Chapter Four
Isaac tried not to frown as he followed Scott up the stairs to Jackson and Danny's dorm room. It felt weird heading into a pack meeting without Stiles. Ever since Scott had more-or-less accepted Derek as an equal leader of the wolves, they'd been having fairly informal meetings together twice a month, and Stiles had been at every one. Allison and Lydia had come too, until they'd left, and Jackson had come ever since he'd been back in the States. Peter was less reliable—but the last couple of months he'd been making an effort to show his face. Now, with Allison and Lydia gone, and Stiles having refused point-blank to come with them, it felt like they'd lost half their pack in one fell swoop. And the rational, level-headed half at that, Isaac thought with a sigh as Scott pushed open the door to the small set of rooms to find Jackson in the middle of a heated discussion with Derek.
"This? This is not going to be a thing," Jackson was insisting. "I did not agree to having all of you furballs over. Ever. Let alone twice a month for the next god knows how long."
"Jackson," Derek growled through a clenched jaw.
"Don't 'Jackson' me," Jackson snapped. "We talked about this before any of us left Beacon Hills—we agreed we'd have pack meetings at Scott's."
"Why is it just 'Scott's'?" Isaac wondered aloud, walking into the living area. "I live there too, you know." He dropped the bag of chips he was carrying onto the coffee table and sat down on the couch, tearing the bag open and selecting a Dorito.
"Exactly," Jackson gestured emphatically at Isaac and Scott. "Two werewolves." He flung his arms dramatically to encompass the small living area. "One werewolf. Get it?"
"Calm down, Jackson," Scott rolled his eyes as he pulled two bottles of beer out of the six pack he carried, tossing one to Isaac who caught it with ease, and the other to Peter who was lounging with a bored look on his face beside the TV. Peter tipped his bottle to Scott in thanks.
"Stiles doesn't want to come and we're definitely not kicking him out of his own house," Scott explained as he took a bottle for himself and shoved the other three on the kitchen counter.
"That's bullshit. Just because Stiles got his little heart broken—"
"Jackson, stop," Scott warned, coming out of the kitchen.
"No." Jackson stepped towards Scott, finger jabbing at his chest. "This is absurd. Why the hell should the rest of us have to work around him? I mean, is he even pack anymore? Because if he is, he should be here. Last time I checked, these meetings were mandatory. Or does your membership get rescinded when you stop fucking an Alpha?"
Scott's hand shot out, clawed fingers wrapping around Jackson's throat. "That's enough."
Peter looked up with interest and Isaac's fingers stilled where he was reaching for another chip. Derek looked on, quietly.
Jackson's lips curled back, fangs bared in a soundless snarl and his eyes flaring blue flame. Scott's fingers tightened and suddenly Isaac could smell blood, hot and fresh, from where Scott's claws were sliding into the soft flesh of Jackson's neck. Scott's eyes were red and scorching and Isaac felt himself shrink back into the couch ever so slightly, even though none of Scott's rage was directed at him.
Jackson tried to pull back but Scott held him fast. After a moment, Jackson's fangs melted back into teeth and his eyes returned to their normal, human blue. Scott released him and Jackson stumbled backwards, hand coming up to rub at the blood running down his neck even as the wounds began to close.
"Fine. I get it," he bit. "Mowgli's off limits." Jackson shoved past Derek and into the kitchen where he grabbed a beer from the counter. Twisting the top off he gave them a sarcastic toast. "Everyone, make yourselves at home."
Scott's eyes tracked Jackson and his hands were still tipped with claws and stained with blood.
"Are we all done bickering now?" Peter asked, and when no one answered him he rolled his eyes. "There's no point in holding these if we're going to fight every time—and in case anyone's forgotten, we've still got another werewolf pack running around our territory. Perhaps we could devote more time to that problem and less time to measuring our dicks, what do you think, Scott?"
Scott glared at Peter, but slowly his claws shrank back into his hands and the red glow left his eyes. Turning, he pushed past Jackson and into the kitchen to rinse the blood off his hands.
Jackson made a face at Scott's back, a half-assed sneer that Isaac could tell was more for show than anything, and made his way across the room to drop down on the couch beside Isaac.
"Where's Danny?" Isaac asked as Jackson helped himself to a handful of Doritos.
"I don't know, at the library or something." He chased the chips with a long swallow of beer. "Why do you care?"
"I just—" Isaac paused, toying with the label on his bottle. "I'm worried," he lowered his voice, "about Stiles."
Jackson twisted to look at him, incredulity leaving him gaping. "Are you serious right now?"
Isaac glanced over to the kitchen, where Derek and Peter had joined Scott. They were speaking quietly about the precautions that Peter and Derek had taken to get to Terrace Bay. They'd done the same thing on the initial drive up—before they went in to get Stiles, Isaac, Scott, and Derek had gone on a thorough search of the neighbourhood to ensure that none of Marcus's cronies were lurking around. While it wouldn't really be difficult for the other pack to track them out of town and to the college, they didn't intend to make it easy for them.
