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Kill Me Once, Shame On You

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Truthfully, Stiles shouldn’t have been driving. Not after everything that had happened. Truthfully, he should’ve still been at the warehouse. Tucked into a corner, breathing heavily. Shaking with a sick mix of terror and rage. But alas, he was driving. Even though he shouldn’t have been. There a lot of things he shouldn’t have been doing.

     Gerard was defeated, (see dead), and they were all going to live happily ever after. Jackson was now a full-fledged, properly functioning werewolf. Scott’s mom was no longer under threat. Chris removed his heinous father from power. And no more innocent people would die. Sunshine and puppies from here on out. Except, things are never that easy.

      For starters, the shit Scott had pulled was…atrocious. There were about ten-thousand things wrong with it. Actively, Stiles had no issue with just full-fledged, out and out, murdering Gerard. There was no moral hang-ups, or ethical concerns. Men like that didn’t stop until they were dead. That, and the guy was just completely unlikable.

      It was, however, inconceivably terrible of how Scott went about doing it. Firstly, poisoning the man with mountain ash. (Swapping out the cancer meds.) And then, forcing Derek, the only alpha in town, to bite the man that was, (probably in more ways than one), responsible for destroying Derek’s pack.

       Low and behold, the bite poisoned him, and he faced the horrible rejection. Dismantling his already frail body even further. To the point that he started instantly vomiting black goo. It was gross as hell. Stiles almost upchucked alongside him.

      Then, of course, before kicking the bucket, Gerard ordered Jackson, (still under his command), to kill them all. There was a fight. There was blood and tears and plenty of swearing. In the end, Lydia, (because of course), saved the day with the power of love. Or some equally ridiculous fairytale bullshit. Jackson was a wolf, everything was fine. Except, it wasn’t.

      He had been under the control of not one, but two murderous masters. And had been forced to assume a shape that allowed them to carry out their shitty ideals. Matt slaughtered the people responsible for his trauma. In turn, traumatizing Jackson. Who had, as of right now, no memories of any of that.

     Then of course, there was Gerard. The bastard. There were no memories of that either. Now, that he was an able bodied werewolf, he’d have to face the reality of all those things that he was made to do. Thankfully, Jackson’s parents were loaded. And could afford whatever therapist was keeping Kayne West out of the loony bin. Now the matter what finding one that specialized in werewolves.

      Lydia was another matter altogether. She and Stiles had gotten closer over the last few months. Now, their big secret was out. Werewolves were real, and a lot of other, horrible, terrifying shit that no sane person wanted anything to do with. He wondered how the young redhead was going to take all of it. Stiles was a different breed of human altogether, and his quick acclamation was to be excluded.

        He thought about all of this as he drove home. Wondering, if anything, what else would go sideways. There was still the matter of Peter being brought back to life. Using some nasty, unknown method that he performed through Lydia. Apparently, the dead could be brought back to life. Even if the person had been tremendously shitty.

     When he arrives, thankfully, his father isn’t home. He wasn’t in the mood, nor did he have the capacity for any questions. Melissa was on the ins and outs, (mostly), of what was going on with them. His father wasn’t, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

      Stiles showers. Well, more accurately, he stands under the scorching hot water until it runs cold. It wasn’t really bathing. It was just something to do. Shock was a hell of a drug, and he wasn’t one to drink, so, standing under running water would have to do.

      He doesn’t bother putting on any clothes. He just collapses into bed with a towel wrapped around him. Too tired and too strung out to do much of anything else. Every muscle in his body had released the tension he’d been holding. And now, that he was finally in the comfort of his own room, he could sleep. Well, it wasn’t so much sleep as it was his brain going into emergency shutdown.

     He dreams in fractions and pieces. A swipe of claw there. A spurt of blood there. It was horrible and entrancing in the same moment. He can feel himself sweat. He can feel himself twitch. There’s roaring somewhere in the background. He knows that he’s going to die.

     When he wakes, it’s in stone still shock. And he stares at a black ceiling as the world he was dreaming of fades, and reality, much to his displeasure, comes crashing back in. His dad still isn’t home, despite it being nearly two in the morning. He sends a short text, and throws his phone back towards the nightstand. He doesn’t bother to see if needs to be charged. He doesn’t really feel like bothering with anything anymore.

    When he falls back asleep, he doesn’t dream. It’s a still, frozen sleep. When he wakes up again, he knows that he hardly moved. Every muscle in his body screams with exertion. That, coupled with all the name brand fuckery that came with yesterday’s events, and he was sufficiently exhausted. There was a nap in his future later today.

     His father is asleep. Silently slumbering, no wiser to the supernatural shenanigans of Beacon Hills than he was in the previous months. Stiles, as much as he wanted otherwise, would keep it that way. He hated lying. He hated the half truths. He hated the sneaking around. The deceiving. All of it. But his dad was all he had left. And he would cling to that with the veracity of iron.

