Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1168239.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall, Vernon_Boyd/
      Erica_Reyes, Lydia_Martin/Jackson_Whittemore, Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent, Scott_McCall, Isaac_Lahey,
      Vernon_Boyd, Danny_Mahealani, Jackson_Whittemore, Erica_Reyes, Sheriff
      Stilinski, Melissa_McCall, Alan_Deaton, Ethan_(Teen_Wolf), Aiden_(Teen
      Wolf), Kate_Argent, Gerard_Argent
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Wolf_Reverse_Bang, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Circus,
      1880s, 1890s, 19th_Century, Alternate_Universe_-_19th_Century, Religion,
      Religious_Imagery_&_Symbolism, Religious_Conflict, Canon-Typical
      Violence, Warning:_Kate_Argent, Dubious_Consent, First_Time, First_Kiss,
      Feelings, Angst, The_Hale_Pack_-_Freeform, Awesome_Laura_Hale, Stiles_is
      a_trapeze_artist, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending, Eventual_Happy_Ending,
      Frottage, Intercrural_Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Hurt
      Stiles, BAMF_Lydia_Martin, Lydia_is_Perfect, Erica_and_Isaac_are_Twins,
      Alive_Erica, Awesome_Erica, Jackson_is_a_horse's_ass, Alive_Vernon_Boyd,
      Skinny_Dipping, Original_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Human
  Collections:
      Teen_Wolf_Reverse_Bang
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-05 Completed: 2014-02-06 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 59753
****** Holding Your Own Weight ******
by zjofierose
Summary
     Stiles Stilinski is the best trapeze artist west of the Mississippi,
     but that doesn't do him much good without a catcher. Enter one quiet
     roughneck who calls himself Derek and knows maybe a little too much
     about circus arts for someone who was hired to schlep tents. But
     Derek has his secrets, and so does the new girl, Allison. Who's being
     hunted and who's being haunted, and will Stiles ever be able to
     convince Derek to help him fly again?
Notes
     Well, this one got a little out of hand.
     This was written as part of the Teen_Wolf_Reverse_Bang, and the
     lovely art can be found here,_by_Elica. Go check it out!
     I blame paintedlandscape for all of this- without her, I would never
     have watched Teen Wolf, much less agreed to sign up for a reverse
     bang. I also owe her a million thanks, a thousand hugs, and a
     multitude of mai tais for the incredible amount of encouragement,
     harassment, hand-holding, beta-ing, brainstorming, cajoling,
     pleading, reminding, reading, revising, editing, and listening to me
     whine that she has done throughout the creation of this little
     monster. You are the best, and I could NOT have done this without
     you. :)
     I could also not have done this without the wonderful emmessann, who
     red-inked like crazy and then helped me build a much better story,
     and who also always gives me a hand to hold when I need it. Likewise
     the delightful Miss_Elle, who is the loveliest friend, funniest beta,
     and gets all the credit for the chapter titles, and last but not
     least, the fantastic the_deep_magic, who read an early draft and
     demanded MOAR NOW, which led me to, you know, write another chapter
     or two.
     Also, my husband, who is endlessly supportive, no matter which
     fictional characters I'm forcing to kiss. <3
     Trigger warnings include: canon-typical violence (an on-screen
     beating, some off-screen murders), dub-con Kate coming on to some
     characters, mention of Bad Touch Kate/Derek, angst, poor emotional
     decision making, mention of rape as a thing that happens in the
     world, crazy religious wing-nuts (it's a made-up religion, but
     they're about what you'd expect), and the sexism and racism typical
     of the late 1880s. If you find something I haven't thought to tag,
     please comment, and I will tag it!
     (to write this, I spent a lot of time watching youtube videos of
     amazing rope tricks and extreme gymnastics- if you want to see, try
     this_one,_which_I_based_a_lot_of_Stiles'_moves_on,_but_also, this
     one, this_one, this_one, and this_one.)
      
     "I've been doing lots of trapeze, and so much of it is holding your
     own weight."
     -Patina Miller
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 (Just a young boy and his ring) *****
 
He signs his name on the line, feeling a little sick, but blanks his face and
hands the pen back across the low table. The man across from him takes it
carefully, pulling the contract back to face him, and nods.
"Welcome to Deaton's, Mr. Hale." His eyes are dark and assessing. "Let's get
you settled."
--
The first couple of days are a blur; he's caught Deaton's near the end of their
summer travels through the southern half of the state, right before they return
to their winter grounds. It's a flurry of the last two shows, and then the
highly choreographed chaos that is a circus getting on the road. He's the
lowest of the low; both newest, and signed on specifically as a roughneck, no
other skills; so he flings himself into the work with abandon. He schleps
trunks of costumes, brings down tent poles, helps to fold vast swaths of
canvas, sorts and totes and pushes and pulls and collapses onto his cot at
night to sleep the sleep of the nearly dead.
It's the best he's felt in years.
--
They're on the train heading north, just past Bakersfield, when the strong man
comes climbing over the tops of the cars to join him. Derek is pretty certain
that his name is Boyd, though they haven't been formally introduced- he'd been
in charge of a lot of the tent breakdowns, and had seemed grateful to have an
extra pair of hands available, no matter whose they were. He swings down from
the roof with ease and settles himself in the open door of the boxcar next to
Derek, nodding amicably as he situates himself on the metal floor, legs hanging
over the edge.
They sit for some moments in companionable silence, watching the scenery go by-
it's the very end of October now, but still blazing hot out here by the side of
the desert. The angle of sun tells him it's coming up on the last part of the
year, but the heat and the dirt and the brushy overgrowth say it's the height
of summer. Derek's glad they're heading north; he can't imagine what winter
must be like in this overheated place, and for all that he's run away and put
the whole of a continent between him and his past, he likes his life to be
predictable. It's why he's come back to the circus after years away- nothing
else was right, nothing else was what he knew, nothing else was where he fit.
California, so far, is also not what he knows or where he fits, but he's open
to the thought that maybe it's not all the same. It's vast, if nothing else, so
there has to be some variation.
"Vernon Milton Boyd IV." The man sticks out one large, callused hand. “Call me
Boyd.”
"Derek." He shakes it, a little surprised at the firm, but delicate grip.
"Appreciated your help back there." Boyd's voice is a quiet baritone, western
accent and matter of fact. "You're familiar with circus work."
"Yes." Derek pauses. Deaton himself clearly had recognized his name, but as the
owner and manager, it's his business to know about other shows. Besides, the
Hales had worked in the same circus as Deaton's sisters- he'd never known the
man personally, but Deaton had known his parents. The rest of the folk... he's
not sure. California's a long way from where they were, but his family was
well-known, and he just wants a fresh start- no family, no name, no history. "I
grew up with it." He shrugs casually, turns his face back to the rolling hills.
Boyd just nods noncommittally, stares off into the hazy distance. After a
minute, he pulls out a flask from inside his vest. He takes a long pull, passes
it over to Derek.
"Nice to have someone who knows what they're doing."
Derek takes a drink, shivering as the warmth slides down his throat. It's
strong stuff, but refined, and he makes a mental note to find out where Boyd
has gotten this particular stash once they're settled again in another couple
days. He nods, passes the flask back.
"Nice to be somewhere my skills are appreciated."
--
The flurry of unloading is still chaotic, but less urgent- from what he
understands, the circus winters in this same place every year for about six
months; it's the closest thing to a permanent home they'll ever have, and the
excitement at return seems to be pervasive. He still hasn't officially met most
of the performers- everyone had been too busy with the final shows and the
breaking down and loading of circus to do a meet and greet before they'd left,
and they'd all ridden in the passenger cars on the way up. He'd preferred to
keep to himself in the boxcar at the end of the train, and though they clearly
knew about him, they had seemed to be allowing him to keep his distance for the
moment. Boyd would come to visit each afternoon, and they'd pass a few hours
smoking and drinking quietly before Boyd would climb back over the roofs of the
rolling train cars and leave him to his solitude. It had been almost unnerving
how relaxed the trip had made him, the warm sun and the thrumming of the
wheels. He'd slept more than he had in years, written a few letters to his
family that he'll burn later, and then slept some more. The nightmares came, of
course, but alone in his boxcar there was no worry of waking anyone.
He's learned to identify a few of them by sight, and has put a few names to
faces from a couple of Boyd's stories. The Lovely Lydia is the petite girl with
the strawberry hair and the bearing of a queen. He assumes the sour faced but
pretty man who follows her around is her horse trainer, Joseph? Joshua? Jasper?
Something like that. Deaton himself Derek knows, of course, and he thinks the
agile blonde with the huge dark eyes must be Boyd's sweetheart, Erica. He's not
sure what she does yet, but given her flexibility and charisma, she's a
performer, not a seamstress or a cook or a teacher. He thinks the tall boy with
the curly blond hair that matches Erica's is her brother Isaac, and he
remembers from the flyers posted all over San Bernadino that Isaac is the sad
faced clown. He can really see it- the boy is cherubic and lithe, projecting an
air of faintly downcast innocence that must be a complete lie for someone who's
grown up in the circus.
There are more than just the main attractions, of course- a couple of other
roustabouts like himself, the cooks, the bookkeeper, the ticket taker, the
security man, assorted children and family members. For all that it's the most
famous show in the west, however, Deaton's is small in a way that surprised
him. It must have shown on his face when Deaton had given him the pre-signing
run-down, because Deaton had shrugged and said, "It's a job, but it's an art.
We don't carry any excess here." It worries him a little bit, niggling in the
back of his mind, because he knows that if he's not good enough, Deaton will
cut him loose. They've clearly not hired in a while, and he suspects it's less
that they needed another set of muscles and a mouth to feed than it was that
Deaton remembers Derek's parents fondly, but at this point Derek is not in a
position to be choosy about how he gets this job, no matter how much like blood
money it may feel.
The place they've pulled up looks like an abandoned mining camp or immigrant
town, boarded up and lonely at the end of this particular spur of tracks.
They'd pulled into Sacramento from the south, having moved from desert to
mountains to field after field after field, and then eventually to orchards
with fallen leaves. The city is big for out here, he knows, but he can't help
but to compare it to the cities back east and find it lacking. The river is
beautiful, shining in the late year sun, but they'd passed by it on the tracks,
moving through the city and a little ways past, finally pulling off about a
mile outside the edge of town into a clutch of small little houses and the end
of a railroad spur.
The train shudders to a stop at the end of the track and a raucous cheer rises
up from the cars, punctuated by a sudden explosion of bodies and colors and
noise as the troupe tumbles out into the nearing dusk. Derek grabs his knapsack
and hops lightly down, wandering slowly toward the crowd. A sudden stab of
loneliness grabs him in the guts, and he falters, watching as people pour into
the little cabins, and lamps flicker on behind striped-curtained windows. It's
a homecoming, with families, and all he can feel is so very alone.
"You're this way." Boyd claps him on the shoulder, calmly ignoring whatever
expression must be all over his face, and gets him walking over to the west
side of the little housing cluster. "You'll want to give it a good sweeping
down, and a good airing out- it hasn't been lived in for a while, but it should
still be sound." Boyd gestures to a lean, dark haired man across the way, “Talk
to Danny if you need any supplies, he can help you out.” They come to a stop in
front of a cabin that is the slightly smaller brother of its already compact
siblings. Derek doesn't care- it's got a roof, and isn't on wheels. That'll be
more than enough for a while. "Here you are." Boyd presses a thick key into his
hand. "We don't worry about each other, and we're pretty far out from town,
but..." he scratches the back of his head awkwardly.
"...but there are some who'll go the distance" Derek finishes for him.
Boyd nods with something that looks like embarrassment. "Yeah. Every so often.
So. We take precautions." He straightens back up, gestures at the cabin
immediately to the east of Derek's. This one has floral curtains, and a lamp
already flickering. "You'll be neighbors with the Stilinskis. Good folk, them."
"Stilinski..." Derek thinks for a second, pictures the posters in his mind's
eye. "He's the flier, right?"
Boyd half nods, half shakes his head. "He was a flier, when he had a catcher.
But he's a solo act now. Does a damn fine job of it. His father's our security;
old cowboy who's good with a gun. Good man, Stilinski. And the kid, too." He
claps Derek on the arm again, hard enough to make him stagger. "I'll leave you
to drop your bag and open the windows. Then come meet me by the tent car." He
smiles, his teeth white in his dark face, and ambles off.
The key sticks for a minute, worrying him as he wiggles it, but it gives after
a moment and the door swings creakily open. Some oil, then, he thinks to
himself, to get the hinges and tumblers moving smoothly again. He can talk to
Danny later, ask him where to find it.
The space is bare and simple, just as he'd expected. A rope-strung frame with a
straw tick sits against the wall to his left under a small window, a couple of
shelves braced on the wall above its head. There's a little potbellied stove in
the middle of the room, and some firewood still stacked in a box to the side.
To his right there's a table big enough for two, and a pair of accompanying
ladder-back chairs shoved against it. A small, plain sideboard with a wash
basin, bucket, and dipper fills the wall to the right of the stove, and to the
left of the stove waits a hip-high chest of three drawers. A couple of other
shelves are mounted above the two windows at the front of the room. It's the
biggest space he's had to himself in... possibly his life, now that he thinks
about it. He fights down the pain that comes with remembering a childhood of
sharing with his siblings, and forces himself to focus on the gratitude that
comes instead with seeing how well-appointed this space is compared to the
other living quarters he's endured since, well, in a long time.
He throws his bag on the bed, leaning over it to creak open the window, and
accidentally kicks the chamber pot underneath. It's a good discovery; he
remembers seeing a bank of four or five outhouses a little ways down the row of
cabins, but come winter nights, he'll be glad not to make the trek. The window
over the table is too stubborn to open for him, and he makes a note to get that
oil sooner, rather than later. He's feeling almost cheerful with the prospect
of staying in one spot, of having a door and windows to call his own, and even
neighbors, so he shoves the key into his pocket and slams the door, heading off
to work off the accompanying burst of energy by unloading the train.
--
It's a full week till their first show back, and everyone is slow and lazy with
the unaccustomed time off. Cabins are cleaned inside and out, and repairs are
made as needed- Derek saw the older Stilinski cleaning and re-hanging the
shutters of their cabin while his son capered about on the roof with a hammer,
ostensibly fixing... something. Laundry hangs on the lines between the cabins,
an amusing profusion of wool leotards and bursts of brightly colored
crinolines, side by side with the more usual cotton trousers and work dresses
and bedding. The animals are all groomed within an inch of their lives, and set
out to roam in the largest animal pens Derek's ever seen. There's something to
be said about being out west, he supposes; there's space enough still that no
one's going to get too worked up about seeing how the lions like to stalk the
rabbits and raccoons that get into their large and casually fenced enclosure.
He gets the oil for his hinges and lock, and dusts the cobwebs out of his
corners. The roof seems sound enough, and he figures if it's not, he'll find
out as soon as it rains, and fix it then. He helps Boyd and the other two
roughnecks set up all the tents, the big top, and the adjoining performers'
tents, and helps Isaac re-paint the wooden borders for the rings. He spends a
truly miserable day with Jackson in the barns grooming the horses' hooves and
repairing their stalls and gear- Jackson is apparently the biggest stuffed
shirt in the circus, and Derek gives thanks repeatedly and at length that
evening that he does not have to work closely with him on any sort of regular
basis.
By day four, though, all the work has been done, and folks are starting to get
restless, Derek among them. The women decide to make a trip into town, dressing
up in the closest things to street fashion that Derek has yet seen any of them
wear. They commandeer a wagon, and a few of the men decide to go along as well
to pick up supplies and visit the saloon. Boyd is going, and comes over to see
if Derek wants to come along, but he shakes his head. He's got his eye on the
river down the hill. It's running slow, but full, and Derek wants to see what
he might be able to catch.
The wagons are off in a cloud of dust and a clamor of voices, Lydia's hair
glinting in the sun, and suddenly the camp is mostly empty and quiet. It's only
ten in the morning, not yet the heat of the day, and Derek shoves his hands
into his pockets in satisfaction as he heads back to his cabin to gather his
supplies.
--
The river is as fat and lazy as he had hoped. He thinks about setting up,
dropping his lines, and taking a nap, but it's still early in the day, and he's
spent too much time in the past fortnight just sitting, whether in trains or
wagons or just waiting in some anonymous location for something to begin. It's
warm enough that he rolls up his shirtsleeves and opens his collar as he walks,
wandering aimlessly north along the river's edge. The sun is hot, but there's a
good breeze blowing, moving through the tall grass and rippling the surface of
the water. He's lost track of time -nothing to do and nowhere to be- when he's
brought back to the present by a sudden earsplitting shriek and an impressive
sounding splash.
There's a second splash as he rounds the curve of the bank, and more shrieking.
Kids, clearly, taking advantage of the weather to enjoy a last swim before the
Indian summer ends. They might be on to something, he thinks wryly, pulling the
damp fabric of his shirt away from his chest. He can see the shape of a bridge
coming into sight, an aging railroad trestle positioned nicely over the wide
point of the water.
A lithe figure climbs out of the water and goes sprinting for the bridge, pale
rear bare to the sun. Derek pauses to watch him clamber up and walk out onto
the trestle itself, collecting himself at the edge. The boy pauses, gauging the
distance, then rolls forward into a flawless triple flip before landing a
perfectly aimed cannonball that swamps his companion.
"Show-off!"
The second boy is mopping his face and laughing, splashing a small wave into
the face of the first as he surfaces. It takes a minute, but Derek's close
enough now to recognize them. It's Stilinski who jumped, which, Derek thinks,
of course. His friend is the lion tamer, he's pretty sure- the son of the
circus nurse, McCall, somebody McCall. He's seen the two of them horsing around
the camp together- Stilinski perched precariously on the top of the lion pen
fencing while McCall put the big cats through their routine, McCall calling out
encouragement as Stilinski checked the height and heft of his newly-hung hoop
and bar. They look like brothers, both dark haired and brown eyed, but McCall
is heftier, and maybe slightly older, his musculature dense and sturdy.
Stilinski has the definition of his skills, his muscles tightly delineated, but
he's still growing into them, leaving his body lean and wiry where his friend
is solid.
Derek turns to go.
"Hey!"
He takes another step, then hears a scrabbling of water and undergrowth behind
him.
"Hey! You! Guy!"
Stilinski is out of breath from the jump and dash up the hill, but he grabs
Derek's arm and pants at him through a winning smile, water dripping down his
hand to wet Derek's skin.
"Derek."
"Derek! Right! My new neighbor!" Stilinski shakes his head sharply, sending a
smattering of water droplets into the air, and gestures expansively at the
river. "You should join us! The river's great!"
He wants to hesitate, especially when he sees the vague frown on McCall's face,
but Stilinski is already dragging him down the bank.
"Just leave your clothes here with ours. C'mon! Scott, tell him!"
"You should come in." Scott looks dubious, and Derek's inclined to agree, but
at this point he thinks it would be rude to resist any further, so he drops
down to pull off his boots and socks. Stilinski goes running for the bridge
again as Derek stands up to undo his belt and drop his pants, and Derek pauses
in unbuttoning his shirt to watch. The boy holds himself for a moment in the
middle of the span, judging the drop and wiggling his toes, then lets loose
with some sort of half-piked twist before finishing with the same colossal
splash. He surfaces, roaring with laughter, as Derek pulls off his shirt. He
debates for a second, but ends up leaving his small things on- it's silly,
probably, but he's always been a little more private.
"Stop woolgathering and show us what you can do!"
Stilinski has his hands cupped to his mouth, his encouragement echoing between
the banks. Derek makes his way to the trestle, carefully edges out to the
center.
"C'mon, Derek, it's not that high!"
Not that high is all a matter of context to an aerialist, he supposes- it seems
plenty high enough to him, but... they've both clearly done it many times and
been fine. There's no indication of rocks beneath the water...
"Oh, c'mon, Stiles, he's a First of May, give him a break. He's scared."
A Firstie, huh. Derek rocks forward on his toes, stuffs any doubts he may have
deep down into himself, and rolls forward into an exact imitation of the dive
he'd seen Stilinski do as he walked up.
He breaks the water to find that Stilinski is rolling around on the bank
laughing like a loon, while Scott crosses his arms and huffs at him.
"Oh, Christ, Scott, your face! You should never, ever..." he pauses to wipe a
tear, "never underestimate one of us, how do you still not know this? My
god..." Stilinski raises his face to look at Derek and beams. "Well done,
Derek, well done!" He dissolves into laughter again. "Oh, Scott... you should
have seen..."
Derek and Scott eye each other warily as Stilinski moves from laughing to deep
breathing interspersed with giggles. Finally Scott rolls his eyes, and kicks
over to stick out his hand.
"Good job." He pauses, considers. "Though your last twist was a little
incomplete. Might want to ask Stiles to give you some pointers." He grins
wolfishly, and Derek laughs, nods.
Maybe he will.
--
He walks back with them as the sun sinks lower in the sky, wandering behind as
they push and tussle and laugh and fight in front of him. Stilinski is loud and
constant, a stream of thoughts and ideas and stories falling from his opened
mouth as they walk; commentary on the clouds ("that one looks like wolf!"),
discussion of a new trick ("and then, she said if you pull your left foot up
high enough, you can..."), questions about the lions ("do you still have their
kitten teeth? Any of them? Can I have one? Please? Scott, c'monnn..."), insults
and praise to their various colleagues ("No wonder Jackson works with horses,
he was born an ass. Lydia's just so perfect, what does she even see in him?").
Scott plays along with the evidence of old habit; affirmations ("yeah!"),
incredulity ("how does your body even bend that... no. No, that's not
anatomically possible. Except maybe for Erica."), denials ("No. They're mine.
NO, stop asking!"), and discussion ("he's a snake. A snake who is also a
horse's ass.").
Derek wanders along without saying anything, content to be in their company.
Stiles had eyeballed him assessingly as they got out of the water, his face
mobile with unspoken questions, but he seems to be content for the moment not
to pry. They remind him of his sisters, the way they seem to tune out
everything around them. They're overly tactile, too, like the girls; always
with their hands on each other to shove and grasp and hang on. Stilinski seems
to be that way with everyone, though; Derek thinks he's been touched more by
the kid in the last five hours than he has by anyone in the five months
beforehand.
They can smell the camp before they see it- Derek's not sure who's on kitchen
duty tonight, but the smell of roasting meat makes his mouth water as it rises
on the thin ribbon of smoke before them. Scott and Stilinski break out into a
run, whooping and still managing to push at each other as they pelt for the
edge. Derek continues at his same pace, too relaxed to want to rush, even for
the food that's making his stomach grumble.
He steps into the main open area at the center of camp not more than a minute
or two behind his companions, but they're frozen tensely on the edge of a small
circled audience, breath held. He sidles in as unobtrusively as possible,
catching Stilinski's eye and raising a questioning eyebrow. The kid jerks his
head hard in a not now motion, and tips it toward the people in the center of
the tables.
"It's not right!" Lydia's got her fingers sunk into Erica's arm, the blonde
girl pulling back and away from Lydia's grasp. Lydia herself is leaning
forward, her small stature doing nothing at all to disguise the threat in her
body language as she leans into Deaton's space.
"Lydia." Deaton's voice is calm, but edged with anger. "Do I look like someone
who is happy with the status quo?" He gestures to himself, and it takes Derek a
minute to figure out that he's indicating his own brown skin.
"So why do you insist that we tolerate it?" The feathers on her hat are
quaking, her eyes wide. Erica gives a determined twist of her forearm, yanking
herself free of Lydia and stalking off out of the circle, her body furious, but
her eyes red. The sound of a slamming door echoes a moment later.
"Lydia, be reasonable." Deaton's hands make a placating gesture, but his voice
is unbending. "You know this business as well as I do. We need these people, we
need every single one of them. We need them, and their brothers and parents and
children. And not only do we need them and their money, but we need their
support."
"Their support." Lydia hisses the word, her eyes snapping.
"Yes, Lydia, their support. For every closed-minded bumpkin who is only truly
comfortable with Boyd in the ring as a dancing pet, there is a Hunter zealot
who would see us all hanged. And when they come for us, and make no mistake,
Lydia, they will, we will need every last one of those bumpkins to defend us as
their freaks, as their own little sideshow. We can't afford to alienate them,
Lydia, you know this, so pull yourself together and play your part."
Lydia is deep breathing, her stays creaking with the effort of containing her
anger.
"Play your part." Her tone is mocking, and she draws herself back out of his
space. "You'd know something about that, wouldn't you, Deaton. Always playing a
part." She rakes her eyes over him contemptuously, then turns and stalks out of
the center, Jackson slinking behind her as always. Deaton remains standing,
looking first angry, then sad, then rubbing his face with his hand and
slumping. The gathered crowd lets out a collective breath, and begins to
disperse, chattering to each other in low voices as they go.
Derek turns to Scott and Stilinski as they begin to shuffle in their spots near
him. He raises his eyebrow again.
"That..." Scott begins, then sighs and shakes his head. "Yeah. Well. We've had
the annual face-off now, I guess we can get on with everything else." He
shudders, cracks his neck.
"Annual face-off?"
Stilinski rolls his eyes and makes an elaborate hand gesture that takes in
Deaton and flails on to indicate the direction in which first Erica, and then
Lydia, stalked off.
"The thing is, Lydia and Erica they... they both feel very strongly about How
Things Should Be. And they forget... when we spend all our time on the road,
it's just us, right? Just our families, just our people, and we don't care
about a lot of things, you know." He looks at Derek for a minute. "You know."
It's a statement, not a question, but Derek nods anyway. He does know- circus
folk have their own rules, their own ways of being. They're far more concerned
with skill, loyalty, and work ethic than with sex or race, always have been;
it's part of what makes the Hunters hate them so. Stiles examines him for a
second, brown eyes piercing, before he continues. "They forget that not
everyone thinks it's ok for Erica to waltz into town on Boyd's arm, and they
also forget that no one cares for their opinion." Stiles ducks his head, rubs
his fingers into his short-cropped hair. "It's hard. None of us like it.
But...that's how it goes."
Derek nods again, considering. He'd noticed Boyd standing silently to the side,
but when he looks now he's disappeared. Stilinski gives a shuddering sigh, and
elbows Scott in the side.
"Hey. Food." He looks up again at Derek, biting slightly on his lower lip.
"Coming?"
--
The grand re-opening is a huge success, crowds coming from as far as San
Francisco to welcome the circus back to town for the winter. Derek takes
tickets and fetches water and checks props and sweeps up popcorn and is mostly
far too busy for the nostalgia to hit him. It takes its toll later, when he's
alone in his little cabin, and at night in his dreams. He wasn't there when
they burned, and he'll never know if that's worse or better, if the smells and
screams his brain summons up from the newspaper articles are more or less
accurate, if it would have been better for him to have burned, too. He used to
think there was no question; he should have died with them instead of being
left alone like this, but it's been enough years now that he thinks maybe he's
glad there's someone left, even if he still wishes it weren't him. What is
remembered, lives, the old fortune-teller used to whisper, slipping the
monochrome images of her girlhood country back under her blouse, what is
remembered, lives, and he will never forget them.
They're doing five shows a week through November- Thursday, Friday, Saturday,
and Sunday, with two weekend matinees for the kids. It'll pick up to seven come
December, and he's already seen Boyd, Danny, and Isaac working on Christmas
themed decorations in their off time. Before and after the shows his job is to
clean and set up, and to help cart around anything that any of the performers
may need. Often as not, they don't need much from him- Deaton's is a well-tuned
machine, and none of the performers are new. They've been doing this for years
without him, and though he feels welcome enough, he's under no illusions as to
his indispensability.
On the off days, he helps with maintenance and basic tasks- there are always
repairs to be made, and equipment to be oiled or tightened or inspected. He
spends a lot of time in the tents themselves, methodically checking and re-
checking the tent pegs, the ropes, the joints of the stands. Sometimes he gets
distracted watching the rehearsals. When he was a kid, he was always busy with
his own warm-ups and routines and practices- trying new moves with his
siblings, working out refinements to their routines, watching their parents run
through their own acts. Now... he's just a roughneck, which leaves him time to
watch.
His sister Laura had always loved the animals- she'd've liked to watch Scott as
he coaxed the big cats through their litany of tricks, prancing, leaping,
showing their teeth. She'd always been completely fearless around the larger
beasts, predators or not, and they always treated her as an equal. She'd like
Lydia's act too, he thinks, with the fast gallops and the ridiculous costumes
and the death-defying flips from one horse to another. She'd probably feel the
need to show her up, though, Derek thinks in amusement- Laura's ego always did
need to be the biggest in the room.
His little brother would have loved Boyd, with his striped costume and his
giant dumbbells. He's a perfectionist, Derek's learned, practicing his lifts
over and over and over until they're completely flawless, graceful and nearly
delicate in their execution. Isaac had told him once when he'd caught Derek
watching that Boyd had had to start building in an audience participation bit
to his routine where he would ask audience members to come lift his weights.
Apparently he'd been making it look so easy that he was accused of fraud. His
brothers would have loved Isaac, too, with his slapstick routine of subtly
skilled juggling and tumbling and magic tricks- he is clearly a children's
favorite, his grease paint widening his eyes and turning his mouth slightly
down at the corners. You never knew when or where he will pop up, silk flower
bouquet in hand.
Cora, though- Cora would have loved the Stupendous Stilinski. Derek can see him
now across the ring, chalking his hands and talking to Erica as she stands
beside him. He's been working with her on adding a new part to her routine,
some simple work on a suspended hoop, and Derek sweeps his way slowly back and
forth across the open space toward them. Cora had always wanted to be a flier,
no matter that none of their family had been aerialists. The Hale Pack were
strictly acrobats, and strictly group work- only their father ever worked
alone, and that was only in his role as the circus' Wolfman. They'd had
aerialists, of course- a duo called the Morrells, Deaton's sisters, and the
reason that Deaton and his parents had been friends. They'd even offered to
train Cora, but Father had wanted her to be a bit older first, and of course
now, she never will be.
He thinks she would have been good; he can imagine her doing what Erica is
doing now- bending her body around a hoop, flipping herself up into a hold,
arching her spine backward into the elegant curve. She'd have been a natural,
her acrobatic strength and her lithe figure combining to give her a sense of
artistry some of the rest of them had lacked.
Erica's still rough- she's got the strength and flexibility from her own
contortionism, no question. But there's a balance she lacks when working with
an object, especially an object in motion, even the small amount of motion
generated by a hoop. She's not used to the physics of it yet, and so Stiles
demonstrates the move for her again, the hoop remaining almost perfectly still
as he pulls himself up and wraps his legs around it, hanging upside down at
first, then putting up a hand to suspend himself by a hand and a knee, his toes
pointed and head thrown back. She tries it again, still overcompensating, but
closer, and then they're done, Stiles clapping her cheerfully on the back and
gesturing excitedly as he talks about her improvement. She dusts her hands off
on her tights, squeezes Stiles quickly around the neck, then slips out of the
tent.
"Wanna go?"
It takes a second for Derek to realize that Stiles is talking to him, but he
is, smiling broadly with his eyes all squinched up and his hand gesturing to
the hoop.
"No, no thanks." He shakes his head. He would, actually, kind of like to try
it, in an abstract way- he's curious sometimes how thoroughly his skills have
atrophied, and whether he ever would have been good for anything but tumbling-
but the ache of ever performing without his family is still too present for him
to reach out and take the offer. "Best leave that to the professionals."
Stiles gives him another one of those searching looks, then shrugs
unconcernedly and walks back to the hoop. He releases it from its supporting
cord and hangs it on the equipment stand. He pulls aside a rope, letting it
swing out freely from the ceiling, and Derek gives up any pretense of sweeping
to just watch. He's seen Stiles practicing this, but not often- he doesn't like
to do it in front of people yet, Derek thinks, he's obviously still learning,
and Derek feels a sudden warmth at the thought that Stiles is clearly
unconcerned with him watching.
The rope is not terribly thick; easily grasped in a fist, and made of cotton
and hemp. It's nearly 20 feet in length, hanging from the same overhead
framework that holds up the trapeze rigging. Stiles starts off near the ground,
hanging from one arm and splitting his legs so that he swings in a lazy splay-
legged circle only a few inches from the mats. He lets himself spin for a
moment, then swiftly pulls himself into an inversion, twisting the rope around
an ankle and a knee to allow himself to hang suspended upside down with no
hands. He holds it, then, wrapping an arm around behind his knee, releases into
a modified swan dive, belly to the ground and free leg pointing earthward.
"Point your toes."
Stiles startles, and the rope jerks, then spins slowly as he turns his head to
look at Derek. Derek would like to eat his own tongue.
"Yeah?" Stiles grins quick and sharp, his feet now appropriately pointed in
line with his legs. "Anything else, peanut gallery?"
Hanged for a sheep as well as a lamb, Derek thinks. "Yeah. You need to do
something with your free arm there. Your arch is" amazing, flawless, perfect
"good, but with your top arm and both your legs engaged, you're just letting
your other arm hang." He shrugs, moves his broom. "Breaks the line."
He can see the thoughts flitting across Stile's mobile face. "Ok. Yeah." He
grimaces "What do you suggest?"
Derek thinks for a moment. "Do it again?"
Stiles drops unceremoniously to the floor, shaking himself loose. Derek can see
the tension across his shoulders from the rope work. Trapeze is a demanding
skill, no question, but this uses different motions, has different sustained
notes. For all that Stiles has the strength and balance to execute the moves,
he's not yet fully grown into an adult body, and he has to work hard to move
through the elements smoothly. He pushes through the forms again, faster this
time, ending in the same inverted arc as before.
"Where is this in the routine?"
"Well, it's not really a routine yet, you know, I'm just..." Stiles trails off,
his eyes jumping around "Trapeze is what the people come to see, I just...get
bored."
Derek waits.
"It's near the beginning." Stiles drops his head, his cheeks faintly pink with
embarrassment. Derek's not entirely sure why he doesn't want to talk about
this; it seems to him that if you've only got one aerialist, he may as well do
as many different things as he can, but it's clearly a sore point, so he lets
it slide, steps forward.
"Like this." He takes Stiles' free arm in his, pulls it out in front of his
body. "No, elbow straight, palm up." He demonstrates with his own. "Welcome the
audience in." Stiles releases the tension for a minute, the pulls into the form
again, using the momentum of his back leg dropping to circle his arm up and
out, palm facing up, long, callused fingers reaching.
"Yes." Derek coughs and ducks his head. It's absolutely perfect. "Like that."
--
He first sees her from a distance- she's walking with Lydia and Erica, arms
linked with theirs. The new girl is taller than either of them, but they make a
pretty picture in the afternoon sun: Erica's fair hair and Lydia's copper tones
to her neatly arranged dark braids. He figures she's a family member, or maybe
the rare townie friend, and doesn't think much of it, turning back to the rope
he's using to adjust the hang of the gate on the horse pen.
He sees her again a couple of days later, but this time she's in breeches under
the big top, aiming what looks very much like a loaded crossbow at Lydia where
she stands spread-eagled before a backing board. He starts to run toward them,
but before he can even take a step, the new girl has fired, a quivering arrow
splitting the apple that he hadn't seen perched on Lydia's head. Lydia is
laughing, throwing her slender arms around the other girl's shoulders as she
ducks out from under the gored apple, bits of apple flesh sticking to her hair.
The new girl is laughing too, delighted and proud. Derek has to stand still for
a moment and remember how to breathe. The adrenaline kick is washing through
his system and making him a little weak-kneed, so he wanders back out of the
tent into the late fall sunshine to talk his body back down.
