The Day Stiles Smelt Smoke And His Dad Brought Home Strangers, Stiles/Derek
Title: The Day Stiles Smelt Smoke And His Dad Brought Home Strangers
Author: orange_rotted
Rating: G
Word count: 1300
Pairings: Stiles/Derek- Teen Wolf
Summary: Stiles is ten years old and notices a fire in the distance. Later that evening, his father brings home two teenagers who have been orphaned as a result of the fire and must wait out their fate at the Sheriff's house.
It started first as an uncomfortable burn at the edge of his nostrils, but soon with every breath Stiles took his lungs filled with the acrid, heavy air. Across the small roof-tiled surfaces of Beacon Hills, somewhere just beyond the start of the forest, plumes of dark mushroom-shaped smoke rose into the sky.
Although it was normal for Californian summers to be hot and dry, the past two weeks had been unusually so, and Stiles supposed that the inevitable had happened. The town had experienced a heat wave over the past week where everybody had shifted languorously between points A and B, as though moving through the stagnant air of an oven. Because of the heat, Stiles’ brisk morning walk to school this past week had been set to a soundtrack of crisp, dead leaves and twigs cracking under his feet. Although forest fires in summer were not unheard of and there had even been fires in the neighbouring towns, Stiles had only ever seen footage of it on the news or grainy black and white photos in the local newspaper.
The small town of Beacon Hills was neatly surrounded by a large area of woodlands and forest, but as Stiles was only ten, he would have been too young to remember any instances of fire before. Stiles couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something about the density and concentration of the smoke, the alien smell of it, made him feel uncomfortable. He felt an unmistakable shiver move down his spine.
Every step he took closer to home, he felt the patch of material where his backpack sat moisten and expand uncomfortably. He just wanted to get home and lose himself in some inane console game. He didn’t have much opportunity to act his age of late, so he was going to take full advantage of this afternoon while his dad was at work.
No more thinking of his mother.
No more worrying about his dad.
No more hypothesising about fires.
Just sweet, sweet one-on-one time with Link.
***
Four hours of button mashing, five cans of coke and a horrendously overcooked mystery meat casserole brought over by his neighbour Mrs Cassidy later and Stiles was bouncing off the walls. For the first few hours his insane bursts of energy could be attributed to the overconsumption of a certain kind of father-forbidden sugary beverage, but now it was different. It was pushing on 9:30 and his father still hadn’t made it back home yet. He had learnt earlier that year that late nights never amounted to anything good. Even though Mrs Cassidy had assured him that evening that his father was fine, that tonight he was just working late and she’d spoken with him not even an hour before, Stiles’ couldn’t help but think something was wrong. On the days where his mother was at her worst, when her strength waned in the face of her disease, Mrs Cassidy would bring over dinner for Stiles and his father would come home late.
He didn’t like being by himself at these times; there was a strange, buzzing kind of energy at night in Beacon Hills. Stiles found it spooky and had always made sure that every light in the house was switched on, that every window and door was firmly locked.
By 10:05 he felt the worry weep from his muscles as exhaustion began to take over. Sitting on the couch, trying desperately to stay awake in case there was news, his body went limp and his eyes grow heavy and drooped closed. The first few times he’d shaken his head, pinched his leg and sat up again, looking out through the window to the deserted and dark driveway outside. But as the minutes ticked past, the little pinch stopped working, the shakes of his head became a little sideways incline that squished his face closer into the comfortable fabric of the couch cushion and he fell asleep for real.
He woke again to the sounds of the front door opening. The soothing timbre of his dad’s voice drifted through the hallway as a hushed whisper. A series of scrapes were heard and unknown voices responded to his father in quiet, indistinguishable mumbles. Trying desperately to blink away his weariness, Stiles sat up and peered over the edge of the couch to the entrance. It had grown quite dark outside, the smoke of the day thinning out to a haze that diffused the lights in the night.
Stiles’ dad was dressed in his crumpled beige sheriff's uniform. That morning his clothes had been very clean, all crisp lines -- now they were smeared with lines of dirt and dark grey soot. Even his face had splotches here and there, hidden in the creases and crevices of his neck and ears. It was obvious a hurried attempt had been made to appear presentable, but it was no less obvious that Sheriff Stilinski had had a rough day outdoors. Stiles couldn’t place the mumbled background voices, and only when he saw two hulking shapes enter behind his dad did he finally decide they hadn’t been figments from his fading dreams. The first figure turned out to be a teenage girl, taller and leaner than most her age, she had a fierce look that would’ve frightened Stiles if it weren’t for the subtle tremble of her hands or the tired smudges under her eyes. The second shape to emerge was yet another teenager -- a boy this time. He looked a little younger than what Stiles assumed was his sister, for they both shared the same wild features, the same sharp-angled bone structure.
