Draining the last of the water in his glass, his Adams Apple bobbing under his ivory skin, Stiles taps his hands on the kitchen table. Everyone looks up, Nadia sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, John guiltily hiding his bag of fast food, and Peter leaning in the doorway. Pushing away from the table, Stiles makes his announcement.
"I'm going to head down to the clearing early, you guys can head out later? I want to fit some meditation in." He smiles briefly at Nadia, who grins supportively. She'd been telling him a while ago about the benefits of meditation, especially for his ADHD. The time spent focusing on his thoughts and the surrounding nature had centred his magic in a way nothing else did, and the after effect of this included higher levels of concentration and other positive benefits. Stiles was in dire need of positivity, sometimes. The Sheriff nods, putting a familiar hand on his shoulder.
"Stay safe, kiddo."
"I will, Pops." Stiles smiles, heading out of the door. Peters' voice drifts through the door. "Bye Stiles."
Stiles chuckles and says his farewell to the Were. He sounds sad, a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by Stiles for the past few days. He was hoping to get to the root of the problem soon, but any form of curiosity so far had been to no avail. He shook his head, promising to think about the issue on his return.
Twenty minutes later, he shoulders past the last of the vegetation, and emerges into the clearing, taking a second to inhale the clear air, sinking to the ground into a cross-legged position, carding tired fingers through thatches of grass. Closing his eyes, the teen gives into the exhaustion, and his mind encloses him, his body going still.
A total calm envelops the usually jumpy, energetic teen, and his usual worries slip away. His hands still, resting limply in his lap, his eyes closing, a stillness slowing his heartbeat, slowing his fears.
But when he's at his calmest, he's also at his most vulnerable.
A figure lopes into the clearing, then stops short, staring abruptly at the calm figure in the centre. His face warps, smooths, until the fur twists and changes into skin again, the newcomer gaping at the boy among the blades of grass.
From further into the wilderness, he hears a voice, shouting his name, and he turns around, slowly walking away from the scene.
"Isaac?" The faint voice comes closer, until someone else, a girl this time, steps delicately into the clearing.
"Here..." He mumbles weakly, looking towards Lydia, who stares past him, shocked into silence. Her face hardens, and she tugs at Isaac.
"Let's go." Her harsh voice cuts into the ambience of the nature enveloping the forest, and Isaac nods, slowly walking out of the clearing, only to stumble backwards, being pushed by an annoyed, aggravated Jackson. He growls, but Jackson's attention is grabbed by the boy sitting calmly, still unknowing of his old pack.
"Why the fuck is this...thing...here." His face darkens and Lydia frowns at him, seeing the tremors of holding back his rage.
"We found him like that," Isaac says, dusting himself off, before crossing his arms menacingly. The other Were harrumphs, stalking closer to the unsuspecting human.
Derek strides through a copse of trees, then, followed by Ericka, Boyd, and Scott. He narrows his eyes, his glare intensifying when he spots Stiles.
They were all there, everyone Stiles had been trying to avoid, and he didn't even know! They formed a loose semi-circle around him, a physical barrier between the rest of the forest and Stiles. He was trapped. Trapped and unaware.
Jackson stepped forward, the sneer on his face evident, and he slowly crouched down, a hairs length away from Stiles. He smirked. A cold, angry look, taking in the teen he hated so much. His hand flashed through the air, and suddenly, he held Stiles by the neck, his hand squeezing tight, like a vice. Seconds passed, and the pack watched, silently. Finally, Jackson let go, pushing the heaving teen back to the unforgiving ground, chuckling ruthlessly.
His sick power play over Stilinski had started, and he had a crowd.
Standing up, he disdainfully wiped his hands on his pants, looking down at the still unaware boy, who was now lying below him. Curious. He thought. As much as he was hurting him, Stiles still hadn't woken up from whatever state he was in. Deciding to test his theory, Jackson bent over the boy, before rearing back and kicking him.
