Never Enough


Summary


After hearing the people, he considered his pack—his family—saying things that he would have never thought they would say, Stiles is more than a little disheartened and hurt. Yes, he knows he can be annoying and rude and doesn't know when not to poke the angry bear. Yes, he's human and maybe that makes him weak and pathetic and containing questionable worth. But, to hear the words, "He will never be pack." It hurt something quiet and hopeful inside of him.

Since it's summer, he decides on a whim to go visit his estranged cousins elsewhere. He needs to get out of Beacon Hills for a bit. Needs to clear his head. Needs to unbreak his heart.

Though, in an effort to get away from the supernatural and regain some measure of normalcy in his life, he gets drawn deeper in—in a strange twist of fate and a world doused in irony.

And—when he returns to his home, he knows that there is a quiet confidence in his ability to—not just survive but thrive in a world riddled with supernatural. He doesn't need the Hale pack to be great—to be something worthwhile—to be enough. He's content with who he is.


Also, basically a story where Stiles discovers himself and finally puts himself first. He's not leaving his one-sided family on their own for the summer—providing them with the research he has gathered. Includes overall healthiness and healing—who doesn't love a muscular, tattooed Stiles?


This story does not exist in the same universe as the Unforgettable Birthday—I think that was just a story I created that would introduce Thomas, Chris, Jace, and Diana and get a feel for how some of you felt about them because I know from experience that sometimes OC characters tend to annoy me because they take away from the actual characters in the show and the characters I really want to read about.

This is also set with a canonical season 2 and set in the summer between the main crew's junior and senior year. I think what I'm going to do is bump them up a grade because I wrote this before I realized that they were sophomores in season 2, whoops—how you know that I'm super out of touch with Teen Wolf and can't use my brain. I also really wanted Stiles to be seventeen in this because it's close enough to eighteen for me to feel a bit more comfortable with the Stiles/Derek ship I have joined.

Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Scott/Allison, Erica/Boyd, and Lydia/Jackson. Potentially Isaac/OC


Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf


Part I


Fingers loosely curled into a fist; he slammed his hand against the top of the steering wheel; frustrated tears slipping down his face. His hand throbbed and he could feel the curses slipping from his lips as he cradled his wrist, head bowing, and he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. The jeep hummed underneath him—the sound nearly soothing—as he wiped roughly at his face, the tears coalescing on his fingers. Stiles' fingers slid to the small tan, drawstring pouch he had tied around his neck, the collection of herbs inside of it poignant against his nose.

At first, spending the past few weeks developing a way to disguise one's scent from supernatural creatures had seemed beneficial—it allowed for them to gather information on whatever threats that were lurking in Beacon Hills without raising suspicion. Privately, he had tested many samples with the werewolves he interacted with daily, most just giving him an odd scent that made Scott wrinkle his nose when they interacted. He didn't want an odd scent covering his own, but a scent that didn't exist—one that blended with his surroundings, and he had finally found one that wouldn't be lethal to the pack.

Stiles had also—in his private experimentation—realized that werewolves didn't just rely on scent alone. They relied on their hearing as well, his previous research had illustrated that enough—which made it a bit more difficult to sneak up on the werewolves. Especially Derek Hale.

Their alpha was a born werewolf. Derek had a larger understanding of his senses and control—though the alpha did not like to disclose that to Stiles, instead resorting to communicating through growling and grumbling that amused Stiles more than it scared him. Stiles had questioned Deaton on ways to disguise his heartbeat as well—and found that he could add more to the collection of herbs that would also disguise his heartbeat. There were runes that would help, but Stiles was not as advanced in the spark side of things as he would like, and he doubted they would work with his current skill-set.

Showing up nearly half an hour before their traditional pack-night seemed like a perfect time to test out the minerals completely—first off, they wouldn't expect him to come early, and they would expect to hear the general ruckus of his jeep announcing his presence before he even set foot on the front porch. Second, it would give him the opportunity to introduce it to his friends and it'd be the first time he could sneak up on Scott since he was bitten, and Stiles had enjoyed the idea of pranking him.

He just—he hadn't expected to overhear the pack. Stiles had attended a few of the training sessions they had prior to the mandated pack night—but this one he had opted out of—and it seemed they had finished training and migrated inside for delivered pizza, chips, and soda. He had overheard them discussing him. Which would have been fine—if it hadn't of been them saying how much he annoyed them and how they wished he would just leave them alone for a little bit.

Stiles knew he could be annoying.

He had practically made it a point to be annoying—because it was just in his personality. He was the comedic relief—he had always tried to lighten things whenever people displayed darkness around him because he had enough darkness in his own mind, and he knew that just letting it spread would make the demons worse. They needed to cling to whatever light-hearted things they could otherwise they would just be drowning. Suffocating. Choking on self-loathing and self-hatred and the thought of being worth less than they were.

It wasn't a concept unfamiliar to him. It wasn't completely out of left-field for his friends to find him annoying—to tell him to shut up. But—but most times he could see the exasperation tinged with fondness like they knew he wouldn't listen and were ok with that. It also wasn't completely out of left field for Derek to slam him against walls when Stiles' words became too much—when he was trying to fill the tense atmosphere with meaningless drivel, so he didn't have to hear the echoes in his own thoughts.

He thought they understood that—understood that he needed to fill the silence sometimes because his head wasn't filled with the light he exuded. He didn't think that his best friend could sit there—surrounded by their new group of friends, friends that felt more like family—and just go off about how much Stiles was annoying him. How he wished that Stiles would just leave him alone for a little bit. That Stiles was sometimes too much for him.

Stiles would have expected to hear something like that from Jackson. Maybe even Erica if he were being completely honest. Derek could have been included in that list as well. It wasn't something that he had expected to hear from Scott or Isaac. He had stood there for what felt like hours—feeling like he was being ripped apart at the seams with every word twisting the dagger deeper into his heart. Eventually, he had left—crept away as silently as he had arrived because he couldn't hear any more of it.

"He will never be pack."

No matter how hard he tried—no matter how much he gave. The research. The homemade meals. The bouncing ideas for remodeling the Hale mansion. The place to go when the world became too heavy. It would never amount to anything beyond being just thereunwanted.

Thumping his hand against the wheel once more—he felt like he had been rubbed raw. The skin on his knuckles was red and he could see the formation of bruising from the ferocity behind every punch. Stiles tore the pouch of herbs from his neck suddenly, nearly vicious in the move, tearing open the door and nearly falling on his face as he exited the jeep. His knuckles whitened around the object, and he hurled it in the dark forest with an incoherent shout that could have been the formation of words.

His legs folded beneath him, and he dropped harshly to his knees. The back-road was deserted and shrouded in near-darkness, though he could hear the crickets livening the forest sandwiching the paved road. Stiles knew that no one would be driving down the road at this time—the lands around him were part of the anchorage belonging to the Hale family and the Hale mansion was the only building out here. He was too far out for anyone to bother him and out of range of the pack—something Stiles was immensely grateful for.

He didn't want to see them. Not right now. Maybe not for a while.

At the moment, he didn't think he could even look at Scott without hearing the echoes of his words. Words that made him rethink years of friendship. Made him hesitate—maybe he wouldn't have hesitated a few months ago. But—that was before Gerard Argent had snagged him when he was riding the high of scoring in a game and demolished whatever high he had, dragging him to the bottom. To a sea of insecurity. The feeling that he would probably never be good enough.

The bruises on his face were just healing—though there were still some yellowed marks around his eye and his lip remained somewhat tender. Stiles had been biting his lip infrequently, a habit that he had developed that he was unaware of until it just worsened the ache of his lip when it was split.

