Ficlet: the line had been crossed || PG-13 || eventual Stiles/Derek
Author: marishna
Title: the line had been crossed
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: eventual Stiles/Derek
Character/s: Stiles, Derek
Summary:
On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.
He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.
Muscle memory.
Warnings: N/A
Content Notes: Second part of this fic.
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 935
Prompt: 244 - Dust
Author's Notes:Not quite a year between parts. Whoops. Also, when I started writing this it was right around when spoilers for season 6a had started to leak out but I had this idea rattling around in my brain for probably a good year prior to even putting fingers to keyboard for it, and it won't end up the same way (I don't think? TBH I only watched a few eps into 6A because I don't like to see things end and I'm in healthy denial).
On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.
He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.
Muscle memory.
It felt normal to steer the Jeep around ruts and dips in the dirt road; a road that shouldn’t actually be a road. It completed at a dead end where the old rickety remains of a house, long ago abandoned, stood. Stiles pulled up to it and stopped in the yard when his foot automatically pressed the brakes.
He got out of the Jeep and stared up at the charred remains of what was once a beautiful home. Stiles could vaguely remember seeing pictures of it somewhere, maybe in local history books or a newspaper article. He couldn’t remember when it burned down and...
"Who lived here?" He wondered idly, then froze.
There, in the back of his mind. The feeling that he was forgetting something and it gnawed at his guy as he slowly walked across the yard to the questionable set of stairs to the front porch. They held as he climbed them, trailing his fingers over the worn railing as paint chips flakes off in his wake.
The far side of the porch sagged and the floor didn’t look steady. Stiles looked around for... anything, really. But there were no footprints left behind in the dirt and soot, no obvious signs of life, no one way to-wait.
Out of the corner of his eye Stiles caught a familiar marking on the deck railing. His heart thumped hard as he slowly approached.
Gouges in the paint and wood, along the framing for the porch, were claw marks. Deep, intentional. Stiles trailed his fingertips over them lightly, breath caught in his throat. Down below, lighter than the gouges, two initials.
E.R. Erica Reyes.
Stiles felt sick from the discovery, suddenly realizing that the part of him that was missing wasn’t just about him. Their whole pack was affected and they had no idea. This place, this burned out shell of a family home, once belonged to them.
Stiles tried the door and wasn’t surprised when it swung open easily. He stepped inside the once-grand house and looked around, taking in the blackened walls and floor, smashed glass and jagged boards that once made full walls. To his right he could see a couple ratty old chairs beside a filthy table.
At a glance Stiles couldn’t see any obvious clues about who he was looking for and his memory remained unhelpfully clouded as his gaze ran across things that gave him an achingly familiar feeling in his gut. Sighing, he turned to leave because he didn’t have enough time to search the house fully, and truthfully didn’t want to do it on his own.
"I’d probably fall through those," he muttered when he passed the stairs.
At the last second, out of the corner of his eye Stiles noticed a disturbance in the dust and dirt on one of the bottom-most steps. He crept closer and pulled out his phone to use the flashlight app to get a better look.
Someone else wouldn’t have noticed this but one of the few things drilled into him from childhood were Boy Scout tracking symbols. He spent an entire summer learning them for the fall but a couple weeks before the group started up again his mom got sick and stayed that way.
The symbol in front of him on the bottom step was ‘message this way’, indicated by a box made of bits of plaster and drywall, and an arrow pointing to the doorframe to the living room. Stiles turned his flashlight to the doorway and wiped at the coating of filth with his shirtsleeve. He peered in close, trailing his fingers over the wood grain for hints.
He found what he was looking for on the panel inside the living room, almost six feet up. It was a growth chart, starting about a foot from the ground. The marks at the bottom were too faint for Stiles to read, lost to age and fire long ago. But further up he noticed marks carved into the wood. Initials.
"C.H.," Stiles read, running his fingers softly over the light scratches. "L.H. and D.H."
Immediately Stiles got the clear image of staring down at the shelf the pack signed during the Senior Scribe. He could see the very same initials vividly in his mind, bringing him a sense of bittersweet resignation and ... hope?
"Derek Hale," Stiles said aloud and something in his chest loosened for the first time in weeks. Then he retraced the other initials. "Cora? And... " Stiles scratched at his neck in frustration as he tried to remember the other name but it refused to come to him. It didn’t matter though, because when he finally tracked Derek down he could ask what the name is himself.
"Can’t get rid of me that easily," Stiles announced to the house. There was no reply, of course, but Stiles felt energy backbuilding within himself. He took a final deep breath, trying to hold on to the scent of what he was owed and knew he needed back.
He took a picture of the height chart but left the arrow, and hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it again.
Title: the line had been crossed
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: eventual Stiles/Derek
Character/s: Stiles, Derek
Summary:
On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.
