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?
Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Scott/Allison, Erica/Boyd, and Lydia/Jackson. Potentially Isaac/OC
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf
Part II
It was nearing ten-thirty by the time he pulled into the long driveway of the farm—windows rolled down with one arm slung over the door and Stiles could hear the crickets and frogs as loud as ever in the forest around him. The seclusion of the farm reminded him briefly of the Hale lands, though the backroad Stiles had been traveling had been much more populated with mailboxes and long, rock-and-dirt driveways. Stiles could see the house brightly illuminated, most of the windows shining with light while a few remained endarkened and he slowed as he approached—hearing the raucous barking of the old, beloved family dog.
"Look at you—being all grown-up." Stiles teased the large dog as it jumped up on the side of the jeep, paws on the open window and Stiles shifted the jeep into park though his foot remained on the brake. "Hey Belle." He stroked the top of the border collie's head, and the dog enthusiastically licked his fingers.
Belle had to be one of the friendliest dogs that Stiles could think of—and he had heard the stories of some of the dogs that Scott and Deaton treated from time to time at the animal clinic. He also inwardly added that she was smart, having recognized him with a certain level of enthusiasm that was reminiscent of Diana's own manner. "Belle." Aunt Becca whistled, summoning the dog to her, and stepping to the side for her to enter through the screen-door and the dog loyally trotted up the steps.
Stiles grinned gratefully at her before shifting the jeep back into gear and parking it at the end of the line beside the truck. He was hardly outside of the car—with the windows left a crack rolled down for fresh air—before he was being wrapped into a warm hug. The embrace was eerily reminiscent of the hug Melissa McCall had given him that morning, though Aunt Becca did seem to cling on for longer. "Aunt Becca—please refrain from squeezing me to death. That would be an awkward thing to explain to my dad. You know—that I survived a near fifteen-hour drive here and then got killed outside of my car via being squeezed to death." Stiles babbled.
Aunt Becca pulled back, "It's good to see you Stiles. It's been way too long." She remarked, cupping his face in one callused palm. Stiles leaned into the touch, closing his eyes—Aunt Becca made the longing for his own mother both bearable and unbearable. "And—you're far too skinny. Come on, get inside before the children come and tackle you into the mud." The slight woman steered him inside with strength belying her stature.
As he climbed up the steps, having foregone gathering his things from the jeep—he would go back later for it once the greetings were done—he could hear the TV on inside the house as well as a light conversation between Jace and Thomas. "Stiles!" Diana practically screeched as she barreled into his legs and Stiles toppled somewhat backwards, saved by his aunt grabbing the back of his shirt with a fond eye-roll. The little girl grinned up at him, bright blue eyes sparkling in the light as it caught on her dirty-blonde hair. "You're finally here! I've been waiting all day."
Stiles chuckled, ruffling her hair. "I've been driving all day." He countered.
Diana pulled away from his legs and Stiles inched his way further into the living room. Their entire clan—and it was practically a clan, in his opinion—was spread out around the living room with the TV playing at a low volume in the background. Empty bowls littered the wooden coffee table and Jace and Chris were sharing the couch with Jace conversing with Thomas—who occupied an armchair—while Chris was watching a YouTube video on his phone. Uncle Alex seemed to be the only one actually paying attention to the TV.
Jace stood up and practically tackled him, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "Dude—are you almost taller than me?" Jace remarked suddenly, not even bothering with the greeting. The blonde leaned forward onto his tip-toes, eyebrows raised as he compared their heights. "I think you might be taller than me. How is that fair? My younger cousin being taller than me." Jace continued melodramatically.
"Are we sure that it's just Diana who is in theatre?" Stiles deadpanned as he glanced towards Aunt Becca with a wry grin. Jace just smacked his shoulder in response and Stiles lifted an eyebrow at him. "We haven't seen in each other in over a year and that's the first thing you say to me." He pointed out.
Thomas snorted, standing up and rolling his shoulders. The twenty-two-year-old crossed the room, easily tugging up Chris from where the younger's attention had been snared by whatever he was watching and Jace's twin pinkened slightly when he realized that he'd missed Stiles' arrival. "Excuse the douchenozzle." Thomas flicked Jace on the forehead, who lowered his arm, rubbing his forehead with a sulky pout. "It's good to see you, Stiles." Thomas wrapped him in a quick hug—squeezing just as tightly as his mother.
The woman narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. "Don't start teaching Diana bad words." Aunt Becca warned, covering her daughter's ears and the little girl rolled her eyes with all of the petulance of a seven-year-old.
"Right. We'll just leave that for Jace." Chris contributed to the conversation. He was the next to give Stiles a hug while Uncle Alex stood to clap him on the shoulder. "So—where's your stuff? I'm assuming you didn't make the day-long drive here with just the clothes on your back." Chris lifted a dark brown eyebrow. Jace and he were fraternal twins—with Jace's hair being golden blonde, strands of platinum, pale blonde, medium blonde, and ash blonde forming the golden look and Chris's hair being warm brown. They had the same-colored eyes, though—their mother's brilliant blue—though Chris' were darker with specks of brown.
Stiles offered a sarcastic grin. "Yes. I totally did that." He retorted. Thomas rolled his eyes fondly, slinging an arm over his shoulder and gesturing for the twins to follow them outside. Stiles inhaled and exhaled, the fresh air training the tension of spending all day behind the wheel—cramped in one spot—away. He closed his eyes, trusting that Thomas wouldn't steer him into a tree. "You do realize that I don't need help getting most of this stuff out, right?" Stiles remarked dryly as he opened the back of the jeep and Jace snagged the suitcase before he could.
Jace patted him on the shoulder. "Accept the special treatment—it won't last." His eyes darted playfully towards the door where Diana was poking her head out with Belle right beneath her, tail wagging excitedly.
His eyebrows raised as Chris claimed one duffel bag as well as the two pillows and Thomas the other as well as his lunch box and drinks, leaving him with nothing to grab and only his phone and wallet in his pocket. "Why do I have a feeling you guys are doing this because Aunt Becca would bust out the quarter sock otherwise?" Stiles quipped, following them up the steps with his hands tucked into his pockets as they easily took his stuff up the stairs of the front porch and into the house.
Casting one last glance behind him, enjoying the warm breeze, he grinned to himself before allowing Diana to tug him inside. "Mom doesn't have a quarter sock. Well—not yet, anyways." Chris murmured as the four led him up the stairs and to the room on the left. An air-mattress had been set up in there and covered with sheets and Jace tossed the two pillows that Stiles had grabbed from home on it. A quick glance around the room revealed that he was bunking with Thomas—who was his favorite cousin.
Before Aunt Becca and Uncle Alex had relocated the family out of Beacon Hills and to the farm—Thomas had been the cousin who he spent the most time around as he used to watch him while Jace and Chris had been thicker than thieves and always plotting something. Jace was, of course, the ring-leader of the group. "I'm surprised." Stiles plopped down on the air mattress, sighing in relief. "Sleep." He murmured when Diana, giggling all the while, tried to drag him off the air mattress.
"No." Diana declared. "Mom wants you to eat dinner first."
Jace chipped in and Stiles slitted his eyes open after a second to note that his cousin had plopped down in Thomas' computer chair and was swirling around it while Chris leaned against the wall and Thomas sat on his own bed. "Yeah. Mom spent all day in the kitchen slaving over a home-cooked meal for you—if you don't eat it. She will be supremely offended." Jace drawled the words.
Stiles threw a pillow at him, satisfied when it hit Jace in the face. "You are definitely the drama queen of the family." He spoke decisively. "I'm tired."
The eighteen-year-old rolled his eyes, pegging the pillow at Chris when the other chuckled at the comment. "And you are definitely the whiney one of the family." Jace spoke with the same tone of voice that Stiles used.
With a laugh, Stiles sat up, scooching back so that his back was leaning against the wall. "You didn't deny your status as a drama queen." He teased in a sing-song voice. "And I would give you a very unflattering gesture about the whiney comment but there are ladies present." Stiles nodded to both Diana and Jace.
"I've seen worse from Jacey." Diana stated. She squinted, "You were talking about the middle finger, right?"
Stiles bit back a grin while Thomas smacked the back of Jace's head with the pillow that Stiles had brought with him—taking it from Chris before the other brunette could do so. "Jace—Mom's going to kill you." Thomas scolded, though the grin on his face belied the serious tone in his voice.
He caught the pillow that Thomas tossed back at him and placed it underneath him, rubbing his neck with one hand to massage out the kinks that had developed. He absently wondered if drive-lag was a thing like jet-lag was. If not—it definitely should be since he had no idea how else to describe how he felt. "Is there going to be popcorn there when Aunt Becca kills him?" Stiles questioned.
Jace rolled his eyes at him. "You seem awfully accepting of the fact that I might be brutally murdered by my own mother." He stated dryly.
Offering a shrug, Stiles grinned irreverently. "Of course, I am." He exhaled before standing up. "Alright—pretty sure I need food now. I haven't eaten since four." He had had to stop earlier than he had anticipated, and he made a mental note to get gas the next time he went out. "So—come on, food, food, food." Stiles grabbed Diana's hand and steered her downstairs where Aunt Becca had a bowl of his favorite ready on the kitchen counter and she handed him a spoon with a wink.
"Why do I feel like we've kidnapped another seven-year-old into the family?" Jace questioned rhetorically as he descended the staircase and Stiles claimed an empty seat at the dining table.
Stiles stared at him, pausing with his arm raised halfway to his mouth. "Jace—you do realize that I am your cousin." He reminded him slowly. "Or are we talking about your seven-year-old personality?" Stiles quipped.
Thomas dropped down into the seat beside Stiles. "Not even ten minutes in and you two are already bickering." Thomas noted amusedly. Stiles nodded, taking the bite of his favorite, and nearly moaning at the taste. It was so much better than the half pop-tart, two sandwiches, chips, and crackers combined. "Is this what the entire summer is going to be like?" He remarked, trading a glance with Chris long-sufferingly.
Stiles and Jace exchanged glances, before Stiles grinned innocently while Jace smirked. Chris dropped his head to thud it against the table. "How do you do that without giving yourself a concussion?" Stiles glanced towards Chris in askance. "I mean—every single time I try to face plant against the table, I just end up nearly giving myself a concussion and there was that one time where I actually did after listening to Scott practically sing an ode to Allison's eyes and how her hair smelled for like an hour." Stiles informed the group with a shrug, trying not to twist his face into a grimace at Allison's name.
