Chapter Text
"they say that the loveliest angels
make the cruelest demons
and my darling,
you were so kind and beautiful
before they dragged you to hell"
The world seems to come to a momentary stop when Peter buries his fangs in Stiles' arm.
For a split second, everything slows down, for Stiles anyways; he can't be surprised even when he tries, because Peter Hale is fucking insane and has been adamant on biting him for no known reason, and of course he'd ignore Stiles' declination and bite him anyways even if he made it clear he doesn't want it. For this slow, sluggish moment, Stiles just sighs internally and shakes his head at himself because this whole mess is all his fault and no one should be sad over his stupid death. Because yeah, he has no doubts that the bite won't work with him. He doesn't know why, but he knows that he turned it down for a reason.
Also, Stiles gets even with the knowledge that in the assumpted case he dies, Peter will bury his body somewhere, and maybe they'll never find him. They’re in a parking lot, and they're alone. Who fucking knows when anyone is even going to notice Stiles is missing? Things are getting kind of heating up right now, and everyone has lots of other things to do other than looking for him.
He doesn't want to spend his possible last moments alive in bitterness, but the faint emotion he feels is far too reminiscent of it to mark his internal journey as completely truthful. A tinge of copper clings to his tongue, and even if he prefers it to the taste of iron, he doesn't like how acrimonious his own thoughts hall when he thinks about how everybody has better things to do than to look for him.
Which is absolutely true still. Allison has still got this whole psycho-ass hunter family thing going on, Scott is in that by default because of relationship reasons, Derek is going to have to manage killing Peter and Kate and then he'll have to manage being an alpha, and when he looks into Peter's crazed red eyes, he thinks that's probably going to be a bit of an obstacle. And since Scott is wrapped up in his and Allison's business, he probably won't be busy committing to Derek as his beta, which will leave Derek with essentially no one to turn to.
Lydia is still mysteriously neutral in her whole bite rejection thing, and with Jackson by her side she'll hopefully be just fine (and learn to respect herself for Christ's sake), and maybe she'll even play another part; again, he has a little notion that her chess piece has yet to be struck off the board. Her game isn't over, not now. Neither is Jackson's.
But they all have other things in mind than him, and they don't think of themselves as chess pieces, there is no strategy or logic behind their emotions because those are exact opposites of one another. They're acting on their sense of right and wrong, black and white, love and hate and all of those other things that can slip and blend into each other so easily if only turned slightly, they aren't going to look for him not because they don't care (he prays. He prays that they care.) but because there is too much going on in their own lives, too much betrayal and hurt and outright lying especially looking at Allison's position on the board.
But, what is even more important than that, is that all problems have their places, and Peter is a problem to all of them. He is the thorn in their sides, the piece that they need off the board for a chance of winning. In their unison, he'll make a mistake one way or another, and he'll get fucked. Inevitably, someone is going to end up taking him out, and then even more chaos will break loose over aformentioned problems like Derek becoming an alpha and Scott becoming Derek's beta and the fact that those two will probably refuse bonding because they're both stubborn as hell, and his dad will probably find out about the supernatural because Stiles was pretty much the only one against telling him and well, he's about to kick the bucket.
If they kill Peter, they’re never going to find Stiles. So logically, this is like his last night on earth.
The world hits full normal speed again abruptly and Stiles' knees almost give out. Stinging pain shoots through his arm as Peter pulls back and leaves bloodsmears and ripped fabric and teeth marks in his skin, still not letting go of his arm. His fangs are dripping with Stiles' blood and his eyes fade from red back to their normal blue, still fixated on him.
Stiles stares at him and Peter stares back. Something deep inside of him begins to shift and change, and pain shoots through his entire body. The corners of his mouth turn upwards in what is definitely not a pretty smile; then a laugh tears its way out of his throat, harsh and hysterical.
"This is going to kill me, you know that, right?" he gasps out.
Peter smiles. It looks a little sad.
