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cyberwolfwrites · 5 years

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#1--April 14, 2019

Guys, I would tell you if I had a son

The first time the Rogues figured out that Tony was hiding something was during one of their meetings discussing the New Sokovia Accords. The Accords had been revised while the Rogues were on the run and they still need some tweaking even after the Rogue Avengers had been pardoned. So, not long after the Rogue Avengers came to the Compound, they scheduled a meeting with the new Secretary of State, Tony, and Rhodey, and began to hatch out the mistakes of the old Accords and what to add to the new one.

“We’re not making small-time heroes like Spider-Man and Daredevil reveal their identities if they don’t want to!” Tony argues, standing up and slamming his hands on the table. He glowers at the new Secretary of State who suggested that they keep the superhero registration system that also conveniently revealed who the superheroes were.

“That’s not what I was suggesting, Mr. Stark,” the new Secretary of State Thomas Ellis’s hologram says. “All I was saying was that all superheroes should be registered under the Avengers Initiative and will be called into the bigger battles if they are needed. Their names would not be disclosed to the public and they will not be crowned as an Avenger unless all of the current Avengers agree.”

Tony, now assured that Peter’s identity will be kept a secret until the kid decides to reveal himself, sits back down in his chair next to Rhodey and Natasha. “Why are you protecting that kid, Stark?” Sam asks, looking at Tony with a perked eyebrow. Tony glares at Wilson and just manages to stop himself from standing again.

“Because he’s a kid,” Tony stresses, using Sam’s words against him. Sam opens his mouth to make a retort but is cut off when Tony’s watch suddenly flashes red and blue. Tony feels his face pale and he immediately taps his arc reactor that happens to be concealing one of the first prototypes of his nanotech suit and gestures for Friday to open the window.

“Tony, what–?” Steve is cut off when Tony blasts out of the room full tilt.

“What’s going on?” Ellis asks, sounding bewildered. The remaining Avengers, save for Rhodey who knows what the watch means, exchange glances.

“We don’t know,” Steve says, sitting back down in his chair next to Sam and across from Natasha.

The second time Tony is caught hiding something-slash-acting suspicious was a few days later on Friday at noon. He has a phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he scrambles around the common room, grabbing papers at random. The team had seen scraps of notebook paper with complicated looking equations on them sitting around for a few days, but since they’re still very iffy with Tony, they just ignored the papers and didn’t touch them.

“I don’t see the papers you’re talking about!” Tony mutters into the phone, stepping around Natasha who’s sitting in a nearby armchair with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ‘Black Wid-oreo’ ice cream. A few moments of illegible mutters and Tony stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Pete, I can’t hear you! Why are you even calling me while you’re in the cafeteria? It’s not like I have super hearing!”

A few more moments go past with Tony waiting for whoever is on the other line to move to somewhere quieter. Some clearer but still illegible mutters and Tony bends down next to the couch, pulling a few papers from under it. “Who the hell sticks metal alloy equations under a couch?” Tony mutters to himself, tossing all of the papers into a red and blue folder. The team just watch as Tony heads into the elevator and disappears behind the doors.

“What the hell was that all about?” Sam asks Steve–who is sketching from a love seat next to Natasha’s armchair–and Natasha who’s nearly finished with the ice cream named after her.

“Language,” Steve comments, not even looking up from where he’s sketching the Compound. “And it’s not our business who Tony talks to.”

“Oh, c'mon!” Sam says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Don’t tell me that you're not interested in who he was talking to? And what about the other day during the meeting when he sped off in that new suit of his? What do you think, Nat?”

“I think the two are connected,” Natasha says, sticking another spoon of ice cream in her mouth. Why does Stark even have ice cream named after me in his freezer? Natasha thinks to herself before sticking another cookie loaded spoonful in her mouth.

Before anyone else can speak, the elevator doors ding open, revealing Tony in a pair of jeans, a band-t, and one of his jackets. He’s still on the phone as he heads into the kitchen. “What do you want me to bring?” the group hears him say into the phone from the living room. A few seconds past and Tony snorts. “Really, kid? Skittles? What are you, ten?“ The team can barely hear a muffled "Hey!” from the phone as Tony heads towards the elevator, a large bag of skittles in his hand and his phone in the other.

Tony turns to the group. “Okay, gotta go, Pete. See you soon,” Tony says, not even waiting for a response as he hangs up. “I’m leaving for the weekend, so don’t break anything or do anything stupid. Got it?”

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, trying to dig for some information. Tony just lifts an eyebrow, whips on his shades, and says:

“Nowhere that you need to concern yourself with." Before anyone can say anything, Tony jumps into the elevator. "Bring me to the garage, Fri." The elevator doors shut and the group exchanges suspicious glances.

The third time they caught Tony hiding something the man in question wasn’t even there. The Compound was being fumigated so everyone had to spend a week at the Tower. It is a few weeks later on Friday again, though this time it’s a little later in the day.

The group has just arrived at the Tower and what they really want to do is drop their stuff off and relax. Maybe watch a movie or something. "God, it’s been too long since we’ve last been here,” Sam says as they walk into the Avenger’s private elevator.

“Where would you like to go?” Friday asks the team as the doors shut behind them.

“Can you take us to our floors and then take us to the common room?” Steve asks. Without saying anything, the AI takes them to their rooms. It barely even takes them a minute or two to drop off their stuff and then they’re speeding off towards the common room. The doors ding open and they all freeze at the sight of a teenage boy sitting at the newly added dining table covered in papers and his backpack.

“Hey, Mr. Stark, do you think I can come down to the lab, now? I’ve nearly finished all of my homework and I have all week–” the teenage boy freezes as he spins around, eyes wide and body tense as he meets their gazes, “–end. Uh, what’re you guys doing here?" The boy’s voice seems to raise a few octaves as the group walks towards him in confusion. "Friday? What’re they doing here? I thought they were at the Compound!”

“Boss forgot to inform you that Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff are staying at the Tower for the week while the Compound is being fumigated,” Friday says easily, confusing the three Avengers further since only the Avengers, Tony, Pepper, and a few select individuals can use the AI.

“Oh,” Peter says, still tense. If he weren’t so shocked at suddenly facing three of his heroes, Peter would have been talking their ears off by now. The elevator doors open before anybody can say anything more. Tony runs into the room, looking slightly panicked with his watch flashing red and blue, wide brown eyes flashing around.

“Peter, are you okay? What’s wrong? My watch is–” Tony stops, his eyes locked on the three Avengers as if he’s just noticed them. He immediately walks over to Peter, squaring his shoulders as he hides his kid from view. Peter tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, peeking out from behind his form in a decidedly childish fashion.

“Mr. Stark?” he questions, his eyes wide as his shock at suddenly facing the Avengers fade, excitement taking over him as he grabs onto his father figure’s shirt. “Are those–What’re they–How–Oh, my God, is that Black Widow? Why does Captain America have a beard? Is that the Falcon?” Tony purses his lips and sighs, moving to the side and wrapping his arm around Peter’s shoulders retain some form of protection over the kid.

“Yeah, kid,” Tony says. “That’s Black Widow. And I don’t know why Cap has a beard, and yes that’s the Falcon. I forgot to tell you that they’ll be staying here for the week." A few seconds of awkward silence with the slightly shocked Avengers staring at them. "Grab your homework and head down to the lab. I’ll be with you in a minute." The four Avengers watch as the teenage boy shoulders his backpack, grabs his papers into a pile, and walks into the elevator, all the while staring at the group with wide eyes. No one speaks until the doors close.

"Tony, what–?” Steve says, at a loss for words.

“You have a kid?” came Sam’s bewildered question.

“He seems sweet,” Natasha says, striding over to the couch and plopping herself down like nothing happened, grabbing the remote and turning on the tv. Tony clenches his jaw.

“I don’t have a kid, Wilson,” he tells Sam, still tense.

“Then who was that? Spider-Man?” Sam asks sarcastically, pointing a thumb at the elevator doors with a scoff. He misses the way Tony’s face pales a little at the name before he crosses his arms over his chest.

“That was my intern,” Tony says steadily, defending himself and trying to cover up his reaction to Sam’s accusation. “Now if you’ll excuse me," Tony shoulders his way between Sam and Steve, "I have a particularly excited kid to deal with. See you later." The elevator doors close behind him a few seconds later, leaving the group to stare at themselves for seconds.

"Who the hell was that?” Sam breaks the ice, waving off Steve’s how-dare-you-cuss-in-front-of-me look,

“I don’t know but did you see the way he reacted when you called the kid Spider-Man?” Nat asks as Steve take their seats in the living room.

“What, you don’t actually think…?” Steve asks, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, my God. I dropped and airport terminal on a kid." His guilt is soon overshadowed by his outrage at Tony. "And Tony brought a kid to fight a war." Steve runs his fingers through his hair. I need a haircut, he thinks to himself as he stands up and paces around.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Steve,” Natasha says. “We don’t even know if the kid is actually Spider-Man.”

“But you’re the one that brought up Stark’s reaction!” Sam cuts in, making Natasha glare at him.

“We’ll just talk to Tony about it the next time we see him,” Natasha says, making Steve and Sam nod.

Turns out, the next time they see Tony is the next morning when they’re getting breakfast. He and the kid are laying on the couch, completely passed out with a random movie playing on the screen, bowls of popcorn strewn about. Instead of waking up Stark, because they see how tired he’s been since their return, they begin making breakfast. Not even a few seconds after setting the bacon on the frying pan, they hear a yawn.

They all look over from what they’re doing to see the kid, Peter they think Tony called him, rubbing his eyes and looking around tiredly. After a few seconds, his eyes snap over to the Avengers. The familiar colored eyes widen comically at the three of them cooking breakfast before he looks down at Tony, who’s still passed out by his side. Peter’s relieved when his sudden action didn’t stir him. Carefully, Peter removes himself from where he is curled under Tony’s arm, throwing the blanket back over the sleeping man.

He stands there awkwardly for a few moments, teetering back and forth on the balls of his feet as he looks at the three heroes. “Hi,” he suddenly blurts out, ducking his head down as the sound gains the attention of the heroes and makes his cheeks turn pink.

“Hello,” Natasha says warmly, shocking Sam and Steve since she’s not open with people that she doesn’t know. “Can you help me shred these potatoes?" Peter scrambles over to her.

