Home (Sterek)

Chapter One

Seven days. Seven days since the day. The day his father died. 'The bastard.' Stiles thought as he stared at the ivory colored mug before him. The coffee long gone of warm. His eyes and throat were raw from all the crying he'd been doing the past seven days. He stared at the coffee, unfazed by the tear that fell down his cheek and dripped into the dark substance in the mug, creating ripples.

Happy fucking New Year.

He'd been living in his home for the past week. Although it was all too much of a blur to really be accounted by him. There were tiny snippets of himself crying in his father's bed. Wretched panic attacks that reduced him to a quivering, hyperventilating mess on his bedroom floor until he passed out and woke up a few hours later on the carpet with gooseflesh and a headache. He'd wake and ponder if he could endure the one the following day.

Ms. McCall had stopped by a lot, knocking softly at the porch and reaching out to wrap him in a warm hug when he opened the door. She would cautiously step into the house and glance around the living room, eyes going misty before she quickly reeled in her gaze and offered her best smile for him, as if his dad's absence didn't make the air thick and heavy and wrong. Then she usually murmured a stream of hushed, comforting words before leaving tupperwares of home-cooked casseroles and meals on the table. They had stacked up in his fridge, untouched. He felt bad for wasting her food.

Scott texted him every single day. The others did too, just not as frequently as Scott. He'd finally turn off the device as multiple texts of 'how are you' or 'I'm here if you need me' or to most frequently sent 'come over for dinner, we'll pick you up'. He knew that seeing any of their faces would just make it worse. They would look at him differently know, with their faces smothered in pity. Their thoughts traced with reminders of being careful what they said, because they knew that with one single word that Stiles would shatter like fragile glass.

And they all knew the description was not far from the truth.

The plastic clock behind him ticked softly. He turned his head to the side gently and stared at the clock. His heart saddened as he sees the time; 2:01 pm. He lets out a long shaky breath, clumsily pulling down the sleeve of his jacket and wiping harshly at his damp eyelashes, turning back to his cold coffee.

It was time.

He slowly pushes his chair out away from the table, hauling himself to his feet before quietly trudging over to the door where his suitcases were. The walk feels like he's dragging himself through water, body heavy and uncooperative as if dragging a fifty pound weight behind him.

John Stilinski was a man of sacrifice. He had sacrificed his own sleep for the countless amount of times that Stiles had either had a nightmare or fell into a panic attack in the early morning hours. His dad had sacrificed his integrity every time he fabricated a lie for the department in order to cover up some crazy, supernatural-related bullshit that Scott's furry side had dragged him into. His dad would have sacrificed his badge for him, if it had come down to it. 

But seven days ago, he had sacrificed his life instead. 

Last year the MRI payments and piling bills from Eichen nearly broke them, but his dad had given up his life insurance policy to keep the house. It was a risky move, but it had saved that at the time. His dad planned on paying back in a period of the next few years, but never had the chance,which left his son without any savings in a house that now belonged to the bank. He had been allowed to stay one week; today, the house was to be foreclosed. 

Stiles clasps the cold door handle, dragging his suitcase behind him as he shuffles past the frame and onto the front porch. He pauses, fingers curling loosely over the brass knob as he turns back and drinks in the last view of the living room he grew up in, savoring the tiny details in hope that they'll embed themselves into his memory for at least a little while. His features are taut and expressionless as his gaze flickers from the ugly beige couch he and Scott used to sit on for movie nights, the pale blue wallpaper dotted with tiny periwinkle flowers his mother had picked out long ago, and his dad's old leather reading chair, now forever unoccupied. His coffee cup is still on the table, where it would stay until one of the realtors came in to sweep through the house and place sticky notes on everything that needed to be 'improved.'

"Thanks for the memories, I guess." Stiles muttered, astonished by his own hoarse voice. Then he swings the door shut, biting his lip as the hinges creak in agony against the weathered frame, protesting against the movement. He never thought he could resonate with a door.

He makes his way to the autopilot Jeep, throwing his things in the passenger seat. The familiar sound of the crying engine roars to life as he twists the keeps in the ignition. The clutch vibrates beneath his cold fingers. He was always cold now-a-days. It was the kind of cold that no matter how many layers of big coats you wore, it could be fixed. 

He casts one last look at the house before finally tearing his gaze away, rolling out onto the pavement and speeding off down the street. He doesn't look back. Despite the chilly temperature, he refuses to roll the windows up as he flies down the road, letting the frigid wind cut through his hair and ruffle his brewing thoughts.

His dad was dead. 

If he earned a buck for every time the phrase had echoed in his mind the past week, he'd have enough to pay back the mortgage himself, and then he wouldn't have to spend his Thursday afternoon driving to his new 'home.' The McCalls would have taken him in (God knows Melissa felt terrible), but since Isaac moved in the house was crammed. Melissa nearly worked herself to death with double-shifts every night, and with finances overstretched already they just couldn't afford to feed another mouth. Lucky for him, his only local relative had passed away last year, and his remaining family members were located out in nowhere-ville Ohio and wanted nothing to do with him. Thus, he'd been forced to move in with someone else.

But out of all of the people, it had to be him.

He didn't remember much from that night. Just the cold, pale, face of his father before he crumpled to the ground and into a bloody and lifeless heap. It was this face that haunted his dreams, showing up in reflections during the day and leaving imprints in his vision when he blinked. Vaguely, he recalled collapsing boneless and screaming in Scott's arms after it happened, sucking in wretched gasps of air as the rest of the pack hovered uneasily by his side— but he had simply stood there, wide-eyed and stony from afar.

'The bastard'  Stiles thought bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was.

So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?

Yeah, Stiles wasn't sleeping much. He could hardly stand being in the old house after that, but he was sure that sleeping there or even living on the streets would be more comfortable than residing in some giant, burnt-out mansion with a grumpy scowl-enthusiast whose main talent was flaring his nostrils in annoyance. God knows his dad would be rolling over in his grave if he knew, but for some inexplicable reason Melissa had held him by the shoulders and pinned him down with those big brown eyes that looked so much like Scott's, and made him promise to take the grump's offer.

"Good for you," she had said. Living with Derek would be good for him, apparently.

He sighed, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. Since when did Melissa McCall trust Derek Hale? He didn't know.  But one thing for certain was that he didn't need to be coddled, especially not by an oversized grump who, last time he checked, didn't even have 'comfort' in his vocabulary. But maybe that was a good thing, because truthfully, he just wants to wallow in his grief.

Alone. 

A string of crunching sounds escape from under the tires as he ran over the fallen leaves. His eyes widen as he kills the engine and peeked up through the window: it's enormous, a towering silhouette of outdated gloom against a foggy grey backdrop littered with barren trees. Intricate details are carved into the structure's frame— tiny spiral patterns that look like the triskele tattoo on Derek's back, only these ones are covered in a layer of grey ash and dirty rainwater tracks. The windows are blackened and cracked in places, mirroring the charred wood splintering on the support beams and banisters. It looks like something out of a horror movie: ugly and dark and lonesome, the perfect mirror to the broody soul living inside.

Well. (Aside from the 'ugly' part).

Stiles took his time to get out of his car, capturing uneasy glances at the weathered mansion. The place looks like it needs to be condemned, or at least commissioned as a haunted mansion for some horror flick. Werewolves were even included.