Allison Argent may have apologized for what she had done before her, and her father had departed for France—but Stiles was still hesitant with forgiving her. "No wonder you ran for the hills from him." Jace remarked. "Can Scott even sing?"
"Oh god no." Stiles nearly choked on the stew. "I thought my ears were going to commit self-murder—aka suicide—after he got on stage during a karaoke night." He continued, "I would have videoed it, but my brain decided that it wanted to block that memory for as long as humanly possible because it was that bad." Grimacing at the memory of Scott awkwardly fumbling through a song on a dare when they were fifteen, Stiles finished the meal, pushing the bowl away from him and relaxing against the chair.
Thomas chuckled, "So you and Scott are still best friends, then?"
He could feel the barely-there smile dissipating as he glanced at the empty bowl for a second. "Um—kind of?" Stiles answered hesitantly. He drummed his fingernails uneasily against the wooden table as he racked his brain for a different subject.
Jace whistled lowly. "So—what's the story there?" He queried, leaning forward in his seat.
Stiles wondered if he could get away with throwing the bowl at Jace's head before realizing that Aunt Becca would probably make him pay for a new one. "It's complicated." Stiles answered.
Chris discreetly elbowed Jace in the ribs. Thomas also seemed to note the sensitive nature of the topic and mercifully changed the subject. "Ok—so—what do you want to do tomorrow?" Thomas questioned, resting his forearms on the table. "We've got the lake out back for swimming. And there are some antique outlets in town if you want to go for a drive. Or—we've got Call of Duty, though I'm pretty sure you don't want to challenge Chris in that." He side-eyed his little brother, who raised his eyebrows and slightly smirked.
Stiles mulled it over. "Pretty sure I'm going to avoid getting in a car for as long as humanly possible." He retorted. With a shrug, he added: "I'll probably decide tomorrow morning when my brain is less ugh." Stiles gestured nonsensically, living up to his status as a spaz as he nearly knocked the bowl over.
"Note to self: keep Stiles away from breakable objects." Jace teased.
It was Stiles' turn to smirk at his cousin. "Good luck with that." He offered, yawning.
Chris rolled his eyes. "I don't know that it's possible to be more clumsy than me." He murmured as he took the bowl that Stiles nearly knocked over and placed it on the floor for an eager Belle to lick clean.
"Challenge accepted." Stiles yawned again, unable to help himself. He felt sated from the food and tilted his bead to close his eyes before rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck—fingers working at the kinks that had built up. "Ok—I'm going to sleep." He remarked, standing up.
Aunt Becca gave him a surprise hug at the stairs while Thomas followed him up and Jace and Chris started a game on a tablet with Diana watching them with wide eyes. "Good night—Stiles. Sleep tight. We'll talk more in the morning." She gave him a look that indicated that she had not forgotten their scheduled grilling session and Stiles dramatically gulped. He bid them good night, giving Uncle Alex and Diana a quick hug before offering a two-fingered salute to Jace and Chris.
He ascended the stairs under the gentle probing of Thomas and headed to his suitcase for his toothbrush, toothpaste, and another tee to sleep in. "I normally sleep in a tee-shirt and boxers, that ok?" Stiles checked with Thomas. The hazel-eyed adult nodded, opening and closing his drawers as he gathered his own night-clothes.
Heading to the bathroom—which was a few doors down from Thomas' bedroom—Stiles flicked the light switch upwards as the mirror lights turned on revealing the rectangular space. The upstairs of the house only had room for three bedrooms and two bathrooms with an attic entrance at the end of the hallway. He bumped the wooden door closed with his foot, casting a surveying glance around the room.
The bathroom had tiled floors and tile creeping up to the halfway-point of the wall. Next to the door was the sink which had a lower cabinet containing extra tooth-brushes and toothpaste as well as a few rolls of toilet paper. Across from that was a small door leading to a closet area that had a collection of towels—both for washing and for the beach as well as some bathroom decorations on the floor with a Christmas-themed shower curtain taking up the most space. Next to the sink was the toilet—the lid closed—and had a sea-blue-green mat in front of it that matched the furry-accessory on the toilet lid. Finally, a shower that was partial shower and bathtub was at the end with a distorted ceiling window above it that could be opened.
Stiles quickly changed his clothes—piling the traveled-in tee and shorts on the toilet and as he replaced it with another tee and left himself in just the boxers. The heat was slightly different at the farm—he could feel the humidity buzzing against his skin and was relieved that Thomas had a fan on the ceiling as well as one of those rotating white floor fans—than it was in Beacon Hills. Squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto his toothbrush, he scrubbed at his teeth before rinsing his mouth with tap water.
His phone vibrated in the discarded pile of clothes and Stiles recalled that he had promised to shoot his father a message when he arrived—it had slipped his mind when Belle bounded up to the jeep with all of the exuberance of a puppy followed by the tight-grip of Aunt Becca and the greetings of the rest of her merry bunch of crusaders. "Shit." He murmured, unlocking his phone quickly and replying to the prompting message from his father with apologies for getting distracted and the knowledge that he had arrived safely.
"You probably need to refrain from cursing too much." Jace poked his head in, nudging Stiles out of the way as he located his own toothbrush. "Diana picks up on that stuff way too quickly." He murmured.
Stiles offered a teasing grin, gathering his clothes in his arms and letting his phone go back into sleep mode. "I can just blame that on you." He chuckled when the blonde resorted to merely flicking his head. "I remember you being a night owl—why are you getting ready for bed now?" Stiles leaned against the counter with his eyebrows raised.
Jace scowled at his reflection. "Mom has me cleaning out the barn in the morning." He remarked sourly. "Which is why I'm giving you a quick warning to avoid language up here—Diana literally just pops up everywhere."
He did remember the threats Aunt Becca had murmured during their phone conversation—though he didn't know why it surprised him to know that she had carried through on it. "You're just trying to avoid getting stuck with more cleaning duty." Stiles declared. Jace flicked him on the ear in retaliation. "See you in the morning Jacey." He released a victorious noise when he managed to dodge the incoming smack upside the head that the comment had garnered as he maneuvered his way out of the partially opened door.
"Call me that again and I'll call you by your first name, Stiles." Jace warned, voice slightly garbled by the toothbrush in his mouth as he poked his head out the door to give Stiles a look.
He tossed a challenging look over his shoulder, grinning. "Do you even know how to pronounce it?" Stiles retorted. Though, it did annoy him when people flailed when pronouncing his first name—he found it amusing when it was just one person and watching them stutter about. "Thought so." He turned back around, reentering Thomas' bedroom.
Despite the fact that he had been getting ready for bed—his mind catalogued more aspects of the bedroom than he had noticed before as his attention had been primarily on the air mattress or his own suitcase and duffel bags. Apparently, they had left the lunch box downstairs and the bottles had been placed in the fridge.
The room was square-shaped with a queen-sized bed to the right of the entrance with a desk beside it and a computer chair pushed int. There was a shelving unit underneath the slightly elevated bed and a dresser across from it. One of the windows was large and rectangular and resided between the computer desk and the movie-filled bookshelves on the other side. Stiles figured that a few things had been shifted around to make room for the air mattress to be against the wall rather than a shelf or dresser. A door to the right of the entrance was slightly opened to reveal the filled closet.
"Messing with Jace?" Thomas quirked an eyebrow at him, regarding him over the few movie cases he had in his hand. He had set up a rather large, DVD/CD compatible laptop on the somewhat messy surface of the dresser. The hazel-eyed brunette had changed into a graphic tee as well as shucking off his jeans and toeing off his boots.
Nodding, Stiles held his load of clothes up, wondering where he should put them. Thomas nodded towards the partially-filled hamper beside the large dresser and Stiles flashed a thankful smile as he tossed the clothes into the hamper—removing his wallet from the pocket beforehand. "It has become a necessity. Practically a reflex." Stiles remarked, unzipping his suitcase, and tugging out his charger before scanning the room for an available port.
Thomas clicked his tongue, dragging Stiles' gaze to him. His cousin nodded towards an outlet and Stiles crawled over to it to plug his phone in—clearing off his notifications as he did so. He'd worry about responding to the previously affectionately named puppy chat in the morning when his brain didn't feel scrambled. "Any opinions on a movie?" Thomas held up the few he was deciding between, and Stiles glanced upwards. Wedding Crashers. Your Highness. Hot-tub Time Machine.
Stiles hummed thoughtfully. "Your Highness sounds good." He pointed; words chopped up by a yawn as he moved back to his suitcase—moving his items out of the way so that he would not end up smacking his face against them in the morning. "I haven't seen that one in ages." Stiles continued, finally giving into his exhaustion, and splaying out starfish-style on the sheets and dropped his face against his pillow—the tension bleeding from his shoulders.
"Doubt you're going to be doing much watching." Thomas' remark was doused in amusement. Stiles turned his head to his right to glance at his cousin over his folded his arms. "You're about to crash." Thomas smirked lightly.
He flopped over to his side, wondering if it would be wise to flick off the cousin he was rooming with for the next few weeks. Deciding that the movement was too exhaustive, he yawned widely again. "You're reaching Edward-Cullen-randomly-sparkly-vampire-extraordinaire levels of creepiness just watching me drift off like that, Tom-tom." Stiles slurred, forcing himself to crack one eye open.
Thomas looked supremely offended as he exchanged the discs in the computer and clicked a few times on the cursor. "Never compare me to that creep." His cousin scowled, before softening. "Next time, I'm throwing a stapler at you." Stiles didn't know how someone could threaten to stapler someone with a soft expression pasted on his face.
"How terrifying." Stiles deadpanned, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep before the trailers could start.
Running a hand over his quickly-drying buzzcut, Stiles headed into the kitchen with a bright grin. Aunt Becca was busying herself over the stove, the scent of omelets, home fries, and French toast filling the room pleasantly. He noticed that Uncle Alex and Thomas were already outside—visible in the late-morning light as they carried out their morning chores on the farm—and figured that Jace was already at work in the barn as Chris and Diana were the only ones still seated at the table.
