Hello! So, I'm currently in LOVE with the pairing Sterek, so I'm writing a lot of angsty stuff about them... yeah. Just because I think even though Stiles is so happy all time, he still has a lot of baggage. There is some sadness, some gayness, some character deaths, and LOTS of angst. So, bring tissues. I'm going to bring the ultimate FLUFF/ANGST to the table here! ENJOY! Also, I own nothing except an O/C that will be featured in the story sometime. I NEED NAMES! GIRL NAMES First and last please! THANKS!
I Hate Everything About You
Chapter One: Don't Think About ItStiles normally didn't let his feelings get in the way of the whole 'werewolf' problem. He's made that mistake before. Trusting Scott, his best friend, was mistake number one. Scott constantly kept secrets, abandoned him for Allison, and now he was gone again, this time in favor of his new friend, Isaac.
It wasn't like Isaac was bad. In fact, he was nice. In a dismissive, slightly arrogant, maybe a little bit depressing way. But, hey, so was Jackson, who every day was getting better at expressing himself without using harsh words or violence. Lydia was helping with that. Stiles mentioned that Derek should take lessons from her and ended up with a bruised shoulder from getting shoved against a wall by the taller, brooding Alpha.
Mistake number two was falling in love with Lydia, even though she was completely in love with Jackson. They deserved each other, though. And Lydia had been looking guilty for weeks after Stiles had confessed his love for her in his room after the game that had made her weep over Jackson's 'death'. She'd known what he was, and she still loved him. She had saved him. Because they were perfect, and Jackson depended on perfect.
Mistake number three was dragging his dad into this mess. He no longer trusted his son. He had gotten his job back, but now their father-to-son conversations were brief and forced. The Sheriff wouldn't eat dinner with him like they had since Stiles' mom died. He ignored his son mostly, focused on work and keeping Gerard Argent, who had been caught days after the incident in the warehouse, under a watchful eye.
So, where was Stiles now? Alone and mud spattered from the latest werewolf encounter, which happened to deal with Alphas who were even less friendly than Derek. His friends were together in the living room of what used to be the Hale house. Derek had commanded that Stiles take a shower and change out of his muddy clothes. Stiles had made a smart ass comment about how the house already had enough dirt and human ashes that a little mud wouldn't hurt much. He now had another bruise from the muscular man and had almost pissed himself when Peter Hale had growled at him.
He was currently moping in Derek's room, which somehow still had a working shower. After all, only half the house had burned completely. The front of the house, including the living room and Derek's room and the staircase had all managed to be saved.
Stiles, who was leaning against the door of Derek's room, pulled himself away and undressed, stepping into the shower uneasily. The whole house was rather depressing. The bathroom was drab and unpainted. There were cracks running up the walls and the tiles were scorched, blackened from the fire that had consumed the house a little less than seven years ago.
Stiles showered quickly, ridding his body of mud and rusty red grime that coated his fingernails. He thought back to the battle that had ensued.
He remembered the deaths of Erica and Boyd clearly, whereas the deaths of the Alpha pack werewolves were foggy. He knew that the Alpha-Mega had been taken down by Scott and Derek, he knew that Erica had died saving Isaac, and Boyd had died at the hands of one of the She-Wolves and her mate. He remembered the sensation of fury when the Alpha-Mega had tried to kill Scott. He remembered killing the Alpha-Mega's mate, the memory of the She-Wolf's blood staining his hands as he cut her throat and pulse points, a trick he had learned from Chris Argent, who had helped his daughter survive the battle.
The blood, crusted on his fingers and the gashes in his shoulder that were the sign of his humanity in the cesspool of monsters and regenerative species. He carefully washed his wounds, wincing as the last bits of glass and asphalt and pine needles from the forest were plucked out of his raw and bruised skin.
Stiles stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, scrubbing his short hair quickly with the towel to dry it. He dabbed carefully around the cuts and bruises on his torso and legs. His feet were sore from running and skidding away from wolves. His hands were full of splinters and pine needles from climbing up trees to get away from wolves, or attack from above.
He shook the memories of the battle out of his head. He tried to forget the screams, the pain, the animosity between the two packs. One made of humans, Argents, born weres and bitten ones alike. The other made up of well-trained killing machines that took no order from anyone other than the Alpha-Mega.
Stiles sighed heavily, running his aching hands over his soft hair slowly, wishing that he could clear the agonizing sounds of the battle out of his head. Wished he didn't feel horrible for killing someone's mate.
He opened the door of the bathroom to find that Derek had laid out some of his clothes for Stiles. They looked like they could have been from when Derek was Stiles' age. They were ratty, but warm looking. They smelled of ash and pine and barbequing. Stiles felt horrible for what he had said to Derek, about the ashes of his dead relatives and the grit that covered the house.
He walked quietly downstairs to find Scott and Isaac laughing and talking to each other. The smile of Scott's face was heartbreakingly honest and trusting. It hurt to know that Stiles was no longer the person who could make him smile like that. The only smile Scott would give him now was that of an annoyed and exasperated friend who you've just told a stupid joke to.
Lydia was on Jackson's lap and caught Stiles' eye. She immediately jumped off his boyfriend's lap and gave Stiles a guilty, weak smile. Stiles waved it off, smiling softly back at her. Derek and Peter Hale were watching over the group like a pair of worried soccer-moms. Well, Derek was. Peter was blathering on about how he had killed one of the Alpha pack.
