What Our Dead Teach (p1)
(Alpha!Derek, werefox!Stiles, canon violence, mild gore, spoopy stuff, some pack angst, some post nogitsune and other stuff angst, anchors.)
This shouldn’t have happened.
His nail breaks when he sinks his fingers into the earth like claws, and pulls himself forward as far as he can. There’s no point in holding in the loud hiss of pain that leaves him, or the long, drawn out groan as he drags himself across the ground at a snail’s pace. He’s been in the woods since nightfall, and by the look of the sky right now, Stiles would say it’s just about time to get up and go to school. For normal teenagers, anyway.
In times like this, he misses being one of those teens. To get up, eat a Pop-Tart, find that missing sock, run out the door with a quick hello-goodbye to his dad coming home, and off to school in his Jeep. Totally average high school student stuff sounds marginally better than crawling around in the dirt, bleeding, bruised, there’s definitely some snot and tear action going on here, maybe some broken bones, too.
Stiles drags himself forward another inch, and tries to remind himself that this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him. It’s not, there are worse things. He just can’t… think of any of them right now.
“Really fucking helpful, brain.”
His brain reminds him that talking to himself isn’t a good sign. It also comes up with a worse thing: Gerard. Murdered friends. Nogitsune.
“Good one,” he mutters to himself, reaching out with his now-bleeding hand and fastening his fingers around a tree root. It provides him with much better leverage than the stupid dirt, and Stiles manages to actually pull himself into a half-reclining position. It’s not ideal, but it will do.
It’s almost light enough to see the body he left behind in the clearing by the time he realizes he’s been leaning against a tree doing nothing for at least twenty minutes. Swearing under his breath, Stiles sticks his—Ow ripped off finger nail shit—hand into his pocket to pull out the small vial he shoved in there before leaving the house. Inside, the thick, ink-like substance seems to shudder and look at him as he swirls the stuff in front of his face. He grimaces at the smell when he pulls the top off, and tries not to think too hard about where it came from. This is not what he wanted, not the way things were supposed to go. No one’s supposed to do this, and for, like, twenty different really good reasons.
But, Stiles can see the body through the trees.
He can see a leg twitching.