Chapter Text
Stiles was in pain, and running as fast as he could from the crumpled remains of his Jeep and out of sight. His leg was broken, impeding his escape, but he couldn’t spare a thought about it right now. There was other damage that he was aware of, in a distant sort of way, but again he couldn’t dwell on it. He needed to get away, get somewhere safe, and fast.
The Pack knew that hunters were in town, with Chris Argent away in France trying to wrangle the rest of his family into accepting Allison’s new code outside hunters deemed it the perfect opportunity to strike. There had been skirmishes before, and the Pack had prevailed but it seems like the hunters were trying different tactics now. Going after Stiles alone, ramming into his Jeep, Stiles had no doubt that he would have been taken hostage or killed outright if the crash hadn’t fatally injured him that is.
He shifted into his smaller form without a second’s hesitation. Human Stiles would not have made it out of there unscathed. Being a cat, or kitten in his case, provided him with the means to slip out of sight before the hunters descended on his Jeep to look for him. He was still close to the center of town, too far away to make it to his house or even Scott’s and Derek’s loft was in the opposite direction, he would have to head back towards the hunters to even try to attempt to make it there, it was too risky in any case. Peter Hale however had an apartment a little ways ahead in the direction Stiles was running. He could make it there, the hard part then would be convincing Peter to help without revealing himself.
It was an internal struggle he’s had for a while, ever since werewolves became something more than just stories his mother had told him at night when she was explaining the different creatures that kept themselves hidden from the world, whether or not he should tell the Pack what he truly was. His mother had told him many times how important it was to keep this part of himself hidden from others, ever since he fully shifted at only five years old. Not even his father knew the truth, about him, about his late wife. For all she loved and trusted Noah Stilinski it was so ingrained in her that she keep her true self secret and by extension for Stiles to keep it secret as well.
He was like other shifters in many regards, had all the heightened senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste and strength. His healing was slightly different however, slower than a werewolf’s but so much faster than a normal human’s. His injuries just from tonight would take at least a day or more to fully heal; his broken leg could be longer than that by at least another day. Shifting back to human would only extend the healing process, that was another difference he figured out, staying shifted allowed him to heal faster than staying human did.
Control though, that was something else entirely. Stiles had impeccable control; he didn’t feel the pull of the moon or the rage and bloodlust of other shifters like wolves or coyotes. No, his was a much simpler animal to bear. Though he didn’t have a true Beta shift like the rest of the wolves, or the rest of the shifters he had first-hand experience with at least. It was something in between, he could access his claws and fangs and shift the color of his eyes but the rest of his appearance was very much human. More subtle, and handier in getting out of sticky situations, especially when he finds himself tied up by this witch or that hunter more often than not. And shifting into something so small and unassuming allowed him to escape places unnoticed. The Pack would probably flip their shit if they really knew how many times Stiles has been kidnapped in the last few years alone.
His mother had taught him well, taught him everything she knew about being a werecat. She was the Alpha of their very small Clowder, and fuck if that still wasn’t the weirdest word Stiles had ever heard, but wolves had Packs and cats had Clowders, it just is what it is. When she died the Alpha power transferred to him; it definitely wasn’t the rush of power that he had seen in Derek when he killed Peter, no it was like a warm blanket curling around him and keeping him together in his grief. He could have his own Clowder if he wanted, the power was there in his bite and he could turn people like any Alpha shifter could, but it was never something he wanted. Cats might not be solitary, but the need for a Clowder was never there, and Stiles had his Dad, Scott and Mrs. McCall and that was enough to satisfy his human and animal sides.
He had been worried when wolves popped up that he would be sniffed out, that they would just know from sight or scent but it was never an issue. His mother had always taken great care in teaching him how to hide his scent, to keep his animal side hidden, it wasn’t an easy thing when he was just a Beta but as Alpha it was as natural as breathing. When Stiles was human, that’s all he ever smelled like and when he was a cat there was no trace of anything to do with Stiles, metaphorical ships passing in the night and never meeting.