Picking himself off the paved road, he wiped harshly at his eyes. He held the door open wider, sliding into the seat and buckling himself in. Stiles braced his hands against the steering wheel, closing his eyes. His phone vibrated in the passenger seat and Stiles reached for it unthinkingly. A message from Scott lingered in his inbox and he recalled that they were supposed to be having a pack-night, one that he had assured Scott he would show up for earlier in the week.

Scott asked whether he was on his way yet in his grammar-dysfunctional text-speak. Stiles roughly turned his phone screen off and tossed the offending device in the passenger seat, chewing on his lower lip unconsciously. He could feel the anger boiling under his skin—mixing with the hurt before it simmered and smothered itself. It felt like a giant deceit. Why did they even bother treating him like a friend when they didn't even like him?

He shifted the car into gear and drove home—he'd message Scott later, maybe, tell him that he had gotten distracted and lost track of time and he might tape that he hoped they had fun without him to the end of the message. Stiles wondered if that would sound too bitter—give himself away—but, he doubted they would care about his hurt feelings. The knife they had plunged in his heart without warning and kept twisting around over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.


If his dad had been home and not working a double-shift, he would have seen Stiles stumbling his way upstairs and heard the door slamming behind him. As it was, Stiles was blissfully alone as he deposited his bag on his computer chair and tossed himself on his bed—burying his face in his pillow. Maybe it was pathetic to be so upset over just a few words—but the seed of doubt had been planted before that he wasn't good enough as he was. That he didn't matter as much as he thought he did.

When Stiles had told Gerard Argent that Scott would come him—would be able to find him anywhere and Scott hadn't. In fact, no one had. Erica and Boyd had been there—strung up and growling with every blow that Gerard landed. Stiles had thought that maybe they would become closer because they had all been abandoned at the mercy of Gerard—but Stiles initial choice to keep what Gerard had done to him private from the group had somewhat separated him from them.

Erica and Boyd hadn't had the option as they had been too injured to come up with a lie and Derek had scented Gerard Argent on them. Stiles had never seen Derek Hale so livid—so close to losing control of his wolf—and he had realized that despite Derek's gruff nature, he did care. He cared about the wolves he had bitten against his better judgement, but he showed it differently.

No one had saved him from Gerard's kicks and blows. No one had soothed him in the aftermath—when the dreams were so vivid and horrible, and the bruises and broken skin ached. No one had simply told him that Gerard was wrong.

Instead, their actions had indicated that Gerard was right. Maybe wrong in the statement of Stiles being the lowest of the low in the pack as it was made painstakingly clear that he wasn't pack—but right in the matter of his worth. He would never be made a priority—no matter what he did. No matter how hard he tried. He would never be enough for them. Stiles screamed into his pillow then—feeling the sobbing shout ripping hoarsely from his throat. His phone vibrated again, and he nearly threw it across the room. Nearly threw everything he could against the walls.

He wanted to rip the lamp out of the wall—smash it against the wall it had been plugged into. Rip the sheets from the mattress. He could see the framed pictures on his dresser, on his walls, and he wanted to shatter them—watch the glass shatter against the floor and cut the pictures into pieces because he could see the lies. Could practically hear them in his ears. Did his friends—the people he practically considered family in all but blood—ever actually care about him? Were all of the fond memories he had with them—was it all just him deceiving himself into believing that he was worth something?

Stiles sat up suddenly—peeling himself out of the bed. He could remember all of the nights he had spent with Scott and Isaac laying on his bed as they played video games and watched TV shows and watched movies. They had devoted an entire night to watching and making fun of werewolf movies—laughing about the inconsistencies. They had even watched the spoof movie of Twilight, which Stiles had considered absolutely hilarious. Now, he couldn't help but second-guess and question whether they had been thinking he should just go away and leave them alone even then.

Maybe it would be a good idea for him to leave for a little while.

The memories in his room were stained and he could see tiny things they had left behind in his room—could faintly smell the cologne that Scott dabbled on and the natural, woodsy scent that now clung to Isaac. He could vaguely smell the lotion Erica used and the heavy perfume Lydia spritzed every so often. He could almost smell the body spray Jackson layered himself in and the scent of fresh books from the job Boyd had taken at the bookstore near the school. He could even smell Derek—the odd array of smells like pine and leather and the forest after it rained and the scent of cars from the job he had taken at a shop.

Every inhale reminded him of them—reminded him of the fact that he had heard their words. Heard what they said when they thought he couldn't hear, and it hurt to think that maybe they hadn't even wanted to be there. That they did what they had to for the research he provided them—the hours he devoted to them.

Stiles opened his closet, moving clothes and other mismatched items around to reach the suitcase and duffel in the back. It's a simple black suitcase with jade green accents. A Velcro blue camouflage tie is wrapped around the handle, part of it shaped like a flower—the item had been his mother's and one she wrapped around the suitcase she had bought him when they traveled at the airport to visit her sister. Stiles emptied it of a few of the items he had messily shoved inside and unzipped the suitcase completely—tossing it on the unmade bed.

He contemplated the empty suitcase for a moment before grabbing a piece of printer paper from the printer and a pen. It was almost methodical the way he made a list of items he would need to just leave. Clothes—obviously, Stiles didn't have the money in his wallet or bank account to afford to buy clothes on the road: shirts, pants, sweaters, socks, boxers. Pulling open the drawers, he grabbed some pants—both the regular jean fabric and khaki—and shorts. He folded them before placing them on one side in his suitcase.

Personal hygiene. Stiles wrote down next once he had grabbed a few graphic tees, wife beaters, and flannels. He hesitated before grabbing his red hoodie—folding the item neatly before adding it to the steadily growing pile of clothes. He had also grabbed seven pairs of socks and boxers before thinking of what was included in personal hygiene. Deodorant, tooth-brush, tooth-paste, body wash, shampoo, a comb, razor. Moving quickly, he gathered those items as well, checking them off as he went.

Once he finished, he sorted out the suitcase as much as he could so that it would close before pausing and thinking of what else he might need. He had the bare necessities. Clothes and personal hygiene. Stiles paused in the middle of his room—the mad scramble of shoving things in his suitcase delayed as he dropped slowly to his knees, fingers curling and uncurling on the carpeted floor. "What am I doing?" He murmured to himself; lifting one hand and running his fingers over his buzzcut hair. "What the hell am I doing?"

Even with all of the items partially shoved with increasing disorder into the suitcase, he didn't know what he was doing. There was nowhere for him to go. His half-baked plan of loading a suitcase into his jeep and just driving wouldn't get him far. He only had half a tank of gas—that might get him through a few hours and a few hundred miles, but it wouldn't get him far and he didn't have all of the money to keep driving forever.

"Where am I going to go?" Stiles kept running his hands over his hair, bitten fingernails digging in. He started pacing back and forth, legs and arms trembling, and the room felt like it was squeezing him. The room was closing in on him—the walls thick and looming over his head and it felt too crowded and cluttered, and he couldn't breathe.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe—

Hands scrambling for purchase, he gripped his shirt tightly—knuckles turning white over the fabric on top of his chest. His heart felt like it was beating a bruise against the inside of his ribcage. Tears dripped from his eyes, trekking down his face, and dropping from his chin onto the sleeves of his jacket. A sound that was mostly a sob and partially a laugh—because seriously, Gerard had given him a partial panic attack but now, realizing how little he mattered and the fact that he didn't know where to go was shattering him into millions of pieces.

Eyes closing, he stood in the center of his room as he tried to gather those pieces. Glue them back together and pretend that he was fine. Because he was—no one was coming after him. No one was chasing him or going to physically hurt him.

He was perfectly safe. So why the hell couldn't he breathe?

A vibrating sound completely startled him, and he tripped over his computer chair amidst the unconscious pacing. "Just leave me alone." Stiles partially shouted, scrambling for the phone. He wished that he could just tell Scott that the roles had been reversed and it was him that didn't want to see them. He almost threw the offending device against the wall, but the name of the contact made him pause. It wasn't Scott McCall or Isaac Lahey or Derek Hale. It was Rebecca Haerviu—his mother's little sister.