It's nearly lunchtime, so he makes his way over to the picnic tables by the
mess hall and takes his now customary seat at the end of the furthermost bench.
It's still warm enough to eat outside, as long as you're in the sun, so he
closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing slowly and steadily, on feeling
the heat of the sun soak into the top of his head and his shoulders. He'd had
to do a lot of this sort of deep breathing stuff right after the fire; he'd
learned it from the gently stern Quaker man who'd taken Laura and him in while
they got their feet back under them right after everything had gone so wrong.
Deep, slow breaths, starting at the stomach and expanding, then exhaled with
control.
He feels the thump of a body next to him, and the customary shuffling that says
it must be Stiles. Boyd sits with him sometimes, and occasionally Erica and
Isaac; Scott is wary of him for no good reason- Derek thinks that he may just
be one of the territorial people, what's his is his, and he doesn't trust
newcomers. Stilinski Senior has joined him once or twice, and they've had some
nice, forgettable chats about weather and equipment maintenance and time of
year.
Stiles is fidgeting less than usual. He must be tired; Derek saw him this
morning in the tent working on something new with the rope, his face scrunched
up in concentration and displeasure. It hadn't looked like it was going well,
but Stiles also didn't look anywhere near close to giving up, so Derek had left
him alone. He remembers what it's like to throw your mind at your body until
one of them finally caves. He shouldn't be surprised, really, at the level of
dedication Stiles shows- he's one of the country's top aerialists, in spite of
his being alone and young- but somehow it's hard for Derek to reconcile the
happy-go-lucky kid outside of the tent with the driven artist within. He's
complex, is Stiles, in a way most 17 year olds are not, at least in Derek's
experience.
"So. New girl?" Derek opens his eyes to watch Stiles give an exasperated sigh.
"Yep. Scott's head over heels for her."
Derek chuckles, then looks around. Sure enough, the lunch line is forming, and
there she is, looking pretty and shy in a dress again, dark hair curling around
her ears. Scott looks like a fool standing behind her, all big eyes and
earnestly crooked grin.
"No kidding."
"Yeah. I hear her name is Allison." Stiles rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I
also hear that she's pretty, and her hair smells good, and she's from town, and
she's tall, and that she likes the color green, and that she's just so
incredible." Stiles voice is airy and breathless in a mocking imitation of a
mooning Scott, and Derek looks at his hands to keep from laughing outright.
"Well, to be fair, she knows her way around a crossbow." He grimaces. "Nearly
gave me a heart attack a few minutes ago. Walked in on her pointing one at
Lydia in the big tent, and didn't figure out it was the apple on Lydia's head
she was shooting at until after the fact."
"Oh yeah?" Stiles eyes him appraisingly. "That why you were over here doing all
the deep breathing?"
Derek looks at him in surprise, but nods. "Something I learned a few years ago.
Helps calm me down."
"Yeah." Stiles nods knowingly. "Yeah, I spent a lot of time doing that after my
mom died. It seems like the stupidest thing, but it does work."
Derek nods again, searching out Allison in line. She's smiling broadly at
something Scott is saying, hands folded in the front of her dress as her
dimples flash at him.
"So is she going to be a new act?"
Stiles hums, thinking. "I'm not sure. I assume so, but there's no official word
that I know of. We weren't really looking for new performers, but if she's as
good as you say, well...we don't have anyone who does those sorts of tricks,
so, I don't know why Deaton wouldn't want her, if she's willing." He pauses,
thinks a minute. "Scott says she's a townie, but a new one- just moved here
with her parents and an aunt and... not an uncle, maybe a grandfather? From
back east. Guess they're gonna settle down. But she wants to join up, wants at
least a trial run."
Derek nods, rubbing a thumb against the wood of the table. It's unusual to get
townies who want to join up, and when they do, it often doesn't end well- the
culture shock is too much for them, or they tire of the travel, or they can't
handle the sort of uprooted life that circus folks thrive on.
"My condolences on Scott."
Stiles blinks in surprise, then laughs, claps him on the shoulder.
"Yeah, thanks man. He may be lost to me, it's true." They share a look at where
Scott is clearly pantomiming some of the tricks he does with the lions to a
quietly enraptured Alison. It seems to involve a lot of grandiose hand-
gesturing, and a few facial expressions. "Well. He's dead to me." Stiles sighs
elaborately and flaps a hand. "Guess you'll just have to be my new best
friend!"
It's a joke, Derek knows, but even as he pulls himself up off the bench to
follow Stiles into the end of the lunch line, it settles into him, making a
place in between his shoulders and warming all the way up.
Friend. Huh.
--
He can see the glow of the lamp through the curtains on the little house, so he
knocks at the door and waits. There's no response, but when he leans in he can
hear Stiles muttering to himself, so he knocks again. No answer is forthcoming.
He opens the door slowly inward, thudding his boots at the base of the door
frame to knock the mud off. He pokes his head into the front room, cupping a
hand to his mouth to carry his voice.
"Stiles?"
There's a sudden flurry of motion to his left, and an abrupt crash followed by
a mumbled curse. Derek steps in and shuts the door, turning to see a flailing
pile of limbs on the wooden floor and an overturned ink pot dripping steadily
onto the floor.
"Don't you know how to knock?" The voice is exasperated, but with a tendril of
surprise Derek realizes that he knows Stiles well enough to recognize that it's
not serious.
"I did." He leans over and offers a hand to the gesticulating boy on the floor.
"Twice.”
Stiles pulls himself up, bouncing on his toes when he hits his feet. There's a
splatter of ink across the bridge of his nose, and Derek touches his thumb to
the tip of his tongue and wipes it away without thinking. Stiles' skin is warm
under his touch, and his eyes blink roundly back at Derek as his mouth hovers
between open and closed.
"Oh."
Derek rolls his eyes, righting the inkwell and pulling out his handkerchief to
mop up the spill while Stiles shuffles the avalanche of papers into a pile.
"Yes, oh." He shoves his handkerchief back into his pocket and leans in as
Stiles settles himself back into the wooden chair in front of the low desk. The
pile of papers is large, and spreads across the whole surface in front of him,
but Derek can see that there's a method to the madness. He resists the urge to
reach out and rifle through them, shoves his thumbs into his belt loops
instead.
"What are you doing?"
"Hmm?" Stiles blinks up at him, clearly halfway to forgetting he was even here.
There's a smudge of ink in front of his ear where he's rubbed at it. Derek
smiles. "I got a new letter today, from Elise, one of the fliers with the
Cirque du Paris. I was re-reading, making some notes, then I need to write her
back."
Stiles flips through the papers in front of him, coming up with several hand-
written pages that he waves in front of Derek's face absently until he takes
them from Stiles' hand. They're written in French, delicate script front and
back, with exquisite drawings of bodies in motion combined with what looks like
extremely technical instructions.
"You read French?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, my mom...she lived in France for a while before she came here,
worked with Elise and her sister in Paris." Stiles gestures at the wall of
papers and flyers pinned above the desk, his fingers settling first on one
image, then a second.
Derek leans in. The first image must have been taken at least twenty years ago,
maybe more like twenty five, judging by the costumes. Three women stand smiling
with their arms around each other, wearing shoes and leotards and feathers in
their hair. The two on either side are clearly sisters, and each is holding a
trapeze in her outer hand. The woman in the middle can be no one other than
Stiles' mom- she's dark like he is, with the same glinting eyes and daredevil
smile.
The second image is a painting of the same woman, but this time frozen in mid-
air as she leaps from one trapeze to another. Her expression is the same wide-
open grin he knows from Stiles' own face, and the scrolling banner beneath
proclaims her to be "The Captivating Claudia!" with a small 1870 written into
the corner. Just a year or two before Stiles was born, then, Derek thinks.
Small wonder Stilinski Sr fell in love with her.
Derek reaches unconsciously to straighten the picture on the wall. "What
happened?"
Stiles tenses, then intentionally releases, and Derek wants to put a hand on
his shoulder, take his words back.
"She fell." He shrugs. "Hit the net wrong, broke her neck." He shrugs again,
and this time Derek does lay a hand on the edge of his collar, just letting it
rest, thumb on the knob of bone at the top of Stiles' spine. "Random accident,
you know? Can happen to any of us."
He's not wrong, and Derek knows it- generally the risks for acrobats were more
along the lines of broken bones than death, but plenty of performers take their
lives in their hands every day. A slip from a horse, an upset lion, a mis-tied
net, and it could happen to any of them.
Stiles is already lost in the diagrams in front of him, muttering under his
breath as he pores over the new schematics. Derek can see postmarks from a
dozen different locations in the piles around the desk, edges of other drawings
poking out from under letters in a dozen different hands. Stiles must be in
communication with every single aerialist in the country, and several more
abroad.
"What, are you trying to single handedly bring back the Pony Express?" Derek
picks up another envelope, turning it over in his hands to read the address.
New York, upstate.
"Ha ha." Stiles rolls his eyes, scrubs a hand through his hair. "No, I mean...a
lot of these people were my mother's friends, and at first it was just polite,
you know, let them know why she wasn't answering her mail, that sort of thing."
He's scribbling furiously in a string bound journal as he speaks, sketching in
approximate poses and some form of shorthand that Derek's willing to bet only
Stiles can translate. "But then...I'm all I've got, here, professionally, I
mean. When I got back up there, I didn't have anyone to help me anymore, to
tell me what I was doing right or wrong, to give me new ideas, any of that. And
that's important, you know? I'm good, I know I'm good, but I want to be the
best, I don't want to be just some charity case Deaton keeps on, I don't want
to give up and do the same show I've always done, I want to be a main
attraction."
He stops, takes a breath. His ears are pink, and Derek can tell he's
embarrassed, so he takes a step back, fishing in his coat pocket.
"Here." He holds it out, flat across his hand. "You loaned me your pen last
week? I'm going into town tomorrow to buy my own, so I came to give it back.
Thanks."
"Oh. Yeah." Stiles blinks slowly at him, his hand hesitating for just a moment
as he plucks the pen off Derek's palm, his fingers warm and callused as they
pause. "You're welcome."
–
One of the painted partitions of the largest ring had been clipped by a horse's
hoof in the Saturday matinee, and cracked right through its lurid yellow star.
He's hauled it out behind the barn to see if it can be fixed with a simple
brace, or if he really needs to just make a whole new one, when he sees her
down at the end of the field, shooting arrow after arrow into a straw bale set
against a tree. She's just as exceptional shooting over a distance as she is
short-range, and Derek watches her for several minutes before he goes to fetch
the paint and hardware he needs for a potential repair.
He brings the supplies out, blue and red and yellow paints in their jugs, a
smallish iron brace and screws, and sets them on the workbench that's built off
the back wall of the barn. He picks up the section, turning it over in his
hands, examining the break. It's one of the small-sized sections, maybe two
feet square and painted red all around the star in the middle. The wood is
light-weight and porous, meant to be decorative rather than functional. It'd be
just as easy to make a new one, really.
“Hey, Allison!”
She watches him curiously as he crunches through the dry grass over to her,
lowering the bow and waiting till he's close to nod a greeting.
“Derek?”
“Yeah, Derek. Hi.” They look nothing alike, but she's right about the age his
little sister would be now, and he shuffles his feet awkwardly before leaning
the partition against his legs to show it to her. “This got broken. I'm just
going to make a new one,” he gestures back at the barn, “But I thought maybe
you'd like something a little better than a hay bale to aim at.”
Her glance flickers down to the partition, dark eyes taking in the still-damp
blue circle he's painted into the middle of the star. She smiles slowly, the
expression climbing gradually over her face as she starts to nod.
He picks it up and strides off down the field, laying it down when he gets to
the tree. There are seven arrows stuck into the bale in about a two inch
radius. He pulls them out and sets them aside, turning the bale onto its end,
and setting the wooden partition on top of it. He angles it a little, steps
back, adjusts it again, then turns to look questioningly at Allison across the
field. She raises her bow and pulls the string, squinting as she adjusts her
aim, then lowers it and grins, nodding vigorously.
She waits till he's back at her side to fire off an arrow, both of them
watching as it arcs through the sky and plants itself solidly smack in the
middle of the blue dot. Derek smiles, satisfied, and hands her the arrows he's
collected from the bale.
“How did you learn to shoot?”
She lines up another shot, closes her eyes, and lets it fly.
“My father was a trick shooter back east; he was in the War as a teenager,
learned to sharp-shoot.” She points the bow at the sky, shoots an arrow, waits.
It lands immediately above the previous one, pointing down at a perfect angle.
“I wanted to learn, but he wasn't about to give a little girl a gun. But...”
She smiles wickedly, “I was his only child, and he spoiled me. So, I learned
this instead.”
Derek nods, thinking of his own childhood, the way they all nagged to be
allowed to do whatever each other were doing. He can picture a little Allison,
dark pigtails and long white dress, wheedling until her father gave in.
She bends over, shoots the third arrow upside down. It hits, but slightly out
from the others, making her frown delicately and bite her lip.
Derek sticks his hands into his pockets and ambles back up to the barn, leaving
her to it. They've both got work to do.
--
He's in town to do a pick-up of supplies at the General Store, that's it, but
he's coming out of the store when he hears the raised voices.
"Well, boys, what do we have here?" The voice is snide and high, a complete
mismatch for the hefty middle-aged man standing by the wagon. "Looks like we
might have found us one of them circus folk from out of town." Derek can see
that Isaac's grip on the reins has tightened, and he's sitting very still in
the seat. Derek's arms are full of a 50lb bag of flour and the two bolts of
cloth Mrs. McCall had asked him to get for her, and he hesitates in the shade
of the store's awning to assess the situation.
"Why, I think we've caught the clown!" The second man is younger, but also
looks drunker, if his flushed face is any indication. He sounds delighted, but
the hair on Derek's arms stands up at the look on his face. "Come on, clown,
make us laugh!"
Isaac's face is pale, but he smiles broadly and nods obligingly. "Well, have
you heard the one about the difference between the circus and a brothel?"
"I don't want to hear no fucking jokes, clown." The second man leans over to
grip the reins, jerking them and making the horses jump. "I said make me
laugh."
Derek steps forward from under the shadow of the General Store. There's one
more man leaning against the tailgate of the wagon, so Derek walks forward and
drops his goods over the side. He smiles, baring all his teeth, and braces his
fists on his hips, standing up straight. Isaac looks pathetically relieved, but
they're not anywhere close to in the clear yet. Derek just wants to get out of
this without a fight.
"Gentlemen." He nods tightly, teeth clenched in his jaw. "Do we have a
problem?"
The older man looks him over, looks back at Isaac, and steps forward, hooking
his thumbs into his belt loops and leading with his stomach.
"Yeah. We do. This here clown ain't very funny." He makes a faux moue of
disappointment. "We just wanted to laugh a little bit, but he just sits here
looking forlorn and stinking of fright." The man corners the wagon, making his
way toward Derek and slapping Isaac hard on the thigh as he goes. "Maybe you
can get him to give us a little show. I heard that's what all you circus folk
are good for," he sneers, "a quick little show."
It's just like back east all over again, and Derek pushes down the twisting of
his stomach at the déjà vu and stands his ground. There's a shadow at his
shoulder, and he turns his head just enough to see Danny standing next to him,
his arms still laden with the rest of their order- barley, oats, and two bags
of sugar.
"Well, you see" says Derek, as Danny elbows none so gently past the third man
to put his goods in the wagon, "normally we get paid. Now, I know you are men
of business, so I'm sure you all will understand that we can't just go handing
out our goods for free." He smiles again, and folds his arms. He can see the
circus' two other roughnecks coming down the street. He doesn't know the twins
that well, since they tend to keep to themselves, but they're neither one of
them small, and he can't imagine either one of them backing down when
confronted.
The third man saunters around Danny then to stand in front of them, scrabbling
in his pocket. "You want paid for your tricks, bitch?" He flips a coin onto the
street, "here's your fucking payment." He spits on the coin, splattering onto
the toe of Derek's boot. "You folk are a goddamn blight on our city. You let
coloreds live with white women, you tolerate queers, you let your women go
around half naked." He tightens his hands into fists. Derek can see Ethan and
Aiden nearly there, and shakes his head slightly. They can't afford a brawl, he
knows it more than any of the rest of them. That's a one way street that ends
badly only for them, and he won't go down it. He won't let anyone else go down
it either.
Derek steps forward, positioning himself in front of the others, watching out
of the corner of his eye as Ethan and Aiden silently menace the second man into
releasing the reins, and climb into the wagon. Danny is still standing beside
him, but Derek jerks his head for him to climb up.
"We don't want any trouble."
"Trouble." The first man again, his beady eyes boring into Derek's face. "You
all are trouble no matter how you cut it, no matter what you do. You come into
our town and dirty our good names, you bring your filth and your trash and you
muck up our fair city. We oughta smoke you all out of that shanty town of
yours, burn you out like the worthless rats you are."
Derek sees red, but he hears Isaac snapping the reins and the wheels of the
wagon starting to move. He hopes a wheel rolls over one of the other men's
toes. He's turning to climb up into the wagon when the third man pops him one,
fist coming out of nowhere to connect with his eye socket. If Danny didn't have
his arm, he would've gone down, but instead he rolls into the wagon bed as it
jolts forward, taking a sack of sugar to the kidney.
"You best watch yourselves, you fucking stripers. We'll chase you out of here
yet, you mark my words!" His shout disappears in the sound of wagon wheels and
the jolting of the cart, and Isaac snaps at the horses as they bounce down the
road and out of town.
--
Derek winces as Mrs. McCall dabs at his eye with a cool cloth, and she slaps at
his shoulder.
"Hold still! You've got yourself a shiner, young man." She presses a raw
beefsteak against his face, setting a towel at his elbow for later, and leans
him back against the picnic table. He can see Deaton and Stilinski Sr.
approaching, Danny and Isaac right behind them. He resists the urge to groan.
It's only been four weeks, and already he's getting in trouble.
Deaton comes to a stop in front of him, standing still with his arms folded,
his face composed as always. Stilinski is rangier, some of the continual motion
of his son clinging to him in the way he shifts his weight subtly from foot to
foot as he stands behind Deaton's shoulder.
"Derek."
"I'm sorry, sir. I did my best to avoid it." Derek's proud that he keeps his
voice even.
Deaton blinks in vague surprise, then his expression gentles slightly. "Of
course you did, Derek. Danny and Isaac told us the whole story." Derek lets out
a breath, more relieved than he should be. "Miller and his cronies are known to
us from way back. They would've picked a fight with any of us."
"We're just grateful that all of you were there together. And that none of the
ladies were with you." Stiles' father shifts his weight again. "It could have
gone much worse, if you don't mind my saying." He gestures at Derek's face and
smiles. "I daresay you've taken worse than that before."
Derek chuckles. "More than once, sir."
Stilinski grins and leans in to punch his shoulder lightly. "That's what I
thought. Well done, son." He slings an arm around Deaton, pulling him away.
"C'mon, Alan. Let's go discuss re-enforcing our perimeter. Melissa's got him
all taken care of."
They stroll off toward Deaton's tent, Isaac and Danny trailing in their wake.
Derek sighs, wishing he weren't stuck here with this hunk of meat pressed to
his aching face. He hates sitting still, being useless. He's deliberate, but
he's not made for killing time.
"You sit right here, hon. I'll be back in a minute with an aspirin, and then
you can be up and about." Mrs. McCall smiles at him, and then he's alone, one-
eyed, and bored.
"Hey." He startles. Stiles has come up on his blind side, and is shoving
something into his hand. "I heard you were defending our honor today." Stiles'
grin is wide, and the bottle of beer is cold. Derek takes the beefsteak down,
and presses the bottle to the edge of his eye socket. "That's for your mouth,
ninny." Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Take it how I can get it." It's the first time that day that Derek has smiled
and meant it.
--
***** Chapter Two (Stiles has a Big Top adventure) *****
 He doesn't recognize the sound at first, a sort of rhythmic thumping on the
hard-packed dirt. It's much too soft to be the horses, but it's too regular to
be something banging in the wind. Thump, thump, thump, pause. Thumpity thump,
thump, thump, pause. The thing with things that he doesn't recognize, though,
or know, or understand, is that Stiles immediately wants to recognize or know
or understand them, and they, the things, don't always want to be forthcoming.
That is to say that Stiles has developed a certain amount of stealth, and has
cultivated peeking around corners into a discreet art form, and so when he tip-
toes to the end of the barn wall and peers low around the corner, it's not at
all surprising that he goes un-noticed by the creator of the aforementioned
thumps.
What is surprising, to Stiles anyway, is that the origin of the pounding noise
is one relatively new-to-the-neighborhood roustabout, a certain Derek, who is
now, in front Stiles' ever-widening eyes, performing an increasingly complex
series of acrobatic flips.
Stiles had no idea Derek was an acrobat.
Stiles really had no idea that Derek was an exceptional acrobat.
Derek lines up at the far end of the dusty run, the concentration pulling his
dark eyebrows down over his lightly tanned face. He's shirtless and sweating,
and he looks frustrated in a way that Stiles recognizes, that means something
about skills failing him, and lack of practice. Stiles remembers what it felt
like to wear that look when he climbed back into the rigging after his
mom...Derek lines up his run and with a light bounce of his toes, he's off, his
solid frame slamming through a cartwheel, two flips, and an aerial round-off.
His form is shaky at the end, it takes him a second of gripping at the dirt
with his toes before his balance is set, but it doesn't fool Stiles for a
second- this man knows what the hell he's doing.
Derek's moving a little slower as Stiles watches, pulling a sawhorse out from
the edge of the barn, and Stiles pulls his lip between his teeth, chewing idly
as he watches Derek set it, making sure each foot is solid on the ground. When
he's satisfied that it's stable, he brushes his hands together, takes a furtive
look around, and then goes to stand at the near end of it. His back is to
Stiles, the sun catching the rivulets of sweat that coat his musculature, and
there's no mistaking him for a simple roustabout now- he's strong, yes, as are
the twins, but Derek has the definition and precise lines of a top performer,
and Stiles wants to kick himself for missing it. He should have seen this, he
should have noticed, he's known there was something different about his dark
and silent neighbor, but he didn't ask, he didn't push. There was something
unsettled about Derek, something hidden and touchy, and Stiles knows better
than to stab a bruise, knows how to talk past the quiet ache that needs to be
ignored.
But this...this is perfect. Derek leans forward, bracing his palms against the
top of the horse, shifting his weight in a slow and excruciating rise onto his
hands, one in front of the other on the horse, face tipped down to stare at the
line of wood under his palms. His stomach quivers with the effort of holding
his body straight up, but as Stiles watches, heart in his throat, Derek lets
his legs fall slowly open, raising one hand off of the wood and into the air
until his arm is perpendicular to his inverted body, all the weight of his body
balanced on one hand that is clutching at the board. His chest is pushing hard,
in and out, but he holds it, holds it, and finally, just as Stiles thinks he
might explode with glee, Derek brings his second hand back to the beam, twists,
and lands on his feet. He's breathing hard and shaking his head, starting to
pull the horse back into the barn, reaching for his shirt left hanging on a
stall door to wipe his face.
"You've been holding out on me."
Derek turns, startled, and Stiles isn't sure what he'd name the shudder of
expressions across Derek's face; something that looks like embarrassment, a
glimpse of distress, and a few others that move too quickly for Stiles to
capture.
"I was just..." Derek gestures futilely at the barn, turning his head in hopes
of identifying a chore he could use to explain what he was doing upside down
doing tricks in the back run.
"...being incredible." Stiles gestures broadly at him, striding cautiously
closer. "Why the hell didn't you tell us you could do that? I'm sure Deaton
would have hired you as an act, if you wanted..." He squints at Derek, whose
face is pale, and set. "Deaton knows, doesn't he?"
Derek hesitates, his face shuttering. It's as much confirmation as Stiles
needs. Interesting. The plot thickens, the mystery deepens, Stiles thinks, and
Derek here has more secrets than he lets on. He wants to push, but he wants
Derek to like him more than he wants this information, and after all, he can
find information in other ways. Stiles realizes he's paused for a minute, and
that Derek is still watching him, so he pulls a smile onto his face and bounces
on his toes.
"You're out of practice." Derek gives him the patented "yes, you nitwit" look
that Stiles has seen directed at the twins and Jackson several times now, and
feels suddenly fond at the inclusion. "You're still strong, but your technique
has dropped off, and you don't have the stamina."
Derek's still looking at him like he's slow, wiping his hands on his pants and
shrugging back into his shirt. Stiles grins more widely.
"Meet me in the tent after Erica's done. We'll get you back into shape in no
time!"
Derek pauses from where he's busied himself with nestling the sawhorse back
under the eaves. He turns his head, the shadows of the barn hiding his
expression.
"Why?"
Stiles lets his smile split his face.
"Because I need a catcher."
--
Stiles is wiping down his face with a rag after his two hours with Erica when
he sees Derek lurking in the edge of the tent entrance, and he's proud, he
really is, that he manages to rub his face into the cloth again before he's
beaming like a lunatic. He doesn't know why he's so excited, hasn't examined it
too closely yet- maybe it's just the thrill of something, anything, anyone new
in their little insular world, or maybe it's that he feels like he might maybe
finally have found someone who is qualified to critique him, to help him, to
make him better. Or maybe it's just that he likes Derek, in spite of his
reserve, in spite of his loner tendencies. Derek seems already like he's been
here for ages, and Stiles wants Derek to think so too, to feel liked, wanted,
included, to lose that look on his face like he's waiting for the other shoe to
drop.
Stiles pulls the rag down from his face and eyeballs Derek. He's found or
borrowed a pair of fitted leggings somewhere, and has stripped down to his
undershirt, his feet bare as he approaches the edge of the ring. It's getting
chillier and chillier in the big tent as the days wear on into winter, so
they've mostly moved into the smaller tent next door. It has mats, and some of
Stiles' equipment- a rope, a swing, and a hoop. He still goes into the big tent
in the late afternoon, when the sun has warmed it up- there's no other way to
practice his flying, the little tent is too small, and even though the tricks
he's working on right now are on other apparatus, he's well aware that the
flying is what keeps him employable.
Stiles is still warmed up from working with Erica, but he turns his back and
runs through some quick stretches to keep himself limber, and to give Derek
time to approach. He turns around when he can feel the hairs on his arms go up,
and sure enough, Derek's two feet away now, shoulders hunched and face drawn
in.
"I'm not a catcher."
His tone is flat, and his face makes it clear that he's ready to fight this
every step of the way, so Stiles rolls his shoulders and shrugs nonchalantly.
"Ok."
Stiles turns around again, using a small pulley to raise the level of his hoop
about a foot higher. There's a vaguely annoyed whuff of air from behind him,
and he resolutely keeps his back turned as he smiles.
"What do you want me to do."
He gives Derek one more second to stew in his impatience, then slowly faces
him, giving him an appraising look.
"What can you do?"
Stiles folds his arms across his chest, watching, but Derek just shuffles,
looking more and more closed off. Stiles has to resist the urge to frown in
response to the expression souring Derek's face.
"I...I'm not sure." Derek makes some abortive gesture with his hands, the
motion sharp and frustrated. "When you saw me by the barn earlier... I just..."
He huffs again, folds his arms, and starts to turn away, his foot stepping
toward the tent flap.
"Hey, hey wait!" Stiles grabs his arm, momentarily surprised at the warmth of
it under his palm. "Just...how can I help? Tell me what you need." He pours all
of the charm and openness he can manage into his face, willing himself to look
guileless and entreating. Derek shuffles, but at least he's not moving away
anymore. He darts furtive glances at Stiles' face for a moment, before dropping
his arms to his sides and hanging his head.
"I never did this alone. Our acts were always...ours. Never solos. At least two
people, usually more." He turns his face away, tucks his hands into fists. "All
my moves are designed to be done with a partner, or partners. It's hard to do
them alone. I don't like it."
Stiles nods slowly, leaving his hand where it is on Derek's biceps. Derek
hasn't seemed to notice it yet, and the warmth Stiles is feeling through his
palm is grounding him, keeping him from bouncing around the ring in excitement.
"Ok. Well." He pauses, pretends to consider it. "I'm not an acrobat, but I
could try a few things with you. You need to start slow anyway, to get back
into shape." He nods decisively, meeting Derek's wary eyes. Discretion is going
to be the better part of valor, he can tell. Derek's wound tight, and any wrong
move on Stiles' part is going to sink this ship before it even sails, so he
turns his back and pulls down his rope.
"Go ahead and warm up, get loose. I've got some more work to do anyway." He
glances over his shoulder at Derek, backlit in the afternoon sun. "Just say the
word when you're ready."
--
He's lost in his concentration, nothing in the whole world but his callused
hands, his aching muscles, and the accursed rope which refuses to cooperate
with him at every turn. Someone must not have warned it, he thinks, because
otherwise it would know that it's fighting a losing battle- nothing stands in
the way of Stiles Stilinski for long. There can only be one winner here, and
even if he has to admit defeat today, in this particular battle, he will win
this war, make no mistake about it.
He's hanging upside down, and at first he doesn't register the sound in his
ear, too preoccupied with checking in on all of the angles of his body where
it's intersecting with the rope, holding its pose. Back arched, check; feet
pointed and arcing back over his head, check. The rope is running up under his
right arm and across the curve of his back to rise between his splayed and
stretching legs. His left arm is reached back between his knees, clutching at
the upper length of the rope to hold him in place as he lets his spine lengthen
so that the soles of his feet curl down to face the floor. He calls to mind the
diagram Elise had drawn him in her latest letter, the quick sketch of her
sister Emilie in motion- he thinks he's got it, but it's so hard to tell,
without being able to see himself, to see someone else, to be seen by someone.
He thinks sometimes that's what he misses most about his mother being gone,
more than the hugs, the family laughter, the looks she shared with his father
when they thought he wasn't paying attention- he misses being seen, he misses
someone not only paying attention, but seeing when he does something right,
when he does something wrong, correcting him with a gentle hand, or praising
him with a well-chosen word.
He bites his lip, considers his pose. According to Elise, from this position,
he should be able to release his upper hand, allowing his body to swing down
and around and up in a pendulous motion while he grabs for the rope again to
pull himself to the apex of the swing, ending up upside down again, but with
the rope running along his front, rather than his back. He can do it, it's not
actually that complex of a move, but he can't do it gracefully yet, can't make
it flow into itself, and certainly can't make it flow into or from anything
else.
He hears the noise again, insistent, and it's irritating in his ear as he
starts to let go of the rope to swing down, the blood rushing in his head, and
then it comes again, "Stiles" in his ear, and he's slipping, his grip on the
rope sliding as his legs drop too fast, and then instead of the floor catching
him it's a pair of arms lowering him to the ground, and he's standing and
blinking at Derek, who's biting his lip apologetically.
"Sorry." Derek hangs his head, crossing his arms and managing somehow to look
both hangdog and aggressively defensive in the same moment. "I thought you
heard me."
Stiles shakes his head ruefully, rubbing a hand over the back of his head,
trying to shake the feel of solid muscle against his skin instead of
unforgiving mats.
"No way, my fault. I wasn't paying attention, I get..." He waves a hand,
figures Derek's been around long enough that he's picked up on Stiles'
alternating states of intense focus and complete scatterbrain. "I'm not used to
having someone else around," he finishes lamely, feeling unaccountably
discomfited, searching Derek's face for some clue of how to play this out.
Derek regards him steadily for a moment, considering something, though Stiles
hasn't got a clue what- Derek's face is impenetrable at best, he's only
readable when he's surprised or convinced no one's looking, and right now he's
staring straight at Stiles, like he's bent on reading the secrets of the
universe in the freckles on Stiles face.
"I'm warmed up now."
"Great!" Stiles can feel himself starting to grin like a loon, but thinks he
can pass it off as natural enthusiasm. No one else second guesses his highs and
lows too much, why would Derek? "So! What do you want me to do?" He re-chalks
his hands quickly, spreads his arms wide. "Stiles Stilinski, at your service!"
He bows deeply from the waist, flourishing his outstretched hand.
Derek's mouth quirks at the corner, and Stiles is definitely going to consider
that a victory, no question. Derek bends his right knee into a high lunge and
holds out his hands to Stiles, his face curious.
"You can do a handstand?"
Stiles snorts. "Of course."
"On a bar?"
"Uh, yes."
"Great." Derek grins this time, showing all his teeth, and something deep in
Stiles shivers. He pushes it down, steps into Derek's space and takes his
forward hand, face questioning.
"We're going to start with you on my shoulders. Put your right foot here," he
pats his upper thigh, "and then swing your left foot around behind my head and
step up so that you're standing facing forward." The look he levels at Stiles
is full of implicit challenge, and Stiles' grin widens, gleeful in the face of
something new that he can push on, through, toward. He adjusts his grip on
Derek's hands, sets his foot and pushes, and then he's there on Derek's
shoulders, the sensation different than standing on a bar or a beam because he
can feel the heat and balanced strength of the muscles under his arches. He's
still holding onto Derek's hands, leaning forward just slightly to grip them as
Derek straightens up. He starts to let go, to stand up straight, but Derek's
fingers close over his own, holding him in place.
"Now. We're going to try this, and...we'll just see where it goes." Derek
pauses, and Stiles waits for him to finish the thought, caught up in the feel
of Derek's fingers settling unconsciously, finding the perfect grip on his own.
"You're strong, and you've got good balance, but working on a person is
different, so."
"So?" Stiles shifts his weight again, feeling the delicate motions of Derek's
solid bulk beneath him.
"So" Derek's smiling again, Stiles can hear it "stand on your hands."
"Stand on my..." He's halfway into the thought when he gets it, feeling a
little like a dunce, but he can't help it, they've never had acrobats at
Deaton's, so he's never seen their tricks in person, only seen pictures and
posters of what they can do. He braces himself for the jump up to vertical,
feels Derek tense beneath him.
"Slowly. Push your weight onto me first, then raise your legs. Make it a
controlled motion."
Stiles nods distractedly, already levering his weight forward and out, bringing
himself into a suspended sitting position balanced on Derek's hands above his
head. It's different from what he's used to, and he takes a second to really
feel it, to try and get a grasp on the sensations and how they will play into
his next moves. He's used to compensating for the physical effects of his own
motion; his movements on the rope or the hoop or the bar all affect the motion
of that object, and figuring out how to work with that, rather than against it,
is just part of the skill- but compensating for something that's compensating
for him is different- every motion he makes, no matter how small, he can feel
in reverse as Derek makes minute adjustments, keeping his stance as stable as
possible.
He raises himself slowly, the effort of it concentrated in his core as he kicks
his legs back and up and over his head, feeling the moment when he comes into
straight alignment and gripping it, holding it. Derek's hands are steady
beneath him, holding Stiles aloft seemingly effortlessly.
"Hey! Hey, we did it!" Stiles wants to wiggle with glee, but resists, hears
Derek chuckle beneath him. He thinks back to the posters he's seen, mind racing
through images until he comes to the right one, cements it in his mind. He
drops his left leg to the side, feeling it move into balance position, and
releases his right hand from Derek's, ignoring the noise of surprise below him
and the way Derek's fingers catch at his own as he pulls away, bringing his arm
up and out to the side. He gets it for a second, but he's not stable, and the
sensation of Derek shifting beneath him to hold his unexpected motion
overbalances him, and then he's falling, tucking and rolling with it, keeping
his limbs loose for impact, and is somehow still surprised when Derek catches
him a foot from the mat, easing him down the rest of the way.
