Five years ago, Stiles Stilinski left Beacon Hills.

He left behind his enemies.

His friends.

His father.

When asked, he would respond with a certainty that left no room for doubt or questions, that by escaping his former life at this point of time and in the way he did, he left no one behind because they had already thrown him out in the cold and left to the wolves when he made the final decision to leave and save himself.

He had long since been abandoned.

There were few things that Sheriff John Stilinski sincerely regretted.

He regretted being unable to save his wife from an incurable sickness that took her gradually from her husband and son.

He regretted being unable to save the Hale's, unable to see through Kate Argent and expose her as the insane serial killer and pedophile that she was before her psychopathic hate claimed so many innocent lives. So many children lives.

But the one thing he regretted the most turned out to also be the one horrible failure he actually was irrevocably at fault for. The one act he couldn't take back no matter how much he wished to.

He regretted betraying his only child.

Because the day he did, he lost his whole world.

And the bitter words his own father once told him still haunted him day and night.

'You don't know what you have until you lose it.'

For once, not even the trusted bottle of Jack Daniels could drown out his sorrow and guilt.

There were five mistakes that finally drove Stiles Stilinski away. Five mistakes that destroyed his faith in the people he once would have called not simply friends but family. The strange thing was that they weren't isolated incidents that he could name and put a label on; most of them were not even actions as such.

They were bad decisions.

Such are the worst demons to be haunted by, and fuck it all, could Stiles tell a tale about being haunted by demons. Literally. Really, he was a professional on this topic by now. Still, he was at least honest enough with himself to accept that part of the blame for their fracturing into this mess did belong on his shoulders – the difference to other times was that he refused to also shoulder his friends' part of the blame. Everyone got their dues, and he was paying his.

It was high time that his so-called friends, his high and mighty pack, did the same.

Shame that none of them cared to.

Taking a good long look in the mirror was never fun, but sometimes it was necessary. He did so, and acted according to what he saw. He got his life back on track, and to this day, had not a single regret.

Could he have left without hurting anyone? Maybe … but unlikely.

Could he have tried to mend the burned off bridges? Not likely. At all. The pack didn't seem to even notice how they behaved … and he was passed the point of giving any fucks.

Could he have stayed in contact? Could he have let them stay as a part of his life? Exercised the necessary effort to stay part of their lives? … no. There was too much water under the ruins of their bridges. There was just really too much water.

Stiles had accepted his lot in life. He had accepted their decisions and moved on.

He didn't look back.

Those that stayed behind did look forward.

They looked for any sign of him.

His back never turned to give it to them.

I did everything I could.I denied myself. I sequestered myself away behind masks and clichés. Everything I ever did, I did for them.

But remembering how it ended, remembering how I nearly lost all that made me my own unique person, I can't help but ask myself if they were worth it? Were they worth the shadows that haunt my mind in the middle of the night? Were they worth the tears I still shed when darkness is at its firmest? I don't know. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have hesitated to say yes, to proclaim that I would willingly give my life for my pack, my friends, my family. Now?

Now I'm thankful I never did.

I'm thankful that I saved myself before their demands and expectations, their self-righteousness and arrogance could consume me. I'm so very thankful for those who saved me from myself.

In the end, the only regret I could possible voice, was that I regretted how long it took me to recognize the truth.

All I ever cherished ended up to be one-sided.

And it was sobering.

Derek remembered.

It was difficult not to.

In the days following the Nogitsune's defeat, they had all been left swimming. They had tried to make sense of what had happened, of the losses they suffered. And somehow, along the way, the decision was made that Stiles … couldn't be allowed to be pack anymore. He was the center point, the one constant their latest losses had, and seeing, interacting with him, was just too painful.

It was barely a conscious decision. More of a silent agreement.

Derek had half a mind to speak up, to tell them that Stiles was even deeper affected than anyone else by the Nogitsune's possession, that they couldn't let a member of their pack suffer alone, but … that traitorous little part in his mind that needed something, someone to blame, held his tongue. For once, he wanted to lock up the memories and continue on.

It wasn't right … but it was a decision he could live with.

Scott threw Stiles out of the pack.

… for all his justifications, Derek should have known that something wasn't right.

Normally …

A normal Stiles wouldn't have accepted this so quietly.

It was just one more regret.

It had hurt.

Losing the pack, the people I had adopted as family, hurt terribly. But I could see why they had done so, I could understand. In retrospect, I know that it was the creeping depression that let me accept their callous decision so easily.

Normally …

I wouldn't have taken it. I would have protested.

