead and skipping
that, too, but Scott laid down a ground rule that they have to see something in
every city, and he’s going to be pretty firm about it, no matter how much
Stiles tries to bribe him with kisses.
They spend the rest of the night sprawled out on the motel bed, kissing until
their lips are raw and red, Scott’s hair so tousled that it looks like he never
left his bed in the first place, his body boneless under Stiles. Now that
they’ve broken that barrier, Stiles doesn’t want to do anything else, kissing
Scott like he’s hungry for it, like he can make up for lost time by kissing
Scott every way he knows how, fast and hard and messy and softer, gentle and
slow and careful, like anything more will break the fragility of what they
have. Scott can barely keep up, still overwhelmed by the fact that he can have
this at all, his legs bracketed by Stiles’, his hands pressed against Stiles’
chest, the feeling of Stiles’ nipples tentatively pressed flat with his
fingertips, making Stiles moan.
The storms hit as predicted early the next morning, so Scott and Stiles stay
curled up in bed, shirtless and breathless, kissing under the covers. Scott
feels lazy and warm, everything else melting into the background. When Scott’s
belly starts grumbling too loudly to be ignored, Stiles groans, and Scott gives
him a long, heavy look. He shoves the covers back, and Stiles curls up,
expecting Scott to try and force him out of bed.
Instead, Scott rests his hands gently on Stiles’ chest, soothing him back into
the bed. Scott carefully places his mouth on Stiles’ neck, licking one long
stripe with his tongue before backing up and glancing at Stiles’ reaction.
Scott feels the weight of Stiles’ gaze, heavy and approving, and Stiles’ works
his hand through Scott’s hair, encouraging. Scott gives him a flicker of a
smile and is back to work, sucking bruises into Stiles’ neck that are too high
to cover up, even with Stiles’ collared plaid he loves so much. The patter of
rain against the window’s drowned out by the noises coming from Stiles’ mouth,
unhindered by the way he’s biting his lip, ringing loud and clear in the room,
like Stiles couldn’t help them if he tried. It’s enough to push Scott braver,
leaving Stiles’ neck and working his way down Stiles’ chest, placing a slow
trail of kisses down to Stiles’ happy trail, hesitating over the waistband of
Stiles’ underwear.
“I’m so not gonna stop you there, dude,” Stiles says, scritching gently at
Scott’s scalp. Scott wants to plant his face in Stiles’ hip and melt. He keeps
his focus, lifting Stiles’ hips to slide his boxers down and off, placing them
on the ground way more gently than Stiles would himself.
He gives himself a moment to take everything in, the way he can see Stiles’
flush all the way from the hollows of his cheeks to his chest, uneven blotches
of red that distract Scott, make him want to put his mouth back and add his own
color to the skin. He traces along with his hand before settling it at Stiles’
hip, just the faintest pressure when he zeroes in on Stiles’ flushed, pink
cock.
Scott’s new to the feeling of a cock in his mouth, to the way it stretches his
jaw open wide, the way he has to go slowly, even though he wants as much of it
as he can take. He can feel the way his lips keep slipping from where they’re
stretched around his teeth, and he can taste Stiles, bitter and salty in the
back of his mouth. He struggles, at first, clinging to his memories of what he
likes to try to figure out how to make this good for Stiles, trying to figure
out how to take Stiles in his mouth and do something productive with his hand
at the same time.
It feels strange and new, and it’s hard for Scott not to feel a bit ridiculous.
It’s different than burying his face in Kira, the smell of her slick and the
squeezing of her thighs when he makes her come again and again on his lips and
teeth and tongue. Stiles is new in the only way he could be for Scott, after
years of emotional and physical closeness, and the only guidance Scott has is
the long, gentle, steadying fingers threaded loosely through Scott’s hair and
the noises Stiles makes, a sharp intake of breath or a deep groan that Scott
realizes means he’s doing something very, very right.