Stiles vaguely remembered Aunt Becca—she was a kind, spirited woman that closely resembled his mother aside from her bright blue eyes. Growing up, he had spent a few summers on the farm she owned with her husband—Alexander Haerviu, or Uncle Alex—but those trips had turned practically sparse after his mother died. He had spent a total of one summer there after her death, but it had been too painful and the trip too costly so when his father had suggested that they stop going—he had agreed.

He had latched onto Scott in those moments because Scott had simply been there after his mother had died—there in the weeks following the funeral—and his cousins and aunt and uncle were thirteen hours away by car.

With the heavy distance—he had somewhat lost contact with his distant family, but Aunt Becca had restarted attempts to reconnect with him. The fact that she seemed to want him around when his own friends and forged family didn't, made him reconsider. If he did just get in the jeep and drive—he did have somewhere to go. The gas in his jeep wouldn't get him through a thirteen-hour drive, but he had money on his card and that would get him there.

Thumbing open the message, he could feel the smile twisting at his lips nearly against his will—it was a simple picture of the group of them. Diana—his youngest cousin and the miracle child at seven—was front and center in a butterfly costume with heavy make-up around her eyes and on her cheeks. Underneath the make-up, the little girl was practically glowing—her mother's eyes bright and brilliant.

To Diana's left, Jace was crouched with an arm slung over her shoulder and flashing a brilliant, pearly-white smile with the orange light of the setting sun catching on the golden waves of his hair. Next to Jace, Chris was standing with his tanned, freckled arms crossed and his attention was amusedly focused on Jace and Diana. On the other side, Thomas was laughing, brown hair sticking to his forehead and hazel eyes dancing. Uncle Alex was behind the group, one hand loosely holding a bouquet of daisies and it was clear that Aunt Becca had been the one to take the picture.

They looked resplendent and happy—glowing in the fading sunlight after a summer play show that Diana had been involved in. Stiles found himself envious of that; eyes tracing their features captured eternally in laughter and smiling. Aunt Becca had extended the invitation for him to come stay with her a few weeks previous and he had told her that he would think about it—that was before Gerard Argent and Stiles didn't know how much she knew about him being jumped after the game.

He didn't know whether his father had reached out to her afterwards. They had never been particularly close—especially following Claudia's death because his father had lost himself in his grief and shut out most things that reminded him of his wife. The only reason it remained most things instead of all things is because Stiles wouldn't let his father shut him out as well. Without even pausing for thought, Stiles pressed the call option and lifted the phone to his ear.

The invitation to stay hadn't been one he had yet turned down and the more he thought about it—the more he wanted to just leave. He wanted to go spend a few days—or a few weeks at the farm rather than being in Beacon Hills, especially when he was unwanted by anyone but his father. "Hey Stiles—" Aunt Becca greeted, emphasizing his name—doubtlessly to the group situated in the car with her. Stiles imagined that they were on their way home. "—it's so great to hear from you. You don't call me nearly enough." She continued.

Sheepishly, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry." He spoke, sounding genuinely contrite. "Though, that's not really a fantastic way to greet someone, Aunt Becca." Stiles added, injecting a certain level of playfulness in his voice. The attempt sounded flat even to his own ears, and he temporarily closed his eyes—knowing that Aunt Becca was more perceptive than he would have liked and had little problem commenting on things.

"Ok—what's wrong?" Aunt Becca questioned immediately. "Tell me what's going on, kiddo." The statement sounded more like an order than an entreaty.

Stiles massaged his forehead—he could feel a small headache building behind his eyes from the tears. "I was wondering if it would still be alright for me to come stay with you for a bit." Stiles blurted out, not answering the query.

A bit of the background noise quieted—noise that Stiles had barely registered when he initially called, and she answered. "Of course—you're always welcome." Aunt Becca assured him warmly. "But—what's wrong? Is it your dad? Your friends?" She continued, stubbornly not dropping the subject.

Now, Stiles knew what side of the family his brand of stubbornness came from. "No—dad's fine. My friends are fine. I just—I need to leave. I need to get away from Beacon Hills for a little bit and I don't mean for that to sound like—like—I don't even know." He lost his train of thought for a moment, rambling. "I need to go because it just—it feels like I—like I can't breathe. And I really don't want have this conversation over the phone because it's just going to work myself up and then you up and you're thirteen hours away and—"

Clearing her throat, Aunt Becca interrupted. "Ok—ok—of course you can come. When do you think you're going to be here?" She queried, mercifully dropping the line of questioning—picking up on the fact that he couldn't talk about it currently. He had a feeling she would pick the conversation back up when he was there in-person.

He didn't know how to answer that. He wanted to leave right now but he knew that he couldn't. First off—he had to talk to his dad first and the man wouldn't be home for at least another hour and driving overnight in the state he was in would probably be unwise. He knew that much about himself currently as he couldn't quite get himself to stop shaking. "Would tomorrow evening be too soon?" Stiles questioned, casting a critical gaze to his suitcase and the piece of printer paper that had his list on it—check-marks next to the bullet points.

"Of course not." Aunt Becca answered. "I'll even force Jace, Chris and Thomas to pick up the ingredients of your favorite soup on the way home." She continued.

Stiles weakly chuckled. "Thank you. Are you sure it's not a problem? It's not much of a warning. I don't want to put you out—" He started—retreating slightly inwards as he thought of whether he was forcing them to put up with him. What if they were being just too polite to tell him that they didn't want him around?

"Now you shut that train of thought down, mister." Aunt Becca forcefully interrupted him once more. "We'd love to have you over, Stiles. End of discussion. You're coming tomorrow. We're going to have your favorite meal tomorrow. And then, on Monday, we're going to talk about what's bothering you. Ok? Ok. Now, I'm going to hand the phone over to Diana and she's going to tell you how excited she got to hear that her favorite cousin is coming over."

A wisp of a smile blossomed on his lips at the take-charge tone in her voice. Stiles had generally had to be the one to talk to people like that and he could feel the safety behind it of knowing that someone had him. "Hey Stiles!" A young voice chirped in his ear, replacing Aunt Becca as the woman carried on with her plan.

"Hey Diana! How was the summer-play?" Stiles greeted, leaning his back against the bed, and drawing his legs to his chest—phone cradled against his ear.

Diana giggled infectiously. "It was so awesome." She answered. "Mama said you sounded sad when you called—are you ok Sti?" The seven-year-old sounded as concerned as her mother.

Stiles counted to ten inside his head. "I'm really looking forward to spending a few weeks with you guys—I've missed you all." He dodged the topic, though the words were genuine. Even though Diana hadn't been born yet when his mother died—Stiles had interacted with her more often through video calls as the other three were normally busy whenever they managed to sit down together due to conflicting schedules. He had also spent a bit of time with her fleetingly when they traveled sometimes for lacrosse games.

Diana nodded, a movement that the phone picked up on as she wasn't as graceful holding the phone and Stiles could hear Aunt Becca warning her to be careful while Uncle Alex chuckled. "I've missed you, too, Sti. Are you going to be staying for long?" She asked curiously.

He shrugged to himself, "I'll probably stay until Aunt Becca kicks me out." Stiles answered. Closing his eyes, he used the bed for support as he picked himself off the floor and opened his laptop. He quickly entered the long password in and froze slightly as his hand hovered over the cursor—the open word documented of his research spanning nearly five hundred pages. Stiles had been continuously adding to it for weeks and sectioned it off in parts by heading.

"Then we're stealing you forever." Diana informed him with all of the logic of a seven-year-old.

Stiles snorted. "You might have to fight my dad for me." He countered.

