Chapter Text
The walk home had been a haze. He had distantly heard the wolves howling mournfully after him but since he was unafraid that they would actually hurt him, he callously brushed them off and ignored their attempts. He could hear them softly tread a distance away, paws lightly crunching the dry leaves accumulating on the ground. He considered stopping and turning to get a look at them, but the thought alone that they weren’t in a full . . . human form stopped him short.
The walk out of the forest had felt like it went forever, it was like something out of a poorly made cartoon where the main character could walk past the same poorly drawn trees three times. He had felt this strange, irrational bubble of anger fester inside him the whole way home, not dimming whatsoever until he had finally hit the motel bed hours later, letting his exhaustion settle his bones into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
He actually barely remembered walking home and getting his stuff packed up, and then driving out to the motel he had currently just woken up in. Everything from the night had felt like some kind of dream, something that happened when he wasn’t all together there. He had been on some sort of autopilot while driving, which scared him for a couple seconds before remembering that yes, he had arrived in a single piece.
He only could just recall, packing up all of his clothes and toiletries and shoving them into his duffel pack, the soundtrack in the background being his phone shrilly ringing, alternating between calls from his dad and Scott, along with beeps of text messages and the sound of his phone vibrating due to not checking it. Finally, when he had been halfway through packing he had popped his phone open and took the battery card out, finally putting them both into his back pocket.
His dad had still been on the night shift when he had come home, but he knew it would have been an hour or so until his dad came back home. He expected that the primary reasons that his dad hadn’t come to find him already at that time was because A.) He was still acting sheriff of this town and B.) He probably trusted that Stiles would not get into any real danger as long as Scott was . . . attuned to his actions.
So here he was, sitting upright in a grimy motel bed with his head ducked between his shoulders, staring at his hands thoughtfully as they shook and the shock from last night wore off as all his thoughts crashed back to him.
Scott was a . . . werewolf. The word felt foreign to him, the idea of it seemed surreal and untrue. Scott was a creature of the night, something that you only told in the dead of night with a horde of young boys gathered around you and a flashlight held to illuminate only the bottom half of your face.
Yet here he sat; reveling in the fact that his best friend was currently one of these . . . things. Moreover, more than that, so were his other friends. Hell, his dad knew. The Hales probably knew, Derek especially.
How long had they been turned? It couldn’t have been until after he had left, after all Scott had still had asthma at the time and he certainly was not as strong as he seemingly was now. No, this had to have been somewhat of a recent development, and by “recent”, he only meant that it had been after he left.
He searched his mind for any hints Scott could have given to him over the years of their contact, only recalling one email where after a couple weeks of no contact Scott had said something like, “Yeah, I’ve been really sick lately,” but he had never thought anymore of it after making a perfunctory call to make sure that it wasn’t anything serious. He remembered Scott laughing over the phone saying,”No man, I’m all good now.”
It had all been such casual references; ones that he had completely overlooked without any second thought or trepidation. Not that he had had any reason to; after all, he had no reason to believe that Scott was trying to hide something from him.
Yet, here he was, running over any interaction in the past eight years that might have hinted to the dishonesty of his friends and his father.
It hurt to think of how much everyone had lied to him, had kept things from him. He had not been this angry in a while; seething with an unfathomable rage that made his blood boil and had him itching for a fight.
Mindlessly, he dug into the back pocket of the jeans that lay on the floor, finally pulling out both his battery and phone, determined to at least let his frustrations out on someone.
He stuck his phone back into his phone and waited anxiously as his phone lit up and restarted. It took a couple minutes for all of his missed notifications to flood in before he finally scrolled through all of them. There were dozens of missed calls from both his dad and Scott; many from last night and a couple of varying ones in the early hours of the morning.
Then, there was the assortment of text messages from his dad and Scott, too. Then, a separate one from an unknown number that simply read, I’m sorry.
He ignored that one, having a sinking suspicion as to who that one might be. That was a whole other issue that he definitely was not planning to touch with a ten-foot pole any time soon.
He instead opened the unread text messages from Scott, all ranging from various pleas to come back and talk and understand what was going on, to the most recent ones that pleaded to call him back and tell him where he was currently.
His dad had left more calls, the few texts he had sent had been apologies and begging him to come back home. After mulling it over in his head, he decided that it hurt less to be deceived by Scott, so he decided to call him first.
He punched the Call button and held the phone up to his ear, heart pounding like crazy the whole time. He bit the end of his thumbnail to try to temper down some of the panic he was feeling, even though he wasn’t in the wrong here, it still scared his to confront something so bluntly.
