Six Feet Under | Sterek

two;

He drives for a while longer, drives and drives and drives until the sun has bailed and it's the moon's turn. Then he drives for a little bit more before pulling over and resting his head on the steering wheel. He's a mess, a fucking mess. No wonder he was kicked out. No wonder Derek asked if he'd been taken in like a lost puppy. He's weak and pathetic and-

And parked outside the cemetery.

His breath catches in his throat as he stares out at the rows of gravestones, looking for one in particular. He finds it almost immediately, the heart shaped marble glimmering in the gentle moonlight. She's over there, he thinks and he can't breathe properly, can't really function. She's over there, and I'm over here and she's dead.

He stumbles out of the car, staggers through the many, many, many, too many gravestones and falls down in front of hers, reeking of alcohol and self loathing and sadness. For a moment, he stares at the words engraved on her gravestone, on his hands and knees, and feels the loss as if it was just yesterday he'd watched her be lowered into the ground.

Claudia Stilinksi.
She lived and she loved.
She will be missed.

There isn't even a date stamped there, and maybe that's what makes him look away. He sits and leans on the cold marble and lets out a long breath. "Hey mum," he says so very quietly. "Dad, um. Dad kicked me out. It's not his fault though, don't be mad at him. I've been a bad son, and uh, I guess I pushed too hard. It's just, I keep lying to him mum, and I promise it's to protect him but it's so horrible. He doesn't trust me anymore. I don't even think he loves me anymore. Maybe I should've died instead of you. He would've been happier with that I think. Maybe...maybe everybody would've been happier with that."

And then he can't continue, can't voice those horrible, horrible thoughts. He's being selfish, being so very selfish, but he cant help it. It's who he is. He's selfish and a liar and a bad son. He drinks too much and he gets in the way. He's not special, or important.

He sits in the quiet cemetery and lets his tears fall.

He doesn't cry, not in the way he's seen Scott cry. He doesn't sob or gasp or screw his face up, he just sits there and stares at the ground and feels tears roll down his face. It doesn't feel good, it doesn't wash him clean of this festering wound inside him, infected with fear and hate. Really, the tears only fall because Stiles doesn't know what else to do.

"Derek wasn't kidding," Peter says blandly, and Stiles looks up, tears still dampening his cheeks. "You're drunk off your face and sad. I heard daddy kicked you out."

Stiles wipes his face with his wrist and tries to stand up. Peter grabs his elbow as he starts to fall back down again, the ground dipping and swaying beneath his feet. "Fuck off Peter," Stiles sighs, and usually he'd say it with meaning, usually he'd say it so that Peter could spit something sarcastic right back at him. Now, though, Stiles is so very tired.

"C'mon kid," Peter says, and his voice isn't mean or scathing or bothered. Peter sounds soft and worried and sad. The older werewolf reaches a hand out. "Hand over the keys and I'll drive you back to the loft."

Stiles shakes his head, regretting it when a headache erupts in his cranium. "I don't need rescuing," he says heavily.

Peter rolls his eyes. "Honestly kid, I couldn't care less about rescuing you. Derek would kill me, literally, if I left you and I wasn't very fond of death the last time I tried it. I'd like to avoid dying again, if possible."

Stiles stares at him, at the hand still supporting his elbow and gives in. "This is emotional blackmail," he says, dropping the keys into Peter's hand. "Fucking ZombieWolf."

Peter lets go of his elbow (finally) and whacks him round the head. "Don't make me hurt you." It's an empty threat. Both of them know that Peter won't do anything to hurt Stiles. Too much has hurt Stiles already; Peter knows what that's like. He won't let himself be added to that ever-growing list.

They trek back to the Jeep, and this time Stiles climbs in the passenger side. As he's closing the door, his foot knocks against an unopened bottle of whiskey, and he reaches for it eagerly. His buzz is wearing off, and he's sad, and he wants to drink until he dies. He gets the cap off, but that's it because a hand rips the bottle way and Stiles can only watch helplessly as Peter throws it out the window. There's a wet crashing sound, and Stiles can hear Peter growl softly.

"No more drinking," Peter says through gritted teeth.

And Stiles might have argued, might have succumbed to the burning itch under his skin, if it hadn't been for the wild, unrestrained panic in Peter's eyes. So he bites his tongue and slouches in the passenger seat, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the view outside instead of on Peter. "Sorry," he says in a small voice once they start moving.

Peter sighs. "Christ kid," he says, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Stiles thinks the werewolf is preparing to say something touching, or concerned, or sympathetic and he braces himself. Instead, Peter says, "How do you drive this piece of junk all the time? Your knees must be fucked."

"It hurts less to drive this than it does to breathe," Stiles says, like the edgy diva he is, and Peter's jaw clenches.

Neither of them say anything for the rest of the drive back to the loft.