”They did it again.”
Stiles closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. It’s one of those days, again—the one when the people he used to call his friends take off to defend themselves and the whole town, and Stiles is left behind.
The first times it happened, Stiles wondered if he’d done or said something wrong. Back then, he’d been fighting with everyone: with Derek because he thought Stiles was useless (he wasn’t), with Scott because he thought everyone was worth saving (they weren’t), and with Peter who for some reason thought Stiles liked the bad touch vibe (he didn’t). He’d figured that when things settled a bit and everyone got more comfortable with each other, things would automatically even out.
Plot twist: they didn’t.
”Sometimes, I wonder why they even bother inviting me,” he grumbles. ”It can’t be because of my sparkling personality or people skills, because they usually end up telling me to be quiet anyway…just not with so many words.”
He opens his eyes, tilts his head back to look at the partially clouded sky, and lets himself flop back into the ground.
”Now, it was harpies, I think? Anyway, some scary looking hags, if Peter’s manuscripts are anything to go by. I offered to check the Argent’s digital bestiary but he said no.” He crosses his hands over his chest in a defiant move that feels more like he’s trying to shield himself against the world. And perhaps he is. He is alone, after all.
”I know I’m just the squishy token human in a pack of awesome supernatural creatures,” he says quietly. ”I mean, it’s not like my 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones are something to be feared. But I know stuff and I know how to learn more stuff, and besides, isn’t knowledge supposed to be power? And—” He huffs out a frustrated breath. ”They don’t even want to give me a chance!
”He told me to stay, you know?” Stiles continues after a moment. ”Derek, I mean. He barked me an order like I’m a dog. He was halfway out the door when he just paused, glanced over his shoulder, and snapped ’Stay!’ What did he expect? That I’d roll over? Fuck him.”
Stiles’s vision goes a bit blurry and he squeezes his eyes shut. He refuses to cry over this. Instead, he presses the nail of his forefinger into the bed of his thumb until the sharp pain clears his head. He lets out a controlled breath and turns slightly to his side.
”I wish you were here, Mom,” he whispers and reaches out with his right hand to trace the worn letters on the tombstone. ”I miss you.”
The graveyard around him is silent. Sometimes he feels like he almost hears her in the wind but today isn’t one of those days. He lies on his side until his clothes are unpleasantly damp and he’s shivering and, as usual, he finds it hard to leave.
”I’ll stop by tomorrow, okay?” He finally says, momentarily pressing his fingers on top of the tombstone.
”I love you, Mom.”