Chris was teaching Diana how to play a multi-player tablet game which the little girl was half-heartedly paying attention to, dividing her time between that and what remained of her breakfast—which was just French toast. Chris had already finished his own plate and placed it on the floor for Belle to lap up—the dish in question sliding across the wooden floor with the dog's efforts. Stiles waited a few minutes before making his presence known, observing the easy companionship and light-hearted atmosphere his cousins and aunt and uncle had obtained for themselves.
He could hardly remember the last time his father and he had had the chance to sit down together for breakfast. The most important meal of the day was normally undermined by both men as Stiles had a past of skipping breakfast and his father was usually practically out the door by the time he thought of it. The simple gesture of having breakfast prepared by someone other than himself and people to talk to seemed mundane on paper—but it made a longing cast a shadow over his heart.
Stiles shook his head at himself. "Morning everyone." He greeted cheerily—dismissing the dreary twist of his thoughts to the back of his mind to be thought of preferably never. He entered the kitchen-dining-room-combo further, electing to head over to his aunt to see if she might need anything.
Aunt Becca seemed to be reading his mind. "Don't even think about it—you're taking the day to rest-up and be grilled about problems. Then, we'll see about giving you something to do around the farm." She handed him a plate filled to the brim with home fries, omelet, and French toast. "The syrup should be on the table." Aunt Becca turned her back on him, finishing up with the batch of breakfast and plating what remained before covering those with paper towels, doubtlessly having already eaten.
"Thanks, Auntie." Stiles pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. He took a seat beside Diana and leaned over to observe what game had their attention captured. "That looks—fun." He tilted his head to one side, brow furrowing. "Is that a mystery game?"
Diana nodded. "Yup." She popped the p sound, tapping one of the options on the screen. "I love these types of games and Chris is the only one who can actually keep up." She shoveled the last bits of her syrup-drenched French toast in her mouth.
Stiles took a bite of his food when his aunt shot him a sharp look when she noticed his lack of eating—she looked immensely satisfied as she turned back to the dishes. He thought of volunteering to help her clean up, before realizing that she would probably not accept anything from him until he finished breakfast. "We'll see about that." Stiles offered with a half-smile, leaning over to see the results of the game.
"So—how'd you sleep?" Chris queried with a bit of an awkward smile.
Stiles' half-smile turned a bit wider. "Good—thanks. Though, I had no idea Thomas could snore like a lawn-mower." He took a bite of the home fries and decided they were the best part of the meal—though he figured the opinion might change as he alternated between home fries and French toast.
Chris snorted. "Just be grateful you didn't have to deal with Jace snoring—he sounds like one of those loud, obnoxious tractors in an echoing room." He stated. Stiles reached behind Diana to pat his shoulder in commiseration.
"How do you deal with it—you know, without wanting to just shove him out of the window?" Stiles queried, standing up to head to the fridge and see if he could locate one of his bottles from yesterday. Aunt Becca hip-checked him out of the way and grabbed the bottle from where it had been tucked away on the second-shelf before shoving it in his hands and steering him back to the table.
Chris chuckled. "How do you know I don't normally shove him out of the window?"
Aunt Becca didn't even turn around to look at them, scrubbing the pan with a sponge. "As annoying as Jace is—you can't just shove him out of a window." She remarked dryly. "It would take forever to get the window guy out here." Aunt Becca added.
He nearly snorted apple juice out of his nose. "You're not concerned about the hospital bill." Stiles countered in a disbelief-ridden voice.
"Oh, I'm sure Jace would be fine—he's got a hard head." Aunt Becca spoke decisively. "Finish eating your breakfast Stiles." She continued, giving him a look that Stiles affectionately labeled mother-hen in his head. He had a feeling that the woman had every intention of mother-henning him to death over the summer.
It was somewhat hilarious to him that the woman could go from casually discussing the injury of her own son to forcing him to eat everything that she had put on his plate. "I'm eating. See." He purposefully spoke with his mouth full.
Aunt Becca resumed cleaning—grumbling affectionately under her breath while Stiles returned his attention to Chris and Diana. "Gross." Diana stated simply, wrinkling her nose. "Mama—why are boys so gross?" She turned to look at the woman.
"Mama—why do girls have cooties?" Chris mocked. Aunt Becca grabbed a spray-bottle from the cupboard under the sink and gestured with it in their direction warningly. Diana still kicked Chris under the table when she turned back around to spray the counter with the cleaner and wipe it down with a paper towel from the roll beside the sink. "Anyways—any ideas on what you want to do today? I'm free since I already finished my chores." Chris changed the subject, resting his forearms on the table.
Stiles tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I've heard that you're the best at video games." He prompted, smile turning playful and mischievous.
Diana watched them, beaming. "Oh—sounds like we're about to have a competition."
Her mother quickly shut the idea of Diana watching down—doubtlessly knowing the gameplay might be a bit too violent for a seven-year-old. "Diana—don't you have some chores to be doing before you can watch your brother and cousin play video games?" Aunt Becca reminded her with one hand propped on her hip.
Stiles watched as the little girl turned to her mother with a pout—widening her eyes and clasping her hands together. And he had thought that no one could think to match Scott or Isaac, but Diana not only matched them, but she also surpassed the both of them—combined. To his surprise, Aunt Becca did not appear swayed by the expression—probably due to the racked-up years of experience—and instead lifted an impervious eyebrow. "But—Mama—Sti just got here, and we want to spend time together, don't we?" Diana turned to him, batting her eyelashes.
Chris took pity on him and covered his eyes. "Di—stop with the puppy eyes." Chris groaned. "They don't work on Mom—and you know that." He added sounding entirely amused despite the borderline scolding tone.
"Worth a try." Diana finally spoke, deflating and Chris removed his hand. Stiles glanced towards his aunt—her expression was entirely bemused—as Diana hopped off the chair and placed her plate on the floor to be licked. A part of Stiles wondered about the wisdom behind letting Belle lick syrup—wouldn't that just make the generally enthusiastic dog even more enthusiastic? He shoveled more food into his mouth when it looked like Aunt Becca would comment on his lack of appetite in the mornings.
He glanced down at his plate—it seemed more befitting a serving that Scott McCall or Isaac Lahey or even Jackson Whittemore would take, not him. "Is she really expecting me to eat all of this?" Stiles leaned over to whisper the question to Chris once Aunt Becca dragged Diana from the room to start on feeding the chickens and pigs.
Chris smirked. "Yup." He answered, patting his shoulder.
Stiles grimaced. "I'm going to explode." He remarked.
"Don't you know that that's the intention?" Chris snorted into his cup of coffee. Stiles muscled through a few more bites—before pushing the plate away from himself, it had only a quarter of the original amount left. "Don't even think about putting in the trash—she'll know." The eighteen-year-old warned him.
Stiles waved his arms emphatically, nearly taking out his bottle of apple juice. "Then—what am I supposed to do with the rest of it?" Chris just rolled his eyes and slid the plate to himself, quickly shoveling what remained of it in his mouth before shoving it back to Stiles. He could feel his lips twitching up at the corners and almost burst out laughing at the gesture completed in under two minutes. "Ok—thank you. So, what kind of video games do you have and what console?" Stiles stood up, placing his plate on the floor to be licked and picking up the other two plates and heading to the kitchen sink.
Chris tagged along behind him, grabbing a paper towel, and wetting it before cleaning the syrup off the table while Stiles turned on the tap and began rinsing the plates. "You should probably leave the actual cleaning to Mom—she's nit-picky about it." Chris remarked, depositing the folded paper towel in the trash before nudging Stiles out of the way to wash his hands.
Stiles stole the soap before his cousin could use it and Chris snorted at him. He nudged his cousin with an elbow to the ribs. "Are you two seriously fighting over the sink?" Jace's voice sounded dubious, and Stiles tossed the twin a glance. He couldn't help but laugh when he noted the mud covering Jace's tee-shirt and caking the side of his face. It was even in his precious hair as well.
"Seems like we should just relinquish the sink to you, Jacey." Stiles dryly stated. "Did you decide to roll around in the mud with your brethren?" He quipped, drying his hands with a paper towel before resting his forearms on the counter as he pointedly eyed his cousin with a bemused grin.
"I'm not a pig." His cousin countered with a scowl that quickly twisted into a sudden smirk and Stiles gathered that he was about to be muddied. "Would you like a good morning hug?" Jace outstretched his arms and Stiles darted over to the sink hose while Chris rolled his eyes at them, moving out of the way. "Mom will kill you if you get the kitchen wet." Jace did seem a bit cautious with the sink running and the separate hose part directed at him, though there was still an irritating smirk on his lips.
Stiles raised both eyebrows. "And I'll brutally murder you with a butter knife and then toss you out a window if you get mud on me after I just showered." He warned.
Jace quirked an eyebrow. "A butter knife?" He queried slowly.
Grinning mischievously—and with a bit of the wildness that Isaac normally injected into his own smile—Stiles nodded. "It will be brutal." He promised. He glanced to the side for a second and then faltered, eyebrows furrowing. "Chris—are you videoing this?" Stiles questioned, a part of him wondering about his life decisions.
He had obviously made very strange life decisions that led him up to threatening to brutally murder his muddied cousin. "I want to show this to Thomas." Chris answered, "He'll want to see who wins." He continued.
The blonde took advantage of Stiles' distraction to lunge forward, and he instinctively raised the hose and sprayed his cousin in the face with it. Jace spluttered, hands reflexively shooting up to his face as Stiles continued spraying for a second before letting go. "It's not like the hose being raised in your direction wasn't a warning." Stiles spoke after a heartbeat of silence of Jace wiping at his face and scowling at Stiles. "Besides—I think I actually got some of the mud out of your precious hair." He added.
Jace tackled him and Stiles continued spraying water at his cousin before the other claimed the hose and began spraying water at Stiles instead. They wrestled for the hose for another few minutes—the item in questions occasionally releasing a spray of water—before Stiles reclaimed it and sprayed down the back of Jace's shirt with the cold water. "Who won?" Jace breathlessly asked Chris—laying down like a starfish on the floor while Stiles leaned against the cabinet, laughing.
"I might have to review the footage." Chris wiped at his glasses—some droplets had gotten on them. "You two are insane—you know that right? Mom is definitely going to want the mud cleaned up." He contributed after a moment as Stiles glanced around and gave a low whistle at the spots of mud on the floor.
