Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8226638.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Minor_or_Background_Relationship(s)
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Lydia_Martin, Erica_Reyes, Isaac_Lahey,
      Vernon_Boyd, Allison_Argent, Scott_McCall, Jackson_Whittemore, Melissa
      McCall, Sheriff_Stilinski, Chris_Argent, Victoria_Argent, Gerard_Argent,
      Jordan_Parrish
  Additional Tags:
      Season/Series_02, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alpha_Derek
      Hale, Beta_Scott_McCall, Werewolf_Allison_Argent, Sheriff_Stilinski's
      Name_is_John, Asshole_Scott, Nightmares, Past_Attempted_Rape/Non-Con,
      Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad_Parenting, Unhealthy_Coping_Mechanisms,
      Stilinski_Family_Feels, Angst, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Past_Relationship
      (s), Past_Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale, Erica_Reyes_&_Stiles_Stilinski
      Friendship, Asshole_Jackson, Bullying, Child_Abuse, Pack_Building, Pack
      Dynamics, Derek_is_a_Good_Alpha, Derek_is_a_Softie, Protective_Derek,
      BAMF_Stiles, Pet_Names, Werewolf_Lydia, Rape_Recovery, Dry_Humping,
      Hunter_Stiles_Stilinski, Hunter_Training, Body_Worship, Oral_Sex, Cock
      Worship, Come_Eating, Anal_Fingering, Love_Confessions, Emotionally
      Constipated_Derek, Hallucinations, Potions, Curses, Suicidal_Thoughts,
      Suicide_Attempt, Insecure_Stiles_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin_&_Stiles
      Stilinski_Friendship, Kidnapping, Revenge, Torture, Spark_Stiles
      Stilinski, Hopeful_Ending
  Series:
      Part 2 of Lone_Wolves
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-06 Completed: 2017-05-04 Chapters: 25/25 Words: 101530
****** For Better or Worse, We're Changing ******
by halcyon1993
Summary
     With Peter and Kate dead, Derek and Stiles are finally given the
     chance to figure out who they are to each other. Theirs isn't the
     only relationship that continues to change for the better, but as
     Derek settles into his new role as the Hale Pack alpha and Stiles
     seeks to grow stronger, a new player comes to town with their sights
     set on revenge.
Notes
     This is a rewrite of season 2, with things playing out how I think
     they should have. It obviously follows on from Part_1, so check that
     out first if you want everything to make sense here. This deviates a
     bit more from canon than Part 1 did—there will be no kanima
     adventures here! I hope you enjoy how I've changed things, and the
     way in which I continue to develop the Sterek relationship, and the
     pack relationship as a whole.
     Thank you to my lovely beta, RoamingJaguar, for helping all that you
     do.
***** He Left One Hell of a Mess *****
- Saturday, February 5th, 2011 -
It takes Stiles a long time to remember that he and Derek are not alone in the
preserve.
Derek kissing him is something he never would've expected, and while it remains
chaste, just lips pressed against lips, he thinks it's perfect all the same. A
large hand cups the side of his face, and he leans into it easily, not worried
about the small pinpricks of Derek's claws or the wetness that smears onto his
skin, staining it red with Peter's blood.
Eventually, Derek pulls back and rests their foreheads together, red eyes
boring into Stiles', and Stiles can't help the breathless, "Wow..." that
escapes him. This gets him a quiet chuckle, and then Derek just stares at him
with a look of possessiveness that sends shivers down his spine. He doesn't
know how long the two of them stand there in their own world, but it must be a
decent amount of time because, when he realises that he can feel eyes on the
back of his head, Chris Argent is wide awake again and on his feet, observing
the two of them with an odd expression on his face. Scott just looks disgusted,
but Stiles is flying so high that he couldn't give any less of a fuck about
what his ex-friend thinks of the new development in his and Derek's
relationship.
Focusing his attention back on the new alpha, Stiles watches with fascination
as the shift recedes and his red eyes revert to their natural hazel, a colour
he has come to adore. He wouldn't actually admit that out loud, not quite yet,
so he just stays quiet and smiles softly, his heart skipping a beat when the
smile is bashfully returned.
"As much as I hate to break this up, we really need to figure out what we're
going to do about all of this mess," Chris Argent interrupts, taking his
hunting rifle back from Stiles. "Peter killed a lot of people, some of whom
were good friends of mine, so we have to decide what we're going to tell
everybody. We all need to be on the same page if we're going to come out of
this without too much hassle."
"That's a good point..." Stiles admits, taking a couple of steps away from
Peter's body. The way Derek moves with him, sticking close by, doesn't go
unnoticed, but he chooses not to comment on it.
"Anyone got any ideas?" Derek asks.
"No," Scott scoffs from where he leans against a tree.
Stiles hears Derek growl threateningly at the beta. Before things can get out
of control, he puts a hand on the alpha's arm and is surprised when Derek
immediately calms, his entire body relaxing and his face smoothing out to
something more neutral instead of aggressive. Chris watches this interaction
with interest, like he knows something or is at least beginning to figure
something out. Stiles meets the hunter's eyes uneasily before swallowing and
speaking up.
"I think we should just tell the cops the truth," he suggests, elaborating when
he sees how dubiously everyone looks at him. "There's no way all these people
can go missing without the authorities asking questions. We should tell them
exactly what happened—just, y'know, leaving out the werewolf parts. Kate was a
lunatic who killed Peter's family, Peter also went crazy with grief and killed
everyone in a twisted show of revenge, and we all just got caught in the
crossfire. That will also clear Derek's name of the attack at the school that
somebody blamed him for." He glances pointedly at Scott.
"What was I supposed to say?" Scott defends, stepping away from the tree to get
up in Stiles' face. He is instantly cowed by another growl and a flash of newly
red eyes, but still he stubbornly tries to excuse his earlier actions. "I
didn't know who the alpha was back then, and I thought Derek was dead, so..."
"So he was an easy scapegoat," Stiles finishes. "That was stupid."
"Why? They believed me."
"You could've just said you didn't see who attacked us!" Stiles snaps, fed up
and unwilling to deal any longer with Scott's surfeit of bullheadedness.
"Instead, you sent the cops after the one person who was actually trying to
help us stop the alpha—no offence, Mr. Argent, but your sister was crazy, so I
couldn't trust you either. That made things a hell of a lot more difficult, so
good job! Though I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less from you.
You've never thought your actions through properly."
Scott scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"If you can't figure it out, I'm not explaining it to you."
"But—"
"While you two sort out your issues," Chris interjects, cutting off Scott's
response, "I'm going to go make sure my daughter is alright. Feel free to help
me whenever you're done with all your meaningless adolescent drama."
This reminds Stiles and Scott of the dire situation in which they are currently
knee-deep, and with a roll of his eyes Chris walks away, mumbling exasperatedly
to himself. Scott glowers one last time in Stiles' direction, getting a raised
eyebrow in return, before hurrying to assist the hunter with the youngest
Argent. Derek and Stiles are left by themselves in the clearing. No more words
are exchanged for a while, not until Derek takes a few steps away from Stiles,
his eyes intently focused on the lifeless body of his uncle.
The deep frown on his face fills Stiles with concern. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"I'm just wondering about Allison," Derek reveals.
"She'll be a werewolf now, right, because Peter bit her?"
Nodding, Derek tears his eyes away from his uncle's corpse and looks instead to
the night sky. "Yeah, she'll turn soon. That's going to make things
complicated, especially now that I'm the alpha," he says, sighing. "I'm going
to have to start training her, and her parents'll probably want to have some
say in that."
"Sounds fun."
Derek hums thoughtfully, frown getting somehow deeper.
Stiles, not liking the sombre mood, tries for some levity. "Well, I can kick
their asses for you if they cause you too much trouble," he jokes, waggling his
eyebrows. Derek looks at him briefly before averting his eyes again, and
without saying another word he walks off, following in Chris' and Scott's
footsteps to the Hale house. Stiles stares after him, wondering how they went
from the kiss to him getting the cold shoulder.
                                     * * *
Later that night, Stiles sits anxiously in the sheriff's office, feeling like
he's about to be executed by firing squad. He'd regrouped with the others in
front of the Hale house and ironed out what they all hoped would be a foolproof
lie. Chris tended to Allison as much as he could, fastening a torn piece of
Scott's shirt over the bite on her shoulder in an effort to staunch the
bleeding. Scott hovered close to the pair, while Derek remained standoffish and
sat far from Stiles on the porch steps. Stiles had fretted about this before
fulfilling his role in their plan and dialling 911, recalling all the emotions
he'd felt when he saw Kate hold her shotgun up to Derek's face in order to
sound believably worked up.
The cops were quick to show, with an ambulance in tow to take care of any
urgent injuries and to whisk a still-unconscious Allison straight to the
hospital to get treatment. Chris insisted on going with her and was escorted by
a deputy, who would get his statement while his daughter was seen to. Derek,
still the main suspect in the attack at the school and, by extension, all the
murders, was almost taken away in handcuffs before Stiles had intervened,
begging Deputy Parrish to listen to him as he shifted all the blame to where it
belonged. Parrish had looked unsure but put his trust in Stiles and forwent the
handcuffs, though he still regarded the other man with suspicious eyes.
Two deputies were sent off to locate Peter's body, following Stiles'
directions, while others stayed in and around the house to inspect the bodies
of Kate and the nameless hunters she'd enlisted to help her. Stiles, Derek and
Scott were piled into the back of a cruiser and driven down to the station, an
awkward drive, but it wasn't long before they reached their destination and
were each sequestered away in their own rooms.
Derek wouldn't look at Stiles.
Now, Stiles waits for Deputy Parrish to get back with his water—when that
happens, the questioning will begin. His dad sits in a chair next to him and
tries to be reassuring, but he fails spectacularly because he just doesn't know
how to connect with his son anymore.
The alcohol on his breath doesn't help.
"Alright, here we go!" Parrish says with feigned cheer as he reenters the room,
trying to set Stiles at ease. He takes the seat the sheriff vacates for him and
hands the cup of water he'd retrieved to Stiles, who sips it gratefully with
his right leg bouncing away. Stiles' dad shuts the door to give them more
privacy, then moves to stand behind his son, unable to do more to comfort than
simply offer his presence. Parrish flips open his notebook when he is given the
go-ahead. "We'll get through this as quickly as we can, alright? To make things
easier, why don't you start by taking us through the events that led up to
tonight, and we'll move on to tackle the more difficult stuff after all that's
out of the way."
"Take as long as you need," the sheriff adds.
Stiles takes another sip of water before answering.
"OK, well..." Gradually, he relays everything that has happened since Winter
break ended, from running into Derek in the preserve and the two of them
becoming friends, to Derek saving him from the real culprit of the attack at
the school, to discovering that Kate Argent was responsible for the Hale house
fire. This is met with understandable shock.
"Those are some serious accusations, son..." the sheriff cautions.
"Are you sure?" Parrish asks, scribbling away.
"Yes. She seduced Derek, used him to get information on his family, and then
tried to kill them all," Stiles details ardently. "I don't know why, though.
Maybe she was after their money, or maybe she was just bat-shit insane. I'm
going with insanity, based on the impressions I got whenever I ran into her..."
Stiles goes on to tell his dad and Parrish about the night he and Derek had
discovered that Peter was responsible for all the murders, getting revenge on
the people who'd taken part in burning down his life and putting him in a coma
for years. With a glance back over his shoulder, he notes the expression on his
dad's face, like he's wondering why Stiles didn't just come to him with all of
this as it was happening. He doesn't have the heart to tell him he didn't trust
him with it, so he moves on:
"Kate kidnapped Derek because, like I said, she was insane and wanted one last
romp with him or something. Then, tonight, Peter attacked Lydia and made me go
with him, or else he would kill her, too. I had no choice, and then together we
tracked where Kate was keeping Derek..." Memories of what had taken place in
the parking structure flash before his eyes, but he pushes through the spike of
adrenaline that makes him tense up, not wanting to reveal just yet what he was
almost forced to endure at Peter's hands. "Then we went to the Hale house, and
I went to get Derek from Kate while Peter stood guard to make sure no one
interfered. The fighting had already started when we got back outside."
Stiles knows the most difficult part is coming up, and he drinks the rest of
his water slowly to delay it. If Parrish or his dad notice this tactic, he's
grateful that neither says anything about it. Wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, he tosses the paper cup in the rubbish bin in the corner of the room
and readies himself to tell the part of his story that will be toughest to get
through.
Sweat starts to bead on his forehead.
"Then Kate showed up again. She had a shotgun and was going to kill Derek," he
whispers, transfixed by his hands in his lap, almost as if he can see Kate's
blood coating his palms. "Derek had already saved my life once by that point,
and I guess it was time for me to return the favour, so I yelled. She turned
toward me in surprise and her shotgun knocked me off-balance. Then..." He makes
a stabbing motion with his right hand and goes quiet, allowing Parrish and the
sheriff to absorb the meaning of his words. The panic he'd felt right after it
happened returns and he barely holds it back, releasing a long breath and
counting to ten in his head in an effort to keep himself calm.
"You...you're the one who killed her?" the sheriff asks disbelievingly.
Stiles nods. "And I don't regret it."
"Why?"
Turning in his chair, Stiles peers appraisingly up at his dad, trying to
decipher the strange look on his face. He thinks he can detect traces of
horror, fear and distrust, like he has suddenly been revealed to the man as a
stranger, no longer the son he thought he knew. Stiles feels irritation and
latches onto it instead of succumbing to some other emotion. Irritation is an
easier and much safer thing to feel.
"I don't regret it because it was a choice between Derek, a good guy who had a
bunch of awful shit happen to him that he didn't deserve, or Kate, the person
who did most of that awful shit and revelled in it," he explains defensively.
"As much as I wish I didn't have someone's blood on my hands now, it was an
easy choice, one I'd make again in a heartbeat. Now, if you're done looking at
me like you think I'm a sociopath, can I go? It's been a long night and I'd
like to sleep for about a year..."
The sheriff looks briefly ashamed before his face shutters, becoming
unreadable. With a glance at Parrish, he nods. "Yes, I suppose that's all we
need for now. I'll take you home."
With a snort, Stiles stands and steps around his father. "Don't bother," he
sneers.
"Stiles—"
"I'd rather walk." He heads for the door and rips it open none too gently. The
sheriff calls his name again, more urgently, no doubt wanting him to come back,
but he doesn't listen and just carries on his way. He has to get out before
everything stirred up by his recounting consumes him, not wanting to have his
rapidly approaching breakdown somewhere this public. All eyes turn to him when
he gets out into the bullpen, like he is the most fascinating thing anyone has
seen all night. He stands there for a few seconds before storming outside.
The cold night welcomes him.
In the parking lot, he finds Melissa McCall leaning against her car, a kind but
uncertain smile forming on her face when she sees him emerge from the station.
She beckons him over. He goes somewhat morosely, not missing the glint of
Scott's eyes in the passenger seat as they catch in the light of the street
lamp overhead. As soon as Stiles gets within touching distance, Melissa pulls
him into a hug, which he returns automatically.
"I'm so glad you're OK," she whispers in his ear, rubbing a hand up and down
his back to soothe away the small tremors that rack his body, likely mistaking
his anger at his dad for another emotion, one of the ones that are still
searching for a way to the surface. Scott glares from the car, unimpressed with
his mother's display of affection for someone he now dislikes so vehemently,
and in return Stiles regards him coolly over Melissa's shoulder until she ends
her motherly embrace, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms so that
she can get a better look at him. "When I heard what happened, I just couldn't
believe it! To think the person responsible for all those murders was right
under our noses the whole time. And you came by the hospital while it was all
going on and I didn't realise that anything was wrong..."
There's a distinct note of guilt in her voice.
"Don't feel too bad," Stiles comforts. "I didn't want you to know."
"I get that, but still..."
"Seriously, it's fine. I'm fine, I promise."
Melissa frowns, still unsure as she bites her lip. She snaps herself out of her
thoughts after several seconds of awkward silence, releasing him and gesturing
to her car. "Do you need a ride back to your house, sweetheart? It's the least
I can do, and I'd be more than happy to drop you off."
"That'd be great, thanks," Stiles accepts. If it will get him home more
swiftly, he can deal with Scott's petulance. He gets into the backseat and
straps himself in, trying his best to engage in as much normal small talk with
Melissa as he can in order to keep up the pretence that he's alright. It isn't
easy, but luckily any slip he makes is attributed to shaken nerves instead of
anything more serious. Scott remains obstinately silent during the entire
drive, and Stiles catches Melissa shooting both of them confused glances
whenever she looks away from the road at red lights and stop signs. Scott is
clearly still too much of a coward to tell his mother what he has been up to
lately.
"Here we are," Melissa announces as she pulls to a stop on Stiles' street.
"Thanks," Stiles says, unbuckling his seatbelt.
"You going to be OK on your own?"
Nodding, Stiles thanks Melissa again before slamming the door, walking up the
front path, and letting himself into his house. He waves at her as she drives
off, then shuts and locks the front door and, no longer having to uphold his
facade, allows his whole body to slump against it. The cool wood soothes the
heat of his forehead, so he stays there for several minutes until the silence
becomes too much.
The house is completely dark, his dad still down at the station, and even
though he's completely alone he feels somehow exposed, like numerous sets of
eyes are upon him.
His skin crawls.
Retreating upstairs to his bedroom is a frustrating and laborious task,
weariness making it feel like his bones have at least quadrupled in density.
While getting straight into bed sounds like the most wonderful thing, there's
no way Stiles is climbing beneath the covers until he's washed the whole
horrible night from every pore of his body. He lets out a humourless laugh,
wishing that there was a way he could do the same thing for his mind. The
memories will always be there, though, simmering and threatening to boil over
at any moment. All he can do is focus as much as he can on whatever menial task
he gives himself, starting with grabbing a towel and stepping beneath the spray
of the shower.
He doesn't wait for the water to heat up and gasps as he is assaulted by
thousands of tiny icicles, which wash down over the body that just a few hours
ago had felt youthful and full of energy. The night seems to have aged him
prematurely—when he looks down at himself he honestly expects to be met with
wrinkles and sagging flesh, but of course he just sees smooth skin, skin that
seems alien to him in that moment. Reaching for his shower gel, he clumsily
squirts some onto his palm, not caring when some of it spills and falls wasted
to the shower basin, and begins soaping himself up. He scrubs aggressively at
all the dirt, not stopping when he's clean because he swears he can still see
the evidence of Peter's impure touches clear as day. His skin is soon red from
more than the too-hot water, and still he can feel him.
He will always feel him.
The shower takes twice as long as it normally would, and by the time the last
trace of lather has eddied down the drain, the water has run cold again. Stiles
is shivering when he switches it off and steps from the stall, automatically
extending his hand to grab the fuzzy towel he'd hung up on the wall right
outside.
Wrapping it around his waist, he steps up to the sink and leans his hands on
the rim, staring blankly at the fogged-up mirror on the wall above. The
condensation won't stay for long, and he has to look at himself eventually, so
he speeds up time and wipes his hand across the smooth surface to restore its
purpose, his exhausted reflection staring back at him. Again there's a
disconnect—inside is someone different, someone who no longer matches what's on
the surface. He looks into his own eyes and their whiskey colour seems dimmed,
devoid of their usual spark of mischief or excitement or any other positive
emotion.
On his right cheek is a small abrasion. He touches it gently with his finger
and remembers how his face scraped against the ground of the parking structure
as Peter pinned him down. Turning, he looks back over his shoulder and notes
the five small cuts between his shoulder blades, where Peter's hand had been,
claws piercing pale skin and causing blood to bead up and stain the dress shirt
Lydia had generously bought him. The small wounds twinge every time he moves.
And so does his ass.
It all serves to remind him of what was almost taken from him, his virginity,
the last vestige of his innocence, and suddenly he can't bear to look at the
stranger in the mirror any longer. If he does, he might just break down in
tears when all he wants is to forget. He flies to his bedroom and pulls on the
first items of clothing he finds in his dresser, anything to get covered up.
After dressing in a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt that
used to belong to his dad, Stiles sits down on his bed—tentatively, so as to
not exacerbate any of his wounds—and wishes that someone was there to make
everything better.
He doesn't think there's anyone he could turn to. Not his mother, who lies in a
box in the ground. Not his dad, who used to comfort him whenever he had a
nightmare but is now so distant. Not Scott, who betrayed him and left him
behind. Not Melissa, who remains ignorant to all of this. Not Derek. Definitely
not Derek...
Their last interaction plays in his mind, and the confusion he'd felt at Derek
kissing him one second and refusing to even look at him the next is back, the
last straw.
He feels like crying, so he does.
Slumping over onto his side, Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest and buries
his face in the soft material of his sweatpants as the first sob tears its way
out of his throat. Everything he has been holding back all night pours out of
him in a seemingly endless stream, soaking through his sweats and leaving his
eyes red and puffy. He doesn't know how long he lies there, lost to the world,
but by the time his cries have quieted and the tears have stopped flowing, the
sun is faintly visible behind his closed curtains.
He doesn't get up to turn off his light. He's too tired.
And as he closes his eyes, one last tear slides down his cheek.
***** You Keep Choosing Your Vices Over Me *****
- Sunday, February 6th, 2011 -
It's close to midday when Stiles jerks awake from an uneasy sleep. He groans
and turns over onto his back, flinging an arm across eyes that feel
disgustingly crusty and puffy from his outpouring of emotion a few hours ago.
The subject of his dream is still there behind his eyelids, a little hazy but
discernible nevertheless:
The memory of what happened in the parking structure.
After his trousers and underwear were ripped from him, though, the dream
diverged from truth into something even worse. There was no wolfsbane to save
him, and when he'd reached for the bag Lydia gave him, he got a handful of long
blonde hair instead. Kate's corpse was on the ground in front of him, knife
plunged deep into her right eye, and a pool of blood got larger and larger
beneath her, creeping closer. The last thing he recalls, the thing that woke
him up, was the shock of Peter entering him with one brutal snap of his hips.
He can still feel the phantom pain of it like it was real, like he was being
torn in two, and he has to take a series of deep breaths to keep calm and
remind himself that it was all a dream, just a terrible nightmare.
After his heart has slowed back to its resting rate, he reaches blindly for his
phone, a frown forming on his face when he finds nothing but the smooth wood of
his nightstand. Turning his head, it's only when he sees the empty space that
he remembers leaving his phone in the preserve in order to lure a hunter away
from the Hale house. It's probably evidence now, so the chances of him getting
it back any time soon are slim.
He ruminates about what will happen next, how many things in his life will be
forever changed by the events of last night. His involvement in Kate's death
will hopefully be kept to a need-to-know basis. He doesn't even want to think
about how everyone would perceive him if they were to find out. Things like
this always have a way of being twisted into fiction far worse than the
already-horrible truth, and Stiles is certain that the fact of the killing
being in the defence of someone else will be left out of some people's
accounts. How his dad reacted to the truth doesn't instil in him much
confidence that he could come out the other side without his already shoddy
reputation being tarnished even further.
With another groan he sits up, a hand pressed to his forehead, and jumps when
he finds that he isn't alone. Derek sits in Stiles' desk chair, cleaned up and
seeming rested. His beard is neatly trimmed, his hair washed, and on his body
is a clean set of clothes—a navy-blue Henley, the V-neck providing a teasing
glimpse of his unshaven chest; a pair of black jeans that hug the considerable
muscles of his thighs; and a brand-new leather jacket, which is slung over the
back of the chair. It's a very handsome ensemble, one Stiles would be more
appreciative of if the thought of anything vaguely sexual didn't make his
stomach churn unpleasantly.
"How long have you been there?" Stiles asks, getting out of bed. He turns away
to hide the comparably shitty state of himself, knowing that he must look
awful.
"About three hours," Derek's replies succinctly.
"Why?"
"We still need to talk."
His mind immediately racing, Stiles' hands shake as he reaches into his dresser
and fumbles to pull out a complete outfit for the day ahead. Doubt, caused by
the odd way Derek had behaved after their kiss, shadows his hopes for any
future they could've had. Clutching tightly to a pair of acid-washed jeans, a
moss-green T-shirt with a desaturated American flag printed vertically down the
front, and a dark-grey hoodie, Stiles spins to Derek with a brave face all
ready to go, and then instantly cracks when he sees the concern with which
Derek is regarding him.
He can't handle it.
"Can it wait until I've had breakfast, at least?" he pleads, unable to keep the
embarrassing note of desperation out of his voice. Derek frowns and looks as if
he wants to say something about it, but then he simply nods, allowing Stiles to
leave the room.
Fleeing across the hall and shutting himself in the bathroom, Stiles spends as
much time as he dares locked inside, very much aware of the fact that Derek
will be able to hear everything he does—or rather, everything he doesn't do. He
plants himself on the closed toilet lid, fresh clothes balled up in his lap,
and works on regaining the confidence that Peter stole from him. Last night he
hit his threshold for weakness, and he refuses to wallow in self-pity any
longer. He will be strong again, no matter what.
After a minute, there comes a knock at the door.
"Stiles?" Derek calls softly from the other side.
Stiles clears his throat before responding. "Yeah?"
"I'm gonna go wait for you downstairs. Your dad's still down at the station so
there's no rush. Take all the time you need, OK?"
As Derek's footsteps fade down the hall, followed by the creaking of the
stairs, Stiles releases a long breath and gets up, stripping out of his T-shirt
and sweatpants in favour of pulling on the clean clothes he'd selected earlier.
After closing the laundry hamper he notices a conspicuous absence for the first
time—the dress shirt and lacrosse shorts that he'd left on the floor last night
are gone, leading him to conclude that Derek must have come in, seen them, and
gotten rid of them while he was sleeping.
Stiles is torn between feeling touched at Derek possibly removing an object of
trauma for him, and unsettled by the fact that Derek saw up close some of the
results of his time with Peter. It'll all have to come out soon enough—and if
Stiles' suspicions prove true, that time will be as soon as he goes
downstairs—but that doesn't mean he's really ready. The smell of bacon wafts up
from the kitchen and elicits a growl from his stomach, so he steps over to the
bathroom door and resigns himself to the fact that, as much as he'd like to, he
can't put off the inevitable forever.
Descending the stairs, he walks quietly along the hall between the foyer and
the kitchen, which seems to have tripled in length since the last time he
traversed it. Derek is just turning away from the stove when Stiles enters the
kitchen, spatula and frying pan in hand as he transfers strips of bacon to two
plates, where they join the scrambled eggs and hash browns already there. Two
full cups of coffee complete the meal.
"Here," Derek mumbles, sliding one of the plates across the island.
Stiles takes a stool.
Derek does the same on the opposite side.
Neither of them speak as they eat their breakfast, and though he senses that
Derek keeps stealing glances at him, Stiles keeps his eyes trained on his food.
He only eats half of what Derek cooked for him, the need for sustenance that
his stomach vocalised upstairs not lasting long. Instead he listlessly pushes
his food around his plate and sips every so often from his cup, leaving the
task of starting a dialogue up to Derek.
Said alpha's appetite is clearly unaffected by the underlying tension, and his
plate is cleared following one last stabbing of scrambled eggs with his fork.
Then, he's standing to put it in the dishwasher and get a refill of his coffee.
Stiles observes all of this out of the corner of his eye, waiting until Derek's
large, warm hand is on his shoulder to look up at him. Even then he doesn't
meet Derek's gaze head-on, looking instead at the space over his shoulder. The
older man nods in the direction of the living room, and Stiles leaves his plate
and empty cup where they are to trail sedately after him, keeping some measure
of distance between them.
They take opposite ends of the sofa.
"So," Derek begins, putting his coffee cup on the table and shifting to face
his silent companion, "I think I owe you an apology. About last night... The
way I ignored you wasn't right, especially not after what had just happened,
what we'd just been through together, and I'm sorry for that. It's no excuse,
but..." He pauses and bites his bottom lip, having difficulty finding the right
words. "I was scared, about my new status, what it was making me feel, and how
it would affect you."
"What does that mean?" Stiles asks curiously, having not expected this.
"You remember the night we found out Peter was the alpha?"
Stiles nods.
"Well, when I came to you afterward, when I told you that my wolf had grown
attached to you, that you needed to stay away... You were right," Derek
reveals, picking at a loose thread in the cushion on which he sits. He stops
when he accidentally pulls it out and makes the frayed patch larger. "The part
about my wolf responding to your feelings for me and the likelihood of it
choosing someone else if I'd stayed in New York was true, but I was lying when
I said I wished that was the case. Peter threatened to hurt you, because he
knew that was the only thing he could say to make me agree to work with him, to
threaten the person I cared about most."
He gazes meaningfully at Stiles, his eyes shining.
Stiles' heart skips. "Oh..."
"What I said to you was harsh, I know, and I'm sorry for that, too, but I had
to say those things," Derek carries on. "I thought it was the only way I could
guarantee your safety. Obviously, you were too smart for that to work, and I
was so close to crumbling and telling you what was really going on when you
came to confront me, but we were interrupted before I could. Then, after we
defeated Peter and I took his alpha status, my instincts were magnified with
the new surge of power, and that's why I kissed you. My wolf was right at the
surface, recognised that the person it had chosen to be my mate was standing
nearby, and couldn't help itself. Afterward, when the adrenaline was wearing
off and my wolf retreated, I realised how...overbearing I was being, and in
trying to give you space I may have give you too much. I just... I didn't want
to frighten you."
Stiles is stunned that Derek, who is usually the epitome of taciturn, is being
so open with him. After some contemplation, he shifts to curl his legs beneath
himself and address Derek properly, his curiosity about the alien facets of
werewolf biology engaging him more completely in the conversation. "I still
don't understand how that works," he confesses, running a hand through his
growing hair.
"How what works?"
"You talk about how The Wolf has this...desire for me, like it's a separate
entity from you. I know you said you care, but it still sounds to me like your
wolf is forcing you into something that you yourself don't really want," Stiles
clarifies, a hint of nervousness causing his voice to adopt a timorous quality.
The idea of this not being disputed terrifies him, but he needs to know for
sure how Derek feels before he allows himself to hope again for anything more
developing between them. He sits patiently, outwardly projecting an image of
calm while his chest tightens in panic, as Derek carefully formulates his
response.
Even if he doesn't get the answer he wants, Stiles is determined to not fall
apart. He doesn't want his reaction to bad news to inspire any guilt in Derek,
whose life is already hard enough.
"You're right; I didn't want this to happen," Derek begins.
Stiles' chest tightens further.
"At first. But that's not how I feel now."
Shuffling sideways, Derek moves from the end cushion to the one which was
previously separating them. He reaches for and takes Stiles' right hand in his
own, an expression of such raw sincerity on his face that all Stiles can do is
try to breathe. "This will sound cruel and I don't mean it that way, but if
someone had told me a month ago that you were the person I would end up
choosing as my mate, I wouldn't have believed them. I never really thought I'd
want to be with anyone after..." He clears his throat. "Never thought I
deserved it. But least of all with someone like you. I've already said this but
I think it bears repeating: I found you so annoying at first that I could
barely stand to be around you. Then you started proving your worth and saved my
life, though I did threaten you into doing so. And then at the hospital, when
Peter told me what was developing between us, I was actually surprised by how
OK with it I was."
Derek squeezes Stiles' hand before letting it go. "I do want this, believe me,
but I'm still not sure it's a good idea," he says, retreating back to the other
end of the sofa. "Your dad is the sheriff, and if we did this, our relationship
would have to be hidden. Mine is a dangerous world, and people around me tend
to end up hurt or dead; I don't want you to be added to that list. Plus, you're
still so young..."
A note of self-deprecation sours his voice.
Stiles frowns.
"I am young, and it means a lot that you're worried for me, it really does, but
I'm not some dumb kid who doesn't know what he wants. My involvement in this
and with you is my decision to make," Stiles asserts, ready to lay it all on
the table. "Neither of us is perfect, and I know it's not gonna be all sunshine
and rainbows. I sure as hell am gonna have some issues to sort out that'll get
in the way, and from what I know about your past, you will, too. And someone
else will probably come along eventually to try and fuck everything up like
Peter and Kate did, but I think we both deserve to be happy. You make me happy,
manipulative uncles aside, and I think I could make you happy, too, if you gave
me a chance to."
It's now Stiles' turn to bridge the gap between them, shifting sideways until
he can touch Derek's arm without overextending his own. The way his touch is
leaned into tells him that Derek is at least receptive to his point of view. "I
think we owe it to ourselves to at least try, don't you?" he finishes.
Derek looks up from his lap.
Stiles sees the tiniest hint of uncertainty remaining in the wolf's hazel eyes.
"Are you sure? Really sure?" Derek asks.
"I am."
Stiles injects as much conviction as he can into those two little words and
smiles as he watches that last hint of uncertainty fade away. A fire replaces
it, a longing accented by the blazing red that clearly denotes Derek's newfound
alpha status, and Stiles feels this heat in his face, a faint blush appearing
on his cheeks as they continue to stare quietly at each other. He doesn't know
how long they sit there but, the next thing he knows, there comes the sound of
a car door slamming shut outside, followed by keys in the front door.
Derek jumps up from the sofa like he's been burned. There's a joke about their
chemistry in there somewhere, but Stiles isn't given time to think of it
because, in the next second, Derek dashes from the living room to the safety of
the second floor. The front door bangs open just as Stiles hears what he
guesses is his bedroom door snapping shut, and then the sheriff steps into the
house, a sizeable bag of takeout in his left hand and a six-pack of beer in his
right. The sight of the latter rekindles within Stiles the sadness he had felt
before he fell asleep, when he'd lamented that he no longer had his father to
rely on in times of need. The look he'd seen on the sheriff's face after
telling him the full story of Kate Argent's death flashes again through his
mind and overthrows the jubilation he was feeling from Derek's agreement to
give them a shot.
From over the back of the sofa, Stiles discreetly observes as his dad shuffles
unconcerned toward the kitchen, not feeling his son's eyes on the back of his
head. Stiles gets up and shadows him, allowing his presence to remain
undetected as the sheriff takes one of the beers out of the six-pack and pops
off the top. His dad drinks deep, chugging half of it without stopping to take
a breath. Stiles peeks back through to the living room and gets the time from
the clock hanging on the wall, shaking his head when he sees that it isn't even
one o'clock in the afternoon.
When he turns to get a plate from the cupboard, the sheriff finally sees Stiles
standing there and for a split second appears guilty. Only for a second,
though, and then an expression of amiability conceals it. It looks forced.
"Hey, son. I didn't hear you come downstairs," the man greets, setting his
plate down on the island and pulling out several containers of Chinese food
from the takeout bag. "You want some?"
"I'll pass," Stiles answers.
"Suit yourself. Just means there's more for me."
"Are those beers all for you, too?"
The sheriff stops piling his plate high. "Hmm?"
Pointing to the six-pack, Stiles refuses to back down when he receives a look
that clearly says it's none of his business. He has already waited long enough
to confront his dad about his drinking, and he won't sit idly by like he did
years ago and wait for it to resolve itself. That didn't work then and it won't
work now. He's tired of tiptoeing around the subject, so he won't anymore.
"You're drinking in the day, just like you did after mom died," he goes on,
pushing through the dagger of grief that always cuts through his heart whenever
he talks about the missing third member of their family. Stepping forward, he
snatches the beers off the counter and jumps back when his dad, face contorted
in anger, darts forward to try to stop him. He keeps moving out of range until
they reach an impasse, on opposite sides of the kitchen island.
"Stiles," the sheriff practically growls, fuming. He makes one last attempt to
reclaim the beer from his son and again is too slow to catch him. One of the
containers of Chinese food is knocked off the countertop in his haste, noodles
spilling out over the floor. "Give those back right now!"
"Why? Do you need them?"
"Stiles... Give. Them. Back!"
"Or what? You'll throw another glass at my head?!" Stiles shouts, immediately
jumping on the shock that breaks through his dad's thunderous countenance.
"Yeah, you remember that? When I tried to stop you from drinking yourself to
death all those years ago and you didn't like it? How you told me, an eleven-
year-old kid, that I should have died instead of mom? 'Cause I sure as hell
remember it, and I'm not letting you hurt me like that again. I can't take it,
especially not after everything I've already been through this year. I won't
take it. I could even understand it back then, y'know? You were grieving, and
as much as I hated it, I got why. But now? Now I don't get it. Tell me why
you're putting me through this again. Please."
The sheriff only spares a few seconds to look ashamed. Then righteousness takes
over.
"Last I checked, I was the parent here, Stiles," he admonishes, his eyes hard.
"I don't have a problem, and even if I did I wouldn't have to explain myself to
you."
"So you don't see anything wrong here?"
"Not with me."
Stiles turns his watery eyes to the ceiling, disappointed and over it. "Fine...
You want to stay in denial? I won't stop you," he says, holding the six-pack
out as if to hand it back to his dad. Just as the man steps forward to take it
from him, he drops it, and all five bottles shatter as they hit the floor, beer
splashing and frothing out in a wide circle. Meeting his dad's stunned gaze
without compunction, he closes off the part of his heart that belongs to him
and throws away the key. "But leave me the fuck out of it. I'm done."
Before his dad can react, Stiles spins on his heel and exits the room, heading
with tunnel vision for the front door. He reaches for his car keys, which are
usually hung up on one of the hooks on the wall beside the door, but doesn't
find them—his Jeep and the keys are still where he'd left them near the Hale
house. Pausing only briefly, he still feels the dire need to get out of the
house and decides as he pulls on his shoes that, screw it, he'll walk.
Wrenching open the door, Stiles storms outside and slams it shut behind him,
shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he navigates the front path
down to the pavement. Some of his neighbours are out in their manicured front
gardens, stereotypical housewives sporting sun hats on their heads as they
kneel in the dirt, tending to the colourful flowers and plants that grow in
neat rows along low fences. Stiles feels their curious eyes as he walks briskly
past them. They all no doubt wonder why the sheriff's son is leaving his house
in such a state of unrest, or perhaps news of what occurred the night before
has already spread through town. Either way, Stiles couldn't give any less of a
shit what they think of him, and he continues to walk without having any idea
where he's going.
Away from his dad is his only criteria.
He has just made it a couple of streets over when he hears someone calling his
name, and he turns around to see Derek jogging to catch up. He stops to let
him.
"Hey," Derek pants when they stand next to each other. He frowns when Stiles
avoids his gaze, the boy choosing instead to focus on the dark hairs that peek
out from deep V of his shirt. He fumbles for what to say next and in the end
settles for pressing a gentle hand to the small of Stiles' back, guiding him
down the rest of their current street and around the corner. "C'mon, I'm parked
just down here. I'll take you anywhere you want, OK?"
As he said, Derek's midnight-black Camaro soon comes into view between two
other cars, and Stiles opens the passenger-side door and slides heavily inside
once it's been unlocked. Derek gets in next to him a second later, after
waiting to allow another car to drive past, and they sit together in a loaded
silence. Derek keeps his hands on the wheel, ready to go once he has been given
a destination, while Stiles stares unseeingly out the front windshield and
mulls over his options. He doesn't really have many, especially not on a
Sunday, but after a while an idea strikes him that seems perfect.
"You'll take me anywhere," he croaks, "even if it's far away from here?"
"Anywhere," Derek promises.
Stiles tells him to start driving.
***** A Much-Needed Escape from Reality *****
Stiles sits perfectly still on the sand, his head devoid of all thought. He has
divested himself of his hoodie, leaving it in the Camaro with Derek's leather
jacket. His knees are pulled up, arms wrapped around and chin resting atop them
as he stares out at the vast expanse of sapphire-blue water before him. The
Pacific Ocean is for the most part calm, the tide providing the only sounds he
hears, gentle roars as the waves come in and threaten to nip at his toes. They
never quite make it. His face is pinked by the early-evening chill as wind
whips around him, the golden glow of the sand gradually fading as the sun gets
closer to the horizon, but even with all these signs that time is slipping
away, he doesn't move from his spot.
He doesn't want to return to his life in Beacon Hills.
So he keeps sitting.
He and Derek are the only ones on this private beach, a small stretch of sand
that is maybe one-hundred feet long and mostly hidden by tall, sloping cliffs.
The only way you would know it was there was if you stood at the top of one of
these vertiginous cliffs and looked down upon it, like a Greek god looking down
at the mortal world from Mount Olympus. The only reason Stiles knows about this
place is because he discovered it many years ago, when his parents had taken
him on an impromptu trip to the coast in the summer of 2002, when he was seven.
He wasn't supposed to venture far from where they had set up camp on the much
larger beach further along the coast—which saw hundreds of people each day, as
it had that Saturday—but he had gotten bored of building sandcastles by himself
and longed for adventure, something more exciting to hold his attention. That
something turned out to be the cliffs in front of which he sits in the present.
His parents hadn't been looking his way, deep in a discussion he wasn't
supposed to hear, so he was free to wander off. He had squeezed between all the
bigger sun-kissed bodies of strangers and walked the snakelike path that ran up
the back of the cliffs, flanked by long blades of unkempt grass swaying in the
breeze. Once he had reached the top, he had marvelled at the panoramic view
with which he was greeted.
He could see everything:
The mammoth expanse of water, the main beach, every building in the beachside
town. Peals of laughter had reached his ears and would have been a reminder of
where he was supposed to be, but as he watched the ebb and flow of the
sparkling ocean, surfers catching waves so far off in the distance that they
resembled ants, the knowledge that he should return to his parents before they
noticed his absence and started to worry was but a tiny thought in the back of
his mind, easily smothered by his wonder and curiosity. It was then that he had
looked down and seen the secret beach. Instantly he wanted a closer look. There
was only one way to get to it: an old rope anchored into the ground at the
cliff's precipice, hanging down along a small groove in the cliff face. He was
clearly not the first person to happen upon this hidden space, and the rope was
what he had used to get to his quarry. The sand was even finer than that of the
larger beach, seemed cleaner somehow, more pure, and there were beautiful
scallop shells of many colours washed up on the shore, whites and reds and
greens and blues. He had quickly lost track of time gathering all he could,
arranging them carefully on the ground and pretending that they were forming
the scales of a dragon. To this day he doesn't know how much time had passed
before he heard his mother screaming his name from the top of the cliff.
The shrill sound had carried down to him on the breeze.
"Stiles!" she had yelled. "What are you doing?!"
"Playing!" he had replied, nonplussed.
"Get up here right now!"
He had scrambled to comply, leaving his shell dragon forgotten in the sand, and
quickly found to his chagrin that he could not climb back up the rope by
himself. His dad had to come down and help him, and by the time he was standing
back at the top of the cliff his mother was close to tears.
She made him promise then and there to never run away from her again, and he
felt so guilty about making her cry that he hadn't even bothered explaining
that running away wasn't what he had been trying to do. He simply nodded mutely
and allowed her to take his hand and lead him back down the grassy path, toward
the parking lot at the bottom. His dad left them briefly to retrieve their
belongings from the beach, and Stiles was a bit put out at their trip ending
earlier than was scheduled but wisely kept his complaints to himself. The car
ride back home was a long one, his mother's frazzled emotions leaving her
unwilling to talk much. On the way they stopped off for dinner at a fast food
restaurant, and by the time they were back in Beacon Hills, it was well into
the evening. The sky was as dark as a raven's feather, without a single star.
"Are you ready to head back?"
The question breaks Stiles from his reminiscing.
He turns to look curiously at Derek.
"What?"
"I asked if you were ready to go home yet," the wolf repeats gently, leaning
back on his arms with his legs extended out across the sand. His body language
is as relaxed as can be, but his eyes are pools of concern in which Stiles
could easily drown, the waning sun making it seem like they are glowing, the
hazel colour amplified and even more stunning. "It's getting late; it'll be
dark soon, so I think we should at least get out of here before the sun is
gone. We can decide what we're going to do then, if you want."
Heaving a great sigh, Stiles has to admit that Derek is right, as loath as he
is to move from his spot. "Yeah, OK," he accepts as Derek gets to his feet. He
gladly takes the helping hand the older man offers him, and together they walk
back to where sand meets cliff. Stiles climbs up the rope first, Derek
remaining at the bottom in case he fumbles his grip, and once he stands safely
at the top he waits, taking the scenery in one last time. It felt good to
return here, provided him with the cathartic effect of recalling treasured
memories of a better, simpler time. Just as the sun starts dipping below the
horizon, painting the sky a rich pinkish red before it takes all natural light
with it, Derek appears above the cliff edge, digging his claws into the ground
to get a grip good enough to pull himself up the rest of the way. After wiping
the dirt off on his jeans, Derek leads Stiles down the slope, the path more
grassy and overgrown than ever, to the extent where you would have a hard time
seeing it unless someone pointed it out to you.
Now sat in the Camaro, Derek turns the keys in the ignition and brings the
engine to life. He sees Stiles shivering in the passenger seat and turns on the
heating to warm up the confined space.
Then, he reaches for his jacket in the backseat.
"Here, put this on."
Stiles takes the proffered leather garment and strokes a thumb almost
reverently over the supple material. "You sure you don't mind? I could just put
my hoodie back on," he suggests, praying that Derek won't be swayed. A small
smile forms on his lips when he gets his wish, and he eagerly slips his arms
into the sleeves of the jacket and pulls it tight around him. It is loose on
his considerably less stocky frame, and this makes him feel small in a good
way, like he is protected. Because of its newness, the scent of the leather is
strong, and he is a little disappointed when that is all he smells with a slow,
deep breath. Derek's scent hasn't yet had a chance to seep into it like he was
hoping, but he is grateful all the same, happy to have been entrusted with the
care of one of Derek's possessions, if only temporarily.
"Do you really have to take me back tonight?" he asks.
"I'll have to eventually."
"I know... But can't we wait until morning?"
Derek purses his lips. "It's your decision, though I'm not sure where we would
sleep." He mulls the problem over for a minute before coming up with a
solution. After pulling up the parking brake, he reverses out of the lot, then
drives toward the beachside town they had passed through on the way to the
cliffs. "Alright, one night. I think I remember seeing a motel near the edge of
town, so I guess we can stay there."
"I don't have my wallet with me," Stiles points out.
"Don't worry about it."
                                     * * *
Stiles stands awkwardly just inside the door of the motel lobby while Derek
rings the bell on the front desk and waits for an employee to appear. The room
is comfortably warm and uncluttered, just the desk, a couple of chairs, and a
rickety stand which houses a bunch of fliers. They boast attractions in town
that guests might be interested in checking out during their stay—a speedboat
rental place, a seafood restaurant, a small arcade. Stiles peruses the
selection with mild curiosity but finds nothing that stands out to him, though
he supposes it wouldn't matter if he had; they would still be leaving in the
morning and wouldn't have time to check anything out anyway. Just as he steps
away from the stand, the door to the backroom opens and a woman steps through,
looking tired but affable. Middle-aged with no makeup, she wears her dirty-
blonde hair loose and wavy, quintessential surfer chic, and she sports a
healthy tan that tells Stiles she spends a lot of time in the sun, maybe even
on a surfboard herself. The tag pinned to her navy-blue polo shirt reveals her
name to be Ashley. She smiles at Derek, revealing laugh lines and a neat set of
dazzling-white teeth, and asks how she can be of help to him. Derek requests a
room, and when Ashley enquires about what beds he would prefer, a single king
or two queens, Derek looks at Stiles over his shoulder and defers the question
to him.
"Which do you want?"
"Uhh..." Stiles says eloquently, unsure.
He has never shared a bed with anybody before, discounting the few times he and
Scott have fallen asleep accidentally during all-nighters in which they did
nothing but play video games and stuff themselves silly with junk food, and the
single time with Derek that culminated in one of the most uncomfortable moments
of his life—and given the amount of sticky situations he has landed himself in
over the years, that is saying something. To this day it remains ignored,
shoved in a dusty box in the back of his mind. He isn't in any hurry to relive
that part, but, he tells himself, that was before they were together. Maybe
things would be different now.
Stiles has to admit that the possibility of a repeat performance of the initial
waking up, before he had realised who he was snuggled against, is something
that appeals to him very much. Mind made up, he goes to give his answer and
finds Derek frowning at him and Ashley looking back and forth between the two
of them, confused. He must have taken longer to make a decision than he
thought.
"I-I'd like a king, if that's alright," he stammers.
Derek just continues to stare.
Stiles blushes.
"So...a king?" Ashley repeats, settling her eyes on Derek.
"A king," the wolf confirms, reaching for the back pocket of his jeans.
Once the money and the key to their room have been exchanged, Derek and Stiles
leave the lobby, Ashley wishing them a good night's sleep before the door
swings shut behind them, her jokey tone implying something that causes Stiles
to stumble. Derek is quick to save him from falling flat on his face, grabbing
his arm and pulling him upright again, and he in turn is quick to tell Derek to
shut up when he sees the look of amusement on his face, though he doesn't
really mean it. Once he gets over his embarrassment, he notes that the air is
shockingly frigid, his breath appearing in front of his face in a white mist
reminiscent of fog—he doesn't remember it being this cold when they had
arrived, but the sun is completely gone now and night has truly set in, so it
does make sense. The light from the lobby window casts their shadows far across
the ground like giants from some old fairytale, and the scent of the ocean
lingers in the air.
Derek stops off at the car to retrieve his belongings, and then they look for
their room. Up one set of stairs, Room 16 is all the way on the other end of
the walkway, with just one neighbour, and Derek swiftly gets the door open and
steps back to let Stiles go inside ahead of him.
The boy bolts inside to check out their accommodations.
"Wow, this is swanky..."
Having expected something just adequate, he is stunned.
It feels much more Hotel than Motel, though he supposes he didn't hear how much
of a dent the room put in whatever savings Derek has been living off of since
he returned to Beacon Hills.
The carpet is a light sandy beige. A single round white table is positioned
near one corner of the room, with two chairs stood on opposite sides of it. The
wallpaper is a pleasant teal with vertical white stripes of varying
thicknesses. Three photographs of the local beach are hung up, two on one wall,
one on another, and along the third wall is a small kitchenette consisting of a
stove, a sink, and a fridge. The final wall is reserved for the bed, which is
expectedly large with soft sheets the same teal as the wallpaper. Stiles sits
on the end of the mattress and bounces up and down a couple of times to test
it, smiling when he finds that it is similar to his considerably smaller one at
home. This means he shouldn't have too much difficulty getting to sleep.
He will miss his pillow, though.
Derek smiles at Stiles' antics, then tosses his duffel bag on the bed and
unzips it, rifling through it for a clean set of clothes. It hits Stiles then
that he doesn't have anything to change into, and he is contemplating the
grossness of getting back into what he is currently wearing after cleaning up
in the bathroom when his vision is suddenly obscured. With a squawk of
indignation, he pulls whatever was just thrown at him from his head—a T-shirt,
he realises when he has it in hand—and pouts at Derek.
"That was mean!" he whines.
Derek smirks. "I'm sure you'll find a way to go on."
Huffing, Stiles holds up the shirt for a better look. "What's this for?"
"To wear, dumbass."
Stiles doesn't know how to respond.
"I know you don't have anything of your own and figured that, since you were
comfortable borrowing my jacket, you would also be comfortable with the shirt
and," Derek pulls from his bag a pair of old basketball shorts in the Beacon
Hills High colours, "these, too. Correct me if I'm wrong."
"You're not..."
Looking mighty pleased with himself—which makes Stiles roll his eyes good-
naturedly—Derek also takes from his bag another Henley, long-sleeved this time,
in a rich chocolate brown with black top-stitching on either side of every seam
and black patches on the shoulders, and a pair of black pyjama bottoms. He sets
them aside to put on a little later, then moves the bag to the floor, out of
the way. "Right, while you go get yourself cleaned up, I'm gonna see about
getting us some food," he says, taking his car keys out from the back pocket of
his jeans. "I'll have to go ask in the lobby, but I'm sure there's somewhere
open this late around here. Is pizza OK with you? I haven't eaten since
breakfast this morning and I'm starving, and I know you haven't eaten either,
so I think I'll get us a large each. Any preference on toppings?"
"Not really," Stiles replies.
"Be back soon." With that, Derek exits the room.
                                     * * *
In the bathroom, Stiles stands in front of the sink and takes the time to
examine himself in the mirror. He looks significantly better than he had that
morning, the time away from Beacon Hills and his troubles revitalising him. In
fact, he would even go so far as to say that he looks almost like his usual
self, back from before all the werewolf craziness began. The only differences
are his hair, which is longer than it has been in years—he is conflicted about
this, but for now casts those feelings aside to assess properly at a later
time—and the fact that Derek's clothes make him look thinner than he actually
is. Sure, he has always been on the svelte side of things, especially when he
compared himself to the other boys on the lacrosse team like he was wont to do
every now and then, but what little muscle he does possess is not visible under
the clothes of someone much larger. The moss-green T-shirt hangs on his frame,
only the shoulders matching up, but he doesn't really see this disparity as a
problem. Quite the contrary—the effect of the T-shirt is akin to that of
Derek's jacket, where the oversized quality made him feel safe, only this is
even better. The T-shirt isn't new and actually has Derek's scent embedded in
the fabric, detectable underneath whatever fabric softener he uses, so even
though Derek isn't actually there with him in that moment, Stiles doesn't feel
alone.
Just as he is finishing up, drying his hands with one of the white hand towels
that are folded up in a small pile next to the sink, he hears the motel door
bang open. He exits the bathroom to find that Derek has returned with their
dinner—the bearded man carries two enormous pizza boxes with two bottles of
sparkling spring water balanced precariously on top, all of which he sets down
on the table.
Stiles' stomach growls loudly.
"Sounds like I'm just in time," Derek comments.
Nodding, Stiles takes a seat in one of the chairs and pulls the closest pizza
box to him, then flips open the lid to reveal a piping-hot, meat-laden, 16-inch
work of art. "You weren't kidding when you said large."
"Nope," Derek responds.
Stiles picks up a slice and takes a bite. He releases an appreciative groan.
"Here."
Opening eyes he hadn't realised he had closed, Stiles blinks up at Derek with
his mouth still full. The wolf holds out a brand-new toothbrush, still in its
packaging, which Stiles takes after dumping his slice back in the box. He chews
his mouthful quickly and swallows. "Oh! Thanks, I hadn't even thought about
that!" He grins up at Derek, who brushes off his thanks, then sets the
toothbrush down beside his pizza box and picks back up the partially eaten
slice, his grin turning cheeky. Derek raises an impassive eyebrow in return,
waiting. "You just think of everything, don't you? You're not as dumb as you
look!"
"I resent that," Derek retorts, eyes amused.
                                     * * *
After a period of awkwardly lying next to Derek in their king-size bed, Stiles
eventually falls asleep just as the clock on the nightstand flips from 00:59 to
01:00. He is awoken a short while later by someone gently shaking him, and his
eyes snap open from his nightmare to a silhouette hovering above him. He cries
out and tries to scramble away, still caught up in his dream and fearing that
the black figure is Peter returning for a second go, but then the lamp on the
other side of the bed is flicked on, revealing it to be Derek.
Stiles instantly feels stupid. "God... Sorry," he apologises, holding a hand to
his forehead as he tries to get a handle on his breathing. His heart still
hammers away in his chest, but the worst of his panic swiftly passes and he is
able to look Derek in the eye without feeling too self-conscious.
"Did I wake you?" he asks.
"Yeah..." Derek responds with a frown.
"Sorry. Just...bad dreams. Go back to sleep, OK?"
Silently, Stiles lies down on his side, facing away from Derek, and stares at
the blue-and-white wallpaper, counting the stripes to occupy his mind. Derek
switches off his lamp, once more casting the room into complete darkness, and
Stiles remains perfectly still as the older man shuffles about behind him,
likely searching for a comfortable position in which he can return to his
dreams. Though exhaustion leaves Stiles' body desperately craving more rest, he
fights his eyes as they droop, holding them open for as long as he can until
the next time they manage to slip shut without him realising. The thought of
succumbing to another nightmare leaves him terrified. He never wants to be
thrust back into that position, powerless to help himself as Peter violates him
and takes what he wants. It is a cycle—eyes open, shut, open, shut—one that
isn't broken until there comes more movement from his bedmate. Then, Derek
speaks quietly.
"Stiles, do you trust me?" he enquires.
"You know I do."
"Come here."
Turning around when he feels the sheets being raised, Stiles peers through the
darkness at where he guesses Derek's face is. "Come where? I can't exactly see
at the moment," he points out. He gasps in surprise when a hand gently takes
hold of his arm and guides him over to the other side of the bed, where he ends
up lying right next to Derek, able to feel the man's soft breaths on his face.
"Derek... What's going on?" he asks. Arms come around him and he is told to
hush, and he is in too much shock to do anything but go with it as his face
ends up smushed against Derek's chest, Derek's chin coming to rest on top of
his head. "Seriously, I'm gonna need an explanation right this second or I'm
gonna start freaking out."
"Just relax," Derek murmurs, running a hand slowly up and down Stiles' back to
coax him into the embrace. "I think this might help with your nightmares, based
on the information I could find on mating bonds after I was clued in on what
was happening between us. I'm not going to make you talk about what he did to
you before you're ready, but I want you to know... No, I need you to know, I'm
here when you are."
"I don't want to burden you..."
"You won't. What I went through wasn't the same, but I promise I'll
understand."
A short lull, and then Stiles whispers a thank you.
"You're welcome," Derek says. "I mean it."
There, with Derek's heartbeat in his ears and the solidity of his arms around
him, the familiar loveliness of Derek's masculine scent strong in his nose,
straight from the source, Stiles finally allows his eyes to close. Right before
he drifts off into a dreamless sleep, he feels lips press tenderly against his
forehead, and he unconsciously snuggles impossibly closer, moving one of his
arms to wrap around Derek's waist in return. He sleeps peacefully through the
night, knowing with certainty that nothing can hurt him.
***** Our New World Order *****
- Monday, February 7th, 2011 -
Stiles wakes up feeling warm, well-rested, and unable to remember what he had
been dreaming about. Sunlight streams in through the curtains and makes the
room feel alive, a sign that it is probably time he get up, but cracking open
his eyes and lifting his head to check the clock on the nightstand is as much
as he is willing to move. He lies on his right side with a still-slumbering
Derek pressed up against his back, warm breaths puffing out across the back of
his neck. Unlike the last time they shared a bed, Stiles feels no awkwardness
or need to get away before his bedmate joins him in consciousness.
He just feels absolute contentedness.
Turning over in the circle of Derek's arms, Stiles snuffles lazily into the
impressive musculature of his chest and smiles when Derek releases a small
noise and pulls him even closer, like he is fearful of him leaving the bed.
There is absolutely no chance of that, not with how comfortable Stiles is. In
fact, if he could, he would stay right there for the rest of his life. Tilting
his head up, he stares with fascination at Derek's slack face. The wolf
breathes deep and slow, without an ounce of the tension he usually carries in
his entire being, and his hair is adorably rumpled from sleep. If Stiles were
to go look out the window, he is honestly sure he would find nothing on the
other side of the glass, just blackness, like this room and its two occupants
are the only things in the entire universe. All of the worry and apprehension
he had felt the previous afternoon about the reality of his home life is
nonexistent, like it was expelled overnight from their little bubble. And all
of this is thanks to the selfless man in front of him, who, without hesitation,
took him away from it all when he asked. The illusion of perfection is one
Stiles enjoys greatly, and he easily gives into the playful urge to run his
right index finger down the blade of Derek's nose, which twitches in response.
Then, after waiting for him to settle, Stiles repeats the action, his contented
smile morphing into an impish grin when this time the resulting twitch is
accompanied by a second small noise, this one of displeasure at being
disturbed.
When he goes to run his finger down the length of Derek's nose and tease him a
third time, he finds Derek peering down at him with one eye and reluctantly
lowers his hand again.
"Stop that," Derek rumbles.
"Why?" Stiles asks. "Am I annoying you or something?"
"Yes."
"Hmm, that's a shame."
Narrowing his eyes without any real heat, Derek puts his hand over Stiles'
grinning face and pushes him away, back to the other side of the bed where he
started the night. The corners of his mouth turn up when Stiles squawks
indignantly, bats away his hand—revealing a bottom lip protruding in the mother
of all pouts—and calls him a meanie. He also receives a punch on the arm that
he barely feels.