"Look, man, you didn't see him when we left the house," Isaac turned back to Jackson. "I'm not—I'm not saying I don't think he should be left alone," but, "D'you think maybe Danny would go over?"
"I repeat: are you serious right now?" Jackson's eyebrows were practically receding into his hairline and Isaac quelled the irritation that was prickling along his skin.
"Yeah. I mean, I get that you're pissed. Trust me, we all get that." Isaac sucked in a long, slow breath through his nose and tried to remember that Jackson wasn't the Kanima anymore and that if he killed Jackson he'd probably get in trouble. "But can you take a second and think about someone other than yourself? I'm not asking you to go over. Can you just text Danny and ask him if he'd mind?"
"Oh, my god," Jackson rolled his eyes, but after a moment grudgingly pulled out his phone. "I'm not promising anything."
"I know, I know," but Isaac already felt better. Danny was a good guy; Danny would go over if he thought Stiles needed someone.
He didn't mean to impose on Danny (and Jackson), but when Stiles had realized that Isaac and Scott were heading to Jackson's for a pack meeting, well… Isaac didn't think he'd ever seen a look of such bleak forlornness as the one that had settled over Stiles's face. Stiles had always been at the pack meetings. Hell, Isaac was pretty sure Stiles was the one who'd always ensured that the meetings occurred at least twice a month. If he felt weird going without Stiles, he couldn't imagine how strange Stiles must have felt, staying behind.
This whole thing was a mess, and even if no one else seemed too concerned about Stiles's mental health, Isaac knew how it felt to lose your pack. He'd lost Boyd and Erica. They'd left, left him behind, and he knew what that hurt felt like. It was probably worse for Stiles. Not that Boyd and Erica hadn't been like family to him, but Stiles was probably feeling like not only had he lost Derek, but Scott as well. And Stiles and Scott were more than just best friends; they were brothers in nearly every sense of the word.
"He says he'll head over," Jackson informed Isaac unwillingly. "Now can we stop obsessing about Stiles?"
When the doorbell rang, Stiles didn't move. He just stared up at the ceiling and hoped whoever it was would take the hint and go away. The porch light was off, the house was dark, and everything about the place screamed no one's home. This was on purpose, because Stiles didn't want to see or hear or speak to anyone. He didn't want to do anything, and he definitely didn't want to have to interact or engage or have to feign interest. All he wanted to do was lie on the floor in the middle of the living room, in the dark, and let the thick numbness of the painkiller work through his system. He'd already had one this morning, and he'd sworn, sworn he wouldn't have more than one a day. He'd lived with an addict. He knew how easy it was for one to become two, and then three, and then four, until you lost track and suddenly the bottle was empty.
So he'd promised himself he wouldn't take more than one, and that as soon as he could wake up without the sickening feeling of the floor dropping out from under him and the breathless rush of pain that accompanied the realization—the same, every morning—that Derek Hale Didn't Love Him, that he'd stop.
But then he'd wandered downstairs to see what was for dinner and Isaac and Scott had been putting their shoes on at the door. Stiles had asked, stupidly, blankly, where they were going and Scott had hesitated. Isaac was suddenly concentrating too intently on tying his shoelaces and Stiles had felt the words form, hollow, in his mouth. "Pack meeting?" They tasted static on his tongue.
Scott had jerked his chin down in a nod and Stiles had echoed it, head bobbing rhythmically for longer than was strictly necessary until Stiles had recognized the awkward movement and stilled.
Isaac stood, biting his lip. "You could come?"
Stiles's head had begun to move again, shaking as he stepped back and away from the door. Scott had asked yesterday, after Stiles had cried until his eyes were hot and red and swollen and he had nothing left but an ache in his chest so huge it felt like it might swallow the world whole. Scott had asked and Stiles had laughed, an inhuman bark that made Scott flinch and look away. That had been the last time Scott had brought it up.
So Scott and Isaac had left, without him. Moving mechanically, Stiles didn't even recognize what he was doing until he was standing in front of the medicine cabinet, standing across from his own reflection with the bruised eyes that he couldn't meet. With shame a thick coating on his tongue, he'd taken another of the small, white pills.
The doorbell rang again, and Stiles groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his chin on the rough carpet as he stared at the door.
"Leave me alone," he moaned, voice muffled by the carpet and the awkward position of his neck. Whoever was outside clearly didn't hear him—so, not a werewolf, he concluded with slight surprise—because they leaned one more time on the doorbell.
"Oh my god, fine." Stiles pushed himself up to his feet and walked through the darkened house to the door. He supposed he could turn on a light, but he was used to the dark by now. Besides, as soon as he got whoever it was to leave, he was going to go right back to staring up at the ceiling. Unlocking the deadbolt, he swung the front door open and scowled.
