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Stiles wasn't a part of the pack.
Derek himself had said so, point-blank, no doubts left. Just a scowl and a firm, 'You're not pack,' and then he'd walked off. Probably because Stiles had been trying to talk, despite a ball of panic gathering in his chest. He had managed to close the window and make it into his closet before it turned into a full-blown attack, grateful the closed space always made him feel safe instead of claustrophobic mid-panic. Sweaty and breathing hard, he half-dragged himself into the shower, barely managing to get his clothes off before practically collapsing into the tub.
He watched blood run down his drain, regretting distantly that he had probably torn his stitches. The bandages were soaking wet too. Deaton would probably throw a fit, not to mention Scott. Oh except Scott wouldn't talk to him--that was why he had called Derek, made him come over and tell him why none of the pack would answer his calls, threatening to drive out to the house if he didn't.
For the past year, he had been running with wolves. Earning a reputation, according to the last monster of the week. He had been looking forward to joking with the pack about that, telling them that, according to a witch at least, he was rumored to be a badass. Of course, he would have to admit that the nickname he had somehow gotten was "Little Red," and Jackson would tease him forever, but it would be funny anyway.
Except it wouldn't because apparently he wasn't pack.
He couldn't even call anyone to cry at because, far as he knew, all of his friends were pack. Even Lydia and Allison, who were definitely human. Danny wasn't in the pack, but he and Danny weren't exactly best friends. And now they'd probably never be friends, since Stiles wouldn't be needing to talk Derek around for Danny's sake, wouldn't need to help the boy learn how to survive as a human amongst wolves, as he'd helped Lydia and Allison. Maybe the girls would do it instead, if they decided to bring Danny in afterall.
Stiles didn't realize he was angry until he noticed his fingers drumming impatiently against the edge of the tub. His face twisted into a scowl, buzzing irritating growing into full fury the more he thought about it because, you know what, he most fucking certainly was pack. Not just because he had been there from the beginning, not just because he had helped Scott learn control in the first place, or because of how much he had done. But because they were his. He'd claimed them, and they had claimed him back. They came to them when they were hurt or scared, they helped him as he helped them, and they were his pack. So what if they didn't want him, he had picked them. Of all the packs in the world, of all the wolves and witches and fuck-only-knows-what-else, he had picked this pack to give his loyalty to, and as his dad could attest, Stiles' loyalty didn't come cheap, and it never, ever broke.
Stiles climbed out of the tub, peeling off the bandage and throwing it in the trash. He threw some toilet paper on top of it so his dad wouldn't see the blood, then pulled out the first aid kit and, with some maneuvering, rewrapped his waist and the gouges left behind by, of all things, a hellhound. They hurt, throbbed actually, and there was a lot more blood trickling free than there should rightly be, but he wasn't concerned. He had gotten hurt a lot to know when he should worry. Which, thinking about it, was probably why Derek had gotten so growly.
Suddenly, Stiles grinned at his reflection. Ha. As if he would let that bullshit slide.
Towel around his hips, he strolled back into his room, panic long gone. He had to trot back into the bathroom to grab his clothes, pulling his cell out of the pants' pocket as he dropped them into the hamper.
Scott didn't answer, not that he'd really expected him to. No one had answered in the three days since Stiles got his latest battlescar. He scratched absently at a bitemark from a wyvern on his shoulder; Deaton said it would never really heal, would always be a bit sore, but he had almost cheerfully mentioned it was better than the bite of a true dragon. At which point Stiles had practically attacked him for information on actual dragons.
Scott's voicemail chirped and Stiles grinned into the receiver, lounging against his desk languidly. "Hey, buddy. I'd have thought you, of all people, would know better. It's cool though. Oh I expect some fucking groveling, but I get it. I hate seeing you hurt too. But FYI, you pull this shit again, or let Derek pull this shit, and you will regret it." Stiles didn't need any more threat than that. He hung up with that, chuckling to himself as he puttered around getting dressed.
Satisfied that his bandages and scars were all securely hidden beneath a baggy hoddie(one of the best parts of having no fashion sense; he had no idea how Lydia pulled it off. He knew she had scars, too, dammit.) Stiles grabbed his keys and made his way down the stairs, making faces at every jarring step since there was no one around to see anyway. His dad was at work, and for once the jeep hadn't taken any hits from the latest monster, so he padded outside and climbed into the driver's seat. At which point he leaned back and had a nice rest. Ho'boy. So maybe this wasn't the best idea, but with the pack avoiding him he couldn't have any pain draining. Not cool. They had left him no choice but to knock some sense into their stupid heads while bleeding profusely.
Right in front of the whole school too. Oh joy. Stiles thumped his hand against the steering wheel as he drove, to a tune in his head. A very violent, vengeful tune. Oh there was definitely going to be some heads knocked together. Even if he had to enlist someone else to knock them. Heh, maybe he'd get Danny in the pack after all.
Pulling up to the school, at the back of the lot because it was already third period meaning his usual perfect spot was stolen, probably by some stupid freshman. Goddammit Derek. Huffing irritably under his breath, Stiles made the long, long walk across the parking lot to the front steps, where he had to rest again, leaning against the railing and pressing down on his wound. It felt hot. Infection-hot. Oh man Deaton was going to lose his shit. Whatever, it was clearly Derek's fault. He'd throw him to Deaton and run.
