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Good Grief

Chapter Text

new york.



Some part of him always knew that he was the cause of every problem the McCall Pack ran into.

And in his heart, Stiles knew it was mildly true, especially since he was the one who drug Scott out into the woods in their sophomore year.

That night in the woods set of a chain reaction with all the problems they've encountered, all the deaths were because of him.

Waking up in the basement of Eichen House really opened his eyes to the danger that followed him. He had been strapped to one of the chairs, Oliver having secured him to it before the first time he woke up.

He could remember the way his heart skipped a beat when he saw Malia slumped in the chair next to him, the former werecoyote laying lifeless, a bloody hole in her head and brown eyes wide and empty.

She was dead, because of him.

He remembered the fear that filled him when he heard Oliver's psychotic giggles fill the room, the insane, possessed teenager approaching him, the drill in his hands.

It was still dripping with blood- Malia's blood- as Oliver stood beside him, a huge, crazy grin stretching across his face. "Oh, we are going to have so much fun."

It really was a terrible combination. Oliver was already crazy, adding the Nogitsune to the equation just amplified his number on the insane o'meter.

Sometimes, when he's able to even get a wink of sleep at night, he remembers the feeling of the drill cutting into the side of his skull.

He had screamed until his lungs didn't allow him to scream anymore, but no one heard him. No one cared enough to listen.

No one heard anything as Void Oliver switched to tool after tool, treating Stiles as if he were the game of Operation.

It wasn't until he took the sharpened tool to Stiles' chest that he passed out, the seventeen year old giving into darkness as if it were an old friend.

By some kind of miracle, Stiles opened his eyes sometime in the night. He awoke with a gaping hole in his chest, and a smaller one in his head.

Oliver was lying dead next to him on the ground, a gun in his hand. Stiles could only guess what the teenager had done, and judging by the hole in his head, it couldn't have ended well.

Stiles' skin was a deathly pale and slick with sweat, dark bags circled his eyes, the boy looking deathly ill- and he was.

If the bloody hole in his chest were to give some truth, the boy was dying. There was no way he could go to a hospital, he'd rather die here than in the hands of Melissa. He wasn't about to leave her with that kind of pain.

His mind raced as he rolled to the side, desperately trying to yank his hands free from his bindings with the last of his strength.

With a war cry of absolute pain, Stiles yanked his hands up, the sound of tearing tape like an angel to his ears. His vision blurred as he pulled himself up, his hands searching for the blanket that he knew was on the couch.

He whimpered as he pressed it to his wound, helplessly trying to stop the bleeding on his chest as he searched for anything that could help him.

His tired eyes scanned the room, nothing in sight that would magically cure him of his injury- or at least, that was until he glanced up at the ceiling. A round puncture in the basement ceiling looked up into the outside world, the light shining in through the small hole reminding him of a certain tin-can superhero's glowing chest piece.

A glowing chest piece that could potentially save Stiles' life.

And at the moment, Stiles' knew exactly what he needed to do.


New York was freaking freezing during the winter.

In Beacon Hills, you only need a good hoodie and a beanie to get through the cold months- but here? Here, you needed three jackets, two pairs of gloves, three layers of jeans, and five beanies just to be remotely warm.

Unfortunately, Stiles only had a long sleeved plaid shirt on, layered with his infamous red hoodie and the only thing keeping his head warm was a thin black beanie- so needless to say, he was freezing his ass off.

Luckily, the combined material of his shirt and his hoodie hid the glow of the arc reactor that was inserted in his chest.

He didn't attract any attention to himself, probably giving off the average teenager vibe to anyone who passed him.

His fingers twitched in his pocket, the feeling of electricity running through his veins completely evident as he tried not to twitch in discomfort.

The Nogitsune had done something to him that night, the night his chest was viciously torn open by a possessed mental patient. It wasn't just an act to make Stiles accept the Void spirit- the same spirit that, for all he knew, was still on the loose- into his mind, the trickster had done something else to him.

And he had a feeling that the reactor in his chest only accelerated the changes in his body.

The marks on his back were present once more, except this time, he wasn't given anything to keep the demons down. They appeared on their own, giving him even more reason to believe that it was because of his unwanted surgery.

Ms Morrel had explained that the markings were common on lightning strike victims- and something inserted electricity into him.

Any piece of metal was in danger by the uncovered hands of Stiles Stilinski, every piece sparking at the touch. Luckily, he managed to swipe a pair of gloves from a small gas station during his trek through New Mexico, which kept the electricity on his finger tips from escaping.

He couldn't control the electricity that seemed to be connected to him, which is more of a reason why he never returned home.

He wasn't even sure if anyone back home knew if he was alive.

So now, he was on the run from everything as well as nothing. That was how he ended up in New York.

He had hopes to leave his old life behind, one that he desperately tried to get rid of by not collecting anything from Eichen but his treasured hoodie.