"Of course, Ms. Black Widow Natasha Romanoff ma'am!” Peter stutters out, plopping himself down on the chair and taking the shredder from Natasha. She stands up to grab the extra cheese grater, sharing a glance with Steve and Sam.

“So, Peter,” Sam says, leaning against the counter as he mixes together the ingredients for pancakes. “Yesterday Tony told us that you are his intern." Peter just hums a little, his brows furrowed in concentration as he makes sure he doesn’t cut himself. Sure, he can go through a whole night of patrol without getting a single scratch, but he’s not so confident about his cooking skills.

"I didn’t know that Tony takes interns,” Steve says, flipping over the bacon. “How old are you, son?”

“S-seventeen,” Peter stutters out, his face reddening because Captain America is talking to him. “I just turned seventeen a few weeks ago." Steve feels his chest tighten a little at that. That means that Peter was fifteen when they fought.

"When did you become an intern?” Natasha asks. “You seem pretty young for an intern.”

Peter shrugs. “About two years ago,” Peter says, sticking to the public story. “I applied for an internship but didn’t expect to be chosen. Mr. Stark showed up at my apartment and told me about how he wanted me as an intern despite all of the college student applicants. He said something about how–”

“–you’re smarter than all of those other kids,” Tony says, making Peter jump and nearly slice his hand on the cheese grater. Peter turns towards the man with wide eyes, looking like he was caught taking cookies out of the cookie jar. “Yeah, kid, I’m awake.”

“Morning, Mr. Stark!” Peter chirps as the man pushes himself off the couch with a low groan. Tony grimaces as he stretches, his back popping.

“Mornin’ kiddo,” Tony says, ruffling Peter’s curls. He ignores the looks the three rogues send him. Tony leans over Peter’s shoulder at the table. “What’re you making.”

“Uh…” Peter says, looking at Natasha with a questioning look.

“Hashbrowns,” Natasha tells Tony, raising an eyebrow at him. “Sam’s making pancakes and Steve’s making bacon." Tony hums and walks over to the coffee pot, beginning to brew a new pot of coffee. Peter finishes shredding the rest of the potatoes and places the cheese grater in the sink.

"Go wash your hands, Pete, and grab your backpack. You didn’t finish your homework last night,” Tony says, not looking away from the dark colored liquid that gives him life. Peter groans and wakes his way into the elevator, muttering under his breath about ‘stupid homework.’

It’s silent in the room for a few moments other than the cartoons on the tv and the sizzling of the bacon. “So…” Sam says as Steve piles the rest of the bacon onto a plate. “Is Peter yours?" Tony sputters into his coffee, setting down his mug and hacking as the hot liquid runs down the wrong pipe. He looks over at Sam with watering eyes while everyone looks at him in a mix of concern and amusement.

"What?” he croaks, clearing his throat. “No. No, of course not. Guys, I would tell you if I had a son!" Natasha just hums into her own cup of coffee, tilting an eyebrow at Tony. Tony just rolls his eyes and groans. "He’s not mine!”

“Biologically, maybe,” Sam says, flipping the pancakes. Tony just glowers at him.

“Peter’s not my son,” Tony says sternly.

“But do you think of him as your son?” Natasha pushes. Tony purses his lips and looks down at his mug, not saying anything.

“Yeah,” Tony says quietly. Before anyone can react to that, the elevator doors ding open and Peter pops out, mouth running a mile a minute.

"Hey, Mr. Stark! Do you think you can help me with my calculus homework? There are some equations that I can’t figure out. And then I have some chemistry that I think I may need help with, but–" Tony just smiles down at his mug as Peter continues rambling on about his homework, tossing the bag in the living room and beginning to pick up the mess they left there last night. The three Avengers exchange a glance.

So, yeah, Tony was hiding something. He was hiding a son.

#tony stark #peter parker #avengers #sam wilson #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #irondad #spiderson #submission

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pens-swords-stuff · 5 years

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Cough Syrup and Popsicles [Short Story]

So this is a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class! It was my first time since middle school that I attempted to write a short story, and also the first time since middle school that I’ve written in first person!

It’s gone through a couple of drafts, but it’s still a little rough around the edges. But since I deemed it decent enough for my interim portfolio, I figured I’d share it with you all here :)

This is very different from what I write normally, and it was a great challenge! It’s not my best work, but I hope you guys like it.

(I apologize if the formatting is a bit wonky, it copy-pasted really weirdly)

If you would like to read this on your dashboard instead of my blog, please click here!

Warning: Long-ish writing; 2927 words.

The harsh lights of the fluorescents flickered overhead. The shopping cart shuddered as the defective wheel squeaked and groaned across the linoleum. The grocery store was nearly devoid of people, with only the occasional employee ducking past me to restock some shelves. Their eyes flickered towards me as they passed, regarding me with disdain before their gaze drifted to the clock mounted by the ceiling. The employees probably wanted to go home—it was almost closing time. I couldn’t blame them. I always got irritated when people came in at the last minute at the restaurant where I worked. They probably would be able to go home if it wasn’t for the few stragglers lurking among the shelves. I ducked my head whenever I felt their eyes on me. Pretend like they’re not looking at you, Alexandria, I chanted to myself. Just grab what you need and get out. It wasn’t like I wanted to be here either—I had just crawled into my bed when my seven-year old approached me with a bright red face and a burning forehead. The last bit of cold medicine left in my dwindling medicine cabinet had expired three months ago. I wasn’t about to risk poisoning my son just because I didn’t have the time or the funds to replenish my supply of medicine.

I tried to hurry through the store, dragging along the stubborn shopping cart as best as I could, but I realized that my legs weren’t moving as fast as they should. As any good mother would do when their child was sick, I should be racing down the aisles, tearing through the shelves to find what I need so I can get home as soon as possible, but no. I had stopped completely when I realized something: I could hear the hum of the lights overhead; I felt the cold rush of air every time the doors opened several feet behind me; and my thoughts weren’t drowned out by my kids constantly tugging at my legs and begging for snacks that I can’t afford. It was the first time in days that I had a moment to myself, to just breathe and take in the world. Did the produce section always have that sweet scent of strawberries and cantaloupe wafting in the air? I didn’t want to leave, I realized. I had missed being alone; I missed being able to pick out my fruits and vegetables carefully to find the best ones; I was finally able to think instead of being rushed out of the door because my child threw a tantrum. I didn’t want to leave this dingy, dismal grocery store with its too bright fluorescents and dusty shelves because despite all of that, it was the first time in a while that I had the time to realize how red apples can be.

I’ll go home soon, really soon, I promised myself as I took an apple in my hand just because I could. It was heavier than I thought. I just need a moment, a few moments here first…

The container that usually held all the apple slice samples was empty by this time of night. The only thing that remained was the occasional apple stem left in the plastic box.

“Did you want an apple?” A lady with brown glasses and a kind expression asked from behind.

I must’ve looked particularly disappointed that it was empty. “Maybe a little,” I admitted with embarrassment. How intensely was I staring at the container that a stranger noticed? “It’s just been a while—I don’t know what I was expecting at this time of night.”

“Here.” The lady offered me an apple slice. “I grabbed the last one, but you look like you need it more than I do.”

What in the world did that look like? “Thank you, but it’s yours. I’m fine.”

"I insist. I’m not that hungry anyways.” The lady handed me the apple without leaving much room for protest. Then with a smile and a wave, she was gone.

That may have been one of the stranger experiences I’ve had at grocery stores, albeit a very kind one. When I bit into the apple slice, it was one of the sweetest apples I had ever tasted. Who knew that an out-of-season apple slice was what it would take for me to feel a little bit more like myself again? By the time I left the produce aisle, I felt like I could breathe again, like a huge weight was taken off my chest.

When I reached to open the glass door for a carton of milk, I paused. There was a woman staring at me, bone-weary and exhausted. I blinked, and she blinked at the same time. I moved my hand and she moved hers at the same time—I flinched when realization dawned on me: that was my reflection in the glass, staring blearily back at me. Vacant, sunken eyes with dark circles underneath; limp, scraggly dark hair, hollowed out cheeks with protruding cheekbones; the pallor of my face looking even more sallow underneath the harsh lights… I touched a trembling hand to my cheek and followed the planes of my cheekbone with my fingers. The feeling of weightlessness vanished immediately, and I felt all my burdens fall back upon me like stone. Who was she? I didn’t recognize myself. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror. It was me, but distorted, twisted and strange. It wasn’t me—or at the very least, I didn’t want it to be me. Where had that young, vivacious woman with the perky smile and confidence in her posture gone? I know I had let myself go quite a bit in terms of self-care as I gave everything I had to my kids; anything extra that I had was for them, whether that be food, clothes, supplies, love, affection… There was very little left for me. Despite that, somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t think I had changed so much. I still thought that I was the hopeful young adult, ready to grab life by the horns, but no. The young woman who dreamed of graduating college and starting her own business was gone. I was older now, beat down and struggling, trying to make ends meet as best as I can by working two dead-end jobs with no future career prospects in sight. My heart sank as I took in reality, as I took in the disheveled, tired reflection staring back in the glass.

I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as I could, trying to leave that reflection far behind. I had wasted too much time already; my kids were waiting. The brief respite I had found in the grocery store was over now, and I was ready to step back into my chaotic life again where I was too busy to reflect on myself. I swiftly made my way towards the medicine aisle and knocked the cheapest box of cold medicine that I could find in the cart. Other necessities like bread, peanut butter, jelly, eggs, ketchup and boxes of macaroni and cheese joined the medicine. I didn’t know when I would be able to go out shopping again.

The last stop was the freezer aisle, for the popsicles that I always gave my kids when they were sick. I was perusing the selection, comparing prices and making calculations in my head when someone bumped into me from behind, roughly. Thoroughly jostled and caught off guard, I turned to see a tall man with sharp eyes boring straight into me. He cleared his throat and jerked his head to the left, gesturing me to move and get out of his way.

Was I not even worth an excuse me? I knew I looked rough around the edges, but I was still a person that deserved a ‘pardon me’ if someone walked right into me, especially when the aisle was big, empty and full of space to walk around. “I just need one second,” I said with a tight-lipped smile. “There’s enough room in this aisle for you to give me a little bit of space.”

