mortala || stiles and the avengers (CURRENTLY UNDER EDITING)

chapter one {edited}

"Stiles," Scott began, "It has to happen. We can't keep protecting you without putting the pack at risk."

Stiles blinked, a rush of frustration filling him, "And I'm not pack? That's fucking rich. I'm the whole reason you didn't get yourself killed, the reason you didn't kill your fucking girlfriend when you thought she liked that douchebag over there," he pointed an accusing finger at Jackson, "I was there when you couldn't play lacrosse, when you broke your arm trying to climb that tree. I was always fucking there and you have no right to say I'm not pack."

Red eyes flared at him and Scott bared his teeth, "I never asked you to do any of that. I never asked to have a pathetic nerd following me around my entire life!"

Laugh tinged with bitterness, Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head, "Yeah, guess you didn't."

Something akin to guilt bled into Scott's chocolate eyes, but Stiles didn't let himself hope for someone to suddenly yell out 'Sike!'

"We'll still see you around, Stiles," Scott told him, voice soft like he was talking to a small child.

Stiles shrugged one shoulder, "Yeah, see you around," he murmured as he turned and left the loft. He considered taking the small crumb of what he had gotten used to, letting the loyalty fizzle out into just seeing each other around, but just thinking about staying to be alone sent pain stabbing into his chest.

He had to leave. He had to get out of Beacon Hills.

friday, november 7
stilinski residence
third person pov

Stiles scrubbed at the tears because maybe, just maybe if he did himself of the tears he could in turn get rid of the memories, the betrayal, everything.

He couldn't look back, not when he was kicked out of the one thing he felt to be real, not when he was leaving his home. So he didn't. He didn't let himself look back when he passed the 'Thank you for visiting Beacon Hills' sign, not when he reached the airport, and definitely not when he boarded his plane. He had to keep his eyes ahead, to the side, to the sky, anywhere but his past.

———————

saturday, november 8
new york city, new york
third person pov

It was two am by the time Stiles landed in NYC and two thirty when he finally got into a taxi.

"Where to?"

Stiles looked up at the old taxi driver, his wire glasses and toothy smile that peeled out from under his white mustache. He looked at his hand to find the messily scribbled address and recite it to the friendly driver.

"542 East Knight Street."

"Ah, very nice, the apartment complex?"

Stile nodded.

"Well, young man, that's a good place, but a bad neighborhood, you be careful, you hear?"

"I hear you, sir."

Eyes narrowed at Stiles for a moment before the old man smacked his lips together and nodded his approval of Stiles' sincerity, "Good."