There’s nothing more satisfying than the moment when he starts to figure it
out, manages to work himself into a rhythm that makes Stiles feel good. Stiles
warns Scott and pulls out when it’s time to come, leaving Scott a bit
disappointed. He doesn’t like the taste of come, but he wants to keep it in his
mouth, to hold the taste on his tongue and know that he did that, that he made
Stiles feel incredible.
Stiles tries to lazily wipe the come from Scott’s cheeks with his finger and
rubs it in instead. Scott finds that he doesn’t mind so much, coming with
Stiles’ hand around his dick and Stiles’ come on his face. His attention’s
focused elsewhere, his breath catching in his throat with the way Stiles looks
at him, every emotion written clearly on Stiles’ expressive face, pride and
satisfaction and awe.
“Next time you should wear your collar,” Stiles says. Thoughts of someday
working up to feeling Stiles’ dick down his throat while having Stiles’ collar
around Scott’s neck are enough to make Scott feel tingly and fuzzy, and he
readily agrees.
===============================================================================
 
Stiles is mercurial on a day-to-day basis back in Beacon Hills, and it turns
out that being on the road doesn’t change that at all. It’s still raining the
next morning, and waking up at 6 AM to gray skies puts Stiles in a crabby mood
from the start. They argue about who’s going to drive; Scott ends up winning
out, because Stiles refuses to go any more slowly than 15 miles per hour over
the speed limit, and the rain is pouring so hard that even Scott, going 15
under, struggles to see what’s in front of him. It leaves Stiles sullen and
brooding, the car uncomfortably silent, and when Scott accidentally takes a
wrong exit off the highway, Scott can feel Stiles’ annoyance build. They pull
off at the next small town exit to let the GPS figure out what’s going on and
to regroup.
They figure out where they need to go to get back on highway 90, but because
the law of things is that everything bad seems to clump up, in the parking lot
of a Walmart in the pouring rain, the jeep’s ignition just makes angry whirring
noises when Scott turns the key, refusing to start.
“Fuck,” Stiles says, as emphatically as he can manage. “You’re not doing it
right,” he insists, glaring at Scott and reaching over to take the key out and
try for himself. He turns the key, counts the beats out loud, and stops when
the car only stalls.
Scott sits silent as Stiles curses again, wrenching open the glove compartment
and digging for his duct tape. He grabs a flashlight, but not the umbrella next
to it, storming outside, duct tape in hand.
Scott pops the front for Stiles and lets him grapple with what’s going on,
knowing that Stiles wouldn’t let Scott touch the insides of his precious jeep
on a good day, let alone a day when he’s on the warpath. Stiles rips duct tape
with his teeth and places it, telling Scott to try the engine again, but the
same thing happens as before.
Scott sits in the car waiting until the cursing grows louder, Stiles’ hair
soaked flat against his forehead. It’s then that he finally gets out to see
Stiles standing hopeless in front of the jeep, glaring at his duct tape like
it’s failed him.
Scott reaches for Stiles’ hand. “Are you okay?” Scott asks gently, and while it
may have made Stiles lash out earlier, now it’s the wrong question to ask for a
different reason. His shoulders slump.
“I can’t do anything right,” Stiles says. “I can’t give good directions, I
can’t even keep my fucking car going.”
“That’s not true,” Scott says. “You’re good at handjobs,” he tries, an attempt
to lighten the mood that falls flat. Stiles only glares at the jeep, balling
his hand into a fist and bringing it down hard. He does it again, and Scott
winces, reaching out to grab Stiles’ hand, linking his fingers with Stiles
before he hurts himself.
“Hey,” he says. “You did this right. You gave us both a break. I wouldn’t have
let myself have this break, and I needed it. You’ve been doing a good thing
taking care of me, too. I haven’t let someone do that for me in a while, and
you came here and offered it up, and it makes me feel good.”