It was a clear hint on my part, but the man with sharp eyes didn’t move. He just looked at his watch meaningfully and cleared his throat. What was an obviously busy man like him doing in a grocery store in the middle of the night, harassing me in front of the popsicles? As much as I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, it wasn’t worth it—I was busy too, and I had a sick child waiting for me. I reached into the freezer for the cheapest generic brand of popsicles and stepped away. The man with sharp eyes didn’t back down and didn’t stop staring at me.

I didn’t want to admit it, but this man had gotten to me: I felt a little shaken. I left the freezer aisle with a bad taste in my mouth—the sweetness of the apple had soured considerably.

“Are you alright?”

I must really look rough today. I looked up, and the lady from before was looking at me with her forehead creasing in concern.

“I’m fine, I guess.” I said. It was a lie, of course but there was no other answer to give.

“Did something happen?” The lady asked, not letting it slide like I had hoped.

“A really rude man walked straight into me and demanded that I move, even though there was enough space to walk around me and wait politely—if he had been taught any manners.” I said with a roll of my eyes. It came out more venomously than I had intended. I wanted to shrug it off like it was no big deal, but in my current mental state, all I wanted to do was cry.

“Some people are just like that,” The lady said sympathetically. “I remember people walking all over me when I was younger, just because they thought they could. Their time isn’t more important than anyone else’s, but common sense is lost on some people.”

I didn’t say anything, I just nodded. I turned my face away from the lady when the tears began to well up. It was stupid to cry at something like this, but once it happened, I couldn’t stop it. It was just a jerk who thought he was better than people, and a nice person making sure I was okay. It was nothing to cry about—but still, my vision blurred a little bit.

Politely, the lady looked away as if she didn’t notice me tearing up. “Really, are you alright? Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Thank you so much, but I’m fine.” I said. I took a moment to swipe my sleeve against my eyes. No more crying. I had things to do. “I really appreciate your concern though—it’s been a while since anyone has been nice to me. It almost makes the rude guy worth it.”

Was that too much to say? It probably was.

“The store will be closing in ten minutes. If you have any remaining purchases, please go check out cash register number seven.” The intercom crackled. With that interruption, I hastily parted way with the woman after one final thank you. Reacting quickly to the announcement paid off; I managed to squeeze into the front of the line, just barely beating out the man with sharp eyes and the others filing in after him.

“Did you find everything you needed?” The cashier said in a monotone voice.

“Yes, yes.” I said, throwing my items onto the conveyor belt. The eggs were placed a little bit more carefully. I didn’t have much patience for small talk. Fortunately, he only responded with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Beep. Generic brand cold medicine: $4.97. Beep. A carton of milk: $3.99. Beep. An 18 pack of popsicles: $4.99. Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep.

“Your total is $22.79. The cashier said, not even looking in my direction.

I pulled out my credit card and swiped it. Beep beep, your card has been declined. I felt my heart stop.

The cashier raised a slick eyebrow.

“There must be some mistake.” I wetted my suddenly dry lips. I had paid off my credit card, right? I didn’t max it out already, right? “Let me try again.”

Another swipe, another decline. I glared at the credit card machine, as if reaching my credit card limit was the fault of its cold, clinical beeps. I could feel panic rising in my throat, and I pulled out my debit card next. “Let me try this one,” I said weakly, trying to smile. It was probably more of a grimace than a smile, and the cashier looked back with apathy.

Beep beep, your card has been declined.

I felt positively nauseous at that point. If the ground could just open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly jump in. Was my checking account really so depleted that I couldn’t pay twenty-some dollars at a grocery store? It wasn’t even a big purchase!

I heard a dreaded clearing of the throat, accompanied by the tap tap tapping of a foot. It was the man with sharp eyes from before, the new bane of my existence. He glanced meaningfully at his watch again because his time was clearly more important than mine.

“Ma’am, if you don’t have enough money to pay for this, you’ll either have to get rid of something, or just leave.” The cashier said, annoyance coloring his tone.

“Get rid of something?” Frantically, my eyes combed over all the items I had wanted to purchase. The cold medicine was non-negotiable, and so was the milk. Maybe the small loaf of bread was unnecessary? No, no—bread was so important, and the small jars of peanut butter and jelly would make it a complete meal all on its own. All I had gotten was food that I could stretch over a few weeks if I had to. That was valuable. I didn’t have enough time to pull up my bank account and check my balance. I would just have to keep taking away items until I found the price I could pay.

The popsicles then? I reached out to it but my hand hesitated. They weren’t strictly a necessity, but popsicles were a treat my kids would only get when they were sick. My son would be so disappointed.

There was another clearing of the throat behind me. My cheeks burned. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I apologized to my son silently as I grabbed the cold box—

“Are these all things you need?” A kind voice that I had become familiar with over the last half-hour said from behind. The woman with the brown glasses that I had talked to twice before stepped out of her place in line and approached me.

Numbly, I nodded. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, prickling at my skin. I just stared at my shoes.

“I’ll cover it.” The lady said. My head snapped up in disbelief, and she just smiled at me.

“Wait, excuse me, what?” That was all I could manage. My mouth felt like cotton.

“I’ll cover it. All of it.” She said, already adding her own items to the conveyor belt.

I was dumbstruck; my mouth was gaping like a fish. “I don’t even know what to say. You don’t have to do this.” I knew somewhere in my brain that I had to thank her, but it was like my mouth forgot how to form the words.

“You seem like you’re having a rough time, and I want to help.” The lady said, already swiping her own card and signing the machine with a flourish. “No, you don’t have to say anything,” She interrupted, when I opened my mouth to at least justify my situation. “We could all use a helping hand every now and then.”

I didn’t realize that I was crying until a hot tear rolled down my cheek. I grasped her hands, trying to squeeze every bit of emotion into our clasped hands so that she might get a sense of the overwhelming emotion that welled up in my chest.

“Thank you.” I finally said through ragged gasps.

“Don’t worry about it.” The lady said, squeezing back.

I didn’t know why she covered my costs, and she never told me. I have no idea if she was a wealthy person who went around paying for the groceries of single mothers in her spare time, or if she just saw me and thought ‘this person looks rough, maybe she needs some help’. Was it too cheesy to think that she was an angel of some sort? Maybe. I’m not the religious kind, but I believed it.

When I went to bed that night, I wasn’t thinking about the man with sharp eyes who probably thought me as nothing better than a dust bunny, or the fact that I felt thirty years older than my actual age, wondering where it all went wrong. I was thinking about the fact that my children had full bellies and were sleeping soundly, and that my son would be okay in a few days because he had medicine. I was thinking about the lady who’s name I don’t even know that made it all possible.

Life gets hard sometimes. It’s the small acts of kindness like this that remind me that there are more important things to remember and cherish.

#writeblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #amwriting #short story #short stories #undine writes stuff #pens swords stuff

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georgesdarkhorse · 5 years

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Fever- Part 2

Sorry sorry sorry this took forever to update! I had it all written, got busy with life, and then forgot to post lol Here it is! All parts are pretty much written except for the ending, so I’ll probably update again with Part 3/4 on Monday!

Part One

Part Two

Soft jazz played from the speaker as Edie paced in front of her front windows. She kept glancing at the clock. It seemed that every time she told herself not to look, she would compulsively do so, and each time she would do so she would tell herself not to again. Her eyes scanned over the room for what felt like the millionth time, looking for anything that might be out of place. The afghan was still laid along the back of the couch without a wrinkle or folded corner to be seen. Every spare shoe and mug had been tucked away back where they belonged. It was tidy, there was nothing more to do than wait for the boys to arrive.

After their last show at the Majestic, Paul and George had stuck around in the dressing room and sent the word that they wanted to say goodbye to Edie before heading out into the night.

Graciously, they offered her a night on the town, including a stop at one of their Cavern shows. The stars must have been aligned that night because Edie’s schedule was clear for the next Sunday.

Now, as she waited for them to pick her up, Edie couldn’t sit still. It had been a while since she had even been out with a boy, friends or otherwise, and to be seen in town with two of the cutest musicians around? It was almost too good to be true. She was hoping that England would give her a bit of a fresh start, a new beginning, but she never thought it would be this sweet.

A knock sounded at the door. A curse fell from her lips as she fumbled over the ottoman while crossing to the window. Below she spotted two overgrown haircuts wearing waistcoats standing outside her door.

She turned from the window, knocking into the ottoman again on her way to the hall mirror. Edie checked herself over for the millionth time that evening before clamoring down the stairs.

“Hello!” George greeted brightly. The boys were dressed sharply, with thin black ties striping their white button downs. It was a stark contrast to their typical leather jacket and T-shirt combo she usually saw them in.

Edie quirked an eyebrow, “When did you start dressing nice for shows?”

The boys shared a chuckle, looking down at their attire. Edie noticed a slight blush rise on George’s face.

“Our manager Brian is having us wear this now,” Paul explained.

“Oh, is that so? Well come on up, have a drink.”

“If I’m honest I’m not quite keen on them, I’d rather have me jeans back,” George said, following Edie.

“You know, I agree with Brian, I think these make us look like real professionals,” Paul rebutted.

“Well if it’s any consolation, I think you both clean up nice,” Edie offered.

They surfaced to the top and Edie led the boys to the living room where she kept a few bottles of liquor in a cabinet.

“Feel free to take your pick, glasses are right there and I’ve got ice in the freezer.” The boys didn’t need to be asked twice. Edie left them to make their selection as she stepped into the kitchen to fill up the ice bucket and grab a bottle of cranberry juice.

As she came back into the room, Paul pulled out the bottle of whiskey. He surveyed the label before spinning off its top. “Say, you live here by yourself?”

“Yeah, my uncle owns the cafe downstairs. When I’m not at the Majestic I’m working there.”

She set the ice bucket down, moving closer to the boys. George was still making his choice, running his long fingers across the bottles, spinning them around and checking out their labels. Edie couldn’t tell if he was carefully considering his drink or was unsure of what to choose. She slid her arm in front of him, reaching for vodka bottle on the far side of the shelf. They locked eyes as her hand reached the glass.

George’s face held a myriad of juxtapositions. His eyebrows were strong and dark, yet his eyes were soft and kind. Sharp and defined, his cheek and jaw bones chiseled his face, only to be met with large round ears peeking out from his overgrown haircut. Depending on his expression, his toothy smile was either playful and endearing or coy and dangerous. He displayed a constant push and pull, with a pinch of obliviousness. Edie doubted he was aware of his outward presence.