Thankfully, I don't need to fear being abandoned like that ever again. The friends, the self-assembled little family I have built myself in the last few years would never treat me like that. For once, I was safe.

For once I was the one cared for.

I don't regret it.

Scott remembered.

He wished he didn't.

He remembered her hair, her eyes, her laughter and smile. He remembered the scent of her hair and the beat of her heart.

And he remembered her death.

It was engraved in his mind, the reason he woke up at night, bathed in sweat, her name on his lips. No matter how much time went by, he would never cease to love her.

But Scott also knew that he hadn't handled Allison's death well. He had handled it terribly. Instead of confronting the issue head-on, he had taken his anger and grief out on the nearest source: Stiles. His brother in all but blood.

It had been so easy.

The Nogitsune had possessed Stiles, it had worn his face. And after they had defeated the fox demon, there had only been one person left to blame. Stiles had taken it. He had taken the silent accusations, the unspoken blame, the slights and outright insults. He had taken and swallowed them. Now, looking back, Scott felt a crushing shame. If he had just talked with his best friend, if he had opened his damned trap to do more good than harm …

'If' was a terrible word. It brought nothing but torment in the aftermath of mistakes.

If Scott had the chance to see Stiles ever again?

He would say sorry.

One lesson I learned was that years of friendship …

… could turn into nothing in the blink of an eye.

After Scott …

It took me so long to trust anyone again. Even as thankful as I was to Shelly and Adrian, I could never completely let down my shields. The fear was suffocating. I don't know why they never gave up on me, but they persisted …

… and I'm so very thankful for them. For my friends. My family.

Saying 'Thank you' could never be enough.

Isaac remembered.

It was bitter.

He had loved Allison, and seeing the face of her murderer, even though he knew that Stiles hadn't been the one to kill her, was more than he could bear.

He hadn't turned violent, hadn't ostracized him any more than the others, but in contrast to them, Isaac knew how abuse looked.

He knew the signs when he saw them.

The baggy clothes, pallor. The violet bruises beneath his eyes, the way he moved stiffly. Flinching when doors were thrown shut or loud voices shouted. Paling when alcohol was mentioned, staying traitorously silent when parents were brought up.

Isaac noticed.

He didn't miss Stiles … nevertheless, Isaac couldn't forget the one mistake he made in regards to the dark-haired teenager that he wouldn't forgive himself. He saw. He noticed. He recognized. And he didn't do anything.

It left a bitter taste.

I had been alone.

Before I left Beacon Hills, I had been alone. So utterly alone.

The memories of what the fox demon had done in my body, wearing my face, haunted me. I couldn't function, adrift in a world that didn't even want me. I didn't know how to cope.

Any support I ever had, gone. My friends, accusing. My father, even more so. Terribly disappointed. Horribly ashamed. When I came home from a day of school spent being treated like scum, I was welcomed to either an empty house or my father drowning his sorrows, his disappointment in Jack Daniels and being only vocal in his complains.

He left me no illusions as to my mistakes, my failures, the disappointment I was and the shame I laid on his family's name. Really, he left me no illusions whatsoever about my non-existent worth.

Translated I got the message that he wished he had drowned at birth.

I was alone.

I'm not anymore.

And while I'm still not ready to look at a bottle of Jack Daniels without flinching and his words haunt me even in light of day, I am at least ready to come to my friends and ask for help.

I can trust again.

It tastes like honey.

His father remembered.

Not even the sweet call of absinthe could erase the memories.

John Stilinski wasn't proud of how he behaved, and all he could do was hope that somehow, someday, he could repent.

In the aftermath of his son's possession by the Nogitsune, he hadn't been able to look Stiles in the eye. He had taken the tempting advice of his trusted friend Jack Daniels and drowned his sorrow in the sweet rush of alcohol. It was so easy to follow the familiar call, to lose himself in the one thing that never failed him.

He had left his broken baby boy to fend for himself.

John had seen how the boy had slowly fallen apart, torn into shred by memories that weren't even his own and the reactions they provoked … in everyone. He had seen how Stiles had slowly become more and more depressed, burdened and hollow beneath accusations he wouldn't defend himself against. He had heard his screams at night, had heard his pleas and excuses. He had felt how much weight his already slender son lost, resembling a skeleton more than a teenage boy, barely more than skin and bones.

He had seen, heard, felt.

And he had stayed silent. Deaf. Blind.

Not willing to look beneath the image of a monster he saw when he looked at his flesh and blood.

Until his son's bed sheets had come back bloody, and he had seen the angry red scratches on those pale bony arms.