“Only a matter of time before I screw that up, too, right?” Stiles says
bitterly, and Scott squeezes his hand tight, letting some of the pain seep from
Stiles’ body into Scott’s. Stiles sees the black lines running up Scott’s arm
and tries to jerk his hand away, but Scott holds firm.
“I love you,” he tells Stiles seriously. “You’re not perfect, but neither am I.
You’re trying, even though most days you’d rather act like you aren’t. We’re
both trying, and between the two of us, we’re gonna figure this out.”
Stiles is quiet for a long moment, the rain falling down on them. It’s chilly,
a reprieve from the heat and humidity of the trip so far, but Scott knows that
if his clothes get any more soaked through, he’s not going to appreciate it. He
should’ve grabbed the umbrella on the way out of the car; the hood covers up
the car’s insides and keeps the rain off, but Scott doubts that this is really
good for it, either way.
“I guess that’s proof I’m doing good with this,” Stiles says finally. “A week
or two ago, I could’ve asked you that, and I don’t know that I could’ve
predicted you’d be so willfully optimistic.”
“I have faith in you,” Scott says steadily. “I’ve always had faith in you, even
when I haven’t been sure of anything else.”
Stiles’ face presses close, still upset but more settled, at least. His hand
squeezes tight, and the tension Scott was holding eases. “I love you, too,”
Stiles says, then pauses. “I’m gonna kiss you now. In the rain. It’s gonna be
romantic and cheesy and we’re not gonna talk about it.”
Scott laughs, knowing that they’re absolutely going to talk about it, that it
will be recounted to everyone until they’re sick of hearing it, though the
details might be fudged. Scott leans in and kisses him before Stiles can talk
himself out of it. It’s cold and wet, droplets of water rolling down around
Scott’s eyes and the drenched tips of Stiles’ hair brushing against Scott’s
face.
“Let’s take a look at this jeep now,” Scott says when they break apart. “With
less hitting, this time.”
===============================================================================
 
They get the jeep back on the road. The weather doesn’t clear up until Albany,
and the drive is still quiet, but Stiles takes a nap and seems more agreeable
when he wakes up. When Scott turns the music up loud, Stiles sings, too, loud
and out of key. It makes Scott smile, so Stiles keeps it up, the two of them
zooming along the interstate with the windows rolled down to dry the jeep out,
belting along to the music they listened to when they were kids. Scott feels
like it’s the most stereotypical road trip feeling so far, but it doesn’t stop
it from being good, exhilarating stress relief after the morning they had.
The motel in Boston is the tiniest they’ve stayed in so far; being back on the
a coast means higher prices, and Stiles wasn’t willing to shell out more. He
tells Scott that the one in New York is equally small, and probably a lot
sketchier, but Scott figures they can handle it. He anticipates some quality
time alone, and has to admit he’s a little bit disappointed when he realizes
that being in Boston means they’re back on the tourist track for a bit. They
get Charlie Tickets and run around, visiting the Boston Commons and the Public
Gardens and Newbury Street. The next day they get just a piece of the way
through the Freedom Trail before Stiles realizes that all it is is a
combination of walking and history, and that he’s had too much of both already.
They take a detour to get cannolis at Mike’s Pastry and hop on the green line
to catch the red line into Cambridge. They get off at the Kendall/MIT stop and
walk around, snapping pictures for Lydia, even though they have no idea which
building is what, or even if any of them are actually part of the campus.
Stiles is more interested in the bridge measured in smoots than the school
itself, but he knows MIT is on Lydia’s List, and she’ll appreciate it.
New York is only a roughly four-hour drive, the shortest by far, and it makes a
huge difference. They check out later in the day, meaning that when they arrive
in New York, Stiles is practically zipping full of energy.