Stiles didn't even attempt to get his pillow, a mistake that left him with many sleepless nights, but he knew that if he made any contact with his house or his bedroom, he'd only make things worse.

His trek across the country consisted of stolen bus tickets and hotwire cars, the teenager not taking any chances with hitchhiking.

By the time he reached New York, he was equipped with a black backpack that held a baseball bat, another set of clothes, and a pillow- all things he picked up on one of his many runs into a store (after hours of course).

He shivered, rubbing his gloved hand over his face as he walked through the chilled air. He took a quick glance to the side, spotting a suited male following closely behind.

Stiles wouldn't have paid him any attention if it wasn't for the fact that he had been trailing him since he passed Hard Rock Café, and that was twenty minutes ago.

He looked down at his chest, hoping that a muffled glow wouldn't be present- and it wasn't, so why was he being tailed?

Deciding to test if his suspicions were correct, Stiles turned a corner, only to come face to face with another suited man, except this one just gave him a dirty look and the middle finger. It was just another New Yorker.

He looked around, his eyes locking on a McDonald's, a metaphorical light bulb popping over his head as he came up with the bright idea to duck into the fast food restaurant.

And just as he suspected, the man followed him.

Stiles dug into his jean's pockets, searching for any money, and luckily he came up with two dollar bills. He was starving.

He couldn't really remember the last time he ate. Money was hard to come by when you didn't have a job. Fortunately, his road trip across the country had turned him into a master thief as well as pick-pocketer.

Walking up to the counter, Stiles set down the two dollars, hungrily ordering an Egg McMuffin, the smell of other people's order just about enough to make him drool.

He really was starving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man in black standing off to the side by the entrance, his suspicions awfully correct as the male seemed to be watching his every move.

He looked back at the cashier, giving the woman a slight smile as she handed him the receipt. Slowly, but surely, he stalked over towards the pick up area, knowing that the man's eyes were following him.

So, he did the only reasonable thing; the minute his sandwich was handed to him, Stiles bolted.

The suited man followed after him, all while talking into his wrist watch. Stiles couldn't hear what was being sad, but he couldn't imagine it being anything good.

He sprinted down the street, doing his best to keep from running into unsuspecting people, though his only real goal was to keep his sandwich from getting caught in the cross fire.

In a matter of two minutes, one suited man went to three, then to five, leaving Stiles out numbered as he continued to run.

Now, he's never been known to have amazing stamina, but when you cross the country with nothing but your feet and a witty mind known for ideas, you kind of build up on your tolerance for pain.

Also, the metal in his chest might've helped a little bit.

Stiles skidded to a stop as three more people in black jumped out in front of him. He made a turn to back up, only to have his original followers block his path.

"Wow fellas, really know how to make a guy feel uncomfortable." He smarted off, bringing his hands up to his backpack straps.

"Keep your hands up!" One of them yelled, his own hands reaching to his waist, where a gun most likely was.

"Calm down, calm down. I'm just taking my backpack off. You'd want it right?" He asked simply, slowly pulling the strap off his left shoulder.

The man kept his eyes on him, though Stiles anticipated this, which is why he went on with his plan. In one swift movement, he yanked the zipper down the bag, sliding his breakfast sandwich in, and pulling his bat out.

The men closed in on him just as fast but Stiles was prepared. He dropped the bag, spinning in a circle as he swung the hat, smashing one in the head, which led to the injured dude to smash into another one of his buddies.

With a smirk of triumph, Stiles ducked under a thrown fist, this time smashing some guy in the knee- but the hits just kept on coming.

His instinct told him that these clowns were spies.

He ducked again as another spy attempted to pistol whip him, instead he ended up hit the gun from the spy's hand with his trusty bat. "Bitch." He snarled, knocking another blow onto his head, successfully knocking another agent out.

That was four, now for four more. He spun around on his heel, practically diving over an incoming spy. It felt like it was a movie, especially when he hooked the baseball bat under one of the spies chins, successfully yanking him onto the concrete and knocking him out cold.

That was five.

He felt pride build up in his chest as he realized his accomplishment, but as he got lost in his self pride, he was left vulnerable to the last three agents.

Stiles gasped when a gun smacked against his temple, though he kept his bat in his grip, returning the blow. Sadly, it didn't weaken his opponent as the spy smacked him once.

He yelped in pain as the gun came in contact with the soft spot that belonged to his still healing trepidation scar. His nostrils flared as he fell to the ground with a pounding head, his bat being ripped from his grip.

And for a second, Stiles seriously considered tearing off his gloves and frying these guys to a crisp.

Shaking the thought from his mind, he mustered up all his strength to not look weak as two of the still conscious agents lifted him up to a standing position, the third cuffing his hands behind his back.

He glared at the spy who stepped in front of him, a satisfied looking smirk on the older male's face as he lifted his watch to his mouth-

"Target has been apprehended."