Stiles kicked Jace with his foot. "Get up, dude. You're smearing more mud."
Jace rolled his eyes—and Stiles became heavily convinced that the gesture was definitely a sign that Jace and Chris were twins. "Can you get us a towel?" Jace asked Chris, the younger twin nodding as he hopped off the bar stool and clamored up the stairs two at a time before returning with a large, brown towel. "How about we not mention this to Mom for a few days?" The blonde offered.
He nodded, "Yeah—I have a feeling she'd throw us both out of a window."
Chris chuckled loudly as Jace shot them a look complete with furrowed eyebrows. "Why do you keep mentioning tossing people out of windows?" Stiles exchanged a glance with Chris, who smiled innocently at Jace when the suspicious twin turned to him in askance. "It's only been a night—how do you two already have an inside joke?" Jace ran a hand through his hair, before cringing when some mud came off on his hand—expression twisting with disgust.
"The mysteries of eating breakfast together." Stiles quipped, snatching the towel from Jace, and running it under the sink for a second before scrubbing at the drying mud and cleaning it off. He then resumed drying the rest of the floor—even patting down the spots on the cabinets. "So—video game tournament?" He glanced back at Chris, changing the subject.
Jace continued grimacing at the mud on his hand. "Yeah—let's go." Chris slung an arm over his shoulder. "Jace'll probably join us when he finally stops angsting over his hair." He murmured to Stiles as they ascended the stairs.
"I can hear you two about to insult me." Jace's claim followed them upstairs and Stiles burst out laughing while Chris grinned, tossing a teasing remark back to Jace before tugging Stiles into his room and dumped a selection of video games into his lap.
They had gotten through a few games and Stiles had to admit that Chris was pretty much a professional gamer at this point—he could normally brag about having that as a status, but he hadn't had much time for video games with all of the threats in Beacon Hills. Being able to play those same games—and some of the new ones—made his heart feel a bit lighter than it had felt in weeks. He hadn't even noticed that there was just an ever-present feeling of darkness and fear that something awful was about to happen. Like his mind kept cycling back to being prepared for a fight.
It was nice to think that the on-screen zombies contained the only fighting he was doing today. At some point, a freshly showered Jace joined them and alternated between watching them play and scrolling around on his phone, normally contributing to the conversation through sarcasm and supposedly witty one-liners. "Hey—Mom wants Stiles." Thomas entered the room without much preamble, claiming a spot on the end of Chris' bottom bunk and plopping his feet in Jace's lap as the other pinched him.
Stiles didn't remove his attention from the screen, putting a few more bullets into the loud and grotesque looking zombies. Chris had introduced him to a game called Seven Days to Die and they were currently at day nine and had entered a hospital. "Yo—there's a dog." Stiles pointed out.
"Damn it." Chris cursed. The dogs on the game looked like German Sheperd's but they carried the same zombie-like trait and Stiles detachedly debated the morals of pumping a dog full of bullets. "Oh—I hate crawlers." He added and Stiles nodded his agreement, sharing the sentiment. The crawlers were normally the loudest of the zombies—maybe to make up for the fact that they didn't have functional legs, they were obviously overcompensating.
Thomas shoved his shoulder. "Mom wants you—you better go before she comes up here and drags you out by your ear." He reiterated and Stiles finally pulled his attention away from the screen and handed the remote over to Jace.
"Try not to get me killed, Jacey." Stiles remarked as Jace rolled his eyes and pushed Thomas' legs off his lap and claimed the bean bag that Stiles had abandoned. He cast one last glance at the twins' room behind him—it was organized much the same way as Thomas' room, except the queen-sized bed was replaced with bunk beds and the shelves occupied instead with Chris' comic books and Jace's regular books. They also had a gaming station against the wall containing a closet and an extra dresser underneath the TV
He headed out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him—as they hadn't had it closed before—and descended the staircase, casting a critical glance around him. He could see Diana working on some project on the dining room table with Uncle Alex across from her going through the payment books. "Becca's outside." His uncle stated without even flicking his gaze up from the papers he was looking through.
"Thanks." Stiles flashed him a grin, exiting through the front door and glancing around the long acreage of land. He could see a few of the horses roaming the fenced in area as well as a few of the pigs in the muddied area. Outside, he could immediately feel the sweltering sun against his skin and the world was almost blinding when compared against the air-conditioning and medium-lighting of the inside of the house. "Auntie. You summoned." Stiles cupped his hands around his mouth to jokingly call out.
Aunt Becca's voice came from the barn and Stiles headed over—following her voiced directive. "Over here." When he finally spotted her, she was managing some of their vegetable garden—planting something. "So—I've held off on questioning for a while—but I do want to know what's going on with you, kiddo. Your father didn't seem to have any ideas though he did mention something interesting." Her eyes darted up from the tomato plant she was holding steady with one hand while she filled the free spaces with nutrient-filled dirt mixed with the regular dirt, taking up a handful from the large bag beside her.
He could feel her gaze landing on the yellowed marks on his face and the healed cut on his cheek. Stiles averted his gaze, twisting his fingers around nervously. "I just mouthed off too much following a lacrosse game—it's nothing." He answered the unasked question shortly.
"It didn't sound like nothing." Aunt Becca remarked, tone purposefully light. Stiles had a feeling that she would not be letting up on the topic as he had somehow convinced his father to do—and then proceeded to talk his way around the topic whenever it seemed his father might approach him on it. "It sounded like you got jumped. And didn't name the people who jumped you." She stated.
Stiles didn't know what to say—he hadn't anticipated that Aunt Becca would bring that up. While it did relate to the reason he came there—was probably the reason if he thought about it because the conversation he had overheard cycled back to that day. "It's not a big deal." He defended himself weakly.
Aunt Becca stared at him disbelievingly. Stiles met her gaze after a moment, and she reached over and smacked him lightly upside the head with her dirt-covered gardening gloves. "Don't doubt your own worth like that." She declared scoldingly. "So—talk to me, what happened between you and Scott?" She queried, showing that she had definitely overheard him chatting with his cousins during dinner the previous night.
"Nothing." The response was near automatic. "Everything's fine between Scott and I—we're still the best of bros."
Her eyebrows raised as she sat back on her haunches, leaning backwards. "Want to try that again?" Aunt Becca spoke after a minute, not even looking remotely appeased by his quick answer.
Stiles had had over a day to think about how to approach the topic—though he still had no idea what how to start it or what to say that would not lead to everything spilling out. The truth about the supernatural world. Sharing that might wind up with him being institutionalized and chalked up as being temporarily insane or just joking around. "We had—we had a small—tiny, really disagreement." He finally answered, haltingly. "Well—it wasn't quite a disagreement, we just—um—he kind of said that he wanted some space from me." Stiles corrected himself, mouth wandering away from his brain.
His aunt's expression turned understanding, before she glanced back at the next dug-up hole and shifted her equipment for ease of use. "How could he say something like that to you after you were jumped?" Aunt Becca sounded entirely disapproving of Scott and Stiles gathered that she would not be very warm to Scott the next time they saw each other unless Stiles smoothed things over.
A part of him didn't want to—wanted to have someone that was solely in his corner. Or just a group of people that wouldn't be torn between him and Scott. He swallowed, claiming a spot on the ground with his back against the barn, arms rested on his knees. "Um—ok, I have a few confessions to make." He wrung his hands nervously. "Scott—um—he doesn't really know that my—that I was—um—jumped." Stiles spoke hesitantly.
She gave him a probing look. "How—exactly—did he miss the bruises?" Aunt Becca gestured emphatically at him.
"I may have—um—delayed telling him the truth." He remarked and she raised both eyebrows, silently demanding that he elaborate. Stiles almost commented archly that he was definitely learning how to communicate and understand eyebrow movement. "Ok—full disclosure—I told him that I ran into a piece of furniture after tripping down the stairs." Stiles spoke quickly. "And—he didn't really tell me himself—in person—that he wanted space. I may have been planning a prank and overheard him and a few others." He finished.
In the next second, he found himself wrapped quickly in her arms and she rested her chin on his head. Stiles closed his eyes—inhaling and exhaling shakily. His heart felt like it had leapt to his throat, and he swallowed roughly, surrendering easily to the embrace after the initial tensity seeped into his shoulders. The angle was slightly awkward—especially on Aunt Becca—but the woman didn't seem to mind. "When did you overhear him?" She whispered the words, speaking into his hair.
He toyed with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Saturday." Stiles answered quietly.
She removed one of the gloves, running her fingers over his buzzcut, humming lowly in her throat. "That's why you wanted to come here so quickly." Aunt Becca confirmed and he nodded slightly. "Ok—ok—you're staying here for the entire summer, not just the next few weeks." She continued with a no-nonsense tone in her voice that left little room for him to argue or challenge the statement.
"Sounds like family members kidnapping family members." Stiles quipped without even thinking. He swallowed, opening his eyes—his vision was blurry, and he blinked rapidly to clear it. "I'm sorry—I wish I was coming just because I missed you and not that along with the additional baggage of questioning over a decade of friendship." He remarked.
Aunt Becca pinched his cheeks. "I'm glad you're here, Stiles." She confirmed. "Ok—I need you to understand that because I know that you're not sharing every detail—but I love that you're here. We all love that you're here." Aunt Becca added; her voice turning into something fierce.
He nodded, offering a wisp of a smile. "Ok—ok—I get it." Stiles promised. He waited for her to detangle from the embrace, and she took a step back. Stiles handed her the glove she had discarded, and she pulled the article of clothing on and then propped her hands on her hips, staring down at him. He cleared his throat, "Do you want any help?" Stiles glanced towards her in askance, knowing that he wasn't quite emotionally ready to go back inside and resume the game Chris and he were playing.
"I'd appreciate it if you could wheel that over here." He followed the finger she pointed to a filled black cart that was stock-full of tomato plants. Stiles headed over to the cart located a few feet to his left next to the barn and carefully wheeled it over to her. It had been ages since he had had the chance to get his hands dirty and exercise the bare traces of a green thumb that he had inherited from his mother. "Alright so this row is for the cherry tomatoes—just check the paper labels in the dirt and then get started on planting." Aunt Becca maneuvered the bag of nutrients-packed dirt so that it was in between them.