The Hale Pack stood behind him, transfixed with the sight, pleasure warring with the sick feeling of guilt. But Jackson continued to beat the boy, who lay limply on the ground, occasional twitches wracking his body. It was silent. Except for the sound of the Weres shoe, colliding with a vengeance with the human. He grunted, every kick and punch was his hardest, and he poured out his anger, his pure oblivion of rage into the rag doll like teen.
Finally, Derek stepped forward, pulling Jackson back. Lydia gasped, unable to hold in her shock. She felt sickened, but not by the pain the boy must feel, but with disgust. Lydia Martin did not get her hands dirty. Stiles Stilinski was a mess she'd rather avoid.
"Stop." The alpha rumbles.
Jackson laughs at him, a bitter sound, ringing out into the sparse vegetation.
"Why should I? Why do you care, Derek? Do you not want him to get hurt?" His voice turned from defiant to mocking. "Dou you care for the little shit?"
Derek growled, stepping forward menacingly, the clear disgust on his face would have made Stiles recoil. But he didn't hear any of it, he was still in a troubled meditative state. All he could feel was the pain.
"I hate him just as much as you do, but I don't want the Sheriff asking difficult questions, and Peter will know we've done this to him..." His angry voice makes Jackson roll his eyes.
"I don't believe you, Derek..." He grins, knowing that every word the Were spoke was the truth. But he wanted Stiles to hurt. "Show me that you don't care." He nods towards the teen's limp form, kicking him again.
"Show me you don't care if he dies...if he's hurt. Hurt him, Derek. Hurt him!"
Derek roars, reeling forward, scattering his alarmed pack members. He prowls towards Stiles, Jackson laughing, taunting him, waiting for him to strike. Slowly clasping clawed fingers around the teen's neck, Derek growls, the sound rumbling through his chest and lighting his eyes, a red fire, revenge.
Stiles' eyes remain closed but drooped, and his breathing turns shallow. His mouth struggles to form words, but the hands bar all attempt of thought. His lips say the same word over an over.
"No..." He whimpers, his voice strained, he whispers it, the word tumbling over itself as he repeats it like a pained, innocuous mantra. "No...no, no, no, no, no, no..."
The alpha snarls, eyes glinting, and stretches his arm upwards, extending it, the frail teen struggling listlessly encased in his hand. Isaac watches, his face frozen, and the words resound inside his head. What his pack were doing was too much of a resemblance of what happened with his father. He would never wish that on anyone else, not even a traitor. A single tear rolled over his cheek, and he gritted his teeth, closing his mind against the sounds. He didn't want to be a part of this! But no one saw, or no one cared, a situation that he'd experienced countless times.
Derek tightens his hands, three agonising seconds pass, then he throws Stiles, a roar forming in his throat, across the clearing. The sound dies, a premature rumble, when his breath catches, Stiles had stopped.
Stiles had stopped, his body hung slack, hung in the air, as if held up by some unknown, invisible force. The Pack gapes at the boy, who emanates a sickly, pale glow, his skin turning pale against the bruises and cuts they had inflicted. He looked ghostly. As if he'd died. As if they had killed him, before his time. His eyes remain closed, but his head jerks violently to the side, and a bead of sweat glistens, rolling slowly down his battered forehead.
Lydia tugs urgently on Jackson's sleeve, pulling the shocked Were back, but their eyes never left the floating boy. His lips move again, forming silent words, no one moves. Finally, with great effort, he manages to speak. Everyone listens, rapt, horrified, and scared.
"You tossed me away like I didn't mean a thing." His voice trembles and the air goes silent, all sound diminishing, until all that could be heard was his voice. Boyd growls, but the sound doesn't come out, everyone entranced uneasily on Stiles.
"You left me. Like I'd never helped you. Like I didn't stay up...hours after everyone left...scouring ancient texts or connecting dots that none of you would have!" His words come out a strained whisper, but everyone hears. "I struggled...for so, so long, after you left. Scott. I saw you slipping away, you rely more on Allison anyway, and I tried to be the good best friend, I tried to tell myself it was because you were in love." Stiles sleeping face is bitter, angry.