Heaving himself up to lean against the headboard, Derek lasts about five
seconds under Stiles' puppy-dog eyes before huffing and lifting his arm to
allow the boy to slot up against his side. "You're in a good mood this
morning," he comments as Stiles gets comfortable. The boy hums his affirmation
and rubs his cheek like a cat against Derek's right pectoral, throwing a leg
over one of his and effectively trapping it. Derek sighs and puts up with the
groping, unused to but unable to offer up a genuine complaint against it. He
should have known that Stiles would be the tactile type. Turning his head to
get the time, Derek frowns when he sees how little they have before they need
to check out, not even quarter of an hour. He settles in for the remainder and
is glad when Stiles calms, too. "I take it this means you didn't have another
nightmare?"
"Nope, you worked like a charm," Stiles mumbles.
"I'm glad."
"Mmm, you make a good pillow..."
Derek rolls his eyes. "If you say so. Enjoy it while it lasts," he warns,
watching the last few minutes tick by. "We don't have long before we have to
get up and on the road." Sure enough, the minutes pass swiftly, and when the
clock reads 09:00 he gently eases out from beneath Stiles, ignoring his
vehement protests, and rolls to the side of the bed. Then, he stretches his
arms above his head, grunting as his joints pop, and gets to his feet, leaving
Stiles pouting up at him from where he had face-planted on the bed. Picking up
his duffel bag from the floor, Derek walks with it into the bathroom to get
ready for the drive back to Beacon Hills, smirking to himself when he hears
put-out mumblings just before the door clicks shut.
Bemoaning how quickly time has slipped through his fingers, Stiles sprawls out
in the centre of the bed—taking the spot Derek had just vacated, which still
retains the heat of his body—and stretches his arms across the entire width. He
finds that his hands don't reach the edges, a strange thing to him because he
has only ever slept in the single-size beds that he and Scott have in their
rooms. He doesn't know how he will cope with going back to that after
experiencing what it is like to sleep in a king, with seemingly endless space,
but he will have to manage somehow. His eyes closed, the sound of the shower
turning on catches Stiles' attention, and he indulges for a moment in the image
that appears in his mind, of Derek wet and naked beneath the spray. But only
for moment. The image and the rush of arousal it causes is soured when Peter's
sickeningly smug visage flashes behind his eyelids. The dead man looks so
detailed, so real, that it seems for a second that he is actually alive again
and taking pleasure in tarnishing what would otherwise be a wonderful fantasy,
one that just a week ago Stiles would have enjoyed with only the tiniest hint
of shame.
Now, though, the shame he feels isn't just small and born from imagining
someone in a compromising position in the privacy of his own mind, someone that
he, at the time, didn't think was interested in him at all. How he thought
Derek would have reacted if he ever found out was bad enough, but now the shame
is stronger and comes from the words Peter had hissed in his ear in the parking
structure:
"I'm sure he'll love knowing I had you before he could."
Eyes snapping open, Stiles stares miserably at the ceiling. Gone is the
illusion that everything in his life is fine, and he is thrown back into the
reality of how Peter's actions still affect him. He rubs a hand over his eyes,
banishing those heinous words designed to cause friction between him and Derek
and conjuring instead the memory of how Derek had looked at him after their
talk on the sofa back home. There was such desire there that, even though he
still hasn't told Derek what happened to him, from that look and the
reassurances he had received last night, he is certain that Derek will still
want him when the truth comes out.
As hard as that is for him to believe.
It amazes him how quickly his mood can change for the worse.
"Fuck you, Peter..."
Derek's phone chimes as a new text comes in, vibrating across the nightstand
where Derek had put it last night. Happy for something to do, Stiles shimmies
across the mattress and grabs it, his eyebrows nearly disappearing past his
hairline when he reads the concise message displayed on the screen, from Chris
Argent:
'Allison's bite is gone. Get here now.'
"Derek?!" Stiles yells, flinging the sheets back.
"Yeah?" comes a muffled reply.
"We need to leave. Now!"
"Why?"
"Allison's turning!" Stiles explains, getting to his feet.
After dropping Derek's phone on the end of the bed, he looks for his clothes
and finds only his jeans, no sign of his T-shirt or underwear anywhere in the
room. He shrugs and supposes that Derek must have them in his duffel bag, then
steps out of Derek's basketball shorts and pulls his jeans up his coltish legs,
going commando. He doesn't mind keeping Derek's shirt on his top half, and
after slipping on his shoes he perches on the bed to wait for Derek to finish
up in the bathroom. It doesn't take long, just a couple of minutes, and then
the door opens and the wolf steps back into the main room, rubbing a towel over
his freshly washed hair. Derek pauses in the doorway when he sees Stiles on the
bed, a strange expression forming on his face.
He is temporarily stunned.
Last night, after they had finished eating—Derek his whole pizza, Stiles three
quarters of his—they hadn’t had long until they needed to get some rest. Derek
had taken the first turn in the bathroom, and by the time he had returned to
get into bed, the lights were already off and Stiles was beneath the covers. He
hadn't had a chance to properly see just how his clothes looked on the boy. Now
is his first full view, and the raw want that surges through his body when he
sees Stiles sitting there clad in his T-shirt shocks him into stillness. Caught
off-guard, the wolf—which, ever since that night in the preserve, he has kept
stubbornly at bay until he has more time to learn to control all the powerful
instincts that come with his new status—almost breaks free from its cage. His
teeth ache as fangs start forming, to claim, and when Stiles stands, looking
concerned, Derek wrangles his wolf back into its temporary prison with severe
difficulty. It feels wrong, but the human half of him knows it is essential he
do so, as Stiles will not be ready for anything like that for quite a while. If
ever. When he has the wolf back under control, his teeth return to normal and
the claiming instinct mercifully fades.
He couldn't have held up against it for long.
"Everything OK?" Stiles enquires.
Coughing awkwardly, Derek nods and finishes drying his hair, then tosses the
towel back into the bathroom and switches off the light. "Yeah, I'm fine," he
mumbles. He picks up his basketball shorts from the bed and puts them inside
his bag before zipping it up, slinging it over his shoulder, and taking his
phone back from Stiles to read Chris' text for himself. "You just...look good
in that shirt, is all."
The tips of his ears turn pink.
Stiles looks down at himself. "Thanks, I guess."
Derek coughs again and moves over to the door. ”You ready?”
"Yeah. Let's go.”
                                     * * *
Following their speedy egress, Derek drives them past the sign that tells them
they are crossing the border into Beacon Hills, his grip tight on the steering
wheel. The journey has mostly been one taken in silence, and Stiles could
almost feel the anxiety radiating off of Derek get worse as the distance
between them and their hometown got smaller and smaller. Even with the three
hours it has taken to get back, he isn't sure of anything he can do to
reciprocate the emotional comfort Derek has given him over the past day and a
half. Having no clue what to expect from the Argents, he is riddled with nerves
himself. Still, as bad as he feels for Allison, now that he is back in town it
is a welcome thing to have something else to focus on other than his fractured
relationship with his dad and what will happen when he enters his house. In the
end, Stiles simply reaches over and places his hand on Derek's thigh, keeping
his eyes focused on the trees blurring past the passenger window when he sees
in his peripheral vision Derek's head turning briefly in his direction.
The warmth of Derek's thigh under his palm makes him feel better, and he
guesses from the fact that Derek allows his hand to stay there, grip loosening
slightly around the steering wheel, that the contact makes Derek feel a bit
better, too. To Stiles it is almost like a reminder that they have each other
to lean on in order to get through this next crazy adventure, whatever it holds
for them all.
Soon, the Argents' house comes into view.
"Do you know what to expect?" Stiles asks when they are parked.
"No..." Derek replies.
The alpha stares with trepidation at the large domicile. The gates are open but
he has parked the Camaro on the curb outside, unwilling to breach just yet what
still feels like enemy territory. As far as he knows, no one within the house
will afford him much ill will, at least not as much as Kate did. Even so, the
anxiety that keeps his heart beating above its resting rate doesn't dissipate,
so he sits and observes until he can gather enough courage, only just managing
to peel his fingers from around the steering wheel. They surprisingly don't
leave any indentations like he was expecting. Stiles' hand doesn't move from
Derek's thigh during the long minutes he waits, nor does he ask what they are
waiting for, both for which Derek is grateful.
The driveway is nearly full—two cars parked side by side, presumably belonging
to Chris and Victoria; Kate's black Range Rover; and a fourth vehicle of
unknown origin, similar to the recently deceased Argent's. The windows are
tinted so Derek cannot get a hint of what is kept inside.
His best guess is a surplus of weaponry.
The living room window is just visible from Derek's vantage point, and though
he sees a flash of someone walking behind the glass, their identity is blocked
by the glare from the shining sun overhead. Eventually, following a deep
breath, he feels ready to face what he will find inside and unbuckles his
seatbelt. Stiles does the same, removing his hand from Derek's leg, and Derek
instantly misses the touch. Now that he is the alpha, though, people will be
relying on him to be strong, so he tells himself to man up.
"You can do this..." he tells himself.
He reaches blindly for the door handle and gets out.
Stiles walks around from the other side of the car. "You good?"
Nodding, Derek strolls with his head held high across the road, through the
gates, and up to the Argent household. From the front steps he can now see into
the living room, the sun no longer reflecting off the glass and into his eyes.
The figure he saw is still there, facing the room, and he deduces from her red
hair that she is Chris' wife. Derek has never met Victoria before, so he
doesn't know how she will react to his presence. Hopefully, because Chris seems
decent enough now that the truth of his sister’s deceptions has been revealed,
she won't present much of an issue. Once he stands in front of the white front
door, Derek takes a second to listen for any sounds coming from inside. He can
hear distant talking, two men likely in the back of the house, but he cannot
get an idea of what they are discussing because, in the next second, Stiles
jumps the gun and knocks loudly on the door, causing the conversation to end.
The glare he gives the boy is met with a shrug, and when he hears footsteps
approaching on the other side of the wood, he straightens his back and tries to
project an air of confidence, like he knows what he is doing. Keys in the lock,
and then the door swings open to reveal Victoria, who regards him suspiciously
for a few tense seconds before moving aside to let him in. Once Derek has
stepped over the threshold, she blocks the way once more to prevent Stiles from
following.
"And just where do you think you're going, young man?" she demands
condescendingly, grasping the door frame. Everything about her looks severe,
from her hard eyes and tightly held mouth, to her cropped red hair and her
nostrils which seem perpetually flared with irritation. The green wrap shirt
she wears billows where it is loose around her waist, the only soft contrast.
"This doesn't concern you. Leave."
"But-"
She starts to close the door, ignoring Stiles' protests.
"Victoria!" Chris interrupts, walking down the hall from the kitchen to join
everyone else in the foyer. His wife pauses with the door nearly closed,
Stiles' wide eyes just peeking through the gap, and Derek looks between all
three of them, happy that he doesn't have to intervene himself and get even
more on Victoria's bad side than he apparently already is. Chris approaches her
and puts a hand on her shoulder. "That's enough. He's just as much a part of
this as Derek is, as I'm sure you'll find out soon. Let him in."
Even though it is clear to everybody that she doesn't want to, Victoria relents
and allows Stiles to enter the house. After the door has finally been shut, she
stands there with her arms held rigidly at her sides, her eyes never moving
from Stiles, not even when he shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. Chris, in an
effort to lessen the awkwardness, suggests that they move things somewhere more
comfortable before talking any further. Stiles takes the offer immediately,
skirting in a wide berth around Victoria as he keeps close to Derek's heels.
The commodious living room is just as he remembers it from his ephemeral visit
a few weeks ago, when he had broken in on Derek's behalf to steal a wolfsbane-
laced bullet from Kate's belongings. He hopes no one brings that up as he takes
a seat at one end of the large brown sofa. Derek sits next to him.
"Where is she?" Stiles asks.
"In her room," Victoria snaps. "You remember where that is, right?"
Stiles flushes and looks down at his lap. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt.
Derek growls darkly. "Don't talk to him like that..."
She smirks. "Or what?"
"Cut it out, all of you!" Chris shouts, stepping in between Derek and his wife
when he sees red creeping into the hazel of Derek's irises. He locks eyes with
Victoria, the two communicating silently until she scoffs and goes to sit in
one of the armchairs. "OK... Now, let's just all try to remain civil, please.”
"Fine," Victoria grumbles, crossing her legs.
Chris sits down on the armrest of his wife's chair, keeping himself between her
and the two guests in their home, and Derek is about prod further into
Allison's condition when he hears a faint noise coming from the kitchen, like
the shifting of feet on a hardwood floor. His head turning fast to the right,
he is instantly alert and only then recalls the second male voice he had picked
up from outside. "Who else is here?" he asks with a frown, wary of any
surprises. His eyes widen when, a few seconds later, as if they had been
waiting for this cue, the source of the noise steps dramatically through the
archway between the living room and kitchen, revealing themselves: Gerard
Argent, whom Derek only saw once during his tryst with Kate.
The older man remains imposing.
He stares inexpressively right at Derek, and even though Derek is no longer a
teenager and doesn't fear being caught with his daughter, kissing sloppily and
fumbling with each other's clothes in the backseat of her car, those old
feelings are quick to return as if they had never left. Their eyes stay locked
for what seems like an impossibly long time, and when things speed up to normal
again, the impassive expression on Gerard's face is gone, replaced by a
cheerful smile that Derek almost buys.
Chris stands to make introductions.
"This is my father, Gerard."
"Thank you, Chris, but I don't think I've aged enough to reach the point where
I'm no longer capable of speaking for myself," the grey-haired man says with a
chuckle, patting his son a couple of times on the shoulder before turning from
and effectively dismissing him. The way Chris immediately backs off without
taking offence, reclaiming his spot on the armrest of Victoria's chair, speaks
of how deeply he venerates his father, admires him as a leader and for the
wisdom he has acquired through what must have been years of ceaseless work.
Gerard doesn't acknowledge his daughter-in-law at all, though she doesn't seem
to have a problem with this—she is too busy to notice, staring out the living
room window and pretending that the two people sitting on her sofa are not
there. Instead of on Victoria, Gerard's attention lands again on the older of
the two guests that she is so studiously ignoring. "Derek Hale... I never
thought I'd see you again."
Derek just nods jerkily, tight-lipped.
Stiles goes to ask his companion what is wrong but is stopped when Gerard moves
on to him. The man steps forward to introduce himself personally, holding out a
wrinkled and calloused hand for him to shake. Stiles does so, almost wincing
when his hand is taken in a tight and almost bruising grip, and gets the
impression that this is some sort of power play. He doesn't rise to it.
"And you are?" Gerard asks, sounding genuinely interested.
"I'm Stiles, sir. I'm with Derek."
This snaps Victoria out of her window-gazing.
"With Derek how?" she interjects.
Stiles looks to the man in question, silently asking for permission to answer
honestly, and turns back to the nosy woman when he gets it with another nod.
"Like...in a relationship with...?"
"Now that's interesting."
Stiles gulps. "It is?"
The smile she sends his way is the definition of unfriendly. "Yes, it is."
Chris levels her with another warning look.
"Anyway," he says pointedly, returning to his role as mediator and holding both
hands out in a move akin to someone trying to calm down a frightened animal. "I
think we should move this along. Allison is rattled enough without all of us
squabbling amongst ourselves and making everything worse for her. Like it or
not, we're going to have to work together to make sure she gets through this
transition with as little difficulty as possible. She needs an alpha, and Derek
is the only one for miles around. As far as I understand it, they will need
regular contact in order for her to not become an omega, so Derek, and now
Stiles by extension, will probably be over here quite often. And Derek will
need a beta so he doesn't lose himself, too, so it's a win-win situation. This
is in everyone's best interest, so we should make an effort to start getting
along now rather than later." The reminder of her daughter's needs causes
Victoria to change her tune to something less openly antagonistic, a turn for
which Stiles is extremely thankful. "Now, as Victoria said, Allison is upstairs
in her room. We told her what she is turning into and all we could about
werewolf hierarchy, but there is only so much about all of that we can know
secondhand. I think it would really help, Derek, if you went up there and
introduced yourself."
"I agree," Derek says as he stands.
A minute later sees Derek following Chris upstairs, Stiles bringing up the
rear, and down to the end of the second-floor hallway. They pass by Kate's open
door on the way, and Stiles can't help looking inside. He finds it completely
empty and wonders what happened to all her possessions.
"The police took everything for evidence," Chris informs him, like he had read
his mind.
"Does Allison know what happened?"
"No. Not yet." He knocks on his daughter's door.
And they wait.
***** The Cat's Out of the Bag Now *****
Derek stays with Stiles just inside the door of Allison's room and allows her
father to move past him. The girl looks so pitiful sitting in the middle of her
bed that he cannot help but feel sorry for her—her hair is messy and unwashed,
the remnants of the curls she had worn the night of the winter formal all
tangled together. There are also traces of that night's makeup on her otherwise
plain face, like when she went to wipe the tears that caused her mascara to run
in black lines down her cheeks, she could only muster up enough energy to do it
halfheartedly. The white nightgown on her body almost blends her into the
bedsheets, only her head and the pale skin of her neck, shoulders and arms
exposed.
Like Chris' text said, Peter's bite has vanished.
There is just unblemished skin left.
The room reeks of fear, confusion and anger. The first two emotions are easily
attributed to the metamorphosis Allison is currently undergoing, and from the
way she glowers at her father, the look laced through with distrust, Derek
attributes the anger to the fact that she was kept in the dark for so long
about the true nature of the family business. While Chris talks in hushed tones
to his daughter, Derek looks around the room, in search of small clues and
hints that will make the process of forming a bond with her less difficult. He
is disappointed with what he finds.
The floor is pale hardwood. The walls are painted a soft pink, a colour so
light it could be mistaken for white at first glance. Several posters for
various bands and films are pinned to the walls, none of which Derek finds
familiar. There are no windows—instead, light shines into the room through tall
glass doors, which lead to a small balcony outside. Deep blood-red curtains
hang from a white pole screwed into the wall along the top. On the desk to
Derek's right there is a jewellery box, the lid flipped open to reveal a
unorganised cluster of earrings, bracelets, rings and necklaces, the chains of
which loop around each other like thin metallic snakes. A hair brush and a
bunch of hair pins and ties are next to the box. On top of an Apple laptop on
the other side of the desk is a stack of school books and what Derek suspects
is Allison's diary, locked up tight by a tiny padlock that even human strength
could easily break. There is a large heart drawn in black marker right in the
centre of the lurid pink cover, within which are two sets of initials written
in a delicate script:
'A.A. + S.M.'
Derek rolls his eyes right as Chris addresses him.
"OK, Derek.”
Refocusing, he steps toward the bed, leaving Stiles standing by himself. With
wary eyes, Allison watches his approach and, when he perches on the end of her
bed, shuffles back toward the headboard. "You don't have to be scared," he
assures, tapping purposefully into his alpha instincts for the first time since
he shut them down in the preserve. He is nearly overwhelmed by what crashes
into him.
His wolf is straining insistently in three directions, the nexus in a series of
web-like threads—the first thread is the strongest and shines the brightest. It
connects him to Stiles and comes with the desire to take what is theirs, to
protect, to mark and claim the boy as their mate before someone else has a
chance. The other two threads are inherited from Peter and connect him to his
betas. Allison's is new and fragile, like Derek was expecting, and won't get
stronger until they become comfortable with and start to trust each other.
Scott's thread is almost nonexistent because of the open disdain they harbour
for each other. The fact that Scott would also be transferred into his charge
had never occurred to him up until this moment.
He shakes off this tiny revelation.
"I know this must all be so strange," he continues, "and you don't know me and
have no reason to trust me, but as your alpha I'm going to do my best to help
you through this, OK?"
"My alpha?" Allison squeaks.
"Yes." Derek allows his eyes to glow red.
Allison recoils. "You're like him!" she cries.
The intensity of her reaction surprises Derek enough that he loses his grip on
his power and his irises return to their natural hue. Allison continues to
cower under his wide-eyed gaze, and after a second of reflection he concludes
that he should have expected this and eased her into things with an even
gentler hand. After all, the last time she saw anybody with red eyes—which
would be a freakish enough sight all on its own—was when she was abducted by a
serial killer. It seems only logical that meeting someone else with red eyes
would elicit this panic. A storm of inadequacy jars him into inaction, and he
sits there, hands limp in his lap, certain that if he does anything else he
will just screw things up even further. Taking Peter's alpha status had seemed
like a good idea at the time, like retribution, but this day has made him
realise just how far out of his depth he is. He is self-aware enough to know
that he has almost no people skills, so why did he think he could pull this
off? Still, what's done is done and, like Chris said downstairs, there is no
other option now but to push forward and try to live up to the title he naively
saw fit to give himself.
He will never be his mother, whom most considered a paragon.
But at the very least, he will be better than his uncle.
Jumping in to help when he sees the flash of defeat on Derek's face, Stiles
walks around to the other side of the bed and sits down close to Allison, going
slowly so she can see everything he is doing. He reaches for her hand with both
of his and smiles at her encouragingly. "Derek is nothing like Peter was, Ali."
The nickname comes naturally.
"Yes he is!" she insists.
"No, he isn't."
"How can you be sure? His eyes are the same..."
"Believe me, I've known Derek for some time now, and in that time all he's done
is protect me and save my life repeatedly," Stiles says with a small smile. "I
mean, it's not like I'm a damsel in distress or anything. I have my uses and
have saved his ass a couple of times, too, most recently on Saturday night
when, uhh..." He stops himself, wisely not disclosing just how he had saved
Derek's life. "But anyway, yeah, he's a good person, and he'll look out for you
if you let him. Plus, I'll be here, too, and so will your parents and Scott.
You're not alone here." He would prefer to leave his ex-friend out of this, but
he knows that Allison had nothing to do with Scott's betrayal, not
intentionally, and her boyfriend's presence will likely help with the
transition.
Allison looks a little less terrified, so he counts it as a win.
Derek is of the same mind.
He mouths a thank you to Stiles when the boy glances his way.
As uncertain as he had been a couple of days ago about nurturing their
burgeoning relationship, he is really starting to believe that they can make
things work. The hope is alien to him, alarming, as is the small spark of
happiness in his chest. Derek has never wanted anything like this for himself
for the longest time, and while that instinct of self-preservation is still
there, telling him to call it quits before it all inevitably goes wrong like
everything in his life has told him this will, too, it is easy to ignore.
What Stiles lacks, he has.
And what he lacks, Stiles has in spades.
Derek watches in awe as Stiles keeps talking animatedly with Allison, in that
patented way that had annoyed him to no end at first. He sees the method behind
the madness now—the way Stiles pulls her out of her shell and gradually gets
her to open up until, if Derek couldn't hear their words and didn't know
otherwise, he would think they were just two ordinary teenagers shooting the
shit. Soon, Allison is asking question after question, to all of which Stiles
provides an answer with seemingly no trouble. Derek and Chris are reduced to
just casual observers, letting Stiles work his magic until he actually manages
to get Allison to smile at one of his jokes—a dog joke that Derek will smack
him up the back of his head for later on. He lets him get away with it for now,
not wanting to disturb his rapport with Allison. Her father seems similarly
enamoured; while there is a small layer of envy in Chris' expression, jealousy
at Stiles' ability to get through to his daughter when he himself couldn't, for
the most part he just looks thankful that Allison is no longer upset.
Yeah, Derek thinks, they really can do this.
                                     * * *
After setting up Allison's first training session for the following
weekend—which Chris, Victoria and Gerard will all be attending—Derek and Stiles
walk back to the car. "Well, I'd say that went well," Stiles comments as he
straps himself in. "She seems nicer than I thought she'd be. I don't know what
she sees in Scott..."
Derek makes a non-committal noise.
"She took everything surprisingly well, too."
"That was because of you," Derek murmurs, keeping his eyes pointed straight
ahead. "You were a big help back there. I don't think it would've gone nearly
as well as it did if it was just me—I wouldn't have been able to get her to
come around like that—so...I just wanted to say thank you. For, y'know,
helping." He has never been the most demonstrative person in the world, even
before Kate got her metaphorical claws into him and murdered most of his
family. But, especially after the debacle with the sheriff, he wants Stiles to
know that he has someone in his life who appreciates him.
Stiles grins, bemused yet pleased.
"You're welcome, I guess," he says. Then: "You seem different lately."
"What do you mean?"
"Like, expressing yourself more."
"So?"
Stiles pats Derek a couple of times on his knee. "I don't really have a point,
Sourwolf. I just think it's nice that you're comfortable enough with me for
that. I would've never expected it this early on. I thought it'd be like
pulling teeth to get you to open up if we were ever together."
Derek hums. "I suppose," he agrees as he brings the Camaro to idle at a red
light. Stiles' hand stays on his knee. "I've just never really had anyone I
needed, or wanted, to let in like that, at least not since I was your age. Not
even Laura, and we were always close, as much as she enjoyed it whenever I got
into trouble. It's hard, but I'm trying." There is more to that sentence that
goes unsaid—I'm trying to be the person you deserve—but he doesn't yet want to
say those words. Considering where he started off, though, progress is
progress, and how far he has come already is nothing to be scoffed at. He
glances to his right when Stiles squeezes his knee, and the small smile on the
boy's face causes his heart to skip in his chest.
A car honks impatiently behind them.
"Light's green," Stiles urges.
Derek presses his foot down on the gas and they shoot out of the intersection
faster than he intended. Stiles laughs as he regulates their speed, and he
glares right back, secretly enjoying the sound.
The car is silent for the next few minutes, until Derek pulls to a stop in the
crowded parking lot of his favourite childhood diner, Phil’s. "You don't have
to do anything for me you don't really want to, you know," Stiles blurts,
turning his head to look out the passenger window at the flashy building. "If
this whole self-improvement kick is something you're doing for yourself then
great, but if you're just doing it because it's what you think I want, you
should know it's not necessary."
Derek looks at Stiles, stunned, and his lack of reply causes Stiles to look
back.
"What?" the boy asks. "I'm a very perceptive person."
"I know..."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
Derek turns back to the front windshield. "I'm not looking at you like
anything," he retorts, internally cringing at his extreme lack of eloquence. "I
want to change. I'm tired of always being by myself in the shadows, so what
does it matter if the impetus for that want wasn't internal?"
"In that case I totally, completely, wholly support you!" Stiles coos, beaming.
He can't help himself—not when Derek looks so adorably earnest—so he reaches
over the centre console to pinch both of Derek's cheeks, his beatific
expression staying in place even when the wolf slaps his hands away and scowls
at him, unimpressed with the jocular cosseting. His grin soon relaxes into
something fond. "Just don't go changing too much, 'K? You might worry what it
says about me, but, apart from the obvious packaging and the failure of wanting
your help to get Scott under control, part of what drew me to you in the first
place was your dark and brooding nature. You wouldn't be you if you lost that
completely."
Derek smiles back.
Tender moment over, they get out of the car and enter the diner.
Despite living in Beacon Hills his entire life, Stiles has never eaten there
before and gets a kick out of the stereotypical 50's design, right down to the
bright-red booths, the metal napkin holders, and the black-and-white checkered
floor. Once they are seated in one of the booths in the corner, their waitress,
a peppy girl who looks just a couple of years older than Stiles and who wears
far too much eyeshadow, flirts excessively with Derek. Much to Stiles'
amusement, all of her advances are met with a stony expression. Finally, after
bringing out their orders of cheeseburgers, curly fries and ludicrously large
chocolate milkshakes—Stiles gets brain freeze from drinking his too fast—she
finally picks up on the fact that Derek is spoken for, takes it in stride, and
starts squealing about how cute they are. Derek thinks this is even worse.
After paying, they get back in the Camaro and, because he is still reluctant to
return home, Stiles suggests that they stop by the hospital to see how Lydia is
doing. Now that he is back in town, he feels a little bad about skipping out so
hastily and leaving all of his friends behind, especially when he didn't have
his phone with him and couldn't get updates on Lydia's condition. He hopes that
she has woken up by now.
When they reach the hospital, they are perplexed when they see several police
cruisers parked outside the front entrance. Slipping inside, they use Derek's
ears as their guide and walk through the lobby, down a series of corridors, and
toward where two deputies are talking outside of Lydia's hospital room to a
frantic Melissa McCall. Stiles has never before seen the woman in such a state.
"I already told you what happened!" she all but yells at Deputy Parrish.
"I'm aware of that, but it sounds-"
"Crazy, I know, but it's what happened!"
Stiles moves closer to the commotion and draws her attention. "What's going
on?" he asks, his eyes widening when he sees Lydia's empty hospital bed. "Where
is she?!"
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Parrish says.
"I don't think we're going to get anything useful right now," the other deputy
drawls, closing his notepad. Middle-aged, he has tan skin, blond hair, and an
Australian accent, and the metal pin attached to his shirt reads Andrewartha.
Stiles doesn't recognise him, but he hasn't been down to the station—at least
not voluntarily—in a while. This deputy is likely a new transfer and, despite
having only just met, Stiles gets the impression that he is not a very nice
person. "How about we give you a chance to calm down and then, in a little
while, we'll try this again and you can tell us what really went down here.
Alright?"
He walks away without waiting for a reply.
"Sorry about him..." Parrish mumbles before scurrying after his partner.
Stiles turns back to Melissa and again asks, "What's going on?"
Melissa sighs.
"I wish a had a proper answer for you, kiddo, but I'm really not sure," she
answers, slumping tiredly against the wall. The animated quality she had
possessed when Stiles and Derek had entered the scene is gone completely,
replaced by self-doubt. "I feel like I'm going insane..."
Stiles is dimly aware of Derek walking past him and entering Lydia's hospital
room, probably to look for clues or something, but he keeps most of his focus
on the woman in front of him. "Look... I need to know what happened, or what
you think happened, to Lydia," he pushes, coming to lean against the wall
beside her, like a small show of solidarity. He bumps their shoulders together,
and finds the reversal of their roles, the fact that he is the one trying to
comfort her instead of the other way around like it has been for pretty much
their entire relationship, incredibly strange. "Trust me when I say that my
life has been pretty insane lately, so I don't think there's anything you could
say that would shock me. Try me."
Melissa runs a hand down her face.
"Umm, well... I was just making my rounds and, even though she isn't in my
care, I came to check on Lydia Martin because I knew she was a friend of
yours," she explains, taking advantage of the small row of cushioned chairs
that line the opposite wall. "At first I didn't realise that anything was
wrong—I just checked her vitals and looked at her chart to see if anything had
changed—but then I noticed that her injuries were gone. The paper stitches on
her face were still there, but the cuts they were keeping closed while they
healed weren't. I was just about to call the nurse in charge of her care to see
if she knew anything about this, but then Lydia suddenly opened her eyes and
sat up. She looked...feral. Her eyes were bright orange, and she had fangs.
Honest-to-God fangs! I screamed, and then she smashed the window and leaped
out... That's when I called 911. I had just finished telling the deputies all
of this when you appeared. God, this sounds even crazier than I thought..." She
turns to look at Stiles. "That shocking enough for you?"
"Well, uhh..."
Derek comes back into the hall, looking grim, and saves him.
"She's turned," he sums up.
Stiles springs to his feet. "We have to find her."
They start walking away but stop when Melissa yells after them.
"Wait! I still want to know what's happening here!" Her eyes are alight with
indignation. "Stiles, who is this man and why the hell don't you seem surprised
by any of this?"
Not wanting to be delayed any longer—there is no telling the kind of havoc
Lydia has already wrought with her new abilities—Stiles puts his hands on
Melissa's shoulders and squeezes them gently. "I promise I'll explain
everything and answer every question you have later, but right now it's really
important that we track down Lydia as fast as possible, OK?" he assures, giving
a disingenuously confident smile.
Melissa frowns.
"Just sit tight.”
                                     * * *
Night has officially fallen when Derek and Stiles get outside. Using the scent
he got from the rumpled and clawed-up sheets of her hospital bed, Derek tracks
Lydia away from the hospital and into the dense trees of the preserve. They go
on foot so he doesn't lose the trail—with Derek giving Stiles his phone so that
he can keep track of his footing in the darkness—and take comfort in the fact
that Lydia headed away from civilisation instead of toward it. Things could
have been much worse. Nevertheless, they both feel a powerful sense of urgency,
a need to find her before that has a chance to change.
"How can this happen?" Stiles wonders out loud.
"How can what happen?"
"How can she have turned? I didn't think she was bitten."
"It's extremely rare, but I remember overhearing my parents discussing
something like this when I was a kid," Derek says, pausing them both briefly
when he loses Lydia's trail. He finds it again a short distance away, along
with some claw marks in the trunk of a tree, and they set off once more. "The
bite of an alpha isn't the only thing that can turn someone. There are cases
where the change was triggered by an alpha's claws going deep enough, and from
what I've heard about Lydia's condition, Peter clawed her up pretty bad. I
guess she just happened to be one of the rare ones." They reach a steep
incline. Derek sends Stiles down first, temporarily taking back possession of
his phone and using the light to illuminate the way for the boy's weaker eyes.
When Stiles is safely at the bottom, Derek jogs down the incline, too, and
hands his phone off again.
Stiles has just finished processing this new information when a shrill scream
splits the air. It bounces between the trees until it sounds like it is coming
from every direction.
"Lydia?!" he yells, spinning in place, lost.
Luckily, Derek is able to pinpoint where the scream originated from.
"This way!"
Together they run—Stiles falls a little behind, but never to the point where he
loses sight of Derek in front of him—until the trees break suddenly and they
find themselves in a small clearing. A sapphire-blue car is already parked
right in the middle. A black shape moves atop it, pounding and scratching.
Stiles directs onto this shape the light from Derek's phone.
Orange eyes shine back as Lydia stops trying to get at whoever is in the car.
Her red hair is a tangled mess around her face, and the way her hospital gown
falls down over one shoulder reveals smooth skin devoid of even one claw
mark—something Stiles was expecting but that still unnerves him. Her gown slips
even further as she rises up, and Stiles keeps his gaze resolutely focused on
her face as his own grows hot. A low growling fills the clearing, and just as
Lydia looks like she is bracing herself to pounce on Stiles, Derek grabs her
ankle and drags her forcefully off of the car. The scrap that follows is
truncated when Derek shifts into his beta form, unremittingly pins Lydia's
struggling form to the ground, and releases a stentorian roar right in her
face. She instantly stops fighting for freedom and goes limp. Stiles emerges
from behind the back of the car—which, as soon as the scrap started, he had
used as a barricade in case Lydia made another bid for him—and approaches the
pair. Lydia's shift recedes slowly and intelligence returns to her eyes, and
she blinks bemusedly up at Derek as he shifts back to normal, too. He stands
and offers her a hand, which she takes, and once she is back on her feet she
pulls back up the shoulder of her hospital gown. No one speaks until the
passenger door of the car opens, and all three turn to look as one of Lydia's
would-be victims clambers out.
Stiles' heart stops when he sees long blonde hair. "Oh shit..."
Erica shakes with residual fear.
"What. The hell. Was that?!"
***** Draw Back the Curtain and Let in the Light *****
Stiles sits with Derek in the Camaro, looking nervously up at his house.
All of the windows are dark and the sheriff's cruiser isn't in the driveway,
both signs that the building is empty. Stiles is full of nerves despite this
and bites into his bottom lip, only stopping when he draws blood and Derek
turns to him with a frown, nostrils flaring at the pungent scent of copper that
permeates the still air inside the car. "Sorry..." he mumbles, taking the
tissue Derek retrieves from the glove compartment and dabbing lightly at the
small cut until the bleeding stops. Derek stays silent next to him, patiently
giving him all the time he needs to gather the courage to go back inside his
uninviting house.
"Is he home?" Stiles can't resist asking.
"No," Derek replies, "he isn't."
"OK, good. That's good." Stiles fumbles with his seatbelt, then grasps the door
handle. "You up for joining me?" he asks, not wanting to be alone just yet.
When Derek accepts his offer he smiles in relief and gets out into the
darkness, taking a deep breath before crossing the street and standing at the
bottom of the driveway. He shivers as he waits for Derek to park the car
somewhere less conspicuous, humming a familiar yet nameless tune under his
breath until the leather-clad werewolf reappears beside him. After unlocking
the front door, Stiles pushes it open and enters his home, his steps cautious
even though he knows he won't be facing his dad tonight. Derek's presence helps
a great deal, gives him strength, and as he enters the kitchen his stomach
rumbles loudly, a sound that is echoed almost immediately by Derek's. The tiled
floor is sparkling clean, without a single trace of broken glass or spilled
beer, and Stiles is glad for it because it stops him from dwelling for too long
on how he and the sheriff had parted ways. He opens the fridge and looks for
something to eat. "Hmm, we've got quite the exciting selection. What do you
feel like? There's still some leftover Chinese in here from yesterday, or I can
make some eggs or something. Or there's cereal; Cheerios or Corn Flakes."
"Corn Flakes are fine," Derek says, taking the box when Stiles hands it to him
along with the milk. Stiles sends him a strange look when he takes a bowl from
one of the cupboards, surprised by the ease with which he moves around the
kitchen. "What? I had plenty of time to explore when I was hiding out here."
"Right..." Stiles mumbles, getting his own bowl.
"Just shut up and eat."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, oh alpha, my alpha."
Derek flicks a Corn Flake at his face.
They take stools side by side at the island, sharing minimal conversation. As
they eat, Stiles is pleased to discover that the calm state in which he has
wallowed with Derek over the past few days hasn't dissipated with their
homecoming like he had feared. Their camaraderie is as intact as ever—though,
seeing as they were only like this before for the short period of a few days,
'as ever' might be the wrong way to put it. It doesn't take long until their
stomachs are full. Stiles brings the rim of his bowl to his lips and drinks
with a noisy slurp the last few drops of milk that remain—Derek shakes his head
but says nothing to discourage this uncouth display—then struggles to put both
bowls in the dishwasher. There is over a week's worth of dishes already there,
inserted haphazardly and without any discernible order, so he has to do some
rearranging on the bottom layer to get the two new additions to fit. When
satisfied, he switches the machine on to run overnight.
"Do you think leaving Lydia at the hospital was the right thing to do?" he asks
as he dries his hands with the dishtowel that hangs along a rail just beneath
the sink.
"It's hard to tell," Derek responds.
Stiles waits.
"She's new—brand new—to all of this," Derek elaborates, turning on his stool to
properly face Stiles when his neck starts to protest. He leans his elbows back
on the island, and Stiles immediately finds reassurance in this relaxed
position. It doesn't project confidence, exactly, but at the very least it
projects something better than outright worry. "She'll have all these new
instincts, wants and desires that will be completely foreign to her, and it'll
take a long time for her to understand them all and to learn to adapt to them.
She'll have to fit her old human self into this new, animalistic and, in some
ways, more base self, to find the stable synthesis of the two that born wolves
know innately. Her complete loss of self when she woke up in the hospital and
scared Melissa half to death is a testament to how difficult that will be."
Stiles hangs the dishtowel back on the rail. "I sense a but."
Derek stands and says, "But, I honestly think she'll be fine, at least for
tonight. While you were calming Erica down, I took Lydia through as much as I
could on the topic of control, about finding an anchor you can use to keep hold
of yourself in times of stress or anger or sadness. She seemed to understand
the concept a lot faster than I thought she would. It'll still take her a while
until she masters it, but she made more progress in that half hour than I've
ever seen from a newly bitten wolf."
"That sounds promising."
"It is," Derek nods.
Stiles checks the time on Derek's phone, then hands it back to its owner. "I've
still got a couple of hours until I have to get some sleep for tomorrow," he
says, pushing away from the counter. This brings him closer to Derek than he
had anticipated, but he doesn't move away. "Are you staying?"
"I can, if you want me to."
"I do."
"Then I'll stay."
After gifting Derek a shy smile, Stiles leaves the kitchen with a skip in his
step.
He throws himself carelessly onto the sofa—choosing the middle cushion so that
Derek has to sit next to him—and reaches for the TV remote. But then, he spots
something balanced precariously on one corner of the coffee table and freezes
with his hand in midair: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. Next to this is
a tumbler containing slightly tinted water, likely from the ice his dad had
used to keep his drink cool mixing as it melted with the few drops of whiskey
left at the bottom of the glass. As far as Stiles was aware, there was no other
alcohol in the house when the sheriff had come home with the six-pack of beer.
He must have bought some more after their confrontation. All happiness
disappears from Stiles' face, and he feels something in his gut, a strange pang
of both sadness and disappointment, and for a few seconds he doesn't know why.
But then, after some rumination, during which Derek asks if he is OK and gets
no reply, he figures it out: Deep in his subconscious, the smallest part of him
was hoping that maybe their explosive falling out yesterday would have been
enough to make his dad see the error of his ways. That is evidently not the
case, and the good mood Stiles had attained through his time alone with Derek
slips away just like that.
Annoyed now, Stiles snatches up the Jack Daniel's and the tumbler and puts them
inside the liquor cabinet in the dining room. He slams the door shut and keeps
his hand pressed to the dark wood as he tries to calm himself down again,
becoming aware during his third slow exhalation that Derek is standing a short
distance behind him. "I was really hoping that it wouldn't affect me anymore,"
Stiles whispers, still facing the cabinet. He digs his short nails into the
wood. "I hate that he can still hurt me with this..."
"He's your dad," Derek says.
"Yeah, no shit!" Stiles laughs humourlessly, then feels contrite. "Sorry..."
"It's fine; I understand," Derek accepts, taking a few steps forward. Stiles
turns and closes the rest of the distance, pressing them together as much as he
can from head to toe because he needs to feel the way Derek's arms come around
him a second later. He presses his nose into the curve of Derek's neck and just
breathes, the sensitive skin of his cheek tingling as the short hairs of
Derek's beard scrape across it. The vibrations of Derek's firm chest as he
speaks somehow provide a warming effect that runs through Stiles' entire body.
He thinks fleetingly that maybe this is another part of the whole mating-bond
thing that the wolf was talking about the night before, but then he just
squeezes Derek tight and listens: "You can't just stop caring about someone at
the drop of a hat. Trust me, I know... With Kate, as much as I hated her for
what she did, the romantic feelings I had for her didn't just stop after the
fire. It took months of me hating myself for feeling anything but contempt for
her for it to stop. So of course you still care about your dad; he's your
family."
"I'm not so sure anymore..." Stiles mumbles.
"Hmm?"
"Family isn't supposed to do things to hurt each other like this. Family is
supposed to love and support you no matter what. Does that sound like my dad to
you?"
"I guess not, no..."
Stiles takes another few seconds to enjoy their embrace, nuzzling into Derek's
neck and finding amusement in the way Derek shudders against him, then pulls
away. "Whatever. I'm done dwelling on him. I'm just gonna try to salvage
whatever is left of this evening before the craziness of tomorrow," he
declares, his sour mood beginning to recede. He swears he will get whiplash
soon from how fast he keeps switching from happy to sad to angry and back
again. Stiles returns to the living room but pauses on the threshold when he
notices that Derek is not following. Looking back over his shoulder, he becomes
confused when he sees that Derek is staring at the liquor cabinet with an
unreadable expression on his face. "You coming?"
Derek responds with a slow nod, seemingly finding it difficult to tear his eyes
away from the cabinet. When he finally does, he sits back on the right side of
the sofa, Stiles settling against his side, and prepares himself for whatever
terrible TV the boy feels like subjecting him to.
                                     * * *
- Tuesday, February 8th, 2011 -
Stiles sits awkwardly in the Argent living room, perched on the armrest of what
was Derek's armchair and watching as the alpha paces back and forth in front of
the fireplace. They are waiting for Chris Argent to return with Scott and
Lydia, for the last players to arrive so they can get started with what will
likely be a difficult discussion. On the sofa, which is really only large
enough for three people, Melissa, Erica and Boyd—who was the other person in
the car Lydia attacked in the preserve, and with whom Erica had been dancing at
the winter formal—sit squished together with Allison, and all of them stare
impatiently at Stiles as the time ticks by, wanting the explanations they were
promised last night. Gerard Argent is a shadowed figure in the corner, present
yet separated from the proceedings, an observer that makes Stiles' skin crawl.
From the kitchen there come the sounds of tea spoons clattering inside of tea
cups as Victoria prepares refreshments, the only sounds made apart from Derek's
footfalls. Soon, she brings into the room a tray piled with eleven tea cups,
along with a porcelain jug of milk and a bowl containing a small mountain of
sugar cubes. Every piece of the set boasts an old-fashioned floral motif. After
setting the tray down on the coffee table, Victoria squeezes herself forcefully
onto the sofa, causing a scowling Erica to have to move into Boyd's lap.
"Ugh, this is taking forever..." the blonde complains.
"Indeed," Victoria sneers.
"They should arrive soon," Derek placates, holding out his palm, "so be patient
for a little while longer." The act of pacing becomes tiresome, so instead he
moves to stand like a statue by the window, watching for Chris' car on the
street outside. It is a pointless action because he will obviously hear it
before he'll see it, but the illusion of actively doing something is
comforting. Stiles gets up to stand with him.
The tea goes completely untouched.
After ten more minutes of tense quiet, Derek perks up when he hears the rumble
of a familiar engine, followed by Chris pulling to a stop next to his Camaro
outside. Lydia climbs out of the front passenger seat as soon as the engine is
shut off, all checked out of the hospital and with her put-together front once
again securely in place. Her strawberry-blonde hair falls in perfect waves over
her cerulean-blue silk blouse. Scott is slower to leave the car, and when he
sees Derek looking at him from the living room window the mild curiosity on his
face dissolves into a grimace. He looks like he is seriously contemplating
leaving, but when Chris calls his name from the open front door he reluctantly
traipses into the house.
He freezes when he enters the living room.
"Mom? What are you doing here?"
"I'm still waiting to find that out myself..."
Taking this as his cue, Derek breaks away from Stiles and Lydia and positions
himself again in front of the fireplace, the centre of attention. "Now that
everyone is here, we can finally start."
"Start what?" Scott pushes.
Melissa shushes him.
"I'd like to preface this by saying that, despite what happened last night, no
one in this room means anyone else any harm," Derek promises, crossing his arms
over his chest. Scott tenses up as he comprehends the reason for this
gathering, his eyes flicking down to the back of his mother's head before he
glares at Derek. He is ignored as Derek instead looks in turn at Melissa, Erica
and Boyd, addressing them directly. "There is more to this world than you're
aware of, and all three of you got a small glimpse of that last night. It's
been a necessity that as few people as possible know about this, which is why
no one told you, but I guess it's unavoidable now." He glances to his right,
meets Stiles' eyes, and gets the encouraging nod he needed. "I thought for
hours about the best way to ease you into this, but I don't really think there
is a way—it'll come as a shock no matter what, so I guess I'd just rip the
Band-Aid off: Werewolves are real."
He is met with stunned silence.
"Come again?" Erica asks, narrowing her eyes like she suspects Derek of trying
to trick her. She glances sideways at Stiles, the beginnings of laughter on her
face disappearing fast when she doesn't find the same expression of mirth on
his, then turns back to Derek. "You can't be serious."
"I am," he says simply.
"But...no. No, this is unbelievable. I didn't come here to have my time wasted
like this."
Melissa and Boyd say nothing.
"Show her," Stiles speaks up from the window.
Derek does just that. He shifts into his beta form, eyes turning red, coarse
hair growing down the sides of his face, and teeth turning into fangs. Erica
leaps up from Boyd's lap with a squeal, fear and intrigue warring on her face;
Boyd just stares, looking unaffected until a small glimmer of surprise breaks
through his phlegmatic facade; and Melissa audibly gasps and holds a hand over
her mouth, her skin paling. Band-Aid ripped off, Derek pushes back the wolf and
waits for the upset to fade, for the questions to begin.
"How...? How is this possible?" Melissa asks breathlessly.
An hour-long explanation ensues, with Derek and Stiles at the centre of it all.
They recount their lives over the past couple of months. Melissa is outraged
when she learns how much Scott has been lying to her, particularly when it
comes to his terrible treatment of Stiles, and demands to know why he would do
something like that to his best friend. Scott keeps his mouth shut, but the
look she sends him when she is forced to drop the subject makes it clear to
everyone in the room that she will be picking it right back up again as soon as
she can. Allison looks confused and a little guilty but joins Scott in silence.
When the discussion moves on, others start chipping in—Chris adds more input
about the hunt for Peter, continuing to leave out Kate's part in it all;
Allison talks about being kidnapped by Peter and bitten in the preserve; and
Lydia speaks of how Peter had lured her onto the lacrosse field. The first time
she has told anyone the truth of what happened, tears build in her eyes halfway
through as she details how Peter had stolen Jackson's phone and pretended to be
him, texting her and asking her to meet him so they could patch things up.
Lydia swears she wasn't going to do anything more than tell him to go to hell,
but by the time she realised what was really happening it was too late to run.
Stiles throws an arm around her shoulders as she sniffles, refusing to move
away when her tenuous control over her new abilities slips ever so slightly.
Derek is worried for a second, but Lydia gathers herself again quickly enough.
"I'm fine," she promises.
Sometime later, Stiles finishes telling the story of the fight with Peter,
perched again on the armrest of Derek's armchair. Derek now occupies the actual
seat. "And then Derek took care of Peter and became the alpha," he concludes,
not missing how Melissa's gaze lingers on Derek's hand where it rests on his
thigh, an obvious sign of familiarity and, to her eyes, probably more. She
wouldn't be wrong. He will most likely have some more explaining to do soon,
but he is reasonably confident that she won't do anything to interfere in their
relationship, not now that she knows everything Derek has done for him.
"So what happens now?" Erica asks.
"Well, I guess we just go about our lives as normal, as much as that's
possible," Derek muses. "Stiles and I will be meeting regularly with Allison,
Lydia and Scott so I can train them and help them get a better handle on their
powers. I guess, now that you know about all this, you're free to sit in on
those sessions if you want."
"Hell no," Scott scoffs angrily.
Everyone turns to him.
Stiles frowns. "What's your problem?"
"I'm not training under him of all people. He's a dick!"
"Scott!" Melissa scolds, standing up. "What's gotten into you lately?!"
"I've moved on to better things, that's what."
"Better things?"
Scott looks askance at Stiles. "Less pathetic people, y'know. People who aren't
murderers."
Stiles flinches, then sighs deeply. Even though he had been anticipating
something like this as soon as Chris had suggested that Scott be in attendance
of this meeting, he still somehow feels let down by Scott's antagonism. Sure,
he has had plenty of time to get used to the beta's new antipathetic attitude
over the past couple of months, but with Melissa present he had honestly been
hoping for some forced civility at the very least. That was clearly asking too
much of Scott and his endlessly decreasing levels of maturity. Just like in the
preserve, out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees Derek tense up, preparing to
come to his defence. But, as much as he appreciates the protective instinct
Derek has been developing of late, he knows it wouldn't do anyone any good in
the long run. Taking Derek's hand, he gives it a small reassuring squeeze,
letting him know that he is alright. That isn't the end of it, though, because
then Scott mutters something under his breath—Stiles thinks he catches the
words 'disgusting' and 'dickheads'—which causes a ruction. Erica again leaps up
from Boyd's lap, this time looking like she wants blood, but Lydia reaches
Scott first, darting across the room in a flash and wrapping a hand around his
throat. Everyone is too surprised to stop her as she lifts him with seemingly
no trouble into the air, even when he starts desperately fighting her grip, his
eyes shining with fear.
Erica halts in her name-calling and just watches with a satisfied smirk on her
face as Scott fails to get free, his legs kicking fruitlessly at whichever part
of Lydia's body they can reach.
He makes a sorry picture.
Lydia doesn't react to any blow Scott manages to land, just stares up at his
face with such contempt that no one dares to get in between her and her
captive. Not even Melissa, who looks on, terrified both for her son's safety in
spite of his outburst, and of the entire mess in which she has so unwittingly
found herself. Derek is the one who finally tries to break it up, sobering from
his shock and disbelief as Scott audibly begins to choke. He leaps from his
chair and races over to the pair, trying with surprisingly little success to
pry Lydia's fingers from around Scott's neck. For a while Lydia doesn't respond
to him—nor to Stiles when he, too, gets involved—but soon enough she returns to
herself and releases Scott.
He crumples to the floor in a gasping heap.
Stiles pulls Lydia away from him—allowing Melissa to come to his aid—and back
over to the window. She goes willingly, her eyes never leaving Scott as he
regains his breath, not until Stiles waves a hand in front of her face and
demands to know what she was thinking. His voice is still kind. "I wasn't going
to let him get away with talking about you and Derek like that," she responds
unrepentantly. "I didn't mean to lose control and attack him, but I don't
really regret it. He deserves taking down a peg or two..."
Stiles can't help but secretly agree.
"Scott, honey, are you alright?" Melissa asks, crouching down next to her son.
"No, I'm fucking not!" the beta spits. He jumps to his feet, recovered.
Melissa looks like she has been slapped. "Scott-"
"I'm done here."
With one last dark look in Stiles' direction, Scott storms sanctimoniously from
the room, leaving Melissa gaping after him. The sound of the front door as he
slams it shut behind him is as loud as a gunshot in the ensuing silence, making
everybody jump. Looking with Lydia and Derek out the window, Stiles watches as
Scott walks briskly down the driveway, hands thrust into the pockets of his
jeans like the stereotypical angsty teenager who thinks the whole world is out
to get him. To Stiles, that description seems fitting. Scott pauses briefly
when he passes Derek's car, and, following a glance back over his shoulder,
like he is making sure he still has an audience, aims a forceful kick at the
bottom of the driver's-side door. A considerable dent is left behind, and with
a proud smirk he carries on his way, soon vanishing through the open gate.
Derek shakes with rage and, even though he doesn't do anything then, Stiles
takes the fiery expression on his face as a sign that retaliation will come
sometime very soon.
Stiles won't be the one to stop him.
Gerard chooses then to step out from his spot in the corner, grinning.
"I'd say that went well!"
***** You and I Are Moving Up in the World *****
- Wednesday, February 9th, 2011 -
Stiles sits in the school parking lot, nursing the cup of plain coffee he'd
bought on his way there as he watches his peers migrate slowly into the main
building. He wishes he had purchased something stronger, because his eyes keep
drooping and he knows that, when the caffeine kicks in, it won't be enough to
help him push through the exhaustion he feels in his bones. Last night was
difficult. Derek wasn't there to keep the nightmares away, so he was assaulted
by images of Peter and Kate every time he dared to close his eyes. Derek didn't
tell him why he couldn't be there, but Stiles trusts him enough to know there
had to have been a good reason. He feels guilty for relying on him for succour
so much anyway, so when they left the Argents he'd let Derek drop him off
without a peep in the preserve, by his Jeep. Later, after trying for a couple
of hours, he gave up on sleep and just put on a bunch of movies one after the
other, without really paying attention to any of them. If someone were to quiz
him on their main plot points, he would fail completely. That miserable time
was good for one thing, though—it lead him to the conclusion that he needs to
unburden himself very soon of his experience with Peter, or else, because Derek
can't always be there and it wouldn't be fair for Stiles to expect him to be,
there will doubtless be many more sleepless nights in his future.
Everything at school seems normal, as if nothing had happened at the winter
formal on Saturday. Laughter and smiles abound, and Stiles is a little envious
of the other teenagers' lives, which in a moment of weakness he perceives as
easy. Objectively he knows he shouldn't think that—they all have their demons,
regardless of whether it shows on the outside—but the envy is there
nevertheless.
He takes another sip from his cup.
"Hey!"
Someone bangs on the driver's-side window, startling Stiles and making him
spill coffee down his front. He swears at the mess and turns to see Erica's
face on the other side of the glass, looking a little sorry for causing the
spill but not as much as he would like. With the towel he keeps in his gym bag
in the backseat he tries to clean up the worst of it, but the white T-shirt he
wears is a lost cause. Shoving the towel back in its home, Stiles gulps down
the last few sips of his coffee, takes his keys from the ignition, and shoves
open the door. Erica steps back to make room, and they fall in step with each
other as they walk.
"You look like shit," she observes.
"I feel like it," Stiles responds as he pulls his backpack over his shoulder.
It's a challenge to pick his feet up every time he needs to take another step,
and he considers it a miracle that they manage to get all the way to his locker
without him collapsing. As he puts in his combination he feels Erica's eyes on
the side of his face, waiting for an explanation, but he doesn't feel like
giving one and, to his relief, she doesn't push it. She looks away from him
after a while to scan the hall, and Stiles is about to ask who she is looking
for when Boyd appears, seeming to spring right up out of the ground. Stiles
almost jumps. He probably would have if he had the energy, but as it is he
simply nods at the third member of what is apparently his new friendship group.
Boyd nods back and slings an arm around Erica's shoulders.
"Anyone seen Lydia or Allison?" Stiles asks, shutting his locker.
Erica frowns. "They didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"They're not in school today."
"Why not?"
"After what Lydia did to Scott, Derek and Mr. Argent thought it was a good idea
to keep them out 'sick' for another day or two, until they have better control
of things," she explains, leaning into Boyd's side and reciprocating his
embrace with an arm around his waist. Even though his lips don't so much as
twitch, Stiles can tell that Boyd is incredibly pleased by this. "I'm surprised
no one told you."
"I guess that's a good idea," Stiles admits.
Erica nods. "Yup, you're stuck with us, I'm afraid."
"God help me!"
                                     * * *
When the bell rings, Stiles leaves his last class with Boyd and allows himself
to be shuffled outside in the flow of other students. Lacrosse practice is
supposed to start in a few minutes, but he can't bring himself to go. He
realised earlier that he hasn't attended a session in weeks, and because Coach
Finstock hasn't yet loudly brought this up during class like he normally would
whenever someone doesn't show, Stiles is happy to assume that he is off the
team for good. As far as he is concerned, the less time spent around Scott and
Jackson the better. He was always on the bench anyway. At the top of the school
steps, Stiles stops when he finds he can't remember where he'd parked his Jeep.
Holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he tries to spot it in the
sea of other vehicles slowly draining from the lot. It takes until half the
student body has left the premises for him to locate his Jeep, but, when he
descends the steps, his focus is drawn elsewhere, to a familiar black car that
pulls up right in front of the school. Derek emerges from it a second later and
waves him over, traces of cheerfulness shining through his usual stolid
expression when their eyes lock. The fact that Derek is happy to see him of all
people, that he was the one who put that barely-there smile on Derek's lips,
greatly lifts Stiles' spirits.
He isn't the only one to notice Derek's arrival.
Clusters of teenage girls stare openly, practically drooling.
"Oh my God, who is that?!"
A couple of them talk in stage whispers close by, and Stiles can't help but
smirk when he overhears them wondering who such a 'smoking-hot' guy is there to
meet. The smirk fades quickly, though, when he reaches Derek and the girls
express their disappointment at the answer being 'that Stilinski freak'.
Before Stiles can tell him that they aren't worth it, that he should just
ignore them, Boyd breaks away and marches over to the two girls. He makes for
an intimidating sight at the best of times—six feet, two inches of looming
muscle—but especially now, when he draws himself up to his full height, the
irritation radiating off of him in waves making him seem taller still. The
girls are tiny by comparison, like vermin about to be squashed by something
much more powerful. "Is there a problem?" Boyd asks, the timbre of his voice
low and dangerous. Stiles never would have believed it if someone told him that
very morning that Boyd possessed this darker side, and he watches, a little
amused and a little scared himself, as the two girls stand there with their
feet seemingly glued to the ground, their terrified eyes bugging out of their
sockets.
"Uhh...no?" the braver of the two squeaks.
"Really?"
She gulps. "Y-yes..."
Boyd bares his teeth in a malevolent grin, and Stiles is almost tempted to feel
sorry for the girls when they start shaking. He can't quite manage it, though,
their disparaging words ringing in his ears. "Yeah, that's what I thought,"
Boyd says. "Why don't you leave now, before we do end up having a problem?" The
girls scurry off across the parking lot, glancing back over their shoulders as
if to make sure that Boyd is not in pursuit. Once they are out of sight, he
returns silently to Derek and Stiles, who are both stunned, and turns back into
the unassuming giant that Stiles had been getting to know all day.
"What?" Boyd asks when Derek and Stiles keep staring.