“Oh Stiles, you’re awake,” said Stiles’ dad as he saw the hair and eyes of his son peeking out from behind the couch. “Uh, these here are Laura,” he began as he pointed to each guest in turn, “and there behind her is Derek.”
Neither Laura nor Derek made a move to greet Stiles -- no wave or offer of a handshake, no ruffling of his hair as others did when his dad introduced him. Instead they gave him a cursory glance and nod of acknowledgement before they looked once more at the Sheriff. Stiles didn’t know what to do or say so instead walked up just behind his dad and clutched at his shirt, not wanting to look like a baby and reach for his dad’s hand, but still needing the comfort of his dad’s physical presence.
There was an air of anger around these strangers, the tense set of their jaws and the way their muscles tightened relayed their frustration. But Stiles also saw the clean tracks that ran down the dirt on their cheeks.
Stiles felt, more than saw, that these two people were experiencing emotions that he too only recently had had to endure.
“Now Stiles, Laura and Derek will be staying with us for a few days ‘til their Uncle Peter can make it back from a business trip,” his dad said, “Their family has been in a terrible accident and they’re hurting an awful lot right now, just like you did when your momma had to leave us, so you be good to them now.”
Stiles nodded absently in response, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes locked with the deep-set blue eyes of the teenage boy across the room. Like his sister, there was an animal wildness to the way Derek held himself, the way the features of his face scrunched and moved. But this boy was not so adept at hiding the wounds that bled right under this well-placed facade.
That look of anger and disorientation, the look of a boy who had nothing more in this world to lose -- it frightened Stiles. But he still couldn’t look away.
And neither, it seemed, could Derek.
Author's Note: This was written as Part 2 of my "Tasting Plate of Sterek" for a university assignment, which is why it might feel a little incomplete. I tried to finish whatever 'scene' or moment I was on once I reached a particular length.
Author: orange_rotted
Rating: G
Word count: 1300
Pairings: Stiles/Derek- Teen Wolf
Summary: Stiles is ten years old and notices a fire in the distance. Later that evening, his father brings home two teenagers who have been orphaned as a result of the fire and must wait out their fate at the Sheriff's house.
It started first as an uncomfortable burn at the edge of his nostrils, but soon with every breath Stiles took his lungs filled with the acrid, heavy air. Across the small roof-tiled surfaces of Beacon Hills, somewhere just beyond the start of the forest, plumes of dark mushroom-shaped smoke rose into the sky.
Although it was normal for Californian summers to be hot and dry, the past two weeks had been unusually so, and Stiles supposed that the inevitable had happened. The town had experienced a heat wave over the past week where everybody had shifted languorously between points A and B, as though moving through the stagnant air of an oven. Because of the heat, Stiles’ brisk morning walk to school this past week had been set to a soundtrack of crisp, dead leaves and twigs cracking under his feet. Although forest fires in summer were not unheard of and there had even been fires in the neighbouring towns, Stiles had only ever seen footage of it on the news or grainy black and white photos in the local newspaper.
The small town of Beacon Hills was neatly surrounded by a large area of woodlands and forest, but as Stiles was only ten, he would have been too young to remember any instances of fire before. Stiles couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but something about the density and concentration of the smoke, the alien smell of it, made him feel uncomfortable. He felt an unmistakable shiver move down his spine.
Every step he took closer to home, he felt the patch of material where his backpack sat moisten and expand uncomfortably. He just wanted to get home and lose himself in some inane console game. He didn’t have much opportunity to act his age of late, so he was going to take full advantage of this afternoon while his dad was at work.
No more thinking of his mother.
No more worrying about his dad.
No more hypothesising about fires.
Just sweet, sweet one-on-one time with Link.