"But the truth is, you couldn't be bothered to be around me anymore. I wasn't a werewolf, or a banshee, or a coyote, or a weird fucking lizard creature. I was human. And you thought you were superior...
Scott glares sullenly at the floor, not bothering to deny the words, and unsure if his former best friend would hear them, anyway.
"But none of you cared, there was always someone better, less hyperactive, less annoying." His hands clenched, and Derek smelt the acrid scent of blood strengthen. "Even when I brought you anything you asked for, wasting my money on things you forgot as soon as they were gone." Turning wistful, he smiles sadly.
"My piece of crap jeep was from my mom, none of you knew that huh? It was mine after she died. I promised to keep it healthy and running, to make sure it stayed just as bright as she was. But I tried to make you happy instead. I shouldn't have."
The Pack stares, eyes widening, but their hatred refused to leave. The boy had betrayed them all. Stiles' voice drifts to a quiet, sad halt. No one speaks, and a tear glistens, followed by many more, rolling down his damaged face, stinging the open wounds as they splashed onto the ground below. He begins to heave, sobbing, quietly, at first, but his breaths coming faster, quicker, and no one helped. He remained there, suspended by invisible doubts in the air, in troubled meditation, in pain...agony.
The Pack jumps to the side, startled out of the events as John, Peter and Nadia burst through the foliage, staggering to a shocked, confused stop. Peters eyes narrow, and he growls at Derek. "What the fuck did you do to him?" John races forward, towards his son, before staggering back. Peter frowns, trying, fruitlessly to get to Stiles. But the teen was protecting himself, now, and there was a barrier between him and the watching people. His subconscious was awake, and he knew he had to say what he'd been hiding for so long.
"You're better off without me..." Stiles mumbles, his troubled face twitching, violently jerking and trembling. The words seemed to echo around the clearing, his words repeating, but his mouth had stopped moving. Peter growled, stepping closer.
"No, Stiles. We need you," His voice broke, hitching as he tried to fight the sense of nausea and fear. "You're strong, little spark. You can pull yourself out of this..." His words trembled, unsure, but full of passion. He couldn't let his mate do this to himself.
Stiles groaned, a troubled, haunted sound, and yanked agitatedly at his sleeve. Nadia, Lydia, and John gasped, everyone else stood silent, watching, in shock. His pale skin was marred by cuts, thousands of fresh cuts on his skin, dripping blood onto the ground. Stiles hadn't stopped cutting.
John stared, his head shaking, his eyes filling with tears as he watched his son, who was hurting so much.
"I never stopped..." Stiles whimpered. "I'm sorry...I am...It's like I'm addicted, now. I learnt to block it, block the sight, and block the spell so that you wouldn't know..." His eyes clenched, and his eyelashes flickered alarmingly, but his eyes never opened.
"It's okay in the day when you're all there next to me..." His voice turned monotone. "But at night, I'm alone again, and that pain is fresh again, and this pain is a distraction..."
Peter whimpers, clutching his clawed hands at his side, agonised that he a
can't get closer to his mate.
"The spells are broken now...you can all see, can you?" He asks, not waiting for an answer. The Hale pack backs away, eyes filled with shock, and some with guilt, but Stiles turns sharply, his closed eyes glaring at them, he hadn't forgotten them.
"You don't know what this feels like..." His accusing voice wavers...and they whimper, absorbed by the waves of power emitted from Stiles. "I wish you could understand...I wish you knew how much I protected you!" He roars, his whisper climbing to a crescendo of loud, and his eyes flare open, glowing a strange, iridescent white.
John, Nadia and Peter watch, mouths agape as the Hale pack screams, the teens falling to the ground, Derek following shortly, writhing on the ground.
Stiles blinks, finally seeing. As he awakens, he drops, landing on the floor on his feet, crouched, staring at the ground, as he stands, he turns to his own pack, smiling fondly. "You're protected, I could never hurt you." His eyes flare white, and a wave of energy forms a strengthening band of shimmering, warping light around them. Peter presses forward, putting his hand slowly up against the light, his face visible through the shifting light. Stiles smiles slowly, walking forward, pressing his thin, powerful fingers against his.
