Chapter Text
Chapter 1
From the very moment they’ve met, Derek made Stiles feel like an intruder. An inconvenient little pest that should stay out of this way.
“What are you doing here? Huh?”
The dude looked intimidating, that’s for sure. And just standing immobile in the distance, staring, didn’t help. Nor did the leather jacket and the whole bad boy looks – but above all that, it was mainly the posture, the less-than-friendly facial expressions that spoke volumes.
Let’s not forget that he and Scott had been alone in the woods, looking for a dead body, no less, with a killer at loose, so Derek’s attitude definitely did not put Stiles at ease.
Derek had decided to stop gawking at them like a creep and finally approached. “This is private property,” he deadpanned.
“Ah, sorry man, we didn’t know,” Stiles said, ill at ease. He was torn between feeling apprehensive (what if Derek was the killer?) and ashamed… just for being there.
Feeling ashamed for merely existing was nothing new to Stiles. He had done some therapy right after his mother died, and a couple of sessions after a few years (it’s not like his dad could afford him going to the psychologist all the time). He had been diagnosed with RSD – Rejection Sensory Dysphoria – on top of his ADHD. According to Google, RSD was a common symptom of ADHD. Yay, his life. So many blessings, all for him.
Intellectually, he understood that he was not a total failure. He knew that it was this stupid disorder that made me feel rejected by everyone, all the time. Pushed away. But that knowledge did little to make him feel better.
RSD or not, he had plenty of evidence that his perceptions were real. He was unpopular in school; he wasn’t bullied often (thank God for small mercies) but mainly he was invisible. He had had a crush on Lydia for years, and she’d barely acknowledged his existence until recently. In fact, the mere idea that someone like her might ever have an ounce of interest in someone like him, was laughable – a bad joke.
But it wasn’t just Lydia – he felt like he was invisible to everyone. He had no special skills or talents. He had not won the genetics lottery in the looks department – he had a mirror, he knew what he looked like. Tall and skinny, gangly really, just awkward and full of ugly moles, a plain face, plain eyes – nothing that anyone looked twice at. He was uncoordinated, clumsy, accident-prone, not a bit of elegance in his bones. When he danced, he seemed carefree, but he was very aware of how embarrassing his moves were. He was awful at Lacrosse – or any other sport, really; he wasn’t sure why he insisted. He was not charming, not athletic, not handsome, and his life was plain old boring. There was nothing interesting about him. And, very importantly: he was just a (very) fragile human. Breakable, easily hurt. Zero super powers. What use would a pack of werewolves have for him?
Sure, he was very smart. Sharp as a tack. He was good at figuring things out, researching, following clues. And when there was a big baddie after his friends, maybe he was a little bit useful to help them defeat him a little faster. But honestly? It’s not like his powers of deduction were unique. His friends would get there eventually, give or take a few minutes. They only said they needed him to humor him. Or more likely, to humor Scott. If his best friend wanted him around, then the pack would allow it, because Scott was a werewolf, and a goddamn awesome one at that. If the pack continued putting up with Stiles’ presence, it was surely because of Scott.
Besides his intelligence and resourcefulness, what else did he have going for him? He had a vast amount of knowledge in movie trivia and comic books, but that was hardly a relevant asset in real life. And his basic-level Klingon language skills would hardly get him a date.
Date? Pffff! At this rate, he would probably die a virgin. Nobody, guy or girl, showed any remote interest in kissing him, let alone something that didn’t involve clothes. His only option to getting laid in the foreseeable future was hiring a prostitute (no, hell no, thanks!) or finding someone even plainer and less interesting than himself (passing on that too, thanks very much). Call him a romantic, but he thought that these things should matter. He could kiss a random person, he supposed, but sex? It should be with someone who mattered, or not at all.
He never even daydreamed of a future serious relationship. That would have been wildly unrealistic. Because, obviously? Who would ever want a serious relationship with Stiles Stilinski? Who would wish to burden themselves with someone chaotic, hyper, overly talkative – and all his endless other flaws? Who would want to be around that every day? Out of their own free will? When there were unlimited better choices out there? So nope, not going to happen. He would not only probably die a virgin, but live single, and utterly alone.
He was okay with that, he supposed. Kind of. It was not great, but those were the cards that life dealt him with, and he was nothing if not realistic.