His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, and he keeps his back to Derek. They
were doing well, and he got overexcited, and then he lost it, and isn't that
how it always goes? Push, push, push, Stiles, and then it all falls down. He
hears Derek moving around him, sees his feet as they come to stand facing his
own, Derek's bulk looming over him.
"Hey." Against his better judgment, Stiles looks up. Derek's face is concerned,
and he's rubbing his wrist absently. Stiles feels suddenly much worse. It's
been so long since he worked with someone else, he's forgotten that a partner
can be hurt, and he hangs his head again. "Are you okay?"
Stiles glances up again in surprise before he can stop himself. "I'm fine. I
fall all the time, I know how to do it." He shrugs, looks down at his feet
again. "Sorry I messed it up. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Derek huffs in amusement. "I'm fine. My sis...the partner I worked with most,
she never remembered to warn me. I was used to it. But..."
"...it's been a while."
Derek nods, reaches down a hand to Stiles. "Yeah. And you're new to this. So,
you have to tell me what you want to do, or we could both get hurt. Okay?"
Stiles nods to the ground, waiting for Derek to leave, but after a moment the
hand's still there, so he takes it in his, pulls himself to his feet. He tries
to let go, turn around and walk away, but Derek's still got his hand, holds it
until Stiles looks at him.
"Again?"
--
Stiles overslept (again), so when he skids around the corner of the offices
into the main hall everyone else is already seated, and Deaton's standing in
the center with Stiles' father at his left shoulder, looking stern. It's just
the weekly meeting, and he's late more than half the time, but Deaton stares at
him appraisingly while his father pointedly looks the other way, and Stiles
hangs his head in embarrassment, glancing around quickly for a seat.
Scott's already sitting with his mother and with Allison, all three of them
across the open space from where he's standing. Isaac and Erica and Boyd are
all at another table, and closer, but there's not really enough room on their
bench. He sees another table nearer, with an open spot on the end, so Stiles
dives for it, fumbling into a seated position and shivering in the chilly
morning air. It takes him a second to realize that his benchmate is Derek, but
as soon as his sideways glance reveals the distinctive thatch of black hair and
slightly ridiculous ears, he scoots over and shoves up against Derek's arm,
humming appreciatively at the sudden warmth all down his side. He expects to
enjoy it for a second before getting pushed away- pretty much everyone's used
to his tactile nature, but not everyone appreciates it- but Derek twitches the
corner of his mouth and wraps a companionable arm around him, snugging Stiles
in under his shoulder and pressing them together from bench to the crook of
Stiles' neck, making Stiles shudder in pleasure at the heat Derek puts off. He
makes some sort of noise of gratitude under his breath, and Derek just squeezes
his hand on Stiles' arm, letting him settle in as Deaton clears his throat.
"As some of you have no doubt heard..." Someone snickers and Deaton holds his
poker face for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Alright, as all of you have
no doubt heard by now" he smiles mildly at the chuckles from his audience, then
straightens his face, holding his small frame tall, "we've had our first run-in
of the year with a group of Hunters." He pauses for effect, looking seriously
around the circle. Derek's gone all stiff beside Stiles, so Stiles leans his
head on the point of Derek's shoulder, wanting somehow to pull him back from
whatever it is that's got him so uptight.
"There have always been occasional encounters, but for the most part they've
been a problem that has stayed back east. For which I have been very grateful."
He glances around meaningfully as the crowd shifts in their seats. "Generally,
we've stuck to our camp, and they stay in the city, and no one causes too much
trouble. We don't go out alone, we don't let our womenfolk go into town without
an escort" Deaton looks sternly around to quell the rumble of discontent at
this statement, "we take the townfolks' money, and everyone leaves well enough
alone."
"This year, though, it's starting early." Deaton has a very good concerned
face, Stiles thinks- he manages to express worry without it leading to panic,
and it's got some indefinable quality that urges anyone looking at him to do
their best to follow through with whatever comes next. "A few of our group had
a run-in with some Hunters in town the other day, and it could have ended much
worse than it did. It was thanks to cool heads and safety in numbers that we
got off as easily as we did. Moreover, I've been hearing rumors that have
recently been confirmed about a new Hunters of the Lord congregation setting up
shop outside of Sacramento proper. The Hunters we've had around before have
been small time bullies; but I am here to tell you today that these new ones
mean business. They've built themselves a church, brought in some members from
other towns to help prop up the local population, and they've attracted one of
their most notorious circuit riders to be their preacher, a Mr. Gerard Argent."
Derek's gone so still and immobile beside Stiles that he worries for the man's
circulation, so he sets a hand on Derek's leg, rubbing his thumb back and forth
in an attempt to soothe him back into something resembling a normal state.
There's murmuring all around now, a low hum of anxious and angry chatter
discussing the implications of this news.
"As you may or may not know, the Argent family has been responsible for a great
deal of death and ruination back east" Deaton continues, "up to and including
the massacre of half the population of the Morrell circus. They're too smart to
get caught, and they make a point of being on good terms with the local
enforcement, and so I'm sure that I don't need to tell you all that they are
very, very dangerous." The assembly has gone still, listening to Deaton's even
voice as he speaks, watching him where he stands still in the center of their
motley crowd. "They're the worst kind of zealots. Other Hunters are in it for
the sport, or the politics, and that makes them easier to dissuade, to
distract. The Argents truly believe that their cause is holy, and that circus
folk as a people deserve to be wiped out because of our depravity. This means
that they will not hesitate to execute what they feel to be their God-given
duty, and they will not be swayed from it."
Deaton pauses, lets his words sink in. None of it's really new information,
Stiles thinks, but it's sobering to hear it all laid out that way. They've been
so lucky, so far- for all the run-ins that they've had over the years, it's
never been anything worse than some brawls and property damage, never enough to
seriously injure the circus itself or its business. The circus wintering here
brings in money to Sacramento, and the town fathers know that, and have behaved
accordingly in the past.
Looks like their luck has changed.
"Stilinski here is going to run down some of the precautions we'll be taking
this year, as well as some ground rules for how we're going to handle any of us
being off the lot. Stilinski?"
Stiles' dad steps forward, clearing his throat and folding his hands in front
of himself. Stiles tunes most of it out- it's just the more advanced version of
what they've always done, anyway- instead of always take a buddy, it's now
always take at least two or three buddies, and make sure at least one of them
is large and muscley. Don't bring strangers to the compound, if you see anyone
new around, make sure to report it, check and double check all of your
equipment, lock your doors. Stiles is too busy rubbing his thumb back and forth
along Derek's clenching thigh to hear it, too busy listening to Derek's
measured breathing, in and out and in and out and in.
The talk finishes, and everyone begins to shuffle to their feet, stretching
chilled muscles, shaking out pins and needles in the growing sunshine. Derek
stands, and Stiles mourns the missing warmth of his arm, scoots to let him out
of the bench, and Derek leaves without a word, striding swiftly off in the
direction of his cabin.
Stiles follows him, tripping over his feet in his haste to catch up to Derek's
long, booted strides, but he can't catch him in time, and fetches up hard on
Derek's front steps as the door closes in his face, the echo of Derek's
footfalls on the wooden steps echoing around him.
He goes back to his own stoop for a while, watching the sun burn off the
lingering fog, listening for signs of life in the small space next door,
waiting for the door to open. Scott finds him there after an hour, gives him a
piercing glance, and hauls him off to practice.
--
It's a Sunday morning late in November, the one day a week that the two cooks
take as a day of rest, and Stiles is busy shoveling pieces of his father's top-
of-the-wood-stove french toast into his mouth when the aforementioned father
sits down across the table from him and pins him with a stare. Stiles swallows,
flicking his tongue out to catch the last drip of syrup from the corner of his
mouth, fighting the urge to run from the look being aimed at him. It'd be no
use, he knows, he's tried, his father can catch him before he's gotten halfway
across the room.
"Stiles."
"Yessir?"
His father leans back in his chair, all comfortable nonchalance, not a care in
the world, and Stiles is suddenly much more nervous.
"How's practice going?"
Stiles slices off another piece of chewy batter-fried goodness and shoves it in
his mouth.
"'s good."
"Good?"
His dad sounds skeptical, so Stiles nods his head emphatically, chewing,
swallowing, and taking a big swig of his water that makes him cough and
splutter.
"Yeah! Great! I mean, you know, it's always..." He gestures vaguely with his
hands, his fork tracing delicate trajectories in the morning sun, "hard, you
know. I'm working on some of the new rope tricks that Elise sent me from Paris,
and it's difficult, because I can't see what I'm doing, but I think I'm
starting to get it. It feels good, at least, which is more than it did at
first." He pauses, thinks for a minute, takes another bite. "And Erica's coming
along, she's getting really confident on the hoop. Deaton thinks she can
premiere it for the pre-Christmas matinees, get used to doing it in front of
the crowds."
His dad nods, shifting in his chair. His sandy hair is starting to edge with
grey, and Stiles looks resolutely away from it.
"That's good. I know how Erica gets bored."
Stiles nods again, swiping the last bite of toast around in the sticky brown
puddle of syrup on his plate, before hauling it up and over his mouth, sticking
his tongue out to catch the drip before it can hit his chin.
"Mmm. Yeah, she's good at what she does, but she needed something different."
Stiles frowns at his plate, thinking. "That new regimen Lydia's got her on must
be helping; I haven't seen her have an incident in months." He picks up the
faded flowered napkin next to his plate and smears it over his mouth, scrubbing
determinedly at a sticky spot. “She says she feels safe, now- she told me she's
always wanted to do more than just the bendy tricks, but you know.” He shrugs,
and his father nods. “She couldn't trust it. It wasn't safe. Had to do
something that wouldn't injure her if she had a fit. But with Lydia's work...
maybe not anymore.”
His father shakes his head absently. "Me either. It's good news for her; she'd
always have a place here, but that's a hell of a thing to have hanging over
you." His face closes down, and he scowls at his empty plate. "Don't help us
with those Hunters crawling around, neither. Not her fault, but it's just the
sort of thing they like to exploit, turn people against us on account of us
'harboring freaks' and the like. Dangerous for her and us both."
Stiles nods. His experience with Hunters has been blessedly little, but his
father knows them far too well for Stiles' comfort, and it worries at him, that
this man, this man who is his one parent and relative in this world, is also
their collective line of defense between the ugliness and danger of the
outside, and the safety and sanctuary of their own little bubble of life.
His father takes a deep breath. "What's this I hear about you working with that
new roughneck, Derek?" It's clearly what he's been leading up to, and Stiles
has no idea why he's suddenly nervous, twisting sweaty palms into his napkin.
He also has no idea how his father has found out about their little practice
sessions- they haven't been going on for long, and it's not like either of them
advertises them. Spies, he thinks, his father has spies all over camp.
"Well, you see..." Stiles passes a hand over the short fuzz of his hair,
scratching at the back of his neck, "it turns out he's an acrobat, so, I've
just been helping him get back into shape?" He doesn't mean for it to come out
as a question, but there it is, and that sort of tone is like blood in the
water to his father's finely honed interrogation skills.
"Uh-huh." His father raises an eyebrow at him, and Stiles resists the urge to
sit on his hands. "What's this I hear about you wanting to teach him to catch?"
Damn, his sources are good, Stiles thinks, and fights down a burst of
admiration in favor of pulling an innocent face. "Teach him to catch? Nope, no
sir, I mean, you know, if he decided he wanted to learn to catch, well, now,
that would be a whole different thing, now wouldn't it? If he did, that is,
decide he wanted to." He blinks his eyes wide, watches his father rub at his
temple. "He's a very good acrobat, actually. Just out of practice."
"Son...did it ever occur to you that, if a man who has a particular talent
joins a group, and doesn't tell them about this talent, it might be because he
doesn't want it to be known?"
Stiles bites his lip. "Deaton knows. Derek said so. He doesn't treat it like a
secret..."
His father eyeballs him again, his incredulity practically pulling up a seat at
the table.
"How did you find out about it?"
He wiggles his toes on the chilly floorboards, poking a toe out of a hole in
his sock to trace the edge of the table leg. "I...found him practicing."
"In public?"
"...no. But he's been coming to practice of his own free will! It's not like
I'm even capable of strong-arming him or anything."
"Stiles..." His father looks disappointed, and Stiles heart sinks. "I know that
you're smarter than this. Think this all the way through, son." He shifts in
his chair again, leaning forward to press his point. "You're a young man with
an unknown past who has just signed on with a new group. You are dependent upon
them for food, shelter, and employment. Maybe you have a skill that would be
useful to them, but you, for your own reasons, want to keep it to yourself, and
you get permission to do so. But then one of the regulars finds out about your
secret, gets excited, and tells you in no uncertain terms to come use that
skill with him, regularly." His father's eyes are pale in the morning light,
washed out, where Stiles' and his mother's are (were) dark and warm. "Now, does
that sound like a choice to you, Stiles? Having to choose between a secret you
would like to keep, and alienating a person in the group you are new to and
need?"
Stiles hangs his head, gut churning with remorse. He hadn't thought it was like
that, he'd never have pushed if he thought it would come across that way, he
just...he didn't think of himself as a person that Derek would have any
investment in pleasing, not really, in fact he'd been as surprised as Derek had
seemed that Derek had shown up at all. But maybe he was wrong, maybe Derek was
just trying to stay out of trouble, trying to placate the kid who could get him
fired, thrown out.
"No, sir."
His father sighs, reaches over to thump his shoulder gently.
"Don't look so grim, kid. I don't think Derek's really a push-over by nature.
But you need to think about these things first, alright? Don't just go pushing
people into doing what you want them to- people have their own thoughts and
feelings and reasons for things. You need to be careful of that." He stands up,
and Stiles joins him, moving to pick up the plates, but getting pulled into a
hug before he closes his fingers around a rim. He's getting too old for this,
he's nearly the same height as his father now, but he lets his hands come up to
grip at the back of his father's shirt, lays his head on his warm shoulder.
"Just...ask him, ok? Give him a real choice."
Stiles nods into the warm flannel of his father's shirt.
"Yes, sir."
--
"Great job, buddy. The crowd loved that new trick!" Stiles claps Scott on the
shoulder as he slips under the tent flap into the waiting area, his face pink-
cheeked and beaming with success.
"Thanks!" Scott pulls him into a one-armed hug, knocking his top hat askew and
bonking his shoulder into Stiles' cheekbone. "You're gonna be great too, I
can't wait to see your new rope routine!"
Stiles nods, and smiles, but Scott is already off, pushing through the tightly
packed backstage area like a homing pigeon straight to Allison's open arms and
blushing face. Stiles goes back to peering out through the tent flap, rolling
his eyes at the lovebirds as he peeks into the ring. Isaac is gamboling about
like he always does between acts, giving the twins time to prep the gear for
the next performance. The lions have already run out of the ring through the
tunnels into their pens, but the sand has to be swept and Erica's hoop and
pedestal have to be set. Isaac makes flowers appear from his suit coat and
rounds his mouth in surprise, happily handing them out to the little girls in
the front rows, then trips over a set of colored balls at the edge of the ring
and literally falls into a complicated juggling routine involving both hands
and a foot. Erica's hoop descends to excited murmurs from the crowd, and Stiles
can see Derek in the background, putting his weight on it to make sure that
it's securely anchored, checking the position of it so that it's not too close
to her regular trick stand. Erica herself tumbles out a second later, and she
and Isaac move into their familiar performance roles, him pretending to fall in
love with her, and pursuing her comically around the ring as she becomes ever
more creative in her attempts to hide from him, twisting herself behind
objects, shimmying up posts, and finally squeezing herself into a box which
Isaac, seemingly still hunting for his lost paramour, sets on her pedestal,
leading into her main contortionism display.
The crowd oohs and aahs in all the right places, watching with rapt attention
as she flips and bends and balances, her beauty and grace holding them right
where she wants them. Only because Stiles knows her can he detect the split
second of hesitation at the end when she stands up and settles the hoop in her
gaze, and he bounces behind the tent flap in his excitement and nervousness on
her behalf. She lifts her chin and begins her new routine, dangling from the
hoop as the music swells, pulling herself flawlessly into the beginning
positions, Stiles' heart in his throat as he watches.
The first section goes perfectly, not a hint of an error, but as she moves into
the second set of moves Stiles can see that something's wrong- she slows,
gripping the hoop, and begins to lower herself to the ground, her eyes vacant
and her mouth opening. Isaac is already moving, but it's Derek who gets to her
first, scooping her into his arms and dancing away from Isaac in a pantomime of
aggressive jealousy. Isaac, thank God, is quick on the uptake, and bumbles
after them, a parody of love denied, but Stiles can see Erica seizing in
Derek's arms as he hustles her through the tent flap, his body defensively
hiding her from the gaze of the crowd.
Stiles can hear that Deaton is playing it off over the roar in his ears, making
jokes about young love and the vagaries of fortune and competition; can see
that Isaac is fooling the crowd enough that they are mostly forgetting the
hiccup of strangeness in favor of the joy of the clown. He desperately wants to
go to her, check on her, but he can hear Deaton calling his name, so he
plasters a smile on his face, hauls his spine up straight, and flings open the
tent flap to climb the ladder into the heights.
--
The second he's down and done, he's out, running in his costume over to the
medical house, his sweat-damp leotard steaming in the cold night air. He knows
his performance went off fine, but he remembers none of it, can't wipe the
image of Erica sliding to the floor from his mind- it's her worst nightmare, he
knows, to have an incident in front of a crowd, to show her weakness so
publicly, and though he thinks most of those watching didn't catch it, he knows
that's small comfort now, and no less risk going forward.
He pauses at the steps, suddenly nervous. She doesn't like to talk about this,
doesn't usually like company after an episode, but he just wants...he wants to
make sure she's ok, and then if she kicks him out, so be it. Still, he leans
over to peer in the window, his eyes blinking at the light from the lamp that
fills the room. He can see her lying on a cot facing him, still, now, but pale
and wan. Nurse McCall is standing at the far end of the room debating heatedly
with Lydia, still in costume from her turn earlier with Jackson on the horses,
both of them gesturing expansively around the room as they argue. Erica, if she
looked up, would see him, but she's too busy gazing up adoringly at the dark-
haired figure leaning over her bed, and if Stiles didn't know how close she was
to Boyd, he'd seriously start fearing for Boyd's position in her affections. As
it is, it still makes his stomach clench to see the look she's pointing up at
Derek, her hand resting lightly on his jacket sleeve as he speaks softly down
to her, his face a wrinkle of gentle concern. It's only because he's so
grateful to see someone else opening up to Derek, making him feel cared for, he
thinks, that's why he feels suddenly cold, and he's only happy for them both to
have found this new affection when Derek passes his hand softly over her blond
curls before standing upright and straightening his shirt and coat. He steps
out of Stiles' line of sight, and Stiles leans in, watching as Lydia and Nurse
McCall shift various bottles around on the tabletop and Erica closes her eyes.
The door opens, and Stiles startles at the noise, turning to watch as Derek
descends the three steps, raising his eyebrows as he sees Stiles under the
window, his expression quickly turning to concern.
"What are you doing out here? Did you come right after you got down?" He steps
swiftly over, yanking his jacket down his arms and wrapping it firmly around
Stiles' shoulders, making him wriggle with the sensation of the sudden warmth.
"You're going to be a mass of knots when your muscles seize up from the cold.
C'mon, start walking." He yanks Stiles against him easily, propelling him down
the line toward their houses, his legs eating up the distance while Stiles
stumbles along beside him.
"I just wanted to make sure she was alright."
Derek nods, waiting for Stiles to push open the door to his cabin, then
hustling in behind him and shutting the door, his palm warm on the small of
Stiles' back.
"Get changed."
Stiles scrambles to his room, hurries in peeling his damp and cooled leotard
off, beginning to shiver as he yanks on sleep pants and a nightshirt, shoving
his feet into his slippers and wrapping an afghan around his shoulders. He can
hear the sounds of Derek poking the fire in the woodstove, stirring up the
coals and adding a log before using the bellows to coax the flames to catch.
Stiles wanders back out to the main room, drawing up close to the open door of
the wood stove, letting the afghan drop open so that the heat can hit his legs,
pushing a knee up against Derek's shoulder where he crouches in front of the
hearth.
"How did you know?"
Derek makes a questioning face at him, setting down the poker and sitting all
the way down, bringing his hands up to chafe at Stiles' calf, impersonal
friction on pajama clad skin.
"That she was about to..." Stiles screws up his face, caught in the memories of
the fits he's seen Erica have. As terrible as they are to watch, he knows it's
worse for her to endure them.
"Oh." Derek switches his hands to Stiles' other leg, looks down at the floor
contemplatively. "One of the sons of the ringmaster at my old circus had the
falling sickness. He was just a ticket-taker and snack-seller, but we all got
used to seeing it right before it happened." He shrugs, pulling his hands back
to poke one last time at the fire before shutting the iron door. Stiles pulls
the afghan around himself again, his legs chilly without the heat of Derek's
hands. "I didn't know for sure that she had it, but I overheard Lydia talking
to her a few weeks ago, and then when I saw her freeze up tonight, I
just...knew."
He stands, straightening himself again, hands coming up to wrap the afghan more
securely around Stiles' shoulders.
"It was good. What you did." Stiles feels like an idiot the second the words
are out of his mouth, but there's no taking them back. "...thanks. You know,
for helping her."
Derek looks at him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable in the flickering
light, then nods briefly before moving to the door.
"She'll be fine, Stiles. You don't need to worry."
Stiles forces a smile. "Yeah. Thanks."
Derek's hand twists on the doorknob, but he looks almost hesitant to leave, his
chest taking in one last deep breath before he pushes the door open.
"Good night, Stiles."
"Night, Derek."
The door shuts with a final click, leaving him alone in the house, alone and
chilly in the dark, so he shuffles of to his little room, his little bed.
It's not till he sits on something lumpy on his coverlet in the dark that he
realizes he's still got Derek's jacket.
--
Stiles gets up earlier than he normally would the next morning, bare toes
skittering on the cold wooden boards of his tiny room, pulling his clothes
under the covers with him to warm them up and dress in his little cocoon of
heat. Clothed, he pops out of bed, rinses his face in the ewer, and grabs his
coat, hat, and shoes from beside the door. The sun is up, but not for long,
which means that Scott will still be working on morning feedings for the lions
down in the south pens.
He makes his way down in the morning sun, the fog still burning off and the
shadows of the buildings cold, to the sunny field where the unmistakable
crunches and cracks of flesh being rent and bones being munched are resounding
in the chilly air. Scott is perched on the fence watching as the four lionesses
and one lion bloody their jaws in the steaming carcasses in front of them,
chewing on a piece of grass as he keeps an eye on his charges.
Stiles clambers up next to him, climbing up the fencing until he can swing his
legs over and perch on the top next to his friend, wiggling his rear until he
finds a position that's less uncomfortable than all of the others and settles
in.
"What's eating you?"
"Hmm?"
Scott turns and laughs at him, his face wreathed in the same open and friendly
expression Stiles thinks he's had since birth, and Stiles suddenly feels
lighter, scoots over till he's shoulder to shoulder with Scott.
"What makes you think something's up?"
Scott laughs again, shoves at his shoulder playfully. "C'mon, Stiles, you hate
being up this early. You only come watch the carnage," he gestures broadly at
the contentedly munching cats below them, mouths dripping, "when something's
under your skin. So, what gives?"
One of the cats swipes lazily at another, knocking its face away from the kill,
and Stiles rubs his hands across his head in frustration. "I...don't know."
"Uh-huh." Scott nods in amusement. "Sure you don't. I bet you don't even know
that his name starts with Der..."
"Fine, yes, ok, Derek. Derek is getting under my skin." Stiles interrupts him,
looking away to where the river cuts through the rambling fields. Scott is
silent beside him, thinking, and Stiles appreciates him all over again, his
loyalty and his slow steadfastness. It's easy to judge Scott for his
impulsivity (not that Stiles has room to throw that particular stone) or for
his single-mindedness, but the essence of Scott is loyal devotion, to his mom,
to his cats, to Stiles. To Allison, Stiles thinks, unless he's judged it wrong.
"Seemed like you two were getting along pretty well..." Scott ventures,
glancing sidelong at Stiles to catch his reaction.
"We are, I guess, I just...I wish I knew more about him." Stiles huffs in
annoyance, kicking his feet against the rungs of the fence. "I mean, we don't
really know anything, do we. Where did he come from? Why did he come to us? Why
the hell is he wasting his time being a roughneck when he could have his own
act?" Stiles throws his hands wide.
"Does he even like you in the way tha..." Scott clasps his hands in front of
him and bats his eyelashes to the heavens, his voice falsetto and sweet. Stiles
punches him, and Scott staggers away laughing. One of the lionesses raises her
head inquiringly, but Scott climbs back up onto the fence, clearly unharmed,
and she goes unconcernedly back to her meal.
"I'm serious, Scott. He's a complete mystery. What if he's some undercover
Hunter? Or...I don't know, a lost prince with amnesia? Or a murderer on the
run?"
"Does he seem like a murderer on the run?"
"Well, no, but..."
"And if he were on the run, wouldn't settling in a town for six months be kind
of a bad idea?"
"I don't know, Scott, maybe he's laying low!"
"Hey, hey." Scott rumples his hair, then slings an arm around Stiles' shoulders
until he leans willingly into Scott's side. "It's ok. Derek's a good guy."
"How do you know?"
Scott shrugs. "I just do. He's friendly, he's helpful, he's caring. He worships
the ground you walk on."
Stiles crosses his arms and scowls at the ground. "Could still be a serial
killer."
"Nahh.” Scott shrugs and grins, the rubs his fist across the top of Stiles'
head until Stiles is squirming in his grip. “You saw how he was with Erica.
That doesn't seem very serial killer to me."
Stiles lets out a breath, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yeah."
"Hey, I know you're worried, but it's ok, you know that, right?"
"Hm?"
"You and him. I mean, I know you were in love with Lydia forever, but I don't
think anyone's going to be that surprised. And it's not like Danny hasn't
always had gentlemen callers." Scott shrugs again. "Besides, everyone can see
how you two look at each other."
Stiles kicks determinedly at the fence rungs, and Scott turns back to the field
in front of them. One of the lionesses has sauntered away to roll in the grass,
scrubbing her reddened muzzle on the ground and licking her paws.
"Allison's a mystery too, you know, but...I don't care." Stiles looks up, but
Scott is staring off into the distance. "I've asked her about her family, and
she said she didn't want to talk about it, so." He spreads his hands in a
placating gesture. "So we don't. But it doesn't matter. I know her, I know
everything that matters about her, and that's all I need to know. We're in
love, and there's nothing about her that could change that. Nothing." He turns
back to face Stiles, his eyes wide open and earnest. "Maybe Derek is that for
you, and maybe he isn't. But either way, Stiles, you'll know, ok? You'll know."
They sit quietly for a few minutes, watching as the morning sun warms up the
field enough to raise steam from the heating dew. One by one the lions wander
away from their breakfast, some rolling around in the grass, some settling in
for a sunny nap.
“Is it hard? Not seeing her all the time?”
Scott tips his head in consideration, crosses one leg over the other as he
thinks.
“Sure, I mean, if I could be with her every hour of every day, I would.” He
shrugs. “But she wants to join us. She is going to join us, I know she's
planning on talking to Deaton about it. He'll call a meeting, and everyone will
say yes, so...I can wait.”
“Her parents don't want her to join?”
Scott shakes his head instantly, his eyebrows drawing down. “No, no, I guess
they're pretty well off, and very proper. They want her to marry some rich boy
from the town and be a society lady, you know.”
Stiles thinks of Allison the last time he saw her, clad in riding britches and
a leather vest, shooting down a row of targets blindfolded. He tries to picture
her in a fancy dress, drinking coffee in a parlor, and begins to snicker.
“Yeah, right?” Scott grins broadly, his ears pinking as he thinks of her. “It's
ridiculous.”
“Only you, Scotty, would end up with a woman more dangerous than your lions.”
Stiles flips himself upside down on the fence, skinning the cat to come back up
on his feet again.
Scott sighs blissfully.
“Yeah. She's wonderful.”
--
Lydia is mixing something in a small bottle when he finds her in the medical
house, the afternoon sunlight setting fire to her coronet of strawberry hair,
her pale fingers busy with the glass stirring stick, the light rhythmic
clanking sound of her motion echoing in the empty room.
"What do you want, Stiles?"
He sidles over to her side, careful not to block the light, eyeing the
ingredients she has set out on the workbench with curiosity.
"Found something new?" He knows she's been spending a lot of time in here, ever
since Erica's incident in the ring a fortnight ago. She's recruited Allison,
too, with her clever fingers and steady hands. He thinks Lydia took it
personally that Erica's doses had failed her, and has been doing chemistry as
penance ever since.
She grimaces, her delicate features beautiful even when screwed into a pucker
of displeasure.
"Not really. We're going to try something different, but who knows how she'll
respond."
Stiles nods. It's all a matter of trial and error, he knows- it would be
anywhere, really, but out here there are no medical schools, no teaching
hospitals to provide Lydia with sample cases, or control studies. Nurse McCall
is no slouch, and knows far more about the broader medical necessities than
Lydia, but Lydia taught herself chemistry the summer she was 11 and the circus
stayed three months in Santa Monica. A local apothecary had taken a shine to
her, and taught her as much of his trade as he could in the limited time
available. She'd long since used her share of the circus' earnings to purchase
flasks and a microscope and a burner, and had taken up correspondence with half
a dozen physicians around the country as “L. Martin Jr.”. Isaac and Erica had
turned up that same year, bruised and afraid and hiding Erica's attacks as best
they could, but Lydia had taken Erica's falling sickness as a personal
challenge and had been treating her ever since with gradually improving
success.
"What happened? Do you know?"
Lydia mutters to herself, measuring out an exacting amount of pale liquid and
dropping it into the bottle.
"We've been adjusting her dosage. The bromide treatment is the best for her
symptoms, but the side effects are too prohibitive for what we do. I tried
upping her dosage this summer, and it kept her attacks away, but it made her a
zombie, and if she's a zombie, she can't work."
Stiles nods again. It's true, he knows, and it's important- it's one thing to
have to take a week off because of a flu or fever, but Erica's illness is
chronic, and if her treatments prevent her from working, then her career is
over. Deaton would never force her to leave- she and Isaac are family, just
like the rest of them- but Erica is a born performer, and to limit her to
sewing or cooking or cleaning the camp would injure her as surely as a fall
from the ring.
"So, we had lowered her dosage," Lydia continues, holding the small bottle to
the light and squinting one green eye at it before capping it and tearing off a
thin strip of paper for a label. "But I think now we haven't been giving her
enough. She's not having the side effects, but if she's seizing again, it's
also too little to be helpful. So." She scrawls something hastily onto the
paper, licks the back, and sticks it to the smooth glass. "Now we try something
different. I'm playing it by ear, but I feel good about the direction we're
moving in." She shelves the bottle near the end of the rack, setting the glass
stirrer in a bowl of items to be washed and peeling off her lab apron. "Nurse
McCall agrees," she adds as an afterthought "as does Erica. So, we'll see."
She's facing him now, backlit by the window and as impressive as always,
despite her tiny stature. Her chin lifts, and he lowers his eyes in unconscious
response, looking at his hands where they're folded in front of him.
"What did you want, Stiles?"
--
"C'mon!" Lydia gestures furiously at him, and after one more fast and furtive
look around behind him, he scurries through the door to Deaton's office and
pulls it closed. The blood is pounding in his throat because this is seriously
something he could really get in trouble for, something that would make his dad
shake his head and look at him with that distant disappointment in his eyes.
"Stiles!" Lydia's across the room already pulling through file cabinets and
drawers, shuffling paperwork. "Get over here and help me. Do you want to find
out about Derek or not?"
He hurries over, tripping over Deaton's chair and catching his hip on the
corner of his desk, wincing in pain but moving over to take the sheaf of
paperwork that Lydia is proffering. He's lucky, he thinks, as he opens the
folder and starts rifling through the documents one by one, that Lydia is as
naturally curious as he is, because it really should have taken a lot more
convincing than it did to get her to help with this little escapade. In fact,
breaking into Deaton's office had been her idea, something that never would
have occurred to him, in spite of it being the obvious way to get more
information on a man whose last name is unknown to the entire camp. Her idea,
and her hairpin picking the lock, while Stiles stood watch and hoped like hell
that he wasn't going to have to come up with some plausible reason for why they
were breaking and entering the circus manager's office, because he really had
nothing.
His palms are sweating, and he's trying not to smudge any of the ink on the
forms he's shuffling through- he's trusting Lydia to make sure that everything
gets back properly in its place, because he thinks that Deaton probably is
fussy enough to notice is something is off, and Stiles has no desire to be on
the end of that even stare, whether or not his father got involved (and he
would). The contracts are sorted neither by year, nor alphabetically, but by
some obscure system that is apparent only to Deaton. Stiles pauses when he gets
to his own- he'd started signing them as soon as he was old enough to perform
in the ring at age 6, his childish handwriting printed above his parents'
scrawling signatures. His mother's contracts are right behind his own, and his
throat tightens at the familiar sight of her delicate penmanship. It hadn't
appeared on his contracts after he was ten, just his signature underscored by
his father's, signing away his time and body yearly in exchange for food,
housing, and family.
The contract turns up in Lydia's folder after a minute of frenzied rifling, and
she holds it out wordlessly, her perfectly shaped fingernail pointing to the
bottom. Derek Hale, it reads, in clean and distinctive script. Derek Hale.
"Hale..." Lydia sounds thoughtful, papers continuing to rustle as she slides
the contract back into place, tapping the bottom of her folder on the desk to
neaten it before slipping it into the slot in the file cabinet she has open.
"That sounds familiar." She takes his folder from his hands, taps it once, and
slides it in next to her own, shutting the drawer with a final click before
surveying the space around them and flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"C'mon, Stiles. We've got a name, now, let's get the rest."
She pushes past him and peers carefully out the window before turning the knob
and looking over her should to raise her eyebrows at him. "Stiles. Do you want
to know, or not?"
He does, God help him, he really does.
He follows her out, locking the door behind him.
--
It's a lot less risky here in Lydia's little house, and Stiles breathes easier
as he sits on the floor of Lydia's room, her rag rug keeping his behind from
the chilly wood floor. The Martins have the biggest house in the compound, and
Lydia's mother has decorated it inside and out for Christmas, berry chains and
evergreen boughs and a full-sized tree with teetering candles perched on the
branches. The smell of pine permeates the house, and mixes with the dust of the
boxes Lydia's hauled out of her mother's bookshelf to make him sneeze.
"Yech, Stiles, don't sneeze on the papers," Lydia admonishes him from her seat
at her desk, turning pages rapidly in the heavily bound scrapbook before her.
"Sorry. It's just the dust, it tickles." Stiles pulls out his hankie and blows
his nose thoroughly before tucking it away, choosing to ignore the vaguely
disgusted eye roll Lydia aims at him. "You're sure these are the right years?"
"Hmm. I think so." Lydia reaches the end of her current book, setting it aside
to take up the next one. "I remember hearing something about it. I definitely
recognize the name, and I remember that my mother had flyers of them. You said
he was an acrobat, right?"
