Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1080447.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Lydia_Martin, Aiden_(Teen_Wolf), Ethan_(Teen_Wolf), Allison
      Argent, Alan_Deaton, Sheriff_Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey, Stiles_Stilinski,
      Derek_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Fluff, Developing_Relationship, Canon-Typical_Violence, POV
      Alternating, Canon_Divergent_after_3a, villain, Hallucinations, Our_own
      mini-season, Minor_Isaac/Allison, Also_Isaac_wants_in_Scott's_pants, So
      minor_Scisaac_as_well, Smut
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-12 Updated: 2014-03-12 Chapters: 14/? Words: 100192
****** A Sleight of Heart ******
by ARPoet7, GillianGrissom
Summary
     Derek Hale has returned to Beacon Hills after leaving with his sister
     Cora (post season 3a). Derek is currently forced to live with Peter
     until he finds other arrangements, but Stiles has been coming to
     visit Derek for the past few days to check up on him and it's unclear
     as to why. While Derek has not officially decided if he's "back" in
     Beacon Hills, Stiles seems adamant in establishing that fact one way
     or another. Conversations ensue.
     On Permanent Hiatus, at this point. See first chapter for
     explanation.
Notes
     This will be an episodic, chaptered work that Gillian and I will be
     updating hopefully once every week. (We're currently working on the
     9th chapter, but we wanna give ourselves a running start!) :D
     ________________
     SPOILERS!!!!! (Do NOT read if you don't wish to know. I'm only
     including this because I know some people don't like dedicating
     themselves to a fic that they're afraid won't end the way they hope.
     STOP reading if you don't want to know-------there is an eventual
     happy ending).
     Hey, this is Gilliangrissom, and I'm here to let anyone who might
     have been following this know what they probably already suspected:
     this fic is more or less done. ARpoet and I were so frustrated with
     the finale of season 3b (although Dylan was SPECTACULAR as the
     Nogitsune) that we just sort of lost interest. I tried to watch a
     little of season 4, and I love Scott and Kira, but neither one of us
     can handle Malia and with how Jeff has been treating Sterek fans,
     we've both decided that this fic is off the table for a long while at
     least. Sorry to anyone who was really looking forward to an update, I
     hope we'll see you again someday when Jeff has pulled his head out of
     his ass.
     ~Gillian
***** The Man with Three Faces *****
Derek’s thick hands smoothed themselves against the cold slab of Peter’s
granite kitchen countertop as he stared at the newspaper in front of him. The
smell of hardwood floors and immaculate cleanliness still hung in Derek’s
nostrils as it had for the past six days; it was almost unbearable to Derek’s
heightened sense of smell. He was curious and mildly irritated about how Peter
tolerated the pungency. He had considered leaving a pair of his dirty socks
sitting on the sofa or to clip his fingernails over the coffee table just to
fuck with his OCD uncle.
Like clockwork, Stiles had shown up at one thirty, just like he had for the
past four days after word finally got to him that Derek was back in Beacon
Hills. When Stiles had crossed the threshold, there had been a sudden dampening
of scents—the teenager had smelled natural (like a scentless soap and
adolescent hormones), not like a loft that had been sterilized with bleach.
Derek approved of anything that made his nose stop itching for five minutes.
Stiles had thrown his bag at the foot of the bar and it slid gratingly across
the hardwood, coming to a stop with a click as it made contact with the base of
the counter. Derek had wanted to smile in approval, knowing that the bag had
left scuff marks and they would drive Peter further down the narrow road of
insanity. Instead, Derek simply blinked as Stiles had slapped down a newspaper
in front of him that looked like it had been mauled by a red ink pen.
“Stiles,” Derek said nonchalantly; screwing the lid back on the milk jug after
he took a swig and wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand.
“Sometimes I wonder if you hadn’t been born a werewolf if you’d still act like
a barnyard animal,” Stiles asked, gesturing at the milk container and settling
himself on a stool at the bar.
“Says the teenage boy.”
“Yes, says the teenage boy who could manage to find himself a glass. Somehow, I
seriously doubt that Peter is lacking on the kitchen accoutrements, judging by
all the furniture in here that I’d bet is worth more than my life.”
“Accoutrements?” Derek asked, leveling an eyebrow at Stiles.
“It’s French. I’m in a fancy apartment, so I’m being fancy. Leave me alone.”
“Right,” replied Derek in a monotone. Derek made note of Stiles’ use of one of
his catchall facial retorts that expressed something along the lines of
‘Fucking duh, Derek. Fancy places equal fancy talk!’ Derek placed the milk back
in the refrigerator. Then again, maybe that’s just Stiles’ face? Derek smiled
behind the bulwark of the stainless steel refrigerator door.
“So, speaking of fancy, how does Peter afford all of this?” Stiles accentuated
the question with a broad gesture and a flick of his eyebrow that sent his face
all lopsided.
Derek glanced back down at the mottled page of newspaper that had been turned
to the Classifieds. Stiles had circled apartments for rent in big bubbles of
red ink. Derek scanned briefly across the varying information about location,
cost, and the availability of pets—he might want a dog someday, Stiles had
explained—and he noticed that several of the options that had been circled were
blotched out in scrawling ink with Stiles’ commentary like “too small” or “not
isolated enough” written in the margins.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Stiles.” Derek didn’t break
his gaze away from the Classifieds. He sifted through Stiles’ increasingly
complicated notes about one particular nocturnal neighbor that could possibly
be a vampire, which was followed by an annotation that was meant to remind
Stiles to ask Derek if vampires were real. “For all I know, he could be in the
werewolf mafia.” Derek’s voice was flat as a board; never so much as glancing
upwards. Oakwood Flats, really? What, Stiles, am I going to buy a minivan and
start driving the pack around as well?
Stiles’ lips parted in a way that led to him mouth-breathing for near thirty
seconds. Derek wanted to pinch his lips shut with his thumb and forefinger.
“Wait a friggin second! Is there a werewolf mafia?”
Derek leaned farther forward against the bar, sighing. With an idle hand, he
scratched at his beard and twisted his eyebrows together to communicate what he
was trying to say.
“What do you think?” Derek growled at Stiles as silence drifted around them.
Stiles ran his fingers through his dark brown hair that now fell in a heap to
one side. “I think…” Another moment passed.
Derek huffed. “I’m beginning to wonder if you do.”
“I think you’re making a joke, which is way better than a werewolf mafia!”
Stiles slammed his palm against the granite countertop with a resounding smack
and proceeded to flail his hand through the air in pain whispering, “Shit,
shit, shit,” to himself.
Derek rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”
Stiles winced. “I can see that five months of open road really did miracles for
your social skills there, buddy. You really should have taken some time to have
a Piña Colada or something. Maybe a Sex on the Beach? Maybe havesex on a
beach?”
Derek straightened himself, narrowing his eyes at the teenager while not
altogether approving of Stiles’ interest in his sex life. Over five months had
passed since Derek decided to leave Beacon Hills and a lot of those days
involved Derek thinking about—or trying not to think about—what had happened to
Jennifer. But there were more nights when Derek couldn’t stop himself from
seeing that accusatory look on Stiles’ face as Stiles had feared for his
father’s life and it had been Derek’s fault. It had been a rehashed
guilt—something hauntingly familiar. Derek was afraid that somewhere underneath
Stiles’ joke there was a cloaked dagger ready to get him right between the
shoulder blades when he wasn’t looking. Why haven’t I been with someone is what
you’re saying. Anger was Derek’s anchor—his natural response to anything that
made him feel exposed.
“My social skills are fine. What do you want, Stiles?” The words were short and
sharp.
“Friendly as ever. Make that two Piña Coladas.”
Derek couldn’t help the frustration he felt welling behind his eyes—Stiles
could push more of Derek’s buttons than a remote control. He couldn’t help the
growl that rattled like a snare drum in his throat. But Derek could have kept
his eyes from flashing blue like two perfect pieces of ice.
“Stiles!” In the confined space, Stiles’ name had sounded more like a roar.
Stiles didn’t back away. He didn’t even flinch. It was something new, but not
exactly unexpected to Derek. Between werewolves, Hunters, a kanima, a demon
wolf, and a darach, Derek figured that he wasn’t exactly on Stiles’ list of
most threatening supernatural beings (and yes, Derek knows he has one.
Somewhere.). But this seventeen year old kid standing in front of him was
somehow different. Stiles looked the same, talked the same, acted the same,
wore the same clothes, and even smelled the same, but he was integrally
different now. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but whatever it was made Derek
curiously frustrated—yep, classic Stiles alright. Derek wondered if Stiles
thought he seemed different as well. He hoped so, but Derek realized it was a
slim chance with the way he was currently acting. He tried to quietly make an
excuse for himself in his head: old wounds, you know?
Derek sucked in a cold breath through his teeth. “Sorry.”
Stiles hunched forward and squinted at Derek like he was staring into the face
of the sun. Derek thought Stiles might fall off of his stool. “What?”
“I’m. Sorry.” Derek repeated. His face was deadpan; emptier than an unshaped
marble slate as he tried not to snap at Stiles again.
“Holy shit! I guess they did teach you something at Werewolves Anonymous!”
“Stiles…” Derek let his voice echo deep in his throat as a warning.
“Derek,” Stiles mimicked back dramatically with an über-serious glower that
Derek could only assume was Stiles’ finest impression of what he had deemed
“the Sourwolf stare.”
Derek tried to count down from five to resist the urge to slam Stiles’ head
into the sheen of the granite countertop and use it as a dish towel. As gently
as he could, he prodded the question again.
“Why are you here?” The words were calm and cautiously enunciated. Derek was
proud of himself. He was afraid that when he had opened his mouth, the words
were going to fall out as a monosyllabic: “WHYAREYOUHERE?”
Stiles didn’t respond. His face contorted with that catchall expression again
as he stood across from the older man looking like a dumbfounded mime. Stiles’
hand slid across the serrated edge of the newspaper as he pushed the gray pages
encircled with red ink closer to Derek. His slender fingers rested atop a red
bubble that read “Hillcrest Apartments.” 
“Message received. You think I should get an apartment. That it?” Derek broke
eye contact with Stiles, suddenly finding all of Stiles’ notes considerably
more interesting. Yeah, good job. Real friendly.
Somewhere in the back of the loft, Derek could hear what sounded like shifting
furniture and the slapping of naked feet against hardwood. Peter was no doubt
wandering around one of the rooms doing whatever it was that Peter did best,
like skulking, scheming or making sarcastic remarks to the wallpaper.
Stiles didn’t seem to notice Derek’s unintentional abrasiveness, being that he
was so accustomed to it. He threw his arms out wide with a smirk. “You can’t
live with your more-than-mildly psychotic uncle forever. I mean, digs aside,
who wants to stay in an apartment that smells like the inside of a bleach
bottle for the rest of their life? Excluding Peter, obviously. Seriously
though, throw some mattresses against the walls in here and get us some
rollerblades and we totally change the atmosphere from posh to paradise.
Although, I haven’t quite decided if the atmosphere will read more as
‘teenager’s paradise’ or ‘padded cell.’”
Derek wanted to thank Stiles for commenting on the god-awful bleach scent even
without a heightened sense of smell. He wanted to tell Stiles that he would pay
money to see him bring a pair of rollerblades in the loft so they could see the
look on Peter’s face, and also so Derek could count how many times Stiles fell
over or ran into something. He wanted to say something about how Stiles had the
most random thoughts and to tell him that he was an idiotic genius. Somehow
though, Derek couldn’t prevent what came out instead.
“Stiles, what makes you think I’m staying in Beacon Hills?”
Derek couldn’t have stopped himself if he had wanted to. Cruel as it was, Derek
had wantedto hear Stiles’ heartbeat jump when he told him the news. Even if he
would never admit it to a soul, Derek was almost begging for a scent of fear or
anger to come rolling off of his friend and packmate. And when his abilities as
a werewolf failed him, he resorted to being a normal human, searching Stiles’
face for even an ounce of emotion. What he got was—nothing. He had been gone
for five months now. Did Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Allison, or Isaac even notice?
Had they cared?
Derek heard a crash reverberate toward the back of the loft, but lost in his
own thoughts, he didn’t pay much attention to it. Stiles didn’t seem to notice
either.
There was a cocky smirk playing on the edge of Stiles’ mouth. “If you aren’t
going to stay, why come back at all?”
It was a question that Derek knew was headed his way at some point or another,
but simultaneously one that he wasn’t ready to fess up to. Stiles’ question was
obvious, and Derek’s answer was obvious. Derek hated anything that made him
feel obvious. He hated feeling like people could see through him to know what
he wanted for himself before he even knew it. But Derek knew that often, the
obvious answer is the one we’re the most afraid of and unwilling to let
ourselves have. Sometimes, simplicity is the most fucking complex concept
you’ll ever conceive. And Derek’s hopes and dreams; well, they were like kites
in an open blue sky—pretty to look at, but too goddamn far away to touch.
Stiles had come to Peter’s loft five days in a row now, but it was all too
complexly simple—just one more illusion, one more sleight of hand to prove that
things weren’t quite what Derek had hoped they would be. Never hope and you’ll
never be disappointed.
Derek grimaced, heavy lines pushing around his eyes showing that he was clearly
uncomfortable with Stiles’ smugness. “I forgot something here that I needed.”
“Favorite chew toy? Forgot where you buried your bone, big guy?” Stiles seemed
to be enjoying this, but Derek was distracted by something else.
Derek noticed a scratching noise coming from the corridor that ran away from
the kitchen and the living area. The hallway was dark with all of the
connecting doorways shut to prevent any light from getting through. The loft
was silent except for a small brass clock that sat on top of a ledge over the
iron grate of a gas fireplace. It clicked aggressively away at the seconds as
Derek and Stiles stood in muteness. Derek directed his left ear at the low
sound that scratched repeatedly from the end of the darkened hall, his face no
longer turned toward Stiles.
“Hello? Derek? It’s not much fun if I can’t even get a rise out of you. You
know, this is kind of our thing. You’re the broody werewolf, I make fun of said
behavior and you threaten to cause some amount of physical harm to me, which I
then proceed to call bullshit on. Aw, crap! Don’t tell me they taught you to
‘be the bigger person’ at Werewolves Anonymous! I’m going to have to talk to
them about their five step program! Scott’s my bro and all, but he’s not quite
sharp enough to keep up with all my insults—and don’t tell him I said that, I
don’t want him going all True Alpha on—”
Stiles couldn’t complete his final, rambling thought as Derek leaned across the
granite countertop, pulling Stiles in by his shirt collar and slapping his hand
across the teenager’s mouth.
“Shut. Up.” This time, there was a different kind of gravity in Derek’s voice.
Stiles’ eyebrows moved up inquisitively; the werewolf’s hand was still splayed
across his mouth, not trusting the teenager to break out into another inane
rambling session.
Derek silently instructed Stiles to move to his side of the counter while
making a series of gestures that explained what Derek would do to Stiles if he
didn’t comply. Stiles complied, thankfully. Derek listened for the sound again.
It reminded him of someone sharpening a pencil, pausing, and then sharpening
another pencil. For some reason, it sent a shiver down the werewolf’s spine.
Derek left the kitchen, making a “stay there” motion to Stiles as he stood at
the mouth of the unlit hallway. Derek couldn’t hear Peter pacing through the
loft anymore. Now, there was a humming “sssshhhh” teetering out of the shadows,
followed by a vacant quiet. Derek could hear Stiles breathing next to the
freezer as it churned softly while making ice cubes and dumping them into the
tray. The small brass clock chimed suddenly in the empty loft, reverberating
like a gong, almost making Derek jump. It was two o’clock.
Derek peered into the black corridor in front of him. His eyes shifted blue,
helping him to see what he couldn’t before. He expected to see Peter moving
something like furniture from one room to another to explain the scraping
sound, but what he saw was completely unexpected. Derek strode with stoicism
back into the kitchen.
“Stiles, you have to leave.” Derek left no room for interpretation in his tone.
“What? Why?”
“Because, I told you to. Don’t make me throw you out.”
“Derek, what happened? What was that noise?” Stiles’ voice was calm, but his
heartbeat attested to something different. Apprehension was making his pulse
flicker faster.
“Don’t worry about it; it’s just not a good day to be here.” Derek rounded the
counter, and snatching Stiles by his bicep, he directed him across the
threshold. Stiles stood on the other side of the entryway shooting Derek an
indignant look, which prevented Derek from shutting the door directly after
him.
“Alright, dude, Scott might be the kind of guy to leave without asking
questions, but that’s why I’m the better looking and more intelligent half of
our bromance. Something happened when you went to check on the noise in the
hallway. What was it? Is Peter having werewolf PMS? Do you have a poltergeist?
Maybe giant vampire termites that only eat humans? Spill!”
Derek couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow. “Vampire termites?”
“Hey, I don’t know what kind of crazy things exist in my so-called ‘reality’
anymore! Anything and everything is a possibility, including fire-breathing
Mexican opossums with wings that steal children from their beds to feed their
young in their wingèd opossum nests!” Derek watched in interest as Stiles
pantomimed “fire-breathing Mexican opossums with wings;” not entirely sure how
to react.
“Oh, those definitely exist,” Derek responded dryly.
“Dude! Two in one day!” Stiles paused. “I hope.”
Derek sighed. “Look, don’t come back here tomorrow. If you want to, we can get
coffee tomorrow maybe around four instead?”
The look on Stiles’ face seemed indifferent as he shrugged. “Uh, okay, sure.”
“Fine. I’ll text you,” Derek said shortly; shutting the door before Stiles
could consider waving or saying goodbye.
Derek’s bare feet padded quietly as he returned to the hallway; the scraping
“sssshhhh” still wandering out of the dimness to fill up the silence of the
apartment. His eyes shimmering blue again, Derek glared into the darkness to
find two blue orbs staring back at him. The ice of their eyes collided with
rivaled intent as only distance separated them. Peter sat hunched at the
opposite end of the hallway, claws lengthened and fangs glaring white in the
gloom. Peter’s arm moved lifelessly, spanning the space in front of him as the
claw of his forefinger traced a shape upon the wooden floor. Derek watched
calmly, letting all anxiety and rising fear dissipate with his breath before it
could coalesce into something tangible. Derek took his eyes off of Peter only
briefly enough to scan the direct area. Peter must have carved at least twenty
spirals onto the floor and walls surrounding him; and he continued the task
while gazing almost unknowingly at his nephew as though nothing was out of the
ordinary. Derek stepped into the corridor, disappearing in the envelope of
blackness.
“Peter?”
                                                                      
*                      *                      *
Stiles was 100% the type to hold a grudge.  He’d come to terms with that.  He’d
forgiven Derek for throwing him out.  Actually, after he’d asked Stiles to go
for coffee as an alternative to hanging out in Uncle Crazy McCleanPants’
apartment, Stiles had pretty much forgotten he was being thrown out at all. 
He’d also forgotten that the reason he’d been thrown out was something to do
with the unusual scratching noise in Stalker McCrazyPants’ apartment. Stiles
had a different variation on “Uncle Crazy McSassStalkerPants” for every hour of
every day of the week, so Peter being strange didn’t faze him, nor did the
terrifying range of sounds that could come from his apartment.
Derek’s five month absence would not be so quickly forgiven.  It had taken
Scott only a couple of days to find his feet as a “True Alpha” to his pack of
two other Alphas, two Betas (if one included Peter, which Stiles was not
inclined to do), two Hunters, a banshee, an Emissary, and Stiles.  However,
having an Alpha that might have an idea what he was doing, if he’d had a little
time to prepare did not mean a pack could handle any supernatural being that
came at it.  Living in Beacon Hills post-Nemeton recharging, meant exactly
that.  In the five months since Stiles, Allison and Scott had gone under to
save their parents from the Darach, they’d been attacked by three wolf
packs—which had been chased off with little effort after they’d realized what
Scott was—a wendigo and a dozen ghosts or ghost-like apparitions; none of which
they’d been able to save because they’d all already been dead; and, Stiles
really wished he was kidding about this, a group of fairies.
He has spent most of his visits to Uncle McCrazypants’ apartment trying to hide
how angry he was at Derek.  If Derek realized how angry Stiles was, he would
leave again, and Derek leaving was not an option.  The pack needed Derek.  He
was the only werewolf in Beacon Hills who had grown up in a functional wolf
pack, whether he realized it or not.  There was only so much Stiles could learn
from Deaton or from the internet.  The Argent’s bestiary had roughly three
thousand years of information on hunting werewolf packs, but almost nothing on
pack dynamics outside of the most basic information about Alphas, Betas, and
Omegas.
“Stiles?”  Derek had picked up Stiles’ drink (Venti Lowfat Vanilla Chai Soy
Latte) with his own (Coffee. Black.) and brought it to him, since it had taken
longer for Stiles to order his coffee than it had taken them to make Derek’s. 
Stiles accepted it, immediately taking a mouthful.  He managed to swallow it,
rather than spit the burning hot liquid all over Derek, which would not have
been a good start to this conversation.
“So,” Stiles wanted to pat himself on the back for how calm that sounded
between anger and a burning tongue.  “Why did you come back?”   Nor was there
any sign of the mess he’d left his own room in.  He’d tried on possibly every
outfit he owned, save three pairs of gym shorts that were buried in the bottom
of his closet.  They’d been clean when he’d put them away four years ago, but
Stiles swore they’d growled at him last time he’d so much as looked at them. 
Since then, he’d doused them in holy water and salt.  A circle of salt was
supposed to work better than just having it thrown all over, but Stiles was not
going to risk the shorts leaping up and taking a chunk out of his arm.  He was
still in the process of researching how best to dispose of possibly demonically
possessed gym shorts.  There was a surprising lack of information on the
subject. Stiles considered the possibility of writing his own bestiary and
becoming the leading expert in the field.  
“Cora found a pack that wanted her,” Derek answered.  He tried to keep his
expression flat, but Stiles was getting better at reading the nuances of
Derek’s face.  Right now, it said that he missed the sister he’d only just
begun to get to know again.  “The Alpha— is that more apartment research? 
Really Stiles?” He gestured to the backpack at Stiles’ feet.  It was; but
Stiles kicked it further under the table.  Derek was not going to change the
subject on him.   
“The Alpha what, Derek?”  He insisted.  He’d had enough of Derek’s insistence
on suffering silently through everything.  Peter was too caught up in his own
crazy to care about his nephew’s problems.  Scott wouldn’t ask.  Isaac, Ethan
and Aiden would follow their Alpha’s lead.  The twins had been Deucalion’s
Alpha thugs for so long they were still trying to find their feet in pack with
an Alpha that cared about more than power.  Isaac was doing his very best to be
invisible to Scott because of his blossoming romance with Allison, which, by
the way, yuck.  Derek and Lydia still didn’t like each other enough to have
casual conversation.  Stiles assumed Derek thought Deaton blamed him for his
family’s death.
“He knew I used to be an Alpha and decided he couldn’t risk me wanting to be
one again.”  Derek paused, staring at his coffee.  Even though Stiles had
gotten much better at reading Derek’s full two expressions, he couldn’t quite
make out the look he was seeing right now. Sadness, disappointment, loss,
relief, indecisiveness—they all seemed a part of it. Stiles, generously,
decided to give him a four count before he started pushing again. 
One one thousandthey’d talked about it.  Derek knew he wasn’t cut out to be an
Alpha. He had been a massive fuckup at the job when he’d had it. Derek hadn’t
even known his motivations for being an Alpha, so how could he have been a good
one? Maybe it was better to leave this one alone.
Two one thousand nor was he cut out to be an Omega.  He’d actually worked best
in a mini-pack of two since his family died.  (Unfortunately for him, having
your pack consist of only your brother hadn’t worked so well for his sisters.)
Definitely not going to touch that subject.
Three one thousandwhere had the idea to count one thousands come from anyway? 
Stiles added it to the list of things he would research next time he had a few
hours with Wikipedia:  1.) Mexican fire-breathing winged opossum, 26.)
historical connections between vampires and cats—that neighbor had been
skeezy—and 27.) counting one thousands.  Fire-breathing winged opossums had
gotten a special jump to the front of the line because dude, fire breathing
flying opossums.
Four one tho-
“I need to know why you came back.”  Okay, that had been just short of a four
count, but it was close enough.  Derek was lucky Stiles had found the self-
control to give him that.
“Why does it matter?”  Derek shot back, just this side of defensive. Stiles
wanted to break his hand on Derek’s stupidly attractive face, but all he would
manage would be to break his hand. 
“We needed you Derek! We still need you! The Nemetom is a supernatural
beacon!”  Stiles would never regret saving his father, but the number of
disappearances and “wild animal attacks” had skyrocketed since they’d done it.
“I had a panic attack because a pack of Hunters took Scott and you weren’t here
to help me save him!  They took him, Derek! I thought he was dead and you were
a thousand miles away, and I didn’t know who to turn to! Every single time
something has gone down, you’ve always been there to help! But guess what? This
time you weren’t and I didn’t know what to do about it.” Great, Stiles, make it
his fault even when he wasn’t there. That’s sure to help with his ‘I can’t do
anything right’ complex.
Derek’s expression didn’t change from ‘why does it matter?’  He glanced at the
next table, where a pair of Stiles’ classmates had just decided to move farther
away from the class spaz.  Stiles was aware that they had moved. He also knew
that they were a couple of the better lacrosse players and that they had been
two of Jackson’s less tolerable friends.  “You have Deaton.  He knows more than
I do.  If they were Hunters, Argent would deal with them.”
“You can really just skip over the part where I had a panic attack?” Stiles
spat back at him.  Stiles knew he should be quieter, but dammit, Derek was
supposed to care!  Stiles needed Derek to care, because he was part of their
pack, even if he didn’t want to be!  “Do you really care that little?  I was
there when you killed Peter! I held you up in that pool for two hours Derek. Do
you realize how much you weigh when you’re dead weight?  I helped you save
Jackson! I was the only one in the pack there for you when you killed Boyd!”
That, that right there, that was too far. Stiles knew it, but his mouth was
ahead of his brain and his compassion, and there was no stopping it now.  Derek
started to retaliate, snarl at him, but Stiles cut him off.  “No, you shut up,
daddy’s talking.  I let it go that your girlfriend was a murderous
psychopathagain! Did you ever think maybe your taste in women is so bad you
should just give it up?  It has been five months of every supernatural creature
in the history of the world attacking us and what were you doing?  Out
wandering the woods feeling sorry for yourself!  I needed you, Derek, and you
weren’t there.”  Stiles was aware that he wasn’t being fair.  It wasn’t Derek’s
fault that Beacon Hills was a beacon again.  If it was anyone’s fault it was
Stiles, Allison, and Scott’s; but Derek was acting like whatever tentative
friendship they’d been developing had never happened!  Had he only pretended to
care?  Had Derek been interested in Stiles only because he was Scott’s best
friend and therefore the best link to Scott?
Derek stood up so fast he almost knocked over the table and did spill both
their coffees.  His eyes were flashing dangerously ice blue and he was holding
the edge of the table so tight it creaked.  “You know what, Stiles, fuck you.”
Those words held every ounce of venom and hate that Derek could muster; and
Stiles felt it too, but he couldn’t say that he was surprised.
“No, Derek, fuck you.”  Stiles snatched his bag from under the table, whirled
around and stomped out.  Everyone in the coffee shop was staring at them. 
Stiles knew that if there was one thing he was good at, it was making a scene.
He had learned so much from all those years pining after Lydia. Stiles glared
around him, which was less imposing than the matching glare from Derek, but he
didn’t give a shit.  He heard Derek get up and start to follow him, but even if
anger wasn’t Stiles’ only link to his humanity it didn’t mean he couldn’t get
just as angry as Derek did. Stiles didn’t want anything to do with Derek right
now and hearing Derek’s footfalls after him only made his anger intensify. He
kept right on going, bashing into the door and doing his best to throw it into
the wall.
The hinge didn’t swing that far.  Dammit. Stiles knew everyone in coffee shop
was still following his every move. He grabbed at the door to throw it back and
slam it in Derek’s face, but Derek smacked his hand into it.  Stiles ended up
cracking his fingers on the edge of the door instead of grabbing it. He heard
the audible crunch.
“Thanks a fucking lot, Derek!” He hissed, cradling his hand.  “That’s all I
need, to have to explain to my dad how Derek fucking Hale broke my hand on a
coffee shop door!” Okay, so maybe his hand wasn’t broken and he was being a
little dramatic, but when you’re making a scene, a little over-the-top drama is
needed here and there. Stiles did his best not to let out a torrential flurry
of “shits and fucks” as he stormed down the sidewalk. He could still hear Derek
following him.
“Stiles,” Derek called after him, anger clearly ringing in his voice. “Stiles!
Stop!”
“Fuck off!” Stiles wished his hand didn’t feel like rubber cement and he wasn’t
busy nursing said hand with the other so he could flip Derek off. Stiles
bounded toward his Jeep—thank god his baby was as good as new after meeting the
wrong side of an oak tree five months ago. The sun was starting to set. Stiles
shrugged his bag over his shoulder, which was threatening to fall off as he
rounded the corner into an alleyway—it was the fastest way to his Jeep and the
fastest way to get away from Derek; he’d do anything to get away from Derek
right now. Fuck.
This isn’t exactly how Stiles imagined the afternoon with Derek turning out.
Stiles wasn’t sure how he thought it would turn out, but he didn’t picture it
ending with the unbridled urge to smash what remaining feeling he had in his
hand into Derek’s face. Stiles was pretty sure the feeling was mutual though.
He figured that if he stopped long enough for Derek to catch up, Derek might
proceed to slam his face into the nearest flat surface, ending the evening in a
much more predictable manner. But maybe some part of Stiles had really wished
he could just reconnect with someone who he felt like he could call a friend.
Some part of Stiles missed Derek—even if he would never admit it out loud.
Screw you, Derek.
The sun was setting, casting shadows in a sideways slant as Stiles jogged into
the alleyway. Stiles didn’t have any delusions that he could outrun him if
Derek really had wanted to catch him; and that was one more reason to just be
pissed off at Derek fucking Hale. The alley was littered with some of Beacon
Hills’ finest trash and the smell reflected that. Derek was still calling out
after Stiles, but he was less than obliged to respond. In fact, Stiles was more
obliged to stop nursing his hurt hand long enough to flip Derek off with the
other. Totally worth it. It didn’t seem to deter Derek though.
Stiles rummaged for his keys in his bag’s side pocket as his Jeep came into
sight. He tilted his head toward Derek who wasn’t far behind him now, wearing
the same furious expression that he had in the coffee shop. “Derek, leave me
the fuck al—”
Stiles was cut off as the wind was knocked out of him. He had collided into
something relatively solid and landed gracefully on his ass—his backpack
swinging around his shoulder in an attempt to further complicate the situation
by smothering him. Stiles threw the bag off of his face and spat an obnoxious
fuzzy out of his mouth. He looked up at what he had ran face-first in to. It
was a person. It was Peter; but Peter hadn’t seemed to notice. Peter seemed
distracted, surveying his surroundings as he worried the edges of something in
his hands. A card?
There was suddenly a hand helping Stiles up off the asphalt, and Stiles
shrugged Derek’s hand off, not so much as acknowledging the werewolf with a
“thank you.” Derek didn’t seem to notice however, as his full attention was now
on Peter.
“What are you doing here,” Derek spat. Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t even
seem to notice his nephew speaking. “Peter!” Derek shoved past Stiles, getting
fully in Peter’s vision so that the older man couldn’t ignore him.
Peter shot a quizzical look at Derek like the English language was suddenly
foreign to him and he had no idea what Derek was babbling about. Peter
continued worrying the edges of the card in his hand, frantically glancing
around. Stiles could see the impatience smearing itself across Derek’s face,
but he didn’t honestly care. He had had enough of the Hale family to last him a
lifetime. Stiles started moving past both Derek and Peter, making his way to
his Jeep.
“Get your crazy uncle a leash,” Stiles said partially to himself and partially
to Derek.
“What is this?” Stiles heard as Derek snatched the card from Peter’s hands, and
Stiles swung his head in curiosity before making his way to leave. He could see
the image of a horned figure on the front of the card—it looked something like
the god, Pan; he was making a strange gesture with his hands. Stiles stopped
immediately. Beneath the drawing, in white letters, were the words “the Devil.”
Is that a tarot card?
“Peter,” Derek began very slowly. “Where did you get this card?”
The sun was casting slant shadows all across the alley and the naked streets of
Beacon Hills. It was starting to get cool outside as the sun dimmed in the sky
and was replaced by the moon. Stiles could feel the evening air prickling at
his exposed arms, sending goosebumps all along his skin. It made his hair stand
on end.
Peter smiled, drawing in a breath before answering melodiously. “The man with
three faces gave it to me.”
 
===============================================================================
***** Misfortune Comes in Threes *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter's crazier than usual. Derek looks for an apartment. Stiles
     hates his alarm. Deaton is unflappable. Isaac is a puppy. Bad things
     are coming to Beacon Hills, and Stiles wants to know what they are.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The apartment was quiet now without Peter’s psychotic behavior there to annoy
the piss out of Derek . The only problem was: it was almost too quiet now.
Derek was about two seconds away from lighting Peter’s gas fireplace and
melting that damn brass clock in it. It had been ticking away at seconds and
minutes the entire night while Derek lay awake in his plaid cotton pajama pants
and a spare grey Henley that he had scooped up from his dirty laundry pile.
Now, Derek was trying to ignore the various two thousand clocks scattered
across the immaculate wasteland of Peter’s flat; but at this point, it couldn’t
be helped when Derek noticed one of the clocks switch from reading 1:29 to 1:
30.
Derek tried not to think about what time it was and he tried not to think about
the fact that he was still wandering around in his pajamas. More importantly,
Derek had just tried not to think. He could still feel every ounce of anger
from yesterday stinging his skin like steam. Derek had felt like a magnet and
Stiles’ words had been hundreds of tiny little paper clips that clung to him no
matter how hard he tried to shake them—truth really did have that effect. Derek
couldn’t hate Stiles for saying everything that he already knew was true, but
that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. After all, Derek hated anything that made him
feel exposed; and right now, Stiles had thrown just about every skeleton Derek
had right out of the closet and onto his bed.
Derek huffed angrily to himself as he took another swig from the milk jug and
proceeded to wipe his mouth with his hand. Fuck Stiles. Everything had sort of
happened in a vacuum yesterday and there was nothing that could be said or done
about it today, so Derek decided not to think about it and to get dressed
instead.
Getting dressed for Derek consisted of throwing on a pair of jeans, leaving
Derek to occupy his boredom five minutes later. Derek decided pacing the
apartment was a good idea, but then he quickly re-decided that something mind-
numbing like watching TV sounded more interesting, so he flung himself across
the wedge of cement that Peter called a couch. As soon as Derek came across the
first reality television show, Derek wrinkled his nose and nearly threw the
remote at the screen to shut the damn TV up. Maybe not that mind-numbing. Derek
wandered over to a black bookshelf, grabbing The Sound and the Fury off of one
of Peter’s shelves, flipping with idle fingers through highlighted pages. He
had read it once before, which led his eyes to skim familiar places. “I give
you the mausoleum of all hope and desire … I give it to you not that you may
remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not
spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won. They
are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair,
and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
Derek must have been transfixed for thirty minutes until he realized that the
words in his head weren’t the words on the page anymore. I was the only one in
the pack there for you when you killed Boyd!
Derek snapped the book shut. God dammit. He leapt from the couch, pacing the
hardwood again until his eyes spotted a newspaper on the granite countertop.
Derek stopped and growled to himself, not wanting to relinquish his own
stubbornness. Derek paced some more. He paced over to the brass clock, ripping
the battery out of the back to stop the seconds and minutes from draining away.
He paced back to the kitchen, snatching the newspaper with a “fwap” as it was
ripped from the granite. He looked down at the red blotches and the hieroglyphs
of Stiles’ notes and sprawling annotations. Derek growled again, turning on his
heel to grab his leather jacket and keys.
This doesn’t mean that I’m not still fucking pissed at that little shit.
                                     * * *
Stiles woke suddenly with the sound of his alarm. His first instinct was to
fling his phone in that general direction, almost grinning at the crunch of
impact . He’d been sure, when he woke, that his phone had long spiny legs. It
took him several long breaths to reassure himself that it didn’t . He was in
his room in his own house, not in a house that didn’t exist that was made of
meat and darkness . Still, he wasn’t going near a library any time soon.
His alarm, knocked to the edge of his bedside table by Stiles’ awesome-only-
when-he-was-mostly-asleep aim, flashed 7 am. It gave one last shriek, and
cracked as it hit the floor. Why in the name of Vishnu, Krishna and Rama did I
set my alarm for 7 am on a Saturday in the summer?
His computer gave him no answer, aside from the fact he must have been asleep
on his keyboard for quite a while, based on the number of pages of H’s he’d
typed with his face . He skipped to the top of the document.
POSSIBLY REAL CREATURES
(Ask Deaton or Derek.)
1.) Mexican winged fire-breathing opossum
-No results.
-Winged fire-breathing opossum.
-Also, no results.
-Winged opossum.
-Who the hell is Mr. Sniffin? Whoever the hell he is, he says to hit winged
opossums with a bat. And he thinks they’re Egyptian. Idiot.
-MEXICAN FIRE-BREATHING WINGED OPOSSUM IS TOO DAMN LONG FROM NOW ON HE IS
STEVE.
2.) Vampire termites.
-Are apparently a band.
-Also, vampire termite is too long to type too. THEY ARE LEAD BY FRANK.
EVERYONE NEEDS A FRIEND NAMED FRANK. I NEED A FRIEND NAMED
FRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
 
Stiles wondered when he’d started the file, then decided it was probably during
the four to six am Adderall haze he usually couldn’t remember . He was
impressed that he’d managed to format the strikethrough on Derek’s name rather
than just deleting it. Also, usually thoughts like “Mexican fire-breathing
winged opossum is too long to type from now on he is Steve” didn’t often make
it to the written word. He saved the file as “Possibly Real, 4-6A.”
There was a second document under the first. Stiles recognized it on sight as
his “bitching about Sourwolf ” file, and just saved and closed it. He knew it
had been about four pages as of the morning before. The bottom of the screen
now said page 9 of 13. The page started with a long, profanity-filled ramble
about his “stupid sourwolf stare,” and got less coherent from there. Rereading
it would just make him angry again. The file was carefully saved in a place
where no one would ever look for it.
The folder was, of course, labeled “porn .”
The third document was what Stiles was calling the “Mega Bestiary.” He’d been
trying to come up with some way to make a unified reference out of the Argent’s
bestiary, Peter’s bestiary, the packs’ eyewitness accounts with the
increasingly strange denizens of Beacon Hills, and whatever Deaton would tell
them. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Mostly,
he’d ended up cutting and pasting or retyping the information into a new
document himself. He’d been partway through a description of the Wendigo he’d
gotten from Aiden when he’d apparently gotten distracted by being pissed at
Derek again. He’d been going back and forth between the two documents for half
the night before he’d started thinking about possibly fictional creatures.
Rereading the description for what felt like the hundredth time, he reminded
himself again to ask Ethan for information, not Aiden. Ethan appeared to be the
brain of the MegaAlpha. Aiden’s descriptions tended to amount to “I could take
it,” or “I wanted to rip his face off and eat it. ”
There was a fourth document—Stiles wondered how long he’d been awake to get as
far he had—it was information on tarot. Stiles didn’t know how many different
interpretations of each and every tarot card there were. Somehow, it had never
come up in his long strings of Wikipedia research. He’d done research on the
origins of tarot at some point, he was sure, but he’d never actually looked
into the interpretations of the Devil card.
They were, as one would probably expect, not all exactly very pleasant.
Ignorance. Self- bondage. Hedonism. Egoism. Lust. Cheerful, no?
Stiles’ phone, somewhere behind his bedside table, chimed at him. Stiles
remembered suddenly that he’d told Scott he’d meet him at Deaton’s at 7:30 to
talk about Peter.
SHIT.
                                     * * *
Five months was a relatively brief period to take a hiatus from Beacon Hills,
but Derek wasn’t expecting quite so many sideways glances and hushed tones—not
that whispering prevented Derek from hearing what people said about him—when he
returned. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really, because being a Hale
warranted a certain reaction from anyone who had been around Beacon Hills for
the past twenty-some odd years. Sometimes the reactions varied anywhere between
fear and pity, but it was the things people said when they thought Derek was
out of earshot that ate away at him the most—even if Derek would like to
pretend they didn’t. “Murderer, felon, troubled youth, thug, orphan, poor
thing, dangerous, pathetic, lunatic, druggie, alcoholic, bad boy,” and the list
went on.
Even while some of the things on the list may have been true, Derek had serious
concerns about the ways in which information circulated. He cringed to think
about some of the stories that encompassed his life and his family—had they
become the veritable local boogiemen? Did people see the ghosts of Derek’s
family trailing after him as he strolled down the street in broad daylight?
When they told stories about the burnt out husk of the Hale house, did they
even see the macabre mistake of a teenage boy who incinerated his entire life
in a pyroclasm of ignorance and lust? When they said his name, did people catch
glimpses of memory as his mother had said, “Derek,” and “I love you,” and “my
little wolf,” while tucking him into bed as a child? (Those memories seeming so
long forgotten or neglected that all the color had been drained from them and
nothing was left but black and white along with the soft smile Derek’s mother
left to haunt him every time he closed his eyes.) Derek doubted it.
No. Derek knew that for most people in Beacon Hills, the story of the Hale
family was the local legend. And real-life tragedy is way more entertaining
than television. But Derek also knew that the myth surrounding his family had
evolved so many times over that whatever semblance of truth that had once
existed was now warped beyond recognition. People had retold the death of his
family so many times over for so many different reasons. Some people were bored
and needed a story to tell, some people needed to rationalize why bad things
happen in the world, some people were masochists and needed to experience
tragedy second-hand, and some people were sadists who enjoyed perverting the
truth so they had someone in life to hate.
Why did I come back to Beacon Hills?
It was a legitimate question at this point. Derek had been to at least four
different apartments that Stiles had marked in the Classifieds; and two out of
the four landlords had slammed their doors in Derek’s face after he introduced
himself. Derek considered the possibility that perhaps he had bad breath or his
casual demeanor had become so accustomed to expressing anger and exasperation
that it had sort of become permanent. He dismissed these ideas after realizing
that once the named “Hale” left his mouth, his face promptly became acquainted
with the door. Maybe they were just afraid that he was a pyromaniac and he
would burn down their apartment complexes?
I suppose that would just be in the nature of good business. Derek made a
mental note to laugh internally. Stiles would have made fun of me for making a
joke.
Derek stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, grousing to himself silently as he
thought about Stiles. He must have been making a distinctly displeased face and
growling to himself when a mother and her son swerved dramatically from his
path—the mother’s face stricken with fear as she hurried her son along past
Derek’s lumbering figure.
What the FUCK am I doing back here? Stiles is the only one besides Isaac who
has seen me since I’ve been back; and now I even fucked that up. Scott has his
pack established now, and his pack doesn’t need someone like me coming in and
messing up all the power dynamics—as fucked up as they already with three
alphas, one beta, one banshee, one hunter, and one Stiles. Peter is apparently
having another psychotic break and I can’t handle his problems anymore. Out of
all the places I have been and could have come back to, why Beacon Hills? Why
the one place that’s filled with my past?
Derek didn’t want to consider the answer to his own question. He didn’t want to
consider the mirage dancing in the sunlight; off in the intangible
distance—just one more illusion. But Derek was also tired of watching his life
ghost by like some morbid parade—soaked with ash and regret and anger and
desire. Derek wanted something real, and something fixed in place. Maybe that
something was in the only place he knew? Maybe that place was in Beacon Hills?
Derek looked up at the red brick building in front of him; deciding it was the
last apartment he would look at.
I don’t belong here. I haven’t belonged here in a very long time.
Derek’s footfalls measured the length of sidewalk as his heavy steps passed
several street vendors and kiosks. He tried not to viscerally react to the rank
smell of overcooked hot dogs from one cart, as well as ignoring the glare being
cast off of the gaudy cellphone cases that another kiosk owner was selling.
Derek ignored the vendors shouting at him as he continued past and rounded the
corner to find the entrance to the apartment building. One person in
fluorescent colors followed Derek around the street corner shouting something
about “palmistry,” and “let me look at your love line,” but the werewolf hadn’t
been paying attention. He couldn’t even remember if it had been a man or a
woman. Derek grunted in an uninterested manner and took the assumingly
ridiculous pamphlet from the person. He pocketed what he was handed and crossed
the threshold into the apartment complex.
I wouldn’t even know how to belong here.
                                     * * *
Stiles was only a half hour late to Deaton’s, which he thought was quite an
accomplishment. He had almost taken out his father and himself barreling
headlong down the stairs, but no one was dead and there were no broken bones or
bloody noses, so he was calling it a win. Scott was supposed to work that day,
so it wasn’t like he wouldn’t be there anyway.
“Morning Stiles,” Isaac said, broom in hand. It was clear he was working,
instead of Scott. The Beta wolf had progressively lost more and more of his
kicked puppy look since Scott had become Alpha, though he was increasingly
nervous around him. Stiles thought it had something to do with the fact he was
sleeping with Scott’s ex, but then, what did Stiles know? Stiles also thought
Scott was completely oblivious to who Isaac really wanted to sleep with, but
that was not a topic Stiles was going to touch with a ten foot pole if he could
get away with it. At least, not with Scott.
“Where’s Scott?” Perfectly rational question, since Scott was supposed to be
working. Isaac and Stiles got along well enough, but Stiles needed Scott for
this. He was great as Scott’s backup, as the only true Beta in the pack who was
half-sane, but he was not who Stiles wanted to talk to at all.
Isaac got this puppy-eyed, almost scared look that he always got when someone
mentioned Scott. This time, Stiles was surprised he didn’t hurt himself, the
pining was so thick. Isaac’s pathetic puppy love crush on Scott annoyed the
crap out of Stiles, though it made him easier to read than a kid’s book. “He
got called away.” Isaac said, only half meeting Stiles’ eyes. “Some kind of
Alpha thing.”
Alpha things did not happen without Stiles’ knowledge. Scott was a better Alpha
than Derek had been, but a huge part of that was his willingness to talk to his
pack. Stiles sighed and pulled out his phone.
Allison, where’s Scott? He texted, while Isaac made increasingly panicked
faces. Stiles and Allison’s relationship was still awkward at times, but
Allison wouldn’t lie to cover Scott’s ass. She wasn’t Scott’s Beta. Nor was she
trying to get into his pants.
Some kind of nature date with a Beta from that pack up north. I have no idea
where. Isaac wouldn’t tell me. There was a pause, then Allison texted again.
Tell Isaac next time he cancels our plans to cover Scott’s ass, it’s going to
be worse.
Tell him yourself. I’m staying out of that three-way. Stiles texted back,
fleeing towards Deaton’s office. Allison apparently decided not to pursue the
idea, because she stopped texting. Stiles was silently thankful.
“Good morning, Stiles.” Deaton said, looking up from his computer. “It’s early
for you to be up, isn’t it?”
“Scott was supposed to be here.” Stiles said, dropping into the chair opposite
him.
“He called in this morning, asked if it would be okay for Isaac to work for him
today. What’s going on?” Deaton, as the pack’s emissary, would know as much as
anyone else.
“Peter’s going crazier than usual.” Stiles said, offering the tarot card to
Deaton. He assumed that Derek had contacted Deaton to deal with locking up
Peter. Stiles sure hadn’t helped. Isaac stepped into the office, sat down in
the seat beside Stiles.
“Derek called me to help him contain him at the Hale house.” Deaton confirmed,
taking the card. He stared down at it, turning it over in his hands. “Derek
said he said something when you found him.”
“’The man with three faces gave it to me.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Stiles shivered, despite the heat of the morning. Peter was creepy enough
without insanity that couldn’t be explained by the fact he was freaking insane.
“Unfortunately, there are a number of supernatural beings that possess multiple
faces. The first thing that comes to mind is Janus, a Roman god with two
faces.” Stiles wanted to shriek, but managed to contain it to a strangled
whisper.
“God?” He was not going to hyperventilate. It was taking everything he had not
to, but he was not going to hyperventilate. “Can we please not have to kill a
Roman god this week? I cannot handle killing a Roman god. Dear god, I thought
the Wendigo was bad enough but a god?” Isaac, beside Stiles, was just as
freaked. His eyes had bugged out to the size of saucers and he was making a
tiny whimpering sound. Stiles had the vague thought, behind the terror, that
Isaac was a much a puppy as any member of the pack.
“It isn’t an actual god,” Deaton said, looking up from the card and appearing
completely unaware of their terror. “It’s a very powerful being, but it isn’t a
god. Talia Hale chased him out of her territory when she was a new Alpha. He
might have sworn some sort of retribution. I don’t remember right off.”
“A god might have sworn retribution on the Hale pack and you can’t remember?”
Stiles would really, really, like to not be a virgin when he gets smote by a
Roman god. It would be the ultimate humiliation to get smote by a Roman god
before he could even get laid. “So you’re telling me we’re screwed.”
“It might not be Janus.” Deaton said, completely unfazed by Stiles’ flailing
freak out or Isaac’s panicky breathing across the table. “He didn’t use tarot
cards last time.” He turned the card over again, staring down at the image of
Pan. “I don’t know if I trust Peter’s judgment either. He’s even less sane than
he usually is, and—”
“That’s saying something?” Stiles interrupted.
“He has always had an emotional disconnect with the rest of the family.” Deaton
said, as though Stiles hadn’t spoken. “My concern is that he hasn’t been
mentally stable since he came back, and now he appears to be even less stable
than he was. At least before, when he was plotting something, we knew it. Now,
I’m not even sure he’s capable of rational thought.”
“So on top of possibly-Janus, we have to worry about Peter deciding that trying
to kill Scott again is a good idea.”
“That is my worry.”
Stiles looked at Isaac. “Why do we keep Peter around again?” He asked. Isaac
had his breathing more or less under control, but he looked like he was trying
to decide if he wanted to tell them something. It was Stiles personal opinion
that aside from Derek and his eyebrows, Isaac had the most expressive face in
all of Beacon Hills.
“Isaac, what is it?” Deaton asked.
“Allison’s been acting weird lately.” He threw a conflicted look Stiles’ way,
then continued. “I was-we were-I mean—” he flushed.
“We get the picture, Isaac.” Deaton said. Stiles would have let Isaac go on.
Though the idea of picturing Isaac and Allison doing anything was about as
appealing to him as picturing Derek and Ms. Blake, he felt it was his duty as
Scott’s best friend to make the Beta squirm.
“She, uh, she threw me off and started yelling at something. Something that
wasn’t there.” Stiles shrugged.
“So Lady Crazy McKnifeandArrow has cracked again. Better stay away from her, or
she’ll do to you what she did to Boyd and Erica.” Stiles wasn’t vindictive. At
all. What Allison had done was common knowledge to all three individuals in the
room. He stood; at least comforted by the fact that Peter was contained for the
moment, if not by the news of who it could be. As he walked out of Deaton’s
office, he heard Deaton say “Peter and Allison? What could anyone want with
those two?”
                                     * * *
Derek had watched the lights in the Stilinski household slowly come on as the
sun strolled its way out of the sky and was replaced by the moon. The lights in
the kitchen and dining room were the first to come on, soon followed by the
living room after the Stilinskis had finished dinner. Derek could see the blue
haze of a television flickering against the living room wall as the Sheriff
reclined the remainder of his evening away. Derek’s keys jangled idly between
his fingers as he fidgeted and used his enhanced senses to detect when Stiles
left the living room and headed for his bedroom.
He knew that on a creeper scale of one to ten, he was at a twelve; but after
spending an entire day trying to repress how angry he was with Stiles, he knew
there was no other choice. Usually Derek’s motif when wounded—emotionally and
physically—was to: brood, hide, lick his wounds, and then possibly brood some
more. This time though, Derek was trying to do things a little bit different.
He was trying to be a little bit different. Baby steps.
Baby steps aside, though, Derek was still livid. He had a verbal arsenal at his
disposal, and he was itching to use it; but he wasn’t quite sure if that would
help the situation. It might make me feel better. But Derek wasn’t quite sure
if he could manage calm even though he was sure as hell going to try. He sucked
in a shaky breath that rattled in his lungs as he crossed the street and stood
beneath Stiles’ window. With a single leap, Derek launched himself silently
onto the awning beneath the illuminated glass. The pads of his fingers touched
the smooth surface with familiarity, which made Derek feel both comforted and
disturbed. Without even lifting the window, Derek could smell Stiles’ scent
billowing out like thick curls of fog. Derek didn’t even have to glance into
Stiles’ room to envision the teenager engrossed by the blue light of his laptop
as fingers clicked away at keys.
Sure enough, when Derek peered into the room, Stiles was wreathed in blue,
scrolling through websites that Derek wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. He
took another breath, trying to remember calm like it was a one-word mantra. His
fingers lifted the frame of the window without so much as a creak. Immediately,
the werewolf’s sense of smell was accosted by the scent of Stiles, which was
surprisingly pleasant if only for the sake of familiarity. Derek entered the
room mutely, tucking himself into the safety of shadows opposite to the glare
of the laptop. Derek took another breath and counted out the seconds before he
tried to open his mouth and let sounds come cascading out.
Calm. There’s no other choice now. He had been standing there for a minute now.
“What did you mean you…‘needed me,’” Derek murmured—the venom of anger replaced
by docility.
Chapter End Notes
     I apologize that Stiles' chart isn't very chartlike. When I wrote it,
     it was formatted in a text box on Microsoft word, and I have no idea
     how to format it in HTML.
     (Psst, we have tumblrs. His (http://arpoet7.tumblr.com/) is very
     focused on Sterek and Mshenko from Mass effect. Mine (http://
     gilliangrissom.tumblr.com/) is much more ALLOFTHETHINGS. You'll never
     guess which of us writes which character in this fic.)
***** A Window from the Past *****
Chapter Summary
     First off--MERRY CHRISTMAS or HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
     A chapter in which Derek confronts Stiles about some of their long-
     standing issues with one another.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
You’d think that after Derek sneaking through Stiles’ window somewhere nearing
one hundred times, Stiles would get used to broody werewolves lunging out of
the various shadowy recesses of his room. You’d think—and you’d be wrong.
Derek’s gravelly voice in conjunction with the news that there could be a god
running somewhere around Beacon Hills almost sent Stiles teetering out of his
chair and putting his foot through his laptop screen. Thankfully, Stiles only
managed to yelp like he’d been goosed and to grab the table as though he’d
found out that Mother Russia had finally come to make good on all their threats
after the Cold War. When Stiles realized that it was only Derek, he let go of
his desk, but considered the possibility of breaking off a leg to use as a
bludgeon on the werewolf. Stiles swung a mean bat; so, why would a desk leg be
any different?
Stiles dusted himself off dramatically, trying to regain composure. Fucking
werewolves.
“Just because you think you’re a badass werewolf doesn’t mean you can come
climbing through my window anytime you want,” Stiles snapped.
“Actually it does,” Derek replied.
Okay, first, that right there—that pissed Stiles off; but what pissed Stiles
off more was that there wasn’t an ounce of smugness on Derek’s face. Stiles
knows Derek’s smug face, because his eyebrows do this archy thing and Derek’s
eyebrows just looked like two black caterpillars squatting above his stupid
(green?) eyes. Stiles considered momentarily what the serious lack of smug on
Derek’s face meant. He supposed that it meant Derek thought he could do
whatever the fucking goddam hellhe wanted. Yup, pissed off was a good place for
Stiles to start.
“Oh, fuck me. You’re such a Neanderthal, you know that? ‘Argh, Grog want meat.
Grog beat antelope on head with smashy stick and drag pointy-head back to
cave.’” (And yes, Stiles had to pantomime Grog’s entire hunting adventure. It
was for dramatic effect, really.) “You know, the theorist, Judith Halberstam
talks about the alpha male’s need to assert ‘phallic power’ over
others—regardless of gender—to establish power binaries within societal
groupings.” Stiles paused for Derek’s reaction. Nothing. “For those in the
class who weren’t paying attention, that’s a fancy gender theorists’ way of
saying, ‘You, Derek Hale, are an alpha male prick who thinks he can do whatever
he wants, whenever he wants.’”
Derek sighed. His shoulders bunched in a way that looked very defeated to
Stiles.
“I know, Stiles,” Derek conceded.
Somehow, Derek’s unwillingness to fight back pissed Stiles off even more. He’s
kicked roadkill that put up more resistance than Derek was right now. (And
don’t ask Stiles why he’s kicked roadkill before. It involved a fight with
Scott, a bottle of Jim Beam he stole from his father and a whole lot of nudity
on Stiles’ part. But damn that dead raccoon had been scrappy.)
Stiles chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. “But you’re not an Alpha
anymore, are you Derek?!” Sure, why not? Let’s add some lemon juice to that
salt that I’ve rubbed in the wound. Nothing quite like adding lemon to some of
that man-pain.
There it was again. That blank expression slapped across Derek’s face.
Derek shook his head absently. “No, no, I’m not. I was never meant to be one in
the first place.”
“Then why make yourself one, Derek? Oh, wait! I know the answer to that one
already. Please, reference my previous statements about you being an alpha male
jackass who can’t resist a good power dynamic. You know, to teach your
supernatural ass a lesson, I should start throwing mountain ash on all the
windowsills and underneath the doorways. Then, maybe I can get a long stick and
just poke you from the other side of the window. Maybe I’ll even attach a
cattle prod to the end of the stick!”
Derek took a step toward Stiles, his hands thrown in front of him as a sign of
surrender. “Don’t worry, Stiles, I’ll never do this again. I just needed to ask
you what you meant yesterday.”
Stiles was a little caught up on ‘I’ll never do this again.’ What exactly did
Derek mean by that? Did he mean that he’d never visit Stiles again? Did he mean
he’d never just pop in Stiles’ window again? Was Derek planning on leaving
Beacon Hills altogether? Was this Derek’s final goodbye? Stiles was seeing red
now. Derek didn’t have the right to ask questions after how casually he’d acted
when he found out Stiles had a panic attack because Derek hadn’t been there. In
that moment, Derek had shown just how little he cared; and that sent Stiles
over the edge. Derek could hide, he could brood, he could keep his eyebrows
from saying what his mouth wouldn’t, but Derek couldn’t deny the one truth that
Stiles knew: Derek needed the pack and the pack needed Derek.
“Why are you even back here, Derek? Are you here to play Omega? Because the
pack doesn’t have time to babysit a lone wolf!”
Derek’s eyes narrowed at that. Stiles had gone straight for a sucker punch on
that one.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Derek responded casually, despite his eyes
betraying the anger that he was working so hard to suppress.
“Well, I guess that’s self-evident enough,” Stiles barked. “Are you really so
determined to be alone that you drove off your own sister? She was your family.
Why not stay with Cora?”
“It’s not that simple, Stiles. She found a new pack and she found someone
within that pack. There wasn’t anything for me there.”
Stiles didn’t mean to say it, but he did. He didn’t mean it and at his core, he
knew that; but it came out anyways. Derek seemed to be trying so hard to put
out Stiles’ verbal wildfires; but Stiles was bound and determined to get Derek
to see the truth of the situation—no matter how much it damaged their tentative
friendship.
“It doesn’t seem like there’s anything for you here, either.”
It had been a long time since Stiles had seen sadness on Derek’s face. As a
matter-of-fact, the last time Stiles had seen that exact expression was when he
and Derek were standing ankle-deep in a pool of water over Boyd’s lifeless
body. Stiles remembered the way Derek’s hands had trembled in the darkness. He
remembered how Derek’s shoulder had shuddered underneath his fingertips as he
tried to console the Alpha. Stiles hadn’t known what to do in the moment—he had
never been very good at dealing with death. Even after all these years, Stiles
still didn’t know what to say to his father on the anniversary of his mother’s
death. Instead, Stiles offered a consoling hand to his dad in the same way that
he had to Derek when Boyd was murdered. The point was, Stiles tried to express
how much he cared about people; but he almost couldn’t bear seeing that look on
Derek’s face again. Almost.
“Derek, when are you going to fucking admit it?”
“Admit, what,” Derek asked evasively.
“That the reason you made Boyd and Erica werewolves, was because you were
lonely and not because you are some power-hungry prick like Peter. Don’t get me
wrong, you’re still a prick and you still love your power, but you’re not quite
Peter-level power-hungry-prick, yet.”
“Stiles, once lonely is all you know, it’s not lonely anymore, it’s normal.”
Wow. Emo much, Derek? I mean, even for you, that’s pretty depressing. Stiles
had to admit though, that he had never really thought about just how lonely
Derek must feel all the time; but that was irrelevant—Derek was still avoiding
the main point for all of his reluctance to put up a fight.
“You’re fucking unbelievable. You come waltzing in here demanding answers from
someone you can barely seem to tolerate, you evade answering uncomfortable
questions and now you’re trying to elicit sympathy after the way you blew me
off?”
Derek seemed to be cracking. His exterior calm was starting to change into
obvious frustration, and Stiles started feeling like he was gaining ground even
if it was more-than-slightly sadistic.
“Stiles, my family was murdered. Your little panic attack because I wasn’t
around to save Scott’s ass doesn’t seem to compare.”
Stiles huffed in disbelief. “See, Derek, that’s what you don’t seem to
understand. Scott might not be blood, but he’s my family; so it does compare.”
Derek didn’t seem to know how to respond, so his Sourwolf stare came out to
play instead. “Why are you fucking back in Beacon Hills, Derek? Are you and
your crazy uncle-McOCDpants planning on causing more problems for us than we
already have? We might have a rogue god on our hands here, so we don’t really
have time to deal with your man-pain bullshit. Or maybe you’re just back in
town to get some more innocent teenagers killed?”
That did it. If Stiles had been less used to Derek, he probably would have
screamed and wet himself when Derek came roaring across the room at him. Before
he could blink, Derek had pinned him to the wall, snarling. Stiles wanted to
tell Derek he was extraordinarily unimpressed with the whole wall thing, since
this was far from the first time he’d ever done it, but Derek didn’t give him
the chance.
“Is that why you kept visiting me, because the teenage virgin has a death
wish?” Stiles was pissed Derek had pulled that card. Stiles had been throwing
everything he could think of at Derek, but pulling the virgin card was too
much; and while he wasn’t exactly knocking his knees together because Derek had
him slammed against the wall, Stiles couldn’t deny the absolute venom in the
werewolf’s voice. Besides, it wasn’t like Derek was the master of romantic
choices! Kate had killed his whole damn family. He’d killed Paige when the plan
to turn her had gone wrong, and that plan had been Peter’s. He’d trusted Peter.