His gaze dropped slightly downward before flicking back to her eyes. Edie inhaled sharply. A wonderful mix of cigarette smoke and a rich, woodsy aftershave overtook her. She could feel the heat of his breath. Her chest felt full and her throat was tight.

Edie pulled the bottle slowly towards herself. “Pardon my reach.”

Stepping away from him was like breaking through the water’s surface, gasping for air. Everything came back into focus. Paul had begun to pour his drink. A car horn sounded from the street. Each click of the clock was amplified.

“What’re you having George?” Paul asked, seemingly unaware of the moment that was just shared.

His eyes moved away from Edie. “I’ll have what you’re havin’ I guess.”

While they sipped, they chatted. Curious about America, the boys asked Edie plenty of silly questions like “Do they really have prom” and “Do people really spend that much time at the beach?”

Edie of course had plenty of questions to throw back at them, mainly about the band. She was impressed to find that they were full time musicians now who routinely tour the country along with playing shows in Germany. She was also shocked to find that they had recently replaced their drummer.

“Is he better than your old one?” Edie asked.

“He’s the best around,” George boasted.

“Plus he’s more reliable,” Paul added.

Their glasses were close to being emptied. Paul glanced at his watch, straightening up.

“I bet The Twisters have probably just taken the stage. We should probably going.”

Edie went to reapply her lipstick and grab her purse before the three of them thundered down the stairs and out into the street. Dusk had settled on the town by now.

Summer was much cooler and damper here in Liverpool than it was back home. A soft, cool breeze rolled off of the bay and flowed through the city streets. Edie was glad for the long sleeve T-shirt dress she chose to wear tonight.

The boys both lit a cigarette, giving it a few leisurely puffs as they strolled down the pavement.

“Who’s playing before us?” George asked Paul. His cheek bones popped as he took another drag. Edie had trouble pulling her eyes away from his profile and missed Paul’s response.

She wasn’t sure what had come over her. All of the boys were attractive, but she hadn’t felt this moved by one, nevertheless George. Since that shared moment in front of the liquor cabinet, he had been at the forefront of her mind. Every move was pure intoxication.

They heard the club before they saw it. Garbled music mixed with the passing cars as it floated through the street. The boys lead Edie past the alley where the main entrance, along with a long line, was located.

A few shrieks were heard as the boys walked by, Edie picked up a distinct “Paul!!” being screamed by a young girl.

“You get that a lot?” Edie asked, as they rounded the block, ducking into a narrow walkway. The music became muffled as they moved away from the source.

“Heh, yeah, usually before our shows,” Paul replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It always seems to be you they yell at Paul. Couldn’t have scorned that many women yet, could ye?” George chuckled.

A dim light, circled by bugs, sat atop a door labeled “STAFF”. Paul pulled it open revealing a dimly lit staircase, leading down to a dingy hallway. The music bubbled out, a doo-wap tune, and by the time they hit the bottom of the stairs any audible conversation between the three had been lost. To Edie’s right the hall lead to a crowded room where she presumed the band was playing. The boys went to the left, walking down the door lined hallway to the one ajar at the end.

A cloud of smoke wafted out as they walked into the band room. The group inside all let out a cheer, welcoming the boys. There had to be about 15 people in there. Edie only recognized John, who sat in a folding chair with a blonde on his lap. Bottles and ashtrays covered nearly every surface and conversation was barely possible, as the door didn’t do much to stop the band from leaking in.

“What are you doing here?” John yelled across the room.

Edie weaved her way over to him, careful not to disrupt the card game happening. “I was invited.”

John turned to the woman on his lap, “She’s the one who works at the Majestic. The American girl.”

A look of realization washed over her face and she extended her hand, “I’m Cynthia, John’s girlfriend.”

Edie shook her hand, introducing herself in a state of shock. Never in a million years would she thought John had a girlfriend, and certainly not one who seemed so put together. She couldn’t help but wonder how Cynthia tolerated him.

They chatted politely. Edie explained for the millionth time that summer why she was in Liverpool, Cynthia asked where she got her dress from, with John insisting that Edie withheld that information, for Cyn had enough clothes as it was.

Within a few moments George had sided up next to her. “I’m going to get a drink at the bar, want to come?”

Edie agreed and exchanged a few pleasantries with John and Cynthia before heading back into the hall. The venue was packed, every table and chair was taken. They walked from room to room, weaving through the crowd. After a few minutes of maneuvering, with George occasionally stopping to greet people hello, they made it to the packed bar. As George wiggled himself in Edie let her eyes wander, it would be a while before they were waited upon anyway. It appeared that the space was sectioned off by walls lined with a series of small archways. Edie wondered what the original building was used for, as this was an unusual location for a concert hall.

Feeling a tap on her shoulder she turned, only to find George offering her a glass of what appeared to be vodka and cranberry.

She smiled, surprised that he remembered her drink from earlier. “That was quick.”

He leaned in and she could feel his breath against her cheek, “The talent always gets special treatment.”

She let out a hearty laugh as he smiled before taking a sip of his beer. George nodded his head back towards the dressing rooms and Edie smiled over the rim of her glass in agreement. She turned and felt his hand rest on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. Edie almost dropped her drink. With a steady breath she brushed it off as being nothing more than a polite gesture.

As they crossed the stage Edie paused to watch the band perform. They were a five piece, crammed onto a tiny stage, all wearing matching baby blue suits. She felt George press into her back as his breath reached her ear again.

“I would quit tomorrow if Brian ever made us wear that nonsense.”

Another laugh bubbled from her chest. She felt his face pull back but the rest of him stayed in place, probably because of how crowded the room was.

The group finished their song and was met with an appreciative applause. It didn’t seem the audience was that into their set, most were caught in conversations among themselves. Edie assumed they were waiting for The Beatles and other closing bands to take the stage.

George leaned forward again as they moved into their next number. “I’m going back with the lads, you staying here?”

Edie nodded, wanting to watch the rest of their set. A moment later George stepped away, weaving his way back to the band room. The moment his presence disappeared, Edie wished that she had asked him to stay, or at least gone with him. She became aware of her own temporary loneliness, standing in a foreign country surrounded by no one she knew. But as she sipped her drink, she became to find comfort in the anonymity.

#my writing #george x reader #George Harrison #george harrison fanfiction #george harrison x reader #the beatles #the beatles fanfiction

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grailacademy · 5 years

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Welcome To Grail Academy - Chapter Fourteen: Too Young To Die

For an abandoned taffy factory, the beastly structure sure was animated. The tall smokestacks obscured the light of the sun, like grey obelisks marking an apocalyptic shrine. Groups of men and women in beige jumpsuits and caps rolled large crates out on trolleys, loading the packages onto the backs of taffy delivery trucks. A man with a thick beard and baggy eyes barked directions from the catwalk above, his potbelly bouncing as he yelled. It was systematic chaos, ants gathering food, bees building a hive, cockroaches scattering under light. The floor manager saw the line of children file into the factory through a garage door, nodded and pointed to a hallway that funneled out of the worker’s space. Queenie leading the pack, she directed everyone to follow.

Rettah held onto Yorick’s sweaty hand, pulling him along like a puppy on a leash. She was rambling about something, it could have been about a comic book she was reading, or maybe she was explaining their cover at the factory, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was still in sensory overload. Her hand on his was like holding an alligator’s tail, he felt every pore and ring of her fingerprints, every drop of sweat. The shouting and mechanical whirring of the machines sounded like standing in the middle of a bomb range. His heart was a flamenco dancer twirling and leaping in his chest, his legs were shaking, the images of Buck were stained on the insides of his eyelids every time he blinked. Scarlet swayed behind him, hands on his head.

The noise, noise, noise of the factory rattled in the distance as a new sound overtook Yorick’s ears. An argument, behind a closed door of what looked to be a freezer, presumably the place where this taffy company once stored product preservatives.

“The shipments are ahead of schedule, but the border keeps stopping our deliveries before they can leave Calicem.” A man’s voice, deep and gravely.

“We certainly can’t go after city government. It’s still an independent settlement.” A woman’s voice, stern.

“That’s exactly why we SHOULD. There won’t be any assistance from Mistral military.”

“Yes, but you forget their connections to Haven. The alliances between academies could prove to be bothersome, at the least.”

“Those toddlers are only a small inconvenience. If we move fast, we can collapse the communications tower and prevent any distress signals.”

Another woman’s voice, gentle and soft, cut through the bickering and hummed “Goodness, you call the hunters children while I sit here with a couple of infants! Play nice, you two”, the voice tittered.

The door to the locker was pushed open and the meeting came into full view. A circular wooden dining table sat in the center, a series of eight mismatched cushioned lounge chairs sitting around it. A tray with a silver tea pot and bowls of sugar cubes and biscuits was adjusted directly in the center. Those sitting at the table were all holding a cup of their own, although some did not drink the warm beverage. The room was cold, frigid, not quite to the point of frost or needing a jacket, but enough to send a chill down Yorick’s back. A man in a heavy orange and gold coat had his fist clenched on the table, his clean shaven head glistening in the reflection of his tea cup. A short woman sat across from him, the locks of her chestnut hair curling over her shoulder as she sipped her tea delicately, with her pinkie out. A boy with ragged black hair, shaved short in some parts and left long in others, sat on a crate in the corner, arms folded over his chest. “Be patient.” the gentle voice continued, echoing from somewhere in the far back of the room, dripping from the darkness like molasses. “There is no need to cause such a disturbance over a few delivery trucks. Let our people do their jobs, they have families to feed.”

“Pardon the interruption, but we have a new recruit” Queenie stated, gaining the abrupt attention of everyone’s eyes on her. She and Rettah stepped out of the way, and Scarlet shoved Yorick into the room. The boy on the crate shook his head and stood up, leaving the room. His arms unfolding as he trudged out made plain the dark marks on his back underneath his tank top, which Yorick stared at for a brief moment. He tripped over his feet and slipped into the room, not knowing what to do with his hands. He patted his legs and puffed out his cheeks, before that gentle voice hummed again. “You….”

suddenly, the darkness shrunk and a streak of black whooshed past the table. Now he was being embraced in a tight hug, by a pale woman who held his head to her naked breast. She was as cold as death, but somehow had the nurturing touch of a mother. She released him after an uncomfortably long five seconds, smiling excitedly and inspecting him. “Oh, he’s perfect! Just as I had imagined him. A magnificent specimen! Yes!” She poked the flesh of his forearms, prodded at his stomach, lifted the ends of his hair and counted a few strands, pulled one of his shoes off and felt around to make sure he had all his toes, stretched the goggles on his head as far as they could go, letting them snap onto his forehead when she let go. The process had Yorick giggling nonstop, since he had neglected to mention that he was extremely ticklish.

