A little snippet of the Sterek fic I’m working on… Hope you like :)
Thunder, Steal the Wind
On the day they buried his mother, there was a thunderstorm. Stiles had stood next to his dad as the rain had begun to splatter against the wood of the coffin in dull thuds. He had always expected that the day would be sunny. Would mirror his mother’s disposition, her joyful enthusiasm that had lasted right up until the end. It seemed like mother nature would take that into account. It was always that way in the movies, the sad end of one chapter and hopeful beginning of the next.
Someone had put up an umbrella, a large black swathe of canvas that had cast a shadow over him and his dad. In retrospect, Stiles would wonder why there was no shelter, no awning to cover them, his mom. With all the death in Beacon Hills, he’d have thought the cemetery would have it down to an art. But on the day they said goodbye, there was none. People were fidgeting; they pulled together under a collection of shabby umbrellas, lifting scarves over hair and memorial booklets like newspapers in the rain. The picture of his mom dripped in ink off the pages.
The pastor had valiantly gone on, saying words no one listened to as rain sluiced off the white lilies on the casket, bruising the delicate flesh of their petals. The grave began to fill with muddy water. There was nothing redemptive about this death.
Lightning arced across the dark greyness of the sky, filling the horizon with blinding white. Even the pastor looked heavenward, as if expecting God’s hand itself to reach down and smite him. What followed was a crack and boom of thunder directly above them, so loud it rattled the ground under Stiles’ feet and made him jump as surprised gasps spilled through the small crowd. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as electricity filled the air.
Finally, as the rain pounded harder, whipping at the scratchy suit Stiles wore, the pastor had turned to the Sheriff, apologies writ across his face, suggested that they moved inside. His dad nodded sharply and his hand tightened around Stiles’ own. He hadn’t let go since they’d arrived. The mourners were ushered in, unable to hide their relief at the prospect of shelter.
Shelter wouldn’t provide Stiles with relief, though. The storm smashed in apocalypse above him, light flashing like a jagged cut, a wound across the dark sky, followed too quickly by the echoing bang of hard noise. Stiles wanted to cover his ears, but he wouldn’t let go of his dad’s hand.
Grave workers hurried as soon as their backs were turned, struggling to remove the coffin from the damaging wet. Stiles followed his dad inside, leaving her there in the rain. He’d hated thunderstorms ever since.
Which is why, as he runs through the waterlogged forest after Derek’s dark form, tripping over tree roots and getting smacked in the face by stinging, wet branches, it’s with a certain amount of panic at the rain getting stronger and the distant rumble of thunder threatening worse.
Behind them, the shrieks of the… thing… are pitched high and angry. A whooping that ends in the high gurgling noise of pain. Pain inflicted by Derek’s claws digging deep into the creature’s stomach before he’d turned to Stiles with brown, mucky blood that smelled like squashed ants dripping off his claws, eyes red pinpoints in the darkness, and yelled “RUN!”
Stiles had run.