Who could everbe stupid enough to trust Uncle Creepy
McIhangaroundmynephew’sschooltowatchhimmake-outwithhisgirlfriendpants? Ms.
Blake had been out to destroy all of Beacon Hills! Or, at least, that’s what
Stiles thought her plan was. It was really unclear what she’d actually been
after. Power? Revenge against Deucalion and Kali? Revenge against werewolves in
general? Destroying the world? Perfecting the world’s best bagel? There really
was no telling. All he knew was they’d done some insane things to beat her.
Those insane things had saved Mrs. McCall, Mr. Argent and his dad and Scott had
ended up an Alpha out of the bargain—but they’d still been insane.
While Stiles’ brain was rambling through all the reasons Derek shouldn’t have
pulled the ‘V’ card, his mouth was having a completely different conversation.
It often found ways to speak when he wasn’t paying enough attention to it. “I
was visiting your dumb ass because I missed you! Most people want to spend time
with people they miss! Maybe you’d understand that if you weren’t such a
freaking idiot!” Stiles had to grab Derek’s stupid leather jacket because Derek
had let go of him, though he hadn’t stepped back. He’d done it so fast that
Stiles’ knees had collapsed under the sudden return of his weight, and if it
wasn’t for Derek’s jacket, he’d have fallen.
Derek’s expression was possibly the most complicated Stiles had ever seen.
Confusion skittered across it, though he saw other emotions.  It was mostly
fear, but hope and longing also danced behind the spider-like confusion. Gecko-
like? Scorpion-like? Stiles had never decided which image he liked more for the
description of “skittering confusion.” “You came back because you missed us,
Derek! I was hoping maybe you missed me!” Stiles tried desperately to get his
mouth under control, but there was no stopping it. That puppy was coming out,
whether he wanted it to or not. Derek tried to say something, but Stiles kept
right on going, hoping to steamroll him into stunned silence. “Here’s why you
left, Derek! You’re afraid! You’re afraid to let yourself care about anyone
because your track record quite frankly, sucks!” Though he had a ready-made
list of Derek’s sucky record, he managed to contain it. “So you make every
wrong choice you can! You shove everyone away so they don’t have a chance to
leave, or, more likely, kill someone else you care about!”
Derek jerked back from Stiles, making disgruntled noises and what Stiles
assumed were a multitude of curses beneath his breath. His face was contorted
with—well, Stiles wasn’t exactly sure what it was contorted with, but emotion
was definitely there and it looked like Derek was restraining himself from
tearing Stiles’ arm off and beating him to death with it. (For which Stiles was
thankful.) Derek shoved Stiles out of his way, sending Stiles stumbling back a
few paces as Derek headed for the window. He didn’t use all his strength, so
Stiles wasn’t picking himself up from the bathroom floor and explaining to his
father why there was a Stiles-shaped hole in the wall as he went after Derek.
Derek could not just up and leave! He didn’t want Derek to leave! He wanted him
to react, but not to leave! Now that he had Derek’s attention, he was damn well
going to keep it! Everything that Stiles had said up to this point had been
bait—douchey bait—but bait nonetheless in an attempt to provoke Derek into
admitting something—anything.
Stiles figured there wasn’t any possible way to keep Derek from leaving that
didn’t involve the aforementioned Stiles-shaped perforation in the wall. But
his foot was already so far down his throat he was chewing on his own ass, so
how much worse could it possibly get? He launched himself in front of Derek,
slamming the window down so hard that the glass shuddered, and wheeling himself
around, Stiles grabbed ahold of his stupid, amazingly fitted grey Henley, and
kissed him.
Derek froze. 100% made of marble. Pale, perfectly sculpted marble with no
interest in Stiles at alland oh god, this was disastrous, how it could get
worse Derek was going to kill him. Derek was going to throw him through the
wall and laugh at his mangled body. He was going to parade his corpse through
town as an example of why stupid virgins who’d been kissed only by a childhood
friend more interested in losing her ‘V’ card than who she was losing it with,
and by Lydia I’m-a-freaking-banshee Martin to break you out of a damn panic
attack should not—under any circumstances—decide it’s a good idea to kiss Beta
werewolves after spending a whole day accusing said werewolf of everything up
to, and including the murder of innocents. His gravestone would read “His
godawful first name ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, 1996-2013, Beloved son and friend. He
was killed by the first man he kissed.” It was a little long for a gravestone,
but Stiles figured Derek would want the world to know of his shame, and
therefore would make sure to get a stone large enough that it would fit. And he
would make sure that Stiles’ godawful first name would be in very large, very
legible font, while “Stiles” would be tiny and nearly unreadable.
And then Derek relaxed. Started kissing back, even. Stiles was so stunned he
froze and pulled back. Derek’s expression had softened, which made Stiles
hopeful he wasn’t about to die, but his mouth started running a mile a minute
anyway, trying to apologize.
“Oh my god Derek I am so sorry I didn’t mean—no, I did mean, but I—” Stiles
would have kept talking, but Derek kissed him again; his face contorted with a
completely new emotion. And dammit, Stiles was going to have to take a crash
course in Derek’s more extreme facial expressions, which appeared to be ranging
somewhere between seething anger to… Isaac-level pathetic pining? If Stiles
didn’t die, that is. Or maybe he was already dead and just didn’t know it at
this point? Regardless, he actually tried to keep talking with Derek’s lips
pressed against his for several words. Longer than he’s proud of, actually.
Long enough that Derek stopped kissing him, which he’s suddenly found is the
absolute last thing he ever wants Derek to do.
“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek said in what might have been an affectionate tone,
still laced with annoyance, frustration and fear.
And there it was, hitting Stiles like a stray tennis ball squarely on the
forehead—the last thing that Stiles wanted was for Derek to feel that awkward
combination of emotions. The last thing that Stiles want for himselfwas to feel
nervous or afraid, but with Derek’s lips pressed against his own, Stiles just
wanted to make everything negative in Derek’s life evaporate. And Stiles wasn’t
exactly sure when he started feeling that way. But there it was.
“Yep, I can do that. I am 100% capable of shutting up! See, I am—mfph!” This
time, when Derek kissed him, Stiles was actually able to follow through on his
statement. He sealed his lips shut, then realized that was possibly the dumbest
thing he’d ever done. This sort of close-mouthed, chaste kissing was going to
feed his imagination for months, so what would it be like to try actually
kissing Derek? Derek clearly had more practice at kissing than Stiles did—he
carefully wasn’t thinking about that list he’d had in his head not ten minutes
before. Derek carefully teased Stiles’ mouth open, one hand on his jaw and the
other on his shoulder like he was trying to decide if he wanted to wrap it
around Stiles or not. Just in case Derek wasn’t sure Stiles would want him to,
Stiles stepped into that arm, still kissing him.
Stiles was starting to feel a little drunk on the whole situation between
feeling Derek’s warm tongue darting around his mouth and feeling the larger
man’s body wrapped around his own as they stood there making out. Making out
with Derek Hale was something he could get used to. It was something that he
definitely wanted to get used to. In other news, Stiles had never really paid
much attention to what Derek smelled like, but he suddenly decided that the
most arousing smells in the world (when combined of course) were: leather,
whatever Derek’s aftershave was (Old Spice?), and trees. Yep, it was definitely
a Derek Hale trademark smell—or a lumberjack’s. Too many wood jokes and too
little time. If he’d had the ability to focus on anything other than Derek,
he’d have started a running tally of them. (Un?)fortunately for the world,
Derek was taking up too much of his attention for it.
Now, for all that he was about two feet wider, tended to stand straighter, and
was 9000 times more intimidating, Derek was actually about the same height as
Stiles. So when Stiles stepped into Derek and pressed his entire front into
him, his dick, which had been standing at attention to the events unfolding,
came into contact with something equally as at attention. Stiles’ head jerked
backwards so fast that his neck popped, and it took him several moments of
untangling himself from Derek’s arms to be able to look down and confirm that
yes, Derek was pitching his own tent in his pants.
Derek had flushed, partly from embarrassment and partly from arousal. At least,
Stiles hoped it was arousal. But Derek Hale radiating embarrassment as Stiles
scoped out his junk was perhaps the best thing that Stiles had ever experienced
in his life. Stiles really wished he had photographic memory about now. Derek’s
“Little D” was showing himself to not be so little, so it was pretty clear at
least part of him was all for this, but Stiles was very familiar with unwanted
boners. Derek let out a sound like Stiles was killing him.
“You might actually get somewhere,” he said, reaching for Stiles again. “If you
stop panicking and keep kissing me.” He tried to reach for the clasp of Stiles’
belt, but Stiles smacked his hands away playfully. Derek shrugged slightly and
looped his hands in Stiles’ belt at his hips.
“Want to see you.” Stiles mumbled, his mouth once again in front of his brain.
He reminded himself to be ridiculously embarrassedat some point where he and
Derek Hale were not trying to get into each other’s pants. He latched his mouth
to Derek’s and pushed him back towards his bed. That reassured him that the
Beta was as in on this as he was, because Derek let himself be pushed until he
sat down on the edge of the bed. Stiles pushed at his jacket until Derek let
him push it off, then yanked at his shirt. Derek almost grinned as Stiles tried
to pull his Henley off without breaking the kiss. He leaned back enough to pull
away, let Stiles pants go, and pulled his shirt over his head.
Stiles mouth went dry and the complaint he’d been voicing when Derek had
stopped kissing him died when Derek had untangled himself from his shirt. He
found himself staring again. Derek made that noise again, the one like he was
going to die if Stiles didn’t touch him. Stiles let out a matching groan,
reaching out to trace feather-light touches over his skin. Derek stuck his
hands in Stiles back pockets, pulling him forward. Stiles found his forehead
pressed lightly against Derek’s as he traced the curves of Derek’s stomach and
pecs. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t believe that
Derek was letting him touch him like this as Stiles’ fingers glided across the
shallows of Derek’s muscles.
Stiles could feel Derek’s breath ghosting across his face as the werewolf
exhaled quietly; his breath sweet and smelling vaguely of Stiles. Derek’s
breath seemed to hitch when Stiles paused. The teenager found that particularly
intoxicating. Stiles could have spent all night worshipping Derek’s abs if the
other man would have let him, but Derek didn’t seem quite satisfied with the
thought as he kissed Stiles—seemingly reading his mind. (And beards. That was
another thing Stiles definitely decided he liked this evening. Beards. Mostly
Derek’s beard. And mostly when it was leaving little ragged red blotches of
stubble-burn across Stiles’ face.)  Another note, this one to make a list of
all the things he’d like to do to Derek, have done to him by Derek, or to do
mutually with Derek. Considering the fact his mental list was already about 200
items long, Stiles had a feeling if he ever printed it, it would rival A Song
of Ice and Fire for length and a number of websites Stiles may or may not have
frequented for creativity.
Derek tugged sheepishly at Stiles’ belt again as they continued to kiss, but
Stiles swatted gently at the Beta’s hands. A deep and unsatisfied noise tumbled
in Derek’s chest, but it only made electric currents travel up Stiles’ spine,
knowing that the growl had no heat behind it.
“Der-ek,” Stiles chuckled through a series of chaste kisses. A small smirk
played on Derek’s lips as Stiles pressed at least four more kisses on his
mouth. “You don’t get to. I get to. Down boy!” Stiles swatted his hand one more
time in punctuation.
Derek raised an eyebrow, which seemed to say, “I’m the one with the
supernatural powers here,” and “Talk to me like I’m a dog again and I’ll rip
your throat out…” Considering that expression made Stiles’ dick jump, he
decided that along with dying of embarrassment, he should possibly reevaluate
his libido. Or not. Definitely not.
Stiles poked him in the chest with his forefinger, interrupting his Sourwolf
stare. “Hey, don’t start with me, buddy. You get to be mister ‘Oh, I’m a badass
werewolf, hear me roar,’ all the time, so for once in this relationship, Iget
to call the shots.” And before Stiles could realize how significant his choice
of the word “relationship,” had been, there was more fear splayed across
Derek’s face than Stiles had seen in a long time. Fuck my mouth. And fuck my
brain for thinking about Derek fucking my mouth. Just fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Stiles,” Derek began with a long sigh; his eyes averting Stiles’ own for the
first time since they kissed.
Stiles could see exactly what was playing through Derek’s head: Paige, Kate,
Jennifer, Derek’s entire family, Erica, and Boyd; which is why Stiles slotted
his hands behind Derek’s neck, pulling himself closer as Derek’s hands still
sat comfortably in his back pockets.
“You’re allowed to have nice things, you know?” Stiles hadn’t quite meant for
it to come out like that, but there it was.
“Stiles,” Derek tried again. Convincing Derek that he was allowed to have nice
things was suddenly the most important task in Stiles’ entire life.
“I’m a nice thing. Right here in front of you.”
“I know.” But Derek’s face didn’t exactly scream “convinced.”
“Do you? Because you don’t look like you believe me. And right now, I really,
really need you to believe me. As a matter of fact, since I kissed you, all
I’ve wanted is to take back every awful thing I said to you today and
yesterday. I know I can’t, but if I could jump through a wormhole and shove our
angry little faces together to prevent this entire fiasco, I would. And I’m
pretty sure I would have saved us a lot of time. And we would have probably had
sex by now. And as I’m standing here talking about how we could have had sex by
now, I’m wondering WHY we aren’t having sex right now. And I realize it’s
because I’m the world’s largest douchewaffle. Just bee tee dubs.”  Thinking
that whole thing through, Stiles decided that if he’d only shoved their angry
little faces together within a week of the pool incident, they’d have had lots
and lots of sex by now.
“You don’t have to apologize, Stiles. You shouldn’t have to apologize for the
truth.”
Stiles heaved out a sigh, kneeling down to Derek’s level. Derek was really
going to make him belabor the point, wasn’t he? Of course he was. He was a big
stubborn werewolf. “That’s the thing about truth, Derek. You should never use
it to hurt the people you care about. And I care about you—a lot.” And Stiles
intended to prove that.
An impish grin flashed itself on Stiles’ face as he pressed the flat of his
hand against Derek’s naked chest, pushing him back onto the bed with a
satisfying bounce of the mattress. Derek didn’t seem to mind. Stiles stood and
tried to do his best impersonation of what “stalking forward” might look like,
but he only managed to tangle his feet in some loose bed sheets, which sent him
tumbling forward with an undignified yelp. He managed to brace himself against
the edge of the bed, but not before his face flopped perfectly into Derek’s
crotch. Edit to the earlier mental note: die of embarrassment.
Stiles let out a muffled, “Imfttodothht” from Derek’s crotch.
Derek, who was not even trying to hide his amusement at Stiles attempting to be
sexy and failing, was erupting in full-body laughter that only caused Stiles’
face to be smashed further into his now half-hard dick. Stiles would have been
offended, but hearing Derek actually laugh was totally worth the humiliation
and his lips were currently pressed up against Derek’s junk, so he was a little
distracted.
“You did not mean to do that,” Derek said through a final laugh.
“Totes did,” Stiles protested; yet again from Derek’s crotch, not wanting to
lose his current place of glory.
“Don’t say ‘totes,’” Derek responded with a glower. “And don’t try to do sexy.
I’m afraid you’ll hurt something.”
“Look at you worrying about my well-being,” Stiles said teasingly.
“I meant you might hurt me. You almost racked me with your face.”
Okay, true, but rude.Stiles decided to take the offensive with Derek’s last
comment by proceeding to bite (somewhat harder than he had intended) Derek’s
inner thigh. That seemed to shut the werewolf up as he tilted his head down so
he could look at Stiles, who still between his legs. “Not a bad start,” he
added coolly. Stiles wanted to make Derek’s voice react the way his dick just
had, twitching against Stiles’ cheek.
“I promise the ending will be better.” REALLY, Stiles?! Did you seriously just
say that? That’s it! I’m revoking my own sex card for use of cheesy one-liners!
Except not really…Okay, so maybe Derek had a point. Sexy and sexytime bravado
weren’t exactly his strong suit, but hey, he was still a virgin after all;
(soon to be not-virgin) but Stiles was really hoping that he might have some
opportunity to practice here. Lots and lots of practice. Horrible lines aside,
Derek didn’t seem to notice much of what Stiles was saying as the younger man’s
hands snaked up over his knees, spreading his legs further apart.
Stiles’ hands slid up to the outline of Derek’s now very visible erection.
Taking the heel of his hand, Stiles applied pressure through Derek’s jeans,
mimicking a gesture that Stiles had practiced on himself more times than he
could count. Slowly, Stiles developed a pace as he stroked Derek through his
jeans while searching the other man’s face for feedback. Derek seemed to be
enjoying himself (which Stiles was pleased to report) but refused to lay
back—his green eyes trained on what Stiles was doing to his dick instead.
Stiles could hear Derek’s breath snagging in his throat whenever Stiles moved
his hand in an erratic pace. It made Stiles grin inwardly to know that all his
years of masturbating would come in “handy” with getting Derek Hale off. Stiles
wrapped his unoccupied hand around Derek’s calf, bracing himself against the
other man as he continued running his hand along the impressive outline of
Derek’s dick.
Stiles watched Derek intently as his gusts of breath came rolling out and his
eyes fluttered shut with a throaty groan. Growl? Groany growl? Growly groan?
Stiles shook his head. Focus, Stiles!!
“What?” Derek asked; eyes still shut, head tilted back, and voice sounding
hoarse.
Apparently Stiles had said last part out loud. “Just arguing with myself
again.” Stiles flushed slightly.
“You’re. Un—believable,” Derek said; words choppy as he squirmed under Stiles’
hand.
Stiles let go of Derek’s dick long enough to hoist himself over the side of the
bed. Derek made a grunt of protest when Stiles pulled his hand away, but seemed
satisfied as Stiles hovered above him, straddling his legs. Stiles knew that if
he lowered himself even slightly, Derek’s dick would be grinding against his
ass; and this was a very, very tempting thought.
“It’s why you like me,” Stiles said at last.
“Who said I like you?” Derek teased.
“Don’t be a dick.”
Derek squinted at Stiles. “I’d rather you just kept touching mine,” he added
earnestly.
“Getting there.” Stiles leaned in to kiss Derek, letting their groins line up
perfectly, Stiles nudged his hips forward. They both couldn’t seem to resist
the matching sighs that shot out of their mouths and straight into their
partner’s. Derek clamped his hands around the back of Stiles’ head, lacing his
fingers through Stiles’ hair. Stiles had never been so turned on by someone
playing with his hair and he could already feel a wet spot through his boxers
from pre-come. Stiles heard two distinct thunks beneath him as Derek kicked off
his boots using only his feet. For some reason, that only made Stiles rut into
Derek’s hips harder; causing him to kiss the Beta faster and sloppier.
Derek’s extremely warm and talented tongue spent a lot of time in Stiles’
mouth, and Stiles was pretty sure that making out was his new favorite
activity. Especially making out straddling Derek’s lap and grinding down on
him. When Derek pulled back briefly from the kiss, Stiles sighed in confusion,
but moaned way louder than he should have as Derek latched teeth and tongue
onto the shell of his ear. With two languid strokes of Derek’s tongue against
his ear, Stiles was ready to hump Derek’s brains out there and now. Clothes be
damned.  
“Talking again,” muttered Derek while sucking on Stiles’ earlobe and placing a
kiss behind his ear.
“Sorry. Gonna have to work on my sexytime filters. All the blood from my brain
is in my dick right now.” Mental note to never do that, ever. Derek liked
Stiles lack of filters. Stiles could tell.
“Mhmm,” Derek hummed. Derek seemed intent on teasing Stiles throughout this
entire process, but Stiles didn’t really give a damn as long as Derek kept
kissing him and doing whatever it was he was doing with his hips right now.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasped.
“That’s the idea.” Derek had latched himself in the crook of Stiles’ neck,
tasting the bared skin.
Stiles was willing to bet his left arm that there would be the mother of all
hickeys on his neck tomorrow. And he was totally going to show it off. Totes.
Derek growled into his neck, but Stiles wasn’t entirely sure if that was
because he had spoken out loud again without realizing it or Derek just growled
a lot during make out sessions. Regardless—between Derek’s lips and teeth
latched onto his neck, Stiles’ newfound attraction to stubble-burn, and Derek’s
amazing sex-god hips—Stiles was afraid that he wasn’t going to last very long
if kept letting Derek take the reins.
Stiles pushed Derek off of himself and the werewolf continued trying to kiss
his neck even as he was being settled back onto the bed (which was perhaps the
most endearing thing that Stiles had seen Derek do to date). Still straddling
Derek’s legs, Stiles knelt over Derek’s torso and dragged his teeth across the
other man’s collarbone. He worked his way down Derek’s chest, sliding with lips
and tongue until he reached Derek’s right nipple. Stiles’ tongue ringed the
sensitive patch of skin and playfully nipped at it with his teeth to elicit a
satisfied moan from Derek.
“Stiles,” Derek choked out.
“Mmm,” was Stiles’ only response as he travelled down to Derek’s navel and
kissed the patch of hair that disappeared beneath his waistline.
“Stiles. Shirt.” Derek grunted out as Stiles’ fingertips had barely dipped
below the waistband of his boxer briefs inside his jeans.
 Stiles hadn’t really paid much attention to how many clothes he was still
wearing, because he was more intrigued by the notion that there were only two
articles of clothing standing between Derek and full-on nakedness. And damn,
even though those jeans hugged Derek in ungodly hawt ways, Stiles was fairly
certain that when he slid them past Derek’s ankles, he was going to hear a
choir of angelic hymns and a holy light would illuminate them from the heavens.
Or Stiles would just pass out due to lack of oxygen—he wasn’t quite sure. But
that was all beside the point. What was important was that Derek actually
seemed to be attracted to Stiles and wanted to see him with just as few clothes
on; and if Stiles’ face had been a Christmas tree, it would have been LIT UP
and flashing in sequential colors. It shouldn’t have seemed like such a
revelation to Stiles considering that he and Derek had been rubbing up against
one another for—Jesus-jumping-Christ-on-a-pogo-stick over an hour—but it hadn’t
really clicked that Derek was equally attracted to him until he told Stiles to
take his shirt off.
“Stiles. Shirt.” Derek repeated; tugging at Stiles’ shirt impatiently. “And I
can hear you thinking from here. Don’t make me use the claws to get it off.”
Stiles’ throat made this dry clicking noise as he swallowed and tried not to be
incredibly turned on by that mental image. “Uhh—”
“I’m not going to use my claws, Stiles. SHIRT. OFF. NOW.” Getting Derek to use
his claws were numbers three through thirty on Stiles’ list of things he’d like
to do with Derek.
“Right!” Stiles scrambled to work his shirt over his shoulders and head in a
way that was most assuredly not sexy, but the look on Derek’s face said
otherwise as the werewolf’s gaze swept his body. Derek reached up, and in a
gesture that seemed somehow possessive to Stiles, dragged his nails across
Stiles’ chest in a diagonal stripe that left a swath of trailing red scratches.
Derek’s chest rumbled again in a way that made Stiles’ dick twitch; and Derek
looked completely satisfied with himself.
When Stiles looked down at the small marks, he couldn’t quite handle it
anymore—all other nonessential facilities shutting down. Dick is now taking
control. Prepare to redirect all resources to ejaculatory processes. Stiles’
hand snapped open the top button of Derek’s jeans as he simultaneously worked
the zipper down. Stiles glanced at the black fabric of Derek’s boxer briefs
that were exposed from his unzipped jeans; there appeared to be a pre-come
stain on his underwear as well. In one sweeping movement, Stiles jerked the
waistline of both Derek’s jeans and underwear past his knees and ankles.
Derek’s dick slapped audibly against his stomach as Stiles pulled the remainder
of his clothes off of him.
There wasn’t an angelic host or godly lights shining down on them, but Stiles
could die a happy man now after seeing Derek Hale splayed naked on his bed with
blown pupils. Stiles ran his hands up Derek’s knees and onto his inner thighs;
feeling the short black hair of Derek’s legs tickle against his palms. Stiles
couldn’t really help but stare at Derek’s dick at this point. If there was ever
a point in his life when he needed to use the word “immaculate,” this was it.
It described Derek’s dick perfectly, but Stiles was about ready to squirm out
of his own skin just sitting there looking at Derek.
Then there was skin on skin. Derek muffled a cluster of words under his groan
as Stiles’ eager hands slid up his balls—one hand landing at the base of his
dick and the other resting on his pelvis. Stiles’ free hand brushed Derek’s
neatly trimmed black pubes as Stiles begin stroking Derek with his other hand.
Derek bucked under Stiles’ ministrations as the tempo increased. Stiles was
painfully hard in his own jeans. He knelt forward, licking a stripe from the
base of Derek’s dick to the obscenely red tip that was twitching in his hand as
Derek tried to choke out words.
“God—Stiles—” That had been exactly what Stiles was hoping to hear, and before
Derek could stutter out any more words, Stiles had wrapped his mouth around
Derek’s dick. “Fuck.”
Stiles would have chuckled, but he was too busy trying to not seem like a
virgin and he had Derek’s insanely hard cock in his mouth. He tried to imagine
what he’d like done to himself, (which, okay, wasn’t too difficult to conjure
up, considering he thought about having sex at least once every five minutes)
so Stiles stroked the base of Derek’s dick while circling the circumference of
the head with his tongue. Stiles considered this a good way to proceed once
Derek moaned in response and balled his hands, grabbing handfuls of Stiles’
comforter. Stiles bobbed his head in a rising rhythm; dragging his tongue
alongside the sensitive skin directly under the head of Derek’s dick, in
tandem.
Derek’s hips were lurching slightly, but not enough to cause Stiles to lose
control of what he was doing or to gag. Derek seemed very conscious of the fact
that this was Stiles’ first time doing, well, anything; and Stiles choking on
Derek’s dick was not how either one of them wanted this encounter to end.
Stiles didn’t want to amend the aforementioned epitaph to “Stiles Stilinski ‘He
choked to death on the first cock he ever sucked.’” Stiles switched between his
hand and continuing to suck Derek off until he found Derek’s hand on his
shoulder trying to get his attention.
“I’m close,” Derek said in a near whisper. It made him sound so strangely
fragile and small—nothing like the intimidating werewolf that Stiles knew. It
gave Stiles feelings in his stomach that he wasn’t quite sure he knew what to
do with just yet.
Stiles’ lips popped off of Derek’s dick, wet and feeling chapped. “Go ahead,”
he urged; going back to teasing Derek with his tongue and cupping his balls.
Derek squirmed.
“Seriously—?” It really sounded more like a cough when he tried to speak and
Derek was finding it harder not to thrust into Stiles’ mouth in an attempt to
get the younger man to take more of him.
“Mmhmm,” Stiles hummed; the vibrations travelling down Derek’s cock. Stiles
knew it was the final stretch, so he picked up the pace—his head, tongue, and
hands working overtime to get Derek to come. He popped his mouth off briefly
enough to say, “I want you to come, Derek.” Never thought I’d say those words
unless it was the punchline to a joke. And even then… Derek had now crossed the
threshold where he was no longer attempting to be quiet and Stiles felt a
flicker of fear when he remembered his father was downstairs watching a
football game. Stiles sincerely hoped that his dad just thought he was watching
porn really loudly again. The last time it had happened, his dad had bought him
a ridiculously nice set of headphones with the implied message to never, ever,
forget to wear them again.
“Fuck, Stiles. I’m coming!” Stiles felt Derek groan and convulse under him as
his dick twitched and Derek’s come filled his mouth. Stiles found himself doing
a heavy amount of groaning as well when Derek came. Although, he had to admit
that come didn’t taste quite like he’d imagined, but it wasn’t altogether
unpleasant. His mouth kept up as Derek finished, and he even managed to swallow
everything. Stiles was thoroughly impressed with himself. Derek was panting and
his dick was already starting to go limp when Stiles’ mouth pulled off. “Shit.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Derek panted in reply. Stiles hoisted himself back onto the bed
next to Derek, cautiously settling his head into the crook of Derek’s shoulder
in attempt to cuddle up to the very, very naked man. He’d never wanted to
cuddle with anyone more than he wanted to cuddle Derek at that precise moment,
but there are rules. There is etiquette to after-sex cuddles and dammit Stiles
didn’t know Derek’s yet. Derek’s arm skated around Stiles’ head and shoulders,
pulling him closer in a reassuring way that seemed to translate to, “You just
gave me a blowjob, Stiles. Yes, you can cuddle with me now.”
Stiles smirked. Derek is totally a secret cuddler.
Derek’s nose twitched. “Stiles?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you—?”
Stiles winced at that. He was hoping that they could just skim over the part
where Stiles had gotten a little over-excited at getting Derek off and had
gotten himself off in the process. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to get
naked—which was sad—but also kind of embarrassingly awesome. I mean, he was
still a teenager after all, so his refractory period made up for what his
stamina lacked, right? Right?
“Goddamn your freaky werewolf nose! Excuse me for getting a little over-zealous
with making sure that you were having a good time and getting off in the
process! I mean, have you seenyourself?! If you saw you getting off, you’d get
off too!” Even Stiles blinked at that last part. “Wait…”
“You’re an idiot,” Derek replied, pressing a kiss onto the top of Stiles’ head.
“Yeah, well, you just got blown by an idiot. What does that make you?”
Derek cocked an eyebrow. “Someone with extremely low standards?” Stiles pinched
Derek’s nipple at that remark. “Ouch,” Derek snapped while still managing to
chuckle.
Seeing Derek this way was something that Stiles could definitely get used to.
Derek shifted to his side, pulling Stiles even closer to his body; he began
trailing small kisses down Stiles’ jaw until he found the hickey that he had
started on earlier in the evening. Stiles couldn’t help it when his pulse shot
up as Derek kissed his throat. Stiles could feel Derek’s lips curling into a
satisfied smile against his neck.
“I like the way your body reacts when I touch you.”
“I could say the same about you, big guy,” Stiles said with a small laugh. “You
leaving your mark down there or something?”
Derek didn’t stop kissing Stiles’ throat. He merely replied with a “mmph.”
“Freaky werewolf.”
Derek raised his head, looking Stiles in the eye with a smug expression on his
face. “Yeah, well, this freaky werewolf was willing to repay you for the
blowjob that you just gave him. But if I’m bothering you—”
“Whoa, now! I didn’t say that,” Stiles barked as he grabbed Derek by the jaw
and kissed him. “I was just wondering if you were about to lift your leg and—”
“Stiles!”
“Too much? Too soon?"
“Yes. Always too soon. Try never,” Derek snarled.
“Gotcha. Jokes about you marking your territory are off the table. Noted and
locked away in the safebox for future reference.” Stiles punctuated the remark
by tapping his temple.
Derek huffed, “Never said I wasn’t marking my territory.”
And oh, look, that funny feeling in Stiles’ stomach was back. He wasn’t
entirely sure what to say to Derek yet, and he didn’t figure it was ultimately
important at the moment; instead, what Stiles chose to focus on was that Derek
seemed to make him smile all the time and Derek had smiled more times tonight
than Stiles had ever seen in, well, ever. In lieu of that little revelation,
Stiles decided that more making out was in order. He pressed his parted lips
against Derek’s, hoping the message would translate clearly. Stiles figured
Derek understood when the werewolf’s tongue darted into his mouth and Derek
hummed satisfactorily.
“Pants.” Derek stated with a sweeping gesture as he ripped Stiles’ belt from
around his waist.
Four letters: H.A.W.T.
“Stiles, why did you just spell ‘hot,’ ‘h-a-w-t?’”
Stiles tripped as he tried to wriggle out of his jeans, his legs nearly
swinging up over his head as he tried to clamber back onto his feet. “God bless
the Queen and all the other eerily, closely related royals!” Derek blinked
curiously at that. “I have got to control my Sex Tourette’s!” Derek didn’t seem
to notice that last bit as Stiles hastily yanked off his jeans and Superman
boxers—his eyes fixated on the naked body flailing at the edge of the bed.
Stiles was about .5 seconds away from hurdling his naked body toward Derek’s
when there was a knock at his door and Stiles’ dad’s voice murmured from the
other side.
“Boys?” John’s voice was calm and calculated like he was attempting to restrain
all emotion and not go all Jack Nicholson in the Shining on Stiles’ door.
Wait.Had his dad said “boys?” Fuck. Uckfa Tilesa’s Ifela.That meant that his
dad knew Derek was in his bedroom, which also meant that Stiles’ dad had heard
them doing something, if not the entire shindig. This required more Pig Latin.
UCKFA UCKFA UCKFA. And worse, Derek’s eyes instinctively flashed a cold blue
when he heard the knock. Stiles forefinger jutted out toward him as Stiles
mouthed, “Bad Derek!” Derek huffed silently, nostrils flaring as he flopped
back onto Stiles’ bed looking deflated and frustrated.
“Yes, dad?” Stiles responded; his voice coming out as a prepubescent squeak.
Stiles could see Derek laughing silently out of his periphery. That’s it. No
cuddles for the secret-cuddler werewolf.
“Stiles, the football game has ended and I am going to bed now, because some of
us have to work for a living. I guess what I’m trying to convey here, is that
what little semblance of a buffer that I had between you and your nocturnal
activities with Derek Hale is now gone and I’d very much appreciate it if you
could cease from creating any moreextraneous noise.” Stiles saw Derek go rigid
at the mention of his name.
 Stiles wanted to die. No, dying wasn’t drastic enough at this point. Stiles
demanded for the angelic host that he had previously imagined to descend and
strike his existence from the Book of Life. Oblivion seemed the only viable
option at this point. Stiles had just experienced his first sexual encounter
with a fucking Adonis, and apparently his dad had heard the whole damn thing.
Derek looked beyond tense; like he was about ready to leap through Stiles’
window and sprint bare-ass-naked through Stiles’ yard just to escape this
unspeakably uncomfortable situation. Come on Gabriel, Michael, or Raphael!
Strike me dead here! I’m waiting! I’ll even go so far as to accept death-by-
fictional- angel here! Castiel—a little help here?! How was Stiles going to
look his dad in the eye tomorrow? Answer: he wasn’t. He was going to never,
ever make eye contact with his father ever again.
Stiles was fairly sure his balls had just ascended. “Yep, no prob, dad,” he
yelped; certain that his faced looked oddly similar to the Dramatic Hamster.
The way his voice cracked on no less than three of those four words assured him
that yep, his balls were once again tucked neatly away and would probably never
descend again.
There was a pause before John answered; sounding as placated as a father who
just heard his son “sort of” lose his virginity could. “Good.”
Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. His heart was nearly jumping out of the
confines of his ribcage, which Derek could surely hear. “Night, dad!”
“Good night, boys.” John paused. “One last thing—tell Derek that he and I will
be talking about the utilization of doors and when it isand is not appropriate
to visit my son. Also—the kind of language he uses under my roof.”
Derek’s face couldn’t have been redder than a baboon’s ass in the sunlight at
this point, and Stiles relinquished all pretense of seriousness in favor of
openly reveling in Derek’s embarrassment as he, well, guffawed—it could only be
described as guffawed at this point. “Guffaw” was a sorely neglected word after
all. And Derek’s icy glare only added fuel to Stiles’ guffawing-fire.
“Yes, sir,” Derek choked out. Again, it looked like he’d rather sprint bare-
assed through the entirety of Beacon Hills than have to sit there and speak to
Sheriff Stilinski after he’d just had sex with the Sheriff’s son.
Stiles could hear his father disappearing into his own room as footsteps became
fainter. “How is this my life,” he posed rhetorically.
Derek shrugged. “How did I just get out of that situation without being shot by
your father?”
“Don’t worry, there’s still time.”
“Comforting.”
“In a town like Beacon Hills where supernatural baddies run rampant on a
regular basis, I’m not going to complain if my dad’s prone to shooting first
and asking questions later—excluding you of course. It would hinder the blowjob
you’re about to give me.” Stiles wiggled his eyebrows lustily.
Derek’s subsequent facial expression could only be described as “da fuck you
say?” He huffed. “Stiles, you can’t seriously think I’m going to give you a
blowjob after your dad just told us to ‘shut the fuck up’ in the most clinical
way possible. Or are you really that much of an idiot?”
Stiles glowered. “I prefer the term ‘eternal optimist.’ And language, mister!”
“No.”
“But—!” Stiles whined.
“You can have an IOU.”
“Derek—!”
“Stiles, time for sleep,” Derek said firmly. “We can even cuddle naked.” Only
Derek Hale could use the phrase “cuddle naked” and sound like he was being put
upon.
“Oh, yeah, because that won’t be distracting at all—” Stiles paused, letting
Derek’s words catch up in his brain before letting his mouth continue. “You
want to stay?” Stiles wasn’t entirely sure what this encounter had meant to
Derek, but Derek wanting to stay the night with Stiles gave him those damn
complicated warm fuzzy feelings.
Derek sighed. “Don’t make me reconsider. I'm already risking my life by staying
here when your dad could shoot me through the wall.” Derek crawled under
Stiles’ sheets and lifted them back, making an obvious gesture for Stiles to
climb in next to him. Stiles eagerly obliged, nearly diving into his bed and
sidling up to the other man. Derek gave a small laugh; wrapping his arm around
Stiles’ torso and pulling him close as he rested his head on the back of
Stiles’ neck. Yeah, Stiles could definitelyget used to falling asleep to the
solid weight of Derek lying behind him as the werewolf entwined his legs with
Stiles’.
“So, can I cash that IOU in tomorrow morning? I hear that morning head is
great.”
Derek growled into Stiles’ ear; his breath swimming across skin and hair.
“Stiles. Time. For. Sleep.”
Smiling was the last thing that Stiles remembered that night.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     So, Gillian and I have started developing some unofficial titles for
     some of our chapters. The unofficial title for this chapter is
     "Stiles Climbs Derek Like a Tree in Three." We hope you're enjoying
     the series so far! Things are going to get very interesting from here
     on out! :D (I have the urge to say "stay tuned" here, but I want to
     resist--but since I just typed it, I guess I didn't really resist,
     now did I?)
     P.S. -
     I've been noticing some formatting issues when we try to post stuff
     up on AO3 and I've tried to fix most of them, but if I didn't find
     all of them, so please for give Gillian and myself if you see some.
***** The Lot Cup *****
Chapter Summary
     The morning after Stiles and Derek's escapades. Stiles and Derek must
     also deal with the implications of their actions and the Scooby Gang
     finds an important clue as to what's going on with Peter and Allison.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sleep can be hard to come by at times. Sometimes the body doesn’t want to sleep
when the brain knows it should. Sometimes there are too many things that need
to be done and sleep takes a backseat to life—and if you’re Derek Hale,
sleeping when there are hunters chasing you could very well mean the end of
life. Sometimes there are so many thoughts choking the mind that claustrophobia
settles in as soon as eyes are shut and staring through the darkness at the
ceiling for hours is the only option until time perpetuates back on itself and
both minutes and hours begin to feel like grains of sand forming a tiny
mountain inside an hourglass. On those nights, the eyes blink so much that the
blur of colorlessness doesn’t seem so dark anymore, but the surrounding quiet
almost becomes a sound. Sometimes sleep doesn’t come because of sleeping in an
abandoned warehouse or a cold loft, which offer no sense of home and the
surroundings seem so unfamiliar. And sometimes sleep doesn’t come because the
burnt-out surroundings of the past are too familiar and haunt the present with
a nostalgia of a home forever lost.
As few and far between as they were, Derek has also had nights when none of
these things matter and sleep was as easy as a handshake. Derek could be
stubborn (to put it lightly) and he could be reluctant to admit when nice
things crossed his path, because they always seemed to break sooner or later.
Time seemed to have that effect on people and objects in Derek’s life, so at a
young age he had learned that most things in life were only transitory. It was
a hard lesson, but a necessary one. However, at the moment when Derek’s eyes
slipped open to see Stiles curled beneath his arms with his face pressed into
Derek’s bare chest, still fast asleep, nothing from the past seemed to have any
bearing. Derek shifted less than an inch to catch a better glimpse of the
completely vulnerable young man pressed up against him. Stiles grunted
unconsciously and nuzzled Derek’s chest with his nose as he drew closer to the
werewolf’s body.
The sight and sound made Derek’s heart break, but he wasn’t quite sure why. It
might have had something to do with Derek finally admitting just how much he
cared for Stiles in that moment or maybe that he was afraid to care for Stiles
that much. Regardless, Derek had been told once by Laura that you “have to keep
breaking your heart until it opens,” but Derek was pretty sure that Laura was
just quoting Rumi in an attempt to sound smart. He really hadn’t given it much
credence, but then there Derek was, snugly entwined with Stiles and wondering
if Stiles was worth giving the extra thought to. Derek kissed the top of
Stiles’ head.
Stiles shifted again; his thigh sliding higher into the slot between Derek’s
legs, almost to his groin. Derek smiled knowingly when he felt Stiles’ morning
wood jab against his hip.
“I know you’re not asleep,” Derek said.
“It’s hard to sleep when you’re wrapped around a werewolf that’s staring at you
like a creeper and kissing your head,” Stiles grunted, but sounded pleased
nonetheless.
Derek huffed, tipping his head to properly place a kiss on Stiles’ lips. Stiles
didn’t open his eyes, but tilted his head and lazily kissed Derek in return.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Stiles’ eyes blinked open. “Yeah, well, part of me was already up,” he
responded lasciviously, wiggling his eyebrows.
Derek’s narrowed his eyes. “Nice try. That IOU doesn’t take effect until later
today when your dad isn’t just a couple of walls away.”
“Dude, not cool. You’re leaving me high and dry here.”
Derek’s voice dropped an octave to an almost-growl. “Trust me, Stiles. I’ll
make it worth your while later.” Derek wasn’t sure how Stiles felt about there
being a “later,” but considering that Stiles wanted to mess around again this
morning seemed to be a good sign. Derek didn’t want to push the envelope,
however; because labels—very much like time—had a way of breaking things; so
Derek let context say what he couldn’t and hoped Stiles could read between the
lines. Yet again, Derek wasn’t so good with words.
Stiles didn’t say anything in response to Derek’s promises of there being a
“later,” which seemed uncharacteristic for Stiles . Instead, Stiles turned over
in Derek’s arms and faced the opposite direction, effectively making Stiles the
proper little spoon. Stiles didn’t pull away when Derek tightened his arms
around Stiles’ torso and began tracing kisses across his neck mottled from the
night before. Derek then nibbled teasingly on the shell of Stiles’ ear.
This was Derek’s attempt at trying to be playful, but Stiles didn’t seem to
react. It was one of the few moments that Derek had witnessed when Stiles
wasn’t babbling on about Scott, some half-cocked scheme or theory, lacrosse, or
some ridiculously nerdy thing he had found on the internet and was researching
for fun. Derek could hear the wheels in Stiles’ head turning as they lay in
silence.
“Promise,” Derek added; the word coming out with much more gravity and meaning
in his voice than he had intended. Stiles flipped onto his back, looking Derek
in the eye as the werewolf hovered at this side, forced to release Stiles from
the awkward angle.
“You said something last night that bothered me,” Stiles began. Derek couldn’t
recount all of the things they had said to each other, but he knew most of them
had been painful truths and as Stiles began speaking, Derek felt a cold spot
rise in his stomach—afraid of what Stiles might say next. “You said that I
wouldn’t have to worry about you sneaking into my room again.” Stiles paused
before the next words came out in a mess of syllables. “Are you leaving Beacon
Hills? ”
Derek didn’t know how to respond to that exactly. He wondered if after what had
happened last night meant that he should tell Stiles the entire truth? He
considered telling Stiles that he was thinking about leaving again, but it was
Derek’s nature to keep people in the dark to protect them. If I stay in Beacon
Hills, it won’t be good for anyone. Derek sighed as he threw back his side of
the sheets and plodded out of bed; still very naked. He reached down and
gathered a few of his clothes that had been tossed wantonly in several
directions until he found his leather jacket beneath Stiles’ jeans.
“Der—” Stiles began, but was interrupted as Derek produced something from his
jacket and flung it at him. The object landed on the comforter directly in
Stiles’ lap and the young man lifted it up in his hand. It was a key. Derek
moved back toward the bed, climbing in and sliding next to Stiles, who seemed
stunned by the tiny piece of metal.
Derek rolled his eyes, annoyed by Stiles’ inability to speak much this morning.
“I got an apartment,” he pointed out flatly.
“So—”
“So, that means I won’t need to sneak through your window anymore,” Derek added
quickly; not wanting to spend more time than necessary on the topic.
Stiles nodded absentmindedly until a familiar wry grin upturned itself on his
face and Stiles flipped himself on top of Derek, their bodies slotting together
perfectly. “But what if I want you to sneak through my window again? I dunno,
Derek, I mean, I’ve kind of gotten used to it. I think I might have developed a
kink for it.” Stiles ended the remark by nipping at Derek’s collarbone and
trailing kisses toward the older man’s bellybutton.
Derek yanked Stiles up by his shoulders, knowing fully what Stiles was trying
to do. Derek shifted slightly so his half-hard dick wouldn’t be rubbing up
against Stiles as Stiles’ entire body was rubbing up against his own. “No,” he
stated firmly, glowering at Stiles. “First, I know what you’re trying to do and
it won’t work. Second, I don’t want to get shot by your father, so I don’t care
how much of a kink you have for it. No.”
Stiles cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “First, your dick says otherwise. And
second, you’d heal,” Stiles stated nonchalantly.
“It still hurts, Stiles.”
“You’d be a horrible Romeo. Not even willing to risk a gunshot wound to scale
my wall,” Stiles said dramatically.
“Do you realize how horrible of a literary allusion that is? The number one
reason being that Romeo and Juliette both die in the end.”
“Eh, details. I’ve always hated Romeo and Juliette. They seemed like such a
couple of whiny teenagers.” Derek wanted to laugh at the irony of that
statement. “But when did you become such of a bookworm, Derek Hale?” Stiles
teased .
Derek resituated both himself and Stiles back into cuddling positions in hopes
that the conversation would distract Stiles from thoughts of blowjobs. Derek
knew that was too much to hope for, when even he was thinking about much more
than blowjobs at the moment. “I’ve always liked to read,” Derek murmured into
Stiles ear.
There was a period of silence that was filled with nothing but a couple of
yawns, warm bodies pressed together, and stubble being nuzzled against each
other’s faces until Stiles, in his infinite inability to shut the hell up,
broke the quiet. “I feel like we’re getting off topic here.”
“You mean besides shutting the hell up and lying quietly in bed,” Derek
groused.
“Rude. But yes, you secret-cuddling-broody-creeper-stalker-werewolf-who-won’t-
give-me-a-blowjob-because-he’s-afraid-my-dad-might-hear-because-Derek-Hale-
can’t-be-quiet-durning-sex, that is also off topic. You found an apartment.
Where?”
Derek was about to begrudgingly answer Stiles when Stiles’ cellphone rang,
saving Derek from thinking about whether or not staying in Beacon Hills was a
good choice or a permanent choice. Stiles’ hand flailed awkwardly as he
searched for the phone. As the screen of the cellphone lit up, Derek could see
the name “Scott,” highlighted in white. “Answer it,” he urged.
Stiles sighed and muttered something about “Scott having a knack for being the
worst bro ever.” Derek grinned privately at that. “What’s up Scott?” Stiles
said into the phone, annoyance tingeing his voice. Derek listened silently as
Stiles and Scott spoke over the phone—his hands idly tracing spirals against
Stiles’ stomach.
Scott’s voice echoed through the phone, but Derek could hear him clearly.
“Sorry to wake you up, dude, but something’s seriously wrong with Allison. And
I think I’m gonna need your help with this one. ASAP.”
Derek could almost hear Stiles’ scowl as Stiles replied. “Bro, no offence, but
whatever problems you and Allison are having now, it’s got nothing to do with
me. You two need to work it out.” He wondered how often Stiles had been dragged
into Scott and Allison’s relationship issues for Stiles to react the way he
was.
Scott’s voice seemed a little defensive at that. “This has nothing to do with
me. She attacked Isaac this morning and then ran off. I was wondering if this
could be related to Peter somehow.”
“How could this be related to Peter?”
Scott sighed. “I don’t know, Stiles. That’s why Isaac and I want you to come
over to the Argents’ and see if you can help us figure out what’s going on.”
Stiles hesitated. “What about Mr. Argent? I doubt he’ll want three teenage
boys—two of whom are werewolves, one of which is her current boyfriend and
another her ex—going through his teenage daughter’s room.”
“He’s gone for the week, so we’re good.”
Derek interrupted Stiles before he could reply to Scott. He spoke into Stiles’
ear in a sleepy monotone, lips brushing Stiles’ earlobe. “You should probably
go,” Derek concluded. “I need to leave too. I have to check on Peter.”
Stiles flipped on his back and made an extremely dissatisfied face at Derek.
Derek ignored Stiles’ silent protests. He untangled himself from Stiles and
climbed out of bed to begin gathering his clothes.
“Who was that,” Scott’s voice interjected.
“No one—” Stiles stammered.
The fact that Stiles didn’t want to tell Scott what had happened didn’t really
bother Derek. Derek wasn’t even sure what had happened. He wasn’t sure how
Stiles felt about the entire situation, so he left it alone. Derek slipped into
his jeans and Henley.
“Scott,” Stiles began. “I’ll see you in thirty.” And without so much as a
“goodbye,” Stiles ended the phone call.
“He’s going to know about you and me when he sees you,” Derek pointed out,
thinking aloud.
“Yeah, well, I can explain that later. But not over the phone,” Stiles
admitted. Stiles’ heartbeat was erratic and Derek could smell the anxiety
pouring off of him. Derek didn’t know how to translate that. All he could think
was that Stiles seemed afraid to tell Scott that he and Derek had had sex—which
was understandable—but Derek felt a heat rising in his chest, knowing he had
messed up. Again. He knew that his actions would not only have repercussions on
whatever his relationship was with Stiles, but more importantly on Stiles’
relationship with Scott—Stiles’ Alpha. Derek had pulled on his shoes and Stiles
had managed to slip back into his boxers and a t-shirt.
“I should go,” Derek said finally, moving toward the window, now fully dressed.
Stiles seemed hesitant; his heartbeat picking up an irregular pace again. He
was nervous for some reason and Derek figured it was better to just leave
before he messed something else up.
“Okay,” Stiles replied with a weak nod. Derek could smell the sweat on Stiles’
palms.
“Bye,” Derek said flatly, before whirling out of the window and landing in the
grass of the Stilinksi’s yard. Derek heard the window close behind him as he
stalked across the yard and considered just how much he had wanted to kiss
Stiles goodbye, but had been too afraid to.
Maybe Rumi and Laura had a point after all? Shit.
                                     * * *
Stiles watched Derek go, standing at his window. Part of his brain was thinking
“how long would I have to shower to avoid the whole ‘You had sex with Derek’
conversation with Scott?” A second part was thinking “Holy shit you just had
sex with Derek Hale.”
The third part, a much louder part, was thinking “Why didn’t he kiss me
goodbye? Did I do something wrong?” Stiles decided with the tiny portion of his
brain not devoted to this freak out or the upcoming conversation with Scott
that it was probably best not to think about it. Derek wasn’t generally a
physical person, last night notwithstanding—amazing word, “notwithstanding.” It
was literally three words smashed into one! Stiles made a note to look up its
origins at a later time. Anyway, Derek wasn’t a physically affectionate person,
so it was no big deal that he hadn’t kissed Stiles goodbye. It just didn’t
occur to him that he could. That he was allowed to. Or, perhaps, he’d decided
that Stiles would try to push for more. The way he had been since he’d woken
up. Stiles was 98% certain he would have. Kissing Derek Hale was the very best
activity he’d ever experienced, except giving Derek Hale a blowjob and followed
closely by cuddling him post orgasm. He hoped that very, very soon, kissing and
cuddling Derek would also be eclipsed by: receiving a blowjob from Derek Hale,
putting his dick in Derek, and putting Derek’s dick in him.
Dammit, why didn’t his father go to work earlier on Sundays? People still
committed crimes when they were supposed to be in church, Beacon Hills PD! The
fear of some almighty deity clearly wasn’t enough to convince people to behave
on even the high holy days, let alone a regular Sunday! The sheriff needed to
be at work bright and early!
Variations of that exact conversation, the time and reasons John needed to be
at work changed to suit Stiles’ need at any given moment, had been common in
the Stilinski household since Stiles was ten. Since the Nemeton, Stiles had
spent most of his time trying to convince his father that he should work days.
John was convinced that he should work nights, because that’s when the baddies
were out and people needed protecting. Stiles’ arguments convinced John about
as much as the dozens of “animal attacks” in Beacon Hills over the past few
months had convinced other folks to stay indoors after dark, but Stiles
believed in the power of persistence. He also wondered when the newspaper would
fall to Buffy-esque levels of pathetic denial, and figured it couldn’t be far
off. He’d already seen a paper claimed “Dangerous monstrosities certainly not
involved” in the horrible maiming of nearly a dozen people. It was only a
matter of time before “dangerous monstrosities” became “vampires” or
“revenants” or some other such supernatural beastie that the pack would have to
fight.
Stiles realized he’d been staring out the window at the corner Derek had
disappeared around for ten minutes before he finally got around to showering
and heading for the door.
His father was standing just outside his door. Stiles let out the world’s least
dignified squeak and decided that running away was the better part of valor.
“Hey dad,” he said as he squeezed past him. “Derek had to go check on his uncle
,” Dammit, Stiles we were avoiding the whole ‘your father heard you having sex
with Derek Hale thing! Think before you speak!’ “and Scott needs me for some
kind of Allison thing, you know how it is! That boy can’t handle his ex on his
own! He needs me to protect him from her feminine wiles! And from Isaac! Isaac
who wants to get in his pants!” He’d spoken so quickly that it took John
several seconds to process that he’d stopped speaking, and another few to
completely connect what Stiles had said. Luckily for Stiles, he was out the
door by the time his father managed to say “Stiles!” and therefore he could
pretend he hadn’t heard it. He was in the Jeep and down the road before John
had made it out the door. He knew that conversation would be revisited, but was
currently hoping it could be put off as long as humanly possible. Until the end
of time, perhaps.
He’d barely walked in the door at Allison’s when the next conversation he’d
really rather never have began. Scott spent a grand total of about thirty
seconds scratching at his nose and staring at Stiles before he started talking.
Stiles made a mental note: ten minutes in the shower is not long enough. A year
in the shower probably wasn’t long enough to completely erase Derek from
Stiles’ skin.
“Dude, why do you smell like Derek?” Scott said, his nose twitching. Scott
looked as uncomfortable asking the question as Stiles felt being asked. Stiles
wanted to laugh and call him “I dream of Jeannie,” or throw him out a window,
whichever was more likely to stop Scott from asking the question again.
Unfortunately, those didn’t seem like viable options, so Stiles just shrugged.
Apparently they were going to have this conversation here and now because this
pack had some serious boundary issues.
“I hung out with him yesterday. You know, your whole ‘we have to make sure
Derek only came back to join the pack and not to take it back over’ plan? The
one where Isaac was all ‘I’ll stalk him!’ which is hella creepy, beeteedubs.”
He was trying so hard not to touch the hellacious bruise Derek had left on his
neck that he was certain he was screaming ‘look at my neck! Derek Hale did
that!’ “When I volunteered to spend time with him and see if he had any
nefarious plots?” Stiles hadn’t realized it when he’d volunteered that what
he’d wanted was the excuse to make sure Derek wasn’t going to leave again, but
he sure as hell realized it now.
“You smell like sex and Derek.” Isaac said, stepping closer. Stiles immediately
stepped back. Serious boundary issues.
“So I jerked off afterwards! It’s not like it isn’t one of my favorite
activities after answering invasive questions from you two!” For the record,
jerking off was Stiles’ favorite activity after the following: getting his hand
on Derek’s dick, getting Derek’s hand on his dick, blowing Derek Hale, being
blown by Derek Hale, and having sex with Derek Hale, but dammit, Stiles was
going to keep a handle on his sex Tourette’s today.
“Stiles—” Scott started, obviously not believing Stiles’ excuse, but Stiles
quickly changed the subject. Stiles had to wonder if Scott would honestly jump
to the conclusion that he had had sex with Derek. Stiles hoped not. The idea
still seemed a little far-fetched; even to him.
“She must’ve really done a number on you.” He said to Isaac, gesturing at the
rapidly healing scar on the right side of Isaac’s neck. Stiles didn’t want to
think about how hard Allison would have had to bite down on Isaac to make the
scar still visible half an hour later. He had a bad feeling even though it
looked like just a ring of teeth marks now; she had actually taken a chunk of
him with her when she’d flipped out.
Note to self: Lady McKnifeandArrow was now Lady Vampire McKnifeandArrow. Not
that Stiles would ever call her that to her face. Allison was terrifying when
angry.
Isaac covered the mark with his hand. When he pulled it away a few seconds
later, it had faded completely. That did absolutely nothing to reassure Stiles
on how deep the mark had been before Scott had gotten to it. The chunk of Isaac
that Stiles was desperately hoping Allison had spit out had apparently been a
very large chunk.
Lady Vampire Von Cannibal McKnifeandArrow.
Scott was not deterred from his line of questioning, to Stiles’ dismay. In
fact, drawing attention to Isaac’s injury seemed to suddenly have made Scott
look closer at Stiles.
“Is that a hickey?” He asked, suddenly accusatory. He moved faster than Stiles’
eye could track to grab his shirt and yank it aside, displaying the, as
predicted, enormous bite mark.
“Look, we’ve talked about this. That shit is not okay! No manhandling the
humans if we’re not in a life or death situation, Scott!” There had practically
been a seminar on how not okay it was for the wolves to use their superior
strength and speed on Lydia or especially Stiles. There had been another
seminar on embarrassing each other by calling them out for smelling like each
other and sex. Scott, who’d more or less run the thing, claimed it was because
everyone knew who was dating everyone else and there was no need to try to
embarrass anyone. Aiden, who had perhaps been paying the least attention, had
said “That explains Lydia and I. It explains Danny and Ethan. Allison and
Isaac. Stiles and his hand.” Stiles had of course protested, but everyone just
laughed. “What it doesn’t explain is why both Allison and Isaac smell as much
like you as each other today.” Isaac had turned so red he was almost purple.
Allison had stared Aiden down with a look that should have made the Alpha very,
very nervous. Scott had made Aiden be the prey on their biweekly hunting runs
for nearly a month.
The Alpha was unimpressed with Stiles’ complaints. He poked the bite. It hurt.
Stiles didn’t mean to let the floodgates open, but whoops, there it was. “Okay,
Scott, fine! I had sex with Derek! Do you want details? I gave him a blowjob!
Derek is loud during sex! I really, really like making Derek orgasm!” Isaac was
choking on the air he was breathing. Stiles twisted in Scott’s grip. “Oh like
you’ve got room to talk, Mr. I-steal-my-girlfriend’s-ex’s-clothes-to-dress-her-
up-in-because-he’s-the-one-I’d-rather-be-sleeping-with!” Isaac was suddenly
that interesting shade of red again. Stiles wondered how the rest of his body
was managing to function with so much blood in his face. He turned back to
Scott. “You either! You blew me off yesterday to go on a date with some random-
ass bimbo when I needed your help, Scott!”
“Stiles!” Scott said in his very best True Alpha voice. Scott had done crazy
things using that voice, including chasing off about a dozen troublemaking
Omegas and freezing Peter in place. However, it wasn’t going to work on Stiles.
He started to speak again, and Scott’s eyes flashed red. He shook Stiles
gently, a warning. “Isaac, go find Allison. Make sure she doesn’t get hurt
doing whatever it is she’s doing.”
“If she took a chunk out of me the size of the one she took out of Isaac—”
Stiles started, but Scott cut him off.
“You’d be dead, Stiles.” He said, then released Stiles. Isaac took off with one
last terrified look at Scott.
“He acts like you don’t know he wants you.” Stiles mumbled. He stomped past the
werewolf to Allison’s room.
Scott ignored Stiles’ little quip, drawing his line of questioning back to
being passive aggressive. “Dude, about the, uh, the mark—” he began, stopping
before they opened the door.
“Scott! Seriously? Are we still talking about this? Were you not traumatized
enough at the thought of me giving Derek a blowjob or are you just a glutton
for punishment?” Stiles’ head snapped sideways at his friend; his jaw setting
with anger as he ground his teeth—it was a habit he had begun to pick up
lately.
Scott looked like he wanted to shudder or just hack up a hairball. “No, Stiles,
I don’t need a play-by-play again, but I’m just not sure you understand what
you’re getting yourself in to.”
Scott’s inner mother hen was really beginning to piss Stiles off. In the mental
notebook that was Stiles’ head, Stiles scribbled down the awful pun that Scott
needed to cluck off. “Scott, I realize that you think you’re the master of the
Kama Sutra because you and Allison have had sex multiple times now, but just
because I’ve only fooled around with Derek doesn’t mean that I’m clueless to
the ways of the world.”
“Not the human world,” Scott said, his intonation rising to hint at his point.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Derek’s a werewolf,” Scott concluded.
“Gee, thanks for the breaking news there, Scotty.”
Scott sighed. “Have you even talked to Derek about what happened between you
two?”
Stiles felt his heart miss a beat and he silently kicked himself in the nuts,
knowing that Scott heard it loud and clear. He didn’t want to admit to Scott
that he and Derek hadn’t had a chance to really hash things out. But admitting
that felt like he was giving Scott the upper hand in the argument and that was
the last thing he wanted right now.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Scott said.
“If you’re trying to make a point, would you just get to it already and stop
pussy-footing around the subject?”
Scott went rigid; leaning forward to expose the bruise on Stiles’ neck again.
“Fine! Whatever you’re feeling, wanting, or not wanting, it might not be the
same thing Derek is feeling and this mark is proof of that. I’m worried that
you aren’t understanding the implications here, Stiles.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re being cryptic instead of just spelling it the fuck
out.”
Scott clapped his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, shooting him what Stiles
interpreted as a condescending smile. “Derek’s a werewolf, there’s a mark on
your neck, and you and Derek haven’t even talked about what happened between
you two. You’re a smart guy, Stiles. I think you can do that math.” Scott
stepped past Stiles, turning the knob on Allison’s door.
Stiles thrust his arms outward. “No, Scott, contrary to popular belief, I’m
actually really dumb! I’d really appreciate it if you’d help me navigate the
boundless depths of the werewolf ocean!”
“Dumb people don’t say, ‘boundless depths,’ dude.” Stiles started to object,
but Scott had moved ahead of him, turning his back to indicate that he had
clearly moved beyond the insanely uncomfortable topic.
