Hello everybody, I would like to say the story that I publish are not written by me.
My account only give a stage for stories I read and thought it would be more comfortable to read them hear at fanfiction.
The story is called:The Road Less Traveled
By:gryvon
From: Archive Of Our Own (or for short: ao3)
{ /works/1689728/chapters/3663674#workskin}
Erica shows up the next day with Boyd trailing her. She has a pie from the store and grins at him with a slightly apologetic tint to her lips. "I tried to make one but years of not being allowed near the stove meant it ended poorly."
Stiles blinks. He supposes epilepsy and open flames would probably be a bad combination. "I can teach you if you want, sometime." He gestures to his leg and waves his splint. "Can't do any cooking myself right now. God knows what sort of junk my dad has been sneaking while I was in the hospital."
Erica's eyes light up and they spend the next hour in the kitchen. There's a dusting of flour on the floor and a smear of strawberry on Erica's cheek but they have a successful pie by the time his dad gets home. Erica's talking about making cookies next time.
"Hey, dad," Stiles calls before John can disappear upstairs, probably heading for a well-deserved nap. John pauses in the stairwell and then turns, drawn into the kitchen by the smell of pie. Stiles is propped with his ass in one chair and his leg in another, facing the stove so he can give Erica directions. Boyd's put himself out of harm's way at the far end of the island, but somehow Erica still managed to get flour on him.
"Is that pie?"
Stiles chuckles. "Yes, but it needs to cool. There's some books I wanted from an estate sale on Franklin Street. Do you think you could pick them up for me?"
"Yeah, sure. I can run out now and pick them up."
Stiles frowns. He knows how tired he feels from not sleeping last night and his dad can't be much better, especially after having to get up for work early this morning. "It can wait until tomorrow."
John just waves a hand and Stiles offers a small smile of thanks.
"I've got some cash on my dresser." He pulls a notepad across the table and copies the titles and address from his phone. "The pie should be ready by the time you get back." He glances at the clock and then at Erica, who seems so eager and pleased with her cooking success. "Dinner too, if Erica wants to be my hands again." She nods emphatically.
John takes the paper from him and ruffles his hair. "Sounds good to me. Don't worry about the money. I've got it." His eyes wander to Erica and Boyd. "Don't let him boss you around too much."
Boyd grins, showing teeth—blunt, human teeth, thankfully. "Yes, sir." The irony of Stiles bossing around two werewolves is lost on none of them.
John returns with not only all three of the books Stiles had wanted, but a trunk full of books that are vaguely occult in nature. Stiles is sorting through them the next morning—he'd rather deal with dusty books than his endless nightmares—when he realizes that there's something strange about the trunk. The dimensions don't match up. He taps the bottom and after a minute of searching, he finds the catch. His eyes widen as he opens the hidden compartment. There's a wealth of serious occult materials hidden in the four-inch tall compartment. He's pretty sure at least three of the jars have mountain ash in them.
There's two leather-bound notebooks in there, too. Spellbooks, Stiles realizes as he flips through them. Real, actual, hand-written spellbooks with Latin phrases and runes and components and everything.
He remembers what Deaton had said about being a Spark and he thinks that maybe if he can do something with the spellbooks, he won't be so defenseless after all.
What's the worst that could happen?
"Did you have a fight with Derek?"
Stiles blinks and fumbles with his controller. He hasn't had a good night's sleep since the hospital, which means he's not playing his best. His character dies from a headshot and he glares. Erica totally said that to distract him. "No. Why?"
"He keeps prowling outside but never comes in."
Stiles frowns and stares out the window. He doesn't see Derek but he's not a werewolf and Derek doesn't usually make it easy. "Is he out there now?"
Erica shakes her head. "No. He never is when we're here."
"Because he trusts us to keep you safe," Boyd adds from where he's flipping through Stiles's comics on the floor.
Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it, biting back the automatic response about how he doesn't need protecting. His multiple broken and fractured bones are obvious proof of the opposite. The fact that he feels better when one of the werewolves is nearby is even more proof. He picks up his phone instead and opens a new text message.
Don't be a creeperwolf. Next time you're over, come in. You don't even have to use the door.
Erica grins at him as he sets his phone back down. It says something about their growing friendship that she doesn't comment.
She does, however, kill him six more times in Halo.
Stiles doesn't sleep. The nightmares make sure of that. His dad hasn't worked nights since Stiles got out of the hospital. He knows it's part of the secret conspiracy to make sure he's not alone. Even Scott and Isaac are in on it, dropping by with movies and helping Stiles down the stairs so they can all watch together. Lydia mentioned bringing Jackson over next movie night so the whole pack will be together, minus Derek who seems content to be a stalkerwolf outside Stiles's house.
Until now.
A light tap on his window wakes him from the start of a nightmare, one he's glad to be rid of. He's dreamed of Gerard and black ooze enough for one week.
Red eyes flash outside and Stiles gestures vaguely with his splint. The window slides open. Derek slinks in, stumbling slightly as he encounters the new—well, very old but new to Stiles's room—trunk under the window.
Derek regards him silently for a long moment. Stiles is still partially in the clutches of sleep, even though he doesn't want to be. He's starting to hate sleep.
"You said to come in," Derek says, breaking the silence.
"I did," Stiles agrees. He yawns and leans back against the pillows. He's tired. This isn't new. "Better to be comfy inside. Less stalkerish."