"Yeah." Stiles flips halfheartedly through the scrapbook in front of him. He's
impressed with the amount of work Mrs. Martin has put into these- he's always
known that she's as dedicated as her daughter to the things she deems
important, but she's never been one of the adults in the circus that's he's
been close to; she's always been too perfect and too distant and too high brow,
as well as a little dismissive of Nurse McCall, and that had never set well
with Stiles. She's officially the publicist for the circus, and he's never
really given her role much thought, but with the amount of research that she
seems to have collected in the forms of flyers and articles and pamphlets about
other shows and acts over the years, he's willing to begrudgingly admit that
she must be pretty good at what she does. She seems to have a source for every
circus on the continent, and quite a few in Europe, and also seems to have
never thrown out a single piece of information that's come her way, which means
both that whatever it is that they're looking for is likely to be here
somewhere, and also that it's likely to take them years to find it. "He said
something once about how he used to practice with his sister, but then he
didn't say anything else."
Lydia hmms absently, flipping methodically through pages. "That sounds right.
I'd forgotten, but I do remember seeing a flyer about them, the Wolf Pack, I
think. There were kind of a lot of them." Stiles picks at the edge of the rag
rug, turning pages idly. Now that they're close, he's starting to feel a little
weird about this whole thing, the voice of his father echoing in the back of
his mind. "Lydia, maybe we shouldn't..."
"Don't be ridiculous, Stiles. The only way we're going to find anything is if
it's a matter of public record. We're hardly reading his diary, here." She sets
her second book aside, and pulls up a third. "Now keep looking."
"Why do you suppose he's here? If he's part of some big acrobatic troupe, and
especially if it was a family troupe, why is he here?"
"Who knows?" Lydia shrugs an elegant shoulder. "Things happen. Circumstances
change." She looks sternly at him over her shoulder until he starts turning
pages again. "Maybe they had a fight. Maybe someone died. Maybe they all
decided they'd had enough of the circus, and that was that. Maybe..." She sucks
in a sudden breath, her hands stilling on the pages in front of her, and Stiles
is scrambling up from the floor to lean over her shoulder and peer at the
newspaper article in front of her. "Maybe they all died in a fire."
It's a long article, clipped precisely by Mrs. Martin and pasted painstakingly
into the book, a two-page spread with the headline Circus Fire Devastates
Boston! 65 Dead, Many More Unaccounted For!The first page features an image of
a flyer for the circus itself, complete with trumpeting elephants and block
lettering, where the second page displays a horrifying photograph of a slumped
and smoking big top, charred remains revealed in an early morning sky. Stiles
bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood, and he can tell that Lydia is
holding her breath as they read.
Fire trucks were summoned late on the night of March 15 thto the big top of the
Morrell Family Touring Extravaganza to put out a five alarm fire already
consuming the tent and panicking the inhabitants! 65 persons are reported dead
at this time, the majority of whom were performers at the Morrell Family
Circus, including 11 members of the world-famous Hale Family Wolf Pack
Acrobatic Troupe. It is unknown how the fire was started, and inquiries to the
local branch of the Hunters of the Lord church have gone unanswered, though
rumor has it that firebrand Gerard Argent may have stirred up his brethren's
fervor during his recent trip to Boston and subsequent revivals in the town
square. Many are still missing in the aftermath, and unidentified bodies are
being held at the county morgue until the end of the week for claiming. If you
have any information about this tragic event, please contact the Boston police
directly.
"Jesus God," Stiles breathes, his stomach tight with horror, “the Morrell
fire,” and Lydia nods in agreement, her hands frozen on the page until she
takes a deep breath and turns it. The other side shows them a picture that Mrs.
Martin must have collected after the fact- a posed portrait of the Hale Family
Wolf Pack in its entirety, static and serious in their striped costumes. Twelve
of them are in the photo, and Stiles eyes it greedily, searching until he finds
him in the lower right corner- Derek, a younger Derek, his dark hair just as
unruly, but his eyes warm and his face young, younger, Stiles thinks, than his
is now. He bites his lip, looks at the rest of the picture. Lydia peels it
painstakingly out of the book with her fingernails, turning it over to reveal a
list of names on the back. Clockwise from top left, it says, Talia Hale, Jacob
Hale (the Wolf Man), Peter Hale, Eugenia Hale, Laura Hale, Derek Hale,
Constance Hale, Emma Hale, Arthur Hale, Reuben Hale, Cora Hale, and Mary Hale.
Lydia flips the photo back over. The first four, all standing in the back, are
obviously the adults- Peter and Jacob are clearly brothers, in spite of Peter
being more fair. Jacob, the Wolf Man himself, is hugely muscled and covered
in...well, fur, Stiles guesses. His hair sticks up all over his head, and his
eyebrows lower to the top of his nose. Peter, by contrast, looks like a dandy,
all sleek and coiffed, his arm lightly around Eugenia, who is delicately pretty
and impressively short. Talia looks surprisingly like her husband, enough that
Stiles wonders if she's maybe a distant cousin, but she's beautiful in a way
that Jacob is decidedly not, her thick dark hair piled on top of her head in an
elegant top knot, her body facing the camera straight on, chin raised. She's
taller than her husband as well, and her strong upper arms are clearly visible
at her sides. She's where Derek got his long, thin, nose, and also his
perfectly shaped eyes.
The kids are all cousins, and it shows in their faces, but he thinks he can
tell which family is which- Laura is dark like Derek, with the same nose and
straight brows. Laura and Derek are the oldest he thinks- Laura must be nearly
20 in this photo, and Derek looks like he's in his mid-teens, maybe 17 at the
outside. Arthur must also be around the same age, maybe a year younger than
Derek, his bearing open and sturdy where Laura is smaller and lithe. He has the
same unruly dark hair, and the same twitch at the corner of his mouth that
Derek does, where you can imagine that it hurt them to go for the requisite
full minute for the photo to set without breaking into a smile. Cora is
probably next in age, a mini-Laura around age 11 or so, wiry and curled under
Derek's arm, her dark hair in hanging braids. Constance could be Cora's twin in
the face, but she's smaller and fair, and so Stiles thinks she must be the
oldest of Peter's children, instead of one of Derek's siblings. Reuben can't be
more than 8, but he's standing proudly in front of Peter, his fists on his
hips, and his face a carbon copy of his father's, fair hair slicked back from a
cowlick to curl around behind his ear. Emma is just out of toddlerhood,
sprawled on her belly in front of the rest, heels in the air and a giant bow in
her perfect curls, Constance's hand resting on her back, and Mary is the only
one out of costume, a babe in Eugenia's arms dressed in what looks like a
christening gown and clutching a stuffed wolf toy.
It hits him all at once that these people are dead, have been dead for years,
not just the adults, but every single one of them, Reuben with his proud
stance, Cora with her copy-cat braids, baby Mary who must have never even lived
long enough to learn to walk, and he has to sit down on Lydia's bed and put his
head between his knees so he doesn't pass out. He can hear the tears splatting
off his nose and onto Lydia's hardwood floor and concentrates on breathing
slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth while he listens to Lydia
turning the pages of her book.
"There's not much more here," she says, almost apologetically. "They must not
have found out anything else, or my mom would have more articles about it, I'm
sure." She nudges the empty box over with her shoe, starts to put the books
back in it, stacking them neatly in chronological order. Stiles breathes some
more, lets the black spots fade from his vision. He hears the clacking of
Lydia's heels on the floor as she puts the box back where she found it, then
walks over to stand in front of him.
When he looks up, her face is troubled, and he spares a moment to wonder when
she became human to him again before realizing she's holding something out to
him.
"She'll never notice it's gone," she says, and slips the photo into his hand
before turning and holding the door open in clear dismissal. Stiles gets up
slowly, slips the photo under his shirt for safekeeping.
He's weary, and nauseated, and all he can think is that his dad is right, once
again- his need to push against everything has given him information he
shouldn't have, and doesn't really want, but there's nothing left but hindsight
and regret now.
He straightens up and walks through the door, the edge of the picture rubbing
at the skin of his chest.
--
***** Chapter Three (the hurt/comfort train rolls into town) *****
Derek's not quite sure what happened, but Stiles has been strange with him all
week. He still practiced with him for a day or two at the beginning, but kept
getting distracted and shooting Derek these heart-breaking looks when he
thought Derek wouldn't notice. Then, after two days, he pleaded off doing
acrobatics at all because he had to learn some new trick, and Derek's been
alone in the practice tent ever since. 
It hurts, Derek's not going to lie, but he's trying not to take it personally.
It could be a lot of things, he reassures himself. Maybe Stiles and Scott had a
fight- Derek knows that Scott's been spending more and more time with Allison
lately, and he's caught Stiles staring after them a little wistfully more than
once. Or maybe it's just that the upcoming holidays are making him blue- heaven
knows Derek has learned a thing or two about that. There are plenty of reasons
that Stiles could be acting off, he knows this, and he repeats it to himself
even as he quietly braces for the inevitable loss of the warm camaraderie he
was only just beginning to take for granted.
It's cold and it's dark and his muscles are tired from the time he's been
spending in the little tent trying to figure out how to perform a group act
with one person. He skipped the dinner call because he didn't want to watch
Stiles flinch when he looked at him again, and he doesn't really feel up to
inviting himself to someone else's table. He's on good terms with several
folks, but his growing friendship with Stiles has only illustrated how much
he's still an outsider squeezing in to everyone else, even those he feels
friendly with. It's different with Stiles, somehow- being with Stiles envelops
him, brings him into a closeness, an intimacy he hasn't felt since Laura died.
Tonight, he's tired, and he doesn't want to try, doesn't want to put on the
smile and make the small talk and become socially acceptable for long enough to
bolt down a meal. It doesn't matter, he's not that hungry anyway, and if he is
later, well, he'll live till morning.
He's nearly to the end of the little row of cabins, almost to his own door when
he hears the subtle scrape of a boot on wood, and looks up to see a dark
silhouette perched on the far side of the Stilinski roof. It's Stiles- he'd
know that profile anywhere, at this point- Stiles sitting on the ridge-line,
face tipped up to the hour-old crescent moon that hangs low in the western sky.
He does pause, caught in the chilly night and staring, takes half a second to
wonder if he should push where he's not wanted. But in spite of his preference
for caution, for deliberation, Derek has missed the easiness of Stiles, the
closeness of his body and warmth of his smile.
It's the work of a moment to scale the side of the house, pulling silently up
and over the gutter onto the flat sloping plane of the roof. Stiles startles
when Derek settles down next to him, his eyes widening as his face tumbles
through surprise and delight straight into apprehension and resignation. Derek
feels his stomach sink as Stiles turns his face away, tightens his arms around
his knees. He wants to scoot over and press up against him, sharing heat and
company, but he doesn't. He wraps the ends of his leather coat tight around his
waist, their breath disappearing in icy puffs in front of them.
"Hey."
Stiles glances at him briefly, his eyes luminous and unreadable in the
starlight.
"Derek."
"Listen... Stiles..." It's the last thing Derek wants to do, have this
conversation, but it clearly needs to happen. He refuses to just roll over and
let Stiles walk away from him without at least knowing the reason behind it.
It's not like he has enough people left in his life for any one of them to be
expendable. Stiles stiffens beside him, and Derek hunches into his coat collar.
"Did I...did I do something wrong? I know I'm not..." He blows out a breath,
steaming and vanishing in the night air. "I know I'm not the most personable
guy around, but if I upset you, or made you angry...I need you to tell me. So I
can fix it."
Stiles stares at him in disbelief, and Derek's stomach sinks down past his
kidneys- whatever he's done, it's worse than he thought, and clearly he should
have known what it was, shouldn't have admitted he didn't have a clue. He
should go, he should...
"Derek." Stiles still looks aghast, but he's got his hand on Derek's arm to
stop him as he starts to stand. "You didn't do anything." He yanks on Derek's
arm, pulling him back down to the shingles, not letting go. "I...it's my fault,
I did it. I..." He pulls back his arm, looks determinedly out into the
darkness, the words falling out of him, stumbling over each other. "I did it, I
talked Lydia into it, and then, well, Deaton's office was the obvious place, so
we looked there, and then Lydia's mom's archives, and Derek, I saw them, and
I..." He trails off long enough to suck in a shuddering breath, and Derek
reaches over to rub a soothing hand up and down his back. Stiles leans into it
unconsciously, scrubbing his hands over his face and then up over his head,
shoving futilely at his short fuzz. "I know who you are, Derek, and I know what
happened to your family, and God, I'm so, so, sorry."
Derek realizes his hand has frozen in its movement on Stiles' back, and he
forces it back into motion, up and down, up and down. Stiles is shaking,
whether from cold or anger or fear, Derek doesn't know, but he gives in to his
own needs and hauls Stiles up against him, tucking him under his arm and
pressing their sides together.
He's completely unprepared for the way Stiles flings himself at him, wrapping
his arms around Derek's neck and clinging, pressing his warm sharp face into
Derek's shoulder and just...staying there. It takes Derek a minute, but he
manages to bring his arms up to wrap around Stiles' body, holding him in place.
It's been... a very long time since he's touched anyone for more than a minute
or two, much less held anyone like this. It's addictive, settling into his
bones as a hunger, a need. He rests his face experimentally on the top of
Stiles' dark head, rubbing his cheek minutely to feel the bristly softness of
hair against his skin. Stiles sighs, his frame relaxing in Derek's hold.
"I'm sorry I pushed, Derek." Stiles' voice is muffled by the shoulder of
Derek's coat, but it sounds old, tired. "It wasn't my business. If you'd wanted
anyone to know, you would have said, and you didn't, and I couldn't leave it
alone." Derek can feel the tension trickling back into Stiles' frame as his
voice gets louder with self-recrimination. "I'm not good at knowing when to
stop, when to leave things alone. If you don't..." He pauses, starts to pull
away "If you don't want to be around me anymore, I understand. I won't tell
anyone, don't worry." His voice is bitter, brittle and earnest in the night
air. "Everyone will just assume you got sick of me, they'll never think to ask
why, and I'll never tell them anything you don't want known."
Stiles is tense all over now, still trying to pull away, but Derek is both
thicker and stronger, so he holds Stiles where he is.
"It's ok, Stiles."
"Don't patronize me." His voice is dark, hard, and Derek nods, letting Stiles
search his face.
"I'm not. It's ok. I'm not angry."
Stiles' face is disbelieving, though his body is starting to relax again in
Derek's grip.
"Listen to me Stiles, I'm not upset. I..." He pauses, ducks his head, "I wish
you had trusted me enough to just ask, but I'm not mad."
Stiles drops his head back to Derek's shoulder and nods miserably. "I should
have asked, I'm sorry, I just, you don't ever talk about them, and I wanted to
know, but I was afraid to ask because I didn't want to pry, and I know how
stupid that sounds, because digging through Deaton's files is so much more
prying than just asking but..."
"Breathe, Stiles." Derek manages not to laugh as Stiles does, drawing in a deep
breath. "I don't...I don't talk about them because I don't know how." He
chuckles harshly. "Hi, I'm Derek Hale, I was an acrobat until my whole family
died in a fire." Stiles shudders again in his arms, and he rubs a soothing hand
up and down his back again. "Sorry. But you see what I mean. It's just...easier
if no one knows, if all they know is what they see, some washed up man who can
lift heavy things and follow directions. It's been better that way."
He can feel Stiles thinking that over, his brain humming from its spot beneath
Derek's ear. He waits. Stiles is fundamentally incapable of holding in a
question for long.
"What did you do?...after?"
Derek shrugs. It all seems so far away now, the raw searing pain of the days
after the fire, the years of running after. He's never talked to anyone about
any of it, but now the words come without thought, crisp in the night air,
warmed by his breath above Stiles' listening ear.
"I wasn't there when the Hunters set fire to the tent. I was in town for the
night. I was fighting with my father, and had refused to perform." He adjusts
his grip on Stiles, pulling his coat sleeve down to cover his wrist. "I wasn't
the only survivor, you know." Stiles startles a little, holding an inhale. "The
fire started just after our act had finished. All of the family was in the
wings, but my father had sent Laura, my older sister, out to find me and bring
me home. She wasn't more than a half mile down the road when it went up. She
told me later she went back, that she saw it, tried to help, but the crowd
wouldn't let her. It was too late; they held her back when she tried to go in."
Stiles is completely still against him, and Derek rubs his face against Stiles'
head to reassure them both. "After that...we stayed for a couple of weeks with
a Quaker man who knew our parents while they cleaned up the debris and
identified the bodies. He gave us the money to bury our family." He pauses,
remembering the funeral. Ten caskets all in a row, their father's the largest
on the left, all the way down to the small box at the other end that had held
all they could find of little Mary. It had been spring, warming but cloudy, and
they'd only had enough money for one headstone that listed all the names and a
little fence around the plot, not enough to mark each grave. Someday, he
thinks, he wants to make sure they get proper ones- full names, dates, maybe
one of those ones with a little lamb on top for Mary and Constance.
"After that...we left. Our family was dead, our circus was in disarray. We were
both afraid. They never officially pinned it to the Hunters, but I've never
doubted it was them. Gerard Argent had just come through and whipped them into
a frenzy. We'd been harassed over and over by the local congregations, but it
had never been serious before that. I'll never know what it was he said to them
that tipped them over, but it was enough." He realizes he's breathing hard,
clutching Stiles hard enough that it must be hurting. He relaxes his grip, but
Stiles doesn't move. "So we ran away."
He remembers Laura those first few months, her hair in a tight bun, the cotton
of her borrowed dress wan and strange, her face pinched with anger and
determination in equal measure. He can't imagine what he would have done
without her.
"We stayed back east for a while. Took work where we could. I worked for two
years with a blacksmith in Pennsylvania while Laura worked as a maid in a house
in town. We left when one of the local boys wouldn't take her 'no' for an
answer, but it was ok. We were all we had, so it didn't much matter where we
were." He shrugs, lost in remembrance. "Spent some time in Iowa as a farm hand
while Laura took a job as a seamstress. Just kind of kept moving on, never
stayed anywhere too long. Laura was in charge of our money, kept hoarding it
up, wanting us to find a place to buy some land and settle down, but we never
did. I don't think she knew how to put down roots any more than I do, so we
just kept moving."
"Where is she now?" Stiles' voice is quiet in the dark, the moon a high thin
sickle in the sky. Derek shifts, moving his leg to remove the pins and needles
and pulling Stiles to sit in front of him, leaning back against his chest.
Stiles goes willingly, scrambling to push up between Derek's legs and brace
them against the slope of the roof. Derek waits for him to settle, then pulls
the edges of his jacket around both of them, resting his chin on Stiles' head.
"She died six months ago." Stiles grips his hand, winding his fingers through
Derek's, and he lets the grief wash over him, deep and relentless. There are
tears on his cheeks, but he just lets them fall, stares unseeingly into the
star speckled night. "She's back in Denver. She liked it there. Thought maybe
she'd found a place to settle down, liked the freedom of it, not as proper and
close as the east. And then..." He trails off, his voice faltering. "Then she
got sick, real bad fever, just couldn't shake it. Didn't take more than a week,
and she was gone."
He'd wanted to take her back to be with the rest of their family, but there was
no way to do it. Even if he'd had the money, she wouldn't have kept for the
journey. Maybe it's better anyway, he thinks, that she's there with the
mountains and the high plains she'd grown to love. She'd never been afraid of
being alone the way he is, had always been more independent, more willing to
strike out for herself. It still hurts, though, the memory of that little white
cross under the cottonwood trees, no sound but the wind rushing through. He
rubs his chin against Stiles, inhaling the warm scent of him.
"When my mom died..." Stiles' voice is low, and his grip on Derek's fingers is
tight, "we were on the road. We couldn't take her with us, we had to bury her
there, and now I don't even remember the name of the town we were in, where she
is. I know my dad knows, but I haven't asked him because I don't want him to
know I can't remember." Stiles is rocking a little, back and forth in the space
between Derek's knees. Derek lets him, keeping his grip loose so that Stiles
doesn't feel trapped. "I can't imagine...I can't imagine what it's like to lose
everyone. I've never even had siblings to lose, but losing my mom is the worst
thing...the worst thing I've ever felt, and the thought...of losing Scott, or
Erica and Isaac, or any of the others...I can't..."
Derek nods, giving in and burying his face in the back of Stiles' neck.
"I miss them every day. They were my whole world. From the time I was born,
there were my parents and Uncle Peter and Aunt Genia. And Laura." he takes a
breath. "I don't even remember Arthur being born, he was only a year and a half
younger than I was. Cora's the first one I remember being a baby. She and
Connie were only three months apart, they grew up like twins."
"Tell me about them."
Derek laughs, the noise damp and foreign in his ears. Stiles shoves against
him, pulling his knees up for warmth. Derek folds his hands over Stiles' bony
patellae, feeling the muscles of Stiles' arms against the inside of his thighs.
He shifts again.
"You would have liked Cora. She wanted to fly. She was a daredevil, but
talented. Arthur was uncomplicated, like Scott- food, girls, pack, the good
things. Reuben... Reuben could be too much like Peter. He liked causing
trouble, acting up and pulling tricks and picking fights. Constance was the
quiet one- always reading, daydreaming. I think she would have left the circus
when she was old enough, gone off to marry some quiet doctor or teacher."
Stiles hmms thoughtfully, his weight warm and easy against Derek's front. "Emma
was sweet, but she was just little. I didn't really know her that well, and
Mary was just a baby." He pauses, thinks for a minute. "I think you would have
liked Laura, too. She was determined and stubborn, just like you are. Never
took no for an answer, never saw any reason why she shouldn't do just what she
wanted." Stiles stiffens in his arms, and Derek rubs a thumb across his kneecap
in assurance. "It's good. I always admired that about her."
"What about your parents?"
Derek thinks for a moment, his thumb still circling.
"My father...he was strict. He was smart, but he'd grown up a freak before he
joined the circus, and he never trusted anyone who wasn't family. His parents
had died when he was real young, and then it was just him and my Uncle Peter.
They left the side shows and joined the circus when my father met my mother,
but even then, he could be very reserved, very...I don't know. We fought a lot,
when I was older. My mother was beautiful and strong and kind and a better
woman than any of us deserved. But we were always secondary, even to her- she
loved us more than anything, except for my father. When they were in the room
together, nothing else mattered. It made them incredible performers,
but...sometimes it was hard to be around."
"Do you want that?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you want that? That kind of relationship? Like your parents had."
"I...I don't know." He sees his mother's face before him, eyes lit up and
shining as his father laughed. "I suppose I envied them. They had each other,
no matter what. But there was no room for anyone else. If there hadn't been the
rest of the family, I might have resented them for that. Something so all-
consuming...I don't even know if I'm capable of it."
Stiles stills in his arms, and Derek realizes what he's said, hangs his head
and lets himself feel the deep-seated ache of loneliness heavy in his bones.
Alone just like he is now, like he's been since Laura left him.
"It was hard when I lost them, but I still had Laura. When she died, I was
completely alone, and that..." He shakes his head, his nose rubbing on the soft
nape of Stiles' neck. "I'm not built for that. It's why I came to Deaton, why
I'm here now. I wanted to learn how not to be alone anymore."
Stiles is quiet for a long time, and Derek sits quietly, feeling the steady
thump of his heartbeat against Derek's chest. He thinks Stiles has drifted off,
and is debating how long he can let him sleep before waking him when Stiles
captures his hand from where it's still rubbing mindlessly against his knee,
slides his long, callused fingers into Derek's own.
"You're not."
--
When he shows up for practice the next day Stiles is there, and Derek lets
himself smile freely, anchoring himself to the wide-mouthed pink-cheeked grin
he gets in response. Stiles is already warmed up, his undershirt damp with
sweat and clinging to him, his broad shoulders bare and gleaming. Derek strips
efficiently down to his leggings and begins the series of choreographed
stretches that will ready his muscles for the work of the next hour. He can
hear Stiles bustling around behind him, but he tunes it out, closes his eyes
and focuses on the pull of his ligaments and tendons, on the rise and fall of
his chest as he inhales and exhales. The sun is warm on the tent, heating the
space nicely, and he feels open, washed out and emptied in the wake of the
previous night's confessions.
He finishes his stretches, stands, and turns. Stiles is waiting for him, but
instead of the usual rope or hoop he works on while he waits for Derek, he's
hung one of his bars. It's not the low heavy one that he uses for most of his
stationary work, but instead a smaller, narrower bar, hung high enough that he
would have to jump about a foot to grab on.
Stiles must sense his bewilderment, or else Derek has gotten far less adept
with his poker face, because Stiles just smiles and beckons him over until he's
standing a foot away from Stiles' position under the bar. He lets his eyes ask
the question, but Stiles just smiles enigmatically, and leaps lightly up to
catch the bar, swinging himself up and over until he's hanging upside down by
his knees, his arms loose and his face not a foot from Derek's own.
"Proper catching technique involves having your knees braced wide near the
ropes. You want to make sure that there is no way that taking the other
person's weight will pull you off your trapeze. So, you need to be securely
anchored." He reaches for Derek's hands, wraps his strong fingers around
Derek's forearms, pulling him until Derek lets himself hang, his weight
supported by Stiles' grip around his arms and his knees bent so that he doesn't
drag on the mats. "Other than that," Stiles continues cheerily "it's pretty
much all timing. So, you know, pretty easy."
Derek lets himself drop the couple of inches to the floor and picks himself up.
Stiles is still swinging gently back and forth, his upside down face both
excited and nervous.
"Stiles..." He doesn't want to disappoint him, but he doesn't see how this can
work. It's not safe. He's not trained, and all Stiles is going on is memories
of what his mother did and letters from strangers. He can't imagine anyone will
approve, either- what's the point of egging Stiles on when it's only going to
end in regret?
"Derek." Stiles flips himself back upward to sit on the swing, then drops
lightly to the floor. He catches Derek's eyes with his own, locking him in to
Stiles' earnest and determined gaze. "Last night you said that you had come to
Deaton's because you were tired of being alone." He gestures broadly at the
space around them. "So why," he pauses and peers at Derek so hard he worries
Stiles might strain something, "why are you still trying to adapt a group act
into a show for one?"
Derek stops, thinks. Takes a moment to catalog Stiles' face like this- open,
eager, warm brown eyes open and pleading while already braced for rejection.
Derek steps forward and reaches his hands up for the swing.
--
Rumor travels fast in a tiny community like a circus, so Derek is pretty
certain that neither this meeting, nor the reason for it, is a surprise to
anyone. Derek himself heard about it from Boyd when they were doing the morning
rounds, Boyd's voice calm, but with the slightest hint of intrigue. It's the
most formal and subdued he's ever seen the group, though, and it's more than a
little unnerving.
It's unseasonably cold today, and so instead of meeting in the outdoor tables
they've gathered into the big top, which is vast and hollow around them. The
fabric rustles gently in the breeze, pulling against the staked ropes. They've
arrayed themselves in a stair-stepped arc at one of the narrow ends of the
tent, the younger folks mostly on the ground while the adults are seated
loosely on the first or second row of stands. Derek has stationed himself in
the back, the third tier, where he can see everyone as they react to what he
suspects is coming.
Deaton waits until everyone is seated and done shifting around and settling
themselves before he steps forward, his presence as calm and commanding as
always. Stilinski Sr. stands behind and to his left, hands folded in front of
him as he waits at the ready.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today I bring before you a matter for your discussion."
Deaton's face is serious, his manner somber, but not grave. “Your opinions and
concerns are important to me, and it is also important to our well-being as a
group that we all hear what is weighing on each others' minds and hearts.
Therefore I give you this opportunity to speak your convictions in the presence
of your fellows."
He pauses, looks around. The silence in the tent is unbroken.
"As you all know, Allison has been coming to us for a while. She has shown
herself to be more than capable with a bow and arrow, and is proficient with
the performance arts. It is no secret that I have been considering offering her
a chance to perform with us on a temporary basis, in order to see both if her
act is enjoyed by the crowds, and if she desires to make a longer-term
commitment. At this time, Allison has come to me and requested that we
officially accept her as a member of our organization."
Derek can see the members of the audience smiling and nodding to each other
where they sit, a low babble of excitement rising around them. Scott is beaming
from his seat next to his mother, Lydia smiling from her sprawl next to
Jackson. He wonders, is this the usual way in which someone joins? He snuck in
like a thief in the night, based on Deaton's good will and his own ability to
haul boxes. It's been months, and he still struggles with the sense that he's
extra, other. Would it have been different if he'd wandered in and made friends
first, shown himself to be valuable, and then asked to join? Or is it just that
Allison is young and kind, determined and admirable in clear-cut ways that he
is not?
"However," Deaton pitches his voice to rise above the growing mutter "there is
one rather large complication. One that you all will have to consider calmly
and carefully." Silence falls again, faces shifting in confusion and concern.
"I want you all to know that I consider it to be to Allison's great personal
credit that she has brought this matter to me herself, rather than wait to have
it found out- it took courage and poise to lay her cards on the table as she
has done. I expect that you will all," he raises his dark eyebrows and stares
meaningfully at each section of the crowd in turn, "hear her out politely and
with patience." He takes a step back and turns to the wings, holding an arm
out. "Allison? The floor is yours."
She's visibly nervous when she enters, pale hands wringing a delicate hankie
before her, but she holds her chin high, her dark hair carefully piled on top
of her head. She looks cautiously at Stilinski as she passes him, and he gives
her a small nod. The last few steps bring her to stand where Deaton stood,
positioned just in front of their little crowd, alone and visibly swallowing
her nerves.
"As many of you know, I come from back east" she begins, her voice trembling,
but gaining strength as she gets the words out. "We moved around a lot- my
father had a job supplying weapons to outposts and militias, and so we followed
the market, staying a few months in some places, a year or longer in others. It
got lonely, just me and my parents. I never had many friends, because we were
always on the move." She stands steady, her feet unmoving, and Derek remembers
the firmness of her stance as she held the crossbow trained just above Lydia's
head. "When I was about nine, we bought a house in Boston, near my grandfather
and my aunt, and we planned to stay. I was so happy to finally have friends and
a bigger family and a place to call home." She pauses, biting her lip as she
considers her words. "After we had been there a couple of years, the parents of
one of my friends invited me to stay for several weeks over the summer. Her
family, who were not religious the way mine was, decided to take us on an
outing, and so, for the first time in my life, I got to go to the circus."
Her face glows with remembered pleasure, and Derek is reminded of Laura, always
quick to smile and laugh, but filled with the strength to face whatever came.
"It was the most magical thing I had ever seen. The clowns, the animals. The
horse-riding, the contortion, the tricks, the magic acts. There was a pair of
trapeze artists, sisters, who flew like gravity didn't exist." She's smiling
now, her fear forgotten. "But the thing that impressed me the most was the
acrobats. There were so many of them, a family, I think, dark-haired and
laughing and I couldn't believe what they could do." Spots begin to float
before his eyes and he realizes he's holding his breath, releases it and
catches the flicker of Deaton's concerned eyes his way. He nods tersely, trying
to pull his scattered thoughts back to Allison's story. She can't know, no one
but Deaton (and Stiles and Lydia, now, he supposes) knows. She doesn't seem to,
spinning her narrative blithely before her face darkens and her head bows.
"It was everything I knew I wanted, I dreamed about it at night and talked
incessantly about it for days. It wasn't until I got home that I found out- the
circus was forbidden to me. Forever."
She raises her head defiantly, her eyes red-rimmed.
"My name is Allison Argent."
Words erupt from the crowd, shocked tones and wild gesticulations pouring forth
until Stilinski steps forward and raises his hands for silence.
"Let's let Allison continue her story." He waits until the crowd has settled,
then sidles back, indicating for her to step forward again.
The tone of the meeting has shifted from excited to mutinous; even Derek can
sense it from where he feels like he's floating in shock a little way above his
seat. Allison can clearly sense it too, but she squares her shoulders and
continues unbowed.
"I cannot be clearer than to say that I reject outright everything that the
Argent name stands for. You have to believe me when I say that I did not know.
I did not know what our family did, not until very recently.”
“I was raised religiously, yes. I knew that we rejected the spirit of the
world, and that we were to stand against all forms of moral corruption anywhere
we encountered them. After that summer, I was deemed old enough to move from
the children's lessons into the adult services, and learned that we believed
this corruption to be found especially in the carnivals, the circuses, the
traveling bands. My mother taught me that my grandfather was a great man,
revered for his skills as an orator and his willingness to drive forth the
wicked wherever he found them." Derek feels sick, a roiling in his gut. This is
Gerard Argent's granddaughter? God save us all. "I learned then, when I was
eleven, that we stood specifically against the circuses, and that my family and
our church felt it was our divine calling to pursue them from town to town, and
show people the errors of their ways." She hangs her head in despair. "You know
that the Hunters proclaim scripture as their call to arms- this I learned as a
child, and never knew to question what it meant, what it stood for. 'For our
shield is God Most High, who saveth the upright in heart. God judgeth the
righteous, and is angered with the wicked every day. If the wicked turn not, he
will whet his sword; he hath bent his bow and made it ready.'"
"Obviously, I reject this- I rejected it then, too, as much as a child could. I
still dreamed of the circus, and since my father had been training me on the
bow and arrow, I took it upon myself to learn trick shooting, to practice in
secret so that I would have a skill that could help me fulfill my hopes. And
then..." She pauses, looks pleadingly at Scott. "Then we came here. For the
first time since Boston, we lived close enough to a circus that I could slip
away and visit." She looks pensive for a moment, then finds her resolve and
continues. "After Boston, we stayed largely away from the circuses themselves.
I know there was a fight between my father, my grandfather, and my aunt, but
I've never known the cause." She shakes her head, refocuses. "Then we came
here, and I found all of you, and I've been planning on asking to join as soon
as my trial period was up, but..." her face falls again "...but now, I've left
my family, and I've got nowhere else to go."
"Last night, my aunt came into town. She's my father's younger sister, still
unwed, and I've always loved her. In my excitement, I lay awake until she
arrived, then snuck down to see her " Her eyes are red now, and she wipes the
hankie under her nose before continuing. Derek's whole body is rigid in a
conflicted combination of pained sympathy to a lonely girl he's come to
genuinely like and respect, and a creeping horror of every word that continues
to fall from her lips. "I heard them. My grandfather was congratulating her on
a job well done. She was bragging about it, she... she'd gone with some of my
grandfather's deacons to a small circus in Nevada, and had taken every member
of it out behind their trains in the desert and shot them, one by one." The
crowd is deathly silent, and Allison sobs once, a wrenching sound that she
suppresses brutally. "My father was furious with them; he asked about the code
of Hunting, the requirements to spare the children, the women, to give an
honest offer of repentance.” Her voice falters, and she swallows hard, her
voice quiet and tight in the oppressive silence. “They laughed at him, said
bitches breed only mutts, and.” her voice falters, then continues, “that the
angels themselves would rejoice at the good hunting of the wicked." She raises
her head in challenge, winds her fingers together.
"I stand before you to ask that you accept me into your family. I renounce my
family of birth, and all their ways, whether you take me or not, but...but I
would like to stay."
She steps aside, and the chaos is instant, shouts rising, calls for Deaton to
explain this, wails of fear. Stilinski steps forward again, stomping his foot
until a rebellious quiet falls.
"Now that we've heard Allison's side, it's time to hear yours." His face is
calm, imperturbable. "Allison may have been raised an Argent, but she has said
to you herself that she is no Hunter. She is an individual seeking our aid and
acceptance, just as so many of us did in our own times. Some here may have been
born to this life, but plenty of us came later, for our own reasons, and in our
own circumstances. She deserves a fair hearing.” He looks to Deaton for a nod,
then continues. “You will speak one at a time. You will keep civil tongues in
your heads. We will discuss this like the well-mannered heathens we are." His
eyes narrow, and he squints at the sudden flurry of raised hands. "Mrs. Martin,
you first."