Her voice was unbothered when she next spoke, and Stiles choked when the words registered. "Then I'll kick him in the crown jewels." It was official, Stiles decided—Diana was definitely his cousin.

Aunt Becca started choking loudly in the background. "Who taught you that?" Her voice carried loudly through the phone and Stiles momentarily pulled the device from his ear, eyebrows raising. Uncle Alex sounded like he was dying with laughter on the other end and Stiles could imagine that his mother's sister was steadily smacking him on the arm. "It was Jace, wasn't it? Oh—he's so dead, I'm going to make him clean the barn for days—days I tell you." Aunt Becca continued, speaking more violent threats in the background.

Stiles piped up unhelpfully. "Careful, auntie—it might have been you who taught her the threats." He couldn't resist saying, even if he couldn't hear the exact words of the coherent mumbling, he knew from experience that she could be exceedingly creative.

"You just focus on packing over there." Aunt Becca countered after a moment. Stiles rolled his eyes, before moving the chair over to his bed to grab the list and added electronic stuff to it. Laptop, laptop charger, phone charger, earbuds. Stiles tapped the pen against his lip for a second, chewing on the end, before he added some books to the list with a question mark beside it. "Have you told your father about your plans, Stiles?" He gathered that she had reclaimed the phone from Diana from the closer nature of her voice.

"I'm kind of waiting for him to get home before telling him about the spontaneous trip to visit distant relatives." Stiles spoke dryly. He rethought his words—unable to stop himself. He could feel a bit of himself retreating, wanting to be more reserved and less annoying. "Are you really ok with me coming so soon, though? I mean—you don't need more time or anything?" He reiterated the question.

Aunt Becca sighed heavily. "Stiles—of course you're more than welcome to come. For one, you gave us over a twenty-hour warning—which is something that my boys could start taking notes on when having company over. And even if you hadn't—you're welcome here. You're always welcome here. You're family." She offered him reassuringly. "A part of me wants to ask whose ass I have to kick for you being so doubtful—but I'm going to wait until Monday to grill you—alright?"

Stiles nodded to himself. "Alright." He exhaled shakily. He wasn't looking forward to the grilling session because he had a feeling it would be unpleasant and painful, but he knew that it was something that he needed to do because the weight on his chest felt like it was crushing him. Suffocating him. Drowning him. Like he was stuck in that moment of unbelievable, incoherent agony when his brain was screaming for oxygen, but he was trying to will himself to keep his mouth closed and not let the water around him rush in.

And there were some things he couldn't share—the weight of secrets and lies suddenly feeling heavier than ever—because he could nearly describe in perfect detail what it was like to drown. To be so desperate for air but too exhausted to swim his way to the surface—though ultimately knowing that it would be pointless because once he left the safety of the water, the creature would shred his skin easily and he would be leaving Derek behind to drown. If he could claw his way to the surface—he would have to bring Derek with him because it had been his fault.

His fault that Derek had turned his back on the enemy to push him away—to get him to move his suddenly leaden body at the sight of the Kanima and Erica's crumpled, unconscious form. His fault that Derek had toppled into the water because he had been so shaky in retrieving his phone. His fault that Derek had almost drowned.

The weight of that blame was suddenly so heavy—resting squarely on his shoulders and he had difficult getting enough air into his lungs. He probably would have dived deeper into the unrelenting panic had Aunt Becca's voice not startled him from his thoughts, making him jump and he flinched violently. "—Stiles? You still there? You went quiet, kiddo. Is everything ok?" Aunt Becca sounded worried, motherly concern dripping from her words.

"Oh—oh—yeah, I'm fine." Stiles didn't bother plastering a smile to his face, closing his eyes, and working his fingers against the strain behind his eyes. "Just was going over the mental checklist—you know?" He added.

Aunt Becca hummed noncommittally; sounding like she didn't quite believe the paper-thin lie. "Alright—I'm going to let you go then, text me when you're on your way." She reminded him.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah—of course. I can't wait to see you all tomorrow." They exchanged more farewells, with Diana chipping in at some point before he hung up and dropped his phone on the table. Stiles pushed himself away from the desk, tilting his head up so that he could stare at the ceiling—his room was a cluttered mess around him, the half-packed suitcases, the discarded items, and even the old mess from before he had stormed in. He propped his elbows on his knees and hunched over.

Leaving. The half-baked plan would have probably gotten him to the town limits before he turned back around. Was he actually going to do it? This was more than just taking a few days—it might be weeks before he even wanted to consider coming back, and that might be just for his dad. What if something happened? What if something bad happens and I'm not here? That would be my fault. Stiles didn't know if he could handle anymore blame. No, he knew he couldn't handle anymore blame.

Maybe he should call Aunt Becca back and rescind his decision and—no. He had to do something for himself for once—maybe he was being supremely selfish in leaving for somewhere thirteen hours away—but he couldn't keep running himself into the ground anymore. This wasn't just about a few harmless words—a split seconds' decision to rant as the Hale pack had done. This was months of feeling like he was somehow less. Like, he wasn't good enough and he needed time.

He needed space. And he knew if he stayed—he wouldn't get that. He could easily see himself staying and forcing himself to pretend that everything was fine—that he wasn't barely holding himself together with glue and scotch tape. And—and what would be the point? The pretense—why keep it up? It's not like he made it very high on the list of priorities for anyone aside from his father and his father remained in the dark about the supernatural world.

What did he have in Beacon Hills currently? A father who tried—but Stiles had to protect from a world that would see them both dead with ease. A best friend who would rather hang up on him than help him—someone who had been on Gerard's side, even in the dark, while the man in question ripped Stiles from the lacrosse field and pummeled him mercilessly for prejudice. And Stiles knew that Scott had been trying to protect his own mother—and he could never blame Scott for that—but that didn't remove the ache of it that his own best friend hadn't been there when it counted.

That was it. Just two people in his corner—he didn't have the pack there. They barely tolerated him—something that was made crystal clear in the words and conversation they had exchanged when he had been unobtrusively listening in.

And—and he had thought that maybe he had Derek Hale. That just maybe they had come to an understanding of one another in all of the life-saving, but he supposed he had been deceiving himself into believing that. Stiles knew that he had made mistake after mistake regarding Derek Hale in the past—he knew he had been insensitive and ignorant—because the leather-clad man had confused him. Derek had been the first person to make his heart feel like it could beat clear out of his chest and the knowledge of that scared him—what that had the potential of indicating made him petrified.

Stiles shook his head at himself—he couldn't—he wouldn't explore that thought process because it would just leave him more hurt. He stretched, cracking his knuckles before rolling over to the list to give it a quick perusal. Reaching under the desk for his laptop case, he unplugged the charger and began winding it up to put it away. His fingers skimmed the top of his laptop as he contemplated whether he should pack it tonight or in the morning. Stiles knew one thing about himself—even if his research may be lacking, he wouldn't just walk away and leave them empty-handed.

They might not care about him—hell, they may not even like him. But that didn't detract from the fact that Stiles cared full-heartedly, and Beacon Hills remained his home. It was where his father is—where his mother would always be, and he couldn't just abandon that without leaving what he had. Stiles opened one of the drawers, grabbing a few of the flashdrive he had laying around and plugged one into the side of his computer. Organizing the files that already existed on it easily—there were some school projects and graphic design projects from when Stiles dabbled in it as well as some pictures from his phone—he started transferring the files of his research.

The large document went first—obviously. Stiles clicked open a new word document and listed off the websites he used as well as their links, giving one bulleted group most reliable while giving another questionable and the last was given a bright red never use. He transferred that file over as well—making a mental note that maybe it would be wise for him to start putting his research on something other than his laptop. Stiles scrambled over to the books he had purchased as well—he could scan the text and add that to the flashdrive as well.