Stiles’ first impression of the room was that there was no way Allison had done
it without help. Her mattress had been flipped. At least one of the pillows was
shredded. There was a hoodie laying on the floor, torn in half. Stiles was
about 90% certain it was Scott’s. A sheet had been ripped up and was soaked
with what Stiles’ assumed was Isaac’s blood. He may not have bled for very
long—thanks werewolfy mojo healing powers—but he’d bled a lot.
“So, do you want the dresser or the closet?” Stiles asked. “Either way, you’re
going to realize just how much of your clothing Isaac has stolen to dress up
his little Scott-surrogate in.” Scott’s eyes had turned red again. Stiles
decided his red eyes were 9000% less attractive than Derek’s ice blue, despite
the fact he knew what Derek had gone through to make his eyes blue.
“But Derek, Stiles? Really? Do you realize how monumentally bad an idea that
is? ” It wasn’t uncommon for Scott to try to misdirect Stiles off of an
uncomfortable topic by changing the subject mid-argument, but Stiles was
vaguely amused that Scott couldn’t keep his mouth shut about Derek for more
than five minutes seeing that he had chosen to end the previous conversation.
But it wasn’t going to work this time. Stiles would talk about the whole Derek
thing when he was good and ready. He wasn’t going to tell Scott shit until
after he’d talked to Derek. “Look at his track record, Stiles! Paige? Kate
Argent? Ms. Blake? Do you realize all three of them ended up dead?”
“Wow, dude. That didn’t take long. And just FYI, it wasn’t his fault that
Jennifer and Kate were evil! And Peter tricked him into trying to turn Paige!
He only killed her to save her from dying slowly!” Dammit, it was working.
Stiles tried another tactic. “What are you saying, that I’m suddenly going to
go evil? We’ve known each other for years! Do you really think something like
me sleeping with Derek Hale is going to make me suddenly evil?”
“No, but the point is: they all still ended up dead! I’m just trying to protect
you, Stiles! ” Scott shouted. Scott the Hero. Scott the True Alpha, who had to
save everyone inside and outside his pack. Stiles didn’t get that. If he loved
you, he’d fight to the death for you. If he didn’t and you were a threat to
someone he did, he’d eat you alive to save them. If Scott were more worthy of
the Superman boxers Jesus jumping Christ in a bouncy house Stiles hoped Derek
hadn’t seen him take off, Stiles was definitely Batman .
“You know what, Scott, screw you. I don’t need you to protect me! I can do it
myself!” Stiles spat.
Scott shoved his way past Stiles and headed for the dresser.
“You’re going through her underwear, Scott? Do you realize how much of a
creeper you are? She’s your ex, dude!” Scott took a deep breath.
“Do you want to do it?” He asked. Stiles turned to the closet without
answering. They worked in silence for at least fifteen minutes. Stiles thought
with the part of his brain that wasn’t angry that it was probably a record for
them outside of school.
Stiles crouched in front of the closet, figuring anything that might be hidden
there to be somewhere on the floor. As he had expected, there were at least
three more of Scott’s hoodies and two pairs of his pants hanging at one end of
the closet. Stiles wondered how Scott hadn’t noticed the items disappearing,
and then remembered that Scott had told Isaac he could borrow clothes while the
Beta lived with him. Hidden in the back of the closet among the dozens of
unnecessary pairs of shoes Allison owned was a black dress that Stiles believed
would be referred to as a “slinky little number.” Lifting it, he realized it
had been very neatly sliced open along the front.
He did two things simultaneously: 1.) decided to complain to Derek that Isaac
was quite clearly willing to use his claws in the bedroom, and 2.) shriek and
drop the dress, pawing at the carpet with his soiled hand. Scott looked up at
him. Stiles noticed his eyes had finally faded back to brown.
“Would you look around the bed?” Scott asked as he moved to the weapons locker
that held Allison’s terrifying array of bows, crossbows, arrows, bolts and a
ridiculously large assortment of knives. The combination lock that Scott took
the time to work rather than just rip off was probably the only thing that had
saved Isaac from catching a bad case of wolfsbane-laced arrow to the throat.
Scott’s nose kept twitching, which Stiles personally thought was hilarious. He
wanted to ask if the fact the bed smelled like Allison and Isaac and himself
was just too weird for Scott, since he hadn’t been in her bed for at least six
months, and that had been a different bed. Stiles moved to search the pile of
blankets, shifting each gingerly. All of them were splattered with blood. A few
blankets, and the mattress itself, had rips in the proper arrangement for claws
in them, which told Stiles far more than he’d ever wanted to know about
Allison’s sex life. He wondered how Allison was going to explain this to her
father when he got back from wherever the fuck it was Chris Argent went, when
he felt comfortable enough to leave his daughter alone in Beacon Hills. This
was Mr. Argent’s first trip since the Nemeton incident, and Stiles had a
feeling, depending on the state Isaac found Allison in, it would be at least
another six months before he was willing to leave her again.
Stiles lifted a pillow, lost his balance, and landed face first in it. Scott
started to step towards him as Stiles righted himself, cursing at gravity.
There was something in the pillowcase besides the pillow. He reached into it,
closing his hand around the object. “Whatever has Peter,” he said, pulling the
tarot card out and showing it to Scott. “It’s got Allison too. ”
                                     * * *
Derek nearly felt the vibrations of Deaton’s cell as it went off in his pocket.
Cellphones ringing in cars always had a way of making Derek flinch, but Derek
resisted the urge as Deaton answered the call. Derek continued driving while
pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Hello?” Deaton said.
Derek could hear Scott’s voice from the speaker. “Deaton? Stiles and I found
something at Allison’s house like you thought we would.”
“Oh?” Deaton responded. It sounded more like an affirmation than a question.
“What did you find?”
“A tarot card.” Scott sounded slightly confused by the statement—clearly not
knowing the significance of what he had confirmed.
What is it that Stiles always says? Two’s a coincidence and three’s a pattern?
Then the third tarot card is bound to show up soon. The thought did more than
unnerve Derek. It caused him genuine concern for the people around him. If
these cards were causing people to lose their minds like Peter and Allison,
then what else could they do? And who was going to be the next target? Derek
couldn’t help it as his mind wandered back to thinking about Stiles; his
thoughts had been doing that all day—finding ways to connect things back to
Stiles. And then Derek felt the cold pangs of fear. What if Stiles is the next
target? What if there’s a tarot card somewhere in Stiles’ room right now? Derek
really wanted to say “fuck Peter” and to turn the car around to head back to
the Stilinski’s house so he could search Stiles’ room. Yeah, that’s not creepy
at all.
“Yes, Scott, that will be fine. We will see you and Stiles when you get to the
Hale house,” Deaton said, concluding the conversation. “Goodbye.” Derek
realized that he had become so lost in thought worrying about Stiles that he
had missed a segment of the conversation. The realization that his own thoughts
were quickly becoming so wrapped up in another person scared the shit out of
Derek. He had been here before with Jennifer, Paige, and Kate. Worrying about
another person to the point of distraction was a very dangerous thing; and it
never seemed to end well for Derek or the people he cared about.
“What?” Derek asked pointblank; his eyes barely glancing Deaton’s direction.
If Deaton suspected that Derek had eavesdropped on the conversation, he didn’t
make it known. “Scott and Stiles found a tarot card similar to the one Peter
had on him in Allison’s room, so I told them to meet us at the Hale house in
order to inspect it further.” Deaton seemed to muse to himself for a moment
while staring out the tinted glass of the car window. “I had no doubt that if I
sent Stiles with Scott that Stiles would find what we needed. Now we know it’s
a pattern.”
“Three’s a pattern,” Derek blurted out, feeling somewhat annoyed that he was
going to have to deal with Scott after everything that had happened the night
before. Derek could already envision Scott’s damned True Alpha face turning a
distrustful eye on him as soon as they arrived at the Hale house. He didn’t
need to imagine that Scott had warned Stiles not to get involved with Derek. He
knew that Scott had already done that—no imagination necessary.
Deaton interrupted Derek’s thoughts with a grin while saying, “I suppose you’re
right, Derek.”
“How did you even know they were connected,” Derek asked, trying not to sound
annoyed by his own thoughts.
“I didn’t,” Deaton admitted. “But I figured that if there was a connection,
Stiles would find it. He’s a sharp one, that Stiles.”
 “Yeah,” Derek spat; rather than simply saying it as he had intended.
“Are you okay, Derek? You seem agitated.”
“’m fine.”
Derek knew that Deaton didn’t have to be a werewolf to know that Derek was
lying. But everything today—with the exclusion of waking up wrapped around
Stiles—had felt strange. Derek was feeling a little crowded in his own head
between dealing with Stiles, Stiles’ dad, Scott, Peter, Deaton, and now
whatever was after Allison (and potentially someone else). Derek tried to
redirect. He tried to focus on what was important; namely: something was after
Peter and Allison, and perhaps Stiles by proxy. Derek knew he needed to focus
on the problem at hand and everything else was secondary. Derek’s happiness
(and nagging inability to keep his mind off of Stiles) was secondary. Survival
came first.
So Derek drove; and he and Deaton sat in a strange knowing silence—it seemed to
be something unspoken between the two men, like Deaton somehow knew everything
Derek was dealing with and chose to let the man cope in his own way. The gray
asphalt ribboned out in front of Derek’s car, bounding left and right
haphazardly as the woods of the reserve thickened, cutting out all sunlight
from the road. The surrounding trees flashed past the car windows like frames
on a movie reel as their gray forms knit closer together. Even the woods felt
strange to Derek today, which unnerved the werewolf further. The branches of
the trees above seemed to lean toward one another, creating a thatching that
the sun was lost in and darkened the forest floor. Derek shifted uneasily in
the leather seat.
“Did it get cloudy,” he asked—mostly to himself.
Deaton looked up through the sunroof quizzically. “I couldn’t say.”
These woods were home to Derek. He knew how to navigate them better than Beacon
Hills and the woods had always made him feel secure. But right now, right now,
Derek felt like prey. They were on the last stretch of road before reaching the
Hale house and Derek had a rising suspicion that when they arrived, something
terrible would happen. As Derek swerved around the last turn, Derek saw
something that made him almost slam his foot through the floor of his car in an
attempt to hit the brakes. A woman in a white dress ducked from around the
roadside and flitted into the woods, disappearing with an eerie ease. She had
been smiling like she was watching and waiting for them to make the last turn.
Derek couldn’t quite make out a face, but she had looked like—No. There’s no
way. Derek wouldn’t even let himself consider the thought; the pain of memory
stinging his skin and causing droplets of sweat to gather on his forehead.
Derek stopped the car.
Derek hadn’t paid much attention to how Deaton was reacting to his little
detour, but as Derek climbed out of the car, Deaton followed in suit. “Derek,
what’s going on?” he asked, clearly startled. Deaton seemed slightly shaken by
the sudden turn and jarring stop. His heart was racing.
Derek ignored the other man, jogging to where the woman had been standing
before she leapt into the undergrowth of the forest and disappeared. He tilted
his nose, catching a scent that only his memory had preserved. What the fuck is
going on? Rather than sounding like a raving lunatic like Peter, Derek chose to
omit the detail about the woman. “I caught a scent,” Derek confessed. It wasn’t
a lie, but it also wasn’t the complete truth. Complete truths were dangerous
after all.
“What kind of scent,” Deaton asked. His expression was laced with disbelief and
concern as Derek stood on the edge of the road, probably looking ridiculous.
“One that I shouldn’t be smelling.”
“Derek, that’s a bit cryptic.”
Derek turned back toward Deaton, his face grave and racked with apprehension.
“The scent that I’m picking up on belongs to someone who’s dead.”
“How is that possible?”
“It’s not,” Derek snarled. Derek was about to go vaulting off into the woods
after the scent when Stiles’ jeep came around the bend, kicking up gravel as it
turned. Stiles and Scott emerged from the vehicle, looking puzzled as to why
they were parked at the bottom of the Hale house driveway.
“What’s going on? Are we doing some bird-watching?” Stiles asked as they
approached the two men. Stiles lifted his hand casually to wave at Deaton and
Derek; he looked like he was suppressing a smile when he made eye-contact with
Derek. Derek silently wished he hadn’t.
“No,” Derek responded quickly, glancing at Scott, who was in turn, scowling at
him. Big surprise. Derek chose to ignore his growing irritation—more concerned
with the strange scent. “Scott, are you picking up on a scent here?”
“Why?” Scott asked.
“Just tell me,” Derek snapped.
Scott lifted an eyebrow and subtly sniffed the air. “Nothing out of the
ordinary from the woods. Trees, plants, moldy leaves, dead rabbit.” Scott
paused, his eyes tracing Derek like he was planning out what to say next. “No
offense dude, but there are some… mixed up scents here that are making it
harder for me to pick up on anything.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed on Scott and he resisted the urge to growl.
Stiles threw his hands up, exasperated. He backhanded Scott across the
shoulder. “Dude, seriously? You just couldn’t resist, could you? That took less
than two minutes!”
Scott splayed his palms out defensively. “Hey, it’s the truth, man! I’m just
telling it like it is!”
“Thanks for being useless, Scott,” Derek spat. Stiles looked unhappy at that
remark.
“Hey, what’s your problem, Derek!” Scott retorted, jabbing his finger into
Derek’s chest.
Derek desperately wanted to say “you,” and to break Scott’s finger. He knew
exactly what Scott had already told Stiles and he wanted to tell Scott that he
didn’t need to prove to him how much he cared about Stiles. The only person he
needed to prove that to was Stiles. Even though Derek already knew it would be
this exact scenario, he was pissed that Scott didn’t have enough tact to keep
his mouth shut and let Stiles and Derek figure things out before announcing it
to the whole damn pack.
“Gentlemen,” Deaton interjected. The emissary placed himself between the other
three quarreling men. “I believe we have bigger issues to deal with at the
moment. And Derek, whoever’s scent you’re picking up on may be largely tied to
whatever is going on here. Let’s address one issue at a time, shall we?” Derek
begrudgingly agreed, as did Scott and Stiles. “Good,” Deaton continued. “Do you
have the tarot card?”
Stiles nodded and produced the card from his coat pocket, handing it to Deaton.
Deaton flipped it over in his hands as Derek peered over his shoulder.
“The Lovers,” Derek asked rhetorically. The image on the card was of a naked
man and woman entwined in each other’s arms next to a pool of water. The woman
appeared to be crying in the drawing.
“Hm, yes,” Deaton confirmed. “Traditionally it represents: love, union, the
formation of relationships, and the making of choices. However, its inverted
stance symbolizes: disharmony, imbalance, and the misalignment of values. Of
course the interpretations vary and often have various meanings according to
context of the other cards, but it doesn’t surprise me that Stiles found the
Lovers in Allison’s bedroom.”
“I helped too,” Scott added sheepishly.
“Of course,” Deaton affirmed. “Scott and Stiles.”
“The Devil and the Lovers,” Stiles said. “Is there any commonality we can draw
between the two? Something that might help us figure out what’s going on with
Peter and Allison?”
Deaton shook his head. “Nothing besides both cards being Major Arcana. I’ll
need to look at both cards more before I can be sure thou—” Deaton was cut off
as a piercing howl ricocheted off of the trees surrounding the Hale House. All
four men whirled around to address the noise and Scott and Derek lowered into
an aggressive stance, closing in protectively around the two humans.
“What—was that,” Stiles stammered.
“Peter,” Derek responded from in front of Stiles. His hand reflexively clasped
Stiles’ wrist to secure the human.
“Deaton trapped him behind mountain ash in the house, didn’t he?” Stiles asked,
not pulling away from Derek’s grip.
Derek nodded. “That’s why I brought him with me again to check on Peter. But
that, that was the howl of a wolf in pain.”
“What could be hurting Peter?” Scott asked. “He’s a werewolf.”
“My guess would be that insanity’s hurting Peter,” Deaton replied calmly. “He’s
been like that for a couple days now and it would appear that he’s slipping
further into madness.”
“Short drop,” Stiles said with a laugh. Derek huffed in amusement as well.
“We’d better check on him,” Derek said finally. The other three men agreed and
ascended the hill until the house came into view. Derek remained in front of
Stiles the entire trek to act as a tactical human shield. Derek couldn’t
explain it, but his protective urges were running rampant and causing him to
rethink his every action. When the front of the house was finally in plain
sight, there was a sharp intake of four breaths.
“What the hell,” Stiles blurted out before the others could.
The front of the house and the surrounding trees that Peter could reach were
all marred and carved upon. On nearly every wooden object, there was a strange
symbol that looked like a tilted dice cup carven into the surface. Some of the
markings were lightly traced and others appeared to have been strenuously made
as Derek noticed that some were traced in blood. Derek shuddered to think about
how hard Peter must have pressed to draw blood as he engraved some of these
trees—clearly hard enough to snap some of Peter’s claws. Thinking about that
healing process made Derek feel sick. The house looked like some perverted
altar to the symbol as blood trailed across random surfaces, some of which were
still very wet. Peter was not in the immediate area, but his chilling wails
were echoing from the bowels of the Hale house. The aftershocks of the howls
dissipated into the distance and were soon replaced by a series of manic
laughter. Derek could feel Stiles closing in behind him.
“Perthro,” Deaton exclaimed suddenly, his body appearing to have gone rigid
with fear.
“What?” Derek asked in little more than a whisper.
Deaton turned to face the Beta, his eyes wreathed with uneasiness. “I know
what’s got Peter and Allison.”
Chapter End Notes
     I keep finding formatting issues with spacing when we post stuff and
     it's driving my OCD crazy, so I've tried to fix it. Please feel free
     to let me and Gillian know if you see any of these issues!
     We hope you're enjoying the story so far! :D
***** Mesmerized *****
Chapter Summary
     The Scooby Gang finds out what they're dealing with...
     Also, fair warning: the last section is in steam of consciousness.
     It's not a huge section, but it might become self-evident that I have
     been reading Faulkner. (ARPoet)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stiles really wished Deaton would hurry up. He was usually all for dramatic
pauses, but when something had Peter and Allison that was making both of them
crazier than usual, he was all for finding out what was wrong right the fuck
now. Peter was crazy, and Stiles thought Allison’s grip on reality was
precarious enough without someone else manipulating her. Apparently, however,
for all that he reacted so strongly at the Hale house, Deaton had to run back
to his own home to collect some materials about whatever the hell it was that
had given Allison and Peter the cards. They’d left Peter at the Hale house,
still contained in a ring of mountain ash, while they returned to Deaton’s
office. Stiles had suggested tying Peter up with wolfsbane-laced rope and been
shot down. Peter was more likely to seriously injure himself if he was tied,
Deaton had told him, and aside from his shredded hands he wasn’t injuring
himself or anyone else with his new obsession with carving. Stiles had
protested that he was hurting Stiles, who now had to contemplate just how badly
and repeatedly Peter had shredded his hands to make the marks.
Derek’s worried expression faded for a moment, and he came so close to smiling
at him that Stiles couldn’t decide if he wanted to: smile back like a love-
struck idiot, drag him off into the woods to have the dreaded, “So we kind of
had sex last night. What does that make us?” talk, or scream, “I did not have
sex with Derek Hale,” and go hide his head in a hole until he could pretend
that no one knew. He wasn’t ashamed he’d had sex with Derek—he’d shout it from
the top of the Empire State Building and write it across the sky if he got the
chance—but that was never, ever something he wanted to even think about
discussing with Dr. Deaton. Who already knew. Stiles could see it in his eyes
that he already knew.
He would someday come to terms with the fact the pack had no boundaries
whatsoever. Though no one would have had to tell Deaton—the man claimedhe
wasn’t a mind reader, but dammit, he knew everything—what one member of the
pack knew, they all did. Stiles used it to his advantage when he thought it was
worth it—and calling Isaac out was always worth it—but usually it was just an
annoyance. No one had any secrets. The only secret he knew everyone in the pack
had kept was that they hadn’t told Danny he was dating a werewolf yet, but
Stiles had suspicions that he knew anyway. He had been way too calm after the
Darach debacle to be completely ignorant of all the things that go bump in the
night. Plus, Stiles had done some research—Danny’s last name meant Full Moon.
Mythology said werewolves had a weakness to silver because the Argents had been
hunting them since the dawn of time, and Argent was the French word for silver.
What did that say about Danny’s family?
Okay, so technically it referred to the night the full moon began to wane,
which was the 16th day of the month by some old Hawaiian calendar, but he stood
by his interpretation.
Deaton came into the office, weighted down with what looked to Stiles to be
every book written in the 1800’s and half the ones written since then. Scott
leapt to help him, then hissed and backed off when the first book he touched
burned him.
“Most of these books have been laced with wolfsbane,” Deaton told him. Stiles
interpreted his tone as, “you idiot, why do you go grabbing for things you
shouldn’t,” and he grinned. Derek had remained where he was. “Emissaries to the
Hale pack have been collecting them from Hunters for over a century.” Stiles
didn’t ask what had happened to the Hunters. He had a strong suspicion that
there was a reason the only family of Hunters that lived in Beacon Hills had
moved in after the fire had killed all but four of the Hales.
Deaton put the books down on his desk with an audible thud, then chose one off
the top of the stack. He opened it to a page with Peter’s mysterious carving as
dust came fluttering off of the pages. “This rune is Perthro. It’s a Norse rune
that usually represents unknowable outcomes, mystery, or the role of luck in
destiny. But it also has a darker side. Perthro can be associated with emotion,
the psyche, delusions, and passionate obsessions This rune is a wild card. It
can represent luck as much as doom when it appears.” Stiles didn’t like the way
Deaton’s voice had lingered on “doom.” He handed the book to Stiles. Stiles had
picked up his laptop on the way to the office and was taking crazy notes on
every word that came out of Deaton’s mouth to later be added to the
Megabestiary. It had become the usual modus operandi for Stiles to type
everything Deaton said at these little “what are we killing this week”
meetings.
“Perthro,” he mumbled. “Unknowable outcomes, luck, doom.” His notes were more
comprehensive than his mumbles. Deaton paused for a moment while Stiles made a
note to google “Perthro” and make notes of all the various interpretations he
could find. He remembered the “friend vs. master for the Kanima” fiasco, and
was going to do his damndest to not repeat it.
Derek was sitting next to Stiles, staring at Deaton and tracing absentminded
patterns on the table in front of him. He looked bored out of his mind by all
the research. The part of Stiles that wasn’t completely focused on his notes
wanted to reach out and take Derek’s hand, but he needed both hands to type.
“In this case,” Deaton continued, picking up another tome. Derek leaned away
from it warily when he showed it to Stiles. Scott, nose twitching, started to
lean forward, sneezed, and recoiled as dust combusted into the air.
Wolfsbane, Scott, Stiles thought. Eventually you’ll learn. Deaton pulled the
book back from Scott’s sneeze with a withering look.
“In this case,” he said, the slightest hint of disapproval in his voice. “I
believe we’re dealing with a Mesmer. In the records that we have found—which
are very few—they use Perthro as a mark of their interest in a location.” The
book looked handwritten. It made Stiles want to put it under glass and only
touch it with white cotton gloves. “In Norse mythology, they’re traditionally
believed to be followers of Loki the trickster god.”
“M-e-s-m-e-r, Loki.” Stiles looked up from his notes. “I’m guessing we’re not
talking Tom Hiddleston ‘I’m going to destroy the world because I’m not a pretty
as my big brother Thor’ Loki,” he said. Scott rolled his eyes. Deaton looked
unamused. Derek didn’t react. Stiles nudged him with his elbow. “The Avengers?
Directed by Our Lord and Savior Whedon, creator of such cult hits as Buffy,
Angel, Firefly, Cabin in the Woods, and Dollhouse? Starring Chris Evans as
Captain America, Scarlett Johansson as Black Widow, Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye,
and Mark Ruffalo as the Hulk? Introducing Chris Hemsworth as an actual
Australian god and Robert Downey Jr. as Robert Downey Jr.? The movie poster was
the background on my computer for months, Derek!” When Derek continued to stare
at him without the slightest understanding or comprehension, Stiles clamped a
hand to his face with mock horror. “As soon as we figure out how to kill this
Mesmer thing, we are going to have the very best Marvel marathon the world has
ever seen. Then a Whedon marathon, that man is a god with a pen and a video
camera.”
Deaton had waited patiently while Stiles spoke. He was used to Stiles rambling
tangents. In situations like the one they were in, it was best to let him go.
When Stiles looked back at him, nodding, he continued. “Usually, a Mesmer goes
to a place looking for a source of power. They begin as humans with an interest
in the craft of magic and illusions. Like their patron Loki did to become a
god, they steal power from others to increase their own.” He looked down at the
book in his hand. “Also like Loki, they’re known to be tricksters. I’ve never
read an account of a Mesmer that blatantly attacked before trying something
more subversive to gain power.” He nodded at the pair of tarot cards on the
table. “This one’s particular signature seems to be a gift of a tarot card,
which is meant to curse the recipient.”
“If he’s looking for power, why did he go after Peter?” Scott asked.
“And what’s with the giving-Stiles-a-heart-attack-thinking-we’re-going-to-have-
to-kill-a-god thing?” Stiles asked. He didn’t think he’d ever 100% recover from
the fact that Janus was a real thing, and that they might someday have to kill
it. Trying to kill gods was still not on his agenda, somewhat de-virginized or
not. He was going to have lots and lots more sex before he had to get smote.
Years more sex.
“In addition to being a trickster god, Loki was a shapeshifter.” Deaton
explained. “A Mesmer is able to disguise him or herself at will. It’s possible
that Peter could partially see through the illusion for some reason. By the
time you found him in the alley, he was so far under an illusion that he was
unable to properly vocalize what he had seen.” He leaned against the edge of
his desk. “As to why he’d choose Peter as his first victim, I have no idea. Nor
do I have any inkling of why he’d choose Allison as his second. But one thing
is abundantly clear. Mesmers are not serial killers. They do not attack or kill
at random. If Peter and Allison were targets, there was a calculated reason
behind it and we need to find out what that reason is.”
“So how do we kill him?” Derek asked, his first words since they’d arrived at
the office. Deaton’s expression was neither promising nor approving.
“I have no idea. I’ve only got records of a dozen Mesmers since Norse times
when Loki was actually being worshipped as a god and not by teenagers following
New Age fads. Mesmer are not known for lingering. They are thieves of the
eldritch. All of them moved on when they got what they wanted. It would appear
that this Mesmer has found some power in Beacon Hills that has attracted him
here. We need to know what it is.”
Before he could say anything else, Scott’s phone went off. Stiles snickered at
it. Scott still hadn’t managed to change Isaac’s text tone. Stiles had changed
it to “Call Me Maybe” within a week of recognizing Isaac’s hopeless man-crush
on his Alpha. Three days after he’d changed it, he realized that it wasn’t a
man-crush, it was an actual, real, middle-school girl writing “Mr. and Mr.
Scott McCall” all over her binder proper crush.
A day or two after that Scott had held his first seminar on interpersonal
relationships for the pack. It had mostly resulted in everyone making fun of
him for being an oblivious idiot who was both oblivious and an idiot. It had
taken the threat of Scott’s full Alpha power to make the pack stop.
Unfortunately for Scott, his full-on Alpha power did not work on either Stiles
or Lydia.
“Isaac found Allison” he said over the song. Stiles had also managed to trick
his phone into continuing to play the song until Scott deleted the text. “He
needs help containing her.” He stood. Stiles managed to resist the urge to make
a comment about “Isaac’s big strong hero, off to save the day,” but it was only
because Derek stood up also.
“I’m going to go see if I can find this thing.” He said, moving away from them.
Stiles didn’t like his expression. It was the same expression Derek wore when
he had concocted a bad plan that would inevitably not end well. He looked like
he was off to have a picnic, not going to find a monster they didn’t know how
to fight, let alone kill. He reached for Derek to stop him and nearly threw his
computer off his lap.
“Derek, you can’t just go out after it! Did you miss the part where Deaton has
no idea how to kill it?” Stiles grabbed at him. When he caught Derek’s wrist,
Derek looked down at him, bewildered, like he didn’t know who Stiles was and he
wasn’t sure why Stiles was touching him or thought he had the right to touch
him.
“I can handle this.” Derek wrenched his arm out of Stiles’ hand, his voice
sounding distant and foreign. But before Stiles could protest again, he turned
and was gone; out the door and up the road. Stiles stared after him.
What is going on with him? He can’t do this by himself! We have no idea who the
Mesmer even is! We don’t know how much power he has or have the foggiest clue
how to kill it! Stiles blinked and reimagined Derek’s face behind his eyelids
from only a minute ago. The expression that Derek had shot him when Stiles had
grabbed his wrist was unmistakable. Derek clearly thought that Stiles was out
of line when he tried to stop him. He had sounded so different from the Derek
that Stiles had woken up next to earlier that morning. Stiles felt regret knot
up in his stomach. They clearly needed to talk about what had happened between
them, because boundaries were beginning to get a little hazy.
Deaton’s expression was less concerned than Stiles’, but not by much. “Scott,
have Ethan follow Derek. If he manages to find the Mesmer, there’s no way he
can handle him alone.” Stiles wished he’d though of that. While Ethan and Derek
might not be able to take the Mesmer, Ethan was a strong enough Alpha to keep
Derek from getting into too much trouble now that he was a Beta. “Stiles, you
should see if you can find any more information on the Mesmer. I’ll make some
calls.”
On a normal day, Stiles would make a crack about Deaton making his calls by way
of a bowl of blood from a newly murdered stranger. But with Derek acting so
strangely—and dickish, dear god the night before had nearly erased the memory
of how dickish Derek could be, but only nearly, the Supernatural reference
seemed childish.
                                     * * *
The trip home seemed simultaneously the longest drive of Stiles’ life and the
shortest trip ever taken. He was going to find out whatever he could about the
Mesmer. He was not going to panic about Derek. Derek would be fine. He was a
big bad Beta werewolf, and if he couldn’t, he had a bigger, badder Alpha
werewolf to back him up. Derek was just being a dick with his typical half-
cocked schemes. He wasn’t going to try to fight the Mesmer on his own. At least
that’s what Stiles had resolved to tell himself.
Eventually, if he kept telling himself that, Stiles would believe it. Until
then, he was going to work as fast as he could to figure out how to kill the
damn thing.
He should call Lydia. He needed to work fast. Lydia would help.
Stiles launched himself full tilt up the stairs in an effort to avoid his
father. He didn’t remember until he was in his room with the door slammed that
his father was working. He zipped off a text to his dad—hey, you’re not dead,
right? And got a reply fifteen minutes later while he was still trying to sort
through piles of Norse Mythology.
Stiles, what is going on? What is it this week?
Nothing big, minor baddie, we’ll deal.He almost regretted texting his father,
but he had to make sure he was alright. There was too much going on for Stiles
to let his father be out there without someone checking on him. John didn’t
know all of what had happened since the Nemeton, but he knew enough that Stiles
figured he’d be banging on the door in the next ten minutes, demanding answers.
We’re not sure how to kill it yet, working on it.
Just tell me if there’s anything I can do.
Will do, dad.
While he was at it, he texted Derek for the tenth time since he’d left the
office. Hey, answer me. I just want to know you’re okay. Even though there was
legitimate concern there, Stiles felt like he was being a clingy girlfriend
sitting alone in her very pink room surrounded by Hello Kitty stuffed animals
as he hit “send” for the tenth time.
Still no answer.
Stiles dropped into his computer chair, then nearly backflipped out of it.
Sitting there where his laptop usually sat was a box of condoms. His father had
left a box of condoms on his computer table. There was even a little note: Be
safe! Wolfsbane-laced bullets aren’t that hard to get ahold of. We will be
talking soon.J Part of him wanted to tell his father that putting a smiley face
on a threat didn’t make it less threatening. Most of him wanted to pretend the
box of condoms didn’t exist. He picked them up and threw them across the room,
tripping over his own feet as he did so. He landed face-first in something
soft. Derek, in his hurry to leave that morning, had forgotten his jacket.
Stiles decided that maybe something other than “Answer me, dammit!” might get a
better response from Derek, so he texted again: Hey, you forgot your jacket,
sourwolf.
Staring at your phone for seventeen minutes without moving will not, it turned
out, encourage the stubborn werewolf on the other side of it to answer faster.
Cursing himself for being a worry-wart and Derek for being stupid and reckless,
he scooped up the jacket and flung it around his shoulders. Derek was being a
jerk with his cellphone silence, and Stiles was both pissed and worried about
that. As complicated as it was to admit and consider, Derek was possibly the
most comforting thing in Stiles’ life at the moment and that just reaffirmed
the idea that he and Derek needed to have a serious conversation about what had
happened between them.
Stiles phone rang. He was so desperate to find it that he fell out of his chair
again. Derek would have asked him how he managed to live as long as he had if
he had witnessed the incident.
It was Ethan texting. Derek is searching around the abandoned warehouse
district. No sign of anything that might be a Mesmer. Then, a few moments
later, What exactly does it look like?
If you don’t know what it looks like how can you know there’s no sign of it?
Stiles spared a moment of concern for the fact that Ethan was the brain of the
Mega!Alpha before he went back to worrying about Derek. It’s an illusionist and
a shapeshifter. Keep everything away from him.
Hey, fell out of my chair twice. You should be here to laugh at me for it.If
Derek didn’t answer soon, Stiles was going to remotely blow up his phone. He
started to put his phone in his pocket and put it in the jacket by mistake. As
his phone slid out of his hand, something brushed against the back of his
fingers.
There were events in Stiles’ life he had no way of ever being prepared for. The
worst of them was the evening his parents had sat him down in the living room
to tell him that his mother was dying. The day she died was a close second: 
he’d had no idea when they sat him down of what they were going to tell him.
His mother’s death, while it was the most traumatizing thing he’d ever
experience, had been something they’d known was coming. Stiles hadn’t been
ready for it, but he’d known that it was going to happen sooner rather than
later. Scott’s encounter with Peter was less traumatic, but was equally as
unexpected.
Pulling the tarot card out of the pocket of Derek’s jacket and realizing the
Mesmer already had Derek, fell right into the line of the things Stiles would
never be prepared for. Stiles’ hands were shaking as his fingers slid across
the image. The Three of Swords. There was a depiction of what appeared to be a
bloody pool and three scattered swords jutting from the water as a bolt of
white lightning danced across the background of the image. Stiles felt his
heart jolt in his ribs.
His hands were slick with sweat as he fumbled with his phone. He could barely
manage to press the keys as his fingers slipped across the numbers. He called
Derek, got his voicemail. Hung up. Tried again. Voicemail. “Derek, I really,
reallyneed you to call me right the fuck now. I found the next card! It’s you!
He’s already got you, Derek.I need you to call me, now!” His next call was to
Scott. “Scott, I just found a tarot card in Derek’s jacket! Get the pack, call
Ethan, find him!” He hung up before Scott could say anything and called Lydia.
“Lydia, tell Aiden to go find Ethan, I need you at my house now.” He stayed on
the phone with Lydia, though he didn’t say anything else. His chest began
shuddering and his throat began to tighten as his breaths came in sharp
intakes. He was struggling with everything he had in him to control the panic
attack that was starting.
Lydia, gods-blessed banshee Lydia, who was the very best person Stiles had ever
met—and dear god he remembered why he used to love her like the goddess she was
and now loved her as the Holmes to his Watson—realized what was happening.
“Stiles, I need you to slow down. Listen to my voice. You’re breathing way too
fast. I will be there in five minutes,” Some part of Stiles was aware that it
was at least a fifteen minute drive from Lydia’s, “but I need you to keep
breathing until I get there.”
True to her word, Lydia must have blown every stop sign and traffic light
between her house and Stiles’ to get there in the aforementioned five minutes.
Listening to her drive like a maniac was surprisingly calming for Stiles. By
the time she arrived he was able to let her in the door and accept the massive
hug she threw around him. Lydia began petting his back slowly to soothe him
until his breathing finally slowed, and he started to feel like his brain was
getting oxygen again.
“What’s going on?” She asked, without letting go.
“We found out what’s got Allison,” he told her in a rush. “Mesmer. We have no
idea how to kill it and its magicked Derek. It’s got real magic, not the
emissary crap Deaton has! It’s like Ms. Blake except less killable! We have to
figure out how to kill it, Lydia! It’s going to kill him!” Lydia and Derek
still didn’t get along. Lydia held Peter against Derek. Derek held Lydia’s
involvement in Peter’s resurrection against Lydia, which was something they
would have to talk about. Peter had molested Lydia to bring himself back. That
was not Lydia’s fault, and Stiles would poke Derek with a very large stick if
he didn’t get over it. Stiles also appreciated Lydia’s uncanny ability to read
between the lines and not to ask the obvious question of, “why are you so
concerned about Derek, Stiles?” Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because news
travelled so quickly in the pack or Lydia was just that smart. He imagined it
was the latter. But thank god he wasn’t being forced to explain his strange
relationship with Derek right now, because Stiles wasn’t even sure that he
could. Despite all that, Lydia followed Stiles up to his room and had her
laptop out in seconds.
“Mesmer. M-E-S-M-E-R?” She asked. He nodded, already staring at the results on
his own screen. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Apparently, Mesmer was a
popular class on Guild Wars. Nothing. He tried again. Mesmer Loki Norse
mythology.
Stiles leapt nearly out of his skin when his concentration was interrupted by
his phone. He clicked the screen on to see who the call was from. He silently
wished it was Derek. It was Ethan. Stiles felt his heart drop with
disappointment.
“Stiles, I lost him,” the Alpha werewolf said, his breath ragged. “The rest of
the pack is on their way here, but I can’t find him. It’s like he went out of
his way to lose me!”
“You lost him?” Stiles’ voice was indignant. “Ethan, this thing has him. He’s
under the Mesmer’s spell. You can’t lose him. Can’t you just sniff him out?”
Scott’s voice came over the phone as he clearly took it from Ethan. “Stiles, we
just arrived. The whole pack is looking for Derek, we’ll get him back, but it’s
like his scent just vanished.”
“Where are you?”
“Stiles—”
“Now, Scott.”
                                     * * *
No no no he was sure he had been in warehouse eleven but this one said
three—three Derek thought or maybe he was just looking at the three columns
inside the entrance of the warehouse yawning at him in a fecundity of darkness
that blipped and bobbed like leaves turning themselves over before a
thunderstorm or maybe it was just the three words his fingers had pressed into
the tiny dot-like keys of his cellphone that was now gnashing blue in blackness
around him like a stalactite of light from an electronic black box. “Three” he
mouthed as the sound dripped off his tongue bitter like he was learning a new
word and the concept displeased him
wait. What had been the three words his mind gnawed upon the concept and Derek
was confused because it had been eleven but why was there three in his head and
what was the three that were the words, why were they so wrong and as Derek
spoke the words aloud why did they feel like poison why were his thoughts the
arsenic and his words the wine that thoughts were dripped into until his mouth
was left dry and he drank more and more and more? Three three three had it only
been three minutes or three words and what happened to the flashing light of
his phone where had it gone like a frail searchlight against ocean waves.
Derek found it again pacing a small circle confused and confounded tracing
spirals with his hands in the dirt while searching for that tiny black box the
glint stunting his sight beyond its illumination he looked at the tiny script
dancing across the marble blue: Stiles it read. His hands were shaking and
Derek couldnt make them stop he knew he wasnt cold because he couldnt see his
breath but his hands jostled and jerked and he was confused so so confused and
it hurt but Derek didnt know confusion could hurt but this was apex pain and
the words: the words were worse than empty hunger or thirst.
Stiles. Help. Me.
And Derek remembered that he didnt like three but he couldnt remember why so he
ran from the glimmer of the words until the shadows joined him dancing like
inverted flames that swallowed up the light hiding rust and dirt and rats and
peeling sallow paint while the figures lurched. Beam to beam they jolted in
ashen clothes walking and running playing and laughing but Derek knew their
faces; and they were all dead. Boyd Erica sister cousins.Then his mothers eyes
were there teeming with crimson from behind rusty bars and flashes of ivory
fangs as she laughed but was it with him or at him he didnt know his eyes
flashed blue and he hid them behind his palms like shutters not wanting to let
her see his shame again and the shame of everything left to come. My little
wolf. Three three three and Derek fled with blue eyes and blue fleeing his
eyes. The blue splattered across his hands onto his shoes like abandoned
sapphires left to erode into the darkness as his voice croaked against his
palms
Fate is just a piece of string attached to a ball of twine. Dereks feet moved
with a purpose unknown until they stopped to leave him kneeling as though in
prayer to some limitless predestination of shame and self-disgust and pity and
remorse and beautiful grief that appeared before Dereks very eyes like some
shifting morass. He sang it litanies with a hollow voice and dripping sapphires
as his mothers caterwaul rose through the flames of darkness upon some momentum
of distance. Derek’s predestination had faces a scream a laugh a cry. Was it a
man Derek couldnt tell because each time the man settled he was replaced by a
new piece and sometimes the new piece didnt fit but the faces remained the
same. Sometimes the new pieces were contorted or broken facing awkward angles
and with too many limbs or hands or digits but they kept on shifting to the
constant buzz that Derek could hear around him it resonated in the hollow space
like a drone returning to its hive but there was also an alien lavender glow
which enraptured Derek. The glow was like an addiction against his skin
And Dereks destiny looked upon him—this man—each face remaining the same but
spinning changing to its own rhythm.
It knew his name: Derek Hale. Confusion made Dereks cells ache Son of Talia
Hale, previous Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack and last remaining Hale in Beacon
Hills besides Peter Hale. I wonder if my interest in you will prove
enlightening? Hm, we’ll see. Madness was but a thirst upon your mind, little
Hale. And it would appear that there are some people who would have a word with
you before I have my fun.
There was blue so much blue and it covered Dereks hands and it wouldnt stop so
in shame he turned on his side skittering away from the man with three faces
because Derek didnt like his words and he couldnt stop his eyes or the blue.
Turning as he crawled he saw them like sentries above or like statues in
deathless forms draped in white but cruel faces beaming with revenge and sadism
as their mouths moved to speak his name in unison he froze as though his name
held power over him. He knew them both and he knew they were both dead both
beautiful forms of tragedy and grief sent as revenants from the past to reclaim
their pride. Kate and Jennifer twisted and spun in grotesque movement their
bodies popping unnaturally as they advanced their voices rising up in a
cacophony of laughter melding with the shadows as horror became Dereks only
state of awareness.
You and I weren’t so different when it came to power Jennifers hand tilted
against Dereks face she was there he could smell her scent wrapping around him
And I taught you the necessity of ruthlessness Kate smiled
Derek shook his head no no no
They laughed again pitches screaming atop one another and ricocheting against
rust and shadows Look at him trying to deny us they shrilled in tandem a
symphony of sadism
I actually cared about you Derek could hear Jennifers teeth grinding like tires
against gravel until her teeth bit into her gums marring them crimson
Yeah, well, I didn’t. But how did you go from a sweet little number like Paige
to me? Oh, well, I guess it’s a good thing the little bitch got sliced up or it
would have made my job a lot harder
A rictal luster teetered across Jennifers teeth Harsh, Kate. But I guess it’s
not as harsh as all of the people Derek has ever cared about ending up six feet
under or in my case, getting my throat slashed open by his insane uncle
Don’t forget about me, Jennifer. Derek had his uncle do the dirty work in my
case too
Jennifer giggled Poor little Derek didn’t even have the balls to kill either
one of us. Instead, he killed Paige she dropped to a whisper And I’m pretty
sure she was the One, Derek. You fucked it up,you killed her
Kates laugh resounded like shattering glass Now that’s what I call a cosmic
tragedy
Jennifer seemed to agree Did you know that the Greeks believed tragedy was a
form of catharsis and thus considered one of the highest forms of literature
and playwriting? The word ‘catharsis’ is actually a Latinized form of the Greek
word ‘katharos,’ which means ‘to clear of shame or guilt.’Jennifer paused
Somebody’s got to be the catharsis, Derek. So I guess that makes you a tragedy
Now, Jennifer, I wonder who will be the next casualty in Derek’s life
Let me guessJennifer sneered Stiles? The boy you chose to believe and help over
me
“DEREK!”
The world lurched and Derek was writhing on the ground as his name thundered
through his head something in the distance catching the gloom and peeling it
back like lead paint chipping off of a wall as his eyes attempted to focus on
the brightening of his surroundings. He could make out a third form moving
through the envelope of the static darkness that seemed to control its
surroundings as it went but the face that appeared was dead too Derek shook his
head to the tragedy wanting all the familiarity to fade away and leave nothing
but reproach. Paige appeared from around a bend opposite to Derek her body
young and vibrant seemingly unchanged. She sprinted toward Derek her face
rimmed with fear and concern as Kate and Jennifer looked upon her with disdain
and revulsion three forces directly opposing one another.
But then her face disappeared. No, it didn’t disappear; it changed with the
world around her as the circling gloam was upheaved into brightness. Paige’s
face became someone else’s. Someone that Derek knew. It was Stiles. His face
was shredded with anxiety and impulse to reach Derek, but Derek was still so
confused.
What came next confused Derek even further and it caused his body to collapse
upon itself, leaving him nothing more than a pathetic coil on the ground. There
was a surge of violet light that flooded above Derek, and Stiles’ body was
spiraled backward through the air in violent momentum.
Jennifer and Kate smiled knowingly, murmuring together to Derek in a low
register with their mouths pressed against the sides of his ears. “He’s next.”
Chapter End Notes
     (it is the professional opinion of GillianGrissom, an avid Scooby Doo
     watcher, that Scott is, in fact, the talking dog.)
***** The Sum of Misfortune *****
Chapter Summary
     The pack comes face to face with the Mesmer, and Stiles and Derek
     have some issues to work out. (Duh.)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Stiles had run ahead of Lydia, darting in and out of various warehouse doors as
he pressed the “call” button on his phone with fury. He tried to follow the
sound as it echoed in the distant muteness. The one text that Derek had somehow
managed to send before disappearing had sent Stiles into a frenzy. “Stiles.
Help. Me.,” it had read. Stiles’ face burnt with rage and fear as the cool
evening air brushed his face, while sprinting through nearly dilapidated
buildings. Stiles could hear Derek’s ringtone growing closer as Lydia’s voice
faded; warning him to slow down. Ethan had backtracked to meet the rest of the
pack but had told Stiles to stay put. Ethan clearly didn’t know Stiles very
well because he had no intention of doing so.
Stiles couldn’t get his thoughts under control. His mind was racing in a
million trajectories having five hundred thousand different tangential
arguments with themselves. Stiles was beginning to feel distinctly bipolar as
his emotions ranged on a spectrum of mental breakdown to feral teenager (He
felt about .5 seconds away from frothing at the mouth). He wanted to blame
himself for not getting to Derek sooner or somehow predicting that this Mesmer
would target Derek after targeting Peter. Stiles wanted to blame Derek for not
listening when he warned Derek not to go looking for the Mesmer by himself. And
then Stiles promptly felt guilty, knowing that Derek hadn’t been himself
otherwise he—yeah, well, it was Derek Hale after all, so he definitely would
have done the same thing. And that only made Stiles angrier. Stiles wanted to
throttle Derek when all of this was over. He didn’t care how Derek felt about
everything that had happened between them (and Stiles couldn’t help but
entertain the idea that Derek had been under the Mesmer’s influence, so what if
everything that had happened between them had just been a result of the tarot
card? What if Derek wouldn’t even remember what had happened after they saved
him?). Regardless, Derek meant something to Stiles and he couldn’t just go
around risking his life and hurdling his Greek god of a body at anything with
sharp claws. Stiles didn’t much care for it when Derek risked his life before
because it meant that Stiles had to save his ass, but now, now there was a
whole new level of complicated with a layer of confusion, a dash of romance,
and colorful sprinkles of fuckery.
Stiles kept running and so did his mind as he continued to smash the “call”
button. Derek’s phone was getting louder and Stiles could still hear Lydia
panting behind him. Stiles just couldn’t let something happen to Derek. He had
next to no idea what he would find when he actually managed to locate Derek,
but Stiles imagined the Mesmer wouldn’t be too far away. He didn’t know what he
could do to protect Derek or help him, but he had to try. It felt worse than a
kick in the nads when the thought of losing Derek flickered across Stiles’ mind
for a millisecond. Stiles proceeded to tell his brain to go fuck itself because
that wasn’t going to happen. He was going to save Derek somehow and he was
going to break him out of the spell or hallucination or whatever it was—even if
it meant that Derek might forget about the past couple of days altogether.
Stiles tried not to think about that either, because all it did was remind him
of how amazing it had felt to have a naked Derek wrapped around his body this
morning, yawning lazily into his ear, whispering with a scratchy morning voice,
and nuzzling him with a three-day stubble that needed trimming. Stiles wasn’t
prepared to let all of that go, but he would if it meant saving Derek.
 Stiles looked up at a warehouse with a large “3” painted on the two main
doors. He could hear Derek’s phone inside. He sprinted through one of the
doors.
“Stiles, wait,” Lydia shouted after him. Stiles ignored her.
Stiles swung around the bend of the warehouse door, finding Derek’s phone
blinking in the darkness as it rang. Stiles’ eyes strained to peer through the
blanket of black that was surrounding him as a strange violet glow at the
opposite end of the warehouse caught his attention; he couldn’t make out where
the light was coming from. Stiles could hear someone crying in the distance.
Focusing his eyes, Stiles saw a person crawling across the ground, just outside
of the strange glow. The person was sobbing, holding their head and shaking it
feverishly. The sight made Stiles’ gut churn.
“Derek!!” Stiles screamed.
Derek stopped sobbing long enough to glance his direction, but his face looked
stricken with fear when he saw Stiles. Stiles could see Derek’s eyes emanating
a dangerous blue as he bolted across the room, but Stiles didn’t care. All he
could think about was getting to Derek and shaking him hard enough to break him
out of his hallucination—even though Stiles knew that wouldn’t work. Derek
shuffled backward, putting his hands out in front of his body, waving them back
and forth as an obvious gesture of “stay away from me.” Derek was shaking his
head again, but Stiles kept moving.
“Stiles,” Lydia shrieked as she entered the warehouse.
Then it came like a wave washing over his body. Stiles felt like he was in the
ocean trying to swim against the momentum of the tide until it finally brushed
him aside by throwing him backward. As the wave hit him, there had been a gust
of that strange light rolling over Stiles’ body. He didn’t just get pushed
back; his body went tumbling out of control through the air like a ragdoll.
Lydia’s reactive wail was loud enough to alert the pack. Stiles wasn’t sure if
it had been out of fear for him or her precious face as Stiles collided with
her. Both humans grunted, trying to suck in the air that had been utterly
knocked from their lungs. With very little grace, Stiles scooped himself up off
of Lydia, who appeared grateful. Stiles grabbed Lydia’s hand, helping her to
her feet as they both looked each other over, reassuring the other that they
were uninjured.
As Stiles and Lydia regained composure, Stiles heard the rest of the pack slide
into the warehouse, having obviously followed Lydia’s signal. Aiden, Ethan, and
Isaac appeared behind their True Alpha, whose frame stood menacingly at the
fore.
“Stiles,” Scott barked. It was as much an admonishment as it was a command.
Stiles knew it meant, “Get your ass back here and away from the potentially
dangerous and insane werewolf.” Scott’s eyes tinged red, much more vibrant in
the shadows.
“Will everyone stop saying my name for two freaking seconds,” Stiles shouted,
arms flailing.
Then Stiles heard his name echo again from the opposite side of the warehouse
in a low and fatigued voice. “Stiles,” Derek’s voice murmured. Stiles felt his
heartbeat stammer.
Stiles wheeled around to face the Beta werewolf who had managed to stumble onto
his feet. Derek’s eyes were no longer a threatening blue and he was shuffling
Stiles’ direction in what seemed like a crawling pace to the teenager.
“Shit,” Stiles whispered to himself as he bolted toward Derek. Stiles could
feel the rest of the pack mimic his movements—especially overprotective
Scott—as he ran to assist a dangerous werewolf who was half out of his mind.
“Stiles, stop,” Scott demanded, his voice resounding in the emptiness of the
warehouse. There was a promise of wrath in Scott’s voice that sent a chill down
Stiles’ spine, but he blatantly ignored his Alpha. (In retrospect as Stiles
sprinted away, he should have known that the wrath was most likely directed at
Derek if he tried to harm Stiles in any way. Stiles was fully aware that Scott
would eviscerate Derek if he threatened Stiles. Stiles both appreciated and
resented the sentiment, because Stiles would have to eviscerate Scott in turn
if he hurt Derek. This whole triangle was becoming progressively more fucked
up).
Around the time that Stiles made it to the center of the warehouse, there was a
flash of lavender that curtained the middle of the room before him. The
luminescence ran the width of the space like a barrier, but Stiles’ feet didn’t
stop moving. He heard Scott and the other pack members barking orders at him
until there was a deafening discharge of noise that reverberated like a cannon
throughout the warehouse. The curtain of light exploded in front of Stiles’
eyes, filling his head with the color white as he was blinded and his feet were
ripped out from under him. Stiles felt as though he was being sucked into a
vacuum as his body lunged forward of its own volition. Stiles was getting
really tired of feeling like a ragdoll and having his body used against him. He
heard Derek grunt as the werewolf slammed into the ground opposite him—clearly
having been torn from his feet as well. If there was any doubt that the Mesmer
was nearby, it was sorely misplaced.
Fuck trickster gods and their followers. They are a giant, unholy bag of dicks.
Before Stiles knew it, Scott was there, helping him back onto his feet. By the
sound of it, Derek had been pulled into the same spot that Stiles had, but as
vision flooded back into Stiles’ eyes, he could see the floating line of
lavender still separating them. Stiles heard Isaac, Ethan, Aiden, and Lydia
flank Scott and himself as they all examined the barrier. Stiles reached out to
touch it against his better judgment: it was solid as a cinderblock wall. Derek
was still in the process of hobbling back onto his feet, but he seemed mostly
intact—no missing limbs or exposed entrails. Stiles eyed him; he seemed
exhausted both emotionally and physically, but he didn’t seem hysterical
anymore. It made him uneasy because he didn’t know what to say to Derek now
that he was so close—only separated by some magical bullshit.
Stiles’ mouth mustered what his brain couldn’t. “Derek, are you okay,” he asked
with caution.
Derek didn’t say anything, but nodded slowly in response. Stiles wasn’t so
convinced. Derek seemed much more composed than when Stiles had found him, but
that didn’t mean he wouldn’t slip back into a tarot-induced state of crazy.
Stiles wasn’t sure, but Derek’s expression seemed like a response to his
uncertainty. Derek’s eyes narrowed as he sighed—the whites of his eyes were
cloudy and red from before. It was possibly the most vulnerable Stiles had ever
seen the man look and it made Stiles feel like his throat was closing.
Then something settled over the warehouse. Stiles felt the temperature drop
before he heard the laugh that followed; it filled all the empty spaces of the
room. The darkness of the space scattered and was replaced by the alien light
that seemed to be coming from nowhere. The crowing laughter was manic; it
almost seemed pleased or happy, and all Stiles could imagine was an asylum
inmate swaying back and forth in the fetal position in a dark, padded cell. (Or
in fewer words, he envisioned Peter) To that end, the silence shifted, suddenly
becoming very loud, turning to jibbering whispers. Stiles wondered if he was
the only one hearing them. Clenching his ears to stifle the noise, he glanced
at the other pack members who had settled into defensive crouches, readying
themselves for an ambush. But Derek seemed unfazed.
Stiles could feel his hackles rise.
Stiles glimpsed movement behind Derek as the shadows retreated to the farthest
corners of the warehouse. At first, all Stiles could make out was a rictus grin
emerging as a set of teeth from the gloom—very, Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire
Cat—but as the grin drew further away from the corner, it took shape as a mouth
on a humanoid figure; gathering the shadows with it like a cloak as it drifted
from the corner. Stiles’ mouth moved to warn Derek, but the whispers had become
so overpowering that his voice was lost in the cascade of noise. Derek turned
to the figure, not appearing ready to fight or even defend himself as the
figure coalesced into a fully corporeal man. Or something vaguely man-ish.
A long black overcoat draped the man’s body, flaring out dramatically at the
bottom with some fancy embroidered runes on the hem that Stiles didn’t
recognize. It was moments like these that Stiles wished he had a photographic
memory so he could research this shit later. Underneath the overcoat was a
silken vest and shirt—all in various shades of purple—with an oversized, frilly
bow to accentuate the man’s chest. His face was divided by a mask that looked
like a piece of paper-mâché that a hooker had used to practice her makeup on.
One side of the man’s cinder-red hair was shaved off completely, but the rest
flowed down to his shoulder; curling there in a sort of fifties, housewife bob.
Stiles wasn’t sure how, but the Mesmer managed to look simultaneously
ridiculous and horrifying. The final touch, however, was the cane in the
Mesmer’s hand, which Stiles could describe as none other than a “pimp stick.”
The Mesmer lifted the walking cane, rapping it once on the ground as he stopped
in front of Derek.
The whispering faded from Stiles’ ears and the room returned to normal except
for the strange glow and the barrier that divided the pack from Derek. The
Mesmer smiled.
“I do love making an entrance,” he chuckled. He seemed giddy; beginning to
applaud himself as though he was a Broadway star getting ready to make a
curtain call. He was clearly insane. Stiles wasn’t sure what he expected to
hear when the Mesmer opened his mouth, but a deep and raspy voice definitely
wasn’t it. It sort of conflicted with his clothing choices in Stiles’ mind.
“You could have fooled us,” Aiden mocked.
The Mesmer’s Cheshire-like grin returned. “Yes, well, I love making an entrance
almost as much as I love introductions.” He paused to glance at each of the
pack members. “So, I suppose we should cut to the chase, shall we? I’m sure you
all have better things to attend to, like maiming and murdering me with your
little puppy paws and teeth.” He made a hand gesture that Stiles assumed was
meant to mimic claws.
“I like the sound of that,” Isaac agreed.
 “Hear, hear!” the Mesmer laughed boldly; rapping his cane again. “I’ll go
first, shall I? The name’s Morgan Rhoderick. Mesmer to the Order of Hveðrungr
and Acolyte of Chance! But I’m sure your sagely little Druid has told you all
about that already.” Morgan waved his hand dismissively.
“He did,” Ethan began. “But he seems to have forgotten to tell our Alpha how to
kill you. I’m guessing a good old claw to the throat will work just fine
though, right?”
“Or maybe just a match?” Lydia offered. “With a hairdo like that, lord knows
how much hairspray you used. Aerosol’s really not good for the ozone, dear. And
that haircut isn’t good for anyone to look at.”
 Morgan’s body bobbed as he chuckled in amusement. As he laughed this time,
Stiles could have sworn he heard a woman laughing as well. It made Stiles
shudder. “Quite, right! Quite, right! Claw, blade, flame, bullet or bite will
all do the trick, my pups!”
 “Then how about you lower this barrier and let my friends have an old
fashioned hoedown with you, Morgan,” Stiles suggested. Stiles could feel Morgan
train his gaze on him. It made his stomach go cold as the feeling spread to the
rest of his body.
Scott stepped forward in challenge. “I’ve gotta agree with Stiles. Isolating
yourself with a werewolf that you already have under your control doesn’t seem
like a fair fight. How about you pick on someone your own size?” Scott’s fangs
flashed as he lifted his clawed hands for emphasis.
“Oh? Oh, oh, oh!” The Mesmer looked surprised at Scott’s challenge before he
erupted into a fit of laughter. Scott stood his ground. “You mean you haven’t
figured it out yet?” Morgan turned to Derek. The pitch of his laughter rose
again, splitting into two distinct voices as he broke into another hysterical
bout. “This pup isn’t listening to me anymore.”
Stiles peered at Derek. “What do you mean—”
“He means that I broke out of the hallucination somehow,” Derek replied without
looking at Stiles. Stiles felt like he had been electrocuted by the
information. He knew that it was about the worst time in human history to be
thinking about it, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from rifling through the
one hundred things he wanted to say to Derek. Stiles made a mental note to
invest in flash cards or Post-it notes.
Morgan was giggling and clapping again. “It was quite a neat trick, pup! Too
bad you can’t teach the girl and the other Hale that trick! I’m sure they would
appreciate it about now! Insanity’s the deadliest poison I know of!”
“Let them go,” Scott growled. “What do you even want with them?”
The Mesmer tilted his head as though he hadn’t understood the question. “To
roll the dice,” he answered; his voice meek. “It’s all a game of chance.”
“A chance for what,” Stiles asked. “The odds seem pretty shitty to me so far.”
“Power,” Morgan replied.
Stiles lifted an eyebrow. “What power? Deaton told us Mesmers steal power to
enhance their own. You’re arcane thieves according to lore, but from what I’ve
found out, you mostly tap into places of power or other beings with magic.”
Morgan tapped on his nose with his forefinger and pointed at Stiles with his
other hand.
“The Nemeton,” Lydia concluded. “It attracted you here. But that can’t be it.
If you wanted the recharged power of the Nemeton, you could have just taken it.
Why come after us?”
“Wisdom and wits,” Morgan chirped. “I like this one! No, no, my pup! I’ve no
interest in the sacred sites of Druids. They lost their magic long ago when
prayer and ritual became their reagents. I’m interested in where an inheritance
rests, but I can’t quite say where it resides. But now that I’ve played a few
cards, I’ve come to realize that I’m just a few rounds shy of a royal flush.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sweet baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes, dude!
You’re worse than a friggin’ anime villain! First we’ve got a dramatic
entrance, then an insane introduction, and now we’ve got the obligatory cryptic
message. We get it already! You’re the baddie, you’re after power, and now
you’ve come to kill us all. Tah dah! End of story! Now let’s skip to the part
where your plan fails and we kick your ass!” Stiles may or may have not used
jazz hands somewhere around “tah dah.”
The register of Derek’s voice was so low and gruff that Stiles almost missed it
as he spoke. “Sounds good to me.”
Before Stiles knew what was happening, Derek had leapt from his previous
location toward the Mesmer. Stiles quickly wondered if Derek’s formerly
staggered movements and silence were both a ploy to make Morgan believe that
Derek had still been under his influence. Clearly, it hadn’t worked, but now
that Derek was moving, it was almost faster than he had ever seen the Beta
leap. It also could have been that Derek had regained his bearings and had
simply been waiting on the right opportunity. He had shifted in nearly half a
second as Stiles saw the ice of his eyes glint alongside his fangs and claws.
Morgan’s face barely had time to express his surprise as Derek’s claws whistled
through the empty air and into the meat of the Mesmer’s neck. Stiles could hear
the rending of flesh under the razors of Derek’s hand as the Beta applied more
pressure to the wound. Stiles saw Morgan’s fingers twitch uncontrollably before
his cane slapped to the cold floor. The barrier flickered and dissolved.
