Chapter Text
Laura was--
God, Laura was one of those people who was actually too incredible to put into words--and it sounds corny now, sounds completely ridiculous because Stiles is alone, now, he's alone and Laura is out there, somewhere, and Stiles has tried to find her, tried but to no avail. Laura was the type of girl that would send you sour gummy worms as a gag birthday present because she knew that you were frightened of them as a kid, and she was the girl that would hold you on the anniversary of your mom's death, not because she was a particularly maternal person or anything, but because she knew that you needed it.
She was just--
Amazing. Incredible. The calm before the storm. The rainbow after the rain (and all of the horrible other cliches wrapped into one, because that's who Laura was, she was that girl in those stupid romantic comedies, the one that everyone loves because she lights up the room and has a heart of [icy] gold).
And Stiles hates himself for it, too, hates himself for using past tense like she's already gone, but--
There's no way she's still alive.
It's been three days, three days since Derek Hale knocked on his door and said, "my sister's missing." Three days since Stiles grabbed his keys in a blind panic and followed Derek out into the woods to go help find her.
It's been three days, and no one ever makes it to the third day.
*
Stiles is reading a required book for class when there's a knock at his door.
He almost doesn't answer it, because Scott's out of town with his father until later that night, and his dad is that much of an asshole to never let him go early, but the knocking is persistent enough to annoy Stiles (to
annoy
him; Stiles doesn't get annoyed easily).
Derek Hale's at his door.
Stiles has only met him twice, and one of those times was when he was at his mother's funeral, when Stiles was a broken, strung-out, ten-year-old mess. Stiles would like to think he doesn't remember anything about that day, that he doesn't remember how Derek had walked up to him, stilted condolences, like he'd rather be anywhere then wishing some kid good luck without his mother.
The other time, well, let's just say that Laura had drug her brother out here a few months back. She'd been a regular visitor since the fire, to check up on her uncle, to see if he was okay. She was like that, she'd fly out on a regular basis to hold her uncle's hand and to rave about the progress they both were making. Without him.
Would tell him how she wished he was there, too.
Her uncle was comatose, though. He probably would be for the rest of his life, or so the doctor's said.
It makes Stiles unbearbly sad whenever he thinks about it.
Stiles doesn't think about it, much.
But, anyway, Derek's at his door, and Stiles doesn't even have to recognize the look on his face to know that something's wrong.
Stiles doesn't have to think twice about it to know it's about Laura.
"What's wrong?" Stiles asks, aiming for nonchalant because falling apart in front of his best friend's (hot, terribly, awfully hot) brother probably isn't the best course of action. Especially when said brother looks three seconds away from a mental breakdown himself.
"It's Laura," Derek says, voice strained, painfully, like the act of just talking is slowing ripping him apart inside. It probably is.
Stiles' stomach sinks down to his toes, and he has to grab onto the door to steady himself. He knows--
Realistically, Stiles knows that whatever trouble Laura has gotten herself into, it's big, because Derek wouldn't have come out here to tell him otherwise. Fuck, as far as Stiles knew, neither of them were in town, but here Derek is, in the flesh, standing in front of Stiles like one strong bout of wind could knock him over.
"What is it?"
"She's--" Derek's voice breaks, and a brief flash of remorse and regret and guilt slides across his face before it's gone just as quickly. "She's missing."
Stiles doesn't even
think
before he's jumping into action, grabbing his keys off of the key hook by the door and running out with Derek.
*
Stiles meet Laura Hale when he's five.
Stiles' mom and dad are short a babysitter, since his last one quit, proclaiming him to be "too hard to handle, but really, you have a lovely son." It's their anniversary dinner, too, and Stiles may only be five, but he knows how important it is to them.
"I can babysit myself!" Stiles yells, once they've exhausted all of their contacts. "I'll be good, I won't even touch the bad remote for the TV," Stiles adds on proudly, because he knows how much they both hate that and Stiles wants them to go have a good time.
He may only be five, but he knows he's tougher and more smarter and fun than a regular five-year-old.
He
knows
so. His mommy tells him it all of the time.