"I'm sorry."
Considering fuck-all he does besides this dumb and completely superfluous apology, Stiles chooses to believe he's lying. He barely has time to think about the escalation this one act will have for him – Peter biting him despite his rejection of the offer – this was a stupid move on all parts, and even if the bite ends up killing him, it's going to spiral much worse for Peter. This one act of cruelty will have much larger consequences than he's anticipating.
Stiles' mind flickers back to all the facets of this broken picture he's never going to finish piecing together, he vividly imagines his piece getting swept off the board, a useless knight sacrificed for greater gambits. He wishes Peter good luck in killing Kate silently, even though he can't muster up the strength to say it out loud. If there is one thing he agrees with him on, it's that that bitch needs to die for what she did to innocents. There is so much grey in his head, mist-like figures that cloud his thoughts some days, but other days he just feels so clear, and right now he feels clearer than ever.
His knees give out for real now, and his sight goes dark.
He wakes up in a grave.
Suddenly, there are too many sensations at once; coarse dirt bites at his skin, claws at his eyes, and more pain shoots through his body. He instinctively closes his mouth and eyes again and tries to move, but he's still in shock and he needs to push solid ground around. He's under the earth, and everything around him is dark. He finally gets his limbs to move and tries to kick out with his legs, struggling and trying to move while he holds his breath for what feels like way too long until finally, finally, his fingers dig into softer dirt and he manages to move somehow, clawing at the darkness and pulling himself out of the ground.
He can't breathe he can't breathe he can't fucking breathe–
His head breaks through the surface slowly, his arms find something he can pull himself up on, and he inhales biting cold air as soon as he gets to it. Gasping, he tries to scream and starts coughing, still trying to get out and wildly thrashing. He spits dark blood and dirt out, retching a little and trying to see anything against the filth in his eyes. It's the middle of the night, the moon shines down on him brightly as he shakingly stems himself up and pulls his legs out of the ground, his brain starts going into overdrive with panic until his limbs are free and he collapses.
Stiles spots trees and realizes he has to be in the forest. He rests his temple on the ground and just breathes for a couple of seconds while his brain keeps forming logical conclusions like nothing happened. Pain walls up in his head, making him groan as he tries to catch his heavy breath and not have a panic attack.
Then he starts cursing.
He cusses Peter out, and then himself for being dumb enough to think he'd listen to a simple no just like that, and then Peter again, that maggot-eating piece of shit tiny dick-licking motherfucking swine asshole with large-scale mental issues he definitely needs help with and no sense of boundaries, what the fuck is wrong with this guy–
He pulls himself up and keeps cussing until his throat feels dry, and he stumbles away from where Peter fucking Hale buried him alive (and he feels like there's still dirt in his lungs, filth in his system eating him up from the inside out), scared out of his mind and not thinking about where he's going; his arm looks terrible, the dirt in the bite wound stings and there's some suspiciously black something dripping down out of it. He stinks like hell and probably looks it too, but he somehow stumbles to the burnt-out Hale House and then he knows where he needs to go.
Stiles is terrified. His headache intensifies further with every step he takes. He's going home.
His dad isn't there when he reels into the driveway, and he manages to pull the door open somehow and leaves a trail of dirt and blood and goo on the floor while he's at it. The pain in his head gets worse and worse with every second that passes now.
He feels like screaming, but he stumbles upstairs and into his room. With shaking fingers, Stiles closes the door behind him. His hands are slick with his own blood, and he manages to turn the key around twice and lock the door before he starts to feel like his head is going to split in half. His room is starting to swim way too much if he doesn't blink frequently.
He groans quietly and the noise ends with an almost whimpering sound. He can't see straight anymore as he leans back onto the door, reclining his head. He tries to opens his eyes (when did he close those, anyways) and he could swear he sees a cloud of– white-golden energy? It floats in the air before fleeing out of his window abruptly, like it noticed him looking and didn't want to be seen.