“What—Who are you? Where am I, what is this?” He asked, noticing the long trail of black hair winding behind the woman. She tittered again, petting his head and calming down.

“You must be very confused, I’m sure. My name is Sable Zil Alhaqiqa Trinity. But you may call me Sable. And this,” she held her arms out and gestured to the space around her, “is my temple.”

The man sitting at the table cleared his throat, and Sable turned to explain, “These are some of my disciples. Lolanthe Aylin, a scholar and the head of our production department, and Aurum Fitzroy, the leader of our field scouts.” She leaned over and whispered, “he also makes a wonderful raspberry biscuit.” Yorick looked back and saw that the man was angrily chewing on a biscuit with speckles of red berry in it.

A black tendril of hair draped itself over Yorick’s shoulder like an arm, Sable’s signal for him to turn around. “Walk with me, Yorick.” He glanced back to the rest of RSQ as the pair strolled down the hallway, and caught Rettah waving goodbye before the locker door shut behind them. “How do you know my name?”

“I know lots of things.”

Wow, that’s totally not creepy, he thought. Sable’s hair slid along the floor behind her, as if she wore a dramatically long veil to a wedding gown. They travelled through the factory, each assembly line and packing room adding to its daunting size. “Are you afraid of me, Yorick?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“That is understandable, haha.” She chuckled. He laughed as well, until Sable’s hair lifted off his shoulder and fell into place on her back. “I’m a strange person. We are strange people!” She was right about that.

“Do you know about the Hedge Witches?”

“We….learned about them in class, I think.” He scratched the back of his hand. The little he knew about them wasn’t exactly in a good light.

“Then you know what we do here.”

“You’re anarchists. Terrorists.”

Sable snorted, “Oh, nothing that dramatic.” They reached a room with ceiling-to-floor windows that hung above the work floor, but the windows were almost entirely covered with sheets of scribblings and notes. “My disciples are not mindless brutes. They are scientists, artists, teachers, chefs, lawyers, those who have been wronged by Calicem government. The ones who run this city, they are oppressors. They profit from marginalized people’s misery.” As she spoke, Yorick strolled around the room and read some of the notes. They seemed to be a combination of diary entries and experiment logs. “....The world has been cruel to us. We were born out of hate and fear, not love. That is why I do this, Yorick. I want to create a new world. A better one.” The branches of hair slithered up the walls of the room like spilt ink, and when Yorick turned around, Sable was reclining in a hammock of her own hair. He could sympathize with her reasons. But Yorick questioned her, “Why do you need me, then?”

“Because,” Sable plucked a piece of paper off of one of the walls and handed it to Yorick. ”This power is your destiny.” Yorick clutched the newsprint photo in his hand, recognizing the face of his grandmother on the paper.

“Who. The hell. Is Sable.” Esmerelda slammed her hands down on the headmaster’s desk, grinding her teeth. Her team and herself were all looking worse for wear, Bernard blinking in and out of consciousness on the couch in the corner, Nico sitting beside him with his partner’s head in his lap, wincing with every breath he took. The school nurse peeled Bernard’s eyes open and shone a small light to see if his pupils dilated (which they didn’t), and applied a salve to the many purple and red marks across Nico’s chest and stomach. “It’s a miracle you don’t have any broken bones. Just a couple of bruised ribs.” The nurse remarked while she wrapped gauze around Nico’s torso to hold him together. Esmerelda herself had bandages wrapped around her forearms where the wires cut her, and around her neck where Queenie had attempted to slit her throat.

“I understand that you’re upset-” Madehold tried to calm down her students, but to no avail. “-UPSET!? My team and I could have died out there. Upset doesn’t even begin to describe it. For gods sake, they took Yorick and killed one of their teammates! How could you let those monsters into the academy? And why did they know so much about you and the school? And WHO IN THE GODS NAMES IS SABLE!?”

Madehold let out a long sigh, lacing her fingers together and holding them up to her lips as she sat there. It was one thing to have to deal with these kids screaming at her so late at night, but it was another thing to do so while she was inebriated. After a moment, she turned in her office chair and stood, making her way to the window. “I guess I have some explaining to do, don’t I?”

#rwby #rwby oc #grail academy #welcome to grail academy #ebny #team ebny #nico #esmerelda #bernard #yorick #fanfic #fanfiction #rwby fanfic #rwby fanfiction #oc #ocs #oc fanfic #oc fanfiction #punk

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cescalr · 6 years

Text

The Beacon Hills Diet (Does Not Include Cannibalism, Thanks.)

Alternatively titled: What the Fuck, Santa Clarita?

Because really, what the fuck.

AO3 LINK

Chapter 1: Like two realtors, one of which is undead.

There’s a dead body (chopped into various parts and packaged neatly into different containers) in the Hammond’s freezer,

Stiles is so fucking done with all these idiots’ shit, and they’re denying that they’ve done anything wrong, and he’s so fucking angry because they don’t get it, they don’t feel guilty, and that shit eats you alive (pardon the accidental pun, he’s still not used to the whole cannibal thing) and they don’t get how terrible it is that they don’t feel like the worst fucking beings on the whole of planet fucking earth -

“I killed someone!” Stiles burst out, angry and frustrated and so, so tired. He just wanted them to understand.

There was a significant pause – Stiles didn’t know whether or not there were crickets around here or whatever, but since he’s inside a house and unlike most of his – most of those back in Beacon Hills, he can’t hear that sort of shit… because you need to be outside, you know.

“Oh.” Joel let out after another moment’s pause.

“Were – were they bad?” Sheila asked, hesitantly. It sounded hesitant to Stiles’ ears, anyway. “Because we only kill bad people – and only because I need to eat them.” She added, blunt and from what he’s seen, blatantly, truthful.

Seen blatantly because you don’t really expect to open someone’s freezer and find bags of frozen body parts. That was – unexpected.

“Oh… for fuck’s sake,” Abby sighed from her place at the doorway – or, entry point and, yeah, that about sums the whole thing up.

For fuck’s sake.

Let’s backtrack a bit.

So – it all starts in the rain.

“You killed him?” Scott asked Stiles, and Stiles couldn’t deny that fact. He’s lied a lot, recently – admittedly, mostly out of a fear of what this very person would think. Alongside his Sheriff dad, of course.

Stiles doesn’t know what his dad would do. He thinks – he hopes, he thinks he hopes he knows that his dad wouldn’t…. turn him in, at least, arrest him, but…

Stiles can’t deal with the thought of his dad reacting in any way at all, be it a ‘good’ reaction or a bad one. He most definitely won’t be able to take the reality… so he cheated. Copped out. Never told him, and left before Scott could.

Left before he could tell anyone. Stiles couldn’t, but… but Scott could. Because Scott wasn’t the one who stared at a guy and held the beam in his chest as he died, right in front of him. Scott wasn’t that person, wasn’t – wasn’t the type to just… stand there as someone died when he could have done something.

“You killed Donovan?” Scott clarified, but he’s holding the wrench and – and –

“Where did you get that?” Stiles asked, and maybe it sounded dangerous or maybe not, he can’t tell because he can’t think – was – who – where did he leave it last who had it last who found it fuck fuck fuck was it Theo –

God, if Stiles didn’t hate himself for Donovan, Theo would be dead.

“Is this yours?” Scott asked. Stiles took it from him, the wrench, and stared at the bloodstain. More of a splatter, really, but it’s in there forever – or, well, the rain isn’t washing it away. He didn’t clean it in time. And – fuck, he’s a really bad murderer, didn’t even get rid of the evidence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott asked, and there are so many reasons –

You seem a little off –

I think we’re all a little off –

think I might have stopped her –

maybe she had no choice -

There’s gotta be a point where self-defence is justified –

They're not the bad guys. They're the victims. We shouldn't be killing the people we're trying to save –

“I was going to,” Stiles said, or maybe that was to “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

Either way…. “I couldn’t,” Stiles responded, at some point or another, to a similar question. The whole mess is a blur, really, that night in the rain. Too much – just… too much.

And once Scott went into the vet, Stiles got in his car. Punched the steering wheel, and it stung for a moment but it passed, and then he drove.

And drove.

And drove

And kept driving.

Stiles didn’t realise he’d left Beacon Hills until he found himself waking in his car on some back road with a sore neck and a vague recollection of an argument in the rain. Over the time he’d spent driving a mostly broken jeep without once having it break down or simply crashing because he wasn’t thinking about driving but rather –

We can’t kill people! Do you believe that?

No, nope, drive some more.

And so he did.

He drove.

And Drove.

And kept driving.

At some point, Stiles ditched his phone. He had enough money for a cheapo burner which he knows the company behind won’t record the voicemails of, had enough money for a shitty burger at a shitty roadside diner near some stupid fucking attraction of The World’s Largest Blah-Blah-Blah, and then he was on the road again. He still wasn’t thinking, and that was bad, but he wasn’t dwelling, either, which was good.

Dwelling while out here, on the back roads and highways and away from most forms of human contact and all reminders of his past life except for the bag of lacrosse gear in his backseat and a wallet with some ID (thank god) and some money, and, oh yeah, a picture of everyone including himself and his dad (the pack, but he’s left home, so it’s not his pack anymore, and well, was it ever really his or was it not and was he just being an idiot would they all have thought it murder did nobody think it was self-defence except fucking Theo was Stiles just deluding himself he went towards Josh’s dead and ripped-out-throat-ed body way too fucking easily and looking at gruesome crime scene pictures in class is not normal, why did he ever think that was okay –)

He threw that away at some point, too. Or, at least, he ripped himself out of the image and folded the rest then shoved it into the back of his glove compartment, never to be looked at again (or so he promised himself at the time, that wasn’t the case, of course, and he kind of wishes he’d never damaged it).

And then Stiles got back on the road.

And drove.

And kept driving.

