
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2009967.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Paige_(off-screen)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_No_Hale_Fire, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Pack
      Dynamics, Mythical_Beings_&_Creatures, Werewolf_Culture, Mates, Scent
      Marking, Therianthropics_&_Mythical_Beings_Registration_Act, Alternate
      Universe_-_Magical_Realism, Multiple_Religion_&_Lore_Sources, Faerie
      Culture, Sentinel/Guide, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse, Implied/
      Referenced_Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Adoption, Tangled_Web_of_Mysteries,
      Political_Campaigns, Sexuality_spectrum, Magical_Imprinting, Social
      Commentary_Disguised_as_Metaphors, Oblivious_Stiles, Young_Derek, Coming
      of_Age, Slow_Build, Character_Study, Autism_Spectrum, Disabled
      Characters, Current_Timeline_is_2014_&_Beyond, Restored_Edition:_July
      2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-23 Updated: 2017-08-21 Chapters: 25/100 Words: 492720
****** It Came from the Trees ******
by whatshouldntbe
Summary
     Derek says, "Here."
     Stiles has no time to prepare before Derek is shoving two of his
     stuffed wolves in his direction. "Ow — hey, easy with Sly and Truth.
     They're soft, but they're not that soft. And neither am I for that
     matter."
     Derek gives a noticeable pause in the dark.
     Stiles flushes when he realizes what he let slip and he quickly turns
     away so he can hide his blushing face between the grey and white
     wolves taking up residence in his arms.
     "You — you named them," Derek marvels.
     or
     Stiles moves to Beacon Hills so his dad can become the new sheriff,
     and finish out his freshmen year of high school (by staying under the
     radar) when he suddenly becomes the Beyoncé of the Supernatural
     community, and catches the eye of one of the most prominent Werewolf
     families in all of North America. It literally all starts with a
     stuffed animal(s).
Notes
     *Hello, it's me the writer (black, aromantic demisexual female, aged
     26) and you will find a land mine of grammatical errors (a few
     inconsistencies) but substantial diversity (and character
     development) to make up for it. If any of that is fine with you,
     carry on and :) please leave a comment or kudos.
     **Fair warning, I've only watched TW up to season three (when Allison
     was killed off), so I'm like winging everything else, and I'm trying
     to keep this story updated at least every month. (8/20/17)
See the end of the work for more notes
  This work was inspired by
      Fly_a_Little_Faster by mirrorkill, So_Shed_Your_Skin_and_Lets_Get_Started
      by halfhardtorock
***** invisible *****
            artwork by the lovely Zera_Henna (also on tumblr here)
                                        
                                   BOOK ONE
                                   VOLUME I 
No seriously.
It all starts with a stuffed animal.
No, okay, but the weird thing is that it actually starts with Peter Haleshowing
up on his doorstep with an eerie smile and a stuffed animal.
“What is this?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes in confusion and suspicion.
“And what is that?” he adds, pointing to the stuffed animal in his hands.
“A present,” Peter merely says, and holds the stuffed toy with just his large
left hand. “Happy birthday.” Then he adds, like an afterthought, “It’s a wolf.
You like those, right?”
Stiles just stares at him. This is literally all he can do. This goes beyond
the realm of bizarre.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.That would be a definite no,” Stiles says quickly. Although Peter may
appear to be harmless, well, Stiles is no idiot, and his father taught him
better than that. He may not be as skilled at reading people like his dad is,
but he can still see the word ‘trouble’ etched on Peter like neon lights.
Peter smirks and Stiles fidgets in his doorway as his cheeks grow warm. Not
only is Peter charming, but he’s a Hale. Stiles has yet to really understand
what that means since he’s only been in Beacon Hills a month, but he’s pretty
sure that being a Hale or even associating with one is highly significant.
Stiles is virtually a nobody at the moment. He hasn’t really made any friends
yet (not for the better lack of trying either). He’s basically at the bottom of
the social ladder and he hasn’t got a clue how to make his way up. He’s a spaz,
he knows this, but that’s something that worked inhis favor back when he and
his dad still lived in Los Angeles. Here in odd little Beacon Hills, it works
againsthim. It probably didn’t help that they’d moved here in the middle of
Feb-
No, wait.
Let's back up for a moment.
To put things in perspective: Peter Hale is a somebody. Maybe not celebrity
famous, but like small town famous. He's got the looks, the money, and the
charisma. He has an overwhelming presence about him that is hard to describe or
narrow down using simple words like "devilish" or "witty" or even
"manipulative". Though Stiles can still say those terms have to be true one way
or the other.
So needless to say, it’s beyond peculiar that Peter “probably could land on the
cover of vogue magazine just for being this good-looking” Hale, a sophomore
college student at that, has gone out of his way to visit Stiles “would
probably still be invisible even if he set himself on fire” Stilinski, a dweeb
of a high school freshman, for his not-birthday.
It’s all very down-the-rabbit-hole feeling.
Peter, as strange as this all is, is looking like he can’t really understand
why Stiles isn’t giving into his charms or at least licking the ground that
he’s standing on, which is a reaction most people give to the Hales. Stiles
likes to think he has a better sense of self-preservation than most people.
There’s not actually a severewarning bell going off in his mind, but there’s
just something there. It’s almost like an absentminded feeling of caution
toeing the line of adventure and peril. He can’t quite put his finger on it but
his trusty gut is telling him to proceed with caution. He crosses his arms.
Peter’s smirk widens and he looks amused, as if he approves of Stiles’s
apprehensive behavior. So, of course, he mocks Stiles’s stance like the younger
man is the most entertaining creature he’s ever met.
It turns into a stare contest.
Peter doesn’t blink once. Seriously. Not once.
“What do you want?” Stiles asks, because as popular as Peter is, everyone knows
that he’s bad news (in that way that they know but don't really actually know),
and that he doesn’t do anything without expecting something back. He’s got a
very anti-hero reputation. "What do you want?" he repeats, when Peter makes no
move to answer.
“Just to be neighborly,” Peter says, trying for earnest, and failing. He’s
wearing a fitted biker jacket with dark jeans ripped at the knees and a graphic
t-shirt that says “M.O.N.S.T.E.R.” in gaudy, white comic sans letters. His face
is unshaven but he wears it well, while his hair is slicked and neatly parted
to the side. Nothing about him says he knows how to be neighborly.
Stiles snorts. “You don’t even live in this neighborhood.” Which is true. He
lives in a gigantic house deep within the Beacon Hills preserve. It’s another
one of those odd Hale things (or so Stiles hears through the grape vine in this
small, chatty town). “Seriously, dude. What do you want?”
Peter shrugs slowly, like he has all the time in the world. “I heard you were
good at giving advice and researching things.”
God, who was even talking about him? Stiles didn’t even think anyone knew he
existed. “Who said that? And how do you know I like wolves? Not saying that I
do, but —”
“You go to school with two of my nieces, and my nephew,” Peter interjects
smoothly. “I think I’ve heard them mention you a few times.”
Unlikely. Sounlikely.
Stiles knew exactly who he was talking about, too.
Laura Hale is a gorgeous senior who never wastes time on freshmen, outside of
her sister, Cora, who always looked at Stiles like she wanted to punch him in
the throat during their AP English, Biology, and History class.
Although...that could be because he’s always tapping or drumming his pens and
pencils against his notebook or his desk. But the weird thing is that she sits
all the way in the front, and Stiles sits all the way in the back, next to the
windows. So either she’s got freakishly good hearing or Stiles is just that
loud.
Then there is Laura’s little brother, Derek (the middle child), who seems
permanently glued to a basketball. Or not so glued, because he spends a lot of
his time dribbling it or using it to flirt with girls and guys alike. Derek is
a sophomore, and well on his way to becoming the captain of the basketball team
if all the rumors he hears in the halls are true.
Either way, Stiles knows for a fact that neither Laura, Derek, nor Cora have
ever mentioned him in any of the ways that Peter is trying to imply. He’s never
spoken to any of them. He hasn’t spoken to anyone really.
“You’re lying,” Stiles says, and edges back into his house, ready to shut the
door and be done with all this weirdness. “And also, it’s not my birthday.”
“Close enough. Consider it an early gift,” Peter deflects cleverly, and Stiles
doesn’t know where he’s getting his information from but he’s scarily right.
“And you’re correct, I am lying,” he admits. “But you don’t make it easy for
anyone to get to know you.”
Stiles makes a face. He’s not sure how to take that or what that’s even
supposed to mean. “You’ve got six seconds before I slam this door shut,” he
warns.
Peter grins and says, “You’re not being very polite, Stilinski. You could at
least invite me in for a cup of water or a beer —”
“Six seconds are done,” Stiles decides and steps back to shut the door.
Peter quickly lifts his hand to stop the door from shutting, and wow, he’s
weirdly strong. “Fine,” he sighs, like he’s disappointed that Stiles won’t play
along. “What do you know about El Chupacabra?”
Stiles blinks as his mind starts tinkering away. “El Chupacabra,” he echoes.
“I’ve read some stuff.” He narrows his eyes at Peter. “Why?”
Peter smirks in that self-satisfied sort of way. It looks positively vulturine.
“Just hit a dead end in my research and I’ve got this paper that I’m trying to
finish,” he airily explains. “It’s for my Folklore class.”
“Why not go to the library and ask a librarian? I hear they’re useful.”
Peter shrugs. “I get the feeling you're better suited to this task,” he
supposes. “You seem like a smart kid. And I heard you got a quaint little
library filled with subjects of mythology that could rival my own family
library.”
“I have a smallcollection,” Stiles corrects, and it’s not so much his as it was
his mother’s (she was a collector of some sorts), but same difference. He still
doesn’t get how Peter just knowsthis stuff. “Just google what you need and hope
for the best. Avoid Wikipedia at all costs.”
Peter scoffs. “You think I haven’t already tried that? Like I said. Dead end. I
need more.” He cocks his head. “This paper is riding on a very important grade.
You wouldn’t want me to fail, now, would you?”
Stiles has a hard time believing him at his word, but he doesn’t know all the
facts and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested himself. He sighs and
loosens his grip on the doorknob. “Fine, come in.”
Peter doesn’t walk through the door. No. He swaggers.
Stiles is beginning to find him insufferable already. He gestures to his nicely
decorated but messy living room and says, “You can have a seat. We gave our
housekeepers the day off, so..."
Peter looks at him silently.
"...yeah, that was a joke. We don't actually have housekeepers. Uh, nevermind.
I’m not much of a host. So if you should feel yourself dehydrated, please help
yourself to some tap water we generously pay tax money for. Anyway, I have to
go get my computer.”
“Or I could go up to your room with you?” Peter suggests with an odd look as he
steps into Stiles’s personal space and just looms over him like a creep.
Stiles is uncomfortable. Really, really uncomfortable. “Uh, no. I’ll be back,”
he says, leaning back so he can breathe a little. “And I would also like to
remind you that my dad is the sheriff, so if you steal anything or try to
murder me, um, there will be retribution. And...justice.”
Peter just stares at him intently.
Stiles tries to be as subtle as possible about his fleeing because Peter’s gaze
is burning holes in his back. He breathes a little easier when he clicks his
door shut and rummages around through the mess of clothes and books for his
phone. When he finds it, he shoots his dad a quick text that informs him of his
company, just in case this exchange with Peter carries on long after his dad’s
shift ends. He then pockets his phone before he grabs his laptop, unhooking it
from all its cords, and carries it down to the living room where Peter is
standing by a window and looking out like he’s expecting company.
Stiles doesn’t even question it. “So what exactly are we dealing with here?”
Peter looks at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Your paper,” Stiles explains slowly with a frown.
Peter relaxes, and Stiles has to comb over his previous words to try and figure
out why Peter had look at him like he’d caught him in a lie. Peter straightens
and his face melts into an expression of indifference. “My apologies for
monopolizing you like this,” he says, and who even says things like that? He's
dressed like he’s punk rock but he speaks like it’s tea time with the Queen of
England. “But I’m afraid this is really important. I know enough about the
origins of El Chupacabra, and its general history. I’m not so sure about its
breeding patterns. Or hunting patterns.” He pauses before he adds, “Any
weaknesses would be useful too.”
Stiles frowns as he cracks open one of his books. “What kind of paper are you
trying to write?”
“Need to know, Stilinski,” Peter murmurs as he twitches and turns his gaze back
out the window. “You do me a favor and I’ll feel inclined to return it sometime
in the near future."
Stiles sighs and dismisses Peter’s presence entirely before diving in. He
doesn’t stray far in his research. He just jots down the things he thinks Peter
is looking for on different colored note cards. Green being confirmed facts,
yellow being useful but questionable information, and red for interesting but
completely ridiculous and untrue material.
Peter sometimes looms over him like a creep, making thoughtful sounds before he
returns to his post by the window. He doesn’t actually ever sit down in all the
three hours Stiles toils away for him. Another thing he finds very abnormal.
His dad eventually walks in with two large pizzas, looking worn out as usual
while he loosens his suit tie. Stiles can’t help but smile when he sees him;
that excited bubbly feeling of ‘dad’s home!’ gurgling in his stomach (even
after all these years, it never fails). Most people are probably used to their
parents by the age of six, but call Stiles frugal because he’s the only parent
Stiles has and he doesn’t plan on taking that for granted.
Peter straightens immediately and goes to shake his hand. “Sheriff Stilinski,”
he greets. “Peter Hale.”
“Please, just call me Sheriff,” his dad jokes.
Stiles rolls his eyes as he gnaws on a pen cap.
“I hope you’re hungry. I wouldn’t want these pizzas to go to waste,” his dad
says as he gestures to the boxes he’s sat down on the kitchen table. “You’re
certainly invited to stay. You’d be the first guest my son’s brought home. I’ll
admit, he’s had me worried.”
Peter opens his mouth, most likely to accept, but Stiles quickly interjects by
saying, “Peter was just leaving, actually.” He shoves a stack of notecards into
Peter’s hands before ushering him out the door quickly.
“It was nice meeting you, Sheriff,” Peter calls out from over his shoulder,
sounding very amused with Stiles’s antics. When Stiles has pushed him over the
threshold, he turns to face Stiles with a grin. "Do you know there's a cat that
sits across the street from your house nearly everyday?”
"What?" Stiles blinks before shaking his head. "I mean animals usually can be
found outside. Cats are one of them. They're not called Alley Cats for nothing.
Though we don't have alleys but the term can still apply, I think."
"Yes, but this particular one is peculiar. Have you really not noticed?"
"No." And Stiles silently thinks, Nor do I want to. What is with this guy?
Peter hums thoughtfully but doesn't say anything more on the matter. Instead,
he says, “Thanks, Stilinski. I’ll let you know how my paper goes.”
“Or don’t,” Stiles advises before slamming the door shut. He locks it for good
measure and isn’t surprised that his father is looking at him oddly when he
turns around. “What?”
“You tell me.”
“He gives me the creeps,” Stiles merely says before pushing past his father to
make his way over to the pizza. He shoots his dad a look. “This is really
unhealthy.” His dad gives him an annoyed look. “What? Did you flash your gun
and badge before requesting every meat known to man be sprinkled over these
pizzas?”
“I had a feeling you might say that. I’ve been eating all that organic crap
you’ve been feeding me without fail, so I think I deserve this little slip,”
his dad says as he steals the slice Stiles was just about to eat. “I’ll take it
easy. But you should know that I invited Melissa and her son over.”
Stiles narrows his eyes at his dad.
Melissa McCall had been the pretty nurse who his dad had flirted (terribly)
with when he took Stiles to get updated on all his shots because his current
high school refused to accept him without them.
His dad just meets his stare head on. “Go straighten the living room. I won’t
even ask about your room,” he says after a swallow.
Stiles huffs but he does what his father asks. He’s got good timing, too,
because by the time he’s got the living room in order, the doorbell rings. He
answers it because his dad asks him too.
Melissa greets him in some purple scrubs with a homemade blackberry pie in her
hands. Her son smiles at him and Stiles can’t help but notice that his jaw is
crooked.
Stiles moves out the way and lets them in, closing the door behind them. He’s
not even surprised when his dad is waiting at the kitchen table with the good
plates and cups like this was some kind of gourmet meal.
Melissa smiles and greets his dad and his dad gets all gooey in the face and
that’s all Stiles can take before he begs off eating at the table so he can go
into the living room instead. His father wouldn’t normally let him eat there,
but Melissa’s got him so enthralled that he just waves him off without a
glance.
Subsequently, Melissa’s son follows him, and they sit on the living room floor
with their backs against the couch while Stiles channel surfs.
“My name is Scott.”
“Stiles.”
“Mom says you guys moved here a little bit ago,” Scott says with a mouthful of
food. “You like it so far?”
Stiles shrugs and avoids really answering. “Do you go to Beacon Hills High? I
don’t remember seeing you.”
“I’m thirteen,” Scott explains, and Stiles feels a pang of disappointment.
Scott somehow picks up on it and adds, “But I will be a freshman in the fall.”
He smiles wide. “So what are your favorite video games? I’m really into Dragon
Age.”
“Oh thank god. A kindred spirit.”
Scott laughs.
Stiles discovers he has a lot more in common with Scott than what he would have
thought. The fact that they are a year and a grade apart doesn’t dispel their
instant connection. They hit it off, spectacularly so.
By the end of the night, Melissa kisses his dad on the cheek while Stiles and
Scott exchange phone numbers, making plans to hang out over the weekend. Stiles
tries not to think about why his dad and Melissa exchange these pleased and
knowing looks when they do. He waves at Scott one last time and goes up to his
room while his dad insists on walking Melissa to her car.
He stops short after he opens his door and sees the white wolf that Peter had
brought with him as a ‘gift’ sitting on the middle of his bed like someone had
put it there.
It certainly hadn’t been Stiles.
He also can’t help but to notice that his window is ajar.
                                      ---
The next day during AP Biology, Cora Haleapproaches him and-
No, wait.
Let's back up for a moment.
To put things in perspective: Cora Hale is intense. She usually puts blinders
on, ignores everyone, and paves a clear path through the crowd with just a
stormy expression. There have been many occasions that (Stiles couldn't help
but to notice) she'll be approached by girls and guys alike who she'll dismiss
with one look or callous comment. 
Stiles has never known her to actively approach anyone about anything. And yes,
she isn’t always unpleasant, but she always keeps to herself (unlike her other
siblings, who were social butterflies by nature). But Stiles thinks it's
because she prefers it that way. Cora is the calm and the storm, you know,
those days in the summer with thick clouds in the sky, and even in the dry air,
you wouldn’t help but to wonder if it would rain.
Which is why it kind of throws him for a loop when the next day during AP
Biology, while Stiles is trying not to fall asleep as he roots around his
backpack for the assigned homework, Cora Hale approaches him and says, “You’re
Bilinski.”
“Stilinski,” Stiles corrects, trying not to take offense of her wording of it.
He leans back warily when Cora pushes her face close to his. She smells like
coconut and jasmine. “Or you can call me Stiles,” he adds lamely, nervous and
confused.
Cora scowls, furrows her brow as her fingers slowly curl into fists. Her raven
black hair is braided into two french braids and she’s wearing a grey
sweatshirt with cupcakes and smiley faces over an a-line leather skirt with
white sneakers. Her eyebrows are unfairly perfect, her winged eyeliner is
flawless, and her burgundy lipstick looks like a religion. She's always
obscenely well put together.
It makes Stiles want to cry a little.
Cora says, “Why do you smell like my brother?”
Stiles fumbles with his book bag. “What? Peter?”
“No, dumbass,” Cora says, and wow, rude, but that’s all she says.
The bell rings and everyone is forced to go to their assigned seats.
This doesn’t stop Cora from glaring at him the whole period.
Or in AP History.
Or in AP English.
Stiles can’t think of what he could have possibly done.
And also, what kind of nose does Cora have to be able to smell people on other
people?
                                      ---
During lunch, Laura Halesits down at his table with a knowing smirk that Stiles
doesn’t get at all and says, “You’re cute.”
Stiles splutters and almost spits orange juice on Laura but she’s got freaky
fast reflexes and she gracefully ducks out of the way in time. “Oh god, I’m
sorry!” he says, completely mortified. He knows his face must be absolutely
red.
Laura just throws her head back and laughs.
That doesn’t help Stiles’s dignity at all since-
No, wait.
Let's back up for a moment.
To put things in perspective: Laura Hale is like high school royalty. She's all
soft pageant smiles as she floats through the hallways with her equally popular
and beautiful clique like butter wouldn't melt on her tongue. Her very presence
is peaceful, like a warm, breezy, summer day with the smell of earth in the
air; those days when it feels as if nature itself could reach out with arms and
hold you in the simplest embrace.
Laura likes to wear her hair long, like down to her waist and keeps it gleaming
with a healthy shine. She’s wearing a purple v-neck sweater tucked in a pair of
black high-waisted jeans. She’s got the kind of an elegant grace and shape to
her (like a stage dancer). She definitely looks like she’s Derek's and Cora’s
older sister, but some of her facial features are slightly different.
Stiles wonders maybe if they have a different dad or something.
“It’s okay, Stiles,” Laura says, and holy god,she knows his name andshe even
pronounced it correctly! “I heard you had a little run in with my uncle.”
“Uh, yes? Yes. I did,” Stiles stammers, nervous and he doesn’t know why. Oh
wait. He does. He’s only talking to one of the most popular girls in school and
trying so hard not to ruin it.
Laura hums thoughtfully before she says, “He gave you something, didn’t he? A
stuffed toy?”
“Uh.”
“You should know that it wasn’t his to give,” Laura continues, ignoring
Stiles’s expression of bewilderment. “You didn’t throw it away did you?”
“Why? Is it cursed?” Stiles asks. It would be just his luck to be in possession
of a cursed artifact.
Laura snickers. “Nope.”
Stiles waits for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. “Okay, well…” He fidgets with
his lunch tray. “Is it yours? Do you want it back? I can give it back. I have
no problem with returning things. I’m like a librarian’s wet dream come true,
andI’m going to stop before I say anything else to embarrass myself.”
Laura just smiles fondly at him.
Stiles stares dreamily.
“Did you cuddle it?” Laura asks suddenly, as her nose twitches. She smirks as
she looks over her shoulder at Derek, who is glaring at them for whatever
reason from across the room where he’s sitting with his basketball team.
Stiles hunches down slightly. His glare is almost as intimidating as Cora’s.
Must be genetic. He says, “Did I cuddle what?”
“The wolf.”
Stiles feels his cheeks grow warm. Honestly, it had been an accident. He swears
he shoved the thing to the other side of his bed before he fell asleep, but he
woke up that morning with it in his arms and his nose buried deep in its fur.
It had smelled really good, like vanilla and jasmine. “Um — no?”
For some reason, and it has to be coincidence, as soon as he says this, Derek
glares even harder at him before he storms out of the cafeteria.
Laura snorts before she turns her gaze back towards him and just looks at him
like she knows he’s lying. He probably shouldn’t have phrased it as a question.
She says, “You’re cute.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Stiles says and then he quickly backtracks
because this is Laura Hale paying him a compliment. “I mean — thank you?
Usually my grandma used to only say that but more in a like patronizing way.
Not that I think you’re humoring me or anything. You seem to know what’s cute,
and what’s not cute. Uh. Yeah.”
Laura doesn’t seem to mind the word vomit at all. She stands, leaning over the
table to steal his apple and Stiles gets a faint whiff of jasmine and
grapefruit. She takes a loud, juicy bite before she says, “It’s Derek’s.”
Stiles blinks in confusion.
“The wolf,” Laura elaborates in a cryptic tone before she strides out of the
cafeteria with all eyes on her.
Stiles nearly swallows his own tongue.
                                      ---
His dad would say that once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times
is a pattern.
By the end of the day, Derek Hale corners him in the boys’ locker room-
No, wait.
Let's back up for a moment.
To put things in perspective: Derek Hale is the epitome of "boy-next-door". He
has more of a laid back style to match his attitude. He wore things like padded
vests over long sleeve henleys matched perfectly with a pair of joggers and the
latest shoes. He's not so much soft-spoken as he is polite but Stiles has never
seen him throw a fist or pick on the new kid like some of the varsity players
on the swim team are infamous for.
Which is why Stiles is a little thrown that Derek Hale, after a very
embarrassing and disappointing Lacrosse tryout, confronts him in the boys'
locker room to ask, “Are you an idiot?”
“What? Hey, are you even supposed to be in here? You...uh…you’re a....”
Derek furrows his brow and leans closer, looming over Stiles so he can stare at
him intently in the same way that Peter did the day before. But then he starts
sniffingat Stiles before his mouth twists into a scowl.
Stiles swallows and jerks away nervously, biting back a curse when he
accidentally knocks his elbow into the locker behind him.
Stiles is upset, okay? He’s been confronted with way too much hotness today and
he has no idea what’s going on. One minute, he's invisible and now all three
Hales have approached him and stared him down like he couldn’t be any more
real. He stares at Derek with wide eyes and he tries not to think about how
everyone is watching them with interest, instead of like, you know, reporting
this confrontation to the nearest adult. Seriously though, his heart is beating
like a drum in his chest because Derek smells exactly like the stuffed animal
he still has in his bed.
Stiles feels his cheeks grow warm and he fidgets.
Derek glares at him and leans even further into his space which helps nothing.
“I said, are you an idiot?”
Is he being bullied? Is this what being bullied feels like? Do people still
even bully other people these days?
“No. I, uh, I’m not an idiot. I’m actually Stiles. Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski.
And you, uh, apparently don’t have any issues with personal space. This is very
personal right now. Did I do something? Is this about the —” And here Stiles
makes sure to lower his voice, even though they are literally only talking
about a stuffed animal, not drugs or anything illegal. “— the wolf?Because I
had no idea. Peter just ambushed me with it, claiming it was a gift for my
birthday but my birthday isn’t for another couple of weeks. Not that you care,
because why would you care? You don’t care. I don’t care. It’s beside the
point. I’ll—I’ll totally give it back, dude. You know, if it means so much to
you. Which I can understand because I used to have this pillow that I couldn’t
sleep without when I was little, so, you know, uh. Totally get it.”
Derek stares at him like he’s the most idiotic person before he shakes his head
and says, “Stay away from my Uncle Peter.” And then he just leaves Stiles
standing there, gaping like an idiot with his shirt halfway off without even
mentioningthe stuffed animal.
In hindsight, Stiles probably, definitely, should have known something was up.
But he didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
***** unmistakable *****
The rest of the week passes without incident and things presumablygo back to
normal.
Derek and Cora ignore him altogether (no surprises there, he doesn’t register
on most people’s radar in this town). But whenever Laura sees him in the halls
or at lunch, she goes out of her way to give him a smile, or a wave, or a wink,
or even all three if it’s a good day. Lately, it’s been really good days with
her. Seriously, he doesn’t know how he’s gotten to be so fortunate.
Stiles isn’t sure what to think of it, so he decides to not think of it at all.
He’s a real advocate for ignoring a problem until it goes away. Not that this
is a problem or anything because Laura Halenotices him now (this has to be some
teenage milestone). It’s just confusing. Stiles feels as if he has become a
punch line to some unknown joke, and he’s completely fine with never knowing
what the joke is. Forced obliviousness either has to be his best or worst
asset.
As for the white wolf — or as he likes to call it, ‘the stuffed animal of
chaos’ — he puts it on top of his dresser and leaves it there until he can
figure out what he should do about it. He absolutely does not touch it. He has
a feeling that Derek or Cora or Laura would know if he did. So he doesn’t.
Stiles drowns his worries by diving into schoolwork, TV, comics and videogames
(plus the occasional food mashup/experiment gone wrong; last week he’d made the
grievous mistake of slathering nutella over some leftover hard shell tacos
beforecramming it with bits of bananas, olives, and hot dogs, which — yeah —
was the worst of them so far. He didn’t leave the bathroom for almost three
hours after that.) Outside of those wonderful life choices, he skypes and texts
Scott from time to time. And by time to time, he means almost every night.
His dad is oddly out of sorts during that week, but Stiles knows from
experience that it probably has to do with his work. Probably.
One symptom of his wandering thoughts is that his dad always gets absentminded
with simple things. Like holding his coffee to his mouth without ever actually
drinking a sip, or stirring sugar and cream in the cup until he’s forgotten
just how much or how little he’s put in it (which in turn ends up with gallons
of discarded over sweetened coffee going down the drain in the kitchen sink).
Oftentimes, his dad will leave the faucet on even after he’s left the room,
neither of them knowing why he turned it on in the first place. Or he’ll catch
him staring at the TV without actually watching the TV.
The sheriff gets lost like that sometimes. He combs over the details of
whatever case he has at the time almost obsessively. He treats the victims like
family. It’s what makes him such a good detective.
Stiles is a bit intrigued by this unknown case that’s got his dad so wrapped up
in his thoughts. He tries to ask, but his dad just sighs and gives him a sadly
indulgent smile while telling him not to worry. As if Stiles is even capable of
doing anything but. Which is why Stiles pulls up any recent local news articles
he can find. He doesn’t find a treasure trove of weird activity, but he finds
enough. Most of what the articles report center around the ‘strange
disappearances of over a hundred household pets and wildlife animals’. Some
newer articles say the animals that are found by locals and hikers in random
spots within the woods are ‘slashed open and drained dry of all blood.’
Stiles whispers, “El Chupacabra…” to himself and feels silly immediately,
slapping his laptop shut. He had spent hours perusing through all the online
media outlets that Beacon Hills has to offer. He grabs his copy of The Hobbit
and some post-it notes, because it’s Friday night and he has better things to
do than psych himself out about some random coincidences that could just be
some crazy group of occultists getting their freak on. (Which is more likely
than a mythical creature doing it.)
Stiles totally doesn’t care and he loses himself to the realm of Middle Earth,
and totally doesn’t care even more as he gnaws on his nails. He uses sheer will
to concentrate on utilizing his post-its to mark his favorite places in the
book he’ll want to revisit and explore.
It works for an hour before he’s up and at his computer again. He is only so
strong.
He doesn’t get a wink of sleep until dawn, and by then he's sprawled across a
pile of articles he had printed out. His body is covered in photos, and he’s
surrounded by print-outs of anything that might even be a little bit connected
to what’s been happening locally. A stack of papers to his right is pages upon
pages that recount any past reports concerning El Chupacabra in other
communities. He had spent hours sorting what could find online until he had a
good collection that didn’t seem like total hoaxes.
Stiles jolts awake in the morning when his dad tosses a shoe at his stomach and
he stumbles to his feet. He gets tangled in a pair of his jeans that had been
tossed on the floor, trips and slips over some books and articles, and then
lands back onto the carpeted floor with a loud thud and a high-pitched squawk.
His dad sighs.
Scott, who also happens to be standing beside the sheriff, laughs behind the
back of his hand, like the traitor he is.
“Stiles,” his dad starts, and then pauses as he assesses the disaster area that
is Stiles’s room.
Stiles bats away a piece of paper stuck to the side of his face and smiles
innocently at his dad.
The sheriff sighs again and lifts his coffee mug to his lips as he mutters, “I
don’t even want to know.” He takes a loud sip before he says, "This is why I
tell you to clean your room. You could break your neck.” Then walks away.
Scott gingerly steps around the mess and makes his way over to Stiles. “I tried
calling before I came over but you didn’t pick up so I thought — woah, dude.
What is all this?” he asks suddenly as he picks up a magnified picture of a
gutted bull terrier. “Um.”
“Not what it looks like, Scotty,” Stiles promises as he snatches the photo away
and throws it over his shoulder. “Remind me what we’re doing today?”
Scott blinks slowly, like he’s trying to process everything, and then says,
“Freaks and Geeks?”
“Right,” Stiles says as he runs a palm over his buzz cut. “Marathon club?”
“Marathon club,” Scott confirms with a happy smile.
Scott had invited Stiles to join him and his friends for their monthly get-
together during a Skype call. He had explained that it’s something they did
every month: pick a series, watch it from beginning to end, and move on.
Stiles had never done anything like that, not even with his friends back in Los
Angeles. He had been in mostly online communities, swapping manga or comics,
and hadn’t really hung out with anyone that much outside of school. He had only
had two friends: Emmanuel and Sebastian, but he doesn’t really feel like they
should count for more reasons than he could name. So when Scott offered, he had
accepted the invitation without thinking about it — but once he did, well, he
started thinkingabout it.
“Okay. Let’s take ten to talk about the elephant in the room. Well, no,
elephant is probably not — I mean it isbut it isn’t. Or, you know, maybe I
should — I mean I could, and, to be honest, I’m tryingto. I’m not exactly used
to the whole, you know, everything. So I’m not trying to make it into a big
deal. It’s probably not a big deal, but I’m the type to talk about the things —
well, I like to talk in general but —”
“Stiles, I’m lost,” Scott admits quickly. He looks like he’s been trying to
find the right moment to jump in without being rude, which is okay because he’s
not used to Stiles yet. Interruption is fair game and Stiles is never offended
when it comes to that. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing...per se. Just. I have to say this because I just have to.” Stiles
sighs and he might as well just say the exact thing he’s thinking. “It’s not
going to be weird, right? You told your friends about me. I’m, like... older.”
“Not that old!” Scott instantly protests. “And they’re all around my age. Some
are even your age.”
“Yeah, but, you guys are eighth graders and I’m in high school,” Stiles remarks
carefully.
Scott’s brow furrows and he looks at Stiles with huge puppy dog eyes. “You
think it’s lame?”
“No!” Stiles quickly says, and then adds, “I think I’mlame. You guys are
probably really awesome and I’m just a dumb loser who couldn’t even make
friends within his own age group.”
Scott still doesn’t look like he understands. “But we are in your age group.”
“I didn’t mean like that, I meant — like — you know, I’m in highschool, and I
have no high school friends.” Stiles sighs and slaps a hand over his eyes when
Scott gets this totally hurt look on his face. “I’m not explaining this right.”
He drops his hand. “I don’t want your friends to feel weird because I’m hanging
around.”
“Stiles,” Scott says slowly and he looks very earnest. “You’re one of the
coolest people I’ve ever met. If I like you then they’ll like you. The fact
that you’re in high school is a bonus.”
Stiles’s mouth fidgets uncertainly. “Really?”
“Totally,” Scott confirms, flashing his trademark sunny smile. “If anything,
you make me ten times cooler just by association.”
Stiles grins shyly and shoves at Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, ease up — you’re
really laying it on thick.”
Scott shrugs but he keeps smiling like he really needs Stiles to believe that
he’s awesome.
Stiles stands and dusts himself off. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be ready
to go.” He starts searching for his towel, and it takes him longer than it
should have. He should probably really clean his room. Then again, this is a
constant thought in his mind that he never follows through on.
Once he finds his towel by sheer miracle, he makes his way to the bathroom and
takes his Adderall. It kicks in while he’s standing in the shower and he ends
up staring at this one tile on the wall really intensely until the water turns
cold and he’s forced to snap out of it. He quickly scrub himself down before
the water gets to freezing temperatures.
Scott’s lounging on one of his blue beanbag chairs with a stack of articles in
his hand. He looks up and says, “Dude!”
Stiles raises both his eyebrows expectantly before he shuffles over to his
dresser for some clothes.
Scott waves the stack of papers in his hand and says again, “Dude!”
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here,” Stiles replies in amusement. He slips his boxers on
under his towel and drops it once they’re on all the way. He struggles into a
pair of jeans, hopping around, wishing he was coordinated with his hands and
feet and — well, basically his whole body — because it would make his whole
life much easier. And less embarrassing.
“You’re super into urban legends or something?” Scott asks, a meager amount of
urgency in his tone. “Mi abuelo used to tell me and mis primos— wait, sorry. I
mean, he used to say to my cousins and I, that these were real things to be
afraid of. The legend of El Chupacabra was kind of one of his favorites. But
they were just stories to scare us when he took us camping. You don’t — you
don’t actually believe this has anything to do with what’s been happening
here?”
Stiles pokes his head through his blue-and-orange striped shirt with a sheepish
expression. “Well, it’s really — kinda? Sorta. Maybe? Yes and no. No and yes.”
Scott snorts and puts the papers down on the floor. “Nature, dude. It’s
probably a mountain lion or something. We have those around here.”
“They don’t fit the pattern,” Stiles mutters to himself before he shakes his
head and sighs. “You’re probably right. I just get worked up about things like
this. I see something strange and I try to make sense of it. It’s genetic,
really.”
Scott nods like he understands. Maybe he does
Stiles glances towards his window at the grey, sullen sky and says, “Should I
bring an umbrella? It’s pretty cloudy out. Do you think it’ll rain?”
Scott is giving him a strange look when he glances back to him.
“What?”
“Nothing…” Scott says but the way he drags it out kinda makes it apparent that
it’s definitely something. “I just forget how new you are around here I guess.
It, uh, never rains.”
Stiles is sure the double take he does looks as unattractive as it feels. “One
second, uh..." He takes a moment to scratch his head before he continues, "What
do you mean it never rains?”
Scott just shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not a phenomenon. “I was
born and raised here. It’s never rained. To my understanding, it never has,
even before I came along.”
“I’m sorry I just have a hard time believing that with all the lush forests and
vegetation around here, it’s not because of the result of nature’s sky tears.”
Scott laughs. “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s a mist that comes down
from Mount Hebe  during twilight hours, and it keeps everything pretty
replenished. It’s a good as rain.”
“Yeah but it’s notrain. Rain can’t just not be a thing when you’re not in the
Sahara or somewhere equally dry.”
Scott shrugs again.
Stiles has a million more things to say about this but he just sighs, deciding
to let it go for now. Maybe he'll bring it up with his dad.
“Oh, before I forget, your dad left and he wants you to text him and be home by
ten. He also said you could spend the night at my house if you wanted and if
it’s okay with my mom, but you have to call and let him know so he can come and
pick you up in the morning.” He makes a face and then adds, “He also said you
weren’t allowed to do anything until you did your chores, though.”
Stiles groans and falls backwards onto his bed, which turns into a pained grunt
when his head hits the edge of a book. He peers over at Scott without actually
moving anything but his eyes. The preteen is watching him with an amused frown.
Stiles makes his best impression of a puppy pout and says, “Any chance that our
status of friendship has reached a level where you help me out with things like
this?”
“I can do the kitchen for you to make things go faster. But, dude,” Scott gives
him a solemn look. “You’re on your own with your room and your laundry.” He
offers his hand.
“Fair enough.” Stiles grabs Scott’s hand and pulls himself up.
Between them, they get everything done within two hours.
It’s a bonding experience of sorts. If sighing a lot and flinging clothes into
the washer and dryer with no color separation is considered bonding. Which it
totally is.
Scott drags him out of the house after the last load of laundry is thrown in
the dryer. They climb onto their mountain bikes and peddle off, with Scott
leading the way. They ride into town first, to stop at the local grocery store
for some snacks, since Scott claims it’s his turn to host the marathon. Then
somehow manage to make it to Scott’s house without dropping or spilling
anything or eating dirt while attempting to juggle all the bags in an effort to
keep their balance. Scott lives in a rambler house on a cul-de-sac full of, who
he explained are retired Hawaiian dancers who decided to settle down here since
the Beacon Hills feels kindred to them.
There’s a group of people waiting on Scott’s porch steps when they arrive.
Stiles takes a head count that comes to four girls and three boys.
They all stand and greet Scott enthusiastically.
A tall, dark-skinned boy says, “You’re late, McCall. We’ve been sitting out
here for hours.”
“No you weren’t,” Scott begins to protest, but then he pauses. “Were you?”
They all share looks and snicker as Scott’s brow furrows deeper.
“Don’t think too hard, McCall,” says a boy with a perfect jawline and pretty
blue eyes. He has one ear pierced, two small lines shaved in his left eyebrow,
and he’s dressed like a backup dancer.
“Introduce us,” the girl besides him says. She’s dressed in nothing but
pastels, wearing a powder pink oversized half-cut hoodie over some white lace
high-waisted shorts and a pair of silver thigh high boots. She has a silver
septum nose ring and her hair is in flowy beach waves the color of strawberry
blonde. She looks like she runs a popular fashion trend blog.
“Oh, yeah. This is Stiles. Stiles, this is everybody,” Scott merely says. He
starts pointing as he continues, “The giant on the end is Boyd." He points to
the black male wearing a graphic t-shirt with some obscure indie band name.
"Then Jackson, and his girlfriend Lydia." He indicates to the blond with the
pierced ear and the girl with the strawberry blonde hair. Then he points to the
boy with distinct Hawaiian features. “That’s Daniel, but we call him Danny,” he
says.
Danny smiles with a slight wave. He's wearing a Looney Tunes track suit oddly
enough, but it seems fitting. He has long hair that stops right above his
shoulders and he has a sweet smile.
When Scott sees that’s all sorted, he continues, “That’s Allison, but we like
to call her Ally.”
Stiles isn’t sure, but he thinks that Scott puts a bit of a lovelorn sigh with
Allison’s name.
Allison appears to be the short, pale girl with long, curly, jet black hair
that’s tucked behind her ears and stops at her small waist. When she grins, she
has the most adorable pair of dimples that Stiles has ever seen. She’s wearing
a white t-shirt with the Canadian flag under a red flannel button down and a
black pleated skirt (and white gladiator sandals).
“Then there’s Erica,” Scott says, moving on.
Erica is a really lanky, tall but pretty girl that has the build of a ballerina
dancer who dresses like a goth. Her platinum blonde hair, which is obviously
dyed, sits in a messy bun above her head. She’s got smoky black eye shadow that
makes her green eyes pop, and the black lipstick really makes her pale skin
look almost like porcelain. She’s wearing a black, gently fitted, V-neck satin
dress with fishnet stockings and burgundy ankle boots. She has more ear
piercings than Stiles could ever dream to have (she doesn’t take pain well).
Erica just smirks and winks.
Scott finishes, “Last but not least, that’s Malia.”
Malia's got honey blonde hair that's about as short as Danny's, and really
thick eyebrows. She looks bored with everything. She's wearing a heavy metal
graphic t-shirt and a pair of studded dark denim leggings with flip-flops. Her
toenails are painted with smiley faces.
Then it get’s silent and everyone turns their attention to Stiles.
Stiles hopes he isn’t staring because they are all really good-looking. He has
a problem with staring at attractive people, and right now he’s got a whole
group of them looking at him in apprehension. That’s probably because he’s
doing nothing but staring, like a complete weirdo.
“Is this One Tree Hill? Why does everyone in this town have killer looks?”
Stiles blurts because he can’t help it and he’s not even exaggerating. He tries
to get his point across by flailing his arms, bags in hand, groceries
threatening to spill out. “Seriously, I call total b and s. There’s no way you
guys are in junior high. You’re super aesthetically pleasing and we all know
that we Americans are ugly trash.”
They all smirk. And just like that, the tension is broken, and they welcome him
into the fold.
Scott unlocks his front door and they all pile into his living room to start
their marathon of Freaks and Geeks.
Stiles ends up on the couch, crammed between a sprawling Erica and Malia. Malia
puts her feet in Stiles’s lap like she has been his friend for longer than ten
minutes, while Erica commandeers the bag of cheese puffs and watches the TV
upside down like it’s no big deal. She goes to great lengths not to touch any
part of him and he totally doesn't take offense to that because Malia seems to
be making up for it by lounging over him like a lazy, affectionate cat.
Lydia stays curled up on top of Jackson in one of the loveseats, phone in hand
and attention divided. Jackson keeps his hands planted firmly on her ass in a
blatant show of possessiveness that Stiles hopes isn’t because he’s here.
Danny is sitting on the loveseat across from theirs, and he’s constantly
texting.
Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that Lydia and Danny are texting each other.
Boyd sits leaning against the coffee table with his hand propping his head,
completely enthralled by Lindsay Weir.
Meanwhile, Scott and Allison are lying on their stomachs, shoulders touching as
they sneak glances at each other like clockwork.
Stiles isn't sure if they're in a relationship or edging their way into that
territory, but the tension between them couldn't be any more blatant.
From noon to midnight, they watch episode after episode, pausing in-between to
share their favorite scenes and characters, or to just generally murmur in
anticipation. After a while they order some pizzas and everyone pitches in when
the delivery boy gets there.
Stiles doesn't say much because he’s too busy watching them. He thinks about
how nice it is to fit in again and feel like he belongs somewhere. It makes him
smile when he thinks he'll have a clique come fall when they make their way
into high school as freshmen.
The night wears on and Stiles has to call his dad because it’s looking like
everyone’s staying over. He tells his dad he doesn't have to worry about
picking him up in the morning. He can find his own way home.
Melissa strolls into the house sometime around three in the morning in some
aqua-green scrubs and everyone greets her with a “Hey, Ms. McCall!” and she
smiles like she isn't even a smidgen surprised to see them sprawled all over
her living room.
Melissa disappears for a moment and comes back with a heap of pillows and
blankets, which she passes out to everyone before bidding them a good night.
Everyone crashes after the last episode.
The house gets dark and quiet.
                                      ---
Ramona’s Old Fashioned Eatery on Mulholland Blvd is one of the most well known
restaurants in, not only Beacon Hills, but all of the US of A. It’s even been
on Diners Drive In & Dives, that one TV show hosted by Guy Fieri. A whole
entire episode was even dedicated to the layout of their whole menu. It’s
interior is cosmetically designed to look like a 50’s diner, with shiny red
vinyl booths and checkerboard linoleum floors. Even the employees dress in
vintage candy striped uniforms and paper waiter hats.
In the morning, Stiles is dragged to the infamous diner (apparently owned by
Boyd's mom) with his new group of friends and they all cram into a booth
together.
Malia asks for his phone and Stiles gives it to her with a curious frown, but
she doesn’t do anything to it other than save her number. She slides it to
Erica, who saves her number as well, before tossing it over to Danny, who
shoots him a dimpled smile.
Stiles blushes but smiles back before hiding behind his menu as his phone gets
commandeered by Lydia, who bullies Jackson into giving up his number too before
they hand it over to Allison.
Allison chucks it at Boyd, and he catches it easily. Stiles sends them a mass
text once he’s handed the phone back, so they all can have his number as well.
In the daylight of the diner, Stiles gets cocooned by the sound of laughter, of
inside jokes, and of voices trying to talk over other voices. He doesn’t say
much still, just being as observant as he can. He keeps waiting for this to
feel awkward or to feel out of place, but it never happens.
Scott looks over at him from time to time with a smile when he isn’t arguing
fondly with Boyd about something small and insignificant. His smile says,
You’re okay with all this?
Stiles’s quiet grin replies, It’s cool. I like it.
Scott grins harder before he throws a sugar packet at Boyd and continues their
faux debate. Allison leans into his side and Scott fumbles with his words and
he flushes happily.
Lydia smirks as Jackson whispers something in her ear as she types away on her
phone.
Malia and Erica arm-wrestle while Danny plays referee.
The waitress swings by eventually, disrupting the commotion of their
commingling conversations to take their orders. After she leaves, Lydia turns a
keen eye on Stiles and says, “Are you dating anyone?”
Stiles chokes on his next sip of water.
Jackson snorts and tosses him a napkin out of pity. “Relax, Stilinski. That
wasn’t an offer,” he clarifies.
Stiles coughs and wipes his mouth before wiping the table. “I, uh — no? No. No,
I’m — not, uh —”
“No old flames back home?” Erica asks with a mischievous grin. Her eyes are
gleaming. “Fuck buddies?”
Stiles flushes. He feels incredibly self-aware all of a sudden. “No,” he
squeaks before he quickly clears his throat. “I don’t — that’s not something I
usually think about,” he admits.
“What? No way,” Malia says as she braids the end of her low ponytail. She eyes
him. “I mean, we’re teenagers. What else is there to think about?”
“Our education?” Danny interjects, and huffs when Malia sticks her tongue out
at him.
“Chocolate?” Allison offers.
Scott says, “Video games?”
“Designer handbags,” Lydia quips, sipping her water and texting at the same
time.
Boyd says, “Food.”
Jackson says, “Cars.”
“No, I think about sex all the time,” Erica admits. “Are you gay?” Everyone
fusses at her. “What? Danny’s gay. Malia’s gay. I’m kinda gay. Why can’t we
talk about it?”
“Just stop,” Scott pleads and sends Stiles an apologetic look. “You’re making
him uncomfortable.”
“We share everything though,” Boyd points out, but not unkindly. “Sooner or
later we’re gonna know his business too.”
No one disagrees.
Stiles doesn’t know what to think. He’s both fascinated and horrified by their
openness when it comes to discussing sexuality. This is definitely not how
things went back in his old neighborhood. You either had someone or you didn’t,
but what you did with that person was never discussed outside of social media.
“So, Stiles,” Allison says, because she is a godsend. “Tell us about Los
Angeles. Why’d you move?”
Stiles takes the easy way out and talks about his dad’s promotion and how
moving to Beacon Hills had been a huge part of it. He rambles about what life
was like in Los Angeles, and the things he used to get up to with his old
friends. He also has to explain that, no, he hasn’t met many celebrities.
Thankfully, that’s the only thing they find disappointing about his life story.
The waitress comes back with their orders, and everyone’s attention shifts.
Eventually they all start talking about what series they should get into next.
It becomes a toss-up between Doctor Who and Smallville.
They let Stiles have the final say since he’s new, and he chooses Doctor Who
because he’s already familiar with it. And by familiar, he means it’s been
sitting in his Netflix queue waiting to be watched for a year now. (But
everyone’s an offender of an untouched Netflix queue).
They begin to make plans, wondering what they want to do next Saturday.
Boyd makes the suggestion that they should all go ice-skating, and since his
dad owns the rink, they could reserve it privately for free.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” Erica says, slapping her palm to the table like a judge
making a final ruling. Everyone nods in approval, aside from Scott. He groans.
“Come on, guys! You know I can’t skate!” he protests. Everyone ignores him.
Stiles gets distracted by a text from his dad informing him that they need to
talk as soon as he gets home.
Malia asks, “Stiles?”
Stiles looks up and blinks when he notices they’re all staring at him with
expectant looks. “Uh — what?”
“Ice-skating?” Lydia prompts.
“Oh,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, sure. As
long as it’s any time after my lacrosse practice.”
Jackson, Danny, and Scott perk up with interest, but Jackson’s the one to say,
“You play lacrosse?”
Stiles makes a face and replies, “That depends on how you define playing.”
Jackson shoots him a look. “I define it as you being out on the field and using
your feet to get the ball from one end to the other.”
“Well,” Stiles drawls. “I’m certainly outon the field. If you count handing out
towels or water.”
Scott gives him a sympathetic look. “I’ve got hair trigger asthma. I feel you,
dude.”
Stiles kindly doesn’t point out that it’s not the same because Scott’s excuse
is actually valid. Stiles just sucks.
Jackson must think along the same line of thought, because he shakes his head
and says, “That’s pathetic, Stilinski — ow!” His knee jerks into the table and
it shakes with the impact.
Lydia glares at him and Stiles isn’t exactly sure, but he thinks that she just
stomped on his foot. “Jackson, be nice,” she hisses.
Jackson glares back at her before he shifts his gaze away and then says, “Danny
and I practice sometimes.”
“You should totally join us,” Danny adds with a wide smile. “Between Jackson
and I, we can get your coach to notice you.”
Stiles nods, dumbfounded.
“Then you can vouch for us when we try out next year,” Jackson says with a
smirk.
Everyone rolls their eyes, unsurprised by Jackson’s motives.
“Uh, sure — I mean, if I have any pull,” Stiles promises unsurely.
Jackson still nods and says, “We’ll text you,” before he plays rock-paper-
scissors with Danny and Allison to determine who will foot the bill.
                                      ---
When Stiles gets home that Sunday, after being dropped off by Ms. McCall and
Scott, he sees Mr. Henley (their next-door-neighbor) doing a bit of yard work
in the front. “Hey, Mr. Henley. Doing some gardening?”
“If I have my way, Mr. Stilinski, this house will win the prestigious blue
ribbon for ‘Best Landscaping’! There’s no way Mrs. Doyle from across the street
will steal it from me again!” Mr. Henley explains from between two of the rose
bushes he’s trimming. He pauses to wipe the sweat from his brow. He’s a man of
average height, always suffering from farmer’s tan, littered with streaks of
dirt and his wild, bushy eyebrows set in a determined furrow.
Stiles once joked with him that he keeps all his emotions in his eyebrows and
he’s such a lighthearted man that he agreed. He grins and says, “You’ve got
green fingers, Mr. Henley. If anyone can do it, you can!”
“Thanks, young man. Be sure to stop by some time. My wife would love to have
you and the sheriff over for dinner. You both are such nice folks,” Mr. Henley
praises before he disappears to the side of his house with his dirty hedge
clippers.
Stiles smiles fondly as he continues into his own house. Based on the sounds he
hears, he knows he’ll find his dad in the kitchen.
His dad is waiting for him when he gets home that evening. He’s got this
nervous look on his face that Stiles isn’t used to seeing.
“What? What did you eat?” Stiles asks, and he makes a mental note to formally
introduce himself to his dad’s deputies so he can have an insider who can
inform him of when his dad is being less than square about his diet.
The sheriff snorts. “Nothing you wouldn’t approve of,” he replies, and he
sounds a little bitter about it, so Stiles believes him.
“Okay, what’s with the face, then?” Stiles says, and really starts to worry
when his dad makes a gesture for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. He
sits.
His dad sits across from him.
Stiles folds his hands together and bounces his right leg for a few seconds
before his dad stands up again and begins pacing the kitchen. “Uh, dad —”
He stops moving to say, “Give me a moment here, son.”
Stiles shuts his mouth and mimes a zipping gesture across his lips.
The sheriff goes right back to pacing.
Stiles scratches the back of his head before he leans back in his chair.
His dad stops pacing, turns to him, and oddly says, “You know how you always
wanted a little brother?”
“Okay, that wasn’t what I expected you to say.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Um, yes? Vaguely? I don’t know,” Stiles says as he frowns at his dad before
his gaze narrows. “If this is your way of breaking the news to me that Ms.
McCall is pregnant, then —”
“What? No! Jesus, kid. No.” His dad rubs a tired hand down his face. He pulls
out the chair across from Stiles and sits with a sigh. “The thing is — there’s
been some recent developments.”
Stiles nods in what he hopes is an encouraging way, despite his confusion.
“And you should know that I would never make any major decisions without
consulting you first, especially when it affects you,” his dad continues. Then
he stops again, like he’s trying to find the right words.
Stiles figures he should be supportive and he says, “Whatever it is, dad — it’s
fine. I mean, I was okay when you wanted to move. It sucked at first. Man, did
it suck. Like it really, really —”
His dad gives him a pointed look.
“—anyway, it sucked but things are totally fine now. I’m adaptable. I’m like
one of those animals that can do camouflage, or like that one lizard. What is
it called? Didn’t they have a movie about it with Johnny Depp as the voice?
What am I saying? Johnny Depp has been in a million movies. This one, though —
it didn’t have Helena Bonham Carter in it, so that helps to narrow things down.
I think they were in the wild west —”
“Stiles,” his father interrupts, sounding amused.
“Right,” Stiles says breathlessly, tapping the kitchen table with listless
fingers. “I’m just saying that I’m totally on board with whatever it is you’re
trying to tell me.”
“I adopted a kid.”
“You adopted a kid,” Stiles echoes. He blinks and sits back, letting his hands
fall into his lap. He opens his mouth and then closes it. He opens it again but
then closes it again.
The sheriff snorts. “Is that what it takes to make you speechless?”
“Not funny,” Stiles mumbles. “I’m processing.”
His dad nods in understanding. “Take your time.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Tell me about this kid. Why did you adopt him? Am I not
enough for you? Just kidding. What’s his name? Will he being staying in the
room that’s supposed to be your office but you never use it? Is he staying
forever? Will he take your last name? Does he —”
“Whoa, whoa,” his dad says, lifting his hands, palms facing him in a ‘hold it’
gesture. “One question at a time. His name is Isaac Lahey, and he just turned
twelve. He got mixed up in some bad dealings with his older brother and his
dad. They’re both in jail now and Isaac had nowhere else to go. They wanted to
release him to the state, but his therapist feared it would be the worst thing
to put him in the system like that. He also, uh, grew attached to me over the
past couple of weeks, which is understandable since I’ve been one of his only
visitors while he stayed at the hospital. His therapist suggested that I think
about taking him in. Well, I did, and I talked to him about it and he seemed
receptive to the idea.”
Stiles nods and he begins to understand why his dad’s been so distracted
lately. “So, is he — wait, what happened though? Why’d he have to see a
therapist? Why was he in the hospital? What did his dad and older brother do?”
His dad looks really uncomfortable, but above all he just looks sad. Not a
typical type of sad, either, but the type of sad he got after Stiles’s mother
died.
Stiles hates that look. It shoots little pinpricks of pain straight into his
heart and makes him want to cry. He quickly backtracks, “It’s none of my
business. I’m sorry.”
“No,” his dad says as he shakes his head. “No, you’re not wrong for being
curious. I’d rather Isaac talk about it himself then me. This is going to be a
big change. It’s not just going to be only you and me anymore.”
Stiles hadn’t thought of it like that. “I don’t mind,” he says softly, and he
really means it.
His dad smiles and huffs before leaning over to ruffle his buzz cut. “You’re a
good kid,” he says.
Stiles blushes at the praise and grins, batting his dad’s hand away. “I learned
it from the very best.”
“Right, butter me up, why don’t you,” his dad jokes.
“Now why would I do that? Butter is bad for your cholesterol,” Stiles counters,
and snickers at the unimpressed look his dad gives him. “So when is he coming?”
“In a couple of hours,” his dad admits. “I got the room ready while you were
gone. Well, come and see.”
Stiles follows his dad up the stairs and to the room that sits right across
from his own. It smells like the walls have been freshly painted, and there’s
new furniture. It’s all watermelon themed colors. Green walls, red comforters
on the queen-sized bed sitting against the wall between the windows, black
dressers and a work desk. The desk has a laptop, speakers and a printer crammed
on top of its surface.
“Really trying to make him feel welcomed, huh, dad?” Stiles quips, and his dad
knocks their shoulders together.
“I can afford to feed and spoil an extra mouth with my new position. Not to
mention the fact that it comes with a great insurance plan,” his dad whistles.
“What more could a man ask for from his nine to five?”
Stiles snorts. “I’m going to go make dinner. Any special requests?”
“Lasagna,” is his dad’s automatic reply. “And would it kill you to put some
actualmeat in it?”
“Ground turkey is meat.”
The look on the sheriff’s face suggests that he would like to strongly
disagree, but knows better than to argue the point. He eyes his son before
saying, “You’re really okay with this?”
“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles swears. It's not the way he imagined being an older
brother, but he was a bit excited at the prospect still. “I’m going to go see
what we have for snacks. What will you do?”
“Sleep,” is his dad’s automatic reply. “Growing up means you never get enough
of it.”
“You work too hard. I feel like I never see you that much anymore. Or maybe
you're avoiding me,” Stiles jokes lightly.
“Spare me with that. Everything I do, I do for you, kiddo.”
Stiles laughs.
"Wake me when Isaac's here."
Stiles nods and watches his dad disappear into his room before he goes
downstairs to start dinner. He’s putting the lasagna in the oven to cook. When
he notices that there’s still a good thirty minutes left for it to sit in
there, he decides to spend that time in the living room playing a few scenes of
Assassin's Creed (Black Flag). He’s about to try and parkour the heck out of
her latest escape attempt in the videogame when there's a knock on the door.
“Dad!” he yells and when there’s no response, he sighs and pauses the game. He
jogs to the door and opens it before frowning. “You’re not Isaac.”
Peter lifts a brow. “I should hope not,” he replies. He holds up his left hand
to reveal another stuffed animal.
It’s a black wolf this time.
“Oh, no,” Stiles says, sounding exasperated.
“Happy birthday.” Peter says brightly.
“Not this again.”
“You’re not opposed to black, are you?”
“Peter.”
“I admit, it’s still too early, but it’s almost April,” Peter supposes,
ignoring the annoyed look crossing Stiles’s face as he eyes the stuffed toy in
his hand with some consideration. “Anyway, about that paper. My professor
didn’t find some of those facts useful.”
“This is why you need a librarian,” Stiles points out.
“I need you,” Peter simply says, staring at him very intently. “I wouldn’t be
here if you weren’t of any use to me. Trust me —”
“Trustyou?” Stiles says with a snort.
“—I don’t waste my time lightly,” he continues, ignoring the jab. “I like you,
Stilinski.”
Stiles makes a face.
“Now, are you going to invite me in so I can complain more formally or do we
have time to go back and forth like this? Good evening, Sheriff.” Peter flicks
his gaze up and looks over Stiles’s shoulder.
Stiles turns to see his dad standing at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t look
too concerned to see Peter Hale at their door. Curious.
“Stiles?”
“False alarm,” Stiles explains with a frown. “Sorry.”
His dad just nods. He greets Peter briefly before he returns to his room.
Stiles turns back to Peter and says, “This isn’t a good time.”
“Something smells wonderful,” is Peter’s irritating response. “Lasagna?”
Stiles glares at him. “You’re not leaving until I help, are you?”
Peter smiles big and wide. It’s still somehow carnivorous in nature.
Stiles sighs and moves out of the way so Peter can glide in. He knows the
faster he can get this over with, the faster he can get Peter to leave.
Hopefully. Also, considering recent developments, he’s interested in hearing
what Peter knows too.
Peter suddenly says, “I have to use the bathroom,” and he dashes up the steps
before Stiles can protest.
Stiles times him.
Peter comes back three minutes later and sits down at the kitchen table before
looking at Stiles expectantly.
“So what facts did your professor not like?”
“I wouldn’t call it dislike. It’s more or less that some of them were a dead
end. Particularly the section pertaining to El Chupacabra’s weaknesses,” Peter
explains.
Stiles frowns. “I don’t understand. I was dead on about that.”
Peter makes a face like Stiles isn’t as clever as he thinks he is.
“Maybe you’re not getting it,” Stiles huffs. “The very thing that makes El
Chupacabra what it is, is the very thing that makes it vulnerable.”
Peter lifts a brow but he says, “So the fact that it mauls on defenseless
animals in the dead of the night is a weakness?”
“El Chupacabra thrives on heat and darkness,” Stiles elaborates. “It can’t
survive in the daylight. It’s a warm-blooded creature, okay? It’s like
something you’d read out of vampire lore. Where a vampire would need warm blood
to live, El Chupacabra needs it to survive, to stay at a certain temperature, I
guess. I also have some suspicions about its ability to use scent as a way to
see, kind of like moles or Sinopoda scurion do.”
“Sensory modality,” Peter murmurs, his face clearing of all annoyance, like
something is clicking for him.
“Right,” Stiles confirms. “Which means it can only scavenge during the night.
Less light, meaning it’s less disorienting to the senses.”
Peter smirks. “When you put it that way, it makes perfect sense.” He moves to
stand but Stiles lifts a hand and he pauses.
“I’ve got some questions for you,” Stiles says.
Peter sits and leans back in the chair, threading his fingers over his stomach
casually, and waits.
“Does any of this have to do with what’s been going on around here?”
Peter widens his feet a bit and says, “And what’s been going on around here?”
“The missing and then notmissing animals?” Stiles clarifies. “You know? The
ones that profile exactly the same as the other reports tangent to El
Chupacabra sightings.”
Peter looks heavily amused. “So you’re saying that you believe a contemporary
legend is real and has manifested itself in Beacon Hills?”
Stiles cheeks grow red because yes, he is kind of implying that. “I just think
it’s a little too close to a coincidence that you happen to be writing this
supposedpaper about the very thing that seems to relate to these events.”
“Yes. Coincidence.”
Stiles feels his right eyelid begin to twitch. “I’m not stupid,” he mutters.
Peter snorts and stands. “Why would I be here if you were?”
“That’s the thing!” Stiles flails a bit. “Why areyou here?”
Peter opens his mouth but then pauses with a frown. He cocks his head before he
looks intently at the door like he's waiting for something.
Not even a second later, the doorbell rings.
“You should probably answer that,” Peter suggests lightly.
Stiles glares at him before he moves just to do so. He opens it to find a dark-
skinned woman in a grey suit with her hand on a tall kid’s shoulder. The kid
has blond curly hair like one of those cherub angels but half his face is
covered with severe burns, like someone shoved him into a fire. He’s got his
hands hidden from view in a grey hoodie with saggy pants. He’s so slender that
he looks like he’s drowning in his clothes and he’s looks like he's ready to
sprint at any moment.
“Hi. You must be Stiles,” the woman greets him.
“I must be,” Stiles says, and glances at who he now suspects is Isaac.
The woman straightens suddenly as she looks over Stiles’s shoulder and Stiles
stiffens when he can feel Peter looming behind him.
“Ms. Morrell,” Peter greets. “Fancy seeing you here. Your presence in town has
been scarce as of late. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Peter,” Ms. Morrell replies in a rather indifferent tone. “I was unaware you
knew the Stilinskis.”
“Oh, I know everybody,” Peter airily states. “And everything.”
Ms. Morrell just looks at him blankly.
Stiles feels like there is some kind of second conversation underlying their
words.
This town just keeps getting stranger and stranger.
“Well, I won’t keep you. I believe I hear the sheriff coming. Stiles, walk me
to my car.” Peter ignores the beginnings of Stiles’s protests and gently pushes
Stiles out the door and past Ms. Morrell and Isaac.
His dad is already at the doorway, ready to greet Ms. Morrell and invite her
and Isaac in.
Stiles doesn’t even want to think about how Peter knew his dad was coming,
because he’s too busy drooling over Peter’s red Lamborghini, which is parked
behind his father’s squad car in the driveway.
“It’s custom-made,” Peter remarks as he pats the hood before he leans against
it. “Maybe I’ll take you for a drive sometime.”
“Why does that sound so dirty when you say it?” Stiles accuses.
Peter snorts. “Oh, the teenaged mind. So warped with unbridled hormones. Even
the most innocent suggestion is twisted into flirtation.”
Stiles rolls his eyes.
“I meant the offer as a friend to a friend,” Peter clarifies. “Besides, I have
a girlfriend, and you’re not my type anyway.”
Stiles huffs. “Wow, how disappointing. Who’d you trick into dating you?”
Peter slaps a hand over his chest where his supposed heart is and pretends to
be offended. “I need no devilry. And you might already know her. Her name is
Kathryn, but everyone else calls her Kate.”
“Kate? Kate Argent? Laura’s best friend?” Stiles could hardly believe it. Kate
was a bottle blonde with a bad attitude and Laura’s co-captain for the school’s
cheerleading squad. She took ‘Mean Girls’ to a whole other level. And while she
never gave Stiles any problems, he knew better than to not believe all the
rumors he heard about anyone who was stupid enough to cross Kate. “How’d you
manage that?” he asks because he just has to know.
“Not without difficulty,” Peter admits. “Assuming you mean with convincing
Laura to let me. Outside of that, it was like cake. Ours is a forever kinda
thing.”
Stiles would have loved to have been the fly on the wall during that
conversation but he snorts at the other part of his sentence. “You’re something
else,” he decides. “This is the last time I help you.”
Peter simply smiles. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” Stiles says because he really does. “Even your very intimidating
nephew warned me about you. Well maybe not warned but the warning was implied —
actually his voice was kinda monotone and growly at the time, so it’s hard to
say if he even was — because I was trying not to burst into tears as he loomed
over me in a very intimidating way—”
Peter straightens. “Derek? Derek talked to you?”
“Uh, yes. That is literally what I just said. But, you know, he didn’t really
do a lot of talking. Mostly glaring and looming,” Stiles clarifies as he thinks
about it. "It was a very nonverbal and confusing exchange."
Peter smirks suddenly. “I’ll text you.”
“What? Howwould you even text me? You’d need my number to — Peter!”
Peter’s already climbing in his car and backing up.
“You better not have my number!” Stiles shouts as the car peels down the street
and out of sight. He sighs and starts heading towards his house, and closes the
door behind him when he gets inside. He makes his way to the kitchen to check
on the lasagna.
His dad is giving Ms. Morrell a quick tour of their home.
Isaac is sitting quietly at the dining room table, looking at his lap and
nowhere else. He looks very much as though he’d like to be invisible.
Stiles goes to the oven and pulls the lasagna out with an oven mit. He sets it
on the stove and tests if it’s done by poking it with a butter knife. When he’s
satisfied with it, he turns off the stove and begins cutting it up and serving
it. He makes sure he doesn’t forget to grab the leftover salad from the fridge,
because there’s no way he’s not going to serve at least some kind of vegetable
with this dish.
Ms. Morrell sits down across from Isaac, so Stiles sits down across from his
dad. She talks to his dad about grown-up things like the weather and the state
of the country’s financial situation. Once or twice she asks Stiles for his
opinion and Stiles tries his best not to go off on a tangent when he answers
earnestly.
His dad just huffs in amusement when he does, used to his antics and overtly
fond.
Ms. Morrell just smiles indulgently and thanks him for his input before she
addresses Isaac, who just shakes his head and says nothing. She frowns with
concern, but only briefly before she changes topics.
Stiles glances at Isaac throughout dinner and notices that he doesn’t really
eat all that much. He just pecks at his salad and his lasagna, but he never
really takes any serious bites.
Ms. Morrell stands, shakes hands with his father and then turns to him and
comments on how much she liked his cooking. She says goodbye to Isaac, but he
doesn’t reply. Then she asks him to walk her to the door.
Isaac just stands, eyes firmly on the ground as they both disappear into the
foyer.
Stiles is curious about what they’re talking about, but his dad cleverly
distracts him by offering to help clean the kitchen. He knows Stiles will
protest about him touching the food because Stiles doesn’t trust him not to
“accidently” drop it in the trash or something as an excuse to order out for
lunch tomorrow.
Isaac comes back a short while later and just sits quietly at the table,
chewing his fingernails as Stiles and his dad work around him.
When his dad is done with the dishes, he hides away in the living room with
Isaac in tow and he turns on some kind of movie.
Peter texts him randomly, saying: Save this number. :))
Stiles ignores the advice and bakes some peanut butter cookies, because he has
a craving for them. He brings the finished cookies into the living room, and
lets his dad have two.He then offers to share the rest with Isaac.
But Isaac just shakes his head and curls up on the end of the couch, chewing
his nails as he watches the TV anxiously, as if he can never really let himself
relax.
Stiles eats way more cookies than he should before he has to tap out and save
the rest. He bids his dad and Isaac goodnight before he wanders up to his room.
Guess what he finds.
That stupid black wolf and white wolf sitting on his bed side by side like
someone (Peter) put it there.
Stiles changes into a pair of pajama bottoms and grabs his phone on his way to
bed, then shoots Peter a quick text.
You’re not as funny as you think you are.
Stiles drops his phone on his pillow before he grabbing his copy of The Hobbit,
picking up from where he had left off. His phone buzzes a moment later.
Who is this
???
Stiles rolls his eyes as he snuggles the wolves close before he lifts his
middle finger and takes a selfie with them, sending the photo to Peter.
Peter calls him three seconds after he sends the text.
“What?” Stiles complains.
“Who gave you my number?” Whoa, okay, that is so not Peter.
“Derek?” Stiles squeaks. He would recognize that voice anywhere. He fumbles to
catch his phone when it slips from his sweaty palm. He barely manages to avoid
it crashing to the floor and splitting into tiny shattered pieces. He
thankfully catches it and presses it to his ear again. “Oh god, hello? Hello.
Hi. Um. Oh my god. I thought — I thought this was Peter’s number. This isn't
Peter's number? He texted me from this number and — and — whyisn't this Peter's
number? Isn't there a rule against that? The words fraud and identity theft
come to mind. You can correct me if I'm wrong — I know I'm not though.
“God. This is just like Peter. Mind you, I've only known the guy for a few days
so I can't really realistically say that this is normal behavior for him. It
just — it just feelslike normal behavior, you know? I mean the guy is shady
three ways to Sunday. Or, uh, sorry. That's your uncle and I'm not trying to
insult you by insulting him or anything. I just wouldn't — this has to be —
yeah, um, I'm going to stop talking now.”
Derek is curiously quiet on the other end for a long while before he says, “I
thought I told you to stay away from my uncle.”
Stiles flails, not that Derek could see anyway, but he flails wildly in
frustration. “Maybe youshould tell himto stay away from me. Seeing as how he’s
always the one to initiate our interactions. I don’t think I’m the problem
here.”
“Shut up.”
“Rude,” Stiles mutters, flinging his hand up in an exasperated gesture and
rolling his eyes. The nerve and audacity of this guy, seriously. It must run in
the family. Or at least skipped Laura, because she appears to be the only
niceand sensible one.
“Why do you have my wolves?” Derek questions.
Stiles frowns and nearly kicks the stuffed animals out of his bed. But he
doesn’t, because it’s not their fault that Peter sucks and Derek is being...
Derek. “Also your uncle’s fault. I just — I don’t know how he keeps getting
into my room but—”
“He’s been in your room?” Derek growls, and whoa, that’s — wow. That really
shouldn’t be as impressive as it is.
“I — not — I didn’t invitehim if that’s what you think,” Stiles explains and he
really shouldn't have to be explaining this but damn it, Derek makes him
nervous and he either babbles out the truth or complete bullshit when he's
nervous. “Why would you even care if he — it's not even like — I don’t even
like Peter. He’s a menace. Swear to the sky. Look up the definition of menace
and you will see your uncle's face.”
Derek huffs.
Stiles pauses at that. “Was that a laugh? Are you laughing? Am I funny to you?”
Derek merely says, “You’re odd.”
“I’modd? How insulting. I'm not even the one —”
“Why did you send me that picture?” Derek interjects calmly.
Stiles’s mouth hangs open for a moment and a dawning sense of horror creeps
into his awareness as quickly as heat blossoms in his cheeks. God, he’d
forgotten he’d sent that picture. He is shirtlessin that picture. “It’s not how
it seems,” he swears, voice cracking a little.
“How does it seem?” Derek sounds amused.
“You know.”
“No. I don’t think I do. Enlighten me.”
Stiles blurts, “I’m not sexting your uncle!”
Derek goes quiet on the other end. Then he starts laughing very softly. “That’s
what you consider sexting?”
Stiles grabs a pillow and slaps it over his face as he groans. He wants very
badly to scream. The ground needs to open up and swallow him. Seriously. He
needs to magically evaporate into thin air. He mumbles, “You can go ahead and
lose my number any minute now. There's no way I can be any more humiliated.”
Somehow Derek still manages to hear him and replies, “Or you can save my number
under the correct name so you don’t mistake me for my uncle again.”
Stiles freezes at that. “Uh — you — uh —”
Derek continues, “I have to go now. This has been fun, I guess. Take care of my
wolves.” Then he has the gall to just leave it at that and hang up.
Stiles gapes and just stares at his phone, trying desperately to figure out
what the hell just happened. His brain must be on autopilot because he manages
to add Derek’s number into his contacts.
He’s still a bit delirious when he calls Scott and tells him everything.
Scott’s more interested in if there are still leftovers than he is about
anything else. But he assures Stiles that everything will work itself out
because the universe is strange but it puts everything in balance and, wow,
Stiles didn’t even know Scott could be so deep. Scott has actualdepths. But
then Scott ruins the effect when he starts talking about this cheat code he
found online for Dragon Age, and he’s adamant they should both try it.
Stiles just smiles and says, “Okay, buddy.”
This is how he decides that Scott is officially his best friend.
                                      ---
During lunch the next day, Peter strolls onto campus grounds looking like a
million bucks. Or the lovechild of a pair of celebrities. Basically he looks
like a model. He takes a seat beside his girlfriend, Kate (who is as equally
good-looking as he is and it's like, super unreal). Peter aims a grin at Derek
and Laura, who are sitting across from him, eating their lunch and looking
unsurprised by his presence.
Stiles hunches down in his seat and hopes that Peter won't spot him. That hope
is in vain, and only had a few seconds of life. He starts to feel Peter’s eyes
burning holes into the side of his face as his pocket vibrates furiously, and
he wishes he had stayed inside to eat.
He pulls out his phone and glances at the screen warily.
Peter texts:this is peter :)) 
save my number :))
stilinski :))
stilinski :))
stop being rude :))
i see you reading these messages :))
don’t ignore me :))
after all the trouble i went through to get this number :))
i had to beg derek to give it to me :))
he didn’t of course so i stole his phone :))
oh look derek is threatening to decapitate me if i don’t give him his phone
back :))
he also has informed me that i am to never set foot in his bedroom again or
yours :))
now he’s complaining to his sister that i keep stealing his things and giving
them away :))
let the record show that i only ever took his childhood teddy bears or wolves
if you want to be technical :))
i told him they’re in good hands and i would never just give away things like
that to just anybody :))
that was a compliment :))
thank me for that compliment stilinski :))
now derek wants to know who i’m texting :))
should i tell him? :))
i told him :))
now he wont stop glaring at me :))
now he’s threatening to wring my neck if I ever speak to you again :))
my nephew is incredibly cute :))
did you save me some lasagna? :))
kate says hi :))
she thinks you’re cute too :))
oh look now Derek is glaring at the both of us :))
Derek texts: Stop encouraging my uncle.
Stiles sighs and drops his forehead to the table with a loud thud. He turns off
his phone but he can still feel Peter’s smirk and Derek’s glare aimed in his
direction.
Across the quad, Laura’s cackling is unmistakable.
***** nightmares *****
Stiles has no idea what it would be like to have an infant brother, but he’s
losing such an adequate amount of sleep that it’s close enough.
To put it simply: Isaac gets these really extreme night terrors.
In the first three days of living with him, Stiles never knew how haunting a
person’s scream could be in the dead of the night.
For three nights in a row, when Isaac screams, Stiles will jolt upright and
tumble out of his bed in a drowsy effort to locate and identify the cry of
distress.
For three nights in a row, he whips his door open and runs to Isaac’s room only
to find that his dad is already there, cradling Isaac’s shaking form and
shushing him.
For three nights in a row, Stiles exhales shakily and sags against the frame of
Isaac’s door with such bone deep relief as his dad gives him a sad and
apologetic smile. Stiles will just shake his head with an answering thin smile
of his own before he turns and makes his way down the stairs and into the
kitchen.
For three nights in a row, he’ll putter around the kitchen, grabbing a pot
before pouring some organic milk in it and setting it on the stove to warm. He
adds ginger, cinnamon, and honey, stirring it a bit before he grabs an apple
from the fridge and carves it into neat slices. He sets it on a small dish
before pouring the warmed milk into a mug and carries it all upstairs.
For three nights in a row, his dad will be sitting on the floor with his back
against the bottom edge of Isaac’s bed as Isaac writes quietly in a leather-
bound journal with the aid of the lamp on his nightstand. Stiles will hand
Isaac the milk and the apple slices before he joins his father on the floor.
For three nights in a row, Stiles listens to the quiet scratching of a pen
against paper, followed by a soft sigh and a sharp sniff. He listens as Isaac
takes careful sips of his milk before chewing carefully on the apples with
hiccupped sighs. Then there comes the clink of him putting the mug and the
plate on his nightstand before he switches of his lamp. Stiles feels the motion
of the bed move against his back as Isaac settles down for sleep again. His
father once explained to him that Ms. Morrell thinks these nightly rituals are
prudent to Isaac’s healing and recovery process. That Isaac should be aware
that he’s not alone, and that Stiles and his dad bear him no ill will, only
patient understanding and comfort.
For three nights in a row, he and his father will sit there on the floor, not
saying a word, just breathing and listening to Isaac breathe, while at the same
time offering their presence as a consolation. Stiles thinks of it like
meditation. This goes on for about an hour before his dad carefully stands and
checks Isaac before he nods at Stiles and then nods at the door. Stiles follows
him out, and his dad closes the door behind him, but not all the way, leaving
it cracked just in case he needs to come back.
For three nights in a row, his dad will rub the back of his neck, mouth moving
to formulate an apology or to say thank you but Stiles will shake his head
firmly and hug his old man, patting him on the back for good measure. He pulls
away with a subdued grin before he waves and returns to his own room. He closes
his door with a soft click and unhooks his phone from off its charger on his
work desk before taking it to bed with him. He likes to keep it close in fear
he’ll tune out his alarm because of his exhaustion.
It’s three in the morning on a Friday, and three hours later, Stiles wakes with
groggy confusion before he switches off the alarm on his phone and throws
himself out of bed before the temptation of falling asleep can get to him
again. He grabs a towel so he can take a shower, and on his way to the bathroom
he sees his dad up and about in his uniform, heading into Isaac’s room to wake
him as well.
Usually his dad will let Isaac sleep as long as he can before he has to drag
the twelve-year-old to sit at the station with him (not fond of leaving him in
the house all by himself), but it just reminds Stiles that today is the day
that Isaac starts his first day back to school. It’s a pretty big deal and, if
Stiles is reading the implications right, it’s basically a milestone in Isaac’s
recovery.
So Stiles takes his medicine, tries not to use up all the hot water because
he’s got to be considerate to Isaac, and he jogs back to his room. He almost
trips as he shuts his door behind him because his room is always a general
disaster area. It makes sense when you think about it because Stiles is a
scatterbrain so why wouldn’t his room be an equal manifestation of that? He
kicks his way through a trail of clothes and presses different jeans and shirts
to his nose in efforts to distinguish between what’s clean and what’s not and
throws on what he deems is okay (which generally is anything blue or orange or
both if he can get away with it).
Then he crams all his schoolwork in his backpack and pockets his phone before
he sprints down the steps. He dumps his backpack on the couch and rolls up the
sleeves of his blue plaid shirt before he sets to work with whipping together
the best breakfast he can make. This pretty much means: toast, strawberry
banana waffles/pancakes, turkey sausage/bacon, scrambled eggs and biscuits.
His dad comes ambling down the steps with a raised brow and Stiles greets him
with a freshly brewed cup of coffee. He takes it and says, “What’s with all
the—” He gestures to the spread of food.
“Isaac’s going back to school today,” Stiles says as he makes his own plate and
sits down with it. “I think that deserves to be noted optimistically in some
way.”
The sheriff takes a sip of his coffee as he cocks his head thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” he sighs in pleasure before he smiles and pats Stiles on the head
affectionately. “I think it does too. You're a good kid.”
Stiles butters his toast and drowns his pancakes and waffles in syrup while his
dad fixes himself a plate.
“Paper?”
Stiles points to the counter where he put the newspaper.
His dad grabs it and shakes it out as he takes a seat across from him. "Well,
look at that. Sunny skies all day today."
Stiles plays around with the order of the periodic table in his head as he
shoves two slices of bacon in his mouth while his foot drums a subdued beat
against the linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor.
His dad mumbles behind his paper, eating his food and drinking his coffee with
typical absentmindedness.
Isaac eventually joins them. He’s wearing dark jeans with a grey t-shirt and a
black scarf. Stiles has noticed that Isaac has this thing about scarves and he
thinks that maybe Isaac is treating it like some kind of security blanket. He
moves silently as he fills his plate with pancakes, biscuits, eggs and not much
else.
Stiles still pens it down as a win because Isaac usually eats little to
nothing. He smiles when Isaac sits down and says, “Good morning.”
Isaac says nothing but he flicks his gaze over to Stiles briefly before
fastening it to his plate. He hunches over his food like he’s afraid someone
will take it from him, but he eats gingerly like he has all the time in the
world.
“Excited to be going back to school?” the sheriff asks from behind his paper.
Isaac says nothing.
Stiles moves to grab the orange juice and he fills up a cup for Isaac before he
fills his own. “I’m sure your friends missed you while you were away,” he says.
Isaac stiffens and stops eating.
Stiles quickly backtracks. “So, seventh grade!” he blurts. “That’s — yeah. I
remember when I was in seventh grade. It feels like it was yesterday. Science
projects and decimals. Don’t get me started on Lord of the Flies. Though I'd
take that over The Great Gatsby any day.”
Isaac says nothing still, but at least he starts eating again and his shoulders
relax a fraction.
Stiles continues, “Dad, you remember my seventh grade science project?”
“No,” his dad grumbles bitterly. “And I certainly don’t remember having to pay
over two hundred bucks to get the stains off and out of the living room
furniture.”
“Heh, oh yeah,” Stiles says sheepishly. “I’m sure Isaac has much cleaner and
neater ideas.” He turns to look at the quiet boy in question. “Not sure how
they do it out here but back at my old school our science projects were due a
week before school ends. If you want, or if you haven’t already done it, I can
help you.”
Isaac doesn’t acknowledge the offer.
“Well, think about it,” Stiles suggests and he leaves it at that. He clears his
plate and makes himself a second helping. He multitasks eating and texting
Scott, as well as Danny, who’s extended the offer of practicing this afternoon
out on the lacrosse fields of Beacon Hills Junior High.
Stiles graciously responds with acceptance before he finishes up his food and
dumps his plate in the dishwasher. He then puts away any leftovers and sets to
work with making his dad and Isaac’s lunch for them. He doesn’t bother with his
own. He knows what he’ll be doing during lunch and it won’t be eating.
Isaac puts his plate and cup in the dishwasher and goes up to his room to get
his backpack.
The sheriff stands and folds his newspaper up before he says, “I’m thinking of
getting Isaac his own phone.”
“You should,” Stiles agrees. “In fact, why don’t we all get an upgrade?”
His dad huffs and shoots him a knowing look over the rim of his coffee mug.
Stiles just smiles innocently and takes his dad’s dishes for him.
“I got it,” his dad starts to fuss. “You go on. You’ll be late for school.”
“That’s a given,” Stiles confirms. “I plan on missing my first period anyway. I
want to go with you when you drop Isaac off. I want to know how to get there
anyway, you know, so I can pick Isaac up or drop him off when you can’t. Or I
could just take on that responsibility. It’s no problem.”
His dad smiles fondly and shakes his head. “This is the only time I’ll make an
exception for you ditching class. Go start the car for me.”
Stiles fumbles with his dad’s car keys when his dad tosses them to him. He
shoots his dad a dirty look when his old man gives a hearty chuckle at his
clumsiness. He crosses the foyer and strides out the door and down the porch
steps to where his dad’s squad car is parked in the driveway. He unlocks the
doors, starts the car and pops the trunk before he goes to where his mountain
bike is lying out in the wet grass of their yard. He hauls the thing up,
stumbles a few times before he gets to the car, and shoves his bike into the
trunk as far as it can go. He gets the trunk closed with the aid of some
elastic hook rope.
Stiles dusts his hands off in satisfaction and turns to head back into the
house but he gets distracted by the moving truck parked just next door and the
movers shuffling back and forth between the truck and the house. They carry
furniture that looks like it came straight from the Victorian era and it makes
Stiles wonder what kind of person or persons are moving in.
Stiles is very confused as to why the Henleys have left with little to no
warning it seems. Not that they owed him any explanation, but he does wonder
where and when they might have gone. They never really got around to accepting
that dinner invitation they were constantly offering.
His dad comes out of the house with his backpack and Stiles gets distracted
again. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says and takes his backpack with a quick thanks. Then he says,
“Hey, dad? What happened to Mr. and Mrs. Henley?”
The sheriff frowns in question and glances over at the house on the right. He
frowns and says, “Huh. Didn’t know they were moving.”
“No,” Stiles corrects. “They alreadymoved. Someone is currently moving in.”
“Really?”
Stiles nods.
“Huh.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and heads to his dad’s squad car and leaves him to his
nonverbal speculation. He sits in the back because he’s fine with it and leaves
the passenger seat open for Isaac when he comes.
His dad disappears in the house again, and comes back out with Isaac and his
lunch in tow.
Isaac climbs in the passenger seat and buckles in.
His dad settles in the driver’s seat and spends a moment adjusting himself
before he shifts the car in reverse. As he backs up out of the driveway, he
says, “I’ll be home around nine, but you two can call me if you need me
sooner.”
Stiles says, “Sure.”
Isaac says nothing.
The rest of the ride is spent with the three of them riding in silence as his
dad’s radar beeps and chirps with a female dispatcher’s voice.
Stiles dismantles the Bills of Rights in his head and rearranges it in a
different order before his thoughts goes off on a tangent about the gun
politics and control policy in conjunction with the second amendment, and then
that train of thought rides into a different tangent concerning the national
death rate in heavily populated areas as a result of armed robbery.
It only takes ten minutes to get to Beacon Hills Junior High, which means that
it’s only five minutes away from Stiles’s high school.
They all climb out and Isaac keeps his head down as they enter the school and
walk through the halls in search of the main office.
Ms. Morrell is already waiting in the principal’s office for them when they
arrive.
His dad turns to him and Isaac. “Why don’t you two wait out here for a moment,”
he suggests lightly.
Stiles nods, even though he’s curious, and he goes to sit down in the reception
area.
Isaac joins him, keeping his head low and his gaze firmly planted to the
ground.
Stiles fidgets as he feels the stares everyone is sending Isaac. It bothers him
how they whisper and stare at the burn scars all across Isaac’s face. It
bothers him and he just knows it must really grate at Isaac. He’s not sure what
to do.
Isaac looks so small and tense in his chair, clutching his backpack and the
lunch Stiles packed for him like a lifeline.
Stiles, for the life of him, can’t think of anything to say, even despite being
a motor mouth half of the time. He reaches out tentatively and places his hand
over Isaac’s.
Isaac tenses further and stills.
Stiles doesn’t move his hand, waiting to see what he will do.
Isaac does nothing. He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t even look anywhere
else but his own shoelaces. But he also doesn’t push Stiles’s hand away either.
Stiles thinks maybe that counts for something.
Ms. Morrell and his dad, along with the principal, approach them.
Stiles stands but Isaac doesn’t budge an inch.
“Isaac,” Ms. Morrell says softly. “We’re going to your homeroom now. Are you
ready?”
Isaac nods slowly.
“Okay. Let’s show Stiles and Mr. Stilinski your homeroom,” Ms. Morrell
suggests.
Isaac stands silently and makes his way towards the door.
The rest of them follow.
His dad and Ms. Morrell talk in hushed tones, while the principal chimes in
from time to time. The principal mostly just gloats about the school and
praises her dad for allowing Isaac to continue his education there instead of
one of the private schools. Stiles snorts because he knows his dad’s policy
about public schools. He believes in the system of it because he went to them
himself growing up. Of course the sheriff would be all for the funding and
support of public education where other politicians and public figures such as
himself would scorn and turn their attention elsewhere.
Isaac walks ahead of them with his head low and his shoulders hunched, and he
moves like it’s a death march.
Stiles picks up the pace so he can catch up with him and he says, “So this is a
cool school. Full of cool things and—school-y stuff.”
Isaac says nothing.
Stiles didn’t expect him to. He’s probably doing this whole ‘trying to be
soothing’ thing wrong. He turns when Isaac turns and they walk up two flights
of steps and down another hall. He’s not surprised that when they reach Isaac’s
homeroom class, Malia is already lounging on top of a desk and chatting it up
with two boys. When she sees him she springs to her feet with a grin and drags
over her two male companions.
“Stiles!” Malia greets. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh you know,” Stiles says. “Just hanging around.”
Malia snorts and then glances at Isaac who shifts from foot to foot. “Hey,
Isaac. Welcome back.” She offers a friendly hand in a gesture of high-five.
Isaac stares at it as he balls his own hands up into fists and hides them in
his pockets almost shyly.
Ms. Morrell places a hand on his shoulder and he flinches noticeably. “Let’s
walk over to your desk,” she says softly and ushers him away.
Stiles watches as his dad speaks to a brunette lady the principle introduces as
Jennifer Blake, one of their full time faculty members. She has layered
chestnut brown hair, a thin, dark blue dress with red birds patterned all over
it and a soft smile made for the approach of younger children. She kind of
reminds Stiles of the nice teacher from Matilda (Miss Honey).
“Stiles,” Malia says and he turns his attention back to her. “Aren’t you in
high school?”
Stiles blinks in confusion. “Yes.”
Malia smirks at her two male companions, who are standing on either side of
her. “See.I told you I knew a freshman.”
“It’s not our fault if we didn’t believe you,” the dark-skinned boy says. “You
lie so much that I can’t take your word for anything.”
Malia rolls her eyes resentfully.
“Besides, why would a freshman want to associate with some lame ass seventh
grader,” says the blond one.
Malia punches him in the kidney and he falls to his knees with a winded sound.
Stiles winces in sympathy but he marvels at how stealthily strong Malia is.
“I’m Mason by the way,” the dark-skinned boy says with a grin. “You’re really
attractive.”
Stiles blushes and stammers.
Mason’s grin widens and he looks delighted.
“Ew, gross. Stop hitting on my friends,” Malia complains. “He’s out of your
league anyway. I think he’s asexual.”
Stiles splutters.
“No way,” Mason says as he shakes his head. “I refuse to believe that.”
Malia opens her mouth to say something but the blond punches her in the arm.
“Liam,” she snaps.
“Well don’t hit me,” Liam merely says, unapologetic.
They shoot invisible laser beams at each other with their eyes.
Stiles watches them in interest.
Mason wryly explains, “Step-siblings. They’ve been fighting like that for as
long as their parents have been married. Like right around their sandbox days.
It’s how they express their caveman love for each other. They give us middle
schoolers a bad name in my opinion.”
“Ah,” Stiles says because that makes sense.
“Seriously though,” Malia grunts as she rubs her sore arm. “Why are you here?”
“Isaac,” Stiles replies. “He’s my — we’ve recently — he’s family.”
Mason and Malia look intrigued.
Liam seems not to care less. He’s still glaring at Malia. This kid seems like
he holds a pretty mean grudge.
“Danny mentioned you were coming here anyway. Something about lacrosse?” Malia
remarks.
Stiles nods. “Practice. Later. After school.”
“She introduced you to Danny? You introduced him to Danny? Why wont you do me
the same favor? How come he gets to chill with Danny and I don’t?” Mason
complains.
“Because he’s not gonna drool all over him and make himself look like an ass,”
Malia quips.
“And neither would I,” Mason smoothly retorts before he glides away like he
owns the whole school.
Malia snorts and waves a goodbye at Stiles before she drags Liam bodily to
their seats.
His dad comes to retrieve him after that, and they say their final goodbyes to
Isaac (who predictably doesn’t react or respond) before they exit the school.
They climb into his dad’s squad car and his dad drives him to school.
Stiles pulls his bike free from the back and rolls it over to the bike racks
after he successfully convinces his dad that he doesn’t need to be escorted
inside. He locks his bike up and strides into the building, navigating the
empty hallways to find his locker.
The bell rings, signaling the end of first period, so Stiles heads to his
second.
                                      ---
“Here.”
Stiles jerks awake with a pained grunt when a heavy binder gets dumped on his
stomach.
It’s lunchtime and Stiles is lying out in the quad under the shade of a tree.
He wassleeping (and having a very great dream where Willy Wonka just gave him
the keys and the deed to his chocolate factory), seeing as how he hasn’t been
getting enough these days. He blinks through his pain as he rubs his stomach
and sits up.
Cora Hale is looming over him with her arms crossed and her trademark glare.
She's wearing some leather leggings with a soft cardigan pullover and some
studded boots. Her hair is split into two messy pigtails. She looks like a mix
between the girl-next-door and the neighborhood bully.
Stiles frowns as he turns the binder she's dumped on him over in his hands.
“What’s this?” he asks, voice still etched with sleep.
“Notes, dumbass.” Cora shoots him an annoyed look. “You missed Biology, didn’t
you?”
The question is rhetorical so Stiles politely does not answer. He’s still
confused however. “You, uh, took notes for me?”
“No. I took notes for me. Youcan copy them,” Cora explains like she’s speaking
to a brain-damaged child. She uncrosses her arms and puts her hands on her
cocked hips.
Stiles feels his cheeks grow warm in embarrassment and he wipes a hand over his
face to cover his reaction. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I didn't know you cared.
About, um, if I missed or not.”
Cora gets this constipated look on her face and she glances over her shoulder
with a scowl. It looks like she's glaring at Laura. “I don’t,” she denies. “But
you’d do the same for me. So. There.”
Stiles opens his mouth to make an argument about how he wouldn’t, but that
would be a lie because he totally would. He stands and brushes himself off. “I
think the library’s got a copier,” he says.
Cora shrugs but she follows him when he heads inside.
The library is located on the first floor in the east wing of the school. It’s
pretty busy around lunchtime so Stiles has to wait in line to use the Xerox
machine. When it’s his turn, he quickly scans Cora’s notes before returning the
binder to her.
Cora shoves it in her backpack with more force than grace and says, “I’m
selling Kind bars to raise money for new instruments for the marching band.”
“You’re on the marching band?” Stiles asks, intrigued.
“I play the tuba,” Cora states flatly.
Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to laugh or not because he’s not sure
if she’s being sarcastic. “You, uh...really play the tuba?”
Cora shoots him a dirty look. “Yes. So don’t make fun. It's not attractive.”
Stiles hands spring up and he fumbles with the papers in his hand. “I wasn’t —
I don’t think — I'm not trying to make it sound like — I just, uh, think that’s
cool. Music is cool. My mom used to be a music teacher, so — it’s all cool.
Tuba, huh? That’s just, you know, something. You must really have strong lungs.
I figure people who play wind instruments act as the mitochondria. Get it?
Because the mitochondria is the powerhouse andthis is why I'm not going to
pursue a career in stand-up. Your dead silence only solidifies that decision
and confirms my humiliation.”
Cora lifts a brow. “Your punchlines could stand to use some work. Do you want
to buy a Kind bar or not? You should buy one. It shows school spirit. We admire
that above all else in this teenage wasteland of homework and hormones.”
Stiles snorts. "That's funny. You obviously have a knack for humor. Well, dry
humor."
Cora shrugs.
“So, Kind bars, huh? What kind do you have? Ha, get it? Kind? What kind of
Kind—”
“Almond and coconut,” Cora says between gritted teeth. She looks like she’s
getting over this conversation real quick, and also like she might punch Stiles
in the throat.
“Um, I — don’t really like coconut,” Stiles mumbles.
“Once again, you should buy one. It shows school spirit,” Cora insists.
“No, I get your pitch. I totally do. And it’s a good one. Great even. It’s —
when I said I don’t  like  coconut, what I really meant is that I’m allergic.
Like kind of seriously allergic,” Stiles explains truthfully. “I could die.”
Cora glares at him and cracks her knuckles. “You should buy one. It shows
school spirit. No one said anything about eatingit.”
“Yeah, sure,” Stiles agrees quickly and fumbles for his wallet.
Cora snatches the five from his hand and shoves five Kind bars into his chest.
“Don’t eat them, dumbass,” she warns before she storms off and harasses a
Junior into buying twelve.
Stiles shoves the bars in his backpack, along with his photocopied notes and
tries not feel like he’d just been bullied into buying some granola bars. He
grabs his phone and shoots Derek a quick text that reads: Your sister is scary
and aggressive and I strongly discourage a future in business, sales, or
advertisement.
He shoves his phone in his pocket after doing such because he's not really
expecting a reply back and he walks off to his next class.
It’s Algebra II and he really dislikes it. Mainly because he’s so crummy at
math. Sure, he’s decent in the way that counts, but it’s only enough to get him
by. He sits in his usual seat in the back and slaps his spiral notebook and a
pen onto his desk before dumping his backpack on the floor. He chews on his
bottom lip anxiously as his leg bounces.
His teacher comes in, turns the lights off as she sets up the Promethean board,
and asks one of the students to shut the blinds. She begins the lesson on
exponential and logarithmic functions.
Stiles gnaws on his pen cap as he takes notes with a frustrated frown. He’s not
really getting it and he’s too shy to raise his hand to ask questions. It’s the
anxiety of thinking how everyone will look at him if he dares to slow down the
lesson with his inane questions. Well, he may need a tutor.
Halfway into class his pocket vibrates.
Stiles pulls out his phone as covertly as possible and glances at the screen
from under the cover of his desk.
Derek texts: Who is this
Then: ??? 
Stiles feels his frown deepen. He didn’t expect Derek to reply, but he also
didn’t think he’d be a jerk about it. Maybe he should have.
Seriously???
The reply is instantaneous.
Wanted to see what kind of picture you’d send me this time if I pretended not
to know you.
Stiles feels a slow flush crawl up the back of his neck and up to his ears at
the implications.
You’re not funny and I am very offended.
I’m very funny.
What are you bothering me for anyway?
There’sthe Derek Hale he knows. Rude and blunt as ever.
Stiles tucks his phone between his legs for a moment so he can quickly write
down the next set of notes his teacher has up. When he’s done, he grabs his
phone to type his response.
Your sister terrorized me in the name of school spirit.
Which sister?
I have several.
Stiles feels the ‘idiot’ implied but not seen on the end of that text.
Cora. She bullied me into buying a Kind bar even after I told her I was
allergic to coconut.
She bullies everyone. She's "charming" that way. Nothing new.
Peter already bought thirty off of her yesterday because she "passionately
insisted".
Stiles snorts as he envisions it. His phone vibrates again.
You’re allergic to coconut?
Yes......?
What did you do with the bars then? I mean, since you can't eat them.
Oh no, make no mistake. I ate them, and am obviously texting you from an
ambulance because I have a death wish and poor impulse control.
Cute.
Stiles flushes again and shoves his phone between his thighs again so he can
catch up on the notes. His hand is unsteady because he’s shaking with nerves
and he keeps replaying that last text over and over in his head. It was
almost…flirtatious. He’s probably making it more of a big deal than it is.
Derek’s no stranger to sarcasm, so —
His phone begins to vibrate aggressively.
Stiles picks it up and glances at the screen warily.
Where are you really?
???
???
???
Jesus, Stiles thinks. This guy refuses to be ignored.
Algebra II.
Who’s the teacher?
Mrs. Cassidy.
She’s a bad teacher.
I’d be surprised if you learned something from her. She was my teacher back in
junior high. I survived because I was better at math than she was.
Stiles doesn’t know how to reply to that. His grade is currently at the
borderline of a C.
What level of math are you now?
AP Calculus.
Geez, and Derek is only a sophomore. Stiles is both impressed and jealous. He
gets an idea.
You should take pity on me.
How so?
Tutor me?
No.
Come on, dude. Be a saint. I’ll even pay you.
No.
Stiles frowns, and tries to quickly put it out of his mind (despite the
engrossing disappointment). It was worth a try. He’ll find someone else.
I’ll tell Cora to ease up.
No promises that she’ll actually listen.
Maybe you should think about not making yourself an easy target.
That’s victim blaming and I won’t tolerate it.
Whatever.
Whatever to your whatever.
Stop texting me, it’s distracting.
Unlike you, I’m trying to learn.
Hey! I’m trying to learn too. I’ll have you know most of my classes are honors.
Yeah?
Sometimes I can’t tell with the way you carry on.
Stiles huffs but he replies with ‘Rude’ and pockets his phone.
Derek doesn’t text him anymore after that.
Stiles thinks it would be kind of ridiculous to be disappointed about that.
Luckily he’s not.
At all.
                                      ---
Isaac’s standing out front waiting for Stiles as he rolls up on his bike to the
school. He’s clutching the straps of his backpack really tightly.
“Hey,” Stiles says breathless. He was peddling pretty fast. “How was your day?”
Isaac clutches the straps harder.
Stiles guesses that’s not a positive reaction. “I was going to go meet some
friends out on the lacrosse fields. You can hang out and watch — or I could
take you home. But then I'd have to stay because dad doesn't like you at the
house by yourself.”
Isaac shrugs but he doesn’t say anything.
“Okay. Not sure what that means,” Stiles mutters as he considers Isaac. “We can
go home.”
Isaac says nothing.
“Or maybe you’re fine with staying?” Stiles hedges.
Isaac still says nothing.
Stiles sighs quietly and starts towards the back of the school after he locks
his bike up. He says, “I’ve got some granola bars in my backpack if you’re
hungry. I don’t think we’ll be here that long, though.”
Isaac, unsurprisingly, offers no response.
Danny and Jackson are already warming up and stretching when they reach the
lacrosse fields.
Lydia is sitting up in the bleachers, texting away on her phone as usual.
Allison is sitting beside her and she’s look like she’s playing a game on her
phone. She waves at Stiles with a dimpled smile.
Stiles stops to wave back but he stumbles when Isaac runs straight into his
back, distracted.
Allison climbs down the bleachers and approaches them.
Isaac walks off quickly and sits down on the far side of the bleachers.
Allison frowns in confusion as she steps up to Stiles and glances to Isaac. She
looks at Stiles.
“Don’t look at me. I have no idea either,” Stiles admits. He takes off his
backpack and grabs his lacrosse stick. He’s already changed into some field
clothes. “Can you give this to Isaac? I got some snacks in there that I gave
him dibs on.”
Allison tucks a curl behind her ear and nods as she takes his backpack. “Is he
—” She seems to be struggling with the words. “I just, I heard about what
happened, you know?”
Stiles knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it and he asks, “What? What do you
mean?”
“Well about his dad and his mom being mixed up with some like heavy illegal
drugs and they were a part of this international cartel until they double-
crossed their dealer. I heard the dealer like sent some thugs after Isaac’s
family and there was a fire. I think Isaac even had an older brother that died
in the fire.” Allison looks over to Isaac. “I just feel bad, you know?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly as his mind races. The guilt that he’s already been
feeling has now doubled.
“Stilinski! Let’s go! We’re not going to wait for you forever!” Jackson yells
and Danny shoves at him in reprimand.
“Uh, I better —” Stiles cuts himself off with a ridiculous gesture before he
gets to work with setting his lacrosse stick together.
Allison just nods before she marches over to Isaac, who looks like he might
flee. She sits down beside him and says something.
Stiles doesn’t get a chance to see Isaac not respond because Jackson’s huffing
impatiently and dragging him by the arm onto the fields.
Danny is playing goalie.
Jackson lines up a streak of balls before he straightens and says, “Let’s see
what you’re made of, Stilinski.”
Stiles nods and swipes up a ball before he sends it flying straight over
Danny’s head, as well as the goal post. He groans.
Jackson claps a hand down on his shoulder with a smirk. “Obviously you’re not
made of much. This doesn't surprise me.”
“Clearly.”
“Take a few laps. We’ll work on your endurance before we get to anything else,”
Jackson decides before he takes Stiles’s place and starts whipping balls at
Danny, making more goals than Stiles could ever hope to, even in his wildest
dreams.
Stiles groans but he runs around until his whole body feels like it’s on fire.
It’s Danny who forces Jackson to take pity on Stiles and the three of them
start doing other drills.
By the end of practice, Stiles feels sore in all kinds of places while it looks
like Danny and Jackson barely broke a sweat.
Stiles collects Isaac from Lydia and Allison, who are being as friendly and
chatty as possible with him, despite his lack of response. He says his goodbyes
on his and Isaac’s behalf before they start walking home, grabbing Stiles’s
bike on the way.
It’s dark and the street lamps are beginning to come alive.
The walk home takes fifteen minutes, and it’s spent in silence but Stiles
doesn’t mind. He’s too tired to keep up a one-sided conversation anyway.
Isaac eats all fiveof the Kind bars he had in his backpack without a breath in
between and Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that the kid loves coconut and
chocolate. He makes a mental note to look up recipes. The thing about Stiles is
that not only can he be blunt sometimes but he can also be invasive when he
thinks it matters.
They reach the house and Stiles drops his bike onto the lawn carelessly as he
notices the moving truck from this morning is no longer there.
The house next door is lit with lights and Stiles is nosey enough to go say
hello. He tosses his keys at Isaac and says, “You go on. There’s still some
leftover chicken and rice from yesterday. You can just toss that in the
microwave.”
Isaac says nothing but his eyes do follow Stiles as he crosses their lawn onto
the next.
Stiles trips up a bit as he stumbles over some garden gnomes with a mangled
swear. He kicks the stupid things before he jogs up the porch steps and rings
the doorbell.
“Kalliope! Kalliope, the door!”
“Stop shouting! I can hear you just fine!”
“Go get the bloody door!”
“Alright! Alright!”The door opens and a tall but portly woman with wild grey
hair and a big fat nose sneers at him. "Understand me perfectly, dear. I'm not
interested. If you're selling cookies, I'm not interested. If there is a cause
you want me to support, I’m not interested. If you're trying to pitch the good
word — Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Buddha — I'm not interested. Got that? Not.
Interested."
“Stiles. Stilinski. I live next door,” Stiles explains. “I’m your neighbor, not
any of those other things. Just a neighbor.”
“So?” Kalliope sniffs. “Why would I care about who my neighbors are, silly boy?
Do you see a sign in my lawn that says, 'Come one, come all'? No. So why would
I care?”
“I guess you wouldn’t.”
"Exactly. My, there does seem to be some kind of a brain in that funny little
head of yours," Kalliope huffs. "Ugh. Americans."
Another old and unattractive woman appears behind Kalliope, but she’s lean and
very tall like a street lamp, almost taller than the doorway. “What's this now?
What’s going on? Who is it?”
“Oh would you go away, Acantha! First, you demand I open the door
when you won't, and now, here you come to stick your great big nose throughit
by being so meddlesome,” Kalliope complains before she gives a wet cough.
"Hush, yourself, sister dear. Mustn't hurt your little pea brain by using such
pretty words." The one called Acantha takes one look at Stiles and grins almost
predatorily. “Well hello." She has a startling amount of teeth. "My, my. You’re
a juicy one, ey?”
Stiles suddenly feels unsettled. “Um.”
Kalliope snorts. “A bit too thin for my tastes. Like a weed.”
“Greedy. Of course he’s not to your liking, piggy,” Acantha huffs before she
smiles at Stiles. “Come now, give me your name, precious. Don’t be shy. You’re
so lovely.”
Stiles is officially creeped out. “Well I think I better head home. I just
wanted to introduce myself. My dad, the sheriff, will probably come over and
introduce himself. So — yeah…” He slowly backs away.
Acantha hisses suddenly and Kalliope’s expression sours. She slams the door
shut.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done, you big oaf. That was the sheriff’s son!”
“Oh bugger off! He won’t think anything of it. Mortal children are so stupid.”
Stiles flees, not interested in eavesdropping. He doesn’t let himself relax
until he’s inside his house, locking the front door behind him, twice. He joins
Isaac on the couch and says, “I think our next door neighbors are witches.”
Isaac doesn’t say anything but his spoon pauses midway to his mouth. Then he
just goes back to eating and stares at the TV.
Stiles tries to follow the movie but he can’t stop thinking about how shiny
Acantha’s teeth were or how the woman looked at him hungrily.
When his dad gets home, Stiles tells him all about the encounter and he can’t
help but to notice the way his dad looks like he’s trying not to laugh. He
promises Stiles that he’ll look into it when Stiles swears that they’re witches
but Stiles doesn’t believe him.
                                      ---
Stiles spends most of Saturday sleeping in because he can and because Isaac,
like the previous nights, shouts him and his dad awake in the middle of the
night. Stiles doesn’t think he gets to bed until five a.m. and the next time he
wakes up, it’s almost four and his dad is shaking him.
“Hey, kiddo, you with me?”
Stiles grunts.
“Listen, I have to work late. I probably won't be in until sometime tomorrow. I
left some money for you and Isaac. Text or call me if you need anything.” His
dad tosses a box onto his chest.
Stiles paws at in confusion.
“New phone,” his dad explains and smiles when Stiles springs up to hug him. He
pats his back before Stiles pulls away and starts fiddling with his new phone
immediately. “I got us all upgrades, per your suggestion. I went ahead and put
Isaac’s number in your phone and he has yours and mine. I also bought him a
bike of his own so he can keep up with you.”
Stiles nods.
“Are you still going ice-skating?”
Stiles nods distractedly.
“I’m assuming you’re taking Isaac with you. Just be sure you’re both in before
eleven. Trust me, I’ll know if you’re not,” the sheriff warns. He makes his way
out the door.
“Love you!”
“Love you too. Do your chores,” is his dad’s response.
Stiles rolls out of bed with his phone in hand and wanders over to Isaac’s
room.
Isaac is lying on his stomach and writing in his journal, but he looks dressed
for the day.
“Hey, I’m gonna knock out these chores and then I was gonna go ice-skating with
some friends. Feel up to tagging along?” Stiles asks.
Isaac shrugs.
Stiles interprets that as a yes. He jogs down the stairs and wanders into the
kitchen for a bottle of water. He notices the white marker board magnetized to
the fridge with a note scribbled in his dad’s messy handwriting.
Boys, I left forty dollars for the two of you (twenty each). Isaac: clean the
kitchen and the living room, and your own room if need be. Stiles: clean the
bathroom and your damn room. I have no idea how you can stand it. Call if you
need me.
Stiles snorts and notes that the kitchen and the living room look clean and
orderly, which means Isaac has had plenty of time to do his portion of the
chores. He’s not going to lie and say he isn’t thrilled that he now has help
because he is.
He drinks his water down and gets to work with getting his room and the
bathroom in order. After he finishes, he takes a shower and puts on some jeans
and a stripped blue hoodie.
Scott texts him almost a billion times (he's really excited) before he pulls up
in front of the house with his mom. He and Isaac climb in the back and he
greets Melissa.
Melissa twists her rearview mirror so that she can see Isaac and says, "Hello,
Isaac. You look much lovelier outside of the hospital. It's good to see you
again under better circumstances."
Isaac shifts and fumbles with his seatbelt, looking for all the world like he
wished Melissa wouldn't acknowledge where she knows him from or that she
probably knows more that he'd like her too.
Stiles decides to lighten the mood in the car by saying, "Hey, can we listen to
the radio? Anything but NPR. My dad's totally put me off to that."
Melissa nods and says something to Scott in Spanish.
Scott fiddles with the radio and puts it on what is presumably his favorite
station.
Stiles glances over to Isaac, but he's looking out the window.
Melissa drops them off at the ice rink (V.M.B.'s Family Ice Center) without
incident, and before they head inside, Stiles quickly introduces Isaac to
Scott.
Scott gives Isaac one of his sunny smiles and says, “Nice to meet you, dude. I
think I seen you a few times in the hall. Allison mentioned you too.”
Isaac fidgets and Stiles could swear he was blushing but he can’t really be
sure because of the burn scars. He shifts from foot to foot like he’s anxious
so Stiles gives Scott a pointed look and they all head inside.
Lydia and Jackson are already out on the ice, gliding around and doing moves
Stiles has only ever seen in the Winter Olympics. He’s impressed.
Allison is still lacing up her shoes while Malia helps Erica untangle hers as
they smirk at each other.
Boyd is sitting on the bleachers with Danny, sharing a huge bag of Doritos
between them.
Scott leads Stiles and Isaac over to the shoe stand so they can pick out some
skates for themselves.
Isaac declines after he stares at the different sizes like he wants to skate
but can't convince himself to and he wanders back over to the bleachers to sit
by himself.
Scott sighs sadly. “I feel bad for him. Is he always quiet like that?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says as he laces up his shoes.
“Man,” Scott marvels sadly.
“Yeah.” Stiles wobbles to his feet and huffs in satisfaction when his skates
don’t pinch his feet uncomfortably.
Scott looks down at the skates in his hand, over to Isaac, back down, over
again, back down, and then over again before he gets this resolute frown on his
face. He puts the skates back and says, “I’m gonna chill with him. He shouldn’t
have to sit by himself like that. I can’t skate anyway.”
Stiles smiles fondly. “Scott?”
“What?”
“You’re awesome.”
Scott smiles and gently punches Stiles’s side before he wanders over to the
bleachers and sits down by Isaac.
Stiles makes his way out to the ice and glides around for a bit as Allison,
Erica, Malia, and Danny do the same.
Boyd makes an announcement that he’s going to turn the disco lights on, as well
as some music. Everyone starts shouting requests but he gives them all the
middle finger and says, “My rink, my rules.”
“Boo!” Erica laughs.
“Unfair!” Malia adds as she skates circles around Lydia.
The lights dim in a wash of reds, yellows, and blues. Then the musical stylings
of Ke$ha blares to life.
Stiles smirks as the others roll their eyes, seemingly unsurprised by Boyd’s
taste in music.
Boyd joins them out on the ice and says, “Let’s play freeze tag. Not it.”
Danny, Stiles, Erica, Malia, Allison, Erica, and Lydia chime, “Not it!”
Jackson rolls his eyes because that means he’s it. He skates lazily for a bit,
like he’s not even interested in playing along before he starts at them like a
shark.
They come to the agreement that Lydia shall act as home base and give them
immunity when they’re frozen.
Scott plays referee in the bleachers between the times he chats up Isaac, who
fidgets constantly, but mainly from shyness.
Stiles evades Jackson as much as he can but the man is a beast on the ice and
he gets frozen over a dozen times, and Lydia sweeps right up to him and taps
his cheek with a wink so he can start skating again.
Its childish, but it’s funny and entertaining. Especially when Jackson really
starts getting into it and starts up this competitive thing with Boyd, who,
despite his large frame, has devil speed on the ice. This frustrates Jackson to
no end.
The game ends when Jackson quits out of irritation and glares at them all when
they laugh and tease him for it. The last thing they do before they get off the
ice is form a train and skate around the rink as Blah Blah Blah blares through
the speakers.When the song ends, they break up and start for the exit.
Once they’re back in their shoes, they all make their way over to Ramona’s
Pizzeria (a place owned by Boyd's mom) across the street.
Since it’s a Saturday night, it’s pretty packed, so they have to wait a few
moments for some tables to be put together for their party.
Scott takes the opportunity to introduce Isaac to everyone while they wait, and
Stiles gets distracted by the fact that he can recognize his high school’s
basketball team occupying the right half of the restaurant. They’re loud and
boisterous, and it reminds Stiles that they had a home game tonight.
Among the crowd, Stiles locates Laura, who’s in a cheerleading outfit and
conversing with her fellow cheerleaders. He remembers that she’s the captain
and that Kate is her co-captain.  Speaking of Kate — she’s totally giving lip
to the bus boy trying to clean up their mess with a disgruntled expression.
Stiles tells his group that he’ll be right back and he makes his way over to
Laura.
Laura brightens when she sees him and she shakes her pom-poms in his face
cheerfully and says, “Hey you! What are you doing here?”
Stiles wiggles his nose because the pom-poms tickle and says, “Hanging out with
some friends. Did we win another game?”
Cora slides up to them, band uniform and all. Her full lips are shiny with
pizza grease, and she has a slice of pizza crammed with what looks like every
meat on the planet on top in one hand and a red glass of dark soda in the
other. She says, “You say ‘we’ like you contributed.”
“Nope, that’s just my school pride talking,” Stiles corrects. He pauses and
frowns. “How did you even hear what I said in all this noise?”
Cora rolls her eyes and mutters, “Dumbass.” Then she wanders off to return to
her bandmates, ignoring when Laura scolds her for being so rude.
Stiles is continually perplexed by that girl. He turns back to Laura and says,
“What?” because Laura is eyeing him.
“You’re always wearing some variation of blue,” Laura supposes.
Stiles blushes because she’s actually noticed. “My favorite color,” he mumbles.
Laura grins and says, “I’m gonna have to start calling you Blue now.”
Stiles fidgets and rubs the back of his head sheepishly before he says, “What
was the score?”
“Thirty to sixteen. Derek made most of the points, as usual,” Laura reports.
“Ball hog, huh?” Stiles supposes and he shakes his head. He can see that, even
though he’s never actually seen Derek in action.
Laura smiles fondly at him and says, “Peter’s going to be mad that he missed
you.”
Stiles points to his open mouth and makes gagging noises.
Laura laughs, “No really. He’s really fond of you.”
“Good or bad thing?”
“Depends,” Laura airily states with a cryptic grin.
“Where’s the creeper anyway?” Stiles asks as he looks around.
“He’s with Derek,” Laura says. “Derek gets pretty wound up after a game, so
Peter stays behind to pull him back down to Earth.”
Stiles hums thoughtfully.
“You should come out to one of the games,” Laura suggests.
“I’m not a basketball fan.”
“Don’t let Derek hear you saying that.”
Stiles grins and he doesn’t know why but something about that amuses him. He
kind of wishes that Derek would hear him saying that (just to get a reaction).
“When’s the next game?”
“This Thursday. Right before the start of spring break. Another home game.”
Stiles huffs and says, “Can’t do it. It’s my, uh, birthday. I’m almost positive
my dad’s gonna take me out.”
Laura perks up excitedly. “Your birthday’s this week? You goober. I’m going to
have to get you something!”
“Please don’t,” Stiles protests earnestly. He doesn’t like people making a big
fuss over him on his birthday because then he’s gonna obsess over returning the
favor. He’s stupidly competitive when it comes to gift giving. “Saying happy
birthday is enough.”
“Sure,” Laura says whimsically. She looks like she’s plotting something anyway
and it’s worrying. “I hope you have a very good one. The best.”
“Uh, thanks,” Stiles says, a little caught off guard by her earnestness. “Why
are you so nice to me?” he blurts and it isn’t something he means to say but
his filter has been defected since birth.
Laura frowns and cocks her head. “Don’t say it like that. Like I’m some stuck-
up snob.”
Stiles instantly stammers over an apology.
Laura lifts her hand to stop him and she smiles softly. “I am very picky about
who I associate with,” she concedes. “It works against me sometimes because I
often miss what’s right in front of me, and Stiles,” here she looks him
straight in the eye. “You are definitely worth noticing.”
Red blooms in both of Stiles’s cheeks with indulgent pleasure and he suddenly
feels lighter. Who doesn't like to hear that they matter? “I — that’s the
nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he admits quietly, which is probably
a bad idea since it’s still pretty noisy in the restaurant.
Laura still winks at him like she gets it anyway. “You should come over for
dinner sometime.” She adds, “Mom would love you.”
Stiles blinks at the invitation and something in the back of his mind is taking
note of this moment as significant but he can’t quite put his finger on why
that is. He says, “The offer is really tempting, but I have a feeling that
Derek and Cora would glare at me the whole time.”
Laura waves it off and replies, “You let me worry about my knuckleheaded
siblings. They’ve got the biggest hearts out of all of us but they’re also too
stubborn for their own good. Just know that there’s an open seat for you at the
Hale table whenever you want it.”
Stiles smiles shyly and nods.
Laura grins and shakes her pom-poms at him again. “Now go back to your friends.
I’ve monopolized your time enough. I’ll see you at school. Come sit with me at
lunch.” She blows him a kiss before she sashays back to her group of friends,
dragging Kate away from the bus boy she’s waving a fork at threateningly.
Stiles heads to the other side of the restaurant and his own group of friends
welcome him back into their fold warmly. They’ve already ordered four sets of
pizzas (which is on the house, aka free, since Boyd's mom owns the pizza
joint). Being friends with people in a small town is really showing its perks.
Stiles sends Derek a text before he starts eating and it reads: Congrats on the
game.
There’s no response.
                                      ---
Isaac and Stiles carpool with Scott again when Melissa pulls up to the pizzeria
fifteen minutes before eleven. Erica and Malia carpool with Allison, while
Danny and Jackson carpool with Lydia, and Boyd has his older brother pick him
up. But they all exchange numbers with Isaac before they all head their
separate ways and Stiles is grateful for the welcoming even if Isaac isn’t as
responsive to it. The twelve year old needed all the friends he could get.
Melissa pulls up to their house and she smiles at them kindly as they exit her
car.
Scott sticks his head out the window and says, “Spring break is coming up.
We’re going to do our marathon club at Jackson’s house this time.”
“Okay,” Stiles says and does his special handshake with Scott as Isaac wanders
towards the house. “Should I bring anything other than myself and Isaac?”
“Change of clothes. We’re starting with the Ninth Doctor, but even if we spend
the whole weekend just binging it so we can get to the latest, we still
wouldn’t be able to get it done. We —”
Isaac yells and Stiles jolts in surprise and curses as his hand knocks into the
car. He runs over to see what’s wrong and he doesn’t have to go far because he
sees it as soon as his foot hits the first step of his porch.
There’s a creature gutted up in a heap at the front door, and it looks like
someone used its blood to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood, Sheriff!’ across
the front door.
Stiles feels sick and Isaac stumbles down the steps and back to Melissa’s car,
face ashen and pale. He doesn’t blame him. He just stands there, staring at it
as his brain pieces together the anatomy of the wild thing. The creature has
furry reptilian skin, with long, feathery spines that run from the back of its
head down the spine, ending at the rump. The teeth on it though, god, it’s as
terrifying as it’s long claws are. Its eyes are alien-like and stares at him
with dead red pupils.
Stiles immediately thinks, El Chupacabra, and then grows furious as he thinks
of who could be responsible for it as Scott jogs over to him in concern. He
says that his mom has called his dad and he’s on his way but Stiles can’t stop
staring into the dead eyes of the thing. He finds himself taking a picture of
the scene and he attaches it to a text he sends Peter that reads: If this is
your idea of a sick joke or some prank then you really need to get a new sense
of humor.
When Scott notices what he’s taken a picture of, he begins to freak out and
drag Stiles back to the car, almost in fear that the creature will somehow come
alive.
Stiles doubts that possibility very much since its internal organs are strewn
across his porch in vicious decoration. He lets Scott shove him in the back of
his mom’s car with Isaac. He sits in a daze of shock as his mind races before
his dad eventually pulls him out again as the street gets washed in the red and
blue of police lights.
One of his dad’s deputies starts taking Stiles’s statement down when she learns
pretty quickly that Isaac won't utter a word on the matter or be of much help.
His dad hovers the whole time out of concern before he walks off with the
deputy to set up some kind of parameter, leaving Stiles alone on the curb with
a shock blanket on. It hasn’t escaped his notice that his dad doesn’t seem
surprised by any of this which makes Stiles wonder if his dad has been
receiving these kind of threats ever since they’ve moved here. He’s unable to
dwell on the thought long because there’s some kind of commotion and Stiles
straightens when he recognizes Peter’s voice calling his name.
Peter rips his way through the yellow police tape his dad’s deputies have up
and he storms up to Stiles with a wild look in his eyes. “Stiles—are you okay?
You're not—are you hurt?” he questions urgently as he grabs Stiles by the
shoulders.
Stiles glares at him. “Don’t pretend like you care. I’m not stupid. This has
you written all over it.”
Peter snarls and the pure animalistic sound of it makes Stiles flinch. He says,
“You think I had something to do with this? You really think I would be so
stupid as to threaten you or your family? What kind of mons—”
“You’re a very good liar, so what am I supposed to think?” Stiles shouts back
as his shoulders shake. He shoves at Peter but even though Peter’s lithe he’s
still solid like a brick wall. He tries to wiggle out of Peter’s grasp and
ignores the alarmed look in Peter’s blue eyes. “Let go of me! Let me go! You’re
sick. You and your family of weird—”
“Don’t,” Peter warns lowly and he snatches his hands away as he bows his head
for a moment, hiding his eyes. His hands open and close at his sides as his
shoulders tense. He straightens suddenly and glares at Stiles’s house like he
resents it for even being there. “I didn’t do this,” he says calmly.
Stiles swallows as anger swells hotly in his throat. “I don’t believe you.”
Peter winces and whips his gaze towards Stiles. He opens his mouth to say
something but he tenses with a dark look.
A second later, the sheriff approaches him from behind and claps a hand over
Peter’s shoulder and says, “I think you better go home, son. I’m going to want
to question you about all this come tomorrow morning since my son seems to
think you’ve got some involvement.”
Peter nods tightly and clenches his jaw. He tosses Stiles one last look before
he spins on his heel and whips out his phone, typing furiously on it before he
presses it to his ear.
Stiles watches him go before he turns his attention to the arrival of
forensics, who sweep across the porch and starts collecting the remains and
taking pictures for evidence.
His dad tries to convince him into spending the night with Scott, but he
refuses to leave, preferring to wait it all out so he can tuck away in his
room. His dad sighs and leaves him be when he sees that Stiles can’t be
persuaded. He wanders off to help his deputies herd the nosey neighbors away
and run off any local news reporters.
Stiles shivers against the cold of the night and sits on the curb again as he
waits for forensics to finish up.
Isaac joins him on the curb sometime around midnight and Stiles is a bit
surprised by it. He would have thought that Isaac would have gone with Scott
and Melissa. But here he is, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Stiles as he
chews anxiously on his fingernails and watches everything around them warily.
Forensics finishes some time around three in the morning and by then Stiles is
already nodding off when his dad gives him and Isaac the okay to enter the
house after him and his deputies have swept though it to be sure there hasn’t
been a break in or any other nasty surprises.
The three of them march quietly into the house and go their separate ways to
tuck into their rooms to reflect.
Everything goes dark and quiet in the house, and Stiles lies awake in his bed,
his mind plagued with the image of guts and blood. He can’t fall asleep without
jerking awake a minute later to untangle from the beginnings of a nightmare. He
edges along the start of a panic attack every time he snaps awake, never fully
letting himself drift off because of an unknown fear prowling around in his
subconscious. He tosses and turns until he huffs in frustration, moving to his
dresser to grab those damn wolves and giving into the temptation of cuddling
them close.
Stiles falls asleep embarrassingly quick after that with his nose buried into
their faux fur, and he doesn’t wake until noon the next day; all because the
smell of vanilla and jasmine calms his anxiety like nothing else can.
It’s both comforting and damning in its own way.
 
***** identity *****
On Monday, during lunch, Stiles lies on the floor of the music room behind a
row of propped saxophones with his hands behind his head and the ends of his
sneakers pointing in different directions as he drifts, blinking dazedly up at
the unlit florescent ceiling lights. He hasn’t been getting any decent sleep.
He has nightmares about what happened Saturday night. Sometimes, it’ll be his
dad taking the place of that creature, or Isaac, or even himself.
He’s also been avoiding Laura and Cora, who’s been adamant about trying corner
him in the halls to ask him about what happened. Surely Peter must have told
them though. He must have laughed. They probably all laughed about it with him.
Stiles hates his new status in school, which makes him the talk of every grade
level because of the incident. Where he was once invisible, another nobody in
the crowd, a nameless freshman, well, now he’s starting to hear his name in
everyone’s mouth as they stare and watch his every move. Like he’ll snap or
break down in tears at any given moment. He tries to look as indifferent as
possible or put on a brave face, but it’s hard. He knows about some of the
rumors accusing him of doing it as some kind of prank for attention. That
bothers him the most. As if he were even capable of such a thing.
Stiles stiffens when he hears someone enter the empty room and the lights turn
on because they’re motion sensitive. He listens to light footsteps putter
around with a soft sigh, followed by the clatter of an instrument being
rearranged, a bench seat being positioned (and the creak that follows when
weight is applied on top), and the ticking of a metronome. He turns and peeks
out from where he’s hiding to see a short brunette with pale skin, flushed
cheeks, long wavy hair and dark eyes the color of untouched coffee. There’s a
beauty mark under her left eye that Stiles takes note of more than anything
else. She’s pretty, and she has silver braces that are really hard to miss. 
“What are you staring at?” she asks without even looking at him as she
positions her thin fingers on the cello cradled between her knees.
Stiles thinks about pretending he isn’t there but that seems senseless. He
mumbles, “Nothing. Sorry.” He lies back down and stares up at the ceiling.
“Just wanted some quiet.”
“You won't find any in here,” she points out as she begins to play. First
slowly and softly, like she’s trying to ease into it, before she picks up the
pace and her wand goes flying against the strings.
Stiles closes his eyes and loses himself to the music for a moment. It reminds
him of when he used to hide under his mother’s desk in her music room and
listen to her play the piano. He presses the memory out of his mind before his
eyes get the chance to water or his heart gets the chance to get heavy and full
with sorrow. He was really close to his mother and times like these made him
long for the days when she was still alive.
The music is interrupted when someone new comes stomping into the room.
The brunette hisses and between gritted teeth says, “Kathryn.”
Stiles opens his eyes and blinks before turning his head to see Kate circling
the brunette with a mean smirk. She's like a vulture circling a fresh corpse
out in the oppressive heat of the desert.
Kate says, “How cute. It knows my name.”
The brunette scowls and her silver braces gleam almost threateningly. “What do
you want? Other than to waste my valuable time.”
"Oh sweetheart..." Kate plays with her hair as she makes a 'tsking' sound
before she slides her eyes over to where Stiles is. “I need a little privacy.
So scram, Princess Metalhead.”
“Ugh!" the brunette spits, looking enraged, but she still packs up her things
and snatches her backpack off the ground. "How typical. You know, this room is
for everyone. You can’t just kick me out because you want to suck face with
someone,” the brunette complains. “And my name is Paige.Not princess. Be
original for once by notpointing out the fact that I have braces. There's
nothing wrong with wanting to correct your teeth. You might benefit from that
kind of work too. Just fyi.”
“Yawn. Bored now.” Kate dismisses Paige with the flick of her hand.
Paige glares at her and then glares at Stiles like it’s somehow his fault too
before she makes a noisy exit, slamming the door shut behind her.
Stiles sits up before standing as Kate makes her way over to him.
“You and I need to talk, Stilinski,” Kate says as she stands on the other side
of the saxophone rack. She fiddles with the mouthpiece of one and continues,
“Laura’s paying me a hundred bucks to play the voice of reason, so listen
closely because my boyfriend wont stop brooding over the way you’ve been
ignoring his texts and calls.” She huffs and mutters, “I'm so over this high
school bullshit.”
“I don’t want to talk to you or Peter or anyone,” Stiles says, wincing at
Kate’s harsh language but he crosses his arms defensively. "So you can just go
back and say you did. That way you can keep the money and you can leave me
alone."
“Oh grow up, buttercup,” Kate snidely counters. “Get over your delicate, little
feelings and use those two holes sitting on the sides of your head for their
intendedpurpose."
Stiles exhales slowly and drops his arms to his sides so he can look at her
expectantly.
"Good boy," Kate praises sarcastically. "Look. You need to face some facts
here. Someone is out to get your dad, and it’s certainly not some twenty-two
year old who has all his underwear imported from Malaysia because he’s that
goddamn specific about the quality of the thread that gets to touch his rather
impressive junk.”
Stiles makes a face, resentful over the visual she just gave him about Peter.
“I know what people say because people talk, and there’s a lot you’re not
getting here because there’s so much more going on then what you think,” Kate
goes on to say as she puts her hands on her hips. “This town was built on
secrets, and honey, I know you’re feeling out of the loop, but trust me, ole
Petey-Pie is the least of your worries. Do you know who my father is?”
Stiles blinks and says, “Yes.”
“And remind me who he is.”
“The mayor?” Stiles is getting really confused by the sudden turn of this
conversation.
Kate smirks like she approves of his answer and she says, “Do you know how my
dad got elected to office?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Dirty politics,” Kate reports. “Before he was mayor, they used called him the
Kingpin of Real Estate because he owns almost every piece of property there is
in Beacon Hills. Do you know how my dad got his hands on all of it? Well,
Gerard has his fingers in a lot of jars. I know at least what three of those
jars are, and even then I don’t really know. He’s a crafty old man, and a bit
of a control freak. You still with me, slim?”
Stiles blinks. “I, uh — think so?”
“His control on the real estate market helps him squeeze a majority of the
votes he needs out of these halfwit, small town folks. Threats of foreclosure
and evictions are what keeps him sitting so pretty in office. So, your dad’s
little election as sheriff was done without my father’s knowing,” Kate
clarifies. “My old man already had a guy in mind, when the old sheriff went and
kicked the bucket. But then a few select members of this queer little town had
your dad drafted in because he has a handful of skills that the other guy
didn’t. One of which includes a firm backbone and a moral compass. Still with
me?”
Stiles nods slowly.
“I’m not giving this information for free, you know,” Kate goes on to say. She
tilts her head and eyes him like she's seeing right through his soul. “Between
you and me, I care more about saving my neck than anyone else. However, I have
this really annoying fucking yet all-consuming soft spot for the Hales, and I’m
a little too into Peter to just sit idly by while you point your finger at the
wrong people. You want to help your dad? Then start looking into why he’s
really here. Start looking into how there’s a new election coming up for the
mayoral position and how your dad being sheriff is screwing with my old man’s
chances for another term.”
Stiles nods dumbly.
Kate smiles meanly and pats him on the cheek like she pities him. Then she
dusts off his shoulders in a physical display of intimidation. “Peter does two
things: he finds your weakness and he uses it to his advantage. But the little
sap wouldn’t hurt a fly. To be honest, I guess you could say that I'm the
muscle in this relationship."
Stiles can totally see that. He's fidgeting under the all too careful grip she
has on his shoulders.
"My guy..." Kate pauses to laugh bemusedly at something Stiles doesn't really
understand. She lets go of him finally. "He’s good at pretending to be the bad
guy, you know? He’s got some history, sure, but don't we all. You think he’s
voluntarily staying with his older sister and her happy little family? You do
get that something happened to his parents, right? You think Isaac Lahey is the
only kid to have ever lost everything in a tragic fire?”
Stiles feels his confusion wash into a foreboding cold. He watches, stupefied,
as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and strides towards the door.
Kate pauses when she opens it and says, “You want to know why Peter bothers
with you?” It’s a rhetorical question. “He’s very good at spotting potential.
He bothers with you because you’re smart and capable, and also because you
remind him of the little brother he lost. Maybe you should consider giving him
a fair chance before you chase him off.” She leaves it at that and exits the
room.
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly before he grabs his backpack when the next bell
rings. He zones out for the rest of the day, utterly lost in his thoughts.
                                      ---
Peter is sitting out on the porch steps with another stuffed animal when Stiles
and Isaac roll up to their house on their mountain bikes after school.
Stiles hands the house keys over to Isaac so he can head inside. He approaches
Peter, who makes no move to stand, and eyes the grey wolf in his hand warily.
“How many stuffed animals does Derek have?”
Peter flashes him a sharp smile and says, “Enough.”
"Enough for what?"
Peter just smirks.
An awkward silence falls over them.
Stiles fidgets. He doesn’t deal very well with awkward silence. “Your
girlfriend is scary,” he says when he can’t find anything else to say.
Peter stares at him and says, “She’s a bitch.” Then he adds, “But that’s mainly
why I like her.”
Stiles frowns at that. “That’s an odd preference,” he remarks.
Peter just sits up and grabs his wrist, positioning Stiles’s fingers to rest on
the pulse on the side of his neck and under his chin. He stares at Stiles with
meaningful focus and says, “Ask me if I had anything to do with what happened.
If my pulse jumps, you’ll know I’m lying. If it’s steady, then it's the truth.”
Stiles fingers twitch against Peter’s abnormally warm skin and mumbles, “You
feel like you have a fever."
"That's one way to view it, I suppose," Peter replies, and he has that same
bemused expression that Kate did earlier. Like he's laughing at something that
Stiles doesn't understand. "Ask me," he insists.
Stiles sighs and asks, “Did you have anything to do with what happened with
what was left on our doorstep and the...message left?”
Peter’s pulse is steady when he answers, “No.”
“But you knew that thing was real the whole time?” Stiles asks. “I saw it,
Peter. That wasn’t a gag. That was the real thing.”
Peter purses his lips and reluctantly grits out, “Yes.”
Stiles reigns in the urge to hit him and Peter suddenly smirks like he knows.
It’s infuriating. “Now is definitely not the time for one word answers," he
warns. "You were never really writing a paper, were you?”
That wipes the smirk off of Peter’s face. He sighs and says, “No.”
“Did you even really need my help? What were you trying to do anyway? Hunt it
down? Capture it? Take pictures for money?”
“One question at a time,” Peter lightly suggests. His hands are twitching into
fists where they rest on his lap.
“Did you need my help?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re a fantastic sounding board, and your research skills are better than
most.” Peter reluctantly adds, “Even mine.”
Stiles refuses to be thrown by the compliment.
Peter sighs. "Call it a test, if you will. One you passed thoroughly.”
Stiles frowns. “Do you even go to college?”
“Slightly off topic, but yes. Online mainly.”
Stiles switches gears again and asks, “What were you trying to do with the
information I gave you?”
“Take it out to dinner,” Peter replies sarcastically and his pulse stutters but
not significantly so. He says, “Capture it.” Steady pulse.
"But why?"
“Why not ?” Peter growls and his eyes flash dangerously and Stiles could almost
swear he sees them change color but it has to be a trick of the light. “You saw
it. Should I have let it roam free, pouncing on every deer and Pomeranian it
crossed paths with until it started craving biggergame? Say an infant child?”
Stiles glares at him, but he gets it. “Why is it your responsibility to take
care of that type of thing?”
Peter doesn’t answer. He smiles wolfishly and says, “Ask me something else. I
don’t think you’re ready for that answer.”
“El Chupacabra was hacked to bits on my porch and you don’t think I’m ready for
whatever you and everyone else aren't telling me?” Stiles fumes and snatches
his hand away out of frustration. “Screw you.”
Peter’s smile dims down into a flat line. “Believe me when I say that I want to
tell you. But sister dear has expressly forbid me from doing such,” he
explains, looking deeply annoyed. “Talia already thinks me a fool for involving
you in this much, even though your father is sheriff.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Peter says as he stands to his feet and stalks forward, right into
Stiles’s personal space. “That you should talk to your father about why it is
he took the sheriff’s position.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that today,” Stiles mumbles as he fidgets
under Peter’s forceful gaze. “Why can’t youtell me since you know everyoneand
everything.”
Peter isn’t fazed by having his words thrown back in his face. “I told you. I
can’t. I would, but I can’t.”
"Well how convenient for you, Peter."
Peter flashes him a sharp smile but refuses to be cowed by the sarcastic and
accusatory tone aimed in his direction.
Stiles exhales his frustration and says, “Do you know who put that threatening
message on the door?”
Something in Peter’s expression goes dark. It's like watching thunder clouds
appear out of nowhere in a clear, blue sky. “I have some theories,” he says
tightly.
“Yeah?” Stiles says and watches Peter closely when he adds, “Is Mayor Argent
one of them?”
Peter looks caught off guard by the question and he scowls. “What did Kate say
to you?”
“Not nearly enough, that’s for sure.”
Peter shoves the grey wolf at Stiles’s chest so he can retrieve his phone.
“That woman is too trigger happy,” he mutters resentfully before he types a
number into his phone and presses it against his ear. Then he walks away and
towards his car, leaving Stiles there without a goodbye.
Not that Stiles cares, but he still had a few more questions he wanted to ask.
He sighs as he watches Peter fuss into his phone before climbing into his car
so he can peel out of the driveway and down the street.
Stiles treads towards his house and tries not to feel like he’s being watched.
When he looks over to the neighbor’s house, he can swear he can see one of the
curtains in the window flutter close quickly. He narrows his eyes before he
unwillingly shrugs it off, too concerned with other things to really start in
on his witch theory again.
He still locks the door when he makes it inside though.
Stiles thinks about everything that’s been said by Kate and Peter as he putters
around the kitchen to start dinner. As he sets the pot-roast in the oven to
simmer, he thinks about what he wants to say to his dad. He sits down at the
kitchen table and does his homework as he waits for the pot-roast to cook
through.
Isaac joins him a little bit later with his own homework and they work in
tandem and in silence.
Stiles thinks that Isaac may be getting used to him and his dad because he’s a
lot more open in subtle ways at home than he is everywhere else. He still isn’t
really verbal or responsive, but Stiles knows that these things take time.
His dad comes in about a quarter to eight and the first thing he does after he
greets them both is go straight to his room to change out of his uniform.
Stiles clears off his books and his schoolwork from the table, carrying it up
to his room to dump on his bed. He returns to the kitchen just as Isaac
finishes up and clears off his side before disappearing with it.
The table gets set and Stiles serves everyone and eats without waiting for
them. Isaac and his dad eventually join him and digs in.
Predictably, his dad says, “How was your day?” The question is directed at
Isaac, who just shrugs and concentrates on eating. His dad turns his gaze on
him. “How about you?”
“Fine,” Stiles says delicately. “I was actually wondering if we could talk?”
His dad frowns in concern but he nods and it gets left at that.
Isaac clears the table for them and puts the dishes away into the dishwasher
before he wanders into the living room to watch Dance Moms. He’s surprisingly
super into that show.
Stiles puts the leftovers in some Tupperware before cramming it into the fridge
and turning to his dad, who is sitting at the table with a patient sort of
silence. He sits across from his old man and drums his fingers on the table as
he thinks about how he wants to start.
The sheriff raises both his eyebrows and says, “What’s on your mind, son?”
“Why did you take this job?” Stiles blurts and silently reprimands himself for
it. He was trying to build up to that question.
His dad looks caught off guard but there isn’t a lick of guilt on his features.
“Because this town needed someone to look after it,” he puts simply. “Someone
who wouldn’t turn a blind eye.”
“But what would you be turning a blind eye on?” Stiles probes. “Dad, what’s
going on? I — you know you can tell me anything, right? Like even if it seems
crazy. I have an open mind.”
His dad just smiles sadly. “I know. You’re like your mother that way.”
Stiles is quieted by this comment.
His dad sighs and leans back in his seat. “I don’t want you to worry about it.
If that thing from the other night has you concerned about my wellbeing —”
“Dad, no,” Stiles interjects. “I mean, yes, it does. But it’s more than that.
You get that I know what that thing was? El Chupacabra? Is this ringing any
bells for you?”
His dad’s face goes through an interesting range of emotions before he settles
on resignation. “You’re too goddamn curious,” he mutters, but he sounds proud.
“Beacon Hills — it’s a special place.”
“How special? Are we talking like Harry Potter special or — does it — is it
like the Hellmouth? Wait, are you Buffy in this scenario or is Peter? What am
I? Am I Giles? I don’t want to be the Giles to Peter’s Buffy. I’d rather be
Xander or even Willow. Even though I can’t do any magic.”
His dad looks amused. “You watch too much TV.” But then he says, “I guess that
comparison isn’t too far off. The Hellmouth theory, I mean. It’s still a bit of
a stretch, but it’s close enough. I’m still making sense of things myself. The
last sheriff didn’t feed me much information with the manual he left behind,
which has apparently been passed down since the town’s early beginnings. A lot
of it’s outdated too. I’m stumbling as I go."
“Whoa,” Stiles says as he takes that in. He’s partially shocked and partially
in awe. It’s pretty cool that his dad is hip to the supernatural world like
this. “I’ve got so many questions —”
“No,” his dad says, shooting him down as gently as possible. “I’ve already said
too much. You’re not even supposed to be asking me these kind of questions as
is. It’s compromising to my job. This is about the safety of the people. That
comes first.”
“But I’m your son,” Stiles complains. “I wont go running my mouth. I can keep a
secret. Why can’t you tell me?”
“It’s for your own good,” his dad insists. “I can’t stop you from researching
or piecing things together on your own but I don’t want you getting too heavily
or physically involved. I had a firm little talk with your friend Peter.”
“Peter’s not my friend,” is his automatic response, as if distancing himself
from Peter will help his case. It doesn’t. “And what does he have to do with
this? Is he like a consultant for you? You know he’s been getting information
from me right?”
Her dad’s eye twitches and Stiles silently wonders if he’s raising his blood
pressure. “Just leave it alone, Stiles,” his dad warns. “Like I said, I can’t
stop you from researching, but I’m constricting it to that. It’s going to stay
at a level of pure academic curiosity. Understand? You let me deal with the
rest, all right? I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
Stiles gives him a subdued smile. “So then I’m supposed to worry about you?” he
retorts.
The sheriff shakes his head with a firm frown.
“Okay,” he says and feels a little bit bad that he’s partially lying. “But what
about our next door neighbors? Are they witches?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” his dad says and, wow, okay. That means witches
doexist. “Don’t worry about it.”
Stiles nods but there’s nothing to help the fact that he does worry about it.
His dad pats him on the shoulder before he moves to join Isaac in the living
room.
Stiles goes up to his room and cracks his laptop open. He starts pulling up
local news articles from the last eighty years and he dives in.
                                      ---
Two hours after midnight, Stiles feels led to connect the final dot of his
research. He knows what he has to do in order to do that. So he slips on a
hoodie and slips into his sneakers before he tiptoes over to Isaac’s room. He
shakes the sleeping preteen awake with a wide smile.
Isaac narrows his bleary eyes at him in question.
“So, um — you wanna go and find a huge sacred tree trunk with me? You don’t
have to but I’d rather not go by myself. Think of it as a bonding experience?
There’s minimal chance of us stumbling into danger,” Stiles babbles and he
almost laughs at the skepticism that creeps into Isaac’s groggy features.
“Fine. Go back to sleep. I’ll go by myself, and you can lay in this nice warm
bed and wonder if your wonderful, lovinglypatient and kind big brother has been
mauled to death.”
Isaac sighs softly and starts sliding out of bed to change into some warm
clothes.
Stiles fist pumps and bounces on his heels as he waits for Isaac to get
dressed. Then they tiptoe down the steps together and out the back door before
rounding the house to grab their mountain bikes. Stiles has a flashlight he
nicked from his father's toolbox carefully placed in his back pocket.
It’s cold and the pavement is damp, so Stiles takes care as he peddles his
bike. As their community shrinks behind them, he leads Isaac to Scott’s house
and he notices Melissa’s car is gone, which means she must be working a
graveyard shift at the hospital. So he climbs the tree by Scott’s window before
he climbs into the open window. He dives on top of Scott and savors the way
Scott shrieks.
“Dude!”
Stiles rolls onto the floor in a fit of laughter.
Scott throws all his pillows at Stiles. “What are you doing? You almost gave me
a heart attack. What time is it?”
“Two something,” Stiles says when he finally calms down. “Isaac and I were
going to go into the preserve to look for what used to be a mystical tree
maybe.”
Scott looks at him like he’s lost all sense.
“This is important!” Stiles swears and makes an ‘X’ over his chest where his
heart is. “Do you want to come with us or be lame and stay here?”
Scott looks indecisive. “The preserve’s not really safe at this time of night,”
he weakly argues. “I’ve heard — stories.”
“Nah, we’re good. It’s not even a full moon. It’s a new moon. Which, if you can
believe the folklore, means that most supernatural creatures are at its
weakest.”
“What?” Scott exclaims. “What do you mean most?”
Stiles just throws a pair of jeans at him and it lands on the top of Scott’s
head. “Just get dressed. I’ll explain along the way.”
Scott grumbles but he climbs out of bed and hops into his jeans before he goes
in search of a sweater (and his inhaler).
Five minutes later they’re walking out his front door and meeting Isaac on the
side of the house.
The three of them all straddle their mountain bikes and start down the road
towards the preserve as Stiles visualizes the mental map he drew in his mind
when he used Google Earth for directions.
Stiles yammers on and on about his confrontation with Kate, then with Peter,
and his conversation with his dad. Then he tells him about how he read about
all these strange happenings in Beacon Hills in old articles that just cover up
the mythical incidents by writing them off as general animal attacks or an
occult. But they’re not that at all. Some of them were the work of mythical
beings (like El Chupacabra).
“But what do the Hales have to do with this?” Scott pants as he peddles his
bike on Stiles’s left, while Isaac does the same on Stiles’s right.
“That’s the thing. I’m not that sure, but I think they’re like some kind of
guardians or slayers or something,” Stiles supposes, as ridiculous as it
sounds. It’s the only thing that really makes sense. “They work along with the
sheriff to keep the town safe and stuff.”
“Whoa,” Scott huffs quietly. “Dude, that’s — whoa. Your dad!”
“I know,” Stiles agrees. He speeds up and veers off the road and onto a bike
trail called the ‘Twisted Wolf Trail’. “We’re almost there,” he announces as
they wind further and further down the trail.
Small branches snap and break under their wheels as they go deeper into the
preserve. He stops suddenly and this forces Isaac and Scott to swerve to a
stop. He climbs off his bike and throws it down as he dashes forward through a
thrush of trees and into an open area. He pauses when he gets his sights on the
final dot of his research.
Scott stumbles up beside him when he catches up, panting, and Isaac shoves his
hands in his pockets as he looks around.
Stiles grabs the flashlight in his back pocket and shakes it on. He moves
forward towards the huge tree trunk residing in the middle of the open area and
he circles it, taking in every detail.
Scott draws closer and says, “So what does the old tree have to do with all of
this?”
“Would you believe that none of the supernatural stuff happened until this tree
was cut down? The tree was set in place by the founding tribes of this town
back in the 1800’s. There’s this whole article covering its history, and as old
as it is,” Stiles explains before he steps onto the focal point of the tree
trunk. “There’s this legend that says that this tree used to be an actual
living being. Some kind of Guardian that protected Beacon Hills before it was
captured by some benevolent being.
"The being was something called a Trickster, I think, that trapped the Guardian
in this final form.” He jumps down before he drops to his knees and crawls
around, using the flashlight to look for some kind of insignia at the base of
it. “I also read that tribes all across America used to come here and do
rituals before it was finally cut down. Couldn’t find out what kind of rituals
or what kind of tribes they were referring to though. I’m thinking maybe these
tribes were not doing the nice kind of sacrifices,” he says. "And that's why
they cut it down. To discourage whatever was happening here. It also stop
raining around that time too, which must be really significant. But that's only
a guess."
Scott shivers against the cold and says, “I’m feeling unsettled. Can we go back
now? You’ve found your creepy, sacred tree. Let’s go back.”
“But Isaac's not ready to leave yet,” Stiles says as he continues to crawl
along the edge of the trunk. He doesn’t miss the quick huff from Isaac and he
smiles a little, pleased that he could solicit that response from the quiet
preteen. “You guys are lame, you know that? Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“At home, safe and sound. Which is where Ishould be. Oh man, my mom would kill
me if she knew I was doing this.” Scott sounds so very conflicted. “What if a
bear springs out? What if it’s a coyote or a mountain lion? I don’t want to be
mauled to death. Why did I let you talk me into this? An axe murderer could
lunge out from the woods at any moment. I’m too young to die.”
“So are most animals in the wild, but you don’t hear them complaining. Mostly
because they’re dead but — okay, I’m getting off topic. Don’t be so dramatic,”
Stiles says as Scott shakes his inhaler and sucks in a puff of air as his panic
triggers the beginnings of an asthma attack. Stiles stops and hunches down when
he sees an inscription on one of the roots. He reaches out towards it, his palm
growing curiously warmer as he does so. “Hey, I think I found — ow!” he cries
as his hand flies up to the sore spot on the back of his head and his gaze
flicks to the white stone rolling onto the ground and into the wet grass. He
whips his head around in time to see Peter stepping out from the shadows with a
triumphant smirk, bouncing another white stone up and down in his left hand. It
should really say something about Stiles that he gets relievedwhen he sees it’s
just Peter.
Scott, however, starts freaking out immediately and scrambles behind Isaac for
cover.
Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “Scott, relax. It’s just stupid Peter.”
Peter cocks his head in amusement.
“Oh,” Scott breathes. He steps away from Isaac. “I’m Scott,” he says because
why wouldn’t he say that. “I just would like to say thank you.”
Stiles groans in an embarrassment because he can see where this is going.
Peter looks intrigued though. “Thank me? For what?”
“For all the — don’t you slay the bad guys or things?” Scott asks, oblivious to
the way Stiles is shaking his head rapidly in warning. “Stiles says you and
your family are like guardians.”
Stiles groans again and smacks a hand against his forehead.
Peter looks unutterably amused. “Is that right?” He looks to Stiles.
“Guardians?”
“I have a theory,” Stiles mutters resentfully, even though his cheeks are red.
“You’re not exactly denying anything.”
Peter puts his hands behind his back as he smirks and he says, “You kiddies
shouldn’t be out here.”
“And youshould?” Stiles shoots back with a glare.
Peter merely shrugs. “Half of this preserve is owned by my family.” His smirk
stretches out into a smug grin that’s all teeth and frankly rather frightening.
“Guess which half you happen to be on?”
“He’s right!” Scott squeaks. “Which is why we’re leaving. Right? Stiles?”
“Fine,” Stiles huffs and jumps down from the stump. He aims the flashlight and
his phone back towards the roots. “Let me just take a picture of something.”
His tongue peeks out in concentration as he looks for the insignia again. He
frowns when he can’t find it. “Wait — but it was right there.” He drops to his
knees and leans closer.
There’s nothing.
Stiles sits back on his knees, baffled. He jumps a bit when Peter claps a hand
over his shoulder.
“Come on. It’s time to go,” Peter decides and bodily lifts Stiles like he
weighs nothingbefore righting him on his feet. He shoves Stiles in the
direction of his bike. “Go.”
“But —” Stiles starts to protest and stumbles as Peter keeps shoving at him.
“God, okay!” He marches stormily with Isaac and Scott trailing after him until
they reach their bikes. Stiles isn’t surprised to see Peter’s Lamborghini
rumbling quietly from where it’s parked on the side of the trail. He straddles
his bike and says, “How did you even find us? How did you know we were out
here? Are you patrolling?”
Peter walks backwards towards his car and says, “Let's just say...you’ve got an
unmistakable heartbeat.”
Stiles makes an annoyed face. “That’s not funny.”
“Who’s being funny?” Peter tosses him a sharp smile before he climbs into his
car and makes a gesture for them to start peddling. He trails behind them in
his car as they peddle toward the main road.
“Dude,” Scott pants as he peddles beside Stiles. “He’s kind of scary. Are all
the Hales like that? I mean I heard rumors but I never met any of them. They’re
not all frightening, are they?”
Stiles snorts. “If not worse. Haven’t met all of them, but I’ve met enough, I
think. Though Laura is pretty cool,” he supposes.
Peter follows them all the way back to Scott’s house, where Isaac and Stiles
see him off.
Scott is unquestionably relieved when he notes that his mom’s car is still
missing. He shoots Isaac and Stiles a thumbs-up before he disappears into his
house.
Peter honks his horn gently and makes an impatient gesture for them to continue
on.
Stiles rolls his eyes but he follows after Isaac when he starts peddling off in
the direction of their street.
They roll up to the front lawn sometime later and they toss their bikes down as
Peter pulls up to the curb.
“Go on without me,” Stiles tells Isaac quietly.
Isaac hesitates and glances over Stiles’s shoulder at Peter before he looks
back to Stiles.
“Just go, I’ll be right behind you,” Stiles promises.
Isaac looks back at Peter thoughtfully before he shoves his hands into the
pockets of his jeans and treads toward the back of the house.
Stiles waits until Isaac is out of sight before he walks over to Peter’s car.
Peter lets down his passenger window so Stiles can lean into the space and he
looks at Stiles expectantly.
“So that stuff that Scott said earlier about the — he’s my best friend, okay? I
tell him everything. He’s not going to say anything to anyone else,” Stiles
swears.
Peter drums the fingers of his left hand against the top of his steering wheel
and calmly replies, “I should hope not.”
“He wont,” Stiles insists. “And — neither will I.”
Peter’s gaze flicks over his face as he wears a pensive expression and he says,
“You don’t have to convince me of that.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Because we have to remember that youapproached me with
all of this. So it’s your fault I know so much.”
Peter smirks slowly. “You don’t know nearly as much as you think you do.”
“Ugh, again with the cryptic remarks,” Stiles complains and points a finger at
Peter’s face. “Why don’t you give me the missing pieces to the puzzle then?”
“Now why would I do that?” Peter says because he’s a jerk who doesn’t like to
make things easy for Stiles. “Go inside.”
“Yougo inside,” Stiles mutters before he glances over his shoulder at the
neighbor’s house. “I think they’re witches. Can you confirm this? Because my
dad wont.”
“I don’t think they’re anything,” Peter replies. He barely glances in the
direction of that house.
Stiles shoots him an annoyed look. “Well isn’t there some way you can tell?
You’re the slayer here.”
Peter quirks an eyebrow. “You are very misinformed.”
“Until you tell me something different or offer some other explanation that’s
better than this theory, I’ll keep to this belief, thank you,” Stiles quips,
unapologetic.
Peter sighs. “Go inside.”
“But the witches —”
“I’ll look into it,” Peter interjects impatiently. “Go inside.”
“Fine,” Stiles huffs. He moves to do just that but Peter reaches out really
quickly, quicker than what should be possible, and grabs Stiles’s wrist,
arresting his movement. “What?” he complains. “I can’t actually go inside if
you don’t let me.”
“If I ever find you or your little friends out in the woods during this time of
night again,” Peter says lowly. “I wont hesitate to send our watch dogs after
you.”
Stiles stares at Peter before he says, “Are they — are they really dogs or is
that a metaphor for some other kind of creature because —”
Peter just smirks.
“Okay,” Stiles quickly says. “I got it. Yup. Totallygot it. No more stumbling
onto private property in the dark. Nope.”
Peter releases his wrist, satisfied. “Good. Get some sleep. You’ve got a
lacrosse game tomorrow.”
“What? How do you even —” Stiles watches in frustration as Peter drives off
before he can even get the question out. He grumbles to himself as he makes his
way to the back of the house to return his dad’s flashlight to the toolbox
sitting at the back door. He grows quiet as he makes a stealthy retreat in the
house and up to his room. When he feels like it’s safe, he grumbles to himself,
disappointed that he was so close in finding just what he was looking for. He
knows that the tree may be the key to unlocking so much. The thought swims
around in his mind as he strips out of his clothes and climbs into bed to curl
around Derek’s wolves.
Before he falls asleep, he gets this brief thought of naming them Chaos, Sly,
and Truth.
                                      ---
It’s ironic really how while making breakfast that Tuesday morning he sprains
his wrist. Don’t ask him how he does it because this is Stiles. He can manage
the clumsiest feats without any effort. And it’s not like Coach Finstock is
going to let him do anything but warm the bench, but two daysbefore his
birthday. Who gets a sprained wrist two daysbefore their birthday?
Stiles Stilinski apparently. He’s just lucky it wasn’t his writing hand.
His dad had already left, so he has to fumble with the first aid kit by himself
in a sad attempt of wrapping his own wrist before Isaac descends down the steps
and wordlessly takes over. He wraps Stiles’s wrist like it’s an art form, and
it makes something like distress settle heavily in his stomach when he realizes
that Isaac can do it so well because he is familiar with doing it.
Stiles doesn’t ask as he watches him work. He bites down his tongue until he
can taste blood and doesn’task.
Isaac secures the bandage at a point below Stiles’s wrist with a small metal
clip before he wordlessly stands and switches off the fire on the stove, and
then dumps the burnt bacon still simmering in the pan on the stove in the
garbage. He puts the pan in the sink and turns on the faucet before he grabs
two bowls, two spoons, and the box of organic grainless apple cereal Stiles
tries to force his dad to eat from time to time. He makes Stiles a bowl and
then himself. He pours milk in both bowls, dumping the spoons in before he
takes his bowl to the other side of the table and eats silently.
Stiles feels something warm and fond expand in his chest at Isaac’s
consideration. He turns in his seat and eats his cereal with his uninjured
hand. When he’s done, he cleans up the mess he’s made with the first aid kit
before he returns it to its designated spot under the sink in the upstairs
bathroom. He then shoves all his school work and books into his backpack before
he throws his lacrosse jersey on over his white t-shirt and marvels at himself
in the bathroom mirror, eyeing the ‘24’ and then turning so he can look at his
last name written across the back.
Isaac’s ready to go when he returns to the kitchen, and he’s clutching the
straps of his backpack anxiously.
Stiles locks the front door before they jog down the steps and straddle their
bikes, peddling to Isaac’s school like they usually do every morning. He says,
“Thank you. For my wrist. I...thanks.”
Isaac just looks at him for a long moment before he rolls his bike over to the
rack and locks it. He heads inside without a word.
Stiles watches him go before he starts for his own school.
                                      ---
In AP Biology, Stiles has a hard time paying attention because the wrist of his
left hand aches like it wont quit, and it’s only first period. It also doesn’t
help that he only got about thirty minutes of sleep.
His teacher hands out a pop quiz based on last night’s reading and Stiles is
more than sure that he wont get anything other than a B. He rubs his forehead
and passes his test toward the front when the teacher announces that their time
is up. Then the teacher announces that he’ll be turning on the movie Contagion,
and explains that they’re expected to take notes so they can write a summary
paper about how the movie relates to what their doing in class at the moment.
“It’ll be due Friday, so use the grace period wisely,” Mr. Harris says as he
glares around the room like they’re all the exact kind of furniture he hates.
“Sit where you want.”
Stiles sighs and fishes for a spiral notebook and a pen before he slaps it on
the counter of his station. The lights are turned off and the movie begins to
play on the Promethean board as a light breeze floats through the room from the
floor fan that’s parked by the classroom door slowly rotating from left to
right.
Stiles chews on his bottom lip and bounces his leg under the table as his foot
taps quietly. He fidgets on his stool as he tries to concentrate on writing
down some coherent notes but his wrist aches and aches and aches.
Cora slides into the empty seat next to his with a put-upon sigh and grabs his
injured wrist.
Stiles tenses in surprise, fully expecting her to do something mean like snap
it or apply even more painful pressure.
Cora, true to her bewildering nature, does the exact opposite. She just holds
it loosely with her right hand while she uses her left to take notes.
Stiles straightens when he notices that the pain in his wrist is slowly
subsiding into a dull but ignorable twinge. He shoots her a quizzical look
because Cora’s hand is like a hot brand, even through the bandages.
Cora doesn’t even glance at him when she says, “Human contact helps ease pain.”
“Plausible. But how did you know I was in pain?” Stiles questions, maybe a
little too loudly because some of their classmates turn to look at them and Mr.
Harris glares from behind his desk.
Cora shushes him and replies, “You’re easy to read. Obviously. You make faces.”
“What faces?”
“Very stupid, irritating faces — like you need someone to put you out of your
misery,” Cora grits out and her fingers twitch around his wrist like she’s
resisting the urge to do something violent. “The kind that always make me want
to punch you.”
Stiles clamps his mouth shut and figures he shouldn’t press his luck with this
one. He makes a mental note to research human contact and pain, because Cora is
a Hale and that means something.
He just hasn’t figured out what.
                                      ---
Stiles exits his stupid second period class to find Cora waitingfor him.
Cora shadows him during their next two classes (AP History and English) like
it’s nobody’s business, and every time he begs her off with a promise to go to
the nurse’s office for some Tylenol, she gets this constipated look on her face
and says, “I don’t like the way medicine makes you smell. Now shut up and pay
attention.”
Stiles, considering things, is very curious to know just what the hell that
means and how the hell she knows what medicinesmells like on people. But, of
course, when he tries to ask, she always shuts him down with a mean glare or
ignores him altogether even though she is practically holding his hand.
He can’t win for losing.
Stiles soon finds himself dumped at Laura and Kate’s designated table in the
school’s quad at lunch. They don’t even seem concerned that Cora is pushing him
around.
Laura greets him with a smile and Kate steals his jello without asking.
Cora sits down beside him with her own tray and grips his injured wrist again
as she juggles eating and studying for her AP French class.
Laura snickers at his face.
“Is this not weird? Am I the only one who doesn’t find this weird?” Stiles
questions desperately, almost delirious with how out of the ordinary this
situation is. "Cora Hale is holding my hand but everyone and their grandma
seems oblivious to this oddity. Am I in an episode of the Twilight Zone? I feel
like I'm in an episode of the Twilight Zone."
“Awe, she likesyou,” Kate teases as she goes to town on his jello.
“No,” Stiles disagrees. “She wants to see me trip on my face and co-mingle my
tears with the blood of my broken nose.”
Cora snorts but she doesn’t comment with an affirmation or denial.
"Also, I was going to eat that," Stiles states with a frown.
Kate just says, "Dibs."
"You can't just say dibs after you steal someone's food," Stiles vehemently
argues. "It's unconstitutional!"
Kate just shrugs and licks at her plastic spoon like a kitten licking up milk.
Laura says, “What are your birthday plans?”
Stiles exhales very slowly because apparently they were all just going to
ignore his incredulity. He says, “I don’t know. Haven’t talked to my dad yet.”
“What would you liketo do?” Laura asks.
Stiles shrugs.
Laura huffs. “Fine. Be difficult.” Then she says, “So, you have a game
tonight?”
“Idon’t have a game. I’m just there to play benchwarmer,” Stiles reports. “I
doubt Coach would even let me.” He lifts his injured wrist, the one Cora is
still latchedon to, and shows her what he means.
Derek chooses that moment to stroll up with his right hand in the pocket of his
jeans while he cradles a basketball under his other arm. He frowns when he sees
Stiles and then frowns even harder when he looks at Cora’s hand on his wrist.
Stiles gingerly lowers his injured wrist from view.
Derek sits down on the other side of Laura and furrows his brow before he lifts
them as he looks at Stiles. “What happened to you? Did you trip over a feather
or something?”
Stiles blushes, embarrassed and irritated by Derek’s obvious opinion of his
coordination, or lack thereof. He simply says, “No.” and refuses to elaborate
or confess to what really happened.
Derek just starts twirling his basketball on the pointer finger of his left
hand in a way that seems effortless. He appears to be in a good mood.
“By the way, what’s this I hear about you and some kids stumbling onto our land
last night? Peter says you were all over some tree stump like you were fishing
for gold,” Laura questions as she chows down on a double cheeseburger.
Stiles watches her devour it in fascination. He’s never seen a cheerleader
demolish red meat so enthusiastically. He says, mainly because he feels like
he’s in good company, “Uh — no. I mean yes. But, listen, it wasn’t just any
tree stump. It was a magicaltree stump.”
Kate snorts and says, “Ooh. Crazy.”
Laura jabs Kate in her side with her elbow and says, “What makes you think it’s
magical?”
“Just because,” Stiles mumbles as he pokes at his turkey club sandwich with the
spoon he hadbeen planning on using for the jello. He’s not all that hungry.
Just tired. He yawns and scrubs at his eyes.
Derek tracks his movements closely as he tosses his basketball back and forth
between his hands.
Laura says, “Just because what?”
“I’ve read things. You know. Stuff,” Stiles says, being deliberately cryptic
for once.
Laura grins like she knows and starts in on her thirddouble cheeseburger. She
says, with her mouth full, “You should eat.”
Derek makes a disgusted face. “Gross, Laura. Who could stomach anything with
your manners?”
Laura turns to him and widens her mouth to really give him something to look
at.
Derek scowls and snaps his teeth at her finger when she tries to poke his nose.
Laura just cackles.
“He’s done it again,” Derek says as he stares at Stiles like he’s accusing him
of something. “My Uncle Peter. He’s been in my room. What did he give you this
time?”
“Uh,” is Stiles’s intelligent rebuttal. “A grey wolf? But dude that's, I mean —
how many stuffed animals do you have?”
“Oh Derek never had a shortage of toys when he was little,” Laura answers. “He
likes to cuddle. His most redeeming quality if you were to ask me."
"Weird, cause no one did," Derek grumbles.
Laura ignores him and continues, "You could always find him in a puppy pile
with a whole animal kingdom of plushies.”
Stiles glances over at Derek for confirmation and Derek just shrugs, unashamed.
“So you’re a fan of cuddling?”
Derek gives him a smile that’s all teeth and his gaze is knowing. “So do you,
it seems." He leans forward a little, green eyes brimming with mischief. It
sends a shiver up Stiles's spine. "How are my wolves?”
Stiles flushes all the way down to his collarbone. 
Derek looks unreasonably smug as he watches the reaction. He must know Stiles
has been spooning them every night and his immediate silence probably just
confirms it.
Stiles just hates him so much.
“My jello’s gone,” Kate says in pouty disappointment. “Bored now.”
Stiles pushes his tray over to her when he recovers from his mortification.
Kate starts eating his food without question.
Laura frowns in concern. “You didn’t eat.”
Stiles says, “I’m not hungry.” He rubs tiredly at his eyes again. “I’m too
exhausted anyway.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t be if you weren’t stumbling around the woods like easy
prey,” Derek remarks, unhelpfully.
Stiles mutters, “What I do in the woods at three in the morning is my
business.”
“Unless it’s on ourland,” Derek counters. “Then it’s called trespassing.”
“Yes, thank you.I know. But what I didn’t know was that it was private
property,” Stiles retorts. “Not really my fault.”
“I doubt it,” Derek insists. “You’re clumsy and intrusive. It’s going to get
you killed.”
“Yeah? Well —” Stiles fumbles with a comeback because the nerve of this guy. He
doesn’t even know Stiles. He can’t just make snap judgments like that. As
payback, he jabs him where it hurts and says, “Basketball sucks. It's highly
overrated. And also, you are very mediocre at it.”
Derek bristles, predictably, as his basketball almost goes flying out of his
hands in outrage. He stares at Stiles like he’s the craziest weirdo he’s ever
met. “You — that’s —”
Laura cackles.
Cora even snorts.
Derek glares at them all before he storms off, annoyed.
Stiles pens it down as a win.
                                      ---
In the middle of that last period of the day, Stiles gets called to the main
office. When he gets there, the receptionist merely points to the bench that’s
parked right outside of the guidance counselor’s office.
Paige is already sitting there, fiddling with her phone and looking generally
disinterested.
Stiles sits down beside her and he shoots her a friendly smile that she just
raises a brow at before she ignores him altogether. The response is pretty fair
seeing as how their last interaction wasn’t all that positive.
Paige sighs as she types away on her phone and says, without even looking at
him, “What are you staring at?”
Stiles blinks, suddenly realizing that he’s been staring at her for the past
minute and he says, “Sorry.” Then he says, “Also, sorry about Monday. Kate was
wrong to kick you out. Especially since you were making what sounded like the
most beautiful sounding music I’ve ever heard.”
Paige smirks. “That’s quite an apology.” She puts her phone down and looks at
him while she licks at her braces (prodding mostly at the rubber bands
connected at the sides). “Though, you’re stupid for associating with Kate. You
know she’s bad news right?”
Stiles says, “Are we talking in a Mean Girls type of way or a Spring Break type
of way.”
“Spring Break. Unrated.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. He’s seen the movie more times than he’d like to admit. He
had a (indefinable) thing for Vanessa Hudgens when he was younger. At one time
in his life there was a High School Musical phase. “I wasn’t — we didn’t really
— I don’t know what you think we were doing. We were just talking. She has a
boyfriend.”
“You shouldn’t care what I think,” Paige simply thinks. “And everyone knows
that her and Peter have a very odd relationship, so you might want to stick to
a different argument.”
Stiles is surprised at the little twinge of defensiveness he gets on Peter’s
behalf. But all he says is, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Paige just goes back to typing away on her phone.
“So,” Stiles says because he’s never quite done. “What are you in for?”
Paige thumbs pause over the screen of her smartphone and she says, “You did not
just say that.”
“I did, actually. I say a lot of things,” Stiles remarks. “How long have you
been playing the cello?”
Paige mutters, “Scatterbrain.” Then louder, she says, “Since I was six. My
father is determined to live vicariously through me. I’m expected to enroll
into Juilliard after I graduate. He’s just lucky that I enjoy the cello on my
own.”
Stiles says, “You’re really good.”
“I know.”
“Well,” Stiles says. “I can play a little piano. My mom tried to teach me, but
my attention span became a hindrance. My Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star would
start to sound like A Whole New World midway through and then that would start
sounding like Chop Sticks.”
Paige snorts. “Yes. That is a problem.”
Stiles smiles a little self-deprecatingly.
The door to the guidance counselor’s office opens and a Senior boy walking on
crutches limps out with tears streaming down his face
Stiles becomes a little apprehensive to enter the office when Victoria Argent
steps out and gestures for him and Paige to enter.
Paige sits in one of the cushioned chairs and Stiles sits in the other.
Victoria clicks her way around the desk and seats herself behind it. She
shuffles a few papers before she types away on the keyboard of her computer and
says, “Mr. Stilinski.”
“Present,” Stiles says softly because he would very much like not to be. She’s
a rather frighteningly intimidating woman. It’s hard to believe that sweet,
dimpled Allison came from her loins.
“I’m told by Mrs. Cassidy that you’ve gone to her with a request for a math
tutor,” Victoria says, distracted. She’s eyeing the screen of her computer as
she says, “From what I can see of your grades, you're doing remarkably well in
all of your classes. Outside of Algebra. You’re on the borderline of a D.”
Stiles straightens at the information. “I am?”
Victoria doesn’t repeat herself. She says, “Paige is a Junior who’s succeeded
in advancing all her math electives with the highest completion rate. She has
agreed to tutor you. Are you amenable to this arrangement?”
Stiles glances over at Paige but she’s too busy eyeing Victoria’s name plaque
with an indifferent frown. “Uh, yes.”
“Good,” Victoria simply says and presses down on some keys that causes a set of
papers to expel from the printer she has in the corner of her office. She
stands and clicks her way over to retrieve it before she brings it to Stiles.
“This is an academic contract that you must go over and sign. Then you and her
will come to an agreement about the days on which you will meet. If you fall
out of compliance with these terms, Paige is allowed to drop you as a tutee and
you’ll be forced to enroll into summer school. Likewise, if she fails you as a
tutor, you will be assigned a new one. Understood?”
Stiles nods, already reading through the contract. The terms of it seems pretty
fair, so he signs and dates it.
Paige does the same.
Victoria dismisses them before she moves to retrieve the next student.
As they walk out into the empty halls, Paige says, “Sundays are best for me. I
work part-time, and have recitals all other days. That’s as flexible as I’m
willing to get.”
“Sunday works,” Stiles agrees.
Paige tucks some of her wavy hair behind her ear as she holds out her phone for
him. “Give me your number.” When he does, and she takes it back, she says,
“I’ll text you so you can have my number. Do you know where the town library
is?”
“I can figure it out.”
Paige nods before she abruptly breaks out into a happy smile, looking at a
point over his shoulder. She brushes past him and jogs up to Derek, who greets
her warmly with a hug.
Stiles doesn’t stick around to see them press their lips together.
The ache in his wrist is gradually returning.
                                      ---
Coach Finstock takes one good look at Stiles’s wrist before he shakes his head
and sends him home.
He doesn’t even get to stick around for the game. It sucks. But he doesn’t say
a word as he peddles to the Beacon Hills Police Station. He laughs resentfully
as his eyes begin to water, and the sky starts to rumble above his head. 
Stiles blinks and looks up quickly at the grey clouds that seem to be forming
but not a drop of rain forms. He waits and waits but almost rolls his eyes at
himself when he realizes that nothing will happen. It hasn't probably rained
for decades — why would it start now? He sniffs and the sky rumbles again.
He’s just really frustrated that he can be so easily dismissed — that his value
to the lacrosse team is just so. He scrubs at his eyes before a tear can drop
as he makes it to the front entrance of the station. He shoves his bike on the
rack before he roughly locks it. Then he storms inside and peels off his
lacrosse jersey — the jersey he wore for nothing.
Deputy Tara is there to greet him from behind the front desk with a wry smile.
She informs him that his dad is in his office with Isaac.
Stiles treads all the way to the back of the station where his dad’s office is
located and enters just as his dad is putting on his coat. “Don’t bother,” he
says. “I’m not playing.”
His dad pauses and takes a good look at his face and he just knows. “Awe, hell.
Son —”
Stiles shakes his head sharply before he sits down in one of the cushioned
seats in front of his dad’s work desk.
Isaac is curled up on the couch next to a file cabinet with a schoolbook.
His dad still puts on his coat with a sigh and says, “Let’s go get some victory
ice cream anyway.”
Fifteen minutes later finds them sitting in a booth at Ramona's Ice Cream
Parlor across the street from Ramona’s Whole Foods the biggest supermarket in
town. It makes Stiles wonder just how many buildings are owned by Boyd's
family.
His dad is sitting across from Isaac and Stiles, ignoring the looks of
disapproval Stiles is shooting him for ordering the double whammy sundae.
Stiles just pokes and pokes at his slice of Oreo ice cream cake while Isaac
goes to town on a two-scoop coconut ice cream waffle cone.
His dad says, “I don’t want to give you two mixed signals.”
Stiles frowns as he stabs at a piece of Oreo. “How do you mean?”
“We’ll get to that, but first I want to talk about your wrist. How did you do
that?”
Stiles blushes and mumbles something about "Eggs..." like that explains
everything.
His dad sighs. “Alright. Is this why your coach sent you home?”
Stiles nods.
“That was unfair of him to do. But son, there will be other games. Don’t let
that put you off. Life is going to be plenty full of no’s. You just have to
learn to take them with a grain of salt,” his dad sagely advises.
Stiles nods somberly.
“Good.” Then his dad pins him with a look.
Stiles fidgets. "What?"
"I'll tell you what," the sheriff assures, straightening in his seat. “Now,
don’t think because I’m playing nice by taking you and Isaac out for ice cream
that I’m not going to bring up the fact that one of my deputies saw you two the
other night with Peter Hale trailing behind you in a hard to miss hot red car.
Care to explain why a soon to be fifteen year old and a twelve year old thinks
that curfew or my rules don’t apply to them?”
Stiles nearly chokes on his own spit in surprise.
Isaac tenses beside him and his spoon pauses midway to his mouth.
His dad continues eating his ice cream without letting up on the ‘dad stare of
doom’ he has aimed at them. “I can wait all night,” he informs between bites.
“Apparently so can you.”
Stiles groans and hunches down in the booth. “Dad — it’s totally not — okay, I
admit that it was wrong of me to do. But Isaac deserves total immunity because
I forced him to go —”
“I highly doubt that you could force him into doing anything he didn’t want to.
He may not seem it, but this kid is stubborn,” his dad interjects. “You’re
persuasive, but you aren’t as persuasive as you think. If Isaac didn’t want to
go, he would have stayed firmly in that bed where he belonged. The problem here
is that he’s become entirely too fond of you and looks up to you like you’re
the second coming.”
Isaac flushes and fidgets but he keeps his silence.
Stiles lets that sink in because heavens above Isaac likeshim. He has proofnow.
He tries so very hard not to preen.
By the flat look his dad shoots him, he doesn’t do a good job. “You realize
that being older means being more responsible.”
“The tree —”
“I don’t even want to hear about the tree stump, and yes, I had a little talk
with Peter Hale when he came into the station for a different matter. He seems
to agree with me that you acted irresponsibly.”
Stiles is going to stranglePeter.
“And what’s worse is that you put Scott and Isaac in harm’s way. Anything could
have happened,” his dad continues. “With that being said, and because I
consider myself a fair man, startingafter your birthday, you're grounded until
further notice.”
Stiles’s jaw drops.
“You too, Isaac. And believe me, I have plenty for you two to do during spring
break. I’ll be leaving a list. There’s a lot of yard work I haven’t gotten
around to but I’m sure you will,” his dad says.
Stiles looks to Isaac for some back up but he’s just accepting his fate
gracefully. He shakes his head sharply at Stiles in warning as he keeps his
gaze pinned to his lap.
Stiles closes his mouth and swallows down his rising protests before he crosses
his arms and sulks.
“Smart kids,” his dad praises. “Finish your ice cream. It might be a while
before you get anything good like this again.”
Stiles just stabs at it and firmly believes that his dad is enjoying this too
much.
So unfair.
He fishes for his phone and types angrily while he still has the luxury of
using it.
Stiles texts:Way to have my back you dick!!
Peter responds::))
I got grounded indefinitely because of you and your stupid car and your stupid
mouth!!
:))
You better not show your face for two decades!!
:))
I mean it Peter!!
:))
You’re dead to me!!
:((
***** grounded *****
There’s an orange cat.
You know, one of those neighborhood cats you always see around?
The thing about it though is that it’s twice the size of a normal domesticated
cat. Even more so for a street cat.
Or is it an alley cat? Stiles has trouble remembering these things.
Look, the point is that there’s an orange cat that Stiles always sees hanging
around. Maybe not hangingaround, hanging around, but, more like stalking. Like
clockwork, every night around eight, it’ll sit across the street on the corner
under the glow of a streetlamp and stare with its little cat eyes at the
neighbor’s house (the one with the witches) and also at Stiles’s house.
It will sit there on its little hind legs on that curb like a king would on a
throne and stare for a full hour,okay? Stiles doesn’t know any other alley cats
that do stuff like that.
It’s Beacon Hills, sure, but still.
This type of thing is turning out to be a commodity.
Stiles notices the cat maybe a day after the next-door neighbors move in.
Then circumstances arise which cause him to forget the whole bizarreness of
this orange cat.
But it comes back later to bite him. Boy does it come back to bite him. Okay,
so maybe not literally but you get the point.
                                      ---
It’s late Wednesday night and Stiles, Isaac, and Scott are camped out in
Stiles’s living room in front of the big screen TV as they marathon episodes of
Mighty Morphin Power Rangers off of Isaac’s profile on the sheriff’s Netflix
account.
Melissa and his dad had graciously allowed Scott (also grounded, his dad
spilled the beans to Melissa) to spend the night over since neither of them
would be able to be sociable for a while. Seeing as how Stiles’s birthday is
only the very next day, his dad had taken the three of them to the store so
they could get their fill of sugary confections and salt-loaded snacks.
His dad is the best, and Stiles savors the generosity while it’s still there
because come Friday, there will be no more Mr. Nice Dad.
Isaac is crunching his way through a tall bag of pretzel sticks and M&M'S while
he stares at the screen in rapt fascination. This kid has laser focus.
Stiles is sprawled out on the couch as he goes to town on a bag of sour gummy
worms and skittles combined. His body is beginning to vibrate with the sugar
rush, and he's close to seeing colors swimming in his vision. 
Scott leans back against the edge of the couch from where he’s sitting on the
floor by Stiles’s feet with a bowl of caramel popcorn in his lap, and another
double stuffed Oreo in the fingers of his right hand as he squirts yet another
swirling tower of spray cheese on top, gross.
“Sorry about getting you in trouble,” Stiles mumbles as he licks sour sugar
from his fingers.
Scott shrugs as he jams the cookie in his mouth, along with a handful of
popcorn. He swallows and says, “It’s okay. I don’t mind. We’re kids. I think
we’re supposed to give our parents a hard time so they can dish out punishment.
Isn’t that how it all goes?”
Stiles smiles to himself before he knocks a socked foot into the back of
Scott’s head. “You’re so deep, dude,” he jokes.
“Dude, I know! I have amazing depths,” Scott retorts before he stands and
tackles Stiles onto the floor, still surprisingly mindful though of Stiles’s
sprained wrist.
Isaac ignores their antics and turns up the volume on the TV so he can drown
out their grunting laughter and the sound of their bodies thumping around and
bumping into furniture.
                                      ---
The morning of Stiles’s birthday finds him at Ramona’s Old Fashioned Eatery,
sword-fighting Scott with the use of their utensils as his dad sighs from where
he’s sitting across from them in a booth by the window.
Isaac is cutting into his pancakes beside him and generally acting unmoved by
Scott and Stiles’s childish behavior.
The sheriff is treating them all to a big breakfast before he herds the three
of them off to school.
Stiles gives Scott an affectionate bro hug before he lightly hip-checks Isaac
with an unapologetic grin that Isaac rolls his eyes at before he wordlessly
heads inside the school.
Scott stumbles after him as they meet up with Lydia and Allison.
Stiles quickly climbs into his dad’s squad car and tells him to go before he
can get ambushed by his friends because there is no wayScott wont run his big
mouth about the fact that it’s Stiles’s birthday.
His dad drops him off in front of the school five minutes later without even
divulging what the plans are for the evening.
Stiles is never a patient guesser. He doesn't dwell on it long because he’s
navigating the crowded halls, keeping a wary eye out for Laura or Cora, or god
forbid, Peter.
When he reaches his locker without incident, he lets himself relax as he enters
the combination. The lock pops free and he opens the small metal door — Pow!—
only to have a handheld confetti cannon blast off at his face and cover the
whole upper half of his body with silly string, glitter, and blue and white
confetti.
Stiles spits and blinks glitter from his eyes as people titter around him,
pointing in amusement and watching as he tries to brush himself off. It’s no
use really so Stiles gives up with a long-suffering sigh and grabs the books he
needs for his first and second period class.
When he reaches his biology class, he stomps to the back and dumps his confetti
and glitter covered books and notebooks onto his station as he fumes. He’ll
have some choice words for Laura.
Cora comes striding into the room three seconds before the bell rings and she
has on her marching band uniform. When she sees Stiles, she smirks.
Stiles glares. He has a gut feelingthat Cora is the one responsible for his
little locker fiasco.
When Cora doesn’t stop smirking the whole period, ignoring his glares this time
around, he feels like that just really confirms it.
                                      ---
During second period, Stiles doesn’t bother taking notes because he’s too busy
replying to all the texts blowing up his phone from family and friends. Lydia,
Allison, Erica, and Malia sending him birthday emoticon after birthday
emoticon, like they want to torture him. Boyd’s texts are mainly straight to
the point: hb man enjoy it ;), as are Jackson’s: congratulations for making it
this far Stilinski your not a complete moron!. Danny’s text is genuinely
thoughtful: happy birthday. hope you spend it well. if you don’t then you have
plenty more to look forward to (:.
Stiles doesn’t even know how Mason and Liam got his number but he suspects it’s
Malia doing, and all their texts says is happy birthday dude!!!and not much
else.
Midway through class, the school’s speaker system comes to life and a voice
says, “Good morning, Beacon Hills High students and staff. I was paid one
hundred and fifty bucks by a Peter Hale to give a shout out to freshman Stiles
Stilinski. Happy birthday, Stiles. Everyone please show Stilinski today on this
day of his birthday some love. The —”
“What are you doing?! You can’t be in here!”
“Grab the microphone, Barbara!”
“I’m trying, he’s struggling — don’t you run from me young man! That’s a
detention!”
“For god sakes, turn it off. It’s still on!”
The speakers screech and everyone cringes before they turn slowly to look at
Stiles, who groans and sinks in his seat as he covers his reddening face with
his injured hand.
Mrs. Cassidy, in rare form, says, “Well, since our time has already been
wasted, we might as well wish Mr. Stilinski a very happy birthday. Make it
good, this'll be the only exception.”
Everyone snickers as they just do just that. They hoop, and holler, and cheer.
It's the worst.
And Stiles?
Stiles is going to strangle the lifeout of Peter.
                                      ---
It doesn’t get better.
Stiles feels like the butt of a joke as he cruises through the hallways, only
to be patted on the back or acknowledged in some kind of way with all sorts of
colorful birthday well-wishes. That staged announcement has officially put
Stiles on the scope of everyone’s radar.
This is not how he wanted to be noticed.
And Cora is just yucking it up, smirking insufferably at him from her side of
the room during their next two shared classes together.
Stiles glares at the front of the room, his grip so tight on a pencil that it
threatens to snap.
Just like him.
                                      ---
At lunch it gets even worse,okay?
So much worse.
Laura and her whole cheerleading team climb on top of the lunch tables to do a
choreographed — are you utterly serious —dance that Laura loudly announces is
dedicated to her favorite birthday boy, oh god, why?
Stiles flushes all the way down to his toes as a few junior varsity players
from both the lacrosse and basketball team carry over a small cake in the shape
of 24 with fifteenlit candles as Laura and her evil mob of cheerleaders dance
and dance and cheer to the beat of Katy Perry’s Birthday.
Stiles is mortified. His body is so hot with his blushing that he’ll soon melt
into his shoes with the force of his mortification.
And you know what Derek does? That stupid plushie loving jerk records the whole
scene with his phone as Cora cackles with her bandmates, wiping literal tears
of glee from her eyes.
Stiles finally figures out what the Hales are.
They are demons.
                                      ---
Stiles has never been so happy to see the end of a school day. His arms are
loaded with gift bags, a gigantic stuffed toy in the form of a blue and orange
basketball (Derek really thinks he’s being funny with that one), and balloons.
It wont fit in his locker so he has to carry it around with him, and if
everyone wasn’t already paying attention to him, well they are now, which
really isn’t helping his case.
He gets that Laura means well, but he could have done without all the razzle-
dazzle. He really could have. They'll have to talk about this at some point.
It’s more than a relief when the last period of school is spent with every
student crammed in the school’s gymnasium for a pep rally. For one blissful
hour, Stiles isn’t the center of attention.
The focus is on both the basketball and the swim teams, who both have home
games tonight. They announce each player and the students make a show of
cheering (as it is a point of showing school pride). The cheering gets
earsplitting when Derek is announced, and Stiles has to roll his eyes in
grudging amusement as Derek cups a hand to his ear, pretending not to be able
to hear them chanting his name. He’s got such a showy and smug attitude as he
shoulders the student body attention like a king that’s due his praise. He can
only imagine what Derek must be like at an actualgame.
Soon after, Cora and the rest of the marching band steal the show when they
perform a mash-up of Nicki Minaj’s Superbassand Maroon 5’s Payphone, along with
Laura and her squad, who dance to the rhythm of their playing.
Laura and Kate do the kind of backflips gymnasts would be jealous of while Cora
takes on a solo that blows all other tuba routines out of the water.
When the crescendo of sound ends, Stiles claps along with everyone else because
that was one impressive display of entertainment.
Stiles is almost sorry that he’s going to miss the games tonight.
Almost.
                                      ---
His dad takes him and Isaac out for the best tacos in town at Ramona’s Taco
Treasure (Boyd's family must be loaded) after they swing by the house so Stiles
can deposit his gifts in his room for further inspection later. It is more than
he expected to get, but he's never really been all that materialistic to begin
with (except when it comes to books and comics).
Stiles gorges himself on chicken and steak tacos as his dad looks on in
amusement while he and Isaac share a platter of loaded nachos.
His dad thinks its really funny when he pays a mariachi band to sing happy
birthday in Spanish to Stiles as he takes pictures, which he claims will be
framed and placed on top of his desk at the station for all to see.
When it seems that Stiles has had his fill of both tacos and the mariachi band,
his dad sends them on their way. He says, “Okay, kiddo. Present time.”
Stiles frowns and takes the thin piece of paper his dad hands over to him. “Uh,
dad — not to sound ungrateful but — I thought you said I wasn’t on punishment
until tomorrow and this seems like —”
“Just look at the paper,” his dad says, forever fondly exasperated.
Stiles frowns again as he straightens the wrinkles out of the paper so he can
read it. He blinks.
It’s a receipt.
For a driver’s ed class.
In the summer.
His dad chuckles as Stiles makes his way around the table and thanks him
excitedly with a smothering hug. He hugs Stiles back before pushing him away
gently. “Let Isaac give you his gift,” he says.
Stiles sits down and looks at Isaac expectantly.
Isaac hands him a pack of his favorite flavor of Fruit Roll-Ups, and a limited
edition Spider-Man comic, the one he distinctly remembers yammering about
during dinner three nights afterIsaac first moved in. The fact that he had
actuallybeen listening gets Stiles so choked up that he doesn't even know what
to say.
Isaac waits patiently regardless.
Stiles clears his throat several times before he says, “How — how did you get
this?"
Isaac gives a humble shrug but taps the side of his nose before ducking his
gaze.
"I just — I cant believe —" Stiles snaps his mouth shut before squaring his
shoulders. "Can I hug you? I really want to hug you. The love I feel in my
heart is demanding that we hug it out.”
Isaac keeps his gaze low, and he grins a little shyly, but he seems pleased
that Stiles really likes his gift.
“Or I could just hug you spiritually,” Stiles swears, not wanting to make Isaac
uncomfortable by forcing physical contact on him, even if it is affectionate
gratitude. He's doing his best to learn Isaac's boundaries.
Isaac huffs but he doesn’t say anything as he reaches out and drags Stiles's
plate closer so he can start in on the leftover steak tacos that Stiles hasn’t
gotten to.
Stiles is so grateful to him for his gift that he hardly complains (as he would
normally because tacos are his thing and he always means serious business when
it comes to it), but Isaac gets a free pass.
Just this once.
On their way out of the restaurant, Stiles recognizes the face of one of his
classmates from his last period class attached to one of those ‘M I S S I N G’
signs tacked to the restaurant’s bulletin board.
It dwells in the back of his mind for the rest of the night.
                                      ---
His dad doesn’t let them sleep in on the Friday that follows Stiles’s birthday.
He herds them down into the kitchen and confiscates their phones, pointing to
the newly installed house phone he has on the small counter between the stove
and the refrigerator. Its a coral colored phone (made entirely of cheap shiny
plastic), and it practically looks like some kind of toy phone from the 90's.
The spiral cord connecting the phone to it's base seems to go on for miles and
miles. You could practically jump rope with it.
Stiles feels inspired to tell his dad so, but since he's already in hot water,
he refrains from doing so.
The sheriff also confiscates their laptops (including the brand new tablet he
surprised Stiles with last night when they got home). He changes the password
on the Wi-Fi, and on his Netflix account; locks every channel on their digital
cable apartfrom C-Span, and removes all the game consoles from the living room
because he is a crafty man. Since he already wouldn’t let Isaac nor Stiles have
a TV in their room to begin with, there was no need to confiscate anything
else.
“I will be calling periodically to ensure that you are where you should be.
Once at noon, again at three, and once or twice before I come home,” the
sheriff announces. “I should hear twovoices when I call, understood?”
Stiles and Isaac nod drowsily, still wiping the sleep out of their eyes as they
stretch with jaw-cracking yawns before blinking away the moisture in their
eyes.
It’s spring break and they’re up at six in the morning.
Being grounded sucks.
“Notice that I have written a handful of household chores and yard work on the
white board listed under your names,” his dad goes on to say as he gestures to
the refrigerator like a model would to a brand new car on some kind of game
show with glossy prizes. “I expect them to be done by the time I come home
tonight, which will be around seven. Is that understood?”
Stiles and Isaac straighten at the sheriff's very pointed tone and nod again.
The sheriff nods, satisfied. “Make this easier on yourself, boys. If I get the
feeling that you’ve learned your lesson, I might just grant you early release.
It depends. Devices have to be earnedback.” He exits the house without another
word.
Stiles and Isaac go their separate ways and start in on their chores. It's
alright at first, but Stiles gets anxious after a while just being by himself.
Now that he's gotten used to having Isaac around, he's become kind of content
with not always being at home by himself. So once or twice he'll (as subtly as
he can) check up on Isaac and see what his progress is for his half of the
chores (mainly just to reassure himself that the preteen is still there).
If Isaac notices, he says nothing about it — as he does with most things.
By noon, Stiles’s got a good portion done and he and Isaac are standing by the
house phone in the kitchen with the sheriff on the other end. Stiles talks and
Isaac just hums without saying actual words. When his dad is satisfied that
they’re where they should be, he hangs up.
The completion of all of their assigned chores happens around four, at which
time, Stiles tries to proactively think of what they can do to kill time since
all their electronic devices have been sequestered.
No one should have to lounge around in the living room, bored out of their
minds as they stare at the walls like zombies while C-Span drones on in the
background. This is more government than what their young minds deserve.
“That’s it,” Stiles says, peeling himself from the couch. “I can’t take this
anymore. My mind wasn’t made to be idle. I'd rather be forced to search for a
piece of hay in a needle-stack — or is it needle in a haystack? Whatever, still
applies.”
Isaac says nothing from where he’s curled up in the armchair with a string of
mozzarella he's idly chewing on but he watches Stiles pace the living room
floor with flailing arms.
“We have to do something. Something other than just waiting for my dad to get
home,” Stiles moans, wincing when he accidentally knocks his knee into the
corner of the coffee table. He hops around, gripping his knee with both hands
before the sting of the impact dulls down into nothing. Then he resumes his
pacing and says, “Here, throw out some ideas. Just throw them at me. Anything
on your mind, just swing it my way.”
Isaac stares at him blankly as he bites off another piece from his mozzarella
string.
“Awesome,” Stiles replies, clapping his hands together. “Those all sound like a
fun ideas, but for now, we’re going to put that in the ‘maybe pile’.”
Isaac huffs in amusement, but he doesn't quite roll his eyes.
Stiles bounces on the soles of his feet. “I would suggest swimming but we don't
have a pool and even if we did, well, I don’t know how to, so I’m not ready to
die anytime soon. Um. But I think there’s a trampoline in the garage. It’s not
put together but we can put it together. It’s pretty wide so the setup might
take a while.”
Isaac shrugs but that's enough of a green light for Stiles.
The assembly of the trampoline takes approximately an hour because none of the
instructions are in English, and lucky for them, Stiles knows enough French to
get a general idea of where everything is supposed to go.
His dad comes home with Chinese takeout and finds them bouncing up and down, or
flipping (mostly Isaac is because Stiles doesn’t have the coordination to flip)
on the rectangle trampoline in the back of the house. “Be careful,” he warns,
voice colored with fatherly concern. “You’ve already got a sprained wrist. No
need to add to that.”
“Dad, it’s cool. It’s cooler than cool. It's ice cold,” Stiles pants as he
bounces. “We’ve totally safety-proofed it!” He points to the net enclosure
fixed to the edges of the trampoline.
His dad looks slightly skeptical but he shakes his head in dubious approval and
disappears inside.
“Do that flip again,” Stiles excitedly begs to Isaac and cheers when the
preteen does a perfect layout.
Isaac gives a showy bow that hides his small smile and Stiles laughs as he
keeps cheering as much as Isaac keeps flipping.
After dinner, Stiles talks Isaac into camping out with him on the trampoline
since it’s the perfect weather for it. They alternate between jumping around
their blankets and pillows, to thumb wrestling (Isaac hasn’t got a chance,
Stiles is pro at this), before they slip into some heated rounds of rock-paper-
scissors (Stiles doesn’t stand a chance because apparently Isaac is pro at
this).
From there they settle down side by side and gaze up at a cloudless starry sky.
Stiles points out different constellations in no real order and Isaac follows
his finger as it jumps from star to star like a cat would if you jingled some
string in front of it. He quiets down after a while and hums as he drums his
fingers against his chest. He only notices fifteen minutes later that Isaac has
fallen into a peaceful slumber beside him.
Isaac’s lying on his stomach and clinging to his pillow like he’s afraid it’ll
be taken from him, as he does with most of his things.
It makes Stiles wonder sometimes.
He traces his eyes over the burn marks covering a good portion of Isaac’s face
and neck, the delicate scarring of pale flesh looks almost pink and soft like
an unripe peach. He gets this brief swell of greedy affection for the preteen,
before it morphs into anger at how someone could treat or hurt Isaac in any
way. Maybe it’s selfish or wrong of him to be glad that Isaac’s family is in
jail, especially since he doesn’t know the whole story.
He kind of doesn’t want to.
Right before he falls asleep himself, he lets himself think about how much it’s
going to suck to be on punishment when there’s no school, but he’s also
grateful he’s not spending it alone.
                                      ---
No, but here’s the thing.
Isaac is awesome. Especially when he goes along with things without questioning
it. Not that he speaks much, or at all — Stiles isn’t going to push — but he’s
really enjoyable.
Here’s why:
After they finish some light yard work that Saturday morning, Stiles gets this
idea that they should do some prank calls. It’s one in the afternoon and
they’re sitting side by side on the kitchen floor.
Isaac has a phone book in his lap and he dials whatever number he wants to
before he hands over the receiver. He’s also the one conducting the script for
the prank calls using the whiteboard to wordlessly communicate what he wants
Stiles to say (and boy does this kid have quite the imagination).
Stiles thinks Isaac is a comedy genius because he’ll have Stiles say things
like, “Listen, buddy. Let’s get down to brass tacks here. There is — and
firstly, let me just say I’m not blaming or accusing in you in any way — but
somebody just keeps calling here and threatening to shave my poodle.”
The person on the other end starts fussing and Stiles has to cover his mouth as
he snickers.
Isaac has an amused grin working its way onto his face as he continues to write
on the white board. He aims the face of the whiteboard at Stiles and points.
Stiles nods quickly, clears his throat, and continues, “Sir! Sir! Sir, that is
a prize dog and if anyone shaves my poodle we won’t be able to go to the
nationals this year. Do you know what that will do to my reputation? To my
family’s reputation? I come from a long line of poodle breeders, sir. My father
was a poodle breeder, my grandfather was a poodle breeder, and his father was a
poodle breeder. Try to understand — no, no, sir, listen. Are you some kind of
new age cat lover? Is that what this is? Are you in on it too? Are you working
for the cats?”
The person hangs up and Stiles falls over, choking back tears as Isaac hunts
for another number so they can do it again.
It’s a woman this time and Isaac scribbles out a script on the whiteboard and
makes Stiles say, “This is Obadiah from the cable company and I am calling to
ask who in your house is downloading adult movies? Ma’am — ma’am, no — listen,
I’m looking at it right now. Our system is showing that someone is downloading
thousands of man on horse films and we are going to have to suspend your
service.”
The woman on the phone starts screaming accusations at her husband and Stiles
hangs up just as he starts to lose it.
They keep this up until his dad calls at three to check up on them. He seems
amused and confused, if not slightly concerned, as to why Stiles keeps gasping
out giggles as Isaac huffs out quiet little laughs. He hangs up on them when he
can get no explanation and that’s the end of that.
Stiles says, “We should play fruit poker.”
Isaac says nothing but he shrugs.
Stiles learns to take that as the affirmation it is. He grabs a bag of red
seedless grapes, and literally counts every single one and eats the last
because otherwise it’ll be an uneven number before he divides it between them.
Isaac may be better at fruit poker than he anticipated, but Stiles gets his
pride back when they switch over to UNO.
Stiles is king at UNO.
Isaac takes his losses with a grain of salt, quietly eating his share of
winnings while he watches Stiles organize the UNO cards by number and color for
no apparent reason after their last game.
After his dad calls around seven to say that he might not make it back tonight
(while ignoring Stiles’s prying questions of why that is), Stiles decides to
show Isaac how to make Mexican pizza with chili-spiced black-bean puree,
tomatoes, olives, shredded lettuce and low-fat Jack cheese on a whole-wheat
crust.
Isaac is an astute listener, and he seems to pick up on Stiles’s instructions
really easily, so Stiles makes a mental note to cook with him more often.
They end the night camping in Isaac’s bedroom as Stiles looms on his knees by
the window that faces the house next door and uses his dad’s binoculars to spy
on the next door neighbors while Isaac lounges on top of his bed with a comic
he’s borrowed from Stiles’s modest collection.
Stiles says, “I swear to god, they’re Witches. Or Casters. Definitely not
Wiccan, though. There were a lot of those at my old school and they were a
peaceful bunch. Did do a lot of protesting about the lack of Vegan options in
the school cafeteria. Other than that...”
Isaac hums, which is major progress in Stiles’s books because he’s making
sounds now — sounds at Stiles. He usually only bothers with sounds when his dad
is involved.
Stiles is weirdly pleased that their relationship has progressed from nonverbal
to slightly but still kind of nonverbal. He says, “But these
guys...ladies...persons...I mean, them,or they — it’s like they never leave the
house or come outside. Like ever. And I definitely never have seen them in the
daylight. God, I wish I could look this stuff up. There’s something wrong with
them.”
His dad had taken his encyclopedia of folklore and mythology as part of his
punishment.
Stiles is pretty much out of luck until further notice. He glares through the
binoculars and looks from window to window. “This isn’t just agoraphobia either
because I can tell the difference between — oh dude, dude!”
The neighbor’s back door swings open and two black boars come shuffling out.
Isaac is instantly at his side with a concerned but curious frown as he peers
down into the backyard next door.
Stiles hands him the binoculars and they both watch the fat boars hobble down
the steps and up the side of the house before they disappear out of sight down
the street.
“What the hell was that?” Stiles asks. “Is that — do you think that was them?
Did they shapeshift into some pigs? How evil. At least, I think so.”
Isaac huffs and hands him back the binoculars so he can return to his spot on
the bed.
“I mean it,” Stiles grumbles as he watches the house through the binoculars.
“They’re up to something. This is serious!"
Isaac makes himself comfortable on his bed and resumes reading the comic in his
hands.
Stiles frowns in disappointment. "Man, why is no one taking this to heart but
me? And there's only so much I can do now that we're grounded. And if — if I
can’t follow them, then I’ll wait and see if they come back as themselves.”
Isaac doesn't comment on this plan.
Stiles stays faithfully by that window all night, even long after Isaac tucks
in for bed.
The black boars don’t return until dawn, fur caked with mud and something else
Stiles can’t quite make out.
His gut is telling him that he needs to keep an eye on this.
                                      ---
Sunday afternoon finds Stiles at the Beacon Hills Library. It’s the biggest
library he’s ever seen. Okay, maybe not the biggest, but it’s definitely in the
top 100.
When Stiles explains to his dad that he needs to leave the house for tutoring,
his dad just drops him and Isaac off and says, “I’ll be back in an hour.”
before he drives off to do weird dad stuff (whatever that entails).
Isaac goes straight to the manga/comic section while Stiles marches over to the
reference desk to ask the lady sitting behind it if she can direct him to the
study room reserved under Paige’s name.
The room is located on the fourth floor.
Paige is typing away on her phone when Stiles arrives and she doesn't look up
as she points to the round table where she has a range of practice sheets
spread out.
Stiles sighs and sits down before he gets to work. It takes him thirty minutes
to complete all five worksheets, and ten minutes for Paige to go over them with
a contemplative frown.
Paige says, “This is terrible.”
“I know.”
Paige snorts and says, “Now I have an idea of what you need help with.”
“Everything?” Stiles jokes and sits up as she starts making corrections with a
strongly scented red marker.
Paige explains the corrections as she goes, and then she copies them onto some
flashcards so he can take it home with him and study it. She then goes over
them again until she feels confident that he understands.
Stiles is relieved to see that he is actually getting it, which makes him only
trust even more in Paige’s capability.
Paige gathers her things and says, “Same time next week. Bring all the homework
you've done so far.”
Stiles nods and watches her leave with her gaze back on her phone again (in the
back of his mind, he notices Derek's name flash across the screen). But he
hardly gives it any thought as he looks at the clock on the wall and is
surprised to see that he still has five minutes until his dad comes to collect
them. So he wanders down to the first floor and eyes the bulletin board.
He sees that same ‘M I S S I N G’ sign from the other night crammed between
three other ones. An alarm goes off in his head coaxing him to take notice, and
before he can let himself think about it, he’s glancing around discreetly
before he yanks down the signs, folds them, and pockets them.
He doesn’t let himself forget to look up the Hales in the phonebook when he
gets home so he can somehow get ahold of Peter.
The number listed is disconnected.
Stiles tries to talk his dad into giving him his phone back but to no avail.
Those folded missing signs he has in the back pockets of his jeans feel like
tiny anchors.
He resigns to the fact that he’ll have to wait it out.
                                      ---
Monday afternoon goes like this:
Stiles is sitting out on his front porch steps with the Sudoku book Paige
forced on him when Erica, Lydia, and Allison pull up and climb out of Mrs.
Martin’s car. She waves at Stiles briefly from through the passenger window
before she starts barking into her phone like she’s screaming at the
actualphone and not the person on the other end of it.
Erica tries to creep up on Stiles and scare him (with no luck) while Allison
shoots him a dimpled smile and knocks her fist lightly into his shoulder.
Lydia doesn’t say much of anything. She’s got bags under her eyes. She seems
really subdued.
Stiles can probably guess why that is. He’s heard from Scott a while back that
Lydia’s folks weren't doing so great, and it was looking like divorce was
inevitable. He feels bad for Lydia. That kind of thing can suck.
“You guys are such losers for getting grounded during spring break,” Erica
complains as she aims the slingshot in her hand at the leaves of the large tree
in the Miller’s yard next door. She looks like a female version of Bart
Simpson. “This is like visiting a friend in prison. And I would know — I’ve
actually done that.”
“Why does that not even surprise me?” Stiles puts his Sudoku book down and
gives them all his full attention. “Where’s the rest of the gang?”
“Well, as you already know, Scott is at the hospital with his mom because she
doesn't trust him by himself now that he’s grounded. We sat with him for a
quick second before Ms. McCall chased us off. Man, Scott was sobored, he looked
close to tears,” Erica rambles and she sounds heavily amused. Her gaze is still
focused on that tree though, like she’s waiting for something. “Boyd and his
family went to Haiti for some kind of family reunion. While Malia is
vacationing in Mexico in Cancun with her family. Danny and Jackson haven’t seen
the outside of a workout gym, and we’re just here with you in all your grounded
lameness.”
Stiles says, “Don’t be rude.”
“Don’t break curfew and get caught,” Erica retorts cleverly as she looks at him
and releases the sling, sending a stone flying at a speed faster than a dart
shot from a tranquilizer gun.
There’s a pained squawk, followed by the collapse of an owl.
Erica grins triumphantly, jamming her slingshot in her back pocket and stalks
towards it like she plans on ripping it apart with her delicately slim fingers
and eating it.
“Oh, come on, Erica,” Allison complains, looking a little green. “You haveto
stop doing that.”
Erica shrugs, licking at her front teeth like she's trying to root out a piece
of food, and cocks her head as she pokes the immobile bird with her foot.
“What? It’s just a bird. Oh, wait — I forgot who I was talking to. My bad, Ms.
Viola Vegetarian.”
Allison glares as her cheeks warm with a healthy shade of red. "You can be such
a dick sometimes," she complains.
“This is very true. However, how do you know I didn’t just balance the scales
of nature? You wouldn’t yell at the owl for eating a rat, which I’m sure he
did,” Erica says rubbing at the tip of her nose as if to rid herself of an
itch. She shrugs at them all like she's made a valid point. “Whenever my dad
takes me and my brothers hunting, he always says that there are no rules in the
Wild Kingdom. No guilt in the Circle of Life. Survival of the fittest. You all
know how that saying goes.”
“We’re not in the wild kingdom, and the Millers will call the cops on you if
you don’t get off their lawn,” Stiles warns lightly, making a face when Erica
picks up the dead owl like it’s no big deal before launching it onto the roof
of the Millers house and out of sight. “You’re bad.”
Erica grins and shapes her hands into guns before shooting invisible bullets
his way. Her grin widens when he goes along with it, pretending to be hit as he
jerks his body with a pained sound. “The apex predator shows no mercy,” she
intones with a deep voice.
Allison rolls her eyes as she drops down in the space to Stiles’s left. “So, um
— where’s Isaac?” she asks, maybe a little too casually.
“In the house. Napping,” Stiles replies and willfully ignores the way she keeps
glancing at his front door like she wants to go inside and find him. “We made
some coconut ginger snaps and I think it wore him out.”
“Ooh, I want some,” Erica says and grabs Allison by the hand so she can drag
the brunette in with her. “Where is it?”
“Kitchen table, and sure, go ahead into my house. Make yourselves at home,”
Stiles mutters, but mostly to himself since the two girls have already
disappeared inside. He sighs and shakes his head before he notices that Lydia
is just standing there at the base of the steps, her gaze pinned to the house
next door with this sort of haunted look. “Lydia?”
Lydia twitches as her eyes begin to water. Quietly, almost like a whisper, she
says, “Do you hear that?”
Stiles frowns with concern. “What?”
“That,” Lydia insists lowly as her hands open and close at her sides. “Don’t
you hear it? The whispers. Like they're in the trees. Voices of children.
Weeping.”
Stiles stands and tries to listen. He can’t hear anything other than the
sprinklers from across the street and the lawn mower humming loudly from two
houses over. He walks down the steps until he’s right in front of her but she
doesn’t look at him. “What whispers, Lydia? Are you talking about my neighbor's
house?”
Lydia shakes her head as she folds her trembling lips together in a flat line.
Her gaze is clouded in dread. Her shoulders start to quiver.
Stiles reaches out to touch her. “Lydia — what whispers? What are —”
“I have to go,” Lydia says quickly, flinching away. She seems at a loss, like
she’s not altogether there. Her gaze is still unfocused. But more than
anything, she appears freaked out. “I have to — can you tell them to come on or
I’m leaving with — without them. I have to leave.” She turns and strides
quickly to her mother’s car.
Stiles watches her wrench open the door and climb in. She stares straight ahead
as she rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth before she claps
her hands over her ears. Her mother immediately kills the call she's on to rest
her hands on Lydia's shoulders, and it looks almost like she's trying to talk
her daughter through a panic attack.
Erica and Allison come back out on their own.
“It’s not —" Stiles is a little thrown. His coherency is escaping him. "Lydia’s
not feeling good, I don’t think,” he announces as he turns to look to them. "I
don't really know what happened. She said she could hear —" He shakes his head.
"I don't know what she said," he lies.
Erica’s cramming two cookies in her mouth and shrugs like she could care less
as she wipes crumbs from the corner of her lips.
Allison looks towards the car with a furrowed brow, though. “Okay — yeah, okay.
We’ll see you later, Stiles,” she says starting down the steps and brushing
past him. “Erica, come on. We have to go.”
“God,” Erica complains as she grudgingly follows. “Lydia having another one of
her episodes again? I’m so sick of this. She needs like, professional help or
something. She's always been so twitchy. I mean I get that she's autistic or
whatever...”
Stiles watches the two of them climb into the car before it pulls off. He looks
towards the neighbor’s house in question and watches as the curtains in the
front window flutter close quickly.
                                      ---
On Tuesday morning, while Stiles is mowing the lawn, and covertly (but maybe
not so covertly) watching the house next door, Danny and Jackson roll up on
their mountain bikes with their lacrosse gear.
Danny says, “We heard you were grounded. We just want to make sure you’re not
any worse off because of it, if that makes sense. We always practice whenever
we can. So since you couldn’t come to us, we came to you.”
Stiles smiles and Danny gives him a dimpled grin.
Jackson rolls his eyes and says, “Alright, enough sappy shit. No slacking
during spring break, Stilinski. Gear up.”
“Watch your mouth,” Stiles mutters but he jogs into the house and up to his
room to change. He stops by Isaac’s room on the way back out and says, “Wanna
watch me practice? I suck eggs, so it should be epic. Wouldn’t want you to miss
it.”
Isaac huffs quietly but he rolls out of bed, slips into some sneakers and
follows Stiles out the front door. He doesn't acknowledge Danny or Jackson
(which isn't all that surprising).
Danny tries a few times to engage Isaac in some light conversation (elbowing
Jackson to get him in on the action much to his reluctance) but the younger
pre-teen isn't having it. He basically ignores everyone but Stiles as he gears
up until Danny and Jackson get the point.
Stiles can't figure out if this behavior is because Isaac's shy or he's stuck
up. Isaac sometimes reminds him of a cat.
“My backyard’s pretty decent,” Stiles supposes when he meets Danny and Jackson
at the bottom of his porch steps. “Let’s go back there.”
Jackson makes him stretch and then forces him into suicides before they do some
actual drills the moment they step foot in the backyard.
Danny guides him with a tender hand, patient and understanding.
Jackson is a lot firmer, more demanding and unyielding.
They come at him as a united front.
Isaac looks on at them like he pities Stiles, or maybe that’s just Stiles
projecting.
Three hours later, Stiles is sprawled on his back like a starfish as he gasps
wetly at the darkened blue sky.
Danny and Jackson leave him there with a list of things to do everyday on his
own. Danny pats him on the shoulder and praises him while Jackson shakes his
head at him like he’s hopeless.
They mount their bikes and leave.
Isaac is the one to drag him into the house and he shoves him up the steps
towards the bathroom.
Stiles can take the hint.
                                      ---
On Wednesday, his dad has a day off and he takes Stiles and Isaac with him when
he goes grocery shopping. Mainly because Stiles begs him.
“Hey dad, what does it say about me that this is the most fun I’ve had in what
feels like forever?” Stiles asks as he goes flying down the aisle with the
shopping cart he’s straddling.
“It says my punishment is working,” his dad replies as he drags his gaze back
and forth between two boxes of cereals, bouncing them up and down like he's
acting as a human scale. “I honestly don’t see the difference with this. They
both taste like cardboard.”
“It’s heart healthy, and very high in fiber,” Stiles remarks as he rolls up and
bumps into his dad's hip purposely with the end of the shopping cart.
Isaac dumps a box of cookies and creme pop-tarts in the cart.
Stiles puts it back and switches it out for yogurt flavored granola bars. He
ignores the look Isaac shoots him and says, “Sorry, buddy. Can’t have anything
in the house that’ll tempt the old man. You saw what he did to those cookies
you made the other day. We want to keep him ticking for a little while longer.
Unfortunately, he needs our help in order to do that because he’s got no self-
control.”
“I have plenty of self-control,” the sheriff argues and tries to sneak a
porterhouse steak into the cart (and when did he get that and where has he been
hiding it?).
Stiles switches it out for five packs of tilapia instead once they hit the
frozen food section.
“I’m the sheriff. I should be able to eat what I want,” his dad grumbles as he
follows Stiles over to the produce section. He makes a face when Stiles starts
comparing eggplants. “I am very sure that you are going to make those
disgusting things into a pass for lasagna and I have to draw the line there.”
“It’s called eggplant parmesan. Also, experts believe that substituting meat
regularly increases health faster than vitamin supplements taken daily,” Stiles
argues.
“Lies,” his dad mutters. “I want you to stop reading things like that. I sure
as hell will not be eating woodchips just because you read somewhere that some
govermence scienticians gave it the okay.”
Stiles cracks up at that.
His dad smiles wryly. But then he frowns when Stiles puts more eggplants into
the cart. “Stiles…”
“I’m prolonging your life out of love,” Stiles quips and tosses a variety of
vegetables into the cart.
“I should have left you at home,” his dad complains. His dad throws his hands
up when Stiles puts some asparagus in the cart. “That’s it. I’m getting some
powdered donuts and you will damn well let me.”
Stiles snorts and watches his dad storm off, taking Isaac with him like he’s
starting a rebellion or something. He turns his cart and collides right into
Laura’s.
Laura looks really annoyed at first, but when she sees that it’s just him, her
whole demeanor changes. She smiles so widely that her brown eyes light up with
it. “Hey, Blue! Long time no see. You’re just the person I wanted to run into.
No pun intended, of course.”
Stiles snorts at the irony but then he remembers Thursday and he frowns meanly.
“I’m still mad at you,” he swears. "I told you not to do any of that kind of
stuff. I was mortified. Cora was loving it, which seems to be a running theme
that if I'm unhappy, she's happy, and if she's unhappy, I'm even unhappier."
Laura gives him a grin that could rival the Cheshire cat. "Sorry, Stiles. I
just wanted to do something nice, and yes, I may have gone overboard." She
raises her right hand like she's making a vow. "From now on, I'll do something
very low key for your birthday." Then she wrinkles her nose and says, “Why do
you smell like — do you have a cat — two cats, maybe?”
Stiles is getting to the point where when any of the Hales say things like this
to him, he isn’t even phased. He says, “No. I don’t. Why? Are you saying I
smell like a litter box?” He turns his head and sniffs at his shoulder. He
doesn't smell a thing. “I took a shower this morning,” he says quietly, mainly
to himself in question.
Laura’s nose is still wrinkled like the smell couldn’t be any clearer. Then she
says, “Consider taking another, Stiles.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Laura. You make me feel so good.”
Laura winks. “Don't be so sensative. It's coming from a good place. Oh!Next
week is spirit week. I fully expect you to participate.”
“Spirit week?” Stiles echoes and it dawns on him. “Homecoming.”
Laura nods and says, “You should go.”
“It’s a dance, right? I’m terrible at those. Parties make me so nervous. I'm
always never sure like how into it I'm supposed to be, you know. Like should I
be socializing more, or do I just hover around until I'm included? Do I talk to
the people I know? Do I try and go outside my usual circle? Does everyone see
I'm trying to hard? Am I not trying hard enough?” Stiles rambles. “You see?
It’s more stressful than fun for me.”
“You've certainly put a lot of thought into it, but I got your back. If you
really overthink these things, then go with me and I'll distract you.”
Stiles blinks. “You want me to do what now?”
“Homecoming. You. Me. Together.”
Stiles stares at her and then looks around because he’s very confused about
what’s happening here.
Laura waits patiently with an amused smirk.
“I — you want to — why would you want to go with me?” Stiles asks.
Laura counters the question by saying, “You don’t want to go with me?”
Stiles flushes because of course he does. He’d probably follow Laura into a
slaughterhouse like a good little lamb if she smiled very prettily at him but
she really doesn’t need to know that. He'll definitely have to keep the fact
that he idolizes the hell out of Laura to his grave. It's just that...socially,
she's everything that he'd want to be. “Isn’t there someone else you had in
mind as first choice?” he presses, shaking off the thought.
“Yup,” Laura quips. “I’m talking to him.”
Stiles is understandably suspicious. "I meant an actual date."
Laura laughs. “Just sleep on it. No pressure or anything. Hello, Sheriff.” She
flicks her gaze up and over Stiles’s shoulder. She cocks her head when she
looks at Isaac, who shies away from her gaze by standing behind the sheriff.
Then she wrinkles her nose with a teasing grin. "Huh. The cat smell is starting
to make sense."
Isaac glares at her and hides further behind the sheriff.
Stiles is understandably confused.
His dad dumps a large container of powdered donuts in the cart as he says,
“Laura. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” Laura looks at Stiles briefly and then back to the
sheriff, then back to Stiles with a mischievous gleam in her eye before she
says, “You know, it’s good you’re here. I wanted to ask if it would be okay if
Stiles joined us for dinner this Saturday? We might go to homecoming together,
and my mom will want to meet him beforehand if that’s the case. You know how
parents can be these days.”
Stiles flushes as his dad lifts both his brows in surprise and then tosses him
an appraising look that clearly relays how impressed he is that Stiles has
someone like Laura asking after him like this. Stiles has never been the type
to make nice with cheerleaders. He says, “He’s grounded, but — I’m sure I can
make some allowances.”
Laura beams. "I certainly appreciate it. I've become very fond of Stiles."
His dad nods before he looks between them. Then he takes the cart and mutters
something about heading towards the check-out line, dragging Isaac with him as
if to give them a moment alone.
“You are just as devious as Peter,” Stiles accuses when his cheeks return to
normal color. “Seriously. Are all you Hales this willful?”
“Most likely,” Laura supposes lightly. "You'll have to come over and meet the
rest of my family to be sure, you know. Might help you understand us all a
little better." She digs into her purse and writes down her number, along with
her address on the back of an old receipt from the dry cleaners before she
hands it to him. “See you Saturday. Let me know about homecoming, okay?”
Stiles watches Laura glide away, baffled and slightly stupefied.
It’s not until he’s helping his dad load the groceries into the trunk of his
squad car does he realize that Laura’s cart had been filled with nothing but
red meat.
                                      ---
All of Thursday and Friday finds Stiles and Isaac on their own. His dad mumbles
something about grave robberies and that’s the most Stiles hears about it.
Stiles is so unbelievably curious about what’s been going on in the community.
He’s hasn’t been able to keep track since his dad always nabs the morning paper
before he can get to it (another crafty addition to his punishment). Plus his
dad refuses to share any of what he reads, and he definitely doesn’t budge when
it comes to his job.
So Stiles has to distract himself by baking like Martha Stewart, or
monopolizing Isaac’s attention or trying to pick the lock of the basement door
where his dad is keeping everything (his books, the electronics, etc.).
It’s so torturing. Stiles is forced to do math for fun. Math.
His only other source of entertainment is spying on the next door neighbors or
timing that eerie orange cat when it sits on the curb across the street under a
glowing lamp like some kind of character out of Harry Potter.
The two old women from next door never leave their house faithfully. It’s
unnatural. Just about as unnatural as the black boars they let out every night,
which Stiles is just a smidge suspicious could just be them in disguise.
But Stiles doesn’t know because he doesn’t have the equipment he needs to
research.
It figures the one time Stiles kind of hopes Peter pops up on his doorstep, he
doesn’t actually.
Life, at the moment, sucks.
                                      ---
Saturday evening, Stiles is forced to wear something nice by his dad because
apparently first impressions are important. So he puts on some dark jeans, a
dark blue button down shirt his grandma bought him like two Christmases ago,
and a white tie. He feels awkward about it as he stands in the kitchen, trying
to decide whether or not he should tuck his shirt in.
His dad approves from where he's settled at the kitchen table in his uniform,
even though he does raise his eyebrows at how snuggly fit Stiles's shirt is.
“Really trying to give Laura and her family an eyeful, huh?”
Stiles shoots him a look. "Funny, dad. Hilarious."
Isaac spares him a quick glance over another one of Stiles’s comics he’s
borrowed as he sits on the opposite side of the table. He gives Stiles a once
over, lifts a brow before returning his gaze to the comic in his hands like he
couldn't be bothered to comment.
Stiles blushes anyway because that one look was enough and he just flails his
hands because it’s the only button down he has and it’s not like that. Laura
and Stiles have a platonic relationship. Platonic. Like brother and sister.
His dad leaves him alone and thankfully doesn’t say anything else as he rises
to his feet.
Isaac continues reading as he follows them out the front door and settles in
the back seat with Stiles when they reach the sheriff’s squad car.
Outside of when his dad stops by Ramona’s Flower Shop and buys a bouquet of
tulips for Stiles so he doesn’t show up empty handed, the rest of the ride is
spent with the three of them riding in silence as his dad’s radar beeps and
chirps with a female dispatcher’s voice.
Stiles dismantles Hamlet’s infamous ‘to be or not to be’ speech in his head as
a way to distract himself from how nervous he is. That line of thinking just
jumps into a recalled scene from an old Godzilla movie (the one where it
battles King Kong), before he ends up just thinking about Buffy and comparing
her to Peter (once again).
His dad pulls down a private road once they reach the preserve and goes all the
way up the drive until they reach a beautiful three-story house.
Peter’s sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. He’s lazily flipping through
the pages of a large book (Montessori Learning in the 21st Century) on his lap.
There’s a gang of kids and preteens running around, chasing each other and
tackling one another into the grass. Most of them don’t even have their shirts
on (or their shoes).
Stiles glares at the back of his dad’s head because he feels extremely
overdressed. “Let’s turn around. Say I’m sick.”
His dad snorts. "I don't condone lying, son. You'll be fine."
"Why do you hate me?"
"Stiles, it'll make a good first impression," his dad promises.
“Dispatch to Sheriff Stilinski.”
His dad picks up and says, “Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a 10-54 and a 10-57 being reported from Deputy Tara at Prairie
Hills. She’s already at the scene. She’s requesting your presence. It's already
generating a lot of media attention.”
The sheriff sighs. "Well, it's Prairie Hills. We know what tax bracket resides
there."
"Should I tell them you're on your way?"
"Please do."
"Copy."
Stiles perks up. “Dad — that’s a possible dead body and a missing person
right?”
“How do you —”
“Can I come? If you’re taking Isaac, then I should get to come too,” Stiles
argues.
His dad shifts around in his seat to glare at him. Then he climbs out and opens
the back door for him as he shoves the bouquet of tulips in his arms. “You will
not be rude. You’re staying here for dinner, and Isaac is going to be dropped
off at the station. Now get out of here before I drag you out.”
“But —”
His dad gives him a look that has him stumbling out of the squad car.
“I’ll be back to pick you up later. Please behave,” his dad urges before he
climbs in.
Stiles watches him turn the car around as he waves lazily. When he turns, all
of the kidsare watching him with curious eyes. “Uh —”
“Let’s get him!” someone shouts.
Stiles widens his eyes and squawks out an embarrassing array of sounds as they
all tackle him into the grass like mini-football players. He let’s out a soft
oomph as they pile on top of him, squirming like worms, and sticking their
noses on different parts of his body and oh god is someone licking him?
“Okay, that’s enough. Scram, you little fiends,” Peter tsks as strolls over
before he nods his head towards the back of the house. “I think Mr. Ravenhill
found those accursed bubble sticks you're all so fond of. Go and check.”
Everyone climbs off of Stiles and runs towards the back of the house with
excited yips and yells.
Stiles continues to lie out on the grass under the remains of mauled and
shredded tulips. “Who is Mr. Ravenhill?”
“Our groundskeeper,” Peter merely says and pauses as if to say more. In the end
he just shakes his head and eyes Stiles from his position on the ground. “Are
you planning on lying there all evening?
“I should have known,” Stiles says dazedly. “That this wasn’t going to be some
normal experience.”
Peter smirks and offers his right hand.
Stiles doesn’t take it. He rolls away and stumbles to his feet without his
help. He sniffs and dusts himself off. “Who were all those kids?” he asks.
“More family. Cousins mostly. A few nieces and nephews included,” Peter
explains as he shoves him towards the house. “It’s spring break, so the house
is at its fullest capacity. Don’t you look nice? What’s the occasion?”
Stiles blushes and bats away Peter’s hands. “I — my dad made me wear this okay?
Laura invited me to — wait, she didn’t tell you?”
“No,” Peter admits with a thoughtful frown. “This means she’s up to something.
I’m hurt she’s not cluing me in. I do love schemes.”
Stiles rolls his eyes because that couldn’t be more true. “Where is Laura
anyway?”
“Out and about with the other grownups, stalking this evenings kill,” Peter
replies and flashes him a sharp smile that’s all teeth. “Derek and Cora are
around if you want to say hi.”
“Uh — no. I don’t — no thanks. That's gonna have to be a hard pass from me,”
Stiles says meekly. He has a feeling that if Peter didn’t know he was coming,
neither did they. “The women next door to my house are — you remember when you
said something about your library?”
Peter nods as he returns to the rocking chair and his book.
“Could I — do you think maybe it’d be okay if — I’d like to, you know,” Stiles
stammers. "You said you had a collection of your own."
Peter looks deeply amused. “Sure. I’ll get one of the munchkins to take you,”
he decides.
Stiles nods, unsure.
Peter turns his head and softly says, as if the kid is right beside him,
“Tyson. Come show our guest to the family study.”
Stiles watches in amazement as a red-haired preteen boy with brown freckles and
blue eyes appears from around the side of the house not even a moment later
with an annoyed frown.
“Why do I have to take him? Will you pay me for this? I’m twelve now, I don’t
do things for free anymore,” Tyson complains but he doesn’t protest when Peter
tugs him close and whispers something in his ear. Tyson lights up and smirks
devilishly with a snort as he glances at Stiles calculatingly.
Stiles is slightly worried. “What? What is he saying to you? Whatever it is,
please don’t.”
Peter pulls away from Tyson with a blankly innocent face and returns to his
book.
Stiles is super worried.
“Come on, dipstick,” Tyson says as he brushes past Stiles, taking care not to
physically touch him in anyway, and heads toward the door.
“My name is Stiles. Stiles.”
“Good for you,” Tyson says as they walk inside and wow. It’s even nicer indoors
then it is out.
Stiles marvels at the real warmth and homely feel of it all. Most homes you go
to give off that synthetic “our house is better than your house and we’re
proving it by how much materialistic stuff we have” vibe. But this place just
feels so very livedin. There’s different toys randomly placed, as well as books
that are cracked open like someone has just been reading them not even a second
ago.
There are framed pictures on the walls and on the furniture. Different articles
of clothes strewn here and there like they’d been tossed in someone’s haste to
get them off. There’s musical instruments that are as randomly placed as the
sports gear. Some things are even labeled with someone’s name on it, but most
of it just has the inscription of some swirly kind of insignia or says Hale if
not. The house is — it’s so — it feels just as alive as the people that reside
there.
Stiles never thought it could be possible to fall in love with a place — with
someone else's home. But he’s — he doesn’t know what he is. He just feels so
very comfortable here. Like he belongs, or like he's been here before. It’s a
float-y kind of sensation that borders on the resemblance of déjà vécu. Not
that Stiles would personally know, but he’s read things (stories, accounts,
etc.) and he figures this must be like that.
As Tyson leads him up a spiraling staircase and down the hall, past doors that
are named with the person it belongs to, Stiles realizes that the smell of
jasmine he always picks up from Laura and Derek and Cora and Peter is from this
house. It smells heavily of jasmine.
Stiles follows Tyson through a set of double doors at the end of the hallway
with that same swirly insignia carved into the middle of them. They open up to
a large study lined with tall walls of bookshelves that are brimming with books
— the spines of them different textures — and some of them are weathered and
worn, while others are in perfect mint condition.
Stiles has found euphoria. It’s like a scene out of Beauty and the Beast.
Tyson treads over to a tall stepladder and climbs it. “Uncle Peter thinks you’d
like this one the best.”
Stiles stands at the base of the ladder when Tyson motions him closer.
“Oops, look out.”
Stiles doesn’t have time to duck when the book comes flying at his face, and he
falls onto his back with a groan and cradles his throbbing nose. When he pulls
his hands away, he can see blood. He groans louder and cradles it again as his
blood drips warm and sticky down his mouth and chin and onto his shirt.
“What did you do?” a voice growls from the doorway.
Stiles blinks away some watery pain as Derek falls into his line of sight. He’s
staring down at him with his brow furrowed in annoyed concern. “I hope —”
Stiles pauses so he can choke back another groan because the pain is intense.
“I hope you’re not blaming me for this.”
Derek frowns deeper and says, “What are you even doing here? And I know Laura
invited you, but I meant in thisroom. It was Uncle Peter wasn't it?” He doesn’t
wait for an answer because he’s bodily lifting Stiles onto his feet and okay,
are all of them this freakishly strong? Derek glares over at Tyson accusingly.
Tyson tries to look as innocent as possible. “It was an accident. I had one of
those, um, those — clumsy slips.”
Derek gives him a flat look before he ushers Stiles out of the study with
insistent hands and towards his room and then into it.
Stiles glances around, barely catching glimpses of the basketball posters on
the walls before Derek shoves him into a large bathroom and onto the edge of
the tub.
“Tilt your head forward. It’ll stop you from choking on the blood,” Derek says
as he shuffles through the cabinets noisily for some kind of hand towel. When
he finds one, he wets it with lukewarm water.
Stiles blinks wetly at the tiles on the floor until Derek looms over him with
the towel before he drops to his knees and gives him an expectant look.
“Move your hands.”
“No.”
“I can’t help if you don’t let me see.”
“I don’t want your help so you don't need to see.”
Derek shoots him an impatient look.
“No,” Stiles protests as Derek wraps the impossibly long fingers of his left
hand around both of Stiles’s wrists and geez,how big are his hands? “It’s
broken. I’ll probably have to get cosmetic surgery because your cousin deformed
me. Why are all you Hales so evil?”
Derek rolls his eyes and gently pries Stiles’s hands from his face. His eyes
flicker over every detail of Stiles’s face in a way that makes him fidget.
Stiles feels his cheeks slowly fill with heat when Derek traces his pointer
finger down the bridge of his nose gently before pulling his hand away.
“Not broken,” Derek decides quietly and stares at the blood on his mouth for
two beats of silence, nostrils flaring. He leans forward a little like he’s
hypnotized before he jerks back with wide eyes and tosses the towel at Stiles’s
face.
It lands with a wet smack, and when Stiles tugs it off to complain, Derek has
already vanished. He doesn’t get a chance to even question the other teen’s
weird behavior because the door on the other end of the bathroom opens and Cora
strolls in.
Obviously she and Derek share a bathroom.
He briefly wonders what that must be like and he gets this amusing thought of
the two of them in some type of old western (cowboy) stand-off over who gets to
take the first hot shower.
“Thought I smelled blood,” Cora says, grabbing his attention before his
thoughts can really run away with him. She eyes him thoughtfully.
"You can smell blood?" Stiles mumbles skeptically.
Cora disregards the question to ask, “What happened to you?”
“Your cousin Tyson,” Stiles mutters disdainfully as he walks over to the mirror
and starts wiping his face clean.
Cora snorts like she's not even surprised before returning to her room and
slamming the bathroom door behind her.
Stiles stares at his reflection in the mirror and sighs at the spreading bruise
forming on the bridge of his nose where the edge of the book made contact. Then
he sighs even harder at how utterly ruined his shirt and tie is by the blood.
He doesn’t even have a change of clothes.
Derek is sitting on his bed with his back to the headboard when Stiles exits
the bathroom. He’s tossing miniature basketballs at the rim mounted to the wall
by the bathroom door.
Peter strolls in and with a totally insincere look of concern, says, “I heard
what happened.”
“I don’t like you,” Stiles fumes.
Derek snorts and makes another shot. Nothing but net. Show off.
Peter feigns a look of hurt. “Really? I was only trying to do something nice.
It’s not my fault that Tyson took it upon himself to get creative. You should
know that I punished him for it.”
Tyson literally walks pasts Derek’s open doorway with — are you serious —two
scoops of freaking chocolate mint ice cream.
Derek lifts a brow, but he still seems a little amused.
“I am going to strangle you,” Stiles threatens.
“Why?” Peter looks genuinely confused but Stiles doesn’t buy it for a second.
“That’s not a punishment. That’s a reward, you potato with eyes,” Stiles
complains, pointing an accusing finger at Peter.
Derek barks out a laugh and misses his next shot.
Stiles swears he hears Cora cackle in the next room.
Peter frowns, looking deeply hurt and appalled. “Trust me. That’s a punishment.
He hates ice cream.”
“Lies.”
“Derek, you should loan Stiles one of your shirts,” Peter airily remarks with
an indifferent expression. “His current attire is in a rather unacceptable
state.”
Stiles grits his teeth.
Derek suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I — that’s not — you have shirts too. Lend
him one of yours.”
“I would but he’s not my size,” Peter says. Then he looks towards the windows.
“I think I hear the others coming. I should probably lend a hand.” Then he’s
gone before Derek can complain.
"Cora..."
"No chance! Just suck it up!" Cora yells from the other room.
Stiles fidgets as they’re left alone in an awkward silence. Since he doesn’t do
so well with those, he says, “Its fine. I can — flip my shirt inside out?”
Derek makes a face before he sighs in resignation as he makes his way over to
his dresser posted under his windows. He grumbles lowly as he yanks open the
second drawer and rifles through it.
Cora cackles from the next room again, but it’s probably totally unrelated.
Derek marches over to him with a grumpy look and holds out a pea green short-
sleeved Henley shirt.
Stiles gingerly accepts it but still asks, “You don’t — and listen, I’m not
trying be annoying or anything — but you wouldn’t happen to have a different
color because green really isn’t —”
Derek glares at him.
“Yup, this is fine,” Stiles says quickly, almost tearing the buttons of his
shirt in his haste to get it off before remembering that it’d probably be a
smart idea to take his tie off first. He would ask Derek, but he’s a little too
prideful for that. He chooses to struggle instead.
Derek tracks his movements with a judging head shake. “You’re a piece of work.”
“Yeah. Top qualitywork,” Stiles mutters as he continues to wrestle with his
tie.
Derek sighs and bats his hands out of the way so he can take over.
Okay, so, this is one of those unforgettable moments that will not be forgotten
because Talia Halewalks into the room.
Stiles and Derek both freeze, and honestly out of context this probably seems
shady, because Stiles is standing there with an open shirt and Derek’s hands
are slipping off his tie like he’s been the one undressing him. Not to mention
the blood on his clothes.
Talia crosses her arms.
Derek’s back goes ramrod straight and he removes his hands like Stiles is a
well-lit fire he shouldn’t be touching. “We were — mom, it’s not —”
Talia raises her hand and he quiets immediately. She pins Stiles under her
heavy gaze and says, “I know. I’ve dealt with Tyson.” She smiles kindly and
Stiles finally feels like he can breathe. “You must be the Stilinski boy I’ve
heard so much about from my brother Peter and my daughter Laura. But I’ve also
spoken at great lengths with your father, and he tells me how inexplicable you
can be.”
Stiles says, “My dad likes to exaggerate.”
Talia chuckles. “As do all parents,” she agrees. “Derek, why don’t you go
downstairs and help set the table? Dinner’s just about ready to be served. Take
Stiles’s clothes with you and give them to your Nana so they can be washed.”
Stiles quickly takes off his shirt after he manages to slip his tie loose
before he hands it over to Derek in exchange for his clean shirt. He slips it
on and watches Derek slide past his mother, pausing when she cups the back of
his neck gently to whisper something in his ear.
Derek’s shoulders tense up before they fall meekly.
Talia kisses his temple before urging him out the door.
Stiles fidgets when Talia’s probing gaze finds its way back to him. He says,
“You have a — very lovely home, Mrs. Hale.”
Talia smiles and whoa, Stiles can see where Cora, Laura, and Derek get their
good genes from. She straightens with pride and says, “Well thank you for
saying as much. And please, call me Talia.”
Stiles just nods dumbly.
“Come walk with me, I’ll introduce you to everyone,” Talia says, cupping a
heated palm over the back of his neck when he’s within reaching distance and
guides him down the stairs and into a huge living room filled with people.
Stiles gets introduced to what feels like a miniature community. Each of them
looms in his space, darts a glance towards Talia, who gives a subtle nod
(weirdly), before they touch his right hand with their own right hand in a firm
grip (always his right hand for some reason) and smiles hospitably. On and on
this pattern continues through a line of cousins, uncles, aunts, sisters,
brothers — one after the other — all of them with the same distinctive features
of dark hair (or dirty blonde) and hazel (or blue) eyes. There’s only about
four kids who have red hair and green eyes, but that’s it.
Stiles knows that he should be paying attention to the significance of these
exchanges but it’s hard to do because Derek is watching him with a distracting
amount of intent from where he’s leaning against the wall with huge fluffy
wolfish looking dogs with black, white, and grey fur sitting at his feet, along
with their puppies.
Stiles recognizes the breed as Tibetan Mastiff. He’s read an article about them
through his old subscription ofZoobooks back when he was six and read
practically anything he could get his hands on.
Talia notices his shifted focus, and after she introduces him to Nana Hale, who
kisses the back of his right hand before patting it sweetly as his cheeks go a
little red at the way Peter smirks when all the kids titter in amusement at the
gesture, he’s ushered over to Derek.
Talia gives her son a significant look and says, “Walk your brother-cousins and
introduce them to Stiles. Fifteen minutes. Not a minute later.”
Derek nods and straightens, whistling sharply until all the dogs are standing
to attention.
Stiles watches in fascination as the dogs trail behind Derek in a perfectly
neat line as they follow him out the front door. He stumbles after them and
down the porch steps, out towards the thrush of the woods. He catches up with
Derek eventually.
Derek says, “There’s a stream we like to take them to.” and he leads Stiles
there.
When they reach the wide creek, the dogs sit on their hind legs and look at
Derek expectantly. He smiles softly and nods his head towards the river like
he's wordlessly giving them permission and they all scatter, barking happily.
Stiles watches Derek watch them with a fond sort of half-smile, and he smiles a
little himself before he can help it. He turns his face away quickly when Derek
glances at him. He says, “What are their names?”
Derek goes down the line, pointing to each of them, big and small, and starts
with the fully-grown ones before he ends with the puppies.
Stiles says, “This — it’s so cool. I wish I — and they’re so well-behaved too.
Do you ever sell — are they individually owned or —”
“Stiles,” Derek says, sounding amused. “You’re all over the place.”
Stiles closes him mouth and grins sheepishly. “Yeah, I — sorry. That happens.”
“I noticed.” Derek suddenly looks embarrassed and uncomfortable. He shifts away
to watch the puppies fight over a stick. “Each of us have our own. They’re
gifted to us at a certain...point in our lives — but it’s different for
everyone as far as when it happens — it’s kind of a complicated process.
They’re more than pets. More than companions.”
“They’re family,” Stiles supposes and that gets Derek to look at him with this
surprised and complicated look on his face. “Is that why your mom called them
your brother-cousins?”
Derek nods but he doesn’t elaborate.
“Which one is yours?” Stiles asks as his gaze jumps around to each one. He’s
counted at least a dozen so far. There could be more, but he’s not sure.
They’re all over the place.
“Guess,” Derek says.
Stiles frowns and shoots him a skeptical look. “How would I do that?”
Derek shrugs with an insufferable grin.
Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes before he thinks. His mouth fidgets with a grin
as he gets an idea.
Derek eyes him warily, suddenly alert.
Stiles widens his eyes to say, “Hey...what is that?” and points.
Derek actually falls for the oldest trick in the book and looks.
Stiles wastes no time and tackles him into the ground.
Derek growls and rolls them over until Stiles is pinned under him. He looks
grudgingly impressed as a medium-sized Tibetan Mastiff with white fur gallops
over and assesses the situation with twitching ears. “It’s okay, Jordan,” he
says and pushes away from Stiles to stand up.
Jordan cocks his head curiously before he brushes against Derek’s leg like a
cat would and licks the inside of Derek’s palm. Then he noses his way around
Stiles, snuffling at his shirt before he butts Stiles’s right hand
affectionately.
Stiles smiles and scratches his ears as Derek watches quietly. He sits up as
Jordan barks and sprints off to playfully wrestle with some of the other dogs.
“So,” he says.
Derek looks at him questioningly when he doesn’t continue. He leans over and
carefully grabs Stiles’s left hand with his left hand before he hauls Stiles to
his feet like its nothing.
Stiles tries to look as serious as possible when he says, “Jordan, huh?”
Derek lifts his eyebrows before a bit of color starts to creep into his cheeks
when he understands the implications in Stiles’s voice. “Shut up.”
“What?” Stiles says, and he’s going to milk this. “I think it’s cool you named
your dog after one of the greatest basketballplayers of all time, oh my god,
you complete fanboy.”
Derek’s flush deepens and he scowls but he doesn’t deny it as he grumpily
crosses his arms.
Stiles laughs and says, “Did you think I wouldn’t get the reference? What did
you used to name your stuffed animals then? Let me guess — all of the greats
from the Harlem Globetrotters?”
Derek looks stricken, like he’s just been found out and Stiles just loses it.
He laughs so hard that all the dogs shuffle over to him curiously and sniff at
him inquisitively.
Stiles just pets them all, sniggering on and off again.
Derek threatens to throw him into the river if he doesn’t shut up before he
marches back towards the house like the moody teenager he is.
                                      ---
Dinner is a lively affair, though Stiles had had a feeling it would be.
All kids under the age of thirteen have been shepherded into the kitchen where
the kiddie tables are. Meanwhile, everyone else sits in the dining room around
a long and wide oak table, which has names carved into it in a very
untraditional way, but Stiles still likes it. It’s quirky but it fits the
personality of this house, of this family.
Stiles is sitting between Peter and Laura. He doesn’t know how that happened.
Black magic probably.
Derek’s sitting across from him, cradling his sleeping infant sister (Olive) in
one arm as he uses his left hand to eat plate after plate of food.
And there is plenty of food.
There’s so much meat. From barbecued ribs to smoked brisket — everyone just has
at it like there isn’t enough to go around. His dad would have had a field day
if he were here.
The way they eat is unlike anything Stiles has ever seen. He feels like such a
bird the way he knocks back two hamburgers, some potato salad, green beans, and
spaghetti, in comparison to what looks to be everyone’s fifthplate of food.
“Lightweight,” Laura teases, starting in on her second pork chop and third
burger.
“You guys have crazy appetites,” Stiles says lowly but he still notices the way
they all shoot each other humored looks.
The lights begin to flicker as a wave of thunder crashes outside.
There’s some noticeable whimpering coming from the kitchen and Cora gets up
from the table to go check on it when her mother okays it.
Derek shushes his baby sister when she squirms fitfully in his arms at another
crack of lightening that make the house lights flicker again.
“That doesn’t seem good,” Peter remarks lightly as he chows down on a
bratwurst.
Talia, who is sitting at the head of the table with her husband, moves to
answer the house phone when it rings, and she disappears from sight into the
kitchen.
The crack of thunder continues to rumble above their heads, and it sounds like
it’s happening underthem and not over. It’s strange and unsettling; and then
there is a storm siren that rings off in the distance. It sounds like something
you would hear when you need to be warned of an incoming national emergency.
Stiles is confused because he was under the impression that it never rained in
Beacon Hills.
Talia returns and says, “That was the sheriff's department. They’ve been given
the greenlight from the mayor’s office to issue an official lightning storm
warning.”
Peter must notice Stiles confused expression because he explains, "We
experience the occasional weather anomaly here. You see, just because it
doesn't rain, doesn't mean we do not get thunder storms."
"Yeah, we're sort of famous for those," Laura adds. "Like tornadoes in the
Midwest. Our lightening storms are just as dangerous. The bolts strike the
ground more often than what should be statistically possible."
"And as a consequence, the whole town is urged to stay indoors until it
passes," Peter finishes. 
Talia looks to Stiles and makes a gesture for him to join her in the kitchen.
Stiles follows her and they stand by the stove. “Is everything —”
“No worries,” Talia quickly interjects. “Your father asked that I allow you to
stay for the night. I wanted to be sure this is okay with you, though there
isn’t much choice in the matter. My brother and daughter were right. Lightening
storms in this town is just as dangerous as tornadoes anywhere else I’m afraid.
No one is allowed outside when the warning siren is on.”
Stiles nods slowly and tries not frown.
Talia smiles gently and hands him the phone. “Call your dad,” she says
knowingly. She cups the back of his neck and gives him affectionate squeeze
before she leaves him to it.
Stiles dials his dad’s number as he eyes all the finger-paint artwork posted on
the doors of the fridge. He does feel a lot better after he hears his father’s
voice. His dad assures him that he and Isaac are safe and sound, though they’re
going to be holed up at the station until the storm blows over, which most
likely won’t be until dawn. He promises to come get Stiles as soon as he can
and he asks him to behave and to remember that he’s still on punishment, so no
funny business.
Stiles rolls his eyes with a fond grin and he promises. He hangs up and returns
to his spot at the table. He nods gratefully at Talia when she catches his eye
and she smiles back before returning her attention to her mother as her husband
kisses the back of her left hand lovingly.
The dessert that follows dinner is just as impressive, and everyone disperses
when they’ve had their fill.
Laura commandeers him and takes him to the basement where they have an awesome
little bowling alley and they play a couple of games as Stiles outlines in
great detail how epically miserable his spring break has been so far.
The flashes of lightening and the crackling of thunder come and go (frequently
interrupting their conversations).
Peter eventually joins them, but with a different book this time
(Slaughterhouse-Five), and Cora worms her way into the game while butting
Stiles out.
Stiles takes a seat by Peter as he watches Laura and Cora play a few games, and
Peter informs him that Cora gets easily jealous over her big sister, and in
response to the remark, Cora hurls her bowling ball at him, but he calmly ducks
before he flips to the next page in his book like its no big deal.
Stiles has never seen anything like them.
                                      ---
Since all other rooms are filled to capacity, Stiles gets paired with Derek,
who looks resentful and completely opposing of the arrangement.
Peter just pats Derek on the shoulder condescendingly before he strolls to his
own room, which is on the third level of the house and right above Derek’s room
(ironically enough).
Derek’s dad stops by to check on them just as Derek is shoving his comforter
and pillows at Stiles. He says, “You boys have a good night. Derek, turn on the
caption if you’re going to do something with your TV. Your mother just put your
sister down.”
Derek nods and smiles warm-heartedly when his dad knocks their foreheads
together affectionately before he exits the room, closing the door behind him
with a quiet click.
Stiles makes a bed for himself at the bottom edge of Derek’s bed before he lays
down and watches Derek attach a pull up bar to the doorway of the bathroom. He
does like a million pull-ups before he drops down to his feet so he can putter
around and get ready to settle down. He even lends Stiles a pair of his pajama
bottoms before he disappears into the bathroom.
Stiles changes into them while Derek is in there and takes a moment to
appreciate how polar opposite Derek’s room is from his.
For one, it’s neatly organized, almost compulsively. The color scheme is
different too. There’s lots of greys and greens. He’s also got an impressive
entertainment system in the corner of the room where his walk-in closet is.
There are thick books placed here and there with no titles on them for Stiles
to know what the content of them might be. There’s a flat screen TV mounted on
the wall above an impressive collection of game consoles, DVDs, and video
games.
Stiles feels a small surge of envy at how Derek seems to be rich in both loved
ones and material things but it passes quickly because he realizes how
obnoxious it would be to hold something Derek couldn’t control over him. He
scrubs at his face tiredly as Derek exits the bathroom.
“What’s wrong with you?” Derek asks without looking at him as he turns on his
TV, muting it quickly before he switches on one of his game consoles.
Stiles says, “Nothing.”
"Your face says different."
Stiles snorts bitterly. He's heard that before from Cora. "It's nothing," he
insists.
Derek shoots him a look at the lie but he doesn’t push. He says, “What do you
want to do? I don’t really care either way. Guest's choice.”
“Uh — I don’t want to pick because then I’ll be guilty of breaking the
stipulations of my punishment and I swear my dad would know somehow. So you
pick.”
Derek snorts. “How would that be any different? You’d still be here
participating.”
Stiles shrugs as Derek cocks his head towards the door with a frown. He watches
Derek walk over and open it, just as his dog, Jordan, trots through before
hopping up on the bed and lying in the middle of it.
Derek closes the door again before he returns to his entertainment system. “How
about a horror film?”
“How about not,” Stiles complains but Derek puts one on anyway with a taunting
smirk. “Don’t turn off the —”
Derek turns off the lights, laughing quietly as Stiles makes a frustrated
sound. He climbs into his bed and uses his controller to navigate past the menu
and plays the movie as he texts on his phone.
Stiles hugs Derek’s pillow to his chest and gnaws on his fingernails as his
heart hammers away in anxiety through most of the movie. He hates horror films
for that reason exactly. It always feels like he’s toeing the line of a panic
attack.
Derek says, “Relax.” like he knows Stiles’s heart is racing or something.
Stiles ignores him and kindly does not calm down. The killer is in the next
room, how do they not see that? Oh god, oh god, oh god. He jumps with a choked
shriek when the killer comes bursting out of his hiding place. The TV is muted
and Stiles stilljumps.
Derek sighs and starts throwing foam basketballs at his head.
“Oh my god, I hate you,” Stiles groans and uses Derek’s pillow as a shield.
Derek snorts but he doesn’t let up.
Eventually it distracts Stiles enough that his heartbeat goes steady and calm
again.
Derek leaves him alone then, again, eerily, like he knows or something. He
shows Stiles a bit of mercy by switching the movie off and going into his
Amazon Prime account to switch on some ‘I Love Lucy’ reruns.
Stiles gets overwhelmed by the familiar smell of vanilla and he’s out like a
light a second later, groggily noticing that the floor under Derek’s bed is
crammed with all his stuffed animals like some kind of plushie stash.
                                      ---
Talia shakes him awake early the next morning and quietly says, “Your father is
waiting for you out front.” She leaves a moment later when she’s sure he’s up.
Stiles rubs the sleep from his eyes and fishes for his jeans, doing his best
not to disturb Derek, who is still sleeping soundly, shirtless and on his
stomach with Jordan curled against his side.
Stiles gets this mean thought of wanting to draw on Derek’s face but he
dismisses it and climbs into his shoes before he tiptoes his way out of the
abnormally quiet house.
His dad’s cruiser is rumbling quietly in front of the house and Stiles slides
in the back beside a dozing Isaac, who jerks awake when the car shakes after
Stiles slams the door shut.
Stiles says, “Sorry.”
Isaac just yawns and stretches before he pauses and wrinkles his nose, shooting
Stiles an odd look.
“What?” Stiles says and sniffs at his shirt — Derek’s shirt — the one he’s
still wearing and forgot to take off. “Do I smell or something?”
Isaac shrugs and frowns like he isn’t sure.
Stiles looks at his dad, who’s concentrating on the road, and says, “Do I smell
funny?”
His dad snorts. “No more than usual, son.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha. Yuck it up, old man.”
His dad smiles but then frowns when he catches sight of him through his
rearview mirror. “Jesus, kid — what did you do to your nose? Did you get into a
fight? And what happened to your shirt?”
Stiles flushes, embarrassed. “No.I had an accident. That’s all.”
His dad sighs and just leaves it alone.
Isaac quietly rubs his nose with the back of his hand the whole ride home. His
eyes are watery and red.
Stiles wonders if he’s allergic to dogs or something.