Scott didn’t know what to expect from New York, but what he gets definitely
isn’t it. They’re in the touristy part of New York, he knows, and everything’s
crowded and busy. It’s easy to get swept away in it, walking around, swallowed
by the people and the buildings and the atmosphere. It’s overwhelming at first,
but Stiles charges forward, leading Scott along, navigating the intersections
confidently, like he actually knows where he’s going. Scott knows he has no
idea; they have to double back more than a handful of times, and there are
several times when, if it weren’t for the fact that the most popular places for
tourists have helpful signage, they would have ended up hopelessly lost.
The big city just isn’t for Scott, he decides. They’re there for three days and
they never stop moving, because there’s so much to see and, despite his
complaints in some of the other cities about how much they were walking and
going nowhere, here Stiles wants to walk everywhere and see everything. Scott
can admit that it’s exciting being able to just go, but it’s exhausting for him
in a way he didn’t expect. It’s too many scents and too many sounds, too much
movement, and it sets him on edge.
He clings to his nights with Stiles to ground him, wondering when his
definition of home became so flexible that even thousands of miles from his
house with his mom, he feels safe and whole and calm. They’re too exhausted to
do anything in New York but call their parents, strip, and collapse into bed,
but having his face buried in crook of Stiles’ neck, smelling the now-familiar
tang of excitement and anxiety and the travel size shampoo they’ve been
sharing, is all Scott needs.
They’re on the way to Nashville when Scott realizes what the feeling really is.
Stiles has always been there in his life; that’s nothing new. And it isn’t just
the stress of the trip bringing them closer together. It goes deeper than that,
touching a place in Scott that he never intended.
Somewhere between Beacon Hills and I-81 headed south, Stiles has become Scott’s
anchor.
===============================================================================
 
Scott knows nothing about Nashville aside from that it’s the capital of
Tennessee and that there’s a country music scene there. When he asks Stiles,
Stiles admits that that’s about all he knows, too, and that he picked Nashville
more for its location than anything else.
“Can I see the list for this place?” Scott asks, and Stiles hands it over, not
even a little bit ashamed. He should be. The only thing written on the paper is
‘SEX’, underlined twice.
“You didn’t even have a backup plan here, did you?” Scott asks, and Stiles
grins. “Not one little bit,” he says proudly. “I was pretty confident in my
wooing skills, and Kira was pretty confident in the amount you wanted to bang
me.”
“I still don’t know why you planned in cities you didn’t want to do anything
in. You’re ridiculous,” Scott says fondly, but he’s not really upset. After the
last five or six days being so hectic, he could use a little bit of a break.
“I know,” Stiles says, grinning. “You love me, anyway.”
He’s right, so Scott drops it, placing a kiss on Stiles’ cheek.
===============================================================================
 
Scott knows that if he looks back at this trip years from now, he’s going to
remember Nashville as his favorite, even though they barely left their room.
Scott hates to admit it, but that’s why it’s his favorite. It’s two days
blurring together scottandstiles, the press of his mouth against Stiles’, both
of them growing in uneven, patchy facial hair they’re too lazy to shave off.
It’s the feeling of fingers that aren’t his inside him, stretching him open, of
being covered in sweat and lube and come, feeling messy and sticky but sated.
It’s squeezing two people in a shower only big enough for one, Stiles trying
ineffectively to wash Scott’s hair, elbowing the wall of the shower and cursing
loudly over the pitter patter of the water from the shower head with the worst
water pressure Scott has ever experienced. They give up, Stiles kicking Scott
out to claim first shower, Scott’s hair still soapy with shampoo.
It’s Scott’s collar coming back out from its special pocket in Stiles’
suitcase, Scott wearing it proudly around his neck, letting his thoughts go
hazy. It’s the first time Scott has let himself feel this way since Allison,
the first time he’s really let himself float, his body going tingly at the
softest commands from Stiles, the gentlest touches. Scott feels cherished and
owned, and it’s settling to his very core, almost overwhelming at times.