“He was bad,” Stiles allows, and he feels like a child saying that. A bad man – was he a man? He seemed so young when the life bled out of him – tried to hurt me. I promise I didn’t mean to.

“Was he a young single Hitler?” Sheila asked. “Because it’s always a good thing, killing them. Nobody to care about their death, and, well, one less Hitler.”

“Uhm… no,” Stiles let out. “He attacked me in the school library and ended up with a beam sticking out of his sternum.”

“Holy shit,” Abby said. “Jesus.”

Joel smiled nervously, tilting his head. Stiles had always found that expression, ever since this strange family decided the homeless eighteen-year-old on the sidewalk should sleep in their basement (not creepy behaviour at all, by the way), slightly unnerving.

Now, since he knows the man usually reserves it for times of murder talk or covering up, well. It’s more than a little unnerving.

“Now how did that happen?” Joel said, somewhat pleasantly (if you can call this conversation pleasant in any way – Stiles, by the way, does not have that capacity) and yet somewhat, it still had that sense of ‘what the fuck?’ that Joel usually delivered his words with in times like this.

“There was scaffolding holding it up,” Stiles admitted, heavily. “And I pulled the pin that was holding the scaffolding together. Boom, dead.” He gestured, vaguely.

“Well, if he attacked you, he deserved it,” Sheila said, succinctly.

“Sounds like self-defence to me.” Abby agreed.

“Abby, please attempt to only incapacitate, not kill,” Joel told his daughter, still nervously smiling at Stiles. “Learn from our words, not from our actions.” Sheila agreed. “Wait. No, learn from neither of those.”

Abby sighed, put-upon. “And they call this parenting,” She shook her head, took an apple from the fruit basket, and left the room. “I’m gonna go get Eric!” She called back, and then the front door slammed shut behind her.

“I wish she’d stop slamming the door,” Joel sighed.

“I know,” Sheila agreed. “It’s not like we raised her in a barn.”

“Just a slaughterhouse,” Joel continued, tone vague. Stiles couldn’t place it.

“Well, that’s great and all,” Stiles said. “But how about we get back to the part where you kill and eat people and how that’s not okay?”

“You just don’t want it to be okay because if it’s okay you can stop with your manpain,” Sheila stated. “You brood.”

“No, I do not.” Stiles denied, vaguely horrified. If he’s turning into Derek, so help him, he will bash his own brains out and serve himself on a silver platter. Might as well not waste since she’s a cannibal and all.

“What do you call sitting on the bed not sleeping and staring off into the distance?” Joel asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

“Thinking,” Stiles said annoyed. “I’m thinking.”

“All night?” Sheila asked. “You sleep less than I do, and I’m dead!”

Okay, yeah, he will admit that that’s probably a problem. Possibly.

“Look,” Joel said, placing his hands on the table, flat against the surface. “Stiles. You killed a man that tried to hurt you. It’s self-defence; it was necessary. We kill awful people who do awful things because if we don’t, my wife will starve and die. And also maybe possibly go feral and start eating non-evil people, which would most certainly be bad and if you do that, please turn yourself into the police and keep our names out of it.”

Stiles flailed, something he’s managed to keep a lid on for quite a while. But this family’s sheer ridiculousness brings it out in him, sometimes. “I’m not going to eat someone!”

“You might,” Sheila said. “Never eat these clams,” She added, holding up a clam sealed in a square of plastic. Like you find preserved spiders and shit in. “They kill you and make you undead.” The woman explained, frankly.

“But they were blown up,” Joel said, “So you should be fine. So long as you don’t go to Serbia.”

Sheila nodded, seriously.

“I never planned on it,” Stiles said. “So I’ll just keep that on my list of things, yeah? Never go to Serbia and eat clams which will make me a cannibal undead zombie?”

“Ouch.” Sheila frowned. “That hurt.”

“Yeah, we don’t like that word?” Joel offered. “It sounds offensive.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asked, deadpan. “No, of course, you are.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re you.”

“I feel like that’s supposed to mean something.” Sheila mused.

“I feel like we should be offended,” Joel said, lightly, not sounding offended at all.

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles said. “I’m the one who found partially eaten dead body parts in your freezer! I’ve been scarred for life!”

“No, you haven’t.” Joel looked at Stiles, weirdly. “If you forgot, you literally just told us that you killed someone. If anyone did the mental scarring, it wasn’t us.” Sheila agreed.

“Not quite what I was going for…” Joel said, slightly awkwardly. “But okay.”

“We’re back!” Abby announced, apple nowhere in sight and now replaced with an Eric. She shoved Eric forward slightly then took her own seat.

“Hi,” Eric said, awkward as ever. He’s worse than Stiles was when he was sixteen, worse than Scott before the bite, worse than them pre-supernatural combined, and that’s really saying something.

And yet, he’s cool with cannibals. Some people have strange depths. Can’t punch a guy, can help hide a murder.

“So,” Eric said. He stopped there, of course, smiled awkwardly then stopped doing that and glanced at all four of the other people in the room in turn. “What’s… going on?” He asked.

“Stiles found out we kill people,” Sheila admitted. “It’s no big deal since apparently, he killed someone too.”

“It’s rather a big deal and I beg to differ,” Stiles returned, annoyed. “You eat people!”

“And you killed someone and wasted the dead body,” Sheila offered. “We’re doing better than you.”

Stiles flailed again. “What the fuck?” He gestured.

“I ask that question every day. At least twice.” Joel commented. “The answer usually only comes to me when I’m high, though.”

“Can we stop talking about your marijuana habit and return to the fact that all of you are totally okay with cannibalism and murder?”

“You think we’re okay with it?” Abby said, incredulous.

“Yes, I’d rather prefer the stress of not having to lie to our cop neighbours,” Joel said, “Who are also our very good friends.” Joel paused, and sighed, saddened. “Ex-friends, in some cases.”

Sheila patted her husband’s shoulder, commiserating.

“Yeah, you tend to lose friends when you make murder a habit,” Stiles said, sharply.

“You would know, right?” Abby retorted. “Given that you’re making a home for yourself in our basement.”

“Be glad that Anne likes us now,” Sheila said. “Or there’d be questions.”

“Having a devout Christian sheriff’s deputy as a friend is honestly more useful than I’d originally expected,” Joel commented. “It all worked out in the end.”

“Of course, it did.” Stiles snapped. “Because it’s all hunky-dory here in Santa Clarita! Ignore the cannibals and the dead undead!” He mocked.

“Your home isn’t much better,” Abby retorted, annoyed and vaguely angry. She got angry pretty easy, he’d noted. But she meant well.

“Yeah, from what you’ve said – which is still very little,” Joel added, leadingly, “It doesn’t sound the best.”

Stiles snorted, “Both places are awful. But at least there are clear ‘good’ guys there, unlike here.”

“Sometimes superheroes are the people you’d least expect,” Sheila said. “Like two realtors, one of which is undead.”

“And their daughter,” Abby added. “Can’t forget her.”

“Do I count?” Eric asked. “Or am I more like a sidekick?”

“If anything, you’re the love interest to the sidekick – who, by the way, is me, and holds this whole damn operation together and don’t you forget it -,” Abby said, interjecting in her own sentence. “But you’re more like… the useful potential love interest best friend who helps out more than you’d expect.”

“I’m cool with that.” Eric decided.

“Great,” Stiles said, “Now we’ve all decided our positions in life –“

“I’m Alfred,” Joel said, vaguely sadly. Stiles ignored him.

“- I’m going to go somewhere and think about this.”

“Could that somewhere be our basement?” Sheila asked.

“… no,” Stiles said. “What the fuck.”

“You willingly sleep down there!” Abby said.

“Because I’ve got nowhere else!” Stiles returned, angry. It was a sore subject.

“Oh.” She paused. “Right.”

“I’m going out-“ Stiles said and pointed warningly at them. “And if you try anything, I’m going to give in and call my dad.”

“What’s that going to accomplish?” Joel asked.

“He’s a sheriff,” Stiles said. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll call in Scott’s dad.”

“Again,” Sheila started, “What’s that going to accomplish?”

“He’s an FBI agent,” Stiles said. “And I have blackmail. He owes us a fair few favours.”

“That would be bad,” Sheila said.

“Oh, and if you kill me,” Stiles said. “They’ll know.”

“How?” Joel asked.

“Yeah that… doesn’t really make much sense.” Eric added.

“Trust me,” Stiles said. “If they still care… they’ll know. Like losing a limb.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sheila admitted. “Does anyone else?”

“You’re all idiots,” Stiles said. “You think zombies are the only thing kicking about?” Stiles scoffed. “Use your heads.”

Scott didn’t find out that Stiles had disappeared on them for a few days – and it was a few days too long. And so much shit happened – Theo messed up, they got Lydia out – or at least, Parrish did - Malia confessed to her plan with the Desert Wolf and then her plan to skip town after, start afresh somewhere new, Braeden revealed that she’s been helping Malia plan a trap that sounds like Stiles would find five hundred flaws in and three thousand ways in which it could go wrong, and Scott doesn’t know where Stiles is, so he can’t get him to do anything about it, but he couldn’t even if he knew because Scott told him not to worry about Lydia or Malia which really meant not to get involved because if he chose murder then no and Scott’s talked to the Sheriff and the Sheriff is practically tearing his hair out because his son never came to him, never came home that night or any nights after, and now Stiles is gone and Scott didn’t know.

Scott didn’t know he left the very same night as their argument. Scott didn’t know that that argument caused it. Not until now.

Not until he heard that voicemail.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said. He sighed. “I’ve already sent one of these to my dad. Malia too. It’s… easier, I guess, to talk to them. Maybe it makes sense why. Talk at them, really, because none of you are talking back.”

Stiles shook his head. “My fault, that.” He admitted, freely, but he closed his eyes and then sighed after. It hurt to say, but it was true. “This old shitty phone I’ve got,” Stiles continued, changing the topic, “Doesn’t store voicemails. I’m also going to trash it after this. I can’t – I can’t afford to… well. You – Dad, someone, will probably track it if I don’t.”

Stiles paused, cleared his throat.

“That is if you wanted me not to be gone.” Stiles closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall. “I’m not gonna give you the chance to make that choice, though. Because sometimes, Scott, there isn’t a choice.”

Stiles paused.