Stiles feels feverish.
Well. This is it, right?
This is what it all comes down to. His chess piece might as well be a pawn now, and while he's not off the board yet, he's getting dangerously close to getting into the queen's sights. The bite is the wild card in his game, a gambit he needs to pay close attention to; it's going to kill him, he knows it will. He can feel death creeping up on him like water filling his filthy lungs. He can feel it lulling him into sleep, singing a soft song of a place where he won't have this motherfucking headache anymore.
Stiles breathes into the pain and tries to ease it somehow, he shuts his eyes again and buries his head in his knees. He's still wearing his shirt, dress pants and tie from the dance, only now they're all blood-stained and dirty. The shirt especially is far from the white color it once was.
He can imagine Derek killing Peter. Knocking the wild card off the board, taking the queen's place with his own piece. He suddenly feels like he has to get up, or do something other than lean here and wait for the song of death to stop playing and take him; his game can't be over yet, his position on the board is too connoting in relation to the game. Without him, there will be a lack of much needed components the others need to win. It doesn't matter whether he is just a pawn or a knight or any other piece, he's still opposing the king and he is needed for the win. He could still be needed for an instrumental gambit, he can't go, not yet.
God, he just wants to see his dad again.
Stiles' lips flutter, they feel chapped and broken when he tries to say something, anything – but the pain in his head just gets worse and worse and more intense with every second, and he can't for the life of him think of anything but the board; one is standing on his desk, one is floating in his mind, and the pieces cannot come to a stop. He doesn't allow them to. He needs to know how this game will end. He is a crucial piece, and he needs to keep playing. For fuck's sake, he clawed himself out of a grave already today, and now he's just going to slip onto the next one?
He doesn't want to die.
But guess what, life isn't fair. In fact, he thinks it's pretty fucking unfair. Just like Percy Jackson said so famously once upon a yeehaw, the best people have the rottenest luck. And life is unfair. 'Getting bitten, hit and buried alive (not in that order) by an asshole alpha werewolf without the very much needed explicit consent' or 'your girlfriend's family just happens to be anti-werewolves for some godfucking reason and you just sadly happen to be a furry (you are Scott McCall, congrats)' or 'getting hit by your mom who thinks you're killing her even though you didn't do shit and you're literally like eight years old' or 'getting your house burnt down and your family murdered by a pedophile bitch called "Kate" for all things sacred (your name is Derek Hale in this scenario)' kind of unfair.
This is how he's going to go out. This is not something he can get out of again. This is the end of his journey, and he's leaning against a locked door and thinking about chess of all things. Maybe spite is what keeps ghosts alive. Because if that is the case, Stiles is so going to come back and haunt someone in this town. He's gonna haunt his room. Right here where he dies.
Jesus fucking Christ, he's seventeen years old and he's going to die and he's never going to apologize to his dad for lying to him and he's never going to hug his bestfriend ever again and he's never going to be able to stop Derek from blaming himself for not being there and he won't be there for Scott's seventeenth birthday or his own eighteenth and his dad is going to find him locked here in this room and he's going to find out the truth about the supernatural and Stiles won't be there, he won't be there anymore because soon he's going to be buried next to his mother and he won't think anything anymore because he'll be dead and gone forever.
What a fucking bummer.
This is oddly depressing. It's not like– Stiles doesn't want to die, but he did imagine this whole thing being more peaceful. Isn't he supposed to see some light or something? Because he doesn't see shit. Maybe that's because his eyes are closed. The bite stings, it burns like hell, it feels like his arm is on fire, like his skin is melting away; and the pain in his head keeps on raging and successfully eradicating every little thought he might be forming, all the fear and the sadness and the panic and almost his chess board, but he keeps that close. He needs that still.
He wants to fall asleep. He's in pain. This hurts, and he doesn't want to die but he doesn't want to be in pain anymore, and he feels like he's tugged in two different directions; he's pondering over the board, calculating where to put his piece. He's torn in between life and death with all this dirt in his lungs, all these things he still has to say and do.