Stiles grabbed the extra pair of gardening gloves that she proffered for him—sliding them on. He glanced up at the brilliant afternoon sun over their heads before grabbing one of the tomato plants and checking the label before taking it out of the black container carefully. "So—what's for dinner?" He queried after a few minutes of companionable silence that consisted of him holding the plant up gently as he packed the spot full of soil—using a handful from the bag to mix with the regular dirt.
Aunt Becca's initial response was dripping with sarcasm: "Well, I was hoping to make actual food for dinner."
The next few days passed in much of the same manner—with Stiles finding ways to seamlessly blend in with the rather large family as he joined in on the chores and alternated between talking about video games with Chris and movies with Thomas and books with Jace. The last one was much of a surprise to Stiles that him and Jace could find common ground with books as their personalities tended to leave them wrestling and bickering a lot—most of the actions supported with fond, familial exasperation. He also spent time with Diana when the others took a requisite trip for the farmer's market—helping her with her homework and watching a few of the Disney classics with her.
He still hadn't messaged Scott since he had arrived—though he kept revisiting the conversations he had had previously with his best friend. Scott had messaged him, correctly guessing that Stiles had been distracted when he arrived and he had received a few of the messages from the group chat, though most were not directed towards him personally. Stiles didn't know what to say—his mind going perfectly blank whenever he opened the conversation—to Scott or anyone if he were being honest with himself.
It hadn't been just Scott talking in that conversation. It had been all of them. Isaac. Erica. Boyd. Lydia. Jackson. And Derek. Derek had even been the one to say that Stiles would never be pack. They had called him too much and annoying and maybe Stiles was those things—no, there was no maybe about it, he definitely was those things—but he wished they would have said it to his face, instead of with near maliciousness behind his back.
Sliding his phone in between his fingers as he sat down on an unearthed root near the pond—the water-source made an idyllic scene, surrounded by trees with unearthed roots that could be used as seating. Diana had been the one to drag him over there a few days after he had arrived, and it had been a week since he had come there, and he waited until everyone else was busy before slipping away with his sketchbook. Stiles hadn't sketched in there for a while—but he found himself feeling inspired for the first time in a long while.
He flipped past the graphite sketches of wolves, locating the next empty page—there were quite a few sketches that remained incomplete, and he wondered whether he would ever come back to them. Stiles grabbed a pencil from his pocket and began first with the trees, setting a horizontal line across the page for where the horizon met land that he would erase later or would be shaded and smeared over.
Stiles immersed himself deeply into the drawing, shading the trees with sharp, contrasting lines and the water with the light catching on it with softer lines. "There you are—it's almost time for dinner." A voice announced as Thomas entered the clearing. Stiles glanced up at him, graphite smearing his fingertips as he steadied the pencil in one hand. "Sketching?" Thomas queried, stepping closer and arching a singular eyebrow.
He nodded, glancing down at the near-complete sketch. Stiles could only take a rough guess at how long he had been there—though the light in the clearing seemed a bit dimmer than it had when he started. He could see fireflies also beginning to come out—which was an odd thing as Beacon Hills didn't normally have many fireflies or maybe Stiles had been missing the small detail for most of his life. "Yeah—it's been a while." He remarked, a part of him wanting to close his sketchbook—prevent anyone from seeing it and picking apart the rough images inside of it.
Art wasn't something he did for a professional side—but it was something he had in common with his mother. It made him feel like he was closer to her in the same manner as he felt when driving the jeep. "That looks pretty good." Thomas commented, peering over his shoulder but not leaning too closely.
"It's something." Stiles decided with a shrug, twirling the pencil around his fingers as he cast a gaze over the water—he had slipped his feet free from his sandals and dipped them in the cool liquid. "It's nice here." Stiles commented.
Thomas nodded his agreement. "Yeah—we all like it here." He stated. He moved over, nudging Stiles suddenly. "So—what's going on? You just kind of snuck away." Thomas questioned, sounding a bit concerned.
He tossed his favorite cousin—and the cousin that consequently resembled him the most—a sideways glance. "I don't know—I guess I just wanted a second. Didn't really plan to come out here and sketch. It just kind of happened." Stiles inwardly mused that it just kind of happened was a general summarization of his life recently. "I've actually been kind of meaning to ask you something." Stiles spoke before Thomas could ask any of the questions that Stiles could see brewing in his hazel eyes.
"Alright." Thomas leaned forward, arms over his legs and one arm lifted to prop on his chin. "Ask away." He prompted, eyebrows raised and face genuinely accepting and open.
Pausing for a second to think on how he should ask the question, before he decided to just rip the band-aid clean off. "I was wondering—well actually, I was hoping—that you—if you could teach me self-defense." Stiles stumbled over his words slightly. He exhaled, before meeting Thomas' surprised gaze and gesturing towards his own face—the bruises that had only just healed. "So—I was jumped a little over a month ago. I mouthed off and it just kind of happened. And—I want to learn some self-defense, so I don't end up somewhere like that ever again."
Silence fell between them for a few heartbeats and Stiles watched as Thomas dissected his words and understood them. A form of anger darkened his cousin's eyes for a second. "You were jumped?" The question sounded more like a statement—an affirmative of what he had just heard, and Stiles nodded, lips pursed. "Ok—ok—yeah, I'll definitely teach you a little bit of self-defense." He answered.
Grinning, Stiles stood up and closed his sketchbook—tucking it against his side and pocketing the number-two pencil that he had taken with him. "Thanks. I really appreciate it." Stiles had been thinking of getting self-defense lessons since he had discovered that Scott had been bitten by a werewolf, but he had gotten distracted with all of the drama and the soap opera-esque turn their lives had taken. He had also been thinking of asking Derek to help him—the wolf seemed the safest bet for training him to be ready for supernatural creatures attacking him—but he didn't think that Derek would ever want to help him beyond basic decency. "When can we start?" He queried.
Thomas stood as well, slinging an arm over Stiles' shoulder. "Tomorrow work for you." Thomas checked as they began the walk back to the house. The weather was nice enough that they normally ate dinner outside and earlier today Aunt Becca and Diana had returned from groceries with s'more stuff and had practically ordered the boys to get a wood-pile. Stiles deposited his hardback, spiral sketchbook, and the pencil on a table in the living room before helping with bringing the food outside to the large, wooden picnic table that Uncle Alex and Thomas had made together—the piece of furniture having been there in Stiles' earliest memories.
"Needs work." Jace commented idly; twirling a stick in between his fingers with a bored expression on his face—the movements effortless and less awkward than they would have been. Stiles had spent the past few days meeting up with Thomas in the barn—they had sectioned off an area for them to practice around—and Thomas had been working on correcting his stance before transitioning into teaching him how to punch. It was a lot more difficult than Stiles had initially anticipated, especially considering that Thomas alternated between holding back—the being jumped comment obviously in effect—and going full-force.
Stiles had been practicing how to fall—twisting his body so that he would be able to pop back up from hits that should leave him on the ground, giving him the element of surprise. In theory, it was a good idea—but it did leave him with plenty of bruises on his elbows and knees and the odd, random spot.
Thomas looked thoughtful as he eyed Stiles where the youth remained, splayed on the ground from where he had fallen when Thomas had kicked his legs out from beneath him. Stiles was briefly reminded of Derek—how he had observed the alpha training his betas, though Derek was much more aggressive and didn't leave the opponent much room to get up. Stiles stared at the wooden ceiling for a moment—noting the support beams that held equidistance between them.
He pursed his lips, pushing himself up and propping himself on his elbows as he observed Thomas. "Break time?" Stiles queried; injecting a certain level of hope and optimism in his voice.
"We've only been at it for two hours." Thomas remarked dryly, accepting a towel from Jace. Jace had slipped into the barn twenty minutes into their session on the second day and had opted to remain for the sessions following—perched on a stall and alternatively scrolling through something on his phone, Stiles largely suspected that his cousin was taking selfies and rating them, and helpful tips in a dry tone. Stiles dragged himself to his feet with a melodramatic groan, heading over to his water bottle and taking a few hearty gulps.
Stiles quirked an eyebrow at his cousin after he was properly hydrated. "You say that like it's a short amount of time. I spend less time a day in chemistry dealing with Harris." He countered, grimacing in clear distaste at the mention of his least favorite teacher who absolutely hated him for no good reason. Well, Stiles largely suspected that it was due to Harris being upset about being interrogated by the sheriff a few times.
Jace snorted. "I'm guessing Harris is comparable to Aldertee."
"Asshole teacher with a vendetta against you for no good apparent reason and constantly picks on you or gives you detention for a ridiculous reason." Stiles dryly stated.
Thomas cleared his throat—clapping his hands together loudly. "No break, Stiles." Thomas sounded briefly amused, he glanced down at his hands. "You know—there is something I've noticed about your technique. You're shaky, Stiles. Like you've got too much energy and you're practically vibrating out of your skin. So, let's practice something different." He remarked, exchanging a consulting glance with Jace—who nodded his agreement with the assessment.
Stiles glanced down at his arms—and briefly thought of wiggling them like noodles before discarding the thought and focusing on Thomas. During the summers—in the past—he had opted to not take Adderall nearly as much because he didn't have school to be constantly focusing on and it was more time for himself and for him to relax and do kid-things. "Are we going to practice with you not knocking me flat on my ass every three minutes?" He queried hopefully.
The one good thing about the free-falling was that it was getting easier to spring back up again and assess the angle at which Thomas came at him. He had actually managed to dodge a few of the more slowed down blows. "We'll take a small break from the free-falling." Thomas admitted, which made Stiles sigh with relief. "But, we're replacing it with you punching and kicking." The adult headed over to a few of the drawers and pulled out punching pads that he strapped to his hands.
"That sounds like I'm going to be falling on my ass even more." Stiles stated dryly. He tilted his head to one side. "And what made your mind jump from let's knock the seventeen-year-old on his ass in so many times in a thirty-minute interval to let's have the person punch and kick things and fall on his ass anyways?" He raised both eyebrows as Thomas approached him.
"Your mention of Harris." Thomas answered, lifting one shoulder at the dubious look the answer earned him, "It made me think that you're still filled up with emotion and anger and that's halting your progress." He continued.
