Chapter Text
Stiles kept looking at Scott as if his best friend were speaking in another language, because, clearly, there wasn't any other explanation. It was definitely not possible for Scott to have just said those words.
"What?" Stiles asked again, because what else was he supposed to do? It wasn't possible. It just wasn't.
"I said I don't think I can handle your fragile self anymore," Scott repeated. "You complain about everything. Everything hurts you. I don't know what to do anymore. Everything in this world will continue to hurt you. You can't protect yourself, so I'm always down a hand, because someone constantly has to be on 'Stiles duty.' You need to be babysat, and I can't afford to lose someone every time there's a threat in this city, because it happens a lot. And you keep putting yourself at risk. I don't know how to deal with this anymore. It's getting tiring."
Stiles hated that they were all werewolves, because he knew how heavy his scent must be with hurt right now. He knew they could all feel it. They could probably smell the tears he was desperately trying to hold back. He had never wanted to be like Derek so badly in his life—mysterious, the kind of way where no one ever knows what you're feeling. Because Stiles had never been this humiliated in his entire life, and he had survived Jackson fucking Whittemore in all his bully glory for years.
"I don't know what to say to you..." Stiles hated how small his voice sounded right now, but how was he supposed to hide his hurt from his best friends? "I'm human, Scott. You already knew that. I bruise, I get hurt, and I don't heal instantly. How am I supposed to not get hurt?"
Scott let out a heavy sigh and wiped his forehead with his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground as if trying to find the right words. When he finally looked up, he just looked tired. "Maybe that's the problem. You're too human for this."
Stiles’s jaw clenched. And what the hell was that supposed to mean? What did Scott expect to achieve with this? Stiles kept staring at him, completely incredulous.
"What—" Before he could form a proper question, Scott took a deep breath and interrupted him.
"I think this is not the place for you anymore."
Stiles knew his heart gave a violent thump in his chest; he knew they all heard it. Those words were like a knife to his heart—the way it stopped for a brief, agonizing moment, and was now beating so hard it felt like it was bursting out of him.
"What does that mean?" he asked through clenched teeth. The hurt felt like it could literally kill him, but the rage building inside his mind now was chilling.
"You know what it means."
"I want you to say it."
Scott let out another sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Don't be difficult, Stiles. You can understand just fine."
Stiles was incapable of stopping a tear from falling this time. "And if I ask you to give me the bite?" He knew his voice was completely choked up, making it painfully clear that he was holding back a sob. When he looked at Scott’s face again, he saw his uneven jaw clench tightly.
"No. I don't want to give it to you. I won't watch you die if it doesn't take."
And just when Stiles thought it couldn't possibly get any worse...
It really felt like someone had ripped his heart right out of his chest. Stiles looked around the room. He could see the rest of the pack looking anywhere but at him. Lydia was silently crying, and that gave him a very brief reprieve from the agony, because he knew that at least someone was feeling sorry for him. Someone cared. But then his eyes kept wandering around the room. He saw Malia’s blank face, Kira's detached expression, and Liam and Mason whispering to each other as if they weren't even paying attention to what was happening. Beside them stood Corey, Theo, and Hayden—and the sheer amusement on Theo's face made Stiles's stomach churn. He looked toward Deaton, and he could see the veterinarian staring fixedly at Scott, his face completely blank as well.
Scott's voice interrupted his wandering eyes, forcing his focus back onto his friend once more.
"I think it's better if you leave."
The rage Stiles felt in that moment could not be described. "I won't take a fucking step until you say it."
"Stiles, you need to stop—"
Suddenly, Stiles felt something snap inside his head, like a cork popping from a bottle. He could suddenly hear everything more clearly. The tears stopped falling, and he felt the anger completely topple over as he screamed, "SAY IT!"
Scott's eyes went briefly wide and flashed a dangerous alpha red. He took a step back, inhaling deeply.
"You're not part of my pack anymore. I don't want you in this pack. I want you to leave."
It felt like a rubber band snapping against his chest. Actually, it felt like multiple rubber bands snapping all at once, and his vision momentarily went white from the sheer pain. Someone had ripped his chest wide open and stolen his heart away—he was almost certain of it. The only thing that made him believe otherwise was that when his hand clenched over his chest, everything was closed and apparently in place.
He felt a hand touch his elbow and opened his eyes to see Deaton holding him steady on his feet. The vet's face looked genuinely sad, which was the most expression Stiles had ever seen on the man's face. Deaton raised his chin pointedly, and Stiles took a deep breath, imitating him. The older man gave an almost imperceptible nod.