Stiles can't die. He just can't.
He opens his eyes again. He thinks he hears something– someone, someone's voice. A familiar one. He thinks it's his dad, maybe, but his voice blends with his mom's – he misses her so much, and he's missed her for so long.
For a split moment, he's indecisive. Conflicted. His heart aches for his mother – it's been so long since he's heard her laugh, seen her eyes light up with happiness instead of being so dull like they had been before she died. It's been such a long time since she's said his name for the last time, when she could still remember him and remember what he meant to her, when she'd still loved him over everything else. He wants to see her, but she's dead.
She's dead.
She's dead, and he is not.
He is not and he doesn't want to be.
He thinks he sees that light again, white and golden, watching him from above; his sight swims and his heart is beating so loudly he can't hear anything else anymore. There's a static noise buzzing in his ears, and he can only stare at the light for a couple of seconds while the static gets louder and louder. He thinks it'll might give him something he can survive with, like a little ray of hope. Hope would be nice when he can barely hear his mother calling him over the sound of his stuttering, racing, relinquishing heartbeat.
Stiles manages to raise his arm somehow, and his movements are endlessly slow. He stares into the light and silently dares it to do something, but it doesn't. Either he's lost way more blood than this bite wound would cause him to lose, or he's going insane when he looks at this white ball of glowing energy and it leaves his mouth tasting not like blood and ash, but faint lemon and sugar.
The tips of his shaking fingers touch the cold metal of his key. He grabs it and turns it once, twice while everything gets dizzier and dizzier. He almost blacks out when he tries and miserably fails to skirt away from the door when it opens, and he collapses to the floor when his dad's voice takes the spot of his mom's, worried and louder and terrified like he had been when he was buried alive. Stiles can barely feel anything besides the pain, but he manages to open his drooping eyes a last time and wants to close them again because his headache intensifies again.
He tries to croak out, "Dad."
His dad replies something, but Stiles can't hear him. His eyes swipe over the golden-white light, now hovering closer to them. Lemon and sugar.
He's a little bit sorry. He really wants to see his mom again, and even if he got to see his dad before he died like he wanted to, he still feels too drawn to the other side.
He doesn't want to die.
Not now.
But still, exhaustion gets the better of him while his dad calls someone (presumably an ambulance), and his eyes fall closed; he tries to pry them open again, but he can't do it. His racing heart slows down rapidly, and then it gets slower and slower and slower until it feels like it's beating through syrup. This isn't normal, right? Is this supposed to happen? Stiles has no idea what exactly happens to a person's body when it rejects the bite.
It seems like he won't be able to learn anymore. He'll never play chess again. After all this, his piece gets swept off the board and discarded. He thinks he can hear someone saying his name. His real name. It sounds neither like his mother nor his father. He wanted to go to college somewhere out of California, get out of Beacon Hills. He wanted to take up law enforcement, maybe become... he doesn't really know what he wanted to do with his life. Now he won't get to figure it out. He wanted to go on a roadtrip with Scott somewhere in the future.
There is so much beauty in those. Roadtrips. Sleeping in crappy motels and singing along to happy songs even though his singing voice is absolute shit. Driving past neon lights and looking at the stars in the middle of the night. Watching the world wake up in a different city ever morning. He always wanted to get out of Beacon Hills someday, and now he's going to die here, in his childhood bedroom. What a tragedy.
What were his last words? A litany of curse words insulting Peter Hale. Jesus fucking Christ.
Stiles exhales quietly.
He's got a gigantic leap in front of him, and he's not going to get to live out so many things he wanted to have; but life has been interesting. Compelling. He doesn't like how this ends, and he doesn't like how he leaves his loved ones behind, but he will not be scared.
He will not be scared.
He repeats it to himself silently, the static noise drowns every other sound out.
He will not be scared.
And his heart stops.