Foundling
Scott and his mom move away. Stiles is heartbroken, obviously, but in a platonic and hetero-lifemate kind of way. He expects to be ignored by the pack since his best friend is no longer his in, and worries that Lydia will go back to ignoring him, and that Jackson will go back to sippin' on his haterade, and Derek might actually kill him if he continues to hang around.
Written for a teenwolfkink prompt at livejournal that I have no idea how to link..
This is my first attempt at Teen Wolf or indeed any full-length fan fiction, so fair warning: I have no idea what I'm doing. Fingers crossed I do Stiles and the plot prompt justice.
He was standing dejectedly at the end of the concrete path which had for so long been the entryway to Scott's house but now was already beginning to feel strange and alien beneath his feet. Staring at the horizon his mom's car had disappeared into he felt the throbbing ache in his arm, an understandable pain when he considered how long he had spent jumping up and down and waving, not allowing his arm to quit long after he'd lost sight of the back wheels.
Scott was gone.
He'd left to the silence of early dawn and Stiles couldn't quite understand how he could slip away so simply. There should be fireworks, a brass band, crowds of people waving and crying into tissues, running alongside the car like a vintage train farewell scene, the whole shebang.
Instead there was Stiles, who tried to make up for the lack thereof with unbounded energy and an excitement that didn't reach beneath the surface.
Scott was gone.
He had begun considering his options from the moment the news was catastrophically dumped in his lap.
It was a phonecall. Well, it was three phonecalls.
He could tell in the first Scott was itching to tell him something, he assumed it was wolf related 'shaving my toes: do I, don't I?' that sort of thing, so he didn't press, just listened to awkward mumblings about his mum's work and Allison et cetera et cetera.
It was the second call that put him on his guard.
The first had ended pretty quickly, most of their phone conversations did, and he'd returned to his homework pleased that he'd managed to get through another conversation about Allison's eyelashes without audibly groaning.
He inwardly groaned, but that was allowed.
He also inwardly imagined what the conversation would be like if he had spidey powers, the only difference he could imagine at this distance was that he would be hanging from the ceiling. But up close and personal he could see a couple of webs to Scotts face, sort of a 'get to the point' incentive, bit counter-productive considering the increased likelihood of mumbling.
The second call was not long after and roused him from world history with a slightly panicked jolt.
Again, though Scott had started this one with "Stiles I need to tell you something...", the mumbling reared its ugly head and Stiles could only barely make out snippets of information which seemed to be about either Melissa's hectic work schedule, which, yeah he totally understood as he heard his Dad slam the door downstairs with a "bed by eleven!" thrown behind him, or a recital of the merits of Pittsburgh being read straight from a guidebook.
In the end he lost patience with the rambling
"Scott, I'm the talker, you're the pretty face. And the body. The popularity, and the good-boy-scout, help-old-ladies-cross-the-street-behaviour. I'm the words. So, you wanna tell me where this is going before I come through your window and throw this phone at your head? I have calc to do.. Or, wait, something with numbers"
he scrabbled under the sheets of doodles that increased exponentially in proportion to the length Scott's voice stayed on the line
"World History! Close enough.. Gotta get my trigger finger on it bro."
"It's... It's nothing Stiles, I'll see you in class."
And that set his teeth on edge, for all of about five minutes once Scott's voice was replaced with the sound of the line.
World History... World History... The world was full of history... Consider that there was a point in time when, with little ability to prove their theories people began associating instances with forces, and associating those forces with each other.
Imagine being the mad man with the apple telling everyone it was falling to the ground because of the same junk dragging us around the orange ball of fire, and the waves crashing at your toes were following the instructions of the big ol' sleepy ball of cheese... Did he have cheese in the fridge? Pops wasn't allowed it but.. man... a cheese toastie right now would be heaven, two cheese toasties, double heaven...
Definitely time for a food break.
His head was ducked in the fridge when Scott called the third time "What's the time Mr Wolf?" "Me and my Mom are moving to Pittsburgh."
Deadline.
It was a verbal drive-by.