He'd been reduced to planning life sacrifices. Oh Derek was so going to pay.
Although his first instinct was to hunt down Scott and yell at him, as soon as he could walk again, Stiles headed for Jackson's class. The wolf was already perked up and staring when Stiles yanked the door open. Lydia looked up too, frowning, and Danny gave him a confused look. Perfect.
"Yeah, come on," Stiles grunted, grinning wickedly, ignoring the teacher's squawked protests. Whatever, he was busy. He jerked his chin at Danny when the boy didn't move, although Jackson and Lydia were already on their feet. "You too, Danny. It's about damn time we included you." With that, he turned and strode off, in search of Erica next. The three of them were behind him before he got ten feet down the hall, and suddenly Stiles was being dragged into a hug. Despite how much it hurt, he wrapped his arms as tightly around Lydia as he could, bowing his head to kiss her hair.
"I told him it was a stupid idea," Lydia mumbled into his shirt. Stiles grinned, ruffling her hair. She jerked away with a shriek, punching him in the shoulder. Right in the wyven, ouch. He grimaced at her and she made a face. "Sorry," she huffed as she fixed her hair. He doubted the apology actually had anything to do with punching him, but it sounded genuine. It wasn't much by normal standards, but it was Lydia, so he accepted it with a nod and a smile. Turning, he found Jackson staring at him, looking like a kicked puppy. Without a word, Stiles pulling the bigger boy into a hug as well, biting back a whimper when Jackson hugged him so tight he felt bones pop. At least Jackson's arms were around his shoulders instead of his waist like Lydia's had been.
"It's okay, man," Stiles mumbled against Jackson's shoulder, for the wolf's ears alone; he knew it was bad enough Jackson was letting Danny and Lydia see him hugging Stiles, he didn't need them to hear Stiles' reassurances. "We're pack still, no matter what. Family's forever, buddy." Jackson whined ever so softly, and they probably would have stood there for quite a while if Danny hadn't interrupted.
"Uh," the boy began, shuffling awkwardly. "What's going on here?" Jackson's hold loosened, signaling that he was alright for the moment, so Stiles pulled away to grin at Danny.
"Well, Danny Boy, Jackson's a werewolf and we're all part of a werewolf pack. Jackson and Lydia have been pushing to bring you in for months, and Derek's being a dick, so I'm punishing him with you. Sorry about that, actually. Come on, we have to collect the rest of the pups personally." Spinning on his heel--which, woozy, bad idea--Stiles pressed a hand over the wound again, trying to silently convince it not to bleed through the bandage, and strode off. Lydia took his arm, which was awesome because the tiny terror of a girl was much stronger than she looked while also being a master of subtlty. He leaned into her with a grateful sigh.
Jackson opened the door to Erica's class, and none of them said anything; Stiles just jerked his head at Erica and they strode off, Erica scrambling after them. She claimed Stiles' free arm with a wild-eyed grin. His favorite, slightly unhinged pup.
"Hey there, Catwoman. Start planning, there will be apologies, and also revenge," Stiles told her, and that was all it took. She kissed his ear, letting out a cheerful growl(werewolves rarely made sense) and they headed off to pick up Boyd and Isaac.
Isaac burst out of the door before either of them could open it, diving into Stiles' arms; the girls let go of him so he could cuddle their curly-haired puppy. Erica grinned at Boyd, who just let out a sigh and got up, picking up his and Isaac's bags and padding out of the room.
Isaac was hovering just behind him and the girls had reclaimed his arms as they made their way to the last classroom, where Scott was sitting in the back with a hangdog expression. He got up and crept over to the door, looking sad and dejected, waiting to be yelled at. Stiles pulled away from the pups and flung himself at his best friend, chest tight as he found himself suddenly fighting back tears. Without a word, Scott caught him, lifting him up just enough that Stiles wouldn't have to help when Scott strolled out of the room. Allison followed, smiling sheepishly, then gratefully when Boyd took Scott's bag from her. Their deadly princess, and their knight. Jackson, their lonely pup, and Scott, the kind one, and Lydia, the sad little queen. Danny--Stiles didn't know what Danny was yet. The steady one, probably.
Only one left.
Scott eventually let Stiles walk, and Erica and Isaac latched onto him, Lydia having claimed Jackson's arm while Allison took Scott's hand. They all piled into the jeep, giggling over the clown-carness, and Scott took the driver's seat while the others dragged Stiles into the back for proper cuddles. Stiles had a feeling Scott had noticed the blood and pain, but it was Isaac who slid a hand under his shirts to pain-drain via Stiles' hip.
At the house, everyone clambered out, careful not to jostle Stiles since they had all realized by that point how much he was hurting, pain drain or no. And now he was dizzy. He had not missed dizziness.
Only one more and then he could sleep, he promised himself.
Hands on his hips, Stiles stared at the house, still sad and burnt and more ruins than house. What was left of the roof had fallen in during the last rainy season, and the door was only clinging on by about half a hinge. Stiles was perpetually impressed by its ability to not just fall over completely. They were seriously going to need to do something about the whole place soon though; it was a damn hazard.
"Come on, you lonely king," Stiles called, turning away from the house to stare into the woods. Despite his anger, despite his anguish and fear and pain, the smile that curled his lips was gentle, full of affection for their big, sad wolf. "Your family's waiting."