Merry Christmas folks! (And of course Happy Holidays or even just have a great Wednesday ...possibly Thursday by now)
I've dredged myself up and resurfaced from the deep to jingle bells and batman smells.
I know this has been forever and I'm so sorry guys, I still have this story in my head and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger so I hope I'll be able to get back into it more as I begin to finish this dreaded uni degree.
I pushed the writing of this a bit so it could be ready in time to pull it off as a festive gift, so if you see any mistakes, any horrendous english colloquialisms that are killing the mood, any terrible characterisations please please please let me know. As always I'm working unbeta'ed which means reading my own writing over and over again until I want to claw my eyeballs out so all help is welcome and appreciated.
Lastly, thank you everyone who has urged me to keep going and I hope this chapter was worth the wait!
He scoffed as he stalked past Isaac's open arms.
"Damn straight I'm a lady. You should see my ball gowns, finest French silk"
"Ah yes," Isaac mocked from over his shoulder "I heard your dowry is to die for."
He laughed at that as he swung the heavy set entrance door outward and held his back against it "Trust me, I know. I'm having to turn them away left right and centre." He scoffed, "The murderers, that is."
Isaac had ambled past him through the open doorway but turned sharply at the last remark. He cocked an eyebrow before quickly darting his eyes up and down Stiles' visage measuringly and beginning to stroll backwards with his usual cocky gait.
He tilted his head. "You do seem to attract them." He murmured before turning again and increasing his pace in the direction of his locker "See you in chemistry." He threw over his shoulder before he rounded the corner and left Stiles in the mildly populated main corridor.
He was busy formulating a mental checklist of all the people, supernatural and human alike, that had threatened his life since he had first delved into the world of werewolves, searching for an inhaler all those months ago, as he continued along to his own locker that he barely registered the fact that far too few students were blocking his usual pathway. It was just as he reached it without a single classmate collision that the realisation dawned.
He was early.
Early for classes.
Early for classes in an underpopulated school currently milling with stranger's faces he had probably never seen before as they were no doubt prompt, reliable people he had never had to cross paths with in his usual disorganised whirlwind of a social life.
What sort of responsible guardian did Derek Hale think he was? Stiles had time to kill. The prospect was daunting in a way it had never been before.
Time to kill without anyone to kill it with.
Wait, no, that was dramatic. Stiles was a twenty-first century kid after all, he knew first hand that no one with access to technology was allowed to admit to being alone.
One day this technology would come in the form of a robot monkey butler named Chompers who had an artificial attitude and none of those humanoid desires to ever leave him. Today he had the library's finest quality Windows '98 systems and by God was he going to dedicate a large portion of his extensive free time before class to watching one boot up.
Perhaps in the mean time he'd use his phone to do a little omega Google research, who knew?
With a clear path in mind he stalked on to the library, swinging his arms and legs leisurely, enjoying the alien sense of personal space.
When the bell rang Stiles was watching the familiar green, red, yellow and blue squares attempt what he assumed was the waving motions of a flag on his screen but instead due to glitching looked like an acid trip slowly wheezing to a tune reminiscent of a muffled Skrillex remix.
He didn't have much luck on the omega behaviour search -half because he didn't have his favourite sites saved to his phone and half because he was torn to search possible exorcism rituals in the case of a computer turning out to be possessed by an ancient angry tree spirit. Or a deceased techno guru.
The rest of the day continued on much like the last. As classes started Stiles found himself once again alone in his head and made no particular effort to go beyond those parameters. They didn't go by in the blur he had hoped retreating into his brain-space would make them and instead seemed to stretch on like a desert horizon with the promise of water so beyond hope that his throat felt finally close to closing for good.
As he walked the corridors the crowds around him slid by in a languored a blur beyond his unfocused eyes. In class his motions were robotic and, dismissing the occasional impulsive stretching of the limbs or scratching of the skull, arguably limited. He was underwater. Treading the lazy lake of his mind as he daydreamed his way out of the classroom.
Remembering, for example, the time he and Scott attempted to build a tree house in the middle of the preserve as their own little secret getaway. They were unsurprisingly caught after, without the forethought to bring a sturdy ladder or any sort of structural support, Scott was forced to run for help when Stiles fell trying to nail a plank step. In his defense he was ten plank steps up by this point and rather proud of his achievements. Scott signed the cast with an honourable "Injured in the line of duty: Operation Justice League Secret Base will be avenged!"
Stiles didn't see the hint of another toolkit 'til he was fourteen years old and even then his father kept a beady eye on him as he set about tightening his watch at the table. The set was barely the size of his fist.
He had texted Scott last night with this particular memory after filling him in on the basic gist of his front row seats to the ultimate omega wrestling championship. It was looking more than likely that his nostalgia would grow stronger with every hour he didn't hear from his bro away from home.
He decided to avoid the lunch hall altogether today, obstinately refusing to consider the reasons as he headed towards the empty lacrosse bleachers. He considered seeking Allison out again, if only just to see if she had any news on their mutual McCall front, but his decision to swerve straight past the open doors and the wafting smell of processed mystery meat was a strong indicator that he was still maybe a little bit bitter about the ninja lessons (or lack thereof) ...or maybe he was a little fearful of her keen intuitive abilities. He still wasn't 100% on what had happened the night before and the car journey this morning had only served to further muddle his thoughts on the situation.
He had a niggling feeling he was about to throw himself into questions he didn't want nor need the answer to.