      Breakfast is more of an affair than it should’ve been. On most days, he just popped some bread in the toaster, and maybe fried an egg. Today, being a Saturday, he decided to treat himself. Bacon, actual, fatty pork bacon, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and pancakes made from scratch. Under most circumstances, he would’ve avoided all the starch and fat for his father’s health. But there was a lingering guilt, crawling under his skin. Something that said to do this, because of everything else he’d already done.

      The bacon had just done crisping when the doorbell rings. Stiles already knows who it is before he even answers it. Scott, the bastard, doesn’t look any worse for wear. As if he had the most wonderful sleep of his life, and wasn’t wracked with nightmares over the shit he did. Except, it wasn’t quite that simple.

     There was an edge at the corner of his eyes. A terrible thing. A small thing. Some part of him was hurting. He looked at Stiles’ with the quivering eyes of a man desperate to say something. To spill his guts. To lay bare the deepest reaches of his soul. Stiles doesn’t give him the chance.

      Scott’s mouth opens to speak, and whatever it is, Stiles doesn’t give two shits. He slams the door in his friend’s face. Hard. Locking it as he headed back towards the kitchen. He made a mental note to line all the doors and windows with mountain ash when he got the chance. That way, Scott wouldn’t be tempted to pull a Derek.

     His phone is ringing, and Stiles denies the call. Sending it straight to voicemail. For good measure, he blocks Scott’s number. That way, he doesn’t have to keep silencing his phone. Or listening as he sends text after text. There was a part of him, a darker part, that took a certain amount of joy in the action.

      He wonders how long his on-the-rocks best friend will keep at it before he gives up. Stiles hopes it’s quick. Another hopes it’s for hours. Maybe give him a sense of how pissed off he really and truly was. He wondered is Scott had visited any of the others. And he wondered what the others reactions would be when he showed up at their doorstep.

     Breakfast is just finished when his dad enters. Looking disgruntled and somewhat perturbed. Stiles silently hands him a cup of coffee, with actual caffeine, and a smile. The sheriff looks surprised and shocked, but accepts it nonetheless. They both sit down, and stuff their faces.

      “Did someone come to the door?” The man asks between mouthfuls of bacon.


     “What on earth could he have wanted this early in the morning that couldn’t be solved with phone call?” The man was still eating bacon. Stiles was keeping up with how much.

“Don’t know. I kinda slammed the door in his face. And then I blocked his number.” His father raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment.

      Over the years, the sheriff had come to know his son in ways that most parents never would know their own children. After the death of his mother, like any child, Stiles had to adjust. This came in ways that were both expected, and unexpected.

     The crying. The screaming. The sleepless nights. The nights with too much sleep. The therapists. That, that was standard. What wasn’t, was the anger. No one ever really expected an eleven year old child to have a propensity for violence. But after the initial surge of grief and mourning past, Stiles was left with just that, anger and violence.

      His father had to be called several times. And then several times more. It was hard on both of them. He was lashing out in school, and his father could only sleep after a healthy amount of whiskey. And there were of course the nights where the whiskey did more than just help him sleep.

      After they first two years, many hours of therapy, and several breakdowns, they had worked at a rather effective system. Stiles would make an active effort to vent negative feelings in a way that didn’t harm those around him. And the sheriff wouldn’t resort to whiskey in order to stamp out his.

      Did Stiles’ particular course of action hurt in an emotional way? Most certainly. He was sure that Scott was running around in circles, trying to figure out what to do next. It hurt, and he wanted it to. But the agreement that he made with his father was that he wouldn’t react physically. And he hadn’t hit Scott.

     They don’t discuss the matter any further. And Stiles eats the rest of his breakfast in silence. Not wanting to stir up his already volatile state. His father indulges him, and Stiles hands him another piece of bacon. They could always have salad for dinner.

    Not having much else to do, Stiles opts to switch between cleaning, and doing what little homework he had. Given recent events, he had been, to some degree, falling behind. Not that it would take him very long to catch up, but regardless, he didn’t want his dad to have to worry over anything. He was in the dark, and in the dark he would remain. For as long as possible.

      Stiles runs out of housework, and decides to mindlessly watch tv. It was one of the few times that he and his dad were in the house together. For any extended period of time. The sheriff was due to return to work later in the evening, but for now, they could at least pretend to be a functioning family.

       His phone buzzes an hour in, and he sees that it’s from Allison. Part of him wants to read it. Part of him wonders if Scott had reached out, and was trying to speak to him through her. He knew that they were on the outs, in a big way, even before the showdown with Gerard. So, in all likeliness, the possibility was rather low. Regardless, he ignored it. He wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone today.

