Summary: In which Stiles was forced to leave home and survive on his own, a troubled past and exposure to the worst of the world far too early leading him to live life as a vigilante. Derek is sergeant for the Beacon Hills Police Department, and with his fellow officers split between supporting Little Red (Stiles), and wanting to catch him and bring him in, Derek makes a difficult choice.
Notes: Hi! So, this is my first published fic. I've had the first flash-back chapter written out for a while, but the chapters following it are still pretty rough. Once I get the second one out, though, I'll post updates regularly. I always have trouble with introductions. Whoops. :)
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ALSO, Stiles is aged at fourteen in this flash-back chapter. He's nineteen in all other chapters. Scott, and every other character that is Stiles' age in Teen Wolf, IS NOW THE SAME AGE OR OLDER. I WILL CLARIFY SAID AGES AS THE CHARACTERS COME INTO PLAY).
Happy things.
Happy things, like his mother. Happy things, like the first eight years of his life. Happy things, like going trick-or-treating with Scott on Halloween, stuffing their beaming faces with candy, and then complaining about their raging stomach aches. Happy things, like the first time he scored a goal in lacrosse, his father clapping on the benches during practice, his mother taking pictures as Stiles shied away.
Happy things, like his mother shushing him after a nightmare and telling him to think of starry skies, where there is so much space that nothing as small as a dream can hurt you. "You're gonna rattle the stars, Stiles, you are. I promise you, baby." His mother always used to repeat that, rub her thumb in slow arcs across his cheek. She would draw a planet, or a star, or an entire solar system on the back of his hand when he was scared like that, letting him know he could always have the starry night sky with him. That it would take away his fear and pain and disperse it out and across the entire solar system, his hurt so small in comparison that it would get lost among the helpful stars. She would wait for him to fall asleep again before leaving. He always woke up with the drawing smudged, but his mother just assured him that it meant they were doing their job - taking away the pain and making it vanish in their vast brightness. Even his father would let him crawl into bed with them on occasion, draw the stars on Stiles personally when his mother was out of the house for the moment.
He referred to these moments, these blissful few seconds of his past, as his Starry Skies, and Stiles would be broken without them. At these moments, it was best to think of happy times. He let himself zone out, the chaos slowing to a lurching halt, transported to a place where his memories were the most pristine picture of a perfect childhood. Because starry skies were so much better than the second half of his life. This half of his life.
He was shocked out of his reverie of Starry Skies far too soon, eyes coming into focus again as the current situation progressed. His mind tended to zone out, escape for his own sake in situations such as this one, but it always left him hopelessly unprepared for what was happening.
"You're useless!" Stiles winced against his father's booming voice. It took him only a moment to register what his father was about to do, and he ducked, his head just below the now shattered remains of a dinner plate hitting the wall behind him. He shifted back quickly against the far wall, watching his father with alert eyes. "Dad, please, just - just stop," Stiles said, voice a hoarse whisper.
"Stop?" Please, please not again. Not again. He can't keep using the 'I ran into a wall, silly me' excuse anymore at school. After the funeral, his dad had gotten more distant, which in turn forced Stiles to become distant, and he hardly ever saw Scott anymore. Almost never. So, now, Stiles may not have had very close friends, but people, teachers included, would look at him sideways when he sported a new bruise to school.
In three large strides, his father was standing right in front of Stiles' huddled form on the floor. Hands fisted in his shirt, his father pulled him away from the wall quickly, only to slam him back against it harder, his father's knee digging against Stiles' lower abdomen to keep him in place. Stiles suppressed the pained gasp, gritting his teeth and watching him intently. "Stop?" He repeated. "Did you stop, Stiles?" He demanded, face inches away from Stiles'. Stiles swallowed thickly. "Please, I -"
"It's your fault! All your fault! You killed your mother, Stiles!" Stiles flinched, knew better than to speak. Since he was eight, his father had been getting drunk nearly every night, taking it out on him, constantly hurting him verbally and physically, providing him with only the bare minimum to pass as a normal, overly clumsy teenage boy. The fact that he used to be an amazing officer meant nothing to him apparently. No crisis of conscience. Months after Stiles' mother's death, his father was honorably discharged, alcohol consumption altering his judgment. If only they knew just how badly it was altered, he thought half-heartedly.
He was the best father before. Told him stories of villains and superheroes; the trusty cops who'd help the heroes out. Stiles, with a beaming toothy smile would always say that his dad was both the super hero and the cop. He distracted Stiles from the thunder storms outside that always sent him into a panic attack, he would entertain him and tell him that it was just the clouds crying. He would remind him that, behind the clouds, were those starry skies that he loved so much. He would teach him to distract himself by following the rain drops sluicing down the window, as if it were a race to see which one would reach the bottom first. He would have Stiles stand straight against the wooden door frame and pencil in his height and the month and year it was taken, ruffling his hair and telling him he'll be taller than his daddy someday, just he wait. He carried Stiles atop his shoulders and made dipping swerves as if he were an airplane, on top of the world. He bandaged Stiles' knees when he would jump from the swing, and his father would tell him that they were battle wounds of an energetic, noble, towel-caped little boy named Stiles (His father would then ask if he took his ADHD medication that morning because, 'that wasn't like you, bud').