"Well, how do we know what to believe? How can we trust her?" Mrs. Martin's
hands flutter in distress, her wide eyes watery. "She'll put us all in danger!
How can we know she's not a spy for those horrible people? They want us dead!"
She clutches at her throat, her earrings shaking with her nerves, "They'd see
us all in an early grave, and now you want us to take one of their vipers to
our bosom? Why, I just can't imagine it!"
"How can you say such a thing?" Scott is on his feet and shouting, "Allison's
never done anything to anyone, she's as honest and good as they come. It's not
her fault her family are crazy murderers!"
"Scott, down." Stilinski pushes him back into his seat. "I think we can all
guess how you feel. Boyd, what do you say?"
Derek should be surprised when a hand pushes into his, but he's so lost in
thought that it almost doesn't register, his fingers curling instinctively
around Stiles' before the rest of him even realizes that Stiles is no longer on
the ground, but here beside him, clutching at his hand and looking pensive.
"I like Allison," Boyd begins, then looks at his hands, "but her presence will
put us all in danger." His face is troubled, his eyes hooded and serious. "I
know what people are like when they're against you for no reason but how
they've been taught, and Hunters are bad trouble. There's no way we could keep
her a secret, and if she's going to perform with us, there's no way to even
try. What happens to us when her gun-crazy relatives find out where she is? Who
protects us from people who murder whole packs of people?" He looks
apologetically at Allison, shakes his head. "I'm against it. She can go away,
start over somewhere else. Join some other circus, even, keep her secrets. But
not here. Not with us."
Stilinski nods. "Lydia."
"I think she's an asset." Lydia has folded her legs primly beneath her, and
sits up straight to hold Stilinski's gaze. "She has a performance skill that we
don't currently have, and not only that, but one that involves skill with a
weapon. She can take care of herself."
"You'd have her shoot at her own family?" Nurse McCall sounds vaguely
horrified.
"I'd have her protect herself, and her new family, by whatever means necessary.
We're not without our defenses, and neither is she. She's already proven
herself trustworthy by bringing this matter to us, and I see no reason to doubt
her without cause. Besides, it's good for the show to grow and change- she'll
bring new audiences, both here and when we travel. That's a net good for us."
She shrugs one elegantly clad shoulder. "I say we let her stay."
Stilinski nods again, turning to scan the crowd. Stiles pushes into his
shoulder, but Derek is too numb to respond.
"Nurse McCall?"
Scott is looking pleadingly at his mother while she ducks her head, avoiding
his eyes, before lifting her head to speak.
"I like Allison, too. Who doesn't? But it scares me. We're too few of us to
stand against a mob, and I don't want to have to always be worrying about my
son whenever he's out of sight." She sighs, her mouth turned down in
unhappiness. "I don't have an answer. All I know is that it makes me afraid.
I'm sorry, Allison."
Stilinski places a gentle hand on Nurse McCall's shoulder before scanning the
group for more hands.
"Mr. Whittemore."
"Thank you, John. I don't see any reason why we should choose to live in fear
of a bunch of yokels with pitchforks."
"Shotguns, Jasper."
"Yes, fine, Melissa, shotguns." He makes a dismissive gesture, his cufflinks
glinting in the light. "All I'm saying is, I don't see why we should let
ourselves be run out of town by some crazies who think God is on their side.
We've been established here for thirty years, we've got a good relationship
with the locals. This Argent group and their cronies are new. They have no
pull." He spreads his hands expansively. "Let them rabble rouse. Let Allison
make her choice. We can defend ourselves if we need to, and I seriously doubt
it will even come to that. The local Hunters are all alike- they like to make a
fuss, but they lack the courage of their convictions. I can't see some out-of-
town wing-nut changing that."
Stilinski points his hand at the next to speak.
"Yes, Erica."
"I think Mr. Whittemore's right, sir." Her voice is quiet, but thoughtful, her
blond head two tiers below him next to Isaac's, "Why should we let them decide
what we're going to do? Hunters are always a threat to us, so what if they're
going to be more of one now? We all like Allison, and she wants to be here, so
why would we turn her away and leave her to fend for herself? We're a family.
Can't she be family too?"
As she finishes, Deaton steps forward, nodding slowly.
"That's right, Erica. We are a family, and we are open to those who ask asylum
of us. We are not like the rest of the world, the Hunters are right on that
point- we do not treat our women as servants, we do not give credence to the
color of skin, and we do not require conventionality of our own. If the
outcasts and forgotten look to those who cast them out for their rules, how
shall they ever have peace?" He steps back, and Stilinski steps forward to
motion for the next person to speak.
Derek almost doesn't notice when Stiles hauls him off the stands and out under
the edge of the tent into the chilly afternoon air.
Stiles doesn't say anything, for which he is incredibly grateful. He can't even
imagine that he'd begin to summon words to respond. Instead, Stiles looks
around perfunctorily, then enfolds Derek in his arms, wrapping him in warm,
wiry strength, and holding on. Derek lets his head fall onto Stiles' shoulder,
breathing in his scent, feeling the press of Stiles' shirt under his cheek. His
eyes are open, but all he can see are the faded images of two trapeze artists
flying through the air, and a pack of dark-haired acrobats tumbling and
laughing under a multi-striped sky.
--
It's getting late when there's a knock on his door, the sky having darkened
several hours ago. His candle has burned low, leaving a puddle of wax on the
tabletop around it. Derek rises from his seat at the small wooden table to open
the door, belatedly suppressing his surprise at finding Stilinski Sr. on his
doorstep.
"Can I come in?" The older man shifts sheepishly on the step, rubbing his hand
over his head in a gesture so reminiscent of Stiles that Derek gapes
unattractively for a moment longer before recovering and holding open the door.
"Please."
Stilinski thunks a glass bottle onto the table meaningfully before pulling up
the other chair and settling himself in it. Derek fetches his mug from the
shelf, and wipes the spare cup with a rag before setting them both on the
table. He sits back into his chair and watches as Stilinski pours them each
three fingers of what smells an awful lot like good whisky.
"Na Zdrowie!" Stilinski lifts his mug, and Derek clinks his against it, taking
a long sip before settling back into his chair to wait. There's no hurrying
Stilinski; he'll get to what he came to in his own good time.
"I wanted to talk to you about Allison, son." Stilinski fiddles with his mug
for a moment, taking another drink and meeting Derek's eyes. At first glance,
there's not a lot of Stiles in him- Stilinski Sr is sandy-haired and pale-eyed
where his son is dark and warm. Derek's seen the pictures of the Captivating
Claudia, and it's clear that Stiles favors her in his coloring and features.
Stiles' mannerisms, though, are apparently all from his father, which Derek
finds more amusing than he knows how to cope with. "Are you going to be ok with
her around?"
"Deaton told you?"
Stilinski shakes his head resignedly. "Those of us old enough to remember
already know. It was big news, even as far away as here." He takes another
drink, Derek matching him. "Real sorry, son. Real sorry."
Derek nods. What else can he do? He takes another sip.
"Why would I blame her?" He shrugs. "She wasn't lying. It's not her fault she
was born into a Hunter family." He takes another drink, holding his cup out
when Stilinski tips the bottle his way. "Besides. She's going to have it hard
enough, now. Leaving her family to join up with us. Not easy."
Stilinski nods. "That's real decent of you." He drains his cup, pours into it
again. "It is hard, even for those who are born into it like you were. It's a
special kind of life, and not everyone's made for it."
"No." Derek pauses, swirls the amber liquid in his cup. It's warm, soothing.
"She'll do alright, though. She's got a backbone." He takes a sip. "Laura would
have liked her," he nods, then remembers he's not sure how much Stilinski
knows. "My sister. Laura. She would have liked her."
Stilinski pours a little more for both of them and they sit silently, letting
the candle flame flicker in the faint draft from the window. Derek can feel
himself beginning to melt into being warm, mellow. He smiles, and Stilinski
blinks at him, then chuckles.
"Claudia. Stiles' mom. She was circus like you are, born and bred to it." He
smiles wistfully, the lines around his eyes crinkling in fond remembrance. "She
was something else. Beautiful on the ground, and unmatched in the air. The
first time I saw her I thought she was an angel, and every minute I spent with
her I became more sure I was right." He sighs. "Stiles is just like her, so
much like her." Stilinski shakes his head, and they both take another drink.
"So much like her. He's got that spark like she did. Lights up everything he
touches."
Derek nods, feeling the warmth in his solar plexus spread upward to his smile.
Stiles is a spark, and when Derek touches him, it's electric, a static shock to
his system that leaves him wanting to set fingers to it again. Stilinski is
eyeballing him shrewdly, but he's also pouring another little splash, so Derek
doesn't mind too much that he's being squinted at.
"You were a townie?"
"Townie till the day I met Claudia. Then I threw it all over, went to Deaton's
father and begged him for a job doing anything, anything that would let me
court and marry her. There weren't nothing that was going to stand in my way,
not from the circus, not from the town, not from the Devil himself." He
chuckles. “I started out on outhouse and laundry duty. Never regretted it for a
minute.”
Derek smiles into his mug. He can see it in his mind's eye, Stilinski as a
sturdy young man, cleaning latrines and following steadfastly behind the
beautiful flier.
"And then..." Stilinski's voice is suddenly ragged, and Derek reaches out to
cover Stilinski's trembling hands with one of his own. "And then she was gone.
So much life, so much brightness, burned out in a sudden flash."
It's silent for a long while after that, their breathing the only sound in the
quiet room.
"When my family died, I couldn't comprehend it. It was too much. It still is."
Derek drains his cup, covers it with his free palm when Stilinski goes to pour
more. His head is heavy on his neck, so he sets the bottle aside, out of the
easy reach of both of them. "But when Laura died, it was so much worse. I miss
her every day."
Stilinski droops in his chair, his hand slack under Derek's.
"Yes." He sighs, breath rattling in the empty room. "I know Stiles misses her
too, but he was young. He has his whole life ahead of him. He will always love
her and miss her, but...she will fade. And that's as it should be. We can't let
the dead hold us back. But..." He's fiddling unconsciously with the thin gold
band on his finger as he speaks, his eyes staring into the near distance. "But
I will never stop wishing she were here. Never."
"Was it worth it?"
It's an innocent enough question, he thinks, but Stilinski sticks him with that
piercing gaze again, making him want to squirm in his seat like a child.
"She was worth every minute of agony I've endured since she left me alone.
Every minute of it." He retrieves his hands, caps the bottle and stands. "Love
is always worth it, son. No matter how badly it may come out in the end, no
matter how much of a bitch she can be, love is always worth every minute of
pain."
He lets himself out, leaving Derek to spin softly in his chair until he hauls
himself over and falls asleep on the bed fully clothed and dreamless.
--
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Stiles considers from where he's standing on a box at the end of the mat. Derek
is swinging slowly back and forth, upside down on the trapeze in the practice
tent. He pumps his body, letting himself feel the building rhythm as he gets
progressively closer to Stiles on every upswing.
"Didn't have anything to say."
Derek hits the apex of his swing, and Stiles jumps, spinning in a twist and
reaching out to catch Derek's hands as they swing down the gravitational arc.
It's a solid catch, all four hands latching securely, no slipped fingers or
awkward angles.
Derek snorts. "You? Nothing to say?"
Stiles drops to the mat and slaps at him as he swings past again, laughing
before his face grows serious. He rubs a hand over his head, then turns to go
climb up on the box again.
"I'm against it." Derek can feel his eyes widen in surprise, and he watches
Stiles turn to face him, his expression hard. "I get that Scott's in love, and
I have no personal grief with Allison. But...she's dangerous. She's not one of
us, and it's not her fault, sure, but that doesn't make her any less of a
threat." He chalks his hands lightly, and Derek reminds his body to begin
building the swing again, back and forth, back and forth, his knees aching with
the pressure of the bar. Stiles looks funny upside down, the same way everyone
does- his face is a collection of shapes, rather than a face, and he looks top-
heavy, his muscled arms over-weighting his thin, wiry legs. "I care about
what's important to me. Who's important to me. My dad, Scott, Lydia, everyone
else in this place. They're mine" he thumps his chest, leaving a dusty white
handprint, "and I don't see how it's a good idea to endanger them all for the
sake of some pretty girl with a guilty conscience and a dream."
Derek holds his hands out, braces himself, and Stiles jumps. It's not a good
catch, the timing is off, and they only hold for a moment before Stiles lets go
and drops to the mats, rolling as he hits the ground. Derek pulls himself up to
sitting on the bar, letting his eyes close as the blood rushes out of his head.
"What about you? Why didn't you say anything?"
He opens his eyes to look at Stiles, long-fingered hands braced on his narrow
hips, mouth open as he waits for an answer. Derek wonders about those fingers
sometimes. They've been practicing one-handed balances on the floor, and the
feel of Stiles' fingers on his own is intoxicating, the rub of his skin, the
slide of his muscles as he strains to position himself, it all stays with Derek
long after they're done.
"I'm new. It's not my place."
Stiles' eyes roll so hard Derek is secretly impressed.
"C'mon, you don't fool me. You've got an opinion on everything. Spit it out."
He shrugs, letting himself fall lightly to the floor, brushing his hands on his
leggings.
"I would let her stay."
Stiles blinks in surprise. "Really? Even after..." He trails off in
embarrassment, but doesn't look away.
Derek shrugs again, catching hold of the bar and pulling it off to be roped at
the side.
"We don't choose what we're born to. Erica's right- a circus should be a
family." He unclenches his fists, takes a deep breath. "You took me in. How
could I begrudge that to someone else?" He steps toward Stiles, settles a hand
on his shoulder. "You're not cruel. If she's left her family, what would you
see her do? Become a servant? Join a brothel? You know there aren't a lot of
options." He takes his hand back, turns away. “Laura had me, but it wasn't
enough. She worked herself to the bone trying to take care of us, and then she
died. Would you see the same for Allison?”
Stiles slumps visibly, eyes falling to their feet.
"I don't want anything bad to happen to her, I just don't see how she's our
problem." His face is drawn, worried. "Someone's going to get hurt because of
her, and I don't like it." He's chewing on his lip, leaving it red and raw. "I
just don't want anyone to get hurt."
He leans forward, presses his forehead against Derek's. They're nearly of a
height, for all that Derek is older and broader, and Derek lets his eyes close,
soaking up the sensation of Stiles' warmth against him.
"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen."
--
It's not surprising to find her down by the lion pens, he thinks, but it is a
bit surprising to find her alone. He drags his feet as he approaches, making
sure to make enough noise that he doesn't startle her, but she doesn't turn as
he comes up and leans on the fence to her left. The cats are lounging together
in the middle of the pen, wrapped around each other for warmth, bellies to the
sun.
"Hey."
She's silent, face turned away, toe of her boot scuffling absentmindedly in the
dirt. He thinks about going, and then wonders to where, and so he stays. Scott
is nowhere to be seen, but he supposes it makes sense that she would stay here
even in his absence. Half the troupe right now is very invested in either
cautiously or angrily avoiding her, the other half in loudly and obviously
proclaiming their support. It's tiring when no one knows how to respond
authentically to you, he remembers.
"I did the right thing."
Her voice is steady, no hint in it of the tear that he can see slowly tracking
down her cheek. He waits, looking out at the cats. The male shakes his head,
his ruff sandy-colored and warm looking in the sun.
"I can't...I just can't believe it. I heard it with my own ears, and I
still...I can't."
He digs in his pocket, pulls out his handkerchief and hands it wordlessly over.
One of the lionesses is idly swiping at another, shoving herself into the prime
spot at the center of the group so that she can take a turn in the warmest
spot. Allison takes the handkerchief, wipes her face, exhales loudly.
"I've always been closer to my father than my mother, but I would have been
closest to Kate if she'd been around consistently. I never knew why she was off
traveling with my grandfather so much- it seemed improper for a woman her age
not to be settling down, but I guess now I know why." She laughs mirthlessly,
and Derek suppresses a shudder at the bleakness in her tone. "She was too busy
murdering other people's husbands and children to bother getting any of her
own." She mops at her face again, the gesture irritated. "I'm still crying. I
hate crying. Why am I crying? I'm not like this."
Derek purses his mouth, keeps his eyes on the lions as he opens his hands
helplessly.
"They're your family."
"They were my family."
"They were." He shifts awkwardly, moving to press his leg against the wooden
posts of the pen. She's hiding, and he doesn't blame her- at least he hasn't
had to air his laundry in front of the whole circus. "Losing family is hard.
Doesn't matter why."
"Aren't you the philosopher." Her tone is too tired to have any bite, so he
just smiles at the lions.
"Had a long time to think about it."
They stand in silence for while, watching as an either impressively brave or
incredibly stupid rabbit makes its cautious way across the pen toward the pile
of deadly felines. The grass is always greener, Derek thinks, but sometimes
it's greener because violent predators have killed off all other trespassers
before you. A tawny tail wriggles, and then blood spurts, and then it's all
over for the hapless bunny, the lioness carrying her kill proudly back to the
pride where they crunch bones and lick her bloody muzzle appreciatively.
"I never knew we were killers." Derek startles briefly. He'd nearly forgotten
her presence at his side, distracted by the delicate brutality in front of him.
"I knew that we...dissuaded people from joining the circus, and that we
rehabilitated former members," she spits the words into the cold air "but... I
never thought about what that meant." Her hands are white on the fence rail.
"You were a child. It's not your fault."
"My father is against the killing. I didn't know, because I didn't know there
was killing to be against." She laughs again, and Derek wonders why she's
telling him all of this, him instead of Scott. "My aunt and grandfather think
he's weak, that he's not strong enough in his faith. My mother thinks so, too."
"Will they come after you?"
She thinks for a moment, then shrugs.
"I don't know. Probably." Derek waits. "If my father came, I would talk to him.
Not the others, though. Not to Kate."
Maybe, he thinks, she realizes that Scott is an innocent, with his soft eyes
and his warm smile. She's not, not anymore. He knows the feeling- he tries to
keep the depths of his loneliness from Stiles, pushes it down, keeps him at
arm's length. It's no good to let your brokenness hang out too far, show too
much, especially in front of those for whom you care.
"I just don't want anyone to get hurt. Not because of me." Her voice is quiet
again, her eyes trained on the lionesses asleep again in the sun, the only
trace of the earlier violence a tuft of brown fur caught in the grass.
"They won't." Derek looks at her, meeting her dark eyes. "We might get hurt,
it's true. But it will be for all of us, not for you."
She gazes at him for a moment, then gives him a shaky smile before turning to
beam at Scott as he approaches. She holds out his hankie, and he takes it,
shoving it back into his pocket and nodding once at Scott's suspicious face as
he turns and walks away.
--
***** Chapter Four (Lions and Tigers and Argents, oh my!) *****
The banging on the door wakes Stiles from where he's settled into a post-show
nap leaning against his bed, his costume now chilly and sticking to him with
cooling sweat. He can hear his father going to answer it, but he pulls himself
up anyway, wincing as his muscles protest their stiffness, and wrapping his
robe around his shoulders against the chill. He's sliding his bare feet into
his slippers when he hears the door open and Scott's voice come pouring in. He
hustles himself out of his room and down the short hallway as fast as his stiff
joints will let him, making it in time to see Scott fall through the door,
pulling Allison behind him. Scott's talking a mile a minute, his eyes wide and
earnest as he gestures, Allison clinging to his hand and biting her lip.
"She's not here anymore, Scott, it's ok." Allison tugs on his hand, but Scott
stares mulishly at Stiles' father instead, his shoulders squared with
determination.
"You don't know that, Allison. John, Mr. Stilinski, sir, Allison's aunt is
here. Was here. Might still be here." He loses track of where he's going for a
moment, recovers, "She tried to take Allison back!" His voice is loud in the
small room.
"Ok, ok. Let's all calm down now." Stiles' father has his hands raised against
the onslaught of words. "Allison, you say you think she's gone?"
"Yes, sir, I told her no, I wasn't coming with her, and to go away, and she
threatened me with going back and telling my grandfather where I was." She
glances down, then looks back up, her eyes wide and her fingers tight on
Scott's hand. "I don't have any reason to believe she wouldn't do just that."
"Ok. That's good." Stilinski opens the door and whistles long and loud. "We'll
just make sure, though. Better safe than sorry." Stiles edges into the room,
both Allison and Scott too distracted by Stiles' father at the door to notice
him. A moment passes, then Boyd comes jogging up, out of costume, but not
wearing a coat.
"Yes, sir?"
"Boyd, get the twins, and the Crawford brothers. Haul them out and do a patrol,
check all the buildings." He turns to Allison. "Where were you when you spoke
with her?"
"Just outside the big top."
"Make sure you check all of the smaller tents, and anywhere that could be a
hiding place. Allison's aunt has come to pay a visit."
Boyd nods, his face serious. "Do we have a description?"
Allison's lip trembles, but her voice is calm. "About my height, but blonde.
Slim, wearing a brown dress. She...she doesn't look much like me."
"We'll take a look, sir." Boyd sets his shoulders, his muscles rippling under
his shirt, and Stiles feels a moment of pity for anyone who might cross him.
Stilinski nods approvingly, clapping a hand to Boyd's shoulder. "Let me know if
you find anything. And get the boys to double the watches tonight. I'll do
periodic patrols."
Boyd nods, turns to go. "Yes, sir."
Stilinski shuts the door, turning back to the room and frowning slightly when
he sees Stiles, but passing him over to gesture for Allison and Scott to take
seats on the low sofa across the room, pulling over one of their wooden dining
chairs for himself and leaving Stiles to stand by the wall, attempting to be as
unobtrusive as he can so that he doesn't get kicked out.
"Alright, Allison." His voice is calm as he speaks to her, leaning in and
patting her hand, and Allison smiles faintly in response. "Why don't you start
from the top and tell me what happened."
She takes a deep breath before beginning, looking to Scott for support and
nodding to herself when he wraps an arm around her shoulders, still holding
himself defensively beside and slightly in front of her.
"I didn't see her at first," Allison begins, her face beautiful in the
lamplight, her dark eyes round and earnest. "I had come out of the side tent
after changing from my costume, and was waiting for Scott to finish putting up
the lions. I'm staying with the Martins, now," she looks questioningly at
Stiles' father, and he nods in acknowledgment, "and I knew Lydia would be
helping Jackson put up the horses, so I thought I'd have Scott walk me over."
She blushes faintly, and Stiles fights down a chuckle at the matching blush
that stains Scott's darker cheeks. He doesn't want to know what "walk me over"
is code for, exactly, but he can guess that it would have taken at least as
long as it would take Lydia and Jackson to "put the horses away."
"You were waiting outside the tent...?" Stilinski prompts, and Stiles can't see
his father's face, but he can tell from the back of his head that he's
struggling not to roll his eyes.
"Yes, I was waiting, and I caught a glimpse of her in the shadow of the tent. I
couldn't see who she was well enough to recognize her until she moved, so I
thought maybe she was a guest who'd gotten lost, but then she turned around and
saw me. I tried to run away, but she caught up with me too quickly." Allison
rubs absently at her upper arm; Stiles thinks her aunt must've grabbed her
there, held her while they talked. "She tried to tell me to come home. She
started with what you'd expect- 'your parents miss you,', 'everyone makes
mistakes,', that sort of thing. She doesn't know what I heard, doesn't realize
that I know she's a murderer, but even so, I can't believe she thinks I'd just
happily return." Allison drops her eyes to her lap, her face falling, then
tightening into firm resolve.
"When that didn't work, she moved into the sermonizing- 'you're going to be
corrupted', 'you're leaving the one true faith for the temptations of the
devil', and so on." Allison looks at her hands in her lap, and Stiles wonders
for the first time what Allison really believes- she must've believed the same
as the rest of her family at some point, children mostly do, but what does she
think now? She's rejected her family, but is she willingly consigning herself
to hell for the sake of love and dreams? He shakes his head, letting the line
of thought disperse as he tunes back in to the conversation.
"I don't think she ever actually thought I'd come with her, but she had to try.
Probably my father told her to come and ask me alone, thinking I might be
swayed by the affection I've always had for her." She grips Scott's hand
tightly in her own. "He doesn't know that I was listening either. He doesn't
know that any affection I might have borne her has died as surely as those poor
people she shot in the desert."
Stilinski nods, scratching at the back of his neck. Stiles can see Scott
rubbing his thumb over the delicate bones in Allison's fingers, his face full
of concern.
"Do you think she'll come back?" His father doesn't sound particularly
concerned, but he's pushing at the spot on his belt where his holster rests
when he leaves the house, so Stiles knows that he's more rattled by this than
he's letting on.
Allison shakes her dark head. "No, not alone. She likes backup- insurance, and
an audience, that's what I've heard them say. It's true, I think- she always
did like the attention of the room to be on her. She won't come back alone, and
probably not right away."
"Ok." Stilinski relaxes a bit, his shoulders lowering. "Well, we're covered for
the night. I'll talk to the others about it in the morning."
“You don't want to post more guards? Are we safe? What if she gets the others,
and they come back?” Scott's rising out of his seat, shoulders squaring toward
Stilinski, who puts out a hand.
“Look, Scott. I'm as concerned as anyone, and we will be taking every
precaution.” His face is stern, the lamplight highlighting the lines around his
mouth. “But if we post guards around the camp, visibly, we tip our hand. It's
better to prepare for them without them knowing we're worried, better to let
them think we're complacent.” Scott nods slowly, settles back down. “Besides,
we've got a show to run. We can't just post guards all night, every night,
indefinitely. We don't have the resources for it, and it creates an open
invitation to be hit as soon as you eventually decide to stop.”
"Wait, Allison," Scott puts a hand on her knee as she goes to stand, "tell him
what you said about Kate recognizing Derek."
"She recognized Derek?" Stiles' father's voice is sharp. "What did she say?"
Allison furrows her brow. "She didn't say much. It was right before she saw me;
he came out of the tent a little after I did. He didn't see her, I'm sure of
it- he was in the light, and she was in the shadow, and she didn't say anything
to him. But she looked startled, and I'm fairly certain I heard her say his
name as he walked away." She looks perplexed. "How would she know him? Is he
from back east?"
Stilinski shakes his head, and Stiles tries to calm the beating of his heart in
his chest by rubbing a fist across his sternum, back and forth, back and forth.
"Hard to say, really. She may have known him at some point, or she may have
mistaken him for someone else, or you may have misheard what she said." He
shrugs his shoulders, but Allison shakes her head adamantly.
"No, I know what I saw. She definitely recognized him, and it sounded like she
said his name."
Scott looks anxious, his handsome face wrinkled with concern. "Should we tell
him? Maybe he would know more about her."
Stiles has to bite his lip to keep his mouth shut, but his father clearly knows
enough and is saying little, so he bits down on the instinctual defense that
leaps to his tongue, presses back the desire to protect Derek from whatever
evils Allison's family may harbor.
"No." Stilinski leans in, looking them both seriously in the eyes. "Listen, I
need you to promise me that what you've said here stays here, alright? The last
thing we need is for the rumor mill to get going, and if Allison's aunt does
know Derek, the first thing that will happen is that he'll get linked to
Hunters, and that will do him no favors at all, do you understand?" Scott nods
hastily, Allison more slowly. "Let me handle this, and keep these things under
your hats. Here, we protect our own."
Allison smiles back, still shaky at the edges, but more assured. "And those who
ask for it."
Stilinski nods and stands, watching as Scott helps Allison off of the low sofa.
"Yes, Allison. Our own, and any who ask it of us." He smiles at her, and Stiles
regrets for a moment his status as an only child- he thinks his father would
have loved a daughter, maybe two, to protect and dote on, to balance out the
manic shenanigans that were Stiles' childhood. Stilinski claps Scott on the
back. "Make sure she gets back to the Martins' safe, Scott."
"Yes, sir!"
It's an unnecessary admonition, Stiles thinks- Scott won't put anything before
Allison and her safety, and if that isn't already clear, then maybe his father
needs his glasses checked. He pulls at the sleeve of his robe, thinking about
Allison's words, about Derek, and about a Hunter aunt who knows him. It doesn't
add up in his mind to anything but strange coincidence, but he doesn't really
believe in coincidence, never has. Acts of God, perhaps, fickle fortune, sure,
even random happenstance, but coincidence? Not so much.
"That goes for you, too, Stiles." His father shuts the door and turns to raise
a tired eyebrow in Stiles' direction. "You keep all this to yourself."
Stiles makes an offended face, spreading his hands in front of him in
incredulity at the thought that he might not take this seriously, letting them
drop when the expression on his father's face doesn't change.
"Is Derek in danger?" The words are out before he can stop himself, and he has
to resist the urge to shrink away from the appraising look his father gives
him, ducking his head and rubbing a toe against the floor boards.
"I don't know." His father sounds like he's telling the truth, Stiles thinks,
and he raises his eyes again, fighting to keep his fear off his face. "I don't
think he's in any more danger than any of the rest of us, but...it's hard to
say." Stilinski scrubs his hands across his face, pulling the dining chair back
across to the table and settling into it. "Don't borrow trouble, kid. He's as
safe as any of us, for now."
Stiles nods, hesitates for a minute, then goes to his room, undressing in the
cold dark and shivering his way into his chilly narrow bed. He lies there, the
winter moon shining through the window, but sleep is a long time coming.
--
It's been three weeks since the last sighting of Kate, or any of the other
Hunters, and the tension that had permeated the camp is slowly leeching into
settled wariness from the hyper-vigilance of the first few days. Deaton has
decreed that the holidays go on as planned, both to demonstrate to any watching
that nothing is suspected, nothing is out of the ordinary, and to keep morale
from disintegrating. Christmas went off without a hitch, the Christmas Eve
Spectacular playing to a packed house, and the lazy days after Christmas itself
full of cleaning and repair and rest, which have brought them right up to the
last day of the year.
So maybe Stiles had a few nips from his father's bottle of golden warm whisky
before he left his house, and maybe he also had poured some into a flask that
he's been sharing with Scott, and maybe Lydia has some incredible concoction in
a green glass bottle that she's carrying between her perfectly round breasts,
making the sharp-scented liquid all warm from her body, and maybe Stiles is a
little bit drunk, but that is all irrelevant, because he has never seen Derek
like this in the months he's known him, not once, not at all.
Derek is performing.
Not only is he performing, Stiles thinks, but he's actively enjoying it- he's
either filched a suit off someone who couldn't fit in it anymore, or he's used
his wages in town to have one made, and frankly Stiles doesn't care which, and
neither, he thinks, do any of the women in the room, because it fits Derek like
it was sewn on him, following his lines like a drawing, black and sleek all
over until it meets the crisp edge of the white shirt that opens in a v at the
hollow of his neck. He's slicked his hair back from his face, and his eyes are
flashing, his white teeth showing in a grin that Stiles doesn't think he's ever
actually seen before, but could really stand to see a lot more of. He's
chatting, flirting, with Nurse McCall, leaning in close to tease her, laughing
when she blushes and flaps her fan, and he's been doing this all night, all
night, with everyone, young and old, man and woman, and Stiles cannot tear his
eyes away.
He takes another drink, handing the flask off to Scott as he waltzes by with
Allison in his arms, both their faces flushed with heat and excitement and
exertion. Stiles winks at her, and she blows him a kiss, radiant in a deep
purple dress that fits her every curve, tracing up her bodice to curl around
the tops of her arms, leaving her creamy shoulders bare to the glowing
lamplight under the striped roof. Stiles thinks Scott's been flushed since well
before Stiles handed him the flask, and who can really blame him.
The musicians are in fine form, Finstock on his tuba and Mr. Whittemore on the
trumpet blasting their way through a polka as old Mr. Boyd III. pumps his
accordion back and forth. It's ten minutes to midnight, and the energy in the
big tent is at a peak, the whole circus crowded into the center, the ring
pulled away and the equipment shuffled off to the side. The women have hung
lanterns all over like fairy orbs, floating in the gloom that rises closer to
the roof, the glowing light softening everyone's features and emphasizing the
roses blooming high in the cheeks of the girls. Erica is waltzing with Isaac as
Boyd watches from the first tier of stands, her nimble legs bare and flashing
underneath her crimson tutu and emerald corset. Her blonde curls are flying
free, and when they spin it's nearly impossible to tell his head from hers, the
two of them stepping back and forth across each other in a complicated pattern
of footwork known only to them. Mr. and Mrs. Martin are moving in a more
stately fashion around the outer edge of the circle, their form flawless and
their dress elegant and complementary. The room is alive with color and sound
and laughter, and ok, so maybe Stiles is more than a little drunk, but he's
just so happy to be here, with his family, with his friends, as the old year
turns to the new.
It's the first time in a while he's felt optimistic, and maybe that's the
liquid courage talking, but he doesn't care- he straightens the lapels of the
red bolero jacket he found in the costume closet, and marches over to where
Lydia is holding court in her pale blue ball gown, not stumbling, never
stumbling, but rather stepping carefully, his toes feeling a step in front of
his head. The music is winding up, and he wants to catch her before the next
dance starts.
He makes it to her feet and bows deeply, thrusting an arm out to the side and
keeping his knees straight as he bends himself in half, taking her hand and
kissing it as he rises.
"Lovely Lydia, my lovely lady, may I have this dance?" He's beaming as he bends
over her hand again, and he can see that she's laughing at him, and it makes
him happy, to make her laugh, even if it's at his expense, it doesn't matter,
it's all fine.
Jackson's elbow comes out of nowhere, shoving into his side and throwing him
off-balance, and it's the first time this hour, maybe, that Jackson has shoved
him, or stepped on his toes, or sneered at him, but with Jackson there's never
a first, there's always a history, has always been a history since they were
tiny children fighting behind the tents, and so Stiles, still feeling flushed
with happiness, regains his balance and rises up smiling, pulling back his fist
and cheerfully popping Jackson one in the face. Somebody shrieks, and someone
else laughs, he thinks it's Erica, and he doesn't care that Jackson has
recovered from his shock and horror enough to have grabbed him by the red
velvet jacket in one hand and be pulling the other back into what is no doubt
going to be a real whale of a punch, but suddenly it stops, and someone's
hauling Jackson away. Stiles catches a glimpse of Danny's annoyed face over
Jackson's shoulder, and winces in sympathy- Danny and one of the twins had been
dancing for a while, he probably didn't want to be interrupted- and then
someone growls behind him before unceremoniously dragging him out of the tent
with a fist around his belt and another around the back of his jacket, and then
they are outside in the night air, the thousands of stars spinning around them.
Stiles fetches up against the side of the rain barrel, and before he can
realize what's coming next, he's head-down in freezing water, the shock of it
knocking the buzz of the alcohol in his system down to a low roar as he comes
up sputtering and shaking, droplets of water from his hair spraying all around
as he shakes his head vigorously.
He blinks his eyes open, shivering as rivulets run down the back of his neck
and into his shirt, and there's Derek, arms crossed over his chest, standing a
foot away and laughing at him, teeth and eyes gleaming in the light from the
moon overhead.
"Worth it?"
Stiles grins ferociously, remembering the look of shock on Jackson's face,
stepping forward into Derek's space as he shivers again, Derek's hands coming
up to chafe at his arms.
"Absolutely."
A cheer goes up from inside, and the band starts the strains of Auld Lang Syne.
Stiles can see them in his mind's eye, the couples reaching for each other,
swaying to the maudlin tune as the little kids run around throwing confetti
into the air.