                                      ---
When Stiles meets Paige at the library in their usual spot for his tutoring
session that Sunday afternoon, he notices right away that something is wrong.
Her eyes are rimmed with red and puffy, the tip of her nose equally red and her
voice hoarse.
Stiles tries to ask her what’s wrong, to assure her that they could meet some
other time, but she’s adamant to see their session through.
Paige’s voice trembles the whole time as they go over some worksheets and old
homework together. Even when she praises his concerted efforts, her voice
shakes.
Stiles feels uncomfortable and guilty.
It’s not until Paige is packing up everything, assigning him more worksheets to
practice along with a stack of flashcards of things he hasn’t picked up on yet,
does she look him right in the eyes and says, “Derek told me you came over for
dinner. You even spent the night. Do you think — that’s so completely — it's
just — you’ve been here for two months and you get the red carpet treatment.”
She lets out a hiccupped sob. “I have been dating Derek for two years and I
can’t even hold a conversation with his mom, or his sisters, let alone be
invited over for dinner. I understand how private they can be. I know they’re
private. I’m sorry, I can’t —” She shakes her head and rushes toward the door
as she starts to choke up. “I just don’t understand.”
Stiles doesn’t either.
***** actuality *****
Monday morning finds Stiles off to a restless start.
He gets up earlier than he usually would to get ready for school. He’d done
nothing but toss and turn all night because of the surmounting guilt he’d felt
for Paige’s situation. It plagued his thoughts, and agitated his nerves. When
the sun rises and he can no longer mope in a sinkhole full of anxiety (made of
his own design), he decides to distract himself by cleaning his room.
It's a small accomplishment and he rewards himself with a long hot shower. It
does slightly lift his mood a bit, but being under the hot spray of his shower
dehydrates him in a way, makes him thirst.
So he climbs out when he’s squeaky clean and lightheaded, and wraps one of his
towels around his waist. He’s still wiping sleep from his eyes when he treads
down the steps and into the kitchen, body still wet, and dripping everywhere,
probably leaving watery footprints in his wake.
Laura is sitting at his kitchen table in a bright red Elmo adult-size onesie,
texting away on her phone like she’s been there all morning.
Stiles jumps and shrieks a little in surprise because, oh god, he’s naked under
the towel wrapped around his waist.
Laura looks up at the sound, blinks, and then starts laughing.
Stiles feels his flush spread all the way down from his cheeks to his sternum.
“Why are you in my house?” he demands as he awkwardly covers his chest with one
arm.
Laura stops snickering long enough to say, “Your dad let me in before he left.”
She nods toward the stove. “I made you guys some scrambled eggs with that nice
gourmet moose cheese you got in the fridge. Didn’t realize your family was so
fancy. That stuff costs like five hundred bucks a pound, right?”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s not a big deal because my dad gets it
for free from the deli shop when he busted a robber that was trying to make
away with their safe. So we're pretty much up to our eyes in cheese. Anyway,
you’re the one that lives in a mansion,” he points out.
“Eh, tomato, potato,” Laura replies, waving him off. “Still think it’s you
that’s got it made in the shade. Though I will say that this place is sadly
lacking in meat. If that deli is so grateful, why aren't they floating you a
couple of free steaks?”
Stiles says, “This is a heart healthy house.”
Laura hums, her nose twitching briefly, but the grin on her face is one of
amusement. “Well, today is pajama day at school, so I took the liberty of
getting you something.”
Stiles fumbles with the Cookie Monster onesie she tosses at him. “You bought —
how do you even know my size?”
Laura just wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Stiles makes a distressed sound as he looks the onesie over. “At least it’s
blue,” he mumbles. "And my favorite Sesame Street character."
“Of course. What do you take me for?” Laura scoffs before she brightens happily
like an excited toddler. “Look, the feet even light up with every step.” She
stomps her feet onto the floor very quickly and the edge of her footsies glow a
yellow, red, and white.
“Hey, no way!” Stiles says and he claps the footsies on his pajamas together
and sure enough they light up with blue and white. “Okay. That’s cool.”
Laura hums in agreement before she stands. “I bought some for Isaac too since
Beacon Hills Junior High’s spirit week is the exact same as ours.” She flicks
her gaze to the top of the stairs with a slight smirk, and when Stiles turns to
look, he realizes that Isaac has been looming silently in the shadows like the
shy introvert he is. “Good morning, Isaac,” she greets.
Isaac wrinkles his nose at her (like he smells something unpleasant) and
quickly returns to his room.
“Huh,” Stiles says. “He’s usually just a smidge more polite than that.”
“Oh, you know what they say about cats and dogs,” Laura quips, sounding very
amused.
Stiles frowns. “What does gender have to do with anything?”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about gender,” Laura corrects cryptically. Quickly
changing the subject before he can ask, she says, “You and I have to correlate
all this week. Especially if you’re going to be my date to the spring formal,
which means we need to present ourselves as a united front. By the way, I’m
running for homecoming queen so be sure to vote and hand out these flyers.” She
points to the table where there is a stack of glittery flyers with a tasteful
picture of Laura on it.
Stiles can’t say that he’s surprised. “I get the feeling you do this often,” he
remarks.
“You would not be wrong. This would be my fourth and final time going after the
crown. I’ve plans to pursue prom queen too,” Laura says, like she’s warning
him.
Stiles gives her a startled look. “You’re not — if that's an invitation — I
won’t do prom. I’m a freshman and —”
“Relax, I’m not asking you. And I wont force you to go, even though I’d like to
have you there since it’ll probably be our last dance together,” Laura says,
cleverly playing on Stiles’s culpability. “But, anyway, I do want you to go to
homecoming with me.”
“I’m still thinking about it,” Stiles admits because he honestly is.
“Okay,” Laura says softly, and she doesn’t push. “I’m going to head off. I’ll
see you at school.” She starts for the door and opens it. She pauses in the
doorway and says, “Oh! Before I forget, your dad told me to tell you that you
guys aren’t on punishment anymore. He left the basement unlocked so you guys
can grab your stuff.”
Stiles knows it’s rude of him to dart off without saying a proper goodbye to
Laura but he’s been waiting for what feels like an eternity for this. He grabs
all his electronic devices, and the old newspapers from the past week (his dad
likes to archives them by date, thankfully) and carries it all up to his room,
but not without informing Isaac of the good news.
He dumps his things on top of his neatly made bed and turns on everything,
quickly locating his chargers so he can hook them up. He goes through his phone
first, looking at all the missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. He
doesn’t find anything significant so he deletes everything.
He takes a moment to throw some underwear on with a tank top before he climbs
into the Cookie Monster onesie Laura got for him, zipping it all the way up to
his collarbone and tugging on the googly-eyed hoodie. He runs his fingers
through the short blue fur before he carries his laptop over to his work desk,
along with his brand new tablet.
He sends a quick text to Peter because he’d forgot to bring this up when he was
at the Hale house (that’s just how distracting those Hales are) and it reads: I
thought you said you’d look into those old hags next door.
The reply is almost hilariously instantaneous.
Peter texts: Not grounded anymore, I see. :))
And I did. :))
And?
And nothing. :))
Not possible.
I sniffed around and I didn’t pick up anything. :))
You’re probably worrying for nothing. :))
You sound like my dad. You both have no idea how evil those women are. They
have pigs.
So? :))
Pigs aren’t a cluing point for malevolence. :))
Have you seen them hack anyone to pieces? :))
Well, no, but still!!! My gut says evil. My gut is always right.
Also, putting a smiley face at the end of that question is disturbing.
How so? :))
Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply. He’s got an hour before he and Isaac
have to leave for school.
He spends it researching.
                                      ---
Isaac refuses to wear the Garfield onesie that Laura got for him, and he just
wears regular clothes. After Stiles crams everything that can fit in his
backpack, they mount their bikes and peddle to Isaac’s school.
Scott’s waiting on the curb in front of the bike racks anxiously. He says,
“Dude!”
Stiles climbs off his bike and replies, “What?”
Scott looks him over with a questioning look, even though he’s literally in
some duck pajamas himself. Then he shakes his head and says, “Dude!”
“Yeah, buddy. I’m here,” Stiles replies in amusement.
“Dude, it's Lydia! And — and her — her family! Didn’t you hear? You’re dad had
to have told you,” Scott says frantically. “Everyone’s saying she butchered her
parents and ran off. But she wouldn't do that! I know she wouldn't!”
Stiles blanches. “What? What —” He thinks back to the Sunday paper he’d skimmed
over this morning and how tired his dad had looked the other day. There had
been a report about a possible homicide that bordered on what seemed like an
animal attack just because of the gruesomeness of the wounds inflicted on the
two bodies found on what was otherwise a quiet and lovely block. There were no
mentions of names, or if anyone was missing but Stiles is beginning to realize
that his dad may have had something to do with that exclusion of information.
“She’s missing?”
“Yeah. Me and the guys were going to help the search parties look after school
if you wanted to come. She’s been missing all weekend supposedly and no one can
get ahold of her,” Scott explains and he looks conflicted. “I just — I can’t
believe that Lydia would do something like that. I mean I know the stuff with
her parents separating had to be tough and you know how she is. Well maybe you
don't. She's got her quirks but still — it’s not — I'm telling you that she
wouldn’t do that. I’ve known her for as long as I’ve known anybody else. She
wouldn’t. She was actually my first friend before I met anyone else and she's
—” He shakes his head with a solid frown as he gasps sharply, turning a little
pale. "None of this is right. None of it makes sense!"
“Okay, okay,” Stiles shushes as Scott shakes his inhaler hastily so he can take
a deep inhale in order to quell his oncoming asthma attack. “No, I get it. I
believe that — well, I don’t know what I believe, but I’ll come with you guys
to look. She...well, I think I heard Erica mention that she has autism?”
Scott gasps between sucking on his inhaler but he nods to confirm.
"That's why everyone so frantic to find her," Stiles supposes. He looks around
and realizes that Isaac has already vanished into the school. “Listen — I have
to go but, text me if you hear anything else. I’ll see you later.”
Scott nods quietly just as Allison rolls up in her parent’s car. She
immediately springs out without saying goodbye to her mother or hello to
Stiles, completely focused and determined to comfort Scott.
Stiles takes no offense to that. He thinks about how sweet that is as he mounts
his bike again and starts pedaling towards his school. During the ride, he gets
lost in his thoughts.
                                      ---
Stiles is on autopilot for most of his first and second period. He still passes
out Laura’s flyers like a second thought, but mostly he just goes through the
local papers, marking them with highlighters until his fingers are stained with
red and green and yellow. He’s desperately trying to connect the dots. There’s
a lot he’s missed out on.
For one, there have been a lot of strange grave robberies, and not any kinds
where there are material things stolen, but where caskets have been unearthed
and the bodies inside have their bones sucked clean. Apparently the forensics
on the coroner’s report has identified the animal hair, teeth marks, and saliva
left behind on the bones as ones found on Hylochoerus meinertzhageni, aka giant
forest hog, oh god, he knew it.
Those damn Witches.
Not only that, like not only that, but there’s been a lot of people under the
age of fourteenwho have gone missing almost periodically around the same time
those old hags next door to him moved in.
And now this thing with Lydia — it had to be related. Maybe she saw something
that freaked her out or scared her off, but if they did manage to find her he’d
have to question her about what happened because if he was going to bring this
case to his dad, he would need proof and the only way to do that would to
either have an eyewitness or hard evidence —
“Hey, space cadet!”
Stiles blinks and looks up from where he’s sitting under the shade of a tree
out on the quad during lunch, teething the other end of a red highlighter in
concentration. His lap is covered in old newspapers, marked up and down with
Stiles’s messy and hasty handwriting crammed in the margins.
Kate Argent, who is outfitted in a Smaug onesie (unsurprisingly fitting for her
personality), is staring at him with this questioning frown. “Christ, I’ve been
trying to get your attention for the past minute. You get lost in your head or
something?”
Stiles tugs the highlighter out of his mouth, lifts his head to spit the top in
the air before catching it and shrugs.
Kate says, “Laura asked me to retrieve you. She wants to talk and you’re not
answering any of her texts. So, come on. You know how moody those Hales get
when you ignore them.”
Stiles blinks and glances at his phone, which is lit with all sorts of texts,
not only from Laura, but from his dad and Scott as well.
Kate doesn’t wait for him. She stalks across the quad, students springing out
of her way in fear and awe.
Stiles gathers his things and juggles it all over to the table that Laura and
Kate are seated at.
Cora strolls up a second later in a Winnie the Pooh onesie with a tray filled
with mostly cheese fries. She sits next to Stiles and eats without
acknowledging anyone.
“So,” Laura says after a brief swallow. She’s eating her second chili-dog, and
well on her way to the next. “I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to go to
the costume shop after school since Wednesday is ‘cosplay as your favorite
cartoon character’? Kate wants to do Josie and the Pussycats but I said —”
“I can’t,” Stiles interrupts and politely declines the carton of cheese fries
Cora tries to push his way. He can’t eat when his mind is preoccupied like
this. “One of my friends have — hang on, doesn’t Peter tell you about — do you
know what’s going on?”
"I read the news." Laura has an odd look on her face that he can't quite place
and she says, “My mom and Peter usually deal with whatever strange happenings
are going on in Beacon Hills. I try not to think about it generally or get
involved. I can't consider it my responsibility.”
“Amen,” Kate chimes as she goes to town on a vanilla pudding cup.
Laura rolls her eyes, but she's still got an odd expression twisting the lovely
features of her face.
Stiles frowns and says, “Okay, I get that you read the news, but we know that
they always skate around the issue. Aren’t you ever curious?”
“Not really,” Laura says, and her expression goes even funnier. She starts
picking at her nails, avoiding his gaze. “Look, I’ll just pick you out
something and drop it off at your house. Kate, help me pass out some more
flyers. I haven’t hit up the swim team yet.” And just like that, the two of
them flock off.
Stiles watches them with a new sense of awareness. He has a feeling that he’s
hit a sore subject with Laura, but he doesn’t really understand why that could
be.
Cora snorts beside him and says, “You’re doing those faces again.”
“The kind that makes you want to punch me? I have a face, Cora. It’s gonna
happen,” Stiles replies, distracted still. “What was that about?”
Cora shrugs. She says, “Laura doesn’t exactly — she’s not like Peter or mom.
She’s always been — maybe you can call it selfish, but that doesn’t really fit
to what it is. You’ll have to ask her if she’ll sit still to answer. She’s got
a good reason, I think, of why she tries not to get too mixed up in the oddness
of Beacon Hills.”
Stiles makes a thoughtful sound at that. He makes a mental note to find out why
that is, but for now, he switches gears when he spots Derek in a frog onesie by
the double doors of the gymnasium talking to a very irate Paige, who is one of
the only people not dressed for spirit week. It looks like they’re arguing and
Stiles can pretty much guess about what. He says, before he can help it, “So
Paige confronted me about spending the night.”
"And?"
"And so she was really bothered about it."
“She knows that wasn’t in your control, right? Scratch that. She'd haveto
know,” Cora replies, unmoved.
"Yeah, maybe," Stiles sighs. "Can't help but to feel guilty though."
"You're too sympathetic. That's gotta be exhausting." Cora eats her cheese
fries, and mouth full, goes on to say, “Whatever her case is, let Derek worry
about it. Not your problem. That's his girlfriend, not yours.”
“Uh — okay,” Stiles merely says. The corner of his mouth kicks up a but because
the way Cora had said that had almost been comforting in a way. He sheepishly
adds, “Can I borrow your notes? I didn’t — I wasn’t really all the way there at
the time. I missed a few things.”
Cora doesn’t even look at him. She stabs at her cheese fries with a plastic
fork that looks ready to break under the pressure. “Which periods?”
“Um — all of them? Possibly?”
Cora makes an annoyed sound but she nods generously. She dumps the rest of her
food as they make their way to the library.
The last thing Stiles sees before he and Cora disappear inside is Paige
storming off and Derek scrubbing tiredly at his face.
                                      ---
Stiles meets up with Isaac, Jackson, Danny, Allison, and Scott after school,
and they all head to the police station on their bikes. They walk in and notice
how all the deputies are suiting themselves with guns and preparing a gang of
detection dogs.
The state police are talking to his dad, along with Talia and Peter, and they
all have severe frowns on their faces like their discussing how they’re going
to track down a bloodthirsty killer.
It makes Stiles uneasy that they’re drumming up that kind of a fuss over a
thirteen year old autistic girl, who Stiles is convinced is completely
harmless.
His dad spots them lingering by the doorway and he excuses himself with a
frown. “Go home. All of you. This is a matter for the police.”
Scott is the first to object. “But Mr. Stilinski! We —”
“I’m sorry, kids,” his dad says, holding up his hands to put off any of their
protests. “I can’t in all good consciousness let you participate. The Martin
girl is a suspect, and could very well be an unsafe headspace at the moment. I
won’t put any of you in harm's way like that. You leave it all to me, we’ll
find her.”
They all complain louder.
His dad sighs and says, “If you really want to help. You can go through town
and hand out these flyers.” He gestures to Deputy Tara, who pulls out a stack
of ‘M I S S I N G’ signs with a headshot of Lydia’s face plastered on them. “I
think it’s about time we put the community on alert anyway.”
Deputy Tara divides the stacks between them but Stiles follows after his father
when he makes for his office. “Dad, I really think you should look into the
witches next door.”
His dad makes a face and shushes him as he darts an uneasy glance around. He
herds Stiles into his office before he walks over to his coffeemaker. “Careful
what you say,” he warns sternly.
“Yeah, but your deputies know, don’t they?” Stiles counters.
“They do, but it doesn’t mean you’resupposed to. I already told you I don’t
want you getting involved. Do you want to be grounded again? Should I have
extended your punishment?” his dad questions with a narrow eyed gaze.
“No,” Stiles quickly says. “But dad, I mean — Lydia is my friend. Despite
everything else.”
His dad doesn’t say anything to that as he pours himself some coffee.
“I just really think that the old hags next door have something to do with
what’s been going on with the grave robberies and the missing children.” Stiles
quickly adds, when he sees the darkening look on his father’s face, “I read the
newspaper, okay? I didn’t — you said it’d be fine if I did it for pure
curiosity!”
“Academic curiosity,” the sheriff corrects tightly and oh boy, Stiles knows
he’s on thin ice now. “You know what? I don’t want to hear another word about
this. You leave the cases to me and you leave those old hags — women, alone.
Unless you have photographic proof of their involvement —”
“The pigs!” Stiles interjects, flailing his arms wildly. 
His dad sighs as he adds sugar and cream to his steaming cup of coffee.
“Those black pigs I keep telling you about! I would have hada picture if all my
electronic devices hadn’t been confiscated, which was fair, totally fair —
please stop looking at me like you’re seriously thinking of taking them again.”
“I am,” his dad merely says before he sits down behind his desk tiredly.
“Yes, I can see it in your face. But dad please. I mean this town,” Stiles
hedges carefully. “You know the history better than I do. The things happening
aren't normal.”
“Yes,” his dad admits. “But I promise to do everything I can to keep it from
escalating fatally. You also have to understand that I couldn’t drum up a
search warrant without probable cause. Me storming our neighbor’s house with my
deputies under my permission would look — you know how that would look, don’t
you? Especially if they didn’t find anything?”
Stiles does. It wouldn’t be good for his dad’s reputation nor his position. He
fidgets and tries to think about his options.
His dad says, “Son, I know you want to help. I appreciate it, but we both
agreed you would stay out of this. This isn’t some game or hobby you can play
around with just because you can’t sit still for a second. This isn’t like how
you and your mom used to play around with cold cases like these for shits and
giggles —”
Stiles tenses up completely and he stares at his father, inescapably hurt. He
can't believe his dad is trying to trivialize his genuine concern like this.
His dad realizes his blunder and quickly backtracks, “No, that’s not what I —
you know I don’t mean that you — I do understand that this is your friend and
—”
“Right. Of course," Stiles interrupts curtly. "Just another dumb kid with a
hobby. So, yeah. I’m just going to go hand out those flyers now since I can't
sit still.” He storms out of his father’s office. He avoids everyone’s eyes and
questions when they try to ask him what’s wrong and he just picks up his share
of the flyers before marching out of the station.
They split up in twos, and Stiles pairs himself with Isaac because he prefers
his company at the moment and he doesn’t have to worry about Isaac questioning
his suddenly stormy mood.
He can’t believe his dad would go there. After all this time, when he knows
that it still feels like a fresh wound.
For both of them.
                                      ---
Stiles and Isaac finish handing out the last of the flyers sometime around
eight and they quietly peddle home. He’s still furious with his dad’s
presumptions and dismissiveness. His hurt is burning like something
uncomfortable and itchy in the back of his throat — like a hot metal coin he
can’t even swallow.
It’s not until they’re inside the house does he feel bits of tension leaking
out of him. Home is a familiar place. It is predictable, and because of that,
it calms his racing mind in ways he can’t describe. Sometimes he needs that.
Sometimes he needs to be confronted with familiar information so he doesn’t
drown in the tidal wave of his thoughts when he feels most upset.
He has a problem with internalizing his feelings — his thoughts become a
kingdom of disarray that would make even Sherlock Holmes weep — and he finds
himself replaying the scenario over and over as if he could go back in time and
change everything.
It can be uncomfortable when your ADHD is folded into an anxiety disorder.
Stiles attempts to rid himself of the emotional thudercloud looming over his
head by making dinner first before he even considers going back to his
research. He makes baked tilapia and brown rice with broccoli as a side. He
doesn’t eat because he’s not in the mood but he enjoys watching Isaac clear his
plate and indicate to wanting another.
Stiles lets that lift his spirits a bit more as he fixes Isaac another plate
and watches him clear that one too. He notices the way that Isaac pays special
attention to the fish like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. It’s a bit
amusing, but he doesn’t question it when Isaac makes another indication of
wanting more. At least he's eating more than he used to. Isaac is a bit on the
thin side, and Stiles would love nothing more than to remedy that.
Isaac settles in the living room with all his homework when he’s had his fill
and Stiles makes himself think about what he’s doing when he goes through the
motions of putting everything away in storage containers before he cleans the
kitchen.
He switches off the lights when he’s done and looms over Isaac to try and see
just what it is the preteen is up to. There’s a small set of completed reading
packets neatly placed on top of a blue folder on the coffee table. Beside that
there is some decimals, mixed fractions, along with the order of operations
math worksheets on top of a red folder. Next to that is a stack of science
articles on top of a purple folder, and lastly some grammar study guides on top
of a green folder. He's got his subjects very well organized.
Stiles, by what he can see so far, notices that Isaac has little to no trouble
in his studies. He’s a smart kid, Stiles knows. It does him proud to see him
successful in his schoolwork. He still says, because he feels like he should
offer, “You know, if you ever need help, I’m here. I’m kinda iffy with math but
that other stuff, I’m, uh, pretty pro at.”
Isaac’s pencil doesn’t stop moving as he scribbles across a history worksheet.
But before Stiles can feel stupid for offering, he looks up and directly into
Stiles eyes, and then he nods.
Stiles is pretty sure the grin on his face is ridiculous.
Isaac turns his attention back to his lap and continues to work quietly.
Stiles leaves him to it and goes down into the basement so he can grab his
dad’s old roll-around bulletin and whiteboard combo. He drags it up the stairs
(not without difficulty because who are we kidding this is Stiles) and he
places it in his room, right by the wall adjacent to his windows. He goes back
down in the basement for some tacks, some green, yellow, and red yarn, some
whiteboard markers and a box of his mother’s old mythology books.
He purposely does not look at the grand piano still sitting under some tarp
covering when he passes it to get to the stairs.
It’s been nine years and him and his dad still can’t look at it — can’t do much
of anything with it.
When he reaches his room, he’s only partially surprised to see Isaac already
there, sitting in one of his dark blue bean bag chairs with one of his own
comics (Superman because that’s his favorite hero it seems).
Stiles doesn’t mind the company. He takes everything in his arms and dumps it
in front of the bulletin/whiteboard. And because he has priorities, he starts
in on all his homework first before he gives attention to anything else.
When he finishes, he takes some Adderall and starts cutting out news articles
before he tacks it to the bulletin side of the board. He connects all the
things he doesn’t understand together with a thread of red yarn (mainly the
missing kids under the age of fourteen and the grave robberies). Then he
connects the things that seem useful but he doesn’t know what to do with by
using yellow yarn (mainly the radius of where all the missing kids lived versus
where they were last seen). Lastly, he connects everything he thinks is
significant to figuring out what exactly those old hags are or up to with green
yarn (things like the DNA of animal hair and saliva identified at every crime
scene, and the fact the crime scenes aren’t following any specific orbital
lunar patterns).
Stiles flips the board over to the whiteboard side when he finishes and uses a
brown marker to write ‘old hags’ in capital letters before he starts listing
off their characteristics.
OLD_HAGS

1. Butt ugly
2. Practices cannibalism???
3. Kidnaps children for occult reasons???
4. Possible shapeshifters that favors pigs
5. Eats the undead???
6. Do all their hunting at between midnight and dawn
7. May or may not be witches
8. It’s possible the weird orange alley cat might know something
9. Saturday was a new moon
Stiles puts the cap back on the marker and taps his chin thoughtfully as he
gives the list a once over. Then he drops to his butt and starts rummaging
through the old musty box containing his mother’s folklore books. He looks up
any occult having to do with eating the undead, shapeshifting, and kidnapping
children.
The problem is that there is lots of lore that deal with these three
characteristics in particular. It puts Stiles in a frustrating stand still
because it feels like he’s only one clue away from really solving this thing.
He jumps to his feet and starts pacing as Isaac follows him with his eyes over
the top of his comic book.
“God, what is it about them?” Stiles wonders as he scrubs his hands through his
buzz cut. “What am I missing? What am I missing?”
Isaac hums and just returns to his comic.
“Not you too,” Stiles complains as he snatches the comic out of Isaac’s hands.
Isaac shoots him this startled and annoyed look.
“I’ve talked to Scott and my dad and Peter and you. It’s like no one cares! Why
am I the only one taking this seriously? Why am I the only one that thinks that
—” He stops suddenly as he’s struck by a thought. He drops the comic onto
Isaac’s lap as he walks back to the board. “I’m not the only one,” he whispers
faintly. He uncaps his marker and adds:
10. Lydia knew something
He stares at that line for the longest before he scrambles for his phone and
scrolls through his contacts before he presses the name he’s looking for.
“Go for Erica.”
“What did you mean when you said that Lydia was having another one of her
episodes?” Stiles asks without taking a breathe in between the words.
“What?”
“Monday when you guys came over. Before you left, you said that Lydia was
having another one of her episodes again. What did you mean?” Stiles clarifies
as he squeezes his phone anxiously before he returns to the whiteboard and
poses his uncapped mark at the ready.
Erica gives a heady sigh. “I don’t get why I have to be bothered with these
questions. I’m finally alone in my house and I was going to mastur—”
Stiles makes a strangled sound as he flushes. “Please.Please do not finish that
sentence,” he begs.
Isaac makes a face like he heard it too, and he kindly exits the room, leaving
Stiles alone to deal with it.
Erica laughs meanly. “Fine, fine. I wont, but seriously — go ask Lydia about it
if you really want to know.”
“That’s not funny,” Stiles says immediately. Something in his mouth sours. “You
— you know what happened don’t you?”
“Nope. Been sick since Saturday. I didn’t go to school today, and plus, I don’t
watch the news or whatever,” Erica says. “Why, what happened?”
Stiles tells her.
Erica grows somberly quiet on the other end. “Fuck,” she finally says. Her
voice sounds off. “That’s — that’s heavy. No one told me. That’s — wow.”
“I’m surprised no one told you,” Stiles says with a frown as he stares at the
list on the whiteboard.
“Yeah, well, I have two older brothers and each of them monopolize the house
phone before I ever get the chance to. You happened to call on a good day. I
don’t have a cellphone, in case that isn’t clear. My dad is the town’s coroner
but that doesn’t exactly pay much. So basically I have to wait until I’m old
enough to get a job to afford a phone of my own.” Erica sounds annoyed.
Stiles twirls the marker in his hand guiltily. “I — sorry.”
Erica says nothing.
“Do you think you could tell me what you meant? Please? I think I can help with
this whole — with everything that’s been going on,” Stiles says.
Erica says nothing at first, but then she sighs. “So you know her folks were
getting divorced right? Well, you probably don’t know why — or what really
started the problems.” She goes on to say, “After she was diagnosed with
autism, her parents threw money at everything they could to make her seem as
normal as possible. Like they were embarrassed. I think they thought they were
doing her a favor or something.Back when Lydia was like six, she and her old
man went camping out in the mountains for some sort of radical outdoor therapy.
"Rumor is that they took a trail that was closed off to hikers and Lydia was
attacked by some kind of wild animal. She never talks about how it happened or
what it was. She was in the hospital for like weeks recovering. She still has
the like claw marks up and down her sides, but anyway, she was different after
that. She was oddly normal when she wasn’t pretending she didn’t have voices in
her head. She’s always going on and on about how she hears something and it
really fucks with her. She screams when she can’t take it, when the voices get
too loud or something, but I thought she was taking medicine for it. Seems like
she finally snapped and took her family with her.”
“Don’t say that,” Stiles says immediately. “Lydia is — we’ve all got things
that — I don’t think she’s capable of —”
“Whatever. We all have problems. Lydia’s just another one of those rich kids
who can’t cope because mommy and daddy didn't love her enough to look past her
faults,” Erica interrupts, sounding annoyed again. “I have to go. Did you need
something else?”
Stiles does his best to quell his irritation at Erica’s indifferent attitude.
He says, “Did she ever used to run off whenever she was having a — some kind of
episode? Do you know where she might have gone? A place she would like to
hide?”
“Trust me, Stilinski. I don’t have a clue.” Erica hangs up after that.
Stiles sighs and pockets his phone as he stares at the whiteboard. When he gets
tired of just staring at it, he turns off the lights and walks over to the
window and waits. No black boar exits the neighbor’s house come midnight and
that makes Stiles even more suspicious.
He leaves it be with a sigh and pushes the bulletin/whiteboard into his closet
and closes the door. He doesn’t want to risk his father seeing what he’s up to.
                                      ---
Tuesday is Twin Day.
Laura intercepts him before the first period bell and urges him into a Dr.
Seuss ‘Thing 1’ hoodie whereas she sports the ‘Thing 2’, while also presenting
him with a crazy blue wig that matches the one already on her head.
Stiles doesn’t really want to wear the wig but Laura just smiles prettily at
him and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance.
During lunch he helps her hand out cupcakes that say ‘Vote for Laura’ in purple
frosting. It’s not so bad since she makes Derek and Cora, who are dressed as
Mario and Luigi (mustaches and all) do it too. 
Stiles watches Laura jog off to harass the chess club before he sneaks a
cupcake, jumping guiltily when a voice speaks up from behind him.
“Laura will kill you if she catches you eating her favors,” Derek says,
appearing out of nowhere, tossing some junior girl and her boyfriend a charming
smile. “Vote for Laura,” he says and gives them a cupcake before they walk off.
Stiles licks the frosting off his lips and tries to look innocent as Derek
follows the movement closely with a furrowed brow and darkening cheeks (weird).
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I totally didn’t just stuff an entire
delicious cupcake in my mouth. Even though I kinda worked for it and
earned it,” he mutters. “Seriously, aren’t there some child labor laws about
this?”
Derek huffs as the color in his cheeks fade away completely and says, “I doubt
that’d stop Laura. She’s determined this year. You haven’t seen anything until
you’ve seen how she is before prom.”
Stiles makes a face. “I think I deserve another cupcake.”
“Don’t,” Derek lightly warns. “I helped her make those. Stop pigging out on
them. They're not foryou.”
“Yeah, whatever," Stiles says as he waves it off in a disregarding way that has
Derek's fake mustache twitching in annoyance. "You bake?”
Derek fidgets but he doesn't look particularly uncomfortable by the question;
he does look guilty however. "Anyone with a working brain can use a stove," he
mutters.
“Oh my god, you do,” Stiles accuses gleefully. “First the plushies, and the
basketball names — now baking? There’s a whole other side of you, isn’t there?”
Derek gives him an odd look at that. “You really have no idea,” he replies
cryptically. He seems amused almost.
Stiles doesn’t pay attention. He just says, “Baking. Wow. Baking.”
Derek suddenly looks annoyed and defensive, which is kind of a hilarious sight
because he is literally dressed as Mario. “What? It’s not a big deal. Plenty of
people do it. Even boys my age."
 "Even boys my age,he says," Stiles repeats sarcastically. "Like I don't
totally get it. Like I'm not almost the same age as you."
Derek looks like he wants to say something about that but instead, he says,
"It's not a gender thing. I don't care for gender politics when they dictate
certain behaviors in excluding ways. Baking is...it’s just like chemistry and
stuff.”
Stiles laughs and Derek looks kind of wounded. “Is that what Laura tells you
when she wants your help with something? ‘It’s just chemistry’. Oh man. I’ll
have to use that one.”
Derek glares at him and his fake mustache twitches again. “Shut up.”
“Rude,” Stiles retaliates.
Derek rolls his eyes and walks off without another word to go charm some more
people with his unfairly attractive smile. He appears to be in a good mood,
despite things, so Stiles figures things must have worked out between him and
Paige. He’s relieved. He doesn’t have to feel slightly guilty anymore.
Over by the water fountain, Cora hassles the lacrosse captain until he swears
he’ll vote for Laura. She smiles venomously and drops a cupcake in his hands
before gliding away to repeat this process.
Stiles grins and shakes his head before he gets back to work. “Vote for Laura!”
he says as he approaches a group of people playing Frisbee out on the grassier
parts of the school’s quad.
                                      ---
On his way to pick up Isaac from school, Stiles finds a fifty-dollar bill. He
kindly pockets it because why wouldn’t he? He rolls up to the school to find
Isaac standing awkwardly between a cheery Scott and Allison, who are dressed as
Flo and the other dude from the Progressive commercials for their Twin Day.
Strangely enough, it appears that Allison and Scott appear to be fighting to
gain Isaac’s attention, but he refuses to look at either of them.
“Hey,” Stiles says as he stutters to a stop. “What’s, uh — going on?”
Scott and Allison blush as Isaac fidgets between them and clenches the straps
to his backpack very tightly. He seems to be very relieved to see Stiles and he
quickly goes to grab his bike.
Scott and Allison watch him with these odd longing looks on their faces and
okay this is super weird.
“So,” Stiles says loudly, purposely grabbing their attention. “Any word about
Lydia yet?”
Scott grows somber and shakes his head no.
Allison is still watching Isaac unlock his bike.
“I guess that means they’ll be leading another search party to sweep through
the preserve,” Stiles supposes.
Scott nods. “My mom and some of the other nurses have been keeping an eye out
at the hospital. Plus she said they’ve been watching the patient databases for
any of the other hospitals.”
“Good,” Stiles says just as Isaac rolls his bike past Allison and Scott, firmly
avoiding their gazes as he starts out of the parking lot. “Uh — I better go.”
Scott and Allison nod distractedly as they watch Isaac.
“Okay,” Stiles drawls and turns to catch up with Isaac. “So, I’m curious —
what’s up with you and Allison and Scott? Is there — do they like — are they
making you uncomfortable?”
Isaac goes a little pink and shrugs but he doesn’t say anything.
Stiles isn’t sure what to make of that response. He changes the subject. “I
found fifty bucks. Wanna hit up the arcade?”
Isaac nods and that’s exactly where they go.
                                      ---
They don’t make it home until eight, and oddly, there’s a literal gold
coinplaced strategically on the top porch step. Stiles stares at it, perplexed
and intrigued as Isaac takes the house keys from his limp hands like he could
care less about this discovery and disappears inside to use the bathroom and
start his homework.
There’s an inscription on both sides of the coin that could possibly be a dead
language or something else. It’s hard to tell because the coin looks
ridiculously old. Like Pirates of the Caribbean old.
Stiles clenches the gold coin in his hand and looks up, only to be trapped in a
staring contest with the creepy orange cat from across the street.
The cat’s eyes seem to glimmer, even under the glow of the street lamp it’s
perched under. He starts to feel that stare all the way down into his soul and
he has to tap out.
Stiles slowly retreats into the house and leaves the alley cat to its
weirdness. He goes up to his room and places the gold coin on his desk before
he takes a picture of it with his tablet. He uploads the photo to his computer
and uses the internet in a attempt to locate it’s origins.
The results hit a dead end and Stiles is forced to look up a local antique
dealer instead with the hopes he can get it identified.
He makes plans to go to the address listed after school.
                                      ---
Wednesday morning, when his dad think he's still sleep, he sets a bag left for
him on the edge of his bed.
Things are still pretty tense between him and his father, so he waits until his
dad exits his room before he climbs out of bed to take a look. There's a card
stapled to it with Laura’s neat scrawl, which basically instructs him to wear
the outfit. He starts getting ready for the day once he takes a peek at what
the outfit is (though it looks familiar, he still can't tell who he's supposed
to be).
He takes a shower and slips into the costume, but it’s not until he’s putting
on the white hat does he realize that he’s cosplaying as Finn from Adventure
Time.
Stiles huffs as he gives himself a once over in the bathroom mirror.
Laura thinks she’s so clever. She kinda is.
Isaac seems amused when he sees him, but true to his quiet nature, he doesn’t
comment.
Sometimes Stiles would pay money to know what that kid is thinking.
His dad leaves the house with the morning paper and stiffly tells them to have
a good day, and not to wait up for him (they’re still looking for Lydia) before
he exits the house.
Stiles tries not to think about how it makes him feel to be at odds with his
dad. He throws his attention at making himself a bowl of cereal before he and
Isaac make their way out the door to head to school.
He makes sure not to forget that gold coin or the directions to the antique
shop.
                                      ---
At the start of the school day, Stiles takes a moment to appreciate that Laura
planned this whole cosplaying thing very well. She’s dressed as Princess
Bubblegum while Kate is dressed as Lumpy Space Princess.
Cora is dressed as Marceline, while Derek is dressed as Jake the dog.
Stiles isn’t given time to really contemplate the arrangement of their costumes
because Laura is shoving a box of campaign buttons into his arms. Some of them
have her face on it, others just says ‘Vote for Laura’.
He really hopes that she wins because he’s not sure what she’ll do if she
doesn’t. He roams through the halls with Cora, handing out buttons to student
after student until the first bell rings and everyone disperses.
Cora walks with him to their first period class and Stiles watches as Paige
frowns at a campaign button she has in her hand before she trashes it.
He tries not to think about the implications as Cora makes an impatient sound
and drags him into the classroom.
All through AP Biology, the gold coin feels like it burns in his back pocket,
whispering to the curiosity of his mind.
                                      ---
Stiles can’t even make it until lunch.
He uses the fact that he never asks to be excused midway during his fifth
period class, Astronomy, (the period before his assigned lunch time) and he
sprints to his locker to dump his books. Then he quickly heads to the boys
locker room, which is thankfully empty, and he climbs out the window above the
showers.
He doesn’t land gracefully, but he doesn’t injure himself either so that’s a
win. He limps a bit towards his bike, trying to be as covert as possible so no
one catches him, and he stoops low so he can unlock it.
“Hey.”
“Gee — sus!” Stiles yelps and sends his lock flying.
Derek catches it with minimal effort as he stands at the bottom of the curb
watching him with a basketball under his arm. With a flat look, he says, “What
are you doing?”
“Not —” Stiles looks from left to right as he thinks. “— ditching?”
Derek gives him an even flatter look that says ‘yeah right’.
Stiles gets edgy for whatever reason and so he does what he does best. Ramble
pathetically. “I just — there’s this something that I — or not really something
you can classify as a something — but it’s not a concept either, so it is
physical — but it’s the reason I have to — because there’s a place — and this
place has answers — I need answers, even though I’m sure, universally, all of
us, in our own right need answers but — the place is not like that way in that
sense though — and I was going — well not so much going because gravity is a —
the world could be moving, not me — I mean the world is moving but I’m saying
that  —”
Derek lifts his eyebrows with that particular face Stiles is starting to feel
like is only reserved for him. The face that says he thinks Stiles is a crazy
weirdo he has no chance of understanding.
Stiles sighs. “You know what? I don’t have to explain myself to you. Who are
you? No one I have to explain myself to, that’s who. Besides, why are youout
here?”
Derek huffs as he twirls his basketball on the impossibly long middle finger of
his left hand. It’s kind of an entertaining sight since he is currently
cosplaying as Jake the dog. “AP Calculus bores me. My teacher has gotten to the
point where he doesn’t care if I show up or not since I’m averaging the highest
in that class. They think they might have to start enrolling me in college
courses.”
Stiles makes a frustrated sound because how dare he be so cool? “See! The fact
that you even get to say something like that is — and with such a casual tone
too, like it’s not a big — you know what? I don’t care. Nope. Don’t care. I’m
not jealous either.”
Derek smirks a little. “I don’t know, Stiles. Kind of sounds like you are.”
“Whatever, I have no more time to waste on you,” Stiles promises and marches up
to Derek to snatch his lock back before he puts it in his green backpack and
mounts his bike. He points a threatening finger at Derek before he goes, and
the effect gets lost because Derek straightens in amusement, like he’s humoring
him. “You better not snitch on me. I’m not ditching, okay? This is an
educational, uh, trip.”
“Oh?” Derek says. “Then you won’t care if I tag along.”
“Yes I would,” Stiles says quickly. “I so would. Stay here and be the better
person.”
“I thought you said you weren’t ditching.”
“I’m not,” Stiles swears even though he so is.
“Look, I’m coming because I’m curious to see the things you get up to,” Derek
admits as he goes and fiddles with a lock on a bike that Stiles isn’t even sure
belongs to him. “It’s either me or Peter.”
“That’s low,” Stiles mumbles. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone about this.”
Derek shrugs and mounts the bike after he drops the broken lock.
Stiles stares at it, wondering just how— he shakes the thought off because he
really has no time. He peddles with Derek trailing after him, basketball under
one arm as uses his other hand to steer.
The ride to Alan's Old Antiquities takes fifteen minutes, which is pretty good
time considering.
Stiles drops his bike down in front of the shop and tries to peer through the
dusty windows into the poorly lit store. He walks in and the bell chimes
overhead to announce his arrival.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” a male voice says from all the way in the back.
“Sure,” Stiles yells in return as he holds the door open for Derek.
Derek freezes right in the doorway and cringes taking a quick step back before
he attempts it again. He cringes back quickly and just stands right at the
doorway.
Stiles says, “What?”
Derek glares at the doorway like it’s offended him.
“What?” Stiles repeats because he really wants to know what the problem is.
Derek grits his teeth and reluctantly admits, “I can’t come in.”
“What? Are you banned?”
“I can’t —” Derek intones slowly, like Stiles is an idiot. “— come in there.”
“Uh, any particular reason why? Are you like a shoplifter or —”
Derek shoots him annoyed look.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says quickly, lifting his hands to soothe him because that
question is apparently off-limits. He just files it down as another one of
those odd Hale things he’ll think about later when he has time. “I’ll be — I’ll
just be quick about this, okay?”
Derek says nothing but he backs away even further and frowns heavily.
Stiles lets the door close behind him and ignores the way Derek’s eyes are
burning holes into his back.
He decides to roam the overcrowded shop while he waits for the owner, taking in
the way the floorboards creek under his footsteps, or the general musty smell
of something old or unused.
There’s furniture settled across the shop like it’s placed to be an obstacle
course for the customers. The walls are covered in framed items like paintings,
black and white photos, copper and silver coins, slightly torn or completely
torn scrolls, and the like. There’s china dishes, and porcelain vases. There’s
statues, and empty bird cages hanging from the ceiling — not to mention old
looking weapons (guns, swords, etc.).
There’s a row of bookshelves adjacent to the front counter full of books. This
catches Stiles’s attention but before he can wander over, a bald dark-skinned
man with a goatee appears from behind a doorway of hanging beads.
“Hello,” he greets and eyes him. “How may I help you?”
Stiles fishes his pocket for the gold coin and he puts it on the glass counter
display, which holds an impressive exhibit of jewelry (pocket watches, rubies,
etc.). He says, “I — do you think you could possibly tell me what this is?”
The man looks at him before he flicks his gaze down at the coin. He reaches
into the right pocket of his slacks and pulls free a silver jeweler loupe
magnifying glass and presses it to his right eye as he picks up the gold coin
with his left hand and brings it closer. He makes a thoughtful sound as he
really studies the precious metal.
He says, “Where did you say you found this?”
“I didn’t,” Stiles says. “It found me, I guess you can say. Why? Is it — is it
important?”
“Well,” the man replies noncommittally. “You have to understand that this is
practically a relic. Based on the engravings on either side, or what I am able
to make of it, this dates back to the eighth century, perhaps even earlier.
These are Arabic inscriptions, which correlate to the Islamic Golden Age. Also,
deriving from the materiel of the gold, I would definitely say it originated
from a Persian empire.”
Stiles takes that in. He says, “Okay. Cool.”
“Very.” The man sounds amused.
“You, um, seem to know a lot about history and — yeah,” Stiles says lamely.
He’s not really smooth at all.
“I know a few things,” the man concedes vaguely. "Textually."
“Right,” Stiles agrees. “So, say I had a question about some other things. Like
— I’m going to randomly think of something — oh. How about folktales?”
“Folktales?”
“Yeah, uh.” Stiles tries to choose his next words carefully. “Are there any
like stories about Witches or some mythology about Shapeshifters or creatures
that eat the dead or kidnap children from that era?”
The man lifts an eyebrow and lowers the coin, along with the magnifying glass.
“The earliest I can think to say is One Thousand and One Nights. It’s a
collection of folktales from South and West Asia. You may recognize in its
modern title as Arabian Nights. I’m not completely sure, but what you just
described sounds a lot like a person who delights in the macabre. A Ghoul.”
“A Ghoul,” Stiles echoes faintly.
The man nods as if to confirm. “In ancient Arabian folklore, the creature preys
on young children, steal precious items, and eats the dead. They take the form
of the living person most recently eaten. They’re also known to shapeshift into
bottom feeding animals.”
“Like pigs?” Stiles feels more sick than he does triumphant when the man nods.
“But what if — if the Ghoul doesn’t eat a living person? What happens when they
just eat the dead?”
“If it eats the dead then it will never change its current human form. Normally
they would do this in order not to draw suspicion to themselves.”
“What about the kids? Why do they kidnap kids?”
“Ghouls have strong ties to Vampires. It’s believed that they were made from
Vampires. Once turned, they would pay ode to their sires by collecting a herd
of children for their masters to partake from when the masters themselves were
no longer physically able to hunt.”
“Vampires,” Stiles croaks and presses at the corner of his eyes. He can feel a
headache build.
“Yes. But its mainly a commodity of the male species of these creatures. They
tend to be more loyal.” The man goes on to say, “The females however, are prone
to do a type of nesting, or hiving. They turn the children. To do their
bidding.”
Stiles is struck by a sense of foreboding. “Okay, so, the precious items. You
mentioned they have sticky fingers when it comes to that. Would that be — do
you think they would go for something like gold coins?”
The man nods.
“Why?”
“To the Egyptians the yellow blaze of gold was a symbol of the Sun God Ra. To
the Inca people gold was the sweat of the Sun (and silver the tears of the
Moon). In these early civilizations, gold was also an important provision for
the After-Life,” the man explains. “For Ghouls, being creatures of the night,
and also undead themselves, those gold coins would be the closest ties they can
have to ever possessing something that’s as symbolically close to the Sun or
the life they once lived. They are greedy creatures by nature, but in some
ancient accounts, the female species were known to grant special partisanship
to those who would present them with gold favors.”
“Like a Genie,” Stiles supposes as he grabs the coin and looks it over. “Uh,
well.” He shoves the coin in his pocket. “Thanks but, I’m not looking to sell.
I was curious. Just, curious. Always good to know what's something is worth
from time to time.”
“Of course,” the man replies but he’s studying Stiles with a thorough amount of
concentration. “I’m happy to have sated your curiosity. Feel free to come by
anytime. I’m Alan Deaton.”
“Stiles Stilinski.”
“The sheriff’s son,” Deaton says thoughtfully, like this fact means something
to him.
Stiles blushes a little and figures now would be the best time to exit. “Okay,
well. I better get going since my free period is just about up. Thanks again.”
He hurries to the door.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton calls.
Stiles pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“While we’re on the subject, it might be educational for you to know that the
only way kill a Ghoul would be by decapitation. Electricity and fire can often
render them weak,” Deaton says. “Have a good day.”
Stiles nods faintly and exits the shop.
Derek is leaning against a meter with an annoyed frown.
“Now for what reason could you have to make that face at me? I told you that
you didn’t have to come,” Stiles points out as he grabs his bike.
“What are you up to?” Derek asks instead.
Stiles fidgets. “What do you mean? I’m not up to anything. This was nothing but
an educational trip.”
Derek doesn’t look like he buys it but he doesn’t push. He grabs his bike and
mounts it before peddling towards school.
Luckily, they make it back right at the end of lunch.
                                      ---
Peter is sitting out on the porch steps when Stiles and Isaac roll up to their
house on their mountain bikes after school. Peter glances briefly at Isaac
before he focuses a narrow-eyed gaze on Stiles.
Isaac wrinkles his nose at Peter as Stiles hands the house keys over and he
heads inside, giving Peter a wide berth when he marches up the steps like he
really doesn’t want to make physical contact.
Peter seems amused but unsurprised.
Stiles doesn’t even want to know (except he totally does). He approaches Peter,
who makes no move to stand, and says, “Dropping in unannounced yet again.But
without a stuffed animal this time. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Peter says slowly with a meaningful look. “You tell me.”
Stiles sighs and crosses his arms. “Derek opened his stupid mouth, didn’t he?
What did he tell you?”
Peter flashes him a sharp smile and says, “Enough.”
An incredibly loaded silence falls over them.
Stiles fidgets. “My gut is never wrong, you know,” he points out. “I knew
something was up with —” He nods his head to the house next door. “— them, and
I was right. I was a little off about my theories but a quick fact check
cleared that right up. You know, since I took the time to do a little digging
unlike everyone around me.”
Peter stares at him intently for a long moment before he says, “You’re right.
I’m sorry.”
Stiles blinks. “Okay, that was something I wasn’t expecting you to say.
Actually if you want to go ahead and say that again, I will not stop you.”
Peter ignores the suggestion. He just stands and looks towards the house next
door. “Tell me the plan.”
“Plan?”
Peter gives him a look.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles concedes and fishes the gold coin out of his pocket and
holds it up for Peter to see. “I was going to try and bargain with them.”
Peter lifts a brow.
                                      ---
Under the cover of darkness, Stiles sits against the tall wooden fence on the
grass with Peter as they wait. The plan is that Stiles is going to distract
those horrible old hags while Peter sneaks into the house to either get some
hard evidence that would give his dad the cue to take some judicial action, or
possibly figure out the location of those missing children.
Hopefully, Stiles thinks, Peter wont be too late. Or that this plan comes to
nothing.
Predictably, the door swings open around midnight and the clopping of hooves
and snorts sound off as those two black boars exit the backdoor of the house.
Stiles waits a beat before he moves to follow them.
Peter reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Are you truly certain about this?
Mistakes might prove to be fatal in this case.”
“I'm partially sure,” Stiles admits. “Look, all I know is that they wont do
anything to me. It’s better that I distract them. They know I’m the sheriff’s
son. I'm virtually untouchable.” He shrugs again. “Now go do the whole rescue
thing while you still have a chance.”
Peter looks uncertain, like he wants to say something soft and sentimental but
he shakes his head instead. He says, “Be careful. I’ll kill you if you let them
kill you.”
Stiles gives Peter a look. “That was almost nice until you just kept running
your stupid mouth, you weirdo.” He shakes of Peter’s hand and cuffs him in the
shoulder. “You be careful too.”
"As if I could be anything but." Peter smirks before he climbs over the fence
and sneaks into the old hags’ house.
Stiles meets Isaac out front and they mount their bikes so they can quickly
trail the black boars who are predictably fast. He hadn’t wanted to involve
Isaac in this endeavor but Isaac had seemed pretty keen about not being left
behind.
The black boars lead them to the Beacon Hills Cemetery.
Stiles veers his bike off toward a tree and he hunches down as Isaac sticks
close and they both watch the smaller of the black pigs waddle its way into the
lowly lit graveyard.
The other noses around one of his dad’s deputies, who is sitting in a parked
cruiser by the entrance of the cemetery, cramming some curly-fries in his
mouth, none the wiser.
The black pig transforms abruptly, and takes the form of Kalliope. She kindly
taps the window and waits for the deputy to lower the window questioningly
before she blows softly into his face. A thick cloud of green fog escapes her
mouth and curls around his head.
The deputy passes out within a heartbeat and Kalliope glides away in
satisfaction.
Stiles waits a beat before he whispers, “Go to the car and make sure he isn’t
dead. If he’s not, just wait for like, fifteen minutes, okay? If I’m not back
before then, well, you know who to call.”
Isaac grabs his wrist before he has a chance to get away and there is a
thorough amount of unease etched in his scarred features.
"Don't worry," Stiles promises, secretly pleased by the concern he can identify
in Isaac's eyes. "I'll be just fine."
Isaac looks uncertain but he nods before letting him go.
They part ways and Stiles strides quickly into the cemetery as Isaac climbs
into the passenger seat of the squad car.
Stiles spies Acantha and Kalliope huddled around an open coffin, sucking the
rotted flesh from the bones of a corpse with greedy wet sounds. He gags a bit
as he hunches behind a tombstone and watches as little by little their true
form is revealed.
They have grey leathery skin stretched over skeletal frames, black beady eyes,
elfish ears, thin grey hair and razor sharp talons on their hands and feet to
match their bloody razor sharp teeth.
Stiles steadies his heart despite things, and he fishes in his pocket for the
gold coin. He pulls it out and twiddles it between his fingers.
Kalliope stills suddenly and sniffs at the air before her black eyes whip over
to the tombstone Stiles is hiding behind.
“What is it?” Acantha hisses wetly. Blood and shards of bones are oozing from
the corners of her wrinkled mouth. "Why do you search the darkness so wildly?"
“I hear something precious,” Kalliope snarls. She licks at her upper lip as her
head twitches to the side. Then she says, “Seems to me we have a little nosey
visitor."
"Is that so? I do like company," Acantha cackles, crushing an already brittle
skull between her claws. "No need to guess who. This scent is familiar."
Kalliope hisses in agreement and says, "Come out, stupid boy. I smell that gold
on you.”
Stiles swallows but he stands and reveals himself. He slowly makes his way over
as they track his movements like a hawk would a mouse. He says, “I hear you’re
the two to go to for a favor?” He waves around the coin.
Kalliope and Acantha watch the coin greedily before they scowl at him.
"Clever, isn't he?" Acantha murmurs. She cocks her head with a smirk. "Children
are never so clever. Special, this one. Different from the rest."
Kalliope merely scowls harder and says, “Hardly clever if he comes seeking us
as we are. What do you want, stupid boy?”
“Nothing much. Just, uh — was kind of wondering why you came to Beacon Hills?”
Stiles asks instead, stalling for time.
Kalliope mouth twists in displeasure. “That’s not a favor, you ugly child.” She
starts prowling around him on all fours. "That’s a question."
Stiles swallows. “Yeah, well, the sooner you answer, the sooner I tell you what
I want.” He waves around the coin and they watch it with distracted focus.
Acantha says, like she’s compelled to, “We were called here.”
“By who?” Stiles asks.
“Not by who, stupid boy,” Kalliope corrects as she continues to circle him.
“This signal comes from no man. Nor woman.”
“What signal?”
“You know of what we speak,” Acantha counters. “You’ve come to it too. It
called you. It calls to all it's kin.”
Stiles thinks back and it hits him. “The magical tree stump.”
Acantha and Kalliope give an ugly laugh.
Acantha says, “Not it’s given name. Not properly.”
“No,” Kalliope confirms. “Those foolish Druids call it the center of the world,
they do.”
“The Nemeton,” Acantha clarifies, almost gleefully.
“The Nemeton,” Stiles repeats as he rolls the word around in his mind, and
there's a whisper of curiosity that unfurls in his mind. There's a stirring in
his gut that he's never felt before, like the awakening of something he can't
name (something that's been lying dormant). “Why does it — is it just you that
can hear the signal?”
“No,” Kalliope merely says as she continues to circle him. "It's not a sound,
you vile boy."
"So it's like a vibration then?" Stiles asks, confused.
"No, not a feeling either. The signal is something beyond the senses," Kalliope
adds. "Humans don't understand there is more to just tasting. More to just
seeing or hearing. More to just scenting or feeling. There is an Echelon of
Splendor that they will never get until they are in the throes of death. Then,
only then, do they know."
Stiles has no idea what any of that means but he definitely does not want to
die in order to find out.
“You ask the wrong things, you know,” Acantha remarks. “Come now, give me the
pretty coin and I’ll tell you the future of the world. None of us are safe
anymore. The Humans have war in their hearts for us all.”
“Such wicked plans,” Kalliope agrees. “Ugly, stupid, useless Humans. I hate
them.”
Acantha hums in agreement. “Give me the coin, little darling. I’ll tell you of
what’s to come. You’ll want to know. So many snakes in this town. They’re all
poised to strike. I can be so sweet to you if you hand it over.”
Stiles is curious. They’re clever to play on his curiosity like this. He’s
almost tempted to hand the coin over and get some real answers. But he just
shakes his head to clear his mind of their seduction and says, “What did you do
to Lydia?”
“This hideous child asks such boring questions,” Kalliope drawls as she slinks
back over to the rotted corpse and begins to suck on another bone. “We’ve done
nothing to that atrocious redheaded fairy.”
“It’s the feline therianthropic, not us,” Acantha adds, sounding offended. “Bad
luck to kill a woman of the barrows. Why would we?”
“We wouldn’t,” Kalliope confirms.
Stiles feels his thoughts begin to swim with all this new information.
“We should eat him,” Acantha announces suddenly. “He’s not going to give us
that coin. We should eat him and thentake the coin.” She eyes him. "Yes,
that'll do nicely."
“I vote no on that,” Stiles says quickly.
Kalliope huffs meanly. “Shut up, you repulsive boy. We wouldn’t touch you.”
“And why wouldn’t we, Kalliope?” Acantha complains. “He’s seen our true nature.
Can’t let that stand. Oh no. Can’t let him run his delicious little mouth about
that.”
“Honestly, Acantha. You mean you don’t smell it on him?” Kalliope remarks as
she glares at Stiles like he’s the ugly vermin sucking on rotted flesh like
chicken off of a bone. “Isn’t it a curious thing that our concealment charms
didn’t work on him? He still gave us the side-eye when all the other dull-
witted creatures of this town were so delectably dismissive.”
Acantha cocks her head as she takes that in to consideration. She inhales
deeply in Stiles's direction curiously before her eyes flutter and she gives a
frightening grin. “Ah, I see. How delightful,” she murmurs. “Too true you are,
Kalliope. He’s been paying us far too much attention from the beginning. Not
natural for Humans at all. But he's never been one, has he?”
“There’s never a proper concealment charm that works efficiently for Virtues.
They’ll always discern the true nature of a person. I’ve always hated them for
that reason,” Kalliope complains as she continues to glare at Stiles. “Well
don’t look so confused. Don’t you know what you are, you imbecile?”
Stiles rolls the name over in his mind and tries to think desperately about
what it could mean. “You think I’m a — Virtue?”
Kalliope gives an ugly snort of a laugh. “How utterly perfect. He doesn’t know.
Imagine that. A clueless Virtue. It’s like poetry.”
Acantha smiles wickedly. “We should keep the ignorant Changeling then. I’m
tired of this place anyway. Come, Kalliope, let’s run away with the little
thing. Imagine what we could do.”
“Blood of a Virtue pays very nicely,” Kalliope agrees as they begin to stalk
towards him.
“Wait, wait,” Stiles hastily says as he backs away, stumbling. “I thought we
were here to bargain. Seriously, you don’t want to kidnap me.”
“Oh but don’t we?” Acantha counters. “Keep your silly little coin. You just
gave us something far more valuable.”
Stiles runs and screams with his arms flailing, hoping that Isaac can take this
as a sign that things are going wrong and call his dad for help. He doesn’t
make it far because these old hags are fast.
Acantha tackles him into the dirt with a squealing growl and Kalliope blows a
gust of nasty wind in his face. The smell of her breath is so toxic (worse than
hot, raw sewage) that it makes his vision swim as his stomach churns with
nausea.
In the distance, he makes out that eerie orange alley cat watching them from
where it’s perched on top of a tombstone.
Kalliope blows in his face again.
The world goes dark.
***** limits *****
Stiles wakes up with both his wrists tied together and his mouth gagged with
white hanging rope soaked in what smells and tastes like vinegar and oil. He’s
lying on the center of the Nemeton in the middle of a circle of strategically
placed (eerily deformed) black candles, blinking up at a starry sky.
This takes a moment for him to process, of course.
He’s never woken up like this before. He groans and sits up shakily, pleased to
see that, although shoeless (and without socks), his feet aren’t tied together.
There is, however, red wax melted between all his toes (causing them to stick
together). He tries to wiggle them free but to no avail.
"That'll make some nice footprints for us to follow if you try to run, naughty
boy," Acantha explains when she notices that he's awake. "Can track you
anywhere with that, we can."
Stiles blinks and tries to tongue away the saturated rope from his mouth.
Acantha goes back to lighting the black candles one by one as she uses her free
hand to burn some sage into the air (the smoke is thick and an auburn brown).
Meanwhile, Kalliope mutters a prayer over a long archaic looking blade she
points from north to south, then east to west. She repeats this process as she
circles the Nemeton.
Stiles makes an annoyed sound at Acantha as he stumbles to his feet.
Acantha looks at him sharply with her beady black eyes and warns, “Mustn’t
break the circle, little one. You’ll be burned to a cinder. You’ll stay put
like a good dear, yes? Wouldn't want those young bones to poof into ash. No,
wouldn't want that. Such a waste for something so valuable. All the candles
have been lit and it's tiny flames will keep you in where you belong.”
Stiles makes a distressed sound as he eyes the edges of the Nemeton when he
stands to his full height. She was right. All of the black candles were lit but
the flames didn't flicker at all. They were frozen, as if they weren't real at
all. The only sensible thing to do would be to heed her advice since he didn't
understand this kind of magic at all. He then looks around and out into the
trees, hoping to see even a glimmer of help (maybe even some light through the
trees where the Hale Manor might reside).
It’s dark and quiet, however.
The moon is sitting heavy amongst the stars in First Quarter, and the air feels
moderately warm. It’s a perfect night, and it really clashes with Stiles’s
current situation. It makes a chill of slight fear roll down his back like a
bead of water. It makes something restless in his gut. He wonders if this is
the moment he dies.
Stiles shakes his morbid thoughts away and thinks about Isaac and his dad and
Peter. They don’t know where he is and he doesn’t know where they are. Oh man,
his dad is going to be so pissed if he goes and gets himself killed. Or if he
doesn’t and he somehow makes it out of this alive and somewhat unscathed then
he’ll be grounded forever. Being grounded sounds like heaven right now.
Isaac had to have heard him scream. He’s smart. He’ll get help or something.
It’s a silly hope to cling to but Stiles clings to it desperately.
He winces as he tongues at the rope tied around his mouth again. It tastes
bitter with the heavy saturation of vinegar and oil. He tries to wriggle his
mouth free once more as he bounces on his heels and weighs his options. Common
sense is telling him to run but he can’t ignore Acantha’s earlier warning. He’s
not sure what kind of ritual they’re performing, but he’s in no position to
take any risks.
He wonders how far he’s from the Hale Manor. He thinks about how good their
hearing is and he wonders if any of them can hear him when he begins to scream
through the rope while jumping up and down.
“Quiet your tongue, you pea-brained nuisance,” Kalliope snaps; the blade in her
hand winks at him dangerously with the help of the moonlight. “Acantha's
burning sage and their as good as raising silencing wards. Can’t afford any
interruptions with this.”
“We’ll be as quick as possible,” Acantha promises as she shakes off the last
bit of brown smoke, like that’s supposed to be soothing or something. "We've
got a Half Moon tonight."
"What luck," Kalliope agrees with a smirk. "First Quarter's good for summoning.
Best time to draw things outside of ourselves and bring them to us."
Acantha takes what looks to be the bones of a human infant and the bones of an
adult ox, crushing them together between her taloned hands until she’s ground
it all into dust. She then begins to spin around with it over her head before
she releases it around the visible roots of the tree like a flower girl would
with rose petals as she waltzes down the aisle of a wedding ceremony.
Kalliope turns with the ancient looking blade and folds her hands over the
hilt, pressing it back against her skeletal sternum as the sharp edge of the
blade points up at the sky. She closes her eyes and begins to chant so fast
that it barely looks like her lips are moving.
Stiles pants as the air grows sharp and cold, pricking needles of uneasiness
into his heart as he watches with widened eyes as Kalliope’s body begins to
vibrate like the wings of a hummingbird.
Acantha’s cold laughter echoes menacingly as she begins to vibrate as well and
she continues to belly dance her way around the Nemeton without ever ceasing.  
Stiles makes another distressed sound as the hairs on his body stands on end
with the fluctuating energy buzzing through the air and it's like being in a
cave the way their voices seem to echo in his ears. He watches as the flames of
the black candles lining the edge of the tree stump and keeping him enclosed
begin to blaze brighter and brighter as though they have a life of their own.
There's a sheet of fog rolling in across the dewy grass.
Kalliope slices open her hand and drips dark green blood onto a pile of bones
at her feet. She then drips some deep blue candle wax over them as she hisses
something in archaic Latin, which makes the bones disappear under a thick puff
of red smoke that smells sulfuric (like rotten eggs) when it reaches Stiles.
When the red smoke clears with the sound of a loud sigh, there’s a leggy and
very naked dark eyed woman with long, wild and wavy (mud brown) hair, pupil-
less eyes the color of red wine, and a blank but neutral expression. She lifts
her hands and eyes them with a cocked head before she takes stock of the rest
of her naked body. She's covered in streaks of dirt, and she looks like some
kind wild woman who hasn't known civilization in years.
Kalliope and Acantha fall to their knees before her, keeping their foreheads
pressed to the grass in a total sign of submission.
The woman eyes them with clear indifference and says, “For what reason am I to
be sealed in Human flesh? Am I not a Foot Soldier to the King of
Principalities? How insulting." She examines the back of her right hand with a
grimace. "By whom was I called? To whom can I blame?”
Acantha’s voice trembles as she speak, “Look kindly on us, O Jezebel. Most
beautiful of all the Fallen Ones —”
“Kindly?” Jezebel retorts as she stops Acantha's babbling before it can truly
start. Her mouth compresses into a hard line. “Now what use is a low-ranking
Demon to a decrepit Ghoul? I would say you'd find yourself in better company
with the Vampires." She clucks her tongue. "Are you all out of wretched
parasites to sponsor?" She cocks her head and narrows her pupil-less eyes.
"Though now that I do gaze upon you..." She trails off with a thoughtful him.
"Yes. You do look familiar to me. Lift your heads so that I may see your
faces.”
“We can not,” Acantha swears. Her features seem to shrink in nervousness. “You
do know us. But we have wronged you.”
“In return for your graciousness, we offer favors as recompense,” Kalliope
promises.
Jezebel hums but the look of cold detachment on her face never changes. She
says, “I think I do know you. And you have offerings? Laughable. I’ve yet to
forgive you for the thousand gold pieces you stole from me some centuries ago
when I still belonged to the World of Man and was seated on high. One could
almost get nostalgic thinking on those days. How long has it been since I
remember the taste of food or the desire to sleep and dream again?" Her
expression grows more disdainful. "Tell me why I shouldn’t rip off your heads
and burn you to ash.”
Kalliope rushes to say, “We have a Virtue! A true Paragon of motion and choice.
One to provide enlightenment!”
“Ambiguous at that,” Acantha hastily adds. “He’s not chosen a field! He has
potential.”
Jezebel inclines her head even further in interest at that. She drags her
taciturn gaze up and over to Stiles.
Stiles feels another chill creep through him at her blank stare; there are
whispers in the wind with voices he can't even separate or determine the source
of. But it feels like it's all coming from her. There's a presence about her —
around her. It all feels so very haunted. Like stepping foot in an abandoned
hotel that was shut down because of all the uncounted/undetermined death. He
bites down on the rope in his mouth. He bites down hard as an unsettling smirk
spreads slowly across her mouth.
“Well done, monsters,” Jezebel praises, her voice shrill and strident. “The
Benefactor will be pleased to hear of this. It’s just the founding stone we’ve
been looking for to begin breaking the soil of the New World.”
“Yes. We’ve heard rumors,” Kalliope admits. “The Humans think they work in
secret but we see all that they do. And we know of the Benefactor’s cleverness.
You sit at his right hand and take delight in fulfilling the desires of his
heart!"
Jezebel smirks. "What asinine assumptions," she accuses, scornfully. "You run
your useless mouths, thinking that your words will act as your eyes but still
you cannot see."
"This gift to you will help lift our blindness then," Acantha begs as she
finally stands upright on her knees. "For this — can we — will we be pardoned
in your New World?”
Kalliope straightens as well and adds, “A Virtue is quite a token of loyalty, a
sign of a true Dominion, and we’ve come to you when we could have gone to any
other. We need protection. Protection you and your master can offer. A fair
exchange, would you not say, O Jezebel?”
Jezebel hums as she taps her chin thoughtfully. Her head cocks back as she
looks down the nose at them. “Darling little monsters,” she says breezily as
she lifts her hands, using some kind of telekinetic force to pick up Kalliope
and Acantha. They levitate in the air with choking gasps, clawing at their own
throats as Jezebel looks on in gleeful delight. “When has biblical history ever
shown me to be fair?” She whistles sharply.
Stiles watches in horror as a pair of zombie Hellhounds break free from the
soil at Jezebel’s feet with monstrous growls. They snarl demonically at the
Ghouls suspended over their heads like steaks. Their fur is dirty, matted with
guts, and as rotten as their eyes look (which glow like the headlights of a
car).
“While I do appreciate this remarkable offering you’ve presented to me, I’m
afraid this is where we have to part ways.” Jezebel releases them with a flick
of her hands and they fall prey to the savagery of the Hellhounds. “Or perhaps
it’s better said that you’ll be parting.”
Kalliope and Acantha scream shrilly as the Hellhounds rip them apart to pieces
while they all sink into the ground as though caught in the throes of
quicksand.
Stiles is shaking down to his toes by the time the ground completely swallows
Acantha and Kalliope along with the Hellhounds. The ground normalizes as though
nothing had occurred before at all.
Jezebel strides towards him as she tsks. “Poor thing. You’re shaking." Her
words are as hollow as her blank expression. "I’m sorry I had to expose you to
such violence, but that’s the way of things,” she unceremoniously reasons as
she circles him and eyes the roots of the Nemeton. She smirks and reaches out
before her hand gets zapped away by an invisible barrier. “Clever, clever,
little monsters, aren’t they? I can’t get in and you can’t get out. What shall
we do about this?”
Stiles swallows as he fidgets and struggles against his wrist bindings. He
follows her naked form as she continues to circle him, testing the barrier over
and over. His heart and mind are racing. Demons and Hellhounds and Vampires and
Ghouls and Virtues. Just…dear god. This is more than he ever thought — more
than he ever wanted to know.
This must be what they mean when they say to be careful what you wish for and
all Stiles has ever wanted was to see the truth for what it really was. To
understand what makes this town so different — so special. He’d wanted answers
and all that it’s gotten him is some naked Demon, who he is pretty sure is the
same person from biblical scripture circling him as if he were a prized jewel.
His vision is swimming with his panic and he drops to his knees under the
pressure of how much he is genuinely freaking out. It probably doesn’t help his
sanity to see that eerie orange alley cat spring out of the shadows, even
larger than it’s usual size, and it hisses threateningly at Jezebel.
It’s appearance slowly transforms under the cover of the moonlight until it
completely resembles an adult-sized beige-white lynx. It hops up onto the edge
of the stump with little trouble and hisses warningly again at the naked Demon.
Jezebel laughs cruelly. “What a pretty little kitty. My hounds would enjoy
having you in their throes. Split you open good, they would. Am I supposed to
be scared?”
“No,” the cat replies and holy god —the goddamn cat can talk. Of course it can
talk because what would make this moment anymore bizarre than that added
effect? “But an acquaintance of mine might make you reconsider. How fond are
you of the Leshy?”
Jezebel’s smirk disappears within an instant. “You lie. The Leshy are extinct.”
The cat just cocks its head as the ground begins to shake.
Stiles looks around for the source of the sound, as does a steadily paling
Jezebel.
Then, like something out of Lord of the Rings, a giant of a man wearing fur
skins and boots on the wrong feet bursts through the thrush of the trees,
swinging a club made of mighty oak and vines. He has thick, bushy hair and a
beard intertwined with flowers and butterflies. His skin is made of bronze and
his eyes blaze with the fury of an ocean (blue and deep and forceful). He’s
like a walking tree practically and when he roars at Jezebel, it sounds like
thunder cracking in the sky.
Jezebel hisses, sidestepping every swing of his club before she spins away into
a cloud of red smoke, disappearing completely.
The cat huffs in slight satisfaction before it peers over at a wide-eyed
Stiles. “Are you okay?”
Stiles doesn’t answer. He really has none to give.
“I think he’s in shock,” the cat supposes.
The Leshy strides over as it shrinks down to a more normal height of seven
feet, resembling more of a human male than a humanoid tree. He says, in a deep
Scottish accent, “Aye, laddie. He's had a nasty surprise. Give him th' inside
of your palm. That should wake him, ey?”
“I’m not going to slap him, Mr. Ravenhill,” the cat says, appalled. It’s
wandering along the circle of candles, pushing at it with its paws. "He'll come
to himself eventually I'm sure."
Stiles looks at the Leshy as the name clicks in his head. That’s Mr. Ravenhill?
The Hales’ groundskeeper? Should he be surprised at this point?
Mr. Ravenhill shrugs as he shoulders his wooden club. He smiles thinly at
Stiles, who balks, and says, “Dinnae be frightened, laddie. We sooner protect
than harm.”
Stiles nods dumbly. He’s in shock still.
The cat says, “I’m not good with these protective seals, but it should be like
disarming a bomb. Got to find the right wire to shut it all down.” The cat
jumps to the ground and starts clawing at one of the exposed roots of the tree
before it pops up again to the edge. “There. I think that will do something.”
Stiles stares at the cat.
The cat simply shrugs but it’s so weird looking because cats don’t shrug. “Try
and step out of the circle. I’m going to go inform your father of your
whereabouts. Mr. Ravenhill?”
“Aye?”
“Keep him company in the meantime please.”
“Aye.”
The cat sprints off into the trees.
Stiles hedges the edge of the tree stump, sticking his toe out and then his
whole body when he doesn’t immediately go up in flames. He rubs off the wax
between his toes by smearing it into the wet grass. He stands before Mr.
Ravenhill awkwardly, still bound and gagged, and he fidgets.
Mr. Ravenhill reaches down and snaps the rope from Stiles’s wrists as if it was
weak tape and says, “There then. Might comfy now, I gather.”
Stiles reaches behind his head to undo the knot of the rope gagging his mouth.
His jaw flexes in relief when he’s able to rid himself of it. The corners of
his mouth are sore and tender, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he has bruises.
He bruises so very easily, and judging by the rope burn on his wrists, his
mouth is probably not any better off.
“Uh,” Stiles says as he cranes his head and blinks up at Mr. Ravenhill. “Thank
— thank you.”
“Its th' decent thing to do when yer in a pinch, boyo. There's nae a thing I
wouldn't do fur a Virtue. Tis been so long since I been blessed tae see one. I
count it up as an honor, young lord,” Mr. Ravenhill intones with jovial pride.
Stiles flushes at the title. “I, um — I'm not a lord or anything. I don’t
really know what it means to be — uh." He's not even sure what he's trying to
say. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "So. Um. You’ve met many Virtues
before?”
Mr. Ravenhill nods happily, and his beard is so bushy that it’s hard for Stiles
to tell if he’s smiling or not. “Aye, a many years ago when th' world was
stowed with the lot o’ ye. Come, let's get yer nice 'n' warmed up then. I'll
tell ye what I can about what I know.”
Stiles finds himself being herded off in an unknown direction and he wonders if
he should be so trusting. But nothing in his gut tells him that the Leshy will
do him any harm, so he obligingly enters a gauntly, thorny cabin covered in
weeds and ferns.
The inside of it is more homely, well, in an odd fairy-tale way.
The furniture is largely built and obviously made to fit the dimensions of a
rather large man. It’s pretty old century too. There’s not an electronic device
in sight. Just a small fire in a large fireplace giving the cabin light, as the
birds in the birdcages hanging from the ceiling chirp and flap their wings.
Mr. Ravenhill coos at every single one of them as he passes out some grain for
them to eat. “Forgive th' noise. I dinnae entertain much company ootside o' th'
Hales. I've a soft heart fur th' Wild Things. I luv th' birds most o' all.” He
winks jovially at Stiles. Then he makes an indication to the large rocking
chair by the fireplace. “Sit down. Sit down. I'll make us a cuppa while we wait
fur yer Pa tae come 'n' collect ye. Then I'll get to them questions ye have
aboot ye kind.”
Stiles sits and tries not to feel like a toddler sitting in a highchair. He
watches Mr. Ravenhill putter around with a teakettle as the house quakes with
each of his movements before he comes back with a steaming cup to present to
Stiles. He accepts the cup with a thanks and lets it warm his shaky palms.
Mr. Ravenhill slips out of sight for a moment before he returns with a bucket
of warm water colored pink by oils (it smells like roses) and some poorly knit
socks. He kneels before him and lightly cleans Stiles’s dirty feet with his
large hands and a sponge; and he's so gentle about it too — like he's handling
paper thin china dishes.
Stiles wonders if this is a normality for the Leshy, and he figures it’s more
than likely. The large man seems to be from a different time period where
there's a heavy importance placed on this kind of hospitality.
Mr. Ravenhill dries Stiles's feet before slipping on the wooly and multicolored
socks. He says, “There. That should do it, ey? I apologize fur th' stockings. I
dinnae have anythin' yer size but I figured this would do. I get th' frilly
things from th' wee Hale kiddies. They like ta knit clothes fur me so I can
brace th' winter. Told 'em I'm used ta havin' frozen toes, but they mean well.
I dinnae have th’ heart ta shoot them down when they offer.”
“It’s fine,” Stiles quickly assures, not wanting to be rude when the Leshy went
through all the trouble. “Thank you. They’re, um, comfortable.” Which they are,
but they’re also an eyesore.
Mr. Ravenhill nods, pleased. He takes the seat across from Stiles. “Drink th'
cuppa, laddie. It'll keep th' bad dreams away when ye rest yer head tonight.”
He gestures to the cup in Stiles’s hands and he waits until Stiles takes some
careful sips of it, wincing at the bitter taste. “Ye've got some questions. Go
on then, wee lord. Ask them,” he advises and gives Stiles his full attention.
Stiles fidgets but he says, “You — what are you?” He cringes a bit at his own
wording. It feels ignorant to ask that way.
Mr. Ravenhill seems to take no offense to it though. He replies, “Nae a thing.
But I suppose some would say I'm a Woodland Spirit. Others would say Forest
Demon. But I'll tell ye I do mean tae harm no one unless they harm me first. I
tak' care o' the trees and th' creatures in 'em only in th' ways that I can.
Mostly I look after th' Hales and their wee ones. I've been a Guardian tae them
'n' theirs fur more than eighty generations now.”
“Whoa,” Stiles says for the better lack of having anything else to say. “What
are — what are they?”
Mr. Ravenhill’s blue eyes twinkle with mirth. “If ye dinnae know then it's not
my place ta say, laddie. Sorry. Ask another question. I promise ta answer it.”
Stiles quells his disappointment. “What is a Virtue? How many are there? How
many werethere? Am I — are theyextinct?”
“Back when th' world was rich 'n' peaceful, and when Man 'n' Beast could
commune with one another in respect, th' Virtues acted as judges ta maintain
balance 'n' fix any troubles between Man 'n' Beast. They were glorious 'n'
fair. They were keener than most. They could look at a ye 'n' spot yer
innermost truths. That was needed back then. Man could nae take advantage o'
Beasts 'n' Beast could nae take advantage o' Men.
"Virtues made sure that all was balanced. This is what ye are. Yer th' scales
needed ta set things right. Ye have a pure knowing that keeps th' world from
falling ta fire 'n' chaos.” Mr. Ravenhill sighs with forlorn nostalgia.
“There's less o' ye now. Man stopped believin in th' Wild Things, and in th'
Magic that made us all. When Man forgot, th' Beasts had ta hide. When they hid,
there was nae need fur Virtues anymore. Then one day, Virtues were nae more.”
Stiles doesn’t quite understand but he feels a sadness suddenly. “What do you
mean? They just disappeared or something? Like evolution? I —”
Knock, knock, knock.
Mr. Ravenhill stands. “That would be yer Pa. C'mon, young lord. Let's get ye
goin'.”
Stiles is battling between disappointment and relief. He wants to know more —
has to know more. He gets up and follows after the Leshy.
Mr. Ravenhill curls a large fist over the knob of the door but he pauses and
listens. Before he opens it, he says, very quietly, “Listen, laddie. I can tell
ye wantae tell yer Pa 'n' yer friends, but they cannae know until its the right
time. Ye cannae tell them what ye are if they do nae already know. Tis nae safe
fur ye 'n' tis nae safe fur them. Ye must continue ta be Human in th' eyes of
them.”
“But I — I am Human,” Stiles says, but he's uncertain really as to what he is.
He has so many questions.
“Aye, ye do have th' make of one, but yer more than that. Yer mind is more than
that. Yer blood is more than that. Yer th' Emissary fur th' laws o' nature.  If
yer on this Earth, tis fur somethin’ serious. We cannae lose ye now. Ye be
careful with yerself. I will look after ye when I can if ye stumble in th'
forests again. The cat-boy will mind ye too.” Mr. Ravenhill pats him a tad too
gently, minding his own strength before he opens the door.
His dad is standing on the other side with red eyes.
It almost kills Stiles and he starts to apologize as he rushes forward but his
dad just tugs him into a hug. The words die in his throat and he holds onto his
father fiercely, hoping to communicate how much he understands.
His dad is shaking and he says, in a raspy voice, “Keeping me from all that red
meat loses its significance if you’re the one to give me a heart attack.”
Stiles laughs wetly and holds his old man tighter.
Mr. Ravenhill lingers in the doorway and says, “I wouldn't mind th' laddie.
He's got Fate on his side, 'n' Fate would never see him come ta any harm. Ye be
on yer way now, Sheriff. Lightening storm's coming. I can smell it.”
His dad manages to pull himself away and he nods somberly. “Thank you,” he
says. “Thank you for — thank you.”
Mr. Ravenhill says, “Tis nae a thing. I had someone I knew long ago, 'n' yer
son reminds me o' her. Goodnight 'n' safe travels.” He shuts the door.
The cabin trembles slightly as the Leshy moves around.
His dad presses a hand between Stiles’s shoulder blades and pushes him towards
his parked cruiser.
Stiles sits in the passenger seat, buckles in, and tries not to fidget as a
heavy quiet falls over them.
His dad keeps his gaze on the road and he doesn’t say much himself.
Most of the ride is spent in a loaded silence. The radar beeps and chirps
quietly until that sound is overcome by the sound of heavy thunder, which seems
to come out of nowhere.
His dad drives a little faster, and the rumble of the engine adds to the
silence.
Stiles fidgets. He can’t take it anymore. He says, “Listen, dad. I’m sorry — I
know I put myself in danger. I didn’t think — well I didn’t really think at all
that something would — but it did and I can see why you would want me to stay
out of it because I almost — and Isaac. Is Isaac okay? I’m sorry, dad. I’m so
sorry, I shouldn’t have — but I did because I just — I was only trying to do
what I thought was right thing. Please don’t be mad at me, I promise I —”
“Stiles,” his dad says softly as they pull up to the house. “Look.” He points
to the commotion going on next door in front the neighbor’s house.
Stiles’s breath hitches as he watches through the windshield as all the
families of the missing kids are reunited with them. Those missing kids, who
are covered in ash and soot and some kind of black goop, are all account for.
And they — they are healthy and whole and — and alive.
The parents and the kids are weeping all over each other as the deputies help
herd them together and its obvious to see how important and tremendous this
reunion must be.
And Stiles — he is — he’s partially responsible for that. He didthat. He puts a
hand over his mouth as a relieved sob leaks through. It’s so stupid and crazy
but he’s just so happy, despite everything that happened tonight, and the
trauma of it all — it’s nothing compared to seeing all those families being
reunited with their kids who they probably thought were dead. God, Stiles had
doubted it himself, he’d thought they were — there was no way to really know
but there they are.
His dad reaches over and cradles him as he shakes. He shushes him and says,
“You really think I’m upset with you? While I am sprouting some grey hairs over
the fact you took a very risqué chance by confronting those — whatever those
women were, I’m glad that you — well I’m not glad because it did put you in
danger — what I’m trying to say is that I should be the one to say sorry. I
should have listened —”
“No, dad,” Stiles croaks in protest, pulling away. “You didn’t know — they were
using magic to conceal themselves. You didn’t know. You couldn'thave known.”
“But still,” his dad insists. “I almost lost — I could havelost you because I
didn’t want to believe — that’s not okay, Stiles. You’re my son and I would die
before I let anything happen to you.” He uses his thumbs to brush the tears
from Stiles’s cheeks and he fingers the rope bruises across Stiles’s mouth with
an unhappy sound. He picks up Stiles’s wrists and strokes over the rope burns
there.
Stiles chokes another sob at the tenderness his dad is showing him and he hugs
his dad close because he can’t take it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
His dad just pats him on the back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He rubs a hand up
and down his trembling back. “You’re so much like your mother. She had gut
instincts that I couldn’t understand half the time, and it sure as hell made
her a better detective than me at times. She’d be proud of you too.”
Stiles chuckles wetly before he pulls away. He sniffs and says, “Did she ever —
do you know what a Virtue is?”
His dad furrows his brow but he says, “I — well, I would hear your mother and
your grandfather talk about something like that when they talked about you. I’m
sure I asked too, but I don’t think she ever told me. She said it’s something
that couldn’t be explained, and that it’s better I didn’t know until it was
time to. Why?”
Stiles closes his mouth and presses his lips together with a headshake, even
though the corners of his mouth are still a little tender.
His dad eyes him keenly but he doesn’t press. He says, “I think you and I have
to agree to trust each other. This will make things easier in the future, and I
won’t have to worry every second of every day if you’re in danger or not. Just
— you’re older now and you’re more willful about what you believe in and what
you feel you should do. Just tell me please if you think you might be doing
something like this again. We’ll figure it out together.”
Stiles nods silently and receives his dad in another hug. “Peter is — is he —
and Isaac —”
“Safe. Both of them,” his dad assures before he pulls back again. “Isaac called
me to the cemetery, but you were gone. I started to track you but I got a call
from the station saying this man called in an anonymous tip — it was about your
whereabouts and that you were safe and sound with the Hales’ groundskeeper out
on their property and I didn’t stick around to question it. I just drove
straight to you.” He looks towards the huddled families, and the kids being
looked over by the EMTs while simultaneously giving their statements to the
deputies. His dad points to their front porch where Isaac is.
Isaac is sitting on the top steps, the bottom half of his face covered up by
one of his longest scarves. He's watching the circus of commotion as he fiddles
with the dark scarf around his neck anxiously.
Stiles is struck with an insurmountable amount of relief and he sags back
against the seat.
Then his dad points to the end of the driveway of the neighbor’s house where
Peter is cleverly commandeering all the media attention. “He and I agreed it
would be better if he took partial credit to the discovery of the kids while I
take the other half. Keeps you out of the media,” he explains.
Stiles snorts tiredly. “How did you convince him to only take partial credit?”
His dad just smiles briefly in quick humor before he goes serious again. “That
basement — it was a horror show down there.”
Stiles can imagine.
“You want to tell me your version of the story?”
Stiles does, but he keeps out a few key components (like the fact he is some
kind of judge/scale/equalizer?). He wants to tell his dad about it, but he’s
not even sure he could explain since he can’t understand, and plus, it’s a keen
possibility that his mother knew what he was too. If so, the fact that she
didn’t tell her dad about it — well, maybe it would be a good idea to keep that
tad bit of information to himself. Just for the time being. Just until he can
figure it all out.
His dad listens to his account of things with an attentive ear, his face going
a bit ashen at certain parts, but he refrains from saying anything. He does,
however, seem unsurprised to hear about Mr. Ravenhill being a Leshy or that the
cat spoke or that the Ghouls called Lydia a Fairy.
Then Stiles says, “Wait, so you really didn't know that those old hags had
nothing to do with what happened with Lydia and her parents?”
His dad nods. “I’ve got my suspicions that the person or thing that left that
message on our doorstep is also responsible for the deaths of Mr. and Mrs.
Martin. The pattern of claw marks fits both descriptions in a damn near
identical way.”
“Claw marks?” Stiles questions.
“Possible,” his dad says with a sigh. “The coroner’s report also puts the
wounds at the borderline of some special type of hunting knife, which is why I
can’t be sure entirely if it was a person or — something else.”
Stiles rolls that around in his mind. “Since Peter and Talia seem to be your
consultant on all things supernatural — what did they say?”
His dad shrugs. “Inconclusive.” He goes on to say, “They haven’t told me much
of what they think. It must be significant because they’re keeping this pretty
close to the chest. I have a feeling that it has something to do with Mayor
Argent. That family gets particularly tight-lipped when it comes to the
Argents.”
“Huh,” Stiles says as he glances over to Peter, who is still charming the
media’s attention. He rubs at his eyes and says, “I’m tired.” because honestly,
he is.
His dad seems to understand and they climb out of his squad car before heading
to the house quickly since it’s still thundering.
Isaac stands to his feet immediately upon Stiles’s approach.
His dad opens his mouth to say something but one of his deputies calls him and
he flashes both boys an apologetic smile before he walks away.
Stiles gets dragged into the house by Isaac and as soon as the door closes, the
quiet preteen clings to him in a surprising display of affection. He’s not
normally so tactile. Stiles hugs back when he notices that Isaac is shaking a
bit and he immediately feels bad. “Hey, hey — I’m okay. I just —”
Isaac shakes his head sharply as he presses his face into Stiles’s collarbone.
He presses his fingers to Stiles’s mouth in a silent request for Stiles to be
quiet before he pulls his hand away and continues to hug the older teen
tightly.
Stiles swallows over the lump in his throat. He’s starting to get some idea of
how Isaac would feel if anything happened to him, and it makes him feel warm
and happy, if not a little guilty.
Isaac eventually lets him go long enough so Stiles can go upstairs and take a
shower.
Stiles avoids his reflection while he’s in the bathroom. He really doesn’t want
to see the bruises on his face. He climbs into the shower with his toothbrush
and scrubs the taste of vinegar and oil and bitter tea out of his mouth before
he scrubs himself down until his skin is pink. He cries because he’s only Human
(no matter what he's been told so far). The day’s events really crash into him
and he cries until he can’t cry anymore, and that’s when he climbs out of the
shower, red all over and emotionally drained. He goes to his room, grateful for
the quiet, and he puts on some pajamas before he crashes facedown onto his bed.
Surprisingly, he dreams of nothing. It makes him wonder just what was in that
tea the Leshy gave him.
He could probably use more of that in the future.
                                      ---
Thursday comes and despite the fact that Stiles has gotten a peaceful night of
sleep, he still doesn’t feel up to going to school.
His dad seems to understand and he doesn’t force Stiles to go. He kisses Stiles
on the top of his head after he comes in his room to check up on him and heads
off to work when Stiles convinces him to go. He scoots to the other side of his
bed and stares out the window and tries to think of nothing, which is a near
impossibility for him. He doesn’t even realize that Isaac has elected to stay
behind until the preteen comes into his room with quiet footsteps and climbs on
the other side of his bed with a comic.
Isaac sits with his back to the headboard and he flips lazily through the
comic.
Stiles falls asleep again without meaning to, and when he wakes up, there’s a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cup of milk sitting on his nightstand.
Isaac is nowhere in sight.
Stiles wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up with a stretch and a yawn. He
grabs the sandwich and the milk before he carries it down into the living room,
where Isaac is already watching a marathon of Dance Moms as he sits curled up
in his favorite armchair with his own plate of food.
Stiles sits down on the big couch and wrinkles his nose at the smell of fish.
“What is — are you eating tuna sandwiches?”
Isaac just shrugs, which is his way of confirming, and he keeps his eyes glued
on the TV.
"Dance Moms," Stiles mumbles, almost disdainfully. "I do not get your
attraction to this show."
Isaac's response is to turn the volume up.
Stiles snorts and eats his sandwich. He doesn’t really like Dance Moms, but he
bears it for Isaac’s sake. He moves to make himself another sandwich when the
doorbell rings. He has a quick debate with himself about whether or not he
wants to answer but he moves to the door with a sigh.
There’s a tall, very handsome blond with green eyes, outfitted in a police
uniform on his doorstep and he greets Stiles with a disarming smile. “Hello.
I’m Kyle Parrish. Your dad sent me by to check up on you and Isaac.”
Stiles nods faintly as they shake hands. He doesn’t ever remember seeing this
guy around the station, and he practically knows all his father’s deputies.
“I’m Stiles — are you new?”
Parrish blinks at the suddenness of the question but he appears to be amused.
“I am new. Just started today,” he replies.
“You’re really young,” Stiles says because his brain to mouth filter is crappy.
“I mean —”
Parrish laughs. “No, it’s okay. I get that all the time. I’m twenty-six,” he
explains. His green eyes are bright with his smile. “A lot people can look as
young as me if they just eat right and take care of themselves.”
Stiles straightens at that. “I like you. You should tell my dad that. He wont
be convinced.”
“Will do,” Parrish says and flicks his gaze over Stiles’s shoulder. “Hello,
Isaac.”
Stiles turns and sees Isaac looming by the doorway of the living room with a
dark look on his face. He’s even more startled and confused when Isaac marches
over and slams the door on Deputy Parrish before storming off to his room. “Uh
—” He lifts his hands and waits to see if Isaac will reappear. "So what was
that?" he yells.
Isaac is a no show.
Stiles blinks before he quickly opens the door.
Parrish looks a bit sad but unsurprised by Isaac’s rudeness, which is strange
in a way. Maybe his dad told Parrish about how Isaac can be — but even then, he
looks like he expected it.
Stiles says, “I’m sorry about that. He’s been — moody lately or something.”
Parrish smiles a little sadly. “Puberty, I think,” is his wistful response as
he looks towards the stairs like he’s hoping that Isaac will reappear.
Stiles frowns and says, “Well, as you can see, we’re fine. Thanks for stopping
by, Deputy Parrish.”
Parrish whips his gaze back and nods quickly. He then reaches in his back
pocket for a pad of tickets before he rips one off and writes his number out
across the back of it. “Here’s my number for — just in case of anything. Please
give it to Isaac too,” he says.
Stiles takes it, despite the oddity of it, but Parrish seems harmless so he
doesn’t worry much.
Parrish stiffens suddenly and steps back just as Laura and Peter start up the
walkway towards the house. He frowns and steps further back when they reach the
top of the steps and eye him with amused smirks and wrinkled noses.
“Kyle,” Peter greets pleasantly. “Or is it Parrish? It’s hard to keep track of
what you go by these days.”
“Parrish is fine.”
Peter gives an amiable nod, like he’s humoring the deputy. “Well, I didn’t know
you were back in town.”
“I just finished my last tour in Tokyo,” Parrish says stiffly. “Thought I’d
come home.”
“Really?” Laura says with a vague hint of skepticism. “No other particular
reason?”
Parrish almost glares but he doesn’t. “I guess something drew me back.”
"Or maybe," Peter lightly suggests. "Someone."
"Well I really don't think it's any of your concern either way," Parrish
replies and squares his shoulders and his jaw.
Peter just hums noncommittally. "Ah, yes. Try as I may to change that. Your
affairs hasn't really been my concern for a long time. You were the one to make
that clear."
"It's at least nice to see you again, Laura," Parrish says, addressing her
instead.
Peter expression folds into something bitter.
Laura grins a little like there’s some inside joke here. "It's nice to see you
too. I was always your favorite anyway, right?"
Parrish huffs.
Peter says, almost tauntingly, "Careful how you answer my niece. It'll hurt my
feelings to know your affections lie elsewhere now, Parrish."
Parrish looks like he's grinding his teeth to keep himself from saying
something rude.
Stiles has no idea what’s going on.
An awkward silence follows.
The air feels fused with tension and Stiles knows he’s missing something. Like
always.
Parrish breaks his staring contest with Peter and looks back to Stiles,
ignoring Peter completely. He says, with a soft (if not forced) smile, “I’ll
see you later, Stiles. Be safe.” He nods politely at Laura. Then he shoots
Peter a less than friendly look before he jogs down the steps and towards his
squad car.
Peter says, as he watches the deputy drive off, “You sure attract the most
interesting company.”
Stiles gives him a look that gets ignored. “Well you two are here, so yeah, I
guess that’s accurate.”
Laura snickers but she gets really quiet when she really takes a look at his
face. She moves forward and presses her fingers the bruises around his mouth
with an unhappy sound.
Peter’s eyes skirt to Laura at the noise before he looks at where her fingers
are touching the marks at the corner of Stiles’s mouth and his own mouth dips
into a frown. His hands twitches briefly and his voice is eerily calm when he
says, “Invite us in, Stiles. I want to hear about what happened.”
Stiles has no chance to move out of the way because Laura ushers him into the
house and towards the living room. She sits to his right on the big couch and
presses the inside of his wrist to her abnormally warm lips. His cheeks go a
little red at the affection and he fidgets while she slides her nose around the
bruise like she’s looking for something.
“Vinegar,” Laura murmurs suddenly and lowers his hand to rest over her thighs
as she cradles it in between her warm palms.
Stiles can’t help but to notice how long her fingers are when they cover his
right hand completely.
Peter leans against the wall by the windows and peers out of them like he’s
keeping look out.
Stiles tells them everything in the same way he told his dad, omitting a few
details.
Peter frowns over at him when his account of the events end, like he knows
Stiles is hiding something but he says, “What a shame that I didn’t get the
privilege of tearing those ugly little bottom feeders to shreds. Imagine how
delightful their carcasses would have made as confetti.”
Stiles winces at the imagery and says, “I’m okay, Peter. You don’t need to be —
it’s fine.”
“It’s not,” Peter snarls, straightening with his anger and his eyes almost seem
to glow with it (but that could just be a trick of lighting). He glares at
Stiles’s bruises like it’s a personal offense to him. “I should have been there
with you. You were almost —”
Stiles tenses up. He doesn’t like to think about that.
“Peter,” Laura says gently when she notices. She strokes a hand down Stiles's
tense spine and the corner of her mouth twitches smugly when Stiles shivers and
relaxes into it. “Just don’t, okay. I’m sure he knows. We all get it.”
Her voice seems to quell Peter and he grudgingly eases away the thunderous
expression on his handsome face but his lips twist into a scowl. “They had
those children locked in a disgusting cavern with a steel door. Covered in
filth and starving. They might have eaten me if I gave them a chance.” He walks
back over to the windows and crosses his arms. “Those things deserved whatever
they got,” he mutters quietly.
Stiles is a little taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. He’s starting to
get what Kate meant way back when she said that Peter is good at playing at
being bad when he’s really soft and gooey inside. Okay, maybe she didn’t say
thatexactly but Stiles is playing with the creative license on the
interpretations.
Laura says, “You should tell mom about the Demon. She should know in case
something needs to be proactively done.”
Peter hums noncommittally before he walks off and into the kitchen with his
phone.
Stiles follows him with his eyes and listens as Peter talks to Talia, relaying
the events in the same manner he had.
Laura pats him on his wrist with a gentle smile to grab his attention. She
says, “You missed out on an eventful day of school.”
Stiles knows she’s trying to distract him, but he still says, “Oh yeah?”
“Kate got into it with Paige. There was a fight.”
Stiles blinks at that. “What? What happened?”
“You let Kate tell it and it was premeditated assault,” Laura explains with an
eye roll. “Kate and Paige have always been into it though — they've always been
dancing around each other. But this incident proved to be the last straw
because the next thing I know is that Derek is pulling Paige off of Kate and
yanking the lunch tray from her hands, which she was using to beat Kate’s face
in.”
Peter growls abruptly from the kitchen before he turns his back to them and
continues to speak quickly into the phone.
Laura just smirks at Peter's back before she shrugs at Stiles. “Uncle Peter has
been pissed about the whole thing. But Kate was furious. She’s a bully, yeah,
and we all know she’s a bitch. I don’t think any of us expected for Paige to
lash out like that though, and even I don’t think Kate deserved how Paige did
her. Not even speaking as her best friend. This is a totally unbiased opinion.”
“Oh man,” Stiles marvels. “How was — what did Kate say?”
Laura runs a hand through her hair, pulling her long bangs back from her face
as she thinks. “How it happened was that Derek brought Paige over to sit with
us at lunch. But she was being all stiff and weird. Cora didn’t say much to
her. She just rolled her eyes and wandered off to the ballot stands. Side note,
the voting for homecoming started today. Anyway, so then it was just me and
Derek and Paige and Kate.” She starts chipping some nail polish off her thumb
as her finely arched brows furrow with thought. She stands up and goes to the
other side of the coffee table. “So I’m right here with Kate and Derek and
Paige are sitting on the other side.”
Stiles nods and watches her act out the scene with slight amusement.
“I’m trying to be nice to the girl because I really didn’t want her to feel any
type of way, but she was, you know, giving me the cold shoulder. She seemed
like she had a really nasty attitude about something but I just decided to be
nice. I said, ‘Hi, how are you?’ and she just kept frowning and mumbling. So
again, I said, even louder, ‘Hi, Paige. How are you?’ just in case she didn't
think I was talking to her. She looks at me like this.” Laura does a face with
an expression that’s faintly disdainful. “Then she says, ‘Fine. Thank you.’ And
she goes back to eating her salad — well she wasn’t even eating it, she’s just
stabbing it over and over with her fork. But, you know, I can take a hint. In
my head I’m thinking, just leave her alone, she obviously doesn’t want to be
bothered, so leave her be and let Derek deal with it.
“Which, okay, clearly Derek is beyond the stage where he can make things right
with this girl. They’ve been dating for two years and I never really paid
attention to her because she’s always kind of standoffish. She’s an introvert,
and that’s fine, but I can remember way back when she was just starting to date
Derek, I tried to talk to her and get to know her because she's dating my
little brother but she kept brushing me off. I left her alone after that
because I don’t bother with people who don’t want to be bothered with me, you
know? But Cora told me that you told her that Paige came to you about how she
was mad that you had dinner with us and spent the night, and that’s, wow, you
know? Like grow up. She wants to be invited, but thing is, she can ask to come
over at any time. She doesn’t need to make it seem like we’re the ones being
dismissive. We may be really private but we’re not some snooty rich family that
thinks everyone is beneath us. We’re just really careful about who we associate
with and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Laura shakes her head. She sounds
frustrated. “But so, back to the whole lunch fiasco — after I left her alone,
that’s when Kate spoke up was like, ‘I don’t know why you bother talking to her
when she’s got her cello up her ass’.”
Stiles snorts wryly and shakes his head because that is something that Kate
would say.
Laura continues, “Then Paige mutters something so low that even I couldn’t
hear, and Kate says, ‘Speak up, Princess Metalhead. You come over here and want
to be rude to my best friend and mutter things under your breath like a scared
little bitch’. Then Paige stands up and says, and listen, she enunciates every
single vowel when she does it too, she says, ‘My name is Paige. You call me
that one more time and you’re going to find something out.’ And then Kate’s
like, ‘I don’t care what your name is. You keep up that nasty ass attitude and
treat my best friend and her brother any kind of way, I’ll call you Asshole.
Now how’s that?’. Well, I guess that was the last straw because that’s when
Paige springs across the table with her tray and tackles Kate into the ground
and Derek had to pull her off and I had to hold Kate back because she seemed
just about ready to snap the girl’s neck.”
Stiles shakes his head in disbelief. He says, “Maybe Paige has got something
deeper going on. Stress can make people, I don’t know, act out. Maybe there was
something building up.”
Laura shrugs as she sits back down next to Stiles. “Honestly I never know what
Paige’s deal is, but whatever. I’m willing, I guess, partially to give her the
benefit of the doubt but she really needs to get it together. Because here is
how I feel — if she has a problem with me or Derek or our family, at any point
she can open her mouth and saysomething. It’s not about what you say but how
you say it. I just think there’s always a better way to deal with things, you
know?”
Stiles nods. “Did they get in trouble? What happened afterwards?”
“You mean after Kate screamed every swear word she knew?” Laura huffs dryly.
“They got taken to the guidance office and from what Kate texted me, colorfully
I might add, she and Paige have in-school suspension tomorrow and Monday.”
“Oh man,” Stiles says quietly. “That’s — wow.”
“Yup,” Laura agrees. “Derek’s been sulking like a wounded puppy that doesn’t
know how to fix the problem. And honestly, I love my brother, he’s my heart,
and it’s his life, but I can’t say that I’m in agreement with Paige’s behavior.
It’s like you never really know a person until you see them when they’ve been
pushed to their limits. I just — I don’t even know.” She sighs tiredly and uses
her fingers to smooth out the wily hairs of her eyebrow.
Stiles gets that she really cares about Derek and wants him to be happy. That’s
completely understandable. His relationship with Paige doesn’t sound very
healthy. “I hear teenagers fall in love a whole bunch of times, and that each
time feels like the end all, beat all,” he supposes thoughtfully. “Maybe Paige
is it for him, who knows? Nobody’s perfect though. We’re teenagers. We’re going
to do something stupid eventually, and Kate is no saint. Maybe she needed to
learn that you can’t just say anything and everything to anyone without
retaliation.”
Laura smiles at him fondly. “Listen to you, goober. Being all sensible and
whatnot. Cora was ready to trash Paige. But then again, Cora doesn’t really
like people. She’s a cactus that way.” She shrugs the corners of her mouth.
“Maybe I’ll pay Paige a little visit so I can really feel her out. This could
be a really bad misunderstanding that’s gotten out of hand.”
Stiles nods with a shrug.
Peter returns just as he’s pocketing his phone. “I wouldn’t even spit on the
ground she’s standing on, let alone feel her out,” he scoffs. “You do realize
you’re wasting your time.” He gives her a significant look. "My nephew has a
betteroption in front of him, which I have hinted towards countless times —"
Laura rolls her eyes and stands. “That’s for Derek to decide. Not you or
anyone."
"Yes, but you may find that I am a formidable matchmaker." Peter smiles with a
frightening amount of teeth.
Laura argues, "You can't make people fall in and out of love when it suits
you.”
“Perhaps. But Derek’s always been a little slow on the uptake when it comes to
matters of the heart. He takes things for granted,” Peter drawls as he flicks
his gaze over to Stiles.
Stiles frowns. "What?"
"Oh nothing," Peter sighs in that dramatic way of his. “You’ll be attending
homecoming, I hope.”
Stiles shrugs. “I’m still thinking about it. Plus, you know.” He gestures to
the bruises on his face.
“Purely cosmetic,” Peter dismisses. "You look lovely as always otherwise."
Stiles rolls his eyes.
Peter nods to Laura and indicates for her to follow him. “I plan on taking
Kate. I’d like to see you there.”
Stiles snorts. “Tempting.”
Peter shoots him a flat look as he follows Laura out of the living room and
towards the front door.
Stiles walks after them so he can lock the door.
Laura says, “Are you coming to school tomorrow?”
“I don’t really think so.” Stiles feels more than self-conscious about the
bruises on his face. He doesn’t feel up to having to explain them to anybody or
having everyone stare.
“Okay, well, not that I’m assuming that you agreed to come, but — my dress is
purple. Something to consider if you wanted to coordinate.” Laura pats him on
the cheek before she glides off.
Peter tugs his ear and smirks when Stiles swats at him like he’s a fly. “Stay
out of trouble,” he implores before he moves across the porch, down the steps
and out to the curb to climb into his car with Laura.
Stiles watches them drive off before he closes the door and locks it.
                                      ---
“Dude, they found Lydia!” Scott tells him later that night over Skype. Then he
pauses, and says, “Your face! What happened?”
Stiles tells him everything because it’s Scott and he always tells Scott
everything. Only this time, he doesn’t quite tell him everything. He keeps out
the stuff about being a Virtue.
“Whoa,” Scott says. “No way. That’s — whoa.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees with a shrug. “Tell me about Lydia.”
“Oh, well.” Scott pauses to think. “They found her in an abandoned subway
station covered in her parents’ dried blood. She’s — man, she’s not even okay.
They had to take her to Eichen House once they cleared her of the charges.
They’re saying that her parents’ death really messed her up.”
“What’s Eichen House?” Stiles asks.
“It’s a mental hospital,” Scott explains sadly. “It’s — dude, the worst people
are in that place. Lydia shouldn’t be there.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says for the better lack of not having anything more to offer.
“Maybe we could...visit?”
Scott makes a face. “I don’t know. That's a bit — I mean I love Lydia but that
place gives me the creeps. We could call her?”
Stiles says, “She doesn’t have anyone now. Do you — like, you get that, don’t
you?”
Scott seems to take that into consideration.
“It doesn’t have to be just you and me, you know. We can go as a group with the
others. Really show support. The last thing she needs is to be left alone,”
Stiles reasons earnestly.
“Okay,” Scott says quietly with a look of guilt. “Malia and Liam are still in
Mexico though, so it’ll be us and everyone else. Well, maybe not Erica. She’s —
I don’t know. How’s Isaac? He didn’t come to school today.”
Stiles huffs and says, “I’m glad you brought that up. He’s fine, but, uh —
what’s up with you and Allison? Are you — do you guys have crushes on him?”
Scott blushes very deeply and that just answers it all.
“Dude,” Stiles bemoans with a helpless laugh. “What even? Aren’t you and
Allison going out?”
Scott’s cheeks get even redder. “We — we’ve been talking about it.”
“And?”
“And we’ve been talking about it,” Scott fusses as he fidgets in embarrassment.
“But we both want — uh...”
Stiles makes a face because he can pretty much guess where that sentence is
going. “Aw, man. Am I going to have to chaperone Isaac from now on when you
guys are around? This is bordering dangerously on polygamy.”
Scott scrubs at his flushed face. “You think I understand it? I’m thirteen,
dude! My hormones are super confusing at this point.”
Stiles snickers.
“What about you? Why are you so — you like never seem, I don’t know. Do you
have anybody you like?” Scott asks as the color recedes from his cheeks. “You
never say much of anything about that.”
Stiles thinks about it before he says, “I think girls are attractive. I think
guys are attractive. But I don’t — the gender doesn’t really phase me, I guess.
Plus I have a whole bunch going on that I don’t really stop and think about how
I haven’t even had my first kiss yet. It just doesn’t seem important right
now.”
“Oh,” Scott says. “Well, it’s all cool. Maybe you need to like find that person
that makes you want to think about those things.”
Stiles shrugs again.
“So Danny’s put me on to this swimming anime. I thought it was weird at first
but then I really started to get into it. Anyway, you should totally check it
out.”
Stiles listens to Scott ramble about something called Free! until it’s time for
bed. They make plans to go to Eichen House on Saturday before they disconnect.
He grabs Derek’s wolves on the way to bed and he curls around them until he
drifts off.
He jerks awake some hours later, gasping wetly for air, covered in sweat and
shaking as he blinks through his tears.
Isaac is standing at his bedside with a look of concern before he wanders off.
Stiles’s teeth are chattering by the time Isaac returns with a warm cup of
milk.
Isaac touches his hand to Stiles’s shoulder, very gently, almost like he's
afraid that Stiles will fall apart under his hand, before he pulls away and
steps back. He runs a hand through his curls, looking a little at a lost and
like he doesn’t know what to do but he’s trying to help.
Stiles exhales and quietly says, “I’m okay. Thank you.”
Isaac stares at him for a long time. Then he reaches out slowly and pokes the
tip of Stiles's nose with a curious frown as though he's testing some odd
theory.
Stiles huffs and swats his hand away.
The corner of Isaac's mouth kicks up a little before he settles into a
concerned frown again.
“I’m okay, Isaac. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Stiles sniffs and scrubs his arm
across his face to dry his eyes and cheeks.
Isaac fidgets.
“I — was I screaming?” Stiles asks, and he winces when Isaac nods. “Is my dad
home?”
Isaac shakes his head no.
Stiles sighs and leans back against his headboard, suddenly weary. “Go back to
bed. I’ll be fine. The milk will help.”
Isaac, for once, looks like he wants to say something. But all he does is look
at Stiles like he has nothing to give but he wishes he did. He clenches his
hands before relaxing them. He straightens little by little, drawing attention
to the fact that he’s always hunching, and he smiles softly at Stiles. Then he
quickly turns and exits the room, closing the door behind him.
Stiles is left alone, sitting unblinkingly in the darkness of his room with the
cup of warm milk in his shaking hands.
He’s dreaming about his mother again.
That hasn’t happened in years.
                                      ---
Friday is much the same as Thursday.
Stiles doesn’t go to school and Isaac stays behind to keep him company. He
spends most of the day falling in and out of sleep because he’s emotionally
exhausted. He doesn’t dream about his mother anymore, but the damage has
already been done. Seeing her, even subconsciously, had been like a punch to
the gut.
Isaac doesn’t leave his side much. He’s not like right therebut he’s within
reaching distance. Mainly he’ll lounge on Stiles’s dark blue beanbag chair by
the window and play on Stiles’s tablet or read anything from Stiles’s modest
little library. He keeps bringing Stiles food too, which is sweet, but Stiles
doesn’t feel much like eating.
He’s sad.
He wouldn’t dare say depressed because that would be harder to navigate. He’s
swimming in his thoughts and he doesn’t really have the heart to leave bed for
half of the day. He keeps quiet and he broods. He answers his phone when his
dad calls to check up on them, but outside of that, he doesn’t do much. He
watches the sun paint shadows across his room as Isaac turns pages quietly on
the other side of the bed behind him.
He manages to convince himself to take a shower when Isaac leaves him alone to
go and make a mid-day snack. It’s three in the afternoon when Stiles steps out
of the shower and takes his Adderall. He climbs into some clothes and walks
down the steps, pausing when the doorbell rings.
It’s a great surprise when it’s Cora standing on the other side with her usual
soft frown. She glances at his mouth and her frown deepens but she picks her
gaze up and looks him in the eyes. “I got your homework. Didn't know how long
you would be out for,” she says and brushes past him without waiting to be
invited in.
Stiles closes the door and follows her into the living room where she dumps all
his homework assignment and books on the small coffee table. “Wait a minute —
how did you get — most of these were in my locker.”
"Everyone's locker combination is their birthday."
"Ah," Stiles says weakly because that's true.
Cora flashes him a razor sharp smile before she pulls out her own homework in a
neater manner. “Mr. Harris wants everyone to do a paper about something. He
says that everyone who earns an ‘A’ gets to take the trip out to Chicago for a
walk-through of the Evolving Planet exhibit at the Field Museum. There’s no way
I’m talking to any of those other idiots in our class, so you better get a good
grade on your paper.”
Stiles grabs his AP English book and his homework as he settles down on the
floor beside Cora. “Is that your way of saying that you’d rather go with me or
not at all? Because if so, then I want you to know that I’m flattered and —”
Cora glares at the inside of her AP French book and says, “Take it however.
You’re less annoying than most people, dumbass.”
Stiles smiles, preening. “Wow. I feel the same way. About myself. Not you.”
Cora rolls her eyes. She says, “What are you going to do your paper about?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything off the top of my head,” Stiles
admits. “What are you doing?”
“The biodiversity of the Hengduan Mountains,” Cora replies.
“Geez, that’s not intimidating at all,” Stiles mutters, impressed.
Cora just shrugs and starts in on her homework.
Isaac sets a plate of cookies on the coffee table and two glasses of milk.
Despite his polite consideration of their house guest, he still wrinkles his
nose at Cora, and Cora responds in kind by ignoring him like he’s not even
there. Isaac wanders off to his room, as Cora eats the cookies with a low
satisfied sound, and chases it down with the milk.
Stiles is midway through his AP English homework (fingers sticky with cookie
grease and chocolate) when the doorbell rings again. “Now who is that?” he
wonders as he slides everything onto the floor before he goes to answer the
door.
It’s Allison and Scott.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not even going to pretend that you’re here to see
me.” He turns and shouts, “Isaac! You’ve got company!”
Isaac eventually joins them at the door.
“We brought you your homework,” Allison says and lifts the stack eagerly.
“Since you missed,” Scott adds, unnecessarily.
Stiles rolls his eyes again before he just leaves them to it and returns to the
living room.
Cora catches him up on everything he’s missed in all of their shared classes
with a patience he didn’t even know she had. She even stays for dinner, even
though she eats almost half of the cheesy green bean casserole he makes while
also ignoring Allison and Scott (who stay for dinner too). She packs up her
things and leaves without so much as a goodbye.
Isaac silently walks Allison and Scott out when they ask him to, and they preen
happily when he does, like two kids who are given the keys to a candy store.
They hardly noticed the bruises on Stiles's body (too busy going ga-ga over
Isaac).
Stiles cleans up the kitchen before he goes to pack up his homework and put it
away. He carries it all up to his room and dumps it on his bedroom floor by his
desk.
He pulls out the bulletin/whiteboard combo hiding away in his closet and he
sets to work with dismantling everything on it.
By the end of the night, he’s thirty pages deep into a Google search on looking
up everything having to do with Virtues.
He finds nothing.
Just as he's slipping into bed, Laura texts him pictures from the homecoming
dance, mostly of her wearing a gleaming plastic crown and a triumphant smile.
                                      ---
Sometime around midnight, when Stiles is lying facedown on the middle of his
bed with his copy of the Maze Runner, he gets a random text from Peter that
reads:
What do you know about Mermaids? :))
What.
Mermaids. :))
What do you know about them? :))
Do you have a mermaid?
Maybe. :))
How.
How do you have a mermaid?
I said maybe. :))
Maybe I have a mermaid. :))
That depends on you though. :))
What does that even mean???
(* ‿ *✿)
Peter.
Do you have a mermaid?
(* ‿ *✿)
What’s going on?
(* ‿ *✿)
Stop replying with that face.
(* ‿ *✿)
!!!!
(* ‿ *✿)
Oh my god. I’m ignoring you now.
( ⊙ _ ⊙ ✿ )
Stiles doesn’t reply, but he grabs his tablet from off of the floor and starts
researching Mermaids.
He sends everything he finds useful to Peter before he falls into a restless
sleep.
He has nightmares about Hellhounds and naked Demons dancing around a orange
tinted fire that reeks of vinegar and oil.
They don’t stop running on a loop in his mind until he cuddles around Derek’s
wolves; the smell of vanilla and jasmine soothes the anxious spaces of his mind
into a dull roar.
He ignores the implications. He just wants to sleep peacefully. That’s all.
                                      ---
Eichen House looks like one of those places you’d see in horror movies or read
about in mystery/thriller novels.
It’s late in the morning on a Saturday when Stiles rolls up to the foreboding
black iron gates with Boyd, Scott, Jackson, Danny, and Allison. They all fidget
on their mountain bikes as they stare over at the intimidating structure of the
gloomy hospital with apprehension.
The sky is grey, and subdued. It’s really like poetry. Sad, sad poetry.
None of them comment on Stiles’s bruises, which he figures must have something
to do with Scott, who can sometimes be very mindful of Stiles in ways that
matter the most.
“We should head inside,” Allison says, breaking the angst-ridden silence.
“We’re not much use to Lydia hanging outside the gates like scared kids.” She
climbs off her bike and pushes the gates open before she walks her bike up the
walkway to the steps.
After they all lock their bikes, they enter the building and walk over to the
reception area where a blue-haired nurse in pink scrubs is sitting with her
feet propped on the desk as she files her nails.
Allison approaches her and says, “Hi, we’re here to see Lydia Martin.”
The woman behind the desk goes on filing her nails for a long moment like she
didn’t even hear Allison. Then, she glances up slowly and looks at them all
with an assessing stare. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” Jackson retorts, impatiently.
The woman sighs and cracks open a binder as she indicates to the sign-in book.
“Sign in,” she says as she picks up the desk phone and dials an extension.
Stiles is the first to sign-in and he frowns at the name that comes before his.
It reads: Ines Reyes.He puts the name in the back of his mind to dwell on later
because Jackson is herding him out of the way so he can sign-in next.
At the sound of clicking heels, Stiles turns to see Ms. Morrell approach them
with a thin smile. She says, “You’re here to see Ms. Martin. The visit will
have to be short. She’s still getting used to being here. Refrain from bringing
up anything triggering. It goes without saying that the subject of her parents
is off-limits. If you upset her, you’ll have to leave, and I’ll ask that you
schedule your next visit withyour parents chaperoning. Understood?” She waits
for them to nod before she goes on to say, “Follow me.”
Stiles sticks close to Danny as they make their way down the halls and to the
stairwell.
There are patients walking around everywhere, most of them in a daze, while
others are hyperactively aware.
Lydia’s room is located on the fourth floor at the end of the hall.
Ms. Morrell opens the door and says, “Lydia. You have company.”
Stiles follows the others into the small room and is just as startled as they
are at the sight of all the drawings covering every inch of the walls. They’re
sketches of trees, rivers, stones, and mythical creatures darkened and detailed
with black charcoal.
Lydia is sitting at the desk facing the wall with the barred window above.
She’s wearing a mint green floral dress with white flats and a black birdcage
funeral veil hat pinned to her hair, which is fishtailed and lying over her
shoulder. She’s got a large sketching pad laid out on the desk and she’s
drawing a blackened rabbit hole in large and noisy circles. She’s singing
softly in Gaelic.
It tugs at Stiles’s heart, the song, and it makes his chest feel heavy and full
of something unnamable.
Ms. Morrell says, “You have an hour.” She leaves.
Danny and Boyd sit on Lydia’s neatly made bed as they glance around at all of
Lydia’s sketches.
Scott sticks close to Stiles as they watch Jackson and Allison approach Lydia.
Allison says, “Hey, Lydia. How are you?”
Lydia keeps singing softly as her right hand moves around and around and
around, the stick of black charcoal is scraping loudly against the paper almost
ominously.
“Lydia,” Jackson says, leaning forward in an attempt to get her attention.
“Lydia.”
Lydia doesn’t respond. It’s like none of them are even there.
“Jackson,” Danny says. “Just — talk to her. Not like you want her attention,
but try — just talk toher. Like we used to when she was — you know.”
“About what?” Jackson asks with an uncertain frown.
“Anything,” Danny suggests.
Boyd says, “Insects. Random, but a safe subject, I think. We can talk about
that.”
Allison touches her hand to Lydia’s right shoulder
Lydia stiffens and stops singing.
Allison yanks her hand away with an apology and says, “Lydia, did you know that
night butterflies have ears on their wings so they can avoid bats?”
“Did you know a slug has four noses?” Boyd reports.
Danny says, “The heaviest insect in the world weights 2.5 ounces.”
Lydia goes back to singing and drawing.
Scott says, “There are worms in Australia that are over four feet long. That's
— kind of gross actually.”
Stiles snorts and says, “Lydia, you should know that the desert locust is the
world’s most destructive insect. It can eat it’s own weight in food every day.
Large swarms can gobble up to 20,000 tons of grain and plants in a day.”
Jackson says, “The earliest fossil cockroach is about 280 million years old. 80
million years older than the first dinosaurs.”
Everyone looks at him in surprise.
Jackson straightens and glares at them defensively. “What? I read it
somewhere,” he swears.
“You read?” Boyd teases and grins (unrepentant) when Jackson punches him in the
arm.
Danny gives a dimpled grin as Allison hides her smile behind her hand.
Scott leans against Stiles as they watch Boyd trap Jackson in a headlock.
For a brief moment, everything feels normal.
                                      ---
Ms. Morrell, true to her word, comes to collect them at the end of the hour.
Stiles pulls Scott aside as the others file out and says, “Distract her for a
moment. I need a little time with Lydia.”
Scott looks unsure. “I don’t know, Stiles. Do you think that’s a good idea? She
didn’t even — she’s been singing the whole time we’ve been here. How do you
know that she’ll even answer?”
“I don’t. But I have to believe maybe she might,” Stiles admits. “There’s still
someone out there hacking people to bits and leaving threatening messages on my
doorstep for my dad.”
Scott nods solemnly. He squeezes Stiles’s arm with a reassuring smile before he
catches Ms. Morrell by the wrist and says, “If I hear someone calling my name
and no one is calling my name, does that make me certifiably insane?” He pulls
her away and out of sight as if he wants privacy.
Stiles waits a moment before he walks over to Lydia. She’s still singing and
she draws in large circles against her sketching pad. He says, “Lydia. I know
you — that this is the last thing you want to think about or talk about, and
please don’t think I’m being insensitive, even though I am kind of being
insensitive, but — do you remember who killed your parents?”
Lydia’s hand stops abruptly. She goes morbidly silent. She trembles as she
lifts her head slowly and looks over at him with watery green eyes and a shaky
bottom lip. “Cousin, cousin, you're so sweet,” she whispers. “Miss you dearly,
we should meet.”
“What?” Stiles rolls the words around in his mind in confusion.
“Cousin, cousin, you're so sweet,” Lydia repeats softly, like a repetition.
“Miss you dearly, we should meet.”
“Lydia, what does — what are you —” Stiles watches as she slowly rises out of
her seat and walks towards him like she’s has no control over her motor
functions.
“Cousin, cousin, you're so sweet,” Lydia says again, louder this time. “Miss
you dearly, we should meet.” Her voice gets even louder. “Cousin, cousin,
you're so sweet.” She’s panting now, looking at him with horror-stricken eyes.
“Miss you dearly, we should meet.”
Stiles feels a sudden charge in the room, and a draft makes the papers lining
the walls flutter like a heartbeat. They rustle as if a window has been left
open.
“Cousin, cousin, you're so sweet!” Lydia screams as she begins to hit at his
chest with her fists. “Miss you dearly, we should meet!”
Stiles falls back on her bed as she continues to hit at him. “Lydia! Lydia!
Stop!”
Lydia screams and screams and the papers go flying, swept up in a funnel of
wind as though the room is being hit by a hurricane.
Ms. Morrell runs in with two male nurses and they pull Lydia off of Stiles as
she screams and screams.
Danny, Jackson, Scott, Boyd, and Allison all watch from the doorway with
frightened and confused eyes.
“Sedate her!” Ms. Morrell yells over the howl of Lydia’s shrieks and the roar
of the wind.
One of the male nurses jabs her in the neck with a needle.
Lydia stops wailing and slowly goes limp in the man’s arms as tears trail down
her red cheeks. She looks at Stiles with dazed eyes and mumbles, “Cousin,
cousin, you're so sweet. Miss you dearly, we should meet.” She’s out like a
light in the next second.
Stiles stares, baffled, and Ms. Morrell grabs him by the arm and drags him out.
She says, “I was very specific about you not upsetting her. You’re done here.
None of you come back unless you have an approvedappointment and a guardian.”
She glares at Stiles first before she even turns her furious gaze on the rest
of them and storms off.
They all watch her disappear back into Lydia’s room, closing the door soundly
behind her.
Jackson shoves Stiles. “Thanks a lot, Stilinski. Just what the hell were you
doing?”
Danny holds him back but he waits for Stiles to answer.
“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean for — I’m sorry,” Stiles stammers.
Jackson shakes his head and storms off.
Boyd and Danny rush after him.
Allison opens her mouth like she wants to say something but then she closes her
mouth with a disappointed sigh and walks off.
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly as he curses under his breath.
Scott is staring at him with this odd look on his face.
“What?”
Scott says, “You’re bleeding.”
Stiles frowns and touches his face.
“No,” Scott says. “Your ears, dude. Your ears.”
Stiles reaches up and touches his fingers to his right ear before he pulls his
hand away to see his two middle fingers stained with blood.
                                      ---
Later that day, after Stiles has cleaned the blood from his ears and from the
sides of his jaw, he dives into his books for some answers.
He comes to it by the time his dad and Isaac return home from the batting cages
because baseball is a thing that his dad and Isaac both enjoy.
It’s in his mother’s encyclopedia of mythical creatures: the Wailing Woman.
Lydia is a Banshee. A Fairy. A Messenger of Death.
Stiles keeps reading and reading and he’s struck by the fact that Banshees
usually sing when someone has died, or wails when someone is about to die.
Lydia had done both today.
She had done both.
                                      ---
Paige doesn’t show up for their tutoring session on Sunday.
***** trees *****
When Paige doesn’t show up for their tutoring session on Sunday, Stiles tries
not to think too much about it as he sits by himself in their usual spot at the
library. He traces his eyes over the white walls as he tries to think about his
next move. She could be sick or wrapped up in a family emergency. It would
explain why she’s not returning his calls or his texts. He doesn’t have her
address so he can’t just go to her house to check up on her or anything.
But he does have Derek’s number.
Stiles pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts before he comes to
Derek’s name. He tries calling the other teen a couple of times but it always
goes straight to voicemail. So he winds up shooting Derek a few texts before he
pockets his phone and starts making his way out of the library. He goes to his
bike and unlocks it before he mounts it without giving any particular thought
to his next move.
The sun is burning brightly in the sky as puffy clouds sail across the yellow
orb like cotton thick ships on a blue sea. He doesn’t want to go home because
the house would be empty. His dad is out fishing with some friends and Isaac is
at therapy (something to do with mindfulness or yoga) and it's detrimental to
his recovery.
The rest of Stiles’s day is wide open. So he peddles lazily around town before
he finds himself outside of the antique shop again. He locks up his bike and
pushes through the door with the bell ringing predictably over his head.
This time around, Deaton is sitting on a tall wooden stool at the back of the
store behind the glass counter display. He’s got some reading glasses on and
he’s got a thick text book in one hand as he uses his other hand to underline
passages with a purple highlighter. He says, without even lifting his gaze,
“Mr. Stilinski. Back so soon. How may I help you?”
Stiles approaches the glass counter display and leans against it as he drums
his fingers on the surface. “I’m actually — I was wondering, since you seem to
have a modest collection, if you had books on rare and old subjects.”
“That depends,” Deaton says as he highlights another passage. “What’s the genre
you’re looking for?”
“Mythology, mainly,” Stiles hedges. “You know, like — Virtues?”
Deaton pauses at that before he glances at Stiles with an assessing look.
Stiles tries not to fidget.
Deaton snaps his book shut and tugs off his glasses. “That’s a rare subject,
indeed.”
“But you know about — I mean, you’ve heard of it, them,” Stiles reasons.
“In some circles,” Deaton confirms vaguely. “Very few of them, however.” He
sets his book down and puts his glasses back on before sticking his highlighter
behind his ear. “Follow me,” he says as he walks over to the rows of standing
bookshelves. He goes down the fourth aisle and stops midway, hunching down to
tug a book free from the bottom.
Stiles accepts the book when Deaton hands it to him. It’s not exactly a book,
per say — it’s more like a thick leather-bound journal. There’s a sigil on the
cover. He runs his fingers over the grooves. “What’s this?” he asks.
Deaton says, “It’s a triquetra, I believe. I’ve heard some say that it was a
very important symbol to Virtues. That they would use it remind themselves of
what they stood for. Usually it would be three things related to their field.”
“Field?” Stiles frowns and follows Deaton to the glass counter display. “What
does — what field?”
“As you’re probably aware, there are what’s called the Seven Heavenly Virtues:
Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Patience, Kindness, and Humility. In
the Hierarchy of what's to be known as the Upper Heavens, they rank at number
five, right between Dominions and Powers."
Stiles silently echoes those names, a twinge of familiarity twisting in his
gut.
"Now, these Virtues were believed to have been personified into physical form
when all knowledge was available to both Man and Creature,” Deaton says. “This
is during a time when all was known and nothing was hidden. There was a
communion between Nature and Man and Creature and the Cosmos. It’s believed
that Virtues paved the way so that the world could be in unity. They acted as
equalizers, and as wells of knowledge, or envoys. They kept everything in
balance in order to maintain the harmony. Now since seven is considered the
number of completion, the Virtues split themselves accordingly, and depending
on the matter at hand, two rivaling parties with an issue could go to the
Virtue of Temperance. Or say a young Human woman who wanted to court a Goblin
for whatever reason but knew nothing of the culture or how to do so, would then
go to the Virtue of Chastity. And so on and so forth. Understand?”
Stiles nods as he rolls the information around in his mind.
“The story goes,” Deaton goes on to say. “That when a Virtue reached their
sixteenth birthday, or for others it would be the nineteenth, depending on the
progression of their abilities, they would choose a specific field. Say one
would choose the path of both patience and charity — defining themselves as a
Two — they would use the triquetra as a sort of guidance. An aid. A reminder.
This reminder would be comprised of three things from those fields. So if one
were to take on the path of diligence they would recite to themselves —” Deaton
points to the top of the triquetra and says, “Persistence.” Then he points to
the second corner on the left and says, “Integrity.” Then he brings his fingers
over to the last corner and says, “Ethics.”
“Persistence, integrity, ethics,” Stiles repeats as he studies the triquetra.
“Sounds like a mantra.”
“It often would be in the face of a great adversity,” Deaton says. “There are
some who believe that if a Virtue did not remind themselves of what they stood
for, then they would fall prey to demise and become a Vice.”
“Vice? You mean like the opposite of Virtues,” Stiles reasons. “Seven Deadly
Sins.”
“Exactly,” Deaton says. He taps the journal. “This isn’t an encyclopedia. You
won’t find blueprints or maps. Only detailed accounts recorded by the Virtue
who experienced them. Think of it as a nonfiction short-story anthology in
prose form.”
Stiles lifts his eyebrows and starts fishing for his wallet. “How much do I owe
you?”
“Nothing,” Deaton says, surprisingly. “Think of it as a gift. I don’t get many
visitors, and I have a feeling you’ll make more use of this than anyone who
would gladly pay a quarter of a million for it.”
Stiles is speechless for a moment but then he says, “Thank you. I — thanks.”
Deaton merely nods. “You have a good day. And again, feel free to stop by
anytime.” He disappears into the back with his book.
Stiles tucks the journal under his arm and exits the shop as he firmly places
Deaton on his ‘Cryptic and Mysterious’list. Given the reputation of this town,
that list is probably only going to keep growing and growing.
He doesn’t go home still. He peddles out to the park and sits at a picnic table
as the screaming laughter of children ring off in the distance from where
they’re playing on the swings and the merry-go-round and the jungle gym. He
begins to flip through the journal. Some of the entries are in Middle English,
but the majority of them are in Biblical Hebrew, Aramaic, Latin, Ancient
Egyptian, Old Norse and Ancient Greek.
Stiles mostly sticks to the ones which are in Middle English because it’s kind
of like reading Shakespeare. He keeps his phone in view in case Derek or Paige
texts or calls him.
They don’t.
He ends up losing track of time, realizing that the streetlights are going to
come on when it gets too dark to read. He climbs his bike and peddles home to
see his dad deep-frying fish with Isaac. He rolls his eyes and lets it slide
because he has no choice. He still makes a salad though. He vetoes any salad
dressing since most of their food has been deep-fried.
When they sit down to eat, Stiles asks his dad if there have been any reported
deaths and his dad lifts a brow at the morbid question but replies with a no.
It should be comforting but it just distracts him all throughout dinner.
They end the night in the living room with Isaac curled up in his favorite
armchair, his dad in his recliner and Stiles spread out on the big couch as
they all watch What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.
His dad falls asleep midway through, snoring softly as his chin dips towards
the badge on his chest.
Stiles barely notices because he’s too busy swallowing back tears. He didn’t
realize this movie would be so triggering to his own personal issues of death
and family.
Isaac is — he’s quiet. But it’s not his usual air of silence. It’s a meaningful
and weighty.
Stiles scrubs at his face with the end of his shirt as the credits roll onto
the screen, and when he drops the hem he notices that Isaac is gone. He sighs
and shuts everything off before he guides his sleepy father up the stairs and
to his room. He takes his time tucking his old man into bed, huffing in fond
amusement when his dad reaches out sleepily to knock a loose fist into Stiles's
chin with affection, murmuring about how Stiles is such a good kid. Stiles
smiles and slips out of his dad's room quietly, closing the door behind him
with a quiet click. He stops by Isaac’s room and watches the preteen scribble
away in his journal with a severe frown and shaky hands.
Stiles thinks about asking if he’s okay, or saying something really profound.
He thinks about turning this second into a Hallmark Moment, or something like a
serious scene on Full House or Boy Meets World, but he notices the way Isaac is
holding himself so tightly and gnawing on his bottom lip like he wants to bite
it off and Stiles thinks better of it. He walks away and hangs out in his room
for a while. He doesn’t do anything significant. He stashes the journal of
Virtues in his underwear drawer like some kind of nudie magazine before he sits
at his computer and surfs the web for shoes, comics, games, and more books with
the subjectivity of the supernatural while he listens to some alternative songs
from his music library.
Isaac comes to his room around midnight. He stands awkwardly in the doorway
looking like he feels misplaced, fidgeting with words unsaid.
Stiles closes his laptop and says, “You want to go outside and jump on the
trampoline? I feel like breathing.”
Isaac furrows his brows at that but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.
They quietly edge out of the house and into the backyard.
Stiles lets Isaac climb into the trampoline before he follows. He builds up his
momentum as he stares at the (now empty) house next door.
Isaac does a few lazily flips before he just goes back to jumping.
There are fireflies everywhere and Stiles tries to catch some. He manages to
trap one between his hands and he lets it crawl up his palm before pausing,
spreading its wings and flying off to join its kind in the air again.
They jump and jump, the springs squeaking with their weight as the cool night
air presses against their skin like a damp veil.
Stiles is panting when he says, “I get panic attacks sometimes.” Then he adds,
even though Isaac doesn’t ask, “It’s like clamping your fingers over your nose
and trying to breathe through a coffee straw.”
Isaac stops jumping.
Stiles stops too.
They look at each other.
Stiles says, “I don’t mind that you never talk to me. Communicating with you
feels very valuable that way. Like I would never take for granted anything you
said when you do say something.”
Isaac picks at his pajama bottoms as he looks at Stiles’s collarbone. He opens
his mouth and exhales before he lifts his gaze to look Stiles in the eyes. He
keeps breathing, in and out, in and out. Then he starts jumping again, his
shoulders bowed in a relaxed line, his spine straighter.
Stiles smiles softly and starts jumping with him.
The crickets make a crescendo of sound in the trees and in the bushes. The
fireflies fly and land and fly again, glowing and glowing like reachable stars.
Stiles pays attention to how clammy Isaac’s hand is when Isaac grabs his in a
tight grip like he’s afraid that either of them will jump too high and somehow
float up and out into space. He gives Isaac’s hand a comforting squeeze back
and they look away from each other and up into the stars.
This is the moment when Stiles begins to think of Isaac like a brother.
                                      ---
Monday finds Stiles at his locker with Cora, who hassles him about the
subjectivity of his paper for the AP Biology class until Stiles begs off the
conversation.
Cora rolls her eyes and shoves a pack of blue twizzlers at his chest before she
stalks off in a huff.
He doesn’t get a chance to thank her for the random act of kindness, and he
sniffs at the candy after he opens it before he decides that it’s safe to eat.
He gnaws on the candy vines all through first period as Mr. Harris lectures
over a PowerPoint presentation about the connection between mosquitos, DNA, and
the transmission of disease.
A blue twizzler hangs from his lips as he draws triquetras in the margins of
his study guide. His fingers are sticky and he’s pretty sure his tongue and
lips are stained with blue.
On the other side of the room, Cora looks no better off with her grape vines.
                                      ---
Cora shadows him in the halls between their next two shared classes and Stiles
doesn’t figure out why until he sees some sophomore girl staring at the bruises
on his mouth. She walks towards him like she’s going to ask, but she freezes
midway with wide-eyes and turns to walk in the opposite direction. When Stiles
turns his head to question Cora about it, she’s got a vicious glare on her face
still aimed at the girl.
That totally explains why it felt like everyone has been willfully ignoring his
bruises for most of the day. Suddenly Cora has become a lot less intimidating —
well, no, she’s still intimidating but like a fraction less.
Stiles says, “I appreciate the efforts on your part but you don’t have to do
that. It’s sweet, but unnecessary.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking,” Cora denies as she tampers her glare into
something more indifferent.
“So you haven’t been shooting everyone your patented 'stare of doom' when they
look at me or look like they want to ask what happened to me?” Stiles
questions.
Cora grits her teeth and says, “Hurry up, we’ll be late for class.”
“See that? That right there is avoidance and I would like to be informed of
when our relationship goes through these big changes. So are we best friends
now? Should I go to the jewelers and put in a request for a BFF charm
bracelet?” Stiles teases as Cora scowls and herds him to their AP History class
with warm insistent hands. She’s strong and they reach the classroom in no
time. When they get to the doorway, he says, “Are we in the experimental phase
yet? Has our bond reached the awkward bad touch stage? Seriously, do you want
to make out a little? Just to see how it feels.”
“No, I want to rip your throat out with my teeth, dumbass,” Cora growls.
“Well, sure. I mean, if you’re into it. Whatever turns you on. I'll need to be
persuaded though.”
Cora sighs and stalks to her desk.
Stiles grins and does a heart symbol at her all through class whenever she
looks across the room at him.
When the teacher turns away to write something across the whiteboard, Cora lobs
an eraser at him and it smacks him in the left ear.
He throws it back and ends up hitting the guy that sits behind her instead
because his aim sucks.
Cora snorts and quickly ducks her head as Stiles does the same.
The guy glares at them both until the bell rings.
                                      ---
Lunch goes without incident. Stiles sits across from Laura and Cora as he chows
down on turkey club sandwich with some curly fries. He glances around, actively
seeking out Paige until he remembers that she’d be in in-school suspension.
He sighs very quietly.
Cora and Laura still pause their conversation to look at him questioningly like
that sigh couldn’t be any more loud and clear.
Stiles smiles sheepishly and says, “Where’s Derek? I need to ask him something
about Paige.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Laura says, delicately.
Stiles straightens as he senses something amiss in her voice. “Why? Why? What
happened? Who died?”
Cora stares at him in alarm. “No one. Calm down.” Then she mutters, “Though
with the way Derek’s been acting all weekend you can hardly tell.”
“What happened? Is — where’s Derek?”
“At home,” Laura states as vaguely as possible.
“Sulking,” Cora adds because she’s not as subtle. “He reeks of depression.”
“Why would he — oh. Oh no.” It clicks. “Did they break up?”
Laura just shakes her head sadly. “If only it were that simple,” she says.
“That she-devil ran off to Vegas with some nobody and eloped,” Cora reports
abruptly as she stabs at her salad like she wishes it were Paige's face
instead. “Two years and she marries some rando she probably met online. I hope
she chokes on his dick while they’re still on their honeymoon.”
Stiles splutters and nearly bites his own tongue in surprise. “She eloped?” he
croaks. He looks to Laura for conformation and when she shrugs her mouth, he
knows. “Why?”
“She’s a piece of shit, that’s why,” Cora huffs moodily, still stabbing her
salad until her plastic fork starts breaking to pieces.
“That would explain why she missed our session on Sunday,” Stiles mumbles,
still in shock. It also explains why Derek never picked up his phone or
responded back to his texts. He flushes in mortification at his blunder. “When
did you find out?”
“When she sent Derek a text that said she wouldn’t be joining him at homecoming
while he was alreadythere and waitingfor her.” Laura straightens with her anger
and she holds herself very tightly, like she’s got something inside her she’s
trying to keep in. She tucks her long bangs behind her ears as her mouth
wrinkles unhappily.
Stiles finds himself echoing the frown as he thinks about what Laura says. He
thinks about Derek standing in a tricked out gymnasium, his back to the folded
bleachers but never really touching. His handsome face washed with the colors
of the disco ball as he watches the other couples press their bodies against
each other to a slow song on the dance floor.
It makes Stiles sad.
Laura continues, “Then, like a true kick in the balls, she follows that text
with a picture of her sitting in the guy’s lap with the marriage certificate,
flashing her ring finger with a smile on her face like she won the lotto,”
Laura says as she takes slow sips of her red slushie.
“How did she seem, I — how was she?” Stiles asks, because he’s stupid enough to
ask. He’s trying to understand this. It all seems so — it’s beyond him.
“She looked drunk and bitter,” Laura quietly replies. She makes a disgruntled
sound and says, “I literally took the girl out for lunch to get to know her a
day before she ran off. She sat there and she played me, talking about how she
wanted to spend the rest of her life — nope. Nope.” She stands suddenly and
walks off.
Stiles watches her disappear into the school with some concern. He fishes his
phone out of his pocket and shoots Derek a quick text that reads: I’m sorry
about Paige. I didn’t know. Sorry.
Derek doesn’t reply. That’s no surprise. It’s understandable if anything.
They’re not even friends. Why would he reply?
Cora stabs at her salad like she never plans on stopping.
                                      ---
The last thing Stiles expects when he goes to pick Isaac up from school is the
black eye and the split lip. He almost twists his ankle in his haste to get to
the preteen, who is sitting on the curb between Boyd and Jackson. He says,
“What happened?”
Isaac doesn’t look at him. His gaze is locked on the laces of his shoes as his
hands lay limply over his thighs. He’s got bloody knuckles.
Stiles is so angry that it feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin.
“What happened?” he snaps, but not at Isaac. He’s looking at Boyd and Jackson.
“Some stupid eighth graders tried to jump him in the locker room because the
brother of one of the douchebags died from an overdose from the bad batch of
drugs that Isaac’s dad sold to him,” Jackson says without even blinking.
Isaac tenses up even more.
Boyd shoots Jackson a look when he notices.
“What? That’s what the kid kept screaming as he and his stupid dick friends
tried to stomp him to death,” Jackson says defensively.
Stiles swallows and swallows but nothing makes the burn of rage go away. He
exhales and says, “Did he — was Isaac fighting back? Is he suspended?”
Boyd shakes his head. “It happened a few minutes ago. Scott and Danny jumped in
when they found them and pulled them all off while Allison ran to get a
teacher. They don’t blame him. The guys are going to be expelled, I heard.”
“He wasn’t even making a sound,” Jackson adds. “Isaac didn’t even fight back.
He just — he let them.”
“But —” Stiles makes a silent gesture to Isaac’s bloody knuckles.
Boyd says, “He went off on a few lockers. Ms. Morrell had to calm him down. He
wouldn’t stop punching them.”
Stiles presses a hand to his mouth and shakes his head as a sharp image of that
makes its way into his head. He’s so — he’s so angry he can't even think. It’s
not even Isaac’s fault. The things that Isaac’s family did — it’s not even his
fault.
It’s no surprise at all when his dad pulls up in his cruiser and sprints out
the car.
Boyd and Jackson move out of the way as the sheriff drops to a knee and speaks
quietly.
Isaac keeps shaking his head at whatever his dad is saying to him.
His dad finally stands and squares his shoulders, looking as furious as Stiles
feels when six boys are escorted out of the school by some of his dad’s
deputies. “I’m pressing charges. You hear me? This is unacceptable!” he shouts
over to them.
Isaac shrinks at the volume of the sheriff’s voice.
His dad glares at the other boys until they’re herded into the back of the
police cars. He turns to Isaac and says, “We’re going to the station and we’re
taking a statement.”
Isaac shakes a little.
Stiles touches his hand to his dad’s elbow. “Dad,” he urges.
“What?” his dad snaps. “This is — I’m not going to let this stand. They
attacked him.”
“I know, just — calm down,” Stiles pleads softly and nods to Isaac.
His dad furrows his brow and looks at the preteen. He takes in the way Isaac is
holding himself and he deflates. He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.
“Crap,” he mutters before he sighs. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I should have asked if —
do you feel comfortable coming to the station?”
Isaac bows his head and shrugs meekly.
His dad rubs the back of his neck before he walks over and gently urges Isaac
to his feet before he guides him to his cruiser.
Stiles says, “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to take care of Isaac’s
bike.”
His dad nods before he climbs into the car and drives off.
Boyd says, “I’ll help you.”
Stiles nods gratefully.
                                      ---
By the time he’s made it to the station, there’s a herd of angry parents
waiting inside, demanding to speak to the sheriff to negate the charges being
placed on their children.
His dad boldly approaches them with a sternly unapologetic expression and says,
“I’m filing for restraining orders for what they did to my youngest. You’re
lucky your kids are underage. I have half a mind to petition to have them tried
as adults for the stunt they pulled today.”
There’s an uproar of protest and some other nasty remarks that Stiles doesn’t
stick around to hear. He strides all the way to the back where his dad’s office
is located and enters to find Deputy Parrish already there with an ice-pack and
a disgruntled expression.
Isaac is firmly ignoring him. He looks uncomfortable.
“I can take it from here,” Stiles says, stepping in with a forced smile.
Parrish hesitates, throwing Isaac one last look before he pushes away from the
sheriff’s desk. He hands Stiles the ice-pack before he exits, closing the door
roughly behind him.
Stiles walks over to Isaac and leans back against the edge of his dad’s desk.
Isaac won’t look at him. It’s more heartbreaking then it is frustrating. He’d
been making such progress. Now it’s like it’s back to square one.
Stiles says, “Do you know him? You seem like maybe — was Parrish giving you the
bad touch?”
Isaac shoots him a look, it’s quick one, and a weak excuse for a glare but it
still a relief for Stiles to see because it means he hasn’t completely
withdrawn into himself.
“Okay, geez, I’m just worried,” Stiles jokes halfheartedly before he offers the
ice-pack.
Isaac accepts it and when he presses it to the side of his chest with a wince
he can't hide, Stiles feels a white-hot anger zap through him.
“They shouldn’t have done that,” Stiles says lowly. His voice is threatening to
crack. “I don’t hate easily but I — I swear I hate them for what they tried to
do. I know violence isn't the answer. It should never be but — Isaac, you
should have fought back. You could have and no one would — we wouldn't have
blamed you for it. I know you’re strong enough to —”
“Would it have helped, you think?” Isaac asks and Stiles jerks at the sound of
his voice, suddenly aware. He sounds so much older than what he looks. His
voice is steady, confident and clear. “If I fought back — and if I broke bones?
Would that have made me feel good? To hurt them that way?”
Stiles is at a loss for words.
“No,” Isaac answers for him, and he's very gentle about it. More informative
than scolding. He reaches out with the hand not holding the ice-pack to his
side and places it on Stiles's knee (as if heneeds the comfort). His blue eyes
are searching Stiles's face for something and when he finds it, he pulls away
and averts his gaze. “It’d be no different from what my dad used to do to me —
no different from what his dad must have done to him, and I never want to be
like that. Never. No matter what.”
Stiles nods dumbly.
Isaac doesn’t say anything else after that. He stares at the corner of the
sheriff’s desk.
His dad comes in with Melissa and a doctor so they can look Isaac over sometime
later. He tries to ask Isaac a few gauging questions but Isaac remains mute as
ever.
The doctor stands with a concerned sigh and suggests that they take Isaac to
the hospital because it’s looking like Isaac has some fractured ribs and a
sprained wrist.
Stiles stares at Isaac the whole time but he just sits there quietly. From the
way he carries himself, you’d never tell that he’d been in an altercation at
all, and something about that makes Stiles sick because it so obviously a
practiced habit.
They all exit the office and make their way to the hospital.
Stiles sits in the waiting area with his phone, keeping everyone updated on
Isaac’s condition. His dad and Isaac come out a little while later.
Isaac has on a medical brace for his wrist and for his ribs, but he looks more
comfortable than he had before.
His dad mouths something about pain medicine and they all leave the hospital to
go home. He stops at a burger joint on the way and he buys them all burgers and
some milkshakes.
They settle in the living room when they get home and they put Dance Moms on
just for Isaac, but he’s so looped on pain medication that he practically falls
asleep in his food and his dad has to carry him upstairs to tuck him into the
bed.
Stiles stays downstairs, staring at the muted TV without really watching it.
He can’t stop thinking about Isaac's words or the sound of his voice while he
had said them.
                                      ---
Tuesday should have been spent with Stiles at home with Isaac but his dad makes
him go to school while hestays behind from work, which is unfair. His dad then
he points out the fact that Stiles has been missing more days of school than he
should. So Stiles showers, gets dressed, and goes to school, only to find
himself staring at his locker like it’s a foreign concept.
Cora whacks him in the face with a pack of blue sour gummy worms and says,
“Bioluminescence.”
“What?” Stiles says as he fumbles to catch the pack of candy before it hits the
ground. “What?”
“The topic.”
“Topic?”
“For your paper.”
“Paper?”
“For Biology, dumbass.” Cora rolls her eyes. “Bioluminescence. You know? Pretty
lights.”
Stiles snorts and tears the pack of gummy worms open before he shoves some in
his mouth, wincing at the sourness. “So like fireflies and stuff.”
Cora shrugs and watches him eat her gummy worms with a quietly pleased look.
Stiles shakes the bag at her in offering but she shakes her head. “Sounds cool.
I might go to the library after school. Want to come?”
Cora nods and drags him off to first period.
                                      ---
During Astronomy, when the teacher puts on an episode of Cosmos: A Space-time
Odyssey, Stiles sends a text to Peter that reads: What’s the status on the
Mermaids?
Difficult to say at this point. :))
Mr. Ravenhill and I believe there may be a nest. :))
What???
Peter doesn’t respond, no matter how many times Stiles texts him.
It’s slightly frustrating, but if Peter’s involved then it’s bound to be.
                                      ---
At lunch, Stiles calls his dad to check up on things at home and his dad
assures him that Isaac is fine.
“Mostly sleeping. Those pain meds really keep him down,” his dad explains.
Stiles informs his dad that he’ll be going to the library after school and
that’s the end of that conversation. He grabs a tray of food and brings it over
to the table with Laura and Kate. He sits across from them before he glances
around. “Where’s Cora?” he asks.
“She had to go to some kind of marching band meeting,” Laura explains as she
snags the green apple off of his tray and takes a juicy bite.
Stiles is hit with a wave of nostalgia from the first time they first started
talking and somehow he asks, “Derek is — he’s still depressed?”
“Yes,” Laura says with a heady sigh. “He hasn’t left his room once. Mom wont
let me bug him. He needs to be snapped out of it.”
“He dodged a fucking bullet,” Kate grumbles, and Stiles is just now noticing
that she has a fading black eye and that her hair is freshly cut into a pixie
style. She looks like a hardcore Tinker Bell.
Laura snorts and knocks her shoulders into Kate’s. “You’re just bitter.”
“Damn right I am,” Kate confirms as she steals Stiles’s jello (again).
“You guys haven’t seen Paige yet?” Stiles asks as he twists his fork in his
serving of spaghetti.
Laura and Kate shake their head no.
Stiles idly wonders if she’s ever coming back.
It’s probably selfish for him to want her too on account of how good she was at
being his math tutor.
                                      ---
In the Beacon Hills Library, on the second floor, Stiles sits at a rounded
table across from Cora as banners with books and words that encourage the
patrons to read flutters over their heads while the ceiling fans cut the wind
audibly.
Cora pushes a pen and notebook at him and tells him to write down a list of
books he needs.
Stiles does what she says because its faster and easier than questioning her
motives. When he finishes, he hands it back over and she takes it with a
thoughtfully furrowed brow. Then she leans over and unzips her backpack before
she tosses a shiny, royal blue bag of white cheddar popcorn at him. It hits his
chest and lands on the table with a sound he can’t classify.
Cora says, “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
Stiles watches her go, notebook in hand, as he tries to press the wrinkles out
of the bag of popcorn with his fingers. He doesn’t open it. He’s pretty sure
they’re not allowed to eat in the library.
Someone coughs between the bookshelves on the other end of the room.
A baby cries briefly before being hushed by a mother.
There’s a row of people sitting at a line of study cubicles pressed to the wall
of windows. One of them is a tired looking college student who looks to be
falling asleep into the cup of coffee in his hand while his other hand traces
lines of red under the passages of a Xeroxed journal article.
Stiles looks away and finds someone else to watch. His thoughts jump all over
the place with his assumptions of the people he watches — what they do, how old
they are, what kind of life they lead.
Cora returns to the table with a black cart full of books. She divides the
stacks between them before she settles back down on her end of the table. She
shoots him a look when she notices he hasn’t touched the popcorn.
Stiles shrugs, but after a minute he opens the bag with a wince because the
crinkle echoes loudly in the quiet space, but whatever, it gets Cora to stop
glaring at him from across the table. He jams a handful in his mouth and Cora
looks away with this peculiar expression of approval that he knows he has no
chance of understanding.
He opens five books and places them in half circle so that his eyes can jump
back and forth when his mind gets restless with the information of one book. He
finds a lot of useful things about fireflies and fish. Its just that every time
he gets up to go copy certain passages of the book, Cora will get this look on
her face and he’ll plop right back down.
Cora uses her long fingers to pull her hair up into messy bun before she makes
her way around the table to him. She says, “What do you need?”
Stiles is confused. “I’m not — I can do it.”
“What do you need?” Cora repeats and stares at him with this forceful gaze.
Stiles makes a noncommittal sound of confusion and frustration before he tears
out a piece of paper from his notebook so he can scribble out the page numbers
and section.
Cora takes it and the books he’s written down before she strides off in search
of a copier.
Stiles grabs his phone and sends a text to Laura that reads: Cora is holding me
hostage, I think. Or being very, I don’t know. She wont let me do anything.
She’s hovering.
Cora handles things differently.
I don’t understand what that means.
Not sure I can explain. Our family has this thing we do when one of us gets
injured. She’s just acting on instinct. She likes you. She wants to take care
of you.
But I thought you said Cora doesn’t like people.
Yeah. People. You're not people.
What am I then?
Laura doesn’t reply and Stiles is forced to both wonder and worry. Do they know
what he is? Is that why they’ve been so — do the Hales know what he is? God
what are they? He’s been holding this question in his mind for the longest, but
it’s taken so long to come back to it with everything else going on. He can’t
seem to get a straight answer from anyone about that.
Cora returns with his photocopied packets and his books. She puts it in front
of him and asks, “Did you need something else?”
Stiles shakes his head wordlessly and watches as she returns to her side of the
table. It takes a long while before he can concentrate back on the text before
him.
Cora doesn’t walk him home when they part ways when it gets late in the
evening, but she does brush the knuckles of her right hand against the knuckles
of his before she just walks in the direction of the preserve.
Stiles peddles his bike home only to find his dad and Isaac crashing in the
living room with the TV flickering and basically watching them instead of vice
versa. He goes to the linen closet and grabs some pillows and some thin fleece
blankets. He tucks them both in before he goes into the kitchen to grab a bag
of celery and a jar of peanut butter.
He carries it up the stairs with him and into his room, where he dumps
everything in his backpack on his bed. He starts his homework, and once he’s
completed it, he starts AP Biology paper. He finishes it sometime around
midnight and gives it a once over before he sends it to his printer.
As it prints, he stumbles out of his clothes and over to his bed before he
crashes, his mind swimming with bioluminescent facts and the odd behavior of
the Hales.
                                      ---
On Wednesday, Stiles wakes to the smell of turkey bacon and burnt toast. He
rolls out of bed and hits the floor with a wounded sound before he hops to his
feet. He kicks his way through his clothes and throws on something that smells
like it could be clean before he jams all his schoolwork in their designated
folders. Then he jogs down the steps to find Lydia sitting at the kitchen table
dressed in all black, her hair pinned up all neatly with a funeral veil on.
Stiles pauses in confusion. “Lydia? What are you doing here?”
Lydia slowly lifts a porcelain teacup to her lips and takes sips through her
veil as she stares straightforward.
Stiles approaches the other side of the table and says, “Lydia?”
Lydia lifts her watery green eyes and says, “Cousin, cousin, you're so sweet.
Miss you dearly, we should meet. What did I tell you?”
Stiles frowns in confusion and shakes his head. “I don’t —”
“What did I tell you? What did I tell you? What did I tell you?” Lydia repeats
over and over and over. Her lips moving all the more faster each time before it
becomes unnatural, like a thousand voices suddenly sounding off as one.
Stiles shakes his head and backs up when he realizes that something is wrong.
He lifts his right hand and counts seven fingers. “This isn’t real. This is —
this is a dream.” He backs up until he trips and falls on his back.
Stiles suddenly blinks up at a starry sky as he exhales, his breath rises like
steam from his mouth. He sits up and notices he’s in an entirely different
neighborhood, the rich suburbs (Prairie Hills), and he’s resting on his elbows
at the end of an empty driveway. It’s the middle of the night but the block is
unnaturally quiet. He stands to gaze over at a largely lit house planted on the
side of a long driveway.
Lydia steps up beside him and says, “They only come out during the New Moon.
They call it a Dark Moon. A potent time for their most powerful, destructive
transformation.”
The night seems to get colder and the stars above their heads goes out one by
one like the flame of a candle being snubbed.
The bushes and trees shiver but there’s no breeze.
Stiles’s lips part in shock and his eyes widens as he watches a bulky, large
shadow-like creature with glowing yellow eyes scale the side of the house and
hop onto the roof with its long claws. “What the hell was that? What the hell
was that?”
Lydia starts singing very slowly, the lyrics pouring out of her mouth like
syrup, like she’s stuck in slow motion.
Stiles watches as the lit windows go out one by one. “Lydia,” he croaks. “Who’s
house is this?”
Lydia says, “They only come out during the New Moon.” She walks up the drive
backwards like she's stuck in the reverse loop of a video player. She continues
to move this way until she's to the walkway that leads to the front door. She
opens it and disappears inside.
The door closes behind her with a soft but ominous click and that’s when the
screaming starts.
Stiles winces, stumbling back as it hits his ears in piercing shock waves. He
cups his hands over his ears and says, “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
The screams get louder and threaten to consume him like a shrieking tidal wave
of horror. His whole body gets cold and he jams his eyes shut as he begins to
scream back.
.
.
.
“— Stiles! Stiles! It’s okay! It’s okay!”
Stiles is still screaming when he comes out of the nightmare and he’s
struggling against his father’s grip with wet eyes and restless feet. He blinks
away another set of tears and notices that Isaac is standing in his doorway
with this haunted look of concern on his face. Stiles shudders and clings onto
his father’s arm as his body sags with bone deep exhaustion. His throat feels
hot and raw.
It’s still dark out, but the sun is creeping over the horizon, painting veils
of orange across a dark blue sky.
Stiles shudders again, cold in his bones but not in his skin.
His dad shushes him and pushes him back down gently, palming his damp forehead
before he tucks the covers around his shaking body. He sits on the edge of the
bed and rests a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “You want to talk about it?” he
asks.
Stiles shakes his head and at the movement, something warm and sticky slides
out of his ears. He sits up and presses both of his fingers into the dips of
his ears before he pulls his hands away to see blood staining his fingers.
“Jesus,” his dad whispers in alarm. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Stiles doesn’t protest, still shaken and in shock.
It had all felt so real.
                                      ---
Stiles is herded through a series of tests when they get to the hospital. All
of them come up negative and the doctor evaluating him seems stumped that he
can’t diagnosis the reason for Stiles’s ear trauma.
Stiles doesn’t offer any answers. He’s not so sure himself what it means.
The doctor gives him the okay to go home, sending him on his way with a
prescription for some headache medicine and tells him to just take it easy for
the rest of the day.
His dad seems unsatisfied by the lack of answers but he’s relieved that there’s
nothing seriously wrong.
The ride home is silent and heavy.
Stiles shivers, forehead pressed to the glass of the window from where he’s
sitting behind the passenger seat.
His dad keeps shooting him these concerned looks through the rearview mirror as
he cranks up the heat for him.
Isaac is silent and watchful from where he’s sitting on the other side of the
car.
Stiles lets the car rock him to sleep, but he jerks awake a second later in
slight panic and he straightens.
His dad flashes him another look of concern as they stop at a red light and he
cranks the heat up further when Stiles shivers again.
                                      ---
Needless to say, Stiles doesn’t go to school. His dad wont let him, not that
Stiles would have argued the point anyway. He can’t go back to sleep. He
doesn’t bother going back to sleep when they return home. He stares up at the
ceiling for a long time before he peels his body from his bed and goes to take
a shower just for something to do.
Isaac is sleeping on his side with his back to the door when Stiles walks by
his room on his way back to his own room. He tucks into his room and slips on
some clothes before he settles in the seat in front of his desk and he boots up
his laptop.
His dad stops by his door on the way out. He’s dressed in uniform so Stiles can
guess where he’s headed. He says, “I got a call. It’s looking like there was
another attack.”
Stiles straightens at that.
His dad quickly adds, “I’ll tell you what I can when I get back.”
“Or you could take me with you?” Stiles proposes.
His dad gives him a look that says what he thinks about that suggestion. “I’m
still getting used to the idea of involving you. I don’t think we’ve jumped to
me taking you to crime scenes stage.”
Stiles doesn’t argue that. “Is it weird if I ask you to bring pictures back
with you?”
His dad walks away at that.
Stiles sighs and pulls up a couple of websites that chronicle the happenings of
the community. He peruses through any and all articles stamped with the same
date as Saturday when he went to visit Lydia.
What he finds is an article about two other patients at Eichen House, who were
involved in a murder-suicide that very day (two women). Apparently the women
were rooming together, and one woman strangled the other with a knotted bed
sheet before hanging herself with it.
Stiles wonders if Lydia knew. If she had felt it while it was happening. It
sends a chill through him, and he prints out the article before he goes to his
closet to pull out the bulletin/whiteboard combo. He tacks the article onto the
bulletin board side before he returns to his computer to print out any articles
having to do with the death of Lydia’s parents and her brief disappearance.
Then he tries to track down any articles about the animal attack she suffered
when she was little.
He prints all those articles out too and tacks them to the board. He’s staring
at a black and white photo of Lydia’s house, the same house he had dreamed
about the night before, when the doorbell rings. He blinks and looks at the
clock on his nightstand. He’s been at it for most of the morning — it’s mid
afternoon now.
Isaac is still curled up and asleep in his bed when Stiles passes his room to
go down the stairs and answer the door.
Its Jackson, Boyd, Scott, and Allison.
Stiles can’t help but to notice that their eyes are rimmed with red. He’s
struck with an uneasy feeling. “What? What happened?”
“I told them,” Scott says. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have but I had to.
Danny — he’s been — he’s in the hospital.”
“His whole family,” Boyd says, lost. “His little sisters, his moms. They’re all
dead.”
“He didn’t show up to school,” Allison sniffs and hastily uses her fingers to
catch the tears spilling down her pink cheeks. “So we thought we’d check up on
him. Bring him his homework. God — there were body parts all on the lawn and on
the porch.” She chokes on a sob and hides her face in Scott’s shoulder.
“You know what it is,” Jackson says, looking at him intently. “You know what’s
doing it. You and you’re dad know.”
“I wouldn't exactly say — we don’t exactly know but we’re trying to figure it
out,” Stiles explains. “How is Danny?”
“We don’t know. They wouldn’t let us — we’re not family and — he doesn’t even
havefamily anymore.” Scott exhales shakily as he scrubs at his face. “Sorry.
I’m sorry. I had to tell them because — it’s — it’s Danny.”
Stiles ushers them into the house and they all file into his living room. He
watches them all settle down on his furniture with somber faces as he stands
across from them with his back to the TV. He says to Scott, “So when you say
you told them —”
“It’s not that much of a surprise,” Boyd interjects. “This town has always
been, you know, strange. The last sheriff was — and the way he died had been —
it’s not a surprise.”
“The Hales have always been odd,” Jackson adds, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“When Lydia was attacked a long time ago, I kind of knew something wasn’t
right. But I ignored it because who the hell wants to believe that the fairy-
tales you think are fairy-tales are real things that go bump in the night?”
Scott takes a sharp puff of his inhaler. He looks a little green.
“Lydia saw something,” Allison says as she looks at Stiles with glossy eyes.
“She saw something and it made her crazy and whatever it is that attacked Danny
is the same thing.”
“I don’t know that for sure. It’s a strong possibility,” Stiles admits. “Why
are you guys here though? Not to sound, you know, but why did you come to me?”
“If you’re trying to figure out what’s going on then we want in,” Jackson
merely says.
“This thing is hurting our friends. We can’t just do nothing. We could be next
for all we know,” Allison adds in a nasally voice. She sniffs. “I’m tired of
pretending that there’s not something deeper going on.”
Stiles takes that into consideration but he says, “It’s dangerous. I’m not
going to pretend that this is sensible. A part of me wants to say that we’re
just a bunch of dumb teenagers. What can we do?”
“Scott told us about how you were able to help those missing kids. That you
figured out what those old women were next door,” Boyd points out. “We’re
saying we want to help too.”
They all stare at him and wait for a response.
Stiles sighs, and he suddenly understands how his dad must feel. He’s worried.
This could get really ugly, really fast. “The first time was a bit of luck. I —
almost didn’t walk away untouched.” He then says, “But if you’re as willful as
me, you’ll do what you want anyway. So, fine. Follow me.”
They all file into his room and he shows them all the information he’s compiled
together on the bulletin board, while filling them in on what he’s learned
about Lydia and her being a Banshee.
Isaac enters the room midway through Stiles’s ramblings and sits on the floor
between Jackson and Boyd at the edge of Stiles’s bed.
Allison and Scott shoot him quick glances, which Isaac valiantly ignores.
“Whatever attacked Lydia’s parents and Danny and his family is probably the
same someone or something that left the threatening message on my doorstep,”
Stiles says as he wraps it all up. “My dad said that the claw marks found on
Lydia’s parents resembled the ones found on El Chupacabra, butit’s also could
be from some kind of hunting knife.”
“Boyd and I can double back to Lydia’s place and see if we find anything
there,” Allison suggests.
Scott frowns. “What about me?”
Allison gives him a small dimpled smile. “Scott, you remember when we
watchedNight of Living Dead, and we had to stop it ten minutes into the movie
because you couldn’t stomach it? I think it would be better if Boyd and I
went.”
Scott’s frown deepens.
“Stop pouting, McCall,” Jackson says. “You need to come with me. Your mom could
probably sneak us into Danny’s room. If he’s awake, we can ask him about what
happened. Your mom can be the lookout.”
“Why would she do that?” Scott asks.
“Because you’re going to tell her everything you told us,” Jackson scoffs,
looking at the other teen like he’s an idiot.
“Great,” Stiles mutters with a sigh. “Let’s tell more people. Fantastic.”
“She wouldn’t believe it!” Scott protests.
“We’ll makeher,” Jackson insists as he stands and drags Scott to his feet.
Stiles says, “I’m going to go see Deaton. He always seems to know a lot.”
“He’s definitely more than an antique dealer,” is the last thing Jackson says
as he herds Scott out of the room.
Boyd and Allison climb to their feet and follow after them.
Isaac and Stiles are left alone. He says, “Did you want to come or —”
Isaac shrugs but he stands. He’s already dressed and ready to go, like he knew
or something.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Stiles supposes as he gives the preteen a once over.
Most of the swelling and bruises have gone down but hasn’t completely vanished.
“How are your ribs?”
Isaac shrugs again and waits for him by the door patiently.
Stiles sighs and sends his dad and Peter a quick text that reads: Going out to
do some investigating. Don’t be mad but Scott kind of told some of his friends
what’s going on and they’re helping now. I’m pretty sure they wont say anything
to anyone else. Other than Melissa McCall. Don’t be mad.
The responses he gets in return ranges from exasperation, annoyance, and
finally acceptance with something that reads as an urging for all of them to be
careful.
                                      ---
By the time Isaac and Stiles roll up to the antique shop on their bikes, Mayor
Argent is already strolling out with a silver cane, his grey suit sitting on
his tall form in a stiff way. He aims a politician’s smile at Stiles and Isaac,
and Isaac tenses, stepping behind Stiles like he wants to shrink from view.
“Good afternoon,” Mayor Argent says, his eyes as sharp as his presence is
intimidating. “You must be the sheriff’s sons. I don’t believe we ever had the
pleasure of meeting. Gerard Argent.” He offers a wrinkly hand.
Stiles accepts it reluctantly and when they touch palms, a chill rides down the
length of his spine. He snatches his hand back and flexes his fingers as he
tries to place the feeling. His gut is going haywire right now.
Mayor Argent just smiles, white teeth gleaming with a predatory edge. He says,
“You boys have a nice day. Stay out of trouble.”
One of his bodyguards ushers him off to the black limo parked by the curb. The
limo pulls off and turns the corner, disappearing from sight.
“Okay,” Stiles says, almost shakily. “That was so — that felt so —” He doesn’t
even have words because he's never experienced anything like that before.
Isaac drops his forehead to Stiles’s shoulder and exhales a trembling breath.
This goes on for a few moments.
Stiles turns and looks at him with a concerned frown. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He
searches Isaac’s blue eyes for an answer. “Did you know him? Is he someone you
knew —”
“No. Not really. Not directly but my dad used to..." Isaac trails off with a
faraway look that seems pained. He shakes his head quickly before he can really
get caught up in whatever memories are swirling in his mind. "I don’t want to
talk about that.”
Stiles snaps his mouth shut, once again taken back when the preteen uses actual
words. He swallows down his questions and nods. “Are you coming?” he asks
instead as he moves to enter the shop.
Isaac takes a deep breath and straightens. He glances to the shop briefly
before he looks away and crosses his arms. He shakes his head no.
Stiles figures he just needs a little time to collect himself so he doesn’t
push and he goes into the shop by himself. The bell chimes over his head and he
strides to the back where Deaton is sweeping up a mess of broken glass. The
glass counter looks like its been smashed open.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says before Stiles can ask about the glass. “What can I
help you with?”
“I can come back,” Stiles says as he watches the other man continue to sweep up
the mess. “Is this a bad time?”
“There is no good or bad time. Just time,” Deaton replies cryptically before he
sets the broom aside and gives Stiles his full attention. “What can I do for
you?”
“Uh, well.” Stiles tries to find the right words. “I’ve been reading a lot
about Banshees and I was wondering if there has ever been any stories of
Virtues and Banshees encountering one another.”
Deaton takes a moment to think before he says, “Some legends place Virtues and
Banshees together in certain events or crises. They are two sides of the same
coin. Banshees hear death while Virtues hear life. It’s said that they share a
link because there may be a blood connection.”
“Blood connection?” Stiles repeats questioningly. “Like family?”
Deaton nods. “If ever a Virtue and a Banshee were found together, it’s only
because they were born into a similar lineage, therefore this creates a
supernatural tethering between them. Often how it happens is that they share a
relation through a set of grandparents. Ultimately, what this means is that
they’re cousins.”
Stiles finds himself jumping back to that moment in Eichen House when Lydia
kept repeating that eerie rhyme at him over and over again. It dazes him — the
thought that he and Lydia could possibly share a familial relation. He swallows
and asks, “Have you ever heard any stories about twins who share a psychic
connection where they can sometimes feel each other’s pain or share dreams? Do
you think it’s possible for a Banshee and a Virtue to have a similar telepathic
connection?”
“That calls for a complicated answer,” Deaton supposes. “If you give me a
little time, I can do some research and see what I come up with.”
Stiles nods and says, “Also, on a completely different note — do you know of
any creatures that like to rip its victims apart with claws or something of a
knife that could do the same kind of damage? But it never like — takes anything
or eats what it’s ripping apart — it just, you know.”
Deaton lifts both brows and says, “Sounds like either an incredibly intelligent
animal or a sadistic sociopath. I’m going to need a little more than that to be
completely sure.”
“Sorry that’s as much as I got,” Stiles admits.
Deaton nods and says, “Come back in three days, Mr. Stilinski. I should have
something for you on both accounts.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says. “And if I suddenly have some other fact about the thing
then I’ll let you know.”
Deaton reaches in his pocket and pulls out his business card, offering it.
“Call me,” he advises.
Stiles takes it before he gives an awkward wave goodbye and moves to exit the
shop. He and Isaac mount their bikes and start peddling with no clear
direction.
He sends a mass text to the others to tell them what Deaton said about needing
time to do some research.
When he and Isaac swing by the park, Allison calls him and informs him that she
and Boyd hadn’t found anything important. He calls Scott to relay the message
and Scott says that he and Jackson weren’t able to find anything out because
Danny’s wounds were so severe that they had to put him in a medically induced
coma.
It’s all dead ends.
                                      ---
Cora is sitting out on the porch steps with cup holder full of ice cream
blizzards when Stiles and Isaac roll up to their house on their mountain bikes.
She hands Isaac a coconut and chocolate one as he passes her on his way up the
stairs and he pauses to take it, giving her a five-dollar bill in exchange.
Cora pockets the money and Isaac disappears inside the house with his frozen
treat.
Stiles lifts a brow and says, “What was that?”
“An understanding,” Cora merely says and hands him a banana cream pie blizzard.
“Eat that and tell me why you missed school.”
Stiles takes the cup of ice cream and relays the story between bites.
Cora eats her way to the bottom of two strawberry cheesecake blizzards and
says, “Sucks.”
Stiles gives her an amused frown. “Yeah, sure. That’s one way to look at it.”
Cora shrugs. She says, “I have your homework for you. Did you finish your
paper?”
Stiles nods and they make their way up the steps and into the house. When they
settle in the living room, he asks, “Did Derek come to school? Paige?”
“No and no,” Cora replies as she unloads her backpack before she hands him all
his assignments.
Stiles takes it with audible gratitude.
They work in silence until his dad comes home looking tired and wound tight.
Cora stands right away (like a soldier acknowledging their senior) and says,
“Hello, Sheriff.”
His dad smiles tiredly and says, “Nice to see you, Cora. Will you be staying
for dinner?”
Cora glances at Stiles and then away as she says, “I have to get home. But
thank you for the invitation, sir.”
“Next time then,” the sheriff supposes.
Cora hums noncommittally and packs up her things before she slings her backpack
over her shoulder.
Stiles follows her to the door to see her out.
Cora pauses in the doorway and asks, “Are you coming to school tomorrow?”
“Most likely,” Stiles supposes.
Cora nods stiffly as she looks him over. There's a moment when her gaze turns
searching as she look him over from head to toe. She averts her gaze, and
quietly says, “Your bruises are looking better.” Then she just walks away and
leaves.
Stiles watches her disappear up the block as he rubs the back of his head in
wonder.
                                      ---
On Thursday, Stiles and Isaac both head out together in the morning to go to
school. Like always, Stiles will peddle to Isaac’s school first.
Scott and Allison are already out front with Malia.
“So, you’re back?” Stiles says as he comes to a halt at the curb they’re
standing on.
Isaac rolls his bike over to the racks, locking it, and then meets up with Boyd
before they head inside together.
Malia nods and says, “Cancun sucked, but my step-dad was like trying to enforce
the whole family bonding experience. Mom was drunk off her ass the whole time.”
She shrugs. “So. What did I miss?”
Stiles exchanges a look with Scott and Allison.
Allison grabs Malia’s hand and says, “I’ll break it to her.” before she drags
the confused blonde away so they can chat in private.
Scott says, “Did your dad say anything when he came home?”
“Not much of much,” Stiles admits. “He told me what you guys said. Danny’s
family was ripped apart and there were limbs everywhere in the house and out on
the lawn and even floating in the pool in the backyard. Though —” He pauses.
“What?” Scott says with a frown.
“He says there was no sign of forced entry,” Stiles explains. “Which means
whatever or whoever did it, well, Danny knew them.”
Scott marvels at that. “Oh man. Oh man —that means Lydia might have too.”
“No might about it. She did. Same deal at her house. No forced entry,” Stiles
confirms.
Scott opens his mouth to say something but the sound of heavy metal overtakes
the parking lot and when they turn to see the commotion, this big black monster
truck looking thing comes flying through the parking lot, swerving to a stop
dangerously close to where Stiles is standing.
Erica stumbles out of the truck with a scowl and slams the door shut over and
over again.
A big bulky looking dude with a shaved head and a red paw-print tattooed just
under his ear in the car screams, “Fucking bitch! Careful!”
“Fuck you, Carter!” Erica screams back as she stumbles back as the truck whips
in reverse and flies out of the parking lot. She huffs and dusts herself off
before she reaches down and starts collecting her books and homework, which
fell out of her backpack during all the commotion.
Scott and Stiles share a look before they move to help the blonde.
“You must be feeling better,” Scott comments as he looks her over.
Erica is wearing a tight leather skirt with ripped stockings, a sheer top and a
leather jacket with cheetah pumps. She blows a neatly curled hair out of her
face and says, “Puberty hit me like a brick to the face.”
Stiles snorts and hands her a ripped up novel he vaguely recognizes (The Count
of Monte Cristo) before they all stand. “How long were you sick for?” he asks.
Erica shrugs as she dusts herself off. “Hard to say. So what’s been going on in
this shithole of a town since I’ve been confined to my bed?”
“Danny’s in the hospital. So is Lydia. Well, in a mental hospital,” Scott
clarifies.
Erica huffs and says, “About time. That ginger haired Barbie has been on her
way to the nut house. I spotted that coming a mile away.”
“Hey, come on, Erica. Be cool. That’s not something to make fun of,” Stiles
rebukes.
“Whatever,” Erica merely says. “And what about Danny-boy? Why’s he in the
hospital? Did he get the AIDs?”
Scott makes an alarmed sound.
Stiles rubs the bridge of his nose as he swallows down some choice words.
“What? I saw a PBS special. Or was it HBO? I don’t know, but Mark Ruffalo was
in it and he was floating around. But whatever it was, there wasn’t enough sex
in it to be honest,” Erica says as she looks at her watch. “Fuck. I gotta go.
I’m supposed to meet up with the school’s guidance counselor. I’ll see you two
dildos later.” She clicks off in her heels, turning heads as she marches into
school.
Stiles stares after her and shakes his head. “Is it just me or is she more —
you know — more.”
“No. Erica is — she’s always been like that,” Scott admits. “You just haven’t
hung out with her as long as I have. It takes some getting used to. No
surprise, really. You should meet her family. That was one of her older
brothers who dropped her off.”
“Seriously?” Stiles says, startled. “That’s twisted.”
Scott nods before he gives Stiles a bro hug. “I’ll see you later. You coming to
the lacrosse game tonight?”
Stiles shrugs. “I’ll text you.”
                                      ---
Beacon Hills High School gets two new transfers — sophomore students (Violet
and Garrett) — and it’s the talk of the school. Rumor has it that they’re the
new adopted children of Mayor Argent.
“Can’t tell what the old bastard is thinking,” Kate admits when they meet up
for lunch. She likes them enough to confirm the rumor but she ignores everyone
else who tries to ask. “He comes home with these two and tells me to make nice.
What the fuck.”
Laura says, “What are they like?”
“Creepy as fuck, and sneaky as fuck.” Kate pauses as she considers that. “I
guess they’re a perfect fit for my broken family.”
Laura bumps her shoulders with Kate and they share this look of significance.
Kate is the first to look away with a sigh. “I think they’re fucking each
other. They’re always in each other’s room or sneaking out of the house.” She
eyes Stiles’s tray.
Stiles hands her his jello because she’s going to steal it anyway.
Kate winks at him and smirks. “You know, on a different subject,” she drawls as
she pops a jello cube in her mouth. “A little birdy told me that Paige is back
in town with her new hubby.”
Cora looks up from her nachos and scowls. “Really? Maybe we should pay her a
visit with a gift.” She straightens and pops her knuckles ominously. “I wonder
if they’re registered at the gun store.”
Laura sends her little sister a look. “Don’t joke about that.”
Cora deflates and crosses her arms. “Whatever,” she says and stabs at her
nachos.
Stiles scoots away a little. He says, “I actually ran into your dad the other
day.”
Kate looks at him sharply, as does Laura. She says, “What happened?”
“Not much of anything. He shook my hand and smiled at me,” Stiles says. “When’s
the re-election? I’m not going to vote for him.”
Kate snorts. “Like he’s ever depended on the votes. He’s got something up his
sleeve,” she says. “You just wait.”
“That’s not foreboding in the least,” Laura remarks sarcastically. She looks at
Stiles. “You should steer clear of him though. He’s — you can’t prove anything
he is. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Stiles does.
The bell rings and they disperse.
Stiles goes to his locker and is disappointed to find that the latch is jammed.
He has to put the books already in his arms down so he can use both hands to
try and pry the latch back.
The bell for next period rings and the halls empty out.
Stiles grumbles out mangled swears under his breath as he pulls and pulls and
pulls. He’s literally on the verge of breaking a sweat over this.
“Here, let me.”
Stiles steps back as a dark-skinned female with long, curly raven hair removes
a bobby pin from her hair and begins to pick with the latch. “Uh, thanks.”
“No problem.” She smiles at him and wow, she’s really pretty. “I’m Violet.”
Stiles jolts a little at that. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbles.
Violet gets the locker to pop open. “There. It just needed a little something
extra,” she supposes.
Stiles presses his lips together and nods. He steps up to his locker when she
steps back and he quickly exchanges his books under her heavy stare. He
straightens and closes the door, fixing the lock into place before he says,
“Thanks. For that.”
“No problem,” Violet says. “Maybe I’ll catch you around, Stiles.” She gives him
a once over before she glides off with a shrewd smirk.
Stiles’s gut twists and he’s got no time to think about it because the late
bell rings and he has to sprint to class.
It's not until he's halfway into his class does he realize that he never told
Violet his name, and yet she just knew.
                                      ---
There’s a moving truck parked just next door and there are movers shuffling
back and forth between the truck and the house when Isaac and Stiles roll up to
their own house on their mountain bikes after school. The movers carry
furniture that looks like it came straight from Tokyo and it makes Stiles
wonder what kind of person or persons are moving in.
“I hope they’re nothing like our last neighbors,” Stiles says as he drops his
bike to the lawn.
Isaac does the same as he tracks the movements of the movers very closely. He
wrinkles his nose suddenly and says, “Huh.”
Stiles whips his gaze over to the preteen. “What?" he questions. "What?”
Isaac shakes his head and shrugs before he starts towards the house.
“Isaac!” Stiles complains. “You can’t just say something like that and walk
away!”
Isaac slams the door behind him in reply.
“Rude,” Stiles grumbles before he edges over to the neighbors lawn.
Suddenly, the movers carrying a couch in have to stumble out of the way because
a family comes marching out. There’s an Asian woman fussing at what looks like
her daughter in Japanese while the daughter fusses back as the father tries to
placate them both.
The teenaged girl huffs and flails her hands at her mother before she stomps
down the steps.
The mother shouts, “Kira! Kira! You step one foot off the lawn and you’re
grounded for the next month!”
The girl named Kira freezes before her foot touches the sidewalk. She steps
back and glares at her mother. “This is so unfair!”
Her mother shouts something in Japanese at her before she storms back into the
house.
The father says, “We love you, Kira. Please. Try not to upset your mother. This
move was difficult for all of us.” Then he disappears inside too, probably to
go and appease his wife.
Kira mutters something under her breath and crosses her arms before her gaze
lands on Stiles. She blushes hotly. “Great. You saw all that and you must think
we’re insane.”
“Nope,” Stiles denies. “Just hoping you’re not a Ghoul or anything like my last
neighbors,” he weakly jokes.
Kira lifts her brow. “I wouldn’t be out in the sunlight if I were,” she points
out as she tucks her long hair behind her ears and approaches him. “So you
probably already know this, but I’m Kira. Kira Yukimura. Not a Ghoul. Just
very, very frustrated.” She offers a hand.
“I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Also not a Ghoul,” Stiles says and touches his
palm to hers, only to yank his hand back because he’s hit with some static
shock.
Kira winces and blushes again. “Sorry. I — I’m like a walking conductor of
electricity. I’m always shocking people. It frustrated my friends back home.
‘Pick your feet up, Kira! No wonder you always shock us. You drag your feet!’
Blah, blah, blah.” She huffs out a breath of air and mutters something self-
deprecating in Japanese.
“It’s okay,” Stiles assures. “A little static never hurt anyone.”
Kira shrugs as she hugs herself.
“Well, welcome to Beacon Hills. I moved here not too long ago myself,” Stiles
admits. “It’s an — interesting town to say the least.”
“I’ll need to see more of it to confirm. Mom’s taking me to register for school
tomorrow,” Kira says. “You go to Beacon Hills High, right? I’ll be starting as
a freshman, even though there’s like two months left of school.”
“I’m a freshman too,” Stiles says. “Maybe we’ll have some classes together.”
Kira smiles a little at that. “Yeah. That would be cool.” She glances over to
his house and waves. “Who’s that?”
Stiles turns and he sees Isaac looming in the doorway. He sends the preteen a
thumbs-up to assure him that everything is checking out so far. “That’s my
favorite little brother Isaac. He’s handsomely shy.”
“Oh,” Kira merely says. She squints her eyes. “He does seem cute.”
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, when he's polite enough.” He then says, “Actually, I was
going to go to a lacrosse game at his school if you wanted to come? It might be
a good way to meet some people and make friends. That’s only if you want.”
“Uh, sure. I have to okay it with my parents but I’m totally up for it,” Kira
quickly assures.
“Cool. I’ll see you in three hours,” Stiles says and waves as he makes his way
to his house.
Kira gives him a bubbly smile as she watches him go before she runs into her
own house.
Stiles opens the front door, startled when Isaac drags him into the house and
into a tight hug. He awkwardly pats the preteen on the back. “Uh, Isaac — not
that your hugs aren’t awesome because they are made of pure awesome, but if you
could maybe tell me what I did to —”
“You called me your brother,” Isaac mumbles into his shoulder.
Stiles blinks and says, “How did you even — your hearing is crazy if you could
—”
“Shut up. You’re just loud,” Isaac denies and he hugs him tighter. “Thank you.”
“Oh, uh,” is Stiles’s eloquent reply. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
Isaac nods before he pulls away and moves to hide away in his room.
Stiles huffs with a little grin and turns to close the front door, pausing when
he catches sight of something.
The eerie orange alley cat is back, and it’s staring at the Yukimura house.
                                      ---
Stiles introduces Isaac to Kira more formally when they meet up on the sidewalk
in front of her house and mount their mountain bikes.
Isaac just wrinkles his nose at Kira and starts peddling off.
Kira frowns questioningly at Stiles and he sheepishly says, “Sorry. It’s, uh —
progress?”
Kira nods and they move to catch up with him.
The bleachers are pretty packed when they reach the lacrosse fields of Beacon
Hills Junior High.
Boyd lifts his hand and waves them over from the fourth row.
Stiles quickly introduces Kira to them before they sit down. He ends up sitting
between Kira and Boyd while Isaac somehow finds himself between Scott and
Allison.
The game starts up and Kira asks him questions through most of it since she
isn’t familiar with the sport.
Stiles tries to explain to the best of his abilities over the commotion of the
crowd.
Scott and Allison hold up a glittery sign for Jackson as they chant his name in
encouragement.
Kira jumps and clings to Stiles’s arm during the more violent altercations of
the game but she blushes and pulls away as she mumbles an apology.
Stiles shrugs but he assures her that he doesn’t mind. “It’s what I’m here for,
I guess. It was my idea to bring you so if you have to cut off the circulation
to my arm it’s fine. I know how to suffer in silence for the good of mankind,
or womankind in this case.”
Kira smiles shyly and her blush doesn’t recede until they’re both distracted by
the game again.
During halftime, Boyd, Scott, and Allison go down to check on Jackson.
Isaac disappears to either get some popcorn or use the bathroom.
“Do you play?” Kira asks once it’s just them.
“Oh yeah,” Stiles says. “I’m a certified benchwarmer. Though I missed the last
few games. I don’t think my coach even noticed.” He sighs and says, “What about
you? Do you play anything?”
“Meh, some kenjutsu and a little archery,” Kira says with a meek shrug.
“Oh? I think you might have something in common with Allison,” Stiles supposes.
“Scott’s mentioned that she does some archery. I think she competes at a
national level over the summer every year.”
“Cool,” Kira says with a grin. “I’ll definitely ask her about it.”
Stiles nods. He says, “So where did you move from?”
“New York. You?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Wow,” Kira says and she doesn’t say much else because the bleachers are
starting to fill up, signaling the start of the game again.
Isaac returns with a bucket of popcorn and glares at Scott when he tries to eat
some. He shares with Stiles though and Stiles can’t help but to send a teasing
grin at Scott, who just sulks.
Stiles grabs a handful of popcorn and offers it to Kira, who accepts it
gratefully as she looks at him from under her lashes with a soft grin.
The rest of the game goes without a hitch and Jackson scores most of the
points. They win by a landslide.
It’s not until Stiles is stepping down the bleachers, following after Kira and
Isaac, that he notices Violet and Garrett sitting on the top row and watching
him with identical smirks. He shudders and quickly moves to catch up with the
others as they cast a vote to hit up Ramona's Pizzeria.
Kira gets along with the others swimmingly and they exchange phone numbers over
huge calzones.
She smiles gratefully at him the whole time but Stiles returns it with only
half the enthusiasm.
Violet and Garrett are sitting at a booth on the other side of the restaurant,
and they don’t stop staring.
                                      ---
That night, while Isaac and his dad are safely tucked away in their beds, sound
asleep, Stiles tears through a ton of articles in connection to Mayor Argent
(the guy even has his own Wikipedia page).
He’s been mayor of Beacon Hills for a very long time, and before him his father
was mayor, and so on and so on. Though he doesn’t find anything incriminating,
he still doesn’t rule anything out either. He prints out every single article
and tacks them to his bulletin board.
There’s something off about the guy.
Stiles is determined to figure out what it is.
                                      ---
On the morning of Friday, Kira rides with Stiles and Isaac as they peddle to
his school. After they drop him off, they peddle to their school and Stiles
gives her the grand tour before they part ways so she can meet her mother in
the main office to start registration.
They don’t meet up again until Astronomy, and from there, he walks with her to
lunch. It doesn’t surprise him that Kira turns heads wherever she goes, and
everyone watches her with open interest because she’s very pretty and bubbly
but she keeps grinning at Stiles like it’s just the two of them.
Stiles introduces Kira to Laura and Kate, who are outfitted in their
cheerleading uniform. “Where’s Cora?” he asks when he notices she’s not around.
“Who’s Cora?” Kira asks, looking worried for some reason. “Is she
your...girlfriend?”
Stiles snorts. “Nope. Not at all.”
Kira nods as her mouth fidgets thoughtfully.
“Cora’s practicing for tonight’s basketball game,” Laura says.
“Is Derek gonna show, you think?” Stiles asks because he’s curious to know.
Derek hasn’t shown up for school this entire week.
Laura shrugs. “It’s touch and go. I can’t say for sure.” She turns her gaze to
Kira. “So, Kira. Where are you from?”
Kira pulls her gaze from Stiles and says, “New York.”
“Oh? I have some family there. What part?” Laura asks with an amused grin.
Kira rambles on and on about how her dad used to be a professor at Columbia
University and how her mom was the Curator of Exhibitions for the Museum of
Natural History while she, herself, had attended a private school. She looks at
Stiles the whole time she talks, using her hands to animate her words as she
smiles widely.
Stiles figures she’s probably making sure he’s paying attention, so he smiles
back and nods politely while he eats.
Laura won’t stop grinning at him from across the table like she knows something
he doesn’t.
Kate steals his jello (again) and rolls her eyes, bored with Kira and the whole
conversation. She eventually picks up her pom-poms and skips off to make some
idle threats to the members of the basketball team about winning tonight's
game.
Kira stops talking suddenly and curses, “I forgot I was supposed to go to the
guidance counselor’s office to check in about my schedule.” She starts packing
up her things before she looks at Stiles and says, “We’ll meet up after school,
yeah?”
Stiles nods and she beams before she scuttles off.
Laura snickers.
Stiles frowns and looks at her. “What?”
“You really have no clue do you?” Laura says. “You’re so adorable.”
Stiles flushes and sticks his tongue out at her. “I’m hot. Not adorable.”
“I’m sure Kira would agree,” Laura mutters, snickering to herself.
“What?” Stiles says.
“Nothing,” she says but she won’t stop laughing. She pulls out her phone. “God,
Peter is going to have a field day.”
Stiles frowns and wonders what he’s missing.
                                      ---
Kira rides in circles around Stiles and Isaac on her bike as they all peddle
home together. She babbles happily about her first day of school and all the
people she’s met and how she’s considering either joining the baseball team or
the swim team.
Mrs. Yukimura is standing on her porch with crossed arms. “Kira,” she calls in
a firm tone.
Kira’s mouth dips and she peddles over to her house. She waves at Stiles and
Isaac before her mother drags her into the house, fussing in Japanese.
Stiles says, “I’m going to go and visit Mr. Ravenhill. Do you want to come?”
Isaac nods.
Fifteen minutes later, Stiles is using the wooden knocker shaped like a bird to
knock on the door.
The cabin shakes as Mr. Ravenhill walks to the door and opens it. He brightens
at the sight of them. He says, “Good ta see ye, wee laddie. I wasn't expecting
ta see ye so soon. Who've ye got there?”
“This is my brother Isaac,” Stiles introduces and doesn’t miss the way Isaac
shoots him a pleased look as he goes a little pink.
“Aye. Nice ta make yer acquaintance, Isaac. Come in, come in.” Mr. Ravenhill
moves out of the way so they can enter. “I'll put on a cuppa.”
Stiles moves to sit in the rocking chair by the fireplace as Isaac stares up at
the birds in the birdcages with this sort of transfixed look on his face. It’s
a little amusing.
Mr. Ravenhill must think so too because he huffs out a short laugh. “He's fond
o' them birds. Nae surprise there considerin' his kind.” He carries over two
steaming cups of tea and hands one to Stiles before he sets one down on the
other rocking chair. He grabs a small bottle of cream and gives it to Isaac
with a wink before he shuffles back over to the seat across from Stiles. “What
brings ye by then, young lord?”
Isaac makes these please little mewl sounds as he drinks away at the thick
cream he was given.
Stiles looks on at him in fond amusement while he blows on his tea before he
says, “I was just wondering if you could tell me about Mayor Argent. You’ve
been in this town as long as he has right?”
“Aye,” Mr. Ravenhill confirms as he furrows his bushy brow in thought. “I
dinnae know what I can say aboot th' man. He's nae any good. Ne'er met a man
who didnae get th' chill when he's around. He dabbles wi' th' dark things.”
“Have you ever caught him doing anything bad?” Stiles asks.
“Aye. But ye'll be wanting ta ask Lady Talia about that. Tis more ta do wi' her
kinfolk then wi' th' good folk o' Beacon Hills,” Mr. Ravenhill advises. “Ye met
th' man, I take it?”
“Yeah, and I got this really ugly feeling about him,” Stiles admits as he
glances over at Isaac, who’s cooing at some of the birds with a milk mustache.
Stiles smiles a little before he looks back to Mr. Ravenhill. “Are gut feelings
natural for — um, me?”
Mr. Ravenhill’s blue eyes twinkle with mirth. He says, “Aye. That's yer
instinct afoot. Ne'er dismiss it, boyo.”
Stiles nods in solidarity. “Do you think you can tell me more about the — you
know.”
“Aye, but another time,” Mr. Ravenhill says.
Stiles is disappointed but he doesn’t push. “How old are you?”
“Old enough. Older than these trees, I gather,” Mr. Ravenhill supposes.
“Where did you come from?” Stiles asks as he takes another careful sip of tea.
“Th’ trees. But that's where most things come from,” Mr. Ravenhill reasons.
“What things?”
“Th' magic that made us, laddie.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose in confusion. “It came from the trees?”
“Aye, it cam from th' trees,” Mr. Ravenhill confirms.
“But where did the trees come from then?” Stiles asks, skeptical.
“Would ye lik' ta hear th’ stories? Come have a seat, Isaac. Ye'll be wanting
ta hear th’ tales too,” Mr. Ravenhill says, motioning Isaac closer.
Isaac wanders over and sits between Stiles’s knees, devoting his attention to
the Leshy.
Mr. Ravenhill says, “When I was no more than a bit of bark, my gran told me
colorful stories about th' start o' creation. She said that th' Faceless were
responsible fur how all things came ta be. Th' Faceless were four sentient
beings o' nae specific form or gender or identifying qualities, what had
decided, amongst themselves, ta construct a plane where they could coexist 'n'
cohabitate peacefully. My gran said that it all started wi' th' best o'
intentions 'n' th' darkest o' loneliness…”
                                      ---
Stiles and Isaac have to leave when it starts to get really dark outside.
There’s a curfew now because of the recent attacks, so they depart from Mr.
Ravenhill’s cabin with a promise to the Leshy of a future visit. They peddle
down a winding trail and out onto the road, lost in their own thoughts.
They make it back to the house by the time the streetlamps come on and they
drop their bikes to the grass as they march up the steps and into the house.
His dad is waiting for them with some pizzas.
“Any new developments?” Stiles asks as he takes a slice.
His dad shakes his head and says, “Still waiting on the coroner’s report and a
debriefing with forensics.”
Stiles hums and reaches for another slice of pizza.
Isaac stacks a few slices on a plate before he carries it into the living room.
The sheriff follows.
Stiles sits in the kitchen a little longer and eats his food there. He thinks
on the things that Mr. Ravenhill said, about the Faceless and how they made the
trees so that they could cry on them and see what grew from the branches. He
didn’t get far in the tale since they had to go, but Stiles is definitely
interested in hearing more about this theory of creation.
He tugs free a can of soda from the six pack his dad bought and hops over the
back of the couch, landing with a soft bounce as he realizes that Isaac and his
dad are watching Frozen.
It’s a pretty decent movie, but Isaac and his dad are like super into it — so
much so that they watch it one more time, and then once more. They don’t make
it through the third time, though. They start falling asleep and Stiles, still
wide-awake, rolls his eyes and ushers them off to bed.
He shuts down the entertainment system and turns off all the lights downstairs
before he sprints up to his room and closes the door behind him with a soft
click. He settles down at his desk and boots up his computer before pulling up
anything he can about the Faceless.
He finds one or two things, but nothing substantial.
He shuts it and grabs his phone to put it on the nightstand before he grabs the
journal of Virtues from where he has it stashed in his underwear drawer and
begins to read.
At midnight, he gets a surprising text from Derek that reads: I’m outside.
Stiles blinks at his phone for a long moment before he sits up and slides off
his bed. He slips on some socks and quietly makes his way down the steps to the
front door. He unlocks it and shivers against the cold as he closes the door
behind him while he steps out into the night air.
Derek is sitting on the top step on the porch. He’s wearing a letterman jacket
and his shoulders are hunched, like he wants to shrink inside of himself.
Stiles walks over and plops down to his right. “Hey.”
Derek doesn’t look at him. He peers out into the street, tracing his eyes over
the wet pavement, up to the glow of the streetlamps and from darkened house to
darkened house. He shifts his feet and says, “What should I do?”
Stiles lifts his brows at that and blinks. He turns his gaze to the thin fog
veiling the neighborhood. He shivers and says, “I don’t know.”
Derek snorts wryly. “I don’t know either,” he admits. “She felt like
everything. She waseverything. I don’t understand.”
Stiles is smart enough not to point out that this is something Paige has said
to him also. Instead, he says, “Are you angry?”
Derek hunches his shoulders again and marries his eyes to his shoelaces. “I’m
everything,” he whispers, and he sounds so lost and broken. He snorts bitterly.
"At Least that's what it feels like here," he explains, patting a hand over his
heart. 
Stiles feels a twinge of compassion pluck at his own heart. “Have you thought
about maybe — what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Derek growls and he hits his forehead against
his knees over and over. “I just — I don’t know. I came to the game tonight and
I tried to play to see if things could be the same and to see if I could move
on but my palms were too sweaty and it felt so loud and I couldn’t stop
thinking about her. I missed every shot I made. It was horrible.”
Stiles brushes his fingers over the stubble of his hair as he eyes the gleaming
trashcans at the end of everyone’s drive. He says, “You’re allowed to make
mistakes. We’re only Human, or so I’m told.”
Stiles doesn’t really mean it as a joke but Derek still laughs and it sounds
painful, like he hasn’t let himself laugh in years. “You’re odd,” he mumbles.
"I can honestly say I've never met anyone like you." He picks up his head and
looks at Stiles with wet hazel-green eyes.
Stiles sucks in a wounded breath at the sight and looks away as his thoughts
scatter.
Derek’s eyes are burning holes into the side of his face.
Stiles says, “You probably don't want to hear this, but...it could be worse.”
“Worse?” Derek repeats, the question in his voice obvious.
“She’s alive. I know everything else sucks, and I know what she did was — I
know. And it was. You should be sad and angry and everything else you want to
be. Two years is a long time to center your life around someone else for it to
just end like that.” Stiles stares at the wet grass on the front lawn. It needs
to be cut. “But, despite it all — she’s alive. She could be, you know — but
she’s not.” He swallows and tries not to think of his mother as he says,
“There’s a lesser evil we have to be grateful for sometimes.”
Derek says nothing to that but he doesn’t stop staring at the side of Stiles’s
face.
Stiles shivers again and rubs his arms. He’s only wearing a thin t-shirt and
some pajama bottoms.
Derek takes off his letterman jacket and drapes it over Stiles’s shoulders,
ignoring the other teen’s protest. “You're cold. I’m not,” he says as if it’s
just that simple. "It's the least I can do for talking your ear off like this."
He pulls away and stares out into the night.
Stiles clamps his mouth shut because his shivers die in the wake of the warmth
that Derek’s jacket offers. The inside of it feels like how his clothes feel
when he pulls them out of the dryer before it even comes to a complete stop. It
smells heavily of vanilla and jasmine. “Thank you,” he says because it would be
impolite not to. "I'm not expecting — you didn't have to give — just, thank
you."
Derek says, “You’re the only person who hasn’t tried to bad-mouth Paige.”
Stiles shrugs. He doesn’t see the significance of it.
"After the handful of 'I told you so's' I've been receiving left and right,
it's refreshing." Derek sighs and scrubs at his face before he keeps his large
hands cupped over his eyes. His bottom lip trembles as he says, “I’m sad and
scared that it'll never stop. I...still love her.” He chokes on a sob and it’s
obvious it hurts him deeply to even admit this out loud.
Stiles feels tears well up in his own eyes and the gut-wrenching compassion and
empathy he has for Derek is as overwhelming as it is sudden. He presses his
trembling lips together as the first set of tears slide down his cheeks.
Derek jolts and drops his hands as he looks at Stiles through wet lashes. His
brow furrows in confusion. “Are you..." He leans closer to Stiles as his nose
twitches and he inhales sharply. "You are," he says in awe. "Why are you
crying?” he asks.
“Because I’m sad for you,” Stiles says quietly.
"Why?"
"I honestly don't know, but you have to stop crying," Stiles says as he sniffs.
"I'd take you being your normal rude self over this."
Derek laughs wetly and he looks at Stiles like he can’t believe he’s real.
“You’re so damn odd,” he claims but there’s something almost soft and
sentimental in the way he says it.
Stiles gives him a watery smile and shrugs with a great amount of self-
deprecation.
"And I'm not rude."
"You are. Especially to me. I'm talking day one with that."
Derek huffs. "The locker room incident," he says, almost nostalgically. "That
was a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding, he says," Stiles mumbles, mockingly. He rubs at his eyes
tiredly. "Like it's too much to ask for you to be nicer to me."
Derek sniffs and wipes his cheeks dry before he exhales shakily. “Okay,” he
says, and Stiles doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but it feels
important. “Okay,” he says again. He sniffs and stands, descending the steps
and walking away without a proper goodbye.
Stiles watches as Derek travels up the walkway, over the sidewalk, off the curb
and further up the street adjacent to his house. The streetlamps are lighting
the way for him, and the fog swallows him in.
Stiles sits out on the porch for a long while after Derek disappears from
sight, clutching the jacket Derek hadn’t bothered to take back and he laughs a
little wryly at how strange his life has become.
He picks himself up and goes back into the house, locking the door behind him.
He puts Derek’s jacket on the top of his dresser by his wolves, and as soon as
his body hits the bed, he falls asleep.
He dreams of trees.
***** default *****
Sometime around eight in the morning on Saturday, Laura sends him a picture of
Derek smiling and playing with his baby sister Olive and their cousins and
their dogs with a text that reads:
I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU DID
BUT THANK YOU
Stiles huffs and rolls onto his back, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He responds:
I didn’t do anything.
He came by and we talked.
E X A C T L Y
APPARENTLY YOU’RE ALL IT TAKES
WE’VE TRIED EVERYTHING WITH HIM
AND NOW HE SMELLS SO DISGUSTINGLY HAPPY
Stop yelling at me through text. How do you guys know what emotions smell like?
I didn’t do anything.
YOU DID S O M E T H I N G
HE’S ACTING LIKE HIS OLD GOOBER SELF
HE STILL GETS SAD RANDOMLY
BUT IT’S BETTER THAN BEFORE
That’s got nothing to do with me. Swear.
Derek is his own person. 
WHATEVER
I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3
Stiles rolls his eyes but he smiles indulgently for maybe like half of a
minute. Then he shakes it off and sits up with a stretch and a yawn. He shifts
and tugs free the journal of Virtues when he realizes that he’s sitting on it.
He slides out of bed and tucks it away in his underwear drawer. Then he snags
his phone from his nightstand and scrolls through his contacts before he dials
out.
“Hello?”
“So I don’t mean to pry or bring this up randomly but my brain doesn’t follow
the general rules of order and this just came to me but — how is your
relationship with your grandfather and your — is she your aunt? Right? Kate? Am
I getting that right?”
Allison pauses on the other end and there’s some shuffling before she says,
“Yeah. She’s my aunt, but we barely talk. Same deal with my grand — with
Gerard. It’s — my mom and my dad don’t talk to him either. Something happened —
you know the fire with Peter and his family? Well my dad was pretty sure that
Gerard had something to do with it and he just didn’t — that was the last straw
for him. He kind of packed up and took off. Left my mom and I behind. He was
going to take Kate with him but she didn’t want to go.
"Imagine that, right? Choosing your little sister over your wife and daughter.
I...maybe I don't understand it. Why it was so easy to leave us all behind but
beg to take her. Good use that did anyway. She wanted to stay and — well, Peter
and Laura are here and I don’t think she wanted to be anywhere else. I don't
think there is anyone in this world Kate loves more than them. My mom...she
wasn't like me. I was jealous of Kate and hated her for a long time because of
my dad.
"My mom understands my dad better than I do, always have, which is why, even
after he left, she offered to let Kate stay with us but Kate’s always been, you
know, she prefers the finer things and with Gerard she can do what she likes.
She’s not much for rules and my mom definitely would have brought the hammer
down, or however that saying is. But yeah, I don’t really even — we don’t
really even speak to each other. Not that I hate her still or anything. We
just...we've never tried to have a relationship with each other. And my dad
just washed his hands of this town and everyone in — hang on, does this have
anything to do with what’s happening? You think Gerard is involved?”
“Could be,” Stiles admits and tries to place the guilt he feels for bringing up
such a delicate subject. “I’m — sorry, I didn’t realize that — I shouldn’t have
—”
“No it's okay. I don’t treat it like a dirty secret. I’m not ashamed,” Allison
says and she sounds so certain that Stiles is almost envious. “My dad bailed on
us and I’m not going to protect him from that. It is what it is. My mom and I
are fine. She’s dating again, which is stressful for me because I — I’m real
protective of her and I think she's trying to forget — but even still, I don't
think she'll ever stop loving — whatever. It’s whatever.”
Stiles understands now why he keeps seeing Victoria with different men whenever
she picks up or drops off Allison. He hadn’t really thought to pay that much
attention or take notice, but he’d filed it in the back of his mind, as he does
most things for later assessment. He says, “Allison?”
“Yes?”
Stiles, because his gut tells him to, says, “You’re probably the strongest girl
I know in how you're facing a situation like that. It’s just — if you ever
worry about — I don’t want to assume this or anything but, um. You definitely
can hold your own, and, yeah. Sorry, that sounded a lot more coherent in my
head which, ha, makes sense because everything in my head isn’t all that
coherent sometimes but I still somehow make sense of it.”
Allison goes silent on the other end.
Stiles wonders if he’s said the wrong thing.
Allison quietly replies, and she sounds a little hoarse when she does, “That —
thank you. I can't — you don’t even know how much I needed to hear — thank you.
I’ve been trying hard.”
“It’s okay, I think,” Stiles says, and winces at his wording. “I just mean that
if you want to talk to me about — we’re friends, right? So you know that you
can call me?”
“Yes.” Allison takes a moment to breathe and gather her thoughts. Then she
says, “Um, today Malia and Scott and me were going to go and visit Danny. Just
for moral support and to check on his progress. I think Boyd and Jackson were
supposed to come too. I’m not sure if Erica will — she’s never been fond of
hospitals so I don’t think she will.”
“Speaking of Erica — did anyone tell her what’s going on?”
“No I don’t think — well I mean, she’s been distant, you know?” Allison
explains. “I think at this point she’s even less interested than she usually
is. It’s — yeah. I think something happened while she was out. Her family is,
as you can imagine, very interesting, to put it very mildly. Whatever it was,
she’s a lot meaner for it.”
Stiles hums and takes that into consideration. He makes a mental note to call
Erica as a friend and see about her.
Allison says, “Will you come? To the hospital, I mean.”
“No, uh — I have that thing with Deaton. Then I was probably going to go see
about Lydia,” Stiles says.
“You made an appointment? I thought you weren’t allowed back after what
happened last time?” Allison asks, confused.
“No, you’re right, I’m — I didn’t make an appointment. I’m still trying to work
around that somehow but I have to — I have to tell her, you know. She should
know what’s going on if she doesn’t already,” Stiles reasons as he starts
rooting around his messy floor for some clean clothes. 
Allison huffs in amusement. “Don’t get in trouble. You can call us too if you
need anything,” she points out. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”
Stiles smiles at that. It is comforting to know. He says, “I’ll keep you guys
updated on my progress, and we’ll go from there I guess. You keep me updated on
Danny.”
“Sure thing. You be safe.” Allison ends the call.
Stiles rubs at his right eyebrow before he yawns and shakes off any remaining
exhaustion. He tosses some clothes he thinks are clean onto the bed and makes
his way to the bathroom to take some Adderall and a hot shower.
An hour later, he’s stepping into a pair of jeans, slipping on a white t-shirt
and into his sneakers, tying the laces before he slips on the blue Captain
America hoodie Laura bought for his birthday. He makes his way towards the
stairs and then down them to go into the kitchen where he starts making
breakfast. He makes some wheat pancakes and a fruit salad because they have
been really slacking in the eating healthy department. He eats his share of
food in the living room while he watches Teen Titans on the TV and waits from
Isaac and his dad to wake up.
His dad is the first to come down. He goes for the morning paper first before
he even makes a plate for himself. The paper rustles when he shakes it out and
he says, “Good morning.”
“Morning, dad,” Stiles replies distractedly and laughs at something Beast Boy
and Cyborg do.
His dad walks over and pats him affectionately on the head. He says, “What are
your plans for today?”
Stiles waits for the commercials before he leans his head back against the back
of the couch so he can look up at his dad and he tells him his plans for the
day.
His dad gets this complicated and difficult look on his face that says he’s
still not comfortable with Stiles involving himself in the more serious matters
of the community but he’s slowly swallowing his protests and sighing in
resignation. He pats Stiles on the cheek before he turns away and goes to make
himself a plate. He says, “Please be careful. My blood pressure is a mess when
it comes to you.”
Stiles smiles up at the ceiling before he picks his head up. “I know who to
call if things start to blow up in my face,” he says, just to hear his dad sigh
again. “You love me.”
“God help me, I do,” his dad confirms, sounding both grudgingly amused and
fond. “If your mom were here, she’d have a better handle on you, I gather.”
Stiles feels his mouth slowly lose its upward curve and he swallows. He says,
“Yeah.” But he says it so softly he’s not sure his dad even hears him.
His dad shakes out the paper again behind him as his fork clinks against the
plate.
Stiles goes back to watching TV, but it takes a full hour before he’s
actuallywatching it and not just blinking at its general direction.
Isaac comes down sometime around noon, still rubbing sleep and gunk from his
eyes before he walks over to the stove and piles his plate higher than Stiles
has ever seen him do.
His dad also raises a brow in question but he doesn’t seem as surprised.
“Welcome to the land of the living. I was starting to wonder about you,” he
jokes.
Isaac shrugs and sits down across from him. He looks over to Stiles and nods.
Stiles smiles back and waves before he turns and goes back to channel surfing.
His dad says, “Isaac’s got a doctor’s appointment I’m taking him to shortly.
I’ll drop him off at the library when I’m done because I have to go to work
right after. You’ll pick him up?”
Stiles nods distractedly but his dad chucks a strawberry at the back of his
head. “Hey! I totally heard you,” he swears.
His dad chuckles and says, “Just making sure.”
Stiles just grumbles before he turns the TV off and stands with a stretch. It's
time for him to get going anyway. He makes his way around the couch, picking up
the strawberry to blow it off and eat it on his way to the stairs (because five
second rule) before he pauses to say, “What time will you be home?”
His dad shrugs. “Hard to say. I’ll aim for an early time but I’ll be pouring
over some case files. There are some inconsistencies with the pathologist’s
report which state the murders were done by a wild and possibly rabid animal,
but the coroner has discrepancies with the wounds found stating that it should
be ruled as a serial murder. Don’t get me started on what forensics is saying.
It’s a real mess since no one can agree on anything.”
Stiles rolls that around in his mind before he says, “I’ll tell you what Deaton
says. The guy really knows his stuff. He could shed some light on it.”
“Hopefully,” his dad says with a sigh before he folds the newspaper up. “Come
on, Isaac. It’s about time we get going.”
Isaac nods and eats a little faster.
Stiles jogs up to his room to grab and pocket his phone. As he passes Isaac on
the stairs, they high-five each other like it’s instinct and then he’s out the
front door. When he gets midway down the porch steps, he jumps the rest of the
way, sticking a wobbly landing before he’s righting his bike and mounting it.
“Stiles!”
Stiles pauses and glances over to where Kira is sitting on her porch steps with
an acoustic guitar in her lap and a notebook in her hands. He shifts his bike
around and peddles over, halting to a stop at the bottom step. “Hey, Kira.
What’s up?”
“Just doing a little lyrical writing, I guess,” Kira says with a smile as she
sets the notebook aside and places the pen on top.
“So you’re a singer,” Stiles reasons as he indicates to the guitar.
Kira nods happily. “I don’t know if I’m any good though. I’m decent. When I was
little I had to beg my parents to pay for the singing lessons. My dad was all
for it but my mom, predictably enough, thought it was a waste of time.” She
shrugs as she strums a few strings before clapping a hand over it to silence
the sound. “I learned how to play the guitar on my own, however — well, with
the aid of some YouTube tutorials.”
Stiles snorts at that. “You can learn how to do anything from YouTube. One time
I really wanted to know how they get toothpaste inside the container, but then
it went from that to how they make ice cream sandwiches, and somehow from there
I ended up on the other side of the spectrum, spending three hours watching
Nova’s Becoming Human series.”
Kira laughs. “Yeah, I know how that goes. This one time I just wanted to know
how you can like take some scotch tape and put it over your eyelid for a
perfect winged eye, you know, and before I know it I’m like knee deep in
conspiracies videos learning about how everything has subliminal messages and
it just went so deep that I had to pull out of there.” She shakes her head with
a smile. “But back to what we were originally talking about, um — if you
wanted, I could sing a song for you?”
“Yeah, no, yeah, uh — that’d be cool,” Stiles says but he holds out his hands
to stall her when it looks like she’s about to play something on the spot. “But
rain check, because I have to — and I want to devote my full attention to and
at you and whatever you sing — but it’s just that I really have to go. I don’t
want it to seem like I’m — like those people who are being nice about wanting
to hear their friends perform but secretly they don’t want to but you can’t
just not say you don’t want to and — because I’m not. Saying that. I totally
do. I’m ready to be wowed, which I’m sure you will do when you do your thing.
You just seem like you have — like you — your voice is — heavenly, and okay I’m
going to go because I’m — right. This is getting away from me. Sorry. I have to
go.”
Kira’s cheeks are red and she appears to be flattered by his nonsensical
rambling. “It’s totally cool — fine. I — yeah, another time,” she agrees.
Stiles shoots her a thumbs-up and she laughs as he shifts his bike backwards,
almost stumbling as he tries to peddle off. He winces at his own faulty
coordination and tosses Kira an embarrassed wave.
Kira stands and returns it enthusiastically as she watches him until he’s out
of sight.
                                      ---
Stiles rolls up to Alan's Antiquities and locks his bike before he enters the
shop. The bell rings predictably over his head and he makes his way to the
back. He notes that the glass counter display has been replaced.
Deaton appears from behind a doorway of hanging beads. He says, “Mr. Stilinski.
You’ll be happy to know that I came to some rather interesting conclusions,” he
says as he lays a musty old book on the surface glass counter display. Before
he opens it, he says, “At first I considered how you made a mention of a
creature with claws with the capability of ripping its prey apart, but you also
stated that there was the possibility that a knife might have been able to do
the same damage as well. On average, if the wounds of a victim who had
encountered something fairly large or as aggressive, it would prelude to a
more...how can I put this? A mixture of something both human and creature in
nature.”
“Like with Therianthropy,” Stiles says, already having some idea of where he’s
going with this.
“Exactly. But more so than that,” Deaton says. “You see, there are all types of
sublevels to consider. You have Cynanthropy, where dogs can become men and men
can become dogs. Or Ailuranthropy, where a person can have the ability to turn
into domestic cats, sometimes of enlarged size, or any feline form of their
choosing. Then there's Theriocephaly, where an individual manifests into a
certain creature by halves like Centaurs or Mermaids. Then we would also have
to consider Lycanthropy and Nagualism. Now you can see where the dilemma really
comes into play because any of these could be responsible for what you’ve
described.”
Stiles finds himself thinking on the eerie orange alley cat. He has a hunch,
but he says, “Tell me more about the Ailuranthropy.”
Deaton opens the book to an illustration of a crowd of people holding lit
torches as they look onto the hanging of a woman who is midway into
transforming into a large beast-like creature that highly resembled a cat. “In
Europe, the folklore labels them as Witches, whether they were male or female,
and even though they had no other magic ability other than being able to
transform. There are some accounts from official church doctrine that bands
them together in the age of Witch Trials.” He turns the page and shows another
illustration of a tribe bowing down to a humanoid looking lion and a leopard.
“In Africa, they were treated as deities. Some legends place them as royalty,
or even as protectors from all the evils of the World and the Cosmos.”
Stiles is fascinated.
Deaton turns to a Chinese illustration that has a man using some kind of sword
to strike down a child in the middle of transforming into a Bengal Tiger. “In
India, and in Persia, and also China, there is folklore which would state that
the ability of self-transformation is actually a hereditary curse, but the true
nature of good and evil comes from the personality of the individual who
inherits it.” He turns the page and this illustration is of a beastly tiger
(practically the size of Godzilla) that is devouring a village of people. “In
Indonesia and Malaysia, the belief is that the inheritance of transformation
does not come unless there is cause for revenge. It’s may be interesting to
also note that they make a claim that a Shapeshifter’s weakness is its own
name.”
Stiles frowns, filing away all of this information to the best of his abilities
before he asks, “Why would saying their name matter?”
Deaton considers the question before he says, “I suppose it’s a way to bring
awareness to them. When they shift, they fall prey to instinct, and most of the
time those instincts do not often involve moral consciousness or the ability to
distinguish right from wrong.”
“Because there are no rules in the Wild Kingdom,” Stiles reasons.
Deaton smiles a little. “Exactly. That’s very insightful.”
Stiles rubs the back of his head and says, “I heard it somewhere.” He shrugs
and indicates to the book. “Is there anything else?”
Deaton turns to the last illustration which is of an Aztec Shaman pointing its
staff at a enlarged jaguar. “In pre-Columbian Mesoamerican civilizations, the
Priests and the Shamans wore the pelt of the animal they wished to shift into
in order to become as such. The motifs often depict jaguars as the animal of
choice because it’s representation was closely tied to the god of the night
sky, Tezcatlipoca. But mainly their system of transformation was linked to the
Mesoamerican calendrical system, which was used for divination rituals.”
Stiles jolts a bit at that. “That’s — you wouldn’t happen to have one of those,
you know, lying around?”
Deaton appears just a smidge amused as he says, “Unfortunately no. It wouldn’t
be of any use to you, as is. It’s a rather outdated system, and the astrology
would have changed greatly from the time it was first created to now. Is there
a reason you're asking?”
“I have this — theory about, um, something. Do you know any mythology about the
New Moon? Or Dark Moon?” Stiles asks. “Just to clarify a bit, here’s a scenario
— if a Shapeshifter, namely of the Ailuranthropy variety, were to only do its
hunting on a New Moon, is there — would there be some significance to that?”
Deaton says, “Yes.” He goes on to explain, “You are aware that mysticism places
an importance on the Full Moon? All of these ancient myths and old legends will
agree that the gravitational pull is what affects the chemistry of nature.
Greek mythology emphasizes on the folklore of Lycanthropy, which is subject to
manifest on a Full Moon. This would come into play of what you're asking
because there are legends that place Werewolves and Werecats at odds in the
Animal Kingdom. A Full Moon finds a Werecat at its weakest, whereas a Full Moon
would find a Werewolf at its strongest peak. Vice versa — a New Moon would find
a Werewolf at its weakest, and the Werecat would be at its strongest peak. It
is to balance the power between these creatures so they may keep each other in
check.”
Stiles rolls that over in his mind with a thoughtful frown. “So a Werecat would
do its hunting on a New Moon because it's most likely to...survive or endure
confrontation if it ever crossed paths with a Werewolf?”
“Indeed,” Deaton confirms. “There would have to be a heavy population of either
for this pattern to occur, otherwise either creature would hunt and thrive at
any moment of its choosing. But if they are within proximity, they mainly try
to give each other a wide berth, should there be an understanding from either
Pack or Pride.”
“Right, because a horde of wolves is called a pack and a group of cats is
called a pride and oh my god, I am an idiot,” Stiles says as he sinks his face
into his hands. It hits him out of nowhere, like fireworks in his mind. “Oh my
god.”
“Is everything okay, Mr. Stilinski?”
“This explains so much, like — you don’t even know. With the hearing and the
smelling and the weird like — weird behavior. How did I not notice — how didn’t
I see — and there are like dozens of them in one house.Who even — who even does
that? In California no less!”
“Mr. Stilinski —”
“And the stuffed animals, well that — okay I still don’t get what that was
about but — they kept touching my right hand and — Isaac! Oh my god, Isaac. He
looks at them like he can’t be in the same room and oh my god, that cats and
dogs comment Laura made. I am an idiot.” Stiles starts pacing. “And Cora, she —
because wolves bring food to injured pack members when they can’t — if only to
— I’ve readabout this stuff! Oh my god, and the — the Leshies, they — they only
associate with wolves and Mr. Ravenhill has been a friend to that family for
eighty generations, oh my god.I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out. My brother is
a possible Werecat and I am freaking out!”
“Mr. Stilinski —”
“God, my dad probably knew — he knewthis whole time and he should have told me,
oh my god, it’s like a brick in the face how obvious — and I didn’t even —
Virtues and Banshees and Leshies and Ghouls and Werecats and Werewolves like
what the hell — is everyonein this goddamn town something? There should be a
formal warning on the town sign. Like ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills! Population
30,000, but haha, not including all the mythologicalcreatures!’ Like oh my
god!”
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton intones calmly.
Stiles laughs a little deliriously but he stops pacing. “Werewolves,” he says
weakly as he flails his hands. “Werewolves.”
Deaton is looking at him in concern.
“Oh. My. God.” Stiles is suddenly furious. “I’m going to kill Peter. I mean it
this time. I swear. This is the last straw. I might not be able to get my hands
on some silver bullets but just wait and see what I can do with a silver spoon.
He'll wish I —”
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says, louder this time. “If you're quite finished, I
may be able to clear up a few things for you.”
Stiles snaps his mouth shut and gives him his full attention.
“While I understand that this might come as a shock to you, and you seem to
already be adapting well, there are others in this town who would not,” Deaton
calmly points out. “Because while it may be heavy on the supernatural beings,
the quantity of Humans residing in our community still outnumbers them in a
threatening way. Do you understand? We can’t afford a panic. Not now while
there is still peace.”
Stiles nods dumbly and swallows down his almost-nervous breakdown.
“Good, then I suppose we can end this charade of you coming to me out of
general curiosity, and I can stop aiding you with my coincidentalknowledge of
the supernatural.” Deaton rolls up the left sleeve of his shirt, all the way to
his shoulder, and shows Stiles the same kind of symbol of three-conjoined
spirals that he recognizes seeing all over the Hale house.
“What’s — what is it?” Stiles asks as he steps closer to study it. “What are
you?”
“It’s called a triskelion,” Deaton explains. “Sometimes it represents the three
branches of life: Spirit, Mind, and Body. For the Hales, being as they are, it
can be a grounding aid, a means to find control when they have no anchor to do
so: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. For me, it’s a Druid symbol. It’s what I stand for:
Construction, Preservation, and Intellect.”
Stiles inhales carefully before the wind rushes out of him. He says, “You’re a
Druid.”
Deaton nods and rolls his sleeve back down.
“And you knew this whole time what I was,” Stiles says without a speck of
doubt. He glances up to see Deaton confirm with a nod. “And you also know
what’s going on in this town.”
“I have some theories, but I’m merely a helpmeet. I don’t share my insight
unless called upon to do so, and I don’t interfere because that is no longer
the way of my people. Perhaps, one day, when there is time, I’ll tell you why
that is.”
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly as he tries to gather his thoughts into
something less chaotic and sporadic.
“I can help you,” Deaton says suddenly. “Your abilities as a Virtue are
beginning to come to fruition. You’ve noticed it as much as I have. I can teach
you how to properly yield and engender them.”
Stiles drops his hands before he lifts them to scrub them through the stubble
of his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s what I want. It’s — I don’t
know. This is a lot to take in,” he admits. He drops his hands again and says,
“What about the — Lydia. You said you would see — or did you already know?”
“You and Ms. Martin share a genetic link, therefore you both have the ability
to spark each other’s abilities in a number of ways,” Deaton merely says. “If
she’s visiting you in your dreams, she may be trying to trigger yours without
subconsciously being aware of her intentions to do so.”
“She’s so turned around,” Stiles says. “I want to help her and I don’t know how
to. Can I?”
“With patience and understanding,” Deaton confirms. “Let her know that you
understand what she is and what this is. Touch is also essential.”
Stiles frowns because that twinges something in his thoughts. “Why? She's...she
doesn't like touch.”
“Because of the autism," Deaton says with a knowing. "That will provide some
challenges. Again, patience is key. Touch is a...vital part of a Virtue’s
abilities. You see truth through physical actions. Have you noticed?” he asks.
“Never mind the fact that you can nearly discern the true nature or intentions
of an individual, but with touch, you sense something more.”
Stiles exhales shakily because what Deaton is saying hits home hard. He’s
always had what he’s called gut instincts about people. It’s only lately that
touching people has become — he’s been trying to ignore it and right it off as
something else but — that thing with Mayor Argent just confirms it.
Deaton says, “You might start to see bright threads of gold. Like the lines of
Fate. I wont tell you what I mean because each Virtue identifies them
differently. If you do, you must tell me because I’ll know for sure what your
destined field is, and also because by then the choice of learning how to
control and use your abilities or pick a field of your choice will be out of
your hands.”
Stiles nods faintly.
Deaton says, “I’ll need pictures.”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“Of the wounds left on the victims. If you want help identifying what kind of
Were was responsible, I’ll need pictures. Do you think you can obtain some?”
“I can — no, my dad is — he could come by with them or you could meet him at
the station,” Stiles suggests.
Deaton shakes his head. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be safe for either your
father nor I. You're not the only one who knows of what I am.”
Stiles thinks of Mayor Argent. “Okay, I’ll — I’ll get them.”
“Carefully,” Deaton advises. “I’m not the only one being watched.”
Stiles feels something cold and foreboding twist in his gut at that, and he
can’t help but to think of Violet and Garret. “Mayor Argent adopted those kids
to — spy on me, didn't he?”
“More like to keep track of a potential investment,” Deaton clarifies. “As
such, again I would remind you to be careful. We wouldn’t want you to fall into
the wrong hands.”
“Right,” Stiles says and he feels a headache start to build between his eyes.
“I should — I’m gonna go and see about Lydia.”
“You’ll run into my sister. Just make her aware that you know,” Deaton
suggests. “You'll have met her already. She’s the one who saw to Isaac’s
adoption.”
“Ms. Morrell?” Stiles says and he tries not to be surprised when Deaton nods.
“Right. Why wouldn’t she be involved?” he mutters, a little annoyed. He says,
“Does Isaac know what he is?”
“That should be a conversation between the two of you, don’t you think?” Deaton
counters before he picks up his book and disappears into the back.
Stiles exhales tiredly before he scrubs at the stubble of his hair and makes
his way out of the shop.
There’s a black unmarked Chevrolet Tahoe with tinted windows parked across the
street where it wasn’t before.
Stiles unlocks his bike with shaky hands as eyes burn into his back and he
quickly mounts his bike to peddle in the opposite direction.
Thankfully, the truck doesn’t follow after him, but it still doesn’t stop him
from looking over his shoulder every ten minutes just to be sure.
                                      ---
Eichen House is just as gloomy and menacing as the last time Stiles pulled up
to its black iron gates. He pushes them open and they give with a metallic
groan that only adds to the whole creep factor. He rolls his bike up the
cracked concrete of the walkway and to the steps. When he reaches the top, he
locks his bike and pulls out his phone. He sends a mass text to Laura, Peter,
Cora, and Derek that reads: SO FYI I KNOW ABOUT YOUR FURRY ALTER EGO YOU
ANNOYING CABBAGES.
And just to spite them, Stiles turns his phone off and pockets it. He enters
the building and walks up to the front desk to sign-in.
There’s a woman in marigold scrubs with a white hijab on playing scrabble with
a dark-skinned man in grey scrubs with a lip, nose, and eyebrow piercing. They
look to be in their mid-twenties.
Stiles clears his throat after he signs in and says, “I’m here to see Lydia
Martin.”
The woman in the hijab nods and scoots her wheeled chair over to the phone.
A few moments later, Ms. Morrell appears, looking competent and cool as always.
“Mr. Stilinski. I thought I made myself clear about the stipulations of your
visits. I don’t respond well to people who drop by unannounced.”
“I know. Sorry. But, um — I know,” Stiles says and gives her this sort twitchy
look of knowing, which he hopes she can translate into something feasible.
Ms. Morrell just blinks at him before she says, “Follow me.” She clicks her way
down the hall leading to the stairwell.
Stiles stumbles after her and when he catches up, he says, “So I met your
brother — Alan?”
Ms. Morrell doesn’t look at him as she mutters, “Brother." A cold smirk passes
over her face before completely vanishing. "Yes, Mr. Stilinski. I can tell.”
Then she adds, “I’m guessing you’ve become awareof Beacon Hills’ rather
preternatural situation.”
“Yup, yes, yeah — I totally — I’m all caught up. Kind of?” Stiles follows her
up to the fourth floor and to the end of the hall.
Ms. Morrell pauses outside of Lydia’s door and says, “Fifteen minutes. No more
than that. It may not seem like it but she’s actually safe here while she’s
under my watch and I won’t have you jeopardizing that. I consider her my ward.
Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Stiles says quickly because she’s kinda very intimidating.
“Good.” Ms. Morrell unlocks the door and steps back so Stiles can enter.
“Lydia, your cousin is here to see you.” She closes and locks the door after
Stiles enters. “Fifteen minutes. Clock starts now.”
Stiles waits until he hears the sound of her heels clicking away before he
really observes the room. It’s much the same as before, but the sketches on the
wall look newly drawn. There are charcoal pictures of a large tree with a face
carved into it. Pictures of the different phases of the moon. Pictures of
fireflies. Pictures of Dragons immersed in fire. Pictures of graveyards.
Pictures of eyes staring angrily into nothing and everything at the same time.
Lydia is sitting at the desk facing the wall with the barred window above.
She’s wearing a bright red lace silk dress with nude stockings, no shoes, and
that same black birdcage funeral veil pinned to her hair (which is pinned into
a low sailor’s knot bun).
There’s a dark mahogany old time radio at the right corner of the desk with
it’s back to the wall and the sound of it’s static floats through the room
almost like an endless ghostly song.
Stiles approaches Lydia and sees that she’s knitting dead flowers into fuchsia-
colored yarn patterned into a hang rope. He probably would have been worried if
it weren’t so small and clearly not made to fit her neck. “Lydia,” he says as
he sits on the end of her neatly made bed.
Lydia doesn’t even acknowledge him.
“Lydia, it’s — it’s Stiles.”
Lydia doesn’t pause her needlework.
"Yeah. Pretty stupid thing to say. You know who I am as much as you know who
you are."
Lydia grabs another dead flower to add to another part of the knitted yarn.
The radio continues to hiss with white noise in the background.
Stiles takes a moment to think. He says, “I know what you are. I have a feeling
you do too. You’re smart, I know you are. I just — I think maybe you tried to
ignore it all because it was scary. I’ve read about Banshees and what they can
do and the territory that comes with it. I can see how — I probably would have
done the same thing, you know, ignoring it. I’m a fan of ignoring the problem
until it goes away, but it never really goes away does it?”
Lydia says nothing; just keeps patterning the dead flowers into the miniature
hang rope made of bright fuchsia yarn.
“I’m a Virtue. Whatever that means, I still don’t know. But I think you do,”
Stiles supposes. He keeps watching her work. “So I’m sorry it took me so long
to realize that we’re cousins. I — look, I figured that our grandmothers must
have been sisters on our mother’s side. It’s just too bad we can't ask to
confirm since your mom’s parents are dead and my mom’s parents are dead.
And...they're dead. My mom. Your parents. The only people who could have given
us the answers we need about our lineage.”
Lydia pauses her needlework so she can reach across the desk and turn the dial
on the radio to switch over to another station, which only turns out to be more
white noise. She still hums in satisfaction like she’s found what she’s looking
for and goes back to sewing.
Stiles rubs at his temples as the veins in his forehead began to pound
painfully. He says, “But maybe we don't need them to know that we share blood."
He exhales shakily. "I want to help you, Lydia. And by the way you visited me
in my dreams, well, I get the feeling you want to help me too. We can — we can
help each other. Not just because we’re family. We can — I don’t know. I just
want to understand what it is I’m supposed to do.” He drops his hands to his
lap with a sigh. “Danny’s in the hospital.”
Lydia goes completely still.
Stiles knows an opportunity when he sees one and he scrambles to say, “His
family — all of them — they were ripped apart. They were killed just like —”
Yours.He doesn’t say it but the word is still implied.
Lydia’s hands begin to shake and that ethereal wind begins to circulate through
the room, making the charcoal sketches flutter with animation.
“Lydia, please. If you know what — if you know who — just, anything that you
can tell me. Anything.”
Lydia’s bottom lip begins to tremble as she slowly turns her watery gaze in his
direction. Softly, she chants, “Lizzie Borden took an axe. Gave her mother
forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”
Stiles tries to process the words. “Lydia, I can’t — just tell me what you’re
trying to tell me. I can’t with the nursery rhymes. Someone could die and I’d
really like to avoid that. So —”
Lydia interjects and repeats, “Lizzie Borden took an axe. Gave her mother forty
whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”
Stiles would tear out his hair if it were long enough. “Lydia,” he implores,
almost desperately.
Lydia throws down her needlework and grabs his hands with her cold and clammy
ones. “Lizzie Borden took an axe. Gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw
what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.”
Stiles’s breath hitches as a flow of energy passes from Lydia to him, and
suddenly, in his mind, he can see the face of a man he doesn’t recognize. He’s
got silver hair, a slightly aged and wrinkled face with thin lips, a big nose
and dark eyes settled under thick eyebrows. It’s something about his eyes that
really stands out to Stiles. He's seen those eyes before.
Ms. Morrell unlocks the door and steps in. She says, “That’s enough. Lydia, let
him go. It’s time for him to go.”
Lydia stares at him with desperate and sad eyes. She hesitates before she lets
him go and she settles back in her chair, picking up her needlework so she can
begin again.
Stiles stares at her. “Who was that?”
Lydia doesn’t respond but her hands keep trembling as she does her stitching.
Stiles opens his mouth to ask again but Ms. Morrell grabs his arm and ushers
him out of the room before she locks the door behind them. She then turns a
stern eye onto him and says, “Don’t push her like that again.”
“I’m sorry but I’m just trying to avoid more death,” Stiles snaps. He’s
frustrated and he doesn’t mean to. "She reached out to me. I didn't make her do
anything!"
Ms. Morrell levels him with a look that makes him feel guiltily for losing his
temper. “Go home, Mr. Stilinski. You’re no good to anyone like this.” She walks
off, heels clicking soundly against the linoleum floors.
Stiles tries to avoid feeling the sting that follows her words but it’s of no
use. He swallows and shakes off the deep shiver that’s settling into the marrow
of his bones.
                                      ---
Isaac is sitting at a study cubicle with a manga on the second floor of the
Beacon Hills Library when Stiles gets there after he has a quick cry on the
side of the road on his way back (the sky rumbling above his head with the
threat of rain he knows will not come). It’s not — he’d rather cry than have a
panic attack. It’s the lesser of two evils and he does feel better afterwards
so there’s something.
Stiles taps Isaac on the shoulder and the preteen stands, but pauses and cocks
his head with a thoughtful frown as he really looks at Stiles.
Isaac says, very quietly, “You’ve been crying.”
Stiles shrugs but remains stubbornly silent about it.
"I don't like it when you cry. Who did it?"
Stiles sighs and says, "It doesn't matter." He scrubs a hand over the stubble
of his hair before he drags Isaac into the closest study room. He closes the
door for privacy and says, “I know.”
Isaac lifts an eyebrow.
“About — you know,” Stiles says, flailing his hands a bit with his words.
Isaac lifts another eyebrow.
“You’re a Werecat,” Stiles says bluntly as he sags against the rounded table
behind him.
Isaac doesn’t blush. He doesn’t stiffen. He doesn’t look uncomfortable. He
doesn’t react at all like how Stiles figured he might. He just says, “Not
entirely.”
Stiles blinks at that.
“I haven’t reached maturity yet,” Isaac explains as he rubs the back of his
neck and shifts his feet before adjusting his scarf. “I can still — there’s
things I can do. My sense of smell and sound is better than most, and my
strength is steadily getting — I kind of broke my doorknob this morning.”
“Oh yeah,” Stiles says as he thinks back. “I was wondering about that.”
Isaac shrugs sheepishly. “I wont be — it won't fully develop until I turn
thirteen. I’m still...normal.”
Stiles processes that. The word makes him feels as uncomfortable as Isaac looks
saying it. He says, “I don’t think there’s a such thing as normal anymore. It’s
just — being. Does dad know?”
Isaac nods as his gaze gets shifty. “You’re not freaked?” he hedges carefully.
“No. I’m not exactly — just, you don’t have to worry about me looking at you
any differently if that’s what worries you. It’s not an issue for me. It’ll
take some getting used to, but, you’re still my painfully shy brother,” Stiles
assures. "Everything else places as second in importance to that. Always."
Isaac rewards him with a slight grin before his expression goes somber and
says, “What happened today? You smell a little — everything. Emotionally, that
is.”
Stiles sighs and shrugs. “I’ve come to some rather monumental realizations. And
I’ll even own up to doing a little stress crying on the way here.”
Isaac nods with a look of concern.
“I’m fine now. Well. I’m adapting still,” Stiles admits. “You know about the
Hales, don’t you?”
Isaac wrinkles his nose like he can’t help it.
Stiles laughs a little. “That’s enough of an answer right there. What’s the
deal with that anyway? Do you really not like each other?”
Isaac frowns but he shrugs. “It’s more complicated than that. They smell — not
good to me,” he delicately states. “It puts me and my instincts on edge.”
Stiles does his best not to compare this explanation to the stuff he’s read
from the Twilight series that one summer he will not mention. He says, “You
know, you could’ve told me. Not just about you, but them too. That would have
saved me a lot of head scratching.”
Isaac shrugs again, choosing a nonverbal response.
Stiles huffs. He’s so stupidly fond of this kid. “So,” he says. “The fish thing
is suddenly reallymaking sense now. Am I allowed to make fun of that or make
any general cat jokes? Mostly puns though. I promise they’ll all be in good
taste.”
Isaac rolls his eyes at that but there’s a vague hint of something happy and
fond working its way onto his scarred facial features. He turns and exits the
room.
Stiles follows after him as they make their way out of the library and to their
bikes. After they unlock them and mount them, he says, “Do you think you’ll
ever tell me what happened when — with your family? To you? The fire? I don’t
mean to be — I just wonder sometimes. I want to know everything about you. But
it’s fine if you don’t trust — if you don’t want to tell me.”
Isaac tenses and he grips his handlebars tightly. He takes a deep breath and
releases it before he says, “I trust you, Stiles. You're important to me too.
Just give me time.”
Stiles nods quietly and that’s the end of that. He says, “I’ve got ten bucks I
found because I’m awesomely lucky like that. Race you to the ice cream parlor?”
and he takes off without waiting for a response.
Isaac only wins because he’s a cheater.
Stiles makes sure to inform him of this as they sit down in a booth by the
window with their creamy blizzard treats.
Isaac just smiles down at his ice cream the whole time that Stiles complains
and he doesn’t bother defending himself.
                                      ---
Talia and his dad are standing out on the porch steps with their cups of coffee
when Stiles and Isaac roll up to their house on their mountain bikes.
Stiles feels nothing but curiosity as he drops his bike to the grass and
approaches them. He says, “Hey, dad. Mrs. — Talia.”
Talia looks marginally amused at the correction. “Stiles. It’s nice to see you
again.” She turns her gaze over to Isaac, who fidgets restlessly from where
he’s hiding behind Stiles. “Isaac. You too.”
Isaac doesn’t say anything. He edges towards the front door before he wanders
into the house.
His dad looks after him with slight concern before he looks to Stiles. He says,
“How did you find out?”
“Find what out?” Stiles says, acting oblivious on purpose.
His dad gives him a look. “Don’t be cute,” he warns.
“I just workedit out while I was with Deaton,” Stiles explains. “He’s a Druid,
dad. Did you know?”
His dad simply nods.
Talia is staring at him intently, however. She’s stripping away at him with her
hazel eyes and she’s looking beyond him.
It’s a powerful stare and Stiles feels his heart flutter anxiously because of
it. She’s got a presence about her that makes Stiles want to — well, he’s not
really sure but the urge is strong.
Talia makes a thoughtful sound as she straightens and Stiles can breathe a
little easier as she shifts her gaze away and towards his father. “I know
Deaton well,” she says and gives his dad her empty coffee cup, which he accepts
with no complaint. “If he trusts your son enough to tell him of his status then
it must be for a good reason.” She looks to Stiles again. “You know about my
family and I?”
Stiles nods slowly.
“What do you think?” Talia asks, and her stare goes intense again and Stiles
has to wonder if this is some kind of test. “No need to be nervous. I’m simply
asking out of curiosity,” she assures.
Stiles flushes and rubs the back of his head, realizing she can scent his
emotions. That’s going to take some getting used to. He says, “I don’t think
it’s up to me to think anything. Should I — am I supposed to think something?”
Talia smiles with indulgent patience. “Most people have their opinions, and by
all accounts, they have their right to them. It’s the impracticality or the
idealization behind the opinion that concerns me. Humans either hate or fear
the things they do not understand. Those two emotions can be devastating
motivators.”
Stiles considers her words with a deep amount of thought and consideration. He
knows she’s talking about history and how it's shown when discrimination over
dissimilarities have driven mankind to act in the most gruesome and horrific
ways. The Hales have a good reason to be as private and as careful as they have
been. He thinks about the way that Hollywood and the rest of the world’s media
have portrayed mythical creatures. It’s never been completely positive. There’s
always been doubt — always an assertion of Human superiority — the idea that
being Human overcomes all the evils of differences in species instead of the
concept of acceptance and understanding.
It’s disconcerting.
“I want to ask you again,” Talia says, interrupting the flow of his thoughts.
“Knowing what little you do about what I can do and nothing else. What do you
think?”
Stiles feels like his answer should matter. She wants to know if he can be
trusted with their most sacred secrets. He says, “I think I’ll have to ask
questions that I’ve never had to ask before, but not because I’m afraid or
anything like that, but because I want to understand. I want to be — sensitive,
I guess, to the cultural differences. It’s all — it’s more about culture than
it is about species, right? I mean, because learning about a species is just
learning about the barriers that separates everyone and everything, but
understanding culture is about making sure we recognize and appreciate those
distinctions. Am I making sense?”
Talia and his dad both look pleased with his answer. She says, “You speak with
age old wisdom, Stiles. Has anyone ever told you that? I can see why my brother
Peter continues to seek out your counsel.”
Stiles flushes and fidgets.
Talia leans towards his dad, touching a hand to his elbow as she whispers
something in his ear.
His father goes from looking surprised, to intrigued, and finally amused before
he nods.
Talia is smiling when she pulls away, and she carries that smile as she looks
to Stiles. “I imagine my family and I would very much enjoy a bit of your
company for a night or two. I believe it’ll be an educational bonding
experience.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly. “Yeah. Sure. Yes.”
“We should be on our way then. You needn’t worry about a change of clothes, I’m
sure we’ll find something for you,” Talia says as she herds him towards her BMW
X1, which is parked behind his dad’s squad car.
“Behave,” his dad says as Isaac reappears with an unhappy frown and his dad
pats him comfortingly on the crown of his head when it looks like Isaac is
about to climb in the car after Stiles. “Call me before you settle down.”
Stiles nods and waves at them both as he slides into the passenger seat,
sighing at how comfortable the leather feels against this body. The car smells
heavily of jasmine and he wonders if it’s a smell that’s unique to the Hales as
a whole or to Talia in general.
Talia pulls out of the driveway and starts for the preserve. She turns on her
digital radio but turns the volume really low.
Stiles figures it’s because her hearing is so sensitive.
Talia says, “You have some questions.”
Stiles looks over at her but her gaze is married to the road ahead of them. He
says, “I — maybe a few.”
“Ask them.”
Stiles straightens in his seat and asks, “You follow pack dynamics?”
Talia nods.
“Does that mean — are you the Alpha?”
Talia’s lip curls in amusement. “Very observant. Yes.”
“Okay, cool.” Stiles shifts in his seat. “What does that make everyone else?”
“In my pack, they would be my Betas.” Talia puts on her blinker as she makes a
right at red light. “Outside of that, just family.”
“So they can choose to be in your pack if they wanted to?” Stiles asks.
Talia nods. “Being pack is — it’s a choice, sometimes. Other times, well,
that’s a little more complex. Depending on the situation, often when it’s life-
threatening, the choice will have to be made on a whim.”
“How did you become Alpha?”
Talia smiles softly at his curiosity and says, “I inherited the power on my
eighteenth birthday, as is the circumstance for born wolves.”
“So that means it can be taken or given? Is it mostly females that inherit the
power?”
“The eldest daughter of an Alpha in each coupling often will inherit the power.
In more rare circumstances, our sons will, but that’s not always the case since
they would have to take the power forcefully or by misfortune. In saying that,
the power can also be achieved if one kills an Alpha.” Talia stops at the last
red light that comes before the long stretch of road that divides both sides of
the preserve.
Stiles asks, “So Laura...does that mean she’ll become an Alpha when she turns
eighteen? Is she eighteen already? How do you know the difference between
types?”
“Laura will become an Alpha when she turns eighteen, much to her bereavement.
She’s a work in progress,” Talia says with a worrying sigh. “We know the
difference between each other by smell and also by eye color.”
Stiles breath hitches in awe when she looks over at him with red eyes. “Cool,”
is his lame reaction because he’s too stumped to think of anything else to say.
Talia blinks and her eyes resume color. “Very,” she agrees with vague
amusement. She says, “Alpha eyes are red. Betas and Omegas are gold. Sometimes
blue, but there is a special case for that.”
Stiles nods eagerly as they pull onto a private trail. “You said wolves are
born. Is everyone a Werewolf?”
“No. Not everyone. We have Humans in the pack. In the family.”
Stiles takes that into consideration. “Can they be turned if they wanted?”
“Yes. The Bite is a gift,” Talia says instantly, almost like it's second
nature.
“Could anyone ask for it?” Stiles asks because he just wants to know.
Talia shoots him a curious look before she pays attention to the trail ahead of
them. “Outside of family, we try to avoid doing so. It — there can be some
complications. The Bite does not always take for Humans.”
Stiles goes quiet at that and his mind races to compare what Talia has told him
and what he’s read mainly from gothic horror and fantasy literature. He says,
“Do you — do you know what I am?”
Talia says, “Yes. But only because my first husband was a Virtue.”
Stiles blinks at that. He never would have guessed. He wants to ask, but he
doesn’t because it doesn’t seem appropriate. He instead says, “Does everyone
know?”
Talia waits a moment before she says, “Outside of Laura and myself, no. Rest
assured, you’re identity is safe with us.”
Stiles says nothing to that. He’s not sure how to place how he feels. He’ll
have to think about it later. For now, he says, “Is Peter trying to make me
Pack? I feel like I’m being scented or — I’m not sure what you call it and I
don’t want to assume. It’s just that he’s been —”
“I’m aware of what Peter’s been doing,” Talia gently interjects as they turn
down the drive that leads to the house. “It’s instinctual. Oftentimes we
identify potential pack members by a way of — there are no human words to fully
explain this. You do share a connection with our family that goes beyond the
rationalization of Human relationships. Perhaps the more time you spend with
us, the more it will become clear. We consider you to be as close to Pack as
one can be without the legitimization. The decision to solidify the link will
always be left to you.” She pulls around the house and into a garage full of
nicely new cars.
Stiles climbs out when she comes to a full stop.
Talia makes her way around the car and stands before him. “You should know that
they are aware you know of what we are. They’ll treat you accordingly, with
your permission. We are very tactile, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.
We communicate a lot through touch and through scenting. If it bothers you,
I’ll talk to them.”
Stiles shakes his head no. He doesn’t want to mess this up because this feels
pretty important. He’s curious enough to want to understand their culture. It’s
a rarity he’s not looking to take for granted. He says, “If I — if there are
some limits I have that I don’t already know, I’ll say something.”
Talia nods solemnly before she rests a warm palm against the back of his neck
and squeezes comfortingly. “Come then,” she says and guides him to the side
door that opens to a crowded kitchen full of kids.
Stiles recognizes some of them by face and then by name but Talia still
reintroduces him.
All of them hedge closer, looking at Talia with wide eyes and when she nods,
they ambush Stiles and tackle him onto the floor.
“Easy, easy,” Talia instructs the horde of Hale kids with firm and guiding
hands. “Be gentle. You need only — ah, there, like that. Nolicking or biting.”
 
Stiles can only lie there in amusement as the little ones squirm against him,
hugging each of his limbs to their unnaturally warm bodies as they growl in
satisfaction. Some of them stick their nose is odd places like by his ankles or
his armpits or his ears. This silent exchange lasts no more than three minutes
and Talia monitors the activity very closely, often with a tickled tone and a
tender grin. One by one they clamor off of him when they’re satisfied with the
scenting and they go back to whatever it is they were doing before (homework,
baking, wrestling, etc).
Talia offers him her right palm and he takes it with his own because he feels
like that’s what he’s supposed to do. She says, “Right hand is for greeting
family and friends. Contact with the left hand is to signify a more profound
intimacy, as one would have with their significant other, or their intended. So
unless you plan on proposing, I would advise you to avoid making that kind of
contact.” She cups a hand over the back of his neck. “I prefer to leave my
scent-mark here to distinguish myself from the others as Alpha,” she goes on to
explain as she gives the back of his neck a light squeeze with her right hand.
"Most of our scent glands are in our hands. We are able to secrete different
types of pheromones and other semiochemical compounds at will, whether it's
something light or something loud. It's how we are able to leave long-lasting
scents. Our right hands have odor-messengers which indicate information such as
status, affection, and territorial marking. Our left hands, which is why it's
important not to make contact unless it is on purpose, have odor-messengers
indicate information such as mood and levels of sexual interest."
Stiles nods to let her know that he understands.
Talia guides him to the living room where some of the elder family members are.
They greet Stiles warmly and much the same way as last time with each of them
looming in his space before they dart a glance towards Talia, who gives a
subtle nod before they touch his right hand with their own right hand in a firm
grip. Unlike last time though, they touch their nose to the back of his hand
briefly before they let go. On and on this pattern continues through a line of
cousins, uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers — one after the other.
Nana Hale is the last person he comes to and she smiles at him kindly as she
says, “You’re very handsome. I’m sorry I didn’t make mention of that the last
time you were here.”
Stiles feels his cheeks grow a little red. “Thank you. I — you’re really
pretty. Your hair is — it’s like threads of lightning.”
Nana Hale barks out a laugh as the rest of them follow. “Oh, I like this one,
Talia. We must keep him close.”
“We’ll do what we can, Nana,” Talia replies, amused.
Nana Hale kisses the back of Stiles’s right hand before patting it sweetly. “Go
on then. You’ll find Peter, Laura, Cora, and Derek out by the river with the
dogs. They’ve been yammering on about you all day. I’m sure they’ll be happy to
see you.”
The color in Stiles’s cheeks deepen as they all shoot each other amused glances
that he knows he has no chance of understanding.
Talia walks him to the front door and then out before she releases him and
says, “Remind them that dinner is in an hour.”
Stiles nods before he goes stumbling down the steps with a garbled curse.
Talia looks on with amused concern. “Stiles, please be careful. Should I
worry?”
Stiles’s blush brightens and he rights himself before turning to walk backwards
so he can shoot her a sheepish smile. “Uh, no. I — I’ll be fine.” He trips over
a rock and falls on his butt. “I’m fine!” he insists as he scrambles to his
feet.
Talia says nothing but she watches him disappear into the thrush of the forest
with quiet but fond mirth.
Stiles replicates the trail he and Derek walked the last time he was out here,
and in no time he hears laughter and the sounds of joyful barking. He picks up
the pace and stumbles his way through some bushes.
Peter is standing on the bank with Derek as they toss rocks across the expanse
of the gentle stream where some of the more full-grown Tibetan Mastiffs are
splashing around.
Cora is running around with a small group of dogs, playfully chasing them and
being chased.