Apparently Morgan had underestimated just how much Derek had regained his
senses. Stiles restrained a smile.
Nearly every pack member had taken about two steps toward Derek before they
heard a crash like shattering glass. The sound came from Morgan’s face as it
splintered in two and his body fragmented, falling apart like he was made of
stained glass. Derek tripped backward slightly, seeming confused as the man’s
body was reduced to shards that—even more weirdly—morphed into little purple
butterflies made of nothing but light as they broke on the ground. The
werewolves lowered themselves to a crouch again, appearing to sense the
movement before they saw it.
From four distinct sides of the warehouse, four exact clones of the Mesmer
emerged from what remained of the shadows. They all wore the same smug
expression; circling the pack as they drifted with grace around the room.
The copy, or the real Morgan—Stiles really didn’t know how to keep
track—closest to Lydia began to speak. “Now, now little Hale! I’ll grant you
have bravado, but you lack the brains to back it up.” All of the copies turned
on Stiles and he felt the fluid in his veins run cold. “You were wise to pick
this one. Wielding those around you who have the abilities you lack is like a
highway to power.” He paused, shooting Derek an incredulous look. “Power does
as power is, little Hale. Your uncle seems to know that. You didn’t seriously
think it would be that easy, did you?”
Derek didn’t look amused with his fangs bared.
“Dare to dream,” groused Isaac. “Somebody’s got to distract us from your damn
monologues that don’t make a sliver of sense.”
“Not everyone wants power,” Stiles interjected through gritted teeth. He wasn’t
sure why he kept opening his mouth, because every time the Mesmer shot him a
glance, Stiles’ body felt rigid like he was being flash-frozen. It was no
different this time when four sets of callous eyes spun on him.
For the first time since Morgan had made his grand debut, his voice became
stony; devoid of all emotion as it rumbled from deep within his throat. “No, my
little mimic. Power is time. But time without power is a fool’s paradise. And
it becomes a world where all tragedy is secondhand.”
“Mimic—” Stiles began to ask, ignoring the Mesmer’s cryptic philosophies
altogether, when a morphed Ethan and Aiden came barreling past his face.
Apparently no one in the room had paid much attention to the joining Alphas and
if Morgan had noticed, he hadn’t acted too concerned. The morphed Alphas’ form
swung the great club of his arm, moving it in one massive motion that ended up
being too slow. Morgan—or the clone—placed his palm outward as it became
encircled with a hazy violet light that erupted in his hand and collided with
the Alphas’ form.

Stiles lunged to the side as the body of the Alphas was ripped at the seams,
sending the two individual boys tumbling in different directions. All of the
clones clapped excitedly when Ethan and Aiden smashed into the ground.
“My, my, little pups! You’re like a Matryoshka doll!” Morgan exclaimed. “Are
there more of you? If I do that again when there’s two, will there then be four
of you?” The Mesmer laughed at his own joke. All Stiles could think is response
was wow, douchewaffle much? As Morgan’s chuckles subsided, his face became
severe again. “This has been amusing my little pups,” he began gravely. “But
there’s a time and a place for introductions and that time has now ended.”
And then it all happened so suddenly; like the way a tornado leaves chaos as it
travels.
One of the clones nearest to Lydia disappeared in a blink of purple light,
reappearing behind her in a glow and swarm of butterflies. Morgan raised the
blunt end of his cane and brought it down on Lydia’s head—the colliding sound
was unmistakable as her body fell unconscious to the floor.
“Lydia!” Stiles shouted; bolting to help his friend without thinking about his
own well-being.
Derek must have anticipated Stiles’ reaction as the Beta quickly appeared at
his side looking concerned. Stiles heard the other werewolves fan out, each
presumably dealing with one of Morgan’s clones, but Derek remained in close
proximity to Stiles. Then Aiden was there, darting past both Derek and Stiles,
and colliding into the Morgan that had harmed Lydia as they both went tumbling
across the floor.
“Help me move her,” Stiles said to Derek. Derek’s brow furrowed and he didn’t
say anything, but gently lifted her, propping her up against a nearby column.
Stiles saw a burst of purple energy from his periphery and his head whipped
around to see Aiden being thrown back into a wall. The Alpha bounced against
the solid surface, but caught his footing before he hit the ground. Stiles
watched in amazement as Aiden propelled himself forward with rage to rip the
Mesmer to shreds. Aiden’s right hand came down to strike as a card appeared in
Morgan’s hand. He twisted the card between his forefinger and middle to face
Aiden. Aiden halted like he was frozen in time as he stared at the card.
“Hanged Man,” Morgan laughed. “Learn your place, pup!!”
In a rush of light, Aiden was lifted into the air by some phantasmal force. His
feet were wrenched over his head as the Alpha was thrust completely out of
Stiles’ sight by the same force that moved with a shocking momentum. Aiden’s
upturned face vanished into the far-off gloom of the warehouse, but his screams
from the darkness were distinct enough to haunt Stiles’ dreams that night.
Stiles looked to his left, expecting to see Derek there, but apparently Derek
hadn’t learned from Aiden’s mistake and wasn’t easily deterred by the Alpha’s
on-going screams, either. All Stiles saw was a blur of black hair after the
werewolf sprung sideways off of a column behind Morgan; landing directly at his
back. The Mesmer didn’t have time to react as Derek’s thick hands spun around
its neck, snapping the spine in a fluid motion. The illusion shattered through
Derek’s fingers. Stiles knew it had been too much to hope that it had been the
real Morgan.
Stiles glanced backward briefly at the chaos that the rest of the pack was
dealing with. Scott, Ethan, and Isaac were each dealing with a clone, but only
Scott seemed to have the upper hand against Morgan. Scott was pushing his clone
(or real the Morgan—what the fuck ever) almost to the opposite end of the
warehouse. Ethan looked like he was growing increasingly distracted by the
screams of his twin and finding it difficult to focus on the fight. The Alpha
seemed to be trying to make his way over to his brother, but couldn’t get away
long enough. Ethan finally managed to get Morgan off his footing by heaving his
shoulder into the Mesmer’s body. He brought a claw down on Morgan, but the man
was too fast; grabbing the Alpha’s arm and twisting it behind him.
Morgan placed a hand on Ethan’s forehead while continuing to restrain him. The
entire scene looked a lot like a Southern preacher laying hands on someone and
saying, “be healed of this devil, my son,” but all Stiles could make out from
across the room was Morgan muttering, “burn” before Ethan’s head erupted into a
blaze of lavender flames. The flames didn’t seem to produce any heat, but
instead were meant to blind the werewolf. Regardless of pain or not, Ethan
clawed at his head, screaming as ethereal flames exploded from his eyes. The
Alpha’s howls joined his brother’s as Ethan found a place on the ground to not-
so-silently imitate his twin.
Looking satisfied finishing with Ethan, Morgan’s line-of-sight became fixated
on Stiles. The Mesmer reached down toward the head of his cane and yanked. It
slid outward into a slender sword. Because what truly psychotic magical villain
doesn’t have a sword cane? What Stiles expected Morgan to do was to cut him in
half. What Stiles didn’t expect him to do was to randomly stab the column he
was standing next to with his sword. The blade of the sword was engulfed by the
column in a sheath of purple illumination; disappearing up to the hilt.
“Stiles,” Derek said from behind him.
Stiles turned around to something else he didn’t expect. The blade of Morgan’s
sword was somehow protruding from the side of a column on their side of the
room and it had fully impaled Derek through his side. The sword retracted as
its master pulled it back, leaving nothing but a gaping wound through Derek’s
core. Derek’s hands were shaking uncontrollably as he collapsed onto the
ground, grasping at all his escaping blood. Stiles ran to Derek’s side, feeling
suddenly pissed off about it. That’s all he had done today: run to the side of
people that he could do nothing for.
Stiles put his hand on top of Derek’s, applying pressure, trying to stop the
flow of blood, but knowing fully that Derek would heal. Derek’s eyes were
trying to flicker blue, but failed; his fangs now completely retracted.
“Stiles,” Derek began, pushing Stiles’ hand off of his own. “Run.” His voice
was definitive and uncompromising. Stiles knew Derek was being protective, but
he was also being stupid.
“Derek, I’m not going to run,” Stiles snapped. “I’m not going to leave you and
the others!”
“Scott and Isaac are the only ones left and I can’t protect you now. They can’t
beat him. I need you to run!”
Stiles could hear it in Derek’s voice: the need. Derek’s genuine concern sent
Stiles’ stomach into knots. If only to make Derek happy, Stiles wanted his legs
to move of their own volition and carry him as far away from here as they
could. But Stiles couldn’t do that. Stiles couldn’t just leave Derek, Lydia,
his best friend and Alpha, and the rest of his pack. No matter what happened,
Stiles had to stay put. Stiles knew Derek saw it on his face before he said a
word.
“I can’t, Derek,” Stiles scowled.
Derek frowned. “Dammit, Stiles. Why won’t you just listen to me for once?”
At about that moment, Stiles wanted to kiss Derek to just shut him up, but
resisted, reminding himself that he wasn’t a heroine in a chick-flick and
Stiles still wasn’t sure how much Derek remembered from the past few days. In
honest truth, he actually wanted to do a lot of things in that moment. He
wanted to crack a joke, he wanted to tell Derek how he felt about him, he
wanted to do things with Derek that weren’t exactly appropriate for the time
and place, but mostly, Stiles just wanted to say the same thing back to Derek
and laugh. Of course, about that time, there was a blast of purple flames at
his side, so Stiles didn’t exactly get around to any of that.
Stiles skittered backward on his hands, looking up at Morgan’s towering figure
as he materialized.
“Leave him alone,” Derek snarled, trying to get up. Morgan responded by digging
the heel of his boot into Derek’s side wound. Derek tried not to scream for as
long as he could. Stiles wished he would have kept his mouth shut for self-
preservation’s sake.
Stiles didn’t know what he planned when he lunged at Morgan, but it didn’t
matter much anyway when he was thrust backward by an unseen energy.
Morgan looked pleased, wagging a finger in a mocking motion. “No, no, my little
mimic. I have something special for you.” Then the Mesmer made a sweeping
gesture with his fore and middle fingers tucked together. The motion was
obviously indicative of some symbol or meaning as he spoke three words like a
mantra. “Agony, torment, pain.” A scream ruptured in Stiles’ ears and it
resonated louder than anything else in the room—even Ethan and Aiden. It was in
fact so distinct, that when the cry filled his head, it caused Stiles’ vision
to blacken momentarily.
Morgan directed two fingers at Stiles. Then there was nothing but Stiles’ own
voice screaming atop everything else as his body coiled with inexpressible
pain. Stiles couldn’t breathe as his body wrenched and convulsed; his howls of
agony were being ripped out of his throat so forcibly that there was a brief
period that he was not capable of producing sound—his ragged voice just clicked
in his throat. He felt like he was going to throw up. Stiles’ eyes were screwed
shut and he couldn’t have opened them if he wanted to, but he felt his cheeks
stinging with tears nonetheless. His head was becoming light, like every cell
in his body was falling asleep until he realized that the pain was probably
inducing a panic attack.
All Stiles could do was scream as he heard Derek shout over him. “Stiles,
breathe! Leave him thefuck alone! If you want to torture someone, hurt me
instead, you sadistic bastard!”
Everything stopped. The pain lifted off of Stiles like a blanket. His eyes
fluttered open to see Derek still lying on the ground, clenching his wound. The
werewolf appeared to have scooted his way closer to Stiles because there was a
trail of blood on the ground behind him. Derek’s eyebrows were stormy with
concern as he looked at Stiles, but his mouth and jaw were set with anger. He
reached out toward Stiles.
Morgan giggled. “Gladly, little Hale” he said, before bringing the blade of his
sword down into Derek’s back and protruding out his stomach. Derek howled as he
was pinned to the dirty floor and the Mesmer twisted the edge of the sword for
good measure.
Stiles tried to shout, but nothing came out. It was pointless, though, as
Scott’s coal-red eyes stepped from the shadows looking truly predatory. In one
giant movement, Scott bounded from the edge of the light to where Morgan was
standing before the Alpha’s claw swiped neatly through the air; taking Morgan’s
head clean off his shoulders. The illusion shattered.
Lydia was abruptly there with Scott—having regained consciousness—and began
looking over Derek; helping the Beta to get to his feet. Scott came to Stiles,
scooping him up to help him walk and giving him a worried look that translated
to, “Are you alright?” Stiles still couldn’t speak, so he simply nodded his
head to reassure the Alpha. Scott didn’t look any less concerned and Stiles
considered flicking him on the forehead to get the point across.
Stiles jerked in surprise when he heard both raps of Morgan’s cane on the
floor. Scott took point defensively as the only person left who was capable of
fighting; spreading his claws out in a wide gesture that was clearly meant to
be protective.
Stiles looked at Ethan, whose head was no longer engulfed in flames, but who
remained on the floor looking exhausted. Aiden had managed to hobble out of the
darkness, his body blanketed with bruises and cuts, but looking more
psychologically wounded than anything. The only person who was missing was
Isaac, who was doubled over in front of Morgan at the opposite end of the room.
Isaac had both his hands up against his throat as though he was choking—or
being choked. Morgan turned from Isaac, unconcerned.
“My little pups,” the Mesmer said with a sigh. “This has been an enlightening
experience, I assure you! It has been a pleasure getting to know each of you on
an individual basis and it will be even more of a pleasure to kill each of you
on an individual basis. But for everything: a time and place, my pups!” Morgan
waved his hand at Isaac, who began coughing uncontrollably as air rushed back
into his lungs. Waving his hand once more, but this time at the wall nearest to
him, a circular portal—or at least what Stiles imagined a portal to Cthulhu’s
realm looked like—opened against the wall. Morgan turned back to the pack once
more with a smile; his arms waving dramatically as he gave his final speech.
“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, and
study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield: and what
is else not to be overcome?” With that, he disappeared through the portal as it
closed behind him.
“Seriously,” Lydia said, agitated. “Did he seriously just quote Satan’s speech
from Paradise Lost?” Derek was leaning against Lydia as she threw up her hands.
“That’s it! I’m going to start carrying matches on me for the next time we see
that fashion disaster.”
“Try a blowtorch,” Stiles managed to croak out as he looked back at Derek.
                                     * * *
Putting a shirt on when you have multiple stab wounds is harder than most
people think. Derek had more practice than most people, more practice than he
ever wanted, but it didn’t make it much easier. It was a struggle to pull his
faded blue Henley over the bandages that covered his torso and chest. The
wounds were healing quickly, but with wounds the size and depth of the ones the
Mesmer had inflicted on all the pack, quickly was a relative term. Deaton had
patched Derek up first, because he’d been the one bleeding all over the office.
The others had been less lucky. Their wounds weren’t the kind that neatly
healed over like stab wounds would.
Aiden had told them that one of the Mesmer’s clones had thrown a tarot card,
the Hanged Man, at him. He’d refused to say what had happened after that. He’d
stuck close to Lydia since they’d left the warehouse. Lydia had come out of the
situation in the best shape of all of them save Scott, with only a headache to
show for it. Ethan had been blinded by the flames that had surrounded his head,
but his vision was slowly coming back on its own. The worst part of Ethan’s
healing was he kept calling for Danny. Tears pouring from his blind eyes, he’d
kept calling for his boyfriend. Derek, half-delirious with pain, had wanted to
tell him to shut up. Isaac was still wheezing, though his throat was healing.
He’d spent the entire ride to Deaton’s clinging to anyone who would let him
cling. Derek wanted Stiles to tell him to just go bury himself in Scott’s lap.
Stiles had been shaking since they left the warehouse. He’d been trying to joke
about it, but Scott had to drive them to Deaton’s. Stiles couldn’t get the key
in the ignition of his Jeep. The Alpha had ordered the entire pack to pile into
the back save Lydia, who sat in the passenger’s seat. Derek lay in the very
back of the Jeep, Stiles beside him pressing down on his wounds with shaking
hands, trying to stop the bleeding. The rest of the pack had piled into the
backseat, Aiden lying across Isaac and Ethan’s laps. Derek, staring at the
ceiling of the Jeep, tried to wrap his hands around Stiles’ hand. Stiles was
breathing too fast. He had been on the verge of a panic attack the entire trip.
He wouldn’t let Derek hold his hand.
Scott had driven them from Deaton’s to Peter’s apartment. He had clearly been
intending to take Stiles home after dropping off Derek, then to walk home with
Isaac. He tried to say something when Stiles climbed out of the car. Stiles
ignored him, and when he tried to reach for Stiles, Isaac had taken his hand.
“Neither one of them needs to be alone, Scott.” Scott had sighed and handed
Derek Stiles’ keys. He and Isaac had walked away. Derek had watched them go
until they turned the next corner. Stiles had watched him watch them, an
indecipherable look on his face. Usually, Derek could read every emotion on
Stiles’ face, but since the Mesmer had spoken those three words, he could read
nothing. Stiles’ expressive face had gone flat and empty as the warehouse
they’d just left.
Stiles was standing across the bedroom from Derek, staring at the pile of dirty
clothes on the floor. Derek resisted the urge to shove the pile of clothes into
the closet. He’d left them there to annoy Peter. Without Peter around, it felt
childish and stupid. A lot of things Derek did felt childish and stupid.
“It annoys Peter.” He said, breaking the silence. Stiles jumped as he looked
up. “The clothes. They annoy Peter.” Stiles’ still didn’t focus on Derek. “You
can go home, Stiles.” He didn’t want Stiles to go home. But he didn’t want
Stiles to feel trapped with him. He wanted Stiles to be okay, and if that meant
being away from Derek, Derek would accept that. People Derek cared about got
hurt when they were around him. “I’ll be okay.”
“Your intestines were hanging out, Derek.” Stiles said, nearly tripping over a
shirt as he stumbled towards him. “I’m not going to leave you.” Stiles may have
been exaggerating a little bit there, but the sentiment remained. He stopped
before he got to Derek. Derek didn’t reach for him, but it was a close thing.
He fought the elation he felt at Stiles refusing to leave. It was a hard-won
feeling for Derek—something that both wrenched his gut and sent his heart
skipping faster. Derek just didn’t know how to navigate his feelings; he never
had. He didn’t know how to tell Stiles that he could stay.
“I’m healing fine, Stiles.” He stretched, reaching for the ceiling, trying to
back up the statement. It would have worked better if he didn’t flinch when he
did it. Stiles raised an eyebrow and sat down on the grey bedspread. The image
of Stiles sitting on a bed—on Derek’s bed—made Derek’s mouth water. He wanted
to sit down on the bed beside Stiles and kiss him. He wanted to peel Stiles out
of his layers and stop Stiles’ shaking with his own body, but he quickly
repressed the idea. What Derek wanted and what Stiles needed were two separate
entities.
“Very convincing.” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. It reassured Derek that he
seemed to be finding his sense of humor again. “I am very impressed.” Derek sat
down on the bed beside him, feeling it sink at the added weight.
“Are you okay?” Derek asked. Stiles hands were almost steady. His eyes focused
on Derek’s face, instead of darting around the room. He reached for Stiles’
hand. Stiles let him take it this time. His hand felt cool against Derek’s.
“I’m fine,” Stiles said. “See,” he lifted his other hand. He managed to hold it
steady. “Not in shock at all.”
“I’m serious, Stiles.” Derek squeezed his hand; hoping the action would speak
louder than his words. He held eye contact with Stiles, wouldn’t let him look
away. Seeing Stiles writhing on the floor, screaming in pain under the Mesmer’s
power was the most enraging thing Derek had ever seen. Being pinned to the
floor by Morgan’s sword, unable to do anything, was the most helpless Derek had
ever felt. That helplessness had made Derek feel suspended in time; a momentary
hell. He wanted to tell Stiles that, but he choked on the words. Stiles shook
his head.
“What do you remember about being under the spell?” Stiles picked up the
notebook Derek had on his nightstand and flipped it open. He tugged feebly at
his hand. Derek didn’t let go. “It might be important, Derek. We need to figure
out how you broke out.”
“Stiles, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Derek could still hear Jennifer and Kate’s voices breathing into his ears.
“He’s next.”
“I don’t want to talk about what Moregay Roughdick did to me either, but I need
to know what you remember!” Derek stared at him. Stiles was blushing.
“Moregay Roughdick? That’s the best you’ve got? After last night, that’s the
best you’ve got? Gay dick jokes?” Stiles’ eyes grew to the size of dinner
plates, but Derek wasn’t sure why.
“You remember last night?” He asked. Derek couldn’t answer for several seconds,
his mouth opening once to hang stupidly. ‘Do I remember last night? Of course I
remember last night!’ It took him ten seconds to realize Stiles might think his
actions had been part of his hallucinations. Pursing his lips, Derek tried to
ignore how much the thought annoyed him.
“I didn’t start hallucinating until today, Stiles. I started seeing things on
the way to check on Peter. By the time I left Deaton’s earlier I couldn’t tell
truth from hallucination. But last night… last night was all me.” There was a
pregnant silence before Stiles leapt across the space between them, driving
himself into Derek’s chest. Derek fell back on the bed at the sudden assault.
He winced in silence and strangled a grunt as Stiles knocked into some of his
healing wounds.
“Thank fucking god.” Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles, hugging the smaller
man to his chest. They lay there for five, ten, fifteen minutes, neither one
speaking. Derek wanted to tell Stiles what last night had meant to him. He
wanted to tell him the last time he’d felt as helpless as he felt when Stiles
was being tortured was the day he’d come home to the fire department fighting
with everything they’d had to extinguish the blazing inferno that had been
Derek’s life. He wanted to make some stupidly huge declaration about how he was
going to protect Stiles, that Stiles would never have to go through that again,
but Derek reminded himself that incomplete truths were almost as deadly as
complete ones.
Derek wanted to say everything, but Derek’s history clamped over his vocal
cords like a vice. So, instead of saying the things he wanted to, he sat up,
dumping Stiles in his lap. Wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist, he ducked
his head until Stiles looked up at him. He kissed Stiles, trying to pour
everything he wanted into Stiles through his breath.
Chapter End Notes
     Ideas for chapter summaries for this chapter included "There is a bad
     thing. The bad thing is STRONG. This is a problem." and "What would
     you do for a Klondike bar?" We suck at summaries.
***** Rhetoric of a Heartbeat *****
Chapter Summary
     After Morgan revealed that he is in Beacon Hills to cause some
     serious problems for the pack, Stiles and Derek realize they have
     some issues to deal with.
     How do you think they will deal with said issues? *winks*
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Derek’s teeth raked across Stiles’ collarbone, licking the reddening skin with
a flick of his tongue. Stiles let out a gust of breath he had been containing;
it brushed warm against Derek’s ear. Stiles was still squarely planted in
Derek’s lap, but Derek was in no hurry to let Stiles go anywhere—no matter how
many times Stiles jabbed one of his wounds with a knee or elbow. The price was
well worth the pleasure in Derek’s mind (or maybe it was just the calm of the
moment). For a brief moment as Derek’s mouth explored Stiles’ neck and jawline,
Stiles tried to pull back slightly. Derek hadn’t meant to growl as deeply as he
had in objection, but his mouth and tongue chased after Stiles’ skin in reflex.
As Derek continued nipping playfully at Stiles’ jaw—leaving a patchy red trail
from his stubble—Stiles finally exerted enough force to get Derek’s attention,
pushing the werewolf off his neck.
Stiles chuckled at Derek’s bemused expression. “Whoa, there fuzzybutt. You can
slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
Derek scowled at the pet name. “Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, Sourwolf.”
Okay, Derek couldn’t resist smiling at the long-established nickname. He
couldn’t quite explain how every time he smiled though, Stiles seemed to glow
like a light bulb. It was the strangest response to something as simple as
Derek’s smile, but he felt dumbstruck every time Stiles mirrored that toothy
grin. Derek kissed the smile on Stiles’ face, but the grin didn’t dissolve.
Derek’s lips brushed softly against Stiles’ own in a series of chaste kisses
until Stiles sighed against his mouth. “Should we be fooling around when you
still need to heal?”
“Kissing releases endorphins and causes your heart rate to increase and blood
vessels to dilate. I’d say that fooling around is exactly what we should be
doing right now. Besides, I’m almost healed anyway.”
“You make a good case, Mr. Hale,” Stiles said, amused. “But since when did you
decide to start dropping all this Derek Hale knowledge on me?”
Derek shrugged. “I’m a secret nerd. There are lots of things you don’t know
about me. For instance, I eat cereal out of a bowl like a normal person and I
also can’t put together anything bought from Ikea like a regular human being.”
“Now the illusion is shattered,” Stiles said through a mock gasp. “I might be
considerably less attracted to you now.”
Derek snorted, kissing Stiles as they both chuckled. “You’re welcome to go back
to masturbating.”
“Don’t threaten me, canine! I’ll never descend back into those abysmal waters
if I have a say so.”
Derek wanted to reply with something witty or to tell Stiles how cute he was
when he was being dramatic—Derek always got distracted by the way Stiles’ eyes
would crease when he was angry, being sarcastic, or confused. But the mere
realization that Derek noticed these things made Derek take into consideration
his own ability to decipher his feelings about people. Why had it taken him so
long to realize how he really felt about Stiles? All the anger and irritation
that had been there before had suddenly evaporated (and Derek knew all those
feelings had been a kind of illusion caused by Derek’s habit, as Stiles put it,
to “make every wrong decision he could”). Derek couldn’t help but wonder what
exactly Stiles was feeling now and when he had started realizing his feelings
or at least an attraction toward Derek. But instead of voicing concerns or
asking questions, Derek sat there in silence, blinking at Stiles as his own
thoughts ran rampant. Part of the silence that restrained Derek was the
knowledge that Stiles was still a teenager and exchanges like this tended to be
transient. That’s what being a teenager meant: a phase you patiently sat
through while twiddling your thumbs until it was over and you were allowed to
move on to the next best thing.
Until the day he died, Derek would deny just how much fear could paralyze him
and keep him from opening his mouth when he knew he should. In this instance,
however, he at least opened his mouth. “I’m glad you stayed, Stiles. I, uh, I
mean it.”
Stiles had been patiently searching Derek’s face the entire time the werewolf
had decided to take a little vacation into his own head and doubts. Maybe it
was an over-interpretation of the moment, but Derek wanted to believe that
Stiles simply knew how hard it was for him to let anyone close, and that it
required time—lots of time on Derek’s part. Stiles placed a hand against
Derek’s face, tracing small patterns against his cheek. Stiles’ face was
solemn. On second thought, he didn’t doubt that Stiles knew that.
“Leaving was about the last thing I wanted to do, Derek,” Stiles said
earnestly.
Derek wasn’t a saint and he would be the first person to admit it. A man could
only endure so much before he just snapped. Without much effort, Derek flung
Stiles off his lap onto the softness of his mattress; climbing atop the younger
man. A surprised “whoa,” escaped from Stiles’ mouth as he quickly became
entangled in the mess of sheets that was Derek’s bed. There wasn’t much finesse
in the kiss that followed, but Derek hadn’t meant for there to be. His lips
collided with Stiles’, working them apart with a flash of tongue and teeth.
Stiles had complied, his fingers sliding upward to thread into Derek’s hair as
Derek bit at his lower lip.
The heat of the kiss and the momentum of traveling hands only spurred both men
to become increasingly aggressive. Derek’s hands had snaked behind Stiles’
shoulders, closing the gap between their bodies. Even fully clothed, the
friction of their forms was like an electric current of a battery—positive
meets negative—as their hips began grinding together through the thickness of
their jeans. Derek was mildly alarmed at how easily Stiles made him hard.
Apparently all it took anymore was: a confession, a kiss, and a not-so-gentle
tug of Derek’s hair to give him a raging hard-on. That was all beside the
point, however. The important thing was how much Stiles grunted in pleasure
while his hips heaved into Derek’s own as the werewolf mapped red bite marks
against his clavicle. Stiles’ pulse was erratic, thumping an extra beat each
time Derek’s lips met his skin. Derek didn’t even attempt to deny how much that
turned him on.
What also turned Derek on, was Stiles’ hands, which were meandering south past
the hem of his shirt. Stiles’ neck craned upward, his tongue becoming a
familiar heat in Derek’s mouth. Derek was fairly certain that Stiles had
intended to distract him with the sloppy kiss as his hands slipped past the
waist of his jeans, into his boxer-briefs and cupping his ass. There was
hesitance in the movement before Stiles finally broke their kiss.
“Is that okay,” Stiles asked; his voice meek.
Derek didn’t mean to laugh because he saw how it made Stiles flush for a
moment, but the younger man’s shyness was endearing. “Stiles, you can do
whatever you want.” Derek kissed him, hoping the gesture would explain that he
wasn’t laughing at Stiles, but rather giving him free rein.
“Discovering new territory and all,” Stiles said before grabbing a fistful of
Derek’s ass with a rough tug.
Derek’s voice rumbled with satisfaction. “I’m getting the feeling we’re going
to explore lots of new territory.”
 “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
“No temptation needed,” Derek replied, ripping Stiles’ belt from his waist in
one swift motion. He deciphered Stiles’ doe-eyed expression to be one of “how
the fuck did you unbuckle my belt without me even noticing.” Derek grinned
because some things were better left unknown. Stiles fumbled to get Derek’s own
belt off, but that was mostly because he was doing it with one hand—refusing to
relinquish the grasp he had on Derek’s ass with the other. It was Derek’s turn
to be surprised though as Stiles slid his hand downward, finding the sensitive
ring of muscle that was Derek’s entrance. Stiles applied just enough pressure,
(something he had obviously learned from his extensive years of masturbating)
his finger moving in a cyclical motion. Derek couldn’t stifle the groan that
escaped his mouth. “I think you’re ahead of the game here, Stiles. We’re still
just at the foreplay stage.”
“Sorry,” Stiles responded, stopping the motion.
“Don’t be. I liked it. I just have an IOU to reimburse, first.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Stiles said through knowing a smile.
Derek knew that Stiles was likely to elaborate on the fact that he had an IOU
to repay, so before he let Stiles get to his main point, he plunged his hand
into the front of Stiles’ jeans. Derek was happy to report that Stiles was
fully hard in his hand as he kneaded Stiles’ cock through his boxers. As Derek
continued his ministrations, he went back to kissing Stiles, catching every
gasp that escaped with his own mouth. Stiles’ mouth stopped moving at varying
points, hanging open in pleasure while his brain ceased to function on some
level. Derek could feel a wet spot forming against his palm as the friction of
his hand left Stiles’ dick hot through his boxers.
Derek could see Stiles’ head buzzing with euphoria as Stiles thrust up into his
hand with blown pupils and kiss-swollen lips. The only thing that came out of
his mouth, however, were sporadic gasps and gusts of breath as Derek
established a regular pace with his fingers. Derek knew Stiles was getting
close when eyes fluttered shut and his grip on his ass and hair tightened just
enough to make Derek groan. At that, Derek couldn’t resist grinding into
Stiles’ thigh.
“Derek, I’m going to—”
“Good. I want you to come, Stiles.”
There was one heavy swallow in Stiles’ throat before Stiles choked out a “fuck”
and rode out his orgasm. His body went rigid under Derek’s before every muscle
in his form uncoiled and went limp. Stiles had his eyes still lidded shut, but
as Derek pressed a satisfied kiss against his mouth, Stiles pecked back lazily.
Derek parted Stiles’ lips once more with his tongue before receding from the
kiss with a grin.
“I thought you said we were still at the foreplay stage,” Stiles huffed.
“So I lied a little,” Derek shrugged. “That was supposed to warm you up. I just
want you to appreciate your IOU orgasm when it happens.”
Stiles blinked his eyes open. “You mean that wasn’t it?”
Derek scowled. “No, Stiles. That was an unglorified handjob at best.” 
Stiles laughed, a happy, post-orgasm sound. Derek had the distinct feeling that
if Stiles had the ability, he’d have just teleported both their clothes to the
far side of the moon. Derek personally thought the old fashioned way was more
fun. “Then let’s get this show on the road!” He started to tug on Derek’s belt
again with the hand he pulled out of his hair. Derek caught his hand and pinned
it between their bodies. The movement also, coincidentally, pressed his
erection tighter against Stiles’ hip.
“What are you doing?” He asked, resisting the urge to grin at the frustrated
sound Stiles made. Being a teenager, Stiles’ refractory period was apparently
nothing flat. Part of Derek missed having that. It was mostly the part of Derek
that wanted to keep this up all night.
“Sex not happening with your pants on! Pants off, Derek!” Stiles said. He
pressed in with the hand not trapped between them. Derek growled. Stiles’ dick
twitched against Derek’s hip.
‘Right,’ Derek thought. ‘Stiles has an unhealthy attraction to danger.’ “Nope,”
he said, and Stiles looked worried and confused. Derek wanted to kick himself
for making him make that face. “That’s twice you’ve had an orgasm before I even
got your pants off you. This time it’s my turn.”
Derek wanted to frame the expression Stiles made in response to that and look
at it every day. He wanted to make it the lock screen on his phone. But his
phone wasn’t handy, so he leaned away from Stiles. Stiles made another
frustrated noise that turned into a yelp when Derek stripped him out of pants
and boxers in one move.
“Fuck, Derek!” Stiles’ heartbeat was shot all to hell. “Can I put my pants back
on so you can do that again?” Derek leaned down to Stiles’ chest to suck at the
bruise he’d left there the night before. ‘Mine,’part of Derek’s brain growled.
He looked up at Stiles from under his eyelashes while he did it. “Fuck pants,
fuck underwear, goddammit Derek, fuck me.”
Derek nipped at the bruise. “Ahead of the game again, Stiles.” The whine Stiles
made when he said it was Derek’s very favorite sound ever. He pulled on Stiles’
shirt. Stiles nearly threw him off the bed and punched him in the face flailing
to get the shirt off. Derek laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Slow down. We’ve
got all night.” There was a whisper in the back of Derek’s mind, the
instinctive part Derek called the wolf. It whispered ‘Every night, forever.’
That was something he wasn’t ready to deal with yet, though, so he dropped his
head to nip another bruise into Stiles’ chest. Stiles whined again.
Derek sat back a little to look down at Stiles. The younger man had put on
muscle since Derek had left. Derek traced his hands lightly over Stiles’ abs,
tracing patterns in the hair that led down towards Stiles’ dick. The hand that
had been gripping Derek’s ass couldn’t reach now, but Stiles was digging his
fingertips into the muscles of Derek’s back.
“That’s called a happy trail.” Stiles said, his hips twitching. “If you follow
it, you’ll make me very happy.”
“Your sex Tourette’s is acting up again.” Derek said, going for nonchalance. It
came out a breathy groan when Stiles grabbed his hand, yanked it up to his
mouth, and started sucking on two of Derek’s fingers. Derek’s brain short-
circuited for a moment, then two, then ten. What Stiles lacked in experience he
certainly made up for in enthusiasm. He reluctantly pulled his hand away again.
“You’re going to kill me, Derek. My gravestone is going to say ‘Died of blue
balls waiting to be sexed by Derek Hale.’ I have the patience of a saint, but
dea-nngh!” Derek had slid down Stiles’ body and licked the crease between his
thigh and groin. Stiles’ eyes were enormous, but Derek liked making him wait.
He set about making a bruise across his hip. “Der-ek,” Stiles whined.
Derek didn’t have a whole lot more experience in sucking dicks than Stiles had.
His first experience touching one other than his own had been in the very short
time in New York that he had stopped hating his dick. However, he had
significantly more experience than Stiles had in having his dick sucked, so he
had a pretty decent idea of what felt good. So when Stiles opened his mouth to
start talking again, Derek closed his lips around just the head of Stiles’
dick. Whatever Stiles had been about to say was lost in a litany of curses.
Derek sucked lightly, running the tip of his tongue up and down the slit.
“I know I’m the most delicious lollipop ever, Der—” He stopped as Derek
released him and started licking up and down his dick. “Lollipop was a bad
example, forget I said lollipop I meant—” Derek took him as far into his mouth
as he could, gag reflex be damned. He sucked hard this time. Stiles may have
said something about having his brains “sucked out through his dick,” then
immediately followed with “Derek, if you stop I will go find a mistletoe branch
and stab you with it.” Derek wasn’t really listening. Between focusing on
Stiles’ dick and how it felt in his mouth and trying not to rut into the
mattress, Derek only half understood him. He was starting to understand why
Stiles had come just from this the night before.
Derek slid the hand Stiles had been sucking on up to press it against Stiles’
entrance. Stiles cursed, loudly. Derek smoothed his fingers around it, grinning
as he felt Stiles try to force himself to relax. He popped off of Stiles’ dick
for just long enough to say, “Bedside table.”
The bottle of lube hit him in the side of the head, Stiles was so eager to get
it to him. Derek let his dick go again. “Concussing the person on your dick is
not your best move, Stiles.”           
“I could hit you with a baseball bat and not give you a concussion, Derek, I
know, I’ve tried it!” Derek was still pressing circles and had gone back to
licking, so Stiles’ breath kept hitching as he spoke. Slicking his fingers,
Derek pressed up into Stiles’ tight heat. Stiles shouted and came. Derek
groaned as he drank him down.
“That. That was your I.O.U. orgasm.” He said, grinning. Stiles didn’t reply.
His eyes were closed, a blank, blissed out expression on his face. Derek
listened to his heartbeat try to slow for thirty seconds before he wiggled the
fingers still inside Stiles. Stiles yelped. Derek did it again. “You awake up
there?” Stiles glared down at him, then broke into laughter until Derek pressed
a second finger in alongside the first. Then Stiles cursed. His litany of
curses got progressively more imaginative as Derek worked him slowly. It took
every ounce of control Derek possessed to not pick Stiles up and drop him on
his dick like he was playing the world’s most naked game of ring toss.  
The instinctive part of Derek’s brain decided Stiles was ready about the same
time Stiles did. “I swear to god Derek if you don’t take your damn pants off,”
he grabbed Derek and pulled at his shirt. “Off! Now!”
Stiles flinched when he saw the bandages. Derek had forgotten they were there.
“I’m fine, Stiles.” When Stiles still looked more concerned than aroused, he
pressed a kiss to the bruise on Stiles’ neck. Stiles cursed at him again.
“It isn’t fair you keep using that to distract me.” Derek grinned. Stiles put
one hand on Derek’s jaw and pulled until Derek slid up to kiss him. Derek
didn’t try to fight as Stiles slid over on top of him and struggled with his
jeans. He let him struggle, running his hands up and down over Stiles’ back. It
took what Derek knew Stiles would later describe as the longest fifteen seconds
of his life to get his jeans unbuttoned and down around his knees. It was
immediately followed by the fastest thirty seconds of Derek’s life, as Stiles
sat up, lined himself up, and tried to slide down onto Derek’s dick. Derek
caught Stiles before he could, groaning.
“Slowly,” he said. Stiles let out an insulted sound. Derek sat up and pulled
Stiles down to kiss him, his other hand pressing into Stiles again, stretching.
Stiles hissed at the feeling. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He said into
Stiles’ mouth. Stiles moaned again.
“Gotta take care of me?” He said, smiling.
“It’s my job.” Derek said, then kissed him again, swallowing Stiles’ surprised,
pleased sound. Stiles face went slack for a minute as Derek pressed into him,
then liberally applied lube to his dick. Then, and only then, he lay back and
let Stiles begin his slower, much more controlled descent.
“Fuck!” They said in near perfect unison. Stiles held very still, letting
himself adjust for long enough that Derek wanted to grab him and make him move,
but he didn’t. He put his hands on Stiles’ thighs and let him lead. Later,
Derek would pin Stiles’ to the bed and Stiles would feel Derek every time he
moved for a week. This time, though, Stiles’ first time, Derek let him figure
out what felt good by allowing him all the time that he needed. Once the base
of Stiles’ ass reached Derek’s pelvis, Derek forced them both to pause and
breathe; allowing Stiles’ body to accommodate and adjust to his intrusion.
Derek felt his dick twitch eagerly inside the younger man as he considered the
intimacy of the moment—the intimacy of nearly inhabiting one space so closely
together. Stiles grunted as the twitch pressed against his prostate. The hungry
sound made Derek inclined to move.
Because Derek didn’t exactly have extensive knowledge of having sex with other
men, finding a momentum was something he was a bit leery of. Stiles may have
impaled himself on his dick eagerly, but the rigidity of Stiles’ muscles and
the slamming of his heartbeat told Derek just how nervous and tense he was.
Derek’s hands smoothed up the sides of Stiles’ torso—marking and loving every
bump, bruise, or mole along the way; but Stiles still hadn’t moved, so in
response, Derek tugged on the back of his neck to bring him into another kiss.
“Relax, Stiles,” Derek breathed into his partner’s mouth. “I’ll go at your pace
and if you want to stop, we’ll stop.” Derek could hear the dry click of Stiles’
throat as he swallowed and nodded.
Stiles began lifting himself with a slow movement, but it was still enough
friction to cause Derek’s head to tilt back into his pillows with a curse. Once
Stiles managed to see the torturous effects his body had on Derek, he brought
himself back down with a firmer motion and repeated the process with more
momentum. Derek’s eyes were trained on Stiles the entire time, lapping up the
scene as Stiles’ dick and balls slapped obscenely against Derek’s pelvis. The
electricity and building pressure shooting up Derek’s body was starting to make
him feel unhinged; making it harder for Derek’s brain to repress the notion of
mine. He was afraid that he might actually blurt it out at some point.
Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand, pinning it above there werewolf’s head and
entwining their fingers while Stiles continued to fuck himself on Derek’s dick.
Derek couldn’t explain why he growled so fiercely at the action, but it didn’t
seem to bother Stiles; in fact, it seemed to spur him on. Stiles grabbed
Derek’s other hand, entwining their fingers once again and pinning it next to
Derek’s other preoccupied hand. He paused to kiss Derek, which caused Derek to
let out a dissatisfied groan. Stiles smiled; his heartbeat was a staccato
against his ribcage.
“Do we need to stop,” Derek moaned, trying not to sound disappointed.
Stiles shook his head. “No, I just want you to—” He was sweating, too out of
breath, and looking like he was coming unraveled at the seams to finish the
thought, which Derek was thoroughly pleased with.
“You sure?”
“Yeah—yeah, I am.”
“Alright.” Derek nodded.
Stiles lifted slightly off of Derek’s dick to give Derek enough space to
maneuver. Derek placed a firm grip on Stiles’ thighs to steady the younger man
as he began thrusting his hips upward. The movements were jagged at first,
causing Stiles to squeeze Derek’s hands as Derek established a pace. Derek
watched as Stiles’ eyes went between fluttering shut and being blown wide open
as Derek’s dick worked against Stiles’ prostate. Each time he hit it, Derek
could see every nerve in Stiles’ body sparking, along with the dead giveaway of
Stiles moaning or cursing every time it happened. Between Stiles’ scent, which
was leaking all the signifiers of needand lust, and the groaning of the bed
beneath them, Derek knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Derek’s head was still
screaming mine and all Derek could do to placate his senses was to bury himself
in Stiles a little harder and faster each time. He still felt so far away from
Stiles—regardless of literally being a part of him at the moment—and it was a
yawning feeling in the pit of his stomach that overtook his senses; Derek
wanted Stiles to take more of him, to be closer to him, and for this moment to
be suspended in time.
“Derek—fuck—Derek, faster,” Stiles managed to choke out. Derek nearly came at
those words. He didn’t quite expect to hear that request so soon considering
that it was Stiles’ first time. But he wasn’t about ready to argue.
Derek slid his fingers free from one of Stiles’ hands and began stroking
Stiles’ dick while slamming his hips upward several times. The slapping sound
that resounded through the room while their skin met was so lewd that it left a
sweet taste in Derek’s mouth. By this point, neither one of them had any
delusion that they were attempting to be quiet. In fact, Derek was fairly sure
that they singing psalms to just about every expletive they could think of. The
pressure in Derek’s balls was reaching the point of being unbearable and all he
wanted to do was uncoil all of that tension. He stroked Stiles’ dick faster.
“Derek, I’m gonna—”
“Fuck, Stiles, me too.” Derek’s hips were working like a piston by this point
until every ounce of thought, sense, feeling, or bit of stress flew out of his
body with the throes of his orgasm.
“Oh my god, Der—” Derek felt the wetness of Stiles’ come explode across his
hand and stomach with the few final thrusts of his hips that he gave to help
get Stiles off. Derek tried not to wince as Stiles’ body clenched against his
over-sensitive cock as Stiles rode out his climax.
Stiles collapsed against Derek’s chest, neither one concerned about the slick
mess of come and sweat between them. Derek reached down, pulling out
completely, which was followed by a grunt from a barely conscious Stiles.
“Shit,” Stiles breathed. “So that was sex?”
“Mhmm,” was all Derek could manage to respond with. He pressed a kiss on top of
Stiles’ hair, wrapping his arms around the younger man while running the pads
of his fingers through the valley of Stiles’ back.
“When can we do it again,” asked Stiles, sounding earnest.
Derek gave a laugh that shook both their bodies. It was an honest, happy sound.
“Give me at least fifteen minutes, okay, Stiles?”
Stiles kissed the spot just above Derek’s heart several times. “I can probably
manage that. But, uh, maybe we should at least rinse off before round two? Ooh!
Or maybe we can just have round two whilewe’re rinsing off! And then we can
rinse off round two and have round three on a different piece of furniture!”
“One round at a time, Stiles. We’ve got all night. And sex doesn’t tend to work
out so well in the shower.”
Stiles scoffed. “Maybe for straight people. Lucky for us, we aren’t having
straight people sex.”
Derek squinted. “How would you know?”
“Der-bear, I fear you’re underestimating just how much porn I watch in my spare
time.”
“Stiles, don’t call—”
“I know, I know, don’t call you that. But seriously, though, Derek. I’ve gotta
find a pet name for you that will pay Scott and Allison back for being so
nauseatingly cute.”
Derek wanted to point out the implications of Scott and Allison having been a
couple—a couple that had been on and off quite a bit—but a couple nonetheless.
The thought of something normal and stable made Derek’s stomach churn; he
wasn’t very good at either one of those. Derek knew that he would be lying to
himself if he didn’t admit that he wanted a relationship like that with Stiles,
but instinctiveness told Derek to keep Stiles at arms-length to protect him.
Better to err on the side of caution. So, Derek changed the subject.
“How about that shower,” Derek asked with all the intoned implications.
“Oh, Mister Hale, I do declare, that is mighty forward of you,” Stiles said
through an over-dramatized and poor rendition of a Southern belle’s accent.
“You’re an idiot,” Derek teased as he kissed Stiles. “But you can either come
by choice or I can throw you over my shoulder and toss your sticky ass into the
shower.”
Stiles’ throat emitted a lascivious hum. “Sounds like foreplay to me.”
Derek chuckled. “That’s it, I’m deciding for us.” He peeled himself out from
under Stiles, grabbing him by his waist and heaving him over his shoulder
exactly like he had threatened to.
Stiles let out a surprised yelp followed by an “oh, shit” as Derek moved them
toward the guest bathroom adjoining Derek’s bedroom.
When he felt Stiles’ dick, which was already at half-mast again, jab him in the
shoulder, Derek merely sighed. “You can’t already be hard again!”
“Ready and willing,” Stiles chirped as Derek lowered him into the shower.
The shower was a glorified glass cage in Derek’s opinion. All the surfacing was
stainless steel and it had spouts coming out of nearly every direction with an
additional steam function; the entire flourish was a bit much for Derek’s
simple tastes. Derek didn’t need stainless steel and steam to fuck Stiles—as a
man of moderate means, he just needed a flat surface.
Stiles, however, seemed spellbound.  “Dude, how many buttons does a shower
need?” He began fidgeting with some of the nobs as Derek removed his bandages
before they were soaked through. One of the buttons on one of the dials that
Stiles was toying with turned on a showerhead directly next to Derek’s head.
The showerhead blasted hot water at full force in a condensed stream that stung
the side of Derek’s head. Realizing what he had done, Stiles fumbled to turn it
off, but managed to actually turn up the pressure. “Shit, tits, balls and all
the fuckery in between! ’m sorry, Derek!”
Standing there drenched with flattened hair and one portion of his head
exponentially hotter than the rest, Derek lobbed a deep growl Stiles’
direction.
“I’m an idiot,” Stiles offered with a grimace.
“Glad you’re starting to figure out the pattern.” Derek stalked toward Stiles,
his eyes flashing cerulean through the steam of the shower. Stiles skittered
backward into the corner of the shower, managing to bump the steam controls up
another notch with his elbow as his back met the wall. Derek’s hands crunched
against the steel at they impacted on both sides of Stiles’ head. He could hear
Stiles’ heart spike, racing like a rabbit’s as it fled a predator.
“Der, what are you—”
“Shut up and find out,” was Derek’s reply as his tongue found his way into
Stiles’ mouth and his hand between Stiles’ legs, twirling around Stiles’ now
hard dick. Definite danger kink.Stiles groaned into Derek’s mouth as Derek
hoisted the younger man up by his waist, leaning him against the surface of the
wall. Derek hardly exerted any effort to line his cock up with Stiles’ hole,
letting it slide back in like a key in a lock. Derek gave a single pointed
thrust to elicit a bottled moan from Stiles’ throat as he continued jerking him
off.
“Great Buddha’s belly, I think I’m going to die,” Stiles whined. “I think I’m
going to be fucked in half by Derek Hale.”
Derek snarled. “Not anytime soon, I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Derek. Now shut up and fuck me.”
Derek huffed in compliance. As his hips lurched upward into Stiles’ ass, all
his thoughts trailed their way back to mine before he and Stiles both came,
surrounded by pillows of steam.
*                                              *         
                                    *
Dour was sort of Derek’s de facto setting; it wasn’t exactly a newsflash to
anyone that knew him, but when the Hulk had whipped Loki around like a limp
French fry, Derek couldn’t resist laughing. Stiles, who had managed to settle
himself between Derek’s legs on the couch as they watched the Avengers, had
craned his neck backward to look at Derek in astonishment.
“Don’t give me that look,” Derek had snapped. “You’ve heard me laugh before.”
“Sarcastically? Yes. Ominously? Definitely. After assailing someone’s well-
being through a volley of threats? Without a doubt,” Stiles had replied. “It’s
not very often that I hear you laugh because you’re actually relaxed or happy.”
Derek didn’t care what Stiles had said after that, Derek hadn’t blushed. But
once Stiles had finally given up on getting Derek to admit that he had blushed,
he had settled back between Derek’s legs; his head resting against Derek’s
stomach. Derek had groused a bit at the beginning when Stiles had situated
himself without hesitance between his legs and proceeded to use Derek as a
pillow. The werewolf quickly acclimatized to the position, resting one gentle
hand on Stiles’ chest and finding his other weaving its way through Stiles’
hair without a thought. Stiles didn’t seem to mind, so Derek’s fingers kept
kneading his scalp and brushing hair from one side to the next.
Derek could hear Stiles’ heartbeat relax as sleep began lulling the younger man
in. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Stiles was dozing off again, but the
boys had already taken a near two hour nap after desecrating a few more
horizontal surfaces in Peter’s apartment. Derek gently jostled Stiles awake.
“Hey, you can’t fall asleep at the end of the movie.”
Stiles yawned. “M’you keep playing with my hair. I can’t help it.”
“I can stop,” Derek said, removing his hand.
“No,” Stiles replied firmly, taking Derek’s removed hand and placing it back on
top of his head. Derek beamed to himself; his hand threading through Stiles’
hair. “This is nice.” Stiles concluded the thought with another yawn.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, this is a nice thing to do,” Stiles added.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “I agree,” he added dubiously.
Stiles shook his head. “Uh, I mean, this is a nice thing to do somewhat
regularly. You know, like normal people do. Hang out, eat, sleep, have sex, the
usual stuff.”
“The more you talk, the more I’m concerned you have no idea what normal people
actually do when they hang out,” Derek scoffed.
“Well,” Stiles began, apprehension tinging his voice. “I meant normal people
who are together. Like dating together. Or just people who go on dates—this is
kind of a date right? I mean it’s, informal, impromptu and exciting, but it’s
still sort of a date, right?”
Derek felt his chest tightening over that word in his head again. It was a
warring fear over what he wanted and what needed to be done. “Do you want it to
be a date, Stiles?”
Stiles turned over in Derek’s lap, looking at the older man who was only
dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. “Maybe—no, not maybe, yes. I want
this to be a kind of date that we have, but I only want it with you.”
Derek already knew the answer and he could both sense and hear how nervous
Stiles was as he spoke, but that didn’t’ stop him from asking the obvious.
“What are you trying to say, Stiles?”
Stiles sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that I want this to be a regular
thing. I wouldn’t mind going to dinner sometime or maybe even going to the
movies. What I wantto say is that I want this with you. You know, as a couple.
All I know is, after everything that happened in that warehouse with Morgan, I
could only focus on getting to you and making sure you were okay. It was
absolute tunnel vision. I don’t really know how you feel about everything,
Derek, but I realized how much you meant to me after today.”
Derek’s brain was in an eternal civil war with his mouth. Everything that
Stiles had said, Derek could agree with. Every cell in Derek’s body wanted
Derek to open his mouth and tell Stiles that he felt the same way, but that
would be too complexly simple. Instead, all Derek’s thoughts could center on
was the notion that Stiles had been so concerned about his well-being that
Stiles had forgotten about his own. That was Derek’s worst fear come to life.
And then there were those two voices echoing in the dark, “He’s next.” Derek
suppressed the shudder of revulsion.
“Stiles—” Derek started.
“No, Derek, I can almost hear the thoughts in your head.” Derek seriously
doubted that. “You and Scott aren’t so different when it comes to that nasty
little hero complex. I realize that I was reckless today and it might be a
little presumptuous to assume, but I think me being hurt sent you into
protective overdrive. That’s why you tried to get Morgan to focus on you. And
while I appreciate the gesture, Derek, you can’t protect me from everything.
Bad things are going to happen to both of us. I think it’s kind of our lot in
life.” Stiles ended the speech with a chuckle.            
Derek winced at the truth of the statement. “Stiles, I’m not even good at being
someone’s friend. What makes you think I’d be good at being your boyfriend?”
Stiles leaned up, brushing his lips against Derek’s. “I’m not sure. I think
it’s because I know how much you care, but you’re holding yourself back because
you’re afraid to repeat the past. Anyways, what I do know—when you said the
words ‘your boyfriend’ my heart skipped a beat and I know you couldn’t have
missed that.”
It was the truth. The irregularity had rung loud and clear in Derek’s head, but
it still wasn’t enough to convince him. There were still too many threads
fraying in Derek’s mind. What if something happened to Stiles? What if what
Kate and Jennifer had said was true? What if Stiles only wanted to be with
Derek because Derek had been his first? What if Stiles got tired of Derek in a
month? What if something happened to Derek? What if Derek couldn’t stay in
Beacon Hills? It was a soliloquy of “what-ifs.” A self-sustaining monologue
that worked like a paralytic poison to keep Derek’s mouth from saying what
needed to be said. Anger was an anchor and love was a source of
vulnerability—it was a tortuous lesson to learn.
“You’re thinking too much again, Derek. That’s my job,” Stiles chided.
Derek’s mouth flapped open uselessly as he scrounged for the right words.
“Stiles, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“What, you mean like having a werewolf for a best friend and having your life
endangered on a semi-normal basis because you don’t want to watch him die a
horrible and tragic death because he’s too stupid to figure out how to take
care of himself when you’re only armed with sarcasm and dashing good looks? You
mean I don’t understand that?” There was irritation in Stiles’ voice now and
Derek wondered how his incompetence to formulate useful sentences hadn’t get
him killed by now.
“It’s not just the danger, Stiles! It’s more complicated than that! I’m not
sure I know howto be someone’s boyfriend! Not to mention your best friend is an
Alpha. If our relationship were to put strain on your pack in any way, it could
get people killed. It could get me or you killed, Stiles! It could get Lydia,
Ethan, Aiden or Isaac killed! It could get your dad killed!” There was no venom
in Derek’s voice. Hurting Stiles was about the last thing he wanted in this
world, but the truth of his words weighted them both down like a sack full of
gravel.
Stiles didn’t withdraw from Derek’s lap as the conversation proceeded, but his
face had turned stormy; drawing closer to Derek’s while his voice dropped to a
whisper. “Those are all things you’re afraid of and all things that could
happen anyways. I’m afraid of those things too, but I don’t want to let every
little fear I have turn into excuses that keep me from what I want. And in case
it still hasn’t gotten through that thick, little werewolf skull of yours, what
I want is you. And I don’t give a flying fuck what Scott thinks about it.”
So, maybe Derek blushed this time, but if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t going
to make a mention of it and apparently neither was Stiles (for which he was
thankful). “Stiles, you know more about me than most people. You know
everything that’s happened to me. Why would you choose to be with someone like
that?” The question came out more self-deprecating than Derek had intended, but
it was a legitimate concern.
Stiles smiled—it was a small, knowing smile, something that made him look much
older and wiser—his hands trailed up Derek’s bare stomach. “Because I know how
easy it is to be trapped by what’s happened to us rather than accepting what’s
happening to us. And when that’s the case, we tend to let good things slip by
us.”
Stiles made a good argument and Derek knew that. Somehow, Stiles had managed to
see past Derek’s dour exterior in order to find the crux of what Derek wanted
for himself—all excuses aside. Now, Derek knew he could either accept his
feelings or go with his instincts and push Stiles away to protect him. But
Derek was sick of being the same person. He was sick of being the
tragedy—people’s catharsis when they saw him, pointed, and whispered what they
thought was out of earshot, saying things like, “I feel so sorry for him. I
can’t imagine what it must be like. Stuff like that’s gotta change you, you
know?”
Derek’s arms tightened around Stiles’ back, pulling the younger man upward so
their bodies slipped together with their legs entangled. Stiles looked composed
like he had been there in Derek’s head the entire time listening to every fear
or doubt. Derek gave Stiles a hurried kiss, pressing his tongue into Stiles’
mouth only to break away a moment after and place a stream of kisses along his
jawline. Derek found every bruise and mark from their previous activities;
every mark that made a word explode in his head, blinding him to the world
around him. Stiles moaned in response to Derek’s ministrations, grinding his
hips into Derek’s. Derek was already hard and he could feel Stiles’ erection
rutting against his own through both of their pajama pants.
“Mine,” the word finally fled Derek’s mouth.
“Hmm,” Stiles hummed inquisitively.
Derek paused to nip at Stiles’ chin, leaving a patch of stubble burn in his
wake. “You heard me.” Derek’s voice seemed to have its own gravitational field,
pulling Stiles closer as it deepened. “Mine.”
“Is that werewolfnese for ‘Stiles, be my boyfriend?’”
Derek rolled his eyes, aware Stiles already knew the answer to the question. He
supposed that answering obvious questions was going to be a large portion of
his relationship with Stiles—but not this time. Derek plunged his hand into the
front of Stiles’ checkered pajama pants, his hand tugging at Stiles’ cock,
which was already leaking.
Stiles groaned in a way that sounded more like a cough. “I’m gonna take that as
a yes, Der.”
Derek hummed with happiness as he flipped Stiles onto his back, pulling down
the waistline of Stiles’ pants and taking his reddening dick into his mouth.
Derek knew they were going to need another nap afterward.
Chapter End Notes
     The unofficial chapter title for Chapter 7 is: "Smut for Seven."
     Gillian your brilliance is a beacon of hope for us all. :P
***** The Seeding of an End *****
Chapter Summary
     The pack meets up to decide what to do about Morgan, and then Papa
     Stilinski corners Stiles and Derek over a corpse to have the dreaded
     "What is your relationship?" talk. It's awkward. And Scott is a
     bitch.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Walking into Deaton’s after a day of Marvel, Whedon and sex with Derek felt
like walking onto a battlefield. It was nothing at all like he knew he would
feel next time they had to fight Morgan, but he knew there would be a fight. He
was ready for the fight with Scott. What he did with Derek on his own time was
none of the pack’s business, especially not Scott’s, and he was ready to defend
his right to be with Derek. Or they could just go home and watch more
Dollhouse. He hadn’t been able to talk Derek into watching Buffy yet, but he’d
finally agreed to Whedon’s short-lived, brilliant-but-misunderstood
“accidental” FOX show. Stiles had wanted to dance and cry when Joss had
announced “I made another show on FOX.” Firefly was Stiles’ all-time-will-
never-be-replaced-by-anything-ever-favorite-show. He was fiercely proud of it
and all of its fans.
When Derek hadn’t completely understood how brilliant Joss Whedon and his
Avengers were, Stiles had decided he wasn’t ready for Firefly. They’d work
their way through Dollhouse, Buffy, Angel, and the Cabin in the Woods first.
Possibly also Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Much Ado About Nothing. Then, and only
then, would Stiles make the decision to show Derek Firefly. They might have to
watch all of Joss’ audio commentaries too.
Stiles was really quite protective of Firefly. He wasn’t going to apologize for
that.
Derek ran his hand across Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles wondered if it was
ridiculous to want to purr. Since their conversation about the date-like status
of the Avengers, Derek had been far more willing to cuddle Stiles in a non-
post-coital moment. Stiles had encouraged the hell out of it. He’d still be
sitting in Derek’s lap if there was a way to do it while you were driving.
“What do you want to tell the pack?” Derek asked. Stiles glanced at him.
“Don’t have to tell them anything. Not their business.” He almost giggled. “Not
its business,” he said in his very best Gollum. Derek squeezed the back of his
neck, and Stiles gave in to the desire to purr as he pulled into a parking
space at Deaton’s office.
“What are you doing?” Derek asked. Stiles stopped purring. “Remind me to teach
you how to growl,” he said.
“I was purring.” Stiles climbed out of the car before Derek could respond.
Derek was grinning at him when he shut the door. By the time Derek had climbed
out after him, he’d remastered his face and wore his trademark scowl. “You can
smile for the pack, Derek. You don’t have to save all your smiles for me,” he
grinned. “Though I’ll gladly claim all of them.”
Derek kissed Stiles’ temple, almost smiling. Stiles wanted to explode from the
stupid cuteness of it all. He followed Derek into Deaton’s office.
“What the hell?” Stiles walked into Derek’s back. He’d stopped in the doorway
to the examination room.