They're kissing before he registers it happening, and he'll never know who
moved first, or if it was as choreographed as the movements of the dances
inside, two people reaching in time for each other, but he comes to himself
with his arms wound around Derek's neck, and Derek's mouth pressed warm and
firm against his own. He must make some sort of noise, because Derek begins to
pull back, but no, no, that is no, absolutely not, Stiles can feel the stars
spinning again and this is absolutely where he needs to be at this exact
moment, wrapped up in Derek's arms and pressing closer to him than he's ever
allowed himself to before.
Derek's hands on his body are familiar, sure, confident in their knowledge of
Stiles' form from the hours and hours of practice, the tactile memorization of
angle and strength, but they've never touched Stiles like this, never curled
around him like they wanted him, like how Derek's tongue is curling into
Stiles' mouth, and even with his eyes closed, Stiles can see the late winter
sky whirling away above them. He feels his way into Derek's hair, into his
mouth, taking up residence and letting his legs lean him up against Derek's
chest, arching his back to accommodate Derek's press forward as he moves from
Stiles' mouth to his ear to the upturned arc of his jaw, gasping at the touch
of Derek's warm and callused fingers at the small of his back, points of light
through the thin fabric of his dress shirt.
It's days, minutes, a century before Derek reluctantly pulls back, his mouth
lingering by the hollow of Stiles' cheek, his breath rough in Stiles' ear.
Stiles pushes forward again, searching, but Derek smiles gently and shakes his
head, nodding toward the exit where people are beginning to spill out, the
littler children being carried, the older folks arm in arm. He can hear the
band winding down inside, the chatter and laughter fading to a murmur, and he
lets himself fall backward in a bend, face to the sky, letting Derek catch his
weight and laugh as Stiles stretches his arms wide in jubilation.
Derek lets him hang for a moment, then pulls him back up, steadying him as he
staggers on his feet, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth that leaves
Stiles staring and delighted.
"C'mon." Derek tugs him until Stiles is under his arm, pressed up against him
side to side, wrapped in Derek's scent and heat. "C'mon, I'll walk you home."
--
When he tells the story later, Stiles will say that he was just walking home
the long way to stretch his legs, and that they got the jump on him when he was
at the edge of the fences, near the lion pens. It's not far from the truth-
it's four days into January, just past dark between the matinee and the evening
show, and he was down at the edge of the fences, not far from the lion pens,
and they did indeed get the jump on him, whacking him upside the head with
something hard just as he turned to see who was following him, dropping him to
the ground without a whimper.
But really, he wasn't walking home. He was looking for Derek.
--
He comes to in a rather serious amount of pain, pain that he's not used to, not
the ache of joints or the twinge of bruises, but rather a star-burst of pain
radiating from his right temple and throbbing in his skull, and the insistent
pins and needles waiting in his arms that are bent behind him and tied to the
chair he's sitting on. He blinks, fighting the urge to be sick, and spits a
clot of blood onto the floor from where he bit his tongue at some point between
being there and coming here.
The room is cold, and probably underground, he thinks- there's a candle burning
on a ledge a little ways from him, and the meager light it casts shows him
damp-looking stone walls and a series of hooks and brackets and ropes that he
feels like he probably really doesn't want to think about. He lets his eyes
fall closed again, not really sure whether the spinny darkness is any better
than the spinny stone room, but he must pass out again for a while, because
when he comes to, there's an elderly man sitting on a stool and watching him.
"You're the little flying child." The old man smiles at him in a grandfatherly
way, and Stiles shudders- there's an edge to that smile, an edge of brutality
lurking just beneath the doddering exterior, and all the hairs on Stiles' arms
are standing up in response.
"Stupendous Stilinksi." Stiles' voice is rough and croaking, and he spits again
onto the floor, close enough to the man's boots to splatter, not close enough
to be deemed a deliberate aim. The old man just lifts an eyebrow at him and
chuckles, and for a second Stiles thinks that he's gotten away with it, but
then his face explodes in pain and the man is snarling at him from an inch
away, heavy dark eyebrows contorted with hatred, hand still clutching the cane
he'd slammed across Stiles' cheekbone.
"I will call you what I like, you shameless little shit." The old man backhands
him across the opposite cheek, a ring biting deep into the flesh of Stiles'
face, snapping his head back and making the room spin dizzily around him again.
He takes a delirious moment to be quietly pleased that he will at least have
symmetrical bruises; it'll be easier to blend into stage makeup if he's even on
both sides, and he giggles to himself at the thought.
"You think this is funny?" The man sits down, and he's dangerous again, calm
and collected, straightening the cap on his head and folding his hands on the
top of the cane. He smiles, and Stiles fights the full-body crawl of nerves.
The room is hazy around the corners, little flickers of light at the edges of
his vision, and he's not even sure if it's because he's hit his head (had his
head hit, ha) too much, or if it's a result of the too-quick way that he can
feel his heart beating, the panic at the base of his spine slowly growing
higher. "Clearly you don't understand the position in which you find yourself."
Stiles lets his head drop forward, spreading his knees and pulling
unobtrusively at his bonds. They've used ropes, and tied them fairly tight, but
they haven't bothered to tuck away the knot ends to where he can't reach them,
and that, Stiles thinks, might have been a mistake. Might have been, assuming
he can stay conscious for longer than a handful of minutes at a time, that is.
"You filth have taken my granddaughter. You have corrupted her, pulled her into
sin, and I. Will. Not. Have it." He punctuates each of his last words with a
thump of the cane on the stone floor, and Stiles kind of wants to roll his eyes
at the melodrama, maybe would if he weren't concentrating so hard on feeling
the type of knot holding his wrists. “We taught her to shoot, an ancient and
glorious art, we taught her to aim, to pull the string, to defend herself
against scum like you, and you have taken it and perverted it, twisted her
skills into idle trickery to serve your own base desires.” His face is
trembling, his dark eyes terrifying for the lack of hysteria in them.
"Pretty sure she came on her own, guy. Also pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate
you implying that she's not capable of making her own decisions."
Gerard Argent smiles again, almost companionably. "You're still a child, just
like she is. Tell me, circus whelp, what do you know of choice? What do you
know of pain?"
Stiles opens his mouth to reply, then yells instead, his eyes watering, as
Gerard brings the cane slamming down across his right shin, blistering pain
shooting up his leg as he instinctively rocks the chair back.
"Wrong!" Gerard is on his feet again, shouting now as he towers over Stiles,
wielding the cane like a club. "You know nothing! You know only the sins of
your flesh, the sin of your birth, the corruption of your life. You know
nothing, you foolish child, nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!" He sends the
cane hard into Stiles' other shin, again when Stiles pulls his legs up, his
voice gone silent as he swings the cane with brutal efficiency, hitting him
again and again and again as Stiles cries out in pain, knowing that there is no
one to hear him. He's trying to pull himself smaller, ducking a blow, when the
cane clips him across the temple again, and he doesn't even have time for a
last thought as he slides back into the welcoming darkness.
--
He wakes to a cool cloth on his face, wiping blood away from his ear and his
split lip. He keeps his eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness, as he fiddles
again with the ropes.
"I know you're awake." The voice is warm, teasing, and female.
Stiles opens his eyes.
"There we go." She smiles at him, turning the cloth to wipe his face again with
a clean square. "Look at you, with those big pretty eyes." She clicks her
tongue, gripping his chin and turning his face gently from side to side to
examine the damage. She's beautiful, all smooth skin and dark blonde hair,
almond shaped eyes and a tipped grin, her fingers long and very strong as she
moves his face to where she wants it. Stiles wants her hands off him.
"Oh, honey, it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you." Her voice is cooing, sweet,
and Stiles can smell her perfume as she leans in to wipe a spot of blood from
behind his jaw. "I just want to ask you a couple questions, that's all." She
pats his arm, running her hand over a tear in his shirt, letting her fingernail
drag against his skin. He shudders, making her smile and bat her eyes. "Now,
now, don't be shy, sweetheart. You look like a smart boy, you must know some of
the things I want to know." She runs her hands down his chest, arching her back
so that her breasts strain against the fabric of her dress.
The only good thing about any of this, Stiles thinks, is that so far she hasn't
noticed the twitching of his arms as he slowly and methodically works the rope
out of its knot, piece by piece. The rest of it, though, he could do without-
he hurts all over, and though he's more conscious than he was last time, he has
a feeling that he's lost a couple hours here and there, and he'd really like to
know how long he's going to be stuck down here in this horrible little room
with this procession of crazy people.
"You know why you're here." It's not a question, not in her voice, with its
sultry curve, not with her hands opening the top of his shirt.
"I'm a hostage." He rolls his eyes. "No doubt you're going to creatively ransom
me for Allison."
She laughs gleefully. "See? I knew you were a good boy. For that you get a
kiss." She leans in again, pressing her hot, damp lips against his cheek. He's
hit abruptly with the memory of Derek, mouth pressed to his in the darkness,
and he's suddenly closer to weeping than he's been the whole time, so he shoves
it back down, concentrating instead on the feel of the rope twisting beneath
his fingers.
"Now tell me," she's worked her way down to the third button of his shirt, and
hoists her skirts without preamble to straddle his thighs, making him whine
with pain as his bruised shins take the added weight. Her face pulls into a
saccharine pout. "You poor thing, what did Daddy do to you?" She tsks, and he
feels part of the knot come undone, begins working frantically on the next taut
loop. "Come on, little boy, let me feel you. You're not one of those sodomites,
are you?" Her hips rock insistently against his, and he forces himself to rock
up against her and moan, still pulling determinedly at the rope that is slowly
loosening. "No, I didn't think so. Not a handsome boy like you." Her smile is
all teeth, and she rakes her fingernails down his now-bare chest. "Tell me,
pretty little circus boy, your circus recently got a new member. Do you know
him?" She's purring into his ear, and he has to stop working on the knot for a
moment, caught in the sudden fear that she'll look down over his shoulder and
notice the movement of his hands. "He's big, but attractive as they come.
Dangerous, though, and unstable. Do you know him?"
Stiles shakes his head mutely, widening his eyes in innocence as she holds his
gaze. "Really? Are you sure?" He nods, and she sighs. "Such a shame that I
don't believe you at all." Her face is disappointed, "We could have worked
together, you know. We still could, if you tell me everything you know about
Derek Hale." She's standing now, and the returned circulation to his thighs is
excruciating. "I'd make it very worth your while..."
"Kate! Get the hell up here!"
"Oh, what a pity." She looks angry, suddenly, the first genuine emotion Stiles
has seen on her face the whole time she's been down here with him, but he
doesn't let the relief spill onto his face. "We'll have to continue this later.
Duty calls." She smiles again, the extra-fake one that doesn't begin to touch
anything beyond her teeth. "Don't go anywhere!" She laughs again, tossing her
hair, and then she's gone.
Stiles redoubles his efforts on the ropes.
--
He hears the commotion upstairs as the last curl of rope comes free from the
knot, and he pulls his hands around in front of him, gasping at the rippling
pain of returned blood-flow to his arms just as Derek comes tearing down the
stone stairs, eyes wild.
"Stiles, thank God!"
Stiles tries to stand, makes it upright before the world shifts and his legs
begin to crumple, and then Derek is right there, catching him before he hits
the floor and lifting him bodily into his arms, and Stiles would object if he
weren't so incredibly relieved.
"I've got him!" Derek shouts toward the ceiling, already moving up and out.
"Good work, Derek, now let's get the hell out of here."
Stiles grips his fingers into Derek's jacket, hanging on as Derek pounds up the
stairs.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, your dad's here, and Scott and Mr. Whittemore and Boyd, too." Derek
shows his teeth in something closer to a snarl than a smile, shifting Stiles so
that he's even closer to Derek's chest as they burst into a well-lit kitchen
and then out the back door of whatever house they were holding him in. "They
got the Hunters who were guarding you. The Argents had already left, though."
Derek's voice is tight and angry, laced with fury in a way Stiles has never
seen from him.
"You got him there, Derek?" Stiles turns instinctively to the sound of his
father's voice, and Derek carefully sets him onto his feet so that he can wrap
his arms around his dad, clinging silently for a moment until his father coughs
in embarrassment and rubs a hand over his hair, pulling back a step. Stiles
sways in the absence of a body holding him up, but Derek has his arm, so he
sways into Derek instead, looking up in time to catch the tail end of a
considering glance his dad is leveling at Derek.
"Yes, sir. He needs to be checked out, though. I can put him in the wagon?"
Stiles' father considers for a moment, then shakes his head slowly.
"No, we need the wagon to take these three into town. We can't hold them at our
place, and we need to give the sheriff and his boys a heads-up as to what's
been going on." Stilinski sighs. “Seems like this place isn't owned by the
Argents, so even if we can find them and question them, Stiles is our only link
to Gerard unless we can get these guys to flip.” He reaches out to cup his hand
gently around Stiles' cheek. "Hey kiddo, you okay if Derek here takes you back
to the cabin and gets you patched up? I need to see this through, and then I'll
come right home, alright?"
Stiles nods exhaustedly, leaning his face into his dad's hand briefly, then
standing as straight as he can. "Yeah. Bring those criminals to justice, dad."
His father chuckles, then nods at Derek. "All yours, son. Make sure he gets
everything patched up before he passes back out. I'll be back as soon as I
can."
"Yes, sir." Derek sounds serious, and if he thinks Stiles hasn't noticed the
way Derek's been unobtrusively patting him down since he first laid hands on
him, he's fooling himself. "I'll take good care of him."
Stilinski claps him on the shoulder, nodding once before heading off to
supervise the loading of the prisoners, and then it's just Stiles and every
pain he can imagine. And Derek.
--
At first, Stiles is relieved that he doesn't have to walk back the couple of
miles to their camp, but after he's been on the horse for longer than a minute,
he's no longer convinced that this is the better option, because even though
sitting on the horse doesn't directly push on any of his injuries, the rocking
motion is doing nothing good for his head at all, and every jolt of the horse
stepping up or down on something unexpected in the dark jars his sore joints.
At least the cold night air helps to keep the nausea in the back of his throat
rather than the front, and he closes his eyes and goes with it when Derek pulls
him back to rest against his chest, wrapping his coat around them both and
tucking Stiles' head under his chin.
Stiles either dozes or passes out again, because they're back faster than they
should be, and Jackson's waiting worriedly by the barn to help hand Stiles down
to the ground while Derek dismounts. Stiles wants to say something about it,
but the look on Jackson's face, added to the still-blooming black eye he's
sporting courtesy of Stiles' fist, combine to make Stiles feel more than a
little shitty. He doesn't want anyone's last memory of him to be of getting
punched in the face, even if it is Jackson, and he's about to say so, but
Jackson takes the horse into the barn and then Derek's walking him carefully
over to his cabin before he can get the words out. His legs hurt really a lot,
and he has to cling to Derek and bite hard into his lip to get up the stairs,
but then they're inside, and he's never thought he'd be so glad to see his own
damn sofa again.
Nurse McCall is waiting for them, and Stiles isn't sure whether it makes her an
optimist or a pessimist, whether she was waiting for him, or for his father,
but she's all over him the second that he's in the door, helping Derek settle
him on the sofa, busily setting some water to heat on the pot-bellied stove,
sending Derek out for more wood, and critically eyeballing every wince that
Stiles makes as he gets situated.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
"Good. Now?"
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Two on your left hand, four on your right. So, six. I'm
not that hurt."
"Uh-huh. I'll be the judge of that." She takes his head in her hands, her
fingers strong, but delicate, and tips it side to side. "What'd they hit you
with?"
He appreciates that her tone is professional, because it has been a long
fucking night, and he'd really like to keep his shit together just a little
longer, just until he's alone, and he doesn't think he could if she were crying
on him like she looks like she might want to.
"The first time? I don't know. The second time, a cane."
There's a strange whistling noise from across the room, and it takes Stiles a
second to realize that Derek is breathing in and out through his gritted teeth.
"Derek? Go back and get some clean cloths, a towel, and Stiles' night-clothes
from his room."
She waits till Derek has stomped off down the hallway, clearly annoyed at being
sent away, but not willing to challenge her over it.
"Stiles, honey." She holds his eyes very seriously, and he chews on the corner
of his mouth. "You have to tell me. Where did they hurt you?"
"My head and my legs are the worst. I'm pretty sure nothing's broken, but," he
licks his lip, "but they hurt." He can't stop his voice from cracking a little
at the end, and she nods sympathetically, her wide brown eyes so like her
son's. "My arms are sore from being tied up, and I guess he hit them some too,
but not as much."
She nods again, watching his face searchingly. "Nowhere else? They didn't...get
rough with you?"
It takes him a second, but when he gets it, he shakes his head vigorously
before moaning in regret at the resulting sloshing of his brain. "No, no,
nothing like that. Just your standard beating, you know." He waves his fingers,
trying to ignore the look of mingled pity and relief on her face.
"Good. Well, you shouldn't go to sleep for a little while yet, and if you start
throwing up, or if you feel like you're going pass out again, you let me know,
you hear? You've had a pretty good concussion, but you've also had it for a
good" She checks her watch, "Well, you've been gone for nearly nine hours, so,
you're probably past the worst of the dangerous periods, but I'll feel better
if I know you have someone with you." She turns and pins Derek with a look that
makes Stiles wonder if she's been talking to his father, her eyes appraising
and indulgent. "Derek. You'll stay with Stiles until John gets back, won't
you?"
Derek looks a little like a deer caught in the headlights, his face freezing
for a moment before he nods agreeably, setting his bundle down on the chair
nearest the woodstove. The water Nurse McCall had set to heat is starting to
spit, so he wraps a cloth around the handle and shifts it off to the side,
ducking his head as he answers.
"If that's what Stiles wants."
"It's what I want" she says primly, turning back to Stiles and taking his left
hand in hers as she begins to pat up his arm. "Ok, I'll be gentle, but tell me
if I hit anything that feels like more than a bruise." He nods, and grits his
teeth as she rotates it, moving the arm up and out, watching him for any
limited movement. She prods the bruises left by the cane and clucks her tongue,
but his chest and back are blessedly fine, and though the bruises on the
outsides of his upper arms are sore, and no doubt going to raise up into some
impressive welts, there's no sign of any real damage, no fractures or
dislocations that either of them can feel.
"Good. Everything seems fine so far. Ok, kiddo, now for the fun part. Derek?"
Stiles isn't sure what Derek's been doing, lurking, he assumes, Stiles has been
too distracted to notice while he had all his tender bits prodded by Nurse
McCall's fingers, but suddenly he's there, looming over her shoulder while she
takes Stiles' hands in hers. "We need to get him up, and his pants off, so that
I can check his legs."
Stiles can feel himself blushing, and he spares a moment to be fervently
grateful for the low lighting of the lamps, because he knows that it's
necessary, but she's still his best friend's mom, and he's still seventeen, and
Derek is still Derek, and this is really not how Stiles imagined Derek seeing
him with his pants down.
Because he knows it's useless to protest, he lets her pull him gently to his
feet, biting his lip against the sharpened pain of stiff muscles and growing
bruises, undoing the buttons of his fly and letting his pants fall to the
floor. He intentionally doesn't look; he doesn't want to know what the meat of
his legs looks like at this point. He's not squeamish, can't afford to be as a
performer, but that doesn't mean that he has any desire to see the results of
Gerard Argent's violence on his own body.
"Oh, hon." Her voice sounds a little heart-broken, and Stiles swallows hard,
focusing his gaze on the far wall as she takes his spot on the sofa and turns
him carefully to face her, Derek balancing him as he goes with a hand warm in
the small of his back and the other at his shoulder.
"Well, you're standing and walking, so nothing's broken too badly. Let's see
what we have here." Her hands are brisk, but firm, and Derek catches him every
time he tries to flinch away as she presses on yet another slowly-rising deep-
tissue bruise. He can tell the ones on his thighs are painful, but he's bruised
his thigh and calf muscles often enough on the trapeze bars or his hoop that he
knows what that feels like, and what to expect while it heals. It's the welts
across his shins that have him worried, and her too, he thinks, as she gets
down to them. Derek must've snuck a look at them as well, because by the time
she gets down to his shins he's wound an arm around Stiles' chest, holding him
loosely against his own body. It's a smart move, because at the first touch of
her hand to his shin, Stiles flinches violently away. It's to no avail- she
grabs his ankle firmly and presses all along the bone, checking for fractures,
and then repeats it on his other leg, leaving Stiles to twist and clutch
against Derek, tears leaking down his cheeks. Finally she's done, and stands,
leaving him propped against Derek in his shirt-tails as she rifles through her
medical kit.
"Alright, Stiles. I think you'll do. You're going to be in a lot of pain for
the next few days, so I'm going to leave this bottle of aspirin here for you.
No opium; you've hit your head. Take two before you go to sleep, and after
that, you know the drill." He nods obediently, wiping his nose morosely on his
shirtsleeve and not trusting his voice. "Good. I'll also leave this bruise-
reducing cream. Derek?" Stiles can feel Derek come to attention behind him.
"He's a little old for me to give him a sponge bath," Derek snorts out a laugh
behind him, and Stiles stomps weakly on his toes, "So help him get cleaned up
and medicated, and then help him to bed." Derek nods slowly, and Stiles hangs
his head. Babysitting, he's being foisted off onto Derek for babysitting. The
only way this could be worse would be if Nurse McCall had decided to go ahead
and give him that sponge bath after all. "Don't let him go to sleep right away,
give it at least another hour. Play cards or something. And make sure you stay
with him until his father gets home." Stiles looks up in time to catch her
using her "don't think I can't hunt you down if I need to" look on Derek, and
suppresses a chuckle just in time for her to turn it on him. "And Stiles, so
help me, if I find out that you're back practicing in anything less than a
week, I will sic my son and his guilty conscience on you myself, do you hear
me? He will watch your every step, and you will not have a moment's privacy."
She raises an eyebrow meaningfully at him, poking a finger gently into his
chest.
Stiles shudders- there's little worse than Scott's earnest and unrelenting
groveling when he thinks he's in the wrong. He hadn't really realized that
Scott would take this that way, but given that he's courting Allison...
"Yes, ma'am."
"That's my boy." She smiles smugly, wrapping herself in her cape and picking up
her supplies.
"Derek, you come and get me if there's any change."
"I will, ma'am."
"Good boy." She leans in to give Stiles a swift peck on the cheek and smile
fondly at him. "I'm so glad you're ok. We were all sick with worry, you know
that, right?"
Stiles ducks his head, nods, lets her press her lips to his cheek one more time
before she swirls out the door.
--
He lets his eyes fall closed again as she shuts the door behind her, doing his
level best to ignore both the aches and pains, and the fact that he's still
standing here in his shirt and drawers. He'd been too distracted by the push
and pull of Nurse McCall's hands earlier to notice the growing chill, but he
can feel the goosebumps rising now, and steadfastly fixes his attention on the
sounds of Derek bustling around the room, creaking open the door to the stove
and adding another log, pouring water.
"Here." There's a pressure on his hand, so he opens his eyes to see Derek
pressing two aspirin into it and offering him a glass of water. "Take these,
and drink this."
Stiles does, the water cool and wonderful as he drains the glass, the aspirin
bitter on the back of his tongue. He opens his eyes again to see Derek looking
pensive.
"What?"
Derek's eyes are troubled, his face calculating.
"Would you rather stay standing for a little while longer? Or would you rather
lie down, and then have to get back up again?"
Stiles gets lost for a second on the blissful thought of lying down before he
parses the remainder of that sentence, and then despairs at the thought of
either having to remain upright or of having to ever be upright again.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. C'mere." Derek pulls him gently over in front of
the stove, and Stiles can feel the goosebumps subside as Derek soaks a cloth in
the still warm water.
"Here, let me just..." He reaches it toward Stiles' face, but Stiles grabs it
out of his hand and scowls.
"I'm not an invalid. I can wash my own face, thank you." He starts scrubbing at
his face, starting at the top of his hairline and moving downward, leaning over
to rinse it in the pan when the cloth gets too smeared with grime and blood.
Derek rolls his eyes, but lets him do it, reaching over to the table for the
bruise cream.
"Take your shirt off." Derek reaches for Stiles' buttons, and suddenly his head
is full of Kate, the smell of her perfume as she ran her fingers down his
collarbone. He shies away, clutching at the cloth and wincing as his legs pull
with the movement.
"Hey. Hey, Stiles." Derek looks hurt and worried, and Stiles forces himself to
still. It's Derek, not Kate, Derek, his friend, Derek, whom he likes a whole
lot, Derek, whom he wants to kiss over and over again. Derek raises his hand
slowly, telegraphing his motion the whole way, and takes Stiles' chin in his
hand.
"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to. Ok?" Stiles nods. "I just
know that your legs are hurting you, and so I want to help you get to bed as
quickly as you can. Alright?" He looks sad, and Stiles can't stand to see that
look on his face, so he reaches out and lays his hand along Derek's cheek, his
thumb rubbing across the smooth expanse of skin under his eye before dropping
to unbutton his shirt and let it fall to the floor.
"Yeah." His voice is shaky for more than one reason, and he's not sure if he
wants Derek to read into that or not, but there's no helping it now. He picks
the cloth back up and continues wiping at his face, wiping and rinsing.
He tenses at the first touch of Derek's hand on his arm, but no matter how
nervous his head might be, his body knows the feeling of Derek's fingers on his
skin, and it relaxes into his grip as the distinctive smell of comfrey and
witch hazel rises into the air. Derek's touch is sure and steady, smoothing the
cream into Stiles' skin in an even motion, working his way down from Stiles'
shoulder to his elbow, then into the rope burns around Stiles' wrist. When
Stiles sneaks a glance at Derek's face from under the cloth it's so full of
rage and concern that Stiles is floored, but for all that Derek looks like he's
about to crack a molar with strain, his hands are nothing but calming relief.
Derek moves to Stiles' other arm, and Stiles forces himself to rinse the cloth
again and go back over the side of his face where the blood from his temple
wound had run. He thinks he's mostly gotten it all, but when Derek finishes
with his arm and comes back to stand in front of him, his lip twitches faintly
and he takes the cloth out of Stiles' hand and pauses just for a moment before
running it carefully under the edge of his jaw. Stiles tips his head obligingly
back and to the side, and Derek's ragged intake of breath makes the blood jump
in his veins.
He sets the cloth back into the pan, pulling it off the stove altogether and
setting it on the worktop before he drops abruptly to his knees at Stiles'
feet, leaving Stiles to grasp at his shoulders for balance. His head is level
with Stiles' hip, and it's unbearably intimate suddenly, Derek on his knees at
Stiles' feet and Stiles next to naked in front of him.
He gasps when Derek rubs the cream into the first bruise on his thigh, and
finds himself absurdly thankful that the pain is enough to distract him from
winding up in a very embarrassing position right in front of Derek's face. He
can't bite back the moan that wrings out of him at the feeling of Derek's long,
broad fingertips on his inner thigh, however, and gives up instantly any
pretense of decorum. He's in his skivvies while the man he's more than a little
in love with rubs medicine into bruises he sustained while being held captive
and beaten by his best friend's girlfriend's family, really there's just no
salvaging any of this situation, so he may as well just go with it.
Derek works him over slowly, his sure fingers finding every bruise, every
twinge, pressing into Stiles' flesh and bone with the sort of steady determined
care that Stiles has seen from him every minute of every day, and Stiles winds
a hand into Derek's hair and hangs on. He braces his other hand on a shoulder,
lets his head fall back in the push and pull of pain and relief, his mouth
moving as he gasps and whines and mumbles gratitude at the silent man in front
of him.
Finally, finally, Derek is done, and he stands stiffly, balancing himself as he
rises with his hands on Stiles' hips, then reaching out to grab Stiles' night-
shirt and drop it over Stiles' head. Stiles gets twisted in the fabric for a
moment, surfacing out of a laundered cotton trap to meet Derek's laughing face,
spluttering in mild indignation as he manages to find the arm holes and yank
the body down to cover what small shreds of his dignity remain.
He opens his mouth in reflex to comment, but Derek is there before he can get a
word out, his hands cupping Stiles' face, ever mindful of the bruising at his
temple, his cheekbone, but directing his head unerringly so that his mouth
meets Derek's.
It's a sweet kiss, comforting and steady, and Stiles brings his hands up to
rest on Derek's neck, holding him there as their mouths move against each
other, reassuring and confirming one to the other. He's not sure quite how it
turns into more; maybe it's when he locks his fingers into the short dark hair
at the nape of Derek's neck, or maybe it's when Derek lets go of his face and
just begins running his hands indiscriminately up and down Stiles' arms and
torso, pressing at his waist, under his arms. Maybe it's when Stiles slips his
tongue into Derek's mouth and lingers, dragging it across Derek's teeth.
Either way, it ends with them standing pressed up against each other, breathing
hard and holding on to each other while Stiles' shirt makes a feeble attempt to
hide the tenting at its front, and Stiles tries not to sway too alarmingly on
his feet under the influence of pain, exhaustion, and now rampant lust tearing
through his veins. Derek's hands are strong on his hips, taking his weight and
steadying him, ever mindful.
Derek, ever the responsible one, steps back.
"Stiles. C'mon." He holds out a hand, snagging the water glass with his other,
and leaning over to blow out the lamp as Stiles steps forward to slip his
fingers into Derek's. "Time for bed."
--
He'd thought he'd have to struggle to finish out Nurse McCall's prescribed hour
of wakefulness as soon as he hit his mattress. He didn't think there'd be any
way to resist the pull of sleep, what with the kind of day he's had.
He'd thought wrong, apparently.
He can hear Derek's even breathing from where he's sitting in a dark corner of
Stiles' room, can tell he's still awake.
Just like Stiles is.
He tosses again, trying to find some position, any position, that will make
everything hurt less, but there isn't one. He's tried them all. The bruise
cream is no doubt doing its thing, and he can tell that the aspirin have
helped, but they're never going to take away the ache in his shoulders where
they were held back, or the slow and steady throbbing pain coming from his poor
legs. Not to mention that being in the dark with his thoughts is always
something that makes Stiles just a little bit twitchier.
He turns again.
"Why aren't you asleep yet?"
Stiles shrugs, a useless gesture in the dark, but who cares.
"Can't get comfortable."
Derek sighs from the corner.
"Also, it..." He should really just stop with the whining already, he knows,
but it's late and he's tired, and his judgment is compromised when it comes to
these things, "Everything hurts."
Derek sighs, then shuffles, and Stiles can hear him getting out of the chair to
come stand by the bed. There's a rustling and clank of metal that must be him
dropping his pants, and the sound of his boots thunking on the floor beside the
bed.
"Scoot over."
"Uhh..."
"C'mon, Stiles, scoot over."
Stiles scoots, and Derek wedges in behind him, the bed dipping beneath his
weight. The heat of him is instantly noticeable, and Stiles presses back so
that he's up against Derek's front, sighing as Derek's body heat sinks into his
sore muscles. Derek always runs hot, Stiles knew this from practice, but the
feeling of it pressed against him is glorious, making him shudder in pleasure
as his body relaxes. Derek chuckles, shoving Stiles around until he can get an
arm under Stiles' neck, bending his elbow so that his palm comes to rest
squarely over Stiles' heart.
"Better?" Derek's voice is wry, and Stiles mmms happily, winding his top leg
back over Derek's to shove his freezing toes between Derek's two warm feet.
Derek jumps, then chuckles.
"Yeah."
Derek brings his other hand up under Stiles' arm, his fingers digging into the
muscles of Stiles' chest, and Stiles can't hold back a moan at the relief it
brings, his body relaxing further into Derek's sure hold as Derek's fingers
unerringly find the soreness of over-extension, where the cold from the dungeon
had set his muscles into tight unhappiness as he strained against his bonds.
Derek laughs quietly behind him, but Stiles has given up on any idea of holding
back, so he lets his mouth hang open, lets the sounds come as they will while
Derek works his way methodically from Stiles' neck to his shoulder joint to his
chest.
He's nearly forgotten that he's half naked in his bed with the man he's pulled
himself off to more than once until Derek rubs his open palm across Stiles'
chest and his thumb catches on a nipple, causing Stiles to arch his back and
make an entirely different sort of noise altogether. Derek freezes, then rubs
his thumb across it again almost unthinkingly, and Stiles' hand clutches where
it's resting on Derek's thigh. His night shirt has rucked up in the process of
all the tossing and turning he's been doing, and there's nothing between the
skin of his legs and Derek's save Derek's knee-length drawers.
Derek's hands are frozen on him, warm and steady and strong, and Stiles
realizes abruptly that he's achingly hard. He blames the fuzziness of his head
for how that managed to happen without him really noticing, and the warm
dexterousness of Derek's hands for why it's happened at all. He can hear
Derek's intentionally even breathing behind him, can see his face in his mind's
eye, and really, there's no decision to be made, this thing between them may
have been light and easy, or even deniable, before tonight, but here in the
dark, in this bed made of Stiles' bruises and Derek's fear, there's no room for
pretense between them, no space for anything but the honesty of their hearts
and bodies.
Stiles reaches out, takes Derek's immobile hand in his, and pulls it down under
the edge of his nightshirt to rest on his naked hipbone, fingers of both their
hands brushing into the hair between his legs.
"Please."
It's not a beg, or a plea- it's a request, a heart-felt entreaty, and the
effect on Derek is instantaneous and electric. He gets his face into Stiles'
neck, his mouth warm and his teeth sharp against the tendons that run up from
Stiles' shoulder to his skull, and Stiles throws his head back and moans at the
sensation of Derek's teeth rasping at his throat as his hand closes around
Stiles' cock.
"Yes?" Derek's voice is raw in his ear, warm breath moving across his skin as
Derek presses his mouth to Stiles' ear, his neck, his jawline, the corner of
his mouth, anywhere he can find purchase. Stiles' hips are moving without his
conscious intent, pressing back and forth between the firm grip of Derek's fist
and the hard press of Derek's thighs behind him.
"Yes, God, yes, Derek, please..." He reaches back and grips at Derek's hip,
using his other hand to slide Derek's right hand up from his chest to his mouth
so that he can suck Derek's finger into his mouth, licking down to the base and
biting at the pad as Derek groans around him.
"Wait, wait, Stiles, hang on..." Stiles whines, because the thought of waiting
is awful, terrible, and not in any way a thing that he wants to do, but Derek's
hand is suddenly gone, and Stiles thrusts into thin air and whines again as
Derek laughs breathlessly at him. "Just...one sec..." He can feel Derek's hand
moving behind him, hears the quiet slip of buttons, and then Derek is pulling
his leg down and around so that it's between Derek's, hitching his own knee up
to rest on Stiles' hip, careful not to jar any of his bruises. Stiles bites
again on Derek's finger where it's still in his mouth, and Derek groans, his
movements getting faster as Stiles grins around the digit, pulling off to suck
its brother into his mouth.
"God, just..." Derek's hand is careful as it lifts Stiles' thigh, a frustrating
counterpoint to Stiles' own impatience, then there's something else there, and
Stiles kicks his hips involuntarily as he realizes this is Derek's cock between
his legs, pressing up against the back of his balls. It's the hottest thing
he's never thought of, and he moans around Derek's finger before Derek's even
managed to get his hand back on Stiles' dick.
"Ok, ok, there, shh, just...yeah. Like that." Derek buries his face in Stiles'
neck, using his hips to propel Stiles forward and backward, rocking him in and
out of Derek's hand, moving himself back and forth inside the warm pressure of
Stiles' thighs. "God, yeah, Stiles. Just like that."