Stiles shakes his head to clear it. "Nothing... I just never expected that from
you."
Derek agrees.
Boyd tries to shrug it off. "Yeah, well..."
"I mean, I'm impressed but...why? We barely know each other."
"I hate bullies," Boyd explains, crossing his arms over his chest. "Always
have. As for not knowing each other, I know how highly Erica thinks of you.
That's good enough for me."
Uncharacteristically speechless, Stiles fumbles for something to say and fails.
He ends up just holding out his fist, which Boyd regards for a couple of
seconds like he is unsure what to do with it, then bumps his own against it.
With a nod of acknowledgement to Derek, Boyd leaves the two of them standing by
themselves next to the Camaro. Now that the ruckus is over, Stiles observes
that the parking lot has become significantly clearer—there are no more
phalanxes of teenagers waiting for rides home, and, apart from the Camaro and
Stiles' Jeep, the few vehicles that are still scattered throughout the area
belong to students likely participating in after-school activities, or to
teachers, staying late to grade papers or work on lesson plans. Now that they
are basically alone without distractions, Stiles remembers the question he had
been about to ask Derek before the pair of sneering girls had interrupted him.
"Not that I'm not happy you're here, because I am, but I was wasn't really
expecting to see you today, least of all here. Why the drop-by?"
"I have a surprise," Derek teases, the barely-there smile returning when Stiles
instantly perks up like a meerkat. "I'm not going to spoil it, but I will say
that it was the reason I couldn't keep you company last night. Part of the
reason, anyway, but let's not get into that now. C'mon, hop in." He opens the
Camaro's passenger door. "It won't take long, and I'll bring you back here for
your Jeep after."
                                     * * *
Derek says nothing more about the nature of his surprise for the whole drive,
refusing to buckle when Stiles tries to inveigle clues out of him. Stiles gives
up halfway there and, managing to hold on to his good mood even though he is in
the dark, garrulously fills the silence with tales of his day, specifically
about his new Chemistry teacher, Mr. Wallis. A fifty-six-year-old man possessed
of a caring disposition, he is a stark contrast to who he had replaced. Stiles
was glad that he no longer had to put up with Mr. Harris, who made his life a
living hell for almost two years, though part of him also felt guilty for that
gladness. Then he'd remembered that the ornery man played a part in the Hale
fire, and the guilt went away.
While he talks, Stiles pays close attention to all the street signs that pass
by his window, trying to figure out where Derek could be taking him. He is
stumped, though, when Derek drives them through town without stopping, all the
way to the outskirts on the opposite side, a place he never goes. They end up
parked in front of a towering building in an area of Beacon Hills that, for as
long as Stiles remembers, has been basically desolate. It is constructed of
dark-brown bricks, with old-fashioned sliding windows in orderly rows going up
eight floors. The ninth floor is the only one that is different—it features a
much larger window in the centre, about twelve times the size of the others and
with a curved top. Derek chuckles when he sees Stiles' bemused expression, then
unbuckles his seatbelt. Stiles does the same, and they both exit the Camaro and
walk across the empty lot to the rusty double doors that serve as the main
entrance to the building.
"What is this place?" Stiles asks.
"You'll see soon enough."
"So you're really not gonna tell me?"
"Nope."
With a huff, Stiles cautiously steps inside when Derek holds open the door for
him. The dark and capacious room in which he finds himself is for the most part
empty, containing only a few dozen dusty boxes piled up in the far corners and
a large desk off to one side, the wood rotted through like it would fall apart
under the smallest weight. The high ceiling is dotted with smashed light
fixtures, and along the opposite wall is a large service elevator and a grey
door, propped open to reveal a stairwell.
"OK..." Derek mutters as he enters behind Stiles. "Up we go."
He walks toward the elevator.
Stiles is aghast. "You expect me to get in that?!"
"It's perfectly safe."
"It doesn't look safe..."
With an indulgent smile, Derek takes Stiles' arm and pulls him gently inside
the cab. A single exposed bulb swings non-stop where it hangs from the middle
of the ceiling, even though there isn't a draught. In one corner is a large
water stain—at least that's what Stiles hopes the stain is from—and there are
ancient scuff marks all over the floor from the soles of many different pairs
of shoes. "I've already used this several times, and you told me on Sunday that
you trusted me," Derek softly reminds his young companion, pulling down the
elevator door with a loud bang and sealing them inside the cab. He turns back
to Stiles with one eyebrow raised. "Do you really think I would ask you to take
this thing if I had even the smallest suspicion that it was dangerous?" He
waits until Stiles shakes his head before pressing the button for the top
floor, causing the elevator to judder to life as it slowly takes them up to
their destination. When Stiles holds his hands out at his sides like he is
attempting to stop himself from falling off a tightrope, Derek rolls his eyes
and steps closer to put a firm hand on his shoulder, providing him with some
additional support. "I promise nothing bad will happen, so just try to relax,
OK? We'll be there before you know it."
Stiles takes a deep breath and finds that it doesn't really have much of an
effect, his body remaining tense for the entire ride. But, like Derek said, it
isn't long until the elevator stops moving again and he is staggering out onto
more stable ground. He would kneel and kiss it if it wasn't so filthy with God
knows what. Derek, looking deeply amused, walks past him to a large sliding
metal door.
"Here we are," he says.
Stiles, having gotten a handle on his anxiety, joins Derek by the door and, at
Derek's encouraging nod, grasps the cold handle and yanks it open. He is
surprised by how smoothly it slides on its railing, and when it reaches the end
it comes to a stop with a dull thud. The first thing Stiles registers is the
window directly across from him. It's the same one he saw from outside, almost
floor-to-ceiling and wide enough to take up nearly the whole wall, and while
the panes of glass are a little dirty like everything else Stiles has seen so
far, they provide a spectacular view of the blue sky. He stands in the entrance
and gets caught up in watching the clouds drift by, until he senses movement at
his side. Derek moves into the room and spins to face him once he is in the
centre, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"Take a look around," the wolf says.
"Uhh, OK..."
Only then does Stiles stop staring at the sky to take in the rest of the room.
While mostly barren, there is still a lot to look at. The most striking
feature—apart from the windows, of course—is a black metal staircase on the
left side, leading up to what Stiles guesses is roof access. There are two
closed doors on either side of the room; the bathroom and kitchen, Derek
explains when he asks. A skylight is built into the ceiling, and in the middle
of the floor are two pieces of furniture, a burgundy three-seater sofa and an
onyx coffee table, which stand out because of their apparent newness. Slowly
putting the pieces together, Stiles joins Derek by the sofa and runs his
fingers over the soft upholstery.
On the right side of the room, an off-white partition with black wood frames
divides the space in two, and behind this is another new-looking piece of
furniture: a king-size platform bed. The crisp navy-blue sheets don't look
rumpled at all, so Stiles assumes that the bed hasn't yet been slept in.
"Is this your new place or something?" he asks.
"It's not finished yet, but yes."
"It's pretty damn big."
Derek shrugs. "Yeah, I thought it needed to be," he explains, perching himself
on the back of the sofa, hands still in his pockets. He attempts to look
relaxed, but the nerves he is burying are still visible if you look close
enough, like Stiles always does. "I still have a lot to do before I'll be
satisfied, but since we're starting to form a pack I figured I'd better find a
proper place to live. I can't squat in my old house anymore, and I can't hide
out at your place forever, either. So...what do you think?"
Moving away from the bed, Stiles turns in place and looks over everything one
last time. "I like it," he decides, not missing the way Derek's body instantly
loses its rigidity, finally achieving a truly relaxed appearance. "You've never
struck me as someone who needs a lot in life, so this suits you to a T. It's
simple in a good way but still has character. I can definitely imagine you
living here. I'll miss having you around so much, but I guess this is for the
best." He bites his bottom lip and elaborates when Derek's expression becomes
worried. "Don't get me wrong—we'll still see each other a lot if I have any say
in it, but I don't know... Not to make this moment all about me, but I was
actually just thinking about this before school. While I really, really
appreciate you helping me like you have these past few days, I feel like I've
let myself slip into a state of codependency with you. I don't like that. I
don't want to become too dependent on you, or on anyone, really, not to the
point where it becomes a negative or unhealthy thing." He stands by the window
now, his eyes returned to the glacial clouds in the sky. "After Peter and Kate,
and then my dad, it was like I lost the part of myself that made me strong.
Confronting my dad was the first step, and I think you not being there for me
to lean on 24/7 will give me the push I need to get my strength back, to become
independent again."
He turns to face Derek. "Does that make any sense?"
"It does," the alpha replies, his eyes warm.
Pleased, Stiles crosses to the sofa and sits on the back next to him.
This close, he notices the small upward curve of Derek's lips.
"Why're you smiling like that?"
"No reason."
Stiles looks unimpressed and says, "I don't believe you."
Derek breaks their eye contact and gazes unseeingly through the skylight, not
speaking for almost a full minute. His voice is quiet and bashful when he
finally opens his mouth, and the tips of his ears turn pink, something that
Stiles finds incredibly adorable. "I'm just proud of you," he murmurs, jumping
when he feels Stiles' hand slide into his. He looks down at them and interlocks
their fingers.
"Thanks," Stiles says, grinning. "I'm kinda proud of me, too."
Derek huffs out a laugh, and the sound makes Stiles grin even wider.
"So..."
"So...?" Derek echoes.
"Tell me the rest of your plans for this place."
                                     * * *
They don't leave the loft for another hour. After Stiles had assured him that
he really was interested, Derek showed a new side of himself as he explained
all he wanted to do to turn the loft into a home. Stiles was fascinated by this
almost childlike enthusiasm and did everything he could to draw more of it out
as they talked about all the perfect appliances and facilities that would go in
the bathroom and kitchen. Both rooms stayed hidden behind their closed doors,
and Stiles was curious for all of two seconds before Derek told him not to
bother checking them out—the loft was completely gutted before the building was
abandoned, so he would find nothing there but exposed pipes, cracked tiles and
torn wallpaper. This was a positive thing that would save him some time and
energy, Derek surmised, because he would have replaced anything that was there
with new stuff, anyway. Stiles couldn't help but agree when he thought of how
long the loft must have gone unused, though he did wonder how Derek would get
running water and electricity. He was dubious when he found out that Derek
planned to do all the work by himself without consulting a professional
beforehand, but Derek was adamant and said that he found great satisfaction in
working with his hands. Stiles had to admit that the idea of Derek in a tool
belt was oddly titillating, so he offered no further protest.
Now, they pull to a stop in the deserted school parking lot, right next to
Stiles' Jeep, as the sky turns red over the horizon. "Keep me updated on how
the loft comes along, alright?" Stiles requests as he unbuckles his seatbelt.
"I'd love to help, if there's anything you end up needing help with."
"I will," Derek promises.
"I guess this is goodnight, then."
Derek lowers his eyes. "Actually...not just yet."
"Oh?"
"Yeah... Please don't be mad, but the other reason I couldn't be there for you
last night was because I wanted to speak to Melissa," Derek says cautiously,
fiddling with his keys in the ignition. The jingling is loud in the confines of
the car, and he forces himself to stop fidgeting when Stiles' eyebrows shoot up
to his hairline then meet in a frown, clasping his hands together in his lap.
"Part of that was to tell her about our relationship and how it came about
before she could form any wrong conclusions, and she wants to talk to us
together now. But the other part... You'll find out why when we get to your
place."
Stiles grabs the door handle. "Should I be worried?"
"I'd say no, but I'm honestly not sure."
Bidding a temporary goodbye to Derek, Stiles climbs in behind the wheel of his
Jeep. He sits there for a minute and tries to think of what else Derek could
have talked to Melissa about, but, when he cannot come up with anything
plausible, he just starts driving. The headlights of the Camaro tail him, and
when he turns off the engine in his driveway—which is absent of his dad's
cruiser, a regular occurrence nowadays—he finds Melissa's car parked on the
curb. Derek pulls in behind it and follows Stiles into the house, where they
find Melissa waiting for them in the living room. She rises from the sofa when
she sees them enter, a sad but determined expression on her face, and before
addressing Stiles she nods at Derek, silently communicating something to him.
His face turns grim and adds to Stiles' worries.
"Come on, honey," Melissa says with a heavy sigh. "Let's sit down." She holds
out a hand that Stiles apprehensively takes, and when they are seated side by
side on the sofa, with Derek hovering close by but giving them some distance,
she doesn't let go. "We need to have a serious talk."
***** Changes in Living Arrangements *****
"I think you'd better take a seat as well, Derek, because this concerns you,
too," Melissa reveals. The wolf turns quickly away from where he had been
gazing through the living room window, his eyes wide like a child who has just
been caught doing something he shouldn't. Seeing such a juvenile expression on
a man of his age and build amuses Melissa greatly, but she pushes the feeling
down in order to uphold the seriousness necessary for what she has to say. She
waits in silence as Derek awkwardly steps closer and sits down on the edge of
the coffee table, forming a triangle between the two of them and Stiles. "I'll
just jump right in so we can move past this to the real reason I'm here: I have
some reservations about what's forming between you two, and you both need to be
aware of them before I can allow it to keep going."
Stiles tenses up.
Derek opens his mouth to speak, but stops when Melissa holds up a hand.
"I know you've already spoken to me a bit about this, Derek, and I appreciated
your honesty," Melissa says, returning her hand to her leg when she's sure that
he won't try again to interrupt. "I swear to both of you that I don't mean any
harm by bringing these things up, but I still have some concerns."
She clears her throat. "First: the age difference. Stiles is only sixteen, and
you, Derek, are twenty-four. Eight years is a big gap, especially when the
younger person is in their formative years and still has a few to go. There are
a lot of problematic situations that can come up in a relationship like this,
but the most pressing I'd say is the possibility of a power imbalance. I'm not
accusing you of anything like that, Derek—in fact, from everything I know about
what's happened since you came into Stiles' life, I don't think I really have
to worry about that here at all. But it still needs mentioning. Stiles is a
teenager in high school who has always lived at home and has, as far as I'm
aware, never had a serious relationship before," Stiles flushes a deep scarlet
at this and looks down at his lap, embarrassed, "whereas you are an adult. If
you two are going to move forward with this, you'll need to make sure you
remain equals, that nothing even resembling an imbalance of power creeps in. If
it does, then I'll step in stop it, whatever that entails. Just keep an eye on
it, is all I'm saying. Then there's the fact that you're a werewolf, Derek. I
don't know everything that means, but I do know that you could very well be
dangerous for him." She tilts her head in Stiles' direction. "Since meeting
you, he's already been involved in two mass murders, one of which affected him
directly."
"That wasn't really because of Derek, though," Stiles interjects.
Melissa turns to him, her raised eyebrow telling him to elaborate.
"He wasn't the reason I got involved."
"He wasn't?"
"No, that was because of Scott," Stiles insists, desperation weaving its way
into his voice because he needs Melissa to understand. "I went to Derek because
I thought he would be able to teach Scott the ropes or something. Derek tried
to keep me out of what was really going on but I'm me, so I wouldn't listen,
and then when Scott went rogue and Peter started killing people, I was already
in too deep. I'm the one who pushed my way into Derek's business because I
wanted to help. Things just progressed from there."
Melissa purses her lips as she works this new information into her
understanding of things. "I see. That's good to know, but it doesn't change the
fact that you're now tangled up in something that could be extremely dangerous
for you, and not just physically. I let it go, but I could tell when I dropped
you off that night that something was wrong psychologically. How could it not
be? But I think you know that better than I do, and I'm not going to ask you to
take a step back from this. As you said, you're already in, and as much as I
would like to, I certainly won't be able to step back myself and forget about
all of this, not now that I know people I love could be put in danger at the
drop of a hat. All I ask is that you be careful, don't take any unnecessary
risks, and keep me posted on everything that goes on. And I mean everything,
even if you think it isn't important. I want you to promise me." She looks
between Derek and Stiles, directing the request at both of them.
"I promise," Stiles says immediately.
"I promise," Derek echoes.
"OK, good..." Melissa smiles, relieved. "I think that's all for now. I don't
have any true objections to you two, but just...stay safe, alright? And keep in
mind what I said; I don't want to see anyone get hurt. Now, on to the real
reason I'm here." She looks to Stiles. "We need to talk about your dad."
"What about him?"
"I haven't been around much lately," Melissa admits, ashamed of herself. She
lets go of Stiles' hand and runs her own wearily down her face, then regards
him with such motherly compassion that he shifts restlessly in his seat,
uncomfortable under the weight of it. "I've been working too much, and that
meant I didn't see the signs when I probably should have, of how badly Scott
was treating you or of your dad's growing dependence on alcohol. I'm sorry for
that. But, thanks to Derek tipping me off last night, I'm here now, and I'm
going to help you however I can. I tried confronting your dad about his
drinking earlier today, while you were at school, but he wasn't having it. It
didn't even seem to matter that it was affecting you like it is. He's so far in
denial, even more than he was after... After your mom passed."
Stiles' stomach twists unpleasantly.
"I've never told you this before," Melissa continues, "and I still don't want
it getting back to Scott, but I know what a toxic environment like this can do
to a person, especially a child. Rafael... He used to drink a lot, and one
night it got so bad that there was an accident and Scott got hurt. That's when
I made him leave. You're like a second son to me, and I can't just sit back and
allow you to stay here when your dad is like this. Until he gets his act
together, I think it would be best if you came to live with me."
Stiles gapes. "What?"
Even Derek looks shocked.
"I want you to move in with Scott and I," Melissa reiterates.
Stiles can't find the words. "I don't... Just...what?"
She grabs his hand again.
"I know you and Scott aren't getting along, but I'll talk to him and at least
make sure he stays out of your way. It isn't good for you to stay here while
your dad is like this, so please," she begs.
"Do it," Derek chimes in, over his shock.
Stiles turns to him. "You really think I should?"
"I do," the alpha says ardently, covering Stiles' free hand with his own where
it rests on his knee. The touch is watched keenly by Melissa, but there isn't
any judgement or disapproval on her face so he doesn't back off again just yet.
"Remember what you told me on Monday evening, that you wished your dad wasn't
able to hurt you anymore? There isn't really a perfect solution for something
like this, but I think you getting out of here for a while would be a good
thing. You wouldn't have to be around your dad every day, and maybe it would
give him a kick up the ass and make him see how wrong what he's doing really
is."
Feeling beleaguered, a little like he's just had the rug pulled out from under
him, Stiles sits quietly as he contemplates the offer he has been given, all
the points that have been raised. Derek and Melissa disappear into the kitchen
to give him the illusion of privacy, and he slumps back into the sofa cushion
as his mind races. Could he do it? Could he really leave? He isn't sure. In
fact, in that moment he isn't sure of much at all. If he leaves he'll have to
deal with Scott's petulance on a more regular basis, no matter what Melissa
says about keeping them apart. People will talk, gossiping and spreading
rumours, but because that's something he's already used to, it doesn't fall in
either the Pro or the Con column. The possibility of not having to hide his
relationship with Derek while inside Melissa's house definitely gets filed
under the Pros, as does having someone like Melissa looking out for him. Not
being able to keep an eye on his dad to make sure he doesn't self-destruct even
further is a Con—the fact that he even considers this as a deciding factor
annoys Stiles a lot, because he so desperately wants to be past caring for the
sheriff. In the end it's the speech he made in Derek's loft earlier in the day
that leads him to his decision. His dad is keeping him down, making him feel
weak and powerless, and he doesn't want to feel that way anymore. There's
really only one choice:
He'll move in with Melissa.
"I'm gonna do it," Stiles says, knowing Derek will hear.
Melissa makes her reappearance a second later, looking hopeful.
"Really?" she asks.
"Really," he confirms, jumping when she rushes over and hugs him tightly.
Derek watches from the doorway with a smile.
"Go pack a bag, OK?" Melissa instructs as she pulls away. "I'll wait."
"I won't be long."
Stiles climbs the stairs two at a time, pushes open his bedroom door, and feels
around in the tenebrous space under his bed for the empty luggage that's still
there from when his family used to go on holiday every summer. It's been years
since the last time. Among a thick layer of dust, old socks and other long-
forgotten ephemera, he finds the handle of his large navy-blue suitcase and
pulls it out.
The suitcase is just one big compartment, so after tossing it on the bed and
unzipping it he starts filling it with all the clothes he wants to take with
him. One by one the drawers of his dresser are sorted through until his
suitcase is mostly stuffed full, each item of clothing carefully rolled up to
squeeze as much inside as he can. There is only a little bit of space left when
he finishes rummaging through the bottom drawer, which he fills with his
toiletries from the bathroom—toothbrush, shower gel, razors, shaving cream—and
the power cable for his laptop. On top of everything he puts the laptop itself,
then he zips the suitcase back up and is surprised by the heft of it. Carefully
he stands it on the floor, its small wheels squeaking from age and disuse,
and—after double-checking that he hasn't missed anything of import—exits the
room.
The sound of the door clicking shut carries a sense of finality.
He feels oddly uplifted as he reenters the living room.
"OK, I'm ready."
Derek is at his side in an instant. "I'll carry that for you," he offers,
taking the suitcase when he sees how much difficulty Stiles is having with it.
He receives a grateful smile for his chivalry.
"Thanks, Sourwolf."
"That's an odd nickname," Melissa comments, bemused.
Stiles hums his agreement. "Yeah, I guess it is. I think it fits, though."
Derek stays silent on the matter.
Grabbing his backpack from beside the coffee table—which still contains all of
his school books because he hasn't done any work since bringing it home last
Friday—he stops when he sees his phone lying on the wood surface. Picking that
up, too, he presses the home button and is surprised to see that it still has
power left, the little icon in the top-right corner telling him that the
battery is at ninety-eight percent. He wonders aloud how it came to be there,
which is when Melissa informs him that she'd gotten his phone back from the
sheriff while confronting him that afternoon. It was quickly determined to be
unneeded for the investigations into Peter and Kate, so his dad had brought it
home several days ago but failed to return it. Melissa had plugged it in to
charge while she waited for Stiles to get home. Tucking it in the back pocket
of his chinos, Stiles is about to follow Melissa out of the house when a car
door slams right outside. A glance out the window reveals that the sheriff is
home, his cruiser parked haphazardly in the driveway. The surly expression on
his weathered face worsens as he climbs out of the car in his frowsy sheriff's
uniform, fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's in hand, and takes in first Melissa's
vehicle parked on the curb, and then Derek's.
"Just let me do the talking," Melissa says as she moves into the foyer.
Stiles—with Derek sticking close behind him, ever his stalwart protector—tails
her as the front door bangs open and his dad steps into the house, wearing an
inscrutable expression when he comes face-to-face at his unexpected guests.
"What's going on here?" he questions.
His suspicious gaze lingers the longest on Derek.
"Stiles will be living with me starting today," Melissa asserts, drawing the
sheriff's eyes back to her. She juts her chin out. "If you try to fight me on
this then I'll have no problem getting Child Protective Services involved, and
that will lead to the same conclusion. You'll lose custody of Stiles and,
because I'm still listed as his legal guardian should anything happen to you,
I'll be officially entrusted with his care. Deputy Parrish will back me up if
it comes to that; he's smelled the alcohol on your breath when you were
supposed to be working, and he knows something is very wrong. Don't make this
harder than it has to be."
The sheriff regards her for a few tense seconds—during which Stiles holds his
breath, and Derek's free hand comes to rest reassuringly against his lower
back—before shrugging indifferently and telling them go ahead. This uncaring
attitude almost leaves Stiles feeling more devastated than any of his
interactions with his dad in recent memory, the section of his heart that the
man still occupies blackening even further, starting to decay. He thinks he
would've preferred it if the sheriff had said at least one word in protest,
demanded he stay—things have been bad, sure, but at least the anger his dad had
displayed up until now showed some semblance of caring—but he doesn't seem to
matter at all to him now. His distress catches Derek's attention, and Stiles
honestly expects his dad to burst into flames right where he stands when he
sees the rage on Derek's face.
"C'mon, honey, let's go," Melissa ushers.
Derek guides him out, stormy expression still in place.
Before she follows them, Melissa levels the sheriff with a glare of her own.
"Claudia would be disgusted with you," she spits, then slams the door shut.
                                     * * *
As soon as Stiles walks through the front door of the McCall residence, Scott
is on him, demanding to know what the hell he's doing there. Melissa is quick
to drag him away, and Stiles and Derek stand awkwardly by the stairs as mother
and son talk heatedly in the dining room. Stiles wants to know what they're
saying to each other, what sort of acrimonious abuse is being launched unjustly
at all three of them by Scott, but he doesn't ask Derek to relay anything to
him because he knows the talk is intended to be private.
Scott stomps off upstairs a couple of minutes later.
"OK..." Melissa says to herself as she reenters the foyer, looking worn out.
"I'm sorry," Stiles mutters, knowing he's the reason she had to deal with
Scott's tantrum.
"Why are you sorry? It's not your fault."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it isn't," Melissa assures, pulling him into a brief hug. She keeps her
hands on his shoulders when she pulls back again, making him look her in the
eye. "Scott's behaviour is all on him and no one else. You hear me? I don't
know what's gotten into him lately but he'll just have to get over it or deal
with the consequences. You're staying, and that's that. Now, let's get you
settled in, shall we? It's probably been a long day for you." Releasing him,
Melissa ascends the stairs and shows Stiles to the guest room she had made up
in preparation for this moment. Previously used mostly for storage, the small
space is pretty spartan with an old dresser to the left and a twin-size bed
opposite the door, the headboard pushed up against the wall. A rickety
nightstand is next to it, on top of which is a blue lamp and a stack of well-
thumbed paperback books, leftover from years past when Melissa would sleep
there to get away from her ex-husband's volatile temper. In the corner are a
couple of boxes that escaped the clear-out, half covered with an old flavescent
blanket. She picks one of these up and carries it out into the hallway, then
gives the second one the same treatment.
"I hope this is alright," she says when she returns, brushing her hands
together to rid them of the dust from the boxes. "It was short notice, so if
you don't like something you can always change it. I want you to feel welcome
while you're here. It must have been a long time since you felt like that..."
Stiles smiles wryly.
"Yeah, I guess," he concedes. He goes quiet and puts his backpack down on the
mauve sheets of the bed, then observes as Derek does the same with his
suitcase, creating a dip in the old mattress. The silence is broken suddenly by
music coming from Scott's room, so loud that it shakes the floor and Derek
visibly winces as it assaults his ears. Melissa sees this reaction and marches
out of the guest room, and the sound of her angry knocking a second later is
just discernible over the din of the music. Stiles hopes for Derek's sake that
Scott doesn't keep it up for long—if it hurts Derek's ears enough for him to
show it, then Stiles doesn't even want to think about how unbearable it must be
for someone actually in the room. Thankfully the music is soon turned down to a
more tolerable level, and then Melissa reenters, looking ticked off.
"Is he alright?" Stiles asks.
Melissa dismisses the question. "Don't worry about him. Just focus on you."
"Well, the room is great, seriously," he says with a smile, hoping to lighten
the mood.
She brightens considerably. "I'm happy to hear it."
Derek stays out of it, quietly examining the books on the nightstand.
"I'm afraid I have to get to work soon, so I should probably start getting
ready. Will you two be alright here for a while?" Melissa enquires, hugging
Stiles again when he nods his assent. "Alright, I'll leave you to it then. If
there's anything you need, don't hesitate to shoot me a text or call me and
I'll see what I can do." After ruffling his growing hair she exits the room,
leaving the couple alone.
Shutting the door to further dilute the music from Scott's room, Stiles unzips
his suitcase and, moving his laptop out of the way first, begins transferring
his clothes into the dresser. Derek waits dutifully on the bed for him to
finish, deciding not to crack open one of the books because they are all sappy
romance novels, with pairs of half-naked models groping each other on the worn
covers. It isn't long at all until Stiles is sliding his suitcase under the bed
like he did at home and getting to his feet, where he stops and ponders what he
should do next. Similarly uninterested in the books, he opens the top drawer in
the nightstand with the intent of putting them in there so they are out of the
way, but comes to a halt when he sees the small lone box that sits innocuously
at the bottom. It has a Post-it note stuck to it, covering the entire front, so
what the box contains isn't immediately apparent. But, after picking it up and
reading the short message written on the Post-it in blue ballpoint pen, he
chokes on his own spit and drops the box back inside the drawer, slamming it
shut again with such force that the whole nightstand nearly falls over.
'I don't want to hear or see anything. Be safe.'
Condoms.
Melissa bought him condoms.
He splutters some more, causing Derek to spring up from the bed.
"Stiles?!" the alpha exclaims. "What's wrong?"
Shaking his head, Stiles coughs one last time and steps purposefully away from
the nightstand. "It's nothing, Sourwolf," he chokes out. "I'm fine. Just
swallowed a fly or something."
"Oh." Derek blinks. "I see."
Racing from the room, Stiles heads downstairs to the kitchen and fills a glass
with water from the sink. He groans quietly as the cool liquid soothes his
irritated throat, drinking in great gulps until the glass is drained and he is
nearly out of breath. He can't believe Melissa would buy him condoms, though he
supposes he should have expected it to come up at some point. The condoms are a
clear gesture of acceptance, and the fact that she must have purchased them
before talking to him earlier means that said talk was just a formality. She
was never planning on trying to split him and Derek up, not that he was really
worried about that.
Setting the glass on the counter, Stiles takes another minute to fully calm
himself down before going back upstairs. He reaches the guest room just in time
to see Derek throw himself on the bed, the tightness of his features suggesting
that he is trying very hard to cover something up.
Stiles puts two and two together.
"Guess you saw them, huh?"
Derek nods.
Sitting delicately on the bed next to him, Stiles allows them to lapse into
silence while he thinks of how to proceed. There are issues that continue to
plague him from his last traumatic sexual experience, that much is true, and he
will need to work through them before anything more can happen. But he is
definitely still interested in expanding what he has now with Derek, in sharing
physical intimacy on top of emotional. "What do you think?" he asks eventually,
a flood of nerves causing his scalp to itch and sweat to break out on his brow.
Derek turns to look at him but doesn't say anything to help him out, so he
clears his throat and forges ahead. "What do you think about us...y'know." He
makes an obscene gesture with his hands, and then feels like a complete idiot
when Derek's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Luckily, as stupid as it was, the
gesture was apparently good enough to get the message across.
"Is...is that something you'd want?" Derek asks, his throat suddenly tight.
Stiles takes a breath. "Yeah, it is."
After a beat, Derek's wary expression becomes pleased. "OK. But we go at your
pace."
"My hero."
"I'm serious. Your pace. We don't need to rush this."
Stiles bites coyly at his bottom lip. "In that case..."
Derek's eyes are drawn to this display. "Hmm?"
"Can you kiss me now?"
With a quiet chuckle, the alpha leans in until their noses almost touch.
"As you wish."
***** We're Getting Close to Something Big *****
- Saturday, February 12th, 2011 -
At ten in the morning, Stiles stands on the curb outside Melissa's house and
waits for Derek to pick him up. Anticipation for what is to come has his blood
pumping faster than normal, makes him jittery. Their first training session as
a pack. He has no clue what to expect, what it will entail or whether everyone
who is supposed to attend will do so, but he still feels strangely exhilarated.
Slowly he is making the guest room his own, taking detours past his old house
every day after school and, if the sheriff isn't home, collecting more and more
of his belongings. His television was the first thing he recovered. It now sits
front and centre on his dresser, in the perfect position for him to watch his
favourite films and TV shows while he lounges on the bed. Scott has been
behaving himself since his strop on Wednesday, remaining shut up in his bedroom
to avoid any and all interaction with the new resident across the hall. The
only time they've seen each other so far was when Melissa got home early on
Thursday night and insisted that they all sat down together for dinner. Scott
ate without saying a word to either of his convives—something that suited
Stiles just fine—until Melissa informed him that the money needed to repair
Derek's car would be coming out of his wages from the veterinary clinic, and
that she wanted him to give Derek a genuine apology.
Scott did not take it well, needless to say, but quickly shut up, somehow taken
aback, when Melissa said that if he wanted to act like a child, she would treat
him accordingly. He was subsequently sent up to his room without dessert,
allowing Stiles and Melissa to finish their macaroni cheese in peace.
There's just one thing that bothers Stiles now:
The added strain he will put on Melissa's finances.
Although she wouldn't ever say it, least of all to him, Stiles knows that money
has always been tight for the McCalls, especially since Scott's dad left. It's
the reason Scott got his job at the clinic and why Melissa takes on so many
shifts at the hospital, nearly working herself to exhaustion. It was late last
night that he'd realised the pressure his living there would add, when he had
ventured downstairs in search of a glass of water before turning in and found a
haggard Melissa poring over her expenses at the dining room table.
Of course, when she finally noticed him she'd subtly slid aside some overdue
bills and pretended that everything was fine, but before that Stiles had still
heard her mumbling to herself, tired and frustrated, from his position at the
bottom of the stairs. Once his thirst was quenched, he'd lain in bed for over
an hour until a solution came to him, one that would also give him more
independence. He hasn't started searching yet—that will come later, after the
impending training session is over—but he'd resolved then to find a part-time
job. Melissa will never take money from him, of that Stiles is sure, but he can
help her out a little by paying himself for some of the things he needs. This
decision has left him elated all morning, a feeling that only gets stronger
when he sees the Camaro finally turn the corner and speed down the road to him.
Stiles skips around to the passenger door.
"Today's the big day!" he says by way of greeting as he buckles himself in.
Derek makes a noncommittal noise and starts driving.
"You nervous?"
"A little. I hope it goes well."
"I know it will. You'll do a good job," Stiles assures confidently.
He reaches across the small space between them and pats Derek on the shoulder,
then relaxes back into the blissful warmth of his heated seat. They settle into
a comfortable silence after that, and Stiles revels in the simple pleasure of
spending time with his man. His man... He still gets a rush whenever he
remembers that he can call Derek his. He finds his eyes constantly drawn to his
left, seemingly unable to look away from Derek for more than a few seconds. No
one would be able to blame him. How could they, when Derek looks like he does?
With his short dark hair styled effortlessly with some kind of wax; his neat
beard highlighting a strong jaw and framing his rugged yet pretty features,
long eyelashes ghosting across his cheeks every time he blinks; his black
leather jacket on his frame, teasingly hiding all the muscle Stiles knows is
beneath; his strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel; his tongue sliding
out to quickly wet his lips.
Stiles finds himself drawn back in time by the sight of it.
Back to that first afternoon in Melissa's house.
He is struck by a frisson of excitement at the memory of Derek's mouth on his,
his lips tingling from its phantom touch. The kiss had started off chaste, just
like it was that first time in the preserve. But, without anything to distract
them this time around, it didn't stay that way for long.
There were pent-up feelings on both sides that needed to be expressed. Stiles
doesn't think he will ever forget the way his body had come to life when he
felt Derek's tongue brush questioningly across the seam of his lips, asking
permission. His mouth had opened automatically with a gasp, and then his
mind—which up until then had been filled with a frenetic stream of oh God, this
is really happening, fuck, fuck, fuck!—had shut down as Derek's fingers found
their way into his hair and their tongues slid together. The kiss was
uncoordinated and a tad sloppy because of Stiles' inexperience, but neither of
them cared. Derek tasted better than anything Stiles had experienced before,
better than his favourite chocolate, better even than curly fries. He'd
followed Derek's lead, and the scrape of Derek's beard against his own smooth
face had left him shaking with desire, wondering fleetingly what it would feel
like to have those rough hairs scraping across other parts of his body. He had
banished the thought as soon as it came, wanting to avoid the panic he knew
would follow.
And then, when he'd tilted his head just so and ended up in the perfect angle,
he had almost whimpered in pleasure as the kiss deepened, got that little bit
more intense. He did whimper when Derek sucked on his tongue, tasting him back,
and again when not-quite-human teeth bit gently into his bottom lip. But then
Derek had pulled away and brought the kiss to an end. Stiles had chased after
him, leaning into his space because he didn't want to stop yet, but the alpha
had just smiled affectionately, pecked him on the lips one last time, and said
sadly that he should probably get going. Stiles had pouted but understood.
"You alright over there?"
The question snaps Stiles out of his reminiscing. "What?"
Derek glances his way. "You keep fidgeting."
"Oh! Yeah, don't worry about little ol' me. I'm fine, Der Bear."
At the nickname, Derek inhales sharply and tightens his grip around the
steering wheel. Concerned, Stiles reaches out again and puts his hand on
Derek's arm. "Did I say something wrong?"
Derek shakes his head.
"Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
"It's just... Laura used to call me that."
"Oh. Do you want me to stop?"
Derek brings the car to idle at a red light and takes advantage of the reprieve
to loosen his grip on the wheel, his knuckles returning to their normal colour.
Stiles waits patiently, knowing not to push him on a subject that, from
personal experience, he knows must still be so laden with pain. He just keeps
his hand on Derek's arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth in an unconscious
effort to soothe.
When the light turns green and they start moving again, Derek swallows with
some difficulty and takes a deep breath. His voice has a distinct rasp to it
when he finally speaks: "You don't have to stop calling me that. It's been a
while since I let myself think back that far but, if I'm honest, it's actually
kind of nice, reminds me of the good times..." He takes Stiles' hand in one of
his own and moves them down to rest on his thigh, keeping his eyes on the road
as he drives them toward the section of the preserve in which they will meet
the rest of the pack, hidden in the trees. Stiles can sense that Derek is
thinking deeply about something and leaves him to it. He's happy to let the
topic die for now, sagging back into his seat and enjoying the warmth of
Derek's hand covering his, the sense of safety it gives him. But then, just as
Stiles' mind has begun to wander, Derek opens his mouth and starts telling
stories from years past, about Laura's fiery personality and fast quips, her
sarcastic nature and the way she used to tease him endlessly throughout their
childhood. Stiles listens like a small child being read his favourite bedtime
story, wide-eyed and awed. He feels immensely privileged that Derek is allowing
him into this part of his life and thinks it's the first time he has heard
Derek speak of his family this way—happily, where the focus isn't on the fire
that destroyed everything.
There's a light in Derek's eyes that Stiles loves seeing.
"We used to cover for each other when we were older, whenever one of us wanted
to sneak out after our curfews," the alpha recalls. "I only did it once or
twice—because I was good at basketball I had a lot of people I was friendly
with, but I was never really close enough to anyone to want to risk it. But
Laura snuck out all the time. There was always some party she wanted to go to,
some movie she wanted to see with her friends. She used to bring me back a
chocolate bar or something as a thank you."
"She sounds pretty awesome," Stiles opines.
"She was... I think she'd have liked you."
"Really?"
Derek nods to himself, smiling. "Yeah, I'm sure of it, actually. You remind me
of her in a lot of ways. Your snark, your sarcasm, your sense of humour, your
big heart... They're all a lot like Laura's. I know for sure that she'd have
had a lot of fun teasing me about you. You would've been good friends."
"I wish I could've met her," Stiles laments, remembering the few times he had
seen her around town. The clearest memory is from when he was nine years old
and was at the mall with his mother for the last part of that year's back-to-
school shopping. They were in the boys' section of some clothing store and,
while his mother was distracted scanning the racks for a pair of jeans in his
size, he had heard laughing from a short distance away. Across the aisle was a
gaggle of teenage girls, at the centre of which was Laura Hale, who everyone at
least knew of back then because of her last name. He didn't know what was so
funny—whatever amused them so was out of his line of sight—but, as if sensing
his curious gaze, Laura had flipped her long dark-brown hair over one shoulder
and turned her head in his direction. She'd winked at him, making him blush—she
was an attractive older girl, after all—and then run off with her friends.
Stiles tells this story and learns to his amazement that Laura had been
laughing at Derek, who was flirting badly with a girl he'd had a crush on at
the time, a girl in his year named Paige. He laughs himself as he imagines that
scenario, finding the idea of a fumbling teenage Derek hilarious, but stifles
the sound when Derek huffs and reaches over to smack him lightly over the head.
"Sorry!" Stiles gasps, wiping at his eyes as he regains his composure. He frets
for a second that Derek is genuinely upset or offended, but then the corner of
Derek's mouth twitches and he knows that the irritation is just an act.
They share more memories for rest of the journey, until...
"Here we are," Derek says as he pulls the Camaro to a stop in between two other
cars, belonging to Lydia and Chris Argent. Hopping out, Stiles counts all the
vehicles squashed together in this nook just off the road, the entrance to
which is a gap between the trees that he guesses his Jeep could just about pass
through. At first he thinks everyone is accounted for but then notes the
absence of Scott's bike.
He feels glad for it, frankly.
"Onward!" he commands playfully, pointing the way.
Derek rolls his eyes.
Leaving his jacket in the Camaro, Derek follows the fresh footprints that are
in the dirt, even though, because he was the one who had scouted the preserve
for the ideal training ground in the first place, he already knows where they
are headed—a large clearing, far away from the trails frequented by ordinary
people out for a jog, with steep slopes all around and a gargantuan toppled
tree off to one side. There is almost no chance that they will be stumbled upon
but, should luck not be on their side, they have the senses of three werewolves
to warn them well ahead of time. The walk takes about ten minutes. The
knowledge that he is now a part of something greater than himself fills Stiles
with exuberance, so much so that he picks up his pace until he starts power-
walking. Derek keeps up with him without any trouble and doesn't comment on
this burst of energy. Although he would never say it and is obviously doing his
best to conceal it, Stiles gets the impression that he isn't the only one
looking forward to what will happen once they reach the others. Soon, muffled
talking reaches his ears, and then the trees part to reveal two groups of
people: Allison, Lydia, Erica and Boyd stand talking amongst themselves, as do
Chris, Victoria and Gerard. As Stiles had suspected, Scott is nowhere to be
found, probably too busy sulking by himself about his 'unjust' punishments.
Both conversations come to an end when Derek and Stiles enter the clearing.
Erica, with Boyd trailing calmly after her, bounds over to Stiles and hugs him
in greeting, while Derek gathers the betas together and explains to them
everything they will be doing over the course of the next two hours. While the
wolves prepare themselves, everybody else climbs up and sits atop the toppled
tree to observe, with a gap forming unconsciously between teenagers and adults.
They all stay quiet so they can hear everything perfectly as Derek runs through
the concept of anchors. Lydia, apparently thinking it unnecessary to listen
because she'd already heard all of this earlier in the week, examines her nails
while he speaks.
"It's pretty simple, really," Derek briefs, arms crossed over his chest. "You
just have to find something that will keep you in touch with your humanity
whenever you feel your wolf taking over. It can be anything—an emotion, a
person, a memory. The only thing that matters is that it works for you."
Erica whispers in Stiles' ear, "He looks hot today, right?"
"What? Who does?"
"Derek, obviously! He looks hot today. I mean, just look at those biceps!"
"Uhh..."
Said alpha glances in their direction and fights a smile when he sees Stiles'
flustered expression. He shakes his head and then returns his attention to the
betas, who snicker into their hands.
Stiles tries to ignore Erica when, in hushed tones, she keeps talking
lasciviously about every part of Derek's body, fast turning his face the colour
of beetroot. He almost tells her to stop because her words are still loud
enough to be picked up by werewolf ears, but he can't help but secretly agree
with everything she says. Boyd, clearly not the jealous type and knowing
exactly what Erica is doing, doesn't react to any of her observations. All he
does is tap her on the shoulder when the training properly commences. Once they
have thought of an anchor, Derek puts Lydia and Allison through a series of
increasingly strenuous physical trials designed to test their choices. If one
of them slips up and loses control for even a second, they have to think of
something else and start over from the beginning. Allison reaches the third
trial before she has trouble, whereas, likely because she was made aware of the
concept of anchors days ago and has since researched it scrupulously, Lydia
manages to make it all the way to the fifth before cracks begin to show in her
control.
Later, when the trials end and the betas move on to learning basic combat,
Stiles once again finds his eyes drawn repeatedly to Derek, no matter what else
is happening. Erica was definitely right; Derek looks smoking hot, though this
isn't a surprise. He always looks hot. This is just the first time Stiles has
seen this much tanned skin since he'd admitted his feelings. The grey tank top
Derek wears is obscenely tight, stretching across his large pectorals with
pebbled nipples visible through the thin fabric.
He may as well be shirtless.
The way the muscles of Derek's arms bulge as he effortlessly dodges one of
Allison's advances and throws her across the clearing has Stiles thinking of
what else that strength could accomplish. After looking around to make sure
that no one is paying him any attention, he allows himself to imagine. Since
Peter, he hasn't let himself think about sex for a more than a few seconds at a
time, because it always leads to flashbacks of that horrible night. He risks it
now, though, ogling as Derek weaves gracefully between the betas, his fluid
movements a contradiction to a body that should be ponderous. As Stiles was
expecting, there is the briefest flash of a malevolent grin and rough hands in
places they have no business being. But, instead of shying away from it like he
has done every time before, Stiles refuses to let the panic win.
He pushes through it and demanding touches become gentle. Pain becomes pleasure
as the scene changes from the dirty ground of the parking structure to the
king-size bed in Derek's loft. Coldness and fear turns into warmth and safety
as the last trace of Peter is replaced by Derek, angry red eyes becoming
loving.
It won't be that easy in reality, Stiles knows. But he doesn't care.
He wants.
So badly, he wants.
And by hell or high water he'll get there.
Far too soon, Stiles is awoken from his daydreaming by a booming voice.
"Alright, that's enough!" Derek shouts above the cacophony of growling and
fisticuffs, calling the training session to an end after he sees Chris
gesturing at his watch. Lydia and Allison immediately cease their efforts to
break through each other's guards, their beta forms receding, while the
onlookers slide down to the ground from the tree trunk. Stiles is the only one
who stays where he is, frowning and wondering how the time has passed so
quickly. He must have spent longer than he thought fantasising about Derek,
conjuring up images that, when said alpha speaks again, he casts aside to
revisit at a later time: "I have to say I'm impressed," Derek says. "You both
did better than I thought you would, so you should be proud of yourselves. Now,
next Friday is the full moon. It's come around sooner than I would've liked,
but there's nothing we can do about that. To prepare for it, I want you to
remember everything you learned here today about anchors and practise as much
as you can during the week. If at any point you don't think you can keep a
handle on your wolves, I want you to call me or find Stiles as soon as possible
and we'll help you from there. But I'm honestly not too worried about that.
After school on Friday, you both need to be at my loft before dark so Chris and
I can get you restrained. You'll be there all night, so Lydia, you'll need to
come up with a cover story to tell your parents."
She shoots him a look as if to say, "Well, duh."
A few minutes later, once Lydia and Allison have been dismissed, everyone but
Derek and Stiles leaves for their cars, Chris' praise for his daughter carrying
back to them on the breeze. Stiles finally hops down from the tree and
approaches Derek, an odd feeling of anticipation surging through his body when
the alpha turns to him with an expectant eyebrow raised. He walks until he gets
close enough to smell the arousing musk of Derek's sweat, to see where the grey
material of his tank top is stained dark across his chest, back and underarms,
and then moves closer still, powerless to resist the pull he feels in his gut.
"You ready to go, too?" he asks once there is a single foot between them.
"Yeah, I guess," Derek responds.
As they set off for the Camaro, Stiles finds himself sticking so close to
Derek's side that their hands brush against each other with every step.
"So...what're your plans for the day?"
"I don't really have any."
"None?"
"Just a shower, I suppose. I need one."
"I guess," Stiles says, then adds quietly, "I'm not complaining..."
Derek grins, tickled. "Oh, really? Does it do something for you, me being like
this?"
"You could say that."
"Interesting..." Derek smirks, humming as he theatrically taps his right index
finger against his chin. Stiles rolls his eyes at him but is unable to fight
the matching smile that forms on his lips, very much enjoying Derek's playful
side. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Could come in handy."
"Whatever you say, big guy."
Ten minutes later, the Camaro comes into view, by itself now. Chris Argent
leans casually against it. "There you are," he says, pushing away from the car
as Derek and Stiles emerge from the trees. "I wanted to talk to you both in
private before I headed home, about something that's been worrying me for a
while." His face is tight and his intense blue eyes are serious. "It's about
Scott... Something needs to be done about him before it's too late. I know
you've had the same concerns, Derek, and I feel we're running out of time."
"What're you talking about?" Stiles demands.
"I'm talking about the danger of Scott becoming an omega," Chris says matter-
of-factly. "I have my suspicions about why it didn't happen while Peter was
still around, but that doesn't matter anymore. You are the alpha now, Derek,
and as the only alpha in this region that means Scott is your responsibility.
You're a good man, so I don't like to put you in this position, but you need to
make Scott fall in line before it's too late. If you can't make him submit to
you, then without a pack to temper his sanity, his behaviour will just get
worse and worse until he does something there's no coming back from. If that
happens... As much as I don't want to, I'll have to do my job and stop him, by
any means necessary." He lets his warning hang ominously in the air as the
gravity of the situation registers to Derek and Stiles, the latter's face
contorting in horror. "Like I said, time is of the essence here. I'll give you
a week. I truly hope you succeed."
With that, Chris turns and walks away.
***** It's for Your Own Good *****
- Sunday, February 13th, 2011 -
Derek's phone blares from beneath his pillow at eight in the morning, telling
him it's time he get up. He really doesn't want to. The night was long and
fitful, spent getting only a few minutes of rest at a time. Chris Argent's
warning kept ringing in his ears, reminding him of the quandary with which he
has been burdened. He'd given up on sleep at around 2 a.m. and had just lain
there wide awake, tracking the shadows cast by the moon as they travelled
slowly with each passing hour across the loft's cold concrete floor. He had
mixed feelings about what he should do, feelings it had taken an age to sort
through. On one hand, Derek despises Scott with every fibre of his being,
thinks everybody's lives would be greatly improved without the bilious beta
around to sully them. He has watched from the sidelines as Scott's treatment of
Stiles got progressively worse. Even before he and Stiles became what they are
now, he thought Scott's attitude was unjust and the animalistic side of him
wanted to rip the boy to shreds every time he dared open his big mouth. Now,
the idea of having Scott in his pack, of having to be around each other for
hours at a time each week, makes his skin crawl. But, despite what he feels are
very good arguments for the opposite, he doesn't think it would be right if
Scott were killed, not when he can do something to prevent it.
With a sigh Derek rolls his tired body out of bed and takes a minute to
stretch. He raises his arms high and twists his torso from side to side to work
out the kinks that developed from lying for so long in one position, groaning
as his joints pop and his muscles burn pleasantly. Then, feeling less like
death, he pads into the bathroom to wash up, scratching absentmindedly across
his bare stomach as he goes.
The bathroom has already come a long way.
Already Derek has running water, a working boiler, and a new shower, toilet and
sink. He stands in front of the latter and looks at his reflection in the
mirror he'd screwed into the brick wall above it late last night. His eyes are
bloodshot with huge bags beneath them, obvious signs of how sleep-deprived he
is, but there's nothing he can do about that now. Shaking his head, Derek moves
over to the shower and switches it on. It sputters to life, cold water
cascading out of the shower head to hammer against the basin. Holding his hand
beneath the spray, he waits for the water to heat up to the right temperature
and, when steam is finally billowing out a short while later, kicks off his
black boxer-briefs and steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The
hot water hitting his shoulders feels blessedly rejuvenating, like a gentle
massage. He tilts his head back to wet his hair and then simply stands there,
stock-still with his eyes closed.
The shower is a vast improvement over what he'd had to go through to wash when
he was squatting at his old house. He doesn't know how he managed then and is
thankful now that he no longer has to. Life's simple pleasures, he thinks as he
blinks open his eyes, his few moments of indulgence over. Grabbing the shower
gel he keeps in the shower caddy hung on a hook on the wall, he soaps up his
newly energised body quickly and efficiently, then works the unscented shampoo
he favours into his dark hair. The water carries the combined lather down the
drain and leaves him feeling squeaky clean.
He grabs the only towel he owns on his way out.
Rubbing it over his head, Derek shuffles back into the main room and bends down
to search in his duffel bag for a fresh set of clothes. He finds to his dismay
that he only has one clean pair of underwear left and adds doing laundry to his
already-overlong mental To Do list, between buying himself a dresser and
talking more with Stiles about Scott. As he starts pulling the underwear on,
the sound of a car engine reaches his ears, getting closer and closer until it
idles in the old parking lot right outside the building. He isn't expecting
anybody, and there's never anyone in this part of town—maybe the occasional
homeless person in search of temporary refuge from the elements, but no one
who'd own a car. He pauses with his underwear halfway up his legs as car doors
slam and two people talk in hushed tones, one male and the other female. At
first, the voices are too quiet and far away for him to determine whether or
not he recognises them. But, as the two visitors move up through the floors
below him via the stairs and the talking gets clearer, he puts a face to the
louder of the two:
Erica.
Which means the male voice probably belongs to Boyd.
Derek wonders what the hell they could want.
Especially this early.
Hurriedly he yanks his underwear up the rest of the way, followed by a pair of
jeans, and is just pulling an old black Henley over his head when the two
teenagers arrive at the door to his loft. One of them knocks and so, wearing a
half confused, half annoyed frown, Derek goes to answer.
Grabbing the handle, he slides the door open and is met with Erica's
determinedly hopeful face, the gleam in her eyes making him even more
suspicious. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail and she sports a glittery white
sweater paired with dark-brown corduroy trousers. Boyd stands just behind her
in a plain sky-blue T-shirt and black jeans, hands thrust in the pockets, but
unlike his girlfriend his face is expressionless, giving nothing away. "What
are you two doing here?" Derek asks, keeping his hand on the door to bar them
from entering. He doesn't want to let them in until he knows exactly what
they're after.
"We wanted to talk to you about something," Erica replies.
"I'm listening."
"Can we come in first?"
With a sigh, Derek grudgingly gestures for them to move past him and feels
marginally better when he receives an apologetic smile from Boyd. Once the door
is shut, he turns back to the room to find that Erica has already made herself
at home. She sits casually on the sofa with one leg crossed over the other,
like they are old friends and she isn't intruding in a practical stranger's
home at an impolite hour. Derek glowers at her, but all he gets in return is an
unrepentant smirk. Boyd takes a seat next to Erica and looks around
inquisitively, nodding what Derek hopes is his approval a few seconds later.
When neither one of his unexpected guests seems to want to offer up an
explanation of their own accord, Derek huffs impatiently and moves to stand in
front of them, arms crossed over his chest as he stares sternly down at them.
"What do you want?" he demands, a little testily because he doesn't like having
his privacy disturbed without notice.
"We were wondering..." Erica starts, looking unsure of herself now.
Derek keeps pressing her. "Yes?"
"We want you to turn us."
"You...what?"
That wasn't what Derek had been expecting. At all.
He loses all traces of annoyance, shock taking over as his eyes become round
and his arms fall to his sides. When he realises he is quite literally gaping,
Derek coughs awkwardly and wrestles back control of his face, then takes a seat
on the edge of the coffee table, facing Erica and Boyd. "Have you thought this
through?" he asks warily, leaning his elbows on his knees. "It's not a walk in
the park."
"We know that already. Lydia almost killed us, remember?" Erica points out,
making a face like she thinks Derek is stupid. "Of course we've thought it
through. Ever since we found about you guys earlier this week it's been all I
can think about. We're not asking you this lightly. I'm not sure how much you
know, but I'm epileptic. Have been for years now. It's almost completely
debilitating," she looks down, revealing how sensitive a subject this is for
her, "to the point where I'm incapacitated for days after each seizure. I'm
hardly allowed to do anything because of it. I can't even take my stupid
driver's test because it's, and I quote, 'too dangerous'. I don't want to spend
the rest of my life like that. I want to learn to drive. I want to not be
terrified of seizing in public and being humiliated, of bastards spreading
videos of me pissing myself because I lose control of my bladder and then
laughing about it to my face. So yeah, I want you to turn me. I know being a
werewolf won't be easy at first, and there's obviously a lot about all of this
that I don't know yet, pack dynamics or whatever. But it would cure me and
after a while, as far as anyone else knew, I would be a normal teenager, doing
normal teenager-y things. And no one could give me shit again." Her grin is
almost disturbing. "I know you wouldn't let me hurt anyone, like you didn't let
Lydia hurt us."
Derek is a little dazed by everything he has just been told, isn't sure how to
respond. What can he do to attenuate the sadness and anger Erica is feeling,
brought on by years of being spurned by her peers? Nothing, that's what. He
lacks the skills for something like this, so he lets Boyd do the work for him.
The right decision, because the unspeaking boy wrapping an arm around her is
all it takes, likely because it's Boyd doing the embracing. Derek seriously
doubts his own arm would've had the same effect—it seems like Stiles is the
only person with whom he can communicate effectively in situations such as
this. He wonders how long it will take him to cultivate that ease with other
people, how steep a learning curve he will have to scale.
Pretty damn steep, probably.
Bully for him.
"I'm good," Erica says after a minute, smiling gratefully at Boyd.
The placid boy takes his arm back.
"What about you, Boyd?" Derek asks. "What are your reasons for wanting this?"
"I'm lonely," Boyd responds, his face displaying no emotion but his voice
giving away how sad this really makes him. Derek finds himself empathising as
he listens, thinking back to the time he'd spent in New York without anyone to
really talk to—not that he'd wanted to talk back then, anyway. "I don't have
any friends, besides Erica and maybe now you and Stiles. Never have. I'm not
close with my family, either. I just think it would be nice, y'know? To be a
part of something like this."
"You can still be in the pack while human, you know. Like Stiles."
"I figured. But still."
Derek cocks his head to the side. "But you want to be a werewolf anyway."
"Yes."
"I'm not sure..." Derek says honestly, rising to his feet to begin pacing back
and forth. He catches sight of Erica and Boyd's disappointed expressions and
explains further. "This decision doesn't just affect me, it affects everyone in
the pack—Stiles, Allison, Lydia...even Melissa and all the other parents. So
I'll need to get their input before I decide one way or the other. The bite is
a gift. My mom taught me that it's never something that should be given
lightly. She only ever turned one person the whole time she was my alpha, and
even then it was only because they would've died otherwise. Allison and Lydia
are unusual cases. They were turned against their will, before they were made
aware of absolutely everything it would entail so they could make an informed
decision. I don't think they would've come to me if they'd had a choice, and I
wouldn't have said yes unless they gave me a very good reason. Your reasons are
good, I think. Good enough. But I'm still not going to say yes today. I need
time to think. That's the best answer I can give you for now."
Erica and Boyd take this better than Derek thought they would.
Erica is obviously disappointed—Boyd hides it better—but, even though this is
something they desperately want, neither teenager protests or pushes him for
more. To Derek this shows a patience he thinks would benefit the pack,
especially if he manages to bring Scott into the fold. Erica and Boyd take
their leave a few minutes later, following more assurances that they are
welcome in the pack even if the answer is no. After the door closes, Derek
listens to the sound of the car they came in fade into nothing as they drive
away, then slips on his shoes and leather jacket in preparation for leaving the
loft himself.
He has work to do.
                                     * * *
Just before six in the evening, Derek sits in the Camaro with Stiles in the
passenger seat. The boy had shown up at the loft at a little past noon, after
he'd finished filling out applications for any shop in town that was looking
for part-time help. Derek was halfway through skimming the first wall in what
will soon become his kitchen and, when Stiles had offered it, was glad to have
assistance. As they worked together to achieve smooth spackling, Derek had
brought up the sensitive subject of Scott and relayed the conclusion he'd come
to that morning, which is what lead them to where they are now—parked in a
shadowy corner of the clinic's small back parking lot, waiting for Scott to
finish up his current shift so they can, in effect, ambush him. It's not the
subtlest or most anodyne of plans, Derek knows, but neither he nor Stiles think
Scott will respond to anything less and they both want to get this
confrontation over with sooner rather than later. The clock on the dashboard
creeps slowly closer to 6:00 p.m., the time at which Scott's shift should end.
Around a large mouthful of his sandwich—they'd stopped off at Subway on the way
there, where Derek bought them a bacon and chicken melt to share—Stiles
comments to Derek's amusement that it's almost like they are on a stakeout,
waiting to see evidence of shady dealings so they can catch their suspect red-
handed.