"Mój ukochany." He says, clearly, and John stiffens, eyes turning wide. Peter looks bewildered, but smiles softly, his eyes flaring in response, red, to protect his mate.
"My beloved..." John whispers. Peter turns to him, confused. "Mój ukochany...my beloved. He called you his beloved."
Peter stiffened, staring, then a beam crossed his face, engulfing him in a blissful euphoria. His beloved.
Across the clearing, Stiles strode over to the Hale pack, who lay writhing and whimpering at his feet. He squatted down, staring at their pained faces, feeling no remorse. They were nothing to him.
He smiled bitterly. Raising a trembling hand, he stood up and held his palm upward. A thin rope of energy, growing bigger, left it. The twisting, expanding mass drifted towards the panic-stricken pack, and Stiles sighed, his morals warring with his growing anger.
The energy travelled over the pack and latched onto them, and they began to scream. Loud, piercing, agonised wails filled the clearing with a cacophony of noise, and Stiles closed his eyes, pushing his memories through the link. He showed them Gerard and his basement of terror and pain, the burning torture of the extraction, and all the times he'd hurt, and all the times he'd doubted himself after the pack left him. He pushed through the link all the pain he felt, every mental twinge, every panic attack, every cut, and the horrors that he was punished with. The horrors he put up with to protect his pack.
They felt it all, unaware as Stiles fell to the ground, sobbing, heaving, unable to stop the torrent of pain as it destroyed them, as it taught the pack just how wrong they were.
Finally, silence fell, and the energy left the pack, now red, seeping back into Stiles, who lay on the floor, unable to process the overwhelming use of power.
As he blinks slowly up at the darkening sky, the barrier lifts, and Peter, John and Nadia run over to him, Peter lifting his limp form, running, taking him home, protecting him.
As their forms disappear into the trees, the Hale pack sit up, weakened, aghast, and with a new, profound sense of guilt and understanding.
"Stiles never betrayed us," Isaac whispered. "He protected us...even when he was tortured."
They stand, silent, tears streaming down their face, finally mourning the loss of their pack member. The shadow of the horrifying, excruciating agony looms over them. None of them can imagine the sheer will it took to face that, they felt just a fraction of his pain...even at his most angry, most broken...Stiles still didn't do the wrong thing.
"He could've killed us!" Jacksons weak, but angry voice penetrates their thoughts, and he struggles to stand up, disorientated and weary.
"But he didn't," Isaac says sharply. Boyd bows his head, respectfully but silently agreeing with his packmate. "If we felt all the pain he did, like that, we would have died, there's no question. His voice rings with conviction. "Even simulating it left us like this..." He trails off, staring at the ground, hollow.
"Stiles is stronger than all of us," Scott says quietly, no one denies it. The teen was human...but had somehow suffered unimaginable pains that anyone else would have succumbed to, but he had survived.
"Did Gerard know?" Ericka asked questioningly, everyone turned to her. "That Stiles was...more...than human. He knew he would survive, but no human, let alone werewolf would ever be able to..."
As the light slips into darkness, they trudge back through the woods, hollow, and unable to forget the events.
But in the Stilinski household, Stiles had woken up. His eyes flickered open, their whisky coloured depths taking in his surroundings. He was in the master bedroom. His pack surrounded him, and he smiled weakly.
"Hey."
Peter beamed. "Hey."
Patting the space beside him, he invited Peter to lay down, cushioning his head into his chest. John stared, but shook his head. Peter was making Stiles happy, so he had no more to say about the action.
Stiles pulled Nadia down next to him, who sank into the bed with a surprised huff, and John followed suit. They lay together, a content silence drifting over them until finally, they fell asleep.
As he drifted away into slumber, Stiles smiled. A final thought strayed into his tired brain. "I'll protect my pack forever, my amazing, wonderful pack..."