He's flying, he thinks, his hands clutching to Derek's arms as they wrap around
him, his head thrown back and his mouth open, eyes flickering shut, then open,
as the pressure mounts in his chest, his groin, his everything. They're not
moving too quickly, but Derek's forearms have them pinned together, and Stiles
can feel the minute tremors shaking through Derek's body, can feel the throb of
Derek's cock between his thighs. It catches him off guard when it hits him, his
muscles tightening from his toes to his head as he chokes on air and comes all
over Derek's hand and his sheets, his throat closing up as he feels Derek push
into him a jagged handful of times and then shudder to a stop behind him, warm
and sticky between Stiles' thighs. He thinks there may be a couple of
additional bruises on his hips tomorrow that maybe weren't there when he lay
down this evening, but he's perversely glad, happy to have marks on his body
born of love instead of hate, marks that show that he is wanted, desired, and
cared for.
They lie there in silence for a long moment, listening to the pounding of each
others' hearts, letting their breathing even out, rough in the quiet room.
Eventually Derek moves his hand, wiping it on the hip of his own drawers and
tugging Stiles' night shirt down to cover him again before he does up his own
buttons and rolls onto his back. Stiles follows him over, arranging himself
carefully against Derek's side, arm across his chest and feet tangled, rubbing
his face mindlessly in tiny motions against the cloth of Derek's shirt.
Derek's arm comes around his shoulders, fingers digging into Stiles' short
hair.
"Better?"
Stiles sniggers, shoving his face into Derek's armpit to hide it, smiling as he
feels Derek's chest moving in silent laughter.
"So much," he pulls his face out, and meets Derek's smiling eyes in the
darkened room. "So, so much."
--
The first day after is horrible, and the second also, but he forces himself to
get out of bed and stretch several times both days, and so by day three he's
feeling not quite so bed-ridden, and thank god for it, because he is driving
both himself and his father absolutely up the walls. His friends come to visit
when they can, but the shows are ongoing, and though the Stupendous Stilinski
may not be taking the stage, everyone else is.
He's just finished rubbing more of the bruise cream into his nicely purpling
welts when he hears the knock at the door, so he yanks his pants up and pulls
on his shirt, then goes to answer it.
"Hi, Stiles!" greets Allison when the door swings open. She's pink-cheeked and
lovely standing on his stoop, bundled against the January chill, and Stiles
steps back to let her in, pulling out a chair at the table for her and settling
in opposite her.
"Allison! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" He smiles
beatifically, spreading his hands wide. "Did Scott send you? You can tell him
I've noticed that he's slacking on his best-friend-ly duties."
She laughs, then bites her lip, her face pulling in concern.
"No, I just...how are you, Stiles?" She pulls off a purple mitten, reaching out
to settle a hand on his, big brown eyes searching his face earnestly.
"Brilliant! Fantastic! One might even say..." he winks broadly at her, "that
I'm stupendous." She rolls her eyes, squeezes his fingers, and he sobers for a
moment, unable to help seeing Gerard in the tilt of her eyes, the line of her
nose. "I'll be fine, Allison, really. It wasn't fun, but I'm healing good, and
I'll be back up there before you know it." He pats her hand.
She sighs, looks away, then fishes around in her coat pocket for a minute
before dragging out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and shoving it across the
table at him. "Here. It's late for Christmas, but. I feel really bad, so."
He blinks at her in surprise, then pulls the package over when she refuses to
meet his eyes, yanking at the string around it till it gives, folding back the
brown paper to reveal...
"A hat?"
"And mittens!" She gestures impatiently, picking the hat out of the paper and
shaking a pair of mittens out of it before pushing it at Stiles and gesturing
for him to try it on. "I just...I thought maybe your ears get cold" she
finishes lamely, "and maybe your fingers, too."
He yanks it on over his head, settling the brim around his ears. It's a bright
cherry red, soft and well-made, and he can imagine, as he pulls the mittens on,
Allison sitting with needles in her hands, clacking them back and forth. He's
pretty sure she's no less deadly with any one pointed object than any other,
and takes a moment to be grateful that she's choosing to use her skills for
warm and attractive winter-wear where he's concerned.
He grins. "These are amazing, Allison. I haven't had a new hat since..." He
pauses, smiles again, "in a long time. Thanks!" He pulls the brim down over his
eyes, rubbing it back and forth. The hat is really soft; he's already in love
with it. He rolls it back up to see her laughing quietly at him, tugging her
own mittens back on.
"I should get going." She stands, straightens her skirts. "Lydia and I are
working on a new routine, and I need to get back to her. I'll tell Scott you're
crying yourself to sleep in his absence, shall I?" Stiles nods sagely, and
clasps a hand to his heart, pulling his mouth down in a parody of woe. She
laughs again, and turns to go.
"Hey, Allison." He touches her arm, and she turns back, a curious, but wary,
expression on her face. "You know I don't blame you, right? I accept your
apology hat, cause it's fantastic, but this was never your fault." Her face
falls for a second, but then she aims a wavering smile at him and nods
gratefully.
"Thank you, Stiles. I didn't really think you would, but...I do."
He shakes his head, opens his mouth, and she holds up a hand to forestall him.
"No, I'm not going to argue. I'm just glad that we can still be friends, ok?
And I do hope you finish healing soon."
He nods, mouth closing with a clack, and she tightens her shawl and lifts her
chin, throwing him one last smile as she strides out the door.
--
It's a week before Melissa McCall deems Stiles fit enough to begin gentle
workouts again (gentle, Stiles, gentle. Derek, make sure he doesn't strain
himself), and another week after that before he's up to using the trapeze
again, but the crowds welcome him back with great fanfare, so even if he has to
keep his routines on the less-demanding side for a little bit, it's still good
to be back.
Derek helps him the whole way, coming over to the house whenever he's not
needed backstage or for set up or tear down, nodding respectfully at Stiles'
father as he helps Stiles out of the house for progressively longer walks, and
into the training tent for stretching, and then warming up, and finally into
practice again.
Derek is...unlike anyone Stiles has known before, and Stiles is absolutely
taken with watching him become progressively more and more open. It seems as
though Stiles' kidnapping broke something loose in him, and his actions during
and following have endeared him to those closest to Stiles. Erica and Isaac
already liked him, and his friendship with Boyd has moved from casual stoicism
to open camaraderie, but Allison and Nurse McCall now dote on him, while
Stiles' father slaps him on the back and calls him "son". He laughs now, openly
and freely, and his smile...Stiles could spend a lot of time watching Derek
smile; he's begun a small catalog in his head to keep track of the smiles, and
of exactly how to provoke each one.
And when Derek is with him... Derek is more than Stiles had ever dreamed of. He
hadn't known what it could be like, not really, hadn't considered- most of the
couples around him have either been together since childhood and/or are very
private, so for all that he knows that Erica and Boyd are head over heels for
each other, or that the Whittemores share a strong mutual respect, he hasn't
had the sort of up close and personal exposure to it that he might have had if
his mom had lived longer, or if Scott's dad hadn't fucked off for parts
unknown. It's heady, and scary, and a complete power trip- Derek likes Stiles,
he thinks Stiles is funny, he waits for Stiles, he helps Stiles, he actively
wants to spend time with Stiles, seeks him out and draws him in. He admires
Stiles and respects him as a colleague, he considers Stiles his closest friend,
and whenever no one is around, he spends minutes hours days kissing Stiles with
deep drugging kisses, and putting his hands everywhere he can possibly reach.
Derek is the best thing that's ever happened to him, and Stiles will do
anything for him, anything to protect him, anything to give him the best that
Stiles can give him, no matter what that takes.
It's amazing, and incredible, and overwhelming, and wonderful, and
unbelievable, and maybe that's the crux of it, because it's not that Stiles
doesn't trust or believe that Derek is anything but completely sincere, it's
just that things don't work like this in Stiles' experience- he doesn't have
anything he hasn't had to work incredibly hard for, and even when he's done
that, sometimes it hasn't been enough, and so to have the most wonderful thing
in his life come from out of nowhere?...Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to
drop.
In the meantime, though, he's going to milk this for all it's worth, and so
they're halfway through a practice session and only just getting started on a
good solid make-out session when Stiles sees a movement at the edge of the
tent, a quick flash of a face through the opening. He freezes, and Derek mouths
at his neck in question. Stiles shakes his head, and turns back to rub his face
up against Derek's cheek and slip a hand under his practice shirt, nibbling on
his ear as he goes. He's not sure who he saw, but it doesn't really matter-
it's not like there's anyone left who hasn't figured out what's going on
between them. They may not be to the holding hands in public stage, but they're
an incredibly open secret.
It happens again, though, just as Stiles is dismounting from a balance on
Derek's outstretched legs, that same quick flash of a face at the tent flap,
and there's a churn in his gut as he thinks he might be able to place it. He
flicks a glance at Derek, who hasn't noticed. If he's going to head her off at
the pass, keep her away from Derek, he has to go now.
"Hey, wait here for a sec, I thought I saw someone looking for me."
Derek frowns. "I'll come with you."
"No, no, you go ahead and cool down. I'm pretty sure it was just Erica with a
question, I'll be right back." Derek's face is pulling down into a scowl, and
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, it's the middle of the day. I promise I won't go
two feet from the flap; if it's not Erica, I will come right back, ok?” He
pushes Derek gently down to the floor and kisses him briefly, then again not so
briefly, then pulls himself away and slips out of the tent.
--
She catches him before he's rounded the corner, and he's a little scared but
not at all surprised by the length of chilly steel he can feel pressed against
his side. They're in the space between the training tent and the big top, and
unless someone comes walking directly between the tents, there's no way that
anyone will see them. Still, he thinks, if she wanted to kill him, he wouldn't
be alive now- she's playing a game, and he may as well see what he can learn.
"Well, if it isn't my pretty little circus boy!" Her voice is a low purr from
behind him, and he can feel goosebumps rising up and down his arms. "Looks like
you were too pretty for me after all, and now you've found yourself a catch,
huh? Little Derek Hale's got his filthy mouth all over you, boy, and you let
him put his hands down your pants.” Her hand is sliding under his shirt, her
nails pointed against his skin. “You must've been born to this, to be this
depraved. It's in your blood, your bones, this sin's so deep in you even I
couldn't burn it out.” She licks at the side of Stiles' neck and he suppresses
a shiver, making her giggle in his ear.
"Oh, Stiles." She drops the knife from his ribs so that she can circle around
to face him, but keeps it low and aimed at his vulnerable belly as she smiles
brightly at him, her teeth white and even. "You're so naive. I can see it in
your face, you think he actually loves you." He can't quite suppress the flinch
at her words, and she throws her blonde head back and laughs openly, gleefully.
"Oh, you do, you really do! Oh, honey. Let me tell you a little something about
Derek Hale." She leans in, wrapping a cold hand around the back of his neck and
pulling his head down so she can whisper in his ear. "See, I knew Derek Hale
back east. Knew him" She giggles again, and it's disturbingly girly for a woman
her age, with just a hint of mania that makes Stiles swallow hard. "I knew him
well, and honey, you aren't ever going to be enough to satisfy him. I know, oh,
I know you think you are. I know you think that your love is the first love
that ever was in the whole wide world." Her voice drops to a crooning sing-
song, and Stiles feels hypnotized, wants to pull away, but can't, can't do
anything but stand frozen and let her pour words into his ear. "He wants things
you can never give him." She pulls back, pulling her face into a delicately
contrived expression of pity before leaning back in and looping a companionable
arm around his shoulder. "He wants a family. A wife. Babies. A boy like that
from a big old family? He's the last Hale, you know- he wants to rebuild. Last
of legacy needs a good, solid wife to fill up again and again and again." She
punctuates her words with thrusts of her hip against his thigh, and Stiles
feels dirty suddenly, can see it too easily in his mind, Derek's dark head bent
over some plump blonde woman's breasts, his mouth on her rounding belly, his
hand between her legs. Or maybe she's dark and lean, bearing him children that
look like his dead brothers and sisters and cousins.
"You're wrong." He pushes her off. "You're wrong." He's flustered, embarrassed,
can't think with her perfume in his nose, the image in his head of a laughing
Derek holding a baby up in the air. He believes the way that Derek looks at
him, he does, but he's seen Derek's face when he says the name Laura, can't
help but remember the catch in his voice when he talks about Mary and
Constance.
"Oh, honey," she pouts at him, pats his cheek. "I didn't mean to make you sad.
I'm trying to help you. You need to break it off now, before it hurts too much.
He may like you, and why wouldn't he? You're pretty, you're young, you're
convenient. But he's going to break your heart." She shrugs, smiles at him and
suddenly she's just Allison's pretty aunt, her face sweet and clear. "Protect
yourself, kiddo. No shame in that. Step back from Derek, and you can both get
on with your lives."
She turns, cocking her head and listening for a moment. "That's my cue to go."
She smiles again, showing all her teeth. "I know you won't tell anyone I was
here. You wouldn't want anything bad to happen. You're a good kid." She leans
up, kisses his cheek, and then she's gone.
--
Stiles makes his way back into the tent, his mind spinning frantically. He can
see Derek from the tent opening, his back to Stiles as he pulls himself up and
down on the low trapeze, swinging his legs back and forth as he gauges his
balance against the motion. He's back-lit and beautiful, all long lines and
perfect form, and Stiles' heart is in his throat at the sight of him, his chest
empty and cold at the thought of his absence. The thing is, though, that he can
see it- he's seen the photo of the Hale Pack, the stamp of blood family on
their face, the shared laughter in their eyes. He's seen it with how Derek
bumps shoulders with Boyd, how he plays with the little kids who come to watch
the show, the way his face lights up when Erica teases him and he yanks her
braid in retaliation.
She's a liar, and crazy, he knows she is. She's after Derek, for some reason
that Stiles can't fathom- jilted love gone awry doesn't seem to cover it, but
he can't really say for sure. He doesn't trust her for an inch, doesn't think
for a second that she's concerned about him or his little squishy human heart,
but...that doesn't make her wrong about Derek. You can start with a false
premise, and end with a true result, and he just can't shake the image of that
Derek from the photo, surrounded by a family that was his whole world.
He watches Derek as he moves through his forms, the sweat gleaming on his back,
watches the phantom children play at his feet, the ghostly shape of a smiling
wife come to kiss his cheek and wipe his brow. He blinks, shakes his head, and
it's just Derek again, just Derek, and just Stiles, and then just Derek again
as Stiles turns and silently slips away.
--
It's two in the afternoon, but he goes home, surprises his father when he walks
through the door.
"You ok, kid?" His father squints at him, and Stiles just shakes his head,
there's no use pretending, and besides, he's not ok, he's not ok at all.
"I don't feel good. Thought I'd go lie down."
His father nods, beckons him over so he can lay a hand on Stiles' forehead.
"You don't feel too warm, but you look pretty pale. Go take a nap, I'll check
on you in a while."
Stiles nods, pulls himself unwillingly from his father's touch, then hesitates
before walking down the hall.
"Dad? If anyone comes by?" His father looks up from the paper again, eyebrows
questioning. "I don't...I just want to be left alone."
His father starts to open his mouth, his face pulling in suspicion, but Stiles
pulls himself away and down the hallway before he gets any words out, and
mercifully he lets it go. Stiles knows he'll hear about it later, but right now
he is alone, alone and undisturbed, and so he lets himself curl to the floor
and fall apart.
***** Chapter Five (I fell into a burning ring of fire) *****
Worry is nagging at him, dogging his heels, and even though it's only been 24
hours since Stiles left him there, alone in the tent, he can't shake the
feeling that something's gone terribly wrong.
He'd waited for Stiles to come back. Waited in the tent for ten, twenty, thirty
minutes. Finally he figured that Erica or whoever had absconded with Stiles
indefinitely, so he'd packed up his things and gone home, changing his clothes
and cooling off. He'd waited a little while for the distinctive sound of
Stiles' footsteps bounding up his steps, but they never came.
Stiles hadn't been at dinner, either, so he'd gone to sit by Stilinski Sr,
who'd been friendly enough. He'd even volunteered the information that Stiles
had come home sick, and gone to bed, where he apparently still was. Stilinski
was going to take him a plate.
He helps Stiles' father gather some food for him, then goes home. He undresses,
lies in his bed, and waits for sleep to come, alone and lonely in the dark.
--
He wakes up the next morning in a slightly better mood, determined to check on
Stiles and find out what's wrong. It seems off to him that Stiles had just
left, even if he was feeling ill- why hadn't he said something? He dresses,
washes, pulls on his coat, and heads next door to the Stilinskis'.
Stilinski Sr opens the door to his knock, and frowns at seeing him, which Derek
thinks is maybe not the best sign. He steps out onto the stoop, pulling the
door shut behind him, and settles down on the top step, watching Derek fidget
with his hands in his pockets.
"Son..." Stilinski pins him with a serious look, and Derek feels the bottom of
his stomach fall to somewhere near his knees. "What happened yesterday between
you and Stiles?"
Derek draws in a shaky breath. "Nothing, sir. We were practicing, and then he
went to talk to someone, Erica, I think, and then he just...never came back."
Derek looks at his hands, shoves them back into his pockets. "I waited for him,
and he didn't show."
Stilinski is frowning pensively, rubbing his chin with his fingers as he
thinks.
"He came home, told me he didn't feel well. Looked like hell, but didn't
actually say he was sick." He shakes his head, sighs. "Said he didn't want to
be disturbed, then said it again this morning." He raises his head, looks Derek
in the eyes. "I asked about you, if he wanted me to let you in. He said no, he
didn't want you to see him." Derek feels like he might throw up, but he fights
it down, blanks his face carefully. Stilinski shakes his head. "I should have
known. I thought he just meant he didn't want you seeing him sick, but he's
always careful with his words when he's trying to pull something over on me."
He reaches out, claps Derek on the shoulder. "Never have a clever kid, son,
they're more trouble than they're worth."
Derek nods numbly, vague memories of his sister Cora dancing at the edges of
his mind. He feels...he feels chilled all the way through, but can't manage to
shiver. Something must be showing on his face despite his best efforts, because
Stilinski reaches out again, rests his hand on Derek's shoulder for a minute,
his face warm and sympathetic.
"Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this. He's just got some fool idea in
his head, and he's not talking to anyone about it. Give it a day or two, and
everything will be just how it was."
Derek nods, because it's what society dictates as a modicum of good grace, then
watches as Stilinski lets himself back in the house, shutting the door firmly
behind him.
He wants to sit on the steps and wait, for however long it takes, but he makes
himself leave, change into his practice gear, and go to the tents.
--
He moves through the day in a haze, nodding when people ask him questions,
smiling when people smile, answering that Stiles isn't feeling well when
someone inevitably notices that he's alone again. By the time the sun is
setting, he knows that he's done all of the things that he does in a day, but
he can't remember a single one of them. All he can think of is Stiles, and how
he's not there.
He goes back to his house, not looking at the lights in his neighbors' windows,
and lets himself in with his key, shutting the door behind him as he reaches
for the lamp to light.
He knows he's not alone before he turns around, can feel it in the prickling of
the hairs on the back of his neck, but when he turns to face the intruder,
she's the last person he would have imagined.
She's sitting on his bed, her skirts arranged perfectly around her, her blond
hair coiffed just so, one gently curling tendril sliding down her cheek. She
looks just like she did the last day he saw her in Boston nearly seven years
ago, and Derek feels like maybe he's having a heart attack, can't stop himself
from looking around the room in search of other ghosts.
"Derek, darling. Didn't expect to see me?" She simpers, pouts gently, and he
remembers her so incredibly well, remembers kissing that petulant mouth,
sinking his fingers into that thick honey-colored hair. "I know we parted ways
back east, but I've been traveling.” She twirls a strand of hair around her
finger, rubs it across her cheek. “Heard a rumor you were in the area. Thought
I'd come see you again, just for old time's sake."
She's up and moving now, her skirts swinging appealingly around her hips as she
saunters toward him, looking up at him as she tilts her head to the side.
"Surely you haven't forgotten me?" She's close enough now to touch, rubs her
hands up and down his shirt front while he stands still in absolute shock. "I
heard what happened to your family," she clucks her tongue, "such a pity."
His brain feels like it's moving through molasses, pieces falling together with
agonizing slowness. "Kate..." he breathes it out in horror, and it's not truly
till the sound hits his ears that the last piece falls into place, and he
finally believes, he knows with complete certainty who, exactly, is standing in
front of him.
She smirks. "See? I knew you still had a brain buried under all that muscle.
After all," she's got a hand up under his collar now, and he grabs her wrists,
delicate but strong in his grip, "we spent so much time together those couple
of months in Boston. We got to know each other pretty well. Well.” She laughs,
throwing her head back. “I got to know you pretty well, Derek Hale. You never
even knew my full name.” She smiles again, running a hand over his stomach.
“Remember, Derek?" Her breath is close into his ear, and he feels like he's
drowning in her perfume, sucked under in the scent of lilies and musk,
"remember how you took me out, over and over again? Took me to the seaside, to
the carousel. You just wanted to show me a good time, then lift my skirts." She
laughs, a girlish peal of sound that he's not sure he'll ever get out of his
brain. "You were such an earnest little boy, such a good little boy who just
wanted to make his daddy angry." She shivers against him, licking at his
throat. "You sure did put that anger to good use, though, Derek. I could feel
it when you were fucking me, when you would throw me down and plow into me, and
I loved it, I loved how..." she bites at his throat, and he throws her away
from him in disgust, only to have her catch herself and start to laugh, "how
impulsive you were."
It all makes sense now, and Derek can't decide if he wants to throw up or roar
or rip Kate to shreds; the conflicting desires have him an immobile target in
the middle of the room, breathing hard through his mouth as she circles. His
fists are opening and closing in impotent rage, his mind a spinning knot of
belated realizations.
"Kate Argent." His voice sounds foreign to him, and the roaring in his ears
can't be a good thing, but he doesn't care, can't care, because he didn't know,
he didn't know, didn't know that he was the one responsible for his family's
ruin, that it was his own childish rebellion that led to their slaughter.
"Oh, honey, did you really only just figure that one out?" She laughs again,
clapping her hands. "This is even better than I expected, I really thought you
or that cunt of a sister of yours had figured it out by now. Or maybe she did,
and just felt too sorry for you to tell you." She nods determinedly. "Yes, I
like that. Stupid Laura, protecting her baby brother to the last." She looks
around her speculatively, her hands running lightly over his possessions as she
moves, imprinting herself into his space. "Where is she, anyway? I haven't seen
her anywhere. Did she cast you aside? Repent, and go on to lead a better life?"
He grits his teeth, struggling to pull enough air into his chest.
"Dead."
"Derek, baby. You really are all alone, aren't you?" If she were anyone else,
he might have a chance of believing that was pity in her eyes instead of glee,
but it's not, and he can't. "Even that little pup of yours who was following
you around, he's gone and left you too."
He didn't think he could get angrier. He was wrong.
"What have you done to Stiles."
"I didn't do anything to him. We had a little chat, girl to girl." She smiles
again, and Derek doesn't know what he's done to deserve this, what in his short
existence ever justified the loss of everyone and everything he's known and
loved. "We don't want you getting too attached, you see. It's not safe." She
flings up her hands and opens her mouth in a parody of shock and horror. "Why,
anything could happen!"
Somehow it's the thought of her with Stiles, with her hands on him, her mouth
whispering poison into his perfect ear that breaks Derek free. He surges
forward, reaching for her, but is pulled up short by the click of the revolver
in her hand.
"Ah ah ah, Derek. You can't possibly think I'd be foolish enough to let myself
be caught by you." She chuckles, her eyes wild, but she's backing toward the
door, and all he can think at the moment is that he wants her out, wants her
gone. "Don't worry sweetie, you won't have to miss me for long. I'll come back
for you!"
She blows him a kiss as she goes.
--
He can see that the lamps are lit at the Stilinski cabin, a beacon in the
darkness that reels him in, aching and sore. He feels unmoored, adrift in a sea
of broken assumptions and a world gone askew. Derek steps toward the cabin, his
breath puffing in the frozen air- Kate's delivered her message and is surely
long gone, but Stilinski needs to know.
He has a foot raised to climb the steps, hand reaching to fling open the door,
when he catches the sound of voices. They're a murmur at first, but as his hand
touches the knob, they rise noticeably and he pauses.
"Leave it alone, Scott."
"No way, Stiles. I don't know what you're playing at, but you're being a damn
fool." Scott sounds exasperated, but also concerned. "I haven't seen you like
this in years, man. What's eating you?"
"Nothing." Stiles' voice is cracked and tired, loud with irritation but so far
from normal that Derek hurts. "I'm not...nothing."
"Bullshit." Scott can be impressively obstinate, and it seems like he's decided
to go all out this time. "What gives?"
Derek hears the scrape of a chair, the thud of a body falling into it. He can
picture Stiles slumped over the table, elbows on the wood, face in his hands.
"Did Derek say something shitty to you?" Scott's voice is gentler, coaxing,
then hardens. "Did Derek hurt you?"
"No, it's nothing fucking Derek did, for God's sake, it's..." Stiles cuts
himself off abruptly. "It's..." He sounds agitated, and Derek's heart aches for
him.
The thing about Scott is that he's only selectively obtuse, and he's known
Stiles for a long time.
"It's something you did to Derek." Scott's voice is unbelievably gentle, and
Derek can hear the scrape of another chair as Scott settles down to talk.
"I walked out on him. I have to...I have to break it off."
Stiles' voice is so quiet that Derek can barely make it out, but he can hear
Scott's intake of breath.
"Oh, Stiles." Scott's voice is fighting between amused, incredulous, and
compassionate- it's unclear which is going to come out on top. "Are you blind?
You think he's just playing with you? Sweet baby Jesus, Stiles, he thinks the
sun rises and falls out of your leotarded ass."
"I know he wants me. Now." Stiles sounds miserable, and Derek pulls his hand
back from where he's reached out to touch the wall. He needs to go, needs to
find Stilinski, but he can't pull himself away. "But I'm not what's best for
him. I can't give him what he'll want in the long run."
"Are you nuts? Come on, Stiles, you're smarter than this. Trust me-" Scott
sounds smug now, like he's puffed his chest out and smiled, "I know what a man
looks like when he's smitten; I see it every morning in the mirror. And Derek?
Has been in love with you longer than even he knows."
"It doesn't matter." He knows the look that Stiles must have on his face; his
jaw set, his chin raised. "I can't do that to him." His voice rises, and Derek
can see him in his mind's eye, gesturing animatedly as his eyes spark with
feeling. "Do you have any idea how much he loved his family? His family,"
Stiles' voice catches, "who are now all dead, Scott, murdered by Hunters, in
case you didn't know. He had brothers, and sisters, and cousins- he loves
little kids, and relatives, and he's the only one left." Stiles pauses again,
and Derek waits with his heart in his throat for him to continue. "How can I
possibly ask him to give up the possibility of another Hale Pack, of a wife,
and kids, and maybe a dozen in-laws? How could I be that selfish? I can't ask
him to do that, Scott, I can't." Stiles' voice drops, and Scott remains silent.
"You've seen how it is for Boyd and Erica- they can't go anywhere together.
They're fine with us, but that's it- they can't marry, any children they have
will be illegitimate. I can't put that on Derek." Stiles sighs, his voice
becoming nearly inaudible again, and Derek strains to hear. "All I can offer is
me and my Dad, and a life of hiding behind tent walls. I love him too much to
do that to him."
"But Stiles, if he loves you too..."
"If he loves me too, what? He'll give up all of his dreams to be with me? He'll
forswear any hope of turning his life back to what it was, to how it was
supposed to be, just for me? It doesn't work like that, Scott, not in real
life." Stiles sounds defeated, and Derek's chest aches. “He cares about me, I
know. But he'll get over me, he will. And it will be for the best.”
"It can work that way if you let it." Scott has his determined tone on again,
"This is ridiculous, Stiles, you are throwing away a man who loves you
for...what? Some idea of what might be best for him? I know you're smarter than
this. You don't have the right to make these decisions for him, to decide what
he wants without even asking."
"Go away, Scott. Go back to Allison."
Scott's footsteps sound as he walks toward the door. "You need to give him the
choice, Stiles. Don't throw it away on a what if. If you really love him, if
you want to be together..."
Stiles gives a humorless laugh. "You've seen me, Scott. I loved Lydia
unquestioningly from the age of 8 till I was 16, without a scrap of
encouragement. Imagine what I'll be like if someone ever loves me back."
"Tell him. Let him choose. You owe him that much." Scott's voice is final, and
then the door is swinging open, and Derek has to jump back into the shadows to
avoid being seen. Scott pulls the door behind him, and tromps down the steps,
turning unfailingly to where Derek is lurking next to the house. He raises an
eyebrow, tips his head meaningfully at the door.
Derek nods. Scott's message is sound.
Go, and talk to Stiles.
--
He takes a deep breath, and opens the door. Stiles is still seated at the
table, his back to Derek, head in his hands.
"Go away, Scott."
Derek crosses the room in three strides and finds himself on his knees next to
Stiles, wrapping his arms around Stiles' middle. He's got his face shoved into
the front of Stiles' shirt and is breathing raggedly, subsumed in the scent and
heat of him.
"Derek...what...?"
Stiles' arms come down around him, holding him in place, and he can hear the
stuttering heave of Stiles' heart in his chest. Stiles crumples instantly and
clings to him, bringing his face down to rub agitatedly across the top of
Derek's head, an unconscious attempt at self-soothing.
They stay like this for a moment, for a small eternity. Derek is absorbed,
consumed by the life he can feel pulsing just beneath Stiles' skin, skin he's
touched, tasted, beheld. Seeing Kate has made him feel like that angry 16 year
old, drunk on lust and anger, then broken and hollowed out. He can almost feel
the ghosts of his family around him, and the knowledge that it was Kate who did
that to them, that she had put her hands on Stiles, is making him crazy. He
wants to touch Stiles all over, to wrap him entirely in his own self, to
reassure them both that he's safe, that he's still here.
Stiles clutches at him, his fingers pulling at Derek's skin, and something deep
inside of him settles at the thought that Stiles has missed him, needs him,
needs this, too.
"Derek...god, Derek..." Stiles' voice is all rough edges and helplessness, but
he draws himself up and settles his hands gently on Derek's shoulders, pushing
him out and away. "Derek, we can't do this."
Derek fights down a pulse of anger as he leans back on his heels. It's not
Stiles' fault, he knows that. He just has to bleed out the toxins that Kate
pressed into him, make room for healing.
"Stiles, I know she got to you."
"Just because she's crazy doesn't make her wrong."
"Yes, Stiles, it does." He feels the anger returning, a cold fury at Kate, and
a hotter anger at the loss of this one good thing he's allowed himself to have.
"That's exactly what it means."
"You think I haven't thought about this?" Stiles explodes in a sudden burst of
energy, hands flying wide as his mouth opens in a shout. "Christ, you think I
want to walk away from you? This is the hardest thing I've ever done!"
"Then why the hell are you doing it?!" Derek's picked himself up off the floor
and finds himself standing, leaning into Stiles' space. He forces himself
upright, pushes down the anger, continues more calmly. "What did she say to
you? Why are you doing this?"
Stiles shoots him a dirty look. "You think I'm just parroting whatever she
says. I'm not stupid." He folds his arms, still glaring. "She's right, but for
the wrong reasons."
"Stiles. What. Did. She. Say."
Stiles slumps, rubs his face with his hands. The circles under his eyes are
deep and severe, and Derek knows he's had trouble sleeping since he was taken,
knows seeing Kate again must have made it so much worse. He stops his hand as
it reaches out.
"She said that I should back off before I get hurt. That someday you're going
to find a wife, and have a family, and that it'll just hurt more then."
"And you believe that?" He can't keep the incredulity out of his voice.
"No, dumbass." Stiles looks mulishly at the floor, choosing his words
carefully. "Like I said, she's right, but for the wrong reasons."
"You think I would leave you."
"No!" Stiles flings up his hands. "No, I think you wouldn't, and that's the
problem. What you had, Derek...it was your whole world. And it was ripped away
from you."
"By her." The words are out before he can help it, and his stomach clutches as
all the blood drains from Stiles' face.
"Ohgod."
Derek can't find anything else to say, so he waits, watches Stiles think it
through, pull himself forcibly back to the train of thought at hand.
"Derek." His voice is so soft, so tender that Derek wants to weep with it,
bites his tongue instead. "Derek, you deserve more than me, more than I can
give you. I don't doubt for a second that you'd stay with me if I asked you to,
that's who you are. But I can't ask that of you. I can't give you the family
you lost, I can't help you rebuild those ties." Derek has moved unconsciously
closer to him, and Stiles raises his eyes hopelessly to Derek's face, amber
irises wide and damp at the corners. "It's just me and my dad here, and that's
all there'll ever be here for you. I can't keep you, knowing you want more,
knowing you could find it somewhere else." He looks down again, swallowing
hard. “You have a chance for so much more. I can't give you what you need, but
I can give you the chance to have it.”
Stiles' breath shudders out of him, and somehow Derek's on his knees again, one
hand pressing into Stiles' knee, the other clutching the back of the chair.
"Stiles. Whatever Kate said to you, it's wrong."
"She knew you."
"No, Stiles. She used me." He hears the wood of the chair creak in protest, and
loosens his grip. "She used me to kill my family, and now she's using my
history to hurt us both." His hand is somehow on Stiles' face, thumb stroking
the edge of his cheek. "What about what I want?"
"What do you want, Derek?" It's little more than a whisper, Stiles' eyes closed
as Derek's thumb sweeps back and forth.
"You."
"No, Derek..." Stiles' head is shaking back and forth, so Derek brings his
hands up to still it.
"Listen to me. My family is dead, there is nothing I can do to change that. But
I also can't replace them. I wouldn't want to even if I could, it wouldn't be
the same." He pauses, waits. "When your mother died, could you replace her?"
Stiles freezes, every muscle going still, then shakes his head slowly. "Would
you even have tried?"
"...no."
"You are enough." Stiles bites his lip and opens his eyes, his hands coming up
to grasp at Derek's wrists where they frame his face. "You are enough for me,
Stiles."
The look in Stiles' eyes breaks Derek's heart, but he nods, once, shakily, and
leans in to press their foreheads together, eyes dropping closed. The silence
settles in around them, blanketing them in stillness as they breathe together.
"We have to tell my dad about Kate."
Derek nods, his hand coming up to pull Stiles' head down to his shoulder,
fingers rubbing into the line of hair that runs up to his skull.
"Yeah." He breathes out, breathes in again. "Yeah. Let's go."
–
“I think she's after me, specifically, sir.”
It's hard to admit, leaves him with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Everyone's in danger because of him. Again.
This time, though, he knows, and he can do something about it.
Deaton is frowning from behind his desk, his fingers folded on top of the
papers in front of him.
“You say she as good as admitted to the Morrell fire?”
Deaton's sisters, Derek thinks, young and lithe and beautiful. He remembers
them well. They'd survived, but had been injured- he doesn't know what happened
to them in the end.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is she after you, Derek?” Stilinski has his arms folded, leaning against
one of the cabinets on the far wall. He's mostly watching Stiles fidget in his
seat next to Derek, but he's turned his gaze to Derek for the moment.
Derek sighs, pushes a hand through his hair.
“We were...together. For a few months. Before the fire. I had no idea...” he
raises his gaze to the horrified looks in front of him, drops it again, “...no
idea who she really was. I just thought she was some pretty girl.” He drops his
head into his hands and breathes deeply for a moment, the silence around him
thick and waiting. “I never put it together. Why would I? We knew about Gerard
Argent, sure, but not much about his family. Why would I think that my pretty,
vapid girlfriend would have anything to do with the fire that burned my whole
family alive?”
