Chapter Text
It was Saturday afternoon. An afternoon like any other, really. Stiles had just made himself a large bowl of cocoa pebbles because, and yes, he means you Jackson, they weren’t only for kids, and he was sitting in front of the flat-screen his dad had bought with the latest pay-raise. What kid doesn’t like weekend cartoons?
He was just getting up to change the channel from The Morning News (showing disturbing images of a house on fire. Someone screamed in the background. Hello, nightmares!), to The Fresh Prince of Somewhere or Another when the phone rang. He juggled the remote and his bowl of cereal as he lunged for the phone. “Hello! This is the gate-keeper, are you the key-master?” Stiles knew he was immature for his age, but twelve wasn’t that old, really! He heard a sigh from the other side of the phone.
“Stiles, I’ll be home in an hour, can you tell your mother I’m bringing French bread for the pasta?” The stressed-out voice of his father, Deputy Stilinski, came out tinny and harsh. Stiles shook his head, mouth full of pebbles.
“What are you doing, Stiles? All I hear is breathing. You know you can’t nod when we talk on the phone!”
“Right, sorry dad! Mom’s not here.” Claudia Stilinski hadn’t been home all morning, but Stiles wasn’t worried. His mother ran the Beacon Hills art store, a very hippie-dippie place with odd hours and strange talismans on the walls, so Stiles was used to her being gone when he woke up. His father sighed louder this time.
“Tell her when she gets back.”
“Will do, key-master!” Stiles hollered, and tossed the phone to the other end of the couch. His aim was off, though, and the phone teetered on the edge of the cushion for a moment before it tipped completely over. Stiles dived for it. This was the second phone they’d replaced this month, and even with his dad’s pay-raise, they really couldn’t afford to buy a new one. He felt the tips of his fingers grasping for it, touching cold plastic, scrabbling up the side of the cushion, gingerly pulling it with his fingertips. He pulled it all the way up.
“Yes!” He yelled, throwing his arms up into the air. The jostling of his motions sloshed the milk from his cereal onto the remote. It blinked once, and then died. All the lights on the TV had dimmed. The whole thing started flickering, and grey fuzzed out the screen. How is that even possible?! He spilled on the remote, not the TV screen! Stiles flailed around, which only served to make the sloshing worse. What was it his mother always said about electronics? Put them in….Rice! Stiles jumped up off the couch, conveniently forgetting the bowl in his lap. Time seemed to slow down. The brown tinted milk tumbled and splashed against the carpet, droplets flying up and landing on the cream upholstery cover. Stiles was dead.
He ran through the house in his bare feet. ‘No no no no no no no!’ He contemplated using one of the words his mother had banned. When his father heard him say—the big F word—he had banned swearing in the house. His mother on the other hand, had told him that there were certain situations where curse words should be used. Stiles was pretty sure this was one of them.
“God Damn!” He screamed, heart practically jumping out of his chest as he looked around to make sure no one was there. Scott was gonna be thrilled! He grabbed a bunch of towels from his mother’s bathroom and ran back downstairs. ‘I got this!’ He thought to himself, soaking up the mess with the towels. He ran into the kitchen for some rice. There was a bag sitting on the counter. He shoved the remote in, dropped it on the end table, and pulled the towels off the couch. He stepped back to inspect the damage, knocking over the rice bag with his elbow.
The white guest towels were now stained brown. The cream couch cover was in a similar state, and the carpet looked like someone had diarrhea on it. Rice was everywhere. He rubbed at the stain with his palm. Maybe no one would notice?
Xxxx
Stiles sat hunched in his bunk-bed, terrified that his father would come home before his mom did. She would understand. She always understood when he was clumsy. He heard a car roar up in the drive-way. ‘Oh no!’ Here it comes. He was going to be sent to Africa! Loud voices floated up the stairs. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but it didn’t sound happy. He tentatively tip-toed down the stairs. He could see his mom going at it with his dad.
“—Right, because we’re doing such a great job with this one! Claudia, have you SEEN this mess?!” His dad yelled, motioning at the couch. He could see his mother shrinking in on herself. He knew why. His dad didn’t yell very often, he was usually eerily calm and quiet, but when he did it was terrifying. But his mom was never one to back down. Stiles admired that about her.
“Yes, I did! I happen to think it looks very Art-Nuevo!” She defended, her voice reaching monumental heights. Stiles wasn’t sure how they thought this was hiding their argument from him, but he was content to let them yell at each other instead of him.