"Go away."
"Hi, Stiles," Danny didn't wait for an invitation—probably because he recognized that he wouldn't be getting one—and instead shoved right past Stiles into the house. "Are all the lights in your house burnt out?"
"Why are you here? What are you doing? Stop!" Stiles protested when Danny reached over and turned on the light.
"You look worse than you did yesterday." Danny toed off his shoes and walked into the kitchen, flicking on the light and dumping two grocery bags on the counter.
"Why are you in my house? Get out of my kitchen. Go home." Stiles trailed after Danny.
"I can't go home," Danny pulled out a box of microwave popcorn, two bags of candy, a six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and a stack of DVDs. "My dorm's been invaded by werewolves."
Stiles folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the counter and glaring. "Fine, don't go home. I don't care where you go. But go."
"No." Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a keychain with a bottle opener on one end. He grabbed a hard lemonade and opened it, taking a quick sip before dropping the key ring onto the counter.
Stiles sighed, defeated. He could keep arguing with Danny—he was sure that if he insisted strongly enough Danny would actually leave—but the pill had finally kicked in and he found he didn't really care one way or the other.
Danny reached for a second cooler to hand to Stiles, but Stiles shook his head. He wasn't a total idiot—there was no way he was going to mix prescription meds (even though it was just one pill and, really, practically harmless) with alcohol. "Thanks, but I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" Danny asked, surprised.
"Yeah… I don't want to go down that whole 'self-medicating' road, you know?" Stiles said with a wan smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"So you are getting your shit together then," Danny said approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it."
Stiles felt a twinge of guilt, but it was buried low beneath a gentle haze of numbness and ignored easily enough.
"Now," Danny flipped through the DVDs. "I've got all six Star Wars movies here. Do you want to start from Episode I or Episode IV?"
Three and a half weeks. It had been three and a half weeks since Stiles had started college and he couldn't believe the amount of reading and papers and assignments he had already. The worst was his Elements of Journalism class, where they had assignments due every week, something Stiles was personally offended by. He thought college was supposed to be different than high school. Weren't they just supposed to have midterms and a couple papers and then a final? But apparently none of his professors had received that memo, because here he was at ten o'clock on a Wednesday trying to find enough information about parking laws in Terrace Bay to write a halfway decent article about the introduction of bike lanes. Booooring.
Stiles wanted to get his Bachelors in Communication with a major of Journalism because he wanted to, like, expose political corruption or something. He knew that probably wouldn't happen right away, he'd have to work his way up the ranks of some newspaper or station until he got enough clout to be given free rein on what he wrote. He liked having a problem he could sink his teeth into, something where he could dig and research until he found enough information that it made sense and he could understand it, solve it. It was fun.
What he didn't like was being stuck in the library while Scott and Isaac were probably already home playing video games. It didn't help that the place was practically deserted, and that unless he got up every half an hour and waved his hands around the lights turned off on him.
The third time it happened, Stiles emerged from the stack of books with a snarl and stomped over to his table. Fuck this. He'd check out the book on municipal laws he'd just found and take it to the coffee shop to read. He could use some caffeine anyway.
Heading out of the building, he zipped up his hoodie, vaguely wishing he'd thought to bring a warmer jacket. The nights were getting cooler, and he realized with a sudden jolt that it was October. If he were back in Beacon Hills they'd be getting ready for the Fall Carnival. His mind skittered away from that thought as soon as it surfaced, unwilling to think about the stuffed pink lion that, as far as he knew, was still sitting on the floor of his old room, taking up far too much space. It was a crappy carnival quality toy, and there was no point in keeping it. Once he got home he'd get rid of it, just stuff it in a garbage bag and leave it on the curb. The only reason he'd kept the stupid thing for so long was because it was the first thing that Derek had ever given him. Dumb. Maybe he'd give his dad a call this weekend and ask him to do it before Stiles came back for Thanksgiving, so it was gone before he'd have to look at it again.
And fuck, he'd been trying not to think about anything Derek-related and here he was, already at the café, with no memory of the walk over because he'd been too busy thinking about him. Pathetic.
Stiles pushed open the door, glad to see that, like the library, it was nearly empty. His favourite seat, a booth at the back beside a window, was free and he went over and put his backpack down before wandering up to the counter, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.
"Hey, I'll have—"
"—a large caramel macchiato with whipped cream and extra drizzle," the barista behind the counter finished with a grin.
"Uh… yeah, thanks," Stiles looked up in surprise. "Do you remember everyone's drink?"
The guy grinned wider, brown eyes twinkling. "No."
Stiles gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I guess I come here too often then."
"No," he said as he took the bill Stiles handed over. "Or at least that's not why I remember what you like."