The phone rang for about three seconds before the call was picked up. “Stiles?” Scott hurriedly said, sounding weak and out of breath.
Stiles remained silent for a couple seconds, finally swallowing the lump in his throat and answering tightly, “Yes.” No further words needed.
A relieved sigh fell loudly upon the speakers as Scott quickly answered him, “Thank God, dude. We were gonna go looking for you but figured you’d probably rather stay alo-,”
“Scott,” he cut off annoyed, “What the fuck happened last night?”
It went silent on the other end. That was probably good, because he could barely hear over the rushing sound of his pulse in his ears ringing. Finally, Scott answered evenly, “What do you think happened?”
Stiles felt another unhealthy surge of anger at how Scott was once again talking around the subject instead of telling him the truth.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yelled angrily into the speaker, “Why can’t you just be up front with me for once?” he could distantly here his voice echo into the speakers. He distantly wondered whether Scott had any enhanced senses, if maybe his voice was too loud on Scott’s end. If it was, it made him feel a sick sense of satisfaction.
He heard Scott breathe heavily into the speakers, the time allowing him to choose his words carefully and only proving Stiles’ point previous. When had all of the secrets started between them? When had Scott decided that he needed to lie to Stiles, to keep important information from him? It unnerved, shook him to the bone. This was his best friend, his brother. He had always been Stiles’ number one confidant, someone he had so wholeheartedly trusted with his life.
Not only that, but Scott had also been there to pick up the pieces. He had been there his last night when he was debating leaving or staying. He had firmly told Stiles, “You need to do what’s right for you, man. And I’m always gonna be there for you either way.” The unconditional support Scott had given him had contributed to the huge step to take the admission to NYU instead of Berkeley. Yet here was Scott; or more like an alternate version of his old self, keeping secrets from Stiles and breaking every rule of the unspoken bond they both held to.
“I think you know what’s going on, Stiles.” Scott finally said. He was able to hear the uncertainty ringing in his voice. Scott had never sounded more serious, except for when he had told Stiles that one day at school that his dad was gone and never coming back. The comparison of this tone to that one made him unconsciously shiver.
“I need to hear you say it, though.” He said back, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he fought the urge to throw up. His head was spinning and he could feel his hands beginning to sweat, shaking ever so slightly and amplifying the anxiety that radiated off him in waves.
“We’re werewolves. “And that was it. A blunt statement not meant for comfort, but only as an explanation. It both sufficed to give an answer, and at the same time, it only unnerved him further and induced his nausea more than the previous degree it had been before.
He took a shaky breath in, and then let out an even shakier exhale. He felt like crying and laughing hysterically at the same time. Never in his life had he imagined he would be at this point, having his best friend tell him that he was the stuff of myths. It was unbelievable to grasp, and yet it was the perfect answer to all of his questions, it was the perfect missing piece that fit snugly into the complex puzzle of Beacon Hills.
“Who all is a werewolf?” he croaked, unable to stop his voice from showing how overwhelmed and hurt he was. The fact that he even had to ask which of his friends were werewolves was both angering and saddening in and of itself, only a testament to how crazy and out of control his life had become in only the past few days. How quickly had everything he’d known been upturned and thrown around, blown up in his face right before his very eyes.
Scott sighed. “Well, there’s me, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, but we’re part of the Hale Pack, it’s kind of like . . . a family.”
“Wait, what?” Choosing to ignore the family part, he cut Scott off, feeling an even larger sense of urgency. “Derek’s a werewolf too?” he felt his mind almost spinning out of control. How long had they all been werewolves? Who had . . . turned them? Why?
“Well, I mean, yeah.” Scott admitted, “He was the one who kinda helped us through the Change, to be honest.”
He ran his hands through his hair, absentmindedly tugging at some strands only so he could feel the sharp bouts of pain pull him back to the surface, away from the traveling thoughts of lies and betrayal and secrets.
“How long?” he finally asked, settling at the question at the forefront of his mind.
“Who? Us or Derek?” Scott asked.
Stiles furrowed his brow, “Is there a difference?” he almost yelled into the phone, feeling exasperated and a bit squeamish. He was almost panting by now, the intensity of the situation almost taking the breath out of him.
“Well, yeah. Derek was born a wolf, we were turned.” Scott answered back and Stiles’ mind blanked. Without even thinking, he ended the call, throwing the phone numbly back into the pile of dirty clothes from the night previous.
His mind was reeling. The thought that the Derek he had known all his life was something . . . different, was daunting to say at the very least.