Allison was standing beside Isaac, leaning against the wall. She was completely
unrestrained. Isaac was even leaning towards her a little. Stiles had a danger
kink. He’d come to terms with his danger kink. He quite enjoyed his danger
kink. But Derek had never actually taken a bite out of Stiles. He’d threatened
to, a couple of times, but he’d never done it. Allison had taken a
cheeseburger-sized chunk out of Isaac’s neck, and Stiles wasn’t talking a
McDouble. It was a full-on half-pounder with cheese and all the fixin’s-sized
chunk. If Stiles was Isaac, Stiles wouldn’t go near Allison again unless she
had been vetted 100% non-crazy by the leading experts. Even then, he might use
a Stiles-shaped muppet to test her reactions.
Ethan and Aiden clearly shared Stiles and Derek’s misgivings, though they
probably wouldn’t go as far as Muppet!Alpha twins. They were watching Allison
like twin hawks. Every time she so much as glanced at Lydia, Aiden’s eyes
flashed red. Stiles reminded himself to high-five Aiden next time he had a
chance.
“What is Lady Crazy McKnifeandArrow doing here with no restraints?” Stiles
asked, stepping out from behind Derek. His voice may have squeaked. Derek put
his arm out to stop him. Stiles pushed his arm out of the way, but held onto
his hand. Derek didn’t pull away.
“‘Lady Crazy McKnifeandArrow?’” Allison asked. “You really call me that?
Wouldn’t it be easier to just call me by my name?” She sounded less crazy than
Stiles assumed she had sounded when she was under Morgan’s spell. In Stiles’
opinion, she wasn’t precisely the legal definition of “sane,” but she didn’t
sound much crazier than she usually did.
“‘Lady Vampire von Cannibal McKnifeandArrow’ was too much of a mouthful at the
time.” He ignored her suggestion to call her by name. Before Allison could
voice her objection to the nickname—which, let’s be honest, Allison, you took a
chunk out of your boyfriend’s neck, that makes you vampire and cannibal—Stiles
turned to Scott. “What is she doing here? She’s still crazy.”
“No, actually I’m not.” Allison said. “Something happened.” Isaac nodded.
“What, exactly, happened?” Derek asked. Stiles began to step closer to Allison,
curiosity overwhelming his sense of self-preservation. Allison and Derek were
the only ones who had broken out of Morgan-induced hallucinations. They needed
to know how they had done it. Stiles wished he had his laptop or at least a
notebook so he could make notes on what they remembered.
Derek pulled Stiles back to his side by their entwined hands. He wasn’t letting
Stiles get between him and Allison. Stiles wanted to kiss him for that. Very
soon they would have to have a conversation about Stiles being able to take
care of himself, at least where the pack was involved, but right now, Stiles
wanted to dance around the room. ‘We’re dating! Boyfriends! Derek Hale is my
boyfriend! We have sex! Derek Hale is my boyfriend!’ had been running through
Stiles’ head non-stop since their conversation in front of the Avengers. It was
his new favorite soundtrack for everything he ever did.
“Lydia and I went to check on Allison,” Isaac said. “We had her tied up in the
old railway station.”
Scott, who had been staring at Derek and Stiles’ hands, let out a sarcastic
laugh. “You mean Derek’s old address?”
“Shut up, Scott.” Lydia spoke up before Stiles could. She had noticed where
Scott’s attention was locked. Stiles smiled at her, thankful for her support.
He remembered on what seemed like a daily basis now why it was he loved her.
“She tried…” Isaac had barely started again after the interruption before he
stopped.
“I tried to attack Lydia.” Allison said when it was clear he wasn’t going to
continue. “I thought she was—” she shuddered. “I thought she was Kate.” Stiles
glanced at Derek, but he didn’t react. He squeezed his hand anyway. “Isaac
jumped in the way and I woke up.”
“How long were you under Rhoderick’s spell?” Stiles asked. Allison looked
confused. Need to know how long it takes, Allison. Gotta know how long before
the crazy sets in. It might save someone else’s life.
“Rhoderick being the Mesmer that made you go insane.” Isaac explained. Stiles
wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him that though Allison appeared to know
about the Mesmer, she wouldn’t know his name unless one of the others told her.
“The tarot card is what did it.”
“Oh. Then just a couple days, I think. Some kind of street performer gave it to
me.”
“That was Morgan.” Scott said. Stiles jumped, having forgotten Scott was there
in favor of trying to figure out how to break Morgan’s power. He’d been lurking
in the shadows like a lurking lurker who lurks. Stiles wanted to throw
something at the faint red gleam in Scott’s eyes, but there was nothing within
easy reach he thought Deaton wouldn’t kill him for throwing.
“Morgan Rhoderick introduced himself, then kicked our collective asses
yesterday.” Aiden said. “He’s powerful.” Stiles made a mental note: ‘teach
Aiden better descriptive phrases than “powerful” or “I want to rip its face off
and eat it,” because those are not nearly as helpful as he thinks they are.’
“He can clone himself.” Ethan said. “His clones are just as powerful as he is.
I don’t think we’ve even seen the real Mesmer. We don’t even know if he’s
acting alone. He took on all of us at once without breaking a sweat.”
“He didn’t get Scott.” Isaac spoke up immediately. Stiles rolled his eyes. No,
the Mesmer hadn’t been able to take out Scott the way he’d taken out the rest
of the pack, but that didn’t mean Isaac had to be so quick to defend him.
Stiles wanted to ask if he’d enjoyed their walk from Derek’s. Scott had never
had the full power of Stiles’ pettiness turned on him, but if Scott was going
to be petty, he would. Petty was Stiles’ power. He could run circles around
Scott in the petty arena.
“If Derek hadn’t gone after him alone like an idiot, we would’ve had the chance
to figure out who he is. We could’ve figured out how to take him out. ” Scott
said. Stiles whirled on him. He had no right to be such an ass about Derek
being crazy when he was apparently perfectly okay with his crazy-ass ex taking
a chunk out of one of his Betas!
“He was under Rhoderick’s control, Scott! He had no control over his actions!
If you’re going to forgive Allison for taking a chunk out of your little
pining-puppy’s neck, you gotta forgive Derek for getting suckered by the same
spell!”
Allison’s confusion returned. “Did I miss something in my three days of crazy?
You two don’t usually get this pissed at each other this easily.”
Scott scowled, his eyebrows creasing together to form a mega-brow that was
clearly meant to serve as his scolding face. Stiles just thought he looked
constipated. “Well, first off, Derek ran off to track down an enemy that he had
no idea how to handle and nearly got himself killed, Stiles killed, and the
rest of the pack killed.”
Allison turned her focus to Derek and Stiles, whose hands remained interlocked.
Stiles would be damned if he let go of Derek now, but he couldn’t help feeling
selfish knowing that Derek had to be uncomfortable with the attention. He could
almost feel every muscle in Derek’s body tense as each member of the pack began
turning their gaze with Allison. Stiles shifted his posture significantly,
pulling Derek’s hand and his own behind his body so no one could see their
joined fingers. Stiles knew everyone had already figured out that there was
something going on between him and Derek, but there was something in protecting
the privacy of their intimacy that saturated Stiles’ vision with rage.
“Secondly,” Aiden interrupted. “Scott is pissed because Stiles and Derek are
fucking.”
“Aiden,” Lydia shrieked, smacking him upside the head with the flat of her
hand. Aiden looked at Lydia, clearly bewildered at what he’d done wrong.
“Wow,” Allison started. “I obviously did miss a lot since I checked out.”
“Nothing that needs to be discussed at a pack meeting,” Stiles sneered Scott’s
direction.
Scott’s shoulders tightened with disbelief as he coughed out a mocking noise
from his throat. “Oh, really? So you don’t think that one person’s actions
endangering the entire pack should be brought up by the pack’s Alpha? Stiles,
that’s kind of part of my job description now whether you like it or not.
You’re my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you special
treatment when both your actions and Derek’s are putting us all at risk!”
Stiles could feel his face growing hotter as the blood in his body began
surging through his veins to help him retaliate against Scott’s idiotic
statements. “While I’m sure some particular individuals at this meeting find
your newfound leadership skills to be attractive, Scott, I’d just like to say
that the pot had better look in a fucking mirror before the kettle tosses his
sorry, werewolf ass into the furnace.” Okay, not the wittiest or most coherent
comeback, but working in the heat of the moment tends to makes things blur
together. “You dated a werewolf hunter while you yourself are a werewolf! That
was a monumentally stupid idea—perhaps one that should be etched into the
tablets of time—no offense, Allison.”
“None taken,” Allison replied inertly.
Stiles continued, “And I’d care to know how our ‘actions’ are putting the pack
at risk? I mean, aside from obviously endangering your sense of security as my
best friend at the moment or your grasp of masculinity or whatever the fuck it
is that’s wrong with you lately, I don’t understand how any of this is even
your business! Maybe it’s just a personal vendetta you’ve got against Derek?”
Stiles felt Derek’s hand twitch under his own at the mention of his name. It
was an involuntary action—almost something akin to fear of being defended
instead of doing the defending himself.
“Stiles,” muttered Derek. It was discreet enough that only the other werewolves
could have made the word out. “You don’t have to—”
“No, I really do, Der,” Stiles wheeled on him to cut him off. “Everyone here
can see that Scott’s being a grade A ass-hat, but I’m the only one here willing
to say it.”
Stiles could see that Scott’s eyes were on the verge of igniting Alpha-red. “Or
maybe everyone else here also knows that regardless of Derek being under
Morgan’s influence, he would have gone rushing off by himself anyway, because
that’s what Derek does! He only thinks of himself and revenge and anger instead
of what the outcome might be and how it affects people around him! And maybe
everyone else can see that I’m just trying to be a good friend and protect you
from getting hurt by someone who has done nothing but hide the truth from us
from the day we met him!”
Stiles didn’t have a defense for that. He knew he didn’t have a defense for the
truth. On numerous occasions, Derek had shown himself to have certain misguided
beliefs about withholding information to protect the people around him. If
Stiles tried to lie and say that Derek’s method of coping with situations like
that didn’t concern him, he was afraid his nose would grow about six inches
(and that was the wrong part of Stiles’ body to grow six inches when concerning
Derek).
Stiles wasn’t ready for what Scott said next, however. Scott’s eyes trained on
Derek, ready to calculate his reaction.
“Funny thing too, Derek. No one in the pack has died since you left.”
Allison’s gasp was reflexive. “Scott! That’s too far!”
“It’s fine,” Derek said through the prison of his teeth, which were visibly
restraining avenging words in his throat.
Derek’s passivity in the entire argument had Stiles wracking his brain. It
wasn’t like Derek to back down from a challenge, but maybe that was all part of
him becoming a Beta again and trying to find his footing among the pack? Maybe
Derek was just waiting for the right moment to jump Scott behind the local 711
and beat the crap out of him—in which case Stiles would gladly hold him down.
What caused Stiles’ chest and throat to tighten like they were being compressed
in a vice was the fear that Derek actually believed the vitriol Scott was
spewing. Stiles was about to offer a rebuttal similar to “the hell it’s fine,”
but Allison beat him to the punch.
“It’s really not,” Allison replied. Stiles was a little taken aback by
Allison’s support seeing that she and Derek had never really been on stable
terms, but it was appreciated nonetheless. “I’m sorry I brought up this topic,
but I think I’m with Stiles on this one. It’s not right for us to be discussing
this as a pack. I know that when Scott and I dated it caused a lot of friction
and all I wanted was for people to keep their opinions to themselves.”
“You do realize that Derek told me to break up with you nearly every time he
saw me,” Scott insisted.
“That’s not the point,” Allison snapped. “Regardless of what people’s opinions
were about us, I know exactly what it feels like to be in Stiles and Derek’s
shoes and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. If you want to act like
you’re three years old and Derek just stole your favorite toy, then have at it,
but don’t do it here and now.” Scott seemed floored and if Stiles was being
perfectly honest, he was as well. Out of all his unlikely allies, Stiles didn’t
expect Allison to come running to his rescue, but he was eternally grateful
that she had. “Can we change the subject now?”
“Agreed,” Lydia said with a curt nod.
Scott’s mouth twitched like he was about ready to continue with the trajectory
of his thoughts, but Stiles’ cellphone clanging in his pocket cut Scott off.
Stiles dug into his jeans, producing his phone to see his father’s name and
picture appear as it rang. He didn’t hesitate to answer the call, readily
willing to change the subject and escape the increasing tension rising in the
room that was so thick it had already solidified and you’d need an icepick to
scale it.
“Hey, dad,” Stiles said with nonchalance, answering his phone like he hadn’t
just been in a monumental argument with his jealous (or self-confessed
“concerned”) best friend in front of his entire pack.
“This is a business call, Stiles,” his dad’s voice replied back through the
phone. “I need you and Scott to head over to the city morgue. We found a girl’s
body and I think this one is in your area of expertise.”
                                     * * *
Stiles’ dad had gotten a little more than he had bargained for when the entire
pack came traipsing through the doors of the city morgue in a ragtag procession
of teenagers and Derek. The car ride there had been a constricted silence that
was mainly brought about by Derek’s unwillingness to talk to Stiles at all.
Stiles had tried to reassure Derek that Scott was just being an insensitive
jerk (as though Derek hadn’t pieced that much together already) but Derek chose
not to respond, opting for a silent stare in Stiles’ direction to let the
younger man know that they were both well aware that Scott’s concerns weren’t
unfounded. Stiles seemed deflated after that moment, not able to conjure the
consoling words that he needed to provide for Derek.
Derek maintained his laden silence and refused to touch Stiles the entire way
even when Stiles had attempted to put his hand on Derek’s. Derek had
conveniently moved his hand at that moment, pretending to scratch his nose, but
Stiles had gotten the message loud and clear. He had felt Stiles go rigid at
his side, permeating an icy attitude. Derek hadn’t known what to do about
it—wasn’t sure he could do anything about it. This was the stifling aspect of
becoming entangled with Derek Hale and his life, and Derek knew just how
impossible it was to overcome. Morgan had told Stiles that insanity was the
deadliest poison he knew of, but Derek thought he might have to disagree on
that particular nihilistic philosophy. Derek reasoned that Truth (capital “T,”
not any of that postmodern—there are many truths with a little “t”—bullshit)
was the deadliest poison that he knew of. Truth always had a way of catching up
with you to revive history in the worst ways and leave nothing but a savage
ruin in its wake.
Derek had never been much good at discerning Truth—if the current state of his
life didn’t make that evident. His ineptitude had cost his entire family their
lives as well as adding Erica and Boyd to that list, but it was also more than
that. Derek knew he had an inability to see the situation for what it was and
he also knew he was incapable of telling those around him what they needed to
hear when they needed to hear it. Derek had glanced at Stiles, arms crossed in
a rigid bow as his eyes had ghosted past the scenery outside the car window,
refusing to look at Derek. Derek wondered if he could ever tell Stiles what he
needed—deserved—to hear.
When Stiles and Derek had exited the car in silence, Ethan had approached them
both with a somber look wedged between his eyebrows. Ethan hadn’t seemed to
know how to begin what he wanted to say, so he sucked in one sharp breath and
blurted it out.
“Despite what Scott thinks, I think you two make a cute couple,” he had said.
Ethan had made a half-turn to head into the morgue before stopping and
completing his thought. “A good couple. I’m glad I have Danny now.” As Ethan
had disappeared behind stainless steel doors, Derek wondered at the connection
between the last two statements.
Stiles hadn’t seemed to wonder too much at Ethan’s opinion, but then again,
Derek knew Stiles was smarter than him. Stiles had most likely read precisely
between the lines to decipher the meaning of the words. Stiles’ eyes had met
Derek’s for the first time since they had left the car without so much as a
word.
Stiles had tilted his head slightly toward the examination room where the rest
of the pack was waiting and said a simple, “Come on,” before leading Derek
through the doors.
Now, the pack was encircling the body of a girl who was splayed out against a
cold slab, caked in dried blood that clung to the sheet covering her. Her hair
was dark and cropped short into a pixie cut and as John pulled back the sheet
to reveal her, Isaac, Allison, Lydia, Scott, and Stiles all released similar
sounds of distress. Derek could see the vein in Stiles’ neck pumping beneath
his skin as he groaned. Despite everything that had happened today, Derek
wanted to reach out and comfort Stiles somehow, because he obviously knew the
girl. With an inward chastisement, Derek reminded himself that it probably
wouldn’t be prudent to reignite the relationship debate now that Stiles’ father
was also in proximity. Not to mention that it was incredibly awkward knowing
that the Sheriff had heard him having sex with his son just a couple of days
ago and so far Derek had managed to escape any further awkward incidents. At
this point, however, John seemed to be willfully ignoring Derek’s existence—a
practice that Derek sincerely hoped the Sheriff chose to maintain.
“I’m assuming you all knew her,” John concluded, addressing Stiles, Isaac,
Allison, Scott, and Lydia. The five teens responded in agreement.
“Her name was Lauren,” Allison said. “She was in my history class. I think her
last name was Buntpas.”
“Bumpus,” Stiles corrected. “I remember because she used to wear Superman t-
shirts all the time and I was pretty convinced she was my soulmate because of
it. I actually thought about asking her out at one point.” Stiles nearly
sounded wistful.
Lydia raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Stiles, how many soulmates do you have?”
“At the moment,” asked Stiles rhetorically.
Derek really wished that Stiles would have refrained from opening his clearly
Adderall-less mouth, because the subsequent silence that followed was charged
with so many different emotions that all the werewolves in the room had to
refrain from covering their mouths due to the stench of feelings everyone was
giving off. Derek’s pointed grimace of disapproval was shot Stiles’ direction
and the younger man shrugged, mouthing a silent “what.”
“Anyway,” John began, trying to saw through the palpable tension. “I was hoping
you all might be able to explain this.” He drew back the rest of the sheet to
display the wounds, which had clearly led the girl’s death.
Derek crossed his arms and cocked his head slightly in order to get a better
vantage point. The injuries were made by a set of claws that had slashed open
her abdomen, causing her to bleed out slowly and quite painfully. “Werewolf,”
he offered.
“How do you know,” Stiles asked.
“I can tell by the claw marks.”
John’s mouth twisted into a sour shape as he gazed at Derek. “One of yours?”
“Dad, Derek isn’t an Alpha anymore,” Stiles interjected.
“Right,” John nodded. “Sorry.” Derek gave a small nod back to accept the
apology.
“I’m not so sure you’re father’s wrong though, Stiles,” Derek continued with an
exhale. Derek could see the confusion scattering across the pack’s faces as
well as the Sheriff’s.
“What do you mean,” Scott asked with a hostile undercurrent in his voice.
Derek resisted the urge to snap back in response at Scott. It took nearly all
of his concentrated focus to keep his pitch level and drained of anger. “I mean
that I smell Peter on her and whatever werewolf did this wasn’t hunting; he was
going on a rampage. Predators go for the throat, not the abdomen when they take
down their prey. If Peter killed this girl, he did it under the effects of the
tarot cards. It’s too sloppy and frenzied even for him.”
“It can’t be Peter,” Lydia said, fear hollowing her voice. “You and Deaton
trapped him behind mountain ash.”
“We did,” Derek replied shortly. “But I’m telling you, I smell him all over
this girl.” Derek knew Peter’s scent by heart not only because he was family,
but also because he had been forced to live with him since returning to Beacon
Hills. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get the smell of bleach out of his
nose, but at least sharing the same space with Peter was benefitting their
situation now.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that your insane uncle has something to do with
this? He always has something to do with this,” Scott accused, pointing a
finger Derek’s way to emphasize “your.”
“Scott, do you want to figure out what’s going on and stop him or play the
blame-game?” Derek was beginning to lose what miniscule semblance of patience
he had managed to hold on to. His voice was becoming gravel-rough and it took
Derek what little self-control he did have, not to let his eyes trickle blue.
Scott groused somewhat less than silently. “How did he get out then?”
“Maybe he found a way out,” Aiden suggested.
“Or someone let him out,” Lydia offered as a much more plausible idea.
“Morgan,” finished Stiles, sharing a thought process with Lydia.
Lydia pursed her lips, flipping her hair toward Derek. “Morgan is obviously
using the tarot cards as a sort of directive device that is meant to do more
than cause hallucinations. It seems like the hallucinations are actually meant
to wear down the reflexive functions of both the central nervous system as well
as the autonomic nervous system—albeit a slow method, it seems to deprive the
person of several autonomous capacities making them more susceptible to the
power of suggestion. Think of it like a magical lobotomy. Exempli gratia: Derek
was drawn to Morgan at the warehouse via a neuro-hypnotic-like suggestion. This
form of suggestion is otherwise known as mesmerism.”
About midway through Lydia’s explanation, Derek had joined the rest of the pack
in bemusedly blinking at her in hopes for something in laymen’s terms. She
didn’t appear to notice the sets of eyes squinting at her in confusion as she
began twirling her hair between her thumb and forefinger.
“Well, that thought is going to haunt my dreams tonight,” Isaac muttered.
Derek shrugged off Isaac’s comment, trying his best to repress his memory of
being under Morgan’s influence. The thought made his nails hurt, his eyes itch,
and his stomach churn. “How does any of that help us Lydia?”
Lydia looked passed Derek with intention and into Stiles’ eyes like she didn’t
understand the point of the question. “Stiles, what does it take to get him to
listen to you?”
Derek heard Stiles’ heartbeat spike as his body laced with tension. He could
see Stiles’ unsubtle and fearful glances dart back and forth between his father
and himself. If Derek had been holding onto the stainless steel table, he
probably would have bent it in two from the sheer awkwardness that was
occurring. He knew the gist of what Stiles wanted to say. Stiles had wanted to
make a sex joke or some other inappropriate comment that would result in
everyone groaning and covering their ears. Apparently, however, there was some
decency left in the cosmos, because Stiles refrained from an instinctual
response.
Stiles’ mouth flopped open, helpless to formulate the syntax of a sentence. His
lips barely managed an “uuuuhhhh” as Derek watched him fight back the urge to
be immature. Derek’s eyes were dangerously close to a haze of blue as he glared
at Stiles; shooting a look that he hoped translated to “if you say something
inappropriate in front of your father, I will murder you, put you in a hole,
dig you back up, and murder you again.”
Lydia heaved a put-upon sigh. “It helps us because it tells us that Morgan is
controlling Peter, so Morgan let him out for a purpose. It stands to reason
that Morgan released him so this exact moment would occur.”
“He’s drawing us into something,” Stiles reasoned.
“Or at least one of us,” Lydia said.
“Who,” Scott asked.
Lydia shrugged. “There’s no discernable pattern between the sequences of data.
Peter, Derek, and Allison. I can’t plot a trajectory based on unsubstantial
evidence. My first instinct would be Scott. If Mesmers steal power, then why
wouldn’t he go after a True Alpha?”
Stiles seemed to agree with Lydia’s theory. “Deucalion wanted Scott to be part
of his pack because a True Alpha was so rare and powerful, so it makes sense
that Morgan would be after Scott’s power as well.”
Derek watched as the Sheriff lifted his head, which had been hanging in
frustration the entire time. “I’m sorry, was this conversation even in
English,” he snapped. “Anyone care to tell me what’s going on in the town that
I’m supposed to be the Sherriff of?” Derek considered speaking up to explain,
but letting more words than necessary escape his mouth went against his plan to
remain as imaginary as a unicorn to John. Thankfully, Stiles chimed in before
the pressuring glances began.
“Long story short, there’s something called a Mesmer in town that is causing
people to go crazy by using tarot cards. So far, he’s caused Allison, Derek,
and Peter to lose their marbles but we brought Derek and Allison back
somehow—we just have no freaking idea how. Also, the Mesmer is prone to
fatalistic philosophies and other villain tropes such as long-winded monologues
and other flashy shows of power. Aside from that, he was drawn here by the
Nemeton and we assume he’s after Scott to steal his True Alpha power because
Mesmers are sort of the arcane thieves of the supernatural world.” Stiles took
a long breath after his lengthy clarification. He seemed to miss the moment
when John began unleashing a torrent of icy scowls Derek’s way.
Derek, however, did not miss the shift in the Sherriff’s posture. Derek’s arms
were still crossed—although looking distinctly defiant now—as his muscles
pulled taut in his shoulders and his jaw became set with apprehension. Maybe
Derek had gotten too used to being an Alpha, but the look John was giving him
was an obvious challenge and Derek refused to back down.
“So what kind of trouble did you cause when you went crazy, Derek,” John asked
with all the intoned implications of the question.
Jennifer and Kate smiled knowingly, murmuring together to Derek in a low
register with their mouths pressed against the sides of his ears. “He’s next.”
“Nothing, dad,” Stiles jumped in. “Derek didn’t get to Peter’s or
Allison’s—sorry Allison—level of crazy. He went straight to Morgan.”
“No, but I did lead the entire pack into a trap.” Derek’s voice was blunt. He
refused to look Scott’s direction. Derek didn’t need to look at Stiles to know
that he was wearing a defeated expression. Derek could hear it in his
heartbeat.
“I see,” John said. “So what are we going to do about this?”
“Well, Mr. Stilinski, I think you need to let us handle this for the moment,”
Scott offered. His tone was perhaps more demanding than Derek thought it should
have been, but he was inclined to agree with Scott. Adding more people to the
situation would only make it more dangerous.
Without waiting for the Sheriff’s response, Scott turned to his pack to start
dishing out orders. “Ethan, Aiden, Isaac, set up a perimeter and contact us if
you see Peter. If you think you can manage to take him down without killing
him, then do it. Otherwise, wait until I get there.” Ethan, Aiden, and Isaac
nodded without a single word shared between them; leaving at the behest of
their Alpha.
“Weren’t those twins trying to kill you at one point, Scott,” John asked.
“At one point,” Scott answered warily. “They’ve come around to my way of seeing
things since their old pack doesn’t exactly exist anymore.” Scott turned toward
Allison and Lydia. “Allison, take Lydia back to your house and protect her.
Peter might be crazier than usual, but he still has his memories. After
everything that happened between him and Lydia, I don’t want him going after
Lydia again. I’ll tell Isaac to check up on you both every twenty minutes.”
Derek thought Lydia looked relieved that she and Allison were going to hunker
down instead of going on an Easter egg hunt for Peter; he couldn’t blame her.
Even though Scott wasn’t Derek’s favorite person, well, ever, he had to admit
that Scott was a competent leader—he always has been. Lydia and Allison
followed suit, exiting the room and leaving only Derek, Scott, Stiles, and John
left.
“Stiles, I think you’d be better off researching how to beat the Mesmer with
Deaton or helping your dad patrol the town so we can find Peter faster. I won’t
tell you what to do, but I’m sure your dad would agree.” Scott’s voice was as
diplomatic as it could be, but Stiles didn’t seem to lend much credence to it.
“What about you and Derek,” Stiles asked. His eyes lingered on Derek as he
asked the question and Derek matched his gaze.
“I assume Derek knows Peter’s scent well enough that he can track him, so he
and I are going to follow Peter,” Scott explained.
“You mean walk into a trap again,” Stiles protested.
“It makes sense, Stiles,” Derek said. “If Morgan wants Scott and is using Peter
to lure us out, at least I can track Peter and we can call for help once we
find him.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Derek! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! Do
you not remember what happened last time we faced him? He kicked the entire
pack’s ass!” Derek could see the fear displaying itself across Stiles’ face and
he could smell it permeating the room, but this was non-negotiable. If putting
himself in danger meant keeping people safe—keeping Stiles safe—Derek would
willingly go into the trap and take that chance. Stiles knew he would do it
too. That’s why the fear had fashioned itself on his face so plainly.
“We know his tricks this time, Stiles,” Derek said trying to pacify Stiles.
Derek desperately wanted to invade Stiles’ space; to hug him or kiss him in
spite of everything that had happened today, but Derek kept his distance out of
respect for Stiles’ father. Derek wasn’t even sure he’d know how to make the
situation better anyway. He had been a stubborn ass earlier, so he wasn’t sure
Stiles would even be receptive. More than likely, Stiles would be just as
difficult and push Derek away. “Plus I’ll have Scott with me.”
“My hero,” Stiles sneered at Scott.
“Are you ready, Derek,” Scott asked, sounding impatient and clearly not wanting
to deal with Stiles anymore.
“Actually, Scott,” the Sheriff began. “Do you think I could have a word with
these two in private before you leave?” Scott nodded, exiting the room. Derek
heard him leave the building altogether to give them actual privacy instead of
eavesdropping like Derek knew he wanted to. Derek tried his best to not appear
tense, but it didn’t help as Stiles moved in closer to him looking ready for a
fight.
“Dad—” Stiles started to say until his dad held up a hand as a sign to stop
speaking.
“Son, let me say what I need to say,” John said calmly. “Now, Derek, you and I
don’t exactly have the best prior relationship with you being arrested, but I’m
willing to see beyond that because I try to let the past stay in the past and I
know the full story now, so I realize that there may have been some
‘misunderstandings’ along the way. What I’m not willing to look past is the
safety and wellbeing of my son. Do you understand me?”
Derek’s nod was short and followed by a “yes, sir.”
Stiles’ reaction was an “oh my god, how is this my life,” as he buried his face
in his hands.
“Good,” John concluded. “Now what is your relationship to my son?”
The question came so quickly that Derek almost missed it. Derek wasn’t exactly
a man of words and there had only been a handful of moments in his life when
someone had fully disarmed him of the power of speech. This was one of those
moments. He could feel his jaw screwing shut as he attempted to formulate an
answer and Derek knew that was the opposite of what he needed to be doing. He
needed to be winning Stiles’ dad over instead of looking angry. Derek’s
nostrils flared. “We’re—together. We’re together, a couple. Partners.
Boyfriends, I—I don’t know. Pick a word that makes you happy or the least
agitated.” Derek felt angry and defeated. His shoulders bunched and then
slouched as he attempted to break eye contact with Stiles’ father, but John’s
eyes followed him.
“Is that what you want?”
“Hello, right here,” Stiles said, waving his hands to get their attention. “Why
do I get the feeling that Derek is about ready to offer three pigs and two
sheep as a dowry. I am not a seventeenth century village woman who has to
courted or called upon. Although the idea of having a pet pig does sound
interesting—or maybe just having bacon. Lots of bacon.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek snapped without heat. He met John’s eyes, which were
squinting expectantly at his answer. “Yes, this is what I want.”
John nodded and Derek wasn’t sure it was a gesture of satisfaction or not.
Derek would bet that the Sheriff was a man who was not easily placated;
especially if it concerned his son. “Derek, you know why I’m asking you this.”
Derek could come up with a grocery list of reasons as to why John would ask him
about this particular topic, but yeah, Derek knew what this was all about. “I
get that I’m older than Stiles.”
“And more experienced,” John added.
Derek nodded in acknowledgment. “I would never pressure Stiles into anything.”
John cocked an eyebrow. “Be that as it may, the age difference still presents
somewhat of a problem in the state of California.”
“Sir—” Derek began in rebuttal, but was silenced by the Sheriff’s raised hand.
“Son, before you try to justify it, let me just say that even though I am the
Sheriff, it doesn’t mean I’m incapable of being reasonable. While statutory
rape is not something I take lightly as an officer of the law, I can also
attest to the fact that my son is smarter and more mature than most eighteen
years olds. And seeing that I have no physical or visual proof of your ‘illicit
activities,’ I think I can look past it and trust that my son can make an adult
decision that he’d be allowed to make in a year regardless.”
“Hello! Right here,” Stiles protested with flailing arms. Derek and John
ignored him.
The Sheriff paused for a moment—a moment that seemed embedded with meaning or
was at least intended to be. “Just—just watch out for him. He’s my only son.”
“I will,” Derek answered feebly. It was a weak response and Derek knew it. His
answer didn’t deflect the truth of the Sheriff’s words because Derek knew that
he was only looking after his son in the only way he knew how. It was a
defensive protocol to protect his own and Derek understood that. It was perhaps
one of the few instincts he and the Sheriff shared in common, but Derek
couldn’t find a way to communicate that fact. It was like the neurons in his
brain had ceased to fire, getting clogged between the synapses in his head as
he searched to find the appropriate words. The last thing Derek wanted to do
was to break Stiles’ heart and Derek could see that fear riddling John’s face.
It was an unspoken apprehension between them— they knew it was as inevitable as
being cut by a broken piece of glass that was handled without gloves.
John let the air build with heaviness, appearing to accept that Derek
understood his concerns. After the tiny wheels of his wristwatch had
successfully ground away a deafening minute, he opened his mouth again with a
different tone. “You boys are being safe at least, right?”
The resulting sound as Stiles slammed his palms into his face resonated
throughout the steel room. “Oh. My. God. Shit-balls. DAD!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Stiles,” threatened the Sheriff. “I’m a
concerned parent. I don’t know what public education teaches you in sex ed
anymore, but in my book, STDs are still a bad thing.”
Derek endeavored not to be offended that John actually thought he had an STD to
transmit to Stiles. He wanted to point out that werewolves couldn’t carry
diseases, but the statement might inadvertently imply the lack of condoms that
Derek and Stiles had taken advantage of. Yeah, getting shot is not ranking high
on the list today. Derek decided that disabusing John of his carefully
constructed world was perhaps not the most strategic move and he prayed that
Stiles was crafty enough to follow suit.
“We are not talking about my sex life,” Stiles sputtered. “How is this even
happening?”
“Trust me,” John answered. “I’m not jumping through rainbow-colored hula-hoops
in joy to talk about this. But if you two are going to broadcast it
everywhere,” he stopped to gesture at the hickies on Stiles’ neck, “Then I’m
going to do everything in my power as a father to make this as equally
uncomfortable for you as it is for me. Fathers don’t exactly count down the
days until they get to leave condoms on their son’s boyfriend’s jacket.”
Derek surprised himself a little as he choked on the air in his lungs. John
looked pleased at the reaction. Stiles looked like he wanted to evaporate.
“It wasn’t exactly intentional,” Stiles said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Your noise level the other night suggested differently,” accused John. Stiles
looked like he was about to respond, but his father cut him off, looking
preemptively scarred by whatever justification Stiles was about to offer.
“Look, I get it. Just try to refrain when I’m at home. And if you’re going to
make a habit of ‘slumber parties’: Let. Me. Know. Using the front door might be
a helpful indicator for me, Derek. But if these slumber parties in any way
impede on other responsibilities, we’re going to have a much less civil
conversation. Capeesh?”
Derek replied with a respectful, “Yes, sir,” the way his mother had taught him
to.
“And if I hear any more ‘illicit activities’ while I’m home,” John began. “I
won’t hesitate to shoot you through the wall.”
Stiles looked like someone had just tasered him in the pouring rain. “Screw it.
I’m going after Morgan with you and Scott, Derek. At this point, I think I’ll
just let him kill me. It would be less painful than this whole experience.”
Chapter End Notes
     Lauren, you wanted a mention in our fic, here you go. You got a tiny
     bit eviscerated. Also, I want to aggressively huggle 3b Scott to make
     up for what we did to him in this part of the fic.
***** A Birthright Denied *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles learns something about himself and Scott and Derek have a
     confrontation.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Researching the Mesmer with Deaton was a valuable use of Stiles’ time. He
wouldn’t be much help hunting Peter, unless Peter had developed a taste for de-
virginized teenage boys. (The biggest flaw in any plan involving hunting Peter
by having Peter hunt Stiles was that it would make Stiles the bait for the
crazy ass werewolf, again. Stiles was quite happy to avoid that inevitability
for as long as he could.) The pack could hunt Peter much more effectively than
Stiles could. Derek could hunt his uncle by smell. Scott could control Peter
once they found him. The twins and Isaac, though they lacked Scott’s True Alpha
power or Derek’s familiarity with Peter’s scent, could still track him down
easily enough. Despite not being the Alpha of the pack, Ethan and Aiden were
still Alphas in their own right, and they could hold Peter until Scott worked
his True Alpha Mojo. Lydia, despite research saying she should have other
abilities, had only managed to manifest the ability to scream and be heard by
the pack from one end of the state to the other, and the ability to find every
dead person in a hundred mile radius. Allison was a far better choice to
protect Lydia, in the fact she had weapons training. Stiles still hadn’t
managed to find the time to have much training. He still had sarcasm as his
only weapon. Sarcasm was surprisingly effective against a handful of
supernatural beasties. The handful, unfortunately, amounted to about 0.0001% of
the beasties that had actually found their way to Beacon Hills.
Okay, okay, there was only one time sarcasm had worked. Stiles had managed to
distract a single Omega for long enough for Scott to show up. Scott’s True
Alpha mojo had sent the Omega packing, but Stiles was counting it as a win in
his favor.
Stiles’ sarcasm would not work on Peter. Keeping Stiles out of Peter’s way was
the very best thing you could do for him. Stiles’ sarcasm was likely to make
Peter kill him slowly, rather than just ripping his throat out. Stiles figured
that was Peter’s preferred method of disposing of people he thought of as “in
his way,” based on previous evidence.
That didn’t mean Stiles liked sitting in Deaton’s office while the pack hunted
for Peter and Peter hunted the pack. Add an insane and ridiculously powerful
Mesmer hunting the pack to the mix and include that the Mesmer had control of
Peter, and you had the perfect recipe for nightmares. So research. A lot of
research. It never made Stiles feel more powerful, but it might help the pack
survive. Stiles was okay with being the weakest member of the pack if something
he did was enough to help them survive.
Deaton, who Stiles knew was a thousand times more powerful than he was, never
seemed to have this problem. He was quite happy to sit in his office and do
research for Stiles’ Megabestiary. The Emissary had a stack of books in front
of him, all of which looked older than Stiles’ Papa Olaf. He’d been searching
through them while Stiles tried the internet. Deaton was having more success
than Stiles was, for once. The only references to Mesmers Stiles could find
were from Guild Wars 2. A couple years back Stiles would have played the MMO
until his eyes crossed, but now he wanted to hunt down the game’s designers and
shoot them. The game got a few things right, like the spectral sword Rhoderick
had used to stab Derek and the way his clones shattered into purple
butterflies, but it would not help them find a way to kill him. It was a video
game. In the mind of the game, if you hit it enough times, it would die. While
that would apparently work in real life, they had to get rid of all his clones
to get close enough to hit him at all. And they had to do it without the kind
of healing magic that made the fights seem so easy in the games.
Stiles had, however, found some information on Morgan. He was in his late
twenties, as far as Stiles could tell without better hacking skills than he
had. He considered calling Danny in to help him out, but he doubted any police
department in the United States would have the kind of records he needed to
help kill Morgan. Plus, Danny still didn’t know about Ethan, and it would be a
lot harder to hide the Mesmer’s supernatural nature without Derek there to
distract Danny when he started asking questions.
There were warrants for Morgan Rhoderick’s arrest in half the continental
United States. Few of them agreed on his gender and none of them agreed on his
appearance. In fact, there were only two things they all agreed on: 1.) that he
was highly dangerous and should be treated as armed at all times. Only a few
states lacked the “shoot on sight” order. (Stiles didn’t know that “shoot on
sight” was an order that could be used when the suspect was a human being. He
was going to have a very stern talk with his father.) And 2.) that his name was
Morgan Rhoderick, “Mesmer to the Order of Hveðrungr and Acolyte of Chance.” As
far as Stiles could tell, Rhoderick pretty much walked into any given city
where there was a power source he was after and announced his name to the
world. He wondered how many people Rhoderick had introduced himself to before
he’d found the pack. It sure seemed like he spent hours just walking around in
all the other places he had arrest warrants for going “Hello, I’m Morgan
Rhoderick and I’m here to kill you!” Stiles had done some research on the Order
of Hveðrungr, after he’d spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to spell
it, only to have Deaton tell him it was an obscure name for Loki, and the order
was just a group of his followers.
Deaton had found far more references to Mesmers than he had expected. He had
several pages of handwritten notes that would later be compiled into Stiles’
frustratingly empty word document. Well, one of Stiles’ documents was
frustratingly empty. He’d created a new file to go along with his “bitching
about sourwolf” one that he had titled “Morgan Rhoderick is the most annoying
ass ever and that includes Peter.” As the file was mostly long strings of
curses, it was not particularly helpful to their research. It was, however,
very helpful to Stiles.
“Stiles,” Deaton said. Stiles had the feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d
said Stiles’ name, but Stiles had been busily adding to the “Bitching about
Morgan” file. The first four pages were various synonyms for “arrogant
asshole.” He was quite proud of it. He wondered if there was a Guinness world
record for “Most Ways to Call Someone an Arrogant Asshole.” He made a note to
check.
Stiles realized he was trying not to think about Derek and his father. The more
he said about Morgan, the less he thought about Derek’s face while his father
had given them the relationship talk. Stiles had been mortified, he was never
going to look his father in the eye again, but Derek had looked as though he
believed everything Sheriff Stilinski was telling him. To be fair, most of what
John said was true, but now Derek was going to go on one of his pity-party,
“sacrifice myself because I’m an angst monster with no sense of self
preservation” kicks. Stiles was not going to let him. He and Derek were going
to talk about his issues. They would work on them. He would likely never get
over all the traumas he’d suffered through his life, but grown-ups in grown-up
relationships talked about their issues and helped each other function. That
was what made them grown-up.
Deaton sighed. “Stiles, are you with me?”
“I always was,” Stiles replied instantly, and then shook his head. Deaton was
looking at him like he was insane. “Sorry. Riddick.” Deaton didn’t look any
less confused, but he shook his head and moved on.
“Did Morgan say anything?”
“He said a lot. The man likes to talk. Mostly about himself.” Stiles threw
himself back at the Morgan File to curse at him some more.
“Did he say anything about why he was here?” Stiles shrugged.
“Scott’s a True Alpha,” he said. Deaton nodded, accepting the information.
Stiles wondered if it was possible there might be another reason; clearly
Deaton seemed to think so. Scott’s True Alpha Mojo made him a powerful target,
and the way they’d been chasing supernatural beasties out of Beacon Hills for
six months made it even more attractive, but Scott wasn’t the only powerful
thing in California. There were other packs that were stronger. More and more
creatures, that until a few years ago, Stiles would have sworn were mythical
came calling on a weekly basis. Just because Morgan had seemed to only target
the pack didn’t mean he was targeting only the pack. “What else could he be
after? There have been a lot of nasty things in town recently. Dad’s almost had
to consider changing the standard ‘mountain lion’ disclaimer.”
It depressed Stiles quite a lot that changing the city’s “Gee, there sure are a
lot of people dying now we should have a reason for it! And it sure looks like
something with claws did it! Must have been a mountain lion!” disclaimer
actually counted as a measure of how bad things had gotten. What made it worse
was that for the past decade plus, Stiles’ own father was the one who had been
giving the “Mountain lion killed this person” excuse, and until the last year,
they’d both believed it. That was the kind of plot hole he’d thrown a fit over
on Buffy! How stupid are people? I guess people are willing to believe anything
to deny just how terrifying reality can be.
Deaton made some notes in his tiny, neat, cramped handwriting. “I’ll do some
research on seeing what else might have the kind of power he might be after.
Did he say anything else?”
“He kept saying ‘mimic.’” That caught Deaton’s attention as his head snapped up
from writing.
“Specifically toward you? A Mimic?” Stiles could hear the difference between
the way he said “mimic” and the way Deaton said it. He could hear the capital.
“Yeah. Kept calling me a ‘mimic.’ It was creepy as shit.”
“Stiles, he called you a Mimic. Have you come across any references to Mimics?”
Stiles felt like Deaton was trying to lead him to something, but Stiles hadn’t
come across anything.
“Well, besides the fact that mimes are creepy in general, all I can find out is
that Mesmer is a popular class on Guild Wars 2. They like purple. And
butterflies. And it really depresses me that neither of those things are
incorrect in describing Morgan.” Almost all of the utterly ridiculous, ‘There’s
no way that’s actually true,’ moves a Mesmer could learn were 100% spot on. So
spot on, in fact, Stiles wondered if the animators of the game had interviewed
a Mesmer when they were working on it.
“Not a mime, Stiles,” Deaton replied, shaking his head. “Stiles, a Mimic is a
being that can use his or her imagination or sheer force of will to ward off
the abilities of a Mesmer.” He moved one stack of books to get at one of them
near the bottom. Stiles had seen it before. It looked like one of the oldest
books Stiles had ever seen, which explained why Stiles hadn’t gotten to it.
He’d been focusing on books that referenced things they’d actually seen. This
book was obscurity given shape. Stiles had given the book the title “The
Obscure Book of Obscure Obscurity: Obscuring Obscure Obscurities that are
Obscure.” It would be longer, but by that point Stiles had forgotten if
“obscure” was actually a real word and he’d had to go look it up. It was. The
definition was “not discovered or known about; uncertain.” Stiles had honestly
thought he might never get to the book. “A Mimic can destroy or change
illusions using the power of their imaginations.”
“Seriously? Imagination?” That sounded a little too “inspirational speech” for
Stiles. Scott would buy it. Scott would believe just about anything. Stiles was
not so gullible. “What am I, six? Don’t answer that.”
“Einstein said imagination is more important than knowledge.” Deaton said.
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Someone else said ‘Imagination makes us
infinite.’”
“So, what, a Mimic is some kind of Anti-Mesmer?”
Deaton nodded. “More or less. A Mimic can, with practice, disrupt a Mesmer’s
abilities to create and maintain their illusions. They’re referenced
occasionally in Norse mythology, but they’re much rarer than Mesmers. A Mesmer
is a human that steals power from other beings. Like an Emissary, a Mimic is
born with his ‘power.’ But it’s not really a power per say. It’s simply someone
with the capacity to channel their will into action.” While several of Deaton’s
books had references to Mesmers, even the Obscure book of Obscure things had
only a small section on Mimics.
“And Morgan is telling me that I’m a Mimic. He’s telling me I have the power to
defeat him.”
“That’s how it appears.” Deaton smiled. Stiles was disturbed by how much it
disturbed him. Deaton smiling like that was not normal. “You are certainly the
most imaginative of the pack.”
“Are you telling me I can stop him because I’m the most childish?” That wasn’t
fair! Isaac was far more puppy-like than Stiles! Scott was as gullible as
anyone Stiles had ever met. The twins were still stuck as high school jocks.
They would probably always be stuck as high school jocks. In a lot of ways,
Derek was still the fourteen year old boy who had killed his first girlfriend.
Lydia—Lydia was centuries more mature than Stiles would ever be. Stiles had
come to terms with that.
“No, I’m saying you have the most active imagination of the entire pack.”
“So my imagination is magic?”
Deaton shook his head. “More like anti-magic. As I said before, a Mimic can use
sheer force of will to break the magic a Mesmer uses. They’re very similar to
True Alphas in that regard.” The vet grinned again. It was no less unnerving.
“Based on your imagination and your—” He paused for long enough that Stiles
wanted to say ‘I get it I’m stubborn I’m the most stubborn. Can we move on?’
“—willpower, I’d say it is likely you are a Mimic.”
“Yay me!” Stiles said, sarcastically while waving his forefinger through the
air. “So I have a ‘not-power’ that I have no idea how to use and it’s most
likely going to make me even more of a target for Beacon Hills newest baddie?”
“Probably.”
“Hallelujah.”
*                           *                                 *
Derek imagined that it would have been easier to track Peter considering the
substantial amount of time that Derek was spending around Peter these days.
Unfortunately, however, this did not seem to be the case as Scott and Derek
bounded in and out of alleyways at every right turn when Derek caught Peter’s
scent. Each time they slid into the watery murk of an isolated alley only to
find a dead end or have the scent contradicted and lead a different direction,
Derek could feel Scott’s exasperation churning off of him like ripples in a
puddle. With every misstep, Derek felt like he was arming Scott with another
excuse to justify his reasoning concerning his relationship with Stiles. It was
stupid and Derek knew that, because the two events weren’t even vaguely
related, but that didn’t mean Scott couldn’t find a way to make it pertinent to
blaming Derek. He felt like he and Scott were playing a game of Jenga and Scott
was slowly pulling the blocks out from under Derek’s feet until his foundations
crumbled.
Derek sighed, disgruntled, as he and Scott came to an eventual halt outside of
the entrance of an adult bookstore in an alley named Bound in Lace. Derek
couldn’t seem to rein his senses in long enough to gain control of the
situation and reach some clarity about what the fuck was going on. Peter’s
scent was moving like there was three of him instead of one crazy-off-his-
rocker werewolf. For a moment, Derek considered the possibility that Morgan was
somehow duplicating his scent, but Derek wasn’t even sure if that was possible.
He knew that the Mesmer had somehow masked his own scent in the warehouse and
that’s why the other werewolves had trouble locating him, but Derek wasn’t even
sure that the former thought was even possible—that also meant that Derek
wouldn’t rule it out as plausible.
As Derek scuffled his way through the alley attempting to sort out which one of
the three scents that he and Scott needed to follow, he heard a snarl rattle
like a snare from Scott’s throat. It wasn’t one of warning or even promising a
threat, but rather dissatisfaction. It was a growl that an Alpha used when he
was putting his Betas in their place.
Derek’s back was turned to the Alpha as he spoke. “What, Scott?”
“This is taking too long,” Scott began, his voice saturated with irritation.
“Peter could be out there killing someone else right now.”
“I’m aware,” Derek retorted. He kept his back toward Scott; a sign of
disrespect to the displeased Alpha, but Derek played it off as though he was
still sifting through scents.
“It’s so nice to see you care, Derek.”
That statement made Derek bristle despite his best efforts to impede Scott’s
plan of being a complete douche today. Derek wasn’t stupid; he could translate
unspoken intention coupled with Scott’s domineering posture. He knew what Scott
wanted to say now that he and Derek were alone. Scott’s ability to contain all
his frustration had slowly been chipping away as the chase for Peter became
more complex; it had manifested in several ways ranging from the occasional
sigh, displeased glances Derek’s direction when Derek couldn’t figure out which
way to go, or snide remarks made under Scott’s breath that Scott was well aware
Derek could hear. Derek had tried his best to shrug all of the little hints
off, but this last comment stuck like a dart in a piece of corkboard.
Derek refused to turn his body fully and instead angled his head over his
shoulder. “What, Scott, now that you’re an Alpha, you suddenly know everyone’s
intentions?” Derek couldn’t repress the sneer that revealed the slightest hint
of bare teeth as he bit off the words.
Scott didn’t seem to miss the nuance of tone and body language. “No, Derek,
it’s the fact that no one everseems to know your intentions that bothers me.”
And there it was again—the truth ringing clear in Scott’s words with a gravity
that made Derek feel like he was rooted in place. Next to Stiles, Scott was
perhaps the one other person who knew Derek best, which was apparently making
it easier for Scott to find all the chinks in Derek’s armor. Knowledge is power
after all. Derek knew this moment was going to happen eventually. He may have
even known it before he admitted his feelings for Stiles to himself. Whenever
that was.After all the happenstance of his life and just how often he and
Stiles had gotten shoved together—literally as well as figuratively—some part
of Derek must have recognized the inevitability of where he was standing this
very moment; facing down the only person in Stiles’ life who could truly
protect Stiles from the danger that continuously orbited him (a danger that
included Derek). Derek tried to resist his anger; the only familiar weapon in
his arsenal, but simultaneously a weapon made dull by time—the anchor that
always magnetized him to the wrong choice with its invisible pull. Derek tried
and he failed.
Derek wheeled on Scott, his shoulders broadening in defense as he barked at the
Alpha. “What do you think is going to happen exactly, Scott?” All pretense of
the conversation at hand being about Peter was now lost.
“That someone is going to get hurt,” responded Scott evenly.
“Someone,” Derek mimicked rhetorically. “Someone. By someone you don’t mean
Isaac, Lydia or even Allison, do you, Scott? You mean, Stiles.”
Scott didn’t deny it. His face remained vacant as he met Derek’s eyes. “Can you
promise he won’t be hurt? Either by you or because of you? Derek, look at
what’s happened in your past and tell me it’s not still happening in the
present while we’re standing in an alley looking for Peter because he’s gone on
a killing spree. What if that girl had been Stiles instead?”
The words sounded like a threat to Derek. He quickly found himself invading
Scott’s space with his eyes bearing down on him, but the younger man didn’t
appear fazed. “But it wasn’t, was it, Scott?” It was a pitiful remark to make
mainly because the thought had already flickered through Derek’s head. Fighting
against your own conscience is like trying to suddenly sprout gills to breathe
when you’re already drowning.
“But it could have been,” Scott continued. “Derek, this isn’t some personal
crusade to stamp out your happiness. This is about my best friend and his
safety. Stiles is my brother. He’s saved me more times than I can count and I
can’t just sit back and watch him walk into danger.”
“But each time he walks willingly into it for you, Scott,” Derek snapped. “Big
words for someone who never seems to be around to save Stiles and instead I end
up doing it for you.”
For once, Derek knew what it felt like to be the onlooker as the gravity of
truth cemented someone in their place. The weight of Derek’s accusation tugged
Scott’s shoulders down and the younger man couldn’t refute the truth. Derek
would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t a little self-satisfied. “I know,”
Scott said nodding his head. “Stiles does more for this pack than anyone is
willing to admit and I keep making the mistake of letting him put himself in
danger to do those things for us. I even felt guilty when I asked Stiles to
check up on you at Peter’s when you came back to Beacon Hills!”
That last sentence came cascading down on Derek as the words poured from
Scott’s mouth. Derek could almost hear the realization register in Scott’s head
as the unintentional words passed between them. Derek knew he didn’t need to
ask the question at this point, but anger spoke up where his mouth wouldn’t.
“What do you mean, ‘check up on?’” Derek could hear the betrayal echo in his
own voice; he desperately wished he could recapture the words to avoid the
pitiful look that Scott was wearing.
“I—he, he didn’t tell you?” Scott asked, looking as wounded as Derek was now
feeling. Derek of course did his best to mask that feeling whereas Scott wore
it in plain sight.
“What do you mean ‘check up on,’ Scott?”
Scott’s lips twitched as his brain searched in desperation for something to
say. “When you came back to Beacon Hills without so much as a word about
rejoining the pack, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know why you were
back and you were staying with Peter of all people. I won’t say it looked bad,
Derek, but it definitely didn’t look good. So—so I—”
“So you sent Stiles to spy on me,” Derek offered.
Scott nodded meekly. “Derek, I swear, I thought that Stiles had already
explained everything to you!”
Anger is like a venomous snake bite. The pain starts at the source and at a
crawling pace it slithers its way through your veins until all voluntary action
has been taken away and all you can do is coil in on yourself or lash out
against the pain with what little energy you have left in a fight to survive.
Derek knew he was the kind of person to lash out. It was unsettling just how
much Stiles’ lie—or withholding of the truth—affected Derek. It made his
muscles heavy like lead and it made his skin burn as his blood rushed beneath
it. The realization that Stiles could actually hurt him was maybe the more
unsettling revelation; one that Derek wasn’t sure he was okay with. It conjured
up vivid memories of houses engulfed by flames and a string of deaths that
would all be a repercussion of his decision that day. Scott’s motivations may
have been suspect, but Derek couldn’t deny the truth of what he was saying—it’s
why Derek hadn’t fought back in front of the pack when Scott had lashed out; he
didn’t want to be the one to draw that line in the sand.
It had been a tiny battle that Derek had barely managed to win when he
suppressed his fears long enough to actually be with someone; to be with
someone he actually cared about—cared about a lot in fact. Now that Derek knew
about Stiles’ “little lie,” it felt like he really was playing a game of Jenga
as every concern and previous mistake he’d ever made in the world of romance
tipped over to bury him. While it didn’t affect the end result of what had
happened between him and Stiles, Derek just couldn’t shake the knowledge that
all of his recent happiness had been based on a lie. And it was a lie that
Stiles was apparently content to keep. It all hit too close to home for Derek;
even when this lie was on the opposite end of the spectrum from the type of lie
that Kate or even Jennifer had told. Derek knew how all of this was going to
end way before it had ever started. When he had looked into the Sheriff’s eyes
through the entirety of his speech, both the Sheriff and Derek knew how this
was going to end. They both knew it would end.
“Derek—” Scott attempted to say before being cut off by someone poking their
head out of the adult bookstore that they had continued to loiter around.
Derek cocked his head the direction of the observer. It was a less-than-subtle
attempt to change the subject and to evade Scott’s guilt-ridden face. Derek was
hardly inclined to absolve Scott of his guilt for telling Derek the truth about
Stiles. As vindictive as he knew it was, Derek thought Scott deserved to
squirm. Scott was getting what he wanted after all. A woman looking more like
she was on her way to a masquerade ball than coming out of an adult bookstore
sashayed out of the store’s doorway. The woman was clearly a frequenter of the
store and Derek couldn’t help but internally comment that she looked like she
was imprisoned in her needlessly lacey ball gown.
The woman wore a corset with a pair of matching gloves that looked like they
would either belong at whatever masquerade ball she was attending or to a
dominatrix at the very least. Her wisteria-colored skirt flared out in an
exquisite pattern that entrapped her form, making her take up much more space
than her lithe figure demanded. She glanced Derek and Scott’s direction with a
mystified expression as the ember curls of her hair tumbled across her
shoulders, settling with suggestion atop her mostly-exposed chest. Derek could
almost feel Scott resisting the urge to stare at her tits. He rolled his eyes
to himself in annoyance.
“Gentlemen,” the woman said blithely. Her voice was saccharine and melodic.
“You two are making quite the fuss out here, you know that?” Her movements were
slow but sprightly as she entered Scott and Derek’s space.
“Sorry, we took a wrong turn,” Derek replied as a deflection.
The woman’s expression suggested that she didn’t believe that explanation for a
second. “Sweetie, no one takes a wrong turn and ends up in this part of town by
accident.”
“Two stubborn men who won’t stop and ask for directions? Sounds pretty likely
to me,” Derek offered.
“Maybe,” the woman agreed. “But it sounded to me like you both were arguing
about relationship troubles. Everyone in the store could hear it.”
Derek tensed at the remark. “Yeah, well, it’s nothing that’s any of your
business,” he bit off briskly. Scott shot him an incensed look that Derek was
sure translated to, ‘Dude, don’t be mean to the pretty lady.’ Derek wanted to
punch him.
“Trouble in paradise?” the woman teased.
“What part of ‘it’s not your business’ are you not getting?”
“Ooh, he’s a surly one,” the woman commented looking Scott’s direction. Derek
was certain he saw Scott blush when she turned her eyes on him. It was all
Derek could do notto bash Scott in the head with the nearest blunt object. “But
you,” she continued, pointing at Scott. “You’ve got the biggest puppy eyes I’ve
ever seen. You’re absolutely adorable.” Scott definitely blushed at that. “You
know, they might have something inside that could help you two fix your
relationship problems.”
Scott’s mouth tilted open in shock. “I’m not—I mean, he is. Wait, what are you,
dude? But we’re not—” Scott emphasized his garbled statement with a ‘no way’
gesture of his hands.
“We’re not together,” Derek finished, growing steadily irritated as the
conversation continued to pick up momentum.
“That so?” the woman asked; it sounded more like a statement than a question.
She had suddenly moved herself much farther into Derek’s personal bubble and
Derek was none too pleased by the action. “So which one of you cuties is spoken
for?” It took all of Derek’s self-control not to violently snatch her hand as
she began rubbing her palm up and down his right bicep. “Mm, so firm.”
“I am,” Derek snapped, removing his arm from her clutches. Scott looked
positively jealous of the attention that Derek was receiving. He looked like a
younger brother who was watching his older brother overshadow him yet again.
“Doesn’t sound like it for much longer,” the woman said in a positively
lascivious tone.
“You really don’t know how to mind your own business, do you?” Derek said.
“It’s a nasty habit,” she admitted as her other hand came up to settle on
Derek’s right pec. “It’s really too bad, you know? For your—?” She looked
Scott’s direction, fishing for an answer.
“Boyfriend,” Scott croaked out.
“Boyfriend,” she finished with a nod. “He clearly doesn’t know what a huge
mistake he’s made if he’s been lying to you. I’d sooner jump off a bridge than
lie someone as handsome as you.”  
Derek couldn’t resist this time as he gripped her wrist and forcibly removed
her hand from his chest. “Thanks for the input. I’ll be sure to let him know
you said so.” Derek was still holding her wrist in the air so she couldn’t
continue manhandling him.
“Poor thing,” she whispered, a smile tipping across her face.
“What?” Derek said with narrowed eyes.
“You’re going to break that poor little Mimic’s heart, little Hale.”
Derek’s grip tightened on her wrist as realization flooded his brain. “What did
you just say?”
The woman’s smile broadened before she bellowed three words as a mantra.
“Obfuscate. Disorient. Confuse!”
As the words rose through the concrete and asphalt, a strange noise that
sounded like snickering children suddenly occupied all the silence surrounding
them. The echoes of laughter came and went as though their distance was
perpetually changing; shifting to a clamor of whispers and growing into a
deafening roar at the same time. Derek’s vision blurred and his head swam with
a wisteria light that sent him grasping at his temple to stop the whirling
pain. Derek had never experienced vertigo before, but from what he had been
told, he imagined it felt something like this. He toppled over, unable to
establish where the ground started and the sky above him ended. As he hit the
ground, Derek realized that the effects of the spell had caused him to shift
but left him in no condition to fight. Derek heard Scott hit the ground at
around the same time he had, which meant that even True Alphas were susceptible
to Morgan’s spells.
“How have any of you pups managed to survive this long?” Morgan asked with a
hint of mirth in her voice. Derek gazed up at the Mesmer, her form doubling
from his blurry vision. Derek tried to growl in response, but his body seemed
to be acting of its own accord at this point and all Derek managed to do was
roll over. “I could have had your Alpha dancing to a fiddle if I had wanted to.
And you, little Hale, you’re too caught up in your own heartache to see the
obvious signs of danger right in front of your face.”
Derek tried to speak. He tried to tell her to fuck off, but all that came out
was a low groan.
“Oh, yes, don’t try to speak,” Morgan continued. “The Mantra of Distraction
scrambles your neural functions making it impossible for your brain to
communicate what your body should do. The synapses in your head are basically
playing Old Maid at the moment.” Morgan moved past Derek, her grace carrying
her toward Scott who lay coiled at the mouth of the alley. Morgan’s shoes
clicked together as she stopped at Scott’s head; looking down at the disarmed
Alpha. She smiled. With one swift move, Morgan’s leg swung up with wicked
alacrity as her foot crashed into the side of Scott’s head. She knelt down and
poked at the newly formed gash at Scott’s temple, appearing indefinitely
amused. “You thought you were so clever back in that warehouse, didn’t you? You
thought you could protect them all from me because you’re a True Alpha? Tell
me, Scott, how are you going to protect them from yourself?”
Derek saw Morgan produce a tarot card as she flicked it on top of Scott’s chest
who was helpless to resist. “The King of Cups should do nicely for you, my
little True Alpha.” The Mesmer let out a manic giggle at Scott’s expense. “Oh,
this is going to be fun. Watching you rip apart your best friend until he’s
nothing more than strips of meat and a pile of bones will be the highlight of
this little trip to Beacon Hills.”
