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fandomweekly2016-02-24 06:06 pm
ser_pounce_alot) wrote in fandomweekly2016-02-24 06:06 pm
Entry tags:
[#004] don't need nobody [but you] (Teen Wolf)
Theme Prompt: #004 – Last to Know
Title: don't need nobody (but you)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Warnings: Teen; dark themes, implied Derek/Stiles
Bonus: No
Word Count: 993
Summary: So many bodies I've touched, crashing around me like dust, you are the realest thing I've ever had to fake.
Notes: An alternative take on what could have happened during the course of season 5, title and summary from Ellie Goulding's song of the same name.
“I'll never leave,” Scott promises, and he's so desperate for it that he soaks it in and lets the words become part of him. Scott lets him stay in his room, in the shadows and the darkness – when the moon comes up and his skin is on fire, he clings to the blankets that smell like Scott and childhood and years of tethered loyalty. But Scott is an alpha; his pack consumes him, needs him, and he breathes the necessity like air, and Stiles can no longer find the place he used to have as his feet slide out from under him.
He can't stay at Scott's house, not the way he is. They keep him in the sheriff's office, in a cell – safe behind iron bars and thick walls.
-
“It's not you,” Malia says, but she won't look him in the eyes when she says it, and her body language gives her away, something she never learned how to control. She wrinkles her nose when she's lying. “It's me.”
She is looking for permission to leave, and Stiles refuses to give it to her – she'll take it anyway, but the sting of betrayal burns so tight and hot in his chest that he relishes knowing she'll feel guiltier this way.
-
“There's nothing wrong with you,” Lydia tells him, fierce and unyielding. He tries to believe her only because it's such a beautiful, peaceful lie, even though he knows better, and the truth eats his heart cell by cell. “None of this is your fault.”
She is with him in the darkness, but Lydia, she can still go out into the light; her hair still shines like rose gold, and sometimes he feels like it's a waterfall of metal, curving around her like armor. He aches for that protection. Lydia can still be part of the outside world, and he knows every time that she leaves, as the absences get longer, that eventually she will cease to come back at all.
-
“I have to go,” Kira sighs; he doesn't hold it against her. He would leave, too, if he could. There is nothing tying her here except old memories and bitter regret. She's better off crossing the ocean to find herself. Her answers are buried far away from Beacon Hills, and there's always been a cord wrapped around her wrist, binding her to her ancestors written in calligraphic strokes on a family registry.
-
One by one, they leave, and he is alone. He is trapped in the twilight between worlds, and he's fumbling around with eyes that no longer see clearly. His father tries to talk to him and bring him food, but eventually, he too slumps into resignation and grief, a sloped, defeated figure every time Stiles can see his shadow pass outside.
There's irony in that, Stiles thinks, chest buzzing. A man already grieving the death of a son who sits in a jail cell for his own protection. A man who is married to grief and still carries her name on his heart.
His head is full of remorse, but his heart feels nothing but darkness.
-
“There's someone here to see you,” his father says from the door, bringing with him light so bright that it hurts Stiles' eyes.
It has been so long since anyone was here that Stiles doesn't know how to respond. The shadows in the doorway melt apart as his father retreats back to his office and his medicine bottles until there is only a single figure there.
“Don't you want to know?” Stiles asks, and stares at the pattern that the bars cast on the opposite wall, distorted by the uneven lines of mortar. “What happened?”
There is silence, punctuated by footsteps.
“Well?” Stiles challenges again, because his heart is hammering in his chest so hard he fears his ribs may burst.
“I could bring you scissors,” Derek says, and perhaps because it's the only thing Stiles didn't think he would say, it's a surprise.
It must register in Stiles' face when he turns, because Derek shrugs a bit. “Your hair is so long.”
It is, but it's been so long that Stiles even thought about it that the long weight of it has become second-nature. He runs his fingers through the strands before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself.
“I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” Derek says, voice soft but not apologetic. It's refreshing. “I guess I was the last to hear about it.”
“I didn't want you to know,” Stiles admits. He feels stupid.
“Why?”
The leather of his wings scrapes against the walls as he rises; he cuts an intimidating figure when he wants to, with the devil's instruments surgically grafted to his spine. It used to terrify the others so that they would eventually scatter and leave him in peace, but Derek doesn't budge. He doesn't even blink. There's nothing on his face.
“I'm a monster,” Stiles spits. “They made me a monster.”
He thinks Derek will respond with bullshit platitudes, but the other man just reaches in between the bars and his knuckles brush against Stiles' cheek.
“They...” Derek starts.
“The Doctors,” Stiles supplies.
And Derek just keeps looking at him with eyes devoid of sympathy. He looks at Stiles like he used to: pursed lips, elevated eyebrows, as if Stiles has once again done the stupidest thing in the world.
“Can you fly?” Derek asks.
Air escapes through Stiles' lips in a hitched exhale. “Yes.”
The other man nods. “Then fly.”
Derek's other hand is curled around one of the iron bars. Stiles touches it tentatively, reveling in the warmth of another person's skin. Derek's fingers are callused and worn, like he's been laboring outside, in the sun.
The sun is shining in through the barred windows.
For a long time, they stay like that.
“Do you need the key?” Derek asks.