Nashville feels good, the kind of relaxed Scott never let himself feel back
home, where there’s too much responsibility, too much pressure from everyone
else and from himself. Stiles takes that weight off him, lets him get away from
being an alpha, lets him get away from running a pack, from protecting his
home. From the weight of his failures and losses. Stiles fills up Scott’s brain
with other things, so much that it pushes out the negativity and lets Scott
breathe.
Scott knows he’ll never forget the night before they leave Nashville. He and
Stiles take the collar off for them to eat and for Scott to clear his head
enough to call his mom. Most of their things are repacked into suitcases so
they can stuff it in the back of the jeep and start the drive down to New
Orleans bright and early. Stiles has put away the lube and the condoms, which
Scott finds suspicious, because his collar’s still sitting on the nightstand.
Stiles fastens it back around his neck, and they sit there for a while, Stiles
talking and carding his fingers through Scott’s hair. Scott starts to lull
himself into thinking that’s all they’re doing, ending the night nice and easy,
but he realizes he’s wrong when Stiles presses him slowly back against the bed.
Stiles gets on all fours, sprawling around Scott, bracketing him down into the
bed.
“I love you,” Stiles whispers. He leans in and kisses Scott, a brief, light
kiss that has Scott pressing up, seeking more. Stiles shushes him, gently
guiding Scott back down to the bed. “Let me take care of you,” Stiles tells
Scott. He nods, letting himself sink heavy into the mattress. Stiles smiles and
kisses him again. “You’re perfect like this,” he tells Scott, his fingers
drifting from Scott’s shoulder to his neck, brushing his fingertips along the
skin right below Scott’s collar. It sends shivers down Scott’s spine. “You told
me it’s good for you, but I never told you how good this is for me.”
Scott licks his lips, his voice feeling small when he asks, “It is?”
“You go soft and relaxed,” Stiles says, “you’re still trying. Youre always
trying, because that’s who you are. But you let me take the load off, take
charge. You don’t have to be the alpha, you just have to be mine.”
Scott feels too full, like his heart could burst from hearing how pleased, how
proud Stiles sounds to call him his. Stiles notices.
“Your collar looks so good on you, better than I could’ve imagined,” Stiles
says, his fingers pausing, lingering on the collar, the motion pressing the
leather closer against Scott’s skin. “I’ve been thinking about it since I
bought it, how that dark brown would look against your skin, how you’d look
just like this. Loose. Happy. You love this, don’t you?” he asks gently.
“Hearing that you’re mine. My gorgeous boy, wearing my collar.”
“Yeah,” Scott agrees, letting Stiles’ words carry him deeper. He has nothing to
be ashamed of, nothing to be embarrassed by. He does love how it feels, loves
when Stiles reminds him what it means.
“All of you is mine, right now,” Stiles continues. He lifts his fingers from
Scott’s neck and replaces them with his mouth, shifting his collar up and
pressing a kiss there. He pulls away, taking a long look at Scott. He smiles
and reaches for Scott’s fingers, bringing them up to his mouth and kissing each
one. “Your fingers, your hands. Touching yourself only when I want them to,
resting on the bed above your head when I want them to. They’re still, steady.”
Stiles moves Scott’s arms carefully, setting them on the bed above Scott’s
head, moving Scott’s wrists together and taking his hands away. “I want you to
keep my hands and my arms right there for me,” he tells Scott, leaning over him
and pressing a kiss on each of Scott’s wrists. “Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Scott says breathlessly. He knows by the time Stiles is done with…
whatever exactly this is, his arms will be sore. He’ll feel it tomorrow,
driving, and Stiles knows that. Stiles wants him to remember, the lingering
ache reminding him of how he felt when Stiles smiled at him.
Stiles presses careful kisses along the exposed, inner skin of Scott’s arms,
the hair on Stiles’ face brushing against the skin. Stiles traces his veins
with his tongue. “These arms are mine, to hold and to hug. You can see when you
use them to draw out other people’s pain, the black lines that show how hard
you try, how good you want to be. You’re always doing things to help other
people. But right now, these arms are mine, and the only pain I want to take
away is yours.”