“Laura and I laid low immediately afterward, for a couple weeks. Then we left
town.” Stiles' hand snakes onto his leg, and he reaches down to grip it like a
lifeline, anchoring himself. “I was out with Kate that afternoon, but we'd
fought, and I'd left her to go back to the circus. But then I didn't go
straight back, I wandered around being angry instead, thinking of the fights I
was having with my father, the fight I'd just had with Kate. I can only assume
that she thought I died in the fire with everyone else, and considered that to
be the end of it. Then when they moved out here, and Allison joined us, she
must have seen me or heard my name.”
Deaton's face is as grave as he's ever seen it, the lines of concern drawing
his mouth down. Stiles' grip on his hand is too tight, but Derek doesn't care,
grasping back as hard as he can.
“What does she want with you now?”
“She's crazy, Dad. Completely and absolutely bonkers. She's obsessed with him.”
“Didn't ask you, Stiles.” Stilinski shoots him a quelling glare, but Stiles
just stares back stubbornly, his jaw jutting out in defiance. “Derek? Do you
know what she wants?”
Derek rubs a hand over his face, feeling a tension headache starting behind his
eyes.
“Not really, sir. Stiles is right- she's a lunatic. I think I'm just a loose
end? She thought the Morrell fire was a fait accompli, but now she's discovered
a piece that wasn't tied up?” He shakes his head. “It's my best guess. She's
obsessed, wants to finish the job.”
Stilinski looks at Deaton, the concern plain on his face. Deaton nods slowly.
“Right. She's got to be stopped.” He settles his hands palms down in front of
him. “Derek, you're in the most danger, so I don't want you to spend a single
minute alone from now on. Bunk with the Stilinskis, and have someone with you
wherever you go.” Derek nods, and Deaton continues. “Allison is also
potentially still in danger. John, I'd appreciate it if you'd get Scott and
Danny to trade off staying with her at the Martins' at all times.”
“However. The show must go on. We cannot simply cancel our performances and
hide from the Argents; that kind of a disruption is neither desirable, nor
sustainable. We will increase our security to the full extent possible, and
then we must wait for her to make her move.”
“She will, sir.”
Deaton nods, never breaking eye contact.
“Yes, Derek. She will.”
--
All is quiet for a week. The tension in the camp is palpable, a shivering
electric thing that frizzles through everyone and leaves them exhausted and
snappish. It's wearing on all of them, but the shows go on as planned, every
evening and twice on the weekends.
Derek's standing in the wings when he hears the sudden gasp from the audience.
It's a normal enough reaction; it's the end of Allison's act, and she's been
rehearsing a new trick with Lydia that really brings the house down. Derek's
seen it in rehearsal, and it is pretty impressive- she's flexible enough to be
an acrobat, and strong, and she's taught herself to stand on her hands and
shoot her bow and arrow with her feet, splitting the apple on Lydia's head into
clean halves. It's not something this audience has ever seen, and they love it,
if the wild applause is anything to go by.
He pokes his head out beyond the curtain in time to see Lydia exit stage left
to the animal pens, where Jackson will be waiting to help her get ready for her
own act. At the other end of the ring he can see Stiles waiting on his
platform, high above the packed dirt floor, his red jacket glowing in the dark
of the tent roof. Isaac is scampering around, distracting the audience as the
twins help set up and tie off the net below the flying rig. Stiles is up next,
and Derek wishes he could watch, but he has to help break down and store
Allison's equipment, then get Scott's set ready for when he's up after Stiles.
Stiles isn't looking in his direction, but Derek lets himself smile anyway, not
caring who can see his face. He's still smiling as Allison brushes past him
into the wings, squeezing affectionately at his arm as she passes.
She's got her back to Derek, peeling off her leather bracer, when there's a
sudden flash of movement from behind. Derek turns too slowly, dropping the
curtain back into position as he spins around in time to see Kate settle a
knife at her niece's throat, the narrow blade shining and deadly in the
backstage shadows. Allison kicks and squirms, struggling for all she's worth,
but her aunt's grip is stronger- Allison takes a deep breath, her eyes widening
as the sharp point of the knife pricks her skin and lets a single drop of blood
bloom.
Derek is frozen, his hands reaching out to grab Allison back, even as he knows
that one wrong move will hurt her, one misstep will end with the body of one
more dark-haired girl dead for his folly. Kate's laughing face is all he can
see, filling up his field of vision with her wicked smile, the light in her
eyes the most evil thing he's ever seen. The roaring in his ears is deafening,
drowning out the sounds of the crowd, the music of Isaac's act.
"Derek, sweetheart," Kate's smile is terrifying in its mania, glittering as she
moves steadily toward the exit, pulling Allison with her, "such a surprise to
see you again!" She giggles, "We have to stop meeting like this!"
"Stop, Kate," he reaches his hands out, helpless to do anything but watch the
line of red blooming on Allison's neck. Allison's eyes are wide and terrified,
but her mouth is tightly determined, and he can see her calculating the best
move to get away without injury. "Don't do this. I'll do whatever you want.
Take me instead."
"No, Derek- she's got something else planned, this is the distraction!"
Allison's shout is loud, and Derek mentally applauds her, hoping desperately
that someone is nearby, that someone might have heard.
"Such a clever girl, isn't she?" Kate wrenches Allison's head back, locking her
arms behind her and forcing her to stagger. "But of course, she's right." Kate
shrugs. "She's a traitor; I'd leave her here with the rest of you. I'd leave
Chris, too, that code-loving pansy. But, Father wants her back, so back we go!"
Derek can feel his brain struggling through the adrenaline fog, grasping for
any way to dissuade her, any way to make this end even a little bit better, and
suddenly realizes the fog is not quite so metaphorical as he registers the
sounds of shouts coming from the tent and the heavy scent of smoke in the air.
"Derek! Don't worry about me. "Allison's eyes are big, but her face is
determined. "Stiles, go get Stiles!"
Stiles. Stiles on the platform, ready for his act. Stiles, stranded in the air
as the tent burns around him.
Kate's laughter rings in his ears as he turns and flings himself through the
tent flap into the Big Top.
--
It's not quite chaos in the tent, but it's definitely working its way up to it.
Deaton is on the center pedestal with his megaphone, directing the crowds to
the exits, where Boyd and Isaac and the twins are holding the flaps wide.
People are hurrying, and there's some shoving, but Deaton's calm voice seems to
be holding the line between hurried evacuation and panicked stampede. The tent
is filling with smoke from the straw on the floor, thick and acrid, but the
walls don't seem to be catching yet, which buys him some time.
Derek casts his eyes frantically around, searching through the rising haze for
that familiar rumpled head. He can't see the top of the platform from where he
is, and the smoke is thickening overhead. Stiles should have smelled it, should
have come down. He'd know the shape of Stiles' movements anywhere, but he's
nowhere to be found in the teeming crowd. There's a tent pole just a few feet
to his right, so he flings himself into the flow of the exodus, allowing the
crowd to pull him along. When he fetches up against the pole he lets the mass
of people split around him, and shimmies up it, getting himself high enough to
squint across the tent and the press of people trying to get out. He can see
Scott with Jackson opening the metal drop-gates to usher the horses and lions
out of their tent-adjacent holding pens and get them running through the chutes
back to the barns, far enough from the tent that they'll be safe. The twins are
busy holding the far exit open, he can see their matching dirty blond heads
through the thickening gloom, and he's already seen Isaac and Boyd holding the
opening behind him.
Where is Stiles?
It's not till he notices the flames licking across the nets that he glances
upward, just to check, and what he sees freezes him where he clings, his heart
stilling in his chest. The net is burning, has already fallen loose from one
side of its moorings. Burning also is the base of the ladder to the platform;
it must've caught from the net itself, but Derek can see the flames licking at
the dry painted wood, climbing upward.
His nerveless hands drop from the pole, and he's on the floor before he
realizes it, aiming his bulk against the flow of the crowd, shoving his way
past confused and angry spectators. As he gets closer he can see the flames
growing, can make out through the gloom the shape of the crouched figure atop
the platform.
--
"Derek, come on, it's fine!" Stiles is laughing at him from where he hangs
upside down, arms folded across his bare chest. "You'regoingto drop me, it's
going to happen. The sooner we do it, the sooner you can startnotdropping me!"
Derek glares at him from the top of the catcher's platform, scowling at Stiles'
irrepressible grin, his easy confidence and grace. Derek's got the bar in his
hands, ready to swing out over the net. He's practiced this part over and over
on the low trapeze- swinging out, hauling himself up onto the bar, and then
slipping down into catching position, legs secured and arms down. It's just...
they've never done this quite so high in the air...
Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then unhooks his legs and drops like
a stone, making Derek gasp and pale where he stands. Stiles just laughs and
laughs, bouncing in the net below before clambering out and back up the ladder
to hook his bar and swing out again.
"C'mon, Derek. It's what the net isfor."
Derek scowls again, but leans out and drops, forcing himself to do it before he
can think, letting the momentum pull him to the apex of his swing before he
flips himself up onto the bar and around, reaching the far end of his arc
before he drops upside down, locking his feet into the ropes and letting his
hands swing free.
It's different up here on the full rigging- the arc is much bigger, for one
thing, and he doesn't need to unconsciously keep himself restrained for fear of
hitting the smaller practice tent's walls or floor. He's not entirely sure how
he feels about the wind rushing past his face, or the blur of the net feet
below his head, so he forces his focus to narrow.Stiles.
"We're going to start with just a simple one, ok? I'm just going to swing out,
and you're going to grab me, and hang on." Stiles' grin is possibly even more
infectious upside down, and Derek wants to bite the corners of his mouth until
it makes a different shape altogether, but he just nods, opening and closing
his hands.
Stiles leaps off the platform, and Derek will never get tired of watching him,
the exuberance that's written in every line of his body, the precise energy
that he radiates. He flies like breathing, like fish swim, and Derek hasn't
gotten to see him do this much, is momentarily sad that he can't just watch,
because Stiles was born for this.
"Ready?"
Derek kicks his body higher, watching the inevitable mathematics of his
intersection with Stiles' body, holding his hands out stretched until they
clasp. The grip is solid, Stiles' long, strong fingers closing around the
muscle of Derek's forearms as his own blunt digits dig into the firm arms
beneath their touch. Stiles is laughing even as his legs fall away from his
swing, his face lit up as he raises it to Derek. The look in his eyes before he
drops to the net warms the dark hidden spaces of the heart Derek didn't realize
he still had.
--
He's halfway up the ladder to the catching platform before he can even think of
a plan- all he knows is that he has to somehow, somehow get to Stiles. The net
is fully in flames now, the smoke rising into the top of the tent and making
his eyes water, his nose run. There's a moment of sheer panic when he sees the
flying platform fall away, pieces of it burning as it goes, but then he catches
the motion of the swing in front of him, the figure hanging in mid-air.
"Stiles," he shouts, the smoke sliding into his lungs and making him cough,
"Stiles!"
The figure turns to face him, begins pumping its legs, then moves into the drop
position.
There's no time for fear, no time for nerves. No time for images of Claudia
Stilinski, her neck broken in a fall, no time for memories of his family, dying
in a sea of flames. There is only this moment, this space; he can hear the
roaring of the crowd so far below them, the thrum of the blood in his veins,
the slowness of his inhale as he closes his hands around the catching swing and
leaps.
They haven't done this enough, it's all been practice, it didn't matter when
he'd missed, Stiles just dropped laughing to the net. It's not enough, not
enough, his hands are clutching at air as he flips in the downward catching
position, and he can't stop the panic that's rising in his throat, choking him
as surely as the smoke he's swinging through.
"Derek!"
He lifts his head, can barely make out the features on Stiles' face through the
gloom.
"You've got me. Ready?" Derek nods numbly, his hands opening, body straining as
he pushes the swing harder, back, then forward again. "On three. One....two..."
The clasp is solid, full connection of all four hands, and if Stiles' fingers
are digging into his forearms hard enough to bruise, well, Derek's sure that
Stiles will be sporting matching marks on his own skin.
--
***** Chapter Six (He flew through the air with the greatest of ease) *****
"Hey kid, you about ready to go?"
Stiles shoves half-heartedly at the contents of the bowl in front of him with
his spoon, yanking at his buttoned collar with his free hand.
"I guess so."
Stilinski settles into the chair across from him and pushes a socked foot into
a boot, leaning over to do up the laces.
"You remember what you need to say?"
"Yeah, I need to talk about when they took me, and I need to tell them
everything that Kate said while she was there." He eats a spoonful of porridge,
grimacing at the taste. "And I need to tell them about how she kept turning up
here and stalking Derek." He scowls and pushes it away from him, chewing
absently on his spoon. His father looks up at him consideringly before sliding
his other foot into its boot. "I'm not telling them what she said about us,
though, Dad. About me and Derek. That's private."
Stilinski nods and nudges the bowl of porridge back across the table to sit in
front of his son.
"Finish." Stiles rolls his eyes, but shoves his spoon back in. "That's fine,
Stiles. Just make sure you don't leave out anything incriminating.” He frowns,
his light eyes tired. “Allison's testimony is what's really going to sell the
case, but the more supporting evidence they can get to show Kate's obsessions
and insanity, the better. You're the third most important witness, right after
Allison and Derek, so don't try to edit too much, ok?"
"Yeah, I know. Trust me, I want her gone just as much as anyone." Stiles' tone
is tight, bitter, flat in the room.
"Hey." Stiles shoves the spoon in his mouth and looks up questioningly. "What
gives, kid? You should be happy about this, she's gonna get sent away for
good."
Stiles pushes the bowl away again, holds his hands flat in front of him andd
watches the fine tremor as they hover above the wooden surface of the table. "I
am glad about that, I just... I hate that it has to happen this way.” He's
angry now, his voice rising, his fingers clutching at each other and pressing
hard to keep from shaking. “I hate that Allison has to be related to such
horrible people, and that she has to sit up there and testify against her own
family. And I hate that Derek has to do it too, that he has to get up there and
go over the horrible things that killed his whole family, and that he has to
even be in the same room with her again." He unclenches his fingers, spreads
his hands on the table. "I'm glad they're going away. I just don't like that
there has to be more shit before they're gone."
Stilinski reaches out and pats him on the shoulder, his grip sure and solid as
Stiles leans into it, pushing into his father's touch.
“Listen, son.” Stilinski swallows hard, his fingers digging into the meat of
Stiles' back, his voice rough. “She tried to kill you. She nearly succeeded. If
Derek hadn't...”
“I know, Dad. I know.” Stiles slumps under his father's hand, head drooping as
he exhales. He lifts his chin, straightening up and meeting his father's eyes.
“But I'm okay, I'm here.”
Stilinski takes a deep breath, looks away, shakes his head slowly.
“If Derek hadn't swung out to catch you...” He pauses, breathes slowly through
his nose. “If you hadn't trusted him enough to jump, you would have died.” His
father's voice is wrecked, steady through the force of will but thin at the
edges and pained. “If you hadn't been able to climb up the ropes and reach the
catching platform, if one little thing had gone wrong...”
“Dad.” Stiles buries his head into his father's cotton-covered shoulder and
hangs on, listening to the rasping of their lungs, the silent rush of shared
blood in their veins. “It's okay. I'm here.”
They sit for another minute, then Stilinski shakes himself, smiling crookedly
and reaching out to straighten Stiles' jacket.
“C'mon, kid. Let's go put an end to this.”
--
Lydia, of course, is spectacular. She takes the stand in a new blue dress that
she and her mother had fetched from San Francisco in the week before the trial.
Her hair is perfectly coiffed under her matching feathered hat, and her
earrings swing gently as she settles herself demurely into the chair provided.
Stiles has always admired her, in every way- her intelligence, her physical
prowess in the ring, her capacity to cut through bullshit at will, her ability
to ruthlessly manipulate those around her- but watching her manage the judge,
the lawyers, and the jury all at once is watching a master at work. Stiles
wants to get down and kiss the toes of her perfectly polished boots, and he's
pretty sure he's not the only one in the room having that urge.
It's clear from the start that the judge is not prepared to take her seriously,
which Stiles could have told him was a mistake, but the lawyer that Deaton
called in from the city knows what he's doing, and has apparently been told to
follow Lydia's lead. Leave it to Deaton to have the connections, Stiles thinks,
but he certainly can't complain.
The lawyer walks her carefully through all of it, deferring politely to her as
though she is a delicate flower- how she found the articles her mother had kept
about Derek's family, letting it sound like a pretty girl's interest in a
darkly handsome young man; how she wrote letters to Deaton's sisters, the
Morrells, who had survived the blaze, asking them for details about how the
fire was set, how quickly it caught. The defense narrows its eyes at this, and
takes a moment to try and imply that no proper young lady would be interested
in such a thing- unfortunately for him, ,he underestimates the impact his words
can actually have when confronted with the clear image in front of everyone of
the most proper young lady anyone could hope for. Lydia widens her eyes and
lets a couple of tears fall as she describes her fears for her beloved horses,
should anything similar ever happen to their tents. She produces a lace-edged
hankie from her sleeve and describes her terror at the thought that anyone
could do such terrible things, that such wicked people could ever threaten her
or those around her. Her cheeks flush, her bosom heaves, and Stiles can
practically smell the sympathy rising in a fragrant cloud from the jury, the
gentle coos of sympathy rising throughout the courtroom as Lydia dabs at her
eyes. Jackson comes up in his suit and coat to comfort her, his attractive face
dark with fury that anyone should upset his fiancee so, glaring so fiercely at
the hapless defense lawyer that he takes a cautious step backward.
 The defense settles, and Lydia continues.
 If Stiles didn't know her, he would absolutely believe that Lydia's interest
in science is only passing, that she only learned about chemicals and solutions
to help Mrs. McCall in the infirmary, that she was simply looking for a good
and charitable way to keep herself occupied in their downtime, a way to be of
service to her community as every good young lady should. Her face projects
both awe and a certain self-deprecation as she describes her “idle wonderings”
about whether there might be some substance that could be applied to tent walls
to make them less flammable. Her description of how she had Danny procure the
ingredients, and the twins apply the resulting mixture to strips of canvas and
set them alight, sounds like nothing more than girlish fantasies and the
efforts of a group of well-meaning but hoodwinked boys trying to please their
pretty friend. It sounds nothing at all like the actual exacting scientific
experiment Stiles is sure that it was in reality- he can picture it now, Lydia
in her riding trousers and a braid, timing the ignition of each piece of cloth
and recording it meticulously in a notebook, then supervising as the boys took
it in turns to paint the retardant onto the walls of the Big Top.
 The only sticking point comes when the defense manages to bring out the fact
that she had kept the whole proceeding secret, and makes a last-ditch effort to
paint her actions as dangerous subterfuge. It fails, of course- Lydia speaks
winningly of only doing her duty as a daughter and a lady to focus her efforts
on the safety and well-being of her family, and then segues smoothly into a
self-righteous speech on the necessity of keeping her silly experiments to
herself, so as not to distress anyone unduly, finally ending teary-eyed upon
the most salient point (to Stiles, anyway), that, had Kate known that anyone
suspected her presence or her history, no doubt that person would have met a
swift and untimely end.
 She swans out of the courtroom on Jackson's arm, leaning on him for support
and mincing her steps in a way that Stiles recognizes as a perfect imitation of
her favorite horse, which makes him have to turn and bury his face in Derek's
shoulder as he giggles through a wave of faint hysteria.
It's Derek who takes the stand after Lydia, clean-shaven and starched to within
an inch of his life. Nurse McCall herself had overseen his pressing, combing,
and straightening, and the effect is impressive. Stiles wants to admire a job
well-done, but can't think past the buzzing in his ears as Derek takes the
stand.
Derek's questioning is exhaustive and excruciating- he was there when Stiles
was retrieved from the basement of the Hunters' house, and was the one who
heard her admit to setting the Morrell fire. Stiles sits through it all on the
wooden bench in the second row, forcing himself to listen to every word. If
Derek has to speak the words, forcing them out grim-faced and hurting, then the
least Stiles can do is listen to them, let every one of them settle into his
skin.
Some parts of Derek's testimony against Kate are not directly relevant to the
case at hand- the judge had specifically instructed all of them to remember
that the defendants were only on trial for the crimes committed here, in
California- however given that previous events certainly were at the root of
the crimes which occurred, even those parts of Derek's statements are crucial.
Stiles looks out the window as Derek lists the names of his dead family- he can
see daffodils sprouting in front of the courthouse, their fragile yellow blooms
opening tissue-paper petals to the weak sun. What were Talia's favorite
flowers, he wonders. Did Cora like spring more than summer or fall? Stiles can
see their faces in his mind, black and white and smiling.
Derek does fine in the end, Stiles thinks- Stilinski and Deaton had coached him
thoroughly on how to present himself- confident, but not cocky; serious, but
not grim; sober, but not furious; humble, but not passive. He answers the
questions quietly, elaborating when asked.
When he's finished, Derek is ushered out through a side aisle, and it hurts, it
hurts that Stiles is not allowed to see him, to touch.
Stiles himself goes next, though he can barely remember what he says afterward.
He does his best to look young and harmless, earnest and troubled by the chain
of events. He describes his kidnapping, Kate's role in it, and doesn't need to
pretend at all to showcase the utter fear that Gerard inspired in him. Nurse
McCall and his father will both be up later to testify to his rescue, and the
extent of his injuries, he knows. He sticks to his story when cross-examined,
ignores Kate's smirking face from the table in front and to the left, and when
he is done, makes it behind the courthouse before he's retching into the
bushes.
Scott finds him as he's throwing up for the second time, waits for him to
finish, then hands him a hankie.
 “You gonna come back in?”
 Stiles mops his face, spits. His gut is still roiling, but the fresh air is
helping to clear his head.
 “Yeah. Allison's up next?”
 “Yeah.”
 Stiles shoves the abused hankie into his pocket, leans in to wrap his arm
around his friend's shoulders, bumping against him to lift the hangdog look
from Scott's face.
 “Hey. She can handle this.” Scott nods halfheartedly, his tie limp and his
gaze downcast. “No, really. She can. Yeah, it's shit, I can't even imagine
having to testify against your own family for killing people, but Allison is
tough, and you know it.” Scott nods again, a little more firmly. He straightens
up, balancing Stiles' weight against his own as he meets Stiles eyes. “And
besides, she's got you and her dad with her. He may not be the best guy, but at
least he doesn't seem to have known about all the murdering. He's agreed to
testify to the circumstantial evidence against his sister and his father for
it, he can't be all bad.” Stiles shrugs. “Allison said he's left the church and
rejected the rest of his family, didn't she? They're reconciling, right?” Scott
nods, looking hopeful again. Stiles claps him on the back. “So, she's got her
dad again, and she's got you. And you're great! It'll be awful for a while, and
then it'll be okay again.”
 “Yeah.” Scott starts to smile. “Yeah, you're right.” He stands, holds out his
hand. “C'mon. I don't want her to start without me there.”
 “That's the spirit, buddy.”
–
Lydia was flawless, Stiles was steady, and Derek was heart-breaking, but it's
Allison who closes the coffin lid and nails it. Stiles hurts to see her pale
face, her chin lifted even as her hands clench and unclench in the lap of her
somber dress, can see the toll it's taking on her to list the myriad sins of
her aunt and grandfather, knowing what it will cost them. She doesn't flinch,
doesn't hesitate from the task in front of her. For all that she didn't know
about any of the wrong-doing until recently, the sudden revelations apparently
allowed her to piece together a thousand small incidents from her childhood,
hundreds of throw-away details that no one bothered to hide from a child.
They're individually inconsequential, but stitched together and set into the
proper context, they create an incredibly damning fabric of systematic hatred
and violence spanning years and miles.
The prosecution is gentle with the litany, letting her pause to compose herself
as needed, pulling the details from her with a firm but precise hand. In the
end, she knows far too much- any chance Kate and Gerard had of getting off
lightly was gone as soon as she stepped onto the stand. Stiles supposes it's
easy to be careless around a child, especially if you assume that they will
always be on your side, when you've groomed them from birth to subscribe to
your beliefs, to hold your values. How could you imagine that they would betray
you? That they would run to those you hold most hated, and then turn their face
against you?
She leaves the courtroom with her father, both of them looking drawn and grim.
Stiles sees Scott make a hasty exit out the back door to catch them- he'd met
Allison's father last week, and it wasn't going well, but small things like
prejudice never put a dent in Scott's eternal optimism, so Stiles imagined he'd
be following Mr. Argent around for a good long while, especially considering
that Allison could hardly bear to be parted from him.
The jury deliberates for two hours before emerging and speaking with the judge,
his face heavy and serious, the sounds of birds chirping in the early spring
air outside the courthouse completely at odds with the somber silence within.
He pushes his glasses up his nose, adjusts his robes, stands. Stiles heart is
in his throat, choking him as he tries to draw a breath.
“The jury finds Miss Katherine Argent and her father Mr. Gerard Argent guilty
of assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder. This court sentences them to
fifteen years in prison, and recognizes the request of the state of
Massachusetts that they be extradited to stand trial for murder.”
The gavel bangs, and the courtroom erupts into hubbub and chaos, the sudden
noise and movement making Stiles' head swim and breath come short. He's forcing
himself to breathe slowly, pushing the black spots from the corner of his
vision, when Derek slips a hand into his own.
"Hey.” Derek's voice is soft in his ear, even across the milling babble of the
crowd, “let's get out of here.”
–
“Hey.” Derek's hand comes up to touch his cheek, one blunt finger tracing the
line of his eyebrow, dragging down to catch in the corner of his mouth. Stiles
flicks his tongue idly out to taste the salt/dust/chalk on the end of it, then
licks it again more slowly to see the change of expressions on Derek's face
from curious to amused to wanting. It still amazes him that Derek is here, that
Derek looks at him like that, that instead of drawing back, Derek leans in,
pushes forward.
“Hey what?” Stiles grins, turning to bat idly at the sheer curtains hanging
limply over the open window, flapping them with his hands to encourage the idea
of a breeze. Maybe if he shows the curtains what they should be doing, they'll
get the idea.
It's late October, but still hot like hell during the day, the sun baking down
on the orchards and fields around the camp. The circus has been back a week,
settling in and opening up the cabins, repairing equipment and getting set up
for the start of their winter shows, but it's hard to keep the energy up in
this heat, hard to air out the rooms with the lack of a breeze. They'd stayed
their last three weeks in Los Angeles, and he thinks he nearly died of heat
stroke. He'd thought coming back north would mean cooling down, at least a
little bit, but if anything it's worse here, away from the occasional gust of
sea air.
 “Hey.” Derek smiles softly up at him from the bed, and Stiles feels his chest
tighten in response, “I missed you.”
 Stiles' lips start to curve, his mouth opens, then he's falling through the
hot air, pulled by a foot to the back of the knee, to land with a whump on the
hard planes of Derek's chest, taking a hipbone to the spleen as he goes.
 “Ugh! Jerk!” He knows he's smiling, can't help it, but he feigns annoyance
anyway as he struggles up onto his elbows, smacking at Derek's chest as Derek
laughs. Derek's whole face squinches up as he snickers, his eyes squeezing shut
and his teeth showing, giggling harder as Stiles digs clever fingers into his
side. It's hot in the still room, and they're both sweating, faces and chests
flushed with heat, so Stiles gives up and lets himself fall again and stick,
bare chest to bare chest.
He breathes, slowly, in and out, in and out again, listening to the steady
whoosh of blood through Derek's heart under his ear, feeling his own settle
into a matching rhythm.
“I missed you too.” He breathes out, hears Derek's mmm echo in the chambers of
his chest under Stiles' ear. “I know you had to go back, but it was a long
time.” A solid hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck, and Stiles melts
into the pressure of Derek's fingers, letting the aches that accumulated during
his absence fall away under Derek's careful touch.
“A month.”
 “Forever.”
 Derek chuckles again, making Stiles' head bounce. “Forever.”
 Stiles stills, thinking about it. Derek on the train out, a full week to get
all the way back across the country to Boston. Derek sitting alone in the cars
with his rucksack, watching the scenery roll by day after day after day,
passing through barren desert and high mountain, plains and fields and over
rivers and past lakes. Stiles has never seen any of it, never been past the
Sierras, but he's seen pictures, can imagine it spread out before the windows
of a moving train-car, endless vistas and wide-open spaces. He can see him
stepping off the train in the city, making his way through the streets he'd
walked with his family, can see Derek catching glimpses of dark-haired children
around corners, shying away from a laughing blonde woman at the beach.
Derek's been back three days, but they haven't really talked about it, and
Stiles isn't sure how much they ever will. He can't imagine what it must have
been like for Derek to have been back in the town where his whole family died,
to have to face Kate and Gerard yet one more time, to have to sit through a
trial again, to have to tell the whole story to more strangers, to have to re-
live every bad thing in his life.
 “Did you stay to the end?”
 The minute the words are out of his mouth, he regrets it. He'd just been idly
wondering, but hadn't meant to speak, hadn't meant to pry, but there it is, out
there, words hanging in the still air.
 “Of the trial?” Derek's voice is steady, querying, so Stiles nods once against
his chest. “No.” He takes a deep breath, and Stiles waits. “No. I didn't really
want to know what happened to them.” Stiles lifts his head to look Derek in the
eye inquiringly, and Derek shrugs affably, his eyes light-colored and open in
the filtered light. “I'll find out soon enough. The case was solid, they're not
getting off. Someone will send me a letter, and that will be plenty.” His face
darkens slightly, his gaze going to the window. “I've seen enough people die
already. If the Argents hang, I'll be relieved, but I didn't need to sit in the
room while they were sentenced.”
 Stiles watches him closely for a minute, then lays his head back down, shoving
his face against Derek's skin until he's comfortable. The curtains twitch
halfheartedly, bringing the faint scent of rain rising on the air.
 “Did you go see them?”
 Derek is quiet for a long moment, the only motion his thumb rubbing idly over
the bones in Stiles' wrist, his heart steady and sure under Stiles' ear.
 “Yes.” He pauses. “Laura, too. Got off the train in Denver for a day, borrowed
a horse and rode out to see her.” He sighs, his thumb pushing, back and forth,
back and forth. “I miss her the most, I think.”
 Stiles nods, silent. There's really nothing to be said, he thinks, nothing
that will ever make loss go away.
 –
 Stiles wakes hours later, twilight filling the room as the sound of rain
begins on the roof. There's definitely a breeze now, a chilly one, so he
burrows into Derek's side, idly walking his fingers up and down Derek's ribs as
he listens to the rattle of the raindrops. He can just see the edges of the
photograph propped on the nightstand, light paper glowing in the darkening
room.
 “If you tickle me...”
 Derek's voice is rough with sleep, growly and perfect, and Stiles grins
wickedly, twisting a finger ever so slightly against sleep-warm skin.
 “If I tickle you, what...?”
 Derek growls again, and suddenly Stiles is on his back and pinned, laughing
uproariously at the smug look on Derek's face as he holds Stiles in place. It's
been so long, he thinks, and he knows in his head that a month is nothing, no
time at all, but he's waited this whole time to feel this again, to see this
face above him, hear this voice in his ear. He laughs and laughs, pushing
uselessly against Derek's hold.
 “Or I'll sit on you, that's what.” Derek lowers himself slowly down on to
Stiles' still shaking frame, sinking to rest his weight on Stiles' pelvis, his
eyes wicked with mischief, the corner of his mouth hitching upward as he takes
in Stiles' flushed face.
 “You'll sit on...ohh. Ohh, yeah, you should do that, mm.” Stiles pushes up
against Derek's hips, rocking them both and eliciting a satisfying gasp from
Derek. Stiles bites his lip and does it again, the motion pushing the bed frame
against the wall with a faint thump.
 “Hey.”
 “Hmm...?” Stiles is preoccupied with trying in earnest now to get his wrists
free from under Derek's grip so that he can put his hands all over him, but
squirming isn't doing anything yet. Well. Not for his wrists anyway. He squirms
again, grinning as Derek's eyebrow raises.
 “What's this I hear about Erica and Isaac and Boyd trying to learn tumbling?”
 “Hmm?” Stiles has his tongue between his teeth, pressing up with his hips
again as he tries to re-settle Derek's weight slightly further south. “Oh,
yeah. I don't know whose idea it was, but they got Lydia to show them the ads
for the Hale pack, and they've decided they want to do that.” He lifts his hips
again, squirming upward on the bed, and Derek groans, his eyes fluttering shut.
Stiles grins. “They're gonna ask you about it, they want you to train them,
they want to restart the Hale Pack.”
 Derek shifts, releasing Stiles' wrists to bring his forearms down on the bed,
nosing into Stiles' neck and moving his hips with unmistakable intent. Stiles
tips his head back, letting Derek mouth at the underside of his jaw, bite at
the line that runs from his shoulder to his ear. “They...oh, god,
yeah....they're nervous, though, they don't know how to bring it up.” Stiles
runs his hands up and down the ridges of Derek's back, clutching at him as
Derek sucks a mark into Stiles' collarbone. “You gotta...hmmm...be nice to
them.”
Derek spreads his knees, bearing down, and Stiles' brain shorts out, his feet
pressing into the bed as he thrusts up, his head falling back, eyes closed,
mouth open. The scent of rain and dust is everywhere in the room, mingling with
the salt scent of their skin- Stiles can taste it on his tongue, can smell the
fragrance of Derek's soap in the edge of his armpit, opens his mouth and licks
the skin in front of him, making Derek groan.
“'m always nice,” Derek grumbles, then bites down on the arc of Stiles'
shoulder, making Stiles choke on a laugh as he shakes to a stop, muscles
locking tight, then releasing. Derek shudders above him, gasping through his
mouth, once, twice, then falls to the side, panting as the cool air moves
across their skin. Stiles can feel their bodies slowing down, hearts settling,
breath evening out. He reaches over and pushes his fingers into Derek's loose
hand, squeezes them together.
 “What about you?”
 “Mmm?”
 “You. What are you gonna do?”
 The room has gone dim now, nearly dark with the rain and the setting sun, but
Stiles can see Derek's face turn toward him, his eyes open and questioning.
 “Well, they want you to lead the Hale Pack, of course. And you should! But.”
He looks down at their fingers, curling them up and down, up and down, until
Derek brings his other hand up to lift Stiles' face up to meet his own. His
eyes are deep, searching, and Stiles knows it's fruitless to hold back any part
of himself.
 “But?”
 “Well...” Stiles blows out a breath, tightens his grip, looks down to where
their fingers are linked, his long and lean, Derek's wide and strong. “I was
thinking. We have the Stupendous Stilinksi.” He can feel the bed move as Derek
chuckles, tightens his grip on Derek's fingers again. “And I know you said
before that you couldn't do it yet, that you couldn't till after the trial was
over and the loose ends were tied up, but... what if we also had Daring Derek?”
Derek catches his breath for a second, then exhales slowly.
“Daring Derek?”
Stiles bites his lip, raises his eyes to Derek's, nods.
 Derek stares at him for a long moment, then begins to smile.
“Stupdendous Stilinski and Daring Derek.” He laughs under his breath, leans in
and kisses Stiles, wet heat and soft mouth and every single thing that Stiles
could ever have dreamed of and more. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”
 
 
***** Artwork for Holding Your Own Weight *****
Chapter Summary
     artwork by the lovely Elica!
[Holding Your Own Weight]
End Notes
     You can follow me on tumblr at zjofierose if you like, but I'm really
     very boring.
  Works inspired by this one
      Cirque_de_la_Lune_-_Holding_Your_Own_Weight by Elica, Holding_your_own
      weight:_Stiles_Stilinski by Elica, Holding_Your_Own_Weight:_Derek_Hale by
      Elica
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