Laura is lying on her back with her hands behind her head as though she were
sunbathing, feigning complete obliviousness to the fact that some of the
puppies are whining softly as they clamor all over her, butting her cheek with
their wet nose or wrestling each other on her chest, stomach, and legs.
“Your mom says dinner is in an hour,” Stiles announces as he draws closer to
them. “And also — you guys suck by the way.”
None of them seem surprised to see him. He was probably stumbling around really
loudly on the way to them.
“You suck for taking so long to figure it out,” Laura retorts, sitting up and
causing a couple puppies to slide off of her and roll onto the grass with an
annoyed yip. “What’s the word I’m looking for? Help me out here guys?”
“Willful ignorance?” Cora offers as she tosses a stick and watches some of the
dogs run after it.
“Conscious obliviousness,” Peter says as he tosses another rock skillfully.
Laura says, “Determined unawareness.”
“Yeah, that sounds accurate,” Derek agrees as he skips a rock across the river.
It jumps across the stream six times before it sinks.
Stiles looks at all of them meanly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was
supposedto realize you were Werewolves. Is that something you try to make
obvious to everyone?”
“Only the ones we really like,” Peter promises and Derek snorts, as does Cora
and Laura.
Stiles rolls his eyes and gives up on the argument as Jordan jogs up to him and
presses his wet nose against his right hand curiously before he gives him a
happy lick. It’s not long before the rest of them come over to do the same and
he makes it a point to pet every single of them while feeling like some kind of
canine king with the way they surround him dotingly.
They eventually disperse and continue their jovial activities but Jordan sticks
close to Stiles, looking as if he has no intention of leaving Stiles’s side.
Stiles doesn’t mind. He likes Jordan, even if the dog does remind him a bit of
Derek (he's a lot nicer and affectionate though). He says, “So can you guys do
the full Wolfman or — how does it work?”
Laura stands and brushes herself off. She stalks toward him with a mischievous
grin. “Would you like to see?”
“Well, sure, if you’re not going to eat me or anything,” Stiles says, feeling
the need to make that very clear.
“Don’t be stupid,” Cora says, sounding a little offended.
Stiles says, “Sorry.”
Laura circles him as she slowly shifts in different degrees (her facial
features taking on more canine characteristics) and Stiles watches the process
with widened eyes. When she’s fully transformed, she stands before him with
golden eyes, elongated fangs, claws, pointed ears and no eyebrows.
“Why don’t you have eyebrows?” is what Stiles says because this is Stiles and
why wouldn’t he say that?
Laura growls but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Cora falls to the ground because she’s cackling so hard. Some of the dogs bark
curiously at the sound and begin to jump all over her.
Derek’s got that look on his face again. The look that says he’s amused but he
also thinks that Stiles is the craziest weirdo.
“Isn’t it interesting that out of the millions of questions he could be asking,
he goes with the real winner and asks, ‘Where are your eyebrows?’ Wow.” Peter
eases his way over with his hands in his pockets and a pompous smirk. “What a
time to be alive.”
“Shut up,” Stiles says and watches as Laura shift back. “That was — whoa.”
“Pretty much sums it up,” Laura agrees with an amused grin. She plucks at the
graphic of Captain America’s shield resting at the middle of his chest and
says, “Nice hoodie.”
“Yeah? The person that got it for me has amazing taste,” Stiles replies with a
half-grin.
Laura winks before she pulls him into a one-shouldered hug. Seeing as she has a
few inches on him, she ducks her head down and presses her nose against the
stubble of his hair with a thoughtful sound.
Peter walks over, hugs Stiles’s right arm, and then noses over Stiles’s
collarbone through the fabric of his hoodie as Cora wanders over and presses
against Stiles’s back before she hides her face against his left shoulder
blade.
Stiles doesn’t say anything because he can pretty much tell what’s going on.
Derek turns away and continues to skip rocks, ignoring them completely.
The scenting with Cora, Laura, and Peter lasts approximately five minutes,
maybe more, maybe less. He’s not good with time. Eventually they all pull away
at the exact same moment with satisfied sounds before they disperse.
Laura loops her arm with Cora's before she says, “Oh yeah. Peter?”
Peter whistles sharply and all the dogs line up behind him. He moves his eyes
over them like he’s silently counting and when he’s satisfied that they’re all
there, he looks at Laura with a raised brow.
Laura says, “Kira.” and wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully.
Peter suddenly smirks, “Ah, thanks for reminding me.” He looks at Stiles. “So I
hear you’ve made a new friend.”
“Sure.”
“She’s a pretty young lady?” Peter questions. "Easy on the eyes?"
Stiles narrows his eyes. “Sure.”
Peter hums noncommittally. “Well, I won’t spell it out for him. This’ll be much
more interesting to watch if we just let things progress naturally.”
Laura snorts and Cora looks as confused as Stiles does. Cora says, “What the
hell are you guys talking about?”
Laura pulls Cora along and says, “You know how Stiles can be adorably
oblivious?”
Stiles says, “Hey! Stop calling me adorable!”
Laura ignores him as she and Cora disappear into the throng of trees to
continue this line of conversation.
Peter huffs and as he follows after him with all the dogs.
Stiles is left alone with Derek, who is still skipping rocks. He walks over and
says, “So. Um. How are you?”
Derek shrugs and tosses another rock. “Getting there,” he admits. "Or trying
to."
“Right,” Stiles says for the better lack of having anything else to say.
Derek glances at him and says, “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what? What am I doing? What's being done?”
Derek rolls his eyes and skips another rock as he says, “Act like you have to
walk on eggshells around me. I get enough of that from my family. I’m not
damaged or anything.”
“Never thought you were,” Stiles admits. “I’m just — I can be awkward
sometimes. Didn't want to say the wrong thing. I’m bad with social cues.”
Derek frowns and looks at him. “You don’t seem like it.”
“Don’t I, though? You’re always calling me odd,” Stiles points out as he
watches the other teen huff.
Derek grabs his left hand and drops some rocks onto his palm. “That’s because
you are odd. That’s got nothing to do with your awkwardness or whatever. You’re
not like — you’re just different. I meant it when I said I never met anyone
like you. But I never meant it in a bad way.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly as he clenches the smooth stones in his hand.
"Yeah," Derek replies as he eyes him.
Stiles fidgets and says, “I don’t know how to skip rocks.”
“Not that hard,” Derek merely says as he releases Stiles’s wrist. “You just
kind of cock your hip and flick your wrist. Like this.” He gives a
demonstration.
Stiles tries to imitate it and fails. “Look at that. I suck. Who knew?"
"Don't be so negative."
"Fine, I'll be just medium negative then," Stiles snarks.
Derek rolls his eyes. "Just try again."
Stiles sighs and does. He fails. Again. "I don’t want to do this. Why do I have
to do this?”
Derek shrugs but he keeps tossing rocks with an amused and slightly mean grin.
Stiles sticks his tongue out at him and steps back as he gives it another try.
Nothing. “I don’t like this,” he repeats.
“You make a habit of not liking things you don’t know how to do?” Derek asks as
he keeps tossing rocks like a pro.
Stiles makes a face at the back of his head. “Well, it would describe my
relationship with math very accurately.”
Derek goes quiet and Stiles wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. Derek drops
the remaining rocks in his hand and says, with a blank face, “Have you heard
from Paige?”
“Uh, no,” Stiles says, startled by the question. “Why —”
“If you still need a tutor for math, I’ll do it,” Derek interjects before
Stiles can even get the question out. “If you want.”
Stiles blinks at the offer, surprised. He says, “Do I want to be tutored by the
Werewolf who could possibly be taking college level math by the time he becomes
a junior? Is that what you’re seriously asking me?”
Derek rubs his nose with his left hand in a gesture that would normally be
considered a sign of awkwardness, but is clearly only a way of hiding his smug
grin and he says nothing.
Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “I have ADHD.”
“I know. Paige mentioned it.” Derek drops his hand from his face and something
that looks complicated and painful flutters across his expression. He
straightens and continues, “Sometimes you have this smell and it’s — you take
medicine for it, right?”
Stiles nods.
Derek goes thoughtfully silent for a moment. Then he opens his mouth to say
something but his head whips towards the trees with a furrowed brow. His head
cocks before he flushes suddenly with a scowl. “Shut up,” he growls.
Stiles lifts his eyebrows and says, “I didn’t even —”
“Not you,” Derek says as his flush dies down. He rolls his eyes before he looks
back to Stiles. He still seems a little embarrassed and annoyed. “Laura’s being
a — never mind. She says dinner is ready.” He begins to heads toward the house.
Stiles stumbles after Derek as he keeps up a quick pace. When he manages to
catch up, even after falling flat on his face when his foot gets caught by a
tree root, he says, “So, this tutoring thing. Can we circle back to that for a
moment?”
Derek slows down a little and glances over at him with a brow lifted in
question.
“We’ll need to get it like some permission to — I just mean, Mrs. Argent is the
one who set me up with Paige. I think it's — she should know I want to swap and
— that general stuff.” Stiles fumbles over a rock but manages to right himself
before he falls flat on his face again. He glares at the ground and then at his
own feet.
Derek huffs in amusement.
Stiles says, “Also, if you’re going to be tutoring me, please don’t give me any
basketball related scenarios. Seriously. That’s a deal breaker.”
Derek frowns like he totallywas going to do just that and Stiles just ruined
all his future plans.
Stiles laughs and says, “Oh my god, you totally were, weren’t you? You’re such
a goober.”
“You sound like Laura. Please stop,” Derek complains as they reach the house.
“I like Laura. I don’t mind it,” Stiles counters and smiles when Laura appears
out of nowhere when they enter the house and high-fives him with a wink.
Derek glares at both of them before he sulks off into the dining room like the
moody teenager he is.
Laura just throws an arm over Stiles’s shoulders and says, “He’s just jealous
of our bond.”
Stiles scoffs. “Yeah. Totally.”
Laura pauses as she looks towards the dining room. Her lips spread into a sly
smile. “That’s not very nice, little brother,” she says.
Stiles frowns. “What? What did he say?”
Laura shakes her head and ushers him into the dining room so they can take a
seat at the crowded table. She puts him between Nana Hale and Cora, who is
holding her sleeping infant sister (Olive). Then Laura drops a kiss onto Nana
Hale’s cheek before she wanders around the table to sit down at the middle of
the table between Peter and Derek.
Nana Hale smiles at him briefly before she addresses her grandson-in law (Derek
Sr.), who is sitting next to his wife, Talia, at the head of the table.
Everyone starts fixing their plates but Stiles glances to his right where Cora
is and looks down at Olive, tracing his eyes over her little button nose,
frowning lips and thick twitching eyelashes. She looks so much like a mixture
between Cora and Derek that it’s unreal.
Cora catches him looking and says, “Want to hold her?”
Stiles starts to say no because he’s never everheld a baby before and he’s not
even sure if he’s qualified to do so anytime soon but Cora is already sliding
the little warm bundle in his arms. He freezes and tries not to panic when
Olive starts to squirm.
Cora rolls her eyes and says, “Relax, dumbass. She’s just a baby.”
“Right,” Stiles says weakly and quietly starts to panic.
Derek looks over at him suddenly and Stiles vaguely realizes that his heart
must be going haywire in his chest.
Cora strokes a hand down between his shoulder blades, making him straighten his
posture and says, “Relax or you’ll freak her out too.”
Stiles shifts his arms in a more comfortable position as he exhales out the
side of his mouth and focuses on calming his heartbeat before he hugs Olive
close. She’s wrapped in a thin cotton white swaddle with an illustration of
cherries patterned all over. Her tiny fists are covered with matching mittens
and licks of dark and curly hair are peeking out from under the edge of the
white cap she’s wearing. She stops squirming when his heartbeat resumes its
normal pace, mostly because he’s too busy staring at how absolutely gorgeous
she is, or how tiny and warm she feels in his arms, or how she smells so much
of jasmine like her mother.
Stiles just really hopes he doesn’t cry because he may or may not be having a
moment here and this isn’t even his kid. He blinks quickly as Olive turns her
nose more towards his chest, namely the direction of his heartbeat with the
cutest yawn he’s ever seen, and oh god, he might cry. He’s going a bit misty-
eyed.
Cora looks over at him sharply, obviously because she can smell the salt lining
his eyes and says, “Are you okay?”
Stiles colors a bit, totally caught.
Derek is staring at him intently from where he’s sitting and it’s not helping
his blush at all.
“I’m fine,” Stiles croaks and quickly clears his throat. “Just — I never held a
baby before.”
Nana Hale pats his thigh and says, “Don’t worry, dear. It happens to the best
of us the first time. Peter wouldn’t stop crying the first time he held Laura
in his arms.”
Something absolutely amazing happens. Peter makes this choked sound as he
flushes and he hisses, “Nana.You promised not to ever bring that — oh, don’t
you dare get smug, you smell insufferable, Laura.”
Laura puts a hand over her heart, feigning a look of flattery. “Awe, but Uncle
Peter. That’s so very sweet —”
“Shut up,” Peter snarls but it loses its edge because he’s still flushing. He
adds, when everyone starts to snicker, "You all are absolutely intolerable." 
Stiles laughs as softly as he can since he’s holding Olive and he marks this
moment as one to remember forever.
Peter glares at him with a look of betrayal and everyone at the table starts
really chuckling.
Stiles rocks Olive a little as he holds her a little while longer before Derek
takes her away so that Stiles can eat. Does he eat quickly and very little just
so he can steal Olive back? Yes, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He even
dismisses dessert in order to beg Derek to let him hold her again.
Derek rolls his eyes but he hands Olive over with an amused grin before he
reaches across the table to cut himself a ridiculously large slice of
strawberry cheesecake.
                                      ---
Stiles ends up in Derek’s room by the end of the night with Olive still in his
arms because he’d asked Talia if he could hold her a little while longer and
she’d agreed with this soft smile before Derek dragged him away.
Stiles moves to sit on the floor at the edge of the bed but Derek looks at him
sharply and says, “Don’t sit on the floor with her. You can sit on my bed.”
“I didn’t want to intrude,” Stiles explains and moves very carefully with Olive
as he settles on the middle of the bed.
Derek says, “You’re in my room. You’re already intruding.”
Stiles open his mouths to reply.
“That was a joke,” Derek adds before he can even get the chance to say
anything.
Stiles huffs and watches as Derek hooks a pull-up bar onto the top of the
doorway of his shared bathroom and removes his shirt before he begins to do a
set of pull-ups. Stiles looks away quickly and down at Olive, who is still
resting peacefully in his arms.
Derek does what sounds like a million pull-ups before he drops down to his feet
to lower himself to the floor to do some push-ups.
Stiles arms are getting a bit tired at this point so he twists to the side of
the bed and drops his socked feet to the carpeted floor before he leans back
carefully until his back is touching the mattress. He shifts Olive onto her
stomach as gently as possible and shifts her closer to his heartbeat because
she seems to be soothed by the sound. He rests his palm over her back and
stares up at the ceiling.
Jordan squeezes through the crack of the open door and hops up onto the bed
with Stiles, sniffing at him before sniffing at Olive. He exhales abruptly and
falls onto his side, pressing back against Stiles’s side as his tail wags
lazily, whacking Stiles’s knee as he watches Derek grunt with his continuous up
and down motion on the floor.
Stiles doesn’t remember falling asleep but he does and wakes when Derek’s dad
is carefully extracting Olive from his chest. He says, “Sorry. Her mother’s
ready to feed her and put her down for the night.”
Stiles sits up and rubs tiredly at his eyes with a nod.
Derek is sitting on the space before his TV with Jordan curled up beside him as
he plays some kind of war game that Stiles immediately identifies as the
zombies feature of Call of Duty with a headset.
Derek Sr. tucks Olive in the groove of his left arm and he uses his right hand
to pat Stiles’s on the shoulder with a kind grin before he wanders over to cuff
Derek over the head.
“Dad,” Derek complains distractedly as he removes his headset and pauses the
video game. “You almost killed me.”
“Tough,” Derek Sr. merely says. “Say goodnight to your sister. We’re going
upstairs.”
Derek stands and brushes his nose against Olive’s before he brushes a hand over
her head with tender consideration. He pulls back and touches his forehead to
his dad’s.
Derek Sr. starts to exit the room. “Night boys,” he says before he shuts the
door softly behind him.
Stiles waits until Derek is settled on the floor in front of his TV before he
asks, “Is your dad a Werewolf? He doesn’t carry himself like — he doesn’t seem
— um, I don’t know.” He doesn’t mention that his touch felt different from the
others, and much more like the touch of Hale members who Talia had pointed out
as Human to him.
“Dad’s a Human,” Derek clarifies before he puts his headset back on. He doesn’t
take the game off of pause yet. “Why?”
“Just curious,” Stiles admits. “Is he — is he Laura’s dad too?”
“No,” Derek says and he takes the game off of pause, making it very clear that
the conversation is over. “Braeden, where are you? We gonna do this campaign or
what?”
Stiles labels the subject of Laura’s dad as off-limits before he watches Derek
play Call of Duty while he fusses and complains into the mic of his headset at
someone named Braeden.
After a while, Stiles tucks away into the bathroom and fishes for his phone,
turning it on. He sees a few notifications from missed calls and texts. Some
from Scott and others from Allison that tell him that Danny is in stable
condition but they still have him under to progress his recovery. The other
texts are from when he sent that mass text to Laura, Cora, Peter, and Derek. He
deletes it all before he sends a mass text to Boyd, Jackson, Allison, and Scott
to inform him all that he’s learned from Deaton and his visit with Lydia.
Lastly, he calls his dad.
“I was wondering if you’d forgotten about me,” his dad lightly jokes.
“Never,” Stiles promises. “How are things at home? You guys better not be
loading up on junk food.”
“I wish. Isaac made us a Cobb salad. He said something about how you wouldn’t
forgive him if he let me order a pizza,” his dad says, sounding both amused and
annoyed. “I don’t think I like how you’re both conspiring against me.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dad, please.” Then he says, “Listen, I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Deaton wants pictures of some of the victims. He says if he could see the
wounds, he’d be able to tell us what did it,” Stiles explains.
His dad goes quiet on the other end before he sighs and says, “Give me a few
days, I’ll see what I can string together.”
Stiles nods and remembers that his dad can’t see. He says, “Okay. Thanks.”
“Goodnight,” his dad says.
“Goodnight.” Stiles sends Isaac a quick text that says ‘goodnight’ after his
dad hangs up and he pockets his phone before he walks over to Cora’s door on
the other side of the bathroom. He knocks and waits.
A medium-sized Tibetan Mastiff with red fur hops up excitedly at Stiles, trying
to lick his face when Cora opens the door. She says, “Ginger, chill.”
Ginger whines at Cora like she’s making a complaint before she wanders back
over to Cora’s bed and squeezes under it to hide from view.
Cora rolls her eyes and mutters, “Drama queen.” Then she drags Stiles into her
room before slamming the door shut behind him. “We’re watching Ghostbusters,”
she says and indicates to the totally cool looking indoor balcony above her bed
that has a sea of pillows on the floor of it and an entertainment system
mounted to the wall.
Stiles follows her up the white ladder that leads to the balcony and he has to
carefully step over and around Cora’s younger cousins to find a space of his
own. He grabs a silk throw pillow and hugs it to his chest as he lies on his
stomach while Cora cuts the lights before turning the movie back on.
Bowls of popcorn and candy get passed around as Cora settles down beside him,
close enough that their shoulders touch. She fusses at her cousins and shushes
them when they get too loud, talking through important points in the movie.
Stiles finds it amusing and he snickers at how into the movie Cora is and how
easily annoyed she gets when someone starts talking.
Cora kicks him lightly a few times every time he chuckles but she mostly
divides her time between glaring at her cousins and her flat screen TV.
Midway through Ghostbusters II, Ginger worms her way between him and Cora.
Cora complains, “Tyson! I told you not to bring her up.”
“She wouldn’t stop crying!”
“You little dweeb. Of course she was. She smells the food, you butthole!” Cora
snaps as she pulls the bowl of popcorn out of Ginger’s reach.
"Hey! You're the butthole, Cora!"
"Oh shut up."
"You!" 
Stiles smiles, watching them wrestle playfully before he shifts away and falls
asleep. He wakes up boiling a couple hours later (around midnight) when the
house is dead and quiet and he’s crammed between and under some uncomfortably
warm bodies. He has to squirm free so he can pull his hoodie off for some
relief. It doesn’t help much and he figures he might as well extract himself
completely from this puppy pile. He does with some trouble and quietly crawls
over to the ladder and down it before he tiptoes out of the room, through
Cora’s shared bathroom and over to Derek’s room.
Derek is still up, leaning back against a pile of his pillows at the head of
his bed in the dark of his room with nothing but the glow of his muted TV
flashing shadows across the walls and the posters on them. He’s playing NBA
2K14 and Stiles is not evensurprised.
“Don’t you sleep?” Stiles asks quietly as he closes the bathroom door behind
him.
Derek shrugs distractedly. “Not really a pressing need when it’s the weekend,”
he points out softly. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“I woke up under an avalanche of your family. Too hot,” Stiles whispers as he
wanders over to the bed and sits on the floor at the edge of it. He frowns when
Derek throws a pillow at his head. “Okay, rude.”
“You don’t have to sit on the floor,” Derek says and there is a definite eye
roll in his tone that Stiles does not appreciate. “You can come up here with
me. My bed’s big enough.”
Stiles leaves his hoodie on the floor as he crawls over to the other side of
Jordan, who is sound asleep with his back pressed to the side of Derek’s right
leg.
“Wanna play?” Derek asks after he finishes a game (which he wins).
“So I can get creamed? No thanks,” Stiles says as he makes himself comfortable
over Derek’s covers and his pillows.
“You too chicken?” Derek teases with a distractingly smug grin.
“No, me Stiles.”
Derek rolls his eyes but huffs out a laugh. “Come on. Just one game. I’ll go
easy on you.”
“Why?” Stiles complains as he starts to drift. It’s the smell of vanilla. He’s
too used to falling asleep to that smell and Derek’s bed is so unfairly
comfortable. “I’m sleeping now.”
“Not until you play me.”
Stiles frowns. “What’s with you trying to get me into basketball?”
“I pity you,” Derek says, jostling the bed as he slides off and goes to grab
another controller. He climbs back onto the bed and hands it over.
Stiles takes it and grumbles unintelligibly. He sits up a little with a yawn,
and while they’re picking teams, he says, “What’s the team you hate the most?”
“Spurs,” Derek says, almost like it's second nature, but then he shoots Stiles
a look of suspicion. “Why?”
“Cause that’s the team I’m picking,” Stiles merely says and he does just that.
Derek scoffs and selects the Lakers as his team of choice which is no surprise
at all because he’s not subtle at all when it comes to basketball and of course
he’d choose that team out of some misguided sense of loyalty.
Stiles grins midway through the first game while Derek curses with transparent
confusion. He takes pity on the other teen and says, “I forgot to mention that
I’m unnaturally good at video games. It’s a superpower really.”
“You swindled me,” Derek accuses with a low growl.
Stiles laughs and slaps a hand over his mouth to quiet himself. When he’s calm
enough, he says, “Dude, you’re losing against the team you hate. That’s just —
I’m being super mean right now, but I feel a little sleep deprived so I kinda
don’t care. You should have let me sleep — ha, I totally just winged a line
from the Trek Reboot. Vindication.”
Derek sighs in annoyance but his lip twitches slightly and Stiles figures he
isn’t too irritated.
They keep playing with Stiles winning each round by a landslide and Derek looks
at him with a mixture of exasperation and grudging respect as he demands a
rematch over and over.
Stiles fall asleep during their sixth rematch and Derek wins that round by
default.
He doesn’t even care.
He just rolls over, hugs a pillow close and sinks deeper into sleep with the
smell of vanilla cloying to the inside of his nose and curling in his lungs. 
***** bonds *****
It’s Sunday and the first thing that Stiles thinks about before he even opens
his eyes is cinnamon.
And thing about it is that not only does it colonize in his mind but it also
settles in his gut and the pads of his fingers as if there were some kind of
direct connection between these three.
The word unfurls, and then, it becomes all he can smell, all he can taste on
the back of his tongue. It’s overwhelming. The word expands even more and
begins to fizzle loudly in his mind like a newly lit road flare with a red
flame, signaling his attention aggressively.
Cinnamon.
It’s like it’s all over him, in him — like a tidal wave. He sees darkness and
he hears nothing. Every breath he takes fills his lungs with the heady
sharpness of it, and it floods his mouth — it's on his tongue, between his
teeth, on the roof of his mouth like a lingering spice he’s had way too much
of. It’s everywhere, trying to consume him.
And then, just like a wink, all of it vanishes just as quickly as it came.
There’s nothing now.
Stiles doesn’t understand it.
His wet lashes flutter against his cheeks with his confusion as he slowly wakes
to the noise of laughter, unnamable thumps and thuds, running feet, and streaks
of sunlight pouring through the closed blinds to land on his face. Jordan’s
resting heavily on his back, pressing his wet nose behind Stiles’s left ear
with soft, quick breaths. He shifts and Jordan snuffles, sits upright, head
cocked and tail wagging happily as he watches Stiles stand to his feet.
Stiles shoots the dog a small smile as he stretches contently with a yawn
before looking over to where Derek is lying on his stomach, shirtless with head
resting against a pillow cradled between his arms and the side of his face.
Stiles can only see the back of Derek’s head but the slow rise and fall of his
shoulder blades kind of clues him in on the fact that Derek is still sleep.
The Hale house is alive with noise and yet Derek still manages to be
unconscious.
It’s a wonder.
The digital clock on the nightstand to his left reads: 11:00 am.
Stiles yawns again and makes his way to the bathroom so he can relieve his
bladder. When he’s finished, he washes his hands and splashes some cold water
on his face so he can wake up a little more. There’s a (still packaged) Captain
America themed toothbrush sitting on the sink with a sticky note from Talia
that reads: For Stiles. Laura says you’d prefer this kind. He rolls his eyes
with a humored smile but he still uses it before exiting the bathroom and
enters Derek’s room again to see that the other teen is stillsleep. He doesn’t
know how Derek does it. He’s the one with superior hearing and apparently he
can tune out everything at will. But as Stiles grabs his hoodie from off the
floor at the edge of the bed and slips it on, he notices something dark green
in Derek’s ear. He makes his way around the bed to take a look because his
curiosity gets the best of him at times and he realizes that Derek is wearing
some heavy duty construction silicon ear plugs.
Well that explains it. Smart.
Stiles hums in amusement before heading for the door, Jordan jogging after him,
and together they both exit Derek’s room.
“Watch out!”
Stiles blinks and steps back as Sabrina, a seven year old with thick, curly
hair the color of a starless night sky, brown eyes, and a dimpled smile, runs
by him with a group of her cousins on her trail. They’re all holding buckets of
water balloons and they don’t fumble once as they make their way down the
stairs and out the front door with excited shouts — barefeet echoing in the
distance. He waits a second before he makes his way down the stairs too but he
makes a hard left to stride through the dining room and into the kitchen.
Peter and Tyson are sitting at the wide island counter planted in the middle of
the kitchen on the side that faces the stove, sink, cabinets, and refrigerator.
They’re playing chess.
Laura is sitting at the end of the counter on a stool with a small white book
and a calculator. Without looking up, she makes an indication for Stiles to
take the seat adjacent to hers.
Stiles does.
Laura puts her book down and fiddles with the calculator as she smiles at him.
“Good morning, Blue. Well —” She takes a moment to look pointedly at the time
on the microwave and stove. “Whatever is left of it, that is.”
Stills huffs. “Your brother kept me up with his sore-loser-ness.” Then, in the
very same moment he thinks it, he says, “Was anyone making something with
cinnamon this morning?”
“Cinnamon?” Laura repeats slowly and blinks at him. “No. Everything we ate was
either strawberry or banana flavored. Or both. We don’t have — cinnamon isn’t
something you’ll find in a Werewolf’s house.”
Stiles blinks at that. “Why?”
“To put it simply, cinnamon for us is like pepper spray for Humans. It’s
overbearing,” Peter explains without taking his blue eyes off the chessboard.
He moves a pawn and Tyson makes a garbled sound. “The smell, the taste. Utterly
repulsive. Tear gas would be more endurable.”
Stiles rolls that around in his head with some intrigue. He never would have
guessed anything like that.
Laura is looking at him intently, her gaze searching, but he can’t tell what
she’s thinking. She just says, “Why ask about it? The cinnamon, I mean. Why
ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought —” But the thing is that Stiles doesn’t know what
he thought, which is why he doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s just so bizarre.
Laura is still staring at him.
Stiles decides to shrug because it’s easier than having to explain himself. It
might not be the best thing to do but he decides to just cut the peculiarity of
it out of his mind. Maybe he’d been dreaming vividly again. Hard to say after
all. There are more pressing things he should be thinking about anyway instead
of the anomalous out of body experience he’d had this morning with a spice. He
shrugs again because Laura is still watching him.
Laura’s manicured fingernails drum against the marble counter top of the
kitchen island and she looks like she wants to say something contrary but she
just stands with a frown instead and fishes something out of the back pockets
of her white ripped shorts. She places his bottle of Adderall on the counter.
Stiles fiddles with it before he looks at her with a raised eyebrow.
Laura says, “Your dad swung by earlier to pick up my mom for some consultation
over something. He dropped those off for you before they headed off.”
Stiles makes a grateful sound because he had forgotten to grab them himself.
Laura gets him a cup of water to wash the medicine down. Then she retrieves a
spoon, ceramic bowl, and box of cereal. “Eat. You missed breakfast,” she says.
As she rifles through the fridge for some milk, Stiles notices that (like the
kids and himself) she's barefoot.
Stiles takes his Adderall first because he always takes it first, and then
makes himself a bowl of (what looks to be Reese’s Peanut Butter) cereal. He
eats three bowls as he watches Tyson and Peter’s long chess session as Jordan
sits at his feet like he’s guarding him. His wet nose presses against his
barefoot when Stiles isn't paying attention to him and he always perks up (tail
wagging happily) when Stiles looks down to shoot him a slight grin (even
petting Jordan between bites).
Laura explains, even though he hadn’t asked, “This is a thing between them.
Peter and Tyson. Every Sunday. Never fails. Chess, chess, chess.”
"Cool," Stiles mutters. Between bites, he says, "What are you working on?"
Laura looks up from whatever she's scribbling in her white book to press a few
buttons on the calculator she has. She says, "It's a study in responsibility,
or so my mom calls it. She sometimes hands over the finances of the house to me
so I can learn how to manage things like budgeting for food or making sure
everyone's needs are provided for. Things a good Alpha does."
Stiles notices she sounds very unhappy with this task. It makes him wonder.
Jordan suddenly straightens with a low sound, ears pulling back and forward as
he whines before he darts off.
Stiles just assumes that Derek must be awake.
“My nephew is determined to win,” Peter clarifies as he captures another of
Tyson’s pawns. “I admire his tenacity at least.”
“Shut up,” Tyson grumbles as he sinks his chin onto the palms of his hands and
glares at the chessboard.
Stiles, because he likes to be helpful, says, “His rook is wide open and his
left flank looks pretty shaky too.”
Tyson perks up at that and goes right after it with a triumphant grin.
Peter sends Stiles a dry look. “You’re a menace.”
“I do aim to please,” Stiles replies cheerfully.
“Thanks,” Tyson says. “And sorry about almost breaking your nose last time.
What should I do next?”
“Apology accepted as long as we both agree on not having a repeat performance.
Pawn on your left.” Stiles takes his empty bowl to the sink and washes it
before he places it all in the drainer nearby.
Tyson makes an excited sound when he takes the piece. He urges Stiles to come
over and looks at him with widely eager and expectant eyes.
Stiles observes the chessboard and guides Tyson skillfully until the preteen is
destroying all of Peter’s strategically placed defenses one by one.
Peter looks extremely disgruntled but greedily impressed (if there were ever
such a thing). “Perhaps I should be playing you,” he supposes lightly as he
gazes at Stiles fixedly, ignoring the fact that Tyson has now managed to
capture his queen.
Stiles salutes him with an impish grin and replies, “I’ve always been good at
games. Except for poker. I am terrible at poker.”
Peter gives him a disarming grin that he's forced to blink dumbly at. “I’ll
keep that in mind.” He looks to his nephew with a put upon sigh that does not
conceal his obvious affection for the boy. “There then. Are we all done now?
You might as well run along. I know you want to go gloat to the others about
this. I can tell. You smell insufferable with your arrogance anyway.”
Tyson sticks his tongue out and gives his uncle the two-fingered salute,
running off with a giggle when Peter playfully snaps his jaws at the preteen
(eyes flashing gold).
Laura stands with a content stretch and says, “You ready to go?”
Peter nods and looks to Stiles. “Would you like to come?”
“Where to?” Stiles says curiously. He scratches his right elbow.
“Peter and I run the animal clinic on the edge of town. It was — well, it
belonged to our dads. They ran it together,” Laura explains and she says
nothing else about it.
Stiles is intrigued. He says, “Yeah. I'll go.” Then he adds, “Let me grab my
shoes.” He makes his way through the dining room and up the stairs where he
passes Cora.
Cora curls her long fingers carefully over his right shoulder (like she's
minding her own strength) and says, “Derek and I are going into town for some
laser tag, pizza, and ice cream with Aunt Rosemary. We’re taking some of the
munchkins. You wanna come?”
“I would. I so would. That definitely sounds like my kind of fun. But I’m
already going with Peter and Laura to the animal clinic,” Stiles says as he
walks backwards up the steps.
Cora snorts as her hand hangs suspended in the air and she looks mildly
disappointed. “Well. Your loss, I guess,” she merely says and continues down
the steps and out the front door.
Stiles watches her go with a small frown before he continues his journey up the
steps. When he reaches Derek’s room, he sees the other teen slipping on a green
plaid shirt over his grey tank top as Jordan sniffs at his feet, wagging his
tail jubilantly.
Derek ruffles his own hair with a little grin before he drops to a knee and
spends a good minute rubbing his dog down while he coos praises with puckered
lips that would look ridiculous on anyone else but of course Derek can manage
to make it look so dignified and attractive.
Stiles does his best to rub away the amused grin forming on his lips as Derek
pats Jordan’s side one final time before he straightens.
Derek takes a moment to look around and palms his pockets like he’s doing a
mental check before he glances at Stiles with a greeting nod and raised brows.
He stands and looks at Stiles like he's waiting for something.
Stiles merely shrugs.
Derek seems satisfied with this response and he nods to himself as he turns and
grabs his phone and wallet from off his bed before he pockets them. He brushes
past Stiles on his way out the door and softly says, “Later.”
Jordan sprints after him.
“Later,” Stiles returns maybe a second too late, skin feeling a little warm
with the sensation of having Derek so close for only that split second. He
decides not to think too much of it as he goes hunting for his shoes. He finds
them on the other side of the bed (under it), caught between an elephant and
giraffe plushie. This only reminds him that Derek has a literal kingdom of
stuffed animals residing under his bed.
Peter and Laura are waiting in the garage for him, both of them settled in
Peter’s hotrod red Lamborghini.
Stiles slides in the backseat and barely has time to put his seatbelt on before
Peter is whipping his car in reverse and righting it. He lowers the windows and
he catches Stiles’s gaze through the mirror as his eyes flash gold like whoa.
Laura says, “Prepare yourself, goober. Uncle Peter is a total speed demon.”
Peter revs the engine twice before takes off like some kind of racecar driver.
Stiles clutches the door, the seats, the roof, himself,and says, “Oh my god. Oh
my god.My heart. My heart is in my throat! This is waytoo fast — too, too, too
fast — I’m gonna pee myself — I ampeeing myself!”
Laura just cackles and sticks half her body out the open window as they go
flying through the trail and out onto the main road. She spreads her arms wide
and whoops loudly.
Peter echoes the sound with breathless laughter as he drums his hands against
his steering wheel.
Stiles thinks they’re crazy, but he also can’t admire how carefree they sound
with the wind roaring through the open windows, touching his skin with a cool
caress as the leather cushion under him trembles.
Peter’s neatly combed hair begins to float as the car shakes with the speed and
Laura’s long raven hair flies everywhere in a stunning way.
Stiles forgets himself for a moment as he watches them. There’s an itch in the
back of his mind and a quiet whispering in his heart that tells him that they
need this sometimes. From what he knows about Peter losing some of his
immediate family to a fire and Laura’s absent father (whether by choice or
not), he can see why they’re doing this. They have a shared sadness that Stiles
finds himself understanding.
He thinks about his mother, and the distance that will always be between them.
It makes his whole body ache with misery and before he can let himself get lost
in it, he squeezes his eyes shut and shouts along with them until his voice
gets hoarse.
Laura claps when she hears him, and she cheers even louder in encouragement.
Peter drums his hands against his steering wheel even harder and howls in a
completely human way.
Laura echoes it as the trees whizz by them on both sides.
Stiles finally opens his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Turns out he needed that too.
                                      ---
The Beacon Hills Animal Clinic is a modest looking place. It’s a small brick
building with its own parking lot, marble sign, and glass double doors with
lots and lots of shaded windows. In front of the glass double doors, there’s a
preteen girl, who has waist length hair the color of charcoal and looks to be
of some sort of mixed Indian descent, standing there with wet cheeks and her
long arms full of a puppy Alaskan malamute.
Stiles notices right away that she’s a Werewolf because her eyes are glowing
with gold, teeth slightly fanged and clawed fingers tangled into the short
black and white fur of her puppy. She isn’t fully shifted but she looks well on
her way to being.
Laura moves to unlock the doors quickly while Peter drops to a knee in front of
the distressed girl and says, “Kali. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Peter!” Kali sobs with glowing eyes, her voice pitched with
a deep tenor that sounds like it's coming right from the middle of her chest.
“I don’t know. Simba-Bhupal won’t stop shaking. He threw up something black and
had a seizure. I’ve never seen him do that!” She starts crying with thick and
shaky desperation. “I wanted to call you. I wanted to call but I didn’t have
your number. I only had the number for the clinic and no one was here, and my
parents are both out of town, and it's just me and my grandpa, but he can’t
drive cause he’s sick with fever since he's Human and so I ran all the way here
by myself and I waited. I waited and waited and waited. Please, please help
him.”
Peter shushes Kali as he straightens. “We’ll see what’s wrong and then I’ll be
sure to give you my personal number and Laura’s too.”
Kali gives a hiccupping sob and nods hastily.
Peter holds open the door for her and after she steps through, he swiftly
follows.
Stiles catches the door before it closes, and doesn’t hold it against Peter
that he forgot about him in all his distraction. He observes the inside of the
clinic in glances. There’s a high counter that makes up the length of the
reception area, and at one end there is a small swinging door. There’s maroon
cushioned chairs lined up against the walls by the front door, and planted
around strategically placed coffee tables with kid-friendly animal magazines.
There are framed pictures (old and new) on the wall and they're of clients with
their pets, smiling happily as if to say they made the right choice by coming
here. There are also local newspaper review articles, some of them dated and
others pretty recent singing the clinic’s praises. In the corners of the
reception area are tall potted plants, some with flowers and some without.
Behind the front desk, mounted high on the wall, is a largely framed photo of
two handsome man with their arms around each other's shoulder as they stand in
front of the clinic. They look happy and bright. One has dark hair with soft
brown eyes (the youngest of the two), and the other has blond hair with grey
streaks (he's the older of the two), but the both of them stand fairly tall,
shoulder to shoulder. The dark haired male is smiling wide while the blond male
smirks as he looks down and not directly at the camera.
Stiles wonders if they may be Peter and Laura's fathers in the clinic's younger
days. They certainly echo Peter and Laura's facial features very strongly. He
stashes the question away in his mind and traces his eyes over the floor,
picking up on the triangular pattern of the linoleum tiles. When he’s done
eyeing everything, he makes his way to the back to a singular examination room
with a waist high metal table where Kali’s puppy is lying limply on his side
with his back to her. He seems to be struggling to inhale and exhale.
Peter’s long fingers trace gently along the puppy’s ribcage while Laura stands
near the doorway, observing like she's waiting for instruction.
Stiles stands near Laura and watches as well.
Peter’s brow furrows and his nostrils flare as he hunches down with narrowed
eyes. He buries his nose behind the puppy’s ear, down to its throat and he
lingers there with a thoughtful, yet animalistic sound. He straightens and
says, “Tell me everything you did with him today.”
Kali quickly says, “Nothing I haven’t done before. I woke up, fed him, and then
I went on my morning run. I take him with me sometimes, even more now that he’s
getting older because he’s starting to be able to keep up. I've just been
trying to get in shape so I can get a podium finish for gymnastics since the
summer competitions are coming up. So to reward him for keeping me company, we
went to the dog park and I met up with Ethan and Aiden so our dogs could have a
play date since their dogs and mine are around the same age and I swear I only
looked away for a second. Simba-Bhupal wandered off and I don’t know. There was
this blind guy sitting on the bench by himself and he gave Simba-Bhupal a treat
or maybe what he thought was a treat. I don’t know. I — we weren’t even halfway
home before Simba-Bhupal fell over. He’s been in pain and I can’t take his pain
for some reason. He smells like he’s dying. Don’t let him die, please. Mr.
Peter, please.” She starts sobbing again.
Peter reaches over and curls the fingers of his right hand around the small
wrist of hers. He gives a comforting squeeze as his eyes flash gold and he
says, “He’s not going to die, Kali. I’m going to make him better.”
Kali gives another hiccupping sob but she nods gratefully, like she doesn’t
doubt it for a second.
“Laura, go get the ginger root, some smelling salts, and a dish with water,”
Peter says as he straightens, growing tall, taller than Stiles has ever seen
him be. There’s something shifting in his presence and it’s forcing an
awareness onto Stiles. “Kali, listen to me,” he says in a calm tone. “You can’t
take his pain because he’s been poisoned with something.”
Kali’s shoulders start to shake.
“Don’t,” Peter warns softly. “Don’t shift, just pay attention. I need you here
right now. You’re bonded to him, yes?”
A tremor goes through Kali as she shifts back, but not without some trouble.
She seems to swallow it down with some effort as she exhales shakily and flexes
her human fingers. Then she says, “Yes. We are bonded. He is mine and I am
his.”
“I was afraid of that,” Peter says lowly. His brow furrows with thought. Louder
he says, “I haven't quite seen this kind of poison before. Though, if I had to
guess, I would say that it's intended effects are for bonded pairs. If Simba-
Bhupal should die, you’ll become ill immediately and two things will happen.
You’ll either die because he does or become so weak that you’ll lose your
lycanthropy altogether.”
Kali inhales sharply. "I would sooner die if either," she says passionately.
“I’m not going to let that happen,” Peter swears as he meets her gaze head on
and it looks so intensely certain that it makes Stiles fidget even though
Peter’s not even lookingat him.
Kali hunches her shoulders before flattening them into a relaxed line. It
almost looks like some kind of nonverbal exchange of trust. She says, “Do what
you have to do. In this...I trust you.”
Peter nods and eases his eyes over to Stiles. “Kali, this is Stiles. It's his
first time at the clinic. You should show him the koi pond. I think he might
enjoy that and it'll give you a chance to get some fresh air. We still need you
to have your wits about you for this delicate procedure. Laura and I will take
special care of Simba-Bhupal.”
Stiles lifts his eyebrows, wondering silently at what exactly Peter is playing
at.
Kali twitches and looks very much like she can’t stand the thought to be parted
from her animal companion. She reaches out with shaky fingers and caresses
Simba-Bhupal’s spine tenderly before she balls that hand into a fist, turning
sharply and starting for the swinging doors that lead to the back door of the
clinic before she succumbs to the urge to stay.
Stiles takes one look at Peter, who gestures with a nod for him to catch up,
and he stumbles after Kali, wondering how he manages to let Peter loop him into
these things. He passes Laura on his way navigating through a maze of cages
full of a variety of domesticated animals and she gives him an encouraging
thumbs-up with a slightly concerned smile not really aimed at him but most
likely the situation in general.
He reaches the heavy metal door and uses what little upper body strength he has
to push it open, quickly springing to the side as it slams shut with a
resounding thud.
Kali is already at the other end of the alley that leads away from the parking
lot in the front and towards a man-made trail that cuts through the trees.
Stiles jogs after her and only catches up when she stops in the middle of a
silver metal bridge that curves over a large yet modest koi pond with floating
lily pads and water so clear he has no problem making out the brightly colored
fish or the murky bottom.
Kali folds her hands together and rests her arms over the railing of the bridge
as though she were getting ready to recite a prayer. She doesn’t though. She
just stands tensely as she glares down at the water below and the fish swimming
around in it as if she blames them for her current troubles.
Stiles steps up beside her, but not too close because he doesn’t want to put
her on edge or make her uncomfortable. So he keeps four steps between them and
he leans forward as well, far enough that the metal railing is digging into his
stomach. He white knuckles the railing because it would be just his luck that
he’d somehow tip all the way over and fall into the pond.
Kali just goes on glaring at the water and the floating lily pads and the trees
and the sun and at just about everything as her shoulders tense more and more.
Stiles wonders what she can hear, or if she’s listening in on things back at
the clinic. He doesn’t ask though. He has no right to.
It would’ve been a pleasant day otherwise. The peaceful silence shifting
between them is broken when the crickets chirp or the birds flutter about,
squawking in the trees or giving a call to their kin to signal their position.
Butterflies skim the wind.
A military plane passes overhead in the sky, flying low and towards some nearby
base camp with a name that Stiles can’t quite think of or even really care to
figure out.
The sun is smiling down on them with warm rays that are hot enough to remind
Stiles that spring will be coming to an end quickly. With only a week left of
April, and the month of May soon to follow, summer is just around the corner.
For some reason, Stiles blurts something like, “There’s gonna be five Fridays,
five Saturdays, and five Sundays this year in August.”
Kali slowly turns a speculative stare in his direction.
Stiles ignores it, follows an orange fish with his eyes, and continues, “I
think about that a lot.”
Kali cocks her head and gazes at him like she’s seeing him for the first time.
Stiles has actually gotten used to that since he’s been in Beacon Hills — only
lately, not so much. His association with the Hales has kind of put him on the
radar around town, but not significantly so. At least not yet, maybe. He’s not
sure.
Kali says, “Pocketful of money.”
It's Stiles's turn to frown and he looks to Kali, who’s still staring at him
with this sort of intensely searching gaze. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The five weekends thing,” Kali clarifies. “Chinese call it a ‘pocketful of
money’. I read about that a couple of days ago and I thought it was really
cool. We actually had a whole discussion about it in my Astrology class.”
“Oh. Huh. What a coincidence,” Stiles says. He rubs the back of his head.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and says, “Your dog has an...interesting name.”
Kali smiles sharply and Stiles mentally congratulates himself when he doesn’t
gulp. She says, “My dad’s from Kenya. Mom’s from Bangladesh. I borrowed from
both their languages just to name him ‘Lion King’.”
Stiles smirks, unable to help it. “That’s — really clever.”
Kali shrugs. “It’s my — wasmy favorite movie. But, whatever. Details. I was
young. I think we're all a little stupid at that age.”
“Stupidity is ageless actually," Stiles supposes. "Being young, well, you see
the world in a different way. I don't think that's necessarily stupid, you
know, to wake up every day with the universe wide open to you, full of
unexplored promise."
Kali continues to study him.
"I can never just pick one,” Stiles admits after a while, when the silence
becomes too much. “A movie, I mean. There’s so many that I enjoy — though my
particular choices tend to lean towards the ones with Robin Williams. He’s
really — I like watching him. Always did. Kind of reminds me of parts of
myself.”
Kali says nothing to that, though she does finally look away and out into the
trees.
“Do you go to Beacon Hills Junior High?” Stiles asks because she seems young
enough to.
Kali furrows her brow and she looks at him again. “No,” she says slowly. “I go
to — don’t you already know?”
Stiles says, “What would I know?”
“You’re Pack, aren’t you? You smell like Hale Pack. You —” Kali stops abruptly
as she cocks her head before straightening suddenly. Then she goes dashing off
towards the clinic.
Stiles follows in confusion, which goes away when he returns to the examination
room to see Laura leaning against Peter with a smile as they both watch Kali
weep joyfully, arms full of a lively and healthy looking Simba-Bhupal, who’s
licking the tears away from Kali's cheeks with cute little yips.
“Thank you, thank you,” Kali sobs with such bone deep relief, hugging her
companion close.
Peter just shakes his head as he peels off the blue latex gloves on his hands
and says, “Just be mindful, Kali. That could’ve been a close call. Teach him
not to be so trusting of strangers.” He trashes the gloves and turns to Laura.
“I’m going to take her to the dog park so she can show me where this blind
manwas. Then I’ll take her home. You’re okay to take over in the meantime?”
Laura nods and brushes the fingers of their right hands together. “Be careful.”
Peter rewards her with a sharp smile and returns the touch of affection as he
says, “When am I never, dear niece?” He turns to a still tearful Kali and makes
an indication for her to follow him. On his way out the door, he makes sure to
gently tweak Stiles’s nose with a mean grin.
Stiles makes an annoyed sound, ducking his head back and swatting Peter’s hand
away.
Peter’s grin just widens fondly as he glides through the doorway, out to the
front and through the glass double doors with Kali.
Stiles waits until he hears the familiar rumble of Peter’s car starting and the
grind of it peeling out of the parking lot before he says, “How did he do
it? What did he do?”
“What he had to,” Laura supposes as she begins cleaning up. "Call it luck if
you will."
Stiles walks over and picks up a piece of ginger root as he says, “He didn’t
use medicine like regular veterinarian though.”
“No, we don't usually — our methods have always been a little unorthodox. We
find the balance between science and magic, but that’s what makes us the best,”
Laura explains and goes to the sink to fill up a bucket with soapy water before
she carries it over to the metal table. She dunks a large sponge into it and
begins wiping the metal examination table clean of a black sludgy-looking goop.
Stiles wrinkles his nose in disgust. It smells rancid. Like spoiled meat.
“What’s that?”
“The poison Peter extracted,” Laura says and continues wiping it up. She
doesn’t seem phased by it, which is kinda telling that this isn't outside of
the realm of what they usually handle.
“I’d offer to help but, you know,” Stiles says with a repulsed expression.
Laura just smiles with a shrug. "I've got it pretty covered. You can stand
there and look pretty."
"As if," Stiles huffs, cheeks warming.
Laura laughs and continues to clean with a cheery attitude.
“So between you two, who has the license to practice?” Stiles asks curiously.
"Because I thought Peter was still in college and you’re still a month shy from
graduation."
Laura says, “Peter’s certified. He is still going to college online, but that’s
just to earn his Master’s degree in Psychology and Education.”
Stiles lifts his eyebrows at that. “I’m guessing he graduated high school
early. Man, is everyone in your family geniuses?”
Laura shrugs modestly. "We do pretty well for ourselves, I suppose."
Stiles suddenly remembers something Kali said. “So I was talking to Kali and
she seemed confused that I didn’t know what school she went to. Should I have
known?”
“You wouldn’t have. She goes to the private school on the other side of town.
And when I say private, I mean the admittance rate of Werewolves are pretty
much at a ninety-nine percent range.”
“Whoa, you guys have your own private schools — wait, why don’t you and Derek
and Cora go then if that's the case?” Stiles asks.
Laura’s got that closed off look about her. “After my dad died — when the fire
that took our family was —” She doesn’t finish the sentence. It seems too hard
for her to talk about. Too painful. “I just didn’t want to, Stiles. Mom didn’t
fight me on it. She let me decide. Cora and Derek — well, that’s because of me
too, I guess. They’ve always looked up to me and when I went to public school,
they wanted to too. So they did. Following on my heels as always.”
Stiles rolls that around in his mind. “But the rest of your cousins attend
those private schools, right? The rest of your family? Because I never see them
anywhere else.”
“Yeah, they go to private school. It’s a preference most Weres have for their
kids. You grow up being different and it’s just — there’s a community we have
that’s all our own, so growing up, you know, our parents try to teach us how to
survive in both our world and the Human world. But they want us to feel settled
among our own kind first.”
“How many private schools are there?”
Laura says, “In this county? Four. One for preschool through junior high, and
then if they wanted to continue on, there’s a high school. College really isn’t
an option because you’ve got to leave the nest at some point, right?”
Stiles frowns. “You said four but you mentioned only two. Why?”
“Because two are exclusively for Werewolves and the other two are for
Werecats,” Laura clarifies. “Across the country, I think there’s about two
hundred. A hundred being for Werewolves and the other for Werecats. Outside of
that, for other types of shifters, I’m not sure. Peter or my mom would be the
one to ask. They really keep track of all that. They say keeping a peaceful
understanding fluent through all the communities is important for survival. Oh,
while I’m mentioning my mom, you should know that Kali thought you’d know since
my mom is pretty much the superintendent for the two schools we have here, the
two in New York, the two in Florida, the two in Texas, and the two in Alaska.”
“Wow,” Stiles says because he has nothing better say. That would partly explain
why it seemed like the Hales came from good money. He’s starting to get that
there are more Weres in the entire country or even in the world than what he
initially thought. It’s an intriguing concept. Then he gets hit with another
thought. “Earlier, Kali said something about trying to take her puppy’s pain.
What’s — can you guys really do that?”
Laura doesn’t answer right away. She cleans up the last of the sludge, drops
the sponge in the dirty black water of the bucket, and then she empties it out
in the deep metal sink under the x-ray illuminators. She washes her hands
quickly, dries them and walks over to Stiles before punching him in the arm.
Before Stiles can even cry out from the pain, her fingers are coiling around
the skin of his wrist on his right hand. His eyes widened as the pain leaves
him in black lines swimming from under his skin and into Laura’s. He watches
her face cringe slightly for a moment before she sighs. He says, “That was —
whoa.”
Laura lets him go with a thin smile. “Pretty much,” she agrees.
“But I could have done without that demonstration though,” Stiles points out.
“You could’ve just said yes.”
“I prefer to demonstrate. Better you see than hear,” Laura supposes lightly.
“But it looked like it hurt you,” Stiles says with a frown.
“Rather me than you,” Laura says with a complicated expression he can’t work
out. She brushes the fingers of her right hand against his. Then she brushes
her nose against his flushed cheek and makes a thoughtful sound like she scents
something on his skin. “Don’t worry about me, goober. I can take a little pain.
Some evils are necessary.”
Stiles says nothing to that. He knows what she’s saying is true but he doesn’t
quite agree. Plus he's a little distracted by her proximity and the way she
wraps her heated palms against the sides of his neck, swooping her thumbs down
towards his collarbone as though she's searching for the pulse resting just
under his skin. “S-so, uh, what’s Peter planning to do with his degrees?
Outside of working here, I mean. Is this a full time thing?” he says, changing
the subject as she continues to slide her nose along the side of his face with
a rumbling sound.
“Peter wants to be like my mom," Laura murmurs as she slides her lips against
the tip of his nose before skating her own nose along his left ear. "He’s
looking to principal the two schools we have here. I think the long-term goal
is to take over looking after all the schools under my mom's jurisdiction when
she retires. He’s doing this in the meantime, until he can find someone else
certified to take over,” she continues softly.
“What about you?” Stiles asks in a whisper and notices how withdrawn Laura’s
expression suddenly gets. She pulls away and Stiles feels instantly colder. He
takes an instinctive step towards her before he can even stop himself. Then he
flushes and steps back. Whatever kind of scenting she'd been doing felt good —
relaxing. “What are you going to do after graduation?”
Laura doesn’t answer right away. She glides out of the room and over to the
counter of the reception area, leaning forward with a heady sigh. She’s holding
herself up by her forearms on the edge of the counter and staring listlessly at
the glass double doors.
Stiles saddles up beside her and presses their shoulders together because now
that she’s leaning forward they’re approximately the same height.
Laura says, “What my mother wants is for me to be a good strong Alpha. Find
some territory to call home. Contribute to the Werewolf community in the most
productive manner befitting my skills as a leader. Raise a pack of my own.
Start a family. Do the Hale name proudly. Fulfill my obligations as a Daughter
of our Great Mother, the Moon.” Then, as she continues, she speaks so softly
that it forces Stiles to pay attention to her every word because there is now a
weight in the air. “But what Iwant is to move to New York. Walk out to Times
Square and spin around like a mystified idiot. Just like they do in the movies,
you know. And I want to rent out a crappy yet affordable apartment that’s close
to the corner of some diner I’ll be working at part-time as a waitress. Sure
the tips will be bad at first but I’ll use my devilish looks and charms to
really earn something. I’ll be rude back to those customers who are rude to me
and I’ll have a boss who won’t even care because he likes me so much. He’ll say
I’m like the daughter he never wanted.
"I'll make the finest pots of cheap coffee that customers will ask after
because I know just how to add a little something extra. But I'll be terrible
at soup and hot cocoa, no matter how simple it is. And when I’m not working my
ass off to keep the hot water on so I can take long showers in my shitty
bathroom, I’ll be out and about, auditioning for every single play there is.
Certainly, at first, it’ll be all horrible scripts and I’ll be a background
character in most but somehow I’ll work my way up to the top of the thespian
food chain. And before long, I’ll have directors asking after me from left to
right. I’ll make a name for myself on Broadway, and I'll snag my dream job,
which is to play Elphaba in Wicked, and I’ll keep playing her until they run me
off the stage with pitchforks and lit torches. That’s what I want, Stiles.” She
exhales shakily as tears slide down her cheeks. “And I don’t want anything
else.”
Stiles is surprised to see this side of Laura: open and vulnerable. She usually
just keeps everything close to the chest like she's impervious to this kind of
pain. He doesn’t even let himself think about it; he just pulls her close and
hugs her. He says, “You should cry, Laura. You sound like you need to. I swear
I won't judge. I myself enjoy a good cry from time to time. Best muscle relaxer
I know.”
Laura laughs around a hiccupping sob as she buries her face in his shoulder and
does just that. She mumbles things into the material of his hoodie; things he
can’t hear or understand, and things he’s sure aren’t really meant for him. She
cries with trembling shoulders, and shaky knees. She clutches onto the sides of
his hoodie like she’s desperate and afraid, and like she doesn’t get to do this
often. Her tears leak into his clothes but he could care less about the
dampness he feels on his shoulder.
Stiles strokes her hair and the space between her shoulder blades. His heart
knocks steadily in his chest but his eyes get a little warm and his throat
locks up hotly. It’s the empathy he has for Laura. It’s the sudden swell of
affection that takes him over and makes him says, “I know it doesn’t seem like
it now, but...it gets better.”
Laura jolts suddenly like she's been zapped and pulls away from him. She looks
at him with ruddy cheeks, reddened lips, and watery gold eyes burning brightly
with shock. “What did — what did you say?”
Stiles fidgets, uncertain. His cheeks begin to grow red and he feels hot over
all. “I — I said that it gets better.”
Laura stares at him for a really long time before she presses her left hand to
her mouth, shaking her head as she laughs and cries at the same time, if you
can believe it.
Stiles isn’t sure whether to take this as a good or bad sign.
Back in Los Angeles, he didn't have any female friends (outside of his mom when
she was alive) and he really wants nothing more than to do this right. He knows
how complicated it all is with Laura being a Werewolf and a potential Alpha at
that, but sometimes he feels like he has a connection to her that helps him
understand what she needs, however she needs it. And then when Laura starts to
laugh breathlessly and reaches out to yank him to her, he lets out a sigh of
relief as he pats her back with a shaky hand. She laughs and laughs and
clutches him closer, and closer, and closer, burying her nose behind his right
ear as warm puffs of air hits the side of his jaw with each exalted laugh she
gives.
“God,” Laura says shakily after a quick cough. “You don’t — you don’t
understand how much I needed to hear that.”
Stiles flushes down to his toes, pleased. He watches anxiously as she pulls
away and goes about trying to dry her face with her trembling hands.
Laura laughs wretchedly, and it sounds a little snotty. “God, I’m a gross
mess,” she says and sniffs.
"You're beautiful," Stiles says, almost on instinct, and flushes harder for his
trouble.
Laura gives him a crooked grin and a wink. Then she rubs her reddened nose
against the back of her hand before she sighs. “Hold on.”
Stiles watches as she rounds the counter and walks to one of the restrooms. She
returns a moment later looking a little less puffy around the eyes and a lot
brighter in her face. There is effortlessness in her movements that wasn’t
there before and her posture has straightened tenfold. She looks like a queen
practically, glowing so blatantly with her contentment. He tries really hard
not to feel like he’s responsible for it (best to stay humble in these
moments).
Laura stops right in front of him and cups her hands over his shoulders,
tilting her head down slightly so they can meet eye to eye, and she says, “The
last thing my dad ever said to me was, ‘I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but
it does get better.’”
Stiles inhales sharply, winded, as shock floods his senses, making him hot and
prickly all over while it puts him in a daze. “I — I don’t know why I — that
wasn’t what — I hadn’t even heard that anywhere before. Laura. Laura. How did I
know to say that to you? Why would I —”
Laura shushes him and rubs her hands up and down his arms. She chuckles but
it’s filled with sincere sympathy. She says, “It’s okay, Stiles. My dad used to
— he would say things like that too. It'd come out of nowhere, the things he'd
say. Like the universe itself was speaking through him. Mom told you he was a
Virtue too, right?”
Stiles nods dumbly.
“It’s just — it’s a part of the territory, I think. Virtues have good
discernment and they're sensitive when it comes to certain situations and
people and places and so on,” Laura goes on to say. “When I was little, my dad
bought this bouquet of yellow roses and he gave it to me. He told me to give it
to the pretty librarian with a shaved head and tell her something like what you
told me. He said, ‘Tell her that you know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it
does get better.’ And that’s exactly what I did, even though I didn’t
understand it. The librarian, Mrs. Diamond, she looked at me with this face
I’ll never forget and she starts bursting into tears.
"She asked me who told me to say that to her and I told her my dad did. Later
on, when she attended his funeral, she came up to mom and I and she said that
she’ll always be grateful for my dad’s kind words. Stiles, she’d been diagnosed
with cancer, and when the chemotherapy started taking it’s toll on her, her
husband left with their two children, and she got so depressed that she’d been
thinking of committing suicide that very same night I gave her the flowers and
told her what my dad said to say. Those words saved her life, and she’s still
living to this day. She fought and won custody of her kids and my dad is
responsible for that because he knew that all she had to do was hold on long
enough for it to happen. He just had a gut feeling and he followed it. And I
think that's what you're going to find yourself doing a lot.”
Stiles exhales quietly as he rolls that around in his mind. “I — I don’t know
what’s going on with me — I don't understand.”
“It's nothing you should be afraid of,” Laura says and rewards him with a
disarming smile. “It just means you’ll do some good for a lot of people. And we
could use your kind of good in this wide wicked world of ours.”
Stiles scrubs the stubble of his hair and says nothing.
“No pressure,” Laura says impishly with a wink before she turns and leans
forward against the counter, looking at the glass double doors expectantly.
Not even a moment later, a chubby woman with her chubby son walks in with two
cages that have hamsters in them.
“Hi, how can I help you?” Laura says, straightening.
Stiles vaguely watches the exchange, but he’s just so lost in his thoughts.
His mind is a maze of queries.
                                      ---
Peter eventually returns and frowns for a second as he glances between Laura
and Stiles as though he can detect their little heart-to-heart session earlier.
If he does, he says nothing about it and takes over for Laura as the clinic
begins to fill with a steady flow of clients and their animals.
Stiles stands off to the side, texting Scott, fetching things when Laura and
Peter trust him enough to, or generally being useless as he watches Laura and
Peter work. They’re really good at what they do. Especially Peter. He’s alert,
polite, and very tolerant during these exchanges, no matter the age of the pet
owners or what kind of questions they ask. And please believe that some of
those questions they ask are either extremely stupid or so bizarre that Stiles
has to roll his eyes and shake his head as Laura turns away with her silent
laughter because Peter answers them with the straightest face and most neutral
tone of voice.
It’s amazing really. A gift.
Around five or so, Peter decides it’s time to close for the day. He makes
Stiles help Laura feed the sheltered animals in the back while he sets to work
cleaning up his stations and the entirety of the examination room.
Stiles doesn’t mind helping Laura at all, mainly because all the animals they
have (and there is a variety of them) are so well-behaved and affectionate.
Even though no one asks him too, he gives each and every one of them gender
neutral names aloud.
Laura finds it amusing and she doesn’t say anything to try and stop him. They
meet Peter at the glass double doors out front and he locks the clinic up
behind them as they make their way to his car.
Peter whips out of the parking lot and down the road. He and Laura don’t shout
out the windows this time when he lets them down.
Stiles still clutches the belt across his chest tightly because Peter is a jerk
who decides it’ll be a funny idea to speed in reverse when they hit the trail
of the preserve that leads to the private drive of the Hale Manor. And although
he doesn’t crash the car, Stiles still stumbles out of it with shaky knees
after they’ve parked in the garage and he shoots Peter the strongest glare he’s
got in his arsenal.
Peter just smirks and whistles his way over to the side door that opens to the
kitchen, keys twirling around his long pointer finger.
Laura throws an arm over his shoulders and nuzzles her nose against his ear
affectionately. “Cheer up, Blue,” she says, notwithout irony. “Sunday night is
Wing Night!” She pulls away swiftly before she swats him on his bottom and jogs
off.
Stiles flushes brightly in shock, quickly clutching his butt with a choked
sound like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t protect himself she might do it again
but she doesn’t look like she’s coming back. So he runs after her. “You can’t
just do that, Laura!” he complains.
“Oh can’t I?” Laura cheerfully counters with a singsong voice and settles at
the head of the table between Cora and Nana Hale.
This leaves only one other space open (the seat between Derek and Peter).
Stiles grumbles as he sits down and watches baskets of different flavors of
wings and fries being passed around.
“What did she do?” Derek asks as he leans over the table to accept a basket of
hot wings from his Uncle Jonah.
“Huh?” Stiles asks as he distractedly watches a basket of honey barbecue wings
float from Cora to her Aunt Emilia. “Who did what now?”
Derek notices where his attention is and he urges his older cousin Delilah to
pass him the other basket of barbecue wings but he doesn’t give it to Stiles
right away. He actually keepsit out of Stiles’s reach.
Stiles makes an impatient sound. “What? What is it? What is this?”
“I don’t like to be ignored,” Derek merely says with a grin.
“So does most of the world’s population,” Stiles snidely replies and maybe he’s
being a dick but he’s hungry and Derek started it first anyway so, completely
allowed.
Derek doesn’t seem bothered either way though. His grin widens into a smirk and
maybe if Stiles blinks hard enough he won’t find it as attractive as he does
right now.
Stiles is totally experiencing hunger delusions like those people wandering in
the desert or the wilderness or wherever — anyway, this is vexing.
Derek says, “Answer my question.”
Stiles makes a grab for the wings but Derek skillfully holds it out of his
reach. He sighs. “Great, this is great,” he complains quietly. “I just want to
eat like everyone else and you’re being rude. Okay, what? What? What question?
I'm actively listening now. Not that I have a choice.”
Derek raises both eyebrows with a mean grin and says, “You were saying
something to Laura about her not doing something. I just wanted to know what
you meant.”
Stiles blushes and clamps his mouth shut. He’s so not explaining this in a
dining room full of Werewolves. He’s just not.
Derek cocks his head questioningly at the spike Stiles's heartbeat makes in
embarrassment and his brow furrows thoughtfully. He glances over at Laura, who
is chatting animatedly with Cora before he looks back to Stiles. Then he looks
back to Laura. He says, “What’d you do, Laura?”
Laura pauses her conversation to toss Derek an amused look. “Hm? What’s that
Der-Bear?”
Derek scowls in disgust and says, “Don’t call me that. What’d you do to
Stiles?”
Stiles sinks down in his seat as Cora glances between them curiously.
“Oh I didn’t do much,” Laura states airily as she shoves a few fries in her
mouth. “I just gave him a gentle love tap on his cute little keister.”
Stiles feels the heat return to his cheeks with a vengeance as Derek shoves the
basket of wings at him without another word, looking for all the world like he
wished he hadn’t asked at all. Stiles is right there with him on that. He
shoves the boneless wings into his mouth with as much dignity as he has left
and tries to put the whole thing out of his mind.
Laura just blows kisses at them both before she continues her conversation with
Cora.
It’s not until Stiles feels like he’s going to pass out from eating so many
wings does he notice that neither Talia nor Derek Sr. are sitting at the head
of the table like they usually are. He nudges Derek with his elbow and says,
“Where are your parents?”
Derek straightens and darts a glance at Stiles’s mouth before he quickly
glances away and towards the stack of empty baskets before him. “Mom’s out with
your — with the Sheriff. Dad’s taken Olive to his parents ranch in Texas since
they haven’t gotten a chance to meet her yet.”
Stiles is kind of disappointed that Olive’s gone. He had wanted to hold her
some more. He’s probably too ridiculously attached to the baby Were. He then
thinks over what Derek said. “Why did you say it like that?”
“What?” Derek says with a deepening frown. He’s starting to glare at the
baskets ahead of him.
Stiles is hesitant to ask, but he pushes on, “You said, ‘his parents’ like they
aren’t your grandparents. Usually people stuff like 'grandma' or 'gramps' when
they refer to them.”
Derek’s mouth twists grimly before he replies, “They don’t actually approve of
what we — they’ve made how they feel about us and what we are pretty clear.
It’s not exactly —" He stops abruptly with a frustrated sound before he starts
again. "The only reason they want to see Olive is because they think there’s a
chance she may be Human. Like them. They haven't bothered with Cora and I after
we presented.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, and feels sorry for even bringing it up. He frowns a little
bit as a small bubble of anger fizzles in his gut on Derek and Cora's behalf.
They shouldn't have to suffer such narrow-mindedness from their own dad’s
family.
Across the table, Cora says, “Hey, dumbass. You’ve got sauce all over your
mouth.”
Stiles shoots her a look, and just to spite her he says, “Where? Here?” He
stabs his tongue into the left corner of his mouth. “Maybe you mean here.” He
licks at the right corner.
Cora snorts and rolls her eyes, giving up on him.
Derek gives a heady sigh but he seems marginally amused. “Can you not, Stiles?”
“What? What’d I do, Derek?” Stiles asks, widening his eyes at the other teen
innocently as he wags his tongue across his bottom lip.
Derek wrinkles his nose and huffs. “You’re a dweeb,” he says with grudging
amusement as he snags a napkin off the table and high-fives Stiles’s mouth with
it.
Stiles makes a disgruntled sound because the napkin sticks to his tongue and he
has to spit it out. “Rude,” he complains and catches the napkin before it can
drop to the floor. He licks it again and uses his own saliva to scrub the area
around his mouth clean.
Derek tracks the movements with a raised eyebrow. “Are you six?”
“Are you?” Stiles retorts because he’s just that clever and he tosses the
napkin.
“Nice comeback.”
“Thanks. Peter helped me with it.”
Peter pauses mid-sentence in his conversation with Nana Hale with a quiet snort
and shoots Stiles an amused look before he goes back to speaking with his
grandmother.
“Figures,” Derek simply mutters.
"What's that supposed?"
“Oh nothing. It's just that he’s as much as a dweeb as you are. Like minds, as
they say.”
Stiles bristles at the audacity and says, “Stop calling me a dweeb. You’re a
dweeb.”
Derek snorts like he can't help it with a slow grin and says absolutely nothing
at all.
It flusters and confuses Stiles more than he’d like to admit. He feels like he
just completely missed the point of something. “Right, well. Glad we got that
established.”
Derek doesn’t stop staring at him with that unnerving grin but he nods like
he's humoring Stiles.
Stiles clears his throat, pushes away from the table, and totally flees into
the kitchen and out the side door. He breathes a little easier as he navigates
his way through a maze of cars and out of the opened garage into the cool night
air. It feels like a relief for his heated skin.
The wind feels good. He pulls his hoodie over his head and walks towards the
back of the house where he’s pleased to find a modest playground. He goes to
the swing set and sits down, swinging idly as he looks up at the cloudy night
sky. He curls his fingers in the hem of his hoodie before he fishes his phone
out of his pocket. He calls his dad and leaves him a brief message when his old
man doesn’t pick up. Then he calls Isaac.
Isaac, predictably, doesn’t say a greeting when he picks up.
“Hey,” Stiles says softly. “How are you?”
Isaac says nothing. It sounds really quiet in his background.
Stiles smiles and says, “You know I can’t see you shrugging. You’re kinda gonna
have to be verbal.”
Isaac shuffles on the other end and sighs. He says, “I’m fine, Stiles.”
Stiles feels his smile widen. “Good, Isaac. That’s all — really good.” He
pauses to think. Then he says, “How's life going? Broke any doorknobs lately?”
Isaac sighs again.
Stiles gives a short laugh. “I’m only teasing. Sorry. I’m just — don’t mind
me.” He kicks at the ground to build his momentum on the swing. “Hey, Isaac. Do
you miss me yet?”
“No.”
“Lies. Total lies. You adore me. I am your world. You miss my mindless chatter.
It’s probably super endearing — hey, are you at home right now?” Stiles grips
one of the chains of the swing with one hand while his other keeps his phone
pressed to his ear.
“No.” Isaac waits a few seconds before he adds, “Dad doesn’t like me at the
house by myself. You know that.”
Stiles falls off the swing with a choked sound.
Isaac continues like he doesn’t notice. “He was going to drop me off across the
street at Mrs. Doyle’s house until he got off work, but I didn’t want to stay
there because it smells like — you really don’t want to know. So I’m spending
the night at Boyd’s because I asked.”
Stiles sits up and rubs the back of his head until he stops seeing stars. “Dude
— dude,” he says breathlessly. “You — that’s more words than I ever heard you
say in one breath. And — and — you called my dad your dad — our dad. That's so
— you're so —”
Isaac shuffles again, and he sounds a little flustered as he says, “Stiles,
please settle down.”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says and he can tell Isaac is uncomfortable. “I just think
— it's kind of — I like hearing you say — that we — you are family. You should,
um, you know. Know that you're family. I’m sure dad feels the same. I sure do.
I always have.”
Isaac says nothing. He shuffles on the other end again like he's fidgeting
shyly.
“So are you and Boyd bros now? I feel like you guys are totally bros,” Stiles
goes on to say, changing the subject. “But remember who your main bro is.” He
points to himself. “You can’t see, but I’m totally pointing at myself.”
Isaac huffs in amusement.
Stiles grins happily. “What are you up two up to tonight anyway?" he asks.
Isaac says nothing.
"Can't see the shrugging, buddy," Stiles teases.
Isaac sighs like he thinks Stiles is being a handful and says, "Movies, games,
food."
Stiles nods to himself because he approves. "Okay, I’ll let you go and do those
bro things you were doing with Boyd. Goodnight.”
Isaac just hums.
“I’ll see you tomorrow because of course I'll see you guys tomorrow. And I can
honestly say without shame that I miss you guys, which is like — it’s only been
two days. How crazy is that? I’m growing too attached,” Stiles says as he rolls
his eyes at himself.
Isaac gives a noticeable pause on the other end. Then quietly he says,
“It's...not just you."
"I'm sorry, come again." Stiles blinks. "It almost sounded like you were
implying —" 
"You're not the only one," Isaac states clearly and firmly. "Missing us all
being together, I mean."
Stiles splutters with wide eyes. “You did! Oh my god, you did mean —”
“Goodnight,” Isaac says like he's had enough and hangs up.
Stiles pulls his phone away and stares at the screen in annoyance, even though
a swell of warm affection spreads through his chest, down to his toes. He
stands and brushes himself off before he pockets his phone.
“BOO!”
Stiles yelps in fear, trips over his own feet, and falls to the ground with a
mangled swear.
Laura cackles like the evil woman she is. It's easy to see where Cora gets it
from.
“I hate you,” Stiles whines as he rolls onto his back and glares up at her.
Laura cups a hand over her ear and says, “What’s that I hear? Your heart
beating slightly faster on the words ‘hate’ and ‘you’. Awe, you don’t have to
lie, Stiles. We both know the truth. You adore me. I am your world.”
Stiles’s cheeks grow red because he's not ignorant to the fact that she may
have been ear hustling his conversation with Isaac. He stares woefully up at
the sky. “If I lay here...if I just lay here...will you go away?”
Laura snorts and drops down to the ground beside him and curls into his right
side, throwing a leg over his thighs as she wraps his arm around her neck so
she can lie comfortably on his shoulder. "You'll never be rid of me, goober."
Stiles combs his fingers through her long hair and hums at how soft it is. "Ah,
yes. What a burden."
Laura growls playfully as her eyes flash gold for a moment.
Stiles huffs as she snuggles into his side and he says, “You’re totally
scenting me, aren’t you?”
Laura turns her head and bites him in reply.
“Hey, hey!No biting!” Stiles reprimands as he tweaks her ear.
Laura snorts and keeps her nose buried in the spot where she bit him, rumbling
contently.
Stiles goes back to combing his fingers through her hair.
It’s not long before Cora finds them. She doesn’t do much besides frown softly
before she drops down and curls around Stiles’s other side until he’s properly
sandwiched between them.
Stiles gingerly wraps his arm around Cora’s shoulders and relaxes when she
doesn't try to gut punch him for it. She actually wiggles closer, tangles the
fingers of her right hand in the hem of his hoodie as she buries her nose into
the side of his neck, rumbling just as softly as Laura is. He can very nearly
feel the vibrations in his own chest.
It's like being sandwiched between two soft vibrating furnaces.
Laura starts singing Firework by Katy Perry and she sounds so freakin’ good —
even better than Katy Perry herself. She’s got a soulful voice that’s both
breathy and smokey. She’s talented and Stiles has no doubts that she’d be able
to go far if she actually pursued her dreams. He wants that for her.
Cora joins in, and she’s not really as good as her older sister, but she’s
decent and can hold a tune at the right parts of the song.
Stiles squirms when they poke at his sides in a silent request for him to join
in and they don’t stop until he does.
Somehow he ends up spending the next fifteen minutes with them, singing hit pop
songs before they switch over into some Disney songs as they lie all over each
other under a starry night sky.
Peter and Derek join them while they’re midway through singing Hakuna Matata
from the Lion King.
Derek scoffs at their theatrics and goes to sit on the swings while Laura says,
“Sing a song of beauty, Uncle Pete.”
Peter looks marginally amused. “Sure, anything for you, Laurie.”
Stiles sits up on his elbows and says, “There’s no way you’re as good as
Laura.”
Laura snorts, flattered.
Peter smiles with a frightening amount of teeth and says, “You’d be surprised,
little Stilinski.”
“Prove him wrong, Uncle Pete,” Cora says as she tucks her hands behind her head
but makes sure her hips are still touching Stiles's.
“I plan on it, Corral,” Peter retorts. He clears his throat for fiveminutes.
Derek boos and says, “Quit stalling, Uncle Pete.”
“Patience, Darren.”
Stiles is starting to think this saying each other’s name wrong is some kind of
inside joke between them. Before he can even help himself, he asks, "What's up
with you all calling each other the wrong names?"
"Oh it's a thing," Laura replies. "We have this Great Uncle who lives in
Canada. His name is Demetrius and he comes down with his horde at the end of
every summer for the Assembly."
"Assembly?" Stiles repeats with a frown.
"Our version of a family reunion. Every one in our family flocks over to our
land in upper California and we show each other what we're made of," Cora
elaborates. "Hale Family Reunion at it's finest."
"It's more like a Werewolf Olympics," Derek complains with a sour look. "Like
we're supposed to prove to each other who's the best in our brood. Who's got
the best Pack."
"Derek's just sore that our cousin Amelia beat him in the Run," Cora swears
with a cackle. "The one year he loses and he swears the Assembly is nothing but
garbage."
Derek growls at her as his eyes flash gold.
Cora snickers as her own eyes flare, unafraid to meet his challenge.
"Anyway," Laura drawls. "Great Uncle Dee has always been bitter that his
mother, our great grandmother, Nana, decided to stay with us instead of with
him and his pack up in Quebec. So he purposefully goes out of his way to say
all our names wrong since we belong to my mom's Pack."
"Ah, yes. Uncle Demetrius has always been jealous of my sister since our
grandmother showed her favor above the others despite the fact that she's not
the oldest. Our mother was also no stranger to having many lovers, so you can
imagine why the age difference between us all is so peculiar. But it wasn't
until she met my father did she really decide to settle down. You also must
understand that Nana had some very traditional values when it came to daughters
fulfilling their roles as Alpha, and when my mother, as the oldest daughter,
finally married and had children from that marriage beginning with Talia, she
finally had a legitimate heir to whom she could pass the power on to.
"And during that marriage, my mother continued to have more legitimate children
such as myself. So on and so forth, and well, there was some favoritism I
admit. All the other children my mother had, most here and some not, well in
the traditional sense are what one would consider...bastards, to put it
lightly. Not that I care for such things, nor does Nana particularly anymore,
as we all grow and learn from our mistakes, don't we? But it's still something
our Uncle makes sure to never let my older brothers and sisters forget. You
know, what and who they are — where they came from. Honestly, if my mother
hadn't settled down with my father, then Uncle Demetrius would've had
legitimate claim in challenging her for the Alpha position. But that, perhaps,
is a story for another time," Peter supposes as he studies his claws like he's
bored by it all. "Childish, really."
"You say that but it was your idea to run with the incorrect names whenever
Uncle Dee is around," Derek points out. "Just to get under his skin."
Peter hums and squints his eyes thoughtfully. "No, I don't believe so. Doesn't
really sound like something I would do."
"That's exactly something you would do, and you know it," Laura remarks
knowingly.
"This is boring," Cora complains like she's over this line of conversation
(Stiles is interested in hearing more though). "Sing, Peter."
Peter taps his chest and clears his throat six more times before he actually
starts singing.
And you know what?
He sucks.
Dear god, does he suck.
Stiles gawks as Peter does a rendition of Ursula’s solo of Poor, Unfortunate
Soul from the Little Mermaid. He sounds epically horrible, and he can’t carry a
note to save his life, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm.
Stiles has to hold onto his sides, which are aching because he’s laughing so
hard.
Laura is wiping tears of glee from her eyes and Cora is literally wheezing.
Derek is fighting back a smile, trying to look as annoyed as possible since
Peter is circling him as he sings, shaking Derek on certain parts as if to get
him into the song or to treat Derek as if he’s pretending that Derek is Ariel.
Either way it’s hilarious.
It’s hilarious.
                                      ---
When everyone is settling down for bed, Peter pulls Stiles aside and into the
family study before he says, “Cinnamon.”
Stiles sits down in the armchair near the fireplace and frowns in confusion.
“It’s been bothering me all day ever since you brought it up,” Peter goes on to
explain. “I didn’t realize until now why that was. It’s because now I recognize
that every crime scene me and Talia have been to concerning the victims who
were possibly clawed to death, it smelled like cinnamon. Not just on them but
all through their houses — the Martins, the Mahealanis. Even your porch when El
Chupacabra was left there with that message.”
Stiles minds starts cranking. “You should tell my dad or —”
“Already did,” Peter interjects, waving his phone. “Talia says that the
forensics report shows abnormally high levels of Coumarin, which means they'd
been force fed cinnamon. Not just any cinnamon, but Saigon. There’s only one
place you can buy that in this entire state, and that’s at a Vietnamese spice
shop right at start of the hiking trail on the Temescal Mountains.”
“Peter,” Stiles says, dazed with realization. “Peter, that’s where Lydia was
attacked.”
“Lydia? Who is — ah, the Martin girl. The one immune to the Bite,” Peter
murmurs thoughtfully and his eyelids droop in serious thought. “Talia kept an
eye on her after news of the animal attackhit the local papers. When she didn’t
turn, well, I got curious.”
Stiles stares at Peter, gauging his expression. “You know don’t you? About —
what she is?”
“Yes,” Peter confirms, staring at him intently with eyes that say that’s not
all he knows. “But that’s a subject for later. Right now, I want you to tell me
what you’re thinking. You look like you were on to something.”
“Huh — oh. Yeah,” Stiles says as his mind tinkers away with a sudden thought.
“So you said that the reports identified high amounts of Coumarin, right? But
that kind of thing can cause liver damage, it doesn’t make sense. Why would
someone force feed this kind of cinnamon to their victims before slashing them
open?”
Peter lifts both brows in question.
“What’s the one thing that Werewolves can’t scent past because it’s a natural
odor neutralizer?” Stiles says, flailing his hands as if trying to get Peter to
see the conclusion he’s come to already. “Cinnamon!” he says. “You know what
I’ve learned about cinnamon in my AP Biology class? It has the effect of
thinning the blood thereby increasing blood circulation. So not only did they
make sure no one like you or your sister could trace their scent, but they also
wanted their victims to bleed out as quickly as possible. Which also means they
were probably killed in short order. This person knows exactlywhat they’re
doing and how not to get caught. They're perceptive.”
Peter’s mouth dips dourly. “What if we could trace the purchase of this
particular brand of cinnamon?”
“Useless. Dude, all they’d have to do is pay with cash. That’s as untraceable
as it gets,” Stiles says as he clutches the armrests of the chair he’s sitting
in. “The closest bets we have are Danny, Lydia, and Deaton. Danny’s in a coma.
Lydia is unhinged and won't give any straight answers that aren’tgrim nursery
rhymes, and Deaton needs the photos from the crime scenes to be able to tell us
anything useful. We’re pretty much at a standstill until we can figure
something else out.”
Peter mutters under his breath quickly. He seems inordinately perturbed. “Fine,
I’ll — research. See if something stands out.” He strides out of the study
without waiting for Stiles’s response, already distracted with his thoughts.
Stiles doesn’t blame him for it. He’s pretty perplexed by the whole thing
himself. All he really has to go off of is a face Lydia put in his head and a
nursery rhyme that doesn’t make any sense. He sighs and stands, making his way
out of the study too. He finds himself on the third level of the house,
standing outside of Laura’s door, and before he can even knock, she’s opening
it with a look of concern.
"I was just —"
"I know. I heard you coming." Laura drags him into her purple-themed room and
shuts the door behind him. Her room is bigger than Derek’s and Cora’s. Her bed
looks like it goes on for miles. She’s got posters of what he can assume is all
her favorite Broadway musicals, and a few pop singers like Beyoncé and Lorde.
Against the wall by the open doorway of Laura’s private bathroom, there’s a
huge sparkly dog bed with a big heap of Tibetan Mastiff lying in it, blinking
slowly. There are letterheads against the wall above the grey-furred dog and it
reads ‘Gumdrop’.
Stiles looks at Laura and says, “Gumdrop?”
Laura grins and says, “Don’t look at me. She used to be my mom’s dog but I
kinda stole her. She’s super sweet. She used to be a surrogate mom to me
whenever my own had to go away on business trips when I was little. She’s not
as active as she used to be because she’s getting up there in age. She mostly
lazes around in here with me or in Olive’s room. She loves babies.”
Stiles snorts. “Something we have in common.”
Laura flashes him an amused smile.
Stiles continues to look around her room.
Another thing that’s noteworthy is the fact that she doesn’t have a TV. She’s
just got a computer station with two large computer screens, some speakers and
a sleek looking keyboard with a wireless mouse. On the other side of the room,
between her dressers and under a line of windows, she has an impressive stereo
system, which she has her iPod hooked up to at the very top.
It sounds like some kind of a chorus line droning through the speakers.
“I Hope I Get It by Marvin Hamslich,” Laura says, answering a question he
didn’t even ask. She flops facedown on her huge bed and continues flipping
through one of those celebrity magazines. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Stiles kicks off his shoes and crawls up on the bed beside her until their
shoulders are touching.
Laura scoots her magazine over so they can both see it properly. She props her
chin in her left hand and spends the next ten minutes pointing out her favorite
celebrities. She gets real stars in her eyes when she comes to full body photo
of Kim Kardashian. “Ugh, her body is phenomenal.”
“I guess.”
Laura sends him an incredulous look. “There’s no guessing about it. It is.” She
sighs as she drags her brown eyes back to the photo. “What I wouldn’t give…”
“Nothing. You should give nothingbecause you don’t need to be anymore hotter
than you already are,” Stiles grumbles as he drags over one of Laura’s pillows
and hugs it to his chest. "Us normal people have to fall back on our
personalities."
Laura throws back her head and laughs. When she’s calmed down, she says, “Thank
you. I know I’m long and lean, but sometimes a girl wants curves — and not for
reasons you think. But back to you though. You’re the first boy I’ve ever seen
just shrug over Ms. Kim K.”
“She’s pretty,” Stiles acknowledges. “I just — her physique is intimidating.
Any fantasy I’d have about us would only be of her crushing me or suffocating
me somehow with her phenomenalbody.”
Laura snickers. “Okay, what kind of girl do you like?”
Stiles shrugs.
“What kind of guy?”
Stiles shrugs again.
“Do you even — does it matter either way to you?”
Stiles shakes his head no.
Laura slaps the magazine shut and gives him her undivided attention. “I’m
interested now. Have you ever dated anyone?”
“I’m fifteen,” Stiles groans and rolls onto his back so he can stare up at
Laura’s ceiling, which is covered with glow in the dark stars and music notes.
“I’ve never even really held anyone’s hand in a romantic way.”
Laura hums thoughtfully at that as she gazes down at him.
“It doesn’t bother me, you know. I — it’s not something I think about. I mean,
I do think about how attractive people are, but I get — I’m easily distracted.
There’s never been anyone that could hold my attention long enough for me to
consider what it would be like to do — those kind of romantic things,” Stiles
explains carefully and he really hopes she gets it because that’s as good as he
can do with explaining it.
Laura says, “It’s all cool. I’m sure you’ll find someone special who does make
you want to think about those romantic things.”
Stiles’s cheeks go a little red and he wrinkles his nose. “Don’t tease me,
please.”
“I’m not,” Laura swears. “It’s just, for a second there, I thought you were
like me and Isaac.”
Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot up at that. He turns to look at her and says,
“What do you mean? What does that mean?”
“I’m asexual,” Laura merely clarifies.
“Oh,” Stiles says. Then blinks and wonders if he ever took the time to notice
that. “How do you know Isaac is too?”
“We talk sometimes,” Laura admits. “I got his number from Cora —"
"Hang on, how does she have his number?"
"I don't know, Stiles. You'll have to ask them, but that's besides the point,"
Laura says. "I got his number after that day we ran into each other at the
market. I could just tell. Sometimes you can, well, when you’re a Were you can
tell. You can pick up on a person’s sexual orientation because it’s somewhat a
chemical thing at the very least. He didn’t smell like any other hormone-ridden
prepubescent teen I’d ever ran into by far. When you have a nose like mine and
a face like mine, you kind of become aware of who’s attracted to you and by
what degree. Isaac’s scent stayed neutral when he looked at me, never spiking
up or down. He could’ve been looking at a firefly for all I could tell. I’m
kind of the same way when I look at people. I mean sure, I recognizethe
aesthetics in others but there’s no real sexual appeal. Does this make sense?”
Stiles nods because it does. He’d never considered that maybe Isaac might have
been different in other ways, outside of the preternatural things that is. He
thinks back to the times he’s seen him with Scott and Allison, how
uncomfortable he’d look or embarrassed. If Stiles has to make a good guess of
it, he’d say it’s probably because Isaac can smell their attraction towards
him, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. He’s really shy and quiet so Stiles
can see the struggle of it.
Laura shifts beside him and says, “He’s a good kid. Handsomely smart.”
“You get him to talk to you?” Stiles says as he looks at her, a little envious.
“Sometimes I can’t get more than six words out of him, and that’s on a good
day.”
Laura shrugs. “That’s more than I get. We mostly text. I just figured he should
be able to have someone to talk to if he gets confused or concerned about
something.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly and he feels guilty for even feeling jealous.
Laura pokes his cheek with a grin and says, “Don’t worry, Blue. He does adore
you. It's obvious to anyone with half a brain. You’re his favorite goober."
Stiles blushes and bats her finger away. “Well, I should be. I should be
everyone’s favorite,” he jokes. "I am a delight."
“Totally,” Laura agrees with an affectionate smile. She sits up and says, “Time
for bed.”
“It’s pretty early,” Stiles lightly points out because it isonly eleven, and
usually he doesn't feel the urge to drift off until sometimes around midnight
on the weekends, unless he’s just really tired or stressed out. “We don’t even
have school tomorrow because of the Parent-Teacher conferences,” he points out.
“I know,” Laura chirps and takes off her shirt, making Stiles squawk in
surprise and slam a pillow over his face so he can preserve Laura’s modesty.
“But everyone else still has school, which means breakfast will be at six like
it always is and Nana’s making crêpes and I will not miss it because she makes
the best crêpes.”
“Never had a crêpe before,” Stiles admits, voice muffled by the pillow.
“All the more reason to settle down for the night. Okay, you can look now.”
Laura sounds amused.
Stiles cautiously removes the pillow to see that, yes, Laura is indeed properly
attired with sleepwear. He says, “I want to take a shower.”
“Go for it,” Laura encourages. “I’ll get you some pajamas. Towels and stuff are
in the bathroom.” She slides out of the room with bare feet.
Stiles nods and makes his way over to the bathroom, pausing briefly to pet
Gumdrop, who sniffs his right hand curiously before licking the back of it and
settling down to rest again.
By the time Stiles has climbed out of Laura’s shower, most likely smelling like
green tea (he had to shy away from the products that had coconut in them
because of his allergies) since Laura has nothing but that type of body wash
and shampoo. He notices his other clothes have been removed and there’s a pair
of green pajama bottoms and a grey tank top folded neatly on the sink. He
doesn’t have to guess too hard about who Laura might have borrowed the clothes
from.
And wow, okay, there’s even underwear.
Stiles is more of a boxers type of guy, but apparently Derek’s more of a briefs
kind. God, he doesn’t stop blushing awkwardly as he slips the clothes on. He
expects it to feel stiff against his skin, but it's just as soft and
comfortable as though it were his own clothes. He's not going to think about
it. He cuts the peculiarity out of his mind before using his toothbrush, which
Laura has kindly left for him. He rinses out his mouth, flicks off the light
and makes his way over to Laura’s bed when she pats the space beside her with a
wide smile while wiggling her eyebrows. He huffs in amusement but makes towards
the bed.
Laura grabs him as soon as he sets a knee on the edge and drags him over,
hugging him close to her chest so that he’s the little spoon. “Ah, this is
nice. I’ve got a nice little cuddly soft Human. I’m gonna call you Squishy,”
she coos, pressing her forehead against the back of his neck.
Stiles snickers and says, “You’re ridiculous. That’s totally from Finding
Nemo.”
“Shh,” Laura hushes and hugs him closer. “Sleepy time now, Squishy.”
Stiles kicks her softly in retaliation but he eventually settles. He falls
asleep just as Laura tangles their legs together and rumbles contently like a
little motor engine.
                                      ---
Monday morning, Laura jumps up and down on the bed while singing the Never
Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley because she’s kind of evil like that. They get
dressed separately, and Stiles is pleased to find that the clothes he came in
are clean but smell like they’ve been soaked in jasmine, though not heavily so.
He figures it must be a Were thing (a scenting/claiming thing). Most of the
Hales here smell like they have hints of jasmine on them (Talia being the
direct source as Alpha) and it mingles with their own unique scent easily. It
kind of makes Stiles feels like he belongs when they treat him just as if he
were another member of their pack. He slips his clothes on with a content sigh
and shoots Gumdrop a thumbs-up with a happy grin.
Laura exits the bathroom and sends him an amused look before she grabs
Gumdrop’s empty dual food/water bowl, taking a moment to refill it properly
before setting it beside the older canine. “Come on, we can still beat the rush
if we move hastily.”
Stiles laces his sneakers quickly and follows her down two flights of steps
until they’re in the dining room, which is swarmed with young Hale children of
all ages and sizes. Most of them are outfitted in the uniform of their academy:
the boys are wearing red polo shirts under a dark blue blazer, with the
insignia of the triskelion on the left breast pocket, and khaki shorts, which
are belted at the waist with a leather belt; and the girls have the same, only
they’re wearing plaid skirts with no belts and knee high socks with mary jane
shoes.
It doesn’t look like any of their parents are around, and Stiles wonders maybe
if they’ve already left for work since it seems plausible, what with it being
Monday and all. He’s never seen any of the kids eat at the big table and he
figures this must be a thing they’re only allowed to do when most of the adults
aren’t about.
Stiles soon finds himself settling between Sabrina and Tyson at the middle of
the table. Like everyone else, they’re plucking at the edible fruit bouquets
strategically placed within reach. He grabs a pineapple daisy dipped in milk
chocolate with a cherry center for himself, and a couple of honeydew melon and
cantaloupe wedges because those are his particular favorites.
The table fills up quickly and the dining room is abuzz with excited chatter,
mostly over the events they’re expecting to do at their schools today. They
swap homework sheets, and copy from each other, or fight over dipped
strawberries with white swirls, or star-shaped pineapple slices dipped and
decorated with a smiley face.
Stiles actually gets hit in the eye with a grape that was actually originally
aimed at Tyson, who snickers at him.
“Oh, I'm so sorry, Stiles!” Gracie (Tyson’s younger sister) shouts from the
south end of the table and lowers the spoon she used to hurl the grape.
“Tyson,it’s not funny, you stupid dipstick!”
“Yes it is,” Tyson cackles, holding his sides. “Your aim sucks, and you’re a
Werewolf.”
Gracie growls in annoyance, eyes flashing gold briefly before she sniffs
spitefully and turns her nose up at him. She starts talking to her older
cousin, Clover (Stiles thinks he’s about fourteen or so), and she ignores Tyson
completely, even when he starts flinging grapes at her.
Tyson makes an unhappy sound but he stops bugging his little sister to mutter a
spiteful apology that Gracie shoots him a forgiving smile for.
Sabrina pops a strawberry in her mouth and says, “It’s no fair you don’t get to
go to school, Stiles.”
Stiles blinks and looks at her. He says, “Sorry? If I could — I would?”
Sabrina just rolls her eyes. “Well don’t apologize. I’m just saying. I wanna
sleep in.”
“Tough,” Laura says from where she’s sitting across the table next to Derek,
who has his head cradled in his arms, most likely sleeping.
Stiles is entertained by the thought that Nana Hale must make one hell of a
crêpe if Derek is willing to wake up this early when he could be sleeping in.
Laura chews on some orange wedges as some of her little cousins play around in
her long hair, braiding it or putting some of their school bows in. To Sabrina,
she says, “Well, maybe if someone wouldn't stay up so late texting their little
dreamy boyfriend, a Mr. Travis Justice...” She continues, "You'd probably get
all the sleep you need then. You should go to bed when Aunt Rosemary tells you
too."
Sabrina blushes with a groan like she’s dying and cups her hands over her ears.
“Don’t say such evil things.”
“She’s your mother. You’re supposed to do what she says,” Laura points out
sweetly.
“But you don’t always listen to yours,” Sabrina retorts (just as sweetly) and
crosses her arms moodily.
Laura merely shrugs and the conversation is left at that.
Stiles watches in amusement as everyone straightens in their seats suddenly, as
though they’ve been zapped, but the reaction makes sense soon enough because
Cora and Nana Hale are exiting kitchen with silver trays filled with every
flavor of crêpes there is. Together they pass them out and Laura has to elbow
Derek awake.
Cora makes her way down the right side of the table as Nana Hale takes over the
left. Cora serves Tyson, and then she skips over Stiles, and serves Sabrina.
Stiles frowns. “Um, Cora?”
Cora says, “You can’t eat these, dumbass.”
Stiles frowns even deeper. “Why not?”
“Oh my goodness, that’s right,” Nana Hale chimes from across the table where
she’s serving Laura and Derek. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. I’ve always
made these using coconut milk and I never would’ve thought twice about it until
Cora mentioned that you had an allergy to coconut while she helped me make
these this morning. So I made you a special batch. Derek, be a dear and go grab
them. They should still be on the island counter.”
Derek, who’s cheeks are puffed out with nothing but strawberries and cream
crêpes, grumbles in complaint.
Nana Hale cuffs him on the back of the head. “You be nice and treat our guest
respectfully.”
Stiles can’t help but to tease and says, “Yeah, Derek. Where’s that famous Hale
hospitality?”
Derek swallows the food in his mouth, pushes away from the table and shoots
Stiles a withering look before he goes marching off towards the kitchen. He
returns with a plate of peanut butter banana crêpes topped off with whipped
cream and bacon shavings.
Stiles doesn’t hesitate to dig in and it is literally the best thing he’s ever
tasted in ever, like wow. He repeats the feeling aloud.
Nana Hale sits at the head of the table with a smile and says, “I’ll take that
as a compliment due.” Then she turns to Cora, who’s sitting beside her, and
says, “Now where is that boy? Where’s Peter?”
“Nana, he said something about going to the mountains with his girlfriend
Kate,” Tyson chimes between bites. “But that was late last night.”
"You're such an eavesdropper," Gracie accuses.
"Am not!"
"Are too!"
Gracie and Tyson go back and forth like this for the next few minutes.
Stiles, on the other hand, thinks about what was said. He shoves another
forkful of crêpes in his mouth as he pats himself down for his phone. When he
finds it he shoots Peter a text that reads: When you said you were researching,
I didn’t realize that what you actually meant was you were going to circle back
to those mountains!!! You better keep me updated on anything you find.
Peter's natural response is: :))
Stiles rolls his eyes at the predictability and pockets the phone again before
he concentrates on clearing his plate.
Talia strides into the dining room from the kitchen, greeting her family
affectionately when all the kids hop up from the table with an excited
commotion. They surround her on all sides, kissing her hands or rubbing against
her. She smiles at them warmly and drops kisses on their foreheads, or their
cheeks, or squeezes the back of their necks affectionately. Then she says,
“Alright, you guys, finish up. The bus will be here soon to pick you up. It
won’t wait.”
They scramble back to their seats and begin shoveling their food into their
mouths with great haste.
Talia saddles up behind Nana Hale before she leans down and accepts a kiss on
the cheek from the elderly woman before she strokes a lock of Cora’s hair with
tender consideration. She walks over to Laura and does the same before she
drops a quick kiss to the crown of Derek’s head before ruffling the spot with
her fingers. She smiles at Stiles from across the table and says, “Ready to go
home?”
Stiles swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs with a nod.
“If you want, we can head out now,” Talia suggests. "Not that I'm pushing you
out the door. You're welcome to stay for as long as you like."
There's a murmur of agreement around the table.
Stiles is completely warmed by their acceptance and he smiles. "Thanks, but I'm
sure my dad and brother are anxious to see me. Another time. Thank you for
having me."
Talia merely nods in understanding.
Stiles wipes his mouth clean and pushes away from the table.
Derek suddenly announces, “I’m coming too.” and he stands to follow his mother
out of the dining room and through the kitchen to reach the garage.
Stiles takes a moment to give Laura a hug (which she milks like they'll never
see each other again), and then he hugs Nana Hale, thanking her for the amazing
meal.
Nana Hale just kisses the back of his right hand (as she is prone to do) when
she grabs it and pats the spot sweetly, saying, “Don’t be a stranger. Come back
soon. We enjoy you so very much.”
Stiles nods with a pleased flush before he gives Cora a quick hug that she
doesn’t return because she’s too busy making a third plate for herself, but she
does knock her head softly against his in acknowledgement. He waves goodbye at
the rest of them (they return it just as enthusiastically) before he strides
into and through the kitchen to head out the side door. He does pause for a
moment to pet all the dogs goodbye since they’re huddled by the doorway with
their bowls of food and water. He navigates his way to Talia’s car and climbs
into the back seat because Derek is already sitting in the front.
Talia reverses out of the garage and starts down the driveway, out onto the
private trail. She says, “Derek mentioned he’s going to be tutoring you.”
Stiles blinks as he fumbles with his seatbelt. “Uh, yes.”
Talia merely nods and leaves it at that.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re pulling into the driveway and parking behind his
dad’s cruiser before they all climb out.
Stiles strides quickly so he can be the first to reach the door and he throws
himself at his dad after he opens it.
His dad makes a soft sound as he keeps them upright with a chuckle, though he's
not surprised by this kind of greeting. “Well, hello to you too, son.”
Stiles mumbles something similiar and hugs him tighter before letting go while
he can still convince himself to. “Where’s Isaac?”
“Still at his friend’s house. He’ll be home tomorrow,” his dad reassures,
patting him on the crown of his head before he urges him through the door and
behind him so he can greet Talia and Derek. “I hope he didn’t give you too much
trouble.”
Talia looks marginally amused. “Oh I don’t imagine so. Everyone’s quite taken
with him in their own way,” she admits as she clasps a hand over the back of
Derek’s neck. “This is my baby. Derek.”
Derek makes a face at the introduction but he straightens to his full height to
offer his right hand to the sheriff and politely says, “It’s nice to meet you,
Mr. Stilinski.”
“Same here,” his dad replies, accepting the hand. “And please, just call me
Sheriff. We’re all friends here.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “Dad, will you stop making that joke? It’s
losing value.”
“Never,” his dad vows with feigned seriousness.
Talia chuckles before she says, “Derek has kindly volunteered to tutor Stiles
in Paige’s stead.”
Derek tenses notably at the mention of his ex-girlfriend and he drops his gaze
to the ground with a grim frown.
“That’s very brave of him,” his dad jokes. “He does know how Stiles can be,
right?”
“Hey!” Stiles says from behind him. “You don’t have to make it sound like I'm a
terror and he already knows about my concentration issues, dad.”
“Just checking,” his dad quips as he lifts his hands to show he only means
well. “Well, come in, come in.”
Derek steps through the door when the sheriff makes way for him and he brushes
past Stiles to head towards the stairs.
“I can’t stay, though I would. I have to make some rounds to some of our
schools,” Talia says. “Thank you for having my son. I’m sure he’ll be on his
best behavior.” She shoots Derek a look from over their shoulders.
Stiles turns to see Derek roll his eyes with a silent nod as he jams his hands
in the pockets of his jeans like the moody teen he can be sometimes. He turns
back to look at Talia and she seems satisfied if not amused.
Talia reaches out and squeezes the back of Stiles’s neck as a final parting
goodbye with a nod to the sheriff before she glides across the porch, down the
steps and to her car.
His dad steps out the door and says, “I have to be heading to work too. You
call me if you guys need something.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, a little disappointed. “You’ll be home early though,
right?”
“I’ll be back in time for dinner. I still have those conferences to go to with
yours and Isaac’s teachers. I’m expecting good reports,” his dad says with a
look.
Stiles smiles innocently. “As far as I know, that’s what you’ll get.”
His dad rolls his eyes as he walks away and says, “I’ll pick up something on
the way home tonight. Maybe from that taco place you like so much.”
Stiles perks up at that (he loves Ramona’s Taco Treasure). “Don’t forget the
horchata!”
“I know what to get!”
Stiles snickers as he watches his dad climb into his squad car, back out of the
drive, and roll off with one last wave. He closes the door and locks it before
turning to say something to Derek, but the other teen is nowhere to be seen. He
throws up his hands with an incredulous huff before he goes off in search of
him.
Derek is in his room, walking around and picking up everything like he’s
studying it or checking for some faults. He skims his hands over the furniture,
and over the walls. He steps over to the dresser that has his stuffed wolves on
top with an amused hum and pokes his letterman jacket before he moves on to
fiddle with something else.
"You want your jacket back?" Stiles asks, even though he doesn't know why he
would ask like that.
But Derek just shrugs, like there's no rush to retrieve his things from the
sanctuary of Stiles's room. He merely says, “You’re not very organized.”
“I’m going to ignore the judgment I can hear in your tone,” Stiles retorts as
he sits down at his desk, picking up his tablet so he can check his email for
any local news notifications he’s subscribed to using the words ‘mauled/clawed’
or ‘animal attack’ or ‘Mayor Argent’. There’s nothing for the first two, but
there is a few articles that outlines Mayor Argent’s plans to turn an abandoned
car-making factory into something more useful that will be contributing to the
community. There’s talks of him brokering some type of contract or deal with
the company that makes Kind bars to turn the old factory into a distribution
warehouse.
Stiles makes a thoughtful sound and wirelessly sends the articles to his
printer to print. He sets his tablet aside, idly wondering why Derek’s been so
quiet, and he pauses mid-movement when he realizes why.
Derek.
Hale.
Is.
Cleaning.
His.
Room.
“Uh — what are you — I don’t remember asking for room service — hey, put that
down,” Stiles fusses as he leaps up and snatches his snow globe from the other
teen, clutching it to his chest possessively. “Stop cleaning my room.”
“I can’t work in this kind of clutter. How can you?” Derek says and bypasses
him to continueto clean his room.
“I work just fine. I enjoy the chaos I have created,” Stiles says mildly.
“I don’t,” Derek replies, picking up Stiles’s clothes from the floor and
folding them neatly. “You can either help or keep complaining. Either way, I'm
not stopping.”
Stiles grumbles fitfully for a long moment but he helps, only because he
doesn’t want to run into any awkward situations where Derek finds his underwear
or something equally mortifying. Between the two of them they get his room all
cleared up with everything put in its proper place.
Derek skims the room with this look of satisfaction before he walks over to
Stiles’s bulletin/whiteboard. He studies the articles with a furrowed brow.
Stiles leaps over, and flips it to the whiteboard side. “Don’t mind that. It’s
um — yeah, a side project. So here you go.” He slaps a blue dry erase marker in
Derek’s left hand before he sits down on his computer chair, folding his hands
over his stomach as he gives the other teen his undivided attention.
Derek twirls the marker between his fingers skillfully like it’s a drumstick or
something. He says, “What the last thing Pai — that you were taught?”
Stiles doesn’t miss the way Derek purposefully ducks around saying Paige’s
name. He carefully replies, “Something about ‘if and only if’? Implications?
Square roots, maybe? I think?”
Derek lifts a brow. “Okay,” he drawls before he taps his chin thoughtfully with
the marker. He does this for a good minute. Then he says, “Here’s what I’m
thinking.”
Stiles nods encouragingly.
“We should focus on the most common algebraic symbols,” Derek says and uncaps
the marker as he starts making a list of them. He has really nice handwriting.
“You have really nice handwriting,” Stiles repeats aloud because apparently his
brain wants Derek to know what it’s thinking.
Derek doesn’t stop writing but he says, “Sure. Thanks. I do what I can.” Then
he writes the last symbol before he snaps the cap back on. He takes a step back
to look at his handiwork before he looks to Stiles and says, “Give me the names
of these.”
“That’s square root,” Stiles points out and his eyes bounce around in no
particular order. “That one is the ‘if and only if’. I think that thingy right
there is a radical? Um — add, subtract, divide — yeah, that’s all I got.”
“That’s not good,” Derek bluntly remarks. “You should know all of these. What
was she teaching you?”
“Just how to solve for x and stuff. Oh, and I’m really good with squaring
numbers, and somewhat cubes. I think because I enjoy doing those parts the
most,” Stiles supposes with a shrug. 
Derek furrows his brow. “Switch places with me,” he instructs, handing Stiles
the marker so he can sit down. When they do, he says, “What’s your least
favorite thing about Algebra?”
“All of it.”
Derek gives him a look. “I mean what seems to be the hardest for you to
understand?”
“Equations and formulas. I get it turned around in my head,” Stiles admits. “I
never end up with the right answer.”
Derek hums thoughtfully as he considers it. He glances at the board and stares
at it for a long moment before he says, “You like puzzles, right?”
Stiles blinks. “Uh, sure. I mean. Yeah, I like the challenge of figuring
something out.”
“Well think of math like a puzzle. In fact, solving an equation is just like
solving a puzzle. And like puzzles, there are things you can and cannot do,”
Derek explains as he lazily twists the chair from side to side. “Write this on
the board. This a list of things you cando...”
                                      ---
If Stiles thought that working with Derek would be anything like what he had
with Paige, he was wrong, very, very wrong.
For one thing, he encourages Stiles to make mistakes because he believes that
the mistakes will help him to remember how notto do something in a certain way.
He treats everything they do like some kind of mystery or a puzzle, and he asks
Stiles more questions than Stiles asks him, which is surprisingly helpful too.
It gets Stiles to really think things through carefully and try to work it out
himself instead of winging it until he’s being told what he should be doing,
which is how it worked with Paige.
Derek’s also really good with keeping Stiles’s attention by appealing to that
ambitious part of his brain that’s constantly chiming ‘what’s that, pay
attention to it, that’s something interesting, do better’ and it makes Stiles
file away anything he deems useful like he does whenever he’s trying to work
out one of his dad’s cases. Stiles finds that he has no trouble absorbing the
information after a while, even if it is still in a sporadic manner, especially
since Derek treats it like jeopardy, giving him the answers with the
expectation that Stiles replies in the form of a question.
Before either of them know it, the sheriff’s home with dinner.
Stiles and Derek dart down to the kitchen because they’re both equally hungry.
Well, maybe Derek more so than Stiles, but that’s probably because of his
Werewolf metabolism or whatever.
His dad is prepared though. He says, “I wasn’t sure what you'd like, Derek, so
I got three of everything on the menu.”
Derek nods and says, “Thank you, sir. I’ll eat anything.” But then he wrinkles
his nose and shoots the cup holder filled with Styrofoam cups of horchata a
look and adds, “Except for that.”
Stiles shoves a taco in his mouth and snorts. “It’s the cinnamon, isn’t it?” he
asks knowingly.
Derek just wiggles his eyebrows and it’s weird how expressive he is with them
because Stiles totally gets that he’s says ‘yes’ without him actually saying
it. He steals one of Stiles’s steak tacos.
“Yo! Whoa — that’s not allowed. Dude,” Stiles complains and hunches over his
food protectively.
“I’m just keeping your math skills sharp. How many tacos do you have now?”
Derek says with a mean grin as he swallows his food.
His dad chuckles and Stiles shoots him a look of betrayal as Derek steals
another one of his delicious tacos.
Stiles makes an outraged sound and says, “If anyone else touches my tacos,
they’re going to be counting how many fingers they have left,” Stiles warns,
giving Derek a narrow-eyed look in particular.
“Lighten up, son,” his dad huffs as he powers through some chicken nachos.
“There’s plenty to go around. You should be more courteous. He’s our guest.”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, the taco-stealing traitor. “Where’s that famous Stilinski
hospitality?”
“Oh, ha. Haha. Ha,” Stiles gripes, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Real clever.
Didn't realize you were such a stand-up comedian.”
Derek shrugs his mouth at the same time he shrugs his shoulders and takes
anotherone of Stiles’s steak tacos. He takes a generous bite while looking
Stiles dead in his eyes and smirks.
“You’re the worst,” Stiles swears lowly, cheeks burning for a reason he can’t
even name. He’s probably just really irritated. Yeah, that’s it. Derek is super
annoying. He grumbles this over and over to himself like a mantra as he eats
what little remains of his precious tacos.
His dad and Derek start up a debate over basketball that turns into something
like waxing poetry until his dad and Derek are looking at each other like long
lost friends reunited.
Stiles rolls his eyes and laughs quietly as he shakes his head. He wipes his
mouth clean, pushes away from the table as he grabs two cups of horchata and
says, “I’ll just give you two a minute alone.”
His dad and Derek shoot him a flat look that’s almost eerily identical and
that’s when Stiles knows he’s absolutely done.
Stiles tucks away in the living room and tries to watch TV but that doesn’t
work out because Derek and his dad totally takeover and turn on a stupid
basketball game. It’s something like the Chicago Bulls versus the Boston
Celtics. He doesn’t stick around to watch it because he’s honestly not into the
sport. Lacrosse is more of his thing.
He goes up to his room and logs on to Skype to catch up with Scott for a bit
since sometimes when they don’t talk for more than a few hours it ends up
feeling like forever. They talk about Danny’s condition (which is gradually but
surely improving), and Stiles feels an itch in the back of his mind that says
he’s forgetting something but he can’t figure out what it is. He doesn’t get
around to figuring out what it is because Scott lures him into a discussion
about the direction of Naruto’s plotline and what it could potentially mean for
how Kishimoto plans on ending the popular manga series.
Somehow they end up in a heated debate over who would win in a fight. Scott
says Sasuke but Stiles is adamant Naruto would, ignoring Scott’s argument about
how if Naruto wasn’t the vessel for the Nine Tails then he would be no more
skilled than any other ninja in the Leaf Village and Stiles just goes off.
This lasts for a good hour before they decide to just agree to disagree because
it’s not worth losing their friendship over the fictional lives imaginary
characters. They trade a few cheat codes for a few video/online games they’re
trying together before they part ways amicably.
Stiles calls Isaac and immediately complains when the preteen picks up. “You
said you’d be home today,” he whines.
“Sorry,” Isaac says quietly, but he doesn’t really sound sorry at all. He
mostly just sounds tired and worn out. “Boyd’s mom wanted to take us to Six
Flags and so she did. We’re still driving back. It’ll be late before we reach
Beacon Hills.”
Stiles frowns and scrubs at the stubble of his hair with his free hand. “Fine.
Text me when you get to Boyd’s house or whatever. I’ll just worry if you
don’t.”
Isaac just hums.
“Goodnight,” Stiles says and smiles when Isaac returns it softly before he
hangs up. He’s about to put his phone on the charger when Laura calls him. He
picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Chutzpah!” Laura says, sounding really annoyed.
Stiles blinks and spins in his chair. “What? Am I supposed to know what that
means? Is that a new greeting?”
Laura scoffs and says, “No, but Cora is trying to make that pass as a word.
We’re playing Scrabble.”
Stiles makes a sound of understanding as he plants his feet on the floor so he
can stop his chair from spinning.
Derek chooses this moment to stroll into his room like he owns the place, and
he wanders over to Stiles’s bookshelf to sift through his modest collection of
comics. He chooses a Batman one and makes himself comfortable on Stiles’s bed.
Stiles makes a face at him. “Shouldn’t you be on your way home?”
"I am home," Laura replies, confused.
"No, not you," Stiles corrects, distracted. "Seriously. You should head home,
right?"
“Nope. Your dad I said I could stay the night,” Derek replies, flipping through
the comic lazily.
“Is that Derek?” Laura says in his ear, already knowing the answer. “Hey, Der-
Bear! Miss you already. Cora’s trying to cheat in Scrabble.”
“Am not. Don’t be such a wimp,” Cora gripes.
Derek snorts.
Laura continues, addressing Stiles this time, “Cora told me to call you because
you’d confirm that it’s legit.”
“What?”
“Chutzpah.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Um.” He takes a moment to think. Then he says, “Yeah,
sorry. It’s legit. We learned about it in our AP English class. It’s Yiddish.
It can mean either extreme self-confidence or shameless impudence.”
“Damn,” Laura swears lowly.
“Ha! Suck it!” Cora exclaims. “That gives me 383 points. I win.”
Laura starts fussing at Cora and Stiles doesn’t get to hear the whole argument
because she hangs up on him midsentence.
Derek snorts again.
Stiles hooks up his phone to his charger, which is plugged into the USB port of
his laptop, and he calls Kira. She picks up on the second ring.
“Stiles? Hey.”
Stiles snickers and says, “Yup. That’s me. What are you doing?”
“Nothing, why?”
“So you remember when you said you were going to sing for me? You should do
that now.” Stiles glances at the timestamp on his laptop. It reads 9:27 pm.
It’s still a reasonable hour. “Come on. You can perform while we jump on my
trampoline. Or is that too gravitationally challenging for you?”
Kira laughs happily. “Nope, I am totally ace at singing and trampolines.”
“Well let’s do it,” Stiles decides. “Meet you in five,” he says and hangs up
when she agrees. He pauses when he sees a notification pop up on the screen of
his phone with an invitation from both Laura and Cora to play Ruzzle. He
accepts before he puts his phone to sleep and kicks off his shoes. He doesn’t
usually like to jump on the trampoline with them on. He yanks his hoodie off
and throws it at Derek.
Derek pulls it off his head with an annoyed face.
“You coming?” Stiles asks.
Derek furrows his brow and looks at him like he’s an idiot. “No. Why would I?”
Stiles shrugs and exits the room, making his way down the stairs, cutting off
all the lights when he sees his dad isn’t around (probably already in bed or
something), and he wanders out the back door. He jogs down the steps and climbs
onto his trampoline.
Two minutes later, Kira joins him with her guitar.
Stiles hops around and says, “Alright. I’m all ears. Hit me with your best
shot.”
Kira totally does. She sings the Skinny Love cover by Birdy and nails every
note, not only with her voice but on her guitar as well. She’s got a very
tempered voice. When she’s done, Stiles makes sure to cheer extra loud. She
blushes, pleased.
“You ever consider doing YouTube videos? I bet you’d get a major following,”
Stiles says with certainty.
Kira shrugs as she bounces around. “My mom wouldn’t approve. She’d think it was
a distraction from my true destiny. Whatever that means.”
“Parents are weird,” Stiles offers.
Kira rewards him with another smile. “How was your weekend? I noticed you were
away. I mean — not like in a stalking kind of way but — I just hadn’t seen you.
Not that I was looking or waiting for you or anything. Oh god, am I creeping
you out?”
Stiles just barks out a laugh as he jumps higher. “Nah. I know what you’re
trying to say.”
The color in Kira’s cheeks slowly fades away and she looks at him from under
her eyelashes with a shy smile.
“My weekend was eventful. I was at my friend’s house. One of them even followed
me home like an annoying puppy,” Stiles says, glancing up at his window with a
mischievous grin. He laughs fully when Derek sticks his head out the window a
second later and glares at him. “Oh look. There he is. We call him Derek.”
Kira waves up at him. “Hi, Derek. I’m Kira.”
Derek just salutes her before he glares at Stiles one more time and disappears.
“He seems nice,” Kira supposes as she goes to the opening of the trampoline and
sets her guitar on the ground before bouncing back over to Stiles. “My weekend
was spent mostly unpacking.”
“Oh yeah?” Stiles says and grabs her hands, trying to get her to bounce higher
with him. “My dad and I still haven’t really unpacked everything too. Mainly
pictures but that’s because —” of mom.He doesn’t say it. He can’t. “— just
because,” he finishes lamely.
Kira nods but she’s blushing again for some reason. She squeezes his hands and
says, “I didn’t shock you this time.”
“Huh,” Stiles says as he realizes. “Do you think its because I’m made of
rubber, and you’re made glue?”
“And whatever I say bounces off of you and sticks to me?” Kira finishes with a
humored smile. “You’re a dork.”
“Okay, that’s fine. But we’re holding hands and the laws of biology states that
now you’ve contracted my dorkiness too,” Stiles says with a mock serious tone.
“Oh really?” Kira laughs. “Now how will I find a husband?”
“We can marry each other,” Stiles supposes, feigning a put-upon sigh. “Think
about it. We’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Lame-Dork.”
Kira tosses her head back and belts out an impressive laugh.
Stiles grins as he watches her, pleased with himself. “Your laugh is really
colorful. I like it.”
Kira colors and stumbles suddenly, flailing her arms and grabbing on to Stiles
until they both go crashing into the protective net and onto the grass with a
painful thud.
Stiles groans and tries to worm free as Kira does the same. Somehow in all the
commotion, they end up smacking their foreheads together, and hissing with a
pained sound as they clutch the sore spots.
Stiles says, “God, we are such a hot mess right now.”
“The hottest,” Kira agrees as she manages to find her way out of the net. She
helps Stiles out and they stumble a bit when he springs to his feet because
when she pulls him, she tugs him harder than either of them expect. She blushes
and says, “Sorry, I — I’m sorry. This is horrible. I’m such a klutz.”
“It’s okay,” Stiles soothes. “So am I. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
What’s that one saying?”
“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong?” Kira supplies with a fading blush.
“Yup. That’s the one,” Stiles says, snapping his fingers. “Murphy’s Law.” He
chuckles. “That’s totally what I was thinking. You and I?” He points back and
forth between them. “Total like minds.”
Kira ducks her gaze with another pleased grin as she tucks her hair behind her
ears. “I’m sorry about your net.”
Stiles scratches the back of his head as he looks down at the mangled and
twisted net. “Well, that’s what it’s for. We probably would’ve broke some bones
if it hadn’t been there,” he supposes.
Kira opens her mouth to say something but her mom appears on their back porch
with a sharp, “Kira.” Then she says something in Japanese that sounds
suspiciously like a reprimand.
Kira’s mouth twists unhappily and she looks to Stiles. “I have to go. Thanks
for the jam session and cushioning my fall.”
“I’m a good husband,” Stiles jokes and he smiles when Kira cheers up with a
grin. “Go. Your mom’s glaring at me. I think she knows we got married without
her permission,” he stage-whispers.
Kira blushes with an explosive laugh, smacking a hand over her mouth to stifle
it before she grabs her guitar off the ground quickly, and stumbles towards her
house when her mother shouts at her in Japanese again.
Stiles waves sheepishly at the Mrs. Yukimura when she gives him a narrow-eyed
look that could potentially thaw ice. He turns away and kicks the mangled net
under the trampoline, figuring he can swindle Isaac into helping him fix it
later, before he strides up the steps and into his house. He locks the door
behind him and makes his way up the stairs.
Derek is exiting the bathroom, using the back of his hand to dry his mouth. He
says, “I couldn’t find an extra toothbrush so I used yours.”
Stiles jaw drops, appalled. “You’re lying!”
Derek grins wolfishly before he swaggers into Stiles’s room.
Stiles rushes into the bathroom only to find that his toothbrush is bone-dry,
but one of the spares his dad keeps around for guests and family is lying off
too the side. He pretends he can’t hear Derek snickering in the other room as
he grumbles under his breath about unwanted, rude houseguests that think
they’re so funny but they aren’t.
Stiles brushes his teeth quickly and enters his room to find Derek wearing a
pair of his pajama bottoms and no shirt as he does some sets of push-ups. He
flushes and complains, “You’re acting a little too at home. I didn’t do this at
your house. I kept my polite little hands to my polite little self.”
Derek shrugs and rolls onto his back to do some stomach curls.
Stiles can’t even fathom the audacity of this guy and he grumbles while he goes
about finding some sleepwear for himself. He changes quickly and climbs into
his bed to settle down.
Derek follows not long after, settling on the other side, and lays on his
stomach, facing his head away from Stiles as he tucks his arms below the pillow
under his head.
Stiles sighs and says, “You could’ve turned off the light.”
“I could’ve,” Derek agrees tiredly.
Stiles rolls his eyes and slides out of bed to do it himself. He stumbles and
falls twice on his way to the bed with a mangled swear. He glares at Derek in
the dark when the other teen laughs quietly. He grabs Derek’s wolves off of his
dresser and hurls them at him, missing horribly because it’s so dark and his
eyes haven’t even adjusted yet.
Derek still makes a displeased sound, like they actually hit him or something.
He gathers all three of them since they’re in reaching distance and he cuddles
them close, nosing at their fur like he’s looking for something.
Stiles slides back into bed and watches him in amusement before he turns on his
side (facing away from Derek) before squirming until he feels comfortable
enough to just lie there and wait for sleep.
It goes quiet.
Then Derek says, "Here."
Stiles has no time to prepare before Derek is shoving two of his stuffed wolves
in his direction. "Ow — hey, easy with Sly and Truth. They're soft, but they're
not that soft. And neither am I for that matter."
Derek gives a noticeable pause in the dark.
Stiles flushes when he realizes what he let slip and he quickly turns away so
he can hide his blushing face between the grey and white wolves taking up
residence in his arms.
"You — you named them," Derek marvels.
Stiles just mumbles incoherently as his face continues to burn. He's going to
melt right through the bed.
Derek doesn't say anything for a long time (which is worrying enough).
Stiles can still feel his gaze burning up his back and he fidgets.
Derek clears his throat a couple of times before he asks, "So, uh...which one
is Sly, and which one is Truth?"
"God," Stiles whines, mortified. "Can't you let me die in peace?"
Derek laughs gently and nudges him. "I'm really not making fun."
Stiles scoffs but refuses to remove his pink face from the sanctuary of the
stuffed wolves's bodies.
"Seriously. I just — I think it's cool," Derek admits, tone gentle. "Which is
which?"
Stiles has to fight every instinct in his body that tells him to pretend to
fall asleep so he can be done with this embarrassing situation. Instead, he
takes a deep breath, lifts his head a little so he can blink lazily at his
nightstand, and says, "Sly is the white one. Truth is the grey one."
Derek makes a thoughtful noise that almost sounds like he's impressed. "And the
black one?" he presses.
"Chaos," Stiles reluctantly replies. 
"I'm guessing you named them after the situations you earned them in," Derek
supposes because he can be annoyingly perceptive when he wants to be.
Stiles doesn't bother confirming it. He just shrugs as the
color finally recedes from his cheeks and his ears.
Derek shifts on his side of the bed and Stiles feels like he can breath a
little easier without Derek's gaze burning holes into his back.
It goes quiet again.
Stiles is drifting off to sleep to the sound of the crickets chirping outside
his open window as the scent of jasmine and vanilla consumes his senses.
Derek decides this is the perfect time to say, “Wanna hear the best basketball
joke in the world?”
“What? No.”
“Shh, I'm talking to Chaos, not you."
"I hate you."
"What's that Sly?"
"You are the Devil."
"Truth wants to hear it too?"
"I'm in bed with Satan right now."
"Well...if you three insist..." Derek goes on, like he can't hear Stiles at
all. "Gotta give my wolves what they want."
"I vote no because I don't want to hear it."
"Tough luck. That's four against one, so I’m telling the joke anyway,” Derek
decides. “Why can’t you play sports in the jungle?”
Stiles refuses to ask.
Derek just waits patiently.
Stiles purses his lips and sighs (his own accursed curiosity getting the best
of him). “Why?”
“Because of the cheetahs.”
Stiles starts laughing even though it’s so not funny but he can’t help it.
"Get it? Cheetahs."
“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps, laughing harder. “I hate you so much for that.”
Derek hums but he sounds so unbelievably smug.
“Seriously. You’re the worst,” Stiles swears. He laughs a little bit more
before he settles down. “Cheetahs,” he scoffs. “That’s awful.”
“You still laughed.”
“Nope. I had a mental breakdown.”
Derek snorts.
“Okay, I’m going to sleep now,” Stiles announces, snuggles closer to two of
Derek's wolves, and closes his eyes to do just that.
                                      ---
The next day, while Stiles is in his Algebra II class (totally acing his quiz),
Derek, like the dark-hearted person he is, sends him a text that’s basically
just a picture of cheetahs.
Stiles gives an ugly snort that signals the attention of his classmates and he
blushes, sinking down in his seat when Mrs. Cassidy gives him a reprimanding
glare. He shoots Derek a reply that reads:
That’s not funny.
You still laughed, didn’t you?
You’re the worst. I’m taking a quiz. I don’t need this in my life.
Just admit that’s the best joke you ever heard and I’ll leave you alone.
Fine. It was funny. In a totally lame, freakish way.
See. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
Now say I’m the king of jokes.
What? No way, you loser. I’m ignoring you now.
Stiles turns off his phone and forces himself to concentrate on quiz.
It takes a few tries, but he manages it.
Stupid Derek and his stupid jokes.
***** doubt *****
During Astronomy, his teacher begins an exuberant lecture about the possibility
of life on other planets, or even the odds of being able to inhibit those
planets that can sustain life, should Earth fail to provide it’s natural
resources. This is something his teacher does every week on Tuesday, and Stiles
enjoys the laidback lecturing because he can just focus on some of his other
homework and have a good portion of it done by the time he gets home.
In between doing some worksheets from both his AP Biology and Algebra II class,
or doodling some triskelions and triquetras in the margins of his notebook, he
texts Derek, who is still being ridiculously smug about the fact that he can
send Stiles the picture of a cheetah a million times per second and still get
him to laugh. Stiles is just about to threaten to block Derek’s number if he
doesn’t quit it when Peter sends him a text that reads:
You know how you can be looking for one thing? :))
And you find something else? :))
But it’s still another thing you were looking for? :))
Please explain.
Well. :))
Concerning our little cinnamon-monster thing. :))
I’ve hit a dead end, even with doing some tracking throughout the trail that
loops around the mountains and around the shop too. :))
But good news still. :))
I found the mermaid’s nest. :))
I’ve found them. :))
They’ve been staying in the Santa Ana River. :))
But a few of their more rebellious teens have wandered off. :))
Is this why you asked me about them in the first place? Did you encounter the
“rebellious teens” or something?
Not in physical form. :))
But they haven’t been as careful as they’d like to think. :))
I think a few of them have been camping out in my family’s river. You remember
the one. :))
Uh, sure?
Well the point I’m trying to get to is that this nest of mermaids have dwelled
here for a long time, and they’re famous for being clairvoyants. :))
They might be able to help us with our problem. :))
Let me guess, we have to help them with their problem first.
You’ve always been more clever than most. :))
They could be of great help to us. :))
You just have to help me track down some of their kids, though, keep in mind
that by this time they’ll have probably incited the spell they need in order to
be able to walk amongst the land folk. :))
Oh great. So basically what would have been easy at first just got twenty times
as hard.
I believe in you. :))
Don’t. I never agreed to help.
But you will. :))
Negotiable. Seriously negotiable.
If you say so. :))
I’ll be back on Thursday. :))
Kate and I have decided to stick around for a little longer. :))
Keep me updated on any new developments, either with the missing mermaids or
the cinnamon-monster. :))
And be safe. If you let anyone harm you while I’m too far to do anything about
it, I’ll shake you until go to sleep. :))
Dude! What the hell? That’s not something you say if you’re trying to show you
have a heart!
Who says I have one? :))
Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head before he pockets his phone. He tries
to catch up on the lecture, but his mind is already away from him.
God, this is his life now.
                                      ---
Laura’s at it again. She’s passing out campaign flyers for Prom at lunch.
Stiles can only watch her in amusement as he and Kira carry their food trays
over to the usual spot. Derek and Cora are already sitting across from each
other, fighting over some slushies.
Laura is wearing a purple tribal print romper with her raven hair falling big
and beautifully around her shoulders. She’s totally wearing make-up too, not
that she needs it, but Stiles has seen her use this ploy before back during
Spirit Week when she was politicking for Homecoming Queen.
Cora reaches out and grabs Stiles when he makes it to their table, dragging him
onto the bench in the space besides hers, which forces Kira to sit on the other
side with Derek.
Stiles gently pries Cora's fingers away and says, “Kira, you’ve met Derek
already since he stuck his big head out my window last night, and walked with
us to school this morning. This is Cora. Our favorite prickly cactus.”
Cora, surprisingly, doesn’t glare at him for the introduction. She eases closer
to Stiles until their sides are flushed together while she gazes at Kira
intently like she’s trying to make some sort of weird point.
Kira blushes and shoots glances between them. “I — it’s nice to meet you, Cora.
Stiles has told me such —” She seems to be looking for an appropriate word. “—
things about you,” she finishes lamely and squirms for it.
Cora cocks her head with a light smirk as she throws her right arm over
Stiles’s shoulder. “Oh really? How fascinating. He’s told me practically
nothing about you,” she lightly replies.
Derek snorts around a mouthful of chili-nachos like he totally gets what Cora’s
trying to do and he says nothing as he watches this whole thing unfold.
Stiles glares at him a little for it because he had expected Cora to be hostile
but he never expected anything like this. She’s got her left hand on his thigh
as she hangs all over him like she can’t hold herself up. He says, “Uh, yeah, I
really haven’t got around to telling you guys how awesome Kira is.”
Kira beams at that.
Cora scowls and the hand she has on Stiles’s thigh twitches like she’s trying
to keep her claws in.
Stiles squirms and carefully pushes her hand away, which helps nothing because
her hand ends up right where it was again. “Um, Cora — is there something you
want to tell me?” he asks.
Cora looks at him with a blankly innocent face as she lifts her arm off his
shoulders to stroke the edge of his left ear. “I just, you know, missed you I
guess,” she says.
Kira’s smile shrinks a little. She looks down and pokes at her salad.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “I literally saw you over an hour ago,” he points out.
Cora shrugs and finally moves to start eating, giving Stiles room to breathe
and really process her weird behavior. She’s looking smugly satisfied for some
reason, and he doesn’t miss the way she shoots Kira these little glances.
Stiles looks at Derek for some clarification but he just smirks with a meager
shrug. Stiles sighs and gives up. He’s too hungry anyway.
Two military jets pass overhead with a loud sound.
Stiles dips a chicken-strip in his small cup of ketchup and says, “They must be
doing drills or something. I’ve seen those planes at least six times today.”
Derek shrugs again and Cora glances up like she’s waiting to see it for
herself.
Kira just continues to poke at her salad like she doesn’t plan on eating it at
all.
Stiles frowns with concern and he nudges her foot with his own until she looks
up. “You want my slushie? You didn’t get one,” he says, because he’d noticed.
Kira smiles a little with a nod and accepts it. She glances over at Cora from
under her eyelashes and she doesn’t stop grinning.
Cora looks ready to snap her plastic fork in half.
Stiles doesn’t get where all this tension is coming from. There's no reason why
Cora shouldn't like Kira.
Derek steals a couple of Stiles’s fries since he’d finished his own. He says,
“That quiz you had in math. How do you think you did?”
Stiles pulls his tray out of the other teen’s reach. “I need you to stop taking
my food or we can’t be on speaking terms,” he warns. Then he says, “For once, I
think I did really good, and I don’t usually feel confident like that.”
Derek smiles in an approving manner and Stiles gets a little distracted by how
nice it is for like a split second. He says, “When did you want to go to the
guidance counselor’s office so we can make it official?”
Stiles shrugs and goes back to eating his chicken-strips when he’s certain that
Derek won’t take anymore of his fries. “We can go after lunch is over,” he
supposes.
Derek nods and goes back to sipping on his slushie. By the color of his lips,
it’s obvious he’s drinking the sour apple one.
Those two military jets pass overhead with a loud sound and Stiles watches them
circle above before disappearing from sight again. His brow furrows as the back
of his mind itches with something that’s almost like a keen awareness. It kind
of feels like déjà vu almost.
Kira flags his attention away from the matter when she says, “So there’s this
movie.”
Stiles looks at her and nods to show her he’s paying attention.
Kira looks a little nervous. “I just — it’s got Christina Ricci and it’s like a
historical movie or whatever. She’s like this axe-murderer or something and —
the reviews online looked positive — though I can’t really say for sure. You
know with these kinds of movies it can be hit or miss and she’s been out of the
game for what feels like a long time. Or maybe I just haven’t really been
hearing about her other projects or whatever, but I think if they were any good
they would have been worth mentioning —”
“Can you get to the point already?” Cora rudely interrupts and Stiles nudges
her with his elbow warningly.
Kira flushes and clears her throat. “Right, well — I thought maybe, you know,
if you wanted, Stiles — we could, um, go? Together?”
Stiles doesn’t answer right way. He’s thinking of everything he has to do this
week. First, there’s the thing with the Mermaids. And then his father has to
still give him those photos so he can take it to Deaton and get his input on
the situation. Then there’s the class trip he and Cora are supposed to be
taking this Saturday for their AP Biology class out to Chicago. He hasn’t even
told his dad about that yet. Plus he wanted to pay Lydia another visit before
he went out of town, just to check up on her and see how she’s doing. He
worries sometimes.
Kira fidgets at his silence and says, “It’s okay if you didn’t want to —”
“No, no,” Stiles quickly reassures. “Sorry, I was just thinking. Checking my
mental calendar. I don't know if — there’s just a lot of things I have to do
this week.”
Kira looks like she’s trying to mask her disappointment.
Stiles makes it a point to add, “But next week I’m pretty wide open if you, uh,
still wanted to go?”
Kira perks up at that and nods.
Cora says, “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the movies too. Why don’t I
tag along?”
Kira presses her lips together and she looks like she’s trying to keep her
expression neutral.
Derek snorts and says, “I don’t think that invitation was for you.”
Cora glares at him. “She doesn’t mind if I come.” She turns her glare to Kira.
“Right, Kira? I mean, it’s not like it’s a dateor anything.”
Kira chokes, face burning hotly, and says, “Nope. Nope. Yup, you should totally
come. I’d — three’s a company, as they say. Okay, I have to go now.” She picks
her tray and flees.
Stiles watches her stumble away with a frown. A gob of defensive anger strings
around the teeth of his ribs and gets tangled up in a web of irritation. He
looks at Cora who tries to look at him as impassively as possible. “Don’t,” he
says. “Don’t treat her like that, okay? I get that you’re — that you don’t
really like people much or anything, or you’re a certain way with people
outside of your wolfy circle, but she’s really nice and funny and sweet and I
like her. She doesn’t deserve to be pricked by your thorny personality.”
Cora purses her lips and she looks angry too. “I’m doing youa favor, dumbass.
You really think she’s just wants to be —"
"Yeah, well, don't bother doing me any favors like that," Stiles snaps.
"Ugh. You know what? Forget it. I’ll let it blow up in your face while I’ll
play the nice little Human.” Cora bats her hair over her shoulder and it hits
Stiles in the face. “Don’t expect me to like her though because that’s not me.
I don’t kiss people’s ass.”
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Stiles merely replies with thinly veiled
frustration because that isn’t what he meant at all.
"Then what, huh? What would make youhappy?" Cora snidely replies. "How should I
be?"
“I’m not asking you to be anything you're not. Don't you get it?" Stiles
exclaims. "I'm not asking — I would never ask you to change. I’m just asking
you not treat my friends like garbage and really I shouldn't have to ask for
that courtesy, Cora,” he says as he gathers all his things and walks away
because he doesn’t want to say anything else he might regret later. His hands
are shaking by the time he dumps his tray and he has to jam them in his
pockets.
Derek runs to catch up with him. He doesn’t say anything, which Stiles really
appreciates because he’s not up for conversation.
Together they go to the main office and sit on the bench outside of the
guidance counselor’s office. It takes a little while for them to see Victoria
because she has quite a line of people already waiting for her. That might have
something to do with the fact that the school year is coming to a close. But
when they do see her, it’s a quick process. She doesn’t ask many questions
about what happened with Paige, partly because she seems to be in a rush and
extremely busy as is.
Stiles and Derek sign their new tutoring contract and that’s the end of that.
They exit the main office together and start a lazy pace through the (now
empty) halls. They end by the stairwell, and Derek grabs his elbow so they can
pause there.
Stiles raises both eyebrows and looks at him expectantly.
Derek says, “Cora’s not too complicated.”
“Well, I know that,” Stiles says with a questioning frown. He’s a lot calmer
now than he was before, and he just feels more anxious than he does irate about
their little falling out. "I just...yeah, I get it. I get how she is."
“Look, I’m not just saying this because I’m her older brother,” Derek
clarifies, tugging Stiles closer like he wants this conversation to remain
private, even though they are literally the only two people in the hall. “She
likes you. She doesn’t really bother with people outside of our family. She’s
selective like that. She’s always been rough around the edges and she’s selfish
in the most unapologetic way. That being said, don’t expect her to apologize
for how possessive she acts with you.”
Stiles fidgets with a heady sigh, and Derek’s words do nothing but leave him
feeling weary, kind of like he’s been stretched too thin. “Yeah, I never
thought she would,” he says quietly. 
“She won't,” Derek confirms. “But you were right to say what you said to her."
Stiles just makes a thoughtful sound. He's becoming emotionally tired over
this.
"Cora thinks she can..." Derek pauses to find the right words. "Sometimes she
needs to be reminded that it’s not okay to treat everyone with that kind of
attitude. Mom does what she can at times, and Laura and I try to get on her
case too. Sometimes Uncle Peter will say something to reel her in. She’s a
tough girl, but she’s not a bad person.”
Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think that she’s a bad person. I like how
abrasive Cora can be. But Kira is — she’s a lot like me. When I first moved
here it was — it’s just always hard to make friends. Or not feeling like you’re
annoying everyone you meet because you stick out like a sore thumb.”
Derek cocks his head at that. “You think you stick out like a sore thumb?”
“Kinda? Yes? I don’t know, it’s just — I have a thing about that,” Stiles
admits and tries not to fidget under Derek’s searching gaze. “I’m only — look,
can we not talk about me? We’re talking about your sister and how she possibly
scared off one of the best next door neighbors I’ve had in a long time?”
Derek looks amused. “Oh yeah. Peter told me about the Ghoul thing.”
“He shouldn’t have,” Stiles complains. “You’ve got better things to do than to
hear about my crazy luck.”
“I thought it was funny,” Derek admits and smiles widely when Stiles glares at
him. “I’m kidding.”
“And we’ve discussed that. You’re not funny,” Stiles grumbles and brushes
Derek’s hand away because he's still gripping his elbow. “Now, are we going to
go to class or are we going to —”
“Bilinski! There you are!”
Derek and Stiles turn to see Coach Finstock striding down the hall towards
them.
Coach Finstock says, “Listen, I need you here for the game tonight. I’m going
to have to play you since three of our players came down with some weird freaky
flu called dilutional hyponatremia or something, I don’t know. I kind of
drifted in and out when their parents were talking to me.” He glances at Derek
with narrowed eyes and sizes him up. “You’re not on my team are you? Jesus, I
should really be keeping track of this.”
Derek shakes his head and says, “Lacrosse is not my thing. I’m on the
basketball team.”
“That’s right,” Coach Finstock with a look of dawning and he shakes Derek’s
hand with a zealous smile. “I was there at the game before spring break and I
have to say you have one hell of a wrist.”
Derek smirks. “Well thank you for saying as much. I do what I can.”
Stiles rolls his eyes.
“You know, if you ever get sick of that court, you can come out to the fields
and give it a try. We’d be happy to have you,” Coach Finstock says and he lets
go of Derek so he can clap a hand over Stiles’s shoulder in a jilting way. “I
can’t pretend I don’t need it.”
“That’s flattering, but like I said, I’m not much for lacrosse,” Derek
reiterates with an apologetic shrug that’s not sincere in the least. “And since
you were so nice enough to come to one of my games, why don’t I come to yours?”
“Or you could not,” Stiles suggests because he has a feeling that Derek isn’t
offering to be nice. He’s offering to be rudely funny and probably to watch
Stiles fumble around.
Derek ignores him but his smirk does widen which only confirmsStiles’s theory.
“I’ve never been to a lacrosse game, but I think it’s about time I see what all
the fuss is about.”
“Please do. It’s a rousing sport. Doesn’t get much credit,” Coach Finstock says
before he looks to Stiles. “For the love of all things mighty, Bilinski. Please
don’t be late.” And with that he’s off.
Stiles shoots Derek a look and says, “You’re not really going to come are you?”
Derek straightens, and he has just an inch over Stiles but he manages to use
that to his advantage as he gives a wolfish grin. “It almost sounds like you
don’t want me to come, Bilinski.”
“That’s because I don’t. I really don’t. I am not trying to be subtle about
that at all,” Stiles replies honestly. “I’m going to eat so much grass tonight.
I haven’t been to practice in forever. Maybe I should just phone it in to the
hospital right now. Tell them to get that stretcher ready.”
Derek snorts. “You know, the main thing is that confidence is key.”
“Don’t try and be my Yoda about this,” Stiles mutters as he crosses his arms.
“Confidence will mean nothing if the other players run me over.”
“Why’d you even join the team if you were worried about that?” Derek asks with
a hint of exasperation.
“It’s — never mind, don’t pay attention to me. It’s just the nerves talking,”
Stiles reasons with a sigh. “But seriously, are you going to be there tonight?”
“Yeah, but only because you don’t want me to,” Derek admits with a mean grin.
“Laura and I will even make you a sign and everything. You know, really show
our support.”
“Unbelievable,” Stiles mumbles, giving Derek a flat look. “You just get a kick
out of messing with me, don’t you?”
Derek just shrugs the corners of his mouth at the same time he shrugs his
shoulders. Then he says, “Later.”
“Later,” Stiles returns as he watches the other teen stride down the hall and
disappear around the corner. His mouth twists thoughtfully as he wanders in
search of his locker. He’s entering the combination when a chill zips up his
spine, causing him to straighten and he turns in time to see Mayor Argent
striding down the hall with Garret and Violet on either side of him.
They all look at Stiles as they pass him, and it feels like he’s watching it
happen in some kind of eerie slow motion the way they all smirk slowly in
unison as they eye him like they know something he doesn’t. The moment their
eyes connect with his feels like it happens for an age because everything goes
deathly quiet as they slowly glide past him with darkly ambitious eyes.
They eventually look away as they continue on in the direction of the main
office, smirks still firmly planted on their faces as their pace never stutters
and the sound of the world comes rushing through again, breaking through the
momentary moment of mute stillness.
Stiles watches them disappear into the main office as something cold seeps into
his bones and his gut twinges in alarm.
He can’t figure out what it is about them.
But he knows it’s nothing good.
                                      ---
When school ends, Stiles looks for Kira but she’s nowhere to be found. He has a
sinking feeling that she might be avoiding him because of the whole lunch
incident. He sends her a few texts to apologize and makes his way to his
brother’s school on his bike.
Isaac is waiting out front with Boyd. And the thing is that they’re not even
talking or looking at each other. They’re sitting on the curb, side by side
with shoulders touching and with their hands folded together between their
knees. They seem content to just sit there quietly and let the world continue
to move around them.
Stiles finds it curious, but he doesn’t find it strange. He’s glad Isaac has
found a friend in Boyd — someone who he can relate to in some way or another.
He rolls to a stop before them and says, “Hey, Boyd. Is it fair for me to
assume that you’re trying to steal my brother?”
“Yes, I think that’s very fair and accurate to assume because that is what I’m
trying to do,” Boyd says with a sarcastic smile.
“Oh,” Stiles laughs. “Well at least you're honest about it.”
Boyd stands and claps their hands together. “Hey, man. I’m just keeping it
real,” he says with mock sincerity as they release each other’s hands. “What’s
going on with you, though? Got any plans tonight?”
“Lacrosse game,” Stiles admits and shrugs. “Other than that. No.”
Boyd hums thoughtfully just as Erica strolls up to them in a scandalously tight
nylon dress. She says, “What’s going on, clits?”
Isaac fidgets and looks in the opposite direction with a frown.
Stiles makes a face and says, “Hey, Erica. Charming as always.”
Erica gives a curtsy while holding up two middle fingers before she digs into
her cleavage for a cigarette and a lighter. “Seriously, though. Tell me you
guys have some plans because I cannot hang with Jackson and the rest of them.
Total downers. All they ever want to do is go to hospitals.”
“Yeah but the thing about that is that people who have friends in those
hospitals want to visit out of concern,” Boyd explains and gives Erica this
disgruntled look. “I don’t know why you’re acting shady, but you need to
remember that you grew up with Lydia and Danny too.”
Erica flicks her thumb over her metal lighter and takes a deep drag as she
lights the tip of her cigarette. She exhales a long stream of grey smoke in
Boyd’s face. “Grew up, Vernon,” she replies. “That’s all we did. Grow up
together. I wasn’t swapping tampons with Lydia, and I sure as hell wasn’t
trading makeup tips with Danny.” She smiles sweetly as her cigarette hangs
limply between her cherry red lips as she pats Boyd on the cheek. “Trust me,
sweetheart. If it was you lying in a hospital bed, all bandaged up and
bruised,” she says as she slides her hand down the side of his neck and to his
wide chest. “I’d play nursemaid for you in a heartbeat,” she finishes with a
wink and plucks her cigarette from her mouth to flick some ash off the tip.
“You know you could get expelled for that right?” Stiles points out.
Erica shrugs like she doesn’t care and she probably doesn’t. “Let’s go to the
arcade. I got some clowns over there that owe my brothers some money for
product and I’m about to cash out. Plus my dad’s being weird so I’m not ready
to go home.” She sniffs and takes another drag from her cigarette. She seems
bothered and anxious, if the way her feet always shift restlessly as her
fingers twitch around her cigarette is any indication. She looks like she’s
coming down hard from a caffeine high.
“I’m good on that,” Boyd says as he walks over to Isaac. They exchange a brief
conversation before they do a little handshake that seems all their own and
Boyd uses that grip to pull Isaac to his feet as they exchange grins. Then he
turns away and continues, “I’m going to the hospital with Jackson. He’s been to
see Danny every day, just as much as Lydia and you know, I don’t want him to be
by himself since Scott’s gone to have dinner with Allison and her mom.”
Erica just sniffs again and flicks her cigarette as she scans the parking lot
anxiously.
Stiles watches her and feels compelled to say, “I think I’ll hang back. Some
gaming might do some good for my nerves.”
Boyd nods. “I’m sure you’ll do fine tonight. Jackson says you’re not half bad
when you try. Maybe we’ll swing by later,” he supposes. He nudges Erica as he
walks to his bike. “Don’t let her get you into trouble,” he warns.
Erica scoffs and smiles prettily, but there’s a razor sharp edge to it. “Me?
Trouble? I don’t think that’s possible,” she quips.
“Yeah, yeah. You just better not get arrested for something dumb. Stop mixing
yourself in your family’s mess. It’s not worth it,” Boyd urges as he mounts his
bike and peddles off in the direction of the hospital.
Erica throws down her cigarette and stomps it into the cement with her heel
before she looks to Stiles. “So. Just you and me.” Then she looks at Isaac, who
is still looking off in the direction of where Boyd disappeared to. “And Mr.
Mute too, I guess.”
“His name is Isaac,” Stiles says and reigns in his annoyance. He’s trying to be
a good friend here and see what’s up with her. She looks like she needs someone
to talk to because to Stiles, well, she feels kind of off and he’d like to know
why. “If we’re going to the arcade we should go now. I’ve got a game later so
that only gives me about two hours.”
Erica shrugs but she eases over to grab her bike before she mounts it and
starts peddling lazily.
Stiles rolls over to Isaac and says, “Hey. You good to go?”
Isaac looks at him before he looks at Erica’s shrinking back with an unreadable
expression. He says, quietly (like he thinks she'd hear), “I don’t like her.”
Stiles snorts. “I don’t think anyone does. But she can’t be all bad,” he
supposes.
Isaac shakes his head. "She's — she feels off."
Stiles considers that and says, "Yeah, I kind of noticed that too."
Isaac's frown just deepens as he continues to gaze after her.
Stiles nudges him gently. “Get your bike.”
Isaac exhales quietly before he grabs his bike and mounts it.
Five minutes later finds the three of them in the heart of the business area
(Uptown). The sidewalks are as busy as the streets are with all sorts of people
walking around, either by themselves or with friends or family. The sun is
gleaming down on them with winks of light that hit store windows and car
windshields and any shiny metal thing.
Outside of the arcade stands a homeless man, his feet planted on the edge of
the curb that marks the empty spot reserved for the handicapped, his dirty
fingers curled around a scraggly piece of cardboard with the words ‘GOD IS
DEAD! MONSTERS ARE ALIVE!’ scribbled across it. He doesn’t look to be too old,
but he does have a deep tan and prominent wrinkles around his eyes. His skin is
caked with smudges and dirt, like he’s been cleaning out a chimney. His hair is
a wild bird’s nest of salt and pepper, but his clothes are immaculately clean.
What sticks out the most to Stiles is his red satin jacket. It looks shiny and
new, and it twinkles with glossy streaks when he moves his body every which way
with the passionate sermon he shouts at pedestrians as they pass him by in
haste.
“The wicked is coming!” the man swears, mouth foaming slightly despite his
split and dryly cracked lips. “Pray for your kids but they’re already dead! To
darkness they’ll be dragged down. Guard your houses! They’ll take you alive and
make you what they are! Pray! God is dead but pray!”
Erica comes to a screeching halt and this forces Stiles and Isaac to stop as
well. She’s got a devious smile on her face as she says, “Ah, there. See? Just
the man I was looking for.”
Stiles has no time to ask her what she means because she tosses her bike to the
side and marches towards the homeless man like a girl with a purpose.
Erica shouts, “Yo, Frank! You damn bastard! Where have you been hiding?”
The sharp sound of those two military jets passing overhead rings loudly as if
they’ve edged even closer.
The man called Frank looks at Erica with widely terrified eyes and he stumbles
in his haste to get away, which is a mistake because he ends up falling flat on
his face in the handicapped parking space.
“No, no, Frank,” Erica calmly reprimands as she strides over so she can press
her heel to his throat to keep him down. “None of that.”
Frank chokes as he twists and jerks his body under her heel like he can’t get
free.
“Where’s the money you owe Ricky and Carter? You’re lucky it’s me trying to
peel your ass about this. Ricky and Carter?” Erica shakes her head. “Wouldn’t
be so considerate. You’d be spitting out teeth by now, Frank. Or whatever left
you have. But to be honest, that’s fair right? We drop two pounds of our best
product on you without the cash advance and this is how you repay us? Come on,
Frank. You know that shit doesn’t fly.”
“Please! Please!” Frank gasps and he looks around frantically at the gathering
crowd who watch in interest with seemingly no intent to intervene. Some people
have even pulled out their phones to record. “For the love of — don’t just
stand there! Stop vining and do something! She’ll kill me — ah!”
Erica grinds her heel down on his Adam’s apple as she retrieves her lighter
from her pocket. She flicks it on and off with a smirk. “That’s a nice jacket
you got there, Frank. It’d be a shame if something happened to it while you
were still inside it.”
Frank gives a high-pitched whine and empties his pockets of all the money he
has.
Erica lets up on him then, huffing as she watches him scramble to his feet
before he sprints off. She gathers the money and pockets it as the crowd
disperses now that the show is over. She takes a moment to unscrew the top to
the cross she’s been wearing as a necklace and dabs something suspiciously
white onto her pinky before she holds it under one nostril and takes a sharp
inhale before blinking rapidly with a shiver. She wiggles her nose as she puts
the cap back onto her cross.
Stiles strides over to her and says, “Seriously, Erica. What the hell was
that?”
“Business,” Erica merely says with another sniff and wiggles her nose. What had
seemed like a caffeine crash has now become startlingly clear for what it
really is: a drug problem. “What? You don’t like the way I handled that? Should
I have been more polite? Want to give me pointers on customer service?” She
scoffs. “You need to relax. No one’s going to call the cops over some thirteen-
year-old girl kicking down a homeless man. I just provided these small town
fuckers with some dinner conversation.”
“They might call the cops if they think you and your family are dealing,”
Stiles hisses lowly.
Erica blinks slowly at him before she gives him a smile that doesn’t even reach
her brown eyes. “So what? You’re judging me now? Is that a threat I hear from
the sheriff’s son? Trust me, asshole. You don’t want to try it. What my
brothers and I do is our business, okay? Not all of us have nice homes and
loving parents, so fuck you. I don’t need another fake friend hanging around me
out of some moral sense of obligation. And yeah, I know that’s the only reason
you came with me because you feel sorry for me, just like Scott and Allison and
the rest of them do. Fuck you and fuck them.”
“Erica,” Stiles reaches out to touch her but she flinches away.
“Don’t,” Erica warns. “Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t ever touch me.” There’s
water building up behind her eyes quickly. “You have no idea what I have to do
to survive. You have no idea because while you’re sitting all warm and cozy
with your poster family, I have to constantly fight off my dad every night he
comes home drunk and covered in blood. So go ahead and tell your dad that my
family’s dealing or whatever the fuck you think you have to do, but know that
if I didn’t do it I’d be starving right now. I’d be living on the streets just
like a bum. We do what we have to do.”
Stiles stares at her in shock.
“Yeah, that’s right. That’s what you want hear, isn’t it? You wanna hear the
whole fucking sob story so you can be a good Samaritan and offer your shoulder
for me to cry some pretty little tears on so you can go on and feel good about
your life. Well guess what? I don’t need that and I don’t need you. I don’t
need any of you doing me any fucking favors,” Erica says as her mascara begins
to run and she looks so very broken. “Fuck you,” she whispers and storms past
him to grab her bike and peddle off.
Stiles watches her go without a mind to stop her. He’s still dumbfounded. He
had wanted to help Erica — wanted to be a friend. He was trying to be a willing
ear but now he’s pretty sure that would have never been enough. Her barbed
words had been like a bucket of ice, and suddenly, standing out in the middle
of that parking spot with the rest of the world just passing him by,
undisturbed, he feels so raw and foolish.
He’s never felt so unsure of himself.
Isaac grabs him and leads him to his bike, and together they ride home quietly.
Stiles is on autopilot. There’s something ugly like uncertainty expanding
between the teeth of his ribcage like thick, heavy foam.
It stays with him for the rest of the ride home, and even longer then.
                                      ---
The game against the rivaling school is not going well at all. They’re dying
out there, not only from the lack of skilled players, but because Coach
Finstock is foolish enough to put Stiles in the goal post as goalie.
Stiles hasn’t caught a single pass, and that’s only grating his already bitter
mood. His uniform is wrapped around him all wrong, and he’s sweating under his
helmet because the field lights seem blindingly hot and bright.
Don’t get him started on the eyes of the crowd.
It feels like they’re watching him as if they know he has no idea what he’s
doing. The grass under his cleats feels too soft and slippery, like he’s going
to sink down into it like quicksand. His chest feels tight, too tight, like his
heart doesn’t have enough space to thump. His palms are a damp mess under his
gloves and his eyes are stinging from the salt of his own sweat. He shifts
restlessly as he watches the other players run around, chasing after the ball
and each other, never quite making it to either side to score a goal.
The horn signaling halftime comes like a relief.
Stiles clenches his hands around his lacrosse stick, twisting and turning as he
stalks over to Coach Finstock who waves them all closer with a frustrated frown
wrapped around his black whistle. He’s indicating heavily to his clipboard,
which now has a new play scribbled across it. Stiles is barely paying attention
to the words. He feels itchy and unsettled. He just wants to take a long hot
shower and crawl into bed.
“— god sakes, Bilinski,” Coach Finstock bellows as he glares at them all.
"Please keep your eyes open and catch the goddamn ball. We’re behind by a point
but let’s not give them that opening."
Stiles just nods with the rest of them before they all disperse to grab a towel
or a bottle of water or Gatorade. He pulls off his helmet and dabs at his
forehead with a towel and looks towards the bleachers.
Jackson, Isaac, and Boyd are in the third row and they give him a nod and a
wave that Stiles returns with less enthusiasm.
Laura and Derek are sitting on the far right at the top, and as promised,
they’re holding up a large banner that reads ‘Stilinski is Our King!’. They
wave at him and Laura shoots him a huge encouraging smile as Derek juts his
chin with a small grin.
Stiles just waves at them too, and it’s as forced as it feels.
His dad, who is sitting on the first row, waves him over with a concerned
frown.
Stiles goes, not even bothering to pretend that he’s even remotely happy.
“How you holding up, kiddo?” his dad asks, clapping him on the shoulder when
Stiles gets close enough.
Stiles just shrugs. He’s given up on words.
His dad looks even more concerned. “Stiles — what’s wrong?”
Stiles shakes his head and shrugs again. He really doesn’t want to talk. He
just wants to go home.
His dad must read it on his face and he opens his mouth to no doubt offer to
take him home but the horn signaling the start of the game interrupts him.
Coach Finstock urges him onto the field and so Stiles puts his helmet back on
and moves to go back out there.
His dad grabs his wrist, stops him, and looks him in the eyes as he says, “You
are allowed to leave whenever you feel uncomfortable.”
Stiles freezes at that. That’s — that’s something his mom always used to say.
She knew how uncomfortable public spaces made him feel sometimes (playgrounds,
play dates, parties, etc.) and she always made it clear that they could leave
at the drop of a hat if that's what he wanted.
“Son,” his dad intones. He’s treading carefully. “You don’t owe them anything.
Nothing at all. We've discussed this before — there's no guilt in putting
yourself first.”
Stiles feels warmth gather at the corner of his eyes. He nods very quickly to
show his dad that he understands.
“If you wanted to leave, I’d take you away. No questions ask. To hell with it
all,” his dad says and presses his forehead against Stiles’s helmet. “Okay,
Stiles? You don’t have to stay.”
Stiles presses his lips together and he hugs his dad fiercely.
“I’m proud of you,” his dad continues. “If you don’t want to go out there then
don’t go out there unless you want to. It’s your choice, Stiles. It’s always
your choice, and they’re your feelings. Yours alone. Don’t let anyone else make
you feel guilty for how you decide to deal with them.”
Stiles smiles and inhales deeply before exhaling. He finally feels comfortable
enough to breathe. He pulls away and says, “Thanks, dad. I think — I know I
needed to hear that.”
His dad pats the side of his helmet affectionately with a nod. “You’re doing
great,” he promises.
Stiles nods and straightens, shaking off all the negativity before he jogs back
onto the field to the goal post. The warmth of his dad’s words kind of shelters
him and he can’t feel anything but loved, the guilt of earlier marginalizing
into something manageable. He feels slightly less small when he stands in that
goal post again and he tracks all of the players’ movements with his eyes,
ready and willing to really try this time.
Stiles will never be able to explain how his hands somehow know what to do when
one of the rival team’s powerhouse players come rushing down the field at him
with determination written in hard lines across his massive body. He stands
there gaping, kind of frozen, completely sure he’s about to mess this up, but
he finds himself ducking left to scoop the ball out of midair when its hurled
at the corner of the goal post. But, holy god,he does it.
Stiles catches what would have been the winning goal for the other team, and
the crescendo of clapping praises jolts him out of his shock in time for him to
brace himself as his teammates barrel into him with their enthusiasm, lifting
him up with roaring cheers. But Stiles is looking at his dad, who is cheering
for him with such glowing pride and it floods Stiles with such a sense of
accomplishment and joy.
When he’s settled on his feet, he staggers out of from the cluster of his
teammates, who won’t stop patting him on the back and shoulders. He stumbles
all the way over to his dad who receives him with open arms. He says, “Dad,
dad! I — dad, did you see that? Oh my god, dad.”
“I know, I know,” his dad replies as he squeezes him close, his tone interlaced
with mirth and pride. “That was amazing. Stunned the hell out of me.”
Stiles pulls away and bounces on his heels anxiously. He’s got all this energy
now that he has absolutely no idea what to do with but he doesn’t care. This is
his moment. This is a moment he gets to keep forever because he did something
he never thought he’d be able to do at least until he was a junior or senior
but he did it and it felt so good.
Jackson, Isaac, and Boyd descend from the bleachers to offer congratulations.
His dad excuses himself with a promise he’ll be waiting in the car when he’s
ready to go, and walks off with Isaac, who offers Stiles a quick grin meant
only for him to see.
Jackson actually looks genuinely impressed, but of course, he makes it about
him by saying, “Looks like all that time I put in with you paid off.”
Boyd nudges him and shakes his head.
“What?” Jackson says, looking as unapologetic as ever. But then he gets solemn.
“Danny would’ve said something sappy about how you’ve always had it in you.
But, you know. I’m sure you’ll tell him all about it when he’s — you know.”
Stiles nods. He understands perfectly well what Jackson is trying to say, but
the other teen deals with emotions about as well as a toddler who’s being
forced to swallow syrup medicine does. He says, “Thanks.”
Jackson nods before he makes an indication for Boyd to follow. “Let’s catch a
practice together some time, Stilinski. Can’t have you slacking,” he says with
a cocky smirk before he wanders off with Boyd.
Boyd says, "Congrats, man. Good one."
Stiles watches them go before he turns to see Derek and Laura approach. He
offers them a modest smile. He says, “What did you think?”
“It was interesting to say the least,” Derek supposes with grin and he shrugs.
“Still not into it. But your performance at the end was inspiring.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Didn’t think you’d be into it, but I guess that’s as
much as a compliment as I’m going to get from a basketball fanatic.”
Laura snorts and pinches Stiles’s cheek. “Don’t mind, Derek. He can’t be
bothered when it’s not about him. I thought you were awesome! And that last
move with the goal? Flawless,” she compliments.
Stiles smiles widely and swats her hand away. “Yeah. It was so — thanks.” He
looks down and says, “Nice...banner?”
“You like?” Laura says as she holds it up higher at eye level. “Derek helped me
make it. Wouldn’t stop complaining the whole time about how the glitter was
getting in his hair and on his shoes, but you know, he’s a drama queen so I
just tuned him out.”
Derek makes a wounded and offended sound.
Stiles snickers. “Well I appreciate the efforts.” He pokes at the sign and some
glitter pops off and he adds, “I’m really digging the irony, though.”
“I’m a total Potterhead. I won’t even deny,” Laura confesses with mock
seriousness. “Next time I’ll make shirts though. Really show my support.”
“Uh, you don’t have to do that,” Stiles says with an amused frown. “Seriously.
Please don’t, Laura.”
“What’s that? A dozen shirts? All in blue? Rhinestones included? I don’t know,
that’s a tall order, but okay,” Laura says because she’s ridiculous.
Stiles laughs and pushes her gently. “Okay, that’s not cool. Firstly, I know
you heard me because you’ve got hyper-hearing, and secondly, if you make those
shirts anything like you just described, I will leave town and never look back.
Minimum wage in Hawaii is sick, I hear.”
“Oh, what a cute threat,” Laura coos with a wink. “Fine. I’ll just make a
modest, like, small and exclusive number of shirts. For family and close
friends.”
“Don’t make the shirts,” Stiles pleads and tries to be stern about it but he’s
smiling so hard that it’s almost impossible. “Come on, Laura. Be cool. Don’t."
“What? But I was going to do like glow-in-the-dark meets lite-brite and had
this mutant child and that would’ve been your shirts,” Laura teases and smiles
widely when Stiles laughs. She looks to Derek and says, “I just really don’t
understand how he doesn’t want that.”
“Something so gaudy and obnoxious?” Derek counters and feigns a considerate
look. “He obviously doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“Right? Obviously,” Laura agrees.
Stiles snickers and shakes his head. “Okay, I’m done with this whole
conversation. I have to go, my dad’s waiting. Bye. Bye. Please don’t do the
shirt thing. Bye.”
Laura pulls him into a hug that lasts longer than it should (but Stiles doesn't
mind) and she lets him go when he complains about the way she grinds her
knuckles into the top of his head. She tweaks his nose before she leaves him
be. She waves at one of her fellow cheerleaders in the bleachers before she
climbs the stands to have a lively conversation.
Derek cocks his head and says, “You seem better then you were before.”
Stiles blinks, thrown, and says, “What does that mean?”
Derek shrugs. “You just looked like you were down about something earlier.
Laura and I both noticed but she didn’t want to bring it up. I’m a lot more
straightforward though, so, I’m bringing it up,” he says as he lifts both
eyebrows brazenly.
Stiles huffs and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I had — earlier I
just kind was thrown off about something someone said to me. It was like — you
know when you try and come at something with the best intentions and it blows
up in your face?” He drops his hand with a sigh. “Yeah, well, I kind of had
that moment and it really bummed me out. I basically — it just really threw
me.”
Derek crosses his arms and flicks his gaze over Stiles’s face like he’s
searching for something. “You can’t always get it right,” he supposes but it’s
almost profound the way he says it. “Sometimes you got to take the good with
the bad, I think. Grain of salt, and all that.”
Stiles feels his mouth twist with an amused frown. “That’s deep, man.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re better at this then me. I thought maybe I’d try
and say something that would strike a chord. I don’t know. We’re friends and
friends say meaningful stuff to each other.”
“Meaningful stuff,” Stiles echoes with undisguised mirth. “Right.”
Derek gives a heady sigh.
“Okay, sorry. It’s just — thanks. That was — helpful? Maybe, I don’t know,
we’ll work on it,” Stiles promises with a humored grin. “And the feeling’s
mutual, about the friend stuff, I guess. I didn’t know we decided to be
friends.”
“We have an unspoken bond, can’t you tell?” Derek states, giving Stiles the
flattest look.
“Not really, to be honest. I still haven’t quite forgiven you for the taco
incident, so…” Stiles says and shrugs in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way, but
by the way Derek rolls his eyes again he can tell the other teen knows he’s
joking. “Okay, but I really have to go. I guess I’ll catch you — when we catch
each other. Do you wanna do some math stuff tomorrow?”
Derek looks indefinably amused. “Sure. Before first period, though. I have
basketball practice right after school.”
“Priorities,” Stiles snorts and starts backing away. “Later.”
“Later,” Derek returns before sprinting up in the bleachers to join his sister.
Stiles doesn't bother to watch them, the stands are mostly empty by now with
only a few people lingering around. He makes his way quickly to the parking lot
where Isaac and his dad are waiting in his dad’s rumbling cruiser, back and
front taillights shining brightly even under the heavy glow of the tall street
lamps.
Stiles doesn’t feel as hot as he did before, but it’s still a relief to him to
slide into the backseat with Isaac and feel the blast of the car’s air
conditioner, compared to how damp and humid the night air had seemed.
Isaac is leaning against the door on his side of the car, looking up and out of
the window like he’s trying to count the stars because there’s nothing else of
particular interest going on.
His dad shifts into drive and they’re pulling away from the curve to head home.
He says, “That was a really good game.”
“You think so?” Stiles asks, suddenly giddy again at what he’d managed to
accomplish. He fidgets in his seat with a grin when his dad glances at him in
the rear view mirror. “I thought I’d puke when I first went out there.”
His dad hums thoughtfully at that and keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him.
“Pre-game jitters,” he supposes. “Happens to the best of us. I got them all the
time back when I played football, but, Jesus, that seems like forever ago.”
Stiles snorts. “You’re not that old.”
“Old enough,” his dad argues. “You wanna stop somewhere?”
“We still have leftovers,” Stiles points out because they do. He and Isaac had
cooked a tuna casserole earlier that afternoon before the game. Isaac had had
about three servings of it and Stiles had been too down at the time to really
tease him for it. He continues, “We don’t need to stop anywhere.”
“Fine then,” his dad says. “If that’s what you want.”
Stiles sinks back against the seat and lets the silence seep in between the
chirp of his dad’s radio. “Dad, what do you do when — if you know someone is in
trouble and you want to help but they don’t want you to?”
His dad stops at a red light and says, “That’s a tricky one. Depends on the
trouble they’re in. If it’s immediate, you kind of want to get it taken care of
right away. If it’s something else, well, sometimes you can’t help people if
they don’t want to be helped. You just have to keep letting them know that
you’re ready to help when they need it. Why?”
“Nothing, I, um,” Stiles says, choosing his words carefully. “I have this
friend who knows this friend and they have a drug thing with the family.”
Isaac glances over at him with this knowing look.
His dad looks at him sharply through the rearview mirror. “Stiles, if someone
is selling you drugs or —”
“Dad,” Stiles says, flailing. “I’m not — it’s not like that. I just have this
friend who knows this friend who I think might be in trouble but I don’t want
to make it worse.”
His dad deflates partially. He moves the car when the light turns green. “You
know there’s a such thing as anonymous tips, right? You can tell me enough
without having to tell me everything and I’ll see what I can do. How’s that?”
Stiles nods rapidly and tells him about Erica, keeping it short and simple
because for whatever reason, the whole thing seems to be making Isaac
uncomfortable.
Maybe it hits too close to home.
His dad makes a promise to look into it cautiously and that leaves Stiles
feeling better about the whole thing.
They pull up to the house and his dad parks the cruiser in the drive before
they all climb out.
Stiles is surprised but happy to see Kira sitting out on her front porch steps
with her guitar. He tells Isaac and his dad to go on in the house without him
and that he’ll be in shortly, while ignoring his dad’s speculative looks, which
he sends between Kira and Stiles like he’s trying to get a read on the
situation. He doesn’t comment though, and he follows Isaac into the house.
Stiles makes his way across the lawn and over to Kira, but not without tripping
over the garden hose with a mangled swear. He leaps to his feet with an
embarrassed flush that Kira smiles softly at and he stands at the bottom of her
porch steps as she stays seated on the middle steps. He says, “I’m sorry about
earlier.”
“It’s okay,” Kira says with a light shrug. “I mean it’s not okay but, you know.
Uh, Cora approached me after school and dragged me to the ice cream parlor
before grilling me with questions. She paid for the ice cream, so — even though
she didn’t apologize, I guess that was her way of doing it.”
Stiles laughs a little and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, that sounds like
Cora,” he supposes. “She’s a — tough girl to figure out.”
“I noticed,” Kira merely says. “She’s actually not so bad.”
“No. She’s really not,” Stiles quietly agrees. “Are we — I mean, we’re good,
right? You and I? I just wouldn't want you to think that I — that, that kind of
behavior is okay with me.”
Kira furrows her brow.
“And I just — I’d hate for it to sour our friendship if — you’re really cool
and I don’t want you to think that I hang around with jerks, which I kind of
do, but please believe they’re jerks with pure hearts of gold,” Stiles
promises.
Kira grins and says, “We’re good, Stiles. You have a good quality about you
that I think gives you a fair instinct about the company you keep. Cora is —
she's some kind of something. But you're okay — we're okay.”
“Cool,” Stiles says but he can’t help but to notice that she still seems
subdued for some reason. “Are you sure? Because —”
“I got into it with my mom again,” Kira explains, stalling his worries. “I just
— don’t worry about it.” She gives a heady sigh. “That woman drains me.”
Stiles makes a sympathetic sound. “Well, um — did you still want to see that
movie next week? I’m still game if you are, and we totally don’t have to bring
Cora if you preferred not to.”
Kira exhales a quiet laugh and wordlessly nods.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Well I guess that’s that then. Movies next week, sans
Cora.”
Kira smiles and ducks her gaze down to her guitar, which she strums listlessly
for a moment before slapping a hand over it to quiet it before she says, “How
was the game? I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It’s fine. The game was — it was —” Stiles moves his hands around with an
unintelligible gesture and Kira laughs at him for it. “Just, you know?” He
makes a fist and punches it in his open palm and makes another gesture. “Like
that. But better. Better than what I expected, at least.”
“Great. That’s really great,” Kira remarks sincerely. Her mouth fidgets with a
fond smile and she bites the corner of her lip before she says, “I should get
inside. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Stiles nods and watches her go before he makes his way to his house, swatting
his way through a cluster of fireflies that always seem to like to gather
around his house lately. He locks the door behind him and moves to tuck away in
the bathroom, ridding himself of his uniform before he climbs under the hot jet
of the shower. He lets the steam settle in all around him so he can breathe it
in, turning the temperature down when he begins to feel lightheaded and
flushed.
An hour and a half later he climbs out, wet and pink, but clean. He wraps a
towel around his waist and gathers his dirty uniform on his way back to his
room. When he gets there, he dumps it all in his laundry basket before he slips
into some sleepwear. He notices a manila envelope resting innocently on the
middle of his bed with a sticky note that has his dad’s messy scrawl scribbled
across with the words: These are as many photos as I could get without rousing
any suspicion. Don’t make me regret this. Use with caution.
Stiles stuffs the envelope into his backpack and switches off his lights before
settling down into bed with future plans of delivering those photos.
That night he dreams about a raging sea of black water.
                                      ---
Early Wednesday morning, two hours before the start of school, Stiles drops
Isaac off at his school for early morning breakfast before he peddles into town
to see Deaton with the spare time he has before he has to meet up with Derek in
the school’s library.
Deaton seems to be restocking his book collection when Stiles arrives, and they
exchange brief greetings before he hands over the envelope. He says, “If I
wanted to catch a Mermaid or something...how do I do that?”
Deaton lifts both eyebrows as he carries the envelope over to the glass counter
display and stands on the other side of it. “That would depend on the form
they’re in.”
“Well, say they did the full-Ariel and were walking around on a fresh new set
of legs,” Stiles says, making a motion with his hands that doesn’t really
equate to his words. “What then?”
“It also depends on where they’ve come from,” Deaton says.
“The mountains?” Stiles offers, unsure if that’s helpful.
“Ah. I see. Then you need no longer refer to them by Mermaids, because in human
form they become Nymphs,” Deaton clarifies. “As Greek mythology will tell you,
they are famously beautiful creatures, yet treacherously selfish at heart and
attention-seekers. In order to remain in their human form they thrive on three
things: carnality, intemperate dynamism, and music.”
“Sounds like your typical high school party,” Stiles jokes.
Deaton, however, looks less than amused when he says, “Yes.”
Stile blinks. “Wait — you can’t actually mean —”
“Yes,” Deaton repeats. “Nymphs are easily located at parties, and as you so
cleverly stated, even more likely a high school or college party.”
Stiles exhales a long stream of air as he fishes for his phone. “Peter’s going
to love this,” he mutters as he texts the older man. “Thanks.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Deaton merely replies. “I’ll examine these pictures
thoroughly and tell you what I find.”
Stiles nods before he gives a light wave and exits the shop. He mounts his bike
and peddles to school. He locks up his bike and notices there’s not a lot of
students or teachers wandering around, which is understandable because it’s
still pretty early. He heads inside and makes his way to the library.
Derek’s sitting in the corner, doodling idly in his notebook, long legs
stretched out underneath the table.
Stiles walks over and sits across from him, dumping his backpack next to
Derek’s on the floor. He says, “So you get invited to parties a lot.”
Derek blinks and straightens, feet knocking into Stiles’s in the process, but
he doesn’t apologize for it as he lifts a brow. “Yeah. Sure.”
Stiles nods as he drums his fingers on the surface of the table and casually
asks, “Have you been invited to any lately or heard of any that have already
happened in the past?”
Derek looks at him evenly for a long moment before he cocks his head and
replies, “What are you getting at with this?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stiles says as he widens his eyes innocently.
“This is just one friend asking another friend about their social life because
said friend is interested in having as equally as a good of a time, if not
more.”
Derek leans forward slowly and rests his forearms against the table as he says,
“You realize you can’t lie to a Werewolf, right?”
Stiles flushes and flounders for a bit before he chokes out, “Lying?Me. Lying.
First of all, how dare — this is just an outrage — that you would accuse me
of — I would never — okay, damn it, I am. Stop looking at me like that."
Derek rolls his eyes and motions for him to continue.
Stiles explains, "Peter’s got me looking for some Mermaids or Nymphs or
whatever, and since you’re you, I figured you know about parties and stuff.”
“Parties and stuff,” Derek repeats flatly as he gives Stiles a skeptical look.
“Why would I know anything?”
“Your face is — you have what the folks call — there's just a way you — I mean,
you’re popular,” Stiles struggles to explain. “Why wouldn’tyou know?”
Derek snorts and leans back, and he’s wearing that stupid cocky grin that never
fails to irritate Stiles beyond reason. He says, “I think you gave me four
different compliments without actually giving me those compliments.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and counts to five before he says, “Okay. Now that we’ve
properly stroked your ego here...can you please help me out?”
“Well,” Derek says and leans forward again. “Sunday night, some freshman named
Greenburg threw a party at what everyone thought was his lake house. Turns out
he just broke into the place, but anyway, he had a ton of people come out,
including a few of my teammates. I think some of yours went too. A lot of
people ended up getting sick with something called dilutional hyponatremia. You
know there’s a rumor floating around about that. Maybe your Mermaids had
something to do with it.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says as it hits him. “Dilutional hyponatremia.”
Derek furrows his brow and lifts them as he shakes his head questioningly.
“Dilutional hyponatremia!” Stiles repeats as he flails his hands. “Also known
as water poisoning.”
Derek cocks his head at that. “I guess that just confirms it then,” he
supposes.
Stiles fishes for his phone and when he finds it, he shoots Peter another text
with his discovery. He says, “Alright, one last thing. Do you know of anymore
parties coming up?”
“I heard something about a college party on the other side of town,” Derek
offers with a shrug. “I can get more details if you need.”
“I need. I so need,” Stiles assures as he puts his phone away. “Okay, enough
about that. Let’s do the math stuff. Mrs. Cassidy passed out this study packet
so we can have something to prepare for finals, which, by the way, I’m
mortified of.”
Derek snorts. “Just show it to me and we’ll figure it out.”
Stiles digs into his backpack for the thick packet and he slaps it down in
front of the other teen. He gives Derek his attention earnestly, drifting off
once and a while but Derek drags him back by pressing his warm fingers down on
the pressure point of his left wrist while asking him targeted questions that
Stiles has no choice but to answer just out of genuine interest or confidence.
Though sometimes his line of thought gets derailed when Derek smiles with frank
indulgent pride whenever Stiles does something or answers anything correctly.
Stiles feels something light and frothy expand in his stomach like thick
soapsuds tickling at his insides. But because it’s so blunt and baffling, the
sensation being entirely new to him and all, he just does what he always does
when he can’t quite deal or assimilate.
He pushes it down — like way, way, down until it’s deep and as far as it can
go, and then he stubbornly ignores it.
                                      ---
Apparently Stiles and Cora aren’t on speaking terms still, if the way she
ignores him through all their shared classes and avoids him at lunch is any
indication.
That’s fine. Totally fine. He’s not the one in the wrong here.
Cora can have as much space as she wants to have in order to get over herself.
Stiles distracts himself from the issue by helping Laura pass out cookies
frosted with a picture of her smiling face on them as she looks down.
Kira’s such a good sport that she chips in too.
Stiles is more amused than anything when he notices the way people tend to
flock to her more than they do to him.
It’s probably her killer smile and her bubbly attitude.
Two military jets pass overhead with a loud sound.
Stiles cups a hand over his face to shield his eyes from the sun as he tries to
follow them. They zip by so fast that it’s no use.
A sophomore girl with freckles and braces edges over to him with a shy smile
and takes a cookie from his tray.
Stiles mumbles, “Vote for Laura.” before he glances back up to the sky.
Six minutes later, those two jets make their rounds once again.
                                      ---
Stiles takes Isaac with him to Eichen House when both their schools let out,
but he makes sure to ask the preteen if he’s really fine with it.
Now, sitting on their bikes in front of the vine-covered iron gates, Stiles
asks again, “You sure you’re okay to come in?”
Isaac shrugs and picks at a limp weed coiled around one of the rusted bars of
the gate.
“Seriously, Isaac. If you don’t want to come in, I’d understand,” Stiles
assures. “I just — it’s a creepy place and I’m trying to be sensitive here and
I don’t want to do anything that’s triggering to you and —”
Isaac straightens suddenly and he looks upset, like he’s been woken from a good
dream. His mouth scrunches in annoyance and he says, “Don’t assume.”
Stiles kind of stares at him with parted lips.
Isaac deflates then and looks away. “I don't think you do it on purpose.
But...sometimes you make these assumptions about what I've been through and
it's...I know I haven't shared enough with you for you to understand, so that's
partly my fault. But I only ask that you don't treat me like — like I'll break
at any moment. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could handle it,” he goes
on to say. “Don’t assume, okay?”
“Okay,” is Stiles’s snap response because he doesn’t want to make an idiot of
himself and he really shouldn’t be assuming. “Sorry.”
Isaac nods once and that’s the end of that.
Stiles pushes the gates open and together they make their way up the walkway,
to the cracked steps, and up to the top where they lock their bikes. After they
make their way inside, they sign in at the front desk and wait for Ms. Morrell
(who shows up a little less than seven minutes later).
“This way,” Ms. Morrell says as she glances between Isaac and Stiles coolly
before spinning on her heel and striding down the hall. She doesn’t lead them
to the stairwell, but rather to the double doors that lead out to the
courtyard.
The courtyard is an enclosed space that resides at the heart of the facility.
Its clean-cut bushes, trees, and grass are obviously well looked after. There’s
an orderliness to it that clashes with the wandering disorderly patients who
walk about in a sort of dazed state, mumbling unintelligible noises and
conversations to themselves, or even to each other. Which still isn’t coherent
because by the way it sounds, two patients talking to each other often have
differing responses, and it only seems like they’re have two different
conversations.
It’s less cloudy today, and the afternoon sun looms brightly in the sky, making
things seem blaringly brighter and more contrast.
There’s a large water fountain on the far end of the courtyard and Lydia is
sitting on the stone bench that faces it under a shedding cherry blossom tree.
She’s wearing a strapless ivory jumpsuit, her strawberry blonde hair spilling
over her delicately pale shoulders like a curly waterfall, and that same black
birdcage funeral veil pinned to her hair. Her feet are bare, but like her
fingernails, the toenails are painted with a deep plum color.
Stiles sits down in the space to Lydia’s right while Isaac walks along the edge
of the water fountain, the light of the water reflecting against the scarred
features of his face. Stiles wonders if he’s looking at the coins in the
fountain — if there are any coins in there to begin with. He’d like to think
that even mentally unstable people have things that they wish for.
Lydia’s gaze stays straightforward, even as she draws what looks to be a crying
mother in a hijab cradling her limp toddler with the large drawing pad in her
lap and the stick of charcoal in her right hand. There are steady streams of
tears rolling down her pink cheeks, and something about the way she doesn’t
wipe them away makes Stiles find it to be striking in its own way.
There’s something to be said about someone who lets you see them in all their
pain without trying to conceal it.
Lydia’s not broken, he realizes. She just feels more deeply now.
Stiles looks down and studies the sketch curiously and, even though he’s sure
to get no response, asks, “Who’s that?”
Lydia stares unblinkingly at the fountain as her hand never ceases. It’s
amazing how detailed the drawing is because she’s not looking at it at all.
Stiles needs to get to a point where he can stop being surprised by the things
his cousin can do. He traces his eyes over the sketch and notices that the
mother in the picture has teeth that are slightly fanged, and the hands she has
buried into her toddler’s pea coat are lengthened into claws. He realizes with
a slight jolt that Lydia is drawing Werewolves.
Lydia's hand finishes with the mother and daughter, so she begins to work on
the background, which quickly forms into two gathering mobs: a line of
policemen and a line of protesters — both on opposite sides.
Stiles furrows his brow as he tries to take in the implications.
Lydia starts singing the National Anthem softly as a slow breeze glides through
the courtyard, making her hair come to life against her pale shoulders.
Stiles isn’t sure what to do, so he lets her be. He scoots over until their
shoulders are touching and he watches Isaac sit on the edge of the water
fountain while two tittering female patients wander over with shy smiles and a
bouquet of ripped flowers, which they present to him in no form of graceful
fashion.
Isaac still accepts them with a wordless nod and he doesn’t complain or look
uncomfortable when they sit on either side of him, eyeing him curiously as they
mumble into their fingers.
Stiles stiffens in surprise when Lydia rests her head on his shoulder. She
doesn’t stop singing though, so he figures he should talk to her about
something. He decides to tell her about how his week has been going so far,
about his time with the Hales, about Erica, about the Mermaids, about the
lacrosse game, about Kira, and about Danny’s progress.
Lydia tenses up more and more all throughout Stiles’s narration and he can’t
figure out why. She has stopped singing and drawing, which makes it obvious
she’s really listening, so he doesn’t stop talking but he pays special
attention to her behavior.
Ms. Morrell comes to retrieve them nearly an hour later. “I believe that’s
enough for today.”
Stiles nods and reluctantly eases away from Lydia with a gesture to Isaac, who
stands with some soft goodbyes to his new friends and he seems a little thrown
when the two females begin to sob. He takes a quick moment to soothe them with
encouraging words and it makes Stiles smile to see him really try.
Lydia reaches out suddenly and yanks Stiles close so that she can whisper in
his ear, “Underneath their skin lies an Animal. Don’t let it fool you.”
Ms. Morrell pries her hand from Stiles’s shirt. “Okay, Lydia. That’s enough.”
Lydia lets Ms. Morrell stand her up and usher her away but she never takes her
eyes off of Stiles’s. Their eyes meet within the instance she shakes her head,
and again, strangely enough, it’s like seeing it happen in slow motion, and
suddenly all he can hear is the leaves whispering in the trees, the splashing
of water in the fountain, the sighing wind, and the groaning of the tree
branches. It’s like that moment in the hallway with Mayor Argent and his creepy
orphan children.
It kind of freaks Stiles out because he’s becoming hyper aware that it’s not
just a mental thing — something that’s just happening in his head — but it
might be something else entirely. Like Spider-Man in most of the comics that
Stiles reads, it’s like he’s got his own brand of spider-sense where time slows
and the noise of the world either fades away or becomes startlingly clear.
Isaac touches his shoulder and Stiles gasps sharply as he snaps out of it and
blinks rapidly as things come into focus at normal rate. He turns to see Isaac
looking at him with concern, and the preteen quietly says, “You stopped
breathing.”
Stiles exhales and inhales, just to feel himself doing it, and he realizes that
his heart is racing in his chest. He curls his shaky hands into fists at his
sides. “Let’s go,” he mumbles and makes his way quickly out of the building. He
has a hard time getting his bike unlocked because his hands are still shaking
so bad, and he feels a little lightheaded.
Isaac kneels down beside him and rests his warm hands over Stiles’s to arrest
his movements. Then he pulls the older teen into a hug, laying his hands flat
against Stiles’s shoulder blades and ducking his head low so he can rub his
forehead against Stiles’s collarbone. “Please breathe,” he whispers. “Breathe.”
Stiles swallows and takes some shaky breaths before he clutches Isaac close as
he shuts his eyes. He’s having a panic attack and there’s no use in pretending
it's anything else but that. He does as Isaac asks and he breathes, but he does
it carefully. He takes slow inhales and even slower exhales until his chest
doesn’t feel tight anymore, until his heart isn’t pounding like it might pop
out, until his hands aren’t shaking like they’ll never stop.
Isaac waits a beat after Stiles has calmed down before he pulls away, but not
completely. He eyes Stiles from head to toe with focused determination, his
brow furrowed, and his mouth set in a prominent frown. He pulls away some more
and drops his hands to his thighs as he looks Stiles in the eyes. “Better?” he
questions.
Stiles exhales with a nod. “Better," he confirms. "Thanks,” he says, cheeks
heating a little in embarrassment.
“You’re my brother,” Isaac mumbles as he ducks his gaze away shyly while he
picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “I care when you’re not okay. That would
— it does matter to me.”
Stiles smiles and presses his knuckles into the curving line of his mouth when
it feels like the smile might completely overtake his face. He just gives up
and lets it be as he throws his arms around Isaac in an enthusiastic hug.
“You're my favorite,” he swears. "My absolute favorite." Then he adds, “Don’t
tell dad.”
Isaac huffs out a small laugh and just pats Stiles on the back before he gently
urges the other teen to let him go.
Stiles rewards him with a smile as they stand. “Come on,” he says. “I still
want to visit Danny before we go home.”
Isaac nods and they unlock their bikes before carrying them down the steps,
rolling them up the walkway and through the black iron gates before mounting
them so they can peddle into the heart of Beacon Hills where the hospital
resides.
Jackson is already there in Danny’s room with Allison and Malia.
Scott’s visiting his grandmother, apparently, which is why he’s absent.
Boyd’s already come and gone.
Stiles takes the chair beside Jackson’s and he quietly studies Danny’s prone
form. He’s bandaged up pretty tightly and there are all kinds of tubes running
to and from his body as the heart monitor chimes steadily with Danny’s vital
signs.
Malia moves to sit on Allison’s lap so Isaac can sit down since there are no
other chairs.
Allison squirms under Malia’s weight, but she makes no general complaints about
this seating arrangement, though she does wrinkle her nose with a dimpled smile
when Malia starts playing with her hair.
Isaac takes the seat, leans back, and folds his hands over his stomach as he
watches the way Danny’s breath fogs up the oxygen mask placed over his bruised
and swollen mouth.
Stiles watches Jackson watch Danny with a furrowed brow while Malia and Allison
animatedly recount past stories, all of them with Danny as the main character.
Jackson only speaks up once and awhile, but it’s only to correct them about
their facts on a certain memory, or to generally add to it with something that
he deems important for him to say.
Stiles settles in his seat with a sad smile as he watches their interactions
with a slightly whimsical mood.
It’s hard, however, to ignore the faint buzzing in the back of his mind trying
to flag his attention.
It’s like he’s forgetting something.
Through the open window, the sonic booms of those military jets making their
rounds again causes Stiles to fidget even more restlessly.
The buzzing gets worse. It’s like a horde of drunken flies smacking against the
inside of his skull, looking for a way out.
Stiles twitches and bounces his right leg as he chews on his fingernails
anxiously.
Isaac is probably the only one that notices.
                                      ---
Later that night, Stiles relays his conversation with Deaton to his dad over
some cheesy hamburger helper that his dad actually makes (since he’s pretty
good with that kind of stuff, outside of grilling). It kind of became a
necessity after his mom died, and his dad needed to be good at a few throw-
together meals like sloppy Joe and tater-tot casserole when he wasn’t ordering
takeout because Stiles was seven when she passed and still too young to
manipulate the stove without adult supervision.
As Isaac rises to make himself a fourthhelping of food, Stiles looks across the
table at his dad and says, “So I want to go to that party.” His dad’s face goes
severe with disapproval and Stiles quickly adds, “But I was thinking maybe you
could saddle me with one of your deputies. Preferably one who doesn’t look like
a cop and could still pass for a college student.”
“And you think youcan?” his dad counters with this look that never fails to
make Stiles fidget. “I’m going to be straight with you right now and say that
I’m not comfortable at all with this idea. You could be putting yourself in
danger.”
“That’s — undeniably true,” Stiles reluctantly agrees as he pokes his fork at a
piece of softened macaroni. “But the worst I could get is water poisoning — at
best! But, you know, I don’t really think I’m their type. They tend to go after
the more good-looking ones.”
His dad looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You and I are going to have a talk
about your self-esteem issues, but for now, I’ll agree to this little plan.
Only because —” his dad quickly adds before Stiles can do a victory dance. “—
only because you’ve asked me to include one of my deputies, which I’m assuming
is because you realize you’ll need a chaperone, and also because, strangely
enough, whether I’m comfortable or not, I trust that you know what you’re
doing. I have to at this point because I’m starting to get that you’ll sit
there and argue with me until I go along with what you want, and if I don’t
then you’ll just go and do it anyway.”
Stiles flushes guiltily and mumbles something like, “I totally respect your
wishes.”
His dad just huffs and says, “Parrish. He’d be the man you’d want with you.
He’s the youngest deputy we’ve got.”
Stiles perks up at that and nods. “Cool. So I’ll call him, or you can explain
and then I’ll call him.”
“How about you let me talk to him, and then I’ll have him call you so you guys
can touch bases,” his dad suggests.
“Yup. Yup. That’s totally — yup.” Stiles shoves a forkful of food in his mouth
before he asks, “I’m not sure when the party is but I can ask Derek to see what
he found out.”
His dad nods and takes his plate to the sink. He walks over to the steps but
pauses to say, “Also, while you’re at it, tell Derek we’ll have to go fishing
Sunday morning instead of Saturday. Something came up. Goodnight boys.”
Stiles is left to blink after his dad and he looks over to Isaac, who just
lifts a brow and shrugs. They finish their food in silence and clean up the
kitchen together before they go their separate ways.
Stiles tucks away in his room and goes hunting for his phone after he changes
into some sleepwear. He dials Derek’s number and when the other teen picks up,
he says, “Why are you going fishing with my dad?”
Derek snorts and replies, “Well hello to you too, Stiles. Yes, my day was good.
Basketball practice went phenomenally. My free throws are definitely on point.”
Stiles rolls his eyes.
“I got more information about that party,” Derek goes on to say. “It’s hosted
by fraternity Zet Pi something, something. Anyway, it’s gonna be themed. My
buddy mentioned something about it being one of those marker parties.”
“Marker party?” Stiles repeats in confusion.
“It’s where you bring your own marker and draw all over everyone. You can write
your number, or maybe scribble some sage advice. Your favorite lyric or poem.
Sometimes people get really mean with it and doodle dicks and whatnot,” Derek
says and Stiles is envious of how casually he explains it, like he’s speaking
from experience. “It’s happening this Friday. I’ll text you the address.”
“Cool,” Stiles mumbles as he sits down at his desk and boots up his laptop. He
pulls up Google and starts perusing though recent articles having anything to
do with the military.
Derek says, “And how was your day?"
Stiles blinks and pauses. "What?"
Derek huffs, amused. "Your day. I told you about mine."
"Yeah, but...I thought you were being sarcastic."
"Of course not," Derek says, cheerily. "I'm more than happy to tell you what I
get up to. Return the favor. How was your day?"
"Oh, um." Stiles scrambles for something to say. He didn't quite imagine the
conversation going this way. "Pretty okay. I visited...friends. Um. Yeah."
Derek makes a thoughtful sound.
Stiles fidgets in his seat. Not sure what else to say.
Derek breaks the silence by saying, "I’m fishing with your dad because my dad
likes to fish too, and I’ve never been. I just made the suggestion that the
three of us go together. Does that bother you?"
"No," Stiles quickly says because he doesn't want the other teen to get the
wrong idea. "It's cool. I get it. Uh. It's fine. I was surprised, that's all."
"How’d you find out anyway?”
“My dad told me to tell you that your trip is being rescheduled to Sunday
morning instead of Saturday. So. Yeah.”
Derek hums thoughtfully. Then he says, “I’ll let my dad know. I have to go.
I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“Kay."
"Later."
"Later,” Stiles replies, distracted because his online search leads him to
YouTube. He barely remembers hanging up before he’s zoned in on a news segment
about how the military presence in America has grown exponentially in the last
two years, almost if they’re expecting some kind of civil war to breakout.
“— it’s crazy, you know? I’m taking my kid to school and all of a sudden I see
these weird looking tanks being escorted down the streets with some armed
soldiers. And like, you’re gonna ask about it, right? So I did and one of the
guys, the soldier, he says that ‘oh it’s nothing’ and they’re like doing drills
and whatnot. Something about standard procedure,” some guy in New York says. A
CNN news reporter has stopped him on his way to his car and the woman asks him
about his thoughts concerning the heavy military presence. “But you do wonder
like what kind of procedure requires them to do these kind of drills? Not to
mention I’ve been constantly seeing those, what is it? Stealth fighter jets or
drones? Yeah, like — what the hell is that about? Is there a war going on that
we don’t know about? Like let me know, man. Let me know.”
Stiles switches tabs and watches another video while he scrolls through the
list of recommended videos that pop up on the side and selects related video
after video, until it all becomes the same story.
The Department of Defense is not only arming each state with new weapons of
war, but they’re giving it to local and state police, as well as the national
guard — and these people are being trained to use them in the same ways a
soldier would be taught to fight overseas.
Stiles would really like to know why, but he can’t find any answers for that,
and he eventually gives up and goes to bed. All he does is toss and turn,
though. His mind is too anxious with this new information. He thinks about the
picture Lydia drew. He thinks about the sign that homeless man, Frank, held up.
He thinks about the things the Ghouls and that Demon talked about weeks ago. He
thinks about what they could have meant when they mentioned a New World.
He thinks and he thinks and he thinks until he can’t stop thinking.
He doesn’t get much sleep. His mind is alive with questions, and there are no
correlating answers to put them to rest.
                                      ---
Thursday morning, just as Isaac and Stiles are exiting the house to meet Kira
on the sidewalk so they can ride to school together, Peter and Kate pull up in
his flashy red car with a pair of matching designer shades, and sharp grins.
They look like a pair of well-dressed sharks.
Stiles looks to Kira and Isaac as he says, “Give me a moment.” He rolls his
bike over to the passenger side of Peter’s car and says, “You guys look like
high-priced drug dealers. What’s going on?”
“We’re here to treat you to breakfast,” Peter merely says. “Also to discuss
certain things.”
“I have to take my brother to school,” Stiles points out.
“Get your cute little friend Kira to do it,” Peter suggests dismissively. “This
is important.”
Stiles scrunches his mouth in annoyance before he returns his bike to the lawn
and walks over to Isaac and Kira. “Okay, so — I need a favor,” he says. “Do you
mind taking Isaac to school? It’s just that — something super important came up
and I would not ask otherwise.”
Kira says, “No, it’s fine. It’ll give us a chance to bond.” She nudges Isaac
with a sunny smile.
Isaac just lifts a brow wordlessly and starts peddling to school.
Stiles sighs and shakes his head when Kira looks at him. “It’s — that’s
progress. I totally owe you one.” He reaches out and hugs Kira quickly before
he stumbles towards Peter’s car. He slides into the backseat and buckles in.
Kate says, “Awe, wasn’t that cute?”
“Tooth-rotting, really,” Peter drawls as he switches gears and drives.
It’s only a few minutes later that they’re being seated by a waitress in a
booth next to the windows at Ramona’s Old Fashioned Eatery on Mulholland Blvd
. 
Peter and Kate sit across from Stiles, huddling close to share a menu, even
though they were given two. Kate spends most of the time combing her fingers
through Peter’s hair as she whispers in his ear.
Stiles doesn’t even want to know because whatever she’s saying is fueling the
wicked smirk plastered on Peter’s face. Stiles’s eyes dart down to his menu and
when he decides on what he wants, he closes it and sets it down.
Deputy Parrish strolls into the diner a moment later with a slight look of
befuddlement as he approaches their booth.
Peter’s smirk just widens as he straightens. “Ah, Parrish. Nice of you to
finally join us. Please sit down. We were just about to order,” he says and
turns to make a gesture at their waitress.
Stiles scoots over to make room for Parrish, who glares at Kate and Peter
before reluctantly sitting down. He offers Stiles a tense smile before he picks
up a menu and scans it anxiously.
The waitress saddles up to the booth with her pen poised at the ready over her
small notepad.
Combined, Peter and Kate’s order could probably feed three more people.
Stiles’s order is a lot more modest. He just wants the raspberry peach short
stack of pancakes.
Parrish just asks for a cup of orange juice.
“Now that wont do,” Peter drawls. “It’s my treat."
"Yes," Kate adds as she grins. "You know how Peter loves to spoil you."
"Careful, dear," Peter warns lightly as he shoots her a look that goes ignored.
He turns his gaze back to Parrish as he smirks again. "Order anything you
want.”
“What I want is a cup of orange juice,” Parrish replies as he looks at Peter
evenly. His whole vibe is still hostile. “But thanks for footing the bill for
it.”
Peter’s smirk only widens.
Stiles clears his throat and fidgets when the tension between them escalates.
He says, “So is there a reason why we’re all gathered here? I have school in
about forty minutes, so if we could get to it then that would very helpful.”
Peter doesn’t break his staring contest with Parrish as he says, “I heard there
was a party you wanted to go to. Well, the Sherriff was kind enough to clarify.
I, of course, am offering my assistance in capturing our runaways.”
“The Mermaids,” Parrish states, point blankly. "You want to lend a hand with
reeling in the Mermaids?"
“They’re in human form, so — Nymphs,” Stiles lightly corrects but he doubts
anyone notices.
Peter hums noncommittally before he finally flicks his gaze away to look at
Stiles. “You’re not going to that party,” he simply says.
“What?” Stiles protests, hackles immediately rising. “But — you can't juice me
for info and then yank me out of the situation like I have no right to it!"
"Absurd," Peter replies, unmoved. "We all have a part to play, and yours has
ended. I would think you would be thrilled. I know how reluctant you are when
it comes to social engagements."
Stiles can feel his cheeks heat out of anger and embarrassment because of that
personal jab. "This is different and you know that."
"Ah, yes, I know a lot of things," Peter agrees. "And one of those things is
that you are not going."
"You are such a dick," Stiles snaps, trying his hardest not to throw a tantrum.
"You’re the one that got me involved with this in the first place anyway!”
“That's true, more or less. But I didn’t ask you to be directly involved. I'm
afraid that won't do at all. There's a chance it could become rather
unpleasant. Which is why I think it's best to take the reigns on this one
myself,” Peter decides and Stiles does not get this guy at all. “College
parties are more my area.”
Kate grins as she bites the knuckle of her thumb and who knows what she’s
thinking.
Stiles is fuming.
“So why am I here?” Parrish asks.
“Because I still need you,” Peter replies. Then adds, “Unfortunately.”
Parrish glares and clenches his jaw.
Stiles softens his own glare at Peter to glance between them. He may be upset
by the turn of events, but he's still curious enough to ask, “Is he a — are you
like — what’s going on?”
Parrish and Peter both look at him.
“Are you a —” Stiles makes sure to lower his voice as he glances to the
handsome deputy. “— a Werewolf?”
Parrish blinks, taken back by the question.
Kate snorts, while Peter looks heavily amused.
“What?” Stiles complains as his cheeks grow red. “Am I missing something?”
“You’re missing everything,” Kate cryptically reports. “He’s not what you
think.”
Stiles stares at her before he stares at Parrish, who shifts awkwardly. “Then —
what are you?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Peter remarks as he cocks his head. “Care to
enlighten him, Jordan? Oops. I mean Kyle.”
Parrish glares at Peter venomously before he slides from the booth with a
thunderous expression. “I’m done here. Phone it in if you need anything else
from me,” he hisses before he storms out of the diner.
Stiles stares after the deputy’s sulking form before he turns his frown to
Peter. “I have no idea what’s going on, but I know enough about you to know
that what you did was pushing it,” he states knowingly.
Peter shrugs and doesn’t deny it. “We’ve never seen eye to eye,” he supposes.
“Untrue. They used to be best friends, way back when,” Kate chimes as she texts
away on her expensive smartphone. "Almost as close as lovers."
Peter glares at her. “Kate. That’s too much.”
“Whatever,” Kate huffs. “Don’t deal a low blow if you can’t handle one.”
Peter rolls his eyes and pulls away from her as their food arrives.
Stiles cuts into his pancakes angrily and says, “Seriously, I’m being kept in
the dark about a lot of things as is. Can you tell me what the deal with
Parrish is?”
“Ask him,” Peter says, deflecting — his mood seems to have darkened. “Hurry up
and eat. I’m dropping you and Kate off as soon as we’re done here.”
Stiles sighs but he eats.
Looks like he isn’t going to that party after all, which, whatever.
He’s got to pack for his trip to Chicago anyway.
So.
He totally doesn't even care.
                                      ---
At lunch, while Stiles and Kira hand out large campaign buttons with Laura’s
face plastered across them, Cora pulls him aside and says, “I get it okay? I
won’t — I’ll be better about how I treat your friends.”
Stiles feels both of his eyebrows shoot up at that. It sounds as close as an
apology as he’ll ever get from Cora. He says, “Yeah? You can stand to be decent
for a little while?"
Cora glares.
Stiles lifts up both hands to show he means no harm. "That’s all I’m asking.”
Cora gives him a hard look before she sighs. “Fine, then,” she says as she
fidgets with a scowl. She looks a bit cagey. “So are we good or what?”
Stiles grins, amused. “Why? Did you miss me?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Be honest. It just burns at you when we’re not on speaking terms, doesn’t it?”
Cora gives him a flat look.
“You’re not denying it,” Stiles points out before he perks up and touches her
hair. “Hey, you colored your hair.”
Cora nods and leniently lets him fiddle with her hair before she bats his hands
away. “Sabrina did them for me. She’s pretty good.”
“Yeah. She is,” Stiles agrees as he studies the tips of her hair, which have
been dyed purple. “You ready for the trip?”
Cora gives him a look. “Didn’t you hear? That’s been canceled.”
“What? Why?”
“Apparently there’s like some major unrest right now. Some cop shot a toddler
and then her mom, so people are going in with protesting and looting.”
“Wait, wait — when did this happen?” Stiles asks as his mind begins to tinker
away.
“It started yesterday, I think,” Cora says. “I — hey, where are you going?”
Stiles bolts into the school and heads to the Teacher’s Lounge because there’s
sure to be a TV.
There is, but the lounge is crowded with teachers as is, all of them watching
the huge flat screen mounted high up in the corner of the room. All of them
have a range of emotions painted across their faces, from shock, to horror, and
disbelief.
Stiles stands by Mrs. Cassidy and asks, “What’s going on?”
Mrs. Cassidy, without prying her eyes from the TV, says, “I don’t know. They’re
saying an off-duty cop shot a toddler and then her mom for no apparent reason.
But his department is stating that they were attacking him like animals and he
had no choice. Now there’s an outcry for justice for the killings because they
believe it was violent act of discrimination because the mother and daughter
were Black Muslims but others are saying it was because of something else — I
don’t know. They’re declaring Martial Law in Chicago.”
Stiles turns to look at the screen right in the moment a picture of the victims
are shown, along with the officer being accused, and it’s like a bucket of ice
has been dumped on him.
It’s them.
The mother and the daughter that Lydia drew — it’s them.
***** duplicity *****
The rest of Stiles’s classes for the day aren’t really much like classes at
all. His teachers just use their Prometheans boards to show them about the
events currently happening in Chicago through their choice of news channel.
It’s baffling.
It’s almost like looking at another country. The police march through the
streets with camouflage uniform and guns in their hands, pointed up at the
peaceful protesters as they spray the area with orange pepper spray. There are
also candles and flowers and fake swaddled babies being left on the sidewalk
where the mother and daughter were killed. Witnesses give accounts of the
events since this particular incident happened just outside of a diner. A lot
of them say:
“The little girl and the mom had been sitting in the back,” a black elderly
woman says with several microphones hovering near her mouth. She’s got thick,
toffee colored glasses that make her look like a bug. “I remember her mouth and
fingers were sticky with some kind of chocolate — I’d found it so adorable at
the time. She’d started crying out of nowhere. Held her own head, you know —
she cupped her hands over her ears like this.” The old woman demonstrates.
“Then she started wailing something awful, you know, like she in pain, but the
momma tried calming her down. She looked confused too. So she took the little
girl out the front and she had to stop, I guess. She stopped right out in front
of them windows and she got on her knees in front of the little girl. Look like
she was saying or asking, you know, asking her what’s wrong? What’s wrong? She
looked so confused because the girl wouldn’t stop screaming and shaking, then
finally that officer came on to check on them I guess, asking to see what the
problem was, and you know, also maybe to make sure the mother hadn’t been
hurting the girl, but next thing I know, the little girl wrapped her little
body around his leg and she gets to biting at his thigh. And the officer
screamed as clear as if it had been some savage dog or something and he pepper
sprayed the girl but she started to crawl up his body like a little monkey —
that’s when I heard it. Four gun shots. Little girl went down, then the momma
came at him. Again, four gun shots. Both them lay on that sidewalk and — we all
kinda knew.”
The granddaughter of the old woman, speaks up with an angry frown and says, “I
don’t care if that officer had probable cause. A bite to the leg isn’t some
kinda go ahead to execute a little girl and her mom out in the middle of the
day on the street. I'm a nurse for a mental ward and half of my shift is spent
fighting off patients half my size, with twice my strength but not once do I
ever have to use a gun to put them down. Mind you, this was a little girl. She
clearly — and you heard what my grandma said — she wasn’t right from the start.
She was having a fit, and I don’t know because I’m not a doctor or anything,
but the little girl could have been dealing with something that made her react
that way. We don’t know cause neither the mom nor the little girl is here to
say, and that, to me, is what’s so awful. I just know I don’t feel safe. I
might sneeze, you know, and one of them officers will shoot me down too.”
There are more accounts, and they’re shown between the cutaways to the downtown
streets of Chicago, though that’s not where all the peaceful demonstration
happens. All of that happens in Grant Park, where there are masses of citizens
from all walks of life. They’re linked arm and arm, never faltering with their
march as they cry out for justice. They hold up signs that say the same thing:
HUMANS ARE THE REAL MONSTERS.
The sight of it is particularly jolting to Stiles because it carries the
implication that Weres have come to a point where they seem not to care to hide
themselves anymore. But none of them have been caught shifting, however, or in
any other form. Outside of Stiles and perhaps anyone else who may know of the
existence of all the Mythical Beings, people may take the signs as pure irony
instead of what it really is.
Not everyone is peacefully protesting though. Some of the more opportunistic
citizens of Chicago are using this standoff as a chance to loot, or create more
tension amongst the opposing sides. By the time Stiles reaches his last class,
things have escalated so fast that all power in Chicago has been cut off while
everything (businesses, hospitals, etc.) have been shut down to encourage the
submission of the discontented crowd.
Not only that, but the local and even national media sent to cover the events
have been disbanded. His teacher is forced to go on twitter and follow the
#Chicago tag. The bell rings and Stiles quickly snatches his backpack from the
ground and heads to his locker to dump all his books since he hadn’t been
assigned any homework in all his latter classes, and he’d finished all his
assignments from his classes that came before lunch.
The volume of voices carry through the school (as students pour out of their
class and into the halls like a river), all circling back to the topic of
what's happening in Chicago.
Stiles navigates the crowded halls in search of Kira as he starts whistling and
he finds her by her locker chatting with a couple of girls that Stiles
recognizes from the softball team. He doesn’t want to interrupt so he stands
off to the side and sends Kira a wave when Kira tosses him a grin before she
turns back to the small group of girls flocked around her, who also glance over
at Stiles with curious eyes.
"It's Stiles, right?" one of the girls call over. She has honey-brown curls
that fan around her reddish-brown face like a halo. "You moved here like a
month ago?"
"More than a month ago, but yes," Stiles answers in kind. "I'm sorry, what's
you name?"
"Nicolette," is the reply, and it's followed with a wink. "I'm the captain of
our softball team. You should come to our games sometime. Kira needs all the
support she can get."
"Oh, yeah, sure," Stiles says, unsurely.
Nicolette doesn't say more than that. She turns away with a sly grin and
murmurs something to the other girls. Then, there’s a moment when they all eye
him with interest, puffing up to toss him disarming smiles that kind of throw
him to be honest.
Stiles straightens against the lockers and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly
as he nods at them all with a polite smile.
They all turn away with a giggle and say something to Kira who blushes but
rolls her eyes with a happy grin.
Stiles doesn’t have to wait long after that because Kira shoos them off with a
promise to see them at practice on Monday. He pushes away from the locker he’s
leaning against just as she closes hers and pauses his whistling. “So,” he
says. “Baseball.”
Kira nods happily as she bites her bottom lip and bumps their shoulders
together. “I know! I’m so like, gah! And it’s last minute of course, but I
talked to the coach and she’s been super nice and cool about it. Even with
there being a month left of school — I just — this is so good,” she rambles as
they make their way out the exits. “I’ve never played softball though.”
Stiles laughs because he’s not even surprised. “I think I have an old bat
somewhere in the basement. We can, I don’t know, give it a try if you want.”
Kira beams and nods as they head over to the racks so she can unlock her bike.
Stiles begins to whistle again as he watches all the students and teachers
disperse from the school and the parking lot. Then he follows Kira as she
mounts her bike and starts peddling lazily since Stiles doesn’t have his bike
to keep up. He whistles for a long minute before he says, “So you heard about
what’s happening in Chicago?”
Kira’s smile shrinks and her expression goes somber. “Yeah,” she says quietly.
“It’s awful, isn’t it? I mean, I just don’t understand how people can do the
terrible things they do.”
Stiles hums noncommittally. “It’s a bad situation,” he says as they walk along
the side of the road towards Isaac’s school. He starts whistling softly again.
“That’s funny,” Kira says.
Stiles stops whistling with a frown and says, “What is?”
“The way you’re whistling —”
Heavy metal music blasting from an overbearing monster truck down the road
behind them cuts Kira off mid-sentence as it comes whipping down the road.
Stiles gets a warning chill that sinks into the bones of his hands and makes
them stiff. All the sounds of the forest zeros out, leaving him in a muted
silence.
There’s an instance where the truck seems to pass in slow motion, giving Stiles
enough time to see the two hardened faces of Rick and Carter, Erica’s older
twin brothers, with their shaved heads, bulky body-building bodies and a tattoo
of a cat's paw print under their right ear. The only difference between them is
the fact that Rick has a claw shaped scar across his mouth and chin.
Finally the truck grinds away and the world comes into focus again, and Stiles
inhales and exhales a little shakily as Kira grabs him with a look of concern
but they spring away from each other because the touch feels like they’ve both
been zapped by a small spark of electricity.
“Crap. I’m sorry,” Kira says, fingers twitching as she shakes it off. “I
thought I was over doing that — damn. You okay, Stiles?”
“Fine,” Stiles mumbles as he rubs at his elbow. He can still feel the feather-
like touch of static on his skin. It feels like pins and needles almost.
“Well, sorry again, but that’s not what I meant,” Kira says as she shifts off
of her bike so she can bodily face him. “Before that. You had — you were — you
stopped breathing,” she says, fingers twitching at her sides again. “What’s
wrong?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Stiles says as he scrubs his face tiredly. “I don’t
know what’s going on with me. I mean I do but I don’t.” He wants to tell her —
wants to share everything just to have someone who he can really talk to about
it. But he can’t because he knows it isn’t sensible and also because how could
she understand? He drops his hands with a sigh. “Maybe I’m just tired,” he says
because what else can he say? Not the truth, that’s for sure.
“Maybe,” Kira supposes but she still looks concerned like she can pick up on
his mood and everything he’s not saying. It makes him fidget but she turns away
and begins walking again. “So,” she says. “What are your plans for summer?”
“Driver’s ed,” Stiles responds, grateful for the change in subject. “Hopefully
I’ll pass with flying colors.”
“God, I wish I could do something like that,” Kira says with a whimsical sigh.
“My mom would never let me. She’s so lame. I mean I love her with everything in
me, but she is so frustratingly close-minded about so much. It makes me wonder
how she and my dad ever got together because they’re such opposites.”
“Opposites attract,” Stiles offers with a wry grin.
Kira snorts. “I never really believed that.”
“Yeah, me either,” Stiles admits. “I think it’s more to do with two people
being able to complement each other. Coming together to show the best of the
other person and not what they’re lacking of but what they can do for each
other when they’re together. Kind of like —”
“Peanut butter and jelly,” Kira offers with soft smile. “Two different things
combining for one purpose, even if you can enjoy them just fine on their own,
it’s more about how those two things can be at their best when together. It’s
an awesome duo.”
“Yeah!” Stiles exclaims and snaps his fingers. “I swear, sometimes it’s like
you’re reading my thoughts. That’s exactly what I was — you know? Only, you
worded it better.”
Kira shrugs with a smile, pleased.
Stiles chuckles a little and bumps their shoulders together. “Listen to us.
Getting sentimental over food.”
“It’s the best thing to be sentimental about in my opinion,” Kira says with a
dramatic, dreamy sigh. “Like cheese — do notget me started on cheese. I could
write a thousand sonnets about cheese.”
“I can write two thousand about tacos. But, you know, that kind of commitment
isn’t for everyone,” Stiles teases.
Kira laughs. “Oh, that sounds like a challenge to me, Mr. Stilinski.”
“Only if you think you can meet it, Ms. Yukimura,” Stiles responds in kind.
“Okay,” Kira says, pausing just as they reach the parking lot of Isaac’s
school. “You still going on that trip?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” Kira says as she taps her chin before she perks up. “How
about this? Two thousand sonnets about our favorite foods by Sunday, and —
loser has to pay for both the movie andthe winner’s choice of restaurant.”
Stiles pretends to really mull it over before he sticks out his hand. “You got
yourself a bet.”
Kira shakes his hand and they both ignore the light static shock that passes
between them at the contact. “Just to warn you, I have obsessive tendencies. I
won’t let up for a second.”
“Yeah?” Stiles says as he lets her hand go. “Well, so do I. In fact, in the
last six seconds I’ve thought of like ten different sonnets.”
“Only ten? I’m at twenty-three,” Kira brags, flinging her hair over her
shoulder as she rolls her bike along the curb that leads to the front of the
school.
Stiles mutters something resentful to himself for a quick moment before he jogs
after her. He sees all his friends conversing and he smiles when Scott
brightens with a happy expression. He laughs a little when Scott steps away
from Malia and Allison to pull him into an enthusiastic bro-hug.
“Dude,” Scott says as his arms tighten around Stiles. “Dude!”
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here,” Stiles answers with an amused grin and they pull away
from each other.
“Dude, you heard about Chicago, right? I mean, that could’ve — you were
supposed to go,” Scott points out and his brow furrows with real concern.
Stiles rubs the back of his neck as he pulls away further. “Yeah, that’s true
too — well, I’m — I didn’t go. So there’s...that, I guess?” He shrugs and
glances over to where Isaac is sitting on the curb between Jackson and Boyd.
Jackson and Boyd seem to be having a conversation over him, but Isaac doesn’t
necessarily appear to mind at all.
Stiles then glances over to where Kira is chatting happily with Allison and
Malia.
Malia’s playing with Kira’s hair like she can’t help herself, while Allison
keeps Kira’s attention with her dimpled smile and short replies.
“What do you think?” Scott says as he coils his fingers around Stiles’s left
elbow to flag his attention. “About Chicago — what do you think?”
“A lot of things,” Stiles admits with a heady sigh as he scrubs a hand over the
stubble of his hair, which actually, isn’t so much stubble anymore, but it’s
growing into that awkward phase between being grab-able, and yet not. He begins
to wonder if he should cut it for the oncoming summer but he shakes the thought
away and drops his hand before he can truly drift. “Lydia drew a picture before
it all even — just. I don’t know. I’d already seen the mother and the daughter
when I went to visit her the other day. And I just — I don’t know. It means
something.”
“You think it was an accident like they’re trying to say?” Scott questions with
a deepening frown.
Stiles huffs and lifts his eyebrows as he shakes his head. “Honestly — my gut
says there’s more to it than what we’re being shown. Possibly even —
premeditated.”
“No way,” Scott says, taken aback. “You think it was planned?”
“More or less,” Stiles confirms as he bounces on his heels. The whole thought
of it makes him anxious. Something warm is twisting in his gut. He glances
around for a moment before he says, “How’s — has Erica seemed — how does she
seem?”
Scott’s brow furrows at the question. “Uh, the same, I think? More distant but
that’s not — she’s been like that for a while now, so I don’t think that’s
anything to even pay attention to. Her brothers came and picked her up a little
before you and Kira arrived, and they were all screaming at each other.”
Stiles rolls that around in his head. He wonders if his dad has looked into
that whole situation like he said he would. It makes Stiles a little nervous
but he tries not to let it overwhelm him. He whistles thoughtfully.
Isaac suddenly tenses and straightens as he glances sharply at Stiles with an
expression Stiles cant quite place.
Scott momentarily distracts him by saying, “I think everyone was trying to go
visit Lydia. Did you want to come?”
Stiles pauses at that. Any other time he’d say yes, but for some reason, he has
a strange, pressing urge to go home — if not to see if there are any new
developments with what’s happening in Chicago but for some other reason. It
feels important. He says, “Not this time.”
Scott nods like he understands, and maybe he does. He usually gets Stiles in
his own way. He says, “Okay, that’s cool. I’ll say hi for you, and uh —
actually I wanted to ask about Kira.” He lowers his voice to say, “Does she
know about everything?”
Stiles shakes his head. “That’s a conversation I’m actually trying not to have.
No reason why I should pull her into the thick of everything.”
Scott twists his mouth thoughtfully but he doesn’t say anything.
Stiles wonders what he’s thinking. He knocks his fist lightly into Scott’s
shoulder and says, “Don’t think too hard.”
Scott scoffs and straightens. He says, “You don’t have to tell me that. It’s
usually my motto.” He grins really quickly before he adds, “You know, maybe
I’ll skip this visit too. I can always, I don’t know, see Lydia some other
time. Actually that sounds really dismissive when I say it out loud, but it’s
just that I feel like we haven’t been hanging out as much because of everything
that’s going on. Does that make sense?”
Stiles smiles and throws an arm over Scott’s shoulders. “Yeah, man. That makes
perfect sense. I’ve been feeling like that too.”
Scott smiles sunnily. “Okay, let me just tell the others we’re bowing out and
I’ll grab my bike.”
Stiles nods and watches him go do just that. He rocks back and forth on his
heels and begins whistling softly again but he stops as soon as he notices the
way Isaac shoots him another odd look. He makes a mental note to ask about that
because he wants to know what that look means.
Everyone begins to disperse with parting goodbyes (taking care to acknowledge
Stiles as they do) and before long, it’s just him, Isaac, Kira, and Scott left
in the parking lot.
But even they don’t linger.
Stiles chooses to ignore the familiar sonic boom of those military jets passing
overhead and engrosses himself in a light banter with Scott over Marvel’s
cinematic depiction ofElektra and where they went wrong (or how they could have
done better).
Kira even offers a few clever remarks that immediately win Scott over.
Isaac keeps mostly to himself.
                                      ---
Laura, Peter, Cora, and Derek are lounging on Stiles’s porch steps when he and
Scott, Isaac, and Kira finally make it to the house. Stiles is used to them
dropping by unannounced, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to
why they’ve come by this time.
Isaac tosses his bike on the lawn, skulks up the steps and into the house,
avoiding each Hale he crosses paths with as usual. He’s got his own copy of the
house key so he doesn’t have to wait around for Stiles to toss it his way
anymore.
Kira saddles up beside Stiles alongside her bike with undisguised curiosity
that he recognizes instantly because he’s worn that expression more than enough
times since he’s been living in Beacon Hills and he sends Scott a desperately
significant look.
Scott, like the true best friend he is, picks up on it right away and hooks his
arm with Kira. He leads her towards the back, talking over her when she starts
to protest and says, “Hey, you know, there’s a trampoline in the back and I
don’t trust myself to jump on it without supervision…”
Stiles waits a moment until he’s sure they’re gone before he strides up to the
bottom step of his porch. He glances at Cora and Derek, who are sitting at the
very top, leaning against each other, before he flicks his gaze to Laura, who’s
sitting on the middle steps to the far right beside Peter, who is leaning
casually against the railing with crossed arms.
Peter wastes no time in saying, “I take it your girlfriend doesn’t know about
Beacon Hills’s more mystical side?”
Stiles ignores him and focuses on Laura, who has red-rimmed eyes. He says,
“What is it?”
Laura looks so angry and desperate. “You’ve seen, haven’t you? They murdered
them.”
Stiles doesn’t even have to ask who she means.
“I want to go to Chicago. Mom’s against it. I have half a mind to go anyway,”
Laura swears lowly. “We should be there! We should be standing with them. They
were one of ours! They're asking for a fight and I'm having a hard time
reasoning why we shouldn't.”
Peter says, “Don’t be ignorant about this.”
“Fuck you!” Laura snaps as some tears spill over her cheeks (and there is a
moment where everyone seems startled by the outburst). “We should bethere. This
matters.”
“I never said it didn’t,” Peter states calmly as he holds a neutral expression,
but his blue eyes darken calculatingly. “But going when you don’t have explicit
permission? Now that’d be a mistake, defying your Alpha like that,” he says
with all seriousness. “I don’t always agree with Talia but she does usually
know what’s best.”
Laura makes a disgusted sound and sniffs as her mouth twists with frustration.
She stares at Stiles like she can see beyond him, and it strikes him how alike
she is to Talia in that way. Quietly, so very quietly that he has to strain to
hear, she says, “Tell me what to do. I’ll — anything. But you have to tell me.
Tellme.”
Stiles inhales suddenly in surprise at the surge of white-hot certainty that
slashes into his gut that he has to take a step back because something about
the way she says her shaky petition strikes a chord in him that he wasn’t aware
he had and Laura stares at him so intently like she just knows how to reach
inside of him without even making any physical contact.
Peter frowns as he glances between them and he straightens abruptly in alert.
This causes Derek and Cora to straighten as well and their brows furrow at the
change in the air.
Laura doesn’t take her watery brown eyes off Stiles. She doesn’t even blink.
Not even for a second. It’s bewitching.
Stiles exhales slowly as a wind sweeps by, shaking the leaves of every tree on
the block, as well as making the grass shiver. The sound of it intensifies in
his ear. He can just — he can hear.He can hear it all, as clear as day.
There’s the constant slap of the sprinklers from across the street and the
sharp rotation of the blades of a lawnmower hacking away at the grass from the
lawn that’s down the street on the corner. Then it’s the rubber of wheels
grinding against the asphalt, as well as the whirring of a motor engine as the
cars make their rounds up and down the street. It’s the busy scramble of
squirrels and the squawking of birds in the trees. It’s the clicking of bugs
buzzing by or burrowing into the dirt. It's the sound of gravity.
God, he can heargravity.
It's a roaring sound (like the whirring of a vacuum).
It’s too much, all at once, out of nowhere.
This heightened sound makes Stiles cringe and he has to cup his hands over his
ears because all of them begin to combine and crash into each other until he
can’t distinguish one from the other and god, the sound is so startlingly loud.
It’s like glass breaking against glass while knives are being sharpened in the
background and he wants it to stopbecause he can’t take it — just stop, stop,
stop, stop —
“..iles…St…es…il…Sti…Stiles!”
Stiles gasps and blinks dizzily as he stares up at Derek with wet eyes,
breathless with his confusion.
Derek’s hands are twitching over his wrists as he flicks his gaze over Stiles’s
face anxiously, searching. He’s gently coaxing Stiles’s hands away from his
ears. “You’re okay,” he says quietly and he waits for Stiles to nod numbly
before his expression darkens and he glares over his shoulder at Laura. “What
did you do to him?”
Laura’s face is twisted with guilt. “I just — I only wanted —” She presses a
hand over her mouth, looking horrified. “Stiles, I’m sorry. Oh Mother Moon —
I’m so sorry.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He feels — he’s not sure how he feels. He
can’t stop shaking. It’s like being a nerve: raw and exposed. She’d done
something to him and she’d known what she was doing. She extracted some kind of
truth that he had not consented to give. He clamps his trembling lips together
as he fights back a wave of nausea. This is something he’d never expect from
Laura. Peter on a bad day, maybe — but not Laura. There would never have been a
need because Stiles trusts Laura — trustedLaura.
Derek rubs soothing circles with his thumbs into the inside of his wrists and
he looks at Stiles like he wants to help but he doesn’t know how.
Stiles shakes him off and takes a step back. He wants all of them gone. He
can’t — he needs them to leave. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, and he gets
a sinking feeling that he might have been screaming but he can’t remember. “Go
to Chicago,” he rasps, looking at Laura with wet eyes. “You wont be able to
take a plane so you’ll have to rent a car.”
Laura says, “Stiles, you don’t have to —”
“Don’t interrupt me!” Stiles snaps and he has to swallow down the swelling
anger trying to bubble up in his throat. “You don’t get to — this must be what
you wanted so you better listen to what I have to say.”
Laura’s bottom lip trembles and she remains quiet all the while looking
pitifully chastised. She shakes her head at Cora when the younger Hale growls
and glares at Stiles. She takes a protective stance in front of Laura.
Derek just glares at both of his sisters warningly.
Peter raises a brow at them all and looks openly intrigued by the developments
unfolding before him but he’s smart enough to keep any comments to himself.
Stiles swallows again and curls his shaky fingers into fists until his cuticles
are digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He continues, “Get a large vehicle
because a few of your family members will most likely want to come, but you’re
also going to have to stock up on food because there will be a need for it.
Keep it simple: water, nonperishable items like what you would buy during a
storm when you know there will be no power, and wait to buy milk when you’re
close enough because they’re using tear gas to keep everyone under control. I
don’t know if that kind of stuff effects you but there are Humans who will be
there and it will effect them. The milk will help.
"So helpthem. You need allies. This is a delicate situation that could get very
ugly, very fast. No matter how many Supernaturals there are or may be, Humans
will always outnumber them. Outnumber you. No good ever comes from fear and
panic, we know this from Human history alone. We drop bombs on things we don't
understand. Our first instinct is to exterminate.” He pauses as his mind races.
Then he says, “Take Peter with you because that’s the only way you’ll get Talia
to agree to it. He's a diplomat at heart, and a very clever wordsmith. He can
smooth things over if needed. Besides,” he says as he turns his knowing gaze on
Peter. “He knows there’s more to the situation in Chicago than what’s being
shown and he wants to investigate because there’s something about it he
recognizes.”
Both of Peter’s eyebrows shoot up at that but he doesn’t deny it.
Stiles begins to feel drained but he continues because he has to for the sense
of urgency that’s festering inside of him has yet to flee. “Like it or not,
you're going to have to be a leader, Laura. If only in this situation. Try not
to let your emotions get in the way from making the smartest decision. Be
brave, and hold yourself accountable for as many losses as you would with
victories. If you fail this, don't take it personal — just try to stay positive
from start to finish, despite how things look or seem at the moment."
Laura nods slowly.
"You can’t bring Cora,” Stiles firmly states.
Cora begins to valiantly protest but Laura lifts her hand and the motion makes
Cora stop short.
Stiles scrubs at his face tiredly with both hands. “You can’t bring her. She’s
not — she wont be able to keep herself in check and its safer that way. There’s
too much enmity on both sides. The police are too aggressive and Cora’s got a
temper not suited for this type of thing. Derek should stay behind too because
Talia and Nana Hale will need help looking after the kids when the parents
leave with you.
"And be careful because like I said, this will put you in command and every
decision you make will matter. Things in Chicago might take a turn for the
worst but concentrate on keeping peace. Instigating the negative focus will be
bad, and there’s no cause for chaos. Not when there’s still the potential of
reaching an understanding. I —” He stops and measures the looks on all their
faces. They’re staring at him like he’s a completely different person, which is
no surprise because he feels like one. He feels like he wants to crawl out of
his skin. “That’s all. That’s all I got. I’m tapped out.”
Laura shifts and glances over to Peter, who gives a simple nod and herds Cora
and Derek to his car, which is parked in the driveway. She waits until they’ve
climbed in before she steps up to Stiles and tucks her long bangs behind her
ears. Her voice is shaky when she says, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Stiles says, because he does. “But I can’t — I need us to be — Laura,
there’s this ugly feeling inside of me that I don’t know what to do with
because you forced my hand in a way I was totally unprepared for.”
Laura’s eyes mist over wetly and she nods with trembling lips. She sniffs and
brushes her mouth over the knuckles of her right hand. “I really shouldn’t have
done that. It was a betrayal to your trust, and I’m sorry. I hope you know
that.”
“You have to be careful,” Stiles replies instead. He’s sort of numbing himself
to this situation because he can't take the conflict of being pressed between
anger and sympathy. “Make friends in Chicago, but be careful. I don’t — this
feels major and you should just be careful.”
“Stiles,” Laura whispers and looks at him with a helpless look. “Please know
that I’m sorry.”
“You said that already,” Stiles says flatly. His next words feel sour on his
tongue. “You can be sorry a hundred times over and I would still be — I am
angry. You don't get to make me feel like I shouldn't be. You should go. Be
careful.” He eases around her and flexes his fingers as he climbs the porch
steps.
He doesn’t watch Laura slide into Peter’s car, nor does he watch the red
vehicle reverse out of his driveway and take off. He’s too busy crouching down
to pick up a bar of black soap wrapped in plastic and thin white nylon twisted
package string. He frowns and turns it over in his hands as he straightens,
glancing around before he carries it into the house, up the steps and into the
bathroom before setting it on the sink counter.
Stiles has to splash his face with cold water and resist the urge to cry. It’s
only a slight relief that when he glances up at his reflection, cheeks pink and
face wet, he doesn’t see a complete stranger.
For the first time in ever, he knows exactly how Lydia feels. He hadn’t liked
that at all — that overwhelming assault on his senses. As a Virtue, he’s not
sure what he’s capable of but after that incident just now, he’s not sure he
wants to know. It left him shaken and stunned — afraid.
Stiles sighs and pushes away from the sink to exit the bathroom. He tucks away
in his room and crawls under the blankets of his bed. He squeezes his eyelids
shut until they’re completely scrunched and the pressure of holding them like
that causes him to see little flecks of light and colors. He focuses on it with
all his might just because he’s desperate to wipe his mind of anything
tangible.
He’s never been so grateful for silence. 
                                      ---
Two hours later, Stiles climbs out of bed lethargically, wiping sleep from his
eyes and escaping the tomb of heat he’d encased himself in while he was twisted
up in his sheets under his comforter. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep
but he does feel a lot better for it. He also feels famished, like he hasn’t
eaten in days, and he stumbles to his door with an annoyed sound when he’s
realized he forgot to take off his sneakers. He rubs at his eyes again with a
jaw-cracking yawn as he staggers down the steps, his equilibrium a little off
for whatever reason, and he makes his way to the living room where Scott is
taking up space and lounging on the big couch.
Stiles sits down on the floor next to Scott’s hip and stares at the TV until he
recognizes what’s being played. “Why are you guys watching Strawberry
Shortcake?” He twists his head to look at his best friend.
Scott has his hands folded together behind his head, looking comfortable and at
ease. He shrugs with a sheepish grin. “It was either this or Young Justice. We
took a vote on it earlier. Isaac and Kira double teamed me, so.” He shrugs
again. “She had to leave to go home ten minutes ago.”
Stiles snorts. He glances over to see Isaac curled up in his favorite armchair,
enthralled. He really questions his brother’s taste in television. His stomach
gargles loudly and he blushes a little when Scott snickers.
“Isaac made some tatter tot casserole,” Scott offers.
Stiles makes a desperately grateful sound as he climbs to his feet and makes
his way into the kitchen.
The glass baking dish is still resting on top of the stove, and half of the
casserole is already gone, so Stiles gets what he can before he pops it into
the microwave. He idly takes note of the time (7:34 pm) before he takes his
food out of the microwave to cool. He gropes himself for his phone before he
sits down at the kitchen table and he sees a few missed calls from his dad,
Kira, Cora, and Deaton. None of them leave him any voicemails, but they do text
him when they see he’s not answering.
His dad’s text reads: Working a double shift, won’t be home until tomorrow
evening. Scott can spend the night, I talked to his mom. I left some money for
food. If you're still going to that party, please be safe.
Kira’s text reads: TRIED TO STICK AROUND TO WAIT FOR YOU TO WAKE UP BUT YOU
WERE SO UNCONSCIOUS I HAD TO RETREAT SO UM I GUESS ILL SEE YOU TOMORROW AND
DON’T YOU FORGET OUR WAGER BECAUSE LIKE I AM LIKE SO AHEAD OF YOU BECAUSE WHILE
YOU WERE NAPPING I WAS WRITING DOWN FIFTY NEW SONNETS XD
Cora’s text reads: You and I need to talk about some things because Laura and
Peter refuse to tell me what the hell that was earlier. C A L L  M E.
Deaton’s text reads: Mr. Stilinski, I believe I may have found something.
Seeing as I was unable to get in contact with you, I’ve decided to take the
matter directly to your father. There’s no time to waste. We’ll talk soon.
Stiles frowns and lingers on that last text before he scrolls through his
contacts and calls Cora. When she picks up, he says, “Are they gone? Laura and
Peter and everyone else?”
“Yeah,” Cora replies but there’s a question in her voice. “It’s just me, Derek,
and Nana. And the munchkins too but they’re out back playing. Mom’s gone to do
something — she didn’t really say. I feel like she's meeting up with your dad.
Why? What is it?”
“Nothing, well — nothing,” Stiles says, even as his mind tinkers away, and he
quickly barrels on before she can interrupt. “I need you to text me Kate’s
number.”
“Okay…” Cora drawls. “Sure but —”
“We can talk later about that. Not now. Please,” Stiles says. “I have to go.”
He ends the call and focuses on eating his food as he stares at his phone
waiting for Cora’s text. It comes two minutes later but it’s also followed by a
text from Derek that reads:
What are you up to
???
Stiles chews slowly and doesn’t bother to linger on wondering how Derek always
seems to know when he’s plotting something. He just responds with:
Don’t worry about it. But just please. Don’t. Tell. Peter. I mean it.
Fine.
Stiles frowns.
That was almost too easy. He narrows his eyes at the screen of his phone.
When Derek doesn’t text him anything else he just texts Kate a quick message
before he sets his phone on the table with the screen facing down and finishes
up his food before he goes to make himself another helping. He doesn’t notice
that he’s completely finished off the casserole until he moves to make another
helping. He stands there for a second, staring at the empty dish, thinking
about how he’s still hungry but also how he doesn’t normally gorge himself like
this (outside of tacos but that was always pretty much a given).
Stiles frowns before he grabs the dish, rinses it out, and places it in the
dishwasher. He makes himself two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and eats
them like they’re nothing, but it’s not until he’s finished his thirdsandwich
does he really start to feel vaguely satisfied. He’s too worried about
overdoing it to keep going, so he retreats into the living room and talks Scott
and Isaac into playing Need for Speed with him.
They switch the games around when Isaac and Scott get tired of being bested by
Stiles and he’s lenient enough to let them.
He’s only trying to pass the time until —
Honk, honk!
Stiles blinks and stands before he eases over to the windows to peer out and
sees Kate sitting in her shiny black Jaguar with the top down, texting away on
her phone as she waits for him. He turns away to address Scott and Isaac, who
are looking at him curiously. He says, “Okay, so, here’s the thing —”
Isaac shakes his head disapprovingly.
Stiles guffaws and flails his hands. “I haven’t even said — never mind. Look,
I’m going to a college party to track down some Mermaids,” he explains.
Scott blinks hard at him like he’s fighting down a double-take. “You’re going
where to do what now? Mermaids? Why are there Mermaids?”
“Technically, in Human form, they’re Nymphs,” Stiles supposes. “I’m going to a
college party to — well I haven’t really thought about what I was going to do
but —”
“Does dad know?” Isaac interrupts rudely but he doesn’t even blink. Stiles is
starting to think that Isaac is getting way too familiar with him.
Stiles secretly likes it.
Isaac continues, “If dad doesn’t know, maybe you shouldn’t.”
“I told him what I was trying to do,” Stiles protests because he did. He just
never mentioned that Peter tried to talk him out of going, which, let’s be
honest, he would have ended up going anyway because Peter doesn’t have the
final say in what he does. “He knows.”
Isaac doesn’t appear to be convinced.
Scott just looks confused all around.
“It’s all good,” Stiles promises and ignores the sound of Kate’s urgent
honking. “Everything will be totally fine.”
"You say that in every situation that turns out to be the complete opposite,"
Isaac mutters, almost resentfully, but there's no ignoring the underlying
concern there.
The doorbell rings.
Stiles rolls his eyes and goes to answer it.
Kate stands on the other side wearing a high-waisted, aquamarine pencil skirt
with a slit down her right leg, and a sleeveless white crop top with matching
pumps. She’s showing so much skin, which makes her look far from being the high
school senior she is. She pops the gum in her mouth obnoxiously as she lifts a
finely arched brow. “You’re not going anywhere with me looking like that.”
Stiles frowns and looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with what I’m —”
“Yawn. Bored now. Don’t even bother asking that question,” Kate interjects and
eyes him with a shake of her head.  “Excuse me,” she says, flicking her hand at
him. She waits for him to step out of the way so she can slide through and
swagger towards the stairs. She briefly acknowledges Scott and Isaac with a
smirk before she clicks her way up the steps.
Stiles quickly chases after her and he has to guide her away from Isaac’s room
because she mistakes it for his.
Kate clicks her way over to his small walk-in closet, flinging the door open
and waltzing in as she talks to herself.
Stiles pretends not to hear the flippant remarks she makes about his taste in
fashion.
Kate pops her head out of his closet a moment later and says, “First chance we
get, we’re taking you shopping.”
“With whose money?”
“My father’s of course,” Kate says, rolling her eyes like it’s so obvious. She
disappears in his closet again. “The old man’s filthy rich, and he’d hardly
notice if someone were dipping into the vaults.”
“Uh, that’s — tempting but no thanks. I’m fine with my taste in clothes,”
Stiles says as he sits at his work desk and boots up his laptop and his tablet.
He makes a quick work of scanning his emails and notifications for anything
significant before he cruises through Twitter for some updates about Chicago.
“You can keep your tastesbut even most people have church clothes,” Kate calls
out from the closet. “I don’t see one button down in here that’s not plaid.”
She starts chucking his clothes out of the closet like she’s making a pile of
what she wants to burn with some gasoline and a match.
“I like plaid,” Stiles grumbles, mostly to himself as he scrolls down the news
feed. There appears to be some kind of candle vigil going on along the
Lakefront Trail. “Always trust the plaid.”
“Even I have church clothes,” Kate remarks. “And I’m agnostic.”
“Not surprising,” Stiles mutters, mostly distracted. He finds himself thinking
about Laura and Peter and wondering how far they’ve made it crossing state
lines with a good portion of their family.
“Okay,” Kate breathes like she’s just ran a marathon. “I think I found
something suitable.” She holds up a pair of ripped jean shorts, a stripped blue
tank top that says ‘Edgar Allan Bro’ (this had been a gag gift from his friend
Emmanuel last year on his birthday and he’d worn it onceto be ironic), a blue
beanie hat, some black-framed hipster glasses (god, he doesn’t even know where
thatcame from because he doesn’t even need or wear glasses), and some blue
flip-flops.
Stiles almost gags. “I’m going to look like such a douche.”
Kate smiles predatorily. “Exactly. You’ll fit right in. Welcome to college.”
She drops it all in his lap. “Get dressed. You got five minutes or I’m ditching
you and going to that party myself,” she warns before she glides out of the
room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Stiles manages to struggle his way into Kate’s carefully picked outfit in under
three minutes (while almost spraining his wrist and breaking his nose in the
process). He doesn’t feel any less unsettled when he uses his last two minutes
to give himself a once over in the bathroom mirror. He may look like a ‘bro’
but damn it, he can’t deny the cleverness of Kate’s intentions because he
appears less like the high school freshman that he really is. He appears to be
more like a nerdy college freshman. So, you know, bright side.
Stiles sighs and flicks off the lights as he heads towards the steps then down
them just as Kate starts in on the car horn. He waves a quick goodbye to Isaac
and Scott on the way out.
“Dude!” Scott says when he sees him and he falls off the couch from laughing so
hard.
Even Isaac looks like he’s fighting down a smile, but he just uses Scott’s
momentary distraction to take him down in the game (Lego Marvel Super Heroes).
Stiles doesn’t linger. He quickly locks the door behind him on his way out and
jogs down the steps.
Kate never lets up on the horn, even as she stares at him pointedly as he makes
his way to her car.
“You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood,” Stiles complains as he buckles
in.
“Good.” Kate wastes no time putting the car in reverse and backing out onto the
street. She turns up the volume on her radio and blasts Miley Cyrus’s Do My
Thang. After the song ends, she lowers the volume and says, “I heard you and
Laura had a falling out.”
“Did Cora say something to you?” Stiles asks, hunching down in his seat as
bounces his right leg and begins to gnaw on his fingernails.
Kate shoots him a look before she glares at the road ahead of them. “Don’t be
stupid. Laura and I have been best friends since our sandbox days. She tells me
everything. She sounded pretty wrecked about the whole thing.”
Stiles fidgets and drops his hand to pick with a loose thread on his shorts.
“I’d rather not talk about that,” he says because his feelings are complicated
on the issue. He’d probably know more about how he felt or where he stood with
the issue if he understood what exactly it was that Laura had done, which,
yeah, they’re totally going to have to talk about that when he’s not so pissed
or troubled.
Kate seems to sense his shifting mood, so she says, “There’s three of them. The
Nymphs. Two boys and a girl. The Mermaids in the mountains never said as much
but it’s obvious in some ways.”
“Peter tell you that?” Stiles asks.
Kate looks at him like she wants to hit him. “How far do you think my head is
up Peter’s ass? No, I figured that out on my own. It might interest you to know
that between us, I’m actually smarter than him. He’d be six feet in the ground
before he ever admits to it or ask me for help. He’s got his pride. Most men
do. Peter just conveniently gets me to come along with him on most of his
mischief. You know it was me that found those Mermaids in the first place,
right? Of course you don’t. Peter would never say because then he’d have to
acknowledge the fact that he’s not the smartest person on the planet.” She
scoffs. “Peter can be stupid like that. He’s lucky he’s so pretty.”
Something about that makes Stiles smile a little and he huffs out a reluctant
laugh. “Both of you are ridiculous,” he supposes.
“Probably,” Kate concedes as she turns down a street full of brick town houses.
“But he’s the only person I know that can deal with my shit, and in this crazy
world of ours, sometimes that counts for something.” She pulls up to a curb.
“Do me a favor. Run up to that house and ring the bell.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do it, Parrish won't answer the door and I know his ass is in
there,” Kate says as she flips down her sun visor so she can preen over her
reflection.
“This is where Parrish lives?” Stiles asks as he glances over the black iron
screen door settled over a small stoop, which is wedged between some well-kept
bushes.
“Yes, now go and convince him to come with us. Because of what happened this
morning with Peter, he’s acting skittish and now he refusing to — just convince
him to come. We need him. He’s got valuable skills,” Kate merely says as she
fiddles with her radio. “And when I say valuable I mean he’s hot as fuck and he
makes good bait.”
Stiles stumbles out of her car and makes his way to Parrish’s front door. He
rings the doorbell three times and waits.
The porch light comes on and a second later the door swings open.
Stiles squeaks because he finds himself at the wrong end of a shotgun.
Parrish (who is shirtless) relaxes when he sees who it is and he quickly sets
the gun aside so he can unlock the screen door. “Stiles,” he says with a
furrowed brow. “What are you doing here? Is it — how’s Isaac? Is something
wrong?”
Stiles shakes his head rapidly when his tongue won’t cooperate. It takes a
minute before he can blurt out, “Holy crap! What the hell? Who did you think I
was?”
Parrish grimaces and his mouth tightens but he doesn’t say. He pauses as he
eyes Stiles’s attire with raised eyebrows.
Stiles flushes and fidgets. “Don’t say anything. Your face says it all. I
know,” he grumbles.
Parrish looks vaguely amused but he clenches his jaw when he notices that
Stiles isn’t alone. He glares over at Kate and Stiles turns in time to see Kate
blowing him some lewd kisses.
Stiles laughs a little nervously as he turns away. “So, um, you have any plans
tonight?”
Parrish flicks his gaze back to Stiles. “Not particularly, but I have a feeling
you’re about to change that.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, doing his best to look everywhere
but Parrish’s naked chest. “Well,” he says. “No pressure.”
Parrish lips curl a little at that before he sighs. “Give a few minutes. I’ll
trail you.”
Stiles nods and quickly returns to Kate’s car. “Should I have told him we were
using him as bait?” he wonders aloud.
Kate snorts. “Better he doesn’t now,” she replies before she leans over and
pulls down her glove compartment to fish out a stick of gum. “You ever play
Easy Pitch?”
Stiles frowns and accepts the piece she offers him as he shakes his head no. He
shoves it in his pocket for later.
“It’s something me and Peter play from time to time when we go on stakeouts,”
Kate goes on to explain as she pops the gum in her mouth after spitting out the
old one. “Basically, it’s like — say you and I were out together, and we saw
this girl, well I would go up to the girl and ask her some fielding questions
based on what I was looking for. If she seemed innocent enough, I’d tell her
all your charming qualities until I’ve convinced her you’d be worth her time.
Then I’d send her your way so she can give you her number, that way you’d know
she checks out. Easy Pitch.”
“Okay,” Stiles drawls. “Actually no. I don’t get it.”
“Unless you have a better way of singling out the Nymphs, I’m all ears,” Kate
says. “Play the game and we can send each other people who we’ve given the all
clear to. Narrows down suspects.”
“Oh.” Stiles can’t say that it isn’t a good idea. But he’s going to have a hard
time socializing because parties like these usually aren’t his thing. Actually
parties in general aren’t his thing. But at least it helps to know that he’s
not the one trying to get the numbers for himself because that’s just a
disaster waiting to happen.
Kate shifts gears just as Parrish exits his house wearing a simple v-neck shirt
with some fitted jeans and he strides across the lawn to his car. She snorts
and pulls away from the curb, saying, “He would drive a Mazda.”
Stiles doesn’t get what’s so significant about that but he doesn’t ask.
Kate drives without saying much else. She definitely doesn’t drive like Peter
does. She’s more calm and aware, if not laidback. She constantly glances at her
rearview mirror as if to make sure that Parrish is trailing them like he said
he would.
When it looks like they’re getting close, driving past the actual college
campus to head towards the more student-oriented neighborhood, Stiles says,
“You’re not going to tell Peter about this are you?”
Kate smirks and says, “Duh. He doesn’t need to know everything. It would serve
him right, wouldn’t it?”
Stiles silently agrees and when she parks they both climb out. “So what’s the
story? I mean what’s the angle we’re playing with this Easy Pitch thing?”
“Well,” Kate drawls. “You can say I’m a newly signed model looking for a no-
strings attached type of thing. And I’ll say you’re a photography major with
that whole tortured artist thing but you’re worth a try because you’ve got a
massive —”
Stiles splutters.
“— heart,” Kate finishes in amusement. “What?”
Stiles just shakes his head and flushes.
Kate snorts. “You’re just adorable, aren’t you?” She makes grabby hands at him.
“Give me your phone.”
Stiles does and watches in amusement as she takes a selfie before handing it
back.
“So they know who to look for,” Kate explains before she aims the camera lens
of her phone at him.
Stiles just stands there awkwardly and waits for her to finish. When she takes
longer than necessary, he opens his mouth and says, “What are you —”
Kate takes the picture with a smirk. “There. Perfect.” She eyes the picture.
“You know you got such an obscene mouth. It’s criminal. I’m sure when I flash
this picture to our targets they’ll come running to find you so they can see if
you’ll let them take those lips for a ride.”
Stiles flushes again and pockets his phone when she hands it back over. “You
make me sound like a hooker,” he grumbles.
“What’s so bad about that? Everyone loves someone who’s willing to go downtown,
if you catch my meaning, which I think you do,” Kate drawls, wiggling her
eyebrows in a ridiculous leery manner.
Stiles just gawks at her before he snaps his mouth shut and steps away from her
car, turning his gaze to watch Parrish climb out of his car instead for
something else to focus on outside of how obnoxious Peter’s girlfriend is.
Kate puts on some red lipstick as she clicks over to Parrish. “Keep an eye out
for some obnoxiously good looking guys. They might be the Nymphs we’re looking
for. Well, two out of three. I’m gonna go mingle and get drunk,” she decides.
Parrish grabs her elbow with a disapproving frown. “You’re underage, Kate,” he
reminds, concern coloring his tone. "Peter wouldn't like —"
"Oh and you suddenly care what he likes, then?" Kate fires back with a mean
grin. "Would it hurt you so much to say that you'reworried about me?"
 "That's not — I didn't mean — of courseI care what happens to you," Parrish
stammers, looking uncomfortable. "But Peter —"
"What about Peter? He's got the good sense to know I can handle my own. And I'm
eighteen now," Kate presses, angling her body more towards him. "If I want to
drink, I will be drinking. But don't worry, if I feel like I want to get handsy
with someone, I'll come find you."
Parrish flushes and quickly lets her go. "Kate..."
“Tough titty said the kitty,” Kate replies with a wicked grin. “You’re off
duty, officer. Relax. Worry about him, not me.” And with that she walks up
toward the fraternity house practically overflowing with college students who
are practically half-naked, body littered with all sorts of interesting things
like phone numbers, words, and so on.
All of them are clinging to red cups and to each other as they loudly mingle
over the pulsating bass thumping from somewhere in the house.
Stiles can vaguely make out the song being played (Turn Down for What).
Parrish saddles up beside him and says, “Never went to college. Enlisted
straight out of high school. Don’t think I missed much.”
Stiles snorts and says, “You’re fighting every judicial instinct in you that
wants to card them, aren’t you?”
“It’s almost painful,” Parrish admits as he eyes the crowd warily. “Don’t drink
anything offered to you.”
“I know,” Stiles says. “My dad already gave me this talk.”
Parrish just nods stiffly and makes a gesture towards the house.
Stiles walks a little bit ahead of him, eyeing different people of interest as
he navigates between them. He’s not sure what to look for specifically — maybe
the Nymphs will be obnoxiously gorgeous like Kate said. That’s not saying much
though because there’s a lot of good-looking people at the party as is and
Stiles has never been one to discriminate when it comes to beauty.