Derek struggled again; searching for the strength and mental clarity to react
somehow. All Derek managed to do was produce a low growl that caught Morgan’s
attention. Morgan rose with elegance and came to hover above him.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, little Hale,” she began. She knelt down,
looking Derek in the eye as she spoke. “You know, you disappoint me.” About
what, Derek didn’t know and couldn’t say that he honestly cared. “Your mother,
Talia, was a formidable wolf, but you? You’re just predictable. Throw in a dash
of heartache with a martyr complex and I’ve got an emotional knife that I could
use to gut you like a fish with. Then again,” she paused. “I’m disappointed in
you for far greater reasons. Why, you might ask? Because the one thing that
your family had that I wanted, none of you pathetic pups seem to have! Maybe if
you had even been a quarter of the Alpha that Talia had been, I wouldn’t be
standing here preforming this little diatribe and I could have left this
shithole of a town already!”
Derek’s mind raced. He considered what the Mesmer meant about his family having
something that she wanted, but nothing specific came to mind. Whatever it was,
it was apparently powerful enough to attract the Mesmer back to Beacon Hills
after Derek’s mother had died.
“You’re so dull,” Morgan said with a sigh. “I can see the cogs behind your eyes
turning and you still can’t figure it out. Your little Mimic would have puzzled
it together by now. So, allow me to explain. Some of the Hales had a very
special power that was rare even amongst your kind, little Hale.” She stopped
with a leer. “Ah, now I can see the red lights flashing in your mind’s eye.”
It was a very apt description of what had occurred within Derek’s head. His
mother’s ability to transform fully into a wolf not only made her an anomaly
amongst his own kind, but it gained her a lot of respect from neighboring
packs. As beautiful as she was wise, Talia Hale was not someone to challenge
lightly and her rare gift made her stronger and more powerful than most
werewolves. Laura had also inherited her mother’s gift, but when she had been
killed by Peter, Derek knew that the Hale gift had been lost because neither he
nor Cora had inherited it. When Derek had returned to Beacon Hills to bury his
sister, he had mourned the fact that such an important piece of the Hale pack
had died along with Laura and it killed him to know that he was never meant to
be a leader or inherit a birthright that could help restore his family’s name.
Morgan groaned. “Oh, pup, I can sense the bottled-up angst from here. Do you
always have to be so stoic?” Morgan shifted down completely on her knees now,
hovering directly above Derek’s face as her voice dropped to a whisper. “You
may have failed miserably at being an Alpha, but you’ve failed even more
miserably at being a Hale. You know, I really have no use for you anymore now
that I know for sure that neither you nor Peter has the Hale gift. I could kill
you,” she mused to herself. “Or I can use your Alpha and your uncle to destroy
everyone that Scott has ever cared about and when that’s all said and done,
Scott will almost elatedly throw himself on my knife. And that’s way more
effective than me killing you. It may not be the Hale power, but the power of a
True Alpha? That’s nearly as good.” The last sentence was the blade of the
knife, but Derek knew that wasn’t everything she’d intended to say. There was
still the poison on the blade to consider. Morgan chuckled to herself. “But the
power of a broken True Alpha? Now that’s the best any Mesmer could hope for.”
He wasn’t entirely sure how he managed it, but for a moment, the fog of Derek’s
vision lifted as his eyes erupted blue and he roared out a threat while
gnashing his fangs. After the small act of defiance, however, his head felt
like it was going to implode as the bleary wisteria haze settled on his eyes
again.
Morgan huffed in delight. “You’ve got balls, little Hale. But that will only
get you so far. Now that your Alpha is taking a long drop with a short stop
toward insanity, the real fun begins.” With that comment, Morgan knelt down and
pressed her lips against Derek’s. Her lips moved gently against his own like
she was trying to convince his lips to move in response, but all it did was
made Derek’s stomach curdle. He wanted to clamp down on her face with his
fangs, but the previous exertion had left him unable to even growl in reply. As
Morgan broke the kiss, she leaned back up with an examining look. She moved her
hands across his chest in languid movement. “Mm, like I said, your boyfriend
doesn’t know what a huge mistake he’s made by lying to you.”
The Mesmer rose to her feet and walked to the mouth of the alley where Scott
was still compressed into a fetal position. She glanced downward at him and the
tarot card still pressing like a weight against his chest. “Enjoy the ride,
pup. I know I will.” Derek could hear the sneer in her words despite not being
able to see her face. She turned one final gaze on Derek before leaving.
“Little Hale, try not to be too much of a martyr. And remember ‘it’s always the
idle habits you acquire which you will regret. Christ was not crucified: he was
worn away by a minute clicking of little wheels.’”
Chapter End Notes
     I had way too much fun writing Morgan this time around. I can never
     decide if I want someone to shank him/her or if I want to hug him/
     her.
     More fun to come next week! Hopefully y'all are enjoying the story so
     far! Also, just wanted to say thanks to those of you who take the
     time to comment! Gillian and I love the feedback and we'd be glad to
     hear what any of you have to say! :D
     ~ARPoet
***** To Make a Hell of Heaven *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles and Derek deal with the fallout of Scott's big mouth.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Shit fuck damn shit! Stiles tripped over his shoelaces, or possibly his Jeep’s
tire, or even his own feet, he wasn’t sure and he was in too much of a hurry to
check. Morgan had gone after Derek and Scott just like Lydia had insinuated he
would. He’d cornered them away from the pack, which Stiles figured was the only
way Morgan could manage to take Scott out. But to add whipped cream and a
cherry to the steaming pile of shit that Morgan had left the pack, he’d given
Scott a tarot card. Scott had called Stiles, his voice tiny and far away. He’d
told Stiles they’d been attacked by Morgan and the others weren’t answering
their phones . Stiles could hear Derek in the background grousing at Scott, but
he couldn’t make out what he was saying. The second he’d said where they
were—outside a skeezy looking adult bookstore in a skeezier alleyway—Stiles had
taken off in a dead run for his baby. The drive across town may have included a
series of traffic violations and one near-death experience, and Stiles prayed
to the benevolent gods above that no one recognized him and told his dad about
his flirtations with reckless endangerment.
Scott and Derek were both still lying on the ground in the alley when he
arrived. Stiles ran to Derek’s side and shrunk beside him after making sure
Scott wasn’t hurt as well. Some small part of his brain idly commented that by
the time he was his father’s age, unless this whole Mimic gig came with super
special heal-y powers the way being a werewolf did, he would be lucky if he
wasn’t stuck in a wheelchair . If he lived that long . There was always a
nagging voice in the back of Stiles’ mind reminding him that he very well might
not. Stiles usually ignored that voice; opting out for forced optimism instead.
He especially ignored that voice when Derek had just been attacked by something
that could easily have killed him. It was a disconcerting reminder that Morgan
was toying with them and putting all the pieces into play; whatever those
pieces might be.
Derek’s torso bent as he lifted himself onto his elbow in an attempt to get off
the ground. Stiles watched in concern as he struggled to sit up.
“Are you okay?” Stiles asked, grabbing Derek’s jacket to help haul him into a
sitting position. Not seeing any immediate wounds that would deter him from it,
Stiles threw himself at Derek in a relieved hug. Derek’s posture went taut and
he patted Stiles’ arm the same way Scott did when they hadn’t seen each other
in a few days and both boys felt it became necessary to share the obligatory
bro-hug. It was strange; Stiles felt like he was hugging a brick wall—a very
stoic brick wall. He wanted to strip Derek and check him over for injuries
—just to be thorough of course—Derek’s demeanor, however, seemed to indicate
that he would refuse to cooperate with this idea, and after only a moment,
Derek shook Stiles off with a shrug.
“I’m fine,” Derek grunted. He had to let Stiles help him again to stand, but as
soon as Derek had found his balance, he let go of Stiles and withdrew; leaving
what felt like an awkward distance to Stiles between them. He stumbled a
little, but managed to make it close enough to the wall to lean against it.
Stiles would have preferred he lean against him. 1.) It meant touching Derek,
and that was always a bonus to his day , and 2.) that wall was right outside an
adult bookstore named Bound in Lace. God knows what was on it. STDs? Bodily
fluids? Shame?
“How did you know where we were?” Scott asked from where he still lay, a few
feet away. His phone was clenched in his hand as he fought to move. “I didn’t
get a chance to tell you.”
“Believe it or not, there aren’t that many skeezy adult bookstores in the town
proper.” Stiles replied. “Most of them are in the outskirts. Apparently, most
of them target truckers, and there just aren’t that many in town.” Derek was
watching Stiles as he went to help Scott up. Scott didn’t question Stiles’
logic. Stiles privately thought it was because Scott knew that Stiles knew what
he was talking about. Probably, that tiny, cynical part of his brain said it
was that Scott just didn’t want to know what had lead to Stiles researching the
locations of every adult bookstore in town. It had been part of a (non-
werewolf-related) murder case his father had been investigating the year
before, believe it or not. Stiles had been the first to see the connection
between adult bookstores with back rooms that didn’t exist and the victims .
“What is up with your phone? I could barely hear you!”
“I couldn’t move. I barely got my phone out of my pocket, and I could only call
you because you’re on my speed dial.” It took Scott a lot longer to stretch out
of his fetal position than it had taken Derek to stand. He leaned heavily on
Stiles as he stood. Derek grumbled slightly in what seemed like disapproval,
but Stiles figured it was just because Morgan now had Scott under her power,
and therefore Scott could, in theory, go crazy and rip Stiles’ throat out at
any given moment . However, everyone else had taken at least a day to go that
nuts, so Stiles was willing to risk it.
A tarot card lay a few feet from Scott. It looked like he’d tried to throw it
away but wasn’t strong enough to do it. Derek came over to help Scott stand.
Stiles picked up the card. “The King of Cups.” He said, turning it over in his
hands. The illustration showed a king entrenched by water wielding both a
scepter and chalice. Stiles hadn’t researched anything but the Major Arcana
when he’d been trying to figure out Morgan’s endgame.
“Stiles,” Scott said slowly as he and Derek began limping slowly toward the
Jeep. “I don’t know why she told us, but we know Morgan’s plan. She said she
was trying to break me! She’s gonna try to use me to kill everyone I care
about. You have to keep me away from everyone. Lock me up somewhere, put me in
a circle of mountain ash, or give me a horse tranquilizer! I don’t care! Just
keep me away from my mom and the pack!”
“She?” Stiles asked, now pondering the use and importance of pronouns in
language.
“He was a she !” Scott sounded almost indignant, which Stiles thought was
amusing, because apparently Scott found gender-bending quite confusing. Some of
the police files had been uncertain as to Morgan’s gender but Stiles hadn’t
been sure why. He had thought it was just because of the way he dressed, but
apparently not. Derek let out a snort that on someone else would have been
called unattractive. It may have been just Stiles, but he wasn’t certain he’d
ever seen Derek do anything that wasn’t attractive. Derek could have suddenly
broken out into the chicken dance on the hood of Stiles’ Jeep and Stiles would
have recounted the event like it had been a strip tease.
Never doubt the clever use of imagination.
Although there was one exception to the Derek Hale Rule of
Attractiveness—anything to do with Ms. Blake and Derek made Stiles want to
punch kittens. Stiles wasn’t going to say he was jealous of Ms. Blake when she
was with Derek, because she was an evil crazy bitch who had tried to kill his
father, Mrs. McCall, and Mr. Argent, but part of him, looking back, knew the
reason he’d instinctively disliked her from day one was because she was
interested in Derek. He also really couldn’t claim jealousy because he wasn’t
even sure if he’d been aware of his feelings for Derek back then, but in
retrospect, it explained a lot in the present. Stiles didn’t like anyone who
was interested in Derek. Which meant he didn’t like himself. Blah, whatever .
This probably wasn’t the time or place for Stiles to get into his issues when
Scott was on the verge of a mental collapse. He’d be sure to jot down that
thought later and talk to his therapist about it. Maybe excluding the bits
about Jennifer Blake being a homicidal maniac. Then again, maybe not?
Scott and Derek made it to the Jeep and Stiles helped them climb in. Derek,
before Stiles could open the front, hauled himself across the back seat and lay
down. It looked ridiculously uncomfortable to say the least. The backseat was
far from roomy, and Derek was about the same height as Stiles. Stiles had slept
in that backseat once or twice, and had always woken up sore and feeling
compressed. As Stiles watched him “settle in,” he was left wondering about the
awkward distance Derek had put between them again. He dismissed the thought;
assuming that the encounter with Morgan had taken a lot out of both Derek and
Scott. Stiles remembered his own previous encounter with Morgan—he recalled the
incommunicable pain he had experienced and winced at the memory. It made sense
that both Derek and Scott would need to detox and Stiles would be more than
willing to help Derek with that part later in private.
Scott struggled to climb into the shotgun seat and tried to speak as he did.
“Stiles, there’s something else I’ve gotta tell you.”
Stiles jumped in and started the car. “So where are we going to take you?” He
asked, interrupting Scott.
“The station .” Derek ordered from the back seat. “We can tie him up there.”
Stiles nodded—though he doubted Derek was looking at him—putting his car in
drive, he headed that way.
“Stiles,” Scott said; his voice dropping an octave, just this side of panicked.
“I know you’re mad at me, but before I completely lose it, there’s something
I’ve gotta say—”
Scott was right about one thing, Stiles was definitely not update-your-
Facebook-status-level-happy with Scott, but that didn’t mean he wanted to watch
his best friend slowly go insane. “We’re going to figure this out before you go
nuts, Scott .” Stiles insisted. He still had no idea how to break the curse,
and he knew it was an empty platitude of a concerned friend, but they’d figure
it out. He had been working on finding correlations between events when Allison
and Derek had broken free. So far, aside from Isaac and Lydia being present at
both, he hadn’t found any, but he was working on it. Plus, Deaton was doing
more research on Mimics. Stiles hoped he’d find a way for him to break Morgan’s
curse with his supposed “powers,” or “anti-magic.” Whatever. Where’s my Yoda
when I need one? “What did Morgan say? What did he—she—he-she-it—do? I need to
know everything he-she-it did. Deaton and I are working on figuring out his
weaknesses, but I need more information.” Stiles preformed a mental fist-shake.
Damn pronouns.
“Stiles, shut up.” Scott said, keeping his voice low like he was paranoid that
someone might be eavesdropping on what he was about to say. “I told Derek
something I shouldn’t have. I told him that I sent you to check on him when he
came back to Beacon Hills. I’m sorry, I was mad, I had no right to tell him and
I honestly didn’t mean to. It was kind of diarrhea of the mouth and I thought
you already had explained everything to him! I’m so sorry, dude.” Scott’s
features drooped as he finished speaking, looking guilty with the admission.
The phrase “kicked puppy” came to Stiles’ mind.
“Uh,” began Stiles dumbly as he mulled over Scott’s words. His heart had bolted
in his chest as Scott dropped his verbal bombshell and by the now guiltier
expression plaguing Scott’s face, Scott had heard the disruption in his
heartbeat. “You did what?” Stiles’ eyes went wide. He had meant to tell Derek
that Scott had asked him to keep an eye on him, but he hadn’t found a minute to
do it yet. He also couldn’t find the right way to verbalize that Scott had
essentially asked Stiles to be Derek’s chaperone without getting thrown through
the nearest layer of sheetrock. But Stiles most definitely had every intention
to tell Derek! That was worth brownie points, right? He would have done it even
if Scott hadn’t asked for a volunteer to do it. Derek thought of himself as an
Omega in the pack’s territory, and Stiles wanted to rectify that line of
thought. The pack needed Derek as much as Derek needed the pack. Plus, he and
Derek had been forming the tentative beginnings of a friendship before Derek
had left, and Stiles had wanted to continue that. (However, based on recent
revelations, Stiles had obviously wanted to continue his friendship with Derek
far beyond the borders of being “just friends,” which might have been another
factor. Maybe). They both had so few friends that they couldn’t afford to just
drop one, even one that had been gone for five months .
“Morgan is after Scott’s True Alpha power.” Derek explained from the backseat
with some level of detachment. Stiles knew he had heard what Scott said, but he
wasn’t acknowledging it. Derek’s eternal stoicism in the face of adversity
never failed. It made Stiles want to throw himself through the nearest layer of
sheetrock. “He wants Scott to kill the pack and offer himself up once he’s
emotionally stripped bare before Morgan kills Scott and steals his True Alpha
status. In most mythologies, a willing sacrifice is more potent than one that
is taken.”
“Well, that’s not twisted,” Stiles chuckled weakly in an attempt at levity.
Stiles was worried about Derek’s serious lack of reaction; apparently he was
going to do this the tried-and-true Derek Hale way. He knew that Derek wasn’t
going to take his lie of omission well. Stiles hoped he’d get the chance to
explain before Derek went into full on brood mode.
Come to think of it, brood mode wasn’t very attractive on Derek either.
“She—he, whatever, I don’t know—he said something about the Hales having power
too.” Scott said. Derek snarled something. “What?”
“My grandmother and then my mother could fully transform into wolves.” Derek
repeated. “When she died, Laura inherited the ability. Most werewolves can’t.
Only one wolf in our pack at a time, the Alpha, could. I thought it was part of
being the Alpha to a pack like what the Hale pack used to be.” He dug in his
pockets for his cell phone, mumbling. “I never could. I thought it was me .” He
held his phone up to his ear, refolding himself so he could sit up in the seat.
He dialed a number before speaking to the person on the other line. “Isaac, go
to the train station.” Scott let out a snort, apparently in reply to whatever
Isaac had said. Werewolf hearing was really quite annoying to people who didn’t
have it.
“Aiden thoughtfully reminded Derek he isn’t Isaac’s Alpha.” Scott said by way
of explanation. Scott craned his neck to look at Derek. “If he won’t listen to
you, tell him to listen to me.” Derek acted as though he hadn’t heard Scott.
“Morgan gave Scott a tarot card, Isaac.” Derek growled. “Listen to me for once
and go to the damn train station. Take the twins if you have to.” He paused as
Isaac’s disembodied voice explained something from the other side of the phone.
“They’ve got Peter back at the house,” he relayed to Stiles and Scott. “Deaton
says Morgan must have freed him. He’s contained.” Another pause. “Ethan and
Aiden are going to stand guard at the house to make sure Morgan doesn’t do it
again. Isaac’s going to meet us at the station.”
There wasn’t any conversation for the remaining duration of the ride after
Derek hung up with Isaac. The silence made Stiles feel claustrophobic or like a
sponge; soaking up all the what-if scenarios that could happen once he and
Derek got the chance to talk. None of them were particularly pleasant. They
eventually pulled up outside the abandoned station, formerly known as Derek’s
hideout. Isaac wouldn’t be there for another twenty minutes at least, depending
on if he had a car out at the Hale house, so Scott let himself be led into the
old subway car and chained to a seat. Now finding himself exponentially more
irritated with Scott, Stiles reveled in his vindictiveness as he tightened the
remaining chain around Scott. Scott looked absolutely drugged with guilt. He
looked like someone seeking absolution. Stiles would give it to him eventually,
but just not right now. Maybe a dose of guilt would help Scott finally realize
that sometimes people have to establish their own relationships without
overprotective Alphas trying to make decision for them?
“Why do you have all these chains, Derek?” Stiles asked, going for flirtatious
and another weak attempt to bring levity to a spiraling situation. Derek didn’t
look at him. He’d been avoiding eye contact since Stiles had found them in the
alley. Stiles didn’t need to guess why.
“Before a werewolf finds his or her anchor,” he said flatly, telling Stiles
something he already knew, “The pack has to chain them up so they don’t hurt
anyone. A large pack can contain a single or even a few young werewolves, so
they don’t have to keep chains. The Hale pack always did anyway.”
“Peter probably found a use for them.” Stiles said before he thought about it.
Then he thought about it and made a disgusted face. “BLEGH why did I say that?
GAH !”
Derek didn’t think it was funny. After Scott was entirely secure, Derek turned
and headed for the exit. Stiles followed him, leaving Scott to slouch in his
shackles. He heard the Alpha mumbling behind him, thought he heard something
that sounded an awful lot like “got to tell Isaac before I lose it.” Stiles
rolled his eyes at Derek’s back; seriously hoping that Scott would just hurry
up and do it already for everyone’s sake.
They stepped outside the station, and Derek stopped. “When Isaac gets here I’m
going to go check on Peter.” He said. “I want to make sure that you’re safe
around Scott before I leave.”
Stiles shifted his posture from foot to foot. Having conversations like this
was something he had never been good at because they were always awkward and
filled up with emotional admissions like quarters in a piggy bank. He sighed.
“Derek, we’ve gotta talk about this.”
Derek peered around the corner toward Stiles’ Jeep, refusing to acknowledge one
of the four cardinal directions that Stiles was currently occupying. “Don’t
forget to go by Deaton’s and get some mountain ash. Once the full effects of
the card settle in, those chains won’t be able to restrain him.” Derek’s tone
was dry as sandpaper and gritty with disapproval as he ignored Stiles’ attempt
to force the subject.
Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets; his shoulders bundling up against his
ears as he searched for some words—any words. “I will,” he agreed. “Seriously,
though, I was going to tell you about everything. I just hadn’t found the
right—”
Derek didn’t seem to want to hear any of Stiles’ explanations, however; he
simply kept speaking. “Don’t come here by yourself to check on Scott. Make sure
that you’ve got Isaac or one of the other wolves here with you.” Derek’s
monotonous tone carried on as though he was having a conversation with Stiles
in some parallel universe where Stiles was actually listening instead of trying
to force an uncomfortable topic.
Stiles’ palms were getting sweaty inside his pockets now. He wanted to take his
hands out because they were uncomfortable, but this situation was way more
uncomfortable leaving Stiles to wish he could just compress his body until it
imploded into a black hole—but since that wasn’t humanly possible, he stood
their awkwardly instead with his hands still shoved into his pockets. “Why
can’t you just come with me, Derek?” It was a question loaded heavier than
Miley Cyrus riding naked on a wrecking ball and Stiles knew it.
“I’ll try to see if I can locate Morgan without confronting her. I’ll get Aiden
and Ethan to help me when they can.”
The heat in his face let Stiles know he had lost his cool long before his mouth
did. “DEREK!” The word came out in an explosive shout as Stiles entered Derek’s
personal space; an act that suddenly felt foreign and unwelcome. The sheer
realization of just how closed off Derek now seemed was enough to make Stiles
recoil. Nearly a day ago he had been tangled up in the older man’s arms trying
to reassure him that they could manage to make a relationship work and look
where they were standing now: existing in their own orbits—their own
hemispheres. Derek seemed pretty resolute in avoiding eye contact with Stiles,
but when Stiles invaded his bubble, Derek’s gaze locked on with fiery intent.
Stiles’ tongue felt the Sahara Desert in his mouth. He knew what was happening
before it even happened.
“You know why I’m not going to come with you, Stiles,” Derek snarled.
Stiles’ tongue clicked audibly from the dehydration in his mouth. “No, Derek, I
don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?” His tone was rising to a level of
aggression; something he knew was bound to trigger an argument.
Derek crossed his arms, closing himself off even further. “Don’t turn this into
some high school drama. I’m not going to fight with you about this.”
Stiles had to rein in his emotions now that he had Derek’s attention. He
sighed. “I don’t want to fight at all, Derek. I just want to explain it to
you.”
“I’m not looking for an explanation, Stiles,” Derek said. “It’s not needed.”
“No, you’re not. I can see that. You’re not looking to talk about this at all
by the looks of it, which really pisses me off. Just FYI. I owe you an
explanation and you could at least let me give you one.”
Derek’s eyes screwed tighter. His shoulders looked much broader to Stiles when
he was angry. “You mean an explanation like: Scott didn’t trust me enough not
to betray him and try to become an Alpha again, so he sent you to spy on me to
make sure I didn’t try anything?”
Stiles couldn’t deny the accusation, but Stiles had intended to tell Derek the
truth eventually. What Stiles hadn’t planned on was getting romantically
involved with the man when he volunteered to do the job. Stiles hadn’t even
known getting involved with Derek was a possibility at the time. He wasn’t sure
how we would have reacted if he had known that Derek had feelings for him.
Regardless, Stiles had planned on telling Derek, but between the establishing
of their relationship and dealing with the Mesmer, Stiles just hadn’t found the
right moment to say, “Hey, Der, just so you know, Scott sent me here to spy on
you because he didn’t trust you, but I might have agreed to it for my own
selfish ulterior motives. The chief of these reasons being: I really like
looking at your stupidly attractive werewolf face.” Better late than never.
“Yes, Scott asked me to do that, Derek, but it’s not as simple as that,” Stiles
explained, trying not to sound frustrated.
Derek barked out a sardonic laugh. “It never is, is it, Stiles?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Derek still had his arms crossed, but his posture was accusatory. “It means
that Scott has never trusted me. He didn’t trust me to help him take down
Gerard. He lied to me and he lied about being part of my pack! And he didn’t
trust me about Deucalion or Jennifer either! So why should I be surprised that
Scott sent his best friend to do his dirty work? I can’t really say that I’m
not used to be lied to, so I’d be an idiot to say that this came as a shock!”
Derek sounded equal parts accusatory and defeated.
Stiles was a little taken aback by how forthright Derek was being and it almost
stunned him into silence. Almost. “We both know this isn’t about Scott. It
might be about what Scott said to you, but this isn’t about Scott,” Stiles said
through grinding teeth.
“You’re right, Stiles. This is about us and about that fact that you lied to
me,” Derek criticized behind his pointing forefinger.
Stiles laughed. “Don’t make me tally up all the times that you’ve lied to me
and Scott!” Not helping, Stiles!!
Derek’s arms uncrossed; it was apparently his turn to invade Stiles’ space.
Even though he wasn’t much taller than Stiles, Derek still somehow managed to
loom over him. “I did it to protect you and Scott! Don’t pretend this is the
same thing!”
Stiles threw his hands up like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie
jar. “You’re right, Derek! This isn’t the same thing! This is about you finding
a way out of a situation that you don’t know how to navigate! You’ve been
looking for any excuse for why we won’t work out and Scott just gave you a ‘Get
Out of Jail Free’ card!”
Derek shook his head. “Scott didn’t do that, Stiles. You did when you lied to
me.”
“Stop using every lie that you’ve ever been told against me!” Stiles paused.
Anger is like a windmill—always turning and grinding away better judgment into
cornmeal until all you’re left with is something that can slip easily through
your fingers. “I didn’t burn your family’s house down, Derek!” Derek didn’t say
anything. He didn’t need to. Stiles could see the wound there. He couldn’t have
seen it any clearer if he had taken a knife and slid it across Derek’s forearm.
Stiles was starting to feel a little desperate and he couldn’t hide the emotion
in his voice anymore, but neither could Derek apparently. Derek’s stoic
demeanor and plan to not have a fight with Stiles had been tossed to the
wayside a long time ago and Stiles couldn’t refute his gut feeling that he was
making things worse, not better. “Derek, I wanted to tell you! I had planned on
it, but then stuff happened between us and Morgan showed up and the situation
got so complicated so quickly! I wasn’t trying to lie to you!”
“But you still did,” Derek concluded. Stiles could hear the betrayal behind his
voice, but he could also hear the excuse.
“Yes,” Stiles agreed with defeat. “It was a lie of omission and it was wrong.
I’m sorry!”
“I’m not looking for an apology, Stiles.”
“Then, what?” Stiles shouted, his arms spanning wide. “What are you looking
for?”
Derek’s face looked smug as he shook his head. Stiles would say that it was an
unattractive look on Derek, but it wasn’t. Still, Stiles hated the expression.
Whenever Derek looked smug, it never meant anything good. “You’re still not
getting it, are you?”
“No, Derek! I’m not! You’re being too damn cryptic and won’t just tell me what
you want from me!”
“I don’t want anything from you, Stiles,” Derek said inertly. It was a sentence
with enough gravity that Stiles was sure the earth’s tides had just shifted.
“You lied to me and I’ve lied to you. We’re liars—it’s just who we are. How
many times did you lie to your dad before he was taken by Jennifer? How long
would you have kept lying? As long as it took to keep him safe? How long would
you have lied to me? And how many more lies would you have told me after that?”
Stiles could feel the staccato of his heartbeat rising into his throat. His
hands were drenched and he kept shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. He
didn’t want to admit that he knew where this conversation was going, but it was
like an avalanche that was gaining momentum; crushing them both beneath its
weight as it tumbled. Stiles felt sucker-punched when Derek had said “I don’t
want anything from you,” and it made his breaths feel heavy like the weight of
the words were compacting his chest. Stiles wanted to argue Derek’s words, but
he knew there was no angle he could take that would make it seem justifiable.
Derek had a point. They were liars and they were both good at it.
“Everyone lies at some point, Derek.”
“And we tried to build a relationship on one,” Derek countered. “I mean, did
you really think this would work out between two people who can’t even be
around one another without some sort of lie being involved?”
Stiles was about ready to offer Derek a better explanation as to why he had
shown up at Peter’s apartment, but he was cut off as Isaac’s car pulled around
the corner and the werewolf emerged from the vehicle. Isaac was obviously
concerned as he approached Stiles and Derek and Stiles assumed the concern was
directed at Scott. Stiles silently cursed Karma and the timing of the universe
because this wasn’t how Stiles wanted this conversation to end.
Before Isaac was standing right next to them—even though Isaac would still be
able to hear them—Stiles took the opportunity to ask the final question that
had been gnawing at him. “What are you saying, Derek?” Stiles’ voice had
wavered and he wanted to kick himself for it, but Stiles was more concerned
with Derek’s reply than beating himself up at the moment.
Derek’s stoicism had returned full-force and he refused to look Stiles’
direction as Isaac approached. “It means that this whole thing was all a
mistake, Stiles.”
Stiles wanted to react, but this time he truly was stunned into silence. Stiles
knew that he needed to say something or make Derek listen somehow, but had
Derek moved away from Stiles and was walking up to Isaac, asking for the keys
to Isaac’s car. Isaac looked confused by the request and even more confused by
what he had probably just overheard, but he complied regardless, handing the
keys over to Derek. Stiles felt his heart sinking and his stomach lurching as
Derek got closer to the car and Stiles had to wonder if this was all a self-
fulfilling prophecy somehow.
Stiles didn’t know what to do and he knew that this situation was beyond the
reparation of words at the moment, but it didn’t stop him from calling after
Derek. “Derek, wai—” Derek acted as though he hadn’t heard. Stiles knew that he
had heard him though over the crunching of the car door as Derek had climbed
into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. Stiles stood there in stasis—a
mire of his own thoughts and what-if scenarios come to life. Isaac came to
stand by him; his concern now obviously turned on Stiles’ situation.
“Stiles, what just happened?” Isaac asked.
Stiles didn’t want to talk. What had just happened was real enough without
having to say “Derek just broke up with me because your dumbass Alpha couldn’t
keep his goddamned mouth shut.”
That wasn’t fair. He knew that. It wasn’t Scott’s fault Stiles hadn’t managed
to find a way to tell Derek he had been sent to visit him on a mission. It
wasn’t Scott’s fault that Derek had been through so many heart-wrenchingly
traumatic lies that Stiles’ lie of omission had been such a deal-breaker.
Stiles knew he should have known better.
It didn’t stop Stiles from wanting to lash out at someone. He wanted to hurt
everyone who ever hurt Derek by lying to him. But Kate Argent was dead.
Jennifer Blake was dead. Peter, even when he wasn’t under Morgan’s influence,
was too far gone to be hurt by anything Stiles could do. So that meant the only
person Stiles could be angry at was himself.
“Scott wants to talk to you before he loses it.” Stiles finally said. It was a
deflection. He could see in Isaac’s face that he knew it was a deflection, but
he let it go. Stiles had a moment to silently thank Derek for calling Isaac
instead of anyone else in the pack. Isaac would push less than anyone else,
either through self-preservation—he was still the most sensitive of the pack—or
through actual respect for other people’s boundaries or out of a desire to get
to Scott as quickly as possible. At that moment, Stiles didn’t care why Isaac
didn’t ask again, just walked past him into the station.
Stiles remained outside for several minutes after Isaac went in. The part of
Stiles that wanted to be angry kept getting louder, but he couldn’t get angry.
Where he should have been angry he was just exhausted. It just kept repeating
“You lie and kill in service of liars and killers.”
Another part of him kept saying “This wasn’t a relationship, this was a time
bomb. This was always going to happen.”
Stiles would never again enjoy the Avengers. Ever.
He turned into the station with one last, pathetically hopeful look down the
road after the taillights of Isaac’s car. Derek had turned somewhere up the
road, and there was no sign of him coming back.
Isaac was kneeling on the floor in front of Scott’s seat. Scott’s forehead was
pressed against his, and he was whispering feverishly. The Stiles of yesterday
would have wanted to gag and tell them to get a room. The Stiles of now
couldn’t handle seeing whatever the hell their relationship was doing. The
Stiles of yesterday would laugh and congratulate them and then vacate the
premises as quickly as possible. The Stiles of today didn’t give a shit about
what Scott and Isaac were going to do about their epic love stupidity now that
Morgan had Scott. What Stiles really wanted to do right now was fix Scott, kill
Morgan, go home, and be a stereotype. He really wanted to wrap up in a blanket
in his bedroom with a bucket of Ben and Jerry’s and a chick flick.
“Stiles,” Scott said, sitting up and leaning away from Isaac. “What’s going on?
Where did Derek go?”
“He left.” Stiles knew Scott had heard the whole thing. Why was he acting like
he hadn’t? If he expected Stiles to say “Derek broke up with me,” Stiles was
going to grab a baseball bat and take it to his best friend’s head.
“I wasn’t listening, Stiles. Isaac said—”
“He broke up with me, Scott. Are you happy now?” Not fair, Stiles, part of him
whispered. Stiles ignored it, because it sounded like Scott. It was the voice
in the back of his head that wanted him to be like Scott. The part of him that
wanted to try to save everyone, regardless of who they were to him. “I lied to
him and he broke up with me.”
“I’m so-“
“Do not say you’re sorry, Scott. I don’t want to hear it.” He dropped into a
chair as far from Scott as he could be and stared, forlornly, at his feet.
Chapter End Notes
     We're sorry. We're so sorry.
***** The Darkest Ally *****
Chapter Summary
     Derek tries to deal with his inability to make good choices and he
     gets a very interesting visit. Afterward, Derek and Isaac move things
     into his new apartment.
     Gillian and I had difficulty deciding whether or not to name this
     chapter, "The Darkest Ally" or "Terrible Fate." As a writer, I'm
     insanely inspired by music and I listened to this song the entire
     time I wrote my section of this chapter: (kudos if you recognize it!
     Hehehe) I actually listened to it so much that Gillian yelled at me.
     XD
      
     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlZvM8XAvp8
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jennifer and Kate smiled knowingly, murmuring together to Derek in a low
register with their mouths pressed against the sides of his ears. “He’s next.”
Reality is subjective; it is a laundry pile of symbols, rhetoric, and social
pressures that everyone promises themselves they will one day get around to
airing out, but instead, everyone just shoves their dirty socks and underwear
farther back into their closet in hopes that they won’t have to deal with it.
Reality is about regulating consequences and the subsequent actions that led
from “point A” to “point B;” it’s not about optimism or pessimism—because those
are both just two orientations at how to look at the world. Optimism and
pessimism are just two self-manufactured sales pitches that you tell yourself
in hopes to justify reality through diametrically opposed—but equally
naïve—ways. Reality is about the minute clicking of little wheels and the
mastery of time above all things. It’s about knowing the value of pragmatism
over the density of happiness and when to let go before that density crushes
you. Oscar Wilde once wrote, “Yet each man kills the things he loves, yet each
man does not die.”
Derek knew a thing or two about killing the things that he loved and by all
inconceivable odds, here he still was. Derek wondered at that.
There weren’t many instances in Derek’s life that his “flight” instinct
overpowered his “fight” instinct, but something about Stiles made his head feel
like a mess of tangled wires behind a television and it made him want to sprint
the other direction. Words were often hard to come by in Derek’s adulthood, but
the ability to retreat into his own head was one of his few comforts—it’s all
about simplicity: the small things. But Stiles didn’t make things simple; he
never had. From the moment that Scott and Stiles had entered his life, Derek
could almost sense the paradigm shift in a way that reminded him of Greek
heroes referencing the Fates and their grand schemes. Derek had been called a
lot of things in his life, but “hero” had never been one of them; yet, somehow,
through the recent years, Derek found himself reluctantly thrust into
situations where he was forced to save both Scott and Stiles—and sometimes he
needed the saving and it always miraculously came. Even more strangely, through
some cosmic joke and means, Derek found himself caring about both Scott and
Stiles, which made it that much more difficult not to destroy the things
closest to him in life.
Lies had destroyed Derek’s life once before, but as he stood in the woods of
the Preserve that were quieted and dripping with night all around him, Derek
found the notion that he had become a liar easy to cannibalize. Sometimes we
become that which we hate the most.
Derek had driven all around town until the sun had finally set and his legs had
begun cramping. For a flicker of a second, Derek imagined himself driving to
the edge of town where the road merged onto the highway and simply driving
until the gas tank ran out and the car came to a sputtering halt. The fleeting
thought haunted Derek as a reminder of how much Stiles affected him. No one had
had this effect on Derek since—well, that wasn’t important, because those who
fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it in the future. But the
darkening feeling that had wormed its way into Derek’s chest and nestled there
ever since he had heard the words “He’s next,” was only exacerbated by the
greatest lie and most self-righteous action he himself had perpetuated and
finally, perpetrated.
Hypocrisy was a liar’s best friend.
Stiles’ lie of omission had tipped the scales in Derek’s favor—it had given him
an out from what he was most afraid of: loving Stiles and losing Stiles. A part
of Derek had known for a long time that he had cared for Stiles, but recent
events informed that part of Derek that he had grown to love Stiles and “Each
man kills the thing he loves.” This was Derek’s lie of omission—the long shadow
trailing behind him; a thing that warped this way and that to however the
situation lent itself, but never fully disappeared. Derek would break Stiles’
heart one hundred times over if it meant keeping him safe—especially from
himself. Scott had been right to remind Derek that Stiles would one day be hurt
either by him or because of him. It is exactly what Jennifer and Kate had
promised as well. But deep down, Derek knew all of their words had been
unnecessary because it was something he had already known at his core. He had
known it because it was the pattern of his life. Reality is nothing if not
predictable.
The nighttime air was thick and cool like a draught sliding its way down into
Derek’s chest. His feet didn’t carry him far because moving felt something like
running away and the fortitude of stoicism was Derek’s hallmark. Instead, he
found a spot where the trees opened up to reveal the night sky and the
crystalline skyline of Beacon Hills. Derek found the fixedness of the stars
comforting—or maybe just the knowledge that the earth was still slowly turning
beneath him and standing there at the edge of the woods could, if only for a
moment, be an immovable location. Derek found it strange to think that
something could be both static and always slowly turning. The wind turned tepid
around him with an easy rustle of late-summer leaves.
“You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you,” the voice wafted to Derek’s
ears.
Normally, Derek’s movements would have been reflexive, sharp, and pointed at
the intruder, but for the sake of predictability, Derek faced the person with
one languid turn. In a subtle gesture, a woman appeared from behind the trunk
of an expansive oak, standing at the threshold of shadows being cast by the
moon. The woman was barefoot, wearing a billowing white button-up, a floral-
brown skirt, and brown sunhat with a tiny lavender ribbon that extended the
circumference of the hat. On any other occasion, Derek would have felt inclined
to make a mention that the woman was wearing a sunhat at night, but the
tumbling red hair down the sides of her face didn’t escape Derek’s notice.
Derek took one step toward Morgan.
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t rip out your throat,” Derek asked calmly.
“Because, little Hale, I haven’t come here to hurt or threaten you,” Morgan
replied.
With one leap, Derek sprung across the distance between them and sent them
colliding into the side of the nearby oak. His claws and fangs extended with a
promised threat and Derek’s eyes ignited blue as his hand ringed Morgan’s
throat. Morgan didn’t appear surprised. She seemed amused.
“Even though I know you’re just a clone, I’m sure it’d be just as cathartic to
crush your neck,” Derek snapped through his fangs.
“My, my, this does seem like foreplay, doesn’t it?” Morgan chuckled; her sunhat
bobbing with the laugh. “And I’d invite you to if you think it’s necessary, but
as I’ve said, Derek, I haven’t come here to threaten you.”
Derek didn’t believe it for even a millisecond. “Then why are you here? To give
me another tarot card or maybe just paralyze me again?”
“To talk,” she replied smoothly. Derek could see the bright shade of red
lipstick she was wearing glare out into the moonlight. Her words had no edge to
them.
Derek scoffed. “Let Scott and Peter go and then we’ll talk.”
“Well, I can’t very well do that, Derek. Then I’d have no leverage.” She
chuckled again.
“Leverage to do what?”
“To make you see.”
“See what,” Derek growled.
“To see that we are not so dissimilar, you and I. To see the reality of your
life and of what has been or could be.” Derek could hear the calculated words
ooze from Morgan’s mouth as she spoke, but something about her demeanor was
changed and it gnawed at Derek because of its unexpectedness. She
seemed—genuine.
“We’re nothing alike,” Derek spat. “And after everything you’ve done to my
pack, after the way you hurt Stiles, I’m going to kill you—not listen to you.”
The smile slid from Morgan’s face and into something that looked like grief.
“Stiles—” she began. “I told you that you had met with a terrible fate.”
Something about Stiles’ name issuing from Morgan’s lips made Derek livid. The
flash of her rose-red skin pressing together to form the word made it feel
tainted and this made Derek feel protective—to somehow maintain one of the
happiest words in his life and keep it as such; if only from a distance and
memory. Derek’s roar thundered through the trees as his fangs gnashed near the
edge of Morgan’s exposed throat. She didn’t seem intimidated, but her grief
seemed intensified.
“Youdon’t get to say his name,” Derek commanded.
Morgan nodded in understanding. It was oddly compassionate for someone Derek
knew to be so cruel. “You love him, don’t you?” The words were soft and almost
inconsequential to everything that had happened since Morgan had arrived. She
sounded so familiar; like a long-time friend who was empathizing with the
heartache. Her emerald eyes were heavy with concern and the question made Derek
ache from his skin right down to the marrow in his bones.
“Don’t pretend it matters to you or that’s why you’re here,” he deflected.
“That’s not an answer, Derek.”
“I don’t owe you any answers.”
“No, you don’t,” Morgan agreed. “But I think maybe you owe yourself an answer.”
Derek felt his hands involuntarily tighten around the girth of Morgan’s throat.
“Why. Are. You. Here?” He repeated through grinding teeth. Playing the Mesmer’s
petty games was one of the worst things Derek knew he could do. Everything she
did or said had an angle to it. Derek could almost feel her skin bruise beneath
his constricting fingers.
Morgan began coughing as Derek’s grip loosened and she regained the ability to
speak. “It’s not a terrible fate that you love him and lost him—I’m not bloody
Shakespeare. It’s a terrible fate because you could have him and keep him. You
just don’t know how to let yourself have him. It’s not better to have loved and
then lost when you’re your only roadblock, Derek.”
“I don’t need relationship advice from a psychopath,” Derek spat. It was true,
he didn’t; but some infinitesimal part of Derek heard the reason in her words.
“Then why are you still here, Derek? Why do you still have me pinned to this
tree—not that I’m complaining, mind you—why are you still here? Despite your
insistence that you don’t need my advice or that you’d much rather kill me, why
are you still standing here at the edge of this forest with me? Why haven’t you
just killed me and washed your hands of the gore already? Is it because that
even though the thought of loving him terrifies you, you secretly hope at your
core that I’m right? Are you silently wishing that I can tell you how you can
keep him? Are you denying that you’re silently wishing for this but knowing at
your very center that I’m right regardless?”
Derek was trapped in the noose of Morgan’s carefully-spun words and he knew it.
He knew better than to listen to the siren song of her words, but something in
him made him want to hear her out—to satisfy some sadistic fantasy of “what-
if.” Indecision was running rampant in his head and he couldn’t decide if he
should make the final stroke by snapping the Mesmer’s neck and walking away or
if he should simply wait. Curiosity is a funny creature that way and heartache
is a drug against logic—even self-inflicted heartache. Especially self-
inflicted heartache.Derek found himself stepping back into the caress of
moonlight, but not walking away like he knew better judgment dictated he
should. Then again, how many times had Derek ignored better judgment in his
life? Too many to count.
Morgan gave an earnest smile as Derek released her. After dusting herself off,
she moved to the verge of light being cast by the moon, but never crossed into
it. She seemed encumbered by the shadows surrounding her as they muted all the
colors except for her crimson lips and hair. The darkened forest swayed behind
her as the moonlight melted itself across Derek’s shoulders and dripped onto
the grass beneath both their feet.
“Did you know that the Latin ‘monstrum’ is the root of the English word,
‘monster?’ Morgan asked in what Derek assumed was a rhetorical question. “Do
you know what it means?” Derek crossed his arms and scowled. Just because he
had agreed to hear Morgan out didn’t mean he was going to go on a picnic with
her and have a heart-to-heart. Morgan smiled at Derek’s reaction. “It means
‘that which reveals.’”
“Why are you giving me an etymology lesson,” Derek asked with a glower.
“Because, Derek, you and I have both been called monsters in our time. Why is
that?”
“Well, in your case I’d say it was because you’re a murdering sociopath,” he
answered inertly.
Morgan laughed. “I suppose you’re right, but it comes with age. But as I’ve
said before, you and I aren’t so dissimilar. We’ve both lied, killed, stolen
and sought power. Why do these things make us monsters? Why do they make us
ugly and evil? Why do they make us ‘that which reveals’?”
“Is everything you’re going to say going to be a riddle?”
“I’m making a point,” she corrected. “You see, people are tied up in their own
subjective little morals where lying, killing, stealing and seeking power are
all ‘bad’ or ‘evil.’ Whenever these ‘immoralities’ cross someone’s path, it
slowly chips away at the safety and comfort of their self-made world-views to
the point when these intrepid idiots can no longer deny their envy to be
free—to exist in a world truly unrestricted where immorality is in the eye of
the beholder and not those in power. Once realized, it can never be unseen. Did
you know that sociologists theorize that because someone is in jail, everyone
who is not in jail believes themselves to be free? Because someone is shackled
in a dark cell somewhere, we have all force-fed ourselves the grandest lie of
all: that we may do as we please! But every time you obey the law and stop at a
red light instead of rolling on through, you’ve proven that you are just as
shackled as that man in jail. That is why you and I are monsters, Derek. It is
because we are ‘that which reveals.’ We reveal in others what they lack: the
ability to make choices or be different. They cannot categorize us through
their systematic thinking, so they ostracize us.”
“What does any of this have to do with me,” Derek asked, beginning to feel
impatient.
“Because!” She replied quickly. “Because every tragic sequence of your life has
been the result of some misguided notion that you are not a monster—that you
are not inherently different with the ability to simply be as you are! From the
moment you were born, you were lied to by the people closest to you. How could
that notchange a person? How could you not have made all the mistakes that led
you to this very moment where heartache was inevitability because you’ve been
taught to deny power? Your true nature. Your power.”
“I’ve seen what power does to people,” Derek responded. “I’ve seen the
delusions it gives them that they are somehow above it all. People with power
think they are above judgment until their power becomes too much to handle and
they implode under the weight. What people with power don’t realize is: we are
our own worst judgment—and it’s the one judgment we can’t escape.”
Morgan remained still as though she was pondering Derek’s reply. Her lips
creased softly under the wide brim of her brown sunhat. “I’m going to tell you
a story, Derek; a very personal story.” Derek’s brow furrowed and he did
nothing to suppress the following eye roll and sigh. “I was twelve years old
when the Second World War started—I know, I don’t look a day over twenty five,
I have a great cosmetologist—my family and I were British citizens who
eventually moved to Normandy before the War had started to be closer to some
relatives we had in France. When the Nazis finally rolled into Paris with no
resistance from the French government, it wasn’t long until their arm reached
all the way to Normandy. Eventually, once the rest of Europe discovered what
Hitler was doing to the Jews, many people tried to aid them and smuggle them to
countries like Holland or England. Because my family lived on the coasts of
Normandy and were also fishermen who were familiar with the Channel, they aided
French Jews in escaping to southern England. But like so many stories of
tragedy from that time period, my family’s aiding of the Jews—other human
beings with hearts and souls like you or I—would eventually be discovered. I
was sixteen in early April of 1944 when one day one of the Gestapo kicked in
the front door of my family’s house. He grabbed my mother from her bed and
dragged her across the floor by her hair and into the front yard where he
forced my father to beg for her life and the life of my sister and brother for
over thirty minutes. I slept in the loft, so during the time the Gestapo spent
corralling the rest of my family, I slipped out the back window and onto some
crates stacked behind the house that I managed to climb down.”
Morgan paused; her eyes disappearing beneath the brim of her hat so only the
glare of her red lipstick could be seen.
“Is all of this supposed to make me feel sympathy for you after all you’ve done
to me and my pack,” Derek snapped. Tragedy was an expected part of Derek’s
life, but it didn’t mean that he went around in a sociopathic rage harming
innocent people. And all the tragedies of his life wouldn’t have justified it
if he had.
Morgan shook her head; her eyes still hidden. “No, Derek. What you need to know
about this story lies in the truth of power. As a sixteen year old girl who
lived on the coasts of Normandy and had no way to defend herself against the
armed Gestapo, I was a coward and justifiably so. But the lesson I learned that
day as I heard the final screams of my mother, father, brother, and sister
followed by four gunshots was: those who hold power can not only take lives,
but they can save them. And as I watched from a distance as the Gestapo burned
down the shell of my family’s home, I swore I would never fail the people I
cared about ever again. And I never have. You and I are not so dissimilar,
Derek Hale.”
Empathy was not beyond Derek to the point that he couldn’t at least understand
where Morgan’s ambitions came from, but that still didn’t justify them.
“Torture, murder, and mind-control: you think these things justify protecting
the people you care about?”
The woman’s eyes appeared from beneath her hat that was encompassed by shadow.
“Ask yourself, Derek: what would you do for him? I think we both know you’ve
cared for him a lot longer than you’ve admitted to him—or maybe even yourself.”
Derek felt himself choke on the truth of the statement. His feelings for Stiles
were not just recently discovered through the sheer dumb luck of Stiles kissing
him and then giving him a blowjob one random evening. It had started as
something small that Derek had labeled as taboo in his mind and it eventually
took root like ivy until it covered all of his thoughts. Through the course of
a couple years, Derek had watched Stiles grow from the spastic teenager into a
competent and self-sufficient man. And somewhere through that transformation,
Derek had fallen in love with him—something Derek became very good at denying,
placating within himself or disguising as anger and frustration. But being with
Stiles and closing the space of intimacy with him left a yawning feeling within
Derek. The feeling poked and prodded at him at all times; it distracted him and
left him vulnerable in ways that he couldn’t reconcile and most certainly
couldn’t justify to Scott without seeming selfish.
“Why are you doing this?” Derek asked weakly. “If you came here to kill us and
steal Scott’s power, why tell me all of this now? What does it change?”
Morgan shifted slightly forward; her skin almost touching the moonlight as she
closed some of the space between her and Derek. Her laugh was almost as weak as
Derek’s words had been. The upturned smile on her face appeared genuine instead
of her characteristic sarcastic one. “Because we’re not so dissimilar, you and
I,” she repeated. “I have my reasons and you have yours, Derek—but you and
me—we’re monsters. We have the ability to choose where others only have the
ability to obey.” She reached out into the moonlight at touched the side of
Derek’s face and for some reason, Derek didn’t flinch or guard himself. “Show
them your power. Protect the ones you care about.” The sentiment sounded
reminiscent of a challenge.
Derek didn’t know what to say or do. By all accounts, he should have already
snapped Morgan’s neck and left her there to rot, but there was something
indescribably different about her this time that made Derek hesitate. Morgan
turned away from him, stepping into the deepening shadows as she retreated from
the moon and from Derek. With one last glance, she turned back with the same
amount of grief striking her face that he had seen before when they had first
spoken about Stiles. Derek couldn’t say why it was there, but the emotion
seemed real enough. The fire of her hair singed the late-summer wind as it
tossed strands around her face.
“We both deserved better fates than this, Derek,” she whispered and was gone as
a cloud passed over the moon.
*                           *                                   *
Calling Isaac and asking him to help Derek move into his new apartment probably
wasn’t fair to Isaac. Derek knew he wasn’t going to be much company, but after
staring at his empty apartment for ten minutes, he finally decided he had to
have someone there to talk at him; even if it was only to fill the empty
pockets of silence. He probably wouldn’t do much talking himself, but he needed
to hear the sound of someone else’s breathing besides his own or he was
possibly going to destroy one of the expensive, new pieces of furniture he had
just bought. Scott was not an option—there was nowhere to chain him up. And the
last thing that Derek wanted to talk about was Stiles, so basically everyone
else in the pack was out, except Isaac, who he could bully into silence.
That would make Stiles angry.
Derek attempted for the minutia of a moment to tell himself that he didn’t give
a fuckwhat would make Stiles angry. But Derek wasn’t dealing with that right
now.
When Isaac knocked on the door to his apartment, Derek let him in without
speaking. Derek wasn’t ignorant to how fast news travelled within the pack and
Isaac was by no means a dumb kid; Isaac knew exactly what was going on once he
had stepped out of that car and heard Stiles and Derek talking. But he also
knew better than to ask what had happened. He took the fastest ‘know your
surroundings always leave yourself an out’ glance around the room Derek had
ever seen before his eyes settled on the pile of boxes in the center of the
room. Isaac had been growing out of the panicked abuse victim he’d been when
Derek bit him and then left Beacon Hills. In the five months Derek had been
gone, he’d grown even more. But part of Isaac was still that abused kid. Part
of Isaac would always be that abused kid in the same way that part of Derek
would always be that tragic kid.
“Nice place,” he mumbled carefully, not meeting Derek’s eyes. Derek ignored it
and turned to choose something for Isaac to unpack. He shoved an enormous box
of dishes into the Beta’s arms.
“Kitchen’s through there.” He said, pointing.
“Why do you smell like bleach?” Isaac asked, wrinkling his nose. If life wasn’t
what life was, Derek would have laughed at how offended he looked. Stiles
definitely would have. Derek wasn’t thinking about Stiles laughing.
“Peter uses bleach to clean everything.” Derek wasn’t going to explain Morgan’s
visit to Isaac. He wasn’t going to tell Isaac she had made so much sense to
some part of him that Derek had felt the need to shower approximately thirty
times to metaphorically wash away her influence. Derek knew Morgan had an angle
with everything that came out of her mouth but he just wasn’t sure what it was
this time around. He would have to tell someone that Morgan had visited him,
but he wasn’t going to start with Isaac.
After Morgan had given her little lecture and disappeared, Derek found himself
completely incapable of sleep; so, he had stayed awake until IKEA opened the
next morning and went shopping for apartment furnishings until he wasn’t sure
he had space for everything he’d bought in his new place. He knew part of the
reason he couldn’t sleep was the pervading sense of depression that felt like
it was squatting on his chest, but in company to that feeling, Derek couldn’t
quit turning over Morgan’s philosophies in his head like a little kid flipping
rocks in search of insects. Wanting power so you could protect your loved ones,
your pack, wasn’t the same thing as wanting power for power’s sake. Morgan had
felt weak once in her life, and she wanted capital-P Power so she’d never have
to again. Derek had been weak when he’d killed Paige. When Kate had used him to
kill his family, Derek had been weak. Derek had gone on his own quest to find
capital-P Power and he’d found it. When he killed Peter and became Alpha, he
suddenly found that Power couldn’t fix much of anything. He’d given his Power
up to save his little sister.
He hated himself a little that Morgan telling him that power was the only way
to protect your loved ones still connected with him on such a basic level. He’d
slept for ten minutes and had the most vivid dream of trying desperately to
save Stiles, Scott, Isaac, even Allison and Lydia, and never being quite strong
enough, no matter what he did. Power wasn’t the only answer.
Stiles knew that. At seventeen, Stiles was smarter than mid-twenties Derek and
eighty-odd year old Morgan. Derek hoped Stiles held onto that. Derek was
thinking too much about Stiles.
Derek knew he should say something about Morgan to Isaac, but logic was a rare
commodity these days.
Isaac looked skeptical, but he didn’t push—Derek appreciated Isaac for that.
Isaac took his box into the kitchen. He must have decided to choose cabinets
himself rather than bother Derek again. Derek would regret the fact he’d have
to find all his dishes later, but he didn’t feel like taking the time to show
Isaac where he wanted them. He didn’t particularly care, honestly.
Derek went down the short hallway to his bedroom and started throwing clothes
into the closet. He wasn’t looking at the empty bed. He’d washed his sheets
four times before finally throwing them out and buying new ones. After his old
sheets, which had smelled of Peter’s apartment, and Derek, and Stiles, and a
scent that could only be described as DerekandStiles, the new ones smelled
disgustingly commercial. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to sleep on the bed
that night. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to sleep at all. The mattress
itself still smelled of Stiles. Derek had to internally subdue some part of
himself that wanted Stiles’ scent to remain in his new apartment, but that same
part of him wanted—no, demanded—to wake up next to a sleepy-eyed Stiles all
curled tight against his chest tomorrow morning and that just wasn’t a
possibility anymore.
But in some sadistic cosmic joke, everything Derek owned miraculously smelled
like Stiles.
Letting Morgan beat the shit out of him would have hurt less than thinking
about Stiles at this precise moment. Listening to Morgan monologue on her
life’s philosophy was less traumatic than thinking about Stiles. Nearly
anything would be better than thinking about Stiles. Derek’s mind felt like it
was a vinyl record on loop with a needle scratching away memories and words
into incoherent and garbled sounds that left nothing but misery in their wake.
The more he considered how much he didn’t want to think about Stiles, the more
he realized he was actually thinking about Stiles. Frustrated, Derek threw the
last box of his clothes into his closet without unpacking it and went into the
kitchen. Isaac had finished his first box and was staring at his phone.
“Scott can’t reach his phone to call you.” He said, before he thought the
sentence through. The injured expression on Isaac’s face felt like a punch in
the gut. “I’m sorry, Isaac, that wasn’t fair.” It wasn’t Scott and Isaac’s
fault that Derek couldn’t manage to keep an adult relationship. All Derek could
hope was that Isaac understood. A wounded animal tends to snap at whoever tries
to help it.
“It’s fine,” Isaac said, and put his phone back in his pocket. “I was letting
Allison and St—Allison know where I am.” Derek pretended he didn’t hear the
slip. Isaac’s eyes had gone so wide it should hurt. “Uh, in case Scott asks.”
Derek appreciated Isaac’s concerted effort not to talk about Stiles or bring
him up, but it was almost more painful not to discuss it than to let it be the
elephant in the room.
“You can say his name, Isaac,” Derek said. He tried to let the words out as
casually as he could, but there was still some grit in his voice. “I won’t
break out into tears.”
Isaac’s expression seemed to say, ‘Dude, I don’t think you even have tear
ducts,’ but Isaac didn’t say anything and instead gave a smile and a curt nod.
Derek turned back to the pile of stuff in his living room. Everything in it
smelled like Stiles.  It didn’t make sense how much everything he owned smelled
like Stiles. Stiles had spent less than three hours a day, five days in a row,
in Peter’s apartment. He’d been in Derek’s closet only once, when he’d borrowed
a button down shirt because he was cold and didn’t have one of his own, for
once. (It occurred to Derek that he’d never gotten the shirt back and he most
certainly didn’t want it back now. No amount of washing it would get the smell
out.) Thankfully, he’d never been near Derek’s underwear drawer otherwise Derek
would have considered going commando until he could buy some new ones. All his
dishes had been run through Peter’s insane dishwasher at least twice.  All his
clothes had gone through Peter’s washer and dryer, on what Derek had previously
called the “hellfire” setting, officially named “sanitize.” Even with all the
bleeding werewolves tended to do on what amounted to a daily basis, Derek had
never seen the need for a washing machine with that setting, until now.
“So,” Isaac said, with forced relaxation, “What actually happened with you and
St-” The wince and glare that followed on Derek’s end stopped Isaac in his
tracks. Maybe he had spoken too soon on Isaac’s behalf? Just because Derek
wasn’t an emotional train-wreck at the sound of Stiles’ name didn’t mean that
he wanted to have a casual chat about what had happened over an espresso. Isaac
seemed to get the cue. “Um, so what can I help with now?” Derek started to
point at another box, then sat down on his couch. It was new. It didn’t smell
like Stiles. It smelled like a furniture store. Derek resisted the urge to
shove his face into it so he could stop smelling Stiles.  “Derek?”
Derek was giving some hard contemplation to sleeping here tonight if he could
even manage sleepy.
“Morgan came and talked to me.” He said finally, after a long pause and in a
desperate need to change the conversation and direction of his thoughts. Isaac
had waited, standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway, for him to speak.
“What?”
“She tracked me down last night.” Isaac lurched over to sit beside him,
reaching for Derek. He stopped just short of touching Derek. Derek was glad for
it. He wasn’t sure he wanted Isaac to touch him. He wasn’t sure he could handle
anyone touching him right now.
Contact between wolves can help deal with grief, Little Wolf, his mother’s
voice said in his head. It was advice she’d given a lot after Paige, when Derek
had been hiding from his family. He’d spent a lot of time with his mother then.
He desperately missed her now as the copy-cat imitation of her voice flickered
through his head in some frantic attempt to remember her and hold on to her. 
“Are you okay?” Isaac asked. He smelled like himself, and like Allison, and
like Scott. It was normal for a Beta to smell like his Alpha, and for a
teenager to smell like his girlfriend. It wasn’t precisely normal for the
smells to combine quite the way they did on Isaac, but Derek was not going to
have that conversation.
“I’m fine. She just talked at me.” Why was he telling Isaac about it? He didn’t
want to talk about it, but he knew he should. Still, Derek didn’t talk to
people about his problems.
“About what?”
“How’s Scott?” As subtlety went, Derek’s abrupt change of subject was at about
the same level as Peter’s, well, as Peter’s sanity on a normal day. Isaac
caught the tone in his voice and moved away from him.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on him.” Derek turned to look at him, surprised, but
Isaac kept right on going. “He’s not a perfect Alpha or a perfect person, but
he knows that. He’s trying.”
“I didn-”
“He’s just trying to protect Stiles. They’re brothers. He doesn’t want Stiles
to get hurt!”
“He and his hero complex can go screw up someone else’s relationship, Isaac.”