He moves down, taking his time and touching every part of Scott with his hands
and his mouth, gentle whispers of, “Mine,” that draw Scott out of his head.
Stiles spends ages licking and biting and soothing at Scott’s thighs. It gets
Scott hard, and Scott wants nothing more than to reach down and touch himself,
but he obediently keeps his hands above his head, out of the way for Stiles to
give and take in equal measure. Stiles presses one quick kiss on the head of
Scott’s cock, smearing precome on his lips, slowly licking off the taste.
“That’s mine, too, right now” Stiles tells Scott, eyes lidded and heavy with
the way Scott is gone for him, responsive and eager and tethered to Stiles’
words. “Mine to hold, to touch. To suck.”
“Please,” Scott gasps, and Stiles grounds Scott with his hand on his hip. “Not
yet,” he says. “You’ll get to come, but not yet. I’m going to need you to turn
over for me, Scott. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Scott agrees. His body feels at one with the bed, and he doesn’t really
want to get up, but he trusts Stiles and does what he asks, carefully flipping
and shifting back over to the center of the bed. Stiles rewards him by gently
lifting his hips and sliding a pillow under them, rubbing his hands gently
against the warm skin of Scott’s back when he’s done. “There we go,” Stiles
says, resuming his pattern from before, only deviating once he reaches Scott’s
ass.
“Have you ever been rimmed?” Stiles asks. The term rings unfamiliar in the fog
of Scott’s head, so he shakes his head. He can’t see Stiles’ face, so Stiles
reassures him with a gentle rub against his back that it’s okay. “You’re gonna
love it,” he promises, parting Scott’s cheeks. “I’m going to get my mouth all
over my pretty hole,” he says, letting one of his fingers rest against Scott’s
rim. “Does that sound good to you?”
Scott groans. “God, yes,” he says.
“Good,” Stiles says, not wasting any time. He spends ages just getting the skin
wet with his mouth, long, sloppy laps that make Scott’s head swim before he
finally dives in, sucking at the skin around Scott’s hole and tracing after
with his tongue, constant contact against the sensitive skin that makes Scott
painfully aware of the way his cock is leaking, pressed between his body and
the pillow. Stiles’ tongue dips inside, and Scott thinks he’s nearly done for,
anchored only by the words in his head that Stiles presses into his skin, “not
yet” and “almost there”.
When Stiles finally lets Scott come, his whole body feels like mush, heart
pounding and breathing heavy, a collection of limbs aching and sore from the
tension of holding himself back until Stiles was ready.
Stiles turns him over and kisses him, deep and excited, eyes brighter than
Scott’s ever seen them. “You did perfect,” he blurts. “You were incredible for
me. Like, really fucking good, holy shit.” Scott glows with the praise, and
Stiles only heaps it on more and more, easing the knot of nervous in Scott’s
chest before it even has the chance to form.
By the time Stiles finally removes his collar for the night, Scott feels like
an anvil has been lifted from him. He feels light and free and happy.
It’s the most incredible he’s felt in ages.
===============================================================================
 
New Orleans is a bucket of cold water.
The drive there is fine, uneventful. Scott is getting tired of grabbing food on
the road, but there’s not much they can do about that. They check into their
place just fine, and there’s nothing wrong with the room.
He doesn’t realize the problem with going to New Orleans until he’s walking
around.
The entire city so far has been an ache in his chest, frustration and loss
bubbling up and making him feel sick. They’re sitting in Lucy’s Retired
Surfer’s Bar and Restaurant, and he can’t stomach the Serious Nachos loaded
with crawfish that Stiles is devouring, even though they look absolutely
delicious. Scott can’t bring himself to voice it out loud, not with the
tightness in his chest and the heaviness of his heart.
“Look, there’s a Jackson Square!” Stiles says, shoving his phone in Scott’s
face to show a little green circle on the map. “It’s a park, we can drop by to
see if there’s a sign on the gate or something. Apparently, it’s famous,
anyway.”