Allison and her father were talking quietly on the couch. Probably apologizing to each other again for everything that had occurred in the past. They were horribly sentimental after battles, Stiles noticed.
Stiles smiled lightly at the pack. He loved them all. But he didn't belong with them. They were all special, even Lydia and Allison who fought like their enemy was the only thing they could focus on.
Stiles knew that was his weakness; attachments. Relationships. Ever since Allison and Scott broke up, Scott had been more focused in school. Allison trained to be a fiercer friend to Lydia and a killer assassin against the forces of evil that had suddenly appeared in Beacon Hills.
Quietly, though nothing could ever be done quietly in a room full of werewolves, Stiles slipped out of the house, closing the door behind him. He walked to his Jeep, which probably needed repairs due to Jackson slamming an Alpha against the hood. Jumping in, Stiles realized he didn't really have anywhere to go. His friends were sitting in a relieved heap in the Hale house, his father was at work, unaware of his beaten and bloodied son having just killed someone's soul-mate and almost being killed himself, and his closest relatives were living in Nevada.
Nevada it is, Stiles thought, starting the car.
Due to Thanksgiving break, Stiles got to spend a week in Nevada with his cousins, not worrying about werewolves, or his dad, or his friends, just relaxing and eating and having fun with little Emma and Jake, his two adorable six-year old cousins. His aunt and uncle had welcomed him with open arms and let him stay for the week.
But when break was almost over, Stiles had to leave. Leave security and safety and home to go back to…
He couldn't name what Beacon Hills was to him. it was Hell on earth, sure, but it used to be home. Safe. Calm. A constant in the world. But now that illusion was shattered.
He'd blame Scott for it. Blame Scott for the slow change in his optimistic personality. Blame him for the tension that built up in Stiles' stomach, the tension and anxiety that made his panic attacks return. Blame Scott and stupid Derek for dragging him into this hellish environment that had been hidden for so long.
He would blame Scott. Except he couldn't, he just couldn't without feeling guilty. He knew it wasn't Scott's choice to become Batman. It wasn't his choice for Stiles to turn in to the useless Robin character. It was always Stiles.
The memory of Lydia's party last year returned to him. The hallucination of his dad saying 'It was you Stiles' mockingly. The memory of his father telling him 'I don't want to feel worse by yelling at my son' in that disappointed tone when he had gotten fired because of Stiles. Stiles and Scott.
Anger boiled in Stiles stomach as he drove back to Beacon Hills. Anger that took over his body and made him pull over so he wouldn't hit some innocent driver. Anger that pulsed through him, made his heart thud in his chest and echo in his head. Hatred, a word that Stiles never seemed to use, rose in his mind. He hated Scott for what he'd done to Stiles' life. Scott's oblivious personality was no longer funny and one of those things where Stiles would say, 'Oh that's just Scott'. It was this hideous thing that had made Stiles' fingers clench, his skin crawl with resentment.
He started driving again. Three miles until he reached Beacon Hills. Three miles until he had to deal with Scott and Isaac's new friendship. Three miles until he had to return to Hell.
His father was waiting for him when he pulled into the driveway at eight that night. His uncle must have called to tell the Sheriff so that the man wouldn't have been worried. Stress-lines returned to Sheriff Stilinski's face as he noticed the Jeep pulling in.
"I heard you were staying at Uncle Jim's and Aunt Jennifer's," Sheriff Stilinski said quietly as Stiles climbed out of the car. Stiles fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. His chin was lifted and he met his dad's green eyes reluctantly. "I missed you, son. I know I've been avoiding you the past… well… it's been a couple months. And I'm sorry, Stiles. I know we need to talk about everything that's happened. I've been… worried. Worried about myself, and I'm sorry. I should be worried for you, kid, and I have. But I just don't know how to tell you how much it would kill me to see you hurt… are those stitches?"
Stiles' hand reached for his forehead, where the Alpha-Mega had made a gash in the shape of a crescent around his left eye. "Yeah," Stiles croaked. "Aunt Jen fixed it up."
"Where did you get it?" his dad asked, frown lines appearing across his forehead, and Stiles realized the lines that made his father's face look tired and aged weren't stress from Stiles making his life hard, they were from worrying about Stiles.
His dad knew about the pack. He knew about wolves and Kanimas, and everything. Ever since the warehouse, Stiles had refused to keep it a secret from his dad anymore. "It was a rival pack. All Alphas. Their leader, the Alpha-Mega, cut me."
"Are you alright?" his father asked.
"I'm still alive," Stiles said softly.
"Did anyone get hurt?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone die?"
"…Yes… Erica and Boyd," Stiles said, tears falling from his golden eyes. "They were each other's mates. It was horrible, but now they don't have to be afraid anymore."
"And Scott?"
"He's fine. Allison is fine. A little shaken, but none of us aren't," Stiles muttered, picking at his nails. He looked up at his dad. "I missed you over Thanksgiving." His vision blurred and he was suddenly crying into his father's police jacket.
"I love you, Stiles," his dad said, hugging him tight.
Stiles hoped his dad understood that Stiles loved him, too, as he couldn't get out another word through his sobbing. Nothing was normal. Nothing would be again. But things were ok in the Stilinski household, and that was enough for now. Enough for Stiles.