“No,” Stiles replies, chest releasing. “It's never actually been locked.”
Title: don't need nobody (but you)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Warnings: Teen; dark themes, implied Derek/Stiles
Bonus: No
Word Count: 993
Summary: So many bodies I've touched, crashing around me like dust, you are the realest thing I've ever had to fake.
Notes: An alternative take on what could have happened during the course of season 5, title and summary from Ellie Goulding's song of the same name.
“I'll never leave,” Scott promises, and he's so desperate for it that he soaks it in and lets the words become part of him. Scott lets him stay in his room, in the shadows and the darkness – when the moon comes up and his skin is on fire, he clings to the blankets that smell like Scott and childhood and years of tethered loyalty. But Scott is an alpha; his pack consumes him, needs him, and he breathes the necessity like air, and Stiles can no longer find the place he used to have as his feet slide out from under him.
He can't stay at Scott's house, not the way he is. They keep him in the sheriff's office, in a cell – safe behind iron bars and thick walls.
-
“It's not you,” Malia says, but she won't look him in the eyes when she says it, and her body language gives her away, something she never learned how to control. She wrinkles her nose when she's lying. “It's me.”
She is looking for permission to leave, and Stiles refuses to give it to her – she'll take it anyway, but the sting of betrayal burns so tight and hot in his chest that he relishes knowing she'll feel guiltier this way.
-
“There's nothing wrong with you,” Lydia tells him, fierce and unyielding. He tries to believe her only because it's such a beautiful, peaceful lie, even though he knows better, and the truth eats his heart cell by cell. “None of this is your fault.”
She is with him in the darkness, but Lydia, she can still go out into the light; her hair still shines like rose gold, and sometimes he feels like it's a waterfall of metal, curving around her like armor. He aches for that protection. Lydia can still be part of the outside world, and he knows every time that she leaves, as the absences get longer, that eventually she will cease to come back at all.
-
“I have to go,” Kira sighs; he doesn't hold it against her. He would leave, too, if he could. There is nothing tying her here except old memories and bitter regret. She's better off crossing the ocean to find herself. Her answers are buried far away from Beacon Hills, and there's always been a cord wrapped around her wrist, binding her to her ancestors written in calligraphic strokes on a family registry.
-
One by one, they leave, and he is alone. He is trapped in the twilight between worlds, and he's fumbling around with eyes that no longer see clearly. His father tries to talk to him and bring him food, but eventually, he too slumps into resignation and grief, a sloped, defeated figure every time Stiles can see his shadow pass outside.
There's irony in that, Stiles thinks, chest buzzing. A man already grieving the death of a son who sits in a jail cell for his own protection. A man who is married to grief and still carries her name on his heart.
His head is full of remorse, but his heart feels nothing but darkness.
-
“There's someone here to see you,” his father says from the door, bringing with him light so bright that it hurts Stiles' eyes.
It has been so long since anyone was here that Stiles doesn't know how to respond. The shadows in the doorway melt apart as his father retreats back to his office and his medicine bottles until there is only a single figure there.
“Don't you want to know?” Stiles asks, and stares at the pattern that the bars cast on the opposite wall, distorted by the uneven lines of mortar. “What happened?”
There is silence, punctuated by footsteps.
“Well?” Stiles challenges again, because his heart is hammering in his chest so hard he fears his ribs may burst.
“I could bring you scissors,” Derek says, and perhaps because it's the only thing Stiles didn't think he would say, it's a surprise.
It must register in Stiles' face when he turns, because Derek shrugs a bit. “Your hair is so long.”
It is, but it's been so long that Stiles even thought about it that the long weight of it has become second-nature. He runs his fingers through the strands before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself.
“I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” Derek says, voice soft but not apologetic. It's refreshing. “I guess I was the last to hear about it.”
“I didn't want you to know,” Stiles admits. He feels stupid.
“Why?”
The leather of his wings scrapes against the walls as he rises; he cuts an intimidating figure when he wants to, with the devil's instruments surgically grafted to his spine. It used to terrify the others so that they would eventually scatter and leave him in peace, but Derek doesn't budge. He doesn't even blink. There's nothing on his face.
“I'm a monster,” Stiles spits. “They made me a monster.”
He thinks Derek will respond with bullshit platitudes, but the other man just reaches in between the bars and his knuckles brush against Stiles' cheek.
“They...” Derek starts.
“The Doctors,” Stiles supplies.
And Derek just keeps looking at him with eyes devoid of sympathy. He looks at Stiles like he used to: pursed lips, elevated eyebrows, as if Stiles has once again done the stupidest thing in the world.
“Can you fly?” Derek asks.
Air escapes through Stiles' lips in a hitched exhale. “Yes.”
The other man nods. “Then fly.”
Derek's other hand is curled around one of the iron bars. Stiles touches it tentatively, reveling in the warmth of another person's skin. Derek's fingers are callused and worn, like he's been laboring outside, in the sun.
The sun is shining in through the barred windows.
For a long time, they stay like that.
“Do you need the key?” Derek asks.
“No,” Stiles replies, chest releasing. “It's never actually been locked.”
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thank you! although i think this idea was far too ambitious to be a 1000-word fic. not my best effort, lol :)
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