"I guess you could look it that way," Derek responds, eyes locked on the door
that serves as the back entrance to the clinic. Scott's bike is locked up tight
next to it. "I doubt, or hope, that this'll be as exciting, though." He glances
at Stiles and, when he sees the large smear of mayonnaise on the boy's chin,
pulls out a napkin from the plastic bag the sandwich came in and holds it out.
"Here, you might want to use this."
Stiles takes it gratefully and wipes his chin clean. "Thanks."
"Anytime."
"Can you hear anything?"
Derek shakes his head, frowning, as Stiles shoves the last piece of his dinner
in his mouth and chews obnoxiously. "No. It seems that Deaton has upped his
precautions against werewolves. He probably did it after we broke in looking
for an antidote," he surmises, taking the sandwich wrapper from Stiles and
balling it up. It gets shoved inside the plastic Subway bag and tossed into the
backseat to be disposed of later. "Not all of us are friendly, as I'm sure
Peter helped you figure out, so I can't hear what's going on inside and
probably couldn't enter without permission either. A smart move, really. You
never know."
"True. How do you think Scott will react to this?" Stiles asks.
"You tell me. You know him better than I do."
"Not anymore, I don't. He's completely different to how he used to be."
"You mean he's a dick?"
Stiles chuckles. "To put it bluntly."
"Hopefully he'll calm down again soon."
"Hopefully... Things'll never be like they were, though."
The conversation drops there and, as Stiles fiddles with his phone, Derek
returns to staring at the back entrance. The clock reads 18:01, so Scott should
come out any moment now, unsuspecting of what he's walking into. It takes three
more minutes until that happens, and Derek is just unbuckling his seatbelt when
he sees a second boy exit the building with an expensive-looking camera slung
around his neck. From this distance Derek can only make out his most prominent
features—he has short brown hair and a slim build, comes to about the same
height as Scott, and his skin looks paler than Stiles' under the bright light
that shines from above the back door to the clinic. An animal carrier dangles
from his right hand, presumably containing a cat or some other small pet, and
the way he converses easily with Scott as Scott unlocks his bike speaks of a
relationship deeper than just a vet's assistant and a stranger bringing in
their pet to be checked over. A friend from school, perhaps. A quick look to
his right tells Derek that Stiles is just as baffled as he is.
Not caring about this tiny kink in their plan, Derek shoves open his door and
gets out, drawing the attention of both Scott and his mysterious new friend.
Stiles gets out after him, and together they approach the other pair. Scott's
eyes turn hard and angry as soon as they land on Derek, his expression
indignant, whereas the strange boy just looks between the three of them
worriedly, his grip tightening around the animal carrier and his other hand
coming up to clutch at his camera as if he is afraid of Derek purloining it
from him.
"What the hell are you two doing here?" Scott demands.
"We just want to talk," Derek offers.
"Not interested. Get lost."
"As much as I would like to, I can't do that."
Still looking warily at Derek, the strange boy takes a step back in an attempt
to distance himself from the situation, an action that has the opposite effect.
Derek stares at him and crosses his arms, showing off his impressive muscles.
The boy gulps nervously and takes another step back.
"Scott, who are these people?" he asks, shaking.
"This doesn't concern you. Leave!" Derek commands before Scott can reply. The
alpha wolf inside is in no mood to play around, not after Scott's continued
rudeness and disrespect, and as a result he barely prevents his eyes from
flashing red. His top lip still curls back in a snarl, however, one that would
send even the deadliest of predators running for the hills. The nameless boy
doesn't fare any better—he shoots Scott a quick glance, the spark in his blue
eyes betraying a fear for his own safety instead of Scott's, and then hightails
it. The animal carrier swings wildly by his side as he runs, and Derek gets the
distinct whiff of cat before it fades away again, evaporated by the cool,
gentle breeze that ruffles his dark hair and tries in vain to penetrate the
protection of his leather jacket. Scott yells after his friend—who is
apparently named Matt—but the other boy doesn't stop, not until he reaches the
only car Derek remembers seeing in the clinic's front lot and throws himself
inside. Matt is gone twenty seconds later and, without their interloper, Derek
turns his attention once more to Scott, who lours back at him with a hint of
gold in his irises. Derek, confident that he can handle whatever Scott throws
at him, is undeterred: "Now, back to business. We need to talk to you about
what will happen if you don't stop resisting me and accept the place I'm
offering you in my pack."
"I don't have time for this crap," Scott snarls. "Just leave me alone."
He tries to barrel past Derek to his bike.
Not a good move.
Fisting his hand in the front of Scott's shirt to stop him from escaping, Derek
crowds the infuriating beta roughly backward until he has him immured against
the wall. Scott attempts to break free, but to Derek these attempts are no more
effective than if Scott were a fly trying to find its way out of a sealed glass
jar. He is faintly aware of Stiles hovering uncertainly a couple of feet away
but doesn't take his eyes off of his captive, who continues to squirm against
him and claws at the arm he holds implacably across his neck. There is
something missing behind Scott's eyes, a viciousness to his actions that speaks
of a lack of awareness. Derek knows he has pushed the teenager over the edge of
his ever-dwindling control.
"Stop. Fighting!" Derek roars, infusing his voice with every inch of his alpha
authority. Scott fights for another few seconds before seeming to give up, his
body going limp, though a barely audible growl comes from deep in his heaving
chest. Derek grabs Scott's chin and jerks his head up until wild eyes meet red
ones, then lets go but keeps his arm in place. "Do you understand what I'm
saying?"
An almost imperceptible nod.
"OK. Now listen good, because I won't give you this chance again," Derek says
around his fangs. "If you don't accept your place in my pack, you will die. And
I won't be the one to kill you. You must have noticed it, how you're losing
yourself more and more every day to the wolf? Even you can't be that dense."
Shame and self-disgust flit across Scott's features, giving Derek his answer.
"That won't stop until you submit to me. A werewolf needs a pack; without one
he'll lose his mind entirely, become feral. A lost cause, that's what you'll
be, probably soon, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Your behaviour has
also caught Chris' attention, and he gave me a warning after the training
session you couldn't be bothered to come to yesterday morning: either I make
you shape up and integrate yourself into my pack so you have those bonds to
keep you grounded, or he takes care of you instead. D'you know what that
means?"
Another nod, during which Scott's scared human features resurface.
"Good," Derek says.
He steps back, releasing the boy.
"I'm not the monster you seem to think I am. I'm not my uncle. The choice is
still yours, and I can tell you're not ready to make it now. You have a few
days to think over what I've just told you, and on Friday I expect you to be at
my loft for the full moon. Chris will be there, too, to help with Lydia and
Allison, but if you submit to me and take your place, he won't hurt you and we
can try to move on from everything you've done. This can be a good thing if you
let it be. If you don't show up, then Chris will kill you before you become an
omega, and I'll let him. I hope for the sakes of Allison and your mom that you
make the right choice."
Leaving Scott slumped against the wall, Derek turns on his heel and walks back
to the Camaro. Stiles spends an extra second looking sadly at his quondam
friend before following, his expression uneasy as he straps himself back into
the passenger seat. "You OK?" Derek asks.
"Yeah, I guess," Stiles replies softly.
"You sure?"
"Mmm... I just know I'm gonna worry all week."
"I understand. There's nothing we can do now, though."
Stiles releases a breath. "So, what's next?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, I am," Stiles says with a mischievous grin.
Derek regards him curiously. "Oh?"
"Yup. Wanna make out?"
***** Kickstarting the Recovery *****
- Monday, February 14th, 2011 -
The large stuffed wolf, with bright green eyes and fur the same colour as
Derek's hair, sits on its haunches in the middle of the McCalls' coffee table,
the Valentine's Day gift that Stiles—after much, much deliberation—had bought
for Derek. He'd had a shock when he walked into school that morning and saw all
the decorations plastered about, fuchsia hearts and winged cherubs with tiny
bows and arrows in their chubby hands. In previous years Stiles had stubbornly
paid the holiday as little mind as possible. He'd never had any reason not to,
had no one with whom he could spend it. This year, though, he'd realised with
his heart beating a mile a minute that maybe he did, and his head was filled
with endless questions as he sat in his first class: Would Derek get him
anything? Should he get Derek something? Were they at that stage in their
relationship yet? Would Derek even want anything if they were? Stiles didn't
think Derek seemed the type to care, but appearances can be deceiving. After
all, when they'd officially met a couple of months ago Stiles never would've
guessed that Derek was capable of being as kind and understanding as he has
been since they got closer. Then, at lunch, Lydia had plopped herself down in
the chair opposite his in the cafeteria and made it her business to pry. She'd
expertly wheedled his concerns out of him, before telling him he was a moron.
He should just go for it, she said.
And if Derek didn't like whatever he got him, then screw him.
That was how Stiles got to where he is now, thirty dollars poorer and staring
into the wolf's green eyes, second-guessing his choice. He was so sure as he'd
stood in line to pay that Derek would find the wolf funny, but what if he
thought wrong? Maybe Derek will hate it, be offended by it. The last thing
Stiles wants is to put him in a position where he feels he has to lie to spare
his feelings.
Keeping his mind as empty as he can to avoid more doubts, Stiles hops into his
Jeep and drives across town to Derek's loft. He finds the lot outside
empty—Derek is presumably elsewhere, maybe getting more things for the ongoing
renovations within—so after parking he fumbles in the glove compartment for a
scrap piece of paper and a pen and, with the wolf tucked under his arm, marches
into the insalubrious building. He is still a little distrustful of the
elevator, but ever since his first trip with Derek hadn't ended with them being
flattened into pancakes, his willingness to make use of the contraption has
slowly been increasing. He feels only mildly perturbed now as he steps inside
the cab and waits patiently for it to rattle its way up to the top floor.
Derek's door is closed but unlocked when Stiles arrives outside it—does it even
have a lock, he wonders—so he enters straight away, hoping that Derek won't be
angry he let himself in.
As he thought, Derek is nowhere to be found.
Walking across the room to the immaculately made bed, Stiles places the stuffed
wolf on top of one of the pillows, a place where it will be unmissable. On the
scrap paper he tries to write a short note to go with it but nothing good
comes. He messily crosses out several lines of inelegantly worded text before
settling on something short and sweet. The final message apprises Derek of what
the wolf is for, assures him that he shouldn't feel pressured to get him
something in return if he doesn't want to, and that Stiles won't be hurt if he
doesn't want to keep it. After reading the note a couple more times to make
absolutely certain it will do, Stiles folds the paper in half and tucks it
beneath one of the stuffed wolf's paws, along with the receipt.
He hopes the latter won't be needed.
                                     * * *
Later that evening, Stiles sits in the living room of Melissa's house with one
of his favourite sitcoms playing quietly in the background. He checks his phone
periodically, but repeatedly he sees nothing but his lock screen wallpaper.
Though he doesn't want to be, Stiles is troubled, feels insecure. He hasn't
heard from Derek all day, and the idea that his gift might be the reason
niggles at him, manifests as an annoying voice in the back of his mind that
gets louder as time wears on. It drowns out the rational part of his brain,
which reasons that Derek has probably just been busy, maybe hasn't even been
home yet. He can't concentrate for long on the events playing out on the
television, and soon he's forced to give up and switch it off in favour of just
sitting there and drowning in his thoughts. They don't make for good company
and eventually, after mentally giving himself a pep talk, Stiles picks up his
phone to get in touch with Derek first. Of course, the moment he decides to be
proactive is the moment he finally receives the text he'd wanted all afternoon:
You at home?
Stiles types out a quick affirmative and waits.
A response comes quickly:
Getting food. Any preference?
Once Derek has been informed of the importance of curly fries, Stiles lays his
phone on the coffee table and waits. He doesn't have to sit there for too long,
as just fifteen minutes later he hears the familiar rumble of the Camaro
outside, and then Derek is letting himself in the front door with a large
plastic bag in hand. Stiles' stomach growls audibly when the smell of what's
held within reaches his nose.
"Hey," he greets as he stands, smiling shyly.
Derek echoes the sentiment.
Moving into the kitchen, Derek puts the bag on the counter and, taking the two
plates Stiles hands him, dishes out all the food. It doesn't escape Stiles'
notice that his plate ends up piled with considerably more curly fries than
Derek's, an observation that makes him grin to himself while Derek's back is
turned. Once everything is ready, they grab their respective meals and
condiments from the fridge and head back into the living room. Derek takes off
his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the sofa, then takes a seat
next to Stiles, who has already gotten stuck in to his late dinner. "So..."
Derek says, unable to prevent himself from chuckling when his young companion
stops eating and looks up at him with an impressive amount of curly fries
hanging out of his mouth. It's a ridiculous sight. "You got me a stuffed wolf,
huh?"
"Uhh...yeah?" Stiles swallows. "Did you... Didn't you like it?"
"I might've found it amusing."
"Oh. Well, good."
"I hope this is enough to reciprocate."
Stiles frowns confusedly, so Derek elaborates:
"This, the food and stuff. I wasn't sure if you'd want something more..."
With a shake of his head, Stiles curbs Derek's worry. "No, this is great!" he
effuses, blathering on in a seemingly endless stream that the wolf has trouble
keeping up with. He continues stuffing curly fries in his mouth as he talks,
inadvertently spraying small flecks of warm potato across the carpet that make
Derek scrunch up his nose in distaste. Stiles doesn't notice. "I've never
thought of you as someone who'd be comfortable making grand gestures or PDA or
whatever, and I love spending time alone with you anyway. So yeah, I think this
is perfect. To be honest, I don't think I'd be comfortable with gestures like
that either. Fancy dinners and expensive gifts aren't really for me, especially
not now, when I have so many eyes on me." His tone becomes briefly sprinkled
with annoyance but then returns to normal. "I'm happy just knowing you care
enough to do this. Thrilled, even. I wasn't sure we would do anything at all
since we haven't been in this for long. When I remembered what day it was I
thought about just ignoring it, but then Lydia talked me into buying you
something. I was pretty nervous about it but I'm glad I listened to her now."
"Me, too," Derek offers.
They grin at each other like idiots then return to their food.
                                     * * *
With their stomachs fit to burst, Stiles and Derek migrate up to the guest
bedroom and sit next to each other at the head of the bed, propped up against
the pillows. Stiles' head rests on Derek's shoulder, his breathing relaxed and
slow, as an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer plays on the TV. It's been a
long time since he has watched the series and, as a result, when he'd started
from the beginning again a few months ago everything felt new to him, all the
twists and turns shocking and exciting him as much as they must have the first
time he witnessed them. Derek hadn't watched the series at all but said he
didn't mind jumping in near the end of the penultimate season, with Stiles
garrulously running through all he knows of the characters' histories so that
he isn't completely lost. All is calm until halfway through the episode.
When Spike enters the Summers' bathroom right as Buffy is drawing herself a
bath, Stiles feels a sense of unease. He doesn't immediately know why this
feeling comes over him, but as the scene progresses he recalls where it leads
and his heart starts beating faster and breath seems harder to draw. Derek
registers that something is wrong and looks at him, apprehensive, but Stiles
just shakes his head and tries to soldier on. He holds up for all of ten
seconds, and then Spike tries to force himself on Buffy.
Stiles has to turn off the TV.
His hand shakes as he drops the television remote back to the bed.
Derek's eyes are sympathetic. "Stiles?"
"I forgot about that scene..." said boy mumbles.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah..." Stiles breathes. He twists his fingers together in his lap in an
attempt to expel some of the anxiety that courses through his system, a
sensation he knows well and hates for making him feel weak. Derek's hands cover
his before he can work himself up too much, and he releases a slow breath as
the adrenaline gradually leaves him, as his heartbeat returns to normal and the
tightness in his chest eases off. When he has calmed sufficiently, Stiles
smiles fleetingly at Derek, then gets up off the bed and goes across the hall
to the bathroom to be alone, embarrassment now taking over. He stands there
thinking for a minute, and then he is struck by an epiphany: He shouldn't be
embarrassed about this. It was a natural reaction, he tells himself, one Derek
understands. Shaking his head at himself, Stiles is filled with cast-iron
determination when memories of Peter try again to assault him, to bring him
once more under their thrall. He knows what he has to do. Reentering his
bedroom, he sits down next to Derek and, feeling Derek's solicitous eyes on
him, fills the silence. "I think I'm ready to tell you about...about that
night, and what Peter did to me."
"OK," Derek says softly. "Take your time."
"He wanted me to help him find you, track your phone with stuff he'd stolen,"
Stiles begins, his gaze trained on the now-lifeless TV screen. Everything he
says comes out in a rush, like if he stops for even a second he'll clam up,
losing nerve he will never regain. "He made all the normal threats and took me
to that old-ass car park. I did what he wanted with the hope that he would
leave me alone after. But he didn't. Once I told him where Kate was keeping
you, he offered me the bite, said he'd rather have me as his beta than Scott. I
told him to go to Hell, lied and said I wasn't afraid of him. He didn't react
well. Before I knew what was happening I was on the ground and he was on top of
me, his claws digging into my ribs."
Stiles' eyes water as he talks.
But he refuses to cry.
"I thought he was going to kill me," he continues, "but then... But then he
ripped my pants off and I realised what he was really going to do. I fought
him, tried to buck him off, but alpha werewolf versus scrawny teenage boy. You
can do the math. He kept rambling. I didn't catch a lot of it—I was too shocked
that this was actually happening to me—but I caught some. He was angry and said
it was like an eye for eye, like what he was doing to me was some sort of
twisted justice for what he thought you'd stolen from him. He flipped me over
onto my front and pinned me down so he could start preparing me. I felt so
helpless, so fucking violated. I couldn't think, could only lie there. I never
want to feel that weak again..." He trails off and laughs humourlessly as he
wipes at his eyes, then sobers quickly. "Right as he was about to unzip his
pants, I remembered something Lydia said when she asked me to the dance. She
gave me wolfsbane and told me to keep it on me at all times. I did. That's what
saved me. I chucked it right in his smug face."
Stiles sniffles as he turns his gaze to Derek.
"Then he left, and that was that."
Derek doesn't respond right away.
He is so enraged that his body visibly quakes and his eyes are as cold as
stone. When he finally speaks, his voice is equally cold: "I wish I could've
killed him more slowly for what he did to you. Getting his throat ripped out
was too good a death for him," he seethes, his hands clenched into fists on his
knees.
"Yeah..."
Derek snaps himself out of it.
"Thank you for telling me," he says. "I know it can't have been easy."
Stiles hums sombrely. "It wasn't, but I had to tell someone."
"Did it help?"
"Yeah. I can't ever erase it, but it's like this weight's been lifted, y'know?"
"I do. I felt the same after I told Laura about Kate."
Stiles smiles tiredly. "C'mon, we need to lighten the mood a bit."
"How?"
Stiles holds out his hand. "Pull my finger."
                                     * * *
Stiles awakens a few hours later and is for a moment disoriented. He's unsure
how he got where he is, lying on his side with Derek's arms wrapped around him
from behind. The main light is still on, as is the TV, so when his sleep-addled
mind catches up he deduces that he and Derek must have accidentally drifted off
sometime after their talk. The TV remote is on the bed right in front of him,
so after pressing the Off button he decides that he's far too comfortable to
move and wiggles back into the warmth of Derek's embrace. But the soft,
rumbling groan his wolf releases when his ass brushes up against something long
and hard has him sucking in a sharp breath and his mind racing. With wide eyes,
Stiles stares at the wall and processes this new development. His immediate
instinct is to move away from the erection pressed against his ass, the
position too reminiscent of his time with Peter. But he doesn't. He stays where
he is and tells himself that this is completely different. He's with Derek, and
Peter is dead and rotting, unable to hurt anyone ever again. He couldn't be
safer, and with the weight of Peter's actions lifted from his shoulders, he
supposes that now is as good a time as any to start truly moving past what
happened. Trying not to jostle him, Stiles glances over his shoulder to check
if Derek is still asleep—he is—and, tentatively, pushes his hips back.
This gets Stiles another groan, and then Derek starts moving with him. The
alpha unconsciously grinds his clothed erection against Stiles' ass and
tightens his arms, sexy little huffing sounds escaping his mouth with every
movement. It goes on for a minute or so as Derek slowly wakes up but then, just
as Stiles' dick is joining the party, it ends abruptly when Derek realises
what's happening and goes rigid.
"Oh God, Stiles... I'm so sorry."
Derek attempts to move away, so Stiles turns around and grabs his arm.
"Don't, Sourwolf. You didn't do anything wrong," he says.
Derek looks unsure. "But-"
"No, just listen. I'm fine, and I want this. I really, really want this."
"But what about Peter? Isn't this a bit...fast?"
"Hey, I'm not saying I wanna have full-on sex," Stiles avows. "You're right; I
don't think I could handle that yet." He shuffles around until he's lying on
his back, then takes advantage of Derek's distracted state to pull him on top.
Derek, his mouth parted in surprise, appears unable to resist as he is moved
onto his knees above the teen, hands ending up on either side of Stiles' head.
Stiles grins up at him and traces his index finger teasingly along the neck of
his shirt, dipping beneath the fabric to just barely make contact with the
tanned skin it covers. In a reaction that fascinates Stiles, this simple touch
causes Derek's eyes to slip closed and an intense shudder to rack through his
entire body. He does it again and grins when Derek shudders a second time. "I
meant it when I said I want to move past what he did to me, and part of that is
getting physical with you. So we'll take baby steps. I want you, and I don't
see a problem with a little dry humping now, do you?"
Stiles parts his legs before Derek can respond, causing the alpha to slip
between them and their groins to finally connect. He tips his head back with a
moan, satisfied because he finally has some friction where he wants it most,
whereas Derek tips his head forward with his eyes clenched shut and releases a
harsh breath across Stiles' exposed neck. For a few blessed moments they grind
against each other, both of them caught up in the pleasurable stimulation, but
then, when Stiles curls his legs around the backs of Derek's thighs and tries
to coax him into moving with more force, Derek becomes inexorably still.
"What's wrong?" Stiles gasps, already breathless.
The wolf lifts his head but doesn't speak.
When he cracks open his eyes, they shine alpha-red.
"Der? Speak to me."
"I... I don't want to lose control."
Stiles frowns and cups his hand around the left side of Derek's bearded jaw, an
intimate gesture. "Why are you scared? You've never been scared of that before
now, right?"
"No... Not until recently."
"What changed?"
"I'm an alpha now," Derek says, breaking eye contact and staring instead down
at Stiles' chest. His fangs create a lisp that Stiles definitely doesn't find
cute. Not at all. "That comes with more powerful instincts, remember? And then
there's the fact that you're my mate. All of that's made it hard to keep
control when..." Derek trails off, unable to go into more detail as his cheeks
and ears turn red, too.
"You lose control when..." Stiles echoes.
It takes him a second to get it.
And then:
"Oh! When you...yeah. OK, gotcha."
Derek keeps his eyes averted out of embarrassment.
That just won't do.
"Tell me about it," Stiles requests, hoping to recharge the sexual atmosphere
that has fast been dissipating because of Derek's hesitation. Now that
something is finally happening he doesn't want to stop, so he urges his wolf to
look at him again with a finger beneath his chin and, when Derek just seems
confused, goes on with a cheeky grin. Once he starts he can't stop, just looks
up into conflagrant eyes that soon turn lustful: "When you jerk off—which, by
the way, you'll be doing for me sometime soon, because that sounds hot as
fuck—what do you think about? Do you think about me? Because I think about you.
Or did. I haven't really been in the mood lately, but that's gonna change real
quick after tonight. Do you wanna know what I thought about, all the different
ways I imagined us fucking? 'Cause there were a lot—in my bed; in your bed; up
against a wall; on the hood of your car; in the backseat of my Jeep... I lost
count a long time ago. I thought about how you'd be, if you'd take me hard and
fast or if you'd be soft and sweet. I thought about you sucking me off, or me
sucking you off, about what your come would taste like. You'd get so into it
that you couldn't stop yourself from wolfing out, and I'd be surprised at first
but then it would be so hot that I'd beg you to go harder, faster, to really
give it to me. We'd fuck over and over until we got so tired we couldn't go any
more."
A low growling sound emanates from deep within Derek's chest, catching Stiles'
attention. Derek's eyes are hooded, peering down at him like he just wants to
gobble him up. Stiles is more than willing and, with a hand around the back of
Derek's neck, pulls him down until their lips crash together. Kissing messily,
teeth clacking, Derek starts moving his hips again in slow, filthy rolls that
have Stiles' eyes rolling back in his head. He needs more, is desperate to
come, so he clamps his legs around Derek's muscular thighs and pushes himself
up into the rock-hard cock that grinds down against his own.
They find an easy rhythm.
His hands tangling in the back of Derek's shirt, nails digging into the
shifting muscle beneath, Stiles wrenches his mouth away and sucks in great
lungfuls of air as his orgasm builds fast in his gut. Derek seems to envelop
him completely, like a wall that blocks out everything else. Stiles is
effectively trapped, but he doesn't care at all—he loves it, in fact, isn't
frightened for even a second, because it's Derek and he knows that, if he told
him to, Derek would stop in a heartbeat. Flinging his head back, Stiles feels
the scrape of Derek's beard across his neck as the wolf sucks and nips at the
vulnerable skin with sharp teeth, marking him for the whole world to see.
Stiles is faintly aware that he'll have one hell of a hickey come morning, one
he'll wear with pride. With another roll of his hips, Derek has Stiles' vision
going white as his orgasm crests, his toes curling as his balls draw up and his
cock shoots jets of sticky come within the confines of his underwear.
Derek isn't far behind.
With a loud, almost anguished howl, the alpha comes, too, somehow retaining
just enough brain power in the throes of passion to move his head at the last
second and sink his fangs deep into the pillows instead of Stiles' neck. He
bucks his hips wildly as his orgasm overtakes him, pushes down hard in order to
prolong the pleasure, until it tapers off and his body is racked with small
aftershocks.
Neither he nor Stiles move.
They both lack the energy or the desire to.
Stiles is content, squished under Derek's substantial weight.
He turns his head and buries his nose in his wolf's neck, breathing him in. The
scent of sweat and sex and Derek fills his nostrils, a wonderful smell that has
his dick twitching again with interest.
"Quit it," Derek rumbles, spitting out a large chunk of pillow.
"Quit what?"
"I can smell your arousal getting stronger."
"Relax, you grump. I'm just basking in the afterglow."
Derek moves off to the side with a grunt. "Liar."
Stiles rolls his eyes.
***** Under the Light of the Full Moon *****
- Friday, February 18th, 2011 -
Walking toward his first class of the day, Stiles makes it down a couple of
hallways before he comes across Jackson laughing with some of his supercilious
friends from the lacrosse team, with what is presumably a new girlfriend
hanging off his arm. The cynosure of this little group, Jackson juts his chin
out arrogantly when he sees who is approaching, as if he wants to reinforce to
Stiles just how much better he is than him, even without the status symbol of
Lydia next to him. Stiles rolls his eyes and breezes past them, not wanting to
get caught up in something so pointless, but then he hears something that gives
him pause:
"And then what happened?" the girl asks.
"Yeah, Jacks, don't leave us hangin'," one of the boys urges.
Stiles slows his gait.
"Well..." Jackson teases, cocky grin in place as he postures for his eager
audience. His nameless girlfriend—a girl with dull brown hair and a plain face
even when caked with makeup, not a patch on Lydia—twirls a lock of hair around
her index finger as she stares up at him adoringly, like she thinks he hung the
moon. Stiles finds it incredibly difficult to resist gagging at this display,
but then, when Jackson keeps talking, he has to put his energy into not
punching the blond's lights out. "That Lahey kid's lived across the street from
me for as long as I can remember, and he's been getting his ass handed to him
by his dad for most of that time. This was something else, though. I was taking
out the trash when I heard screaming and this great crash coming from their
house. The loser came stumbling out a few seconds later with this massive cut
on his head. It was so pathetic! I don't know why his dad hasn't just kicked
him out yet. It would serve him right. But then again, I think his dad makes
him work digging up graves or something, and from the state of his clothes I
don't think he sees any of the money. His dad takes it all, so who knows? Maybe
that extra income is enough of a reason to put up with him. Still, he's
pitiful. From what I've heard, I don't think he even tries to fight back! You
ask me, anyone that fucking weak deserves everything they get."
Feeling sick to his stomach, Stiles scurries on, away from the upsetting
conversation, until he reaches the next corridor over. This one is
substantially emptier of bodies and allows him a reprieve of sorts, in which he
racks his brain in search of a way forward. Jackson's words have struck a
chord, his own less-than-stellar relationship with the sheriff instantly
endearing this mysterious Lahey boy to him.
He needs to help however he can.
Stiles swears he has heard the name somewhere before, maybe seen it on the news
or something when the sheriff had it on. After thinking about it for longer
than he should—the bell rings as he stands there, informing him that he's going
to be late for class—a hazy memory comes into focus. A tragic event that
everyone in town gossiped about for months after the fact, he recalls that an
older boy named Camden Lahey died in combat many years back, and his dad, who
at the time was the coach of the high school swim team, sequestered himself
away in his house to grieve and has rarely been seen since. Camden had a
younger brother. Stiles can't think of his first name but, from the few times
they've bumped into each other around school, he knows that the other boy is
usually by himself, meek, apologetic, and always wears many unnecessary layers
and long-sleeved shirts. Armed with this new description of violence thanks to
Jackson, Stiles sees what he hadn't during any of his brief run-ins with this
unnamed boy, the abuse he must have been trying to cover up.
But what can he do?
His dad is out, for obvious reasons.
Maybe Derek, or Melissa.
"No..." he mumbles to himself, biting his thumbnail.
Melissa has enough on her plate, as does Derek with the betas.
Parrish?
Yeah, Parrish sounds like a good idea. The deputy was incredibly supportive
when he came over to the McCall house earlier in the week to see how things
were going. He would have come sooner, he said, but he'd wanted to give Stiles
a few days to settle in. He'd only stayed for about half an hour, and as he
left had assured Stiles that everyone down at the station had his back and
that, should Stiles ever need anything, all he had to do was ask. Hopeful that
this statement wasn't just perfunctory, Stiles pulls out his phone and composes
a text to the deputy, asking what can be done to help someone he suspects is
being abused.
                                     * * *
That evening, Derek stands in the parking lot outside his building and waits.
He has one eye on the horizon, watching as the sun sinks slowly in the blazing
sky, and the other on his phone to keep track of the time. 5:30, just twenty
minutes away from sundown. In a perfect world, the betas would have arrived
some time ago, ready to be chained up for the full moon. But he hadn't been
diligent enough last week to specify a time, and as a consequence they'll be
cutting it close this month. Already Derek can feel the thrall of the moon—it
seems stronger now that he's an alpha, redolent of his first few moons after
his wolf had emerged, an augury that he was about to begin his journey through
adolescence. Born werewolves always hit puberty early on, at 10 years old at
the latest, and he was no different. He'd struggled for a humiliatingly long
time under his mother's tutelage to attain and then maintain control, the
transient nature of his youthful mind making it difficult to find an anchor
that stuck. The moon is a lodestone, urging him via the tingling beneath every
inch of his skin to let loose and run wild, to cast off the shackles of human
morals and chase after what he wants. His wolf paces in his mind, already
raring to go, and it's by sheer force of will that he keeps it tethered. He
hopes he'll be well enough equipped to deal with his betas' paroxysms of
violence as well as his own.
Eventually, Derek hears the telltale rumble of engines in the distance, getting
closer until three vehicles join his Camaro in the otherwise empty lot. Allison
and Chris arrive together, both visibly edgy and wary of what is to come. Lydia
is more reserved, upholding a facade of confidence that almost covers up the
fact that she feels the same. And, lastly, Scott comes to a stop on his bike
and pulls off his helmet. It's clear to everyone, especially Derek, that he
doesn't want to be there, but Derek is glad.
It means a fragile détente has been reached.
As everyone gathers, another vehicle approaches.
Derek immediately recognises it.
Stiles in his Jeep.
With a deep frown, Derek steps forward as Stiles hops out.
"Yo, Sourwolf!" the boy greets cheerfully.
"Why are you here?" Derek asks gently, cutting right to the chase. He is very
much aware of the audience they have and doesn't want to draw this
unpleasantness out any more than he has to.
"What do you mean? Why wouldn't I be here?"
"It's too dangerous. You should go home."
Stiles takes umbrage at this, all traces of happiness leaving his face and his
voice. "That's ridiculous!" he demurs, flicking his eyes over to rest briefly
on the group of four which stands a few feet away. Each of them is looking
elsewhere, making such a show of pretending not to eavesdrop that it becomes
blatant that they are. Derek has half a mind to send them inside ahead of him,
but with the betas' supernatural hearing he knows that wouldn't achieve much,
if anything at all. There's nothing to be done about it, so when Stiles speaks
again he reluctantly returns to the task at hand. "I have just as much right to
be here as anyone else, and you of all people should know that. They're my
friends—well, except for Scott—and I want to help them get through this. Give
me one good reason why you're trying to send me away. Go on; I bet you can't."
Heaving a sigh, Derek looks dolefully at Stiles and offers up what he hopes
will be a cogent and tenable argument: "Stiles... I can't have you here and do
my job at the same time," he rationalises, putting a hand on the boy's
shoulder. "I promise this isn't about you. At least not how you think. I know
you're capable of taking care of yourself, but if you stay and something
happens with the betas, if one of them gets loose or worse... This is Lydia and
Allison's first full moon, and as their alpha I owe it to them to get them
through it unscathed." He pauses to peek back over his shoulder and then,
because he is uncomfortable with the others overhearing what he has to say
next, lowers his voice in the vain hope of it being enough to keep private this
part of their talk. "You know what you are to me. If things go wrong, I don't
think I'd be able to focus on anything but keeping you safe, and that will come
at the cost of everything else. Plus, you know it's hard for me to keep my cool
around you on a normal night. This is my first full moon, too, as an alpha, and
I don't think I could live with myself if I ended up hurting you. So please, if
not for your own safety, then for me, go home."
A rictus smile forms on Stiles' face. "Fine."
Derek sees right through it.
"Stiles..."
"No, it's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
Derek watches regretfully as the boy trots disconsolately back to his Jeep and
drives off again. He wishes things could be different, that he didn't have to
make Stiles feel excluded, but needs must. Maybe next month things will have
calmed down enough for Stiles to be present, and in the interim he resolves
that he'll try to make it up to him somehow. Following another sigh, Derek
casts those thoughts to the back of his mind and turns to face the remaining
teenagers with his head held high, his face a confident mask. "Right, let's get
down to the basement," he says. "I've already got everything set up, but we
don't have much time."
                                     * * *
"Tell me if they're too tight."
"Nah, they're OK."
"Good."
In the capacious basement, Derek steps back from the old mattress on which
Lydia sits in an old pair of jeans and a ratty T-shirt, satisfied that they're
ready to go. Her wrists are wrapped in cuffs, which are connected with heavy
chains to hooks screwed deep into the middle of one of the rough brick walls.
In the corners either side of her are Allison and Scott, both in similar
restraints, while Chris sits in a chair on the other side of the room with a
hunting rifle across his lap, loaded with enough tranquillisers to take down a
savage werewolf in seconds. After assiduously checking everybody's restraints
one last time, Derek stations himself next to the older man and leans against
the wall, his head tilted skyward as he feels the pull of the moon becoming
more profound with each passing second. The betas are clearly all feeling it,
too, shifting restlessly on their mattresses with looks of steely determination
on their faces. Derek is sure they'll put up a valiant effort to contain
themselves but, ultimately, those efforts will be for naught. No new werewolf,
especially those who are brand-new like Lydia and Allison, can masterfully
utilise their anchor under such strenuous circumstances. He has never really
had to help anybody else before—last month, Scott's first full moon, doesn't
count in his opinion, as he'd just knocked the young beta out before anything
even had a chance to happen.
This will be the first true test of Derek's skill as an alpha, a sink-or-swim
moment without anyone else there to keep him afloat. He has Chris, sure, but
the hunter is really just there as a last resort in case Derek fails to protect
his betas from themselves. He prays he has enough mettle to stand on his own
two feet under the weight of this responsibility, that he can get them all
through the night without incident.
"Here we go," Chris whispers, picking up his rifle.
The warning brings Derek out of his head. He finds the walls filled with low,
threatening growls, echoing all around as the impotent grip the betas have on
their anchors gets weaker and weaker. Six pinpricks of gold shine in the gloom,
all trained on him, and he in turn feels his own eyes flashing red, the alpha
in him instinctively responding to its betas. As Lydia and Allison both lose
themselves to the moon and pull violently at their bindings, biting and clawing
ineffectually at the clinking metal, Derek feels a pack mentality building
rapidly—he wants to break them free himself, for them to all escape the
confines of the basement and revel in nature, in blood and destruction. But,
determinedly, he concentrates on his own anchor in order to subjugate his wolf
and focus on what he's supposed to do. Only it doesn't work.
The battle of wills only becomes harder, his anchor not weighing his wolf down
at all. Derek panics now. Distantly he can sense Chris beside him, asking him
what's wrong, but he has no attention to spare. He curls his hands into fists
so that claws he is unable to put away tear into his palms, giving him
something to focus on. The pain helps, acts as a temporary respite that he uses
to figure out why he is having so much trouble. Anger has been his anchor since
the middle of his teenage years. Directed at himself, it reminded him of what
had happened what he'd acted impetuously in the past, of how dearly it had cost
him.
It was infallible in its potency.
So what's changed?
Maybe it isn't strong enough for an alpha wolf.
Either that, or it's the anchor itself that has changed.
"Derek!"
Whipping his head around at Chris' voice, it takes Derek a second to process
what he has missed. He sees Lydia pulling with all her might on her chains and
lumbers forward to stop her, but he doesn't reach her in time. The hook comes
free of the wall with a mighty crash, the bricks crumbling and orange dust
permeating the air. The three of them stand still. Derek and Chris are both
shocked—they'd been sure the restraints would be enough, but Lydia apparently
has more strength than they gave her credit for—while Lydia stares with
fascination down her clawed hands, like she, too, is surprised she was able to
break free. Then, with a loud triumphant roar she sprints for the exit. Chris
can't raise his gun in time to tranquillise her, nor can Derek spring forward
fast enough to grab hold of her before she bangs through the door and
disappears up the stone steps. Spurred on by her compeer's success, Allison
renews her own attempts to escape and Scott, at the same time, finally gives up
the fight to retain his humanity and follows her lead.
"Go after her!" Chris shouts.
"On it!" Derek responds, already dashing at full tilt for the stairs. He makes
it back up to the ground floor and tracks Lydia's scent to the double doors on
the other side of the room. When he gets outside to the parking lot, he loses
her scent in a gust of frigid wind and has to stop with his nose in the air to
find it again. His wolf, still prowling frustrated and unfulfilled in his mind,
uses this pause to make another bid for freedom, gaining strength from the moon
shining directly down on them. Derek is overcome for a moment and, though he
doesn't want to, finds himself taking several steps forward before he manages
to wrestle back control of his body. Returning to himself, Derek frowns and
momentarily forgets that he is supposed to be hunting down Lydia, too caught
off-guard is he by what his wolf taking over has revealed—its lone goal, to get
to Stiles.
Strangely, this leads him to the answer he'd been looking for back down in the
basement. He knows now why anger didn't mitigate the effect of the moon. It's
not his recent ascension from beta to alpha that was the problem, but his
burgeoning affections for the boy he had sent away an hour ago.
Stiles is the reason.
Stiles is his new anchor.
"Huh."
Derek can't help the small smile that forms on his lips.
He allows himself a few moments to enjoy this revelation, then goes back to
sniffing the air for a trace of Lydia's scent. He finds the trail again soon
enough, though it has already faded substantially because of the time he'd just
wasted. Castigating himself, Derek follows her tracks as quickly as he can, his
heartbeat increasing when he deduces that Lydia is heading toward the heart of
town. Upping his pace even more, he pushes through his body's protestations,
his muscles tiring unusually quickly as he gets closer to civilisation.
Thankfully, not many people will be around at this time of night, Beacon Hills'
less-than-stellar nightlife meaning that most people will be in bed after a
hard day's work instead of out partying. As far as Derek knows, the town only
has one major nightclub, Jungle, which he vaguely remembers from the lone time
Laura had dragged him there. She'd covertly given him a fake ID while they were
waiting in line to get in and had somehow forgotten to mention the fact that it
was a gay club until they were already through the door. Derek tried to make
the most of it, loitering by the bar and blowing most of his allowance on
overpriced drinks that had no effect because of his werewolf metabolism. But he
was hit on endlessly by lecherous guys several years his senior, so after about
an hour of uncomfortably dodging their propositions he'd called it a night.
Guessing that Jungle is his safest bet, Derek veers to the left at the next
intersection and, after taking a second to assess whether he is still going the
same way as Lydia, sprints off toward the nightclub. He can hear the bombastic
EDM from a long way off, shaking the ground and eclipsing the other mundane
sounds one would expect to hear late at night. Coming to a stop across the road
from Jungle, Derek hides in a caliginous alleyway and scans his eyes over the
small crowd that is gathered outside the club.
No one seems distressed or injured.
Either Derek was mistaken and Lydia was never heading here, or he has somehow
beaten her to her destination. Checking the air again, he recoils when he is
met with an overwhelming abundance of unsavoury smells—stale sweat and various
drugs and alcohol, as well as both old and repugnantly fresh semen, is all he
can pick up, commixing into a toxic cloud from which it is impossible to
discern anything else. Looking down at the ground, he wrinkles his nose in
disgust when he spots the assortment of used condoms scattered around his feet,
the source of one of those unsavoury smells. Taking this as a sign that it's
time he move on—he doesn't really have time to waste waiting around
anyway—Derek does an about-face, hoping that he was mistaken, that Lydia went
to a different part of town entirely. He'll retrace his steps carefully and see
if maybe he'd missed a divergence in the beta's scent trail somewhere along the
way.
It's then that he sees it:
A silhouette standing at the other end of the alley.
Derek immediately knows that it's Lydia.
As he slowly approaches her, he keeps his guard up in case she should attack
without warning. Making sure that Stiles is front and centre in his mind, Derek
allows his wolf to come out until his eyes glow red, which lets him see more
clearly in the dimly lit space. Lydia is looking right back at him, her hair a
tangled mess, her clothes torn and smeared with dirt, her top lip curled back
in a snarl. With each step closer Derek hears her growling get louder, until
they stand just five feet from each other and he can see clearly that there is
no intelligence behind her golden eyes. She's all animal, so there's no use
trying to reason with her. Knowing what he must do, Derek doesn't let any more
time slip by and attacks first. He leaps forward and makes a grab for her, but
she darts around him and rakes her claws over the back of his neck. The bright
sparks of pain cause him to stumble, his vision turning white, before he pushes
through it and spins around to retaliate. Already Lydia is hurtling away from
him to the other end of the alley and to Jungle, so he hastens to catch up.
Just as she is about to break out onto the street and startle innocent people,
Derek stretches his arm forward and latches on to the back of Lydia's shirt,
abruptly stopping and—for a fraction of a second—strangling her.
She goes down in an instant and, before she can get back up and make another
attempt for the crowd of people that stands obliviously just a few feet away,
Derek is on her. Planting himself firmly astride her, he feels the skin of his
arms splitting as Lydia claws and bites savagely at him but perseveres in his
task, taking her head in both of his hands and slamming the back of it roughly
into the hard ground.
Lydia is knocked out cold, and Derek sighs in relief.
That was close, he thinks.
With a grunt, he stands and slings Lydia over his shoulder.
Then, he begins the long trek back to the loft.
                                     * * *
- Saturday, February 19th, 2011 -
Stiles sits on the Argents' front steps with his chin resting on his palm. He's
been sat there for a couple of hours now, keyed up and galvanised by Derek's
well-intentioned but hurtful dismissal the previous evening. There has been no
movement yet from within the house, but that suits Stiles just fine. Who he's
after isn't in there anyway, but from the text Derek sent him a short while
ago—which, because he still feels rankled, has gone pettily unanswered—he knows
that his quarry will show up soon. Sure enough, at just gone 7 a.m. a haggard-
looking Chris pulls his car into the driveway with Allison in the passenger
seat.
Getting up, Stiles waits expectantly for them to clamber out.
"Hey, Stiles," Allison mumbles, dead on her feet.
"Hey," he replies.
"Mr. Stilinski," Chris says warily. "This is a surprise."
Nodding but offering nothing further, Stiles follows the Argents inside.
Allison goes straight upstairs, the lure of her bed too much for her to resist,
while Stiles heads into the living room on Chris' heels. As he'd thought,
Victoria and Gerard are still sleeping, which makes him feel more at ease.
"Mr. Argent, I was wondering something..."
Chris stares at him from the sofa when he doesn't continue. "Yes?"
"Well, I was just wondering..."
"Just spit it out."
Stiles chuckles nervously, then stands tall, his face serious.
"I want you to train me."
***** These Things Have a Way of Getting Out *****
"God, I want to die..." Stiles groans to himself as he drags his tired,
battered body down the Argents' driveway. His first session as a trainee hunter
has just ended and he has never in his life felt so sore, not even when one of
the other guys on the lacrosse team got rough during after-school practice.
Already he can feel the bruises forming, caused by the barrage of fists he'd
failed to block as he was put through his paces in the Argents' back garden.
Stiles had mistakenly thought they'd start slow, but he’d fast found out that
Chris doesn't believe in using kid gloves. The hunter got right to it, wanting
to find out what he was working with, what innate or preexisting ability Stiles
possessed, however small, that would give him a head start. Needless to say,
Stiles had none. What followed was a solid hour of getting beaten up every
which way, while Victoria watched with an ill-concealed smirk on her lips from
the kitchen window. By the end of it, Stiles had felt like a walking corpse,
but he didn't let the hurt show. His resolve wasn't broken and so, despite what
he considered to be an epic failure of a first training session, when Chris had
given him the option to bow out gracefully, he'd declined and asked when they
would be meeting again for round two. Chris had looked impressed.
Somehow, Stiles manages to get himself back home without crashing his Jeep.
Vaguely he notes that Melissa's car and Scott's bike aren’t in the driveway,
but, as he finds when he gets inside, that doesn't mean the house is empty.
Derek waits for him in the living room and rushes over with concern when he
enters.
"What happened?" the wolf enquires urgently.
"Nothing, nothing," Stiles dismisses, trying to move past him.
"You look like hell!"
"Gee, thanks."
"Tell me."
"Ugh, fine!" Stiles capitulates. His exhaustion and the delicate state of his
body, as well as his still-wounded pride, cause him to become snippy, and the
fact that this is his first interaction with Derek since yesterday evening
doesn't help. He still feels like Derek sees him as inferior, even though he
knows rationally that this is in no way the case. As a result he isn't sure how
to behave, nor is he sure how Derek will react to the explanation for his
bruises. He almost wants to keep his training a secret, on the down-low until
he has made enough progress to come away from a session without feeling so
tender. Still, he is certain that Derek won't budge and spills the beans: "I
was with Mr. Argent, alright? I asked him to train me."
Perplexed, Derek asks, "Why would you do that?"
"Because I want to be stronger."
"But last night wasn't about you. I already told you that."
"Whatever you say..."
"It wasn't. It was about-"
"I don't care!"
Derek stares at him with wide eyes that soon become wounded.
"Look..." Stiles sighs, instantly feeling terrible when his wolf looks at the
floor. "I'm just tired, alright? It's no excuse, but I didn't mean to snap at
you and I'm sorry for that." He rubs his hand awkwardly over the back of his
neck, then, when Derek still refuses to look at him, moves forward and hugs
him. The embrace isn't immediately returned, but after a short time he feels
Derek's arms come around him and knows he's forgiven. Stiles indulges in the
embrace for a while before disentangling himself with a peck on the lips. "I
know your intention wasn't to make me feel left out, but you did. I guess I'm a
bit sensitive about stuff like that right now. I want to be a proper member of
your pack, a part of the whole process, and to do that I have to get stronger.
Allison's dad can help me there. Yeah, our first session didn't go that well
but I'm gonna stick with it until I get better. I'm sure I'll be kicking ass in
no time, and then you won't have to worry about my safety as much. It's a win
all around."
Although he is obviously a little dubious, Stiles is grateful when Derek
doesn't dispute this. The alpha simply nods and allows the subject to drop,
letting him decide for himself what is in his best interest. "Right," Stiles
sighs, a new wave of weariness hitting him full force. He will without a doubt
be turning in early, and he hopes that in the morning he won't feel so tender.
The thought of spending his Sunday unable to move doesn't sound at all
appealing. "Now that we've got all that cleared up, I'm gonna go take a shower.
I probably stink."
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but now that you bring it up..."
"Hey!" Stiles protests, smacking Derek on the arm.
With a chuckle, the wolf steps aside. "Just go shower, idiot."
                                     * * *
A little while later, Stiles comes back downstairs, phone in hand, and enters
the living room wearing a pair of forest-green pyjama bottoms and the Henley
that Derek had let him borrow two weeks ago. He'd selected the latter specially
and is pleased when it gets a reaction.
Derek does a double take when he sees him, his eyes instantly zeroing in on the
shirt and turning heated for the briefest of seconds, and then he leaps up from
the sofa and darts into the kitchen, spouting off the excuse that he needs to
get a refill of his water. Stiles, not believing this at all, peeks around the
door frame and sees the alpha adjusting himself in his jeans, a sight that
makes him snicker. He can't quite stifle the sound behind his hand, which leads
to Derek glaring at him and telling him halfheartedly to shut up. Miming
zipping up his lips, Stiles returns to the living room and falls lengthways on
the sofa.
The hot water from the shower has soothed his aching muscles, but he still
feels a little sore and wiggles in place until he finds a position that doesn't
aggravate his spine. Derek joins him again after a minute, the crotch of his
jeans still a little tighter than usual, and tells him to budge. Grudgingly,
Stiles moves his legs off the sofa so that Derek can sit down at the other end,
but then he moves them right back so they lay across the alpha's lap. Derek
shoots him another glare but, at Stiles' impenitent grin, doesn't try to push
him off again. Switching his attention to his phone, Stiles holds down the
power button and waits impatiently for the lock screen to appear so that he can
put in his passcode. He'd left it in his bedroom earlier that afternoon, when
he went to the Argents' to begin his training, and he is curious now about what
he might have missed.
Nothing shows up at first, but soon a text message from Parrish comes in, the
timestamp telling Stiles that it was sent soon after he'd left. He groans
disappointedly when he reads the contents.
"What's wrong?" Derek asks.
"It's nothing..."
"Haven't we already played this game?"
"Yeah, I guess we have."
Relenting, Stiles explains the situation. "I wasn't originally gonna involve
you because I thought you already had enough on your plate, but now..." he says
regretfully, rereading Parrish's message and feeling his heart sink all over
again. "You remember Jackson? He was with Allison and Lydia when Peter attacked
us all at the school. Well, on Monday I heard him talking about this other kid
in our grade that he lives across the street from and the things he hears
coming from there. He was revelling, really, 'cause he's a complete fucking
dick, but whatever. That's beside the point, I guess. Isaac Lahey's his name. I
don't really know him but I've seen him around a few times. Apparently his
dad's been beating the shit out of him for years and no one's done anything
about it, so I asked Parrish if he could look into it, maybe get Isaac out of
there. But nope. Without proof, and Isaac is too scared to come forward,
there's nothing the cops can do." He sighs as he locks his phone. "It's just...
After my dad, it gets to me, y'know?"
"I think I do," Derek responds, looking thoughtful. He rests his hand on
Stiles' legs, the warmth of his palm seeping into the bare skin of Stiles'
shin. "I think I might be able to help, if you want. The betas will be settled
enough until the next full moon and I've already finished most of the
renovations in my loft, so I've got some time to spare. They say they need
proof? Well, I'll get them some."
"How?" Stiles asks apprehensively.
"Just let me take care of it."
"But-"
"Seriously, don't worry about it."
Stiles regards him with a frown and, not backing down on this point, finds the
energy to sit up so that they're closer and he can look Derek properly in the
eye. "You're not gonna do anything illegal, right?" he demands, fighting a
wince when this new position causes his ribs to twinge painfully. Derek still
notices, but he presses on without giving him a chance to change the subject.
"It's important that Isaac gets out of there, sure, but I don't want you giving
my dad any reason to arrest you. I honestly wouldn't put it past him to play
unfair at this point, and I know from the way he looked at you the last time we
saw each other that he already doesn't like you. He's not stupid. Even though
we haven’t really done anything yet, if he gets his hands on you, I'm worried
he might try and pin you with statutory rape charges or something."
"I'll be careful, I promise."
"You'd better be."
"Or what?" Derek asks, a twinkle in his eye.
"Or I'm gonna kick your furry butt, Mr., that's what!"
"I'd like to see you try."
"Gimme a few months and you'll be eating those words."
"It's a date."
                                     * * *
- Sunday, February 20th, 2011 -
Stiles walks through the preserve with his arms wrapped around his torso,
wishing he'd had the forethought to bring a jacket with him as he'd left the
house. He remembers that his red hoodie was hung up on the hook on the back of
his bedroom door, put there by Melissa after it somehow got put in with her
clothes when she was doing the laundry. It taunts him now as the wind whips
around his face and bare arms, making him shiver. Having slept through his
alarm, he'd woken up just fifteen minutes ago to a series of texts from Derek,
Lydia and Erica, all of them asking him where he is. He'd sprung out of bed and
got washed and dressed in a hurry and, still not fully awake, rushed
dangerously to the preserve to find everybody's vehicles already parked up
together in the same nook they'd used last time.
Upping his pace to reach his destination more quickly and fend off the cold,
Stiles hopes that, even though there's no escaping him being late now, he won't
have missed anything too important. When he arrives at the clearing he finds
everybody just standing around, apparently waiting for him. "Sorry I'm late; I
overslept," he excuses.
"That's alright. We haven't been here long anyway," Derek assures as half of
the group splits off, those who aren't active participants in the session
returning to the toppled tree to observe once more. Stiles joins Erica and Boyd
atop the gargantuan trunk and, still shivering a little, sandwiches himself
between them in order to draw some warmth from their bodies. The betas stand
together in the middle of the clearing, Lydia and Allison tying up their long
hair so it's out of the way and Scott looking bored, while Derek shrugs off his
leather jacket and walks over to the tree with it in hand. He holds it up for
Stiles to take, the concern in his eyes belying the otherwise impassive
expression on his face. "Here."
"Thanks, Sourwolf," Stiles smiles.
"You're welcome."
Derek walks away and addresses the betas. "Alright! Let's get this show on the
road!" he booms.
Sliding his arms through the sleeves of the proffered jacket, Stiles pulls it
tight around his body and sighs contentedly when he finds that it blocks him
from the wind, Derek's residual warmth seeping into his body. As the training
session begins, he tries to concentrate but is immediately distracted by Erica
speaking up with a smirk on her cherry-red lips:
"So, I take it things are going well with the two of you?"
He glances her way and smiles back. "Yeah, they are."
"That's good."
"Yup."
"You guys done anything yet?"
"Uhh..."
Glancing across the clearing, Stiles sees to his relief that Derek isn't
listening in. The alpha is too busy engaging in fierce combat with Allison and
Lydia, having to put in more effort to fend off their advances than he'd had to
last weekend. Scott stands by himself on the sidelines, looking unsure of what
he’s supposed to be doing, until Lydia sneaks up behind him and pushes him into
the fray.
Even though there is no evidence of them being overheard, Stiles is reluctant
to discuss his and Derek's sex life with Erica. He doesn't think he would be
comfortable sharing such intimate details with anyone, not even Scott, were
they still as close as they used to be. That wasn't always the case—it wasn't
too long ago that he was complaining to Scott about how all of their peers were
having sex but no one was interested in him. His outlook has changed recently,
and it only takes him a second to pinpoint the cause.
Of course, it comes back to Peter.
The deceased Hale altered a lot about him that night in the old parking garage,
and his opinion on sex is just one more part of that. The idea of casual sex no
longer holds the value it had once upon a time—it's too risky, presents too
many opportunities for him to get hurt again—and Derek is the only person he
can see himself getting close to now. Letting other people into that part of
his life, making himself vulnerable like that with anyone but Derek, seems
odious to him. Looking back at Erica, Stiles takes in her expectant expression
and gulps nervously around the lump that appears suddenly in his throat.
"Why are you asking me that?"
"I'm just interested, is all," she responds, not deterred by Stiles' obvious
hesitance. "C'mon, spill! We're friends, and friends talk about this kind of
stuff. I think we're all mature enough here, so I'll ask again: Have you guys
fucked yet?"
Stiles struggles for what to say. "I don’t... No?"
"What's stopping you? I would've climbed that like a tree by now!"
"Erica," Boyd interpolates, saving Stiles.
"What?" she frowns, leaning forward to look at him.
"Back off a little, OK?"
"Why?"
"If he doesn't want to talk about it, you shouldn’t force him."
"Ugh, fine," she mumbles, rolling her eyes as Stiles mouths a thank you to
Boyd. "Let's talk about something easier then, you prudes. How’s the job hunt
coming along?"
"Not that great," Stiles laments. "No one seems to want to hire the sheriff's
kid."
"Hmm, that definitely sucks, but I think I might have a solution."
Stiles perks up.
"How about I talk to my mom, see if she'll take you on?" Erica suggests.
"You'd do that?"
"Of course. We're friends, remember? Even if you are a prude."
"Thanks. What does she do?"
"She owns a little shop in town, Alisha's Boutique. It's where I got this from,
actually," Erica explains, a hint of pride in her voice as she sits up straight
and opens her jacket to show off the T-shirt she wears beneath. Made of soft
white cotton, printed on the front of the T-shirt in black ink is an intricate
and beautiful line drawing of two foxes leaping over a field. "I can't promise
anything because I don't think she's officially looking for help right now, but
she's always complaining about how much work there is to be done. And she's got
this big clearance sale going on at the moment, to get rid of some of the old
stock, so maybe if I told her about your situation, she'd consider giving you a
trial run or something. I should probably warn you, though—she only stocks
women's fashion, so it’s a pretty girly place. Still interested?"
"Yeah, I don't have a problem with that."
"Cool. I'll talk to her later."
Before the conversation can progress any further, a loud high-pitched scream
echoes throughout the clearing.
Whipping his head around, Stiles feels fear and confusion blossom in his chest
when he sees Allison lying on the ground, wincing in pain as she holds her left
arm close to her chest. Scott and Derek are crouched down beside her, and
Victoria and Chris soon join them, racing over the check on their daughter.
Stiles hops down from the tree as well to get a closer look, but pauses a few
feet away when he sees blood. Allison's arm is clearly broken, bent the wrong
way with the shattered bone a disturbingly large and jagged bump that pierces
through her pale skin.
Stiles can hear Derek apologising profusely as Scott leeches off her pain,
while Victoria hurls accusations of carelessness Derek’s way. Allison was
thrown to the ground by one of Derek’s deflections and landed wrong, resulting
in the nauseating injury. Holding onto the measly breakfast he had shoved down
his throat as he'd left for the preserve, Stiles walks the last few steps until
he stands right next to Derek. When Scott picks his girlfriend up and she
releases a whimper of pain, Stiles sees guilt flash across Derek’s face and
puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"C'mon, we should get her to your boss's right away," Chris says to Scott.
"He'll be able to reset the bone."
Everyone else is left staring after them as they leave, still in shock.
Everyone but Victoria, whose body vibrates with anger that she unleashes on
Derek: "This is your fault!" she spits, pushing Stiles roughly out of the way
as she gets up in the alpha’s face. Stiles nearly falls over in surprise and
only stays on his feet because Boyd and Erica are right behind him to give him
a helping hand. When she reaches Derek, Victoria’s voice is like a whip,
lashing out to inflict hurt. "I've never liked you, and this is why! You're a
stupid animal!"
"Hey!" Stiles barks.
"Stay out of this, little boy," she sneers.
Gerard steps forward and puts a hand on her arm. "Where are you going with
this?"
In answer, Victoria reaches for the waistband of her jeans.
She pulls out a handgun.
"I've been anticipating this moment for a while now," Victoria says, lining the
sights up so that the barrel points right between Derek's eyes. Stiles stares
at the shiny metal, unable to believe that Victoria would be crazy enough to
bring something with her that could cause such destruction. She and her sister-
in-law are apparently not all that different.