Stiles felt himself flush as the barista handed him back his change. Is this… was he…?
"I'm Ethan, by the way," the barista—Ethan—continued as he moved to begin making Stiles's drink.
"Stiles," he managed to reply after a flustered pause.
"I know," Ethan winked, disarming.
"Right." Stiles swallowed, cheeks hot, not entirely sure what to do. No one had ever flirted with him like this before. Assuming he was right and that was what the barista was doing. Flirting. With Stiles. Normal flirting—with winks and smiles and remembered names. Not Alpha-werewolf flirting, which involved being pinned against walls and threatened. This, this was decidedly un-threatening.
"Thank you," he said when he took the coffee from Ethan.
"You're welcome." Ethan smiled again and Stiles nearly tripped over a chair as he made his way back to his table, blushing to the tips of his ears as he heard Ethan smother a laugh behind him.
He went back the next day, between classes so he didn't have to stay long. Ethan greeted him with a wave and a grin and put his order in before Stiles could even ask. Stiles had smiled back, slow and uncertain, and this time it had been Ethan who'd ducked his head, blushing.
Stiles wasn't sure what it meant. What he wanted it to mean. If he wanted it to mean anything. He still woke up every morning with the thudding, hollow understanding that Derek Hale Didn't Love Him. He still couldn't manage to get up, shower, get dressed and out the door without taking one of the small, white pills. There was no being 'over' Derek. No reality where he didn't feel the confused ache of that loss a thousand times throughout the day.
The pills helped, dulled the edges blunt in the morning and by the time he got home from school, well, whatever alcohol in the house helped smooth them over again until he could go to sleep, secure in the knowledge that there'd be another little white pill in the palm of his hand moments after his alarm would go off. Not the best coping mechanism, he knew. Not a great cycle. He'd caught Isaac eyeing his alcohol intake and after that had taken pains to drink no more than Scott so that Isaac couldn't say anything. And if he kept a bottle of tequila in his room, well, that was between him and his conscience.
Which was remarkably clear. A first, almost. Since Scott had been turned, anyway.
He hadn't been asking about pack business. He hadn't been able to stomach the thought of hearing Derek's name come out of Isaac or Scott's or Jackson's mouth and having to feel the wrenching hurt of not yours echo through his head. He assumed someone would tell him if anything serious had happened, if there was anything he actually needed to know. But Scott avoided any mention of Derek or Peter or pack. Isaac had tried to bring up Marcus once, to tell Stiles what they'd found so far (nothing useful), but Stiles had stood up and walked out of the room.
So he didn't know what they were doing to protect themselves. He didn't know what precautions Scott was taking, or whether Derek was still staying at the loft, or what kind of hoodoo Peter had cooked up, or if Deaton had been involved.
He'd been having a surprisingly un-supernatural semester so far, and he planned to keep it that way.
Oh, a part of him was horrified. He knew he ought to be doing everything he could to help the pack—his pack—and Stiles felt bad about that. He wasn't a sidelines sort of guy, didn't sit around waiting for things to happen. Except now he was, and he did.
He just… couldn't get involved. He couldn't know or learn or research anything that might require him to be in the same room as Derek. He was afraid of what he'd do if that happened. Afraid of having to look Derek in the eye. Afraid of not being able to stop himself from reaching out and touching what had been, for so long, unquestionably his. Afraid of what it might do to him if he reached out and Derek stepped back. Because that would break him. That would destroy the last vestige of hope that Stiles was clinging to that this whole thing was a mistake, a ruse, a ploy to keep him safe. But if Derek was there, if Derek was in front of Stiles and he looked at him with those quiet, sympathetic eyes that held only pity and no love, well… Stiles didn't want to think about that.
So, he focused on his schoolwork, completed all his assignments on time, and did all of the readings. He hadn't missed a class or a tutorial since his first week, and he was even making an effort to show up on time. He kept his room tidy, helped Isaac with the dishes, gave Scott a hand with his homework. He hung out with Danny, bitched at Jackson, Skyped with Lydia, called his dad a couple times a week, and emailed Melissa. It didn't escape his notice that sometimes conversations stopped when he walked into a room, but he didn't press. He caught the occasional hushed phone call, the hurried text, and ignored them.
If it were important, they'd tell him. And since they hadn't him told, it wasn't important, and he could go on pretending that he was a normal eighteen year old boy who didn't have anything on his mind other than passing his midterms and a possible flirtation with a cute barista.
If he pretended hard enough, for long enough, he thought maybe the feeling of being disjointed, shipwrecked, would go away. He'd stop reaching in the night for someone who wasn't there, stop getting halfway through sending a text before realizing that Derek wouldn't care that Stiles thought his Astronomy professor might be a vampire. Maybe he'd even stop missing someone who clearly wouldn't be missing him.