Glancing quickly at the time, he sighed—putting the book back on the desk. Stiles doubted that he would be able to sleep—he was too wired up for sleep and it would probably be wise to spend his last night there getting everything together for when he left. And, he knew that once he started—he probably wouldn't be able to get himself to stop for dinner or to tell his father the pertinent detail of the fact that he was leaving. It wasn't permanent. But, he knew that he should probably disclose to his father that he needed to get away from Beacon Hills for a bit.

That first summer had been difficult because it was difficult to not have the security of being able to visit his mom weekly as he had been doing—he still frequented her grave once or twice a month to update her on his life, talking to the stone was therapeutic for him—but now. Now he was ready.

Exhaling, he stood up and exited his room, descending the staircase and heading into the kitchen. That was another thing that was being added to the list—his father would always be a concern to him, and his father's eating habits. Stiles really hoped that his absence wouldn't encourage his father to cut back on eating balanced, heart-healthy meals. He tugged his phone from his pocket and unlocked it, googling the recipe for the dinner he had in mind before gathering the ingredients he needed and turning on the oven.


"Hey son." His father greeted, glancing past Stiles to the dinner for two he had prepared meticulously. "Looks delicious—what exactly did you do?" The sheriff queried, taking off his belt and massaging his neck as he moved it from side to side before rolling his shoulders. Stiles couldn't help but snort in amusement at the automatic assumption that he had done something irresponsible, and he readily opened his mouth to retort that he usually made meals like this when he had the time before frowning slightly as he realized that he had been too busy lately to make the time.

Stiles pasted an innocent expression on his face to hide the flicker of a frown. "Why do you always assume that I did something? Can't I just make a nice dinner without you thinking I'm a criminal mastermind? After all these years—where's the trust?" Stiles flexed his fingers on the table—his bruised knuckles were under the table, resting on his thigh and he was thankful that his father couldn't see the state of them as he had yet to concoct an actual reason for their existence.

The sheriff studied him with eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline minutely. "Ok—what did you do?" He lowered the fork after taking a bite from his plate. "No smartass comments, Stiles, please." The sheriff remarked when Stiles opened his mouth.

He rubbed his pointer finger and thumb together, trying to disguise his nerves and probably completely failing. "Do you remember how I said that Aunt Becca invited me to spend some time at the farm this summer?" Stiles blurted out, losing the tactful approach he had initially been planning. His father gestured for him to continue, chewing thoughtfully. "I think—well, no, I know that I want to go stay at Aunt Becca's for a few weeks."

He clamped his mouth shut before he could add that he needed time and space and that he felt like he was worthless and pathetic.

He didn't want to add that he hardly recognized himself in the mirror. Stiles didn't know who he was anymore, and he wanted to figure it out and his thought was that maybe—just maybe going to stay with Aunt Becca and Uncle Alex and Thomas and Jace and Chris and Diana would help.

"Oh." His dad seemed taken aback. "I thought you planned to spend the summer hanging out with Scott and the Lahey kid—what changed?" Dad queried.

Stiles could feel his expression twisting—the flash of pain and hurt unable to be quelled no matter how hard he tried. "I guess—I just—I need space from them, I think. It's not that we're fighting or anything, but I guess I just kind of want to figure out Stiles before figuring out Scott." Stiles shoveled some food in his mouth to prevent himself from talking anymore. He knew that he might spill that he had heard Scott wishing for a similar thing and that he felt like the people around him didn't really care about him and he needed time to cope with that.

Pushing his food around with his fork, Dad looked contemplative. "Is this about the boys who jumped you after the game?" He tentatively brought up the subject and Stiles recalled the excuse for his bruises that he had fed his father.

He had told his father that a few boys had jumped him following the game and Lydia that he had been clumsy and tripped. He had shared the latter excuse with the rest of the group when they shot him questioning looks and was thankful that they didn't seem to notice any changes in his heartbeat. He supposed that if someone believed hard enough that something was the truth—their heartbeat wouldn't change but letting in a sliver of doubt practically encouraged the upward tick.

Stiles didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that he was attempting to get past the werewolf lie detectors. Or the fact that he was successful.

"Do you think I should leave?" Stiles changed the topic unskillfully. His father blinked, taken aback by the abrupt question. "It's not that I'm asking if you want me to leave as in not wanting me around—but do you think that I should take some time out of Beacon Hills? Because I'm not sure. I don't want to be a coward and seem like I'm running away from my problems—" He began to ramble slightly, the insecurity inching into his voice without his permission.

Dad cut him off with a sharp look. "I think that you should leave." He interrupted, before softening. "I don't want you to leave Stiles—but do you honestly think I haven't seen how poorly you're taking care of yourself." Stiles blinked, slack-jawed at the confrontation. "You don't eat as much—and I notice that, kid. I might be busy, but I still have access to your accounts and what you're spending, and you don't buy groceries nearly as often and there are less dishes to be cleaned at night and wrappers in the trash can. And I know you've been having trouble sleeping. And it seems like you're not getting better here. It seems like you're getting worse, and it kills me to see that."

Stiles blinked furiously, tears smarting at the corners of his eyes. He hadn't thought his father had noticed the tiny, infinitesimal details—but the fact that he had, and those details were being pointed out to him showed that he had been declining.

He didn't even realize he was shaking until his father reached out to cover his hand with his own—the worn, callused fingers and palm warm and comforting. "I think that it would be better for you if you took a break, kid." The sheriff murmured softly.

"What about you?" Stiles' voice was scarcely a whisper.

Dad raised both eyebrows. "Stiles—I can manage being on my own." He stated dryly.

Rewarding his father with a look in response that spoke volumes about what Stiles thought of his father's effort of managing on his own. "Eating take-out every night is not managing on your own. Your heart—you've got to eat healthy." Stiles reminded him, voice tinged with exasperation at first and then turned more to concern.

The sheriff sighed. "You would really stay if you thought I was going to eat take-out evert night, wouldn't you?" He questioned rhetorically, hunching over, and propping his elbows on the table, one hand massaging his forehead. "Alright—what if I promise to get take-out once a week and make sandwiches for my lunches? I'm sure I can get Melissa to chip in with keeping me on track with my meals." Dad offered.

He eyed his father suspiciously for a moment, considering it. The offer seemed legitimate and reasonable. "Pinky swear." Stiles stretched his arm across the table, pinkie raised as he spoke with all of the seriousness he could muster.

Dad rolled his eyes affectionately, linking their pinkies. "Pinky swear." The sheriff promised. They both resumed eating their meals quietly, before his father spoke up once more. "When are you planning on leaving?" His father glanced towards him in askance.

Swallowing a bite of food, Stiles drummed his bitten fingernails nervously against the table. "Tomorrow morning." He answered honestly. "I know it seems soon and spontaneous—but, I called Aunt Becca and she assured me multiple times that it would be alright. I made sure to check to avoid putting her out more than necessary because it is kind of putting her out to show up because you know how Aunt Becca is with her cleanliness and being homely and accommodating." Stiles' babble would have continued if not for his father's merciful interruption.

"We're a bit of a spontaneous family." The sheriff declared, a bit of humor entering his eyes. He seemed rather accepting of the fact that he had less than a twelve hours' warning of his son's departure, much to Stiles' relief. "So, have you finished packing?" He questioned, eyes darting upstairs as though he could view into Stiles' room and locate the suitcase.

Stiles shrugged. "I've got clothes and the hygiene stuff. I just need to pack my laptop, chargers, and maybe some earbuds. I might grab a few books as well. And I'll probably need to make myself some food in the morning for the drive." He twirled his fork absent-mindedly, adding and checking the mental list he had going in his mind.

His dad pinned him with a look. "Do you plan on sleeping tonight?"

Ducking his head sheepishly, Stiles offered a fleeting grin. "Ummaybe?"

