Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Stiles wakes up screaming. Yeah, go ahead and say it, he’s heard it all before. “That’s unhealthy, Stiles.”, “You need help, Stiles.”, “Maybe you should talk to someone, Stiles.” Well, Stiles has never accused himself of being particularly healthy anyway, and the idea of talking to someone about his supposed “problems” is laughable. Sure, it’ll be all fun and games, until they ask, “Why do you think this is happening to you, Stiles.” What is he supposed to do then? Maybe he could say, “You see, I was possessed a little while back; I killed some people, terrorized a hospital, and generally wreaked havoc on the entirety of Beacon Hills. So, yeah, really just a casual Tuesday. And oh, by the way, werewolves are real and, if you were really smart, you’d be living in constant fear of being murdered by the things that go bump in the night.” Oh yeah, he’d be back in Eichen House before he could say, “I was just kidding.” Great plan. No, this is something he has to deal with on his own. Besides, he’s used to it by now.
On a better note, his father must already be at the station. Otherwise, he’d have been in Stiles’ room within seconds, shotgun at the ready, prepared for anything. Yeah, his father’s protective streak has grown to gargantuan proportions ever since the, uh… incident.
It’s been three months since the whole fiasco with the nogitsune and Stiles couldn’t be happier. He’s a senior now, which is one hell of an accomplishment for a human that spends his free time fighting monsters with a pack of werewolves. And, before you ask, he knows his life choices are questionable at best. It’s just another part of his winning personality.
He also has a decent group of friends. He says that as if he has any room to complain, but the reality is, he didn’t think he’d have any other friends besides Scott until he was old enough to need a death buddy. So, to sum it all up, he’s definitely not complaining. He loves his pack and he would do absolutely anything for them, no questions asked. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he’s not exactly complaining about that either. He and Malia had spoken at length about whether or not they wanted a relationship, but in the end, neither of them was ready. Trauma really is a bitch. Well, that and the fact that Stiles isn’t sure whether or not having a girl friend is really up his alley these days. His type seems to have shifted quite drastically within the past few months. He no longer daydreams about flawless pale skin, green eyes, and strawberry blonde hair. Instead, he finds himself thinking about a certain grumpy werewolf with a light dusting of facial hair, a body to be worshipped by the gods themselves, and- No, he’s stopping that train before it even leaves the station. He is so not ready to admit that to himself yet.
Anyway, the point is that Stiles has been going through a sexual… something (Crisis? Awakening? Whatever you want to call it), and every day it seems clearer and clearer to him that he’s actually gay. I mean, if he thinks about it, he’s only ever had eyes for Lydia Martin, which is decidedly strange in and of itself, and the more he looks into it, the more he’s convinced that he never actually felt any physical attraction toward her. He’s realized that he was in love with the idea of Lydia Martin, not actually in love with her. But he has plenty of time to think about all of that. After all, there has been no sign of supernatural activity since his friends banished the nogitsune from his body. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the skies predict smooth sailing from here on out. As his mother used to say, “Nie daj się podejrzewać dobrego dnia. Żyjesz tylko z tego powodu.” From Polish that roughly translates to, “Don’t be suspicious of a good day. You’ll only live to regret it.”
Stiles takes a minute to slow his rapid heartbeat before rolling out of bed with a dramatic groan. “I fucking hate Mondays.” He mutters to himself, completely accepting the fact that today is going to suck . He has three tests today , which is honestly just excessive. I mean, honestly, who does that?
‘Just kill me now. Seriously, strike me down where I stand. Forgive me god for I will sin.’
He pulls himself up from his sprawled position on the floor. Yes, for him ‘rolling out of bed’ legitimately means rolling off of his bed, onto the floor, and hoping to the gods that he doesn’t break anything. He is that dramatic. After he gets his bearings, he stretches, hearing his shoulders pop, and meanders his way toward the bathroom to relieve himself and start his day.
Once he returns to his room, he digs through his drawers, attempting to find appropriate clothing for school. And honestly, how some people can get dressed without going through at least one other wardrobe option, Stiles has no idea. He, himself, tends to have a problem with whether or not his shirts send the “right message” as Coach Finstock has so elegantly put it. And honestly, it’s not his fault that not everyone appreciates his amazing sense of humor. He pulls out one of his shirts and grins. The front of this particular shirt says, “I’m not always a dick. Just kidding, go fuck yourself” on the front in big, bolded letters. His father had bought it for him a few months back when he had gone out of town for some sort of conference pertaining to law enforcement. Unfortunately, Stiles had not found the chance to wear it, the shirt being a perfect example of the “right message” bullshit Finstock has been preaching to him.
He places the shirt back in the drawer, unfolded of course. He’s a teenager, let him be a slob in peace. He’s the one who’ll ultimately have to pay the piper, after all.
He finally decides on a plain grey t-shirt paired with a dark red and black flannel, ultimately deciding not to grace the world with his unique sense of humor today. ‘It’s their loss, honestly. I’m fucking hilarious.’ He checks the clock sitting beside his bed and curses. It’s almost 7:00 and Stiles needs to be at school by 7:20.
“I guess I’m skipping breakfast. Again,” he laments as he pulls on his jeans and black converse. He grabs a few of his notebooks off his desk and shoves them into his backpack, zipping it up hurriedly. Once he’s deemed himself presentable and prepared for the day, he grabs the keys to his beloved jeep from the bedside table and rushes out the door.
When he gets downstairs he realizes that his earlier conclusion of his father not being home had been entirely correct. Another point for Stiles. His dad would be pissed if he knew that Stiles was going to be late for school.
Stiles exits the house and is met immediately with a raging fire demon, out for blood. Okay, maybe not, but the sun is an inconsiderate bitch. Doesn’t it know that Stiles just got out of bed? The least it could do was tone the brightness down a notch… or three.
Stiles clambers into his Jeep, puts his school bag in the seat next to him, and starts the ignition. Stiles basks in the sound of the engine purring to life. Fine, maybe it’s less of a purr and more of a rumble, but that is completely beside the point. Every time Stiles hears the sound, he’s happily reminded of his mother, and that’s all that really matters. His friends can call the vehicle a piece of crap all they want, it won’t change how he feels and it sure as hell won’t convince him to buy another car.
Stiles pulls out of his driveway and begins to make his way toward Beacon Hills High School, a frown on his face. Yeah, he could give Derek a run for his money today in the bad mood department.
‘So help me, if something bad happens today, I am officially losing my shit.’