       He ends up falling asleep on the couch. Waking up with a blanket across him, and his father gone. There was a note on the tv saying that he’d be home in the morning. Stiles smiled, the sense of familiarity ringing softly in his chest. It was the closest he’d felt to normalcy in a while. It was nice.

      His phone had several text messages. All from Allison. All of them he deleted without opening. He had never been all that close with her. Mainly being the third wheel whenever she and Scott were together. They were barely acquaintances. And after the derailing that she performed in murderous fashion, he wasn’t keen on getting to know her any better.

       Stiles understood grief. He understood pain. He understood hating the world so much, that the only thing he wanted was to watch things break. But even when he lashed out others, he certainly didn’t behave as violently as she had.

     He understood that her mother was dead. He understood the reason behind it. Hunters didn’t live after being bitten by an alpha werewolf. They killed themselves, or, at least, that’s what he’d heard offhandedly. He wondered if Allison had known that. Had known that, or if Gerard neglected that little faucet of information.

     Regardless, shooting arrows into innocent people, or as innocent as they could be, didn’t serve any purpose. Neither did kidnapping them, tying them up in the basement, and hooking them up to electric cables. Which she had participated in. Gerard may have been the mastermind, but she was the acolyte that carried out his orders.

        He tries to steer his thoughts elsewhere. Not wanting to shame and anger. It doesn’t work. Because now he wonders about Erica and Boyd. He wonders if they were okay. He wonders about whether or not if they were with Derek, or if they’d ditched and skipped town.

      He’s in his Jeep before he thinks about it. Driving, for once in his life, the speed limit as to not attract any undue attention to himself. When he arrives at the railway station, it’s Peter that greets him. The smug bastard smiles that vicious smile of his. As if he’s pleased about something. Stiles flips him off as he walks by. There’s nothing that they need to say to each other.

     Derek is in one of the derelict cars. Sulking and brooding in that old Hollywood way that only he could manage to accomplish. Stiles had always wondered at the man’s sense of self-entrapment. And while they certainly didn’t get along, and would’ve rather been in different states, they could at least tolerate each other for five minutes at a time.

     The alpha doesn’t acknowledge him in any way. And Stiles doesn’t say anything. He had originally come to check on Erica and Boyd. Who, as of right now, were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Isaac. Stiles didn’t get along with any of the three, but he at least was, on some minute level, concerned for their wellbeing. He’d seen what the world of werewolves and hunters had to offer.

     “Is there a reason for your visit, or were just bored?” Derek finally speaks. And does so with a sarcasm that would give Stiles a run for his money.

“I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t know what his plan was, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have approved of it.”

     He doesn’t know why he says it. But he does. Stiles was angry. He was lost. But most of all, he was guilty. In their last, great fight against whatever shit storm rolled their way, he was practically useless. And it showed. Then Scott had to go and fuck things up royally. Yeah, they won. At the expense of nearly everyone’s sanity.

     Stiles, to a degree, knew what the Argents had done to Derek. More specifically, Kate Argent. He knew that she had used Derek, intimately, to set fire to his house, killing just about everyone inside. The only survivors where himself, Laura, and Peter. The latter of whom went on an insane, revenge fueled rampage. Killing his niece, the people involved in family’s murder. Who was then promptly killed by Derek. The level of fuckery was otherworldly.

      He knew that Derek had turned Isaac, Erica, and Boyd because they’d accept. The three of them each had their reasons for wanting to be a werewolf, and Stiles respected that. He even understood why Derek trained and taught them the way that he did. Because he’d seen what letting your guard down accomplished. In his mind, it left you broken, your loved ones dead, and your sanity hanging on by a thread.

      “How very noble of you. Regardless, Scott’s little stunt worked, regardless of its shocking ethical concerns. Even by my own standards.” Peter’s comment sent Stiles’ vision to a dark tinge of red. And for the first time, in a long time, he lashes out with violence.

     His fist connects with the man’s face. And there is a satisfying crunch to go with it. The man hadn’t been expecting Stiles to hit him. As his now bloodied face was struck in shock. Stiles’ breathed in and out, like a man who’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

     There was a lot of reasons behind his anger. What Scott had done. What Gerard had done. What Allison had done. But most of all, he was royally pissed at Peter. He had killed his own niece for power. Randomly decided to turn Scott. Sent out on a warpath that brought the Argents to the door, leading to the fuckery they had now. And then, when he’d finally met his end, used Lydia, who’d been traumatized enough, to revive himself in a sick, perverted ritual.

     All the anger he’d held was unleashed in a single moment. Right across the bastard’s face. Even if it did heal in the blink of an eye, Stiles still found himself rather satisfied with the sensation. Derek didn’t make any comment, and he was too pissed off to say anything else. So, he left. He left without another word, wondering just when his life had gotten this fucked.