“Sure,” Scott says, lifting a nacho by its edge and using it to poke and prod
his food around. He can see the moment when things click in Stiles’ head that
something is off.
“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, dude. I know we’ve seen a lot of
parks-”
“It’s fine,” Scott says. “We can head that way once we finish up, it’s not far,
right?”
Stiles eyes him, concerned, but doesn’t press, and once Stiles is finished and
Scott has trudged his way through more nachos, they head out to explore the
French Quarter. They’re surrounded by fleur de lis and buildings that are
reminiscent of the photos Scott saw on Facebook from the summer after sophomore
year, when Allison ran off to France with her dad. Every street sign has the
French and English name on it.
It isn’t until they hear someone on the street next to them jabbering on the
phone in French that it finally clicks for Stiles.
“Oh,” Stiles says, his face the perfect picture of horror. “Oh god, I… really
did not think this through, did I?”
“Neither of us did,” Scott says. Stiles told him the cities he’d looked into
and Scott hadn’t questioned them at all. “I didn’t think about it before, but
now…” Now she’s all he can think about. He can imagine that she’d love it here,
her laugh high and bright, holding his hand as they walked through the streets.
Her reading all the signs in French, Scott unable to tell if her pronunciation
is actually as perfect as it sounds, because he just has years of Spanish,
learned from his family like she learned French from hers.
“Fuck,” Stiles says. “We can change our reservation here, call the place in San
Antonio and see if we can get a room early. We don’t have to-”
“No,” Scott says, shaking his head. He knows Stiles was excited about New
Orleans, that he spent hours online deciding which nighttime haunted tours he
wanted to go on, settling on the vampire tour of the city because he thought
it’d be the most amusing, something he’s interested in enough that even the
fact that parts of it are rooted in history and literature aren’t enough to
deter him. “We’ll stay. Just… distract me.”
Stiles takes that directive as seriously as Stiles takes anything. He keeps
Scott busy, running through side streets and immediately regretting it,
meandering back to the main roads. Exploring everything with the word haunted
they come across. Dragging Scott to every snowball stand they can find to try
out all the unconventional flavors, Tiger’s Blood and Tweety Bird and Superman.
Stiles orders them with double cream, getting the sweetened condensed milk all
over his face and not giving any fucks, dragging Scott off to find somewhere
secluded where Scott can kiss it from his lips and lick it from his face.
Scott survives New Orleans, but he walks away with his heart just a little bit
heavier.
===============================================================================
 
San Antonio is two hot days spent along the River Walk. Stiles leaves it up to
Scott whether he wants to go see the Spanish missions there, and while Scott
considers it, he ultimately decides not to. Stiles forgets his sunscreen the
second day, so they spend their time ducking in and out of shops before
realizing there’s only so many times they can look at the same thing without
seeming suspicious. At the end of the day, Stiles is pink but not lobster red,
which Scott considers an achievement, so they pick up a small bottle of aloe
vera for Scott to rub into his skin.
The next morning they head to Phoenix. The air is so hot they don’t even bother
trying to drive with the windows rolled down. Stiles keeps the air conditioning
cranked on high. Texas goes on for ages; it’s the first time Scott really has
any concept of a state that isn’t California being that big. The road stretches
on for ages with few signs of life until El Paso. New Mexico is at least more
interesting, crossing the continental divide and driving through mountains.
Stiles lets Scott take that portion so he can gawk while he texts Malia.
They finally get to Phoenix, and Scott decides early on that, although it’s not
horrible, it’s not somewhere he would want to live. Everything is hot, way
hotter than he’s used to, as a Northern California kid. There are cacti.
Everything is tan. Literally everything. But they’re also surrounded by
mountains. It’s a disorienting mix, and Scott can’t quite wrap his head around
it.
