Chapter Text
Benjamin Alexander-Carmichael, age fourteen, sat in the backseat of the black Camaro, gazing out the window at the unfamiliar California scenery passing by him. He focused on the trees flying past, their branches seemingly reaching out towards him as the car zoomed down the road at twenty miles over the speed limit.
Before, he would've objected to the obviously illegal and dangerous action.
Now, he couldn't muster up enough energy to even worry.
Some part of him, that part he shoved far down into the recesses of his mind, even hoped that the driver would lose control and send him peacefully down to hell where he belonged.
Benji didn't like to think about the voice all that much.
The driver- Damon? Drew? Devon?- cleared his throat. "You okay over there? You haven't said anything since Nevada, and even then it was just to tell me you had to use a bathroom."
Benji blinked, realizing. When the trip had first started, he had talked a little with the man- mostly about what Beacon Hills was like and how Benji was one of the best swimmers in his Ohioan small town. But eventually, just like every time lately he had a conversation, he shut down and began ignoring him. Deaton had called it a "survival instinct", a way for Benji to stop the conversation before it turned into something negative and traumatic.
Benji called it his "sick of people" mode.
He wracked his brain, trying to remember what the overly buff criminal-esque dude's name was. He knew it started with a D. At least, he was eighty percent sure. He had to have said it sometime this trip, right? There was no way he hadn't said the guy's name at least once during the hours they had spent in the car.
"Derek!" he said triumphantly, a brief spark of relief flashing through him at being able to remember the name.
His bushy black brows lifted. "Yes, Benji?"
Benji cleared his throat, making up his mind. "Tell me about this Stilinski dude and his genius fiancé that I'll be living with."
He had been avoiding any mention of his new guardians, since each time they were brought up his mind would flash back to his parents and their deaths.
Their deaths at his hand.
After all, each time he was reminded of their deaths, each time he was reminded of what he had done, he felt himself crumbling a little bit more inside.
But, as each minute that passed brought them closer and closer to Beacon Hills, he decided it was time.
Derek was quiet for a moment, his blue eyes focusing on the road before them, before answering. "His name is Stiles. He's Scott's best friend, one of the smartest people you'll ever meet, and above all, he knows exactly what you're going through." Benji had relaxed when Derek mentioned Scott's name- after all, the red eyed werewolf had been the one to save him, alongside that Deaton dude- but he stiffened at the final part of the sentence. He was reminded of the conversation, or more accurately, the argument he had with Scott before leaving.
"Stop lying! You just don't want me around!"
"Trust me, this has nothing to do with that."
"Well, then why? Why are you sending me away to live with a complete stranger?"
"...Benji."
"WHY?"
Scott had let out a sigh, running a hand through his short dark-brown hair. His eyes stared into Benji's, a conflicted look filling the True Alpha's face. "Stiles knows what you're going through. More than anybody else in the pack."
Benji had stepped away from the Hispanic werewolf, tears pricking his eyes. Disbelief and betrayal flickered in his chest. The person he had thought of as an older brother, the heroic werewolf who had saved his worthless life and promised him a home and safety, was sending him away to live with a complete stranger in fucking California.
All because the said stranger had the possibility of saving Benji from himself.
What a joke.
Letting out a short, bitter laugh, he leaned his head against the warm sun-heated glass. "What, he had an megalomaniac sadist demon fox possess him?" At Derek's muttered out, "yes actually," Benji banged his head slightly against the window. Of course. "Let me guess, you saved him the same way Scott saved me."
"Close enough."
The two talked for a bit- well, mostly Derek talked- about Stiles and Lydia. Derek described Stiles as an overly excited sarcastic asshole and Lydia as a genius banshee who could somehow sense death. He got the sense that Stiles and Derek weren't overly fond of each other, more like coworkers than friends or family. Benji would interrupt here and there with a few sarcastic quips of his own, attempting to prove to both Derek and himself that he could, actually, keep a conversation going. But like every other conversation lately, it quickly petered out as his "sick of people" mode switched on involuntarily. Thankfully, Derek didn't push, and the car fell back into silence. He closed my eyes, letting his imagination run wild. All of Scott's friends Benji had currently met had described Stiles as pale and skinny and Lydia a redhead. Beyond that, Benji no idea what his new guardians would look like. His imagination just wasn't that good, he guessed. But, he had also been possessed by a nogitsune. He had survived, and had even made something of his life. A fiancé, a nice job, friends... Could he, too, have that?
Though the fiancé part would be a bit different... for reasons.
At that thought his hand went to his arm, the scars underneath covered by a thin layer of black yarn.
As Derek quietly drove the two hours to Beacon Hills, Benji just sat there, stewing in his guilt and fear. What would happen next was unknown. Benji had no idea, at the time, that coming to this town, that moving in with one of Scott's pack, would completely and utterly change his life... both for the better and for the worse.