Curly Hair and Curly Fries

Lullaby

"Stiles, please."

Silence. There was a beat of uncomfortable stares, as the Pack looked at one another. Scott rapped his fist on the door again.

"Stiles, we need you, okay? Please come out. It's okay." Scott could hear Stile's heartbeat through the wood. The familiar and comforting thrums of his best friend's heart had sped up. Scott could hear Stiles' breath quickening. Scott and the other Were-beings present could tell that Stiles was shaking and crying.

"Go." Came Stile's broken voice; he didn't believe them.

"Stiles, it's not your fault." Lydia Martin stepped beside Scott and her voice rung out steady and clear. "It's not at all, okay? You had no choice." She started, trying to stir some emotion when the door swung open.

There was Stiles, leaning against the door frame. His eyes were bloodshot and hair messy; he hadn't left his room in two days. He looked deathly pale; even more so than when the Nogitsune controlled him just a few days previous.

Scott wanted to speak. To embrace his brother, his Packmate. However, he found himself unable to reach out as Stiles stared at them all with a searching, analytic gaze.

"I don't want you here." He whispered, eyes swimming with tears. He seemed to be fighting himself to spit out the words.

"You don't mean th-"

"Go!" Stiles shouted as much as he could with his dry throat; a shout that caused Lydia to stumble back into Scott's front in shock; leaning against him as if wounded. "Please, just go," Stiles' broken voice uttered out; holding up a jar of Mountain Ash.

Scott inhaled sharply.

"Stiles, what are you doing?"

"I want to be alone. Go." Stiles stated simply, ignoring his friend as he lined the space in front of him. Ignoring the Pack (as now the majority wouldn't even be able to enter), he lined the windowsill in the same manner.

"Stiles, please, you're Pack, okay? We can work this out-"

The door swung closed; and as if a dam had broken, they could hear Stiles break.

Sobs wracked through the teen's body and the Pack ached collectively; as if their hearts could not stand to hear their friend, their Pack member, breakdown.

They turned, silently moving downstairs into the living room of the Stilinski household.

Like ghosts, they perched; mournfully, as if waiting for the moment that Stiles would let them in.

They weren't sure how long it had been; whether the silence had stretched for seconds or hours or years; there seemed to be infinite stillness; broken only by the occasional shouted sob or thudding of pounding fists from upstairs.

The pseudo-silence was broken by the rumbling of a car; the Sherriff's car. John Stilinski strode through the door purposefully, a weary countenance upon him, eyes glistening with hardened pain as he heard Stiles above.

"How long has he been like this?" He asked quietly, watching as the Pack shifted, stealing glances at one another.

"We came to see him after school and; well, he's been up there the whole time." Came Malia's voice; straightforward but tight with pain; her whole body taught as her anchor; her first friend; was screaming into a seeming abyss.

John's posture seemed to slump with defeat before a moment, before stubbornly, if not defiantly, he straightened; a determined look set upon him that grabbed the Pack's attention.