The field was empty by the time he reached the nearest bleacher stands with everybody tucked inside away from the early fall chill that had - jeez, was it only yesteday? - that had only yesterday caused the rigid refusal of morning cooperation from his baby.
She'd be towed by now. No doubt sitting in a mechanics feeling rejected and betrayed by his reckless abandonment. She was probably afraid. God knows what trauma Jackson inflicted on her using her as a part of his grotesque murder spree... If only he had his bike he could go rescue her right now. Ditch this shitty day and drive off into the sunset in her arms.
But no, alas, he was stuck for the next few hours with Derek's little Brady Bunch hovering at the edge of his vision as a constant visceral reminder of what his life was becoming. And next up was the double Chemistry lesson Isaac had so casually promised to see him at.
He sat picking at the various romantic carvings in his seat as he worked out his next plan. Talk to the Brady Bunch. Clearly that was a priority. He needed information on his Jeep and, hopefully, another ride home tonight. The thought of being trapped in a car with Jackson when he hadn't even had his usual opportunity of releasing the tip of that iceberg of anger in lacrosse practice actually induced in Stiles the sort of dread that momentarily pulled him from the grog of the day.
He didn't know who Derek was hoping to punish more with this latest command but he had no doubt Jackson had done something classicly Jackson-esque to deserve chauffeur duty. Especially with his current state of regard towards Stiles' general existence.
He shot off another text to Scott on the stroll to Chemistry. He wasn't needy. Not especially needy. But Scott hadn't replied to any of his messages about the incident last night nor this morning and he was starting to feel that itch in his esophagus that tended to kick his Scott to danger instincts into overdrive.
As far as he knew the city of bridges might be crawling with its own omega infestation. They might have a certain taste for Hispanic sunshine cherub meat. Since his wolfy transformation Stiles would be hard pressed to ignore that everyone around him had been starting to get a certain taste for Scott's specific Hispanic sunshine cherub meat. The risk of him being eaten and the risk of him being carried off in a marriage sack by an infatuated omega were no doubt at equal heights these days.
At least chemistry was reassuringly similar, since Stiles has grown accustomed to spending the lesson as fully separated from Scott as Harris had the propensity to make him. He also felt a strange grudging relief when he was held with the same contempt as history in this setting had led him to expect.
He had no doubts one day the Harris PTSD would manifest itself in a long and heartfelt contempt for glass beakers and salient solutions.
Today, however, was a day for the record books. For perhaps the first time in academic history covalent bonds had the entirety of Stiles' limited attention span. This could be due to his convoluted efforts to avoid eye contact with the pensive red head by his side. She did not take this negligence of consideration lightly.
"Stilinski, pay attention." Her voice slit through his carefully constructed concentration shell.
He sighed into the silence for a long moment.
"If you hadn't noticed, Lydia, I'm paying attention to the fullest extent of my mere mortal ability." He muttered back, keeping his eyes fixated on the notes before him.
"Ah. Yes, that. Is truly disturbing." She sniped back without a moment's hesitation flicking imaginary dust from the surfaces of her nails. "But not my concern. Now," she turned to give him the full potency of her unimpressed stare, he could feel it drilling just above his left ear, "pay attention. To me."
He pulled his head slowly away to meet her stare. The dark look of frustration shadowing his face quickly faltered when he saw hers melt into a semblance of softness. "I'm all ears."
"Good. Listen carefully Stiles. Jackson will pick you up straight after class. Don't be late. Do not try to bargain. It'll be easier on you both if you just do as you're told and get it over with" She smiled at this, kinking one shoulder towards him and letting her curls bounce in it's pathway. "Like ripping off a bandaid."
Her face had returned it's usual veneer and he cursed himself for thinking that she might actually god forbid be concerned about him. He shrugged as he turned back to where Harris was angrily squeaking diagrams onto the whiteboard at the front. "Sure, right."
"I'm not finished." She added, with a slight disappoving hmph which still commanded all the guiles of feminity.
"I know you're in your little realm of sadness now that your boytoy has left for greener pastures" she drawled, twisting her pen in the grips of her fingers "and I'm sure he's staring meaningfully out of a rain crested window as we speak." She peeked a glance at him then and when she spoke again her voice was exaggeratedly bored. "But it's dull. We don't have the time and I don't have the patience." She turned back to him, whipping her hair over her shoulder to stare directly into his eyes, now his attention had peaked enough to look back at her.
"Talk to Allison. You can offer her your polyester shoulder so she doesn't get tears in my new suede. Anddear God Stilinski, open your eyes. Consider your mourning period officially over."
With that she turned back to her page and began rapidly citing Valence theory in the borders of the question sheet with her neat, extravagent cursive.
Right.
Jackson was leaning against his car when Stiles' day finally came to an end, Porsche keys dangling from his finger as he watched Stiles approach from the school steps without blinking. Not once.
Now Stiles doesn't generally go around bragging about his superior intellect, but in this case his, admittedly brilliant, brains and his ambundance in curiosity had offered him the opportunity to develop an extensive catalogue of human serial killer behavioural ticks, purely for his own fascination, and he felt an imperative urge to warn Jackson of the vibes he was giving off, for his sake alone. This sharing of knowledge was, at it's fundamentals, missionary work. Selfless, helpful, guiding missionary work.
However when he went to open his mouth Jackson cut him off with a quick "Save it Stiles. Let's get this over with." Before he turned to unlock the doors.
Boy what fun lay ahead.