He sighs as they enter the house and the blare of music crashes over him like a
tidal wave. He winces and tries not to think about the incident earlier as he
seeks out the kitchen, figuring it’ll do as a proper not-hiding but kinda
hiding spot.
There are others hanging around but it’s not as crowded as every other inch of
the house.
Parrish scopes out the area like he’s looking for a potential threat and when
he finds none, he turns to Stiles and says, “I’m going to walk around. See what
I find.”
“Okay,” Stiles replies. “I’ll text you if I find something.”
Parrish nods before he disappears.
Kate sends him a text that reads: where r u?
In the kitchen.
good stay there
sending a couple of grls ur way
let u kno when we swtch off
Stiles pockets his phone and waits, trying not to look as awkward as he feels.
He grabs a red cup off of the sink counter (it smells really strong and he’s
not sure what it is) and he holds it for appearance’s sake.
A dark-skinned female with a busty figure, large hoop earrings and a short
curly afro wanders around the couple making out and grinding against each other
on the refrigerator. She makes a disgusted face and heads to the sink (where
Stiles is currently standing near) and glares in the sink and then around. She
looks at Stiles with narrowed eyes and points to the sink as she says, “Ey, did
you see a cup of cognac sitting here? Cause I just dipped out for a hot second
to go to the bathroom and I could’ve sworn I —”
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says and hands her the cup in his hands. “I sorta picked it
up and, um, I didn’t really know what to do with my hands so — don’t worry I
didn’t drink it.”
“Uh huh,” she says, narrowing her eyes further. She sniffs at it before she
just pours it down the drain. “No offense to you but I ain’t stupid. I don’t
take chances.”
Stiles pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I don’t blame you. At all. You
can never be too careful these days.”
“No you cannot,” she huffs in agreement. “And it sure don’t help your case
hanging out in the kitchen with those two mid-coitus on that ice box. You know
the party’s out there right?”
“Yeah. Which is why I’m in here,” Stiles confesses.
A look of dawning passes over her face. “You like my sister, Braeden. She the
same way. Most people can't handle her temperament in polite situations cause
she ain't polite to begin with. She’s kind of an undercover freak, if you catch
my meaning. Real into that whole BDSM scene. She’s a Dominatrix. Using the
money to put herself through this fancy preparatory academy up in New York.
Refuses to let our mom help her pay but, you know. Some people got too much
pride when it comes to things.”
Stiles coughs weakly and wonders why the name feels familiar to his ears.
She takes his coughing as a sign of dehydration so she walks over to the fridge
and shoves the couple out of the way to retrieve some bottles of orange soda.
She brings it back over and hands one to Stiles before she leans against the
sink and says, “I’m Danielle Journey by the way, but everybody calls me
Journey. Family calls me Danielle. Mom and sister call me Danny.”
“Stiles.”
“Interesting,” Journey says. “So, Stiles. What’s your major?”
“Photography,” Stiles says, thinking about what Kate said. He twists the top
open on his soda and takes a generous sip before he says, “Yours?”
“Genetics, Biophysics, Psychology, and Anthropology,” Journey chimes. “I’m
basically like Charles Xavier, only not quite as bald-headed, blacker, and
sadly without mutant powers. Also note the lack of wheelchair under me.”
Stiles perks up at that with a slight grin. “Maybe you just haven’t presented?”
he jokes lightly.
Journey smirks. “If only. But if I’ve learned anything about those kind of
mutations, it’s that they have the tendency to surface around puberty. Though I
suppose you have your late bloomers.”
“You’re the expert,” Stiles supposes with a full grin. “So do you read the
comics or are you a fan of the cinematic interpretations?”
Journey wrinkles her nose. “Never could get into the movies. Did enjoy the
cartoons though, you know, way back when. As for the comics?” She throws her
hands up and says, “I’ve read and collected as much as I could get my hands on
ever since I was a shorty. They’re the reasons why I’m doing what I’m doing.”
Stiles nods. “That’s cool. Like really cool. I mean I’m not as dedicated but
I’ve skimmed a few issues and I’m pretty familiar with the timelines in both
Marvel and DC. What’s your favorite character?”
“Ororo Monroe aka Storm,” Journey admits. “Everyone always expects me to say
Professor X but nah. Storm is my spirit animal, and it don’t hurt that she’s
such fine piece of chocolate. They were right to pick Halle Berry for that
role. I’d wife Halle Berry, I don’t care that they say she crazy. I can do
crazy. I can do crazy all night long in every position imaginable.”
Stiles laughs without really meaning to.
“What about you though?”
“Halle’s pretty but I wouldn’t wife her,” Stiles replies and chuckles when
Journey rolls her eyes. “No, but I’ve always favored Spider-Man.”
“Amazing or Ultimate?”
“Amazing for sure.”
“So you must be into Garfield’s interpretation?”
“Well I —”
Two leggy brunettes enter the kitchen and swagger over to them. They grin
wickedly as they begin to scribble their names and numbers across his arm and
the side of his neck.
Stiles stammers and blushes as Journey shoots him a confused but amused look.
One of the girls says, “Call me.”
The other says, “Maybe I can pose for you sometime.”
Then, they’re gone.
Stiles stares after them before he looks at Journey.
“Man, I don’t even want to know. Get back to what you were saying,” Journey
says with a lenient grin.
Stiles sighs gratefully and begins rambling about how perfect Andrew Garfield
was for Amazing Spider-Man (how he doesn't get much credit for it). Well, in
between the random flirtatious interruptions of people Kate sends his way. He
flushes knowingly when they all look at his mouth with this odd gleam in their
eyes and Stiles avoids wondering what Kate could have possibly said to them.
Journey takes the peculiarity of the situation in stride and she refrains from
questioning or commenting, which Stiles immensely grateful for. She commandeers
their conversation after a while by going on a rant about how she prefers Miles
Morales in the Ultimate comics and how she would cast Jaden Smith or Childish
Gambino to play the role. She then gives Stiles this appalled look when he
confesses to not knowing who Childish Gambino is.
In the midst of Journey’s raving reviews to Gambino’s latest rap album, Stiles
gets a text from Kate that reads:
k switch now. ur turn. ill b nxt 2 my car.
Stiles sighs and informs Journey that they’ll have to shorten their
conversation without elaborating why.
Journey just lifts a brow and asks for his phone, which she puts her name and
number in. She explains, “At least this way I’ll know for sure you won't brush
me off. You didn’t seem too interested in your little fanclub when they came to
mark you up. And maybe when I ask you out for dinner you’ll actually say yes.”
Stiles gets flustered and doesn’t know what to say. He feels partially guilty
that she doesn’t know the actual truth about him. She’s really pretty and loud,
if not intimidating, but he’s prone to admiring those kinds of traits in
people. He would take her up on the offer if he weren't so underage. Boy, what
a mess.
Journey just winks, flattered that she’s made him speechless and she hands him
back his phone. “You’re a cool guy, even if you are twiggy. I’ll have to take
you to a buffet if you do decide to take me up on my offer. Look up that album
I was telling you about and let me know how you like it,” she says before she
wanders off with a wave.
Stiles waves back dazedly as he pockets his phone. He shakes himself out of his
stupor and makes his way through the house (which smells heavily of alcohol and
weed intermingled with the stink of markers), flashing Kate’s picture at guys
and girls alike.
He orbits the dining room first, moving around the house in a counter-clockwise
motion until he ends up in the crowded living room. He tries to feel for some
kind of nauticalvibe, but he doesn’t sense anything otherworldly about any of
the drunken college students he encounters. It’s actually a relief to his
social anxiety that they’re intoxicated because they don’t really focus on him
so much as trying to stay upright or not puking on themselves.
Stiles is ready to give up and call it a night, drained from his interactions
with so many personalities, when his sense of smell is suddenly overwhelmed by
the scent of fish and sea salt. Everything starts to slow down and Stiles turns
his gaze to the open doorway of the living room just as the blaring sound of
dubstep zeros out completely, only to be replaced by the sound of water. Well,
it’s more like the sound of ocean waves rocking back and forth gently.
That’s when he sees her.
She’s tall and willowy, strikingly beautiful — more stunning than what should
be normal. But that’s exactly what it is: abnormal. She has long, shiny dirty
blonde hair that reaches to her tiny waist in gentle curls. She has leafy green
eyes wrapped in thick dark lashes, a pointy button nose and cushy lips coated
with some kind of lip-gloss. She’s easily the prettiest woman in the room and
she becomes something he wants to watch. She’s wearing black/cream allover
floral print denim overall shorts with ripped and frayed accents, and
underneath she’s got a ripped up shirt that has a graphic of the movie Heathers
on the front of it. She’s got no shoes on and unlike everyone else, her creamy
white skin has been untouched by a marker.
That’s when Stiles knows.
She stops at the bottom of the steps and glances over her shoulder at him. She
stares at him for a long time with a searching gaze before she turns away and
continues up the stairs, or rather, gliding up them like some kind of gorgeous
apparition.
Stiles blinks and grimaces as the sound of the world returns to him as quickly
as it left. Time passes normally once more and he’s staggers into a group of
giggling, tipsy girls who are a bit too handsy for his tastes. It takes a
minute for him to extract himself before he stumbles after the Nymph, who he
names Heather in his head just because of her shirt and also because he doesn’t
know what her actual name is.
He makes it to the top of the steps and he looks left and right down the long
hallway, unsure where he should even start. He starts on the left, opening and
closing every door (sometimes hastily closing with an apology because some of
the rooms are being thoroughlyoccupied). He makes it to the end of the hall and
carefully creeps inside the dark room. He flicks on the light but he sees it’s
a mess of clothes, school books, cameras (old and modern), and lingerie. On the
walls there are photos of all sizes but their mostly black and white candids of
random people of all ages and sizes.
Stiles frowns as he steps in the room because for whatever reason, there’s also
an abundance of Paige’s picture on one lone wall. It sends chills down his
spine and fills him with a sense of alarm. These aren’t artistic shots — these
are the kind of photos someone with a disturbing obsession would take.
A dark shrine of fixation.
Stiles whips his gaze to the other side of the room where there’s a closed
door. He sees a shadow move through the bottom crack of the door and before he
can be reasonable or talk himself out of it, he moves to open the door. Then he
freezes.
He expects to see Heather.
What he finds instead is Paige.
She’s on the floor, back to the side of the tub, head thrown back on the edge
with her bare legs spread out before her across the fuzzy carpet. She’s wearing
nothing but an oversized t-shirt (which she’s drowning in because it fits her
like a short white dress). She looks nothing like how he remembers.
She’s so small now, so skinny — practically bordering on anorexic.
And her face — god,her face. It’s a mess of bruises.
Her right eye is blackly swollen shut, and her lips are cracked and split and
bruised at the left corner. Her long pale throat has an impression of bruises
that take the shape of fingers like someone has been chokingher. The fingers of
her right hand twitch around a used needle that is still sunken into the inner
crease of her elbow on her left arm, which already has a network of track
marks.
Stiles presses a hand to his mouth as a wave of nausea and horror passes
through him. Through his shaky fingers, he says, “Paige?”
Paige moans weakly, her lashes flutter with the deep eye-roll she gives.
Stiles scrambles over to her and carefully pries the needle free from her grasp
before tossing it aside. He cups his hand behind her head to lift her up some
as his other hand presses around her face. She’s burning up but breaking out
into a cold sweat and she looks so out of it. He feels his heart lurch when he
realizes that it’s very likely that she’s overdosed on something.
Paige moans again as she starts to shake.
“Oh god,” Stiles croaks and fights down his panic as he scrambles for his phone
to dial 911.
Paige suddenly jolts upright and lurches to the side as she vomits blood onto
the floor before passing out.
Stiles makes a desperate sound as he picks her up (bridal style) and runs out
of the room with her in his arms. He runs down the steps and out the door,
ignoring all the bewildered stares as he carries Paige all the way over to
Kate.
Kate’s giving a speech about condoms and consent to a group of jocks and frat
boys but she straightens in alarm when she spots him. She takes in Paige’s
state and the pink wetness of Stiles’s cheeks before she grits out, “What
happened?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles sobs desperately and the sky begins to rumble above
them. “God, she’s — something’s wrong! We have to get her to a hospital!”
Kate looks conflicted but she sighs heavily and spits, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She
unlocks her car doors and helps Stiles ease into the backseat with Paige still
in his arms. “God damn it. Watch her head.”
Stiles sniffs with a nod and clutches Paige as he watches her face desperately.
The sky gives another rumble. “Come on,” he says. “Come on, come on, come on.”
“Okay, okay,” Kate replies and scrambles for her keys before she starts the
car. It’s only a second later that she’s peeling down the street in the
direction of the hospital as she dials the hospital on her phone. “Yes, hello?
I’m calling about an emergency…”
Stiles drowns out everything, focusing so heavily on the way that Paige
breathes shallowly until all he can hear is a weak heartbeat and not the sound
of wind rushing around them as Kate speeds. He begins to shake as he realizes
that her heartbeat is beginning to dip dangerously. He makes another desperate
sound as he clings to Paige’s skeletal frame helplessly.
Through his wet lashes, he sees a small bundle of something shimmery unfurl in
Paige’s chest where her heart is and lines of silver like threads in a spider
web begin to flicker in different directions as though they’re connected to
different things. One of the threads seems to go from her to him and it’s
thicker than the thread that goes from her to Kate, which is really wiry and
thin.
Kate shakes him and Stiles is forced to snap out of it when he realizes that
they’ve arrived to the hospital and all of the silver threads disappear like
they never even existed in the first place as the sound of an ambulance rings
in the distance.
Kate has them parked in the driveway of the hospital E.R.
A horde of nurses pry Paige from his arms to lay her out on a stretcher before
they usher her inside.
Stiles sniffs and quickly climbs out of the car to follow them. He recognizes
one of the nurses to be Melissa McCall and she’s placing an oxygen mask over
Paige’s slack mouth. He tries to follow them all the way but Melissa stops him
at the double doors of the restricted wing and lets the door close behind her
after she assures him that they’ll take good care of Paige.
Stiles finds himself sitting in the waiting area, ringing his hands nervously
while Kate paces the length of it as she talks on her phone to god knows who.
He doesn’t pay attention; he’s too busy thinking about how pale Paige looked
when she spewed blood from her mouth or how red her lips had looked afterward.
It leaves him feeling rattled.
Melissa keeps him informed about Paige’s progress and in between that Stiles
calls Scott when Isaac doesn’t pick up to inform him of what happened. He tries
to call his dad but it keeps going straight to voicemail, which is unnerving as
it is worrying. He texts his dad, even after leaving him a gang of messages
until his phone dies from overuse, which leaves him to do nothing but bounce
his leg anxiously and stare at the muted TV mounted in the corner.
Melissa seeks him out one last time before she clocks out for the night and
informs him that Paige is in critical condition but she’s stable.
Stiles is thinly relieved and he thanks her before he watches her disappear
around some corner. He leans back in his chair and thumps the back of his head
against the wall behind him to stare tiredly up at the buzzing fluorescent
lights.
He idly wonders about Parrish and how he’ll react to being ditched if Kate
hasn’t already informed him about where they are. Then there’s a brief moment
where he thinks of Heather.
As his eyelids dips, his last thought before he falls asleep is: This is going
to kill Derek.
                                      ---
Someone gently shakes Stiles’s shoulder and he scrambles upright out of
confusion, wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand before he
fixes his glasses, which are sitting crooked on his face. He must have been
sleeping with his mouth open because his tongue feels like cotton, not to
mention the fact that his back is killing him. Must be from the contortion of
how he was trying to spread himself across the hard wooden arms of the row of
chairs lined up against the wall. He rubs his eyes tiredly before he blinks up
at Derek, who is looming over him with a cup holder of coffees.
“Hey,” Derek says it so very softly like he’s afraid of speaking any louder.
His brow is furrowed but his expression is very neutral. "Didn't mean to
startle you. Here."
Stiles quickly accepts the cup of coffee offered to him as he watches Derek
anxiously from under his lashes. He takes a careful but generous sip before he
cringes and pulls the cup away to sniff it. “This isn’t coffee,” he says with a
frown.
“Hot cocoa,” Derek says as he hands one to Kate as she clicks by with her phone
still pressed against her ear. She accepts it with a wordless thanks before she
scowls and hisses into her phone.
Stiles watches her leave with a deepening frown.
“Peter,” Derek supplies when he notices. He’s looking at Stiles intently, gaze
searching. “He’s furious she took you to that party.”
“Tough,” Stiles mutters before he takes another sip of his hot chocolate with a
sigh.
"Yeah that's what she's saying basically," Derek says. "How is it?" He nods to
the cup in Stiles's hand.
"Good," Stiles replies between sips. "Really good."
"You were shivering," Derek remarks suddenly, like he can't help it. He seems
distracted somehow. "While you were sleeping. I just...I thought it might
help."
Stiles pauses at that. It is doing a good job with warming his insides. He’s
not exactly dressed to withstand the chilly temperatures of a hospital.
"Thanks. You didn't have to."
Derek shrugs.
“How did Peter know I was — you didn’t tell him did you?”
Derek shakes his head no. “You asked me not to.”
“You don’t usually do as I ask.”
Derek shrugs again but he doesn’t deny it. He sits down on the edge of the
coffee table in front of Stiles and begins drinking his own cup of hot
chocolate as he stares at Stiles’s bare knees like he’s lost in thought.
Stiles has no idea what to say to him at this point because he not sure about
what Derek knows. “Um,” he says, scrambling for something as he fiddles with
the rim of his cup. “Did Kate call you?”
Derek nods silently but he doesn’t look up from Stiles’s knees. “Mom dropped me
off a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t let me leave the house when Kate first
called. I was — I went a little — she made me wait until I calmed down.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly before he clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
“What did — um.” He isn’t trying to tiptoe but he really doesn’t know how to
approach this. “What do you know about what happened?”
“Enough,” Derek says lowly as he catches Stiles’s eyes. “It must have been a
shock. To find her like that."
Stiles's tongue feels too heavy to confirm. It's only...well, Derek is being
way too calm about this.
Derek continues, "Are you okay?”
Stiles could almost laugh at the irony. “You’re asking me if I’m okay? Derek.
This isn't about — what would it matter how I feel?”
Derek shrugs wordlessly but it looks like he has a lot more to say than he's
letting on. He takes another sip of his hot chocolate as he tracks his eyes
over Stiles’s face and he stays silent.
Stiles stares right back at him. Sometimes he can’t begin to understand the
other teen.
Derek looks away before he says, “Paige’s family is sitting with her now. They
said I could — that it would be okay to —” He stops short and takes a deep
breath before he releases it. “I’m going to go see her for myself in a minute.”
Stiles nods and gulps down his hot chocolate for the better lack of having
anything else to say. He feels anxious and nervous for some reason — maybe on
Derek’s behalf since the other teen doesn’t seem to be reacting to the
situation much. He fiddles with his cup as he chews on his fingernails. He
glances around and notices that the waiting room is a little more occupied than
it had been last night.
It's full of antsy children who dance energetically in front of their sleep-
deprived parents, who nod into their cups of cafeteria coffee.
Stiles can smell the lemon wax and bleach spread across the newly waxed
linoleum floors. Everything around him suddenly seems so abrupt and there.
Maybe it’s the glare of florescent lights that chase away every shadow or the
smell of ‘clean’ or the sanitizing cold. It makes everything about the hospital
feel so final and real and unchangeable.
Derek straightens suddenly and drinks down the last of his hot chocolate before
he crushes the cup as he stands. Then he walks over to a garbage bin and
trashes it before he waits.
Not even a moment later, a tearful older couple approaches Derek, putting their
hands on his shoulder as they say something to him that makes him stiffen. Then
he’s rushing down the hall.
Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and tries not to take that as a bad sign. He
blinks and stands quickly when the older couple approaches him.
“You’re the one that found our daughter?” the mother says with wet cheeks and
shaky hands.
Stiles nods wordlessly.
The mother bursts into sobs and clings to him as she mumbles her gratitude.
The father looks a little embarrassed and uncomfortable as he pries his wife
away from Stiles. He says, “I’m sorry. She’s — we both are very grateful that
you found Paige when you did. We hadn’t heard from her in weeks and we’d
wondered.”
“I just don’t understand,” the mother says, choking on her tears. “What kind of
monster does this to such a sweet and innocent girl? She would have never —”
She cuts herself off with more sobs.
“We’ve contacted the police,” the dad says. “If you’re feeling up to it, could
you give them a statement about all of this? We want to file a restraining
order against her husband. We’re thinking of pressing charges but we need
enough to bring to court.”
“Yeah, of course,” Stiles quickly agrees.
Paige’s father shushes his wife with comforting sounds as he leads her to u-
shaped reception counter where a pair of deputies are waiting.
Stiles makes his way over as well and tells them everything that he can, with
every detail he can remember. He makes sure to mention the state of the room he
found her in and the things he’s noticed before he gives them the address to
the fraternity house. Just basically anything he thinks will help.
He returns to the waiting room when they no longer have need of him and he sits
beside Kate, who’s furiously typing away on her phone with a prominent scowl.
He doesn’t ask. He just glances up at the TV mounted in the corner and watches
the news. It’s nothing about Chicago, but it’s mostly fluff pieces.
The time on the wall clock reads: 7:56 am.
Stiles turns to Kate and says, “My phone is dead.”
“I got a charger in my car. I can take it if you want,” Kate offers but she’s
already holding out her hand expectantly.
Stiles fishes his phone out of his pocket and gives it to her as he watches her
stand. She walks off and he’s left to sit there by himself. He tries to watch
the news a little more while taking idle sips of his (now cold) hot chocolate
but he gets restless after a while. His stomach gurgles, so he stands and goes
in search of a vending machine. He manages to get lost somehow as he navigates
through the corridors and just as he’s about to flag down a nurse for help, he
spots Derek exiting a room at the end of the hall.
Derek paces the width of the floor back and forth several times as he scrubs
his hands through his hair, chest heaving until he punches the wall with an
angry cry. He then stumbles back into the opposite wall, covering his face with
his hands as he sinks down the length of the wall slowly with shaking shoulders
and he drops to the floor.
It’s like a punch in the gut to Stiles. He can’t explain why. He and Derek
aren’t even that close but that doesn’t seem to matter to his heart, which
feels like it’s dissolving in his chest. He walks to the end of the hall, not
even sure what he means to do, but when he reaches Derek, he just plops down
right beside him.
Derek doesn’t acknowledge him, so lost in his grief. He continues to sob so
very quietly into the palms of his hands. His knees are curled close to his
chest and the back of his neck and the tips of his ears are a rosy color.
Stiles carefully, as if Derek might break under his touch, puts his right hand
on Derek’s left shoulder. He can feel the way the older teen is trembling
through that bit of contact and it makes something uncomfortable and hot swell
in his throat. His chest is tight with his sympathy and his stomach twists
restlessly as he listens to the way Derek tries to quiet his whimpers.
It’s a long time before Derek can fully stifle his sobs, and even longer before
he lifts his head so he can stare at the ceiling with misty green eyes and
wetly flushed cheeks. He keeps swallowing every five seconds, like he’s got
something caught in his throat, and he sniffs as often as a person with hiccups
would.
Stiles pulls away and folds his hands together in his lap. He takes a moment to
look into Paige’s room through the open door and he eyes her prone form
searchingly. She’s drowning under a network of tubes and it looks like her left
hand has been set in a cast. He lifts his eyes up so he can look at the
monitors crowding around the head of her bed but he can’t make heads or tails
of what the vital signs mean. As long as her chest is moving up and down then
everything is okay, he silently supposes.
Derek sniffs twice and says, “She’s pregnant.”
Stiles looks at him sharply with surprise.
“Her parents said that the doctors — if you hadn’t found her when you did —”
Derek doesn’t finish the sentence, he’s choking over the words, but then again,
he doesn’t really need to.
Stiles is afraid to ask but he does. “Is it...yours?”
Derek tenses up and snaps, “No!” Then he deflates and, more softly this time
with a touch of sadness, apologetically repeats, “No.”
Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail as his mind explodes with new questions.
Derek scrubs at his face tiredly before he runs his fingers through his hair
like he’s trying to tame it but he still looks so very out of it. He says, “I
barely recognized her when I saw her. I didn’t even — she’s not the same. She
doesn't smell the same.”
“I know,” Stiles says around his thumbnail and winces at his wording. “I mean,
I agree that she doesn't — she looks different. I thought the same thing when I
saw her.”
Derek growls and his eyes flash an amber color. “I should find that asshole and
rip him apart.” His shoulders begin to shake. “I spent so long being angry at
her, wishing that —” He stops and shakes his head sharply. “But she didn’t —
didn’t deserve that. None of it. None of this.”
“No, she doesn't,” Stiles agrees but he glances around quickly. “But you have
to calm down, okay? You cannot wolf-out right now. Time and place, dude.”
Derek scowls but he shuts his eyes like he’s meditating. His hands flex at his
sides and he exhales slowly before he opens his eyes again. They’ve returned to
their original color.
“And also, I get the whole revenge thing,” Stiles continues as he looks back to
Paige. “But it’s not going to solve anything. Sometimes the rules of the Wild
Kingdom don’t apply. You’ve gotta let the cops sort it out. Her parents have
already gotten them involved.”
Derek crosses his arms with a deep frown but he doesn’t say anything.
“It’ll work out,” Stiles assures.
Derek looks at him. “How do you know?”
“I guess I don’t,” Stiles admits. He turns to look at Derek. “But I’d like to
believe so. I have to.”
Derek flicks his gaze over Stiles’s face like he’s searching for something.
Then he says, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
Stiles frowns at the sudden shift in conversation. Then he just frowns in
confusion before he groans when he remembers what he’s wearing. He takes the
glasses off to fiddle with them as he replies, “I don’t, but Kate saw fit to
dress me this way for the party. I feel like such a poser.”
Derek looks almost close to smiling but he doesn’t. He continues to scan Stiles
from head to toe. “You have a lot of phone numbers written on you,” he mentions
before he looks past Stiles and down the hall to the other end of the corridor.
“Only because they all thought I was some sensitive photographer with a massive
heartand um, pretty lips,” Stiles clarifies lightly, cheeks reddening when he
remembers the actualwords they used to describe his mouth. God, if he could
never do anything like that again it’d be too soon.
Derek snorts and takes Stiles’s glasses so he can put them on himself. And of
course, he looks really, unfairly nice in them. He leaves them on as he glances
back towards Paige’s room, his expression darkening into something more
melancholy.
Stiles doesn’t like seeing Derek so downhearted. Its just something about the
way when the other teen is happy, he just looks like he deserves it and that he
never takes it for granted. But when he looks sad, he really looks sad, like
he’s lost and confused and he doesn’t know how to make it better or if it
willget better. It makes Stiles’s own heart achingly heavy.
They sit there on the floor across from Paige’s room for what feels like ages
as nurses and doctors and patients pass them by. They sit there as Paige’s
parents return to sit vigilantly at her bedside; the father with his arms
around his faintly weeping wife.
Derek doesn’t move to go back into the room. He just watches from a distance
with that level of quiet focus he has about himself sometimes.
Stiles manages not to fidget so much or ramble unnecessarily about something
because he’s feeling anxious. He doesn’t really have a mind to, not with Derek
sitting beside him. He’s entirely too focused on what the other teen is doing
(which isn’t much at this point) that he forgets about himself. He gnaws on his
thumbnail as he glances at the side of Derek’s face as subtly as possible.
It’s probably a couple of minutes before Derek huffs and, without even looking
at him, reaches out with his left hand to press Stiles’s hand down and away
from his mouth. He says, “Don’t do that.”
“What am I doing?”
“Watching me like I’m going to explode.”
“I don’t think that,” Stiles quickly assures and unconsciously brings thumbnail
up to his mouth so he can chew at it but Derek stills the movement. “I don’t,”
he repeats.
Derek finally looks at him. “I’ll be fine. You can leave if you want. I
appreciate everything. You don't have to worry.”
“Uh,” is Stiles’s eloquent reply and he goes a little pink. “It’s not that I —
we just — we’re friendsand I just want to be sure you’re okay."
"I'm fine."
Stiles barely catches himself from making an annoyed sound. "You're not, and
that's — I get it."
Derek just looks at him without saying anything.
Stiles finds himself fidgeting. "I mean I — I'm allowed to worry about you,” he
insists.
Derek nods leniently, like he’sthe one doing the comforting here.
That just kind of exasperates Stiles as much as it causes him to be bemusedly
fond over the other teen.
Derek says, “Thanks. And I am okay. If I’m not, then I will be. I’m going to
stay here. She might — maybe she’ll wake up. We haven’t talked since — and
that's —” He stops himself short and he gets a little frustrated with his
articulation. His brow furrows and he opens his mouth to try again but then he
cocks his head suddenly and looks past Stiles. “Your dad is here.”
Stiles turns his head. He doesn't see anything. But then sure enough, his dad
is turning the corner at the other end of the hall some moments later with a
tired expression. He fumbles to his feet (excuses himself) and quickly makes
his way to meet his dad halfway.
The sheriff pulls him into a hug when he’s close enough. “You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder before they pull away from each
other. “I had — it’s been a little jolting but, yeah.”
His dad nods. “I wanna take you home,” he says. “I tried calling you back but
your phone’s off. Here, your friend was nice enough to give this to me so I can
return it to you.” He hands Stiles his (completely charged) phone. “I have a
few things I want to tell you.”
“Oh. Okay,” Stiles says and he pockets his phone after he switches it on as his
dad sidesteps him to stride down the hall towards Derek.
Derek quickly stands to stand face to face with the sheriff. His expression
goes somber and he nods to whatever it is being said to him from the older man.
Stiles watches them curiously as his dad claps a hand over Derek’s shoulder
before walking away.
Derek is left staring down at his feet like he’s thinking really intently about
something.
When his dad is close enough, Stiles asks, “What did you say to him?”
“That’s between us, kiddo,” the sheriff carefully deflects. “Let your old man
have his secrets.” He steers Stiles through the halls and past the waiting area
where Kate is still stewing and scowling at the face of her phone like it’s
personally offended her.
“Hang on, dad,” Stiles says and he quickly jogs over to the older teen. “I’m
leaving now, but, have you heard from Parrish? Does he know —”
“He found the two boys,” Kate interjects as she looks up at him. “He’s taking
them home now. Though we haven’t managed to find the girl.”
“I did,” Stiles blurts. “I forgot to mention with everything going on, but I
saw her. I lost track of her but I know what she looks like now.”
Kate hums thoughtfully at that as she twists her phone idly in her hand before
tapping it against her chin. Finally she sighs and says, “We’ll touch bases
about it later. Not much we can do now. If she saw you then she’ll probably
make it a point to avoid being caught.”
Stiles nods.
“All right, well,” Kate says as she straightens. “I’m going to stick around a
little longer. In case Derek needs — in case of anything.”
“Okay. If anything happens, just, let me know,” Stiles urges before he walks
backwards and returns to his dad’s side when Kate nods. They exit the hospital
and then climb into his dad’s cruiser before his dad pulls off. “So you wanted
to tell me something?”
“Yes,” his dad confirms as he turns on his blinker to turn left at the oncoming
traffic light. “I’m going to have to summarize because I have to get right back
to the station. But that friend of yours, Deaton, well he made a few things
clear. He says that the reason I was seeing such conflicting results in the
autopsy reports is because the coroner who performed them was being
deliberately vague. The wounds were from an animal, not any kind of hunting
knife.”
“The coroner was trying to throw you off?” Stiles questions as he thinks on it.
“But why?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for the last twenty-four hours. We
have him in custody at Eichen House.”
“Eichen House? Why Eichen House? And who is he?”
“Ines Reyes,” his dad says. “You remember that girl you were telling me about?
The one with the drug problem? Well this man just so happens to be her father.
You should also know that when I put out a warrant for his arrest and sent a
couple of my deputies out to retrieve him, he locked himself in his office and
cut out his own tongue.”
Stiles inhales sharply at the gruesomeness of it. “Why?”
“That’s something I’d like to know too,” his dad admits. “That’s why we had to
take him to Eichen House. Deaton suggested it. He believes his sister can sort
it out, I don’t know. I placed him under heavy surveillance while he’s being
treated by not only her but a doctor as well. He really butchered his tongue
because whatever he had to say he didn’t want to be forced to say it. Used a
razor made of mistletoe and gold. Couldn’t make sense of it but Deaton and Dr.
Morrell seemed to know why.”
Stiles shakes his head as he thinks on it. “So you think it’s him? The one
who’s been doing the killings?”
“Like I said before, hard to say,” his dad says. “I’m going to have to really
dig deep with this one. I’ll need to talk to everyone he’s ever known. Figure
out what kind of habits he had. Talk to his kids. His coworkers. His
neighbors.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything to that. He’s curious, but he’ll save his questions
for Deaton when he gets the chance to seek the older man out. “I’m not going to
be seeing much of you this weekend, am I?” he asks quietly as they pull up to
the house.
His dad sighs and puts the car in park. “I’m afraid not,” he says and reaches
over to rest a hand on the crown of Stiles’s head. “Don’t worry. It’s the
territory that comes with the job, and if your old man is as good as he thinks,
I’ll have this all sorted out in no time. I just have to put the pieces in its
proper place. But don’t you worry, okay? And I mean that. I think we got our
guy so you don’t need to go nosing around about it.”
“I guess so,” Stiles mumbles and resists the urge to tell his dad that it just
feels like they’re missing something. He’s got that anxious feeling again, like
he’s forgetting something. It’s buzzing about in his head like horde of little
fruit flies clouding around his brain.
His dad is looking at him imploringly. “Look, son. You’ve got a month of school
left. Maybe you don’t need these distractions. I worry about you. I worry that
what I do has an effect on you and Isaac. I just want you two to be
comfortable.”
“We worry about you too,” Stiles says. He tries not to think about the fact
that because he’s a Virtue, there’s probably no chance he’ll ever have a normal
life. “You don’t need to worry about us, dad. We’re — we’ll be fine.”
“That’s what I hope for,” his dad says with a sigh. “I know how you can be. I
know I’m asking a lot for you to take a step back and trust me with this. But
you’d really be adding a few more years onto my life if you just focus on all
that normal teenage stuff like school and videogames and junk food or whatever
you kids do. Just promise me you’ll at least try.”
Stiles looks away and feels conflicted. He doesn’t say anything for a while but
when he does, he tries to be as genuine as possible as he says, “Yeah, okay.
I’ll — try my best.”
“Good. Come here.” His dad pulls him close and into a quick hug before letting
him go. “Now go on and spend some time with your brother and your friend. I
have to get back to work.”
Stiles climbs out of the car and gives his dad a hasty goodbye before he makes
his way up the porch steps and into the house. The door is already unlocked,
and by the loud gaming sounds coming from the living room, he can guess that’s
where everyone is.
Well, it’s mainly Kira and Scott to be exact. They’re playing Mortal Kombat and
Scott appears to be losing epically.
Kira pauses the game when she notices him looming at the edge of the couch and
she flashes him a happy smile but frowns in confusion. “Why are you covered in
numbers?”
Stiles blinks and straightens as he looks down at himself with a groan. He’d
forgotten. “Oh, uh — I was at this party,” he vaguely explains.
“Okay,” Kira merely says but she looks like she wants to ask more questions
about it. She doesn’t in favor of saying, “Did you still want to help me out
with the baseball stuff?”
“Baseball stuff?” Scott says, interested. “I’m good at baseball stuff.”
Kira snorts. “Are you, really?”
“Yeah,” Scott confirms, puffing his chest out. “What’s there to figure out? You
have a bat and you use it to hit the ball someone throws at you.”
“Dude,” Stiles snickers. “You deserve a Ph.D. in sports.”
“I know, right?” Scott exclaims happily. “I’m a well of knowledge.”
Kira laughs at that while Stiles rolls his eyes with a grin. He says, “Where’s
Isaac?”
“Upstairs. Sleeping,” Scott answers.
“Well I’m going to go take a shower. There’s a bat, I think, in the basement.
You guys can try and find it. Do you know where the batting cages are?”
Scott nods before he stands and helps Kira to his feet, jolting in surprise
when she gives him a slight shock.
Kira flushes in embarrassment. “Sorry. I do that a lot.”
“It’s okay,” Scott quickly assures. “It didn’t hurt.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow at his best friend and glances between them. He doesn’t
miss the way Scott sends her these little moony-eyed looks. The same kind he
sends Isaac or Allison from time to time.
Wow, it’s amazing how quickly Scott develops crushes.
Stiles snorts and leaves them alone as he makes his way up the stairs and to
his brother’s room.
Isaac’s curled up like a lump under his covers.
Stiles climbs onto his bed until he's hovering on his knees over the preteen
and pokes at his shoulder, waiting until he hears him make an annoyed sound. He
grins and says, “Wake up. We’re going to the batting cages.”
Isaac grumbles and buries himself further under his covers.
“Well we’re not going now now, but as soon as I hose myself down and get
dressed we will. You should probably get ready too,” Stiles suggests as he
bounces to shake the bed and his brother (who gives a muffled complaint) before
he jabs Isaac’s shoulder one last time. He climbs off the bed and turns to exit
the room. He totally doesn’t expect to be hit on the back of the head with a
pillow. When he whips around to shoot Isaac an offended look, the preteen just
hides from view under his covers but there’s no mistaking the way Isaac's
shoulders are shaking under the duvet. “Oh, real funny,” he mutters and throws
the pillow back, missing horribly.
Isaac just snickers quietly like he knows.
Stiles throws up his hands and tucks away in the bathroom. He turns the gauge
on the shower to set the right temperature before he strips down and climbs in.
It takes a full hour before he can get clean, and none of his soap seems to
work. He gets frustrated after a while and the water is starting to go cold.
There’s a moment where he peeks out from behind the curtain and stares at the
bar of black soap he left on the counter the other day. He stares at it for a
really long time before he sighs and climbs out to get it.
He probably shouldn’t but he takes his chances.
And guess what?
It works.
Not only does he manage to rid himself of the marker stain, but his skin
actually looks brighter. Like he’s glowing. But not like freaky alien glowing,
just more like someone who spent the whole day doing a mud bath kind of
glowing.
It’s curious. Very curious.
He tacks the soap on his mental list of things to be researched.
                                      ---
Stiles, Kira, and Isaac trail behind Scott on their bikes as he leads them to
Beacon Hills Park District (#3) so they can make use of the batting cages. They
lock up their bikes before they walk to one of the cages.
Scott wanders off to go get some tokens for the machine, while Isaac goes in
search of a concession stand.
It’s not as busy, maybe because it’s still early. It is the weekend, so there’s
that.
Stiles leans back against the fence as he watches Kira lace up her cleats
before she puts on her pink and black softball helmet. He smiles a little at
how giddy she looks when he hands over his metal bat.
Kira smacks her helmet with the end of the bat as she bounces on her heels with
a growl. “How do I look?”
“Adorably fierce,” Stiles laughs.
Kira goes red but she beams proudly. She pokes Stiles in his side with the end
of the metal bat until he’s forced to jolt away with a laugh.
They chase each other for a bit and somehow Kira manages to coerce Stiles into
giving her piggyback ride. He puts her down when Scott finally returns with a
handful of tokens.
Kira lets Scott usher her inside the batting cage while she tosses Stiles an
amused look over her shoulder.
Stiles responds with two thumbs up as he watches.
Isaac saddles up beside him with two trays of nachos and some hotdogs. He
offers one of the trays to Stiles before he silently eats his portion as he
watches Scott drop a few tokens in the pitching machine.
Stiles doesn’t realize how famished he is until he’s midway into his second
hotdog.
Scott pauses to say, “Ready?”
Kira curls her hands over the handle of the bat and positions it over her right
shoulder, widening her feet and bending her knees slightly. “Ready!”
The pitching machine whirrs to life and spits out the first ball.
Kira swings and her aim is true but something really weird happens. A current
of electricity goes up the bat and it goes flying back into the fence behind
her, magnetized.
Stiles chokes in surprise and he drops his food in alarm because the bat stops
right where his face would have been if the fence hadn’t been there.
The ball Kira had hit slams into the pitching machine with such destructive
force that it must knock something loose because it goes haywire all of a
sudden, speeding up and whipping balls everywhere.
Kira squeals when a few baseballs hit her helmet, her thigh, and her right
boob. She gives a pained sound and tries spring out of the way, dodging the
balls like they’re on fire. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” she shouts and tries to
dive out of the way.
“I’m trying!” Scott swears, looking panicked, slapping and punching at the
machine to get it to stop.
Stiles turns to Isaac and says, “Go get some help!” before he rushes inside the
cages to try and extract Kira, but he too gets pelted with baseballs. They feel
like well-aimed punches on his body, and he barely makes it to Kira before he
shields her body with his. He grunts in pain as the balls fly at them.
One of the park’s engineers rushes inside the batting cage and powers it down.
Stiles falls on his butt beside Kira and they lean on each other in relief.
“Okay,” he pants and winces as the gravity of his bodily pain really gets to
him. “Show of hands. Who even knew thatwould happen?”
Kira gives a pained laugh and falls backward, sprawling herself across the
ground like a starfish as she stares up at the blue sky through the front of
her helmet.
Stiles sags against the fence behind him and waves off Scott’s concerns before
he watches his best friend rush over to Kira with ample worry.
Isaac strides over to Stiles, looks him over silently for a long minute, and
then just plops down beside Stiles to finish his nachos in peace. “I’m glad
you’re okay,” he supposes between bites. “But you’re paying me back for the
food you wasted.”
Stiles snorts.
Isaac gives him a look.
Stiles rolls his eyes when he realizes that his brother is being completely
serious. “You’re impossible,” he mumbles but he’s more amused than anything. "I
could have died just now."
Isaac just shrugs and turns his attention to his nachos again. “You didn't die.
And your allowance is higher than mine. I’m allowed to inconvenience you,” he
states magnanimously.
Stiles just huffs and lets his brother think what he wants. He sighs and
fidgets as his body twinges with different aches.
His gaze lands on the bat above his head (still magnetically stuck to the
fence) and he tries his hardest not to wonder at the peculiarity of it all.
 
***** accountability *****
Well, after the batting cage incident, they all take a vote to go to Ramona's
Lucky Strike(which also happens to be a roller-skating rink) where they meet up
with Boyd, Jackson, Malia, and Allison.
The bowling alley is a popcorn and beer smelling, UV-light having, glow in the
dark carpet with alternative music playing in the background type of place.
It's very popular by the looks of it.
Boyd decides it's the best time to introduce his mom to those in his circle of
friends that don't already know her. "She likes to know who it is I'm giving
free passes to — just to be sure I'm not 'getting taken advantage of' since my
family has always had a good foot in the retail market in this town or
whatever," he explains as he quickly disappears up some steps that lead to
office resting above the building. He comes back down with a tall, sepia-
colored woman who looks to be in her late forties. "Ma, I think you know most
of the gang. But this is Stiles and Kira, who I don't think you know. Guys,
this is my Ma, Ms. Ramona."
"Nice to meet you," Ms. Ramona says with a strong Haitian-Creole accent as she
greets Kira first. She's a woman with a wiry frame like a cypress tree. She has
black hair styled in tightly coiled curls, which fans around her comely face
like a halo. She takes her time shaking Kira's hand with an impressive amount
of sincerity. She turns to Stiles. "You are...the sheriff's other son?" she
questions as she shakes his hand.
Stiles is about to answer, but surprisingly enough, Isaac jumps at the
opportunity to speak, and says, "Yes, ma'am. This is my older brother. We call
him Stiles."
"Ah, the one you speak so fondly of," Ms. Ramona remarks and Isaac gets a
little pink. "My husband and I were beginning to think he may not be real from
all the things you say."
Stiles sends Isaac a curious look that he valiantly tries to ignore. "All good
things, I hope?" he probes.
"Nothing but," Ms. Ramona assures. She winks at him before she turns to address
her son in French. She makes an indefinable gesture at Isaac.
Boyd suddenly looks embarrassed and his reply is shaky as he responds to her in
the same dialect.
Allison snorts and she says something in French as well that has Ms. Ramona
laughing and Boyd looks even more embarrassed.
"Ah, okay," Ms. Ramona says, switching back to English. "Well, please enjoy
yourself. It’s pretty busy since its noon on a Saturday so you'll have to wait
a good fifteen minutes before you can rent shoes, and get your own designated
married lanes." She kisses Boyd on the cheek before she does the same to Isaac
and walks away.
Isaac says, "What was that about?"
Boyd still looks a little embarrassed. "Nothing. My ma just got her own ideas
about...it's nothing."
"Kinda seemed like something," Stiles lightly insists and looks to Allison.
"Oh my lips are sealed on this one," Allison says with a mischievous, dimpled
smile.
Isaac looks like he wants to keep pressing but Boyd quickly drags him away,
promising to treat him to as much popcorn as he like if he just does not ask.
Two lanes finally open up in the midst of all this.
Stiles volunteers to stay behind to make sure no one tries to snag their lanes
while the rest of them disperse to find an appropriate sized bowling ball.
Isaac returns a moment later to stay behind with him, munching on a bag of
popcorn with oily fingers and offering Stiles some from time to time.
Stiles takes a good handful, cramming it in his mouth and swallowing before he
whistles softly to himself as he leans forward to lace up his shoes.
Isaac stiffens up beside him like he did the other day and his chewing slows as
his brow furrows with upset until he stops eating completely.
Stiles is about to ask what’s wrong but Isaac stands and shoves the bag of
popcorn at him just as Scott and Boyd return with their bowling balls. He
doesn’t really go anywhere, but he just stands there like he’s ready to flee at
any moment.
Allison and Malia return then, followed by Jackson, who sits down at the
control desk to type in their names.
Stiles reaches out to curl his fingers around Isaac’s right wrist gently and is
partially relieved when the preteen doesn’t tense up like he normally would.
He’s about to try and ask what’s wrong but Jackson flags his attention, asking
him to enter his own name so they can go ahead and start the game already.
Isaac uses his momentary distraction to carefully pry Stiles’s hand away so he
can bow out of playing, mumbling something about the arcade, and slipping away
before Stiles can stop him.
Boyd watches him leave as well with a thoughtful face, and he decides he’s not
going to play either. He ignores Jackson’s protests and moves to go look after
Isaac instead.
Stiles makes sure to toss him a grateful look, which Boyd only answers with a
small grin and an understanding nod.
“Okay!” Malia says, hopping up and lifting both hands before she lowers them
and aims her pointer fingers at them all. “Since we’re at an even number now,
how about we make this a little interesting?”
“What’d you have in mind?” Scott asks, still lacing up his shoes.
“Battle of the sexes?” Malia suggests.
Jackson snorts.
Allison shrugs off her jacket and says, “I’m down.”
“Who’s down with what?” Kira asks curiously as she returns after finallyfinding
the perfect bowling ball. She plops down next to Stiles as she turns the galaxy
colored bowl over in her hands.
“Battle of the sexes,” Stiles supplies as he takes the ball from her so he can
examine it. He tries to wiggle his fingers in the three holes but he can’t even
make it past the first knuckle.
Kira perks up and looks very keen on the idea. “What are we playing for?”
“Superiority,” Malia says as though it’s obvious. “Now come over here and stop
fraternizing with the enemy.”
Stiles and Scott lean on each other as they make ridiculous whiny, wounded
sounds and throw a hand over their hearts.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Malia agrees, waving a fist at them.
Kira snickers and takes her ball with a grin before sliding to the row of seats
on the opposite side to sit between Malia and Allison.
The three of them put their heads together and whisper obnoxiously with
delightfully beautiful grins.
Stiles finds himself watching them dazedly for that reason (he’s a sucker for a
gorgeous smile) until Jackson plops down on the other side of him and elbows
him. He grimaces and glares.
Jackson just smirks and says, “How good are you at bowling?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Stiles mumbles and snickers when Jackson scowls. “I
should be fine. Relax.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about for once,” Jackson admits and throws a pointed
glance to Scott, who’s turning his orange bowling ball over in his hands with a
focused frown. “You okay there, McCall? You know that shiny thing in your hands
is supposed to roll across the shiny floor to hit those shiny white pins,
right?”
Scott shoots Jackson a sharp look. “I’m not brain dead, Jackson.”
“Just making sure.” Jackson stands since he and Malia are the first pair to go.
Scott frowns as he watches them.
Stiles knocks their shoulders together. “Don’t worry about it. He’s like 99.9
percent competition. He lives for this kind of stuff.”
“Yeah, well,” Scott mumbles and his cheeks grows a little red as he sneaks a
little glance towards Kira and Allison. “I just — I wantto be good. You know?”
Stiles lifts both brows as he looks over at Kira and Allison as well, who are
obliviously chatting with each other. Then he turns back to Scott to say, “Oh,
okay. I get you. You want to — yeah, got it.”
Scott’s blush deepens and he groans. “I’m hopeless. I can’t even — I
just...suck.”
“Well, I mean, I’m sure you’re not that bad,” Stiles reassures, patting his
distressed friend on the shoulder. “If worse comes to worse, we’ll put up the
bumpers.”
Scott makes a face as Stiles snickers. He says, “That’s not funny, Stiles.
Bumpers are for babies.”
“Now that’s not true,” Stiles protests as he watches Jackson release his plum-
colored ball, flicking his wrist for a curve that gets him a perfect strike.
“They give the babies these special metal ramps along with the bumpers, so —
though if you’re that worried, I’m sure I can ask for one,” he adds jokingly.
Scott rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Some friend you are.”
“What?” Stiles says in mock offense. “There’s no shame,” he swears as he
watches Malia only knock down a few pins with her maroon bowling ball.
“Maybe you can distract everyone while I’m taking my turn. That way they wont
see how pathetically bad I am at this,” Scott reasons and he looks utterly
serious.
Stiles picks up Isaac’s abandoned bag of popcorn from between his feet and
starts munching on it. “I could start a fire,” he offers. "Like a small,
completely contained one in the bathroom using paper towels and hand soap."
Scott snorts.
Jackson strolls back over with a triumphant smirk as Malia curses up a storm
and plops down beside Kira moodily. He says, “You’re up, McCall. Don’t
disappoint me.”
Scott stands and he looks a little nervous as he carries his ball over to meet
Allison at their lane.
Stiles claps and with a mouthful of popcorn, says, “Come on, Scotty! You got
this!”
Allison lines up to take her shot and she steps forward before releasing her
cherry red ball with an almost graceful flick of her wrist. She lands a strike
and pumps her fist with a dimpled smile before she walks back over to Malia and
Kira, who are waiting to high-five her.
Scott’s standing rigidly with his ball still cradled to his chest like he can’t
stand to be parted from it.
Jackson huffs impatiently. “Any day now, McCall.”
Stiles elbows him meanly and looks as innocent as possible as he crams more
popcorn in his mouth while Jackson glares at him.
Scott takes a deep breath and plugs his fingers into his ball and earnestly
tries for the pins, but the ball rolls right into the gutters.
Stiles winces but he claps again. “Second time’s a charm!”
Yeah, only for Scott, not so much. On his second try it goes right into the
gutter like he’s aiming for them. He turns with a crestfallen face and marches
back over to his seat with red cheeks, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
Stiles pats him on the shoulder and says, “Dude, it’s okay. No one’s laughing.”
Scott just frowns at his shoes.
“You’re warming up,” Stiles insists. “Next time, you’re gonna land a strike so
hard that all the pins in the alley will fall down in glorious awe of your
perfect technique. Then the heavens will open up and angels will sing with
horns and harps while both Kira and Allison pledge their hearts to you forever
and always as rainbows arc across the sky —”
“Stilinski, shut up and go,” Jackson mutters irritably.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says and pats Scott on the shoulder one more time. “I’m
gonna use your ball. Give it some of that Stilinski magic.” He wanders over to
grab Scott’s ball just as Kira moves to grab hers. He gives her a little grin.
“So you’re my competition, huh?”
“Competition?” Kira scoffs. “This, my friend, is a lesson. And I’m about to
school you.”
“Oh, well,” Stiles laughs, amused. “By all means, ladies first.”
Kira just winks and swaggers over to the end of her lane, lining up her shot to
match the indicating arrows on the ground before winding her arm back and
releasing the ball with an impressive amount of force. The ball smacks into the
pins and they all go tumbling down with a loud clatter.
Stiles is undeniably impressed.
Kira raises her hands as she swings her hips. “What, what,” she exclaims before
jogging back over to Malia and Allison so they can all high-five each other.
Stiles just exhales and plugs his fingers in Scott’s ball as he cocks his head
left and right before rolling his shoulders. He lifts the ball until its
covering half of his face and he narrows his eyes in concentration. He creeps
forward, stopping just an inch before the foul line, and aims for the edge of
the lane before he releases the ball with a hook.
The ball rolls dangerously along the right gutter until it gets midway down the
lane before curving towards the middle pin, knocking it down gently with a
domino effect until they’re all down.
Stiles grins and turns to the others as he blows on his knuckles before rubbing
them against his chest with a smug look.
Jackson lifts a brow but he looks grudgingly impressed. “Not bad, Stilinski,”
he supposes and they even bump fists.
Stiles claps Scott over the shoulder while he sits down.
Scott smiles, looking a little more cheered before he turns to watch Jackson
and Malia take their next turn.
Stiles nods at Kira and says, “Who’s teaching who now?”
“Beginner’s luck,” Kira protests, even as she grins.
“Lies. That’s your jealousy talking,” Stiles says and sticks out his tongue as
she rolls her eyes with an exasperated smile.
“That’s your jealousy talking,” Kira mocks him childishly with a squeaky voice
and giggles when he throws some popcorn at her. She actually tries to catch
some with her mouth and manages to get one.
Stiles just takes that as permission to keep chucking pieces of popcorn at her
to see what she can catch.
Meanwhile, Jackson lands another strike and Malia does better than she did the
first time.
Scott and Allison rise to take their next turn (though Scott with a lot more
reluctance).
Allison doesn’t get a strike but she knocks the majority of her pins down the
first time around while Scott’s ball goes flying down the gutter.
“It’s all you, buddy!” Stiles calls out encouragingly and Scott shoots him an
embarrassed but grateful smile.
Allison knocks down her leftover pins before she walks over to Scott and
whispers something in his ear as her hand slides down his spine, causing him to
straighten up.
Stiles isn’t sure what she says to him but it makes him curious because Scott
flushes from head to two but he grins like a guy who’s just won the lottery.
Allison kisses his cheek and glides away with a secretive, dimpled grin,
ignoring Malia’s accusations of betrayal as she tugs on Allison’s curls with a
whine when she notices she’s being ignored.
Stiles shares an amused smile with Kira at Malia’s antics before he turns his
gaze over to watch his best friend take his turn.
Scott, for all his lack of grace, manages to land as close to a strike than
he’s ever managed beforehand.
Allison smirks triumphantly and Malia just complains louder.
Scott strolls back to his seat with a smile made purely from the rays of the
sun (like it is seriously epically blinding). He accepts the enthusiastic bro-
hug Stiles gives to him with a laugh.
Even Jackson huffs and knocks the back of his hand against Scott’s arm when
they sit down as he nods approvingly.
Scott’s smile just gets wider as he glances over to Allison from under his
lashes and she ducks her gaze low with a dimpled grin.
Stiles is too curious now. He huddles close and whispers, “Dude, you gotta —
what did she say to you?”
“She um, she said to relax and — she said I should —” Scott looks completely
flustered. “She just encouraged me.”
Stiles barks out a laugh and says, “Buddy, Iwas encouraging you. Whatever she
said was something next level. Seriously, what did she say?”
Scott just shakes his head stubbornly with red cheeks and a secretive grin.
Stiles sighs loudly, and as dramatically as he can. “Fine. Keep your secrets,”
he mutters and sniffs. He crams some more popcorn in his mouth before he stands
to take his turn.
The rest of the game pretty much goes the same way. The girls lose the first
game, but Malia demands a rematch and they win the second game. The third time
around Jackson is the one to demand a rematch, but it doesn’t quite come to
anything because both teams tie up. From there they have to give up their lanes
for another group, so they grab their things and go to return their shoes
before they walk over to the small food court.
Stiles asks Scott to save him a spot in the long line so he can go and grab
Isaac and Boyd.
Boyd is leaning against the Hobbit-themed pinball machine Isaac is totally
owning, and he’s watching with just as much fascination as the small crowd
that’s gathered around Isaac.
Stiles manages to slip through and reach his brother, who doesn’t look up once
as Stiles says, “We’re chowing down. Any requests? I’m buying.”
Isaac grunts in concentration and shakes his head. “Busy. High score. Come back
later.” The machine dings under his hands.
Stiles snorts and looks at Boyd but the other teen just shrugs in a ‘what can
you do?’ kind of way. He says, “What about you? Did you want anything?”
“Nah, man. I’m good,” Boyd assures. "Thanks."
“Both of you suck. You should totally be taking advantage of my offer, because
this isn’t something I’m going to be offering again,” Stiles warns (a weak
threat) and he slips through Isaac’s adoring crowd to wander back to the food
court. He finds Scott and saddles up beside him in the line, ignoring the ten
year old boys complaining behind them about the unfairness of cutting.
Scott and Stiles get a boatload of chicken nuggets and some cheese fries before
they squeeze into the booth Malia attains for their little group.
Jackson is sandwiched between Allison and Malia, with Allison on the end.
Stiles sits between Scott and Kira, with Kira on the inside. He grimaces a
little when Scott accidentally kicks him in his haste to lace his feet with
Allison’s under the table.
“Sorry,” Scott quickly mumbles before he stares at Allison adoringly.
Stiles just snorts before he turns to find Kira embezzling his cheese fries.
“Hey, hey! That is notallowed,” he complains and moves his tray out of reach.
Kira just snickers and says, “They have cheese on them. The temptation was too
hard to ignore. If anything, it’s your —”
“Victim blaming,” Stiles interrupts as he points an accusing finger at her.
“Stay away from my cheese fries and buy your own.”
Kira pouts and looks up at him from under her lashes, which is socompletely
unfair and it totally reminds him of that one part in Shrek 2 with Puss and
Boots.
Stiles makes a strangled sound before he hands over his fries. “Here, god,
here! Just stop looking at me like that before I offer you my goddamn kidney,”
he complains.
Kira perks up with a toothy smile and dumps a good portion of his cheese fries
on top of hers before she gives it back. “You’re a good friend,” she praises as
she pats his shoulder.
Stiles just grumbles and stabs at a chicken nugget with his fork before he dips
it into the pile of ketchup he has slathered on the corner of his plate.
“So what’s everyone doing for the summer?” Malia asks between bites of her
cheesy pizza puff.
“Could be going international,” Jackson supposes as he strangles a packet of
ranch dressing over his strawberry poppyseed and chicken salad. He’s health
conscious like that. “Visit my grandparents with the triplets.”
"You have siblings?" Stiles questions because he completely had Jackson pegged
as an only child. "Older or younger?"
Jackson huffs. "Older. Brothers. They're in college."
"Jackson's the baby of the family," Malia gleefully points out.
Jackson scowls but he doesn't deny it.
Malia grins mischievously as she adds, "By far the ugliest too."
Jackson shoves Malia as she cackles. His frown deepens as he ignores her and
stabs away at his salad in a way that eerily echoes Cora for some reason. "My
grandparents are in London but they want to have what they like to call a
'holiday' in Paris," he adds.
“Oh yeah? I’m headed out that way. Maybe I'll see you,” Allison reports as she
dips her fork into his salad and eats some of his strawberries. He sighs and
lets her as she rewards him with a dimpled smile and continues, “My dad wants
me to spend the summer with him in France. He thinks maybe it’ll make up for
all those other times he’s not around.” Her mouth begins to curve down as she
pops a crouton from her Caesar salad in her mouth. “I probably wouldn’t go if
not for the fact that this year’s Archery World Cup Final is being sponsored by
the Fédération Française de Tir à l'Arc.”
Kira perks up at that. “No way. I thought for sure they’d do it in Australia.
What happened?”
“Some kind of scandal with the committee,” Allison supposes, holding a hand
over her mouth politely as she chews. “Something about the Prime Minster and
the Chairwoman getting it on. She’s supposed to be pregnant.”
“Psychedelic,” Kira breathes in amazement. “I heard those rumors too but I
didn’t think — oh wow.” She shakes her head. “Well, good luck to you. I tried
for the Final back when I was in New York, but I had to drop out because, you
know, we were moving here and my mom thought it’d be better if I skipped out.”
“Awe, I’m sorry you can’t come. It’d be nice to have a familiar face from home
there. All the other archers are a bunch of stuck-up snobs,” Allison says with
a sigh as she stabs at her salad gently. “Dramatic bow-wielding prima donnas.”
Kira chuckles with an agreeing nod before she says, “All the best to you
though. I’ll send up a few prayers to Apollo for your victory.”
Allison smiles widely, dimples and all.
“My mom wants to enroll me into a private school for high school, and even
though I have like a year before I’m a freshman, she wants me to do some of the
pre-institute programs,” Malia announces as she licks her fingers clean. “Which
is just a fancy name for summer school. God, just shoot me now.”
“Private school?” Scott echoes with a frown. “But, I thought we’d all be going
to the same high school. What private school?”
“Dunno. Mom’s being all mysterious about it,” Malia replies with a shrug. “And
she keeps saying that we need to have a talk — whatever that means. If you ask
me, she’s been sipping on one too many cocktails. It sucks because she’s not
making Liam do anything. It’s not like I’m a problem child or anything.”
“She’s probably doing what she thinks is best,” Allison offers as she chews.
She holds a hand over her mouth and continues, “Beacon Hills is known for it’s
private schools being at a high rank in education.”
“Beacon Hills is known for a lot of things apparently,” Jackson remarks darkly
and frowns down at his salad.
Stiles chews a little more slowly as he takes in the implications of his
statement.
An awkward silence descends over them and Kira glances between them in
confusion. She says, “I’m sorry. Am I missing something?”
Jackson snorts.
Stiles kicks him under the table and ignores the glare he receives as he turns
to Kira to say, “It’s just — nothing. There’s a — thing with the everything.”
Kira looks even more confused. “A thing...with the everything?”
“Uh, yes?” Stiles says and winces at his own idiocy. “Anyway, Jackson just has
this burning hatred for private schools.”
“Yeah!” Scott exclaims, jumping in to have his best friend’s back. “It’s mostly
that Devenford Prep. Bunch of no good wieners. God, we hate them so much.”
Malia bites her bottom lip to keep from bursting out in a fit of laughter.
Jackson just stares at Scott like he’s the most idiotic person alive but he
says, “I mostly just have it in for their lacrosse team. Most of their players
are on steroids.”
“Oh,” Kira says and considers that. “I can see that, I guess.”
Stiles clears his throat and jams some cheese fries in his mouth aggressively.
“Anyway, that’s how lame my summer is going to be,” Malia says before she sucks
on her pinky. “What about you, Scott?”
“Me? Oh, I — every year my grandpa likes to take my cousins and I camping. Only
it’s not really camping. We just stay at the Wilderness Lodge in Lake Buena
Vista, Florida and go to Disney World. He says that still counts though,” Scott
says as they all snicker.
“I like your grandpa,” Allison says and Scott gets all moony again. “Unlike my
own, who gave me a .44 magnum for my fourteenth birthday this year and said
‘Shoot ‘em high’.”
“Oh, charming,” Stiles says weakly and Allison gives him ‘I don’t even know
what to do about that crazy old fool’ kind of look. “I’m going to be taking
driver’s ed. If things go well, I’ll have my permit by July. Might also get a
permit to work this summer too.”
“My aunt’s getting married, and well, my dad’s family wants to make a grand
affair of it, so we’ll be flying right out to Tokyo as soon as school is done,”
Kira announces as she wipes her fingers clean with her napkin so she can pull
on the tab of her soda.
“Well,” Malia says, holding up her root beer float in a toast. “Here’s to a
productive summer.”
Everyone toasts and that’s the end of that. They finish up their food before
they make their way to the skating rink on the other end of the bowling alley.
Scott can barely keep himself upright, even with Allison’s help, so they go to
the kiddy rink. She’s really sweet to stick with him as he flails around while
six year olds pass them by with little to no trouble.
Malia and Jackson start up a competition with each other about who can skate
backwards the fastest.
Stiles just skates lazily with Kira at his side as they mindlessly chatter
about different subjects of interest. In the middle of them talking about their
favorite action/adventure books, a group of kids rush past them, almost
knocking Kira sideways and Stiles has to reach out and grab her hand to keep
her steady.
Kira blushes but it’s hard to really see under the disco lights and she mumbles
a quick thanks.
Stiles just sends her a small smile and she sends him one back, making him
forget to let her hand go as they come around the bend of the large skating
rink.
Kira squeezes his fingers gently and picks up speed as the DJ plays what she
claims is her favorite song.
Stiles lets himself be dragged around, never once thinking of the things that
make him anxious, but merely enjoying the moment for what it is.
It’s nice for a change.
When it’s time to leave, Jackson pulls Stiles aside to say, “What’s going on?”
Stiles frowns and says, “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Jackson says with as much patience as he can muster. “When we went to
go and visit Lydia the other day, we weren’t allowed in because of all the
cops.”
“Oh,” Stiles says as he thinks on it. “Yeah my dad, he — they think they might
have the person responsible for all the murders in custody.”
Jackson lifts a brow at that. “And? Who is it?”
“It’s —” Stiles stops short and thinks better of it. “I don’t think I should
say right now. Just — I’ll let you know if something is made, you know,
official.”
Jackson stares at him blankly before he huffs and fixes his leather jacket.
“Fine. Whatever,” and then he’s storming off, throwing the others some moody
goodbyes on his way out.
Scott frowns in wonder as he looks after him before he approaches Stiles. “What
was that all about?”
Stiles just shrugs.
Scott’s nice enough to let it go. “I gotta head home, dude. My mom’s asking
after me. I’ll see you later or you can, I don’t know, call me tonight or
something,” he says.
Stiles nods and lets himself be pulled into a quick hug. He pulls away with a
smile. “Don’t be a stranger,” he teases.
“Me? Never,” Scott says and waves before marching over to exchange a few
goodbyes with Isaac and Boyd, then Malia, Allison, and Kira.
Isaac is the next to approach him, and he scratches at the side of his nose
anxiously as he stares down at Stiles’s shoes.
This worries Stiles because he doesn’t normally do that much anymore. “What’s
wrong?” he asks.
“I’m gonna spend the night at Boyd’s,” Isaac mumbles instead of answering. “I
already — dad knows. So. I'm gonna go.”
Stiles is perplexed. He reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder but Isaac
flinches away. Stiles swallows down at a swell of hurt at that. “Okay,” he
says, feeling lost. He pulls his hand back. “That’s — okay.” What did I do?
Isaac fidgets but he never brings his gaze up. He turns and walks off with Boyd
and Ms. Ramona.
Stiles just helplessly watches them disappear, wondering anxiously what he
could have done to make Isaac act that way. He scrubs a hand up and down the
top of his head before he wanders over to Kira, Malia, and Allison. He says,
“I’m gonna head home.”
“Okay. We’re about to head out too,” Allison states and reaches out to hug him.
“Unless you want to go get your nails done with us?” she jokes.
Stiles smiles weakly as he pulls away and shakes his head. He's got this
pressing need to go home that he can't quite explain. "Maybe next time."
Kira notices his mood with a frown. She turns to Malia and Allison to say, “You
guys go on, I’m gonna, um — I need to —” She makes a discrete gesture.
“Oh,” Allison says and she grins a little as she grabs Malia’s hand.
“What? What?” Malia says, confused. She fist-bumps Stiles quickly before she’s
dragged away, saying, “No seriously. What’s that all about?”
Kira turns to Stiles with a tentative smile. “You okay?”
Stiles shrugs. “Fine. Just have a lot on my mind, I guess."
Kira nods. “Well, I had fun,” she says, looking a little nervous and hopeful.
“Me too,” Stiles agrees with a genuine smile. “Except with the baseball thing
and you making me share my fries.”
Kira laughs and pushes him lightly.
Stiles grins a little, pleased.
“Thanks for that by the way,” Kira says as she shuffles closer. “You really —
were great and stuff. Shielding me, I mean. From the balls. Flying everywhere.
And wow, I just have no grasp on proper adjectives and interjections.” She hits
her palm lightly against her forehead. “I’m trying to be appreciative, or
rather, express my appreciation for the way you used your body as a human
shield.”
“Grammar’s overrated anyway,” Stiles scoffs and waves it off. “Plus, I couldn’t
just stand by and let you get pelted with softballs. Even if my bat is still
stuck to that fence — though they did promise to mail it to me once they could
properly extract it.”
Kira chuckles in embarrassment before she quickly leans forward and kisses him
on the right cheek. “I feel bad about that too. Thanks again. I — uh, I’ll see
you later,” she says softly with a slight blush.
Stiles feels an answering redness in his own cheeks. He stammers, “Uh, yeah. I
— yeah, we — you live next door so I kinda think, you know — we’re bound to run
into each other, um.”
Kira grins as she bites her bottom lip, amused. “Text me,” she says before she
quickly wanders off.
Stiles touches his fingers to his cheeks dazedly. “Yeah,” he murmurs to
himself.
That was — was — he doesn’t know whatthat was.
Girls are seriously confusing.
                                      ---
The street lamps are turning on by the time Stiles gets home. He’d taken his
time so that he could untangle his mind from a web of complicated thoughts.
He’s somewhat surprised to see Derek sitting at the top of the porch steps with
his dog, Jordan, sprawled over his lap as he rubs his belly.
“Hey,” Stiles says as he dumps his bike on the lawn and starts up the steps.
“So this is unexpected.”
Derek shrugs as he pats Jordan’s side with affection. “Visiting hours are done
at the hospital, so Paige’s parents asked me to come back another day. Didn’t
feel like going home yet, though. They’d only hound me with questions,” he
supposes. Then he lifts his brows. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Sure, I guess. I mean, not sure I do mind, but sure it's cool with me. Well,
if it’s cool with your mom too, that is,” Stiles says as he hikes up the
sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.
“Mom knows I’m here,” Derek explains and scratches Jordan behind his ear.
“Oh, well.” Stiles rubs the back of his head as he looks down at Jordan, who
wags his tail happily when he notices he’s garnered the teen’s attention.
“Explains that weird feeling I had about needing to come home."
Derek looks curious at that, and a little something else that Stiles can't
place.
Stiles coughs and shifts under the attention. "Uh. Can I ask why Jordan’s
here?”
“Dunno,” Derek says with a furrowed brow. “He was just — waiting.”
“Waiting? Like here? On my porch?”
Derek nods. “Guess he knew I’d come here. He gets anxious sometimes when I’m
not — when I'm unhappy,” he carefully explains.
Stiles is intrigued. He thinks back to something Talia said a while ago. “About
the brother-cousin thing. You know, before, when I thought that it was just
clever word play or something — that you were being all metaphorical and stuff,
I didn’t stop to think that maybe you were being literal.”
Derek cocks his head as he confirms what he can of Stiles’s ramblings by
saying, “We descended from the same subspecies, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I knew it,” Stiles mutters and ignores Derek’s snort of amusement. “So you’re
literal brother-cousins.”
Derek nods slowly like he’s afraid Stiles either doesn’t understand or doesn’t
believe him.
“Whoa,” Stiles says as he takes that in. “Can you do something special?”
Derek lifts a brow in question.
“Like, you know — do you share some kind of a psychic link? Is he like your
familiar or something? You know I’ve read things about animism in the
anthropology of religion where souls exist not only in Humans but in other
animals, plants, rocks, mountains or rivers, or other entities of nature, you
know, like thunder, wind, and shadows. I’ve always thought — always felt like
maybe — I mean, just between you and I, and please keep this between us — but
I’ve always agreed with that concept since it feels like everything around us
is alive. Well not alive in a sense that most people understand. But you're a
Werewolf and so you must sense the, uh, the general vibes of nature. Because, I
mean, who are we to say what does and doesn’t have soul or have some sort of
sentient —” He flails his hands around as he scrambles for the right word. “—
tangibility, and of course, arguably one might say that there’s no way of
really being sure unless you could see or provide unsubstantiated proof. But
that’s ridiculous because not all things can be seen as much as experienced. I
mean when it comes down it, the general world view should be that there’s a
roughly equal footing between all agents of species and —”
“Stiles,” Derek calmly interrupts, amused. “You might want to consider
breathing.”
Stiles inhales deeply as his cheeks grow red and he rubs the back of his neck
sheepishly. “Sorry. That got away from me.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Derek assures. “I just didn’t want you to pass
out.”
Jordan leaps up and sniffs around Stiles’s feet before he licks at the back of
his right hand before sprinting off to the side of the house.
“I completely forgot what point I was trying to make,” Stiles admits quietly.
He tries to grasp for it but it’s beyond him now, so he sighs. He says, “How’s
Paige? I know it’s only been a few hours, but um, well.”
“Fine,” Derek replies shortly, and it’s obvious this isn’t something he’s
comfortable with talking about yet.
Stiles lets it alone and makes his way up the rest of the steps to sit beside
him as the afternoon air sings around them. "So, I was a better alternative to
your family, huh? What is the world coming to?" he jokes.
Derek rolls his eyes. "Stiles, you're not the worst company. I'm certainly not
here because I'm desperate."
"Trying to get on my good side?"
Derek smirks, "Depends. Is it working?"
Stiles smiles as he stands but he doesn't reply. He walks to his door as the
other teen follows. He unlocks it and lets Derek slide through before he
follows and closes the door behind him. He makes a gesture to the living room
and says, “You can turn on the TV or something.”
Derek moves to scan the short bookcase filled with movies and videogames.
Stiles, meanwhile, grabs a mixing bowl from out of the cabinets so he can dump
what’s left of the Lucky Charms and the Rice Krispies in it. He mixes it
together and pours half of the milk over it before dropping a large wooden
spoon in. He takes it over to the living room in time to see Derek setting up
his Wii and putting on New Super Mario Bros.
Derek plops down beside him, close enough that their shoulders are touching
(even though the couch is pretty wide), and says, “I’ve never played.”
Stiles snorts around a big spoonful of cereal. “Not surprising,” he says
between bites. “It’s got no basketball in it so I don’t see why you would.”
Derek makes a face at him. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
“My house, my rules,” Stiles argues and shoves another spoonful of cereal in
his mouth. His cheeks puff out as he accepts one of the remotes so he can play
too.
Derek eyes his bowl of cereal dubiously. “What kind of mix is that?”
“The good kind, now shut up and pay attention because I’m really going to take
advantage of the fact that you’ve never played,” Stiles warns as he casts
himself as Mario while Derek chooses Luigi. He uses the time that the game
plays through the introduction to jam more spoonfuls of cereal in his mouth.
Derek snorts as he tracks his movements. “You’re gonna choke if you keep being
greedy like that.”
Stiles just mocks him childishly as he selects the first level of the first
world. He lets his mixing bowl of cereal rest between his thighs as he picks up
Derek’s character and throws him at an approaching brown mushroom with a smirk.
Derek bristles when Luigi dies. “Stiles,” he growls.
Stiles just laughs and jumps Mario around to get a flying power.
“What do I do?” Derek says, glaring at the screen.
“Shake your controller so I can pop you out of the bubble,” Stiles explains but
because he’s a dick, he makes sure to avoid popping Luigi from his bubble when
he reappears.
“Pop me,” Derek growls when he notices and he shakes his controller like he
might break it.
“Huh? What?” Stiles says and purposefully ducks down into a tunnel. He cackles
when Derek makes an exasperated sound. “Fine, fine. You big crybaby.”
Derek grumbles but he seems relieved that his character has been set free from
his soapy prison. “Now what?” he asks.
“Follow me and do everything I do,” Stiles says, taking a second to cram some
more cereal in his mouth. “And don’t die or I swear I’ll make you wait until
the end before I pop you again.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Derek protests as he does his best to keep up with the
other teen. “You murdered me.”
“Nah. I’d never betray my bro like that,” Stiles swears, but he picks up Luigi
again and throws him down a cliff. “Whoops.”
Derek slowly turns his head to glare angrily at him.
Stiles losses it and he just laughs maniacally as he gets Mario to do all sorts
of acrobatic flips until he reaches the goal pole at the end. “Hey, you wanted
to play,” he points out.
“I’m not playing. I’m dying,” Derek complains and disappears for a moment. He
comes back with Jordan a second later.
“Did you lock the door?” Stiles asks and shoves another spoonful of cereal in
his mouth.
“Yes,” Derek says lowly and picks up his remote again so he can sit back down
beside him.
Stiles fidgets because Derek feels really warm against his side, and it’s kind
of distracting. “Do you want to keep playing?”
“Not if you’re going to keep throwing me at and off of things.”
Stiles snickers. He hadplanned on doing that but he decides to be lenient.
“Okay, I swear I won’t sacrifice you to the pagan gods anymore for the sake of
my victories,” he vows.
Derek huffs and his lips curl a little as he presses their legs together.
“You’re a dweeb.”
“You’rea dweeb,” Stiles returns, flushing at the contact, and finishes up his
cereal before he sets the empty bowl on the coffee table. “Okay. Let’s do
this.”
Derek is not exactly a fast learner, but he gets the hang of it by the time
they reach World 4.
By then they’re unstoppable as a duo, and they make it all the way to World 8
on the last level.
Derek gets pretty smug at the fact that he uses Stiles’s trust against him for
payback because while they’re skipping through one of the lava worlds, Derek
picks him up, feigning like he’s trying to help, and chucks him into the lava.
Stiles gapes, completely unprepared. “You — traitor,” he accuses.
Derek snickers quietly as he continues on his merry way through the level,
making sure to avoid popping Mario from his bubble, no matter how hard Stiles
shakes his controller.
“You — you —” Stiles is seething at this point. “I bet you were planning this
all along, weren’t you? What is this, the Count of Monte Cristo? No wait — the
Count of Monte Mario. Or would it be Luigi? Whatever, that’s beside the point!
I can’t believe you betrayed me like that! Did our ride on that wooden plank
through that toxic purple liquid in World 5 level 4 mean nothing to you? We’re
supposed to be brothers in arms!”
Derek just keeps on snickering and playing, even as Stiles whacks him with one
of the throw pillows.
Stiles lets up on him and stomps off into the kitchen to make some dinner. He
makes some pan-fried chicken breasts with spicy plum and habaneros salsa, and
some brown rice. Although, he really shouldn’t make enough for Derek because
the damn traitor doesn’t deserve it, but he’s such a good person that he does.
The smell of the food seems to reach Derek and he comes nosing around just as
Stiles is turning on the fan above the stove. He says, “What’s that?”
“Food,” Stiles grumbles. “You get none,you little traitor.”
Derek leans against the counter beside the stove with a wolfish grin and says,
“You know you can’t lie to a Werewolf, right?”
Stiles sighs, because yeah, he does. “It was worth a try.”
Derek just hums and watches him work. He even tries to dip his fingers into the
pan and Stiles has to smack his hands away with his plastic spatula.
“If you could just— stop, it's ready, it's ready!" Stiles laughs, shoving Derek
away as the other teen frowns impatiently. "Get some plates, traitor.”
Derek rolls his eyes long-sufferingly but he peeks through the cabinets until
he finds the right one for the dishes and the drawer for the silverware.
Jordan sits at the bottom of the steps on his hind legs as he watches them
curiously, tail wagging happily.
Stiles turns off all the burners on the stove before he moves to go through the
cabinets under the sink. He pulls out a dual dog bowl and fills one side with
water and the other side with dry dog food before he sets it before Jordan. The
dog comes over happily and Stiles scratches the back of his ears as he eats,
smiling when Jordan licks his cheek quickly before eating.
Derek gives him a look that he can’t quite place.
“What?” Stiles mumbles self-consciously, wiping his cheek dry as he moves to
make their plates.
“Why do you have that if you don’t have a dog?” Derek asks as he sits down on
the opposite side of the table so he can watch Stiles carefully.
Stiles tries to ignore the way his gaze burns holes into his back before he
answers, “I used to have — well, my momhad a little toy looking dog. Her name
was Duchess and she was a terrible little nightmare but mom loved her like she
farted rainbows and sunshine. Which she didn’t, by the way. I mean, let me tell
you, for such a tiny dog, she sure could rip out some toxic ones.”
Derek snorts and says, “What kind of dog was she?”
“Bichon. But dad and I used to think that maybe she had some demon blood too.
But my mom could talk to her for hours, you know, like she understood and was
talking back,” Stiles replies and sets his plate before him before sitting down
with his own. “Anyway, I — sometimes I — I don’t know. This is going to sound
ridiculous but —” He struggles with the words as he pokes at his chicken. “She
ran away two weeks after my mom died, and I used to think maybe she’ll, you
know, come back or something. It’s stupid, I know, and she could be dead or
something. I was young when my mom passed and I needed to cling to something so
— but I’m older now and a little more sensible, I think. Still, I can’t stop
myself from believing — it’s just that I figure stranger things have happened.
And if the dog came back...”
Derek watches him for a long minute before he says, “That’s not stupid.”
“It is,” Stiles maintains with red cheeks. “It’s dumb and childish.”
“No, it’s not,” Derek insists. “Sometimes — and he’s going to kill me for
telling you this — but sometimes during Christmas, my Uncle Peter will hang up
his little brother’s stocking and mom says it’s because Henry always loved
getting candy canes, so Peter will be hanging all our stocking on the
fireplace, even Henry’s before he remembers that…” He let’s the words trail off
and he gets a little sad for his uncle for a solid minute. He shakes his head
and continues, “Mom says it’s a normal part of grieving. She says sometimes you
never really stop thinking that they're there. So, I don’t think it’s stupid.”
Stiles props his chin in his hand as he looks across the table at Derek. “Did
you ever meet — I mean, do you know —” He stops because not sure how to phrase
the question. "Your family members who..."
Derek seems to understand what he’s trying to say and he shakes his head sadly.
“They died before I was born. We’ve got pictures and stories, but — it’s hardly
the same, I think,” he supposes. “Peter doesn’t like to talk about it much. I
think the wound is still as fresh as the day it happened.”
“I can understand that,” Stiles says, and he can. He doesn’t talk about his
mother because he doesn’t really know how to do it without longing for her with
an aching sadness.
Derek rubs the knuckle of his thumb across his bottom lip before he says, “I
think it’s different for Humans. Losing family — losing packis...” He shakes
his head again. “It’s like losing a part of yourself. Like losing an important
limb.”
Stiles considers that for what it is and he can’t help but to feel as though he
already knows the sensation. Losing his motherhad been like losing a vital
limb. He doesn’t say this to Derek though. He doesn’t want to think about this
anymore. He says, “We should eat before the food gets cold.”
Derek nods and does so without arguing.
It’s basically quiet outside of the sound of their forks and knives hitting the
plates.
Then Derek says, “This is really good. I didn't know you could cook.”
Stiles smiles a little and he can’t help it. He says, “It’s just chemistry and
stuff.”
Derek tosses him a flat look before he rises to make himself another plate.
Stiles clears his plate and rinses it off before dropping it in the dishwasher.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and when he pulls it out to look at the screen,
he’s got a text from Peter that reads:
Turn on CNN :))
Stiles frowns and makes his way to the living room to find the remote. He
changes the source of the TV until he’s on the cable input. He then punches in
the channel number for CNN and sits down on the middle of the big couch.
It’s Laura, and she’s standing on a soapbox in front of the Dirksen Federal
Building, which is a tall, shiny skyscraper with dark windows. She has a
massive entourage of protestors standing before her as she holds up a wireless
microphone.
“Derek,” Stiles says, flagging the other teen’s attention. "Derek."
Derek wanders over with his plate and freezes when he sees his older sister.
“What is she doing?” he asks lowly.
Stiles shakes his head wordlessly, not that Derek can see, but he has no clue
as well.
Laura uses timing to advantage because she waits a long while before she even
utters a word. Finally, when a hush falls over the crowd, she says, “I want to
start off by saying thank you to the producers of CNN for sending a crew of
cameramen in and to the Patrol Captain of the National Guard, Evgeni Davydov,
for permitting their filming of this event.” She nods to the crowd before she
continues, lifting the mic a little higher as she stands a little straighter.
The curious thing is that she keeps her gaze low to the notecards in her right
hand, not once looking up. “My name is Laura Hale. I’m seventeen years old,
soon to be eighteen, and I’m from Beacon Hills, California. When I was younger,
I would love chasing fireflies with my cousins through the forests, and often,
without even thinking about it, I would slap my hands together and crush some
of them between my palms. I would do this until my father happened upon me
doing this one day. He asked me why I was doing it and I simply told him I did
it because I was afraid. I was scared of the fireflies, and instead of trying
to understand how they worked, I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to kill them. I
wanted to do this because then I could be sure they would never have a chance
to do the same to me.
“Well, as you can imagine, my father was quite perplexed by my actions. As far
as he knew, I had nothing to be afraid of. But it was because one of my meaner,
older cousins once told me that if I weren’t careful, the fireflies would all
swarm me and carry me away from my family forever. See at that moment, I was
taught to be afraid. I wasn’t born with the fear of fireflies. I was taught it.
So there I’d go, crushing these poor, innocent, harmless fireflies between my
hands because of a lack of understanding on my part. You see, to me, they were
monsters, and it was my duty to protect myself from the threat that they
posed.” Laura pauses and lets her words resonate amongst the crowd. Then she
continues, “When my father found me that day, he didn’t scold me. He didn’t
laugh. He said something to me that to this very day I still think about. He
said, ‘Laura. Prejudice of any kind means that you no longer see anything as
how it truly is, but merely the way you perceive it to be. To act in fear or
hate of something not understood is the moment when you create an ill-advised
concept in your mind. And that concept, itself, is already a form of violence.’
What that’s taught me is that when we act without considering the weight and
the consequence of our actions, we are ignoring the good in individuality and
killing the compassion that would have us stave our hand from destruction. We
need more compromise. We need more understanding. And there’s so much in me
that wants to really reach out and tell you proudly of who and what I am. But
the world isn’t ready for that. It’s not. You want to know how I know?
“A little girl died this week. A little girl was killed. She was shot,
pointblank, in front of her mother. She was executed. Call it what you will,
but she was unlawfully executed. A mother had to watch an officer of the law, a
member of civil duty, a person who has taken vows, who has sworn to protect and
serve, shoot her little girl. She watched him take her child’s life, and then
he took hers.” Laura’s voice gets a little shaky and her hands give a slight
tremor. “There's something in the Human psyche, I think, that condones the
bloodshed of the innocent as a necessary evil, it's a privilege, a sense of
entitlement, that says that it’s acceptable to resolve conflicts with this kind
brutality. But it’s the arrogance of all creatures that would have us place
certain truths in the highest esteem because it may be all we know and nothing
else, while on the other hand, it has become acceptable to ignore the voices of
those that would show us that there is more to those truths than what is
generally perceived. They would say that the world is unjust still. They would
say that the media would have you believe we are at peace when we couldn’t be
any more at odds. They would say that their petitions don’t fit the agenda of
those who hold power of state and nation. They would say that a little girl was
killed and that we are supposed to leave that kind of violence unchecked.
“We can’t blind ourselves to this situation. We can’t blind ourselves to each
other’s pain. We have to stop recycling these negative cultures, these de facto
behaviors. We have to be the generation that takes a stand and says no more.
This planet belongs not to just one sentient being, but to all of us. This air
that we’re breathing right now, it came from the trees, and not once do these
trees discriminate or argue over to whom the air they provide rightfully
belongs to or who is more deserving.” Laura gives another meaningful pause. “We
have to own up to the mistakes we make. We’ve all made them. Recently I
betrayed the trust of a dear friend of mine, and the look of hurt that I put on
their face is something I will have to live with. I put my needs before theirs
in a situation that didn’t call for that kind of behavior. I used what I knew
of them as a manipulation. That wasn’t right, and I acknowledge the error of my
ways. I hope that I can get forgiveness for what I’ve done. I think we should
recognize that American culture teaches us that we must make demands, not
compromises. That we must think of what we can do on our own and not together.
I’ve learned from hurting someone I care about that there is something ugly in
all of us that we have to force to the surface in order to confront and destroy
in a manner befitting it’s nature.
“We have to check our privilege by asking ourselves questions we would not
normally ask. Things like: Is this right? Is this fair? If it were me? If it
was my life? If it were my child? If it were my parent? If it were my culture?”
Laura takes a moment to swallow. “We have to take responsibility for making
change, and though we may not be directly liable for these institutions of
violence, it’s still our legacy to dismantle. It’s not about guilt. It’s about
stopping the replication of ignorance — of preemptive warring — of generating
the kind of fear that threatens to tear our world apart. And yes, I know what
you’re thinking. So what’s her point? What is she getting to with all this?
I’ll tell you. This is my petition to you. This is my call to action. I want
you to imagine that you’re not you. I want you to imagine that you’re three
years old. I want you to imagine that the world is so much bigger than you. So
much bigger than you can control.” She waits a moment before she continues,
“Now I want you to imagine being in pain, no control of your actions, but
you’re very afraid and confused. Your mother is desperately trying to calm you
down. She’s trying to find out what’s making you behave this way because she
knows you would never act like this. You’re a sweet little girl who loves
playing with Legos and eating apple pancakes and sometimes playing dress up in
your mother’s clothes. But this person right now? This isn’t you. This is
something else. Your mother is looking at you with wide and fearful eyes
because she knows too. You want to say something but your tongue is like cement
in your mouth. You can’t tell her that you don’t feel right. Something is
making you lash out, and you don’t mean to but you start losing control of
yourself. An officer walks up to assess the situation and you bite him when all
you want to do is say your sorry, your so sorry, you don’t mean to but
something is wrong. He doesn’t understand because he doesn’t hear these words.
He acts without thinking. He points at gun at your head as your mother screams
in the background because his fear is louder than your pain.
“I’m not going to go any further, because we all understand how this story
ends. But I had to let you see it for yourself. I had to show you through her
eyes.” Laura has tears spilling down her cheeks but her eyes are glued to her
trembling notecards. “Social progress is not always instantaneous, and
sometimes it requires sacrifice and struggle. Albert Einstein once said, ‘Peace
cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.’ So I'm
urging all of you not to fight fire with fire. But to present to each other the
different ways in which to suffocate that fire so that we can minimalize the
destruction that fire can fashion when left unchecked. I hope you will consider
everything I’ve said. That’s all I have to say. Thank you.”
Stiles finds himself clapping along with the hordes of people on the TV in
between drying his wet cheeks. When he glances over to Derek, he sees nothing
but pride and a tiny smile before he springs up, typing furiously on his phone
before he presses it to his ear.
Stiles watches him wander out the front door to pace the length of the porch.
He guesses that Derek must be talking to Laura or Peter under a darkening sky,
rumbling with the threat of rain that will never come. He stands with a sigh
and makes his way into the kitchen to start cleaning up as Jordan noses his way
around his feet before sitting vigilantly at his side like a furry guard.
He puts the last of the food in some Tupperware before shoving it in the
refrigerator. He then turns on the dishwasher before he moves to straighten the
living room, switching everything off as Jordan trails his every move. He turns
off the lights but turns on the porch light as a courtesy to Derek before he
makes his way up the steps and into his room.
Jordan sniffs around his floor for a bit before he wanders off in search of
Derek when he’s sure Stiles has no plans to go anywhere else.
Stiles pushes his bulletin/whiteboard into his walk-in closet so he won’t be
tempted to look at it. He’s too exhausted to really even contemplate his usual
questions anyway. He changes into some sleepwear, letting his street clothes
land where they may before he opens his window to let the cool night air in.
Then he grabs the charger for his phone so he can plug it into the socket
behind his nightstand before he hooks it up to his phone.
He slides into bed and arranges himself comfortably, staring at the bright red
colors of the digital clock on his nightstand as crickets sound off noisily
outside his window. He's getting tired enough that it feels like he's floating
back and forth in his exhaustion. 
Derek eventually finds his way into his room and he flicks on the light before
he rolls his eyes. “This shouldn't surprise me. This really shouldn't. Why
can’t you ever keep your room clean?”
“Blame Kate. It was just fine before she accosted my things,” Stiles mumbles
tiredly. "Threw everything just about everywhere to dress me up."
Derek frowns and says, “She’s been in your room?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you give her permission?”
“Hm?” Stiles mumbles as he shifts.
Derek exhales slowly. "Did you give her permission?" and there's a weight to
his words and tone of voice that Stiles's foggy brain can't pick up on.
“Kinda?" Stiles mumbles between yawing. "I mean, extenuating circumstances and
all.”
Derek makes a soft displeased noise and Stiles doesn’t really get why but he’s
too tired to ask. “Her perfume is loud,” he says.
"I don't smell anything."
“Yeah, well it's everywhere and I can smell — it’s like she’s been rolling
around in your clothes.”
Stiles grumbles dazedly as he wrinkles his nose at the imagery that gives him
and he hugs his pillow close. “She picked out that outfit I was wearing,
remember? She had to like, I don’t know, touch everything to sort through and
make heads or tails."
"Had to," Derek scoffs. "Like she can't see without touching."
Stiles ignores him and continues, "She mostly just complained very openly about
my tastes in clothes before offering to take me shopping, which, no thanks.
Speaking of — where are my glasses?”
Derek furrows his brow and distractedly replies, “My pocket.” Then he pulls
them out and sets them on Stiles’s dresser before he goes around the room for a
moment, touching his hand to different objects like he’s trying to look for
something or leave an impression.
Stiles knows he should be paying attention to the other teen's behavior
(there's this hazy thought of 'scenting'that glazes over his mind) but he’s so
sleepy that he just chalks it up to typical Hale behavior.
Derek touches his furniture, his bed, his walls, even the windowsill. Then he
carefully picks up Stiles’s clothes one by one and folds them before setting
them neatly in piles.
“Are you — are you cataloguing my clothes?"
"There's nothing wrong with being organized," Derek argues, and he sounds so
hilariously offended. "You sound like Cora."
"I like Cora."
Derek scoffs. 
"Do you have like control issues?” Stiles asks as he watches the other teen.
"This feels like a control thing. You're even doing it by color."
Derek doesn’t reply, too focused on his task. He puts the folded clothes away
in Stiles’s drawers before he sets to work on putting any leftover clothes on
to hangers and then hanging them in Stiles’s walk-in closet.
Stiles feels his eyelids dip with the heavy pull of sleep just as Derek starts
in on organizing all the other miscellaneous items set in random places. He
slaps his pillow over his face and mumbles, “Neat freak.” 
“Slob,” Derek retorts, sounding vaguely annoyed and amused.
Stiles snorts from under his pillow and shifts his legs until he’s comfortable.
He hums sleepily when Jordan pads up to the bed before hopping on and curling
up against his back.
He falls asleep to the sensation of Jordan’s tail thwacking against his leg.
                                      ---
Sunday morning, and it is morning, even though it’s still pretty dark and the
sun is only begin to paint a fiery orange across the horizon. Stiles internal
clock lets him know its early morning when he wakes up with the taste of
watermelon on his tongue. Before he can even rationalize it, he begins to
whistle softly. Not that he means to. It just happens that way. He’s blinking
tiredly up at his ceiling as his mouth shapes into a soft ‘o’ and releases a
tune he doesn’t even recognize.
Jordan sits up and looks down at him with his head cocked and his flat tongue
lolling out the side of his mouth before he hops down off of the bed. Then he
goes padding out of the room.
Stiles is still whistling, like he can’t make himself stop, and the taste of
watermelon is growing strong, almost overwhelming in a way on his tongue. It
feels like he might choke on it.
Derek, who’s lying facedown on the other side of the bed, makes an annoyed
sound and gropes around for a pillow with a furrowed brow before he slaps one
over Stiles’s face. “Stiles,” he complains, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Too
early.”
Stiles yanks off the pillow with an exasperated huff but it does the job of
getting him to stop whistling. “Hey, it’s not my — I’m not doing it on
purpose,” he protests and licks his dry lips. He can still faintly taste
watermelon.
"Who wakes up whistling?" Derek mumbles as he fidgets under the covers. His
foot accidentally bumps into Stiles's but he makes no move to slide his foot
away.
Stiles idly wonders when Derek's become so comfortable about the lack of
boundaries between them. He doesn't dwell on it long because he uses Derek's
proximity to kick him. "No one told you to spend the night," he mutters and
kicks him again.
"Quit."
"Kay." Stiles kicks him again. "Last one, I promise."
"Better be."
Stiles kicks him again.
Derek grumbles irritably, reaching out to pinch Stiles's thigh, huffing with
triumphant when Stiles squawks indignantly and jerks away.
"Rude," Stiles complains and slaps a pillow on Derek's face.
Derek grunts before he cuddles the pillow close before turning his head away so
he can go back to sleep.
Stiles sticks his tongue out at the back of Derek's head before he slides out
of bed, grabbing his phone on his way out. He creeps out down the steps to the
backdoor and is a little amused when Jordan sprints up to him, wagging his tail
eagerly as he waits for Stiles to open the door completely. He does and watches
Jordan pad down the steps, sticking his nose in the ground as he sniffs around
the trampoline before wandering over to some bushes so he can pee on them.
Stiles walks with bare feet down the cold wooden steps and across the moist
grass to climb onto his trampoline. He lies on his back and spreads out like a
starfish as he stares up into the partially darkened sky.
It’s quiet, and a little foggy. It smells heavily of dew and the trampoline
feels a little moist against his back but he doesn’t shiver because he’s a bit
warm from lying in bed with two overheated beings.
Stiles tucks his left hand behind his head and blinks up at the screen of his
phone as he unlocks it so he can he can scroll through the twitter feed for the
Chicago tag, which is still trending. A lot of people are sharing their
thoughts on Laura’s moving speech (give or take those few who make some sexist
and unnecessarily ignorant remarks) but he just ignores those. He scans the
pictures people have taken of her, a few of them have her captured with Peter,
but what Stiles finds interesting is the fact that Laura and Peter always make
sure their gazes are low, as if they know they’re being photographed.
He wonders if there’s a specific reason why they would.
Jordan hops onto the trampoline and lies down in the space above Stiles’s head,
huffing as his tail slaps at the surface of the trampoline.
Stiles returns to the top of the feed and refreshes, blinking in surprise when
a new trending tag called #majorityrulespops up. He follows the tag and quickly
understands that there’s been a judgment concerning the officer who shot the
mother and child (whose name still hasn’t been revealed at the behest of their
family) and it says he’s been taken into custody and set to stand trial at the
Supreme Court. It’s also been decided that the whole police force will be
brought under investigation by the FBI. It feels as much as a victory as it
seems.
Laura must be thrilled.
Stiles switches his phone off and lets it sleep as he goes back to staring up
at the powdery blue sky. He thinks about what he wants to do. He wants to talk
to Deaton because he has questions that need answering. He wants to talk to
Laura because he doesn’t like being at odds with her. There’s more, but
sometimes he cant think about it all, and he has a tendency to forget certain
things. He just knows those two are the most important at the moment.
Jordan suddenly hops up, alert.
Stiles glances up at him and watches curiously as Jordan cocks his head, ears
twitching forward and then back as he gives a questioning whine before he leaps
down from the trampoline to sprint up the side of the house. Stiles rises and
holds himself up by his elbows with a frown as he tries to listen. He hears
soft footsteps.
Isaac appears a second later with Jordan trailing behind him. He stops at the
edge of the trampoline with his hands hanging limply at his side.
Jordan sniffs at his right hand with a curious sound, pressing his wet nose
close before he wanders to the porch steps to sit on his hind legs at the door,
watching them like he’s trying to make heads or tails of the situation.
Stiles glances away from the Tibetan Mastiff and to Isaac, surprised to see him
here so early.
Isaac fidgets for a moment, looking uncomfortably uncertain before he climbs
onto the trampoline with Stiles, urging the other teen to scoot over and make
room before he lies back and folds his hands over his stomach. He stares up at
the sky listlessly, and avoids Stiles’s searching gaze.
Stiles isn’t sure what his brother is thinking but he just sighs and lies back
as well, and says nothing when Isaac scoots closer until their shoulders are
touching.
They stare up at the brightening sky wordlessly, lost to their own thoughts as
the birds awaken nosily in the trees.
Isaac quietly asks, “Who’s dog is that?”
“Derek’s,” Stiles replies simply. “He spent the night.”
Isaac says nothing to that. Then he clears his throat and asks, “Are you mad at
me?”
Stiles frowns and pushes up until he’s got his elbows under him, holding him up
before he stares incredulously down at the curly haired blond. “Now what did
Ido to make you think that? I was sure — I thought youwere mad at me, if
anything.”
Isaac shakes his head so fast that Stiles is afraid his head will pop right
off. “No,” he says. “That’s not — you kept whistling and I thought —” He pauses
and he chews on his bottom lip before he lowers his gaze.
Stiles waits for him to continue and when he doesn’t, he says, “Isaac, you have
to tell me what you’re thinking because I’m confused. I got that you weren’t
fond of my whistling, and I’d been meaning to ask about that but, well. I
promise I wasn’t doing it on purpose. Sometimes I do things without really
thinking about it or really understanding why.” He sighs and runs a hand
against his hair.
“I know. You’re a Virtue,” Isaac says softly.
Stiles jolts at that and he looks at the preteen with wide eyes.
Isaac says, “I heard you talking about it that day we were at the antique shop
and I waited outside. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but —” He stops and gives a
meek shrug.
“Do you know — do you understand what that means?” Stiles asks, gauging Isaac’s
expression very carefully but Isaac just shakes his head. Stiles falls onto his
back with a tired sigh and a short laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”
A steady silence passes between them as they blink up at the sky.
“I heard it the night they tried to burn us alive,” Isaac says suddenly,
breaking the silence. “The whistling.”
Stiles cringes and his insides feel like their twisting the wrong way. He sits
up and looks down at Isaac with horror, but Isaac is just staring up at the sky
with glazed blue eyes.
“Never did see their faces, but I could tell there was more than one,” Isaac
continues quietly. “I remember the smell of smoke and gasoline and the — the
whistling. Even when I was burning and screaming — it was that whistling. It
was all I could —”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says shakily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why — I didn’t
mean to make you think or have to — you don’t have to explain anything to me.
I’m sorry. Isaac —”
Isaac just presses his fingers to Stiles’s mouth before he pulls the older teen
close and hugs him. “I know. It’s just a misunderstanding, I think,” he mumbles
into Stiles shoulder. “I know you’d never do anything to hurt me. That’s why I
— you don’t have to worry about that.”
Stiles just nods frantically as he tightens his hold.
“But maybe if you could, you know, stop whistling like that,” Isaac adds
lightly. “That’d be great too.”
Stiles laughs wetly and nods again. “I’ll try. If I slip up, don’t take it
personal. I’m still trying to figure this whole Virtue thing out.”
Isaac pulls away with a tentative smile before he turns to look towards the
house with a frown. It looks like he's listening for something. His brow
furrows slightly and he says, “Someone’s pulling up into the driveway.” Then he
clamors off the trampoline to investigate just as Jordan springs down the steps
to follow out of curiosity as well.
Stiles is next to climb off the trampoline and wanders up the side of the house
to see Scott and Melissa exiting her car with some groceries.
Melissa says, “Good morning, boys. Your dad mentioned you’d be at the house, so
I thought I’d stop by and treat you all to some breakfast before I had to head
off to work.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, blinking. “Yeah, sure. Let me take that.” He grabs the bag
from her arms before he heads up the front porch steps, pausing at the door
when he remembers it’s locked.
“I got it,” Isaac says as he wanders around the side of the house to enter from
the back. He opens the door and lets them all through (even Jordan) before he
locks the door again.
Melissa walks over to the kitchen and takes her jacket off, revealing her
cherry pink scrubs, before she stoops low so she can give Jordan a rub down.
“Cute dog,” she comments. “Yours?”
“No, uh, he’s — he belongs to a friend of mine,” Stiles explains. “He’s still
upstairs sleeping probably. Derek Hale? Maybe you met him.”
“Ah, yes. The Hales,” Melissa says in an understanding tone before she
straightens, and Stiles is reminded that Scott and Jackson once informed her of
all the supernatural happenings of Beacon Hills. She seems to be taking it well
considering things. “Well, lucky for me, I brought enough to feed a whole
family.”
Stiles accepts a quick hug from a smiling Scott before his best friend follows
after Isaac dotingly, as the blond preteen marches up the steps and to his
room. He snorts and shakes his head before he looks over to Melissa, who’s also
shaking her head in fond exasperation at her son. He says, “Can I help with
anything?”
“Why yes you can, thank you,” Melissa remarks and indicates to some long green-
looking bananas. “Peel the plantains for me, sweetheart. Then cut them into
eight pieces.”
Stiles nods and grabs the cutting board before bringing it back to the table
with him, along with the garbage bin (which he removes the swinging top from).
He sits down and grabs the bag of plantains and starts peeling all of them one
by one, dropping the peelings into the garbage bin sitting at his waist.
Melissa searches through the cabinets for some pots and pans before she sets
them on the stove, filling one of them with water and turning the burner on a
medium-high flame.
Stiles says, “What are you making, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Melissa grabs the extra cutting board and a knife so she can sit at the table
across from Stiles. She starts dicing some purple onions as she replies, “Los
Tres Golpes.” Then she translates, “The Three Hits. It’s a common Dominican
delicacy. I don’t make it often. Just when I’m feeling homesick or for special
occasions. Today it’s just as a treat to myself. It’s my birthday.”
“Oh, happy birthday,” Stiles says immediately.
Melissa smiles kindly, and she looks really pretty with the way she does it.
“Thank you. I’m trying not to feel ancient,” she admits jokingly.
“You certainly don’t look it,” Stiles assures. “I’m sure you turn heads
wherever you go.” Then he mumbles, “You certainly turn my dad’s head whenever
you’re around.”
Melissa laughs suddenly with a light flush and Stiles, with a flush of his own,
realizes she must have heard him.
“I, uh,” Stiles stammers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply that — I didn’t
mean anything bad by it or —”
“Stiles, it’s okay,” Melissa assures gently. "Your father turns my head just
the same too." Her dark eyes are reflecting her kind smile charmingly.
Stiles is struck by the thought that Scott definitely gets his eyes from his
mother before he says, “Oh, cool. Uh. Good to know. Um. So what are your plans
for today?”
“Work,” Melissa admits with a sigh as she goes back to chopping the onions. Her
eyes get a little watery. “But it’s not so bad. I really enjoy what I do.”
Stiles begins slicing the plantains into eight parts. He says, “I think that’s
really cool. That, you know, you’re doing something you enjoy. A lot of people
have — it’s not the same for most, I’m told.”
“You are told correctly,” Melissa confirms. “Sometimes it's tough getting it
right the first time. It took me a long time before I got here, though. I had
Scott when I was very young, and most of the time I took all sorts of odd jobs
to put myself through nursing school because Scott’s dad was too busy getting
drunk off his ass to really —” She stops suddenly and closes her eyes with a
grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up that.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” Stiles reassures, if only to wipe the look of
embarrassment and shame from Melissa’s face. “So where are you originally
from?” he asks, changing the subject.
Melissa gives him such a grateful look before she responds, “Puerto Plata. It’s
a city in the Dominican Republic. I spent all my younger years there, until I
turned fifteen, then my parents saw fit to move us to Jacksonville, Florida,
which is where they continue to stay and have never really forgiven me for
following Scott’s father to the other side of the country. But we see how well
that worked out. Anyway, a majority of my family still lives there, in the
Dominican Republic, so around Christmas, Scott and I will travel with my
parents for our annual reunions.”
“That sounds really cool,” Stiles says because it does. He's almost envious.
“I’ve never been out of the country, well, I mean — there was that time when I
was first born and then again when I was three, but I don’t really remember
either time. My dad and my mom took me to visit my grandparents in Poland. But
they passed when I was five so, you know.” He shrugs.
“Were they your father’s parents or your mother’s?” Melissa asks curiously as
she stands to go in search of a bowl. When she finds one, she slides the diced
onions into it so she can have some space to begin slicing the stick of salami
into sizable pieces.
Stiles says, “My mom’s. My dad doesn’t really — he never knew his parents. He
was moved from foster home to foster home in Canada."
"No me digas! He's Canadian!" Melissa laughs, more from surprise than anything
else.
"Don't tell him I told you, but yes. He tries really hard to hide the accent,"
Stiles admits with a humored grin. "Anyway, I don’t know a lot about his
childhood but that’s because my dad doesn’t really like to talk about it. But
he always said the experience is what makes him such a great father. I don't
think he wants Isaac or I to go through what he went through.”
“Ah,” Melissa says thoughtfully. “I see.” And she goes quiet as if she’s
thinking on his words intently.
They work in succession and Melissa shares the recipe of the dish she’s making
while he helps her, and she seems happy to have someone to share the experience
with. She then goes on to explain that she can never get Scott interested in
cooking and she doesn’t mind much because he somehow manages to burn everything
he touches.
Melissa then goes on to share some of her favorite baby stories of Scott and
smiles softly as Stiles cackles at the more embarrassing ones. For example, she
tells him about when she first started to potty train Scott, and his dad made
some stupid remark about how the toilet eats poop and poor Scott was so
horrified by that concept that he’d poop everywhere else butthe toilet.
“It was a long time before I could get him to stop shaking whenever I’d make
him sit on the toilet,” Melissa goes on to explain with a hearty laugh while
she fries the salami as Stiles mashes the (now boiled) plantains in the
electric mixing bowl. “I had to promise to reward him with twinkies.”
Stiles laughs as he imagines it. He is so going to use this ammunition later.
It’s reaching into 9 am before they finish and start setting the table.
Stiles volunteers to go inform the others while Melissa starts making
everyone’s plate. He marches up the steps and wanders over to Isaac’s room
first. He finds Scott and Isaac sitting on the bottom edge of Isaac’s bed.
Scott’s got a goofy smile on his face and Stiles can practically see the big
hearts in his eyes as Isaac sketches him.
Stiles clears his throat and says, “Breakfast is ready.”
Scott perks up at that and quickly makes his way out the room and past Stiles
to get to the kitchen table.
Isaac takes a little more time before he stands, carefully closing his drawing
pad and sitting it on the edge of the bed, placing his charcoal pencil on top.
Stiles says, “I didn’t know you drew.”
Isaac just shrugs and scratches the side of his nose. "Sometimes. When it suits
me," he supposes.
"Oh yeah? What do you draw?" Stiles asks.
"Different things," Isaac mumbles as he picks at a loose thread on his jeans
shyly.
Stiles snorts. "Like what?" he presses.
Isaac shrugs quietly before he eases past Stiles, out the room and down the
steps.
Stiles eyes the drawing pad with interest before he turns and exits the doorway
before he can let his curiosity get the better of him. He goes to his room and
is surprised to see Derek sitting up with his back to headboard of the neatly
made bed, fully dressed and texting away on his phone. He says, “How long have
you been awake?”
“Since someone started dicing onions,” Derek says and wrinkles his nose as
though he remembers the smell all too clearly.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Did you sleep well?"
"I would've if someone hadn't woke me up at the crack of dawn with their
whistling."
"Wow. That sucks. You should probably give that person some feedback."
Derek sends him a flat look.
Stiles pretends not to notice as he continues, "So, yeah, come eat. Food’s all
done.”
Derek nods and leans across the bed to make use of Stiles’s charger before he
stands. He slides into his sneakers and laces them up before he follows Stiles
out the door and down the stairs into the kitchen. He gives Melissa a courteous
smile and a nod as he settles down beside Stiles across from Scott and Isaac.
“Hello, Derek. How are you?” Melissa asks as she sets a plate of food before
him and Stiles.
“Fine, thank you,” Derek responds politely as he bumps elbows with Stiles when
he begins to cut into his food with his silverware.
Melissa wraps up a plate for herself before she shrugs on her jacket and grabs
her purse. “Unfortunately I have to head off. But enjoy,” she says as she walks
up to Scott and drops a kiss to the crown of his head before ruffling his hair.
She pauses with a thoughtful frown. “Sweetie, I think it’s a time for a
haircut.”
Scott whines and squirms. “Mom. My hair is fine,” he insists with a mouthful of
food.
Melissa responds in Spanish with a stern frown.
Scott pouts and answers in the same dialect.
Derek snorts like he can understand and Stiles wonders if he can.
Melissa glances at Derek curiously and says, “Hablas español?”
Derek responds with a charming amount of fluidity, “Entiendo un poco de
Español. Puedo leer Español mejor que yo puedo hablar.”
Scott gawks at him and Stiles finds his eyebrows climbing his forehead as he
turns an assessing gaze on the other teen.
Isaac goes on eating like he doesn’t care either way about what’s happening.
Melissa just looks impressed. “Sonido bueno. Mejor que mi hijo.”
Derek flushes and says, “Gracias. Hago lo que puedo.”
Scott looks a little offended and says, “Hey! Su no justo para usted para decir
esto! No esté medio conmigo, mamá!”
Melissa just shushes him and keeps her focus on Derek. “How were you taught?”
Derek shifts a little restlessly, and Stiles realizes with amusement that he’s
being shy. “Some private tutors. And — my uncle.”
“Well again, you sound very good,” Melissa praises before she looks at her
watch and grimaces. “Okay, I really have to get out of here unless I want to
risk being late.”
“You’re allowed to be late,” Stiles chimes and stands to walk her to the door.
“It’s your birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” Derek quickly says.
Isaac says the same, but more softly.
Melissa smiles at both of them. “Thank you.” Then she turns to Stiles in
amusement as they walk to the front door. “I doubt the fact that because today
is my birthday is enough to keep me from getting a strike on my record.” She
steps through the door as she rifles through her purse for her car keys.
“Between you and I, my CNO is a bit of a hardass, so...”
Stiles snorts. “Share some of your birthday cake with him or her. Cake makes
the world go round.”
Melissa chuckles and pats him on the cheek fondly. “If only. You enjoy the rest
of your day and try to keep my son out of trouble if you can.”
Stiles nods and feels warmth at the pit of his stomach when she kisses him on
the cheek and walks very quickly to her car. He touches the spot faintly and
marvels at the fact that he hasn’t felt anything like that ever since his mom
passed. He swallows and tries not to let it overwhelm him as he returns to the
kitchen table.
Both Isaac and Derek pause their eating to look at him curiously.
Stiles feels his cheeks grow a little warm because he knows without knowing
that they must be scenting his emotions. He quickly says, “Don't breathe
through your nose."
Derek rolls his eyes but Isaac still looks concerned.
"I’m fine,” Stiles swears, trying to appease the speculative looks they're both
shooting him.
Scott looks up at that with puffed cheeks and a furrowed brow. “What?” he
mouths around his food. “What happened?”
“The death of your table manners apparently,” Stiles jokes weakly, just so they
can all stop looking at him with such needless concern. He starts cutting into
his food and eats. “Oh wow, dude. Your mom is really awesome. This tastes
amazing.”
Scott beams on his mother’s behalf before he goes back to eating.
Isaac soon follows.
Derek cocks his head and lifts his eyebrows.
Stiles should not be able to tell by that simple movement what kind of message
is being relayed to him but apparently he’s stupidly fluent in eyebrow or Derek
(one of those). He just shrugs to communicate he’s okay.
Derek watches him a little longer before he too goes back to eating.
Jordan pads over and rests his head in Stiles’s lap, staring up at him
earnestly.
Stiles gives a short laugh and scratches behind his ear.
Derek snorts and says, “Suck up.”
Jordan huffs, like he resents that comment, and he continues to look up at
Stiles adoringly.
Stiles gives him another gentle scratch as he whines happily, tail whacking
against the floor.
"You'll spoil him like that," Derek comments between bites. "He'll lean on you
anytime if he thinks you'll pay him attention and rub him."
Stiles grins wistfully. "I don't mind."
Derek rolls his eyes and moves to fill Jordan’s food bowl with fresh food and
some more water before he sits back down.
Jordan doesn’t make any indication of moving any time soon, so Stiles lets him
be, patting him between bites.
Breakfast continues without a hitch and Scott is nice enough to volunteer to
clean up.
Stiles takes a moment to pull Isaac and Derek aside. “Before I forget,” he
says. “I don’t think you guys have been introduced to each other. Isaac, this
is Derek. Derek, this is my brother Isaac.”
“Nice to meet you," Derek says.
Isaac doesn't reply.
"Laura and Cora have mentioned you a few times, which means they like you,”
Derek adds as he slides his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, like
maybe it will win him points with the preteen.
Isaac just eyes Derek very carefully before he flicks his gaze over to Stiles
and then back. He scans Derek from head to toe once more and says, “Huh.” His
lips curl a little and he looks marginally amused. “That actually makes a lot
of sense.”
"Excuse me?" Derek sounds genuinely confused. "How do you mean?"
"Like you don't know," Isaac mutters. "Werewolves. Never subtle."
"Excuse me?" Derek sounds offended now. "Seriously, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that your intentions are pretty clear," Isaac clarifies. "Don't
forget, he was my family first."
Stiles blinks and frowns. “What? Isaac, what are you talking about?”
Isaac shakes his head and eyes Derek once more with a snort before he wanders
off to tuck away in his room.
Derek turns to Stiles with a furrowed brow but he looks a bothered about
something.
Stiles just throws up his hands. “I have no idea either. That’s — believe it or
not, that was progress. He usually doesn’t say anything at all when I introduce
him to new people,” he swears.
Derek lifts his eyebrows and turns to look at the top of the stairs like he’s
expecting Isaac to reappear. "He doesn't seem to like me very much," he
mutters.
"Yeah, well, he doesn't like a lot of people, so try not to take it to heart,"
Stiles admits.
"He's your brother and he should like me or..." Derek trails off and he looks a
little embarrassed.
"Or..." Stiles echoes, waiting for the older teen to finish that confusing
thought. He's a bit entertained by the fact that this seems to bother Derek,
even if he doesn't get why. 
"Nothing. Forget it. Werecats." Derek sighs like he’s given up on trying to
understand before he moves to help Scott clean up.
Scott shoots him a grateful smile and they begin conversing in Spanish.
Stiles just decides to leave them to it since he has no hope of understanding
and moves to settle on the big couch in the living room. He switches on the TV,
and he does some channel surfing until he stumbles upon a Jurassic Park
marathon. He spreads himself out on the couch as he watches one of his favorite
scenes.
Scott hops over the back of the couch and on top of him, causing them both to
go sprawling onto the floor.
Derek sits down on the end of the big couch and takes advantage of their
scuffling to switch on a basketball game.
Stiles pushes away from Scott with a light kick to complain until Derek rolls
his eyes and relinquishes control of the remote. Stiles wastes no time turning
back to the previous station before settling on the opposite end of the couch.
Scott sits on the middle and watches the TV with avid fascination, snickering
or smiling goofily from time to time when Stiles makes some kind of obnoxious
remark or adds his own personal commentary.
Derek throws a couch pillow at him and says, “Shut up. I can’t pay attention
with you doing that.”
“Rude,” Stiles grumbles with a frown and hugs the throw pillow to his chest. He
gazes down at Jordan, who’s lying at his feet and he wags his tail happily when
he sees Stiles is paying him notice. “You love my incessant babbling, don’t
you?” he coos at Jordan. “Derek has no appreciation of the color I bring to
movies or to life in general with my melodic rambling.”
Derek snorts and tries to concentrate on the movie.
“Haven’t you ever seen this before anyway?” Stiles asks, scratching Jordan
behind his right ear because Stiles has quickly learned that Jordan likes to be
touched there the most. He turns to look at Derek from across Scott. “I mean, I
know it lacks basketball, but still.”
Derek scowls and it eerily echoes Cora. He says, “I’m not that obsessed with
basketball. I just don’t watch TV as much as you do. So no, I’ve never seen
this before.”
“You don’t have to be defensive,” Stiles says as Jordan licks happily at the
back of his right hand. “I just figured you’d be more into movies like Remember
the Titansand The Basketball Diariesor even Like Mike.That one’s my particular
favorite, by the way.”
Derek just shrugs and grudgingly admits, “I’ve seen them.”
“Ha! I knew it,” Stiles says. “God, I bet you even had like some kind of Space
Jam themed birthday party when you were an ankle bitter.”
A rosy flush starts crawling up the back of Derek’s neck and to the tips of his
ears as he studiously avoids looking everywhere else but Stiles.
Stiles gapes before he gives a disbelieving laugh. “Dude. You really did,
didn't you? You so did and —”
The doorbell rings.
Stiles frowns, wondering who that could be, and he gets up to go answer the
door.
It’s Peter.
Stiles glances past him and over to Laura, who’s leaning with her back against
the banister, her arms crossed as she stares off into the distance. He turns
back to look at Peter, who’s wearing a rather frightening grin. “Uh,” he says
and fidgets as Peter’s grin lengthens. “What’s up?”
“I’ve come to collect my nephew,” Peter merely says before he flicks his gaze
over Stiles’s shoulder.
Stiles turns to see Derek standing at the end of the foyer with Jordan and a
questioning frown.
“Pack meeting,” Peter says. “Full Moon is tonight. Sister dear says attendance
is non-negotiable.”
“I have to grab my phone.”
“Grab it then,” Peter replies patiently before he turns his gaze back to Stiles
with that eerie grin. “So. Did you enjoy your weekend? You certainly
smell content.”
Stiles's face twists and he understands where Peter’s going with this. “I went
to a party,” he pointedly admits. “It was super.”
Peter hums noncommittally. “Yes, Kate’s told me all about your little night
out.” He drops his grin and that’s almost as frightening. “Must I remind you
that actions have consequences?"
"No, I'm pretty clear on that."
"Yet you still went," Peter presses. "Even in knowing the danger."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"Yes, but it could've been the last," Peter snaps and Stiles blinks in
surprise. Peter takes a moment to calm down before he says, "You could’ve been
hurt.”
“But I wasn’t,” Stiles says, annoyed. “And last I checked, my father was the
sheriff. Not you —"
"Clearly," Peter interrupts stiffly, visibly irritated.
Stiles continues, annoyed himself, "— and even he was fine with me going. Also,
you can’t just drag me into this stuff and then push me out when you get a
little antsy about my well-being. That’s not how it works.”
“It’ll work how I want it to work,” Peter calmly responds as he stares at
Stiles intently. “You should be grateful that I would even —”
Stiles bristles and says, “You better think carefully about what you’re going
to say to me next. I’m serious, Peter. You’re not going to yank me around
anymore or take advantage about how lenient I can be with your cryptic
behavior, okay? Enough is a goddamn enough. Don’t bother with me because I’m
useful and convenient. I’m not a wind up toy.”
Laura stiffens at that and she turns her head away.
Peter straightens and he looks at Stiles for several long quiet moments.
“I...apologize,” he says but not without difficulty. “It wasn’t my intention to
—" He pauses like he's fishing for the right words. Finally, he just says,
"I’ll be more mindful in the future.”
“Don’t apologize. Apologies only work to make the person saying them feel
better,” Stiles remarks evenly. “You say thank you. Thank you for being so
patient with how stupid I’ve been and I’ll make sure to use my brain when
asking my friends for favors and not demandthem or waylay them because it’s
convenient.”
Peter's expression sours and he says, “You don’t really want me to say that.”
“Yes I do. I really, really do.”
Peter smiles wryly and it looks like he’s swallowing down several scathing
remarks. “Thank youfor being tolerant of my behavior.”
“And?” Stiles encourages as he fights back an amused grin.
“AndI will be sure to think very carefully of how I ask for your help."
"And?" Stiles pushes, biting down on his bottom lip when Peter looks like he
wants to throttle him.
"And I’ll be sure not to expect help from you or manipulate you into helping me
because you are not a wind up toy and I should be more respectful of your
wishes,” Peter adds. “There. Am I missing anything else?”
“I think that covers it for now,” Stiles supposes with a long-suffering sigh.
Peter just hums before he drags Stiles closer and into a warm hug. He whispers,
“Please put my niece out of her misery. She’s reeks of guilt and she’ll be an
absolute pain to deal with during our run tonight if she doesn’t get this
little issue resolved between the two of you.” He releases him just as Derek
approaches. “Do you have everything you need or do you need more time to get
pretty?”
Derek ignores him and moves to engulf Stiles in a hug.
Stiles flails a little in surprise because Derek isn’t usually that tactile
with him. He awkwardly pats the other teen on the back until he’s let go and
tries to rationalize why his heart is beating so fast.
Peter lifts a brow but he smirks a little.
Stiles's cheeks get a little pink and he glares warningly at the older man.
Peter snorts and refrains from commenting as he grabs Derek by the scruff of
his neck to drag him down the steps and to his car as Jordan jogs after them
with a loud bark.
Laura straightens and stalks over to Stiles before dropping to her knees and
pressing her lips to the inside of his right palm with a tenderly meaningful
kiss. It's a bold display of submission.
Mrs. Doyle from across the street is eyeing them openly from where she’s
watering her plants.
Stiles grows flustered and he tries to urge Laura to her feet as she kisses his
hand. “Laura! Laura, you can't —" Woah, and that's definitely some tongue being
added to the mix. "Jesus, I’m not even — okay, okay. You have to get up because
I don’t understand what you’re — come on, get up.”
Laura does but she yanks him into a perfumed hug. She hides her overheated face
into the side of his neck with a shudder.
Stiles blinks up at the doorway and strokes a hand down between her shoulder
blades. “I’m not mad anymore,” he says softly, hoping to calm her down.
Laura mumbles something against his skin and the shape of her lips as she forms
her words feel like a desperate apology.
“It’s okay,” Stiles assures. “I mean what you did wasn’t but we’re — we’re
okay. I can get past it if you promise to never do that again.”
Laura nods hastily as she begins to sob.
Stiles shushes her and gathers all of her hair so he can pull it over her other
shoulder and away from his nose and mouth. Then he rubs soothing circles
against her lower back until she relaxes in his arms.
Laura sniffs and mumbles, “A pull.”
“What?” Stiles says as he walks backwards into the house and closes the door
behind them so they can have at least some kind of privacy because Mrs. Doyle
won’t stopstaring. “Say that again.”
“It’s called a —” Laura tenses up suddenly with a slight growl but she doesn’t
pull her face from his neck.
Scott peeks his head out from the living room and glances at them with widened
eyes. “Dude, um — is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Stiles stammers as he blushes because he can only imagine the sight
they make, what with Laura clinging to him like she’s never going to let him go
while she growls warningly at Scott. “Stop,” he whispers. “That’s my best
friend. He’s not — stop with the grr. We don't growl at Stiles's friends.”
Laura doesn’t stop growling.
Stiles rolls his eyes and looks imploringly at Scott. “Can you give us a
minute, please?”
Scott nods dumbly and scrambles up the steps, most likely ducking into Isaac’s
room for shelter.
Laura finally relaxes and stops growling but she doesn’t let him go or lift her
face from his neck.
Stiles rubs his hand up and down her spine as he wonders why she’s being so
assertive with her scenting. She’s normally a lot gentler and he wonders if it
has to do with the fact that it’s going to be a Full Moon tonight or maybe
because she’s getting close to her eighteenth birthday.
“A pull,” Laura mumbles lazily. “What I did to you the other day. It’s called a
pull.”
Stiles rolls that around in his mind.
“It’s something only Alphas can do, but they only use it in times of a crisis.
They can use it on anyone. Human or not. It's like bending a person's will to
match yours,” Laura goes on to explain. “I shouldn’t have done that to you
though. You’re not even completely pack. You haven’t even pledged — but
sometimes I’d like — I’d want you to be in my —” She cuts herself off with a
frustrated growl and seems to be struggling with her words. She pulls away from
him suddenly and she looks a little dazed, her cheeks a lovely rosy color as
her eyes flicker from amber to red and back to amber before returning to her
original color. She gives a full body shudder and puts more distance between
them. “I should go. I’m not myself and I — I want — I’m sorry. Mom would kill
me if she knew I’d come to see you when I’m like this, but Peter thought it
would help if I could just —” She shakes her head and takes another step back.
“And I still don't feel like myself. I’ll talk to you later, okay? But I need
you to move from the door so I can make myself leave without pinning you to the
ground and biting into your side to claim you as mine — to make you pack.”
Stiles wordlessly inches along the wall quickly in alarm until he’s at a safe
distance.
Laura’s eyes track his movement closely like a predator would when cornering
its prey. She clenches her hands and her voice has a husky pitch to it as her
eyes bleed amber, flickering to red inconsistently while she says, “Stay inside
tonight. Don’t try to — just stay indoors. Don't give me a reason to come
looking for you — to hunt.”
Stiles nods dumbly.
Laura turns away sharply and storms out the front door with inhuman speed.
Stiles thumps his head against the wall behind him repeatedly and tries to make
sense of what just happened.
                                      ---
“Maybe it’s a wolf thing,” Scott supposes some time later, when the sun is
setting and they’ve finished watching every Jurassic Park movie there is to
watch before gorging on some hotdogs and the leftovers from last night.
They’ve moved the coffee table over to the window so they can be free to lie on
their stomachs before the flat screen TV as they play Modern Warfare 3.
Isaac is curled up in his favorite armchair with Stiles’s tablet, playing what
sounds like Sims Free Play.
“A wolf thing?” Stiles finally replies when he’s not so distracted trying to
flank Scott in the game because Scott is horrible at these first person games.
“Yeah,” Scott says as his thumbs move restlessly over his controller. “You said
she’ll be an Alpha soon, right? Maybe she wants to make you pack. I mean, that
is what she said.”
Stiles never considered that, mainly because he and Laura never talked about
it. It’s not something he would have guessed. They’ve gotten along fine, and
they’re comfortable with each other, but Stiles can’t imagine why Laura would
want to include him into her pack because he didn’t think building a pack is
something she wants to do.
It’s kind of confusing.
“Laura wants to go to New York and be a star on Broadway. She doesn’t want to
build a pack,” Stiles denies as he curses when Scott gets shot down but he
quickly avenges his best friend.
“Instincts can be a crazy thing,” Scott mutters with a frustrated sigh. He
pauses the game on his side and turns to face Stiles. “You don’t think that
she’ll like come looking for you when she does the whole, you know, thing?”
“Shift, you mean,” Stiles corrects. “And I don’t know.” He pauses the game on
his side. “I’m not sure how any of it works on the Full Moon.”
Scott opens his mouth to say something but the doorbell rings. He starts to
look panicked and he scrambles for his inhaler.
Stiles snorts and climbs to his feet. “Relax, dude. I doubt Werewolves ring
doorbells,” he assures.
Scott just sucks greedily at his inhaler as he flounders.
Stiles makes his way to the door and peeks through the peephole before he opens
it with a frown.
Kate’s standing on the other side with some dark jeans, a tank top, and a
leather jacket made of the same material as her studded ankle boots. She’s also
holding a sawed-off shotgun in her right hand as she pops a piece of gum
obnoxiously.
“Kate,” Stiles says as he glances behind her, up and down the street. “What are
you doing here?”
“Laura asked me to come,” Kate merely says. "Since, you know, you're the apple
of her eye."
Stiles boggles at the shotgun. “And that’s for her?”
“Don’t be stupid. This is for me,” Kate huffs. “She’s not the only Werewolf in
town. You can never be too safe on a Full Moon. Now are you going to let me in
or do I have to set up camp out here on your porch. I gotta say, it’d give the
neighbors something to gossip about. That old lady across the streets has been
peeking through her curtains every five seconds like she’s waiting for a show.”
Stiles moves out of the way and urges her in.
Kate slides through, popping her gum before she says, “Thanks, buttercup.”
Stiles makes a face at that and he locks the door thoroughly behind her. He
takes a moment to call his dad to make sure he’s somewhere safe. His dad sounds
very bemused on the other end but he assures Stiles that he’s perfectly safe
behind his desk at the station, sorting through old case files (he mentions he
may be headed to Eichen House shortly — depending how the night goes) . Stiles
feels a little better knowing nonetheless and he pockets his phone when the
conversation ends.
He pushes away from the door and moves to join the others in the living room
but the doorbell rings again. He frowns, wondering who it could be this time,
and he looks through the peephole.
It’s Kira’s mom.
He opens the door.
“Mrs. Yukimura,” Stiles greets uncertainly. “Uh — hello.”
Mrs. Yukimura crosses her arms and holds onto her elbows as she says, “Good
evening, Mr. Stilinski. I’m sorry to bother you like this, but, Kira didn’t
come home last night and I thought perhaps you knew of her whereabouts.”
Stiles jolts at that. “Kira didn’t come home? I — no, I don’t — I mean, she was
hanging with a few of our friends at the nail salon. Um, I can get you their
numbers if you needed to call them.”
“Please,” Mrs. Yukimura says with a nod.
Stiles stumbles away from the door and to the kitchen to find something to
write on. When he finds some paper and a pen, he quickly jots down Allison and
Malia’s number before returning to the doorway.
Mrs. Yukimura accepts it with quiet gratitude. She moves to leave but she
pauses at the top of the porch steps before she turns back to say, “I’m sure
you’re aware of the differences my daughter and I have, but if you do happen to
talk to her or reach her someway. Please tell her that I just want her to come
home.”
Stiles nods wordlessly.
Mrs. Yukimura turns away and starts for her house.
Stiles pulls out his phone and scrolls through his recent contacts to find
Kira’s name. When he does, he dials out and presses his phone to his ear,
pausing when he notices that eerie orange alley cat sitting under the glow of
the streetlamp across the street, and it’s staring at him with glimmering eyes.
“Hey! This is Kira. You know what to do after the beat — oh god, no, I meant
beep. After the beep. Crap, how do you reset this?” Beep.
Stiles doesn’t stop staring at the cat as he says, “Kira, it’s Stiles. Your mom
is freaking out. Okay, no, I’m the one kind of freaking out. Your mom was
actually really Zen about the fact that you didn’t come home last night. So,
uh, call me because I’m pretty worried about you. Or, you know, call your mom
first. Yeah. Definitely call your mom first. Or even better, go home. I — yeah.
Right. Bye.”
The orange alley cat’s tail swings lazy as though it has a mind of it’s own and
that’s about all he can take of their weird staring match.
Stiles quickly shuts the door and locks it twice. He walks into the living room
to find Kate dominating in the game as Scott stares at her in awe. He says,
“Kira didn’t go home last night.”
That knocks Scott out of his stupor. “What?”
Stiles scrolls through his contacts to find Malia’s number. “Her mom was just
here asking about her,” he explains as he presses his phone to his ear. “Call
Allison and see if she knows something.”
Scott nods and fishes for his phone.
“Hello?”
“Malia, have you seen Kira?” Stiles asks.
“No. Why? Her mom just called me asking the same thing,” Malia replies. “I’ll
tell you the same thing I told her. We got our nails and eyebrows done around
six-ish. We left the salon around seven-thirty and went to get some frozen
yogurt before we went our separate ways around nine. I caught a ride with
Allison and her mom, and Kira just took her bike home. At least that’s what we
thought.”
Stiles is overtaken with worry in light of this news. “Okay. Thanks. Just — if
you do hear from her or anything, call me or text me or something.”
“I’ll send up some smoke signals,” Malia promises, trying to ease the tension.
Stiles just gives a pathetically shaky laugh before he hangs up and stares
dumbly at the TV as his mind races.
“Okay. Yeah. I mean it's not but — oh. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, thanks,” Scott says as
he ends his call. “Allison hasn’t seen her. She said that they went their
separate ways at the frozen yogurt place.”
“I know,” Stiles says faintly as he sits down. He scrubs at his face, trying
not to let anything like panic overtake him. He’s trying not to imagine the
worst scenarios possible. He really isn’t. It’s just that Kira is his friend
and it’d wreck him something awful if anything happened to her.
Isaac sits up suddenly and looks to the stairs.
Stiles notices and says, “What?”
Isaac doesn’t answer right away. His brow furrows as his eyes lift up and he
scans the ceiling above the kitchen. Then he says, “Someone’s upstairs.”
Kate abruptly pauses the game and doesn’t look away from the screen as she
says, “Say that again.”
Isaac blinks and glances her way uncertainly. “Someone’s upstairs?”
Kate scans the TV before she calmly stands, swiping her sawed-off shotgun from
off the floor. She snaps open the barrel with one hand, loading it quickly with
a hardened expression of determination before snapping it close and says,
“Where?”
“Stiles’s room,” Isaac says quickly and Stiles doesn’t blame him for the snap
response. This side of her is pretty intimidating.
Kate cradles her shotgun in both hands and keeps her finger poised on the
trigger as she marches over to the steps and up them, tossing a “Stay there!”
over her shoulder.
Stiles mutes the TV as they all wait on baited breath, listening to Kate’s
quiet footsteps move across the second floor, followed by the inevitable creak
of Stiles’s door being opened.
A few moments pass, but there’s no sound of a gunshot.
Stiles frowns and looks to Isaac for clarification but the preteen just shrugs
as he stares up at the ceiling.
Scott shakes his inhaler and takes a deep breath.
Kate returns with a puzzled expression as she settles her shotgun on her right
shoulder. “I think you better come see this,” she says.
Stiles stands with a frown before he follows her up the steps and to his room.
He pauses in the doorway.
That eerie orange alley cat is curled up on his windowsill with it’s tail
swinging low. “Stiles,” he says.
“Uh cat...creature...thing...” Stiles returns as Isaac and Scott crowd up
behind him to get a glimpse in his room.
“Did that cat just talk?” Scott questions with wide eyes.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles says as he steps into his room fully.
The cat says, “Do I have your permission to enter? I wouldn’t want to upset the
Hale boy with my unwanted intrusion.” He sound suspiciously sarcastic and
amused. "His mark is very prominent."
"That's what I said," Isaac mumbles.
Kate snorts as she leans against the doorway.
Stiles nods and watches as the cat hops down from the windowsill and onto the
floor. “So, um — what’s up?” he asks and then winces at how lame it must sound
considering the significance of the situation.
The cat doesn’t seem to notice or care. He says, “Your friend Kira is in grave
danger.”
Stiles jolts at that. “What?”
“They’ve taken her to the abandoned subway station,” the cat goes on to
explain, tail swinging anxiously. “I believe they mean to awaken her true
nature.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Stiles says, holding up his hands because his mind is spinning.
“Who’s doing what now?”
The cat huffs impatiently and says, “Those intolerable Reyes Twins. They’re
trying to get your friend’s supernatural abilities to manifest for their own
selfish gain.”
“What abilities?” Kate asks quicker than Stiles is able to. "She's a Human.
What could she do?"
“She’s a Thunder Kitsune,” the cat clarifies petulantly. “If they’re doing what
I think they are, then they’ll take her to the power substation, not only to
awaken her abilities, but to rid Beacon Hills of its power sources for as long
as they need to do what they need to tonight.” He looks directly at Stiles as
he says, “They’re trying to free their father, and they plan on doing whatever
it takes. Including killing your father.”
Stiles suddenly feels as furious as he is afraid. “Why didn’t you come to me
sooner or to my dad or anything? Why’d you wait until now to say something? And
why should I trust you? I don’t even know who or what you are.”
“I may be made from magic but I’m not made ofmagic. I consider myself an
educated guesser in most situations. Also, I’m hardly perfect. I had to be
sure, so I followed those stupid boys until they led me to the girl, which
wasn’t too long ago,” the cat tersely replies. “You should be grateful for
that, instead of me sending you on some wild goose chase. And I couldn’t go to
your father or even the girl’s mother because you’re the only one who can stop
it from turning into a catastrophe.”
“That’s flattering and all,” Stiles says. “But you still haven’t told me why I
should trust you.”
“Holy hell, you’re as frustrating as —” the cat cuts himself off with an
annoyed sound. “You can trust me.” He pauses before he goes on to say, “I’m
your mother’s twin brother, Claude. Well, what’s left of me anyway.”
Stiles inhales sharply and his mind goes blank in shock. He's a little dizzy.
“Surprise,” the cat adds dryly. “I had really hoped we could save this
conversation for when you — well, never mind. We’re running out of time. We
need to move quickly.” He hops up on to the windowsill and then springs out.
Stiles is still standing there in shock.
Kate pushes away from the doorway and says, “Stiles. We should get going like
he said. Try to process this later.” She steers him out of his room and says,
“You two stay here. Keep everything locked down.”
Scott and Isaac nod faintly as they watch the blonde herd Stiles down the
steps.
Stiles is moving on autopilot as he climbs into Kate’s jaguar and buckles
himself in.
Kate chucks her shotgun into the backseat before she hops in and starts the
engine.
The cat springs into the car and says, “Let’s try the abandoned subway station
first. Hopefully they've not relocated.”
Kate nods and peels out of the driveway before she whips down the road.
Stiles is still at a loss — even as he stares up at the moon sitting heavy and
full in the black night sky.
His uncle is a cat.
What. The. Hell.
 
***** magic *****
“How come mom never mentioned you?” Stiles asks when he manages to find his
voice again. He shifts his body so he can look towards the backseat.
Kate is still speeding as they drive down that long stretch of road that
divides the preserve. She’s keeping her silence as she pays attention to the
conversation.
The cat — his uncle — god, he doesn’t even know what to call it anymore — says,
“Not surprising. Her and I — the last time we spoke was before you were born.
We had a falling out, but then again, when weren’t we fighting? Stupid really,
the things we argued about.” He sighs. “Anyway, the last time we really had a
falling out, well, I said some choice things. Though, perhaps using the
word choice is being delicate considering. But the most memorable of them is
that I said, ‘If you have this child, you’re dead to me.’” He straightens his
spine as his tail sways to the left. “Of course, six months later, she gave
birth to a bouncing baby boy. Who she named after our father and called him
Mie—”
“You’re a dick,” Stiles interrupts purposefully. “Why would you say that to my
mom? What am I? Some kind of an abomination? Who says that to their own
family?”
“I’ve made mistakes,” Claude concedes. “I didn’t want her to have you for
selfish reasons — for what it would mean for me if she did. But I can’t take
those words back. No matter how much I want to. I loved my sister, but I was
angry with her for the longest time. She made me what I am today. But it wasn’t
until she died did I truly accept that she did what she thought she could to
save me.”
Stiles doesn’t understand. He really doesn’t. “My mom...made you a cat?”
“She did a lot of things in her lifetime,” Claude says. “She was a Blue Witch.”
Stiles feels a delirious laugh bubble up in his already tightening throat. “My
mom was a music teacher that ran a wine and candle shop on the weekends. She
made gift baskets for weddings! She wasn’t some — some — Baba Yaga!”
Claude looks at him sharply. “You watch your mouth how you insult your mother’s
memory,” he chastises. “I’m sure she didn’t tell you the old Slavic tales of
our homeland during your bedtime for you to accuse her of the same wickedness.”
Stiles flushes hotly with anger and shame. “Then tell me what you’re trying to
say because I don’t understand! You’re making me think that the woman I knew to
be my mother isn’t at all who I thought she was.”
“I doubt she pretended to be anything she wasn’t. It’s more likely that you
never knew the questions to ask,” Claude replies tightly as his tail swivels
aggressively. In Polish, he says, “There was more to her than roses and candles
and wine.”
Stiles inhales sharply and heat pinpricks at his eyes.
“What?” Kate says as she glances over to him. “What did he say?”
“My nephew understands perfectly what I said,” Claude calmly states as his
yellow eyes stare into Stiles’s with piercing intent. “How long has it been
since you were addressed in our language?”
“How can I bare to say? To even think?” Stiles replies shakily and the diction
sours on his tongue, like a piece of spoiled fruit eaten way past its prime.
“Since mom,” he adds (in English).
Claude makes a thoughtful sound as his tail curls around him. Then he says, “Do
you ever miss it?”
Stiles would say ‘always’ or ‘yes’ when he’s forced to think about it, like
now. But he says neither of these things because he can’t get his tongue to
move, it’s too weighed down by sorrow and longing. His mother's tongue is just
another reminder of what he no longer has. It's...hard.
Claude says, “Even though she lost her magic after having you, which is
something that will often happen — she still would have been able to do some
good deeds through tokens of festivity and timekeeping. When we were kids, she
told me all about you. Of a dream she had about a beautiful boy that would make
a difference in the world one day.” He huffs sadly and continues, “You look
just like she said you would.”
Stiles exhales shakily because his head is so full of questions but his heart
is aching terribly. He can’t. He can’t talk about this. Not like this. “So why
now? Why come back now and play the caring uncle if you wanted nothing to do
with us?” he asks.
“I care. I just made a lot of stupid mistakes along the way to figuring that
out,” Claude confesses, his tail swinging anxiously. He turns his gaze to the
back of Kate’s head as his ears swivel thoughtfully on his head. “Stop here. We
can’t go any closer without them detecting us.”
Kate pulls over and parks in front of a bakery that Stiles vaguely remembers
going to a long time ago with his dad when they first moved here.
This area is considered Old Town, because the shops have been standing since
the twenties (practically historical in nature), and it’s obvious by the design
of them as well as the bad upkeep. Old Town is settled mainly on or near to the
outskirts of Beacon Hills, whereas the heart of the newer retail area lies
within the folds Beacon Hills.
In saying this, there are a lot of abandoned buildings and houses that have
been touched by the staggering American economy. It’s pretty creepy because it
can be viewed like some kind of ghost zone or like something out of the Silent
Hill video games.
Claude says, “Did you use that black soap I left for you?”
Stiles frowns as he turns his wandering gaze back to his feline uncle. “That
was you who — what am I saying? Of course it was you.” He sighs. “Yes.”
“Good. That’s a special concoction of mine,” Claude goes on to say. “It’s power
lies in the intention of other supernatural beings. For those who mean you
harm, it helps to mask your scent. Makes you invisible from detection. Keeps
you protected. Understand?”
“If the Reyes Twins mean to harm me, which is practically a given at this point
seeing as how they kidnapped my friend, then the soap will keep them from being
aware I’m anywhere around. I’m scentless.”
“Exactly,” Claude confirms. “Kathryn.”
“It’s Kate. My old man calls me Kathryn,” Kate corrects as she turns off her
car and jams her keys in her back pocket. She twists in her seat to face him.
“What’s up, Cat?”
“Claude.”
“Whatever. What’s the plan?” Kate says, popping her gum.
“You and I will be creating a diversion, and my nephew will be slipping inside
to collect the Kitsune.”
“Kira,” Stiles corrects because he wants to be sure that his uncle doesn’t
forget that she isn’t just some arbitrary supernatural being. “She’s a person
under everything else.”
Claude gazes at him for a long while after that. His yellow eyes glowing with
bright, hot thought. He straightens and his tail sways above him as he leans
back before leaping to stand at the top of Stiles’s seat. He knocks his
forehead against his nephew’s with an amused huff. “So much like your mother.
It’s painful,” he murmurs before he springs out of the car, transforming more
into the shape of an adult-sized beige-white lynx. “Let’s go make some noise,
Ms. Kate. We’ll head them off so Stiles can slip in.”
Kate nods and grabs her sawed-off shotgun from the back seat before she climbs
out. She makes a gesture for Stiles to follow her to the trunk, and when he
does, she opens it to reveal a nest of weapons lying under a hidden
compartment.
Stiles is not even surprised. “You have a permit for all these?”
Kate’s teeth gleam menacingly as she grins and tugs free a .45 ACP pistol. “You
let me worry about that. What do you know about holding a gun?”
“My dad’s the sheriff. What do you think I know?” Stiles retorts and takes it
from her, skillfully loading it before holding it just the way his dad taught
him. He lowers it in the next moment and puts the safety on.
Kate looks on with an impressed grin. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t
you?” She hands him a switchblade next. “Here, pocket that. It’s likely they
probably have her strung up with some kind of binding.”
Stiles pockets the switchblade.
Kate spits her gum out off to the side and makes her way onto the sidewalk
where she meets his uncle. She pauses and looks at Stiles from over her
shoulder to say, “It’s likely we’ll run into some complications. You should be
prepared for that. You should be prepared to defend yourself.”
“I know.”
Kate turns to fully face him. “But do you really?” she asks. “When Werecats
shift, they become bigger, stronger — faster. They’re not like Werewolves. I
don’t have time to explain the differences. Tonight they’ll be weak, so they
can’t shift fully until first light, which, thank god.But still. It’ll take
more than three bullets to slow them down. You want to hit them just enough so
you and your little friend can make a run for it. Aim to wound, not to kill,
because there is no killing them unless you separate the head from the body.
Got it?”
Stiles swallows and tries not to feel uneasy. He nods.
“Good,” Kate says as she straightens the line of her small shoulders. “Laura
and Peter would strangle me if anything ever happened to you. Don’t get me put
in hot water, buttercup. You're like treasure to those Hales.”
Stiles gives a heady sigh and nods firmly. “I’ll be careful.”
“We have to move,” Claude says before sprinting in the direction of the
stoplight all the way at the end of the street where the town stops.
“Give us ten minutes, and then we’ll give you fifteen,” Kate says before she
goes running after his uncle.
Stiles is left to alone to breathe in the humid night air. He glances up at the
shiny moon as it sits fat and heavy in a sky the color of navy slacks. He
stares and thinks briefly how the moon looks like some white stone that’s just
been polished and then he starts to smell rain, despite the fact that there are
no clouds to be seen.
He looks up and down the sidewalk, to the darkened store windows (most are
boarded up now or say ‘Going Out of Business, Everything Must Go!!!’). It’s
quiet here, undisturbed. There aren’t any cars, or even a fleck of garbage.
It’s strange — strange enough that it tweaks at Stiles’s curiosity for some
unknown reason.
It’s the stillness. It feels synthetic in a way.
Stiles gropes himself and closes his eyes slowly when he realizes that he
doesn’t have his phone on him. It’s not too hard to imagine where it might be.
He can picture it clearly in his mind: his phone vibrating from where it lies
crammed between two couch cushions in his living room, unheard.
It occurs to him, that even in his shock, he should have had the mind to grab
it, or even alert his dad to the situation somehow. He wonders idly if maybe
Isaac may have (it’s likely since his little brother is more cautious about
these things than he is).
Stiles stands fretfully for a while, painfully aware that he hasn’t got a clue
on how to be able to know how much time has passed. He’s bad about that without
a watch or some kind of device.
He has to wing it.
He waits a few beats before he carries himself in the direction that he saw
Kate and his uncle go. It brings him all the way to the end of the street, and
after that it’s not too hard to know what he’s looking for. Like a lone ship,
the abandoned subway station sticks out like a sore thumb on a lonely stretch
of land wiped clean of trees or all manner of green vegetation, sealed with
concrete so that nothing wouldn’t ever grow afterwards.
Stiles approaches the large building that, upon further inspection, looks as
hollowed out on the outside as it actually is on the inside. The interior of
the building is like a warehouse, with high arching ceilings held up with a
metal skeletal frame. Or maybe it’s iron. Stiles is hardly an architect so he
doesn’t really know. It’s just that it doesn’t exactly looklike an abandoned
subway station. Certainly not like any you’d see on TV or read about in books
that chronicles the life of a person who lives and breathes city
transportation. This subway station resembles more of a graveyard for broken
down or decapitated train cars with busted windows and graffiti spray-painted
on the sides.
It’s not exactly quiet. There’s a stuttering hum of electricity flowing through
the building, making the ceiling lights flicker every three seconds like there
will be some kind of power outage any moment.
It’s Kira. It has to be.
Stiles’s heart thumps with anticipation as he winds his way into the gut of the
station. There comes a point where he comes across a grouping of electrical
chords, and he follows the veins of it to the lower level (basement) to a lone
train car with busted windows. He settles the gun in his hand in the back of
his pants so that he can use both hands to climb up into the tall train car.
Kira’s anchored in the middle of the train car, tied to a standing pole by
steel chains as the lights flicker on and off around her while her eyes glow
with a blood orange color.
“Kira,” Stiles says and he sprints to her. He doesn’t touch her right away. He
just assesses her from head to toe. She appears to be unharmed but he’s picking
up a weird loopy vibe from her. “Kira,” he says again as they make eye contact.
Kira looks right at him and then bursts with giggles. “They got you too?” she
says between giggles. “That’s — that’s so awful.” She starts to really laugh.
Stiles expected her to be traumatized, or freaking out but he didn’t expect
this. It’s like she’s — “Drunk,” he says aloud as he gapes. “Kira did they —
were you drugged?”
“Nope, and nope.” Kira smiles widely as her head sways from side to side. It
also seems that the chains holding her to the pole is also keeping her up. Her
small-heeled boots are scrapping against the dirty floor in a sloppy manner.
“They just tied me all willy-silly and started to do this vibrate-y thingy.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Stiles admits as he starts to circle her.
Kira just gives an ugly snort. "There were lots of cords and metal and it was
like how you do a car when it runs out of juice because you leave your tail
lights on all night long."
Stiles notices that Kira’s connected to some jumper cables. It occurs to him
that they’re feeding her the building’s electricity, and it’s having some sort
of intoxicant effect on her.
Kira starts bobbing her head like she’s listening to music and she hums for a
little while before she starts singing softly in Japanese.
Stiles looks for either the start of the chains or the end. When he finds the
lock that’s holding it all together, he reaches out to touch but stops short
when the small hairs on his arm start to stand on end. He quickly yanks his
hand away in fear of electrocution and gnaws on his bottom lip as he tries to
think of a way around shocking himself.
Kira starts snorting. “You know what I just thought of? Watermelons? What’s the
deal with watermelons?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll try and think on it,” Stiles vaguely promises as he
straightens. “Kira, listen. I’m going to go and find the box — the fuse box
thing or whatever and I’m going to shut it all down, okay? It’s probably going
to get dark but I’ll be right back.”
“Okey-dokey-smokey,” Kira says with a solemn nod before she starts giggling
again. Then she pouts. “He spit them at me, you know — Ricky. The seeds. The
watermelonseeds. He kept eating slices of them and spitting the seeds at me
like it was a game. Spitting and spitting, while the other one kept count
between his laughter. So impolite and cruel. You know Ricky, right? The one
with his left eye scarred shut. You know the one I mean.”
“What?” Stiles says, trying to follow what she’s saying before thinking better
of it. “I can’t — Kira, you’ll have to tell me later. I gotta get us out of
here.”
Kira pouts again but she stays quiet.
Stiles quickly makes his way out of the car and follows the veins of the
electrical cords all the way to the source, which happens to be a commercial
generator (emergency service backup for lost power) relatively the size of a
short yellow bus. He circles it about three times before he comes across the
control push button panel. He doesn’t have to think hard about what he should
do next, because it’s pretty self-explanatory. He presses down hard on the
power button — punching it when gentle pressure offers no reaction.
The generator (which is whirring really loudly with shaking vibrations and the
panting of its internal fans) winds down to a halt before completely quieting.
Stiles turns back to the building to find it pitch black (as it should be). He
makes his way inside, and gradually feels his way down to the basement. It
takes a little longer than he’d like because he has to be so cautious, but he
eventually makes it back to the train car where Kira is.
“You look funny,” Kira giggles in the inky blackness.
“You can see me?” Stiles says as he reaches out for her.
Kira snorts and says, “Well duh. You’re right there.”
Stiles follows the sound of her voice before groping the chains for the lock,
cursing when he realizes he should have gotten some kind of metal cutting tool
on his way back down. So now he’s fiddling with a lock like an idiot, trying to
come up with all sort of inventive ideas about how he can possibly break —
“Uh oh,” Kira says suddenly.
Stiles stiffens. “Uh oh? Why uh oh? What’s —” He feels himself being hauled up
by the scruff of his neck by rough and steely fingers.
“Che cosa è questo? La piccola Kitsune ha un amico,” a deep guttural voice
breathes in Stiles’s ear in fluent Italian, and he winces at the smell of
watermelon and blood that wafts from the giant furnace pressed against his
back. A massive clawed hand slides around the nape of his neck to his Adam’s
apple and the pointed tips press threateningly into the curve of it. “So you’re
the reason that little wolf bitchand the furry imposter had my brother and I
chasing them in circles? Had a little plan, did we?”
“Carter?” Stiles says and winces when those claws press deeper, almost choking.
“You don't —”
“Ricky,” he corrects offhandedly, like it's something he has to do often. He
sniffs and tsks. “I smell that gun on you.”
Stiles closes his eyes regretfully when he feels Ricky yank the gun from the
rim of his pants.
“You don’t smell terrified. Don’t you wonder what I will do, Árfæstnes?” Ricky
shoves him away.
Stiles quickly spins around and even in the dark, he can still make out the one
eye that’s glowing silver while the other is scarred shut. “If you wanted to
kill me, you would have done that already,” he supposes with a nervous swallow.
He hears the click of the safety being removed and he wonders if Ricky is
pointing the gun at him. He reaches out for Kira and when he feels the cold
metal of her chain bindings he stands in front of her. His hands twitch at his
side when Ricky chuckles darkly, silver eye burning like a predator lying in
wait in the dark.
Ricky says, “Do you know, in the old days, my kind worshipped the árfæstnes
like gods? My father still does, and he taught my brother and I the old ways.
Non devi preoccuparti di morte con me.”
“I don’t know what that — what are you — ”
“You’re a Virtue,” Ricky clarifies. “So you need not fear death with me. Cup
your hands together. It may be against my religion to put a bullet through your
head but there’s nothing in my bible that says I can’t put a bullet through
hers. Now cup your hands together or you’re going to hear a gun shot in the
next three seconds.”
Stiles cups his hands together quickly. He starts in surprise at the chill of a
thin metal chain being wrapped around his wrists.
“You’ll have to forgive me for this,” Ricky supposes distantly. “But I’m sure
that if you were in my position, you’d do the same. My father is innocent.
Human laws wont accommodate what he is — what we are. Family is the most
important thing. We must always protect the Pride.”
“There are better ways,” Stiles finds himself saying, though it could be more
shock talking than sense. He once read an article about a little boy singing to
his kidnapper until the kidnapper couldn’t stand it anymore and let him go.
Seeing as he can’t sing, he’ll have to approach this from a more verbal method.
“My dad’s the sheriff — he could — I could talk to him and —”
“And what? They wont free my father just because you ask really nicely. Essi
non sono più del nostro mondo che ci sono delle c'è,” Ricky hisses angrily and
shoves Stiles back until he loses his balance and falls on his butt next to
Kira’s restless feet. “Tell me, what is it that you think you can do? You don’t
have authority, Árfæstnes.At least —” He stops short and huffs. "This has
already been decided."
Stiles finds himself wondering whose blood it is that he can smell on Ricky.
“You’ll have to forgive me for this,” Ricky says again before he strikes Stiles
on his temple with the bottom end of the gun.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up feeling wet and confused. His wrists ache like he’s been
dragged by them and his head throbs. His vision is a little blurry when he
comes to, but he finds himself on his back, staring at the darkened ceiling
lights of what seems to be a new place.
Something wet warm is nosing at the metal chain wrapped around his wrists, and
with a start his eyes jerk down to see a massively white nine-tailed Kitsune
with purple electric energy furling all around the tips of it’s long, curled
tails. But it’s the glowing blood orange eyes that really click a sort of
knowing in him.
“Kira?” Stiles stays and when the white Kitsune gives a soft whine he feels his
eyes bulge “Holy — thunder god.” He sits upright and has to blink against the
onslaught of dizzying nausea that hits him. “How did you — did they —” He
frowns. “Ricky did this?”
Kira sits back on her hind legs as her nine tails sway chaotically
(uncontrolled) and she nods as her fox-like ears twitch in distress.
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip and takes a moment to look around, though he
can’t see much (outside of the light that Kira’s tails provide), and he just
supposes that Ricky must have bodily moved them to the power substation.
Kira furls three of her tails around him and Stiles is surprised when he isn’t
shocked, but rather, the energy flowing through her caresses his skin with
gentle pricks of warmth, pulling at something under his skin he can’t name.
When he’s close enough, she goes back to licking furiously at his chain
bindings and it amazingly starts dissolving until it melts and Stiles's bruised
wrists are drenched in her thick saliva.
“Whoa,” Stiles says as he quickly climbs to his feet.
Kira straightens and Stiles baffles at the fact that she’s literally over two
heads taller than him (and she’s still sitting on her hind legs).
“Whoa, okay,” Stiles mutters as he gapes. “You’re bigger than I thought.”
Kira huffs and licks at the front end of her paw, which is still quite strange
to see.
“So you can understand me,” Stiles supposes.
Kira blinks slowly at him as she continues to groom herself.
"I'll take that as you confirming," Stiles says and yelps when Kira presses her
large paw into his chest to push him down on the ground and flat on his back.
“Hey, hey, don’t — hey —”
Kira growls at him before she whips her head to the left and her ears twitch
and swivel curiously.
Stiles snaps his mouth shut and remains completely still.
Kira ducks down and growls again.
“Watashi wa anata no hahadesu,” a gentle voice says in fluent Japanese. “You
cannot forget your mother.”
Kira cocks her head and gives a curious whine.
Stiles cranes his neck to see Mrs. Yukimura stepping out of the shadows and
into the moonlight with her hands held up with placating surrender, despite the
fact that she’s outfitted in all leather and combat boots with a katana
strapped to her back.
“It’s okay, Kira,” Mrs. Yukimura promises, stepping closer and closer. “I’m
here to help. Watashi wa tasukete mimashou.”
Kira removes her paw from Stiles’s chest, coiling backwards before she springs
forward, gliding through the air to her mother. She furls around the older
woman beautifully and touches their foreheads together.
Mrs. Yukimura whispers something sacred before she plants a tender kiss in the
space between Kira’s glowing eyes. She steps away and gazes at Stiles
indifferently as he climbs to his feet. “This could have been avoided had you
informed me,” she points out curtly.
Stiles has the decency to let a guilty flush wash over him before he responds,
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, Bitoku,” Mrs. Yukimura corrects. “Apologize to Kira.
And be warned. Her wrath is much more passionate than my own.”
“Uh,” is Stiles’s intelligent reply.
Mrs. Yukimura seems unconcerned with his incoherence. “Go. Your friends are
waiting for you out front. I will look after Kira, and I’ll see if I can get
the town’s power operational.”
Stiles nods and watches as Mrs. Yukimura leads her daughter away.
Kira pauses only once to look back at him, but even at that distance Stiles can
see the questions swimming in her eyes.
He wonders if she can see any of the same kind mirrored in his own.
Outside the station, Claude and Kate await him, both looking mildly relieved
when he appears to be unharmed (more or less).
Stiles raises both of his eyebrows at them though.
Claude (still in his beige-white lynx form) is covered in patches of mud, while
Kate looks unruffled (despite the fact that most of her clothes are partially
torn and caked in dark blood that doesn’t really appear to be her own).
“What happened?”
Claude lazily licks at his right paw and rubs it against his face in an attempt
to get clean. “We tried to lead them out into the forest, but they weren't as
idiotic as I’d hoped,” he explains.
“They split up when they figured out we were just the distraction,” Kate
includes. “We would have made it back to you sooner but the one that stayed
behind made sure to keep us well preoccupied.”
“He tried to bury me in a mud swamp,” Claude complains as his tail bristles and
he licks furiously at his left paw.
“Meanwhile, I unloaded about fifty shells into him and he still wouldn't go
down,” Kate huffs and shakes her head. “Then we heard an echo of howls.”
“That scared him off,” Claude supposes. “He had to have sensed a wolf pack
nearby and he didn't want to take his chances. Not that he would have had any,
being greatly outnumbered.”
“By the time we circled back to the warehouse, you and your cute little
girlfriend were gone,” Kate finishes. “But her mother was there. Said she could
pick up on her aura. She led us here, but midway all the lights in town started
flickering.”
“That’s when we knew we wouldn’t make it in time. Everything went dark and that
just confirmed it,” Claude says with a sigh as his ears swivel and twitch
irritably. “I’m sorry.”
Stiles shakes his head and winces when it causes a swell of pain to explode
between his temples.
Kate notices and she mutters a swear so quick that he’s not able to follow.
“What’d he hit you with?” she asks, stepping closer to examine his head with a
furrowed brow. She curls her manicured hand under his jaw and tilts his head so
she can get a good look at him. “You’re bleeding,” she notes with an unhappy
frown. “You better not have a concussion. Laura and Peter will throttle me.”
“It was a gun — the gun you gave me — he hit me with it but, I don’t know, I
don’t think he was trying to hurt me,” Stiles reasons and he carefully pushes
her hand away.
Kate’s frown deepens and it feels so odd to have her looking at him with that
amount of concern (no matter how minor).
Claude, however, appears to be more concerned with ridding himself of the mud.
Stiles opens his mouth to assure Kate again that he’s fine but he stops short
when he starts panicking as he starts thinking of how Ricky might still have
her gun and how he might try to use it on someone. “We’ve gotta get to Eichen
House. He’s got that gun. Where’s your car?”
“One of them gutted it. Pulled the engine out and everything. They’ll have to
pay for it in blood if I can’t get them to write a check. You know, I think it
was the uglier one,” Kate bellyaches and turns her head to spit out that same
piece of gum from earlier. “We can try on foot. Might be safer seeing as all
the power’s gone, which means no street signals.”
“Well how far are we?” Stiles asks.
Claude says, “Fifteen minutes. If we run.”
“I’m game,” Kate says and cracks her neck. “I’m fast like a gazelle. What about
you, buttercup?”
Stiles ignores the nickname (once again) and says, “I was on the track team in
junior high. I think I can manage.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Claude says and darts off.
Kate flashes him a dangerous grin before she goes running after the feline.
Stiles has no choice but to follow. His anxiety only grows when he asks Kate
for her phone and she reports that it went dead when the power went out.
Whatever Ricky and Carter did to Kira didn’t only affect the main power but
apparently also every device that relies on it (wireless or not).
It’s worrying.
                                      ---
If Eichen House is eerie during the middle of the day, it’s practically
terrifying at night (and during a power outage no less). It looks like it’s
home to the most terrifying nightmares imaginable. There’s fog ghosting over
the grounds, giving it that real creep factor.
There’s not a cop car in sight.
Kate wipes a sheen of sweat off her forehead and runs her bloody fingers
through her short golden hair. She manages to look both soft and feral at the
same time.
Stiles looks away from her and at the black iron gate. His gut tugs low as
warning bells ding in the back of his mind. There’s a whisper of a threat here,
and it’s more then just what the Reyes Twins mean to do (if they haven’t
already done it). He can feel something dark but he can’t name what it is.
Claude shrinks down into his normal size as an orange cat. Then he climbs
Stiles like a tree and settles comfortably on his right shoulder to say (in
Polish), “You feel the disturbance here as well, do you not?”
“I always feel something when I am here,” Stiles replies quietly. Switching
back to English (because he feels like they're being rude to Kate), he says,
“Why? I’m not the shape-shifting feline. Shouldn’t I be asking you what you’re
sensing?” Then he adds, “Get off my shoulder.”
Claude huffs but takes a springing leap onto the ground. “You’ve got the gift,
Stiles. There’s no running from that.”
Stiles glares up at the full moon (spitefully wondering how his uncle would
even know what gifts he has since he's been absent all this time) before he
slowly lowers it to the roof of the building. “We should get inside. It’s too
quiet. What’s the plan?”
“Power’s down,” Kate points out as she cocks her head with narrowed eyes at the
building. “Tell me — what happens when you put prisoners in an electrical
dependent prison?”
Stiles sees where she’s going with this. “I’m guessing that Eichen House also
acts as a holding place for the criminally insane. Which means we’ll be
stepping into some kind of live action horror movie. Yay.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark are you?” Kate says looking at him with a smirk.
“In this town? Was that a real question?” Stiles counters. “Because I have a
list, okay. A list of why it is a good idea to always be suspicious of the
dark.”
“Read it to me later,” Kate replies as she cracks her neck again and her
knuckles. “What does kitty hear?”
“My name is Claude,” grumbles Claude as his tail bristles. “I hear no screams
if that’s what you’re asking. Faint heartbeats. I don’t smell gunpowder.”
“We should enter in through the kitchens. Stick together. Sweep every floor,”
Kate decides. “You want to get to your dad, don’t you?”
Stiles does but he says, “I don’t think he’s in there.”
Kate lifts a finely arched brow at that while his uncle looks at him curiously.
Stiles sighs. “It’s — I have a feeling. A gut feeling, and he mentioned he
might stop by but...he never confirmed it either.”
“It is possible that they might be making rounds in light of the power outage,”
Claude supposes.
“Then what are we doing wasting our time here?” Kate wonders aloud.
“I still —” Stiles pauses and exhales roughly. “We still can’t let Ricky and
Carter walk away with their dad.” Then he adds, “Plus, I sorta — there’s
someone in there that I care about. I need to make sure she’s okay. She matters
to me.”
Kate looks mildly disapproving but she makes no move to comment.
“If your father isn’t here, he’ll be elsewhere,” Claude says. “The hospital
seems a feasible place to start. I can check if you want me to. There’s not
much I can do here but to caution you both to be safe. Those Reyes Twins may
still be on the premises. Don’t let them fool you.”
Stiles starts at that. He’s heard the expression before (from Lydia). “What
does that mean?”
“Werecats are shapeshifters,” Claude explains as he straightens. His tail
swings lazy behind his hind legs. “Not only in nature but in form.”
“Why does it sound like your implying that they’re some kind of chameleon?”
Kate says, intrigued. “I’ve come from a long line of hunters and I’ve never
heard anything like what you’re suggesting.”
“It’s not a well-known thing,” Claude confesses. “It’s their greatest defense
mechanism but also a well-kept secret. I only came by this knowledge when I
arrived in Beacon Hills shortly after my nephew did.”
There’s more to that story. Stiles knows it. He files these questions away,
however, and saves it for later. What he does say is, “Find my dad, please. I
need to know he’s okay, and he should know that I am as well.”
Claude’s ears twitch and he gives a subtle nod before he sprints off into the
fog until he can no longer be seen.
“I don’t trust him,” Kate says as she continues to watch the fog.
Stiles sighs and says, “I know. Me neither. And that says a lot already since
both of us have pretty good instincts when it comes to people...or creatures.”
He shakes his head. “It’s a little too convenient that he happens to get over
his grudge with my mom, or that he happens to know what Kira is and that Ricky
and Carter would come after her. Not to mention him knowing some random not
really well-known fact about Werecats?”
“He’s working for someone,” Kate decides. “The question is: who?”
Stiles can’t say because he doesn’t have a clue, but he’ll need to find out.
Until then, he’ll pretend to be the reluctantly fond nephew.
Keep your enemies close as they say.
“We should enter through the kitchens,” Kate goes on to say. “Like I said
before. We stick together.”
“Yes.”
“This girl you’re looking for,” Kate goes on to say. “She really worth it?”
“Yes,” Stiles replies without thinking twice. “She’s my — her name is Lydia.”
Kate gazes at him for a long moment before she shrugs and says, “Okay then.”
She strides towards the iron gates and shoves them apart. Then she grabs Stiles
by the elbow and drags him to the west wing of the building, all the way to the
back until they reach a pair of steel double doors.
“Not that I’m not impressed,” Stiles says lowly as he watches her drop to her
knees and use a bobby pin to pick the lock. “But how exactly do you know the
layout of this place?”
“Two things,” Kate grunts and she works the bobby pin furiously. “My family is
paranoid as fuck, and we keep an archive of all the blueprints dedicated to
each building in town. And secondly —” She stands and pushes the door open. “My
mom became somewhat a resident here after I was born. I heard she had
postpartum depression or some shit like that. Heard she shoved her own wedding
ring down here throat and choked herself to death in spite of my old man.
That’s a hell of a way to go if you ask me.”
Stiles can’t comprehend the casual way she just offers this intimate
information. He doesn’t know what to say. He just lets her drag him inside as
she materializes a mini flashlight out of what seems like thin air.
Kate is like a walking Swiss Army knife.
“Lydia’s room is on the fourth floor,” Stiles says as they make their way
through the kitchens. He silently notes that there are pots and pans
everywhere, food on the walls, flour all over the floor — obvious signs of a
rampage. “There’s a woman here — Marin Morrell? Maybe you know her. She could
—”
“No,” Kate says as they stride across the cafeteria and to another set of
double doors. “Peter doesn’t trust her. So I don’t trust her by association.”
Stiles doesn’t get it. “But —”
Kate looks at him sharply and presses a hand over his mouth as she quickly
turns off her flashlight.
Not even a moment later, two figures sweep by. They pause outside the cafeteria
door and sniff.
“What is it? You smell something?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell. It’s been so long. They stick us in those rooms
with the scent dampeners to punish us. I smell everything now. It's all too
much.”
“Too much. Everything almost smells sweet.I’m so hungry. I could eat a nurse.”
“Why don’t we then? I think I saw the ugly one go this way.”
The two figures scuttles away with dark chuckles.
Kate waits a little longer before she lowers her hand from his mouth.
“Wendigos,” she notes with a small frown.
Stiles balks. “Why the hell are there Wendigos here?” he hisses.
Kate hums and then smiles meanly at him. “Why don’t you ask your buddy,
Morrell? After all, she runs this facility doesn’t she?”
Stiles doesn’t know. He never gave it a thought to who exactly was in charge.
He didn’t think he hadto. “Wendigos,” he mutters.
“Might be a running theme tonight.” Kate clicks on her flashlight and presses
her small hand between his shoulder blades. “Stay with me, Tenderfoot. Fourth
floor, right? We can’t get to your friend if you waste our time by freaking
out.”
“You suck at comforting,” Stiles says between gritted teeth as his hands shake.
Kate blows out an impatient breath and puts her flashlight in her back pocket.
She takes his hands and squeezes them as she says, “I’m not a nice person. I do
not do nice things. I don’t care much to try. I’d rather be at home right now
binge watching The Vampire Diaries, lusting over Damon and Stefan Salvatore for
two very different reasons, and eating red velvet cake with vanilla cheesecake
frosting while simultaneously texting Laura and Peter terrible dog puns for
them to find the next morning when they’re in their ‘Werewolf hangover’ phase.”
“You watch The Vampire Diaries?”
“Don’t judge.”
“I’m not. I just —” Stiles laughs a little. “Okay. I am. I’m totally judging.
This is what this is. This is me judging you.”
Kate gives him a flat look but the corners of her mouth are twitching. “Don’t
think I wont kidnap you and tie you to a chair and force you to watch it from
the beginning until you convince me you like it too.”
Stiles eyes widen a little in horror at that prospect.
Kate smiles meanly; her teeth are white and pristine. “There now. Feeling
better?”
Stiles jerks at the realization that his panic attack has passed. “How did you
—”
“My brother. My older brother,” Kate explains. “When we were younger, our dad
would take him out on some ‘hunting trips’ and he’d come back all freaked. So I
researched how to — you know what? This isn’t important. You don’t need to hear
about my fucked up childhood. Let’s just do what we came here to do.” She
shoves herself through the double doors and aims her flashlight to the other
end of the hall. “Come on.”
Stiles follows her as they move through the dark and eerily silent hall. When
they reach the end, the reception area is in view, and through the opening of
the u-shaped front desk is a chilling scene.
A male and female Wendigo are tearing into a male nurse with their teeth and
claws and holy godis that a spiked tail?
Stiles makes a silent gagging noise at the unmistakable sight of intestines
(and a kidney) and yanks Kate back into the shadows. “They’re eating him!” he
hisses and he winces as the sound of the male nurse choking on his own blood.
“The door to the stairwell is across the room. How do we edge that way without
being seen?”
Kate clicks off her flashlight as she whispers, “There’s no way. So I’ll
provide the distraction —”
Stiles starts to protest.
“— yes, yes,” Kate continues on, ignoring him. “This ain’t my first rodeo. I’ll
distract them and you go find your little friend London —”
“Lydia.”
“— whatever. Stop interrupting me and take this.” Kate gives him the
flashlight. “You still have that switchblade I gave you?”
Stiles takes a moment to grope himself before he nods when he feels it in his
back pocket.
“Good. Go for the eyes,” Kate instructs as she points towards her own with two
fingers. “It’ll give you an ample chance to run like your ass is on fire. Be
careful. In and out. It’s too risky at this point to try and put a fork in
Ricky and Carter’s plans, so let’s be smart about this.”
Stiles swallows down his uncertainties and nods.
Kate steps away and straightens the line of her shoulder. She cracks her neck
and her knuckles with a sigh before shaking out her hands. Then she puts on a
cocky smirk as she swaggers into view. “Now I’m all for a juicy burger, and
occasionally I indulge in the rarest of steaks now and again, but this? This is
a little much, right?” she says.
The two Wendigos stiffen and their heads pop up as their pupil-less eyes
glimmer like a grey flashbulb. They snarl threateningly, exposing a dangerous
amount of sharp, pointy teeth stained with blood like the rest of their face.
“Oh I’m sorry. Am I interrupting a family meal?” Kate drawls sarcastically. “Is
this date night for you two?”
The two Wendigos climb to their feet and start stalking towards her.
“Go!” Kate shouts at him as she runs to the opposite side of the room where
there’s a set of double doors that lead out to the garden.
The two Wendigos sprint after her without sparing him a glance.
Stiles quickly scrambles to the other set of doors that lead down a short hall
and finally to the stairwell. He sets his foot on the first step and slips with
a mangled swear as his knee makes painful contact with the edge of a step. He
puts his hands out before him to prevent from smashing his face in with the
rest of the steps and gets a slippery grip as the flashlight goes flying with a
loud clatter.
“What the hell?” Stiles pants as he straightens once he regains his balance and
looks at his wet hands. He squints, but it’s so dark he can’t really see what’s
on him. Though once he locates the flashlight, he aims the light at his left
palm to see some kind of clear liquid. “What the hell?” he says again and
sniffs at his hand, wincing at the strong scent of gasoline.
Stiles aims his flashlight at the floor to see a trail of it from the short
hall he’s come from, and he also notes that it’s been poured all over the
steps.
Someone is trying to burn this building down.
“Okay, that’s not good,” Stiles says, concerned. He quickly climbs to his feet
and does his best to make it to the fourth floor. He slips a few times but
there’s no serious injuries (give or take some bruises and scrapes). But the
moment he steps foot on the fourth floor he knows something is off.
The ceiling lights are actually flickering (as is his flashlight) which is
weird because the power is out everywhere else in the building. Not to mention
the fact that every time Stiles exhales his breath fogs into the air and become
visible.
It’s the temperature.
The temperature is off on this floor and it feels like walking inside of an
active meat freezer.
Stiles exhales heavily and carefully makes his way to the end of the hall where
Lydia’s room resides. He keeps a watchful eye out, even when he reaches the
room and pulls the door open.
Lydia is huddled under her blankets, whimpering as the room flutters with
supernatural wind.
The flashlight in Stiles’s hand goes haywire, blinking on and off like it’s
doing Morse code.
Lydia shudders under her blankets as the frame of the bed shakes like it’s
possessed.
“Lydia,” Stiles says, edging towards her. “We should get out of here.”
Lydia moans and whimpers as her shoulders shake.
“We really have to go,” Stiles urges when he reaches her. “Lydia.” He reaches
out to touch her shoulder but a pale hand shoots out from under the bed and
grabs him. He gives a startled cry as he springs back and falls on his butt. He
scrambles with the flickering flashlight and aims it at the bottom of the bed.
Lydia is staring at him with watery eyes and trembling lips. She shakes her
head at him and looks up at the bed shaking over her.
Stiles understands with a small lurch of horror that there’s something else in
the room with them. “Lydia,” he manages as calmly as he can. “You need to come
over to me right now.”
Lydia presses a hand to her mouth and lets out a silent sob as she shakes her
head.
“I know you’re scared,” Stiles says and tries to keep a wary eye on the
mysterious whimpering figure on the bed. “But we have to go. I don’t know how
much longer we have before this place goes up in flames. So please — come to
me.”
Lydia continues to tremble like a leaf caught in the throes of a gusting wind.
"I'm not leaving without you," Stiles promises and even risks looking away from
the creature on her bed to catch her eye. "Never."
Lydia inhales sharply with another sob but she nods, even though her shoulders
are shaking. She darts a nervous glance up at the shuddering bedframe above her
before she looks to him.
Stiles gets on his knees from where he is by the opposite wall and offers her a
hand and what he hopes is a reassuring look. “I’m not leaving without you,” he
swears again and swallows as his heart races. “You can do this.”
Lydia sniffs twice and nods again. Slowly she crawls from under the bed and
towards him.
The covers on the bed fly off the mysterious figure at the same moment the
lights of the room buzz to life and burn almost blindingly bright.
Stiles shades his eyes as Lydia crawls into his arms and hugs his body. He
blinks and blinks and stares in shock at what he sees.
There’s an exact replica of Lydia standing on the bed with a cocked head and a
disturbing smirk.
“Ricky?” Stiles guesses, remembering what his uncle said about Werecats.
Not-Lydia shakes her head slowly.
“Carter?” Stiles guesses again as he climbs to his feet and helps Lydia as
well, who’s shaking like crazy as she buries her tearfully flushed face on the
side of his neck.
Not-Lydia shakes her head again.
“Well, okay then,” Stiles says, voice cracking with fear. “We’re gonna go now
and let you be all creepy and doppelgänger like.”
Not-Lydia cocks her head to the other side with a calm grin.
“So, yeah,” Stiles continues, edging to the door with Lydia in tow. When they
make it, they run like hell. He kind of forgets that the stairs are oiled up
with gasoline, so he slips (and because Lydia has such a tight grip on his
hand, she slips too).
Both of them tuck and roll down the last flight of stairs until they end up on
their backs on the floor with wounded sounds.
Stiles groans as blinding pain explodes at the base of his skull. He squints in
pain before his breath hitches when he notices Not-Lydia lurking at the top of
the stairs with a blank face as the lights flicker overhead. He wiggles onto
his side to get a sight on Lydia and frowns when he notices she’s not moving at
all. “Lydia,” he calls urgently and tries to pick himself up. “Lydia.”
Whistling.
There’s whistling.
Stiles stiffens because that tune — he knows it. It’s the same one he found
himself whistling randomly. The same one Isaac said he heard the night of the
fire.
The whistling draws closer, along with a splashing sound.
Stiles cranes his neck and winces as he glances towards the short, dark
hallway. He hears footsteps, and whistling, and splashing. He turns to look
back at the top of the stairs and his frown deepens when he sees Lydia’s
doppelgänger is gone — the stairwell bathed in shadows again.
The footsteps pause and there is a long dramatic sigh. Followed by, “Con la
luna a est e il sole ad ovest, non posso girare la testa senza vedervi.”
Stiles grunts as a foot nudges his shoulder, forcing him onto his back and he’s
left blinking and squinting up at Carter. He knows it’s Carter because of the
claw marks scarring his mouth.
“This is not where Ricky and I last left you, Stilinski,” Carter notes before
tossing a red gas container off to the side. He flicks open a silver lighter.
“Bad timing once again. This place is getting turned to ash. You’re too late by
the way. My brother and my father are long gone. And with the kind of smoke
this place is sure to get when I light it on fire, I doubt anyone will care
seeing as how they’ll be too busy with trying to put the flames out and keep it
from spreading to the rest of the town.”
“Why?” Stiles says. “Why are you doing this?”
Carter shrugs and then glances sharply towards the steps. It should say
something that he looks concerned. “Time to go,” he decides and tosses the
lighter into the puddle of gasoline. Then he does something really confusing —
he picks Lydia and Stiles up and carries them out of the building. He dumps
them in the street as the flames start crawling out the windows and around the
building.
Dawn is beginning to spread across the horizon in orange and red banners.
"Family is the most important thing, and we must always protect the Pride,"
Carter mutters, like it's a mantra — he says it with the same weight of
importance as Ricky had.
Stiles watches Carter stare at Eichen House with a complicated expression
before he shifts into a massive black panther (the size of a bear) and flees
just as police cars, ambulances, and fire truck sirens ring off in the
distance.
Lydia groans and it distracts Stiles into action. He shuffles over to her
quickly and pulls her into his arms.
Kate appears, drenched in blood (looking dangerous but beautifully wild), right
in the moment Stiles remembers to worry over her whereabouts. “You all right?”
she asks, popping on a new piece of gum (where does she even get this stuff?).
“How’s L'Oréal?”
“Lydia,” Stiles corrects as the police cruisers and fire trucks park all around
them. “I don’t know. We fell down some stairs.”
“Classic.” Kate moves out of the way as some paramedics swarm to Stiles and
Lydia after they eye Kate’s bloody form. She just waves them off and crosses
her arms.
Stiles assures the paramedics that he’s fine as well and urges them to look
after Lydia. He lets Kate pull him to his feet and out of the way. He watches
as they put Lydia on a stretcher.
In the background, firefighters are working furiously to extinguish the flames
but it’s obvious that it’s all in vain.
A wolf howls in the distance.
Stiles shivers with a sense of familiarity at the sound.
                                      ---
Stiles spends the rest of Monday morning at Lydia’s bedside (clothes still
reeking of gasoline) at the hospital where Kate sees him off and mutters
something about needing about six million showers. Lydia has a concussion and
so he’s doing his best to keep her awake by reading her all of the ridiculous,
trashy tabloid articles he can get his hands on.
Lydia doesn’t really respond all that much. She keeps her gaze fixed to the
windows with her knees hugged to her chest.
The town’s power returns some time around noon.
His father finds them maybe an hour later.
Stiles stands and greets him with a relieved hug.
“Hey, hey, I’m okay,” his dad reassures, cupping a hand over the back of his
head. “How about you?”
“Few scrapes and bruises,” Stiles mumbles into his dad’s shoulder and he let’s
himself enjoy the comfort of his dad’s arms before he pulls away. “Nothing
broken.”
His dad nods. “Good.” Then he says, “One day, huh? I ask you to stay out of it
and you manage just one day? Should I ask about why you smell like a gas
station?”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
His dad looks to Lydia (who’s still staring at the windows). “How is she?”
“Got to her in time,” Stiles supposes. “The doctors said she had a concussion.
We fell down the stairs but —” He tries to find the right words. “Dad. He’s
gone. Erica’s dad. He’s gone.”
“I know,” his dad says with a heady sigh. “I put an APB out on him and his
sons.”
Stiles frowns and crosses his arms as he presses his lips together with a
furrowed brow.
“What is it? I know that face. What are you thinking?” his dad says, ducking
his head to catch his gaze.
“I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “I’m conflicted.”
His dad’s eyebrows lift. “About?”
“Something Ricky said to me. He was convinced his dad was innocent and — I
don’t know,” Stiles says with a shrug. “He didn’t kill me last night when he
could’ve. And Carter saved me and Lydia — well I don’t know what you would call
that. It’s all kind of a grey area. But, what am I supposed to think? What if
we were wrong? What if we were intentionally being misled?”
“There’s no mistaking that they were bad people, son,” his dad says. “They’ve
got criminal records. They may not be directly involved but they’re involved
nonetheless. Ines Reyes could have possibly been the key to solving this whole
mess.” He loosens his tie. “I meant what I said the other day. You let me worry
about this, okay?”
Stiles bites the corner of his bottom lip and nods.
His dad claps him on the shoulder with a grateful look before he turns to grab
a chair and drag it over to Lydia’s bedside. He sits with a relieved sigh and
gestures for Stiles to do the same. He says, “Tell me what happened tonight.
The full story.”
Stiles obliges.
His dad’s forehead continually creases as his eyebrows climb higher and higher
as the corners of his mouth and eyes wrinkle with disapproval and exasperation
throughout Stiles’s colorful narration.
“Did you know?” Stiles asks at the end of it all. “About Claude? About mom?”
His dad shakes his head. “Your mother was secretive about a lot of things.
Mutually, though, the family thing — neither of us liked to talk about that.
That is to say, she never talked about hers and I never talked about mine,” he
admits. “She has photo albums if you’re — if that interests you. They’re all in
the basement.”
Stiles nods.
“As for your uncle,” his dad goes on to say. “His reappearance does seem to be
a little too good to be true. Be careful around him.”
“I know,” Stiles says.
A nurse patters around in constant intervals to check in on Lydia and also to
try and convince her to eat. “Please, sweetheart,” she says as places the
orange food tray on Lydia’s lap. “You need to keep up your strength.”
Stiles fingers twitch with an itch and he pauses in what he’s saying to his dad
to address the nurse, “She doesn’t like tuna.”
The nurse blinks at him. “My — mistake. Sorry.”
Stiles stands and snags the cherry jello from off the tray as the nurse halls
it away. “She’ll eat this,” he decides and offers it to Lydia.
“That was the first thing I tried. She won’t eat —”
Lydia takes the jello from Stiles and removes the film on top. She starts to
eat it without another word.
The nurse stares, flummoxed. “Well then,” she says, slightly perturbed. “Maybe
she likes you better then me.”
Stiles shrugs, unfazed.
The nurse exits without another word.
Stiles can feel his dad staring at him. “What?” he asks as he sits back down.
“I wasn’t aware you and Ms. Martin were such close acquaintances,” his dad
merely replies.
Stiles feels his cheeks burn. He’s reminded that he’s keeping some vital
details from his dad, but he can’t spill some of it without having to spill it
all. So he doesn’t, even though he hates lying to his dad. “I — she’s my
friend.”
His dad narrows his eyes. “How’d you know about the jello thing?”
Stiles opens his mouth to reply before he realizes that he didn’t really know.
It was — intuitive. He presses his lips together and tries not to fumble at his
slip up as he shrugs casually.
“Uh huh,” his dad says, skeptical. He leaves it alone however. “We should get
going. Melissa’s at the house now sitting with Scott and Isaac because I asked
her to pick him up from school since I couldn’t, and I don’t want to make her
wait any longer.”
Stiles frowns and glances at Lydia. “But what about —”
“Sheriff Stilinski.” Ms. Morrell is standing in the doorway.
His dad stands. “Ms. Morrell. I’m glad you could make it back into town on such
short notice. I hate that I had to pull you away from your other business. But
seeing as how Lydia is in your custody and has no other family on record for
emergencies like these, well. You understand.”
Ms. Morrell just shakes her head and folds her hands in front of her. “It’s no
trouble at all,” she assures. She glances at Stiles. “Hello, Stiles. Thank you
for looking after Lydia. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Stiles just eyes her with a frown and nods.
“We were just leaving,” his dad says.
“Just a second. I want to say goodbye,” Stiles says.
His dad squeezes his shoulder before aiming another nod to Ms. Morrell as he
slips past her and out the door.
“Can I trust you?” Stiles asks point-blank once they’re alone.
Ms. Morrell lifts a finely arched brow. “Quite the question, Mr. Stilinski. May
I ask what brought it on?”
Stiles stares at her. Then he offers her his hand. “Shake it.”
Ms. Morrell meets his stare dead on.
“Shake it,” Stiles urges.
Ms. Morrell makes no move to touch him. Then she does.
Stiles feels nothing but soft skin of her palm making contact with his own.
Ms. Morrell says, “Are we done?”
Stiles frowns but he doesn’t let go. He’s trying to sense something (anything)
but he has no idea how this all works. “Peter doesn’t trust you.”
“And you trust Peter Hale?” Ms. Morrell scoffs. “There are things you don’t
know about him.”
“There are things I don’t know about you,” Stiles counters cleverly. “Like what
your role is in all this.”
Ms. Morrell squeezes his hand (not painfully) and takes a step closer until
they’re toe to toe. “My duty is to protect Lydia. You can trust that.” She lets
his hand go and moves to take her place at Lydia’s bedside.
Stiles lets the words settle in his mind and he combs over them to an obsessive
degree before he turns to Lydia. He walks over to her and takes her right hand,
pressing her knuckles to his lips.
Lydia does glance at him then. Quietly, she says, “Everyone has it. But no one
can lose it.”
Stiles lowers her hand and opens his mouth to ask what she means.
“Goodbye, Mr. Stilinski,” Ms. Morrell interrupts before he can get a chance.
Stiles shoots her a look but he backs off. “Eichen House was burned to the
ground. What will you do now?”
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” Ms. Morrell calmly replies.
Stiles backs away but pauses at the door. “Those people — the patients. They
weren’t really patients were they? They were something else.”
“What they are, is all over town now,” Ms. Morrell corrects. “That little arson
stunt Carter Reyes pulled saw to that. Now my brother and I, along with your
father and his deputies, have to get to work with rounding them all up before
they can do some real damage.”
Stiles rolls that around in his mind.
“You’re father is waiting for you, Stiles,” Ms. Morrell reminds. “You should go
to him.”
Stiles frowns and turns to leave.
“And by the way,” Ms. Morrell adds. “I’d be careful about putting your trust in
Peter.”
“You made that clear already,” Stiles mutters.
“Yes. I did.” Ms. Morrell adds, “Ask him about Isaac’s family. Ask him about
the night Isaac and his family was almost burned alive.”
Stiles slowly turns to face her.
“Isaac’s told you about the whistling, hasn’t he?” Ms. Morrell goes on to say.
“I can see it in your eyes you know where I’m going with this. If the Reyes
were responsible for the Lahey fire, well. Who do you think pointed them in
that direction? Who do you think was responsible for the Hale fire?”
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Stiles says lowly and swallows. "That
somehow Isaac's family was involved in the fire that killed Peter's family. And
that Peter was vengeful enough to return the favor."
Ms. Morrell shrugs. “The truth can be ugly but it is still the truth.”
Stiles walks away. His mind is reeling and it’s causing a headache to build
between his eyes.
                                      ---
Melissa, Scott, and Isaac are sitting out on the porch steps when Stiles and
his dad roll up into the driveway.
Scott and Isaac ambush him with hugs and hound him with questions as soon as he
steps foot out of his dad’s squad car.
His dad escorts Melissa to her car and they talk about whatever grown up things
they talk about.
Stiles tries to fill Scott and Isaac in as best as he can, while darting
glances over at the Yukimura house as he fidgets anxiously.
“What about your uncle?” Scott questions. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles admits with a sigh. “But I figure, he’ll turn up
whenever he feels compelled. Like always.”
Scott nods.
Isaac frowns.
“Scott, honey,” Melissa calls from across the lawn where she’s parked on the
curb. “Let’s get going. Quiero cocinar y terminar la cena antes de irme a la
casa para el trabajo.”
Scott nods at her before he hugs Stiles again. “Text me. I’m glad you’re okay.
You give me grey hairs, dude.”
“Join the club,” his dad states in good humor as he sweeps by and heads towards
the house.
Stiles rolls his eyes but he smiles reassuringly at Scott.
Scott jogs over to his mom’s car and climbs in before she drives off.
Isaac waits until Melissa’s car has turned the corner at the end of the street
to say, “You left your phone.” He takes Stiles’s hand and slaps the phone onto
his palm.
Stiles grips at it. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Isaac looks upset. “I had to worry about you. I didn’t like
that.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says.
Isaac shakes his head. “You don’t get to leave me behind.”
“Isaac —”
“Listen,” Isaac continues. “We’re family. You matter to me as much as dad does.
I’m not going to sit around, twiddling my thumbs while you and dad go toe to
toe with the bad guys. I can’t lose —” He pauses and flexes his fingers. “You
two are all I have now.”
The words punch into Stiles’s heart like a freight train.
Isaac backs away and grabs his bike, climbing it and peddling away quickly.
Stiles watches him disappear down the street as those two military planes pass
overheard with a sonic boom. He inhales and then exhales slowly as he makes his
way to the house. He reaches the steps and pauses before he decides to take a
hard left and start towards the Yukimura house.
Mr. Yukimura is the one to answer when Stiles rings the doorbell. He says, “You
must be Stiles. Kira’s told me so much about you.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Is she — is she home? Is she okay?”
Mr. Yukimura looks a little glum. “She’s fine. Exhausted. But fine.” Then he
steps outside and closes the door softly behind him. He says, “I want to say
thank you. You risked your life for my daughter and that is a debt I fear I’ll
never be able to repay.”
“Kira is my friend,” Stiles says.
Mr. Yukimura smiles sadly. “I know. She needs that,” he supposes. “But she’s
upset right now, and it’s going to take some time for her to really accept
everything. I’m sorry to say that she’s asked me to send you away.”
“Oh.” Stiles swallows down his hurt. “Okay. I — yeah, no. I understand. I’d be
mad at me too.”
“Just give her some time,” Mr. Yukimura says before he returns inside.
Stiles scrubs his hands over his face before he makes his way to his own house.
He feels so heavy as he drags himself into the upstairs bathroom, taking care
to strip down to climb into the shower. He stays under the hot spray of water
for a long time until he’s pink and flushed. It’s not until the water threatens
to get cold does he pick up the black soap and uses it to scrub himself clean.
He climbs out of the shower, and picks up the trail of clothes he left (along
with his phone) and tucks away in his room. He turns his phone off and puts it
on the charger by his nightstand before he slips on some boxers.
Exhaustion crashes into him and he collapses on his bed over his covers without
a thought and he’s out like a light in the next moment.
He wakes up on his back staring up at a silver sky with a bright lavender sun.
The muscles in his body feel relaxed, and the grass underneath him feels as
soft as a bed of feathers. He sits up slowly and realizes that he’s in field of
glittering flowers (and they’re humming). There are pieces of cotton floating
everywhere, along with fireflies and gold-red butterflies. There are bumblebees
hopping from tulip to rose as a mixture of many-colored birds twirl high in the
silver sky like they have no plans to ever land and go on merrily singing to
each other.
There are children running in the fields with sparkling frocks made of
different flower petals. They have lovely rosy red cheeks, glimmering eyes, and
short curly hair with pointed ears. They’re being chased by elderly people with
long translucent wings the color of a soap bubble caught in a ray of sunlight
and these elders are holding flutes and harps as baby antelopes, deer, and
lambs trail behind them as though they’re enamored.
There are many-colored elephants lazing around, thinking nothing of the
chimpanzees that climb all over them as they playfully chase a pack of bear
cubs. There are more sheep and lambs frolicking in the fields with the smallest
of children, who are eating slices of apricot.
Even the wind carries a tune to it as it caresses his skin gently. He sits up
and watches all the beautiful people sweep and run through the fields, picking
flowers, singing songs, while others eat on fruits like plums and cherries and
grapes (sometimes even feeding each other) or dote over their animal
companions.
Stiles swallows as tears build up in the corner of his eyes, not from sadness,
but from a joy he’s never ever felt before because for some reason this feels
like — like home. His body vibrates in ecstasy and his heart sings as his mind
clings and cleaves to the truth: this is home.
Stiles climbs to his feet and faces a tall, stately woman in the loveliest
robes of champagne gold. Her eyes burn like golden embers and her cherry red
hair (which reaches to her waist) is interwoven with all kinds of runestones
and beads and flowers. Her pointed ears are pierced with different bands of
sliver. Her smile pierces his stomach and makes his knees tremble.
“Welcome to Faerie,” she says in a voice so clear and lovely like the tinkling
of bells. “I am the Lady of the Garden.”
Stiles feels his legs give out on him and he falls to his hands and knees
before her.
The Lady of the Garden lowers herself to his level. “You need not be afraid,”
she goes on to say, touching his cheek with a soft hand. “We are your people.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Stiles admits softly, trembling like a leaf.
“Why am I here?”
“Who can say? Perhaps it was your soul that cried out for us. When the spirit
thirsts, what water in the World of Man can quench it?”
“What?” Stiles says and tries to make sense of everything.
The Lady of the Garden bends forward and kisses his forehead. When she pulls
away, his face is burning. “While you slumber, your mind wandered to us, as it
once did in times past. Though I doubt you remember since you were just a babe
then — not even yet nine months away from us before Fate sent you to your
mother's womb. I even held you in my arms during those moments. Your smile was
breathtaking.”
Stiles watches as she pulls a loaf of sweet bread out from the folds of her
sleeves and offers it to him. He accepts it and takes a bite. It’s unlike
anything he’s ever tasted. His tongue trembles and tears spill over his cheeks.
The Lady of the Garden takes his right hand and strokes it soothingly.
Stiles sniffs and says, “I don’t know what I’m meant to do. Everyone depends on
me — well, I mean, that’s what it feels like. They want so much from me and I
don’t know what I’m supposed to give. It’s like they know and I don’t. I want
to know who and what I am.”
“Eat your bread,” the Lady of the Garden says and pulls him closer until their
sides are flushed. “I will tell you what you are. You are energy. Pure energy.
And everything around you flows on a current that is attracted to you.”
“I’m a magnet,” Stiles mumbles between bites. He tries to feel sourly about it
but the taste of the sweet bread makes it impossible to feel anything other
than good vibes.
“You are Faerie kind. We are the Keepers of the balance between famine and
feasts,” the Lady of the Garden explains. “There are those of us who dance at
funerals, and there are those of us who give the gift of life wrapped in the
gold paper of wisdom and acceptance. You don’t have to try to know who you are,
you simply must be. Use your night dreams as sources of communication with us,
and when you wake, hold your respect for plants and animals as teaching
spirits. They commune so often with the Faceless.”
“Who are the Faceless?” Stiles asks and thinks nothing of when a small lamb
treks over and eats the rest of his sweet bread from his hand before curling
onto his lap.
“The Great Gardeners. They take on dozens of forms from the Sun and the Moon to
the Sea and the Mountains. They are anything and everything, but not —” the
Lady of the Garden pauses as the sounds of trumpets ring in the distance.
“What’s that?” Stiles asks as the lamb scrambles away and runs off.
“Time for you to return,” the Lady of the Garden says as she stands and helps
him to his feet as well. She removes a runestone from her hair. “I do not know
when you should visit us again, but here is my advice to you. Make a garden for
yourself using stones and water and prayers. This garden will give you the
answers you need. Find yourself a Conduit. Close your eyes.”
Stiles has more questions but he does as she asks. He feels her lips touch his
forehead and she murmurs a sacred prayer (“May the Sun and the Moon fight for
your affection.”) before she slips the runestone in his palm.
Then there is nothing but darkness.
Stiles eyes snaps open in the next moment and he’s staring up at his own
ceiling. His right hand twitches around something and he looks down and sees
the runestonefrom his dreams.He swallows and picks himself up before he
rummages through his dressers for some clothes. The dream starts slipping from
his memory like sand until he can hardly remember much of anything.
He slips on some pajama bottoms and a cotton t-shirt before he makes his way
out of his room with bare feet. He pauses in front Isaac’s door (takes note of
the missing doorknob) and peers inside to find it empty. He frowns and moves to
look in his dad’s room. He finds it empty too.
Stiles sighs and continues to the stairs, down them, and into the kitchen to
find a note from his dad on the magnetized whiteboard stuck to the fridge that
reads: Working late. Made dinner w/leftovers in the oven. Isaac is staying at
Boyd’s. Pick him up from school tomorrow, please. Let me know if you’re not up
to going to school so I can call it in. Text me if you leave the house at any
point for anything. Love you.
Stiles uses his fingers to erase the message and draws a spilled bucket of
popcorn before he moves on to the basement. He flicks on the light and jogs
down the steps, ignoring the smell of dust and cardboard. He carefully
maneuvers around his mother’s piano to the box in the corner labeled ‘Misc.
Memories’. He sits down and pulls out a maroon colored album with his mother’s
name scribbled across it.
The first few pages are full of old baby and toddler photos of his mother and
her twin brother. The resemblance is uncanny. The only difference (outside of
gender) is that Claude is always smiling, no matter what, but his mother isn’t.
Sure, she starts off smiling sometime into infancy, all the way up to age six
(gap-toothed and all) and until the age of eleven, his mom and Claude appear to
be inseparable. But sometime around the age of twelve something changes. She
just stops smiling and Claude is nowhere to be seen.
The last photo of the album is of his mother sitting under the shade of an oak
tree. She’s wearing blue jean overalls and a white bucket hat. She’s thirteen
and she’s staring into the camera blankly with deep purple bags under her eyes,
and in her lap is an orange kitten and somehow Stiles just knows. The kitten in
her lap is her brother, and Stiles may not yet know why, but she had something
to do with his unusual transformation.
He closes the album and reaches in for another one.
This time it’s his mother from the age of fourteen to eighteen. He notes that
eventually her eyes get lighter again, and her smile returns — but his uncle
Claude makes less and less of an appearance (even as a feline), until finally
he disappears altogether. But in his place there’s another, an older woman.
She’s tall and lean with strawberry blonde hair and kind green eyes. She looks
just like his Grandma Lynette and he’d always kind of known that she had a twin
sister but supposedly they weren’t on speaking terms for whatever reason. His
mom never mentioned her and he doesn’t ever remember seeing her come around.
Stiles idly wonders if she’s Lydia’s grandmother — if this is what links him
and Lydia as cousins (as family). He rubs his thumb across the seam of his
bottom lip before he yanks the photo free and pockets it. He’s not sure what he
means to do with it.
Stiles tucks the albums away and his fingers bump painfully into the edge of a
photo frame. He hisses and wrenches his fingers away to shake off the ache
before he reaches in again to pull out the chilly metal frame.
It’s a framed photo of him and his mom (he’s about six at the time) — one of
the last they took together. They’re in the kitchen, covered in flour and
chocolate frosting with matching blue aprons: his mother has her hands cupped
over his small shoulders as he does a horrid job of spelling his dad’s name out
over a rather burnt and lopsided cake.
Stiles smiles with watery eyes. He remembers this. His mother had tried to make
a cake from scratch for his dad’s birthday and Stiles had insisted on helping.
Only he wasn’t much help at all. He’d been this bundle of twitchy energy, on
the side of tooenthusiastic, not to mention clumsy.
But his mom — she hadn’t cared. She never cared. She just indulged him and
smiled at everything he did as earnestly as he could like she thought he was
perfect.
Stiles sniffs as tears spill over his cheeks and he carries the photo up to his
room to places it on his nightstand right next to his digital clock. Then he
scrubs his face dry using one of Derek’s stuffed wolves before exhaling
shakily.
Sometimes he misses her so much.
Stiles drops the wolf onto his bed and turns on his phone. He’s got a lot of
missed calls and texts (but none of them are from Peter or Derek or Cora or
Laura). He sends out a group message to Allison, Jackson, Boyd, and Malia to
fill them in on everything that happened last night. Each of them replies with
more questions and he tries to field them as best as he can (while also
reassuring them that Lydia is in good health). Though most of their questions
have to do with why exactly his uncle is a cat.
Stiles would like to know that himself.
He spends the rest of the night in a quiet and dark house holed up in his room
at his work desk, researching things about Faeries, Kitsunes, Doppelgängers,
and Druids (on both his tablet and his laptop).
“Should you not be in bed? Children your age have times when they have to go to
bed.”
Stiles jumps and almost chucks his tablet at his uncle (who’s curled up on his
window sill). “I closed that window,” he grumbles sourly in the same dialect.
“I opened it,” Claude counters (in Polish) as he turns up his nose and
stretches. “Did you hear what I said before?”
“I don’t have a bedtime. That’s so third grade,” Stiles says as he sets his
tablet down beside his laptop, thinking carefully about how he wants to play
this. He goes for casual. “I heard you met my dad. He didn’t freak like I did,
did he?”
“No. He just looked at me and said, ‘Huh’ and then moved on,” Claude admits
like he’s still perplexed by it. If he’s pretending at being earnest then he’s
a real good actor. “I have a feeling he doesn’t like me, though.”
“You did tell my mom to drop dead some odd years ago. Pretty reasonable
reaction considering,” Stiles reminds him with a frown as he switches back to
English. “I’mnot even sure if I like you.”
Claude huffs and jumps down onto the floor before jumping up on the edge of
Stiles’s bed. He curls his tail around his feet. “Your bed reeks of the Hale
boy,” he points out but it also sounds like a prying question.
“Is there a point to this visit?” Stiles replies instead.
Claude mumbles something before he sighs and says, “You’re supposed to plant
it.”
“Plant what?”
“The runestone. Thatparticular type of runestone,” Claude clarifies as he
glances to said stone (which is sitting on the edge of Stiles’s desk) with
curious yellow eyes.
Stiles grabs it and turns it over in his hands. It’s opaque colored and smooth
with a long-stemmed ‘F’ with a crooked top and an open ‘O’. Obviously this is
important and his uncle is trying to achieve something here. He says, “How do
you know that?”
“I have my sources,” Claude supposes vaguely. “I think your mother had one too
when we were younger. She planted it and it later became a tree she would talk
to constantly.” He sounds a little annoyed and jealous. “It also had the same
symbol. I think I remember her telling me that it represents strength, growth,
fertility, magic, etc. Our Aunt Lorraine would have been the one to give it to
her. Can’t say where shegot it from though.”
“So you’re saying I should take this —” Stiles holds up the runestone. “— and
put it in the ground.”
“I don’t think I’m fond of that skeptical tone of yours,” Claude drawls as he
straightens and begins a lazy walk to Stiles’s open window. “It’s made of bone,
you know. And magic. So. Bone-magic.” He jumps up onto the windowsill. “Let’s
go prove how right I am.” Then he’s gone.
Stiles frowns after him and then stares at the runestone before he makes his
way out of his room, down the steps and out the back door.
Claude is pouncing around, most likely hunting for the perfect spot.
But Stiles has already made up his mind. He glances at the Yukimura house
before quickly looking away before his mind can wander. He turns so he’s facing
his bedroom window. He shapes his hands into a frame and aims it at his window
and then the ground and then his window and then the ground again. Then six
more times before he backs up three steps and drops to his knees, using his
hands to dig a hole.
“Why do you use your hands in such an uncivilized way?” Claude complains (in
Polish). "Aren't I the animal between us?"
“You don't have to understand,” Stiles replies, not as annoyed with his uncle
as he could be. It's the feel of damp, cool soil on his hands that keeps him at
peace — complacent almost. “I want to plant it here.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Claude sighs and moves to perch on the edge of the trampoline.
Stiles ignores him in favor of digging a hole as deep as he can before he drops
the runestone in and covers it up. He doesn’t honestly think anything will
happen (he’s merely humoring Claude). He stares at the spot for a long time
before he says, “Now what?”
“Well, if memory serves correctly,” Claude drawls, stroking the tip of his tail
under his chin. “Your mother put her hands over the dirt after she was done and
closed her eyes. Maybe she was praying to the stone. Telling it what she needed
it to do. Try that.”
Stiles huffs. “You make it sound like it’s so easy. She was a Witch with magic.
I'm just a...” He's not even sure.
“You’re a Virtue," Claude assures, filling in the silence. "Anything is
possible for you.”
“One day,” Stiles grumbles as he puts his hands over the fresh small mound of
dirt. “One day someone is going to explain to me what that really means.”
Claude shushes him. “Concentrate.”
Stiles rolls his eyes but closes them as he exhales. He waits and waits. Then
he says, “Nothing’s happening.”
“You’re not really trying.”
“That’s very true,” Stiles admits as he resists the urge to open his eyes.
“This seems really ridiculous. How am I going to make a stone — oh, excuse me —
a piece of bonesprout into a tree?”
“Faith.”
Stiles makes a dying sound. “This is so corny. If faith was that powerful, I
would have had the ability to fly yearsago.”
“Stiles, please,” Claude begs and the desperation in his voice sounds genuine.
So he isafter something.
Stiles’s frown deepens.
Claude says, “Just try. Once. That’s all I’m asking.”
Stiles sighs heavily and says, “Fine."
"Good. Then do I have your permission to see?"
Now Stiles is really confused. "See what?"
"Your tree."
"Yes, I mean, I guess. Look, this is just crazy as is. But I don’t know what
I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Pray to it. Prayer is about respect — given and received. Tell it what you
need.”
Stiles needs a tree.
A tree he can climb and settle on like the shoulder of an older relative. A
tree he can find shade in during the summer when it gets too hot to be inside
of the house (which it surely will because his dad doesn’t believe in air
conditioners). A tree that grows peaches and apples because he likes those
best. A tree with leaves that could change color depending on his mood. Like a
mood ring.
Mood tree.
Yeah. That’d be pretty cool.
He wonders if his mother’s tree was anything like that. He’d like to have a
tree like she had. Maybe it’s him reaching desperately for some kind of
connection but —
Stiles stiffens as the palms of his hands grow warmer and warmer. He opens his
eyes as his fingers twitch against the soil while yellow and gold fireflies
litter his backyard and—
What?
Stiles whips his gaze around to see dozens upon dozens of fireflies swarming
the air all around him as his hands grow hot like they’re burning with a fever.
Claude’s nose twitches as he tracks the fireflies movements curiously but with
a strange look of selfish satisfaction.
Stiles opens his mouth to question him but the soil under his heated hands
vibrate with a pulse (like a rapid heartbeat) and his ears twitch with the
sound of whispers. They come from everywhere and it becomes all he can focus on
until he realizes that it’s the fireflies.
The fireflies are whispering.
Stiles stumbles back as the ground shakes and suddenly, before he can even
blink, it cracks open with a beam of light before there is nothing but smoke.
When the puff of smoke settles, and the light extinguishes, a wide, fully grown
camperdown elm tree sprouts out of the ground.
Poof. Just like that.
Just like magic.
This tree has a fat trunk and even fatter branches with purple-blue leaves and
a lush mixture of peaches and apples. He steps a little closer and notices
there’s a big triquetra carved into the lower middle of the trunk almost like a
face. He reaches out and touches his fingers to it and it vibrates with warm
energy.
“You’ve got the magic touch.”
Stiles yelps and wrenches his hand away before falling back on his butt with a
grunt.
The face of an old woman takes shape in the triquetra. She looks exactly like
the lady in the tree in Pocahontas. 
What. The. Hell.
Stiles would find it hilarious if he weren’t so busying staring with a wide-
eyed look of confusion and exasperation. “My magical tree is talking to me.”
“This magical tree has a name, silly child,” the lady in the tree harrumphs.
“Child? No, no I’m definitely older than you,” Stiles points out as he stands
and brushes the grass off of himself, which doesn’t do much but smudge dirt
into his pajama since he dug a hole in the soil with his bare hands and whyis
he arguing with a tree. He’s delirious. Obviously. He keeps going anyway, “I
literally just planted you a second ago so you’re what? Not even a minute old.”
“Kids these days,” she bemoans as she shares a conspiratorial look with a
highly amused Claude. “They think the concept of time and age holds precedence
in matters of magic.” She turns her gaze back onto an indignantly bewildered
Stiles. “I’ll have you know, tiny fae, that I happen to be one of the oldest
woodland spirits on Earth and you should be so lucky to have me. Why, I’m over
six thousand years old! You’re fifteen! Just a wink in my eyes. You should
appreciate the fact that I came when you called. And in such a town as this!
Lots of bad energy here, yes, a lot indeed. But you and I will fix this. We
most certainly will —”
“Uh…”
“— though you don’t have much of a garden to begin with. We’ll fix that too.
We’ll work on that first! You’ll need to draw in some friends. Oh, I do so love
the little animals. Chipmunks to be exact. But we have to draw them here. We
have to make this holy ground. Plants some nice daisies and posies. And as for
my name, you may call me Nana. I think I’d like to be your grandmother.”
“Uh…”
“Now, sit. Sit. We have so much to talk about. You have questions and I have
answers,” Nana supposes. “We should — hold on. What time is it?”
“Midnight, I think,” Stiles faintly replies.
“Oh goodness me! Don’t sit! Stand! Stand! Well this wont do at all. You have
school in the morning,” Nana exclaims. “Off to bed.”
“What? But you said that — and anyway how do you know I have school?” Stiles
asks, swatting a firefly away from his nose.
“Do be careful!” Nana chastises as the firefly hovers near her left cheek.
“Terribly sorry, Alferradawn. You must excuse my young ward. He’s spent way too
much time with these brute Humans. He’s no idea about his impact on nature.
He’s just now starting to dabble in forest magic —”
“Forest magic?” Stiles croaks.
“— Faerie kind are usually so considerate,” Nana continues, completely ignoring
him in favor of talking to a fireflynamed Alferradawn. “Why I remember about
seven hundred years ago when my spirit took up residence in a willow tree on
the edge of this lovely little pond at the behest of a Virtue of Humility, and
she was so sweet. Nasty temper at times but overwhelming modest.”
Stiles clears his throat really loudly.
Nana sighs. “Give me a moment, Alferradawn. I have to send this one to bed.”
She aims her attention at Stiles. “I know everything there is to know about
you, my dear. We’ve touched energies. We’re bonded through the magic of nature.
I’ll explain more once I gathered my strength. It might take a little while
since I’m about a hundred and fifty years out of practice, so be patient with
me. Now run along, dearie. I need my rest as well.”
Stiles watches Nana’s face disappear and the big triquetra takes her place. His
fingers twitch and when he looks down, he notices that his hands are no longer
burning.
A gush of wind sweeps by and the fireflies scatter as though they’re no longer
interested in watching the current developments.
Stiles looks up and gazes thoughtfully at the full moon sitting fat and heavy
like a grey egg in the night sky. Then he turns and heads in the house,
unsurprised to find that his uncle has beaten him to his room.
“Are you having a meltdown?” Claude questions (in Polish).
“Please stop talking to me.”
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Claude supposes as he tracks Stiles’s
movements.
Stiles is attempting to look for a clean set of pajamas. He replies, “Do we?
Because there was a moment when you made it sound like you’ve been watching me
this whole time my dad and I have been living here. What else could I tell you
that you don’t already know?”
“You’re upset with me,” Claude realizes (switching back to English), but he
doesn’t seem particularly concerned.
Stiles slams his drawer shut and exhales quietly. “I’m frustrated because no
one is giving me any answers about anything.” He turns to face his uncle. “I’m
just — frustrated.”
“It’ll all make sense soon,” Claude promises.
“I still can’t figure out why after all this time you decided to make an
appearance in my life,” Stiles questions boldly and it’s unnerving how steady
Claude’s yellow eyes remain as if he has no remorse over the situation.
“There’s so much that doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” Claude’s nose twitches. “Just trust me. Things will work out the way
they’re supposed to.”
Stiles isn’t comforted.
“Okay,” Claude says. “Get some sleep.”
Stiles watches his uncle disappear out the window. His mind starts swimming
with questions, but all he does is head to the bathroom to take a shower so he
can climb into bed and try not to wonder about any of it at all.
                                      ---
Stiles can barely pay attention at school the next day. It’s only made worse by
the fact that it’s Tuesday. He’s never cared much for Tuesdays.
He spends most of his class periods in a seat by the window so he can watch
ligtening splash across the sky in like white veins among the grey clouds as
his teachers drone on and on in the background.
It’s been thundering all day (but it's not strong enough to be considered a
storm yet).
Stiles doesn’t catch sight of Kira (though its not surprising that she would
miss out on school after the ordeal she’s been through). But it makes him
anxious. He’s afraid that he’ll lose her as a friend because of all the secrets
he’s been keeping. She’s no doubt piecing it all together.
He builds up an apologetic speech in his mind, organizes it, memorizes it, and
acts it out over and over in his head as he shoots her a few texts that read:
Can we talk? I’m sorry. I want to explain.
Kira never responds back (unsurprisingly).
Stiles sighs and puts all his books away as he heads to lunch. He doesn’t feel
much in the mood for eating but he still carries his tray over to the table
Kate’s commandeered in the school’s cafeteria.
Kate steals his jello like she always does and says, “What’s eating you? You
look all —” She makes a circular gesture with her hand. “— frowny.”
Stiles shrugs. “I’m tired, I guess. Maybe slightly stressed as well.” He waits
a moment before he adds, “Where is everyone?”
“Full moon lasts for three days, so…” Kate takes a moment to shove a spoonful
of jello in her mouth. “Started Sunday night, and tonight make’s three. We
might see them tomorrow but they usually take a week off of school to recover
every month anyway.”
“Yeah, I always thought that was weird,” Stiles remarks, and he had, way back
when he was still completely clueless about their furry alter egos. “I think
Kira hates me.”
Kate snorts around a spoonful of jello. “You freshmen. Always so dramatic.” She
waves her spoon around aggressively as she adds, “Listen, that girl couldn’t be
anymore in love with you even if Cupid shot her in the ass with a bazooka.”
“What?”
“Kira’s. In. Love. With. You,” Kate states, looking at him like he’s six years
old.
“What?” Stiles chokes.
“Well maybe loveis a strong word,” Kate supposes, but mostly to herself, though
there’s no doubt she’s taking great amusement in the way Stiles’s face burns
hotly as he splutters. “Let’s call it your atypical crush. She’s super sweet on
you. How could you not know?”
Stiles drops his forehead to the table with a loud thud and a groan as he
curses his own ignorance.
Kate snickers evilly. “Holy shit. You really didn’t know.” She laughs a little
more. “I always thought Peter was exaggerating.”
Stiles frowns at the mention of Peter’s name. He’s unkindly reminded of the
unpleasant conversation he had with Ms. Morrell and her accusations.
“You certainly understand now,” Kate goes on to say. “So, yeah. She doesn’t
hate you. Probably pissed. But not hating you.” Then she adds, “I’ll eat your
sandwich if you wont.”
Stiles straightens when his face has resumed its normal color and he pushes his
tray towards her. “I don’t understand how you never buy yourself food. I think
we both know you can afford it.”
Kate shrugs with a smirk. “Other people’s food always taste better.”
Stiles just raises an eyebrow as his pocket vibrates. He fishes for his phone
and answers it when he sees it’s his dad. “Dad, what —”
“Son, I understand that my presence at home has been scarce,” his dad
interjects with an eerily calm tone. “But I’m sure I would have remembered a
tree growing in our backyard— you want to shed a little light on that?”
Stiles flounders for a moment. It’s completely slipped his mind that he’d have
to explain the appearance of a full-grown tree to his dad. “Uh, well — you see
— the thing is — that — um.” He scrambles for something to say. “Remember the
story of Jack and the Beanstalk and the mother was like, ‘Oh no, we’re
starving’ and Jack was like, ‘Poverty sucks’ and then the mom decides to sell
the cow — which to be honest, I never got because if they were so hungry why
didn’t they eat the cow or make a market out of the milk? Like there’s a boat
load of burgers and steaks and cheese and yogurt and everything and they want
to sell the cow — although maybe I’m not remembering it correctly because it
could be that they weren’t hungry and they —”
“Stiles…” His dad sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.
“The point is,” Stiles quickly says. “Reject the beans. Eat the cow. Okay bye
there goes the bell talk to you later!” He quickly puts his phone back on
vibrate.
Kate wipes at the corners of her mouth with her fingers as she looks at him.
“Don’t say it,” Stiles pleads and drops his forehead to the table again. “I
panicked.”
“The other night we went toe to toe with all manner of vicious creatures and
you can’t fess up to your dad about a tree?”
“I said don’t say it!” Stiles complains before slamming his eyes shut with a
groan.
Kate snickers. “You’re such a hot mess.” Then, “Come help me pass out these
flyers for Laura. She’ll know if we haven’t done it.”
Stiles lifts his head and shoots her a narrowed eyed look. “Now who’s scared?”
“I know when to pick my battles,” Kate says with a shrug as she stands. “I’d
rather wrestle a Wendigo ass-naked and lubed up with vegetable oil then subject
myself to Laura’s neurotic campaign nagging.”
Stiles accepts the plastic container full of white pens that have (oddly
enough) Laura’s face plastered on them above the words ‘Vote for Laura’. “Where
does she get this stuff?” he wonders aloud. "And why does she always look down
in these pictures?"
“It’s Laura,” Kate merely says. "And Werewolves and cameras don't really mix.
Ask them about it sometime. They'll explain it better than me." She swaggers
away and corners a freshman. “Hey, you. Virgin!”
“I’m not a virgin!” the freshman squeaks, appalled.
Kate snorts as she marches toward him. “Oh, honey. Give me a break. With that
haircut and those shoes? Virgin. You gonna vote for Laura or what?”
The freshman looks equally offended and nervous.
Stiles does not envy him at all. He smiles at a group of girls sitting at a
table. “Vote for Laura,” he says and starts handing out pens.
They giggle amongst themselves and shoot him these moony-eyed looks.
Stiles pretends not to notice (because now he’s starting to catch on and it’s
just weird to have to accept that maybe he might be a great deal more
attractive then he thinks).
His phone vibrates wildly in his pocket as he makes his rounds throughout the
cafeteria (but he pretends not to notice that too).
His dad is going to strangle him.
                                      ---
“You still mad at me?” is the first thing Stiles asks as he rolls up to the
curb where Isaac and Boyd are conversing quietly over some small matter.
Isaac pauses in what he’s saying to Boyd to address Stiles with a, “I’m over
it.”
“You don’t sound over it,” Stiles points out as he leans forward on the
handlebars of his bike.
Isaac shrugs. Then he says, “Dad keeps texting me about a tree. That make any
sense to you?”
Stiles straightens and flushes. “Long, long, longstory,” he swears. “How was
school?”
“Fine. You’re deflecting,” Isaac says knowingly. He turns to Boyd and does this
elaborate handshake that Stiles is notjealous of at all. “See you later.”
“Text me,” Boyd replies with a nod. “Think about what I said.”
Isaac shakes his head and grabs his bike before peddling off.
Stiles follows after him. “What was that about?” he asks when he can’t stave
off his curiosity.
Isaac huffs like he’s not even surprised. “Got invited to a party.” Then he
says, “No. Actually Boyd got invited to a party by some rich kids who live in
his neighborhood in Prairie Hills and he invited me.”
“You should go,” Stiles urges.
Isaac shoots him a look and slows down a little. “People aren’t really my
thing.” He picks up speed so he can circle around Stiles like a shark.
“Besides, all they’d do is stare at me and my scars and whisper things they
think I can’t hear.”
“Then don’t go,” Stiles decides, fingers white-knuckling over the handles of
his bike. He swallows down some anger. “When you say that they're whispering —”
“Forget it. It’s nothing,” Isaac mutters as he circles Stiles again. “Boyd will
accuse me of being a hermit if I don’t go.”
“It’s up to you. I could come too,” Stiles offers.
Isaac snorts. “Oh yeah. Let me bring my cool older brother. That’ll win me
popularity points,” he drawls.
Stiles gives his best offended look (even though he’s secretly amused). “I
can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not. Is this because of me? Am I really
that much of a bad influence?” Then he adds, “My uncle —”
“The cat,” Isaac clarifies unhelpfully as he peddles beside Stiles.
“My uncle,” Stiles continues pointedly. “Mentioned something about how a
Werecat’s greatest defense mechanism is to do the whole chameleon thing. Though
I wonder if he meant with animals or like Raven in X-Men because that would be
so cool —”
“You have to kill them first,” Isaac interjects. “Animal. Man. Doesn’t matter.
Someone or something has to die first. That’s the only way it can be done.
That’s the price you have to pay — the blood price. My dad and my older
brothers would —” He gets a little pale at his slip up. Then he dashes off,
peddling with inhuman speed.
Stiles is struck with an alarming realization, and he’s forced to play catch up
until he actually manages when they both make it to the house.
Isaac throws down his bike and runs up the steps, into the house, nearly
crashing into their dad as he makes his way out.
His dad looks confused for a second as Isaac scrambles inside but then his face
turns severe as he catches Stiles by the arm at the top of the porch steps when
Stiles attempts to follow after him. “Oh, no, no, no,” his dad says. “You and
I? Talking. Now. Explain the tree.”
“Did you know Werecats could duplicate the things they kill?” Stiles says
instead because, at the moment, it’s the most important issue.
“No. What —”
“Dad, I need you to listen to me,” Stiles urges and he’s relieved when his dad
shuts his mouth. “Bank accounts.”
His dad stares at him.
“The murders? The victims. Yeah, you need to check their bank accounts like
right away. Find the timestamps for any withdrawals or transfers. Put it
alongside their time deaths, which need to be verified again since Ines Reyes
was the one to do the last coroner’s report. Can you get ahold of Deaton to do
that, you think?”
His dad just nods.
“Okay, good. If my hunch is right, you’ll find what you need to put this case
to rest, and dad I swear —” Stiles holds up his hands when it looks like his
dad is going to start firing questions. “— I swear I’ll tell you everything and
anything you want to know. Everything.”
His dad gives him a measuring look. He points a finger at Stiles and says,
“Everything.”
Stiles nods agreeably.
His dad looks partially unsatisfied as he grabs at the radio mic clipped to his
shoulder and says, “This is Sheriff Stilinski. I need all the bank records
linked to case number 4226-9.”
Stiles steps out of the way and watches his dad stride towards his cruiser as
he continues with his demands. He waits until his dad drives off before he
glances briefly at the Yukimura house and then quickly away. He enters the
house and goes in search of his brother.
Isaac is curled up on his bed with his back facing the door and it looks like
he’s trying to make himself small.
Stiles grips the doorframe and opens his mouth to say something.
“Don’t,” Isaac says hoarsely, even though his back is to Stiles. He somehow
just knows. “Please don’t ask me about it. About them.”
Stiles’s breath hitches when Isaac turns his head to look at him from over his
shoulder with watery eyes.
Isaac looks so broken and when he turns away, he starts sobbing quietly.
Stiles feels a swell of rage burst between the teeth of his ribcage and he
fishes for his phone out of his pocket as he throws his book bag into his room
before stomping down the steps. He dials out and slams the door behind.
“What do you want, buttercup?”
“I need you to come to my house and keep an eye on my brother. I have something
I need to do,” Stiles grits out between clenched teeth as his fingers twitch.
“Sorry. Not sorry. I don’t do babysitting,” Kate drawls. “Kinda getting a
pedicure right now anyway, so —”
“I’ll owe you,” Stiles swears. “Please.”
Kate gives a significant pause on the other end. “You do realize that I know
what you are.”
“I don’t care.”
“Which is both incredibly stupid and noble.” Kate inhales and exhales loudly.
“Okay. I’ll hold you to this debt. I’ll be there in five. My feet are a mess, I
hope you know.”
“Thank you,” Stiles says and marches towards his bike. “I really appreciate —”
“Yawn. Bored now. Don’t think because I was in the middle of a pedicure that
I’m some sort of gooey, bleeding heart. Go do what you need to do. I’ll look
after Isaac.” Kate waits a moment before she adds, “Also. If you ever offer
anything like what you just gave to me to anyone else, I’ll punch you so hard
in your goddamn teeth, you’ll swallow them.”
Stiles fumbles to catch his phone when it slips in shock. Even as a threat, it
still sounded like concern and that kind of thing from Kate is jilting. He’s
not surprised to see she’s already hung up and he can’t help but to think how
scarily alike she is to Peter.
They'll make horrifying parents one day.
He shakes his head and pockets his phone as he climbs his bike. He lets his
anger build up again as he navigates through town by mere memory before he ends
up on Parrish’s doorstep. He throws his bike off to the side, rings the
doorbell and waits.
Parrish (predictably) answers with a shotgun, and once again, he’s shirtless
but (strangely enough) covered in smudges like he’s been cleaning the inside of
a chimney with his body. He quickly lowers it in confusion when he sees who it
is and he unlocks his screen door. “Stiles. Is Isaac —”
“You don’t get to ask me that question anymore,” Stiles interjects, livid.
Parrish lifts both brows. “Okay. I’m sensing you’re upset with me. Did I do
something?”
Stiles clenches his fists and stares at Parrish for a long time. “What was his
name?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Parrish frowns. “What was who’s name?”
“The name of the face you’re wearing,” Stiles bluntly clarifies. “Because it
sure as hell isn’t yours. Am I right, Jordan Kyle Lahey?”
Parrish stiffens and he goes pale with guilt and panic.
“Wow,” Stiles says and he can’t even believe what he’s seeing. “So it is true.
No wonder Isaac would freak or glare at you. You’re wearing someone else’s
face. Someone you killed and you — oh my god, none that even matters because
you left him. You left Isaac all alone and he almost died. I could —” Stiles
cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Forget it. I don’t even know why I
thought you were one of the good guys. Clearly I’m as oblivious as everyone
says I am.” He turns to walk away.
“Wait,” Parrish says. “Stiles, wait. I can explain,” he swears as he grabs
Stiles’s elbow.
“Don’t!” Stiles snaps and moves to push him away but both his hands grow hot
and a bioluminescent beam of blue light shoots out of his palms and sends
Parrish flying back with such brute force.
Parrish groans from where he lands with a hard thud on the cement sidewalk.
Stiles stares in shock at his shaky, glowing hands.
Parrish lifts himself up on his elbows and gawks at Stiles with a furrowed
brow.
Stiles swallows down his panic and tries to mentally will his hands to stop
glittering with bright energy; colors like the inside of a raw cluster of a
blue amethyst crystals.
Parrish climbs to his feet and raises his hands in earnest surrender. “I think
you better come inside,” he urges.
Stiles shakes his head as he stares at his sparkling hands.
“Stiles,” Parrish says softly, easing towards him carefully. “Come inside,
please. Just until we can get you calm. You could be seen. Please.”
Stiles stares at his hands and swallows before nodding.
Parrish herds him into his town house and sits him on his couch. “I’ll make
some tea,” he says and tucks away in his kitchen.
Stiles stares at his hands and wonders if they’ll ever stop shaking.
 
***** seven *****
Stiles’s hands keep flickering like a flashlight on its last bit of juice. He
supposes this is because he’s mentally willing his hands to stop doing that
shimmery glow-y thingy it’s doing right now. When that doesn’t work, he decides
to just concentrate on something else. So he focuses on the interior of
Parrish’s house or the fact that it smells like virgin olive oil.
It’s strange.
Parrish’s living room is kind of off-putting. It’s because nothing in here
seems like it belongs to him, but to rather maybe his grandparents or the
previous owner’s. The couches are maroon-colored and wrapped in plastic.
That’s pretty old school.
The low carpet is an ill-fitting mustard color. There’s a sixties looking TV
crammed in the corner on the right side of the room between two large potted
plants (that are no doubt fake). There’s a grandfather clock settled against
the wall across from him on the wall that separates the doorways that lead to
the kitchen and the laundry room (which he also notices has some old school
washing machines that look like they came right from the eighties).
There are no pictures hanging on the manila colored walls. There’s a short set
of carpeted stairs with a dark wood banister that leads up to what Stiles can
only assume is the second floor. Perhaps the most notable thing is the fact
that there are huge vases plotted along the seam of where the wall meets the
carpeted floor.
Adjacent to the front door of the house is an open door that leads to a really
small ½ bathroom with nothing but a shiny aquamarine toilet and a simple sink.
He won’t even get into what the tiles on the floor and on the wall look like
because honestly he literally feels like he’s stepped back in time and he’s
floating somewhere between the mid-sixties and the late eighties.
Parrish returns with a steaming red porcelain mug and he places it in Stiles’s
hands before he sits down in the plastic-covered armchair across from him with
a squeaky sound.
Stiles stares down into the dark tea as the heat of the mug causes the insides
of his palms to itch. His hands aren’t glowing anymore (he’s not even sure how
he made them stop) but they’re still shaking. He can’t stand the silence or
deal with the way Parrish is looking at him like he’s a bomb. So he says,
“What?”
“I don't mean to be rude, you know, staring at you. But. Your eyes. Before.
They were glowing too,” Parrish says as he keeps his back ramrod straight with
his hands folded over his lap. Must be all that military training, Stiles
supposes. “They were like drops of honey caught in the sunlight.”
Stiles winces and lowers his cup of tea from his mouth. “Yeah — we’re not
having this conversation while you’re shirtless. You look like you’ve been
cleaning out a chimney but the weird thing is that I don’t see one.” And he
doesn’t. Stiles has already swept his gaze through the room for one. “Unless
you have one upstairs?”
Parrish blinks and looks down at himself as though realizing for the first time
his state of undress or his ashy and blackened skin. Then he stands quickly and
holds himself stiffly as his hands clench into fists. “Sorry. I’ll just go —
sorry.” He turns and disappears up the stairs.
Stiles lets himself relax into a sigh and blows a breath over his tea in hopes
to cool it. He takes careful sips as he thinks about what Parrish just said.
His eyes — they’d been glowing too. What did that even mean? He’s left
wondering for a long time before Parrish makes a reappearance.
Parrish tugs a black t-shirt on as he saunters down the stairs and back over to
the armchair with some well fitted dark jeans, no shoes and a frown. His skin
looks a lot brighter and his hair is still a little wet and disheveled, which
means he’s taken a shower.
Stiles straightens and sits his empty mug on the coffee table.
Parrish darts his eyes down at it and furrows his brow like it bothers him, but
he says nothing as he folds his hands over his lap. His shoulders rest in a
straight line as his back remains perfectly straight. He’s staring at Stiles’s
empty cup with a complicated expression. “I’ve never killed anyone,” he admits
after some hesitation. “I know how this looks and I know how this sounds coming
from me, even with me being in the army, but — it’s the truth.”
Stiles rubs at his right eyebrow as questions build between his eyes in the
form of a thick cloud. He opens his mouth to say something but they both get
momentarily distracted by the crack of thunder, which causes the lights in the
house to flicker before the vibrations of thunder follow immediately after. He
frowns and gnaws on the fingernails of his left hand before he mutters, “What
happened to you?”
“The things I did — the things my father made me do,” Parrish starts and then
stops as his gaze flicks over to his windows. His eyes are tracking each flash
of lightening happening outside. “I can’t sit here and name every single
inhumane thing I’ve done for a cause that my parents believed in, but I will
take responsibility in the part I played for what happened to Isaac.”
“The fire that almost killed Isaac? You know something, don’t you? You know who
did it and why?” Stiles asks as he sinks back into the couch with a weary
frown. “Please be direct with me. I can’t take any more vagueness. I’m at my
limit.”
“Isaac isn’t my brother,” Parrish explains, eyes still pinned to his windows.
Stiles raises his eyebrows at that.
Parrish runs his fingers through his golden hair and he looks nervously
haunted. “How much do you know about Werecats?”
“I know that they can replicate the things they kill. And also there seems to
be this unspoken feud between Werewolves and Werecats that makes them not want
to get along.”
“We can get along,” Parrish supposes. “It’s just extremely hard to do.”
Stiles says, “Is there something else I should know?”
“Females aren’t the only ones that can...reproduce,” Parrish delicately states
as a slow flush starts to spread across his handsome face. “Werewolves are
either born or bitten. Werecats, on the other hand, can only be born. That’s
why both genders carry the ability. More chances for our race to survive.”
“Uh — not that this crash course in Werecat sexual education isn’t fascinating
or anything but, um, it’s just that I’m not sure I get what you’re saying. What
does that have to do with Isaac not being your —” Stiles lets the sentence die
before he can even get the question out. It clicks into place. “Oh,” he
finishes weakly.
Parrish drags his gaze away from the windows and to Stiles’s hands (which have
begun shaking again). “It happened when I was fourteen. There was — I had an
altercation with Mayor Argent. I won’t go into any details but I’m sure your
imagination can fill in the gaps since I’m being very delicate about how I’m
phrasing ‘altercation’.”
Disgust, horror, and pity sink like stones in Stiles’s gut and his initial
anger washes cold. “Isaac is your son.”
“He doesn’t know,” Parrish explains, looking pained. “My dad didn’t want anyone
to know. So he and my mom covered it up. They always blamed me for how it
happened. But after my mom died, I wanted to claim Isaac. My dad wouldn’t hear
it.”
“So…Mayor Argent is Isaac’s, uh, other parent?” Stiles asks because he just —
he wants to know so much more about this crazy situation.
Parrish looks like he’s swallowed something particularly unpleasant. “Yes.”
Stiles gapes. He can’t help it. “Does — does Argent even know?”
“I don’t know. Chris once told me that —” Parrish stops abruptly. “I shouldn’t
be talking about this. I don’t — I’m just trying to make you understand that
when it comes to Isaac and I, it’s not so black and white. My dad felt
disrespected but he was too prideful to call Mayor Argent out on what he’d done
to me. It’d be like admitting a weakness and my dad hated the Argents enough to
never spit in their direction, let alone admit to...that.It was the family
shame.”
Stiles tries to swallow but he can’t.
“I came so close to telling someone so many times but I’d think about how my
dad threatened to send Isaac somewhere far where I’d never be able to see him
again and I just — I kept my mouth shut,” Parrish goes on to say and he looks a
little pale. “When I turned eighteen, I joined the army because I couldn’t
stay. And Isaac kept looking at me like I was his — when I’m really — I just
couldn’t. Isaac was four and all he knew was that I was the older brother that
left him. I made my mom promise she’d look after him until I could make other
arrangements. But then she died and I couldn’t come home because of my
accident. Isaac was stuck with my dad and my older brother.”
“You heard that your dad and brother were in jail,” Stiles reasons quietly.
“That’s why you came back.”
Parrish gives him an odd look. “They’re dead, Stiles. Them going to jail was
just another cover-up the old sheriff fabricated before he died. I’ve been
trying to figure out what happened. I came back to make things right. When
Isaac turns thirteen, it’ll be time for him to Present. I want to be there for
him when it happens.”
“He doesn’t know,” Stiles realizes with a growing sense of alarm. “He thinks
you’re just his older brother who abandoned him and he doesn’t know. God —
Mayor Argent is his— and you have to — you have to tell him.”
Parrish looks upset. “I’ve been trying —”
“You need to try harder. His birthday is in September and I don’t know how this
whole ‘Presenting’ thing works but better he gets prepared for any unexpected
complications now rather than later,” Stiles says firmly. “Better he hears the
truth from you than from anyone else. You owe that to him. He thinks — he
thinks he doesn’t have anyone else butme and my dad.”
Parrish nods stiffly.
“What about —” Stiles indicates to Parrish’s face. “— thiswhole situation?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t lying before when I said I’ve never killed anyone,”
Parrish swears. “I was doing a search and rescue mission in Papua New Guinea
four years after I enlisted and it’s — I don’t really remember what happened.
They sent me in a building because there were some hostages and a bomb — it’s
all kind of a blur. I’ve tried to look it up on my own but oddly enough, it’s
mark as classified. I would need top security clearance to see the details of
the mission. The only credentials that fits for that would be the President of
the United States.”
Stiles sags back against the couch. “Whoa.”
“Look,” Parrish continues. “All I know is that I woke up three years later in a
hospital in Hong Kong as a coma patient with this face and no identification of
who I was or how I even got there. I can’t change it, which means that, whoever
this is, sacrificed their life for mine.”
“Is that what makes the difference? If the person is willing or not? What if
they die unwillingly?” Stiles asks trying to absorb this new information.
“There’s some folklore about it. How the life of one being can be exchanged for
another but for only a short amount of time in order to maintain the laws of
nature. For Werecats, whoever and whatever they kill, it’ll only last the
duration of a New Moon. If the life was willingly given, it’s permanent. Who
you kill is what you become. Entirely.” Parrish adds, “Which brings me to
asking you for a slight favor.”
Stiles indicates for him to continue.
“Actually, it’s better if I show you,” Parrish decides and he stands. He leads
Stiles to a door in the kitchen adjacent to the pantry door and the fridge. He
pulls it open and yanks on the metal chain of the light bulb overhead.
Stiles grabs his elbow before he can descend and says, “You realize that this
is how every horror movie starts right? I don’t need you to show me where you
bury the bodies.”
Parrish furrows his brow and replies, “Stiles, I’m not going to kill you or do
anything indicative of a homicidal tendency.”
Stiles lets him go. “Okay.”
Parrish marches down the old, creaking wooden steps as he says, “At first I
thought he was Human.”
“Your meat suit?”
Parrish winces. “He’s not,” he says, avidly ignoring Stiles’s phrasing.
“Trouble is, I don’t know what he is — was.”
Stiles pauses on the last step as he takes in the sight of iron wall that
splits the basement down the middle.
Parrish unlocks it from the outside and pulls the door open as its hinges groan
with a metal screech.
Stiles squints and notices that the inside has walls comprised of charred
bricks.
Parrish goes inside and stands in the middle of this isolated room. “I built
this three days after I moved back. It took me a week or so. It’s a —
personalized furnace.”
“This took you a week?” Stiles parrots in shock.
Parrish rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t really sleep much these
days. I don’t really ever seem to need to. Side effect, I think.”
“Why?” Stiles asks. “Why build this? What’s the purpose of it?”
“I’m always cold,” Parrish admits with a complicated expression. “The only time
I’m not cold is when I set myself on fire.”
Stiles blinks and he’s suddenly reminded of earlier when he first approached
Parrish (and how he looked as if he’d been cleaning the inside of a chimney).
“Do I even want to know how you figured that out?”
Parrish rewards him with a self-deprecating grin and shakes his head. “My
throat gets sore, and the only way to relieve that is to drink olive oil.”
“So that’s why it smells like that upstairs,” Stiles reasons as he approaches
the doorway of the furnace. “So — fire and oil helps?”
Parrish nods. “I’ve heard from your dad that you’re pretty good with putting
names to certain mythical creatures and I thought maybe you might be able to
help me.”
“What do I get out of it?” Stiles questions, quite seriously.
Parrish says, “A few weeks before my dad died, he sent a postcard to one of my
P.O. boxes and all it said was, ‘Isaac isn’t Argent’s only bastard’.” He looks
a little upset having to phrase it word for word.
“Mayor Argent has more kids?” Stiles says, trying to piece it together.
Parrish gives a solemn nod. “I know you and your dad have been trying to figure
out who to link to the recent murders. I think I might be able to help with
that.” He goes on to say, “I didn’t say anything before because I wasn’t sure
until only recently. I stumbled across encrypted folder meant for some under-
the-table birth certificates. I knew they had to be because Dr. Tina Mahealani
forged Isaac’s, labeling my dad and my mom as his birth parents — why wouldn’t
she have done a few more if the circumstance called for it?”
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly as he takes it in. That name seems familiar to
him. “Isn’t that Danny’s mom?”
“Yes. She helped me give birth to Isaac at her private clinic, and then helped
my parents cover it up,” Parrish clarifies. “Like I said, I don’t think I was
the only one she was helping that way. Apparently Mayor Argent got around in
the Were community — but only to send some kind of twisted message that I’m
still trying to figure out.”
Stiles fights down a wave a nausea. “Danny’s mom knew about Weres?”
“She was familiar with Were-kind, and got a lot of business because of that.
But it was always mostly concerning pediatrics and obstetrics. After she died
and Danny ended up in the hospital, I looked through some of the backlogs of
her medical files for the year that Isaac was born to see if there was a
connection. That’s when I found that folder meant for all the forged birth
certificates and, here’s the thing — they’re all missing.”
“All of them? Like someone figured out what you figured out and got to it
before you did,” Stiles says and then it dawns on him. “It’s Mayor Argent,
isn’t it?”
“There’s an encryption signature, very vague and a little sloppy, but I managed
to worm it out. That’s how I knew someone else had already been there. But when
I traced it back, it led me to an IP address.” Parrish continues, “Danny’s IP
address. The same night his family was slaughtered. Whoever he was helping
decided to tie up some loose ends. I can’t say if Mayor Argent is directly
responsible but he’s playing some key role.”
Stiles willingly follows Parrish to the underside of the basement stairs where
he’s keeping a small dark grey safe locked with an electronic keypad. He
politely looks away as Parrish punches in some numbers and the safe door pops
open. Then there’s some shuffling of papers.
“Lydia’s father, Edward Martin, who was also Mayor Argent’s personal lawyer,
handled all the legal discrepancies in the placement of the children and helped
to keep it under wraps. He had some kind of privacy clause contract. I’m
guessing that’s because, like me, the other parent of Argent's kids were
underage since Gerard’s known to have those sort of tastes.” Parrish pauses for
a moment and steps back before closing the door. In his hand is a small black
jump-drive. “There’s a missing link that I don’t get. Something to do with the
Hale fire and why Ines Reyes tried to cut out his tongue to avoid saying
anything.”
“Peter,” Stiles mutters as he suddenly remembers. “Ms. Morrell said something
to me the other day. She told me not to trust Peter — that he had something to
do with the Lahey fire.”
Parrish frowns and he looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he says, “Peter’s a
dick. But he’s not — he’s smarter than that. We may have our differences, and
our past, but I can honestly say that I don’t think he can be blamed for what
happened to my dad and my brother or Isaac.” He adds, “Ms. Morrell has her own
agenda, I think.”
“What makes you say that?” Stiles blinks when Parrish slaps the jump-drive in
his hand and he jolts when their skin makes contact, causing a surge of white-
hot heat to sweep through his system in the instance of a second.
Parrish doesn’t seem to notice. He continues, “All those files I have on there.
I’ve been reading and collecting any important files dated to the past thirteen
years. Basically compiling a databank of information that would help me figure
out what’s really going on in this town. I read about Lydia’s ‘hiking’ accident
and one of the things that stuck out to me is how Lydia’s parents filed a
restraining order against Ms. Morrell because her therapeutic treatments were
heavily on the extreme side, and Lydia’s mother in particular expressed
concern. It’s all very vague details but I just thought it was strange that
Lydia’s managed to end up in her custody.”
Stiles feels a headache build between his eyes and there’s the strange taste of
gold pressing on the back of his tongue. “I need to think about all this. My
mind is muddled and I need more time to process.” His hand clenches around the
jump-drive. “Are you really giving me this?”
“In confidence, and faith,” Parrish confirms. “I trust you’ll keep it safe. And
I also trust that you’ll help me figure out what I am.”
“I barely understand what I am,” Stiles admits tiredly but he white-knuckles
the jump-drive anyway. “But I’ll try and see if I can point you in the right
direction.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Parrish responds. “You should get home. There’s a curfew
now because all the residents of Eichen House are on the loose.”
Stiles quietly wonders if there’s any information about that place on the jump-
drive. “Can I ask one more thing? Actually, two more things.”
Parrish nods but he moves to climb the stairs.
Stiles has no choice but to follow. “What’s the deal with you and Peter?”
Parrish snorts bitterly but there's not mistaking the flush on the bridge of
his nose. “There’s no...deal. We have — we had —" He shakes his head with a
frustrated sigh. "It's a lot of unresolved issues between Peter and I.” The
flush is gone now but he looks uncomfortable as he walks Stiles to his door.
“He’s the one that told me about the fire. That my dad was dead. He told me to
come back. So I did — without saying I would or when that might be. I'm sure he
resents me for that, among other things. And as much as I would like — it’s not
— it can’t be how it used to be between us. Not that it matters since there's
Kate.”
Stiles is really confused. "What does Kate have to do with it?"
Parrish grows noticeably silent.
“What about Isaac?” Stiles asks, deciding to change the subject because Parrish
looks so uncomfortable. “What are you going to do about him?”
Parrish shrugs weakly.
Stiles doesn’t press. “Does my dad know? About any of this?”
“No. Not yet,” Parrish replies. “Only because I think there’s a reason he
adopted Isaac. I’m worried about why that is. I can’t tell him about everything
I’ve uncovered without running the risk that he’ll go around asking questions
that could put him or Isaac in danger.”
“But you’re willingly giving me all this information,” Stiles points out.
“I trustyou, Stiles,” Parrish swears with a look full of meaning. “Your dad’s a
good man and a good detective, but you have to remember that he’s Human. He’s
not going to see things like how you and I will see things. We have to put the
pieces together before we show him how to solve the puzzle. It’s complicated
logic, yes, but this is how we have to do it. The world is still governed by
Human laws.”
“I told him to look at bank records before he came here. He’s already asking
the right questions,” Stiles mumbles as he begins to anxiously gnaw on his
nails.
“Then I’ll keep a busy eye on him,” Parrish promises. “It’s the least I can do
since you’ve been looking after Isaac as well as you have.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that so he says nothing and sees himself
out. He pockets the jump-drive and climbs on his bike to begin his ride home.
The sky is dark but clear with stars and the moon is no longer full. It smells
earthy and damp, but for whatever reason, this is a comfort for Stiles. He lets
his thoughts muddle around in his brain as he tries to figure out how he can go
on acting normal around Isaac when he knows what he knows.
That is, assuming that Isaac will ask about where he’s been this whole time
when he gets home —
Stiles’s bike jerks under him and sharply veers to the left and right into a
curb, sending him flying up and over his handlebars, and into the grass with a
yelp and loud thud.
“That looked like it hurt,” a male voice says.
Stiles squints against the pain biting up and down his back as two shadows
hover over him.
It’s Violet and Garrett (and their wearing those creepy identical smirks).
“Oh no,” Stiles groans as he tries to wiggle to his feet.
Garrett snorts, grabbing him by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet with
a surprising amount of strength.
Pain slithers into his sides and the back of his skull until Stiles is cross-
eyed with nausea. This will be the second tumble he’s taken.
“Easy, easy,” Violet warns as she watches Garrett catch Stiles just as he
slumps from poor equilibrium. “We’re supposed to treat him with care,
remember?”
“You’re the one that made his bike whip out of control,” Garrett points out
with a moody tone. He gets a solid grip on Stiles’s upper arms and keeps him
upright as they both face Violet. “If he’s got a few broken ribs or a
concussion, it’ll be because of you,not me.”
Violet sends Garrett a look from over Stiles’s shoulder. “Just shut up and keep
him still.” She reaches behind her and pulls out a single cotton swab. “Now.
This wont hurt a bit.” Her hand grabs his chin and she shoves the end of the
cotton swab into his mouth, twisting quickly until she pulls away and it’s
shiny with his spit. “Perfect,” she praises and seals the swab away carefully
in a small test tube before shoving it in her back pocket.
“What just happened?” Stiles asks blankly.
Violet just unzips her leather jacket to reveal a thin chain hanging around her
neck with a pink crystal at the end resting against her exposed belly button.
She inhales deeply as she cups her hand around the crystal.
Stiles’s breath hitches as he watches her eyes glow pink as she stares into
his. He feels a wave of energy flow from her and at him, but something under
his skin recoils at it and pushes it away.
Violet frowns as her eyes burn brightly with the pink of her glowing irises and
she begins chanting (in Latin), “Mens. Corpus. Spiritus. Imperium. Ad me omnes,
et fecerit.”
Stiles attempts to wiggle out of Garrett’s iron grip. “What the hell are you
guys doing?”
Violet shoots Garrett a worried glance before she turns her burning gaze back
to Stiles and chants again. “Mens. Corpus. Spiritus. Imperium. Ad me omnes, et
fecerit.” She reaches out with her right hand until she has it hovering over
his heart. “Ostende mihi, et cogitaremus veritatem tuam.”
Stiles stops struggling and just stares at Violet.
Violet smirks and says, “Now. Tell me. What were you doing with Lahey?”
“Minding my own business. Like you two should be,” Stiles says, looking at her
like she’s crazy. “Seriously, what the hell?”
Violet wrenches her hand back in shock.
“What is this, Vee?” Garrett says. “You sure you did the spell right? He
doesn’t sound like he’s in a trance.”
“You’re kidding right?” Stiles gawks. “You guys are trying to put a hex on me?”
Violet glares at him darkly. “If I wanted to hex you, you’d be dead already.”
Then she frowns as she eyes him from head to toe. “Though — I’m not sure if
that’s even true.”
“Vee, what’s going on?” Garrett questions impatiently.
“My spells aren’t working on him.” Violet suddenly looks a lot more pleased
than what Stiles is comfortable with. “He’s a fucking Seven.”
“Seven? What’s a Seven?” Stiles asks.
“Well I’m not going to tell you so you can use it against me, Virtue,” Violet
drawls with pure contempt.
“You’re shitting me right?” Garrett snaps but he sounds a little frantic (if
not worried). “That means you can’t wipe his memory. That means he’ll remember
all of this. Fuck, Vee! What the fuck?” He shoves Stiles away like his hands
have been burned.
“Relax,” Violet calmly urges. “He’s not going to say anything to anybody.”
“What makes you so sure?” Garrett hisses, looking edgy.
“Actually I would like to know that too since I’m about two seconds away from
calling the cops and pressing charges, so…” Stiles spreads his hands apart and
lifts both brows.
Violet lifts her right hand and rotates it into a snap until ivory and cream
cardstock appears with a pink spark. “Mayor Argent is hosting a private
fundraising event tomorrow night at his manor. I was urged to extend an
invitation.” She holds it out to him.
Stiles just lifts a brow, but he doesn’t take it.
“You’ll want to go,” Violet urges as she releases her hold on the invite but
its not sent to the ground by the force of gravity. Rather, it levitates and
hovers by Stiles’s chest on pink clouds of smoke. “I think I remember seeing a
few Vampires on that list, as well as a few people you might know.”
Stiles swallows and takes in the blatant threat.
“Oh well.” Violet just shrugs. “I can’t force a Seven to do anything they don’t
want to do. Though — you do know the folklore about Vampires right? Aren’t you
the least bit curious to meet one? I’m sure they’d be gagging to meet you. They
might even behave if you're there — no bloodletting and all that.”
Stiles snatches the invitation out of the air as the pink clouds disperse. “I
get it. You can stop with the thinly veiled threats.”
Violet smirks and Garrett relaxes.
“Who are you guys?” Stiles asks when he can’t come to some sort of conclusion
himself.
Violet’s smirk widens. “We’re the ones that are going to keep you from falling
into the wrong hands,” she simply replies.
“Like the Benefactor,” Stiles counters cleverly.
Garrett looks at him sharply. “What do you know about that?”
“I know it’s Mayor Argent,” Stiles boldly accuses.
Violet snorts. “If you think Gerard Argent is the Benefactor then you haven’t
been paying attention at all.” She lifts her wrist and glances at the time. “We
should start making our rounds.”
Garrett makes a noncommittal sound and begins walking away in an unknown
direction.
Violet glances at Stiles with another smirk. “Wear a tuxedo,” she urges. “And
have a safe trip home. You’re pretty precious to a lot of people.” She lets
herself disappear in a cloud of pink smoke as her eyes burn with the same
color.
Stiles is left to do nothing but watch and try not to have a nervous breakdown.
He makes it to his bike without having one (but it’s a near thing).
                                      ---
It’s the choking and coughing sounds that urges Stiles to dump his bike on his
front lawn and sprint to the backyard when he makes it home.
What he’s not expecting is a hysterical Kate with literal tears in her eyes as
she uses her expensive smartphone to record Isaac (who is on his knees before
her) gagging down a half jar of jalapenos mixed in a 2 liter bottle of fizzy
orange soda and wasabi sauce.
“What the hell?” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands out wide.
Kate pulls it together long enough to say, “Little punk challenged me to a
dare-off. Thought I wouldn’t come with my A-game.”
Isaac finishes the mixture, chucks the bottle towards the garbage cans at the
side of the porch steps, and falls to his side. His face is red and he’s
gasping, “I think I’m dying” over and over again.
Stiles’s mouth twists with concern. Then he shoots Kate a look (she’s still
filming this for god’s sake!) and says, “You’re literally the worst babysitter
in history.”
“What? Untrue,” Kate argues and she finally clicks her phone off before shoving
it in the back pocket of her ripped jeans. “You should have seen the concoction
he made me choke down. I swear I’ll never look at sardines the same way again.”
“I don’t even want to know,” Stiles swears, exasperated. He steps around his
brother and goes to his elm tree, taking care to climb and pick a piece of
fruit, working on pure instinct. He climbs back down with the juiciest peach he
can find and offers it to Isaac (who accepts it gratefully and tears into it
with these little softly pleased mewls).
“Well if you don’t need me anymore —” Kate looks at the watch on her wrist. “—
I might be able to catch the nail salon before it closes and finish what I
started.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Stiles offers quickly because he’s desperate to
talk to her.
Kate lifts a finely arched brow and she looks more amused than anything. “How
sweet of you to offer, Tenderfoot.” She glances down at Isaac and snorts at the
way he’s licking juices from between his fingers. She nudges his knee with her
foot. “Hey, Curly-top.”