No one else moves, not even Derek, who seems too caught off-guard to get out of
the line of fire. "Your family has been nothing but a menace to mine for as
long as we've known each other, and I think it's time for that to stop,"
Victoria says vituperatively. "You aren't good enough to be Allison's alpha.
You aren't good enough to be anyone's alpha, to be completely honest, but least
of all hers. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt because Chris
convinced me you could do this. But you're just like your bastard uncle."
She clicks off the safety.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Stiles shouts,
breaking away from Boyd and bravely—or perhaps stupidly—throwing himself
between Derek and Victoria. He ignores the rush of his heart pounding in his
ears and keeps his gaze on the redhead's narrowed eyes. "Derek's done nothing
wrong, so put away the gun and calm the fuck down!"
Victoria sneers. "You... You're the worst of the lot, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're even worse than that one." Victoria's eyes rest briefly on Derek before
returning to Stiles. The unadulterated hatred on her face, compounded by the
way her extended arm shakes violently, has him genuinely fearing for his life,
but then she seems to reconsider and lowers the gun to her side. “At least he
has the excuse of being half animal. You, though... You’re all human, which
makes what you did all the more deplorable. Killing one of your own to save one
of them. I don’t know how you managed to get the better of someone so much more
skilled than you, but I sincerely hope you rot in Hell for what you did to
Kate. You deserve nothing less.” With that, she storms off in her husband’s
footsteps.
With Victoria gone, the tense atmosphere in the clearing dissipates, leaving
behind tiredness and curiosity. Gerard stares at Stiles, his expression
inscrutable, until Stiles gets uncomfortable and looks away. "Damn, that was
intense," he mutters to no one in particular.
"You're telling me," Erica agrees.
"Are you OK?" Lydia asks him, stepping forward with a frown.
"Yeah, I’m fine," he says before turning to Derek. "I guess that’s the end of
today’s session, then?"
The alpha nods jerkily. "Until next week."
"Victoria won’t be here then, I hope," Lydia interjects.
"I’ll speak to Chris about it. I think he’ll agree it’s for the best."
"Good. That woman is batshit insane and I don’t want to be around her ever
again."
"Agreed," Erica says.
With that settled, Lydia and Erica bid Derek and Stiles farewell and drag Boyd
away with them. Scott exits the clearing, too, followed by Gerard, which leaves
Derek alone with Stiles. With no one else around for whom he has to keep up a
show of strength, his frazzled nerves come to the surface and he rounds on the
boy. "What the hell were you thinking, stepping in front of her gun like
that?!" he demands. "You could have been killed!"
Stiles stands defiantly under Derek’s heated gaze. "Like you wouldn’t have done
the exact same thing for me."
"That’s different!"
"How?"
"You’re human. You wouldn’t heal!"
"So you’re telling me that Victoria’s gun wasn’t filled with wolfsbane bullets?
Puh-lease. It totally was, so it could’ve easily killed you, too. I didn't mean
to scare you like that but I’m not going to apologise for trying to protect
you."
"You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for me!" Derek says passionately. "I’m
not worth your life."
Stiles blinks, taken aback. "You really believe that?" he asks, shaking his
head in denial when Derek looks away, his face shuttering. "You’re wrong. So
fucking wrong... I know I can be a dick sometimes and I'm not great at
expressing it, but you’re the most important person in my life—you’re worth
everything. How can you not know that by now?"
When Derek doesn’t respond, Stiles sighs and steps closer. He curls his index
finger beneath Derek’s chin until he is forced to look at him. "Look, how about
this: You care about me and don’t want to see me get hurt, so I’ll try my best
to stay out of trouble if it can be avoided, alright? And in return, I want you
to promise me that you’ll start taking proper care of yourself. Like I said, I
care about you, Sourwolf, a lot and I don’t want to see you get hurt either.
That would hurt me, too, so let’s stop fighting and leave it there. Does that
sound reasonable?"
Derek nods his acceptance. "OK."
Stiles smiles and presses his lips to his wolf’s bearded cheek. "OK."
***** The End of the Tunnel *****
- Monday, February 21st, 2011 -
At 6 p.m., Derek sits slumped down in his car across the street from Isaac
Lahey's house, counting on the darkness of the evening to shroud his presence
from the neighbours. He knows what kind of conclusions they would jump to if
they were to find a previously wanted man parked outside their houses, but the
risk is unavoidable. It's the only way he can think of to get proof of what
goes on behind closed doors. He knows from the quick circuit of the house he'd
completed when he first arrived fifteen minutes ago that Coach Lahey is the
only one currently at home, splayed out on the living room sofa with a half-
drunk beer in his hand and some sports programme playing on the television. So
Derek waits, his eyes on the pavement.
It only takes another five minutes for Isaac to show up.
The tall boy carries a plastic bag in his hand and walks with his shoulders up
to his ears, his light-brown curls bouncing on top of his head. His eyes dart
about as if he's on the lookout for an ambush, and with what Stiles told him
he'd overheard from Jackson at school, Derek doesn't blame the kid.
As Isaac lets himself into his house, Derek climbs out of his car and walks
confidently across the road. He is tempted to move quickly, to keep his head
bent low, but he has minor experience in things like this and knows that acting
as if he is supposed to be there is the way to go. Like it's something he does
all the time, Derek slinks around the side of the house and unlatches the gate
that leads to the back garden, where light spills out from the kitchen window
to illuminate the overgrown grass as it sways in the gentle breeze. He crouches
down beneath the windowsill, his back pressed to the wall, and listens.
"What took you?" a gruff voice asks impatiently. Coach Lahey, Derek assumes.
"There was a line," a second voice replies quietly.
Isaac.
Curious, Derek turns and pushes himself up until he can see through the window.
Isaac sets the bag he'd been carrying on the small kitchen table and retrieves
some plates from a cupboard. The coach takes a seat at the table and watches
his son, giving off an air of menace that Derek would pick up on even without
his preternatural senses. The older man is like a tightly wound rubber band, in
danger of snapping if pulled too far. Derek only has to look at him for a
second to decide that he doesn't like him.
"Whatever," the coach says, rapping his short fingernails on his placemat.
"Let's just eat. Get me another drink and open the window, would you? It's too
hot in here..."
Isaac's movements are incredibly stiff as he abandons the bag of food and
retrieves a cold bottle of beer from the fridge. Clumsily popping off the top,
he hands it to his dad and goes over to the window, where Derek has to duck
down fast to avoid being seen. The window creaks as it's opened, and Derek
waits for Isaac's footsteps get further away before he dares to return to his
previous position, his eyes just barely cresting over the sill. Isaac continues
to take care of the food, pulling out two white cardboard containers and
setting one down in front of his dad and the other atop the placemat on the
other side of the table.
"How was school?" Coach Lahey asks, stabbing his fork into his chow mein.
"Fine," Isaac mumbles, leaving his dinner untouched.
"That's it? Just fine?"
Isaac stares down at his lap. "I don't know what else you want me to say."
"How about you tell me you actually did something?" Coach Lahey suggests
critically. "Made a friend, tried out for a sport, joined a club. Fucking
anything would be great! I'm tried of you always being such a disappointment."
"Sorry..." Isaac mumbles, so quietly that Derek almost misses it.
"Speak up, boy!" the contemptible man shouts, slamming his drink down on the
tabletop with such force that some of the beer spills out of the bottleneck.
The outburst makes Isaac recoil in fear, but his dad either doesn't notice or
doesn't care—if Derek were a betting man, he'd put all his money on the second
option. Coach Lahey curses under his breath and uses one of the cheap paper
napkins that came with their food to wipe up the spill. "And how many times do
I have to tell you to look me in the eye when you talk to me? Do I have to
punish you again so you finally remember?"
Isaac's head snaps up. "No! I'll be good!"
"Somehow I just don't believe you," the coach says, raising his beer to his
lips. He downs the rest of the bottle in one long swig and wipes his mouth with
the back of his hand, his hateful eyes never leaving his son's face. His drink
finished, he looks curiously down at the empty bottle and speaks again, his
voice suddenly different. Gone is the condescension and the anger, replaced by
something saccharine that is even more ominous: "I'm in a charitable mood right
now, so I'll give you a chance to prove yourself to me. You won't let me down
again tonight, right?" With a smile plastered on his thin lips he waits for
Isaac's hesitant nod, then his face turns hard and he hurls the bottle at the
wall. It smashes into hundreds of shards that skitter across the floor. "There.
Make yourself useful and clean that up."
Isaac scrambles to comply, stepping over the plethora of glass shards with care
so as to avoid cutting his feet. He rifles around for something beneath the
kitchen sink—a dustpan and brush, Derek finds out when the boy stands again—and
begins sweeping up the mess with dishearteningly practised ease. Derek gets the
impression that this is a regular occurrence.
The coach continues eating in the background, utterly unconcerned, until Isaac
has finished and the glass shards are all deposited in the dustbin.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"No, sir..." Isaac says, sitting down again. He still doesn't touch his food.
"You're not eating?" Coach Lahey asks, annoyed again already.
"I'm not hungry."
The coach shakes his head disapprovingly. "This is why I don't usually waste
money on you," he mumbles as he reaches across the table and nabs the other
container of Chinese food. "Now, back to the topic of school. If I remember
correctly, you had a math test last week and today was the day you were
supposed to get the results. Where are they?"
"I-in my bag," Isaac stutters, dread emanating off of him in waves.
"Go get them."
The boy does as he's told, vanishing to some other room in the house for a
couple of minutes and then returning to the kitchen with a folded-up piece of
paper in his shaking hand. The coach snatches it and unfolds it, pushing his
glasses further up his nose as he reads through text that is too small for
Derek to make out from his vantage point. When the older man reaches the end of
the page, his face becomes thunderous.
"An F. You got another F..." Coach Lahey whispers, looking up at his son. He
crumples up the test and throws it to the floor. Pushing his chair back from
the table with an unpleasant screech, he stands and marches over to his son,
not stopping until their faces are an inch apart. His breaths come in harsh
angry puffs through his nose, while Isaac stares back wide-eyed, years of abuse
having inculcated in him the belief that he is powerless to stop whatever is
coming. Derek suspects the boy may even think he deserves it, and the sight of
his frightened yet resigned face instils in him the fierce desire to leap
through the window and whisk him away before any more hurt can be inflicted
upon him. Even so, as much as it pains him, Derek stays where he is.
"Worthless!" Coach Lahey screams. He backhands Isaac across the face and sends
him sprawling to the floor with a stifled cry of pain. "If your mother and
brother could see the lazy sack of shit you've turned out to be... It's no
wonder you don't have any friends. Your brother might've actually been able to
beat some sense into you, since anything I do doesn't seem to work, but no. He
was killed and I'm stuck with your pathetic ass! Get up!" He reaches down,
fists his hand in Isaac's hair, and pulls him back to his feet.
Derek can't stop the low growl the builds in his chest as he watches the
disgusting way Isaac's dad acquits himself, but luckily the coach is too busy
hurling more invective at his son for either of them to hear him. The older man
uses the rough grip he has on Isaac's hair to drag him from the room, so Derek
has to rely on his ears to provide a picture of what happens next.
"I warned you what would happen if you failed another exam..."
"No! Please!"
Isaac's vehement protestations are eclipsed by the sound of a door slamming
open, and then Derek hears shoes descending a set of stairs. Leaving his spot
beneath the kitchen window, he dashes around to the side of the house and lies
down on his front so that he can peer in through the tiny window that looks
into the basement. The room is dark apart from one small light bulb on what
appears to be a workbench, but that doesn't matter—Derek can still see
everything as it unfolds.
Coach Lahey wrestles his struggling son over to a large chest freezer and flips
open the lid. Derek is for a moment baffled by this turn of events, but in the
next moment becomes horrified as he watches the other man force Isaac to climb
inside the freezer. The coach slams and holds the lid closed as Isaac
immediately starts banging and scratching at it, and from the workbench he
snatches up a padlock and locks the freezer up tight. Pocketing the key, he
strolls casually back up the stairs with a nauseating smile on his face, the
sounds of Isaac's desperate pleading and crying falling on deaf ears.
Knowing now that he has enough proof, Derek leaps to his feet and moves quickly
away from the house. He heads to the payphone just down the street and dials
911. The call connects and, without giving his name, he barks out something
short about a domestic disturbance taking place at the Laheys' address and
hangs up.
All he can do now is wait.
                                     * * *
The cops don't take long to arrive. Derek can hear them from a mile off from
his position in the shadows, and he observes hopefully as a uniformed officer
and his partner climb out of their cruiser, blue and red lights flashing all
the while, and walk up the Laheys' front path. The commotion draws others out
of their homes—even, Derek notes, Jackson Whittemore. The neighbours all stand
in their front gardens with curious looks on their faces, no doubt eager to get
their fill of gossip, but they are all ignored as one of the officers knocks on
the front door and waits for movement from within.
Through the frosted glass, Coach Lahey's obfuscated figure can be seen hovering
uncertainly on the other side. He doesn't open the door until the officer
knocks again, more urgently this time, and even then he only opens it a few
inches, just enough to peek through the gap and demand brusquely to know what
the hell the police are doing on his property.
"There's been a complaint made," the lead officer responds calmly.
"Regarding?"
"Some strange noises coming from your house."
Derek listens to the conversation as it progresses and is dismayed to find
that, although it starts so promisingly, it quickly runs off course. The
officers—whom Derek now recognises as Deputy Parrish and his partner, Deputy
Andrewartha, who he'd met briefly at the hospital when Lydia first turned—seem
to be easily swayed by the coach's unctuous charm. At least Andrewartha is.
Parrish is hesitant, but without any real proof apart from the anonymous tip,
he is forced to accept the denials and excuses. Coach Lahey is an expert at
manipulating people, it seems, which is probably the reason why nothing has
been done before now about his treatment of Isaac. If there were ever
allegations launched against the coach in the past, Derek suspects the
capricious man got out of them scot-free.
Well, not this time.
Just as Andrewartha is laughing with Coach Lahey and apologising for disturbing
him, Derek emerges from the shadows, sneaks back around the house to the open
kitchen window, and climbs inside. He can still hear Isaac crying in the
basement, but the whimpers have quieted enough that they don't carry where they
need to in order to be heard by the right people.
Before the cops can leave, Derek darts down into the basement and searches for
a way to signal to them that they are needed. His eyes land on a shoddily
constructed set of wooden shelves, piled high with heaps of easily breakable
ephemera gathered throughout a lifetime. Seeing his opportunity, Derek pushes
over these shelves and sends everything spilling to the concrete floor in a
cacophonous crash of smashing glass. At this noise, Isaac's cries start up
again and the lighthearted talking from the front door cuts off, which Derek
takes as his cue to retrace his steps and leap back out into the back garden
before he can be found.
Once again crouched beneath the window, he catches his breath and listens with
a satisfied smirk on his face as Parrish bulldozes his way inside the house. He
descends into the basement, curses loudly, and yells for Andrewartha to detain
the coach.
"Got you..." Derek says quietly to himself.
                                     * * *
Down at the station, Isaac sits shellshocked outside of the sheriff's office, a
cooling cup of coffee clutched in his shaking hands. He still can't quite
believe he's free. He'd been resigned to spending yet another long, cold night
immured down in the basement, so resigned that his brain hadn't known right
away how to process the events that happened after he'd heard the crash. All he
knew was that he was trapped with tears tracking silently down his cheeks, and
then in the next moment he was being pulled up and out of the freezer by Deputy
Parrish. As he was escorted out of his house, he'd seen his dad slumped in the
back of a police cruiser, his face the picture of belligerence as he glared
daggers through the glass. In a reaction that scared him and made him feel
crazy, when he was sitting in the back of the ambulance and having his injuries
seen to, Isaac had burst out laughing, so hard that he nearly couldn't breathe,
until his laughter turned suddenly to sobs. The paramedic, an affable man with
salt-and-pepper hair and a comforting presence, assured him that it was a
perfectly normal reaction.
Now, with a Band-Aid on his cheek and his bloodied fingernails disinfected and
bandaged, Isaac waits. He hasn't said a single word to anyone since arriving at
the station and Parrish had pushed him down into his uncomfortable chair. The
reality of his situation is just too overwhelming for him to hold a
conversation, so he just sits there.
Slowly, he raises his hand and takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, just to have
something to do. He isn't sure of what will happen to him. As far as he knows
his dad is his only living relative, so where he will stay from now on is a
mystery. He knows that's what everyone is talking about around him, that
they're all spitting out suggestions of foster care and whatever else as they
hunt for the necessary paperwork and call around for a social worker. He
doesn't really care. It doesn't matter to him where he ends up, because
anything would be an improvement over the torment of his dad, even simple
indifference.
Parrish reappears then, taking the seat next to him.
"Hey, how're you doing?" the deputy asks with a gentle smile.
"Fine, I guess," is Isaac's succinct reply.
"This is a lot, huh?"
"Mmm..."
"The coffee's crap around here, isn't it?" Parrish chuckles, slumping down in
his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. Isaac appreciates the attempt
to keep things casual but doesn't respond as Parrish makes small talk, just
keeps his eyes focused on the oddly shaped black spec that mars the bottom of
the wall across from him.
It looks kind of like a doughnut.
"A couple of the guys and I have asked several times to get something better,
but that hasn't happened yet," Parrish continues, apparently not finding
Isaac's diffidence off-putting. "I usually just go to a coffee shop in town, if
I'm not working a case or something and can spare the time. The one on Main St.
does the best cinnamon rolls. Have you tried them? If not then you definitely
should. I don't have much of a sweet tooth but it's worth making the trek for
those alone. They'll change your life, I swear."
Parrish sits with Isaac until it's time to go inside the sheriff's office and
give his statement, at which point Isaac is surprised to find himself reluctant
to part ways with him. He hasn't wanted to be around anyone else for years—and
his dad would've put a stop to it even if he had—so the sudden and strange
connection he feels with the deputy throws him for a loop. Isaac wants Parrish
to stay, but because he lacks the confidence to ask for what he wants, he just
hovers outside the door to the sheriff's office and hates himself for his
meekness. Then, in a rare stroke of good fortune, Parrish offers to accompany
him inside. Isaac stares at him, grateful but unable to express it, and nods
shakily. Feeling a little less insecure now, he enters the office and lowers
himself into the chair the sheriff gestures toward. Parrish pulls another chair
close to his and sits down, too, while the sheriff fumbles about with some
paperwork on his desk. When he has things sorted, the older man asks, with
kindness that seems forced, to recount the events of the night.
Isaac glances one last time at Parrish, takes a deep breath, and opens his
mouth.
                                     * * *
By the time he has finished telling Sheriff Stilinski about all the quotidian
terrors he'd suffered for years at the hands of his father, Isaac is in tears
for the third time that night. Unlike in the ambulance, they're quiet tears
this time, running down his cheeks and dripping down onto his lap. As he'd
talked, the sheriff wrote everything down and took frequent sips from the
coffee cup on his desk, which drew judgemental stares from Parrish that
confused Isaac greatly. When the last word has been written down, Sheriff
Stilinski sends both of them from the room, where Isaac is shepherded by
Parrish through the bullpen and into one of the interrogation rooms in the
back.
"It's just to give you some privacy," the deputy says.
"Oh," Isaac responds. "Alright."
"We're waiting on the social worker to get here, and then we'll try to figure
out where you'll be staying," Parrish explains, sitting on the edge of the
metal table that's screwed into the floor in the middle of the room. "This is
probably scary, I know, but it'll be fine. You're old enough to have a say in
where you end up, so if you don't like something or if you have an idea you
want to float past us, just say so and we'll see what we can do. Does that
sound OK?"
"Yeah, I guess..."
"Cool. She should be here soon."
"How much does she know?"
"Right now she just knows what we knew right after we found you, but she'll be
given a copy of everything you said in the sheriff's office when she gets
here," Parrish apprises, moving from his spot to take one of the chairs that
are positioned on either side of the table. He leans his elbow on the table and
draws circles on the shiny metal surface with his index finger. "She needs your
full history in order to help us find the best fit for you."
Isaac joins the deputy, wanting to get off of his feet because he'd exerted a
lot of energy when he was locked in the freezer and he feels tired now. A few
minutes later, there comes a knock at the door, and then a rather corpulent
woman enters. She has long black hair and a wide smile, and carries a thick
stack of folders under one arm.
"Sorry for the wait," she says as she deposits the folders on the table. She
approaches Isaac cautiously, like he's a scared animal who could lash out at
the slightest provocation, and extends a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Isaac.
My names Mariana Jones, but you can just call me Mari."
"Hi," Isaac says. He doesn't shake her hand.
Taking it in stride, Mariana thanks Parrish when he pulls out a chair for her.
"Now, this is quite a long process. There's no quick answer, I'm afraid, but I
promise you I'll try my hardest to match you with a good foster family. Do you
have any preference, maybe a pet you're allergic to or something? That might
help us narrow down our options a bit."
"No drinking," Isaac blurts out.
"Yes, I think we can accommodate you there. Anything else?"
Isaac shakes his head.
"Right then, let's see here..."
Mariana and Parrish skim over all the prospective foster families and pick out
the ones they think are viable. They slide them across the table for Isaac to
look over, neither of them showing disappointment when Isaac dismisses them
all, until he says no to the final family that Mari had brought with her and
they've run out of options.
"Well, it seems we've hit a bit of a wall here," the woman muses.
"Sorry..." Isaac mumbles.
"No, it's fine," Mariana reassures, still smiling. "These are just the families
whose files I could get on such short notice. There are still a lot of others
out there that could work. The only thing is we don't really have anywhere for
you to go tonight..."
Parrish looks thoughtfully at the discarded files. "What if Isaac came home
with me?" he blurts, surprising his two companions.
Mariana recovers swiftly. "What do you mean?"
"If it's alright with Isaac, he could stay in my guest room until we find a
more permanent solution," Parrish suggests, speaking fast. "I have a pretty
busy schedule so I'm not home a lot, and we'd have to get him some stuff,
clothes, toiletries and the like, but he'd be safe there and I'd be more than
happy to have him."
Mariana turns to the boy in question. "What do you think about that, Isaac?"
Hopefully, Isaac croaks out, "That sounds good."
Mariana purses her lips as she thinks. "Well, I'd have to come with you to make
sure it's a suitable environment before I left him with you, but I don't really
see a problem," she says, her smile widening when she sees Isaac's face light
up a little bit, showing the first positive emotion he's had since she'd
arrived. "Alright, it's sorted. C'mon hun, it's late and I'm sure you're tired.
Let's get this over with so you can get some much-needed rest."
With Parrish's arm around his shoulders, Isaac follows Mariana out of the
station, seeing for the first time in a long time a light at the end of the
tunnel.
***** Be Careful What You Wish For *****
- Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011 -
Jordan Parrish lies awake for half an hour before getting out of bed, his mind
turning over the events of the past twelve hours again and again. When he,
Isaac and Mariana had arrived back at his apartment the previous evening, he
was delighted when it quickly got Mariana’s stamp of approval. The place isn’t
grandiose at all, but it’s moderately sized and well-kept, with an open floor
plan for the kitchen and living room and a hallway that leads to one master
bedroom, one guest bedroom, and one decent bathroom. The rent was surprisingly
cheap when he’d happened across it during his search a couple of years ago,
when he was almost finished with the academy and was looking to finally move
out of his parents’ place in time for the new job that was awaiting him. The
living room is a sizeable space comprised of smooth hardwood flooring and beige
wallpaper, in which he’d put a black-leather sofa, his old bookcase from home,
and a cherry-wood coffee table and matching entertainment system. Completing
this is his 62-inch flatscreen television. He spends most of what free time he
gets parked in front of it, playing video games and justifying to himself the
extravagant purchases of the latest games consoles and the TV itself.
The colour scheme continues in the kitchen.
In the middle of the room is a small square table, topped with white-marble
formica that matches all the countertops. His combination fridge-freezer and
his dishwasher were both housewarming gifts from his parents, and with those
and the white cupboards that run along the walls he has more than enough
storage space, something that will come in handy now that there will be a
second person living in the apartment, if only temporarily.
Speaking of Isaac, Parrish wonders how the kid slept.
If he slept at all.
Glancing at the digital clock on his nightstand and seeing that it’s just gone
7:30 a.m., Parrish decides that he’s had enough of being a slugabed and throws
back his forest-green sheets. Getting to his feet, he stretches and heads out
into the hall, pausing on his way to make a fresh pot of coffee to press his
ear to the guest room door. He hears no sound on the other side and assumes
that Isaac is still sleeping. Leaving the boy to it, Parrish carries on down
the hall and rubs tiredly at his eyes as he enters the kitchen. After switching
on the coffee machine, he gets a mug out from one of the cupboards and only
registers that he isn’t alone when he turns back around.
Isaac sits with his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his palm. The bags
beneath his eyes are larger than any Parrish has ever seen, and that includes
the ones he’s seen in the mirror after the many times he’s gone without sleep,
usually because he was needed for some big emergency in town. Thankfully,
things have calmed down now that Peter Hale and Kate Argent are dead and the
murders have stopped, and he has been able to catch up on all the sleep he’d
missed while working that case those hellish weeks. After Mariana had given his
apartment her approval and left the previous evening, Parrish was hoping that,
now that his dad isn’t there to loom imperiously over him, Isaac would be in
for a restful sleep and would emerge rejuvenated the following morning. It
appears things won’t be quite that easy.
Casually, Parrish pulls out a second mug from the cupboard, just in time for
the coffee machine to ding loudly, announcing that it’s ready to go. "Did you
sleep alright?" he asks over his shoulder as he fills the two mugs, even though
he already knows the answer.
"Yeah, I guess," Isaac replies.
Parrish places a mug in front of the boy. "What do you think?"
"Of what?"
"Of this place, and of your room, specifically," Parrish elaborates, joining
Isaac at the table. He sits down opposite him and blows gently across his hot
coffee before taking a cautious sip. "I have today off, so if you don’t like
something we can get it sorted, if you want."
"It’s fine. I’m not fussy or anything."
Parrish inclines his head. "Didn’t think you were. But still, you like
everything OK?"
"Yeah..."
"Good," Parrish grins. "I’m glad."
"Me, too," Isaac mumbles, picking up his own mug and reading the text printed
on the side in big blood-red letters, one of those stupid ‘Keep Calm and Carry
On’ mantras he’d seen everywhere a couple of years back. Biting at his lip, he
tries a couple of times to say something more but can’t find the correct words
right away. Parrish waits patiently until he does: "I wanted to... I just
wanted to say thank you. For, y’know, getting me out of there and letting me
stay here."
"You’re welcome, but I’m not the person you should be thanking for your
rescue," Parrish responds, making Isaac look up curiously. "You should thank
Stiles Stilinski, since he’s the one who alerted me that there was something
going on in the first place. I also have my suspicions about who made the call
that got me and my partner out to your house last night, though I can’t be
sure. I’ll have to introduce you to him sometime, when you’re ready. I think
you’ll get on well." At Isaac’s hesitant nod, Parrish dares to get up from his
seat and walk around the table. He slings his arm around Isaac’s shoulders in a
half hug and feels a strong sense of gratitude in his chest when the kid trusts
him enough to allow it. In fact, instead of shying away, Isaac leans into him,
though that may just be due to exhaustion. "Someone should’ve gotten you out of
that house a long time ago. How it was allowed to go on for so long, I’ll never
know, but you’re safe now and I guess that’s all that matters."
Isaac says nothing, nor does he move from under Parrish’s arm. He just sighs
and takes a sip of his coffee, a disgusted expression forming on his face as
the hot bitter liquid goes down his throat. "Would it be possible to get some
sugar for this, and maybe some milk, too?" he asks politely, looking up at
Parrish from beneath his eyelashes.
"Oh, of course!" the deputy replies. "Sorry, I should’ve asked."
He gets the milk from the fridge and the sugar bowl from the cupboard and sets
them on the table in front of Isaac. "Help yourself."
"Thanks."
"Anytime."
They drink their coffee in surprisingly companionable silence, as if it’s
something they’ve done many times before, until Parrish finishes his and puts
his mug in the dishwasher. "I’m gonna go get showered and dressed," he says,
the last remnants of sleep fading away thanks to the caffeine now coursing
through his system. "Then, if you’re up for it, we’ll see about going over to
your place to get some of your things so you can get settled in better. S’that
sound OK?" When Isaac gives his assent, Parrish turns on his heel and heads for
his apartment’s only bathroom. He’s never had to share it before, so it will be
a learning curve, especially in the mornings when he’s getting ready for work
and Isaac for school. But he knows it’ll be worth it.
Once he's all clean and ready, Parrish grabs his phone from his bedroom and
heads back out into the living room. He finds Isaac standing in front of the
bookshelf, inquisitively eyeing the expansive selection. "Feel free," Parrish
offers, smiling sheepishly when the boy jumps. "Sorry, didn’t mean to scare
you. But seriously, mi casa es tu casa, and all that. If you see something that
looks interesting—a book, a video game, whatever—feel free to try it out. You
don’t need to ask permission. That goes for all the food in the kitchen, too."
"Thanks," Isaac says timidly.
"Bathroom’s free. If you wanna go get ready, we can go get your stuff."
Isaac casts his eyes down to the floor. "I don’t... I don’t have anything to
wear."
"Oh, duh!" Parrish exclaims, smacking himself on the forehead and laughing at
his own idiocy. "Come on, you can borrow something of mine for today." He leads
Isaac into his bedroom and, after a quick search through his dresser, comes up
with a pair of jeans he hardly ever wears and a plain black T-shirt. "Here.
They might be a bit small since you’re so tall, but they should do the job well
enough. Let me know if they don’t and I’ll find you something else."
Isaac takes the garments and scurries from the room.
"Take your time!" Parrish calls after him.
                                     * * *
Stiles wakes up slowly, and the first thing his somnolent brain can process is
that he’s cold. Very, very cold. To fight this, he tries to pull up his duvet
and snuggle into a cocoon of warmth, but he can’t move his hands or his legs,
and this is revelation that has him hurtling the rest of the way to awareness,
his eyes snapping open in alarm. He takes in what he can discern of his
surroundings with foreboding and a rapidly building sense of distress.
He sits tied to a rickety chair in a large, dimly lit room. Thick rope binds
his ankles to the chair legs and his arms behind his back, abrading his skin as
he tests the bonds and finds to his dismay that the knots are tied so expertly
that they preclude any chance of escape. Fighting the panic that suffuses
through his entire body, he gives up trying and, which a series of deep
breaths, refocuses and looks more closely at everything around him. The air
carries on it the repellent stench of motor oil and damp and mould, and there
are two rows of large windows to his left and to his right, so high up that
Stiles presumes they are close to the ceiling. These windows are so encrusted
with dirt that they provide very little light, and what illumination they do
permit is harsh, yellow and artificial-looking, maybe from some street lamps.
The light just barely enables him to see from one side of the room to the other
and into the shadowy corners, where he sees no one else. Inside this strange
room, he’s completely by himself.
Whether that’s a good thing or not, he doesn’t know.
The room only has one entrance, a large metal door to his left. Every single
horror movie that Stiles has seen leads him to conclude that this door is
locked, not that it matters. He can’t get over to it in his current state
anyway. Using the few salient facts he has gathered, Stiles tries to put
together a decent picture of where he is. His best guess is some warehouse,
still—he hopes—in Beacon Hills but long abandoned, where there isn’t a chance
of his cries for help being heard.
He tests that theory.
"Hello?! Anybody?!" he yells, as loudly as he can.
Predictably, the echoes of his voice fade and leave nothing but silence.
Next question: How did he get here?
The last thing Stiles remembers is talking to Melissa before he got into bed.
And then... Nothing.
"Quite the quandary you’ve got yourself in, Stiles," he mutters, fidgeting when
the muscles of his arms and legs start to ache from being held for so long in
one position. He breathes through the discomfort and flexes his hands to
restore some of the blood flow that is being cut off by the ropes, but it isn’t
very effective. With nothing else to do, Stiles takes stock of his surroundings
one more time, hoping that maybe he’ll spot something he’d missed before.
Around the room is the detritus of years long past:
Wooden boxes with dirty white cloths draped half across them are scattered
around the perimeter of the room. Craning his neck, Stiles looks behind him and
sees that one of these boxes is splintered open, but he can’t discern anything
at all from the shapeless black mass that spills out onto the floor. Three
thick rusty chains hang from long I-beams that run from one wall to the other,
just above the smashed windows, while cockroaches scuttle around the cold
concrete floor, one of which is brave enough to run right over Stiles’ foot and
elicit from him an unmanly yelp. And, way up high in one of the corners, a
small red light blinks on and off in a constant pattern. Stiles stares
uncomprehendingly up at this light, until something clicks into place in his
mind and he realises just what this new discovery is:
A camera.
He’s being filmed.
A live feed? Or is it recording to a tape or something?
Either way, the person who put him here wants to watch, possibly so they can
get their rocks off. Sickened to his stomach by this thought, Stiles tries to
put it out of his mind and looks away from the camera, refusing to give his
abductor the satisfaction of seeing how much he is affected by all of this.
With nothing else to do, he sits and listens to the silence.
He still can’t hear anything—no passing cars, no footsteps, not even far off in
the distance—which works wonders to make him feel even more unnerved and
isolated than he already did. He wonders if anyone has even noticed yet that
he’s missing. Assuming that it’s only been a few hours and he wasn’t
unconscious for a whole day, it’s unlikely.
No one will be coming to save him anytime soon.
"Great..." Stiles says under his breath.
Then, when he slumps down defeated, from one of the chair’s back legs he hears
an ominous creaking sound that has him jerking up straight again in surprise.
After a moment of contemplation, he leans his weight back again, deliberately
now, and hears the creaking for a second time, like the leg is in danger of
snapping under the pressure.
His fecund mind coming to the rescue, Stiles jumps on this potential
opportunity and increases the pressure.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, until the chair leg snaps abruptly and he falls sideways and
cracks the side of his head on the floor. "Fuck!" he cries out hoarsely, trying
to blink past the stars flashing behind his eyelids. He lies there as the room
slowly swims back into focus, his head pounding something fierce and his left
arm protesting the position it’s in, squished and bent at an awkward angle
beneath his side. When the worst of the dizziness has passed, Stiles wiggles in
place and finds to his amazement that the leg wasn’t the only part of the chair
that broke during the fall. He wasn’t really expecting to find success, but the
piece of the chair his hands were tied to is now loose, enabling him to slide
them free of it. They’re still bound to each other behind his back, but it’s a
small improvement that he’ll gladly take.
Now that he is able to move a bit more, Stiles throws his weight forward in
small increments, until he has twisted himself away from the chair as much as
he can. His ankles are still tied to the chair legs, but now that he’s no
longer held firmly in place he is able to wiggle the rope down the wood,
looking somewhat like a fish flopping around on dry land, until he is
completely separated from the chair. The loops of rope which bind his ankles
become loose without the wood also within their grasp, keeping them taut, and
he manages to kick them off and get his legs free altogether. Now, the only
parts of him still bound are his hands behind his back.
"Progress..." he says to himself.
Managing to get up onto his knees and then to his feet, Stiles catches his
breath and then moves cautiously around the room. He steps up to the splintered
box and inspects its contents more closely, swearing in vexation when all he
finds is a bunch of off-colour clothes that even he knows are long out of
fashion.
Pissed off now instead of scared, Stiles turns away from the box after giving
it a kick and howls in pain when something slices into the bottom of his foot.
Falling on his ass out of shock, Stiles hisses through his teeth as he examines
the fresh cut and swears up a storm when he sees the blood that flows freely
from it. Pressing the sole of his foot to his other leg to staunch it, he
searches the ground around him and eventually finds the thing that caused this
injury—a broken piece of glass, probably from one of the windows.
Giving it a glare, Stiles is about to move on from it when a thought strikes
him:
To make the cut it did, the glass shard has to be pretty sharp.
Maybe sharp enough to cut through rope.
Armed with this theory, Stiles shuffles closer to the shard, turns his back to
it, and searches for it blindly with his tied hands. His fingers brush over
dirt, some sere leaves and another cockroach, until finally they dance across
the smooth surface of the shard. Stiles grabs it carefully and, bending his
wrist awkwardly until he feels the jagged edge of the glass rub up against the
rope, begins moving it back and forth in hopes of cutting through his
restraints. Due to the angle and the fact that he’s working blind, he drops the
shard several times before he makes some headway and the first loop of rope is
cut in half.
Spurred on by this small victory, Stiles keeps going until the last loop is
severed and the rope falls to the ground, useless. Dropping the glass, too, he
gets to his feet again and stretches out all the muscles of his body, moving
his shoulders in circles and rubbing at his sore wrists to help restore his
circulation. Once he’s feeling as well as he can possibly feel under the
circumstances, Stiles walks over to the huge metal door that serves as the
room’s only exit and tries the handle. Predictably, it doesn’t turn, but it
isn’t completely secure, either. It’s loose, so he keeps on jostling it in
hopes of loosening it more and more, until it breaks open. Any progress he
makes is difficult to judge, but a minute soon passes and the handle stays
stubbornly attached, so he guesses that he didn’t really make any at all.
Not one to go down without a fight, Stiles searches for a different tactic.
He scans the room for something he can smash against the door handle but finds
nothing he thinks would be study enough. The only things he sees that could
work are the thick chains that hang from the ceiling, but even when jumping as
high as he can he is unable to reach them. Frustrated, he glares at them as if
this is all their fault and suddenly feels overcome with an odd sensation he
has never felt before. It leaves him reeling, and he has to rest a hand against
the wall to keep himself standing as it mercifully passes.
Attributing this to his head injury, Stiles is about to repeat his search when
he hears something, an unpleasant scraping sound akin to nails on a chalkboard.
Covering his ears, he startles when the chain he had been trying to reach
detaches from the I-beam and falls with a jingly crash. He stares at it where
it now lies coiled on the ground and nudges it with his toe, as if it will come
to life and attack him, and then he snaps it up.
Balling the metal links up in his hand, Stiles brings it down with as much
strength as he can muster on the door handle, again and again, and finds new
energy from someplace deep inside of himself when he sees the handle bending
under the onslaught. Then, with a final hit, the handle clatters to the floor
and the door opens the smallest fraction, the hinges creaking ominously.
Keeping the chain in hand as a weapon, Stiles wrenches the door the rest of the
way open and steps outside, only to stop immediately in his tracks when he sees
what is waiting for him.
A large van is parked a few feet away, the doors at the back open wide to
reveal Chris and Gerard Argent sitting there, in front of a large computer
monitor. When Chris removes his headphones and clambers out of the van, Stiles
sees on the screen the interior of the warehouse, cluing him in to what this
whole thing was really about.
"What. The. Fuck," he gawks. "This was all some elaborate test?!"
"Yes, it was," Chris replies patiently.
"I repeat: What the fuck?!"
With a hand on his shoulder, Chris ushers the angry boy into the back of the
van and into the seat he had just vacated. From beneath it he extracts a fully
stocked first aid kit and, while he cleans and bandages the cut on the bottom
of Stiles’ foot, he begins explaining the purpose of the test. "Every hunter
must go through something like this when they’re still a novice, to prove they
have what it takes to make it through the later stages," he apprises, dabbing
some antiseptic on a wad of cotton wool. He runs it a couple of times over the
cut and gentles his touches when Stiles releases a quiet noise of pain.
"Hunting is incredibly dangerous, and if you still choose to pursue it after
tonight, it will probably lead to situations much worse than what we just put
you through. So, if someone fails this test, that’s it—their training is over.
But you passed. With flying colours, I might add. You showed that you could
remain judicious under pressure, and actually got yourself free much quicker
than I thought you would."
"Really?" Stiles asks, his anger abating in light of this approbation.
"Really. You did it faster than I did back in the day, and while you probably
won’t appreciate the comparison, the only person I’ve known who actually got
out of it faster than you was my sister." Chris turns to Gerard. "Right, dad?"
"Right," the older man concurs, his face blank.
Stiles is speechless. "Huh."
"OK, I think you’re all set," Chris says, using a small piece of medical tape
to stick down the bandage now wrapped around Stiles’ foot. Stiles finds that
the cut doesn’t sting as much anymore, is simply a bit uncomfortable when,
under Chris’ instruction, he rests his foot on the floor of the van and
tentatively puts some pressure on it. "Good?" Chris asks, standing when Stiles
nods. "Alright then... I guess we’re done for tonight. Again, you did very
well. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure what to expect when you asked me to train
you, but I have to say I’m impressed, and I’m looking forward to seeing what
else you’ve got up your sleeve."
Stiles’ face heats up. "Thanks."
"We’ll take you home now. We wouldn’t want anyone to worry."
Taking his cue, Gerard clambers into the driver’s seat and starts up the
engine.
"Who else knew you’d be doing this?" Stiles asks Chris.
"What do you mean?"
"Like, Derek and Melissa. I can’t imagine they’d be that hot on the idea."
Chris chuckles. "They weren’t, but Derek knew how serious you were about this
and explained that to Melissa. They didn’t like it, but they didn’t object.
They’re actually both waiting up for you right now, to make sure it went
alright, and probably to tear me a new one if it didn’t."
"Good thing it did then."
"Yes... Good thing, indeed."
***** Grumpy Alphas and a Helping Hand *****
- Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011 -
Stiles arrives home at just gone 2 a.m. to find the living room light still on,
a strange sight considering the time. Chris escorts him inside, while Gerard
remains in the van to clean up the blood that got on the floor from Stiles’
foot. Chris sticks close to Stiles’ side as they make their way up the front
path, his hand held out as if to catch him should he fall. The cut does make
walking a little difficult, so Stiles can’t really fault him for it. As soon as
he opens the front door and crosses over the threshold, he is accosted by a
worried and irritable Derek, who checks him over from head to toe for injuries.
When Derek spots the bandage on Stiles’ bare foot, he levels Chris with a look
so baleful that the hunter chooses to hang back a little, his hands raised
defensively.
“What happened?!” Derek demands gruffly.
“Derek, calm down. It’s nothing major, just a cut from a piece of glass I
accidentally stepped on and a bump on the head,” Stiles placates, putting his
hands on Derek’s chest. Through his palms he can feel the vibrations of the
wolf’s barely audible growling, and when Derek looks down at him, expression
still stormy, he strokes his thumbs back and forth over stonelike pectorals and
smiles up at him softly. “Honestly, I’m fine. Tired, and a little pissed at
having this sprung on me without any warning, but I guess I did kinda ask for
it. So yeah, I’m fine.”
Huffing disbelievingly, Derek drags Stiles through to the living room and
pushes him down on the sofa, next to where Melissa still sits. He looks at her
expectantly when she doesn’t move. “Well?” he says impatiently, gesturing
emphatically toward Stiles. “Check him over.”
“I can speak for myself, y’know...” Stiles pouts.
Fighting a smile, Melissa gets to work, pulling a medical kit from beneath the
sofa and examining the job Chris had done taking care of Stiles’ foot. She
unwraps the bandage and hums her approval when she sees that it’s already been
disinfected. “I don’t see anything too major here,” she says, taping the
bandage back down. “It’s a pretty small cut, all things considered, and it’ll
heal pretty fast.”
Stiles smirks up at Derek as if to say, “I told you so.”
“But,” Melissa continues, wiping the smirk off of his face. “It’s the bump I’m
concerned with.”
For the next couple of minutes she runs through a series of tests to work out
whether or not Stiles has a concussion. Derek paces in front of the coffee
table while he waits for her verdict, glancing every now and then at Chris and
muttering something under his breath that draws Stiles’ attention away from
Melissa. He thinks he hears something about this being all Chris’ fault and
about stupid, stubborn teenage boys, before Melissa touches the side of his
head and rips his attention back to her with a pang of pain. “Ouch!” he hisses,
leaning away from her touch.
“Oh, hush,” Melissa says, pulling him back. “Just stay still.”
Stiles tries his best to follow orders and keeps any further noises of pain
held tight behind his teeth when he sees Derek watching him with a frown. He
doesn’t want to do anything to further his wolf’s worry. Melissa prods
delicately at the small bump that has already formed on the left side of
Stiles’ forehead, where pale skin is slowly turning an unpleasant mottled
purple, and then hums quietly to herself as she stands. Stiles finds himself
looking crosseyed at her index finger when he starts to get up, too.
“Nope, I’m not done with you yet, young man. Don’t. Move,” Melissa commands,
her expression stern. She waits until Stiles has parked his ass back on the
sofa to head into the kitchen, where she stays for almost a full minute before
returning with an ice pack in hand. “Here, keep this against your head to help
the swelling while I talk to Chris.” She glances over her shoulder at Derek.
“Make sure he doesn’t move from this spot, alright?”
Derek nods, and then Melissa gestures for Chris to join her in the dining room
and shuts the door when they’re both inside, giving them some privacy. Stiles
stares at the closed door until he feels the sofa dip next to him as Derek sits
down.
“Here, let me,” the wolf says, taking the ice pack.
Stiles hadn’t even noticed his hand going numb, and he stares down at his
fingers and flexes them as the feeling gradually returns with a not-unpleasant
tingly sensation. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, Derek presses the ice
pack gently against his forehead and makes him jump, his head snapping up in
surprise. He finds that Derek is focused on his work, his mouth a thin line.
Stiles wants to lean in and kiss the tension away, but the look in Derek’s eyes
stops him from doing so. It tells him clearly what’s going on in Derek’s head,
all the thoughts and emotions that are at war with each other, but there are
two emotions that stand out from all the rest. One of them is fear, and the
other...
“You’re angry,” Stiles states. “Tell me why.”
Derek waits a beat before replying, his gaze flicking briefly down to meet
Stiles’ before returning to the ice pack. “You’re a goddamn idiot,” he bites
out, startling his companion with the passion in his voice. He swallows tightly
and takes the ice pack away for a second to check the bump on Stiles’ head,
then returns it and speaks again. He keeps his face blank, but his voice is
quiet and makes plain to Stiles just how much he means everything he says.
“This whole hunter thing... I know that you’re too stubborn for me to dissuade
you from it, and I also know that I can’t make you stop, but I don’t like it.
At all, and this is why. It’s stupid. You’re getting yourself hurt, even after
what you promised me last week when Victoria pointed her gun at me and you
stepped in between us, and for what? To prove a point? A point that I’ve
already said you don’t need to prove, I might add. Not to me...”
Stiles sighs and removes the ice pack from Derek’s hand. Tossing it onto the
coffee table, he turns sideways in his seat, while still being mindful of his
foot, and uses his index finger to tilt Derek’s chin up so their eyes meet.
“I’m not trying to prove a point to you, or to anyone else,” he says. “I
thought I’d explained myself well enough before, but I guess not.”
“Then...what are you trying to do?”
“I’m doing this because I need to prove it to myself. That’s why. I know you
still have reservations, and I’m grateful for them because I know where those
reservations come from, but please try to understand. Apart from a couple of
moments of blind luck, I could barely do anything when Peter was threatening to
kill us all, especially not when he tried to do what he tried to do to me. If
it weren’t for Lydia... Well, he would’ve succeeded.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” Derek interjects. “I don’t think it was just
‘blind luck’ when you knocked Peter out with a shovel, or when you smashed that
jar of acid over his head. Or when you confronted Kate and chased her off when
she was holding me captive. None of that was blind luck. I’m trying to
understand, and I do get it a little, but you did just fine back then. I don’t
see why this is necessary.”
“Thanks, I guess, but I still need to do this.”
“Why?”
“What if someone else comes along in the future and threatens us? What then?
I’m not gonna be able to do much to help unless I make a change, and training
with Chris is that change. It’ll make it so that I can better protect the pack
and you if I need to, like I know you’ll try your best to protect me. Besides,
it’s not like after Chris has taught me everything he can that I’m gonna make
it my job to go around the whole country, hunting down rouge werewolves every
day. I’m gonna stay right here, in this pack and with you, hopefully without a
reason to use those skills. But I need to have them, just in case. If nothing
else than for my own peace of mind.”
“But—“
“And don’t you think it’s better that I get hurt a little now, under controlled
circumstances, than get hurt a lot worse later on because I was unprepared?”
“I suppose, but—“
“Ah, ah! Nope,” Stiles insists, covering Derek’s mouth with his hand. The glare
he gets in return has his lips curling up in a smile. “It’s already decided,
done and dusted, set in stone, et cetera, et cetera. But, if it will stop you
worrying your pretty little head, maybe I’ll let you accompany me to my
training sessions so that you can make sure nothing bad happens. Sound good?”
Derek continues to glare. “Good. I’m so glad you could come around.”
The smile still on Stiles’ lips transforms into a horrified grimace when Derek
sticks his tongue out and slobbers all over his palm. “Ew, seriously?! Was that
really necessary?” Stiles whines, ripping his hand away and wiping the wolf’s
saliva off on the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. “If you’re gonna lick me you
could at least choose a different body part...”
Derek smirks. “Maybe later, when you’ve healed.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Stiles says, narrowing his eyes playfully. “So,
are we good?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
A few minutes later, Melissa and Chris come out of the dining room.
“Everything alright?” Stiles asks them.
“Yeah, we came to an agreement,” Melissa replies, examining the bump on Stiles’
head. “Chris’ll continue training you, but he has to run things past me first
if he wants to pull any more stunts on you like he did tonight. I think you’ll
be fine, but that bump still looks a bit nasty. I wouldn’t ordinarily do this
but this is a special circumstance, and you’ve already missed a lot of sleep
tonight, so I’m gonna keep you home from school tomorrow just to make sure.
Don’t go getting excited, mind. I mean it when I say I’ll be keeping you home.
I want you to rest up, preferably in bed, but if you get bored and want to come
downstairs to watch TV in here or something, then that’s fine, too. Just
nothing that’ll exert too much energy, OK?”
“I think I can do that,” Stiles accepts.
“Good. Now, I have a shift at the hospital starting soon, so I’m gonna get some
sleep and I think you should as well.” Melissa turns to Derek and Chris and
shoos them out into the foyer. “Which means that you two had better get going.”
Stiles gets up from the sofa and hobbles after them.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Chris says, opening the front door.
“Bye!” Stiles yells after him with a wave.
Once the hunter has climbed into the van and driven off with Gerard, Stiles
turns to Derek, who hovers dilatorily by the door. “I guess I’ll see you
tomorrow, then,” he says, feeling a little awkward interacting with the alpha
when Melissa is watching them so closely, waiting for Derek to leave so that
she can lock up.
Derek nods. “Yeah... I can come over with lunch, if you want.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
When Derek continues to linger, Stiles rolls his eyes and moves forward to do
what he’d wanted to do back on the sofa. He plants a chaste kiss on Derek’s
lips and steps back again before Derek has a chance to respond, laughing
quietly when he sees the stunned expression on his face. His eyes are wide and
innocent-looking, his mouth is parted slightly, and a faint blush appears on
his cheeks, just visible through his beard.
Pulling himself together after Melissa coughs pointedly, Derek offers Stiles a
shy smile before finally leaving. Stiles watches him go, until Melissa shuts
and locks the door and obscures his view of Derek’s back.
“That man is smitten,” Melissa comments as she hangs up her keys.
“You think so?” Stiles can’t help but ask.
“I know so. It’s very cute.”
Stiles looks down with a grin. “Yeah... He is.”
                                     * * *
Just like Melissa wanted, Stiles spends the morning catching up on sleep and
doesn’t move from his bed until it’s nearing midday. He feels his injuries more
profoundly than he did last night, his head and side twinging painfully as he
descends the stairs in search of something to assuage the dryness of his
throat. With a tall glass of orange juice in hand, he settles himself amid a
pile of blankets on the living room sofa and watches episodes of Friends, the
show he always goes to whenever he is feeling low, physically or mentally.
An hour later, at 12:45 p.m., Derek arrives as promised, carrying a clear
Tupperware container with him. “Hey,” he greets, setting the container on the
coffee table and sitting down carefully next to Stiles. He smiles at his messy
blanket cocoon. “How’re you feeling?”
“Alright, I guess. Hungry, though,” Stiles grins.
“Good thing I came prepared.”
Derek opens the Tupperware container and pulls out two flat square-shaped
objects covered in foil. He hands one of them to Stiles. “Here,” he says,
choosing to wait to unwrap his and instead covertly watching as Stiles peels
off the foil and stares down at the sandwich revealed within. Made with soft
white bread, it’s stuffed full of various meats—roast chicken, sliced ham and
bacon—as well as lettuce and sliced tomatoes and a generous spreading of
butter, mayonnaise and mustard. “I hope it’s alright. I asked Melissa this
morning what you liked and couldn’t choose between everything she gave me,
so... I just went with all of it.”
“You made this?” Stiles enquires.
“Yeah...”
“Wow.”
“Is it... Is it OK? I can go get something else if you don’t want it.”
“It’s great, Sourwolf. Seriously, thank you.”
Stiles picks up one half of his sandwich and takes a big bite to prove it.
“See? Delicious!” he grins, a bit of mayonnaise smeared by the corner of his
lips. Derek reaches forward to wipe it off and sucks his thumb into his mouth,
then looks embarrassedly down at his lap when Stiles waggles his eyebrows
suggestively. When the playful mood passes, they eat their lunch and toss the
balled-up foil back inside the Tupperware container.
Derek snaps the lid back on and leans back into the sofa. “So, did that help?”
“Yup. Although, if you really want to help me feel better...”
Derek narrows his eyes when Stiles trails off.
“What?” he asks apprehensively.
Stiles opens up his blanket cocoon and shivers theatrically. “It’s a little
cold today, so...you could get on in here, purely to keep me warm, of course,”
he finishes, biting his bottom lip. “That’d really help to make me feel
better.”
“I’m not really the cuddling type, Stiles.”
“What about the motel?” Stiles asks with a pout.
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It just was.”
“You wanna know what I think? I think you are the cuddling type, but you hide
it,” Stiles expounds shrewdly. When Derek doesn’t dispute this, he knows he’s
right on the money and keeps going, a mischievous grin stretching his lips.
“You gotta keep up that dark and mysterious thing you’ve established for
yourself, right? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.
To everyone else you can keep pretending to be the stoic alpha, but I see right
through you. Always have. When it comes down to it, you’re just a great big
softie, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of coming over here
and keeping me company, and you definitely wouldn’t have made me lunch
yourself. So get in here before I’m forced to come over there and snuggle you
to death. Don’t test me, Sourwolf. I’ll do it!”
Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t comply until Stiles moves to follow through on
his threat. “Alright, fine!” he exclaims, snatching the blankets from Stiles’
hand. He grumbles under his breath as he moves across the sofa but nevertheless
wraps the blankets snugly around their shoulders and allows Stiles to mould
himself to his side. Once they’re settled, he feels Stiles’ eyes on the side of
his face and sighs. “Fine, I guess this isn’t so bad.”
“You flatter me.”
“Don’t get used to it. Wouldn’t want your head to get any bigger.”
“Hey!”
                                     * * *
After a couple of hours curled up together on the sofa, Stiles’ phone vibrates
on the coffee table and brings him out of his bubble of perfection. Reluctantly
he extricates himself just enough to grab it, and then frowns down at the next
text message that has just come in.
“What is it?” Derek asks.
“It’s Parrish,” Stiles replies. “He wants me to come over, says it’s
important.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea... You’re still recovering.”
“True, but... I still think I should.”
“You sure? Melissa will kill me if you end up exacerbating any of your
injuries.”
“Then I won’t.”
A few minutes later, after Stiles has gotten dressed, Derek follows Stiles’
directions and drives them across town to Parrish’s apartment building. He
takes one of the empty parking spaces in the lot outside, helps Stiles out and
up to the front entrance, and presses the button on the intercom that has
Jordan Parrish written across it in a tidy scrawl. Five seconds later,
Parrish’s voice comes out of the tinny speaker, and Stiles and Derek are buzzed
in. Because of Stiles’ foot, they take the elevator up to the third floor,
where Stiles knocks on the plain light-brown door for apartment 3C.
“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Parrish says when he opens it.
“I had time to kill,” Stiles replies, stepping inside.
Parrish shuts the door again and keeps them standing in the living room.
“Derek,” he greets, holding out his hand for the alpha to shake. He grins and
laughs when Derek takes it and shakes it once in an awkward, jerky motion.
“It’s good to see you, man. I hear from Melissa McCall that you’re keeping our
young Stiles here pretty busy these days.”
“As much as I’d love to get into this, why are we here?” Stiles interpolates,
saving himself some embarrassment.
“Right, sorry.” Parrish’s demeanour becomes sad. “It’s about Isaac... He’s been
doing alright, y’know? Better than anyone could’ve really expected considering
what he’s been through. But today he hasn’t come out of his room. I think he
had a bad nightmare last night that set him back on his heels, and as much as I
already like the kid and want to help him as much as I can, I really think he
needs a friend his own age, someone to give him some normalcy. That’s where you
come in. I couldn’t think of a better person to fill that role than you.”
Stiles is stunned but rolls with it.
“I’m happy to help. I was gonna try and befriend him anyway.”
“OK, cool. Stay here. I’ll go get him.”
Derek takes a seat on the sofa while he waits, but Stiles is too curious to
join him. He observes as Parrish walks down the hall and knocks gently on what
must be Isaac’s door. There comes a sort of rustling from the other side and
then, a few seconds later, the door opens a few inches and nervous eyes peer
through the gap. They widen in alarm when they land on Stiles.
“Hey, is it alright if I come in for a sec’?” Parrish asks, drawing Isaac’s
attention to him with an encouraging smile. “Or, if you’d prefer, you can come
out? You can say no, but there’s someone I think you should meet.”
Isaac bites his lip, his eyes flicking back to Stiles, and for a moment Stiles
thinks the other boy is going to shut the door again. But then Isaac seems to
reconsider, throwing it open and stepping out into the hall. He moves
cautiously, with his back hunched over as if protecting himself, until he
reaches the living room. Stiles waves at him and plasters on his friendliest
smile, hoping to allay Isaac’s fears.
“Isaac, this is Stiles,” Parrish introduces.
“Hey,” Stiles says.
The tall teen doesn’t respond verbally but nods in his direction.
“And that’s Derek,” Parrish continues, pointing at the leather-clad man. “How
about we all sit down, hmm?”
“I guess...” Isaac croaks.
Parrish sits down next to Derek, in the middle of the sofa, leaving Isaac to
take the other end and Stiles to perch on the edge of the coffee table. “Right,
so,” Parrish says, rubbing his hands together, “I already told you that Stiles
is the reason you’re out of your dad’s house, right? Well, let me tell you a
bit more about him. I’ve known him for years, ever since I got my position as a
deputy. He’s the sheriff’s kid, which you probably already know, and he’s...
Basically he’s like the little brother I never had. He’s good people, and I
asked him to come round today so that you two could get to know each other a
bit. I think you could be good friends.”
“And him?” Isaac asks, looking warily at Derek, who looks impassively back.
“Well, him I don’t know quite as well. Not at all, really. But I know Stiles
trusts him, and I trust Stiles’ judgement so... Good enough.”
“Who is he?”
“Derek’s my, uh...boyfriend?” Stiles supplies, glancing at Derek for
confirmation. “Yeah, boyfriend.”
Isaac’s eyes spark with recognition. “Derek...Hale? As in The Hale Fire, Hale?”
“Yes,” Derek responds tersely.
“Oh... Well, as much as I appreciate you coming over here to see me,” Isaac
says, turning his eyes to Stiles, “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” Stiles assures. “It’s empathy. I know you don’t really have a
reason to believe me, but I’m here because I genuinely want to be friends. I
heard Jackson Whittemore talking about you in school, and I knew I had to do
something. I know some of what you’ve gone through and I wanted to help. Still
do. My dad, he... While he never laid a hand on me like that, he drank, a
lot—still does, I guess—and whenever he was loaded he always did a very good
job of putting me down and making me feel like complete shit. Now, I’m not
saying that even compares. You had it much, much worse than I did, so bad that
I can’t even imagine, but if we’re not in the same boat then we’re at least in
the same dock. I think it would be good to have someone around who knows at
least a little of what you’ve gone through.”
“I’m not sure...” Isaac says, shifting uncomfortably in place.
“When do you go back to school?”
“Uhh... Next week, I think.”