Part of Derek, the part of himself that admired Scott’s inability to give up on
anyone,suddenly barked at him that it wasn’t Scott’s hero complex causing the
problem. But the defeated attitude Derek had every time someone had mentioned
the inevitability of him breaking Stiles’ heart had fled, at least temporarily,
and Derek would deal with his own hero complex later. “How about you and
Allison? Why doesn’t he think he had to protect both of you from each other and
himself?” Not fair. SHUT UP. But if they were both going to play their parts,
Isaac could be the abused kid and Derek could be the tragic one. “How long is
it going to take all three of you to realize you’re either going to end up
killing each other or spend the rest of your lives pining after each other?”
Isaac stood and headed for the door, sighing. “Not every relationship has to
end like that, Derek. Even one where three people are involved. And especially
one like yours and Stiles’.”
“I can’t lose someone else because of me. I can’t do it,” Derek admitted. Isaac
stopped at the doorway looking mildly surprised by the statement and Derek even
surprised himself a little that he had replied that way. The statement was so
vast that it felt like it could swallow him whole. Why was he saying this to
Isaac? Derek did not tell people about his problems—much less his insecurities.
Isaac sighed like he knew exactly what needed to be done but had just been too
cautious to do it. He exited the doorway, walking across the foyer and living
room; he leveled himself in front of Derek who was still sitting on the couch
dejectedly. This time, however, Isaac didn’t hesitate as he placed his hand on
Derek’s forearm to console him.
 “Derek, we come into this world alone and we go out of it alone, but that
doesn’t mean that we always have to bealone.”
“What if you don’t know how to choose not to be alone?”
Isaac gave a small huff of a laugh. “Choices are the hardest to make when
you’re afraid.” Isaac stopped as Derek met his eyes. In any other circumstance,
Derek would have knocked Isaac upside the head for insinuating that he was
afraid and Isaac’s creased eyes and expression looked like he was anticipating
a blow. Derek nodded slightly. “But, Derek. Aren’t you tired of anger being
your only anchor?”
Chapter End Notes
     This might be my favorite chapter! There's just so much that's good
     about it even if it's kind of sad because Derek is grappling with his
     own insecurities.
     I can never decide if I love or hate Morgan.
     ~ARPoet
     For reasons that include torturing my boys, I can decide: I hate her.
     Except when she's being awesome. Then I look forward to the chapter
     where we kill her just a little less.
     Also, there are parts of this chapter that make me HATE both Arpoet
     and myself. WHY DO WE DO THIS TO THEM? WHY?
     ~Gillian
***** The Lover of My Friend is My Enemy *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles and Derek deal with their breakup in different ways. Derek
     moves into a new apartment. Stiles falls apart for a while, then,
     after a chat with his father, has to be the big boy and help his
     pack.
Chapter Notes
     (There are things in this chapter that make me hate myself.)
     ~Gilliangrissom
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles wasn’t a Victorian heroine from a Charlotte Brontë novel, but after
everything that had happened between him and Derek, he had definitely “taken to
the bed” for a couple of days. Stiles had left Scott in Isaac’s capable hands
when he left the train station; deciding that he didn’t want to stick around to
witness whatever weird phase their relationship was currently going through.
Dealing with his own weird feelings at the moment was almost more than he could
handle and dealing with Scott and Isaac was just too much. Considering that he
was stranded at the train station, and as bad of an idea as it might have
seemed with Morgan lurking around what felt like every street corner, Stiles
had decided to walk all the way home.
Stiles probably should have realized that walking home only gave him more of an
opportunity to be stuck in his head and to let himself torture himself about
Derek just a little bit more—in retrospect it was a horrible idea. By the time
he made it to his house, it had to have been around nine o’clock because the
sun had set and the stars were out in full-force. When he finally made it to
the driveway, Stiles had been surprised to see his dad’s police car parked
there—he had been fairly certain that his father was supposed to work that
evening. In a bout of full-on teenage angst, Stiles wished that his father
would miraculously get called in as he was walking in the door. Stiles wasn’t
exactly in the mood to explain to his dad why he had decided to walk home by
himself or why he felt the urge to go curl up on his bed without eating any
dinner. Having to explain himself would just take energy that he didn’t have.
If there was anything to be said about the predictability of humans, when
Stiles had walked in the front door, his dad had hurled a volley of questions
at him. Many of these questions included, “What happened? How did you get home?
Are you alright? Did Derek and Scott find anything out? You look tired. Do you
want to eat? You know you can tell me anything, son, right? What’s going on?”
Stiles, in the tried-and-true teenage fashion, had opted for answering most of
these questions with a grunt and simply responded, “I’m going to bed.”—the
questions that involved Derek left Stiles choking on the large, dry lump in his
throat that had been forming ever since he had left the train station. To say
that his father knew that something was wrong when Stiles had turned down curly
fries that John had managed to deep fry himself without burning the house down,
would have been an insult to his investigative skills. Stiles may have been in
one of the worst moods that he could remember in his young-adult life, but even
in that mood he wouldn’t have been that rude to his father (although the
thought of passing up curly fries did haunt his dreams that night).
So, yeah, when Stiles had gotten a couple texts from Isaac letting him know
that he would take care of Scott while Stiles “did whatever he needed to do,”
Stiles may have taken the opportunity to morph into a fourteen year old
Japanese school girl who just had her heart broken for the first time. Okay, so
it wasn’t that dramatic, but Stiles definitely wasn’t in the mood to deal with
people, take a shower, or eat anything that wasn’t his father’s leftover curly
fries with a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream (and anyone who judged him for
possibly mixing the two could kiss his unshowered ass; because apathy was a
teenager’s finest weapon).
Honestly, Stiles knew that he should have spent the past two days researching
how to help Scott while Isaac was looking out for him, but Stiles just couldn’t
bring himself to be productive—which didn’t really help Stiles to feel better
about his situation because in his own selfishness, his best friend was still
suffering (even if Stiles was still pissed at Scott). But as far as the whole
Morgan situation went, all seemed to be quiet on the Western Front. Lydia and
Allison stayed close to one another according to their texts and Ethan and
Aiden had been keeping tabs on Peter to make sure he didn’t go on any more
murdering-sprees.
Stiles knew that he couldn’t maintain cellphone silence forever—despite how
shitty he felt—and once he had let everyone know Scott’s situation, they had
all kept reporting in to him like he was their interim-Alpha, which quite
frankly, could not have come at a worse time because Stiles was in no state to
be giving other people orders. He felt like he should have been flattered that
they had all turned to him, but he couldn’t even get himself to listen and to
stop acting like a blubbering, heartbroken idiot. But then again, that’s
exactly what he was right now, wasn’t it?
Stiles invested about three whole days of his time playing Skyrim and refusing
to put anything on besides his sweatpants. His father had complained and
claimed that Stiles’ stench was starting to permeate the entire house and soon
the neighborhood watch would be breaking down their front door with a battering
ram in search of toxic waste. Stiles of course had ignored him through the
barrier of his bedroom door and continued to set the dark elf on his screen on
fire with his character’s magic. Luckily, with his father being the sheriff, he
was almost continually busy and never had time to hang around the house, which
made it easy for Stiles to avoid almost all human contact aside from the
occasional beep of a text message from his cellphone. When John was home,
Stiles would hide behind his locked bedroom door and only leave his bedroom to
sneak down the hallway and use the bathroom. Occasionally, his dad would knock
and ask him if he needed anything or wanted to have a bite to eat and when
Stiles refused to answer, he could hear his father’s concerned sigh collide
with the other side of the door.
Stiles should have felt bad about worrying his dad, but he was a bit too busy
feeling sorry for himself. Things only got worse for Stiles when he received a
text from Isaac saying that a couple days ago he had helped Derek move into his
new apartment—the apartment that Stiles had helped him to find and convinced
him to get. If Stiles had found himself on his bedroom floor with his head
between his knees crying silently to himself, he certainly wouldn’t have
admitted it to anyone. Isaac had meant the text innocently enough and was just
trying to keep Stiles in the loop and Stiles knew that, but that didn’t stop
him from being angry with Isaac. So, in a concerted effort to ignore his
feelings once again, Stiles dove back into a two day session of Skyrim.
The worst part about whenever Stiles got a text message from one of the pack
members was that he could feel his heart stammer in his chest in a secret hope
that it would be a text from Derek asking if they could talk. It was possibly
one of the worst forms of mental torture that he could have exacted on himself,
but Stiles couldn’t stop the flow of internal wishes inside his head. He knew
that it was a ridiculous hope to hold on to because he hadn’t heard a word from
Derek since the train station and Stiles didn’t expect that to change any time
soon. But the most gut-wrenching realization that Stiles had come to since he
had sequestered himself from the rest of humanity was that at some point, he
would have to face Derek again. He’d have to work with Derek again to help
Scott and to stop Morgan; and Stiles just wasn’t sure how he would manage that.
Stiles and Derek had always had a sort of physical relationship (even if that
relationship entailed Derek mostly shoving Stiles into random objects) and now
that their relationship had moved on to a distinctly different definition of
“physical,” the damage had officially been done. Stiles couldn’t fathom being
around Derek or in the same room with Derek and not being allowed to joke with
him or to touch him—even if it was just friendly teasing or antagonism. But
now, the irrevocable harm that had been done to their relationship came in the
form of having feelings for one another and having to pretend like those
feelings didn’t exist when around six days ago, Stiles and Derek were trying to
establish that they wanted to have something normal and regular with one
another—something that had probably been a long time coming.
Stiles’ stomach growled, but he didn’t feel hungry after spending so much time
thinking about Derek.
Stiles let his Xbox 360 remote fall to the floor as his ringtone went off for
the first time today, but he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Don’t even think
it Stilinski. Stiles sighed as he checked the screen to see a message from
Isaac.
‘His apartment is 307B Hillcrest Apartments in case you were wondering,’ the
message read.
Stiles closed the message and with exasperation, he launched it somewhere on
the other side of his bed with a clang as it fell. “Why the hell would I want
to know that, Isaac?” Stiles said to no one in particular. “You seriously suck
lately. I’m trying not to think about him and about stalking him.” Stiles
plopped himself back down in front of his Xbox and stared at his character on
Skyrim who just happened to be a werewolf in the game. To his own detriment, he
started thinking, and in the world of Stiles Stilinski, that was very dangerous
ground. Picking himself up off the floor again, he clambered onto his bed and
searched next to the wall where his phone had fallen when he threw it.
Stiles pulled up his text conversation with Isaac (which in all reality was a
string of texts from Isaac telling him how Scott was over the past few days—not
good). His fingers hovered idly over the keys as he considered the message that
he wanted to send Isaac. Stiles didn’t want to overthink it, so he typed the
first thing that came to mind.
‘How is he?’ Instead of giving himself the opportunity to recant, Stiles hit
send and realized that his heart was pounding in his chest, which was stupid
because this was just Isaac he was talking to. Stiles paced his room for about
five minutes until Isaac eventually responded. As soon as the text lit up the
screen of his phone, Stiles had already opened it and read the words.
‘Keeping himself busy.’
Stiles rolled his eyes. “What the hell does that mean, Lahey?!” He said aloud.
Stiles stood there for a moment and then proceeded to type exactly that
question.
Isaac responded a moment later. ‘Well, in probably the same way that you
distract yourself by playing Skyrim and masturbating, Derek apparently gives
himself projects like setting up his entire apartment . . . and probably
masturbating.”
Stiles winced at the final part of the message. He really did not want to think
about Derek masturbating. Okay, that was an absolute lie; Stiles could spend
all day thinking about Derek masturbating, but not in these current
circumstances. That would just be masochism in the worst manner possible on his
part (mainly because Stiles didn’t want to just think about it—he wanted to be
the helping hand). Stiles looked back down at his phone and replied. ‘I haven’t
jerked off in six days, thank you. But what does that mean on Derek’s end? Give
me something to work with, Isaac!’
Isaac took a few minutes to respond, but Stiles figured it was because of the
lengthy response he had typed. ‘TMI, Stiles. But I can’t answer what that means
for Derek. He’s keeping himself busy and is acting like his usual grumpy self.
But we need to do something about Scott soon. He was pretty much gone after the
first day and he’s only gotten worse. I’m going to go check on him this
afternoon.’
Stiles was grateful that Isaac had been there to take care of Scott when
everything had gone to shit in his personal life because Stiles wasn’t sure how
he would have managed otherwise. He knew he couldn’t continue this life of
hermeticism for much longer when Morgan was still prowling around Beacon Hills
probably waiting for the precise opportunity to strike, but he also wasn’t
ready to face everyone in the pack. The distance of a cellphone was so much
easier to handle. Still, Stiles knew that he had to put his big-boy pants back
on.
‘I’ll check on Scott tomorrow.’
‘You sure?’ Isaac replied.
‘Yeah, I think my dad is about a day away from breaking down my door to see if
I’m still alive anyways. I should get out of this bedroom and take a shower.’
‘For the love of god, please take a shower.’
‘Sure. But no promises I’m going to change my underwear.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘And you’re a teenage werewolf. We all have our burdens to bear.’
‘Changing your underwear isn’t a burden. It’s basic hygiene.’
‘I’m heartbroken. If I can’t crack my underwear in half, I’m doing it wrong.’
‘Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.’
Stiles shook his head at the last comment. Even though he had been making a
joke of the topic, it was first time he’d actually admitted his genuine
feelings about the situation to anyone. From an outsider’s perspective, it
might have seemed ridiculous just how heartbroken Stiles felt considering that
his relationship with Derek had only lasted a few days. But Stiles thought that
love was maybe a lot like losing innocence. Once it’s lost and you know it’s
lost, that knowledge sticks with you forever. Once you know that you love
someone, that part of you will always love them. It’s a kind of beautiful
corruption that you treasure.
Wait. Love? Stiles tripped over the pile of laundry that had been accumulating
in the center of his bedroom. He landed face first in a piece of leather that
was near the bottom of the pile. His face was buried in Derek’s leather jacket
that he had never gotten around to giving back. He had worn it all the way to
Peter’s apartment when he was with Derek last time, but Derek had told him to
hold on to it because he “liked seeing him wear it.” Stiles had teased him
relentlessly because it was one of the sappiest gestures that the grumpy
werewolf could have made. Derek had replied with a raise of his “sass-brow” and
said, “You can give it back if you don’t want it then.” Stiles hadn’t replied;
he had zipped up the jacket and walked out the front door. He knew Derek had
been smiling behind him as they left.
But love?! When the hell did that happen? That was probably a question Stiles
knew he should have been asking himself a long time ago. He had known for quite
some time that he was bisexual—even if he hadn’t felt the need to announce it
to anyone—and if Derek had made a few starring roles in his masturbatory
fantasies, well, that was perfectly normal because Derek Hale was an Adonis.
How could you jerk off and not think about that boy ? But in all honesty,
Stiles had never thought much of it. Just because you thought someone was hot
enough to jerk off to didn’t mean you had feelings for them (especially when
that person had a penchant for slamming you into things or punching you). But
somewhere in between all the sideways glances, the antagonizing jokes, the
constant saving of one another’s asses, and a weird budding friendship, Stiles
had somehow taken an exit ramp to the Highway of Love. Somehow, Stiles finding
the courage to kiss Derek when he did suddenly felt like something they had
always been working up to rather than a last-ditch effort to get Derek’s
attention. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, SHIT.
Stiles picked up the jacket, opened his closet door and threw it into the back.
This called for an outer- monologue. “I cannot be in love with Derek! I can’t
be in love with the first guy to break up with me when he doesn’t want anything
to do with me now! Oh my god! How did I let this happen?! Two years of threats
and what some people might call ‘near physical abuse’ and suddenly I’m in love
with the dude? How fucked up is that?! Shit, I need to talk to my shrink.”
Stiles paused, splaying himself across his unmade bed. “Sweet Mary, Mother of
God—I’m in love with Derek Hale. I’m in love with tortured, orphaned,
communication-issues, physically-intimidating, emotionally-stunted, bad-boy,
werewolf-Adonis, been-lied-to-my-whole-life, Derek Hale! I’m doomed! ” Stiles
reached above his head and grabbed the nearest pillow, preparing to smother
himself with it when he heard a light knock at his bedroom door.
“Stiles?” His dad’s muffled voice came through with gentle concern.
Stiles hesitated for a moment. What was his dad doing home in the middle of the
day? He had hardly said ten words to him in the past five days and Stiles still
didn’t know what to tell his dad about what had happened between him and Derek.
“Yeah, dad?”
“Hey, kiddo, do you want to have some lunch with me before I head back to the
station?” His dad’s voice was cautious like he was approaching a skittish
animal that might dart back into its hole at any moment. Stiles had to admit
that he was considering darting, but he didn’t want to be that cruel to his
father who was clearly concerned and trying to help.
“Uh, sure, just let me find a shirt real fast.” Stiles quickly dug through the
dirty laundry pile at the center of his room to find the t-shirt that was least
likely to crack in half when he tried to put it on. Stiles threw on a red Flash
t-shirt and opened his bedroom door. His father was standing on the other side
of the opened door with a disgruntled look on his face.
“It looks like Chernobyl in there,” he said. “And good Lord, son, it smells
like a paper mill.” John reached around Stiles and pulled the door to.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll take care of that this afternoon.”
John and Stiles made their way into the kitchen and Stiles offered to help his
dad make lunch, but his dad pointed at the dining room table and told him to
“sit.” It took a few minutes, but Stiles watched his dad pull out everything he
needed to make lunch. He was making tomato soup and grilled cheese with a dill
pickle on the side—comfort food to the men of the Stilinski household. Stiles
slouched in the chair as his dad put his food in front of him. Stiles loved his
dad’s grilled cheeses because he always used three different cheeses: Gouda,
sharp cheddar, and Swiss on Texas toast. His dad would always throw some fresh
basil into the tomato soup as well (something he had learned from Claudia).
When Stiles was little, his dad would lift him up over the stove and let him
hold the spatula so Stiles could flip the sandwiches and stir the soup. It had
been somewhat of a Sunday ritual for them to cook together, but when Stiles
became a teenager, he was suddenly “too cool” for making grilled cheeses on
Sunday with his dad. Stiles really regretted that now as he stared at his gooey
grilled cheese.
“I’m sorry that we haven’t done this in a while, dad,” Stiles admitted aloud.
“Every parent knows their kids will grow up sometime,” John replied with what
seemed to be his paternal intuition. “But none of us are ready for it when it
does happen.”
Stiles picked at the crust on his grilled cheese and the overflowing cheese.
“Have I been a horrible son? I’ve stopped spending time with you, I lied to you
for two years about Scott and everyone else, and I just spent five days cutting
you out when all you wanted to do was help. I just—”
His dad interrupted before the list went on. “Bud, let me stop you right there.
You’re not perfect—I know that’s earthshattering news—but no one is. You’re
smart, you’re funny, and you care about people more than anyone I’ve ever
known. You’ve saved people’s lives in ways that I never could and I am so
immensely proud of you.” Stiles looked down at his grilled cheese some more,
not wanting his dad’s words to get the better of him and make him emotional. He
could feel the painful tightening of his throat regardless. “But your worst
habit has always been that you’re too hard on yourself.”
Stiles nodded to show that he heard his dad. “I’ve just made some bad choices
lately that have ended up hurting people around me.”
“People like Derek?” John finished making his food and brought it over to the
dining room table, setting himself directly across from Stiles so he could look
him in the eye. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard what you said
earlier in your bedroom.”
Stiles stopped midway through taking a bite of his grilled cheese and slowly
looked up at his dad. In two large chews, he dry-swallowed the remainder of his
sandwich and considered that if he had to talk about being in love with Derek,
his father wouldn’t be the worst person to talk to (even if he’d be the most
uncomfortable). “Dad, I—”
“Did you mean it?” asked John abruptly.
“Did I—did I mean that I, that I—that I love Derek?” For as strange as it was
to say in front of his father, the words, “love Derek,” felt oddly appropriate
coming out of Stiles’ mouth. He just wished that he’d had the opportunity to
say them to Derek. Well, on second thought, that probably would have ended more
disastrously than this whole ordeal had. Even though Stiles was fairly certain
that his feelings for Derek had been established somewhere long ago, it had
taken some coercion to level with Derek and get him to admit that he wanted
something stable with Stiles. Stiles was pretty sure that telling Derek he had
loved him for “X” amount of time would blow up like Mentos in a Diet Coke
bottle. And for that exact reason, Stiles was never going to tell Derek how he
truly felt about him.
Stiles realized he had trailed off into his own head when his dad tilted his
head back into his line-of-sight and repeated the question. “Did you?”
Stiles didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah, yeah, I did—I do. As insane as that
sounds, I’m in love with Derek Hale.”
“Then what happened?” John took a sip of his tomato soup and dunked his grilled
cheese in it. The question was so matter-of-fact like his father was
encouraging him to go sprinting down the street with a dozen roses in hand to
go win back his man (dramatic yet romantic music playing in the background and
all).
“Scott opened his big mouth,” Stiles groused.
“Scott? What does he have to do with any of this?”
“Everything,” Stiles answered defensively. “He was the one who asked me to spy
on Derek nearly every day since Derek came back to Beacon Hills! He said he
trusted Derek, but apparently not enough to think that Derek wouldn’t try
something or that Peter might somehow trick Derek into trying something! And
then things got really confusing between me and Derek and I never got the
chance to explain to Derek why I was there in the first place! And then there’s
Scott who has the uncanny ability to open his mouth when he shouldn’t and he
accidently told Derek that he sent me to spy on him. So now, Derek is under the
impression that I was lying to him the whole time and everything that happened
between us was based on a lie because I didn’t tell him one stupid detail.”
“Hmm,” John said with a nod while continuing to tear the crust off of his
grilled cheese in the same way Stiles did. “But didn’t you lie to him?”
“What?” Stiles answered; indignant.
“Did Scott force you to go to Derek’s apartment? Did Scott prevent you from
telling Derek why you were there? When you and Derek decided you
wanted—‘more’—did Scott keep you from telling Derek the truth before he found
out from someone else and it hurt him worse? Was it Scott’s fault that he had
assumed you had been honest with Derek and that’s why you two had chosen to
start a relationship?”
Stiles put down his food with a scowl. “Whose side are you on, dad? Scott’s or
mine?”
John smiled in what was probably meant to be comforting, but Stiles interpreted
it as condescending. “Bud, I am always on your side. But you already admitted
that you made some bad decisions, so you can’t blame your actions on Scott—even
if it wasn’t fair of Scott to put you in that position. But he probably had no
idea how you truly felt about Derek, so he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“He sure knew what he was doing when he treated Derek like crap after he found
out we were dating!”
John seemed to agree as he bit his dill pickle in half. “Fair enough. Scott
shouldn’t have been hard on either of you if he didn’t approve of the
relationship; it wasn’t his place. But try to see it from his perspective:
Scott has always looked out for you ever since you two were boys. Now, Scott is
a werewolf who hangs around with other werewolves and you decided to start
dating a werewolf who, from what I know about him and his family, has a very
tragic past. Scott’s like your older brother and even though he overreacted, he
was trying to show you that he cared. Were you at least honest with Scott about
your relationship when it started?”
“He didn’t give me the chance! He kind of lunged at me and started asking
questions!”
“And what did you say? Were you honest with him?”
Stiles could hear his dad building up to the point of this entire
interrogation. Sometimes having a cop for a father blows. “Sort of… But I
mostly told him to mind his own business.” Stiles sighed as he heard the words
for themselves.
“So you weren’t honest with Scott and you weren’t honest with Derek? What’s up
with that, kiddo?”
Stiles slouched in his chair again, his arms going wide in his own defense.
“Not telling someone everything isn’t the same as lying! There are plenty of
things I don’t tell people I know! My favorite color or movie for instance!
That isn’t lying!”
John chuckled. “Stiles, you’re smarter than that. I think you’re just afraid to
admit that where you’re sitting now is partially because of your own actions.
Of course neither Scott nor Derek is blameless in all of this, but if there’s
one thing you need to take away from this entire experience it’s that trust and
communication is key—especially with someone like Derek. I don’t know much
about the boy, but what I do know leads me to believe that he’s been hurt and
lied to a lot in his life. Someone like that has a lot of baggage and you have
to be one hundred percent honest with them or you will lose them. I think you
probably meant something to Derek and that’s why he reacted the way he did.
Learn from your mistakes and the next time you fall in love, remember how you
ended up here so it won’t happen again.”
John reached across the table and gripped Stiles’ wrist giving it a comforting
squeeze followed by a smile, but Stiles was almost too preoccupied by what his
dad had just said to notice. Stiles glanced up at his dad with a solemn face
that slowly melted his dad’s smile away.
“What if I don’t want to fall in love again?” Stiles admitted. “What if I found
what I want?” Stiles knew it sounded like the cliché, teenage admission of
love, but he’d also never asked a question that struck him to the core quite
like this did. Finding the person that you want to spend the rest of your life
with as a teenager wasn’t impossible—it was rare, but not impossible, just look
at Stiles’ parents. The term “high school sweethearts” existed for a reason
(even if Derek wasn’t in high school anymore). As he said the words aloud,
Stiles knew what he wanted. It was just too bad that he’d wrecked his chance
before it had even started.
“Stiles, if there’s one thing I know about my son, it’s that he’s stubborn and
persistent. If there’s something you want, go get it.”
Stiles shook his head. “How? You said yourself that people like Derek come with
a lot of baggage. I wasn’t honest with him, so I lost him and now he doesn’t
want anything to do with me. How do you win someone over when they don’t want
you? Look at Lydia. It sure as hell didn’t work with her!”
“Like I said before, Stiles: trust and communication.” John slid out of his
chair and pulled Stiles up by his shoulders to wrap his arms around him in a
kind of hug that probably should have happened more often between them. “Just
because we make mistakes doesn’t mean we can’t fix them. Remember why all of
this happened and do something about it.” John put his hand on the back of
Stiles’ head and gave him a quick kiss to the temple. “I just want you to be
happy, son. And if Derek won’t see reason, I’ll shoot him for you. ”
Stiles hiccupped a small laugh and tried to hide the fact that his eyes were
watering, but he knew his dad had seen. “I love you, dad.”
“I love you too, Stiles. Now go take a shower. You stink.”
                                     * * *
Focus your imagination, Stiles. Deaton’s voice had been echoing through Stiles’
head for hours. You have to make yourself believe you can help Scott.
“What the hell does that even mean?” Stiles mumbled to himself. “Focus my
imagination? How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Stiles’ imagination was
not good at focusing. He kept lists of things to think about—Mexican fire-
breathing winged opossums named Steve were still at the top of one of
them—catalogued his environment, and came up with snippy replies to the twins
every word, all at the same time. He’d started another document as a companion
to the Megabeastiary tracking possible strategies for fighting everything they
could ever possibly come across. (The first page of the document had been size
72 bold font reading “MOTHERFUCKING DRAGONS ARE REAL, WE’RE FUCKED.” He had yet
to have anyone dissuade him from this fact.) It had been years since he’d
thought about only one thing at a time. Focusing all his imagination on Scott
could be terrifying, if he could manage it at all.
The intended object of his focus shifted in his chains. They rattled as Scott
groaned. “Isaa—?” He’d been talking about Isaac, Allison, or his mother on and
off for most of the time Stiles had been near him. None of it had made much
sense. He’d been reduced to mumbling their names for the last hour, but before
that, Scott had screamed and cried and roared at enemies Stiles couldn’t see.
Stiles had spent a large portion of the time he was supposed to be focusing on
fixing Scott focusing on pretending he couldn’t hear Scott’s pain. Stiles might
be mad at Scott, but Scott was his brother, and no one deserved the kind of
pain Scott was going through; if how he sounded was any indication of severity.
However, he’d been listening to Scott mumble their names for six hours, and
scream and sob their names for two days. “Yes, Scott, Isaac. He’s in love with
you, you’re in love with him, Allison may or may not know about it and if she
doesn’t, you should really tell her.” Stiles said. It probably wasn’t fair to
call Scott out on something neither he nor Isaac had managed to admit to
themselves yet, but sarcasm was still essentially the only defense Stiles had;
Mimic or no. “You should probably deal with that. All three of you sit down and
have a chat about what you’re going to do about the fact all three of you are
in love with each other.”
“Stiles?” Stiles head jerked up. It was the most lucid Scott had sounded in
hours. “Stiles, Isaac isn—” and he flinched, clamped his eyes shut, and started
whimpering again. Stiles wondered if earplugs would help his focus any. Though
he couldn’t focus on fixing Scott, he could think about Scott in pain, Scott
tearing his wrists bloody as he tried to escape his nightmares. Stiles was
years past the point he could handle Scott in pain. He and Scott had never been
very good at listening to the other hurt .
“Oh Scott, if you think he isn’t in love with you, you’re deluding yourself.”
Sarcasm as a Defense Mechanism 301, Professor Stilinski. He sighed and sat down
on the floor in front of the circle of mountain ash containing Scott. The Alpha
hadn’t managed to break his chains yet, but Stiles had put down the ash anyway
just to be certain Scott couldn’t get loose. While he was still lucid enough to
do so, Scott had thanked him, then suggested a second or even third ring of
ash. He’d broken through a ring of mountain ash before.
Scott opened his eyes just a crack and looked down at Stiles. Stiles ducked his
head to make eye contact with him. “I’m gonna figure out how to fix you,”
Stiles promised. Scott’s eyes closed again.
At nine that night, Aiden relieved Stiles from Scott duty. They’d come up with
a roster to keep Scott under watch in the first hour he’d been under Morgan’s
control. Even when he wasn’t on the schedule, Stiles spent nearly every waking
moment with him. Deaton said Stiles could help Scott, so Stiles was going to
figure out how.
Stiles went home and collapsed into his bed. The next day he would be back,
trying desperately to figure out how to help Scott. He should have done more
research on Mimics and figuring out how to make Scott uncrazy, but he was so
exhausted. He had the world’s largest headache from trying so hard to “focus
his imagination” and trying not to hear Scott cry. He wanted to get up and see
if he can find anything on Mimics online, but less than a minute after he hit
the bed he was asleep.
Stiles was back at the train station at eight the next morning, freshly
showered and carrying a very large hot beverage. Though he’d been asleep within
minutes of stretching out on his blankets, he’d slept badly. He’d woken up
every few hours, hearing Scott’s screams booming in his ears. If his father had
been home, he had a feeling he’d have crawled in with him the way he had almost
every night for a year after his mother had died. Since he wasn’t, Stiles
wrapped himself in Derek’s jacket and a blanket his mother had given him when
he was six and tried to sleep. His success had been. . .mixed.
Ethan had relieved Aiden at some point in the night, and he was napping at the
edge of the circle of ash. Stiles tossed a ping pong ball, one of a number kept
in a bucket near the entrance to the station, at Ethan, and he jerked awake.
This was far from the first time Stiles had to wake up one of the wolves since,
well, since Scott had been bitten, and he’d figured out damn fast that poking
them on the shoulder was never safe for a breakable little human.
“What?” Ethan said, and completed the process of waking up by rolling into the
barrier and smacking his face on it. “Oh, hi Stiles. Is it morning already?”
“Stiles!” Scott’s voice was a rasping scream, and he lunged forward against his
chains. “Stiles Stiles!” Ethan jerked towards Scott in an attempt to catch him,
which resulted in him smacking his face a second time. He really was not at his
best after a night on an uncomfortable floor with his Alpha five feet away
crying and screaming. Stiles had the feeling that Ethan would be calling Danny
as soon as he had showered. He knew for a fact that Aiden had called Lydia.
“Scott, you have to calm down.” Stiles told Scott, and stepped carefully over
the border to slide a bottle of water into Scott’s reach. It wouldn’t be easy
for Scott to reach it, precisely, but it was better than Stiles getting close
enough to hold the water for him, and no one else but equally breakable Allison
and Lydia could enter the circle. In actuality, there probably wasn’t anyone in
the pack that could handle Scott in full Alpha mode under the Mesmer’s
influence.
Stiles also put a peanut butter sandwich near Scott’s other hand. Melissa
McCall would be here later with something more substantial, but she’d had to
start limiting her visits. If she stayed for very long, Scott tried so hard to
act normally that eventually he snapped and couldn’t even whimper for several
hours.
“I need you to take a drink. Can you drink some water for me?” Stiles told him,
but Scott’s eyes had gone unfocused and feral again. Stiles leapt back out of
the circle before Scott could reach for him. Scott’s chin fell to his chest and
his breathing went ragged. It sounded like he was trying to growl but he was
sobbing so hard he couldn’t manage it. “Three faces,” he mumbled, sobbed, then
mumbled again, over and over.
“Are you having any luck?” Ethan asked. Stiles looked at him, then looked at
Scott, and then looked at him again. “Right. Um,” he shifted awkwardly. “Isaac
’s supposed to be here in an hour. I’m gonna go grab a shower and meet up with
Danny and Lydia.” Stiles gave himself a mental high five, though it was slow
and exhausted. “We’re going to see what we can find out about Mimics.”
“Okay.” Stiles sat down across the circle from Scott again as Ethan left the
station.
Scott went limp, hanging against his chains. He swayed and swung clumsily
against them, trying to swipe his claws at his hallucination. He was mostly
quiet, except for the sound of his chains rattling.
Stiles turned his back to Scott. His focus would suffer if he could see Scott
trying to fight. He closed his eyes and pictured Scott healthy and focused. He
had tried every variant of thinking/wishing/ordering Scott to be better he
could conceive of, so now he was just trying to remember what Scott had been
before Morgan. He’d once described Scott as “sunshine and puppies,” which
seemed like as good a place to start as any. From there, he started adding
facts, like he was rebuilding Scott from his perceptions of him. Scott was a
good student. He was seventeen years old. He was a devoted son to his mother.
He wanted nothing to do with his father, who seemed to want nothing to do with
him. He was Stiles’ brother. He worked for Dr. Deaton at the veterinarian’s
office. He had the world’s largest hero complex. He would take pain from the
worst victims in the vet’s office, so they could have a time at peace, even
though it hurt him. He didn’t have an intentionally selfish bone in his body,
though he’d occasionally do something selfish without realizing it. He was
hilariously, utterly and completely in love with his ex-girlfriend and one of
his Betas. He had not even the foggiest clue of how to go about telling them he
was. He was the first True Alpha in over 100 years, by Deaton’s reckoning. He’d
been bitten by Peter Hale. He was a terrible liar. He was sometimes painfully
naïve. He could be an idiot if his packmates were threatened. He was
completely, sometimes overly, protective of his family.
Isaac came into the station. Stiles didn’t look at him. Scott and Isaac had a
strange ritual they completely every time Isaac came to the station, which
mostly consisted of Scott trying to break free of his chains and Isaac staring
at him with pining-puppy eyes. It didn’t bother Stiles, but he was damned if he
was going to watch the two pine after each other forever. If something didn’t
get said soon, after the whole fiasco with Morgan was dealt with, Stiles was
going to lock the two wolves and Allison in a very small room until either they
fucked or one of them ended up dead. He might take bets on which happened.
Except Isaac didn’t go to Scott. He came running straight to Stiles, his eyes
wild and panicked. Isaac was holding something in his hands as he bolted toward
him—sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest heaved in gasps.
“Stiles, I—Morgan—!” Isaac doubled over to catch his breath for a moment. He
showed Stiles the tarot card and shoved the card into Stiles’ hand. Stiles felt
something in his mind go fuck. “I found it on top of my bed this morning when I
woke up! Morgan must have somehow gotten into my room and planted it there!”
Isaac shuddered visibly at the thought. “What if Ms. McCall had found it?! But,
shit! I’m screwed! Stiles, help me!”
“Stiles!” Scott screamed, but it wasn’t the scream of a crazy person. It was
the scream of someone who was concerned. It was Scott, 100% idiot-True-Alpha
hero-complex-Scott. Stiles had 1/1000th of a second to think—did I cure him? Is
he Scott again—before Scott roared out a warning. “Stiles, it isn’t Isaac!
Morgan captured—” and he stopped like something had cut him off. Isaac grinned
and threw his arms out at both Scott and Stiles. Everything around Stiles flew
backwards with crushing velocity and slammed into the walls dozens of feet away
in scattered piles of debris. Scott was flung across the circle of mountain
ash, crashing into the barrier, and collapsed into unconsciousness. Stiles,
threw his arms up to brace himself against the concussive force that was sure
to follow as a purple light enveloped him, but by contrast, he felt something
push against him and then brush against his arms, but he did not move.
A constipated look of confusion crossed Isaac’s face, followed by a hollow
laugh. It wasn’t Isaac’s laugh. It was Morgan’s laugh.
Stiles blinked and as his lids fluttered open, Morgan stood in Isaac’s place,
still laughing as a swath of purple flames erupted into butterflies that flew
away from her body. She flounced forward as her chuckled ended. “My, my, the
little Mimic is learning,” she said, and her face settled so suddenly into
lines of rage that it made Stiles want to step back, but a moment later, she
was laughing again. “Stiles, do you know what the root of the word
‘reciprocity’ is? It is derived from the Latin reciprocus, which means
‘returning the same way.’ Your force of will might make you a Mimic, but the
reciprocal of that power also makes you equally susceptible to the sway of
imagination. That card that you hold in your hand isn’t the conductor—it is the
lightning. And you are the rod. ”
As her words fell around him, Stiles could feel the darkness, the insanity, the
mania, on the edges of his mind. The panic started to rise from the center of
his chest like a geyser of searing steam as Morgan—who was still
laughing—became silhouetted with another gout of purple flames. “What have you
done with Isaac?” He shouted.
“Locked him inside of his mind of course,” she crowed. “But don’t worry my
little Mimic. He’s much better off than you’re soon to be!”
“Let him go,” He demanded. Stiles’ voice resonated on the word “go,” and he
watched as the flames enveloping Morgan flickered and faded like they’d been
doused by the emphasis. Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened or how it had
happened, but he had clearly affected Morgan somehow. He hadn’t imagined
anything and he hadn’t tried to exert his will, but he had demanded something
of the Mesmer. The demand didn’t seem well-received.
Morgan looked as though she’d been electrocuted by a light socket as her face
twisted back from scathing laughs into ire. “Indecision, confusion,
deception—the inverted Ace of Swords, Stiles—enjoy the swim,” she hissed.
Stiles didn’t know what she had meant by “enjoy the swim,” but with a snap of
her fingers, her form buzzed and blurred like she was dissipating on a
molecular level before fading completely. Her frenzied laugh still clung to the
air.
Stiles scrambled to his feet in a haze with a one-track thought consuming his
mind. He knew exactly what he had to do and where he had to go, but his mind
was clear enough to remember to break the circle of mountain ash so Scott could
get free before he took off running.
Chapter End Notes
     PAPA STILINSKI FEELS. MAMA STILINSKI FEELS. #BROTHERS FEELS. THIS
     CHAPTER HAS A LOT OF FEELS FOR ME, OKAY?
     SCISAAAAAAACCCCCCC!!!!!!!!!!!!
     Also, chapter 13 makes me hate ARpoet. That's all the warning you're
     getting from me.
     ~Gilliangrissom
     I told Gillian that I had to make a post about Chapter 13 because we
     love our readers, but we're afraid y'all are going to hate us after
     the next chapter. Buckle up, because it's gonna get bumpy!
     Chapter 13 is titled: In All My Dreams I Drown
     ~ARPoet
     I'm never forgiving you for chapter 13.
     ~Gillian
     Oh, but you will. Because I know what's coming.
     ~ARPoet
     So do I. I wrote half of it!
     (Never.)
     ~Gillian
***** In All My Dreams I Drown *****
Chapter Summary
     Stiles goes searching for Derek while under Morgan's influence and
     ends up somewhere unexpected.
Chapter Notes
     (Mild Warning: this chapter uses a lot of horror elements, so I'd
     recommend not reading it in a dark room or while listening to the
     Shadow Temple music from Legend of Zelda: OoT--because that's not
     what I did at *all*)
     Also, I apologize if there are grammar mistakes in this chapter. I've
     been really sick for the past few days and I'm too tired to proof
     read this at the moment. I hope you can forgive me! ~ARPoet
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The keys slipped out of Stiles’ sweaty palms as he fumbled to fit the sliver of
metal into the keyhole to unlock his vehicle. Cursing to himself, he knelt down
to pick up the key off of the pavement; his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The
dog-day summer heat caused all of the blood to rush to Stiles’ head as he
hunched to the concrete beneath him. His knees buckled beneath him as a haze
settled across his vision leaving nothing but a wave of nausea in its place
that caused the acid in his stomach to churn. He felt like he could be sick at
any moment.
Stiles slouched against the cool metal of his Jeep, not caring if it got his
clothes dirty as he tried to let his vision settle, which would hopefully
prevent him from throwing up. Stiles wanted to feel bad about leaving Scott
unconscious in the train station, but he knew Scott would try to stop him if he
woke him up, so this was better for everyone. Ultimately, Stiles knew Scott
would be torn about whether or not he should help Stiles or go after Isaac
(Isaac clearly needed his help more than Stiles did if Morgan had locked him
away somewhere and Stiles couldn’t begrudge Scott for wanting to save Isaac).
Stiles had other plans—other things he needed to do and Scott didn’t need to
worry about those things on his behalf.
Clenching what was in his hand, Stiles looked down at the tarot card Morgan had
tricked him into accepting. Through the gaps of his fingers, Stiles could see
the inverted image of the Ace of Swords—an illuminated obsidian blade with a
crown hanging from the golden hilt that was surrounded by a field of clouds. He
didn’t know why he still had it in his hand because he was pretty sure he had
flung it away from him at some point (he could have sworn he had). As he peered
at the emblem without knowing its meaning or importance—because he had only
been paying attention to the Major Arcana—Stiles couldn’t help but feel some
sort of personal resonance with the card. Somehow it felt like it spoke to him.
No, Stiles, cards don’t speak. It’s too soon for crazy talk. Knowing the
inevitable descent into madness had to be worse than actually being crazy
because if you were crazy, then you wouldn’t know it, right? Slumped against
the now body temperature metal of his Jeep, Stiles had to admit that he had a
newfound respect for Allison, Scott, and Derek (but not Peter, because Peter
had always been crazy). But staring at the tarot card that seemed to be
reflecting some part of himself back at him, Stiles wanted to break down right
then and there without putting up a fight. He knew he couldn’t do that,
however, because Stiles still had to do something. Why was he still sitting
here? Why was he still sitting on the ground?
Stiles flicked the card to the wayside.
Standing up with the keys now in hand, Stiles stuck the key into the lock and
turned it. The door opened with a click as he slid into the front seat behind
the wheel. Putting the key into the ignition, Stiles looked into his rearview
mirror to check behind him (cause just because he was going nuts didn’t mean he
should ignore the rules of safe driving). Stiles’ vision became hazy again as
he felt a surge of blood rush to his head. He squinted to try and see through
his fogged sight as he looked into the rearview. Something was there in the
mirror. Stiles squinted harder. Derek was standing outside of his Jeep and if
Stiles hadn’t looked when he had tried backing out, he would have run Derek
over. Stiles hit the brakes, put the car into park and threw his door wide as
he hopped out of the vehicle.
“Derek!” Stiles yelped as he came around the back of his vehicle.
There was no one to be found.
“Where was I going?” Stiles asked the empty parking lot. He shook his head and
climbed back into the car. Putting the car back in drive, Stiles reached over
into the passenger’s seat where the Ace of Swords lay and pocketed it. “What
was I doing?”
Stiles knew that Scott would be pissed at him when he woke up because Scott
always wanted to save everyone and sometimes that just wasn’t possible. It had
been a lesson that the pack had been forced to learn several times—and they had
learned it the hard way. Scott needed to worry about himself for once and he
needed to worry about Isaac. Stiles hoped that after everything that had
happened between them, Scott wouldn’t worry about Stiles when he was going to
find Derek.
“Derek,” he exclaimed as he finally remembered where he was going. Stiles leapt
out of the car again because he had seen Derek behind his Jeep as he was
backing out and hitting Derek with his Jeep would have been somewhat
detrimental to his plan of talking to him. “Derek,” he shouted as he went
around the backside of his Jeep and found no one there.
Stiles scowled, shoving his hands into the pockets of Derek’s jacket that he
was wearing. Had he worn Derek’s jacket to the train station? He was fairly
certain he had tossed it into his closet at home. Stiles’ fingers brushed
against something in the pocket as he produced the object and held it in front
of his face to see what it was. The inverted Ace of Swords stabbed downward as
he peered at the image. Stiles’ hands were shaking again. Why was he holding on
to this card? He had tossed it away earlier and he had already checked outside
his car once because he thought he had seen Derek. Stiles knew that he wasn’t
there; this was all some trick of the tarot card. Stiles tore the card in half
and threw it into a nearby puddle.
Stiles grasped at his temples, gripping handfuls of brown hair. He wanted his
head to stop swimming and for his thoughts to get off of a loop. “Come on,
Stiles. Come on. This isn’t real. Morgan wants all of this to happen. I’ve
gotta fight it and try to think straight. I’ve gotta get to Derek. Focus, man.
Remember where you’re going and why.” Climbing back into his car and finally
putting it in drive, he took three deep breaths to clear his head. It seemed to
help, so he headed toward Derek’s new apartment.
“307B, 307B, 307B, 307B.” Stiles repeated Derek’s new apartment number like a
mantra to help him keep track of where he was going. He tried not to speed, but
his mind felt like a ticking time-bomb that was set to release a bushel of
crazy at any moment, so Stiles figured it was probably best for everyone if he
wasn’t driving around town when it happened. Everything seemed normal for the
moment and Stiles hoped that if he kept repeating “307B, 307B, 307B” to himself
that things might stay that way long enough for him to explain some things to
Derek. Traffic wasn’t bad, thankfully, but whenever he hit a stoplight, Stiles
found himself bouncing anxiously in his seat while tapping his fingers
nervously against the steering wheel.
The sketchy part of town peeled back as he started getting closer to some of
the more suburban areas. He was around ten minutes away from Derek’s apartment
if he didn’t get stopped by traffic or more poorly-timed stoplights. He took
three more breaths. “307B, 307B, 307B.” It was strange, because saying Derek’s
apartment number was almost like saying Derek’s name. It felt safe to Stiles
even though he had never been there. He didn’t know what he expected Derek to
do once he got there, but some part of Stiles’ brain knew that being with Derek
when he finally lost it was exactly where he needed to be. The part of Stiles
that had finally accepted that he lovedDerek knew that there was no other place
he would rather be; even if Derek had said everything between them had been a
mistake, that didn’t deter Stiles from loving him.
Love didn’t have a switch that could be thrown which would turn it on and off.
Stiles had no capacity in his brain to comprehend the idea of not loving Derek
Hale—not as a friend, packmate, or as his boyfriend. Whatever came of Stiles’
mistakes and Derek’s inability to fully trust people around him, Stiles knew he
would have to deal with those consequences later, but in this moment—in the
eddy of his mind that was determined to drown him—Stiles knew he had to start
being honest with not only Derek, but with himself. Derek had been right when
he told Stiles that they were both liars because lying in the face of
misfortune was a craft that both Stiles and Derek had mastered. But just
because you aresomething doesn’t mean you always have to remain that way.
That’s what was greatest about human beings—they had the capability of change.
And with great change comes great reward.
Stiles imagined it was about time that both he and Derek had a little reward in
their lives instead of the constant strife that flooded around them. They had
both seen loved ones swept away by the current and not because they hadn’t been
strong enough to fight against the elements, but many times because of their
inability to adapt to a spiraling situation. But adapting and finding hope when
there was none appeared to be one of Stiles’ niches. Somehow, Stiles knew that
he had to cling to whatever he felt for Derek. He had to remember why it was
that he had come to love Derek. In any other circumstance, Stiles would have
made a joke and said he had absolutely no clue as to why he would love a grumpy
and emotionally-constipated werewolf, but right here and now, Stiles was being
honest with himself.
He loved the fact that Derek pretended to be stoic, but when no one was
looking, Derek wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Stiles and watch a
movie (and he’d even be willing to watch a movie that he knew he wouldn’t like
and suffer for Stiles’ sake anyway). Stiles was blown away by just how smart
Derek was and that he only let his knowledge be used in increments like it was
a precious commodity. He loved that Derek was a man of few words, but whenever
he finally spoke up, it was always worth listening to. Derek was stubborn,
recalcitrant, over-protective, aggressive, and such an alpha-male—but Stiles
loved all of those things about him. Stiles and Derek could possibly get locked
in an eternal “stubborn match” if they let themselves and neither one of them
would relent until the world ended and cracked in half like an eggshell. How
could he not love someone that was as hard-headed as himself? Stiles loved that
when Derek slept, he didn’t frown or scowl or try to seem stoic because of all
of the hurts from his past weighed him down to the point that finding a way to
express himself seemed like a chore; he was just calm. He loved that he felt
safe whenever Derek was with him because Derek watched over him even while he
slept and twice as much when he was awake.
The list went on and Stiles found himself surprised at all of the little things
he could point out about Derek. When exactly had his powers of the subconscious
decided to create a folder in his head labeled “Everything You Love about Derek
Hale”? And how had that folder gotten so full?            
Stiles was close to Derek’s apartment now and everything had seemed to remain
relatively normal since he’d gotten behind the wheel; for which he was
thankful. He turned left onto the street where the apartment complex was
located and searched for a place to park his Jeep. After a few minutes, he
found a spot where he could parallel park—good to know I can still parallel
park when I’m going crazy—and got out of his Jeep to head toward the apartment
building. It was a red brick building with a few stories that was sequestered
away from any other buildings. It was also near the outskirts of town in one of
Beacon Hill’s more suburban areas that was also near the woods. When Stiles had
gone looking for potential living situations for Derek, he figured Derek would
like this place—lots of privacy, quiet part of town, and near the woods.
It was starting to get cloudy out as Stiles passed a few people walking down
the sidewalk toward the building. He tried making friendly eye contact with the
occasional nod of the head and a curt “hello” or “hi” to appear as normal and
sane as he possibly could. He hoped people bought it. No one seemed to look at
him oddly, so he assumed they had. Coming around the bend of the building,
Stiles saw a small cement porch with about five steps that led up to the door
of the complex; it was a nice place and comparatively new. A few cars whizzed
by as he made his way up the steps. Before he made it to the last step before
the door, Stiles’ feet seemed to stop of their own volition by what he was
seeing protruding from the frame of the door.
The building had two glass doors leading into the lobby of the apartment
complex, but wedged into the frame where the two doors shut together was a
single sword with an obsidian blade and golden hilt. Stiles whipped his head
around to look at the people strolling down the sidewalk past the building.
None of the people seemed to notice the medieval weapon jutting outward from
the entrance of an apartment complex. While he may have been going crazy,
Stiles knew that this wasn’t normal and other people should have at least been
casting some sideways glances his direction. Not knowing what else to do,
Stiles grabbed the hilt of the sword and yanked it free from the frame of the
doors so that he could open them. The blade was heavy in his right arm, and
lifting it up to look at the edge, Stiles took his left forefinger and flicked
it with a clang. It was most definitely real. How was no one noticing this? Was
it the same idea that in New York if someone was being mugged in an alley,
people would just walk on by despite being able to see and hearit happening?
Were people so determined to remain oblivious to anything unordinary that
they’d walk right past a sword shoved into the crevice of a door? Apparently
so.
Stiles figured that walking into Derek’s apartment wielding a sword and
claiming to be under the influence of a tarot card wasn’t exactly the most
prudent course of action—actually, holding onto the sword at all when he could
go crazy at any moment probably wasn’t a good idea either. Stiles lowered the
weapon and turned on his heels to find a dumpster to toss the sword in to. As
he turned, Stiles saw a man in a brown trench coat standing at the base of the
steps peering up at him. Stiles stopped like he’d been doing something illegal.
The man didn’t say anything and merely stared—his face was devoid of emotion.
Stiles held the blade outward like it was a dirty washcloth as he explained, “I
don’t know what this was doing here. Somebody must have been playing a prank. I
was just going to toss it in the dumpster.” The man didn’t respond. He didn’t
blink either. His silence was his words.
Stiles moved down a step toward the man with a bemused look on his face.
“Right, then… I’m just going to throw this away.” As he moved down another
step, from behind the man’s trench coat appeared a young girl with pigtails and
fiery red hair who now blocked Stiles’ path. The little girl couldn’t have been
more than five years old as she gazed up at his face. Stiles, stopped himself
immediately, not wanting to move closer to the little girl with a weapon in his
hand. “Hi, there. Could I get by you real quick?” Stiles’ voice went up an
octave in the way most people’s voices tend to when they’re talking to
children. The girl said nothing and neither did the man. Neither of them
blinked, but their eyes mimicked his movements perfectly.
“Is this your daughter,” Stiles asked the man. “Mind if I get by you two so I
can get rid of this thing? I don’t want someone to get hurt from messing with
it.” What Stiles was really thinking was: I don’t want to lose it with this
thing still in my hand and hurt someone. The man and the girl continued to
stare. Stiles was beginning to experience some definite agitation followed up
by some creepy vibes with this little girl staring at him. He took a step back
onto the step above him. Did it get quieter all of a sudden?
Stiles didn’t want to take his eyes off of the eerie man and his daughter who
were stillstanding at the bottom of the steps just examining him, but as he
realized that the neighborhood suddenly seemed to have gone still, he looked
out across the sidewalk and road. All of the people who had been strolling down
the sidewalks earlier had stopped and were now rooted in place, staring his
direction. There was no noise at all anymore. Stiles could have heard a pin
drop—no talking, no shuffling of feet; nothing. Several cars had even stopped
in the middle of the road and the drivers had rolled down their windows and
were looking Stiles directly in the eye. Stiles felt a chill run down his spine
as gooseflesh rose on his arms.
“What the—” Stiles backed up onto the top step as he looked the man and the
girl who both cocked their heads at him in unison. They lifted their feet in
tandem and moved onto the first step as Stiles continued to back up. Stiles
whirled around toward the glass doors behind him.
As he turned, Stiles was met with something equally terrifying. Red letters
dripped down the glass in rivulets that pooled at the base of the two doors. He
glanced at the words in front of his face, but did not mistake the symbol
Perthro above the words that hung there like a crest or a warning. The words
read, “The beginning and end are set. To see with Sight, you must go Forward to
go Back.” Stiles didn’t have enough time to contemplate the meaning of the
cryptic words when he reminded himself that the insane man and his creepy
daughter were still behind him. Whipping back around, Stiles turned to defend
himself from the man, but instead was met with nearly twenty sets of unblinking
eyes that pooled at the base of the stairs. All of the people who had stopped
their cars or stood on the sidewalks earlier had somehow managed to make their
way over to the base of the staircase without Stiles noticing. Stiles stumbled
backward and slammed into the solid surface of the glass door, which broke his
fall.
Stiles looked down at their hands as he braced himself against the doors. All
of the people held an Ace of Swords. They all took a silent step forward.
Stiles gripped the hilt of the sword and held it out in front of him. “Stay
away from me!”
Fumbling with the door behind him, Stiles pulled at the handles of the doors
trying to open them, but they wouldn’t budge. He could feel the people behind
him edging in around as he struggled with the door. His heart was racing so
quickly that he could feel its beat in his throat.
“Come on! Come on!!” With one final tug, the door flew wide and Stiles careened
through the open space, slamming it behind him. He toppled backward onto the
floor and landed in water covering the ground. Looking out the glass door,
Stiles saw all of the people pressed against its frame holding their Ace of
Swords in muteness. They weren’t doing anything except staring at him from the
other side of the glass, but that was enough for Stiles to reach up and lock
the door from his side.
“What the hell is going on around here?” Stiles said to himself. What were
those people outside doing and why was he here? What was this
place—headquarters to some crazy cult or something? He took a step forward with
a slosh of his foot as it came down; the carpet was soaked. The lights above
him buzzed and flickered like a bug zapper that kept catching mosquitos in its
current. With caution, he entered the lobby of the building with the sword
still firmly in his hand and looked around. Most of the area was unlit because
the ceiling lights were out, but occasionally one would flicker back on for a
brief moment to illuminate the area in a sickly, jaundiced glow. Stiles saw a
sign in front of him on the wall that said “level one.”
Above the sign were the same red letters that poured down the glass doors
outside. These words read something different, however. “You cast a long
shadow. Go Forward to go Back.”
“What does that mean?” Stiles leaned around the corner closest to him to see
what was down the hallway, but he couldn’t make anything out with all of the
faulty lights flickering on and off. “Hello?” Silence was the only responder.
Against all his better judgment, Stiles left the lobby and made his way down
one of the adjoining hallways hoping to find a fire exit he could use or maybe
even a window he could climb out of. With every move he made, Stiles could hear
the echo of his footsteps collide with his surroundings. It was so quiet in the
building that every footstep and echo sounded like a firecracker being set off.
There were several doors in the hallway that led to various rooms and Stiles
tried to open each one of them, but they all appeared to be locked. Once he
reached the end of the hallway, Stiles saw a stairwell that led up to the next
level, but not wanting to go up an extra level so he couldn’t climb down and
get out of the building, he decided to check one of the rooms on the ground
level first.
The building was obviously abandoned because of its dilapidated state, so any
new damage that Stiles did to it would probably go unnoticed by anyone. He
raised the hilt of the sword with both hands and brought it down on the locked
doorknob in front of him. After about three swings, the doorknob was knocked
loose from the door and bounced to the soggy floor, which allowed the door to
be swung open. Stiles tried to push the wooden surface of the door open with
the flat of his hand, but there was some sort of pressure behind it that was
applying a lot of resistance. He put both of his hands on the door and braced
his feet against the ground with all of his weight behind it so he could push
with more force. As the door finally opened, stagnant, brown water that smelled
like rotting swamp water came gushing out around Stiles’ feet. Stiles covered
his nose with the crook of his elbow to assuage the pungent smell—it definitely
smelled like something was decaying on the other side of the door.
Stiles wandered into the open room once the water had stopped flowing, hoping
to find a window he could climb out of. The room was in total darkness. The
only way Stiles could have described the darkness was: dense; it felt like
something was in front of his face, but the nothingness that surrounded him
made it impossible for him to tell. The only light that leaked into the room
came from behind him where the door stood open, but the pathetic glow of faulty
ceiling lights from the hallway didn’t provide him with much visibility. He
extended the sword in his right hand hoping to locate a wall and trace the
outline of the room once he figured out how big it was. There might have been
some way out of the building from this room. Stiles kept walking blindly with
the sword extended outward, waiting to find the solid surface of a wall, but
the farther he wandered away from the open door, the more dense the darkness
became and it was getting harder to gauge how long he’d been searching this
room.
“Hey,” came a small whisper next to Stiles’ ear. It had been so quick and small
that it almost sounded like the hinge of a door creaking than an actual word,
but it was unmistakable. Someone was in the room with Stiles and they had been
standing right beside him. Spinning around, Stiles turned back toward the vague
light of the room’s entrance and bolted toward the spliced glow on the floor.
The hallway came back into view and Stiles reached outward with his free hand
to grab the frame of the door and slam it behind him. Before he could reach out
and touch the door, however, it slammed involuntarily in front of his face with
a minute click as the door somehow managed to lock itself with a broken off
doorknob.
“Hey,” came the voice again next to Stiles’ ear. It was so close this time that
he could almost feel the person’s breath tickle the tiny hairs on the shell of
his ear. “Hehehehehe,” the disembodied voice echoed in a giggle that consumed
the emptiness of the room.
Stiles held the sword out in front of him with both hands. “Leave me alone!
What the hell are you? Where are you?”
“Here,” the voice responded. It was somewhere directly in front of Stiles. Not
far off, but not close either. “Come here and I will show you what you need to
see.”
Stiles’ hands were trembling on the sword as he took a cautioned step forward
that came down with a splash. “What are you? What do you want?”
“Not what am I, but who am I. Hehehehehe—I just want to show you the way Back.”
Stiles took a few more steps forward into the density of shapelessness. He
couldn’t see the sword he was holding on to, but it made him feel comfortable
to palm the leather hilt as he walked. “Where am I? Why am I here?”
“Hehehehehehe—you are There. Neither Forward nor Back. But, why? Because you
wantedto be Stiiiiles—” The voice faded like it had floated away through the
ceiling as it spoke his name.
“Where are you?!” Stiles shouted in anger.
“Here,” replied the voice again. This time, Stiles could tell that the voice
was directly in front of his face and when it responded, it sounded distinctly
different. It didn’t sound distant and ephemeral like before—it sounded like
him. There was another chorus of laughter, and Stiles recognized his own laugh
when he heard it, “Hahahahahaha.” A light flickered on above his head, causing
Stiles to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. Blinking his eyes open,
Stiles saw himself standing at the epicenter of the light that had come to
life, but something—something was very wrong.
There were shadows behind his eyes as he gazed into his own face. Shadows. A
stillness coupled with stagnation that teetered atop a wry grin. Stiles
wondered if he was looking into a mirror for a moment. He wanted to scream
because he was afraid that the face he was staring into was his own face. There
in his own face though, were black eyes. Eyes blacker than swamp water. And
there on his face was cruelty curling on his white and sunken lips, but Stiles
couldn’t quite make out why it was there. He looked dead to himself and he
wondered if his spirit had floated away from his body and this was death.
Stiles knew that he’d driven here at some point. He’d been in his car. He
couldn’t remember where he was going or why, but he’d made it to this building
for some reason! What if he was dead? What if he’d been in a car wreck trying
to get to where he was going?
And then his mouth moved: Stiles watching Stiles. The words snapped in the
bitter air all around him and the words were his, the lips were his, the face
was his, but he wasn’t him. He wasn’t Stiles.
“You cast a long shadow, Stiles. In what world did you think you could save him
when you can’t even save yourself? You leave the saving to other people and
curl up in bed every night, telling yourself that you’re worth more than you
actually are—that your value is somehow measured in the energy you invest in
others. It’s not, Stiles. Look at what you invested in Derek and he still left
you. Lying is your currency. Never forget that.”
Then there was a familiar feeling in Stiles’ throat. It tasted like copper, but
clung like cotton. Stiles wanted to cough or laugh to get it loose. What is
that? Stiles wanted to ask what the hell was going on and how to get out of
here. He wanted to make a witty comment, to say something sarcastic, to fling
every insult he had lodged in every chasm of his head, but everything was all
wrapped up in cotton in his throat, and then Stiles knew all his words had been
taken from him. He was mute in his own eyes. Stiles’ lips smacked dry with
familiarity on his tongue as more words came, but not his.