For a couple minutes, he’d sat there in silence, thinking over his options. At first, he just felt like running away. He had his car, most of his belongings, if he really wanted to he could just leave, go back home. That would leave so many questions unanswered.
He had already left once before, and look how good that treated him? He came back crippled by fear and had made mostly an idiot of himself. Running over his past actions, he only felt embarrassment and indignity that he had resorted to such low-level and emotionally influenced actions. At no point had he actually gotten down to business or gotten a straightforward answer all by himself, only getting them revealed through happenstance or when the subject themselves would reveal them.
So he decided to just suck it up and actually get down to business. There was no more time to be the scared, trepidatious kid that he had been acting like lately. It was the perfect call to action.
He picked his keys off the bedside table and immediately pulled up a GPS to find the Hale house. It was time for answers.
*********
Stiles felt little judgment cloud his mind as he drove through the back roads to the Hale house. At first, he had considered driving straight to Derek’s loft, but being in such close proximity, especially with only the two of them, it felt like a dangerous situation. Besides, more often than not Derek would be here anyway.
He could barely register parking in front of their house and slamming his door open, not bothering to close it behind him.
“Get out!” he yelled to the front of the house, feeling like some sort of maniac, “I know you can hear me! Come on!”
It only took about five seconds before the Hales all piled out, looking grim. There was Talia, Derek’s mom, accompanied by Peter and all of the daughters. Finally, last but definitely not least, Derek stepped out onto the porch.
“Well?” he called out hysterically, throwing his arms up, “All this time? You kept this secret from me for 26 years?”
Talia looked away shamefully, Laura gripping her shoulder. Even Peter had the good sense not to say anything, looking uncharacteristically abashed and scolded. It was only Derek who stepped forward,
wild eyes only trained on Stiles.
“And you especially, you kept this from me?” he spat, his anger almost shrouding his vision.
Everyone was silent. Stiles gave another hysterical laugh- or more like a puff of air unconsciously escaping from his lips. “I can’t believe this. You were my family. You stayed with me through my mother’s death.” His voice caught on the last sentence.
Stiles shook his head and felt tears blooming at the cusp of his eyelids. “I trusted you, all of you!” He felt furious, betrayed. He saw Derek shift from one foot to the other, and the small movement only had Stiles’ eyes trained on him further. “And you! After everything we’ve been through?”
Derek took a couple tentative steps forward, hands splayed in front of him as if calming down a spooked animal, “Just, let me explain.” He said softly.
He threw his arms up again to gesture at the forest around him, “Go ahead! You have my attention.”
Derek’s face twisted into an expression that looked extremely close to pitying, which had his hackles rise. “Not here,” Derek pleaded. “Please, just . . . somewhere private.” His eyes raced around his family. While he hated him, Stiles understood. However, he was still going to be in control.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “Let’s go somewhere private. But it’s gonna be nearby, I don’t want you to have time to change your story.”
Derek nodded forcefully. “Yes, let’s just . . . walk out a bit?” he looked hopeful, like a puppy after being kicked. Stiles could barely appreciate the expression in his head without turning the slightest bit upset.
Without answering, he merely turned around and began walking back into the forest. Behind him, he could hear soft words comforting Derek and he felt his shoulders tense. No one had comforted him; no one had helped him through this. In fact, he had had to deal with all of this on his own.
He heard Derek follow shortly after him, only letting his presence be known by the cracked twigs crushed underfoot behind him.
They walked for about twenty minutes, Stiles getting hotter, sweatier, and angrier as each second passed. Finally, he saw the creek up ahead and wheeled around, visibly startling Derek, who flinched back in surprise.
“Everything. Now.” He ground out through clenched teeth.
He cast his eyes at Derek for only a couple seconds before physically turning away again. Even glancing at Derek gave him a lump in his throat, made his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Derek looked as good as he had in the diner, as good as the day he had left him, as good as the day he broke Stiles’ heart. He quickly realized that he would be the one at a disadvantage if he kept on looking at Derek; the overwhelming urge to sob in front of him and beg him why was too strong. He did not want to submit that easily, though. He wanted to be strong for once.
He heard Derek shift behind him. “My family . . . we’re all werewolves.” Derek’s voice cracked at the end, and Stiles got a sick surge of pleasure when he heard it. “I know that,” he retorted, still not looking at Derek, “I kind of figured that out last night, thanks.”
It was silent on the other end. Derek didn’t seem to want to say anything, which Stiles was not going to have at all.