"That sounded more like a question than an answer." The sheriff countered. He folded his arms across his chest, "Stiles I don't want you to go off on a thirteen-hour drive without getting a wink of sleep the night before." He continued; voice stern and immobile.

"What if I'm too wired up to sleep?" Stiles retorted.

Dad stared at him, eyes piercing for a moment as he considered the near-automatic retort. "We do have some medicine that can knock you out, Stiles." He informed him. Stiles wrinkled his nose—he loathed using that medicine, it made him more likely to wake up later than he intended as it tended to knock him out for at least seven hours. "I know you don't like it—but I would feel much better about letting you drive for so long on your own if you were well-rested the night before." And there was the guilt-trip.

Stiles inwardly decided that he would just give them the names of the books he used, and he might be able to photo-scan them later and send that over through an email. "Ok—ok, no pulling an all-nighter before a long trip." He gave in. Stiles could feel the twinges of exhaustion creeping in—crying and panicking for what felt like hours did have a way of exhausting someone.

Noah Stilinski folded his arms across his chest. "I'm serious, Stiles." He reminded him emphatically.

He nodded. "I know and I will get some sleep after I finish packing." He also added sprinkling some mountain ash around the property as well—maybe, in the morning he would instead drop the flashdrive off at Scott's house so that his dad could still have the protective elements of mountain ash. He also added reaching out to Alan Deaton to ask the man to keep an eye on his father to his mental checklist.

"I hope you know that I'm going to poke my head to check in on you at some point in the night and if I find you awake—the trip is being postponed until you've got a bit more sleep." The sheriff gave him the ultimatum without even blinking and Stiles nodded sulkily—knowing that his father would be doing that.

The fact that it was completely out there that he hadn't been taking such good care of himself recently—he knew that his father would not be dancing around the topic anymore. "Ok. Sounds fair." Stiles exhaled. He glanced down at his plate, realizing that his appetite was somewhat lost. "Well—in that case, I'm going to head up to pack and then go to sleep, alright?" He stood up, pushing what remained of dinner into the trash before rinsing off his plate in the sink and adding it to the dishwasher.

His father nodded, continuing to eat his meal. "Alright—remember, poking my head in—you better be asleep." The man warned in between bites. Stiles nodded, offering him a sloppy, two-finger salute before ascending the stairs.


Waking up the next morning was slightly difficult; Stiles had had to down a few pills because he could easily foresee a restless night unless he took something which made it difficult to claw his way out of the warm security of his bed. He had finished packing his electronics and any other miscellaneous things he could think of and reorganizing his suitcase and as he went out to the jeep to throw the suitcase and two duffel bags in, he sprinkled the mountain ash around his house. Stiles figured that he would make a quick detour to Scott's house to drop off two flashdrives—one for Scott and one for Derek.

The early-morning sun was brilliant and showed signs of the sweltering day it would be as Stiles finished sprinkling mountain ash around the house—it was early enough that none of their neighbors were awake to notice and his father was in the shower. Stiles had somewhat expected his father to wake up early to see him off—make sure that he had everything and knew the route he was taking. Stiles glanced over his home silently, running his fingers over the exterior somewhat morosely.

He would miss being home—his room and his bed and the few minute drive between Scott and him. The memory of his best friend steeled his resolve a bit. Scott had wanted space—had said Stiles was too much for him and he had seemed so frustrated during his rant. And—and maybe Stiles wasn't just doing this for himself. Maybe he was also doing it for Scott as well. If Scott didn't want him around—if the pack didn't want him around—then what would be the point in remaining there for the fleeting chance that they might decide that they should give him enough of a mimicry of friendship to keep him their researcher?

Stiles knew that he would have been doing research anyways—he cared about Beacon Hills, and he wouldn't just let a bunch of supernatural creatures rip his home to pieces, even if he was friendless. Brushing his hands off, he headed inside and washed his hands. He braced himself against the sink afterwards, inhaling and exhaling deeply before moving to the fridge to get out the ingredients for a sandwich.

Normally, Stiles would have toasted the bread but toasted bread a few hours later tended to be a bit gross, so he smeared the mayonnaise on the untoasted bread and added a few pieces of ham and some cheese.

He opened their drawer of Ziploc bags and aluminum foil and parchment paper as well as other miscellaneous cooking things and grabbed one before placing the paper-towel wrapped sandwich inside and zipping the bag closed. Stiles hesitated for a second before making another sandwich in the same fashion. He headed to the pantry and grabbed an old lunch-box and an ice-pack from the freezer to put in the bottom lip before putting the sandwiches inside and retrieving a snack-size bag of chips as well as two packs of crackers from the pantry.

Finished with the food side of his lunch and probable snacks for later in the day—Stiles wanted to save as much money as he could because he was already spending the money on gas, and it would be rather costly by his estimate—he grabbed two bottles from a cupboard. He filled one with ice and water, taking the water from the filtration system in the fridge, while filling the other with apple juice.

Stiles also tossed a can of soda into the lunch box before towing the items out to his car and placing both bottles into the cupholders, making sure the lids were sealed tightly on beforehand.

"Are you almost ready to go?" His father questioned, heading down the stairs and dressed in his uniform—ready for work a few hours before his shift actually started. Stiles cast a surveying glance around him, retrieving the piece of printer paper he had been using as a list of items and things that he needed to do. "Got everything? Clothes. Hygiene stuff. Computer. Chargers. Food. Water. Money. A map. The GPS system." The sheriff added to the list only after he received an affirmative nod from Stiles.

Grinning somewhat, Stiles slung an arm over his father's shoulder. "Yup. I think I've got everything." He assured his father, not finding it necessary to repeat the list as he gestured to Roscoe. The only addition to the list that his father was unaware of was his emergency supply of mountain ash and the first-aid kit he had in the back of his jeep. He also had placed the flashdrives in the glovebox—three of them: one for him, one for Scott, the last one for Derek. "Am I really about to do this?" He murmured to himself.

His father squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "I probably would have sent you there anyways, Stiles." The sheriff admitted casually. Stiles tossed him a bewildered glance. "Don't give me that look—you know I was getting worried." Dad retorted.

Stiles exhaled, glancing down at himself. He looked a bit too sweaty and gross for his taste. "I think I'm going to take a quick shower before I go." He also figured that he should probably not be traveling in his pajamas.

"You probably should—you smell terrible." His father teased lightly.

Stiles tossed him a sarcastic grin; arms outstretched. "Want a hug?"

The sheriff rolled his eyes, accepting the embrace though he exaggeratedly wrinkled his nose. "What part of you stink is difficult to understand?" Dad grumbled. Stiles felt his grin softening slightly before he pulled away to head upstairs. He flicked on the light in the bathroom, turning on the shower and heading to his room for a tee and pair of khaki shorts to wear for the day of traveling he had ahead of him.

Stiles paused, hovering in his doorway—his bed was somewhat made though he had taken two of his three pillows with him, and he had cleaned up a few of the items scattered around his bedroom. The room was significantly less messy than it had been amidst his packing—though it did feel a bit empty without his laptop being on the desk and a few of the books missing. At first glance, it would seem lived-in, but only a second perusal of the room revealed the details missing.

He shook his head at himself—the sound of his father moving around the kitchen startling him from his daze—as he grabbed the framed picture he had of the three of them and tucked it amongst his things.

By the time he returned to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him—he only had to peel himself out of his sweat-and-sleep-scented clothes before hopping into the warm spray of water. He moved quickly through his shower routine before turning the shower off and patting himself dry with a towel before tugging on the different set of clothes and deodorant. He probably wouldn't be putting on cologne as there was no one to impress with it as he would be behind the wheel all day except for when he got to Aunt Becca's farm.