But it would be nice to, at least, have friends. Good, true friends, so he wouldn’t have to be so lonely. Not people who merely tolerated him, but who actually liked him, needed him. That would be awesome! He knew he shouldn’t be bitching and moaning about it, because he had his dad, and Scott, and the pack. But…
His dad was his dad, he had to love Stiles by default. Not because Stiles was special or anything, but only because of blood, so that didn’t quite count. They got along great, they took care of each other. Stiles was nothing but hugely lucky to have such a caring, honorable, wonderful man for a father. Although he often thought… well. He knew it couldn’t have been easy for his dad to raise him. A young widow, burdened by a kid. A hyperactive, difficult kid, who caused endless trouble and worry. The man worked too much and got paid too little, and still had Stiles to worry about. It hurt to think so, it really did, but Stiles knew his father would have an easier life if he was not in the picture. Maybe, if he were alone, he would already have found a nice woman to take care of him. Remarried, been happy. As it was, he was still hung up on his mom, after all these years. But maybe that was Stiles’ fault, too. He was a constant reminder of her, after all. Stiles couldn’t help but feel like a burden, and guilty about it.
Scott was a good friend. A great, amazing friend, a brother, a blessing. Someone to laugh with, cry with, hang out, play video games. Hell, even doing nothing together was great. Stiles was truly lucky to have him. But how long would that last? Any day now, Scott would realize that Stiles no longer fit into his new life. Scott was no longer the asthmatic, unpopular kid from before. Now he was a werewolf – a powerful and charismatic one at that. He had plenty of new friends now, and he had Allison. He had a pack. He no longer depended on Stiles for company, or for anything. They might distance themselves from one another – slowly, almost unnoticeably. Until they had little more in common, and Stiles found himself alone. Or maybe not; Scotty was nothing if not loyal, and he might hang out with Stiles for all eternity. Even if their friendship started feeling more like charity, Stiles didn’t know if he’d have the heart to bow out.
As for the pack, well. There was Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson (to a certain extent), Derek, Isaac, Boyd and Erica. Every single one of them was beautiful, interesting, had a superpower (or in Alison’s case, a super talent), and… did he mention beautiful, strong, and interesting? So yup – Stiles was the odd man out. The one who they let hang around for pity, or to humor Scott, or for whatever reason was not clear to Stiles. The one who always needed rescuing, or at least babysitting. The weak, ugly duckling among swans. (But the ugly duckling in the old tale was actually a swan, so the metaphor does not apply.) The boring human among awesome wolves – and all that jazz.
If only these people truly cared about him. If he actually belonged, how perfect would that be? And sometimes he believed so, even for a moment. Sometimes he felt like he was part of the pack – like he was wanted, needed, appreciated. Everyone treated him well enough, included him in their activities, talked to him like he mattered. But Stiles knew better; knew that couldn’t be true. It was better to be realistic, than fall flat on his face soon enough.
The funny thing was (well, not funny, but…), Stiles was not even that objectionable a person. He was not ugly enough, or annoying enough, or unpleasant enough in any way, to make anyone truly uncomfortable with his presence. He was just… unimportant. Irrelevant. Expendable.
He’d figured that this was why he talked so much, and he was so agitated. (Besides the ADHD, that is.) As long as he talked, he was being paid attention to (even if not taken seriously). As long as he moved around, he was being watched, even if just for the fear that he would knock something out accidentally. When he stopped moving and stopped talking, when he stopped calling attention to himself, it was as if he didn’t exist.
Of course, nobody knew how he really felt. He was sure he came across as – well, not confident, exactly. Just a happy-to-go dude who blabbered too much and lacked self-awareness; someone thick-skinned and sarcastic, who didn’t even blink at any offenses thrown at him.
They had no idea.
And Derek in particular, well. Being around Derek constantly just made it all so much worse.
Stiles couldn’t pinpoint when, exactly, the older man’s opinion of him started mattering so much. At which point his feelings for the wolf went from apprehension, to mistrust, to fear, to unease, to a weird not-friendship, to loyalty, to admiration, and… to something more. Of course, he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the “something more” part too much, because, really? Not happening, not in this lifetime, not in any known (or parallel) universe, so he might as well not think about it.
But the point was: Derek’s opinion of Stiles did matter. Which was unfortunate, because it was not a good opinion by a mile, and it hurt Stiles more than he would ever admit.
It’s not like Derek hated Stiles’ guts or anything. Nope, Stiles was not relevant enough to be worth of anyone’s real dislike. Hate required strong feelings, required caring. And care, Derek did not. He probably thought of Stiles as a mild annoyance, a silly and useless human teenager that insisted on running with wolves, when he had no business doing so. He probably saw Stiles as a liability, an inconvenience. An intruder to the pack. And that’s exactly how Stiles felt.
Hate would have hurt so much less.