“How about we do a trial run or something? You meet me outside school before it
starts, and I can introduce you to everyone. Erica, Boyd, Lydia... I know
they’d all love to meet you and make you feel welcome. And, if you get too
overwhelmed at any point, just say the word and we’ll leave you alone again.
Deal?”
“I don’t... I’m still not sure.”
“Well, I’ll be waiting outside school on Monday,” Stiles says as he pushes
himself to his feet. “If you show up, great, and if not, then...no harm done,
and I’ll see you around. Now, I should probably get back home before Melissa
finds out I’m not resting up in bed like she told me to and kicks my ass even
more than it’s already been kicked.”
***** Presumptuous is My Middle Name *****
- Thursday, February 24th, 2011 -
Stiles stands outside of Alisha’s Boutique with butterflies proliferating in
his stomach. In five minutes he is supposed to walk inside and meet Erica’s
mother for an interview, which will hopefully lead to him finally landing a
part-time job. Even though Erica had told him before they parted ways in the
school parking lot that she’d been talking him up all week, Stiles can’t help
but worry that he’ll find a way to screw up this opportunity and wind up back
at square one.
He checks himself over in the reflection of the boutique’s large display
window, titivating his unruly hair and adjusting on his slender frame the
clothes he’d carefully chosen that morning, with Melissa’s assistance. The
collar of his crisp white shirt chafes where it’s buttoned up to his neck, and
the shirt itself has some noticeable wrinkles in it—as well as a small red
stain near where it’s tucked into his best pair of jeans, from when he’d
accidentally spilled some ketchup on himself during lunch—but otherwise he
thinks he looks decent. He hopes it will be enough to help him make a good
impression.
Preening done, Stiles looks down at his phone and watches as the last few
seconds tick by. When it’s time, he takes a deep breath and pushes open the
door, drawing the attention of the few patrons that are currently browsing the
boutique’s moderate selection of clothing, jewellery and trinkets. Erica’s
mother, who stands behind the till on the right side of the room, looks up at
the sound of the bell jingling above the door and waves him over.
"Stiles, you’re right on time!" Alisha beams.
"Hi, Mrs. Reyes," Stiles says.
"Oh, come now, none of that! Please, just call me Alisha," the woman requests,
stepping out from behind the till and crossing the room to the door. Her long
pink skirt flows around her legs as she walks, and the overhead lights catch on
the red beads that run in thin swirling lines down the length of it to the hem,
where they form flowers. She flips around the sign in the window so that the
outside reads CLOSED. "I’m sorry to make you wait," she says as she returns to
her post, "but if it’s not a problem, I’ll just see to these last few customers
and then we’ll begin once we have some peace and quiet."
"Yeah, that’s fine, Mrs. Reyes," Stiles says, nodding amicably.
"Alisha," she reminds him.
"Alisha," Stiles accedes, taking the stool she offers him.
While the last few customers select their purchases and pay, Stiles allows his
eyes to wander. Along the walls are different clothing racks, all boasting
different items—shirts, skirts, trousers and sweaters, organised by colour with
duplicates of each item in different sizes. In the middle of the room are
several display tables covered in velvety purple fabric, each of them topped
with their own gallimaufry of jewellery and trinkets.
Once the last customer is out the door, Alisha flips the lock and sags with
relief. "God, I love doing that," she giggles to herself. "Don’t get me
wrong—it’s pretty much always been my dream to own a place just like this and I
don’t regret following that dream at all, but damn, I didn't take into account
just how tiring and stressful working in retail can be..." Her blue eyes widen
when she realises what she’s just said, and to whom, and she looks at Stiles
sheepishly. "Not that any of that should stop you from wanting to work here, of
course. I’m exaggerating. It won’t be nearly as bad for you."
"Relax," Stiles butts in, smiling, "I still want the job."
"Oh, thank God."
Alisha escorts Stiles into the back room. The space feels much smaller than it
really is, due to all the boxes of extra stock piled up around the walls, but
there’s enough room for a couple of chairs and a small table, on top of which
is an old MacBook Pro and a stack of papers. Alisha tells Stiles to take a seat
while she switches on a kettle that, because it’s wedge in between yet more
boxes, Stiles hadn’t even noticed.
"Coffee?" she asks over her shoulder. "Or tea? I’ve got plain, Earl Grey or
green."
"Coffee is fine, thanks."
A minute later, Alisha hands Stiles a mug of black coffee and sits down at the
other side of the table. Her whole demeanour changes then, from the genial,
almost earthy woman Stiles had met not even ten minutes ago to a serious
businesswoman. "So, Erica’s already told me a bit about you when she was
repeatedly asking me to consider you, but I have some questions of my own," she
begins, pulling her laptop close and doing something on it that Stiles can’t
see. "I trust that’s alright with you?"
"Yeah, sure," he accepts uneasily.
"You’re 16, yes?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any previous experience working in retail?"
Stiles takes a sip of his beverage to bide some time.
"Not really, no. But I’m eager to learn."
"Do you have any experience working at all?"
"I used to help my dad down at the station, with filing and stuff, if that
counts."
"It might. What do you consider to be your main strengths?"
"Uhh, let’s see... I’m a hard worker. I have good people skills and can get
along with pretty much anyone. I’m diligent. I didn’t really want to spend my
afternoons filing for my dad, but I did a hell of a good job anyway, if I do
say so myself."
"And your weaknesses?"
Stiles avoids the urge to make a joke. "I have a habit of talking too much, I
guess. Give me a topic and I’ll talk your ear off until you tell me to shut up.
I’ve been told it can get annoying."
"You said a minute ago that you didn’t want to spend your afternoons working
for your dad," Alisha says, typing away on her computer, making notes. Stiles
internally cringes and wishes that he’d phrased things differently. "Why do you
want to work here now, then? Answer honestly, please."
"I need the money."
"For what?"
"To help out with expenses and stuff? I’m not going to get into it right now,
but I’m living with a...a friend, at the moment, and it’s a single-income
family. It was their idea and everything, but they can’t really afford to have
me there and I feel guilty for putting them out. So yeah, I need the money so
they don’t have to sacrifice too much."
Alisha hums quietly. "I see. Well, I think that’s all the information I need
right now, thank you," she says, leaving Stiles to sit in anxious silence as
she continues to type for a couple of minutes. But then she speaks again, and
Stiles feels like he’s getting whiplash from how fast the atmosphere in the
room changes. She drops the serious facade again and grins at him. "You can
relax now; the hard part’s over. I was probably going to hire you anyway
because Erica did a very good job of talking you up, and I liked what I heard
just now, so...when can you start? I was thinking maybe this Sunday, if it’s
not too much trouble. Ordinarily you’ll only be working after school for a
couple of hours, three or four days a week, maybe. But I’d like to use this
Sunday to take you over how everything works here and get you better prepared
for Monday. 12 p.m. S’that sound doable?"
Flustered, Stiles nevertheless stands and shakes Alisha’s hand when she offers
it. "Yeah."
"Excellent!" she claps her hands together excitedly. "I’ll see you then."
                                     * * *
- Saturday, February 26th, 2011 -
A few hours after having dinner together at Melissa’s, Stiles walks with Derek
up the Argents’ dark front path, ready to have his next training session with
Chris. The cut on his foot has healed to the point where it doesn’t cause him
any pain or discomfort, and the bruising on his forehead, while still an
eyesore, is no longer tender. Even so, and even after their talk earlier in the
week, he can tell that Derek is apprehensive about him doing something so
physically demanding so soon. Sure enough, when Stiles raises his fist to knock
on the front door, Derek grabs hold of his wrist before his knuckles connect.
"Alright..." Stiles sighs, dropping his arm. "Let’s hear it."
"Are you sure you’re up for this?" Derek asks, shoving his hands inside the
pockets of his leather jacket. "If your foot’s still not feeling that great, I
don’t think Chris would mind you taking a rain check until it heals
completely."
"Nope," Stiles says, knocking on the door and smirking when Derek huffs.
"I give up."
A minute later the door swings inward and Chris—who is dressed to match Stiles’
sweatpants and plain white T-shirt—invites them inside, just as Victoria walks
through from the living room. Stiles, having not seen her since she pointed at
gun at him, tenses up, but she doesn’t try anything. She simply glares in his
direction on her way upstairs, her nose scrunched up as if she has just smelled
something awful. The sound a door slamming echoes down to the foyer and makes
Chris shake his head sadly.
"I’m sorry about her," the hunter says. "I talked to her about what she pulled
last week and she still hasn’t quite forgiven me for not taking her side... But
she did promise not to do it again, so there’s that, I suppose. And I’ll make
sure that every time you have a session here, Stiles, or Derek hosts a session
in the preserve, she won’t be in attendance. At least until she comes around."
He sighs, then switches topics. "Anyway, enough of that. We’re going to be
doing things a little differently this evening. For starters—you won’t be
training here right away. We’re just waiting on my dad to get some stuff
together, and then we’ll be heading somewhere else that’s better equipped for
what I have planned."
As if he was waiting for his cue, Gerard appears then, coming up from the
basement with a large black duffel bag clutched in his hand. He nods
impassively at Derek and Stiles on his way past, and Stiles glimpses what look
like the barrels of a shotgun and a hunting rifle sticking out where the bag is
partially unzipped at one end.
"Come on," Chris says, traipsing outside after his father.
Everyone piles into Stiles’ Jeep, where Chris gives the boy directions from the
back seat. He refuses to spill any more details until they arrive at their
mystery destination, but it isn’t hard for Stiles to figure it out, especially
when he sees the building outside of which Chris has him park. It’s the same
shooting range his dad took him to from time to time, but it’s closed now
because of the late hour, no cars apart from his Jeep in the small lot and no
lights on within.
Gerard is the first one out of the car, leaving the others to follow as he
pulls out a keyring from his jacket pocket and unlocks the front entrance to
the range.
"How did you get those?" Stiles asks curiously.
"The Argents are a very prestigious hunting family," Gerard responds gruffly.
"We have connections, is what he means," Chris supplies, after his dad walks
inside without another word. "I know the owner of this place, and he was kind
enough to let us use it for a couple of hours, free of charge."
"Oh," Stiles says. "Cool."
They find Gerard waiting patiently in the main area, by one of the lanes along
the shooting line. Each lane has a weapon laid out ready. Stiles walks the
length of the room to take in all the gleaming metal and sees a handgun, a
shotgun, the hunting rifle he’d used on Peter, a sniper rifle, a crossbow, and
a bow, complete with several sharp and deadly-looking arrows.
"What's all this?" he asks with a frown.
"Your next lesson," Chris replies, joining his father.
"Are we not doing combat today, then?"
The corner of Chris’ mouth twitches. "We will," he says, picking up the handgun
and holding it out for Stiles to take. "But first, you’ll be learning a bit
about the different weapons you’re likely to use should you encounter anything
that threatens you in the future."
"Oh," Stiles says, turning the gun over in his hand.
"Do you have any experience with guns?"
"A little. My dad brought me to this very shooting range a few times and took
me over the basics, just in case I ever needed to use the spare gun he keeps
locked up in his office at home," Stiles reveals, extracting the clip and
humming when he sees that it’s fully loaded. Putting it back, he transfers the
gun to his dominant hand and grips it the way his dad had taught him. "But
that’s about it. The only other times I’ve actually held a gun outside of a
shooting range were during that night in the preserve, when we took down
Peter."
"Really?" Derek enquires, stepping closer.
"Yeah, why?"
"It’s just surprising, especially after that shot you managed to land on Peter
with Chris’ rifle," Derek explains, running his index finger lightly over the
sharp edge of a broadhead arrow. "I was holding my own, but I don’t think I
would’ve been able to carry on for much longer, and I definitely wouldn’t have
been able to beat him without you shooting him through the neck. That’s why."
"Well...thanks, I guess," Stiles says with a smile.
Derek smiles back.
Eventually Chris coughs pointedly and brings them out of their staring contest.
"As sweet as this is, you’re here for something important, yes?" he asks
rhetorically, though not unkindly. There’s a small hint of amusement beneath
his stern expression, but Stiles feels the chastisement anyway and looks away
from Derek, refocusing on the task at hand.
"Yeah, sorry. Carry on. I’m listening."
"Alright, then..." Chris says, taking back the gun and setting it down in its
place. "Let’s start by familiarising you with all of these. My dad and I chose
several weapons that we thought had potential for you. Every hunter develops a
preference over time and experience, a type of weapon, a make or even a
specific model, that becomes like an extension of them, their go-to. That’s the
purpose of us being down here this evening, to find out which of these calls to
you. You’re likely to use all of them at some point or another, depending on
what the situation calls for, but if all goes well, this evening will give us a
starting point."
Chris walks down the shooting line and taps his finger once to each weapon as
he names them. "Here we have a Beretta M9 pistol; a Barrett M107A1 sniper
rifle; a Sako Finnlight hunting rifle; a Benelli M2 shotgun; an SAS Crusher
crossbow; and, finally, a Hoyt Gamemaster II recurve bow, complete with custom-
made broadhead arrows bearing our family’s crest." He picks up one of these
arrows and points to the small elegant A that is debossed into the metal, near
the tip. "All of our wolfsbane bullets bear this crest, too, on the base. Now,
I’m going to have you carefully test out each weapon, see how it feels in your
hands and how it handles when you fire, using the targets set up along the wall
over there."
Stiles follows Chris’ finger and looks down the closest lane to see a paper
target hung up on the other side, the typical black silhouette of a person.
"Let's start simple."
Chris picks up the pistol and—once everyone is wearing protective earmuffs,
provided by Gerard—fires in two quick bursts, one cluster aimed at the target’s
head and the second at its chest. Even standing as far away as he is, Stiles
can tell that the grouping is impossibly tight, an intimidating display of
skill that he has no hope of measuring up to yet. Still, when the bullet-
riddled target is replaced with a fresh one and Chris hands him the gun, Stiles
tries his best, paying close attention as the hunter repositions his hands and
adjusts his stance.
The first couple of bullets miss the target entirely, until Chris reminds him
to breathe and his accuracy improves. He doesn’t match Chris’ demonstration,
not by a long shot, but by the time the clip is empty he has managed to land a
couple of head shots and one right through where the heart would be.
"Not bad, Stiles," Chris compliments, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Thanks."
"Let’s move on to the next one."
One by one Stiles tries out the weapons. He finds the shotgun and crossbow
particularly troublesome, but the hunting rifle is surprisingly easy to use.
The sniper rifle is also alright, but it’s with the recurve bow that Stiles
excels after a couple of fumbled shots, one of which ends with his fingers
slipping as he tries to draw the string taut. The arrow lands with a clatter on
the floor a couple of feet away. After a few more attempts, though, he hits his
stride and feels disappointed when his arms become too tired to fire another
arrow.
"Do we have a winner?" Chris enquires, with a knowing glint in his icy eyes.
"I think we do," Stiles says, looking down at the bow.
"Excellent. The next time we do weapons training, we’ll focus on the recurve
bow more than the others, get you even more comfortable with it. Maybe in the
preserve somewhere, where you can practise shooting at longer distances."
Stiles grins. "I’ll be shooting an apple off your head from a hundred feet away
in no time."
The hunter shakes his head. "I think not."
                                     * * *
Back at the Argents’, Stiles descends into the basement with Derek and Chris to
find that a space has been cleared in the middle of the room and a couple of
large navy-blue gym mats lain down side by side. Chris and Stiles take their
places on these mats, Stiles with the pistol he’d used back at the shooting
range and Chris completely unarmed.
"Try to shoot me," the hunter says, getting right to it.
"Excuse me?" Stiles gapes.
"Don’t worry; it’s no longer loaded. Now try to shoot me."
"Why?"
"I’m going to show you what happens when you fight against someone with a great
deal more physical strength than you, like a werewolf. So come on. Try."
"Uhh... Alright."
After double-checking that the clip really is empty, Stiles swallows his nerves
and raises the gun, only to immediately find it knocked out of his hand and his
vision blurring. When it clears, he finds that he’s now lying on his front,
with his arm twisted behind his back. "Hey! That wasn’t fair!" he protests,
struggling against Chris’ hold. When he is let go, Stiles gets up and rubs at
his shoulder with a pout. "You didn’t give me any warning."
"Do you think someone who wants to kill you will play fair?" Chris asks. "Did
Peter play fair?"
"No..."
"Exactly," Chris says, crossing his arms over his chest. "You’re at a
disadvantage right from the get-go. They’re stronger and faster than you, have
far better senses than you do. They don’t need to hold a weapon to fight—they
already have theirs, claws and fangs that will tear you apart in the blink of
an eye if you slip up and let them get close enough to you. So, to have a
chance at survival you need to be able to stand up to any trick they can pull.
Like anyone, werewolves will do whatever they have to in order to survive. You
can’t count on them having any morals or sense of decency or even mercy should
they find themselves in a position where their life is in danger, so you have
to fight just as dirty as they do. Now, try again. We’ll keep doing this until
you learn from your mistakes."
Several more times Stiles ends up pinned to the gym mat, his frustration
growing each time because, no matter what he does, he can’t seem to last more
than a few seconds. He tries everything he can think of—he feints left and then
quickly changes course, but Chris is faster; he keeps the gun close to his side
and waits to use it until Chris has made the first move, but that first move is
to again knock the gun from his tight grip; he ducks low and attempts to sweep
Chris’ legs out, but the hunter jumps nimbly and takes advantage of his
position low to the mat and pins him again. Nothing seems to work, and by the
end of the eighth attempt he’s close to calling it quits until another day.
Close, but not there yet.
On his ninth attempt, some new inspiration comes to him.
Before Chris can disarm him, Stiles throws the gun between the hunter’s legs
and uses the distraction to dart toward him. Chris catches up at the last
second and sidesteps the attack, but it doesn’t matter. With Chris out of the
way, Stiles is able to reach the gun again. Twisting just before he hits the
mat, he lands on his back and points the gun right at the centre of Chris’
chest.
Chris seems stunned, but then a pleased grin forms on his face.
"That was some good thinking," he says.
"Thanks."
Stiles takes the hand the hunter offers him and, back on his feet, tries to
catch his breath. He glances at the clock on the wall and gapes stupidly when
he sees that they’ve been at it for an hour already. But, when he takes into
account how sweaty he is and how tired he feels, he supposes it makes sense.
Chris has a similar reaction to the time.
"I think that’ll do for now, don’t you?" the hunter says, laughing
breathlessly.
Gerard steps forward then, surprising Stiles, who hadn’t noticed him come down
to join them. The oldest Argent carries with him two bottles of chilled water,
one of which Stiles takes gratefully and chugs until Derek tells him to slow
down, lest he choke. After helping the two hunters get everything packed away,
he walks with Derek and Chris up the stairs to the ground floor and prepares to
leave, anticipation building in his gut because he knows what’s coming once he
and Derek are out of the house.
"Well, it’s been a blast," Stiles says to Chris. "When’s our next session?"
"Next Saturday. Same time," the blond man responds.
"Got it."
Once goodbyes have been exchanged, Stiles walks outside and basks in the cool
breeze that immediately hits the hot skin of his face.
"Can you drop me off at the loft before you head home?" Derek asks.
"Well, actually..." Stiles mumbles, looking bashfully down at the ground. "I
probably should’ve run it past you first, but if you don’t have a problem with
it, I wasn’t planning on going home tonight." He reaches inside the back seat
of his Jeep and extracts a backpack, which he unzips to show Derek the bundle
of clean clothes and the ziplock bag of toiletries he’d packed that morning. "I
though that, uh, maybe I could sleep round yours. I talked to Melissa last
night and she said she was OK with it."
"That’s pretty presumptuous of you," Derek comments, his eyebrows high up on
his forehead. When Stiles deflates and zips his backpack back up, taking it as
a no, Derek’s eyebrows return to their usual place and the left side of his
mouth twitches, his eyes shining playfully. "But since you already went to the
trouble of setting this up..."
Stiles looks at him hopefully. "Is that a yes?"
"I suppose."
"Wow, so enthusiastic."
"Just get in, idiot, before I change my mind."
***** The Feel of Your Skin on Mine *****
"Wow, you've been busy!" Stiles exclaims as he steps inside Derek's loft. He
drifts over to the middle of the room, where he drops his backpack to the floor
and spins slowly in place, taking in everything that has changed since his last
visit a couple of weeks ago.
Where once there was only a single burgundy sofa, there are now three,
mismatched in a way that's still aesthetically pleasing. Coloured sapphire-blue
and forest-green, the two new additions are positioned on opposite sides of the
onyx coffee table, forming a U shape with the burgundy sofa that points in the
direction of the left wall. Mounted onto the red bricks is a pricey-looking TV,
with a small wooden cupboard standing right below it, containing a blu-ray
player and a small pile of old DVDs.
His curiosity growing, Stiles walks through the open doorway to his right, only
vaguely aware of Derek shadowing him, and gawks at the spruced-up kitchen. It's
still relatively bare, but now it looks intentional rather than because it was
gutted years before. Running along the left wall is a white countertop, with a
plain metal sink set into it halfway down. Next to the sink sits a microwave
and half a loaf of bread, and underneath all of this are drawers and cupboards
sparsely filled with cutlery, some pots and pans, various cleaning products,
and some rags. On the right side of the room is a large silver fridge-freezer
combo, a commercial model one might expect to see in a restaurant. There's a
sizeable dent in one of the doors, so Stiles assumes that, rather than forking
out the full retail price, Derek saved a few bucks and bought it secondhand. A
smart move, he muses as he opens the fridge and looks at what's inside. He
finds a lot of meat, a few condiments, a half-drunk container of milk, and
nothing else.
He shakes his head. "Werewolves..."
After closing the fridge, Stiles reenters the loft's main space and strides
across it to the bathroom. The floor is the most noticeable change. Gone is the
bare concrete, replaced with large off-white tiles that look professionally
done. It's only when Stiles crouches down to get a better look that he sees the
odd imperfection that speaks of a layman's handiwork.
"Dude, this place looks awesome!" Stiles asseverates as he stands up again.
"I'm glad you think so," Derek responds from his position leaning against the
door frame.
"How long did this take?"
"A few days."
"Well, it's seriously impressive."
"Thanks," Derek smiles, pushing away from the door frame and leading the way
back out into the living room. He takes off his leather jacket and drapes it
over the back of the burgundy sofa, before taking a seat with his feet kicked
up on the coffee table and his hands clasped behind his head. "So, what do you
feel like doing?" he asks when Stiles stays standing. "I've got the TV and
stuff, but I'm afraid I don't have much to actually use it with yet."
"That's alright," Stiles says, biting his bottom lip. "It's pretty late
anyway."
"You tired? Chris did put you through a lot today."
"A bit," Stiles lies, hoping that the alpha won't notice the blip in his
heartbeat. Despite the truth of Derek's words, he isn't tired at all, is too
keyed up. "D'you mind if I use your shower? I'm still all sweaty from earlier
and it's kinda gross."
"Help yourself."
                                     * * *
Sooner than Stiles had expected, he finds himself lying beneath the sheets in
Derek's bed, feeling childish in his Spiderman pyjamas. Derek is sat beside him
with a book open in his lap, still dressed in his day clothes but with bare
feet now, while Stiles picks at his cuticles and tries to gather the courage to
open his mouth.
"I can hear you thinking," Derek says suddenly, putting his book aside.
"Sorry," Stiles mutters.
"Don't apologise. I can tell you want to say something, so just say it. I'm
listening."
Stiles' heart beats fast as he pushes himself up so that he's sitting, too. He
moves closer, until they're pressed together from thigh to shoulder and his
head is tucked against the right side of Derek's broad chest. He sighs happily
when the alpha moves his arm to make room and wraps it around him instead,
thick fingers tracing lazy patterns over his hip. This close, all Stiles can
smell is the deodorant Derek uses and his natural underlying musk, comprised of
leather, clean sweat and something unidentifiable that belongs purely to Derek.
It's a heady mixture that has Stiles feeling dizzy and his stomach churning as
he readies himself to spill the true reason for his staying over.
"I didn't really ask to sleep here tonight just to, y'know, sleep," Stiles
explains quietly, looking up at Derek from under his eyelashes. Derek's eyes
meet his and widen a fraction, the meaning of his words obviously not lost on
him. "I mean, if you're OK with it, I thought that maybe we'd take this thing a
bit further. And before you ask—yes, I'm sure."
"You don't sound it," Derek frowns.
"Well, I'm still incredibly nervous," Stiles grins shakily, an almost
hysterical laugh slipping out. "But I want this. I really, really want this."
He reaches up and smooths his thumb over the deep crease between Derek's
eyebrows, disappearing his frown and causing Derek's eyes to soften. "Maybe not
all the way, not quite yet—we'll have to see how it goes—but I want you. You
have no idea how much."
"I think I do..." Derek murmurs, leaning down and kissing Stiles sweetly.
Derek cradles the back of Stiles' head and, keeping their lips connected,
raises them both up to their knees. Stiles moans into the kiss, tangling the
fingers of one hand in the short hairs at the base of Derek's skull and
clutching at Derek's shoulder with the other. His dick begins to swell in his
pyjama bottoms, and he can tell that Derek isn't faring any better by the
hardness that pokes him in the leg. With the tiny part of his brain not
currently focused on their lips sliding together and the slick tongue invading
his mouth, he registers a sense of astonishment. He has felt Derek's arousal
against him before, of course, but he's still amazed that he has the power to
elicit such a reaction. He trusts that Derek is attracted to him, but after
years of being made to feel less than by his peers at school, it's a lot for
him to wrap his head around. Especially because it's Derek—a.k.a. The Hottest
Man Alive.
After a few minutes of simply making out, Stiles tears his mouth away from his
wolf's and stares at his flushed face. He shudders at the intensity in Derek's
eyes. "How're we gonna do this?" he asks. "This is all new to me, remember."
Derek rests his hand on Stiles' knee. "Want me to take the lead?"
"That'd be great, yeah."
Stiles' eyes slip closed when Derek kisses him again, his body losing all
tension. Until he feels Derek's hands moving to the hem of his shirt, that is.
He jumps in surprise when one adventurous finger slips beneath the fabric and
brushes across his stomach, making his abdominal muscles twitch and contract.
"Is this OK?" Derek asks against Stiles' lips.
Nodding, Stiles breathes Derek in as his touches become more confident. The
wolf rucks his shirt up and, after again seeking Stiles' blessing, pulls it off
entirely, baring him to the cool air inside the loft. With a soft sound he
hears his shirt hit concrete a few feet away and then Derek leans back, but
Stiles keeps his eyes closed. There's a long stretch of silence, in which he
feels more and more exposed. This is the first time Derek has seen him like
this, and he can't help it when old insecurities surge forth from the box in
which he'd shoved them in the back of his mind. He's a scrawny thing, he knows,
especially when compared to the mass of pure muscle in front of him, and he's
sure that, should he open his eyes, he'll see disappointment on Derek's face.
He wishes he had his shirt back, and eventually it becomes too much and he
gives into the urge to cover himself again, tilting his head down as he tries
to wrap his arms around his insubstantial chest and ab-less stomach.
Before he manages it, though, Derek grabs his wrists.
"Stiles...look at me," the man implores quietly.
Something in Derek's voice has Stiles complying, something akin to awe that he
must be imagining. Maybe, as a way of protecting him, his subconscious is
making him hear what he wants to hear. Yeah, that sounds about right. He cracks
open his eyes trepidatiously and glances at Derek, but he is prevented from
looking away again when the alpha transfers both wrists to his left hand and
takes hold of his chin with the right.
"What's wrong?" Derek asks.
"Nothing..." Stiles denies, trying once more to cover himself.
Derek still doesn't let him, keeping Stiles' wrists in a firm yet gentle grip.
He looks over every inch of the pale, mole-dotted skin that makes up Stiles'
naked torso, from his broad shoulders, pronounced collarbones and pebbled
nipples, to his barely developed abdominal muscles, just visible beneath a thin
layer of baby fat that will fast be burned away with Chris' training. After
looking his fill, he returns his eyes to Stiles', a reassuring smile on his
lips. "I think I know, but you're mistaken. Trust me—you have nothing to be
ashamed of," Derek promises, with a devastating amount of open honesty and
affection on his face. "You're beautiful."
Stiles blushes a deep scarlet. "Am not."
"Are, too," Derek reiterates. He lets go of Stiles' wrists in favour of cupping
his face with both hands and strokes his thumbs across the elegant slope of
Stiles' cheekbones. "We don't have to go any further tonight if you want to
stop now. I won't be mad or disappointed or anything. But believe me when I say
that I want you, too, in any way I can get you."
To emphasise his point, Derek looks down at his lap.
Following his gaze, Stiles just about starts to believe Derek's words when he
sees the bulge that is still obvious beneath the dark-blue denim of his jeans.
It seems to get impossibly bigger as he gawks, forming a long, thick line the
runs down the inside of Derek's left thigh and pulls his jeans taut. His wolf
is rather well-endowed, it seems, and Stiles can't help but wonder what it
would feel like in his hand, in his mouth, in...other places. It's only when he
hears Derek suggest that they level the playing field a bit that he
manages—with monumental effort—to tear his eyes away from the hard length, only
to find himself wonderstruck.
Derek cross his arms in front of his waist and peels off his chocolate-coloured
Henley with unbearable slowness, likely because he knows just what he's doing
to Stiles and wants to tease him. Once it's all the way off and tossed to the
floor to join Stiles' T-shirt, Derek sits still on his heels and lets Stiles
stare, with an amused glint in his hazel eyes and the corners of his mouth
turned up. And stare Stiles does. The sight of a shirtless Derek isn't really
anything new, but whenever the wolf has been bare like this in the past there
were always more urgent things going on, lives that were in danger. Now that he
has the time, Stiles takes full advantage of the opportunity Derek is giving
him.
He feels like one of the characters in the old cartoons he used to watch as a
child, whose hearts would visibly try to burst from their chests with every
beat whenever the objects of their affections were around. Stiles longs to
reach out and touch, but he keeps his hands to himself for now, his nails
digging painfully into his knees.
The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table casts every dip and plane of
Derek's torso into sharp relief, but his chest is what arrests Stiles'
attention first. His large pectoral muscles are covered in a field of hair that
Stiles wants to run his fingers through, spanning from just below his neck to
surround dusky nipples that Stiles wants to lick and bite. The dark hairs taper
off into a thin happy trail, which runs down the centre of Derek's abs and
disappears below the waistband of his jeans.
"You're drooling," Derek says, snapping him out of his staring.
Stiles wipes at the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes good-naturedly.
"Just shut up and get over here already," he commands, making grabby hands.
Derek does just that.
"Like this?" he asks, stopping when their chests are just an inch apart.
"It'll do."
Feeling more confident now, Stiles reaches for the button of Derek's jeans and
blindly slips it through the placket, his eyes locked to Derek's. Next comes
the zipper, which he pulls down just as slowly as Derek had removed his Henley.
When it's completely undone, he whispers against Derek's parted lips: "Take
them off."
Derek obeys eagerly, and a few seconds later he kneels before Stiles in just
his underwear, a pair of tight black boxer-briefs that leaves absolutely
nothing to the imagination. Stiles very much appreciates the visual of Derek's
erection straining to get free, especially the small patch of fabric at the
head that's wet and stained dark with pre-come. But he still wants more. He
pushes at Derek's shoulders until he gets the message and lies down on his
back, propped up on his elbows. Then, with shaking hands, Stiles grabs the
waistband of Derek's boxers and pulls them off in one smooth motion.
Derek's cock smacks against his stomach as it's uncovered, leaving a glob of
tacky pre-come in his treasure trail. Stiles has never been this close to
someone else's junk before. The only times he's ever really seen another guy's
hard dick were when he used to watch porn, but back then he'd never paid
attention to the guy. That's definitely not the case now. Just like Stiles had
thought, Derek's dick is huge, thicker than his own and longer, too, maybe
totalling eight or nine inches, by Stiles' estimation. It's surrounded by a
thick nest of dark curls, and it's uncut. God damn, Derek is uncut. Of course
he is, Stiles thinks, more saliva building in his mouth as Derek's cock
twitches and another glob of pre-come burbles out of the slit. It cascades down
the folds of foreskin still covering the head.
It's glorious.
"You OK up there?" Derek asks, when Stiles has been motionless for going on
five minutes.
"Yeah..." Stiles replies huskily. "Yeah, it's just...you're packin', dude."
"S'that a problem?"
Glancing up at Derek's face, Stiles laughs breathlessly when he sees that his
wolf looks genuinely concerned. "Hell no, dude!" he refutes, resting his hand
on Derek's left shin. "I mean, how I'm gonna fit that monster inside my ass is
a bit alarming, honestly, but I'm definitely looking forward to trying."
Stiles doesn't give Derek a chance to say anything else. He runs his hands up
Derek's legs, from his calves to his muscular thighs, and finds that there's
something strangely erotic about how the coarse hairs feel under his palms. His
eyes darken with lust when he finally reaches his goal, slender fingers
wrapping around Derek's throbbing length and giving it a curious stroke that
has Derek groaning and falling off of his elbows. The man bucks his hips up
into Stiles' grip, and Stiles is fascinated by this response and repeats the
action, the pre-come that Derek seems to produce in bucketfuls easing the way.
"That feel good?" he asks, just to be sure.
"Ngh, yes," comes Derek's garbled response.
Shuffling forward, Stiles pushes Derek's legs further apart to make room for
himself. He continues pumping his hand up and down Derek's length and rolls his
heavy balls in the palm of his other hand. He's never seen a more arousing
sight. Derek's hirsute chest heaves as Stiles strokes him, clawed hands tearing
into the navy-blue sheets, and he whines softly in pleasure when, on one of his
upstrokes, Stiles rubs his thumb deliberately over the bundle of nerves just
beneath the velvety head. Stiles uses the many hours he's spent jacking off
over the past few years to guide his movements, pulling out all the tricks he
found he liked and using them on Derek, to fantastic results. Sweat forms on
the alpha's brow and slicks his chest, and Stiles just has to lean down and
swipe his tongue across the shining muscles to taste the salt of it. He trails
his mouth over the expanse of furred skin until he reaches a nipple, where he
gives into his earlier desire and bites down on it.
"Stiles!" Derek gasps, his head tipping back.
Stiles smirks against Derek's nipple before sealing his mouth around it. He
alternates between sucking on the small nub and laving it with his tongue,
soothing the ache left behind by his teeth, until he gets frustrated with the
position. The lack of space between their bodies hinders the movement of his
hand on Derek's cock, so he tries something different.
Releasing his wolf's abused nipple with a wet pop, he slithers backward until
Derek's rigid shaft stands right in front of his face, the tang of pre-come
filling his nose. He wraps his hand around the base to steady it, his fingers
tangling in dark curls, and licks his lips in anticipation. Then, unable to
resist any longer, he dives right in. He takes the leaking tip in his mouth,
wringing a surprised shout from Derek that dwindles into a strangled moan.
Stiles would laugh giddily if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied.
He flicks his tongue over the slit and frowns at the bitterness that bursts
across his taste buds. He's unable to decide whether or not he likes it but
keeps going anyway, bobbing his head experimentally. Stiles takes Derek's cock
in deeper, managing a couple more inches before it hits the back of his throat
and his gag reflex is triggered. He pulls off spluttering, his eyes watering,
but as soon as he has his breath back he tries again, going slower. Fingers
tangle in his hair and pull ever so slightly, and all of a sudden Stiles is
very glad that he let it grow out.
He wiggles his tongue beneath Derek's foreskin and runs it in circles around
the head, using his hand to work the inches he can't take in his mouth as
Derek's thighs quiver and the fingers in his hair pull hard. The bright sparks
of pain go right to Stiles' own neglected cock.
A couple more minutes pass, and then...
"Stiles, I'm gonna—" the alpha chokes out, eyes clenched shut.
Grateful for the warning, Stiles pulls off again and brings Derek to completion
with just his hand. He watches, enraptured, as Derek's entire body goes taut,
his muscles bulging obscenely as his hips leave the bed and the sheets are torn
to pieces. Arcs of viscous come shoot forth from Derek's cock, splattering
across his chest and abs and even his chin, painting him in white. To Stiles,
it seems to go on for an impossibly long time, until the last couple of pulses
dribble out and run down over his hand.
When Derek begins to soften, Stiles releases him and brings his fingers up to
his lips to lap up some of his wolf's come. As he swirls the creamy fluid
around his mouth, he concludes finally that he likes the bitter taste and
greedily sucks all of it off of his hand. When there's nothing left but the
taste of his own skin, he realises that he has an audience.
Derek is staring up at him lustfully, like Stiles is the hottest thing he's
ever seen.
Stiles blushes and lowers his hand. "Sorry," he mumbles.
Wordlessly, Derek sits up and swipes his fingers through some of the come
slathered across his chest. He holds them out to Stiles, who stares for a
second before getting the memo and cleaning them off, too. It goes on for a
while, until Stiles decides to cut out the middle man and just lick it right
off of Derek's body, chest hair tickling his tongue. When he's done, he looks
down and sees to his astonishment that Derek is getting hard again, his cock
going from half-mast to iron faster than Stiles would've thought possible.
"How...?" he asks, dumbfounded.
"Werewolves have short refractory periods," Derek rumbles.
"Oh. Good to know."
Derek smirks at him and then reverses their positions. "Your turn."
"Wait!" Stiles gasps, just before Derek strips him completely. "Get my
backpack."
Looking confused, Derek grabs it from where it sits on the floor next to the
bed and observes silently as Stiles unzips it and pulls out the ziplock bag of
toiletries he'd packed that morning. From this he extracts a small half-empty
tube of lubricant, which he gives to Derek. "I want you to use this," Stiles
says, dropping his backpack to the floor again. He rests his head against the
pillows and cants his hips up, allowing Derek to pull off his pyjama bottoms.
"Stiles... Are you sure?" Derek asks, popping the cap.
"I'm gonna make a poster or something that I can hold up whenever you ask me
that. Maybe with big, glittery letters to really drive home the message,"
Stiles says with an impatient huff. "Yes, Sourwolf, I'm sure. I've
been...practising, y'know? Testing the waters or whatever."
Derek's eyes flash red. "You'll have to show me sometime."
"Maybe. But not if you don't get something in me right the fuck now."
"Hmm, can't have that now, can we?"
With lube on his fingers, Derek brings his hand between Stiles' legs and rubs
over the furled muscle of his hole. Stiles rocks his ass back and sucks in a
sharp breath, his eyes closing of their own volition when Derek pushes forward,
a thick finger slipping inside to the first knuckle. Behind his eyelids Stiles
sees a flash of Peter, so he forces his eyes open again and looks up at Derek's
face to remind himself of who's finger it is inside him. He urges Derek to
continue, to go deeper, and sighs as all discomfort fades and the glide becomes
smoother. He feels Derek curl his finger and wonders why for a second, before
intense pleasure rips through his body and he can't think of anything anymore,
can only stare up at Derek in shock.
"D-do that again," he pants.
Derek obliges, using the overwhelming pleasure to work a second finger inside
without Stiles noticing. As his prostate is stimulated again and again by those
dexterous digits, Stiles feels himself getting dangerously close to coming much
quicker than he'd like. He guesses that Derek must be able to sense it, too,
because, just before he's tipped over the edge, the wolf finally takes him in
his mouth. Stiles' vision whites out as he rides the waves of his orgasm, his
ears filled with a roaring sound akin to the ocean as he shoots down Derek's
throat.
When it's over, Stiles is distantly aware of Derek's fingers leaving his body,
and then he is wrapped up in strong arms and covered with what's left of the
sheets. He blinks blearily up at Derek, a goofy grin forming on his lips. "That
was awesome," he slurs, exhaustion taking over. "You're awesome."
"Sleep, Stiles," Derek responds fondly.
"Mmm, 'K..." the boy mumbles, nuzzling into the hair of Derek's chest.
And then, just before he succumbs completely, three more words slip out:
"Love you, Sourwolf."
***** Life is Full of Little Misunderstandings *****
- Sunday, February 27th, 2011 -
Stiles wakes up suddenly, with his heart beating a mile a minute. He bolts
upright in Derek's bed and looks around the loft, trying to find a reason for
the deep sense of unease that has his chest tightening and his breaths coming
in short and fast. Light is just beginning to spill in through the large
windows as the sun rises, casting a warm glow over everything, and Derek
slumbers on next to him, oblivious to his panic, but that's it. Stiles can't
see anything out of the ordinary, so he expels a shaky breath to calm himself
and lies back down, guessing that he must have simply had a nightmare that he
just doesn't remember now. For this he's glad because, to make him feel so
disquieted, whatever he'd dreamed must have been terrible.
Needing a distraction, Stiles turns to his left and focuses on Derek.
The alpha sleeps on his front, with his head angled away and one arm thrust
beneath his pillow. With a frown Stiles leans up on his elbow and looks at
Derek's back, at the large black tattoo that spans across his shoulder blades.
Stiles has never noticed it before, and he reaches out now and traces the thick
swirling lines with fascination.
Before last night, Stiles had only seen Derek shirtless on two occasions—once
at the veterinary clinic, when Derek was shot with a wolfsbane bullet; and
again down in the catacombs beneath the Hale house, when Kate was holding him
captive. For both of those occurrences Derek had stayed facing Stiles the
entire time, so Stiles never got a glimpse of his naked back. The tattoo is
made up of three spirals that connect in the centre, a symmetrical design
that's both simple and elegant. Stiles ponders its meaning, the reason for
Derek getting it, which only leads to more questions, like when and how.
Luckily, he doesn't have to wait long.
The touch of Stiles' finger is enough to finally rouse Derek, one of his quiet
snores cutting off. There's a second of silence before he groans tiredly and
turns over onto his back, throwing an arm above his head and blinking several
times as his eyes adjust fully to the morning light. "Ugh, what time is it?" he
asks, his voice low and gravelly.
Stiles retrieves his phone from his backpack. "6:43 a.m."
"Way too early," Derek whines.
With a grin Stiles deposits his phone on the nightstand, next to the tube of
lubricant they'd used last night, and rests his hand on Derek's toned stomach,
his eyes alight with mischief. "Yup. I guess that just means we'll have to stay
in bed for a bit longer, huh? It's a real travesty, I'm telling you." Still
leaning on his elbow, his grin relaxes into something more fond as he runs his
fingers through the fine hairs below Derek's belly button. "So...last night was
fun."
The alpha doesn't respond, just looks up at Stiles blankly and then suddenly
goes tense all over. His expression becomes wary, confusing Stiles greatly,
before he schools his face into an inscrutable mask, flings back the sheets,
and scoots away to the other side of the mattress. Stiles gapes after the half-
naked man—when the hell did Derek put on underwear anyway?—and only thinks to
say something when Derek reaches the bathroom and goes to close the door.
"What're you doing?" Stiles asks.
"What's it look like?" Derek shoots back.
"But...you just said it yourself that it's way too early!"
"Doesn't matter. I've got a lot of stuff to do today. Might as well start now."
Stiles pouts. "So no cuddles?"
"I'm sorry."
Without another word, Derek shuts the bathroom door, leaving a disappointed and
worried Stiles to question what could've possibly happened to derail their
conversation so quickly. The last thing he said was about enjoying last night,
and his eyes widen when he reaches the inevitable conclusion that maybe Derek
didn't agree with him. Maybe Derek didn't enjoy last night as much as it had
seemed at the time, and he didn't want to stick around to hurt Stiles' feelings
directly. The thought leaves him cold, despite the fact that he still has the
clawed-up sheets pulled up to his chest. He sits there and agonises until he
hears the shower turn off, at which point he springs out of bed and throws on
the change of clothes he'd brought with him yesterday, seeking to feel a little
less vulnerable by covering his body.
Fear has him contemplating just leaving before Derek emerges from the bathroom,
but he knows what that will lead to—he'll spend the rest of the day fretting.
So no, the right thing to do is to confront this thing head-on, to not give the
issue a chance to fester and get unnecessarily worse. When the bathroom door
opens and Derek steps out with a towel around his waist, done with his
matutinal ablutions, Stiles sends up a prayer that the conclusion he drew was
wrong and steps in Derek's path as Derek tries to reach his dresser. He puts
his hands on his hips in a no-nonsense stance.
"Stiles, please get out of my way so I can get dressed," Derek requests.
"Not until you tell me why you're acting so weird."
"I'm not—"
"Don't even try it, Derek," Stiles interrupts. He keeps his eyes on Derek's
face, not wanting to look down and get sidetracked by all the muscle, tanned
skin and dark fur on display. "Why did you freak out a few minutes ago? Was it
because of something I did last night?" Stiles asks, cursing himself when a
thread of anxiety appears in his voice and makes it shake, destroying the air
of strength he'd so desperately wanted to maintain. "Was it... Was I not good?"
The mild irritation on Derek's face transforms into abject horror. "Oh, God
no!" he rebuts ardently. "Why on Earth would you think that?"
"What am I supposed to think?" Stiles responds, his nerves subsiding slightly
because of Derek's reaction. He relaxes his stance, his arms falling by his
sides. "Everything was fine until I mentioned last night, and then it was like
you couldn't leave the room fast enough! Way to make a guy feel shitty, by the
way. So, tell me what I did wrong so that I can fix it."
"You didn't do anything wrong, Stiles..." Derek sighs. "The problem is with
me."
"How?"
"How much do you remember of last night? The end, specifically?"
"What, the fingering and the blowjobs? ‘Cause if you didn't like it you
could've just said."
"Later than that, just before you went to sleep."
Stiles groans. "Did I do something embarrassing? I did, didn't I?"
"No, nothing like that."
"Would you just tell me already? All this back-and-forth is killing me!"
Derek looks down at his bare feet. "Right before you went to sleep, you
said..."
"I said what? Out with it, Sourwolf!"
It's the term of endearment that does it. It takes him back to his last few
moments of consciousness the night before, when he was held in the arms of his
wolf, sated and safe and warm in the afterglow of a fantastic orgasm. When
three little words had slipped out of his mouth without him intending for them
to. "Oh!" he bursts out before Derek can speak again. He stares up at the
alpha, wide-eyed and unable to believe his foolishness. They've only known each
other for two months, and have only been in a romantic relationship for half
that time. That's way too soon to use the L word. No wonder Derek was acting so
strangely, Stiles thinks, cringing at his past self. "Yeah, that...that's a
doozy, alright. Can we just pretend that it never happened and go back to how
things were?" he begs. "I didn't mean it. I take it back!"
"I don't want you to take it back," Derek says, offering his young companion a
wan smile and turning away from him. He moves to stand in front of his dresser
with his back to Stiles, unable to face him any longer. "It was unexpected, but
it was still kind of nice to hear. I just— I didn't want you to be disappointed
when..."
"When you couldn't say it back," Stiles finishes, after a pause.
Another sigh. "Yeah."
"It's fine, Sourwolf. I get it."
Derek looks back over his shoulder, his expression half hopeful, half afraid.
"You do?"
"I think so. It has something to do with Kate, doesn't it?"
Derek lets out a humourless laugh. "Am I really that obvious?"
"No, I just knew going into this that she'd be an issue for you, like Peter is
an issue for me," Stiles says, following in the alpha's footsteps and hugging
him tightly from behind. His hands come to rest over Derek's stomach and chest,
right over his heart, and he leans his forehead against the back of Derek's
neck and smiles sadly when he feels strong hands move to cover his. "I've
always been good at reading people, I guess because I've been on the outside
for most of my life. I ended up watching everybody else and learned a lot about
what makes people tick. I still don't know everything that went down between
you and Kate—maybe you'll tell me one day, maybe not—but, if I had to guess,
I'd say that she was the last person you told you loved like that, and she
threw it back in your face and ended up killing most of your family. That's why
you can't say it now—you're protecting yourself. Am I close?"
Derek lets out a shuddering breath and nods.
"Like I said, don't worry about it," Stiles reassures, pressing his lips to the
damp back of Derek's neck. "It's still early days yet, and I know you care
about me. That's more than enough for now, so no feeling awkward, OK? We're
good, I promise."
"Thank you," Derek whispers.
"No problem," Stiles says, pulling away. "Now, get dressed before I jump you."
                                     * * *
Stiles leaves the loft a few hours later with a distinct spring in his step.
With their issues cleared up, Derek had relented and allowed Stiles to cling to
him like a limpet while they watched a couple of the old DVDs Derek had got
secondhand from a charity shop in town—fulfilling his ‘daily quota of cuddles',
as Stiles called it. All in all it was an excellent way to the spend a Sunday
morning, and Stiles knows he would have stayed even longer had it not been for
the fact that noon was fast approaching, bringing with it his first day working
for Erica's mother.
He makes the drive to her boutique in good time and, because it's Sunday and
most of the businesses in Beacon Hills are closed, he actually manages to find
a parking space within walking distance. As he proceeds down the street to the
boutique, an uncomfortable tingling sensation suddenly spreads from the base of
his skull to all of his extremities, bringing him to a halt.
It feels like he's being watched.
Stiles looks up and down the street and at first sees nothing untoward. There
are only a few other people around, a young father clutching the hand of a
toddler and a pair of boys about his age, and none of them are paying him any
mind. But then, just as he's about to shake off the feeling and keep walking,
something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye—a flash of dirty-
blonde hair and white leather. Whipping his head around, Stiles stands stock-
still and stares in shock at the back of a woman as she retreats down an
alleyway on the opposite side of the road. There's something disturbingly
familiar about her silhouette.
If he didn't know better, he'd think it was Kate.
"It can't be..." he breathes.
His suspicions are confirmed when she turns around and winks at him.
Stiles gasps and takes an instinctive step backward, racking his brain for an
explanation. She's dead. He stabbed her through the eye himself, so he knows
she's dead. So how is she standing there, grinning at him as if she's a cat and
he's a delicious-looking mouse? His heartbeat picking up speed, Stiles is about
to hightail it back to his Jeep when, all of a sudden, Kate disappears. She
doesn't just turn the corner at the other end of the alleyway. No, she just
disappears, flickers out of existence right before Stiles' eyes. Even more
confounded, he stands there on the sidewalk for God knows how long, just
looking at the spot in which she stood, until someone bumps into him from
behind and sends him falling to his hands and knees.
"Oh, sorry, dude," one of the boys Stiles saw earlier says.
"You OK?" his friend asks.
"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine," Stiles replies as he gets up, more to himself than
the other boy.
"You sure? I mean, you look like you've seen a ghost or somethin'."
Stiles finally manages to look away from the alley at this, and he lets out a
hysterical-sounding laugh. "Ha! That's a good one! Anyway, I gotta get going.
Places to be, people to see... You know how it is," he rambles as he backs away
from the two boys, probably making himself look as crazy as he feels. He
continues down the street, practically sprinting, until he reaches Alisha's
Boutique. The door is unlocked, so he pushes his way inside and slams it behind
himself.
"Stiles? That you?" comes a voice from the back room.
"Yeah, it's me," he calls back hoarsely.
Alisha walks out into the boutique's main space. "Good stuff. You ready to get
started?"
Desperately in need of something else to occupy his mind, Stiles nods.
"Yeah, let's do this."
                                     * * *
Stiles manages to get through a whole hour without thinking about Kate. His
mind is kept well away from her by Alisha and all the instructions she gives
him, like how to work the register and where everything is supposed to go, both
on the shop floor and in the back room. His job will mainly consist of working
the register and restocking the displays, Alisha tells him, while she remains
in the back and catches up on all the paperwork she's been neglecting lately.
When Alisha thinks he's ready for his first real shift the next day, she
gathers her things, ushers him outside, and locks up the boutique.
"Have you eaten yet?" she enquires, spinning her keyring around her index
finger.
Stiles frowns confusedly. "No, why?"
Alisha threads her arm through his and marches them down the street to her car,
a modest red thing that has seen better days. "Because I was planning on
treating you to lunch. That's why," she apprises, smirking when she sees
Stiles' expression get even more perplexed. "We're going to be working together
for a while, and you're one of my daughter's best friends, so I figured we
should get to know each other a bit better. Tell me—what takes your fancy this
fine winter afternoon? I feel like being naughty today, so I was thinking of a
big greasy cheeseburger. S'that sound like something I could talk you into?"
Stiles is swept up in her bonhomie. "Sure," he grins.
"Excellent. I know just the place, and as a bonus it's close by."
A few minutes later, Alisha pulls Stiles into a small diner a couple of streets
over from the boutique. They take one of the free booths and peruse the menus
the waitress gives them, eyeing up the different varieties of burgers and
milkshakes the place offers. Stiles, his mother's voice echoing in his head,
goes for a simple cheeseburger with a side salad, whereas Alisha orders a half-
pounder with a side of fries, as well as additional sides of onion rings and
garlic bread. Stiles' eyes bug out of his head as she lists it all off.
He'd never have thought that such a small woman could pack away so much.
"What's with the face?" Alisha asks as the waitress walks off again.
"Nothing!" Stiles denies quickly.
"I'll have you know it's my cheat day. I'm going all in, baby!"
Stiles holds his hands up and accepts defeat. He can definitely see where Erica
got her feistiness from. "Hey, they're your arteries," he says.
"Damn straight."
                                     * * *
"So, Stiles," Alisha begins once their food has been set down in front of them,
"I must admit that I didn't invite you out to lunch just to chat. I did have an
ulterior motive." She smiles when Stiles looks up from his burger, his face
full of foreboding. "Don't worry, I promise that it's nothing too bad. It's
just... As you know, Erica has talked a lot about you, even before she was
trying to convince me to take you on, and even though she's attempted to hide
it from me and her dad, I'm smart enough to put the pieces together. I suspect
that Erica is in a relationship with...someone, and so I have to ask you—is
there something you want to tell me?"
Stiles is baffled for a moment, before what Alisha is implying hits him and he
bursts out laughing. "Oh God, I'm sorry!" he gasps when he sees her scandalised
expression. He drops his burger back to his plate and covers his mouth with his
hand as he tries to regain control of himself. "You've got it all wrong. Erica
and I aren't together like that."
"You're not?" Alisha queries. "But I was so sure."
His breathing returned to normal, Stiles wipes at his eyes and takes a long sip
of his chocolate milkshake through his straw. "Well, I'll tell you that you
were right about us both being in relationships," he says, licking his lips,
"but unless she grew a beard and an extra appendage between her legs recently,
the person I'm dating isn't Erica. Not by a long shot. Don't get me wrong—she's
beautiful and everything, and really nice, but I've never looked at her that
way. We're just friends."
"Really?"
Stiles takes another bite. "Mmhmm."
"Who's she seeing then?"
"I don't know how comfortable I am talking about this behind her back."
"Commendable, but I think I have a right to know who my teenage daughter is
dating."
"True... Have you, y'know, just asked her?"
"No," Alisha deflates. "I know she wouldn't tell me."
Stiles blows out a long breath. He thinks back to the conversation he'd had
with Erica a while ago, in which she'd complained at length about how
overprotective and suffocating her parents were, and attributes Alisha's
concern to this same well-meaning overbearance. It makes him rethink his
response. "Well, while I'm still not OK talking about Erica's love life without
her knowledge, to her mother of all people, I will say that you don't have
anything to worry about," he assures, hoping it will be enough to pacify his
convive. "They're good together—really good, in fact—and I'm sure that if you
were to ask Erica outright, she'd tell you all about him. She'll have to
eventually. She can't hide it forever, after all."
"I suppose... I just worry is all."
"You're her mom. Of course you do."
Alisha observes Stiles silently for a while before speaking again. "I'm glad
Erica can call you a friend," she says, finally digging into her food. "It
means I don't have to worry quite as much about her. Although I am a little
disappointed. I had a whole speech prepared and everything, and now I have to
wait to meet my daughter's actual boyfriend give it..."
                                     * * *
After parting ways with Alisha, Stiles hops in his Jeep and returns home.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he unpacks his backpack in the bathroom,
throwing his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and putting his toiletries in
their rightful places, before entering his bedroom and throwing himself down on
his bed. He stares up at the ceiling and allows his mind to wander to the
previous night, incurring an intense ache in his chest that he knows can only
be alleviated by one person. He saw Derek not three hours ago and already he
misses him deeply, misses his king-size bed, his strong arms around him, even
something as simple as his rare smile.
He's so gone for him, it's ridiculous.
With a sigh, Stiles rolls over onto his side and, since he has no other plans
for the afternoon, allows his eyes to slip closed, the early hour at which he
awoke catching up to him now. He merely drifts in between sleep and wakefulness
for a while, until there comes a loud bang from downstairs, muted slightly by
the walls. It startles him back to alertness.
Leaving the bed, Stiles opens his bedroom door and calls downstairs:
"Scott? Melissa?"
Receiving no response, he descends the stairs to the ground floor and peeks
into the living room to find it vacant. Neither McCall is in sight, nor does
Stiles hear anything to indicate that they're in a different room. Perhaps the
noise he heard was just his imagination, or maybe one of the McCalls came home
briefly to grab something and slammed the door as they left. Settling on this
as the most logical explanation, Stiles shrugs to himself and is about to try
again for a nap when the bang sounds for a second time.
It comes from the kitchen.
Thinking that he should investigate, Stiles cautiously walks down the hall and
enters the room. At first he can't find anything that looks out of place, but
after he steps further inside and makes his way around the island, he cries out
in terror when he sees Kate's supine form in the middle of the floor, her skin
deadly white and a pool of congealing blood spread out like a sick halo around
her head. The hilt of the knife Stiles had stolen from Chris Argent's hunter
friend sticks out of her right eye, while her left stares unseeingly straight
up at the ceiling.
Stiles scrambles to get away from her, but when he turns around he slips in her
blood and his feet fly out from under him. Landing with a crash on his back,
Stiles groans and holds a hand to his temple as he reorients himself. Turning
his head, he finds himself lying right next to Kate, her blood soaking into the
back of his T-shirt and jeans. As much as he wants to get up, to run from the
house altogether, he can't seem to muster the energy to do so. All he can do is
stare at the side of Kate's pale face as the seconds tick by. Remembering his
earlier encounter with her and how she had vanished so strangely, Stiles
reaches out with a quivering hand and touches his index finger to her cheek,
aiming to see if she's really there.
The pad of his finger touches cold skin.
He jerks his hand back and finally regains full autonomy of his body, managing
to stumble to his feet. But before he can bolt from the room, Stiles feels ice
shoot up his arm. Looking down, his breath stops when he sees Kate's hand
wrapped around his wrist in an iron grip.
Her eye stares blankly into his.
"Hello, Stiles," she says, her voice sickeningly sweet.
"H-how?" he stutters.
Kate's lips twist into a cruel smile. "I'm gonna make you pay."
With her free hand she grabs the hilt of the knife still embedded inside her
eye and rips it out. It leaves behind an empty, bloody socket, and the blade
itself is slathered in brain matter, making Stiles feel like he's going to
throw up. Kate grins at him, and he has a second to register the glint of metal
before she thrusts the knife at his face.
Then, everything goes black.
***** Ignoring the Problem *****
When Stiles comes to, he doesn't immediately remember where he is. He sits up
slowly, his head pounding and his ears ringing so loudly that it takes him a
few seconds to realise that he's being spoken to. Looking up, he sees Allison
crouched beside him, wearing an expression of deep concern. Scott stands just
behind her, his face scrunched up unattractively in confusion and
judgement—judgement for what, Stiles doesn't know, but with Scott it could be
anything. He doesn't really have the patience to deal with it right now anyway,
so he switches his attention back to Allison and takes the hand she offers him.
With her help he stands up and, because his legs are a little wobbly, uses the
counter to stabilise himself as he concentrates hard on the words that pour in
a torrent from her mouth:
"Seriously, Stiles, you're freaking me out!" Allison exclaims.
"Yeah, what the hell are you playing at?" Scott chimes in with a sneer.
Stiles is unable to answer the galling beta, because he himself doesn't have
the faintest clue as to what's going on. "I don't— How did I get down here?" he
asks, mystified as he looks around the kitchen. He must be missing some time,
because the last thing he can recall is lying down on his bed and attempting to
get in a nap before dinner.
Allison's eyes become large and round. "You mean you don't remember?"
"No... What happened?"
She shares a look with Scott.