“Just mistakes you regret. Things you wish you could change. I got a lot of those. Starting with mom and ending with leaving. I’m only gonna make more, because as we’ve established, I’m a complete fuck up, and it’s honestly surprising it took this long to realise that.”

Stiles scratched at his jaw, awkwardly. “I guess what I wanted to say,” He said. “Is that I’m sorry.”

Stiles paused, again. “Sorry for everything. For dragging you into the woods that night, for all the lies, for Allison, for Donovan and Josh – who you don’t know about, by the way, and I guess I might as well tell you that Theo killed him so he wouldn’t kill me, then the bastard blackmailed me, the fucker, if I knew his number I’d give him a piece of my mind –“ (he does know his number and he is going to do so, of course, but what’s one more white lie?) “-but whatever.”

Stiles shook his head. “I guess you’re right. And that mom was right, all those years ago.”

Stiles swallowed. “I’m a killer.” He said, and the words felt wrong but they were true, all the same. “But I’m not a monster. And even if I’m not a True Alpha, I can do the right thing occasionally.”

Stiles closed his eyes, blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know where I’m headed.” He said. “You’ll look even if I tell you not to, so I won’t. It’ll save me the disappointment.”

Stiles stared out the window of his motel room.

“At least give me a month’s head start, yeah?” Stiles asked, the corner of his lips quirking upwards. “And a bit morbidly echoing of my previously possessed self… Am ok. Please don’t look for me. But I won’t be back.”

Stiles sighed. “But this time… it really is from me. That wasn’t from me, you know? The nogitsune would have died that night if I had, I’m sure of it. But whatever. The point is… really, this time, please don’t look for me.” Stiles swallowed. “I know when it’s best to…”

Stiles sighed. “Who am I kidding? I know when I’m not needed. I know when I’m not wanted. I know when my presence will fuck everything up for everyone.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m okay,” Stiles said. “I really am. And since this is goodbye – forever…” Stiles trailed off.

“I love ya, Scotty,” Stiles said. “Please don’t set Melissa on me if you do find me.”

And with that, Stiles ended the voicemail.

Santa Clarita was only supposed to be a pit stop for Stiles. He came here for some food and some rest, but it’s not far away enough. And it’s too busy, too much of a city, but it’s suburban enough that neighbours are nosy and people ask questions.

He was sitting on a bench on the sidewalk eating a burger when a girl dropped down onto the seat next to him. She was around Liam’s age – sixteen, give or take. It was only two years ago he was her age, but it feels like forever.

“You look new.” She said. “And you’ve been staring at either my house or nothing for the last half hour, not even eating your burger.”

The girl looked at him, expectantly. So maybe he’d been dwelling, what of it?

“I ate my curly fries.” Stiles defended.

“Why have you been staring at my house?” The girl demanded, ignoring him, rudely.

“I haven��t,” Stiles said. “I was just thinking.”

“Smells like manpain,” She said. “Lemme hear it.”

“I don’t-“ Stiles protested, “I’m not Derek.”

“Whoever this Derek is, is he part of your problem?” She asked.

Stiles snorted. “If you call abandoning town when his friends need him to not be fucking useless and broody for once in his later years part of my problem, then yeah.”

Stiles had always found it easier to talk to strangers or people he didn’t like. After all, he didn’t exactly care one whit about what they think of him.

“Sounds lame,” She said. “I’d hit him with a tray.”

“He’d deserve it,” Stiles said. “I cannot count the number of times he used to resort to physical violence against my very innocent person. It was rude. Of course, he did it to everyone, but I was very fragile at sixteen.”

“Interesting.” She said. “How old is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles said. “And I have no idea where he plus I don’t care, so I never asked and I will never ask.”

“Fair.” She said. “If he was an adult hitting teenagers, though, we’ve got a problem.”

“He’s not so bad, really,” Stiles said. “I mean, I don’t care much for the guy but Scott does and I respect him enough to care whether Derek lives or dies, you know? And we saved each other’s lives a few times – I’m still higher on the amount than him, I think – which are enough times that I trust him not to kill me.”

“It sounds like the people you hang around with aren’t the best.” The girl said.

“No, they’re great,” Stiles said, meaning it. “I’m the one who’s not great. S’why I left.”

“I see.” She said. “And what are your plans?”

“Move around.” He said. “Travel the country. An… an extended road trip that lasts my whole life, if you will.”

Maybe he’ll get eaten by a wendigo, or possessed again, or even turned and go Omega and feral and then be killed by a hunter. It’d be his luck, really.

“Sounds lonely.” She said. The girl looked at him, assessing. “What happened?”

“I can’t really say,” Stiles said, apologetically. “I mean…. It was bad.”

“And nobody stood by you?”

“If you count blackmail, then technically,” Stiles said, bitterly. “But I never got around to telling anyone. He just… found out.”

The one person who Stiles just knew could never know, and Scott found out. And Theo blackmailed Stiles, and Stiles is so fucking done.

The girl sat there, quietly, for a moment.

“You gonna eat that?” She asked.

Stiles looked down at his burger.

“No,” He said, sadly. He’d paid for this.

“Alright,” She said and took it from him. Yeah, sure, whatever. Let the kid have it.

There was silence for a bit as she munched away. Then…

“Something happened to my mom.” She said. “And we stood by her.” She glanced at him. “She’s ill,” The girl gestured, in a vague way. “I guess.” The girl paused again, stared at the burger like it would give her all the answers she needed at this moment.

Stiles felt a pang of empathy.

“I get you,” Stiles said. “It’s probably not the same,” Since his mom died and she’s acting like she’s still alive, using the present tense and all, “But I get you.”

The girl snorted. “It’s definitely not the same.” She said. “The illness is Serbian. Came here through some bad clams.” The girl looked at him, deadly serious. “Never eat at Japopo’s.”

“Alright,” Stiles agreed.

“Or anywhere that still has Ruby’s Clams in stock,” She added, still serious. “They’re infected.”

“Well I don’t like clams,” Stiles said, “So…”

The girl nodded, satisfied. “Good.” She said, and that was that. She finished eating her burger and stood up.

Stiles didn’t really have anywhere to go or anything to do – he’d left his jeep at the auto repair shop, and he’d walked here, and it’d be most of the day to fix that mess of a car.

He has the money – just enough. This guy is much better than the one that died back in Beacon. He feels bad about thinking that, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. Since he was, y’know, murdered, and all.

(Right in front of him. That wasn’t fun to watch.)

The girl stares at him for a moment. It’s slightly unnerving, and he fidgets a little.

“You need a shower.” She said. “My parents are weird, they’ll let you borrow ours.”

And with that, she grabs his arm and drags him into the house across the street. He could protest, but he can’t really be bothered.

“Also, our neighbours are cops,” She said. “One’s a sheriff’s deputy –” Another pang, this time of pain and regret (not that the empathy pang wasn’t tinged with that, too) “- and the other’s Santa Monica police.”

“Alright,” Stiles said. Yeah, staying here would be a bad idea.

“So,” She continued, “You don’t wanna be caught loitering. Rick’s nice but Anne’s intense.” She paused. “If you say you work with mom and dad – Sheila and Joel – she’d get off your back about it, though.”

“Uhm, why?” Stiles asked.

“They’re good friends,” She shrugged. “Help each other out with… stuff.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, awkwardly.

“Mom!” the girl shouted. “Dad!”

Two people – an older man with dark brown hair and eyes and a woman with honey blonde hair and hazel eyes. The girl’s parents, then.

“Honey,” The man said, “Why is there a stranger in our house?”

“I found a stray.” The girl said. “In desperate need of a shower and some sleep.”

Was it that obvious? Probably. Stiles hasn’t bothered to check.

He does take offence at being called a stray, though.

“He does look a bit under the weather.” The woman says. “And the bathrooms free so…”

“Well,” The girl grins, claps her hands. “It’s upstairs, not hard to find.”

The man tilts his head and smiles. It looks nervous.

“Of course,” He said. “Let’s let the stranger into our bathroom.”

Stiles does agree, though.

“I didn’t wander in,” He finds the need to defend himself. “I was perfectly happy sitting on a bench outside and eating my burger.”

“Which you weren’t going to eat and would have been a waste.” The girl says. “So I took his burger and in payment, he gets to use our bathroom and maybe nap in the basement.”

That doesn’t sound vaguely worrisome at all.

“Please clarify for the guy with anxiety what exactly you mean by me going down into your basement?” Stiles asked.

“We have a bed down there,” The woman says. “Its better than a couch.”

“I’ll give you that!” The man says, brightly, but he still looks nervous and strained. Honestly, he looks like what Stiles feels like a lot of the time. Stiles guesses he’s just better at hiding it.

“Now, before dad can weird you out any more than he already has,” The girl says, “I’m Abby, these are my weird parents, the bathroom is upstairs.”

Stiles nodded. After a beat, he grimaced and wandered on up the staircase.

What the fuck is his life, honestly.

“Why did you bring a stranger into our house, which I might remind you, still has your mother’s leftovers inside the fridge?” Joel asked, slightly desperate sounding.

“Just relax, smoke some weed,” Abby said, easily, “I’ve got it all under control.”

“How old is he?” Sheila asked, frowning at the staircase he’d disappeared up. “Like, really, could you tell?”

“Anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five,” She said. “Maybe older. Kinda looks like those actors that TV thinks actually resemble teenagers but... nope. They don't.”

Joel nodded, distantly.

“Why did you bring him into our house, Abby?” Sheila asked.

“Because he was alone,” She admitted, after a moment. “Because he’d had that burger for half an hour and hadn’t eaten it. Because he’d left home for reasons omitted which included something terrible that the people around him couldn’t support.”

“Which means he could be my next meal?” Sheila offered.

“No,” Abby said, annoyed. “Which means he’s like you without us, mom.”

“Oh.” Sheila paused as if she was thinking about that. After a moment, she looked saddened. “We’re keeping him,” She said, decidedly.

“He’s not a pet,” Joel said, exasperated. “Can you not?”

“Nope,” Abby said. “Face it, dad, we’re taking in strays.”

“Why.” Joel sighed. “Just… why.” But really, Abby knew he wasn’t against it. If mom hadn’t had them… god. If this guy had something similar but not quite as extreme happen to him, then maybe they could help. After all, not killing him immediately is an improvement, and really, helping someone ought to balance out all the death – even if it is usually of people who deserve said death. Like young single Hitlers.