“First there was Paige, then there was Kate, and finally we added the shit-
storm of Jennifer. And after everything that’s happened between you and Derek,
you still think you’re enough, don’t you? Hahahaha.” Stiles couldn’t look away
from the cruel, wizened shell of his face. His throat felt clogged with
something feathery, so he couldn’t even scream when the same brown swamp water
that had come pouring out of this room’s door earlier began trickling from the
edges of his double’s mouth and eyes. It started rushing down his face and body
rapidly enough that it started pooling at both of their feet. “Now, I’m gonna
bet that either you’re afraid to turn into a mass-murdering psychopath like so
many of Derek’s other ex’s or you’re going to wind up getting yourself killed.
Just. Like. Paige. I mean, you’re not special, are you Stiles? What are you
going to do, have Derek rescue you every time something happens like a damsel
in distress? Are you afraid to betray him one day and break him beyond repair?
You wouldn’t be the first one, Stiles, no need to worry about that. But just so
you’re aware, I’m not your enemy here, Stiles; time is.”
And then the swamp seemed to spout right from his mouth, pouring in curtains
that circled like cattails around them both. Stiles wanted to swim away. He was
more than ready to resort to childhood tactics—fingers right in the ears and,
“la la la, I’m not listening!” But everything was cotton and copper and Stiles
just didn’t know why. The rank water rose to the point that Stiles actually had
to begin swimming if he didn’t want to drown in the viscous fluid. He turned
from the shell of himself and began paddling toward the door in a chorus of
“HAHAHAHAHA,” which eventually faded beneath the gurgling water. As he swam
toward where he knew the door to be, Stiles was suddenly caught by a current
underneath the water that dragged him through a bright opening and spit him out
across a damp floor.
Sickly lights snapped in random intervals with an incessant buzzing that told
Stiles he had somehow managed to make his way out of the room where he’d seen
some sort of apparition of himself. The building seemed to be silent again.
Scooping himself up from the floor, Stiles surveyed his surroundings only to
find a sign above his head that read, “level two.” Just as he expected, there
was another message bleeding from above the sign in scrawling letters. “Time is
the father of truth. Be There to go Back.”
“Be where?!” Stiles shouted to himself. “I don’t understand what’s going on or
why I’m here! What is this place? How do I get out of here? I don’t want to go
back! I just want to leave!” Stiles coughed as the words strained against his
throat. His mouth still tasted like copper and his chest felt insulated. Stiles
looked around his feet, panicking when he realized that the sword that had been
in his hands the whole time had gotten carried off by the current that had
dragged him under. The black leather coat that he’d been wearing earlier had
also gotten carried off. Stiles suddenly felt more defenseless than usual.
Stiles crept around the corner from the sign and cryptic message to see if
there was anything he could use to defend himself. All he saw was a hallway
filled with doors and if there was anything that Stiles had learned from his
previous experience, it was not to go into adjacent rooms. He moved as quietly
as he could through the hallway, afraid of what else might be trapped in this
building with him. After a few moments, he made it to the end of the corridor
to find the stairwell that he had seen earlier from the first floor. He opened
the door leading to the stairs and considered if he should try and make his way
back downstairs to find another exit. As he poked his head through the door, he
heard the distant slapping of water against the walls followed by a faint
laughter that rode on the ripples of the stagnant fluid. Stiles let the door
click shut, terrified that the laughter might follow him up onto the second
level.
Stiles had noticed another hallway that connected to the main lobby area of the
second level, so he decided to retrace his steps and see what was down the
other adjoining hallway. The white paint on the walls was peeling and had begun
to corrode into a puke-yellow in some spots, which kept Stiles from wanting to
use the walls as a sort of handrail to guide himself through the blotches of
darkness that occasionally cropped up. The carpeting on the floor still
squished as he walked, but Stiles tried to apply most of the pressure onto the
pads of his feet while he walked to avoid unnecessary noise. The last thing
Stiles wanted was to attract unwanted attention and now that he had lost his
sword, he had no way to defend himself if something came after him.
He rounded the corner from the main lobby area of the second level and found
himself facing the other corridor that led into another part of the building.
Stepping into the second hallway, all of the lights from the previous hallway
shut off with an audible buzz that left everything behind Stiles in jet
darkness. His head whirled around to look behind him, but all Stiles could see
was the border of black that trailed at his heels and threatened to overtake
him as soon as the life of the light above his head flickered out.
Then Stiles heard a soft whimpering.
In a stasis of fear, Stiles didn’t want to turn his head back toward the
hallway he was facing, but the whimpering began turning into strangled sobs
that sounded like they were muffled by someone’s hands. As slow and
methodically as he could, Stiles turned his head back toward the hallway before
him. He saw the silhouette of what appeared to be a man standing with his back
to him at the opposite end of the hall—the person had most assuredly not been
there when he’d first come around the corner. The snapping of the lights threw
the man’s shadow in unnatural angles across the floor and walls as he stood
forlornly at the end of the corridor. He didn’t seem to notice Stiles’
presence.
Stiles was torn. He didn’t know whether he should go to the man—he could have
been trapped in here like Stiles—or if he should try to descend back into the
shadows of the previous hallway. The latter option didn’t seem like a wise
choice when Stiles had no light or way to defend himself and the former option
forced him to deal with someone who was blocking his only potential route out
of this nightmare. The man’s shoulder’s bobbed helplessly as he continued to
sob into his hands and remained unaware of Stiles. That man’s sobs were
feverish and pathetic as he gasped heavily for air between his groans.
Stiles took a step forward into the hallway.
While he moved forward, Stiles opened his mouth to alert the man, but as he
tried to speak to say, “Hello,” nothing came out from his cotton-lined throat.
But as the lack of sound was strangled within Stiles’ chest, the man
immediately stopped his wailing and looked up like he had heard Stiles’ attempt
to speak, regardless. In a lethargic movement, the man turned to face Stiles.
It was his father. Deep lines worried his father’s eyes and blotches of red,
tear-stung skin streaked his father’s weathered face. Stiles stopped moving as
he realized who he was gazing at. He recognized the man as his father, but he
looked so much older than Stiles remembered. How long had it been since he had
spoken to his father? He couldn’t quite remember.
Then the words came.
“You don’t know what people told me when she died. You don’t know how they
tried to comfort me with words that meant less than shit. ‘At least you still
have Stiles,’ they would say. Yeah, an ape-shit little brat who I couldn’t
handle and neither could she; but yeah, sure, at least I still have you,
Stiles.” John took a step forward. He wasn’t sobbing anymore, but tears still
streamed from the corners of his eyes. “But then again, when I decided to sit
down one fine night and have some whiskey, I wondered to myself, ‘What if
Stiles had never been born? What if we hadn’t had to take care of him when she
was sick?’ And I came to an answer: she might still be alive. She might still
be here and none of those prissy-ass women downtown would give me that pitiful
look anymore and say, ‘Well, at least you still have, Stiles.’ They wouldn’t
say that, because I’d have her, Stiles.”
And then the cotton changed. It was heavier around his larynx. Copper whirled
in his mouth like the taste of blood. Thick, warm, and sweet as the taste tried
to slide down his throat but got caught on all the cotton. Stiles couldn’t help
it. He didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t help it. He hated himself for it,
but he couldn’t help it. He was pissed as he felt the sting of tears leaving
pink streaks down his face.
John moved closer to Stiles, leaving only a gap between them as the rage of his
voice clogged Stiles’ ears. “And when you leave me one day because all of your
friends managed to find innovative ways to get themselves killed and you can’t
look at Derek anymore, because you blame him for not saving them and you don’t
deserve to be happy while everyone else threw themselves on swords to save
you,you’ll leave Beacon Hills because the weight of time and memory will become
too heavy and I—I’ll be at home, drinking myself to death on some rotgut shit
until I can’t take my eyes off my pistol anymore. And that’s when you’ll hear
it, Stiles. That’s when you’ll know how lucky I was to ‘still have you.’”
Stiles wanted to swallow all his tears, choke them down and never let anyone
know about the gap he felt in his heart. The part of him that was sharp and
jagged, the part that could hurt others without feeling and the part that hurt
all the time when no one was looking. The part of him that died with his
mother. And Stiles cried silently to himself because he had no words—he had no
sound. No one heard, so Stiles cried silently.
John grabbed Stiles by both of his arms, shaking him as he screamed, “That’s
when you’ll hear it, Stiles! That’s when you’ll hear it!”
Stiles wrenched himself out of his father’s hands and dashed past him, making
for where he assumed another stairwell was. As his feet carried him down the
hallway, water began spouting from beneath each of the doors he passed, filling
up the corridor with its wretched smell and making it more difficult for Stiles
to make it to the doorway leading to the stairs. From behind, Stiles could
still hear his father bellowing, “That’s when you’ll hear it, Stiles! That’s
when you’ll hear it! You’ll know then!” He couldn’t stop himself from crying
the entire way as he trudged through the rising mire around him. Once he
reached the door, he pushed it open with what little strength he had left and
entered the area leading to the stairs. The water was rising from the first
level as well, chasing him to the third level like a cornered rat that’s nest
had been flooded. As he forced himself out of the gathering water and onto his
knees, Stiles could hear the manic laughter still echoing up through the water
of the first level, which was now joined by the screams and sobs of his father.
Making it all the way up to the final level, Stiles found the door which led to
the third tier of the complex. Throwing the door wide until it slammed open
against the wall behind it, Stiles collapsed onto the floor and surrendered to
his need to cry and pity himself. He screwed his eyes shut, almost too afraid
to find out what awaited him on this new level of hell. He didn’t know what he
was doing here or if he’d ever be able to get out, but he was on the last level
of the building and if he couldn’t find a way out and the water kept rising,
he’d be dead very shortly. Stiles’ head lay sideways against the floor as his
tears finally started to dry in the creases of his eyes. He lifted his hand up
to brush his face and set it on the floor. The floor was dry.
Stiles’ eyes blinked open. All of the lights on this level shone brightly and
the paint looked like a fresh new coat of white. Getting himself into an
upright position, Stiles couldn’t help but glance around dubiously. Everything
here seemed too normal—almost too real that it felt surreal. He stood and
padded down the hallway softly, not wanting to even step on a creaky
floorboard. Stiles made his way to the lobby area of the third level. There
were plush pieces of furniture in the lobby area and coffee tables with vases
full of lavender and magazines spread across them. Stiles collapsed onto one of
the pieces of furniture and closed his eyes for a moment. He was out of breath
and his chest felt heavy and compacted, making it difficult for him to breathe.
After everything he’d gone through, he felt like he could sleep for three days
straight.
As he lay there, Stiles noticed that he could make out sounds coming from
behind the doors on this level. Some of the noises sounded like someone frying
something on a stove and another sounded like a television program on in
someone’s living room. He remained still, not wanting to make any sudden
movements that might jostle him out of this phantasm of normalcy. The sound of
people living in their apartments continued—doors closing or a dog barking—as
Stiles lounged on the plush furniture. Is that where he was? An apartment
complex? Why was he here? He still hadn’t figured out what was going on. Was
this all just some waking nightmare that he was finally coming out of? He kept
his eyes closed, not wanting to spoil the moment and finally giving himself the
opportunity to relax.
Stiles felt himself beginning to drift off as he lay there until he felt
something hit him squarely on the forehead. He reached up with his right hand
and touched what had hit him. Opening his eyes and looking at his finger, he
saw it was covered in red. Stiles craned his neck upward toward the ceiling to
see where the liquid had come from. There, in wandering crimson script read the
words, “Death is the Mother of Beauty. Go Back to go Forward.” Stiles screwed
his eyes shut once more and began sobbing silently to himself. He shook his
head furiously, hoping that he could will the words out of existence, but he
found once he opened his eyes, that the building had reverted back to its
dilapidated state.
The paint peeled itself from the walls and curled at the floor like dead
cockroaches and several of the lights exploded from the ceiling, leaving only a
few buzzing, faulty lights to cast their jaundiced glow from above. Stiles put
his feet to the floor, which was now soaked through and continued to let tears
stream down his face. He had begged, prayed, and wished that everything he had
experienced had just been some insane “day-mare,” but as he watched the
building lose all its vitality and shrivel back into some death-like state, he
knew that there was no way out of this hell. Stiles stood, searching around him
for what was to come. He knew better than to hope at this point, because each
time he did, this place turned his hopes into a nightmare.
With little surprise, the crevices beneath the doorframes began flooding water
into the hallway, but Stiles had nowhere left that he could go. He couldn’t
escape anywhere. All he could do was wait for the water to rise. He looked back
up at the words above his head. “Go Back to go Forward.” What did all of this
mean? All of the previous messages had told him that he’d needed to go back
somehow and now this message was telling him to go forward? Forward where? And
where was back? All Stiles remembered about getting here was that he’d driven
his Jeep. It was almost painful to try and recall why he’d come here in the
first place. But Stiles wished he’d never had. Maybe he’d been right earlier
when he thought he’d gotten into an accident and now he was dead. Maybe this
was Hell?
The water was gathering around Stiles’ knees now as he stood in the third level
lobby of the apartment complex considering how all of this would end or even if
it wouldend. Somewhere down the hallway, Stiles heard the creak of a door as
its rusted hinges were forced open. He couldn’t say it was bravery at this
point, but he turned and faced the door that hung open down the hallway.
Whatever stepped out of that door, Stiles felt like he had no choice but to
face it. There was nowhere left to run.
After a moment, a shape emerged from the doorframe, tugging all of the shadows
of the room behind it as it appeared. The form shambled down the hallway
beneath the seizing lights as it took a distinctly feminine shape. The woman
moved through the water unhindered like this was her natural habitat and
domain. All of the lights behind her flickered into extinction as she moved,
making it impossible for Stiles to identify her until she came to a halt in the
lobby—only the light in the lobby remained on, casting a slanted silhouette
across her features. Stiles’ mother looked exactly as he remembered her.
Through the gauze of his tears and everything seeming opaque, Stiles gazed at
his dead mother. Stiles saw what haunted him every day and every night. He saw
the face that he knew he couldn’t see. He saw the face that when he looked into
a crowd, he couldn’t help but see her face there too and he would shake his
head like he was trying to get the memories out from between his ears and he
would tell himself, ‘No, no, no, Stiles, it isn’t real.’ It was his mother
standing there as clear as day.
He looked at her with eyes smeared and bloodshot as the sting spread itself
across his face. Somehow, Stiles croaked out the word, “Mom.” It surprised
him—so much that he was still now. The word felt odd and unused like an old
book that was fraying and discolored at the edge of the pages. Stiles reached a
hand toward her. And then the words came.
“Stiles, life is so much more than time. Life isn’t a clock that you break and
rip the hands off of to forget how little or how much time you have left. Life
is how much you know and how many regrets you have at the end when that little
white light comes to you and finally disappears in the dark with everything you
never got to accomplish. But you know what, Stiles? What I regret the most is
what I never got to say to your father in the end.”
Stiles couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to. He didn’t care anymore.
“I wanted to tell him that I’d miss him more than anything. I wanted to tell
him to find his happiness again. I wanted to hold onto him and have him be the
last thing that I saw. But instead, you were there—my kid that I barely got to
know. So, in my final hours, I had to put on a brave face. I stayed strong for
both of us even at the end of my life. Do you know what it’s like to watch
everything fading out and to see all your regrets and failures roll back like a
horror movie? Do you know—”
Stiles couldn’t breathe because of the copper and the cotton. He fell backward
and slammed into a door behind him, collapsing against it. His eyes swelled
with tears and added water to the growing mire around him.
“STILES!” An unseen voice echoed around him. It surprised him so much that he
winced. It was familiar, but far off. The walls of the building groaned like it
might collapse at any moment. The walls seemed to wrench inward like the
structure was trying to take a breath to relieve pressure.
His mother continued speaking. “—what it’s like to be terrified and to have to
stay strong for someone you hardly know, even when it’s your kid? Even at my
last breath, I had to take care of you.”
Stiles wasn’t breathing. He didn’t care.
“PLEASE, STILES! PLEASE! TELL ME WHAT TO DO—I’LL DO IT!” Stiles winced again.
The voice was clearer now, it sounded closer than before. Who is that? Stiles
knew the voice, but he felt like he couldn’t remember. The lights in the
hallway seemed to repair their shattered glass and flicker back to life. The
water stopped flowing and Stiles’ mother looked livid at the revelation. She
also looked mildly confused.
Her voice seemed to raise an octave with desperation. “All you’ve ever done is
been a burden to other people around you! Everyone always has to be strong for
you because you can never just be strong for yourself! One day it will get all
of your friends killed!”
“STILES! COME ON! I DIDN’T COME BACK JUST TO LOSE YOU!” The voice was so close
this time like it was next to his ear and Stiles looked around, but nobody was
there. There was so much concern and fear saturating the person’s voice. The
water that had almost been up to Stiles’ chin when he had collapsed against the
floor began to recede.
His mother’s eyes narrowed into slits. “If I was your father, I wouldn’t have
believed you either.”
“PLEASE!” And then the voice got quiet, but closer than ever. Stiles reached
out into the darkness, swiping and trying to bring the voice closer like it was
something tangible he could grab. “Stiles, I’m bad at telling people how I feel
and it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to. Stiles, you’ve got to come
back. Please.” Stiles’ face felt warm like someone was just above him and the
heat of their breath was running sweetly across his face. Stiles reached out
again.
Everything lurched once more. The paint on the walls returned to normal as the
building groaned like it might buckle under some unseen weight. Then the
darkness left and Stiles’ mother went with it; screaming into some space that
Stiles couldn’t see anymore. In the distance, Stiles thought he heard what
sounded like glass shattering as a flash of lavender light wounded his eyes
from out of nowhere. Stiles sucked in a breath. He gathered himself off of the
floor and turned around to glance at the door that he had been collapsed
against.
307B. He had found Derek.
Stiles turned the knob of the door and walked through it.
Chapter End Notes
     So this chapter was a little bit traumatizing to both read and write.
     But Gillian and I did say that it was going to get a little bit
     bumpy.
     This is the darkest chapter we've written so far and we can safely
     assume that this is as dark as it's going to get.
***** You're a Hard Soul to Save *****
Chapter Notes
     This is the closest thing to an apology for 13 we have. It also isn't
     enough for me to forgive Arpoet.
     ~Gillian
     (As though you needed any more proof of what I say in the end note
     for this chapter, I uploaded the wrong copy. Here it is in its
     complete glory.)
     ~Gillian
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Derek’s first clue that something wasn’t quite right came when he heard the
harsh rasping sound of someone trying to breathe through what sounded like a
panic attack. He looked up, glanced at his door from his place on the couch,
but didn’t get up. The person somewhere down the hall had probably just come up
the stairs. He wasn’t too concerned as callous as that sounded. Derek wasn’t
exactly the kind of guy that knocked on his neighbors’ doors in hopes of
getting to know them, and since he didn’t know any of his neighbors, he was
more than happy to let someone else deal with any emergencies he didn’t have a
personal stake in right that moment. Derek was fairly certain that his
emotional maturity had degraded to that of a preteen’s since he still found
himself sleeping on his couch nearly a week after his breakup with Stiles. He
had spent the entire time alternating between: staring at the wall, feeling
pathetic and angry at himself for staring at the wall—which felt like manic
episodes of frantic activity—and watching the train station.
His shifts with Scott were every other night from ten to seven in the morning;
it was the only time he could be there with zero percent chance of seeing
Stiles. Ethan and Aiden traded off meeting him between when Stiles left between
nine and nine-thirty and when Stiles came back around eight every morning. They
did it so Scott wouldn’t be alone, but also out of the consideration that
Stiles wouldn’t have to see Derek this way. Derek couldn’t figure out if he was
relieved he didn’t have to face Stiles yet, or depressed by the fact he
couldn’t see Stiles . There was something indescribably masochistic about
wanting to be near Stiles while wanting to stay as far away from him as
possible. It was a feeling that Derek couldn’t shake and it wormed its way
under his skin like a splinter.
Derek had ended it with Stiles for his own reasons. Some part of his brain kept
reciting a soliloquy of why he and Stiles would not work. First and foremost:
they couldn’t be truthful with each other—they never had. They had transformed
from reluctant allies into friends somewhere along the line, but the fact
remained: they had never been honest with one another. And Stiles had lied to
him. After everything Derek had gone through, everything they had been through
together, Stiles had lied to him. Over the course of the week, Derek found
himself lying awake on the couch staring at the ceiling and wishing to be the
kind of person who could forgive Stiles. He would give up anything to be that
kind of person. He hadn’t made it yet. But he was trying.
Derek heard a door creak open as one of the little kids that lived on his floor
stepped into the hallway, followed by the footsteps of her mother; the little
girl asked, “Mommy, why is that man crying? Is he sad?” Derek could hear the
mother pull her the other way down the hall while they both shuffled away from
the gasping man.
The voice that followed wasn’t the little girl’s voice. “Mom?” The word came
through a strangled gasp. Derek was on his feet before his brain even processed
that he knew who it was.
“STILES!” He shouted, lunging from his couch and throwing himself into the
hallway. Stiles was huddled a few feet from the stairs, curling down into
himself. His eyes were laced with terror as he stared at something Derek
couldn’t see. Derek didn’t have to see a tarot card to know what Morgan had
done to him; he recalled the experience all too well. He dropped on his knees
in front of Stiles, resisting the urge to grab him. He knew Stiles couldn’t
cause him any physical harm, but Derek wasn’t sure he could hold Stiles without
hurting him.
Derek moved closer despite his apprehensions and cradled the sides of Stiles’
face with both of his hands. “Stiles, wake up! You have to wake up! Stiles,
look at me.” How can he be this far gone? Someone would have told me if Morgan
had gotten to him. Why wouldn’t they tell me? “Stiles!” Looking into his face,
Stiles tried to scream but he had no voice. His horror-stricken face would
haunt Derek for months along with the guilt of helplessness in that moment.
Derek knew he was starting to panic too, but he couldn’t rein it in. Choosing
to end a relationship with someone didn’t switch off your feelings for them.
Derek would care about Stiles for the rest of his life—he’d made peace with
that. But he could not handle seeing him trapped in a web of his own
nightmares.
Stiles stopped breathing. Derek threw himself at Stiles completely, throwing
his arms around him. “PLEASE, STILES! PLEASE! TELL ME WHAT TO DO—I’LL DO IT!”
He was yelling in Stiles’ face. It didn’t matter—Stiles was too far away in
some murky and distant Hell for Derek’s words to reach him. But he had to get
through to him somehow. Stiles’ chest sputtered as he started breathing again.
He looked less confused for a moment—more lucid—but he still didn’t focus on
Derek’s face. Derek’s arms wrapped tighter around the smaller man. “STILES!
COME ON! I DIDN’T COME BACK JUST TO LOSE YOU!” He pulled Stiles up and dragged
him, flinching, into his apartment. “PLEASE.” His voice cracked and he stopped
yelling. Stiles still wasn’t looking at him. Derek pulled him into his arms and
buried his face against Stiles’ neck.
With his face buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck and breathing in Stiles’
scent like it was the only form of oxygen that would actually allow him to
breathe, Derek felt the part of his psyche that was endlessly warring with
itself fragment into nothingness. He felt pettiness give way to fear, hatred to
love, mistakes to hope—and all of it was punctuated by the notion that if there
had ever been a Truth capital “T” in his life, it was now collapsed in his arms
as nothing more than a tortured image of its former self. The register of
Derek’s voice dropped as his breath curled up from Stiles’ neck, spreading its
warmth across his face. “Stiles, I’m bad at telling people how I feel and it’s
been a long time since I’ve wanted to. Stiles, you’ve got to come back.
Please.”
For a split second Stiles stiffened in his arms. “Derek?” He murmured.
“Stiles!” Derek reacted so quickly, he almost threw Stiles out of his arms as
he yanked back enough to kiss him. The kiss was so small; almost a brush of
lips, but there was so much weight behind the gentle press of soft skin.
Stiles’ hands came up to press against Derek’s shoulder blades. Derek broke the
kiss to look at him—his eyes darting around Stiles’ face to gauge his reaction.
Stiles was trying to focus on him, but Derek could see Morgan’s influence still
stamped on him. He could see the deepening Hell gathering behind Stiles’ eyes
as it swirled around him, attempting to drown whatever awareness Stiles had
recovered. Derek was going to lose him again. “No, no, no, Stiles! Don’t go!
Don’t leave me!” He jostled Stiles gently. The muscles in Stiles’ body sagged
into lifelessness. “Please, Stiles! Please. Stiles—Stiles, I—I love you!”
Stiles convulsed. No! No, you can’t go! Stiles closed his eyes as his sight
drifted to a watery grave somewhere behind his eyelids. Derek jostled him again
with more desperation this time. “Dammit, Stiles! Please! I need you! I’m sorry
for everything I did and said! I’m sorry that I made excuses for being afraid!
I’m sorry that it took me until now to realize how selfish I am! Just please
don’t go!”
A moment later, Stiles’ eyes flickered open again and when they opened, his
eyes were completely, exhaustedly, trained on Derek’s face. Is it—is he okay?
Is he himself again? What did I do? What happened? A fatigued puff of air
escaped Stiles’ chest as he tightened his arms around Derek and pressed his
face into Derek’s chest even though it meant bending his neck awkwardly to do
so.
“I love you too, Derek.” He whispered. Derek doubted he could speak in anything
above a whisper. The heat of the words “I love you” clung to the front of
Derek’s shirt as Stiles’ mouth remained pressed to his chest. He nuzzled
Stiles’ neck. He would deal with the magnitude of what they had just confessed
to each other, later. Right now, he was going to enjoy having Stiles in his
arms.
“Shit, Stiles. I’m so glad you’re okay,” Derek whispered mostly to himself. He
moved to the couch, cradling Stiles with him as he went. Stiles’ eyes were
half-lidded with weakness and confusion as Derek settled them comfortably onto
the couch. “Stiles, when did Morgan give you the card?” He asked gently,
cording his hands through Stiles’ hair. Stiles yawned, then shook himself
awake. Derek could see the exhaustion ringing his pupils, and it was
exacerbated by the way he was shaking with adrenaline and leftover fear.
“Morgan wasn’t Morgan, she was Isaac,” Stiles said it in such a rush that it
took Derek a second to puzzle it out. It didn’t make much sense, but Derek
attributed that to the trauma of whatever Stiles had just gone through. “She
disguised herself as Isaac and tricked me into taking the Ace of Swords.” As
Stiles finished explaining, a sudden look of panic spread across his face. “And
she has Isaac! D-derek we have to find him!” Stiles struggled against Derek’s
arms and he didn’t mistake the rasp in Stiles’ speech as his breathing became
labored again. He’s going to go into a panic attack again. At the same time
that he knew he had to calm Stiles down to prevent another panic attack,
another part of his mind couldn’t help but ask: was it Isaac that helped me
move? Or Morgan? Stiles continued to twist weakly in Derek’s arms. “And Scott!
She hurt him! We have to make sure he’s okay! Scotty’s going to hate me because
I left him, but I—but I—had to find you, Derek. I had—had to talk—to talk to
you before it was too—late.” Stiles’ breath was hitching again and his chest
spasmed as his emotions got the better of him.
“Stiles, I’ve got you!” Derek pulled his arms tighter around him. Stiles
stopped talking as Derek’s arms pulled too tight for a moment. “I need you to
calm down. You’re exhausted. You need sleep.”
“NO!” Stiles’ reaction to the suggestion was so severe that he nearly threw
himself out of Derek’s arms. The look on his face was one of sheer terror.
Stiles shook his head violently. “Not sleeping!”
“Okay, okay, no sleeping” Derek said softly, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple
while rubbing small circles against the back of his neck in hopes to pacify
him. “You don’t have to sleep.” He shifted, starting to let go of Stiles.
Stiles clung to his chest like it was the only thing rooting him to reality.
“Stiles,” he began quietly. “I’m going to make you some tea. Do you think you
can drink it?”
Stiles let out a manic-giggle. “Tea? Did you turn British when I wasn’t
looking?” Derek was concerned with the array of emotions that Stiles was
spiraling through and he was sure sleep would help with that, but sleep didn’t
seem to be an option for Stiles at the moment. But I wish I could take the
return of his sense of humor as a good sign. Derek tried to stand and leave
Stiles on the couch as he made his way to the kitchen, but Stiles hauled
himself up and wrapped his arms around Derek’s chest again. Derek paused before
trying to move. Stiles was still breathing heavily. “Derek, please, don’t leave
me alone. I’m—I’m scared that I’ll blink and I’ll be—back there. I’m not even
sure any of this is real right now.”
It would be a long time before Stiles ever told Derek what his hallucination
actually was—and Derek had to hold onto Stiles then as well, because he
wouldn’t stop shaking—but the way Stiles emphasized “there” sent a shiver up
his spine. Derek wrapped his own arms around Stiles. “Stiles, listen to me. I
promise you’re okay. You’re here with me now and nothing is going to happen to
you. I just need you to relax, okay?”
Stiles nodded weakly. “Yeah—yeah, okay.”
Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand to maintain the tether that he so desperately seemed
to need as he led him toward the kitchen. “But Stiles, I can’t do anything with
you hanging on to me. Do you think you can sit at the table while I make tea?
It’ll help you calm down.” It took Derek ten minutes of negotiation with Stiles
to convince him to sit in the chair closest to the counter. Stiles tried to
stand up and follow Derek, but his legs gave out and Derek had to catch him.
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere. Just stay right here for a minute, okay?” Stiles
finally agreed. He was more exhausted than anyone Derek had ever seen. Despite
how he was fighting it, Derek knew he’d be asleep in a few minutes. Whatever
Stiles had seen there had shaken him to the core. It wasn’t Stiles’ nature to
cling and follow—he was way too stubborn for that. But Stiles couldn’t seem to
accept that this was reality. He seemed convinced that it would all melt away
in the blink of an eye.
Derek put tea bags and water in two mugs and put them in the microwave. Then he
got out the honey and lemon juice. Laura had a friend when they were kids who
drank hot tea with honey and lemon when she had a sore throat. Stiles’ voice
had been clawing and scratching its way out of his throat, so Derek hoped the
drink helped; that is, if Stiles stayed awake long enough to drink it.
Derek pulled the mugs out of the microwave and added sugar, honey, and lemon
juice. He added an ice cube to Stiles to cool it off, a trick he’d learned from
his father. Not all his family were werewolves, after all. He took both mugs
over to the table and put one down, then wrapped both Stiles’ hands around it.
“It’s warm, okay? Just don’t gulp it.” Stiles was starting to calm down, but he
was still shaking so hard that Derek had to wrap his hands around Stiles’ just
to help him hold the tea. Stiles took two sips before he had to put the cup
down. Derek took a gulp of his own, which was way too hot. If he’d been human,
he’d have burned his tongue. Ignoring the brief shot of pain, he noticed the
way Stiles’ eyes began shutting involuntarily from exhaustion. Picking Stiles
back up, he carried him back to the couch.
Stiles fell asleep in his arms. Derek very carefully put him down on the couch
and sat down on the floor beside him. There was a book on his nightstand. He’d
put it there so he could pretend to be reading it if anyone came over. He
picked it up and flipped open Dante’s Inferno.
                                      ***
Hours later, Scott called Stiles’ cell. Derek found it in Stiles’ jacket
pocket, silently thanking whatever supreme deity who might be listening that it
was on vibrate.
“Stiles, where—”
“He’s with me, Scott.” Derek said quietly. “He’s asleep.” He stood up and went
to stand in his kitchen doorway, close enough that Stiles could see him if he
woke up and Derek could be there in an instant if he freaked out. “What
happened?”
“He broke Morgan’s illusion on me,” Scott said. “I’m not sure how, but he did.
I saw Morgan come into the station and trick Stiles into taking the tarot card.
He—she—was disguised as Isaac. We’re looking for him now.” There was a crash in
the background, and Aiden cursed at his brother. Ethan snarled back, and Scott
put the phone down to roar at them. They both quieted. Derek’s spine went
tight. Even over the phone, directed at someone else, Scott’s True Alpha roar
could affect him. “We have to find Isaac!” He snarled. If it had been any day
last week and Isaac hadn’t been a captive of a monster they still weren’t sure
how to fight, Stiles would have laughed at how stressed Scott was by not being
able to find Isaac. “Is he—?”
“He’s fine. We broke the hallucination.” Before Scott could ask how, Derek
continued. “I don’t know how. He was crying and I kissed him and he started to
wake up and I said ‘I—’ I yelled his name and he woke up.”
Derek knew how obvious the correction had been. But Scott didn’t call him on
it.
“Thanks for taking care of him, Derek. He needs you,” Scott said after a few
moments of pregnant silence.
Derek nodded even though Scott couldn’t see the gesture. “Yeah. I—I need him
too.”
Stiles shifted awake, his hand searching for Derek to be nearby.
“He’s waking up. I have to go.” Derek hung up before Scott could answer and
went back to Stiles. Stiles shoved his hand into Derek’s collar and settled
back into sleep.
                                     * * *
Stiles finally woke up long enough for Derek to pour some soup down his throat
about eight hours into his vigil. Derek had finished the Inferno and was
watching Stiles sleep when he opened his eyes.
“You’re kind of a creeper, Der.” He mumbled, then yawned.
“So you’ve said.” Derek replied, and leaned over to press his lips to Stiles’.
Stiles smiled into the kiss, then leaned away when his stomach growled. Derek
chuckled. “Right. Soup.”
Stiles ate two full bowls of chicken noodle soup, mourning the lack of grilled
cheeses. Derek had no bread. “Soup with no grilled cheese?” he said, leaning
back against Derek’s chest where he sat in Derek’s lap. “That is a travesty,
man!” Derek pressed a kiss behind his ear, smiling.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He said.
“What else could I be, with the world’s best werewolf-nuuuuu—” he yawned again,
then snuggled down into Derek’s chest. Derek barely caught the nearly empty
bowl of soup before Stiles could drop it on himself as he fell back into sleep.
This time, Derek picked Stiles up carefully—if not a little awkwardly—from
their place on the couch and carried him into his bedroom. Derek would have to
sleep soon too, and he wasn’t going to leave Stiles out on the couch while he
slept in his bedroom. He went back into the living room to turn off the lamp
he’d turned on while Stiles was eating, and someone knocked lightly on the
door. Derek opened it to have an aged, well-loved, much-washed teddy bear
shoved in his stomach.
“Your friend was sad,” the little girl from before who had asked why Stiles was
crying, said. “My mommy got me Mr. Bear when we moved here ‘cause I was sad,
an’ he helped me. He’s a magic No-Sad bear. He makes all the sad things go
away. Your friend can borrow him ‘til he feels better.” The girl looked so
convinced of her teddy bear’s magic powers that Derek didn’t have the heart to
tell her “No thank you,” so he knelt down to her level and accepted the bear.
He cradled it against his chest, the way he would have cradled the stuffed wolf
his mother had given him when he was four.
“His name is Mr. Bear?” He asked, and the girl nodded enthusiastically. Derek
tried desperately to remember how he would have felt at her age—six? Maybe
seven?—if he had lent Lycos, his stuffed wolf, to someone. He never had. Lycos
(He wasn’t exactly creative with names, okay? He was a kid) had been too
precious to him at that age for him to let him out of his sight . “I will make
sure my friend Stiles takes care of him, okay?” She reached out to pat the
bear’s head.
“Mr. Bear is pretty tough,” She said. “And he likes cuddles. Lots of cuddles.”
Mr. Bear is pretty damn lucky then, Derek thought to himself. Stiles loves
cuddles.
“Thank you. When Stiles is okay again, where would you like me to bring Mr.
Bear?” She pointed at her door, across the hall and one apartment down, where
her mother stood looking very proud of her daughter. “Thank you.” He repeated.
She smiled and skipped back down the hall.
“That was a sweet thing to do, Sydney.” Her mother told her as they went back
in their apartment. Her reply was lost in the door closing behind them.
Derek went back to the bedroom and lay down beside Stiles. Stiles lay facing
the door as though he had been waiting for Derek, but Derek didn’t have the
heart to roll him over. He put Mr. Bear against Stiles’ chest and moved the arm
folded in front of him to hold the bear. He kissed Stiles’ temple and put his
head down on the pillow. He had planned on watching Stiles sleep some more, but
the moment he hit the pillow, the length of one forearm pressed against Stiles’
back, he was asleep.
Derek woke up about four hours later with Stiles coiled against his chest and
Mr. Bear squished in between them. Shifting to wrap his arms in a more
comfortable position around Stiles, Derek felt a spot where his shirt was
clinging to his skin. Stiles had been drooling on him. He scowled downward at
the spot and then at Stiles. Stiles was sleeping with his mouth wide open, but
Derek couldn’t help giving an amused snort at the sight. At least he’s calm and
getting some rest.
Afraid to wake Stiles, Derek wiggled as carefully as he could out from
underneath the younger man and replaced his body momentarily with a pillow.
Derek stripped off his shirt, because if Stiles was going to drool on him, at
least it would just be on his chest. He stood there for a moment just taking in
the sight of Stiles sprawled out in his sheets, completely vulnerable and
peaceful. It satisfied some deep and primal part of Derek—a part of himself
that he honestly never thought would never have the chance to be happy or
satisfied. Derek glanced down at his belt buckle and shrugged; he might as well
be comfortable, so he slid out of his jeans. Looking back at Stiles, Derek
realized that he’d left him almost fully clothed when he put him to bed, which
couldn’t be comfortable.
Carefully and silently, Derek pulled back the sheets so he could peel Stiles’
socks off, followed by his jeans. As Derek fussed with Stiles’ belt, Stiles
shifted slightly and smacked his lips through a sleepy haze. “Too sleepeh to
fool ‘round, Der…”
Derek cocked a dubious eyebrow at him. “Lift your butt up so I can get your
jeans off,” he ordered through a chuckle.
Stiles was still very much asleep, but complied, lifting himself off of the
mattress slightly. “Too sleepeh, Der,” he repeated.
“Now your shirt, you dork.” Derek meticulously helped Stiles to shed his shirt.
Stiles assisted by somehow managing to raise his arms while continuing to
sleep. “Wow. You were wiped out, huh, babe?” Derek physically flinched as he
heard the term of endearment escape his mouth. Never. EVER. While Stiles is
awake. He would never let me live it down. Stiles rolled back over, throwing
his arms and legs around the decoy Derek-pillow.
Feeling satisfied that they were now both in their underwear and much more
comfortable, Derek crept back into bed, replacing the pillow that had served as
his double with his own body. Stiles snuggled closer as though he was very much
aware of Derek’s returned presence rather than that of the decoy. Stiles
shifted again in his sleep, weaving their legs together so he could scoot
closer.
“Love you,” Stiles murmured through some half-conscious haze.
“I love you too, Stiles,” Derek echoed back. The last thing Derek remembered
before he fell back asleep was the idea that the words had been so simple and
clean to say and he hadn’t been afraid to say them—not to Stiles. Happiness
wasn’t dense after all; it was fluid.
Derek wasn’t sure how many more hours had passed when he was woken up by the
feeling of something scratchy nuzzling the crook of his neck. Stiles’ feet were
rubbing back and forth against the sheets—and subsequently between Derek’s
legs—as he began waking up. Derek reached out, pulling Stiles closer against
his chest as they both slowly became more aware. Pulling Stiles in as he woke
up only encouraged him to nuzzle Derek more as he began chuckling and pressing
feathered kisses along the nape of Derek’s neck. Derek couldn’t help but smile
in response as Stiles’ chin stubble sent goosebumps running across his skin.
“How are you feeling,” he asked with his eyes blinking open.
Stiles’ hand dipped around Derek’s waist and into the valley of his back. He
started pressing small circles there. “Like I have the world’s hottest nurse.”
Derek felt light as they lay there in bed together. It seemed as though every
clock with a hand had decided to stand still and allow for a momentary space
where happiness—Stiles and Derek’s happiness—was finally a commodity allowed by
the universe. The moment wasn’t an epiphany and it sure as hell wasn’t anything
complex; it was simple and light—an ease crafted by the harshness and tragedy
of their lives that came so naturally to both of them after so much struggle.
It fit. It was filled up with sleepy smiles, half-lidded eyes and pads of
fingers sweeping each other’s skin so gently that it felt like the brush of a
leaf.
It was raining this morning.
Derek laughed. “Yeah, well, my patient wasn’t too bad too look at either.”
Stiles echoed the laugh. “You know how to woo a guy, Derek Hale.”
“I got you out of your pants, didn’t I,” Derek countered.
Stiles took a moment to gaze at his surroundings. “Holy crap,” he said as the
realization struck him. “You undressed me and put me in bed?”
A deep chuckle rolled in Derek’s chest. He was going to be endlessly amused by
Stiles’ shock that he could manage to do nice things. “Nothing gets by you,
Stilinski,” he said; placing a kiss on Stiles’ lips. “In all fairness, you did
most of the heavy lifting. You take orders well when you’re asleep. Why can’t
you be like that when you’re awake?” Derek punctuated the question with a wink.
Stiles reached up and pinched Derek’s right nipple. “Because you wouldn’t love
me if I wasn’t a stubborn ass just like you.”
There was a momentary standstill as Stiles realized what he’d said—it felt a
little bit different to admit their feelings when both of them were fully awake
and in a healthy state of mind. The context of the situation felt different to
Derek, but it wasn’t a bad difference by any means—he just needed to hear
himself say “I love you,” again when he knew Stiles was listening and wouldn’t
mistake or misinterpret his intentions in any capacity.
Derek nodded. “I couldn’t love you if you tried to be anything different,
Stiles.” His tone was much more serious and less playful than he intended; the
sentiment remained.
Stiles definitely blushed at that. “And I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t my
big, gruff, fuzzybutted, Sourwolf.” Stiles seemed to wait expectantly for a
moment for a correction. He blinked. “Aren’t you going to tell me not to call
you ‘fuzzybutt’?”
“Nope.”
Stiles’ neck jerked back in disbelief. “Alright, do you have some terminal
werewolf disease? What have you done to my Derek?”
Derek felt that primal part of himself growl in satisfaction again—he couldn’t
quite explain why it was there or why it made him feel so subdued like a dog
getting its belly scratched. Derek beamed inwardly at the thought of belonging
to Stiles. Without any hesitation, he flipped his weight on top of Stiles,
pinning the younger man beneath him who now looked very satisfied with this
change in pace. Stiles slotted their hips gently in place with a smile, weaving
their fingers together as Derek hovered over him. Derek said nothing. He
searched Stiles’ face for more than an awkward moment and the wordless gap made
Stiles’ expression change from one of excitement to slight confusion.
“What?” Stiles asked.
“Say it again,” Derek said.
“What—terminal werewolf disease?”
Derek smiled a little at that. Of course Stiles would be coy about the entire
situation. “The other part,” he replied.
“You mean the part where I said, ‘my Derek’?” Stiles teased.
Stiles may have been teasing, but the words went straight to Derek’s groin for
some reason. The words made Derek’s hackles rise; it made his vision go a rosy
pink with lust and all he could hear in his ears was, “My Stiles.” Stiles
barely had time to take a deep breath before Derek was pressing his tongue into
his mouth—Stiles of course responded in kind. A few moments later, it was
almost like Derek’s hands had their own agenda as they wandered all across
Stiles’ smooth shoulders, torso, neck, and waistline; and Derek couldn’t seem
to make himself stop. His tongue sought out the mortal veins pulsing underneath
the skin of Stiles’ jawline. He could almost taste Stiles’ pleasure and
anticipation as his tongue curved across tiny beads of sweat. Derek was almost
ashamed to say that he was rock-hard from a little making out and heavy
petting. Stiles of course took this as his cue to latch on to Derek’s dick with
his hand and start playfully tugging.
Derek broke the kiss suddenly, pushing himself off of Stiles. He stood feeling
awkward at the edge of the bed with his boner showing through his boxer briefs.
Smooth, Derek.
“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked through a mixed expression of concern and
disapproval. “Did I do something wrong?”
Derek immediately shook his head. “No, I think I did something wrong.”
“Mini-D seems to think otherwise,” Stiles offered.
“Stiles—!”
“What, I can call you fuzzybutt now, but I can’t—”
“No, Stiles, you can call my dick whatever you want,” Derek interrupted. “I
just—I feel like I’m getting carried away…” He let the thought trail off; not
knowing exactly how to describe what he’d experienced.
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.
Derek didn’t know how to formulate the feeling into words. He loved Stiles and
he knew it—he could admit it to himself now and more importantly, he could
admit it to Stiles. But every move or gesture that Stiles made felt like
magnetic waves shooting up his body in pulses that pulled him toward Stiles,
leaving Derek unable to keep his hands off of him. Derek had never felt so
drawn to someone before that his senses felt drugged behind a fog of pure want
and mine. It felt more than a little surreal—almost like an out-of-body
experience. Even when he’d been with Stiles before, he’d never felt this way
and Derek didn’t know what to do with this newfound complication.
Stiles scooted to the edge of the bed and wove his fingers into Derek’s. “Hey,
what’s wrong, big guy?” The genuine concern in his voice made Derek want to
pounce on him again.
Derek restrained himself; sighing and then smiling. He’d hoped now that they’d
admitted their feelings for one another, there would be fewer complications.
“This isn’t just some fluke of the moment, is it, Stiles?”
The rain grew heavier. Derek could hear the drops of water padding against the
windows.
“Do you mean do I think that we both just got carried away in the moment and
used it as an excuse to get back together?” Stiles asked. Derek nodded slowly
in response. “Let me ask you something, Der. Why did you kiss me to stop my
panic attack?”
Derek shrugged. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Okay,” Stiles said with a nod. “But why kiss me? You could have tried anything
else, but you chose to kiss me. Why?”
Because I was afraid. More afraid than I’ve been in a long time, he thought to
himself. “You thought you were alone,” Derek reasoned. “I wanted you to know
that you weren’t and that you had somebody who cared about you nearby—somebody
who wanted to keep you safe.”
“And when did you decide that you cared about me? In that moment?”
Derek shook his head. He could see where Stiles was going with this line of
questioning. “I don’t know when I started caring about you the way that I do
now. I never thought something like this would happen. But Stiles, I know that
I do love you.”
Stiles stood up, pressing his lips quickly to Derek’s. Derek tilted his
forehead against Stiles after they broke the kiss. “It’s not a fluke just
because it didn’t happen the way we expected it to. Hell, if it happened the
way we expected to, we wouldn’t even be together!”
Derek laughed and nodded, but grew quiet again. There were so many things he
needed Stiles to know, but didn’t know how to say. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I
know it probably doesn’t seem like it considering how things turned out, but it
was the last thing I wanted to do. I gave myself so many excuses to justify
what I did.”
Stiles lowered his head. “I think we both did a lot of things wrong. It was
completely wrong of me to lie to you, Der. I should have said something to you
the first day I turned up at Peter’s apartment. I should have trusted you.”
Derek shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t have. I haven’t been able to trust
myself in a long time and if you would have told me Scott sent you to spy on
me, I would have taken it badly. I just wish I hadn’t been looking so hard for
an excuse not to trust you.”
Stiles slid into Derek’s space, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Do you
trust me now?”
Derek was done lying. He was done denying himself the things in life for the
sake of valor. If he wanted to keep Stiles—if he wanted to love him—he knew it
had to start with honesty and end with honesty. “I do. But I’m afraid to.”
Derek met Stiles’ eyes.
The rain licked the windowsill as a distant groan of thunder rattled the glass.
“I am too,” Stiles began. “I think everyone is.”
“I’m afraid to lose you or hurt you again,” Derek admitted.
“My suggestion,” Stiles replied with a chuckle. “Then don’t.”
“I’m not so good at holding onto the things that I love.”
Stiles found a spot somewhere above Derek’s heart and kissed it. He stood there
silently a moment afterward and seemed to contemplate his reply. “Sometimes I
wonder if we’re ever really meant to hold on to the things we love. Sometimes I
think it’s more about having the things you love and letting them have you for
a time. You can’t live life pretending that you have nothing to lose and you
can’t be afraid of losing everything that you live for. I don’t know what the
answer is, but I think it’s somewhere in the middle.”
“That was either utter genius or complete bullshit,” teased Derek.
“Probably both,” Stiles agreed. Then his eyes creased. “Can we just agree never
to break up again? That shit fucking sucked.”
Derek laughed. “Did you just imply that we have to get married? Worst marriage
proposal I’ve ever heard.”
Stiles blinked a few times as his mouth hung open, completely speechless that
Derek had said that. “Are you—?”
“Kidding? Yes, Stiles, I am kidding. I’ll at least wait another week before I
ask you to marry me.” Derek managed to say it as dryly as possible while
maintaining a straight face.
“Oh, my God! You’re letting me use pet names and now you’re telling jokes? What
have you done with my boyfriend?!”
“Sourwolf is still somewhere around here,” Derek said, a smile teasing the
corners of his mouth. “You’ll probably see him come out when you wake me up too
early in the morning.”
Stiles shrugged. “Eh. I’ve dealt with him for a few years now. I figure I can
handle my boyfriend being grumpy in the morning.”
“You’re enjoying saying ‘boyfriend’ aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” Stiles chirped.
Derek reached past Stiles’ waist with a sly grin, grabbing two handfuls of his
ass. “Well, how about you let your boyfriend make you some breakfast?”
“As in you’re going to use more utensils than the microwave?” Stiles teased.
Derek nipped at Stiles’ lower lip which was already a little swollen from their
short make-out session. “I’ll impress you this time.” Before he could respond,
Derek hoisted Stiles up by his butt and pressed their lips together as he
carried them toward the kitchen. The kisses got a little more heated than Derek
had intended; there was still something about this magnetization that he was
feeling toward Stiles. It was more than just normal attraction—it was a
gravity; like Stiles was a planet and Derek was just a satellite trapped in his
draw. Derek tripped and slammed them into several surfaces along his way to the
kitchen and Stiles laughed each time it happened. His ears were ringing with
“My Stiles” again and he wanted nothing more than to spread Stiles out against
the kitchen bar and—
“Breakfast or sex?” Stiles interjected. Derek had pinned them against the wall
leading into the kitchen and they had been there for a few minutes now. He was
busy sucking on a mark against Stiles’ pulse when Stiles asked the question.
Stiles grunted approvingly.
Derek growled with the internal conflict of his primal-self bleeding want all
over the apartment and knowing that he had to maintain some level of self-
control. “Breakfast then sex,” he determined. He grumbled internally at his own
decision.
“Okay,” Stiles agreed. “But are you going to tell me what’s going on in that
big noggin of yours? I can see the wheels spinning. You’re not very good at
hiding it.”
Derek could feel the heat in his ears as Stiles prodded the question. He wasn’t
exactly sure what was going on with this animalistic attraction to Stiles and
the lack of an explanation made it awkward and complex to describe. Derek knew
that saying nothing wasn’t an option; he was attempting to be honest with
Stiles now and that meant trying to hash out his own perplexities with the
person he loved—especially considering it concerned the person he loved.
Stiles reached up to touch the red-tinged skin of Derek’s earlobe. Stiles was
grinning ear-to-ear. “Why are you blushing?”
“I—I don’t know,” Derek admitted. He was fairly certain that the word “bashful”
had never been attributed to his personality, but as he deliberately looked
away from Stiles and felt the heat in his face continue to rise, he was certain
he looked pretty damn bashful.
Stiles laughed as though seeing Derek completely flustered was the world’s
greatest punch-line. “Hey, come on. What’s going on?”
“You’re going to laugh at me,” Derek groused.
“Probably,” Stiles agreed with a nod. “But that’s because I’ve never seen you
blush and it’s possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever witnessed. And that’s
including a pile of sleeping husky puppies I saw on the internet.”
Derek shook his head. “No way. If you’re going to laugh at me, there’s no way
I’m going to talk to you about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Stiles pleaded. “You know you’re my big, gruff Sourwolf! But
I’ve never seen vulnerable or shy Derek! But just so you know, he’s freaking
adorable. I think I’ll keep him too.” Derek crossed his arms with a glower.
Stiles threw his hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay! I promise I won’t laugh at
you!”
“If you do,” Derek began with a pointed finger. “You have to clean up the
dishes.”
Stiles smiled and sealed the bargain with a kiss. “Deal.”
Derek sighed. He could still feel himself blushing and his old habits were
telling him that he should go hide and brood somewhere. Derek ignored that part
of himself. “I love you,” Derek said swiftly. It wasn’t exactly what he’d meant
to say, but it was still true.
Stiles nodded, looking a little confused. “Yeah, uh, I love you too, Derek, but
I think we’ve already established this fact.”
Derek’s brow furrowed. He cleared his throat and scratched his head, not
knowing what to say next. “No—I mean, yes—I do love you, but ever since we said
it—” He broke off the statement and growled at himself. “Ugh. Things feel
different.”
Stiles looked concerned now—it wasn’t the reaction Derek was looking for. He
knew he was doing a shitty job of trying to explain his feelings. Derek really
hoped Stiles had patience, because he was going to need a lot of practice
explaining himself in this relationship. Stiles shifted from foot to foot,
which Derek knew to be a habit that meant he was nervous; besides that, Derek
could smell it wafting off of him.
“Different how?” Stiles asked
“Like I want to be around you and touch you,” Derek explained.
Stiles raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t want those things before?”
Derek groaned. “Shit. I’m doing such a bad job at explaining this.” Derek
lifted his arms up behind his head and wove his fingers together as he tried to
think. “Stiles, I’m a wolf.”
“No way!” Stiles teased. Derek scowled at the outburst. “Sorry, continue.”
Stiles waved his hand.
“Wolves are territorial creatures,” Derek continued. “You told me that you
loved me and when you were sleeping in my bed and said, ‘my Derek,’ it—it
triggered something in me. I don’t know what it is, but everything you say or
do makes me want to—”
“Screw my brains out?” Stiles offered with a grin.
“For one thing,” Derek granted, nuzzling his nose against the shell of Stiles’
ear. “But there’s more to it. Something that I can’t put my finger on. It makes
me want to be near you and protect you and take care of you. I don’t know…”
Stiles waddled closer into Derek’s space and quite purposefully rubbed their
groins together. His hands settled on the small of Derek’s back. “I think that
might just be part of being in love. I feel the same way about you.”
“Maybe,” Derek conceded, trying not to acknowledge his partial stiffy from
Stiles’ friction. “I’ve been in love before, but it’s never felt like this.” He
could feel himself blush again and silently cursed the fact that he thought he
was past the days of feeling like a stupid love-struck moron who was awkward
and shy. “There’s something more to you, Stiles Stilinski.”
This time, it was Stiles’ turn to blush a little. “Well, I’d say there’s a lot
more to you, fuzzybutt.”
“Hmm,” Derek hummed through a smirk, taking the back of Stiles’ head in both of
his hands and planting a kiss on his lips. He stepped back from Stiles after a
moment of breath from the kiss. “Well, I’d better do like I promised and make
you some breakfast.”
“You said you’d impress,” Stiles added. “Are you going to wear an apron while
you cook?”
Derek raised an eyebrow as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. “Nope,” he
replied as he slid out of his boxer briefs and tossed them so they hit Stiles
in the face.
Stiles lifted Derek’s underwear with one hand and eyed them curiously. He
laughed. “Cooking naked? Wow, I am impressed. And I certainly don’t mind the
view, either.”
Derek moved around the kitchen, searching for all of his various appliances and
utensils. After managing to scrounge up everything, he pulled out some eggs,
Gouda, tomatoes, mushrooms, and various spices to make omelets. Derek sautéed
the mushrooms before he folded them into the omelets while simultaneously
managing to shove some heavily peppered, thick-cut bacon into the oven. He had
always loved the smell of food cooking in his house—his mother had loved to
cook and she’d told him that “a house that smells like good food is more than
just a house; it’s a home.” Derek turned to his refrigerator and pulled out
some strawberries, bananas, kiwis, ice and milk to make smoothies—he even threw
in a dash of oats and peanut butter for consistency. The entire time he
shuffled around the kitchen, Stiles watched him with fascination and amusement
like he had no idea that Derek even knew how to boil water. (The fact that
Derek was naked probably had something to do with Stiles’ attention to detail)
Derek didn’t mind cooking; he actually preferred it. But when it’s just you
sitting in a dank loft, ordering Chinese is way more convenient.
Once everything was finished, Derek arranged the food on the plate to look
appetizing and poured the smoothies into two tall glasses. Turning around, he
presented the food to Stiles who looked ready to either maul him or the food in
his hand.
“Cooking has never been so erotic. I don’t know whether I’m horny or hungry,”
Stiles stated. “Do I at least get to kiss the cook?”
Derek smirked as he exited the kitchen. “You get to do a lot more than that
later.” He kissed Stiles as he settled beside him.
“You’re going to eat breakfast naked too, aren’t you?”
Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles and took a bite of his omelet.
“How do you expect me to focus on my food?” Stiles whined, sliding his hand
between Derek’s thighs and allowing his fingers to brush Derek’s dick.
Derek took another bite.
“Just looking at you while I’m eating this is raising my cholesterol.”
Derek snorted and removed Stiles’ hand. “Then stop looking at me and eat your
food. You can look at me later when we’re having sex.”
“It’s like I’m running on a treadmill and you’re dangling duck à l’orange and a
steak in front of my face,” Stiles said, eating almost half of his omelet in
one bite.
“Am I the steak or the duck à l’orange?”
“Totally the steak. You’re not classy enough to be duck à l’orange,” Stiles
answered.
Derek shrugged. “You picked me.”
“True,” Stiles said, waving his fork while he spoke. “But either way, you’re
still a piece of meat.”
“I feel like I should be offended.”
“You don’t get to be offended. You’re cruel and unusual. Making me choose
between my two favorite organs: my dick and my stomach.” Stiles bit off a piece
of bacon.
“You love me anyways,” Derek countered, leaning in to place a kiss on Stiles’
cheek.
Stiles glared back in response. “I feel like this whole ‘I love you’ thing is
going to be used as an excuse a lot. ‘Stiles, it’s your turn to take out the
trash! You love me, so go do it!’”
Derek chuckled. It was probably true. “Why would you be taking out my trash?”
“Because I’m obviously going to be staying at my hot, werewolf boyfriend’s
apartment a lot, so you’ll make me do the things you don’t want to,” Stiles
explained. “And you will of course be too worn out from all of the mind-blowing
sex we’re going to have to take out the trash, so I’ll have to.”
“I like the sound of that,” Derek nodded.
“Which part,” Stiles asked, sounding doubtful. “The part about me taking out
the trash or the mind-blowing sex?”
Derek took a long gulp of his smoothie and blinked silently at Stiles from
behind the tall glass.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m starting to.”
“Prove it.”
“I’m eating.”
“Uh-huh. Thought so.” Derek laughed. “As much as I love the sound of you being
around all the time,” Derek said. “Don’t forget what your dad said.
Responsibilities first and then you can come stay with me.”
Stiles sighed. “Does that still apply? We broke up since he made those rules,
so I thought the contract was voided.”
Derek grinned and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s how that works,
Stiles.”
“But Dereeeeeek! Think of all the sex we could be having,” Stiles whined.
“Hmm…” Derek teased. He shifted out of his seat and turned Stiles around in his
as he stepped between Stiles’ spread legs. “What were you saying?” The last
piece of bacon that Stiles was finishing slid out of his half-open mouth and
onto the floor. Stiles took a heavy swallow. Derek stood in front of Stiles,
already partially hard; he knew Stiles hadn’t missed the detail. His hands
smoothed themselves up Stiles’ legs, savoring every frictive brush. Reaching up
to Stiles’ waistband, Derek tipped his fingers behind the elastic material.
Derek’s eyes shimmered blue as his claws extended from his hands. Stiles barely
had time to realize what had happened as Derek’s claws shredded apart the front
of his boxer briefs in one swift motion that left him sitting naked in his
chair with nothing but ribbons of his shredded underwear around his ankles.
“Holy shit,” Stiles whispered before he smashed his mouth against Derek’s.
Derek lifted Stiles out of the chair as their bodies collided, allowing him to
wrap his legs around his back as they made their way back into the bedroom.
Once they made it through the door, Derek tossed Stiles onto the bed. Stiles
looked stunned and completely turned on by the fact that Derek had tossed him.
“I thought you said no claws?”
Derek’s face was marble-solid. “Things change,” he replied. His vision was a
rosy pink again. Every molecule in his body whined that it needed Stiles. He
made a move toward the younger man, but Stiles extended a hand to stop him.
“Derek, before we start having what I assume will be incredibly hot sex, can I
ask you something?”
“Hmm?” Derek hummed.
“Why is there a teddy bear looking at me when I’m about to have sex?”
Derek’s mouth opened a moment before he replied. His brow crinkled in response.
“The girl next door let you borrow him because she thought you were sad.”
Stiles’ face went soft. “Wow, that’s so sweet.”
Leave it to Stiles to ask questions at the worst moments. Derek nodded,
climbing onto the bed and running his hands up Stiles’ thighs, cupping his
balls and stroking his dick, which was already at half-mast.
“Derek, wait,” Stiles said quickly.
Derek’s head drooped and he exhaled. “Yes, Stiles?”
Stiles looked shiftily at the bear and then back at Derek. Derek wore a
completely bemused expression at the implication of Stiles’ eye movements.
Stiles sighed. “Derek.”
“You can’t be serious?” Derek impugned.
 Stiles looked defensive. “Der, that is some kind-hearted girl’s teddy bear
that she entrusted to both you and I. He’s already seen us naked. He shouldn’t
be desecrated any further!”
Derek leaned his forehead against Stiles’ chest and muttered to himself. “How
is this my life? How are you my boyfriend?” Without waiting for an answer to
his obviously rhetorical questions, Derek picked up the bear and headed toward
the living room. “Come on, Mr. Bear, Stiles says you can’t enjoy the show.”
“Thanks, babe!” Stiles shouted from the bed.
Derek halted in the doorway, clenching its frame so hard that the wood
squealed. “You heard me say that earlier, didn’t you,” he asked with a gut-
wrenching wince.
“You bet your, I-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-dat-ass, I did,” Stiles chirped
with a grin.
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” Derek asked with a sigh.
“Aside from the fact that we’re about to have sex,” Stiles stated. “You will
now be given a weekly quota of how many times you must say ‘babe.’”
“I hate my life,” Derek muttered as he left the bedroom.
As Derek entered the living room and found a spot on the couch to place the
bear, there was a low snap of thunder beyond the trees outside his window. He
could smell the last vestiges of summer being washed away by the rain.
Chapter End Notes
     Just as a fair warning, Arpoet was sick last week, I'm sick now, and
     he's studying for his comps. Our lives have gotten INSANE here in the
     last two weeks, but we're still hard at work on this. If 15 is a day
     or so late, don't worry. We're still here.
     ~Gillian
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