Stiles swallowed, furrowing his eyebrows. "So—what? You think that if I start punching and kicking you while thinking of Harris—then I'll get this stuff quicker? Aren't you supposed to—you know—shut off your emotional side in a fight?" He twisted the gloves that Jace retrieved for him around, the pads of his fingers running along the coarse fabric, before sliding them on.
Thomas eyed him consideringly. "Isn't it the emotional side that encourages you to survive?" He questioned. Stiles tossed him a dubious look. "Think about it—if you just focused on the logical side of a fight and disregard emotions entirely than wouldn't you lose your will to survive and fight as well? That will comes from your emotions—your feelings." He continued, wisely. "You've got to learn how to fight with both your emotional and logical, analytical side working in tandem—it makes you stronger and better."
Stiles considered it—considered what Thomas was saying. His cousin was trying to teach him to balance himself, which he supposed would be helpful. One couldn't be too emotional in a fight because than they might get angry and leave a vital organ open but if they were too logical they might not take the risks necessary to win because his logic was always downplaying his own strengths and he might overestimate who he was defending himself from and underestimate himself.
Jace piped up then. "You also need to get all of that pent up anger and frustration out. And what better way than to punch and kick at something that won't either fall over or remain stock still?" He contributed; one knee drawn to his chest with his arm loosely wrapped around it while his other leg dangled freely off the stall he was situated on.
"So—basically, it's better than picking a fight with a wall?" Stiles nodded to himself, raising his fists—thumb on the outside because he remembered that throwing a punch with it on the inside could succeed at breaking his thumb.
Thomas assessed his stance carefully. "Move your right leg back a bit." He corrected. "Jace, come help him angle his body correctly." Thomas called and Jace gave an exaggerated, reluctant sigh before hopping down and striding over to Stiles. He moved Stiles a bit more—before taking a step back as both brothers nodded approvingly. "Ok, now throw your fist and imagine your punching Harris." Thomas spoke in a louder voice.
Stiles narrowed his eyes and then threw his fist into the glove—punching with all of the strength he could muster. "That's it. Come on Sti, you've got to be more pissed off than that." Jace taunted. "Think about it, all of those moments when he took out his misplaced grievances on you. All of the detentions for something that wasn't even your fault." Stiles punched the glove again, harder and Thomas flicked his gaze to Jace. "How about all of the times he embarrassed you? Made you feel small and incompetent and worthless?"
Thomas nodded as Stiles punched harder—he could still feel the thin tether he had wound tightly on his emotions, but it was fraying at the edges. "That's it. Get angry, Sti." Thomas praised. "Get pissed off that Harris singled you out. Get pissed off at all of the people who have treated you like Harris has." He continued as Stiles faltered slightly, taken aback by the statement. "Come on, I know something else is hurting you and it's not just Harris so get it all out there. Shout, if you have to. But, let the rage come out and stop holding back." Thomas shoved at him then, riling him up.
"Well—Harris—is—a—jackass." Stiles spoke through gritted teeth, between punches and breaths. A distant part of him noted that he should probably train in kicking as well and he corrected his stance, though he kept throwing punches unable to help himself. "He's—a—dick. I don't know why I even bothered to help him. Like, he doesn't give a shit about me. Someone could kick my ass and leave me on the side of the road, and he still would treat me like I'm nothing." He didn't even know if he was talking about Harris anymore.
It could have been Scott McCall. Or Derek Hale. Or Jackson Whittemore. Or Isaac Lahey. Or Vernon Boyd. It could have been all of them—the statements could have applied to all of them. "So—why do you help him?" Jace queried. "If all you get is the shit treatment special—why help? Why do anything?"
Stiles took a step back, tossing an irate glance at Jace. "Because I'm actually trying to be a decent human being. I'm trying to be a good person." He spoke passive-aggressively. "I am trying to do the fucking right thing." He propelled himself forward—surprising Thomas, who fell at the particularly hard punch. Stiles reeled back, reaching a hand down to help Thomas up with an apologetic look.
"Don't apologize." Thomas flexed his arms. He held his hands up again, sliding easily into the ready position he had occupied. "Keep going." Thomas encouraged after a few seconds wherein Stiles stared at him contemplatively.
Stiles adjusted his stance according to the discreet sounds that both brothers made as he adopted the stance they wanted him to have. "Are you sure? I think this might be the first time I've knocked you on your ass. It should go down in history. It's memorable like that." Stiles quipped, voice losing the edge it had adopted.
He was subconsciously reeling his emotions back in and Thomas shook his head, tongue clicking disapprovingly. "You're not getting a ribbon until you've actually managed to bruise me." Thomas remarked. "Now, don't reel it all back in. We're making progress."
Arching an eyebrow, Stiles threw a punch—putting as much force behind it as he could. To his dissatisfaction, it wasn't nearly as impactful as he'd hoped it would be. "And we haven't been making progress the past few days?" Stiles asked. "Besides, I don't know if I can get back into that mode."
Jace snorted. "Want to bet?" He challenged.
"That's a losing bet." Stiles noted, "You're the king of pissing people off."
"It's an art and gift I've cultivated over years and years of practice." Jace deadpanned. "Alright—so think about the people you've helped. Think about the fact that they clearly haven't given you a fraction of that help back. Remember how it felt to think that they don't care about you beyond the moment you can help them." It seemed Jace had mapped him out completely—describing those moments and implying those emotions to a tee.
Stiles scowled. "I'm not an asshole. Well, a complete one, anyways. I don't help so someone owes me a debt." He commented. "I help because it's the right thing to do. I help because they're my fucking friends. I care about them. I care about them so much it fucking hurts. And—and I just want them to actually care about me. Is that so fucking wrong?" He lost track of how many times he punched the flat gloves that Thomas had on, though he could feel the pressure building again.
It was like he was dying to say those words aloud—to someone other than his own mind. To have feedback from someone other than himself. To have someone so soundly in his corner. To have people in his corner.
"I thought they fucking knew me. I thought they knew that I talk too much because my thoughts are ugly. I thought they knew that I'm annoying because I'm trying to make them laugh and be exasperated and not focus on the shit hand we're being dealt by life." Maybe, he recalled absently—he was saying too much. As far as his cousins were concerned, there wasn't a supernatural world idling under their fingers. And he hated that more—the frequent lies and half-truths. It fucking sucked because they were trying to help him release those emotions and he couldn't be honest.
He couldn't be honest without dragging them down to hell with him.
All he could hear was white noise, not the prying from Jace for him to finally empty out his thoughts completely, not the encouragement from Thomas to keep going. "But—you know what the worse part is? The actual shitty part of it all? I thought I was finally being seen for more than just the sidekick of my own life. The comedic relief. I thought they fucking cared. But, it's so blatantly obvious that they don't. That they're only putting up with me until something better—something shinier comes along. That I'm just too much for them. That they wish I would go away and leave them alone. That I'll never actually belong amongst my own fucking group of friends." He was shouting, the words twisted and ugly and everything was tinged with red and white-hot anger. "Well—that's fine. I'm gone. I'm so gone."
Muscled arms were suddenly around him, and he fought against the embrace. "And here I thought you were going to be pissed about the being jumped thing." Thomas murmured in his ear. His older cousin rocked him back and forth for a moment and Stiles counted his cousin's heartbeat, thudding evenly against his own erratic one.
The embrace calmed him, and he relaxed after a few terse moments. Surprisingly, he felt better. Lighter, almost. He had bottled up so many ugly emotions inside that ripping them out hurt like hell—but there was something better on the other side of that release of pent-up feelings. "Oh, you haven't even heard the worst part of it." Stiles remarked, voice cracking. "Those words—the one's I overheard Scott and them saying—they're nearly identical to what the people who jumped me said." He explained.
"You need friends who aren't assholes." Jace noted idly. "Also, maybe we should come spend the rest of the summer in Beacon Hills—I'd love to come meet them." His grin, when Stiles tossed him a glance, was all-pearly-white-teeth and distinctly unfriendly.
Stiles had brief thought of what would happen if Jace and Derek were to face off—it would be a mess. Probably. He hoped Derek had enough restraint to not reveal his inhuman nature to a stranger. Though, perhaps he would keep aforementioned stranger away from him and his pack. Now the image of Thomas and Derek facing off did leave a touch more concerned, Stiles had been practicing self-defense with Thomas and the other obviously knew a lot of the inner intricacies of fighting—more than Stiles had guessed when he had asked Thomas to help him.
"Alright—so we've got all of the anger and rage and man-pain out of the way—" Stiles made a face unconsciously at the suggestion of man-pain. "—and you've got a lot of force behind your punches, Stiles. There is a lot of force you can get to, you—you just have to channel it. Direct it into something more focused than sporadic." Thomas lectured.
His cousin saying force reminded Stiles of Star Wars unsurprisingly. "May the force be with you." Stiles remarked with a grin. His grin dissipated as he thought about it, "Wouldn't channeling my anger kind of be detrimental to defending myself? I mean, sure, I'm angry now and thinking of Harris as I punch something definitely helps me to punch it—but what about when I'm not angry?" Stiles questioned, glancing towards Thomas in askance.
Thomas nodded with a smile. "You're right the teen angst is going to end—eventually." He taped the last word on after a minute. "What I really wanted to see was for you to fight when you're impassioned about something. To see how you fight when you're impassioned. Now, it doesn't have to be anger—you can fight with love as well. The love you have for your father. The love you will always have for your mother. And you can fight with the desire to get back to them. Or to protect them." He finished.
"Then why didn't you have me go off shouting I love my dad?" Stiles asked after a heartbeat passed. He understood where Thomas was coming from—there was emotion behind every punch and when he had those emotions there, there was more force. Thomas was trying to get him to have that force behind his punches but also keep a clear head.
Jace contributed then, reminding Stiles that the blonde was still there. "It wouldn't have been as effective at drawing you out, though it would have been hilarious for YouTube." Jace answered. "Besides, you were bottling way too many emotions, Sti. Like, way, way too many." He added.
"So, basically, you wanted me to unbottle—de-bottle?—my emotions while also getting a sense of how much force and pressure I can throw into a punch when I am emotional." Stiles confirmed. He accepted a towel from Jace and wiped down his face—grimacing at his sweaty appearance. The heat and humidity did not make for cool self defense training. "And the next step is to teach me how to channel my emotions without letting them become all-encompassing." He checked.