Even the ones in wheelchairs.

“So,” Malia said. “Stiles is gone.”

Scott nodded. Malia pursed her lips but didn’t say anything – she didn’t need to. Scott could smell it, and he placed a hand on her arm and squeezed, lightly. “We’ll get him back,” He promised.

“He doesn’t want to be gotten back.” She returned. “You heard him.”

“He’s hurting.”

“And whose fault is that?” She snapped, then sighed, and closed her eyes briefly.

“Mine,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “Ours. All of ours. His, too, for being an idiot that never tells us things he really should.”

Scott allowed the slightest of quirks upwards to his lips.

Malia nodded. “We need to give him time.” She said.

“… One month,” Scott said. “The Sheriff’s tracking his trail – he’s not really leaving one, but since it’s the Sheriff’s kid people are quicker to tell him the truth about his missing son. Anyway – he’s gonna keep an eye on where he is. If he surfaces in a month, we’ll go looking.”

Malia nodded again and squeezed his arm in return.

“Things are only gonna get worse,” She said, bluntly. “My mom’s gonna be here soon, Theo’s building his pack and planning something big, the beast is still out there and we still don’t know who it is, and Stiles is missing on his own terms.”

“At least we’ve got Lydia,” Scott said.

“And we’re losing Kira.” Malia retorted.

“What’s your point?” Scott asked, a little quiet. He didn’t want to think about that.

“I’m leaving when my mom is dead.” She said. “Beacon Hills has made it’s point; it doesn’t want us here.”

Scott waited as she paused to collect her thoughts.

“After my mom’s dead,” She said, “I’m inviting all of you to come with me. We’ll look for Stiles, sure, but it’s mostly to get away.”

“You’re not going to kill her,” Scott said. “I can’t-“

“You can’t have another of your friends be a murderer?” Malia sked. “I get that. I do. But Stiles didn’t murder Donovan.”

“What?” Scott asked.

“You never asked. I never asked. None of us ever asked.” She paused. “We should have. We know Stiles, he’d never tell us anything he thinks he has to keep a secret.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“There was a bite on his shoulder,” Malia said. “A scar. It looked painful.”

Scott remembered Stiles wincing, rubbing at his shoulder and claiming various injuries.

“You knew?” HE asked. Malia nodded. “I guessed.” She said. “He never got around to telling anyone and I never got around to asking him because everything was going so badly, and I couldn’t figure out the words that wouldn’t make it worse.”

“What?” Scott asked, bewildered.

“We were breaking apart,” She said, and there’s a sadness she’s too good at hiding.

“All of us,” She added, “But… I know we were headed to a break-up. And… I didn’t want to speed that along.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “I am. And Stiles is. But none of that’s really anything to do with you.”

She gave him steely eyes, and he winced. “But if you tell my boyfriend not to worry about me ever again, I will break your kneecaps.”

“You didn’t break up?” Scott asked, wincing.

“We did.” She said. “I just refuse to accept being broken up with over a phone call. If he’s going to do it, he’s doing it in person – and then, at that point, will I move on.”

“Why?” Scott asked.

“I never said it,” She said. “He never said it.”

“Oh,” Scott said.

“But he said it on the voicemail.” She admitted, tone slightly softer. “And I’m not giving up on our happiness. Not ever.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“So even though things are only gonna get worse from here,” Malia said. “You gotta keep going. Because Stiles is out there, somewhere, and he needs some sense knocking into him.”

“Maybe not literally,” Scott says, but he’s smiling slightly.

“We didn’t exactly have the best first second meeting,” Malia said, “I punched him. If he can handle that, slapping him once for being an ass should be fine.”

“why did you punch him?” Scott asked.

“I didn’t wanna be human and it was easier to blame him for that than blame myself for my family’s death,” She said. “Don’t worry, I’d never actually hurt him.”

Scott nodded. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Explains the shock,” She says, but she’s smiling a little. “Come on, Scott.” She said. “Let’s go find Kira.”

“Malia.”

Malia turned around and glared at the Chimera. All their problems started with his arrival, and now she knows why, and it just hurts. She’d nearly trusted him, even though she didn’t like him (but she had liked him too much, really, and now she knows that that was just the werecoyote part of him she cared for) and he’d ruined everything she’d tried to build over the months she’s been back.

She just wanted to graduate. She just wanted to graduate and go to college (maybe) and date her boyfriend and hang out with the pack and be somewhat normal and maybe even eventually go to therapy. That’s it. She just wanted to grow, to become an adult, to not have any more death and pain and darkness in her life.

But here, standing in the hall so she can’t attack him, is the source of all their newfound problems.

“Theo.” She returned, coolly.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Theo asked.

“No.” She growled lightly. “What do you want?”

“I have some information you might need,” He said, and he’s smirking like he always is.

“Like what?” She asked, warily.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to Stiles,” He said. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t want all of you dead. Just Scott.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Malia demanded.

“You weren’t my first choice,” Theo admitted, freely. “But my first choice skipped town. So, I have some information, and a bargain to make.”

“Which is?” She prodded.

“I’ll help you with your mother,” He smirked. “And you’ll help me find Stiles.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Because I think he’ll want to know something eventually,” Theo said. “Part of my plan, as it were. And he’s going to want to know it badly. Otherwise, someone’s going to die.”

Helpful. Fuck this guy, really.

“Who?” She demands.

“Depends on his decision.” Theo shrugs. “It’s a choice of two – and, don’t worry. You aren’t one of them.”

“Comforting,” She snapped.

“I imagine it is,” He said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Because I have a feeling between his father and anyone, he’d always pick the former.”

Malia stared as he walked past, as the bell rang, and as he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

She growled and punched a locker, shaking and angry. Lydia and Scott found her like that, staring at the locker she’d punched. They pull her out of sight, down a corridor, and into a classroom.

She tells them what Theo had told her, full well knowing he’d probably wanted her to. And would have a plan if he hadn’t.

That night, Theo shows up at her house.

“What do you want?” She snapped.

“I’m giving you the information.” He said. “I give you info, and help you with your mother, and you come with me to find Stiles – as both bait and a bargaining chip.”

“Of course,” She snarled. “You would.”

“I have plans,” He said. “I’m not letting someone’s free will ruin them.”

“What are your plans?” She snapped.

“I was gonna tell Stiles,” He said. “Bring out the void. Get him to snap. But he’s not here, and I don’t really care much about doing that to you since you’ve already done it to yourself.”

She’s going to kill her mother. It’s not fun that Theo agrees with that choice, but there’s nothing else she can do.

“The claws will kill her no matter what you do,” Theo says, changing the subject. “So just take everything that you can and then some.”

Malia nodded, slowly.

“I had Donovan tail Stiles to the edge of Cali,” He said. “And don’t worry, he was under very strict orders. If he’d done anything, trust me, I’d have done worse than kill him.”

“Why do you care?” She demanded, exploded out with.

“That’s private,” He warned. “But… I suppose I can tell you what I was going to tell him.

“I came for a pack,” He starts, “For the werecoyote who’s first instinct is to kill,” He grins slightly at her, eyes sharp. “For the banshee, the girl surrounded by death, for the beta with anger issues, the dark kitsune.” He took a short pause. “I came for Void! Stiles – that is the pack that I want.”

He smirked, slightly. Malia punched him in the face.

“You will leave my best friends and my boyfriend alone.” She threatened.

“Or what?” He asked. “You’ll kill me? That just proves my point, and you’ll never find Stiles.”

Why would I need you to find Stiles?”

“Because I might have had Donovan follow him further than out of Cali,” Theo said, then spat out some blood and cracked his nose back into place from where it had healed broken. “I know where he is. You’re just coming as… insurance, shall we say. An incentive to come back when I tell him to.”

“You’re not giving him a choice.” She said.

“Of course, I am,” Theo said. “You die or he returns. That’s a choice.”

“You said I wasn’t part of the two he had to choose between.”

“You aren’t,” Theo said. “Change of plans. The sheriff isn’t going to nearly die.”

“Why?” She asked. “Why change your plans?”

“Because,” Theo shrugged. “It’s too risky. If Noah died, well….” There was a flicker of emotion across his face that Malia didn’t recognise, but she knew the scent well.

“He’d never agree to join me. And then everything falls through.”

“Fine.” She snapped. “You help me with my mom, and with Stiles, which in turn helps you get access to the claws after I’ve used them, and –” She snarled in disgust. “Whatever it is you want with us.”

“Deal.” He smiles. It’s a lot like a deal with the devil, and really, it is one, and Malia just hopes it’s not going to blow up in her face quite as spectacularly as she’s expecting.

Donovan is stupid, of course, Theo knows that. Maybe not academically – he’s never checked – but he’s so much of a fucking idiot it makes Theo angry and itch to do something violent towards the man in question.

How old is Donovan again?

Whatever.

The point is, that Theo knows if Donovan tried anything, Stiles would beat him. All the chimeras that came back from the dead – they’re a little off, resilience wise, but not enough to worry about unless dealing with someone like Stiles or Malia or Lydia.

Scott wouldn’t kill them, so the point is moot for him, and Kira wouldn’t kill them unless the fox took over and at that point, it isn’t really her anyway, so the point is moot there. Liam isn’t trained enough and he’s too young still, really, so he doesn’t count, either.

Anyway – Stiles would beat Donovan. He wouldn’t beat Josh or Tracey or Hayden (not that Hayden truly listens to Theo, which is… frustrating) but he could beat Donovan, and now that’s he’s convinced he’s a murderer anyway thanks to Scott’s wonderful reaction and Theo’s own subtle manipulations, well, all is going to plan. If he kills Donovan, that just confirms it, and if Donovan tries literally anything on Stiles, Theo can bring Stiles back and hurt Donovan in ways Donovan probably doesn’t even think are possible.

(Theo’s not stupid. He’s got quite a bit of the serum hidden away.)

Nobody ruins Theo’s plans and gets away with it. But Stiles hasn’t exactly ruined his plans – they just need a little adjusting, and besides…

It makes things interesting.

#Mine. all mine | My Post #.txt | Text Post #fanfiction #santa clarita diet #teen wolf #scott #joel #sheila #(I've been spelling it #shelia #lmao)#abby #eric #malia #theo #etc #AU - Fusion

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