Isaac huffs but he glances up at her. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
“Fucking do I though? I won fair and square,” Kate says, matter of fact.
“Language,” Stiles says, sighing weakly, and wondering if he should even
bother. He’s then struck by the sudden thought that this is Kate Argent and
Isaac is quite literally her biological little brother and neither of them
know.
“You lost. Pay up,” Isaac orders and offers a sticky hand.
Kate scoffs but she fishes out her wallet and slaps a hundred in his hand. “The
extra fifty is for making me laugh so hard,” she explains. Then she smirks and
turns on her heel.
Stiles stumbles after her, throwing a, “Go inside! I’ll be in, in a minute!” to
Isaac, who’s too busy eyeing the money in his hand like he’s wondering if it’s
counterfeit. Stiles eventually catches up to Kate and notices the car she
parked in his driveway is not her Jaguar, but some kind of 2009 Nissan Altima.
“Uh —”
“Rental,” Kate explains as she makes a face. “I feel so middle class.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and walks around the hood of the car before climbing in
the passenger seat. He silently mimes for her to get in as well.
Kate slides into the driver’s seat with a questioning look.
Stiles points to his ears and then to the house.
A look of dawning passes over Kate’s beautiful features and she spends a quick
moment turning on the car and then turning up the radio to some random station.
Stiles takes a moment to think about what he wants to say. He sets aside his
afternoon with Parrish because that’s obviously off-limits and not within his
rights to gossip about. So he focuses on his encounter with Garrett and Violet.
“Tell me more about your surrogate siblings. How much do you know about them?
What have you learned?” he asks.
“Other than they’re creepy as hell and spend way more time with my old man then
what’s healthy — I’d say nothing. Why?” Kate hones in on his face likes she’s
trying to read his mind.
“Earlier when I went to — do what I was doing — I got into an altercation with
them,” Stiles merely says. “Violet tried to do some witchy hexing on me so that
I would spill my guts to her about anything she wanted to know. Then when it
didn’t work, her and that jock guy freaked and she called me something. It was
a Seven, I think.”
Kate doesn’t say anything for a long while and her lips twist a thoughtful
frown.
“They also invited me to your dad’s charity whatever tomorrow night with some
vague threats. Did you know there are going to be Vampires there?” Stiles
continues. “What’s your dad doing inviting Vampires?”
“Old money probably,” Kate off-handedly replies. Then she says, “He does these
charity galas when he’s got some grimy project he needs funding for. His latest
endeavor has been that old car factory.”
“I read about that,” Stiles says.
“Yeah well, what you probably didn’t read is that though he’s swung some sort
of deal with the Kind company, he’s expected to meet their offer with a pricey
deposit,” Kate explains. “He must really want them to set up shop here, which
is suspicious enough.”
“Recreating the community,” Stiles quotes, verbatim. “In that article I read
about it, that’s what he said.”
Kate’s brow furrows and she gives a heavy sigh. “Damn. And I had plans to get
me some dick tomorrow night,” she complains, mostly to herself.
Stiles gives an awkward cough.
“What? I have a healthy libido and Peter is incapacitated currently. I have
plastic toys to do the job when he can't,” Kate drawls with a minor smirk.
“God, no one can make me come like he can though. Hey did you know we talk
about you sometimes? Like what we’d do if you were there and —”
Stiles goes red and splutters.
Kate throws her head back and laughs. “Okay, okay. I give. I’m totally fucking
with you,” she admits. When she calms down, “Though, personally, even if Peter
sees you as his spastic little brother, I don’t. Like I said before — your lips
are obscene. I won't lie and say I haven't fantasized about sitting on your
face when I'm fingering myself in the shower.”
Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever stop blushing or choking.
“Anyway, I’m assuming you don’t have a tux, so you and I can go shopping after
school tomorrow,” Kate decides and grabs a pair of shades she has crammed
between the lid of the sun visor and the roof of the car. “I’ll try and figure
out what my old man’s up to in the meantime. I’ll give you the details at lunch
tomorrow. Now get out of my shitty car.”
Stiles huffs (happy his face has finally cooled off) and says, “Thanks for
looking after, uh, Isaac.” He coughs awkwardly and tries not to spill his guts
when the urge arises.
Kate just waves him off. “Yawn. Bored now. You just remember that debt you owe
me, buttercup.”
“Stiles. It’s Stiles.”
Kate gives him the middle finger and peels out of his driveway once he’s
properly exited the vehicle. She rolls down all her windows and begins blasting
some Spice Girls with no shame as she disappears down the street and around a
corner.
Stiles briefly glances at the Yukimura house and then away as he marches
towards the backyard and to his elm tree. He touches his fingertips to the
rounded edges of the big triquetra carved into the lower middle of the trunk
and says, “Nana?”
No response.
“I need to ask you a few questions. Please.”
Nana appears a moment later with a deep yawn. “What is it, child? I’m still so
very tired. I need at least three days of sleep before I can be in working
order, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles promises. “Sorry.”
“It’s no matter. I’ll always be here when you need me,” Nana croons sweetly.
“Now, what’s troubling you, dearie?”
“What’s a Seven?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Nana admits. “How do you mean? It’s a number,
is it not? I’m told Humans are quite fond of numbers. Keeping time. Oh, and
counting things.”
“No,” Stiles says. “Earlier this — I don’t know what she was. But she called me
a Seven.”
Nana’s wooden face frowns. “Touch your hands to my cheeks. I’ll have to see the
memories for myself.”
Stiles lifts both eyebrows but he does as he’s told. He presses his palms to
her cheeks and starts at the way his hands begin to tremor and the air suddenly
feels too sharp. There’s a press across his mind, a gentle nudge, and it
invades his thoughts like soap bubbles popping and reforming.
Then it’s gone.
“Ah,” Nana says, her face moving under his hands with her words. “You can let
go now.”
Stiles drops his hands and lets them rest limply at his sides.
“Which question shall I answer first? How about your friend? You’re curious to
know what he is?” Nana supposes. “How familiar are you with Dragon-kind?”
“Dragons?” Stiles exclaims. “No way.”
“Very way, I’m afraid. They’re rare. Just like you,” Nana goes on to explain.
“Perhaps even more so.”
“And Violet? Garrett?” Stiles presses. “Witches?”
Nana scoffs. “Heavens, no. That oaf of a boy she’s with is just another brute
Human. But the girl — she’s a Practitioner.” She adds, “Practitioners aren’t
born with true magic like real Witches are. Like you and I are. They have to
forge their own substitutes, pulling mainly from dark spells that derive from
dark places. It’s not called Black Magic for nothing, dearie.”
Stiles takes that in. “Why did she call me a Seven?”
“She couldn’t touch you with her unclean powers. You’re too pure,” Nana
explains. “You’re even rarer than what I imagined. You area Seven.”
“What’s a Seven?” Stiles questions, barely keeping the whine out of his tone.
“You’re smarter than that,” Nana chides. “This should be obvious. That number
should mean something to you.”
Stiles tries to think. He thinks and he thinks until he slaps a hand over his
face. “Seven Virtues,” he mumbles.
“That’s the ticket,” Nana chuckles. “You’re not only exhibiting signs of just
one field — but all seven! You can do and be any which you choose at any
moment. How extraordinary! To think. My very own apprentice! A Seven! By the
gods of this world and the Faceless of ours, indeed.”
“What does that mean for me?” Stiles wonders aloud, dropping his hand.
“Who knows? You pave your own destiny, little one. I can only aid you in this
journey,” Nana sympathizes. “Now, as for Vampires. I imagine you have questions
about them.”
Stiles nods quickly.
“I’ll give you the short facts and the rest you’ll have to research on your
own,” Nana continues. “Long ago, there is said to have been a Sun Witch who
desired the power to live forever. Now what she did was consult with the
Watchers of the Dead who, by today’s terms, are modernly labeled as Demons
because there was no other who knew the secrets to avoiding death. It is said
that this Witch made a pact with one of these dark creatures by sacrificing the
one thing she drew her power from: the Sun. By doing so, she was condemned to
only roam during the night. And in swearing allegiance with the Watchers, she
was given the vital ingredient to immortality: blood of a living creature,
namely, Humans.”
“So — the first Vampire was a Witch who made a pact with the Devil to live
forever,” Stiles states in his own understanding.
“Callously put, but, true nonetheless,” Nana confirms. “From my understanding,
she’s spent centuries turning only those on their deathbeds as penance for
giving over the one thing that fueled her magic. In some circles, she’s called
the Mistress of Night. Last I heard, she bound herself in a tomb under the
Hagia Sophia in Istanbul back in 1862. Her children still roam the world freely
at night I’m told.”
“And what are they? What do they look like? You said she visited people on
their deathbeds.”
“The Kanayan Biri, or 'Bloody Ones'. They are elders. She absolved them of
their past sins when she drained them. If given any other name, Vampires would
be known as Sin Eaters. That’s the pattern of their feeding.”
“Elders, though? Like — old people? Like, ‘Look kids, we’ll all miss grandpa
but he’s in a better place now. And when I say better place, I mean he’s become
a creature of the night. Bram Stroker styles.’ I mean, come on!”
Nana looks marginally amused. “The Mistress moved freely during the Bronze and
Iron Age, turning those who survived long enough to see middle age. She was
always quite keen on never turning anyone under the age of forty. She believed
Humans were at the prime of their life by this point.”
Stiles finds that surprising. The myth and lore he knows all put most Vampires
somewhere around the ages of 17-30. “So, middle-aged Vampires. Do they feed?
You said they did but on sins?”
“Yes, but the sin lies withinthe blood. However, their temperament and
consideration causes them to keep a firm reign on their moderation and
consumption. They’re well-behaved when not provoked, I believe. They usually
don’t kill but this doesn’t mean they won't. They love their mind games, but I
must warn you — they do not tolerate an ill attitude. They quite literally eat
the rude. I suppose they reason that they’re doing the world a favor,” Nana
reports. She gives a lengthy yawn. “You’ve got homework that needs doing. I
suggest you go do it and leave an old soul to rest.”
Stiles huffs and nods even though he has a million more questions.
“Goodnight, dearie. We’ll talk soon.”
Stiles watches Nana’s face disappear and the big triquetra takes her place.
He’ll have to leave his questions about the blue bioluminescent energy that
shot out of his hands earlier for another day. For now, he makes his way inside
just as the curfew horn rings in the distance, signaling that it’s officially
eight o’clock.
Not even a second after he enters the house, there’s another siren signaling
the warning for a lightening storm (which Stiles thinks is a little too late by
this point).
Isaac is curled up in his favorite armchair, blinking drowsily at the ceiling
when Stiles reaches the living room. “Dad came back home while you were gone.”
“Yeah?”
“He was acting like you do when you’re preoccupied with something.” Isaac gives
a jaw-cracking yawn. “He left with a bag. Said he had to fly out to Mexico for
something really important and we should call him if anything happens while
he’s away.” He yawns again.
Stiles fishes his phone out of his pocket and notices the missed calls from his
dad. “You should go up to bed,” he suggests distractedly as he reads a vague
text from his dad that says he was right about the bank records and how he’s
following a lead. “Go to bed.”
Isaac simply shakes his head with another watery yawn and falls asleep right
then and there.
Stiles rolls his eyes (sends his dad a text that reads: keep me updated and
stay safe), then takes a moment to grab a wooly blanket and throw it over Isaac
with gentle care. He runs his fingers through a few of Isaac’s more wild curls
and grins softly when Isaac twitches in his sleep but leans toward his hand; he
doesn’t stir otherwise.
A solid mass of guilt hardens in the pit of his stomach like a small stone when
he thinks about what he’s keeping from his brother — what he hasto keep from
his brother.
He sighs and pats Isaac on the crown of his head before moving away completely
to straighten the disorderly living room.
The kitchen is worst. It’s a mess of condiments and strange jars and bottles
filled with weird looking/smelling concoctions that are practically gag-worthy.
Stiles sighs and mentally curses Kate and Isaac’s little dare war before he
gets to work with cleaning it all up.
He spends the rest of the night juggling homework and researching everything he
can about Vampires and Dragons. He doesn’t touch the jump-drive Parrish gave to
him (he’s not ready to explore that yet; it’ll have to wait until the weekend)
and he stashes it in an old shoebox and buries it in the back of his closet for
safekeeping.
(He comes across a recurring name in the Vampire lore: Hannibal Barca).
When he attempts to contact Deaton about it, his calls go unanswered and he’s
forced to leave a vague voicemail in the hopes that Deaton will respond with
some answers.
The thunder from the lightening storm keeps the house trembling for the rest of
the night.
                                      ---
Wednesday's lightening storm is twice as loud as Tuesday was but they still
keep all the schools open (go figure) because it's not supposed to last past
noon. Though if someone asked Stiles about it, he’d have to admit to not
noticing since he practically slept his way through most of his classes
(because of the lack of sleep the previous night).
The thunderous grey sky causes sort of this rippling effect through everyone’s
mood, causing them to coast through the halls and sit in class with this sort
of blasé attitude.
At lunch, he finds Kate in her usual spot, texting away on her expensive phone.
He sits down with his tray of food and just shoves it at her before she can
even steal anything.
Kate eats the jello first because she always eats the jello first and says, “My
dad is so fucking paranoid. His study is locked with one of those keypad code
doorknob things. I put my birthday and then I put his birthday in and then I
put my brother’s birthday in and even our mother’s birthday in and nothing.”
She huffs. “So before school, I went to his office at Municipal Hall. I knew he
wouldn’t be there because he’s too busy terrorizing the caterers for his little
dinner party tonight. I lied to his stupid little secretary about how my dad
needed some kind of bullshit and he let me in. You know how I mentioned my dad
has friends in high places right?”
Stiles nods because he vaguely recalls.
“I’m going through his shit right? Like his paperwork and all the stuff lying
around on his desk and he has dozens of correspondences on letterhead from, get
this, the fucking Secretary of Defense.” Kate licks the last of her jello off
of her white spork.
“Secretary of Defense? As in William Barrow? The guy who is not only in charge
of the military, but also employs a civilian force of thousands? That guy?”
“You’re almost as smart as you are pretty,” Kate praises with smirk as he
starts in on his nachos. “Apparently, he’s keeping my father updated on
something called the ‘EPC Project’. Seeing as how I couldn’t take anything with
me, I took a few pictures of certain words and names. Here.”
Stiles moves to her side of the table as she gives over her smartphone and he
swipes left through her gallery. “Ultrasonic? Radio frequency? Doesn’t that
have to do with —”
“High frequency waves? Yeah. Big time,” Kate confirms. “Look at this. It’s a
photo of the most recent letter my dad received. Barrow writes, ‘Dr. Simon
Frankenstein notes that contained subjects 3487 and 5920 show promising results
to the 1905HeCa virus. Despite past failures during monitored trials, a more
evolved strain could possibly become stable enough for distribution. The
‘Chicago Incident’ shows that we may be closer to convincing our President that
municipal law is required. You just be sure that you’ve done your part. Most of
this depends on the jus in bello of your ‘liaison’.’ Bizarre, right?”
“Jus in bello,” Stiles mutters to himself as he thinks. “Jus in bello — why
does that sound familiar?”
“It’s the law that governs the way in which warfare is conducted,” Kate remarks
off-handedly as she chews. She takes a moment to swallow. “I’m more interested
in this 1905HeCa virus. I tried to place it against the periodic table but that
was a dead end.”
“Ca stands for calcium and He for helium. Calcium doesn’t react with helium,”
Stiles supposes. “Unless we were talking about the collisional profiles of
ionized calcium perturbed by helium or the nuclear fusion in stars.”
“Exactly. Which means that the HeCa stands for something else,” Kate concludes
before she shoves the food tray away to snatch her phone back with a furrowed
brow. “Maybe 1905 is a year, and something happened in that year that has to do
with HeCa.”
The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.
Stiles stands and says, “I don’t know. Google it. And forward some of those
pictures to me. I’m going to do a little research about William Barrow and Dr.
Frankenstein, which, by the way, is the most ironic last name to have if you’re
a chemical engineer doing experiments.”
Kate snorts and replies, “We live in a world that has no shortage of strange
things.”
                                      ---
Isaac is instinctively suspicious when Stiles rolls up with Kate in her rental
to come pick him up later that day at his school. He doesn’t say anything at
first though. He just drags his bike to the back and crams it into the trunk
alongside Stiles’s before climbing into the back behind Stiles.
“So, how was school?” Stiles asks and tries not to squirm at the way he can
feel Isaac’s eyes boring into the back of his head. “Anything interesting
happen?”
“What’s she doing here?” Isaac asks instead.
“Ouch. Easy, tiger. You might hurt my feelings,” Kate purrs, stopping at a red
light and using the momentary pause to primp and preen in the mirror of her sun
visor. “Didn’t we have fun the other day?”
“I was bored yesterday,” Isaac retorts, his annoyance evident. “I don’t like
you today.”
“Isaac,” Stiles gently scolds.
Kate chokes on a bit of laughter. “Whoa. Kitty’s got some claws.”
“Where are we going? You’re keeping things from me again. I hate that,” Isaac
goes on to say, ignoring Kate completely so as to hone in on his brother.
“What’s going on?”
Stiles opens his mouth to deflect, but Kate beats him to it by saying, “My old
man’s throwing this charity gala thing and it just so happened that your
brother dearest has been invited. He’s lacking a tux and I, in all my
charitableness, have decided to rectify that.”
“You’re buying me one too,” Isaac decides firmly.
Stiles twists around in his seat. “Isaac!”
Isaac glares at him. “You’re not pawning me off on another babysitter. If you
go, I go. That’s the deal.”
“What if I don’t like that deal?” Stiles challenges, but only because he’s
concerned for Isaac’s well-being (and because he doesn’t want Mayor Argent
within a hundred feet of his brother) but of course he can’t just say that
without having to confess to a few other things. “What if I say no deal?
There’s going to be Vampires there, you know.”
“I don’t care. You'll be there. So I don't care,” Isaac swears and there’s a
look in his eyes that says he won't back down no matter what. “Stiles.”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles relents. “Those eyes, dude. You’re killing me.” He sighs.
“If anything happens to you tonight I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
Isaac just shrugs and eyes the back of Kate’s head.
Stiles thinks better of asking.
                                      ---
Tuxedo shopping with Kate goes like this: they keep their mouths shut and let
her do all the talking.
That’s it.
That’s the rules.
Kate’s got impeccable rich-people taste anyway, so Isaac and Stiles mutually
agree it’s not worth disputing.
                                      ---
The Argent Manor literally looks like it could pass for the Xavier Institute
for Higher Learning. The private driveway even curls around a huge marble water
fountain with stone statues of naked men and women and children. In front of
the manor are catering trucks and valets but Kate surpasses all of that to park
in a six-car garage located in the back.
“You’ve got Lamborghini’s and you’re driving a rental,” Stiles notes with a
smidge of exasperation as he climbs out of the car.
Kate scoffs. “Three of those are my brother’s cars and the other set is my
dad’s. I don’t play with other people’s shit."
"Besides the fact that you steal my food all the time," Stiles interjects.
Kate ignores that and continues, "I like my own toys, thank you very much.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything to that because that is so Kate.
Isaac looks particularly interested though. “You should let me have that 1967
Ford Mustang GT Fastback,” he suggests.
Stiles tugs him closer and says, “You can’t even drive. What are you going to
do with it?”
“I can drive. I just don’t have a license,” Isaac reasons. “Legal driving age
in Alberta is 14.”
“Alberta?” Stiles repeats.
“Canada,” Kate clarifies. “But that’s with supervision, squirt.”
“No one is talking to you, Katherine,” Isaac says, pressing a hand between
Stiles’s shoulder blades as he glares at her from the opposite side of the car.
Kate smirks slowly with a wink.
Stiles can feel rolls of tension wafting off of Isaac, so he quickly intervenes
by saying, “We should get ready for the party. Isaac, we’ll finish talking
about how neither dad nor I will ever let you behind the wheel for the next
three years.” He pats Isaac’s hip before he moves to grab their tuxes from the
trunk.
Kate grabs her own gown and then indicates for them to follow. She leads them
through a huge stainless steel kitchen flooded with cooking and waiting staff
frantically moving about. Then she leads them up a small winding staircase that
brings them to the second floor.
Stiles briefly notices all the large portraits of the Argent women reside on
the left side of the hall while the Argent men are on the right side. Under
these expensively framed portraits are even more expensive vases and statues
and furniture. All the doors are closed but when they get to the end of the
hall, they just go up another winding staircase that leads to the third floor.
On this level, it’s pretty much the same as the second, only the portraits on
the wall are family portraits. They stop midway down the hall and Stiles eyes
the family portrait that has Mayor Argent, some young looking guy, an unhappy
woman, and an even unhappier little boy.
It’s the woman’s face that really catches his attention.
She looks undeniably like an older version of Kate.
“If you stare any harder, you’ll set the whole damn thing on fire,” a voice
says behind him.
Stiles jumps a little to see Kate eyeing him with a blank face and crossed
arms. “I was — I just thought —”
“Yes. That’s my mom and my older brother. Before I was born,” Kate interjects
calmly. 
“Oh,” Stiles says and clears his throat. “She looks — you look, um, just like
her.”
“So I’m told,” Kate merely says. She looks up at the portrait with this sort of
faraway look.
Stiles glances back at it as well. “Who’s that? Standing next to your dad, I
mean.”
“My Uncle Alexander. He kind of went banana-balls like my mom,” Kate replies.
“Shot himself in this creepy motel infamous for guest suicides.”
Stiles feels something pluck at him. He can’t really place it but what she just
said is hitting on the vibes that usually tell him something’s not right and he
should pay attention to why that is.
“What?” Kate’s looking at him. “What’s with that face?”
Stiles quickly tries to change his expression. “Nothing — where’s Isaac?”
“Probably snooping through my things,” Kate supposes but she’s still eyeing him
closely. “Come on. We can chill in my room for a bit before the party starts.
Are you hungry? I can call up one of the help to whip something together.”
Stiles shakes his head before following her into her bedroom, and the inside
looks like something out of some trendy teen magazine.
She’s got waist-high teal-blue chests lined against the walls on the left side
of the room on either side of the tall windows with sheer drapes. She even has
her own balcony. Along the right side of the room there’s a personalized white
desk littered with thick books, expensive devices, and dismantled radios. At
the head of the room is a king-sized bed with teal-blue and white pillows and
comforters, and also two doors on either side of the bed: one that leads to her
ridiculously huge walk-in closet crammed with designer clothes and shoes and
makeup and a vanity mirror, and the other one leads to a huge bathroom with
three stand-in showers and a Jacuzzi bathtub.
This is where Stiles finds Isaac.
Isaac is fiddling with the temperature gauges for the Jacuzzi bathtub while
also dumping honey-scented foaming liquid into the gathering water.
“What are you doing?”
Isaac watches the bubbles form when he turns on the jets. “Taking advantage of
the hot water. I always end up showering after you and it’s like swimming in
the Atlantic.”
“You wait until the last minute!” Stiles argues. “I get up early enough.”
“I like to sleep. You’re not normal,” Isaac counters as he tugs his shirt over
his head.
Stiles bites his tongue and tries not to stare at the burn scars littering the
left side of his brother’s body. He fidgets and presses his lips together to
keep from blurting out something stupid.
Isaac knows him though. He’s getting excellent at reading Stiles’s body
language. Which is why, as he kicks off his shoes, without even looking at him,
he says, “You’re allowed to ask.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck and mumbles, “I’m trying to be considerate.”
Isaac shoots him a look. “Just ask. I want you to.” He starts unbuckling his
pants.
Stiles slaps his hands over his eyes to preserve Isaac’s modesty. “How much do
you remember about — what happened? Before, you said you remember whistling.”
“Well I remember how much it hurt,” Isaac says, and then there’s a splashing
sound. "You never forget the touch of fire when it's licking flames against
your skin."
Stiles peeks through his fingers and notes with amusement that Isaac is covered
in bubbles. He drops his hands and gnaws at the corner of his mouth. “Did it —
was it —”
“Worst pain I can ever describe,” Isaac replies, spitting away some bubbles
from his mouth. “The kind of pain that changes you. Makes you question why life
is even worth living. It's the only time you actually look forward to dying.”
Stiles feels his stomach drop.
“And I did for a long time after,” Isaac admits, combing his long fingers
through his hair to slick his curls away from his partially scarred face. “I
wanted to die. I didn’t have anything to live for. Everyone I cared about has
either hurt me or left me.”
Stiles winces against the sting that pricks into his heart at those words and
he opens his mouth to say something.
But Isaac moves closer to the edge of the tub and white-knuckles it with wet
and soapy hands. “Dad never told you about how we really met, did he? I’ll tell
you. I was on the roof of the hospital. It was close to midnight. That’s when
the hospital staff thins out, and no one would actually notice I’d snuck out of
my room. I’d been there for about two months already — recovering. The fire
that killed my dad and my brother was started on the night of Thanksgiving, you
know. And it was New Years by this point.
"I didn’t want another year on this Earth in pain. So I stood out on that
ledge, staring down at the ground with my arms out wide and even being so high
I never felt so low. But then I heard a voice say, ‘Once you make that jump,
you can’t change your mind halfway through.’ And when I turned, I saw dad
edging towards me with his hands up. He introduced himself and asked me for my
name. I didn’t give it but he kept talking at me anyway. He told me about how
he became a patrol officer for the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge after
your mom died.”
Stiles inhales sharply because dear godhe remembers that. “I — I was the one
that told him to — I asked him to —”
“He said that you saw how sad he was,” Isaac gently interjects. “He laughed a
little and said how you would do this thing where you’d find somewhere to hide
when he was talking on the phone so you could eavesdrop. And one day you must
have heard that one off his colleagues offered him a spot as a guardian on the
bridge. He was about to say no —”
“But I felt it. I felt his answer and I sprung out and told him that he had to
because it’d be the best thing for him,” Stiles faintly remarks. “I couldn’t
even explain the feeling at the time but I just knew he had to. And he listened
to me.”
“He told me the first night, during his first patrol, he came across a woman
sitting on the cord near midspan. She looked to be about his age if not a
little older,” Isaac goes on to say. He folds his arms over the edge of the tub
and then leans down so he can rest his chin on top. Water and soap spill from
his arms and over slowly down the edge with the motion. “He said he asked her
if she was okay or if there was anyone he could call but she started telling
him about how she and her husband spent their first date walking the length of
this bridge and he told her about how he heard a myth about how traveling
between the two towers will lead you to another dimension if you were to leap.
And that the fall frees you from all your worries and grief, and the waters
below will cleanse your soul.”
Stiles frowns a little. His dad never told him this story.
“I asked him if she jumped,” Isaac continues quietly. “He told me he spent
three hours telling her about how the impact shatters bones in the most
crushingly painful way and that if she survived that then she’d only survive
long enough to flail before eventually drowning. He told her that there was
nothing romantic about it at all. He said that whatever she was going through
with her husband, he can kind of understand but he promised her that it does
get better. He said she could see it in the way the sun rises. In the taste of
a chocolate muffin. In the exhilaration of watching some kid from a small town
make their dreams come true through some reality dance competition he would
never have any chances of winning.”
Stiles smiles a little at that. “Dad sucks at dancing.”
Isaac smiles a little too. “For three hours he listed all the things that made
him happy — that kept him going. He said some days are harder than others but
one day it won’t be a struggle. He said he talked to her about you and how you
drive him crazy but he loves you so much because half of you comes from your
mother. The woman on the bridge was quiet at the end of those three hours. She
thanked him and wished him a happy and full life. Then…”
Stiles shakes his head as he wrinkles his nose. “I don’t — I don’t think I want
to know. Please don't — dont tell me,” he begs gently. He takes a deep breath
before continuing, “What about you? How did he change your mind? Why didn’t you
jump?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Isaac drawls as he straightens and dips his
hand in the water to scoop up some soapsuds to blow in Stiles’s direction. “It
doesn’t matter now. I don’t have that pain with me anymore. I’m not alone. I
have you and dad. He was right. It does get better, even if it takes time. For
the first time in twelve years, I’m truly happy. You guys make me happy.”
Stiles grins sadly, guilt tightening in his chest at the thought of the major
secret he’s still keeping from his brother. He turns and coughs awkwardly as he
get's a little misty-eyed. “I’ll let you soak. Just don’t take too long. I call
next.” He makes his way to the door but then pauses in the doorway. “Wait a
minute. I thought cats hated water.”
Isaac huffs, ducks under the water and out of sight as if to prove a point.
Stiles closes the door behind him and makes his way over to Kate (who is
wearing glasses).
Kate’s sitting at her messy desk, typing away on her computer as she flips
through a few of the open books settled before her.
Stiles traces his hand over the spine of one of them, squinting when he makes
out the title. “Why do you have a book on the —” He picks it up and squints
harder at it. “— Theory of Ordinary Differential Equations?Really?”
“Hey, give me that,” Kate complains and snatches it from him. “It's what I
consider light reading. And anyway, I borrowed it from Derek and if anything
ever happened to it, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Stiles balks. “Derek. Derek Hale? We are thinking of the same person right?”
“Yup,” Kate easily replies, putting a pop on the ‘p’. “He’s a lot smarter than
he wants people to believe.” She goes back to her typing as she adds, “Did you
know he’s super into aerospace engineering? I think he wants to be a rocket
scientist.”
“What?” Stiles says because that doesn’t make sense. “Derek loves basketball.
He’s obsessed.”
“If that’s what you think then you haven’t been paying attention,” Kate primly
replies. “Come on. You think he was just with Paige for her plain Jane looks?
He likes brainy. It’s a Hale thing. They always go for the brainy ones.”
“Okay,” Stiles simply says.
“Pull up a chair. Tell me what you found out about William Barrow and Dr.
Frankenstein,” Kate says, scooting over to make room for him.
Stiles grabs a fold out chair and plants it alongside her as he digs his phone
out and pulls up his web searches. “So nothing so far for the Dr. Frankenstein
guy but interesting thing about William Barrow. He used to live here. In Beacon
Hills. For a number of years. He grew up here, went to college here. For only
about two years though, mainly to get some prerequisite courses out of the way
while he waited to be officially enrolled in Harvard’s law program because he
was wait-listed. When he finally did get in during the fall of 1984, guess who
he became all buddy-buddy with.”
“My old man,” Kate answers knowingly. “He would have been a grad student by
that point.” She rubs at her mouth. “I wonder what they would have talked
about.” She pauses and then says, “I’ll ask him. Not straight out because he
won’t tell me, but I’ll work an angle. Get him to spill.”
“I need my tux!” Isaac yells from the bathroom.
Stiles stands and moves to bring it to him.
                                      ---
The charity gala thing takes place mainly on the first level of the manor,
which is flooded with nothing but posh, stuck-up, and well-dressed old people.
Stiles fidgets in his tuxedo, though perfectly fitted, he feels out of sorts
like an imposter. Which is why he hovers by the fireplace in the living room
with Isaac, who has somehow managed to commandeer a whole silver dish of finger
foods from one of the wait staff.
There’s an orchestra playing somewhere in the house.
Stiles isn’t sure which room but he can hear the music.
“Champagne?” a male waiter offers.
Isaac reaches out to grab one but Stiles snatches his hand away and says,
“Dude. Seriously? We’re underage.”
“Meh. Suit yourself,” the guy says and wanders off.
Stiles shakes his head and watches the guy disappear. “I’m telling dad you
tried to drink alcohol.”
“Then I’m telling him you took me to a party with Vampires.”
“You forced me to bring you!”
“But Stiles, I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”
“You little punk —”
“What are you losers doing here?”
Stiles and Isaac turn to see Jackson decked out in a sleek tuxedo and totally
owningit.
“This isn’t your scene,” Jackson goes on to say, stealing a bit of Isaac’s
finger food and ignoring the glare he receives. He raises an eyebrow at Stiles.
“Well?”
“We just — you know,” Stiles lamely replies. “Okay, Mayor Argent’s creepy
adopted kids invited me with some veiled threats. Which, weird thing, I haven’t
seen them at all.” He takes a moment to consider that before shaking his head.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that a serious question?” Jackson says with a smirk. “I’m rich.”
“Ah.”
“My parents figure we’re doing society a favor just by being here,” Jackson
supposes, tone dripping with cynicism. “But we all know these gatherings are
just an excuse for this town’s wealthy to jerk each other off and give each
other pats on the back for pretending to care for some fraudulent cause.” He
swipes a glass of champagne from off the tray of a passing waiter. “All these
idiots are doing is throwing money at the mayor in support of his fucking Willy
Wonka Chocolate Factory. Which, by the way, will not be as beneficial to this
town’s economy as Argent wants you to believe. Four percent of the businesses
within the proximity of the town’s outskirts have been closed. Bad, badmistake
seeing as how when tourists from outside come in, the first thing they’ll be
seeing is a heap of foreclosures.” He pauses to down his champagne completely.
“Fuckers should be supporting the International Committee of the Red Cross.”
Stiles stares at Jackson while Isaac looks unimpressed. “I’m starting to think
you’re smarter than what you let on. What is with people in this town hiding
their intelligence?”
Jackson scowls and steals another glass of champagne. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about, Stilinski,” he mutters.
“How did you know about all that stuff?” Stiles presses.
“I read it somewhere,” Jackson lies and downs his second glass.
Isaac says, “He’s second in his class.”
Stiles blinks. “Who’s first?”
“Erica,” Jackson mutters, sounding annoyed. “I mean — who cares?” He looks
irritated at his slip-up. “I need a stronger drink.” He wanders off.
“Weird,” Stiles notes. Then he looks to Isaac, who’s staring at his (now empty)
tray. “Who’s first in your class?”
“I am,” Isaac mumbles and suddenly looks awkward.
“Yeah?” Stiles grins. “Good. That’s great.”
Isaac shrugs. “Thanks.” Then he says, “What about you?”
“Me?” Stiles takes a moment to think. “Yeah, I guess I come in first. Except in
the classes I share with Cora. I’m forced to take second gracefully.”
“I can see that,” Isaac agrees. “I’m going to go get some shrimp now.”
Stiles snorts and waves him off. He watches his brother disappear through the
crowd with a sigh as he slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He
stiffens as a breeze tinged in mint sweeps across him and the sensation of
something cool rides up the length of his spine.
“Good evening,” a smooth voice to his left says.
Stiles shifts his eyes over to a tall man with perfectly parted and combed hair
and his well-groomed beard. He is extremely handsome, not just because of his
strong presence, but also because of his intense grey eyes. And something in
Stiles just knows. “Hannibal Barca,” he breathes.
Hannibal looks amused. “Now that’s a name I’ve not heard in centuries from a
simple civilian,” he drawls.
Stiles just stares at him, unsure if he should be afraid or not.
Hannibal’s teeth are eerily white and blunt. “Don’t be rude,” he goes on to say
and it’s terrifying how his eyes gleam with the words. “Introduce yourself,
since you presume to be so familiar with me.”
“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles stammers.
“Stiles Stilinski,” Hannibal echoes, sounding vaguely intrigued. His mouth
shapes with the words as though he's testing the syllables on his tongue. “And
how much research have you done on me?”
“Coincidental, mostly,” Stiles weakly confirms. “Please don’t kill me.”
Hannibal blinks and then laughs gently.
Stiles desperately takes that as a good sign.
“I’m curious to know why you think I would harm you,” Hannibal says, still
chuckling. “How familiar are you with my tastes?”
Stiles bites his bottom lip.
“Sinners, Mr. Stilinski,” Hannibal purrs as his grey eyes scan the room.
“That’s a delicacy. I find the world has no shortage of them, wouldn’t you
agree?”
“That depends on how you define ‘sin’,” Stiles replies and swallows at the
frightening grin he receives.
“Shall I demonstrate?” Hannibal calmly questions. “Why not start with your
charming companion? The one with the scars?”
“Don’t,” Stiles warns and he feels his palms warm defensively on the inside of
his pockets.
Hannibal hums noncommittally. “Perhaps not.”
Violet materializes out of nowhere wearing a floor length gown with a plunging
neckline and her hair is swept up in a messy, curly bun. “Mr. Wallace. On
behalf of Mayor Argent, I welcome you to Beacon Hills. He’d actually like to
have a word with you in private.”
“Ah.” Hannibal cups a hand over Stiles’s shoulder. “What say you, Mr.
Stilinski? Take a walk with me?”
Violet’s smile goes a bit tense. “I’m sure he’d rather mingle with the rest of
the guests,” she reasons. 
“Would he?” Hannibal looks darkly intrigued.
"This meeting is exclusive," Violet insists. "Leave him to mingle."
“I suppose that is a thought," Hannibal speculates with a soft sigh. "After
all, I brought a few companions of my own. I’m sure any one of them would love
to keep him company.”
Violet’s smile completely withers as she stares at him.
Hannibal meets her gaze unblinkingly. “I hope you didn’t presume that I’d
attend this affair at the behest of your mayor and not bring a few friends. I
do not travel lightly, though I suspect your mayor prefers that I would.”
Stiles glances around and notices right away the handful of people scattered
among the crowd and staring their way with the same kind of intensity about
them that Hannibal has.
“The boy comes too,” Hannibal decides. “Unless there’s some particular reason
you’re being so overprotective.”
Violet straightens and says, “Fine. This way please.”
“Of course,” Hannibal agrees cheerily, steering Stiles in the direction that
Violet leads them.
They end up on the second floor in a large study where Mayor Argent is pacing
behind his work desk, hissing furiously into his phone.
Violet wanders over to him and whispers something in his ear.
Hannibal steers Stiles to an armchair on the opposite side of the desk and
pushes him down onto it as he unbuttons his tux jacket.
Stiles turns his head in time to see Garrett close the door to the study and
stand in front of it like some kind of bodyguard.
Violet pulls away from Mayor Argent but keeps to his side.
“— deal with Marco or I will deal with Marco and you, my friend, do not want me
to deal with Marco because Marco will find himself skewered in two. Goodbye.”
Mayor Argent pockets his phone before straightening with a cold grin. “I
apologize for that, but you know how it is when you have one that likes to fall
out of line. As they say, you want something done right, you do it yourself.”
He doesn’t look at Stiles once. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
“Your invitation peeked my interest,” Hannibal replies. “What is the nature of
your business with me? You have to admit that an Argent calling upon a Vampire
such as myself is quite curious.”
Violet wont stop staring at Stiles.
“I’m a tolerant man, Mr. Wallace,” Mayor Argent supposes. “May I call you,
Hannibal?”
“My friends call me by my given name, Mr. Argent,” Hannibal reports. “And you,
sir, are no friend of mine.”
“Pity,” Mayor Argent merely replies. “This exchange might have been all the
more pleasant for it.”
Hannibal gives a chilling smile and combs his cold fingers through Stiles’s
short hair. “Is that a threat, Gerard?”
Mayor Argent doesn’t bat an eye.
“You know,” Hannibal continues, voice pleasantly even. “I’ve heard a rumor.
Vampires talk, you know. And it’s said that Beacon Hills has recently inherited
an invaluable treasure. A jewel. Now what might that be? Or —” His fingers
tighten in Stiles’s hair. “— whomight that be?”
“You’ll have to speak plainly,” Mayor Argent says, unmoved. “Old age has made
me slow.”
Hannibal laughs throatily as he flashes his fangs. “Ignorance is unbecoming.
You know of what I speak.” Then he pauses and cocks his head. “Or is this boy
so worthless that you would not lift a finger to prevent me from snapping his
neck like a twig?”
Mayor Argent gazes steadily at the other man.
Stiles swears he can feel his heart pounding in his throat.
“Come now,” Hannibal purrs. “By all means. Lie to me about his worth.”
Mayor Argent reaches into the inside of his tux and pulls out a small vial of
clear liquid. “Let’s remain civilized, Hannibal. This doesn’t have to get
ugly.”
“Am I to quiver at the sight of some holy water?” Hannibal taunts. “I am
centuries old. One of the first made. You’ll have to try harder.”
“It’s not holy water,” Violet corrects. “It’s something far more lethal. Think
hard.”
Hannibal narrows his eyes before he stiffens. “It’s not possible.”
“Oh it’s possible, my friend,” Mayor Argent assures with a steely smile.
“Thanks to a generous donation from Mr. Stilinski.”
Stiles frowns as the fingers in his hair twitches, and his mind instantly goes
back to the other night when Violet and Garrett cornered him and when Violet
swiped the inside of his mouth with a cotton swab. Which must mean that small
vial is his — saliva? Why in the world should a Vampire be wary of his spit?
“Please take a seat,” Mayor Argent urges. “And I wont have to use it.”
Hannibal doesn’t move for a long moment, but eventually he loosens his grip and
steps away before taking a seat reluctantly.
Stiles breathes a little easier. Just a little.
“There. That’s a good man,” Mayor Argent praises. He opens the top drawer of
his desk and pulls out a manila envelope. “As for why I requested your
presence, I believe you have some valuable information, but we’ll get to that.
Garrett?”
“Yes, sir?”
“See if you can’t entertain one of Hannibal’s companions for a little while.
Use the other vial I gave you if you have to.”
“Yes, sir.” Garrett leaves, closing the door behind him.
Mayor Argent takes a seat and steeples his fingers together under his chin.
“Relax, Hannibal.”
Hannibal is puncturing holes in the arm of his chair with his pale fingers as
he glares at Mayor Argent. “If your young ward harms a hair on any of mine — I
will tear every single person in this house apart and paint your walls red with
their blood.”
Stiles shivers at the threat.
Violet smirks, amused.
Mayor Argent scoffs. “Not necessary, my friend. I just need you to answer a few
questions. Then you can carry on as you have been for all these centuries.”
“What do you want?” Hannibal questions lowly.
“A woman came to you some time ago.” Mayor Argent opens the manila folder and
holds up a photo that Stiles vaguely recognizes. “Her name was Meredith
Walker.” Then he shows another photo and Stiles is struck by the fact that he’s
seen that face before because it’s the face Lydia had showed him through touch.
“Her company was frequented by this man. Ines Reyes. Do any of these names
sound familiar to you?”
That’sInes Reyes? Stiles thinks, thoughts going wild.
Hannibal replies through clenched teeth, “The woman I can confirm but the man,
I know not.”
“Just as well,” Mayor Argent supposes. “This woman is closely linked to the
Benefactor. As is, it would appear that the Benefactor’s main mission in life
is to see me dead. Now I have to admit to being confused because as far as I
know, I’ve done nothing to garner such a vengeful agenda.”
Hannibal’s lips twist. “Your reputation, Argent, would show otherwise. I know
of great families lost to fires because of your doing.”
Stiles inhales sharply at that.
Mayor Argent doesn’t bat an eye once again. “Strong accusations. I assume you
have evidence to prove that?”
Hannibal says nothing.
“I thought not,” Mayor Argent says. “But I digress.” Then he says, “Meredith
Walker. She was turned. By one of yours. I need the name of who.”
“So you can cut off their head to save your own neck?” Hannibal reasons. “Do
you honestly believe me to be so naive?”
“No, Hannibal. I do not.” Mayor Argent suddenly aims a dart gun and shoots
Hannibal with it before anyone can react.
Hannibal stumbles to his feet and yanks the dart out of his neck.
Stiles quickly moves out of the way in fear of Hannibal lashing out.
Hannibal throws the dart down. “What have you done?” he thunders.
“Gave you a very diluted mixture of this,” Mayor Argent replies, waving the
small vial. “Now it may not work as quickly as this would have but give it
time. You’ll find it’s just as potent.”
Hannibal hisses, flashing fang as he bristles.
“Give me a name, and I’ll provide you with the antidote,” Mayor Argent
bargains.
Ill-timing causes Kate to waltz in the room in her silk silver gown. “Dad,
where’s Stiles? You —”
Hannibal is across the room in a flash, poised behind Kate with a hand wrapped
around the front of throat as he forces her head at an angle so he can hover
his fangs threateningly where her shoulder meets neck. “You’ve been terribly
rude, Gerard,” he seethes. “What a lovely little creature your daughter is. I’d
quite enjoy having her as a last meal.”
Stiles fingers twitch as his heart knocks away in his chest but he’s frozen
with fear, unsure of what to do.
Kate’s mouth is twisted in a scowl as she struggles fearlessly under Hannibal’s
hand.
“Don’t be an imbecile,” Mayor Argent says as he stands. “Let’s keep this
between us.”
“Oh you’ve ruined any chances of that when you poisonedme, you old fool,”
Hannibal fumes. His fangs lengthen and his grey eyes glow menacingly. He bites
into Kate’s neck as she jolts and cries out. Hannibal pulls away just as
quickly, mouth stained red by her blood. “Oh the sins I taste in her blood.
It’s everything I can do not to rip her apart.”
Mayor Argent doesn’t move to stop him.
“What are you doing?” Stiles yells at him. “You’re just going to let him kill
her?”
“Contain your emotional outbursts, Mr. Stilinski,” Mayor Argent calmly replies,
not even sparing Stiles a glance. “No deal, Hannibal.”
“Then she suffers,” Hannibal spits. In the next instance, he’s gone.
Kate falls to her knees and Stiles quickly lunges to her in efforts to keep her
from crashing face first into the floor. Her eyes flutter and she looks a
little out of breath before she passes out in his arms.
“What’s wrong with her? What did he do?” Stiles asks desperately.
Mayor Argent ignores him. “She shouldn’t have interfered,” he says. Then he
makes an indication for Violet to follow him out of the room.
Stiles is left alone to press a shaky hand to Kate’s bleeding neck wound. He
tries not panic.
Isaac finds him a moment later.
“Help me,” Stiles says, tears building in the corner of his eyes, mostly from
adrenaline. “Help me get her out of here.”
Isaac nods wordlessly, bodily lifts Kate and carries her bridal-style like she
weighs nothing.
“Take her to the garage. I’ll try and find her keys,” Stiles instructs and they
part ways when they exit the study.
                                      ---
Stiles manages not to run them off the road or ram Kate’s rental into another
car on the way to Deaton’s shop. He’s working on autopilot when he parks
halfway on the curb and knocks desperately on the glass before he drags Isaac
and Kate to the back. He knocks again and again as he rings the bell at the
same time before the light hanging above the backdoor turns on and Deaton
appears in the open doorway a moment later.
“Mr. Stilinski? What —”
“She’s been bitten by a Vampire,” Stiles interjects. “I didn’t know where else
to go.”
Deaton eyes an unconscious Kate, still settled in Isaac’s arms before he looks
up and down the alley. He then touches his hands to the doorframe until it
glows white under his touch before completely fading away. “Come in,” he says
and moves out of the way so they can do just that. He puts the seal back up
once they’re inside and then locks the door. “Upstairs. This way.”
Stiles and Isaac are led to a small apartment located above Deaton’s shop and
the only thing Stiles lets himself notice is that it smells heavily of incense.
“Help me move this table, please,” Deaton says, grabbing one end of his glass
coffee table as Stiles grabs the other end. They move it more towards his
leather couch, which is sitting against the windows that face the front of the
buildings across the street.
Stiles moves out the way as he watches Deaton spread out a strange quilt with
different symbols stitched into it on the floor.
“Lay her here,” Deaton instructs.
Isaac settles Kate over the quilt carefully before stepping away to stand
beside Stiles.
Deaton then lowers himself to his knees to Kate’s left, turning her head so he
can closely examine the bite mark on her neck with a furrowed brow. He makes
thoughtful sounds but he never really says anything.
“What’s happening to her?” Stiles asks, chewing away on his fingernails
anxiously.
“She’s evolving,” Deaton replies.
“Into what?” Stiles rasps.
“A Ghoul.”
“No. No.” Stiles shakes his head. “How do we stop it? How can we stop it?”
“Truthfully, I’m not sure we can. Once the process has begun, there’s no
stopping it,” Deaton confesses. “However, there might be one thing that can
save her from such a fate.”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s not a sure thing,” Deaton warns as he looks up at him. “A tonic,
theoretically, could be concocted to reverse the effects.”
“What ingredients do you need?” Stiles questions immediately. “I’ll get them.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Stilinski. I have mostly everything I need,” Deaton assures.
“However, I do require a small donation of blood from the Vampire who bit her.”
Stiles slowly closes his eyes with a sigh. Then he opens them with a determined
attitude. “I’ll get it.”
“Vampires are not to be philandered with,” Deaton cautions. “I urge you to stay
alert. I’ll do what I can here.”
Stiles nods and turns to Isaac. “Can I convince you to stay here?”
“Not a chance,” Isaac says softly.
Stiles exhales roughly. “I thought not.” He looks to Deaton. “How long before
she takes a turn for the worst?”
“You’ve got a six hour window at best,” Deaton replies. “I’d hurry,
regardless.”
Stiles nods and grabs Isaac’s hand before dragging him out of the building.
They make their way to Kate’s car and pulls free their bikes from the trunk
before climbing them. “There’s no way those Vampires are still at the Argent
Manor,” he supposes.
“So where do we look?” Isaac asks.
“I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “But I know someone who might.” He starts
peddling. “We need Violet and Garrett.”
Isaac looks as unhappy about that as Stiles feels.
***** bluff *****
Once again, outside of the Argent Manor, they loiter in front of the glittering
marble water fountain looking utterly disheveled in their bloodstained tuxedos
with their bikes lying at their feet. They're standing so close to the fountain
that Stiles can feel a cool mist ghosting over the back of his neck. It’s not
thundering per say, but there are white flashes that silently appear behind the
clouds in the sky.
Stiles flags over a valet (who raises his eyebrows and turns up his nose at
their unusual state) and he tips the valet a twenty-dollar bill to collect
Violet and Garrett and bring them outside.
It takes a few minutes but Garrett and Violet finally reach them with the same
kind of questioning expressions the valet wore. Violet stands a few feet before
Garret, who makes no move to stand directly at her side, acting more as a burly
spectator.
Stiles says, “You’re going to help me.”
Garrett huffs as he combs a large hand through his styled hair before yanking
gently on his tuxedo jacket as if to straighten it.
Violet look unutterably amused and darkly beautiful in her flowing gown, but
she makes no move to comment as she looks on with patient indifference.
Stiles ignores the fact that they’re both looking at him like he's a elegant
pearl necklace blotted with flecks of mud and says, “This is how it’s going to
go. You’re going to help me track down Hannibal, and it’s going to be well
before midnight when you do.”
Violet lifts her eyebrows and pulls out the bobby pins in her hair before
shakes out her hair, which causes her tousled raven locks to sweep across the
delicate line of her shoulders as she says, “Or…what? I have to say, if this is
you being threatening, I am very disappointed.”
Stiles squints his eyes in annoyance.
“This is a waste of time,” Garrett decides as his handsome face creases with
aggravation while he jams his large hands into the pockets of his dress pants.
“Seriously, Vee. We’ve got better things to do then entertain these two punks.”
Violet lifts her manicured hand and Garrett grows strangely silent.
Stiles might almost believe that she used magic to get him to shut up but
Garrett grumbles under his breath and that notion dispels. He says, “Look, are
you going to help us or not?”
“Or not,” Violet echoes, unimpressed as she presses that very hand she used to
signal for Garrett’s silence to press to her chin thoughtfully.
Isaac straightens out to his full height beside Stiles and he’s got three
inches over his brother (and wow okay when did that happen?) and he says, “If
you don’t help us, we’ll walk right into that fancy party and make a scene like
you wouldn’t believe.” Then he adds, “Which, if you really think about it,
won’t be too hard to do seeing as we’re covered in blood. And something tells
me that Mayor Argent won't take too kindly to that. Nor will his guests. And
how would he feel to know that you two were all that stood between us doing so,
and you did nothing. But again, it’s up to you.”
Garrett glares at them both and widens his stance.
Stiles’s lips twist with a little pride and he says, “Yeah. What he said.”
Violet stares at them blankly, weighing the threat silently before she
responds, “I want more of your spit.”
“That’s a strange request,” Stiles retorts as he blinks at her. “This isn’t a
negotiation.”
“I disagree. You’re a Virtue — everything is negotiable,” is Violet’s apathetic
reply.
"Maybe you're right, but I'm not negotiating anything with you."
“You think Hannibal won't make any demands of his own when we find him? He’s
centuries old. He isn’t stupid.”
“You let me worry about that,” Stiles merely says because he had considered
that possibility. But Kate’s worth it. “You don’t get anymore of my DNA. You
just get the satisfaction of helping me save Kate’s life. And maybe I convince
her not to seek revenge.” He waits a few beats before he adds, “Or we can play
this out just in the way my brother described. I have to warn you that I did
theater back at my old school and I’ve been itching to do some public
improvisation.”
Violet’s eyes flash pink for a brief second before she forcibly relaxes her
shoulders. “I do nothing for free.”
“Today’s a new day,” Isaac drawls cynically, unmoved and, wow, yeah this side
of his brother he can get behind. The deep level of sarcasm Isaac uses makes
Stiles unbelievably proud. “First time for everything.”
“Call their bluff, Vee,” Garrett complains with an annoying amount of righteous
indignation. “It’s not like we can’t stop them.”
Stiles feels his palms grow warm.
Violet stiffens and she must notice because something that looks like
uneasiness flickers through her perfectly composed mask for an eighth of a
second before completely vanishing. “I do nothing for free,” she clinically
argues. “However. I can be generous in dire situations.”
Stiles relaxes. “Good to know.”
Isaac says nothing.
Garrett makes an aggravated and almost mournful sound.
Violet coldly disregards him. “Old Town. That’s where Hannibal is staying with
his clan. I doubt any of them will be happy to see us after what Mayor Argent
has done.”
“Again, you let me worry about that,” Stiles determinedly resolves.
Violet glances between Stiles and Isaac as Garrett approaches her from behind
and rests his hand on her left shoulder. Her eyes glow pink as she snaps her
fingers with a pink spark.
The bikes at Isaac and Stiles’s feet disappear in a thick cloud of pink smoke.
“Don’t worry. They’ll reappear when needed. I’ve enchanted them,” Violet
informs them. She offers her right hand to them and says, “You’re not prone to
motion sickness are you?”
Stiles furrows his brow in question.
“I’m a master of teleportation, if you can believe,” Violet explains with a
long-suffering sigh. “It’s tricky when I have to do it with others. But it can
be done. Just as long as you keep your mind completely blank. You wouldn’t want
to end up...somewhere else.”
Stiles tries not to contemplate what she could possibly mean because that’s
absolutely no good for his nerves. He glances down at the ground where their
bikes used to be and then to Isaac who shrugs and looks unafraid.
“I’ll do it if you do,” Isaac murmurs lowly, looking both sincere and daring.
It’s a small comfort.
Stiles takes a deep breath and nods at him before he clears his mind of
everything. He reaches out at the same time Isaac does and they grab Violet’s
hand simultaneously.
Then in a blink, with the sensation of pens and needles prickling over every
inch of his skin, and his gut twisting in the way it would on an elevator going
down at an incredible rate, they’re standing on the edge of Old Town.
Stiles stumbles away in surprise and catches Isaac in time to steady him when
he does the same.
Violet and Garrett, however, look as composed as ever.
Violet glides across the gleaming concrete with her silk gown floating around
her as though she were walking merely on the air. She glances back at them with
glowing pink eyes that make her look dangerously ethereal and otherworldly to
say, “Coming?”
Garrett tosses Isaac a disdainful look as he shoulders him out of the way so he
can flock after her like the eager little minion he is.
Stiles glares at the back of Garrett’s stupid head as he steadies his brother
once more.
Isaac just nudges him along until they’re both trailing after the Argent
orphans.
Stiles glances around quickly at the shadowy faces of the old abandoned
buildings/storefronts and tries not to comment on the irony of the thin layer
of fog floating around them. It doesn’t keep the somewhat shattered or broken
windows from glittering ominously.
An owl hoots in the distance.
The moon sits heavy and full in the sky; white and encased by blackness, the
white lights of the stars punch holes in the sky all around it.
They keep a steady pace down the empty stretch of road spread out before them
like a black tar rug as they venture deeper into the heart of Old Town.
Since Old Town is settled mainly on or near to the outskirts of Beacon Hills,
it’s deathly quiet and creepy. This part of town is what nightmares are made
of.
Also, it’s hard not to notice the crows perched on streetlamps overhead.
The ones that loom in the sky really give Stiles a proper spook — he’s read in
Vampire lore that crows and Vampires are attracted to one another for some
unknown, unearthly reason. So where there may be Vampires, there will be crows,
or vice versa.
The point is that these stupid feathered black messengers of death are staring
down at them with their beady little eyes like spectators watching a man
walking to his demise.
They make it to the end of the street and approach a large pub made of wood and
stone.
Violet knocks on the door twice.
A small window in the door slides open revealing a pair of grey eyes. “Cila
është puna juaj këtu?” asks the voice on the other side of the door. Those grey
eyes are watching them carefully.
Violet, without missing a beat, replies, “Unë vij si një dhuratë-mbajtës.”She
gestures to Stiles.
Stiles wonders what’s being said.
Isaac, who seems eerily like he’s reading his thoughts, huddles close and
whispers, “It’s Albanian.”
Stiles blinks and glances over to his brother.
“My mom and dad used to argue in Albanian,” Isaac quietly explains.
“You speak Albanian?” Stiles asks, amazed when Isaac meekly nods.
“It’s kind of my heritage,” Isaac discloses timidly. He seems a little
embarrassed about it. “Do you want me to translate?”
Stiles nods.
“This is some kind of ‘blood-club’, so he’s asking about what our business is
here. Only vampires are permitted. She’s telling him she has a gift for his
master. That she wants to make amends for the wrongs of Mayor Argent,” Isaac
explains softly with a brow furrowed in concentration.
Stiles feels an answering frown shrug the corners of his mouth down and he
marks the word ‘blood-club’ in his mind as something to research or ask Deaton
about when he gets the chance.
Isaac gets curiously silent at the same time Violet does.
It makes sense that they do in the next moment because the man on the other
side of the door says, “Okay” in rough English before he closes the small
window and unlocks the door to let them through.
It is just as foggy inside of the pub as it is on the outside. Not to mention
there’s very little light.
Stiles keeps Isaac close to him as he squints to make up for what he’s unable
to see but Isaac seems to have no trouble. In fact, he’s the one guiding
Stiles.
There are lit candles hanging from the ceiling on chandeliers, casting long
shadows on the booths, the bar, and the dance floor.
It smells like candle wax, herbs, rainwater, and blood. The sounds of moans and
hisses float through the air along with the sound of soft seductive music.
Glowing grey eyes tack onto Stiles and follow him like the sharp gaze of a hawk
in the dead of the night with its sight on prey.
It makes Stiles’s skin crawl and his palms warm defensively. He wills the
feeling away, lest he does anything that will ruin their chances of getting
what they came for.
“This way.” The large man who guards the door leads their little group into the
far reaches of the pub and through dark, velvety curtains to a more private
setting.
“Visitors. Why am I not surprised?”
In the center of the room sits Hannibal Barca. He sits above all the writhing
bodies spread across the floor, both Human and Vampire alike, with an air of
arrogance about him. His grey eyes are steely, even though he’s pale with black
veins spread across the wound on his neck, disappearing down into the collar of
his bloody dress shirt.
There’s a pretty blonde in his lap looking sweaty and dazed as blood pulsates
from the curve of her left breast where it’s peeking out the cup of her green
corset dress.
Hannibal bites into her wrist before holding the bleeding limb over a wineglass
brought to him by one of his followers.
Stiles flinches a little against the sight.
Once the glass is full, the woman is carried away and out of sight.
Hannibal tugs his handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt and uses it to
clean the blood around his mouth and on the edges of the wineglass. “So quiet,”
he says without looking at either of them. He takes a generous sip. “Yet you
bravely venture into my den. No doubt to make some demands.” He smirks and
tosses the handkerchief off to the side. “So.” He glances up and examines each
of them. “What would one need from a dying king, hm?”
Stiles swallows but he pushes his way to stand before Garrett, Violet, and
Isaac. He says, “Kate needs —”
“I am well aware of what Argent’s little female spawn requires,” Hannibal
interrupts bitterly. He crushes the wineglass and blood oozes down his hand.
“But what I want to know is why you would be so bold as to ask me for it?”
“I won’t insult you by claiming that what happened tonight was just a
misunderstanding,” Stiles nervously declares.
“Good,” is Hannibal’s callous reply. “Then you are as smart as you look. I
feared the opposite when you wandered in.”
“I can get her to lift whatever spell she’s put on you,” Stiles swears as he
gestures to Violet, who looks at him sharply in turn, but he just ignores that.
Hannibal’s expression goes blank. “This is no enchantment, boy,” he explains
darkly. “They’ve poisoned me. With the very thing you use to keep that
wandering tongue of yours from getting dry.”
Stiles quickly backtracks. “Then I’ll cure you.”
Hannibal pauses at that. He cocks his head and says, “Does she mean so much to
you that you would save the life of a monster in order to rescue her?”
“I’m saying that no one has to die. Not if I can help it,” Stiles shakily
replies. His nerves are getting to him.
Hannibal makes a noncommittal sound at that. He leans forward and says, “And if
it is not enough? If I should request that you bring me Gerard Argent’s head on
a spike? If I should request that you join my multitude and I for the rest of
your days? What then? Would you still seek to save this woman’s life?”
Stiles swallows and curls his fingers into fists. He makes sure that he chooses
his next words carefully because they will either make or break this deal. “You
won’t ask that of me,” he says with certainty. He combs through his thoughts
desperately before saying, “You can’t force a Seven to do anything they don’t
want to do.”
Hannibal lifts a brow at that. Minutes tick by and by and by…and by. “Forgive
me then,” he finally remarks after a long while and it almost seems too easy,
too simple. “It was not my intention to be rude. It has been a long time since
I was blessed to be in the presence of great influence.”
Stiles tries his best not to squirm in relief at the stunt he just pulled.
Really. He had no idea that would actually work.
“Caitlin,” Hannibal suddenly says, and from the shadows appears a lithely
beautiful female with short bubblegum-pink hair, and neon orange lips to match
the neon tattoos littering every inch of her body. Even when she smiles her
teeth seem to glow in the dark, right along with her white sundress. “You’ll
have to forgive my paranoia. Old habits. I find when you have been in this
world for as long as I have, you begin to mistrust the word of mortals. They
tend to say just about anything in great times of perils.”
Stiles is struck by a feeling of unease. “I don’t understand.”
“Caitlin is very keen in detecting lies. While she may not be a Virtue, she
still has her uses,” Hannibal clarifies. He gestures her closer, and she leans
over until her ear is hovering near his mouth.
Caitlin flicks her gaze over to Stiles as she nods in agreement to whatever
Hannibal is saying. When she straightens, she ventures to Stiles and says with
a silvery voice, “Do not be afraid of me. I will not harm you. I never neglect
to show hospitality, for by doing this, I make myself open to having welcomed a
paragon of Fate as guests without knowing it.”
Stiles still doesn’t understand.
“My name is Caitlin. I am a Sage. I consult with the gods — the Faceless. Do
you know them?” Caitlin asks and she’s very gentle when she grabs his right
hand.
“I — uh — I know ofthem,” Stiles stutters as she presses a kiss to the inside
of his palm, leaving behind a smear of neon lipstick.
Caitlin straightens and smiles kindly at him the way a doctor or nurse would if
they were drawing blood and trying to be very gentle about it. She traces her
fingers over the smear before bringing them up to hover over the spot as she
uses her other hand to keep the hand steady. She cocks her head as she stares
down. “He speaks the truth, Hannibal. He is a Seven.”
“How well-heeled,” Hannibal crows, delighted. He claps his hands together as
one of his kind bring him a bowl of water so he can wash his hands. “He wants
to save me. Will he?”
“He is a man of his word,” Caitlin confirms as she lifts her head and Stiles is
startled to see that her eyes have gone milky grey. “His word is his bond.”
“Excellent,” Hannibal says as he dries his hands. “Go on then. I know you’re
itching to prophesy."
“Heed my words. For I know the plans that they have for you,” Caitlin continues
in a smoky voice. Her voice rings as clear as a bell in the darkness of the
room. “You will do great things. You were chosen by the Faceless themselves. It
is your birthright to bring about peace and balance. You were molded and shaped
for this very reason. And so Fate rejoices over you with singing.”
Stiles blinks. “Uh —”
“But I see pain,” Caitlin warns sorrowfully. “You will lose as much as you
gain. This life — there is a cost. She’s not meant to be saved. Death will
always linger at her door. And her destruction will be her love’s undoing.” She
blinks and her eyes go back to normal. “Give him your blood, Hannibal. He will
heal you but you will need him again. Do not be discourteous to him. Keep a
seat of honor at your table for him, always, and he shall make you prosperous.”
She moves to return to Hannibal’s side and she stands by him silently.
Hannibal snaps his fingers and one of his followers bring him a jewel-encrusted
gold goblet. He uses his own fangs to bite into his wrist as his eyes glow and
he spills his blood into the goblet. He hands the goblet to Caitlin and she
carries it over to Isaac.
Caitlin then turns to Stiles with a knife and takes the hand that she kissed
and pricks his index finger.
Stiles winces against the pain but says nothing when she smears his blood on a
grape lollipop she pulled from between her cleavage. It’s weird.
Caitlin releases him and returns to Hannibal with the bloody lollipop, which he
quickly pops into his mouth and it’s ridiculous how absurd this centuries old
vampire looks sucking on a lollipop. 
Hannibal’s skin clears within an instance though (all strangeness aside), and
the black veins disappear as if the poison has been dissipated from his system.
He straightens on his throne, looking unnaturally pale as ever but somehow
healthier. “Well that’s certainly better,” he remarks, smirking around the
white stem of the lollipop. His eyes twinkle as he looks at Stiles. “Go out in
joy and be led by peace, my friend. We will cross paths again. Give Kathryn
Argent my best.”
Stiles doesn’t waste a second to quickly herd his brother out of the pub;
Violet and Garrett on their heels. He inhales shakily the instant they step
back out into the night air as his nerves finally peak and decline.
Violet and Garrett say not one word to them as they disappear with a cloud of
pink smoke.
Stiles could care less. He only cares that their bikes appear a moment after.
Isaac watches him fumble onto his bike as he climbs onto his own with more
grace, juggling the goblet of blood with one hand as he steers with the other.
He says, “I think this is real gold.”
And Stiles — he laughs. He laughs long and hard and deliriously because he just
walked in and out a den of lethal vampires with nothing but a small prick on
his finger.
                                      ---
Deaton’s already fussing over an elixir in his kitchen when they return. He
doesn’t question them when Isaac hands over the goblet of blood but he does
look at Stiles with an assessing gaze before he turns to continue to toil away
at the bubbling pot over the stove. It smells really loud and strange — like
weird combination of peppermint and vinegar.
Stiles sinks onto Deaton’s couch as if his body is made of liquid and watches
Kate struggle with every breath and it does nothing but shove him into a
terrible mood. There’s a gob of dismay worming its way through his intestines.
Isaac manages to hunt down a first aid kit and he kneels before Stiles with it,
silently wrapping an Elmo band aid over his meagerly wounded finger.
Deaton has Elmo band aids. Why.
Stiles winces a little but other than a few pricks of pain, Isaac really is
quite gentle.
Isaac cocks his head up at him when he’s satisfied with his handiwork and says,
“You smell upset. Why? You got what you wanted.”
Stiles shakes his head. “Even with everything that’s happened I had hoped that
—" He stops abruptly. He's not even sure about what he will say. "It's nothing.
Never mind. Forget it.” He stands and extracts his phone from his pocket. “I
need to make a few calls. Can you call dad and tell him what happened?”
“Yeah, but he’s not going to like it,” Isaac points out as he takes Stiles’s
place on the couch.
Stiles just shrugs tiredly while saying, "I'll deal with it," and tucks away in
the bathroom. He calls Peter first.
“What have you done?” is the first thing Peter asks when he picks up after the
first ring. “You never call me, so there must be something decidedly fatal
happening. What is it?”
Stiles waits a good minute before he says, “I’m at Deaton’s. It’s — don’t freak
out but — just.”
Peter makes a thoughtfully amused sound. "Your pauses are really reassuring.
And also quite dramatic," he states. "But I admit, there is a flare of suspense
that has me on the edge of my seat."
"Peter," Stiles says in a tone he normally never uses with the older man.
Peter grows curiously silent on the other end.
Stiles uses the pause to take a deep breath. Then he starts again, “There was
an incident. You should know Kate’s hurt. But she —”
Peter doesn’t let him finish. The phone goes dead on his end.
Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at his screen incredulously.
“Okay. That’s not good.” He quickly calls Laura. She picks up as swiftly as
Peter had. “Please tell me Peter isn’t splitting out of there like a lunatic.”
“Nah. More like a bat out of hell,” Laura confirms, sounding both amused and
concerned. “What’s up?”
“Kate’s hurt. But, but —” Stiles sighs again as the phone goes dead on her end.
“Why doesn’t anybody let me finish?” He exits the bathroom and as he passes
Deaton in the kitchen, he says, “We’re going to have some company. Uh — you
wouldn’t mind taking down the thingyou have on the door?”
Deaton doesn’t look particularly thrilled or willing, but he does turn the fire
low to a simmer and follows Stiles down the steps to the back door.
Stiles steps out into the alley and looks up and down expectantly. He’s not
sure how long he stands there before Peter appears (surprise, surprise)
completely wolfing out.
Peter stands before Stiles, fangs, claws, and all. He’s really growly and he
glares lethally at Deaton, who’s looming in his own doorway with an unimpressed
look.
“He may not come in like that,” Deaton states firmly and Stiles can feel his
gaze burning holes in the back of his head. It’s obviously nonnegotiable. “Talk
him down.”
Stiles tosses his hands out wide and waves them up and down with exasperation
like he’s trying (but failing) to fly. “Why does everyone leave these things to
me? I just — I’m not even qualified to handle this stuff but here I am, right
in the belly of it all, like a true soldier with generally no experience or
complaints except just wanting to understand what the hell is going on, but
really anyone with sense would be in the same position if they had to go
through what I go through and I have to say that —”
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton interrupts and even though his voice neither goes up or
down, it’s a little obvious he’s exasperated by Stiles’s babbling.
“Fine, fine,” Stiles mutters and stops his frantic gesturing. He stares right
into Peter’s gold eyes and says, “You gotta cool it, Peter. Kate’s going to be
okay. Okay? She’s — I took care of it. I would never let her — she's important
to me too. Please tell me I’m getting through to you. She's going to be okay.”
Peter struggles but manages to shift back in slow degrees and it looks as
painful as it sounds. Even when he’s completely human, he still looks pale and
shaken.
Stiles has to double take because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Peter like
this over anything or anyone. He — yeah, okay, he gets it. The near-death thing
is understandable. “She’s okay,” he promises again. “I took care of it.
Deaton’s going to — he’ll make it better.”
Peter’s not saying a word, and that’s just as bad. He’s staring at Stiles like
his whole world is shattering in ways he can’t hope to fix and he can’t do a
damn thing about it.
Stiles leans forward as if to give him a hug but he reels back immediately when
he realizes that this is Peter and Peter doesn’t want a hug. He just wants Kate
and he’ll be on the verge of a nervous breakdown if he doesn’t get her.
There are literaltears sneaking into the corner of Peter’s blue eyes. He's been
in this position before with his family. Thoughts must be flying wildly in his
mind and Stiles suddenly knows what Hannibal's Sage meant when she said that
Kate's death would be her lover's undoing.
She seemed pretty sure that Kate is going to die someday.
And that — that's going to rip Peter's world wide open in the most painful way
possible.
Stiles makes a strangled sound of anguish because damn it, this is his friend
and he can’t bare to see him broken like this. “Oh Jesus, just — Deaton, let
him in. Let him in.”
Deaton touches his hands to the doorframe until it glows and he steps back.
Peter’s gone as soon as he does, most likely following Kate’s scent up into the
apartment upstairs.
Stiles feels his shoulders shake a little out of sympathy, and he barely has
time to get himself together before Laura appears, and he has to do the dance
all over again.
Deaton’s really silent then.
Stiles thinks it’s because Laura’s grown a whole four inches taller with her
shifting. She’s like a beanpole. Her eyes are redder than anything he’s ever
seen —  her claws and fangs are longer than he ever remembered them being.
“Laura, please.” At this point he feels a little drained. “Deaton wont let you
in when you’re like this. Kate’s okay and you — you guys really should have
given me a chance to explain. I took care of it. If you’d listen on the phone —
if you’d let me finishyou’d know that I have it under control. Deaton’s working
on making her better but you’ve got to calm down. She’s not going anywhere.”
Laura growls at Deaton but she whines a little as she shuffles closer to Stiles
and he doesn’t dare move an inch as she shrinks down to normal size and returns
to herself. She exhales and there’s sweat glistening across her forehead. She
looks exhausted by it all. “Take me to her. Please.”
“Okay,” Stiles says softly and wraps her arm over his shoulders so she can lean
on him as they make their way in after Deaton removes the magical barrier
before putting it back up. He walks with Laura up the stairs and guides her
over to where Peter is cradling half of Kate’s body in his lap with his nose
buried in her cropped hair.
Laura shuffles over, suddenly weak-kneed as she falls onto her knees beside
Peter and an unconscious Kate.
Stiles feels a sudden shiver ride up his spine at the sight of the three of
them, and it’s almost like some kind of unpleasant case of déjà vu. He has to
violently suppress and ignore it as he joins Isaac on the couch because he
doesn’t trust where that thread of thought might lead him. He feels worn-out as
he leans into his brother’s side.
Isaac lifts his arm and drags Stiles closer, silently comforting him as he
continues to watch Peter and Laura fuss over Kate with curiosity.
Stiles begins to completely drift just as Deaton carries over a steaming bowl
of the elixir.
The last thing he hopes for before he completely succumbs to sleep is that
they’ll all be in better spirits when he wakes.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up on Thursday in Laura’s bed. It’s kind of confusing at first,
which is understandable because that’s certainly not where he fell asleep. He
sits up with a yawn and scratches the back of his head as he glances around,
noticing it’s daylight and Laura’s nowhere to be seen.
Gumdrop’s lounging in her own huge sparkly bed, tail wagging lazily as she
watches Stiles’s every move.
Stiles grabs the change of clothes that’s been left for him at the end of the
bed with a note that merely has his name on it. He shuffles to the bathroom and
strips down before climbing into the shower to wash up. When he’s sure he’s
squeaky clean, he climbs out, towels off and climbs into the fresh set of
clothes (which happens to be a pair of dark fitted jeans, a pea green hoodie,
and some underwear).
Stiles knows without knowing that these are Derek’s clothes. He brushes his
teeth with a spare toothbrush before walking barefoot out of the bathroom and
out of Laura’s room. He can smell food and his mouth waters as he follows it
into the dining room where everyone is communing over a banquet of deli
sandwiches made from a variety of fixings.
It’s mostly the adults and the older teens filling in the seats at the dining
room table.
Stiles figures the kids must be in the kitchen like they usually are.
Nana Hale is sitting at the head of the table with Isaac (who’s in a fresh pair
of clothes too), holding Olive (surprisingly) as Cora goes to town on a
meatball sandwich on the other side of him.
Laura waves him over to the empty seat she’s apparently saved for him and he
sits down as he scans the contents of the table. “Did you sleep okay? You were
completely knocked by the time my mom came to get us.”
“Yeah, I slept okay,” Stiles says with a slight frown. He must have been really
tired to not have noticed being bodily moved.
Laura must read it on his face because she smiles slyly and says, “You can
thank your brother for that one. He refused to let any of us handle you. He
probably thought we wouldn't be gentle or as careful as he certainly was.”
Stiles glances up the table at Isaac, who gets a little pink and stares at his
tuna sandwich like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Stiles can’t
help but to smile a little at that. “He’s a bit protective,” he supposes.
“Oh I know how Werecats can be with their Pride,” Laura replies cheerily.
Stiles feels something warm and pleasant expand in both his chest and his head
at that. "You, uh, think Isaac considers me his Pride?" he asks, completely
aware that his little brother is eavesdropping.
Isaac continues to stare shyly at his food like he suspects it could disappear
at any moment.
Laura laughs. "Is that even a question?" she retorts, and she does have a
point. “I had to practically bribe him into letting you sleep in my bed. He
stuck around after our hour debate and even slept on the floor. I swear he
wasn’t going to let you out of his sight.”
Stiles snorts and reaches for a turkey sandwich and some plain potato chips.
"Nothing I wouldn't have done in his shoes," he supposes with an approving tone
and sends Isaac a quick smile before his attention shifts. “Where’s Peter and
Kate?”
“Speaking of never letting someone out of their sight. Kate’s in Peter’s room
with him,” Laura explains. “I think he was more freaked than I was. They may
never leave his bed.”
“They’d better,” Derek pipes up from across the table with a pinched
expression. “They keep having sex.My room is under his. And mom won’t do
anything. She keeps saying it’s perfectly normal and healthy and it’s awful.
She’s not suffering like I am. Grown ups are weird.”
“Well thank God you’re no closer to being one,” Laura remarks with a smirk and
ducks when Derek hurls an entirepickle at her. “See what I mean?” she crows
with delight.
Stiles laughs a little, feeling the weight of his bad mood completely disperse
into nothing.
“Anyway,” Laura says between bites. “Isaac is smitten with my baby sister.”
Stiles glances up at Isaac, who is staring down at Olive like she’s the most
precious gift in the world while Cora takes advantage of this to steal some of
the food off his plate (like there isn’t already enoughto go around). “I don’t
blame him,” he says after a swallow. He crams some chips into his mouth as he
says, “She’s a prize.”
Laura just retrieves the pickle that Derek threw at her from off the floor and
dusts it off, mumbling about a six second rule before biting into it.
“That’s vile,” Derek complains from across the table as he silently gags.
Laura just moans like it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten.
Derek throws some cheese puffs this time.
Stiles sighs as a bit of it rains onto his plate and lap. He just follows
Laura’s lead and eats them.
Derek shoots them both dirty looks. "Plebeians. Both of you."
                                      ---
"Dad thinks it’s best if we stay here until he comes back,” Isaac explains as
they sit out back on the swing-set while all the other little Hale younglings
flutter around them, loudly playing games of tag and hide-and-seek. “Told you
he’d be mad about everything. I think he’s gonna ground us when he gets back.”
Stiles sighs. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”
Isaac kicks back against the ground so he can start a good swing. “I’m going to
miss so much Cake Boss,” he complains.
Stiles is startled into laughter about that. “I really question your taste in
TV.”
Isaac shrugs and keeps on swinging. “The new seasons of Toddlers and Tiaras and
Dance Moms are supposed to start tonight. I better watch them while I still
have a chance. You think dad will let me DVR it while we're grounded? I can
always catch up.”
“You are ridiculous and I question why I love you,” Stiles states flatly as he
watches his brother swing higher and higher.
Isaac smiles like he’s won the lottery and Stiles doesn’t get why until he
pants, “Love you too.” But then he ruins the moment by adding, “It smells so
bad here. My nose is throbbing.”
Stiles knows it must be torture but he still feels it’s his diplomatic
responsibility to say, “Be nice.”
“It does though,” Isaac insists. “Like a wet dog that's been outside too long.
It's too earthy and...wrong. It’s awful. You reek too. You’ve got Derekall over
you.”
Stiles groans and goes a little pink as he slaps a hand over his face. “Can you
not say it like that? Geez.”
“But you do,” Isaac swears before sighing. “Might as well get used to it,” he
mutters, mainly to himself.
“What? What does that mean?” Stiles asks with a confused frown.
Isaac opens his mouth to reply but a small pebble gets thrown at him and he
jumps off the swing, landing on his feet gracefully like a cat before he moves
to chase down the culprit.
Stiles never gets an answer to his question as he watches Isaac hunt down a
pair of preteen girls who obviously have a crush on him. Stiles sighs and
shakes his head before making his way towards the Hale house in search of his
phone.
It’s in Laura’s room on the floor.
Stiles calls his dad as he watches Laura strip her bed down with loud
meaningful complaints of how it smells like blood and old musty shoes. He rolls
his eyes and leaves his dad a voicemail when he doesn’t pick up, making sure to
add a heartfelt apology in there in hopes it’ll alleviate the punishment he
knows is coming.
Laura is unhelpfully amused. She waits until he hangs up the phone to say, “If
it’s worth anything, Iwas very moved. And I’d only ground you for twenty-four
hours.”
“Thanks,” Stiles replies flatly before pocketing his phone. “We need to talk.”
“Mm, I had a feeling you’d say that,” Laura says as she dumps the last of her
covers in a laundry basket. “Follow me down to the laundry room and we can talk
about whatever you want.”
Stiles thinks that’s reasonable enough, so that’s just what he does. They end
up on the other side of the basement in a room that smells like detergent and
fabric softener. He watches as Laura twists and presses at the buttons of the
washing machine before it whirrs to life.
Laura begins shoving her sheets into the mouth of it.
Stiles says, and not without significance, “Your eyes were red last night.”
Laura huffs a little bitterly and says, “So I might have come into my Alpha
inheritance a little sooner than expected. Early bloomer. Lucky me.”
“You don’t sound particularly thrilled,” Stiles notes.
Laura swings the washing machine’s door shut and shrugs. “Being there with all
those people. Speaking out the way I did — it changed me. It awoke something in
me that I've been suppressing and I just — I don’t know.”
Stiles walks over to the deep freezer wedged in the corner of the room and he
hops on top. He folds his hands together and watches Laura riffle through a
mountain of socks. “You’re an Alpha now.”
“I’m an Alpha now,” Laura confirms as she tries pairing socks together. “God, I
hate when they do this. I can never find my socks.”
Stiles smiles to himself a little. Then he says, “New York?”
“Still happening,” Laura confirms. She sighs and rubs her forehead before she
chews on her bottom lip thoughtfully. She really is quite beautiful. “I think —
I knowthat my dreams won’t wait. I have to pursue them. I have to be and do
what I want or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” She looks to him.
“Chicago is proof that I can be a great leader. That I have a voice. But no
matter what my mom would hope, I have to love myself first. I have to choose
myself first. Of course nothing is set in stone. And maybe I go to New York and
things don’t work out the way I want.”
Stiles straightens as she approaches him and grabs his hands as she wedges
herself between his knees.
Laura continues, “Maybe it all falls apart and I return home as an epic
failure. But at least I would have tried. And I want it too much to let it go.
I’m an Alpha now but I’m no one’s Alpha. You get me?”
Stiles nods and squeezes her hands comfortingly. “Not really but kinda yeah.”
Laura rewards him with a gorgeous smile. She lifts his wounded finger and
kisses it, leeching away some of his pain (not that there’s much to begin with,
just a minor ache). “Tell me who did this. I want to know everything.”
“I thought Isaac would have said something,” Stiles says as he watches her lips
trace the slopes of his knuckles.
"He didn't. He values your privacy when it comes to us."
"I knew I loved that kid for a reason."
Laura just gives him a look as her eyes flash red for a split second. “Stiles.”
“Okay, okay. Geez. No need to get all Alpha on me.”
Laura rolls her eyes.
Stiles spends the next fifteen minutes giving an animated narration of the
events as they transpired.
Laura stops him in the middle of his explanation of the letters Kate found on
her father’s desk and their contents to ask, “Wait, say that again. What was
the virus called?”
“Uh.” Stiles blinks and thinks. “1905HeCa. Why?”
Laura’s brow furrows as she looks off to the side in thought before her face
brightens while her eyes widen. “Fuck! I know that! I know that!”
Stiles tries not to look as startled as he feels. “You said a swear,” he dumbly
mumbles.
Laura grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him a little. “I know what that is!
Come on!” She grabs his hand and drags him all the way to Peter’s room. She
knocks loudly. “I’m not coming in until I know you’re decent.”
Stiles distinctly hears some sniggering from the other side of the door before
Peter tells them its okay to come in.
Laura bursts in the room with Stiles in tow and valiantly ignores the fact that
Peter and Kate are obviously naked under Peter’s comforter and they’ve got
really bad sex hair.
Kate’s got some gauze tapped to the side of her neck where she was bitten, but
other than that she looks healthy; rosy cheeks and all. 
Stiles clears his throat and tries not to think about the fact that it smells
like sex in Peter’s room. He does glance around, ignoring the clothes scattered
on the floor to look at how Peter’s room is really elegantly put together.
There are several bookshelves placed against the walls, along with dressers and
a work desk with several computer monitors and books splayed open with
highlighters wedged in the center like fat bookmarks. All his furniture looks
handcrafted and his room is as large as Laura’s.
“The 1905HeCa virus,” Laura says, pulling on Stiles’s attention and making Kate
perk up with interest. “I know what it is.”
“Well, fuck. Don’t keep me in suspense, Laura. I’ve been pulling my hair out
trying to pinpoint it,” Kate admits as she leans back against Peter’s naked
chest as he runs a hand through her chopped hair. “Spill.”
“In 1905, a French veterinarian by the name of Henri Carrédiscovered the first
case of a viral disease that affects animals in the families Canidae,
Mustelidae, Mephitidae, Hyaenidae, Ailuridae, Procyonidae, Pinnipedia, some
Viverridae and Felidae!”
Stiles is lost.
Peter’s expression goes dark, however. “A distemper,” he says.
Kate lifts both brows. “Wait. So let me get this straight. The 1905HeCa virus
is in actuality an infection?”
Stiles is still lost. “I don’t understand. I thought distempers were when a
viral disease of some animals, especially dogs, causes a fever, coughing, and
catarrh and oh my godthey’re trying to weaponize a variant of Canine
distemper.”
“And he finally gets it,” Peter drawls.
Stiles shoots him a mean look but he gets distracted by a sudden thought.
“Chicago. In the letters there’s a mention about Chicago. I think that somehow
what happened there wasn’t a mistake. They maybe were able to introduce a
variant of the virus to the little girl and — and —” He starts pacing as his
thoughts fly. “But what about the high frequency waves?”
“The witnesses that gave accounts of what happened just outside of that diner
kept telling me that Ezra kept cupping her hands over her ears,” Laura explains
before she looks to Stiles. “That was her name. The little girl. Ezra.”
Stiles gives a solemn nod. He thinks it’s nice that Laura knows her name, if
not a little sad. He says, “There’s something missing. Her mother should have
been just as affected by any frequencies lulling in the area like her daughter
but she wasn’t. So why was Ezra affected so much and her mother wasn’t?”
“It could be like you said,” Kate supposes. “Maybe a variant of the virus was
introduced to her.”
“Chocolate,” Peter says tightly. “She’d been eating chocolate. It was all over
her fingers and all over her mouth. Laura, call their family and see if you can
get any of them to tell you what type of chocolate she was eating.”
“That seems like an insensitive question,” Laura points out. “But I’ll try and
smooth it over.” She wanders out of the room, smartphone in hand.
“Kate, I think we’ll pay my old friend, Parrish, a visit,” Peter decides. “If
anyone can hack and get into encrypted autopsy files, it’s him.”
“He’s certainly ace at that,” Kate agrees with a smirk. “But I don’t think he
likes you very much right now.”
“I don’t need him to like me,” Peter says dismissively with a frown.
Kate leans forward and nips at his bottom lip. “Please. You probably write
about it in your little diary everyday, bemoaning the fact that you and he are
so estranged when you used to be so intimately close.”
“You’re not as cute as you think you are,” Peter says as he gently pushes her
away while she snickers.
Stiles clears his throat pointedly. When he gets their attention, he asks,
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. Relax. Enjoy a day of no school.” Peter looks at him evenly. “You’ve
done enough. Really. Thank you.”
“Better write that down, buttercup,” Kate chimes. “Peter’s never grateful to
anyone about anything. This is truly one for the history books.”
Peter looks away and says nothing.
Stiles tries to sort out how that makes him feel. “So I’m supposed to sit
around and do nothing while you guys figure it all out.”
“Pretty much,” Kate confirms. “We’ll fill you in when we can. Now are you going
to scram or should I just pull back the sheets so you can see me in all my
naked glory as I get dressed? I have to say that I’ve got nothing to be ashamed
of, and me covering up is merely a courtesy to you. What’s it gonna be?”
Stiles makes a face and quickly backs up. “I’m just going to go and not be
here.”
“Good choice,” Kate agrees. “Close the door behind you.”
Stiles does just that when he exits. He goes in search of his brother and finds
him on the first floor of the house in the living room playing dominoes with
Talia and Nana Hale.
Talia’s husband (Derek Sr.), with Olive lying face down against his chest,
plays as a spectator in a rocking chair by the fireplace.
Stiles watches for all of five minutes before he wanders off to follow the
scent of baked goods into the kitchen where Cora and Derek are baking Oreo
cheesecake brownies while simultaneously playing some kind of card game as they
sit on the stools on the end of the island counter. He joins them.
“What game are you playing?”
“The Oracle,” Cora replies. “You ever play?”
“I don’t even — I’ve never heard of it,” Stiles admits.
Derek snorts and says, “You’re supposed to shuffle the cards and then divide
them among the players until there aren’t any cards left.”
“Then you put your pile facing down,” Cora goes on to explain. “When it’s the
other person’s turn, you pick up a card from the top of your pile and ask them
‘What do you think the card is?’ and they have to guess. If they guess right,
they get the card and they keep going until they get it wrong. If they guess
wrong, you keep the card.”
“And basically the person with the most cards at the end wins. But it’s better
if you collect the cards by guessing correctly than the other person getting it
wrong,” Derek finishes. “Understand?”
“Sure,” Stiles says with a shrug.
Cora snorts and stands. “I have to go to the bathroom. Sit in for me and
don’tlose. I’m winning so far.”
“Yeah right,” Derek disagrees.
Cora wanders off. “It’s my turn by the way!” she yells.
Stiles takes her seat and looks at Derek expectantly.
Derek picks up a card, glances at it, then flicks his gaze up and says, “What
do you think the card is?”
Stiles shrugs and says, “Queen of hearts.”
Derek stares at him before huffing. “Lucky guess.” He hands the card over.
Stiles straightens. “Really? I was right? Cool.” He takes the card and puts it
in Cora’s already growing card pile. “Do I get to go again?”
Derek nods and picks up the next card to ask, “What do you think the card is?”
“Seven of diamonds,” Stiles guesses.
Derek frowns. “Right.” He hands the card over. Then he goes again and says,
“What do you think the card is?”
“Ace of spades.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Stiles laughs and claps his hands together. “Maybe I’m just that good,” he
supposes and gleefully collects the card.
“Or you’re cheating,” Derek mutters, narrowing his eyes.
“Don’t be a sore loser. It’s not like there’s a mirror hovering over your
shoulder,” Stiles points out.
“Or you're counting cards,” Derek reasons as he picks up the next card.
“Guess.”
“Me? Counting cards? You’re the math genius between us so how do you sound?”
Stiles pauses and says, “King of clubs.”
Derek sighs.
“Really?” Stiles says and throws his head back and laughs when the card is
handed over to him. “I think I like this game.”
Derek rolls his eyes with a grudging grin. “Just guess the next card. What do
you think it is?”
“Two of diamonds?”
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
Stiles laughs and takes the card. “Come on. Don’t be like that. I’m really not
cheating.”
“What’s up? Who’s cheating?” Cora says as she returns with wet hands, which she
just wipes against her flannel shirt. She moves to stand beside Stiles. “Nice,”
she comments as she notices that her pile has grown.
“He’s cheating. He hasn’t gotten one wrong,” Derek complains.
“What?” Cora says with a thoughtful frown. “Nana’s that good too.”
“Yeah but she’s only good with going three for three and she can’t guess any
higher than that. He’s already on five.”
Cora blinks at that. “Bullshit.” Then she winces and says, “Sorry, mom. I —
yeah. Yeah. I know — I knowI have to be an example. I’m sorry! It was a slip.
No don't tell — dad!Okay, mom! Okay, tell dad that I'm sorry.” She pales a
little but then shakes it off. “Give me the cards. Maybe it’s you.”
“Me? Why would I have anything to do with it?” Derek questions with a furrowed
brow. He looks hilariously offended.
“Your dumb face is probably super easy to read,” Cora supposes as she shuffles
his pile before facing Stiles, who is openly chuckling at their antics.
“Alright. What do you think the card is?”
“Joker.”
“Lucky guess,” Cora mutters, narrowing her eyes. “Guess again.”
“Nine of clubs.”
“What the hell.” Cora hands it over. “You’re totally cheating.”
“I told you!” Derek exclaims.
Stiles just holds his sides as he laughs. He manages to choke out, “I’m not
cheating. I swear.”
“Nope. Nope. I refuse to believe that. Give me all the cards,” Cora says and
collects every single one. “See if you can find a bandana. I have a theory.”
Derek gets up and goes off in search of one.
Stiles snorts. “What am I? Some kind of freak show?”
“Shut up. I have a theory,” Cora insists as she shuffles the deck of cards just
as well (if not better) than a professional from Las Vegas.
Derek returns with the bandana and he wastes no time folding it over before
placing it over Stiles eyes.
Stiles sighs and presses the bandana to his eyes compliantly as Derek ties it.
“This is a little much.”
“Is that too tight?” Derek asks as he drops his hands onto Stiles’s shoulders.
“Uh — no.” Stiles squirms under his hands. “Seriously guys.”
“Shut up and guess the card I’m holding up.”
“Well how am I supposed to shut up andguess at the same time? That’s kind of
redundant, don’t you think?”
“Stiles.”
“I don’t know. Five of hearts?”
“Son of a — how are you doing that?” Cora questions, voice laced with amazement
and exasperation.
“He’s a witch,” Derek mutters.
Stiles smiles and snorts. “I’m not a witch."
"Heresy," Derek maintains.
"I’m just supernaturally good at games apparently,” Stiles insists as his mouth
twitches with a smile.
"I say we throw him into the river," Derek continues, ignoring him. "If he
floats —"
"Then I'm made of wood," Stiles interrupts as he laughs (very sure that the
reference will fly right over the other teen's head).
"Or maybe you weigh the same as a duck," Derek adds nonchalantly.
Stiles is speechless for just a moment. Then he says, "You little sneak. You've
totally been holding out on me!"
"I don't know what you mean," Derek denies with an innocent tone that Stiles
does not by for a second.
"You've seen Monty Python!" Stiles accuses. "Do you know how much material we
could have been bonding over? How many of them have you —"
“Would both of you shut up for a second? By Great Mother. Look. I want to see
if you get every single one. So keep going until I tell you to stop,” Cora
instructs. “Or until you get it wrong.”
Stiles cannot see a thing but he nods. He starts listing every single card he
can think of as randomly as he can. At the end of it all he’s met with silence
and he knows for a fact that there can’t be any more cards left. So he unties
the bandana and jumps in surprise at the overcrowded kitchen full of Hales,who
are all looking at him like he’s a shooting star.
“Uh.” Stiles tries not to feel awkward. “Did I get them all right or —”
“I think you just set a record,” Tyson chimes and there’s a ripple of agreement
that floats through the room, followed by some clapping.
Talia just looks amused from where she’s standing between Nana Hale and her
husband. “Okay. That’s enough. The magic show is officially over. I need
everyone to clear out so Rosemary and I can get started on dinner,” she says.
Stiles makes sure to grab two Oreo cheesecake brownies on his way out. He hands
one to his brother, who is gazing at him with an undecipherable look, and
continues on until he’s walking out the front door. He sits down on the top
step of the porch and eats.
Isaac joins him and says, “I won at dominoes.”
Stiles snorts and says, “Thank God. For a moment there, I thought I was the
only winner in the family.”
Isaac knocks their shoulders together playfully before devouring his brownie.
Cora appears a moment later and sits on Stiles’s other side. “So you want to
tell me what that was all about? I have a feeling it has something to do with
that thing that Laura did with you.”
Stiles shrugs. “I really can’t say.”
“But Laura knows,” Cora guesses.
Stiles nods.
“So why cant I?”
“You just can’t. It’s probably better if you don’t.”
“B.S.” Cora stands and starts down the steps. Then she turns and faces Stiles.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not about trust!” Stiles exclaims as he wags his hands wildly.
Isaac makes an unhappy sound and ducks out of the way by scooting out of reach
so he doesn’t get whacked in the face as he sucks chocolate off his fingers.
“Then why can’t you tell me what’s going on?” Cora says, throwing out her own
hands. “You and Laura and Peter and Kate have your little fan club of secrets
and what? I’m just not included? I’m not a member of the secret-y secret
society.”
“Cora —”
“No. No, screw that,” Cora bulldozes on.
"I'm not trying to exclude you," Stiles promises.
"Maybe but I'm just telling you what it feels like from the outside looking in.
It's not like I'm a little kid or something. We're practically the same age,"
Cora points out.
"It's not about age either."
"Then what? Why them and not me?" Cora presses. “I'm sick of it, Stiles. You
don't get to just...leave me out. And they don’t get to be the only exception
anymore! You’re my best friend! I care what happens to you!”
Stiles freezes at that.
Cora does too.
Isaac coughs awkwardly and mumbles something about getting another brownie
before fleeing to leave the two of them alone.
Stiles stares at Cora.
Cora stares back.
There is generally a lot of staring.
Cora takes a deep breath and crosses her arms before looking off to the side.
“Its fine that you don’t feel the same way or whatever. I know you have more
friends than you can count and maybe I'm not even in your top three — and I’m
not — I just don’t,okay? Even have a top three, I mean. Because it's hard for
me to connect like everyone else. I have family and outside of that…you’re
pretty much it.”
Stiles's mind is literally blank right now.
Cora scowls down at her sneakers and she kicks at some dirt. “This isn’t a love
confession or anything. Love isn't even what I — just, that's not what I — it's
not like that for me. So don’t — don’t think I’m — because I’m not. I don't
have those kind of feelings for you but I do...care. In the way that makes
sense to me, at least.”
Stiles stands and marches down the steps.
“Whatever you think you're doing, you better not. Stiles. I mean it. Don’t you
dare hug me! I don’t like hugs. They’re just a way to hide your face.”
“Shut up, it’s happening,” Stiles mutters and yanks her close and he expects
her to fight him but she just stands stiffly like a piece of wood.
Cora doesn’t even squirm. She tries to move as little as possible — she’s
hardly even breathing.
Stiles just squeezes her tighter and presses his hands flat against her
shoulder blades while hooking his chin on her right shoulder.
Cora stiffens even more before slowly lifting her arms to wrap around him. She
then lowers her nose and nuzzles the edge of his ear. “This isn’t easy for me,”
she says quietly. “I’m not good with — feelings.”
“You’re a cactus. We’ve established this,” Stiles jokes and jerks when she nips
his ear with her teeth. He pulls away and slaps a hand over his ear. “Hey, hey.
Be nice. That’s no way to treat your best friend.”
Cora’s cheeks go a little pink and it is the most amazing thing in the world.
“You’re blushing!” Stiles exclaims as he points a finger. “You can blush! I
made you blush! Best friend. Best friend. Best friend.”
Cora looks livid and annoyed but it means nothing because the flush on her
cheeks gets darker and darker the more he says it.
“Oh my god, I’ve found your kryptonite,” Stiles says, gaping at her. “Best —”
Cora slaps a hand over his mouth. “If you —” she starts lowly as her eyes flash
to gold. “— say that wordone more time.” She cuts a finger across her own neck.
“Understand?”
Stiles shakes his head no and smiles.
Cora sighs but her flush dies. She removes her hand from his mouth and drags
him deeper into the woods. “I just humiliated myself for you. The least you can
do is be honest with me.”
“Okay,” Stiles agrees because that isthe least he can do. He can’t get over how
giddy he feels. "Where are we going?"
Cora drags him as far from the house as she can. “I’m moving us out of hearing
range,” she explains after a while.
They end up at this old oak bridge that sits like an arched upside down
horseshoe over the river.
Cora plants them at the middle of it and says, “So? Spill.”
Stiles starts by explaining the whole Virtue business because that’s always the
most difficult thing to sort out. Then he talks about what’s going on in the
town. He talks about how he’s related to Lydia and what Lydia is. He talks
about Kira and he talks about the Mermaids. He talks about the murders and he
talks about a potential virus being weaponized against Weres. He talks about
his magical talking tree. He talks about the Benefactor and how he doesn’t
trust Ms. Morrell or his Uncle Claude (the cat) and the creepy Argent orphans.
He even talks about his little visit with Parrish and what he learned about
Isaac’s true parentage and Mayor Argent’s other kids who are still out there
somewhere. He just really lays it on her.
“You can’t say anything to anyone about everything I said because most people
in my circle know just bits and pieces,” Stiles pleads as he watches Cora toss
rocks into the river below. “I’ve been more honest with you than I’ve ever been
with anyone.”
Cora pauses to scratch the side of her nose to hide a smug grin and Stiles is
sofamiliar with the gesture because Derek does it sometimes too. “I wont say
anything,” she promises.
“I’ll have to tell my dad everything too when he comes back,” Stiles admits.
“That’s unavoidable.”
Cora gives him a sympathetic nod as she tosses another rock. “You mentioned
before that you were frustrated about not getting any answers about much of
anything. I get why. The Virtue thing is big,” she says.
“Apparently,” Stiles wryly states with a sigh. “I don’t know what’s going to
happen next. There’s just so much.”
“What about Deaton?” Cora throws her last rock and turns to face him. “You said
he offered to help you figure it all out when you start seeing the strings of
fate or whatever. You said you’ve been seeing them.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and ducks his head.
Cora snorts and shoves him playfully. “You’re such a little snot. You can’t
avoid this stuff forever.”
“Meh,” Stiles simply says. “I can try.”
Cora rolls her eyes. “Yeah, let’s see how well that works out for you.”
“I’m completely okay with that,” Stiles replies.
Cora loops their arms together and starts a confident stride back to the house.
“Dinner should be ready by now. It’s getting dark out anyway.”
Stiles looks up and sees that she’s completely right.
The sun is easing towards the horizon.
                                      ---
The spread for dinner is pork chops, salad, lima beans, brown rice, and mashed
potatoes.
Stiles finds he's not hungry. Mainly because he’s anxious and when he’s anxious
he doesn’t have much of an appetite. So he declines joining as politely as he
can and wanders back outside with his phone. He calls his dad and again it goes
straight to voicemail. He tries (and fails) not to let it bother him.
Before Stiles knows it, he’s walking out into a clearing and along the edge of
the river. He stops and sits down on the riverbank, enamored by the way the
stars twinkle and reflect among the dark waters.
“Careful. Don’t stare too hard. I hear that how Narcissus died.”
Stiles turns to see Kate approach and he tries not to stare at the gauze
covering her neck wound. He huffs. “He died from falling in love with his own
reflection in the water and then drowning when he couldn’t leave. I was staring
at the stars,” he clarifies.
“Yawn. Bored now,” Kate claims as she pours herself into his lap. She wraps her
arms around his shoulders, cocks her head and says, “I don’t think I properly
thanked you for saving my life.”
Stiles blinks and frowns. “You shouldn’t have to thank me. I was just doing
what anyone should have done. I think it’s called being a decent human being,”
he drawls wryly.
“Ugh, you’re such a goody-two-shoes,” Kate complains. “Here I am, all sexy in
the moonlight, giving you my gratitude, and you still trump it all by being all
modest and shit. You make me sick.”
Stiles laughs. “Shut up, Kate.”
“You shut up,” Kate retorts and knocks their foreheads together. “Seriously
though, Tenderfoot. Thank you. I really —” She stops suddenly and her mouth
twists in contemplation. “Nothing. This is just — I’m so allergic to these
pivotal emotional whatevers.” She stands and scrubs her fingers through her
cropped blonde locks aggressively. “My dad is a son of a bitch.”
Stiles silently agrees.
“Peter wants me to move in. Here. With him. And his family.” Kate huffs and
crosses her arms as she shakes her head. She peers out into the dark waters of
the river with a contemplative expression. “I’m not going to do it. I feel for
him. I do. But the moving in together? He’s got a bigger ego than I do. It’d
never work.”
Stiles supposes that’s a valid point.
“But I can’t stay with my dad. Not after what he pulled,” Kate reasons.
Stiles feels compelled to say, “Move in with Allison and her mom.”
Kate looks at him sharply. “What did you say?”
“I said you should live with your niece and your sister-in-law,” Stiles says as
he climbs to his feet. “I think — yeah. I know it’ll be a good thing.”
“Is that the Virtue in you talking?” Kate snidely questions.
“Maybe,” Stiles honestly replies. “But I’d prefer to think of it as a gut-
feeling.”
Kate just hums and waves a hand at him with a noncommittal gesture. She then
turns away to stare out at the river. Then she says, “Isaac told me some
psychic walking-glow-stick predicted my death. Were you gonna tell me about
that?”
Stiles chokes on his own spit in surprise.
“Thought so,” Kate murmurs and she peers at him from over her shoulder. “I’m
not afraid to die, you know. I really don’t care.”
“That’s twisted,” Stiles says and coughs to clear his throat. “And selfish.”
Kate says, “Circle of life.”
“Kate,” Stiles says because he really needs her to hear this. “Death doesn’t
just happen to you. It happens to everyone around you — to all the people left
standing at your funeral trying to figure out how they’re gonna live the rest
of their lives without you in it. No one should go down without a fight. No
one.”
Kate turns to face him completely. Then she says, “Do not go gentle into that
good night.” She smirks and says, “Do people understand how lucky they are to
know you?”
“Oh. Uh.” Stiles can feel his face warming. That’s not what he was expecting
her to say. “You should probably make some, um, arrangements for moving and
getting your things.”
Kate snorts. “I’m going to have to teach you how to take a compliment, but
okay. I’ll call Victoria. See how she feels about me staying for a little
while.” Then she says, “I’m still scouting colleges. I’ve been accepted into
Harvard and Oxford but I haven’t decided which one to go to. Laura and I are
thinking of doing a gap year after we graduate.”
“Gap year? What’s a gap year?” Stiles asks.
“A gap year, is a transition year, usually between high school and college,
when a student takes time to do something else. Anything else.”
“Huh.” Stiles never heard of anything like that. “Cool.”
“Sure is,” Kate agrees with a lofty exhale. “But anyway. The real reason I came
out here to find you is because Peter and I were able to convince Parrish to
pull up Ezra’s autopsy files.”
“And?”
“Nothing abnormal outside the fact that she did have hyperkeratosis of the nose
and foot pads, which is a typical pathologic feature of Canine distemper,” Kate
goes on to say. “So yes. Whatever type of chocolate she’d been eating must have
been laced with a very low dose of a single-stranded negative RNA. Peter’s
thinking it might even be the same kind of poison Kali’s puppy had been exposed
to, but it’s hard to say because Ezra had died immediately before the virus
could spread and present itself. But Peter still has a few samples saved of
what he took from Kali’s puppy.”
“Kali told Peter that her dog had been fed something by some kind of blind man
at the park. She said it could’ve been chocolate,” Stiles points out as he
thinks back.
“Right. Which is why Peter thinks that these two events aren’t so unrelated,”
Kate says. “He’s going to study those samples again once he’s done with his
emotionally constipated conversation with Parrish.”
Stiles lifts a brow at that. “Are they — making up or something?”
Kate just smiles widely. “Something like that. Whatever it is, it’s long
overdue. That’s all I know.” She shrugs and then adds, “Tomorrow Parrish and I
are supposed to sweep through the park. See if we can’t find this blind man or
at least interview anyone there that might have seen him or can lead us to him.
Laura’s still trying to get Ezra’s family to divulge any kind of useful
information that will help up piece together this government plot against
Weres.”
“What about the army?” Stiles says. “The Department of Defense is not only
arming each state with new weapons of war, but they’re giving it to local and
state police, as well as the National Guard. The military presence in America
has grown exponentially in the last two years, almost if they’re expecting some
kind of civil war to breakout.”
“That is suspicious,” Kate admits. “And if anyone would know anything, it’d be
my dad. But like hell do I feel like talking to him. And even if I did, he
wouldn’t tell me anything.” She taps her index finger against her chin
thoughtfully. “I’ll figure something out. Let me get back to you.”
Stiles shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans.
“So,” Kate says, switching topics suddenly. “Laura’s birthday is next weekend.
Saturday. Literally two days after prom, which is Thursday night, and the day
after graduation, which is Friday at noon. Half day of school that day. Thought
you oughta know.”
“Oh.” Stiles had been wondering idly about that. He thinks he should get her
some kind of gift. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing, buttercup.” Kate moves to return to the Hale house. “Oh. And also.
You saving my life does not forgive you of the special debt you still owe me.”
Stiles snorts. “I didn’t think it would. I'm sure you'll put me to good use
somehow.”
Kate winks and disappears in the trees.
Stiles’s phone vibrates and he expects to see his dad’s name flashing across
the screen but it’s Kira’s instead. He hesitates before he answers with a soft,
“Hello?”
“Hello. Stiles. It’s Kira’s father.”
“Oh. Hi, Mr. Yukimura. What can I do for you?” Stiles asks as he rubs the back
of his neck in confusion.
“I know it seems strange to be calling so late in the evening. I hope I haven’t
caught you at a bad time. I was wondering if you wouldn’t like to join us for
dinner?”
“Uh.” Stiles doesn’t know what to say. “I thought Kira didn’t —”
“You appear not to be home. I could come pick you up. It’s no trouble at all. I
wouldn’t want all this homemade sushi to go to waste. What do you say? Have you
eaten yet?”
“Well no but —”
“Perfect. The fates are on my side it seems. Where am I picking you up from?”
“I’ll come to you,” Stiles is quick to say. “I need fifteen minutes or so.”
“Sure thing. We all look forward to seeing you.”
Stiles hears the line click and he drops the phone from his ear with a sigh
before shoving it into his borrowed jeans. He starts trudging back towards the
Hale house in search of Talia. He finds her already sitting on the front porch
in a rocking chair with a book (Gaston de Blondeville) and some reading glasses
on.
“I was wondering when you’d come back to us,” Talia says as she dog-ears her
book and takes off her glasses. “I got a little worried when you declined
dinner.”
“For a reason it seems. I’ve been invited to dinner by my neighbors,” Stiles
confesses. “I’m wondering if I can trouble you for a ride? I’d understand if
you didn’t —”
“Nonsense, Stiles,” Talia interjects softly as she stands and descends the
steps to press a hand over the nape of his neck. “You’re practically family
now. I’ll be greatly vexed if you should act as though you are a burden.” She
kisses his temple and goes off in search of her car keys.
Stiles touches the place she kissed, feeling a little out of sorts by that
slight display of affection. He can’t ignore the warmth gathering in the pit of
his stomach and he shakes it off before it can overwhelm him. He sprints up the
steps and into the house towards the kitchen where he finds Cora and Isaac
polishing off the last of the cheesecake brownies.
Talia reappears not even a second later with her keys. “Okay, we’re set,” she
says.
Cora frowns. “Where are you two going?” she asks.
Isaac looks interested in knowing too.
“I’ve been invited over for dinner by Kira’s dad,” Stiles explains.
Isaac immediately goes from intrigued to indifferent. He shows more enthusiasm
in eating the brownie in his hand.
Cora, however, is wearing a sour expression. “What are they inviting you to
dinner for? I thought —”
“Cora. No.” Talia gives her a significant look and Cora’s mouth immediately
shuts but she doesn’t refrain from scowling openly. “Come on, Stiles. It would
be rude to keep them waiting.”
Stiles follows her but sends Cora a helpless and apologetic shrug.
Cora just glares at him resentfully.
Stiles isn’t surprised when his phone goes crazy (vibrating) in his pocket the
whole ride to the Yukimura house. But every time he pulls his phone out to see
Cora’s demanding texts, Talia just shakes her head and tells him not to text
her back.
“Let her be angry,” Talia says. “She needs to learn not to be so territorial. I
fret the day she comes into her inheritance as an Alpha.”
Stiles snorts and tries not to imagine it.
“She is not as kind or as diplomatic as I would hope. I think perhaps it is a
good thing she's so taken with you. Maybe you might help soften her
disposition. That is all I can hope,” Talia goes on to say with a prolonged
sigh. She says nothing more after that as they pull up to the Yukimura house.
She glances out the passenger window at the house with some thought. Then she
says, “You can call me when you’re ready to return. I’ll send someone to get
you if I can’t come myself.”
“Okay,” Stiles says as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I don’t think I have your
number.”
Talia holds out her hand and Stiles gives his phone over so she can enter her
contact information before she returns it to him. Then she smiles and ruffles
his hair. “Go on.”
Stiles gets a little pink as he stumbles out of the car, barely saving himself
from face-planting onto the concrete. He quickly makes his way up the walkway,
the porch steps, and to the door where he rings the doorbell.
Mr. Yukimura answers with a delighted smile and he looks over his shoulder to
Talia and waves. “Oh, is that your mother?”
“Uh, no. Family friend,” Stiles says as he turns to wave at her as well.
Talia waves back at them both before she drives off.
“Come in, come in. Oh and please remove your shoes. My wife’s adamant about
that,” Mr. Yukimura says as he moves to let Stiles in. “Unfortunately, she wont
be joining us tonight. She was called away last minute for a work emergency.”
Stiles hunches down and unlaces his shoes, taking note of the white carpet and
the beautiful oriental furniture. He leaves his shoes by the door and follows
Mr. Yukimura into the dining room, staving off his nervousness for as long as
he can. He’s excited and anxious to see Kira. It’s an annoying combination.
“Please sit,” Mr. Yukimura urges, gesturing to the low-level table decorated
with shiny porcelain dishes.
Stiles takes a seat on one of the floor pillows.
A moment later, Kira jogs down the stairs, taking her white ear buds out of her
ear and says, “Dad, is the food done yet? I’m starving.” She freezes when she
sees Stiles and her eyes widen.
Stiles gets the feeling that she didn’t know he’d be here.
Kira stammers as she gets pink and she looks at her dad. She starts fussing at
him in Japanese, making wild gestures at Stiles to her father to her messy hair
and then down at her attire (which happens to be some banana-yellow pajamas
with monkeys patterned all over). Then she runs back up the stairs to her room
and slams the door.
Mr. Yukimura just turns and smiles awkwardly at Stiles. “I may have forgot to
mention you were coming over.”
“Yeah, I kind of picked up on that,” Stiles admits as he fiddles with his
plate.
Mr. Yukimura rings his hands together before he says, “I should go check on
things in the kitchen. Would you like some tea? I’ll get some tea.”
“I don’t really drink — andhe’s gone.” Stiles sighs as he watches Mr. Yukimura
disappear around the corner.
Kira reappears in a pair of salmon-colored overall shorts with a white
turtleneck shirt underneath and her hair braided into two neat pigtails. She
avoids looking at Stiles as she sits across from him.
This is awkward.
Stiles fiddles with the red chopsticks set by his plate and tries to think of a
conversation starter that isn’t “I’m sorry for lying to you about a lot of
things” or “So how is life as a Kitsune?”.
Yeah, he’s got nothing.
Mr. Yukimura returns with a tray filled with a teakettle and teacups. He breaks
the tension as he pours them all cups and sits with a friendly smile.
Kira busies herself with pouring cream and sugar in her tea.
Stiles just stares at the steam rising from his cup and he wonders how he can
politely decline his tea.
Mr. Yukimura takes a sip and says, “So. Stiles. Kira tells me you’re on the
lacrosse team. I understand you’re quite good. Or, so Kira believes. Even
though she hasn’t been to any of your games. She seems convinced you have
skill. In fact, I believe she spent an entire afternoon researching the sport
—”
“Dad,” Kira hisses and shoots him a mortified look.
“What?” Mr. Yukimura says with an innocent expression. “I’m trying to make
small talk. Would you rather we get right to the elephant in the room? Fine.
Stiles, Kira is very upset that you’ve been keeping secrets. Kira, Stiles feels
awful for excluding you. There. I think I’ll go get the main course.” He stands
and leaves.
Stiles and Kira look at each other and silently flounder for something to say.
“Kira —”
“Stiles —”
“You go first,” Kira says.
Stiles says, “I was — I mean, I am sorry about everything. I feel completely
responsible for what happened with the Reyes Twins and I’d like to explain why
I didn’t really tell you.”
“It’s fine,” Kira says. “I mean it’s not but it is. I’ve been doing a lot of
research. The Hales are a family of Werewolves and your brother is a Werecat
and not to mention the murders or the two Goblins that used to occupy this
house before we came along.” She stops suddenly and shakes her head as if to
physically clear her thoughts like an etch-a-sketch. “I guess I was mostly
upset that I was left out of the loop. It’s embarrassing when you’re the last
person to reach the finish line.”
“I’m sorry. If telling you about all of this earlier would have avoided any
complications, I would have...I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “I’d offer to
explain but it seems like you already got most of it figured out.”
“Most of it. I get that Beacon Hills seems to be some kind of hotspot for the
supernatural,” Kira confirms with a shy shrug as she ducks her gaze. “My mom’s
been a big part of explaining things and history and all that.” She looks up
with wide eyes. “Did you know she’s a Kitsune too? Apparently I come from a
dynasty.”
Stiles doesn’t even know what to say to that.
“So in all fairness, I’m more upset with her than I am with you because
honestly she probably should’ve been the one to do the whole big reveal,” Kira
supposes as she blows a puff of air out the side of her mouth. “She’s a hundred
and fifty years old by the way.”
“Your mom?” Stiles gapes when Kira nods. “But she doesn’t look a day over
forty.”
“I know! That’s what I said!” Kira exclaims, hands flailing. “Nuts.”
“What about your dad?”
“Oh I’m forty-five,” Mr. Yukimura answers as he returns with a long rectangular
tray filled with neat rows of sushi. “But I’m told I don’t look a day over
thirty.”
Kira rolls her eyes.
Stiles grins in amusement.
Mr. Yukimura sets the tray down and says, “Wah-lah. Gourmet sushi. I hope
you’re hungry, Stiles. I’ve done nothing but the best. You don’t have any
allergies to fish?”
“No. Just coconut,” Stiles remarks.
“Oh.” Mr. Yukimura stares down at the tray before he picks it up. “I’ll just
order pizza. I can always save this for lunch, I guess.” He leaves with the
tray, looking crestfallen.
Kira snickers and explains, “Dad makes all his sushi with a pinch of coconut
oil. He calls it his secret weapon.”
“Now I feel bad,” Stiles admits.
“Don’t. His sushi is terrible anyway,” Kira whispers.
“I heard that!”
Kira stiffens before she looks at Stiles with wide eyes until they burst out
laughing. She wipes an invisible tear from her left eye before she asks, “So
what’s a Virtue? I tried to ask my mom about it but she got this pinched look
on her face and fussed at me in Japanese.”
Stiles stares at her for a long time before he says, “How did — why would —”
“Well I remember bits and pieces from that night I was kidnapped and I
remembered one of the Reyes Twins kept calling you this name in Latin and when
I looked up a translation it said Virtue. Then I tried to look that up and I
didn’t really come to anything. Then I asked my mom but that was a dead end
like I said so I’m hoping you’ll clarify.” Kira smiles at the end of it all.
“Well,” Stiles starts. “Come with me.” He grabs her hand and leads her out the
front door, down the porch steps, across the lawn and up the side of his house
to his backyard.
Kira blinks owlishly at his tree.
“Nana,” Stiles calls as they stand before his tree. “Nana.”
Nana’s face bleeds into the triquetra symbol. “Hello, dearie."
"Hi. I uh —" Stiles decides it's in his best interest to be polite. "Um, how
are you?"
Nana looks vaguely amused. "I believe I am in good health. And you, little one?
How are you faring?"
Stiles just gives an uncertain shrug.
Nana hums thoughtfully at his response before she continues, "I see you’ve
brought a friend. She’ll need permission from you to be able to see me, you
know. I reveal myself unto no one unless you give me leave to do so.”
“Oh, really?” Stiles says and he looks at Kira, who is staring at him in
confusion. “What do you see?” he asks her.
“You talking to a tree,” Kira replies earnestly. “Why? Is this not just a tree
with really cool leaves and — is that peaches and apples? Is that even
biologically possible? I don’t think that should be biologically possible. Was
this tree always here?”
“It’s a magical tree,” Stiles explains. “And I give you permission to see.”
“Hello, pretty girl,” Nana says.
Kira shrieks and jumps back like a startled cat. “What — what — how —”
“My, my. Quite tongue-tied, isn’t she?” Nana chuckles warmly before she squints
and says, “And a Thunder Kitsune, no less! Oh, dearie, you have no shortage of
intriguing companions. How old are you?”
“Fourteen?” Kira says, still in shock.
“How lovely! She’s still a baby,” Nana gushes.
Kira blushes.
“Introduce us, rude boy,” Nana chastises.
“Right. Sorry. Kira, this is my magical talking tree. She’s called Nana. Nana,
this is Kira,” Stiles introduces. “How did you know she was a Kitsune?”
“How did you not?” Nana cleverly retorts. “Can you not see her aura? It’s like
armor. Oh you have so much to learn, dearie. Tsk. Tsk.”
Stiles won’t argue with that. “She needs help understanding what a Virtue is.
To be honest, so do I.”
“Well you’ve come to the right place. Have a seat,” Nana advises.
Stiles looks to Kira and she looks back. He shrugs and sits.
Kira sits as well.
It’s not too long before a swarm of fireflies start dancing and flying through
the air around them.
Kira looks at Stiles like he’s to blame.
“I don’t know either!” Stiles flails. “They just pop up.”
“Fireflies are rightly attracted to Faerie kind and forest magic,” Nana
explains. “Virtues are very much Faerie kind. Only wingless and without those
cute Elvish ears."
Stiles snorts when Kira reaches out to touch the blunt, rounded curve of his
left ear, as if to confirm this for herself.
Nana adds, "Virtues are energy. Pure energy. And everything around them flows
on a current that is attracted to them.”
“Like a magnet?” Kira inquires as she pulls her hand away and returns it to her
lap.
“In simpler terms, yes.” Nana goes on to say, “They are the Keepers of the
balance between famine and feasts.”
Stiles gets hit with a strong sense of déjà vu and he doesn’t know why. “I’ve
heard this before,” he says faintly.
“In your dreams, no doubt,” Nana reasons. “You’ve been to Faerie. Many go and
hardly remember once they’ve woken. It’s a common thing. Faerie is so much like
a dream, and you'd hardly be able to grasp the concept of it any other way once
you've gone and returned. You’ve probably danced with the Lady of the Garden
herself.”
“Who’s that?” Kira asks.
“She’s the Faerie Queen,” Nana proclaims happily. “She looks after all the
souls. Sorts them out." She sighs wistfully as she adds, "She’s what stands
between purgatory and paradise for supernaturals of all kind. Just as Humans
have their Heaven and Hell — so do we in this way as well.”
“Wow,” Kira says. “Like a filter! Or a curtain."
"In a way," Nana supposes. "The Great Garden is a veil."
"Wow," Kira says again, but with a lot more awe. "You must know so much.”
“Why certainly, pretty girl. I’m a woodland spirit. We often know great
things,” Nana boasts good-naturedly. “Do you understand now?”
“I think so,” Kira supposes. “Stiles is a physical embodiment of natural
orderas it is in constant movement with the laws of motion.”
“Indeed. So very well stated!” Nana praises.
Kira goes a little pink but she smiles.
Stiles is floored. “You’re smarter than I am. I would have never figured that
out.”
“Of course I’m clever! I’m a girl,” Kira teases with a wink. “But seriously.
Stiles, do you get how awesome that is? I feel like I just met an Angel or
something.”
Stiles flushes and covers his face with his hands. “Kira…”
“Really! I’m so for real! You’re like basically a rock star of the universe or
something. You must be capable of amazing things. Oh my god, what can you do?”
Kira asks, voice laced with giddiness.
“Not much of anything yet,” Nana answers on his behalf. “The best thing he’s
done so far is making me. There’s still so much to learn. He needs a mentor. I
can only provide him with so much. What about that handsome fellow? What’s his
name? The Druid.”
“Deaton?” Stiles says as he drops his hands and frowns. “He’s offered but —”
“You’re being stubborn about it,” Nana interjects knowingly. “I ought to swat
you on the behind. You’re meant for great things. You can’t ignore that.”
“I can try,” Stiles mumbles and springs out of the way when a few peaches get
thrown at him. “Nana!”
“You stop that talk right now, young man!” Nana says sternly. “You cannot stop
being a Virtue anymore than I can stop being a tree. Lest someone burns me to
the ground or strangles the life out of you, there is no escaping.”
Kira watches the two of them silently with interest.
“You’re not alone,” Nana goes on to say with a significant glance to Kira. “You
have me and so many others. You are well loved and very well liked. I’ll hear
no more of this self-deprecating nonsense. Am I understood?”
Stiles fidgets and says, “Yes. I do. I really do.”
“Good.” Nana sighs. “No one expects you to be a prodigy overnight. It is
understood that these things take time. From the very moment you were
conceived, your timing has been perfect. And your timing will always be perfect
and well-met, dearie. Know that.”
Stiles takes that in with a nod.
Kira stands and says, “Pizza’s here. My dad’s paying the delivery guy now. We
should get going.”
Stiles nods and looks to Nana as he says, “Thank you.”
“It’s what I’m here for, dearie. It’s why you chose me,” Nana says knowingly.
“Go eat. We’ll see each other again. And it was so wonderful to meet you, Kira.
I understand you live just next door. I assume I’ll be seeing more of you.”
“Certainly,” Kira agrees.
Nana smiles before she looks to Stiles. “You bring the Druid here to me so that
I may meet him. That’s tradition. I have to approve of him before he teaches
you anything. I believe now is the time to begin your lessons.”
Stiles and Kira watches as Nana’s face disappear and the big triquetra takes
her place.
“Cool,” Kira says. “She is the coolest thing.”
Stiles snorts and lets Kira drag him back to her house where her dad is waiting
with two large cheese pizzas.
                                      ---
Properly fed and stuffed with pizza, Stiles and Kira retreat to her room where
Kira shows him her worm farm and her pet ferret she named Levi.
“After Attack on Titan, of course,” Kira explains when Stiles asks. She dumps
Levi in his lap as he sits on the edge of her waterbed (her whole room is
aquatic themed, it’s really cool). “He’s friendly. He won’t bite you. I mean,
he bites people, no doubt. But like, maybe he won't bite you.”
Stiles stares up her with a look of panic and tries not to flinch when Levi
sniffs at his hands before climbing his left arm to curl around the back of his
neck like a scarf. He just lays there.
“See! Told you,” Kira says with a grin.
Stiles decides to distract himself from his internal dismay by asking, “So how
many worms do you have?”
“A hundred. I named every single one,” Kira says as she walks over to the glass
container. It looks like a fish container but with dirt and worms. She points
and says, “That’s Andromeda. And that small one right there is Athena. That’s
Hercules and Zeus. The one way at the bottom is Pegasus, and in the corner is
Hermes.”
“There’s no way you can tell the difference,” Stiles says, sighing in relief
when Levi darts off of him and goes to chase the moonlight on the windowsill.
“They all look the same.”
“You come into my room, and you disrespect me and my worms?” Kira shakes her
head and presses a hand to her chest. “I have to draw the line. That’s it. Our
friendship is broken.”
Stiles rolls his eyes but he smiles.
Kira smiles too and turns to look at her worm farm. “You smell like them, you
know. The Hales.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Like you belong with them.”
Stiles lifts both his eyebrows. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
Kira tucks her hands in the back pockets of her overall shorts and she shrugs.
“You know, since we’re being honest with each other. Can I do something really
foolish and confess that I have a crush on you?” she asks as her cheeks fill
with color. “Is it crazy for me to hope you could feel the same?”
Stiles opens his mouth with absolutely nothing to say as his brain short
circuits. Then he blurts, “You’re a lot braver than I am.”
Kira looks at him. “Well, that’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Stiles says with a grimace. “That wasn't what I meant to
say."
Kira rocks on her heels and says, "Okay..."
Stiles fidgets, annoyed that he isn't communicating properly. "What I mean to
say is —" he tries. "— you’re awesome. I think you’re great and I like you." He
pushes his next words out as delicately as he can. "But just — not like...not
like that.”
“Oh." Kira blinks and looks as though she's trying to regroup.
Stiles feels awful. Maybe he could have done that better.
"You know, I’m starting to think the not knowing is better than the knowing,”
Kira mutters as she ducks her head and gnaws on her bottom lip. “But, you know,
thanks for being honest.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything.
Kira takes a deep breath and puts up a brave front. “It’s getting late and I’m
tired. I'm sure you are too, and I have to pack. I have to — there's so much
packing and I haven't done any of it so...”
Stiles stands. “Yeah, I should go.” He spends a moment just suspended in not
knowing what to do next and wanting desperately to mend whatever he’s broken.
Kira must pick up on it because she says, “Don't do that."
Stiles fidgets. "What? I didn't —"
"Stiles, I can scent your emotions," Kira states as delicately as she can. "I
don’t want to stop being friends." She rubs at her right eyebrow with a frown.
"I just think it’s going to be hard for me. At least for a little while. For me
to — for this to be, you know...normal.” Then she says, “And anyway, we’re
supposed to be leaving for Japan Sunday night. So I think, you know, maybe some
distance will probably do me — do us some good." She adds, "I’ll email you. Or
text." She crams her hands in her pockets. "Promise.”
Stiles nods and without even letting himself think about it, he pulls her into
a hug.
Kira stiffens for a moment before she gives over to it and buries her face into
the side of his neck with a deep inhale. She squeezes him with a shuddering
sigh before pulling away with watery eyes. “Have a good summer.”
“You too.” Stiles can’t even ignore the stab of misery that assaults his heart
as he forces his feet to guide him to the door, out of her room and down the
steps. He waves at Mr. Yukimura and climbs into his shoes quietly before
exiting the house.
The warm night air wraps around him and fills his lungs in an almost comforting
way.
Stiles calls Talia and lets her know he’s ready to come back. Waiting for her
to come and get him is a little bit of agony because he’s got no choice but to
picture Kira’s dejected expression over and over again.
Though he knows he’s done the right thing by being honest, it doesn’t make him
feel any better having done it.
He hopes he didn’t just lose a friend.
                                      ---
Stiles’s mood doesn’t climb by the time he and Talia return to the Hale house.
Whatever Talia must sense from him, she politely does not ask. She does,
however, rest a warm hand on the nape of his neck during the duration of the
car ride in silent support.
Stiles is more grateful for that than he can actually say. He just soaks up the
contact for as long as he can before they actually arrive back at the house. He
changes his mind about following her inside and makes a run for the swing set
in the back. It’s a lucky thing that the area is vacant since he’s not up for
company right now.
Stiles tries not to brood or think of what he could have done differently with
Kira as he swings lazily while he looks up at the clear night sky.
“You look so gloomy.”
Stiles starts at the voice and he almost falls off the swing but manages to
catch himself before that disaster happens. He glances over to see Derek
standing with his hands in the pockets of his purple hoodie. “I’m not gloomy,”
he corrects. “I’m thinking. It’s not a crime to think, you know.”
“Well, no." Derek agrees. "But you don’t smell happy,” he points out.
Stiles opens his mouth with an unnecessary lie waiting at the ready on the edge
of his tongue but he thinks better of it, snaps his jaw shut, and just sulks.
He doesn’t have to justify his emotions.
Derek doesn’t really ask him to either. He says, “They moved Paige out to
Arizona a couple of days ago.”
Stiles frowns at that, and seizes the meager distraction from his own angst.
“What’s in Arizona?”
“The best rehab facility money can buy apparently,” is all Derek says but it’s
enough. He doesn’t really have to say much more.
Stiles isn’t ignorant. He knows what rehabs are and he knows what they're for.
He’s read gossip magazines. He’s heard Amy Winehouse’s sultry accounts. He
grips the chains of his swing as he studies Derek but his green eyes aren’t
lined with tears and he doesn’t look like he’s been crying. He actually looks
okay but it’s still hard to tell with nothing but the moonlight to go by. So he
asks, “How do you feel about it?” because he’s a good friend.
“I don’t know,” Derek simply says. “A little selfishly unhappy, I suppose. I
think there are some parts of me — the parts that are still just a little bit
in love with her — that's convinced that I could fix her somehow. And I know
better than that. She needs help for what she’s been through and I figure if
going to rehab is the best way for her to get it, well, I can’t really
complain. And her parents said I could write to her if I felt led to.”
“Will you?” Stiles asks, because he’s curious and he wants to know. “I mean, I
think if she knows she has support it could help. But that’s totally your
decision, I’m not trying to sway you either way.”
Derek’s mouth twists with thought and he gazes at Stiles with an undecipherable
expression. “So what’s got you down?” he asks.
Stiles is a little thrown by the redirection. It’s probably obvious because he
gets defensive and says, “It’s rude to answer a question with a question.”
“And it’s unfair that I answer your questions but you don’t answer mine,” Derek
cleverly retorts as he lifts both brows.
Stiles huffs because Derek’s got him there. He shrugs with a sigh and says, “I
had to let Kira down gently and — that didn’t feel so good. I feel like I might
have shot our friendship in the face. Like Lassie or something. Or was it Old
Yeller? I can’t remember which dog they had no choice but to put down."
Derek cocks his head. "It was Old Yeller."
"Oh yeah. Boy, that movie made me cry. So did, Bambi."
"I've never seen Bambi, but yeah, Old Yeller got to me too."
Stiles sighs and says, "Yeah, well, it felt a lot like that.”
Derek watches him for a moment. Then, out of the blue, he says, “Come on.”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“Come on. I want to take you somewhere,” Derek says and holds out his hand.
“Why do I have to hold your hand?”
“You afraid I’m going to give you germs?” Derek snidely replies. “It’s dark out
but I can see better than you can. It’ll be easier if you just hold my hand.
You’re not exactly graceful. Stumbling around in the dark is just asking for a
twisted ankle.”
“Oh ha, ha. You use that pick up line on everyone?” Stiles jokes nervously as
butterflies flutter in his gut. “Real charmer.”
Derek huffs but he grins a little.
Stiles hates that it makes him feel wobbly inside. “I’m confused by these
rumors about my clumsiness because I’m not clumsy. I’ll have you know that I
could find my way to Alaska blind-folded.”
Derek just lifts a brow. “I thought we both agreed that I’m the funny one.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” Stiles says with a laugh. “You are the worst. That wasn’t
me being funny. What we agreed is that you're not funny at all. And anyway, you
don’t know when to let a bad joke die.”
“It’s not a bad joke if you find it funny every time I bring it up,” Derek
retorts and shakes his hand. “Come on. You may have all night but I don’t.”
Stiles hesitates before he stands and grabs Derek’s hand. “I hope you’re not
taking me somewhere no one can hear me scream so you can maul me to death,” he
mumbles to make up for the fact that he’s blushing because Derek’s hand is big
and warm and softer than he thought.
Derek snorts and tugs him along. “Don’t be so melancholy.” He guides him into
the woods.
The forest seems so alive, even under the cover of darkness with the night sky
acting as a canopy above them.
Stiles looks up and there are stars, just millions and millions of stars,
peeking through the forest ceiling as the leaves shiver in the wind.
The ground under their feet feels soft and damp somehow. And every twig and
broken branch they step on sounds a lot louder than it normally should.
Stiles glances over to Derek but he can’t really make out his face, just the
back of his head as he allows himself to be dragged towards an unknown
destination. All he can feel is how warm and careful the grip of Derek’s left
hand feels on his own. His heart races a little at the sound of a faint
rustling in the distance.
Derek snorts and throws him a knowing look over his shoulder. “It’s a rabbit.
Relax.”
Stiles flushes in embarrassment and he grumbles, “Easy for you to say. You can
hear everything and know what it is. I hear something and my heart’s about to
parachute out of my chest.”
“Lucky for you, you’ve got an equally scary Beta wolf to protect you,” Derek
teases as he yanks Stiles forward to wrap his arm over his shoulders as his
eyes light up with gold briefly (the show off). “I’m skilled in the art of hand
to hand combat. Or paw to paw if needed.”
“Ninja wolf,” Stiles reasons.
Derek huffs in amusement. “We’re almost there.”
Coming out through the thrush of trees, they come to the highest point in all
of Beacon Hills, a hill (a looking point) that oversees the whole town of
Beacon Hills. It’s like looking at a lit motherboard or a sea of lights.
“Oh man,” Stiles breathes, in awe and lacking in much else to say or express
how amazing it is.
“It’s incredible right?” Derek says with a smile as he drops his arm and crams
his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
Stiles looks at him but Derek’s staring out into the distance, the lights
making his face glow with gorgeous pride. He’s struck by the thought that Derek
has obnoxiously long eyelashes and pink lips, and how it makes him look so
stunningly like his mother that it’s unreal. He coughs and looks away because
he doesn’t like how woozy his insides get from just lookingat Derek look at
something else.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Derek suddenly declares and grabs Stiles’s
hand to drag him over to the tall, white water tower with the words ‘BEACON
HILLS’ painted in black on it’s face. “Here. Climb up. I’ll follow in case you
fall or slip.”
“Your confidence in me is so overwhelming,” Stiles drawls sarcastically but he
reaches for the metal ladder and begins a climb. “You’re lucky I’m not afraid
of heights.”
“Less talking. More climbing,” Derek says from below.
Stiles grumbles but does as he’s told until they reach the square opening at
the top that leads to the balcony. He walks around until he’s standing at the
face of the tower, gripping the metal railing as a warm breeze encases him.
The view up here is even better than below.
Derek stands to his left and lets their shoulders touch. “See? Was I right, or
was I right?”
“You were right,” Stiles agrees breathlessly as he peers out at their lit town.
"You were so right."
“Cora and I used to come out here when we were younger,” Derek admits. “We
treated this water tower like a clubhouse or a spaceship. We’d bring snacks
here, or the telescopes we got for Christmas when I was eight and she was
seven. We don’t anymore, but I still come out here sometimes when I feel down
or want to get away for a peace of mind.”
“Why’d you bring me here?” Stiles asks because he wants to know. If this place
is so sacred, he doesn't get why Derek would want to bring him of all people
here.
Derek shrugs as he looks out into the distance. “Maybe because you’ve been a
better friend to me than anyone I know. And I wanted to show you how much I
appreciate that, I guess.” He looks at Stiles. “And maybe because I like the
way you smell when you're happy better than when you're not.”
Stiles inhales softly at that. “Oh. Okay.”
Derek snorts. Then he says, “There’s more to me than just basketball. I have
actual depths, you know.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose and looks away. “Yeah, I — sorry. I realize I’ve been
pigeonholing you. Totally uncool.”
“It’s fine. We just need to get to know each other better,” Derek supposes, his
gaze steady and burning into the side of Stiles’s face. “So tell me something.
Anything.”
“In exchange for equal amounts of information from you?” Stiles counters as he
white-knuckles the railing because maybe it’s how far they are from the ground
or maybe it’s because Derek is looking at him like he’s the most fascinating
thing he’s ever seen and he wants to know Stiles and it’s making him
lightheaded and confused because he doesn’t feel this way about people. “What
if I’m boring?” he weakly asks.
“I've known you long enough to understand that there’s nothing boring about
you,” Derek replies knowingly and he shouldn’t sound as sure as he does.
“Besides, any idiot should be able to see that.”
Red blooms in both of Stiles’s cheeks with indulgent pleasure and he suddenly
feels lighter. “I don’t — I mean I — I might be —” he stammers. Then he flushes
harder and squirms because of his incoherency. “You go first. I’ve suddenly
lost the ability to communicate.”
Derek snickers and lowers himself to the edge of the balcony so he can sit and
let his legs dangle. “I’ve received an offer letter from Beacon Hills
University because they want me to teach a course in mathematics. It’ll be my
first summer job.”
Stiles sits down beside him. “Dude, that’s amazing! You’re like only a
sophomore in high school but apparently certified to teach math at a college
level.”
“My mom and dad think it’ll look good on my academic resume,” Derek explains.
“But I just want to do it because I’ll be paid to do something I already love
to do.”
“Total bonus,” Stiles agrees. “Seriously. That’s awesome.”
Derek gives a modest shrug before he grins. “Now it’s your turn.”
“I don’t see how I can top that,” Stiles jokes and chuckles when Derek bumps
their shoulders together. “Um. Well. I’ll be taking driver’s ed this summer. So
I’m excited about that. And, uh, you know, other things.”
“Other things? What other things?” Derek says with a questioning frown that
shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“I don’t think I should tell you. Well. I don’t think I’m supposedto tell you
but, um.” Stiles keeps the sentence suspended as he tries to quickly weigh the
pros and cons of being honest about who and what he is. “Laura knows. Your mom
knows. I think maybe Peter knows. Kate knows. Cora knows. Kira knows. I guess
one more person couldn’t hurt.”
Derek just shrugs the corners of his mouth as his eyebrows raise in
expectation. Then he says, “Is this about you being a Virtue? Because I already
know about that.”
“Oh my god, how?” Stiles exclaims.
Derek shrugs like he doesn’t get what the big deal is and he scratches the
corner of his mouth. “Well, super hearing. I’ve heard you talking about it on
several different occasions. And I might have asked Laura and Peter about it,
though I never directly used your name.” Then he adds, “Your secret’s safe with
me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Dude, I don’t even know if my secret is safe with me!” Stiles groans and
covers his face with his hands. “The whole town is going to know at this rate.”
Derek snorts and bumps their shoulders together in what Stiles assumes is
supposed to be a reassuring way. “If you’re afraid of slipping up, then use a
code word. Like bacon.”
Stiles laughs out rightly at that. “Yeah sure. Whenever I get a bad feeling in
my gut about someone or something, I’ll just say, ‘Hey! My bacon senses are
tingling!’ Like, really?”
Derek snickers. “It makes sense to me,” he says before he chuckles.
Stiles rolls his eyes and drops his hands. “No thanks.” He sighs and
straightens. “I’ll just be a lot more careful, that’s all. I’ll be ten times as
careful. From this moment on, only a select few people will know about my —”
“Bacon,” Derek interjects and then laughs like he's so utterly clever.
Stiles gives him a flat look. “I will throw myself off of this tower if you
ever refer to me or what I can do as bacon,” he feebly threatens.
Derek just leans back on his elbows with a lazy smirk, and lifts his eyebrows
like he’s totally calling Stiles’s bluff. “So who’s going to help you perfect
the art of bacon?”
Stiles exhales the deepest long-suffering sigh and he swears it comes directly
from his soul. Then he stands and grips the railing. “Well. Here I go. Over the
edge. Such a short life lived. Gone too soon. With nothing to leave behind but
my comic books." He takes a moment to glare at Derek. "Your banned from my
funeral.”
"That's a bit extreme."
"It's not extreme enough, if you ask me. I kind of want to make you buy resold
tickets that would only place you in steep balcony with an obstructed view."
"Why are you selling tickets to your funeral?"
"I'm not. You're just going to be the exception."
"Resold tickets aren't even always legit."
"Oh I know. You'll be stuck outside when your tickets get scanned as 'already
in use'." Stiles turns away and pretends to stretch for his morbid leap.
"Anyway, like I was saying, this is it for me. Ask for me tomorrow, and you
shall find me a grave man. A plague on your — not your house cause I like the
people that live there despite you — but maybe like, um, on your basketball
games. Yeah. A plague on all your basketball games."
Derek’s on his feet before Stiles can blink and he splays his large hand over
Stiles’s stomach while his left hand curls around the wrist of Stiles’s left
hand as he huddles close until he’s flushed against Stiles’s back. “Don’t be so
dramatic. I’m just poking fun,” he says softly, and his words, the warmth of
his breath, tickles the shell of Stiles's ear.
Stiles exhales shakily and a wad of emotion expands in the back of his throat,
making his next words die at the tip of his tongue.
Derek lowers his forehead to Stiles’s shoulder with a sigh and makes no move to
put any distance between them.
“Uh, Derek,” Stiles mutters as he squirms. “You’re kind of — kind of close.”
“Is it making you uncomfortable?” Derek asks lowly, not bothering to lift his
head. “I didn’t think you’d mind. You’ve never complained when Laura or Cora
scent you.”
Oh. Well.
Stiles supposes that’s true. Then he finds himself getting flustered for being
flustered and it’s a bit of agony. It’s just that Derek’s so close and this
feels so intimate. It feels so different from when Laura or Cora does it. Or
even Peter. But he can’t pinpoint exactly why that it is because his heart is
too busy pounding in his rib cage like it'll burst free because Derek feels
like a solid wall of heat behind him.
Derek eventually lifts his head and presses his lips to Stiles’s ear as he
whispers, “Relax. I’m not going to bite you.”
Warmth pools in Stiles’s gut as goosebumps break out over his skin and he lets
out a slightly hysterical laugh. “I can’t relax,” he admits and his heart beats
faster. “I can’t. I really — I just can’t.”
Derek hums as his hand twitches against Stiles’s stomach. “Do I make you
nervous?” he asks and it’s so bizarre how calm he is about all of this.
Stiles squirms. “You don’t usually — I’m just not used to you — I didn’t think
you'd care to —”
“I like you, Stiles,” Derek gently interrupts.
“Enough to want to scent me?” Stiles questions, trying to desperately
understand why his heart and his mind are going haywire just from being this
close to Derek.
“Would it be better if we were face to face?” Derek asks and bodily turns
Stiles with a teasing grin. “Still nervous?” he says, sounding just a bit smug.
Stiles scowls as he goes scarlet. “You’re the worst.”
Derek just laughs and pulls him into the warmest and most comfortable hug that
Stiles has ever had, spreading his palms against Stiles’s shoulder blades like
he knows exactly how Stiles likes to be held and isn’t that insane?
Stiles will deny to his very last breath that he melts into the embrace or that
the smell of Derek (vanilla and jasmine) acts like a trigger for all the
tension in his body to flee. He tries to pretend that his hands aren’t
trembling with nerves as he fists the sides of Derek’s hoodie or that there are
not butterflies but full-fledged bats flapping around in his stomach and god
what is this? He exhales and mutters, “This is weird.”
“You’re weird.” Derek sounds so unreasonably amused. “This is normal. We’re
just two teenaged boys hugging it out at the top of a water tower with an
ideally romantic view of Beacon Hills, as the stars twinkle poetically over our
heads. You’re the one who’s heart is pounding like it’s trying to hammer out of
your chest. So I think you’re the one making it weird.”
“Oh my god.Why? Why would you say any of that? Like it wasn't your idea to come
out here in the first place. Like it’s not extremely weird that youinitiated
this rather intimate physical contact. Because you did and you’re having fun at
my expense and I swear you are the worst, okay? You are just the worst.”
Derek hides his face into the side of Stiles’s neck and laughs.
Stiles flails in his arms and grows even more flustered as Derek shakes against
him in utter amusement and it makes him so deliriously livid. “Derek! Derek.
Seriously. Stop it — stop laughing!You are nuts!” He tries to pry himself out
of Derek’s arms but Derek just clings to him like an octopus and keeps on
laughing. He opens his mouth to complain but the loud blare of the curfew horn
rings off in the distance and it distracts him.
Derek finally pulls away and just says, “We should start heading back.” Then he
moves to the metal ladder without waiting for Stiles’s response.
Stiles feels even more perplexed and annoyed. It feels like something
significant just happened but he’s too dumb to really recognize what that is
since he isn’t fluent in pack dynamics.
Derek’s waiting at the bottom with his hands behind his back.
Stiles squints his eyes at him.
Derek just let a slow grin spread across his mouth as he offers his left hand.
Stiles doesn’t accept it out of principal. He just walks off, too prideful to
complain when Derek presses a hand between his shoulder blades to steer him in
the right direction. He does glare at the other teen whenever he trips over an
exposed root or a decapitated branch as they walk side by side because Derek
wont stop chuckling every time he does. “It’s not funny,” he whines.
“It’s a little funny.”
“I’m not holding your hand,” Stiles grumbles as he crosses his arms but he ends
up stumbling again.
Derek just shrugs cheerily like he doesn’t mind at all and like he finds it
more amusing to watch Stiles fumble around in the dark anyway.
Outside of this, a comfortable silence falls between them for the rest of the
tread back to the Hale house.
They enter the house through the door in the garage that leads to the kitchen.
Laura and Kate are sitting at the other end of the island counter playing
dominoes while Cora spectates.
Laura is the only one that looks up when they enter. She glances between them
before she says, “Mom wants to talk you, Derek.”
Derek nods and slinks away in search of Talia.
“What were you two doing?” Cora asks as she tucks her hair behind her ears.
Stiles gives a weak shrug. “Making sacrifices to our pagan gods for a bountiful
summer?” he says, trying for funny so he doesn’t fluster himself thinking about
what they were really up to because he still has no clue what that was. His
joke falls flat. “So, uh, who’s winning?”
Cora shoots him a strange look.
Kate says, “I am.”
“No way,” Laura disagrees.
Cora says, rather bluntly, “You’re sleeping with me tonight. You reek of my
brother. It’s weird and I don't like it.”
Stiles fumbles onto a stool beside her with a flush. “Do you have to say it
like that?”
Cora just scoffs. “How else would you like me to say it? You smell a little
less like Kira?”
“And that just pleases you, doesn’t it?” Kate remarks with a smirk. "You should
be happy he smells more like Hale Pack now. Even if it's mostly Derek putting
in that work."
Cora just gives her a mean look. “Bud out.”
“Cora, be nice,” Laura gently chastises. “And she’s right, Stiles. I could
close my eyes right now and pretend very easily that it’s Derek here and not
you. Just what were you guys doing?”
“Nothing!” Stiles swears as he flails. “Just nothing. We went for a walk. Why
is everyone being weird about this?”
“You’re the only one acting weird,” Cora states flatly.
Stiles just flails even more in exasperation.
“Relax, Blue,” Laura says. “You guys went for a walk. We get it. No one is
implying anything unsavory.”
“I am,” Kate says because of course she would. "But it's cute that kids these
days are calling them 'walks'. I could use a good 'walk' right about now. It's
been a few hours since my last couple of 'walks'. Maybe Peter can 'walk' me
right to sleep tonight. Maybe I can convince him to get Parrish to join us.
Turn that 'walk' into a 'hike'."
"Oh god, please stop!" Stiles begs, flushing deeply because its amazing how she
can make such an innocent word sound so filthy. "I can't take anymore
innuendo."
"And what canyou take?" Kate presses with a smirk that makes Stiles wanna choke
on his own tongue. "I'd love to find out."
Laura gives her best friend a look.
“Or not. Stop looking at me like that,” Kate complains as she slaps down
another domino. "I was just teasing. I like how flustered he gets."
Cora stands and grabs Stiles's right hand. She says, “Let’s go find your
brother and watch a movie.”
They locate Isaac in Olive’s nursery with Nana Hale as he watches the older
woman feed the infant while Jordan (Derek’s dog) sleeps under Olive’s crib.
Cora grabs Isaac without letting Stiles go and drags them both down to her room
(where Ginger yips happily and tries to slobber all over them like the bucket
of sunshine she is). Cora fusses at the energetic canine before she shoves
Isaac and Stiles up her white ladder that leads up to the indoor balcony above
her bed with a sea of pillows on the floor of it and an entertainment system
mounted to the wall. She asks, “What should we watch?”
“Anything but horror,” Stiles responds because he has a weak heart and a
loathing for anticipation.
“Be more specific or I’ll just put on Ghostbusters,” Cora warns.
“Frozen,” Isaac says and Stiles groans. “I love Frozen.”
“Anything but that too,” Stiles pleads and chuckles when Isaac swats him with a
pillow. "You and dad have worn that out. If I have to hear 'Love Is an Open
Door' or 'Let It Go' or, god forbid, 'Do You Wanna Build A Snowman' one more
time, I am going to scream."
“Fine, Mr. Picky,” Cora huffs. “You decide.” She tosses her remote to him. She
looks to Isaac and says, "I haven't seen Frozen."
"You can borrow our copy. You'll love it."
Stiles fumbles with the remote a few times before he actually catches it and
glares at both Isaac and Cora when they snicker. Then he goes into one of
Cora’s streaming accounts in search of something to watch. “Oh, what about the
Hobbit? The second one.”
“I haven’t seen the first,” Isaac admits as he makes himself comfortable.
“Well that just settles it. We’ll start with that first and move on from
there,” Stiles reasons and turns on the first part of the Hobbit series.
Cora snorts and says, “I’m going on a snack run. Any requests while I’m in the
kitchen?”
“Candy. Lots of it,” Stiles exclaims.
Isaac says, “Popcorn.”
Cora leaves and returns a few minutes into the movie with said items and
divides the snacks between them.
It’s not long before a few of Cora’s younger cousins join them and pile in with
their own snacks.
Laura climbs up and curls over Cora, draping herself along her little sister’s
back when the movie reaches it’s midpoint.
Even Derek shows up when the first movie comes to an end, though not without
grumbling that Peter and Kate are at it again. He squishes himself between
Gracie and Sabrina.
Stiles turns on the next movie and tries to pay attention to what’s happening
but his concentration is shot. He keeps glancing over to Derek, who’s grinning
and playfully tickling his cousins, or patiently letting them crawl over him,
or mess with his hair, and its unfairly adorable.
Stiles grabs a pillow with a groan and tries to suffocate himself with it.
He’s unsuccessful of course, so he just falls asleep instead to the sound of
Kili crying out because he’s been struck with an arrow and there’s hazy moment
when Stiles thinks, same.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up squished between Isaac and Tyson with Isaac curled with his
back plastered along Stiles’s side while Tyson hugs his right leg and virtually
almost kicks him in the face when his dreams make him twitch. Stiles has to be
very careful when he slips away, taking caution to tiptoe around every sleeping
form curled around Cora's satin throw pillows and each other.
He’s not sure what time it is, but all he knows is that he really has to pee.
So he climbs down Cora’s white ladder and quickly makes his way to her shared
bathroom.
Stiles sighs in relief as he empties his bladder before flushing the toilet and
moving to the sink to wash his hands. It’s not until he’s wandering through
Derek’s empty room to exit into the hall that he smells something sweet and
delicious. He follows the aroma down the staircase and into the kitchen.
Nana Hale, who is wearing a floral cooking apron, is in the midst of making her
infamous crêpes with Kate, who has on a white apron with cherries.
Kate’s the only one covered in flour up to her elbows.
Nana Hale just looks immaculate as ever.
Stiles slides onto a stool on the other side of island counter, opposite of
them.
Nana Hale wanders over to him and kisses him on the cheek. “Good morning,
sweetheart. Did you sleep well?” she asks as she cards her fingers through his
messy hair affectionately with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.
Stiles says, “Yes, thank you.” And he soaks up her affection happily.
“Good. Good.” Nana Hale plants a kiss on the crown of his head before she
wanders back over to the stove to finish her cooking.
Kate picks up a beige mug and takes a long sip of it before she reaches towards
the glass bowl of chocolate pieces and pops one in her mouth.
Even though Nana Hale has her back to them, she still calmly says, with a
startling amount of accuracy, “Kathryn. If you eat anymore of my chocolates I
will ban you from this kitchen.”
Kate snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth to stop from spitting out the third
piece of chocolate she’s crammed in there.
Stiles snickers too.
“I’m not,” Kate lies around a mouthful. “And anyway, you would never ban me.
I’m your favorite.” She picks up the bowl and winks at Stiles while holding a
finger to her lips as she offers it to him.
Stiles grins and takes a piece of chocolate to pop into his mouth.
Nana Hale sighs. “I can hear you two chewing.” Then she turns and swats Kate on
her rear with the metal spatula.
Kate laughs and hops out of the way, running around to duck behind Stiles.
“Okay! Okay! Sorry.”
Nana Hale points her spatula sternly and says, “Finish mixing. Everyone will
starve at the rate you’re going. Come on. Mix. Mix.”
Kate wanders back over to the electric mixing bowl and pours more flour in
before adding some eggs, coconut milk, and other ingredients.
Stiles is hit with a bit of nostalgia as he watches Nana Hale divide her
attention and guide Kate’s hands with skilled coaching. It makes him think of
how he and his mom used to cook together. He feels a pang of longing and he has
to distract himself from it by grabbing a piece of banana from its designated
bowl. He pops it in his mouth and smiles when Nana Hale wags her finger at him
playfully with a grin before she turns to the stove.
“Morning, morning,” Laura yawns as she wanders into the kitchen with a moan and
a lazy stretch before rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her shiny, long hair is wild
from sleep. Then she saddles up behind Stiles, resting her chin on top of his
head as she rests her forearms on his shoulders. “Mm, that smells good. Nana,
you know Kate’s eating some of the batter right?”
Nana Hale turns and swats Kate’s hands with her spatula.
Kate yelps and glares at Laura. “Snitch.”
Laura just chuckles and Stiles can’t help but too as well.
Nana Hale passes over a bowl of grains and says, “Laura, be a dear and feed the
birds.”
Laura nods and moves to accept the bowl. She taps Stiles on the shoulder and
gestures for him to follow.
So he does, curiosity getting the best of him.
They exit through the door that leads to the garage and navigate around the
parked cars to walk out towards the edge of the forest.
Laura says, “Want to see something cool?”
Stiles replies, “Yeah.”
Laura puts to fingers under her tongue and gives a piercing whistle before she
throws up a handful of grains.
Within a matter of seconds, a horde of ravens come flying out of the trees,
circling high above before diving down onto the ground to start pecking up the
grains.
Stiles watches in fascination as they waddle around, shaking out their dark
feathers before cawing at each other like they’re having an actual
conversation.
“Ravens love wolves,” Laura explains. “They follow us wherever we go.” She
continues, “Nana says that way back when, before phones and stuff, they used to
act as messengers between packs. Sometimes they still do, but that’s only for
times of urgency.”
“Cool,” Stiles says because in all honestly it is. He counts at least a dozen
ravens pecking away at the ground.
Laura puts down the bowl of grain to strut over to pick one up. She takes great
care in stroking along it’s back before she returns to Stiles. “This one we
call Oscar. He’s the oldest one in the bunch. He’s like Papa Raven to the
flock. He’s got a missing eye.”
Upon inspection, Stiles notes that this is true. He sees that Oscar only has
his left eye in tact.
“He’s really protective. He lost the eye trying to protect my Aunty Rosemary
from a bear during her first shift. He’s fierce but a real sweetie, otherwise,”
Laura explains. “Here. Hold out your hands. He won’t hurt you,” she promises.
Stiles cups his hands together but doesn’t move a muscle when Laura dumps Oscar
onto his palms.
Laura strokes a hand down Stiles’s back with a chuckle and says, “Chill.”
Stiles straightens with her touch but he tries not to be so tense.
Oscar shakes out his wings with a caw and cocks his head in Stiles’s direction.
Stiles nudges Oscar into one hand so that he can use his other to caress the
back of Oscar’s neck with two fingers. His feathers are surprisingly soft and
well-groomed.
Oscar caws, shakes out his wings, and nuzzles his head against the inside of
Stiles’s wrist. Then he flaps his wings before floating off to join his
companions again.
Laura passes him the bowl of grains before throwing her arm over his shoulders.
“Toss them the rest.”
Stiles does as she asks as Laura skims the edge of his ear with her nose, chest
rumbling with animalistic content. He listens with interest when she points to
each raven and tells him their name.
Eventually a cluster of young Hales come ambling out of the house with bare
feet and with as little clothes as possible.
Laura assures him it’s normal behavior as they both watch the younglings chase
and play tag with the flock of ravens.
Isaac wanders out of the house and says, “Dad’s here.”
Stiles perks up in interest at that. He follows Isaac in the house where their
dad is sitting in the dining room at the head of the table, conversing with
Talia and her husband about who knows what.
His dad pauses, laughing slightly when Stiles and Isaac ambush him with a hug.
He huffs fondly and pats them both on the head as they cling to him. “You’re
both still in trouble,” he warns gently. “But I missed you guys too.”
Stiles hugs him tighter before letting him go. “Dad, where’d you go? Well I
knew where you went but why did you go down there? What did you find? Did you
find anything good?”
The sheriff just continues to pat Isaac on the top of his head affectionately
as the preteen clings to him. He says, “I got what I needed, yes. But we’ll
talk later.”
Stiles grumbles impatiently and moves to sit opposite from his dad at the head
of the table. He props his chin in his hand and tries not to fidget as he
listens to his dad and Talia and her husband make small, boring grown-up talk
with each other.
Eventually, Kate waltzes out of the kitchen with a tray of crêpes, with Nana
Hale.
Talia says, “I’ll herd everyone in” before she sets off to do just that.
Peter seats himself between Isaac and Laura with Olive, who is swaddled up in a
yellow blanket with ducks, in his arms.
It’s not long before the dining room is swarming with Hales of all different
shapes and sizes and ages.
Stiles watches in amusement as his dad stands to shake hands and greet each one
of them warmly.
They’re very receptive and kind to his father.
Nana Hale even says, “Oh, you’re just so handsome. Just like your sons.”
His dad smiles and kisses the back of her right hand. “You must be Talia’s
older sister.”
“Oh, stop it now. I’m way too old for you,” Nana Hale says, swatting him on the
shoulder. “Sit, sit. You came just in time. I hope you’re hungry.”
His dad nods and settles back in his chair with Isaac on his left as Talia
rejoins her husband at the head of the table.
Derek slides into the seat to Stiles’s right and scoots over until their elbows
brush and the outside of their legs press together.
Stiles fights down an answering flush as his insides get all gooey again at
their proximity and he mentally berates himself.
“Have to make room for other people,” Derek mumbles as if to explain why he has
to sit so close.
Cora plops down in the empty chair to his left, glances at how close her older
brother is to Stiles, and then rolls her eyes as she scoots her chair over
until their sides are flushed. She drops a hand onto Stiles’s thigh as she
lifts a challenging eyebrow at Derek.
Derek frowns and just stretches out his arm so that it’s resting on the back of
Stiles’s chair. “Cute, Cora. Real cute,” he mutters.
“Cuter than you,” Cora drawls as she rests her head on Stiles’s shoulder. She
gives Derek a sharp smile as she looks at him from under her lashes.
Derek makes an annoyed sound and rolls his eyes before he concentrates on
eating instead.
Stiles says, “You mind easing up, Cora?”
Cora just scoffs and pulls away so she can pour strawberry syrup all over her
crêpes.
Stiles thanks Nana Hale when she places his own special made peanut butter and
banana crêpes in front of him before ruffling his hair affectionately. He digs
in and blissfully enjoys what he can before Cora starts cutting into his food
too because she’s finished all three of her plates.
He makes an even unhappier sound when Derek decides he wants dibs too and soon
he drops his fork in exasperation and it clatters nosily against his plate as
he sits back and folds his arms moodily.
Laura turns away from chatting with Kate to send him an amusedly fond look. She
winks before she continues conversing with Kate.
Stiles nibbles on the last of his bacon as Cora and Derek clear his plate for
him like it’s some kind of weird territorial competition.
Werewolves.
***** glow *****
            artwork by the lovely Zera_Henna (also on tumblr here)
                                   VOLUME II
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip as he gazes at his father across the table from
under his lashes before he glances over to his brother, if only to distract
himself.
Isaac pays no attention to the happenings around him, too involved with his
meal as he often is when the occasion arises. It never fails to satisfy Stiles
to see Isaac taking care of himself. Once upon a time, his little brother
couldn’t be bothered with eating or sleeping properly; his eyes cloudy with
gloom, despair, and a haunted past. Now he’s more receptive to the
communication and attention of those around him, coming out of his shell little
by little, though he still remains silent when it suits him. He doesn’t hunch
down, but stands tall with certainty. He also eats without apology, and sleeps
in that lazy way cats do whenever they please; his body now thickening
healthily into an athletic build, and he's growing like a freaking weed (Stiles
suspects he’ll be even taller than their dad one day very soon).
Stiles especially loves (almost as much as his brother himself) the way Isaac
can be as snarky and sarcastic as Stiles is in those rare moments. Of course
Stiles likes to think that he had some influence in Isaac’s newfound behavior.
He also knows his father has as well, giving Isaac the love and support of a
father; something Stiles knows was never shown in all of his twelve years on
this Earth.
Stiles turns his gaze back to his father who is finishing his third plate of
crepes, making sure to voice his appreciation of the meal. Nana Hale just soaks
up the praise, doting on him with a smile. His father is gracious enough to
shoulder the affection easily. Stiles is struck by the thought that his dad
must have been a lot like Isaac in his younger days as an orphan in Winnepeg 
(something he never seems to be open to talk about).
Derek and Cora are arguing over him. He has no clue what it’s about but they
make a lot of gestures to him and to his plate. There are a few growls thrown
into the mix, matched with gold eyes flickering on and off like a light switch
— it appears to be very aggressive, but it could be normal when it comes to
Werewolves (which he is beginning to appreciate as it’s own culture).
Stiles doesn’t really know what they’re doing, and neither can he focus on
their little debate because he’s anxious and he’s kind of desperate to know
what his dad found in Mexico. His right leg bounces out a sporadic beat; his
body’s way of expelling all of his pent up energy and nerves that seem to swim
in his body and his mind. There’s a slow buzz itching under his skin and his
palms burn with a slow heat — it’s a sensation he tries his hardest to curb
because he knows what it can lead to. And he does not need that right now.
His dad doesn’t seem all the wiser to his staring — or he more than likely does
and is willfully ignoring it. Which, to be fair, Stiles kind of deserves after
what he pulled in his absence with the Vampires, and the party, and putting not
only himself, but also Isaac at risk. So when Nana Hale makes her rounds with a
spread of desserts, with the assistance of Peter and Kate, his dad just tucks
in and takes his time while not sparing Stiles a glance. He’s making Stiles
wait.
Stiles feels his mouth fidget as his leg bounces in anticipation (it’s the calm
before the storm), and he lifts his right hand to chew on his fingernails as
Derek and Cora start another weird rivalry thing over the funnel cake (a la
mode) that is set before Stiles. He doesn’t mind it so much this time because
he doesn’t have the mind to focus on eating anything. He chews on the corner of
his thumbnail as the rest of his fingers curl up into a fist.
 “…not subtle at all, Derek. Even mom had to pull you aside to talk to you
about how heavy you were scenting —”
“Mind your own business,” Derek quickly and sharply interjects. “I mean it,
Cora.”
“Little hard to at this point,” Cora continues airily. “You know, he’s my
friend as well. Maybe I’ll scent him too. Might drown him in it until it’s
practically waxed on his skin. Mom's been training me to leave long-lasting
impressions, you know. I bet I could get it to stick for weeks.”
Derek mutters something so violently quick that Stiles has a hard time making
sense of it.
“Derek Alexander Herschel-Hale the Third,” Talia snaps sharply, smacking her
hand against the table, and the whole entire table shakes. It goes quiet as
everyone flinches, stiffens before straightening hurriedly, and duck their
heads low.
His dad even looks a little wary before averting his eyes elsewhere out of
respect and Isaac slumps down in his seat with a displeased frown as he keeps
his eyes to his plate.
“Put your head down, Stiles,” Cora whispers gravely.
Stiles blinks before ducking his head and slides his teeth back and forth over
his nail, but he peeks up to watch the scene unfold, inherently curious.
Derek stares at his mother with a slightly mutinous expression.
The tension in the room escalates.
Talia’s eyes bleed into red and firmly she says, “We do not use that kind of
language in my house at my table with guests. You do not speak to your
sisterthat way either. As if she were no better than a stranger who wronged you
in the streets. You will not disgrace or undermine my authority, nor will you
be any exception to the rules I’ve disseminated for this pack. Do not make me
embarrass you. Back. Down.”
Derek turns an angry scarlet and he ducks his head low as some of the teenagers
at the table snicker before coughing to cover the sound when their parents cuff
them on the back of their heads in rebuke. Derek purses his lips before tilting
his head to expose the long line of his throat.
Derek’s father sighs. “Das war unklug, Derek,” he says smoothly in German. “Was
wissen wir über das Sprechen?”
“Wörter machen Leute,” Derek mutters sharply. “Man wählt seine Worte mit
Bedacht aus.”
“And so this is what you must do,” Derek Sr. states before he turns to his
wife. “Talia?”
“Well met,” Talia replies to the unsaid question, and it’s like the magic word
because the tension breaks and diffuses. Everyone breathes a little easier and
lifts their heads. “So let the sleeping wolves lie,” she continues, voice
colored with humor.
Everyone chuckles and seems to forget the intense situation from before and the
tension diffuses.
Derek relaxes as well and he rolls his shoulders as if shaking off his
mortification of being scolded so openly by his parents.
Stiles sucks in some air quietly and opens his mouth. “You know German?” he
asks.
“Yes,” Derek says shortly. Then he sighs and says, “My dad is Jewish, but his
family migrated from Germany when he was a baby. They speak both of the
languages equally, and so dad taught Cora and me. We even observe some of the
Jewish holidays. Mom teaches us how to be Pack, and dad teaches us our Human
heritage.”
Stiles thinks that’s absolutely fascinating. He doesn’t voice it, but it
settles in his mind nonetheless. He’s also curious about the scene from
earlier. He opens his mouth to ask what it all means and if it’s a normal Pack
thing.
Derek says, “I don’t feel comfortable discussing that.” before he can even get
the question out, and how he could possibly know what Stiles is trying to ask,
is so beyond him.
“You don’t even know what I was about to say,” Stiles complains, trying to keep
the whine out of his tone.
Derek huffs, and Stiles knows he failed. “You kind of project loudly with your
scent,” he explains. “Cora, I meant what I said before,” he bellyaches,
overlooking Stiles to continue the debate he had earlier with Cora. “Stay out
of it.”
“Nope, not gonna happen. My allure keeps him captivated,” Cora boasts, flipping
her hair over her shoulder, and whacks Stiles in the face, who, unfortunately,
had his mouth open at the time.
Stiles wrinkles his nose and spits out the dyed tips of her hair out of his
mouth.
Cora snorts and doesn’t seem to care that a fraction of her hair is covered
with his saliva. She says, “See that. He practically wants to eat my hair.
Undeniable charm.”
“Yeah the kind of charm that scares away everyone who gets within the proximity
of your cantankerous gravity,” Derek criticizes.
“Ooh, big word,” Cora smoothly interjects with a tone that’s dripping with
sarcasm.
“Don’t patronize me,” Derek says with a disgruntled tone. “I’m
surprised you haven’t scared him off.”
“Well I didn’t and now we’re best — thick as thieves,” Cora quickly corrects, a
hint of color in her cheeks, but she still manages to brag.
Derek rolls his eyes. He says something in German that Stiles can't even follow
but it's enough to make Derek Sr. huff amusedly as he sends his son a warning
look.
Cora frowns deeply at both of them as she replies in the same dialect.
Derek merely rolls his eyes.
Cora scowls in annoyance before she suddenly smiles at her older brother, white
teeth gleaming threateningly and it’s a little terrifying. She cheerfully
declares, “If you think I’m bluffing about how much he likes me, call me out on
it.”
Derek’s mouth pulls down at the corners while he watches her take the last bite
of Stiles’s funnel cake as though she’s making some kind of weird triumphant
point.
Cora licks at the corner of her mouth with a smug grin. “I win.”
“You don’t even like funnel cake,” Derek complains as he glares down at the
plate like he’s personally offended by it.
Cora just snorts and says, “Well maybe I’m into it now. Studies show that food
preferences shift every seven years.”
“You’re making that up,” Derek says as he gives her a frown that seems to
spread up to his eyebrows, which furrow thoughtfully.
“How would you know? There isn’t any space up there in that pea brain of
yours.”
Derek makes an outraged sound. “I’m ranked first in all of my classes.”
“That’d be more impressive if we didn’t go to a school that’s bursting at the
seams with morons,” Cora replies dismissively.
Stiles feels the corner of his lips twitch a little around his thumb. He’s not
so distracted that he can’t appreciate how amusing this conversation is. It
motivates him to say, “I’m a little insulted by that, as I go to said school.”
Both Derek and Cora swing their gazes his way as if remembering that he’s
there, even though he’s been the subject of their little debate for the past
thirty minutes. He feels a little heavy under their unyielding scrutiny.
“Obviously I didn’t mean you,” Cora mutters, the first to break the prolonged
staring contest and looks away as she scratches the side of her nose before
tucking her violet ombre hair behind her beautifully pierced ear laced with a
gold arrow impaled through her cartilage, and gold studs in both the piercings
on the lobe of her ear. Her piercings are very similar to Kate’s and he wonders
if either of them have ever considered getting a nose piercing because,
honestly, he thinks they could pull it off very well. She uses a napkin to wipe
the corners of her mouth and hands clean before she gets up and sits on Nana
Hale’s lap with a pout as she lays her head on the older woman’s right
shoulder.
Nana Hale’s mouth curls into an indulging grin. She kisses Cora’s forehead and
whispers something over the skin.
Cora nods and gives Nana Hale a swift kiss on the cheek before she slides out
of the older woman’s lap to stand behind her. She runs her fingers through Nana
Hale’s waist length hair, the dark color streaked with threads of silver, and
begins to braid the hair into two very long Dutch braids.
Stiles blinks out of the labyrinth of his thoughts as warm fingers curl around
his wrist and carefully lowers his hand away from his mouth to his lap. He
looks over to Derek, who still has his brow furrowed. “Uh…”
Derek doesn’t give him a chance to answer the unsaid question because he says,
“You shouldn’t bite your fingernails like that. If you keep going you might
bite into cuticles.”
“Hyponychium,” Stiles corrects before he can even tamper down the response. He
twitches under Derek’s watchfully amused gaze.
Derek keeps looking at him, eyes roaming his face quickly as if he’s searching
for something before he looks away with a small grin. “Sure, Stiles.”
“Don’t…don’t humor me,” Stiles says, slightly miffed by the thought that the
other teen would.
“I’m not,” Derek replies, and he sounds so stupidly earnest that Stiles’s
annoyance flickers and dies like a candle.
Stiles hands twitches with the urge to lift and bring his fingers closer to his
mouth, but it’s then that he remembers Derek still has his hand pinned to his
thigh. Stiles flexes his fingers pointedly under the hold. “I wont — I’m not
going to — I’ll stop, just…” he falters and scrambles for the right words and
tries not to feel like he’s making this newly tactile side of Derek into a big
deal. “No more nail chewing. Promise,” he finally says, if only to distract
himself from the expanding sensation of what feels like soapsuds swelling in
his stomach.
Derek just hums thoughtfully before he lets go, fingers sliding across the
inner part of his wrist and along the edge of his thumb, and Stiles can’t even
tell if it’s accidental or not.
Stiles gets a little flustered just over contemplating it and his hand twitches
again. He blinks and clings to the sound of utensils clinking against porcelain
dishes in no exact order; the symphony of intermingled conversations, laughter,
and the soft fight of voices rising and falling in the attempt to wrangle and
commandeer heated discussions. His leg starts to bounce again as he watches his
dad talk to Talia with a severe and grave frown etched into his face.
Derek curls two of his fingers into the curve between his thumb and index
finger.
Stiles gives a slight start at that and he zeros in on Derek.
But Derek isn’t even looking at him as he takes his hand away to reach out and
take Stiles’s plate (which is smeared with the remains of melted ice cream,
funnel cake crumbs, and streaks of hot fudge). He switches it with his own
(which has a slice of peach cobbler on it and three scoops of ice cream) and
says, “Eat that.” Then, lowering his voice, “You smell like you’re going to
jump out of your own skin. It’s not going to make your dad move any faster.”
Then he speaks normally, like he didn’t just read Stiles’s body language in a
scarily accurate fashion, and asks, “Do you want some syrup for the ice cream.
We have hot fudge, banana, and caramel. Personally, I’m a fan of strawberry.”
“I don’t want the pie crust, or the ice cream,” Stiles mumbles, a little
bemused. Just when he thinks he’s got an understanding of Derek, the other teen
never fails to catch him off guard and surprise him. “But I do like the way the
peaches taste, I guess.”
“Cool,” Derek merely says. “You eat the peaches and I’ll eat the pie crust and
the ice cream.”
Stiles isn’t sure what kind of expression he’s making but it makes Derek snort.
So he pushes the plate over a little more in Derek’s direction so it’s between
them. He grabs a fork and starts unearthing and separating the peaches covered
with a thick layer of sweet syrup.
Derek uses the spoon in his left hand to eat the vanilla ice cream as he uses
the long fingers of his right hand to peel away the pie crust, sometimes
successfully and other times not; pieces falling apart into crumbs that
sprinkle and stick to the shrinking number of peaches.
Stiles finds he doesn’t mind so much when he eats his portion of the dessert,
and fitfully complains when Derek sneaks some of his peaches without asking,
chewing and grinning in the way that never fails to bewilder, fluster, and
annoy Stiles all at once.
They clear the plate together in less than ten minutes in companionable
silence.
It’s not until Stiles drops his fork onto the plate with a loud clink does he
realize all the anticipation and the anxiety is gone. His mind is clear and his
thoughts are untangled. The buzzing itch under his skin has settled and his
palms are perfectly cool. He scratches at his eyebrow as he watches Derek stand
and takes their plates into the kitchen.
                                      ---
All the younger kids are put on dish duty. They grumble and groan and whine (as
kids do when it comes to chores); they clear the table, dragging their feet
while they round the long oak table with names carved into it.
Stiles sometimes likes to slide the tips of his fingers over the indentions;
following every curve and loop as each name settles deep within the nest of his
mind and stays. He likes to imagine the person behind the name if he hasn't
already met them face to face; and each time his imagination wanders.
Stiles knows he's a guest and he's not expected to contribute,
but nonetheless, he feels a little bit better about the whole situation when he
carries Cora’s dishes (including his dad's and Isaac's) into the kitchen.
Derek and he cross paths just as the other teen exits, using his left hand to
shake out his hair while he tosses Stiles a disarming grin before disappearing.
Stiles denies that the grin doesn’t make his stomach feel like it’s trying to
float out of his body. He just heads to the sink, gnawing on his bottom lip
again. He barely manages to scramble right back out when Tyson gets ahold of
the sink's water hose and uses everyone as a bull's eye; meanwhile all the
other kids are shouting excitedly and throwing handfuls of soapsuds at each
other.
It’s makes the ground, not only moist, but slippery too. Once or twice there’s
a wet thud and a cry of pain, followed by uproars of laughter. 
This is when Derek Sr. marches past Stiles and into the kitchen with a
prominent scowl. 
Stiles watches as the older man silently glares them all into submission and
good behavior. He says a few cutting words in several different languages (it’s
really quite impressive). It's then that Stiles decides that Derek and Cora
definitely didn't get that scary look from their mother. He smiles a little to
himself at that, only to notice that Talia is herding all the adults, give or
take a few teenagers, towards the living room, placing his dad at the armchair
in front of the fireplace.
So Stiles follows, both curious and confused.
The sheriff becomes the epicenter of focus as he sits facing at least three
generations of Hales and his two sons.
Stiles sticks to the doorway of the living room and says nothing when Isaac
pulls him closer, twisting his long fingers in the sleeve of Stiles's (actually
Derek's) hoodie with a firm grip.
Derek and Cora stand shoulder to shoulder behind their Aunt Rosemary, who has a
golden haired toddler in her arms that Stiles distinctly remembers not only by
name (Artemis) but by memory.
It was only just this morning when Artemis had crawled his way on top of the
table and made a mess of the fruit bouquet at the center. Most of the Hales,
including Stiles himself, were very amused at the little boy's efforts. All but
his mother, Rosemary, who swiped him up into her arms with pink cheeks, and a
flood of apologies directed all around the room.
The boy was so beautiful that Stiles marveled at the way Rosemary was able to
scold him without melting when he argued with her in garbled baby language.
"He likes watermelon," Cora explained at the time as she leaned over to finish
the last piece of banana on Stiles's plate. "We try to limit how much we keep
in the house because once he catches wind of the scent, he gets determined to
have it."
"He's got a knack for stalking, being as young as he is. He's a natural
tracker," said Derek with a smirk, looking for all the world like he was proud
of his cousin. "Better than you even."
Cora had said nothing to that, but she did scowl in that way she does when
she's very displeased while popping all the bones in her hands ominously. 
Stiles blinks away the memory and turns his attention back to his father.
His dad glances around before he says, “Down in Mexico, while I was following a
lead, I crossed paths with a hunting clan who call themselves the Calaveras."
Everyone in the room tenses noticeably. There are even a few growls here and
there.
Isaac's fingers twitch where he's holding onto Stiles's sleeve, but when Stiles
turns to look at him, he's just looking at their dad with a furrowed brow.
Stiles opens his mouth to ask but Isaac just shoots him this bemused look,
shakes his head, and says, "I don’t know either, but I’ve heard some things. It
wasn’t — good." He looks uncomfortable
Stiles wants to push the subject, but in respect, he merely nods and turns his
attention back to his dad.
The sheriff presses on, despite the tension building in the room, "Listen, I
understand there's some...bad blood to say the least —"
"For what they've done, there is no least about it," Peter smoothly interjects,
disdain dripping from his tone. “That’s gravely undermining their gruesome
methods when —”
Talia sends him a warning look as her eyes flash red.
Peter crosses his arms defiantly but he averts his eyes just as quickly as he
does the gesture.
"Leave the boy be, Talia," Uncle Jonah urges gently, keeping his shoulders
dipped as he cocks his head to show more of his neck when Talia turns her red-
eyed gaze onto the older man. "His trepidation is valid. For all our sorrows,
he has more reason to grieve than most of us. As do you."
Talia's expression goes neutral and she glances around the room as though she's
weighing her options. "And the rest of you," she murmurs gently, but everyone
stiffens; spines straighten with apprehensive watchfulness. "Do you all share
in Peter's disdain?"
No one dares to say a word.
Peter scowls but keeps his gaze down. He looks like he wants to call them all
cowards.
Kate pops her gum loudly and shamelessly as she lingers beside him, almost
adjacent (quietly mindful of not blocking Derek and Cora's view of their
mother) as she and Peter kept their left hands interlaced.
Stiles feels the corner of his mouth curl a little and she glances at him for a
half of a second, like she just knows, and tosses him a wink with a flirty
smirk that makes him color a bit at the blatant implications.
Derek pushes her, using enough force to almost throw her off balance but not
completely, and both Cora and Laura snicker before they can help it.
Talia cuts her gaze to them and their laughter dies like a snuffed candle. She
glances around and goes on to say, "Now don't be shy." She straightens to her
full height, and the tension escalates. "Please. Speak freely. I’m not
intolerant of opinions under the right circumstances." She waits, and when no
one utters a word, she looks to Stiles suddenly.
Stiles feels that familiar pull but its softer with Talia, not forced like it
was with Laura; it’s curbed like a question, and the pull is undoubtedly
wrapped up in the gold paper of questing consent. He takes a deep breath and
lets her in — where ever in is exactly. He still doesn’t have this whole Virtue
thing figured out, but he feels like she’s swimming in his mind like a steady
compass guiding a ship through still waters.
Talia squints marginally, red eyes contemplating him with serious intent. Then,
with a honeyed voice, she asks, “What do you think of all this?”
It’s strange for Stiles. Talia is the Alpha of a pretty impressive pack, and
she’s looking to him for guidance and permission. He feels a little tongue-tied
and he flushes under everyone’s curious and questioning gaze (and most of all
his dad’s). He’s barely able to choke out, “Peter’s not exactly wrong. Double —
double agendas aren’t entirely — entirely out of the, um, question. We should,
uh, hear what my dad has to say, most of all. First and…foremost.”
Talia shrugs her mouth, and it reminds him vaguely of Derek and how he does the
same thing, and she cocks her head in what appears to be approval. “Very well.”
Her eyes return to its original color. She turns to Stiles's father and says,
“We will let the Sheriff continue with no interruptions. Let's hear what he has
to say before we make snap judgments.” Her gaze flickers over to Peter
pointedly.
Peter's face is devoid of all emotion but his mouth twitches into a frown for
an eighth of a second.
"Sheriff," Talia goes on to say, finally glancing away from her brother.
"Please continue. I apologize. We are not usually so rude."
"Thank you, Talia," his dad says, gratefully. "And again, I'm not holding it
against any of you if anything I'm saying rubs you all the wrong way. I
understand, well, as best as I can. As best as I’m able to." He continues after
a short pause, "There was an older woman among them. Araya, they called her.
Said she was standing in place of her husband. And that she was trying to do
right by all the families that her husband wronged when he was alive. I'm not
going to say that she's the least bit polite. She speaks her mind, and she
stands firm on a lot of her beliefs. But she doesn't let her people hunt
anymore — says they are ambassadors for peace now. She said they have no
business deciding who lives and who dies, no matter what or who they are. That
it should be for a community of the same kind to pass a judgment that they see
fit to adhere. Moral code and conduct will always be different among different
tribes of species, just as the gods differ in every culture."
Peter snorts bitterly. "How diplomatic," he drawls and ignores when Kate rolls
her eyes, muttering something that sounds like ‘drama queen’. "Really quite
avant-garde when you think about it.” He crosses his arms with a thoughtful
face that shifts into an expression that is mockingly sympathetic. “I’m just a
little curious, and bear with me for a minute, but where exactly was this logic
when her husband was gutting open half the supernatural community like fish
from navel to nose?"
"Peter, I will ask you to leave if you cannot show at least an ounce of self-
control," Talia remarks evenly. “I know all too well how much you enjoy hearing
the sound of your own voice, but as there are more important things to be
heard, I beg of you, as a one time courtesy to all of us, shut your mouth and
bring it to a heel.”
"Of course, dear sister,” Peter icily replies as his eyes slowly bleed to gold.
“My apologies.”
Laura sighs audibly.
Isaac quietly slips away, muttering something about being bored with this line
of conversation before he disappears out the front door.
Talia gestures for the sheriff to continue with another apology.
"When I said I went to Mexico to follow a lead," his dad goes on to say,
breaking the frigid silence. "What I soon discovered that Arya was my lead.” He
takes a moment to pause. “She told me that not too long ago, immediately after
her husband died, her small town had been plagued by the same gruesome
circumstances. She said many good men, families, were lost. She believes it's
the work of the same person who is also responsible for her husband's death.
The Benefactor."
A break of murmurs floods the room, twisting around an uneasy and restless
silence.
Talia lifts her left hand and the room quiets immediately. She does not break
the intense eye contact she has with Stiles's father. And she waits almost
three minutes before she says, "Arya is no spring chicken, Sheriff. She’s
focused and very diligent, this I have come to understand through the rumors
that often travel from pack to pack. I imagine the reason you're telling me all
this is because she wants to, as they say, 'join forces'. You can tell me I’m
wrong, if you wish."
Peter clenches his right hand until his knuckles pops audibly.
The sheriff sighs and says, "She recognizes you may have some reluctance in an
alliance. She wants to help, but I know she isn't without her own agenda. She
believes that working together means we'll be able to draw out this Benefactor,
and by the way she made it sound, we'll need all the help we can get."
"How convenient that she would offer her aid," Peter comments with artificial
cheer as he uncrosses his arms. "How exactly is she going to help?"
Talia glances at her brother, but then back to the sheriff as though she's
curious to know as well. She let’s Peter’s impertinence slide charitably.
"Forgive me for saying this," his dad says, looking a little guilty as he gazes
at Talia. "But she said the one thing that you both have in common, is the
circumstances that surround your husband's untimely death. She said not only is
it similar to her husband's death. But to my wife's as well."
Stiles tenses. He doesn't want to hope — wouldn't dare —now that he's just
starting to move on. He hasn't let himself wonder over his mother's death
in years because she was so young and healthy and none of the doctors could
explain just what happened to her. He doesn’t want to go down that path
again.That’s a disastrous road that causes him to swerve and crash every time,
crushed by disappointment. It’s agony.
"She said, working together would help to put our mind at ease over wondering
what happened to them," his dad acknowledges with a tight expression.
There's an absolute minor flicker of sorrow that passes so very quickly over
Talia's face, but she shuts it down and clenches her jaw.
Stiles's heart is racing. He knows, knows that she will refuse this ill-timed
peace offering.
Laura appears to detect it too because she looks at her mother with the same
kind of desperate hope Stiles can feel bubbling under his skin. 
Peter frowns and his blue eyes darken calculatingly.
Talia takes a deep breath before she says, "I do not trust her at her word."
"Neither do I," his dad responds, quite frankly. "But she was prepared for that
it seems." He continues, "She figured that the word of a Virtue would settle
our doubts. She knows above all, you and I would trust that." He looks to
Stiles as he goes on to say, "Lucky for us, she explained that we happened to
have one who resides in this very town. Not only is he potentially the most
powerful Virtue of our lifetime, and a Seven at that, but he is one we both,
apparently, happen to know very well."
Everyone turns to look at Stiles.
It's because his dad, with that one look, confirmed it all without confirming.
So it goes deathly silent…because of Stiles.
For the first time.
And Stiles? He freaks — like really freaks. All his secrets have just been laid
bare for all of them to see. Most of all, he can’t take how everyone is looking
at him. Like he’s some kind of — some kind of unicorn that shits rainbows and
cupcakes and gold. You can honestly hear a pin drop in the wide-open space of
the living room filled to the brim with Hales of all ages (his dad sitting in
the center of them with an undecipherable expression that borders something
that’s almost disappointment).
It takes just that one look and Stiles wants to cry, or explain, or bolt and
live out the rest of his days in the forest; and really, why couldn’t he? He
apparently has Faerie blood. He can survive off of the fruit of the land, and
drink water from a stream, and sleep on a bed of leaves, and frolic in the nude
with the antelopes, and the squirrels, and the rabbits, and maybe sing
angelically while he plays the flute which in turn attracts all the birds and
oh god he is having a nervous breakdown.
The main problem is clear. They all know now. They know.
Though, all feelings aside, deep down, there is a perceptive part of Stiles
that realizes that most of them might have already suspected; this conversation
must have confirmed it. And it makes him feel guilty. His track record must be
spotty with how well he can keep a secret, simple or big.
It’s not that they know. No, if he really, really thinks about it. The main
problem is that his dad knows. Stiles never got the chance to tell his dad
himself.
His face grows hot; there’s a heartbeat in his hands and at the back of his
throat. He's battling the fight or flight feeling that's overtaking him,
because, he does have some pride left in him. He opens his mouth to say
something, anything, but all those eyes, looking at him like that. He can't
—he can't.
Stiles stumbles as he turns to rush towards the front door and out of it. But
even when the wind breaks over his body and offers some release to the blush
clinging to his skin, he still feels the gazes of every Hale stuck to his skin
like a thick adhesive. He slams the door shut behind him and sags back against
it. But it's not enough.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It’s hard to do. So hard. The morning air is hot and sticky with the
possibility of rain, even though there’s not a cloud in the sky; even though it
neverrains in Beacon Hills. His lungs feel too small, too tight. It’s like he’s
trying to breathe through a coffee straw. It’s not enough. Not enough.
He finds himself going to the edge of the porch steps, down them, away to the
edge of the forest before he does a complete 180. He marches back to the porch
steps and then back up them again. It does nothing but makes him more frazzled,
shakier, and unsteady. So he sits down on the top step and tries not to feel
like he’s traveling through a lake of tar. His fingers twitch with his
jitteriness.
He breathes and breathes and breathes. Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t panic.
Don’t panic. Breathe. God, he can feel his heart bashing against his ribs like
an angry beast throwing a fit in its cage.
Stiles isn't sure how long he sits on that top step on the front porch, staring
out and through the trees (beyond them mostly), and once or twice up at the
powder blue sky before he tries so desperately to find his way back into
himself. His sweaty palms are curled into tight fists as his stomach tries to
go up into his chest with a sensation you only get when you go down a steep
drop on a rollercoaster.
                                      ---
Fifteen minutes later, when he's over it all and his anticipation washes cold,
along with his anxiety, he realizes that Isaac is sitting in the rocking chair
to his right, near a curtained window. He’s wearing no shoes like he’s been
converted to the habit by one of the many miniature Hales roaming barefooted
and half naked. 
Stiles’s legs pour over the edge of the stairs while the heels of his sneakers
touch the wooden boards as the front of his shoes point up towards the sky as
though trying to reach. 
Isaac says nothing, but he does gaze thoughtfully at the back of Stiles’s head,
letting the chair under him rock with a noisy creak that shouldn’t be a comfort
to Stiles but it is. A steady, predictable comfort.
Nevertheless, Stiles tries not to fidget under his brother’s gaze as the
corners of his mouth dip further.
The sun is settled in the noon position but somehow hunched behind a minor
thread of clouds, giving the impression that it is purposefully avoiding all
things. The lack of direct sunlight makes things seem even more melancholy. It
makes the trees hush as though in mourning, yearning for one gentle ray from
the brightest star of the morning sky.
Stiles almost suspects that part of his dour mood is because he can feel it
too, and like everything else, he grieves but keeps his peace. 
Eventually Derek saunters out to join them, and he plops right down beside
Stiles as though he has a right to it. He leans back on his elbows like he’s
trying for a summer tan and he slaps on a pair of mirror shades as he cocks his
head up to the sky.
Stiles vaguely wonders what he’s looking for — what he can see.
Derek furrows his brow thoughtfully and hums before he takes off his glasses
and, without asking, puts his mirror shades onto Stiles. He settles them
carefully, acting blissfully unaware of the growing flush spreading up the back
of Stiles neck when he slides his fingers down the curve of his ears when he
pulls away. “Figured you would need them more than I do.” He turns away and
leans back on his elbows again. “Cora’s always going on about harmful UV rays
and Humans with their innate incompatibly with all the leftover electromagnetic
radiation that manages to break through the Earth’s atmosphere. She’s a glutton
for Chemistry and Biology. I think she might become a doctor when she finally
decides just what it is she wants to do.”
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip as he soaks up the words and wonders why he
feels even more calm in Derek’s presence. It’s unnerving in a way because he
can’t really figure out what exactly this is — his emotions are tangled in a
gob of confusion and denial.
Isaac wiggles to find a more comfortable position and the rocking chair creaks
with his movement.
Stiles fingers twitch fitfully as he presses his lips together into a flat
line. Despite the cluster of words surrounding him, the things he wants to say,
things he wants to ask, the things he wishes he could ask — he just…doesn’t. He
frowns while he bites down on his tongue as if not to break his vow of silence
and pushes Derek’s sunglasses further up his nose. He thinks about thanking the
older teen but he foregoes it in favor of fidgeting.
Derek says nothing else after that. He gazes up at the sky again, following
some invisible object that Stiles can’t see. This goes on for ten minutes
before Derek sits up, props his right arm on his thigh, and rests his chin on
the knuckles of his fisted hand. Then he gazes at Stiles like he has all the
patience in the world.
It takes only a minute and a half of that gaze to break him, and that only
annoys him further. 
"I’m not talking about it," Stiles says when he can’t help but to say
something.
"Okay," Derek replies. Like he doesn’t mind. Like he understands.
Stiles insists, “I’m not. I wont. I mean that. So don’t ask because there is
nothing to ask, because even if you ask, I wouldn’t say, so you should not, as
I’ve said before, when there is no point in even trying, which you should
definitely not.” He takes a breath and then sighs in annoyance at himself when
he realizes he said more than he had to, than he meant to.
Derek just gives him a lazy nod and that makes Stiles’s cheeks burn for god
knows why.
Isaac snorts like he can detect it, and maybe he can which is all kinds of
unfair, and Stiles tosses him a betrayed look. His brother shrugs with a smirk
continuing his lazy rocking.
Stiles rolls his eyes away with another sigh and ignores both of them. He
concentrates on listening to the chattering forest surrounding the Hale
property. It's soothing in it’s own way. 
The wind speaks to him mostly. It’s like a quiet whispering Stiles can’t shake.
When it grows louder suddenly and with sharp definition, it makes him
straighten, as his palms grow warm. This part is familiar — he knows what
happens next. The world slows down.
The leaves in the trees wave like paper fans in slow motion; they echo with a
sound that’s akin to a windmill. They glitter and glisten, turning a healthy
shade of neon green. They continue to sway like a sea of green, and this time
they sound like wind chimes, the kind you can find on someone’s porch. The slow
blowing wind makes them clink together in unity like the last line of an unsung
song.
The sun sends down rays that fall to Earth like a yellow light made of gold
dust. Everything about the forest seems illuminated like intensified high
definition, even with Derek’s sunglasses on, and it’s so beautiful that he
feels like he can cry. He’s afraid to take off Derek’s shades since he can
barely handle the elegant glory of the forest whilst behind them.
Stiles inhales suddenly and it all returns to normal. He rubs his shaky hands
up and down his thighs. He really wants to know why he stops breathing when the
world shifts and changes. And then he remembers that he’s not alone. He
reluctantly looks over at Derek and Isaac.
Both of them are looking at him with equal amounts of concern and curiosity.
He flushes a little and mumbles something he hopes is reassuring of his current
state of health (mental, emotional, and otherwise). He turns away to look into
the trees and he stares with wariness. He senses something he can’t explain and
he finally takes off Derek’s mirror shades with a concentrated frown, handing
the glasses back to Derek absentmindedly.
There are fireflies edging out of the forest as if they were called, and they
start to dance Stiles's way.
Stiles groans and his hands begin to vibrate without his permission. He brings
his hands up and watches as they glow with that blue ethereal light and he
thinks not now, not now. And he hates that he hasn't figured out how to control
this. It's like a blush you can't force down before it reveals itself
stubbornly. Only Stiles thinks this may be worse. His hands are glowing after
all.
He stands and stares at his palms with a frown, desperately trying to find a
way to make it all stop. It doesn’t, it just gets worse, god, why is it
getting worse?
The glow starts winding up his arms like vines of ethereal light, like the
branches of a tree, or no, more like an intricate henna tattoo that leaves a
searing trail of heat in it’s wake as it spreads. This is the only way he
really knows where its going without stripping down to follow it with his eyes.
It travels up his arms like a sleeve, curling over his shoulders before
spreading across the expanse of his chest and stomach like armor. He feels it
curl along his shoulder blades, and the heat there is more intense than the
warmth of his hands. He feels a fluttering ache under the skin of his back.
It’s almost painful, like something is trying to shift the bones of his back to
get free and he gets this alarming thought of — of —
“Wings,” Stiles chokes out and flaps his arms wildly, as if that will prevent
anything from happening. “No, no, no, no! Just no.”
Derek watches the fireflies for a short moment and then looks at Stiles like he
suspects he might be the cause as his green eyes dip down to look at the
flickering light of Stiles’s hands. He reaches out to touch like he’s entranced
by it.
Stiles jerks away almost violently and he says, “Don’t!”
Derek blinks in surprise and frowns like he’s being denied of something
wonderful.
Stiles makes an annoyed sound. “I just — I don’t want to hurt you. The last
time I — there was — just don’t touch me, okay? It’s better if you don’t,” he
swears. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He backs up until the banister hits the
small of his back.
The fireflies seem to bristle and then there are whispers, tons and tons of
whispers, and Stiles realizes with a growing sense of alarm that it’s them. The
voices are coming from the fireflies, which should be absolutely impossible
because bugs do not talk.
But apparently they can — they — they are.
Stiles can almost make out what their saying, almost, but there are hundreds
and hundreds of voices because there is literally a swarm of them (a cloud of
lights that go on and off like a lighthouse on the edge of a pier) and that
makes it extremely hard to separate or single out one voice.
They sway before rushing at Derek like a freight train, his eyes widen, and
before he can event react, he’s being shoved over the porch railing. He falls
to the ground with an audible thump and a wheezing groan.
Stiles laughs before he can help it, and he slaps his hand over his mouth. He
really doesn’t mean to but the face that Derek made is too hilarious to ignore.
He swallows down the laughter as best as he can before he rushes over to the
railing to peer down.
Derek is lying on the ground, limbs spread out like a starfish, and a prominent
scowl. “So you think this is funny,” he states calmly.
Stiles means to answer him and apologize, but he finds that he’s to busy
marveling at the way they begin swarm around him like a shield, bumping into
him in what feels like an affectionate and protective manner. He then realizes
that they are reacting to his emotions. He didn’t want Derek to touch him in
fear of hurting him, and then just as quickly, he had gotten annoyed when the
other teen became petulant.
So it only makes sense that the fireflies had gone the extra mile to see to it
that Stiles’s wishes be granted. He lifts his glowing hands slowly and they
sway around him as though he’s the conductor to their orchestra. They follow
him as he makes his way down the steps and to the middle of the driveway that
winds around the house to end in the garage on the back of the house.
Of course this is the moment everyone in the house comes out to see what all
the commotion is about. He sees his dad and Isaac at the front of an ever
growing and crowded porch. Everyone is trying to look over everyone’s shoulder
to see the spectacle that Stiles is creating.
Stiles cheeks go a bit rosy and all those eyes watching him like he’s some kind
of circus show flusters him. That fight or flight feeling returns and settles
low in his gut and the lines searing across his back wiggle and he’d almost
forgotten about the goddamn wings he suspects is trapped under his skin. He’s
terrified about how it might feel when they get free (he doesn’t have a high
tolerance for pain) but underneath that fear is a dawning curiosity of what it
would be like — what it would feel like to have wings. He also can’t pretend he
doesn’t want to know what they might look like.
His tree, Nana, once told him that he’d been to Faerie, though he has no
recollection of that visit or any that may have preceded it. He wonders if any
of the Faeries there had wings, and he tries to remember what they might have
looked like but he just — he can’t remember.
The fireflies swarm around his hands and bumps into his cheeks in rebuke,
seeming a little miffed that his attention is divided. He wonders what he
should do. He tries to ignore all those eyes watching him and calmly thinks. He
watches Derek climb to his feet to dust himself off and stays stubbornly silent
when Laura crowds into his space with an amused grin. She looks like she’s
trying to ask him what happened while she throws her right arm over his
shoulder.
Derek just shakes his head and meets Stiles gaze with an indecipherable
expression.
Stiles looks away to think without distraction. He wonders idly what Nana would
do in this situation, and he remembers how she would just talk to them. “I
can’t believe I’m about to do this,” he mutters. He straightens and shakes out
his glowing hands, the fireflies swaying with the motion. “Uh, so…hey guys.”
That seems to excite the fireflies, encouraging them to all speak at once, and
in the symphony of it all, he can hear some familiar salutations. That pleases
him for some unknown reason.
“Is there, like, any head — no, uh,” Stiles trails off. “You guys wouldn’t
happen to have a, um, president or something? A spokesman? A PR agent? Is any
of this making sense?”
There’s some laughter and Stiles thinks that a good portion of the Hale family
are finding all this amusing.
Stiles ignores it as he waits for a response.
There’s a multitude of them.
Stiles is quick to say, “Hey, hey, whoa! I can’t — you guys are overwhelming
me! I don’t understand — I can’t understand you all at once.”
They all go quiet at once like he’s given a command for it.
Stiles scratches the back of his head sheepishly, and takes a second to marvel
at the fact that his glowing hand actually feels cool to the touch. He blinks
away that line of thinking as he lowers his hand and says, “I wasn’t asking any
of you to shut up. I just need one of you to say something.”
“Apologies,” one of them says, and a firefly floats just along the tip of his
nose.
Stiles gets a little cross-eyed trying to look at the little thing. “It’s, um,
cool, I guess. What’s your name?” he asks, happy that he remembers to ask
because Nana once called one by it’s given name.
“I have given myself the name Glitter.”
“Oh. Hello, Glitter,” Stiles answers in kind. “My name is Stiles. Are you like
the queen of the bunch?”
“We are called a Swarm,” Glitter explains. “And we have no queen to speak of.
You are our King.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly, fumbling with his words a bit. “I — thank you?”
“If you wish,” Glitter responds in kind. “If His Majesty permits it, I will act
as His Highness’s assigned Heir Apparent among my kind.”
“Yeah, I suppose there’s no downside to that,” Stiles supposes. “So you’ll be
able to help me communicate better.”
“This I cannot confirm, but I am able to voice our shared opinion in a way that
suits His Majesty,” Glitter replies in a dignified manner. “Though I am told
that Virtues often have conduits that help them understand the language of all
the wild things.”
“Yeah…okay. Thanks, Glitter,” Stiles says as politely as he can.
“Was there anything else His Majesty would like to express?”
“No, I pretty much think that covers it,” Stiles replies. He feels his glow
start to fade and he is so very thankful of that. “I’m giving you all my leave
to return back to your homes.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” Glitter agrees and she leads the swarm back into
the forest and out of sight.
Stiles relaxes the line of his shoulders as he peers into the trees, wondering
at the restless feeling he has now. It’s like there’s an urgent need to wander
into the forest at his leisure and just listen. He jumps when a hand claps over
his shoulder and turns him.
His dad is giving him a look that says he’s bemused. “You do realize that we
all watched what looked like a one-sided conversation?”
“Oh,” Stiles says faintly. It does make sense that he was the only one who
could make heads or tails for what those insects were saying, or trying to say.
His dad hums thoughtfully as he observes his son.
“I’m grounded, aren’t I?” Stiles mutters gloomily.
“I already broke the news to Isaac at breakfast. I thought for sure he would’ve
warned you beforehand,” his dad remarks, rubbing at the corners of his mouth.
He looks like he’s suffering from a serious case of jetlag. “Say goodbye. I’ve
already called a cab to take us home.”
“Dad —”
“It’s okay, Stiles,” his dad says gently. “Although I’m a little miffed you
felt like this was a side of yourself you had to hide. I love you no matter
what. You’re just really testing the integrity of my blood pressure, and
there’s only so much hair dye that can hide all my grey hairs.”
Stiles snorts even though he colors with self-reproach. “I’m sorry,” he replies
earnestly. “No more secrets.”
“No more secrets,” his father agrees. “Are you gonna explain the story behind
that tree that suddenly appeared in our backyard?”
“That’s Nana. I kind grew a magical talking tree in under five minutes with
forest magic?” Stiles explains as best as he can. “She’s one of the oldest
woodland spirits, and apparently my adopted grandmother. Wait, can you adopt
someone older than you?”
His dad huffs. “I get the gist of what you mean, son. I think I need a proper
amount of sleep before you introduce me to your ‘grandmother’. Does Isaac know
—”
“About the Virtue thing? Yes, sorry. Not about the tree though. I guess I can
introduce both of you at the same time,” Stiles figures.
“Whatever works,” his dad replies with a yawn. “Go get your brother and say
your goodbyes.”
Stiles nods and turns, realizing that the crowd of Hales has thinned out
completely and the porch is entirely empty. He tucks his hands into the pockets
of his borrowed jeans and climbs the porch steps to walk into the house. He
starts in the living room where Cora and Nana Hale are playing bingo with the
preteens of the family.
Nana Hale kisses the back of his right hand, as she always does, and pats the
spot affectionately with a tender smile. “Stay out of trouble, little one. You
shall find me sorely vexed if your presence with us is any further delayed by
your discipline.”
Stiles chuckles sheepishly and nods his head. He reaches forward and returns
the kiss by planting one on the back of her right hand.
“Go on,” Nana Hale says fondly.
Stiles gives her another parting smile before he takes his time making rounds
to the rest of the occupants of the living room.
The preteens clutch different parts of him, leaving their impression on him
with fervor and with a newfound excitement and possessiveness.
Stiles refuses to contemplate why that might be because he already has a good
idea. He just makes his way over to Cora, who stands and yanks his right ear
with a smirk before sticking her tongue in it before he can properly grasp the
action. When he does, he colors and slaps a hand over his ear. “You —
you violated my ear.”
Cora smirks. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“This is not acceptable behavior,” Stiles argues. “You can’t stick your tongue
in your best friend’s ear.”
Cora’s smirk falterS as a blush overtakes the bridge of her nose. “You little
worm,” she mutters, fuming.
Stiles just frowns right back at her, hand still cupped over his ear. “The next
time I see you, we are going to have a serious talk about boundaries.”
Cora rolls her eyes when her blush fades. “You’re practically one of the Pack.
There is no such thing as boundaries anymore.”
“Then let me stick my tongue in your ear,” Stiles challenges.
“In your dreams. You — what are you doing? Stiles — Stiles, I swear to the
Great Mother Moon, if you come any closer — stop, you idiot. Oh gross. You’re
such a punk.”
“There are no boundaries, remember?”
“Shut up.”
Stiles leaves Cora to scrub at her left cheek in an attempt to rid herself of
his saliva. He journeys over to the dining room where a gang of little Hale
kiddies are finger-painting under the watchful gaze of Rosemary and her younger
sister, Meredith.
The two older ladies receive him warmly, touching their hands to his shoulders
and his elbows, before sending him on his way while warning him that if he says
his goodbyes to the kids, he better be prepared to get messy.
Stiles decides to take his chances as he kneels so that the little ones can
reach him, and he really doesn’t mind the tiny handprints left on his cheeks,
forehead, neck, right hand, shirt and pants, and in his hair. The clothes
aren’t even his anyway, so he’s not too worried about it. He salutes Rosemary
and Meredith with easy pride, covered in finger-paint.
They just snicker and shake their head fondly.
Stiles head to the kitchen and finds Kate, Peter, and Laura speaking amongst
themselves with mugs of hot chocolate.
“You don’t do things in halves, do you?” Peter comments as he lifts his
eyebrow.
“Shut up and scent me. You know you want too. I am your favorite Human,” Stiles
crows, spreading his arms out wide.
Peter smiles, white teeth gleaming in that scary way that suggests he might
just eat Stiles and be done with him. “Not exactly Human, are we? You can’t
convince me otherwise after that little display you put on.”
“Nope. That conversation is totally off-limits,” Stiles continues cheerily.
“Now come hug baby. Baby wants.”
Peter’s mouth twists with displeasure. “Absolutely ridiculous,” he mutters.
Laura huffs out a laugh and slides off the bar stool to tug him into a three-
minute hug before she pushes him away gently, satisfied with the prolonged
contact.
Peter makes his way around the island and just ruffles his ever-growing hair
before he grabs his nose between his index and middle finger.
Stiles makes a nasally offended sound as he slaps Peter’s hand away with a
glare. “Why do you have to be so annoying?” he complains, trying to use his
hands to flatten his disheveled hair.
“It keeps things lively,” Peter chimes, seeming pleased with Stiles’s
irritation.
“You guys, I swear. Like siblings,” Kate notes as she uses a butcher knife to
peel away at the skin of an orange with such skilled precision. “Laura, get me
the caramel syrup.”
“I’m not your maid, Kathryn,” Laura replies with only a minimal amount of
contempt.
Kate shrugs dismissively.
Laura waits a few seconds before she mutters under her breath and goes into the
cabinets above the stove and microwave. “I’m an Alpha. Why am I fetching
things for you? It’s bad enough you suckered me into helping you and Peter move
all your crap from the mansion to your Aunt Victoria’s fancy duplex downtown.”
“You can’t say you’re not happy at the possibility of sharing an apartment with
me after graduation,” Kate points out.
Laura sighs. “That’s not the point.”
Kate smiles secretly as Laura sets a bottle of caramel syrup before her. “You
know what I’m going to say right?”
“No, Kate. I am not your bitch,” Laura denies, disgruntled.
Kate snorts as she pop open the caramel. “You are so my bitch. You and Peter.”
“Leave me out of it,” Peter says absently as he scrolls through his phone with
a furrowed brow.
Laura shakes her head as she grabs a green apple from the fruit basket on the
counter between the stove and the huge, silver fridge. She takes a juicy bite
before she plucks a few grapes while she throws a few at the back of Kate’s
head.
Kate skillfully dodges every single one of them.
“Would you like to give me a hug?” Stiles asks, mouth fidgeting as he resists
the urge to laugh.
Kate gives him a flat look before she shoves an orange slice into her mouth and
dodges another grape before she catches the last one like it’s no big deal,
popping it in her mouth. She takes a moment to throw back her head to squeeze a
disgusting amount of caramel in her mouth. She lifts her head, licks her lips
and grabs the knife she used to peel her orange and throws it over her shoulder
with an amazing amount of force.
Laura just glides to the right as she takes another bite of her apple. “Missed
me.”
Kate slides out of her seats and retrieves the knife from where it’s embedded
in the cabinet, yanking it free with a grunt. She looks at Laura and says, “No
I didn’t. It went right where I wanted it to.”
Stiles notices that the tip of the knife is impaling a huge horsefly.
Kate looks at him and says, “Still want that hug, buttercup?”
Stiles doesn’t really sprint out of the kitchen, he just walks
really, really fast. He climbs the stairs two at a time and goes to Derek’s
room, but he finds it empty. He frowns thoughtfully and notices the double
doors at the end of the hall are partially opened. He ventures over to the
impressive library and happens to find the rest of the adults sitting in the
armchairs or the study cubicles. He goes over to each of them one by one,
shaking their hands as they share amused glances between them over his general
appearance.
He finds Derek sitting in a corner on the floor, hidden a little by a few
armchairs and tables with all the dogs surrounding him (Jordan resting in his
lap). He pauses his soft reading to the dogs and watches as Stiles maneuvers
around the huge canines. They perk up and lick at his right hand when he’s in
proximity. Even Jordan runs over to him excitedly.
In a fit of clumsiness, and in attempt not to step on a paw or a tail, he
missteps and falls forward and completely expects to crash into a nearby
bookshelf but Derek’s hand shoots out and yanks the front of his hoodie in an
attempt to redirect his landing. He ends up in the older teen’s lap with a soft
oomph, face smashing into Derek's chest.
Derek just grunts, taking the impact without complaint before he sighs.
“Clumsy,” he mutters, but the tone of his voice is colored with warm amusement.
Stiles goes scarlet and uses Derek’s thighs to pull away so he’s resting on his
knees and tries not to think about how he’s between Derek’s long legs. But of
course that’s the whole reason why he’s blushing. “Sorry — I —” he struggles a
bit, extremely embarrassed. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Uh huh,” Derek says (like he expects this behavior) and he spends a moment
poking Stiles’s paint covered cheek. “What’s all this then?”
Stiles bats his hand away. “Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles as his blush
recedes.
Derek hums thoughtfully before he stands and grabs Stiles’s left hand to pull
him to his feet as well. “You’re grounded.”
“Am I? Who gave you the permission to dictate that?”
Derek gives him a flat look. “You know exacly what I’m talking about.”
Stiles snorts taking time to use his right hand to run his hand through his
fringe. “You heard that, huh?”
Derek simply shrugs as he rubs his thumb across the back of Stiles’s left hand.
“Figures you’d get yourself in trouble during the last week of school,” he
supposes.
Stiles makes a face. “Don’t remind me. Finals Week.”
“If you come to school early tomorrow, we can study together,” Derek suggests
as he reels Stiles into a hug. He keeps his hands flat against Stiles shoulder
blades, chest pressed together in a way that Stiles has no choice but to wrap
his arms around the older teen’s neck. Derek tucks his forehead in the space
where shoulder meets neck and rumbles silently.
“Studying doesn’t really sound like my kind of fun,” Stiles remarks
sarcastically after four beats of silence. “And I was thinking I could probably
sleep in a bit. Get a good amount of sleep —”
“We’re studying, Stiles,” Derek mumbles. “I expect nothing short of an A- on
your Algebra final.”
“What are you, my father?” Stiles snipes and jerks with a wounded sound when he
feels the quick graze of blunt teeth on the curve neck. He extracts himself
from the warmth of the hug, tampers down the feeling of loss, and glares. “Did
you just bite me?”
“Nope,” Derek breezily denies. “Cab’s pulling up. Breaks are squeaking. You
might want to mention to the driver he’s long overdue for some new brake pads.
You’re dad’s probably waiting for you. Isaac is up in Olive’s nursery by the
way.”
Stiles gets flustered and opens his mouth in outrage. “You are —”
“Let me help you out. Don’t want you tripping over thin air again and knocking
yourself into a coma.”
Stiles grunts in annoyance. “I am not —”
“Sure, Stiles. If you say so,” Derek quickly interjects as he shoves him
towards the double doors with pushy hands, not giving Stiles a chance to reply.
“Okay, okay. God, I’m going, I’m going. Just — you are — you are just — a
Vampire!”
“Was that supposed to make sense? Because it didn’t. And anyway, that’s a
little insulting,” Derek says, leaving him at the doorway before cocking his
head with a grin while he walks backwards into the library, looking for all the
world like he’s so very satisfied with himself. “Consider that payback for
earlier. You should think twice before sicking your fireflies at me.”
Stiles resists the urge to throw a book at his head, and turns to go retrieve
his brother instead.
If his heart is racing and his cheeks are red, well, he had to climb a lot of
stairs to get to Olive’s room and it’s certainly not because of Derek’s
stupidly attractive grin, or his unfairly perfect hugs.
Not that at all.
                                      ---
They make it home around 4 pm and Stiles, against his better judgment, makes a
comment to the driver about his brakes, just like Derek specified. The driver
is extremely grateful and vows that he will get to the nearest auto repair
center. He says he hadn’t even noticed or heard anything, and goes on to say
that Stiles must have some very keen hearing.
Stiles tries to shrug casually as he slides out of the car to help his dad with
his luggage, though Isaac has taken most of them.
His dad, with silent mirth, lets the preteen do as he pleases.
Stiles secretly thinks his brother is trying to suck up.
His dad climbs up the steps to follow Isaac to his room. They set all his
luggage by his dresser.
Stiles glances around his dad’s room. It’s very rare that he ever find himself
in here. He walks over to his dad’s nightstand while his dad and Isaac push
some of the bags in the closet. What he sees makes an ache pass through his
chest. It’s a picture of his mom and his dad when they were younger, and Stiles
is just a newborn, swaddled in a yellow blanket. His mother is looking at his
father with an expression of adoration, and his dad is looking down at him in
his mother’s arms like she’s holding his entire world. At the bottom of the
frame are two wedding rings.
Stiles knows exactly who they both belong to. He turns away before he can cry
and he exits the room. He finds his way to the bathroom so he can strip down
and climbs into the shower. He uses the black soap to rid himself of finger
paint and whatever else need be. He idly wonders, as he rinses himself off for
the last time, if this effects all the scenting the Hale Pack went to great
lengths to implement. He figures he’ll ask one of them when he can or if he can
manage to remember.
When he’s in his room and climbing into his own clothes again, he’s not really
surprised to see that his room has been stripped bare of all his devices save
his phone (his dad’s being generous most likely). He makes his way to his bed
and flops onto his front before twisting to look at the ceiling. He stares and
stares until his eyelids dip and fall shut. He’s more tired than he thought.
He wakes up on his back staring up at a lavender sky with a bright silver sun.
The muscles in his body feel relaxed, and the grass underneath him feels as
soft as a bed of cotton. He sits up slowly and realizes that he’s in field of
glittering flowers (and they’re humming). There are rose petals made of
diamonds floating everywhere, along with ladybugs and dragonflies made of
glass. There are lightening bugs dancing around dandelions and petunias as a
group of swans made of aquamarine sequins fly high in the lavender sky in a
lovely dance comprised of loops and dives.
There are children running in the fields, naked as they day they were born,
skin covered in a sheen of glitter. They have lovely rosy red cheeks,
glimmering eyes, and short curly hair with pointed ears. They’re being chased
by elderly people with long translucent wings the color of soap bubbles caught
in a ray of sunlight and there are some elders holding flutes and harps as baby
antelopes, deer, and lambs trail behind them as though they’re enamored. All of
the elders have veins of glowing tattoos that are similar to henna tattoos.
There are a pride of lionesses lying lazily as their cubs wrestle each other.
Meanwhile, a group of gorillas are swinging to and fro, climbing, and circling
a red beanstalk that reaches into the lavender sky. There are more sheep and
lambs frolicking in the fields with the smallest of children, who are eating
slices of peaches.
The wind sings to his heart as it caresses his skin gently. He watches all the
beautiful people sweep and run through the fields, picking flowers, singing
songs, while others eat on fruits like plums and cherries and grapes (sometimes
even feeding each other) or dote over their animal companions.
Stiles sits up and looks down at his bare chest and the white baggy pants he’s
wearing. He’s got markings too, much like the Elders, but his aren’t glowing
and it makes him wonder.
A rabbit with burgundy fur hops over, nose twitching fitfully and when Stiles
cups his hands together, the little creature climbs willingly onto his hands.
He clutches it to his chest and strokes it. He smiles when the little thing
climbs up his arm and springs to the top of his head and settles. His body
vibrates with joyful energy and his heart sings with a certainty he’s never
experienced before.
This is home.
A babe, no more than three or four, appears from the field of flowers. He has
hazel eyes that are deep and searching. His blond hair is adorned with a crown
made entirely of gardenias. He has on little white baggy pants too but his
stops at the knees. He stares for a long moment, like he’s gauging Stiles’s
character before he says, “Curious."
Stiles looks at him in question.
"This feeling I have about you. It's curious."
Stiles lifts both brows at that.
"It's as if...I know you.”
“Do you?” Stiles replies, humoring the child. But he can’t help but to feel the
same way. Something about his features really stands out in his mind.
The little babe starts picking gold roses, taking his time about it, inspecting
each one until he approves. The ones he deems no good, he throws them down and
crushes them with his heel before he continues his search.
Stiles watches him openly and the rabbit on his head bounces to the ground,
following after the little boy like a faithful companion. He straightens when
the babe returns to him and places a crown of gold roses onto his head. He
places his chubby hands on either side of Stiles’s cheeks. His gaze is
searching, but inquisitive.
“What is your name?”
“Stiles.”
“No. What is your name?”
“Stiles.”
The little boy frowns. “That’s the name you belonged to in the World of Man.
You have a different name here. Your real name.”
“How would I know what name I belong to here?” Stiles wonders aloud. “Is this
not the World of Man?”
“This is Faerie. We are the veil between the realm of paradise and the realm of
Man,” the boy explains. “Maybe the Lady of the Garden hasn’t given you one
yet.”
Stiles hums thoughtfully and smiles when the burgundy rabbit climbs the boy and
settles on his right shoulder. “And what is your name?” he asks.
“The Lady of the Garden has blessed me with the name of Heinrich,” he says. “It
is my duty to learn what it means while I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wont be here much longer. She will send me away.” Heinrich does not clarify.
“I’ll get a new name, on the World of Man.”
Stiles frowns and says, “The Lady of the Garden sends people away? Like death?”
“Of course not like death, but life. She sent you away once, when it was your
time. After all, we must carry out Her work,” Heinrich explains. “She sent you
to the World of Man. And maybe that’s why you don’t remember your name, and so
you do not know who you are. She always says that when She sends us away, we
cannot remember.”
Stiles rolls that over in his mind. “You said She sends us to do Her work. Are
we servants?”
“More than just a servant,” Heinrich corrects. “Servants don’t know what the
Master is doing. But we understand that we have purpose. I will have purpose,
and you are taking up the mantle of your purpose.”
“I wish I could understand all of this as easily as you seem to,” Stiles
remarks with a slight grin.
Heinrich’s eyes suddenly swell with tears until they spill over and slide down
his rosy cheeks. “I do know you,” he says shakily.
Stiles is both startled and worried.
Heinrich’s tears never stop flowing, and wherever they land, a bed of gardenias
springs to life. He climbs onto Stiles’s lap and sobs quietly. He’s shaking
like a leaf when he grabs Stiles’s right hand and hugs it to his chest with a
desperate grip, like he’s afraid Stiles will leave him at any moment.
Stiles can feel how Heinrich’s heart is hammering fitfully in his chest.
“What’s the matter, Heinrich?” A tall, stately woman in the loveliest robes the
color of rubies. Her eyes burn like golden embers and her cherry red hair
(which reaches to her waist) is interwoven with all kinds of runestones and
beads and flowers. Her pointed ears are pierced with different bands of gold.
Her smile pierces Stile’s stomach and makes him tremble.
“Welcome back, love,” she says in a voice so clear and lovely like the tinkling
of bells. “I am the Lady of the Garden.”
Stiles feels a quiver of acknowledgement shake into his bones.
The Lady of the Garden lowers herself to the ground and sits as close as she
can to him. “You need not be afraid,” she goes on to say, touching his cheek
with a soft hand. “We are your people.”
Stiles suddenly feels weak and he’s trembling like a leaf. He watches as she
pulls a piece of black fruit out from the folds of her sleeves and offers it to
him. He accepts it with his free hand, as Heinrich is holding his other hand
captive, and he stares at it for a long time before he takes a bite. He feels
himself strengthen with every bite, and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever
eaten, but it’s hard for him to remember what food tasted like in the World of
Man.
“Our fruit edifies the spirit. It strengthens you against my glory,” the Lady
of the Garden explains. “My glory is why you tremble so. Your flesh cannot
withstand it. You must edify your spirit so that you can stand in my presence.”
Stiles eats the blackened fruit until there is nothing left. His body still
quivers, but he doesn’t feel quite as weak.
The Lady of the Garden smiles at him before she looks at the little babe in his
lap, who is still crying. “Oh, Heinrich,” she sighs. “You cannot keep him here,
sweetling. You will see him again. When it is your time.”
“But he is mine and I am his,” Heinrich hiccups. “Must he leave me yet while
our paths are destined to cross anyway? I will be lonely until then.”
“You will see him again, sweetling, but now is not the right time. We must send
him back,” the Lady of the Garden explains with a soothing tone. “The drums
will sound and he will have to go back.”
“Henry,” Heinrich croaks desperately as he looks at Stiles. “My name will be
Henry. Keep my name and remember!”
“Heinrich, no,” the Lady of the Garden rebukes. “That is too much.”
“But he is mine, and I will be his. He must remember me,” Heinrich begs and he
clings to Stiles’s hand as the Lady of Garden plucks him out of Stiles’s lap.
“Sleep now, sweetling,” the Lady of the Garden whispers. Then she blows gently
on his face and he’s out like a light. “You will have your hands full one day.
He is defiant, much like his parents.”
Stiles stands to his feet. “I don’t understand.”
“No, I suppose not, but you will one day, and you must make a better world for
him. Prepare the way.” The Lady of the Garden lets go of Heinrich, and he
doesn’t drop like a stone. Instead he floats with the wind and away to another
part of the garden. “Each cycle I ask of them all ‘Who can I send? Who will
go?’. And Heinrich is always the first to grab my hand and says ‘Send me! Send
me! I will go!’. And I have to remind him it’s not his time yet. He holds so
much love for you. You’re all he ever likes to talk about. I should have known
that when he finally met you, he would not want to let you go. You are in his
dreams and in his heart. He will fight me even harder now, I suspect.”
Stiles does not even know what to say, but before he can even help it, tears
spill over and down his cheeks.
The sound of drums overtakes the land.
“Time for you to return,” the Lady of the Garden says as she removes a
runestone from her hair. “Accept who you are. Build yourself a garden so that
you may have the answers you seek. You have a Conduit — you need only to find
and foster them. Close your eyes.”
Stiles has more questions but he does as she asks. He feels her lips touch his
forehead and she murmurs a sacred prayer (“May you have all that you desire,
and never want for anything.”) before she slips the runestone in his palm.
Then there is nothing but darkness.
Stiles eyes snaps open in the next moment and he’s staring up at his own
ceiling. His right hand twitches around something and he looks down and sees
the runestone from his dreams. He swallows and picks himself up before he
touches his hand to his head, where he plucks a crown made of gold roses. He
stares at it in amazement as the dream from before starts slipping from his
memory like sand until he can hardly remember much of anything but just one
thing. A name. Henry. But even with that, he can’t really make sense of it.
He climbs out of his bed, tucking the flower crown in his bottom drawer when he
keeps the journal of Virtues, and he puts the runestone on his work desk,
glancing out the window sharply when he thinks the outline of a cat, of his
uncle. He walks over to open his window, and sticks his head out — the air is
heavy with heat and moisture, and is rich with the smell of earth.
There’s nothing but dark skies, the moon and the stars, and Nana’s branches
spreading out beautifully under the moonlight. There’s one particularly thick
branch settling right at the bottom edge of his window. It looks steady enough
that he could probably climb down it. He doesn’t, not this time, but he might
one day. He pulls away to slide his window shut and locks it for good measure
before he makes his way out of his room with bare feet. He pauses in front of
Isaac’s door (takes note of the new doorknob) and peers inside to see Isaac on
the floor at the edge, sketching.
“You’re supposed to knock,” Isaac remarks absentmindedly and he never pauses
his charcoal stick. "Dad once spent an hour making sure I understood that I was
allowed to set boundaries and have privacy before I moved in. Maybe I should
tell him to give you that talk too."
“Nah, I'm good. Listen. Why didn’t you tell me that dad had already decided to
ground us?” Stiles grumbles as he closes the door behind before treading across
the floor to loom over his brother.
Isaac snorts unapologetically. “I thought it would be funny,” he explains. “And
it was.”
Stiles scowls and tugs one of Isaac’s curls.
“Ow,” Isaac complains before he glares up at him. “If you came in here to
bother me, you can just stay and I’ll leave.”
“Empty threat. You have come to appreciate my presence —”
“Not as much as you think,” Isaac mutters under his breath as he continues to
sketch an owl with handsome feathers.
“— and I am your whole world. A gift really,” Stiles continues regardless.
“Do you ever hear what you say sometimes?” Isaac questions without ceasing his
work. "I mean, sure, you're decent."
Stiles makes an offended sound. “I’m your older brother. You are supposed to
idolize me.”
Isaac just shrugs.
“Keep that up and I won’t introduce you to Nana,” Stiles warns nonchalantly.
Isaac pauses, and then looks up at him. His mouth sags and he looks upset. The
look he gives is absolutely soulful.
“Oh that is just unfair, Isaac,” Stiles complains, feeling his heart melt like
wax. “Spoiled. I have spoiled you.”
“Uh huh. Take me to your magical talking tree,” Isaac says as he closes his
sketchbook with a tiny smirk he thinks Stiles can’t see. “Dad has to see too,
though. You said you would show us both.”
“See that? That whole super hearing is quickly becoming my least favorite
thing,” Stiles mutters.
Isaac snorts. “But you kinda have it too, but in a weird on and off way.”
Stiles figures he has a point but he doesn’t say this out loud. They both walk
to their dad’s room and Stiles knocks on the door before waiting.
“I see you suddenly remember how to knock,” Isaac comments unnecessarily.
Stiles replies, “You know, I kind of miss the days when you never said more
than two words.”
“Lie,” Isaac responds easily and taps the side of his nose before smirking.
Stiles rolls his eyes just as the door opens.
His dad comes out rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, hair tousled by
sleep, and his sleepwear rumpled with different creases. “’time is it?” he
asks, voice still gravelly.
“Dad you sound like the Dark Knight,” Stiles comments instead.
His dad drops his hands and glares weakly at his oldest son with bloodshot
eyes.
“Yup, now you’ve really got it into full effect,” Stiles says solemnly.
Isaac huffs and uses his elbow to throw his brother a little off balance,
ignoring the answering indignant squawk. “It’s almost nine o'clock,” he
supplies when Stiles won't.
Their dad nods graciously with another sigh that turns into a long yawn and a
noisy stretch. When he’s a little more awake, he says, “Take me to the tree.”
Stiles gives a firm nod, all business, and strides across the floor, bare feet
chilled by the cold floorboards and the steps, which creak nosily under their
combined weight running down them. He leads them through the kitchen, past the
basement door to the right and the food pantry to the left until they finally
make it to the back door. He unlocks it and pushes past the screen.
His dad and Isaac take a moment to slip on their shoes.
Stiles doesn’t bother. He actually sighs in relief when he makes contact with
the wet ground (a cool mist from the mountains up north had spread over Beacon
Hills only hours before). He still carefully walks down the porch steps, over
the uncomfortable gravel, past the garbage bins and out onto soft grass. He
walks up to his tree, using the thick veins of roots to push up closer to the
large triquetra carved in the middle. He presses his palms to it and his hands
glow hot with blue before it fades completely.
Nana’s face appears. “You’ve changed,” is the first thing she says. “You’re a
little more certain than you were before,” she decides before her eyes swing
over. “Oh, how lovely. Is this you’re family, dearie?”
“Yes,” Stiles responds and takes a breath before he lets it out. He’s a little
nervous. “I give them permission to see.”
“Hello there! Good evening,” Nana greets, ever cheerful and polite. “Or does
good night better suit the circumstances? Though I suppose there was, at one
point today, a good evening. Not to dismiss the morning, as I suppose that was
good as well. My intention is to wish that your night be just as good, whether
you choose it to, or even rather to say that it is quite a night to be good
on.”
“Nana,” Stiles gently interjects. “This is my father, and my brother.”
“Well I rather think I know who they are,” Nana says, displeased when he merely
shrugs in respond. “What a lovely little Werecat. I should think I’d be better
off calling you a Werecub as you have not come into your inheritance yet,” she
idly chatters, referring to Isaac before she looks to his dad. “How do you do,
Sheriff?”
“Healthy, happy, and whole,” his dad replies with a quick nod. “I hope you are
too.”
“Over six thousand years strong,” Nana boasts and chuckles at the way his dad
and Isaac marvel at that. “Many of us are called but only the few allow
themselves to be chosen. I am one of the oldest woodland spirits, and Stiles
had the good sense to call upon me and the good fortune of having me answer
it.”
“You don’t look a day over a thousand,” his dad notes with gentle humor.
Nana laughs and it kind of shakes the ground.
“Very impressive,” his dad goes on to say, looking between Nana and his son.
Stiles smiles sheepishly.
“You needn’t worry, Sherriff. I will mind your son for you when you can’t and
guide him in areas you are not able to,” Nana presses on. “And how about you,
little one? Are you well?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Isaac responds, sounding a little shy. “Thank you very much for
asking. Stiles once — he gave me some fruit from the stem of your branches and
it was really sweet. I’ve never had fruit that tasted like that.”
“Ah, what a polite, young man,” Nana chuckles. “You both flatter me so. Oh, I
could come to love you all very easily.”
His dad and Isaac both blink in surprise and look a little at a loss for words.
Stiles tries to smother a grin.
“I have a gift. Both of you cup your hands together,” Nana instructs, and when
they do, she shakes out her gorgeous purple-blue leaves until two large, juicy
peaches fall right into their hands. “Go on and eat them. They will give you
good dreams and sufficient rest.”
“Thank you,” his dad says, and then Isaac’s response comes shortly after.
“Well, I think I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again, Nana, for minding my
son.”
“He’s really a pleasure when he isn’t being stubborn or dull,” Nana supposes
brightly.
“Hey that’s not —”
“Oh hush, dearie. I did not say anything that was not true. I’m sure your
father is very familiar,” Nana interjects.
“That I am,” his father confirms, voice colored with humor.
Isaac is quietly eating his peach with the kind of vigor he only uses when he
eats fish or anything coconut flavored.
“Oh, before it slips my aged mind, I must really mention that your boy requires
a mentor, as I am only his spirit guide,” Nana remarks.
His dad considers it for a long moment and nods. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
“There was that one fellow.” Nana ponders it deeply before the name comes to
her. “Ah, the Druid called Deaton.”
“Okay. This is a little out of my depth, so I’m not exactly sure what needs to
be done to make that happen,” his dad confesses, never one to be too prideful
to admit if he doesn’t understand something.
“All the more reason, I think, that you and I should talk from time to time,”
Nana states. Then she goes on to explain, “As for Deaton, it is customary for
the father or mother of the Virtue to call upon the Druid. Once he passes over
your doorstep, you must make tea for the both of you and discuss what you
believe to be in your son’s best interest. Once you have agreed to a verbal
contract, he must be lead out here where Stiles can summon me and I can bless
him with the final grace of approval. And when things progress from there,
he’ll become Deaton’s apprentice, and his formal education of forest magic will
commence, as it does for Faerie kind.”
“Faerie,” his dad repeats with raised brow. “Stiles is — did you say Faerie
kind?”
“Quite. That runs deep in not only his mother’s bloodline, but yours as well.
Though by no greater measure than his mother’s side. She was a Blue Witch,
correct?”
His dad doesn’t even know how to respond to that. “I think I need to go lie
down again.”
“Oh dear, I apologize. I have not been mindful at all,” Nana remarks sadly. “We
may discuss that when you are ready to, Sheriff.”
His dad nods, already lost in his own thoughts. “I’ll just go and make that
phone call. Goodnight.”
“I bid you the same,” Nana says as both she and Stiles watches as his father
disappears into the house with equal concern.
Isaac follows shortly, licking the juices from his fingers.
Stiles sighs and turns to face Nana.
“You’ve been to Faerie again,” Nana notes without hesitation.
“Yes,” Stiles recognizes, though he can’t remember anything outside of that
name. Henry.
“It explains why your touch was more sure.”
Stiles doesn’t doubt that. “I have another runestone. I don’t know what to do
with this one.”
“I have a good idea, but that is something for your mentor to teach you, as it
is not my place,” Nana admits. “And something else happened. Are you
suppressing your magic, you ridiculous child?”
Stiles flushes and sits down on an exposed root. “Nana…” An apple falls on his
head and he gives a quick cry of pain. “Nana!”
“The more you try to suppress it and to bottle it up, the more it will fight to
get out, and quite violently might I add,” Nana warns severely. “Faerie magic
is not meant for confinement. You will cause yourself great pain, as well as
those around you if you act carelessly. Please promise me you will curb that
habit. If you stop fighting it, you will be able to properly guide it. Right
now it has no respect of your wishes since you treat it so coldly.”
Stiles honestly hadn’t thought about it that way, too busy trying to find ways
to hide and contain his magic, or the glow, as he likes to call it.
“Pick up that apple and eat it. Nothing from me can go to waste, am I
understood?” Nana questions, and gives a pleased hum when he nods.
Stiles picks up the red apple obediently and it’s so shiny and pretty that his
mouth waters automatically. He takes an audible bite and he tongue trembles at
the sweetness. He chews and swallows. “Do I have wings?” he asks suddenly
before he can even think about it.
“Hard to say to say at this point, really,” Nana supposes. “You keep everything
so confined. We’ll find out eventually, now won’t we?”
Stiles wrinkles his nose but continues to munch away on his apple. He licks his
lips after a few bites. “I have a name in my mind. I think it came from Faerie,
but it’s one I knew before then.”
“Do not speak it. I fear it is not time to do such a thing. You must not voice
names you bring back from Faerie with you,” Nana cautions.
“But it’s a name I heard before. One that already belonged to someone,” Stiles
insists as he thinks of Peter and his little brother.
“We do not own the names that are freely given to us by Man or the gods alike.
Only the Faceless know,” Nana explains, not unkindly. “Let it rest, dearie.”
Stiles frowns and continues to eat his apple. At the very last bite, he
realizes he ate the whole thing, the seeds and the stem, and he hadn’t even
noticed. He licks his lips again before he asks, “Do you know who the
Benefactor is?”
“I suspect it will be a lovely day at the park tomorrow,” Nana suddenly
remarks. “You should go there after school with the golden haired girl.”
“Kate?” Stiles says, a little confused.
“Ah, yes. That is the one. I rather like her tenacity, or what little I was
able to see of it when she came to visit and mind your brother.”
“But Nana what’s that got to do with —”
“Get plenty of shade while your there. Maybe even take a walk. Let the Hale
boy, as I suspect he will follow, buy some ice cream. Send your brother home
with your father before you go,” Nana pushes on, despite his confused gaze.
“Trust me, dearie.”
“I do,” Stiles says quickly. “But —”
“Off to bed. You’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Goodnight, sweetling.”
Nana’s face disappears before he can even return the sentiment.
Stiles sighs and spends a moment tracing the loops and curves of the triquetra
etched into the face of his elm tree. He feels a little like he’s floating
complacently and he grows drowsy unpredictably. He frowns as he sways and
stumbles towards the house. He locks the backdoor behind him and circles back
to his to his room in the deathly silent house.
When he manages to make it to his room by some unknown miracle, he grabs
Derek’s wolves from off the top of his dresser without even thinking about it,
thoughts too hazy and muddled with exhaustion. He climbs under his covers with
them and hugs them close, humming softly at the smell of vanilla.
He gets this vague thought of when he fed Isaac a piece of fruit from his tree
two days ago, and how he had taken a nap as soon as he’d finished it
immediately after.
His last thought is tinged in amusement and future plans to feed the fruit to
Derek, if only to watch him pass out as soon as he’s done; at which point he
will not hesitate to draw over his face with a permanent marker.
Stiles may be a Seven, but he’s still a teenaged boy.
He falls asleep and doesn’t see his phone light up with messages on his
nightstand.
                                      ---
Stiles jerks from out of the warmth of his covers and falls over the edge and
onto the floor with a winded sound of pain. He stares up at his celling,
tangled up in his covers as his phone screams at him from where it’s vibrating
on his nightstand before it stops.
“Stiles, it’s time to —” His dad pauses in his doorway after he opens the door.
“Good, you’re up. Well, in a sense. I’m not going to ask. You and Isaac are to
come straight home after school.”
“Nana told me to go to the park,” Stiles mumbles as he blinks at him, still a
little tired, but well-rested nonetheless. “It’s important.”
His dad’s mouth thins a little and he squints his eyes. He sighs. “You have one
hour,” he relents. “One.”
Stiles nods fervently. He winces when his phone starts to scream again.
“I’ll pick up Isaac myself then. I’m not due to come into work until Monday,
and I intend to take advantage of that,” his dad reports, still in his pajamas.
“It’s six o'clock. Isaac’s climbing out of the shower now. You should get
dressed too. Isaac says he wants to leave early.”
“’kay,” Stiles mumbles and sighs when his phone starts screaming again.
“You better answer that. I made breakfast, so you might want to get ready and
come down before it gets cold. I’m going back to bed.” His dad closes the door
behind him when he leaves.
Stiles takes his time sitting up, and shifts until he can extract himself from
his bedding, and he shoves it back onto his bed before he stands. He lets his
phone ring and ring until it stops, and he takes Derek’s wolves to his dresser
again, only to set them on top.
His phones starts screaming again.
Stiles makes an annoyed sound as he swipes it off his nightstand and glares at
the screen before he accepts the call. “This is ungodly,” he complains.
Derek huffs. “Well you’re awake now. My persistence paid off.”
“I should have turned off my phone,” Stiles swears.
“You weren’t answering my texts. Drastic times call for drastic measures,”
Derek supposes, voice colored with pleased humor.
Stiles mumbles with incoherent exasperation.
Derek laughs softly. “I can hear that, you know.”
“Good, you deserve to,” Stiles fumes. “And also, sometimes you never answer my
texts. Why should you get any special treatment?”
Derek hums thoughtfully before he responds, “That’s not exactly true is it?” he
says quietly. “Think about it, Stiles. Those few times when you text me and I
didn’t respond. Do you remember why?”
Stiles gets a little flustered with guilt because he does. “I — I didn’t mean
—”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m going to hold it against you,” Derek
interjects, not unkindly. “Its fine. Look, I promise to respond to your texts
whenever I can.”
“You don’t have to promise me that, Derek,” Stiles says softly. “It’s not about
that at all. I shouldn’t have made it into a big deal. I'm just cranky. It was
stupid.”
“Nothing you say is stupid,” Derek insists. “Well, most of the time.”
“That is the most backhanded compliment.”
Derek makes a dismissive sound.
“Well,” Stiles says as he fiddles with the knob of his dresser drawer, staring
absentmindedly at Derek’s varsity jacket. “We can just be, I don’t know,
mindful of each other from now on.”
“I thought we already were,” Derek teases.
Stiles snorts and smiles a little.
“Come study with me,” Derek says.
Stiles pushes away from his dresser to walk to his closet. “Can’t do that if
I’m talking to you on the phone.”
“Who says?”
“Shut up. Goodbye,” Stiles ends the call and gets to work with finding a
suitable outfit for the day. While he’s in the middle of getting dressed, his
phone chimes with a text from Derek that says:
You hung on me. }:(
I sure did! :->
That's not very mindful of you.
You either want me to come study with you, or you want me to stand around
responding to every single text.
You can’t do both?
That's just greedy.
Not at all. Hurry up.
That’s what I’m trying to do!
¯ \_( ツ )_/ ¯
Stiles pockets his phone, grabbing his backpack on the way out and jogs down
the steps into the kitchen.
Isaac is eating what is probably his fourth plate of eggs and oatmeal with a
ridiculously tall glass filled to the brim with that special brand of coconut
milk. Their dad always go out of his way to travel across the other side of
town to that organic store that sells the brand Isaac prefers.
Stiles fixes himself a plate before popping it into the microwave to warm up.
When the microwave dings, he extracts the steaming plate, grabs a spoon, and
settles across from the preteen. “Spoiled.”
“Late,” Isaac retorts just as quickly. “You realize we have to leave in the
next three minutes, right?”
Stiles mixes his eggs and his oatmeal together, catches the box of brown sugar
when Isaac shoves it his way when he makes a silent signal for it, and mutters,
“We leave when I say we leave.”
“Dad! Stiles is trying to make us late!” Isaac yells as he takes his plate to
the sink to rinse it off before stashing it in the dishwasher. He shoulders on
his backpack with a taunting grin.
“Stiles, you have three minutes!” his dad calls back.
Stiles makes an exasperated sound around he shoves the food into his mouth
quickly while he glares at his brother.
Isaac pretends like he doesn’t notice as he texts away on his smartphone.
Stiles rinses his plate off and barely has time to dump it into the dishwasher
and grab his backpack before Isaac is trying to shove him out the front door.
“Bye, dad!” they yell simultaneously before the door slams shut in their wake.
They sprint over to their bikes and climb onto them.
“Race you,” Stiles challenges and he peddles like he’s running from a lake of
lava.
Isaac wins, of course, but it’s a close call.
Stiles figures that there’s no way that victory should count. “Why were you in
a rush anyway?” he asks as he follows his brother while he rolls his bike over
to the ramps to lock it there.
“Talent Show auditions,” Isaac says as he wipes his hands down his Green
Lantern graphic tee.
“You’re auditioning!” Stiles exclaims.
Isaac hushes him. “You’re so unnecessary loud,” he complains. “And no. You’d
know if I were. Boyd is. He’s got this band. He’s the drummer.”
“Oh, well.” Stiles doesn’t have much to say about that. “Tell him I said good
luck.”
“Sure,” Isaac mumbles as he studies his brother’s face for a long awkward
moment. Then he smiles and says, “Well you should get going. You don’t want to
miss your private study date.”
Stiles gapes as his brother strolls away with a self-satisfied smirk.
“That’s for calling me spoiled!” Isaac says over his shoulder before he
disappears into the building of his school.
Stiles vows to make the little punk a pie filled with apples from his tree so
he sleeps for weeks.
                                      ---
Derek’s sitting in a quiet and hidden corner of the library, doodling idly in
his notebook, long legs stretched out underneath the table when Stiles finally
makes it to his school. The other teen seems to sense him because he sits up
and follows him with his green eyes.
Stiles walks over and sits across from him, dumping his backpack next to
Derek’s on the floor. He says, “Kate once said you wanted to be a rocket
scientist.”
Derek’s brow furrowed for just a second before he shifts them once, seemingly
unsurprised by Stiles’s randomness. “Astrophysicist,” he lightly corrects.
“Wow, okay that’s a little intimidating,” Stiles mumbles and leans forward to
rest on his elbows against the table. “What do you exactly do in that field?”
Derek shrugs, leaning back in his chair, and he appears to be slightly self-
conscious. “It’s…” he trails off, and it’s obvious his collecting the right
words.
“I promise I’m not completely dumb. You can say it however you need to,” Stiles
jokingly encourages.
Derek sends him a displeased frown. “Don’t say that, Stiles. You are far from
dumb,” he complains.
Stiles feels a thrill of pleasure at that, and there’s an answering flush that
follows closely after. He’s glad that Derek is too busy glaring the table into
submission to even notice. A few seconds of awkward silence passes between
them. “I was joking,” he mumbles ruefully when he can’t take the silence
anymore.
“Don’t joke like that,” Derek sighs as he sits up and rests his chin on his
right hand. He gazes at Stiles likes he’s some kind of equation he’s trying his
hardest to figure out. Then he reaches across the table with his left hand to
grab Stiles’s. “Why do you want to know about it? About the astrophysics, I
mean.”
Stiles squeezes his fingers just out of reflex and tries not to feel like this
may not be normal platonic behavior for friendships. But how can he know yet,
even still at this point? He’s only spent so much time with the Hales to
understand exactly how pack dynamics work. For all he knows, Derek is trying to
scent him in the least conspicuous way possible. He blinks out of his inner
musings to say, “It’s — it’s like you said before,” he mumbles. “Up on the
tower.” It’s a miracle that he doesn’t blush (which he does an absurd amount
around the other teen). “We just need to get to know each other better. And I
want —” He stops.
Derek waits him to finish as he raises both eyebrows. He rubs his thumb along
the inner crease of his palm. “What do you want?”
Stiles falters for a moment as heat pools into his gut and the tips of his ears
before he gathers himself again. “I want to — well, I’d like to know you
better,” he says quietly and gnaws on his bottom lip; nerves get the best of
him. His heart quickens in anticipation as he waits for the other teen to say
something.
Derek ducks his gaze with a smile and Stiles lets out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Same here,” he assures before he takes his hand back to reach into his
backpack and pulls out all his notebooks, folders, and schoolbooks.
“Astrophysics is complicated. It’s space and life and everything in between. My
job would be to basically try and understand the universe and our place in it.”
“Cool,” Stiles says faintly, and he really does mean it. His fingers twitch
with the loss of warmth and he has to quickly hide his hands under the table as
they glow with a thin sheen of ethereal blue. It’s almost as worse as a blush.
He inhales as he closes his eyes and exhales just as slowly. He doesn’t fight
it. He lets it be. When he opens his eyes, Derek has his backpack in his lap
and is unzipping it to slide Stiles’s notebooks, folders, and schoolbooks over
to his side of the table.
Derek catches his questioning gaze and shrugs the corners of his mouth. “You
look like you needed a minute,” he remarks casually. “Didn’t want to interrupt
your meditation.”
“I wasn’t meditating,” Stiles denies, feeling affronted.
"What else would you call it then?"
Stiles opens his mouth to retort. Then he closes it when no response comes to
mind.
"Exactly."
“Whatever. Share your index cards with me.”
“Say please,” Derek drawls, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly.
“Absolutely not.”
Derek huffs and divides his notecards between them equally. “Stop frowning.
You’ll get wrinkles.” He also tosses a candy bar at him.
Stiles barely manages to catch it, but he does. “What’s this for?”
“You’re not you when you’re hungry.”
“Oh shut up.”
Derek just shushes him with a grin and begins to starts looking over his notes
to scribble out the most vital information onto some index cards with his left
hand. He then pauses to dump a few more pens and highlighters onto the table in
the space between all their textual items.
Stiles snags an orange highlighter quickly as he cracks open his AP Biology
book. He highlights a few passages before sticks the body highlighter between
his teeth and bites down as he scribbles out a few notes onto some pink index
cards.
“Don’t bite down too hard. It’ll explode in your mouth,” Derek advises without
even looking at him, lazily flipping through his Geology book.
Stiles spits out the highlighter and twists his tongue at each corner of his
mouth. “Sorry.”
Derek keeps taking notes as he says, “Really not a big deal. I’ve seen you do
that a lot.” He waits a minute before he adds, “Eat your candy bar. I paid a
lot money for it.”
“Lies,” Stiles accuses, but he does take his time stripping the candy of it’s
sleeve in the most noisy, obnoxious way possible, just to spite the other teen.
Derek sighs.
                                      ---
Stiles coasts through the rest of the day not really saying much. He's too busy
thinking about what might happen at the park today. He’s not nervous per say —
just anxious. There’s obviously something there that he is meant to find. He’s
just obsessing over what that might be. He’s probably chewed through like
fifteen pen and highlighter caps.
Dentists around the world must be crying without knowing why.
Cora makes him eat when they go out onto the quad for lunch, calling him a
complete space cadet because of how zoned out he’s been for most of the school
day.
Laura grabs him just as he moves to sit down and she puts him between her and
Kate.
Stiles just hands Kate his blue jello, because he knows the drill.
Kate pats him on the head, and coos, “That’ll do, Tenderfoot. That’ll do.”
Stiles snorts. “I’m not some prize pig at a county fair.”
“Of course not,” Kate says like she’s the one who’s offended. “I’m a bitch but
I’m not heartless.”
“Here, here,” Peter crows, appearing out of nowhere, settling in beside Kate,
who curls up to him as he puts his arm around her. “So, what’s going on? Did I
miss the part where you all burst out into song about how summer is just around
the corner and all the cute little summer things you’re going to do? Like get a
job, or fall in love, or maybe even follow your dreams. Why not do all three?”
“I made him watch Teen Beach Movie with me last night because no one else
wanted to,” Cora announces and she pulls apart her corndog, taking off the
breading to dip it in a blotch of ketchup on the corner of her plate. “He’s
determined to make me suffer for it,” she goes on to say as she gives him a
sarcastic smile.
“Cora, don’t be silly,” Peter says with mock innocence. “Why ever would I do
something so trivial and petty?”
Cora makes a face at him. “I don’t know, Uncle Peter. Please, do tell.”
Peter smirks, maintaining eye contact with Cora as he says, “Laura. Still
campaigning for that plastic crown?”
“Prom Queen,” Laura corrects. “Why? Come to lend a hand?”
Peter finally looks away from Cora, who is eating the impaled hotdog on the
wooden stick with a scowl. “I think not. It’s not exactly fair for all the
other candidates.”
“Oh yeah?” Laura snorts as pops her grilled cheese in her sandwich in her
mouth, piece by piece. “And just why is that?”
Peter makes a gesture to his face. “I’m too good-looking,” he explains with a
smirk, like it should be obvious. “Let’s face it. I am the face that launched a
thousand ships.”
“Gag me,” Derek complains as he sits down without a tray but with arms full of
books. “It’s amazing you haven’t gotten caught yet, skulking across campus with
that overinflated ego of yours.”
Peter just lifts his eyebrow with a grin. “Which brings me back to my original
point.” He slaps on some expensive shades. “I’m too good-looking.”
“And humble,” Stiles mutters as he finishes up the remains of his breaded fish
sticks. He’s been a silent observer so far. “Let’s not forget humble.”
“Oh I have humility for days, Stiles,” Peter boasts as he uses his long,
slender fingers to shake out his blond hair, and he does it so well that he
ends up looking like a model for GQ.
Everyone sighs and rolls their eyes.
Laura stands and urges Cora to follow, and they go to make their rounds with
box full of plastic wristbands in a variety of colors, and all of them say
‘Vote for Laura!’ on them in beautiful, white cursive.
Stiles knows this because Laura slipped one on him while he wasn’t looking and
without him even knowing. Mainly because he was to busy texting Isaac to let
him know that their dad would be the one pick him up (Isaac replied an
affirmative without asking too many questions).
Kate shoves about three sticks of gum in her mouth before she begins to pop the
gob of gum obnoxiously loud.
Derek continues highlighting passages in his AP Physics book.
Stiles pushes his tray away and says, “It’s nice out today. Very warm and mild.
Perfect day to do anything like, I don’t know, go to the park?”
Peter, Derek, and Kate swing their gazes to him.
“What?” Stiles says defensively as he pulls his tray close again so he can
fiddle with it. “I’m just saying.”
“Stiles, you’re about as subtle as a brick to the face,” Kate remarks
pointedly. “Covert is not exactly your strongest trait.”
“I resent that!” Stiles exclaims. He waits for two beats of silence before he
says, “Actually, while we’re on the subject, I was thinking maybe you might
want to come with me?”
Kate stares, assessing him with her hazel eyes and she must find what she’s
looking for because she grins unexpectedly. “Sure. Why not? We always seem to
have fun with each other.” She winks before she steals Peter’s shades.
“Why are we going to the park?” Peter invasively questions.
“Yes, why?” Derek echoes.
“We’re —” Stiles makes a circular motion of indication between them. “— not
going anywhere. Kate and I are going to the park. You guys do understand how
that works, right? Kate and I are going to the park.”
“What’s at the park, Stiles?” Peter demands, his blue eyes darkening artfully.
“Swings. Trees. Kids. Dogs. Senior citizens.” Stiles shrugs sarcastically. “How
long has it been since you’ve been to a park? I don’t think much has changed.”
“How would I know? Maybe things are different from what I remember. It’s
probably fitting that I join you,” Peter responds insistently. Then his phone
chimes and he frowns, fishing the expensive device. “Hello.” He gets up and
walks away before he begins to mutter furiously.
“I won’t force an invite, unlike my uncle. But I would like to go,” Derek
admits and he glances at Kate before he diverts his attention to Stiles. He
raises his eyebrows as he waits for a response.
“Just don’t tell Peter. I’d never hear the end of it,” Stiles mutters,
relenting.
Derek smirks and says, “I don’t think he’ll care. Mom’s asked him to come home
right away. Some important Pack business that has to do with the Calaveras. I
don’t know. Mom’s not saying much.”
“Stop eavesdropping,” Kate chides as she tosses a carrot at him.
Derek manages to catch it with his mouth. He chews and says, “Not exactly
eavesdropping if it’s not something you can control.”
“Point taken,” Kate supposes. “So let’s all meet in the parking lot after
school. I just got my baby out the shop.” She gives a lovelorn sigh. “I might
cry while we drive. Reunited and it feels so good.”
Stiles and Derek snicker, tossing an amused look between them.
“What?” Kate frowns in confusion before she realizes what they’re both
sniggering about with an expression of dawning. “Oh my god. Really? Fuck you
both. That’s a good song.”
                                      ---
Kate drives her Jaguar with the top down, blasting the Backstreet Boys’
greatest hits unapologetically while Derek and Stiles sit silently in the back.
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip anxiously the whole ride, sneaking glances to
Derek, who still has his nose firmly planted in his schoolbooks. It makes him a
little envious, and tugs at some competitive urge deep within the recesses of
his mind. He doesn’t usually mind being outdone when it comes to academics, but
for some reason, he wants to prove that he can be as diligent as the other
teen.
Kate swerves into a parking lot and whips the car into a handicapped spot like
some kind of professional stunt driver.
“Jesus, Kate,” Stiles wheezes, clutching his heart. “Warn a guy.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” the pixie-haired blonde quips as she slides out
of her expensive car.
Derek climbs out next to follow after Kate. “You realize your car will be towed
if you leave it in this spot?”
Kate shrugs. “No one would dare. My dad’s the mayor. That’s the only reason I
find him useful.”
“That’s messed up, Kate.”
“Cry me a river, Derek.”
Stiles manages to exit the car without injury. He jogs to catch up to Derek and
Kate, who are shoving at each other in a friendly nature. He takes the time to
appreciate his surroundings.
Beacon Hills Park District (#1) has beautifully maintained landscape. The
entrance alone leads you up a walkway that curls around a glittering water
fountain and separates into two different pathways. One of the pathways lead to
the large building made of large cement blocks and huge windows. The entrance
is a set of glass double doors that swing open and close with people of all
types: families wearing the same color scheme of bathing suits, goggles,
inflatable pool floats in the shape of animals, and sunburns; sweaty women in
yoga pants dabbing their foreheads with hand towels as they power down their
grass wheat smoothies; camp counselors escorting a line of kids with neon
purple shirts on, who follow behind them like ducks; senior citizens with bingo
cards, or crotchet doilies; young boys and girls adorned with karate or boxing
gear.