"Stiles, baby, I'm sure you could, but we need a babysitter to make sure you don't ruin the house," His dad says, gently, caressing the top of his head.
Stiles pouts. "I don't need no stinky babysitter!"
"Big boys don't pout," his mom says, tapping him on the wrist lovingly, and it makes Stiles straighten immediately.
"I have someone else we could call," his mom whispers, obviously not meant for Stiles' ears, but he hears it anyway.
'Cause he's smarter than other five-year-olds.
Stiles' dad nods, keeping an eye on Stiles to make sure he doesn't run out of the house or try to set fire to their kitchen again--with a
toy
gun--while his wife makes the call.
"Hey, Marley, I hate to ask this, but do you think Laura could babysit Stiles for us--"
*
They're inseparable after that.
Stiles can't get enough of Laura because she's smart and beautiful and lovely and kind and makes him chocolate chip sandwiches and Stiles--
Stiles may be a little bit in love.
If he knew what love is, of course. But he doesn't, because he's only five.
Laura is great, though. She's so great that instead of giving Lydia Martin his star valentine card that year, he gives it to Laura, signing it with a simple "Keep it cute, Laurbear" because Stiles is adorable, and he can get away with it.
*
Laura smiles so big when she opens it that Stiles skips around for the next week at least.
If someone asks him why, he'd say it's because his birthday is coming up soon and he's excited (he's going to be
six
after all, that's like being a
teenager
).
He doesn't want to share Laura, doesn't want other people to know that his best friend is the greatest person alive.
He wants Laura all to himself.
*
They search the woods surrounding Beacon Hills for days.
Stiles doesn't sleep, either, because he can't. He can't sleep when he doesn't know if Laura can sleep; Stiles can’t rest with the alarming possibility that Laura probably can’t. So he turns on his awfully pretentious iMac and researches recent abductions (and murders--but he
so
doesn't want to think about that) in the area to see how frequent they've been. By the level of frequency, he can link them to a pattern, and a pattern can lead him to a perp.
He’s definitely his father’s son, really.
They’ve been at it for three days when Stiles finally resorts to finding a body instead of an actual living person.
He’d like to think that maybe she’d been kept alive out of some sort of twisted game, but he’s seen enough police reports, has snuck enough case files to know that three days is far too long for most abductors.
It’s far too long for an abductor not to become a murderer.
But--
Stiles--
Stiles isn't going to give up on her.
Stiles is
never
going to give up on her--even when every bone in his body is screaming at him to, because this is Laura, and Stiles--
Stiles knows Laura would’ve never given up on him.
*
It’s four days, three hours, and twenty-three minutes after Derek shows up at his door that he hears a knock on his window.
He jumps from where he may or may not have fallen asleep--there’s even
drool
, which he is totally going to ignore, anyway--and looks to where Derek’s perched on his window sill, fists clenched and face hidden by shadows.
Stiles--
He knows it’s not good news.
Derek doesn’t make house visits with good news.
He opens it even though he knows the news he’s about to hear will probably tear him apart, because the part of him that wants to know overpowers the part of him that doesn’t, and Derek barely has a foot in through the window before he says, broken and strained and a million other things, “she’s dead.”
He doesn’t breakdown, he doesn’t scream or cry or thrash around like he wants to, all he does is swallow and ask, “how do you know?”
Derek looks horrible, all dark circles under his eyes and pale, frail skin, that looks like it’s about to fracture at any second. Stiles can’t imagine what Derek’s going through, having lost everyone--because that’s what Laura
is
now, she’s lost; Stiles knows that Derek wouldn’t lie about this, that he wouldn’t have come over if he wasn’t completely positive--that he’s ever cared about.
Stiles doesn’t focus on that, though, because Derek’s expression is closed off, like he can
smell
the pity coming off of him in waves or something--
And that’s.
Totally impossible.
“I found her,” he whispers, and then grasps the window pane so tight it creaks under the pressure. “I found her and I need your help, Stiles, I need--”
Stiles opens his mouth, but Derek beats him to the punch.
“I need you to help me find who did this to her,” Derek says, determination seeping through his words, “I need you to help me find who did this to her, and then we’re going to
slaughter
him.”