***
Four hours of button mashing, five cans of coke and a horrendously overcooked mystery meat casserole brought over by his neighbour Mrs Cassidy later and Stiles was bouncing off the walls. For the first few hours his insane bursts of energy could be attributed to the overconsumption of a certain kind of father-forbidden sugary beverage, but now it was different. It was pushing on 9:30 and his father still hadn’t made it back home yet. He had learnt earlier that year that late nights never amounted to anything good. Even though Mrs Cassidy had assured him that evening that his father was fine, that tonight he was just working late and she’d spoken with him not even an hour before, Stiles’ couldn’t help but think something was wrong. On the days where his mother was at her worst, when her strength waned in the face of her disease, Mrs Cassidy would bring over dinner for Stiles and his father would come home late.
He didn’t like being by himself at these times; there was a strange, buzzing kind of energy at night in Beacon Hills. Stiles found it spooky and had always made sure that every light in the house was switched on, that every window and door was firmly locked.
By 10:05 he felt the worry weep from his muscles as exhaustion began to take over. Sitting on the couch, trying desperately to stay awake in case there was news, his body went limp and his eyes grow heavy and drooped closed. The first few times he’d shaken his head, pinched his leg and sat up again, looking out through the window to the deserted and dark driveway outside. But as the minutes ticked past, the little pinch stopped working, the shakes of his head became a little sideways incline that squished his face closer into the comfortable fabric of the couch cushion and he fell asleep for real.
He woke again to the sounds of the front door opening. The soothing timbre of his dad’s voice drifted through the hallway as a hushed whisper. A series of scrapes were heard and unknown voices responded to his father in quiet, indistinguishable mumbles. Trying desperately to blink away his weariness, Stiles sat up and peered over the edge of the couch to the entrance. It had grown quite dark outside, the smoke of the day thinning out to a haze that diffused the lights in the night.
Stiles’ dad was dressed in his crumpled beige sheriff's uniform. That morning his clothes had been very clean, all crisp lines -- now they were smeared with lines of dirt and dark grey soot. Even his face had splotches here and there, hidden in the creases and crevices of his neck and ears. It was obvious a hurried attempt had been made to appear presentable, but it was no less obvious that Sheriff Stilinski had had a rough day outdoors. Stiles couldn’t place the mumbled background voices, and only when he saw two hulking shapes enter behind his dad did he finally decide they hadn’t been figments from his fading dreams. The first figure turned out to be a teenage girl, taller and leaner than most her age, she had a fierce look that would’ve frightened Stiles if it weren’t for the subtle tremble of her hands or the tired smudges under her eyes. The second shape to emerge was yet another teenager -- a boy this time. He looked a little younger than what Stiles assumed was his sister, for they both shared the same wild features, the same sharp-angled bone structure.
“Oh Stiles, you’re awake,” said Stiles’ dad as he saw the hair and eyes of his son peeking out from behind the couch. “Uh, these here are Laura,” he began as he pointed to each guest in turn, “and there behind her is Derek.”
Neither Laura nor Derek made a move to greet Stiles -- no wave or offer of a handshake, no ruffling of his hair as others did when his dad introduced him. Instead they gave him a cursory glance and nod of acknowledgement before they looked once more at the Sheriff. Stiles didn’t know what to do or say so instead walked up just behind his dad and clutched at his shirt, not wanting to look like a baby and reach for his dad’s hand, but still needing the comfort of his dad’s physical presence.
There was an air of anger around these strangers, the tense set of their jaws and the way their muscles tightened relayed their frustration. But Stiles also saw the clean tracks that ran down the dirt on their cheeks.
Stiles felt, more than saw, that these two people were experiencing emotions that he too only recently had had to endure.
“Now Stiles, Laura and Derek will be staying with us for a few days ‘til their Uncle Peter can make it back from a business trip,” his dad said, “Their family has been in a terrible accident and they’re hurting an awful lot right now, just like you did when your momma had to leave us, so you be good to them now.”
Stiles nodded absently in response, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes locked with the deep-set blue eyes of the teenage boy across the room. Like his sister, there was an animal wildness to the way Derek held himself, the way the features of his face scrunched and moved. But this boy was not so adept at hiding the wounds that bled right under this well-placed facade.
That look of anger and disorientation, the look of a boy who had nothing more in this world to lose -- it frightened Stiles. But he still couldn’t look away.
And neither, it seemed, could Derek.
Author's Note: This was written as Part 2 of my "Tasting Plate of Sterek" for a university assignment, which is why it might feel a little incomplete. I tried to finish whatever 'scene' or moment I was on once I reached a particular length.