Stiles has a list for Phoenix, and they work their way through it, spending way
too long at the zoo and eating up some of the time they planned to use to go to
the Scottsdale Center for the Arts. The science center equally takes up way
more time than Scott expected.
Scott knows he should be really into what’s there, but he finds himself
struggling to focus on what’s going on around him. It’s finally starting to
sink in that the trip is almost over, and it’s dragging Scott back down to
reality. He doesn’t know what things are going to be like once they return to
their everyday lives back in Beacon Hills.
He’s not worried about Kira and Malia; they’ve been talking throughout the
trip, and Scott is relieved by the lack of weirdness and by the understanding
that he and Kira have managed. He shares bits of what he and Stiles have been
doing, though, for the most part, she’s okay with not knowing. She told him
that if she knew, she would find herself trying to do that for him, too, when
part of the point of this is that she and Stiles give Scott very different
things.
He is worried about him and Stiles. For all they’ve talked themselves in
circles about what they’ve been doing in bed, they haven’t actually talked
about what’s happening more broadly beyond saying loving each other. Scott
doesn’t think they’re officially dating, since being official probably
typically consists of deciding it out loud.
He wants to date Stiles. Kira would let him date Stiles, as long as things
never shifted so he was constantly prioritizing Stiles and cutting her out of
his life. He doesn’t know that Stiles really wants to date him, though. He
doesn’t even know that Stiles will want to keep collaring him, once they’re no
longer away from home, when everything goes back to normal. Scott’s heart aches
even worse at the idea of losing that, just when he managed to use it to gain
some sort of internal quiet.
Scott keeps waiting for openings to bring things up, but they don’t come easy
for him. He delays and delays and pushes it off until it’s the night before
they’re going home and the tension’s been building for days. Everything is
urgent and desperate and needy and rushed, like they can cling to the feeling
they had throughout the trip if they just try hard enough, grasping with nails
and teeth and tongue. Stiles fucks into Scott hard on the motel bed, Scott
writhing and moaning under him, and Stiles comes inside Scott, in the very last
condom he packed.
They cling to each other in the silence afterwards, and Scott can’t hold it in
any longer. “What’s going to happen when we’re back?” he asks, still catching
his breath.
“What do you mean?”
“Please tell me you aren’t going to end this,” Scott says, unafraid to plead
with Stiles. He worries that Stiles doesn’t understand how central this has
become in such a short period, how much this affects him, will continue to
affect him. He’ll never be able to look at Stiles’ lips without remembering how
they felt around his cock, or to see Stiles’ hands without a vivid sense memory
of the pouring rain and stalled jeep. The trip has changed him, and he can’t go
back, not without it feeling like a real, palpable loss.
“Why would we end this?” Stiles asks, baffled. “Scott, were you thinking this
was like… temporary or something?”
“I was hoping it wasn’t,” Scott admits. “I wasn’t sure what exactly it was.
What it is.”
“A relationship,” Stiles says. “I… I thought you knew.”
“Not everyone’s you and Malia,” Scott reminds him gently. “Some of us need
words to say what we are.”
“Well then here,” Stiles says. “Scott McCall, will you be my boyfriend?”
Scott wants to laugh at the way Stiles bats his eyelashes at him, but he
doesn’t know how much more Stiles it could get. “Of course,” he says, kissing
Stiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”
===============================================================================
 
The drive back they spend taking turns sleeping. Neither of them wanted to pass
out the night before, energized by the glow of making things official. It’s a
long drive, but that doesn’t intimidate either of them anymore.
When Stiles drives past the “Welcome to Beacon Hills!” sign, Scott feels a bit
hollow. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, now that he’s back - he’d
gotten so used to constantly moving that he thinks even he will be a bit antsy
for the next week or two, until he adjusts back to eating real food and being
able to take showers as long as he needs. He’s come back with a new
perspective, and he looks forward to the future.
Most of all, though, he looks forward to sleeping in a real bed.
(preferably with Stiles in it, too)
End Notes
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