Brushing his teeth quickly and grabbing the bottle of Adderall—checking his prescription. He had enough to get him through the next month, but he would probably need to look into restocking while there depending on just how long he planned on staying. Stiles was estimating a few weeks, but it could very well turn into being the entire summer. Turning the light off in the bathroom, he retrieved the last few things he had thought of, before descending the staircase and pushing his feet into a pair of old converses.

"Are you sure you're going to survive the next few weeks without me?" Stiles teased once he set the items by the door, patting his pockets to check for his wallet as he did so, and entered the kitchen. His father was nursing a mug of coffee in his hands as he read over the newspaper.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. "I'm sure." He stood up, closing the newspaper with slightly shaking hands. "Is it time for you to go already?" Dad questioned, wiping his hands on his pants. Stiles knew that despite his father's outward demeanor, the reality of the fact that Stiles would be gone for a while and the house emptier than it would have usually been, doubtlessly starting to settle in.

Stiles nodded. "Yup." He popped the p sound as his father wrapped him in a quick embrace before they headed to the door and his father raised an eyebrow at the last-minute things that Stiles had grabbed. He headed to the jeep and placed those items inside—the picture containing the smiling faces of the Stilinski family treated with much more reverent care. Closing the door, he turned and rolled forward on his heels, fingers stuffed in his pockets, brushing against his phone and wallet.

"I'll probably come check on you in a week or so." His father remarked suddenly. Stiles raised his eyebrows, before nodding acceptingly. "Call me when you take a break for lunch and when you get there, ok?" Dad reminded him, following Stiles as he went around the jeep to the driver side and hopped in—turning the key in the ignition and starting Roscoe.

He quickly rolled down all of the windows as the stuffy air inside of the jeep settled in. There was just the barest hint of humidity in the air that made him think that a thunderstorm or rain would be coming—Stiles loved thunderstorms. "I will." Stiles offered the assurance easily. "I'll probably call and bug you everyday around your lunch break." He continued—knowing that there was a time difference of a few hours.

Dad folded his arms and rested them on the window. "Oh god—please don't leave me a hundred text messages again." He remarked.

Stiles grinned innocently. "What? I would never." He held up two fingers.

"You're not even a scout." His father deadpanned.

"Well—dad, there might be a conversation we need to—"

The sheriff flicked him on the forehead. "Get out of here, you hooligan."

Stiles felt his smile softening. "I'm going to miss you, dad." He spoke quietly and honestly. His father's lips twisted up more and he pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, before stepping away from the jeep.

Noah Stilinski nodded. "I'm going to miss you, too. Love you."

"Love you, too." Stiles shifted the car into gear and began backing out of the driveway, checking the rearview mirror to ensure that no cars were coming. He paused at the side of the road and his father crossed the grass to him to meet his gaze through the passenger window. "I know the route to take, dad. Stay on the highway for most of it. And I've got my trusty GPS." He tapped the device on the dashboard, having inputted the address earlier. He had also estimated when he would need to stop for gas and knew that he would be keeping an eye out for gas exits around noon-ish.

Dad smiled. "Alright. Be careful, son." He warned him.

Stiles grinned at him. "Aren't I always?" He countered cheekily. His father pinned him with a look that indicated the total bullshit-ness of that answer. "Ok—fine. I'll be extra, super-duper careful." Stiles corrected himself.

"You better."


Turning the jeep off after he had shifted the gear into park, Stiles braced his hands against the steering wheel—feeling the familiar, worn fabric underneath the pads of his hands. He had had to place a cover over the original steering wheel recently to prevent the piercing sun from turning the wheel too hot. He had been driving since a little after seven—and, after making a quick detour to Scott's to drop off the flashdrives with Melissa, who must have been called by the sheriff as she had wrapped him in a long, tight embrace that threatened to make his bones pop—and once he had noticed the lowering lever of the jeep's gas, he had opted to take the nearest gas exit.

Though, driving for the past five hours had seemed fun initially—road-trip. The fun had quickly wilted once he had cycled through the songs on his playlist and had to restart them. It had also been sapped by the accident that had been backing up traffic for the past hour. Stiles reached over to the lunch box and unzipped it to open the Ziploc for one of the sandwiches he had made. Taking a ravenous bite—he had only had half a pop-tart for breakfast, nerves did not leave way for an appetite—he swung open the door and inserted his card into the slot to begin the unconscious process of getting gas.

Flicking down the little switch that would keep the gas flowing without him having to keep a hand on it—it took a few attempts because he was clumsy and long-drive-dumb. Stiles leaned against the side of the jeep as he watched the numbers climb and finished his sandwich, tossing the trash into a bin beside the pump. He retrieved the bag of crackers and opened that as well, drowning all of that with the soda he had grabbed from home—the only luck from the standstill of traffic was that the soda was not super fizzy from bouncing about.

Remembering his promise to his dad that he would message once he stopped for lunch, Stiles rolled his eyes—keeping one eye on the rising number of the money spent—afterwards as he grabbed his phone from the little nook, cubby-hole on the door and thumbed it open. His eyebrows raised slightly as he noticed the missed calls from Scott and the voicemail before he opened his messages and sent a quick one to his dad.

Stiles: Just stopped for lunch and gas—somehow, still alive. There's an accident ahead though, so I've been stuck in traffic for the past hour. :( :( :(

He exited the conversation with his dad before typing his aunt contact name into the search bar and pulling up their previous conversation. He sent her a message with a similar undertone—informing her about his brief stop for lunch and gas and the fact that traffic was backed up. Stiles also added a follow-up message to inform her that he was super excited to get there, though reminding her that it probably wouldn't be until nine that evening due to the accident up ahead.

A half-smile formed on his face as the pump stopped and he removed it before putting the hose back in place. Stiles tossed a surveying glance around himself, checking that there were no cars roaming around in search for an open pump as he finished his crackers and tossed the wrapper in the trash as well. He slid back into the driver seat and turned the ignition as the jeep started, cheering when he noticed the little level of the gas level shoot back up to the full mark.

Chewing roughly on his lower lip, he contemplated the off-screen of his phone for a second. Stiles rolled his eyes at himself, dragging his pointer finger across the screen to unlock his phone and then opening the voicemail from Scott. "Hey Sti—sorry, I missed you this morning. Mom gave me the—um flashdrives that you left for me and Derek and—um, I'm a little confused. Are you going somewhere? Or were you just go—go—go this morning? Can you call me back when you get the chance?" Scott sounded hesitant and the voicemail continued on for a few more moments to catch his breathing before he disconnected.

He shifted the car into gear—one hand on the wheel as he pulled off to the side to make room for someone else to use the pump. He shifted gears once more once he had a temporary place to park and eyed the backed-up traffic hesitantly. It did not look like it would be fun to rejoin that clusterfuck.

Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he considered the message—tapping his pointer finger against the screen to keep it from shutting off. Stiles didn't really know what to say and he thought of just sending a simple text message but then Scott would respond, and he would have to respond back as well—except the messages would be far more spaced out as Stiles would not attempt to text back with traffic being as it was. He leaned forward, resting his head against the wheel—thoughts turning murky.

Once he had analyzed just why the words upset him so much—it was hard to keep himself from reacting. From lashing out with all of the hurt and pain and why am I not good enough for you?

He had made the choice weeks ago to not tell Scott about Gerard Argent and when he was cornered and beaten bloody by the Kanima-powered man—instead pretending that it had been a clumsy mistake on his part. Which was partially the truth—he had been clumsy in thinking that he was immune to Gerard Argent and after the game had finished. And—and it had been a mistake to think that the wolves would always be there. They had their own lives—they couldn't always come save him.

Maybe if the pack had used different words—maybe if their words weren't close to what Gerard had tormented him with—then maybe things would be different. He would have twisted the overheard conversation into a joke in that version of events.