They take the other pathway, which coils around the right side of the building,
past the basketball and tennis courts (which are fully occupied), past a park
filled to the brim with a horde of children; they laugh as they run around with
bare feet on the red sand that acts like a cushion, or a bed that is the
foundation of the jungle gym themed after the style of Toy Story. Opposite to
that, there is a food stand settled under a pavilion (it looks like they sell
things like popcorn, cotton candy, loaded nachos, hotdogs and ice cream). The
concession stand has a large dining area with tables that have umbrellas in the
middle of them, acting as artificial shade.
Stiles wonders why he hasn’t taken the time to come here before. He’s only been
to the park next to the library, which is in the district that Stiles lives in.
It’s also where the Hale family resides, though they could afford to live in
one of these upscale neighborhoods, but he also understands why they would
prefer not to. Their privately own preserve affords them privacy, freedom, and
silence. That’s certainly not something they would get around here; it’s as
busy as the cities he remembers in Los Angeles, with also some of the kind of
people there — selfish, snobby, and arrogant elitists.
This park happens to be at the epicenter of what is considered the downtown
retail marketplace of Beacon Hills; a metropolis lined with a high
concentration of restaurants, bars, cafes, and boutique shops. It’s obvious
where all the funding is coming from. The neighborhood and real estate
surrounding this area are meant solely for the upper class. He knows for a fact
that Mayor Argent lives only minutes away in his intimidating manor; City Hall
and the Municipal District Courthouse are literally within walking distance
from here. He also knows that Allison and Malia happen to reside down the same
street; a charming tree-lined cul-de-sac filled with examples of Victorian-era
buildings, showcasing beautiful and diverse architectural styles, with
townhouses, duplexes, single-family homes, and condominiums.
Stiles knows it’s nothing he could ever hope to afford, but he also has no want
to. He’s perfectly fine with the house his father bought. It’s not much but
it’s, without a doubt, home.
Derek pulls him closely, since he’s so lost in his thoughts, and out of the
lane meant for bikers, joggers, skateboarders, and skaters. “Careful,” he says
before letting go but sticking close.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles, embarrassed.
Derek nods, looking for all the world like he really doesn’t mind.
Stiles is absurdly warmed by that and tries to beat the feeling down and
focuses on the path ahead of them.
Kate’s somehow wormed her way to the front and leads them past the picnic and
barbeque area littered with a sea of birthday parties, family reunions, and
graduation celebrations.
Stiles starts to break out into a sweat because the sun is unyielding above
them, and he’s only slightly annoyed that Derek seems unaffected by it.
The three of them go further, past a fishing pond with a flat wooden bridge
that cuts across the middle of it. It’s a pond full of lily pads and moss,
ducks, and fisherman.
The path starts to wind down and curve around an expansive urban dog park next
to the park’s second parking lot. There’s an active dog area where owners of
all ages interact with their canines, whether that be by tossing Frisbees and
balls, or playing tug of war with them. There’s a drinking water fountain where
some dogs trek over to and drink out of with wagging tails.
Off to the side there is the passive dog area where canines roam amongst
themselves while their owners occupy the benches on the looping pathway. About
ten feet away from that, is another, very similar food stand settled under a
pavilion, and it looks like it sells just the same kind of food the other does.
Kate stops, spins on her heel and faces them. “This is where we part ways. I
see Kali over there. Peter made me swear that I’d talk to her since he couldn’t
join us to do so himself.” She slips on Peter’s sunglasses with a cutting
smile, runs her hand through her moist fringe (even she’s not immune to the
heat). “You two feel free to do whatever.” And just like that, she’s gone.
Stiles shakes out his shirt, already sticky with heat, cheeks flushed as he
uses the back of his right hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Derek watches him for a short moment before he flicks his gaze to and fro like
he's searching for something. “Jordan would love this,” he comments
whimsically, walking a little to Stiles left as his eyes flicker around again.
“Maybe I’ll bring him here one day. I might even drag Cora and Ginger.”
It prompts Stiles to ask a question he always forgets to. “Why is it that — I
mean everyone else has — but Peter doesn’t and — did he ever have a —”
“You want to know if he has a companion,” Derek states, knowing without knowing
what Stiles is trying to ask, and that’s something Stiles is coming to
appreciate. His gaze finally settles on something over Stiles shoulder, and he
appears to contemplate it. “Remember when you asked me before,” he says,
crowding into Stiles’s space until the other teen is forced to back up and this
keeps going until Derek stops and crosses his arms with a look of satisfaction
that Stiles does not understand. “You asked me what it all meant. About being
brother-cousins with our dogs. About how it works.”
Stiles nods. Then he frowns and looks up. He realizes that Derek has
purposefully corned him under the shade of a tree, and away from the oppression
of the sun because he was hot and miserable. He looks at Derek but the other
teen’s expression is nothing but nonchalant. He cuts the question he wants to
ask out of his mind, and instead says, “Are they like familiars?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Derek says as he looks off towards the fishing pond as
he uses his left had to scrub his hair out. “I don’t mean that I can’t
explain.” He turns his green eyes back on him. “It’s just that when we shift,
fully and completely, it’s like another language. We have different words for
things that can’t be translated in Human tongue. This is another instance.” He
pauses, as if looking for the right words. Then he says, “I think, the closest
thing would be…” he trails off as he thinks. “Do you know anything about
Sentinels and Guides?”
“Not really,” Stiles admits as he leans back against the tree behind him. His
body feels cooler already.
Derek explains, “In our world, we’re considered the Sentinels because we’re the
ones that posses super-heightened senses, and more often than not, we can
become over focused on the control of our own bodies. The downside is that when
it overwhelms us, we don’t only shift, but transform into, what I guess you can
consider, the wolf inside. Without the guidance, it’s easy to lose ourselves to
that more primal side; the side that even Humans posses as well in their mind
that can take one good person and turn them into a monster. It’s dangerous.
Once upon a time it was that way for all of us, since we did not know any
better, and that in turn brought about the age of Hunters.
“It’s a problem that plagues the whole spectrum of all species who are kin to
the supernatural world. We require that balance, and so that's where Guides
come in. Their sole purpose is to not only to calm us, or to act like a compass
for us when we go so deep that we lose sense of who we really are. But they’re
also the strong connection we need to the spirit world —” Derek grabs Stiles’s
left hand and clutches it with his own as he uses the index finger of his right
hand to trace a triskelion onto Stiles’s palm. Then he points to each corner,
saying, “The Sun, the Moon, the Stars.” He pulls his right hand away but he
hangs on to Stiles’s left hand with his own. “Sentinels soulbond with their
Guides — it’s the closest connection we can have that will work in the way we
need. In the Were community, we call it bonded-pairs. And different creatures
need different things. Vampires have crows. Leshies have ravens. Werewolves
have our brother-cousins. So on and on.”
“And Peter?” Stiles asks as he tightens his hold on Derek’s hand, frightened of
what the other teen may say.
Derek stares at him for a long moment before he presses his lips together as
his eyes get a little watery and Stiles is too busy bracing for the worst that
it takes him forever to realize that the other teen isn’t crying but trying
hold back his laughter.
“Oh you are just —” Stiles tries to hit him but Derek bounces out of the way
with a joyful laugh. “Were you lying the whole time?”
“No, that was all the truth,” Derek swears as he presses a hand to his stomach
and he laughs hard enough that he draws some attention to them.
“But you did stand there and make me think something horrible happened to
Peter!”
“I just couldn’t resist,” Derek chokes out between his cackling. “You looked so
— you were so serious, I just couldn’t resist.”
Stiles shoves him. “So then what? Does Peter have a Guide or not?”
“He does,” Derek admits, face still red with his amusement and he scrubs his
cheeks dry. “You wouldn’t know it, but she’s always there when you come. You
just never see her because she hides whenever there are new people in the house
she hasn’t gotten used to. Sometimes it takes her months before she’s
comfortable enough to come out of her hiding spaces. My mom used to tell me
that when my uncle bonded with her while she was still a pup, she would always
climb into his bottom drawer and hide until she fell asleep, and she was only
ever comfortable with my uncle. She’s absurdly shy when I think about it, which
is kind of poetic when you think about the kind of person my Uncle Peter is.”
Stiles thinks it’s amazingly poetic. He hopes he gets to see the canine
sometime in the near future. “What’s her name?” he asks, setting his annoyance
aside for a moment.
“You’ll never guess,” Derek replies. “Cinderella.”
“You’re lying,” Stiles says automatically because there is no way.
Derek snickers. “No, I’m actually telling the truth.” Then he adds, “You can
ask Kate if you don’t believe me. You can ask anyone. They’ll confirm it. She’s
an all white Mastiff, and she’s twice Jordan’s size. My uncle calls her Ella,
though, and he only calls her Cinderella when she does something he doesn’t
like.”
“That is possibly the greatest thing I have ever heard,” Stiles says with quiet
awe. This information is just too valuable to put to waste. He will milk this
until it is dry.
“You should buy me some ice cream,” Derek says as moves so they stand shoulder
to shoulder.
Stiles snort. “Oh yeah? And why is that?”
“I haven’t eaten since this morning. And I skipped lunch,” Derek reasons.
Stiles huffs in exasperation. “And so feeding you is suddenly my
responsibility?”
“I didn’t say that,” Derek corrects. He waits for two beats before he adds,
“But you did.”
Stiles tries to kick him but Derek seems to anticipate that kind of retaliation
because he glides out of the way and starts a backwards walk toward the
concession stand with a smirk. Stiles rolls his eyes and blows out a breath
from the side of his mouth, and it makes the eyelashes of his right eye
flutter. He scans the area for a moment before he attempts to locate Kate. It
takes walking around the pathway where it loops towards the passive dog area
before he can spot her.
Kate is standing with Kali, who’s clutching her puppy, Simba-Bhupal, to her
chest.
Stiles contemplates walking over, but he thinks better of it. He just continues
walking down the curve of the pathway. He watches dogs frolic while their
owners point and titter amongst themselves about their canines for a moment
before he goes in an earnest search for a bench that’s under some shade. He’s
getting hot again. He’s practically on the other side of the Dog Park before he
finds said bench. He sits down with a relived sigh, happy to escape the sun.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stiles frowns and straightens looking around for the source of the sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stiles stiffens when the sound of the world begins to fade away until it zeros
down to the grating sound of, what seems like, knives sharpening knives.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stiles winces. The sound magnifies in his ears, and it echoes like the horrible
screech of silverware scrubbing against porcelain dishes.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It gets closer and closer, making him nauseous, and he has to slap his hands
over his ears.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Stiles begins to rock and rock and rock, silently begging it to stop.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Stiles feels like his eardrums are being stabbed with a hundred white-hot
needles and there’s only so much he can take before he has to suck in a breath
to scream.
“Now, now. None of that,” a voice dripping with a British accent says to his
immediate right.
Stiles exhales shakily, blinking away the tears that have gathered at the
corner of his eyes. He trembles a little as he turns his head to see just who
it is beside him.
A man who looks to be in his late thirties, wearing a tailor made, three-piece
suit comprised of a mixture of blacks and dark greys. He has on expensive,
gold-framed sunglasses. He smirks as he clutches a walking stick carved from
some kind of dark wood, etched with special markings, and a metal tip at the
bottom.
Stiles tries to swallow, but his mouth is suddenly dry and his mind is swimming
with the aftershock of pain. He’s feels strung out and fatigued, like he’s just
completed a marathon.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he drawls as he continues to face forward. “And
understand that when presented with the opportunity to be in the presence of a
Seven, one such as myself must take certain precautions.”
Stiles licks his dry lips and breathes as he blinks slowly, exhausted and
dazed.
“I do admit my methods are extreme. I don't usually care for torture.” He takes
a moment to chuckle. “But, where are my manners? May name is Deucalion.”
Stiles frowns and wonders why it feels so difficult to move his tongue.
“And this is the part where you say, ‘My name is Stiles Stilinski’,” Deucalion
cheerfully supplies. “Though I imagine that’s not quite what you would say.
After all, I always find that when you’ve killed as much as I have, and for as
long as I have, it’s all sounds the same. You know, blending together and
such.” He sighs as he lifts his walking stick and stabs the metal tip into the
ground.
TAP.
Stiles winces.
TAP.
“Now what was it they say?”
TAP.
“Ah, I remember.”
TAP.
“Who are you?”
TAP.
“Why are you doing this?”
TAP.
“Whatever they’re paying you, I can double, even triple it.”
TAP.
“And let’s not forget my personal favorite!”
TAP.
“What do you want from me?”
TAP. TAP. TAP. TAP.
Stiles wheezes out a whine as his shoulders shake. He can feel blood dripping
out of his ears, as his nose begins to bleed as well. His head hurts so much
and he can barely breath, choking on his on blood while his lungs feel like
they’ve been scrapped raw by sandpaper.
Deucalion’s lips curl into an ugly grin. “That is the question, isn’t it,
Stiles? What is it that I want?” He still doesn’t spare him a glance. “You’re
too tense, love. You should really relax.” He hums. “The weather is quite
brutal today, but no less lovely. It reminds me of my days as a toddler, living
down in Rio de Janeiro with my mother and six brothers.” He sighs. “I was the
youngest, of course. And my brothers never failed to remind me of this. But my
mother, god rest her soul, always minded me just fine.”
Stiles wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to do something, but it
honestly feels like he’s had a major stroke.
“She used to create these lovely little paintings of yellow roses. And
sometimes, late at night, she’d let me sit with her as she worked silently and
feed me roasted almonds. But long after she died from a sickness that even the
most qualified doctor could not identify, and we were sent to live with our
estranged relatives in Liverpool, I kept this one painting she created for me
on my sixth birthday as a gift,” Deucalion goes on to say, voice cruelly
jovial. “Of course, eventually my brothers burnt it in a fit of rage and
jealousy. It seemed only fitting that I returned the favor by paying three
Portuguese sailors to skin them alive. And skin them they did. It was almost a
work of art.”
Stiles dry heaves.
Deucalion relaxes his hold on his walking staff and Stiles could just cry in
relief if he could. The older man spends a long moment just staring out into
the Dog Park. “Look at them. So blinded by their simple little lives. They
have no idea how bad it can really get. No, not like you and I. We’re both very
familiar with the land of monsters, aren’t we? Not to say that I’m not one
myself.” He sighs again. “Sometimes I like to sit on this very bench and watch
them all. It's the only thing that makes me feel a little normal.” He smirks
again. “It’s much like bird watching, don’t you think? Only you know for a fact
that you could snap their necks with no trouble at all.”
Stiles has never been so terrified in his entire life.
“Well then,” Deucalion goes on to say. “You smell absolutely frightened. Which
works perfectly for me. I know you won’t try to do something stupid,
or something you’ll regret. So let’s have a look at you.”
Stiles winces when the older man finally turns his way and takes off his
sunglasses to reveal bloodshot eyes with milky grey irises. And it’s then that
Stiles realizes that he’s a blind man. The blind man.
“You are very young,” Deucalion notes with a hint of humor. “It’s almost
insulting.”
Stiles tries to move his mouth.
“Save your energy,” Deucalion advises as he slides his sunglasses back on
before removes his pocket square and uses the handkerchief to mop up all the
blood. “Let’s make you presentable, shall we? I do have other things I must see
to, but I did enjoy this little tête-à-tête.” He pulls away when he finishes
and tucks the blood-soaked cloth away in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
Stiles realizes with a sick feeling, that the older man has removed every trace
of blood like none of this happened.
Deucalion buttons up his suit jacket and he stands as he relaxes the line of
his shoulders. He straightens his tie with a cheery whistle before he yanks
down his sleeves. He turns to walk away but he pauses before turning back. “Ah,
but there was one other thing.”
Before Stiles can blink he’s being yanked to his feet. He expects the worse to
happen but the fatal blow never comes.
Deucalion’s teeth lengthen in a frightening, animalistic manner. “Tell your
juvenile friends, your meddlesome father, and that adorable little pack of
yours to stay out of my business.” He releases the younger boy and does nothing
to stop his descent to the ground. “Send my regards to Deaton.”
Stiles falls onto his hands and knees and he barely blinks before the older man
vanishes. “Oh god,” he says when he can finally find his voice and he vomits.
“Over there!” a voice cries.
Warm hands are pulling him up as he dry heaves, and he’s settled against the
bench.
Derek and Kate are looking at him with alarm and concern.
“What happened?” Kate asks, looking ready to rip the world apart for him as she
manages to materialize a napkin out of thin air. She wipes the vomit from his
chin and mouth. “What happened?” she icily repeats.
Derek frowns and settles his hand onto her shoulder. “Kate, he’s in shock. Take
it down a bit.”
Kate scowls and shakes off his hand as her eyes roam his face with a startling
amount of intent.
“Can you bring the car around?” Derek says, breaking the uneasy silence. His
voice is steady but he looks a little pale. “I’ll stay with him.”
Kate looks like she wants to object she forces herself away in a furious
stride.
Stiles coughs, his throat feels raw.
“Here,” Derek says, handing him two scoops of vanilla ice cream packed into a
waffle cone. “Laura says ice cream fixes everything.”
Stiles huffs a little shakily as the other teen sits down beside him. He brings
the ice cream up to his lips, hands trembling, but the cool sweetness does help
sooth the dry burn of his throat.
“I shouldn’t have left you,” Derek says and he looks upset. “If I hadn’t left
you, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Stiles shakes his head vehemently. “Stop,” he croaks, voice hoarse and
gravelly. “You — I was the one that walked off. Neither of us knew what would
happen.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t make me feel better,” Derek admits grimly. “I should
have —”
“Shut up, Derek,” Stiles pleads and scoots over so he can lean against him
tiredly.
Derek’s jaw snaps shut and he makes a miffed sound, but that doesn’t stop him
from putting his arm around Stiles’s shoulders so he can settle more
comfortably against him. He lifts his right hand to help Stiles hold up the ice
cream when his hands wont stop shaking.
Stiles idly eats the ice cream, mind churning until his thoughts become
wrathful and, before he knows it, the ice cream is gone and Derek is running
his hand through Stiles's hair in attempt to console him. Stiles licks his lips
and exhales. “I think —” he falters for a moment. “I think I just met the
Benefactor.”
                                      ---
Kate tries and fails to get an answer out of him after she forces him to sit in
the front just for that purpose alone.
Derek remains silent in the back the whole ride as he sits behind Stiles.
Which really makes no difference because Stiles can still feel his questioning
gaze burning holes in the back of his skull. He flexes his jaw and yawns over
and over until it his ears pop. He sighs in relief when Kate pulls into his
driveway.
Derek’s at his door before he can blink, and both he and Kate help him make his
way across the lawn, up the porch steps and to the front door.
“You know,” Stiles says as he watches Kate forcefully shove his house keys into
each slot. “It’s not like I went through some kind of major surgery.”
“For all we know, you did. Not that you’ll say if you did or not,” Kate grunts
and she looks one second away from kicking down his door. “Why wont any of
these fucking keys work?”
That’s the moment his dad opens the door, and he lifts both brows.
Kate blows out a breath. “Sherriff,” she greets. Then, unapologetically, goes
on to says, “No offense, sir, but your son is an ass and he gives me ulcers.”
She turns sharply on her heel, muttering furiously to herself as she stomps to
her Jaguar.
His dad turns his gaze onto Stiles before turning to look at Derek. He says,
“You mind telling me what that was all about?”
“Sorry, Sherriff. I think that’s best left for Stiles to explain,” Derek
replies with a wry smile. He swallows and quickly squeezes Stiles’s left hand
before he turns away sharply and strides down the steps like he’s forcing
himself to leave, even if it’s the last thing he wants to do.
Stiles swallows, suddenly thirsty. “You better come and sit down. You won't
like what I have to say,” he admits as he slides past his father towards the
kitchen. He pauses in surprise when he sees that Deaton is already at the table
with a steaming mug of tea.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton greets, formal as ever. “Please. Have a seat. Your
father and I were just having a discussion about you.”
Stiles frowns but he sits down at the table.
His dad joins them a second later, and walks over to the stove to pour some tea
into two mugs. He sets a cup in front of Stiles before he walks over to the
other end of the table, placing him across from Deaton as Stiles sits between
them with his back to the living room.
Stiles reaches for the honey and takes his time shaking the bottle before
squirting it into his tea with a suction sound as he stirs his spoon noisily,
the metal clinking around loud enough.
His dad sighs into his cup of tea.
Deaton’s mouth curls a little.
“I met the Benefactor today,” Stiles says with as little finesse as possible.
He says it the same way someone would mention seeing their old grade school
friend at the grocery store.
His dad chokes on his tea.
Deaton’s expression remains neutral as he carefully lowers his tea to the
table. “Are you sure?” he asks.
Stiles takes a few moments to blow into his tea before taking a few cautious
sips. After he swallows, he says, “I spent ten minutes in the worst pain I ever
felt next to a guy who prattled on about how easy it was to kill people like he
was discussing the weather. So, I’m pretty sure.”
“He hurt you? What happened?” his dad questions furiously.
Stiles tells them everything.
His dad’s expression is thunderous at the end of it all, and he keeps muttering
about his gun.
Deaton doesn’t even twitch. “You’re awfully calm for someone who just went toe
to toe with one of the most ruthless killers of our lifetime.”
“Oh I wanted to shit myself the whole time,” Stiles confesses candidly and he
sends his dad an apologetic look. “I was pretty shaken up. I mean, I threw up
my breakfast and my lunch as soon he left.” He pauses to finish his tea and
lowers the mug to the table. “But then I began to realize that the most
ruthless killer of our lifetime had to incapacitate me just to make himself
feel safe enough to just talk to me.”
“And that makes it all okay?” his dad fumes. “Stiles —”
“Dad, just listen. I’m not — I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with what happened
today. But I can’t run and hide when I’m faced with something I don’t
understand,” Stiles says, keeping his voice steady. “I understand that I’m not
invincible. I cried, I shook, I threw up. I was Human. Underneath all of this,
I am only Human. And I think that’s what separates me from the supernatural
community. There is no me against them and them against me. I am them. I may be
Faerie but I’m still Human in the way that counts. He could have killed me
today but he didn’t. That only means he wants to use me as a weapon to further
his own agenda. I can’t let that happen.”
His dad eyes glisten and he shakes his head. “I can’t —” he chokes over the
words. “I can’t lose you too.”
Stiles feels an answering wetness in his eyes. “Dad,” he says in kind. “You
have to let me do this. Let me do what I have to,” he pleads. “Because if I
don’t, I’m already dead.”
His dad quickly wipes away a tear that falls, and he looks like he’s trying so
hard to trust that Stiles knows what he’s doing. He clears his throat and nods
at Deaton.
It feels like a sacrifice on his part.
“I felt utterly powerless today,” Stiles goes on to say as he looks to Deaton.
“I’m supposed be this all powerful Seven and I was compromised. I never want to
feel like that ever again. No one should, not when I can do something about
it.”
“You’re angry,” Deaton notes as he stands and carries his cup to the sink.
“Good,” he says before he turns back to them. “It means you’re taking your
power back.”
Stiles looks at him as he finishes the rest of his tea.
“You’re father has agreed to let me mentor you. You’ll be working in my shop
this summer as a guise. Staying near to me so I can teach you all you need to
know will do you some good,” Deaton supposes. “And I’m ready to meet your
spirit guide. But, Stiles.” He looks grave as he continues, “Once we start,
there will be no stopping. You have to want this for yourself. It means no more
running, no more avoiding, no more depending on the luck of the universe to
work in your favor without you actually understanding what favors are already
owed to you.”
Stiles swallows and nods.
“Also, keep in mind that no one is all powerful,” Deaton remarks as he makes
his way to the back door.
Stiles looks to his dad.
His dad seems tired and sad, but he just waves him along with a weak half
smile. “Go,” he says. “I’ll be here.”
It sounds like a promise.
Stiles gets up and walks to the back door before he thinks better of it and
runs to give his dad a crushing hug. “I love you,” he mumbles.
“No more than I love you,” his dad swears and, squeezing him one more time, he
lets him go.
“Where’s Isaac?” Stiles ask as he walks backwards to the back door.
“Upstairs with his friend, Boyd,” his dad answers, rising from the table to
make himself a glass of white wine from the box his keeps in his fridge but
almost never uses.
Stiles spins on his heel and exits the house.
Deaton is circling his elm tree with a great deal of concentration until he
comes back around to the face. He climbs up to trace his hands over the large
triquetra carved into the wood like a face with eyes closed.
Stiles takes off his shoes, because he prefers to be bare foot when he
approaches his tree. The ground surrounding it always hums pleasantly against
the bottom of his feet, and coasts up the rest of his body. He watches Deaton
for as long as it takes for a light sheen of sweat to build on his forehead and
temple.
The sun is nearing the horizon, but not so close that it’s any less hot against
his skin.
Deaton opens his eyes and steps down and away. “If you would please, Mr.
Stilinski.”
Stiles says, “Right.” and rubs his sweaty palms against his jeans. He sighs in
relief as his bare feet hits cool, moist grass. The purple-blue leaves cast
shadows of purple and blues, and offers restful shade. He uses Nana’s thickest
exposed root to make his way up to her face. He presses his palms to the
triquetra as his hands light up for a fraction of a second, and he feels that
familiar sensation of a silvery touch skating along the edge of his mind. He
moves away when Nana’s face appears.
“Hello, dearie,” Nana says, her voice gentle and apologetic. “You’re upset with
me, I suspect.”
“At first,” Stiles admits. “But I think I can understand why you sent me to see
for myself. I didn’t think — I didn’t realize it was that bad.” He exhales.
“And now I think I know what I have to do.”
“And what is that, dearie?” Nana prods.
Stiles waits a moment before he says, “Uphold the balance.”
Nana gives a wooden smile of approval before swinging her gaze to Deaton. “Your
mentor and I have already touched minds, and I trust him. He has my consent.
Now introduce us.”
“I give him permission to see,” Stiles allows.
“I salute you, Dr. Deaton,” Nana acknowledges.
“As do I, Mother Queen of the Elder Forest,” Deaton says and gives a slight
bow.
Stiles gapes. She’s a queen?
“Oh goodness me,” Nana chuckles. “Do straighten, Doctor. No need for such
formalities. Why, I haven’t heard that title since the foundations of the earth
were laid by the Faceless.”
“You’re a queen?” Stiles exclaims. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It hardly seemed important at the time,” Nana says dismissively. “And I also
did not want you to feel obligated to treat me as my station requires. My
purpose is to serve your needs, for through you, all things are possible.”
Stiles has heard that before, from his uncle, but he hadn’t known exactly what
that meant.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I am sure there is much to do,” Nana declares.
“You will start him on the garden, wont you? I am feeling quite lonely out here
on my own.”
“If you wish it,” Deaton responds with respect. “Under your watchful eye, I
suspect he’ll do what needs to be done.”
“As well as under yours,” Nana replies, returning the compliment. “Rest well,
Doctor.” Then she turns her gaze over to him. “Cup your hands together,
sweetling,” she instructs.
Stiles does and knows what comes next.
Nana drops a rather small, juicy peach into his hands. “Eat that before you go
to bed, so that your mind will be settled, and your thoughts clear when you
rise again.”
“Thank you, Nana,” Stiles replies and watches as her face melts into a
triquetra again. He holds the peach in his left hand and looks to Deaton. “Can
I ask why she called you Doctor?”
“As tradition to Druids, my culture dictates at birth what we shall be. Among
my tribe I became recognized as a doctor. I grew to understand the physiology
of each supernatural creature, and the things of the Earth that could either
save or kill them,” Deaton explains. “I practice healing-magic. I follow the
doctrines of restoration.”
Stiles nods and says, “So what kind of garden do I have to build? Should I go
to the local florist shop and gets some seeds to plant?”
“Oh no, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says. “You’re not ready for that.”
“What? But you told Nana that we would —”
“And we will,” Deaton smoothly interjects. “But there other things you must
learn first.”
“Like what?” Stiles asks, curious.
“Patience,” Deaton replies. “Everyday, when you wake up, you are to walk the
length of your backyard, and you must count every step. And before you go to
bed, you are to do the same thing. Then you will give me the estimation in
centimeters every day you come to my store after school, and in the mornings on
the weekend.”
“But how am I supposed to know if I’m doing it right without a ruler or some
measuring tap?” Stiles complains. “How would you know? How could you know?”
Deaton says nothing for a long while. Then he says, “You’re 5 feet and 11
inches tall. That’s 180.34 centimeters. This tree —” he points to Nana. “— is
30 feet tall and 2.032 meters wide. That’s about 360 by 80 inches, which in
turn is 914.4 by 203.2 centimeters. The tongue in your mouth is 3.3 inches
long, and 1.14173 wide. That’s 8.382 centimeters long, and 2.8999942
centimeters wide.”
Stiles silently gapes.
“Trust me, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says calmly. “I will know.” Then he gives him
a parting nod and disappears up the side of the house.
Once Stiles gets over the initial shock of Deaton’s stealth intelligence, he
takes a moment to study his backyard. Then he sighs and walks to the left
corner of the wooden fence, turns and begins to count each step he takes.
No time like the present.
***** intuition *****
Stiles paces the length of his backyard (up and down, side to side, zigzag)
until the sun dips into the horizon like a golden star sinking into an abyss of
blues and oranges and pinks and purples. The clouds are scattered aimlessly,
and the creatures of nature scramble to their homes as the sun makes it’s last
call before surrendering to the moon. Stiles stops and appreciates the sight,
as the ground beneath his feet seem to hum with complacency.
The air is thick with moisture; humid and dry like the inside of a dryer after
the removal of clothes. It’s a side effect of the blistering heat earlier in
the day. The fireflies dance around him, as if they are sharing in the scenery
with him as he thinks over the weather. He reaches up an amused grin and holds
up his right hand to let each on of them bump and glide across his hands like a
strange handshake; their bottoms flickering like lamps.
With a sigh he turns towards the house, and the fireflies disperse as he swipes
his apple off the ground. He rubs it against his chest until the vibrant red
shines through and he does not bite it, but rather saves it for when he is
ready to settle in for bed. He grabs his shoes from where he took them off,
carefully moves across the gravel that separates the house from the backyard,
walks up the steps and enters through the back door. He locks it behind him as
he slips on his shoes.
Boyd and Isaac are sitting at the table playing a game of monopoly with his
dad.
His dad is complaining loudly and theatrically that Boyd and Isaac are cheating
by acting as a united front.
Stiles almost smiles, but he notices that the box of white wine that is
rarelytouched placed besides the garbage bin. Which would mean that it’s
empty,and that his dad is drunk. Something that hasn’t happened in years, not
since his mom died. So he walks over and smiles apologetically at Boyd, while
Isaac avoids all of their gazes (playing with a few houses nervously) and it
just hurts his heart. He begins to feel guilty as he carefully pries the glass
of wine from his father’s fingers and pours it down the drain as he exhales
shakily.
Stiles feels a panic attack come on and he closes his eyes for a moment before
he straightens the line of his shoulders, spins on his heel, and puts his hand
on his father’s shoulder as he starts to nod off. “Come on, dad,” he says
softly. “Let’s go sleep it off.”
“’m not done,” his dad mumbles and he grabs the dice, laughing aimlessly as
they slip from his unsteady fingers.
“You won,” Stiles says and lifts his dad up to the best of his ability. His dad
is not light in the slightest so he kind of stumbles when he tries to get his
dad’s right arm over his shoulders.
Boyd shoots to his feet to help wordlessly, his face twisted with concern but
not with judgment or wry amusement.
Isaac refuses to move or look anywhere but the game board.
Stiles doesn’t blame him in the slightest. This probably triggering in some
way, but how could he know? Isaac never says, and Stiles never pushes.
Boyd helps him carry his dad up the stairs and to his room and on the bed. He
leaves when he understands that Stiles can deal with the rest.
Stiles helps his dad remove his shoes as he mumbles incomprehensibly, dozing in
and out as he watches his son with bloodshot eyes. Stiles yanks the covers out
from under his dad as he gently pushes his dad back to settle into bed
comfortably. He tucks him in and goes to his dad’s private bathroom to grab the
small garbage bin, a glass of water, and two capsules of pain medication. He
takes it all to his dad’s nightstand, putting the garbage bin within reaching
distance as he puts the glass of water next to the framed picture and wedding
rings before laying the pain medicine by it as well.
Years ago, this became a depressing norm until his dad shook himself out of the
depression when Stiles almost burned the house down trying to make himself some
macaroni because he was so hungry and his dad had been passed out when he came
home from school. He shakes himself out of the thought quickly, straightens,
and sobers up.
Stiles never held it against his dad. He hadn’t dealt with his mother's death
gracefully either. His teacher always had to pull him aside to talk him through
his sporadic panic attacks.
Stiles chews on his fingernails, watching his dad as he sits on the edge of the
bed. He watches as his dad falls into sleep with a frown, a ghost of his
mother’s name slipping from his lips. That's all Stiles can take before he
quickly exits his dad’s room to tuck away into his own so he can hide in his
closet on the side opposite from the bulletin/whiteboard he always keeps in
here and weeps into the sweaty palms of his hands. Sometime in the midst of it,
he pulls out his phone as he gulps for air, throat tight and cheeks flush.
“Stiles?” Derek waits a moment before he softly continues, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just — god I didn’t mean to bother you with this but I
— I didn’t know who else to —” Stiles breaks off, shoving a fist into his mouth
to stifle sob. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. My dad, he — and Isaac —
godI just — I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats this as he continues
to weep.
Derek says nothing. He waits patiently and lets Stiles ride it out until he’s
quieted down, sniffing in hiccups. Then he says, very gently, “It’s okay,
Stiles. I’m actually glad you called me. You shouldn’t have to suffer it by
yourself. You can talk to me. I want to help, okay? You always help me and I —
I’m going to — I’m going to come over, okay? I’m on my way.”
Stiles just pulls up his knees and presses his forehead to his knees as his
skin begins to glow by slow increments until it chases the shadows away in the
darkness of the closet.
“I’m going to keep talking to you, okay? And you don’t have to say anything.
I’ll keep talking and I’ll be there soon. Focus on my voice, Stiles. You sound
like you're choking, just breathe and listen to my voice. Did I tell you I’m
supposed to go to the DMV tomorrow to try for a license? I have a permit right
now, but I’ve been practicing with mom, and sometimes Peter. Peter was
insufferable, unsurprisingly. He kept making me nervous and swerve by pointing
out all my mistakes, and lying about seeing some kind of deer or a person. But
if I get this right, dad will let me have one of his cars if I do well. It’d be
nice, wouldn’t it? I’d get to drive whenever I wanted. To practice, or to
games, or for ice cream, or to the beach five miles outside of town with my
friends. I wouldn’t even mind if Cora nagged me for a ride because of course I
would make her work for it first. Just imagine. I could come to you, you know.
I could pick you and Isaac up for school. We could have breakfast before or go
to the arcade after. Maybe even the movies. And sometimes, only if you wanted,
you and I could go somewhere on the weekends. We could go wherever we wanted,
Stiles. Wherever you wanted…”
Stiles holds onto every word Derek says to him and doesn’t let himself think of
anything else. He hates that he can’t hold it together. He hates feeling
powerless. He hates that he can’t hold it together enough to check on his
brother to see if he’s okay, but he just cant. He does not have the will or the
energy to. So he greedily soaks up all the words Derek says because if he
doesn’t focus on that he’ll probably pass out.
His glow dims down before completely fading away until the dark shadows swallow
him up again. The roar in his ears dulls down as his breathing normalizes, and
his chest feels slightly less like it’s trying to collapse in on itself, as if
his heart has become a black hole. He shudders in the aftermath, shivering from
the cold sweat that’s broken out across his body in a thin sheen of moisture.
His throat feels soar and achy, and no matter how much he swallows he can’t
overcome the thirst. He sucks on his bottom lip as his lashes stick together
wetly.
His closet door opens slowly and Derek comes in, closing the door behind him
when Stiles flinches against the light.
Stiles drops his phone and sniffs, sighing when Derek sits with their sides
flushed, throwing his left arm over his shoulder.
Derek turns his head until his lips are pressed against the curve of his ear
and quietly, he says, “I brought you a bowl of ice. Eat it. You’ll feel
better.” Then he presses a cool ceramic bowl into Stiles’s hands. “You’ll feel
better. Just focus on how it makes your mouth feels, okay? I’m right here.”
Stiles is still sniffing in hiccups as he fiddles with the bowl before reaching
in to grab an ice cube. He presses it to his chapped lips, rubbing it over his
mouth like chapstick. He pays attention to how cool it feels as it melts
against his lips before he pushes it in his mouth and lets it settle on his
tongue. They’re ice chips so it’s not long before they soften enough that he
can crunch on them like hard pretzels.
Derek keeps his peace all the while, keeping the close proximity between them
until his heat begins to soak into Stiles’s side. He has his left hand pressed
to the curve of Stiles’s neck and suddenly the ache of his anxiety starts
washing cold.
Stiles realizes that Derek is taking his pain. He recognizes it from when Laura
had first showed it to him. He feels a little embarrassed that the other teen
is being so diligent about his feelings. He thinks about how Derek had to
travel across town to get here. How he had to stop whatever he was doing to see
to his needs.
“You know,” Derek murmurs and there’s some underlying amusement. “You’re
projecting.”
Stiles flushes and is grateful that he’s protected by the cover of darkness. He
shoves some more ice chips in his mouth and pretends not to know exactly what
Derek is talking about.
Of course, this doesn’t work because Derek is blunt when it comes to talking
about emotions and feelings (something Stiles is secretly impressed with) and
he says, “I don’t mind coming. It’s not a — you don’t have to worry about that.
It's not like I was doing anything super important, or, well anything that
matters more than knowing you're okay. Anyway, I’m being mindful, remember? It
comes with the territory. Though, you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same for me
if I needed it.”
Stiles knows that he’s right because he would put whatever he needed to on hold
to make sure Derek was okay. Then he jolts as he realizes something. “Isaac —”
“Laura’s downstairs with him,” Derek says, answering the unasked question. “She
was concerned. So we did the run together.”
Stiles turns his head, and he squints his eyes trying to make out Derek’s face
but he can only see the outline of his head. “You guys…ran here?” he asks. “Did
you shift or something?”
“Or something,” Derek vaguely replies. “Laura doesn’t like driving since her
dad —” He cuts the sentence short and Stiles knows there’s more to that story,
but he’s not going to press. “She, uh…she doesn’t like driving.”
Stiles realizes that yes, he has never seen her drive anywhere. She’s usually
either with Peter or Kate and he never thought about contemplating it or asking
why. He shoves some more ice chips in his mouth as he thinks that over. Then he
says, “Your mom won't —”
“She okayed it, my being here,” Derek carefully interjects. “She didn’t mind.
It’s you, so she didn’t mind. You matter to her too.”
Stiles flushes at the implications and he gets a little annoyed with both the
reaction and that Derek keeps cutting him off. “At least let me get the
question out,” he grumbles and tries to elbow Derek. “Makes me feel like you’re
reading my mind.”
Derek huffs. “At this point, I’m kind of accustomed to your body language. Like
I said, you project.”
“I do not,” Stiles denies. “I am stealthy.”
“Like a lighthouse.”
Stiles tries to elbow him again and the other teen just laughs, grabbing his
arm before the hit can land, squeezing gently before letting go. He sighs and
rolls his eyes.
Derek pulls him closer. “Better?” he asks after a moment of comfortable
silence.
“Better,” Stiles responds shortly. There’s no ice left, and the little there
was has already melted at this point. “How did you know the ice would help? Or,
how did Laura know?”
“Cora once fell down the stairs when we were really little. We were still young
enough that our instincts didn’t quite kick in the moments we really needed
them to. Mom had to teach us that,” Derek explains. “Well anyway, Cora fell
down the stairs during a game of freeze tag, and so it was kind of traumatic
for her. Every time she had to go up or down, she would have a panic attack,
scared she was going to hurt herself again. So Laura would give her ice cubes,
and told her to focus on the way they felt, not climbing the stairs or how the
steps felt under her feet. To just focus on the sensations happening in her
mouth. Cora did it every time she was scared until she wasn’t scared any more.”
“Oh,” Stiles simply says.
“Don’t tell Cora I told you,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the indulgent
grin. “She likes to keep up the tough exterior.”
Stiles snorts.
“Are we ready to leave the sanctuary of your closet?” Derek teases but Stiles
gets warm at the fact that he says ‘we’ and not ‘you’. It’s sort of
personalizing the experience in a way that Derek is implying that they are in
this together, and it isn’t something Stiles is ready to deal with right now.
“From what I hear, Laura is ordering some pizza. Which is good because your
stomach is growling and it’s a little distracting.”
“You can hear my internal organs?” Stiles questions as his face twists with
skeptical displeasure.
Derek laughs and says, “Well yeah. Werewolf. There are some sounds you just
can't ignore sometimes.” He stands as he grabs the empty bowl from Stiles’s
hand.
“You know, Peter once said that he could hear my unmistakable heartbeat, which
at the time was creepy. It makes sense now,” Stiles supposes. “Nah, it’s still
creepy.”
Derek is grinning when he opens the closet door to step out into the light.
“You do have an unmistakable heartbeat. Of course everyone does in their own
way. But yours is…” he trails off like he’s thinking of the right word as he
uses his left hand to shake out his hair. “It’s unique. Sometimes it’s steady
with no lulls when you’re comfortable and happy. Sometimes it can thump wildly
when you’re anxious or nervous or scared.” The he shakes his eyebrows as he
add, “And mostly when I’m involved, it flutters quickly with an extra tick when
you’re embarrassed or flustered — ah, there it goes now.”
Stiles curses the color that floods his cheeks. “Don’t sound so — you confuse
me,” he swears. Then he goes on to complain, “That makes me grossly self
conscious now. Why would you tell me that?”
Derek shrugs his mouth before he smiles crookedly. “You sounded like you wanted
to know. I’m just sating your curiosity.”
“Curiosity sated,” Stiles mutters as he wanders aimlessly around his room,
picking up things here and there because he knows that if he doesn’t then Derek
most certainly will.
Derek just watches him with a smug smirk, like he totally knows the reasoning
behind Stiles’s actions, and he says nothing while he crosses his arms and
leans against the doorframe of the closet.
“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles.
Derek shrugs his mouth again, and goes for the innocent look as he says, “I
didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t haveto,” Stiles complains. “You just projectloudly,” he says,
throwing the other teen’s words back at him.
Derek just laughs.
“And don’t stand like that. You are notcool.”
"What does me standing this way have to do with me being cool?"
"Like you don't know," Stiles replies. "It's like a cool person's go-to pose or
something. Being all attractive and effortless at a slanted incline."
"So you don't think I'm cool, but you do think I'm attractive?" Derek counters
and grins when Stiles shoots him a withering look. 
"Stop volleying my words back at me like that. You know I didn't — I mean it's
— you have some —" Stiles just cuts himself off with an annoyed sound. "It's
not like you need me to tell you."
"You give yourself too little credit," Derek mutters, amused at how befuddled
Stiles is by him and his cryptic comments. 
"Whatever," Stiles mumbles and goes back to his cleaning. He's never felt so
flustered and bemused.
Derek snickers and straightens before he starts helping, ignoring when Stiles
complains. “You know,” he says as he folds some clothes and put them in their
proper place. “Your heartbeat sounds like restless drumming when you’re annoyed
or angry.”
Stiles throws a comic at him.
Derek lets it hit his chest diplomatically.
That just annoys Stiles further.
                                      ---
The doorbell chimes by the time Stiles musters up the courage to trot down the
steps with Derek in tow. Laura is sitting at the table with Isaac and Boyd
playing Jenga. She is obviously cheating because each time it’s Boyd or Isaac’s
turn, she coughs and ‘accidently’ knocks an elbow and/or a foot or her knee
into the table, making it shake with the threat of tipping over.
Isaac glares at her but the corner of Boyd’s mouth curls in amusement because
he’s easygoing like that.
The doorbell chimes again.
Laura doesn’t even twitch.
“Don’t get up, Laura. Really. Obviously I’ll get the door,” Derek snidely
comments as he makes his way over to sign for everything.
“Thanks, Der,” Laura responds sweetly as she fakes a yawn during Isaac’s turn,
arms stretching before her right hand makes the tower of blocks fall. “Oops.
Looks like we have to start over again.”
Boyd laughs and starts collecting the pieces to put them away so they can make
room for the pizza.
Isaac sighs and pushes away from the table before he stomps towards Stiles,
grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him up the stairs to his own room. He
slams the door behind him before he gives Stiles a stern look. “Don’t do that
again. You know that wasn’t fair, and if I’d known, I would have fought harder
about it.”
Stiles rushes to explain before his throat tightens, and his eyes get wet. “I
didn’t mean — I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Dad hasn’t had an episode like that in
a verylong while. I swear he’s not like that all the time. He’s got a lot — a
lot to think about. It’s because of me —”
“I’m not talking about that,” Isaac interjects with an even tone, looking at
Stiles with this strange look. “You went to the park to look for the
Benefactor, and when you found him, he hurt you and you kept me outof it. You
promised me you wouldn’t leave me behind anymore.”
Stiles releases a weary sigh he didn’t even know he was clinging to. “You —
you’re mad I left you behind? That’s why you’re upset?”
Isaac rolls his eyes but his voice goes really gentle. “You’re such an idiot
sometimes, I swear.”
Stiles starts to protest. “Hey —”
“I get it with dad, okay? I was a little — it brought up some memories. But
it’s nothing I can’t handle. I know he wouldn’t hurt you or me. We all have our
bad days, Stiles. Dad’s allowed them as much as you and I are. I’m not making
any excuses for his behavior by any means. I just understand that there’s some
things that get the better of us,” Isaac remarks assertively. “What bothers me
is when you and dad leave me out of it all. I don’t need to be protected. I’m
strong and it makes me feel like I’m weak. I need you both to respect that, and
what I do actually need, you both have the sense to do everything you can to
make sure I get it, as well as providing for me in ways I appreciate. Even when
I don’t ask for it.”
“Spoiled,” Stiles faintly accuses.
Isaac sighs in annoyance. “Stop saying that. I’m not,” he insists. “I’ve
learned it’s okay to ask for what I want. It’s youguys that always give it to
me without question or say no.”
“That is the exact definition of spoiled,” Stiles argues but he finds himself
grinning. “Are you mad at me?”
“Probably about as much as you’re mad at me,” Isaac reasons. “Which means not
at all. I’m just annoyed, but I’m allowed to be. You’re my brother. I’m
entitled to that privilege.”
“I will not forgive you for neglecting to tell me about dad’s intent to punish
us,” Stiles swears.
Isaac snorts. “We both know you already have because you were well aware of
what would happen.”
“You don’t know that,” Stiles insists and sighs when Isaac just taps the side
of his nose. “So is Boyd staying over?”
Isaac shrugs in that way he used to. Then he says, “We’re on punishment,
remember? I didn’t bother to ask because I knew dad would say no. But we’re
going to the movies tomorrow. Dad did okay that at least. But I have to come
home straight after to mow the lawn. I think you’re supposed to clean out the
gutters. He said he’d leave cleaning the inside of the house for all of
Sunday.”
Stiles makes a face that speaks to what he thinks about that. “So, uh…” He
pauses to think of what he wants to say. “You know about Deaton and all of that
stuff?”
“Stuff,” Isaac mumbles to himself like he’s judging Stiles. “If you’re talking
about the apprenticeship, well, yeah. It’s kind of hard not to. Boyd kept
asking me why I was so distracted when we did our homework together.”
“Oh,” Stiles simply says. “Does Boyd know that you —”
“I haven’t talked about it,” Isaac interjects. “I don’t — I’m not ready to
bring it up.”
“Okay,” Stiles responds and doesn’t push. “Whatever you want.”
“I want you to give me a hug because by the way you made it sound, someone
tried to hurt you and I wasn’t there to do anything about it because I didn’t
know. You owe me at least 500 hugs,” Isaac demands adorably. “I’m not
adorable.”
Stiles blinks when he realizes he said that out loud. “You’re not really going
to count them are you?”
Isaac is already pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him. This lasts
for five minutes before he grumbles, “You reek of Derek.”
“Okay. Okay. Hug soover,” Stiles replies grumpily, gently pushing his little
brother away as the curly-haired blond laughs quietly.
“I’m just speaking my mind,” Isaac says as he fiddles with the doorknob behind
him. “I’m getting taller than you by the way.”
“That’s only because dad laces all your food with the kind of steroids that are
only meant for horses,” Stiles jokes before Isaac starts shoving him out of his
room.
“Banned. You are banned from my room until further notice,” Isaac complains, as
he continues to bulldoze Stiles down the steps.
“It’s about time,” Laura crows from where she’s settled at the end of the table
as Isaac sits down beside Boyd across from Derek. “The pizza’s about to get
cold, goobers. Sit down and eat it while it’s hot. We were just discussing
Derek’s chances of becoming the captain of our lovely little basketball team.”
Derek scowls as he moves over to the next chair to make room for Stiles. “No we
weren’t. Boyd was telling us about his band.”
“Well you were thinking about it,” Laura teases with a singsong voice.
Derek flushes. “No I wasn’t,” he lies weakly as he starts piling some more
meat-loaded pizza on his plate. Then he begins to slide some slices of cheese
onto Stiles’s plate courteously. He even goes as far by pouring them both a
glass of orange soda like it’s second nature.
Isaac smirks at Stiles with a pointed look while he chows down on some anchovy
pizza.
Stiles blushes and glares weakly at his brother as he fights down the growing
ache of fixation that bubbles in his stomach. He’s a little too grateful for
Derek’s consideration and it does nothing but curls something he can’t even
name around his heart and he is definitelynot ready to explore that.
Isaac gives him another pointed look as he taps the side of his nose as
he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Stiles hunches down into his seat as his flush spreads stubbornly.
Boyd elbows Isaac gently while sending Stiles a wink.
Isaac rolls his eyes as he lets up on his teasing and focuses on his food
instead.
Laura continues as she goes in on her eighth piece of pizza, “Derek has been
obsessed with being captain ever since he started high school.”
“I have not,” Derek protests around a mouthful of pizza. “And anyway, it’s not
like I’m going to get it. I’ve never seen a sophomore get it.”
“Yeah, but they don’t play how you do,” Laura gracefully points out as she pats
Derek on the cheek with greasy fingers. “You’re a special cookie, Der.”
“Ugh gross, Laura.” Derek grabs a napkin and scrubs his cheek until it’s pink.
“And stop calling me that.”
Laura just tosses him a cheery smile.
Boyd’s phone rings and he answers it, talking in short sentences (in a foreign
language Stiles can't pinpoint) but Stiles gets why he’s practically Isaac’s
best friend. They’re alike in a lot of ways. He terminates the call as he
stands, pocketing the device. “I have to get home since the curfew alarm will
be sounding off in about two hours. Plus I promised my baby sister I’d
participate in her unicorn princess tea party,” he states, unashamed. “Haven't
missed one yet, and I'm really close to finally earning my unicorn loyalty
badge, according to my baby sister.”
"I would kill for a unicorn loyalty badge," Laura moans dramatically and Boyd
laughs.
"I'll try to swing you an invitation for next time," Boyd promises.
Isaac stands to see him out.
“You didn’t need a ride, did you?” Laura inquires politely. "I can have my
friend Kate swing by and drop you off."
“Nah. My dad’s outside waiting for me. Thanks though,” Boyd says with a short
nod. “Derek, it was nice meeting you and your sister. Stiles, I'll see you.” He
gives an informal salute as he walks out the house with Isaac in tow.
“You know, he was pretty cool about us being Werewolves,” Laura comments
thoughtfully. “Isaac should just tell him about his wildside.”
Derek almost chokes on his pizza not even a second later before laughing.
Laura merely hums. “Well that’s not very nice, Isaac. I was only stating the
truth. Did you learn that word from Stiles?”
Stiles frowns and squints his eyes suspiciously. “Hey. How about some
explanation for the vanilla Human?”
“Faerie,” Laura corrects gracefully.
Stiles just takes an annoyed bite from his pizza as Isaac wanders back in. He
watches as his brother settles back into his seat.
Isaac waits a moment before he says, “Shouldn’t you guys be getting home too?”
“Isaac,” Stiles halfheartedly scolds.
Isaac doesn’t seem to care. “They’re overstaying their welcome. It always takes
days before their smell clears out the house. Don’t get me started on your
room.” He shoots Derek a mean look. “Maybe you should be a little more subtle.”
Both of Derek eyebrows shoot up but he looks more impressed than he does
offended.
Laura just cackles. “Out of the mouth of babes.”
Isaac nose scrunches as he takes the entire box of anchovy pizza, grabs his
carton of coconut milk from the fridge and tucks away into the living room. He
turns on the TV and doesn’t seem to care that he can’t watch anything but C-
Span or a channel that’s nothing but reruns of old black and white films and TV
shows.
Stiles tries hard not to think about how he’s getting bold like Kate. It forces
him to think about the secret he’s been holding on to for Parrish (who he
really needs to call or at least text about the information he has). He chews
on his bottom lip until he feels the sting of biting it too hard.
Derek glances at him briefly with a look like he’s determining if Stiles is
okay. When he’s sure he is, he reaches out to fight Laura for the last slice of
pizza. He loses of course as he frowns resentfully, scowling when his older
sister makes kissy faces at him.
Stiles grins a little to himself. They’re both beautiful like this. He quickly
coughs as he blushes and stands quickly before they can see his face. “Do you
guys want ice cream? We have more than we know what to do with. My dad thinks I
don’t know he’s been hording it behind the fish sticks and frozen pees.”
“Sure. I never turn down dessert. What are we working with?” Laura says as she
stretches with her arms reaching up above her head towards the ceiling.
Stiles peers in as he shuffles it all around. Then he says, “Rocky road,
vanilla bean, sherbet, chocolate mint —”
“No,” Isaac says immediately from the living room. “Mint’s mine. Off limits. I
don’t share with unwanted house guests.”
“Hurry up and become legal so I can marry you,” Laura exclaims with a widely
amused smile.
Isaac doesn’t even acknowledge the question and turns the TV up louder.
Stiles snorts and shoves his brother’s ice cream all the way in the back. He
grabs all the other frozen containers, some spoons and dumps it all on the
table. He pops off the tops and says, “How should we do this?”
“Rotation,” Derek and Laura reply at the same time.
Stiles grins. “Do this a lot?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Midnight snacks with Derek and Cora have taught me
to be diplomatically generous,” Laura supposes.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll start with the sherbet.”
“Vanilla bean!” Laura exclaims as she makes grabby hands.
Stiles slides it over to her as he sits down across from Derek. He scoops out a
spoonful and lets the cool flavors settle in his mouth before melting on his
tongue.
This goes on for three minutes before Laura says, “Switch!” and she passes her
ice cream to Derek and he passes his to Stiles and then Stiles passes his to
Laura.
They keep this rotation up until Stiles has to tap out on the grounds of brain
freeze. He does watch Derek and Laura yo-yo all of the cartons back and forth
like it’s a game.
Again, if it is, Derek loses.
Stiles makes a move to start cleaning the kitchen but Derek and Laura beat him
to it, shooing him until he relents with an annoyed sound and sits on the couch
to watch his brother go to town on his ice cream from where he’s curled up on
his favorite armchair. He takes a quick second to grab the empty pizza box and
his brother’s half full carton of coconut milk.
“Be careful,” Isaac warns earnestly. “If we have to drive you to the hospital
—”
“Settle down. I know what to do,” Stiles retorts as he trashes the pizza box
after he breaks it down.
Derek takes the carton of coconut milk quickly. “You shouldn’t be handling
this.”
“It’s not going to magically fall into my mouth!” Stiles protests as he watches
the other teen tighten the cap and stash it in the fridge.
“With you, its not so farfetched,” Derek replies as he closes the fridge door.
Laura andIsaac make a sound of agreement.
“Oh whatever.You all suck!” Stiles marches back into the living run and then he
glances towards the TV.
Isaac is watching The Wizard of Oz.
Stiles sits on the end of the long couch that's closest to his brother.
Laura joins him by sitting on the other end of the couch with a bowl of green
grapes. She pops a few in her mouth before she swings her legs over so she can
put her feet in Stiles’s lap. “This is Kate’s favorite movie,” she mentions.
“That —” Stiles takes a second to think about it. “— may actually be true.”
“Oh yeah. Don’t doubt me for a second. She used to force me to watch it with
her during every sleepover we had. Of course she was never allowed to our house
because Mayor Argent doesn’t exactly approve of our kind,” Laura states
delicately. “Kate would throw tantrums like you wouldn’t believe. She was so
goddamn spoiled. She made her nanny drive her, because otherwise she threatened
to take the bus and walk the rest of the way. That’s something she’s actually
done once or twice. She was only ten.”
Stiles laughs outright at that. “Do I even want to ask how she and Peter got
together? Because this is something I always wondered.”
“Kate’s always been in love with Peter, no matter what she may tell you. I’m
pretty sure it was the day he moved in after mom had finally convinced him to
do so. It was some years after the fire. He was still so glum and furious. He
would have these random outbursts of rage. He never took it out on us though,
but the furniture and the kitchenware was never safe.” Laura goes on to say,
“Around this time, we were both ten. Derek was eight and Cora was seven. One
day, my mother said something to him. I can’t even remember what it was, but it
made Peter so furious that he started stomping towards this beautiful dollhouse
that belonged to Cora and Derek. He was going to wreck it and we all knew it.
And Kate stepped right in his path and said ‘I wish you would, asshole.’. You
should have seen the dumbfounded look on Peter’s face. It was priceless. I will
neverforget it. When he got over his initial shock, he shifted and snarled at
her.
“But Kate stood her ground,” Laura continues. “She was not even afraid. Peter
kept growling at her because he blamed Mayor Argent for what happened. There
was just this look in his eye. You can see him contemplating shredding her to
ribbons for revenge. Kate knew it too and she stared him down. She said, ‘Do
it. I’d hate to hurt that pretty face of yours’. Then Peter lifted his clawed
hand and Kate didn’t even bat an eyelash. In the end he just shoved her aside
and demolished the dollhouse anyway, but what I realized is that he took his
frustration out on the dollhouse to keep himself from taking it out on her.
Cora cried for days and Derek always did have a soft spot for her; so every
time she cried, he would too because they were so close. Thick as thieves and
practically twins.
"And Kate’s more compassionate than she lets on, so every time she saw Derek
and Cora crying she would glare at Peter for days, muttering insults under her
breath about how he was a coward and how he was petty and that it was the
ugliest thing she’d ever seen a stupid fourteen year old do to a family he
wasn’t even appreciating because they were still alive and loved him anyway
despite his horrible fits of rage and temper tantrums and all these other
little things she knew he could hear and that would get under his skin. Until
finally one day, the dollhouse was there again in the living room. It looked
like someone had fixed it up from scratch and even added to it. It was freshly
painted with pink and gold, carved with fresh wood, and it was constructed to
look like the house my uncle and my mother and my grandparents used to live in
with Henry and some great aunts and uncles I never really got the chance to
know.
“Kate had this look on her face. I just knew. I knew she loved him before she
could even fully understand what it meant to love someone like that. And Peter?
Well he was sitting on the couch with his nose in a book, pretending like he
wasn’t responsible, and that he couldn’t care less. Cora and Derek were so
happy. They started to play again and Kate stood at the bottom of the steps
with me just staring at the house like she couldn’t believe it. And Peter kept
sneaking these glances at her that he thought no one could see, but I did.”
Laura takes a moment to smile whimsically. “The minute Kate grinned, he relaxed
like the cloud of anger and grief had finally cleared and he seem relieved that
he earned the respect he gave to her the minute she stepped into his path.
Peter always tried to pretend that he didn’t notice the infatuated smile Kate
would reward him with every time he did some good or corrected his character.
Kate used to tell me all the time that she was going to marry my uncle and
there was such an age gap and I thought it was gross and impossible. But he
didn’t even really start to see her that way until she turned sixteen and
she demanded they date because she’d waited long enough. And sure enough, Peter
asked meif it was okay, and I just resigned myself to the fact that they will
probably be together forever.”
“That was wild from start to finish,” Stiles quietly mutters with awe.
“Yep.” Laura wiggles her plum painted toes to say, “Foot rub?”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow.
Laura pouts theatrically and widens her eyes. She looks like Puss and Boots.
“Please?”
Isaac scoffs as he licks his spoon clean.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles complains as he gives in and starts to
rub her feet.
Laura begins to make these pleased little sounds as her feet arch and fan out.
“You’re not his Alpha,” Derek says matter-of-factly. He rounds the couch,
shaking out his wet hands with a frown.
Laura just smiles widely as she leans her head back on the arm of the couch to
look at him upside down. “Braid my hair like you used to.”
“He can braid?” Stiles asks out of genuine curiosity, and not because he’s
teasing the other teen.
Derek still blushes regardless and shoots Laura a mean look.
Laura ignores the look and responds, “Oh yeah. He’s really good at it too. But
that’s because I taught Cora when they were still adorable little munchkins.
Derek complained about how he wanted to learn too because he couldn’t stand
Cora knowing more than he did about how to do something. So I taught him as
well and he kept practicing on all the females in our family until he was sure
he did it better than Cora did.”
Stiles continues to massage Laura’s foot with a smile.
Derek’s flush creeps up to his nose and to his ears. “You are the devil’s
mistress.”
“I’m an angel,” Laura crows and wiggles her toes happily under Stiles hands.
“What happened to my sweet little brother who made these cute little glittered
covered hearts for me everyday in preschool, saying how I was the best big
sister in the world and how you would love me forever and ever and ever?”
“I take it back,” Derek hisses as he tugs her hair. “You areSatan.”
Laura just cackles.
“You’re taking up the couch,” Derek says, crossing his arms with a sour
expression. His blush has faded into nothing.
Laura just shrugs as she lifts her head again and pops some more grapes in her
mouth.
Derek makes and annoyed sound, looking like he may yank another lock of her
hair again, but he thinks better of it and starts braiding her raven locks into
a Greek goddess crown. It actually is amazingly beautiful. “You’re not my Alpha
either, you know.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Der,” Laura airily replies, chewing away on her
grapes. “You gonna put some flowers in it?” She looks at Stiles with a grin.
“He use to hand pick flowers and thread them into the braids he made.”
Derek yanks her hair as a blush fans across the bridge of his nose.
Laura winces and elbows him in his hip, grinning when he hisses.
Stiles shakes his head, amused by their antics and rubs the ball Laura’s feet
one final time before he says, “I want some popcorn. Anyone else in?”
Derek suddenly says, “I’ll make it.” Before Stiles even has the chance to
stand.
“Well, okay. Sure. It’s in the cabinet above the microwave,” Stiles responds
faintly with a thoughtful frown as he watches the other teen disappear.
Laura only snickers. “I’ll take some too.”
“Make your own!” Derek replies from the kitchen. Then the sound of the buttons
of the microwave and it whirrs for the next two minutes.
Laura throws Stiles an amused look. “So kind, isn’t he?”
Stiles open his mouth to answer but Derek’s already shoving Laura’s feet away
so he can place a bowl of freshly made popcorn in his lap instead. And — it’s
absolutely perfect: not too burnt and not too light with kennels overpowering
the number of the ones that have popped. He marvels at it and then looks at
Derek, wanting ask him about what his secret is to making flawless popcorn.
“Do you need anything else?” Derek asks him, staring at him with that quiet
intensity that never fails to make Stiles squirm.
Stiles just shakes his head no.
Derek gives a short nod before he sits down on the floor between Stiles’s
knees, like this is something they always do.
Stiles quickly crams a handful of popcorn in his mouth, focusing on the soft
crunch of salt and butter that explodes in small bursts of flavor on his
tongue, if only to ignore the soft fireworks exploding in his stomach and up to
the space of his ribcage, sizzling around his heart with pricks of warmth.
Derek just crosses his arms as he snorts at the Cowardly Lion’s antics.
Stiles spends the whole movie intensely aware of the heat pressing against the
inside of his knees and calves. He stares at the crown of Derek’s head in
silent wonder. He’s never focused on another person like this before. It’s a
little overwhelming.
So he just keeps cramming more and more popcorn in his mouth in desperation
until there is nothing left. Then he gets up to put the bowl into the
dishwasher with the rest of the dishes, wiping his greasy fingers against his
pants before giving the others a weak excuse about having to use the bathroom.
It’s not exactly a lie. He does go into the bathroom, but only to brush his
teeth before ducking into his room to reevaluate his life. He sits in his desk
chair, swinging from side to side as it creaks under his weight, fiddling with
the runestone from his dreams. He thinks about visiting Lydia tomorrow because
it feels like it’s been forever since the last time he saw her. He doesn’t like
to go this long without seeing his troubled cousin.
This line of thinking only strays into the thought of video chatting with
Scott, who accepts the invitation happily.
“Dude! It’s been years! I thought you forgot about me," Scott explains, playing
with a Nerf gun as he aims at random targets. “You want to go to the movies
with Jackson and Allison?”
“I would never forget about you, Scotty. We are soul mates.”
There’s a mysterious thump downstairs, followed by Laura’s obnoxiously loud
cackling.
“Uh…” Stiles frowns for a moment, sidetracked. “What were we talking about?”
Scott looks at him from under his eyelashes with a fond grin he tries to hide.
“Movies? Jackson and Allison? Horror film?”
“Oh yeah!” Stiles exclaims, spreading his arms wide. He rarely does things with
subtle gestures. “Sounds like buttery frightful fun, but I’m on punishment,” he
admits with an apologetic shrug.
Scott’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. “Still, or is this for something
different?”
“The latter,” Stiles replies. “I kind of attended Mayor Argent’s ball despite
the fact that I knew it would be swarming with Vampires. Plus on top of that, I
brought Isaac with me.” Then he takes a moment to consider that as he swings
his chair from side to side thoughtfully. “Well ‘brought’ is not exactly the
right term. No, what he did was — ‘forced’, maybe? Or ‘bamboozled’? How about
‘bulldozed’? ‘Guilt tripped’? ‘Coerced’?”
“Okay, Stiles,” Scott says, holding back one of his sunshiny smiles.
“Wait, wait, I’m not done,” Stiles continues with a mock serious tone. “Now,
let’s see. ‘Intimidated’. ‘Conned’. ‘Tricked’. ‘Swindled’. Or even ‘Duped’.
‘Hood —”
His phone buzzes.
Isaac texts him saying: I can hear you.
Stiles smiles. “Ah, see that?” He directs his phone. “My baby bro sends us his
love.”
Scott perks up like Stiles has said his most favorite magical word. He ignores
the way Stiles rolls his eyes. “How is he? I mean. I haven’t seen you two in a
while,” he says, blushing with an awkward cough. “Maybe he’d like to come to
the movies with us?”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Subtle is not your strongest suit.”
Isaac texts:You’re one to talk.
“Stop eavesdropping on my conversations,” Stiles mutters in reply.
Scott looks confused.
“Don’t ask,” Stiles sighs. “And Isaac is on punishment too, but dad gave him
the green light to go to the movies with Boyd. Maybe you all can meet up.”
Scott perks up with a goofy smile. “I — yeah that’s — it’s good. Uh, I’ll call
Allison and she can talk to Jackson.”
Stiles makes a face. “Yeah…um — so. Allison. Anything happening there?”
Scott blushes. “We — we’re still talking.”
“Uh huh,” Stiles merely says. “About Isaac?”
Scott groans and drops his forehead on his computer.
“Listen, for what it’s worth, I’d say you guys need to start…exploring other
options? Jesus, you are too young for me to have to say this to you. I’mtoo
young to be saying this to you,” Stiles complains and tries not to feel as
flustered as Scott looks. “Please understand. Just — my brother — Isaac is —
he’s not really the type to —”
 Isaac texts:You can tell him. I don’t care.
Stiles flips his phone over so it’s face down because his little brother really
needs to butt out of his conversations. “Look,” he simply says. “Isaac is
asexual.”
“A sexual what?” Scott echoes with a confused look.
“Nope. Nope. I’m not touching that. You can ask your almost girlfriend to
explain to you what it means. This is as far as I’m willing to go with this
subject. I’ve done my duty.” Stiles goes on to say, “So, in other news, I
happen to be a Faerie. I’m not sure if I told you this already. Its hard for me
to keep track of the small things these days. But I know what I haven’ttold
you, which is that I have a magical talking tree who I call Nana. She keeps
telling me I have magic running through my veins, but I like to call it the
glow. It appears whenever it wants to, meaning whenever it’s inconvenient for
me.”
“Oh. Okay. Wow.” Scott looks both stumped and curious. “Can I see?”
“Sorry, but I haven’t learned how to channel it,” Stiles says, scrubbing both
hands through his ever growing hair. “When I get a hold on it, I promise I will
show you. I have an apprenticeship with Deaton.”
“Who is that?”
“The very elusive guy who helped us by talking in circles and owns that antique
store.”
“Okay.” Scott frowns thoughtfully. “My mom once bought a porcelain set of
plates from him, I think, which I don’t get because she never uses it. But she
doesn’t do much for herself cause she’s always so swamped with work.”
Stiles takes that into consideration. He glances at the water bottle on his
desk that he doesn’t remember being there before. He wonders if Derek is
responsible for that. He uncaps it and starts downing it.
“I think she’s dating your dad.”
Stiles chokes and turns his head so he doesn’t spray his computer with the
water.
Scott just laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world and it makes him
wonder if his best friend had done it on purpose. All signs point to yes.
Stiles gasps and says, “Dude. Not cool at all.” He coughs and it almost feels
like he’s trying to hack up a lung.
Scott keeps laughing until he stops abruptly and his eyes widen as he looks
over Stiles’s shoulder.
“Scotty? Why are you looking like that?” Stiles questions before he turns in
his chair, and then falls over with a shriek.
Derek is standing there with his arms crossed and a self-satisfied smirk.
“Not. Cool.” Stiles spend the next few seconds muttering complaints under his
breath as he shakes out the hand he fell on. The wrist of his right hand starts
to ache in slow degrees. “What are you even doing, weirdo?”
“I heard you coughing,” Derek replies, reaching out with his left hand to heave
Stiles up like he weighs nothing at all. He then wraps his long fingers around
his right wrist. “I came to make sure you weren’t choking on a feather,” he
teases.
“Oh my god. What is it with you and feathers?” Stiles counters, exasperated.
“You should think very highly of my Werewolf-like reflexives.”
Derek gives him a look for that jab but he leeches some of Stiles’s pain, which
is not fair because he was winning that argument, but now he’s distracted by
how warm Derek’s left hand feels.
“Um,” Scott waves awkwardly. “Should I — I mean if you two need a moment to —”
“This is Derek,” Stiles quickly interjects, absolutely flustered because he
knows exactly where Scott’s train of thought was leading to. “He — uh. He’s my
friend.”
Derek just grins and throws him an amused look. “Yeah. Friends.”
Stiles wiggles away from the other teen, not at all amused by being teased,
ignoring the way his heart is racing.
Derek gives him this knowing look as he lifts both his eyebrows like he’s
asking a silent question.
Stiles just turns his gaze away to look at his best friend with a faint blush
dusting his cheeks. “So, yeah. This is Derek.”
Scott looks at him oddly. “Stiles, you do know — I mean I’ve met Derek.
Remember? On my mom’s birthday.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans because he had completely forgot and glares at Derek
when he snorts. “So, anyway.I’ve decided that I’m going to go visit Lydia
tomorrow after I do…whatever it is Deaton will have me doing.”
“Jackson and I visited her earlier today after we spent some time to sit with
Danny. The doctors say that they are considering pulling the plug, but Jackson
is discussing it with his dad, since he’s a legal consultant, about the whole
situation because he refuses to believe that Danny might never wake up,” Scott
explains.
Stiles lets the information swim around in his mind before he has this
ambiguous feeling of instinct that he can’t explain. He’ll have to talk to
Deaton about it. “I think I’ll sit with Danny too, when I go to see Lydia.”
Scott gives him an encouraging nod. “Jackson will be grateful for that. Not
that he’d ever say, because, you know, it’s Jackson. But, yeah. He’s read books
about coma patients and how to guide them back.”
Stiles is not surprised about that. Jackson is way smarter than what he leads
people to believe. He gets the impression that the preteen is actually very
gifted and intelligent. He reminds him a little of Peter, which is both a
comical and scary thought.
“Well, I have to go. Mom’s making dinner. Can I see you tomorrow?” Scott asks
and it breaks Stiles’s heart that his best friend would even think to ask.
“Yeah. Yes. Just — see if — maybe Melissa can make breakfast for us again? If
she’s not busy,” Stiles suggests.
Scott just nods eagerly. “I will. She has tomorrow off.”
“Great, that works perfectly. See you then, Scotty,” Stiles says.
Scott just shoots him a sunshiny smile before waving at Derek. He terminates
the session.
Stiles stretches with a sigh. “Are you ever going to take your wolves and
jacket back?” he asks aimlessly.
Derek huffs like he’s not even surprised by this random train of thought. He
sits down in Stiles’s desk chair and he looks up at Stiles and the other teen
is struck by the thought of how very attractive Derek is. It hits him like a
freight train and Derek says, “You might as well keep them. They’re more yours
than mine now. I don’t mind.”
Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about that. Well, that’s a lie. He feels a
little warm as his stomach froths a little with floating spectral bubbles that
seem to pop in bursts of wonder and hope. It’s a frightening sensation and he
kinds of panics a little as his brain scrambles to sort through it all and
organize it. He tries to file it away in the mental file he has of Derek. He
blinks and tries to get back on track by saying, “And the — the jacket. Will
you — don’t you need to — um.” He goes quiet as he squirms under the other
teen’s intensely focused gaze.
Derek’s hazel green eyes darken in thought. Then he says, “You don’t have
school gear. I’m helping you show more school pride.”
“You sound like Cora,” Stiles mumbles. “And anyway, it has you’re name on the
back of it. Well not your namename, but it says D. Hale, and I think anyone
with enough sense knows who that is.”
“Uh huh,” is Derek’s response with this totally fakeexpression of bemusement.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Derek,” Stiles says, exasperated to the fullest extent. “Don’t you understand
what that would imply to other people if I was walking around with — oh my god.
You know what? Never mind. This is ridiculous. We are not having this
conversation. I refuseto have this conversation. Just because there is no
conversation to have.”
Derek stands and cocks his head. “What conversation?” he asks, and Stiles does
not buy that stupid innocent tone at all.
“You — you are totally — just messing with me and —” Stiles stops short when
the other teen steps closer. “Um.”
Derek doesn’t get any closer, but just close enough that he can stretch out his
arms so he can put his hands on Stiles’s shoulders. “You seem a little
nervous."
"No," Stiles denies, but he is. "I'm not."
"Okay," Derek says, like he's indulging Stiles. His warm fingers twitch over
Stiles's shoulder. "You overthink things. Did you know that?”
Stiles flushes and shoots him a glare. "I'm aware."
Derek drops his hands and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Don't be annoyed with me, okay? I'm not saying it's a bad thing," he clarifies
with a slight smile.
Stiles squirms under his gaze.  “Well I just — when you say certain things I
can't help it. I don’t know.” 
Derek snorts. “You have to be clear. I want to know if we’re on the same page.
What do you not know?”
Stiles purses his lips defiantly.
Derek watches him for what feels like a lifetime, which in theory is probably
just a full minute. “Okay. When you want to talk about whatever it is you think
we’re talking about, you know where to find me.” He gives Stiles a meaningful
look that the other teen doesn’t want to try and understand. “I’m leaving now.
Mom will probably want us home before the curfew alarm rings.” He turns and
starts walking to the door. “I’ll text you. Try to reply before you go to
sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Stiles mutters resentfully. He doesn’t get how the
other teen can be so nonchalant about whatever this is.
“I wasn’t,” Derek replies easily as he opens the door. “Later.”
“Later,” Stiles parrots because apparently this is a thing that they do now.
This is a thing they do whenever they part ways. He watches the other teen
disappear and trot down the steps. He sighs and says, “Bye, Laura.”
“Bye, Stiles!” Laura shouts in response before the sound of the front door
slamming shut follows.
Stiles quickly changes into some sleepwear before he grabs the apple on his
desk. “Bring a knife up, Isaac. I’ll be in your room,” he says without raising
his voice because he figures his little brother can hear him as clear as day.
It’d basically be like they were side by side anyway.
Isaac comes up to his room with a short knife and some napkins just as Stiles
is utilizing Isaac’s phone charger. “Use your own. Mine has to charge too.”
“So grab mine and bring it in here.”
“Well why would Igo out of my way to accommodate you. This is my room.”
“Yes, it is your room. Gold star for observation.” Stiles ducks when Isaac
throws a bottle of lotion at him. “This is horrible customer service. I’ve been
to shoddier hotels but this by far is absolutely awful. I want to talk to your
manager. I want a refund or I will chargeback. I will report this hotel to the
BBB.”
Isaac is already making his exit to get Stiles’s charger, dutifully ignoring
his older brother’s insufferable rant.
Stiles takes the time to grab the knife Isaac left on his dresser before
cutting four big slices of the apple.
Isaac returns with the charger and a frown. “You left your light on. And your
computer. Which you should thank me for because I convinced dad that you and I
would need it for the last week of school.”
“We, huh?” Stiles snorts as Isaac climbs into his bed. “Are you trying to twist
my arm so I have no choice but to let you use my computer for your own
purposes.”
“If that’s the way you want to see it.” Isaac gives his trademark shrug. “You
know you don’t have to stand there. You can come lay down.”
Stiles gives him a sheepish smile. “I — well I thought it may be a territorial
thing.”
“That explains why you’ve never done it. Even before you found out,” Isaac
supposes. “I always wondered about that.”
Stiles climbs in but lays over the covers because it’s too hot, even with the
window being open.
Isaac makes an annoyed sound before he gets up and turns off the light before
grabbing the knife still in Stiles’s hands and putting it on his nightstand
between his digital clock and lamp. “You’re a terrible guest.”
“No, I am perfect in everything I do. Take some of this apple,” Stiles says as
he hands it over. He can’t really see but he figures his brother will have no
problem seeing in the dark.
Isaac takes the slices and eats them quietly, before shifting and lying on his
back. He continues to chew quietly.
Stiles doesn’t really have the finesse to eat while lying down. He finishes
quickly, rubbing the extra juice onto his pajama bottoms before settling down
so he can face his brother. He can faintly make out the preteen’s outline.
“Stop staring at me,” Isaac softly insists. “It’s creepy.”
“You can’t see me,” Stiles denies with a grin.
Isaac sighs. “I can see you just fine. You’re staring at me with a grin like a
weirdo.”
“Nope, I’m sleeping with my eyes shut.”
Isaac says nothing for a long while before he shifts so he’s facing Stiles with
his right hand under the pillow he’s lying on. “Are you okay? Your heart was —
I didn’t know how to help. Small panic attacks I can fix. But that was more
than I knew how to handle and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to do
something but I felt like I would only make it worse.”
Stiles sucks in some air. “I’m okay. Sometimes I remember things that
overwhelms me for a moment.” He takes a second to choose his next words
carefully. “You don’t have to feel like you can’t help. Just talk to me. That’s
all I really need. Someone to talk to me.”
“Okay.” Isaac stays quiet for a long moment. “I — I —”
Stiles grabs him and pulls him close enough that his forehead is pressed into
the place where his heart is. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know. Me too.”
Isaac shakes a little and he fists the hem of Stiles’s shirt with trembling
hands. He seems afraid. Like he can’t believe any of this is real and that all
the good things he has will be taken away from him any moment.
“I’ll never leave you. We wont ever leave you, Isaac,” Stiles murmurs, stroking
the back of his brothers head as he starts to tremble with quiet little
whimpers he tries to keep in. “We wont leave you behind. We’ll always be here
for you. I’ll keep you close because you belong with us.”
Isaac sniffs and cries as his shoulders continue to shake. “Please don’t say —
don’t s-say it if you d-don’t mean it. I can’t — I can’t t-take —”
“It’s different now,” Stiles swears. “We didn’t find you, Isaac. Youfound
us.You were just what we needed and we didn't even know.”
Isaac sobs and tries to stifle it.
Stiles scoots closer so he can hug his brother. He waits and waits and waits,
letting his little brother ride it out until Isaac’s exhaustion catches up to
him and he falls asleep like that, whimpering with his hands still fisted into
the hem of Stiles’s shirt.
Stiles continues to stroke his hand through Isaac’s soft golden curls with a
yawn. He just focuses on the rise and fall of his brother’s chest. He starts
drifting himself but his phone vibrates on the nightstand. He quickly reaches
out for it blindly so that it doesn’t disturb Isaac’s sleep, even though he’s
the deepest sleeper in their small family.
Stiles answers the phone and whispers, “You said you would text.”
“I was but I changed my mind. Maybe I like the sound of your voice,” Derek
quietly teases.
Stiles is way too tired to blush. He still mumbles an insult.
“Not nice, Stiles,” Derek says with a singsong voice. Then he pauses. “Who’s
sleeping?”
Stiles is almost surprised by the other teen’s perception but then he remembers
just who it is that he’s talking to. “My brother.”
Derek hums thoughtfully. “You’re about to fall asleep too.”
“You couldn’t possibly know that,” Stiles flippantly insists. “I’m wide awake.
I can do about fifty backflips.”
Derek laughs softly before he says, “I know your heartbeat, Stiles. Don’t you
think I can tell when you’re about to fall asleep? It’s slower than normal,
like it wants to fall into a gentle pulse.”
“Shut up,” Stiles retorts, blinking tiredly. His eyelids are getting heavy.
“That’s creepy. Shut up.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
Stiles is still too tired to get flustered luckily. “Don’t say that,” he
mumbles.
“I’m not going to hold you. You’re definitely falling asleep on me,” Derek
replies, completely over looking what Stiles has said. “Call me when you wake
up. I want to know what you’re going to do for the day.”
Stiles just mumbles an affirmative.
“Good night,” Derek continues with a softly amused voice. “Don’t fall asleep
with the phone pressed to your face.”
Stiles mumbles again in annoyance. He waits until the line goes dead before he
puts his phone back on Isaac’s nightstand, but of course he misses and his
smartphone falls to the floor with a solid thump. He does not even care as he
drifts deeper into the grip of sleep.
                                      ---
It’s Saturday morning, and Stiles awakens when his brother stands and starts
jumping on the bed. His body jolts with each shake and he groans before
slapping a pillow over his face.
“Wake up,” Isaac pants. “There’s food cooking. I can smell it. Well it’s kind
of hard to over the smell of Derek all over you. You realize —” he pants. “—
that I will have to wash all my sheets and covers twice. Also, your phone keeps
vibrating and dinging. Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles complains and throws the pillow at Isaac, who laughs and
easily dodges it with an effortless backflip onto the floor, and exits his
room. Stiles is notjealous. He grumbles as he slides out of bed.
“I can hear you!” Isaac calls out as he trots down the stairs.
“Good,” Stiles mutters resentfully as he stretches with a loud groan and yawn.
He swipes his phone from off the floor and blinks away the blurry wetness of
his eyes to see. 
Deaton texted him saying: 9 am. No later. I will make you go home otherwise.
Stiles frowns and makes his way to his room upon noticing that it’s 7:30 am
now. He quickly climbs into the shower before he climbs into his clothes and
his sneakers. It’s 8:15 am by the time he pockets his phone, keys, and the
runestone from his dreams. He glances at his father’s closed door before he
follows the smell of food down the steps and into the kitchen.
“You are —” Melissa turns off the stove. “— right on time. Come have a seat. I
was just about to serve.”
“Good morning,” is Stiles’s polite response and he sits besides Scott, who
beams and elbows him playfully.
Stiles grins and elbows him back until they slap their hands at each other like
a weak and horrible fight.
“Okay, okay,” Melissa says with a stern but fond look. She serves Isaac first,
giving him chocolate waffles, brown rice, and an omelet made of cheese, turkey
sausage, and green peppers.
“Thank you,” Isaac mumbles shyly and starts to eat.
Stiles smiles to himself at that before he watches her do the same for Scott
and then to him. “Thank you for coming over, Ms. McCall. This looks great.”
“It is,” Isaac says softly enough that only Stiles can hear. He starts to drown
his waffles in corn syrup because Stiles refuses to let them use anything other
than what’s good for them
Stiles gives him a thumbs up before he digs in, knocking is feet against Scott,
who, of course, responds with fervor.
“Boys,” Melissa says evenly with her back to them as she makes another plate.
Stiles and Scott straighten and sober immediately.
Melissa turns to them with a beautiful smile. “Where is your father?” she asks,
directing the question to both Stiles and Isaac.
Stiles and Isaac share a glance, before Stiles looks at Melissa and replies,
“He’s, um, still sleeping, I guess.”
“You guess? What a strange thing to have to guess about,” Melissa replies with
a furrowed brow. “That man is usually such an early riser. Why would he —” She
stops when she notices the stoic expressions on both Isaac’s and Stiles’s
faces. Her mouth tightens at the corners. “I see,” she simply says. “You boys
finish eating.” She grabs the plate of food and makes her way up the steps.
“Uh oh,” Scott remarks with a mouth full of food.
Isaac’s face twists with displeasure.
“Uh oh?” Stiles parrots. “Why uh oh?”
“I know that face, Stiles,” Scott explains after a swallow. “That’s her ‘You’re
in trouble’ face.”
Stiles considers that as he continues to eat because he will have to leave
soon.
Melissa reappears with a light look of satisfaction. She casually serves
herself a plate of food before sitting down, overlooking the curious gazes the
boys direct at each other. “So,” she begins as she mixes her rice with her
omelet. “Tell me your plans for the weekend.”
The boys all pause before Stiles is the first to speak up, talking about his
apprenticeship with Deaton, which leads him into explaining other things but
Melissa easily shoulders the information. Then Isaac is next, but he chooses
his words carefully like he’s uncertain about how he should communicate with
her, and also like he doesn’t want to disappoint her, but she gives him an
encouraging smile all the while as he talks about his plans with Boyd. Then
finally Scott shrugs and makes a comment about how she already knows what he’s
doing which only leads to say something sharp to him in Spanish before tugging
his ear.
Stiles sneaks out into the backyard to count every step he can as quickly as he
can so he can be sure the numbers match the amount he got last night. Then he
returns to the kitchen and sits down as he pours himself a glass of orange
juice.
The sheriff appears with an empty plate, looking disheveled. He puts his plate
in the sink while everyone stays silent. He turns and Melissa gives him this
look as she stands and gathers all their empty plates to put them in the sink
before she whispers something to him.
Isaac’s face twists and his nose wrinkles with displeasure.
Stiles gives he a look that says ‘What?’.
Isaac gives him a look that says ‘Nope. I’m not saying anything about that’.
Stiles sighs and straightens when Melissa drops a kiss on the crown of Isaac’s
head and his face explodes with a surprised blush.
“Have a good day, mi tesoro,” Melissa says sweetly before gently patting the
area she kissed. She moves to Stiles and Scott to do and say the same thing.
Scott seems used to this but Stiles can’t help but to blush too and feel warm
in the way he always did whenever his mother kissed his cheek or gave him a hug
or said ‘I love you, sweetling’ in Polish.
Melissa points a finger at his dad with a look full of meaning before she taps
Scott’s shoulder and they leave together.
The sheriff sits down at the table beside Isaac. He takes a few moments to
gather himself. Then he says, “I apologize for my behavior yesterday. That was
unacceptable and I will do everything that I can to be sure that it will never
happen again. It’s not either of your fault. I take full responsibility for
what I’ve done. There are better ways to cope with a situation and I will make
an appointment with a therapist so that I can learn to vent in a healthy way. I
hope I haven’t hurt or scared you. If I have, please know that you have a right
to be upset with me.”
“You’re not perfect, dad,” Isaac says softly. “We know this and forgive you.
And it’s good you’re being proactive. Ms. Morrell usually has group sessions
free every Tuesday night. Also, we all have our bad days, but you’re right. It
shouldn’t happen again.”
“Please don’t let it happen again,” Stiles adds. “It’s not safe for any of us.”
Their dad gives a short nod before tears begin to slide down his cheeks. He
gives a watery laugh when his sons both hug him simultaneously with affection
and acceptance. “You’re the best sons a man could ever hope to have.”
“Oh, geez,” Stiles complains as he pulls away to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“Now I’m crying.”
Isaac looks like he might but he doesn’t, and that doesn’t mean he’s trying to
push his feelings down. “Can we go fishing Sunday?”
“Yes, of course,” his dad agrees immediately. “Derek Sr. and his son will be
coming too if you’re okay with that.”
Isaac just shrugs but his dad recognizes that as a sign that he can accommodate
to those plans.
“You’re both still on punishment until stated otherwise. I’ll be checking your
internet history to make sure you’re doing only school related browsing.”
Isaac and Stiles both nod.
“Okay, go on. I have things I have to do as well,” their father says as he
rises from his chair.
Stiles waits until he’s pouring himself a cup of coffee Melissa made for him
and says, “Like going on a date with Ms. McCall?”
The sheriff chokes and spills some coffee on himself before glaring at Stiles.
Isaac snickers before he grabs his brother and drags him out the front door.
They both say “Bye, Dad!” at the same time.
“We are having a talk!” Their dad calls back before the door slams shut.
But both Stiles and Isaac pretend like they couldn’t hear him as they mount
their bikes.
                                      ---
Isaac and Stiles go their separate ways once they reach the library and Isaac
meets up with Boyd there.
Stiles goes a little bit further before he parks his bike and locks it to the
single bike rack planted next to a short and thin tree. He straightens and
pauses when he sees Violet and Garrett watching him in a Chevrolet Tahoe he
remembers seeing a long time ago when he first learned that the Hales were
Werewolves and that his brother was a Werecat.
Stiles starts to realize that they’ve been watching him before they publicly
allowed it to be known that Mayor Argent had adopted them. He glares at them
and they just smirk back. So he marches across the street up to the driver’s
side where Violet is situated behind the steering wheel. “We are notstarting
this again,” Stiles insists, agitated. “I will have my dad file a restraining
order.”
“By all means, go ahead,” Violet retorts with a honeyed voice and doesn’t even
bat an eyelash. “You think Mayor Argent doesn’t own the police in this town?
The courts?” She smirks. “You have some delusions of grandeur, don’t you?”
Stiles purses his lips, displeased.
Violet’s eyes glow pink as she stares into his in a threatening way. “Let’s
just say that Mayor Argent likes to be sure that his potential investment isn’t
confiscated by someone else who may wish to capitalize on what a Seven can do.
Which is anything.” She eyes him before she meets his annoyed gaze. “Now I’d
say that’s worth protecting, wouldn’t you say?”
“Where were you when the Benefactor tried to paralyze me?” Stiles counters
precisely. “Were you watching then?”
Garrett gives and ugly snort. “And you’re supposed to be a Seven?” He tosses
Violet a skeptical look. “He’s an idiot, Dee.”
Violet ignores him as she cocks her head, her irises glowing brighter with pink
all the more. She makes a fog of pink clouds swim around him as if she’s
searching for something.
Stiles coughs and bats it away. He gets whiff of the overpowering smell of
cotton candy. “If you could not,that would be great,” he remarks bitterly.
“If you think Deucalion is the Benefactor, then you haven’t been paying
attention. Though I agree that his mistreatment of you did not please Mayor
Argent in the least,” Violet comments as her eyes returns to it’s normal color.
“You realize you have mistletoe on you. What are you putting on your skin,
Stiles?”
“What do you mean that wasn’t the Benefactor?” Stiles demands. “And why do you
know his name?”
“Let’s just say he’s a colleague of some sort to Mayor Argent,” is Garrett’s
response.
“Why do you have mistletoe on you, Stiles?” Violet pushes.
“How should I know?” Stiles exclaims. “What does that even have to do with
anything? And why is Mayor Argent working with an Alpha?”
Violet gives him a sharp look. “How do you know he’s an Alpha?”
“Because you just confirmed it. I was just guessing wildly, you know,” Stiles
replies, crossing his arms. “Look, I don’t have time for this. You’re going to
make me late.” He looks at the screen of his phone and notices it’s 8:55 am.
“What kind of soap do you use?” Violet continues, composure returning quickly.
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but it’s black soap my uncle gave
me,” Stiles replies pessimistically.
Garrett scoffs before he says, “You are such an idiot. Really. You need medical
help, you’re so oblivious.”
Stiles glares at him so hard that his hand flickers with blue bioluminescent
light.
Garrett goes a little pale.
“Black soap is made from black candle wax and the white berries of mistletoe,”
Violet explains with a calculating gaze. “Someone is trying to keep track of
your magic, and more importantly, the level it's at in strength.”
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all,” Stiles croaks and squirms. “I can’t — I can’t
think about this right now.”
“You’re going to have to eventually.” Violet cracks her neck. “I got most of it
off of you but there’s still a thin layer there. Probably because you’ve been
using it constantly.”
“My uncle told me it would make my scent quiet to those who wanted to harm me,”
Stiles notes, but mostly to himself.
“Your uncle is a liar, obviously,” Garrett snidely remarks.
“Throw that soap out,” Violet stresses as she starts the car. “We have to make
some runs. We’ll be back by the time you finish this.”
“You don’t have to. You really, really don’t,” Stiles insists.
“Someone’s gotta watch your back, Stilinski. Apparently you won’t,” Garrett
supposes as they drive off.
Stiles has to quickly step back so they don’t run over his feet. He makes a
face at the car before he crosses the street as fast as he can and barely makes
it through the door when the time goes from 8:59 to 9 am.
“Close call, wouldn’t you say?” Deaton says from behind the glass counter at
the other end of the store.
“Deucalion isn’t the Benefactor,” is Stiles’s response as he treks over,
noticing that Deaton is flipping through a weathered book. “Did you know that
already or — whoa!” he exclaims as he recognizes the book with excitement. “Is
that a Grimoire?”
“The first of it’s kind. The oldest known to mankind and otherworldly kind.”
Deaton glances up at him before he shuts the book with a resounding thwack.
“You do not have permission to study from it.”
“But —”
“Make no mistake, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton smoothly interjects. “My intent is to
relinquish full ownership over to you so that you may memorize every detail of
all the pages in this book. When you are certain you have, you will set it on
fire so that no one else can acquire it and use the information to wreck havoc
on this world, or any other world. But you are not ready yet.”
Stiles perks up at that. “Okay. What do I have to do? Am I supposed to go on
some mystical journey? Do I shut away in my room to fast and pray until I’m in
Faerie again? I counted every step and inch of my backyard.”
“And?”
Stiles gives him an estimate.
“Incorrect.” Deaton evaluates him for a moment. “Try again. This time, you will
crawl.”
“What?” Stiles exclaims. “But you said —”
“You don’t have to remind me of my own words, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton calmly
cuts him off again. “How do you expect to build a garden if you do not have
intimate knowledge of its foundation?”
Stiles frowns and rubs the back of his neck. “What happens if I get it wrong
again?”
“Then I will make you roll,” Deaton merely replies. “We will save that
conversation for a later date. Would you like to learn how to will your magic?”
Stiles nods eagerly.
“Step back. Further. Further. Stop.” Deaton indicates to the rows of
bookshelves. “Face them.”
Stiles does.
“Ball your hands into fists.”
Stiles does.
“Now press the knuckles of both hands against each other. Keep your elbows up.
Your arms should be above your heart. Good. Now call for your magic. Wake it
up.”
Stiles squirms, not really sure how to do it.
Deaton says, “It’s very simple, Mr. Stilinski. Your magic is your best friend,
and vice versa. Now treat the relationship as such. You are not its master as
it is not yours. You must work together in tandem. You are brothers-in-arms.
You must rally with each other.”
Stiles gives a solemn nod.
“Now breathe until the world gets quiet and focus on the thing you want to
until your body gives into it. And when you think you are ready, separate your
hands and open them as your arms spread out as though you are making yourself a
‘t’. I will time how long you hold your breath.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Begin.”
Stiles closes his eyes, breathes in through in his nose and out through his
mouth; it separates his lips for every moment he does this until his lungs are
empty and hollow. This keeps happening over and over again until the motion
becomes louder. He starts to hear the wall behind him, which is littered with
clocks whose handstick, tick, tick. And even that winds down before all he
hears is the side-to-side tic tock of the pendulum swinging behind the glass
for of the grandfather clock. Then there is the sound of the whirring and
swish, swish, swish of the fans over his head. There’s the hum of electricity
humming behind the walls. He can hear the steady thump of Deaton’s heart.
The world stops. Everything falls silent.
Stiles open his eyes and turns his head to the right to glance at Deaton, who’s
frozen but looking down at his watch. He looks over his shoulders to see all
the clocks have stopped dead. He turns his head to the left as he sees the
sunlight sneaking into the shop window and the dust that usually would swim in
rays of gold are frozen. He lifts head to look at the fans but they’re not
moving either, like they’ve been turned off. He drops his head to look forward
as his body begins to light up with a blue glow that overtake his fisted hands
like bioluminescent gloves.
The glow starts winding up his arms like vines of ethereal light, like
sweltering spiraling marks that leave a searing trail of heat in it’s wake as
it spreads. It travels up his arms like a sleeve, curling over his shoulders
before spreading across the expanse of his chest and stomach like armor. He
feels it curl along his shoulder blades, and the heat there intensifies. He
feels a fluttering ache under the skin of his back where the bones of his
shoulder blades. It’s almost painful, like something is trying to shift
his muscles and skin for something to get free. He tells his magic ‘no’ because
he is not ready for that and it actually listens, retreating from his shoulder
blades, up to each side of his neck but goes no further than that. It doesn’t
fan out towards to his jaw or face just out of respect and he counters it with
a wave of gratitude.
There is warmth in Stiles’s eyes, which is not quite how it feels when you are
on the edge of crying, but it’s a lukewarm sensation that swirls around his
irises. He knows without knowing that his eyes are glowing, but not with blue,
rather a honeyed gold when he spies his reflection in an old full-length
mirror. His magic sends him the thought so he can understand and he realizes
that this helps him see the world in high definition. He almost cries at how
beautifully vivid the shop looks, as if it isn’t dark or dusty, but rather the
colors spring to life. There’s no human term he can use to describe it. He can
— he can just see everything for what it is: natural, earthly splendor.
Stiles feels his gut churn at that. This is an immortal vision of an otherwise
mortal world. His magic agrees complacently. It almost feels like it’s
apologizing as he realizes that this will all fade with time into a history
that may never be recorded.
This will all end, under the pressure of time, and no one will know this kind
of beauty.
Humans like to record wars and bloodshed. They care of nothing else when there
is everything else.
Stiles jerks in surprise when he realizes his magic is talkingto him.
 Why should it surprise you? Are you really frightened? 
No, I just — I didn’t think you could talk. I didn’t expect it.
But I’m not talking. You are just listening. You never want to listen to me.
This is the first time in your life you truly hear me.
I didn't know I had something to listen to besides my own voice in my head. I’m
sorry but it’s all new to me.
Apologies and explanations are unnecessary. You are as young as I am. We were
born at the same time. I don’t know any more than you and yet I do at the same
time. It is a conundrum. I only know of what I’ve seen through you and what you
posses inside.
I never thought of it like that.
It is fine. You still have Human concepts that will have to change as the world
gets older.
But I will get older too. Am I not Human in that way?
Your views and feelings are Human. Your body is alike to Humans but you are
not. You are Faerie. And so you will continue to grow to a point. You’ll have
to return to Faerie one day so you do not watch the world fade away and fade
away with it as well.
Why does it have to? Fade, I mean. Why can’t I stay? This is my home. I never
remember Faerie.
Earth is meant for the world of Man. And the world of Man is made only of dirt,
dust, and starlight — and so this is the way it all returns. You know exactly
what I mean. You and I are made of mystics that come from the fragments of
heaven and stardust. These things do not fade, they are eternal. Earth is
temporary.
Why would Faerie kind be any better than Humans. I cannot accept that we can't
live in peace together. Aren’t I supposed to advocate peace?
You can try. They will fade nonetheless. The end of humanity is quickly
approaching. Who can say where Man goes when they pass from this life to
heaven?
I’m a Seven. If I can do anything, and if nothing is impossible for me, then
that means I can help Mankind. I can teach them how to do and be better. They
can be better. We can all be better.
I must stress that they are unlike us. What if everything you try comes to
nothing? Are you willing to risk it on Humans with their short lives and greed
and evil? Humans condense the entire spark of their souls into one fleeting,
glorious moment, like shooting stars. Even in knowledge of this, they still
take everything for granted. 
What does that even mean?
I do not know. I only know as much as you do. And you know of everything I have
said. I have not said anything that is new to you.
Stiles doesn’t respond, simply because he is irritated. He knows they will only
talk in circles so he does as Deaton asks him to. He pushes his fists apart and
away from each other before opening his hands as his arms spread wide. His eyes
widens as a wave of blue light whips at the bookshelves before him like a
spectral tsunami and the books explodes out of the bookshelves before the rows
of bookshelves themselves fall over like a line of dominoes.
The world resumes and Stiles gawks at the mess he made. He quickly turns to
Deaton. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I didn’t — I didn’t know that would happen. It
was an accident, I —”
“Mr. Stilinski, it is all right. I knew exactly what would happen,” Deaton says
cryptically as he glances at his watch. “One minute.”
“What?” Stiles says, his face twisting with his confusion as his magic retreats
completely. He has a feeling it’s just as irritated with him as he is with it.
“One minute of what?”
“That’s how long it’s been,” Deaton answers nonchalantly as he picks up his mug
with steaming coffee and takes a long sip.
Stiles fumbles with that information. “But — but that can’t be right!” he
exclaims. “It didn’t feel like a minute.”
“You’re right,” Deaton responds as he lowers the porcelain mug. “It should have
been close to five seconds. One minute is slow in reference to Faerie time. But
you are undisciplined, so I will overlook it for the time being.”
Stiles just stares at him with wide eyes.
“You may leave at noon. No later, no earlier. Lock up the shop behind you when
you finish. I made a copy of the key, please use it to your discretion.” Deaton
grabs the Grimoire and puts it under his left arm, grabbing his coffee with the
other hand. “Come back tomorrow, Mr. Stilinski. Same time, same rules. I should
have a printed schedule for the rest of the month that I expect you to follow,
or I will put off your studies for three days.”
“Okay. But, um, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Stiles says as he
scratches the back of his head. “I mean, like right now?”
Deaton eyebrows just raise before he glances over to the mess of books and
toppled bookshelves before giving him a pointed look. He turns away and
disappears behind the veil of the beads with a clacking sound.
“Oh come on! I was only doing what you told me to! How could I have known that
would happen?”
Deaton, unsurprisingly, does not respond.
Stiles grumbles as he gets to work setting everything right,
includingalphabetically arranging the books. He has to work quickly to meet the
deadline Deaton set. He doesn’t finish and curses because he knows that he will
have to finish this when he returns, which will only delayhis studies further.
He bellyaches as he swipes the gold key left for him on the counter and puts it
in his keychain with the rest of his keys. He exits the shop and locks it up
behind him as instructed. He turns and stops dead when he sees Violet and
Garrett waiting in their black truck. He gives them both a mean look as they
respond with amused smirks. He ignores them completely, unlocks his bike before
climbing it, and heads towards his next destination.
He pretends he doesn’t notice them following him.
                                      ---
Beacon Hills Hospital isn’t the largest Stiles has ever seen. There are bigger
ones in Los Angeles, but the staffs in them are very impersonal and stiff like
robots. Which is why he doesn’t mind coming here, even under bad circumstances.
The staff here treats all the patients like their close friends or distant
relatives. He happily notes that Melissa is the one behind the u-shaped counter
of the reception area. She gives him a soft smile and it spreads warm feelings
of affection in him.
“What can I help you with, Stiles?” Melissa asks, standing while she puts a
stethoscope around her neck and over her shoulders. She’s wearing lime green
scrubs with ducks on them while her curly hair is fixed into a single loose
braid.
“I came to visit Danny and Lydia. If that’s okay,” Stiles explains as he leans
on the counter.
Melissa smiles at him kindly as she logs something in her computer. Then she
rips off a visitor’s sticker from a line of them, writes his name, the date,
and time with her beautiful handwriting before she hands it over. “Okay, you’re
all set. Just follow the directional plaques. Danny’s room is 300. You can find
Lydia in the west wing at the psych ward. Visiting hours end at 3 pm for Danny,
and 5 pm for Lydia. If you need anything just ask for me and someone will page
me.”
“Yes, thank you,” Stiles says, returning her smile shyly before he ventures off
to find the elevators. It takes him under 3 minutes to find Danny’s room,
mostly from memory if anything. He observes the whirring machines around him
that indicate if his vital signs are acceptable or not. He pulls up a chair
with uncomfortable and poorly designed cushions. He sits to Danny’s right and
watches the rise and fall of his chest.
A nurse wearing marigold scrubs and a hijab comes in once or twice to check his
blood pressure and to replace his IV. She smiles at him both times and she has
dark brown eyes and perfect eyebrows. It takes him a minute before he realizes
that he recognizes her because she used to work at Eichen House; she manned the
reception area.
Stiles waits until he’s alone with Danny before he says, “Pigs are alcoholics.
Who would have thought, right? Me and Isaac were watching a documentary about
it. Though I don’t remember why we were watching it. The whole time we kept
arguing about who gets a turn with the TV. I wanted to watch Power Rangers:
Megaforce, that’s my favorite storyline by the way, that one and the original.
Anyway, I was fighting for the remote because there was a marathon going on, on
the Nickelodeon channel. Well not Nickelodeon, Nickelodeon, but that other
Nickelodeon. You know? Yeah that probably doesn’t even make sense. I mean the
second one that plays old reruns and stuff. Anyway, Isaac wanted to watch the
season finale of Rupaul's Drag Race. I didn’t want to watch what he wanted to
watch and he didn’t want to watch what I wanted to watch. Which led us to
fighting over the remote for a solid ten minutes until it accidently switches
on the Discovery Channel and there was this documentary going on about one
hundred things that people don’t know about the pigs…”
Stiles keeps on babbling mindlessly, jumping from one subject to the next
before he realizes he has to move on because visiting time for Danny is over.
He rises to make his exit. There is a whisper in the back of his mind that
tells him that he’s missing something. He reaches for his magic for help but it
stubbornly ignores him. He rolls his eyes because apparently it’s still annoyed
from earlier. He leaves it be and moves on.
Lydia is curled up in an armchair hugging her legs with no shoes as she rocks
back and forth, mumbling to herself in the visitor’s lounge while staring out
the window to the hospital roof on the other side. She’s wearing a paper gown
shirt and drawstring pants. At Eichen House it seemed to be that she had more
freedom there with her fashion. Here she is disheveled, hair wild like she
hasn’t brushed it in forever and bags under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in
forever. She rocks and rocks and rocks, mumbling to herself all the while.
Stiles feels a strong pang of guilt that cuts into his heart. He feels like he
hasn’t been there for her like he should. He sits in the chair across from her.
“Hey, Lydia,” he says carefully.
Lydia doesn’t stop rocking and mumbling to herself as she stares across the
way.
“I — I think I understand who we are. I have a talking magical tree now. Her
name is Nana. I think you would really like her, and I know she’d adore you
too. Deaton’s helping me with my magic. I wish — I wish I could show you what I
can do. I wish you could show me what you can do because you’re Faerie, just
like me. I wish I could take you away from this place. I have to believe you
will get better some day.” Stiles pauses when a couple passes them, shooting
him odd looks before they sit down with, who seems to be, their son.
Lydia doesn’t seem to care or notice, and so Stiles tries to do the same.
Stiles doesn’t see Ms. Morrell anywhere. He wonders what he can do or say. She
always seems so defensive of how Lydia reacts. He thinks about what he wants to
ask. “Lydia, you remember when you planted Ines Reyes in my head? I just want
to know why.”
“You’re not wrong, you know,” Lydia says suddenly and Stiles jerks in
awareness. This is the first time she’s spoken a complete sentence that wasn’t
some kind of cryptic nursery rhyme. “You’re thinking, who is the Benefactor?
What does our uncle have to do with all of this? Why does Ms. Morrell always
try to stop you when you’re trying to get answers from me? I wasn’t here
enough. I wish I had been here enough. Does she think about me as much as I
think about her? She has no one now. I’m all she has left. I need to do
something for you, Lydia. I want to fix you, Lydia. You need to get better,
Lydia. Please get better, Lydia. I can fix you, Lydia.” She laughs cynically as
she wiggles her toes and curls them into the edge of the chair cushion. “You
want to fix me, Stiles? You want to make me whole again? You want to make me
like I was before? But there is no fixing and I can’t go back. Neither of us
can go back.” She turns and looks at him with hollow eyes. “I can hear them. At
night. In the morning. In the afternoon. It never stops. I don’t know how to
shut it off. I don’t know how to make it end. I can feel when something is
wrong with you because I need to know. I can hear your thoughts, Stiles.” Her
lips trembles and she looks so freaked by it. “You’re not wrong, you now. You
are all I have left and I need to know you’re there. I need to know you’re
okay. I opened myself up for you the night I came to you in your dreams. I
created the link between us and triggered it. We’ll be tied together until the
day we die. But that means I have to hear it all. I can hear them all. I can
see what happens. They will fall because they’ll make you choose. You shouldn’t
have to choose.”
“Lydia,” Stiles says sadly. “I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”
“You never understand,” Lydia replies and the world starts to shut down,
slowing and slowing in increments and Stiles realizes with alarm that it isn’t
him this time. It’s her. “He’ll never walk again. He’ll never hear again. But
he will live.”
Stiles looks around quickly and notes that everyone is immobile while
supernatural wind starts to swirl around the room like the breeze that comes
before a thunderstorm.
Lydia continues like she couldn’t be bother by it. “You’re not listening. I
can’t help you if you’re not listening. You wont know if I’m okay if you don’t
listen. She’s always watching. Always waiting. Always listening. I can never
say what I want to because she’s there. She knows.”
“Ms. Morrell? Do you mean Ms. Morrell?” Stiles questions as he turns back to
her. “I know your parents filed a restraining order against her when you went
to therapy after what happened to you during your hike with your dad.”
Lydia looks at him sharply. “Who told you that?”
“Erica,” Stiles says. “Why is Ms. Morrell so invested in you?”
“She feeds us pills laced with mistletoe. I couldn’t think there. She knows I
couldn’t think because if I couldn’t think, I couldn’t say. She knows I can
see. I can see everything. Death and pain and destruction. You let them lie to
you. You never see.” Lydia starts to tremble as tears flow from her eyes. “I
can’t help you if you don’t listen. I showed you Ines Reyes because where did
that lead you?”
“To my dad. My dad was led to Mexico. But he didn’t find Ines Reyes in Mexico,
but he did find the Calaveras. But I still don’t understand,” Stiles admits as
he turns it all over his mind to trying to piece together the puzzle.
“What did he do, Stiles? What did Ines do?”
“He cut out his own tongue so he wouldn’t have to talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Why he lied about the autopsies. What he was covering up. Who he was
protecting. He didn’t want anyone to know the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the truth?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the truth, Stiles? What’s the truth? What’s the truth? What’s the
truth? What’s the truth? What’s the truth? What’s the truth? What’s the truth?
What’s the truth? What’s the truth?” Lydia goes on and on until her mouth moves
so fast that it becomes unnatural, like a thousand voices suddenly sounding off
as one.
Her voice hits his ears in piercing shockwaves. He cups his hands over his ears
and says, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Lydia stops suddenly and she waits until he’s looking at her. “I am the only
one that can make you bleed there. He used the tears and screams of a Banshee
to incapacitate you, Stiles. He carved rune marks into the walking stick and
waxed it with my screams and tears.” She points to his ears. “And you are the
only one that can keep me quiet. We are different sides of the same coin. You
see life. I see death. What did I tell you? What did I tell you?”
Stiles just stares at her as he drops his hands from his ears and notes the
blood on them. He looks at her but the expression on her face is stoic.
“You’re bleeding because you’re not listening. What did I tell you?”
Stiles swallows and says, “They only come out during the New Moon.”
Lydia lets it all go and the world resumes it’s natural pace. “What’s the
truth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes. You don’t,” Lydia turns away to stare out the window again. “But you
will.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say as he watches her rock again as her eyes search
the roof across from her wildly.
“Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,” Lydia recites. “Jack
fell down and broke his crown. Jill came tumbling after.”
“Visiting time is over folks. Can you please head towards the exits? Again,
visiting time is over. Please head towards the exit.”
“Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,” Lydia repeats once
more. “Jack fell down and broke his crown. Jill came tumbling after.”
“Jack and Jill,” Stiles says. “Who’s Jack and Jill though.”
“Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,” Lydia chants. “Jack
fell down and broke his crown. Jill came tumbling after.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?” Stiles says as he stands but Lydia doesn’t
acknowledge it but he knows she doesn’t need to.
She hears everything.
                                      ---
Derek is sitting out on the porch steps with an excited grin when Stiles rolls
up to the house on his mountain bike. “Why are you here?”
“Nice to see you too, Stiles,” Derek retorts as he stands and walks over. He
nods to something behind him and Stiles turns to see a shiny, new lime green
Camaro parked at the curb.
Stiles blinks and turns back to Derek. “No way.”
“Yup,” Derek replies proudly as he spins his keys around his index finger.
“It’s all mine.”
“You’re such a loser, you picked green,” Stiles complains.
Derek gives him a flat look. “It’s my car, Stiles. I can pick whatever I want
to pick. Don’t ruin my high.”
“Nope. This is unacceptable. I will not drive around in a green car,” Stiles
maintains frivolously.
Derek gives him a gorgeous grin. “Well who said you’dbe the one driving?”
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Stiles blushes and it ruins the mean look he gives the other teen. “And anyway,
I’m on punishment. So even if you wanted me to go somewhere with you, I
couldn’t.”
“I already asked. Your dad’s fine with it,” Derek says as he shrugs easily and
shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’re going to play some paintball.”
“No way,” Stiles marvels. “I refuse to believe he okayed that.”
“He didn’t,” Derek says with a smirk and jumps out of the way when Stiles
attempts and fails to kick him. “You didn’t call me.”
“I have more important things to do than cater to your needs, Der,” Stiles
flippantly replies.
Derek’s face scrunches with displeasure. “Please don’t call me that. Laura
always calls me that and I’m not okay with it.”
“Laura has wisdom beyond her age,” Stiles airily rebuttals. “I genuinely forgot
to call, okay? I would have done it otherwise. There’s been a lot on my mind
today.”
“You smell anxious and sad. Your heartbeat is off too,” Derek notes as he
crosses his arms. “Well don’t look at me like me like that. What’s wrong?”
Stiles starts to say, “Nothing is —”
“Don’t say nothing,” Derek quickly interjects. “I’d know if you were lying
anyway.”
“Fine,” Stiles casually. “I won’t say nothing.” He zips his lips childishly.
Stiles tries to smother a grin. It’s hopeless.
Derek sighs. “You’re such a dweeb.”
Stiles immediately bristles. “You’rea dweeb.”
“Agree to disagree,” Derek cheerfully retorts.
“You are so annoying. You should just —” Stiles starts a little when he feels
Derek pull him close into a comfortable hug he stubbornly refuses to relax in.
“Stop scenting me, I’m mad at you,” he complains and tugs Derek’s hair.
Derek just chuckles and presses his left cheek to Stiles’s, which starts to
burn hotly at their proximity. He pulls away after three minutes and pokes at
Stiles’s cheek teasingly. “Hey, what’s that? And where did it come from?”
Stiles slaps his hand away as his blush darkens. “You are the worst friend ever
in all of history.”
“Tell me why you’re upset,” Derek cleverly deflects.
Stiles knows he won’t leave it alone, so he admits, “I visited my cousin Lydia
today and she said some things that shook me. I can’t really make sense of it.
My thoughts are all tangled up in this gooey, black gob of confusion. I mean
it’s like bubblelicious that’s been chewed and then left to rot on the asphalt
until it gets all black and disgusting that even worms and maggots and birds
and rats and ants wouldn’t even touch. Do you know that there are literally
about twenty-eight flavors of bubblelicious? Can you imagine just going on a
gum spree and eating that? I once had a friend do that challenge and when he
barfed it smelled like grape soda, which was really gross. But that was in
third grade, and everyone does something dumb at that age. Like one time, I had
this science project I had to do, and surprise, surprise, I did it on the
volcano thing every elementary kid does for the science fair but I wanted to be
different cause I knew about fifteen other kids were going to do it, so I
thought that maybe I could put glitter and sequins in it because I figured it
should be a festive occasion, and oh man did my dad have a fit when it
backfired during one of my test runs, and he had to pay like a hundred bucks to
get it all removed from the living room walls and the furniture but my mom
thought it was the funniest thing in the world —”
“Stiles,” Derek calmly interrupts, amused. “You might want to consider
breathing.”
Stiles sucks in a gust of air as his cheeks grow red and he rubs the back of
his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. That got away from me.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Derek assures. “I just didn’t want you to pass
out. I’m used to it by now. Everyone has their quirks.”
“Like you and basketball,” Stiles remarks, a bit defensively because he’s
embarrassed and intrigued that Derek is not bothered with his tendency to
ramble from subject to subject. “What were we talking about again?”
“Well, you wereupset. But you seem to be fine now,” Derek supposes as he cocks
his head slightly. “I think you just needed to get it out of your system. How
was your visit with Deaton?”
Stiles blinks and catches on to the change of subject because he’s familiar
with it. “Oh, well that went kind of strangely. You know he’s very cryptic but
he makes it look so cool. I kind of used my magic to knock a few rows of books
over. Okay maybe it was a little more than a few. There were books everywhere
and I had no idea that would happen. I mean it’s cool in theory but Deaton’s
making me clean it all up, which is so not fair. Well maybe it is fair since I
was the one responsible. My point still stands though. And guess what? He told
me to pace around my backyard so I can know the exact inches of it, and I got
it wrong. So now I have to crawl.”
Derek just nods patiently. “Last week of school. Summer’s just around the
corner. I’m pretty excited about my job.”
“Good. You should be. You’re a great teacher, and that’s saying a lot coming
from me,” Stiles admits. “I’m smart but I don’t know what to do with all my
energy.”
“That’s not a bad thing. You just need to learn how to focus it without having
to change who you are,” Derek supposes. “Why did you go to the hospital?”
Stiles considers the question. Before he answers, he asks, "Hey, why do you
keep changing the subject?"
Derek's mouth twists a little, like he's fighting down a smile. He says,
"Testing a theory."
Stiles silently urges him to clarify.
"Tutoring you has given me firsthand knowledge about how scattered your
attention can be sometimes," Derek clarifies. "So I kind of developed
an applicable tactic to keep you on one thought at a time so it doesn’t all
come out into a jumble. I mean, it's cute when you ramble, and I like that
you're comfortable enough with me to share every single thought you get, but I
also want to be able to follow and understand what you're saying."
Stiles's face grows hot at the way Derek just casuallycompliments him. "And how
is that working for you?" he asks in a choked voice.
Derek just shrugs. "Why did you go to the hospital?"
Stiles clears his throat and wills his face to resume it's normal color. He
says, “Yeah. Like I said, I went to visit Danny and my cousin Lydia. Danny’s
still in a coma but I talked to him for a little while about whatever came out
my mouth because my brain to mouth filter always switches on and off. Then I
went to sit down with Lydia for fifteen minutes and she talked tome and not
through me. I’m trying so hard to understand her and I feel bad that we’re not
on the same page. She said something that stuck with me though. That she can
make me bleed and I can make her quiet.”
Derek’s brow furrows with concern. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. I’m a Virtue and she’s a Banshee. We’re two different sides to
the same coin. I see life and she sees death,” Stiles rubs the back of his
head. “It’s hard to explain.”
“It’s okay,” Derek pacifies. “Are you going to prom?”
“No way.”
“Laura will push,” Derek states matter-of-factly. “I’d like to see you there
too. It’ll be Kate and Laura’s last dance.”
“Don’t you want to go with someone else?” Stiles asks out of curiosity,
ignoring the part of him that’s apprehensive at the thought.
Derek gives him an incomprehensible look.
“What?” Stiles says, squirming self-consciously. “Why are you looking at me
like that?”
“You know Laura’s birthday is the Saturday that follows that, right?” Derek
deflects by changing the subject. “We’re supposed to fly up to Chicago that
weekend to go to Six Flags as a surprise gift. Will you come?”
“I don’t know how long my punishment will last,” Stiles clarifies earnestly. “I
would if I knew I could.”
“You can,” Derek confidently replies. “I asked your dad. He okayed you and
Isaac going if you both are on your best behavior this week. Please be on your
best behavior this week. Laura would love if you came and I’d like it too. Say
yes.”
“Derek,” Stiles utters with fond exasperation. He can’t take the mock frown on
the other teen’s face. “You’re annoying.”
Derek beams like Stiles just said what he wanted him to say. “Great, we're
agreed then. Mom’s borrowing a private plane from the airline she bought with
some of the other Hale Alphas. It’s so we can all go together in one trip.”
“God, that is something only rich people say,” Stiles amusedly remarks.
Derek frowns like he doesn’t understand and Stiles earnestly overlooks how cute
obliviousness looks on the other teen.
“This is ridiculous. You don’t have any idea how privileged you are,” Stiles
says, shaking his head. “Most rich people aren’t as humble as you and your
family are. I bet you’re generous too.”
“Well.” Derek looks a little self-conscious and shy like he’s finally catching
on to what Stiles is saying. He’s blushing a little. “We have a few charities.
It was maybe — one hundred and sixty-five the last time I checked?”
“Unbelievable.” Stiles shakes his head in amusement.
“What’s the point of having money if you cant use it to better the world in
some way?” Derek retorts defensively. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Nope, this is glorious. I get to poke fun at your expense. I have found you’re
kryptonite, Richie Rich,” Stiles crows and laughs when Derek flushes
completely. “This is the best thing. Look at God.”
Derek groans and hides his burning face behind his hands. “No one else bothers
to bring this up.”
“That’s because they know what we all know. You guys are loaded. It’s almost
inspiring,” Stiles declares. “I mean really. You guys have your own airline.
Don’t you think that’s something worth noting?”
“No.”
“Sure. If you say so,” Stiles continues cheerily. “I actually feel better.”
Derek huffs but he looks pleased when he drops his hands, his blush still
slightly present.
The sheriff pokes his head out the front door. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but
Stiles has chores to do, Derek. You’ll have to visit another time.”
“Sure thing, Sherriff. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Derek replies politely, moving
to Stiles’s side.
“Bright and early,” his dad agrees before disappearing again.
“Peter’s upset about the Benefactor thing. You know he’s unreasonably
protective of you,” Derek goes on to say. “He insists that it would have never
happened had he been there. He’s upset with Kate for not telling him at the
time. Kate doesn’t care of course.”
“That wasn’t the Benefactor,” Stiles states and Derek looks as confused as he
feels. “Violet and Garrett confirmed it for me."
"Violet and Garrett said? And you believed them?"
Stiles gets his point. "Yeah, I know, I know. But, like, despite everything,
they've never lied to me. Sure they are...they way they are, but they are
honest. Call it 'lawful evil' if you will."
Derek just makes a thoughtful, yet amused sound.
"So it’s back to square one with that situation. As for Mayor Argent, well, now
we have to figure out what he’s up to.”
“Yeah, I’ll leave it to you and my Uncle Peter to figure out. That’s not really
my area of expertise. Not unless there’s math involved,” Derek admits with a
small shrug. “I just hope you all are being as safe as you can about it.”
“You don’t have to worry. No, that’s not exactly true,” Stiles corrects. “I’m
working on making it so we don’t have to worry about it.”
“Anything is possible,” Derek retorts but not without irony. “I’ll leave before
your dad comes to reiterate that I should let you to your chores. Do you think
you could text me before you go to bed, or will you forget again?”
Stiles just shoves his shoulder as Derek grins. “Would you get over yourself?
Yes, okay? I will tattoo it on my forehead if that satisfies you.”
“That’s not what satisfies me, Stiles,” Derek merely says as he pushes Stiles’s
forehead playfully with the long fingers of his left hand. “Don’t ever insult
my car again. Later.”
“I make no promises.” Stiles watches the other teen slide into his car like
he’s so effortlessly cool. He rolls his eyes when Derek gives him a pointed.
“You’re such a needy jerk. Later.”
Derek just gives him a sarcastic grin that’s all teeth.
Stiles laughs even though he doesn’t mean to and watches as the other teen’s
car roars to life and speeds off down the street tangent to his and disappears
when it’s as far as he’s able to see. He turns toward the house and his dad
tells him he wants him to clean out the gutters.
Stiles hates doing that because it’s gross and scary being on the ladder that
high. But he does not voice his complaints because he knows that his dad is
probably aware of it already.
It’s a suitable punishment.
                                      ---
Stiles immediately takes a shower when he’s done but not with the soap his
uncle gave him. He trashes that right away and uses Isaac’s liquid banana
smelling soap. His brother will totally complain about it but Stiles does not
even care. He travels down to the kitchen once he’s situated in some sleepwear.
He makes dinner just as Isaac strolls in. He decides to try a new recipe for
all of them. He hasn’t been cooking like he normally does, and so he’s pretty
sure his dad and Isaac have been gorging on deep-fried meat and sugary
confections. He thought about it when he saw all those ice creams and steaks in
the freezer. So he made a vow that they will only eat things that are good for
them. Plus he misses cooking.
Out of the side of his eye he sees Isaac’s nose twitching as he puts a glass
dish in the oven. He straightens and turns on the timer since the oven is
already preheated. “Nope, don’t come in here until I’m done,” he says without
looking. He knows Isaac is trying to investigate the source of the smell.
“I smell shrimp,” Isaac remarks but he does not step in the kitchen.
Stiles just hums as he washes his hands. “How was the movie?”
“Fine.”
Stiles snorts as he moves over to the living room and says, “I need a little
more than that.” He sits down on the long couch on the side that’s closest to
his brother’s favorite chair.
“We ran into Scott, Allison, and Jackson. Well maybe ‘ran into’ isn’t the right
word,” Isaac says with a smug grin as he sits in his chair.
“Ha ha. I love it when you mock me,” Stiles dryly responds.
“We saw a Triple feature film. The Hunger Games. I really like the second
one…Catching Fire, I think?”
Stiles nods.
“I didn’t like the third movie. It was a little boring. I ate all the popcorn
and nachos before I fell asleep,” Isaac notes like he had a right to do it.
“Boyd said I was snoring the whole time and everyone around us glared at me.
But he likes to exaggerate and I know I don’t snore.”
Stiles gives him a dubious look.
“I do not.”
Stiles just chuckles and grabs the remote to watch an episode of I Love Lucy.
Their dad strolls down the steps just as Stiles rises to grab the food when the
timer goes off. He says, “Dad, did you make that appointment with Ms. Morrell?”
“Not yet, but I’m getting to it,” he promises.
“Yeah, about that,” Stiles pulls the glass dish from the oven with some old
oven mitts. He should really ask his dad to buy some new ones. “Turns out, Ms.
Morrell isn’t so straight-laced. I hope I'm using the right term.”
“You are and what do you mean?” their dad questions, perplexed. He sits down at
the head of table as Isaac walks over to join him. He looks just as confused.
“Stiles, did she do something to you?”
“Not me,” Stiles promises before their dad can get up in arms. “But Lydia says
Ms. Morrell has been lacing the medicine she’s been giving her patients with
mistletoe.”
“I’m not following, son,” the sheriff admits. “I’m guessing that’s a bad
thing.”
“For supernatural beings. Eating it raw will damn near kill them,” Stiles
explains and winces apologetically when their dad gives him a disapproving look
at his language. “Sorry. But yeah. Lacing mistletoe with any kind of substance
can incapacitate supernatural creatures or make their reasoning fuzzy as their
abilities fly widely on their own. I’m not sure what or why she is doing this.
I can’t figure out her agenda. Oh, by the way, Deucalion is not the Benefactor.
He’s an Alpha working with Mayor Argent for god knows why.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” The sheriff shakes his head as he lifts his hand in a
moving stop motion. “One thing at a time, son. Ms. Morrell was drugging Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“And Deucalion is not the Benefactor?”
“Yes.”
“Who is an Alpha working with Mayor Argent?”
“Correct.”
“I have a headache,” their dad says. He turns to look at Isaac, who’s looking
at his older brother with an expression of consideration. “Did she ever do
anything to you, Isaac?”
“No. Not really. Not anything I can remember,” is Isaac’s sincere answer. “All
we ever talked about is how I wouldn't feel lonely anymore someday. And she
said my pain is going to end soon. She talked a lot about you and Stiles. Well,
now that I think about it, she talked mostly about Stiles. Actually, most of my
sessions with her was just her asking questions about Stiles. I used to think
it was because she wanted to know how I was being treated but I’m starting to
realize she was using me to spy on you.”
“Oh my — that explains everything,” Stiles exclaims as he begins serving
everyone and he sits down when he's finished. “I looked her up after what she
said about how I shouldn’t trust Peter. Did you know her parents mysteriously
died when she was twelve? The police report said it was liked they were hacked
to death by an axe.” He only knows this because it was on the drive Parrish
gave him and it explains the nursery rhyme Lydia kept repeating to him about
Lizzie Borden and her axe. He continues, “She later was adopted by a ‘guardian’
that I cant find record of. She married some guy when she was nineteen and he
died the same way her parents had. She kept his last name though. But I touched
her and she didn’t feel dishonest or like she — oh, oh! But she’s Deaton’s
sister. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“That’s something you’ll have to ask Deaton,” the sheriff supposes, looking a
little disgruntled. “I should have listened to my gut. She always felt a little
off to me. I’ve never known anyone that was as apathetic as she was. Not any
sane Human that is.”
“You’re going to look into this, aren’t you?” Stiles says, resigned to the
fact. He watches their dad eat, noting that Isaac has already started.
“I have to,” the sheriff says between bites. “If there’s anyone messing with my
family I have a right to it. If I find anything I’ll let you — good god, what
is this?”
“A spicy shrimp, tomato with spinach sauce and orecchiette, or ‘little ears’ if
we’re being specific, casserole.” Stiles gives him a self-indulgent grin. “I
take it that means you approve.”
Their dad just gives him a fondly exasperated look.
“Can I have some more?” Isaac says, plate already clear.
Stiles laughs quietly. “Well I knew youwould like it,” he playfully remarks.
“I want more than you gave me the first time,” Isaac self-importantly stresses.
“Right away, sir. Please, sir, don’t get up,” Stiles mock-seriously replies. He
grabs Isaac’s plate and gives him two helpings this time.
“Well if I make it myself then I would take half of it,” Isaac retorts
sullenly. “I’m actually being considerate.I know you and dad will want more.”
Their dad just looks amusedly fond over their antics but still says, “Settle
down, boys.”
Stiles just sets Isaac’s plate down before him with a shrug.
Isaac starts eating immediately.
“Violet and Garrett wont stop stalking me,” Stiles says when he and his dad
finishes their first serving at the same time. “Mayor Argent told them to. You
might want to look into that.”
“You want me to file a restraining order?” the sheriff questions with an
immediate frown.
“It wouldn’t do any good. You want some more?” Stiles grabs both their plates
when their dad nods. “From the way they made it sound,” he continues. “Mayor
Argent has indescribable influence over the judicial system in this town. I
think you should be cautious at work. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few dirty
cops are spying on you for him.”
“Thank you,” their dad says when Stiles sets his plate in front of him. “I’ll
take that into consideration, but none of my deputies have given me any reason
to believe that their loyalty lies elsewhere.”
Stiles nods, relieved. “Do you think it’s far-fetched to think that Ms. Morrell
could be working with the Benefactor?”
“At this point, I’m not surprised about anything any more,” the sheriff
acknowledges. “You both stay safe and cautious when she’s around.”
Stiles and Isaac nod in understanding.
“We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow. I don’t care when. The things I found
in this kitchen were unacceptable,” Stiles declares, watching as their dad and
Isaac wince and share guilty looks. “Yeah. I hope you enjoyed whatever
unhealthy food you had today, because it was your last.”
The sheriff sighs.
“Can I have some more?” Isaac says after a few seconds.
“Help yourself, buddy. I think me and dad are tapping out,” Stiles replies as
his dad shakes his head in agreement.
Isaac is more than happy to take his word for it and clears out the rest of
casserole.
Stiles shares an amused look with their father. “Well there goes the
leftovers,” he mutters and makes an annoyed sound when Isaac purposefully bumps
his elbow into the back of his head. “Did you see that, dad? I want to file a
restraining order! I am taking him to court and you have to act as my
witness. You need to go take some pictures of my bruises!” Stiles exclaims
loudly as he pretends to sway like he’s dizzy.
“Sure, Stiles. I’ll get right on that,” the sheriff declares, humoring him.
Isaac rolls his eyes as he sits back down. “Dramatic.”
Stiles childishly sticks his tongue out at him.
“Now,” the sheriff says, sitting back as he pats his full stomach. “Tell me
about your day.”
                                      ---
Stiles goes up to his room when their dad makes Isaac clean the kitchen and the
upstairs bathroom since he didn’t mow the lawn today. He texts Parrish and asks
him what his email is. Parrish sends him three question marks before complying.
Stiles spends the next ten minutes compiling together all the information he
has from his research of Dragon-kind.
Parrish responds right away with gratefulness in the form of emojis and that
makes Stiles laugh. He texts back, giving him a serious reminder that he needs
to talk to Isaac about what they have to talk about. Parrish takes a little
longer to reply to that. When he does, he says that he will do it next weekend
and he informs Parrish that they will be out of town that weekend; so Parrish
promises to do it the weekend after.
Stiles unwillingly accepts before he boots up his computer to have another
video chat with Scott to discuss his day in full as Scott listens kindly,
interjecting to ask about the things he doesn’t understand. They go from that
to talking about how their parents may be secretly dating and waiting for the
right time to bring it up when its official, which they can understand.
They also talk about his times with the Hales and, to Stiles’s grief, his
relationship with Derek. Scott just looks at him like he desperately wants to
laugh while exclaiming how ignorant he is. Stiles pretends not to know what he
means because he certainly doesn’t like to think about it. They end the
conversation with a promise from Stiles he’ll introduce the gang to his magical
talking tree.
Stiles stretches loudly as Isaac passes his door, purposefully complaining
loudly about how someonehas been using his soap. He calls Peter and patiently
waits while Peter goes on a seething, discreet rant about how careless Stiles
is being and threatens to lock him in his own room if he keeps jumping into
things blindly.
Stiles grins quietly and shifts from side to side in his chair when he can he
hear Kate jumping into the lecture with Peter from a distance and Stiles
realizes Peter has him on speaker and he rolls his eyes.
“Okay, momand dad.I will not run towards the danger, even though the danger
runstowards me,” Stiles sarcastically replies and when it sounds like Kate will
start her own lecture, he adds, “Deucalion isn’t the Benefactor.”
“What the fuck is a Deucalion?” Kate gracefully questions.
Peter hums disapprovingly.
Kate ignores him and says, “Seriously, Stiles. You better start talking.”
Stiles winces a little. If Kate is actually calling him by his first name, then
he knows he's in trouble. He placatingly responds, “He’s the blind guy you’ve
been looking for. You know, the one that fed Kali’s puppy a piece of chocolate
laced with distemper?”
Peter’s goes silent for a few seconds before he says, “He’s been skulking
around a dog park this whole time?”
“Why don’t you talk like a normal twenty-two year old?” Stiles asks as he makes
a face.
Kate snickers.
“Stiles…” Peter sounds like he's speaking through gritted teeth. “Focus. The
blind man?”
“Oh, that. Well,” Stiles continues thoughtfully. “His name is Deucalion and
he’s very creepy and evil. Like next level evil. This guy is literally insane.
He makes Hannibal Lector look like a kitten. He went on and on merrily about
his mom and his brothers, who he paid to have skinned alive, while looking at
the people playing with their dogs.”
“That’s not what’s important presently,” Peter implores with a sigh. “How is it
that this Deucalion was able to incapacitate you? Virtues aren’t so easily
subdued. Explain precisely what he did to you. Kate informed me that when you
and my nephew found you, you were pale and shaken as you bled from your ears.”
“I was,” Stiles agrees and the thought of it makes him sick. “He apparently
knows how to put a Virtue down. Well maybe that is an extreme term. Immobilize?
He had this wooden walking stick that had intricate markings. It looked like
some kind of rune symbols. My cousin Lydia said it was coated with her tears
and screams. She didn't seem like she wanted to tell him how he managed that
either.” He suddenly remembers that he forgot to ask Deaton about the runestone
from his dreams. He makes a promise to himself that he will remember tomorrow.
“Anyway, that may be something you can look into for me. I’m a little swamped
at the moment. I have an apprenticeship with Deaton. He’s teaching me how to
hone my magic.”
“Wonderful,” Peter retorts placidly and Stiles can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“Are you certain he can be trusted?”
“Well…”
“Stiles.”
“I am definitely slightly mostly sure,” Stiles quickly responds. “It’s his
sister I don’t trust. Though I’m not sure she’s his actualsister. I once read
that Druids consider their counterparts like siblings. Brothers and sisters
without sharing blood, you know? I know Druid parents only restrict themselves
to only having one child so they don’t overpopulate the masses.”
“Riveting,” Peter mutters cynically.
Kate snorts and Stiles totally knows she’s rolling her eyes at him as she pops
her gum.
“Will you stop being grumpy with me? This is a good thing,” Stiles promises.
“This way I can actually be useful.”
“Say that again and I will punch you,” Kate immediately says in a way that’s
almost impressive. “Your worth surpasses things in ways you can’t imagine.
You’re not useful, Stiles.”
“What you can do is useful,” Peter agrees. “Like you’ve said before. You’re not
some mechanical toy with a string we pull when we want to amuse ourselves.”
“Seriously, were you born in the wrong time, Peter?” Stiles questions, heavily
amused. “Also, why didn’t you tell me that Ms. Morrell was some kind of
psychopath?”
“I didn’t have any evidence to prove it,” Peter merely replies. “Call it
intuition. You’re familiar with that sensation, aren’t you?”
Stiles rolls his eyes because Peter has really dry humor.
“I’ll do some research on this Deucalion and get back to you,” Peter decides.
“Perhaps I’ll even talk to Jordan to see if he can provide some answers.”
“First names! You must be speaking good terms with him,” Stiles supposes.
“It’s ‘on speaking terms’. That sentence was grammatically incorrect,” Peter
cleverly deflects. “Goodbye, Stiles.”
“See you Monday, buttercup,” Kate adds before the line goes dead.
Stiles goes to the back of his closet to dig out the black drive given to him
by Parrish. He pulls it from a shoebox and briefly wonders if he should leave
it in his computer since he doesn’t have to worry about hiding everything from
his dad and Isaac. But then he remembers his uncle must be working with Ms.
Morrell and he decides against it. He browses through the articles Parrish
compiled about Mayor Argent’s unclaimed children (most them are fully grown and
some are even adults around the same age as Peter and Parrish) and he spends a
full five three minutes scrolling through the repulsively long list with a
nauseous feeling. He reaches the end of the list with Mayor Argent's most
recent offspring and he’s startled when he realizes that Jackson, Isaac, Erica,
and Malia were fathered by him as well.
This means that Jackson, Erica, and Malia are siblings, and are adopted.
Stiles is dumbfounded. He wonders how this could even be possible. Well he
knows how(and that is definitely not something he wants to think about) but he
doesn’t get who they came from. He tears through as many articles he can to
figure it out (aside from Isaac because he knows where he came from) and he has
to stand to grab the bulletin/whiteboard from his closet and flips it so he’s
on the bulletin side. He prints out all the articles dated before Isaac,
Jackson, Malia, and Erica were born and tacks them to the board. It has to mean
something that they were all born around the same time.
Somehow Erica and Isaac were born on the sameday but they are by no means
twins. Stiles can’t help but to think that maybe Erica wasn’t adopted because,
as he looks closely, she has Ines Lahey’s features. From what he understands
about the origins of Werecats, all genders can reproduce. The Reyes Twins,
Ricky and Carter, were on that list as well, and the three of them all favor
Ines, which could only mean — all of them are Mayor Argent and Ines's kids.
Ines cut out his tongue before his dad could question him. Stiles has to think
about why he would have done that. He has to think about why he and his sons
started the fire that almost killed Isaac, and took the only family he knew
away from him.
“Come on, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. “You know this. You knowthis.”
Stiles tries to think really hard. Tries to put the pieces together.
The Laheys started the Hale fire, which kills all of Peter and Talia’s
immediate family (all of the brothers and sisters they had, their parents,
close cousins and so on), and the Reyes started the Lahey fire. But why?
Talia was starting her own Pack at this point. Her aunts and uncles, and
cousins would have come from various states to join her brood, if she had
offered. But Talia's mother still had her own Pack, her own family and Peter
was younger then. Practically over the age of a preteen. He stops when he sees
an article that’s dated around the same time Malia and Jackson were born. It
was closelyaround the time when the Hale fire took place. Which probably means
that their parents, or other parent, died shortly after Malia and Jackson were
born.
Holy hell, they probably don’t even know that they’re adopted.
Stiles get shaky as he pins all the articles related to the Hale fire on the
board. He steps back and stares at them without blinking.
So…that would mean that mean two of Talia’s younger sisters (who had to have
been just a little older than Peter) fell prey to Mayor Argent’s repulsive
fixations. But that would also mean Talia or Talia's mother helped her sisters
give their children away because they were way too young to know what to do
with them. But that might also mean that Talia’s mother and father might
not have known who the father of those children were. Talia could have done it
to protect her sisters and her niece and nephew. Maybe because her whole family
probably despised the Argents. There may have always been animosity between the
two families that could date back to the first origins of both bloodlines.
Someone might have killed those children without thinking twice. So it's only
logical that Talia likely gave Malia and Jackson to the Tates and the
Whittemores to ensure that they would be well looked after. Though the timing
was perfect and only by chance because she couldn’t have known what came after.
Jackson and Malia are only a month apart; with Jackson being older of the two,
and godthat explains why he looks so much like he could be Peter’s brother
while Malia and Cora almost share similar features.
Jackson and Malia are Halesand are Talia and Peter's nephew and niece. That
means they're Laura, Derek, and Cora's first cousins.
Stiles reaches blindly for the desk chair behind him and sits down, trying to
swallow this truth.
Peter probably doesn’t even know, and he’ll be furious once he finds out
because outside of Talia, he thinks he has no immediate family to speak of.
Stiles tries to shake the shock away before he turns to scroll through more
articles as he bites on the fingernails of his left hand as his right leg
bounces anxiously. He works on Erica, Ricky, and Carter’s derivation. There’s a
nine-year gap between the siblings. From what he finds out about Ines’s age,
it’s quite possible that these exchanges were mutual and Stiles get sick all
over again. This just means that Mayor Argent prayed on the younger man’s
infatuation.
It’s completely explains why he cut out his tongue, and why he and his sons
started the Lahey fire. He would not be surprised if Ines did it out some
misguided affection. But that does not explain why he was at the hospital. He
pulls up the date he saw Ines signed in and he realizes it was the same time
Meredith killed her roommate before hanging herself. But she’s not dead and he
doesn’t know why she was turned into a Vampire.
He suddenly remembers that Mayor Argent showed Hannibal a picture of Ines,
saying that the man frequently visited her for some reason. He said that
Meredith keeps trying to target him. That she works closely with the
Benefactor. It could be completely be possible that Ines was trying to get some
answers out of the woman on the Benefactor’s behalf because the Benefactor may
have known what Ines didn’t want anyone else to know, including his own
children. Which would be that Mayor Argent was their father and that meant
explaining to the rest of the world just what he was.
So that could also mean Ines was blackmailed into killing Lydia’s and Danny’s
family. Danny helped by compiling and identifying all of Mayor Argent’s
children in a list and Ines, Ricky, and Carter tried to claw them all to death
ensuring that no would talk. But that would also mean that Lydia’s parents
weren’t killed because they knew something about Mayor Argent, but because Ms.
Morrell wanted solidify guardianship over Lydia because she’s a Banshee and
Banshees seeseverything.
It’s not Ms. Morrell that wants to use Lydia. It’s the Benefactor.
Ines Reyes fled town with his sons and he left Erica behind because the
Benefactor has some purpose for all of Mayor Argent’s kids. He had to leave
Erica behind because he couldn’t lose all of his kids. So he’s sacrificing
Erica and that is just so wrong.
There are four recent children whose father is Mayor Argent. Then there’s Ms.
Morrell, who’s quite possibly a Druid like Deaton. There’s something he’s
missing and he can’t figure out what. Something that explains why the
Benefactor is going through all this trouble to dig up Mayor Argent's most
dangerous secrets. Which, in theory, means that the Benefactor has a vendetta
against the older man - but why?
Stiles sighs and stands to pin the rest of the articles, tying some green,
yellow, and red yarn to everything he’s able connect one to the other. Then he
yawns tiredly before pushing it into the sanctuary of his closet. He also hides
the black drive before he flips the light off and does the same with his room’s
light switch. He closes the door and goes to his window to open it. He likes
the feel and smell of the night air, especially after a blanket of mist (which
usually comes from the mountains up north) settles over Beacon Hills. It’s
usually rich with the earthy smell of grass and trees.
He grabs Derek’s wolves and settles into his bed with him. He grabs his phone,
hooking it up to his charger (grateful that Isaac returned it) and he sets his
alarm. He texts Derek saying:
Sarcastically annoyed text message with spiteful insults
Cheerful response overlooking broody dramatic text message
Don’t start. I can keep this up all night.
I wasn’t the one that started it.
Believe whatever you want to. I did my part by texting.
I thank you for your sacrifice.
Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes.
Are you anxious?
You couldn’t possibly know that.
You’re right but you just confirmed it.
I cannot BELIEVE you used my own trick on me
¯\(°_°)/¯
God I hate that emoji so much.
¯\(°_°)/¯
I swear I will end this conversation.
┬──┬ ﾉ (°—° ﾉ )   ( ╯ ° -° ） ╯ ┻━┻
OMG I am so upset I laughed at that stupid thing!
Well, my work here is done <( ￣ u ￣ )>
DEREK!!!!
Why are you anxious?
I just have a lot on my mind, and I wish I could tell you but I can’t right
now, okay? I don’t think this is the right time.
Okay. (:
Stiles frowns mostly from surprise.
What do you mean ‘okay’? I thought you would be pushy about this.
No, Stiles. I respect your wishes. I only pry when I think it really matters
to, and this supersedes that, so if you aren’t ready to talk about it, I’m not
going to push the subject. I want to be considerate of your feelings because
you’re always considerate of mine.
Not really always.
Yes. Always.
Stiles gets that warm fuzzy feeling again and he has to roll over for a moment
to hide his red face. When he’s got himself together, he replies:
Thank you.
You’re welcome. (:
Since your in a cheerful mood, can I bargain for no more emojis?
Nope. I will not concede on that. This is who I am. Take it or leave it.
You’re unbelievable.
¯\_( ツ )_/¯
Stiles sighs, resigned to the fact he won’t convince the other teen to give up
the habit.
Can I drive you and Isaac to school Monday? I’ll drop you guys off at home too.
Stiles can’t even say why he likes the fact that Derek would even askthat
instead of telling him or be overbearing about it. He just ends feeling
flustered again.
Yeah, why not. Our bikes could use a break anyway.
Awesome. But I will make you walk if you say ANYTHING bad about my Camaro.
I make absolutely no promise.
I want you to know I’m sighing in annoyance.
(:
Touché. Later.
You’re supposed to say ‘goodnight’.
L A T E R.
OMG you big baby. Later. Later. Later. Later. Later. Later.
(: You have permission to sleep now.
Go swallow some cinnamon.
Now that is just cruel and unusual. ):
L A T E R.
Stiles is not even surprised when Derek doesn’t even respond to that. He’s
probably brooding like a moody teenager. The thought makes him laugh a little
as he settles into his covers and puts them over his head, hiding him from the
rest of the world. He sighs as he snuggles Derek’s wolves close because the
other teen wouldn’t know anyway. He probably already smells like Derek anyway.
Or so he’s been told.
***** victory *****
It’s Sunday and Stiles regrets that he set his alarm for 6 am. He spends at
least ten minutes of that time just blinking up at his ceiling with drowsiness
as his lashes stick together wetly every time he blinks. He keeps yawning, and
it’s the reason why his eyes are so damp as he thinks that this hour of the day
is ungodly. It feels like the one time he snuck a few sips of whisky with his
old friend Sebastian, who got it from his firefighter father’s private study,
and they passed it back and forth between them as they sat on Sebastian’s roof.
It made him choke every time and he stopped after the third sip because he
realized that he was only twelve and that it was dumb that they were doing
this. He knew his father would pitch a fit if he ever found out because he
dealt with that demon four years ago. But the little he did have made him feel
like he was dizzy, and he got so sick with a splitting headache and sloshing
stomach the morning after. He promised he would never ever do that again.
Stiles scrubs his face and chants ‘get up’ over and over to himself until he
actually does it. He totally does not take a shower first and change because he
is only going to get his street clothes dirty. He trots down his steps and sees
a note on the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. It reads: Gone fishing. Back
by dinner. No cellphone reception – do NOT do anything that is outside the
limits of your punishment, and yes I will know. Have a good day. Clean the
garage.
He gives a lazy stretch before he opens the fridge and grabs the orange juice
(which is behind Isaac’s fancy organic coconut milk), twisting the top off to
drink it because he’s sure no one will know he’d done it anyway; besides,
everyone does it. He returns the cap and situates the orange juice back where
it was as he yawns. He makes his way across the cold floor and out the back
door. He shivers against the early morning air, which is damp and chilly with
last night’s fog but he likes it, always kind of has. It makes more sense now
since he knows he’s Fae. He watches the sea of fireflies already floating
around like flickering lamps that hover and it almost feels like they have been
waiting for him.
Stiles has always felt this strong pull towards nature, and he remembers how he
used to beg his parents to take him camping or to the beach or the zoo. He
almost craved those activities. Nature was his crutch in this world and it
satisfied the aching loneliness in him that he never understood. When he would
go on field trips to the zoo, the animals would always stop and stare at him
before they tried to move closer; and when he went to aquariums, the underwater
creatures would always follow him from behind their glass cages.
It feels weird thinking about that after all this time but he apparently came
from Faerie, which must be practically flushed with all of nature’s finer
assets. He thinks about how bees, butterflies, birds, fireflies, cats, dogs,
and other animals and insects he can’t think to name would circle him when he
was toddler. He was never afraid like most children are about these things
because he was used to having different types of nature gravitate towards him
like they were curious about who and what he was. His mother used to watch it
all with this soft knowing smile that he never understood at the time.
Stiles shakes these thoughts away before he makes his way to Nana and climbs
her, loving the way the moisture on the bark feels on his hands and feet. The
fireflies continue to float around but circle him once in a while as though
they want him to acknowledge him. He goes as high as he can on Nana, which is
impressively high, and sits on the branch like a kid settled on the shoulder of
their older relative. He takes in the sight of the early morning sun peeking
from behind the veil of a dark curtain that's bleeding into a powder blue. It
looks like a bright yellow cookie being pulled out a sea of violets and
oranges.
Stiles calls for his magic and it comes reluctantly, and he sends it a wave of
apologies that only get’s volleyed back at him before they both come to an
understanding. His magic begins rising up in him like a hot spring before
covering him with an ethereal flush of spiraling symbols he still doesn’t
understand. His eyes warm with honey gold and the colors of the sunrise
intensifies into precious metal threads that spread out to the world to the
houses he can see and the ones he cant like a gilded spider web. He is startled
when his magic sends him waves of knowledge that explains that these are the
lines of Fate; the strings of life and all its connections between the
creatures on the world of Man. Deaton once told him that he’d be ready to
challenge the power of his magic when he was able to see this. Well he didn’t
say that exactly but his magic seems to be taking creative liberty with those
words.
He grabs a juicy peach hiding away behind a small curtain of purple-blue
leaves. He realizes with a smile that roses with translucent petals are
beginning to blossom among the branches. They have a beautiful shine to them
that almost make them look like they’re made of glass. He reaches out to touch
them and notes that they are way softer than they look. His smile turns into a
grin of pride because hedid this. He’s responsible for calling on Nana and the
beauty that comes with her. He called for the best tree he could think of and
it came. He turns the peach back and forth in his hands as his magic sends the
impression of cutting the peach into two halves before grinding them both into
two separate servings of paste. Then there’s another impression of grabbing a
handful of dirt, chewing it and then spiting it into the paste so that it can
be mixed with it.
Stiles wants to question it — he doesquestion it (because the latter half of
that was pretty gross) but his magic convenientlydecides to retreat like it
didn’t feel the wave of confusion he presses at it. He rolls his eyes but he
can’t help but to be fond of his magic because it does feel like a close
friend. Then he realizes, without even thinking about it, that his magic would
probably die to save him. This affection surges through him like a lightening
strike and his magic hesitates before it sends back an assuring touch that
confirms his thoughts and what he’s feeling. He huffs and carefully climbs down
before he faces Nana, putting his right hand to the middle of triquetra. His
magic surges up suddenly sinking into the engravings of the triquetra and the
ethereal blue of his glow lights up the symbol up.
Nana’s face appears and she chuckles. “My, you’ve got your hands full with your
magic. Tried to reach into me to see what holds me together. That almost
tickled. I politely told it no. Like a toddler trying to climb their way up to
grab the cookie jar from where it’s settled atop of the refrigerator. And
certainly enthusiastic isn’t it? You know, I got that impression every time you
showed me your thoughts. Stubborn to boot as well. No wonder it kept rising up
when you tried to fight it down.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that too. It’s a bit —” Stiles tries to think of the
right words. “— snooty? But maybe it’s different word for that.”
“Pretentious?” Nana offers.
Stiles nods. “Yeah. I think that’s it.” His magic whips around him like angry
storm controlling the direction of a raging sea. “Whoops, looks like I’ve made
it mad.”
Nana gives another hearty chuckle. “Now, what was it you needed from me,
dearie?”
“What does it mean to see the strings of Fate? Deaton called it a line but they
look more like glimmering threads of gold. What does that mean?” Stiles
questions. “Do you mind if I pace? Deaton asked me to estimate the length and
width of my backyard.”
“I don’t mind,” Nana promises. “Now what was it? Ah, yes. You wanted to know
about the meaning behind of the strings of Fate. I’ll tell you. Deaton was not
wrong in his definition. Druids actually have their own tongue, their own
language. That was probably the closest Human term he could translate it to.
Fate and Peril are ambiguous beings that spend the duration of this existing
era of the universe Humans like to call the Milky Way. They determine what has
and may happen. Now, before any of the realms were made, the Faceless took the
heart of the brightest star and formed it into Fate and the darkest heart from
the largest black hole and formed it into Peril thinking that this will keep
balance. Fate was blessed with a spinning wheel made of stars and thin yarns
made of gold to thread prosperity, peace, and love. To Peril they gave over
black grains made from the crushed ice of dead stars turned into black grains
so that Peril could sow seeds of temptation, strife, and death. They gave Peril
and Fate charge over all the realms and the destinies of every living creature
known. Peril and Fate fought with each other because each of them would try to
rule over the other and become their master.
“This caused imbalance and destruction. So the Faceless took both of their eyes
and planted them at the base of the Tree of Time. So since Fate and Peril did
not have eyes to see, they created Virtues and Vices. They are the children of
Fate and Peril. They continue the work of their parents by being diligent to
keep balance. But sometimes Vices try to overtake Virtues, and sometimes
Virtues try to overtake Vices. So Fate and Peril agreed amongst themselves that
they would gift their children with the system of numbers to implement a
hierarchy to ensure that there was not an overpopulation.” Nana continues to
say, “But as time went on, Men got greedy, Vices and Virtues started to wane
thin, and because of this Man hid all the supernatural until their children
forgot about it and turned it all into myth, bedtime stories, theories and
skepticism. That is why the supernatural creatures must hide away in fear of
death, for Man kills what they do not understand. Now this is where the system
of One through Seven comes into play. Sevens are so rare and are only formed
every millennia when there is a strong imbalance. But you must be warned,
dearie. Where there is a Seven of Virtues, you can most definitely be sure
there is a Seven of Vices.
“It is time now. Humans must understand and accept that the Old World of their
ancestors must return,” Nana goes on to say. “It is the end of Man’s dominion
in this world. All that is will fade away so that what was will return. You’ve
been given the charge of being an ambassador of peace. You must understand that
the Seven of Vices will work even harder to destroy the foundation you are
trying to build because they are diplomats of oppression. You must not lose
this battle. There is much that will be sacrificed but this is a truth of any
war. Are you ready for that? Can you handle it? This battle can start tomorrow,
or perhaps a week from now, a month, decades. Neither of knows for sure. Will
you be ready?”
Stiles is just staring at her with wide eyes, face pale with fear and
uncertainty.
“Hush your worries and quiet your fears, dearie,” Nana says in a soothing
voice. “It is not my intention to frighten you. I speak wisdom and strength
over your life. I just want you to be prepared, so that when you pass from this
life onto the next, you will be greeted by the Faceless and Fate and they will
all say ‘Well done’.”
Stiles swallows and his hands feel a little shaky.
“Oh dear. You are shaking.” Nana makes a thoughtful sound. “Do not tell anyone,
not even Deaton about what I’m going to say to you. If you so wish it, if you
want to put your mind and heart at ease, you must fast for one week. You must
pray and pray to the Faceless until they supply you with the energy you need to
go to the Nemeton. Then you must sit at the center and cry out with your mind,
heart, voice, and magic. Fate will answer your cries because you are its child
and it would never abandon its children. Fate formed you with stardust and
love. Then you were given over to the Lady of the Garden so that you may be kin
to Faerie because they are light and love.”
Stiles nods and shakes out his trembling hands.
“Go on then. I’m to understand that Deaton instructed you to crawl,” Nana
supposes before she disappears into the triquetra.
When Stiles gets over his initial shock, he sighs and gets on his hands and
does as he was asked. He hopes to god he gets it right. He would very much like
not to have to crawl again.
As soon as he’s finished, he swipes the peach he left by Nana and takes it in
the house with him (along with a handful of dirt). He does as his magic had
told him to, cutting it in to two halves, disposing of the core before grabbing
two containers. He grabs and plugs in the electronic beater before dumping both
halves into the mixing bowl.
“Okay, this is so weird,” Stiles says as he eyes the dirt in his hand. He had
scooped up a patch of it near Nana’s largest exposed root because he figured
everything around Nana must be organic in some way. Or so he is trying to
convince himself as he picks all the pieces of grass from it. “God, I really
cant believe I’m doing but — but I — I trust you. Please don’t send me on some
wild goose chance.”
His magic sends him waves of benevolent wit.
“Glad you find this funny,” Stiles mutters before he throws his head back and
takes all the dirt like he’s taking medicine and what the hell. It tastes like
the best candy he’s ever had. He tries not to freak out or swallow it even
though he really, reallywants to. He resists the urge as his magic swirls a
cloud of smugness in his head. He quickly spits the dirt in the mixing bowl
with the peaches when it’s damp enough. “Shut up,” he says, sending waves of
annoyance to his magic as he uses a napkin to scrub his mouth clean.
Mixing the peaches and the dirt into paste only takes five minutes. He grabs to
plastic containers and divides the paste evenly before he pops the top on both
of them. He checks the time and he happily notes that it’s 7:30 am. He makes
his way to the stairs and up them to tuck away into the bathroom. The first
thing he does is brush his teeth regardless of the fact that the dirt still
tastes like sweet pudding or the leftovers of cake mix in the bowl it was
stirred in.
It takes him twenty minutes to get clean and dressed. He pockets his phone and
keys before trotting down the steps with his book bag stuffed with the
runestone from his dreams, the journal of Virtues (that he’s quickly beginning
to realize is not a journal, but rather a bible), and the fruit paste he made.
He locks the door once he steps over the threshold and jogs over to his bike,
straddling it before he peddles to the antique shop.
Stiles gets there at exactly 8:15 am, and stubbornly ignores when Violet and
Garrett roll up across the street in that stupid black truck. He unlocks the
door and quickly gets inside to lock it again in case Violet or Garrett get any
ideas. He dumps his book bag in front of the glass case and spends the next
forty-five minutes cleaning up the mess he made. He’s able to finish one shelf
which means, if you add the two he did yesterday, that he’s done three so far.
He tries not to think about how there are ten bookshelves all together. He
keeps chanting ‘Only seven more to go. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize’.
His magic stays quiet through all of this and it makes him a little suspicious.
Deaton appears from what feels like thin air with a steaming cup of coffee at
exactly 9:00 am and Stiles will deny he shrieks while hurling a book at the
older man. Deaton gracefully avoids it by leaning slightly to the right and it
slaps against the wall behind him. He flips lazily through the Grimoire and
says, “Careful, Mr. Stilinski. I would hate to have to charge you for anything
you break.”
“Sorry,” Stiles says with his heart still racing. “I have something I want to
show you. I’m hoping you can explain to me what it is since, you know, you’re a
well of knowledge.”
Deaton just raises a single eyebrow. “First things first,” he says and looks at
him pointedly.
Stiles hesitates before he gives an estimate of his backyard.
Deaton says, “Roll, Mr. Stilinski.”
“What!” Stiles exclaims. “I thought that was you being funny. Like a dry sense
of humor funny. You’re not really going to make me roll around like an idiot?
Please.”
Deaton just calmly takes a long sip of his coffee.
Stiles grumbles before he leans down to empty the contents of his book bag. “So
this journal you gave me. You said it was a journal, and the first time I read
it, it didn’t read like a journal. There were just scriptures in it. It reads
like a bible.”
“I’m happy you finally came to that conclusion,” Deaton responds and he slaps
the Grimoire shut when he notices Stiles trying and failing to glance subtly at
the contents. “Just as Humans have their bibles, each of the supernatural
community have their own; some written and other verbally passed down.”
“Oh.” Stiles takes that into consideration. “So, should I start reading it like
a bible? Where would I start?”
“As we do with all things. From the beginning,” Deaton answers. “In fact, I
would like you to read the first thirty pages.”
Stiles makes a face. “Do I need to recite to you what I learned?”
“That is your choice. I am a Druid, not a Virtue. This is something that only
the Mother Queen can educate you on. She is spirit, and so that makes her both
Preacher and Prophet. I cannot teach you to pray or how to pray, but she can.
She knows of what is required of Virtues, and in my understanding is that
Virtues are the children of Fate.”
“Oh! That reminds me. I never mentioned that I’ve been seeing the threads of
Fate. Well then again, I kind of didn’t want to at first because of what it
would mean. But now I am ready to learn about it and become who I truly am.
Maybe you can tell me more about that? Why I see those? What’s the purpose of
them? I saw them when I was watching the sunrise and it looked like they were
coming from the Sun. Is that special? I think it means something special. But
how could I know, you know? Meanwhile my magic is telling me to grind up a
peach into paste and chew on dirtand mix it together. Then I have to divide it
evenly, but I’m like, well what exactly am I supposed to do with that? But my
magic won’t tell me. Nana agreed with me that it’s kind of pretentious.”
His magic bristles.
Stiles laughs. “Yeah its pretty annoyed with me right now, um —” He fidgets
sheepishly. “What were we talking about?”
“Your education on the religion of Virtues. The Mother Queen can instruct you
on this matter,” Deaton responds, unruffled. He lifts his cup of coffee to his
mouth and takes a quick sip. “Legend decrees that Fate sealed itself in the
glory and fire of the Sun; while Peril sealed itself in the cold and isolation
of the Moon. It’s also said that Peril is responsible for the ever-changing
face of the moon, which dictates the will, power, and influence it has over
nature. Vices are able to see glittering clouds of the black grain of Peril and
again, Virtues can see the interwoven gold strings of Fate.”
“Yeah I wondered about that. I saw Paige, this girl I used to know, but I don’t
mean that she’s dead, just that she’s not here, in state.” Stiles shakes his
head. “Anyway I saw her thread but it was connected to Kate, which was weird
because they hated each other.”
“But they did interact,” Deaton states as a fact rather than a question.
Stiles nods.
“Whenever we talk to someone, glance at, pass on the street, we become
connected. That’s the best I can translate from my native tongue. You will have
to continue your studies with the bible and consult with the Mother Queen,”
Deaton advises. “Again, I do not have much expertise in that subject.”
Stiles nods again.
“As for the fruit paste,” Deaton goes on to say. He purposefully lifts his mug
of coffee and takes a slow sip as Stiles fidgets. He lowers it and says,
“Obviously you are meant to feed it to someone who is unwell. Two people it
would seem. Can you think of anyone who would need such an aid currently?”
Stiles immediately thinks of Danny and Lydia, likes it’s a vision and he gets
breathless with hope he tries not to feel. Because if this comes to nothing
he’ll be crushed. He hates that feeling because it’s the worst in the world.
Deaton takes another sip of his coffee and stares at him with this look of
knowing. It’s kind of scary and cool.
“One last thing,” Stiles announces as he shakes himself out of his thoughts.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a runestone last time I checked,” Deaton says with a placid expression
and yeah, he has a dry sense of humor. “You want to know the meaning behind it,
I gather.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Stiles promises.
Deaton retrieves a monocle from his pocket and picks up the runestone and
studies it quietly.
Stiles focuses on the sound of the clocks chiming on the walls so that he
doesn’t fidget. “So…” He tries to be as delicate about this as possible. “Is
Ms. Morrell really your sister? I’m guessing not because I know that Druids
keep it to just having one child.”
Deaton just makes a thoughtful sound.
Stiles continues, “She was feeding pills to her patients that were laced with
mistletoe. In my book, that’s really not a good thing. Especially since one of
those patients was my cousin.”
Deaton just makes another thoughtful sound.
“Did you know? I know you can be all vague and mysterious like Batman, but I
just feel like maybe you could have mentioned this. Possibly.” Stiles waits for
his response. “Please say something.”
“She is not my sister by blood but my culture dictates that I am to acknowledge
her as one since we are not in an intimate relationship,” Deaton eventually
explains. “Therefore she is not mine and I am not hers. When two gather
together to be of one flesh, they dictate what is best for the other and their
bond. Mr. Stilinski, you must understand that I cannot impede on her plans, as
she cannot with mine. It is against my culture’s law for a Druid to kill
another. My judgment on the matter is not unbiased. In times past, each Druid
aligned their lives with either a Virtue or a Vice to teach them what would be
required of them in this world. We choose our own paths as Druids, and there is
one rule we cannot escape. We cannot kill any living creature. We will die
otherwise.”
“But — but her parents!” Stiles exclaims.
“There are other ways of killing,” Deaton calmly remarks. “I believe most would
call it assassination. As I am a doctor, she is a general; she follows the
doctrines of war. Again, as I’ve stated, we choose our own path. She is walking
the way of the gallows. It is my choice to travel down the road of morality.
It’s very simple: one cannot serve two masters. There is no back and forth.
Once you start the trail, there is no going back. There is no cheating. The
road will not change but the scenery may.”
Stiles does his best to swallow that information and understand what it
implies.
“Mr. Stilinski, what do you know about chess?” Deaton says suddenly as he sits
the runestone on the cover of the Grimoire and pulls out a chessboard and sets
it up.
“Not very much,” Stiles says as he watches the older man put the pieces in the
right place. “I just look at it and just know. I win no matter what it is. I’ve
always been that way.”
“Chess is a game,” Deaton says and uses his hands to lean against the edge of
the glass case. “Why do you think Virtues are so good at them? Games are
supposed to be a devices of chance, and of fortune, as it can go either way.”
“Instinct,” Stiles remarks as he lifts his right hand and begins to chew on his
thumbnail. “I can feel what needs to happen and how to get there.”
“What is on the chessboard?” Deaton questions without looking down as he stares
at the younger man. “Outside of the fact that there are 64 squares arranged in
an eight-by-eight grid with sixteen pieces.  
“Pawns. Rooks. Knights. Bishop. King. Queen.” Stiles bites on his thumbnail. “I
know the objective is to checkmate.”
“There are rules,” Deaton says, interceding. “What does this game imitate?”
“Life,” Stiles answers, pure instinct.
“Look at the board,” Deaton instructs and he watches as the younger man does.
“What piece are you, Mr. Stilinski.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
“I don’t. I don’t know.”
“Which piece are you, Mr. Stilinski?” Deaton persists. “I know what piece I am.
I am the Rook along with the Mother Queen.” He knocks those over. “I’ll ask you
again. What piece are you?”
Stiles frowns stubbornly for a moment before he reaches out and knocks the King
over. “There. That’s what you want me to pick, right?”
“You picked it, Mr. Stilinski. I had no influence on it. You could have picked
any other piece. The Pawn. The Rook. The Knight. The Queen.” Deaton looks at
him intuitively. “Youpicked the King. What did I tell you?”
Stiles jerks at that and is reminded of Lydia’s words.
“We make our own choices,” Deaton goes on to say, smoothly overlooking his
reaction. “Subconsciously you know that you are the King. Deny it all you wish,
but youunderstand the truth.”
“That what? That I’m the most important piece since I’m a Virtue,” Stiles
provides and sighs. “If you and Nana are my Rooks, and I’m the King. Who’s my
Queen?”
Deaton gives him a knowing look. “Why do you ask questions you already know the
answer to?”
Stiles flushes, caught. That is his worst habit. “Lydia. Lydia is my Queen.” He
waits a moment after he knocks the piece over. He gets serious about it because
there is an important message behind this. “My dad and Talia are my Bishops.”
He knocks those pieces over. “Peter and Kate are my Knights.” He knocks those
pieces over as well. “The Pawns are — are — I feel bad for saying it like
that.”
“Understood. Society has warped the meaning behind being a Pawn,” Deaton
comments. “It is not always negative. Think about it. Pawns do all they can to
help the cause, which is to protect the King. Go on,” he encourages.
“Continue.”
Stiles takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales through his mouth. He
listens to his magic, which is curled up in his gut. “Mayor Argent. Violet and
Garrett. They call it protecting an investment.” He knocks over three pieces.
“Deucalion, in a weird creepy evil way. He didn’t try to kill me. He wanted to
see what I could do because he’s working with Mayor Argent and he wanted to be
sure that Mayor Argent wasn’t wasting his time.” He knocks over another. He has
four left. “Kira, though I’m not really sure really at this point, so maybe
Cora.” He knocks the piece over. “Laura.” He knocks over another piece. There
are two left. “I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Yes you can,” Deaton emphasizes with a considering gaze.
Stiles inhales and exhales. He closes his eyes as his cheeks burn. “Derek.” He
blindly knocks the piece over. “Isaac.” He knocks the last piece over.
Deaton nods once in approval.
“You know that was mortifying for me, right?” Stiles grumbles as he bites his
fingernails.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Deaton responds coolly. “Now focus on the
other side.”
Stiles drops his hands and chews on his bottom lip.
“What stands out to you?” Deaton questions.
“Um.” Stiles tries to think. “It’s a mirror to the other side.”
“Which would mean?” Deaton presses.
“The King is the Benefactor,” Stiles says but frowns when the older doesn’t
touch the piece. “What? What did I do wrong?”
“It’s a mirror, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton stresses.
Stiles feels his heart skip a beat. “The King is a Vice,” he says faintly as he
gets a little sick. “Oh my god.The Benefactor is a Vice.”
“Excellent deduction,” Deaton remarks dryly. “There are moves and countermoves.
Life is the game and a Vice and Virtue are maneuvering through it.” He
indicates to the board again. “If the Benefactor is a Vice and the King. Then
the Rooks?”
“I don’t know. Well, I do.I know that Ms. Morrell is a Rook. That’s the only
thing I’m sure of,” Stiles admits.
“Try again,” Deaton directs, straightening. “Gold coin.”
Stiles gets hit with a memory. “Jezebel. But I haven’t — I haven’t seen her in
forever.”
“How would you know, Mr. Stilinski? Demons are known to take many forms, to
posses any living creature. How would you know?” Deaton insists.
“I wouldn’t,” Stiles confesses. “I know one pawn is Meredith Walker, and
another is probably my uncle.” He knocks two over. “But this is really all I
know.”
“Then what is our goal?”
“To find out.”
“How do we do that?”
“Play the game well. You’re going to teach me how to play the game well, so I
don’t lose anything.”
Deaton gives another short nod. “This runestone is meant for fertility.”
“Uh.” Stiles blushes at the implications.
“What ever you are thinking, it is wrong.” Deaton grabs the runestone and hands
it over. “You must work on your garden first. Then you may give life to a
Conduit of your choice.”
“You mean —” Stiles gets giddy with the feeling and his magic agrees with its
own excitement, and there’s a little bit of longing there. “— I get to choose
whoever I want. Whatever I want?”
Deaton gives a slow nod of meaning. Then he says, “Keep it safe. In the wrong
hands it can create a doorway that can never be closed. Here’s a printed
schedule for the month of May, which starts next Monday. Your father informed
me of your driver’s education course. I have two copies. You may choose to
continue our work after your class. Otherwise, if you would like to start
earlier to have the rest of the day after class, you can choose to do so.” He
waits until the younger man indicates to the schedule that starts earlier, and
Deaton slides the schedule across the glass. “Same rules apply, only now we
start at six in the morning, and we finish at nine. That gives you enough time
to make it to your class by ten.”
Stiles nods rapidly and takes the schedule to file it away in his book bag.
“And when can I — how long after — I couldn’t do it sooner? The Conduit?”
“Your garden comes first. After that, you’ll know when it is time.” Deaton
grabs the Grimoire and his empty mug. “You may continue. Finish as much as you
can by twelve.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, dejected. He squeezes the runestone in his hand before
putting it away with his bible and the containers of fruit paste.
With a sigh, he makes his way to the mess of books and bookshelves to get to
work.
                                      ---
Beacon Hills Hospital feels different than yesterday. Stiles notes with some
curiosity that there oncoming storm clouds, which means he can’t stay too long,
otherwise he’ll be caught in it. He wonders for a brief moment if he could be
immune from getting struck by lightening if he were to peddle around during a
storm. He’s not going to push his luck however. Deaton’s schedule shows how
they will proceed with their sessions this week. It looks like he’ll be going
there straight after school, at least for this last week of school.
Stiles approaches the reception area and is a little disappointed to see that
Melissa is not manning the u-shaped desk. It’s the nurse with the white hijab.
She’s wearing some cotton candy pink scrubs and her hijab is a soft duck
yellow. She smiles at him as he walks over to the counter. He notices her
nametag says ‘Ghaaliya’ and he wonders over how it’s pronounced because it
looks pretty.
“Visiting?” Ghaaliya says with her lovely dark eyes and perfect eyebrows. She
laughs suddenly. “Well I wouldn’t call them perfect.But I will take the
compliment about my eyes.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles groans as his cheeks get rosy. “I said that out loud,
didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Ghaaliya smirks. “They were really nice compliments. But I’m engaged to
the prettiest woman in the world, and plus you’re too young for me. What’s your
name, sweetheart?”
Stiles mumbles his name, blush still prominent across his face.
Ghaaliya just scribbles it out with an amused grin before handing it over.
“Anyone in particular you’re visiting?”
“Yeah, my friend Danny and my cousin Lydia,” Stiles says, thankfully over his
initial embarrassment. “I know where to go,” he promises.
“Great.” Ghaaliya perks up and her face brightens as she looks at something
over his shoulder.
Stiles turns to see Jennifer Blake, Isaac’s homeroom teacher, approach the
counter. She looks a little flushed and out of breath. “Sorry. Sorry. I swear I
have a good reason for being late. I was having this conference with Erica and
Malia about how they’ve been fighting each other. Which I don’t understand
because they used to be thick as thieves and now they just have it out for each
other. It’s becoming a realproblem. I constantly have to pull them aside and
give them detention. And that just leads to more problems when —”
Ghaaliya leans over the counter to kiss her soundly on the mouth to stop her
rambling and pulls back with a grin. “I’ll forgive you this time. You have one
more strike,” she warns playfully.
“I’ll give you one more strike,” Jennifer says with a sultry voice. Then she
turns to see Stiles standing there. “Holy hell. Hello, Stiles.” She indicates
to him, still out of breath as her hand slaps down on her leg. She scrunches
her nose with this really dorky but pretty expression. “I am so sorry. That was
completely inappropriate. If I’d known you were standing there —”
“Uh. It’s okay,” Stiles squeaks, face burning with his blush. He will neverlook
at his brother’s homeroom teacher the same way again.
“How’s Isaac?” Jennifer asks, trying her best to be casual. “He talks so much
about you. You should just see the look in his eyes. I mean that is pure,
genuine love. It’s heartbreaking. And oh you should have been there for the
presentations they did on who were the greatest influences in their lives, and
he made this cute like, um, god I can’t even think of what it’s called. Ugh I
hate this cause now I’m going to obsess over it. But anyway, he brought this
like board thingy, you know the kind. The one with the uh — the uh — you know.”
She stops and closes her eyes like she’s waiting for a blow that never comes as
she points her fingers like she’s will her mind to remember. “The thing! The
thing kidsuse to present their experiment at the science fair. It’s like this
thing — well anyway, he had all your pictures and I got diabetes from all the
uh —” She stops and starts snapping her finger trying to remember as she looks
to Ghaaliya.
“Cuteness,” Ghaaliya calmly replies with this serene but fond look on her face.
She seems very used to her fiancée’s rambling. “Honey. I think he got the
point. He didn’t come here to hear you go on and on about his brother.”
“Right.” Jennifer scrunches her face and presses her hand to her temple before
pulling it away like a weird salute. She opens her eyes and says, “I am so
sorry. I’ve always been a motor mouth. Thank god I’m about to marry someone who
can put up with that.”
“It’s still touch and go.” Ghaaliya laughs when Jennifer slaps the side of her
arm playfully.
“I’ll just — yeah. I’m gonna go and walk in a direction.” Stiles slowly backs
away before spinning on his heel to head towards the elevator.
“Sorry!” Jennifer calls out and she has the good graces to wait until he’s a
little further away to laugh with her fiancée.
Yup. That’s — yeah. Stiles will make sure to avoid any of Isaac’s open houses
unless his brother begs and he really hopes it doesn’t have to come down to it.
He does take the time to text Isaac, even though he knows he’s out on a lake
with no cell reception, saying:
Awwww. My baby bro did a presentation on me??? Why didn’t you tell me! I would
have dropped everything to be there. :3
Stiles pockets his phone and carries his book bag with one strap on his right
shoulder. He climbs into the elevator and pushes for the 3rd floor. He sighs
and drums his fingers against the strap of his backpack. Horrible elevator
music is playing and Stiles watching the numbers move slowly. The lights begin
to flicker wildly and Stiles frowns as a chill rides up his spine. He jerks
when he feels a light touch graze the back of his neck. When he looks at the
silver double doors in front of him, he sees the reflection of Lydia’s smirking
doppelgänger but it’s gone with the next flicker of lights.
His heart is still racing with confusion when goes to Danny’s room, trying to
shake off his fear, and steps in his room, looking up and down the hallway
before he shuts the door gently and makes this as swift as possible. He unzips
his bag and fishes for one of the containers with fruit paste. He walks over
and dumps his bag on a nearby chair.
“Okay. Time to stop…time. That was so lame, thank god no one was here to hear
it. Well, besides you, Danny, but I trust you wont say anything so here we go.”
Stiles starts to breathe in through his nose and out of his mouth as he walks
to the left side of Danny’s bed. He places his hand on Danny’s wrist, right on
his pulse. He closes his eyes, breathes in through in his nose and out through
his mouth; it separates his lips for every moment he does this until his lungs
are empty and hollow. This keeps happening over and over again until the motion
becomes louder. He starts to hear the beeps and whirrs of the machines
monitoring Danny’s vital sound. He can hear the static flickering of the lights
over head. A voice through the hospital speakers that starts to slow down,
lowering tenors more and more until it stops. The clock on the wall tick, tick,
ticks until it becomes tick…tick…tick. Then one last tick.
He can hear the steady thump of Danny’s heart. The blood rushing through his
veins, swirling around with the liquid of the IV, and the breathing tubes
making his lungs expand and then deflate. Then there’s quiet pulse of his
muscles and the fine hairs on his body. The steady beat of electrical currents
zapping back and forth in the nerves of his brain. He pays attention to that
and where these different synapses go. He hones in on it. It’s like listening
to fireworks from underwater. He counts the pops, listens for the irregularity
and when he finds what he’s looking for, the world stops. His eyes grow warm as
they bleed into honey gold and he lets the glow overtake him as he magic rises
up.
There is only so much we can do. Do not waste me.
He’s my friend. It’s not a waste.
As you wish.
Stiles sighs at his pretentious magic and pops the top open from the container
and gently opens Danny’s mouth, scoops it up with two glowing fingers and
presses it to his tongue until he feels muscle tremble. He uses his magic to
guide the paste down as best as he can. He’s still new to this and he waits a
moment until his magic withdraws and he closes Danny’s jaw.
If you were more educated, you would know what prayer to recite.
Luckily I have you to help my ignorance.
You’re mocking me. I wont allow it. Disrespectful Faerie.
Stuck up Ethereal.
I don’t have time for your manners. Are you done with me? I’d like to retreat
seeing as I prefer my own company.
Do what you wish. I don’t care.
His magic sends him powerful waves of its irritation and it furls down deep
within his stomach and stays there. It’s a little uncomfortable and new. He
wonders if this is what pregnancy feels like. His magic seems amused by that
thought and he’s forced to rolls his eyes and step back into time. He lets it
all go and his glow retreats as he glances at the clock. It’s been only a
minute. Deaton would disapprove, of course.
Stiles turns to look at Danny and is surprised to see tears leaking from the
corners of his eyes down to his temple and then to his ears. He smiles in
amazement as Danny begins to twitch like he’s becoming self-aware. But that’s
all that happens for a moment. Then he gets the impression from his magic that
it will take over a week for the remedy to finish its work and he gets a little
teary-eyed as he thinks ‘I did that. I’ve done some good’ and his magic is
entertained. He jerks in surprise when it curls around his heart with the kind
of affection that says ‘Well done’.
Stiles laughs wetly. “I thought you were annoyed with me.”
His magic doesn’t respond for a moment and when it does there’s this impression
of annoyance that’s still wrapped in the purple paper of love.
“I understand,” he says, mostly to himself. “Me too.”
Danny’s vital signs begin to change in slow increments and Stiles feels
comfortable enough to walk away. He runs right into Jackson, who scowls and
quickly reaches out to grab Stiles by the front of his shirt and yank him back
up before he can fall.
“Clumsy as ever,” Jackson notes with an arrogant smirk.
“Hello, Jackson. It’s so good to see you too. Why yes. I am doing well. Okay,
I’ll send your regards to my family. You take it easy,” Stiles sarcastically
rambles.
Jackson’s eyebrow twitches in annoyance and he looks at Stiles with the same
placid expression Peter wears when he refuses acknowledge that someone has
gotten under his skin. “What are you doing here anyway, Stilinski?” he asks.
“He’s my friend too, Jackson. I visit as much as I can and I talk to him,”
Stiles explains, not unkindly. “Scott says you think talking to him is what’s
best. So I’m following your lead because I believe what you do. He’ll wake up.”
Jackson locks his jaw and his arrogance and pride gets the best of him. He
doesn’t show any gratitude but Stiles knows its there. He keeps a grim frown
and just nods shortly at Stiles before pushing past him.
Stiles begins to realize that Jackson is holding a weathered copy of Pride and
Prejudice, and he knows without knowing that it’s both of their favorite book.
Allison appears a moment later with a beautifully dimpled smile and she
instantly grabs Stiles into a hug. “It feels like it’s been forever. I’m so
surprised to see you here. Are you here to see Danny?”
Stiles nods. “And Lydia.”
Allison brightens. “Oh! I was just on my way. I was going to say a quick hello
to Danny and Jackson. Wait for me?”
“Sure,” Stiles says and watches her walk over to Danny and whisper something
before she gives him a kiss on the cheek. Then she turns and rubs her knuckles
into Jackson’s head, laughing as she hops away when he tries to bite her side.
Allison walks past and yelps when Jackson smacks her on the ass and she hits
his shoulder over and over as he laughs. She smiles and rolls her eyes like
there are no hard feelings. Then she walks up to Stiles and energetically says,
“Okay. Ready.”
Together they walk to the psych ward and the agender receptionist makes a
gesture to a sign that says their belongings will be confiscated for the safety
of the patients.
So Stiles thinks long and hard before he says, “Hey Allison, just go on ahead
of me. I need to put some more stuff away.”
“Okay, sure.” Allison looks uncertain but she walks through the door leading to
the visitor’s lounge.
Stiles maintains his carefree smile until he’s sure she’s gone. Then it drops
and looks at the ambiguous receptionist. “How much —” he leans in to look at
the nametag. “— Pluto? That can’t be your real name.”
“So people say whenever I introduce myself,” Pluto says, looking grim. “How
much what?”
“I have some food I want to give my cousin. How much does it costto give it to
her?” Stiles says with a meaningful look.
Pluto glances around before saying, “One hundred.”
“In this economy? Friend, let’s be realistic here,” Stiles scoffs.
Pluto scowls. “Don’t call me friend, buddy. Ninety.”
“Try again. Forty.”
“Eighty.”
“Forty-five.”
“Fifty. Wait. Shit.”
“It’s a deal!” Stiles exclaims and slides a fifty dollar bill across the
counter. It’s all of his allowance, but he can earn that back in no time.
“I’ll bring it too you. Get outta here, kid,” Pluto huffs, still vexed. “Go
on.”
“Thanks, Pluto.” Stiles gives a sloppy salute with a sarcastic smile that’s all
teeth. He continues on until he finds Lydia and Allison sitting across from
each other at a table. As he gets closer, he wonders if he should even be
surprised to find Lydia playing chess with Allison.
“Pull up a seat. Lydia is kicking my ass,” Allison chirps happily with one of
her beautiful dimpled smiles.
Lydia is fiddling with the Queen, pulling it close so she can examine it before
she turns her gaze on Stiles. “You understand now, don’t you?”
Stiles nods silently.
“You’ve got more to learn,” Lydia continues, turning away to knock over the
King.
Allison looks between them with a confused frown.
“Brush my hair please,” Lydia asks, looking at neither one of them but the
chessboard.
Allison takes the lead, standing up to walk past her best friend.
Lydia’s right hand shoots out and she wraps her fingers around the other girl’s
left wrist. Her lips quiver as tears flow down her cheeks. Her shoulders are
shaking.
“Lydia?” Allison sounds concerned and she faces the strawberry-blonde haired
girl. She puts her hand over Lydia’s hand where she’s clutching her with a
trembling hand.
Lydia tries to attempt a smile, but she makes it look like it’s painfully
forced. “Do it how you used to, okay? And grab me some napkins. Please.”
The corner of Allison’s mouth slouches further with concern but she nods.
“Sure, Lydia. Anything you want.”
Lydia’s hand goes slack and she pulls up her legs so she can hug her knees. She
rocks and rocks while staring at the King on the opposite of the board.
Stiles watches as Allison walks over to the bookshelves full of product bins
that are full of lipstick, nail polish, games, magazines, coloring books,
crayons, markers, jars of glitter and sequins, different colored feathers and
cotton balls, and etcetera.
“It’s gross, you know.” Lydia continues to rock, never lifting her eyes from
the board as her body shakes like she’s freezing. She is wearing that paper
gown shirt and drawstring pants with bare feet. “Making us eat your spit.”
Stiles frowns for a second in confusion before it hits him. He laughs without
meaning to. “Don’t blame me. My magic told me.”
Lydia’s lips twitch with an almost smile and Stiles feels ready to dance around
because he did that. She says, “Danny’s getting better.”
Stiles doesn’t overlook that she states it as a fact. “He is. It’ll take a
week.”
Lydia drops her forehead to her knees and sobs quietly.
Allison is there before Stiles has the chance even to rise out of his seat. She
glances at him. “Stiles, what did you say? She never cries like this unless…”
“No, I get it,” Stiles replies because he does but that doesn’t change the
minor heartache at the implication. “We were talking about Danny.”
“Oh.” Allison relaxes the disapproving frown she has going. She takes a deep
breath before she cheers up. “I have a soft bristle brush. I know you don’t
like anything but that. I also got some yellow polish. Maybe I can paint all
your nails. Toes and fingers.”
Stiles rises to grab a tissue box just as Allison put the napkins Lydia asked
for on the table in front of her.
“He’ll never walk again. He’ll never hear again. But he will live.” Lydia
mumbles this over and over before lifting her head. Her cheeks are flushed and
wet from crying. She looks at him with hollow eyes as Allison softly brushes
her hair. “You don’t know how to pray yet.”
“I don’t take Stiles as the religious type, Lyds,” Allison remarks with a
bemused grin as she parts Lydia’s hair in sections to make untangling her hair
easier.
“Deaton says Nana will teach me how to,” Stiles assures and tries to pretend
not to notice the confused look Allison sends him. “She can — she can teach you
too, I think.”
Lydia shakes her head. “Aunt Lorraine is the only one who can. She understands.
She knows because we are alike.”
“Lyds, you haven’t seen your aunt since you were in third grade,” Allison
points out, not unkindly.
“She’ll come back,” Lydia says, staring at him like she’s looking into him.
“She’ll come if we call.”
Stiles wonders over that. “Does she have —”
Lydia nods twice with a firm surety. “Like me. Like you. Who we are, she is as
well.”
“Ah.” Stiles suddenly recalls his mother’s old photos. There was an older woman
in most of them, and she looked almost like the spitting image of Lydia. “You
need to eat it.”
“I know,” Lydia replies. “I know what to do, Stiles. I saw it before you.”
Allison looks concerned. “Lydia, have you not been eating?”
“I’m disturbed, Ally. Not insane. The food here is passable,” Lydia remarks,
and she sounds so much like the old her. The person she was before all of this.
Allison beams like she’s thinking the same thing.
Pluto comes and throws a look at Stiles while the container of fruit paste is
placed before Lydia. “I hope you know I’m risking my job over this.” Then makes
a brisk exit.
Lydia picks it up and pops the top off, taking a deep inhale before she closes
her eyes.
“That smells delicious,” Allis says as she finishes the last section of Lydia’s
hair. “Do you think —”
“No.” Lydia doesn’t even open her eyes as she speaks over it in a quiet whisper
as though she’s praying.
Stiles watches as she opens her eyes and scoops up the paste with her index and
middle fingers to place it on her tongue.
Lydia does this over and over likes it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
Silent tears slide down her face as she sucks her fingers clean when she
finishes.
“Why is it that you make her cry in some kind of way?” Allison questions, but
it’s in a teasing jovial manner. She starts braiding her best friend’s hair
into a bun at the base of her neck.
“Talent of mine, I guess,” Stiles supposes quietly, mostly to himself as he
watches his cousin close.
“They say I’m showing positive improvement since I’ve been here,” Lydia
comments as she puts the lid back on the now empty container. “They want to put
me on antidepressants and antipsychotics. If my improvement continues, they’ll
let me go by the end of this week.”
“That’s great!” Allison exclaims with excitement. “We can do what I always talk
to you about. You can come stay with my mom and me. She okayed it a long time
ago, but I want to reiterate. My Aunt Kate will be staying in the two bedroom
condo above us with her friend Laura, but we can share a room.” She says it
like a promise.
Lydia nods like she’s not even all the way here mentally.
“What will you do?” Stiles asks. “What do you think about the medications?”
“Ally, go grab some of the glitter polish,” Lydia replies instead. “The black
one.”
“Sure,” Allison and pins the bun. She walks away.
Lydia waits until she’s far enough to say, “They won’t work. You and I both
know this. I agreed and said whatever gets me out of here faster. I’m supposed
to start tomorrow.”
“Won’t they be watching to make sure you take it?” Stiles questions.
Lydia looks at him like he’s an idiot.
“What?” Stiles says as he squirms.
Lydia looks away from him. “What did you think the paste was for, Stiles?”
“Ah.” Stiles blushes in embarrassment and pride as his magic churns in his gut
with impressions of certain faith. “Happy to be of service.”
“Stay humble or I will slap you,” Lydia retorts immediately and goes quiet when
Allison returns. “Yes.”
“What?” Allison is shaking both bottles of nail polish. “Yes to what?”
“Staying with —” Lydia looks like she’s trying to push the words out. “— I want
that too.”
Allison smiles like she’s got her Christmas and birthday gifts at the same time
and she gives her best friend a hug.
Lydia stiffens but she doesn’t push the brunette away. When Allison pulls
away Lydia starts to rock again and mumble to herself as she stares at the
chessboard before she knocks over the pieces one by one.
Stiles doesn’t ask why. He’s too afraid of the answer.
                                      ---
Isaac is mowing the lawn when Stiles rolls up to the house on his bike. For
some reason the sky has cleared since he’s left the hospital.
“Did you get my text?” are the first words out of Stiles’s mouth.
Isaac makes this indication that he can’t hear Stiles and points to the
lawnmower.
Stiles gives a breathy laugh. “You little shrub. I know you can totally hear
me.”
Isaac shrugs and just continues to mow.
Stiles drags his bike over to the garage and drops it on the driveway in front
of his dad’s squad car. He turns and notices this incredibly sleek looking dark
blue mustang convertible parked at the curb. He frowns in wonder and walks
around the lawn and up the walkway to the porch steps and through the already
opened front door. His nose is immediately hit with the smell of fish, and
there’s a fan pointed to the front door in an attempt to flush the smell out.
“Hey, dad. Why —” Stiles stops dead when he sees his dad sitting at the table
with Derek Sr. cleaning and gutting the fish with their bare hands.
Derek is manning the stove, rolling the fish in flower and corn meal so he can
carefully drop it in the boiling pot of oil.
Stiles gives them all a disapproving look. “Dad, I said no fried food. Don’t
think that because we have company over you can just —”
“Cool your jets, son. Isaac has volunteered to make some kind of spinach and
cauliflower thing, I don’t know, I stop listening as soon as he said spinach,”
the sheriff answers with any easygoing attitude.
Derek Sr. laughs along with his son.
Stiles smiles a little. “No one says ‘cool your jets’ anymore, dad.”
“Well that’s not exactly true,” Derek Sr. voices. “As long as your father
continues to say it, then it will never die.”
“Lame,” Stiles and Derek say at the exact same time before looking at each
other with a grin and nod like they approve of the other’s answer.
“Teenagers,” his dad mumbles and Derek Sr. makes a sound of agreement. “Start
on that garage, Stiles. I’m sure you can get plenty done before dinner is
ready.”
“It’s four in the afternoon! Who has dinner at that time?” Stiles complains.
“Technically this wont be done until about six,” Derek remarks unhelpfully.
Stiles just shoots him a mean look.
Derek gives him a slow and lazy smile that is so goddamn gorgeous that it’s not
even fair.
Stiles turns away quickly so they don’t see his flush.
Derek Sr. and his dad share a chuckle in the way adults do when they understand
something better than their younger counterparts.
Stiles will deny to his last breath that he flees at that point.
Isaac appears from up the side of the house where the garage is, sweating
heavily. “How is it that the backyard never needs to be mowed? It’s like it
stops on both sides where the backyard starts.”
Stiles grins with pride. “I think that’s all me.”
“I don’t believe you. That started when Nana appeared. That’s got nothing to do
with you,” Isaac scoffs as he takes off the thick garden gloves off before
using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“Well who madeNana? I did!” Stiles points out.
Isaac gives him a look. “She said you called her. That’s not the same thing as
making. If she’s the oldest woodland spirit that would mean that you were just
as —”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles interjects, waving his hand like he’s trying to shoo away
a fly. “My point still stands.”
“Whatever,” Isaac retorts. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Drink the water coming out of the showerhead,” Stiles suggest with a
meaningful look.
Isaac gives him a dry look. “Maybe I’ll come hug you. You owe me 498 anyway.”
“Oh gross, don’t even — Isaac, I swear!” Stiles shrieks as he runs around their
dad’s squad car.
Isaac laughs and gives up the chase as he makes his way to the house.
“Shouldn’t you be cleaning the garage?”
Stiles pushes the button for the garage door to lift and he replies, “Shouldn’t
you be writing a research paper about how you hero-worship me.”
Isaac stumbles and glares viciously when Stiles laughs loudly like he might
choke. Isaac looks like he wishes Stiles would and he stomps up the porch steps
to disappear into the house.
Stiles groans when he realizes how messy the garage is. This is like the
antique shop all over (which he still hasn’t finished) and he sighs. He calls
for his magic to see if he can do some levitation or something.
His magic seems tickled but completely unwilling to aid him in this endeavor.
Stiles thinks of every insult he knows and directs it as his magic as he gets
to work.
                                      ---
Two hours later, Isaac is calling Stiles into the house by informing him that
dinner is almost ready. He got that impression when he could smell the fish,
even at this distance. He’s only gotten half of the garage organized. He scrubs
his ever-growing hair with interlocked fingers before dropping them to his
sides with a tired sigh. He’s extremely hungry too. Its only now that he
realized that he hasn’t eaten all day.
He happily trots to the house and once he’s inside he runs up the stairs to
take the fastest shower in the world to wash all the sweat, dust, and grime off
of him. He changes into some clean clothes before he gallops down the steps and
to the dinner table where his plate is waiting for him by Isaac.
Their dad and Derek Sr. are sitting at the heads of the table while Derek is
sitting across from him, using a fork to poke at his salad.
Stiles snorts quietly and grabs the salad bowl to serve himself and dumping a
little more on everyone’s plate.
His dad, Isaac, and Derek make annoyed sounds.
Derek Sr. just looks amused and happily takes the additional salad without
complaint.
Isaac drowns his with ranch and hands it to Derek when he makes an indication
he wants it too so he can drown his salad in ranch dressing with just as
much desperate enthusiasm.
Stiles looks at his dad sternly when he tries to grab the ranch dressing and
Stiles quickly swaps it out for balsamic vinegar dressing.
His dad sighs but pours it over salad with resignation.
Stiles just grins triumphantly and turns his gaze to Derek who’s looking at him
with an expression he can’t even name. He chews on the side on his bottom and
flushes when Derek tracks the movement with the concentrated intensity that
Stiles has always found attractive. He squirms and tries not to feel the swirl
of curiosity his magic sends in minor waves. He pushes is down with a
resounding ‘no absolutely not’ but his magic ignores him and looks like it
wants to find and figure Derek out.
“Can we eat some fish now?” Isaac asks aloud, fidgeting anxiously.
Stiles pulls his gaze from Derek to look at his little brother with a grin. “No
fish until I finish eating.”
“Well eatand stop staring at Derek,” Isaac complains boldly.
Both Derek and Stiles flush.
“Settle down, son,” their dad says but he looks just as tickled as Derek Sr.
is.
Derek Sr. says something under his breath and Derek makes a strangled sound as
his face gets darker with his flush.
“Dad!” Derek hisses. “Please stop. I’m going to be sick.”
“Serves you right,” Derek Sr. counters with normal volume. “Why don’t you tend
to the food? Stiles looks to be just about done.”
Stiles puts the last of his salad in his mouth. He likes to eat it with only
water, just in case there’s some kind of coconut oil in any of the salad
dressings. That’s not something he wants to repeat, especially since it made
both his mom and dad freak. Well, that and the fact that they didn’t even know
he was allergic to anything until that moment.
Isaac squirms in his seat as he tracks Derek’s every move like a cat with some
yarn.
Stiles snorts and grabs the glass pitcher of lemonade to pour himself a cup,
not minding when a few lemon slices fall in his cup.
Isaac kicks him without taking his eyes off of Derek (who serves their dad and
Derek Sr. first out of respect) and tries to look like he didn’t even do it.
Stiles rubs his calf and glares at his brother, heavily considering issuing a
complaint to their father but thinks better of it when his little brother makes
these adorable pleased mewls when Derek sets his plate in front of him with an
amused grin.
Isaac grabs his fork and mixes his fried fish with his macaroni and string
beans into an almost casserole. He shoves the first forkful in his mouth and
makes a surprised sound. “Okay,” he announces with a mouth full of food. “We
can keep him.”
Derek chuckles and serves himself and Stiles last. “Glad I’ve finally won you
over,” he cheerfully responds.
Isaac just shrugs and goes to town on his food.
“Isaac, at least come up for air sometimes,” Stiles remarks, slightly serious
before he starts to eat his food. “Oh my god,” he says. “How?”
Derek just ducks his head trying to hide the pleased grin that Stiles can
totallysee. “Dad taught me some of his tricks. His fish is still definitely
better than mine.”
“Ah, humble,” Derek Sr. supposes before he squints his eyes at his youngest
son. “You’re after something.”
Derek lifts his head immediately with a scowl. “Can’t I say something nice
about you without an ulterior motive?”
“No because you and Cora learned that skill from your mother. Not me,” Derek
Sr. points out.
“I’m going to tell her you said that,” Derek replies glumly.
Derek Sr. just huffs. “You wont be telling her anything new. I’ve been telling
her that ever since we got married.”
Derek just makes a face like he doesn’t want to know anythingabout his parent’s
love life.
“Stiles and Isaac do the same thing,” their dad comments, overlooking the
disagreeing expressions both his sons send him. “You know you do, and I wont
hear anything different.”
Stiles and Isaac rolls their eyes simultaneously.
“I guess I’ll know what to expect,” Derek comments thoughtfully and grins at
Stiles. “It should be interesting to see both of us try to outdo each other.”
“You can try,” Stiles mutters. “Either way, I’ll win that conversation.”
“We’ll see,” Derek replies airily.
“Can I have some more?” Isaac stares at Derek meaningfully.
Derek just chuckles and grabs his plate. “Sure, buddy.”
“Don’t add yourself to the ever-growing list of people who spoil this little
con artist,” Stiles warns and is not even surprised when his little brother
sends him a flat look.
“Can I have extra fish and macaroni?” Isaac asks looking Stiles right in his
eyes.
“Of course,” Derek responds easily and Stiles knows he can feel the glare aimed
at him. “Anything for you, Isaac,” he adds purposefully. "Your happiness is my
paradise."
“We can definitelykeep him,” Isaac declares.
Everyone but Stiles laughs and, despite his annoyance, even he knows that
everything seems right with the world in this moment.
                                      ---
Derek Sr. divides up the leftover fried fish equally before he makes Derek put
it in his car while he joins the sheriff in the living to watch the Final Four.
Isaac cleans the kitchen with the kind of vigor that Stiles has never seen and
when he’s done he mumbles something about calling Boyd and he disappears up to
his room.
Stiles grabs his book bag and climbs up the stairs just as Derek enters the
house again, locking the door behind him before joining the older men to watch
the game. He keeps his door open, unlike Isaac, but his little brother rarely
does close his door (only whenever he’s drawing) so he figures the preteen must
be doing that.
He sits at his desk and tries to have a video chat with Scott but it fails
since there is no response on the other side. He texts Scott instead and his
best friend informs him that he’s out of town since his grandparents flew out
from Florida to see him and his mom. He also goes on to say that the main goal
had been attending the Latin Music Festival in San Diego for it’s last day. But
he does say that he wishes Stiles were there with him. That makes Stiles smile
and he responds that one day they will go together. Scott response is nothing
but hearts and happy emojis.
He rises from his desk chair and hooks his phone up to the charger he has
plugged in the outlet behind his nightstand. Then he quickly changes into some
sleepwear before unzipping his book bag to grab the bible of Virtues and
settles in his bed to start reading. He props himself against his headboard to
read for the next fifteen minutes and makes it to page twenty-seven when his
phone vibrates. He makes an annoyed sound and blindly reaches for it without
taking his eyes off of the last paragraph on page twenty-eight before he
glances at his phone. He rolls his eyes when he notices it’s from Derek saying:
Stop being a lame hermit and come watch the game with us.
No thanks. I’d rather bang my head against a brick wall than force myself to
endure torture from that level of boredom.
Stiles reads about three paragraphs of page twenty-nine before his phone
vibrates against his stomach where he put it. He thinks about ignoring it but
he knows how persistent Derek can be when it comes to texting or talking over
the phone.
I am personally offended on behalf of basketball. Keep it up and I wont invite
you to any of my games.
Oh thank god. I thought for sure I was going to have to come up with a
plausible excuse.
): Why do you want to hurt me?
D R A M A T I C
Not at all. I just think it would be nice to see my *friend* sitting in the
stands cheering me on.
Stiles rubs a hand over his face trying to rid himself of the ridiculous blush
on his face.
Heartbeat’s sounding kind of funny up there. Are you blushing?
Stop being creepy! And no. I just was thinking about cabbages.
Cabbages. You were thinking about cabbages? We need to have a serious talk
because no vegetable has ever made my heart sound like *that*.
You just haven’t found the right cabbage. You know, my friend Martha has this
very nice cabbage. Real classy. Say the word and I’ll fix you too up on a blind
date.
Sure, Stiles. As long as the cabbage puts out on the first date.
Stiles laughs as his head falls back towards the headboard gently. He shakes
his head with a grin and replies:
Derek that is unacceptable!!!! Cabbages are not like that. They are the type to
settle down behind in a nice little cottage with a white picket fence and 2.5
kids with a dog called Reggie Williams.
I will divorce that cabbage if our dog gets named Reggie Williams. And anyway
how would YOU know that? I thought you don’t watch basketball to know who the
small forward is on the Spurs???
I’m not deaf. My dad does talk about it sometimes over the phone with some of
his deputies.
Don’t change the subject though. I demand you come to my games this week.
Nope. You couldn’t pay me to go. Wait. I take that back. You can pay me 10
billion dollars after taxes. I take cash, check, and credit. Paypal too, if
you're desperate.
Who told you about what my net worth is???
Stiles smiles and rolls his eyes with an amused sigh.
I know for a fact your net worth is not higher then Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-
Carter.
HEY. You do not get to call my best friend by her full name. We were just
talking the other day during our weekly crochet classes about the nerve of some
people calling us by our names like they know us.
Okay. Well invite HER to your basketball games. Or you can ask your best friend
to spot you 10 billion dollars to pay for ONE appearance of 10 minutes at your
game.
How completely pretentious of you. For that much money I expect a whole lot
more than 10 minutes of your time.
Stiles tries so hard not to blush as he chews on his bottom lip because why
would Derek flirt with him? He used to date Paige and she’s way more attractive
than he is. And anyway, he’s seen Derek flirt with guys and girls alike all the
time in the hallways at school and that was pretty harmless interactions. He’s
sure that this is no different from that. So yeah. This is all this is.
Harmless flirting that won’t turn into something serious. Plus Stiles never
thinks of anyone this way. He’s probably just confused. Point blank.
Still with me?
You want more than 10 minutes? I mean sure. If you want me to sign your
basketball I can do that too. It’ll be a stamp of my signature that my
bodyguard Mr. Breaker will do. If you want the real deal, then that’s going to
cost you another 10 billion.
Stiles... -_-
You’re right, that is too steep. Make it 5 billion because I can be generous.
You’re so oblivious sometimes that it’s painful. I was hoping you’d caught on
by now. You realize I’m flirting with you right? Or do you have no concept of
that at all?
Stiles face goes up in flames.
You are NOT flirting with me. I mean you are but I would know. You just do that
with everyone.
????
You know what I mean. I’ve seen you do it plenty of times in the hallways at
school.
Ah. I understand. You think this isn’t serious. Tell me, Stiles. How much do
you watch me? This sounds like jealousy to me.
Stiles wishes he could throw his phone out the window.
Your heart's doing that uptick thing when you're annoyed. Why? You don’t like
the truth?
I hope you trip and miss the final shot during you final basketball game. I
hope that when you trip the ball goes flying and slams into our principal’s
face and he expels you.
That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?
Don’t you have a basketball game you should be watching?
I can multitask. I can show you if you don’t believe me. (;
Oh my GOD. This conversation is so over.
If you say so. Just know that I don’t *flirt* with everyone. I don’t know what
you think you see, but that’s not what that is at all. Now I *am* flirting with
*you*. That's what you do when you like someone, right?
I need you to wait about 30 years before I’m ready to talk to you. I’ll meet on
the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean while I figure out how I lost control of this
friendship.
): ): ):
Stiles puts his phone facedown and tries to quiet his racing heart. He exhales
and bumps the back of his head against the headboard over and over and over and
over and over and over. He tries to finish the last page of studying, chewing
on his nails as his stomach tries to float out of his body and into space way
past the Milky Way. He reads the same lines repeatedly and he just cant — he
can’t think. Derek has stubbornly invaded his thoughts and he doesn’t need this
distraction right now.
His magic sends him the impression that it thinks he’s an idiot and that it
would be more than happy to curl around Derek’s inner wolf.
“Shut up,” Stiles mutters and shuts his magic down before it can respond. His
pulse quickens when he hears Derek Sr. and Derek make their final goodbyes. He
expects Derek to climb up the stairs and just — just — he doesn’t even know. He
doesn’t have experience with this type of stuff. He bitterly thinks about how
Derek probably has a well of knowledge on this. But Derek never comes up the
stairs and Stiles hears the front door close and the rumble of Derek Sr.’s car
starting before zooming off.
Stiles releases a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding. He grabs his
pillow and smashes it against his face to smother his frustrated scream.
It only hits him a moment later like a freight train that Derek has been
grabbing his left had constantly since the days when their interactions were
not limited to five minutes.
“Oh my god.”
                                      ---
Monday morning comes way too early and way too fast. It also feels really off.
He has to wake up extra early to rollacross his backyard to get a correct
estimate. He accidently swallows a worm. That shouldn’t even be possible but
this is Stilesso where there’s a will there’s a way. He accidently hits his
toes against the edge of the back door and that hurts for a whole minute before
he feels comfortable enough to limp his way to the bathroom. Isaac is already
in there and he takes his precious, precioustime before he finally exits with a
cloud of steam at his back that makes it seem as though he’s performing on some
concert stage.
Stiles makes his way into the bathroom and slips on the wet floor, landing on
his back with a wet thud and his elbow slams painfully in the cabinet to his
right. His dad checks in on him and Stiles just gives his dad a weak thumbs-up.
His dad walks away with a sigh and Stiles lets go of his pride and whimpers in
pain. He climbs out of his clothes and rips his pajama bottoms right down the
left leg, which is ridiculous because this is his favorite pair. He gets in the
tub to take a shower and screeches because the water is goddamncold.
He yells Isaac’s name with passionate annoyance and does not get a response
back. He shivers and tries to make this ordeal as quick as possible. He washes
his hair last and gets shampoo in his eyes before he slips and falls. Isaac
asks him if he is okay behind the door and Stiles just whimpers. He limps to
his room nakedbecause he forgot that his towel is in his dirty clothes hamper.
Luckily his dad and Isaac are already downstairs. He bumps his head against the
edge of his dresser while attempting to put his underwear and pants on. That
smarts.
And if that isn’t enough, when Stiles grabs his phone it short circuits and
shuts down. He stares at it for a minute not understanding why — why — howcould
that even happen? His dad has warranty on all of their phones but the damn
phone company takes twoweeks to ship out the new one. He takes out the sim card
and it actually breaks off in his attempt, half of it still in his phone and
the other half in his hand. He stares at it and his right eye twitches. He
presses his lips together and grabs his book bag and stuffs it with all his
schoolbooks. He picks it up and he is so glad that this at least is still
functioning.
Well. Until he gets to the stairs. The bottom gives and all the contents go
rolling down the steps. He takes a deep breath and glides down the steps like a
ghost until he happens to trip on the last step where his red folder is. He
groans as Isaac and his dad stare at him incredulously. He stands and removes
the blue pen from his shoe and is not even surprised when it explodes, but
luckily it’s not in his direction. Though it does squirt all over his father,
who was in the process of walking over to lend a hand. He stops dead and gives
this look.
Stiles laughs weakly and gives a sheepish apology. He jumps out of his dad’s
way and goes to the toaster to pop in a waffle as he watches his dad march up
the steps to swap out his uniform for a cleaner one.
His dad does tell Isaac to pick up Stiles’s belongings because he’s afraid of
what might happen if Stiles tries to.
Isaac gives a long and dramatic sigh but does what their dad says, placing all
of Stiles’s possessions on the kitchen table so neatly that it looks like art.
Stiles makes a thoughtful sound as his nose twitches before he smells smoke and
he jumps back with a shriek when the toaster sparks wildly before catching on
fire. He knocks it into the sink (which, thankfully, is dry as a bone) and
grabs some whip cream from the fridge and uses that to put the fire out. It
works but allthe smoke detectors go off at the same time.
Their dad reappears in bewilderment and Stiles smiles sheepishly. “Out!” he
says. “Whatever thisis — take it outside and away from this house.”
“Good idea!” Stiles quickly agrees and grabs all his books, folders, notebooks,
and pencil case (bumping his knee into the leg of the table) before fleeing
outside. He’s surprised to see Derek parked on the curb with his windows down
as he puts on a pair of mirror shades, to complete his 'cool guy' look (which
includes a leather jacket, and a grin).
“Please let Derek drive you,” Isaac says, walking gracefully down the steps
just as Boyd rolls up on his bike. “Seriously. You might kill yourself if you
ride your bike.”
Stiles looks at his little brother sharply with a look of betrayal.
Isaac just waves at Derek before hopping on his bike and peddling after Boyd.
Stiles purses his lips and stomps to Derek’s car, wrenching it open and
throwing all his stuff in before sliding onto the passenger seat, yanking his
seatbelt on with short, jerky motions. He closes the door and crosses his arms.
“Okay…” Derek looks at him over the top of his glasses. “What was that all
about?”
“Why are you wearing a leather jacket? It’s like a million degrees,” Stiles
deflects, annoyed.
“Heat doesn’t bother me,” Derek replies patiently but he does crank his AC up
while closing the windows.
Stiles sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “Sorry,” is his muffled reply.
“I don’t mean to be so testy. I’ve been having the worstluck today.”
"Today? It's not even noon yet."
"Fine.The worst luck this morning."
Derek makes a thoughtful sound, shifting gears before pulling off in a U-turn.
“Broke any mirrors lately? Knocked over some salt? Ran under some ladders?
Pissed off a black cat? Opened thirteen umbrellas inside a building?”
“Shut up. You’re making fun of pain!” Stiles accuses but he’s already laughing
with Derek. “You’re annoying.”
“Lie,” Derek says automatically. “And I don’t need to listen to your heart to
come to that conclusion.”
“Stop the car. I’m walking,” Stiles flatly demands. “I would very much like to
walk.”
“Fine. I’ll park the car and walk withyou,” Derek counters. “I’ll stand at a
distance though. Don’t want to be struck by lightening, caught in the gravity
of your bad luck.”
Stiles turns his face away so Derek can't see his grin. They drive in
comfortable silence for ten minutes before they come to the last stoplight near
the school.
“Um.” Derek takes off his glasses with a furrowed brow. “I think you may have
been right about the bad luck.”
Stiles sits up instantly. “What? What? Why would you say that?”
“No big deal, but...” Derek looks over at him. “...I think one of my tires
popped.”
“What. The. Hell.” Stiles groans and drops his head onto the dashboard.
Derek chuckles and slides out of the car. “Look on the bright side. There’s a
tire station right on that corner over there.” He climbs out and closes his
door before the other teen can reply.
Stiles jerks upright when he feels the car rolling forward and he twists his
body to peer through the rear window to see Derek pushing the car effortlessly
with this easygoing attitude. Stiles sighs and drops his head back on the
headrest and leans his temple against his fist with his elbow cradled on the
ledge of where window meets door. He watches as Derek rounds the car and shakes
hands with the mechanic as he smiles before indicating to his car and the front
left wheel. The mechanic nods and then points to his colleagues and they come
over.
Derek opens the driver side door and leans in. “I’m totally fine with you
camping out in my car. I actually like that thought,” he says candidly before
dodging a pen with a laugh. “I’m just speaking my mind. Anyway, they need to
push the car to the garage so they can fix the tire.” Then he adds, “I have an
extra book bag in the trunk if you need. I keep it for emergencies.”
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Stiles starts to climb out the car and gets tangled in the
seatbelt and is soon his way to face planting on the cement. But Derek grabs
him before the impact can happen and pulls him upright. “Thanks,” he mumbles
with an embarrassed flush.
Derek just plucks a broken pencil out of his hair with a soft smile and says,
“Clumsy.”
Stiles feels his blush expand because the older teen says it with such blatant
fondness. “Go get that book bag, Derek. I can’t deal with whateverit is you’re
doing.”
“That’s okay!” Derek explains cheerfully before wiggling his eyebrows
suggestively. “I can be patient.” He walks away and adds, “I’ve been patient
all this time anyway.”
Stiles stumbles at that and snatches the backup book bag from him.
“Let me get your things. Wouldn’t want you to get a paper cut or poke your eye
out with a crayon,” Derek comments, strolling over to his backseat.
“I don’t even have —” Stiles pauses when he sees Derek laughing silently. “Oh.
Okay. You already knew that. Yup. I see what you did there. Very funny.” He
unzips the bag as Derek meticulously fills the bag up with Stiles’s
possessions. He zips it back up and flushes when the older teen slides the
fingers of his left hand across the pulse of Stiles’s. “You’re not slick
anymore. I know what that means now.”
“Good. I was wondering how long it would take for you to catch up.” Derek
places his hand on Stiles's lower back and pushes him forward. “We’re gonna be
late if we don’t get a move on.”
Stiles is distracted by that warm hand the whole walk to school.
                                      ---
Stiles misses his first class because he somehow gets the sleeve of his shirt
stuck in the door of his locker. So he’s standing in the hall looking like a
dope for the next hour. This goes on until Cora finds him (probably to complain
that he wasn’t in class) and she realizes what kept him before laughing a full
thirty seconds while she pries open the door, which backfires and hits her in
the face.
Stiles smothers a laugh when Cora looks at him sharply. “I didn’t say
anything,” he swears, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ve been having bad
luck all morning.
Cora just pulls him to their second class by the front of his shirt. “That’s
ridiculous,” she swears. “Bad luck is a preconceived notion for society to
blame all their problems on.”
“If you say so, Professor Cora,” Stiles jokes.
“I’ve taken college courses about American Mythology. You can laugh but I know
what I’m talking about,” Cora insists as she yanks him up the stairs. “See
that? If you had bad luck, we both would have fallen down.”
“Wait for it.”
“Don’t be —” Cora pulls him over the threshold of their AP English class and
the ceiling lights shut off when they do. “— stupid.”
Stiles pries her fingers from his shirt and goes to his seat in the back.
Cora stares at him the whole time like she’s trying to figure him out.
Their teacher has a random asthma attack in the middle of a lecture about The
Iliad and the Odyssey.
Stiles is calmly doodling triquetras and triskelions in his notebook right when
the paramedics burst in.
They give the teacher the wrong type of epinephrine auto-injector, the one he’s
allergic too, and they totally freak out when he faints.
Cora just continues to stare at him, just flummoxed.
Stiles gives her a light wave.
                                      ---
The rest of Stiles’s classes run with the same theme:
One of his teacher’s gets food poisoning and throws up all over their desk.
One of his teacher’s has a desk thrown at them from the student they were
having an affair with.
One of the teachers gets escorted out by the FBI for being the drug lord for
some random cocaine empire in Argentina.
But Stiles’s favorite has to be the teacher who stops dead in the middle of a
lecture, talks about how they wanted to be a referee for the puppy bowl, points
at each student and explains why they hate them (Stiles is the only they
actually like) and then mic drops their clipboard before exiting with two
middle fingers in the air to head towards the office to resign.
Stiles takes his time as he head towards the lunchroom, grabs the soup they’re
offering, and dumps it in the trash when a cockroach floats to the top. He
takes a passing freshmen’s orange soda, ignoring the complaint and pops it open
as the guy collides with the cafeteria doorframe. He walks further out onto the
quad where he sits beside Cora, across from Laura and Derek, and says, “So. How
was your day?”
“Derek and Cora keep telling me you’re having bad luck today,” Laura says and
she sounds skeptical. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as they’re making it sound.”
“Five of our teachers are no longer with us,” Cora points out.
Laura waves off her concerns. “Mere coincidence.”
“I popped my tire on my way here. I’ve had the car for two days, Laura,” Derek
adds, spinning his basketball on his pointer finger. He smiles at Stiles. “Is
this the part where I walk around and flirt?”
Stiles get’s a little pink and he throws the older teen a ruthless glare. “I’m
taking your nachos,” he declares.
"Stiles, you can have anything of mine," Derek says slyly.
Stiles sends him a mean look as he flushes at the implications.
Laura and Cora raise their eyebrows at each other.
Laura’s the first to speak. “What’s all this now?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?” Cora questions.
“Nothing yet,” Derek replies casually. "I mean, I'm trying. But nothing yet."
Stiles scowls at his presumptuousness. “Nothing ever.”
“Whatever you say,” Derek retorts airily with a smirk.
Cora wrinkles her nose. “Oh gross. They’re flirting. You really are spreading
your bad luck.”
Laura cackles. “I think it’s adorable. I’ve been rooting for them since the day
Stiles rolled around in Derek’s plushie toys. He was frowning but I smelt his
grudging attraction.”
“Shut up,” Derek mutters, blushing a little.
“You know you liked it,” Laura says with a singsong voice.
Stiles takes a moment to consider that. “You were…attracted to me?”
“She’s making it sound like — but that — it wasn't even a big — look, I was
dating Paige,” Derek explains quickly.
Cora snorts. “That doesn’t clarify anything.”
“I agree,” Laura says and hisses when a squirrel randomly drops dead on her
food. She tosses the tray in disgust and it smacks a freshmen walking by. “What
the hell? Sorry, Jasmine!”
Jasmine yells, “Are you serious?”
"Sorry," Laura repeats as the younger girl stomps off. "That's definitely one
less vote," she sighs.
“Bad luck,” Stiles chimes, still staring at Derek. “But back to you. I thought
you hated me. You cornered me in the locker room.”
“He did what?” Cora exclaims and starts howling with laughter. “Oh that is
priceless! Please tell me more.”
“Please don’t,” Derek demands and Stiles has never seen him so red. This feels
like a victory.
"Yeah, I think he might have been watching my lacrosse tryouts or something,"
Stiles continues.
Derek makes a frustrated sound. “Okay, I might have overreacted. It’s Peter’s
fault. He kept giving away my stuff!”
"What does that have to do with the fact you found, and still find him,
attractive?" Laura probes.
“So you were flirting with me when I accidently texted you those pictures!”
Stiles accuses as he thinks on it. “I wasn’t even sure. You even told me to
keep your number. You acted like you couldn’t stand to be around me. But you
kept flirting with me. Mixed signals, dude.”
“He was swimming in denial I bet,” Laura reasons.
Derek looks absolutely outraged by these accusations.
“My perfect brother was committing emotional adultery,” Cora teases. “You were
still with Paige and you flirted with Stiles? You are such a slut, Derek.”
Derek splutters contritely and he looks like he’s going to faint from
mortification.
Laura cackles again.
Stiles soaks it up because this is the only thing good about today. It’s like
Derek is getting all the payback of his constant and relentless teasing. He
takes another calm sip of his soda and continues to eat Derek’s nachos.
“I’m disowning allof you,” Derek declares and straightens when there’s a sharp
whistle.
“Everyone listen up. I need all of my teammates over here!” Brett Talbot, a
handsome senior and captain of the basketball/lacrosse/swim team (Jesus where
does get all this time to balance this with school), makes a gesture for
everyone to come closer as he stands on top of one of the quad tables. All the
sports players (including Derek) gravitate towards him. “First, I want to say
that it’s been a hell of a year! I couldn’t have done it without you and we’re
all going to state finals this week!”
There’s a roar of cheers from all the students.
“Secondly, I know it’s my duty to pass on the mantle of each team I’ve lead for
the past two years!” Brett explains and there are some more cheers and someone
even shouts ‘I love you, Brett!’ and he laughs. “For the lacrosse team, I
relinquish my crown to Sean Walcott!”
Everyone cheers and bang on the tables as Sean climbs up and accepts Brett’s
senior varsity jacket with newly made yellow letterman that has his initials
‘S. Walcott’.
“For our illustrious swim team, I relinquish my crown to the lovely, ultra-
sexy, Ms. Hayden Romero!”
Everyone cheers and bang on the tables as Hayden climbs up and accepts Brett’s
senior varsity jacket with newly made yellow letterman that has her initials
‘H. Romero’ on the back before punching him for his earlier comment.
“Now, lastly. My pride and joy. The basketball team.” Brett holds up the senior
varsity jacket, purposefully hiding the back. “I thought long and hard. It was
difficult to choose since we have a lot of good players.” Then he chuckles.
“Who the fuck am I kidding? There was only one choice in my mind. The
unstoppable, unparalleled, most gorgeous person you have ever seen, aside from
myself of course. Mr. Hotshot Derek Hale!”
Everyone screams, stomp their feet, clapping their hands andbanging on the
tables.
Derek looks so surprised as his teammates lift him up with a cheer and set him
on the table.
Stiles laughs at the stumped look on his face as the older teen takes the
senior varsity jacket with newly made yellow letterman that has his initials
‘D. Hale’ from Brett with awe.
Cora and Laura are on their feet, cupping their hands around their mouth as
they cheer and shout Derek’s name.
Stiles claps and gives Derek the thumps-up when the older teen looks over at
them with a million dollar smile.
“Thank you, Beacon Hills! And goodnight.” Brett pretends to do a mic drop
before he claps and starts the high school cheer and the ground shakes with
everyone’s participation.
A freaky swarm of birds start flying around and drops poop after poop like
their trying to take siege. Everyone yells and runs towards the double doors of
the cafeteria, but for some reason, they wont open.
Stiles takes shelter under the tree with Laura, Cora, and Derek before they get
pelted with the acorns in the tree. “Still think I don’t have bad luck, Laura?”
“I will never doubt a word you say ever again,” Laura swears. “But I’d take
acorns over bird poop any day. Thank Mother Moon we got out of there in time.”
They all laugh, lucky enough to be untouched by the bird disaster, and they all
watch in amusement as their fellow classmates get hit with a rain of white poop
(holding lunch trays over their heads like a shield); and they all agree to
call it the Great Bird Fiasco circa 2014.
                                      ---
Stiles is walking to his locker at the end of the day, highly annoyed that he’s
lost three of his schoolbooks in one sitting. He almost bumps into Derek, who
apparently was waiting for him with that gorgeous grin of his, which he keeps
aiming at passing ‘pedestrians’ but now Stiles understands that it’s him being
friendlyand not flirtation. He’s leaning against the lockers next to Stiles’s
with his arms crossed like he’s so cool.
“Congratulations. I forgot to say it while we were under attack,” Stiles says
and tries to pry open his locker once again. “It’s pretty wild that you’re the
first sophomore to get the position.”
“Which means you haveto come to my games,” Derek supposes.
Stiles snorts and points out, “You’re not captaining anything yet, Derek. That
wont kick into effect until the start of the next semester.”
“I need you to be supportive of my dreams,” Derek remarks with a mock serious
tone. “I’m supportive of your dreams.”
“You don’t even knowwhat my dreams are,” Stiles retorts. “Idon’t even know what
my dreams — are you kidding me? This stupid locker won’t open. Well I guess I
won’t be doing any homework tonight.”
Derek knocks the side of his fist on the edge of the locker at three different
points, and like that, it pops open. “You’re welcome.”
“I am. I am very, very welcome,” Stiles counters and ignores the eye roll he
gets. “So are we gonna talk about how you were into me while you were still
dating Paige?”
Derek makes a choked sound, flushing quickly before he retaliates, “Are we
gonna talk about the fact that we want to date each other but wont.”
Stiles knocks his elbow against his locker door and hisses. “Can you not do
that without warning?”
Derek’s flush dies as he scoffs. “That’s what I’ve been doing for weeks now.
We’re going to have to talk about it at some point.”
“Just — would you —” Stiles cuts himself off with frustrated sound and slams
his locker shut after he stuffs his books into the borrowed backpack. “Come
on.” He grabs the sleeve of Derek’s new senior varsity jacket and drags him
until they’re off campus grounds. He feels comfortable enough to slow down so
they’re walking side by side and says, “Look, I think you’re —” He fumbles with
his words as he flushes.
“Yes?” Derek encourages as he puts his large hands in his jacket pocket with a
slow smirk and cocks his head like he’s trying to catch Stiles’s gaze “I’m
listening. Very intently.”
Stiles chews anxiously on the corner of bottom lip and musters up the courage
to say, “I really do think you're attractive."
"I knew it!" Derek exclaims happily.
Stiles rolls his eyes but he can't stop the grin that forms on his face. "Then
again, I think everyone is beautiful in their own way. Some part of a person is
attractive and I always actively picked out what that is."
"No, go back to just focusing on me," Derek protests.
"Shut up, I was getting to that!" Stiles laughs. "Yes, I do find different
things attractive about different people. But you’re different, okay? I get
that, but I’m not — I don’t —”
“Don’t say you’re not attractive,” Derek quickly interjects with a serious
frown that Stiles almost finds cute. “Because you are, and I have million ways
I can prove it.”
“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles squeaks, as his face burns hotly. “That is totally not
where I was going with that. I was trying to say I’m not used to this because
I’ve never — you know? I haven't had it be an option for me, like with,
reciprocationand all that. I don’t always look at people like that. Like how I
look at you. It’s just been — it’s you. You make me — this is so mortifying.”
Derek laughs and walks backwards in front of him. “No, keep talking. I like
where this is going.”
“Shut up, would you? I can’t think when you tease me like this,” Stiles
complains and rolls his eyes in annoyance when Derek’s grin gets cockier.
“Anyway. The point is that you’ll have to work with me, okay? I can’t just dive
into it because I’d like to work out what thisis and how I feel about it or if
it’s something I want to even put effort into.”
“I’m patient,” Derek promises in a heartbeat. “I’d wait forever if you asked me
to.”
Stiles stumbles and shoves Derek when snorts. “Stop saying things like that.
It’s — that is reallyintense.”
“That's just who I am.” Derek shrugs but his smile never wavers. “You should
know by now that I’m always open about my feelings.”
“Yeah I’ve noticed already,” Stiles mutters as they stop at the crosswalk and
wait for the signal to change so they can cross the street to go to the tire
shop. “The key point here is that I have a lot of things I’m juggling with and
you don’t have to wait forever because that’s not what I meant at all. We can
see — just to — um. Let’s just slowly see how it goes. I’m not talking about
datingbecause I’m not ready for that yet. Friends first. I’d like for us to go
on like we have been.”
“Except you’re not oblivious to the fact that I like you and you won’t pretend
that I don't make your heart go crazy,” Derek teases.
“I wonder if a Werewolf can survive being shoved into ongoing traffic,” Stiles
thinks aloud. “Mind being my test subject?”
Derek just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh my god, Derek. Not like that.” Stiles frowns but he does feel a little
lighter now that they put everything out in the open and laid the situation
bare. He feels like a weight has been lifted and the clouds of confusion have
dissipated. “Look, it’s safe for us to walk now. Take me to the antique shop. I
have magic stuff I need to do.”
“Whatever you want, Stiles.”
“I wantyou to pay the taxes you owe me for putting up with you.”
“Does it have to be in money? Because I could —”
“I swear to god, Derek.”
“— bake something,” Derek finishes and looks at him with this innocent face
that Stiles does notbuy. “Well what did you thinkI was going to say, Stiles?”
“That you’re going to pay for your car fixing stuff and that we’re leaving and
you’re taking me to a drive through andpaying for all the curly fries, chicken
nuggets, and all the blizzards I want before you drop me off.”
Derek lifts both eyebrows.
“It’s not a date.”
“Sure, Stiles,” Derek replies as he glides away to retrieve his car with a
cheerful whistle.
Stiles gives some serious thought into throwing a pebble at the back of his
head.
                                      ---
“I don’t think Deaton will let you in,” Stiles comments as they sit in Derek’s
car, parked on the curb in front of the antique store. “I’m serious. I don’t
know what that thing he has on the door is but it definitely will not let you
in. Give me some of your fries. The girl at the drive-thru kept dropping my
food on the ground because my bad luck never ends.”
“Which is why I bought you two to make up for that,” Derek points out with a
frown but still hands his cup of fries over. “It’s mountain ash by the way.”
Stiles shoves some curly fries in his mouth. “Tastes like fries to me,” he
mumbles around a mouth full of food.
Derek makes the face he does at Laura when she’s being vulgar with her food.
“Please don’t talk with your mouth full. That’s one of my pet peeves. And I’m
talking about the barrier on the door. It’s mountain ash and — would you quit
it! That’s disgusting.”
Stiles purposefully opens his mouth wide to expose his mushy, wet food.
“Ugh, gross. I think I saw your stomach,” Derek complains and grabs his
strawberry cheesecake blizzard from his cup holder. “You could at least give me
the rest of your chicken nuggets if you’re going to commandeer my fries.”
“Fancy word,” Stiles compliments. “And no.”
Derek reaches for the bag anyway and Stiles pulls it out of reach.
“I said no way. You get no dibs on my food. You’ve already taken too many
liberties in the past,” Stiles lectures and laughs when Derek makes another
reach. “I said you get none.”
“I’m taking your banana cream pie blizzard.”
“That’s just cruel and unusual. Here you neath — nedera — nena —”
Derek laughs. “Neanderthal, Stiles.” He shakes his head in amused fondness.
“I said that.”
“You attemptedto say it,” Derek counters as he leans back against the driver’s
side door and accepts the bag of chicken nuggets when the younger teen hands it
over. “Do we have any —”
Stiles tosses the packets of barbeque sauce at his chest carelessly. He starts
eating his blizzard before dipping his spoon into Derek’s, ignoring when the
other makes a protesting sound around the food already in his mouth. “Shut up.
You don’t have germs and I don’t either. Get over it.”
“You are the rudest passenger I’ve ever had,” Derek declares after he
swallows and steals some of Stiles’s curly fries.
Stiles snorts. “So far, I’m your only.”
“My point still stands. It's only uphill from here.”
Stiles quickly finishes half of his blizzard before he swaps it with Derek’s
and finishes his and the other teen does the same. He wipes his greasy and
sticky fingers with a napkin before climbing out the car. He grabs his borrowed
book bag from the back as Derek cleans up the mess and climbs out with the
garbage to throw it away in the nearest street garbage bin.
Derek waits until Stiles retrieves his things before he takes it and tosses it
back into his backseat and wirelessly locks his door before the other teen can
do anything about it.
Stiles sends him a sharp look. “I said Deaton’s not going to let you in.”
“No harm in asking.” Derek shrugs his mouth and stuffs his hands in the pockets
of his varsity jacket.
Stiles gives him a considering look before he says, “Fine. Wait here and I’ll
ask.” He enters the shop as the bell chimes predictably overhead as it does
every time. “Um. So Derek Hale would like to come in. Would that be — uh, okay
maybe I should have thought this through. Never mind!”
Deaton’s standing behind the glass counter, flipping through the Grimoire
lazily and says, “If you can figure out how to remove the seal, then he may
come and go as he pleases. It will no longer keep him out. However, this will
be not be the exception for any and everyone. That is something I have to give
the okay.”
Stiles brow furrows and replies, “Okay…” He turns to the door, wrenches it
open, and puts the doorstopper down so it can keep the door propped open.
Derek is staring across the street with a slight frown. “Do they always follow
you? I’ve seen them a few times.”
Stiles glances over to see that he's referring to the black truck that always
trails him. “They’re Mayor Argent’s minions. He’s assigned them with the job of
keeping a close eye on me so that I don’t fall into the wrong hands, which,
when you think about it, is in and of itself a contradiction.”
Derek makes a thoughtful sound before he turns to Stiles. “I have no problem
talkingto them, you know.”
“Settle down, Der,” Stiles says, tugging a lock of his hair. “This is an issue
I have to deal with. I talked to my dad about it. I’ll have to wait it out
until I can do something.”
“Still don’t like it,” Derek mutters and bats Stiles’s hand away when the other
teen tries to yank his hair again. “And stop calling me Der.”
Stiles shrugs.
Violet and Garrett smirk as they watch them.
Derek turns away and flexes his hands while taking a deep breath. “So what did
Deaton say? I was kind of distracted by the peopleacross the street.”
Stiles puts his hands to the sides of the doorframe. “Apparently you can come
and go whenever you want, but I have to be able to remove the barrier, which
I’m assuming is where the mountain ash is implanted in the door.”
Derek hides away his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket as he lifts his
eyebrows and shrugs his mouth like he’s waiting to see what the other teen will
do.
“Bear with me a little. I’m not even sure I’ll get this right,” Stiles warns as
he thinks about what Deaton had done some time ago when Peter and Laura
appeared in concern over Kate. He gnaws on his bottom lip enough to feel the
sting of it. He calls his magic for help and is relieved when his hands begin
to burn brightly.
His magic gives him the impression that it would do anything for Derek; a
feeling wrapped in silk rosy paper of curiosity and intrigue.
Stiles blushes and sends back waves of annoyance that his magic ignores as it
spreads his body in a quick flush before dimming. The barrier glows before
giving and he exhales triumphantly before stepping back.
Derek slowly walks up and through the door, tense shoulders relaxing when there
is no backlash from the barrier. “Good job,” he says with a grin made of
starlight.
Stiles gets distracted from putting the barrier back up for a moment but he
does it quickly to say, “Thanks. It was easier than I thought. I’m gonna walk
over there. Introduce yourself because that’s the polite thing to do.” He walks
over to the older man. “I think I’m cursed with bad luck.”
Deaton raises his eyebrow. “Clarify.”
Stiles babbles on and on about his day.
Deaton holds up a hand to stop him mid-sentence when he’s at the ladder half of
his description. He reaches down to fish something out and reveals a stick of
incense with a lighter. “Don’t move,” he instructs as he lights the top of the
incense. The tip gets red and orange like the coals of a manmade fire. The
older man rounds the glass and begins swirling the incense around Stiles and it
smells like sweet cherry wood. “Someone’s put a hex on you.”
“Makes sense,” Stiles supposes and internally freaks out. “So, uh. What’s all
this?”
“It’s a counter spell, it will cleanse the natural flow of your energy. It’s
blocking Fate’s protection over you and leaving you vulnerable to the wiles of
Peril.” Deaton covers the whole proximity of Stiles’s body before he shakes the
stick to extinguish it. “I gather you were in the presence of a Demon. Be
careful, Stiles. You need to harness your magic to discern the countenance of
every individual you come in contact with and protect yourself. I cannot
determine the source, so I suspect this Demon has to be one of the oldest and
very good at concealing the traces of their hexes.”
Stiles is still internally freaking out. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
Deaton just wordlessly trashes the charred incense before standing behind the
glass counter. It's quiet for a few moments (enough time for Stiles to calm
down), then he asks, “Did you read the thirty pages I asked you to?”
Stiles nods.
“Read thirty more. I believe you’ll come across the narratives in regards to
Demons and their dark magic, as it pertains to blood and death rituals,” Deaton
suggests.
Stiles nods again before saying, “Hey, Deaton, I believe I got the right
estimates this time.”
Deaton expression never wavers. “Let’s hear it then.”
Stiles slowly sounds out the numbers.
“Incorrect. You will lie on your right side and find a way to move around so
you can calculate,” Deaton counters effortlessly.
Stiles groans and jumps up and down like a toddler ready to throw a temper
tantrum. “You're asking me to wiggle! Can’t I get a free pass this time? What
if I never figure it out?”
“Never say never,” Derek remarks unhelpfully from where he’s fiddling with a
large telescope made of gold metal in fascination.
Stiles throws him a betrayed look, not that Derek sees because he’s too busy
mooningover that telescope. “I should have neverlet you in.”
“He does have a point, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton agrees. “Hello, Derek. It’s been
a while since we met. I believe you were three at the time, and I was
consulting with Mr. Ravenhill. You were running around with your younger sister
I believe.”
Derek rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I don’t remember that. But it’s nice
to meet you again.” He walks over to shake the older man’s hand swiftly and
lets go just as quickly.
Stiles really wants to ask about what that kind of contact means, especially
since Derek takes him time releasing Stiles’s hands like it’s never any rush to
do so. He wonders if he’s even ready for the answer.
Derek puts his hands in his pockets again like he’s trying to reassure himself
that the jacket's still there and it wasn’t a dream.
Stiles is a little amused by that.
“Can you tell me how much that telescope costs, please?” Derek questions a
little self-consciously and sneaks glances at Stiles.
Stiles wonders why.
“It’s one of a kind. It was once owned by James E. Webb, so I’m sure you can
understand it’s worth,” Deaton replies.
Derek perks up like he’s hit the jackpot. “I’d pay anything,” he swears and
flushes when Stiles’s snickers (and he gets why Derek was trying to be subtle a
moment ago). “It’s not funny.”
“Whatever you say, Richie Rich,” Stiles says and makes his way over to the
leftover mess of books and bookshelves.
“I do not need money, Derek,” Deaton assures. “Only that you treat it with the
care it deserves.”
“Yes,” Derek replies immediately. “I can — I will — I do appreciate the —”
“Then it is yours from this point forward,” Deaton reasons and turns with the
Grimoire in hand. “Excuse me, I believe I hear my teapot hissing. Make yourself
comfortable. I will be upstairs if either of you need my assistance. Derek, I
advise you not to help Stiles, however.”
Stiles makes an indignant sound from the other side of the room at the corner.
Derek snickers.
“It’s a mess he made, and he must take personal responsibility for setting
everything right.” Deaton disappears behind the veil of beads.
Stiles grumbles as he maneuvers around scattered books.
“Stiles, I’m going to put this telescope in my car!” Derek calls and the ding
of the bell residing over the front door.
Stiles doesn’t acknowledge it, too engrossed into lifting a wooden bookshelf
upright with some effort. He tries to subtly pull his magic up and his magic
retreats even further in amusement. “You suck. You suck. You are the worst
magic in history.”
Derek appears not a moment later with one hand in the pocket of his jacket,
thumb poking out. “Do I even want to know?” he questions with a small smile,
playing with an old light up yo-yo like he’s some kind of pro at it.
“I don’t even know how to explain,” Stiles responds, bending to swipe an armful
of books up. “I have magic, but it’s like — I don’t know how to explain. Right
now it’s annoying but we have an understanding. It would risk anything to keep
me safe.” He starts filing books away as he rambles, Derek following quietly
wherever he goes. “Me and my magic have this love/hate relationship. We’re not
exactly friends but like I said, we have an understanding. So, frenemies? Its
kind of like I’m the AU Kirk to it’s Spock. They didn’t get along at first, but
eventually they set aside their differences.” His magic curls up in his chest,
humored. Stiles keeps going anyway, “Or I’m the C. C. Babcock to it’s Niles
from theNanny, you know? You probably don’t know. Maybe it’s more like I’m the
Dennis the Menace to its Mr. George Wilson. Man, I should really watch that
movie again cause it’s been forever. Ha, I love the part near the end where
he’s trying to make s’mores and he — he like — he sets it on fire and starts
shaking it up and down and it goes flying towards Mr. Wilson’s forehead.
Classic. Of course after I watched that movie when I was little, I was
petrified of s’mores for a very long time because I thought I was going to set
myself on fire if I did. I prefer bananas anyway. My mom used to make me these
honeyed banana and peanut butter sandwiches. She’d never cut off the crust
because she knew that was my favorite part. Hey, did you know that bread was so
important to the Egyptian way of life that it was used as a type of currency. I
mean imagine that, buying a camel, or a house, or some rubies with bread. That
is just wild. I would have —”
Derek does the walk-the-dog trick and says, “Breathe, Stiles.”
Stiles sucks in some air, face red by the never-ending babble. “That got away
from me again,” he mumbles sheepishly.
“The part about the bread was interesting,” Derek admits as he does the around-
the-world trick. “And yes, Stiles. I’ve seen the Nanny. That’s Aunt Rosemary,
Aunt Meredith, and my mom’s favorite TV show.” He does the side-winder trick.
“Haven’t seen Dennis the Menace though. I did see Problem Child a million times
with Cora before she fell in love with Ghostbusters.”
“Why are you so good at that? The yoyo should not be easy. Why are you not
having trouble?” Stiles asks, not unkindly. He turns the last two books he has
from the pile of books he had in his arms over in his hands and grabs the
ladder. “Walk-the-dog is the only one I know.”
“Cora and I used to have competitions. But that was before we learned about the
cup game,” Derek explains as he tracks Stiles’s movements very closely.
“The cup game?”
“Yeah. You know. Speed Stacks? The old school multicolored competition cups
with holes at the bottom of them?”
“Oh yeah!” Stiles exclaims and wavers on one of the ladder’s steps a bit,
nothing too serious. “I remember seeing those commercials on Nickelodeon. Or
was it Cartoon Network? Maybe Disney or PBS.” He scans the rows of shelves to
determine where he should be placing the two books in his hands. “Who won?”
“Cora would say she did, but she had nothing on me.”
“She had nothing on you,” Stiles echoes dryly. “Why do I feel like you’re
misinterpreting the whole event?”
“It’s hurts me to think that you don’t believe me,” Derek retorts as he does
walk-the-dog, making the yoyo light up again.
“Cry me a river.” Stiles sways a little harder on the ladder trying to reach up
and situate the book in between a line of already planted books while also
trying to catch his balance. He makes the whole ladder shake with a tremor.
Derek mutters a quick curse and his left hand shoots out to grip the ladder
before it can tip over. “Stiles, be careful.”
“I am,” Stiles protests and wobbles again.
Derek sighs and clutches the ladder tighter.
                                      ---
They roll up to Stiles’s house about a quarter to eight. On the drive to his
house, Stiles had insisted that Derek take his spare backpack back but the
older teen refused and threatened to just buy him a new one if he kept it up.
Stiles pressed his lips together in a frown and crossed his arms, not saying a
word until they pulled up to the curb. He fishes and yanks hisnew book bag from
out of the backseat.
Derek waits until he slams the door shut, wincing and complains, “Hey! Careful
with my baby. She’s been through enough today.”
“You’re such a dweeb,” Stiles retorts, throwing the book bag onto one shoulder.
“Are we good with — um, what we talked about earlier?”
“Very clear,” Derek replies with a grin. “Same time tomorrow?”
“No thanks. I’ll just ride my bike,” Stiles supposes.
“If you say so,” Derek replies easily, and he doesn’t look upset or like he’s
going to push the issue. “Come to my practice after school then.”
“Can’t. Deaton.” Stiles shrugs, trying to smother his smirk.
Derek gives him a flat look. “Yeah, you look really torn up about it.”
Stiles laughs a little.
“Then come to the game later,” Derek asks. “Please.”
Stiles waits a full sixty seconds before he says, “My schedule wont allow it.
You’ll have to talk to my receptionist if you really — ha, okay, I’m totally
kidding. Stop looking like you’re about to have a temper tantrum.”
“I do notlook like I’m about to have a temper tantrum, and the game is at 7:
30.”
“Fine,” Stiles merely says and looks towards his house. “I need to go do my
homework.”
Derek nods in solidarity as his car rumbles. “Call me, maybe?”
Stiles look at him sharply. “You totally did that on purpose.”
“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. You need hard evidence to prove it,” Derek
teases with a grin.
“Good night, oh wait. I’m mean, later.”
“Later, dork.” Derek speeds off before Stiles can pitch a fit.
Stiles is sonot going to call him.
Except he does, butonlyto complain and he has to do it from Isaac’s phone
because his is broken.
Derek just snickers the whole time.
Stiles is annoyed that the other teen can get under his skin like this.
                                      --
Tuesday finds Stiles waking up with a jerk, slapping the paper stuck to his
cheek and wiping the drool from his mouth. He yawns and stretches as he tries
to remember what he’d been doing before. Well he knows he was talking to Derek
for fifteen minutes while he did some of his homework. After they hung up, he
handed the smartphone back to his little brother, and then he tried to finish
the rest of his assignments. He remembers flipping through the bible of Virtues
after he set his alarm for six in the morning. He must have tried to take some
notes on his findings and blacked out in the midst of that.
Stiles is so tired. He gets mad at himself for setting that alarm as early as
he did. He rises from his desk chair and stretches again, groaning when all his
bones crack back into place. Then he rubs the moisture from his eyes and tries
to shake off his exhaustion like he’s getting ready to hype himself up to
skydiving.
He’s a bit sluggish when he exits his room, down the steps and out the back
door. When he makes it to the damp grass of his backyard, he sighs happily and
wiggles his toes. He stands there a moment, swaying a bit, as his eyelids grow
heavier. The sun is rising, he can feel it rather than see it. He stops for a
moment and tries to think as his eyes grow warm.
Stiles decides he wants to try something. He’s not sure if it will work, but
better to try then to not try at all. He reaches in for his magic, which is
curled up in his gut, docile in slumber. That makes him smile, the thought that
his magic can sleep as much as he can. He gently pushes it up and politely
urges it to focus only on his right hand like an ethereal glove. His magic
complies, so spaced-out that it probably doesn’t even realize what’s going on.
Stiles lifts his hand and channels all the energy of his magic to the fingers
of his right hand and pulls the energy of the sun into the mix of it. It burns
hotter and hotter as he prays to Fate, begging for assistance before his hand
twinkles like the brightest star in the sky. Then he drops to his knees and
smacks the edge of the lawn before the ground shakes. His magic wakes up then,
surging in him wildly before it pours into the dirt of the Earth, spreading
like the bioluminescent roots of an otherworldly tree. It sinks deeper and
deeper into the ground and spreads like phosphorescent veins.
He feels the pulse coming from the center of the Earth and his eyes get warmer
and warmer as he stares down. He can see into it, through it, and he just knows
as his heart races. And just like that, he knows everything he needs to know
about his backyard. How deep it goes, how fertile it is, how far the moisture
goes down, what animals and insects are in it, and Nana’s influence on the
health and comfort of the surrounding area. He yanks his hand back as his hand
flickers off and eyes washes cold; his magic isn’t even upset, just annoyed
that he didn’t give it fair warning but even that is surpassed by its pride. He
has to blink away his tears with a shaky exhale before he laughs. He laughs
long and hard because this is probably what Deaton meant the whole time when he
wanted him to learn — to understandthe ground he has to work with. What he had
to learn in order to build his garden.
Stiles knows. He knows.He can tell what will go where and how long it will take
for it to grow, and how to avoid disruptive weather. He knows what purpose his
garden has and that it will be a reflection of who he is and what he can do. It
will be sanctified ground with peace and love. He pulls his legs up and hugs
his knees as he laughs wetly. The Sun twinkles at him as though Fate is saying
‘Well done’. He trembles in triumph and he can’t waitto start. It will be his
resting place, his place of comfort and thought. Somewhere he can contemplate
the issues of the world and how to promote harmony. He is young and he has a
long way to go, but he gets to start hereand it’s the best feeling in the
world.
He’ll have a little piece of Faerie here, a fraction of his heritage within
reach and that gives him extraordinary bliss.
Home is coming.
It’s coming.
                                      ---
Stiles spends the rest of the morning on cloud nine. Even Isaac looks at him
with a curious thrill as they ride their bikes lazily to school. He goes out of
his way to hug Stiles tightly like he’s afraid Stiles will disappear before he
runs off with a grin. When he gets to his own school, everyone glances his way
like that can’t help but to notice him. He doesn’t even care or notice; he’s
just so content. He makes his way to his locker, humming happily to himself,
and he hardly notices that every person he passes on either side of him perk up
with a smile and starts laughing aimlessly. The hall just lights up with
delight and wonder.
“Why are you all glow-y?” Cora asks, trying for a scowl but her lips keep
twitching like she wants to grin. “And why do you smell like the sweetest part
of the forest?”
“I don’t know,” Stile admits honestly. “And what do you mean glow-y? Shit, am I
blue?” He panics.
“Calm down,” Cora hisses as her mouth twitches again. “I don’t mean like that.
It’s just that your skin is — you look like moonshine. It’s — it’s pretty.”
“Are you saying I’m pretty, Cora?” Stiles rags and barely manages to avoid the
light punch she’s trying to aim at his right arm. “I really don’t know. All I
did was just a little forest-magic this morning. Kinda learned my backyard. It
was awesome.”
“Well dial it back. Everyone looks all loopy like they’re drunk or high. Even I
want to just curl up with Ginger along the riverbank where the sunflowers
grow,” Cora admits, fidgeting with her discomfort.
“Is that your happy place?” Stiles questions, charmed. "Are you saying I remind
you of your happy place? That's almost romantic."
Cora gives him a sharp look but she also doesn’t deny it.
Stiles makes a mental note to grow some sunflowers for her. “Also, I don’t know
how to ‘dial it back’. I haven’t got that far in my studies. I didn’t know this
would happen, I swear. I think some of my Faerie energy is coming out.”
“Well figure how to push it back in because no will get anything done today
with you around clouding all our thoughts like this,” Cora says through gritted
teeth but her eyes are bright and pleased. “Seriously. It’s like someone’s
passing a blunt around.”
Stiles throws his head back and laughs.
The sound spreads through the entire school and it’s like a mixture of flutes
and tinkling of bells.
“Whoops,” Stiles says, wincing when Cora gives him a poor excuse for a glare.
“Dialing back. Dialing back,” he swears.
Cora drags him to their AP Biology class, snarling at anyone who tries to
gravitate towards Stiles.
They all spring back in fear.
Stiles loves Cora.
                                      ---
The rest of his classes follow with the same theme. He spends most of his time
looking out the window, watching as the birds and butterflies tap against the
glass like they’re trying to get to him. He kind of longs to be with them too.
Every teacher gives their lectures with passionate cheer. The students squirm
like their resisting the urge to glance towards the back corner of the room
where Stiles always resides. Some of the girls pull out their powder mirrors
like they’re trying to reapply some lip gloss but Stiles has to duck the glare
of light when those mirrors gets aimed at him.
It’s kind of ridiculous to be honest.
He remembers asking for a pen because his exploded and about fifteen pens of
blues and reds and blacks get thrown at him immediately. He yelps and tries to
dodge them while he pushes down his magic when it gets angry and defensive at
the mistreatment of its host. He sends impressions of assurance as he sorts
through the pile and grabs a blue pen. His magic just curls up in his mind,
sullen.
Now thatpattern continues because all his books seem to disappear somehow
(though he has some idea who is responsible for that since certain people in
his classes try to causally avoid his gaze) and he crosses his arms, refusing
to accept the multitude of offers he gets to share books.
Thank god his teachers don’t moon over him. That would be awkward, but they do
go out of their way to call on him more than anyone and that’s annoying enough
that he kind of wishes they were infatuated so that he can beg off the
questions. However, since it’s not like that, he purposefully gives wrong
answers so that they can leave him alone but they just go with it saying ‘Well
yes, that is one way to look at it. Thank you, Stiles’.
Stiles stuffs all the books pushed on him and takes one of each as to put in
his locker and leaves the rest scattered on the floor because the janitor is
more than happy to tidy up after him. He maneuvers his way to the lunch and
around all the offers to sit with a new group of people. Even the lunch ladies
refuse to accept his money and gives an extra serving of anything he asks for.
He tries to carry it out into the quad without dropping it and makes an annoyed
sound when a senior grabs it and carries it to his table for him.
“Thanks,” Stiles huffs and gives her a pointed look before she goes away.
Laura and Kate stare at him for a long time and Cora squirms beside him.
“Kate, trade places with me please,” Cora begs as she gets red.
“No way, I get a front view,” Kate retorts as she grins at Stiles from under
her lashes. “When did you get so gorgeous, tenderfoot.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” Stiles complains and throws of all his jello at her.
Laura looks confused as she wars with her emotions. She gets a little pink as
she tries to stop herself from staring at him with so much affection and
emotion. “This is too weird. Cora, help me pass out some flyers.”
“Oh thank fuck,” Cora says in relief and scrambles off with Laura like there’s
a lion chasing them.
Kate makes these happy little sounds as she eats his jello. “Seriously. Why do
you look so good that I want to lick this jello off your body?”
Stiles chokes on the hotdog he’s eating and he goes pink when he realizes
everyone has been staring at him the whole time with these crazed lustful
looks.
“I’m going to have to go help Laura and Cora. I’m seconds away from cheating on
Peter with you. See you around, buttercup. Fix whatever the fuck it is,” Kate
advises before gliding away.
A few students edge closer to occupy the seats around Stiles.
Luckily that’s when Derek shows up and glares them all into submission and they
retreat in fear. The older teen lowers his tray to the table and sits across
from Stiles. “What’s up with the school? I hear everyone saying your name every
thirty seconds with their hearts racing wildly. And it’s weird because —
Stiles, why do you have so many slices of chocolate cake? Where the hell did
all this food come from? That’s why we’re out of slushies! This is a bit much,
even for you and why are you looking at me like that?”
Stiles is gawking at him. “You mean…you’re fine? I don’t make you want to —”
His face colors. “— never mind. I messed around with some forest-magic before I
came to school and I think some of my Fae energy is affecting everyone. Well
everyone but you, which I do not get.”
“Ah, I get it now,” Derek says, stretching with a smirk before he grabs three
plates of chocolate cake from the pile. “You’ve got some kind of Faerie allure
going on. You’re a temptress.”
“Shut up,” Stiles complains as his flush spreads. “Not severely enough since
you seem so immune to it. Why is that?”
Derek shrugs both his mouth and shoulders. “Maybe because I already find you
attractive? Everyone’s just seeing what I’ve already noticed about you. Are you
gonna finish that taco? Why don’t I just take these, and help you out a bit?
You’ve been provided with a banquet it seems.”
Stiles just stares at him and shakes his head, trying to swallow and process
the older teen’s casual attitude. He clears his throat as he watches Derek
stuff the soft-shell taco in his mouth with no problem. “So, you’re saying that
everyone who normally doesn’t have a deep attraction to me is affected by my
aura?”
“Makes sense to me,” Derek supposes. “Do I need to follow you for the rest of
your classes to make sure there’s no funny business? I’ve seen the way
Greenberg looks at you. I don’t know, Stiles. He looks ready to seal the deal.
I’ll be heartbroken but I’ll be the ring bearer if needed.”
“You are notamusing.”
“Yes I am. You love it. Finish that hotdog, everyone keeps looking at it
hopefully like their praying that you put it in your mouth again.”
Stiles chokes on his spit but laughs. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
Derek shrugs and takes two more slices of chocolate cake.
Stiles is grateful for this short moment of normality.
“Hey, do you think if I took you to the ice cream parlor, they’d give us all
the ice cream we wanted free of charge?”
Stiles rolls his eyes as he eats soup instead, ignoring all the disappointed
looks. “It is so like you to take advantage of this for your own gain.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“Fine, yes, okay.” Then Stiles quickly, because Derek starts to give him a
million watt smile, adds, “But only for tenminutes, Derek. I have to get to
Deaton’s so he can help me fix this.”
“Awesome. Though, all I’m going to think about for the rest of school is how
I’m going to gorge myself on some zebra cake ice cream until I need medical
help.”
“That is the most obnoxious thing I’ve heard anyone say.”
Derek just beams excitedly at him and reaches the last of piece of cake.
Stiles has to fight him for it because he did actually want some of it.
