Sitting in a room as dull as yours had him groaning. There was nothing, no strings, no board to write on. It was hell for him to stare at the dull white walls within the silent home. He was waiting for you, as always. You're ability to stay late at school made him flinch. It was boring. Like your bedroom.
He sighs as he glances around, his back flopping onto the bed. It was dull, no colour was anywhere. Nothing interesting. A few years ago there had been pictures, there had been splashes of light and bright blues. He had known you for so long.
Something had changed, Allison's death, Scott's anger towards you... But what had hit you the most was Malia's arrival. She was pretty, for a coyote. Malia hated you, she would snarl as you entered behind him.
But she wasn't you, she didn't have your hair, she didn't have your smile. She didn't have the gleam in your eyes that made him grin at the reflections of himself.
She wasn't you.
He'd been in your room before, of course he had. You had made forts on cold nights when you both hated the world, you watched bad movies as you tried to take them seriously. You laughed. You played. Stiles couldn't explain it, but it could have been something that sounded a lot like feelings.
He turns his head again, eyes finally falling to a sliver of colour hidden into the drawers of your dresser. Paper peeking at him, almost looking out of place. Almost looking too tempting, his fingers give a little twitch, his head pulling itself up.
He shouldn't. You'd hate him.
Unknowingly his body had sat itself upright, feet placed flat on the stained floor. Probably from him. He couldn't help it. It was something. You had colour stuffed into the drawer.
You had hidden your colour.
His hand reached out, then pulled back. His body turned, his brain scolding him. Angrily he sits on the bed again. Then he was back up, as he rubbed his hands over his face he grunted.
He wanted to. What could you be hiding? It was something. A photo? A book? The old poster he gave you?
He surged forward, fingers landing on the handle and he tore it back towards him. He hadn't realised he had closed his eyes. He hadn't meant to.
Opening one eye, it widened. There, sitting in the drawer, was everything. His poster, the book he had given you on your last birthday, a picture of you both used as a bookmark. Allison's favourite ring hung by a string, connected to a drawing from Lydia, signed as a loving friend.
It was all of it. He smiled, picking up a small notebook that looked beaten and used. It was one he'd seen a long time ago. It was his old crime book. His grin turned softer as he opened the cover, his scribbled handwriting all over the pages.
"The mysterious case of Mr. Scratchy."
As he reads it aloud he laughs, an old case. Your stuffed teddy had been stolen and he had solved it. It was under your bed. That was his first ever case, you were his first ever case. Not that he wasn't ready to admit it, he was. He just didn't know how to say it to you.
He had feelings for you, feelings that were stronger than your stomach.
He flinches at the comparison, but sticking with it none the less. After all, who else could stomach a death match, a horror movie and a dead body all in one day? You could. Hell, even he had to draw the line at ripping open a deer.
But you had needed information and, well, Stiles was too scared to touch it.
God he loved you. If he and you ever got married, you would kill the spiders, he was sure of it.
Flipping to another page, he comes across another case. Immediately he remembered it. First year of Middle School, he was 11. You were helping him with this one.
He wanted to know where the stash of case files his dad had hidden was, and honestly, he needed a break from the way people would pity him. His mother was not long gone after all. So it was a good distraction. It was a great one, for that case; the one that had you both rummaging through the drawers of his father's desk, had him realise just how pretty you were.
The light had fallen in just the right way, never being more thankful he had knocked over a lamp. Your eyes had sparkled and, Stiles being Stiles, spent the next four years pulling and tugging your hair. After all, that’s how he expressed interest. He was 11 for Christ sake.
He notices the bend in a page, it was too far back for him to have done it. He had never written to the last page, and so, sliding delicate fingers across tattered pages, he flicks it open. And there it was, a familiar title, only slightly different.
"The mysterious case of Stiles."
Smiling he looks at the picture stuck into the spine of it, it was him. Your faded handwriting littered the page, and what he could read was promising;
•He likes my favourite book
•He can stand my babbling
•The way he smiles
•His stupid laugh
•His annoying everything
This was a list of things about him, sure most of it was blurred, but by what he could make out in the smudged pencil was that these were things you liked about him. He was sure about it.
He was flattered, he was honoured… He was - he was…
He was your case.
You were his case, each other's cases. He finally got it, looking at the two pages that it spread across he noticed how the writing slowly became a neat line of text; rather than a bunch of squiggles. This wasn’t just from recent events. This was from a while ago.
This was from years ago.
It had been kept and added to over the years, pushing the picture to the side, he squinted to read the other entries.
A small cough brings him out of his revelation, his body immediately flailing as panic sets in. His hands set to fumbling the notebook out of them, falling to the floor with an ungraceful thud. Stiles’ groan echoes in his ears as he slowly turns around.
Apparently the slower he was, the less likely it was that there would be yelling. It had never worked before, no one liked it when he was curious. Last time had Melissa Mccall hitting him with a toilet brush, it wasn’t his fault the cabinet was locked, she should have seen it coming.
There it was, your voice, sweet and gentle - yet questioning and panicked. He followed your eyes to the floor, to the evidence. To the case. You didn’t move or speak, just breathed a little deeper, he could see your chest moving like a hummingbird's wings.
