Unsteady | Sterek

Five: If you love me, dont let go

He counts his fingers and counts backwards from twenty, trying to calm his heartbeat and steady his breathing. Isaac had promised to be waiting for him inside, just in case something goes wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

He knows they're be able to hear him, even if he is in the Jeep, but he likes the pretence. It gives him some semblance of control.

He shakes off the thoughts and grabs the folder from the seat beside him, taking a deep breath and counting his fingers one last time for reassurance. Just this one meeting, that's all he'd agreed to. One meeting.

The walk to the front door feels like eternity; long enough for his heart rate to increase again. Cursing softly, he counts by two to thirty and takes a deep breath, pushing open the front door in a moment of bravery. Instantly, all the conversations cease and eyes are stuck to him like he's glue. He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts on the spot.

They still don't know about how broken he is. They don't need to worry about Stiles. Stiles is fine.

"Hey," Isaac says loudly, waving him over. "Did you get any info?"

To anyone else, the question would have been completely innocent and maybe a little pushy but to Stiles it's a lifeline, an icebreaker. He smiles tentatively and walks to the table, brushing up against Isaac more than was necessary but he needs the physical anchor.

"Okay," he says, clearing his throat again. "Based off what Isaac told me, there's a coven in town. With the connections this pack has, I reached out and connected with a few supernatural beings just outside town. Lovely people, very generous the death threats. Uh, recently, there was a fight between two covens, uh, the Cleyers and the Romeers. The Cleyers completely wiped out the Romeers coven. The Cleyers moved, last seen heading straight towards Beacon Hills. They're freaking scary man, everyone I spoke to refused to say anything that might cross them."

Derek crosses his arms. "Are they all witches?"

Stiles lets out a breath. "Not all," he admits, pulling out a sheet of paper with messy notes. "The Cleyers have a wild card. There's a boy, the same age as me and Scott, Markis Donver. He's, well, he's a werewolf."

"Another werewolf?" Scott says.

"No," Stiles gasps dramatically. "The one we've known about for months. Yes another werewolf."

Scott and Derek glare at him. Isaac just smothers a laugh. "Do you know what this Cleyers coven want?" Derek asks, annoyed.

Stiles shrugs. "No one outside the coven gets any contact unless directly approached by a member."

"So, no."

"No," Stiles agrees. It's easy to fall back into this, hide behind the snarky, bubbly Stiles everyone seems to tolerate. It's easy to slot right back in. It's easy to ignore the uneasy glances thrown his way, easy to ignore the tension that everyone seems to be choking on. It's easy. It's too easy.

"There was very little information in that," Peter says snidely. "Just a lot of babbling."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You do the research then," he growled, the irritation in his voice surprising everyone. "Make yourself useful for once."

"But I'm already useful," Peter points out, something in his eyes that Stiles can't quite figure out. "And I would hate to take away what actually makes you helpful to the pack. If you didn't have a purpose, what would we do with you?"

"That was low," Scott mutters.

Stiles glares at the older werewolf then throws his hands up. "Whatever," he seethes. "Just...whatever." He spins on his heel, ready to walk out but someone grabs his elbow.

Stiles recoils from the touch as if he's burnt, terror seeping from his eyes and taunt muscles. His heart rate skyrockets. Instantly, Peter lets go. Stiles shakes as everyone's eyes fill with horror and sudden knowledge.

"I-I'm gonna...go," he breathes before hurrying out the door and down to the Jeep. The werewolves hear him mutter to himself, counting, until he drives away, his heart never slowing down.

"What the hell was that?" Derek barks. No one answers.

Isaac gets up and runs for the door.

Something always goes wrong.