                                      ---
There’s a strange older man standing across from Deaton when Derek and Stiles
walk through the shop door, bumping shoulders playfully after inhaling an
obscene amount of ice cream in such a short amount of time.
Derek straightens in awareness and his eyes flash gold as his mouth twists into
a severe frown.
Stiles touches his elbow, ready to ask him what’s wrong but he never gets the
chance to. The man turns to look at them and Stiles freezes instantly.
He’d know that face anywhere.
It’s Chris Argent.
***** chastity *****
Chris Argent has hard lines in his face. His mouth is set in a grim frown like
he hasn't smiled for years, and blue eyes are dark with an intensity that could
probably make even a ferocious lion quiver fear. His clothes are simple, not
quite street clothes but not quite professional; a mixture of both maybe, but
he pulls it off well enough. He looks just like Kate, and he can see the vague
traces of the features that Allison possesses too. Chris's eyes sweep over
Derek with a stoic expression and Derek stiffens before balling his fists.
Stiles does not like that at all, and even his magic bristles, which forces him
to push it down with an impression of complacency and an urging feeling of
gentle consolation.
Chris's eyes flicker to him next, and he straightens, the line of shoulders
falling in slow degrees, and he gives the younger teen a considering look. Then
he takes a careful stride to them like he's being both cautious and ready
before he stands before them. "Derek," he says with a voice that sounds both
like a greeting and a warning. "And you would be…" He's looking at Stiles.
"Stiles. Stilinski." Stiles doesn't say much more than that.
Chris’s face has this constipated look of recognition before he shuts it down
as quickly as it appeared. "The sheriff's son," is all he says, but there's
something there that indicates he knows more of Stiles than he's willing to let
on.
Stiles would not be surprised, considering that this is Mayor Argent's oldest
son (in meaning that this is the only child he's seen fit to claim, outside of
Kate of course). His eyes, as well as the look in them, echo the kind of
ruthless cunning that Mayor Argent has about him unfailingly.
Chris holds out his hand, completely disregarding Derek (who just jams his
hands in his pockets like he wouldn't want to touch Chris even if he offered)
and the older man just stares Stiles down.
Stiles doesn't feel intimidated, remarkably enough, and it might be because his
magic furls around in his rib cage like a serpent posed to strike. He gets over
his hesitation and he shakes the older man's hand. He inhales quietly as waves
of emotions sink into his nerves to travel up to his brain to form into a cloud
of guilt, sadness, anger, determination and Stiles slams down any expression
that clues the older man of what he's seen before he let's go.
Chris sweeps his gaze over the younger man once again before he looks over his
shoulder at Deaton. "Right again, it seems. I'll be in touch."
Deaton gives a short nod.
Chris returns it and pushes his way between Derek and Stiles to hustle out the
door.
Stiles walks over to Deaton and says, "Why was Chris Argent here? What were you
guys talking about? Why did he look at me like he knows who and what I am? I
felt him, you know. Like felt him. I didn't see anything but I just — you know?
Like I got an impression. Is that normal? How —" 
Deaton puts his hand up. "One question at a time, Mr. Stilinski," he says
before he looks over at Derek. "Are you stable?"
Stiles feels bad immediately as he whips his gaze over at the older teen. He
didn't even think to ask or check  — too wrapped up in his own confusion. He's
such a bad friend.
Derek has an angry flush spread like freckles on his cheeks. His large hands
aren't in his pockets anymore and he flexes them as his eye color flickers back
and forth from hazel green to bright gold. His shoulders are shaking with the
effort to keep it together. "I — don't think I can — I'm sorry — I can't —"
he's practically choking on the words and he sounds so painfully miserable and
ashamed.
"Talk him down," Deaton unflappably instructs.
Stiles's magic surges in him as predictable warmth floods his eyes and he
almost whimpers when his whole body flushes with a white-hot spark crashing
into his system like a searing tsunami. His skin glows brighter than he has
ever seen and he feels like a cup spilling over with sweltering wine. It makes
him feel desperate to get rid of the extra energy. He's afraid to touch Derek
because the last time he felt like this, Parrish went flying back.
"Talk him down," Deaton urges, turning away from the marvelous radiance of
Stiles's bioluminescent glow and braces himself against the edge of the glass
case. His shoulders look like their trembling. "Quickly, Mr. Stilinski, before
I drop to my knees."
Stiles doesn't know what to do because even Derek has his eyes closed like he's
trying to hide from the sunlight. So he reaches out and grabs Derek's left hand
and his magic furls up Derek's arm like thick vapor before sinking into his
chest and Stiles can feel his magic seeking for the older teen's heart with
glee, and when it finds what it's looking for, it envelops it like wrapping
paper. Stiles has no words for what he feels, but it's like his magic is
speaking with ethereal sentiment.
Derek gasps and when his eyes fly open, his gold eyes shine with the kind of
brilliance that would make the stars in the upper heavens jealous.
Stiles feels a little breathless at the sight, and he has to viciously strike
at his magic, putting up a force field because it wants to create a tether
between the two of them without their consent and he says 'no absolutely not,
you will not'. His magic withdraws quickly in a hostile retreat and settles in
his mind, hiding away in the quiet places of the receptors that control motor
functions. He let's go of Derek's hand with an annoyed sound as his glow washes
cold.
Derek is trembling but he's not about to lose control and give over to the
shift. He does look exhausted and he has to blindly reach out for this old,
black rocking chair behind him. He also seems a little dazed like he's drunk.
Stiles blushes and tries not to think about why that is, still miffed at his
magic for trying to have its way with Derek. In it's enthusiasm, it tried
to seek out the older teen’s spirit so it could follow the threads that would
lead it to Derek's inner wolf with the intention of binding them together. His
magic bristles in his mind like a spoiled, petulant child before going still,
and retreats further until Stiles can barely feel it at all.
Deaton straightens with some effort, but he's still shaking, which makes
Stiles's attention shift. "That was a little extreme, even for a Seven," he
supposes, his voice has a slight tremor to it and that astonishes Stiles so
much because the older man usually always has such rigid composure. "I'm afraid
the scale I measured the limit of your power is now null and void."
"I don't — I didn't mean to — hang on, what do you mean?" Stiles questions
desperately, afraid of the answer.
"It means there is a question of whether or not you have a set limit," Deaton
replies before he takes a moment to inhale/exhale for several beats of silence.
"I need a moment.” He takes about five minutes until his self-control returns.
“Your forest-magic appears to have more exuberance than I anticipated. Mr.
Stilinski, this power almost compares to the Lady of the Garden. Do
you understand the implications of that?"
Stiles is freaking out. He's freaking out so hard that he's well on his way to
having a panic attack and it doesn't help that every electrical appliance is
flickering on and off. "Please don't say that," he pleads desperately. "I just
got used to being a Seven and now you're telling me that I could very well be —
I don't — I can't —" 
"Settle your emotions, Mr. Stilinski, or your magic will start to manifest and
you'll demolish everything in the radius of this store."
Stiles throat begins to tighten and his lungs fill constricted. He will pass
out — he will pass out — he will— he —
"Focus on me, Stiles," Derek says quietly, still sounding slightly drowsy.
"It's okay. We'll make it okay. Just listen to me breathe, all right? You’re
safe. You have the ground under your feet and the ceiling over your head.
Listen to the clocks and listen to me breathe. We can make this okay. Focus on
me for a moment."
Stiles lets out a shuddering breath before he swallows dryly and gives a short
nod. He presses his lips together so hard that it almost hurts. They feel like
they might go numb soon if he keeps this up. He shakes out his hands, focusing
on the tick tock of the clocks and the relaxed rhythm of Derek's breathing. The
beating heart in Stiles's chest slows down as he clings to these things and
there's only half of a portion of anxiety there, but it's nothing he can't
handle, although the worst of it will hit him hard later, which probably means
he'll do a quick stress cry in Derek’s car on the drive home. But for now, he
can keep it together.
"Your backyard," Deaton starts when he's sure the younger man is calm enough to
speak. "The measurements?"
"You gave me a trick question, you know. Sent me on a wild goose chase. The
measurements aren’t what’s important, are they?" Stiles says vaguely, still
listening to Derek breathe. "It's more than that. The ground goes deep and it's
good soil. It’s healthy and there's potential there, but I don't know how to
sow the seeds. I know where to put everything and the order it goes in or how
to make it grow. But I don’t know what to sow."
"Amethyst stones," Deaton clarifies. "They have spiritual healing properties
but a Virtue's purpose for them is to spread the stones when they’ve been
crushed to beads, so as to plant them like seeds. You command them. You speak
over it because your voice gives life, not death. You feed it with your tears,
your energy, your spit, and drops of your blood. The maximum being three drops
when required, you do not need to look so fearful. You wont be slicing open
your wrists."
"That's comforting in a major way," Stiles mumbles and smiles a little when
Derek snorts. "How do I get these stones?"
"You leave that to me. My purpose is to stand in the gap when you are unable to
divide your attention," Deaton answers. "Virtues do not settle. The toiling is
constant. They understand that forgiveness and reconciliation and favor are
given for reason, and for purpose. You are an ambassador of peace with grace
unsurpassed, and so there is much required of you. You hear the hearts that cry
out by the masses. I know you feel the restlessness of your magic. It does not
want to find a comfortable position and put up a tent there and tell Fate 'I am
happy with you blessing me and mine'.
"Virtues do not want a life that looks good, but they want it to be good.” He
goes on to say, “Fate wants to hear its children look to the Sun and say 'Use
us, pick us, choose us'. When Virtues decide to leave this realm, and stand for
judgment in front the Faceless, they want to show that they spent their time
here with a life poured out; that your love was seen and carved out on the
foundations of the Earth. Virtues will never ever take for granted the time
they are given. You understand pain, loneliness, anger, fear, distress and
every negative state because you were in that state. Yet Fate bothered to take
the time and present the gifts of nature and love to you, so that you can
replicate it."
Stiles's cheeks are red and wet with awe and a yearning to own the
responsibility of his purpose. He always gets emotional over these truths and
he can’t figure out why. Maybe its because he wants to pave the way for harmony
like he’s supposed to. His magic has even emerged and has expanded in his chest
with a craving unlike anything he's ever felt. "I — I do want to —" he's
choking on the words he can't even get them out.
Deaton understands perfectly. "I know. The Mother Queen will teach you how to
pray and the ethics of deliverance, and I will teach you how to collaborate and
hone your magic. Together, we will get you there."
Stiles nods and scrubs his face clean using his hands and sleeves. "Where do we
start?"
"Softening the energy of your magic,” Deaton reasons as he reaches down to grab
something that Stiles can’t see. “When you came in your aura was bright.”
“Like moonshine,” Derek offers. He gives a lazy smile that never fails to give
Stiles butterflies. The smile lengthens when Stiles gives him a sharp look with
a blush dusting his cheeks. “Don’t look at me. Cora’s the one that put that
way. Though I don't disagree.”
Stiles sighs. “Derek —”
“Regardless,” Deaton cursorily interjects. He's smart to interrupt. “Your
countenance equates almost to the brilliance of the sun. Something so bright,
beyond what’s considered normal, masters the heart of the many and sways the
spirit of the few. The radiance your magic affords you, the biological vitality
of Faerie elegance is what, within it’s own right, can be considered a weapon.”
“I understand,” Stiles promises, but he makes an indication to Derek. “He
wasn’t affected.”
The corner of Deaton’s mouth twitch with an almost crooked smile before it
straightens into the grim line he always holds. “I believe this is something
you and Derek must discuss.” He glances over to Derek with an assessing gaze.
“This is a matter I have no say in.”
Derek flushes and squirms with this guilty look that Stiles can’t even begin to
understand.
“Um…okay,” Stiles says, completely lost. “How do I stop, you know, glowing?”
“This will last three days, until the next cycle of the moon begins. However,
it is not influenced by the moon, but by three series of a sunrise, as you are
under the banner of Fate,” Deaton announces. “It would appear this is what we
will have to work on alongside the building of your garden. I assumed you
already knew how to maintain balance. You should know how to do basic forest-
magic without expelling so much Fae dynamism. This is only acceptable to do in
the small kingdom.”
“Kingdom?”
“Your garden. For Faeries, their resting place is considered a small kingdom,”
Deaton patiently explains. “You’re a Prince among all sentient beings, though
in some cultures you are considered more. However, there is no doubt that you
are the Boy King among nature. The Lady of the Garden is the Queen of all
Faeries, and whatever you conquer is considered an expansion of Her kingdom.
Thus, your garden is considered a small kingdom.”
“Ah,” is all Stiles says. He doesn’t say anything else because he doesn’t know
what to say. He’s taken in so much today. It’s a little baffling and
overwhelming but no less intriguing; he wonders when he’ll get to that part in
the bible of Virtues.
“Tea,” Deaton says suddenly.
Stiles blinks as he turns his attention back to the older man. “Tea?”
“Tea.” Deaton reveals a small, dark mahogany bowl with a matching grinder that
looks like a miniature baseball bat with a fat head. He even sits a glass jar
(which looks like a see-through cookie jar) that’s almost filled to the rim
with clear water. There’s a jar of honey and brown sugar. Then he reveals a
flowerpot full of thick, black dirt, and a measuring cup full of white sand.
“Tea.”
“Uh —” Stiles cocks his head as he rubs the back of his neck. “— the water I
get. The mixing bowl. The honey. The sugar. That I get too. But…why the dirt
and sand?”
“Mr. Stilinski, that bad habit of yours is manifesting again,” Deaton calmly
states and says nothing when Stiles blushes in embarrassment. “Tea.”
“Got it,” Stiles mumbles and begins to chew on his thumbnail. “Is there a
timeline on this?”
“No timeline. All you simply have to do is make tea when you are ready to do
so,” Deaton explains and turns to walk away. “I’ll work on obtaining those
amethyst stones for you. I’ll have a sack full of beads for you to plant by
Monday. Lock up when it is time for you to leave.” He nods at Derek before he
disappears behind that veil of beads.
Stiles sighs and twists his body left to right while rolling his head.
Derek snorts. “Getting ready to run a marathon, huh?”
“Funny,” Stiles replies sarcastically. “Are you — I just noticed — I mean you
had to know who that — did he ever do anything —”
“Yes, I’m fine," Derek carefully interjects, already three steps ahead,
expertly making sense of Stiles's half-completed sentences. "I know who Chris
Argent is, but I don't personally know him. It’s mostly instinct. Weres can
sense Hunters, only if they’ve killed one of our kind. It's like a biological
response — or maybe deeper that. Maybe even something selective, like a
chemical reaction on a neurological level. So my initial response is to be
proactively defensive to protect myself. Kate is — she’s different. She’s never
done anything like that. Kill one of our kind, that is. We’ve accepted her a
long time ago. Even mom recognized that she wasn’t like them, like her father
or her brother. Like Hunters as a whole.” He sighs and rubs his left hand all
over his face before running it through his neatly cut hair. “I don’t know him
like that. I’ve never met him until today. And Kate doesn’t talk about it,
though I can take a stab at why. He left when she was like ten, and she never
forgave him for that. And I think it was also after the fire that killed a good
portion of my family. His presence in this town has always been spotty ever
since.” He finishes with a shrug.
Stiles takes that in consideration and puts it in his mental back pocket. He’ll
have to call Allison about this, if she doesn’t already know that her father is
in town. Then he gets this sudden thought and says, “Why does Deaton call youby
your first name and not me?”
Derek leans back in the rocking chair, lacing his long fingers together over
his stomach with an amused smirk. He shrugs. “I’m tired. Whatever you did, or,
at least whatever your magic was —”
“It’s very assertive,” Stiles interjects quickly. He's uncomfortable by this
topic because he feels guilty, like he let his magic get out of control in an
invasive way. He'll have to talk to his magic about the importance of consent.
“It just really, you know, likesyou. Oh, come on. Don’t look like that. It
makes me want to kick you. Derek, I swear—”
Derek gives a colorful laugh that makes Stiles’s heart quicken in wonder. “It’s
hard not to take that as a compliment. You already know how I feel about you,
or I hope you have a good idea. Ah, see. You’re blushing again. Positive
response of affirmation.”
“I feel like I opened up the floodgates,” Stiles mutters resentfully as his
blush spreads down to his neck. “You’re such a cocky moron.”
“I am an intelligent contribution to the world,” Derek retorts cheerfully as he
starts to rock. “But maybe this is why we're right for each other. You keep me
humble."
Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Don’t you have tea to make?”
“Don’t you have a mouth to shut?” Stiles mumbles and hides a grin when Derek
laughs delightedly at that. Stiles walks right up to the edge of the glass
counter and drums his fingers on the surface. He gnaws on his bottom lip
thoughtfully. He’s not sure how long he does this for. He presses at his magic
over and over, like a toddler poking at their older sibling for attention.
“Could you at least tell me what I’m supposed to do here?” he whines and flicks
the glass jar of water. This is weird. This is unbelievably confusing. “You
want help me out here, buddy?”
His magic has quieted, but there are impressions of contemplation there. This
goes on for several beats of silence, and Stiles drums his fingers against the
glass all the while. He then is distracted by the thought that Derek’s been
really quiet, and when he looks over, the older teen is sound asleep in the
rocking chair.
Stiles rolls his eyes when his magic pours into his gut in tendrils of arrogant
satisfaction. “You’re a menace.”
His magic doesn’t bother to respond.
Stiles scrunches the corners of his mouth as he grins before letting himself
relax in it. There’s a moment where he wishes he could keep the chair rocking,
and it makes him breathless when he feels strong adoration washing over him as
he watches Derek sleep peacefully. Before he knows what’s happening, his hand
lifts towards Derek and a flash of blue light shoot out from the tips his
fingers to coil around the body of the rocking chair like bioluminescent vines
spreading with a purpose and a never-ending glow. The chair begins to rock
gently over and over like it’s never going to stop until Stiles wants
otherwise.
Would you stop doing these things without my permission!
But why should I? Was it not this morning when you gathered me while I was
docile and combined me with the energy of Fate before pushing me into the soft
places of the earth so that we can learn our garden?
Oh, so it’s our garden now?
This is an unacceptable apology, Faerie.
Who said I was trying to apologize, Ethereal?
Ill-mannered child. You have no tact. I adore him, don’t you see? His wolf
calls to me. He is what I desire: free spirit, wild heart.
I don’t want to talk about this now. Are you going to help me with this?
I have no answers to give. I only know as much as you do and I have stated this
before. You do not know how to pray, so you do not understand the gifts you’ve
been given by Fate, our Mother-Father.
I’ll reread the first sixty pages of the bible of Virtues, and then I’ll come
to Nana with our questions.
Stiles suddenly feels the impression of surprise wrapped in the yellow paper of
mortification. It takes him a moment to realize why and he laughs.
Well, look at that. You like when I say ‘we’ and not just ‘I’. You have a thing
about me acknowledging you like that, don't you?
You know nothing. Go wander the bookshelves, I’ll let you know what books you
should pay attention to and collect.
We are definitely going to talk about this later. You want me to belong to you
and you want to belong to me. Admit it.
Uncouth Faerie.
Stuck up Ethereal.
His magic, unsurprisingly, doesn’t reply, but there are hints of annoyance and
embarrassment there. He hums pleasantly as he walks away from the counter,
taking a moment to check on Derek, but he’s still sleeping deeply as remnants
of Stiles’s magic lulls him with the gentle rock of the chair. He grins and
shakes his head, and doesn’t know why that pleases him to see his magic taking
care of the older teen.
Stiles does as his magic asks. He wanders through the bookshelves, taking his
time to drag his fingers against the different spines of the books. He waits
until his magic leads him where he’s supposed to go. He takes a moment to
listen to the clocks that are on the wall to the far right of him. The ceiling
fans over his head, which puts the wind chimes in motion, and the almost quiet
sound of the creak of a rocking chair.
His magic urges him to stop and his hand pauses on the spine of a very thin
book. He pulls it free and turns it over in his hands. The title reads ‘The
Garden of Hesperides’.He pulls out his phone as he sits on the floor with his
back leaning against the bookshelf behind him, and he sets a timer for five
o’clock. Then he dives in.
It’s basically the tale of an all female family of nymphs who inhabit and tends
to a garden of trees riddled with golden apples that promises a life of bliss
and immortality. Without fail, day and night, these daughters of the evening
who are trapped between the will of Fate and Peril (the golden light of where
Sun meets Moon). Their only purpose was to ensnare and to prophesy life or
death as well as to tempt those with impure hearts.
They are Nymphs.
Stiles straightens almost immediately as he pays close attention of the
detailed account of a female child, no more than seven years old, who stumbled
upon the garden by accident. She explains, in her later years as a married wife
and mother, how beautiful the women were. How gorgeous and lush and alive the
garden was. How long their hair was, and that it looked like it was floating
around them while they danced, playing flutes and strumming harps. How
butterflies would morph into flowers. She really is careful to explain that
most of the women would swim along the surface of a river that looked like it
was made of silver and silk. The ones sitting on the edge would lazily wag
their tail fins, which looked like a bunch of glittering gems carefully knitted
together.
She goes on to explain that the mother of the garden walked over to her,
pressing her cold hands to her chest before she said, “Alloweth all who has't
ears, pray and giveth thy purpose of Fate and Peril, grant you mercy from the
heavens for a heart so pure. Wouldst thou come and rest with us, little lamb?”
She continues to say she cried with silent joy as they all dotted on her,
feeding her wild berries and sweet bread, and praise dancing before her while
they cried out to the sky so that she may be anointed with blessings until the
bitter end. But of course she did not stay, because she knew she would miss her
family so dearly. And the world passes by in a blink of an eye if you linger in
the garden for more than a day. She knew this to be true when she returned home
and everyone was at least seven years older from when she last left; they had
all thought she'd died and was surprised to see her appear, looking the same
way she did when she went missing.
Stiles has such good timing that his alarm sounds off just when he closes the
book and puts it back where it belongs. He stretches with a groan and swipes
his phone from the aged floorboards before he wanders over to Derek, who is
still sound asleep as the chair continuously rocks.
Stiles huffs and says, “All right. That’s enough. Retreat. Come on. Show’s
over.”
The magic fades away into an ethereal mist and dissipates into nothing.
Stiles grabs the arm of the rocking chair to stop it completely with his left
hand and of course this is the moment Derek’s eyes open and he frowns a little
in confusion. He looks a little drowsy but well-rested.
Derek looks over to Stiles with bright hazel-green eyes and he smiles lazily
while he slides his fingers over the pulse of Stiles’s left hand with his own
and makes his way to the palm.
Stiles flushes and pulls away. “Oh no, don't start feeling me up. I told you I
understand what you’re doing. Well not completely because I’m not sure how this
works in Werewolf culture. I mean I get it but I don’t. Talia said that the
right hand was for friendship and family. Then she said the — the left was — it
was for —” His cheeks turn a little pink as Derek stands and stretches calmly
before walking forward to corner Stiles against the glass case. “Derek — you
shouldn’t — shouldn’t kiss —”
“I won’t. Not until I’m sure you want it,” Derek replies cheerily before he
pulls Stiles into a warm hug. He hides his face on the curve where shoulder
meets neck and rumbles quietly.
Stiles feels the vibrations and tries not to relax just out of spite when the
older teen slides his hands up the length of his spine before spanning out on
his shoulder blades and goddamn it, why does Derek always know how to hug him
the way he likes? No matter how hard he tries he still ends up becoming docile
under Derek’s touch and rolls his eyes when the other teen huffs in triumph.
Derek is definitely grinning and was apparently waiting very patiently until he
could get the younger teen to become slack in his hands.
“Stop scenting me, you dork,” Stiles complains, tugging on Derek’s dark hair.
“First, you try to grab my left hand which, hello, means inti — intima — I
can’t even say it. You’re being very forward, you know. This is some next level
courtship.”
Derek laughs and pulls away, but his cheeks are flushed contently. He looks a
little inebriated with it. “I have to get to practice,” he deflects. “Come on,
you said you would watch.”
“I said the game!” Stiles whines as the older teen pushes him out the door. “I
didn’t say anything about practice. Bye, Deaton!” he calls out and Derek echoes
it. “I didn’t do the tea thing but see you tomorrow!”
“We rode here together,” Derek points out after he pushes Stiles over the
threshold, bell-chiming overhead, and then he watches Stiles lock up. "You have
to see the logic in this." 
Stiles pockets the keys and gives him a look. “Yeah, how convenient. Now I have
no choice but to attend.”
Derek wirelessly unlocks the door with a snort. “So I guess we’re going to
completely overlook the fact that youwillingly climbed into the car so that we
could go to the ice cream parlor and pig out on every sugary, frozen
confections they had before coming here?”
“That was you who pigged out!” Stiles laughs but he does climb into the car
because the older teen does have a point, as annoying as that may be. “I really
did think you would need to seek medical attention. You were inhaling that
zebra cake ice cream, and the strawberry cheesecake, and the cookie dough,
andthe rocky road. Meanwhile, I just had a simple waffle cone of banana-twinkie
ice cream, and that was just three scoops.”
Derek just shrugs and starts the car. “No regrets.”
Stiles hits his arm but he still laughs anyway.
It’s probably three minutes before the stress from earlier finally gets to him.
He ends up crying for a few minutes after the wall holding his anxiety at bay
cracks and opens up the floodgates. He hides his face in his hands, and he
can’t stop the tears even if he wanted to. He feels a little mortified that
he’s falling apart from what probably looks like out of nowhere to Derek.
But Derek lets him ride it out like he understands and he doesn’t question it
or make any judgmental comments.
Stiles sniffs and gives a watery laugh of embarrassment when Derek hands him a
tissue box. “You keep a tissue box stashed in your car?”
“I like to be prepared for anything,” Derek admits as he stops at the last
light before school when it turns red. “You’re not the only who can cry at the
drop of a hat. I get my spells here and there.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles mumbles nasally before he blows his nose, even though he
feels better because of Derek’s confession. “I hope I didn’t make — were you —
did you feel uncomfortable with all my blubbering? I’m sorry.”
“Well that’s a stupid thing to apologize for,” Derek counters, but not
unkindly. “Like I said, you’re not the only one who gets emotional once and a
while. At this point, we’ve cried in front of each other plenty of times that
we shouldn’t really feel ashamed when it happens randomly.”
Stiles supposes he does have a point. "Yeah, guess you're right. Although, you
make it sound like it's gonna continue to be a norm from now on."
“It might, and I wouldn't mind honestly. What about you? Are you okay with
that?” Derek asks as he looks over at him.
Stiles meets his gaze. “No complaints here,” he replies softly.
                                      ---
Basketball practice is exactly what Stiles thought it would be as he watches it
all unfold, posted up on the highest bench closest to the courtside where the
school’s team will be shooting.
The players do a series of stretches and go through a round of free throw shots
and the like. Laura and Kate are among their fellow cheerleaders. Kate is being
ruthless with them, snapping her fingers for them to do their drills, barking
cattily when there’s even the slightest mistake.
Laura is more of a soft touch, which is probably why she makes an ideal
captain. She’s understanding and patient. But Kate does her duty as co-captain
and stays on them about their slip-ups when Laura won’t. However, Stiles can’t
help but to notice that Kate only does it when one of the girls or guys do
something that almost hurts them or could cause a devastating injury.
No shocker that under Kate’s ironclad exterior lies a beautiful soul.
Stiles overlooks the glances the cheerleaders sneak towards him as they go
through routines, which is probably why Kate snaps at them because they’re not
all the way there with their focus.
Cora is among her bandmates and she scowls very deeply at them all when they
run through their plays in a lackadaisical manner as they stare dreamily at
Stiles. She tosses him an accusing glare, but it’s ruined by the flush she’s
sporting. She looks like she’s fighting the same urge.
Stiles gives an apologetic shrug because, hey, he does feel bad. This is
partially his fault. Partially. Like maybe 30%. Or 19%. Oh what the hell. Let’s
make it an even 10%.
Brett Talbot, temporary captain of the basketball team, fusses at his team too.
They’re being unnecessarily showy and it makes them sloppy. But Brett only
tries to get them under control in some weird show of peacocking, and Stiles
only knows this because after every order he barks out, he stares at Stiles for
an uncomfortable five seconds like he's looking for any sign of approval.
Derek climbs the stands to get to him as he gives Stiles a considering look,
then he glances over his shoulder at all their peers before turning back to
him. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” he supposes. “If you make me lose the last
game of the year because of your subtle seduction —”
“Shut up!” Stiles hisses and is overtaken by a helpless flush. “You’re the one
that insisted I come."
"I distinctly remember that you begged me to tag along."
"What?"
"Oh yeah. There were tears and everything."
"That wasn't — ugh, I can't even —" Stiles just waves his arms wildly in
frustration. "You were the one so dead set on me being here! So if anything,
you only have yourself to blame!”
Derek just hums before cocking his head thoughtfully. “Pay attention to me
tonight, okay? I’m going to be pulling all the weight, and the other team is
going to try twice as hard to win this game for you.”
Stiles’s blush dies down but he's still a little red while he nods quickly.
“Keep your heart steady. I need an anchor. It’ll help me win this for you. I
should be the only one that gets that privilege anyway,” Derek decides before
he turns to climb down the stands and jog back over to his team.
Stiles exhales because his insides feel warm and it’s got nothing to do with
his magic, which is, weirdly enough, asleep. He bounces his leg anxiously and
quietly says, “Good luck.”
Derek hears him anyway and he flashes him a smile made of stunning brilliance.
Then he smirks because he can probably hear how it makes Stiles’s heart
unsteady for that brief moment.
Stiles rolls his eyes and watches as people start to filter in. His brow
furrows in wonder as he watches Derek accept hugs from Peter, Derek Sr., and
Talia.
Derek scowls a little when Peter scrubs his hair, smirking when the young man
pushes his hand away. But Derek smiles again when his older cousins and aunts
and uncles make their way over with their well wishes. The older teen then
makes an indication to the direction of the stands, they swing their gazes over
and Stiles waves at them shyly, not startled when they give him considering
looks.
Derek rolls his eyes at his family and fusses at them all, shooing them to the
bleachers and to the space he’s reserved for them.
Peter squints his eyes for a moment at Stiles and easily accepts the hug and
kisses Kate gives to him. He says something to her without taking his eyes off
of Stiles. Kate smirks with a quick reply and they both laugh before they let
each other go and walk their separate ways.
Stiles does not even know what that means or if he wants to know what was said.
He figures that if it matters, either Kate or Peter will fill him in.
The marching band plays a lazy song to usher in the multitudes of families and
friends.
Stiles becomes both glad and confused when his dad and Isaac climb the stands
to sit on either side of him because people were beginning to scramble towards
the empty seats around him. “Not that I’m not happy you’re here or anything,
but why are you here?”
“You look different,” is the first thing his dad says. “Why do I want to hug
and give you anything you ask for? Not that I don’t want to on some occasions,
but I feel like I wouldn’t be able to say no, no matter what it was.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh — it’s this — you see I —
well…can I explain later? I promise not to ask you for anything in the
meantime.”
His dad looks grateful for that and relaxes only a fraction because he has to
toss a glare around at all the people staring at his son in awe and desire.
They’re smart enough to avert their gaze. “As to why we’re here, well, Derek
invited us out before he left the night he and his dad came over. He was pretty
sure you’d be here too,” he explains.
“You loser,” Stiles mutters quietly under the fuss of the band warming up, and
the excited chatter, because he is absolutely sure the older teen can hear.
“You’re a presumptuous asshole.”
Derek chokes on the purple Gatorade he’s downing in surprise and he sprays his
teammate with it. He looks like he’s apologizing through his laughter but he’s
not doing it very well because he’s being chewed out about it.
Stiles crosses his arms in satisfaction, only to uncross them when Isaac offers
up some of his popcorn, half of his nachos, and a third of his cinnamon
pretzel. It makes him feel special because Isaac refuses to share his food with
anyone, but he cares enough to sacrifice some of it to feed his older brother.
Isaac scoots closer until their sides are flushed and he smiles widely as he
eats with absolute delight.
The gymnasium vibrates with glee, influenced by Stiles’s Faerie energy and he
tries to damper it as best as he can because, in all honesty, there’s nothing
he wants more than to not feel all those eyes seeking him out among the crowds.
Stiles eats his portion of food as the JROTC take the floor to do the usual
march of presenting the flag before they urge everyone to stand for the
presentation of the National Anthem. He’s surprised but pleased to see Laura
trot over to take the mic to sing. The band plays and she closes her eyes as
she spins the words into an elegant, powerful, and heartfelt hymn.
When Laura ends it amazingly, the gymnasium thunders in shouts and handclaps.
She shoulders it modestly, giving a mock-bow before she jogs back over to her
team and the JROTC clears the floor.
The referee takes center court and motions for both teams to meet him there.
Brett stands across from the other team’s captain, both hunching down as the
referee holds out the ball with one hand, the other poising the whistle between
his lips at the ready.
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip and squirms with indecision before he mutters a
very quick, “Good luck, Derek.”
Derek's head cocks as his ears twitch a little but he keeps his eyes on the
referee with a grin.
The referee throws up the ball as he whistles and quickly moves out of the way
as both captains make a reach for it. The opposing team gets it first and thus
begins the game.
Stiles goes through his portion of nachos before graciously accepting the rest
of what’s left in the bag of popcorn. He’s a little disappointed by the taste
of it because it doesn’t compare to Derek’s popcorn and he frowns in annoyance
because the older teen has ruined him for something so small and simple.
All the players hop and run and skid across the shiny floor as the crowd buzzes
with anticipation. It’s just like Derek said it would be. All of them just
stumble over each other as they seek him out, trying to show their worth like
some weird archaic courting ritual. It’s embarrassing for everyone involved
really.
“Stiles…” His dad glances around. He opens his mouth before shaking his head
with a sigh. “I don’t think I want to know the answer to what I'm about to
ask.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely an advocate of ignoring a problem,” Stiles agrees.
Isaac snorts but he does glare at the woman that tries to gift his older
brother with a bag of cotton candy.
“Am I going to have to get my gun?” the sheriff half-jokes but he says it loud
enough that everyone in their radius can hear it very well. They all inch away
and fasten their eyes to the court again. “My cruiser is not that far.”
“Dad,” Stiles whines in exasperation. “I think I’m pretty safe. My magic wont
let anyone touch me unless I give it the okay.”
“Good. I already like your magic,” his dad decides and snatches up the rest of
his popcorn, ignoring when his son starts fussing immediately. “Pay attention.
Derek’s making a shot. Be a shame to miss it, wouldn't it, son?”
Stiles almost chokes on a piece of his cinnamon pretzel. “Dad! That’s attempted
murder,” he complains but his dad pretends not to hear him while he indicates
to the court.
Derek is dribbling the ball at the other end of the court as he holds the
opposing player on his back at bay. He makes an indication to Brett who nods
and catches the ball passed to him. Derek jogs sideways as most of the
attention is focused on his captain. When he’s on the right side of court he
catches the ball easily when it’s tossed to him. He quickly hunches down before
straightening to make the shot. He lands a perfect three pointer.
The people in the stands go wild.
Derek pumps his fists as he runs backward with a wide smile. He takes a moment
to wink at Stiles before he clears the court for the halftime show.
Laura and Kate flood the floor with the rest of the cheerleaders and the lights
dim before they're washed in a spectrum of colors.
Cora and her marching band cover both sidelines to play a mash up of Sir Mix-A-
Lot’s Baby Got Backand Kelis’s Milkshakeand PSY’s Gangman Style. It’s a very
tasteful and impressive.
Laura, Kate, and their team do an impressive but family friendly routine. They
also do the kind of backflips gymnasts and circus acrobats would be jealous of.
And of course, Cora does a solo of Jason Derulo’s Talk Dirty to Me that blows
all other tuba routines out of the water, even though she’s doing it playfully,
just to get a laugh out of the crowd.
Finally the horn sounds for the commencement of the game. It’s neck and neck at
this point. For every shot their team makes, the opposing team matches.
It kind of makes Stiles anxious. He bounces his leg and gnaws on the corner of
his bottom lip.
Derek turns his gaze to him as he tries to play defense and lifts both brows at
him in wordless communication.
“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles before he does a series of inhale/exhale for a solid
minute, focusing on calming his own heartbeat.
Isaac snorts as he chews on some chocolate covered coconut bites he must have
snagged during the halftime show.
Stiles elbows him and tries to keep his heart steady for Derek’s sake, and with
the unasked aid of his magic, it wraps around his heart with serenity wrapped
in the fuchsia paper of tranquility. He tries not to let indulgent pride
overtake him when the older teen actually begins to play as well as he has
been. He really is using Stiles’s heart as an anchor and, well, he’ll have to
ask about what that means when he gets the chance.
The countdown begins with only thirteen seconds left on the clock before the
game ends.
Derek has the ball and the opposing team just will not let up.
Stiles exhales slowly and time stops for a quick tick before picking up just as
quickly, and before the clock can hit the three second mark, Derek goes for the
half court shot and it lands.
The thunderous clapping, stomping, and yelling reaches the point of becoming
uncomfortably unbearable.
Isaac winces and slaps his hands over his ears, and out of concern his dad
leads him over to the steps so they can climb down them to get a comfortable
distance from all the commotion.
Stiles climbs down a moment after they disappear out of sight, and he has to be
swift about it because people are trying to throw him off balance so they can
convenientlycatch him with wandering hands. He makes his way over to Talia as
she smiles with pride while watching her son being hefted up on the shoulders
of his teammates, holding the championship trophy.
The Beacon Hills High School chant rings loud and clear in the gymnasium while
paper confetti and balloons rain down on them all.
Laura and Kate jump around, waving their pompoms wildly as they join in on the
chanting.
Talia pulls Stiles close so he can press into the warmth of her long side while
she wraps her right arm around him and kisses his temple before cupping the
back of his neck with her long warm fingers as if to mark him with her scent.
Then, in his ear, against all the commotion, she says, very gently, “You’re
very good to him, and also for him. But this I’ve always known since the moment
you stepped on our land.”
Stiles practically chokes on his spit as a defiant flush overtakes him and his
face is absolutely scarlet. His magic happily agrees with Talia, but it's
heavily layered with trivial amusement.
Talia chuckles as she runs her hand through his hair as if to groom him before
she pulls away completely, and is it absolutely crazy that he already misses
the contact? He watches as she happily communes with her pack and they’re very
receptive to her attention.
Derek jogs over after he relinquishes the trophy to his captain and lets his
family pull him in like they’re doing a vertical puppy pile.
Stiles snorts at his own analogy and his magic sends him thoughts of how it
thinks he’s being very childish. He ignores it and takes a stab at boxing his
magic in the confines of his rib cage out of spite. He’s surprised he can
actually do this, as it is the first time he’s ever even tried, but apparently
he can. His magic bristles before giving him the cold shoulder. He’s not
worried about that because his magic will eventually forgive him, as it always
does.
Derek manages to somehow extract himself from his family, happily letting Laura
and Cora be the next ones to be engulfed by the welcoming arms of their pack.
He shakes out his hair as he wanders over to Stiles with a devastating grin
that’s nothing but pure elation, and it makes Stiles breathless and weak-kneed
at the same time. The older teen trots over with a look of pure determination
and Stiles has to battle that fight or flight feeling.
“I, uh — you did really — that was incredibly — you —” Stiles stammers and
Derek doesn’t even care because he’s hauling the younger teen in for a hug that
leaves no space in-between. It’s so full of meaning and Stiles scrambles to hug
him back before he thinks better of it. He shivers slightly when the older teen
presses his cheek against Stiles’s very flushed one with a chuckle. “I was
trying to — stop laughing! Fine, I won’t say congratulations, you jerk.” He
smiles a little when Derek huffs and hugs him tighter.
“Thanks,” Derek says after a while. “My senses go wild sometimes with
adrenaline and at the end my uncle has to corner me and talk me down because
Jordan’s too far so I can’t — I — but it’s different with you. Your heart. It’s
so perfect, Stiles. Ever since I laid eyes on you, it’s all I can ever think
about, all I can hear sometimes.”
“Derek — Derek, you’re — you’re saying too much — I —” Stiles struggles with
the words because he’s frightened at the fact he feels so light headed with the
confession and it’s more than he’s prepared to handle. He feels Derek open his
mouth again to say more and he flushes as he quickly presses three fingers of
his left hand to the older teen’s mouth. His flush deepens as he thinks about
how soft and firm Derek’s mouth is. “For the love of god,Derek. That’s too
much.”
Derek hums and waits until Stiles is comfortable enough to remove his fingers
before he playfully nips at them.
Stiles squawks indignantly and tugs on the older teen’s hair before pushing him
away, annoyed that Derek doesn’t move until he makes sure that Stiles
understands he’s only doing it by choice. “You suck. You suck somuch.”
Derek just flashes him a content grin before he grabs the younger teen’s left
hand and gives him something. He curls Stiles’s fingers around whatever it is
he’s been holding until Stiles has it fisted. “Don’t look until you get home,
okay? Knowing you, you’ll try to fuss at me and insist I take it back, but I
won't because I won it for you. It’s our victory, Stiles and — it’s just
instinct. You should get used to things like this. Well, no, that doesn’t sound
right.” He takes a moment to reconsider his words. “What I’m trying to say is
that you can expect some peculiar mannerisms that are attributed to Werewolf
culture. I’ll explain if you really want me to, but I’m guessing you’d feel
more comfortable talking to Laura about it if anything.”
Stiles clenches left hand around the hard object with a furrowed brow. “Are you
— are you courtingme, Derek?”
Derek flushes and looks defensive. “It’s instinct, I just said —” He stops to
let out an exasperated sound. “Anyway, it's not like it was a secret or
anything. And I’m not trying to make you feel, you know, pressured or anything.
It’s instinct.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says faintly as he tries to absorb the information. “You said
that already.”
Derek fidgets as he rubs the back of his reddening neck. “Is that…okay?” He
glances over his shoulder a few times with this expression...it's hard to
describe.
Stiles feels his eyebrows climb his face as he starts to notice that Derek's
family is watching them with these amused and knowing smirks. “Oh." He really
takes a look at Derek's face. "Oh." He laughs a little because he gets it. "Was
this a...are you confessing your undying love within earshot of your family?"
"No! It's not a —"
"That's why you’re embarrassed!” Stiles continues gleefully, ignoring him.
Derek shushes him as his flush darkens and spreads to the tips of his ears.
“Why are you so theatrical?”
“Get used to it,” Stiles retorts and mentally kicks himself for that slip. He
sighs as his magic vibrates around his heart with glee over the older teen’s
attention. He waits a moment so Derek can compose himself before he asks, “Any
after party plans?”
“Our coach always takes the team to the pizzeria that’s across from that indoor
ice-skating rink. You know, the one Boyd’s family owns? Yeah, so we usually go
to town on every pizza we can think of,” Derek explains as he crosses his arms,
nodding at the passing ‘pedestrians’ with a gorgeous grin before it turns into
a smirk. “Don’t worry, Stiles. I’m not flirting.”
“I should have nevertold you that,” Stiles complains with a frown. “My dad must
be waiting for me. I’ll leave you to your celebrations.”
Derek nods and walks backwards. “I’ll text you.”
“You don’t have to,” Stiles mumbles shyly.
Derek responds by sticking his tongue out. “Later, dork.”
Stiles sticks his tongue out in response, as childish as this is, and replies,
“Later, jerk.” He watches the older teen disappear in a group of his teammates.
Stiles wanders off in search of his dad and his brother. He has to avoid the
people who want him to stop and talk to them, while once or twice declining
their tokens of favors before he can manage to escape.
His dad is waiting out front in his cruiser, and so he climbs in and sits in
the back with his brother, who is already asleep.
Stiles’s heart melts at the sight because Isaac looks absolutely knackered.
“Was a pretty good game tonight,” his dad comments as he turns on his blinker
so he can merge into the beginnings of, what looks to be, a small bout of
traffic. “Derek is a very good basketball player.”
Stiles rest his elbow on the edge of where door meets window and props his chin
on his hand. He stares at the red glow of tail lights, groups of teenagers,
adults, and even small children, worming their way around the cars to reach
there own vehicles, only to add to the traffic.
“He was very focused,” his dad goes on to say, giving Stiles this look through
the rearview mirror, but Stiles keeps his gaze out the window (despite the fact
he can feel it). “Yeah, the other players were sloppy. It might have something
to do with the fact that they were peacocking all up and down the court.”
“Dad…” Stiles whines. “You’re getting at something,” he mumbles because his dad
always does this before he outright says what he’s thinking.
“You know I accept you no matter what, right? I mean that should go without
saying,” the sheriff supposes. “If you wanted to be with a girl or a boy or
whoever, as long as it’s legal, I’m not going to judge. So don’t feel ashamed
if you and Derek are —”
“We’re talkingabout it,” Stiles is quick to say as he tries not to shrivel up
in mortification. Now he understands what Scott means whenever they talk about
his relationship with Allison. “There’s nothing to — well that’s not true
because there is and I just — we haven’t really decided if we want — nothing is
official and someday we might — oh god. Do we have to talk about this right
now?”
“No, I suppose we don’t. But I won't be surprised when Derek comes to ask me
for permission to date you.”
“This is not my life. This cannot be my life. I refuse to believe this is
reality.”
“When should we have the ‘safe sex’ talk? Because I need you to know that it’s
important to wrap —”
“La la la la, can’t hear you,” Stiles chants childishly. “I’m going to be sick,
dad. I’d feel more comfortable if Ms. McCall was the one to have that talk with
me.”
“I’m a little hurt, son,” his dad says but he sounds too amused for that to be
true. “Speaking of Melissa, well, I think a talk is long overdue.”
“You’re dating. Isaac and I already figured that out,” Stiles states and takes
pleasure in the fact that his dad hits his knee against the bottom end of the
steering wheel. He laughs.
“Very funny, Stiles,” his dad mutters sardonically. “So, you two are okay with
everything?”
“I think we both just want you to be happy. Ms. McCall is —” He thinks of the
right words. “I like her. We like her. She’s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” His dad smiles in a way he hasn’t in a long time. “I think so too.”
Stiles turns his gaze out the window before his hand twitches around the hard
object in his hand, which reminds him that it’s there. He glances down and
opens his left hand as he squints his eyes, trying to use the light of street
lamps overhead that flicker by.
It’s Derek’s championship ring.
Stiles texts Derek immediately to complain and the older teen definitely
anticipated it.
They spend the majority of an hour going back and forth, until they end the
conversation like this:
Whatever. I can’t believe you sometimes. Whatever.
Whatever to your whatever.
Real mature.
Yes. I am.
Honestly, we’re just going in circles.
*You’re*  going in circles. I made up my mind already. I’m kind of offended you
won't keep the ring. I don’t expect for you to wear it. I just like knowing you
have it.
Derek…
I’m not sorry. It’s instinct like I’ve said maybe a million times at this
point.
Yeah, I’m going to talk to Laura about this for sure.
Anyway you should be enjoying your night out because you earned it
You shouldn’t waste it by texting me.
I don’t care much about all of this to be truthful.
It’s like a force of habit anyway.
I mean I’m happy we ended the year on good terms. That's always a plus.
But I’m starting to think that maybe this isn’t what matters the most to me.
I don’t know what you mean by that.
(:
You’re such a weirdo.
):
Stiles rolls his eyes and settles into bed so he can reread the first sixty
pages from the bible of Virtues. He sets it aside when he’s finished and starts
working on his school assignments (studying for his upcoming remainder of his
finals) before he goes to bed. It’s a little hard to concentrate because he has
Derek wrapped up in his thoughts.
“Oh.” Stiles blinks as he suddenly realizes something. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Stiles hasn’t been taking his Adderall for weeks now.
And he hadn’t even noticed.
                                      ---
It’s the crack of dawn on Wednesday when Stiles drags himself out of bed. He
grabs the bible of Virtues so as to greet the sunrise with it and accost Nana
for her wisdom and guidance. He yawns as he walks up the largest exposed root
to press his hands to the triquetra carved like a face and lets his magic
gather at the tips of his fingers.
Nana appears not a moment later. “Good morning, sweetling. You’re ready to
learn, I gather. Where should we start?”
“I’m at the first book in the bible. Uh, Chastity.”
“Ah, yes, good place to start. Tell me, what do you think?” Nana quiets as she
waits for his reply. “In four words, dearie. Consider my question carefully. Be
slow to speak and quick to think.”
Stiles steps back and sits down on the largest exposed root. He takes a moment
to think before he gives a slightly certain answer. “The book of Chastity
embodies four key factors I think. Purity, knowledge, honesty, and wisdom.”
“This is an acceptable answer,” Nana praises. “Now which scripture speaks to
prayers of morality and what situation is best suited for them?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles replies truthfully. “The first known Virtue of Chastity
was King Jedidiah. He built temples for the sake of the spread of wisdom. He
equalled ignorance to evil, and withholding knowledge from those who seek it
out as sin. He wrote proverbs that raise questions of values, moral behavior,
the meaning of human life, and the right conduct. He wrote about the order of
creation and the value of intellect.”
“Jedidiah once settled a quarrel between two women,” Nana remarks. “Do you know
of the story I speak?”
“Two women came to him quarreling over a baby. Both of them insisted that they
were the true mother. One woman accused the other of smothering their child to
death in sleep, and the other insisted that this was not the case and that it
was the other woman who lost her child to such a fate.” Stiles lets the memory
swell in his mind as his magic vibrates with anxious curiosity. “Jedidiah
thought carefully of what he should do and decided that this required heavy
consideration. He dismissed the court and had the child looked after by one of
his lady servants. He told the women he would call upon them when it was time.
Then he shut himself away in his chambers and prayed to Fate for wise judgments
for three days. When he got the answer he was seeking, he sent his guards to
collect the women. They stood before him in his court and he said that since
they could not decide among themselves the origin of the child, he declared
that the child should be cut right down the middle so that both of them could
have equal parts. One woman agreed that this was fair but the other woman fell
to her knees, clutching the hem of his robe as she soaked it with her tears,
begging for mercy. She swore she would relinquish the child to the other woman
because she could not bear to see the babe split into two. Jedidiah knew this
was the real mother.”
“And if neither woman spoke? What then? What if the babe had been split into
two?” Nana watches him carefully. “To gamble a life is a very dangerous game.
Why would he take such a chance?”
“Virtues can discern the true nature of the hearts of both man and creatures
alike, and make fair judgments,” Stiles supposes, thinking aloud. “Virtues of
Chastity can judge because they rely on the strength of purity, knowledge,
honesty, and wisdom.”
“He prayed for days. This was the only option, don’t you think?” Nana says with
a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “How do you pray under the banner of Chastity?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “This is why I came to you. Deaton says he has
no knowledge of such matters. Well, I think he meant it’s not his area of
expertise.”
“Druids aren’t responsible for knowing how to intercede for the greater good.
What they do is for physical intellect. What you and I do is strictly
spiritual. How do you pray under the banner of Chastity? I will tell you. You
hold what is that you seek in your heart and gather your magic to your mind.
You create a link between the two and you utter with your tongue, silent or
loud, giving thanks for what is needed in the situation and speak of things
that are not but as if they were. Faith, sweetling. Your prayers must be of
faith. You must say ‘I shall speak those things that are not as if they were.’
Repeat this to me.”
“I shall speak those things that are not as if they were,” Stiles recites.
“Meaning whatever I ask for, with faith, I am to act as if it has already been
done for me. That Fate has already given me the desires of my heart.”
“For a Virtue of Chastity,” Nana goes on to say. “What do you suppose the
desires of their hearts are?”
“Being pure in all things. To study and have knowledge of all things,” Stiles
acknowledges. “Restraining from the urge to lie or mislead. To discern all
situations with wisdom and understanding.”
“Excellent, darling,” Nana praises and chuckles when her young prodigy goes a
little pink. “But remember, you must have faith. Not just for the first level
of your abilities, which begins with Chastity. But faith must be present in all
fields and all that you set your mind to do.”
“I shall speak those things that are not as if they were,” Stiles acknowledges
with a tiny grin.
Nana gives a pleased sound. “Now, as for your studies,” she begins. “I want you
to focus on the first book of the bible. Especially on the proverbs Jedidiah
wrote during his frequent times of fasting and prayer. This is something you
will do when it is needed. I want you to fast and pray for today. When you
fast, be merry and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others
that you are fasting unless you say so, because it is only for Fate to see. And
it is Fate, who sees in secret, that will reward you. But be warned, you will
be tested today. Be it by any form or circumstance. You must be diligent so
that you do not fall prey to the wiles of Peril.”
“What should I pray about?” Stiles questions curiously. “Being pure in all
things? To study and have knowledge of all things? Restraining from the urge to
lie or mislead? To discern all situations with wisdom and understanding? Which
one?”
“All of them,” Nana responds. “This is why it will take a day. Now, open your
bible and recite to me the fourth proverb, scriptures 5-27.”
Stiles nods and straightens from where he’s sitting and opens the bible of
Virtues. He flips through the paper-thin pages before he stops on what he’s
looking for. “Get wisdom, get understanding; do not forget my words or turn
away from them. Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and
she will watch over you,” he reads. “The beginning of wisdom is this: Get
wisdom. Though it may cost all you have. Get understanding. Cherish her, and
she will exalt you; embrace her, and she will honor you. She will give you a
garland to grace your head and present you with a glorious crown…”
                                      ---
Stiles retreats to the sanctuary of the upstairs bathroom to take a shower
before his father and little brother rise to begin their day. It’s actually
comfortable standing under the jets of water, letting the water pour over him
with a heat he’s all too familiar with. He lets the water pour down his hair
onto his face and ears. He tries not to inhale through his nose but he opens
his mouth, letting the water rush in before he spits it back out. His magic
finally awakens as he’s shampooing his hair. He’s in the midst of praying for a
day of peace, that he has favor with his teachers, that he has no difficulties
in his studies, and that honesty comes to him as a pleasure (or an opportunity)
and not a burden.
His magic surfs the circuits of his nerve-endings, seeking out all that needs
restoration and it reminds him of the night before.
I haven’t been taking my medicine. Is that you’re doing?
You speak of those disgusting, synthetic remedies. It’s taken me weeks to
cleanse your body of it. I was incapacitated for the longest time because of
them, so I made you forget while I uprooted it.
In simpler terms, it’s no good for either you or I.
This is a truth. You claim to have no focus, but I am your focus. I will stand
in the gap of your wandering thoughts and I will gather them together again and
sort them as they should be.
But I still ramble on and on, switching subjects and losing my train of thought
as I prattle on.
That has nothing to do with focus or concentration. You have a lot to say. Your
mind wanders aimlessly because you shoulder all fields of Virtue, and sometimes
these gifts muddle together. Speaking your mind is expected of a Seven.
That was almost a compliment.
Certainly not. Now allow me to complete my work in peace and quiet.
Stiles rolls his eyes and leaves his magic be for the moment as he washes
himself for one last time. He climbs out and grabs a towel to wrap around his
waist, aware of the pins and needles peppering his entire body because his
magic wont let up on its mending. He gets dressed and never ceases his praying.
He gathers all his books, and puts it in his backpack before exiting his room.
Isaac is in the shower and his dad is making his way down the stairs with his
phone pressed to his ear.
Stiles follows and watches as his dad goes to the front door to get the morning
paper. He drops his backpack in one of the chairs and begins to make breakfast:
organic eggs mixed with black beans, multigrain blueberry waffles, and sautéed
mushrooms. He turns to set down the plates he made and almost has a heart
attack when he sees both Derek and Isaac patiently waiting.
“Who let you in?” Stiles complains, but he still sets a plate before the older
teen and his little brother. “Seriously.”
“Your dad,” is Derek’s short reply before he focuses on eating.
Isaac makes these pleased little mewling sounds.
Stiles snorts and watches as his dad returns with the paper, shaking it out
before he sits. He goes to the coffee pot and pours his dad a cup before
serving him as well.
“Thank you,” his dad says before he peers over the newspaper in his hands to
look at his son. “You’re being awfully generous today. I had planned on making
breakfast this morning, because once again, I have this inexplicable urge to
see to your happiness. When will this whole —” He makes a sloppy gesture to the
line of Stiles’s body. “— bewitchment wear off?”
“Tomorrow, according to Deaton. It usually lasts for three days, but he’s going
to teach me how to avoid all the side effects that comes with practicing
forest-magic,” Stiles explains as he sits down with nothing but a cup of water.
He fishes out the bible of Virtues and lays it on the table so he can study
scriptures of Chastity (proverbs written by King Jedidiah mostly). His leg
bounces as gnaws on the corner of his bottom lip.
“You’re not going to eat?” Derek questions, turning his eyes away from Stiles’s
mouth to pour himself a cup of orange juice.
“Can I have some more?” Isaac asks, drumming his fingers on either side of his
empty plate.
“No,” Stiles says to Derek. “Yes,” he says to Isaac. “Help yourself. There is
plenty.”
Those are the magic words for Isaac and he quickly stands so he can serve
himself. “Why aren’t you eating?” Derek presses as he wipes his mouth clean
with a napkin. It's obvious he could eat more, but he must be trying to be
polite for everyone else's sake. Or, he could have already ate at home and
this was considered seconds or thirds for him.
Either way, Isaac is not so considerate once he's given the greenlight.
Stiles drifts his attention back to Derek's question and shrugs while he drinks
about half of his glass of water. “I’m fasting.”
“Fasting,” His father and Derek say flatly in simultaneous manner.
“What’s fasting?” Isaac inquires as he stuffs his mouth.
“Slow down,” Stiles warns in concern. “And that whole synchronized thing you
just did was creepy,” he says to his dad and Derek. “Isaac, fasting is when you
abstain from indulging in food, drink, and daily recreational pleasures.”
Isaac wrinkles his nose. “Sounds gross, and illegal.”
Stiles laughs and looks at his little brother fondly.
“Stiles,” his dad patiently states in that tone of voice that says he’s about
six seconds away from adding on to his current punishment.
“I’m reviewing the book of Chastity,” Stiles quickly replies. “It’s not
indefinite. It’s just for a day. Nana says I need to gain a true, deeply
transcendent connection to the first level of the Seven Virtues. They are
advocates for fasting.”
His dad looks uncertain. “We’ve never been much for religion in this house, so
you have to understand my concern.”
“It’s like learning about your spiritual ancestries, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek
explains when he understands exactly what it is Stiles is doing. He's quick and
clever like that, something Stiles always appreciates because he has an uncanny
ability to read the room. “My father and I, well and Cora too, we observe the
Jewish holidays, and it’s much like that. Studying our birthrights and
remembering our origins. I know it's not for everyone, but I've learned that
spirituality provides a sense of continuity and a reliable foundation stone.
Rites and rituals provide comfort and structure for people as they ride the
rollercoaster of life.”
His dad doesn’t look any less uncomfortable, but he nods in understanding. He
turns to Stiles, and after thinking with a bit of circumspect, says, “Be
careful please. That’s all I can ask. Don’t wear yourself too thin. Pun
slightly intended.”
Stiles smiles and nods solemnly. He turns his attention back to his bible as
Derek and Isaac rise together to polish off the rest of breakfast.
When it’s time to leave for school, his dad sees them all out, locking the door
and making his way over to his cruiser with a promise to be back in time for
dinner.
Isaac grabs his bike just as Boyd rolls up on his own, and they peddle off to
school together.
Stiles and Derek climb in the lime green Camaro parked at the curb, and Stiles
waits until he’s buckled in as Derek makes a u-turn to say, “So is this going
to be a daily thing or…?”
“Only if you want it to be,” Derek supposes. “I like spending time with you.”
Stiles feels his magic curl around his heart and becomes docile over his
quickening beat. He squirms and clears his throat. “Yeah, I — I like spending
time with you too.”
Derek grins at that without taking his eyes off of the road. “Was that painful
for you to say?”
“Oh shut up,” Stiles retort wryly and thumps the back of his hand against
Derek’s arm. “You’re such a jerk.”
“Only because you're a dork. Maybe you make it too easy,” Derek points out and
stops at a red light. “You realize people are going to swarm around you today,
right?”
“Yes,” Stiles says with a weary sigh. “I don’t think it’ll be as bad as
yesterday. I was at my peak then, so it should be declining at this point.”
“Fair enough,” Derek agrees. “Read to me.”
“Read what?”
“You said you’re reading about the Virtue of Chastity,” Derek explains. “I want
to understand some of the things you're learning about.”
“Oh.” Stiles mentally fumbles at that. “Okay.” He contorts his body so he can
grab his book bag to fish out the bible of Virtues. “There’s this one
particular section I like.”
“I’m all ears,” Derek promises. “Side note, we’re gonna get to school pretty
early. We should use some of that time preparing you for your Algebra Final.”
Stiles groans dramatically.
“Read the story to me,” Derek remarks, ignoring the younger teen’s theatrics.
Stiles grumbles a little more but he starts to read.
                                      ---
Stiles prays every time he feels hungry. He prays by reciting scripture and he
overlooks the few glances of interest and curiosity sent to him by his
classmates.
Cora is a little harder to ignore, seeing as how she probably can hear his
internal organs gurgle and cry out for food. He tries to quiet it as best as he
can by drinking water like a dehydrated man left to die in the desert. He
finishes his classwork in a timely manner and uses the leftover time to glance
through as many proverbs he can study.
He gets no time to do so during Algebra. He uses most of his energy dividing
his attention between praying for wisdom, contemplating the things Derek has
taught him, and taking his time to work smarter and not harder. He keeps half
of his magic in his mind and the other half around his heart.
Derek is polite enough to text him about how he thinks he did on the test the
second before class ends at the chime of the bell.
Stiles responds with positive affirmatives and heads to Astronomy (his last
class before lunch). His teacher puts on a few episodes of Through the Wormhole
with Morgan Freeman, and because he’s fasting, he takes a seat all the way in
the back and turns away, focusing on some proverbs. He runs his fingers through
his hair and reads and reads and reads until the bell rings, signaling the next
period.
The teacher says there is no homework while everyone packs up and moves on.
Stiles carries all his books on his own, despites all the generousoffers. He
trudges to his locker and crams all his books in it (with the expectation of
the bible). He turns to make his way to the cafeteria but springs back when
Violet and Garrett stand in his line of path.
“My. You’ve certainly grown, haven’t you?” Violet purrs as her eyes flicker to
pink for a briefly. “You reek of magic, Virtue. You're practically soaking in
it.”
“I hope you’re not coming on to me because absolutely not,” Stiles firmly
states, inching away.
Garrett huffs. “Still an idiot as always.” He lifts his wrist at the same time
she does and there’s a white ink tattoo in the form of a rune sigil on both of
them.
Shield of protection.
What does it do?
Makes them impervious to different circles of magic.
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned,” Stiles says, not even a
second later. His magic had spoken to him very quickly so not to arouse any
suspicion, making any pause he gives seem natural. “That’s the rune sigil of
protection.”
For once Garrett looks impressed. “Maybe you do have half a brain up there,” he
supposes with a smirk. "It's the least you could have since your face isn't
much to look at."
Stiles gives him a withering look as the second bell indicates the official
beginning of the next period. “Was there something you wanted, or can I go to
lunch?”
“Just doing our usual check,” Violet murmurs as she gives him a once over with
pink irises. “Your magic’s showing, Virtue. It sticks to you like chest-plate
armor, and spans out into the massive wings behind you.”
Stiles stiffens and pushes down his magic when it bristles defensively. He
sends it soothing impressions of pacification. “I don't know what you mean," he
says cooly.
"I have eyes," Violett replies sharply. "You do yourself no favors by lying. I
see you."
"Well, look away,” Stiles warns. "I don't have the hang of all this yet, but
something is telling me it's disrespectful. You’re upsetting my magic."
Garrett has the good grace to go pale at that.
Violet on the other hand just smirks like she’s fascinated with the idea. It’s
as if she wants to witness it. “You’re still no match for me, Stiles. I could
cripple you, but well,” she eyes him condescendingly. “We wouldn’t want to
damage Mayor Argent’s favorite prodigy.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that like ten million times,” Stiles mutters in annoyance.
“Now that I think about it, I’d be more than happy to test the theory of how
much more powerful you are. My magic is eager to get involved. Since I have no
fealty to your adoptive father, I see no reason why I shouldn't.”
Garrett fidgets and steals glances at Violet.
Violet’s expression remains placid, giving away nothing. She has an amazing
poker face. “How’s your little brother?” she asks with a serene tone that’s
dripping with menace. “He’s the youngest of them, you know. The baby of the
family.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stiles replies flatly, switching on his best
poker face as well. “That’s obvious with him being my little brother.”
Violet cocks her head. “September 22nd, right? We want to be sure Mayor Argent
signs a birthday card for the right day. Speaking of which, how is Deputy
Parrish? Being gone for so long, well,” she inhales with mock thoughtfulness.
“I’m guessing he must have missed so much. But Mayor Argent keeps track of all
those important little milestones.”
Stiles feels his eyes grow warm. His magic is beginning to leak because his
anger is getting to the tipping point. His eyesight sharpens and he can see her
synthetic magic coiled around her body in the shape of a pink anaconda that
hisses at his own magic defensively.
Violet looks unimpressed as her own irises switch back to pink. “You’ve got
honey-gold sight. What a pretty threat. It’s darling, really. Unique, I must
admit. Usually a Virtue’s eyes color must match the color of their magic. Oh,
but you. You never do anything in halves, do you? Would you like to know what
it means? I’ll tell you, Stiles. Honey-gold represents the kisses of Fate. It
means you’re pure, blessed, and highly favored." Her smile turns wicked.
"Doesn’t mean the rest of your family and friends are, however.”
The lockers begin to vibrate as Stiles clenches his fists, the blue light of
his magic starts glowing like a signaling beacon from the palms of his hands
while the hallway lamps hanging over head flicker on and off.
Violet looks around and her jaw clenches. There’s a brief moment where she
looks worried, but it doesn’t crack the deadpan façade that’s placed firmly on
her face like a beautifully twisted mask. “Come on, Garrett. I’m over this
conversation,” she decides with no emotion whatsoever.
Garrett sighs weakly with relief. “Thank fuck,” he swears and quickly trails
off behind her.
Stiles inhales before exhaling with a quick prayer of purity so that he can
divulge himself of all the anger and negativity. His magic settles, but not
without difficulty, and curls around his heart with annoyance wrapped in the
teal paper of acquisitiveness. His magic seems to prowl back and forth in his
ribcage, restless like an agitated dragon trying to protect its gold.
He smiles with exasperation and leaves his magic to its fuming. He’s missed
about ten minutes of lunch, annoyingly, and he grabs a large bottle of water
and takes it out to the quad with him. He finds a tree with acceptable shade
and sits at the base to lean back against it before propping his knees up so he
can rest his bible against his thighs.
In five minutes, he gets engrossed in his studies, taking languid but
distracted sips as his magic curls up in the soft spaces of his mind between
the groves of old memories and lays to rest there. He barely notices when four
people surround him and he jumps when a carrot bounces off his forehead. He
whips his gaze up from the text and shoots Cora a look since she’s sitting
across from him with her lunch tray propped on her crossed legs.
Derek is leaning into her side and they fight over some chicken fries but
there’s a friendly and affectionate nature to it.
Kate and Laura are sitting to his immediate right and left, tossing apples and
oranges over Stiles, and other things that they want to switch because they’d
prefer what the other has.
“How rude of you to completely bypass our company to sit under this shitty
tree. It’s like you’re some emotional loser,” Kate complains as she peels the
skin of her orange with her French manicured nails. She does the gouging so
gracefully that it almost looks like an art. “I’m really offended, buttercup.
Heartbroken, really.”
“Yeah, what’s that all about?” Laura chimes and switches pudding cups with
Cora. “Do you not like us anymore?”
“He’s shunning us,” Cora supposes as she trades slushies with Derek. “He’s been
acting weird all day, starving himself and being weirdly deep in his own
thoughts.”
“Ease up on him, guys,” Derek says as he trades soups with Kate. “He’s got
important Faerie business.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Cora gripes with a scowl. “Clearly we’re the less important
focus.”
“Don’t be so sour,” Stiles finally interjects absentmindedly as he returns his
gaze to the scriptures. “Can everyone stop being so offended? I didn’t think
it’d bother you guys if I didn’t join you. I mean, it’s not like I’m eating or
anything. I’d just be sitting there with my nose in a book. Figured you
wouldn’t even notice if — ow! Stop throwing carrots at me, Cora!”
“Well why shouldn’t I?” Cora snaps. “You’re being absolutely stupid. We enjoy
your company. I enjoy —” She stops dead as she goes a little pink with this
emotionally constipated face. “You’re a pest. I don’t know why I bother with
you.”
“Best friend,” Stiles retorts calmly.
Cora’s blush spreads and she gives him a ruthless glare. “I’m going to start
looking for other candidates, you little worm. Someone less mouthy and more
obedient.”
“Lie!” Derek, Laura, and Kate exclaim simultaneously.
"Yeah, if anything, that's your favorite part about me," Stiles adds.
Cora gives them all the middle finger before she tosses the rest of her carrots
at all of them.
Stiles is a little tempted to pluck the few in his lap and pop them in his
mouth but he restrains from doing so because that would only deter him from his
goals. He just downs the rest of his water before wiping the back of his hand
against his mouth in a sloppy attempt to dry it.
“What are you starving yourself for anyway?” Kate asks, breaking a three minute
long silence. “Are you bulimic now? That stuff's no joke, Stilinski. Laura, do
you remember Rachel? She went banana balls and tried to shrink down to like a
size two because Anthony called her a fat ass during our routines when Kelsey
was captain. She took it way too seriously. Fucked her up something awful.”
“Oh yeah,” Laura remarks thoughtfully. “She moved to Ohio, last I heard. She’s
some kind of famous dietician psychologist now, while Anthony sells worms and
bait for a living in South Carolina.”
“Karma. Gotta love it.” Kate shrugs and steals Derek’s jello with a frown.
“You’ve ruined me, you know,” she says to Stiles. “All other jello pale in
comparison to the ones I’ve stolen from you.”
“I don’t know if that was a compliment,” Stiles replies truthfully. “Your
brother is back in town. Did you know?” He bookmarks the page he’s on because
it’s clear he won't be able to concentrate with all of this conversation. He
doesn’t mind. He’s in the company of some of his favorite people.
“Fuck him,” is Kate’s simple reply. It’s not unanticipated. “He tried to call
me. Left a voicemail asking for a little of my time if I could spare it. Said
he wanted to talk. To mend things. Yeah, okay. I’ll hop right on that horse,
wont I?”
Cora snorts as she stands and disappears with Derek’s tray stacked on top of
hers.
Derek peels open a bag of pretzel sticks and eats them leisurely.
Stiles refrains from looking because he’s almost at the halfway mark of the
day. He quietly chants a prayer of a resistance to temptation, and the
betterment of his gifts. His magic sends impressions of amused fondness before
generously sinking into the receptors of his brain that fuel his body’s desires
for nourishment, massaging them gently until his hunger quiets into nothing.
Thank you.
Gratitude is unnecessary.
You’re so nice to me. I think I might cry.
Ridiculous Faerie.
Snobbish Ethereal.
The conversation ends at that point, and it’s as quick as it always is.
Cora returns with a new bottle of water and swaps it with Stiles’s empty one.
She glares at him with a gleam in her eye that says she dares him to make a
comment.
Stiles raises both hands with silent surrender before he uncaps it and drinks
it down.
Cora seems pleased by that and she elbows Derek when he says something under
his breath.
Laura cackles.
“What do you think?” Kate remarks suddenly as she tosses the empty container of
jello onto Laura’s tray and ignores the dark-haired girl’s objections. “About
Chris. What do you think? You’re a Seven. Convince me why I should hear him
out.”
Stiles says nothing as she presses into the line of his side and watches him
with this intense look in her eye. He takes a moment to pray for a little
wisdom because he feels like this is a test. He refrains from answering too
quickly and when he’s ready, he says, “Love is suppose to be steadfast in all
things.”
“Is it?” Kate counters. “So that means what? Welcome him with open arms? He
comes back with a broken spirit and a contrite heart, slinking around to fix
the damage he left behind. He made his fucking bed years ago, and nowhe wants
to get out of it? He left Allison and Victoria to do who the fuck knows what. I
barely even knew him to be honest. I don’t think I care much to, anyway.
Convince me, Stiles. I don’t feel persuaded yet.”
“You’re fishing for answers,” Stiles replies calmly because she’s letting her
spite get the best of her. “You already know what you will and won’t do. Why
ask me for my advice? What exactly do you need me to confirm?”
“I’m not going to forgive him,” Kate maintains with a scowl. “He’s selfish. He
packed up and left everyone behind. What kind of man is that?”
Stiles doesn’t say anything. He curls the fingers of his left hand over the
elbow of her right arm. He doesn’t hold her hand because he knows that Derek
would be uncomfortable with that, giving its significant meaning. He tightens
his fingers, but not enough to hurt or bruise and he lets his magic seep.
Gently now.
I know what to do, child.
Kate starts swearing under her breath heatedly as his magic seeks out the
source of her anger and begins to uproot it. “I don’t know what your doing,
Stiles, but I —”
"Trust me," Stiles says and she clenches her jaw.
Pain has taken up residence here in the form of black tar. It’s festering like
an infection.
What can you do? What can be done?
Confession. It is required but it will be unpleasant. She will be stronger.
Do it. I’ll deal with the rest.
As you wish.
“Kate we need to go inside. We’ve got fifteen minutes left of lunch,” Stiles
reports and stands without letting go. “We need a moment alone.”
Laura nods, looking a little concerned.
Cora looks vaguely curious.
Derek just shrugs his mouth but he lifts his eyebrows and it’s so stupid that
Stiles can interpret that as encouragement if anything else.
Kate lets him lead the way with tense shoulders and she stubbornly refuses to
say anything.
Stiles conceals them in the music room and over to the row of saxophones where
they first spoke. He lets her go but he can see his magic already curling over
her skin like vines.
“You suck,” Kate says shakily. “Whatever witchy magic you’re using —”
“It's not like that and you know it,” Stiles interjects steadily.
"I don't know anything anymore!" Kate snaps. "Better to pretend anyway."
"Maybe, but it's not helping you," Stiles says calmly. "You asked me what I
thought about Chris for a reason. Why?"
“I — I —” Kate looks so angry and broken.
“Trust me, Kate. Tell me the truth. It's okay.”
“Stop being so pushy!”
“Tell me,” Stiles presses.
“This isn’t what I was asking for!”
“Kate.”
Kate curls her fingers into fists. “I didn’t have anyone. He was already
married by the time I could walk or fucking speak, and I didn’t have anyone
else,” she says through gritted teeth and it sounds like she’s trying not to
cry. His magic is uprooting the weeds of pain she’s been harboring all this
time. “All I had was that stupid fucking painting beside my door with three
people I didn’t even fucking know. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to
burn it to the ground because that would be a lot less painful than having to
suffer with the reminder that I didn’t have anyone else. My dad isolated
himself and I was always pushed on to nannies and butlers, and I didn’t have
anyone real until I met Laura, but even then I was so lonely. Did she tell you
about when we were younger? How I defied my father by going to the Hale Manor?
Because it felt like the family I never got to have. I found everything I ever
wanted with them and I wasn’t going to give it up for anything. Still wouldn't.
I'd rather fucking die.”
“Keep talking,” Stiles encourages. “Get it out. I can feel it, Kate. It’s
crushing your heart and rotting there.”
“I used to write letters to him,” Kate continues as she blinks her red eyes
rapidly. Her shoulders are shaking and she’s clenching her fists so tightly.
Her eyes are glimmering but she refuses to let the tears slip. “I wrote letters
begging for him to come back and to take me away. I always pretended I didn’t
care. Like it was my father’s money keeping me here. But that’s because he
never replied. He never even — god, I hate him so much. How could I not? I
don’t even knowhim. I just know the stupid face I see in the painting on the
wall beside my door. He has a wife and a daughter. He hasa family. Well maybe
once upon a time he did, but he doesn’t even deserve them. He took that for
granted. He deserves to be alone.”
“It’s not up to us to decide what people deserve,” Stiles points out. “In the
end, we don’t stand in front of each other to give the final judgment. It’s for
the creators that made us to decide.”
“Creators? I’m not religious, but I know your talking about the Faceless,” Kate
sniffs and curses when a few tears slide down her red cheeks. She scrubs her
face dry viciously. “They really fucked me over with the life I was given, so
excuse me if I’m not too fond of the concept of their existence.”
“You gain what you lose. You lose so that you can gain,” Stiles supposes and
it’s so strange that he knows what to say, how to counter her arguments, how to
offer a new view of the situation. His senses seem as sharp and clear as his
thoughts. He feels warmth pool into his gut with a sense of knowing. “You can't
stand there and tell me you haven't established yourself on your own. You might
have family by blood but you found a family by choice. I don't know if you want
to give credit to the Faceless for that, but it's no less true."
Kate sniffs.
"Forgive him, don't forgive him. What will it matter? You have a family now.
People who do love you in the way you might have wanted your father and brother
to," Stiles points out. "I'm not going to tell you how to handle Chris. But
just know...the weak can never forgive. Forgiveness belongs to the strong.”
Kate presses the heels against her eyes and lets out a watery laugh. “I hate
you,” she complains.
“I don’t think you do,” Stiles retorts but smiles a little. “You pushed me. I
just gave you what you were pushing for. The rest is up to you, you know.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kate huffs and drops her hands, looking of to the side and then
up as she crosses her arms. She sniffs again. “I hope you realize that only
Laura and Peter have ever seen me cry.”
“I don’t take this for granted at all,” Stiles lightheartedly promises.
“Altruistic,” Kate mumbles and rakes her fingers through her golden pixie-cut
hair. “You have to come with me. If I’m going to sit down with him and waste my
time, you have to be there, because in all honesty, I may try to punch the fuck
out of him. Or stab him with a fork. Whichever is the closest or most
convenient.”
“Jesus, Kate. Yeah, yes. I will come with you,” Stiles swears because she’s
like an unrivaled monsoon. “How do you feel?”
“Exhausted but freed,” Kate admits as she shakes out her fingers and blinks
away any leftover tears before rolling her eyes around to clear her vision.
“Your magic is tickling my heart. It’s a little strange. Like warm syrup
pouring over it.”
“Sorry?”
Kate just hums thoughtfully. “You’re going to do great things, aren’t you?”
Stiles shrugs as he laces his fingers behind his neck. “I’m well on my way, but
I still can’t predict the future with that much detail.”
“Fair enough,” Kate supposes with another sigh. “I like it. Your magic. It’s —
not too intrusive, but I don’t know. Very polite?”
“It’s pretentious if anything, but its becoming more mindful when it comes to
boundaries,” Stiles explains because he has been trying to teach it the
difference between good touch and bad touch. “Except when it comes to Derek,
oddly enough. I’ve had to tell it multiple times not to jump the gun.”
“Oh, is that so?” Kate tilts her head with a smirk and a gleam in her eyes.
“Have you and Derek had the ‘special talk’?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stiles replies with a frown, because he really
doesn’t.
“If that’s the case, Talia will probably sit you two down to mediate the
situation, as well as laying down some ground rules,” Kate figures with a
thoughtful look that is not as innocent as she tries to make it out to be. “I
remember when she gave Peter and I the ‘special talk’. Peter didn’t speak to
her for a month after that. I thought it was funny but I wasn’t the least bit
flabbergasted. I’d known since the first time I met him.”
“Known what?” Stiles pushes, a little annoyed she keeps dancing around the
subject.
Kate just calmly shrugs. “We better get to class. I think I’ll sleep trough my
AP Physics class. I’m so over it anyway. Is your magic wrapping it up? I’d like
to not walk around glowing like the girl from the Rage of Carrie.”
Stiles snorts. “One second.”
Are we all good? Is she taken care of?
It is done. But please be advised, there is still much work left, but this she
can mend on her own.
Fair enough. Thank you.
If you wish.
Stiles shakes his head, not even surprised by the lack of ‘you’re welcome’. He
calls his magic back to him and it releases itself from the confines of Kate’s
chest and her skin, swirling like a bioluminescent ribbon. He opens his mouth
when his magic urges him to, and he swallows it; it feels like hot chocolate
slipping down and it tastes just as sweet.
“You are just full of wonders, aren’t you?” Kate smirks and pulls him close to
throw her arm over his shoulder. “You realize this makes us family, right? If
anything ever happened to you, I'd kill everyone and then myself.”
“Joy,” Stiles responds weakly as Kate snorts. "But please don't do that. I'm
actively avoiding trouble."
"Good to know," Kate decides. "But I mean what I say. You're family."
Stiles can’t help but to think of Isaac when she says that.
Stiles would not be shocked if this was hindering his pursuit of honesty if not
rendering it null and void.
He recites a prayer of cleansing, asking Fate to throw all his deceptions into
the sea of forgetfulness.
The guilt still remains.
                                      ---
Stiles feels a little weak by the time school ends. He’s scrubbing a hand
through his short hair (it’s getting even longer, he’ll need a grooming cut
soon) with his books tucked under his other arm. He’s getting used to the fact
that Derek will be propped against the lockers beside his, waiting for him. He
enters in the combination so his locker door can pop open.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Kate?”
“Better than before, I think.”
“Good. And what about you?”
“I’m okay, I guess. I just feel a little weak but — Derek, you don’t have to
grab my stuff. I’m fine,” Stiles promises and watches helplessly as the older
teen fishes through his locker for the books he needs before carefully
arranging them like the meticulous person he is. “You know, you remind me of
Isaac when you do things like that.”
Derek zips up the backpack and lifts both eyebrows in question.
“He’s a neat freak too.”
Derek huffs and throws the backpack over his left shoulder. “Maybe you’re just
a slob.”
“Doubtful,” Stiles counters as they walk out together, and he laces his fingers
behind his head. “Slandering my character isn't very charming."
"Not really trying to be charming. Your room is always a mess," Derek points
out as they walk towards the exit. "I'm nicer than Isaac though. I actually try
and help."
"Nah," Stiles denies as he thinks about it. "If anything, I’m starting to think
that you cleaning my room was just an excuse to mark your ‘territory’. You
touch everything.”
Derek flushes with guilt.
“Oh. I was just kidding but...that is what that is, isn't it? Wow. You’re such
a weirdo,” Stiles laughs.
“It’s instinct.”
Stiles snorts before dropping his hands. “You might have wanted to ask me
permission before you scented my entire room and everything in it.”
Derek rolls his shoulders. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“What’s done is done,” Stiles supposes. “I guess I — I don’t know. Um.”
Derek starts to grin a little as they walk out into the parking lot and he
moves to walk backwards in front of the younger teen. “No, keep talking. I like
where this is going.”
Stiles glares at him a faint blush. “Nothing. I was going to say nothing.”
“Nothing, huh.” Derek waits a second before he goes on to say, “You know what I
think you were going to say?”
“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”
Derek frowns in confusion for a moment but he continues on regardless. “I think
you were going to say that you don’t really mindthat I scent you or your
things.”
Stiles makes an annoyed sound at both Derek and his magic (who vibrates happily
at the attention). “You shouldn’t walk like that,” he deflects with genuine
concern. “You’re going to get hit by a car.”
“Nope, I’ve done this plenty of times, and you’re trying to change the
subject,” Derek points out knowingly and he stops when they reach his car. He
leans back against the passenger side door like the jerk he is and crosses his
arms like he’s going to camp out there.
Stiles pokes him really hard in the stomach and Derek doesn’t even flinch. The
whole motion is pointless because he just ends thinking about Derek’s abs and
that makes him flustered. “Why don’t you ever have any of your work? Do you —
do you literallycomplete all your homework by the end of the day?”
“We all do,” Derek says as he cocks his head, referring to his sisters and
Kate. “Do you ever see any of us with our books?”
Stiles has to admit he has a point. “Wait, no. No, that’s not right because
Cora!”
“Because Cora,” Derek echoes flatly, his eyebrows climb his forehead. “What
about her?
“She brought me my homework a few times and we did it together!”
Derek gives him a look. “You ever think that maybe she just wanted an excuse to
come to your house and look after you? You had some serious bruises if memory
serves me right. That’s also instinct. Cora thinks of you as pack. Why wouldn’t
she try and take care of you?”
Stiles gets a little flustered at that. “Cora is such a poser. She comes off so
Punk Rock, but she’s clearly Indie,” he babbles. “Look, you’re going to make me
late. I just want to sit down. I’m tired and hungry and grumpy.”
“I think it’s adorable,” Derek admits cheerfully. “You’re going to stuff your
face tomorrow, I bet.”
“I’ve been fantasizing about that all day,” Stiles confesses with a sigh.
“Being truthful and wise has its perks. Even the pursuit of knowledge works
beneficially. But I don’t feel like I’m pure, I guess. I mean, I’ve heard it a
few times, but what does that even mean, right? Mostly I think there’s
something more to it than the standard Oxford definition. I’ve done plenty of
things that were not so pure, you know? But Violet said that I —”
Derek straightens immediately. “Are they harassing you again?” His eyes begin
to change colors. “Stiles…”
“Whoa. Dude, time and place!” Stiles exclaims quickly, looking around.
“Seriously, don’t have a meltdown in the middle of this parking lot. I thought
we agreed before that this is strictly a ‘me’ problem.”
“No,” Derek growls lowly. “It’s definitely an ‘us’ problem.” He takes a moment
to breathe and relax. “I trust you, Stiles. I know who you are, and what you
can do. I know it’s not the safest thing in the world. You trust your gut, and
that’s fine, you’re right most of the time. But trust meabout this, okay? I
don’t know — I can’t put it into words. There’s no way to describe it. Just at
least let me handle that sometimes, yeah? Handle them.”
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip and weighs his options. “Yeah. Okay,” he relents
but he quickly adds, “Don’t go looking for brawls, Derek. If you can keep an
eye on my dad and my brother when I can’t, I’d really appreciate it. They’re
trying to get a rise out of me, so that means they’ll do the same to you. They
know things they shouldn’t. I want — I — you have to be safe too. That matters
to me too. This works both ways.”
Derek nods slowly but he still looks bothered.
Stiles tries to reign in his magic as it writhes inside him with a desire to
console the older teen. He thinks of a way to distract Derek from the problem
at hand. “You’re right. About before. I don’t.”
Derek looks confused.
Stiles thinks that maybe he needs to try harder to be brave about this thing he
has with Derek. “Earlier, you said — about the, you know. The scenting and I
didn’t — I wasn’t trying to — god, this is like jumping over hurdles
sometimes.” He exhales roughly and tries not to smile at the way Derek’s eyes
light up. “You’re such a loser. I don’t mind, okay? That’s what you want me to
say. I don’t. We — well maybe it’s instinct for me too. I’ve always felt, you
know, calmer or something when — but it’s because you smell pretty good, or
whatever. And...I like it. So I don't mind.”
“Do you have some tissue on you, because I think I might cry,” Derek teases as
he slaps a hand over his dark, little heart. “I don’t have a dark heart,
Stiles.”
Stiles flushes. “I didn’t evensay that out loud.”
“You totally did. But that’s beside the point. You gave me a full on compliment
without backing out on it at the very last second,” Derek remarks merrily. “I
think we need to stand here and take a second so it can sink in. This is
definitely a pivotal moment in our not-relationship.”
Stiles rolls his eyes but unwillingly grins as he shakes his head. “You’re so
annoying. Would you get over yourself? We’re going to be late. I just really
want to sit down for as long as I can.”
Derek steps aside, even going as far as opening the door for him.
Stiles doesn’t comment over it as he slides inside to buckle his seatbelt. He
sighs and practically melts against the cushion of the leather seats like a
scoop of ice cream melting on a hot summer sidewalk. He’s totally going to fall
asleep, he just knows it. He blinks tiredly as the car shakes slightly when
Derek puts his backpack in his trunk before slamming it shut.
Derek climbs in to start the car and fiddles with his touch screen satellite
radio. He stops on a blues/jazz station before he straightens and drums his
fingers against his steering wheel, humming along with the melody like he’s
listened to the song a hundred times before. He puts his arm around the back of
Stiles as he twists his body to reverse out of where he’s parked. He turns
forward when he completes this task and merges into outgoing traffic. After a
while he snorts and says, “You’re totally falling asleep.”
“’m not,” Stiles mumbles as he props his chin on his fist. “I could tightrope
blindfolded and juggle four glasses of apple juice without spilling a drop
right now. My adrenaline is at its peak.”
“Why apple juice? Of all the liquids to pick."
"Hey, I like apple juice. The point is that I'm not falling asleep."
"Whatever you say,” Derek replies, fondly amused. He ghosts his fingers over
the pulse point of Stiles’s left hand and gently pushes down on the inside of
his wrist. “Heartbeat’s slowing down into a lull.”
Stiles presses his burning cheek against the cool glass and slaps Derek’s hand
away. “Stop trying to feel me up,” he complains tiredly.
Derek snickers.
Stiles feels his magic trap the sound like a cat would with a ball of yarn. It
makes the sound echo in his mind over and over until he free-falls into the
tranquil abyss of sleep as if it were a lullaby.
This is ridiculous. His magic is already so gone over Derek.
It’s honestly makes him wonder.
                                      ---
Stiles kind of refuses to get up and exit the car. He resents the fact that
Derek knows him well enough to threaten to carry him bridal style over the
threshold of the antique store. At this point, Stiles is stumbling out of the
car, cheeks streaked with the marks of the edge of the window he’d been sagging
against. He shakes out his hair and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes. He
does a quick stretch to get rid of all the kinks caused by the contortion in
his sleep.
Derek stares at him openly before frowning and looking down the street.
Violet and Garrett ride up in that stupid black truck with the windows rolled
down, and those stupid identical grins.
Derek’s shoulders tense when Violet says something under her breath and cocks
her head to watch him with this intense gaze.
“Derek?” Stiles rubs the side of his face with a quiet yawn. “Is there
something —”
“We should get inside,” Derek interjects and presses a warm palm to his lower
back, guiding him in the direction of the shop door. He keeps it there as he
watches the younger teen unlock the door.
Stiles licks his dry lips and eases Derek’s hand away when they reach the glass
counter.
The small, dark mahogany bowl with a matching grinder that looks like a
miniature baseball bat with a fat head; the glass jar (which looks like a see-
through cookie jar) that’s almost filled to the rim with clear water; the jar
of honey and brown sugar; the flowerpot full of thick, black dirt and a
measuring cup full of white sand; it’s right where Stiles left it the other
day.
Derek makes himself comfortable in the rocking chair made of dark word to the
far right of the glass counter.
Stiles picks up a note with neat letters that have sharp angles which reads:
Mr. Stilinski – your father and I are joining Talia to welcome the Calaveras,
as they have finally arrived. We will discuss this when both your father and I
feel it’s the right time to. You may commence the instruction I gave to you
previously. As usual, lock up when it is time to leave.
Stiles crumbles the note before trashing it. He fiddles with the measuring cup
of white sand before turning away to wind and weave his way through the rows of
bookshelves. Just as he did the other day, he touches his right hand to the
spines of the books and drags his fingertips over the grooves of them. He does
this for a while until his magic leaps in his stomach and he twists to see just
what he’s touching. He pulls it free and the title reads ‘Four Thieves Vinegar
and Bottle Trees’.
He sits down as he flips through the pages, surprised to see that it’s nothing
but illustrations with handwritten Latin text in the margins that strangely
echoes Deaton’s handwriting. His brow furrows as he gnaws on his bottom lip
while he studies the dark ink drawings. They’re filled with omens of terror,
horrifying death, and the dark occult. Most of the pictures are of witches with
twisted faces controlling the living dead and sacrificial rituals that involved
children being fed to shadows with red eyes. These shadows are as big and as
broad as willow trees.
“What are you reading?”
Stiles jumps and slaps a hand over his racing heart. “Don’t just pop up like
that!”
Derek sinks to the floor to his right and situates himself so that they are as
close as possible, sides flushed with no space left in-between. He hands over
the half-finished bottle of water Stiles left in his car. “I took pretty heavy
footsteps so that you knew I was coming. Mom always taught us to be mindful of
making our presence known. In the wild, it’s natural to be as quiet as possible
for the hunt. It doesn’t work that way when we emerge from it. Humans need
security, so we have to mimic them.”
Stiles doesn’t understand why that makes him sad. “Was it — is there ever — do
you ever wish you didn’t have to pretend?”
Derek gives a minor shrug. “We do we have to do to survive. Humans can be
dangerous when they’re afraid of the unknown.” He combs the long fingers of his
right hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Do you find it easy to pretend?”
Stiles has a little knee-jerk reaction at that. “I —” He’s not sure of what to
say. “Maybe I’ve always believed that I was just like — that I was Human — it
feels weird to even say it like that or admit that I’m something more. It’s
still sinking in that I’m some otherworldly being.”
“That’s okay,” Derek assures. “To me, you’re just Stiles. Clumsy, clumsy,
Stiles.”
Stiles gives him a flat look and retorts, “Same here. You’re just Derek.
Sneaky, sneaky, Derek. Who apparently has been pining for me since day one.”
A prominent blush explodes over Derek’s face and he stammers over an objection.
“Anyway,” Stiles continues airily like he doesn’t even notice but he’s fighting
down a smile. “I’m not so much reading anything, but I’m just looking at the
illustrations because I can't make heads or tails of the little footnotes
Deaton’s got crammed in the margins.”
Derek clears his throat once his flush has died down. He holds out his left
hand. “Hand it over.” He wiggles his long fingers expectantly.
“Say please,” Stiles childishly demands and jerks with a cry when he feels
teeth nip at his ear and Derek pulls away with the book before he can even
blink. “You — you bitme! Again!”
“Polish off the rest of your water. You smell dehydrated,” Derek deflects as
his brow furrows in concentration. “This is in Latin.”
“Well duh you nea — neth — nen —”
“Ne-ander-thal. Neanderthal.” Derek corrects with a chuckle. “What is it with
you and that word?”
“What is it with you and biting?” Stiles retorts with an annoyed sound. He’s
blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. He can still feel the stingof
it. His heart is beating ruthlessly against the teeth of his ribs like a
wrathful beast trying to escape its cage.
“Instinct."
"What kind? Jesus, it's like you're trying to put me in my place or something.
I've read about that before in my Zoobooks."
"Do you want me to translate?” Derek asks, gracefully sidestepping the
accusation and leaning his head back against the book spines behind him. He
lifts his eyebrows as he looks at Stiles and waits for a response.
Stiles tries to overlook the fact that Derek is so goddamn attractive that
people in the old days would write sonnets about it. This is just cruel. He’s
just so — and he’s into Stiles which is so weird. He blinks when he realizes
he’s been staring. “Uh, what did you say?”
Derek gives him a slow and lazy grin. “The book, Stiles. Did you want me to
translate?”
“Oh!” Stiles uncaps his bottle of his water and tries not to fidget as Derek
tracks every moment he makes. “Wait, you know Latin?”
Derek’s face sags and he looks so hurt that he might cry and oh god,are those
tears?
“No! No! No! No, I mean, yes! Yes, please! Of course! You know Latin! Of course
you do, Derek! I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean to imply — well it
did sound like I was trying to make you out to be a — because you're not! I
just — you — if —”
Derek presses his lips together as his shoulders shake.
Stiles stops babbling long enough to realize that this assholeis fight back
laughter. “Oh you —” He tries to choke him but Derek is grabbing his wrists
with just one hand while he laughs.
Stiles tries to lunge at him but they end up rolling across the floor until he
ends up flat on his back as Derek crowds his vision with a smirk. He finds it
strange that Derek’s between his legs but their bodies don’t even make contact
because the older teen is being mindful of his personal space in a weird way.
“You are the worst Werewolf alive. I used to think it was Peter, but no, you
swooped right on in and dethroned him. Oh my god, I just remembered! You
totally haven’t seen Game of Thrones have you? You did notget my reference.
That’s just obscene, Derek. What the hell do you watch? Are you just gazing up
at stars as you dribble a basketball while reciting the Pythagorean Theorem?
You do, don’t you? You’re such a loser, I swear to —what are you doing? Are you
sniffingme?”
Derek just hums as he drags his nose down the length of Stiles’s throat on the
left side. He wraps his long fingers carefully along the line of the opposite
side, swiping his thumb over Stiles’s Adam’s apple.
Stiles shakes a little as his magic explodes in his chest like fireworks
popping in happy bursts of pinks and reds; it’s trying to leak through in
search of Derek’s inner wolf but he resists that temptation because it’s waytoo
soon. Even still, he’s never felt like this before. "Uh, Derek?"
Derek just continues to nose at his neck.
Stiles squirms and freezes when Derek growls softly, teething at his
collarbone. Stiles stays very still because his magic is warning him to do so.
It's confusing and thrilling at the same time. He just — he doesn’t usually —
doesn’t submit like this. He's never wanted to. But then Derek's teeth graze
the underside of his jaw and he gets hot all over. He feels a slow whine trying
to unearth from his throat and he’s almost boiling with the flush that
overtakes him. Derek’s fingers are like hot bands coiled over his neck and he
noses at him like he’s searching for something, rumbling in satisfaction when
Stiles remains obediently still.
There’s a quick graze of teeth and tongue before Derek pulls away suddenly with
a hazy expression like he just woke up from a dream and his eyes are gold but
he’s not shifting in any other way. “Mom’s going to kill me,” he murmurs, words
almost slurring. He climbs off of Stiles before hauling the younger teen to his
feet. “That got away from me. Did I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to
drag that out like that. I’m sorry.”
Stiles is still trying not to choke on his tongue. “I’m fine!” he squeaks and
they push away from each other, both of them sporting a blush.
“Sorry,” Derek mumbles again as he rubs the back of his neck. “That was a
little more intense than I expected.”
Stiles just backs up until he can feel the bookshelves behind and he chews on
his fingernails anxiously, trying to placate his thudding heart. His magic is
no help, its swirling inside his gut like a tornado of inexplicable joy. “So,
uh,” he’s the first to speak because he’s never comfortable with an awkward
silence. “Latin, huh?”
Derek licks his lips with a nod. “Uncle Peter taught me,” he explains. “Well
taughtis putting it mildly. Whenever Cora and I had temper tantrums together,
mom would give us over to him and he made us sit in the study with him. The
whole time he would make us write out the alphabet of old dead languages. He
was pretty adamant about Latin though. He never told us why.” He shrugs. “The
next thing we know is that we can speak and read Latin fluently. My uncle
always kind of blindsides us with stuff like that. He teaches us the things he
thinks really matters.”
“That sounds like Peter,” Stiles mutters thoughtfully. “To my benefit it seems.
I don’t know a lick of Latin.” He returns to his spot and sits there.
Derek joins him after a moment, and there’s this awkward second of uncertainty
before they become comfortable with each other again. He grabs the book, eyes
running over the words before he holds the book between them. He points to the
bottom corner margin of the page on the right. “Mors et vita in manu linguae
qui diligunt eam comedent fructus,” he recites. Then he looks at Stiles and
translates, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love
it will eat its fruits.”
Stiles gnaws on the fingernails of his right hand.
Derek pushes his hand away.
“I know, I know. Nail biting bad,” Stiles states in exasperation. “It’s a hard
habit to break.”
“I’ve no problem in that area,” Derek boasts with a gorgeous smile. “You get a
knee-jerk reaction when I’m in your room, and you start to clean it.”
“Oh whatever,” Stiles huffs. “That’s me being proactive, and anyway, if I
didn’t then you’d just put your hands all over everything as an excuse to mark
your —”
“So this refers to this,” Derek quickly interjects, pointing with his left hand
to the illustration of a witch who has an abnormally long tongue that almost
looks like a serpent. “According to the text, she’s bewitching the dead to do
her bidding.” He moves his finger up the margin. “The dead then go to the local
villages and steal every child under the age of three.” His uses his finger to
tap the ink drawing of the four witches who are feeding the children to the
shadows. “Sacrificium promittit potential,” he recites. Then he translates that
to, “Sacrifice promises power.”
“So if I’m understanding this right,” Stiles starts as he drums his fingers on
the bottom margin of the left page, slightly grazing Derek’s thumb. “Witches
control the dead. The dead steal children. Children are sacrificed to the
shadows because the witches are on a power trip.”
“Yes and no,” Derek supposes. “Latin can be difficult to translate in its
entirety to English. The shadows are called Malorum Spirituum.In English that
means ‘evil spirit’ but there’s an aggressive underlining to it.” He flips the
page to the picture of a large tree with glass bottles hanging from it. “If you
follow the thread…ah, there it is. It says here,” he makes an indication to the
top left margin. “Vocatus a magistro tenebris.Which means Master of the
Darkness, or something like that. It’s — I’m trying to think of the word. It’s
like iniquity but with seven levels. I know there’s a word for it. I can’t
think of what it is.”
“Vice,” Stiles says faintly, mind already tinkering away. “Vices. The witches
are making sacrifices to feed the shadows. The shadows are Vices.”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “So this tree here is salutem et periculowhich means
‘safety and danger’. But this is decades after that term was newly translated
to ‘sacred groves’. So the tree is some kind of shrine. Or maybe a channel for
good and bad, which would indicate the first term of ‘safety and danger’ mixed
into the later translation of ‘sacred groves’. It’s kind of messy when you
think about it. I guess the tree was where they did all their rituals.”
“Energy,” Stiles elaborates absentmindedly. “There’s a word for it in Druid
speak. The Nemeton.”
“Isn’t that the tree trunk you were crawling all over months ago?” Derek asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles replies, still distracted. He has this intense ominous feeling
in his gut and it makes his magic restless because it’s just aware of it as he
is. “Map,” he says suddenly, springing to his feet. “I need a map.” He drums
his fingers in the air as he searches for what he needs. He kind of flies
around like this for five minutes, Derek following after him with bewildered
concern. “I can’t find it.”
“What? Stiles, can you fill me in here because I am very confused,” Derek
admits.
Stiles turns to face him, even though his skin is crawling with the pent up
energy of his magic. It wants to lash out, surge through the city, all in
search of the foreboding silhouette slowly flooding the town with the intent to
engulf everything within radiance of the Beacon Hills in wicked shadows. How
could he have been so blind? “The killings, Derek. They aren’t just random, or
even serial killings from some whack job with a screw loose. It’s not about
money, god I’m so stupid, I thought it was about the money or even blackmail or
revenge but that’s not what this is at all. There’s a connection there. It’s
chess. It’s positioning. It’s strategy.”
“Wait, wait,” Derek pleads, holding up his hands with an indication he wants
Stiles to slow down. “You’re going a mile a minute and I can’t catch up. What
are you talking about?”
“The Mahealanis: Doctors. The Martins: Lawyers.  Both were slaughtered, not
just for their connection to Mayor Argent, but it’s about something bigger.
Derek, they were killed on a New Moon. Both of them.” Stiles goes on to say,
“But it’s not about that either. There’s one thing they have in common. They
were paid silence. Paid silence is greed.”
Derek still looks confused.
“Sacrifice.” Stiles drops his hands to his side. “Sacrifice of greed.”
Derek starts to understand. “So there’s someone out there…sacrificing people.”
“Not someone. The Benefactor,” Stiles corrects. “The Benefactor is a Vice. A
Seven. Just like me.”
Derek looks like he’s letting that sink in, but he also looks concerned. “I
think it’s time to call my uncle.”
“We need a map,” Stiles adds. “Ask him if there’s some kind of map or a — or a
book. Maybe some — some kind of blueprint of the town. But it can’t be just the
recent version. It has to be a map of the Beacon Hills a little after it was
formed. Tell him to compare the two, paying attention only the points where the
Mahealanis and Martins lived. There’s something about it that’s way more than
coincidence.”
Derek nods, pressing his smartphone to his ear as he mutters something very
sharp and very quick that even Stiles is unable to discern and before he knows
it, Derek is already wrapping up. “Okay. Okay.” He ends the connection and
pockets his phone. “He says we have an atlas that contains all the maps of
Beacon Hills from start to recent. He’ll look into what you mean and then let
you know what he finds.”
Stiles nods, hands shaking.
“Are you okay?” Derek asks but he’s already dragging Stiles closer by the front
of his t-shirt so he can embrace him. “You’re safe. I’m here with you and your
safe. You did good today. Really good. I don’t exactly know what your goal was,
but I think you reached it. You’ve become the epitome of self-control.”
Stiles gives a watery laugh and hides his face in the crook of Derek’s neck.
The older teen is way warmer than the average person, but this is nothing new
to Stiles. But it is something he decides to focus on as he recites a small
prayer of thanks, directing it at Fate as his magic rolls around in his mind.
Fate is pleased. We are now gifted with the mantle of Chastity.
Guess this means I can break my fast.
Greedy child. Is this the more important of the two?
Never.
Well met.
Stiles sniffs as his magic prowls around his heart with a longing. He knows it
wants to make contact with Derek. He’s feeling generous, so he extracts himself
from Derek and holds up his left hand.
Derek looks curious but he presses his large hand against Stiles’s slightly
smaller one.
With their left hands making full on contact, Stiles releases his magic by slow
degrees and it wraps around both of their hands like ethereal ribbons of
unexpected blue energy that feels cold to the touch but not so cold that it
would be unbearable. It’s a happy medium.
“So are we being giftwrapped? Handcuffed? Shackled? Bound?” Derek quietly jokes
but he tracks the movement with this look of delighted awe.
“Don’t even say that,” Stiles warns but he grins as he watches his magic loop
over and over, through their fingers and over their wrists like a light show.
Or maybe it can be described as a bioluminescent asteroid caught in the gravity
of their hands and revolving around them endlessly. “You already know my magic
really has a thing for you.”
Derek keeps his eyes on the magical display but his eyebrows still climb his
forehead in intrigue. “Oh yeah?” He grins. “Maybe it knows something you
don’t.”
Stiles snorts wryly at that. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not,” Derek swears but he’s still grinning like he’s won the lottery or
something as he laces their fingers together. “It’s not just you, you know. My
wolf’s always prowling back and forth whenever I’m near you, or when I hear
your heartbeat. It gets anxious. It wants to learn your magic too.”
His magic circles their wrists like a revolving bracelet before bouncing off
their knuckles like a rock would if you tossed it onto some water to watch it
skip.
“We are way too young to have an intense conversation like this,” Stiles
acknowledges after a while. “Are you — is this okay? It’s not making you
uncomfortable?”
“Stiles, I practically pinned you to the floor and almost put a claiming mark
on you. I think I can handle a little hand contact with some magic thrown into
the mix,” Derek dryly reports.
“I hate you a little bit,” Stiles swears as his face grows hot with a furious
blush. “I’m tempted to call your mom and tell her what happened.”
Derek pales. “You wouldn’t.”
Stiles shrugs and mentally wills his blush to recede. “Kate says one day your
mom will give us the ‘special talk’.”
It’s Derek’s turn to blush in mortification. “She talks too much,” he mutters,
irritated. “You don’t have to worry about that right now. We need to have a
talk first before we go to my mom.”
His magic winds down before hovering for a brief second and then falling over
their intertwined fingers in a glowing, wet mist.
“What’s the ‘talk’?” Stiles asks as he unlocks their fingers but before his
hand can fall back to his side, Derek catches it with his own and grips.
“You’re being too forward again.”
“You started it,” Derek childishly points out. “I like holding your hand. And
this is okay as long as we do it in private. We haven’t quite gotten to the
point where we want to make a public declaration.”
“And yet you’re always trying to sneak touches. Isn’t that considered lewd
behavior in Werewolf culture? Derek, are you an exhibitionist?”
Derek flushes with a groan. “Can you not say that? You’re making me out to be —
just — yes, okay. I do have a thing for public displays of affection. Nothing
lewd, just, you know. I don’t mind being affectionate in public.”
“Oh.” Stiles did not see that backfiring this way. He’s unbelievably warmed by
the confession and there’s this brief moment where he gets excited over the
idea of letting the world know that they are meant for each other. But he
squashes the feeling down for now. “You and I are going to sit down and have an
elaborate talk about the hand thing because I only know of the little your mom
told me,” he decides. “By the way, are all Werewolves left-handed?”
Derek snorts. “Yes. It’s actually a Were thing as a whole.” He then says, “Do
you want me to take you home?”
Stiles fishes out his phone and looks at the time. “Yeah. It’s about time to go
anyway,” he figures. He lets go of the older teen’s hand to reach over and
scoop the book from off the floor to return it to its proper place. “I may need
you to translate more of that tomorrow, if you don’t have anything else
planned.”
“I am free now since we had our last game the other day,” Derek confirms and
crosses his arms. “Three days.”
“Three days? What happens in three days?” Stiles asks as he wanders to the
front door with Derek in tow.
“Six Flags in Chicago. Well not Chicago, but Gurnee,” Derek clarifies. “Are you
still on punishment?”
“Maybe? I don’t know,” Stiles admits as he locks up. “I’ve been behaving
though, so I don’t see why my dad will prolong it.”
“If you get in trouble before we can even —”
Stiles shoves Derek towards his car. “Settle down. I am a poster child for good
behavior.”
Derek rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath as he wirelessly
unlock his door, ignoring Violet and Garrett, who are still parked across the
street.
Stiles keeps his peace as Derek drives him home and even when Derek sees him to
his front door. Under the soft yellow glow of the porchlight, he lets himself
think, just for one quick moment, how handsome Derek is. There's a look in his
eye that's almost gentle, and it makes Stiles's cheeks get a little warm and
his body becomes overrun with indescribable warm, fuzzy feelings.
Derek has an air of silent patience about him that shouldn’t give him a
mysterious element because this is Derekbut it does. There shouldn’t be any
mystery left about Derek but for some reason, there is and only made worse by
the fact that their feelings have been laid bare.
Stiles can’t put his finger on it. This simple moment of just standing on his
porch with the other teen seems to draw out some inherent curiosity from inside
of him. There’s this want to ask questions, to understand, to learnDerek in a
way he doesn’t usually care to with other people.
Well, no one outside of his mother. His father always seemed simple to figure
out because he never allowed himself to be a complicated man. Isaac is very
much the same way. Even with Lydia and all her intricacies, there’s no element
of mystery, merely layers upon layers one has to learn to be able to peel back
and observe.
Derek is, to put it simply, different. There’s this very deep, deep, dark space
in his mind, this private part of his brain, that is perpetually interested. He
has no clue what that actually means but it’s definitely not ignorable now, if
it ever was.
Stiles spares a second to wonder what Derek must think of him. Like, maybe, if
he thinks that Stiles is web of question marks he can’t find it in himself to
give up on until he’s untangled it all. God, Stiles has always had a thing for
knots ever since he learned how to tie his shoes. It’s one of his more willful
hobbies he rarelyindulges in but his interest in it has never died. He still
has a box of red rope under his bed. Sometimes he’d tie up his wrists just so
he can undo the knots with his mouth, and with his teeth, because he likes the
struggle of it. He likes the way it feels, the required focus and energy. How
all that expelled energy at the end of it would send him drifting.
Oh geez, he’s beginning to realize that Derek has become a knot in his life,
and the chemicals firing off in his brain is demanding he figures out how to
undoit until it’s a straight line. But that’s the thing. He’s not sure he could
ever figure this one out. Or if he even wants to undo anything. He also starts
thinking about Derek tying him up in red rope and whoa. Not the time nor the
place to fantasize about such things.
"Any exciting plans tonight?"
Stiles snaps out of his thoughts, floundering a bit before he finds himself
again. He clears his throat as his cheeks heat, trying to get his heartbeat
under control and grateful Derek isn't making any comments about it. "Hardly.
Though, I’m going to have a hard time going to sleep. My mind is still
tinkering away, and I’ll be anxiously waiting for Peter to call me back with
his findings. Not to mention that my dad and Deaton are collaborating on
something. Well not something, but they’re orchestrating some kind of talk with
the Calaveras."
"Yeah, my mom's pretty involved with that too," Derek supposes.
"I think they’re all trying to piece together who responsible for all the chaos
here," Stiles says. "They know — well we all know who orchestrated it. Of
course it wouldn’t be just about the sacrifices, but it is a key aspect. I keep
forgetting to tell my dad about all the things I found out about Mayor Argent.
That guy has some major dirt, like if you only knew — but I can’t tell you, and
I just — now I remember why I can’t tell him yet. Hopefully if things clear up
by next week, I can let him know about all of that. But at least I’m moving
forward and actually gaining information without question marks floating over
my head like a neon sign. Which reminds me, how is Mr. Ravenhill? I haven’t
seen him in a long time. I really do mean to sit down with him and why are you
looking at me like that?”
Derek rubs the back of his neck with his left hand as he puts his right hand in
the front pocket of jeans. “I thought — I thought for sure Laura or Peter told
you. But, well, then again maybe they didn’t know that you knew him like that.
I didn’t even really know until you just mentioned him.”
Stiles swallows as his magic grows strangely quiet. “Tell me what?”
Derek looks like he’s trying to find the right words.
“Derek. Tell me what?”
“He —” Derek struggles to get it out. “He died over a month ago. Mom wasn’t
specific but she’s pretty sure it wasn’t a natural death.”
Stiles stands there, floored. He doesn’t even know what to say or think or
feel. “That can’t be right,” he swears. His eyes get a little misty. “Mr.
Ravenhill has been around for decades. How does — how does something like that
even happen? Woodland spirits don’t just die.” He slaps his hands over his face
and begins to sob.
Mr. Ravenhill was a Leshy, and Leshies are fragments of nature intertwined with
otherworldly consciousness. Beings like this don’t just die. They’re rare souls
and Mr. Ravenhill was the lastof his kind and now there are none left.
Did I not say this to you before? All things in the realm of men eventually
fade away.
Go away. Let me at least mourn in peace.
I meant no ill will. Sorrow has overtaken me as well. When a piece of nature
dies, we too die with it. It is much the same as losing a limb.
Go away.
Stiles continues to sob because the loss hurts so much and he didn’t even
know.He didn’t even get the chance to say his final goodbyes. He jerks away
when Derek tries to rest a hand on his shoulder. “No,” he says shakily. “Please
leave.”
Derek looks a little hurt.
Stiles can’t even bear that right now. He turns away and gallops down the steps
quickly to hideaway in his backyard. He weeps as he stumbles up to reach Nana
and he presses his hands to the triquetra and sags against Nana’s cheek when
she appears.
“Oh, sweetling,” Nana coos. “Why do you weep so?”
“Mr. Ravenhill is — he is —” Stiles is choking back tears as the sorrow
overtakes him. “It hurts, Nana. Why does it hurt so much?”
“Oh, precious,” Nana sighs and her purple-blue leaves shake with the wind. “Mr.
Ravenhill was royalty in his own right.”
“How do — how do you know?” Stiles manages to asks between his bouts of crying.
“I met him once, a long time ago. He was still just a little wildling. So eager
to grow. I’ve also seen what you’ve shown me. Come now, let me honor his
memory.” Nana goes on to say, “He was tender and kind. His love for the forest
was unparalleled, and he treated all manner of creature with respect. He was a
protector. He was gentle. Remember him well, dearie. He will never die if you
shelter his memory. We’ll plant some lovely little tulips for him. What do you
think?”
Stiles curls up at the base of his tree and continues to cry until the sky
darkens with stars punching holes through the sky in white light. The moon is
unseen and Stiles doesn’t much care. He can’t see anything through his tears.
Nana begins to sing lamentations over him.
Stiles weeps for a long time, crying out to Fate with all his heart and mind
and spirit. He’s sobbing so deeply that he can barely hear Nana singing or the
rolling thunder overtaking the sky. Rain begins to pour down but Nana protects
him from it.
“Look at that now, sweetling,” Nana ponders. “You’re making the sky cry. Try
not to weep so deeply. We wouldn’t want this lovely little town of yours to be
overtaken by a flood. They haven't seen rain for years, and yet here you are,
ushering it in.”
Stiles doesn’t even have the strength to ask her what she means. He just
hiccups when he has no more tears left and shivers in the aftermath.
Nana starts to sing again but it’s a lullaby this time.
Stiles curls himself tighter into a ball. His magic unfurls from inside of him
and materializes so it can wrap around him like a blanket, protecting him from
the cold.
The heavy rain lets up and shrinks into a light drizzle as a few weak tears
escape from Stiles’s eyes.
Nana keeps singing and protecting him from the rain.
His magic coils around him with pulses of warmth.
Stiles finally succumbs to his exhaustion.
The minute he falls asleep, the rain stops completely.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up to the gentle touch of a breeze soaked in the smell of honeydew
and rain. His eyelids flutter before he blinks away the moisture formed by
sleep. He frowns in confusion as he uses his arms to lift himself up to glance
around a forest full of glittering sunlight, whose rays resemble twinkling gold
dust. He looks down to see he’s lying in the middle of an unpaved road littered
with the autumn leaves. They rain down in yellows and oranges and reds and
blues; they swirl with the wind and gently touch down like it’s an art form or
a dance. The trees of the forest are slender and tall, with enough space in
between to see in and through.
What he sees is frozen bits of white stars suspended in the air between them,
even though the sun shines as bright as ever. He stands and they move around
him and he touches a piece of a fractured star and it glows with glorious light
before it pops with the sound of glass breaking, turning into white sand and
swirling back up into the sky. He looks to his left into the moonlit shadows to
see a line of Faeries wearing hooded robs of maroon silk with their heads bowed
low. They’re weaving through the trees with simultaneous singing that they
direct towards the bright morning star and pink candles in their hands.
Stiles can hear the singing, all of them, just singing in sync in these
beautiful hymns that almost sound like the tinkling of bells, the strum of
harps, the lazy whine of violins and before he knows it, he’s choking back
tears. They speak in a tongue he’s never heard in the realm of Men. It still
speaks to his heart and he just — he understands. He looks down at himself and
through his tears he can see that he’s wearing dark gold calf-length pants
while his chest remains bare, and his skin is littered with glittering silver
lines in the shape of rune sigils. He feels the light weight of something on
his head and he reaches up to remove a crown made of pearls and gems. His lips
are trembling with the urge to join the song and his bare feet are anxious to
fall in line with his kin. He’s not really sure what to do.
“We’ve been called for the Gathering,” a voice says from overhead.
Stiles looks up and blinks in surprise when he sees Lydia sitting in the crook
of where branch meets tree, high up like she’s sitting on the shoulder of a
tall relative.
Lydia’s not looking at him, but she looks as beautiful as Stiles feels. She’s
wearing a flowing dress made of black diamonds. She’s wearing a crown too, but
hers is made of peacock feathers and rubies. Her strawberry-blonde hair is
situated with graceful restraint, fastened into a bun with the aid of butterfly
pins. Her skin is decorated with silver rune sigils that are completely
identical to his. She stands and walks off the branch, descending to the forest
floor like she’s floating in water before she lands in front of him.
The stars act like tiny, white lamps, illuminating the features of their
otherworldly beauty.
Lydia’s ears are pointed at the tip and pierced with all kinds of studs. She
reaches out touches his own and he realizes his ears are pointed as well. She
gives him a kiss on his cheek that makes his skin sing before she pulls away to
grab the crown he’s clutching to return it to his head before stepping back.
She holds out her hand and thick grey smoke rises from her palm before two
slender, pink candles appear once the smoke has cleared.
“Go on,” Lydia says gently and her voice is so lovely. “We are already delayed.
I’ve been waiting on you for hours.”
“Oh.” Stiles takes the pink candle and instinct tells him to blow on it. He
cups a hand in front of it and blows. The flicker of a flame comes to life. He
pokes at the flame but his skin does not burn. “Where are we going?”
“The Gathering,” Lydia repeats as she blows on her candle as well so that it
ignites. “The Lady of the Garden calls us on behalf of Fate. She is to be the
Mistress of Ceremony.”
Stiles walks alongside her as they venture down the unpaved road, brittle
autumn leaves crunching wetly under their bare feet and raining down on them.
“What is a Gathering?”
“It is a time when the Fae attend a ceremony of mourning,” Lydia explains as
they glide over the leaf-riddled path. “These forests are called the Graveyard
of Children, and it is to be our venue. It is normally where supernatural
creatures that left the realm of Men before their time are laid to rest. If
they should be found without blemish in their hearts and pardoned by the
Faceless. These funerals are rare.”
“Who are we mourning?” Stiles asks as they approach the end of the path,
Faeries weaving through the trees on either side of them, faces hid by their
hoods. “No one small, I’m sure, since you say it is rare.”
Lydia says nothing as the light of day shifts into night, and the crushed
debris of stars help to light the way while they stay suspended in the air. She
tangles their fingers together as they reach the hilltop to an open field
riddled with iron foldout chairs resting on either side of the aisle made of
flower petals and jewels.
The chairs are facing a large and wide gazebo made of vines wound together with
berries and sunflowers, resting on an alter made of twinkling glass. There’s a
long casket made of, what looks like, frozen snow and sugar cubes intermingled
and neatly cut into perfect angles. There are birds of all manners hovering,
flying, and sitting over it. 
Little by little, hordes of Faeries of all demeanors fill in each individual
seat as they hold their pink candles. They wait as they whisper prayers
quietly.
Stiles watches it all happen from the hilltop Lydia and he are on. He looks out
further and sees the outline of mahogany mountains. “What are the pink candles
for?” he asks, lowering his gaze to the field of Faeries: their kin.
“Healing. Love. Friendship. Emotion.” Lydia goes on to say, “These will help
guide the spirit to the celestial planes so that it may become an everlasting
constellation fixed in the painting of the Cosmos.”
Stiles is astonishingly moved by that. “Who is it that we mourn?”
“Come, cousin,” Lydia replies instead, linking their arms so they can hold
their pink candles with their free hands. “Come and see.”
Stiles lets her guide him down the hill and into the open field where they
trudge through waist-high wheatgrass and dandelions and wild flowers.
Lydia stops and they stand at the end of the aisle so they can wait.
Stiles isn’t sure what they’re waiting for but he figures that they will have
to find a seat soon because they are quickly becoming occupied by their clan.
He wiggles his fingers between Lydia’s and gnaws on the corner of his bottom
lip and blinks at how sweet his lip tastes (like peppermint raspberry).
There’s a hush that falls over the congregation of Fae.
Then a burst of light explodes in the sky in the shape of a galaxy molded in an
almost humanoid form. This living vessel touches down on the altar and everyone
rises from their seats.
Stiles feels himself shaking and is comforted by the fact that Lydia is too,
meaning that he’s not alone. It feels like his flesh is crying out but his soul
leaps inside him with hungry joy. He starts a little when he feels a light
touch on his shoulder. He turns just as Lydia does and they are presented with
a smile made of brilliance from the Lady of the Garden.
“Welcome back, little ones.” The Lady of the Garden kisses Lydia on the cheek
first and then him.
Stiles begins to shake and he tightens his hold on Lydia’s as she trembles
alongside him.
“Worry not,” the Lady of the Garden promises. She reaches into the folds of her
robe to retrieve small glass jars filled with water and stardust. “Drink,
sweetlings. Drink so you may stand before Fate and live.” She takes their
candles and glides down the aisle and the Fae bow like dominoes at each row she
passes.
Stiles and Lydia let go of each other to pop the top off of their assigned
jars.
Lydia holds hers up and clinks it with his with a discrete smile. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Stiles echoes and they both take it down. It slides down like sugary
molasses. A shudder overtakes him and he’s suddenly aware of every living thing
in every realm, he sees the beginning and the end, and there is this knowing
that only gods and goddesses experience. But even though he sees, and hears,
and feels, and knows, he doesn’t understand it all like he should. There is so
much knowledge but it is not easily understood.
“You feel it too,” Lydia states this like a fact. “Curious, isn’t it?”
“It’s too much,” Stiles decides. “There is so much and I do not know what I do
not know and even the things I do know I can’t understand.”
Lydia tangles their fingers together and their spirits, hearts, and minds align
with an unheard conversation. “Will you go with me?”
“It is already written, cousin,” Stiles responds with a slight smile.
Lydia grips her dress with her free hand, lifting it as so not to stumble as
they begin the trek down the aisle.
Amber rose petals rain down on them from the heavens and all of the Fae bow to
them as they make their way to the alter, their crowns glimmering with a
significance that neither of them can understand.
The closer they get to the altar, the more they shake until they stumble to
their knees from the weight and press of Fate’s splendor. It’s a glory made of
unintelligible but endless love composed of the light of the heavens and the
cosmos, and it makes even the DNA that makes them what they are vibrate and
weep with resilient worship.
Fate sits on a throne of gold on the other side of the casket under the gazebo.
The congregation of the Fae shout with praise and sing songs of gladness,
chanting, “We have overcome by the grace of Fate! By the power of your name, we
are victorious!”
Fate speaks and Stiles can barely hold himself up because the voice shakes the
stars and reverberates through the air with some sort of mystical force. There
is nothing that can describe it or translates what Fate is saying. The words
just flow endlessly into what is, what was, and what will be.
Stiles struggles his way to Lydia and they hold each other up as they cry with
elation because Fate’s voice strips away all the unclean things that lie in
wait in their souls, making them want to confess every sin they’ve ever
committed. They babble on and on for mercy until there’s a fire in their
bellies that rings true like a steaming broth made of forgiveness.
Fate stops speaking and there’s a second hush that falls over the open field.
The Lady of the Garden stoops down and gently lifts their chins. “Hush now,
little ones. You are made anew. Fate shines upon your countenance, and so you
are blessed with favor. You are royalty, can you not see? To whom do these
crowns belong to? Are they not adorned on your head? Come, precious, both of
you stand.”
Stiles and Lydia climb to their feet, still weak-kneed.
The Lady of the Garden cups their cheeks with a glorious smile. “It is time to
mourn.” She looks at Stiles. “Fate has heard your cry and has consulted with
the Faceless to advocate on your behalf. Mr. Ravenhill shall be pardoned and
his name will last for ages. It will be written in the stars.”
Stiles sobs in hiccups of relief and he nods rapidly, trying so hard to even
get out a ‘thank you’ but he just can’t because he’s choking on his tears.
Lydia pulls him closer to her and rests a hand over his heart. “Well done,
cousin.”
Stiles weeps and his tears continue to flow, but wherever they drop, they form
into wild flowers.
Fate remains silent on the throne of gold.
Stiles is still hyperaware of the entity and can feel a piercing gaze fixed
upon him, even as he climbs the steps on the Lady of the Garden’s urging while
Lydia clings to him. When they stand right before the ice casket, he reaches
out with shaky hands and closes his eyes with a prayer that Mr. Ravenhill finds
peace, and that he has a safe journey out and into the Cosmos.
Lydia leans down and kisses the closed casket before straightening and rubbing
Stiles’s arm with affection as she leads him to stand at the right archway of
the gazebo made of vines infused with berries and sunflowers.
They watch as one by one, Faeries lie down trinkets on the altar as an offering
to fund Mr. Ravenhill’s celestial journey.
Stiles’s heart and soul quickens because he has found peace in the midst of it.
Drums sound off in the distance and Lydia tells him to close his eyes and when
he does she gives him a chaste kiss on his lips until his body becomes heavy.
He blinks awake not even a second later, feeling heavy with the press of
Earth’s gravitational pull. He can see fractured bits sunlight peeking through
Nana’s purple-blue leaves, causing those rays to change colors like a
kaleidoscope. His magic lifts it’s warming spell and he opens his mouth to
breathe it in.
“How do you feel, dearie?” Nana asks as she watches him rise and stretch,
apologizing to the assembly of fireflies he accidently swats. “You look at
peace. You went to a Gathering, I suspect.”
“I can only remember fragments, but I remember being…it’s an indescribable
feeling. I can’t even translate it. I remember being purged of…old things and
being made anew. More than anything I recall being with Lydia as we stood
together before Fate. Now that,” Stiles pauses to laugh and rub the back of his
head after he stands. “I can honestly say I know what it feels like to stand
before a higher power. That was so very intense.”
“You're Fae, but you’re still flesh and you eat the fruits of man, so your body
knows of nothing else but the tribulation of this realm. I imagine it’s hard
for you to withstand the spiritual wilds,” Nana supposes and she really looks
at him. “I sang over you, darling. I interceded on your behalf and it seems
that both of our prayers were answered. Which is unsurprising. I’ve talked to
Fate only but a few times, and I was told that if two or more touch and agree
on Earth, it will be answered swiftly by those who are the masters of the
heavens.”
Stiles takes that in and wonders just what he could accomplish with Lydia if
they touched and agreed on anything. “Do you know the time? Do you even have a
concept of time?” he jokes. He dodges a few apples with a laugh.
“Silly little child,” Nana harrumphs. “It is almost seven in the morn on this
rather wet Thursday.”
“Wet?” Stiles frowns as he looks around, just noticing the beads of water
sticking to the grass. “It rained yesterday when — but that couldn’t be — I
thought I dreamt that.”
“No dreams here, sweetling,” Nana confirms. “You don’t know, it seems.”
“What?” Stiles feels his brow furrow. “What don’t I know?”
“When you mourn a facet of nature, Fate opens up the sky and makes the Earth
cry with you,” Nana explains gently.
Stiles gawks at that. "Nana...it hasn't rained for years."
Nana chuckles. “How many times do I have to remind you that your are a child of
Fate. Do you know how blessed you are? Fate never withholds the desires of your
heart. Treat this power and privilege very carefully. If you burn any bridges,
they can never be recovered, understood?”
Stiles nods eagerly.
“Good. Go forth and begin your day,” Nana advises. “How was your fast?
Difficult, I gather.”
“Yes, truthfully,” Stiles admits as he licks his lips. “But in the end my magic
said I accomplished my goal.”
“You’ve been ordained with the mantle of Chastity,” Nana confirms. “We’ll
continue our studies. Now go seek nourishment, and begin studying the book of
Temperance. Do not do it all in one day, silly boy. Read a few pages each night
and we’ll discuss what you’ve learned, well, let’s say Wednesdays from now on,
yes?”
“Okay,” Stiles agrees and picks up all the apples Nana tossed at him because
nothing from her must go to waste. “I love you, Nana.”
“Oh goodness me!” Nana laughs with rejoice. “But you must know that you won my
affection long ago. All the love I have is yours, sweetling. Until the bitter
end.”
Stiles smiles shyly before he wanders off and enters his house through the
backdoor.
His dad and Isaac are sitting at the table with a spread of food. They stand
when they see him.
“What’s all this?” Stiles asks with a curious frown.
“When I went looking for you after Isaac told me you weren’t in the house when
he came home with Boyd, I found you at the base of your tree, bundled up in
your magic, I’m guessing,” the sheriff explains. “Nana explained you were
mourning Mr. Ravenhill.”
Stiles nods silently.
“I let you be. I trusted Nana to look after you,” his dad goes on to say. “It
was Isaac’s idea to make you breakfast for a change. You’re always looking
after us, so we wanted to return the favor.”
Stiles couldn’t contain his smile even if he tried.
Isaac is already walking over with a basket so he can help put the apples in
Stiles’s arms into it. Then he gives his older brother a hug and steps out of
the way so their father can do the same.
His dad pulls back and grips his shoulder. “You okay, kid?”
“I will be,” Stiles reports with a discreet grin. “Can I ask just how you two
managed to make all this without burning the house down? This toast is whole
grain, right? That better be turkey sausage and bacon. There isn’t enough fruit
but at least there’s freshly squeezed orange juice. That syrup’s got to go
though. There is waytoo much sugar in this, holy crap. Did you even look at the
back? These calories are ridiculous. Hey, is that a cinnamon roll? I can excuse
it this onetime. Oh yeah, I was right. These eggs are kind of burnt and so is
this toast. How did you even —”
Isaac and his dad sigh simultaneously but they let Stiles babble as they all
sit to eat as a family.
So far, the day is going pretty well.
                                      ---
Stiles rides bikes with Boyd and Isaac. It feels like it’s been a while since
he’s seen his little brother off to school. But he kinda gets distracted the
whole time thinking up a million scenarios of how his talk with Derek will go.
He keeps picturing the hurt look on Derek’s face over and over, and it is just
driving him up the wall. His magic has nothing to say about the matter, but
that could be it’s practically knocked out inside him from the long night it
spent staying up to keep him warm.
He pauses at the curb of the parking lot so he can watch Isaac and Boyd lock up
their bikes at the nearby rack. He smiles when Isaac runs back to give him a
long hug, unashamed of the looks he gets from his peers.
“Have a good day,” Isaac says quietly before he turns away.
“That’s supposed to be my line to you!” Stiles calls out after him. He snorts
when Isaac just waves him off as he bumps shoulders with Boyd playfully while
they disappear in the school. The next thing he knows, Allison and Scott are
ambushing him into a hug. “Love you guys too,” he laughs.
Allison is the first to pull away with a dimpled smile. “Sorry, I’m just so
excited about Danny and Lydia.”
Stiles wonders if he should act oblivious. There are a lot of things that
Allison doesn’t know, but that’s because he made Scott promise not to give her
too much information about what he’s been told. So he says, “Can you clarify?”
Scott keeps him in a one-armed hug. “Danny’s vitals are improving like crazy.
Even the doctors are scratching their heads.”
“Jackson says that he might be up and moving by next week,” Allison elaborates
further. “You should see the look on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him
happier. He’s been staying at his bedside nonstop. He’s missed a few days of
school, but his dad is sorting that all out.”
Stiles is a little annoyed that Jackson’s been neglecting his girlfriend. Or
maybe there’s more to it than what he sees or knows. He’ll ask Lydia at some
point. “And Lydia?” he pushes.
“Oh! Well.” Allison takes a moment to think about it and Scott gets all moony-
eyed over her experession. “She’s going to be released Friday night. I am so
excited! I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my body! We’re going to throw
her a really small ‘welcome back’ party. You know. Me, you, Boyd, and Scott.
And Jackson, if he decides to come.”
Stiles snickers at the lovesick expression on his best friend’s face and he
slaps Scott’s chest twice before he says, “That’s understandable, Allison. I’m
sorry I’ll have to miss the release.”
Scott and Allison frown at him questioningly and mild disappoint.
“Isaac and I are going out of town with the Hales for a surprise birthday
thing,” Stiles explains but the looks of disappointment don’t fade. “Look.
Maybe I could Skype on my way to the airport or maybe while I’m on the plane?”
Allison nods.
Scott’s frown just deepens. “Should I be jealous? You spend a lot of time with
the Hales. No, forget that question, I’ve already began spiraling into
jealousy.”
Stiles laughs and rubs his knuckles roughly into the crown of Scott’s recently
neat haircut. “No one could ever replace you, Scotty!”
Scott pushes his hand away but he still graces the older teen with one of his
sunshiny smiles. “Text me between classes?”
“Already have you on speed dial,” Stiles jokes and grins when he gets a laugh
in return. “Do you think your mom would let you sleep over tonight?”
Scott brightens at that. “I’ll ask!”
Stiles snickers and twists his hands over his bike handles. “I have to get a
move on. See you guys.”
“Be safe! It's wild that it actually rained last night. The town's been buzzing
about it all morning,” Allison replies as she drags Scott closer to whisper
something in his ear that makes a flush ride up the length of his neck.
Stiles is fine with not knowing. It’s not his business anyway. He just hopes
for the best.
                                      ---
There’s still quite some time before first period starts. The students in the
halls are pretty thin with a good portion of them lounging in the cafeteria
while breakfast is still being served.
Stiles doesn’t feel the need to join them. He’s still pretty full from the
unexpected but pleasant breakfast his father and his little brother coordinated
just for him. He grabs the books he needs for his next three classes before
making his way to the second floor to wander through the sophomore hall in
search of Derek.
Derek happens to be laughing amongst his teammates with a few cheerleaders
thrown into the mix. He grins when a blue haired girl snatches his basketball
and twirls it on her pointer finger as he rolls his eyes and motions for her to
give it back. But she shoves at him playfully and bats her eyelashes.
Stiles clutches his books to his chest, suddenly intimidated. He’s always known
that Derek runs in the popular circles with all the good-looking students. It
wasn’t too long ago that he drifted through these very halls as an invisible
nobody. Laura, Cora, Derek — they hadn’t even known his name. If it weren’t for
Peter seeking him out, well, who knows how differently his life would have
gone.
Derek frowns deeply and glances over at him.
Stiles quickly spins away, losing nerve, and heads toward the stairs to get to
his AP Biology class.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Derek runs up and reels him into a one armed hug with his
left arm. “You were totally coming to apologize to me, weren't you? But then
you got all sad. What’s that about?”
Stiles fidgets and tries to look the other way as he lets himself press into
the warm line of Derek’s body. A blush dusts the bridge of his nose. “I don’t
know,” he mumbles and clutches his books tighter. “I am sorry, you know. I know
you were just showing concern and I —”
“Apology accepted,” Derek murmurs, pressing his mouth mere inches from Stiles’s
ear, making the younger teen shiver. “I already forgave you anyway because
there’s nothing to apologize for. It’d be pretty dumb if I sulked because you
were mourning the loss of a friend. That’d make me an asshole actually.”
“You said a swear,” Stiles mumbles weakly as they continue a lazy stride down
the hall. He flushes a little as curious eyes follow them. “Come on, Derek.
Give me some breathing room. Everyone is looking at us like you’re one second
away from trying to stick your tongue in my — oh my god.”
Derek hops out of the way with a laugh when Stiles hurls a notebook at him.
“My ear!” Stiles complains as he drops all his books for the sake of using his
short sleeve to rid his right ear of Derek’s DNA. “Oh this is so gross and
uncivilized! What is it with you and Cora trying to — to — defilemy ear?”
Derek makes a face as he gathers all of Stiles's things. “I don’t want to hear
anything else about my little sister sticking her tongue anywhere on you,” he
begs in annoyance. “I might tackle her,” he mutters.
“I heard that,” Stiles says as he crosses his arms and watches the older teen
gather his things because he deems this a worthy punishment. “So, um, who was
that girl? With the uh — blue hair? She seemed —” he stumbles over his words.
“— pretty?”
“I guess so?” Derek replies with a lifted brow as he straightens with all of
Stiles’s things in tact. “That’s Trixie. We were like lab partners for AP
Chemistry last year. She’s good people, you know?”
Stiles scratches the side his nose as it wrinkles and he glances down the hall
at said blue haired girl named Trixie. “So does she have, maybe, possibly, a
crush on you or something?”
Derek cocks his head with this adorable confused look. “Trixie? You think
Trixie has a crush on me? Trixie?”
“Would you stop saying her name over and over like I have five second amnesia!”
Stiles exclaims and winces as it garners looks. “And I didn’t say that she did.
I was just asking a question. She has your basketball.”
Derek hums thoughtfully. “That’s actually Brett’s basketball. Not mine. He
asked me to hold it while he went to the bathroom. Trixie, who happens to be
his girlfriend, was taking it from me because she was waiting for him anyway.
Stiles, are you jealous?”
Stiles wishes the ground would open up and swallow him because the blush on his
face is so damning.
Derek smirks and he straightens even further. “Should I go back and get her
number? Would that bait you into fighting for my affections? Or maybe Trixie
and I will start some kind of polygamous relationship with Brett. You’d make a
good fourth by the way.”
“Give me my books and never speak to me,” is Stiles’s grumpy reply and makes an
annoyed sound when Derek bounces out of the way like this is some sort of one-
on-one game. “Derek, I swear —”
“You shouldn’t swear, Stiles,” Derek mock scolds as he makes his way to the
steps. “Now come on. I’m escorting you to class. I hope you get that weird
thought that I’m looking at anyone else out of your head by the time we reach
your first class.”
“Stop holding my books hostage,” Stiles grumbles but he lets himself grin
behind Derek since the older teen can’t see. They trot down the steps in
companionable silence. When they reach the AP Biology classroom, he holds out
his hands expectantly.
“Nope, not until you confirm that you have no reason to be jealous,” Derek
pushes with this sarcastic judge-y face.
Stiles gets a little pink. “Jesus, Derek. Say that any louder.”
“Well, okay.” Derek inhales and opens his mouth.
“Okay!” Stiles quickly exclaims. “I may have overreacted or something. It
probably was silly of me to be all — to think — look, this is all new to me,
okay? It’s already mortifying.”
Derek strokes his chin thoughtfully. “This is an acceptable response,” he
decides.
“Go away,” Stiles complains and gratefully accepts his books back. He flushes a
little when Derek quickly grazes his fingers over the knuckles of Stiles’s left
hand. “Derek. No public — you said —”
“I was quick about it,” Derek swiftly interjects before Stiles can go on a
rant.
Cora makes gagging noises as she pushes between them. “Don’t you have coloring
books to doodle in? Or do you have show-and-tell today?”
“Cute, Cora,” Derek retorts sarcastically as he makes a face at her.
Cora snorts and turns away from him, purposefully smacking his face with the
dyed tips of her hair. “Stop wasting your time on my airheaded brother. We have
a final to get prepared for.” She starts shoving him over the threshold, giving
her older brother a withering look.
“Stop accosting my friend,” Derek calls out and smirks when Stiles stumbles. He
gracefully dodges the pencil hurled at him.
Cora holds his phone hostage for their next three classes, just to spite her
older brother by ensuring that he gets no replies from Stiles when he texts.
Stiles think it’s all pretty funny, and he can’t even remember what life was
like before Peter came crashing into it.
                                      ---
Stiles sighs with relief and sends up prayers of gratitude to Fate that he’s
completed all his finals without a hitch. He cleans out his locker and stands
in the long line extending from the library for everyone who’s trying to
relinquish all his or her schoolbooks. He’s glad that his Astronomy teacher
ended the class early. He spends the next fifteen minutes in that line, texting
Scott all the while as he waits. He finally makes it to the table with a sign
overhead that says ‘P-Z’ for students with a last name in that range. He gives
over his books with no problem before he happily makes his way to lunch.
He continues to text Scott between texting his dad who confirms that his
punishment has ended and that yes Scott can stay the night. He stands in line
for food and gets a concerning amount of cheese fries and three chill cheese
dogs with a blue slushie. He takes his tray out into the quad and makes his way
to the usual spot. He sits beside Cora because she gives him this look that
dares him to try and sit anywhere else but next to her.
“Can you believe it rained last night?" Kate announces. "Was the weirdest
thing. There were no weather reports for it or anything. Our local
meteorologists were scrambling today on the news."
"Ugh, can we talk about anything else? I've been hearing this all morning,"
Cora complains. "Anyway, it's not a big deal. It was bound to happen
eventually."
"Bound to happen? Let's not downplay it, sunshine. It's been what? A hundred
years or so since it last rained? Don't you think this is something worth
talking about?" Kate presses. She looks to Stiles. "Back me up here, buttercup.
I say it's the work of the supernatural. Cora just thinks it's a freak
occurrence. Who's right here?"
Stiles chokes a little on the next bite he takes from his hotdog and slaps at
his chest as he shrugs. He carefully avoids their gaze as he sucks down some of
his slushie to relieve the burn. He's not really ready to tell anyone he was
responsible for what happened and why.
"That's not what's important today, guys. Voting for Prom King and Queen has
started,” Laura announces with a singsong voice from where’s she’s sitting
between Kate and Derek. “All you goobers have to vote for me.”
“We all know you’ll win. What’s the point?” Derek retorts as he goes to town
on, what’s probably, his third spicy chicken sandwich. “You win every year.”
“Hush your adorable little mouth, baby brother, and go vote for your gorgeous
big sister,” Laura replies sweetly as she pats his cheek with greasy fingers.
Derek bristles and grabs a napkin to scrub his cheek until it’s pink. “You know
I hate when you do that! I’m not voting for you at all.”
Laura just bats a hand at him as she polishes off another greasy taco.
Peter slides onto the bench on the other side of Cora with this gleam in his
eyes. “No, I haven’t found whatever it is you have me hunting for, but give me
more time,” he says right at the moment Stiles opens his mouth to ask. “Kate,
darling. When is that little meeting with your charming older brother?”
Kate scowls at him. “I told you, Peter. Only Stiles has the privilege of
accompanying me.”
“I just find it very peculiar that he would come back to our lovely little town
after all this time,” Peter causally points out as he studies his nails. “I
simply wish to be present when he offers the insight as to why.”
“Fuck off, Peter,” Kate snaps and wow, this is the first time Stiles has ever
seen them in a real fight. “All you want to do is give him about ten seconds of
talking before you slice his throat open with your fucking claws.”
“Kathryn, don’t be ridiculous,” Peter replies evenly. “I’d give him thirty
seconds. I’m not completely heartless.”
Kate makes a frustrated sound and steals Stiles’s jello onlyto throw it at
Peter (and of course he effortlessly leans out of the way before it can make
contact). “Hey! Here’s a fun fucking idea! Why don’t you let me and Stiles
handle Chris and you can, let’s say, go sit on a dick and spin.”
Cora chokes on a chicken nugget, wheezing out laughter.
Derek poorly hides his snickering behind his sixth spicy chicken sandwich.
Laura sucks on her bottom in an attempt to squash a humored grin.
Peter’s expression flattens and his resolve doesn’t crack one bit. “Charming,
really. You’ll make for a perfect wife and mother.”
“I am notmarrying you or having your snotty spawn,” Kate counters and she
stands. “You’re pushing for a cold shoulder, Peter. I’ll become fucking Elsa if
you don’t stop nagging.”
Peter stands as well. “Well, you see, I have these annoying little urges called
feelingsand, bear with me because I’m sure you’ve heard of those,” he remarks a
little condescendingly. “It’s pressing at me constantly on your behalf to see
to it that you and your heart remain in tact. So pardon me if I get a little
hostile towards the man who trekked halfway across the other side of the world
to find himself, only to suddenly decide that family is more important. There
is no way my future wife, and yes I said wife because we both know that you’ll
marry me the second you graduate college and bear my children effortlessly when
you decide it’s worth your time,” he presses. “There is no way I will let you
face that prick by yourself. Stiles or no Stiles.”
Kate just storms off and Peter follows right after her.
A few moments of awkward silence sets in after their departure.
“So,” Stiles says, first to break it because he hates awkward silences. “That
was intense.”
“Not really,” Laura sighs. “That was actually one of their more civil
arguments. At least I hope so.”
“Blood usually becomes part of the equation,” Cora elaborates as she eats some
of his cheese fries.
“Oh,” Stiles weakly responds. He’s a little worried.
Laura gently kicks him. “It’s fine. They always work it out,” she promises with
a wink.
Stiles nods but frowns curiously when he sees a dark-skinned girl with
unmistakable claw scars on her throat slowly creep up. She smirks and cups her
hands over Derek’s eyes. “Guess who!”
“No way,” Derek says and bats her hands away. “Braeden!”
“Derek!”
Derek climbs to his feet with a happy and excited sound. He reels her into a
bone-crushing hug. “I hate you so much. You said you couldn’t come out this
summer, you liar.”
“I said that to surprise you,” Braeden says with a laugh and squeals when Derek
lifts her up and spins her around. “Let me down, you showoff!”
Derek lowers her to the ground with the widest smile that Stiles has ever seen.
“When did you get here, Brae?” he asks as she presses into his side with a
grin, and he pushes her hair over her shoulder to give a clear view of her
clawed neck.
“Like three hours ago. Danielle picked me up from the airport,” Braeden
replies, and rests her manicured hand on the middle of his abdomen. “She
bitched at me the whole time about being a Dominatrix. If she knew how much it
cost to attend a fancy preparatory academy up in New York, she’d be pulling out
the whips and chains too.”
“She just worries,” Derek supposes as he cocks his head to look at her. “That’s
what older siblings do, as annoying as they are.” He says that last part
louder.
“Love you too, Der,” Laura responds, elbowing him out of the way so she can
embrace Braeden. “I’m glad you made it here safely. Go vote for me.”
Braeden laughs and pulls away. “I don’t even go to this school, La-La.”
Laura just winks and taps the side of her nose before turning so she can strut
around the quad and pressure people to vote for her.
“Do you still have a penis?” Cora asks crassly. “Or have you spun around enough
stripper poles to get the cash for that. You know mom offered to pay for the
surgery.”
“No, she offered it to my mom,” Braeden corrects, grabbing at the air with
attitude all in her expression. “And no. I don’t have a penis anymore, so
please, for the love of god, Cocoa, stop asking that every time you see me.”
Cora snickers and stands so she can go hug her. “I was just eager for you to
finally make the transition from Brandon to Braeden.”
“It’s been a long road, but my he and him are officially she and hers now,”
Braeden confirms, hugging Cora so tight that it almost looks like she’s trying
to crush the younger teen.
Cora pulls a way and shoves her gently. “Mom will be glad to know.”
“She always was my biggest support,” Braeden admits. “So who’s this then?”
Stiles has been quietly consuming his food while he watched all of it unfold.
He uses a napkin to clean his mouth and his hands. “Stiles. Stilinski.” He
stands and doesn’t know whether he should shake her hand or not.
Braeden arches a brow. “Your parents named you Stiles?”
“No, I named myself. My actual name is Polish and not very pronounceable for
people apparently. Even I had a hard time with it so I took a fragment of my
last name and molded into something much simpler,” Stiles rambles and fidgets
under her skeptical gaze. "Call it a social coping mechanism if you will."
Derek rolls his eyes and nudges her. “Don’t be stupid, Brae. I’ve mentioned
Stiles about a million times.”
Stiles gives him a look at that.
Derek flushes once he realizes what he just said.
Cora makes gagging sounds and mutters something about hunting down Laura so she
can join her in terrorizing the student body.
“Oh, right. Stiles.” Braeden eyes him sharply. “So, Stiles. Has Derek mentioned
me?” Her voice sounds both like a purr and a whip. It's almost disorienting.
Stiles purses his lips and sends Derek a glare because the older teen hadn’t.
“Honestly, I’d be surprised if he did. He knows how I am. I like to screen the
people in his life. It took seven months before he talked about me to Paige. He
knows how particular I am,” Braeden confesses and she eyes him. “Well, my name
is Braeden and I am transgender. Derek and I have known each other since we
were in the womb —”
“Stop telling people that, you’re literally Laura’s age!”
“— and my mother and his mother are best friends,” Braeden continues,
completely ignoring him. “And they have also known each other since they were
fetuses. You see the pattern here? Furthermore, oh shit.”
Stiles blinks in confusion and leans back when she pushes her face close to
his.
“You better not kiss him,” Derek playfully warns. “Not before I’ve gotten the
chance to.”
Stiles makes a strangled sound and flushes.
“You’re a fucking Seven,” Braeden says suddenly and it startles Stiles. “I
can’t even believe — Dee, why didn’t you tell me your boy toy was a Seven?” She
turns away and Stiles can breath again.
Derek frowns. “Don’t call him that. And it was none of your business.”
Braeden just gives him the middle finger and turns her focus on Stiles. “Derek
didn’t tell you, did he? Of course he didn’t, the loser. He didn’t even bring
me up. I’m a Virtue too. I thought you looked familiar. You were at the
Gathering the other night with some redhead.”
“Strawberry blonde,” Stiles weakly corrects as his thoughts go wild.
“You’re…like me?”
“Minimally. You’re a Seven. I’m just a goddamn Virtue of Diligence, Temperance,
and Humility,” Braeden explains. “I’m a Three at best. Although, it would
appear that I’m ahead in the game. You’re a baby Seven, well that’s adorable.”
Stiles doesn’t really like how she’s talking to him.
“I remember when I was that young,” Braeden goes on to say. “Do you have a
Conduit?”
Stiles tries not to frown. “No,” he simply says.
“Wow, okay.” Braeden turns away from him. “I’ll see you at the house, Dee.” She
pats him on the chest before she wanders off of campus.
“She’s abrasive,” Derek says, rubbing the back of his neck, and the way he says
it sounds kind of like an apology. “She sometimes — you two just need to get to
know each other.”
“I might have known where to start if you’d made even the smallest mention of
her, Dee,” Stiles points out a little spitefully. “It’s fine. How long is she
staying?”
“She usually stays for the whole summer. I don’t think this year will be an
exception,” Derek admits and he looks a little upset. “I should have talked
about — if anything— bringing her up kind of slipped my mind.”
“She’s your best friend, Derek,” Stiles reiterates. “How does something like
thatslip your mind? Please enlighten me. Meanwhile, she practically knows
everything about me, and I barely know anything else outside of what she just
told me.” He sighs and grabs his tray. “I’m not Paige, you know. You shouldn’t
have to — just — never mind.”
“Hey,” Derek grabs his wrist and pulls him closer, grabbing the tray in
Stiles’s hands and setting it down. “I know you’re not Paige. Trust me. I
should have told you about her. I wasn’t sure if — I didn’t know how you’d
react.”
Stiles says nothing.
“I really like you. I like you in a way I’ve never liked anyone,” Derek goes on
to say. “I was worried that if I told you about Braeden and how she can be with
people she doesn’t know, I thought you’d be skittish and rethink everything.”
“You’re stupid,” Stiles blurts without even meaning to. “I’m sorry, but you
are. Actually, I’m not sorry. But you should be. Apologize.”
Derek grins a little. “I’m sorry.”
“You cannot keep vital information like this from me. Especially since we —
since you —” Stiles fumbles with the words and gets a little red. “Because
we’re talkingabout dating. Sharing is a two way street or something like that.”
“I agree,” Derek is quick to say, which is wise because he’s gaining back the
brownie points he just lost. “Ask me anything about Braeden and I’ll tell you
everything you want to know.”
“I will take this into consideration,” Stiles decides. “Now let’s go vote for
Laura. She would totally know if we didn’t.”
Derek sighs in agreement.
While they stand in line and wait their turn, Jackson sends him a text that
goes like this:
We need to talk about Danny
Stiles instantly knows it isn’t good, and right when he comes to that
realization, his magic stirs.
***** approval *****
While they stand in line and wait their turn, Jackson sends him a text that
says this:
We need to talk about Danny
Stiles instantly knows it isn’t good, and his magic begins to stir. The
suddenness of it is so distracting that he runs right into Derek’s back when he
pauses to wait for his turn at the voting booth. Stiles makes a small sound,
stumbling back and into the people behind them. He quickly apologizes when he
receives a glare from the two juniors he bumped into.
Derek tugs him close and sends the two girls a look. “Chill, Hayden. He didn’t
do it on purpose. He’s clumsy like that,” he explains, urging Stiles to take
the spot in front of him with his hands.
“Whatever. Just be careful, kid,” Hayden replies as she squirms back into her
shoes. “No reason my big toe should have to suffer for you being vertically
challenged.”
Stiles is quick to say, “Sorry. Again.”
Hayden nods and tugs her friend towards another line.
Stiles feels his pocket vibrate again. Same text from Jackson.
We need to talk about Danny
It’s not like he’s forgotten. It’s like he has a banner with those words in big
bold text, set on fire in his mind. It refuses to be ignored.
“You okay?” Derek asks as the line moves up. “You smell like…everything.
Panicked might be the word but it’s softer than that. Fretful, maybe.”
“It’s —” Stiles grips his phone when it vibrates for the third time with the
same message. “— nothing, probably. Friend of mine is texting me about a mutual
friend of ours. Did I ever mention Danny?”
“The one in the hospital,” Derek guesses with a furrowed brow. “I’ve heard you
and Scott talk about him sometimes.”
Stiles nods, and his magic squirms around near where his kidneys are. “I went
to visit him and my cousin Lydia on Sunday, and I gave them this paste I made.”
He makes sure to keep his voice low. “It had some special purpose, you know? I
think — I don’t know what to think. Jackson wants to talk about Danny, but I
have a bad feeling about it.”
“It might not be as bad as you think,” Derek offers as minor consolation. “You
never know.”
“Yeah,” Stiles faintly replies, as it may be true. He still can’t shake the
negative feeling.
“So. Prom.” Derek moves so they can stand shoulder to shoulder. “It’s tonight,
you know.”
Stiles had known, but he’d never had any intention of going. “I don’t like
school dances.” He’s trying to be as polite about this as possible. “I know
Laura wants me to be there. She always wants me to come to them, but I just —
it's not something I enjoy. I don’t dance and I end up feeling awkward and
nervous. No thank you.”
Derek smiles softly but he does look vaguely disappointed. “There’s this image
in my head that begs to differ,” he confesses as he bumps their shoulders
together. “We’ve got about two or three years left of school.”
“Enough time to convince me of the idea?” Stiles squints his eyes knowingly,
and feels a warm flush of affection swell inside of him when Derek laughs with
this totally caught expression. “You’re already fighting a losing battle.”
“Maybe. Paige once told me that the best gods to follow were Compulsion and
Persuasion.”
Stiles takes a moment to think to himself about how that's a funny way to live
your life. Then he thinks about Derek's ex-girlfriend in general. It does not
escape his notice that Derek is more open to talking about her (or even saying
her name). "How is she?"
"Recovering, if things are going well. I sent her a letter the other day. It's
too early to tell if she received it or not, or if she'll even respond," Derek
answers, and Stiles really likes him for his honesty and how transparent he
allows himself to be without hesitation. "How is Kira?" he asks in turn.
Stiles frowns and looks away. "I'm giving her — space seems like — we haven't
talked," he finally says, and it bothers him to talk about it. He's been trying
to keep his mind off of it to be truthful. "It sucks, you know. I really like
her."
"Yeah, I could tell," Derek supposes, almost thoughtfully. "You kind of click
with her the way I clicked with Braeden when we first met as kids."
Stiles says nothing about that. But he does say, "The rain was me last night."
"I know."
Stiles looks at him sharply for that.
Derek gives him a half-smile, and his eyes go gentle in a way that Stiles never
really understands. "We all kind of know. Well, everyone that knows you. Kate
was trying to tease the answer out of you at lunch, but we were talking about
it before you came over. I told them that I had to break the news to you about
Mr. Ravenhill, and how it started raining not even five minutes after that. Not
really hard to connect the dots."
"Ugh," Stiles huffs and crosses his arms. "You know, I don't even understand it
fully myself."
"Not surprising, but we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," is
Derek’s simple reply before he steps forward to mark up a ballot.
Stiles is silently grateful because he's actually not in the mood to. He takes
that small instance of waiting for Derek to finish his voting to muster up the
courage to reply to Jackson:
When and where?
Ramona's Old Fashion Eatery. ASAP when school ends.
Stiles sighs and replies with a simple ‘sure’. His magic sinks down into his
knees, as though seeking a change in scenery, before floating up to his chest
again. He’s next in line to place a vote.
When the final bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, Stiles offers to walk
Derek to his next class, if only to distract himself for a little while. They
spend those few moments talking about what Stiles will do when Scott comes over
to spend the night, and then they they talk about the color scheme of Derek’s
tux, and how it’s more than likely that Braeden will accompany him to the
dance.
Derek offers to spam him with an obscene amount of pictures so he doesn’t feel
left out and Stiles rolls his eyes but he accepts diplomatically. He knows that
everyone else will do it now that he’s given the okay, but he doesn’t mind.
                                      ---
Ramona's Old Fashion Eatery on Mulholland Blvd is one of the most well known
restaurants in, not only Beacon Hills, but all of California. It’s even been on
Diners Drive In & Dives, that one TV show hosted by Guy Fieri. A whole entire
episode was even dedicated to the layout of their whole menu.
It’s interior is cosmetically designed to look like a 50’s diner, with shiny
red vinyl booths and checkerboard linoleum floors. Even the employees dress in
vintage uniforms.
He has only been there twice. Once for breakfast on his birthday with his dad,
Scott, and Isaac, and once more with Kate and Peter for the impromptu breakfast
with Parrish. The food, as well as the general atmosphere, is so amazing that
it is always filled to the brim with families, couples, and teenagers. There’s
been a rumor that they’re considering a new ‘reservations only’ style of
business. It is almost always packed with people, so he’s a little confused
when he sees that the place looks practically deserted as he rolls up to it on
his bike. He tries to push through the glass double doors but they’re locked,
leaving him even more confused. He looks at the business hours and realizes
that the restaurant is apparently closed on Thursdays.
Stiles scratches the back of his head with a frown as he backs up before
spinning on his heel to sit down on the curb of the diner entrance and kick up
his feet on one of the yellow painted cement parking spot blocks. He pulls out
his phone to check for any new messages.
There are a few from Scott, enthusiastic with their get together plans. It
makes Stiles grin, and he quickly notifies Scott that he’s meeting up with
Jackson for whatever reason and that he should just follow Isaac back to the
house. There’s also a group text from Talia, informing everyone of this
weekend’s itinerary (including the walk-on role she arranged for Laura to have
for one of her favorite musicals the night of their arrival), while also
emphasizing that Laura must remain none the wiser.
It reminds Stiles that he should swing by the gift shop so he can buy something
for Laura’s birthday.
There’s a text from his dad saying he’ll be home a little later than planned,
but he made a pot of his infamous sloppy joe. That gives Stiles something to
look forward to. He reads over a text from Deaton that says today’s meeting is
canceled, as he is currently making use of the store to continue to mediate the
communication between the Hale Pack and the Calaveras. He’s in the process of
typing a message saying that he understands, when a sleek, jet blue BMW rolls
into the lot and parks into the space in front of him. He stands, squinting.
The glare of the sun makes it hard to see who it is in the car.
The driver, outfitted in a suit, steps out of the car and motions him to the
back, holding the door open.
Stiles keeps his magic steady and holds it a bay when it prowls up and down his
spine defensively. He makes his way to the open backdoor and sees Jackson
waiting, texting on his pricey smartphone with a bored expression. He slides in
and settles against the firm leather seats.
It smells obscenely new in this car.
The driver climbs in again, buckles up, and begins to reverse out of the
parking lot.
“So,” Stiles starts as he fastens his own buckle. “What did you want to talk
about?”
“You know, they put Danny in a medically induced coma to save his life,”
Jackson remarks with cool indifference. He doesn’t glance over. He doesn’t stop
texting. It’s like Stiles isn’t even in the car. “They saved his life, but when
they tried to wean him off the drugs putting him under, there were, of course,
complications. Sedation wasn’t what was keeping him under. The neurologist kept
saying how his prognosis changed. That it was more to do with mental trauma.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything. He glances out the windows and realizes that
Jackson must have instructed his driver to take them through the town aimlessly
while they talked.
“His vitals kept getting worse. They wanted to pull the plug because it didn’t
look like Danny was trying to fight and there was no family to claim custody,”
Jackson goes on to say, thumbs still moving restlessly over the screen of his
phone. “I had my dad fight the Board, the doctors, the nurses. Didn’t matter
who. Danny’s my friend. He’s my brother. I wasn’t going to leave him to rot in
a hospital, no matter if there were no chances of him waking up. My dad’s been
filing petitions to get custody because they were going to release Danny to the
state, and I think we both know just how that would have ended.” He finally
turns off his phone. “He’s got claw marks all over him. The scars are just…it’s
bad. But the doctors say he’s being ‘miraculously responsive’.” He sounds a
little bitter.Then he says, “I know you did something, Stilinski.”
Stiles should have guessed the conversation would go this way.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” Jackson continues. “I mean, the fact that
he’ll be completely conscious by next week should be enough, right?”
Stiles feels his magic leap in his gut ominously. “Something’s wrong,” he
reasons. “But I knew that. Of course I knew that.” He turns so he’s facing
Jackson directly. “Just like you knew the moment the doctors reported anything
positive, that it was me.”
“I’m not stupid,” Jackson reiterates. “You’ve been to see Danny less than a
handful of times. You’re…you’ve always been different. Strange always seems to
follow right on your heels. And after you fessed up to what was going on, and
the way you and Lydia are around each other, it’s not too hard to put two and
two together.”
Stiles wants to ask about Lydia but the timing feels off. So he says, “Danny
will be fully conscious by next week, yes, I knew that, but there’s something
more. What else did the doctors say?”
Jackson’s face becomes unnervingly blank. “Even with a full recovery,” he
starts slowly, like it’s painful to bring up, “there’s zero chance he’ll ever
be able to walk again. And his hearing is gone.” He blinks hard and looks away.
“He’ll never walk again. He’ll never hear again. But he will live.”
Stiles feels sick. Those were Lydia’s exactwords. She had known, of course she
had known. “I’m so sorry,” he swears hoarsely.
“I don’t know what you did,” Jackson mutters, voice thick. “But I would rather
you had done nothing if you’re just going to go around doing half-assed
miracles.”
Stiles feels those words shred into his chest like a razor blade. His magic
bristles in indignation, wrapping possessively around his heart in ribbons,
foaming over the weak places where the aches can be found with tenacious
consolation.
I dislike this ill-mannered Human child. He lives a life eating spoils, and so
has become spoiled himself. Does he not understand whom he is talking to?
Whose presence he is in?
He’s speaking his mind. Danny means more to him than I could ever hope to
understand.
Unacceptable. He uses liberties he has no right to, all in the name of
forsaking the phenomena you’ve managed. You are kin to the Great Queen. Favor
and honor follows you, wherever you go.
He doesn’t owe me anything.
But you are due respect at the very least from this rotten child.
I will handle it.
See that you do, Faerie Princeling.
Stiles doesn’t respond to that. He knows that his magic is trying to make a
point with addressing him by his otherworldly title. He overlooks it to address
Jackson, saying, “I did what I could, Jackson. If I could have managed more
than what was possible, well, I think we would be having a different
conversation. Don't you? Yet, here we are.”
Jackson’s expression shuffles through a deck of emotions before landing on
something that looks vaguely contrite. He shifts away, putting more space
between them. “You’re right, Stilinski. I’m being a dick. Let’s just leave it
at that.”
Stiles nods. “Fine by me. No hard feelings.”
Jackson hums.
The car stops at a red light and Stiles recognizes this part of town. They’re
near the Beacon Hills Library.
“Danny’s going to need more than just me,” Jackson decides after a few beats of
silence. “He’s going to wake up and he’s probably not going to remember a
thing, and I’ll have to be the one to rip his world wide open.”
Stiles flexes his hands. “It...won’t be easy,” he confirms.
Jackson snorts cynically. “The only family he had is gone. He’ll be paralyzed
from the waist down for the rest of his life, and all those times I sat at his
bedside reading and talking to him has all been for nothing apparently.”
There’s a slight tremor in his voice. “So yeah. No shit.”
Stiles feels compelled suddenly to say, “You don’t have to feel like everything
you’ve done has been for nothing, and that it will never be enough for him.”
Jackson gives him a sharp look at that, but he also looks like he’s trying mask
his insecurities.
“Danny doesn’t seem like the type to take anything for granted. He’s a positive
person,” Stiles points out. “He’s going to rebuild his life in the best way he
can. He’ll have his best friend there to help in any way he can. As long as you
remember these things take time, that’s what’s going to be enough. Patience and
understanding.”
“I don’t have a lot of experience with those things,” Jackson admits, brutally
candid. “I’m going to fuck this up. I know it.”
“Probably.”
Jackson glares at him.
“What? We’re all flawed. We’re not gods. We're just a bunch of stupid kids,
Jackson. Mistakes and screwing up is all a part of life,” Stiles states. “But
you have to own it and you learn from it.”
Jackson stares at him for a long moment before he huffs. “Whatever you say,
Stilinski,” he supposes. He takes a second to tell his driver to take them back
to the restaurant. Then he says, “How’s lacrosse?”
Stiles snorts bitterly. “Nonexistent. I haven’t been to any of the games. Not
that my coach has noticed. I’ve pretty much quit without quitting.”
“No.” Jackson is glaring at him.
Stiles blinks. “Sorry? No what?”
“You’re not quitting, Stilinski. Are you fucking kidding? After all that time
and effort I put into you? That Dannyput into you?” Jackson makes an annoyed
sound. “Danny won’t even be able to play anymore and you’re just going to —” He
cuts himself off with a mangled swear. He takes a moment to exhale. “It’s not
an option. Danny and I will be freshmen in the fall, along with McCall, but we
made plans. We had a plan. But Danny…” He frowns. “It’ll just be me. Maybe even
McCall if you can be bothered.”
Stiles is beginning to realize that Jackson is asking him to be a familiar face
on the team when he tries out. He’s asking without asking. “Okay,” he says. “No
quitting for me.”
Jackson’s shoulders actually relax a fraction.
“You know,” Stiles casually drawls; he feels extremely compelled to say this as
well, “I’m taking a driver’s ed course at the Beacon Hills Park District. The
one in the metropolitan area, not the one next to the library.”
“Your point?” Jackson presses with a raised eyebrow and a dubious expression.
“My point is that, I take morning classes, so that leaves the rest of my day
pretty wide open. I wanted to know what else they had there,” Stiles
elaborates. “One of the things they offer for free is American Sign Language
for beginners. I thought maybe that’s something you might want to sit in for,
from time to time. They’ll probably know more about how to get Danny integrated
into the Deaf community. Danny can get connected to support groups and things
like that.”
Jackson’s expression quickly changes. “Yeah,” he says faintly. He doesn’t say
much more after that.
“Lydia’s going to be discharged tomorrow evening,” Stiles throws out there,
just to see what the younger teen will do. “Allison is having a get together.”
Jackson just hums as he turn away to look out his window.
Stiles leans back against his door with a frown. “So, when was the last time
you saw her?” he pushes.
“Stop fishing, Stilinski,” Jackson easily retorts. “What do you care anyway?”
“She’s my cousin,” Stiles confesses, going for the bold method.
Jackson doesn’t appear to be surprised at all.
“So you have been talking to Lydia,” Stiles deduces, because there’s no way he
would have learned that from anyone else but her. “What does she tell you?”
Jackson tosses him a smirk as the car comes to a stop in the parking lot of
Ramona’s Diner. “You’re fishing again,” he points out. “Let’s be clear here.
You’ve done my best friend a tremendous service by infecting him with whatever
kind of magical contagion you have up your sleeve so he’s not doomed to spend
his life confined to a hospital bed and hooked up to the type of machinery that
basically does all his living for him. Trust me when I say that all of us are
merrily singing your praises, but you and I aren’t close enough that I’ll just
divulge the kind of things my girlfriend and I discuss concerning or not
concerning you. You understand that? Get the hell out of my car.”
“Rude,” Stiles counters with an annoyed frown. “You should be nicer to me, as
we will be teammates and classmates for the foreseeable future. I also plan on
keeping my face in Danny’s future indefinitely. Plus I’m the blood relative of
your girlfriend, and I think she’ll care if you treat me less than courteously.
So, being civil should be a thing we should do, you know, for the sake of
running in the same circle of friends.”
“Whatever,” is Jackson’s reply, looking bored.
“And you have a good summer too,” Stiles mutters sarcastically, climbing out of
the car, slamming the door shut. He steps back and watches as the BMW reverses
and drives out of sight before he walks to retrieve his bike.
He’s not so lost in his thoughts that he completely forgets to stop by the gift
shop.
                                      ---
The house is surprisingly empty when he arrives. The unnerving quiet gives him
maybe a few moments to investigate, and he doesn’t have to go far before he
sees the note left for him on the kitchen table with Scott’s messy scrawl
saying: Every man for himself, dude.
That’s when Stiles notices the orange and green toy gun.
It’s Nerf Zombie Strike Doominator Blaster that’s strategically placed at the
top of the fruit bowl pyramid.
Stiles approves and crumples the note in his fist as he grabs the toy to give
it an inspection. It’s already loaded up and ready to go. He throws away the
note and goes stalking through the house in search of his opponents. He finds
Scott first. They do a five-minute standoff before they decide to set aside
their differences to join forces. From there they hunt down Boyd, and hold him
hostage in the kitchen to lure out Isaac. It does get Isaac’s attention, but it
only makes him vengeful and determined.
Needless to say, Scott and Stiles never had a chance. They both end up with a
dart to the forehead, which makes Isaac the winner.
It’s a pretty fun game overall, and they play at least three more rounds before
they decide they want to call it quits. They make full use of the pot of sloppy
joe his dad left behind and they eat until they’ve cleared at least half of it.
Then they all rise from the table to settle in the living room for a High
School Musical marathon while they let their food digest.
Boyd is occupying the second armchair across the way from where Isaac’s curled
up in his favorite.
Stiles passes out on the long couch, face down, left arm spilling over the
edge, as his fingers bump Scott’s foot from where he’s sprawled on the floor
alongside the coffee table.
Scott’s singing along to the movie softly, mostly to himself.
He jerks awake some hours later when the sky has gone dark, and Scott is
shouting protests over a game controller as Boyd and Isaac double team him in
Mario Kart.
He sits up and shakes out his hair with a lazy stretch, making a soft sound
when Scott shoves a game controller in his gut, begging for assistance. He
obligingly intervenes, smiling to himself when Scott cheers his ability to
quickly take the lead and avoid any misfortune of being run off the infamous
rainbow bridge.
Eventually they all get tired of Stiles coming in first all the time and
funnily enough, he gets embargoed. He rolls his eyes at their theatrical
politics and skulks off to the kitchen to finish what’s left of the sloppy joe.
He eats and scrolls through his growing texts from Derek, Laura, Cora, and
Kate. He’s getting flooded with pictures of prom and the captions that follow
are just as hilarious.
Kate is wearing a formfitting, obscenely plunging neckline dress made entirely
of scarlet red sequins. Or better put, she looks like she’s cosplaying the hell
out of Jessica Rabbit. Meanwhile, Peter is decked out in an midnight blue,
satin couture suit, looking like James Bond’s younger sibling.
Laura’s attire is comprised of a strapless, plum purple chiffon floor length
dress with a mermaid fit, and her hair is pinned up elegantly in a sultry twist
to Audrey Hepburn’s infamous Breakfast at Tiffany’s do-up.
Braeden totally owns the ivory, two-piece evening gown as her hair hangs like a
dark halo around her head in natural coily curls, looking as if she could pass
for Olivia Pope’s double.
While Derek and Cora are wearing matching silver extra slim fit suits, hair
neatly parted and slicked back (into a bun in Cora’s case) and they look like
ambiguously unconventional model twins.
All of them look drop dead gorgeous.
Stiles won't deny the fact that he stares dreamily at some of these photos
because he never shies away from appreciating physical beauty in a purely
aesthetic way.
There are pictures of dancing (and even breakdancing), eating finger foods
while drinking punch from punch bowls, as well as a raining storm of glitter,
confetti, and balloons from above.
There are goofy poses being made with fellow peers, people that Stiles
recognize as their teammates and the like. There’s strobe lighting, glimpses of
a DJ, and a few sets from some random local bands.
At one point, it’s the moment of truth where Prom King and Queen are being
elected. No doubt it’s Laura who wins alongside Brett Talbot. So he gets
pictures from Derek, where Laura’s standing on the stage to accept her sash,
flowers, and crown. Laura sends him pictures of her ‘adoring fans’ and selfies
with her King (Brett Talbot of course).
The spamming winds down after that, since the dance is coming to a close, and
then the communication ceases all together.
As Stiles pockets his phone, he feels his magic stir after being so dormant
after their earlier argument but remains inconspicuously passive. He rises from
the table with his plate and makes a quick work of clearing the sink, the
stove, and the table of it’s dishes so he can have space to make some lemon
bars.
Once done and out of the oven, the smell entices Boyd, Scott, and Isaac over to
the kitchen to destroy the dish with enthusiasm. The four of them sit at the
table, quiet for those first few moments, save for the sounds of chewing and
smacking.
“This is really good,” Boyd remarks, first to break the comfortable silence.
“How did you get it to taste as equally sweet and bitter?”
“He always adds sweetened condensed milk, no matter what,” Isaac answers before
Stiles has a chance to shrug and blame it on practice. “I don’t really know how
much he uses on what he cooks, but it’s always there. The amount is still the
mystery of it.”
“Good. Stop learning my secrets,” Stiles complains, fondly exasperated at being
called out on one of his best culinary tricks. Though, it’s not really his, but
his mother’s. “At least now I know that when you watch me the way you do, it’s
not because you’re trying to determine when the food will be ready.”
Isaac shrugs innocently, hiding a grin behind his fifth lemon bar.
Stiles narrows his eyes at his little brother but he smiles softly.
“Whatever you do, it works,” Boyd decides, reaching out for two more bars. “I
think I want to play zombies on Call of Duty. I brought a few of my own
versions. Anyone else in?”
Isaac and Stiles nod in unison.
Scott gets a little pale. “Uh, no thanks.”
Boyd doesn’t question it as he rises from the table to return to the living
room with Isaac so they can set up everything.
“So…” Stiles is going for casual because he already knows the answer to this.
“Zombies, huh?”
Scott goes red. “I have a literal fear, dude. Pero, mi abeulo — ah…with my
grandparents, I was about five at the time, but uh, we — there was a drive-in
and they were showing Night of the living Dead. Most terrifying thing I’d ever
witness. I couldn’t sleep for days after. I’ve been scared ever since.”
“Really. Worse than the toilet thing?” Stiles asks, smothering down an amused
smile.
“Yeah, it was pretty — hey!How do you know about that?” Scott looks really
embarrassed now. “Oh, no. Mom told you, didn’t she? Why would she tell you
that? No one elseknows about that. Was it on her birthday? Oh no, that means
Derek and Isaac know.”
Stiles holds onto his sides and laughs.
Scott scowls and utters a few complaints in Spanish rapidly before he grumpily
snatches a few more lemon bars.
“Aw, buddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Really,” Stiles swears when he
can get himself together. “If it makes you feel any better, after I watched
Dennis the Menace when I was little, I was petrified of s’mores for a very long
time because I thought I was going to set myself on fire if I indulged.”
Scott snorts but he looks a little less ashamed. “I don’t really feel like that
compares, but I’ll take it,” he supposes. “Do you think we could go do
something else while they play that? I mean, I’d understand if you wanted to —”
“Scotty, there is rarely anything I wouldn’t do for you,” Stiles interjects,
throwing an arm over his best friend’s shoulder. “I can introduce you to Nana.”
Scott brightens at that prospect.
Stiles turns to face the living room and he says, “Hey, we’re gonna pass on the
sleepwalker carnage. We’ll be in the backyard if you need us.”
Boyd grunts, already invested in the game, while Isaac gives a lazy and
distracted wave.
Stiles accepts that for a response and drags Scott the back door, pausing to
kick off his socks and shoes, before they proceed over the threshold. The night
air is damp and sticks to them as they make their way to his magical tree. He’s
not surprised by the quick appearance of fireflies the exact moment his magic
vibrates inside of him anxiously.
The lightening bugs spread out like little flickering lamps of yellow.
Scott is instantly fascinated with the show, and he makes a quick work of
catching a few before releasing them. He gawks when they circle him playfully,
tittering as a mass with interlaced voices that are hard to separate.
Stiles walks along the line of the largest exposed root of Nana’s base before
he reaches the engraved triquetra to slap his hands against it, palms igniting
with its bluish glow while the symbol activates.
Nana’s face bleeds through a moment later. “Good evening, dearie. Always such a
joyous occasion to see your lovely little face. And you’ve brought company. I
believe I know him. I’ve seen him in your thoughts a few times. Go on then.
Introduce us.”
Stiles jumps down, wiggling his bare feet against the grass, earth humming
under the soles of his feet like a lullaby while he lets his magic unfold and
expose itself. It spreads across his skin like ethereal vines but sticks to him
like henna tattoos.
Scott gawks while his soulful brown eyes take in the change with greedy
fascination.
“I give you permission to see,” Stiles says when he stops at a short distance
across from his best friend.
“My, my. Why, you must come closer so I can get a good gander at those
beautiful eyes of yours!” Nana remarks cheerfully from over his shoulder.
Scott springs back with a shriek. “The tree really does talk!” he exclaims to
Stiles.
Stiles chuckles. “Yeah, but we both knew that.”
“Yes, but — but — knowingis different from actually, you know, seeing!” Scott
is making wild gestures to Nana, making the fireflies within proximity murmur
with displeasure as they sway out of reach. He stops suddenly and he blinks
before he says, “You think my eyes are beautiful?”
Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, you should know that I never say anything I don’t mean,” Nana promises
with a wink. “Come, come. I don’t bite.”
Scott still looks unsure but, slowly and surely, he makes his way over to Nana
until they’re blinking into each other’s eyes.
Stiles watches from a distance, but soon it gets hard to see through the
fireflies swarming around him as they vie for his attention. “Hey, guys. What’s
going on?” he says, a little absentmindedly.
The greeting appears to excite the fireflies nonetheless, encouraging them to
all speak at once. In the symphony of it all, he can hear some familiar
salutations as they come by the multitude.
“Anyone seen Glitter?” Stiles asks after a while of watching them loop around
him, voices chattering.
“Here I am, Your Majesty,” Glitter greets, floating up to his nose. “What would
please you this evening?”
“Nothing specific,” Stiles assures. “They seem more enthustiac than usual. I
wanted to know why.”
“We wish to be embraced by your magic. You let it swim around you freely. It is
enticing to say the least. Therefore, we seek permission to engage,” Glitter
explains.
“Oh.” Stiles doesn’t know why he was expecting a more challenging request, but
he’s more than happy to oblige if this is the only thing they want. He allows
his magic to become like a mist over them, and they vibrate joyously at the
attention. “So, um, anything new to report? Since we last spoke, I mean.”
Glitter responds, “Troubling news, Your Highness. I do not mean to burden you
with such, but I cannot find a more appropriate moment than now to bring up
such a concerning matter.”
Stiles lets his magic sink into his hands before he lifts them and fans them
out, making the fireflies sway and float to another part of his backyard so he
can focus just on Glitter. “What is it?”
“As His Majesty knows, Mr. Ravenhill has recently passed, and as such, many
parts of our forests go unprotected,” Glitter reports. “He was a guardian for
us. A chaperone. Now, many areas are sick with dark sorcery. We know not where
it comes from, only that it spreads, and quickly.”
Stiles finds that jilting, and his magic echos the sentiment almost
immediately. “Nana needs to hear this,” he decides and he makes his way over to
her.
“…were you, well, I would not waste anymore time hiding my feelings. This
Allison sounds like a lovely girl,” Nana is saying to Scott when he approaches.
“You are young, and you have your whole lives ahead of you, this is true. But
tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us.”
“Wow,” Scott marvels with adoration in his eyes. “You are really smart. You
must know so much.”
“Ah, well,” Nana sounds heavily amused and flattered. “If you live as long as I
have, you’re bound to learn a thing or two.” She looks to Stiles and notices
the frown on his face with answering concern. “What is it, sweetling? You
appear troubled.”
“Nana,” Stiles says. “Glitter says that the forests surrounding Beacon Hills
are becoming infected.”
“Oh dear. That is troubling,” Nana acknowledges. “Would you mind repeating all
that it is you’ve said once more, sweetheart?”
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Glitter agrees easily. “As, I explained to His
Highness, Mr. Ravenhill’s recent death has left a great deal of our forests
vulnerable. They’ve become ill with dark sorcery. We know not where it comes
from, only that it spreads, and quickly.”
Scott looks intrigued but confused by the fact that Nana is speaking to a
firefly.
Stiles explains, “Glitter is kind of my right hand when it comes to the Firefly
Nation. She also apparently keeps track of the goings on in the wild kingdom.
Um, so you remember I mentioned the Hale groundskeeper? Mr. Ravenhill.”
“The big guy with the birds?” Scott offers with a thoughtful frown.
“Exactly. He recently passed, and apparently he was keeping the surrounding
forests of our town safe,” Stiles goes on to clarify and he’s hit with a sudden
thought. His magic bristles in anger with the realization as well. “Of course
it wasn’t an accidental death,” he mutters.
“What’s that now, dearie?” Nana inquiries.
“A sacrifice of nature,” Stiles clarifies, raising his voice as Scott mutters
something about being unqualified for the conversation before excusing himself
and scuttling off to the house. “Mr. Ravenhill wouldn’t have just been
protecting nature. He wasnature. He was rare, unique, and so creatures like him
don’t just die. He would’ve had to have been killed.” He turns his gaze to
Glitter. “How soon after Mr. Ravenhill’s death did this ‘infection’start to
happen?”
“Almost immediately,” Glitter confesses. “Mr. Ravenhill provided wards of
protections by way of flora. He planted things all around. He used foliage as a
channel for fortification and sanctuary. Many of the vegetation is dying, and
so do the wards along with it.”
“This is the dark dealings of a Vice,” Nana reasons. “You’ll have to inform Dr.
Deaton so that he may tour the preserves to gauge how far the damage goes and
how quickly it spreads.”
Stiles already has his phone out, sending Deaton detailed texts in regards to
the situation.
“But for now, Glitter, I implore you and your companions to keep a busy eye.
Report all your findings to either Stiles or me. We shall do what we can with
what we have,” Nana promises. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
“It is an honor, Your Majesties,” Glitter states firmly. “I will inform the
others of the situation. I bid you all good night.”
“And we to you as well,” Nana replies and Stiles echoes the sentiment. She
waits until the firefly floats away before she says, “I was afraid we might
hear something of the sort. Which is why it is important we begin here with
your influence and develop your forest-magic so that your authority can become
widespread. Among many things, you are a steward of nature.” She then adds,
“There is another. I saw her in your memories. She’s a Virtue, I gather.
Perhaps she can assist you with some of these things.”
“Braeden, you mean.” Stiles chews on his bottom lip as he notices there’s a
good portion of the fireflies trailing after Glitter while the remainder stays
behind. “Yeah, I uh, guess I could see.”
“Bring her to me, if you can,” Nana proposes. She adds, “You’re leaving for the
weekend.”
“Yes. Isaac and I are going out of town, until Sunday, I think.”
Nana hums thoughtfully. Then she says, “You two be safe, but above all, enjoy
yourselves.”
Stiles nods. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
“Quite. And I’m sure I’ll have some more information for you as well,” Nana
supposes. “Keep up with your prayers and your studies if you can. Goodnight,
sweetling.”
“Goodnight, Nana,” Stiles quietly replies and watches her fade away.
It’s a few moments before he makes himself move, rotating counter-clockwise
through his backyard to chant psalms of glad-tidings over the ground and into
the air. His magic remains stuck to his skin like ethereal wax or glittering
bioluminescent oils, eyes bleeding honey-gold and warmed with heightened
perception of the moonlight, which illuminates the soft shadows of the night.
The crescent moon looks like a sharp but polished fossil while it remains
suspended in the inky blue of the night, surrounded by flickering
constellations that settle like white holes that have been punched through the
sky.
The fireflies still in his backyard remain frozen where they float, only moving
when they feel the need to make room for his pacing.
Scott eventually joins him again, complaining slightly that Isaac and Boyd are
still at it with the zombie gaming. “Even the sound of it offends me,” he
admits with a mock-serious frown. “What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing him
with wonderment.
“I’m trying to stir up the atmosphere with prayers of sanctification,” Stiles
replies as his magic vibrates around him. “I’ve also been contemplating the
different ways I can practice setting up protective wards and barriers.”
“Like spells?” Scott asks as he follows him around.
“Kind of, but forest-magic is strange to begin with. There’s no incantations,
it’s usually just about the push and pull of energy between my magic and the
mystics of nature. It’s give and take, I think,” Stiles reasons as they
gravitate towards his tree. “If Mr. Ravenhill planted flowers and trees and
bushes and things like that as a way to raise shields and wards, then that has
to mean that the enchantment wasn’t in growing the foliage, but establishing
the places in which they were charted. It was timing, it was soil, it was
weather, and it was even the positioning of the stars. It had to be, because it
wasn’t just about the presentation. It’s about the craft and dedication.”
“I don’t think I really understand what you mean, but you sound really certain
about it so I trust that,” Scott confesses with a bemused smile.
Stiles mutters a few prayers as they circle his tree before he tugs gently on
his magic, folding it back within himself and out of sight. It is reluctant to
go but it yields with little trouble. “Not sure how to break it down, Scotty,”
he says as they head inside. “You want to play Dragon Age?”
“Yes, please.”
They get in at least an hour and a half of uninterrupted game time in Stiles’s
room on his computer before Isaac pops in to say, “Dad’s home. He brought some
chicken burgers. Yeah, I told him you would make that face. He’s eating a
salad.”
Stiles huffs, his expression morphing from displeasure to something more
likened to approval, and he saves the level of the game they’re on before
exiting out.
Scott follows Isaac out and he seems eager to talk to the preteen about his
summer plans.
Stiles trails them in amusement, taking notice of the slight perceptible change
to their interaction from timid and awkward to more friendly and pleasant. He
sees this as being something important, though he can’t quite put his finger on
it since it’s like déjà vu. He’s distracted from the thought as his gaze swings
to the kitchen table where his dad and Boyd are sitting, deep in a discussion
about the upcoming baseball season.
Isaac and Scott settle at one end to continue their discussion over some curly
fries and spicy chicken sandwiches.
Stiles sits down beside his father, eating his food in random order as his
magic swims loops through the teeth of his ribcage, still unsettled by the news
given to them by Glitter from earlier. He knows all too well how it feels,
because it’s still on his mind as well. Though, he would really like to follow
Deaton’s lead on this one.
Boyd, Isaac, and Scott have finished their food with audible thanks to the
sheriff and they take their milkshakes to the living room where they mutually
agree on watching Pacific Rim.
Stiles hangs back with his dad, who is still taking his time with his chicken
almond salad mainly from exhaustion and not reluctance. He waits until he can
hear the movie starting up before he says, “The Calaveras?”
The sheriff grunts and sends him a knowing look. “Not to worry, son,” he
reports, using a napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be introduced
to them soon enough. Deaton’s been helping me lay down some ground rules for
all of us to follow so we don’t get our wires crossed. Once we’ve come to a
proper understanding about that, then they’ll be given the pleasure of your
company. Supervised.”
Stiles nods, unsurprised, and sips on his vanilla milkshake.
“You packed and ready for the weekend?” his dad asks, reaching out to steal his
son’s frozen drink.
Stiles frowns but he says, “No. I haven’t packed. I’ll do it in the morning, I
think.”
“Do it tonight, Stiles. You never know, and it’s good to be prepared for the
unexpected,” his dad suggests. “You could wake up late. Packing will set you
back. Isaac’s got his things together.”
“Isaac was manufactured in the goody-two shoes factory of perfect children,”
Stiles complains and ignores the snort he hears coming from the direction of
the living room. “I refuse and protest being compared to such unreachable
standards.”
The sheriff rolls his eyes. “Settle down. Pack. Tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
His dad grins a little at the response. Then he says, “It should be easy for
you to get your things together. Melissa dropped off some clothes she
handpicked for you and your brother. A lot of it is the same. Matching, I mean.
She has a thing for family clothing coordination and similarity.”
Stiles raises both eyebrows at that. “Did you tell her our sizes or something?
I didn’t even think you still kept track of that.”
“A father knows what he needs to about his children,” the sheriff remarks
plainly after a few sips of his son’s frozen drink. “Never mind that anyway.
You be sure to thank her when you get the chance.”
Stiles nods and snatches back his milkshake. He sucks down on it greedily.
“Hey, dad. Are you going to miss us while we’re gone?”
“Of course,” his dad says, humoring him. “I’ll be beside myself with the
quiet.”
“Oh yuck it up, old man,” Stiles sardonically replies. “You will be beside
yourself with empty nest syndrome.”
His dad chokes on a little of his salad, and hacks up a piece of chicken.
Stiles almost collapses on the floor with laughter.
His dad eventually chases him out of the kitchen, and he’s forced to retreat to
his room to pack as he was instructed to do.
Using the itinerary forwarded from Talia, which even includes the upcoming
forecast, he goes through the bags waiting for him on the other side of his
bed. He has to admit that Melissa has really good taste while he jams his
luggage with the new clothes and shoes. Once that’s finished, he returns to the
living room to catch the tail end of the movie.
Stiles is quick to grab the remote when it’s time to turn something new on and
he turns on the regular TV to flip on Teen Nick to dive into the throwback
Degrassi marathon still going on. Luckily, no one complains, and they actually
spend eighty percent of the time making fun of the plot points and the acting.
They crash completely sometime around three in the morning: Scott and Stiles on
the floor beside the game consoles, Boyd facedown on the long couch, and Isaac
curled up in his favorite armchair.
The TV ends up watching them until the sheriff comes to wake them up for school
the next morning.
                                      ---
The halls are swamped with banners that read ‘Class of 2014’.There are tearful
goodbyes initiated with the exchange of yearbooks. There is the excited chatter
of the graduation ceremony taking place at noon in the auditorium. Most of all,
there are seniors dressed their best for that very occasion.
Stiles feels the nostalgia in the air. It gets him a little whimsical, thinking
of his first encounters with Derek, Cora, Laura, and Kate, and how much has
changed since then. He won’t lie. He’s going to miss seeing Kate and Laura in
the halls or at lunch, but he knows that it will be a little under a year
before they make any permanent plans that may involve leaving Beacon Hills.
It’s a half day of school because of graduation, so Stiles spends his first
three classes with Cora. They talk mostly about prom and summer plans, ignoring
everyone else, even when they petition for a yearbook signature.
Actually it’s mostly Cora who scares away their peers with her flawless glare,
muttering about how it's stupid to do that sort of thing as freshmen, seeing as
how they’ll be right back here for the next school year.
Stiles figures she has a point about that, which is why he makes no comment
about her behavior. He patiently waits out these moments before he urges her
into another game of tic-tac-toe to soften her otherwise prickly disposition.
When school is dismissed, Stiles follows Cora to the auditorium, where they
meet up with the rest of the Hale brood. He’s surprised but pleased to see
Isaac among them. “Hey, how did —”
“Talia,” Isaac interjects, answering the unsaid question when he presses close.
It’s pretty crowded and noisy in the auditorium. “She was able to get me out on
an early dismissal since, you know, we have plans after this.”
Stiles does see how that would be ideal. He sticks close to his little brother,
and he ends up sitting between him and Nana Hale as the Hale Pack lays claim to
the entire third row of the middle section.
Cora, Braeden, and Derek are sitting on the other side of Isaac, while Talia,
Derek Sr. (who is holding an adorably dressed Olive), and Peter reside in the
seats on the other side of Nana Hale.
It takes approximately an hour for the seats of the auditorium to fill up.
The class of seniors occupy the section to the far right, which also happens to
be closer to the end of the stage where the steps reside. They’re all outfitted
in their dark red gowns with matching caps, chattering excitedly and taking
selfies with their peers. There’s some more shuffling before everyone is
seated, and the senior band members begin playing the opening music for the
ceremony.
Stiles watches as Talia aims a pricey video camera at the stage (like all the
other proud parents), and his gaze swings to the school’s color guard climbing
the stage with the American flag to recite the National Anthem. They’re all
urged to stand and so they do so collectively. Once it’s over, everyone sits
down.
Victoria Argent takes the stage, looking professional, pristine, and terrifying
as always. She stands at the podium on the far left of the stage and says,
“Good afternoon family, friends, loved ones, and fellow students to Beacon
Hills High School’s graduation ceremony for the class of 2014.”
Everyone claps when her pause cues it.
“My name is Victoria Argent,” Victoria continues once there is silence again.
“I am this school’s guidance counselor. I consider that a privilege. This
allows me to see the incoming and outgoing potential. Now usually the principal
would spearhead this ceremony, and he would have loved nothing more than to be
here, but his absence is the result of a personal family matter. However, he
would like for me to extend his congratulations and to say good luck.”
Everyone claps when her next pause cues it.
“Before we commence with the handing over of diplomas, I would like to give the
stage over to two of our brightest students: the valedictorian and
salutatorian. Kathryn Argent and Laura Hale,” Victoria announces and claps,
signaling for the rest of the auditorium to follow.
Stiles finds himself standing along with the others as they applaud Laura and
Kate’s entrance. He smiles when they give showy bows and fake like they're
crying while also encouraging its continuance. What set them apart from their
peers are the white sashes they wear over their gowns, which displays their
academic ranking. Laura’s reads Salutatorianwhile Kate’s read Valedictorianand
it’s engraved with dark red stitching down the left side of their stoles.
Laura and Kate pause at the middle of the stage, accepting their honorary
certificates as valedictorian and salutatorian from Victoria, shaking her hand
before they all turn to the school’s professional photographer for a photo.
There are also a lot more flashes from the audience and more clapping.
Laura is the first to take a stand behind the podium, moving her white tassel
out of her brown eyes with an elated grin. “Wow,” is the first thing she says.
“I am thrilled to stand here before friends and family as secondbest
apparently. Are we sure about that still?” She gives Victoria a mock-serious
look of dubiousness but it’s all in good fun. She grins as the auditorium
echoed with laughter. “No, but in all seriousness, I can’t think of anyone who
is more deserving of the title then my best-est friend in the whole wide world,
Ms. Katie A. because she is the epitome of hard work. Her dedication to the
pursuit of higher education is admirable, and her advocacy for the safety and
health of women and children all across the board is inspiring. Not everyone
knows this, but Kate goes out of her way to do as much charity work and
fundraisers as needed to keep our town’s shelters open to women and children in
need. Not just for the winter, as is standard, but all year round. This is how
she spends her summer and I think that something that deserves recognition. So
please join me in applauding her.” She claps her hands and the rest of the
auditorium follows.
Stiles is both intrigued and curious by this new information. He really can’t
say this is a surprise because Kate may be a walking contradiction but her
heart always seems to be in the right place. He claps and cheers with everyone
else.
Kate gives a modest nod with a discreet half-smile and accepts the praise
without complaint but she does look like she wants to roll her eyes.
Laura waits until the noise dies down to continue, “I just want to say that
four years ago, when I stepped into the halls of Beacon Hills High School, I
did so eagerly and already engaged. I think a lot of that is due to the fact
that the faculty and staff were willing to meet me halfway and challenge the
skills I already had to offer. Getting your education is made so much more
worthwhile when you work hand and hand with people who are passionate about
what they do. So thank you. Not for doing your job, but for doing it so well
and with a purpose that helped me find my own.”
Everyone claps when she pauses to do so herself.
“And for my fellow classmates who are transitioning to the next stage of life,
and even to the up and coming seniors, I say this to you,” Laura continues,
“Have faith in yourself! And remember that even when you aim for the moon, and
you miss, you will still land among the stars. Thank you and congratulations
class of 2014.”
Everyone stands to their feet to clap and cheer as Laura smiles big and wide
and beautiful in response.
Kate takes her place behind the podium next. When all goes quiet again, and
everyone is in their seats, she starts flipping through the stack index cards
in her hands furiously. Her frown is deep, sudden, and dissatisfied. It’s an
awkward five minutes before she stops flipping and throws the cards up, letting
it rain down around her chaotically, “Yeah, okay. You know what? Sorry, Laura,
I’m going to have to trash the family-friendly speech you wrote for me. This is
gonna go organically.” She takes the mic off of it’s prop on the podium and
walks center stage with it. She surveys the whole auditorium before she
continues, “Look, we’re gonna fuck up. It’s inevitable. Life is short. Youth is
finite. Everybody dies. It’s a sad reality, but it doesn’t have to be yoursad
reality. As some famous dead guy once said, we suffer not which to live but to
strive to find why we live and what we live for. So, I challenge you all to
seek out that reason, and to also let it propel you as far as your dreams can
reach. Let it be the guiding light you need to take you to where it is you
belong. As the masters of your own destinies, it's your obligation to fight for
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” She grins wickedly.
“Congratulations, losers. We fucking did it!” Then she literally has the gall
to mic-drop before doing a ‘suck it’ chopping motion with her hands.
The seniors climb to their feet with a roar, chanting Kate’s name and clapping
all the while until the rest of the auditorium follows.
Laura engulfs Kate in a hug and she mutters something that makes them both
laugh as they rock side to side until Victoria shoos them off the stage so that
things can continue.
Victoria quickly sorts and hands out the diplomas going in order by last name.
When she’s turned over the last diploma, she says, “On behalf of Beacon Hills
High School, I would like to present to you the graduating class of 2014. You
may now position your tassels to the left side of the caps.”
The seniors do so as the auditorium explodes with applause.
Not even a second later, graduation caps go flying into the air.
Stiles pulls Isaac close and hunches over to him, using his own body as a
shield.
                                      ---
Laura makes a sound that Stiles has never heard when Talia breaks the news to
her about their weekend plans. She’s jumping up and down, going back and forth
from her mother to her step-dad with the purpose of giving thanks by way of
physical affection.
From there, things progress pretty quickly. A series of white vans pull up to
take them to the airport.
Stiles ends up being in Nana Hale’s group along with Cora, Derek, Braeden, and
not to mention his little brother as well. He almost ends up sitting with Derek
but Braeden makes a comment about how she’s sure Stiles would rather be with
his little brother, and she hauls the older teen to the back seat.
Stiles doesn’t take it personal, but on some level it does bother him.
Nana Hale and Cora sit in the middle row with Cora spread over the older woman
as she puts in some earbuds and reads a book about the evolution of breast
cancer.
This leaves Stiles sitting in the first row with Isaac, who keeps glancing over
his shoulder with a thoughtful frown. “What?” he asks.
Isaac turns forward again and leans into his older brother’s side. “Who’s that?
The one with Derek?”
“His best friend Braeden.”
“I thought youwere his best friend.”
Stiles turns slightly pink at the implications in his little brother’s tone. “I
should have left you at home.”
“You’re everyone’s best friend,” Isaac presses. “She doesn’t seem to like you
that much.”
Stiles shushes him. “You can’t know that.”
“Her body language is weird,” Isaac insists. “She smells like you do. Or how
you can be sometimes. Is she a Virtue too?”
Stiles will learn someday not to be surprised at his brother’s perceptive
intelligence. “Yes. She said she was a Three,” he elaborates.
“She’s not going to be very polite to you this weekend,” Isaac confidently
decides. “I don’t like her if she’s being rude to you.”
Stiles feels overwhelmed with his affection for Isaac. “Well, I appreciate
that, but let’s just keep the conflict to a minimum. This weekend is about
Laura anyway,” he supposes.
Isaac shrugs and pulls out his phone. He says, “Have you ever seen the movie
Heathers? Never mind. I don’t care. Watch it with me anyway because I haven’t.”
Stiles huffs but he indulges the preteen, sharing his headphones so they can
listen without subtitles. It takes exactly the length of the entire movie
before they reach the small airport terminal privately owned by the Hale
family.
Once the vans are parked at the drop-off point, everyone pours out of the
vehicles, stretching with excited chatter as the airport employees come out to
greet them.
Talia snaps her fingers to grab everyone’s attention. “Let’s make this check-in
as quick as possible. Everyone’s luggage would have already been collected and
sent ahead earlier this morning.” She goes on to say, “I just want to make one
thing clear. This is no different from any other vacation we’ve already taken.
In saying that, I expect all of us to be on our best behaviors by being smart,
safe, and careful. I even hold myself to these standards and I expect nothing
less from any of you. The goal is to have fun and celebrate the milestone my
daughter has reached, not only through education but also as a newly
transitioned Alpha. So let’s stay under the radar whilst we are being
entertained by Humans.”
Nana Hale is the next to speak and she says, “I would like to also point out
that as we’re being mindful of our surroundings and each other, please, please,
please keep in mind that you are to constantly revere, respect, and honor your
Alpha. You do so by displaying positive pack mentality, as well as abiding by
the dynamics Talia has set in place for us. And furthermore, know that Talia
will be held responsible for any kind of conflict that your actions may cause
while we’re in another Alpha’s territory. Now, she’s already spoken and gone to
great lengths to ask permission of the Gurnee Pack to allow us to move forward
with our travel plans while in their terrain. Let’s not let it be in vain.”
“Yes, I’m glad you brought that up,” Talia remarks while she surveys her brood
as if she’s trying to get a total headcount. “The Gurnee Pack is twice as vast
as ours in this individual area, so if you do happen to come across a pack
member, you acknowledge them right away with the proper respect, keep the
conversation short and then keep it moving. You are not to accept offers or
favors of any kind, lest you intend on aligning yourself or pledging to a new
pack. Understood?”
There’s a murmur of affirmation that sweeps through the group.
“Good. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.” Talia leads them into the terminal,
allowing the standard procedures of security checks and the like. Then she
leads them over to their gate, standing next to the door with the flight
attendant so she can press her palm to the back of everyone’s neck as they pass
through to get to the plane.
Speaking of the plane, it’s beyondamazing.
When Stiles finally steps onto it with his brother in tow, he’s struck by how
the lounging area décor echoes that of a five star restaurant of a high-class
hotel overseas. There’s so much soft lighting, elegant leather recliner-style
seats, polished wood coffee tables fitted with crystal glassware, and are those
suede coucheswith silk pillows?
Even the floor is carpeted, and it’s all placed in a living room-style
configuration, with everyone facing each other from opposite sides of the
plane. The legroom is so ample that it’s ridiculous.
Stiles doesn’t even protest when Isaac drags him around to explore the rest
because holy godthere is a full service kitchen with a personal chef at the
ready.
There are full-size bathrooms with a stand-in shower and everything. The marble
counters and floors are unbelievably detailed with the insignia of triskelions.
And this is only the first level.
The second level, which is connected to the first by a wood spiral staircase,
is comprised of a lengthy dining area outfitted with pristine silverware and
plate sets surrounded by professionally folded napkins.
There’s an entertainment lounge on the other side of it, equipped with a decade
worth of board games, family-friendly books of all genres, toys for the younger
travelers, and flat screen TVs and laptops/tablets made readily available for
the older ones.
It's unlike anything Stiles has ever seen.
“Please marry into this family,” Isaac begs, half-serious when they come across
an actualtwo-playerDance Dance Revolutionstage machine. He doesn’t waste time
turning it on and selecting some songs. “I’m not joking,” he swears and turns
on Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl.
Stiles is really trying to take him seriously but he’s too busy laughing too
hard at the way his brother flails on the arrows. He is the worstdancer.
Aunt Rosemary comes to collect them just when the song switches to Kelis’s
Milkshake and escorts them down to the first level so they can be present for
the in-flight safety presentation.
Isaac drags him over to a pair of empty seats behind Nana Hale. He makes sure
more than once that Stiles doesn’t want the window seat before he lets himself
have it.
Stiles watches the flight attendants float up and down the aisle before they
stand at the front to commence demonstrating what procedures to follow in case
of emergencies. It goes pretty quickly and the flight attendants dispatch to
take their own seats as the plane shakes to life.
Over the intercom, Derek Sr. says, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Senior
Captain Derek Hale Sr. speaking. Welcome aboard Hale Esteem Airlines, non-stop
service from California to Gurnee. Joining me in the cockpit are two of my
favorite co-pilots, Cora and Derek.”
There’s some shuffling on the intercom for a brief second. “Junior Co-Pilot
Cora Hale speaking. Nothing to worry about folks,”Cora remarks, deceptively
pleasant.“I got dumped via text about ten minutes ago but I promise not to let
it affect my performance. At least not again.”
“That jokes not funny. It’s never funny when you say it,” Derek complains in
the background. “Can you please take this seriously?”
“Fine.” Cora goes on to say, “At this time, the Captain has turned on the
Fasten Seat Belt sign. When the seatbelt sign illuminates, you must fasten your
seat belt. Insert the metal fittings one into the other, and tighten by pulling
on the loose end of the strap. To release your seat belt, lift the upper
portion of the buckle. We request that all mobile phones, pagers, radios and
remote controlled toys be turned off for the full duration of the flight, as
these items might interfere with the navigational and communication equipment
on this aircraft. We request that all other electronic devices be turned off
until we fly above 10,000 feet. We will notify you when it is safe to use such
devices.”
There’s some shuffling on the intercom for a brief second, once again. “This is
Junior Co-Pilot Derek Hale Jr. speaking. Our flight time will be approximately
3 hours and 45 minutes. We will be flying at an altitude of 42,000 feet at a
ground speed of 565 miles per hour. Keeping in mind the safety procedures
demonstrated by our cabin crew, if there is anything you would like to revisit,
you will find all safety information in the card located in the armrest’s cup
holder. We strongly suggest you read it before take-off. If you have any
questions, please don’t hesitate to ask one of our crewmembers. We wish you all
an enjoyable flight.”There’s a harsh click that follows the disconnection of
the intercom.
Stiles leans towards the aisle and waves at Laura, who’s sitting by herself
across from him, holding Olive, who’s sitting up in her lap, tiny fists wet
with the syrup of the peaches she’s eating. “Laura,” he calls when the waving
isn’t enough.
Laura glances up and over at him. She smiles with her perfectly arched eyebrows
raised expectantly. “What’s up, Blue?”
Olive glances over too, gurgling as she kicks her legs curiously. “Ya,” she
says as she stares at Stiles with bright green eyes and cow-licked hair. She’s
making a mess of her bib with the peaches she’s being fed by her older sister.
She’s wearing a purple onesie that says ‘My Big Sister Graduated!’in neat
cursive with illustrations of a graduation cap, balloons, and confetti.
It’s almost enough to distract Stiles as he waves back, smiling with all his
teeth, and genuinely pleased when she kicks her legs again in wonderment. “Is
Derek Sr. a pilot? Is that what he does?” he asks as the plane begins driving
out onto the runway strip. He drags his gaze away from the littlest Hale.
“Not professionally,” Laura explains as she presses her large hand to her
little sister’s tummy to keep her upright, using the bib she’s wearing to dry
some of the drool pooling from the corner of Olive’s mouth. “He’s a certified
pilot, yeah. But he flies for a hobby. His actual job is being a marketing
manager, and with that he really knows his stuff. He’s been hired by some heavy
hitters, you know, multi-billion dollar corporations who are really looking to
put the spin in win.”
Stiles is intrigued by that. That’s not something he would have guessed, though
he’s quietly wondered from time to time what different kind of professions run
in the family. “What about Cora and Derek?”
“Oh, yeah, they love flying too,” Laura confirms with some solid nodding.
“They’re not certified because their too young of course, but they go with
their dad as often as they can until then. Must be in the blood. They’re great
grandfather was actually World War II pilot, and then his son, their
grandfather, joined the Armed Forces straight out of high school himself. I
wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the sort of thing that Olive will want to
pursue when she’s old enough to decide.” She kisses the top of five month’s
head. “Isn’t that right? You love planes, don’t you?”
Olive just babbles as she commandeers another slippery slice of peach.
Laura grins and she says, “Just wait. Usually babies are unsettled by the
takeoff but she laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Don’t you,
you little goober.”
Olive just leans back and blinks up at her while she gums at the fruit trapped
in the prison of her tiny fists.
                                      ---
Stiles uses the restroom the moment they’ve been cleared to move freely by
Derek Sr., who assures them they’ve reached the right altitude and that things
are going according to schedule. He’s pretty hungry, which is why he meanders
over to the full service kitchen, where he finds Braeden sitting at the bar in
an ivory off the shoulder bandage dress, cutting into tamales drowned in sour
cream.
“Hey,” Stiles says upon approach. “Mind if I sit?”
Braeden grabs a napkin to wipe the corners of her mouth. “Sure. Why not? This
should be interesting.” She removes her expensive handbag from the barstool to
her left and sets it on the other side of her.
Stiles gingerly climbs on top of it.
“You must be hungry,” Braeden decides and she lifts her hand, snapping until
one of the wait staff comes over to stand on the other side of the bar.
“Andrew, right? I need you to do me a favor, and change the song to Stayin’
Alive. Put it on repeat until I say otherwise.” She gives him a smile full of
charm.
Stayin’ Alivebegins to fill the space of full-service kitchen and surrounding
lounge and bar are.
“Perfect,” Braeden purrs. “Andrew, this is Stiles.”
“Nice to meet you,” Andrew says as he uses his hands to lean against his side
of the bar. “What can I get you?”
Stiles requests a grilled cheese sandwich with jalapeños in the cheese and
waits until Andrew scuttles off to fulfill the order before he turns to
Braeden. He watches as she cuts into her tamales in a very meticulous manner
before he says, “So. Stayin’ Alive,huh? Favorite song?”
Braeden snorts a little cynically, not lifting her eyes from her plate. “Not at
all, kid,” she admits as she fiddles with a short glass of what looks like
fresh squeezed grapefruit juice. “There’s no privacy in the supernatural
community, what with the heightened senses right? My dad used to say that if
you can find a way to disorient one of the five senses, it gives you an
advantage over the others. Now, in our case, I feel like the following
conversation deserves some discretion and privacy. The closest way to achieve
this is to put Stayin’ Aliveon an endless repeat.”
“Can I ask what the science behind that is?” Stiles questions.
“Simple, really. The song performs at about 100 beats a minute, which is the
same range as a Human heartbeat, give or take,” Braeden clarifies. “To a
supernatural creature, Stayin’ Aliveis the equivalent to being in a
professional baseball stadium of Humans. By using the simple mechanics of
music, you’re able to create this generic bubble of privacy since, when you
play the song long enough and loud enough, Human hearts within range begin to
mimic it, therefore becoming indistinguishable. It’s not ignorable. The
supernatural creatures get attuned to it, focused on it, and it becomes like
white noise in the background. Deters the heightened hearing without
distressing it. Almost organically.”
“Huh.” Stiles hasn’t heard anything of the kind before but with the way she
describes it, it makes sense. “I’ll definitely have to put that in my back
pocket.”
“Could prove useful,” Braeden supposes before she twists her barstool to face
him and crosses her legs. “Go ahead.”
Stiles frowns in confusion.
“You’ve come to make friends,” Braeden reasons. “You’ve come to win me over.
Well, you didn’t really expect to run into me like this. This is just a very
lucky happenstance. I’m alone, you're eager to engage, so you figure why not
give it the old college try? So go ahead. Let me hear the pitch.”
Stiles blinks and mentally fumbles for a little because that was sort of his
intention. He says, “I feel like maybe, you and I, we sort of got a bad deal
with the whole introductions. What with you knowing practically everything
about me apparently, mainly because Derek failed to say anything about you.”
“I’m sure you were very cross about that,” Braeden delicately supposes and her
neutral expression doesn’t flicker once.
Stiles can tell this conversation is not going in a positive direction. “I
would like the chance to get to know you. To be friends. Derek is — you’re
important to him.”
“Yeah, kid. I know that,” Braeden scoffs, and it’s almost dismissive. “You and
I are probably his closest friends, and I have no problem with that. What I
dohave a problem with is the fact that he apparently wants something more with
you, just so soon after his last failed relationship.” She pauses to swallow
down the remainder of her grapefruit juice. She continues, “As you’ve seen,
Derek has the tendency to date the wrong people. You get where I'm going with
this, right? Good.” She adds, “You want to get to know me? That’s fine. I could
always use more friends. It’s actually quite progressive in our case, seeing as
how we’re both Virtues. But do I agree or approve of this budding romantic
relationship between you and my best friend? Absolutely not. He knows that.
He’s knownthat. Another reason why he probably never brought me up. I just
don’t think you’re good to him, for him, or with him.”
Stiles winces at the verbal blow and it leaves the kind of sting that makes
even his magic hiss, recoiling almost violently, only settling when urged to.
“Listen,” Braeden goes on to say. “At the end of the day, it’s between you and
him. I respect that, even if I can’t agree with it. But unless you can prove me
wrong, I don’t see anything good coming from it. And I say that mostly because
you have a Seven of Vices running amok through your territory, killing people,
playing these power games that you apparently are okay with not engaging in. I
know as a Three it’s not my place to tell a Seven how to use the gifts Fate
gave them, but honestly, Stiles, after catching myself up with everything, I
have to say I’m disappointed. Could you be anymore lackadaisical about it all?
You’re letting it all unfold, grabbing pieces here and there, and solving
what’s convenient or whatever has finally reached the peak of the crisis. It’s
unacceptable. And I know you’re just a kid, and kids are selfish. They are.
Innately. They’re lazy. They want to put their own comforts first, but the
thing about being a Virtue is that we have to sacrifice so many things when it
comes down it. And to be honest, I would have had this situation under control
in as little as two weeks, even asa Three, because I understand that it's
important to shut shit like this down. To destroy it at the root as soon as it
wants to try to manifest.
“You’re being coddled by each and every one of your handlers in my opinion, and
you're getting too old for it. We don’t get to have it easy, but we don’t have
to have it hard. You’re supposed to have balance. So please understand that I’m
not coming from a place of belittling, because I’m a Virtue too, and iron
sharpens iron. Deep cries out to deep. I am your people, Stiles. First and
foremost. We share a heritage that far surpasses all understanding, and I would
give my life saving yours, as I’m sure you would for me,” Braeden goes on to
say with absolute conviction. “Who better to tell you this than I? You want me
on your side? I’m on your side but not because you want to date someone who’s
been like a brother to me, but because you and I are supposed to be walking in
correction, setting things right to all that’s wrong. You need to roll up your
sleeves and get to work.
"Fate draws a clear line between two groups of people, so that you must
identify yourself with one group or the other. You can’t straddle the line. On
the one hand there are Virtues who are poor, who hunger now, who weep now, and
who are despised by Men because of their identification and dedication to the
Supernatural community. These folks are blessed because of both present, but
mainly future, rewards. On the other hand are those Virtues who are rich, who
are well-fed now, who laugh now, and who are acclaimed by Men and think nothing
of doing what they were born to do, who could care little for justice. These
Virtues are under woe because of what awaits them when they leave this life to
fall to the next since they can be rightfully claimed by the wiles of Peril.
“The people you care about, the people I care about, everyone in your town,
they are going to continue to be targets to that dark energy running rampant
and unchecked, until you take it upon yourself to put your foot down, and start
walking in your gifts,” Braeden insists. “Beacon Hills is training grounds for
you. It’s prep for the bigger picture. You want answers? You go. You.You go,
andyou get them using everything you have available to you. And if you don’t
know what or who that is, you better start figuring it out. While I’m here,
I’llbe available to you. I’m practically a seasoned veteran, and I’ve seen and
done things I know you’ve yet to experience. I mean, I was reallyconcerned when
you told me you didn’t even have a Conduit yet. That puts you so far behind and
at a disadvantage, like please listen to what I’m saying. You really have to
get it together.”
Andrew returns with the requested grilled cheese sandwich and Braeden holds her
peace all the while.
Stiles waits until they’re alone to say, “You don’t sugar coat anything.”
“Not at all,” Braeden agrees as she goes back to cutting into her food. “I
speak my mind without apology. Even when I have to be honest about how I feel
about someone I’ve just met. Fate gave me a mouth to use, and so I do so.
Nearly sixty years ago, my people didn't have that courtesy, and we certainly
wouldn't have been allowed to sit like this together and communicate about
anything.”
Stiles huffs sardonically. “Fair point. Though, I haven’t gotten a lecture like
that since I was six and I swallowed my neighbor’s goldfish during a dinner
party.” He fiddles with the edge of his plate. “I’m upset. Well. No. Pissed if
I’m taking a page from your book by being honest. There’s a part of me that
wants to throw a tantrum and tell you that you’re wrong,” he reluctantly admits
because nothing about that was pleasant. “Yet, the way of a fool is right in
his own eyes. A wise man listens to advice.”
“King Jedidiah’s twelfth proverb,” Braeden acknowledges, and her tone warms
with a little respect. “Looks like you’re not a complete lost cause.”
“I’m not a lost cause at all,” Stiles states firmly. “I know I’ve been letting
things slip.”
Braeden chews and then frowns. “And?”
“And nothing.”
“I was sure you were going to follow that sentence with some kind of formulated
excuse about how it’s all because you weren’t ready to accept your destiny,”
Braeden remarks and snorts when she notices the blush he starts to sport.
“Right. Of course that’s the spiel.” She drops her silverware less than
gracefully and grabs a napkin to clean her mouth and hands with. “I’m sorry.
You are not a lost cause, and I’m probably being a little — but when it matters
to me I tend to get upset and preachy.” She glances at him. “All differences
aside, I know Fate makes no mistakes about the numbers that get assigned to us.
If you’re a true Seven, then there’s a very good reason for it. A reason that
could very well have to do with destiny.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything to that at first. He picks up his cooling grilled
cheese sandwich and takes a few bites. He chews silently, thinking through what
must be the sixth loop of Stayin’ Alive.Then he swallows, and says, “You think
I’m lazy?”
“Lazy is the only word that comes to mind, but I could be persuaded to settle
on halfhearted,” Braeden concedes. “I know you care. You just don’t seem to be
caring enough. It’s like you keep it all up here —” She points to her temple.
“— when really you should be using these.” She holds up both of her hands. “You
solve the illusive mystery of ‘x’ when you actually do the work that leads to
the right conclusion.”
“You sound like Derek,” Stiles mumbles from behind his half eaten grilled
cheese sandwich. He tongues a slice of jalapeño oozing out of the cheese
thoughtfully. “You don’t think I’m good for him?”
Braeden gives another cynical snort. “You make him happy,” she supposes. “But
so did Paige. We’ve both seen how that ended.”
“I’m not Paige,” Stiles insists. “I wouldn’t — I’m notPaige.”
Braeden applies some chapstick to her lips while she pushes away from the bar
and stands. She grabs her designer handbag and rests it on her right forearm.
“We’re just going to go in circles on the subject.” She runs her tongue along
the front of her top teeth. “I’d rather you and I put our heads together to put
a name and a face to the Benefactor. I’m not interested in talking to you about
anything else. Enjoy your food.”
Stiles watches her walk away and he pulls apart his sandwich out of annoyance,
flummoxed over the situation in its entirety.
Stayin’ Alivestarts all over again.
                                      ---
Locating Peter is easy enough. He’s on the second level of the plane, in the
entertainment area, near a window beside the short bookshelves with his own
chapter book in hand. He's staring at something very intently at his feet
though, hand half covering his moving mouth. It’s almost as if he’s talking to
himself.
Stiles has to navigate around a crowd of young Hales who are acting as an
audience to Laura and Kate’s epic Dance Dance Revolution face-off. In any other
instance, he would be more than happy to act as another spectator, but he has
other pressing matters on his mind. He manages to dive in and extract himself
on the other side of the congestion, blinking in surprise when he discovers
that Peter isn’t talking to himself.
Peter’s talking to Isaac, who’s sitting opposite to him on the floor. They get
curiously silent when he approaches.
Stiles frowns and glances between them. “What am I interrupting?” he asks.
“Oh nothing really,” Peter drawls as he snaps his book shut. “It seems I’ve
found somewhat a kindred spirit in your little brother, as his love for animals
appear to surpass my own. It got me to thinking.”
"You thinking over anything makes me nervous when I'm not clear on the
details," Stiles jokes, half-serious.
Peter waves him off with an eye roll.
“He wants to take me on as some kind of intern,” Isaac explains further with a
meek shrug. “I’d be lending a hand at the vet clinic until he could hire
someone more permanent by the time school starts up again. For sixteen dollars
an hour.”
“Part time," Peter stresses.
Isaac shrugs again.
"A trial run,” Peter assures. “With the sheriff’s blessing, of course.”
“Uh huh.” Stiles isn’t sure what to even say about it. He never thought he
would stumble across a conversation like this. He’s also a little disappointed
that he didn’t know of Isaac’s apparent passion for animals. It makes him feel
like an inattentive older brother.
Isaac’s brow furrows with concern when he notices his expression.
Stiles tries to give him an easygoing grin but he knows it’s beyond actually
working. “Hey, could you give us a minute?”
Isaac doesn’t appear to be happy with the request and then there’s this strange
glimmer in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before. It’s gone as quickly as
it’s come. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, sure.”
Stiles watches his little brother warily as he trots off with an all
tooinnocent expression that he somehow still pulls off even with the devious
smirk. “That’s definitely going to come back and bite me,” he mutters.
Peter snorts. “His scent is riddled with the intent of mischief,” he verifies.
Then he says, “You’re troubled.” He stands and guides him over to the next room
(the dining area) for some semblance of privacy. “You want to ask me about what
I found.”
“Did you find anything?” Stiles retorts as they both sit down at the south end
of the long dining table.
Peter shakes his head in the negative.
Stiles sighs and combs his fingers through his short hair. “I’ll have to come
over and look myself. I think we’re working on borrowed time we don’t really
have,” he confesses and proceeds to tell him about what Glitter informed him
of. At the end of it, he says, “You have to know something more about that.
About the way Mr. Ravenhill died.”
“It was no accidental death,” Peter confirms with an bothered frown. “It was
Tyson who found him. His account may differ from what I recall once I arrived
on the scene.” He takes a moment to think. “He was by the bridge. I’m not sure
if you’ve ever been or even know what I’m talking about.”
“Cora’s taken me there once before.”
“Ah,” Peter continues, “You might find it beneficial to visit the site. There
was no other scent apart from the usual fragrance of the forest and Mr.
Ravenhill’s own unique signature.” He seems to hesitate for a moment before he
adds, “It had looked as though he had suffered a heart attack. There was
nothing else to explain what might have happened.”
“Face up or face down?” Stiles asks, doing his best to ask the right questions.
“Was he face up or face down? Nearer to the bridge or to the water or some kind
tree or a bed of flowers?”
“He was lying face down in the direction of the bridge along the bank of the
river,” Peter reports, brow furrowed in thought. “There were no footprints
outside of his own. No scuffs in the grass for any signs or indications of a
struggle.”
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip thoughtfully before he asks, “Was his eyes open
or closed?”
“Open.”
“Eyes open might indicate that the death wassudden and unexpected,” Stiles
supposes, following his gut. “He could have also been looking at something
specifically. Something he wanted whoever found him to notice. Was he looking
towards or away from the river?”
“Towards, I believe.”
“I have to look at those maps,” Stiles decides resolutely. “If he was another
sacrifice, then where he died was important.”
Peter doesn’t appear to disagree, and his blue eyes darken with calculation.
“His cabin,” he says suddenly. “We hadn’t looked into examining his home,
mainly because Talia said Nana did not want upset or unsettle any of Mr.
Ravenhill’s personal items until they could come to an agreement about what to
do with it. I went anyway, but I couldn’t get in. It seemed to be protected by
something.”
“Mountain ash?”
“No.” Peter shakes his head. “Mountain ash has a peculiar sensation to it. This
was something else entirely. Some other kind of magic. It wasn’t there before.”
“You’re just now mentioning this? There could be something there,” Stiles
reasons. “Something that could shed light on what happened.” He fishes his
phone out of his pocket. “I’m texting Deaton to see what he thinks and if he
thinks it's something worth looking into.”
Deaton’s response comes within the hour and it reads: Certainly something to
look into. I will do so myself, and report back with my findings.
                                      ---
After speaking with Peter, he quickly retreats for some privacy in one of the
lounging areas. He manages to find one that’s completely abandoned. He settles
there for the sake of reigning in his magic, which has been bubbling up like a
pot of water set over a slow burning flame. He’s trying his best not to feel
overwhelmed with self-doubt. Braeden really did a number on his confidence
because here he is, thinking he’d been doing so well and coming so far, only to
be told otherwise. He sighs as his agitation grows and feeds into his anxiety
and restlessness.
His magic is quietly seething, undeniably offended. It’s roaring around in his
gut, agitated with its confinement and building to an intensity that Stiles
isn’t sure he can control. He’s fearful of the repercussions of succumbing to
all that energy in such a confined space. Not to mention so far up from the
ground.
Stiles is sitting on the floor with his back pressed to the edge of the suede
couch behind him, a small wooden coffee table in front of him. He’s thinking
desperately of how he can satisfy the growing need to release his magic. It
needs a focus. A distraction.
There’s a glass bowl of marbles directly in the center of it of the coffee
table.
Stiles decides on what he will do. He lets his magic seep out slowly like a
blue bioluminescent cloud of smoke, gliding down to the floor like a fog before
rising around the coffee table and engulfing the glass bowl of marbles.
Slowly, but carefully, he let’s himself imagine the intricacies of space and
all of its wonders. His magic works in tandem with his imagination and morphs
the marbles into the collection of the solar system’s eight planets and their
moons. It puts it all in orbit around a makeshift sun comprised of an echo of
his magic, which is stuck to the largest marble like some kind of glowing
adhesive. His magic then pushes it into the real time rotational movement of
the star system.
Stiles spends the rest of his time alone concentrating on keeping his makeshift
marble solar system suspended in the air and in orbit. This single-minded focus
does a good job of dispelling his unease and distress. It’s certainly keeping
his magic happily preoccupied and free to roam outside the confines of his body
productively. He’s so invested in the consistency of this endeavor that he
hardly hears the oncoming footsteps.
“That’s quite a sight to behold.”
Stiles is slightly startled, but his magic doesn’t rebound, explode, or
scatter. On the contrary, it glows a little brighter, illuminating its
replicated cosmic display, almost like it’s peacocking. He turns his head to
the left to see Talia standing at the end of the couch watching the display
with a soft and knowing smile.
“It’s the solar system,” Talia reasons as she moves closer, taking care to sit
behind him on the edge of the couch, and trapping his upper body between her
long, warm legs. She rests her heated palms on his shoulders, pressing her
thumbs into the knob of his spine before dropping her chin to the crown of his
head. “Go on. Show me what you can do.”
Stiles feels an unknown thrill at the request. His magic vibrates excitedly,
echoing the sensation. He lifts his hands as they begin to glow and he expands
his fingers to direct his palms toward his makeshift solar system. He has
nothing particular in mind, but he is working on instinct alone. His fingers
begin to flex as though he’s playing with some invisible dough and some of the
marbles breakdown into fragments until it's morphed together in a twinkling
cloud. His magic forms into a bright orb at the center of it and he lets it
settle, lets it glimmer and shine.
It’s his personal artistic ode to the Milky Way.
“It’s beautiful,” Talia murmurs, awe undisguised. She starts running her
fingers through his hair, grooming it as she continues, “My former husband,
Abraham, was fond of using raisins for all his parlor tricks. While we attended
college together, in between studying for finals, he would erect these little
tents made of paper towels and matchsticks, creating a ring using the smallest
hoola hoop he could find. He put on a fake flea circus by using a box of
raisins and making them jump all over.”
“Raisins?” Stiles echoes and laughs without meaning to because he can imagine
it very well. “Huh. I might have to try that. Better than the real thing.”
“Possibly,” Talia agrees, voice colored with humor. “Would you like to tell me
why you’re upset?”
Stiles stiffens a little. “What gave me away?”
“Not your scent,” Talia replies. “You smell perfectly complacent, if not
whimsical. It’s the animation of the marbles that gave you away. There’s a
reason Abraham only felt inspired to enliven dried prunes during the most
strenuous times of his academic career.”
Stiles huffs quietly as he gazes thoughtfully at his makeshift galaxy.
“I care a great deal about you,” Talia declares, completely confident in the
admission. “So my request that you lay all your burdens at my feet is not
insincere.”
Stiles feels incredibly touched by that, and it’s overwhelming in ways he can’t
fathom. He knows most of it has to do with his cravings for maternal attention;
a lingering ache that’s always haunted him after his mother’s death. He isn’t
going to take this moment for granted, so he’s honest about his confrontation
with Braeden and his feelings on the matter, curious to know what she will say
or do.
“I see,” Talia merely says once he’s finished. She pats his shoulders twice
with both hands as she says, “Come on. Turn and let me have a look at you.”
Stiles twists until he’s standing on his knees before her. He does his best not
to fidget or make direct eye contact as her gaze strips away at him. He closes
his eyes when she cups her hands on the sides of his face.
“Open your eyes, Stiles. You can look at me,” Talia murmurs, voice gravelly
with weighed power.
Stiles squirms as he curls his hands over her forearms and musters up the
courage to open his eyes. His breath hitches as he’s pinned with a red-eyed
stare, and before he can help it, his own eyes bleed honey-gold as though
responding.
The corner of Talia’s mouth twitches into a pleased grin. “There now,” she
rumbles. “What a beautiful boy you are.”
Stiles goes pink as his heart swells.
“You have no reason to doubt yourself,” Talia continues, and she keeps her gaze
steady. “I haven’t met an individual on this planet who isn’t constantly
working to improve themselves. Do you think you’re alone in this endeavor?”
Stiles fidgets shyly, his blush refuses to fade, and he mumbles, “Well no but I
could do better.”
“So then you’ll do better, but you will not push beyond what you are capable or
what is in your control,” Talia states benevolently. “The greatest skill you
have available to you is your willingness to be the best that you can be.” She
adds, “You have to understand that Braeden comes from a family with a military
background. Both of her parents were agents of special task forces, and they’ve
pressed certain codes and ethics of living onto her. She believes that if
you're not relentless, then you’re being lackadaisical.”
Stiles makes a thoughtful sound at that.
“Braeden has a drive that’s as forceful as it is unequaled, but she lacks the
empathy and love that correction requires,” Talia goes on to clarify. “I do
believe there is a lot you can learn from her, but when it comes to matters of
the heart, I imagine your wisdom surpasses her own in that area.”
“We can learn from each other,” Stiles faintly supposes, picking up quickly on
what she means. “I don’t think she’ll change her opinion about —” He cuts the
sentence short before he can let Derek’s name slip and their burgeoning
relationship. He blushes and coughs to cover the pause. “Uh, you know, other
things, I guess.”
Talia hums with an amused smile. “Approval does not always have to be earned.
It can be freely given,” she says, slightly cryptic. “My son is similar to me
in ways I sometimes regret. One of them being in not always picking the right
partner, and letting our emotions cloud our judgments in ways that are not at
all beneficial to the bigger picture of a healthy relationship.” She sighs.
“It’s taken me a few times to get it right, but I did. And I believe he has
too.”
Stiles’s cheeks feel as hot as her large hands do on the sides of his face. “I
— we’ve been talking. We aren’t —”
“I know,” Talia gently interrupts and she drops a quick kiss to his brow before
pulling away with a smile. Her eyes have resumed their normal color. “That’s
one of the very things I appreciate about you. It never hurts to take your
time. To be sure. That's one of my biggest regrets in life. For as much as I
loved Abraham, we didn't give each other enough time to grow, or decide if
having a family was right for us. But, well, Laura came of it, no matter how it
ended, and I am always happy for that.”
Stiles swallows thickly and nods, relieved that she understands.
“I meant what I said, Stiles,” Talia insists. “You are so very good for him.”
She leans in close until their noses bumps in an affectionate eskimo kiss
before she pulls back with a wink and calmly says, “Braeden will eventually get
her head out of her ass.”
Stiles chokes on his own spit in astonishment and smacks at his chest as his
magic jerks with the spike in his emotion, sending all the fragments of marbles
crashing to the floor.
Talia cackles.
Stiles abruptly realizes where Laura gets that from. “You said a swear!” he
manages to wheeze.
“So I have,” Talia calmly agrees, still chuckling. "I have said a surprising
number of them in my day. Mostly to Peter and my mother. Two people who I've
never known to be more alike. And so frustratingly mouthy, in the most
inopportune times."
"Your mother," Stiles begins to ask, hesitating because he isn't sure if it's a
safe subject. But Talia motions for him to continue with a smile. He says, "She
was clever?"
"Oh so very clever," Talia confirms. "A woman of strategy. I stayed closed to
my father for comfort and matters of the heart. Peter cleaved to our mother's
side to learn the value of intellect and how to wield it like an axe set ablaze
with a flame that couldn't be doused. I was always so very sure she was going
to give him the Rights so he could lead the Pack. I think maybe he thought so
too, and he resented me for a long time when she didn't. But I can't say why
either of us was confused, she was always such a traditionalist when it came to
Pack Values."
"Rights..." Stiles echoes in confusion.
Talia chuckles warmly. "Not 'Rights', but 'Rites'. R-I-T-E-S. It's when one
Alpha passes the mantle of their power to another with Pack as witness. Anyone
who wanted to challenge my claim would first have to defeat my mother and
suffer banishment if they lost. My mother, well, no one was stupid enough to
try that," she explains. "And so things went accordingly, and my mother stole
Peter away for three months without saying where or why or for what reason. But
when he returned, he showed me his neck without question, and he wasn't angry
but optimistic. Which kind of both frightened and made me suspicious."
"Naturally," Stiles quips with a smirk. "Peter is cunning."
"And calculating, but he promised he would never try me, and I believed him,"
Talia goes on to say as she gazes off into the distance with this faraway look
that says she's remembering something he can't see himself. "But," she says as
she exhales and blinks away whatever memory she was dwelling on. "I see now
that perhaps those three months helped him put things in perspective, and it
would certainly explain why he's so eager to take my place as Headmaster to the
schools under my authority while Cora minds the territories and boundaries." 
Stiles is hit with a sudden thought. "So will you and Laura give her your
Rites?" he asks.
Talia just hums thoughtfully. "Maybe, but there is still some part of me that
thinks Laura may grow out of this childish hope of hers so Cora doesn't have to
take on the responsibility of holding so much power. Yet. Laura says Broadway
is more than a dream but...such things are so fickle and fleeting," she
supposes.
Stiles frowns but holds his tongue.
Talia still grins at him like she knows. "You disagree with me," she states,
rather than asks.
"It's...not my place to say, I don't think," Stiles hedges carefully. He looks
away and down at the scattered marbles on the floor.
Talia makes a thoughtful sound. Then she exhales before she pats the space to
her right. “Don’t worry about the mess. Sit with me until we land. I need to be
sure a declaration that you are linked to my pack is blatant. I imagine your
father will be very unhappy if I find myself returning without you.”
Stiles nods and quickly curls into the inviting warmth of her side. She scents
him less like an Alpha, and more like a mother. Her long fingers combing
through his unkempt hair, grooming it as she presses her nose to his temple. He
can’t help that he dozes off to the sound and vibration of her rumbling chest.
His magic circles them like a cloud of stardust with impressions of contentment
and gladness.
It feels like he’s right where he belongs.
                                      ---
Stiles is stumbling down to the first level to buckle in for the landing when
he hears the unmistakable sound of Braeden yelling in outrage as she indicates
to her body because she’s covered from head to toe in red soda. He hardly has
enough time to process it because Isaac is dragging him to the very last row,
shoving his brother to sit on the inside while he takes the aisle seat. It
takes a moment because he’s still foggy from his unexpected nap with Talia, but
he notices the self-satisfied smirk on his little brother’s face.
Braeden stomps towards the bathroom but pauses to glare at Isaac when she
reaches them.
Isaac’s smirk just widens. “I really feel bad about what happened, but at least
I’ll know not to shake cans of soda like that in the future,” he says with the
most insincere tone.
Braeden gives him a look that says she’s calling utter bullshit. “And do you
usually open all your cans facing the person in front of you? Because I found
that to be a little odd and to be honest, kind of suspect.”
Isaac doesn’t respond but he does shrug and start humming.
“Are you kidding me? You’re just going to — I hate kids,” Braeden snarls as she
disappears from sight.
Isaac chuckles to himself.
“Did you —” Stiles isn’t even sure what he should be asking. “What did you do?”
“Nothing I’m sorry for. She upset you. Dad would say that’s probable cause.”
Stiles faces the window and presses a grin into his hand. “Dad would make you
apologize,” he mumbles as he eyes the sea of lights cutting across the ground
like a lit motherboard.
“It’s a good thing dad’s not here then.” Isaac kicks the seat in front of him.
“Are you going to make me apologize?”
Stiles takes a few minutes to think about it before he shakes his head. He’s
not exactly sorry about what Isaac had done either.
No one but them needs to know that though.
He locks away the memory of Braeden’s enraged but soaked expression to pull up
for his convenience during any future unpleasant conversations.
                                      ---
They land in Gurnee at another small airport that isn’t privately owned by the
Hale family. It’s not too hard to guess who it might actually belong to.
Especially when there’s a tall dark skinned woman in a sleek black and white
pantsuit and white hijab waiting for them at the exits by a pile of neatly
stacked luggage ready for collection.
Talia seems caught off guard and she sends Peter an unmistakable look that has
him pushing Stiles behind Kate and Laura, before he adds his own body to the
obstruction.
Isaac sticks to his side in concern while he gives him a questioning look.
Stiles shrugs, totally clueless, but he nudges his magic to stay alert.
“Alpha Hale,” the grey-eyed woman acknowledges upon their approach. She holds
out her right hand, palm down.
“Alpha Gurnee,” Talia responds in kind. She squeezes the other Alpha’s right
hand with her own very quickly before letting go. “This is quite a surprise. I
was not aware you would be here to greet us. Nevertheless, thank you for taking
the time to do so, Jemila.”
“Of course, Talia,” Jemila merely says and she doesn’t seem to want to explain
why it is she’s come either. She raises her hand to make an indication to
someone.
A second later, a Chinese woman in a black sundress materializes. She appears
to be in the same age group as Talia and Jemila. She doesn’t smile, and the
look in her brown eyes is cold and hard.
“Talia, I’d like for you to meet my Second. Lei Shěn.” Jemila nods to the
severe looking woman.
Lei Shěn turns her gaze to and fro, as though she’s doing a head count before
she directs her focus to Talia. She says, voice heavily accented, “How
fortunate it must be to have so many daughters in the family. I imagine they
must hold great potential for leadership. Yet, it concerns me that it’s as
rumor said. You are without a Second.”
Talia’s smile wavers slightly and Stiles knows that something is going wrong.
“I lost my Second the same day I became a widow. As I’m sure it can be
understood, that role is quite hard to fulfill,” she elegantly replies.
“Lei Shěn means no offense,” Jemila assures but she also seems curious over
this information. “Your surname is great throughout the country. There is
gossip that many are vying for the position but you refuse.”
“I have my reasons,” Talia flatly reports.
“Don’t we all?” Lei Shěn counters quickly. “These are trying times, Alpha Hale.
Please do not forget that we lost a mother and child to the whims of Human fear
shortly ago. I have no doubts it will happen again.”
“I’m not here to politic,” Talia states firmly.
Lei Shěn finally smirks. “Your love for Humans is no secret,” she drawls as she
glances to Derek Sr. as her eyes flash blue. “I’ve always found the age gap of
your children to be a curiosity,” is the last thing she says before she spins
on her heel and takes long strides to disappear from sight.
Talia’s shoulders are tense and that puts everyone else on edge.
“Please try not to take anything Lei Shěn says to heart,” Jemila encourages.
“She is certain there will be an oncoming war sometime very soon. She loathes
seeing any of our kind vulnerable in anyway. Though, please understand, not all
of us are as acceptingas the Hale clan has always been known to be.” Her eyes
flicker over to Kate, then to Derek Sr. for the briefest of moments. “Humans
are quite the gamble without the proper slight of hand.”
“I’m comfortable with my odds,” Talia retorts, unmoved. “I don’t want to keep
you, Jemila. I’m sure with a territory as vast as yours, there’s always
something that needs looking after.”
Jemila’s eyes give a quick hint of red before settling normally again. “Right
you are,” she coolly replies. “Enjoy your stay.” She turns and clicks out of
sight.
Talia still lifts her left hand and no one moves for a long time. Then, when
she deems it safe enough, she lowers that hand and her shoulders dip. “I
apologize for that little display. That was unexpected.”
“Is everything okay?” Laura asks, looking concerned.
Talia doesn’t smile but she does nod reassuringly. “Let’s not linger,” she
says. “After all, you’ve got a show to get to.”
Laura beams a thousand watt smile and it lights up her face with joyous
excitement. She does a dorky little dance before she says, “Okay, people! This
is not a drill. Let’s get going! My life has been leading up to moments like
these!”
Everyone rolls their eyes and murmur over her antics but they all grab their
things to make their way to the taxi vans posted on the curbs, waiting for
them.
The drive to the Marriott Theatre and Hotel is a short one thankfully. It’s run
by a polite and attentive staff uniformed as the characters from the Breakfast
Club, Sixteen Candlesand Pretty in Pink(apparently it’s Molly Ringwald
appreciation week).
It has huge lobby that almost looks like a ballroom. There’s also a standard
pool area, workout room, accessible arcade room, deluxe spa and salon, and a
long carpeted hall that leads to it’s conjoined theatre.
Talia passes out keycards to everyone who wants to share a room, with the
exception of Nana Hale. She declares that she doesn’t share rooms with anyone
other than her experienced and cultured lovers.
The adults roll their eyes at that and the younger ones make gagging noises.
Stiles rooms with Isaac of course, and watches all the other pairings
curiously. Some of them are expected with all of the married couples pairing
their own kids with their eldest ones or in the same room as them.
Laura gets her own room as well, not because it’s her birthday, but because
she’s already transitioned as an Alpha. She needs her own territory, no matter
how small. This is something everyone seems to understand.
Cora and Braeden come to some quiet agreement about sharing a room with Derek.
Stiles feels like he’s barely gotten a chance to say even a single word to the
older teen, and it leaves him with something that feels like emotional
wanderlust. His magic doesn’t help in that department, rolling anxiously inside
of him whenever he glances at Derek from a distance that feels wider than it
actually is.
Isaac shoulders him towards the elevators so they can go to their room, which
is located on highest floor, and also happens to reside right across from
Derek, Braeden, and Cora’s.
Stiles swipes the keycard and stumbles into their room. Only by the sight of
it, the appropriate word for it would be suite. It’s definitely a suite. One of
the nicest he’s ever been in if he’s being honest.
Isaac throws down his bag, dives into the California king and literally
disappears into the mountain of differently sized pillows.
Stiles huffs and continues his inspection.
It’s fully equipped with a ½ kitchen and a dining area, a small living room
with a flat screen TV, and a decently sized bathroom with both a stand-in
shower and a Jacuzzi bathtub. He knows automatically that Isaac will take
advantage of it because his little brother is fond of taking long, lazy baths
when he has time to. He empties his bladder and washes his hands before moving
to his luggage to find something to wear.
“You should start getting ready,” Stiles says when he finds some new dark jeans
and a powder blue dress shirt to wear under striped cashmere sweater. It’s one
of the matching outfits that Melissa bought. “Talia says we all have to meet
back in the lobby in like thirty minutes.”
“I know. I was there,” Isaac retorts from wherever he is, voice muffled by the
weight of those pillows.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come out from your sanctuary of pillows then.”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’re gonna go out to eat afterwards,” Stiles offers and when he sees no
movement under all those pillows, he adds, “At a buffet. Largest selection of
seafood ever heard of.”
Isaac pops right out of that pile.
Stiles laughs and says, “I knew that would get your attention.”
Isaac stalks to his bags. “What are you wearing? Dad says we’re supposed to
match and take pictures that he can forward to Melissa. I don’t get that.”
“Sentimental reasons,” Stiles supposes as he shows him the outfit he picked. “I
think that if it makes Melissa happy, it’ll make dad happy.”
Isaac shrugs but doesn’t argue the point. He strolls over to the bathroom to
take what he swears will be a five-minute shower.
Stiles times him anyway. He also calls his dad in the mean time to let him know
that they arrived to their destination safe and sound. He ends the call with a
promise to talk to him tomorrow morning.
Isaac comes strolling out with a towel around his waist and his gold curls
settling wetly over his forehead and eyes because that’s how long his hair has
gotten.
“Call dad,” Stiles advises as he makes his way into the bathroom next. “I think
he misses us already.”
“Good,” Isaac decides, unapologetic. “I like feeling wanted.”
Stiles laughs and shuts the door behind him. He showers just under three
minutes but not because it’s a competition. When he emerges, he’s dressed and
ready to go. He idly makes his way to his suitcase.
Isaac is standing by the windows with his phone pressed to his ear (talking to
their dad more than likely).
There’s a light knock to their door.
Stiles goes to answer it, and his heart jumps a little at what’s waiting for
him on the other side.
Derek grins lazily at him. He’s dressed semi formally as well. A grey blazer
over a v-neck white t-shirt, and some green jeans.
Stiles doesn’t mean to stare but it happens anyway. “Hey.”
“I didn’t really want anything,” Derek admits by way of greeting as he shifts
and tucks his hands away in the pockets of his blazer. He looks at the younger
teen from underneath his thick eyelashes. “I’m being nosy. I know your room
must look like ours but…” He shrugs when his sentence doesn’t lead anywhere.
“Do you mind?”
Stiles shakes his head and steps aside.
Derek slips through easily and his gaze jumps around. He nods at Isaac, who
lifts an eyebrow but nods back before tucking away in the bathroom to continue
his conversation away from view.
“So,” Stiles says as he makes an incomprehensible gesture to the room. His
magic is gathering in his stomach anxiously. “I can’t say, um, I can’t say it
not much because it’s definitely...something.”
“It’s comfortable,” Derek agrees, almost plainly and it reminds the younger
teen that he’s probably seen and experienced better. “Hotels in the midwest are
usually like this, I think. But I haven’t been to too many states in this
region to say,” he adds as his gaze explores the ceiling.
“That still makes you a lot more well-traveled than me,” Stiles remarks as he
shifts from foot to foot. His magic is stretching loops through his abdomen,
anxious that Derek’s focus is elsewhere. “Which still makes this the nicest
room I’ve ever been in,” he goes on to say because he wants to have something
to talk about.
Derek cocks his head as he looks at the bathroom door. “Your brother’s talking
to your dad about us,” he murmurs.
Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know what exactly it's about.
Derek just hums before he turns his back to that door, not even glancing around
anymore. He just strides directly to the younger teen like he couldn’t be
bothered to pretend to be paying attention to anything else.
Stiles’s fumbling for some words as he presses himself against the back of the
door and his magic rises and falls in anticipation.
Derek keeps him cornered there, putting his hands on either side of his head
and makes no move to come any closer or go any further away. “I have so many
things I want to say,” he quietly confesses. “Some times I feel like I’ll
explode with it all.”
Stiles exhales carefully as his heart races at all the possibilities. “I’m not
sure if I can handle any of those things,” he replies, just as quietly and
makes himself hold eye contact. “But I don’t want to be cruel, so.” He swallows
thickly. “Tell me the one thing you need for me to know right now.”
Derek hesitates and a loaded silence follows.
Stiles is beside himself with the suspense. His magic is fizzling around his
hammering heart with the impression of excitement wrapped up in the maroon
paper of hope.
“I miss you,” Derek says bluntly and without apology. “I don’t like when we’re
not talking. It feels weird. It’s like pretending we’re strangers.”
“Yeah,” Stiles exhales because that’s the exact feeling he’s been trying to
place all day. He starts a little at the feel of a warm palm flattening over
his chest.
Derek has his left hand settled over the place where Stiles’s heart is with his
brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You feel it too,” he remarks, but oddly enough, he
sounds relieved. “I wasn’t sure what you might think when I said it. But, you
feel it too.”
Stiles can feel his cheeks getting warm. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal —
I just figured with Braeden being in town, you kind of — and it’s really only
been a day. Jesus, it hasn’t even been afull day. What's wrong with us?”
Derek laughs and he pulls him close. He hums appreciatively when Stiles wraps
his arms around him without hesitation because maybe they both need this right
now. “I like when you say things like that,” he admits as they continue to hold
each other’s gaze.
Stiles blinks twice. “Why?”
“Because it’s like you're say what I’m thinking.”
“Oh.”
Derek hums as he slides his hands up and down Stiles’s shoulder blades. “You
know, it’s almost like we have a crush on each other or something.”
“Dude, how weird would that be?” Stiles retorts, playing along before he hides
his smile in Derek’s right shoulder. "Especially since I've been after Laura
this whole time."
"Watch it," Derek retorts with a playful growl.
Stiles snorts and rubs his face against Derek's shoulder. He sighs gently at
the familiar, comforting smell of vanilla that reaches his nose. “Braeden
doesn’t like me. With you. Even though we aren’t exactly — it’s like she’s pre-
disapproving.”
Derek drops his hands to rest on Stiles’s waist and pulls back, ducking his
head to catch the younger teen’s eyes. “She doesn’t get the final say. We do.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“I do,” Stiles quickly says.
“Stiles.”
“I do know!” Stiles swears but gnaws on his bottom lip to stifle anything else
he might say that would contradict it.
Derek carefully pulls away and crosses his arms, waiting with his eyebrows
lifted expectedly.
Stiles presses his lips together and fidgets because he hatesthat face. He
always breaksat that face. He tries his hardest this time around. He can only
make it to about a minute and a half before he blurts, “She’s your best friend
and I know you guys love each other like family and family is really important
and I know it’s up to us what we want to do. I also know you like me and I like
you and we’re just friends right now but we did say we would be honest. I have
to be honest in saying that she hasn’t been the nicest person but she’s
certainly not the worst or anything, so in considering all of this, just for
like, a split second, would it be so crazy if I wanted her to like me?”
“Braeden’s complicated,” Derek replies calmly, immuned to Stiles’s babbling.
“For as long as we’ve known each other, I still don’t have her completely
figured out.” He grabs Stiles’s left hand with his own, almost like a loose
handshake. “But that works both ways too. I’ve grown in ways she hasn’t
realized yet.”
Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand because he’s never able to resist doing so and his
heart thrums, thriving with the contact. His magic continues to vibrate in
pleasure where it’s pooling warmly in his lower gut.
“She thinks she can look at all my mistakes and piece together my future,”
Derek goes on to say as he gazes steadily at the younger teen. “That instinct
isn’t really her fault. Her parents taught her to look at the world that way.”
“Your mom did mention her parents came from a military background,” Stiles
says, thinking back on the conversation. “No room for error, only precision. I
mean she didn’t say it like that exactly, I just kind of pick up on it that
way.”
“That describes Braeden in a nutshell,” Derek agrees as he sandwiches Stiles’s
left hand between both of his. “All I’m saying is, her approval isn’t
detrimental to what we have because maybe she might not ever come around. Her
liking you shouldn’t discourage you from wanting to like me or be with me.”
Stiles frowns in confusion before it dawns on him. “You think I want her to
like me because it would make it easier for me to like you?”
It’s Derek’s turn to look confused.
Stiles snorts and shakes his head fondly. “No, stupid. I want her to like me to
make it easier on you. The last thing I want is for you to feel torn or like
you have to choose between us at any given moment,” he clarifies. “I mean, sure
I’m not used to this, and I have my insecurities but I don’t need Braeden to
like me to boost my confidence about the direction we seem to be headed.” He
squeezes Derek’s hand again. “As far as I can tell, I’m not going anywhere. I
haven’t found any reason to.”
Derek ducks his head and he smiles as he looks at their hands. Then he frowns
and looks at Stiles sharply. “You called me stupid,” he complains.
“Oh wow. Out of all of that, that’swhat sticks?” Stiles huffs and shakes his
head. “And no, I didn’t. I said ‘shoe pick’.” He gives a fake laugh, trying to
look like a self-deprecating goof on the verge of self realization and he
squirms when Derek starts poking his sides. “Help me pick some shoes, is what I
was trying to say. Ah! Dude, lay off my gooey sides.”
“You can’t lie to a Werewolf,” Derek sighs but he’s grinning in amusement and
he pokes the younger teen once more just to hear him squawk. “Plus you’re
already wearing shoes.”
“Huh.” Stiles looks down and nods. “I guess I am. Gold star for observation.”
Isaac exits the bathroom with a face. “Listening to you two carry on like this
is painful. Shouldn’t we be leaving?”
Stiles blushes and Derek rubs the back of his head sheepishly, embarrassed as
well. They both had forgotten he was still within hearing distance.
“Right.” Isaac just makes his way over, shoving between them and pushes his
phone into Derek’s chest. “Take a picture of us,” he commands, like he’s
entitled to making such requests. He puts his right arm over his older
brother’s shoulders since he’s the taller of them.
Stiles straightens as Derek takes a few steps back and aims Isaac’s phone at
the two of them.
“Smile,” Derek says.
“I am,” Stiles swears.
“I’m talking to Isaac,” Derek clarifies, looking amused as he adjusts something
on the phone. “You’re doing perfect.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
Stiles goes pink but his smile wrinkles into a pleased grin.
Isaac makes an annoyed sound.
“Still not smiling, Isaac,” Derek points out cheerfully.
“This isn’t a professional shoot,” Isaac mutters but quiets when Stiles nudges
him with his elbow. He sighs and gives his best grin.
Stiles looks away from him and meets Derek’s eyes over the edge of Isaac’s
phone.
He finds he has no trouble finding his smile again.
                                      ---
Stiles doesn’t get the pleasure of sitting beside Derek during the show,
Braeden kind of sees to that, but he finds himself between Cora and Isaac.
Normally, that wouldn’t be so bad, but they keep passing literalnotes over him
like they’re still in school or something. It’s a little distracting. Not just
because of the frequency, but also because it’s making him overwhelmingly
curious.
“You guys could just text like normal people,” Stiles mutters as they make an
exchange over him. Again.
“We’re not normal people,” Cora confirms wryly. “Now be quiet. Laura’s coming
on for her debut.”
Isaac snorts and mutters something that makes her snort as well.
Stiles sighs but focuses on the stage.
The show is A Chorus Line. It’s barely begun but Laura is killing it so far.
Stiles thinks that the most amazing thing about it is how she does everything
so gracefully, so effortlessly. It’s as if she’s been touring with the cast for
months, and not at all as if she’d justflown in after having graduated and
joined the ranks, all in the same day. He can tell that this really is her
favorite musical because of how fluid her knowledge of this production is.
“Oh god!” Laura cries, pressing her hands to the side of her face with wide-
eyed panic as she runs up to the bearded director/choreographer. She’s wearing
a purple leotard, nude tights and grey leg warmers while her hair is pinned up
into a messy bun. She looks every bit of the dancer she’s pretending to be. “I
don’t remember my number!”
“When I find a number without a person, it’s you,” the bearded director/
choreographer replies wryly.
Laura nods her head worshipfully and moves back to join the other dancers as
they wait to be grouped.
The lights dim as the bearded director calls out and pantomimes the proper
dance formation, pointing upstage and downstage. The singers and dancers begin
to chime, “God, I hope I get it. I hope I get it. How many people does he
need?”
The play rolls on.
Stiles knows he’s supposed to watching the other characters too but Laura just
has this presence about her on the stage that he finds himself actively seeking
her out throughout the entire production. He watches her click into place,
performing in her element, and it’s the most natural thing he’s ever seen. And
as soon as the thought floats through his mind, he glances over to the end of
the row where Talia is sitting and sees a dawning expression on her.
Talia finally understands. There is not a hint of doubt on in her eyes. She
knows.
This is where Laura belongs.
                                      ---
There’s a flourish of praise and flowers waiting for Laura at the end of the
show. They take the after party to a nautical themed buffet style restaurant
called Captain Whale’s Booty (all the kids find this title hilarious).
Stiles can’t say he indulges as much as his little brother does, but he eats
enough. Most of his focus stays on the dessert area. Eventually they return to
the hotel because they have to get up early for their visit to Six Flags and be
there when the park opens.
Everyone tucks away in their rooms.
Stiles climbs into some sleepwear but he doesn’t go to bed right away like
Isaac does. He grabs his phone and takes it with him to the pool area to give
his brother a fighting chance at sleeping undisturbed. He uses his keycard to
gain access to the deserted pool area, and he rolls his pajama bottoms up to
his knees before he sits on the edge. He kicks his feet back and forth in the
lukewarm water while he goes through his contacts until he finds the person
he’s looking for and dials out.
“Okay that’s kinda freaky,” is the first thing Allison says when she picks up.
“Lydia said you were about to call just the second before you did.”
Stiles lifts his eyebrows but he isn’t surprised that she would know. “Can I
talk to her?”
There’s some shuffling on the other end before it becomes quiet again.
Stiles can hear Lydia breathing steadily. “Everything okay?” he asks gently.
“In a way,” Lydia murmurs. “Allison and Scott tell me that you’ve gone away.”
Stiles rubs the back of his head. “Yeah,” he confirms. “I wish I could have
been there when you were released.”
Lydia doesn’t say anything.
“Maybe we can video chat?” Stiles suggests. “If you’re up to it, that is.”
“No.” Lydia exhales, and she sounds a little annoyed. “It wouldn’t be the same.