Thomas nodded, "Exactly. If you can get a lot in in one, singular punch—then you can knock someone out and not have to worry about them hurting you back and knocking you to the ground." Thomas explained, lifting a hand to wave as Chris entered the barn.
Stiles nudged him. "I feel like we're doing this a bit out of order, then."
The other raised his hands in surrender. "Hey! Ease up a bit, it's my first-time teaching someone self-defense." Thomas spoke defensively.
Jace snorted. "You taught me." He reminded Thomas. Jace then tossed Stiles a sympathetic glance. "And—yeah—he's never been too incredibly organized in teaching." Jace rolled his eyes when Thomas smacked his shoulder.
"He should invest in lesson plans." Stiles commented sagely.
Thomas smacked his shoulder as well. To his surprise, it didn't hurt that badly. Maybe that meant he was building some muscle—which would be awesome. Noodle arms were fun sometimes, but he wouldn't mind having something to show off when he wore short-sleeves or wife-beaters. "May I remind you that I am not a formal teacher. I am winging it." Thomas informed him, crossing his arms.
Jace smirked. "Maybe he should invest in not winging it so often."
"He should also invest in cologne." Stiles added.
"Don't forget the investment he should make into deodorant."
"Or the investment he should make into breath mints."
Thomas stared at them both while Chris started cracking up in the background. "I hate it when you two team-up." Thomas ran a hand through his hair. "Like, I hate it so much—you have no idea. Can you both please go back to tormenting each other, please and thank-you." He glanced back and forth between them, not even reaching behind him to flick a dying Chris on the forehead. "Stop encouraging them." Thomas justified himself when Chris tossed him a look, entire face red, before he resumed wheezing.
Stiles patted Chris on the back. "Dude, you should practice breathing. It's a universal thing." He quipped reflexively. "Besides, it's not that bad when Jace and I team up—now is it?" He exchanged a glance with Jace, who had not stopped smirking as he regarded his twin with a small level of concern for his breathing problems.
His older cousin scowled. "I will force you to do free-falling for the next three hours."
Cringing at the thought, Stiles raised his hands in the universal sign for surrender and peace. "Now—now—there is absolutely no need to resort to inhumane torture." Stiles countered, patting Thomas on the head. "We'll stop."
"We should invest in getting ice-cream." Jace didn't miss a beat.
Chris smacked his twin brother upside the head. "That's it. You're on a ban of saying the word invest." Chris crossed his arms when Jace sulked for a good minute and Stiles covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing too hysterically at Jace pouting like a toddler.
He couldn't help himself, though. Truly. Completely. Couldn't resist. "So, basically, Jace should be investing in not saying the word invest for the foreseeable future for the sake of investing in his livelihood." Stiles remarked, ensuring that he sounded purposefully confusing while Thomas smacked his own forehead loudly.
"I will run you over. With my Truck. On a train track. So, you can get run over by a train next." Chris narrowed his blue-brown eyes at Stiles warningly and he snickered as they entered the house.
He had somehow managed to retain his count of the days—it had been twelve days since he had left Beacon Hills, thirteen since he had overheard that conversation. And Stiles wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the fact that he felt better than he could recall feeling in months—maybe even since his mom died. He felt like he was finally getting close to figuring himself out—there were still a few loose ends, but he felt like he was covering all of his bases, sealing the big pieces of his heart back together with stuff stronger than school glue and scotch tape. Stiles hadn't thought much of what he would say to Scott McCall, though he knew it was past time for him to call and his father was already on his way.
Glancing over his reflection, he analyzed himself objectively. His skin had darkened with the sun, more freckles appearing over the formerly pale expanse, his hair was starting to grow out—the natural curl developing—and he could see a hint of muscle definition along his arms. He looked—he looked healthy. Healthy and content and happy. And—and it was slightly terrifying to be that way when there had been so many problems in his life and him having to grow up quickly since Scott was bitten because of him.
Before he left, he would have wanted to drown himself in those thoughts—the mere whisper of them would have shaken his fragile contentment but, in the moment, they barely caused him to tremble. There was still a reaction—something sad and forlorn uncoiling testily in his stomach—but it wasn't as heavy. It didn't feel like there were bricks slamming against his shoulders. Small stones at the very most. He grinned, running his fingers through his hair—before plugging in the razor.
Stiles had been forgoing shaving his hair to keep the buzzcut, but he figured that he should probably get rid of the awkward phase of growing it out again. Maybe when he was older, he would attempt for longer hair—but he was perfectly content with the buzzcut. "Are you shaving?" Diana poked her head in, nudging open the bathroom door with her shoulder—eyes wide and curious.
He had been keeping tabs on his family throughout the day, though he had figured that they were giving him a bit of time to himself—which he appreciated. While he enjoyed spending time with his family—Stiles was still used to being an only child and having some semblance of time to himself—and they had respected the moments when he would sneak away for an hour or two to just do his own thing. Whether that was going and sitting by the lake, reading stuff on his computer—mainly research about mythological creatures that had Thomas raising his eyebrows but then recommending him to Jace who recommended that he order some different books and said he would drag Stiles to an antique store in town when they went for the farmer's market.
Aunt Becca and Uncle Alex were spear-heading loading their produce into the large truck, directing Thomas while Chris and Jace were tasked with re-painting the barn—Aunt Becca had wanted it painted since the old paint was peeling a lot. Stiles figured that Diana would be cycling back and forth between both groups, offering a helping hand here and there. "You don't have much facial hair to shave." Diana hopped onto the closed toilet lid, swinging her legs back and forth as her brilliant blue gaze looked up at him curiously.
Stiles shrugged, tapping his chin. He hadn't ever attempted to grow a beard—due in part because he was a teenager, and he knew that he couldn't pull off that look with a scraggly beard. Not like Derek Hale could. Derek Hale was one of those lucky sons-of-bitches that could pull off facial hair and being clean shaven in a manner that was distinctly unfair. Like Stiles wanted to sue. He tapped the top of his head, "I've got to maintain the buzzcut." Stiles answered.
Stiles hadn't expected the answer to be rewarded with puppy eyes. He froze, lowering the razor and turning the switch off, because those were the puppy eyes. The ones that could beat Scott McCall and Isaac Lahey combined. He glanced behind him, checking the only exit. Maybe he could make a run for it. "You should grow it out." Diana's voice brought him back to her and there was pouting involved in the puppy eyes.
Abort. Abort. Mission aborted. We'll get them next time. "You think?" He turned back to his reflection, doubtful. Stiles had kept his hair short since his mother had died—the memory of her habit of running her fingers through his hair and trimming his hair when it got too long.
"Yup." Diana answered, grinning.
He glanced over at his little cousin and the back to his reflection. To him, his hair looked a little awkward in that phase between—but, he supposed he could give it a chance. If he managed to get away from the dreaded puppy eyes that Diana made it a point of giving him. He theorized that he might be the only one in the house susceptible to those eyes and wondered how the others managed to get away with not giving in. "Alright, fine." Stiles unplugged the razor and Diana snatched it from his fingers, skipping happily out of the room. "My little cousin just stole my razor." Stiles murmured amusedly to himself, running his fingers through his hair once more and casting one last critical glance at himself before flicking the light switch and exiting the bathroom.
He rubbed his hands together, before stuffing them in his pockets as he descended the staircase and headed to the truck where the three eldest were loading up carts of fresh vegetables and tubs by the gallon of milk and cheese and other dairy products. "Hey." Thomas waved him over and he helped the elder lift a cart of squash and finagle it into the truck. "I thought you were going to go back to the buzzcut." He remarked, wiping his hands off on his jeans.
Stiles shrugged, tossing a glance to where Diana had resumed helping Jace and Chris—sandwiches and water bottles in tow. "I was. Then your sister stole my razor." Stiles shook his head with a fondly exasperated smile.
"How did she manage to steal your razor from your hands?" Thomas raised both eyebrows.
He rolled his eyes at the disbelieving look. "Have you seen the puppy eyes she can give? They are awful. No one can say no to those things." Stiles shuddered. He didn't know how anyone could associate puppy eyes with innocence, they were so clearly the work of evil disguising itself in a way that wasn't even remotely clever.
Aunt Becca chuckled. "I'm sure you'll learn to fight the power."
Stiles headed over to Uncle Alex as the other handed him another bin, carrying it to the truck. "Fight the power of the puppy eyes? I fear I might need years of training for that one. I'll probably just let her grow up to be a criminal mastermind that's not sneaky but gets away because of the puppy eyes." He remarked.
"You don't think she'd use her powers for good." Uncle Alex countered.
Shaking his head, he gave his uncle a bewildered look. "Are you kidding? She just used her powers to take away my razor and convince me to grow my hair out." Stiles stated dryly. "I don't know if that can be constituted as her using her powers 'for good.' It seems evil, to me." He hopped onto the back of the truck, moving some of the carts around to make room for what remained. They would put a tarp over it and then take it to the market early tomorrow morning and Stiles momentarily pitied his dad for choosing to come up the day before they would go in because he would not get a full night of sleep.
"Ah, yes. The evils of forcing you to grow out your hair." Uncle Alex rolled his eyes.
Aunt Becca rolled her eyes as well. "How diabolical." She deadpanned.
Thomas patted his shoulder. "It's truly sinister." His lips twitched at the corners as he agreed with his parents. Stiles massaged his forehead—these sarcastic assholes were definitely related to him. Like there was no doubting their relation purely due to the fact that they all carried the same sense of humor. "You'll probably end up resembling me more with the grown-out hair." Thomas continued, thoughtfully.
He glanced at his cousin—having to admit that Thomas may be right. There had never been any denial of their relation because Thomas and Stiles did look incredibly alike aside from their eye color and slight difference in their noses and stature. "I hope I don't break the mirror as often as you do." Stiles quipped.
In response, his cousin pulled him into a headlock—not letting up until Stiles was on the ground tapping a few minutes later.
Startling himself awake, Stiles sat up sharply, one hand pressing to his chest where his heart thudded an uneven beat against his ribcage. It was pitch black in the room, the new moon meaning that very little light poured in through the windows of Thomas' room. Stiles had had a few, short, unmemorable nightmares since he arrived at the farm that Thomas had had to shake him awake from, but there hadn't been anything in a while that would jump him awake like it had a few minutes ago.