Not anymore. The sad thing, the really pitiful thing is that, after everything his dad has put him through, Stiles still aspired to one day be his father's past self. Still feels as if it is, in some way, his own fault.
"What eight-year old can't handle the whole night at a friend's sleepover? If she wasn't on the road, picking your sorry ass up, she would still be alive!" Stiles cringed at his father as he spoke, shuddered against the memory his dad was discussing. He lost his footing against the glass-mottled floor for a brief moment, but Stiles' father, in whatever drunken haze, interpreted it as him trying to get away. He shifted his knee, moved it lower to dig painfully into Stiles' groin, and his breath caught in his throat, a throbbing pain swelling there that made him grit his teeth from shouting out. His father cocked his head slightly, and the faintest of smiles danced across his lips, icy blue eyes sparking with the conflict, the discomfort and pain broadcasted in Stiles' own eyes.
His father backed away suddenly, pressure relieving from Stiles' stomach. He let out a shuddering breath, pressed his hands to the floor and propped himself up, shards of glass slicing into his palms, sharp crystalline pieces coaxing beads of blood to form on his hands. He leaned against the wall, wiped his nose with his sleeve and watched his father warily. "You killed your mother," his dad said, words slurring around his curled lips as he grips the neck of the scotch bottle, swaying before resting against the doorway, "and now, you're killing me, too."
"Dad... " His voice cracked, lips quivered as his eyes welled with tears he didn't dare shed. His father moved toward the doorway. "I want you out by tomorrow morning." His eyes were blank, stone slates, hard and unforgiving. After eight years of this, his father snapped. And no matter how drunk, Stiles knew he was absolutely serious. Horribly so. Before Stiles could speak, his father bellowed, "I don't want to hear it! I don't care where you go, what you do! Do you hear me? I don't care! I don't want to see you tomorrow." His father disappeared behind the doorway, leaving Stiles catching his breath in choking sobs, clutching his stomach and staring blankly ahead of him, not allowing himself to cry yet.
He never told Stiles that, sometimes, superheroes turn into villains. He never told Stiles that the crash and roll of thunder was nothing compared to his father's booming voice. Never told him that he would instead be watching which tear would drip from his chin first instead of the rain. He never told Stiles that the window sill is still a place he stares at often, only with a look of longing and cowardice instead. He never told Stiles that one day he would fear being trapped and cornered by his father. Never told him that Stiles couldn't imagine ever not being scared, feeling utterly small and helpless before his father, even at the full 5'11" he would grow to be. He never told Stiles that he would feel like the world was crushing him, like he can't even carry himself, let alone the weight of his father's presence on his shoulders. He never told Stiles that he would be bandaging his own knees and covering his own cuts and bruises, battle wounds from a man who was supposed to be fighting the same battle. Battle wounds of a jumpy, destructively loyal, shell of a boy named Stiles, his former self hiding beneath.
He definitely didn't tell Stiles that even after all this, he would still feel the need somewhere in him to amend things between the two of them, apologize for something, anything, everything, he didn't know.
And so, Stiles was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass and a tipped chair, bottles of whiskey and scotch strewn over the room, a swelling pain in his lower stomach and an ache in his chest. His father's unbalanced receding footprints going up the stairs with a bottle still in hand, the door slamming shut behind him. Leaving Stiles to stare at the picture hanging above the kitchen table, of an eight-year old grinning Stiles, a bright eyed father with an arm slung around his son's shoulder. And finally his mother, wiping cake from Stiles' freckled face with her thumb and a loving, dimpled smile caught on photo forever.
Stiles moved quietly through the house that night. He sat, frozen on his bed, in what was almost a trance, not even caring to check the bruise he knew was forming or to wipe the dried blood from his palms. He sat there, the house ghostly quiet except for the sound of Stiles' ragged breath and his father's muffled sounds. He moved in a daze, hardly aware of what he was doing, only that he needed to leave this house. He packed all his money, one thousand dollars exactly. A few pairs of clothes and underwear and socks. He packed a book - 'Grimm's Fairy Tales', and his baseball bat. He packed a thick blanket and hooded sweaters. He packed his keys. He packed the last of his Aderall, Neosporin and gauze. He packed the pocket knife that belonged to his father - all in a large backpack, except for the bat. And finally, creeping hesitantly down the stairs, he slid the photo out of its frame with gentle hands, tucking it between the pages of the book.
He stepped over the glass in the kitchen, and slipped out of the front door and into the dark, dry, eerie heat of the California night air, the muted drone of crickets and the buzzing you only hear when there's nothing else worth hearing - those were the only thing he forced himself to keep his mind on as he left.
He cast his eyes up desperately toward the night sky, full of so many blinding, shining stars that Stiles could not help to think they were finally overflowing with his pain.