Stiles remembered asking her before why no matter how much older he got since he was five that he was still so small when shifted. Even his mother’s shifted form was still that of a much younger cat than her true age would imply. She had just laughed and run her fingers through his hair, explaining that the cat ages at a much slower rate than the human, that he would be her adorable little kitten for quite some time. At eighteen though he would have hoped he would have looked less like a tiny kitten and more like teenaged cat at least. It would at least have made his next tasks easier, if he was bigger.
Looking up at the apartment building there was no clear entrance in sight. There was a door to the building that was locked to discourage trespassers so going in the front without someone opening the door so he could slip inside was out of the question. Not like he would have been able to open said door even if it wasn’t locked, being all of a few pounds. He rounded the building, keeping to the shadows just in case and spotted a fire escape. It wasn’t ideal, especially with a broken hind leg and a pain in his ribs that decided to make itself known now that he took a moment from his adrenaline-fueled escape run.
He eyed the fire escape ladder and the dumpster with disdain. It might be easier for him to shift to climb the ladder but he risks exposure to do so. It’s dark out, early evening, but the area is lit enough that a pale naked teen climbing a fire escape won't go unnoticed. Why Peter had to live on the third, and top, floor of the building is anyone’s guess but it makes this next part way more difficult than it has any right to be.
Stiles hops up to the low window ledge, balancing carefully and trying to take as much weight off of his leg as he can before jumping up to the edge of the dumpster, though not without enough pain that has him biting his tongue to keep the sound from leaving his body. He takes a moment to breathe through the pain as he inches carefully to the edge of the dumpster and closest to the ladder. Once he’s pushed the pain away as much as he’s able to he springs towards the ladder, catching the second to last rung with his front paws and pulling himself up to stand precariously on it.
At least he only has to climb the ladder to the landing, the second floor of the apartment building, and then he can use the steps like normal. He places his injured leg down on the rung, testing how much weight he can put on it before the pain is too great, and when he has a handle on that he balances and stretches, inch by torturous inch, until his front paws meet the next rung and he can pull himself up, he can barely meet the distance with his tiny body. He repeats this over and over and over until he’s collapsing on the landing from exhaustion and pain. He pants and tries to take in breath after breath around the ache in his lungs and the almost crushing feeling of his ribs. Stiles can't stay here though, he’s too exposed, and he’s not safe.
He hauls himself upright with incredible difficulty, and hops up the stairs one by one, focusing on reaching the top at all costs. He fumbles on the last stair before the landing and almost slips off it completely to tumble back down, but he digs in and rights himself at the last second. He makes it to the landing and drags himself over to the window, Peter’s window, and the lights are on so that must be a good sign, Peter has to be home, Stiles didn’t even give a thought to what he would do if the wolf wasn’t.
He focuses enough to hear Peter’s heartbeat, the rhythm strong and steady and soothing, before he starts scratching at the window and meowing, or trying to meow though his throat is so dry and scratchy. He’s losing strength fast, his scratching becoming weaker the longer he’s at it and surely Peter should have heard him by now, but he hasn’t come to the window yet. The pain is beginning to overwhelm him and he’s on the verge of passing out, he hadn’t thought it was this bad when he was running from the Jeep. Maybe he’s dying. He’s not sure if he can really tell at this point.
He rests his head against the cool glass as his eyes slip shut, his one paw still scratching faintly at the window but he’s long since stopped trying to meow. The window opens just before he slips into unconsciousness and it jolts him into a semi-alertness, Peter’s hand catching him before he would have tumbled into the room. He’s floating one minute, limp in Peter’s hand and then pressed carefully to the wolf’s chest the next.
“And what are you doing little one? Hmm?” Peter murmurs as he runs a careful finger along Stiles’ head. God, Stiles would purr if he could at the contact, but he’s too busy trying not to pass out. He can feel Peter taking his pain as he holds him and moves around the apartment.
He meows quietly, trying to thank Peter in some way, nuzzling into his chest a little with his head.
Safe.
He’s safe.
Peter makes a phone call but Stiles is too tired to care and the pain-drain is too much to fight against so he just closes his eyes and relaxes, slipping away into unconsciousness.
-------
This is how I imagine Stiles as a teeny tiny kitten.