Wiping roughly at his eyes, he thumped his hand solidly against the wheel. Initially—it had seemed so easy to get over what Gerard had done. The nightmares would fade with the bruises and cuts and scrapes and words like daggers. He had thought that it would be just another thing to brush to the side and it was easier thought and said than done. The conversation he had overheard had just hurt—it put him right back in that basement being kicked around by a man who should not be so strong and powerful for twisted fun.

Leaning back, he stared with slightly unfocused eyes at the traffic pattern—trying to decide between attempting to get back on the highway or if there might be some backroads way that would get him past the accident and calling Scott. He reached over to the GPS and checked the route he was using, zooming out to see if there were any roads that might take him past the site of the accident. Stiles preferred the barrenness and freedom in backroads over highways anyways and he located one that would add an hour and a half onto his route.

He glanced back at the traffic—noting the snails' pace and decided that if he did get back on the highway, it probably take him longer. Stiles opened the lid of the bottle of apple juice and gulped some of it down, smacking his lips together loudly just because he could. He resealed the lid and then plucked up his phone from where it had slid.

"Ok—time to call Scott. You can do it Stiles—it's your best friendyeah, the best friend who did not seem like a best friend behind your back." He murmured to himself, at first attempting to prep himself up mentally for calling Scott before realizing that the thought spiraled into whether Scott really could be considered his best friend. "I'm just going to call him—tell him about the spontaneous trip—extra emphasis on spontaneous—and then I'll be home-free." He nodded to himself, before thinking on the fact that he had been talking to himself aloud, face twisted at the thought. "Mental stability—working on it. It's a work in progress."

Thumbing open the contacts' app on his phone, he scrolled through the contacts looking for Scott's contact name and photo. Stiles had added a plentiful number of phone-numbers to his favorite's list. Derek, Isaac, Lydia, Jackson, Erica, Boyd, and Danny had been added to the list as Scott already had a placement on there. He had previously had Allison up there—but Stiles found himself distrusting of her as she had been seemingly alright with working with her psychotic grandfather and that was not winning her any points in his book.

Stiles tapped on Scott's contact, the information for the other popping up. He clicked the green call button before he could overthink it and held the phone shakily to his ear as he heard the dial-tone—lowering the volume on the car radio. He had yet to switch it back to the aux cord since restarting the jeep. He drummed his fingers nervously against the steering wheel, resting his opposite arm on the open window and observing the traffic as it crawled past at a pace embarrassing to snails.

The phone rang once, twice, and then picked up on the third ring. "—Hey Stiles." Scott's greeting was bright and carried emotions that were the complete opposite of how Stiles felt. The conversation he had overheard had seemed so malicious and unkind and it just left him questioning every moment of their friendship over the past six to eight months.

Maybe even longer. "Hey man—sorry that I missed your call. I've been driving." Stiles forced himself to inject a certain level of cheerfulness into his voice. He didn't know why he was bothering to pretend that everything was fine when it wasn't. He felt so far from ok that it was horrifically hilarious.

"Oh." Scott's voice sounded surprised. "Are you leaving?" He queried, confusion intermixing with the surprise.

Stiles nodded to himself, fingers resuming an unsteady beat against the steering wheel. He doesn't really know how to talk to Scott—for the first time in years, he felt like he had run out of words, speechless and awkward and stilted. "Umm—yeah. Yeah, I'm actually going to visit my Aunt Becca—I don't know if you actually remember her—but she's my mother's sister and I used to spend the summer with her before you know." Stiles realized he was rambling and clamped his mouth shut, counting to ten in his thoughts before resuming. "So—I'm going to visit her—it was super spontaneous and last-minute."

Scott exhaled, "Wow—really? I mean—that sounds like fun." He spoke haltingly. "I'm glad you're reconnecting with that side of your family—I just wasn't expecting—so how long are you going to be gone?" Scott questioned.

Running his hand over his buzzcut, Stiles partially shrugged. "I'm not sure. A few weeks—I think. Depends on how long they plan on kidnapping me." He admitted. He cleared his throat, "I actually dropped off the flashdrives because they have most of my research and the links I use and ones I'm warning you all off of using—because they're hella unreliable—and I could probably email you some of the photo-copies from the textbooks I have." Stiles continued, pinching the skin of his leg when he realized he was rambling again.

He didn't know why exactly he was bothering to soften his unlikable edges when he couldn't get a read on whether Scott ever actually cared about him. Stiles ran a hand down his face at the thought—feeling tears smarting at the corners of his eyes which he fiercely blinked away. "So—you're going to be gone for the whole summer." Scott sounded a bit upset.

"I might not be." Stiles offered weakly. "Ok—maybe. Sorry Scott, it was super last-minute and I'm about five hours away—probably over that—so I'm a bit too far away to turn around." He remarked.

There was a shifting noise on the other line and Stiles gathered that was Scott was making himself comfortable in his room or something like that. "You don't have to turn around." Scott retorted quickly. "I really wish that we could have said bye in person, though. I'm going to miss having my best friend here." He stated, sounding genuine and honest and Stiles felt a bit of the tension in his shoulder seep into the jeep's driver seat.

"I'm going to miss you too, bro." Stiles responded. It was the truth—he was going to miss Scott. But—for the moment, Scott and the pack were not good for him. They may have been just ranting and frustrated but—and he didn't know why he kept trying to justify it to himself. He was under no obligation to spend the summer in Beacon Hills—he wasn't wrong for taking a breather. "I hope the stuff on the flashdrives is enough—you can call or text or email though if you need anymore." Stiles added after a few heartbeats passed in silence.

"Forget the research, dude." Scott spoke almost immediately. "I'm not worried about the research stuff—that's more Derek's department than mine." He stated with a certain finality in his voice.

Stiles stared at his nail-bitten fingernails critically. "Right—yeah. I'm a phone call away if you need me, though." He glanced at the highway once more—which somehow seemed even more backed up—and made a quick excuse that was coated in truth. "Anyways—I've got to go, had to re-route for traffic and all of that so I've got a long drive ahead of me." Even though Aunt Becca had texted back, assuring him that he could arrive at midnight, and it'd be fine as well as remarking that they were all super excited to see him.

He had a feeling that that translated to being excited to feed him as well—Aunt Becca had always been blatantly obvious in thinking that he was too skinny and had little problem shoving food in front of him. "How long do you have to go?" Scott queried.

Checking the estimated time arrival on the GPS, Stiles cringed. "Roughly eight and a half hours." He answered, "If I decide to be reckless and speed." Stiles added, taping the statement on.

Figuring that he'd probably stop for gas again in roughly five hours, because he did not want to arrive with an empty tank, and it would give him a snack-break, so he wasn't starving by the time he got there. He'd have room for dinner and then he'd probably be out like a light. "Don't be reckless. Your dad would be pissed if you got a ticket." Scott snorted. "Text me when you get there?"

Stiles shrugged, a fleeting smile crossing his lips. "If I remember to, I will." He assured Scott. "Don't worry, man. I'll keep in touch. And I should really get back on the road—bye." Stiles rushed through saying goodbye—hanging up before Scott even had the chance to finish his own farewell. He glanced at the contact for another few minutes, before re-entering his music selection and shuffling through a different playlist—somewhat comforted by the sound of Coldplay as he adjusted his radio for the aux cord.


I hope you enjoyed part I of this as much as I enjoyed writing it, though it did kind of hurt me to put Stiles through that questioning and doubt of his friendships and even his own self-worth. This story won't focus too heavily on romance, but instead Stiles kind of taking a breather to figure out his own shit and really just heal from everything because there's a lot of hurt there. And, honestly, I've learned that it takes one seemingly meaningless comment for you to doubt your own worth...been there, dealt with that. Anyways, part II will probably be posted sometime tomorrow. Also, quick warning...this is shaping up to be a five-part story rather than the three-part one of Unforgettable Birthday, moving up in the world everyone...