He guided Stiles toward the front door of the McCall residence. Standing in the entrance hall, Stiles saw Melissa crying. Two more tears escaped his eyes as she looked at him in pure despair. Stiles rushed to her, holding her tightly against his chest.
She held him back as if her life depended on it, and Stiles kissed the top of her head.
"I love you. I will always love you. You're my kid no matter what," she said, squeezing him tight.
Stiles was unable to suppress a tiny sob. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. "I lo-love you too," he managed to choke out, kissing her head again before finally letting her go. He held her hand and squeezed it. "Thank you. For everything… Mom."
He kissed her hand just as a loud sob tore out of her throat, and then he hurriedly left the house. Deaton followed him out, guiding him all the way to the Jeep. When Stiles finally closed the driver's side door, Deaton reached through the window and held his forearm firmly.
"Traditionally, when someone is pushed out of a pack..."
Stiles nodded, wiping his face clean. "I know. I'll tell my dad. I'll be gone soon."
Deaton took a deep breath. "Take a month," the vet said firmly.
Stiles looked at him, completely exhausted. "It's twenty-four hours, traditionally."
Deaton nodded. "I know. And I don't give a damn. You have a month under my protection."
Stiles let out a fresh wave of tears, nodding as he squeezed Deaton's hand over his forearm. "Thank you."
Deaton only nodded back, releasing his grip and taking a step away as Stiles turned the ignition and peeled out into the street.
Stiles parked his Jeep in the visitor's spot at the station, taking a deep breath and resting his forehead against the steering wheel. He cleared his face the best he could with the collar of his plaid shirt and got out of the car.
When he entered the station, Parrish was walking out with another officer, smiling at something they were discussing. But the deputy's smile died the moment his eyes caught Stiles's tear-streaked face. Jordan made a quick gesture for the other officer to keep going, meeting Stiles halfway across the room. He placed a supportive hand on the small of Stiles's back and guided him straight toward the Sheriff’s office, not even bothering to knock.
His father looked up from his desk, lines on his face shifting as if he were ready to berate whoever had just barged in, but his expression morphed into pure panic the second he saw his son's face. Jordan pushed Stiles gently into the room, closing the door behind them before moving quickly to shut the blinds. Once the privacy was secured, he guided Stiles onto the couch across from the desk.
The Sheriff rounded his desk in a hurry, pulling a chair over to sit directly in front of Stiles. Parrish sat down close beside him on the couch, his body leaning in, worry written all over his face.
Noah grabbed one of Stiles’s hands in his own, placing his other hand on his son's shoulder and squeezing tightly. "What happened, son?"
Stiles took a deep breath and looked at his father, fresh tears tumbling over his eyelashes. "Scott..."
The Sheriff and his deputy straightened their backs and took deep breaths, exchanging a knowing, tense look between them.
"What did he do?" Noah asked, but it was obvious from his tone that he wasn't at all surprised that Scott was the cause of this.
"He pushed me out of the pack," Stiles said in a small voice. He stared down at his hands, nervously picking at his nails.
Noah closed his eyes, taking a few deep, grounding breaths before clearing his throat. "Why?"
"I'm too human, apparently."
Jordan knit his brows, looking directly at the Sheriff. "What the fuck?"
Noah rose from his chair and began to pace the length of the office. "What is wrong with that kid?" he asked irritably, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stopped and looked back at Stiles. "Did he tell you to leave?"
Stiles nodded, looking back down at the floor as the tears continued to fall.
Noah noticed Stiles's hand gripping his own chest and frowned. "What's wrong?" He sat back down, pulling his chair even closer, and placed his hands on Stiles's knee. "Stiles, are you hurt? Did he attack you?"
Stiles shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter and clenching his hand against his shirt. "It's the bonds... They all broke, Dad... It hurts so much!" he choked out, looking into his father's eyes as a sob tore through him.
Jordan immediately wrapped an arm around him, pulling Stiles into a tight side-hug. The deputy looked up at the Sheriff in a panic. Noah closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair for a fraction of a second, tears of his own blurring his vision at the sight of his son in so much agony.
Suddenly, the Sheriff stood up abruptly. He pulled his phone from his pocket and aggressively dialed a number. After just two rings, the person on the other end answered.
"How can I help—"
Noah cut him off instantly. "Where are you?"
There was a brief silence on the line, and the person's previously cheerful voice turned entirely serious. "Just arrived home. Why?"
Noah let out a relieved breath. "Come to the station. Right now."
He had barely finished speaking the words when the person answered, "On my way," and hung up the call.