“(Y/N)?” he sounded so guilty, he felt just the same, but he couldn’t help the smile fighting its way onto his face.
“Did-did you read that?” Her voice sounded as tense as her set shoulders looked. He felt bad,but it didn’t last long.
“I didn’t know you liked my annoying everything,” he starts, “Should I be flattered?”
You start out of your staring and walk over, picking up the book without giving him a second glance. Smoothing the pages back down before you close it, you place it back into the drawer, sliding it shut the best you could.
“Right now I dislike it.”
He frowned, letting his head drop to his chest. He was thinking of what to say, how to say it. But instead of a confession, something else rolls off his tongue.
“Is that why you don’t like Malia?”
You freeze mid-turn, your feet halting in their tracks. It was true, you were jealous; she was more his type in your opinion. You were too weird, well, Malia was strange, but not in the way you were. She couldn’t help it. You could.
“I just find her annoying.”
“Annoying? Like me?”
“Shut up, Stilinksi.”
“Are you jealous? You are!”
Back and forth you threw short, broken sentences at each other; his becoming more of an accusing tone, yours soon muffled as you shoved your face into your pillow. It was frustrating. He was trying to get you to admit it, so he could just make his move.
God damn it you were stubborn.
“Stiles!” You shout, your head lifting from the pillow. “Stop it!”
He gives you a frustrated sigh, moving to the bed to sit next to you. Silence breaks the conversation into awkward tension as you try to ignore his stare. He was trying his best, he just couldn’t get it all out. Instead he was piecing together your case.
You were jealous of Malia, you had no reason to be. Malia was interested, sure, but Stiles still followed you like a love-sick puppy. Malia for him was just a girl from the woods, nice enough for a savage, but she wasn’t right for him.
And besides, you were beautiful.
Malia was jealous of you, who wouldn’t be?
Your disheartened sigh brings him back to reality, you looked defeated. It wasn’t an emotion he liked. You held his attention as you kicked your blankets enough for you to slip under them without disturbing Stiles’ position to your left.
“Stiles,” You start, his heart dropping at the annoyed tone. “Can you just, I don’t know, not?”
He tilts his head to the side, confusion littering his features like the spots so gracefully dusted across his cheeks. He didn’t know what he wasn’t meant to be doing. But it must have been something.
You stare at the ceiling, Mr. Scratchy stuffed between the side of the bed near your arm. He almost smiled. Almost.
“Not tell me that you don’t feel the same way, I get it, I do.” your voice trails off, you cough. “Just, don’t tell Malia, she’ll probably kill me.”
Watching him carefully out of the corner of your eye, you watch his eyes travel to your side. He smiles this time, tugging the toy from it’s position, holding it in front of you. Confused, you sit back up, grabbing the little thing in your hands. You tilt your head.
Stiles had it, he knew how to tell you.
“See that, (Y/N)?” Stiles asks, shuffling so he’s sitting directly in front of you. “That’s my first case.”
You smile fondly at him, then back at the teddy in your hands. So it was, not like you could forget. He had loved that case, he was happier. Your little detective solving the mysteries that didn’t really need to be solved. Stiles saw the clues in everything, now he was better at sorting out the helpful ones.
“I see it, Stilinski.” You mutter, nodding your head. “This have a punchline?”
“(Y/N),” He starts off, sounding like he was playfully scolding you, “You don’t get it, do you?”
Lowering the toy you roll your eyes, going over it in your mind as he smiles at you. It was his first case, so what? It was yours too. How did that have anything to do with Malia killing you?
“Obviously not,” you emphasise the ‘T’ on the end of the sentence, flickering your eyes to meet his. His smug smile physically pained you, might have been the tightening of your chest. Little did you know, his did the same.
“Okay…” he starts, shuffling so your knees touched, hands on your shoulders as he bent down, “You were my first case.”
You were confused, he noticed.
“Do you- do you remember that one time when we absolutely trashed my dad's office and he went completely mad?”
Your laugh said it all, but you answered with an amused “of course!”
“Well, that’s when it started,” he paused, “We broke the lamp, well, I did. And you were laughing so hard you were crying, and you just wouldn’t stop!”
Giggling, you look up at him confused, silently asking where he was going with this.
“You were my first case, alright?”
It tumbled from his mouth like rocks from a cliff, landing on ears as if they were hitting you from above. You didn’t understand. So you look back at the teddy in your hands, then you got it.
“Stiles,” you empty your hands, putting one on his on your shoulder, “you were mine too.”
He leans forward, smiling as he moves a hand to your cheek. Leaning into it you finally get it all. You were both idiots, and he knew it all too well. As he leans forward, you do too. Forgetting about Malia and all of the shit that was going on.
And finally, lips touched, like pages closing in a notebook. A notebook full of cases, a beautiful novel creating a world that no one believes; much like your life. His hands felt familiar, and his smile felt homely against your lips.
Pulling away he grins at you.
“Still worried about Malia?”
Laughing he pulls you in, noses touching as he brushes his lips onto yours, not quite a kiss, but just as powerful. The cases finally solved, you were content in knowing that this would open so many more pages in that little case book.
His breath flows over your chin as he speaks a single word, grinning, “Finally!”