He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.
Muscle memory.
Warnings: N/A
Content Notes: Second part of this fic.
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count: 935
Prompt: 244 - Dust
Author's Notes:Not quite a year between parts. Whoops. Also, when I started writing this it was right around when spoilers for season 6a had started to leak out but I had this idea rattling around in my brain for probably a good year prior to even putting fingers to keyboard for it, and it won't end up the same way (I don't think? TBH I only watched a few eps into 6A because I don't like to see things end and I'm in healthy denial).
On his way out of town, praying his Jeep would hold together long enough for the journey, Stiles made a sharp left turn onto a dirt road.
He knew this road well. Too well, in his father’s mind, but Stiles had many fond memories of cutting through to the preserve that way. It was what made Stiles unexpectedly decide to take the impromptu journey down this childhood path that was strange.
Muscle memory.
It felt normal to steer the Jeep around ruts and dips in the dirt road; a road that shouldn’t actually be a road. It completed at a dead end where the old rickety remains of a house, long ago abandoned, stood. Stiles pulled up to it and stopped in the yard when his foot automatically pressed the brakes.
He got out of the Jeep and stared up at the charred remains of what was once a beautiful home. Stiles could vaguely remember seeing pictures of it somewhere, maybe in local history books or a newspaper article. He couldn’t remember when it burned down and...
"Who lived here?" He wondered idly, then froze.
There, in the back of his mind. The feeling that he was forgetting something and it gnawed at his guy as he slowly walked across the yard to the questionable set of stairs to the front porch. They held as he climbed them, trailing his fingers over the worn railing as paint chips flakes off in his wake.
The far side of the porch sagged and the floor didn’t look steady. Stiles looked around for... anything, really. But there were no footprints left behind in the dirt and soot, no obvious signs of life, no one way to-wait.
Out of the corner of his eye Stiles caught a familiar marking on the deck railing. His heart thumped hard as he slowly approached.
Gouges in the paint and wood, along the framing for the porch, were claw marks. Deep, intentional. Stiles trailed his fingertips over them lightly, breath caught in his throat. Down below, lighter than the gouges, two initials.
E.R. Erica Reyes.
Stiles felt sick from the discovery, suddenly realizing that the part of him that was missing wasn’t just about him. Their whole pack was affected and they had no idea. This place, this burned out shell of a family home, once belonged to them.
Stiles tried the door and wasn’t surprised when it swung open easily. He stepped inside the once-grand house and looked around, taking in the blackened walls and floor, smashed glass and jagged boards that once made full walls. To his right he could see a couple ratty old chairs beside a filthy table.
At a glance Stiles couldn’t see any obvious clues about who he was looking for and his memory remained unhelpfully clouded as his gaze ran across things that gave him an achingly familiar feeling in his gut. Sighing, he turned to leave because he didn’t have enough time to search the house fully, and truthfully didn’t want to do it on his own.
"I’d probably fall through those," he muttered when he passed the stairs.
At the last second, out of the corner of his eye Stiles noticed a disturbance in the dust and dirt on one of the bottom-most steps. He crept closer and pulled out his phone to use the flashlight app to get a better look.
Someone else wouldn’t have noticed this but one of the few things drilled into him from childhood were Boy Scout tracking symbols. He spent an entire summer learning them for the fall but a couple weeks before the group started up again his mom got sick and stayed that way.
The symbol in front of him on the bottom step was ‘message this way’, indicated by a box made of bits of plaster and drywall, and an arrow pointing to the doorframe to the living room. Stiles turned his flashlight to the doorway and wiped at the coating of filth with his shirtsleeve. He peered in close, trailing his fingers over the wood grain for hints.
He found what he was looking for on the panel inside the living room, almost six feet up. It was a growth chart, starting about a foot from the ground. The marks at the bottom were too faint for Stiles to read, lost to age and fire long ago. But further up he noticed marks carved into the wood. Initials.
"C.H.," Stiles read, running his fingers softly over the light scratches. "L.H. and D.H."
Immediately Stiles got the clear image of staring down at the shelf the pack signed during the Senior Scribe. He could see the very same initials vividly in his mind, bringing him a sense of bittersweet resignation and ... hope?
"Derek Hale," Stiles said aloud and something in his chest loosened for the first time in weeks. Then he retraced the other initials. "Cora? And... " Stiles scratched at his neck in frustration as he tried to remember the other name but it refused to come to him. It didn’t matter though, because when he finally tracked Derek down he could ask what the name is himself.
"Can’t get rid of me that easily," Stiles announced to the house. There was no reply, of course, but Stiles felt energy backbuilding within himself. He took a final deep breath, trying to hold on to the scent of what he was owed and knew he needed back.
He took a picture of the height chart but left the arrow, and hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it again.