Stiles's eyes have drifted closed but he can still feel Derek's gaze on him. "Are you going to be able to sleep with me in here?" He imagines Derek's angry eyebrows moving in strange werewolf semaphore. If Derek really has been keeping an eye outside, then he knows Stiles hasn't been sleeping.
"Maybe," Stiles says. The word comes out a sleepy slur. He nestles down against his pillow mountain. His eyelids flutter as he hears Derek close the window. He doesn't open his eyes though he's partially curious what Derek's planning to do in the dark room.
Derek snorts softly but that's the only answer Stiles gets. There's a rustle of fabric. His desk chair squeaks. He thinks he hears Derek move some of the papers on Stiles's desk and he wants to tell Derek not to go through his stuff but his mouth doesn't want to move. He's comfortable. His limbs feel heavy and for the first time in a week, sleep comes without a fight.
There are no more nightmares that night.
When he wakes, Derek is gone and his dad is tapping on the door asking if he wants pancakes. Of course he wants pancakes. Who says no to pancakes?
"Was Derek over last night?" John asks as Stiles hobbles down to the couch. They've taken to eating their meals in the living room since it's easier for Stiles to get to the couch than to sit at the table.
So much for being discrete. The lack of screaming nightmares was probably a fairly big clue. "Yeah," Stiles says, like it's nothing.
"He's the Alpha, right? The leader of them all?"
They haven't talked about any of this since the hospital, despite his dad picking up a trunk full of obviously occult books for him. "Yeah." He picks at his pancakes, chewing on a small bite as he thinks about how to answer. "He gets... He feels responsible. For the whole Gerard thing. He's got this whole protective streak because of..." He shoves a pancake bite into his mouth to keep from saying too much.
"Because of what happened to his family?"
Stiles nods.
"You seem like you slept better last night."
He can't stop the blush that spreads over his face. "Yeah. Nothing puts me out like having a potentially deadly creature of the night watching me sleep."
"So it seems." John is buying none of his bluster. "While I'm not exactly thrilled that he's climbing in through your window, I'm not going to turn him away. Just make sure he stops by during the daytime sometime. Maybe comes over for dinner." John grins then, in the way that means that there will be merciless teasing for weeks to come. "Or stays for breakfast. I don't have to give you the safe sex talk, do I? Or remind you that you're not old enough for anything to be happening between you two?"
Stiles sets his plate aside before he drops it and covers his face with his good hand. He feels like he's radiating heat. He must be super obvious if even his dad is picking up on his stupid crush. "There's nothing like that going on, dad. God, he doesn't even know..." Stiles bites his lip, embarrassed to be admitting it out loud.
"Doesn't know what?"
Stiles peeks between his fingers. "He doesn't even know I like him. We haven't... there's nothing going on. I swear."
John gave him a look. "Stiles. I love you, son, but there is no way a grown man is spending his night in a teenager's bedroom if there isn't anything there."
"It's not... You don't... It's a pack thing."
John arches an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were a werewolf."
His hand falls away from his face. "You don't have to be a werewolf to be pack." Or at least that's what he's been telling himself for the last year. He's part of Scott's pack and Scott is nominally part of Derek's pack. He's pretty sure Erica and Boyd would beat him if he even suggested he wasn't part of Derek's pack now. "It's about connection, not the bite. Allison and Lydia are both pack."
"By virtue of dating Scott and Jackson." Maybe John had been paying attention to the werewolf spiel.
He shrugs. "By virtue of being a hunter and the only one who knows Archaic Latin. I'm the researcher. Hence the books and the internet history that you should probably not look at because, let's be honest, there's porn on there. I am a teenage boy. But, yeah, not dating anyone in or outside of the pack."
"Alright." John holds up his hands in surrender. "But when that changes, make sure he comes over for dinner. I will not be denied my parental right to put the fear of God into any suitors."
Stiles rolls his eyes, but the fact that his dad thinks there's even a sliver of possibility that he could hook up with Derek fills him with hope.
He texts Erica later, once his dad has gone off to work, before Scott shows up with the movie marathon of the day. Does everyone know I have a crush on Derek?
The response is almost instantaneous. Yes. Everyone but Derek. Why? Who spilled? Did you two hook up?
He turns red just reading the text. OMG. My dad. No one. No. OMG.
Damn. Wait til school starts. That's my week in the betting pool.
He drops his phone. It lands in his lap and stares at it like it's a viper. They have a betting pool? No. No way. Erica's just teasing him. Maybe. He's not sure he wants to continue this conversation, but the thought of letting Erica continue on her own scares him more. He picks it up with trepidation. No. Just no. He doesn't even like me.
He does.
He doesn't.
Don't make me come over there.
He shudders. Scott is on the way. This conversation would scar him.
Even more reason.
Maybe later. A thought occurs to him. Derek wasn't lurking around here this morning, was he? My dad was a little blunt.
The next text doesn't come for several worrisome minutes. Isaac said he got home around six. I think you're safe.
Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. His phone chimes with another text.
Did he stay the night? Did you snuggle?
Stiles doesn't bother to respond. When Scott and Isaac show up later, Stiles pins them with a glare. "Tell me about the betting pool."
Scott's blush and Isaac's laugh are confirmation that there really is a betting pool. Oh God. Stiles falls back against the pillows and buries himself under stray pillows. His whole body feels like it's gone scarlet with sheer mortification. Maybe he'll just lay here and suffocate and it'll all be over with.
Scott doesn't let him suffocate. He digs Stiles out and levels Stiles with a concerned puppy face, then asks if Stiles wants to talk about his feelings. Stiles groans. Isaac doesn't stop laughing.
