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Stiles was waiting for Deucalion at his home and he tensed in anticipation and in fear when he heard the door.
“Stiles?” Deuc called out and Stiles could hear the smile in his voice, could hear how happy he was that he was here and just yesterday Stiles would have greeted him with a smile too, even pressed a kiss to his lips. Now he had to suppress the urge to vomit.
Deuc came into the living room and immediately noticed that something was going on, that something was wrong, because he tensed too and looked around, as if searching for a threat.
Stiles huffed, because the only threat here was Deucalion.
“What’s wrong?” Deuc asked him and hurried forwards, hands raised as if he wanted to make sure that Stiles was okay, but Stiles stepped away from him. He couldn’t stand to be touched by him.
“I had a lovely talk with Deaton today,” he spat out and put more distance between them, making sure Deucalion didn’t get a chance to step closer again.
Deucalion seemed confused, because he tilted his head, waiting for an explanation, trusting Stiles to explain and just that simple gesture reduced Stiles to a mess.
He knew this man, down to his last facial expression; he knew that he took his coffee with more milk than actual coffee, knew how adorable Deuc was with bed hair, learned that he wasn’t quite allergic to citrus but couldn’t really stand it either, god dammit he could feel the pack bond between them. He loved this man but all of that was in shatters now.
“Is it true? Did you kill your pack?” Stiles asked and waited for the answer with bated breath.
Deucalion’s mouth formed a hard line and the way he straightened his shoulders basically gave Stiles all the answers he could want, but he needed to hear it, he needed to hear it from Deucalion himself, otherwise he would never believe it. Could never believe it.
“Yes,” Deucalion finally said, one short, clipped word and everything Stiles knew about this man crashed down around him.
Stiles was aware of the shaking in his hands, knew that Deucalion waited for judgment, but everything was muted to Stiles, his thoughts slow like they were weighed down and he couldn’t even form any more questions, though he was sure there were plenty of them.
“Stiles?” Deucalion asked after a while, moving like he wanted to step forward but he stayed rooted to the spot and Stiles was grateful for it. He didn’t know how he would react if Deucalion came closer, if he tried to touch him.
He felt for the pack bond that connected him to Deucalion and wondered if he was next. If this was what Deucalion did: pretend to care, get someone close and then destroy them on every possible level. Like he was doing right now with Stiles. He wondered if Deucalion got any satisfaction out of the snapping pack bond.
“Did you want to?” he whispered, barely able to get the words out and Deucalion’s face hardened.
“They gave me no choice,” he pressed out and flashed his eyes at Stiles.
He had always thought the alpha red was a beautiful colour but now all Stiles could see was the shed blood it stood for and he felt sick for ever liking it in the first place.
“Do you even feel remorse?” Stiles asked him but he knew the answer, could see it all over Deucalion’s face.
“They would have killed me,” was all he said to that, as if slaughtering his pack, his family, had been the only solution.
Stiles couldn’t even stand to look at him anymore.
“You’re a monster,” he said with tears in his eyes and Deucalion didn’t even try to argue
Stiles figured that was answer enough. He walked away without looking back.