"Well, we're not really sure ourselves," she says uncertainly. "Scott and I
were just hanging out in the living room when you came home and went straight
upstairs. Scott and I went up, too, a couple of minutes later, because things
were getting...good." She breaks eye contact with Stiles, the pale skin of her
face adopting a red hue. "Anyway, we weren't really paying much attention to
anything else, but then we heard you yelling from down here, followed by this
huge thud. When we came down to investigate we found you out cold on the floor.
You honestly don't remember anything?"
Stiles' memory is jogged by Allison's recounting, a series of images flashing
in front of his eyes. He remembers now how Kate had appeared to him, remembers
the knife coming at him, but there's a niggling sensation in the back of his
mind that compels him to keep this information to himself. He wants to confide
the horrific experience in his packmates, but the compulsion to keep it a
secret is indomitable.
So he lies.
"No, I don't," he says.
"That doesn't sound good... I think we should take you to the hospital and get
you checked over," Allison suggests. She looks up at Scott, who remains
disgruntled at having his time alone with her interrupted. "Is your mom working
right now?" she asks. "Because if she is, then we can take him straight to her
and avoid having to wait."
"C'mon, guys! I don't think that's necessary," Stiles demurs.
"But you might have brain damage or something!"
"Really, I feel fine now," Stiles insists. "I probably just tripped over my own
feet."
Allison shakes her head. "But—"
"Ali." Scott puts a hand on her shoulder. "Just leave it. He won't change his
mind."
"That's right," Stiles agrees.
Allison seems reluctant to drop it, but in the end acquiesces. "Fine..." she
mutters. "But if something else happens I'm dragging you there, even if I have
to knock you out myself first."
                                     * * *
- Monday, February 28th, 2011 -
Stiles arrives at school half an hour before his first class is supposed to
start. As he'd promised Isaac, he waits outside by himself, leaning against one
of the railings that run up either side of the main steps. There are a few
other early birds milling about, tired-looking teenagers and teachers alike,
yawning and sipping coffee or checking their phones. Stiles even sees a couple
of his peers frantically scrabbling to complete what he presumes is homework
that's due later in the day. He, too, is exhausted, because he'd been awake
most of the night, convinced that every little sound he heard was caused by
another hallucination. His phone was clutched in his hand, his fingers poised
to dial Derek's number, but the same compulsion he'd felt with Allison and
Scott was still present. It prevented him from seeking comfort from his alpha,
and it prevents him now from acting as if things are anything but normal.
After he's been there for ten minutes, Stiles sees a tall figure approaching
from his right and turns his head in its direction. Isaac walks slowly, looking
charily at everyone around him. Stiles understands why, because he went through
the same thing when he moved in with Melissa—news travels fast amongst the nosy
student body, and the tale of Isaac being taken out of his father's house was
no different. It had spread like wildfire, although no one got it quite right.
Even so, some theories that got around about the abuse Isaac had suffered were
close enough to the truth to cause a lot of invasive staring now.
Stiles pushes away from the railing when Isaac reaches him.
"Hey," he greets cheerily. "You made it!"
"Yeah..." Isaac mumbles.
Stiles doesn't miss the uneasy way the taller boy shuffles from foot to foot.
People continue to look their way, even more obviously than before, every one
of them likely wondering with sick interest what he and Isaac are talking
about. Feeling uneasy himself, Stiles inclines his head toward the school and
slings an arm around Isaac's shoulders.
"C'mon, we should get inside, away from prying eyes," he says.
Isaac is docile as Stiles leads him from the purlieu of the parking lot and
through the school doors, just trails after him with his eyes trained to the
floor. Stiles takes them to the hallway that contains his locker and feels
relief when he sees that it's free of strangers. It isn't free of everybody,
though—Lydia, Erica and Boyd are already gathered right in front of Stiles'
locker, waiting for him. He slows his gait temporarily, unsure of whether or
not Isaac is ready for all of that, but then Lydia looks their way and he knows
it's too late.
"Oh dear..." Stiles whispers.
Isaac finally raises his head and frowns. "What?"
Erica's shout is Isaac's answer: "Stiles! Hurry up and get that fine ass over
here!"
"That's what," Stiles replies needlessly. He turns to the skittish boy and
gives him an encouraging smile that is timidly returned. "They're good people,
but they can be a lot to handle, even for me, so if you get overwhelmed at any
point, just walk away and we'll try this again some other time. No one will
take offence or anything, I promise. You ready?"
"Yeah, I suppose," Isaac says, trailing behind Stiles.
"Act normal and don't spook him," Stiles instructs under his breath, knowing
that Lydia will hear him and relay the message to the other two. He trusts
Lydia and Boyd to do this anyway but thinks that it can't hurt to give Erica a
little nudge in the right direction. Sure enough, said girl peers at Isaac
curiously when the distance between them is closed, making Isaac cower a
little, until Lydia elbows the blonde in the ribs and narrows her eyes.
"Guys, this is Isaac. Isaac, the guys," Stiles introduces.
The shy boy waves at them meekly.
"Nice to meet you. So, Stiles, you up to anything later?" Lydia asks, sweeping
her hair back over the shoulder of her white blouse. "Erica and I are going
shopping after school. Fancy joining us?" She looks him up and down and
wrinkles her nose distastefully, clearly disapproving of his outfit, a green T-
shirt, a red, white and brown plaid overshirt, and a pair of dark-blue jeans
that are so old the denim is frayed at the hems and knees. "At her request I'm
gonna be helping her a bit with her makeup and wardrobe and, uh...you could
probably use a few pointers as well. Those jeans are some of the most ill-
fitting things I've ever seen, and those plaid shirts just have to go. Isaac's
welcome, too, of course."
Stiles looks down at himself and frowns. "What's wrong with my shirt?"
"You really have to ask me that?"
He huffs. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'll be busy."
"Oh, right!" Erica interjects. "Today's your first day working for my mom,
isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I hope it goes well."
"Thanks. I'm pretty excited about it."
"Fine, you're out," Lydia sighs. She turns to Isaac, who looks back at her like
a deer caught in headlights. "What about you?"
"You can say no," Stiles whispers. "She's not that scary, really."
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Please. I'm terrifying and you damn well know it."
"What about me?" Erica chirps. "Am I terrifying?"
"Oh yeah," Stiles nods sagely. "Totally."
Before anyone can say anything else, the bell rings and brings their
conversation to a halt. Stiles jumps and looks around to find that the hallway
has filled up considerably while they were talking—more time must have passed
than he thought. Hurriedly he grabs the books he needs from his locker and
shoves them in his backpack, before hurrying after Erica to their first class
of the day, which he is surprised to learn they share with Isaac. He takes the
seat in the back-left corner of the room and gestures for Isaac to take the one
right next to him, while Erica flanks his other side with a somewhat evil
smirk.
"Oh boy..." Stiles mutters. "Here we go."
                                     * * *
When it's time for lunch, Stiles meets everyone outside the cafeteria and scans
through them for Isaac. He sees Lydia talking quietly with Boyd, and Scott and
Allison standing off to the side, necking noisily as per usual, but he doesn't
see Erica or Isaac. He'd had to leave the newest addition to his friendship
circle in the blonde's questionable hands after first period, and he's worried
now that she'll have managed to scare him off without anyone else there to put
a stop to her intrusive questions. But then they come down the hallway, and his
fears are assuaged when he sees how swimmingly they're getting on.
Erica talks animatedly at Isaac, and Stiles feels a small pang of jealously
when something she says elicits a small smile from the other boy. Shaking it
off as stupid, Stiles instead forces himself to be glad that Isaac is fitting
in and, when their small group is completed, walks with the others inside the
cafeteria.
After they pass through the doors, Stiles notes with annoyance that Isaac's
presence draws yet more speculative stares. A hush doesn't fall but it's a
close thing, and without really thinking about it Stiles steps closer to
Isaac's side, forming a protective circle of sorts around him with Erica, Boyd
and Lydia. He meets the eyes of everyone he sees trying to get a look at the
curly-haired boy, glaring at them until they are cowed and return to their own
worlds one by one. The pack is left alone eventually and, once their trays are
laden with their lunches, they search for a table, finding one in the back
corner of the room that has just enough free spots. Stiles pushes Isaac down
into the seat between himself and Lydia and skips right to devouring his small
pot of tapioca pudding.
Conversation flows surprisingly naturally, until there comes an unwanted
visitor.
"Well, well, well... I was wondering when you'd show up again."
Stiles turns to see Jackson standing pompously by their table, looking smug
with a couple of his buddies from the lacrosse team just behind him.
"Go away, Jackass," Erica spits.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll scratch your eyes out."
Jackson scoffs derisively. "Whatever, Reyes. You couldn't do shit."
"What do you want?" Stiles demands.
"Oh, nothing at all, really... I just wanted to check up on my friend here,"
Jackson explains, patting Isaac on the shoulder. He grins evilly when the other
boy flinches and jerks away, knocking his chair over with a loud bang as he
leaps out of it. The noise draws the attention of the whole cafeteria, and now
a hush truly does fall, everyone waiting on baited breath to see what will
happen next. "How's it going, Isaac?" Jackson asks with facetious concern. "I
heard that daddy finally went too far, and I've been so worried about you this
past week."
Stiles pushes his own chair back with a screech and stands between them.
"Back off," he orders.
"You think you can take me, Stilinski? You?"
"Maybe not a few months ago, but now? Hell yes, I do."
"Hmm, look who finally decided to grow a backbone! Good for you."
"Yup, now get out of here before I break yours."
"C'mon, now! It's just a little bit of harmless fun between friends, right?"
Jackson asks rhetorically, sharing a laugh with his cronies.
"Mmhmm, ‘cause domestic violence is so funny."
"Well, you would know."
Before Stiles can recover, Lydia appears next to Jackson and taps him once on
the shoulder. She gives him a saccharine smile when he glances at her and then,
without any pomp or circumstance, reels back and punches him right in the face.
The cafeteria releases a collective gasp as Jackson lands unconscious on his
back, blood streaming from his presumably broken nose, but Stiles doesn't
notice. Like the rest of the student body, he's too busy gaping at Lydia, who
up until now he'd always thought of as the antithesis to any form of physical
violence. She'd rather hurt with words, but perhaps becoming a werewolf has
changed that about her.
"Damn, Lyds..." Stiles gapes.
Jackson's two nameless friends don't linger for long. They stare down at the
prone form of their leader, faces aghast, until Lydia turns her eyes on them
and they scarper as swiftly as they can, both clearly fearful of becoming the
next targets of her ire. Once they're gone it's like a switch has been
flipped—Lydia returns to her usual demure self, insouciantly examining her
painted nails for any breaks or chips like she didn't just cold-cock her ex-
boyfriend in front of over a hundred people.
Whispers break out across the cafeteria now that the show is over, some
students regarding Lydia with disapproval, others with awe. Stiles is decidedly
in the latter camp. Lydia looks one last time at Jackson, her eyes full of
disgust, before she leaves him on the floor, retakes her seat at the table and
carries on eating like nothing out of the ordinary happened.
"Now, where were we?"
Stiles retakes his seat, too.
"You didn't have to do that, y'know," he says.
"I know."
"Aren't you worried about getting detention? Or getting expelled?"
"Oh, please!" Lydia scoffs. "They wouldn't dare expel me. Not with my GPA."
                                     * * *
That evening, after he has completed his first day officially working for
Erica's mother, Stiles leaves the boutique to find the sky painted a vibrant
pink as the sun nears the horizon. He doesn't really want to head home yet
despite the time, so he drives in the opposite direction, toward Derek's loft.
He grins to himself when he pulls to a stop in the parking lot and sees the
Camaro taking up its usual spot in front of the building entrance, meaning that
Derek is home and will have heard his arrival. Once the elevator has taken him
up to the top floor, Stiles strides across to the door to the loft and yanks it
open to find Derek sitting on one of the sofas, dressed in a pair of sweatpants
and a heather-grey tank top. The same book he was reading a couple of days ago
is again open in his lap.
"Hey," the alpha says without looking up.
"Hey, Sourwolf," Stiles replies, sliding the door shut with a muted bang. He
plops down on the same sofa and positions himself so that he's lying across the
length of it, his legs ending up draped across a grumbling Derek's lap and his
head propped against the armrest.
"I'm trying to read here," Derek complains with a sigh.
"S'nothing stopping you."
Derek grumbles some more before going quiet again and returning his attention
to his book. Stiles smirks in victory and simply lies there, staring at the
side of his wolf's face and letting the time pass by. If Derek feels his eyes
he doesn't say, and for a while the only sounds in the room are their soft
breathing and the occasional rustle of paper as Derek turns the pages of his
book. Eventually, though, the peace is disturbed when Stiles' stomach rumbles
loudly and catches Derek's attention.
"You hungry?" the alpha asks.
"I could eat, yeah," Stiles says sheepishly.
After waiting for Stiles to move his legs off of his lap, Derek gets to his
feet and vanishes into the kitchen. Stiles hears the fridge and a few drawers
and cupboards being opened, followed by the sound of boiling water, and wanders
after Derek to see what he's cooking up. He discovers a large saucepan filled
with rice and a frying pan filled with diced chicken, peppers and some kind of
sauce sitting side by side on the stove, sizzling away on a low heat.
"I didn't know you cooked," Stiles comments.
Derek looks up from where he's chopping up a clove of garlic on a cutting
board. "Why? Did you think I just lived off takeout or something?"
"No, I guess not..."
"Takeout is alright every once in a while, when you don't feel like making the
effort to cook something yourself or it just takes your fancy," Derek explains.
He uses his knife to slide the finely chopped garlic in with the chicken and
peppers, then sprinkles in some salt and pepper. "But you'd get sick of it
quickly. I've lived by myself for years now, Stiles, ever since I managed to
convince Laura to let me get my own place back in New York. I didn't really
take into account then that she did all the cooking in our shared apartment, so
I had to learn very, very fast how to cook for myself or risk starving to
death."
"Alright, alright, point made," Stiles protests, rolling his eyes.
Derek laughs softly and checks on the rice. "Not much longer now."
"Can I help?"
"You can get the plates."
Stiles searches through the cupboards until he finds the right one. He pulls
out two plates and sets them down on the countertop next to the stove and also
grabs some cutlery from the drying rack next to the sink. True to his word, a
couple of minutes later, after the rice has been drained, Derek dishes the food
out in generous portions and carries both plates out into the living room, with
Stiles hot on his heels. "Pick something to watch," he instructs as he gets
comfortable on the sofa, his food resting on a cushion on his lap.
Looking through the selection of DVDs, Stiles hums his approval when he
discovers several new additions to Derek's meagre collection, including the
extended Lord of the Rings trilogy. "Someone's been shopping, I see," he
comments, throwing a grin back at Derek. It leaves his lips quickly when he
sees someone familiar just behind the alpha, blood covering the right side of
her face. He inhales sharply and stares, horrified, as Kate proceeds to drape
herself across Derek's shoulders, her eye never leaving his. Derek doesn't
react to her at all, of course, because she's all in Stiles' head.
"Everything OK?" Derek asks, forehead creased in concern.
Stiles swallows tightly and tears his gaze away from Kate, again feeling
compelled to hide what he's seeing. "It's nothing," he lies, reaching for The
Fellowship of the Ring and sticking it in the blu-ray player. He walks slowly
back over to the sofa and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge Kate's presence any
more than he already has, the juvenile hope running through his head that maybe
if he ignores her, she'll go away.
He fast finds out that this isn't going to work.
"What's the matter, Stiles?" Kate simpers.
Stiles valiantly keeps his attention on the TV screen as the opening voiceover
starts, but he can still see her out of the corner of his eye, can see her
rubbing her hands over Derek's chest and nibbling seductively on his ear. Derek
remains unresponsive to her imaginary touches, while Stiles grits his teeth and
fights with herculean effort to keep his breathing and heart rate at a steady
pace. He takes his plate from the coffee table and starts eating, perfunctorily
shovelling chicken and rice in his mouth.
He tastes none of it.
"You're gonna hurt him," Kate says, spitting out Derek's earlobe. "So much."
Stiles starts singing in his head, but Kate's voice is louder.
"He'll never really be yours, y'know," she goes on, slinking around to the
front of the sofa and squeezing herself into the small space between he and
Derek. She slings her arm around Stiles' shoulders and pulls him closer so that
she can whisper right in his ear, the sound of her voice and the feel of her
breath sending shivers down his spine: "You know he'll always be mine, don't
you? In all the ways that count—I had his gullible heart first. I had him
first, in the backseat of my car. It was a wild night, let me tell you, and he
was so desperate to please me. When he was inside me, God...you should've seen
the look on his face, like I was the most amazing thing he'd ever experienced.
I think he'd have proposed to me then and there if he'd had a ring on him. It
would've been adorable were it not so nauseating."
Kate laughs darkly before looking at Stiles with feigned sympathy. "He'll never
look at you that way when he's inside you. You're used and broken, so you'll
never be able to live up to me. But, then again, you've never been good at
living up to people's expectations, have you? That's why your mom chose to
leave you instead of fighting her illness. It's why your dad hates you and
started drowning himself at the bottom of a bottle—it was the only way he could
deal with having to see your whiny face every day... It's only a matter of time
until everyone else realises just what a waste of space you are and ditches
you, too. That is, if you don't kill them all first."
Stiles jerks like he's been electrocuted.
"Ah, that caught your attention, didn't it?" Kate smirks, placing her cold hand
right in the middle of his chest. "I can see it now, can feel the darkness you
have within you. It's growing rapidly, and soon it'll burst out and destroy
everything around you..."
Like he's far away, Stiles can hear Derek saying his name, but he can't
concentrate.
Kate sighs and pats his chest.
"You've already killed once, after all," she states.
"No..." Stiles gasps.
"It's just a matter of time. And I'll be there to watch it all."
With a high-pitched cackle, Kate vanishes just as suddenly as she'd appeared,
thrusting Stiles back into reality. Derek is kneeling in front of him, looking
panicked as The Fellowship of the Ring plays forgotten on the TV. Stiles stares
down at him until he feels wetness on his face and realises that he's been
crying, at which point he hastily wipes at his eyes and leaps from the sofa,
his half-empty plate clattering to the floor.
"Stiles?" Derek calls nervously, still kneeling.
"I need to—" Stiles pants, suddenly out of breath. "I-I need to get out of
here."
Derek reaches for him. "Stiles, wait!"
"No!" Stiles yells, racing for the door. "Just leave me alone!"
He doesn't stop until he's in his Jeep and speeding away, leaving Derek in his
rearview mirror.
***** You Can't Pretend for Ever *****
- Sunday, March 6th, 2011 -
Kate has become a ubiquitous presence in Stiles' life.
She's been with him at school, whispering in his ear while he tried
unsuccessfully to pay attention to what his teachers were saying. She was there
during his latest training session with Chris, marring the occasion when, at
the end, Chris had presented Stiles with his first gun. She was even in his
bedroom every night—he lay there with Kate sitting at the foot of his bed,
unable to sleep because she kept rambling on about how dangerous he was. He's
been worn down, his exhaustion making it easier for her to worm her way inside
his head, until he actually starts believing the vitriol she spews.
It's like he's been split into two halves.
One half knows logically that Kate isn't right, that he loves his friends and
would never do anything to intentionally hurt them. But the other half, the one
Kate has managed to enthral, drags the first down like a heavy weight attached
to his ankles, pulling him beneath the surface of a great body of water until
he feels like he's drowning. Word of his freakout in the loft has spread,
Stiles knows, and now that his strange behaviour has been made known to his
packmates, whatever force had compelled him to pretend as if everything was
normal has changed, urging him instead to avoid them altogether. He keeps his
distance from them in school and rebuffs any offers that are sent his way to
get together once it's over. He makes flimsy excuses and returns home as fast
as he can every afternoon, because part of him believes now that they aren't
safe around him. But it's hard. It's so fucking hard.
Derek has tried to see him repeatedly over the past week, since Stiles hadn't
returned any of his texts, but Stiles had begged a conflicted Melissa to send
the alpha away every time. It killed him to do it, because he wanted nothing
more than to sink into Derek's embrace and unburden himself, but Kate's words
from Monday kept ringing in his head.
He knows it's better this way.
Kate's told him as much.
Now, Stiles sits in his bedroom after having Derek sent away for a fifth time.
Kate sits next to him, regarding him with an expression that's almost
compassionate. She combs her fingers through his hair, a touch from which he
would've previously been tempted to shy away. Experience tells him that she'd
just follow him, though, so he stays where he is and lets her do what she
wants. He hears the front door close and then footsteps coming up the stairs,
before his bedroom door swings inward and Melissa enters dressed in her scrubs,
looking like she means business.
Stiles blinks at her.
"I don't know what's happened between you two, but I do not like being put in
the middle of it," Melissa chides, putting her hands on her hips. "I know you
know that all this hiding won't make whatever problems you're having go away.
So, the next time Derek comes over trying to talk to you, can you please just
see him? Actually, you know what? The next time he comes over, I'm just going
to send him straight up."
"Ooh, she's spunky!" Kate comments. "I like her."
"Now, I have to get to work," Melissa sighs. "Just...think about it, OK?"
"OK," Stiles accedes quietly.
After giving him a sad look, Melissa goes back downstairs and leaves him alone
again with Kate. The blonde chuckles to herself and moves her cold hand down
from his hair to wrap gently around the back of his neck, forcing him to look
her in the eye. "Do you see what I mean now, Stiles?" she asks sweetly. "It's
already happening. You're making everyone around you upset, even your surrogate
mom. The darkness inside you is growing day by day, and soon it'll consume
everything. Those you love will end up dead simply because you were a part of
their pitifully short lives. But there's still a way you can save them."
"Isn't just staying away from them enough?" Stiles croaks.
"I'm afraid not."
"Then how?"
"Oh, don't start playing dumb now, Stiles. You already know how," Kate tuts.
She purses her lips disapprovingly and strengthens her hand around the back of
Stiles' neck, making him wince. "You've even got a handy-dandy little tool in
your Jeep that'll get the job done quick, courtesy of my dear brother. Then
everyone will be safe."
"Y-you mean...?" Stiles stutters, starting to shake. When Kate nods, he
wrenches himself free of her grasp and leaps from the bed. "No! I won't do
that!" he spits, the part of him that he still has full control over
overpowering the other, an odd sensation that feels like waking up after a long
slumber. Whatever hold Kate has on him weakens, and when he moves his foot
experimentally his eyes widen when he finds that it actually obeys him. With
one last glare at Kate he turns away and strides from the room, taking the
stairs two at a time until he reaches the ground floor. He can hear Kate
tailing him, trying to talk him back under her thrall, but he blocks her out as
best he can as he searches the house, looking for Melissa, or anyone else to
whom he can spill the secret he's been forced to keep for the past week.
Unfortunately, he finds the place empty, Melissa having already left for the
hospital.
"Damn it!" Stiles explodes, punching the kitchen wall just as Kate enters.
"Stiles—"
"Don't!" he yells over her. "Stay the fuck out of my head!" Crouching down low
to the floor, he winds his fingers through his hair and clenches his eyes shut
as he feels his control slipping again, Kate's influence taking over. He
whimpers and presses his forehead to his knees, whispering a mantra of, "You're
not real," over and over again until he feels hands on his shoulders and a
voice calling his name. A masculine voice.
Cautiously, Stiles looks up and finds Derek kneeling next to him, his
expression terrified.
"Stiles..." the wolf says. "What's wrong with you?"
"She won't stop," Stiles responds brokenly.
"Who?"
Kate appears over Derek's shoulder then, and the mere sight of her bloody face
is enough to make Stiles clam up. He stutters out something unintelligible and
attempts to move away from Derek, but Derek doesn't let him go. The alpha's
grip on his shoulders is strong enough to bruise as he tries to force Stiles to
look at him, but Stiles is unable to break his eyes from Kate's. She mouths
something to him, something that increases the weight pulling him slowly back
into the water, and Stiles snaps. He shoves Derek away hard and stops
momentarily, astonished, when it actually works and Derek is thrown backward,
catching himself on the kitchen island. But then Stiles is moving again,
darting to the front door and out to his Jeep.
It's futile, trying to put distance between himself and Kate when she can show
up anywhere she likes, but Stiles isn't thinking rationally. Tears of
frustration build in his eyes as he fumbles to stick his keys in the ignition,
his hands shaking so hard that he keeps missing, but in the end he manages it
with a breathless laugh. Peeling out of the driveway so fast the wheels squeal,
he drives without a goal, just wanting to get away from the house. As he nears
the edge of town, trees blurring past on both sides, Stiles feels a familiar
sensation ripple through him. He pulls over to the side of the road, flings
open the door and stumbles out into the cold, where he hangs his head and sinks
to his hands and knees.
Sure enough, a moment later, Kate is back.
"How long are you gonna keep this up?" she asks, sounding bored.
Flinching, Stiles doesn't respond, just keeps staring at the dirt beneath his
hands.
"It's getting tiresome."
"Fine... You want me to use that gun, huh?!" Stiles seethes. "I'll fucking use
it, then!"
Stomping back over to his Jeep, he reaches through the still-open door and
yanks open the glovebox. Inside is the fancy wooden box that Chris Argent had
given just yesterday, stored there instead of at home because Melissa didn't
want it in the house. He tears the box open and wraps his fingers around cold
metal before spinning on his heel and aiming the pistol at Kate. For a second
she looks shocked, but then her expression becomes pleased.
"C'mon, I dare you," she taunts, using Stiles' own words against him. "It'll be
fun."
He pulls the trigger.
Just as the bullet is about to hit her, Kate flickers and vanishes, revealing
Derek standing right behind her. The bullet pierces his shoulder, and he gasps
in pain and staggers back a couple of paces, his hand coming up to clutch at
the wound. Stiles is horrified, the gun slipping from his grasp and hitting the
ground with a thud, and through the white noise in his ears he hears Kate's
disembodied voice: "I told you you'd hurt him."
Stiles' heart shatters when he sees the expression on Derek's face.
There's confusion, and pain, of course, but the predominant emotion on his
rugged features is hurt, as if he can't believe that Stiles would do this to
him.
Stiles can't believe it, either.
Shaking himself from his stupor, he rushes forward with tears flowing freely
now and catches Derek before he can fall. He babbles as he guides Derek to his
Jeep, saying vehemently that he didn't mean it and begging hysterically for
forgiveness, but Derek is silent apart from the occasional groan or renewed
gasp of pain. Once the wolf has settled in the passenger seat, Stiles just
about manages to maintain the wherewithal to race around to the driver's side
and get the engine going again. He snaps up the gun and carelessly tosses it
and its box in the footwell before slamming the door closed and pressing his
foot down on the gas. He lets instinct guide him, tears still coming, until
they reach the veterinary clinic.
"Please, please be OK," he warbles as he helps Derek get to the clinic's back
door.
Inside, he finds Scott assisting his boss in treating a beagle.
Both turn when the door bangs open.
"Help!" Stiles pleads.
Scott's boss, a bald, dark-skinned man with a calm demeanour, is on them
instantly, leaving Scott to tend to the beagle while he rushes over and helps
Stiles move Derek to lean against the wall. Once the injured man is situated on
the floor, Stiles backs off and watches helplessly as Scott's boss—Deaton, he
remembers now—takes a pair of trauma shears and cuts through Derek's shirt,
exposing the left side of his chest and the gunshot wound in his shoulder.
Stiles feels a fleeting sense of déjà vu, his mind flashing back to when he and
Derek were in this exact same position a month and a half ago.
"How did this happen?" Deaton asks, glancing at Stiles.
Stiles just shakes his head, unable to speak.
The vet nods, seeming to understand, and retrieves a pair of long tweezers, a
kidney dish and some sterile cloth. It's torturous for Stiles, simply being a
bystander as Deaton begins digging the bullet out—he flinches violently every
time Derek hisses through his teeth, because he knows that his wolf is in pain
because of him. It's all his fault, and based off of the fact that Derek won't
look at him and the way Scott won't look away, he isn't the only one to reach
that conclusion. There's no love lost between the two werewolves but that
doesn't matter right now, not when Scott is looking at him like he's a cold-
blooded killer.
"What the hell did you do?" the beta asks scornfully.
It's too much.
"I have to—" Stiles gasps, running for the door.
                                     * * *
Derek can hear Stiles' fading footsteps, followed by the rumble of the Jeep's
engine, but he doesn't try to chase after him. He's still processing the events
of the last week, how things devolved so rapidly from the perfection that was
their night together last Saturday to this. Although Stiles did shoot him,
Derek is hesitant to put the blame entirely on the boy. Clearly something is
very wrong in Stiles' mind, and Derek wishes ardently that he had the answers.
He feels guilty for being unable to push through his own sense of betrayal,
which is likely unjustified anyway, in order to soothe him, to even raise his
eyes to him. But, because there's nothing he can do for now, he puts it aside
for later and focuses on the present.
Deaton is still digging around in his shoulder, making him wince, until finally
he extracts the bullet and drops it with a clinking sound into the kidney dish.
At the vet's instruction, Derek picks up one of the sterile cloths, cleans up
as much of the blood on his arm as he can, and then holds it over the wound.
"Can you tell if the bullet was poisoned?" Deaton asks calmly.
Derek nods. "I can feel it."
"Do you know what breed of wolfsbane it contained?"
"No, but Chris Argent should. It was his."
Deaton's eyebrows rise slightly in surprise, his first show of emotion since
Derek and Stiles had arrived. "Chris Argent shot you?" the vet enquires
curiously. He picks up the bullet, turns it over in his palm, and hums quietly
to himself when he finds the Argent insignia on the base, all but confirming
Derek's accusation. "I'm afraid I don't understand—I thought you were on good
terms nowadays, ever since his sister met her end and you worked together to
dispatch your uncle. Why would he shoot you?"
"He didn't," Derek corrects.
"Then who?"
"Just...get him here. I only want to have to explain this once."
                                     * * *
Fifteen minutes later, Chris Argent enters the back of the clinic with a box in
his hand, similar to the one Derek had seen in Stiles' car. He walks right over
to Derek, not paying Deaton or Scott any attention at all, and crouches down on
the floor next to him, a concerned frown on his face. He looks like he wants to
ask a multitude of questions but thankfully chooses to wait until the reason
for his presence has been taken care of.
"You know the drill, right?" Chris asks Derek.
The wolf grits his teeth. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."
Chris takes one of the wolfsbane bullets from the box, cracks it open and tips
its contents out onto the floor in front of Derek. Then, with a lighter that he
pulls from the pocket of his jeans, he sets the small pile of purplish powder
aflame and steps back as it burns and spits up a flurry of sparks and smoke.
Once it's died down, Derek pulls the cloth away from his bullet wound and,
after taking a deep breath, reluctantly smears what's left of the wolfsbane
powder into the injury. A second passes, during which no one moves, and then
intense pain zaps through his entire body. Though he tries to breathe through
it, it fast becomes too much and he ends up convulsing on the floor. He feels
hands on him, holding him as still as they can, until the pain eventually
passes and all that's left is the dull ache of his freshly cleansed wound
starting to heal, flesh knitting itself back together.
"You good?" Chris asks, helping Derek to sit up from where he'd slid onto his
back.
"Fine," Derek replies once his breaths come more easily. He waves off the
hunter's assistance and pushes to his feet by himself, then looks down at the
state of his navy-blue Henley, which has been thoroughly ruined both by
Deaton's shears and his own blood. The shirt was one of his favourites, purely
because it was a gift from Laura for his last birthday, and he really wishes
he'd put on something different that morning.
Chris crosses his arms over his chest. "So, why am I here?"
"Yes, I would finally love to receive an explanation for this," Deaton chimes
in.
Derek sighs. "I'm honestly not sure myself."
The vet tilts his head to the side confusedly. "Meaning?"
Scott butts in then, his tone impatient: "It was Stiles, wasn't it?"
"Stiles did this?"
Derek nods. "Yeah, he did. But I don't think it's as simple as that... I'm
worried."
He proceeds to explain to the vet and the hunter everything that he knows. "I
think it all started last Monday, when Stiles came to the loft in the
afternoon," he says, moving to lean against the countertop. "Everything was
fine—I made dinner, and then we were going to watch the first Lord of the Rings
movie—but a little while into it he just...flipped out. I don't know why. He
left like the place was on fire." Derek winces at his own simile. "I tried to
talk to him about it several times over the week but he kept avoiding me.
Tonight, I tried for a fifth time, only to be turned away again by Melissa, and
I'd had enough. I was planning on confronting Stiles as soon as Melissa left
for work, and that's when I heard him talking to someone. Only, he was alone in
the house."
This gets some raised eyebrows.
"I listened to what he was saying but it didn't make any sense to me," Derek
goes on, feeling even more confused himself now that he's laying it all out.
"Something about ‘staying away from them', whatever that means. Then he started
freaking out, so I went in to calm him down and managed to get a little bit out
of him before he ran. Again."
"What did he say?" Chris interpolates.
"That ‘she' wouldn't leave him alone. Whoever he was talking to, I guess."
"That's...worrying."
Derek nods his agreement. "You're telling me. Anyway, he ran to his Jeep and
drove off, and I followed him all the way to the edge of town. I lost track of
him briefly but found him again on the side of the road, where he pulled out
the gun you gave him," Derek glances at Chris, "and pointed it at me. He wasn't
looking at me, though. It was like... It was like there was someone standing
between us, someone only he could see. I was too stunned to move out of the
way, and then he fired. That's about it."
"He's been acting weird at school, too," Scott pipes up, filling the ensuing
silence.
"How?" Derek demands.
"Like, avoiding us and stuff. He seemed distracted by something."
Derek stares incredulously at the beta. "And no one thought to mention this to
me, not even after I told you all about what happened at the loft?"
"I didn't think it mattered. I thought he was just being even weirder than he
normally is."
Derek narrows his eyes and sends a growl Scott's way to shut him up. "Whatever,
I'll deal with you later," he says, turning away. "Clearly something is
happening to Stiles, and now we just have to figure out what all of this means
before things get any worse."
"I think I may have theory," Deaton says then, walking from the room without
any sort of elaboration. He returns shortly, carrying with him a large leather-
bound book with a strange symbol on the cover. Derek has never seen anything
like it, but he doesn't ask about it yet and instead watches silently as Deaton
places the book on the examination table and opens it to somewhere in the
middle. The vet flips through some of the brittle-looking pages with great care
until he reaches something that makes him smile in a self-satisfied manner.
"Ah, here it is," he announces, gesturing for the others to gather closer so
that they can see. "It's a potion, I believe, one that's usually used to exact
vengeance on someone. It reacts differently depending on what the brewer's
intentions are, but it could very well bring on hallucinations like the ones
Stiles seems to have been experiencing of late."
"How can you be sure that's what this is?" Chris queries.
"From what little I know of Mr. Stilinski, he's not one who would willingly
keep something like this a secret, correct?" Deaton asks, looking to Derek for
confirmation. When the alpha gives it he continues: "Well, to make the drinker
more susceptible to its other manipulative effects, this potion comes with a
nasty side effect that's designed to isolate. This would explain why he didn't
tell anyone when the hallucinations first started happening."
"Any idea what he's been seeing?" Derek asks.
"No. You'll have to ask Stiles once I give him the counter-potion."
"You can do that?"
"Yes, though it'll take some time to brew properly. It requires some precise
measurements, so perhaps somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour," Deaton
says. He begins to pull open some of the cupboards around the room, searching
for jars and bottles of ingredients that he lines up next to the book. "I think
it would be best if someone went to collect Mr. Stilinski ahead of time, just
in case. He might very well end up hurting someone else or even himself if left
at the mercy of the hallucinations. Scott, why don't you gather some of your
friends and search for him? Derek is still in no shape to go and I'll require
Mr. Argent's help in brewing this."
"Sure, I guess," Scott acquiesces, heading for the door.
Once the beta is gone, Deaton conjures a stool seemingly from nowhere and
plants it in front of Derek, who is still recovering from being shot up with
wolfsbane. Derek thanks the vet somewhat grudgingly and sits down, feeling
helpless while the other two men set to work. He hopes that his pack will be
able to find Stiles in time.
                                     * * *
Stiles paces back and forth in his dark bedroom, tearing at his hair as self-
loathing tears spring to his eyes. Kate sits on the foot of his bed, one leg
crossed casually over the other and a pleased smirk on her lips as she listens
to him ramble. "I can't believe I did that," he whispers, coming to a stop in
front of his closet. He pulls open the door and stares at himself in the long
mirror that's hung up on the inside of it, his face twisting up in disgust at
the pathetic creature he sees staring back at him. "I could've killed him..."
"I did warn you," Kate says, getting up to stand behind him.
"And I didn't listen. I should've listened..."
"Yes, you should have," she agrees, patting him on the shoulder. "But it's
still not too late to put an end to this, to prevent it from ever happening
again."
"But I don't want to die!"
Kate hums understandingly. "I know, I know... Death is a scary concept," she
says, her grip tightening. "Trust me, I'm well aware—that's why I'm here, after
all—but it's either you or them. If you don't take yourself out of the picture
now, the darkness inside you will keep growing bigger and bigger and your
friends will go down one by one by your hands. Sure, they'll be sad for a
while, but just one bullet can prevent so much bloodshed from ever coming to
pass. And isn't it better for them to remember you as you are now, as their
friend, than as the monster you'll become if you don't do what needs to be
done? C'mon, be brave."
Stiles is silent for a moment, and then fresh tears spill.
"Will it hurt?" he chokes out.
"No. For you, it'll be over in a snap."
Stiles takes a shuddering breath, resolve washing over him.
"OK... I'll do it."
***** In the Eye of the Storm *****
Lydia was halfway through watching The Notebook when she got Scott's call.
She'd ignored it at first, but then the boy had called again and, with an
irritated sigh, she'd been forced to pause the movie and pick up her phone. Her
greeting was a brusque, "What?" because she wasn't in the mood to be
interrupted, least of all by Scott, but when she received her answer all of her
irritation had melted away into shock and fear.
The television was forgotten, frozen on Rachel McAdams' face, as she took the
stairs two at a time and raced out the front door, not even pausing when her
mother called after her, asking her where she thought she was going so late.
Now, she sits behind the wheel of her car, biting into her bottom lip so hard
that it bleeds again and again. She doesn't really know where she's
heading—even though she considers him a good friend, truthfully she doesn't
know that much about Stiles and thus is clueless as to his haunts, the places
in which he can usually be found. So she just drives, not paying much attention
to speed limits or red lights and instead devoting it all to the people that
are still on the streets this late in the evening. She doesn't expect to see
Stiles among them but still feels disappointed when she doesn't spot his face
or his Jeep.
"Damn it, where are you?" Lydia wonders aloud.
Having driven through the centre of town, she veers off toward the residential
streets. A couple of them she ventures down without success, but then she turns
onto Stiles' street, supposing that he won't be there but that it can't hurt to
check anyway. She finds to her relief and surprise the boy's Jeep parked
haphazardly on the curb outside the McCalls', the driver's door wide open and
the engine still idling. Pulling her own car to a stop behind the abandoned
blue vehicle, Lydia dashes up to the front door of the house and feels her
heart rate pick up tremendous speed when she hears Stiles' voice from inside.
Shoving the front door open, Lydia follows it upstairs to his bedroom.
"You're sure it won't hurt?" she hears Stiles ask.
With her hand on the bedroom door she stops, caught by the raw emotion in his
voice. Although she'd leapt immediately to action, she almost hadn't wanted to
believe it when Scott told her that Stiles had shot Derek because he was
suffering from hallucinations. But, as she listens to Stiles have a
conversation seemingly with himself, she is forced to accept it as true.
"OK... I believe you."
Believe who? Lydia ponders.
There's only one way to find out, she decides, pushing the door open with a
shove. Stiles stands with his back to her in front of his closet door, staring
at himself in the mirror. His eyes meet hers in the reflection and widen in
alarm, and Lydia is perplexed and a little heartbroken when she sees their
redness and the wetness on his cheeks. "Stiles, I know I can't understand
what's happening to you right now, what you're going through," she says,
stepping slowly inside the room with her palms held up, like she's approaching
a cornered animal. "But I want you to come with me, alright? I'm going to take
you back to the clinic so that Scott's boss can fix it."
Stiles doesn't say anything in response, but his startled expression becomes
sad and he looks away from her. It's then that Lydia sees what he's holding.
Inhaling sharply, she schools her face and stands her ground when Stiles turns
around, staring down at the gun clutched in his left hand. "Stiles... What're
doing with that?" Lydia asks.
"I have to do it," the boy says.
"Do what?"
"She says I have to do it."
"Stiles, do what? You're really starting to scare me."
"I have to end it," Stiles answers with a wet smile. "S'the only way."
Lydia swallows tightly and dares to take a step closer. "Stiles... I want you
to put the gun down, OK? Please? For me?" she entreaties.
What happens next happens so fast that Lydia doesn't have time to think. When
Stiles ignores her and raises the gun, holding the barrel to his temple, she
lunges for him and tackles him to the ground. The pistol slips out of his grasp
before he can fire, bounces heavily across the floor and comes to a stop a few
feet away from them. Stiles struggles to get out from under Lydia, his arms
straining toward the firearm. "No!" he screams hoarsely, scratching frantically
at whichever parts of her he can reach. "You don't understand! I have to do it!
I have to!"
"Stiles!" Lydia yells over him. "Calm down!"
The struggling boy doesn't seem to hear her. He still reaches desperately for
the gun, his arm stretching across the carpet until Lydia roughly takes hold of
his wrist and restrains him, yanking it down to his side. This only serves to
make Stiles even more frenzied—he bucks his hips up to try to displace her and,
now that his hands are out of commission, sinks his teeth into the flesh of her
shoulder, hard enough to pierce her skin.
Lydia cries out in shock, having not expected Stiles to resort to such tactics.
"Alright," she grunts, the shock passing quickly. "Fuck this." Careful not to
use too much of her strength, she quickly releases Stiles' hands and, before he
can make use of the freed extremities, flips him around and wraps her arm
around his neck in a choke hold. Stiles scrabbles to get loose, clawing
ineffectually at her and trying to pull away, but his weaker human muscles are
no match for a werewolf's, even a new one like Lydia, and he only succeeds in
choking himself further. With her eyes clenched shut, Lydia increases the
pressure and waits it out as Stiles' struggles gradually weaken. After a few
seconds they stop altogether as Stiles passes out from lack of oxygen, and she
takes a shuddering breath. She loosens her arm and presses her lips to the back
of his head.
"I'm so sorry, Stiles... We'll get you well again, I promise."
                                     * * *
When Lydia enters the clinic with Stiles over her shoulders in a fireman's
carry, her red purse swinging at her hip, Derek, having recovered enough from
being shot up with wolfsbane, rushes over to assist her. He takes the boy from
her and, following Deaton's instructions, lays him down on the examination
table, where he makes for a truly pitiful sight—Stiles is even paler than
usual, the moles dotting his face standing out in starker contrast, and there
are deep bags beneath his eyes and dried tear tracks down his cheeks. Derek is
unable to tear his eyes away from his young lover, because he's honestly scared
that if he does for even half a second, Stiles will vanish in a puff of smoke,
never to be seen or heard from again. He should've tried harder, shouldn't have
given Stiles space—the first time Stiles had Melissa send him away, he
should've disregarded her, stormed right up to Stiles' bedroom and hashed out
their troubles then and there. Instead he let whatever was ailing Stiles get
worse.
Deaton and Chris flit about the room, double-checking that they did every step
correctly for the counter-potion, but Derek is oblivious to everything but the
fragile-looking teenager in front of him and the girl who stands next to him.
Lydia puts a dainty hand on his arm, no doubt intending to provide him with
some comfort, but he knows he won't feel better until Stiles wakes up and is
cured of his ailment, putting this whole mess behind them.
"What happened to him?" he asks quietly.
"He tried to kill himself," Lydia replies bluntly, causing all three men to
look at her in disbelief. "I think I got there just in time."
"Good God..." Deaton breathes.
Derek returns his shattered gaze to Stiles' face. "How?"
Lydia pulls the gun from her purse. "With this."
Chris inhales sharply, his ice-blue eyes guilty. "I should never have given
that to him..."
A few moments of uneasy silence pass, and then Deaton shakes himself from his
stupor and carefully finishes his double-checking. "Alright, I think this is as
ready as I'll be able to get it," he says, taking a small glass beaker from
atop a Bunsen burner and walking it over to the examination table. Inside is a
thick liquid of an ugly moss-green colour that stinks to high heaven, making
both werewolves cover their noses in disgust. "We can either wait for him to
wake up on his own and give this to him then, or we can try to administer it
now, while he's unconscious and can't put up a fight. The choice is yours,
Derek."
"Do it now," the alpha decides, without having to think about it.
"Very well. Pick his head up so that he doesn't choke."
Derek does as he's told. Once he's in position, Stiles' head cradled carefully
in his hands with Chris and Lydia holding down Stiles' torso and arms, Deaton
opens the unresponsive boy's mouth and brings the rim of the beaker to his
lips. Derek wants to throw up at the thought of swallowing the foul concoction
and has to avert his eyes when Stiles' body automatically does just that. So as
to not overwhelm him, Deaton stops every few seconds to give Stiles' throat a
chance to work and then carries on, until the last of the mixture has been
consumed.
"Is that it?" Lydia asks.
"That's it," Deaton confirms, stepping away from the table and placing the
beaker on the counter. "Now all we can do is wait and hope that it did the
job."
"How long will that take, d'you think?"
"I'd say that depends on how hard you knocked him out, Miss Martin."
"I had to!"
"I know. I'm not accusing you of anything. I was merely answering your query."
"Both of you shut up!" Derek barks, not in the mood to listen to their
bickering. "You're not helping." He ignores the glare Lydia sends his way, as
well as Deaton's rather loud harrumph, in favour of dragging his stool over to
the examination table, wanting to be closer to Stiles. He's not normally one
for public displays of affection—they nearly always make him feel too
uncomfortable to be tolerated—but, because this is a special circumstance, he
takes Stiles' hand in one of his own and holds it against his lips. The room
stays silent for an unbearable amount of time, every one of them watching and
waiting for some sign of life from Stiles. Deaton and Chris clean up the mess
they'd made making the counter-potion, while Lydia wanders around the outskirts
of the room and examines the different arcane ingredients Deaton has stored in
the cupboards. But Derek stays exactly where he is.
Twenty minutes pass, and then Stiles' nose twitches and he groans quietly.
Derek is alert in an instant, cupping Stiles' cheek with his free hand and
stroking across his cheekbone to coax him back to wakefulness. It doesn't take
long, and then Stiles' eyes crack open and look blearily around the room before
finding Derek's. They widen as realisation hits, followed by panic, and then
the boy sits up, wrenches his hand from Derek's and tries to throw himself over
to the other side of the table.
Derek doesn't let him.
"Stiles, it's OK," he says softly, his hand pressed against the middle of
Stiles' chest.
"What's going on? How did I get here?" Stiles asks in a rush.
"I brought you," Lydia answers.
Stiles stares at her for a few seconds before the memories return and his eyes
snap back to Derek, his face becoming tormented. "Oh my God," he gasps, "I shot
you..." He extends his hand toward the alpha's shoulder but freezes with it
hanging in the air between them, like he's unsure whether or not his touch will
be welcomed. "Please tell me you're alright."
Derek's mouth twitches. "You tell me."
He moves his stool even closer with an unpleasant screech until their skin
connects and Stiles' slender fingers stroke across the freshly healed skin of
his shoulder. "See? All healed, without even a scar," he says, his voice fond.
He can see the anguish in Stiles' tired face, years of seeing it in his own
reflection making it easy to discern, and he sighs as he takes Stiles' hand
again and holds it over his heart. "I don't blame you for shooting me,
Stiles—no one here does. It wasn't your fault, but the fault of whoever
poisoned you with that hallucinogenic potion. Which brings me to what we need
to talk about next." He shares a quick look with Deaton and Chris. "We need you
to tell us what or who it was you saw. It might give us an idea of who was
behind this, and then we can make sure they never do anything like it again."
Stiles frowns in confusion and looks around the room, his breathing not quite
even. "Where is she?" he asks.
"Where is who? Who did you see?"
"Kate," Stiles answers diffidently. "She's not here."
Derek tenses up at the mere mention of the blonde's name. "Kate? That was who
you kept seeing?" he presses, needing to be sure that he heard Stiles
correctly. When the boy nods, he looks to Chris and finds him now bent over the
book in which Deaton had found the counter-potion, his lips a thin line. With
the hunter distracted, he allows himself to be free with his words. "You won't
see that bitch ever again, Stiles, I promise you. We gave you the cure while
you were unconscious."
"It that why my mouth tastes like ass?" Stiles asks, making a face.
"Yes, it is," Deaton answers. "My apologies, but these things are usually very
unpleasant, so there was nothing I could really do about the taste if I wanted
it to still be effective. Here, this'll help." He produces a bottle of Gatorade
and gives it to Stiles, who takes it and drinks greedily. "I know you're
probably exhausted after what you've just experienced, and I'd like nothing
more than to let Derek take you home so you can get some much-needed sleep. But
I'm afraid we still have some matters to discuss before that can happen." He
waits for Stiles to finish the bottle and look up at him again, his somnolent
body listing slightly to the side, before carrying on. "Now, you've already
told us it was the late Kate Argent you were seeing, and that will likely help
some, but not enough to determine her origins. I also need to know what she
did, and how, that drove you to attempt suicide."
Derek growls at the vet. "Can't this wait? He's about to keel over!"
"It can't, Derek," Deaton explains patiently. "You know it can't. Whoever did
this to Stiles might already know that their first attempt has been thwarted,
and we can't afford to waste any more time. The longer we wait, the more time
we give the culprit to act again. So please, let's just get this over and done
with, and then Stiles can rest."
Derek huffs. "Fine."
The vet smiles indulgently. "Start from the beginning, if you would, Mr.
Stilinski."
Stiles takes a deep breath.
He talks about the first time he saw Kate, exactly a week ago on his way to
Alisha's Boutique. "She didn't talk to me at all then," he says, keeping his
eyes glued to the centre of Derek's chest. "She just...stood there smiling at
me, and then she vanished. I was freaked out by it but tried to ignore it,
hoping that it was just my imagination or something. Then when I got home a few
hours later she showed up again in the kitchen and said that she'd make me pay.
She still had the knife in her eye..." He trails off, shuddering at the memory
of how he'd sunk the deadly implement in there in the first place, how it slid
in as smoothly as in butter.
"Why didn't you come to me right away?" Derek can't help but ask.
"I couldn't..."
"I would've believed you."
"No, Derek, I mean I actually couldn't," Stiles insists. "I wanted to. You have
no idea how much I wanted to tell you, or anyone. In fact, when Scott and
Allison found me on the kitchen floor I was going to tell them, but it was
like... Kate was in my head, y'know? She wouldn't let me. Every time I tried to
tell someone, to get help—and I tried a lot—there was this force that held the
words back. I couldn't do anything to fight it, and it made it easier for Kate
to worm her way in and make me believe the shit she kept telling me..."
"Like what?" Lydia chimes in curiously.
"Just lies," he deflects.
"I need to push you for more than that," Deaton says gently.
Stiles shifts in place, the bitter scent of anxiety coming off of him in waves,
so Derek squeezes his hand in an effort to reassure him that he doesn't have to
hide anything from him, that he'll be OK with anything he has to say. It seems
to work, Stiles opening his mouth again and telling Deaton what he needs to
hear:
"She played on my fears and insecurities, mostly," he mumbles, frustration
appearing in his voice. "Just stupid stuff, like me not being good enough and
that everyone would get sick of me and ditch me, that kind of thing. Like I
said, it was stupid stuff. I knew none of it was true, but Kate was pretty damn
good at exploiting everything she could to try and convince me that it was.
When the bulk of it started that day in the loft, she said..."
He trails off and bites his bottom lip, his eyes flicking to Derek's.
The wolf urges him on. "She said what?"
"Do I really have to say?" Stiles stalls, his frustration creeping into his
eyes now. "I don't think this part's relevant."
"Yes," Deaton responds succinctly.
"Fine! You really wanna know? She talked about when she and Derek were together
and how a stupid sixteen-year-old virgin loser like me would never be able to
live up to her when they were fucking!" Stiles snaps at the vet. His sleep-
deprived state has brought his temper to the surface, and his face flushes red
from both anger and embarrassment as Lydia stares at him sympathetically and
Chris tears himself away from Deaton's book to look at him in surprise.
Stiles looks down at the floor. "There. Was that useful?"
"Stiles..." Derek breathes.
"Don't. Just...don't."
Lydia speaks up then, mercifully moving the conversation forward. "How did Kate
convince you to try and kill yourself?" she asks, her voice kind.
"She warned me repeatedly that I'd hurt you guys," Stiles explains, calming
down again. "I'd already killed once, so it was apparently only a matter of
time until the darkness she said she saw in me came out properly. That's what
made me freak out at the loft. And then, when I accidentally shot Derek...it
was like her warnings were coming true, and I was desperate for a way to stop
it before I actually succeeded in killing one of you guys. That's how she did
it. But I never would've tried to do something like that if things were normal,
wouldn't have even thought about it. I don't want to die, and I couldn't have
done that to you guys even if I did."
"Is that everything she said?" Deaton enquires stoically.
"I think so. That's all I remember, anyway. Some of it's kinda fuzzy."
"Alright, you can get some rest now. Derek?"
Said alpha is on his feet immediately, guiding Stiles to hop down from the
examination table with a strong arm around his waist. After thanking Lydia,
Derek leads Stiles outside and over to his Jeep, where he takes the keys and
orders him to get in the passenger seat. "You're in no state to drive," he
points out when Stiles protests the mollycoddling, an affectionate smile
forming on his thin lips when the boy pouts and petulantly buckles himself up.
Derek walks around to the driver's side and gets in behind the wheel, letting
silence descend upon them as he drives Stiles back to the McCalls' house. His
mind is racing with all the information it's trying to digest, his heart
breaking all over again when, at a red light, he glances to his right and sees
Stiles staring forlornly out of the passenger window.
                                     * * *
Derek sits on the end of Stiles' bed while Stiles is in the bathroom, hopefully
getting ready for his first full night of sleep in a week. He knows he should
probably leave—his car is still parked by the side of the road on the edge of
town, he has no clean clothes to change into, and while his jeans will probably
be fine the next day, his Henley is definitely beyond repair. Even with all of
this, he stays right where he is and plans on doing so until he is actually
told to go.
When Stiles reenters the room in his pyjamas, looking dead on his feet, he
switches off the light, makes a wide berth around Derek, and climbs without a
word beneath the sheets. Derek sighs and racks his brain for a solution to ease
the tension. He guesses that Stiles feels so unsure around him now because of
all he'd spilled at the clinic, and that just won't do. Getting up, he strips
off his ruined shirt and steps out of his jeans, leaving just his boxer-briefs
on as he walks around to the other side of the bed and gets in next to Stiles.
His bedmate lies facing away from him, his body rigid, so Derek shuffles
closer, wraps an arm around Stiles' waist and tucks his chin over Stiles'
shoulder. "You OK?" he asks.
There's a brief pause, and then Stiles shakes his head.
Derek isn't surprised. It was a silly question to ask, really. "Speak to me."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"Say anything."
"...Are you mad at me?"
"Mad? Why would I be mad at you?"
Stiles turns around in Derek's arms and burrows further into Derek's warmth,
rubbing his cheek against the middle of his hairy chest. "For bringing up you
and Kate back at the clinic... I know she's a sore spot for you, but the way
she talked about the two of you got under my skin and...honestly? I'm still
kinda scared that she was right."
It takes Derek a few moments to understand what Stiles means, and when he does
his wolf growls in his head and attempts to break out, to prove to the boy just
how wrong he is. Instead he pushes the wolf back and settles for tightening his
arms around Stiles, sticking resolutely to his words from weeks ago about going
at Stiles' pace. "You have nothing worry about, love..." he reassures. The pet
name slips out easily, and he can feel the tips of his ears turn pink when he
realises it, but he just presses a kiss to the top of Stiles' head and moves
on. "We may not have made it that far just yet, but I already know that when we
do finally have sex, it's going to be perfect."
"I hope so," Stiles whispers, beginning to drift off.
"Sleep, love. You're safe."
"Stay?"
"I won't leave, I promise," Derek smiles. "I'll hold you all night."
***** It Always Pays to Have a Plan B *****
Shortly after Derek takes Stiles home, Chris makes his own egress from the
clinic, leaving Deaton to suffer at the hands of a very inquisitive Lydia. He
would've stayed for a bit longer, too, to put their capable heads together and
figure out who was responsible for Stiles' poisoning, had it not been for what
he'd read in Deaton's book. The list of ingredients that went into the potion
that had afflicted Stiles was long and confusing, but with enough patience he'd
worked through them all and discovered that several of them stood out to him as
suspicious.
Now, he drives just under the speed limit to his house, hoping that the
conclusion he'd been lead to by the list and the fact that Stiles had seen his
sister will prove false. He finds his dad's car parked in the driveway, and as
he exits his own and approaches the front door he prepares himself for what
will be, at best, a very awkward conversation.
And at worst...
Shaking his head, Chris opens the door and steps into the warmth of his foyer.
"Dad?" he calls out, hanging up his coat on the row of hooks on the wall to his
left. He hears a reply come from the kitchen and, making that his next
destination, finds his father leaning against the counter, sipping slowly from
a steaming cup of decaf coffee. The white-haired hunter nods at him and goes
back to his beverage, so Chris bides his time, pouring himself his own cup and
moving to stand opposite his dad, his back to the island. The ensuing silence
is uncomfortable, to say the least, and in it Chris manages only a couple of
sips of coffee before having enough.
"I need to ask you something," he says slowly.
Gerard hums but doesn't look up.
"This is difficult, but I need to know," Chris continues, putting down his
drink. "Did you have anything to do with what's been happening to Stiles this
past week?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Answer the question."
Gerard huffs impatiently. "Fine. Yes, I did."
His eyebrows shooting up his forehead, Chris takes an instinctive step away
from his dad, who stares back at him shamelessly. "You— You're actually
admitting it?" he splutters. "How? How the hell could you do something like
that?!"
"He deserved it," Gerard defends succinctly, as if that explains everything.
"Why?"
"Because he killed your sister," the older man replies. He slams his coffee
down on the countertop so hard that some of it splashes out, but he doesn't
seem to care. When he returns his eyes to his son's, they sparkle menacingly,
reminding Chris of the same look he'd seen in Kate's the few times they'd
worked together to take out werewolves she said posed a threat to human
society. "That boy deserves everything that's coming to him, as do the rest of
his friends..." Gerard continues vituperatively. "Mangy mutts, the lot of them,
and this town will be better off without them polluting it."
"God, do you hear yourself?!" Chris exclaims. "What's wrong with you?!"
"Werewolves are monsters, son. Every one of them."
"What about Allison? Is she a monster, too?"
"No, not yet," Gerard concedes. "But she will be. They all become monsters over
time. Best to take them all out before that ever happens."
Chris freezes, eyes wide with fear. "What are you planning?"
The eldest Argent counters with a question of his own, holding a calloused hand
to his stubbly chin. "I presume that your little disappearing act a couple of
hours ago was to go to young Mr. Stilinski's aid, yes? I noticed you took a box
of bullets with you. Did he end up killing anyone before you helped him?" he
enquires, his complete lack of emotion greatly unnerving his son. "No? Well,
that's unfortunate. I had planned for it to go further than that, for it to
result in at least one casualty, but, admittedly, my proficiency for potion-
making is a bit lacking. Ah, well... C'est la vie." He claps his hands loudly,
making Chris jump. "We thought of a contingency plan just in case our first
failed, so I suppose we'll just move on to that."
"We?" Chris narrows his eyes. "Who is ‘we'?"
"That would be your father and I," says a voice behind him.
He spins around and sees Victoria leaning arrogantly against the door frame.
"You?"
"Yes, me."
"But Allison... You'd kill your own daughter?"
"She's already dead, as far as I'm concerned," the redhead interrupts coldly.
Snapping his mouth closed, Chris' blue eyes harden as his wife enters the room,
hips swaying, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "C'mon, Chris, you know we're
right," she reasons, her voice low and almost seductive. "That pack's the
reason our child is now a monster. They're the reason your sister is dead,
murdered in cold blood. Help us."