He slung his feet out of bed, bare feet brushing against the cool surface of the floor and fumbled around for his phone. As he glanced around, he noticed that the clock on the nightstand was out and frowned to himself—the power must have gone out, odd for a clear night—until his fingers finally brushed against his phone. He pulled it from the wall, checking the time and scowling at himself for waking up so early.
3:28.
Stiles thought about collapsing back on the air mattress, but something coiling in his stomach made him uneasy. Like a sixth sense indicating that something was incredibly off. Not so much wrong. But off. He glanced around once again, using his phone screen as a light to scan the room, before realizing that Thomas' bed was empty. The sheets were ruffled as though his cousin had just struggled off of them and Stiles walked over to feel them—they were cool to the touch indicating that Thomas hadn't been there for a few hours.
His frown deepened—concerned. Stiles hadn't thought that Thomas would be one to disappear at the middle of the night from his bed—never once in the two weeks Stiles had been there had there not been Thomas' presence in the room—so, he tugged on his earlier pair of socks, opting to not put on the shoes because he didn't want to wake anyone else up and alert them to the fact that Thomas was gone in case he got his cousin in trouble or something. Though, sneaking out of the house would require tip-toeing past the snoring figure of his father on the couch.
Noah Stilinski had arrived around eleven and had followed the same precedent that Stiles had set with his own arrival—eating a quick meal before collapsing to sleep. Stiles had been glad to see his dad there—in spite of all of the wellness, he did miss seeing his dad everyday and made sure to reach out to him frequently throughout the days they had been apart—and had sat next to him, chatting his ear off while his dad looked amusedly tired. After they had been shooed upstairs and Stiles was in the process of traveling from the bathroom back to Thomas' room, he had overheard his dad having a conversation with Aunt Becca in a low tone.
From past experience, he probably shouldn't have listened in or eavesdropped—but he had been surprised for a completely different reason from that conversation. It hadn't been remotely similar to the conversation he had overheard between members of the Hale pack—but instead had been his father commenting on the fact that Stiles looked happier than ever. His father seemed entirely supportive of Stiles staying there the entire summer—and then regrouping at the end of summer for something more permanent.
He had been completely taken aback by the thought.
Staying.
Like, actually moving to the farm—attending the school here. Transferring to the high school here. In a new crowd of students. A fresh start. Beacon Hills wouldn't be his home anymore—he wouldn't have to deal with the frequent supernatural attacks or feeling so entirely alone and out of place and worthless and exhausted. He had felt so, so, so incredibly tired in Beacon Hills and the option of staying—of moving—he didn't know how to sort out how he felt about it.
Something inside of him wanted to. He wanted the fresh start and meeting different people and making new friends. He wanted the normalcy of just worrying over his grades and lacrosse or track and field. He wanted to spend more time around Thomas and Jace and Chris and Diana. He could feel the want for that so strongly, it was nearly overwhelming in its ferocity.
But, then he thought of what he was leaving behind. He would be leaving Scott permanently—they may not be friends with such different lives, their lives would diverge. He would be leaving behind the pack. And when he came to visit Beacon Hills, he would be kept so far removed from their lives. He wouldn't have to be their researcher anymore—he was willing to bet that Peter Hale or Lydia Martin would take over that role as they had probably done so while he was away.
And, while, yes, some of those felt like they would be positives. No more stress. No more constant, overwhelmingly crippling fear that something terrible was about to happen. But, maybe that wasn't entirely true. He wouldn't know those terrible events as intimately. If something happened, he wouldn't be there to walk his best friend through hell and back to the light. He also didn't know if he could really walk away permanently from that. He wanted to help people—he loved helping people and protecting his home as much as he was able. It might not be his responsibility or job, but he did love doing it—that euphoric feeling he got that made him feel on par with heroes like Batman and Spiderman.
Leaving Beacon Hills had been his way of taking a breather—taking a break. It wasn't something he had even remotely considered being permanent. He had always thought he would eventually wind up back in Beacon Hills—even after he finished college.
Maybe he could. Maybe if he transferred to the high school here—he could then go to Berkely, and then come back to Beacon Hills. It might add a year or so to how long he was gone from there, but he would visit on Holidays and some weekends when he knew they would be three-day weekends. It was an option. And one he was heavily considering. Stiles bit his lip, shaking his head to dislodge his thoughts from earlier from getting stuck on his mind. He hadn't mentioned what his father and aunt had been discussing to Thomas—feeling like he needed time to come to his own conclusions about it before roping anyone else into it.
Carefully stepping down the stairs, he ignored the creaking step—nearly toppling down the stairs but catching himself on the railing—and tip-toed to the front door. He cringed as he unlocked it, tossing a glance to the lump on the couch. The only reason Stiles knew his father was still there, was from the snoring and a quick pass of his phone screen light in that general direction. He slowly inched the screen door closed behind him, turning on his phone flashlight. Stiles frowned, all of the vehicles were still there: Uncle Alex's Ford truck, Aunt Becca's jeep, Thomas' smaller truck, Chris and Jace's shared Chevrolet, Stiles' jeep, and his dad's Sherrif car.
He stood on the front porch for a second, wondering—if Thomas hadn't snuck out to go somewhere, and there weren't many places to go within walking distance, then where was his temporary roommate. "If I were Thomas—where would I go in the middle of the night?" Stiles murmured to himself.
A rustling noise drew his attention and Stiles frowned as he moved to the edge of the porch, glancing over. His heart beat an uneasy rhythm even though there was nothing there and he felt some of the tension beginning to seep from his shoulders. His life was starting to feel like an episode of a supernatural sit-com TV show where someone yells at the character to just go back inside and stop being an idiot. He felt like he had approached that moment and decided to drive right past it as he stepped off the porch.
"Theoretically the blonde character is supposed to die first." Stiles remarked. "So, by that logic—Jace or Diana might be the first to die." He continued, glancing around the side of the house. It was quiet and Stiles felt a bit more ridiculous than usual because he could still hear the liveliness of the woods around the property. A power outage and a missing roommate did not equate something like werewolves. It wasn't even a full moon.
His gaze finally landed on the barn, and he eyed it with no small level of trepidation. Stiles could see the freshly painted barn—and almost smell it as well from the short distance between the barn and the house—in the low light provided by his phone flashlight.
Rolling his eyes at his own melodramatics, he walked over to the barn—nearly running the last few feet when he heard a loud crash. Stiles threw open the barn doors and just stared in complete and total shock at the scene before him. His mind froze, quite literally, and his grip on his phone tightened as he shone the small, meager flashlight at an oozing, oh-my-god-what-the-hell-is-that-stuff-gross-its-dripping-and-it-stinks thing that looked far too dark for any light to reflect off of it.
Stiles could not look away from the creature—from the rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth that looked like they could amputate his arm if he asked nicely and the grotesque limbs that were akimbo and the dark, soulless eyes that thing probably had. It did have eyes, right? How the hell could it be looking back at him if it didn't have eyes? How the hell could it smell him if it didn't have a nose? And—oh my god these are not thoughts to be having when there is a giant creature-thing right in front of me trying to decide which half of my body to eat first.
The thing—creature, demon, oh-my-god-what-the-hell-is-it—loosened a primal sound that was halfway between a zombie-screech and a growl before it launched at him with more agility than it should be capable of giving the giant size.
He was going to move—probably, in a few years, once the shock passed—before he was roughly tackled out of the way. "Dude, what the hell? Word of advice, when you see a gormick about to decapitate you and go munchy on the entrails, you get the hell out of the way. It's called common sense." Stiles smacked the person who tackled him because he was kind of in shock—he didn't really know why exactly because he knew werewolves existed, but he had no idea what that thing even was.
"Right and I'm sure the first time you saw a creature that wanted to feast on your end trails—you reacted so positively." Stiles remarked, pulling himself to his feet as his eyes finally adjusted to the fact that Chris and Thomas were circling the creature—Chris wielding two swords while Thomas had a larger, longer sword. "You know—when I came to you about self-defense training, you could have mentioned that you could teach me more than self-defense." Stiles continued.
Thomas tossed him a raised eyebrow while Chris swooped in, sliding on his knees to take the creature—gormick, Jace had called it—out at the legs before Jace ran over and ran a long spear through the creature's eye and Thomas stabbed it in the heart. "Like you would have even believed me." Thomas countered, wiping his sword off—and why were they using swords, don't guns work as well, oh what did Stiles know, clearly nothing?
He opened his mouth to respond to that, the obvious answer that he would have before he closed it and mulled over the words. The disbelief thing. He had feared the exact same from them a few days ago when he even considered mentioning the mismatch band of furballs he worked with, and it was undeniably hilarious. Like, the irony of it all was so freaking hilarious. He had been worried that they wouldn't believe him about werewolves when they were going toe-to-toe with a creature like that at 3:30 in the morning.
Stiles said nothing, watching as Chris and Jace began to clean up the mess the gormick had made of the barn while Thomas cleaned their weapons. The three seemed content that they would address Stiles later, which he was perfectly fine with because he was trying not to break a rib by laughing too hard. Or letting the laughter crawling up his throat escape because he knew that once he started—he would not be able to stop because it was all so funny.
He had left for a break from the supernatural world. Trust his luck to get close to people who dealt with a different leg of it. Stiles bit his lip, "Are you ok?" Thomas putting a hand on his shoulder drew him from his thoughts and he jerkily nodded.
"He's probably in shock." Chris eyed him with no small level of concern.
Stiles continued biting his lips, averting his gaze to his trembling hands. He wasn't even shaken from fear or anything like that—he was shaking from the fact that he was trying so hard to keep himself from laughing at the absurdity that had become his life. "I didn't tackle him hard enough for him to be brain-damaged so he should be fine." Jace remarked flippantly.
"Yeah." He answered faintly. "I'm totally fine." Stiles' voice cracked.
"You're a horrible liar." Jace pointed out.
He couldn't help it any longer, he burst out laughing.
I hope you all enjoyed part II of this...as much as I enjoyed writing it. Now, you have to tell me: who is your favorite cousin? Thomas? Chris? Jace? Or Diana? Honestly, they're all my brain-child so I love them all equally and anyone who says otherwise...I plead the fifth. I should have part III posted sometime tomorrow, though, for anyone who's interested...and now I'm going to go back to writing Chapter III of Silver Webs in a Starlit City...