After a couple more tense minutes, he exhaled harshly and half turned to meet Derek’s eyes, ignoring every instinct in his body to crawl back.
“So,” his own voice sounded hard in his ears past the sound of blood rushing, “The whole time we were . . . we knew each other, you were a werewolf?” He had stopped himself just in time before he talked about what they used to be. After all, Derek had a different view of them together.
Derek nodded back, eyes shining. Derek had no right to cry here; not when it was he who had caused all of this. Caused everything.
He shook his head and looked back down to his scuffed sneakers. “Why?” he finally asked after what felt like decades. Derek didn’t answer right away, until Stiles looked back up at him.
Derek shrugged, looking distraught. “I . . . it was never the right time, or place. By the time I should have told you . . . you were gone.”
Anger and unbridled rage hit him all at once. “And whose fault was that, huh?” he spat venomously, “Who made me leave?”
Derek took a step forward, “Stiles, things are different now, I-“Stiles waved him off.
“No,” he said, turning his back to Derek and taking a couple steps away. “It’s too late, I don’t give a shit anymore.” It was a lie and he was sure Derek could tell, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m done; I know all that I need to. Coming back here was a mistake; I don’t know why I bothered.”
He began walking without saying anything else, and was part pleased and part disappointed that Derek did nothing to stop him. His head throbbed, it felt like it was clouded and heavy and he had to go somewhere else to clear it. Being around Derek or anyone in the “Pack” for that matter would only stress him out more.
He was sure Derek could follow him to the motel and find him without Stiles even knowing, but when he arrived back to his temporary room, nothing was misplaced.
He lay down on his bed, blankly staring up at the ceiling not knowing what to feel like. It was hard to swallow that throughout Stiles’ and Derek’s . . . thing, he had been lied to in many ways. If it was possible, that made the memories sting even more than they already did.
He didn’t know what his next move was. Almost every part of him screamed to just leave without looking back, but he thought of his dad, and Scott’s wedding. He didn’t know why he still thought about them, but t was impossible to control. His dad had broken his trust, sure, but he was also the only family Stiles’ had. Even thinking of the lies tough, made his stomach turn.
As if he knew Stiles was thinking about him, his phone rang and across the screen flashed Dad with an old picture of him smiling at a barbecue a couple years back.
Stiles sighed and picked up his phone. “What?” he asked, feeling defeated already.
“Stiles, son, I don’t even know where to start,” his father’s voice responded wetly, as if he had been recently crying, “I can’t even fathom how you’re feeling right now. I’m so, so, sorry that I lied to you, that I kept all these things form you.”
Stiles sniffed, blinking back oncoming tears without a second thought.
Stiles’ dad continued, “Please, please come home. I know that I- that I fucked up, but it was never my secret to tell, and I never knew how to tell you.” Stiles wiped his face.
“Please, son, we can’t end it like this, I can’t have you leave again knowing you’ll never come back. I know I screwed up, and I am willing to do anything it takes to get you back, I will answer any questions you have, just please come back-“he was bordering on hysterical when Stiles finally broke.
“Fine,” he croaked, “I’ll come back. But you need to give me just- just some time. I just . . . don’t know how to feel right now.” He gave in and tried not to feel weak while doing it. The last time he heard his dad this torn up was when his mother had just died, and his dad didn’t know how to cope.
“Okay, okay, okay, thank you Stiles, thank you.” His dad repeated. Stiles hung up without any other word, afraid that he would just break again.
He set out to pack up all of his stuff, stuffing all of his clothes into the duffel he had snagged from his closet before leaving. He went to the bathroom to gather his toiletries before stopping dead in his tracks.
On the mirror, written in what could only be red marker, was the sentence, “Don’t play with fire, or you’ll get burned.”
He felt like screaming. A small, hopeful part of him said that it could have been left over from the last guess, but it looked too much like the other messages Stiles had gotten to be just a coincidence.
His headache came back in full throttle; squeezing his skull as he hurriedly grabbed all of his items without looking at the mirror and shoving them into his bag. He felt sick, couldn’t even bare to give the mirror a second look.
Amidst all of the recent events, he had completely forgotten about the threats he had been receiving since arriving. Whoever was following him knew he had moved from his dad’s house. Stiles then realized, with a sick thought, that they might have even followed him enough to know about werewolves. That thought raised the hairs on his arms even more, terrified that the stalker would somehow use the information against him.
He took his bag and left without a second thought, not even bothering to wipe the mirror clean. His head rang with even more questions than it had before, and he had a sickening thought that said he might not get his answers in the best way.