“Claudia, please. Stiles will hear.” His dad’s voice murmured to his mother, too low for him to hear. He leaned forward a bit, determined to know what they were saying. His foot hit a creaky floor-board. Both his parents turned to look at him. Faces identical pictures of displeased.
“Stiles. Come down here for a minute. We have something to discuss.” His father waved a hand at the soggy couch. Stiles took that as an invitation to sit down. Judging by his father's even angrier face, it was not.
Milk began to through Stiles shorts, cold and sticky. He shifted around a bit, trying to get comfortable. Neither parent said anything. “I’m sorry?” He tried. His mother sighed.
“Baby, that isn’t what we need to talk about. We have—” The front door swung open, revealing an older boy, maybe seventeen, with dark hair. He was carrying a backpack. “Can I just put this down here?” He dropped the bag in the corner, a surly look on his face. Stiles gasped. It was one of the people he had seen on the TV earlier. He turned to glare accusingly at him mom. She grinned sheepishly.
“Your mother decided to bring home another stray.” Stiles could tell from the tone in his father’s voice that he’d had no say in this whatsoever.
“I just couldn’t resist. He was so sad. Like a little puppy.” Stiles glanced at their new house-mate to see if he’d heard that. The sour look on his face had deepened. Stiles decided he didn’t like him at all.
“Derek’s going to be staying with us for a couple weeks, okay sweetie?” She said it like a question, but Stiles knew she meant ‘get on board or clean the toilets for a month.’ Stiles gave a shrug, and retreated to the computer room to email Scott.
Xxxx
He had barely typed ten words when his pants started to dry. The wetness that had bothered him so was now drying. It was crusty, and milky against his bottom. He squirmed, trying to dispel the nasty feeling. He couldn’t ignore it for long, though. He decided to just email Scott later, and go change now.
He yanked open his bedroom door and dropped his trousers.
“What the hell!?” A loud voice resounded behind him. Stiles spun around to see who it was, tangling his legs up in the pants and falling to the floor. A very irritated….Stiles didn’t know his name….was sitting on the lower part of Stiles bed. The Stiles part of Stiles bed. He glared.
“Get the fuck out of my room.” Stiles was shocked. This was his room! Who did this guy think he was to talk to Stiles like that in his own house? “I’m telling! You used a bad word!” He teased, well aware that he was acting childish. The boy snorted.
“Whatever. As long as you get out.”
“You get out! It’s my room,” Stiles protested. The other boy stood up. He was very tall. “No way am I sharing a room with a kindergartener!” He hissed, making to push Stiles out. Claudia poked her head into the room.
“Problem, boys?” She asked. Stiles noticed that the kid had let go of him rather fast. “No problem, ma’am. Just helping your son. He got his pants dirty.” The charming smile his mother was given made Stiles want to hurl. Even his FATHER didn’t smile at her like that.
“Alright, then. Just keep it down okay, Derek? I’m trying to make pasta, but I keep hearing yelling.” She shook her head and disappeared downstairs. Derek smirked at Stiles and gave him a shove.
“Hey!” He whined quietly, knowing better than to make his mom walk up the stairs twice in as many minutes. Derek’s smirk grew wider. Yeah, Stiles really didn’t like this guy.
Xxxx
Dinner was an awkward occasion. Claudia was picking at her food, clearly worried about something. Stiles father had gulped down his own plate, and hurried off to his office to do some work. Derek had spent the meal glaring at his dinner, but Stiles was beginning to think that was his face was permanent fixed like that.
“So, uh, how long is Derek staying with us?” Stiles asked, determined to break the silence. His mother was quick to answer, having been looking for an opening to say something.
“Until his sister comes back from New York.” Which was? Stiles question must have been reflected on his face because his mother continued.
“She left to find their uncle after the fire, and no one’s heard from her since.” Stiles was dying to ask, but didn’t think it would make polite dinner conversation. He’d have to bug Derek about it, later. Except Derek looked like he really didn’t walk to talk about it, so Stiles asked.
“What fire? Like the one on the news? About that family who got burnt alive?” Stiles could see Derek’s knuckles turning white where he was holding his fork, but it was too late to stop. He turned to Derek. “Was that YOUR family?” Derek slammed his hand down on the table and pushed his chair away. Stiles could hear his mother chastising him for asking as Derek stormed away upstairs. That was definitely not the right thing to say. He followed the other boy into his room, determined to try to make things right with the older man, even if he ended up hating him more.