"Kate was sick," Chris rebuts, looking down at Victoria with disgust written
clear on his face. He doesn't see the woman he married. "She was sick in the
head, and she stopped being my sister the moment I discovered the truth about
what she did. The Hale pack were innocent back then—for God's sake, there were
children in that house when she set the fire! Young children! We live by a
Code, or at least we're supposed to. Or have you forgotten that? The current
Hale pack are also innocent of any wrongdoing. The lives they've taken were to
save others and in self-defence, and as far as I'm concerned that doesn't break
any rule."
"Even if one of those lives was that of your own sister?" Gerard demands
angrily.
"Yes. She made her bed."
Gerard's sigh is lengthy. "I'm extremely disappointed in you, Chris," he says
sadly. "You've never possessed Kate's staunchness."
"I'm not your myrmidon like she was. I won't let you hurt them."
"And just how do you plan to stop us?" Victoria queries.
Gerard pulls a gun from the back of his jeans. "Don't worry, son," he assures
darkly, stepping toward the younger man, the butt of the gun raised. "It'll all
be over before you know it, and then you can reevaluate just where your
loyalties lie."
                                     * * *
- Monday, March 7th, 2011 -
Stiles wanders through the school halls and stifles a series of yawns. His last
class has just ended, and he wants nothing more than to return home and sleep
for at least the next three months. Last night was restful, Derek's arms around
him keeping at bay the nightmares he's sure would have assaulted him otherwise,
but one good night wasn't enough to make up for a whole week of bad ones. He
was almost tempted that morning to beg Melissa to let him stay home again, but
she'd already done that once recently. One of her conditions for his continued
involvement with Derek, his hunter training and the supernatural world in
general was that he not let his grades slip, and she hadn't been very impressed
when she discovered that Derek had stayed the night without permission, so he
hadn't wanted to push his luck.
After dropping Derek off by his Camaro, Stiles had arrived at school bright and
early with a cup of strong hot coffee in his hand. Lydia was the only one
waiting for him outside, and after a brief moment of awkwardness on both sides
they'd walked to his locker, then headed to their first classes. Now, they
journey back outside, discussing plans.
"You don't have detention today, right?" Stiles asks.
"No, Friday was my last day," Lydia replies, linking her arm through his.
"I still can't believe you punched Jackson."
"Well, he deserved it. Plus, I've gotta stick up for my best friend."
Stiles brings them to a halt and turns to her, his eyes wide. "Wait, I'm your
best friend?"
"Of course," Lydia responds, looking at him like he's slow.
"Wow..."
She rolls her eyes and gets them moving again. "I don't know why that's so
surprising," she says. "I've got Allison, sure, but she's too wrapped up in
Scott to count."
"I guess," Stiles acknowledges, allowing Lydia to steer him toward her fancy
car. He straps himself into the passenger seat and throws his backpack in the
back, where it lands beside Lydia's Chanel handbag. "It's just... It's still
weird to me that we're friends. Me, resident spaz, is best friends with Lydia
Martin, Queen Bee of Beacon Hills High? A couple of months ago this would've
just been a pipe dream, and now you're beating up my naysayers. S'one hell of a
head trip when you really think about it. By the way, where are we going?"
Lydia answers as she starts the engine. "To the library," she says, navigating
the car through the throng of other vehicles that are also leaving the
premises. "You're going to help me with something I started working on last
week—a bestiary, which Allison copied from her grandfather for me. It's in
archaic latin, though, which I can read but it's still been slow going. I
thought it would go faster with two people."
"Good idea. One problem, though: I can't read archaic latin."
"You'll learn."
"Won't trying to teach me just slow you down more?"
Lydia takes a moment to answer, her painted lips pursed as they idle at a red
light. "Perhaps, but maybe I just want to have you around for a while longer,"
she admits, once the light has turned green. She glances to her right and looks
at Stiles with so much worry that Stiles bites back the witty retort that was
on the tip of his tongue. "I'm not saying this to hurt you," the redhead
continues, "because I know it wasn't your fault, but last night scared me,
Stiles. It really scared me, even more than when Peter attacked me on the
lacrosse field. As I've already said, you're my best friend, so please try to
understand me when I say that I'm having trouble with the thought of letting
you out of my sight ever again. I only allowed it last night because I was sure
that Derek also wouldn't be letting you out of his sight for a while."
"Oh... I guess I can't really complain, then," Stiles says, letting Lydia have
her way.
"No, you can't," she says, giving him a shaky smile.
Both of them are subdued for the next couple of minutes, until they're close to
Beacon Hills' public library and Lydia suddenly stamps on the breaks. Stiles,
having not been paying attention to the road, jerks forward without time to
prepare himself, his seatbelt digging painfully into his shoulder. "Ow! What
the hell?" he groans, rolling his neck.
Lydia doesn't answer him.
She unbuckles her seatbelt, opens her door and leaps out, leaving Stiles
sitting there confused. He watches as she dashes around to the front of the
car, where he finally sees the cause for their unexpected stop. A man lies
facedown in the middle of the otherwise deserted road, presumably unconscious,
and he and Lydia would have run him over had it not been for her fast reflexes.
Stiles follows suit, getting out of the car and dropping to his knees beside
her and the strange man. Something about his white hair seems familiar.
"Is he breathing?" he asks Lydia.
"Yes." The girl gently rolls him onto his back.
"Mr. Argent?" Stiles gapes, looking down at Gerard's slack face. "How the hell
did he end up here?"
"I don't know, but call 911, would you? Just to be safe. I'll stay with him."
Running back to Lydia's car, Stiles wrenches open the back door and grabs his
backpack. His phone is where he'd left it in the front pocket, and after
unlocking it he quickly dials the number for emergency services and waits
impatiently for his call to go through. He hears three rings before he feels a
sharp prick in his neck and coldness spreading throughout his entire body. His
phone slips from his hand as weariness quickly overwhelms him, causing him to
stumble and land with a dull thud on the rough ground, right next to his
smashed phone. Blinking blearily, Stiles looks up and sees Victoria standing
above him, a sneer on her face and a syringe in her hand, empty now that
whatever soporific it had contained courses through his veins.
"Lydia..." he croaks, turning his head toward the girl and finding to his
despair that she is in a similar state. He can just make her out as she
twitches in Gerard's hold, the old hunter pushing down on the plunger of the
syringe he holds to her neck. His last sight before darkness overtakes him is
Lydia's eyes fluttering closed.
                                     * * *
Chris sits on the warehouse floor and silently fumes. Long, thick chains bind
his hands to the wall against his back, where he'd awoken an indeterminate
amount of time ago with a sizeable bump on his temple and a mean headache
rattling his brain. He'd quickly assessed the situation, looking for anything
with which he could free himself, and found to his trepidation that things
looked quite different from the last time he was there to set up Stiles'
escapism test. The boxes that had sat around the edges of the room were gone
and, auguries of horrors still to come, several more sets of restraints hung
from the ceiling, each of them corresponding to a small generator atop a long
table in the middle of the dimly lit room.
He was familiar enough with werewolf containment techniques to figure out what
all of this meant. Sure enough, soon after he'd first awoken—sometime in the
early morning, he'd deduced from the sunlight streaming in through the dirt-
encrusted windows—he heard a series of thumps and frustrated grumblings from
outside, before Gerard and Victoria came through the door with a couple of
unconscious betas:
Scott and Allison.
He wasn't above begging his relatives to stop what they were doing, but his
protestations fell on deaf ears. Scott and Allison were subsequently restrained
and hooked up to a generator each, which would prevent them from tapping into
their wolves and thus preclude any escape attempts. Both teenagers were
unconscious during the whole process and remain so now, hours and hours later.
Whatever drug Gerard and Victoria gave them must have been potent.
How Chris had remained ignorant for so long to his father's corrupt worldview,
the same view that was passed on to his sister, he couldn't and still struggles
to fathom. But, now that it's finally out in the open, he can see the signs
he'd missed over the years.
The timing of the Hale fire is the most glaring offence, a tragedy that he'd
written off as simple coincidence when it occurred. Truthfully, Chris had just
wanted his parochial beliefs to remain untested, too afraid to pull back the
curtain and accept that those he'd long thought of as the good guys were not
always so good and those he was taught were bad were not always bad. Other
offences are smaller, a conglomeration of brutal killings that were carried out
with more ardour than was strictly necessary.
Chris had dared to openly question his father's methods just once.
It was almost fifteen years ago, when, after his pack was wiped out, an omega
boy had terrorised the denizens of Lake Placid, New York. He maimed a couple of
twenty-somethings who were walking home from the movies one evening, the scent
of the leftover snacks they carried drawing him to them. The itinerant Argents
were close by at the time and were tasked with the cleanup. The omega was a
young thing, barely in his teens, who ululated for his deceased parents once he
was hanging defenceless in a rope trap and the grave reality of his situation
had finally set in. Chris had watched on with barely concealed revulsion as his
father used a broadsword to bisect the pubescent omega across the waist.
When he'd pointed out the inhumanity of this act while Gerard was cleaning his
weighty blade of blood, Gerard's response was venomous.
"They're werewolves, Chris, not humans," the eldest Argent had said,
preemptively putting an end to any further comments his son may have been
preparing. "They don't deserve humane. As my scion, you would do well to
remember that."
He did. Ever since that night he had worked quietly alongside his father
because, at least according to the Code that all hunters were supposed to
follow, all the werewolves they took care of had earned their deaths. Chris
would have of course preferred it if those deaths were less violent, but there
wasn't a legitimate complaint he could offer. However, now that he knows that
Gerard has gone after humans and innocent werewolves in the past and is doing
so again with pleasure, abrogating the Code, he sincerely regrets keeping his
silence.
More footsteps from outside catch Chris' attention.
It's the first thing he has heard in a while that isn't the low hum of the
generators still attached to Scott and Allison's bare stomachs, and it comes
accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground—a
body, Chris' mind supplies. Dread fills his chest and makes his heart beat
faster as the footsteps get closer, until the warehouse door bangs open and
they come lumbering through it.
"Got a few more to keep you company," Gerard pants.
Over his shoulder the white-haired man carries an unconscious Lydia, who he
lays down on the ground without care. Chris winces in sympathy when her head
smacks hard against the concrete. This happens a couple more times, his father
huffing and puffing with the exertion of it all as he carries in a tall boy
with light-brown curls whom Chris doesn't know and—to Chris' renewed
fury—Stiles. While Lydia is strung up next to Allison and attached to her own
generator, both boys get the same treatment he'd received the previous evening,
chained up against the wall on either side of him. Isaac stays propped up but
Stiles quickly slumps over sideways, his head coming to rest against Chris'
right hip.
"Not too many more now," Gerard grins, wiping his brow.
"What are you going to do with them?" Chris glares.
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that."
"That's not an answer."
"No, I don't suppose it is." Gerard laughs as he walks away. "Sit tight."
After the door is slammed shut, Chris turns his attention to the newest
addition to his prison and gently and methodically checks him over for any
clues or useful items he might possess. To his disappointment he discovers that
Stiles' pockets were either already empty at the time of his
capture—unlikely—or they were emptied after the fact by Gerard and
Victoria—extremely likely. The only thing of note that Chris discovers is the
tiny circle of red on the right side of Stiles' neck, the mark presumably left
over from when he was drugged.
With nothing else to do, Chris shifts a little bit closer and repositions them
until his protégé is propped up against his side, head on his shoulder.
"And now we wait..."
                                     * * *
Awareness returns to Stiles slowly, his mind lethargic as he battles the lure
of the darkness trying to keep him under. His body aches, particularly his
stiff neck and half-numb ass, and groans quietly as he tries to open eyes that
feel like they've been taped shut. Once he finds success, for the first few
seconds he peers through slits, his eyebrows meeting in confusion because
everything around him is too blurred to be recognisable. The last memory Stiles
has is of he and Lydia leaving school, which doesn't really give him any clues,
so he opens his eyes wider and blinks several times to clear his vision. When
things swim into focus, he realises just what the three strange vertical shapes
a few feet away from him are.
"Oh my God..." he breathes.
"Stiles? Are you alright?" comes a concerned voice.
Looking to his left, Stiles' perturbation is exacerbated when he sees Chris
sitting right next to him. The shackles around the hunter's wrists clue him in
to his own imprisonment, and he has a few moments of panic in which he tries to
extricate himself before Chris' hands cover his in an attempt to calm him down.
"What's going on?" Stiles enquires timorously.
"My dad and Victoria have captured us," Chris replies shamefully.
Images of Gerard lying in the road play before Stiles' eyes. "But...why?!"
"For Kate."
Stiles listens as Chris explains all he had learned the night before and, by
the end, is vexed. "But...won't people notice us going missing and come looking
for us?" he points out, the desperation he feels bringing out his loquacious
nature in full force. "I mean, we have families! When Scott or Lydia don't come
home, their parents aren't just going to brush it off. The cops'll get involved
because of Parrish and Isaac and they'll start sniffing around because they
know we're all friends. And then there's Derek. He'll definitely come looking
for me, especially after the whole thing with the hallucinations. Kidnapping us
all sounds like a pretty fucking stupid thing to do to me. Why not just put a
bullet in our heads if what your insane dad wants is vengeance?"
"Because that would be too merciful for you."
Jumping in surprise, Chris and Stiles whip their heads around to find Gerard
and Victoria entering the warehouse. Gerard stares speculatively at Stiles, his
head tilted to the side as if he's trying to solve a particularly difficult
puzzle. After a while he uncrosses his arms from over his chest and steps
closer.
Stiles shies away when the eldest Argent crouches down in front of him.
"Well, this is unexpected," Gerard says, still staring. "The sedative I gave
you should've kept you out for at least another couple of hours. Strange..."
"Screw off," Stiles bites out.
Gerard chuckles, his expression turning dark right before he backhands Stiles
hard across the face. "Such insolence," he drawls. "I'm going to enjoy beating
it out of you. But, before we get to that, I have some other stuff planned.
Now, you were wondering what the purpose of all this was right before Victoria
and I arrived, correct? Would you care for me to enlighten you? Yes? Good. We
still have a few outliers to gather, but I think we can get started without
them." Gerard checks the watch around his wrist and moves to stand in front of
Allison's limp form. "Barring any more surprises and if my calculations were
correct, this one should be just about ready to wake up. Victoria?"
The short-haired woman waltzes to the generator to which her daughter is
attached and turns its dial, the low hum it produces getting louder as the
voltage increases. Allison shudders as the electricity courses through her and
brings her out of her drug-induced slumber.
"What the—" she gasps.
"How nice of you to join us," Gerard greets.
"Grandpa? What's going on?" Allison cries, struggling torpidly.
"Ask Mr. Stilinski. He's the reason we're here, after all."
"W-what?"
"You see," Gerard explains, turning back to Stiles, "had it not been for you, I
would've just killed everyone in your sorry pack and been done with it, like
you suggested. But, as I said, that's far too lenient... So, I'm going to
torture each and every one of your little friends while you watch, knowing all
the while that it's your fault. Kate warned you of that, right? Then, after a
few days, when I've eventually killed them all, I'll move on to you."
"Shall we begin?" Victoria asks, snatching back Gerard's attention.
"Yes, I think we shall. Do it."
Victoria cranks the generator dial to the max and watches without remorse as
Allison throws her head back and screams.
***** Never Underestimate Your Enemy *****
"I think we'll give that one a break for now," Gerard tells Victoria with a
wave of his hand, never taking his eyes off of Stiles. He stands vaingloriously
with his arms crossed a few feet away from the three hanging betas, the cruel,
ever-present smirk on his chapped lips only getting more prominent when Stiles
glares up at him briefly.
Victoria obediently turns the dial on Lydia's generator, bringing the
electrical current back down to a level that's merely enervating instead of
torturous. This has been going on for about an hour now, Stiles guesses, the
two sadistic Argents alternating their focus between Lydia, Allison and Scott
and forcing Stiles to watch as they twitch and scream under the onslaught of
the increased voltage. Lydia pants and whimpers pathetically where she hangs,
her eyes scrunched up and blood tricking out of the corner of her mouth from
where she'd bitten her tongue a few minutes ago. Gerard walks over to her and
pats her almost consolingly on the cheek.
"Buck up, dear," he drawls. "You've still got a long road ahead of you yet."
"F-f-fuck...you..." Lydia stammers.
"Such bad manners," Gerard chuckles. "No matter. I'm afraid I have to step out
for a bit, so I'll be leaving you all in Victoria's capable hands."
The white-haired man shuts the door behind him with a loud bang that echoes
around the cavernous room. It's enough to finally rouse Isaac, the tall boy's
entire body jolting and his eyes snapping open wide to take in his
surroundings. His breathing gets faster when he sees the state of Lydia,
Allison and Scott, to the point where Stiles—being no stranger to them
himself—fears that the other boy is perilously close to suffering a panic
attack. Before that can happen, Stiles leans closer and extends his arm past
Chris, who obligingly presses his back to the wall to give him space.
"Isaac!" Stiles calls. "Look at me."
"What's going on?" Isaac demands, warily eyeing Stiles' hand. "Where am I?!"
"Shh, you're OK. Everything's gonna be OK, I promise."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Victoria interjects, her red heels clacking
on the concrete as she walks closer and comes to a stop a foot from Stiles. In
her hands she plays with a long dagger, the silver metal shiny and serrated.
"Perhaps you've forgotten, but you're not really in a position to promise
anything." She brushes the tip of her dagger across the manacles around Stiles'
wrists, causing him to jerk back defensively. "And even if you were free—say,
if I were to unchain you right now—do you really think you could take me?
You've only been learning how to fight for a few paltry weeks. I've been
training almost my entire life. There's a reason that the women in this family
are the ones in charge, y'know. Allison would've taken my place eventually but,
since that's not an option anymore, I'm still the matriarch. Lucky me."
"Power trip, much?" Stiles snarks.
Victoria smirks. "Funny. I can see why my husband's taken such a shine to you.
You had potential. It's just a shame you chose the wrong side."
"What are you all talking about?" Isaac cries dolorously.
Victoria's sigh is long-suffering. "Werewolves, dear. Keep up."
"Werewolves...? You guys are crazy!"
"I know one of us is," Stiles says quietly, but not quietly enough.
Victoria still hears him. With a laugh she walks back over to the table with
the generators and picks up a small keyring, from which she plucks a single
silver key. "I think you need to be taught a lesson, Mr. Stilinski," she says,
slipping off her high heels and padding back over to him on bare feet. In his
lap she drops the key. "I've a proposition for you, one I don't feel bad giving
you because I'm, and I quote, ‘power tripping'. We'll put a moratorium on
torturing your wolves, you unlock your restraints, and you can show me what
Chris has taught you. You beat me, and you can release everyone else and you
can all go off scot-free. Sound reasonable?"
Stiles stares suspiciously at her smug face for a few seconds, weighing his
odds. He knows it's unlikely that he'll defeat Victoria—in fact, he'd even go
so far as to say nigh impossible—but, after glancing behind her at the
etiolated Lydia and Allison, he still has to try. Determined, Stiles picks up
the key and unlocks one of the manacles around his wrists.
"Stiles, don't," Chris entreaties. "You can't win."
"Probably not," Stiles agrees.
Victoria shakes her head disparagingly. "Don't worry, Chris. I won't kill him.
Yet."
"Don't do this, Victoria," the icy-eyed hunter warns.
"Or else?"
"Or else I'll kill you myself."
The woman seems for a moment taken aback, but then she collects herself and
regards her husband with a frosty gaze of her own. "You would really turn on
your own wife like that, after all I've done for you, all I've given to this
marriage?" she asks, crouching down to eye level and resting her dagger across
her knees.
"You have the audacity to accuse me of turning on family?" Chris utters
disbelievingly. He leans forward until their faces are mere inches apart,
pearly white teeth bared. Stiles has never seen the man so riled up, not even
when Chris cornered him at the hospital on the night of Peter's demise. He
doesn't blame the man, though, and listens closely as more scathing words pour
from his snarling mouth: "You're not my wife," he rebukes. "The woman I married
would have never subjected innocent children, least of all her own daughter, to
the atrocities you have tonight. I don't even recognise you. If you honestly
thought for even a second that we could ever go back to how things were after
tonight, you're delusional."
"That's disappointing..." Victoria admits, looking sadly at her husband. "Your
dad tried to tell me that this would happen, but I'd been hoping that you could
come around, that you'd see reason if I just gave you enough time and proved to
you that we're dealing with nothing but degenerate animals. But I guess that
was just a fool's dream, wasn't it?" She sighs deeply before her face smooths
out again with startlingly quick acceptance. Her hand tightens around the hilt
of the dagger, cluing Stiles in to what's about to happen.
"I'll mourn you," Victoria avows.
"Hey!" Stiles yells, grabbing her wrist.
"What?!"
"We were going to fight, remember? Or are you backing out?"
Victoria shakes her head, clearly amused at Stiles' foolhardy brazenness. "If
you insist. Since you seem so eager to die first, I suppose I can oblige," she
relents, backing away from Chris. Both males breath sighs of relief. "Just
hurry up and unlock yourself before I run out of patience and change my mind."
Stiles complies, sticking the key Victoria had given him into the other manacle
and pushing himself up against the wall. The metal falls to the ground with a
soft clanging sound. His ass is numb and his legs ache from being sat on the
hard floor for so long, but he doesn't really have the time to allow his body
to recover because, immediately after he pushes himself away from the wall,
Victoria starts circling him with her dagger raised menacingly. "Don't I get a
weapon or something?" he chirps nervously, moving in a circle with her in order
to keep the same amount of distance between them. "I mean, you just said it
yourself that you're not worried about me beating you, so...what've you got to
lose by the levelling the playing field a bit?"
"Fine," Victoria accedes, waving disdainfully toward the table. "There should
be another knife somewhere in there. You can use that and nothing else."
Hurrying over to the table, beneath it Stiles finds a duffel bag filled to the
brim with what look like various torture implements. The thought of what all of
it could be used for makes him feel a bit queasy. As promised, near the top of
the pile Stiles finds the twin of the dagger Victoria still brandishes and
snaps it up before turning to face her once more. His confidence is still
abysmally low but, he tells himself, at least the chance of him being stabbed
in the heart in a mere few seconds is now less than a hundred percent.
"You finally ready?" Victoria enquires.
"As I'll ever be."
"Good."
Without any further warning, the redhead lunges forward, her dagger poised to
strike. Yelping, Stiles leaps to his left, swapping their initial positions,
and tries to block out everything else but his opponent. It's tricky, because
Chris is still pleading with his wife to reconsider and the sound of sobbing is
loud in the capacious warehouse, emanating from where Isaac sits curled up in a
lachrymose heap with Chris' arm around his shoulders.
Victoria leaps at Stiles a second time, catching him off-guard again. She
doesn't have a tell, at least not one that he can see, so he flails to try to
block her attack, metal hitting metal as the blades of their weapons clash. His
grip loosens around the hilt with the impact, which, as he fumbles to right it,
gives Victoria the opening she needs to land her first hit. With a gasp Stiles
feels the sharp edge of her dagger cut into the flesh of his bare bicep. Blood
pours from the fresh wound, painting his forearm in red as Victoria retreats,
straight teeth bared in a wicked grin, and allows him to regroup.
"Give up yet?" she taunts, delectation clear in her countenance.
Stiles takes a breath and shakes off the stinging pain. "Not a chance."
                                     * * *
Derek arrives at the McCalls' that evening to find it completely empty. While
this ordinarily wouldn't be cause for concern—after all, Stiles could've just
gone out for dinner with Melissa and Scott or something—Derek still feels a
deep sense of disquiet as he stares up at the house's empty black windows.
Throughout the day he had texted Stiles, to reassure himself that Stiles was
fine more than anything, and to every single message he'd received a swift
reply, even if Stiles was in class. Then, midway through the afternoon the
replies had stopped.
So, yes, Derek is concerned.
Looking inside of himself, he clutches onto his pack bonds, a nexus that
connects him to every single member of his pack like a spiderweb, and frowns.
They're still a relatively new and fractious bunch, meaning that each of his
connections to his betas is thin and fragile at best, Scott's even more so.
Over time these connections will grow stronger, until eventually they'll be
cemented and Derek will almost be able to feel their emotions if he desires,
even with the humans. As it is, the most he can determine is that something is
very wrong with them. He feels a sort of muted pain that stirs a recent memory
within him, a memory of Kate and the room beneath his old house, and that's
when he knows for sure that something is very, very wrong.
Walking quickly back to his car, Derek tries to get in touch with the other
members of his pack, hoping that at least one of them will be in a position to
tell him what's going on and allay some of his concerns. It has the opposite
effect, though, his worry only strengthening instead of attenuating when only
Erica and Boyd respond to him. They haven't seen Stiles or anyone else in the
pack since school ended, they say, so Derek requests that they be on standby
should he require their assistance getting to the bottom of whatever is causing
his betas pain. Deaton did warn him that whoever had poisoned Stiles may make a
second attempt at destroying him, and by extension the pack, and it's with this
theory in mind that he drives to the Argents', breaking every speed limit and
not giving a single damn.
The living room light is on when Derek arrives, so he hops out of the Camaro,
strides up the front path and bangs on the front door. From within he hears
muttered curses and muffled footsteps, before the door swings open and Gerard
looks at him suspiciously, his wrinkled face half in shadow. "Ah, Mr. Hale.
What brings you round here at this time of night?" he questions, his tone
impatient.
"I think something's wrong."
Gerard looks him up and down and then steps aside. "Would you care to come in?"
Derek walks through the threshold and doesn't waste any more time. "I think
something bad has happened to my betas. Where's Chris?"
"He's...indisposed, I'm afraid. Errands, you know."
"Fine," Derek sighs frustratedly. "You can help me instead."
"Of course. What do you need?"
"You know about what happened to Stiles yesterday, right?"
Gerard nods.
"Good... Well, I think that whoever did that to him is making their next move."
"What makes you think that?"
Derek paces back and forth, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I
haven't heard from anyone but Erica and Boyd since the middle of the
afternoon," he details, wincing when he feels a bright surge of pain come
through his and Stiles' fledgling pack bond. "That's not like them, especially
Stiles and Lydia. He always gets back to me within a few minutes and she's
never without her phone, and when I went over to check on him I found the house
completely empty. I can feel that something is wrong. I need to find them..."
Gerard frowns in concern. "Just tell me what you need me to do."
"Can you help me look for them?" Derek requests, pulling out his phone again.
"Maybe bring some weapons with you—I don't know what we're going to be walking
into, so better safe than sorry. I'm gonna try and get in touch with Chris, see
if he can help as well."
With a nod Gerard leaves the foyer.
On his way past, Derek gets a whiff of something that halts his thumbs as they
type. He takes another deep breath through his nose and barely suppresses a
growl when his suspicions are confirmed and he picks up a trace of Stiles'
scent in the air. It's reasonably fresh, and it came from Gerard. Everything
seems to fall into place with this new discovery—how could he have been so
blind? Deaton said that whoever poisoned Stiles did it for vengeance, and who
better to seek vengeance than a grieving father? It explains why Stiles had
hallucinated Kate. His body tensing, Derek erases what he'd typed out so far
and replaces it with a warning before hitting Send.
In the next second Gerard is back, a duffel bag slung casually over his
shoulder. Derek forces himself to put back on his worried-alpha facade. It
wouldn't do anyone any good if he were to reveal that he knows what Gerard is
up to, so, as they exit the house and walk to their vehicles, Derek makes a
plan to tail the hunter, hoping that he'll be lead right to wherever his pack
is being kept.
                                     * * *
"Is that seriously all you've got?" Victoria laughs.
She easily dodges out of the way of one of Stiles' attacks. They've been at it
for a couple of minutes now, one of them advancing while the other retreats,
and while Stiles has yet to get close to striking her like he wants, Victoria
has sliced into him several more times. The skin of his arms is a mess of
sticky blood and he has a particularly nasty cut on his left side, whereas
Victoria doesn't even have so much as a scratch on her, no matter how hard
Stiles tries. "Really, Chris," the woman continues, feinting left, "I thought
you'd at least taught him something."
Distracted by Victoria's words, Stiles falls for the feint and ends up with
another cut along his ribs. He isn't given time to recover, because the redhead
is on him in the next second, pushing him down to the ground. His dagger
clatters away across the concrete, a long way out of reach. Victoria quickly
straddles him and holds her weapon to his throat with a malicious grin. Much
like with Lydia, Stiles is unable to buck the murderous Argent off, though it's
not because of werewolf strength but blood loss. All he can do is look up at
her.
"I told you that you couldn't win against me," Victoria smirks. "You should've
listened."
Stiles spits in her face.
Outraged, Victoria presses the dagger down harder until Stiles feels warmth
trickle from his neck, sharp metal slicing into vulnerable skin.
"I wouldn't expect you to accept defeat graciously," she sneers.
Stiles just tries not to breathe.
"This whole thing has been about getting revenge for what you did to Kate, as
you know," the huntress goes on. For a short while she stares disdainfully down
at Stiles' fearful face, before removing the knife from his throat and moving
it to hover right above his eyes. "Because of this, I think it's only fitting
that I kill you in the same way you killed her."
Stiles scrunches his eyes shut.
"No!" Chris screams.
A few seconds pass, during which Stiles waits for the inevitable end, for the
blackness to envelop him whole. He wonders what will be waiting on the other
side, whether his mother will be there with her arms open wide for him or if
he'll simple cease to exist. Only, the end doesn't come. More seconds tick by,
so, curious now instead of grimly accepting, Stiles opens his eyes a crack and
sees the dagger is still ready to strike above him, but it doesn't come any
closer. Victoria is still in the same position, too, but her arm shakes with
exertion and her face is twisted with confusion and alarm, her painted lips
open in a perfect O. The air seems to stand still until she releases a sound of
distress.
"What— What's going on? What are you?!" she barks, tremors in her voice.
It's then that Stiles registers the buzzing in his head and the strange
sensation of warmth in his chest. The unfamiliar feeling should unnerve him
but, oddly enough, it just feels right. He doesn't know what he's doing or how
he's doing it—he just is. He's holding Victoria securely in place with an
arcane, unmovable force that springs from the warmth in his chest, a force that
he latches on to without thinking about it. He tests its bounds, pushes with
it, and feels amazement when it obeys him, the dagger getting further and
further away from his face until it flies from Victoria's grasp. The sound of
it hitting the warehouse wall is muted, because all of Stiles' attention is
focused on forcing Victoria to climb off of him.
She does so with eyes so frightened that Stiles feels a vindictive sense of
pleasure, as he drags himself out from beneath her and stumbles to his feet.
Sensing instinctively that he won't be able to keep Victoria under his control
for much longer, he quickly walks over to the table, switches off all the
generators and grabs the keyring that Victoria left there in her hubris.
"What the hell was that?" Chris gapes.
The buzzing in his head intensifying, Stiles makes his way over to where the
hunter and Isaac remain chained up against the wall and sinks to his knees in
front of them. He doesn't respond to Chris' query because he doesn't have an
answer to give. All he knows is it felt right and that not one of them has the
luxury of time to dwell on this new emergence—Gerard will be back soon, after
all. With that in mind, Stiles attempts to pick out the right keys but finds
his hands are shaking too much and his vision is slightly blurred around the
edges. When he almost drops the keyring, Chris reaches out and gently takes it
from him.
"I've got it," he says. "You just keep doing whatever it is you're doing."
Acquiescing, Stiles returns his focus to Victoria, who remains with her feet
glued to the floor. Her whole body seems to be vibrating with anger now, the
surprise of whatever Stiles has done to her having worn off. The warmth in
Stiles' chest begins pulsing urgently, like it's trying to warn him that it
won't be there much longer. He turns to relay this to Chris and is relieved to
find that the hunter has one of his shackles off and is already working on the
other.
"We don't have long," Stiles says anyway.
"Almost done..." Chris responds.
With a final twist of the key, the second shackle falls from Chris' wrist right
as the hold Stiles has on Victoria is about to fail. The hunter leaps up and
storms over to his wife, who glowers at him defiantly. He doesn't say a word,
just grabs her arm and drags her over to where he was just sitting. "You can
stay there until the cops come for you," he growls as he locks her up. "See how
you like it."
"Kinky," is all Victoria says in response.
"What now?" Stiles asks once it's done and Chris helps him up from the floor.
"Now we get everyone out of here before—"
Before Chris can finish his sentence there comes the sound of a car door
slamming right outside.
                                     * * *
Just as Derek had suspected, Gerard doesn't search for the missing members of
the pack. Derek has no real experience being a tail, so it's tough to know just
how much space he should leave between their vehicles. It's touch and go the
whole way, with Derek almost losing sight of the eldest Argent's Land Rover a
couple of times when he errs too much on the side of caution and allows the 4x4
to creep a bit further away. But Derek always manages to spot it again before
it's too late.
Gerard heads toward a series of warehouses on the outskirts of Beacon Hills,
not too far away from the loft. Derek leaves his car a good distance from them
and journeys the rest of the way on foot, aiming for stealth. His instincts,
which have only lead him wrong a few crucial times in the past, tell him that
the element of surprise may be essential to overcoming whatever Gerard has in
store. Stars twinkle in the black sky and the night air makes the hair of the
back of Derek's neck stand on end as he follows his ears down the wide alleyway
between two of the warehouses. The lack of light conflates with it all to
create an eldritch atmosphere.
From within the warehouse against which he is pressed, Derek can pick up the
panicked talking of several voices and the acrid stench of blood. He can't tell
to whom the blood belongs but knows with certainty that it's fresh. It has him
moving faster, his nose scrunched up under its coppery assault. He slinks
further along the side of the warehouse until he reaches the mouth of the
alleyway, at which point he pauses, takes a breath and peeks his head out.
Gerard's Land Rover is parked a short distance away from what looks like the
entrance to the warehouse, cast in a circle of dim yellow light that shines
from an old cobweb-covered bulb above the door. The hunter himself searches for
something in the back of the vehicle, facing away from Derek's position as he
grumbles to himself in a low, gravelly voice. It's the perfect chance to get
the jump on him, but Derek chooses instead to sneak past him, sending a prayer
to whoever is watching over him that he'll be able to slip through the
warehouse's partially open door without it wailing and announcing his presence.
What he finds inside nearly stops his heart.
***** The Hunter and the Wolf *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Derek isn't sure what he expected to see once he finally tracked down his pack,
but it wasn't this. In all honesty he'd been praying that he was wrong, that
Stiles' scent being so fresh on Gerard's person had an innocent explanation.
Apparently that was just wishful thinking. His gapes, horrified, as he takes in
the sight before him, of his betas hung up like racks of meat in an abattoir.
Of Isaac, an outsider in all of this craziness who has already been through too
much for his age, crying quietly where he's slumped against the wall, shackles
thick and heavy around his wrists. Of Stiles half hidden behind Chris, his eyes
tired and the upper half of his body cut up and slathered in an alarming amount
of his own blood. He'd hoped that the copper he could smell from outside didn't
come from a member of his pack, and he has trouble drawing air into his lungs
following the discovery that, of course, it came from the one most important to
him.
Derek's feet carry him forward seemingly of their own accord, until he stands
right in front of Stiles with his hands on Stiles' tense shoulders. He looks
the boy over more closely and breathes a tiny sigh of relief when he sees that
none of Stiles' cuts are quite as bad as he'd feared—in fact, they've all
stopped bleeding and are starting to scab over. Still, it's distressing to see
him hurt, and he has no qualms about carefully pulling him into his arms.
"What happened?” he demands, turning to Chris.
The hunter looks contrite. "Well...”
He pauses for a second too long. Derek tenses up, preparing to ask him again in
an even less pleasant manner, when Stiles answers the question instead, his
voice muffled because his face is pressed into the black leather covering
Derek's shoulder.
"Victoria got creative with a knife,” Stiles mumbles, stepping back. "S'fine.”
Derek reluctantly releases him and turns red eyes on the woman in question.
"You!” he growls, stepping toward her with lethal intent. He doesn't make it
more than a couple of steps before Stiles latches onto his wrist, preventing
him from ripping out Victoria's throat. Looking back over his shoulder, Derek
relents when he sees the expression on Stiles' face, silently pleading with him
to avoid any more bloodshed. Aware that Victoria is sneering at him, he shoves
his wolf back, his claws retracting, and returns to Stiles' side.
"How'd you find us?” the boy asks, pulling him further away.
"I followed Gerard,” Derek replies.
Stiles' eyes widen. "He's here?”
"Yes, I am.”
Gerard stands in the doorway, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. His
eyes travel unnervingly over everyone, lingering on Stiles before landing on
Victoria. "I see you didn't do your job properly,” he says, one eyebrow raised
in a clear display of disapproval. He powers on when she splutters and tries to
defend herself. "It seems I'll have to finish this by myself.”
Grinning, Gerard steps backward and unclenches his hands, releasing from them a
silvery-grey powder that Derek instantly recognises. He hadn't noticed them as
he'd entered the warehouse because he was so focused on remaining stealthy, but
now Derek sees that on both sides of the door, the only way in or out of the
building, are two incomplete lines of mountain ash. The visual causes a
repressed memory to stir in the back of Derek's mind, something he hasn't
allowed himself to think about properly in a long time, but he ignores it. A
gasp to his left tells him that Chris has also figured out what the lines mean,
lines that are completed with the ash that Gerard drops. He watches as the
blue-eyed hunter runs forward to try and stop his father from locking the
doors, too, but he doesn't make it in time. The loud metallic clang of the
doors slamming shut is quickly followed by an ominous locking sound.
"Hey! You can't just leave me in here!” Victoria screams as Chris bangs on the
doors, her pale skin taking on an ashen hue as she claws at her shackles.
"Why?” Stiles asks her. "What's he planning?”
"I'm not telling you!”
"Fine. Stay locked up for all I care.”
Derek takes command of the situation and drags Stiles away from the struggling
woman. After making sure he's up to it, he tasks the boy with freeing Isaac and
the betas from their restraints, while he goes over to where Chris is still
banging on the door and shouting for Gerard to let them out. "Chris!” he barks,
grabbing his shoulder. "It's not going to budge, so give it a rest. All you're
doing is expending energy that will be needed later.”
The hunter looks like he wants to argue, but after hitting the door with his
fist a final time he capitulates. "Fine... What do you propose we do instead? I
have no idea what my father is planning and I doubt that Victoria will tell us,
either, even under duress. Not with the training we've all been through.”
"You're right about that,” Derek hears Victoria mutter between panted breaths.
He's about to suggest that they assist Stiles until they can think of another
way out when he smells something that gives him pause. Ignoring the baffled
look Chris sends his way, Derek steps closer to the door and sniffs the air a
few times, trying to decipher just what it is. It takes him a little while, but
when he's finally able to put a name to the strange scent invading his
nostrils, he gasps and takes an aborted step backward, bumping right into
Chris. Adrenaline spiking and coursing through his veins, he doesn't apologise,
just breathes out a quiet, "Oh my God...” that has Chris frowning in confusion
and laying a hand on his arm to get his attention.
"Derek?” the hunter calls urgently, spinning him around. "What's going on?”
"Gas...” is Derek's choked response. "I smell gas.”
"Oh my God,” Chris gasps, echoing Derek. "He intends to burn us to death?!”
Derek can hear the older man walking away from him and doling out commands, but
everything sounds muffled, like he's standing on the opposite side of a well-
insulated window. Someone is calling his name but he can't focus on anything
but the memories that finally break free to assault and overwhelm him, clogging
up his nose with the phantom smells of smoke and burning flesh. He's sixteen
again, staring in disbelief at the conflagration that destroyed everything he
had ever known. He recalls the sensation of flames licking his skin as he tried
to get into the house to save the members of his family who were still inside.
He recalls the bone-chilling horror he'd felt when he discovered that the house
was surrounded by mountain ash, making his efforts for naught. He recalls Laura
hauling him back from the fire when he kept trying to get in anyway, tears
streaming down their cheeks. He recalls that the last time he'd heard his
little sister's voice was when she was screaming.
He keeps falling into a bottomless pit of self-aggrandising panic, until pain
blossoms across his cheek and brings him back inside the warehouse. Blinking,
Derek finds Stiles standing in front of him, shaking one of his shoulders while
he cradles his other hand close to his chest. With a faint sense of surprise he
surmises that Stiles must have punched him. Under ordinary circumstances this
would upset him, but all he can feel is gratitude, his memories of the fire
returning to fester in the back of his mind where they belong.
"Derek, c'mon, get ahold of yourself!” Stiles implores desperately.
"I'm— I'm fine,” Derek stammers.
"Good, because we need to find a way out of here, like, yesterday.”
Stiles' hand slides down Derek's arm and curls around his wrist. He allows
himself to be dragged along and is greeted in the middle of the room by his
betas, all of them awake now and standing in a huddle with Chris and Isaac. All
of the teenagers look terrified, and Derek can tell that Chris is the same but
is doing his best to hide it. Taking in the rest of the scene, he notes that
the previously frigid air inside the warehouse has started to heat up and that
a faint orange glow can be seen through the high windows, flickering ominously.
Already it's harder to breathe, although that may just be the lingering panic
of Derek's memories.
"How're we gonna get out of here?” Scott asks from where he and Allison lean
against each other for support.
Chris bites his lip. "I don't know...”
Derek looks around again. Flames have started to slither their way beneath the
door, climbing like snakes' tongues up the rusty metal, and smoke pours inside
through the smashed windows, leading Derek to conclude that, if they don't burn
to death, smoke inhalation will be what kills them. They're running out of
time. Going through their options, Derek spots the table, but standing on it
wouldn't enable even Isaac, the tallest of them all, to reach the windows. And
even if it did, there would still be the issue of falling approximately fifteen
feet to the hard ground on the other side. The walls, maybe. They're thick, all
constructed from large bricks, sturdy things that won't break easily, but,
looking down at his hands, Derek suspects that he might just be able to manage
it. He doesn't quite have a handle yet on the limits of the strength his alpha
status gives him—he hasn't really tested it at all, in fact—but he remembers
seeing his mother accomplish extraordinary feats. And, loath as he is to admit
it, Peter was the same.
Without a word, Derek leaves the now-bickering group and walks to the back
wall, another set of footsteps telling him that Stiles is shadowing him. Slowly
he runs his fingers along the wall, searching for any weaknesses he can exploit
to make this easier. The corner of his mouth curls up when he finds a couple of
bricks that seem loose near the centre.
"What're you doing?” Stiles asks quietly.
"Getting us out of here.”
"How?”
Derek sends the boy a reassuring smile. "Just trust me.”
Stiles frowns but nods. "I'll always trust you.”
After instructing Stiles to give him some space, Derek takes a deep breath,
shifts into his beta form, and curls his right hand into a fist. Bracing
himself for the pain, he begins punching the bricks as hard as he can. The
warehouse is otherwise silent, his quarrelsome pack ceasing their petty arguing
in order to observe him as he tries with all of his strength to create a way to
save them. Even with the loose bricks it's not easy—the skin of his knuckles is
torn off with the first punch, and on another Derek winces when he feels one of
his fingers dislocate.
Still, he perseveres.
On and on it goes, the whole warehouse shaking with every punch. When the first
few bricks fall, Derek grins triumphantly through the pain and keeps going,
until he has created a sizeable hole through which everyone should be able to
exit. Dust hovers in the air, as troublesome as the smoke, so Derek holds his
uninjured hand over his nose and mouth to prevent any more of the stuff from
entering his lungs. He coughs as gentle hands lead him somewhere, away from the
rubble that was once a wall but still distanced from the pack, before they
carefully take hold of his own bloodied and skinned hand to examine it closely.
The bones of his knuckles are clearly visible but he's already healing, the
thin skin that normally covers them returning.
Stiles' frown is deep. "You're an idiot...”
"Yeah, well—" Derek tries to respond, only to be interrupted by another
coughing fit that makes Stiles' frown more prominent. "Got the job done, didn't
I?” he finishes when recovered.
"True. But still. Idiot.”
"It's fine. It'll heal quickly.”
Stiles shakes his head and sighs. "D'you need help setting your fingers?”
"Nah, I got it.”
Giving himself no time to think about it, Derek pops his dislocated fingers
back into place with a series of grunts. "There. All better,” he assures,
indulging Stiles when the boy double-checks. Once satisfied, Stiles drops his
hand and turns his head to look at the hole in the wall, reminding Derek of the
perilous situation in which they are still very much entrenched. The hole is
dark and menacing-looking, with warm light flickering around its edges where
flames try to find their way inside. Luckily, though, what's left of the bricks
Derek displaced creates a useable path through the fire. Only one problem
remains:
"Gerard would've heard you doing that,” Stiles points out. "He's probably
waiting.”
Derek listens. He can't hear anything from outside apart from the signature
crackling of fire, but that doesn't mean Stiles isn't right. Gerard could very
well be lurking right outside, ready to shoot the first person who leaves the
warehouse through its new exit. Derek doesn't want to be that person, and, if
he has any say in the matter, Stiles definitely won't be.
"How do we do this?” Lydia asks as she approaches, arms curled around herself.
"Let's send her first,” Stiles suggests.
For a moment, Derek thinks that Stiles means Lydia and is shocked, but then he
sees where Stiles' finger is pointing.
"Good idea,” he agrees.
Once Chris has been apprised of and brought on board, he ignores Victoria's
vehement protests, frees her from her shackles, and pushes her in the direction
of the hole, the dagger she had used against Stiles pointed at her back as a
warning to not try anything. Once everyone is as ready as they can be, Derek
with his arm curled protectively around Stiles' shoulders and the betas and a
shellshocked Isaac sticking close together, Chris takes point. He uses his wife
as a human shield as the ragtag group makes their way outside of the warehouse,
clean air filling their grateful lungs. No one feels like celebrating their
newfound freedom, though. They stay huddled together as they venture
tentatively down the wide alleyway, every one of them maintaining a wide berth
from the flames as they keep their eyes open for the eldest Argent. When they
reach the mouth of the alley, Chris brings them to a halt. Gerard's Land Rover
is still there, sitting inoffensively inside the circle of light, but the man
himself is nowhere to be found.
"Where is he?” Chris asks under his breath.
"Right here.”
The group jolts collectively in surprise at the unexpected voice. Derek whips
his head around in search of its owner and finds him standing on top of the
warehouse, a hunting rifle in his hands. He wonders briefly how on earth Gerard
got up there, but then his eyes land on several piles of large crates that are
stacked up at varying heights against the wall, giving him his answer.
Before the group can disperse, Gerard aims the rifle and fires with a deafening
bang. Instinctively, Derek covers Stiles' body with his own, but he needn't
have bothered.
This particular bullet wasn't meant for either of them.
No.
Instead, it pierces through Victoria's neck and sends her crumpling to the
floor, where she writhes and chokes on her own blood before going still. Almost
as if someone has pressed Play on a paused movie, the group splits apart, all
of them running in different directions as fast as their weary legs can carry
them. Derek, Stiles and Chris are the only ones who don't scarper. The hunter
is too stunned by the sight of his wife's dead body to react to anything else;
Stiles seems too tired to move—blood loss, Derek suspects—and Derek doesn't
want to leave him. The alpha glares up at Gerard, who just laughs cruelly and
loads another bullet in the chamber of his rifle, apparently content to
participate in some target practice.
"Aren't you going to run, Mr. Hale?” Gerard asks mockingly.
Derek just bares his fangs.
The eldest Argent's smirk widens into a toothy grin as he aims the barrel of
the rifle right at the younger man. "You might want to reconsider.”
Preempting the bullet, Derek yanks on Stiles' arm and gets them moving, hoping
that Chris will be able to fend for himself because Stiles takes priority. He
hears laughter behind them as they dash down the alley, followed by the heavy
thuds of shoes hitting wood as Gerard jumps down from his vantage point. Derek
doesn't spare time to look back, just keeps moving until they turn the corner
and he pushes Stiles ahead of him. "Find someplace to hide. Fast,” he orders,
looking at the boy desperately.
"What about you?” Stiles protests.
"I'll be fine, as long as I don't have to worry about your safely, too.”
"But—"
"Go!”
Though he obviously doesn't want to, Stiles acquiesces and scurries off,
leaving Derek by himself. He doesn't know where any of his betas are, but the
sounds of another bullet being fired and a scream of agony clues him in to the
whereabouts of at least one of them. After checking that Stiles has indeed run,
he backtracks as swiftly as he can.
                                     * * *
Stiles doesn't make it far before coming to a decision:
He's tired, sure—he'd even go so far as to say exhausted—but he didn't run away
when Peter threatened him; he didn't run away when Kate threatened him and
Derek; and he sure as hell isn't going to run away now. Mind made up, Stiles
spins on his heel and slinks back toward the warehouses, sticking to the
shadows. His whole body aches, the beating he took from Victoria taking its
toll, but he breathes through it and keeps going—he'd never forgive himself if
someone he cares about got hurt and he could've prevented it. In the distance
he can hear more gunfire and laughter as Gerard delights in tormenting his
friends. It incenses him.
Returning to the alley, Stiles' eyes rest on Victoria's body for a few seconds
before another shot being fired snaps him back to attention. He wishes he had
something he could use to defend himself when he finds Gerard. Whatever force
had helped him subdue Victoria seems to lie dormant now, no matter how hard he
tries to reawaken it, so even a knife would be a welcome addition to his
nonexistent arsenal. On his way down the alleyway he passes by the hole Derek
made in the wall and stops, a thought hitting him. In the large bag from which
he'd plucked the dagger he used in his fight with Victoria, there were other
weapons. A lot of them. He's just debating whether the risk of trying to
retrieve them is worth it when another scream pierces the air, making the
decision for him.
Carefully, Stiles steps over the rubble and enters the warehouse through the
hole, holding the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth to keep his
lungs as clear as he can. Smoke obscures his vision, meaning he has to feel his
way around by memory. He trips over a couple of pieces of brick and almost
stumbles, but then he finds the table and searches blindly for the bag he
remembers leaving on the floor beneath it. Grabbing it, Stiles retreats and
breathes deep when he gets back outside. Dropping the bag on the ground, he
searches through it for a suitable weapon and, to his delight, finds the
recurve bow he'd started to use when training with Chris, along with a small
quiver of deadly-looking broadhead arrows.
"Perfect.”
Once he stands at his full height with the quiver strapped to his back, he
feels ready for battle. He's more comfortable with this weapon than he would be
with any other, like its an extension of his arm—Chris wasn't kidding when he
said that would happen at the shooting range. Preemptively nocking an arrow,
Stiles kicks the bag to the side and trots down the alley, heading in the
direction of the screams.
                                     * * *
"Fuck!”
Derek hears Scott's expletive loud and clear but can't do anything to aid the
recently shot beta. The two of them are on the ground a few feet away from each
other while Gerard looms over them, not even trying to hide his braggadocio.
Chris and Allison are in a similar predicament on the other side of the alley,
both unconscious, and Derek's only solace is that he thinks everyone else in
his pack managed to get away.
That Stiles managed to get away.
Once he'd forced the boy to seek his own safety, Derek had quickly tracked down
Gerard and his betas and tried his best to stop him. The new wolves were too
inexperienced to effectively stand up to someone who was out of his mind and
had decades of studious training under his belt, so their defence fell to their
alpha. After happening upon the shocking scene, Derek had intercepted a bullet
for Allison, which tore through the muscle of his thigh and impeded his
movements. The girl had passed out soon after and taken her father with her,
the torture she had endured at the hands of her family finally catching up to
her. Derek managed to hold Gerard up long enough for Lydia and Isaac to run,
the tall boy supporting the redhead the whole way, but that was as far as it
went. Because he was already injured, his claws, fangs and superior strength
were no match for Gerard, who'd expertly avoided his embarrassingly
uncoordinated blows and retaliated in kind, making him look like a tyro.
The older man wore silver knuckle dusters, which packed a surprising
punch—Derek's jaw still aches from when Gerard had managed to hit him in the
face, and he thinks he has a loose tooth or two to boot. Now, he lies on the
ground, trying to maintain the same amount of distance between himself and
Gerard by dragging himself backward as the hunter advances. His leg throbs
brightly and the bullet wound in his thigh leaves a sticky trail of blood on
the concrete, and already sweat forms on his brow and he can tell that the
blood has drained from his face, leaving his skin with a sickly pallor—he's
getting really tired of wolfsbane poisoning.
"Oh, how I've waited for this moment,” Gerard smirks as he keeps moving closer
to Derek, slipping off his knuckle dusters and picking back up his hunting
rifle.
Derek growls. "What moment?”
"The moment I get to kill you, the last surviving Hale... It's been years in
the making.”
"I'm so happy for you,” Derek congratulates sardonically.
"I didn't really plan for it to be over this quickly—you showing up tonight did
force me to accelerate things a bit—but...needs must, I suppose,” Gerard
continues with a shrug. He aims his rifle right between Derek's eyes. "I'm sure
this will be just as satisfying. And of course there's still your boy toy to
take care of. It's a shame you won't be around to watch. I'll be taking my time
with that one.”
Derek doesn't look away or close his eyes, refusing to show fear.
"Goodbye, Derek.”
Gerard's finger twitches on the trigger.
Then, before death can wrap him in its embrace, Derek hears a sharp inhale and
a strange whooshing sound. Gerard goes suddenly rigid, and Derek stares up at
his face as he coughs and blood flies from his parted lips. He doesn't register
right away what has happened, but then he flicks his eyes down to Gerard's
chest, from the centre of which the reddened head of an arrow protrudes. The
rifle falls from Gerard's grip, hitting the ground with a clatter, and then the
man himself falls, first to his knees and then onto his side, where he
convulses violently a few times before taking his last breath. Time seems to
stand still when, at the other end of the alley, Derek spies Stiles standing
with a bow in his hands, his arms still held in the perfect stance for
releasing an arrow that he'd learned from his training with Chris. Derek has
never been more happy to see anyone in his life.
Time seems to stretch on. Though he'd stopped voicing his opinions on the
matter the day after Stiles came home with a cut on his foot and a bump on the
side of his head, Derek had remained quietly disapproving of the boy's
headstrong desire to train as a hunter. He didn't doubt Stiles' capabilities,
not after how many times he'd proved himself fighting against Peter and Kate.
He was simply worried. Now, though, Derek can see clearly just who Stiles will
become, the strong, beautiful warrior who is already beginning to emerge.
He looks on in awe.
"Stiles...” he whispers, the magic word that makes the world start moving
again.
The boy drops his bow, tosses away the quiver on his back, and dashes to where
Derek lies propped up on his elbows. He crashes down to his knees, doubtless
scraping them badly, and comes to a stop right next to Derek. "Are you OK?”
Stiles asks frantically, his hands fluttering in the air above the wound on
Derek's leg, like he's afraid to touch in case he exacerbates it. "Please tell
me you're OK.”
"Breathe, love,” Derek interjects, cupping Stiles' face. "I'll be fine.”
"And...and what about everyone else?”
"Wolfsbane, but Gerard still had a few more bullets so they'll be fine, too.”
"Oh...” Stiles releases a long breath. "Thank God.”
"What about you?”
"Cut up. Tired. Happy we're still alive. Y'know, the usual.”
Stiles gives a small, halfhearted laugh before his face becomes unsure again.
Derek can tell that the boy still isn't fully convinced that everything is
alright, so he moves his hand to the back of Stiles' neck and is about to pull
them into a kiss when Stiles beats him to it, their mouths crashing together
ungracefully. His lips part in surprise, giving Stiles the perfect opportunity
to slide his tongue between them and deepen it. It's sloppy and uncoordinated,
neither of them possessing the wherewithal to kiss with any sort of finesse,
but Derek doesn't care at all. He feels fingers tangle in his hair and moves to
sit up properly, pushing past the pain in his thigh because he can sense that
they both need to be closer, to reassure themselves with more than words that
they're both still there. The kiss doesn't end until they're both in danger of
running out of oxygen, and even then they don't go far, staying with their arms
wrapped around each other and their foreheads pressed together, breathing the
same air.
"Sorry,” Stiles murmurs. "I just needed—"
"It's OK,” Derek interrupts with a soft smile. "Never apologise for kissing
me.”
"I might never stop, then.”
Derek huffs out a short laugh. "I wouldn't complain.”
"Good,” Stiles says, pecking Derek one last time on the lips before pulling
away. "C'mon. Let's get you fixed up so we can get out of here.”
                                     * * *
The next couple of hours are a blur to Stiles. The pack regroups quickly
following Gerard's demise—Isaac and Lydia apparently didn't go far—and both he
and Derek are happy to just hang back and watch from the sidelines as Chris
takes charge of the situation, neither of them wanting to take their hands off
of the other once Derek is again cured of wolfsbane poisoning. A strange sort
of calm comes over Chris, like he has shut off his emotions in order to deal
with what has occurred that night. The bodies of Gerard and Victoria are his to
deal with, he says expressionlessly, and everyone else should just go home, get
some rest, and try their best to pretend that none of it ever happened. Stiles
feels terrible for Chris, because he'd been betrayed by both his wife and
father and then lost them in the space of a day. He pulls the hunter into a
quick but effusive hug before allowing Derek to take him home.
The embrace is returned just as tightly.
With energy he doesn't really have, as soon as they get to the McCalls'—he
thanks his lucky stars that Melissa is working and won't have noticed his
absence—Stiles hops straight in the shower. He washes the blood from his body
and then sits stiffly on his bed, clad in nothing but a towel, as Derek takes
care of the many cuts that litter his arms and torso. Once everything is
disinfected and wrapped up, Derek takes a shower as well and comes back into
the bedroom dressed in the spare clothes he always keeps in his car.
Now, they lie side by side on Stiles' bed.
"What's gonna happen now?” Stiles asks, turning his head to peer through the
darkness at his bedmate's profile.
Derek sighs. "I don't really know...”
"Mmm, me neither.”
"Let's... Let's just get some sleep. We can deal with it all tomorrow.”
Mumbling his agreement, Stiles pulls the sheets up from the foot of the bed
and, mindful of his injuries, turns over onto his side. Derek does the same,
throwing an arm over Stiles' waist and pulling them flush together, his nose
ending up in the nape of Stiles' neck. Neither of them say anything else.
They're both aware of the things they still have to talk about and deal
with—the apparition of whatever force had helped Stiles defeat Victoria, the
fractured state of the pack, and the lies they'll have to concoct to cover it
all up, to name a few. But, just for tonight, they shut out the outside world
and content themselves with the knowledge that they're both alive and well.
Whatever happens, Stiles thinks as he takes Derek's hand from over his stomach
and interlocks their fingers, they'll get through it.
Together.
Chapter End Notes
     Well, I certainly hope you all enjoyed this slightly-longer-than-
     usual final chapter. :) I was going to try to cut it down a bit to
     make it fit with all the other chapters, which were 4,000 words each,
     but there wasn't anything I felt comfortable not including here. So,
     a longer chapter it was. Rest assured that this isn't the end for
     this series, though. I have 2 more parts planned for the future,
     covering seasons 3A and 3B, although the next part won't be starting
     for quite a while. I'll be writing other Sterek fics in the meantime
     so that I don't get burned out on this series.
     Anyway, what did you guys think? I was worried when writing this that
     things felt a bit rushed toward the end there, but hopefully not.
     Gerard and Victoria's deaths likely weren't bloody enough to satisfy
     some of you guys, I know, but I felt like making them as quick as I
     did would be a better fit. Sadism didn't really seem like a part of
     Stiles' character in this fic, regardless of what Gerard did first to
     him and the people he loves, so an arrow through the chest it was.
     Also, thumbs up for Sterek kisses!
     Stay tuned for my next work, a Sterek soulmate one-shot, which will
     be posted in two weeks' time, on Thursday, 18th May, at around 8pm
     BST. After that, I have a dark, multi-chapter alive-Hale-family AU
     planned, and then I'll probably move on to Part 3 of my Smouldering
     Hearts series. That one's long overdue, wouldn't you say? ;) Make
     sure you're subscribed to me if you want to be notified when it all
     goes live! Don't forget to leave some kudos and drop a comment down
     below to let me know what you thought. All feedback and constructive
     criticism is appreciated.
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