John just couldn't do it anymore.

He had already lost his wife to her own mind, he couldn't watch the same thing happening to his son. Not to his baby boy. This horror, he wasn't strong enough to bear. He did the only thing he could.

He contacted the local mental health facility. Eichen house.

But by the time everything had been finalized and they were ready to take him in, Stiles had already been gone. Until this day, John didn't know if his son had caught wind of what the older man had done.

He prayed that the answer would be 'no'..

Because if he didn't, if they met ever again, there could be a chance of reconciliation.

All he could was hope.

I never really faulted my father.

While I will admit that he hurt me, that he disappointed me, I could never hate him. He had already lost my mother, and I have to believe that it was the fear of losing his child the same way that drove him to … well, betray me. I have to believe that, because this way I can eventually forgive him. For that betrayal, at least.

I'm still hurt. I don't know if I will ever truly forgive him without reservation, but a childish part of me wants to keep the option open. I have come a long way since I left Beacon Hills behind. I have built myself a new family, but my father is the one person of my past that I will never completely write off. I can't.

Sick as it is ...

I still love him.

I always will.

He is my father.

Lydia remembered.

He had been her only competition.

Even possessed, even at odds with his own sanity, Stiles had been her only competition, her only equal. And she had never forgiven Scott for driving him away or herself for acting like an absolute bitch.

After Allison's death, she had blamed him. Logically, she knew that he was just as much of a victim, that he, in fact, had suffered the most at the Nogitsune's hands. She had seen how he had wasted away, how he had become barely more than a shadow of his former self.

But she couldn't care for it.

For him.

It had hurt too much.

And then, he disappeared. Collecting what he needed to make himself a life someplace else, he had vanished from their lives, their home town, and they had been left with a mess of broken shards of what was once called friendships, trust and pack.

None of them had appreciated just how important he was to them, until he had been gone.

Lydia knew that she had played her part, she didn't deny that. And she knew that she, maybe as the only one, if she had cared to, could have stopped him, kept him with them, even if he wasn't pack, at least he would have been here, at his home, not out there …

Lost to them.

But … she was also glad for him.

Maybe this had been exactly what he had needed.

A new start.

A true chance.

It was a horrible feeling, not knowing.

In High School, I was a loser.

The spastic freak.

It never really changed. Even when Scott got popular, when I befriended the cool kids, I was the sore thumb sticking out. The anomaly. The mistake.

No more.

I have found myself. I know who I am. And I like myself.

I like that I have exceeded every exceptions anyone had for me. Even my own.

For once, I am happy with how things turned out.

I'm spreading my wings.

And it's an unbelievable feeling.

Stiles Stilinski leaving Beacon Hills bore many reactions.

Not all of them good, not all of them bad.

But all of them held a certain wistfulness.

Peter missed being called zombie wolf.

Yes, he was very well aware how abstract that notion was, but Stiles always had a way about him – he never really did let him get away with anything, but he also was the only one not to tense completely when the old wolf moved or made his – admittedly sometimes inappropriate – jokes.

Yes, Peter Hale missed Stiles Stilinski.

He hadn't been in town when the children decided to take leave of their senses and make one of the biggest mistakes of their live, even though, if Peter had collected the facts correctly afterwards, it had been about five longtime mistakes that had finally driven his Red Riding Hood away.

He couldn't blame the boy.

If he had been the one to sacrifice as much as the child had, to suffer and be constantly considered as nothing but a liability and nuisance, he would have thrown the towel long ago. Maybe he should have, living with a pack of barely functioning young werewolves who were still caught between the woes of adulthood and the drama of being a teenager was certainly not how he had envisioned his life to go. But he had stayed in Beacon Hills for his family.

Maybe that was a mistake.

Seeing as he was still considered as an outcast.

… it was time to cut his losses.

Sighing, Peter looked around his empty apartment. The boxes had already been shipped off and he only had to turn in his key. It was time to take off for greener ventures.

A wicked grin tugged at his lips as he looked into his bag, seeing the cover of Dr. Genim Stilinski's debut book. Who would have thought that his little Red Riding Hood would turn out so interesting … and beautiful.

By the gods, how that gangly teenager had changed. A vixen, indeed.

Shaking his head, he stepped out of his former apartment.

The closing door was final, just as final as that chapter of his life had been closed.

He only hoped that Stiles would be happy to see him.

… nah.

He was Peter Hale.

How could his little Red Riding Hood be anything but ecstatic to see him?

They were two of a kind.

~ The End ~