It wouldn’t change the fact that you're not here. That you weren’t here.”
Stiles opens his mouth.
“Don’t apologize,” Lydia interjects knowingly. “That’s not why I’m saying any
of this. I just...don't want to video chat. Makes me long for the real thing.”
Stiles licks his lips, uncertain.
Lydia sighs.
“I talked to Jackson. He told me about Danny,” Stiles remarks, in response to
her silence. He figures it might be safer to change the subject. “All those
things you said, it was about him, wasn’t it? You knew somehow.”
“I don’t always want to know,” Lydia remarks curtly and this isn’t going at all
like he’d hoped.
Stiles sucks in his upper lip and lets his bottom teeth graze it when he
releases the flesh slowly. “I know,” he sighs.
“You don’t really,” Lydia disagrees and she inhales sharply. “But it’s easier
with you,” she goes on to say. “I love Allison, and Scott, and...Jackson.”
There’s some shuffling.“But they don’t understand. They can’t possibly. You
come the closest and sometimes that’s enough for me. It's help to have you,
when it feels like I don't have anyone else.”
Stiles rubs his face tiredly and nods, even though he knows she can’t see.
Lydia sighs shakily and says, “Hurry up and come home to me. This mask I have
to wear around them is stifling. I'd rather not pretend.”
Stiles isn’t given a chance to reply or to question the statement because she’s
hung up the phone, and he’s left to wonder.
                                      ---
“Listen well, all,” Peter announces over the chatter coming from the entirety
of the group at they stand at the special entrance gate for large parties. He’s
wearing black skinny jeans and a purple button down rolled up at the elbows,
unbuttoned just short of scandalous. Though he’s not the only one sporting
purple.
In honor of Laura’s 18th birthday, everyone is wearing her favorite color.
Laura’s dressed in a purple and black geometric print backless romper with her
hair up in a Dutch fishtail hair braid interwoven with fake flowers (obviously
Derek’s handiwork). She must have bribed or nagged him into doing it as
beautifully exotic as it looks. She and Kate are the only ones crazy enough to
wear a pair of white suede wedges.
Speaking of Kate, she’s dressed almost identically to Peter, only she’s wearing
a pair of black high waisted denim shorts and she’s not wearing a bra, button
down barely even buttoneddown. She’s got a flower crown of purple coneflowers
adorning her shiny, golden pixie cut styled hair.
Talia is outfitted in some white capris and a lilac silk camisole top with her
hair clipped up and a pair of matching crocs huarache flats, while her husband
stands beside her in a pair of khakis and purple henley with some Toms.
Nana Hale is dressed casually in some purple floral leggings and a white
sleeveless blouse a pair of matching crocs huarache flats.
Stiles and Isaac are coordinating again, but his little brother is the one who
decided what they were to wear. This happens to be dark purple, white and black
plaid shirts with a white tank top underneath and some casual white shorts and
sneakers. Isaac probably doesn’t feel the heat like he does. Stiles already
feels like he’s burning up.
It’s practically eighty degrees out, and in the Midwest it’s not dry heat.
Peter whistles sharply until there’s a hush that follows. Then he says, “My
lovely sister, Talia, despite my pleas and resistance, has designated me as the
family beacon, as I have opted out of engaging in today’s activities.”
“Because you’re a total wimp!” Tyson calls out and everyone in his age group
titters.
Peter ignores the comment diplomatically and continues, “Asthe family beacon,
you will find me responsible for all your informational needs. I’ve taken the
liberty of memorizing the landscape and layout, so it will be very easy for me
to direct you, upon request, to the exact attraction you are looking for. If
you would like to take pictures with certain characters, I’m able to give you
the precise time and spots with which you may find and accost them.” He looks
grim at that aspect. “Last, but certainly not least, I have arranged for a
bundle of flash passes, a simple device that will speed up or completely
surpass the attraction wait times, assigned to onlywork for two people.” He
smirks and adds, “Think of it like a field trip. Keep an eye on your buddy.”
Everyone rolls their eyes.
“If you should need me for any of those reasons I just specified, you can
contact me via text or I can be easily found in the land of County Fair, quite
near Kidzopolis, acting as the shepherd to the cattle of kiddies who don’t meet
the height requirements,” Peter reports dryly.
Stiles snorts and smiles when Derek bumps their shoulders together because he’s
just as amused.
Peter just waves his hand dismissively as he leads them into the park and to
Hometown Square, over to the flash pass activation center where he spearheads
the distribution of said devices.
It doesn’t escape Stiles’s notice that the entirety of their group turns heads
during their trek over.
People all ages and sizes stop and stare with wide eyes filled with wonderment.
They’re acting as though they’re in the presence of royalty or celebrities. The
crowds part for them and vibrate with curious interest. He hasn’t been able to
put a name to the kind of presence the Hales hold.
They posses a supposed emanation to which the action of hypnotism is ascribed.
You might want to speak plainly.
Humans may be dense by their own right and willfully oblivious, but their baser
instincts allow them to pick up what little they can detect of the
supernatural.
Is that what it is? Is that what it’s always been?
With Weres, underneath the façade of ‘normal’ is a natural force exerted only
by shifters of their caliber.
So, animal magnetism?
In lesser terms.
Stiles rolls the information around in his mind as he watches everyone pair up.
His eyebrow raise in surprise when he’s approached by Cora and Isaac, and then
he grows amused when they both fidget in their own way under his speculative
gaze.
“I’ve never been to this kind of theme park before,” Cora reluctantly
confesses, defensive scowl pressed to her beautifully stern face and she even
goes the extra mile by crossing her arms. She’s wearing acid washed ripped
jeans, a purple crochet half shirt with a gold body belly chain and some
leopard gladiator sandals. Her hair is in a pair of messy pigtails, ears
decorated to cleverly match both the belly chain and her shoes. “Derek and I
had a frank conversation about how you and he were gonna — like it wasn't
obvious I wouldn't get a moment of your time during this trip. Anyway, Isaac
knows the lay of the land and he’s the least irritating person, I guess.”
Stiles laughs because that is a tremendous compliment coming from her. “Are you
— oh my god I can’t breathe —are you asking me for permission?”He laughs harder
when she splutters and turns red indignantly at his implicating tone. “Do you
want to datemy little brother? You know he’s like twelve, right? He – whoa!” He
manages to spring out of the way in time when Cora’s fist comes swinging at his
face.
Isaac manages to grab her and keep her at bay. He even glaresat Stiles like
he’s done something wrong.
“What? What did Ido?” Stiles complains as two of some of his favorite people
stare him down unhappily. “Well, what should I be thinking?”
“Not that,dumbass!” Cora snaps as her blush begins to recede and she shakes off
Isaac’s hands, but not as quickly as she usually would with anyone and
that’skind of telling. “Forget it. I told you this was a stupid idea.” She
snatches a flash pass device from Peter before storming off.
Isaac watches her go with an unhappy expression and then turns that very same
expression on his older brother and makes it even more poutywhich is so not
fair. “I’m not pouting,” he calmly corrects.
Stiles realizes he said that aloud. “Well, can you blame me for jumping to
conclusions? You guys are passing notes and wanting to be all buddy-buddy, by
yourselvesby the way, and roam the park doing who knows what. I can’t help if
I’m a little —”
“It’s not like that,” Isaac interjects and he seems a little tense. “She’s…we
have an understanding. We’re different. You know how. This doesn’t usually —
it’s not usually — but it’s different. We have this understanding. You have to
trust that. You know what I…howI can be. It’s…”
“Different,” Stiles adds before he sighs. Then he sighs again, feeling almost
like his own father when he does. “You’re going to have to help me out one day
and explain just what all that entails.”
Isaac perks up and he begins to grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I guess. Dude, just,” Stiles is fumbling. “Go. Go before you lose her in
all of this craziness. Or I lose my mind trying to figure out this craziness.”
Isaac nods and moves to leave but he ends up backtracking instead, pulling his
older brother close and whispering words of gratitude before he dashes off and
out of sight.
Stiles tracks him as far as he can before he loses him in the crowd.
Derek saddles up beside him and says, “So...that was a little weird.”
“Yes,” Stiles wholeheartedly agrees, practically breathing the sentiment into
the word, and he glances at the older teen. “You wouldn’t happen to have any
insight into whatever the hell is going on with all that?”
Derek snorts, and grins. “She likes him. But not the way you think,” he
supposes. “Not the way anyone would think, really. Same for Isaac. It’s hard to
pinpoint and put into words. It’s different.”
“I’m getting tired of that word already,” Stiles mutters but he accepts what
Derek says at face value and leaves well enough alone for now. “So,” he exhales
as he turns to face Derek completely.
“So,” Derek echoes, amused. He’s dressed like his father: a pair of khakis and
purple henley with some Toms.
Stiles shoves his hands in the front pockets of his shorts and says, “Cora said
that you two had a frankconversation about me."
Derek flushes and mutters a swear to himself before he rolls his eyes. "She's
making it sound way more dramatic than it actually was."
"Oh yeah? But I’m almost certain that Braeden’s called dibs to be your buddy
this weekend.”
Derek uses his left hand to shake out his hair as he shrugs his mouth before it
stretches into that stupid lazily grin that always gives him butterflies.
“Dibs, huh?” he repeats. “I actually wouldn’t mind if you called dibs on me.
I’d rather be your buddyanyway.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Stiles blushes a little but he snorts. “You’re such a horrible flirt,” he
complains but he’s laughing at this point. “I’m actually more annoyed than I am
flattered. I don’t think that’s how flirting is supposed to work. Teasing,
maybe. Not flirting.”
“Consider it something to look forward to as the day goes on,” Derek reports
cheerfully with a wide smile.
At the exact moment, a gang of girls, caught in the midst of their dreamy
staring, collide into one another.
Stiles feels nothing but sympathy as they scramble to gather themselves with
color in their cheeks and stars in their eyes.
Derek is either oblivious to it or pretending to be because he doesn’t take his
eyes off of the younger teen.
Stiles is thankful he already has a flush stuck to him because of the heat. He
has to deal with this bundle of fuzzy emotions constantly, and his immunity to
Derek’s natural charms isn’t really building like it should. He finds himself
grinning back nonetheless as he wipes some sweat from his forehead.
“You two look awfully chipper,” Braeden drawls as she strides over to them,
hair falling around her in voluminous ombre curls, white sunglasses resting on
the bridge of her nose as she lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow. Her makeup
looks as flawless as her outfit. She’s wearing baggy electric purple overalls
with and a graphic half tee and some white sneakers. She also has a purple and
white snapback with her name printed in cursive and interwoven with white roses
on the top of the brim and it’s cocked slightly to the right. “Dee, you realize
I’m not partnering with anyone else but you, right?”
Stiles could have guessed this would happen. He gnaws on the corner of his
bottom lip and waits to see what they will do.
Derek huffs and says, “Brae, I’ve no shortage of family members you can hitch
your wagon to.”
Braeden gives him a cutting smile as she pushes her sunglasses up her nose. “I
love your family but I didn’t fly thousands of miles just to hitch my wagon to
theirs for the rest of the summer,” she retorts evenly.
“I feel special. I really do,” Derek swears as he slaps a hand over his heart.
“But I’m going to have to take a rain check on our bonding and pair up with
Stiles.”
Braeden’s mouth tightens petulantly. “Now look here, Miss Peaches. You have
about two more years to hop on his dick and ride him like the trophy stallion
at the county fair,” she remarks crassly.
Stiles chokes on his own spit.
Derek bristles, even though his cheeks get a little red. “Watch it, Braeden,”
he warns.
“I, on the other hand,” Braeden continues, completely ignoring their reactions.
“Have only this summer to fully dedicate to you, and I expect to do just that.”
She bats some of her hair over her shoulder, and the dyed tips fly gracefully
when they do so. “I’m coming up on my last year of school before I officially
enlist. You promisedme.”
“Brae…” Derek gives her this look but she crosses her arms resolutely. “Maybe
the three of us could —”
“Nope.” Braeden holds up a flash pass device. “Only two to a device, remember?
I’m not participating in any rider swaps like I’m six or something.” She turns
her head towards Stiles. “Well, Idon’t want any problems.Do you?”
Stiles couldn’t possibly respond to such a loaded question.
“I tell you what,” Braeden says as she takes off her sunglasses and looking at
her best friend earnestly. “Let’s leave it for Stiles to decide.” She turns her
gaze to him, blinking slowly and deliberately. “Stiles?”
Derek doesn’t look particularly fond of this idea but he holds his peace as he
turns his attention over to the younger teen.
Stiles licks his lips as he weighs his options. Fight or flight?
Braeden is assessing him with a cool gaze and the stare almost feels like
invisible talons trying to claw through his exterior to expose what lies await
underneath.
Stiles feels his magic twist inside of him in a way that unexpectedly sways the
answer he decides to give. He says, “You know what? It’s fine. You two can go
ahead. I think I’ll keep Peter company. Help him watch some of the kids.”
Derek’s brow furrows and he looks like he wants to protest but Braeden presses
into his side with a victorious smile. She says, “Come on, Dee. You heard the
man. We have his blessing.” She drags Derek towards Orleans Place while tossing
Stiles a wink. “You’re such a doll.”
Stiles physically returns the sentiment with a forced grin. He swallows down
his disappointment and puts up a nonchalant front as Derek looks at him while
he’s being pulled away. Something tells him that if he’d let slip how he really
felt, Derek wouldn’t hesitate to put his foot down to Braeden. So he keeps
grinning until he can’t see them anymore because despite everything, he trusts
his magic, which had urged him to let things be for a reason yet to be
determined.
He rakes his fingers through his short hair, slightly damp with sweat, and
watches as Laura pairs up with Talia, while Kate pairs up with Nana Hale. There
are other pairings but he bypasses watching the affair in favor of locating
Peter in County Fair.
                                      ---
Kidzopolis is like the promise land for toddlers. It’s a world awash with
bright colors, happy smells, joyful nursery rhymes, gentle kiddie coasters like
spinning teacups or miniature Ferris wheels, and hands on activities. And kids.
Somany kids.
“Ankle biters,” Peter mutters as he watches them all distastefully. He’s only
taking special care to watch the ones that belong to his family.
Stiles snorts. He’s standing in the shade with a barefoot Olive in his arms as
she smacks her lips fitfully on the red, white and blue popsicle he’s holding
for her with one hand.
The juices are dripping on her purple chevron dress. It’s a sticky mess but
Olive is having a good time with it so Stiles lets her be.
“I thought you liked kids, Peter,” Stiles teases as he sits down on a nearby
bench and Olive instantly begins kicking her legs energetically.
A bumblebee zips over, stopping to hover just at the tip of his nose before
moving to land in his hair.
Stiles isn’t worried. This is something that happens frequently during his
summers for as long as he’s remembered. He’s prepared for the oncoming
attention from nature’s smallest creatures. At least this time around he knows
why.
Peter finally replies, “I’m not fond of small children who I do not consider
pack.” He winces and steps out of the way when a gaggle of them run around him
during their game of tag before springing off again. “No respect of boundaries.
Nosy and opinionated. Sticky, handsy, little creatures.”
“I am personally offended on behalf of all sticky, handsy, little creatures,”
Stiles remarks mock-seriously. “Isn’t that right, Olive? Uncle Peter is too
uptight.”
Peter shoots him a marginally amused but warm look. “Uncle Peter, huh?” he
repeats and grins when Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, please continue. I find I’m
rather fond of you uttering the title.”
“Dear god, I’ll build you a time machine and send you back where you belong,
just give me time,” Stiles bemoans as Olive kicks her legs and slurps on a
fragment of white popsicle she’s managed to break off. “That was a one time
thing, anyway. I was voicing Olive’s inner monologue.”
“Of course,” Peter drawls, humoring him. “When you muster up the courage to ask
my nephew to marry you, I will have to insist you refer to me accordingly, as
you will be family.” Then he goes on to say, “Speaking of my nephew, I’m
surprised it's not you who he’s traipsing around the park with.”
Stiles just makes an incoherently thoughtful sound and shrugs as the bumblebee
finally takes flight from his hair. “It’s complicated,” he supposes.
“It’s Braeden,” Peter cleverly corrects. “I never much minded her willful,
territorial behavior when it came to Paige because frankly I never much cared
for the dull girl,” he admits. “You're different however.” He glances briefly
over at him and then away with a smirk. “I’ve always liked you.”
“I’m swooning.”
Peter snorts as he goes back to surveying the area. “Ah, see. When you say
things like that, you only make my affection for you grow.”
Stiles scoffs but he’s smiling. He has to reach over to grab Olive’s bag and
fish for some wet wipes so he can get to work cleaning her up. She’s finished
her popsicle and he’s terribly thirsty himself. Once he has her all sorted out,
he places her back in her stroller and turns to Peter, pausing when he sees a
vaguely familiar face in the distance.
It’s Lei Shěn.
“What is it?” Peter asks, but he doesn’t look concerned, just curious. “Your
mouth is open as if you’re about to ask a question but you’ve yet to pose it.”
Stiles blinks at the older man before looking back, but of course Lei Shěn
isn’t there anymore. If she ever was there to begin with. His magic unfurls in
his chest and it makes him wonder if it had been just some strange mirage or
vision. Whatever the case may be, he doesn’t let it show on his face, and says,
“I was going to ask you if you wanted a lemonade or something. I’m thirsty and
headed to a concession stand to buy one of those green refill thingies.”
Peter scans him quickly, and dismisses whatever sliver of doubt he may have
been developing in favor of replying, “I’m fine at present, thank you. Try not
to be gone too long. I’d hate to have to wonder.”
Stiles gives him a sloppy salute and makes his way through the crowds of
parents and children to reach the nearest refreshment stand. His magic expands
across his chest, alert and alive, which in turns puts him on his guard.
“You keep walking, Virtue,” says Lei Shěn directly from behind him, voice low
and barely concealing an underlying warning. She’s close enough that her
abnormally body temperature starts trying to cloy to his skin. “I would have
words with you.”
“Somewhere secluded I’m guessing,” Stiles mutters and his magic doesn’t writhe
defensively, which is a curious thing. It’s the only peculiarity that keeps him
from being completely worried about the situation.
“The smoking area,” Lei Shěn stiffly replies. “It will mask our scents.” She
shoulders past him to take the lead and guides him to said heavily shaded area
just a few feet from the restrooms. She waits until the few smokers still
lingering are forced to scatter under the weight of her dead-eyed stare before
she says, “You must understand that I have taken a great risk in consulting
with you.”
“Why would you want to consult with me?” Stiles asks and he takes a quick
moment to notice that she’s dressed in all black, hair slicked back into a
tightly controlled bun. It makes her look pale, not like porcelain, but like
vaporous smoke.
Lei Shěn replies, “My loyalties to Alpha Gurnee confine me to her territory.
She no longer is concerned with the interests of her people, and with respect,
I fear her mind has become poisoned with falsehoods. Many times I have tried to
broach the subject, and my concerns are dismissed.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles interrupts and she’s not fidgeting anxiously but he can
feel the urgency there. His magic seems calm over the whole thing, almost like
it anticipated this moment. “What exactly are you accusing your Alpha of?”
“Accusations,” Lei Shěn echoes slowly, as though testing the feel of the word
on her tongue for herself. “I believe I am in danger for what I know.” She goes
on to say, “I have been Jemila’s most trusted confidant for as long as I have
known her. Being her Second makes me privy to all her secrets, but a few months
ago, she became different. She’d been talking to someone, an Alpha without
title. What he’s promised her for her cooperation, I know not. What I am
certain of is that she instigated the Chicago Incident. She knew the officer
who shot the mother and the child. She was given to taking walks with him, and
having meals, though she never confirmed with me whether it was of a friendly
or courtly nature.”
Stiles feels his magic sprint up to his mind to merge among the fireworks going
off in his mind. “Alpha Gurnee knew the officer,” he repeats faintly, marveling
at the information. “She had the chocolate, didn’t she?” is the first thing he
asks when he’s able to catch up again. “She has more. Did she give it to him so
he could give it to the little girl?”
“This is a dangerous conversation, Virtue,” Lei Shěn replies instead, but
that’s confirmation enough. She reaches out and pushes a folded piece of paper
in his right hand and there is suddenly a sensation of fear, hope,
intrigueintermingled in an almost violent fashion at that brief bit of contact.
“I’m expected back. You must give this to Alpha Hale. She will know what it
means.”
Stiles has not even a second to respond or ask a follow up question because Lei
Shěn disappears as quickly as a small waft of smoke. His fingers twitches
around the piece of paper in his hand and it whispers to the curiosity of his
mind. He gives into the urge, glancing around quickly to make sure he’s not
being watched and he unfolds it.
It’s paw prints. Wolf paw prints. Full grown wolf paw prints.
It’s almost random.
The pattern is not random. It is a language.
Yeah but I always thought things like growling and whining and howling was the
dialect.
You are not wholly wrong. Just as we have words, Weres have a way to transcribe
those sounds into something ophthalmic.
 They must have tons of texts like these.
Undoubtedly. Recorded history, secular dossiers, bards contrived from oral
tradition, and innumerable documents of the like.
Stiles stares at the paper in his hand, trying to make sense of it as his magic
retreats into the space of his mind that processes information so that it may
take shelter there. He forces himself not to dwell over it, and folds it up
again to tuck away in his pocket. He grabs himself a lemonade, and several ice
cream cones for the kids.
Peter watches him closely when he returns and beckons over the little ones
they’re both looking after.
Stiles holds his peace until Artemis is the last one to grab his share and
follow some of his older cousins back to most of the play areas. Then he says,
“Lei Shěn paid me a visit just now.” and before Peter can ask any direct
questions, he gives a full account of what happened.
Peter doesn’t say anything at first, and when he does, it’s not what Stiles
expects. He says, “Your magic was right. We have records of everything, from
the origins of our beginnings, to our most current affairs. They’re kept by
scrolls. Not books. No, not like in the ways that Humans do. And we also keep
them hidden. They’re sacred. They have all our secrets.”
Stiles is absolutely fascinated by that. “How does that work exactly? Who keeps
all the records?”
Peter’s blue eyes survey the area. He’s being vigilant about keeping his eye on
the young ones. Even more so now because of Lei Shěn’s unexpected appearance.
“There is a concord of Alphas that presides over such things every eight years
to coincide with the number of phases there are to the Moon. Though in our
community we know what Alpha belongs to which territory, not everyone knows
when and where exactly these gatherings take place.” He smirks a little as he
looks to Stiles. “But between you and I, I think my sister was recently
assigned to the task of record keeper. Just last year she had a family vault
built for us, to which only she and Nana know the combination to. They never
did say whyor whatthe purpose of the vault was for, but I’ve had my suspicions,
seeing as how last year marked the first and last cycle in the eight years for
the Alpha Parliament.”
“Oh,” Stiles merely says and with it put into perspective like that, it does
happen to make sense. If Talia had to build an entirevault then that just means
the collection of scrolls and the like must be tremendous. “Did you want to
see?” he asks and fishes his pocket for the folded piece of paper.
Peter looks at him sharply. “No, I can’t,” he warns. “It isn’t for me to know.
Only Talia. So you mustn’t let anyone else see it without her permission.
Understand?”
Stiles nods and pushes it back down. “Does it matter that I’ve looked at it?”
he asks.
Peter shrugs faintly and turns his gaze outwardly again. “You’re a Seven of
Virtues,” he supposes. “I believe the title affords you such privileges.”
Stiles can’t confirm if that’s true or not. “I can’t read it anyway,” he
admits.
Peter huffs wryly. “At a point, Beethoven couldn’t hear the music he played,
and yet he continued to contribute to his field greatly,” he remarks. “Wonders
never cease, Stiles. Don’t ever forget that.”
Stiles isn’t quite sure what Peter means but he finds it oddly comforting.
Olive kicks her legs and begins to fuss until she gets some attention.
She’s covered in strawberry ice cream.
Cleaning her up gives Stiles enough time to reallythink.
                                      ---
Talia is rounding up the pack and counting heads at the parks exits the minute
it closes when Stiles finds her. He doesn’t say much, he doesn’t really have
time to because it’s just that busy, but he slips her the folded piece of paper
with a look of meaning. She frowns but she gives him a short nod before she
clenches it in her right hand and uses her left to continue to press her scent
to the back of everyone’s neck as they pass her during the counting. She then
indicates to the transportation she has waiting for them so they can go to
their next destination.
This so happens to be a dine-in movie theater.
It’s Laura’s pick of course and she chooses Maleficent.
While everyone is being seated with the help of the ushers, Talia pulls him
aside and has him sit at her table with her, Derek Sr., Nana Hale and Olive.
Stiles ends up sitting to her immediate right and after they order their food,
he goes on to explain his confrontation with Lei Shěn.
By the time their food comes out, and the movie has started, Talia says, “I
see.” She unearths the folded piece of paper from her pocket and unfolds it.
She looks it over intently, no matter that there is not much light to work
with, though she is a Were. She makes some thoughtful sounds before, without
lifting her eyes from the paper, she asks, “What do you think of all of this?”
Stiles could have expected the question because he has been wondering over the
anomaly. He says, “I think Braeden should have some input on this too. It’s a
peculiar situation, and it should be handled with care by all of us.”
“I agree,” Talia says, voice colored in approval. She waves over one of the
ushers and whispers something in his ear.
The usher walks away.
Talia then leans over and whispers something to Derek Sr., who nods and gathers
Olive in his arms and passes along the message to Nana Hale.
The three of them rise from the table and move to join the tables of their
other family members.
The usher returns with a speculative Braeden, who sits to the left of Talia.
Talia begins to explain the reasoning behind her calling her over.
Braeden sits in silence with the information for several moments as the movie
continues to drone on in front of them. She takes a moment to glance at Stiles,
irises flickering to ivory.
Stiles feels his own eyes warm in response, bleeding to honey-gold before
returning the moment he blinks. His magic settles in complacency because for
that brief moment he was able to see Braeden’s magic hang about her like a
wedding veil made of bioluminescent ivory material. There’s this minor
connection he feels to her that’s as faint as the solidarity between distant
relatives.
Braeden appears to feel that they’re on the same page as well because she gives
him an acknowledging nod. Then she says, “She wants to be your Second, Talia.”
“I suspected as much,” Talia admits. “But I am curious to know what led you to
this conclusion as well.”
“Lei Shěn could have gone to anyone else,” Stiles clarifies, confident in his
theories when Braeden nods to confirm. “She wants to betray her Alpha, but she
would rather the betrayal be instituted with someone she deems of value. She
doesn’t plan on settling for anything less than her current title affords her.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Braeden goes on to say. “Given time, Stiles and I
can find out how deep this truth runs, but it’s clear that Alpha Gurnee did
have something to do with what happened in Chicago. I wouldn’t be surprised if
the Alpha who was without title happened to be Mayor Argent’s very own
Deucalion. I’ve been reading up on him. He gets around. I just haven’t figured
out why.” She continues, “Talia, can you think of any other reason why she
would attempt such a bold move?”
Talia sighs but it’s clear she does. “Please do not repeat this to anyone else
without my permission,” she sternly urges. “That goes for all the curious ears
listening in,” she adds, directing it to her pack.
Stiles glances around to see a few of them duck their heads guiltily.
Talia goes on to say, “When the Alpha Parliament of North America assembled on
Halloween last year, our Chieftain Alpha announced that at the end of the next
eight years, she would be retiring the position to a worthy contender, and that
during the allotted time of eight years she would be seeking a protégé. She
named only five candidates that she and her Second both agreed were eligible. I
was one of those five. Coincidental, or not, Jemila was not among that number,
but she and Lei Shěn were in attendance at the time of the proclamation.”
“Bingo,” Braeden says, clapping her hands together. “You understand how these
things go, Talia. She’s politicking. She wants to be with someone she can
control and groom in the next eight years. Alpha Gurnee managed to slip through
her fingers, so she’s trying to implement an exit strategy.”
“Even if that means starting from scratch,” Stiles adds. “She’s obviously been
doing her homework if she knows I’m a Virtue. I’m not sure if she knows at what
level, but she knows, and she’s fishing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had
portfolios on all the Alphas in the running for Chieftain.”
“With that said, we’re urging you to be cautious of Lei Shěn’s motives,”
Braeden remarks and holds out her hand. “May I?” she asks, indicating to the
paper riddled with full of paw prints.
Talia gives her a nod of consent before she looks to Stiles. “Would you like to
see, if you have not already?” she asks.
Stiles opens his mouth to reply but Braeden interjects, “He won’t be able to
understand. He doesn’t have a Conduit.”
“I see,” Talia says and she grins. “I almost forgot. My former husband had a
boxer turtle named Patty-Cake. He was a grumpy little thing. I never heard
anything he said, that was for Abraham of course, but the translations he would
give me led me to believe so. We kept him even after Abraham’s passing, up
until the summer Braeden arrived with her Conduit when she was eleven.”
“I continue to take full responsibility for what happened,” Braeden chimes, not
looking up from the paper she’s examining with ivory eyes. “I could have never
predicted that staying up the night before watchingHighlanderwould give Whit
Lee the incentive he needed to swallow Patty-Cake whole.”
“There can only be one, huh?” Stiles reasons and chuckles when Braeden nods
with an eye roll. “Can I ask what your Conduit is?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Braeden sighs as she folds up the piece of
paper again. “Whit Lee is a snow leopard. You’ll meet him when we return to
Beacon Hills.”
Stiles is officially both impressed and envious.
Talia reaches out and runs her hand through his hair as though she can read it
in her face. “You’re time will come, I’m sure,” she murmurs with a smile before
she pulls away. She looks to Braeden. “What do you make of the letter?”
“It’s definitely Alpha Gurnee’s mark, but I would like Whit Lee to look at it
as well if you don’t mind,” Braeden replies and then she flicks her gaze over
to Stiles. “If we translate for you, do you think you can offer some input?”
Stiles nods without hesitation. Then to Talia he says, “What will you do in the
meantime?”
“What I feel is best,” Talia supposes. “Confronting an Alpha of Jemila’s
caliber without confirming the evidence and accusations Lei Shěn has provided
could prove to be a fatal risk. It will take a little more time. For now, I
believe we should go on like we have been, and make our exit as polite and
hastened as possible. No need to incite a feud.”
Stiles and Braeden both catch each other eyes and they nod in sync, agreeing
with this line of action.
The matter has been settled for the moment.
                                      ---
Isaac is practically falling asleep on his feet during the elevator ride up to
their room much to Stiles's amusement. His head bobs and dips towards Stiles’s
shoulder until the final ding of their floor jerks him awake. Stiles lets Isaac
curl his fingers in the front of his shirt and drag him eagerly to their door.
He fidgets anxiously as his older brother swipes the keycard a few times before
it gives and he practically sprints to the California king bed, throwing
himself in the newly stacked mountain of pillows.
“Pajamas!” Stiles protests as he shuts the door behind him.
Isaac unearths himself, muttering grumpily as he begins to strip blindly,
making grabby motions for his luggage to fumble free some sleep wear. He
quickly climbs into it before diving right back into bed and out of sight.
Stiles chuckles and makes his way to the bathroom to relieve his bladder. When
he exits, he surprised to see a blurry-eyed Isaac sitting up with an unhappy
frown. “What’s the matter?” he asks.
“It smells wrong,” Isaac hoarsely complains. “Not like home or — can you come
sit with me?”
Stiles blinks curiously at the request but he nods and treks over. He has to
push some pillows out of the way to get to his little brother. He settles
propped against a pile of pillows behind him as Isaac rests half of his body in
his older brother’s lap. He threads his fingers through the preteen’s curls.
"This okay?" he asks.
Isaac nods with a tired sigh.
Stiles continues to silently run his fingers through Isaac's soft, blond curls.
“I miss dad,” Isaac mumbles as he rubs his cheek against his brother’s leg like
a total cat. “I miss home.”
“Me too,” Stiles concurs quietly.
Isaac finally settles with a sigh and he says, “Cora challenged me into a
hotdog eating contest, which she won, and then as a consolation prize, made me
ride Vertical Velocity until I puked. It was terrible.” Then he adds, “She’s
awesome.”
“You guys are confusing,” Stiles huffs as he continues to stroke the mop of
curls resting on the preteen forehead away from his eyes. “As long as she’s, I
don’t know, nice to you. I guess I can be fine with this bizarre camaraderie
you two have got going.”
Isaac just hums tiredly and grins slightly as his eyelids begin to droop.
“I..." he hesitates. "I want to ask a question, but I don't want to make you
upset?"
"I mean, yeah, I can't promise not to be. But you're not cruel, so I won't hold
it against you," Stiles replies, amused. "What's the question?"
"It's just that..." Isaac hesitates again, but he seems to be finding the right
words to say what he needs to. "You and dad never talk about your mom."
Stiles stiffens. He can't help it, but he forces himself to relax. "When she
died," he says carefully. "It was really hard to heal from. But, I think it's
healthier to talk about it...about her. Even though it hurts. What did you want
to ask?"
"I don't really know. I just wanted to know about her. What was her name?"
"Claudia. Claudia Justyna Wojtanek. Well, formerly Wojtanek. It became
Stilinski when she married my dad."
"Was she born here?"
"No. But neither was dad, you know, him with Canada and all that. You and I are
the only Americans in our family. Ha, you can tell dad I said that. He always
gets grumpy about it. Uh, anyway. She lived in Warsaw with her family on a
vineyard for most of her life. She left Poland when she attended Berkeley for a
degree in ECON. That's where she met my dad while he was doing his law
enforcement training."  
"What did she look like?"
"Dad would say I was her spitting image. She had brown hair, spotted moles
everywhere, paler than snow most days, even in the California sun. Her English
was spotty, like really spotty, and most days she would mix up words
like 'shellfish' and 'selfish'. She loved to cook so much that dad and I had to
bribe her out of the kitchen sometimes. And she always wore her flaws like a
point of pride. It's something I always admired about her."
"She sounds wonderful," Isaac says quietly, almost like a whisper. "I wish I
could have met her."
"Yeah," Stiles agrees gently, even as his eyes grow warm at the thought, and
his heart gets heavy with sorrow. "She would have loved you."
Isaac puts a hand over his. "I have you," he supposes. "I think you're a pretty
decent echo."
Stiles snorts, even as he quickly scrubs his arm across his eyes to dry his
face. "Pretty decent, he says," he mocks. "Compared to her, maybe I am."
"Your the best I've ever known," Isaac mutters, frankly. "You and dad both."
Stiles smiles and tugs playfully at his ear.
Isaac scowls but doesn't complain. "Tell me more about her."
Stiles thinks back. Way back, and let's himself see her as he did. He says,
“She was the salt of the Earth. Usually you don't really get it when someone
says that, but because of her, I do. She wasn't good at singing but she loved
it anyway. She loved music, which is why she gave lessons. She loved playing
the piano too. And cooking, but I'm sure I said that. She just really loved
cooking," he rambles, mindlessly. "She made everything from scratch. She
was just a little old-fashioned in that way. Well, if you can consider that to
be old-fashioned. She despised anything automatic outside of the electric stove
oven. I once caught her berating a brand new toaster oven my dad bought because
he was tired of having to wait for her to make a loaf of bread from scratch and
then putting it in the broiler to toast.” He expects Isaac to laugh with him
about it, but Isaac is curiously quiet.
When Stiles glances down, he finds his little brother looking up at him this
strange look on his face. “What?” he says. “What's with that face?”
“You were speaking in Polish. I couldn’t understand a thing you were
saying,” Isaac explains as he sits up on his elbows. "Did you not know?"
Stiles blinks and thinks back. Then he realizes that he was. His tongue was
working extra hard to curve over the vowels - he really should have noticed the
switch. “Ah, sorry,” he retorts, shrugging jerkily before he quickly turns his
face away so Isaac doesn’t see how unsettled he is. “I don't usually get a
chance to — without her — sorry, I really didn't notice. Uh. Anyway, I was just
saying that she loved music and cooking.”
Isaac looks at him for a long time before he lays his head down on Stiles's lap
again.
It's quiet for a long time, and Stiles tries to pass it by stroking Isaac's
hair again.
Isaac finally breaks it by asking, “Do you think dad will marry Melissa?”
“Yes,” Stiles says without hesitation, though he doesn’t know how he knows
without knowing. “Dad would tell us before it happened. You know how he is.
He’ll make sure we can adapt to it.” He then says, "Why? Would it be such
a terrible thing?" 
“No. Not at all. I just want dad to be happy,” Isaac mumbles with a jaw-
cracking yawn. “I'm just not into the idea of possibly sharing a room with
Scott.”
Stiles huffs as he swipes his thumb over Isaac’s eyebrow as if to groom it.
“How do you know we won’t move?”
“We can’t,” Isaac decides. “You’ve got Nana and your garden there. I don’t want
to move anyway. I like our home.”
Stiles supposes he has a point. “I don’t want to move either,” he admits. “I’m
sure they’ll work something out.”
Isaac just makes an incomprehensible sound of agreement. “Talk to me,” he
requests after a while. “It’ll help me sleep.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended by that,” Stiles remarks but
he follows through regardless. He talks idly, reciting facts at random, and
generally anything that springs to mind.
Isaac drifts off to the sound of his voice well after the clock reads midnight
and he doesn’t show any signs of stirring.
Even his magic is sound asleep.
Stiles is sliding away carefully when there’s a light knock to their door. He
treks to it, switching lights off as he does so, and he cracks the door open to
see Cora and Derek standing there. He steps out into the hall and gives them a
questioning look.
“My brother wants to take you out on a date,” Cora drawls as she pushes past
him to tuck away into the room. “I’m here to look after Isaac.” The door click
shuts behind her.
Stiles lets that process for a second before he looks to Derek. “A date?”
Derek rolls his eyes with a smile and says, “I never said it was a date. She
likes to assume.”
Stiles scratches the back of his head. “Okay. So, then…what are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise,” Derek replies. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Stiles says with hesitation.
Derek scratches the side of his nose, which is his way of hiding a self-
satisfied grin, and says, “Close your eyes, and keep them closed until I say
it’s okay to open them.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow but he lets his eyelids fall shut. He says nothing when
he feels Derek’s warm hand press to his lower back, urging him forward in an
unknown direction.
                                      ---
“Okay. Open.”
Stiles peeks an eye open, and then the other.
They’re standing at the deserted gates of Six Flags, which begins to light up
and come to life.
“I had Kate pull some strings for us. She’s good at stuff like that,” Derek
explains. “Didn’t really seem fair that you were the only one that didn’t get
to enjoy any of the rides today. I thought you and I could try again.”
Stiles stares at him.
Derek patiently looks back.
Stiles tries to stare at him harder.
"What?" Derek laughs and fidgets.
Stiles blinks. Then blinks one more time.
"You need some eye drops, or something? Your face is kind twitching."
"Oh my god, shut up." Stiles shoves Derek as the older teen laughs. “You are
completely unreal.” He pokes Derek’s cheek as if to confirm this theory.
“Howare you real?” he mutters, amazed. Then he laughs a little deliriously.
“This is unreal,” he insists as he glances back to the lit park.
“I will take that as a…good thing?” Derek has this adorably unsure face before
he grins bemusedly. “Come on. I promised mom that we would be back before
astronomical twilight. We can go clockwise.”
“Uh, yeah. Sounds good to me,” Stiles agrees, still floored.
Derek beams and tangles their fingers together before striding to their first
ride with a purpose.
The first ride happens to be Superman and it’s completely awesome.
“Can we go again?” Stiles begs, breathless by the time the red lap bars pop up.
“Seriously, I want to go again.”
Derek nods and gives the two employees a thumbs-up to signal they want to go
again.
They go about four more times.
Stiles is so chock full of adrenaline by the time they stumble off, he’s
bouncing in his shoes. “Okay what’s next?” he asks, giddy with the thrill.
Derek looks so very amused but enthralled by the color in the younger teen’s
cheeks and the twinkle in his eye. “Stiles, when was the last time you were on
a rollercoaster?”
“Sixth grade, maybe,” Stiles supposes as he grabs Derek’s hand so he can pick
up their pace. “You’re walking too slow!” he complains.
Derek throws his head back and laughs but willingly allows himself be dragged
to the Dark Night ride.
Stiles likes it enough to go twice but nothing more because it’s a little rough
on his neck. As they exit, he says, “You think they’d notice if I stole a
prop?”
“Don’t steal anything,” Derek huffs as he pushes him out of the building and to
the direction of the King Chaos ride. “Not unless I decide I want it too. Then
we’ll steal it together and discuss custody arrangements.”
“This is an acceptable plan,” Stiles agrees soberly before they laugh.
King Chaos is the kind of ride that almost acts like an oversized swing, only
it spins you around while it spins you around.
Stiles gets vertigo from it and he spits at the ride as soon as they’re far
enough from it. “My brain feels scrambled,” he complains as he leans into Derek
before frowning and pushing the older teen away. “You gave me no warning.”
“Thought you could handle it,” Derek merely says with a shrug. “I like the ride
just fine.”
“Ugh.” Stiles picks up his stride as they cross over onto Yankee Harbor, and he
has to pause just outside of the Batman ride to get his bearings. “I might need
to put my head between my knees. You ever feel like your stomach was trying to
escape, but like, not through your mouth?”
“When we were toddlers, whenever Cora was pissed at me about something, she
used to sit on top of me and force me to watch her swallow worms like
spaghetti,” Derek confesses as he makes a face and shudders in disgust at the
memory. “So, yes. I definitely know the feeling.”
Stiles laughs but he kind of gags at that visual too. “I hate you,” he chokes
out, eyes getting misty with his laughter. “Why would you even reference that
right now?”
Derek just shrugs and smiles cheerily. After about two beats of silence, he
says, “Are you okay now? Do you need me to carry you?”
“Shut up,” Stiles retorts and straightens. He shakes out his hands, then says,
“Race you!” before sprinting off.
Derek almost bowls him over when they make it to the end and he spends a full
minute steadying the younger teen so he doesn’t topple over in an excuse to be
handsy.
Stiles blushes and slaps his wandering hands away before climbing into the
front seat. “Any excuse, huh?” he accuses, throwing the older teen a look as he
buckles in.
Derek just blinks innocently at him. “I was just making sure you didn’t fall,”
he swears but he smirks. “But yeah. Any excuse.” He winks.
Stiles flushes and shakes his head. “Watch it. This is really starting to feel
like a date,” he warns, half-serious.
Derek just presses a finger to his own lips, shushing him with a grin as the
ride starts up.
Stiles might have enjoyed it if it hadn’t been for the fact that he constantly
felt as if he was going to knock his feet into a tree or something. Needless to
say, he doesn’t ask for an encore.
Derek leads him to the Vertical Velocity with this mischievous look in his
hazel green eyes.
Stiles can’t figure out why until they’re climbing in and pulling down their
lap bars.
Vertical Velocity happens to be the kind of ride that shoots off like a rocket
with no warning, going backwards and forwards into the sky.
Stiles stumbles off the ride with shaky knees, glaring as Derek laughs so hard
that he has to brace himself against something. “I’m glad you find this so
funny. I almost peed myself, you jerk,” he complains, breathlessly.
Derek just keeps on laughing.
Stiles ends up chasing him all the way through Yukon Territory to County Fair
and up until they reach X-Flight. He manages to forgive the teen by the time
they’re climbing in and buckling up but only because this is the first ride
Derek actually looks honest to god giddy over. It’s not until they’re pulling
back into the station does Stiles understand why.
The coaster is literally like riding on the wing of a plane.
Stiles understands what the appeal would be for Derek from what little he knows
about the older teen’s inherited love of flying. He’s curious to know more
about it, but he holds all his questions for when they’re not zooming through
the air.
After having gone twelve times already, he actually has to beg Derek not to ask
for another go.
Derek pouts theatrically but he quickly gets over it as he detangles from the
seat easily, shaking his head fondly as he walks up to Stiles to help free him
from his own trappings.
“So you really love flying,” Stiles states rather than ask while they backtrack
some to venture to the American Eagle ride. “Laura mentioned something to that
effect when we were taking off yesterday.”
“Yeah,” Derek admits easily as he keeps his gaze forward, but his expression
gets a little wistful. “I don’t know how to explain. Cora’s always been better
at describing it than I ever was. She once said that flying for us is pretty
much like trying your favorite dessert for the first time, you know, before you
even knew something could taste so good. Before you even knew you were looking
for something like that. Only it’s a million times more intense.”
“That’s a pretty clear visual,” Stiles assures as they pause at the ride’s
crossroad. “That’s kind of how I feel when I’m performing forest-magic.”
Derek nods and smiles. “Maybe I can take you flying some time,” he supposes,
but he says it almost shyly.
“Yeah.” Stiles can’t say he would be opposed to the idea. “Your dad’ll be there
too though, right? Not that I don’t trust your abilities but —”
Derek laughs. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m not certified, so that’s a fair
question.” He glances up at the signs overhead. “Blue car or red car?”
Stiles frowns and turns to look at what he’s talking about. The ride appears to
be split into two sides, color coordinated by red and blue. “Blue, of course,”
he answers because it’s not even a question.
“Of course,” Derek echoes with a smirk. “Picking your favorite color. Obvious.”
“Like you wouldn’t pick green if that was an option,” Stiles points out and
starts shoving him towards the stairs.
The American Eagle is the park’s oldest ride, and it sure feels like it. The
friction and turbulence leaves a lot to be desired.
“I thought the whole freaking thing would collapse,” Stiles swears as they exit
after having only gone just once.
Derek snorts. “Is that why you were screaming the whole time?”
“Shut up. You were too!”
“In sympathy,” Derek explains and jumps out of the way when Stiles tries to
swat at his shoulder.
“So, what was Braeden’s favorite ride?” Stiles asks, curious enough to want to
know.
Derek says, “It’s a toss-up between the Demon and Raging Bull.”
“Should I pretend that I don’t find that surprising?” Stiles asks and smiles
when the older teen bumps their shoulders together playfully.
“Not at all,” Derek replies.
Stiles is suddenly reminded of something she said earlier. “She’s enlisting?”
“She’s been recruited actually,” Derek amends. “CIA and special ops. She
doesn’t tell me much, merely because she says she can’tbut that’s the gist of
it.”
“Wow,” Stiles marvels. Then he finds himself asking, “Is she doing it because
she wants to or because her parents did something of the same?”
“Little of both, maybe,” Derek supposes when they finally reach their next ride
(the Demon). “Her dad went missing during a mission overseas about six years
ago. It kind of got to her. She was really close to him.”
“That’s terrible,” Stiles says as they pause before they get to the final
threshold in the line.
Derek nods. “I think not knowing what happened is taking it’s toll on Brae and
her family. Keeps them from finding peace,” he reasons. “She’ll go into her
career looking for answers. I know her. She doesn’t give up, and she doesn’t
give in. She’ll hunt down the truth relentlessly.”
“I’ve been there before,” Stiles admits, and he realizes what he’s let slip
when Derek gives him a questioning look. “I told you my mom died when I was
younger, but I never explained what happened. Well, that’s because I can’t.” He
shakes his head. “I remember we were at a neighbor’s house for a barbeque.
Fourth of July. Someone said something about there being no more hamburger buns
and my mom volunteered to make the run. My dad wanted to go with her but she
said she didn’t feel comfortable leaving me with strangers.” He exhales
shakily. “The next thing I know is my dad’s calling a taxi to take us to the
hospital. Mom was already dead when she’d arrive and — as far as the doctors
could tell, she was perfectly fit. They couldn’t give my dad and I a single
explanation of how someone as healthy and as active as she was just simply went
into cardiac arrest. And believe me, I’ve done enough research to confirm
that.”
“I’m so sorry,” Derek says and he staring at him with earnest eyes. “I can’t
even pretend to know what that must be like.”
Stiles gives a jerky shrug. “It sucks and sometimes it feels like I’ll never be
able to move on completely, but I’m learning to remember more of the good
things than the bad.” He gnaws at his bottom lip anxiously.
“What do you do? For the fourth of July, I mean.”
“Try not cry?” Stiles jokes weakly before he sighs. “Dad and I don’t usually
have the energy to celebrate it properly, but, I don’t know, now that we have
Isaac, that might change.”
“You guys should join us,” Derek suggests. “We usually always have enough food
and fireworks to go around. I can’t say it’ll take your mind off of things
completely, but it might help.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says. “I’ll run it past my dad. See what he thinks.”
Derek nods.
“Well,” Stiles exhales. “I kind of brought the mood down. Sorry.”
Derek rolls his eyes and reels him into a hug. “I wish you wouldn’t apologize
for things like this. Good or bad, I like seeing different sides of you,” he
promises. “How many times do I have to tell you I likeyou until you understand
I mean that in every definition of the word?”
Stiles hides his burning face into the older teen’s shoulder and hugs back.
“You can tell me anything, anytime, anyplace,” Derek goes on to say, speaking
gently as though he doesn’t want to spook the younger teen. “I’ll always be
ready to listen.” He adds, “You don’t have to worry. I won’t leave you behind.
Not for Braeden, not for anyone.”
“Derek,” Stiles chokes and pulls back. He bumps their foreheads together in a
chastising way. “That’s too much,” he whispers and shudders when the older teen
presses their cheeks together.
Derek just hums thoughtfully before brushing his nose against Stiles’s jaw. He
says, “I really want to kiss you.”
Stiles presses the fingers of his left hand to Derek’s soft mouth and uses the
leverage to push him away as he goes scarlet. “You’re painfully honest,” he
complains.
“Possibly,” Derek idly considers. “But I can’t help it. You’re very
attractive.”
Stiles scrubs his face as he snorts ironically. He drops his hands and says,
“Derek, I’m pretty sure there’s not a word that does your looks justice.”
“I’m partial to ‘devilishly handsome’,” Derek suggests as he wiggles his
eyebrows with a gorgeous grin.
“There’s no way,” Stiles scoffs as he continues on to the ride.
Derek says, “But I’m totally willing to tell you how pretty you are every
single day for the rest of our lives. You can’t at least give me that?”
Stiles stumbles and almost face plants into the train car. He shoots Derek a
look after he manages to right himself and climb in.
Derek just meets his gaze evenly. “What?”
“You know what, you loser!” Stiles exclaims as he buckles up and pulls his lap
bar. “You’re being presumptuous again. We’re not even — we’re still talking.”
“And I enjoy our talks,” Derek merely agrees. “I think we’re building great
momentum. I can’t help that I’m optimistic about the future.”
“Yeah but…” Stiles doesn’t get a chance to finish because the ride begins. It
lasts only for a minute but it feels like longer because he spends the whole
time bracing himself for every bump and sharp turn. He climbs out of the ride
with what feels like a spinal injury.
“Here.” Derek cups his hand over the side of Stiles’s neck and leeches the
pain. “Better?”
Stiles slumps into his side because, “Yeah. Much better. Thanks.”
Derek nods and says, “I think we should skip Viper. It’s just as bad as this
one.”
“Good call.”
“What were you going to say before?” Derek asks as they walk to their next ride
lazily. "Before the ride started, I mean. You didn't finish."
Stiles frowns and tries to think back. He says, “I can’t remember. That stupid
ride must have knocked it out of my head.” He’s surprised that his magic hasn’t
stirred yet, but apparently it’s a deep sleeper when the occasion calls for it.
“It’ll come back to you,” Derek supposes as they approach the Giant Drop. He
nods at the employees as they make their way to their seats. “We have one more
ride after this.”
“Gotcha,” Stiles says as they begin to ascend twenty stories into the air,
where they are given the best view before their car is released unexpectedly,
sending them plunging towards the ground. He doesn’t even remember grabbing
Derek’s hand in the midst of it all, but it certainly fails to escape his
notice when he realizes how tightly he’s clinging.
Derek just looks over at him with this pleased yet breathless grin, eyes a
little dazed with his thrill from the ride and cheeks slightly pink from the
adrenaline.
Stiles takes a second to appreciate the sight before he forces himself to
detangle from the trappings of his seat. As they walk to the final ride (Raging
Bull), he voices a thought and asks, “How is that a pack of Werewolves can hop
onto rollercoasters without the fear of shifting in plain sight? With the
adrenaline, I mean.”
Derek grins, amused. “It’s not adrenaline that makes the shift hard to control.
It’s the anxiety that follows stress, anger, fear or arousal,” he clarifies.
“Say no more,” Stiles says as he snorts. “Last ride, huh?”
“Last ride,” Derek confirms when they reach their destination. “Front, back, or
middle?”
“That sounds like innuendo,” Stiles huffs and snickers when Derek rolls his
eyes. “Middle.”
“Middle,” Derek echoes and they commandeer the middle train car. “I hope you’re
ready.”
“What? Why?” Stiles questions as the ride starts. “Why would you wait to say
that when you know I can’t back out even if I wanted to?”
“Because I know you can’t back out even if you wanted to,” is Derek’s good-
natured reply.
Stiles kicks him as the car climbs up the track and spends the next minute
screaming his lungs out. As they pull back into the station, he says, “Okay. I
think I just found my favorite ride. Let’s go again.”
Derek nods and gives the two employees a thumbs-up to signal they want to go
again.
They go about eight more times.
What little adrenaline Stiles has left washes cold the minute they step foot
outside of the park to catch a taxi back to the hotel. He’s dead tired from the
excitement. He leans against Derek all the while, until they make it up to
their floor. He fumbles to swipe his keycard and pauses in the doorway when he
sees Cora and Isaac curled together on the bed.
Stiles sighs. He starts eyeing the couch but Derek’s tugging him across the
hall to his shared room before the idea of sleeping on that piece of furniture
can stick. It’s dark and he can barely see, but he does hear some light
snoring.
Must be Braeden.
Derek guides him to an empty bed before he pulls away and begins to strip down
to his underwear.
Stiles hesitates before he climbs into the bed, too tired to really put up a
fight about inconveniencing the older teen. He kicks off his socks and shoes,
moves to the far side of the bed, and grabs a pillow he can hug to his chest as
he faces the window while he lies on his right side.
Derek climbs in next, making the bed shift and dip with each movement until he
settles right in the middle of it. He reaches out and drags the younger teen
closer so he can spoon him from behind.
“Astronomical twilight,” Stiles mumbles randomly. “You said that earlier. That
you promised your mom we’d be back before then. What is that?”
Derek hums tiredly. “There are 3 types of twilight,” he clarifies. “Civil,
nautical, and astronomical.” He pauses to yawn. “Civil starts around five in
the morning. Nautical around four. Astronomical occurs about three.”
“Oh.” Stiles sighs as he lets the information sink in. “You really know your
space.”
“Bits and pieces,” Derek supposes quietly. “There’s always more to learn.”
Stiles hums thoughtfully as his legs shift under the covers.
Derek snorts. "You were falling asleep a minute ago. What happened?"
"I was focused on lying down. I've accomplished that goal and now my mind is
looking for something else to think about."
Derek doesn't say anything at first. Or for a long time. Then he asks, "Whale
or dolphin?"
Stiles snorts, but he plays along. "Dolphin. You?"
"Whale."
"Swamp or amazon?"
"Amazon."
"Amazon," Stiles agrees. "Beach house or highrise?"
"Beach house."
"Same."
"Iron Man or Wonder Woman."
"Dude, that's not even fair. Wonder Woman."
"Iron Man," Derek replies with a scoff. "Think of the technology. And the
science."
"Yeah, of course you would be in it for the science."
"You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes at you and your plebeian ways," Derek
mutters. "Would you rather live in a nice house with an ugly view or an ugly
house with a nice view. You can't change the house or the view either."
"What? Why not?"
"Them's the rules."
"Bologna." Stiles sighs and takes a moment to think and weigh his options. "I
would pick the nice house. I like to live in luxury."
"Yeah, most people say the ugly house to impress other people but I agree,"
Derek says with an approving tone. "I like having the best. Company included."
"Wow, super flattered, Dee."
"Don't start or I'll take it back," Derek warns. "TV or movies?"
"Movies all day."
"TV is superior though."
"You're insulting my personal beliefs." Stiles asks, "If you could only eat one
thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?"
"Man, you're asking the real soul burning questions now," Derek teases, and
laughs quietly when Stiles kicks him. "Uh, I guess, if I reallyhad to choose,
then it would be, anything with chili."
"Not chili itself?"
"As much as I absolutely love the taste of chili, I only like it paired with
other things, you know, hot dogs or nachos or whatever. Almost as much as I
love Nana's crêpes."
Stiles nods and files the information away for later use. "Her crêpes are
pretty legit," he reasons. "It'd have to be tacos for me. Just steak tacos I
think."
"Tacos are good," Derek decides, sounding amused and thoughtful. "Morning or
night?"
"Actually, I don't like getting up before ten a.m. if I can help it.
So...slightly morning?"
Derek snorts. "I feel the same way, only I aim for before noon. What’s your
biggest pet peeve?"
Stiles tries to think of something, but these questions are kind of wearing him
down, making him crave sleep. "Uh, I guess, like, when my name is pronounced
wrong. Or if I don't get a straight answer to a question I ask. Also people who
take my things without asking. Or like take my food without asking."
"Doesn't Kate steal your jello all the time?" Derek questions but there is a
little laughter in his voice.
Stiles sighs despairingly. "Yes, but I had to accept that. Anyway, she's
graduated. Shouldn't be a future problem anymore. What about you? Though I
think I know."
"Oh yeah? Humor me then."
"People who talk with food in their mouth."
"Lucky guess. I also don't like when people talk over me. That happens almost
always with my cousins though. Not really fond of when people drink directly
out of something without getting a cup."
"Guilty as charged."
"Ugh, please don't tell me you do that. I had such high hopes for us."
Stiles laughs quietly with a smile as his eyes fall shut. “You know…” he
whispers drowsily. “Braeden’s probably going to pitch a fit in the morning.”
“Probably.” Derek shifts closes. “I don’t care.”
“I’m going to have to blame you for my own self-preservation.”
“I still don’t care,” Derek murmurs, wrapping his arms around him and pressing
his forehead to his shoulder, chest rumbling.
Stiles mumbles grumpily.
Derek huffs in amusement and shushes him while he laces their fingers together,
squeezing their fingers gently.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up with the taste of honey in his mouth, the feel of arms around
him, and a forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. He blinks, frowning at
the sound of whirring vents pumping cool air, and his thumb subconsciously
strokes the wrist of the arm he has hugged to his chest. He realizes it’s Derek
who is pressed up against him, almost all skin, lean and long, spooning him
tightly; and his body happily soaks up the older teen’s body heat greedily,
keeping him comfortably warm in an otherwise chilly room. They’re lying on
their sides and Derek’s wearing nothing but his underwear, Stiles is still in
his street clothes, so there isn't a lot of skin on skin contact.
They’re facing the windows with closed, hanging blinds that extend from left to
right, rocking gently from the air circulating around the room in a side to
side sway. Along the edges of the window, Stiles can see the glowing flashes of
lightning. The dim light coming in is pretty deceiving because though it still
looks to be dark outside, he’s mindful of the pitter patter of the rain hitting
the glass, which means that the clouds are too thick for sunlight to pass
through. He tries to glance around from his position to locate a clock but his
line of sight is very limited. He turns very slowly, and very carefully,
putting his back to the windows so he’s facing Derek completely.
His dark hair is slightly unkempt from sleep but not overly so, and his thick
eyebrows twitch together in no exact pattern. His eyes are moving slowly under
his eyelids, making his lashes brush against his slightly pink cheeks while his
lips sag into a peaceful frown. Something indescribable spreads through
Stiles’s chest, making his magic stir, and he can't help but to think about how
beautiful Derek is. It kind of makes him breathless.
If Stiles lets himself, he could almost lose himself to the desire of wanting
to kiss Derek. He doesn’t though. He swallows it down until he’s not wrestling
with it and he let’s his magic roam freely when it presses at him desperately
for it. He knows it won’t go far, and he’s right. As soon as it escapes him in
a flash of blue light, it floats and settles over Derek like an ethereal mist,
encasing him with excited affection.
He watches as his magic splits itself into a dozen small ethereal blue
butterflies, sitting on different points of Derek’s body, like in his hair, on
the tip of his nose, his shoulder, his hip or his arm. They flap their tiny
wings and float around him, jumping from limb to limb as though Derek is the
perfect flowerbed.
Stiles smiles wistfully as he sees it all unfold but soon the smiles fades and
twists into a frown of confusion. He smells incense; raw and bitter as it wafts
over from the living room. What follows is the sound of light tantric music. He
slides out of bed carefully, not wanting to disturb Derek, and he lets his feet
carry him to the living room.
The furniture has been moved against the wall almost strategically, giving a
sort of a different weight and atmosphere to the room. Seven sticks of incense
burn hot but slow on the coffee table where they’re clumped together like a
bouquet in a porcelain mug.
Braeden lies in wait in the very center of the room as though everything around
her is left at the mercy of her gravity. She’s in ivory yoga pants and sports
bra. Her athletic legs are crossed like a pretzel, eyes closed as her full
lashes twitch against her bronze cheeks, and slender fingers steepled right
against her sternum. Her head is held high, exposing the claw marks on her neck
brazenly while her hair rests in a low, messy bun.
Her magic is condensed into a single ethereal cloud of ivory vapor in the shape
of a miniature humpback whale that floats around her as though swimming in
unseen water.
Stiles is entranced by the sight, not because it is beautiful to behold,
because it is. But because it’s familiar, almost kindred, and it pleases him to
see someone like him in their own element, doing what he can do.
“Good morning, uninvited room guest,” Braeden drawls as her brown lips twist
into a smirk. She opens her eyes and they glow hot with ivory.
Stiles’s own eyes bleed into honey-gold instinctively, as if to say hello.
Braeden cocks her head and glances down pointedly at the space in front of her,
then up to him again. “I know you’re curious, neighbor. Meditation is the fruit
of the spirit for our people.” Then she adds, “Sit so we can chit-chat. You can
do your walk of shame later.”
Stiles ignores the jab as he makes his way over and sits across from her,
folding his legs under him while his hands curl over his bare knees. He calls
his magic to him and it comes floating over in no real tangible form, coiling
around his shoulders like a bioluminescent shawl.
“Huh.” Braeden’s ivory eyes peer at it almost eagerly. “That’s really
impressive how malleable it is. I can’t get my magic to form into anything
other than a whale. And that’s only easy to do because it’s my favorite kind
animal, heaven forbid Whit Lee ever hear me say that, he’s a jealous little
thing.”
Stiles doesn’t really understand why his magic’s ability to be ever changing
can be considered a big deal. “Is it not normal?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t say that. But Virtues don’t tend to have much flexibility with what
they can do with their magic when it's away from the body and spirit. It takes
a lot of control and focus. Even years to make it do what you appear to be able
to do without even thinking about it,” Braeden clarifies, and she’s obviously
impressed.
“I don’t makeit do anything,” Stiles carefully corrects. “My magic is its own.
We have an understanding. I kind of support anything it does to be honest.”
“Well for someone who doesn’t even have a Conduit yet, you’re pretty fucking
advanced in the magical bonding department,” Braeden marvels as her magic swims
over, butting curiously at Stiles's magic, which vibrates in amusement. “You
might have to show me a thing or two. Imagine that.”
Stiles wouldn’t even know where to begin, but he doesn’t voice this. He’s too
busy watching as his magic uncoils, floating off to the side to mimic Braeden’s
magic by splitting itself into several baby whales.
“Holy shit,” Braeden whispers as she watches as well. “Your magic can divide?
Holy fucking shit. Now that’s just showing off.” She stares and watches as
their magic chases each other playfully. “Okay. I take back at least about
thirteen point two-five percent of my criticism of you.”
Stiles snorts wryly.
“Be grateful,” Braeden insists before she forces her gaze away from the display
and directs it to him. “While our magic is having it’s little play date, you
and I need to talk about a game plan for when we return to Beacon Hills. I
meant what I said about the Benefactor thing. I want to help you get a face and
a name by the end of the week at the very least.”
“I’m not going to say no or refuse that help, but how exactly do you expect for
us to do that?” Stiles questions.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Braeden retorts sarcastically. “Basically I’m
going to devote all my time and manpower into helping you unravel all those
tangled web of mysteries.”
Stiles raises both eyebrows at that.
“And I’ve got the perfect place for us to start,” Braeden goes on to say as she
smirks. “The Nemeton.”
***** courtesy *****
“I’ve got the perfect place for us to start,” Braeden goes on to say as she
smirks. There’s nothing nice about the way she does it. It’s all sharp angles
that seem to point up to her gleaming, mischievous brown eyes. “The Nemeton.”
“I have a feeling the answer is obvious,” Stiles states slowly because he’s
getting better at understanding the way she operates when it comes to him. “But
I’ll ask anyway — why would we start there?”
“It’s the birthplace of everything right and wrong in Beacon Hills. It’s
practically a well of power, which has been tapped into by your little nemesis,
the Benefactor,” Braeden explains patiently. She runs her tongue over her front
teeth as she takes a moment to think. “I’ll put it to you this way: we’re Fae
and we have magic, but you can’t say that you’ve never pulled from other
sources. The Sun, the Moon, the Earth, other Fae, even Fate — though that last
one is almost impossible unless you’re the best of the best or some shit.”
Stiles kindly does not mention that this is something he’s done on more than
one occasion. He can only imagine how she’d react to that, and he needs their
relationship to be a little better before he can just share trade secrets
comfortably.
Braeden’s still talking, “…we’re like links to a chain. We can connect
ourselves to almost anything to forge the strongest cable of magic possible.
Isn’t your Druid teaching you anything? This is like basic stuff. Don’t tell me
you’re thatmuch of a fucking newbie.”
“Deaton teaches me what’s valuable when I need it, and tells me what’s vital
when I ask for it,” Stiles replies evenly, ignoring the jab.
Braeden’s eyes widen a little and she looks a little appalled as she scowls.
“Deaton’syour Druid?” she says, sounding outraged.
Stiles nods very slowly, unsure if it’s wise to do so or not.
But Braeden, for all her difficulties, doesn’t react violently. She just
mutters quickly and quietly to herself before summoning her magic to her hands.
Her eyes glow and her hands become flush with ivory light and she elegantly
orchestrates her magic like a puppet master with a gallery of their best
puppets. Her hands move in graceful loops until a black cigarette case
dispenser and lighter are floating to her on small, puffy clouds of ivory. It
hovers in front of her face as she retrieves a single brown cigarette and
lights it before she sends the remainder back to her bags.
Stiles watches as she sucks at it greedily, the tip burning an unnatural
reddish purple, but it doesn’t even compare to the heat in her eyes. He has a
feeling he said the wrong thing, but she doesn’t confirm it if so, no matter
how long she stares at him unhappily like she’s willing him to change into
something she actually likes. He’s beginning to think that it’s probably always
going to be like this with her.
Braeden summons an ashtray before dismissing her magic entirely until it
settles all around her, sinking back in and out of sight like a dewy mist. Her
left eyebrow twitches with agitation, but her voice is as steady as ever as she
continues, words enveloped by purple smoke that twinkles, “Magic has a
fingerprint. Like code but more complex. A living signature. That’s why the
Nemeton. It's like a reference, or the timestamp card you find on the inside of
a library book. We'll be able to see who last checkedit out. If you get my
meaning.”
“You know Trace magic,” Stiles realizes, and only because he’s read just
glimpses of it in the bible of Virtues. It’s referenced so little, and even
then it’s treated like it’s nothing to be proud or boastful of. If he had to
guess, he’d assume that it must err on the dark side of Fae magic. In all
fairness, it does require a living sacrifice, and Virtues do not dabble in
death (at least they’re not supposed to). That is Vice territory. “I thought
Tracing was forbidden to us Virtues.”
“There are…exceptions,” Braeden hedges as she exhales sparkling, purple smoke
that smells sweetly of wet sunflowers and warm, honeyed milk. She looks away
from him to follow his magic as it takes the form of a litter of kittens made
of ethereal blue light, nosing around the perimeter of the room, climbing over
the furniture, or curling into Stiles’s lap, shoulders, and the crown of his
head in a very territorial manner. “Jesus, you don’t even blink when your magic
does that shit,” she comments, voice tinged with something.
Stiles sighs quietly because he doesn’t have it in him to attempt to decipher
that look and says, “You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Tracing.”
“And if I have?” Braeden challenges. She flicks her cigarette over the ashtray
balanced on her right thigh and the ash falls like glitter. It must be made
from magic because normal cigarettes don’t do any ofthat.
“If you think I’m going to lecture you, you should know that I don’t know
enough about Tracing to do so,” Stiles admits as he watches her cigarette with
curious interest. He wants to ask but he won’t. She’d probably be a dick about
it anyway. “But that’s not to say it won’thappen when I finally do because I
have a feeling it’s not going to be a method I’m going to agree with.”
Braeden snorts and lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll continue to take my chances,
thanks,” she retorts dryly. She goes back to looking peeved. “Derek really
should have asked me before letting you sleep here,” she decides, mostly to
herself as she sucks away and exhales heart-shaped clouds of twinkling, purple
smoke. It really contradicts her words.
Stiles can’t keep up with the mood swings or the irony. But nevertheless, her
comment causes some kind of ripple affect, and all the bioluminescent kittens
bristle defensively on his behalf.
Braeden doesn’t even bat an eye at it. The only thing that seems to disappoint
her is reaching the end of her magical cigarette. “I don’t like unannounced
guests. He knowsthat.”
“You’re not my Dom, Brae. I don’t needyour permission. We’ve been over this,
haven’t we? We can do it again. I’m prepared to utilize PowerPoint and
flashcards if it comes to it.”
Stiles gets that familiar pulse-quick sensation at the sound of Derek’s voice,
which is still a bit wobbly from his sleep. He tries not to roll his eyes when
his kitten-shaped magic gallops over to Derek, eager and shining brightly
enough to almost blind.
When he cranes his head to see for himself what his magic will do, he can’t
even put a name to the warmth that spreads through his chest like soft ribbons
curling through the teeth of his ribcage at the sight.
Derek seems more amused and oddly fond of the way the glittering litter of
kittens tries to climb his half naked body like a tree, preening under his
watchful gaze.
“Make me coffee,” Braeden demands, bothered. She’s beginning to look really
prissy in an intimidatingly beautiful way. “Make me coffee and I’ll consider
being polite today.”
“To who?” Derek counters with a raised brow, entirely too comfortable with the
fact that he’s still in nothing but his underwear. He touches Stiles’s magic in
an almost distracted fashion as he glances to Stiles with a grin. “Good
morning. I don’t like that I woke up without you.”
Stiles flushes, jerking his gaze away the second he realizes his eyes have been
wandering inappropriately. “Just wanted to let you sleep. You always complain
when I disturb your rest,” he mumbles.
“That was one timeand you were whistling, Stiles,” Derek points out with a
breathy laugh and the sound practically squeezes Stiles's heart. “You’re not
allowed to hold that against me.”
“I’ll be niceto a personof your choice. Now how’s that sound, Miss Peaches?”
Braeden interrupts and she gives Stiles a knowing look that’s both amused and
annoyed. “You realize he wantsyou to eye-fuck him, right?”
Stiles feels his flush getting worse and it spreads rebelliously, right down to
the soles of his feet and to the roots of his hair.
“You talk too much,” Derek swears, sounding a little put out. “If you don’t let
me flirt the way I want to, I’m just going to spit in your coffee.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, and at this point, I think it adds character to the
flavor,” Braeden breezily replies as she gets on her hands and knees before
doing a handstand. And if that impressive display isn’t enough, she begins to
do pushups while she does a perfect upside down split.
Derek mutters, “Show off.” as he heads to the kitchen area with Stiles’s
otherworldly magic still clinging to him and trailing after him as doting
infant felines.
Stiles catches himself noticing the slope of the older teen’s neck, before his
gaze dips down to his shoulder blades, roaming his tan skin until he’s staring
at the way Derek’s hips move as he wanders around the kitchen. He really is
well toned and Stiles may have let that slip his notice but as oblivious as he
can be most times, there comes a point where when he does pay attention, he
reallypays attention. And right now he can’t stop.
“So are you going to kick him out or should I?” Braeden pants after a while.
Stiles jerks his gaze away to watch the way Braeden’s muscles ripple as she
continues to do pushups.
“Be nice,” Derek says from the kitchen and he sounds like a benevolent parent
indulging their spoiled child.
“Impossible without coffee,” Braeden drawls. “I’d like to get dressed in peace,
and while I don’t mind you seeing me naked, I doubt you want me to add him to
that growing list,” she kindly elaborates as she drops her feet to the floor
and straightens. She uses a nearby hand towel to mop up the sweat off her brow.
Derek makes his way over with two mugs of coffee, giving Braeden a pointed look
when he serves Stiles first and thenher.
“Cute, Miss Peaches,” Braeden mutters into her mug as she narrows her eyes at
Derek over the rim. “This tastes like dirt.”
Stiles knows she has to be lying because his coffee tastes like the most exotic
and mystically undiscovered parts of the upper heavens. “Oh my god,” he moans
quietly between sips. “Fish, popcorn, coffee — I am making a listof these
things, Derek.”
Derek grins, all self-satisfied, looking unfairly attractive and smug in
nothing but his underwear.
Stiles wishes the mug in his hands were bigger so he could hide how pink his
cheeks are. He takes a hasty sip, and chokes a little when he burns his tongue.
Braeden raises a finely arched eyebrow as his magic rushes back to him,
brushing his cup aside so that it can sink into his mouth in a film of
glittering blue vapor.
Stiles gets the impression that his magic is tsking at him as it soothes the
minor burns on his tongue with a cooling foam that froths over the slick
appendage sweetly. By the time his magic sinks down his throat and into his
ribcage, his tongue has completely healed.
Well that’s going to come in handy. I feel like you’ve been holding out on me.
I do only what is necessary, but do not expect me to correct all of your clumsy
fumblings. Then how will you learn from those mistakes?
There are a million ways to say ‘I love you’ but I think that one was my
favorite.
What a charitable assumption to give yourself.
I know you care for me a great deal, you just don’t know how to express it, Mr.
Darcy.
Absurd Faerie.
Stiles snorts and takes another sip of his coffee as his magic retreats further
into his chest where it pads around his heart. He glances over to Derek, who is
muttering complaints to Braeden about her lack of hospitality while Braeden
pretends not to hear it. He says, “I should probably get going anyway.”
Braeden’s mouth tilts upward a little. “Well Icertainly won’t keep you. Your
brother’s gotta be wondering where you are,” she adds before sashaying away.
Derek frowns after her and he says, purposefully loud, “Don’t let her attitude
put you out. This isn’t just herroom. It’s practically communal. Like an island
you can be voted off of.”
“Cocoa would side with me!” Braeden shouts from the bathroom.
“Cora wouldn’t,” Derek protests. Then mutters, “Not if she knew what was good
for her.”
“Both of ya’ll can get the fuck out for all I care,” Braeden replies, then
starts blasting Kendrick Lamar before slamming the door shut.
Derek’s frown deepens. After a few seconds, he says, “I’ll walk with you.”
“You should probably put some clothes on,” Stiles delicately states and Derek
shrugs but goes to do so. He sets his empty coffee mug on a nearby table and
waits.
Derek returns not even a moment later wearing a grey graphic tee of some
foreign beach and lightly ripped jeans. His hair is still a mess, but oddly (or
not oddly) enough, it works for him. He guides Stiles out the door and across
the hall to his room.
“It’s too early for Isaac to actually be awake,” Stiles supposes as he swipes
his keycard. He pauses in the doorway as Derek steps in behind him, close
enough to touch.
Cora is sitting in the bed with her legs folded into a pretzel, back pressed
against the headboard while Isaac’s head rests in her lap. She has a permanent
marker in her hand and she’s gleefully drawing a marker mustache on his slack
face. She doesn’t even look at them when she says, “He sleeps like the dead.
You can’t blame me for taking advantage of the opportunity.”
“Cora.” Derek lets out a longsuffering sigh. He weaves a few fingers through
his unkempt hair, tugging and petting more in a display of frustration than an
attempt to groom it. “You said you could be trusted. You promised—”
“To behave. I know, I know,” Cora interjects, annoyed. Her brow furrows and she
couldn’t look more like her older brother even if she tried. “This is as close
as I could get.” She looks down at her handiwork and smirks. “He’s gonna think
it’s funny. I’m not worried,” she decides as she slides off the bed before
padding over towards them, barefoot.
Derek catches the permanent marker with grace when she hurls it at him,
throwing it back just as quickly.
Cora merely ducks and continues, “And don’t make this all about me. You didn’t
come back last night like youpromised. How scandalous. Think of what the
neighbors will say, brother. Show at least a small manner of decorum in your
courting. Even a simpleton like you must marry.”
Derek presses a hand to Stiles’s hip and huffs. “I knewit was you that cleaned
me out for all my Jane Austen novels,” he accuses. “You’re almost as bad as
Uncle Peter.”
Cora flushes and she looks horrified. “Why would you —” she splutters before
her eyes flash dangerously and she growls. “I will murder you, Derek,” she
swears hotly.
Stiles jaw drops as he connects the dots and he grabs the hand Derek has
pressed to his hip with dazed glee. “You read period romances? Oh, oh,you like
—”
“Shut up,” Cora interjects, almost desperately. She actually pauses to swallow
like she’s trying to force down vomit. “You really shouldn’t —”
“Your favorite character is Mr. Darcy, isn’t it?” Stiles exclaims and barely
notices when Derek steps in closer to rest his chin on his shoulder as he laces
their fingers together. “No, that’s not it. You’re too similar to him. Maybe
you’re more of a Mary Crawford. Mansfield Park —”
“No, no, no,” Cora interrupts, growing even more alarmed. That horrified look
on her face intensifies. “Derek got the books from dad and so…sothey’re his. Or
they werebut it’s — he doesn't even use them like — so it's almost wasteful —”
“Oh my god, Cora.” Stiles feels like he’s been given the greatest piece of
information since the beginning of time. “You’ve read allof them then, haven’t
you? Pride and Prejudice. Emma. Persuasion. Lady Susan. Mansfield Park—”
“The historical importance of her social commentary,” Cora quickly explains,
almost desperately, like she’s trying to catch sand with her bare hands, “has
become widely accepted in academia as —”
“Stop cutting me off,” Stiles complains and he laughs gleefully in he face
of her sinister glare (which is full of dark promises and warnings). He’s not
even fazed at this point. “If you had taken a second to listen — if you would
just listen…” He huffs and shakes his head. “This isn’t me making fun. This is
like, you know, deep crying out to deep. Just, truthfully, Cora, I’m trying to
tell you that Mansfield Park is one of my favorite Jane Austen novels. That’s
all.”
Cora goes quiet. Her cheeks are still pink, and honestly there isn’t anything
to make that stop since she must realize that all that protesting beforehand
had been unnecessary. She swallows again and sighs like it’s been punched out
of her. After a minute or two, she finally manages to mutter, “Mine too.” with
as much dignity that she has left.
Derek snorts.
Stiles gives Cora a friendly grin and tugs a lock of Derek’s already unkempt
hair until he makes a fake wounded sound. “Be nice,” he reprimands lowly,
flinching away when Derek’s head snaps to the side so he can nip at Stiles’s
wrist. It only serves to both fluster and annoy him. “Could you stopwith the —
ugh, forget it. Your sister and I are totally bonding and you’re ruiningit.”
“Yeah, but they were my books to begin with,” Derek points out like the utter
spoiled child that he is and probably always will be. “You should be bonding
with me.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and hip checks the older teen away from him.
Cora’s collected herself by now but she still looks like she’s swallowed
something sour. “Don’t be fooled. He neglects to mention the fact that he never
actually read any of them. They were collecting dust by the time I got to
them,” she remarks, annoyed.
Derek coughs innocently and rocks on his heels with that boyishly charming grin
of his. “Maybe if you hadn’t stolen them…”
“Oh, so now it’s myfault?” Cora grumpily retorts and this is the opposite of
what Stiles wanted, still ready to engage passionately over their newly
discovered mutualinterests. He can’t do that if she’s being a cactus. She adds,
“You know you overlook anything that doesn’t come with crayons.”
“You little punk,” Derek starts and he takes a threatening step forward.
“Come on guys,” Stiles says, putting a hand on both of their shoulders, trying
to lighten the mood. “You’re both smart and pretty. No need to fight.”
Derek and Cora just level each other with an annoyed stare.
Stiles sighs. Well. So much for that.
Aunt Rosemary appears in the open doorway with Artemis at her hip and a raised
eyebrow. “Should I ask?” she inquires with unconcealed amusement.
Cora and Derek look away from each other wordlessly with identical unhappy
frowns.
Stiles gives a meager shrug because that’s all he can do at this point.
“Right,” Aunt Rosemary says and shifts Artemis to her other hip when he squirms
unhappily and kicks his little legs, eager to get down. “Well, I’ve just come
to tell you all that the family of Adelaide and Ezra, Mother Moon rest their
souls, has invited us to breakfast. They are terribly fond of Laura it seems,
and are grateful for the speech she gave the last time she was here, and wanted
to show their appreciation by honoring her on her birthday. Talia is adamant
that we don’t repay their kindness by showing up late. She wants us to leave in
the next forty minutes, so gather your things so they can be sent ahead of us
to the airport. We’ll be leaving as soon as we’re done eating.”
“I never pass up free food,” Cora says, combing her fingers through her hair
lazily. “Thanks for the heads up, Auntie Rose.”
Aunt Rosemary smiles but huffs when Artemis manages to slide down to the floor
and runs over to Derek. “Artemis, your cousin doesn’t have time to indulge
you,” she warns lightly.
Derek just chuckles and picks Artemis up as the toddler makes happy sounds,
resting his head on the teen’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I don’t have much I have
to do anyway. I’m practically packed to go,” he promises.
“If you’re sure. I still have to make my rounds to make sure everyone knows,
but I’ll be back to grab him,” Aunt Rosemary promises, eyeing her son with a
fondly exasperated face. “Trouble likes to find him, so please help him avoid
it, all right?”
Derek nods.
“And one more thing, and this is mostly for you, Stiles,” Aunt Rosemary
remarks. “The Gurnee Pack has certain traditionalvalues when it comes to men.
So during our visit, I would let Laura and Talia do all the talking. And if you
need anything or have a question, ask Nana Hale since she’s our Elder
Matriarch.”
“Um, okay,” Stiles replies, perplexed.
Aunty Rosemary just smiles at him before she walks over to kiss Artemis’s
forehead and then she exits the room.
“I’m going to get ready. Is the Duchess awake?” Cora asks and Derek nods.
“She’s going to soak up all the hot water if I don’t get over there to stop
her.” She glances discreetly to Isaac before she makes a pair of finger guns
and aims them at Artemis, who smiles back. “Try not to linger too long, Derek.
I’m not hauling your crap down to the lobby for you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Derek mutters as he watches her go.
Stiles waits until he hears the door across the hall click shut before he
closes his own. He curls his hand around the door handle as he turns to Derek
and says, “What kind of books do you like?”
“Hm?” Derek appears to be distracted by his little cousin trying to climb onto
his shoulders. He arranges the toddler until he’s comfortably settled and
fisting his chubby hands in Derek’s dark hair. “Say that again, I didn’t catch
it.”
“Books,” Stiles repeats and smiles against the urge to take a photo because
it’s a fetching sight to see Derek like this. “If you’re not into Jane Austen,
what doyou like?”
“Anything that can keep my attention. Otherwise, I’ll be too distracted to
really absorb it, and I’ll just end up reading the same sentence over and over
again,” Derek admits as he rocks back and forth on his heels, much to Artemis’s
delight. “Right now I’m kind of juggling time between The Feynman Lectures on
Physics and Gone Girl.”
“Isaac’s reading that too. Gone Girl.” Stiles has noticed a copy of said book
resting on his brother’s nightstand and it was bookmarked pretty deep. “I’m
still flipping my way through the Hobbitand Maze Runner. I was thinking of
starting The Illustrated Man. I’ve read it once before but I was younger, so I
don’t remember much. At least not enough to appreciate it.”
“That’s a good one,” Derek agrees. “So you like adventure, huh?”
Stiles doesn’t know what to make of the amused grin being aimed his way. “You
could say so,” he carefully confirms.
“Have you ever read American Gods?” Derek questions further. When Stiles shakes
his head no, he continues, “I’ve heard good things about it. Maybe you and I
can read it together? Maybe I can convince you to narrate. I kind of like the
thought of you reading to me. I like the sound of your voice.”
Stiles blushes but still manages to snort when it finally clicks. “Are you
really jealous about that thing with Cora? You realize we can bond over comics
right? You and I have the same type of collections,” he points out.
Derek just gives him a sheepish smile and shrugs under his cousin. “Not
jealous. Envious. Still,” he says. “It might be nice to start something
together and talk about it.”
“I take my time when I read things for fun,” Stiles warns. “No matter how into
it I am. It takes me a while. Like months. Slow and steady is my pace.”
Derek’s face scrunches with disapproval. “The longest I can go is a week, but
even thenit has to be extenuating circumstances. Stiles, how does it take you
monthsto finish a book?” he exclaims.
“See, you’re already trying to give me problems about it,” Stiles retorts and
moves to drag his brother’s luggage closer to the door. Then he grabs his own
before he goes through both to make sure everything is there. While he’s elbow-
deep in clothes, he says, “There’s still a frustrating amount of movies and TV
shows you haven’t seen and — wait, have you seen Star Wars?”
Derek snorts. “Why? Is that gonna be the deal breaker?”
“You like space,” Stiles states, mostly to himself. He’s folding a pair of his
brother’s jeans. “There’s no way you haven’t seen Star Wars or Star Trek. That
would just be nonsense.”
“I’ve seen them. But I was so young, I don’t really remember much. I get the
general sense of the plots and storylines,” Derek clarifies. “My dad threatened
to disown Cora and I if we didn’t watch it with him. He’s a real fanatic about
it and mom’s not really into science fiction. She likes drama, soap operas, and
reality shows. Like Laura, but Laura’s more for the trashy reality TV.”
Stiles could totally see that. “What about you? As my friend, I feel like I
need to help you discover the wondrous bounty that fantasy and adventure has to
offer you. Game of Thronesmay be a good place to start. I’ll consider starting
Firefly and Supernatural, but only if I think you’re worthy.”
Derek’s lips curl in amusement, but his eyes seem to glimmer with quiet
excitement. “I’m the kind of person that doesn’t really stray outside of the
History Channel.Although, I do usually watch black and white television. I Love
Lucy. Leave it to Beaver. Perry Mason.That kind of stuff. But that’s only if
the History Channel is playing re-runs I’ve already seen.”
“You’re such an old man, oh my god.”
“You asked.My favorite show is Golden Girls, Stiles. That should pretty much
tell you about my taste in TV.”
“I have no idea how you can be so flawed, but I’ll make you a deal,” Stiles
says. “We can trade off. You watch some of my favorites, and I’ll watch yours.
Neither of us can complain. We can bond over that.”
“I get to spend time with you. Why would I ever complain?” Derek cleverly
retorts.
Stiles silently rolls his eyes but grins because he’s facing away from the
older teen. “You’re such a bad flirt.”
“I am the smoothest person you’ve ever met,” Derek protests, pretending to be
offended as Artemis dozes off on top of his head. “What’s you’re favorite
movie?”
“What Dreams May Come,” Stiles answers, zipping up his bother’s suitcase.
“Yours?”
“When Harry Met Sally,” Derek replies. He adds, “It’s okay. You can say it.”
“Say what?” Stiles says, trying for innocent as he glances at him from over his
shoulder.
“That I’m a hopeless romantic,” Derek continues, unimpressed. “Which is true,
I’m not going to deny it. Even though I don’t have the patience to read about
it. Nor am I fond of setting myself up for disappointment when the two
characters I was rooting for do not end up together.”
Stiles huffs. “Are you speaking from personal experience? What book did you try
to read?”
“In grade school, I had this epic crush on my English teacher,” Derek says,
shifting and rearranging Artemis so that the toddler is slumped against his
chest, resting his head on his right shoulder. “And every day, for months, my
subtle way of expressing how I felt, because you know how subtle Iam with my
feelings,” he pauses to laugh a little self-deprecatingly. “So I would do this
thing, where after class, I would linger and I would ask her for
recommendations. Not just any type of recommendations, but the best of the best
romance novels. She gave me lists, and you know, I never read any of them, mind
you —”
“Oh my god,” Stiles laughs, shaking his head as he retrieves the outfit he will
wear for the day.
“— because like I said, I just don’t have the patience to do it,” Derek
continues, sounding just as amused by his own story. “But one day she
recommended her favorite book, and in my lovesick little mind, I had to go for
it, because that way we would have endless things to talk about if I just took
the time to dissect this piece of literature piece by piece. And would you like
to know what the name of that book was I spent so much time on?”
“Wuthering Heights? The Hunger Games? Little Women?” Stiles jokingly guesses.
“No, but thanks for helping me add those to my ‘Do Not Read’ list,” Derek
replies. “It was The Great Gatsby.”
Stiles bursts out laughing but has to slap a hand over his mouth so as not to
disturb the two sleeping occupants in the room. “Oh my god,” he manages to
choke between words. There are literal tears of mirth building up in the
corners of his eyes. “Oh my god.”
“I know,” Derek sighs. “I know.”
“She referenced that as her favorite romancenovel?” Stiles asks, trying to calm
down, but he keeps breaking off into little giggles at Derek’s sour expression,
which could almost rival Cora’s in that moment. “That’s cruel. No wonder you —
oh my god. What did you do when you finished?”
“I rode my mountain bike to her house and, over a cup of sunny delight, had to
politely explain to her why we were no longer compatible,” Derek sarcastically
drawls but grins when it gets Stiles to laugh and he ends up looking pleased
with himself. “Then I took the fragile remains of my heart and dated the pain
away, stumbling my way through relationship after relationship. Remind me to
tell you about them, they all ended as tragically as The Great Gatsby.”
“No one was shot though, right?” Stiles questions playfully as he zips up his
suitcase.
“Well not allof them.” Pause. “Give or take.”
“You’re not funny, Derek,” Stiles says but he’s totally laughing.
Derek pretends to be offended. “I’m hilarious. You just take my humor for
granted,” he insists. He glances down at Artemis and his expression sinks into
something thoughtful. “You did have a good time last night though, right?”
Stiles pauses and turns fully so he can look at the other teen.
Derek gives a sort of nervous half-smile. “It’s probably silly to ask but…” he
trails off and he seems stuck for a moment. He shakes his head and clears his
throat. He opens his mouth and then closes it.
Stiles finds it a lot more endearing than he probably should. “Yeah,” he
replies mercifully and doesn’t miss the way Derek’s shoulders relax. “Were you
really worried that I didn’t — because that’s just — I mean, seriously, it was
really the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I’m still partly convinced it
didn’t happen because things like that don’t happen to me. Derek, we had the
whole park to ourselves. Consider me impressed.”
Derek’s smile grows and he straightens. “Well…good,” he says simply. Then he
mutters, “You’re worth it.”
Stiles flushes and quickly turns away. “Wasn’t a date,” he maintains. “Just so
we’re clear. That was an activity between friends.”
“Oh, of course,” Derek says, like he’s humoring him.
Stiles rolls his eyes and when he’s done packing and organizing his things (as
well as Isaac’s), he stands with the outfit he’ll put on. He steps toward Derek
and observes the sleeping toddler in his arms. “I think this is the first time
I’ve ever seen him stay still for more than five seconds,” he mentions.
Derek snorts and tweaks Artemis’s nose but he doesn’t even stir. “Yeah, it’s —
well he usually only likes coming to me because he’s tired. I don’t know if I’m
just that comfortable or what, but it never fails. He doesn’t last five minutes
with me before he’s dozing off,” he says.
Stiles hums thoughtfully.
“Well,” Derek sighs. “I’m gonna get out of your hair and let you get ready. I
should probably return Artemis to his mother. Do you need help with your
luggage?”
Stiles shakes his head. “If anything, I’ll make Isaac do the heavy labor,” he
supposes but he’s mostly joking.
Derek nods before he steps closer and grabs Stiles’s left hand, swiping his
thumb over the pulse point of Stiles’s wrist. Then he leans forward a little
and lifts the wrist to his mouth, kissing so gently as if in fear of shattering
it.
Stiles feels a slow flush crawl across his face in all directions because this
is definitelya new development. Warmth pools in the pit of his stomach as his
magic squirms happily, fizzing around his heart like static. He opens his mouth
to say something but then Derek adds teeth and tongue to the equation with just
the slightestsuction, and Stiles ends up choking on the words.
Derek glances over at him beneath his lashes, hazel eyes gleaming with dark
mischief and something else.
Stiles thinks that it would be really embarrassing if he fell over from being
so weak-kneed and he spends less time thinking when Derek uses his tongue and
teeth again. He can feel a warm pattern being made against his freckled skin
and he makes a small sound.
Artemis stirs a little.
Stiles gets flustered and tries to yank his hand back. “What are you — what are
you doing? You’ll see me in like fifteen minutes. This isn’t — isn’t a long
farewell or — Derek.”
Derek just hums. “I know,” he murmurs against Stiles’s pulse point. “I’m
scenting you. We’re going around new…it’s better this way.”
Stiles blinks and tugs his hand back, grateful that Derek lets him go so he can
cradle it to his chest. He has a nice little hickey on the inside of his wrist
now and he’s the kind of person where that kind of thing will linger for days.
“Dude. Not cool,” he complains as he glares at the mark. He nudges his magic,
hoping it’ll help but it just seems content to let the hickey linger. “It’s not
like — I’m not going to run off with a pack of werewolves I don’t know!”
“I know,” Derek repeats patiently. He’s looking at Stiles like he wishes Stiles
understood what this meant. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he carefully
explains. “This is just to show my…intentions. It’s not exactly like a claiming
but it’s just a polite way to declare I’d rather not have anyone else try to
court you.”
“That’s exactlylike a claiming,” Stiles replies, exasperated. “You could’ve
askedto do that, you know. That’s not exactly something friends do to each —”
“Friends, right,” Derek interjects impatiently. “Listen, I knowwhat we are,
okay? You can view it or call it however you want or see fit, but I know what
this —” He takes a moment to gesture between them. “— means to me. And you’re
right, I should’ve asked, but sometimes I can’t help the way I am when instinct
gets in the way. I was born a Werewolf, Stiles. Sometimes you have to trust
that I know better than you about how these things go. I said it isn’t you I’m
worried about and I’m really not. But the Gurnee Pack has a reputation about
them. Friend or not, I’ll always think that protecting you is more important
than a little common Human courtesy. And for that, I’m not sorry. I’m not a —”
Derek kind of stutters to a halt and his face shuts down. “Never mind.”
Stiles watches, befuddled, as Derek turns away with a thunderous expression and
quickly exits the room, slamming the door behind him. He’s extremely confused
about what just happened and he can’t help but to feel like he’s the bad guy in
this scenario.
Isaac makes a small sound as he stirs. “Stiles.”
Stiles walks over to the edge of the bed to meet him. “I’m here,” he says
quietly, agitated and puzzled. “Did you hear all that? Did we wake you?”
“I always hear everything when I sleep,” Isaac admits as he blinks tiredly.
“Side effect of being what I am. You get used to it. It’s like white noise.
Helps with danger though,” he explains. “He’s right, you know.”
Stiles blinks, processing. “I’m sorry but you’ll have to clarify which part you
mean.”
Isaac sits up and rubs drowsily at the scarred half of his face. “It’s like a
cultural difference. There are things that supernatural creatures do
differently. Having to get permission for things, or for certain actions that
really are harmless is just a Humancourtesy,” he explains. “Derek’s not a
Human, Stiles, and neither am I. We’re going to do things that don’t make sense
to you and it’s gonna seem offensive or like it’s pushing boundaries but it
really is just instinct. There’s no way to fully explain without you just
knowing like we do.” He shrugs.
“You’re basically saying I should be more patient and understanding,” Stiles
speculates, and honestly he thought he was. That he had been. But clearly Derek
and his little brother were both trying to tell him something. “So I guess this
means you’re on his side, huh?”
Isaac climbs to his feet with annoyed expression and purposefully stretches to
his full height so he’s almost towering over Stiles. He wryly replies, in his
most matter-of-fact tone, “Sides? What sides? You’re my brother. My opinion
will always be bias.” He then hugs Stiles very tightly before he can even blink
and releases him just as quickly. “Besides,” he continues as he makes his way
over to his luggage. “You were starting to look miserable and I don’t like the
way you smell when you get like that.”
“Oh?” Stiles says lightly, clearing his throat because he’s beyond touched by
Isaac’s affection. “What kind of smell is that?”
Isaac makes a thoughtful sound as he starts tugging free a similar outfit to
Stiles’s (which he has yet to put on still). He says, “Bananas when they’re too
ripe.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose as he imagines it. He’s not much for sickly sweet
scents either. “Does everyone smell like that when they’re upset?” he asks
because he’s curious enough to. Even though he really should be getting ready
right now.
“I said miserable, not upset,” Isaac corrects. “And no. No one smells the same.
Things would be pretty easy to confuse if they did. But everyone has a unique
type of scent depending on their emotions.”
“Is that like your thing? It explains why you’re always wrinkling your nose,”
Stiles supposes and when Isaac doesn’t deny it, he guesses he’s right. “What do
I smell like when I’m happy?” he asks because Derek once told him he preferred
the way he smelled when he was happy rather than the alternative.
“Wild flowers, nectar, and sunshine,” Isaac remarks pensively. “It’s…really
nice. Makes me think of the best parts of summer,” he admits a little shyly.
Stiles snorts but he smiles widely. “Maybe it’s a Fae thing. Does Braeden smell
like that?”
Isaac looks almost appalled that he would even think that. “She smells like
bitter coffee, ash, and resentment allthe time. I don’t think it’s a Fae thing.
I think it’s just a youthing.” He zips up all his things. “Are you going to
take a shower first, or should I?”
“You can go ahead. Just don’t use up all the hot water trying to remove that
marker mustache.”
“It’s a hotel. I don’t think that’s something you can do here,” Isaac
sarcastically comments. “And what are you talking about?”
Stiles throws a pillow at him. “Just see for yourself. You look like an old-
timey villain.”
The slam of the bathroom door is Isaac’s response. But a few minutes later he’s
laughing from behind it.
Stiles stalks over to the couch and flops facedown on it before wriggling his
phone free from the pocket of his jeans. He calls his dad to let him know
what’s going on.
                                      ---
By the time they leave the Hotel, it’s almost noon and Talia seems very
displeased by this. She doesn’t say much about it if so, but rather focuses on
herding everyone towards the transport vans as quickly as possible.
Stiles ends up in the van with Isaac, Uncle Jonah, his wife and their three
kids.
Derek had actively avoided him while everyone swayed to his or her preferred
choice of seating partners.
Stiles tried not to think about what it meant when he chose the van furthest
from the one Stiles was climbing into. It bothered him too much and only left
him feeling gloomy.
Isaac attempts to cheer him up by challenging him to a game of Temple Run, and
it works for a little while until Boyd interrupts one of their games by
calling. His little brother shoots him an apologetic smile before shifting away
to locate his headphones so he can answer the call.
Stiles just sighs, shimmying closer to the window, and rests his forehead
against the cold, foggy glass, watching as the rain splatters against it.
The sky seems as grey as his mood.
He tries to shake himself out of it when they finally arrive to their
destination forty-five minutes later and he steps out of the van to observe the
nice urban area they are in. They’re parked outside a block of connected
townhomes with iron fences. It seems to be a community of women with dark skin
of differing tones and their children.
Talia walks up to the gate surrounding the house at the end of the block
belonging to the family that’s expecting them. It’s nestled beside a public
children’s playground that’s being fully utilized at the moment.
From the outside, this specific house looks lavish with brown stones and marble
decorations. Tall, rectangular windows add to the overall graceful yet
unassuming visage in a mostly asymmetric way. The building is fairly rounded in
shape but the house is partially surrounded by overgrown wooden trees.
The second floor is smaller than the first, which creates a layered style of
look in combination with the roof where one large chimney pokes out the center.
Inside its fences lies a modest garden, with mostly grass, a few flower patches
and clean cut bushes.
Stiles’s magic simmers curiously in his chest as they all make their way up the
cement walkway, which stretches into steps that leads to the porch and a door
with a metal screen.
Talia rings the doorbell with Laura at her side and everyone waits in silence.
There’s some shouts of excitement in a foreign language that follows before the
door bursts open with three young girls wearing matching black hijabs.
“Assalamu Alaykum Wa Rahmatullaahi wa barakato!” they greet simultaneously with
happy, wide smiles.
Laura returns it softly with, “Wa alaykum assalam.” and she takes a moment to
hug the three of them.
The young girls gesture them all in, making indications to the dining room,
where a spread of food awaits them. It sits atop a long table that is wide
enough to accommodate seating such a large group.
There’s chicken, fish, milk, olive oil and honey surrounded by baskets of
unleavened bread, black, purple, and green olives, red grapes, dates, figs,
pomegranates, pulse, and cereal.
It smells as divine as it looks and Stiles presses a hand to his growling
stomach as Isaac tucks in close to him while older women in burkas run in and
out of the kitchen, adding more dishes and pitchers of drinks to the table.
More women of all ages file in quickly, sporting black hijabs, niqabs, al-
amiras, and khimars as preparations for seating arrangements are made.
After a flurry of commotion that takes less than ten minutes, a dark-skinned
woman with claw scars riddling her face who looks to be Nana Hale’s age steps
into the room, making all the other women snap to attention. She gravely
introduces herself as Ikramiya Gurnee, the interim Alpha to her family unit.
She addresses the Hale women in English but to her own, she addresses in
Arabic. Her eyes are two different colors (grey and blue) and there’s something
so guarded about her tone of voice. She sits at the head of the table with
Laura directly to her right and her own oldest daughter to her left.
Stiles finds himself sitting on the right side of the table with the Hale Pack
between Nana Hale and Isaac, while Derek sits all the way at the end between
Cora and Braeden (who’s cradling a babbling Olive).
Stiles distracts himself from the fact by eating quickly and quietly, letting
his gaze wander. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to notice that
there is a pointed lack of males present, despite the fact that there are more
than a handful of these women who are far along in pregnancy. It makes him
think of Aunt Rosemary’s words earlier. He also notices that none of the Gurnee
women even acknowledge any of the males in the room, but only the women.
There’s a bit of tension at the table because of it, fueled by the fact that
the Gurnee women shoot Stiles and all the other males disdainful looks like
they resent the fact that there are any males present at all.
Peter certainly doesn’t help, going out of his way to speak to any of the
ladies, asking questions about the meal or making comments about the weather.
Said women react by shooting him appalled looks and glancing at Kate like they
expect her to bring him to heel, before looking even further appalled when she
doesn’t, smirking in amusement instead.
When Stiles has his fill of the food, he leans back with a content sigh before
turning towards Nana Hale to whisper, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Nana Hale gently pats the back of his hand, nodding in understanding before she
turns away. She lifts her hand to get Ikramiya’s attention and says, “Alpha, I
wonder if you could not direct this little lad to the bathroom.”
Ikramiya’s expression remains placid as she assesses Stiles with a blank look
before she says, “With the proper chaperone. He may not roam my house
unaccompanied. For his safety, of course.”
“Of course,” Nana Hale assures placatingly.
Ikramiya nods stiffly before she turns to her daughter (who is her spitting
image), addressing her in punctuated Arabic before returning her attention to
Stiles. “Aaliyah will escort you,” she decides.
Stiles stands quickly as Aaliyah rounds the table to get to him, and she’s
intimidatingly tall. He shoots her a nervous smile but she just adjusts her al-
amira and gestures for him to follow her.
Aaliyah is hard to keep up with as she strides towards the stairs with long
legs, and she’s not even polite enough to match his pace.
Stiles glances back at the table in time to see the worried looks Derek’s
shooting his way as he fidgets in his seat as though he wants to follow.
Isaac looks no better.
Stiles shoots them both a thumbs-up (even though he’s still not sure where he
stands with Derek) and he hopes it’s reassuring.
Aaliyah makes an impatient sound as she stands at the top of the stairs.
“Sorry.” Stiles smiles sheepishly and takes the stairs two steps at a time to
pick up the pace.
Aaliyah says nothing in reply, turning away to lead him down a dark, chilly
hallway with creaking floorboards and shut doors.
Stiles can vaguely make out the spirals and inverted triangles etched into the
walls as if it were done with claws. He supposes they might have been. He
shoves his hands in his pockets as they warm anxiously with his magic. There’s
a weird energy that prickles at him as they venture deeper into the house.
Just when it seems like they’ll never reach the end of the hall, they come to a
single white door with a gold doorknob.
Aaliyah makes a noncommittal gesture towards it and says, “Make it quick, if
you can help it.”
Stiles isn’t sure what one should to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at
all. He opens the door, and the hinges groan as the floorboards under his feet
continue to whine and squeak.
The almost first thing he notices – apart from the oddness of it all in and of
itself – is how off-putting the bathroom is, like the room doesn’t even want
you there.
Toothpaste splatters the mirror hanging above the sink, congealed on the
counters and sinks, while mildew grows around gritty faucets, peeling away at
vinyl flooring that traps blackened dirt and grime. There’s overflowing laundry
baskets, dirty clothes on the floor around them, dust and hair around the
bathtub.
There’s a thick line of grime making a high tide mark around the tub,
assortment of shampoo bottles, some empty, some half full. A slimy bar or soap
is welded to the edge of the bath, pink scum growing around toilet bowl, hair
in the shower drain, pile of old razors, towel rack half hanging on the wall,
used damp towels cast onto the floor in a crumpled heaps, and tiles falling off
the wall in the shower.
Stiles opens his mouth to say that actually he didn’t need to use it anymore
but Aaliyah’s already shut the door behind him as if she anticipates the
reaction. He frowns, shudders, and braces himself to follow her advice by
making this as swift as possible. He uses the edge of his shoe to lift the lid
and pulls himself out to do his business.
Some time between when he flushes and walks to the sink to try and wash his
hands, he hears the soft lull of music, and melancholic voices singing. It’s
coming from the other side of the bathroom where there is a second door.
His magic simmers curiously and urges him forward to investigate.
Fate makes no mistakes. All things work together for the Common Good.
What’s the Common Good? No, forget it. Don’t tell me because I’m not going to
see what’s behind door number one.
You’re here for a reason. What good is a Virtue who does not fulfill their
purpose?
It’s not my business.
You make everything else your business when it concerns you. The moment you
stepped onto these grounds it became your business, princeling. Open the door
or I will. How is that for the Human courtesy you still cling to?
Stiles bites back a snappy retort because that jab was unfair and low. Of
course his magic would be siding with Derek about that impromptu fight they had
earlier. So much for loyalty.
His magic bristles under his skin as it begins to manifest and he knows he has
to act fast before it really does take the lead here. He strides forward
carefully and once he reaches the door he pauses before he opens it.
His magic tries to press its way out more insistently.
Stiles cracks the door slightly and is stunned by what he sees.
It’s nothing but albino males, all ages and sizes, crammed into one room,
sitting on a carpeted floor and atop their sleeping mats. Their legs are
crossed and twisted into an almost pretzel. None of them are empty-handed but
their work is hardly recreational; some of them are knitting, others building
things like cribs or chairs with rough, calloused hands.
They seem to work in tandem as they hum or sing. For those who are standing,
mostly lingering by the barred windows, have a child (squirming infant or
toddler) in their arms. And for as cold as the rest of the house may be, this
small room is almost sweltering with body heat, sweat is trickling down
everyone's face.
What disturb Stiles the most are their eyes. They don’t seem to have any under
the lids that have been scarred shut to their cheeks. They look gaunt and thin
like wraiths but strikingly handsome despite these facts.
At his presence, they all seem to straighten, nostrils flaring as confusion
works its way across their faces, and then they stop moving altogether as if
afraid.
Stiles is at a loss for words, and even more so when a small child that looks
no older than seven years of age wanders over to him with his walking stick. He
stops just before he can collide into Stiles, and reaches out quickly to grab
his right hand, clutching almost desperately before he sniffs at his knuckles.
The boy’s face lights up in excited recognition and he twists his body away to
shout, almost joyfully, “la shay' al'alghaz alllah!” and then, “laqad han
fadilatan lana fi mahannatina!”
There are some seemingly stunned murmurs that follow as everyone scrambles to
their feet, swaying and leaning on each other for support as they make their
way over curiously.
Stiles is scrambling for something to say as they pull him into the room while
they form a tightknit circle around him, chanting, “la shay' al'alghaz alllah!”
while also singing joyfully. And he has no idea what any of this means but his
magic seems to translate the need here because it begins to strip away from
him, swirling above his head like at thundercloud of magic, twinkling and
sparkling. Then it separates, matching the number of occupants of the room as
it individualizes into the shape of blue bioluminescent lions.
His magic prowls around, growling lowly, chasing away the shadows in an almost
predatory manner. Some parts of his magic prowls around the blinded men as if
guiding them away from Stiles to sit down, ethereal tails swinging lazy as
they’re petted and spoken to. His magic is comforting these men in a way Stiles
can hardly understand because of the language barrier, but it amazes him
nonetheless.
“Nothing puzzles God.”
Stiles jumps and his gaze snaps to the right where Aaliyah is standing beside
him, watching it all with an incomprehensible expression. He fumbles over an
apology but she shakes her head firmly.
“I was hoping your curiosity would lead you here. You are in no trouble with
me,” Aaliyah assures and for a moment, her mismatched eyes (grey and blue) seem
to grow misty before she blinks quickly. She indicates to the door (which is
now shut) and says, “The room is soundproof, so if you have questions, ask them
quickly before our absence is noted and my mother sends for us.”
Stiles has a million things he wants to ask but he ends up saying, “Why?”
Aaliyah seems to understand what he means anyway. She doesn’t look ashamed,
which is worrying. “It is our way. This is what my mother says. She trusts no
man unless he can be subdued. She says the only way to take the fight out of a
man is to take the two things that matter the most to him: his eyes and his
pride.”
Stiles feels sick. “Why?” he whispers, almost choking over the words.
“The Gurnee Pack was established in Africa, and the women were treated brutally
for generations until the Great Migration to North America. When our tribe
landed, the women rebelled when one of our female ancestors took the Bite from
a local for the promise of power,” Aaliyah struggles to explain. “She then gave
the Bite to all the women, and those who survived joined her rebellion and they
successfully overthrew the male leaders until she dismantled the old ways
completely. From that was birthed the New Religion, placing women as the head
of the house and men as…whatsoever we wish. We honor the New Religion by
blinding all those born as a male Werewolf. We don’t touch the ones that are
Human. They are…given back over to the Humans. Placed in orphanages in hopes
that they will be adopted by their own kind.”
“How is that any different from how things were before?” Stiles asks and he’s
trying not to be insensitive to this culture. But he doesn’t understand. It’s
horrible. “What’s to stop them from rebelling against the new waysnow? That
pattern of violence never just goes away or resolves itself. Teaching hate is
—”
“And who would fight for them? The Humans have their missionaries and
ambassadors, but what do we have? Virtues are a dying breed, but no less
needed,” Aaliyah snaps, and her shoulders shake with the frustration her eyes
show as they glow without changing color. “The Bite was always supposed to be a
gift. I’m not like my mother. Neither was my sister when she was gunned down by
that cop. This way of life is building a followingin our home country. People
are risking their lives for the Bite. You think the wars over in the Middle
East are just about Human affairs? It’s a power struggle spurned from gender
politics.”
“But you’re not like your mother,” Stiles reiterates faintly, just because he
needs to wrap his mind around this.
“I want better,” Aaliyah growls, eyes burning hotly like liquid. “I
deservebetter. Everyone wants to either advocate for violence or education. But
I say, why could we not do both? Pain is the greatest educator after all. Laura
and I may not see eye to eye on a lot of things, and that’s fine, but we’re
desperate not to repeat our mother’s mistakes. I may want subjugation but I
also want peace. Men aremeant to be ruled, but there are better methods to
ensure it.”
That queasy feeling returns and Stiles understands it all too well this time.
“But if I’m going to make waves for my campaign,” Aaliyah continues, and she
grabs his left hand in such an abrupt way that it startles him. “I need the
backing of a Seven of Virtues. In whatever capacity I can get.” She looks at
him intently, before her gaze drops to his wrist and her face twists into an
unhappy frown.
“How does everyone know I’m a Virtue?” Stiles exclaims in exasperation.
Aaliyah is still staring fixedly at the inside of his wrist when she replies,
“Everyone knows about the boy who returns children to their families by freeing
them from the wretched grasp of Antediluvian Ghouls.”
Stiles flushes. “That wasn’t completely me.” His hand twitches in her grasp,
and that wrong feeling returns. “Um…I don’t think you should be —”
“Your magic has a distinct smell to it as well,” Aaliyah interjects. “It’s a
sticky, sweet kind. The scent clings to you like wax.” Her grip tightens when
he tries to pull away. “I could offer you something better, if you would stay
with us. I would like an alliance with you, which could be all the more
progressive if we bonded.” She doesn’t smile, and her eyes aren’t any kinder
than they were before, but that single minded gaze is a bit mesmerizing. The
kohl around her eyes only accentuates the intensity of her blue/grey colored
irises. She steps closer to him. “I’m willing to sacrifice anything for the
duty I will pledge to my family when my mother relinquishes all her Rites as
the interim Alpha. I’ll do what my sister could not…” She lifts her free hand
to press to his jaw gently, as if afraid she might break him and he freezes up.
“Bring us all to the promise land whether by blood or by fire,” she murmurs as
she leans in.
And Stiles, for some reason, can’t move. He’s trapped in the glowing embers of
her gaze — can’t quite remember what freedom or willpower means. It wouldn’t be
so terrible to kiss her, would it? To let her have and take — this is what he
wants — to give — just give in, you want this — give in.
The room suddenly shakes as his magic fuses each duplicate version of itself
into one colossal lion with a mighty roar that practically shakes the
foundations of the house. The sound wave lashes out and knocks Aaliyah back,
sending her flying into the far wall with a crack.
Stiles blinks out of his stupor and immediately feels woozy; utterly wrecked
with the side effects of his self-control returning to him. God, what had she
done? What had she been tryingto do?
His magic is furious, crouching before him protectively and coiled like a snake
ready to strike. It snarls at Aaliyah and the Werewolf whimpers in fear,
curling in on herself as the door behind Stiles bursts open with a commotion of
sound.
Stiles turns to see Talia and Ikramiya standing there with confused, red eyes.
They both take in the scene respectively before they react.
Talia’s expression grows thunderous and she begins to shift ever so slowly.
“What insult is this for your daughter to touch what belongs to me and mine?”
she growls, struggling against the change as it tries to overtake her.
The men huddle together protectively around the younger children in the far
corner as they listen anxiously.
Ikramiya quickly falls to her knees before the other Alpha, tearing and ripping
her clothes apart with an anguished cry. “What is this that you’ve done,
Aaliyah?” she wails. “Has not one daughter been stolen from me? Allah, have
mercy and do not take another.” She quickly presents her neck to Talia before
falling on her face at Talia’s feet. “Please, Alpha Hale, I beg you. Let the
fault be with me. My daughter has been wildly rebellious since the death of her
older sister and her niece. I know this is no excuse for the grievous trespass
she has done against you by forcing herself on your young charge. I will take
her before the Silver Magistrate to be judged myself, but I beg you, let there
be no blood spilt on this day. I know I do not deserve your mercy, but I beg it
anyway.”
Talia’s shoulders are still shaking and her cheekbones and teeth are taking on
a sharper, more animalistic shape. It makes the angles of her face look
terrifying. Her fingers have lengthened out into claws, twitching anxiously at
her sides as she stares down at Ikramiya. It’s a while before she grits out,
“Come, Stiles.”
Stiles doesn’t even hesitate, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to
make it to her side.
Talia doesn’t even give him a chance to reach her before her hand shoots out,
claws curling into the front of his shirt to yank him into the hot press of her
side. She growls lowly in her throat, pressing her nose to the side of his face
where Aaliyah’s hand just was with an unhappy sound. Without moving away, she
sharply states, “Do as you say, Ikramiya, or I will personally see to the
matter.”
Ikramiya rights herself, nodding with such enthusiasm that Stiles is afraid her
head will pop off. She wastes no time edging around a taut Talia and skirting
past Stiles’s rumbling magic to get to her daughter.
Stiles doesn’t get to see what happens next because Talia is dragging him away
by the scruff of his neck.
His magic breaks down into duplicates again, holding the form of a herd of blue
bioluminescent lionesses this time as it trails after them. It then flanks them
on either side until they reach the dining room like an ethereal bodyguard.
The whole walk over, Talia says not one word, and she neither lessens nor
tightens her grip from his neck, but she never hurts him.
All the Gurnee women have made themselves scarce upon their return, probably
sensing a disturbance.
Stiles thinks it may as well be for the best, even though he’s still a little
rattled and confused about what just took place.
All the members of the Hale brood stand quickly, alarmed that Stiles’s magic
has been forced to manifest. Then one look at their Alpha, who still looks
halfway to shifting, and it creates a ripple effect. Their eyes flash in
solidarity as they give animalistic whines in concern and confusion before
shaking into the urge to shift as well.
But Talia lifts her right hand (keeping her left on the back of Stiles’s neck)
and stalls them from making any sudden movements. Her head cocks slightly
towards the ceiling as if she’s listening for something before her red eyes
jump over Stiles’s magic, which is still boxing them in as a herd of lionesses.
Braeden steps forward, eyes flashing ivory as her magic gathers and engulfs her
open palms in wraithlike ivory fire. She looks prepared for a fight.
Stiles feels his own eyes warm in response, bleeding to honey-gold like a
Pavlovian response, and he can see the rest of her magic hanging about her like
a wedding veil made of bioluminescent ivory material.
“We need to leave,” Talia suddenly announces. “Now.”
At the command, everyone snaps to, heading towards the door with as little
commotion as possible.
Isaac breaks from the group to venture towards Stiles.
Talia looks at him sharply, shaking her head. “No, Isaac. There will be time to
— please follow the others,” she urges.
Isaac flushes, stopping dead in his tracks to look properly chastised. His
shoulders hunch a little but he doesn’t struggle when Cora pulls him along with
her, muttering low and running a hand up and down his spine as she ushers him
out the door.
Talia waits as Nana Hale, who is the last to exit, gives them a look (eyes
flashing more pink than red). She then waits a few more seconds before she
says, “You will need to reign in your magic, and ride with me. I have a few
things I need to explain.”
                                      ---
“The…lifestyle of the Gurnee Pack has always been mere speculation and rumor to
outsiders,” Talia explains on their way to the airport.
They’re in a transport van by themselves (with the exception of the driver) and
even then Talia had seemed reluctantly wary of it.
Talia continues, almost thoughtfully, “There are things you see, and things you
don’t see about different packs. There are different races of Werewolves, and
the Gurnee Pack is an unusually mixed breed. History tells us that long ago,
during the Great Migration, when supernatural creatures from foreign countries
traveled to North America to fight for the land, the Gurnee Clan, before they
became Lycanthrope, fell prey to a group of Mermaids when they stumbled across
one of their nests. A lot of them were seduced and impregnated, and those with
child took the Bite during the Gurnee Rebellion, knowing and not knowing the
risks. Because of this, they became more Succubus than Werewolf. They usually
keep to themselves for that very reason. They don’t lure Humans if it can be
helped, and they are not supposed to use their powers on outsiders. Especially
not one who belongs to a rivaling pack. This is law. This was agreed upon
decades ago during the Territory Wars.
“It was around this time that the Alpha Parliament of North America was
established to keep the peace and to keep order and justice for all Werewolves.
The acting Chieftain Alpha initially wanted to destroy the Gurnee Pack,
convinced they were nothing but abominations but it was taken to a vote, and
there were certain conditions set in place for the promise of their continued
survival.” Talia looks a little uneasy by the thought. “Nana would probably be
better to explain these things. Her great, great, great grandmother was alive
during those times. I only know as much as I do as the existing Curator of our
history.”
“Aaliyah said that their policy was to keep men under subjection by blinding
them,” Stiles says when she gives a long enough pause for him to do so. “She
said a lot of things,” he admits.
Talia sighs, looking a little sullen. “She was giving you half-truths it
seems,” she realizes. “Yes, they believe in femaledominion because that is the
way things started when they became Lycanthrope. But the subjugation of their
males is not because of religious or political reasons. They blind them because
it is the malesthat carry the stronger incubi gene, giving them incredible
powers they are only able to utilize by eyesight alone. The females are only
able to develop their skills through touch since they’re born withouteyes.”
Stiles gives her a horrified look. “So they stealtheir eyes?” he chokes.
Talia nods as she cards her fingers through his short hair idly.
Stiles thinks about his encounter with Aaliyah, and how drawn to her he felt
when she staredhim down. God, it explains why some of the women were in burkas.
Their resentment towards males were not becausethey were males but because they
had something they wishedfor – longed after.
Aaliyah had knownhe’d misinterpret the whole situation and she used that to her
advantage, feeding him this whole sob story to play on his sympathy.
No wonder Derek had been so worried about him.
Stiles groans and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “God, the way
that they have them living. It’s awful.”
“I apologize, Stiles,” Talia says as she tucks him into her side. “Ikramiya
gave me her word that no harm or insult would come to us during our visit. I’m
quite disappointed about how things turned out. I know Laura will be
devastated. She is fond of them.”
Stiles sinks into the embrace with a frown and sighs as she pets his hair. His
magic is nestled deep within his gut, rolling back and forth in heated waves of
trepidation. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You may ask me anything you like,” Talia replies.
Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a moment before he says, “Technically, I’m
not apart of your pack. Will the punishment still be great for Aaliyah?”
“I was hoping we would have this talk a little later,” Talia admits with a
wistful sigh as she drops one hand to the curve of his neck, keeping the other
in his hair. “Stiles, I want you to know that I’ve spent a lot of time
contemplating you as a potential Second for the Hale Pack.”
Stiles freezes in surprise.
Talia ignores his shock in favor adding, “You have incredible potential, not
because you’re a Seven, but because you hold the kind of qualities needed to
lead and this way I could groom you for Cora when she comes of age. She’s
expressed her desire to take over the California and Alaska territory for me so
Peter and I can focus on maintaining New York, Texas, and Florida. In fact, I
have been discussing this with your father, since you are underage, and
protocol dictates I seek his permission, which he expressed that he'll back any
decision you make. Of course, it’s been theoretical at the moment, and I was
not going to approach you with the request until I was serious.” She sighs
again. “I really wanted to talk to you and Cora at the same time about this,
but with the way things have gone this weekend, I’m realizing sooner is better
than later.”
“You want me to be your Second? To be Cora’s?” Stiles repeats aloud, stumped.
And flattered. Veryflattered. “What about Braeden? She has a lot more
experience and knowledge than me. I’m just only beginning to figure this whole
thing out. There’s still so much I don’t know—”
“You’re a natural,” Talia interrupts softly and her hazel eyes are twinkling in
amusement when he dares to glance up. “Yes, Braeden has quite a few years of
experience under her belt, but she’s not the soft touch I require or Cora
needs. Also, I believe she has plans of her own that goes beyond politicking
for Weres. If you don’t feel comfortable stepping into the role, you simply
need to say so. You don’t have to try and convince me out of what I already
know. You’re a perfect fit, not only for me but for Cora. For all of us.”
Stiles’s face grows hot. “N-no! I wasn’t — that’s not to say — of courseI’d
want to —” He gives up with a frustrated sound. He takes a moment to gather
himself. “If you can be patient with my progress and explain exactly what it is
that’s expected of me, then yes, I accept your offer,” he says earnestly.
Talia’s lips curl. “I believe I can agree to those terms,” she reports,
humored. “I will not be relinquishing California and Alaska over to Cora until
she’s twenty-five, so no worries. You will have plenty of time to feel at ease
with the role, or change your mind.”
Stiles silently admits to himself that he is relieved to know that.
“I’ll have to speak to Alan about this so he can adjust your training
accordingly. Cora may be joining you,” Talia supposes, mostly to herself. “But,
that can wait. For now, I still have to answer your question about Aaliyah.
Yes, she will be punished because she broke the law. The Silver Magistrate will
decide on what’s fitting according to the situation, but rest assured, she will
not diefor her crimes. The Silver Magistrate would sooner banish anyone from
North America than put them to death.”
“What is the Silver Magistrate exactly?” Stiles asks because he has a feeling
this is going to be useful to know down the road if he really is going to be so
involved in the Were community. “Is it like a supreme court for Werewolves?”
“For all supernatural creatures,” Talia lightly corrects. “It is a mixed panel
comprised of supernatural creatures to ensure fairness, as they play both judge
and jury.”
Stiles pokes the corner of his mouth with his tongue as he ponders over
everything. “What will happen after the — when Aaliyah is tried?”
“My best guess is that the Gurnee territory will be brought under
investigation,” Talia explains, sounding vaguely troubled by the notion. “They
may want to solicit some statements from you and I. We will have to be truthful
about what Lei Shěn confided in us. If her accusations are valid, then that
will warrant a review of Jemila’s position as Alpha.”
“So that means we hand over the letter Lei Shěn gave us?”
Talia is quiet for a moment. Then she replies, “I would still like to have
Braeden get it translated for you to see what you make of it. I believe we
still have a window before we would need to hand it over.”
“Okay,” Stiles simply says. He waits a beat or two before he casually says,
“So…about the Calaveras…”
Talia huffs in amusement. “For now, your father and Alan are both acting as my
interim Second,” she explains vaguely. “You will meet them when the time is
right.” She adds, “Under careful surveillance.”
Stiles sighs but he doesn’t argue the point. He’s more curious than anything.
Everyone seems to be going to great lengths to make sure he’s prepared for that
encounter.
You can’t blame him for wondering.
                                      ---
It says something significant that Talia keeps him close all through their
transition through the airport to their terminal, and even when boarding the
plane. She seems wound tight, as if poised for a blow that never comes, never
quite settling down even when they’re in the air. She shuts down anyone that
tries to get close or speak to Stiles, and it’s not until she’s got him alone
in the privacy of one of the lounging areas that she offers an explanation of
the behavior.
“It’s invasive, I know,” Talia apologizes in a way. She has Stiles kneeling on
a pillow at her feet as she sits on the couch, her long fingers combing through
his unkempt hair, grooming it with this faraway look on her face. “As an Alpha,
my wolf feels grievously insulted by the intrusion of another. You are under my
protection and care, and yet —” She stops and seems a little lost in her
thoughts. Dazed almost as her red eyes glow with bright intensity. She blinks
and then the look is gone. “And yet,” she merely says. “I wish there were
better words to explain.”
“It’s instinct,” Stiles offers with a wry smile.
Talia returns it with her own. “Yes, that is the word, isn’t it?”
Stiles shrugs but all he can think about is Derek. He hugs Talia’s calves and
presses his right cheek to the hard curve of her knees. His magic begins to
manifest and pushes from his body in a flock of ethereal blue canaries,
fluttering about and perching where it pleases.
“Clever thing, your magic,” Talia murmurs and he glances up to see one
glimmering, blue canary settling on her shoulder, shaking out it’s glittering
wings before rubbing against her cheek affectionately. She simply smiles and
condones it. “It’s as beautiful as Abraham’s magic was,” she recalls and her
eyes grow a little misty with the memory.
"Can I ask what happened to him?"
Talia goes silent, but her expression is both thoughtful and sad. She appears
to be trying to find the right words. "It is...complicated. I want to say he
died as a result of a car wreck, but there were other things at play during the
time that could be blamed as well. He was picking Laura up from ballet practice
and we'd been fighting the night before —" She stops suddenly with this look of
guilt. She exhales and continues, "That wasn't what I meant to — it's just very
difficult to explain."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stir up anything," Stiles says.
Talia shakes her head with a sad smile. "It's alright. I think maybe I can talk
about this another time. It might be important for you to know in the future
since Abraham was my Second when he was still alive," she supposes as she eyes
the ceiling in thought.
“Do you ever miss —” Stiles bites his tongue, feeling foolish for even letting
just a few words of his question slip.
Talia just pulls her gaze to him and it’s so deep and knowing. She gives a
pained smile and says, “Yes. There is...always a part of me that does. A wound
that never seems to want to close.”
Stiles cradles her right hand in both of his. He swallows around a lump in his
throat. “My mother —” He fumbles with the words. “She — me too.”
Talia uses her left hand to cradle his cheek. “It gets better but it never
really stops hurting, does it?” she wonders aloud.
Stiles swallows again as his eyes grow warm but it’s not his magic this time.
He shakes his head slowly.
Talia exhales.
Stiles feels more longing in the sound than he hears, and he knows exactly what
it means.
They both watch as his magic flutters around in animated swoops and loops on
wings of glimmering sparkles of bioluminescent blue that looks like streams of
stardust in companionable silence.
                                      ---
                                             From: mskirathunderkat@outlook.com
                                                  To: stilinski_kid99@gmail.com
                                                                     2014 May 5
                                    弱肉強食 - “The weak are meat; the strong eat.”
Dear Stiles,
It’s taken me days to muster up the courage to write this email. I am sorta
lame like that, I know, but here I am, or rather, here it is. Not sure what to
say. The way we left things was pretty awkward but I have to insist that I’m
not holding any resentment against you. Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter. I was
so enthralled by the idea of being with you that when it didn’t turn out that
way it kind of smacked some reality into me. FYI, reality has a mean backhand
and it doesn’t even take of any of it’s rings!
Anyway, I promised that I would text or email or whatever, so that’s what I’m
doing. As much as it grieves me to know that I don’t mean to you what you mean
to me, I can’t see my life without you. If you want to be friends, I will
accept that because you are too awesome not to be around. I’m sure I’ll get
like Celine Dion’s infamous Titanic song and “My Heart Will Go On”. I wouldn’t
want my first real friendship to go up in flames.
Yes, you read that right. You are my first real friend. So what? Say something,
I dare you! I will fight you to the death! I mean it! We will go under the
Thunderdome and battle it out! Or maybe not. I think we’re like years ahead of
the actual Mad Max concept. Or is it behind? Wait, if that movie came out in
the eighties, doesn’t that mean the world should’ve been a desert wasteland
ruled by a band of feral orphans by now?
And what about Waterworld? Is it weird that I’m disappointed that our planet
hasn’t been completely submerged underwater leaving only a select few of us no
choice but to evolve by adapting to the ocean by developing gills? Speaking of,
how hot was Kevin Kostner way back when right? And wasn’t that the movie that
launched Jack Black’s career? Correct me if I’m wrong. I’m probably wrong. Hang
on, let me Google this.
I was wrong, but also got sidetracked and watched Nacho Libre. How awesome is
Nacho Libre? I really should’ve sent this email to you hours ago. I literally
had to reread this to see where it was I was going with this. I think the point
was to say that you and I are cool, and if we’re not, well, we will be. And now
that that’s settled, I have to go pick out an outfit because my boy cousins and
I will be going to celebrate Children’s Day in Tokyo. It’s still Sunday for
you, but we’re a day ahead over here. It’s like 6ish(?) p.m. for ya’ll and it’s
almost 11 a.m. on a Monday for us!
My Aunt’s wedding is in a couple of weeks, so that should be fun. Also, my mom
has been kind of teaching me the divine way of the Kitsune, you know, all
Karate Kid and whatnot, which is almost a dream come true cause I always wanted
to be Daniel-san! Anyway, I’ll give you more details about that later. This is
just like a cursory email to break the ice or the tension or whatever you want
to call it.
                                           Thunder! Thunder! Thundercats, HOOO!
                  (I don’t care what my mom says I’m totally a Thundercat now!)
                                                                      Kira xoxo
                                      ---
They land a little after six, but the sky is still full of daylight.
Somewhere between exiting the plane, walking from the terminal and to baggage
claim, Stiles finds himself in the energetic swell of the Hale Pack.
Talia seems to have finally satisfied whatever intrinsic part of her
subconscious that demanded the righting of wrongs instigated by third parties.
She lets Stiles move freely without her being right thereand he gets ten
minutes of breathing room before Isaac and Cora invade his space again. They
pull him to and fro, grabbing his bags for him, hounding him with questions and
leading the way to the transport vans waiting for them out front.
Stiles tries to both answer and placate them at the same time as they pull him
into the thick of the Hale brood.
The family is a river of people, everyone moving in the same direction. There
are only joyful faces as they climb into the vans, relaxing in elation of
returning home, returning to their territory. It seems to fill them with
adrenaline pumping with happiness. They move not like pebbles in a jar, but
like water molecules flowing smoothly past one another, staying together as if
they’d never dare to be parted.
Even Isaac has something about him that’s more relaxed and eased with the
prospect of going home.
Stiles winds up sharing a van with his brother, Cora, Nana Hale and Olive. He
barely catches a glimpse of Derek at all, but he knows he’s somewhere and it’s
both comforting and agitating at the same time. The knowing and yet notknowing.
He has to read Kira’s email a few times so he can distract himself from the
frustration of it all. Soon he doesn’t need to because his dad is texting him
and Isaac every five minutes, just as anxious about their return home as they
are.
Cora and Isaac are all cozied up in the backseat. They’ve got their heads bent
close together as they whisper conspiratorially.
It’s enough to make Stiles rolls his eyes but he leans towards Nana Hale, who
sits by him with a drowsy and fussy Olive (who is doing her best to fight
against the thought of taking a nap).
Stiles snorts at the adorable tot. “How old is she now?” he asks. “Five months
right?”
“Well, let’s see. She was born the eighteenth of November,” Nana Hale replies
thoughtfully. “So she’ll be six months on the eighteenth of this month.”
“She’s getting so big and growing so fast. It feels like I only blinked,”
Stiles jokes imaginatively. He gets an idea. “She likes ducks, right?”
Nana Hale nods bemusedly.
Olive fusses and wiggles in the older woman’s arms, face red and eyes glazed
with her sleepy tantrum.
Stiles takes advantage of his magic’s drowsy state by siphoning a little to his
hands as they rotate around each other. He summons just enough not to
completely exhaust his magic. He wills it into the form of a single, ethereal
blue duckling before dropping it on the adorable tot’s lap.
The response is instantaneous.
Olive stops crying and she blinks wide, leafy green eyes with intrigued
childlike wonder. She stares for the longest time at the blue bioluminescent
duckling as it waddles across her stomach to settle on her tiny chest. Then she
reaches out with her chubby fists and (predictably) attempts to put it in her
mouth with a happy sound. She coos when her fingers pass through it like
condensed fog.
Stiles smiles tiredly at the display and ignores the slight twinges of
annoyance his magic sends to him in waves.
It’s worth it.
When the duckling turns and wiggles it’s short tail against Olive’s nose, she
laughs like it’s the funniest thing to ever have happened in all of space and
time. Her laughs are so adorable and contagious that everyone in the van echoes
it as well (even the hired driver).
Cora and Isaac venture closer to watch the display, attention firmly snagged.
Olive eventually laughs herself to sleep.
It’s actually the most amazing thing Stiles has witnessed.
Though he hasn’t really been around a lot of babies to have much to compare to.
He still files it away as something significant and special as his magic
recoils, seemingly relieved that its services have been rendered to a point. It
retreats into his mind to hide away in the photoreceptors of his brain that
specifically functions by responding significantly to color.
Stiles lets it be, distracted anyway by the fact that his phone is vibrating in
his pocket as they draw nearer to Beacon Hills. He glances at the screen, heart
doing a funny punch-kick as his screen shows a text from Derek that reads:
I’m taking you and Isaac home, and we’re going to talk this out properly.
Okay.
Stiles quickly pockets his phone after he sends his reply. Luckily, his phone
doesn’t vibrate again with a response. He thinks he’d lose his nerve if Derek
pressed him.
He tries his best not to feel anxious about it all.
                                      ---
The arrival to the Hale Manor happens around eight or so. Everyone pours out of
the transport vans with loud exclamations, whooping cheers, and contented
sighs. The younger kids immediately start to strip down, kicking off their
shoes as they chase each other into the house, or the backyard, or into the
woods. This leaves the adults to do the rest.
Huge fluffy wolfish looking dogs with black, white, and grey fur come galloping
out of the house to greet their masters and family with yipping enthusiasm.
Isaac’s face twists in disappointment when he climbs out of the van. Then he
aims that expression at Stiles, as if he could be responsible.
Cora rises, pausing her petting of a simpering Ginger, to roll her eyes at
Isaac. She just bumps her shoulders into his and explains that their luggage
got all mixed and confused, so the easiest option was to just unload here.
Isaac doesn’t look comforted by it at all but he does stop sending Stiles that
‘kicked kitten’ look long enough to humor Ginger with a few pats here and there
before he follows Cora over to the vehicle containing said luggage.
Ginger trails after them devotedly.
Stiles figures Isaac will grab both of theirs together because he seems anxious
enough about returning home to do so.
Laura walks over and hugs him tightly as Gumdrop settles next to her feet, pink
tongue lolling out of her mouth. “I’m so sorry about that whole mess earlier,”
she says, voice brittle and when she pulls away, he immediately notices that
her eyes are swollen from crying. Even the tip of her nose is red. “I just —
I’m sorry,” she repeats, and exhales shakily.
Stiles feels his own heart twist in sympathy. “Laura, you have to know that it
wasn’t your fault,” he states soberly.
Laura gives a broken little laugh that sounds like it’s been ripped from her
chest, and her brow furrows with such a gloom. “Sure doesn’t feel that way,”
she replies, apologetic. “I trustedthem. It rips me up inside to think what
might have happened if…”
“I’m okay,” Stiles reassures softly. “I know you worry but I’m not completely
defenseless.” He lets his eyes shift to honey-gold and back again just to prove
a point. Also because he thinks it’s cool that he’s getting better at his
control. “My magic’s just as protective. It’s better than any bodyguard, at
least.”
Laura sniffs, nose wiggling with the sound as she nods. She doesn’t look any
less mournful. “I understand what has to happen next but, you know, not all of
them are spoiled of virtuousness,” she says with such certainty. “In our world,
the mistake of one person has the potential to hit the masses.”
“Your mom said the worst that can happen is banishment,” Stiles soothes.
Laura snorts bitterly and sweeps her fingers under her eyes as her mouth
trembles. “Yeah, well, she has too much faith in the Silver Magistrate,” she
mutters resentfully. “It’s a council of old farts stuck in their ways. I
wouldn’t be surprised if they —” Her expression changes suddenly and her jaw
clenches. “Whoops,” she grits out. “Seems I’ve spoken out of turn.”
Gumdrop whimpers a little before darting off.
Stiles frowns in confusion and he has to follow the aged canine for clarity.
Gumdrop settles over where Talia is.
Talia has her arms full with Olive as she watches everyone sort through the
pile of luggage. She’s taken a moment to give Laura a sharp look, and she’s
murmuring something very lowly.
Stiles turns back to Laura to ask but her changing countenance is so abrupt and
minute, like a deck of cards being shuffled. The questions die on his tongue.
Laura’s ears twitch a little and her hands curl into fists as her eyes flash
red. “Excuse me, Stiles. My smartmouth and outlandishlybiased assumptions have
gotten me into trouble,” she remarks, petulant. “As if I’m not already in hot
water.” She grunts as she pulls away from him completely and stomps towards her
waiting mother with a mutinous visage.
Stiles is understandably worried, but he’s not given enough time to linger over
Talia and Laura’s complicated relationship because Braeden steps into his
direct line of sight. He blinks and refocuses his attention.
“I want all of your time tomorrow,” Braeden bluntly states. She runs her
fingers through her dark, voluminous ombre curls. Her lips are painted with
deep, reddish purple (like a dark wine), and it’s almost as menacing as her
flawlessly winged eyeliner. “Are you going to stare at me or are you going to
confirm?” she demands impatiently.
Stiles blinks and flushes. “You’re really pretty,” he retorts defensively. “I
mean —” He scrambles to recall just what she’s been saying to him.
Braeden lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and doesn’t thank him for the
compliment. “Your time. Tomorrow. Mine.” She’s being deliberately obtuse and
demanding. “Does that process for you, or do I have to put a bag on my head so
you won’t be so distractedby my beauty?”
“Uh, no. You’re attitude kind of takes care of that,” Stiles responds,
displeased. Then he pauses. “Did I say that out loud?”
Braeden’s full lips curl into a slow smirk and her eyes gleam. “Ah, see,” she
drawls. “There’s that attitude. I knew you weren’t so polite. I was getting
worried Derek was attracted to a pushover, but then again he did always like
the snarky ones.”
Stiles mutters, “Glad you approve.”
“Never said that,” Braeden cheerily replies. Then she straightens like she’s
been zapped and her smirk grows a little more wicked. “Is that my baby?” she
purrs gleefully, looking at a point past his shoulder.
Stiles turns in time to see a snow leopard the size of a full-grown polar bear
come barreling out the house on large fluffy paws. He quickly steps out of the
way before a long fluffy tail swishing furiously behind the huge feline can
strike him.
Braeden makes a gleeful squeal as she’s pounced and pinned to the ground by her
conduit. She practically disappears under the spotted and speckled white fur.
“You fucking needy bitch, get off,” she cries but she’s snickering. “Whit Lee!”
Whit Lee just huffs and lazily licks at her face, neck, and hands. He growls
something guttural and moves to settle back on his hind legs. He’s given her
some breathing room but he still curls his long tail around her waist
possessively, using it to heave her upright to her feet.
“Goddess,” Braeden huffs as she tries to catch her balance and quickly tidies
herself with as much dignity as she can muster. When her conduit growls, she
laughs again. Before Stiles can look confused, she explains, “He’s complaining
that he was stuck with babysitting duties. He claims he spent his weekend
soaked in slobber.” She grins. “He’s only affectionate with me. Everything else
is just a threat to mess up the brilliant coat of his fur. Such a prima donna.
Don’t know where he gets it from.”
Stiles snorts disbelievingly and tries to look innocent when Braeden sends him
a look for it.
Whit Lee’s chest rumbles.
Braeden keeps staring Stiles down but she bats some of her hair over her
shoulder. As she puts her hands on her curvy hips, she says, “Whit Lee, this is
Stiles. He’s a Seven, so show proper respect,” she introduces blithely.
“Stiles, this is Whit Lee. Please don’t try to pet him,” she warns.
Stiles wouldn’t dream of it but he does wave awkwardly when Whit Lee cocks his
head and assesses him with glowing ice blue eyes burning with age old
intelligence. “Nice to meet you,” he says.
Whit Lee’s left ear twitches at the words and Stiles could almost swear he was
amused but he can’t tell. Then, out of nowhere, Whit Lee bows his head, chest
rumbling.
Braeden rolls her eyes. She translates, “He says it’s an honor to meet a Faerie
Princeling.” She then spitefully adds, “You just remember who yourqueen is.
Don’t go buddying up to the first slice of Fae royalty you’ve ever met. You’re
mine. You don’t get to trade up for better.”
Whit Lee just huffs dismissively and rumbles something that could be considered
him returning the sentiment. This assumption is only proven when Whit Lee
slowly brushes his side against hers and rubs his face against her cheek
affectionately.
Braeden purrs and coos. She takes a moment to call her conduit beautiful and
gorgeous as she kisses his snout, releasing her magic in a wave of ivory fog
that blankets the great cat like a cape. Then there’s a moment where both of
their eyes turn into mirrors, echoing a bright ivory color as she presses her
forehead to his and they stare at each other with indiscernible love.
Stiles feels something in him long for a connection like that. His magic even
twists anxiously somewhere in the back of his mind before settling quietly
again.
Isaac returns to his side empty-handed. Without taking his curious blue eyes
off of Braeden and Whit Lee, he explains, “Derek said he’s taking us home. I
gave him our stuff. Think he’s putting it in his car so he can pull around.”
“Cool,” Stiles replies weakly. He becomes a bundle of nerves again.
If Isaac notices his tone, he ignores it. He could also be distracted by the
fact that Braeden’s conduit begins to circle him with a curious sound. He gives
Braeden and Stiles a helplessly confused look and doesn’t move an inch.
“Don’t worry,” Braeden replies lazily, but she looks like she’s enjoying how
uncomfortable her great cat is making Isaac. “He doesn’t eat naughty children.
He thinks you’re a baby.”
Isaac glowers at her but he still refuses to move a muscle while he’s being
circled.
Stiles frowns in confusion. “Why exactly does he think my brother is a baby?”
he asks.
“Well, I guess kittenwould be the better term,” Braeden supposes, voice lilting
thoughtfully. “He smells a familiar ancestry in his blood.” She swings her gaze
to Stiles. “He’s a Werecat, isn’t he?”
“Heis right here and can speak for himself,” Isaac interjects sourly before
Stiles has the chance to confirm it. “And it’s none of your business.” He
flinches, frown deepening when Whit Lee pokes his cheek with the tip of his
long fluffy tail, and he gives an amused growl at the reaction.
“That’s enough, Whit Lee,” Braeden commands. “Wouldn’t want his rudeness to rub
off on you, love.”
Isaac’s glower returns and he stands behind Stiles with a menacing expression.
Derek pulls up in his lime green Camaro (Jordan sitting in the back) with
perfect timing. He gestures for Isaac and Stiles to join him. To Braeden, he
says, “You can’t come.”
“Unreasonable, but fine. I’m sure you’ll tell me all about the heart to heart
later,” Braeden remarks breezily before blowing him a kiss. She grabs Stiles’s
arm before he can get away. “You need to understand,” she says as Isaac climbs
into the backseat. “That I have decided that we are going to be spending time
together tomorrow.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kate drawls pleasantly as she strolls over with
Peter and a black, hulking mass of fur trailing after her. “Stiles and I have
plans of our own.” She gives Stiles a significant look as she says, “We still
on for breakfast?”
Stiles blinks, letting the question process before the weight of the words hit
him.
Christ Argent. Bitter family reunion. Right.
“Yeah. Yup. Yes. Totally and definitely,” Stiles stammers, nodding.
Kate smirks with good humor as she pets the canine hiding its face in her
stomach.
“Why don’t I just join you two? Then Stiles and I can get to what we’re
supposed to do,” Braeden suggests tenaciously.
“Nope,” Kate simply says. “Sorry, but members only.”
“Even I’m not invited,” Peter reports with morose resignation. “As much as it
pains me to say.”
“You’ll get over it,” Kate retorts, batting a hand at him. “Now, take
Cinderella for a run. I have to help Laura pack so she can move in to our
condo. She suddenly has the inspiration to get this done tonight. Must have
gotten into a fight with your sister.”
“Ah, but what’s new?” Peter utters satirically. “Very well.” He turns to
Stiles. “Any news from Deaton about the information I shared with you?”
Stiles shakes his head because Deaton has been pretty radio silent this
weekend.
“It’s just as well I suppose,” Peter sighs, taking a moment to think. Then he
says, “I think we should arrange a meeting. First to explore the grounds at
which Mr. Ravenhill died, and then do the same for his cabin.”
“Oh, I’m definitely tagging along to that,” Braeden declares. “No concessions.”
“You have a funny way of asking,” Stiles notes.
Braeden snorts. “I see where your brother gets his manners.” She turns to
Derek, who’s still waiting patiently in the car. “You know what? Don’t give him
all the dick tonight. He don’t deserve it. Give him half. Nope. Matter of fact.
Just the tip, Miss Peaches. Then pull out.”
Stiles splutters indignantly.
“Brae…” Derek growls warningly, eyes flashing to amber.
Isaac’s face twists up like he’s envisioning something he really wishes he
couldn’t and he slumps down further in the backseat. He gently pushes Jordan
away when the canine tries to climb into his lap and lick at his face.
Braeden just snaps her finger at Whit Lee and sashay’s away. “You will be
giving me some of your time tomorrow, Stiles,” she decrees, making her way over
to the luggage pile. “I’ll just go ahead and make myself comfortable in your
room, Dee.”
“You can sleep in the basement for all I care!” Derek calls after her,
disgruntled.
“She’s almost as bad as you,” Peter remarks to his girlfriend.
Kate looks like she resents that. “Please. No one is as bad as me. I’m
insulted. Use protection, Derek. Remember, you can’t tap it if you don’t wrap
it.” She winks at Stiles as she strolls away. “I’ll pick you up first thing
tomorrow. Get plenty of beauty sleep, buttercup.”
Stiles huffs but he nods agreeably, ignoring the flush worming across the
bridge of his nose. He glances down with a curious expression. “So this is the
infamous Cinderella? She’s shaggier than I imagined,” he admits because she is
and he’s trying to stall for time.
Cinderella is literally a husk of black, shiny fur.
Peter’s face twists distastefully. “Ella does not think highly of my grooming
methods. Her hiding gets clever if she suspects I’ll attempt to do anything
more than a wash and a brush. Cutting her fur is out of the question.” He sighs
fondly. “She likes it long.”
Cinderella’s tongue lolls out the side of her mouth while she pants happily and
cocks her head towards Stiles curiously.
Stiles reaches out to pet her but she darts away shyly. “Guess she’s still not
used to me,” he supposes.
Peter just hums noncommittally. “You should get going,” he suggests. “My nephew
keeps sending us these anxious little glances.”
“Am not,” Derek mutters and quickly looks away with pink cheeks when Stiles
glances over. “Bud out.”
“If I must,” Peter chuckles. He gives a singular wave, turning on his heel and
venturing off to find his companion.
Stiles exhales quietly and braces himself, hesitating just for a few more
moments before he makes his way to the car, rounding it to get to the passenger
side.
Derek says nothing when he climbs in. He fiddles with his touch screen
satellite radio, stopping on a blues/jazz station while Stiles buckles in. He
honks as he slowly drives forward, making sure to warn his family so they can
move out of his way.
Stiles leans against his door and watches the passing scenery as they take the
twisty private road that leads them out of the preserve.
The black before them has a velvet quality, like the air has been thickened
somehow, and the sound of the radio does nothing to dull the tension slipping
in. It feels oppressive almost.
It’s not until Isaac lowers his window, does it offer some relief.
The breeze that blows in is warm, announcing the coming of summer's hottest
days. The aroma of the pine trees is an almost calming perfume, and sequin-
silver stars shine like the scattered embers of a dying fire above them.
The forest is dark and quiet, but there is peace in its sullen landscape.
                                      ---
From: stilinski_kid99@gmail.com
To: mskirathunderkat@outlook.com
05/04/14
Kira
I’m sorry, again, and I hope you know I never meant to hurt you. I’m glad I
didn’t screw things up so bad, and that you still want to be my friend. I’m
also glad you reached out to me. Wasn’t really sure where we stood after our
last conversation. I’ll try to be an even better friend to you from now on. I
can’t wait to hear all about your time in Japan (I am endlessly envious), and
hopefully I can get into enough trouble to keep my emails somewhat interesting.
This one is pitiful, but I’ll make up for it in my next one.
Stiles
                                      ---
The street is quiet and clear when Derek pulls up to the Stilinski house.
His dad is sitting out on the porch, holding hands with Melissa as they sit in
a pair of white wicker hanging chairs Stiles doesn’t remember ever being there.
They are artfully installed on the left side of the porch, in front of the
large living room windows. He doesn’t see Scott but Stiles figures his best
friend must be around there somewhere.
Isaac practically climbs out the open window in his haste to get to their
father.
Stiles smiles fondly as he watches his little brother sprint across the yard,
practically knocking their dad on his back when he rises to meet Isaac halfway.
His dad stumbles on the steps in the embrace but he carefully adjusts his
stance so they don’t both go tumbling down the stairs. He wraps one arm around
him and uses the other to pet the back of his head affectionately.
Isaac hides his face in the side of their father’s neck, and he’s obviously
scenting him but their dad knows it, taking it in stride.
Melissa watches from where she’s sitting with soft eyes and a cheerful grin.
“Give me one second,” Derek suddenly says, grabbing his attention.
Stiles turns to face him but the older teen is climbing out of the car and
rounding the back to pop the trunk. He watches through the rearview mirrors as
Derek carries their luggage up to the house, stopping at the bottom of the
steps to place them there.
His dad greets him and his expression turns thoughtful before he glances over
at Stiles with a raised eyebrow.
Stiles has no idea what Derek has said to elicit that response so he kind of
shrugs helplessly as Jordan sticks his wet nose against the back of his neck,
sniffling. He reaches back to stroke the canine distractedly as he watches his
dad exchange words with Derek. He tries in vain to try to read his dad’s lips
since he can only see the back of Derek’s head.
Eventually Derek nods and gives a slight wave to Melissa before he turns back
towards the car. He glances at Stiles as he approaches the passenger side door,
and he opens it for him. “Come take a walk with me,” he says. “Please.”
Stiles wordlessly nods, not sure he could have even said no when Derek is
looking at him with such undemanding determination. He steps out of the car and
closes the door behind himself.
Derek lets Jordan out and then they begin a silently slow stroll up the block
towards the next four-way stop sign intersection.
The tall metal streetlamps cast an artificial glow around them, illuminating
the moist grass and asphalt in garish yellow light. They step in time,
unhurried and languid with contemplation. Stretching out of sight on either
side of the road are identical detached houses, each with a path running down
the middle of it’s lawn leading to porch steps. The windows are glowing with
either the flickering light of a television or the solid white of a ceiling
light.
It always amazes Stiles how the arrival of nightfall brings with it such a
universal hush in sleepy towns such as these. Back in Los Angeles, the chaos of
sound never ceased, day or night; it was a thriving, unceasing cycle.
Jordan sprints ahead of them to sniff around the base of a tree.
Stiles waits until they’ve almost reached the stop sign before he blurts, “I’m
sorry.”
Derek looks at him with a frown, never faltering in his pace as he jams his
large hands in the pockets of his hooded jacket. “Me too,” he admits.
“You were right,” Stiles continues. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Derek mutters something quick and low before stepping directly in Stiles’s
path. “I don’t wantto be right,” he presses. “I never wanted to be right
about…that.” He gives a distressed sigh as he runs a hand through his hair. He
weaves a few fingers through his unkempt hair, tugging and petting more in a
display of frustration than an attempt to tidy it.
Stiles takes a moment to notice how Derek's almost as tall as the stop sign
he’s standing next to. Then he refocuses his attention on the situation at
hand. “I was being insensitive about your culture,” he insists. “I was being
insensitive about you.”
“Sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know,” Derek retorts as he cocks his
head with a soulful look. “I should be more tolerant about that. I should be
explaining instead of storming off in a fit when I don’t have the right words
to make you understand. That was really stupid of me to get upset about.”
“Same here,” Stiles mutters and rubs the back of his neck. “I know you’re not
Human.”
Derek looks at him wordlessly, but there’s something so guarded about his
expression.
“Derek, I knowyou aren’t — that things aren’t going to be like what I’m used to
or whatever,” Stiles continues, resolute about being understood. “It’s like I
told Cora. I’m not asking any of you to be anything you're not. I'm not asking
— I would never ask you to change.” He adds, “We both overreacted, but I won’t
lie and say that I wouldn't prefer if you told me things that I need to know
about the way your dynamics work in the best way you can so I don’t flip or
freak out. It kind of felt like I was being...” He pauses to swallow and just
accepts the flush that overrides his face. “…seduced,” he admits weakly.
Derek maintains his poker face, but there’s somethingthat flashes in his hazel
eyes. It takes him a full minute before he blinks, snapping out of his thoughts
before he inhales slowly and exhales carefully. “Okay,” he says quietly. “That
wasn’t what I meant when I marked you. I can understand why you reacted the way
you did. It makes more sense now.” He straightens and his shoulders relax a
fraction. “Uh, I’m more of a neckguy when it comes to…that.”
“Oh.” Stiles wishes that the cover of night could hide his pink face. He clears
his throat and shifts awkwardly. “Good to know, I guess.”
Derek looks a little embarrassed by his admission as well because he just
shifts his gaze to watch Jordan paw at the edge of someone’s lawn as he shrugs
halfheartedly.
“Well this took an awkward turn,” Stiles mumbles and smiles a little when Derek
snorts. The mood lightens with the humor of the situation. “I don’t think we’re
supposed to discuss kinks until waylater.”
“So you’re saying there will be a later,” is Derek’s quick snap response, and
he’s definitely grinning now. “Nice to know I’m not the only one thinking
ahead.”
Stiles rolls his eyes but he grins too.
Derek’s expression grows somber and he says, “I didn’t want to be right. I just
heard rumors about them, but Stiles, I never wanted to be right.”
“I know,” Stiles says, deflating because he doesn’t like to think about the
circumstances. He rubs his face tiredly. “I meant to just use the bathroom and
go back to the table. But my magic, you know. It insisted I see what was behind
door number one, and I did because I trust it more than I trust myself.”
“Even now, still? After what came of it?” Derek is watching him closely, like
he’s trying to memorize the details of his face.
Stiles feels a little winded by the look and he has to glance at the stop sign
behind Derek to collect himself. “Yes, even still. It protected me when I
needed it the most. It didn’t — wouldn’t ever let me be vulnerable. And I do
believe I saw what I saw for a reason. Gave me an idea about what the bigger
picture is to this whole Seven of Virtues title. Something Aaliyah said to me,
you know. That Humans have their ambassadors and missionaries but what does the
supernatural community have? I want to help, Derek. Sunrise and sunset, all I
can think about is how I want to make a difference.”
Derek nods like he understands (maybe he does), and for some reason, that’s
just as comforting as a verbal confirmation would have been. His easy
acceptance is beyond comforting.
Stiles feels an unexpected swell of affection for Derek that makes his heart
sway in a punch-drunk way. He feels free with Derek in a way he’s never felt
before with anyone else. Like he could say or do anything and Derek would not
hesitate to support him in anyway he needed.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Stiles really could see himself with Derek for the rest of his life and they’re
just talking about his ambitions on a wet sidewalk at a four-way stop sign
intersection at ten o’clock at night and it’s not even anything special. Dear
god, it’s so sudden and unexpected, how much he just wantsDerek in anyway he
can have him. It burns him up on the inside, imploding his mind, and making him
ruthlessly dizzy.
“You okay?” Derek asks with a concerned frown. “You’re heart went a bit wonky
there for a second. And you look a little twitchy,” he remarks, vaguely amused.
“I mean, more than usual.”
Stiles is still on autopilot when he reaches out to pinch Derek’s arm for that
comment. He feels stuck somehow, unable to extract himself from the loop of ‘I
want himforever’swimming laps in his mind.
If his magic had been awake, it would have been thrilled. He’s trying not to
freak, but there’s something almost freeing about it as well. Like he’s finally
made up his mind about something he’s been struggling with for what seems like
the longest time.
“Seriously,” Derek states. “You’re being scarily quiet right now. You’re only
like that when we fight.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles replies faintly, and even to his own ears that sounds
suspicious and unconvincing. He blinks and snaps out of it. “I’m just tired.
Jetlag.” Half-lie, half truth.
Derek seems to accept that response better than the previous one, and Stiles
makes a mental note that there is a way to stump that patented Werewolf Lie
Detector. “We should probably head back anyway. I promised your dad I would
only take up thirty minutes of your time,” he confesses.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever get used of you trying to earn brownie points
with my dad,” Stiles pensively reports.
Derek just grins unrepentantly and asks, “Can I hold your hand?”
Stiles almost bites the inside of his cheek as he gives the other boy a wide
eyed look.
Derek’s mouth twists into a sentimental half-smile. “I know we cleared the air
about things, but I’m making it a point to broadcast my intentions,” he
explains. “I want to hold your hand. I mean, I want to do more than that, but
I’ll settle for holding your hand. It’s been kind of a crazy day. I feel like I
need to touch you and I’ll take anything I can get if —”
Stiles’s face grows hot and he chokes a little. “O-okay, Derek, yes, Jesus,
yes.Just stop talking for a minute. Please,” he begs, lightheaded.
Derek smirks but he makes a show of zipping his lips and wiggling his eyebrows
suggestively.
Stiles gives a nervous short laugh before he laces the fingers of his left hand
with Derek’s right hand. His blush deepens when the older teen swipes his thumb
over the inside of his wrist where his mark still remains.
Derek uses the grip to tug Stiles closer with a content sigh. He has a small
grin on his face as they begin the walk back. The kind of grin that makes it
seem like he’s just won something precious.
Stiles is partially sure that his heart is trying to leap out of his chest. He
wonders if Derek is paying close attention to it and he tries not to feel self-
conscious. Though it may tell him that Stiles is nervously excited but it
doesn’t explain the reasoning behind the reaction. He’s still trying to protect
his thoughts and feelings about this blossoming relationship he has with Derek.
He doesn’t officially know what he wants to do yet.
Derek grows a bit more somber when they reach his car and his grin fades with a
melancholy expression. He sighs and squeezes Stiles’s hand one final time
before letting go. “I wish I could stay longer,” he admits. “But my mom will
wonder.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly as he watches Derek open the passenger side door to
let Jordan climb in before he shuts it. He stays where he is as Derek leans
back against the door behind him. The distance agitates Stiles in a way he
can’t even put into words. “Come back tomorrow,” he exclaims, no proper set up
for it, and he feels so gangly and awkward about it.
Derek grins excitedly. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Stiles breathes, hardly standing it. “You should come back tomorrow
night. Tomorrow night because I’ll be, you know, I’ll probably be running
around earlier. Um, with Kate and maybe Peter or Braeden if she gets her way.”
“She’s crafty enough to always gets her way, sadly,” Derek kindly sympathizes.
“Right,” Stiles merely says and shifts his stance. He gnaws on the corner of
his lip. “So, um, come back tomorrow night because I —”
Derek waits for him to complete that sentence but he doesn’t. “Because?” he
prompts.
Stiles’s skin feels tight and itchy with nerves. “Because I want you to,” he
concedes softly.
Derek’s grin lengthens out into a thousand watt smile. “I really want to kiss
you,” he professes, almost like a painful sigh. “You make it so easy to want
it.”
Stiles ducks his head shyly, stuck between flattered and flustered; his heart
might burst. But what else is new when it comes to Derek? He replies, “I don’t
know if I can get used to you just saying stuff like that to me.”
“I’m a brave soul,” Derek supposes with slight self-deprecation. He seems to
have mercy and asks, “Are you going to Kate and Laura’s housewarming party? I
think they were aiming to have it this coming weekend. You should go with me.”
“Or not at all?” Stiles teases a little as he straightens. He laughs when Derek
does that stupid finger guns thing at him. “You’re such a dork. I need to roll
with someone cool or you’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Wow. Rude.” Derek slaps a hand over his little dark heart. “I keep telling you
it’s not dark,” he insists, eyes crinkling in amusement.
Stiles flushes. “I didn’t evensaythat out loud!” he swears.
“Hm,” Derek patiently replies before leaning forward to tug Stiles’s left ear.
“Guess I can just read your mind then.”
Stiles grabs that hand, not thinking when he bites at Derek’s knuckles.
Derek’s hazel eyes darken before burning to liquid gold with a flash
of excitement, shifting back again, and he makes a sound that Stiles has
neverheard before.
Stiles gets a little flustered when he realizes that his plan backfired. “Uh,
no! No, don’t look at me like that! I was trying to offendyou. Not, um…” He
kind of stammers over the words.
“Seduce me?” Derek supplies, his voice sounds gravelly. He straightens and
steps closer. “Sure. Okay. That was veryoffensive. I wonder what else I should
pull at to get you to bite the rest of —”
Stiles quickly slaps a hand over his mouth with a hissing sound. “Jesus,Derek,
don’t you dare. My brothercan probably hear everything we’re saying,” he warns,
panicked. He groans and drops his forehead to Derek’s shoulder. “I’ll never
live it down.” He lifts his head quickly with a glare. “He’ll tellCora. And you
know how she is. She’ll make verbal jabs in front of everyone. And I like going
to your house too much to have to choose between my dignity or facing that.”
“Don’t know what to tell you,” Derek answers with an apologetic shrug.
“Enhanced hearing is just something you have to get used to.” Then he sighs and
woefully adds, “I guess I can calm down with the dirty talk outside of the
bedroom. Can’t make any realpromises about it…”
“Lose my number,” Stiles starts, counting off his fingers with each point.
“Lose my email. Lose my address. Don’t come back tomorrow. Or the next day
after that. Or the next day after that.And I’m not going to the housewarming
party with you. We are not even friends anymore. You are a horrible person —
stoplaughing, I’m so serious.”
Derek is literally wiping gleeful tears from his eyes as he leans back against
his car to hold himself up.
“Okay.” Stiles may be nodding but he’s really annoyed. “Okay. I’m glad you find
it all so amusing. Yes, let’s have a good laugh at Stiles.”
“I’m trying,” Derek chokes out and starts laughing even harder.
Stiles’s mouth wiggles as he fights against an answering smile and he shakes
his head with an eye roll. The smile wins out eventually. “You’re so annoying,”
he promises.
“Yeah, maybe, but I think you like it,” Derek retorts as he begins to calm
down. He gets thoughtfully silent and then asks, “Can I kiss you on the cheek?”
“Geez, is this what you’re going to be like now? Broadcasting everything that
goes through that head of yours?” Stiles complains with pink cheeks but his
heart kicks up in anticipation.
“Well,” Derek drawls with mock contemplation. “Not everythought.” He wiggles
his eyebrows with a smirk.
“Shut up before I change my mind,” Stiles mutters and tilts his face away
slightly. His fingers wiggles anxiously and waits. “Um, are you going to do it
or…”
Derek blinks and snaps to. “Sorry. Got distracted by your neck,” he admits
offhandedly and leans forward to press his warm lips to Stiles’s heated cheek.
Stiles closes his eyes against the sensation, thinking about how ridiculously
into Derek he must be if he thinks that this cheek kiss blows all others out of
the water. His heart is beating so loud and so fast that there’s no way the
whole neighborhood can’t hear it. His magic is swirling with gleeful joy in his
mind, suddenly awake and alive.
Derek’s lips are the right amount of soft and firm; just perfect.
Stiles feels warmth spread through his limbs and his chest tingles with a
pleasant buzz. Every good thing seems possible in that moment. It’s just a
goddamn cheek kiss but it somehow conveys the same kind of intimacy a full on
kiss to the lips would.
It might have been an eternity when Derek finally pulls away but Stiles
wouldn't have noticed. As the soft lips of Derek’s mouth left the side of his
face, the exact spot where they came into contact with burned and tingled.
A small grin creeps onto Stiles’s face, his cheeks a rosy color, and Derek’s
face mirrors the look.
Derek’s eyes seemed brighter almost, filled to the brim with joy. His eyes are
like the color of milk chocolate edged with a deep forest-green. Sometimes the
two colors seem to swirl together like moss creeping over rich soil. And when
he smiles just at Stiles, it’s like both colors ignite with a glow.
Stiles is dazzled. He is simply overcome. And when their eyes lock, having a
private conversation of their own, he just knows.
He’s found what he didn’t even know he had been looking for. Someone to show
him what it means to be happy from the inside out.
“Goodnight,” Derek says quietly and he seems slightly wrecked at the thought of
leaving.
“Night,” Stiles returns because he’s in the same position. With everything in
him, he doesn’t want Derek to leave. “I — I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says like
a promise. Like encouragement for himself.
“Yeah,” Derek dreamily agrees, and he brightens at the prospect with a grin.
“Then it’ll be your turn to kiss me on the cheek.”
“Joy,” Stiles responds weakly. The word sounding almost strangled because he
can imagine it, what it would be like, and his lips tingle. He swallows and
takes a desperate step back before he gives in to the urge to jump the gun.
“Right. Um. See you tomorrow.”
Derek nods, still hesitating before he musters up the will to round the car.
“Text me. Call me. Anything. I just want to hear from you,” he begs as he
climbs into his car. “Later.”
“Later.”
Derek pulls away from the curb in a u-turn, waving one final time as he passes.
Stiles waves faintly and watches what feels like a piece of himself drive away.
His magic twists and folds into itself behind his heart, quelling with
dissatisfaction. He’s about to turn in but he recognizes the familiar feline
figure of his uncle sitting under the soft glow of the streetlamp across the
street.
His mood begins to take an ugly turn.
***** resurrection *****
The cat puts on his midnight paws and prowls into the thickening night as he
crosses the street. Even in the stillness, his ears seem to twitch, picking up
sounds that Stiles didn’t care to hone in on, even though he knew he had the
ability to. He navigates around a fire hydrant, slinking like a true feline,
claws still sheathed. The cat pads without noise, barely disturbing the dew-
laden carpet of grass under paw when it comes to a rest on the off grey of the
curb.
Claude’s ginger fur looks clean and neat, making Stiles wonder how his uncle
manages that. His tail swishes anxiously behind him as he gazes up at Stiles
with yellow cat eyes, ears still flickering and swishing on his head.
“Where have you been?” Stiles questions. He doesn’t believe beating around the
bush will cut it this time. “You’ve missed out on a lot,” he adds, mockingly.
“I had some business to attend to. Things that required my immediate
attention,” Claude vaguely explains, and of course he does because he’s a
secretive bastard. “Couldn’t be helped, Stiles. I did my best to be quick about
it.”
“I’m sure you did,” Stiles mocks sweetly. “So what is it this time? Come to
deliver some last minute news about someone I care about being in danger?
You’re famous for that.”
“You still don’t trust me,” Claude realizes, and he bristles. “I’m your uncle.
I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you.”
“You go ahead and believe what you want. You haven’t been here. You never
were,” Stiles snaps back. “So excuse me if I want to make this quick but what
do you want?”
“The Reyes Twins have returned,” Claude responds tightly, tail swishing
furiously. “I’ve been tracking them down. I figured you would appreciate that.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Stiles states hotly. “I
already know who’s been behind everything, no thanks to you. Why didn’t you
tell me that the Benefactor wasn’t Gerard? And what’s worse, you never said it
was a Seven of Vices either.”
Claude looks as surprised as a cat can as he shifts out of his seated position
on the curb.
“Again, do you still not get why I don’t trust you?” Stiles peevishly restates.
Claude shakes himself out of his stupor and slowly sits back on his hind legs
again. “The Benefactor is not the real enemy here."
Stiles laughs coldly. "I think you and I have different definitions of what
defines an enemy. For one, I don't play favorites. You're either for me or
against me. There is no first or last," he clarifies.
Claude still ignores his reasoning, and continues, "What’s pressing — what’s
more important is Gerard. He’s the real threat to us. To everyone like us.”
“I’ll take your opinions into consideration when you can stop feeding me
misleading information,” Stiles retorts tiredly. He really doesn’t have time
for this. “What is the significance of the sacrifices and where they’re done?
And —"
"Sacrifices!" Claude gasps.
"— don’t you dare pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about or talk
your way out of it. There’s a reason the Reyes Twins activated Kira, and not
just for some power outage to help their mute father fly the cuckoo’s nest, and
I think you know. I’m not even going to touch on the black soap. Are you
working for the Benefactor?”
“I will not dignify that with a response!” Claude fumes icily, springing to his
feet or paws or whatever. “You are letting things that do not hold precedent
distract you. Gerard is the enemy and by ignoring that, you’re putting us all
in danger.”
Stiles can’t hold back his magic when it sinks into his hands, consuming them
with blue ethereal light that flickers like glitteringly dangerous flames. He
hopes no one is watching them, but he’s too angry to glance about. “Mr.
Ravenhill is dead. He was your friend, wasn’t he? Did you know, or do you even
care?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“We are at war. There are losses to be expected,” Claude pigheadedly remarks
but he looks a little frightened at the sight of his nephew. Coward. “You’ve
developed since I last saw you, but there will be no talking to you now. Not
like this,” he fretfully decides and eases away. “Perhaps some distance will
put things in perspective for the both of us. In the mean time, why don’t you
sort out that attitude of yours?” He darts off before Stiles can even keep him
in place.
“Fine!” Stiles yells after him. He makes a frustrated sound and shakes out his
hands until his magic extinguishes obediently. “Good riddance,” he mutters,
fingers still tingling hotly. His gaze darts across the street and he sighs
when he sees Mrs. Doyle’s curtains flutter close.
Great. Just great.
Stiles will have to deal with that later. He stomps towards the house, up the
steps and through the front door. He slams it behind him.
It startles Melissa and his dad, who are sitting at the kitchen table with
their hands wrapped around their cups of coffee.
Stiles simmers down long enough to look sheepish. His magic is swirling around
his lungs. “Sorry. I…um. Sorry,” he offers by way of explanation. He takes a
moment to try and calm down.
“You and Derek having a disagreement?” his dad tentatively questions, looking
concerned.
“Trust me when I say that’s not the case,” Isaac interjects as he comes
skulking down the steps, barefoot. He goes to the fridge to pull free his mint-
chocolate chip ice cream and grabs a spoon. His lips are a bit pinched at the
corners when he forces himself to add, “I had to put on my headphones, Stiles.”
Stiles turns red, unable to pretend he doesn’t know what his little brother
means.
“Now why exactly…” His dad starts, trailing off before he completely pauses,
and then he looks a little uncomfortable. “Uh, son?”
“It’s not what you think!” Stiles swears, maybe a little tooloudly. “We were
just talking, okay? We weren’t doing anything!”
Isaac just snorts.
Stiles gives him a look that could curdle milk.
“What exactly were you two talking about?” his dad presses, and he’s got on his
best ‘my son’s virtue is at risk’ game face on. “Do we need to have a talk?”
“Jonathan,” Melissa interrupts gently and places a placating hand over his.
“I’m sure if Stiles has any questions or concerns about that aspect of his
relationship with Derek, he will not hesitate to come to you about it. Isn’t
that right, Stiles?” She turns to him with a pointed look.
Stiles could kiss her but he settles for rapidly nodding. “Totally. Totally
would do all that, and then some, and then even more. I just, would so do that.
But I’m not at that place. We’re not at that place, so that doesn’t even need
to happen. We are so beyond from being to…there. The scale is practically on
the scale of a galaxy, you know, that same mechanics of distance. Derek could
probably explain because he’s into that whole space thing and I just am making
a very uneducated guess. But, you know, galaxies. That just sums up about how
far from being there Derek and I are. So, you know, I’ll just keep the talking
to you about…that…in the…future?”
Melissa hides a smile behind her next sip of coffee.
His dad just looks like he wants to turn back the time to when Stiles was
nothing more than a squirmy, wet newborn.
Isaac just seems vindictively satisfied by the turn of events, licking lazily
at each spoonful of ice cream he manages. He is the worst little brother in the
world because he started all this.
Stiles is sorely tempted to just walk over and slap that ice cream out of his
ungrateful hands.
“Right,” his dad grunts and clears his throat. “Good to know you and Derek are
far from being there. Even though there’s no chance of either of you getting
pregnant, it’s still not something to be taken lightly. I know you’re old
enough to make some of your own decisions but you're barely fifteen and in the
eyes of the law, well, sixteen is technically the age of consent but —”
“Dad, please,” Stiles begs and he literally wants to evaporate. “We have
established that there is no need to get into that. Why aren’t you giving Isaac
this speech?”
“He did,” Isaac inconsiderately declares. “I’ve done my time.”
Stiles sends him a withering look. “But it doesn’t even count,” he protests.
“You’re asexual.”
Isaac shrugs. “Dad thought I should know anyway. He did a lot of research about
my sexuality type before he sat me down.”
“That’s right, I did. I wanted to be fully prepared,” his dad confirms proudly
and dear god, just make it stop. “Looks like I’ll have to research a thing or
two about Werewolves. I’m sure Talia will be willing to answer anything I can’t
find.”
“Yup, there it is. Right there. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce
my breaking point.” Stiles raises his hands in surrender. “Now if you’ll excuse
me, I’m going to go die quietly in my room.”
“I suggest the backyard, what with it being such a beautiful night,” Melissa
quips playfully. “You’ll find Scott there. As a nurse, I know how important it
is to have someone there during your final moments.”
Isaac snorts fondly.
Stiles sighs and wishes he had someone in his corner right now.
“Now hang on,” the sheriff says, holding up a hand. “If Derek isn’t the reason
you came in here all huffy, then what was?”
“Uncle Claude,” Stiles mutters, mouth twisting in displeasure. “I’d rather not
talk about it right now. I can see why mom never mentioned him. He’s an
asshole.”
“Language,” Melissa gently scolds.
His dad grins tenderly at her, and his dark eyes go all gooey. It’s an amazing
but gross sight. He says, “I’ll have to take your word for that one, son. Your
mother had her secrets but not without reason. You okay?”
“I will be,” Stiles promises and he finds that he means that. “If I never see
him again, it would still be too soon.” He looks to Melissa. “You said Scott’s
in the back?”
“He’s talking to your tree but I was quickly informed that there was a magical
property about it before I could truly begin to worry about my son’s mental
health,” Melissa reports in a mock-serious tone.
“If you have some time to spare, I can introduce you,” Stiles offers because he
figures she’s becoming family now. “We call her Nana.”
“Oh, well then I would love to meet her,” Melissa declares, rapping her
knuckles against the table before standing. She hands her empty mug to his dad
before kissing him on the cheek.
His dad quickly turns his head so that their lips touch briefly and pretends to
look surprised.
Melissa giggles as she flushes and swats him on the shoulder. “Sneaky,” she
accuses.
“My timing’s rusty,” his dad claims innocently. “I weaved when I should’ve
bobbed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Melissa dismisses as she follows Stiles out the backdoor.
Isaac lingers with their dad, joining him at the table so they can have a heart
to heart about his weekend.
Stiles manages to kick off his socks and shoes as he passes over the threshold
with Melissa on his heels. It’s more than a habit at this point. He enjoys
being barefoot. He likes the energy that seems to pulsate under his feet as he
walks across the damp grass. He likes the feel of the earth under his toes.
Melissa pauses to openly admire the shimmering colors of the purple-blue leaves
sprouting from Nana’s branches.
There’s a slight rainfall of translucent rose petals fluttering down from
between them, making it almost look like soft, thin glass floating in the air.
Suddenly, the soft warm glow of fireflies begins to slice through the dark
atmosphere with their sugary light. They always seem to sense Stiles’s arrival.
They chatter amongst themselves in a symphony of indistinguishable voices.
“Did you miss me?” Stiles says as he jumps on Scott’s unsuspecting back,
letting his magic seep through and spread across his skin like blue
bioluminescent vines.
Scott squawks and tries to right himself.
Nana chuckles jubilantly, leaves shaking with the motion. “Are you asking me or
Scott, dearie?”
“Both. Both is good,” Stiles responds, quoting El Dorado.
“Well of course I missed you, dude,” Scott exclaims, twisting so he can put
Stiles in a headlock. “You’re giving me abandonment issues.”
“And downright miserable, I was,” Nana adds in jest. “Now stop being rude,
sweetling, and introduce me to this one’s mother.”
Stiles shoves Scott away long enough to motion Melissa closer. “Melissa, this
is Nana. Nana, this is Melissa. I give you permission to see.”
Melissa reaches out and blindly clutches at Scott’s hands in surprise, blinking
in awe at the wooden face that suddenly transforms before her. “Ay Dios Mio…”
she breathes. “A talking tree! Suena como un cuento de hadas.”
“Y este no es elúnicocuento de hadas que nos decimos a nosotros mismos,
respecto a la naturaleza,” Scott replies with a laugh. He turns to Stiles and
translates, “My mom says it’s like something out of a fairytale.”
“Ah,” Stiles says, understanding. “I don’t blame her.”
“You are quite lovely, my dear,” Nana compliments. “As enchanting as Queen
Isabella the second was before her reign over Spain began. I was one of her
personal avocado trees in her court. Dear me, I’ll have to tell you about that,
if you can remind me. Oh don’t be afraid, step a little closer. I can see where
your son gets those beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.” Melissa presses a hand to her chest, looking flattered. “You know,
people tell me all the time that he has my eyes. Ever since he was, you know —”
She pauses and snaps her finger as she tries to think of the proper words. “Un
chico que te mueres. Do you — I’m sorry, do you speak Spanish?”
“Don’t ever apologize for speaking your native tongue. Feel free, dearie. There
is no dialect unknown to me,” Nana proudly boasts. “Come to me anytime. I am
quite the aficionado of conversation.”
“Yeah it’s okay, mom,” Scott assures, as if Nana’s words aren’t convincing
enough. “I talk to her in Spanish all the time. We talk about everything!”
“He certainly does, and he’s quite the charmer,” Nana remarks sincerely. “You
would’ve made a dashing prince in another life.”
Scott ducks his head with a sheepish grin, flushing a little. “You make it easy
to talk to you. La vida aquíes másamena,” he murmurs shyly.
“Well, then I will definitely have to take you up on your offer, Nana. But for
now, I’m afraid I have to get going. I have a graveyard shift to get to,”
Melissa says apologetically with a gorgeous smile. “Ya tengo trabajo hasta por
encima de las cejas. I wouldn’t dare add running late to the list. Don’t get me
started on my boss. El hombre es el diablo sobre ruedas.”
Nana laughs heartily. “Yes, that is rather unfortunate. I will not keep you if
that’s the case. We will chat soon,” she promises sweetly.
“Definitely. Scott,” Melissa calls and gestures him to follow her as she heads
back inside. Probably to say goodbye to his dad.
“I’m coming,” Scott swears and turns to Stiles. “Mom only came over because I
asked her to. She usually likes to nap before work if it’s a night shift. I
thought you’d be back sooner.”
Stiles feels a little bad. “Wish things would’ve worked out better,” he
mumbles.
Scott just shakes his head with an easy smile. He replies, “It’s totally fine.
I mean I was trying to hang out and tell you about Lydia and everything. But
I’m going to the hospital to visit with Danny, otherwise I’d stay. They might
discharge him this week. I’d suggest you come but you look tired.”
“Yeah,” Stiles admits with a weary sigh and rubs at his eyes. “I think I’ll
drop by tomorrow if I can find the time. I really want to see Lydia too. I just
— I’ve got so much going on, you know?”
“I get it, dude. Tell me about it when you can,” Scott requests.
“Scott! Bajémonosaquí!”
Scott rolls his eyes. “I gotta go. Bye, Nana.”
“Have a good night, dear,” Nana kindly returns. “Oh, just a second. Give this
to your mother. I noticed she has some baggage under those darling eyes of
hers. Quite a shame. So, if you wouldn’t mind, tell her that I insisted she eat
this piece of fruit before she settles for sleep. Warn her it has to be before
she sleeps.”
Scott nods and cups his hands together obediently so that a juicy peach can
plop in.
“And an apple for you as well,” Nana decides, dropping the shiniest, red one
she has in his awaiting hand.
“Thank you!” Scott says brightly with a smile.
Nana waits until Scott is out of sight before she says, “Right then. Let’s have
a look at what you’ve been up to, then off to bed with you.”
Stiles draws near, letting his magic illuminate his palms as he touches them to
Nana’s rough cheeks. He feels the inevitable soft press of Nana probing his
mind, sifting through his memories like lukewarm water washing over his
thoughts.
The curfew siren rings off in the distance.
Nana hums thoughtfully. “That will do it, sweetling,” she announces.
Stiles drops his hands and lets them rest limply at his sides.
“You’ve questions about supernatural history. Well, the Great Migration is a
good place to start if any. It’s one of the key events that turned the tide of
the paranormal timeline,” Nana supposes, sounding wistful. “I’ll give you the
oral report, but some other time perhaps. It’s getting late, and you have
enough on your mind.”
Stiles ignores the way her eyes twinkle humoredly and he doesn’tthink about
Derek. “Sorry to say I haven’t kept up with my studies,” he acknowledges
instead.
“Think nothing of it,” Nana assures, optimistic. “We can resume all of that
later this week. Go and get some proper sleep, dearie.”
Stiles won’t argue. “Goodnight, Nana. I do love you.”
“And I do love you as well,” Nana swears. “Forever and always.”
Stiles smiles and his magic breaks away from him, wafting into the air to take
the shape of a swarm of blue, glimmering bumblebees. They float around and
beside the fireflies as if entertaining them with a dance. He takes a second to
watch before he lets it be, making his way inside and grabbing his fallen socks
and shoes in the process.
His dad and Isaac are in the living room when he returns, both perched in their
favorite armchairs and watching Frozen.
“I’m off to bed, busy day tomorrow,” Stiles explains and rubs the heels of his
hands into his eyes as he yawns. “Breakfast with Kate and her estranged older
brother. I might stop by Deaton’s too. Not sure where that will lead, but, when
I do I’ll let you know.” He drops his hands and blinks away the fuzziness
creeping into his vision. “Also, Derek might come over for dinner. Is that
okay?”
“Fine by me, as long as I’m not expected to cook. We can order out,” his dad
supposes.
Stiles makes a face. “I’ve had enough of that this weekend to last me, so no
thanks. I’ll make something if I’m not too tired,” he decides. “Do you have to
work tomorrow?”
“Yes, I will be really busy this week. I’m trying to put in some hours so I can
take this weekend off. Melissa and I have plans,” the sheriff admits, being as
vague and casual about it as possible.
Stiles is definitely not going to ask. “Cool. Can Scott stay over then?
Assuming this means you guys are going out of town or something?”
“I don’t see why not. I believe that’s what Melissa wanted to happen anyway,”
his dad confirms. “I’ll let you know if anything changes. We won’t be far.
There’s this resort a few miles north of this town. We’ll only really be two
hours away if we’re needed.”
Stiles nods and yawns again. “Isaac, did you tell dad about the internship you
were offered? Peter wants to hijack him for the summer.”
“I’ll be speaking with Peter personally to sort out the details for that,” his
dad replies, only confirming that he had discussed it with Isaac already. “Now
go to bed, you look like you’re going to collapse any moment.”
Stiles grunts noncommittally as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge
before trudging up the steps to his room. He doesn’t bother turning on the
lights, letting his room be illuminated by nothing but the pale moonlight. He
unzips his luggage and just dumps the contents out before tossing the emptied
suitcase into his dark closet. He sorts through the pile to get some pajamas
before he strips down to climb into them.
He throws open his window to get a nice breeze going in his stuffy bedroom and
also just in case his magic wants to return to him once it’s done frolicking.
The last thing he does before he stumbles into bed is grab his phone and
Derek’s stuffed wolves so he can curl up with them, humming softly at the smell
of vanilla. He gulps down his bottle of water and uses the last bit of juice
his phone has to send Derek a text that reads:
Hey why does Braeden call you Miss Peaches?
Derek’s response is instantaneous.
You noticed that, huh?
She’s called me that for as long as I’ve known her.
She says it's because I'm too sweet.
I personally don’t think that’s the real reason.
What do you think it is then?
I don’t know to be honest. I just know it’s not that. She’s funny that way.
Yeah, she’s funny all right............
He tries to wait for Derek’s response, but he falls asleep before he gets it.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up practically roasting on a sweltering Monday morning with the
taste of peppermint on his tongue.
The sun is shining determinedly through his windows, like it’s looking for
unmerciful revenge.
He’s sticky and hot, skin glistening wetly and forehead damp with sweat. He
kicks his way free from the sheets he’s entangled with, knocking his covers off
the bed with a miserable groan as he fans at himself desperately. The muggy
heat eventually chases him out of his room and into the shower for some
release.
He steps out sometime later, shivering but blessedly cool. He wanders back to
his room with a towel around his waist and his dirty clothes in his hands. He
dumps it in his already overflowing laundry hamper. He obviously needs to do
his laundry, but he has so many clothes that the need isn’t urgent, though by
the look of his hamper, one would think the opposite.
As he gets dressed (dark blue shorts and a thin orange t-shirt with a graphic
of Chewbacca on the front), he considers donating a portion of his wardrobe and
wonders if Kate would know anything about doing that. After all, she’s
apparently an advocate for giving back to the community.
While he’s putting on his shoes, he feels his magic wiggling deep within his
gut. He figures it must have returned while he was sleeping last night and is
still exhausted from the events of yesterday.
Stiles grabs his phone from where he locates it from under his bed, sighing in
annoyance when he realizes that he forgot to charge it. He taps the edge of it
against his chin thoughtfully before an idea strikes him. He gathers a pinch of
his magic to his index finger and his middle finger before he swipes it across
the black screen.
Nothing happens.
At first.
It takes a few seconds but it does chirp to life, fully charged.
He fists pumps with a joyous sound, elated with a proud rush of power. His
magic, however, coils around his ribs, oozing waves of displeasure at being
disturbed and used for such a remedial thing. He rolls his eyes in turn but
happily notes that this will come in handy for the long run.
Stiles unlocks his phone to sort through all his unread texts, and he sees a
few missed calls from Kate. He’s just about to call her when his phone buzzes
in his hands. He’s quick to answer at the familiar name.
“Finally. I thought you were bailing on me,”Kate states tetchily. “I’m outside.
Come on, we’re already running late.”
Stiles isn’t even given a chance to reply before she hangs up. He sighs and
stares at the screen before he pockets his phone, grabbing other things that
he’ll need to put in his backpack. He does not have enough pocket space for it
all.
Stiles also should have guessed that Kate would be in a mood over this whole
thing.
He passes Isaac’s room to see it’s empty (his bed is made and everything). He
jogs down the steps and upon further inspection, notes that the house is empty.
He wonders idly if Isaac hadn’t just tagged along with his dad to work since
school is out for the both of them. He knows his dad wouldn’t ever let Isaac be
in the house by himself, so he must be elsewhere.
Kate starts doing that thing where she really lays in on the horn.
Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs a handful of peppermint candies from the bag
that’s been left on the table and wonders briefly over where it might have come
from as he crams some of them in his pockets. Then he quickly makes his way out
the front door, locking it firmly behind him before marching over to her shiny,
black Jaguar. His temples and the back of his neck are damp with sweat and he’s
only been outside for a few minutes.
Kate’s waiting with the top down and is texting away on her expensive phone
with one hand while pressing down on her horn with the other.
“Okay, okay— I’m here!” Stiles exclaims as he climbs in and buckles up. He puts
his backpack at his feet.
“Hm,” is Kate’s only response but she let’s up. She’s dressed in a formfitting
red romper with red lipstick, diamond stud earrings, and a freshly done
manicure. She fiddles with her radio and starts blasting The Horrors.
“Is this their latest album?” Stiles asks, surprised that she actually knows
them.
“Sure is,” Kate replies before pulling off. For all of her rushing, she sure
doesn’t seem in a hurry to get there. “Peter’s taste in music is slowly
weaseling its way into mine. I’m guessing you’re a fan.”
“I am,” Stiles confirms. The conversation ends there and he keeps himself busy
by texting Derek and Scott at different paces. Before he knows it, they’re
turning into the parking lot of Ramona’s Old Fashion Eatery on Mulholland Blvd
(owned by Boyd's mother).
Kate slaps on some expensive shades, clearing her face of any expression before
leaning over to pop open her glove compartment. She pulls out a small pistol.
“Kate!” Stiles hisses and grabs her hand, making sure the safety’s on as he
struggles with her. “You are not bringing in a concealed weapon!”
“It’s either this or the hunting knife,” Kate insists. She’s drop dead serious
(no pun intended).
Stiles stares at her wide eyes. “The knife if you have to,” he relents when he
realizes she wont budge. This is way more dysfunctional than he thought.
Kate shoves the gun back into the compartment before exchanging it for a
personalized hunting knife with an oak hilt and steel blade (it even has her
initials etched in dainty cursive on the hilt). She jams it into her white
Gucci pocketbook. Then she climbs out of the car all nonchalant, like Stiles
hadn’t tried to pry a gun from her hands a minute ago.
Stiles cannot believe that this is his life.
Kate waits for him at the glass double doors and doesn’t actually enter the
restaurant until Stiles pulls one of the doors open for her. She has to be the
most high maintenance person he’s ever met.
Nope. Wait. Musn’t forget about Braeden.
Stiles trails after her with a sigh, letting the cacophony of idle chatter, and
the enticing smell of diner food wash over him.
The restaurant is full, but no surprise there.
Stiles looks around and takes it all in.
There’s an old couple seated by the door, eating side by side and playfully
fighting over a flute of sparkling mimosa.
A group of young women in their thirties collapsing with helpless giggles as a
stern woman dining alone nearby looks sternly at them with a frown.
Businessmen in their grey suits are studiously bent over their meals on stools
at the bar.
There are international tourists trying to decipher their menus with
intimidated expressions.
A family and their messy, syrup-covered children are getting their pictures
taken with one of the waitresses (who is costumed to fit the 50’s style theme
of the restaurant).
The noise level is high but it’s hardly overwhelming.
“There he is,” Kate mutters as she presses close to his side and points to the
other end of the diner where Chris Argent is sitting in a booth alone, facing
the door. She doesn’t wave back when he signals to them. “Fucker’s gonna foot
the bill if I have anything to say about it.”
Stiles snorts and lets Kate drag him over. He slaps her hands away when she
tries to shove him towards the inside of the booth. He slides over withouther
help so she can settle in next to him.
“Katherine,” Chris says, voice low and rough. He’s kind of dressed like a denim
model. “I didn’t realize you’d be bringing company. I thought it would just be
you and I.”
Kate just white-knuckles her menu, opening it up so she can hide behind it. She
doesn’t even remove her shades.
Stiles exhales quietly, drums the fingers of his right hand against the surface
of the table and clears his throat. “Sorry, Mr. Argent. I figured Kate would’ve
told you I’d be joining,” he explains. “I can go if —”
“No fucking way,” Kate hisses lowly. She slaps her menu down with a scowl. “If
you’re asking him to leave, then I’m leaving too.” She turns to Stiles and even
though she has on sunglasses, he can tell she’s glaring at him. “You promised.
You don’t get to chicken out now.”
Stiles grimaces. “Technically, I didn’t really promise —”
“Oh what the fuck ever! You’re on the inside anyway, so you have to crawl under
the table like an idiot if you want to get out,” Kate points out vindictively.
“You say it like thatwill be the thing to stop me.”
“I’m your fucking ride, buttercup.”
"I have both Uber and Lyft installed on my phone, and I'll be happy to price
match if it comes to it."
"Stiles..."
“It’s fine,” Chris announces, grabbing their attention. He doesn’t even look
marginally amused. “No one has to leave.”
“Good to know,” Kate grumbles hotly and grabs her menu to hide behind again.
“Stiles and I will be ordering whatever we want while you bitch and moan about
your feelings. You’re paying.”
Chris’s expression gets a little tight and he clenches his jaw but he doesn’t
argue as he flags over a waitress.
Kate orders some breakfast burritos, hash browns, bacon, and a short stack of
blueberry pancakes.
Stiles just orders a few slices of their infamous breakfast pizza.
Chris orders a cup of Irish coffee.
Kate makes a snide remark about it being five o’clock somewhere.
Chris doesn’t even bat an eye and says, “I heard you moved out of the manor.”
Kate’s mouth twitches towards a frown.
“I’m glad,” Chris continues when she doesn’t respond. “I was never comfortable
with you living with dad and dealing with his lifestyle. I should have done
more to make sure that you grew up knowing better. Having better. But I was a
dumb selfish bastard that took the first out I could get when I found one. I’m
not making excuses for what I’ve done. I just want to do right by the people
I’ve hurt now that I’ve realized how short life is.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, are you —” Kate straightens and wrenches off her
sunglasses. “Are you dying?”
“You’ve picked up a colorful vocabulary, Katherine,” Chris replies instead.
“It’s Kate, you fucking —”
“Okay!” Stiles exclaims, jumping in. “Quick timeout,” he says, miming the
gesture along with the words. “I’d rather we didn’t get escorted out before our
food even has the chance to get to us.”
Chris and Kate look away from each other.
“Mr. Argent, I think you’ll find Kate a little less suspicious of your motives
if you just explain why it is exactly you’ve decided to return after all these
years,” Stiles clarifies. “To be fair, she did make peace with the notion that
you’d never be apart of her life.”
The waitress returns with their drinks before darting off again.
Chris takes a long hard sip of his Irish coffee.
Kate crosses her arms and stares him down; refusing to touch her freshly
squeezed orange juice.
Stiles takes little tentative sips of his strawberry milk as his magic squirms
restlessly in his gut.
Chris sets down his glass mug and wipes his mouth clean of any lingering foam
with a napkin. Then he says, “I am trying to reconnect with you.” He adds, “But
I also need your help taking our father down.”
“And thereit is. The real reason, ladies and gentlemen,” Kate quips icily,
seething. “You could care fuck all about me. It’s this agendayou need me for.”
“Katherine, that couldn’t be further from the truth,” Chris swears tiredly. It
deepens the aged lines of his face. “You can say no, but just know, it would
mean a lot to me if you did help.”
Kate hides her shaking hands under the table, and if Stiles hadn’t been sitting
beside her, he would have never known this was affecting her so much. She has
the best poker face there is.
“My intention,” Chris goes on to say, oblivious. “Is to submit him to the
Coalition of Huntsmen for gross negligence and official misconduct.”
Kate laughs sharply. “Malfeasance,” she says disparagingly. “You want to get
the old man for malfeasance?”
“Among other things,” Chris confirms evenly.
“Well good luck with that,” Kate says with false cheer. Her hands are still
shaking under the table though. “Because that old son of bitch may be fifty
shades of evil, but he’s not sloppy. How exactly are you planning on getting
enough dirt on him that the Coalition has no choice but to convene a special
tribunal?”
Chris looks distinctly uncomfortable but no less determined. “Katherine —
Kate,” he corrects with a grimace when she glares at him for the slip. “He’s
responsible for our mother’s death.”
Kate stiffens and she gets a little pale. “She committed suicide,” she denies
weakly.
“That’s what we were led to believe,” Chris states, shaking his head. “I
remember when I was younger, how they’d go through these spells where Gerard
would come home late and mom would be waiting for him. She’d be drunk off her
ass by the time he passed over the threshold. She’d start screaming all this
nonsense about him cheating. Called him every name she could think of.”
Kate is deathly quiet.
Stiles feels queasy because he can guess where Chris is going with this.
“Turns out it wasn’t nonsense,” Chris insists. “I can’t even begin to —” He
stops suddenly.
The waitress approaches with their food, handing it out quickly before spinning
back towards the busy bustle.
“He’s got illegitimate children,” Chris continues lowly. “I’ve spent the last
three years tracking them all down. There are hundreds of them.”
Stiles keeps his gaze pinned to his plate as he listens. He never thought Chris
knew about that, much less that he’d do something about it.
“So?” Kate replies stiffly. She makes no move to touch her food and neither
does Stiles with his own. “She was crazy. We all knew that. What’s it to us
that he could never keep it in his pants? He certainly didn’t kill Karoline
over it.”
“He would if she knew that they were all underage,” Chris tersely corrects. “He
would if she knew enough to threaten him with it. He wouldn’t have been able to
hold the mayoral office with such a scandal, or keep his ambassadorial position
with the Coalition. I believe she was going to leave him, and she was going to
take us with her.”
Kate gets ahold of a napkin and rips it up in a distracted fashion as she says
to her older brother, “How could you be sure? This is practically out of the
blue. How do you know this is why Gerard killed Karoline? That it wasn’t a
suicide?”
“Three years ago, I went to one of the family’s timeshares and I found a sealed
box containing mom’s old diaries,” Chris remarks. “She wrote down all her
suspicions. Included names and dates and times, and…our Uncle Alexander had
been trying to help her put a case together.” He pauses to take another long
sip of his Irish coffee. Then he goes on to explain, “I did some digging myself
and it all checks out. Turns out that all those ‘business trips’ Gerard would
take had some double agendas to them.” He pauses again. “This is too much of a
public space to say anymore than that.”
Kate looks like she’s hurriedly turning this information in her mind. Then
finally, she says, “Okay.”
Chris looks as surprised as Stiles feels.
“For Karo — for mom,” Kate explains with a firm tone. “She — deserved better
than that if what you say is true.”
Chris’s eyes flash and he nods once in understanding.
“If he’s been impregnating underage teens or whatever,” Kate hedges. “Then all
we need to do is get either the birth certificates of the kids or a DNA test.”
“I’ve already tried that. Most of the certificates were forged and the families
have been paid off to keep their silence. I can’t even find the records for the
forged ones. Someone’s gotten to them,” Chris reports. “Whether to use it for
blackmail or something else, I don’t know.”
“So let’s do the DNA tests then,” Kate impatiently suggests.
“I told you, the families have been paid off for their silence, and threatened
to a devastating degree. There were legal binding contracts involved,” Chris
tersely explains. “Unless we can find one person who’d be willing to do it,
then we are, quite frankly, shit out of luck. The illegitimate kids he has here
are our last options, and they are, quite frankly, the youngest bunch. The
others have all been my age and have moved on from what they consider a
particularly shameful blemish they’d rather forget.”
Kate’s hands curl into fists. “He has —” She cuts herself off. “How many are
here? How many have beenhere? Is it anyone I know?” she asks lowly.
Chris says nothing but that’s just as telling.
“Who are they?” Kate demands. “If I have some goddamn half brothers and sisters
running around, I deserve to know.”
Chris glances at Stiles and then away. “I don’t think this is the best time to
go over the details,” he remarks.
“Bullshit,” Kate spits. Then she stiffens. “You just fucking looked at Stiles,
didn’t you?” She looks horrified. “Don’t tell me he’s one of —”
“No!” Stiles blurts and blushes when it catches the attention of a few
onlookers. “No,” he insists, quieter this time. “It’s Isaac, okay? He’s…I
shouldn’t even be telling you this because it’s not my place to —”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Kate interrupts, voice like steel. “You mean
you knew about this? What the fuck —how long have youknown?”
Stiles grimaces, uncomfortably trapped. “It’s…complicated,” he swears.
Kate laughs coldly, once, and then twice before she goes deathly quiet.
Stiles winces again. He rushes to add, “I was going to say something but I was
kind of sworn to secrecy by Parrish. Please understand that.”
Kate’s expression shudders before completely shutting down. “Sure. I understand
all right,” she promises pleasantly. She slaps on her shades. “The clarity is
fucking undeniable.” She slides out of the booth and storms off without another
word.
Stiles watches helplessly as she climbs into her car and speeds off.
“How long have you known?” Chris asks, but there’s no judgment in his voice.
“A couple of months, give or take,” Stiles mumbles, turning back to face the
older man. He’s a little torn up inside. He feels like he just betrayed one of
his closest friends. He sighs, pushes his plate of untouched food away, and
hides his face in his hands.
“I know I have no right to ask this, but do you think Isaac would be willing to
do a DNA test?” Chris questions evenly. “A few samples would be enough to make
a difference, and give the Coalition the jurisdiction they need to launch a
full investigation. To put an end to Gerard’s depraved influence.”
“I can’t tell you that,” Stiles replies tiredly and drops his hands to his lap.
“Isaac doesn’t know and when he does find out…” He can’t even say it. He’s
frightened of the thought, of what the outcome could be. “I have to go. I have
to warn Parrish.”
Chris nods and says, “Just ask him to consider it. In the mean time, I’m
wondering if you could arrange a meeting between Talia and I. I’ll ultimately
need her permission in order to successfully reach out to Jackson Whittemore
and Malia Tate.”
Stiles slides out the booth. “I — I don’t know about that. I’ll see what I can
do but right now I have a lot going on if you haven’t noticed,” he says and
makes a hasty exit. He dials out and silently wills Parrish to answer. When he
does, Stiles is quick to say, “Where are you? Kate knows.”
Parrish is deathly quiet for the longest time before he mutters, “Fuck,” and
then, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” before he swiftly hangs up.
Stiles sighs in annoyance. He hates being hung up on like that. He paces and
pauses, laughing bitterly when he notes that Kate was at least nice enough to
leave his backpack at the curb. He grabs it, tossing it over one shoulder and
tugs at the front of his shirt to fan himself because he’s getting hot.
He calls Isaac but it rings and rings and rings until it hits his voicemail. He
hangs up and texts his little brother to call him as soon as possible because
it’s extremely important.
Then he calls his dad but that goes straight to voicemail and he’s forced to
leave a message for his dad to call him and that it’s about Isaac, making sure
to clarify that no one is hurt (it’s just really, really, really important,
dad, so please call me back asap).
Chris exits the diner by this time. “Do you need a ride anywhere?” he offers.
“Deaton’s please,” is Stiles’s response because he doesn’t know where else to
go.
                                      ---
For once, Violet and Garrett aren’t parked across the street.
Stiles wonders if it’s a godsend or an omen. He ponders it as he climbs out of
Chris’s classic 1968 silver Ford Mustang. He awkwardly thanks the older man
before rounding the back of the car to get to Deaton’s store. He peers in and
sees that it’s dark and the front door is locked. He works with fishing for his
keys as Chris speeds off with a roar of his engine, out of sight. He locates
his keys and quickly works at the locks before pushing inside.
Thankfully the ceiling fans are fully active, keeping the shop cool and
separated from the vacuum of heat settling stubbornly over Beacon Hills.
“Deaton?” Stiles calls out and he gets no response. He sighs and makes an
attempt to call the older man. But of course it goes to voicemail. He leaves a
brief message and ends the call. A few seconds later he gets a text from Deaton
that reads:
Collecting the last of the amethyst stones you’ll need for your garden. I will
be there in 30 minutes or so.
Stiles exhales in relief. He wanders over the glass display counter,
unsurprised that on top still sits the small, dark mahogany bowl with a
matching grinder that looks like a miniature baseball bat with a fat head; the
glass jar (which looks like a see-through cookie jar) that’s almost filled to
the rim with clear water; the jar of honey and brown sugar; the flowerpot full
of thick, black dirt and a measuring cup full of white sand.
Stiles leans forward and stares at the objects wondering exactly how he was
supposed to make tea out of these materials. He stares and stares, trying his
hardest to will the answer to come, but it refuses to. His amped nerves makes
him feel raw and exposed, so he considers taking a moment to meditate.
Panicking and being anxious is not going to solve his problems. So he
straightens, closes his eyes, and breathes in through in his nose and out
through his mouth; it separates his lips for every moment he does this until
his lungs are empty and hollow.
This keeps happening over and over again until the motion becomes louder. He
starts to hear the wall to his immediate right, which is littered with clocks
whose hands tick, tick, tick. And even that winds down before all he hears is
the side-to-side tic tock of the pendulum swinging behind the glass of the
grandfather clock.
Then there is the sound of the whirring and swish, swish, swish of the fans
over his head. There’s the buzz of electricity humming behind the walls. He can
hear the steady twinkling of his magic, which is slowly waking up, and it
sounds the way wind chimes would on a mildly windy day.
The world slows and everything sounds like a drawn out lullaby.
He looks over to confirm that all the clocks have slowed, and they have, to a
slothful degree. He twists his body around to observe the sunlight sneaking
into the shop window. The dust that’s swimming in the rays of gold is twisting
ever so sluggishly like specks of shiny glitter. He lifts his chin and raises
his gaze to look at the fans but they’re rotating lazily. His body begins to
light up with a blue glow that overtakes his fisted hands like bioluminescent
flames.
The magical fire starts licking up his arms in vines of ethereal light, like
sweltering spiraling marks that leaves a searing trail of heat in it’s wake as
it spreads. It travels up his arms like a sleeve, curling over his shoulders
before spreading across the expanse of his chest and stomach like armor.
He feels it curl along his shoulder blades, and the heat there intensifies. He
feels a fluttering ache under the skin of his back where the bones of his
shoulder blades are. It’s almost painful; the skin of his back feels paper
thin, like something is trying to shift under it to break free.
No.
What are you afraid of? This is who you are. This is what you must become.
If I have wings, I’m not ready for them. I’m just starting to learn how to
manage you.
Manage? What means this word ‘manage’? You are no more a master to me than I am
to you. What I yield to you is only my respect and trust. Not my obedience.
He winces at the indignation he can feel pressing at him from his magic and he
knows he spoke out of turn.
I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not managing you. I’m learning.
His magic gives no reply to that. But it does retreat from his shoulder blades,
winding it’s flames up to wrap around his neck like a collar. It doesn’t fan
out towards to his jaw or face as a courtesy.
Stiles sends it waves of gratitude and repentance.
When you are ready to accept who you are — who you truly are — I will show you
the way.
Stiles swallows and can’t bring himself to acknowledge the offer. Instead, he
asks:
What do you call this? This…slowness of time? What does it mean?
Faeries are able to travel between the planes of time. There are different
levels. You were born with access to the different realms of time. But as a
consequence, your aging will slow when you reach full maturity.
I…will live forever?
As long as you have you me, you will never die.
Stiles jerks at that and shock floods his sense. He straightens and shakes out
his hands to extinguish them. The rest of his magic follows and it rises like
steam from the outer edge of his body like glittering blue smoke.
The world resumes its normal pace.
It makes no difference to Stiles. He’s too busy freaking out at the thought of
his inevitable immortality.
You do not have to remain in the World of Man. We can return home to Faerie
when you are ready.
Please stop talking. I can barely digest the fact that I have wings.
You must accept who you are. You’ve lived too long as a Human. You’ve begun to
think like one. You may have been born to them, but this is not who you are.
You are a Prince. You are Fae. Accept who you are.
Stiles is about to give a short-tempered reply but his nose suddenly twitches
with the thick scent of sea water and his ears are flooded with the sound of
crashing waves and seagulls. He can feel the sunlight on his skin, even though
he’s far away from the shop window, and the soles of his feet feels like he’s
standing on a mound of sand.
The doorbell chimes, and a wind sweeps into the shop, curling around Stiles
like a siren song.
“It’s truly unfortunate, all these smells.”
Stiles’s hands twitch at his sides at the familiar face.
It’s Heather.
She’s just as tall and willowy as he remembers. Her neck is long, her stature
is proud; she’s outstandingly stunning. It’s a kind of abnormal beauty. She has
long, shiny dirty blonde hair that reaches to her tiny waist in gentle curls.
Her leafy green eyes wrapped in thick dark lashes glimmer with the kind
intensity that says she’s seeing into you and not through you. She wrinkles her
pointy button nose and her cushion lips, which look coated with some kind of
lip-gloss, face twisting into a displeased frown. She practically glides over
the floor like a graceful queen.
There’s a thin sheen of translucent glitter covering her skin — it’s the kind
of shimmer you see on fish when they’re exposed to the sun.
Heather takes her time, lingering at the different trinkets of the antique
store, turning it over in her thin, long fingers. “Dry land. It stinks.
Everything stinks. Yet my brothers seemed so fond of it at the time. Entranced
by all its mysteries and curiosities.” She pauses to grab a nearby snow globe,
shaking it violently, watching what happens before putting it back. “It isn’t
like the sea, you know.” She taps the glass of the grandfather clock resting
against the wall and the sound gets muted as though it’s underwater.
Stiles wonders over the magic of it.
“Too many soft places up here,” Heather continues with a silvery voice. “You
have no secrets. No depths.” She sighs but even that sounds like a song. “Dull
colors. Desiccated. Tedious.”
“That’s a strong opinion,” Stiles says and his heart stays steady against her
charm.
It’s because his magic wraps around it defensively while also branching off to
form into a bioluminescent blue anaconda. It coils around his midsection, up to
his chest before draping over his right shoulder. It poises itself as if ready
to strike the Nymph, if she should decide to get too free with her hands or her
allure.
Heather has some kind of pull about her. Nymphs usually do. He’s read about it:
the extrasensory seduction.
So he’s grateful that his magic is acting as impenetrable armor for his heart.
It bristles when she gets near to him with her head cocked.
Stiles wonders what she will do.
“What do you dream of, Your Highness?” Heather questions, voice soft and
graceful like a cradlesong as she circles him.
Stiles is surprised at her acknowledgement.
“Fate must give you sweet dreams since you reside under the banner made for
Virtues. Peril is not always so kind, but my people are not always left adrift
in slumber when Peril feels benevolent enough to make it so. Lately, I dream of
water and seashells,” Heather resumes as if she doesn’t notice. “Of home. My
paradise.”
“If you hate dry land so much, why follow your brothers here?” Stiles asks as
she reaches out to glide a hand over his face without ever really touching him.
He quickly restrains his magic as it tries to surge at her with wild
possessiveness. His gut tells him that she wont do anything to him.
“My mothers sung a hymn about the coming of a Seven. Naturally, I was curious.
I was disappointed the first time I saw you, and only a little impressed when
you saw me. No one can see me unless I will it. But you looked right at me. So
I did you a favor by leading you to the pale one as a peace offering. The Lost
Girl.”
“Paige…” Stiles remembers that night all too well.
“Is that how she is called? Well,” Heather drawls. “The daughter she is
carrying will be the spitting image of her. Right down to her very marrow.
Conceived in misery as well. And it will occur to her that she will need to
teach her daughter new lessons. Like how to lose her innocence but not her
hope.”
Stiles wont ask how she knows that, or what she even means. “How about now?” he
questions instead. “Do I still disappoint you?”
“I doubt His Majesty is ever capable of such a thing,” Heather cleverly
remarks.
“If you’re trying to get on my good side,” Stiles starts. “Then that must mean
that there’s a reason you’re here.”
Heather just hums as she glides away from him and Stiles’s magic settles
finally. “Would you like to know what happens between you and the boy you will
love more than life itself?” She doesn’t even glance at him nor does she say
Derek’s name, but Stiles knows perfectly well what she means. “Would you like
to know how much you will sacrifice for him?”
“You didn’t come to talk about Derek.”
“His Highness assumes very inaccurately to whom I refer,” Heather lightly
corrects. “Would you like for me to tell you of who it is I speak about? Or
maybe you’d like to know something else. You can ask me three questions. I’ll
answer them all truthfully.”
Stiles hears seagulls again and crashing waves before he sees a dark shadow
lingering at Heather’s back. “No,” he says with sharp clarity. “You want me to
be indebted to you because you need something from me. Your brand of
fortunetelling always comes with a steep price.”
Heather’s glamour fades and there’s nothing but a gaunt, horrid looking
creature with silvery scales, pointed and sharp teeth, yellow eyes, and black
straw hair. This is what she really is. “I underestimated your intelligence,
Virtue,” she hisses, but it sounds like she’s talking underwater. “Would
ripping you apart make you more compliant?” she spits.
“You won’t hurt me,” Stiles supposes rather than states or asks. “My magic
would rip youapart before you even took a step towards me.”
His magic breaks away to manifest above his head like a vengeful,
bioluminescent hurricane, making everything in the shop tremble as it quakes
and rumbles with blue lightening. All just to dramatically confirm his words.
Stiles smirks slightly as Heather puts a good amount of distance between them.
“So, again,” he continues, leaning back casually against the glass counter
behind him with his arms crossed and his magic swirling thunderously above him.
“What could you possibly need from me? I don’t want my fortune read. I know the
plans Fate has for me.”
Heather snorts to cover her apprehension and the glamour appears once more.
She’s a beauty to behold again. “Fate is your creator. Peril is mine. There
will be no love loss between us. Faeries are very distant cousins to us
Mermaids.” She adds, “But even still, I apologize for disrespecting you. It’s
hard for me to remember that you are not like these Walkers with their greed.”
“Delightful,” Stiles sarcastically retorts. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s
wrong and we can cut to the chase.”
“I am bewitched.” Heather doesn’t explain. “I find it highly disrupting.”
Stiles lifts both his eyebrows at that. “By who?”
“I do not know,” Heather reluctantly admits. “I’ve maintained my distance from
this town ever since my brothers were delivered back to our kingdom.”
“You and your brothers hurt a lot of people,” Stiles doesn’t excuse. “This
could be justified retaliation for all I know.”
Heather just looks at him blankly. “One does what one feels is right in their
own mind. So is the burden of free will,” she curtly reasons. “Yet, I doubt
this is the work of a Walker.”
Stiles sighs long-sufferingly. “Are you talking about Humans?"
"I know no other word to describe them. What would you call these things?"
Heather questions impatiently.
Stiles laughs when he realizes what part of her body she is indicating to. "We
call them legs."
"Legs," Heather slowly repeats as she blinks before her mouth frowns
disapprovingly. "Strange word. Is that also the action?"
"No, walking is," Stiles confirms.
Heather's frown deepens and her beautiful face is riddled with irritation and
confusion. "It is more seemly to refer to them as Walkers," she decides. "In
our language, we describe everything by what it is able to do."
Stiles takes that tidbit of information and folds it away. Then he says, "You
said you're cursed. Why come here to me?"
"You are a Virtue."
"So, I’m supposed to what? Break the spell?”
“If His Majesty can find the time,” Heather icily replies through gritted teeth
as her glamour flickers on and off. “Water is offended by me in the most
unnatural way.”
“You must be trapped,” Stiles realizes. “You want to go home and you can’t.”
Heather just hums and turns away to continue her examination of the shop.
Stiles watches her thoughtfully. “How long has this been happening?”
“For three full moons.” Heather fiddles with the knob of an oak armoire.
“Countless times I have tried to return home, and yet this form flails
uselessly in the water. It’s as if I’ve become a newly hatched fledgling
again.”
“In other words, you can’t swim,” Stiles clarifies, slightly amused.
“If His Majesty must use those words,” Heather relents tetchily. She looks a
little offended. “I will be forever indebted to you if you can resolve my
issue.”
“I’ll think about it,” Stiles decides and doesn’t flinch when Heather snarls.
His magic rumbles above him again and she backs down. “I’m not even sure I can
help you. If I can think of how I would like for you to repay me, then I’ll
give it a shot. Until then, I’ll do some research about your symptoms to see if
I can single out the problem. Nothing more.”
Heather looks incensed but she manages to nod stiffly. “I will return to you in
a week’s time. Let that be enough.” She floats away and she’s gone just as
quickly as she’s come.
Stiles wonders what he’s gotten himself into.
                                      ---
Deaton’s arrival comes almost forty-five minutes later than he initially said,
and by this time, Stiles is sitting surrounded by piles of books centered
around Sirens, Mermaids, Nymphs, water spells and elemental incantations. It’s
a lucky thing that he has access to Deaton’s expansive library. His magic has
settled down and is now roaming the shop in the form of glittery mice as if
there were some kind of paranormal infestation.
Stiles scrambles to his feet at the chime of the shop bell, and he rounds the
row of bookshelves to greet Deaton with everything he’s been holding at bay. He
stops short, tongue glued to the rough of his mouth when he notices the state
of his overseer.
Deaton has quite a few noticeable cuts and bruises on his face. The rest of him
seems in tact, but he moves carefully towards the glass display like he’s
concealing the full extent of his injuries.
Stiles is understandably worried. “What happened?” he asks, right on his heels.
He waits anxiously as Deaton moves to the other side of the glass counter.
“What happened?” he presses.
Deaton just places a dark blue, velvet pouch before him. “Amethyst stones are
not always the easiest to procure,” he explains lightly, and even his voice has
a lilt of concealed pain to it. “Nevertheless, it was necessary. You will find
everything you need there.”
“Screw the stones if it gets you hurt!” Stiles snaps and stomps towards a
nearby rocking chair. He drags it over, muttering under his breath as he places
it at the right end of the glass display. “Sit down,” he insists.
Deaton almost looks amused but it can be so hard to tell with him. He’s always
so serious, never cracking a grin or a smile. But he doesn’t protest the point,
rounding the counter and the back of the chair before he gingerly sits down.
The quiet exhale of relief does not go unnoticed by Stiles and he’s convinced
that he made the right call.
The older man leans all the way back, taking a moment to close his eyes and
plant his feet on the floorboards to stop any back and forth movement from the
chair.
Stiles stands back and watches fretfully, running his eyes over his overseer to
try and source out the cause of why he's holding himself so tensely. His
distress attracts the attention of his magic, and it comes scuttling over until
there’s an army of ethereal blue mice surrounding the two of them.
Then they begin to climb Deaton, overtaking him almost, but he says and does
nothing if he notices, which he must. It looks like he’s wearing a suit made
entirely comprised of glimmering, twinkling blue mice.
Stiles would almost find it amusing if he wasn’t so worried.
“I went to the mountains,” Deaton suddenly says, no proper set up for it. His
eyes remain firmly closed and he looks like he’s meditating. The magic clinging
to him begins to glow brighter, on and off, like the flashing of a lighthouse
or a beacon. “It’s been quite a while for me, and I barely realized how out of
practice I was until it was too late.”
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip anxiously as he watches his magic work.
Deaton’s bruises are beginning to fade, little by little. “The best amethyst
stones come from the mountains, and even more so when they’ve been fortified
and consecrated by Dwarves,” he clarifies. “The mines run deep, like veins, but
the proper entrance is very hard to find. I accidently stumbled across the
workmen’s entrance, and due to a misunderstanding, was captured by those who
guard the Dwarven Enclave. They are not the most gentle bunch.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Stiles snorts bitterly. “If I wasn’t upset about the
state you're in, I would be amazed and excited over the fact that Dwarvesare an
actual thing.”
“They are not barbaric,” Deaton assures, if only to placate his young
apprentice’s dour mood. “What is considered tender for them, is otherwise rough
to us. They do not fully realize their own strength, as they do not have many
run-ins with outsiders.”
“I’m not excusing them,” Stiles stubbornly decides and crosses his arms. “What
happened after that? When they…captured you?”
“I was taken to their dungeons until the Queen was alerted. Once she was, I was
taken before her and her assembly,” Deaton goes on to explain. “But because I,
at one point, had successfully brokered a liaison with the old Queen, she
recognized me. Sizaehilda was a child at the time, but she recognized me. And
from what I gathered, she’s been crowned following the recent passing of her
mother. She was surprised to see me since it had been so long, but she
apologized and I was pardoned. I, of course, had to explain just why I had
come, but she was more than willing to accommodate my quest. Only on the
grounds that I, as she put it, arrange an audience with the Seven I have
recently interned.”
“Not surprising,” Stiles supposes. That seems to be a running theme, people
wanting things from him because of who he was. “Rumors of my existence are
spreading like wildfire apparently. Did she say why she wants an audience with
me?”
“Ever since the old Queen died, the treaties that were established with the
Troll Horde has collapsed, and so there has been many battles over the
neighboring territories they share. There has been great losses on both sides,”
Deaton explains. “Queen Sizaehilda says she’s tried countless times to reason
with Queen Zulraja of the Trolls, but to no avail. She believes if you were to
become involved, Queen Zulraja would see reason and agree to a summit to
negotiate a new cease-fire contract.”
“I know absolutely nothing about Trolls or Dwarves to even pull thatoff,”
Stiles complains and he scrubs his hands through his hair with weary
frustration. “I can’t even make the tea you keep insisting over. You’re going
to have to show me what I should be doing. I am not all-knowing, even with my
remarkable magic.”
“Which is what I hoped you would realize,” Deaton confesses and most of his
cuts and bruises have faded, but a majority are still lingering. He sweeps his
hand across his body and a shockwave ripples across Stiles’s magic, causing it
to retreat back to its host. “It is an age old lesson on self reliance that
many Druids begin the start of their internship with. It is a trial that
determines if you are really ready to learn all that I have to give by testing
your pride.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly as his magic sinks into his body before pooling into
his gut like a warm broth. “I could have told you a long time ago that I don’t
think I’m all that.” He blinks, then asks, “So did I…pass?”
“Yes, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton confirms as he stands to his feet, his movements a
lot more at ease now. His magic must have healed quite a bit for that. “I would
say so.”
“Okay, good,” Stiles sighs in relief. “I am a sponge, ready to soak up all your
awesome expertise,” he assures, watching as Deaton rounds the rocking chair to
get to the other side of the glass display case. “So, I don’t mean to be nosy
or pry but, um, has there been others that you tried to take on and they’ve
failed?”
“Yes,” Deaton simply says. “And there has only been one other that has passed
as well as you have. She was —” He pauses and it’s the first time Stiles has
ever seen a pained look cross his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“That was a long time ago, before you were born, I imagine. It was a
relationship that fell through, unfortunately. I was forced to dismiss her. If
you don’t mind, I do not like to discuss it. I find that the past is a dark,
twisted forest of horrors.”
“Right. Sorry,” Stiles says because he doesn’t know what he can say. “Um, so
canyou make tea out of these ingredients?” he asks, trying to change the
subject.
“I cannot, but you can,” Deaton carefully corrects. “I can only guide you
through the steps, as I can with most things. It is my purpose after all.”
“But you do have magic too, right? What was that thing you did earlier?” Stiles
questions curiously. “You like pushed my magic away with it.”
“It was not magic exactly, but more of a guidance spell,” Deaton clarifies. “I
do not have magic in the same capacity as you. What I can do takes practices
and time. It takes a lot of research and memory. Druids have the ability to do
such spells and incantations without pulling from a source of power. But there
are limits and restrictions. I can only do protection and guidance charms.
Beyond that, I have to rely on the use of incenses, draughts, elixirs, and
potions. Or good company.”
Stiles lets that sink in and he grins. “Am I good company?” he jokes.
Deaton nods and his lips twitch but never curve up or down. “You do fit the
category, yes,” he concedes lightly. Then, in his usual serious tone, says,
“Regarding the detailed message you left me. You must let the issues concerning
Isaac resolve itself.”
“What? I can’t just become uninvolved!” Stiles exclaims, disbelieving.
“That is not what I meant,” Deaton replies evenly. “For now, it is not your
responsibility of how your brother will come to know of his true parentage. Nor
is it your duty to make amends between Katherine Argent and Deputy Parrish if
any of it should result in a confrontation. You are not the source of the
issue.”
“Yeah,” Stiles reluctantly agrees. “I guess.”
“As for investigating the site where Mr. Ravenhill died and his cabin,” Deaton
goes on to say. “I have not been able to get to it, as I found myself delayed
in the company of the Dwarves. You can accompany me as I do so now, just in
order to familiarize yourself with how to approach circumstances such as
these.”
Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Peter was also wondering if he could join us,”
he reports. “And Braeden too, I guess. Do you know Braeden?”
“I am familiar with Ms. Journey,” Deaton confirms vaguely. “You may inform them
that they can accompany us. We will be leaving shortly. We’ll start at the
location where Mr. Ravenhill died.”
Stiles nods again and pulls out his phone to send Peter a few texts. He wonders
though, if he’s not already swept up and preoccupied by the whole ‘Kate finding
out’ situation. He has to text Derek in order to get through to Braeden because
he doesn’t have her number yet.
Deaton indicates to the dark blue, velvet pouch when he finishes. “Have a look,
Mr. Stilinski. I went through quite a bit of trouble to get them,” he says.
Stiles can’t tell if that’s a poor attempt at a joke or not but he grabs the
pouch and studies the strange marking on the front of it. They look like the
markings you would see on a heart monitor, or even a lie detector test
(separated polygraph symbols).
“By stone or steel,” Deaton translates. “It is a common Dwarvish saying.”
Stiles nods distractedly, taking a moment to appreciate how soft and weighty it
feels in his hands before he loosens the opening. “Oh wow,” he breathes and
pulls out a handful of glinting, engraved gems the size of sunflower seeds.
They’re a mix of luminous blues and violets. “Did you do this?”
“Queen Sizaehilda took the liberty of fashioning them on my behalf, as a sign
of goodwill,” Deaton explains. “It is a rare thing, indeed, Mr. Stilinski, for
Dwarven royalty to style a stone for those who are not immediate family. You
should feel fortunate.”
“Trust me, I do,” Stiles swears as his magic unfurls in his gut before
spreading through his limbs. It consumes the hand holding the amethyst seeds in
glittery blue flames. “You’ll show me how to plant them, right?”
“Yes,” Deaton assures. “I will supervise the process until we are both
comfortable with your progress.”
“Ok, good,” Stiles replies and he draws his magic back in before dropping the
amethyst seeds back in the bag. They land with noisy clacking sounds. He
tightens the opening and drops it in his backpack, along with the books he’s
borrowing, which reminds him about Heather. “By the way, you should know that a
Nymph was here. Well the one I was asking you about way back when. I’ve been
calling her ‘Heather’ in my head. Not sure what her real name is.”
“What did she want?” Deaton asks, overlooking everything else that was said.
“You did not let her read your fortune, did you?”
“No way,” Stiles promises. “If anything, I got her to agree to be indebted to
me. She said she’s bewitched. She can’t go home. Does that sound like anything
familiar to you?”
“Mermaids need a natural stream of water in order to travel between their
aquatic realms,” Deaton simplifies as he presses his hands to the edge of the
glass counter to lean forward. “There are portals they activate that only
accept the passage of a pureblood Mermaid. It is considered the safest way for
them to travel and protect their kingdoms. If she cannot do that, then the
problem must lie in her blood. I will do some research to confirm, but I
believe she may have a parasite.”
“Makes sense,” Stiles remarks, impressed and grateful that he even knows
someone like Deaton. He grabs his backpack and tosses it over his shoulder. “I
borrowed a few books.”
“It makes no difference to me as long as they’re returned in the condition they
were taken in,” Deaton states and straightens. “Now, if there is nothing else,
we’ll take my car to the preserve.”
                                      ---
Stiles talks to Deaton about Talia and about being her Second during their
short drive to the preserve in his white Toyota Prius.
The older man agrees to talk more in depth with Talia and the sheriff about how
they want to arrange things to fit his current line of training. And just like
that, the matter is settled.
Stiles also mentions his frustrating confrontation with his Uncle Claude and
his comment about the Reyes Twins.
At this point, it’s high noon.
“I don’t know,” Stiles concludes when Deaton comes to a halt on one of the
preserve’s private roads. He unbuckles his seatbelt and says, “I don’t really
think they’re that big of a threat as my uncle is making them out to be. I
think he’s trying to distract me.”
“True as that may be, do not underestimate any of them,” Deaton advises as he
shuts off his engine and they climb out his car with his messenger bag. He
locks and sets the alarm on it before pocketing the keys. “It might be that
your uncle knows exactly why the Reyes Twins have returned, if he did not lure
them back himself.”
“My point exactly!” Stiles exclaims as he trails after the older man as they
trudge through the woods. “I just don’t know what to do about it.”
“Focus on what’s initially important at the moment,” Deaton advises.
"What do you mean? Like live in the now or something?" Stiles questions.
Deaton says, "Virtues are not supposed to be anxious. The Faceless made Fate,
just as they have designed all living creatures for an intended purpose. Fate
chose you yet while you were being formed by the Faceless in your mother's
womb. But what is Fate's role? To provide." He adds, "Take birds for example.
They don't weep and wonder when they will eat next or where they will sleep
when night comes. They trust that everything for them will be provided for in
due time, because Fate makes it this way."
"So I should be more like birds?" Stiles jokes, but he truthfully doesn't
understand what his mentor is saying.
"I'm saying that if Fate can provide for the birds, and see to their needs,"
Deaton patiently explains. "Then how much more valuable are you to Fate in
comparison? Knowing this, what, really, do you have to worry about?"
Stiles takes his words to heart as he stumbles over an exposed tree root. He’s
able to right himself before he goes crashing down and his magic begins to
twist excitedly in his chest. He figures it must be the heavy presence of
nature pressing in around them.
In the forest, the sky vanishes almost completely in the tops of the trees,
only a few fragments of blue remain; like scattered pieces of an impossible
jigsaw puzzle. The air is rich with the fragrance of leaves and loam, and it
feels soft under his footsteps, damp too.
Above the trees is the noon daylight, the powerful rays of early summer, but in
here, between the trees, everything is cool. The colors have the softness of
that time just before twilight. The huckleberries in the bushes are mostly
black, with varying shades of blue and red. There are scattered flora and
foliage everywhere.
The only movement is the occasional bird, startling in the trees or a squirrel
dashing up a nearby trunk. As they draw near to the bridge perched over the
river, the sound of running water rings clear in the brook and it has the same
hypnotic quality as music.
Stiles wants to stop to just drink in the sound and he’s not surprised when his
magic begins wafting from him, breaking away to become a flock of glowing, blue
owl-shaped beings. They carry away on wings of glittery blue light that’s like
stardust trailing after a speeding comet.
Deaton lifts his head to observe the spectacle of it and makes a thoughtfully
impressed sound. “You’re becoming more comfortable and attuned to your magic, I
see,” he comments.
Stiles rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he quickens his pace so they’re
walking side by side. “Yeah,” he simply says. “I think it’s more of me trusting
it to know what it wants. I don’t want to cage it if being free to become
whatever it pleases is what makes it happy.”
“Bonding with magic requires a great amount of mutual respect and
understanding, so that is an adept observation,” Deaton compliments. “Most
Virtues and Vices spend the first portion of their lives trying to wrangle
their magic submissively before they come to the same conclusion you’ve
instinctively discovered.”
Stiles blushes at the praise and shrugs weakly. “I, um, do what I can with the
little I have,” he jokes.
“So it seems,” Deaton murmurs and shifts his attention once they reach the
clearing, which is basically cut down the middle by the river.
It’s the kind of river that is a slice of mellow harmony amid the fragrant
leaves. It flows like time, always onward, always toward its destiny. The
water’s surface is livened by brief crescents of white that are fish arcing as
they swim. It winds through the forest, welcoming stray flora that comes its
way.
It is part of this place, integral to life, yet also a thing unto itself. It’s
a ribbon of living turquoise, boldly flowing amid the green of the forest.
The clearing that rests on either side of it is a cacophony of color on the
fading green; purple thistles, blue cornflowers, red poppies and tall asters
with their yellow centers. There is no coordination to it like the displays on
the streets of the metropolitan area of Beacon Hills; just a free-for-all
choreographed by the wind. Bumblebees, butterflies, and all manner of insects
jump to and fro in graceful leaps.
Stiles spies the familiar old oak bridge that Cora had taken him to only once
before.
Braeden is dressed in a pale ivory floor-length gown, detailed with tonal
twinkling beads and sequins. Her ivory ombre hair is in beach waves. She waits
at the center of the bridge with Whit Lee and Derek. His heart does a funny
little tango at the sight of the older teen, and just like that it
draws Derek's attention.
Derek turns quickly to single out the sound and grins widely, waving when he
spots Deaton and Stiles nearing. He’s wearing a pair of mirror shades, a green
henley rolled up at the elbows, and white shorts. He leaves Braeden where she
is (rolling her eyes at him) to sprint over and meet them halfway. He doesn’t
even sound breathless when he says, “Hello, Deaton.”
“Derek,” Deaton greets in return. “Where’s Peter?”
“He asked me to stand in for him,” Derek explains, almost apologetically.
“Something about Kate going on a rampage over family issues. I’m not sure.”
Stiles grimaces because that’s what he feared might happen.
“Very well,” Deaton says, taking it in stride. “If you have the time to spare,
I am grateful. I’ll get set up and you can show me the designated spot where
Mr. Ravenhill was found.”
Derek nods and waits until Deaton is out of earshot before he turns to Stiles
and says, “Hey.” He smiles.
Stiles’s heart flip-flops in his chest and he says, “Hey.”
“How did the thing with Chris and Kate go?”
“Didn’t turn out the way I hoped. I’m pretty sure she’s upset. The
aforementioned 'rampage' your uncle was alluding to.”
“You should tell me about.”
“Maybe later,” Stiles supposes with a sigh. It makes him exhausted just
thinking about it. “I’m tied up in knots about it as is.”
Derek chuckles at his phrasing. “You look like you need a hug,” he suggests
with that boyish grin of his as he pushes his sunglasses up to rest in his
hair. “I’m pretty good with those.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Stiles mutters. He pretends like he doesn’t know that Derek
heard. “Maybe just a quick one? Don’t want to keep Deaton waiting.”
Derek just hums noncommittally and reels him into the warmest and most
comfortable hug. He spreads his palms against Stiles’s shoulder blades because
at this point he knows exactly how Stiles likes to be held.
Stiles lets himself sink into it with every fiber of his being. He hides his
face in the side of Derek’s tan neck, savoring the older teen’s abnormal body
temperature as they press together, chest to chest. He melts into the embrace
as the smell of Derek (vanilla and jasmine) acts like a trigger for all the
tension in his body to flee.
He knows there’s no use in pretending that his hands aren’t trembling with
nerves and yearning as he fists the sides of Derek’s shirt. Or that there are
not butterflies, but full-fledged bats flapping around in his stomach when he’s
this close to Derek.
These hugs could never be long enough for Stiles.
In Derek's arms he is safe and his worries disappear like drops of rain falling
over the ocean. In this embrace he is cocooned better than any butterfly-to-
be. Derek always applies the right amount of pressure that never feels
suffocating to Stiles like hugs usually did with others. His arms are soft, yet
strong.
In the warm swaddle of Derek's chest and arms, the world feels as though it's
stopped still on its axis. How could it be that something so simple as a hug
could be so perfect? So pure. So unselfish. So undemanding. So freeing.
When the end comes, it’s too soon, and he reflexively grips Derek tighter when
he starts pulling away, mentally launching a campaign for just a little more
time.
Derek just snickers indulgently, rubbing his hands up and down Stiles’s back as
he’s gripped.
Stiles knows he’s being clingy and his cheeks get pink but he’s addicted to the
way Derek can make him feel so cherished.
“Not that this isn’t sweet, because I’m definitely getting diabetes, but do you
think you can extract yourselves from each other’s alluring gravitational
pull?”
Stiles sighs. He should have known it wouldn’t last.
Not if Braeden had something to say about it.
Stiles loosens his grip and reluctantly pulls away, blushing when Derek sneaks
a quick kiss to his left cheek. “Thought it was my turn,” he complains quietly.
“I’ll add it to your tab,” Derek quips brazenly, wiggling his eyebrows
mischievously. “And I’m definitely gonna collect later.”
Stiles pinches his side and hops away when Derek tries to grab him.
Braeden places herself between them and lifts a finely arched eyebrow. “Derek,
we’re all waiting on you. Go show us where Mr. Ravenhill was struck down,” she
demands, looping an arm with Stiles’s so she can drag him towards the riverbank
where Deaton is waiting patiently. “Hello, Alan,” she purrs, but there is
underlying scorn to it. “Handsome as ever, aren’t you? I see Stiles managed to
trump your little test.”
Deaton offers her a cursory glance before he refocuses on extracting a metal
censer suspended from a single chain. “Ms. Journey,” he greets back shortly.
“I’m sure you already realize that my affiliation with Mr. Stilinski is a
private matter that cannot be discussed with a Virtue who is still in training
herself.”
Braeden’s mouth twists unhappily. “Right. How rude of me,” she replies tightly.
“It’s just that one wonders how far I might have gone had Ipassed as well as he
seemed to.”
“I’m informed Druid Lehuanani’s teaching methods are truly without equal,”
Deaton remarks evenly. “Are you not graduating from her apprenticeship at the
end of this summer? She never struck me as someone who left a lot to be
desired.”
Braeden pulls away from Stiles to frown, and she avoids Deaton’s gaze. She
actually looks a little ashamed at herself. “She is…the best, yes,” she
confirms and runs her hands through her hair. “But you knowthat you’re the one
I always —”
“I’d have care of your words, Ms. Journey,” Deaton interjects firmly. “You pay
a great disrespect to your overseer, and my own protégé. I have explained to
you once before why things between us did not work out.”
Braeden purses her lips and swallows. She gives a short nod as Derek joins them
with a concerned frown.
Deaton, deciding the matter is settled, turns to Stiles and says, “This is a
thurible. Its purpose is to disenchant any glamour that may have been left
behind to disguise any dealings of magic.” He makes a quick work of showing
Stiles how to open it. “You’ll see I have already equipped it with the proper
incense. Do you recognize what this is?”
Stiles shakes his head no as he studies what looks like a handful of small,
green wooden dice resting over charcoal.
“It’s Sandalwood,” Deaton clarifies. “Sandalwood is fire and water associative
along with being seen as the divine wood. Because of this, Sandalwood is a good
incense to burn to purify or sanctify an area.”
“I thought Sandalwood was supposed to be like red or something,” Stiles points
out, watching as Deaton lights a match and drops it in before closing the
thurible.
“The shades vary,” Braeden answers, looking composed now but she’s staring at
Deaton. “But green is recommended when dealing with elements of nature.”
“Correct,” Deaton remarks and when smoke begins to escape through the holes of
the thurible, he swings it back and forth by its chain. It produces a sweet
smelling scent. “Pay attention to the surrounding area as Derek leads us to the
place of death,” he instructs and gives an indicating nod to Derek.
Stiles watches as Deaton continually swings the thurible as he follows Derek.
Nothing of particular note happens as he steps into pace with Braeden. When he
sees her eyes bleed to ivory, his shift as well, warming to honey-gold.
The difference is undeniable.
The world looks enhanced, like it’s being broadcasted in the highest definition
possible. The colors of the earth have magnified to a startlingly degree. The
forest becomes a ballet of splendor, displaying one dance of beauty after
another. The sun's cascading light, a brilliant white shaft illuminating the
vibrant hues of the wildflowers and the grass, extends itself endlessly.
There are no words to really describe it — at least no Human terms that could
do it justice.
“Concentrate, newbie,” Braeden murmurs and elbows his side before gliding over
to the riverbank. “Something’s got Whit Lee spooked. He doesn’t know what it is
but he hasn’t left that bridge since we got here,” she announces.
Stiles blinks and notices that, yes, Whit Lee is still sitting like an
unmovable statue on the middle of the bridge a little ways up the river. He
also notices that Derek is indicating to a flower patch as Deaton rotates the
thurible in an anti-clockwise direction over it. He moves closer to observe.
The incense does as it’s supposed to. There’s some sort of translucent film
that peels away from the patch, and the wildflowers begin to wilt. The
surrounding grass begins to wither and lose its color. Like a sickness that’s
spreading, it becomes brown and changes into the indention and shape of a
figure.
Stiles realizes it’s the outline of Mr. Ravenhill’s body.
“Someone did try to conceal his deathbed,” Deaton concludes and lowers to his
knees for a closer look. He points to the brown outline and says, “Based on the
pattern of decay, and pigment of the foliage, he was poisoned.”
“You can tell all of that by looking at some dead grass?” Stiles marvels.
Deaton glances up at him. “If he was hit with a spell, there would be an
indication of a struggle, but there are no signs among the foliage that
suggests this is the case. But as you can see by the outline, he fell forward,
meaning a sudden death. He didn’t have time to react because the amount of
steps from his cabin to this spot was enough to activate and circulate whatever
he was poisoned with through his system, causing cardiac arrest,” he explains
without pause. “Now, how do I know he was poisoned exactly? Well, there is a
thin film of slime on the grass, meaning that he perspired enough of the toxin
to render the same effects on the foliage as well, which is why it is dead in
just the place where he died.”
Stiles exchanges a look with Derek because that was superimpressive.
Deaton takes out a pair of blue rubber gloves from his messenger bag and rips
up some dead grass to collect as a sample in a zip lock bag he carefully seals.
He then rips off the gloves and tucks the sample away.
Derek ducks his head with a frown and says, “What’s that?”
Stiles shifts his gaze to where the older teen is pointing and he grits his
teeth when he notices the paw prints. Catpaw prints. “That son of a bitch,” he
hisses lowly. “I knewit. I —”
“Settle, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton warns as he stands. “We have to be sure.”
“How?” Stiles snaps. “That right there should be enough!”
“It’s a forest,” Braeden simplifies unhelpfully. “Could belong to any animal.
But lucky you, it wasn’t just anybodywho put up that concealment charm. See all
the discarded purple mushrooms? They're bone dry now since they've been fully
utilized. Someone tossed them to and fro in the same way a person would hurl a
smoke bomb to get away.”
“She is correct,” Deaton confirms. “The glamour was set into place by a Gnome.”
“Gnomes,” Stiles echoes dazedly. “Gnomes — because why not?”
Derek sends him a sympathetic look, but he doesn’t seem surprised at the
announcement of Gnomesbeing an actualthing. “They usually keep to themselves,”
he clarifies which only confirms Stiles’s theory about him already knowing. “So
I don’t get why they would want to involve themselves with what happened to Mr.
Ravenhill. They never bother coming up from underground if they can help it.”
“It must have stolen an item of importance from him,” Deaton reasons. “If so,
it makes sense that it would cover its tracks in an attempt not to be blamed
for the death itself.”
“Fucking thieves,” Braeden mutters with a rough exhale. “I’ll snuff it out,
that is, if it’s okay with you, Alan,” she asks a little bitterly.
Deaton does not rise to the bait. “I have no objections. This may prove to be
beneficial if we are to confirm Mr. Stilinski’s suspicions.”
Braeden nods before releasing her magic like a sigh, and it wafts from her like
mist. It gathers together and condenses into a single ethereal cloud of ivory
vapor in the shape of a miniature humpback whale. It floats around her as
though swimming in unseen water. As if she were speaking to a beloved pet, she
murmurs the instruction, “Go find them.”
Her magic hovers back and forth before shooting across the river and sinking
into the ground resting a few feet away from the river’s edge.
Stiles remembers that Peter told him that Tyson claimed Mr. Ravenhill had been
looking towards the river when he stumbled across him. He wonders if it’s
because he saw Gnomes standing across the way.
“Got it!” Braeden exclaims with a gleeful smirk. She lifts her hands,
manipulating something unseen, before unearthing a small, ugly creature. “It
put up quite a fight.”
“Careful,” Deaton cautions. “We’ve already offended it by dragging it to
daylight against its will. It would be a graver insult to hurt it.”
Braeden doesn’t respond but she draws it closer.
The Gnome is wrapped up in an ivory cloud that acts like bindings. The short
tubby character has a great, white bushy beard the length of its body, bright
colored clothing, and plump rosy cheeks. It struggles ferociously, mumbling
mangled swears under its breath. It’s an amazing thing that it’s not covered in
dirt, despite the fact that it was pulled from the ground like a carrot.
“Blast it! Confound you all!” the Gnome screeches. It barely stands as tall as
Braeden’s knees. “I’d curse your grandmothers were I as impolite and ill-
mannered as you lot are! Or your fathers for spilling his seed in your mother's
womb!”
“My, what a soft heart you are,” Braeden drawls, antagonizing the little
creature.
"You insult me, child. Us Gnome-folk know nothing about no softheart.
Our insides are made of metal. Calling me soft is worse than cutting the beard
right off my face!"
Braeden rolls her eyes. “We have questions.”
“Good on you to posses such a thing, but what it’s got to do with me, I
couldn’t possibly imagine,” it retorts snidely. “Let me alone. An old friend
who has finally decided to forgive me of a three decade old grudge has invited
me to tea and supper. He’ll not be giving me that chance again if I should miss
this appointment!”
“We’ll write you a note,” Braeden replies meanly.
Deaton sends her a sharp look for that and she actually goes quiet, but not
without a mutinous expression. “We do apologize,” he says to the fussy
creature. “For accosting you in such a way. But in truth, it could not be
helped. We believe you may be in possession of some information, as well as a
commandeered item.”
The Gnome gives them all the stink-eye and stubbornly shuts its mouth but does
not stop struggling against Braeden’s magic.
“I could feed him to Whit Lee,” Braeden suggests. “Snow Leopards are fond of
Gnomes, I’m told.”
At this, the Gnome squeaks indignantly and turns a furious shade of red.
“Brae,” Derek sighs. “Probably not the best thing you could’ve said just then.”
Braeden shrugs carelessly and examines her nails like she’s bored by it all.
“He’s the one being uncooperative. If any of you have a better idea, then by
all means,” she says.
Stiles doesn’t even think when he says, “What if we could trade you something?"
The Gnome stops struggling enough to send Stiles a considering look. “You want
to trade with me?" it questions suspiciously.
"Is that not something you do?"
The Gnome laughs meanly. "Don't you know nothing about Gnome-folk? It's all we
do! Which is why it's important I can't miss my appointment! I'll be able to
start bargaining for copper plates again. Most say brass is the best, but I
know better! Imagine! Three decades without a lick of copper to my name. I've
done just fine so far, but I'll not be missing this opportunity, that's for
sure! Why, you couldn't bribe a Gnome lass over to entertain with —"
"Ah," Stiles says, mostly to himself. Then he takes a moment to tune out the
Gnome's ramblings in order to think. He doesn't really have anything of value
on him, and certainly not any metal. But he decides to go with his gut when he
asks, "Do you like peppermints?”
"— just laughed in my face when she saw the brass tapestry I had on display in
my supper area," the Gnome continues before pausing. It blinks when it realizes
what Stiles has just asked. "Funny word, that,” it mutters. “Explain,” it
demands.
Stiles scrambles to pull out one of the peppermint candies in his pockets, and
holds it up to the light so that the Gnome can get an eyeful. “It’s really
sweet,” he describes soothingly. “Do you like sweet things?”
The Gnome just sniffs. “Gnome-folk usually go for bitter and hot."
Stiles nods.
The Gnomes gives him a hard stare. "Well,” it snaps impatiently. “Give us a
taste!”
Stiles sends Braeden a look and she stares back flatly before she huffs,
freeing the Gnome from her magic. He mutters a quick thanks before carefully
approaching the disgruntled little thing.
The Gnome watches him like a hawk, face full of suspicion and apprehension. It
snatches the candy from Stiles when he’s close enough and shoves it in its
mouth with a wet sound.  
Stiles steps back and waits anxiously to see what the Gnome will do.
It doesn’t disappoint. It licks its lips with a satisfied smack and bright
eyes. “Not like them, I see. Decent lad, you are. Come on, give us more,” it
beseeches.
“Gladly, but before I do, could you answer some questions?” Stiles bargains.
The Gnomes huffs and hides its small hands behind its long beard. “Clever,” it
grumbles. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
“Mr. Ravenhill,” Stiles starts. “Did you know him?”
“Aye. All us wee folk know him as much as any other woodland creature,” the
Gnome reports. “Dead now, isn’t he? Shame, that.”
“Yes,” Stiles manages around a lump. He quickly clears his throat and asks,
“Did you happen to see it when it happened.”
“Aye, in a way,” it confirms, looking a little shamed. “It was too late by the
time I came up to see the commotion. Made a great, terrible sound, he did. Like
a mighty tree collapsing. Our wise Chamber Guard elected me as a Seeker to go
an investigate the noise, in case we would need to go down to the deeper vaults
of our colonies for safety. So I came up to see him lying prostate on that
patch of grass right there. And the wee cat with him wasn’t too bothered to
help —”
“What did it look like?” Stiles quickly interjects. “Sorry.”
The Gnome sniffs and waves him off. “The feline looked much the same as they
all do, I suppose. Orange tabby fur. Full grown, I’d say,” it recalls.
Claude.
Stiles sends Deaton a look and the older man nods once. He turns back to the
bemused creature. “What did you take from Mr. Ravenhill when he died?”
“Didn’t take nothing, did I? Was given to me, willingly mind you,” it corrects,
offended. “You know, not all us Gnomes are alike! Sure my forefathers were
prone to snatching this and that, now and again, but I’m not like that, I tell
you!” The little thing adds, “He spoke to me, you know. Before he died. Mouthed
the words, ‘Hide the key’ and I snapped me fingers —” It snaps its fingers with
a spark. “And I took this key.” It holds it up with tiny, stubby fingers.
The key glints in the sunlight. It seems like such a large thing in the small
creature’s hand. It’s shaped like a skeleton key but it’s made of some kind of
translucent crystal.
“Not sure what it does or what it opens, but the wee cat was scratching after
it like it was the key to Faerie,” the Gnome goes on to say. “Kept it safe and
hidden, I did.”
“And we are immensely grateful for that,” Deaton assures. “But we’ll have to
take it.”
“Not going to give it to any of you, I’m not,” it snaps but it settles when it
looks at Stiles. “But you I like.”
Braeden rolls her eyes and snorts.
Stiles grins a little. “My name is Stiles,” he introduces. “And I thank you for
being so patient and understanding.”
“Welpip is how I am called,” he grunts back and waddles over to offer the key.
“You’re a Faerie, aren’t you?”
Stiles takes the key, clutching it in one hand. “Yes. A Virtue,” he clarifies.
“Oh don’t be so modest, Stiles,” Braeden drawls. “He’s a Seven, Welpip.”
“Wasn’t talking to you, was I?” Welpip gives her a nasty glare. “And I also
didn’t give you leave to address me by my given name.” He turns to face Stiles,
looking up as if in the presence of a giant. “I gather that makes you royalty
then. Now I feel a might bit more sheepish. Not properly dressed. Forgive me of
my bad manners. You all took me by surprise.”
Stiles blinks with a frown. “Uh, no, it’s fine. Titles aren’t everything. I’m
sure we’re not so different,” he supposes and lowers himself to one knee. “I’ll
give you all the peppermints I have on me to compensate for your time. And I
bet if you gave some to your friend, they’ll forgive you too.”
Welpip smiles widely, snapping his fingers with a spark and offers the knapsack
he just materialized. “Oh you are verygenerous, Your Majesty,” he croons. “You
bring great joy to these woods. Good timing too. Things are getting perilous
here ever since Mr. Ravenhill went and got himself killed. There’s rumors of a
terrible darkness coming. Many of my kin have fled to the North Eastern
Catacombs in fear.”
“We’ll do our best to ensure that won’t happen,” Deaton assures but the tiny
creature isn’t even paying him notice.
Welpip refuses to look anywhere but Stiles as he empties his pockets as
promised. “I’d rather have your promise,” he presses. “I’m brave when needed,
and I’ll protect my Guild with my life, if I must. But it does comfort one to
know that it has the support of a Faerie Prince.” He heaves his knapsack over
one shoulder. “Do I?”
“You do,” Stiles guarantees. “I’m told that some of the forest is sick and goes
unprotected. Have you seen it?”
“Aye,” Welpip confirms. “Won’t mind if you call on me to show you. But I really
do have to leave now. Corgrim has a right nasty temper, she does. More than
suited to her name, she is. And there’s only so much of this red and white
sweetness to soothe it. Give me advance notice, and I’ll take you.”
Stiles nods before standing to his feet.
Welpip turns and glares at the rest of them before he sinks slowly into the
soil like quicksand until there is nothing left to be seen of him.
Derek approaches Stiles with an impressed grin. “That was something to watch,”
he admits, cheeks a little pink and hazel eyes bright. “I’ve seen Brae in her
element,” he continues lowly, pushing close so he can fit against Stiles’s side
and whisper in his ear. “But nothingcompares to that.”
Stiles flushes and tries to cover his smile by sucking on his bottom lip.
Braeden scoffs and bats her hair over her shoulder. “Are we going to see what
the key opens or what?” she asks impatiently.
“It’s the new key I made for Mr. Ravenhill,” Deaton explains and holds out a
hand so Stiles can hand it over. “It has magical properties. One of them being
that it will put the residence it opens under a special lockdown should
something happen to the owner. He came to me in concern that someone was
consistently trying to break into his home. I fashioned this to suit that
specific need.”
“I’m guessing my uncle was the one trying to break in,” Stiles hazards. “What
he might have been looking for, I’m not sure. I doubt that if I confronted him
about it, he’d willingly give answers.”
“I have a theory,” Deaton says. “So that will not be necessary."
“Darn. I’m very good at interrogating,” Braeden quips with a sinister smile. “I
would’ve gotten an answer.”
Stiles frowns when he feels a strangle ripple under his feet and the air
becomes slightly off with a disturbance.
Derek snorts. “Yes, you got that Gnome to spill all his secrets,” he mockingly
mentions.
Braeden waves him off. “I would’ve if Alan weren’t trying to be so diplomatic
about it all,” she complains. “Even Druid Lehuanani condones my methods. She
says sometimes brute force is necessary to get desired results.”
“Now that I disagree with,” Deaton states resolutely.
Stiles’s fingers twitch as the river twinkles sharply. “Guys,” he says, frown
deepening. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, immediately attentive.
Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know — I can’t really explain it,” he replies
and uses his fingers to whistle sharply, summoning his magic back.
“Try to,” Deaton instructs, taking a moment to look around. “Narrow it down.”
“I am,” Stiles swears as his magic circles in the sky, still in the form of a
flock of glittery blue owls. “But it’s just this feeling. It’s coming from the
river, I think.”
“Well, we need more than a feelingand a guessto act appropriately,” Braeden
forcefully insists.
“Brae, chill,” Derek warns as he presses a warm hand to Stiles’s lower back.
“Oh, spare me,” Braeden retorts argumentatively. “You can’t expect —”
Stiles eyes widen as a colossal tentacle shoots out of the river and heads
straights for him.
Braeden moves in a blink of an eye, shoving both Derek and Stiles out of the
way, allowing herself to be captured instead. She’s lifted in the air with a
shocked cry, caught in the thralls of a flailing monster squid.
Stiles clings to Derek from where they’re sprawled on the ground and he gawks
as the creature emerges partially from the depths of the river. He didn’t even
know the river was thatdeep.
Derek jumps to his feet and pulls Stiles with him but he looks shaken.
“Braeden!” he yells in alarm. “Whit Lee!” he yells in the next minute.
The massive snow leopard comes stampeding up the riverbank with a mighty roar,
springing on to one of the colossal tentacle that emerges from the water. He
digs his paws in and begins running up it in order to get to his master. He
then viciously claws Braeden free but she goes sailing through the air.
“I got her!” Derek says, running fast and jumping up to tackle her from the
air, twisting so that his body can take the impact. They’re knocked a good
distance because of it, creating a trail of dirt in their wake.
Stiles’s magic begins to dive down and help Whit Lee, pecking furiously at the
monster squid and all its flailing tentacles.
Stiles runs over to Derek and Braeden, falling to his knees as he desperately
looks them over, heart in his throat.
“I’m okay,” Derek assures with a groan, attempting to sit up, but he falls flat
on his back with a soft sound. “Well, I will be as soon as Brae gets her fat
ass off me.”
“Fuck you,” Braeden wheezes out with a laugh, still catching her breath. It
takes her only a second longer to collect herself, though she’s dripping wet.
“This is the thanks I get for saving your boy?” she complains.
Stiles stands and offers her a hand. “You have my gratitude,” he assures,
genuine. He heaves her to her feet when she accepts his hand.
Braeden cracks her neck and summons her magic before manipulating it to take
the shape of a bow and arrow. “Better get to it then,” she decides, stalking
towards the riverbank with an iron look of determination. She begins shooting
magical ivory arrows at the aquatic creature with flawless aim. And wherever
they land, the squid's skin begins to bubble and blister with boils.
Stiles blindly reaches out to grab Derek’s hands to help him up too, but he’s
so distracted by the sight, he kind of fails. He snaps out of it when he’s
yanked to the ground with Derek.
Derek quickly rolls out of the way of a thrashing tentacle that ends up
stabbing into the ground instead of them. He doesn’t stop rolling them out of
the way until he has Stiles pinned under him, eyes burning hotly with liquid
gold.
Stiles realizes Derek’s starting to shift, and before he can say anything,
Derek transforms into a full-fledgedwhite wolf. He suddenly feels very, very
small under the towering wolf above him.
Derek barks and darts off to chase the tentacle back into the water by nipping
at it violently.
Deaton helps him to his feet and says, “You must help me open up a portal so
that we can banish it from this realm.”
Stiles nods, at a loss for words as he watches Derek work in tandem with
Braeden and Whit Lee. God,Derek is almost as huge as Kira was when she was a
Kitsune.
“Mr. Stilinski, concentrate,” Deaton says sharply as he pulls out a rune stone
the size of a pebble, and a switchblade. “I’ll need your right hand.”
Stiles offers it immediately.
“Fae blood works the same way a skeleton key does,” Deaton explains and he
pricks Stiles’s index finger with perfunctory effort. It barely even hurts the
way he’s done it. “This is the rune for the symbol ‘doorway’,” he continues and
squeezes Stiles's finger until a good amount of blood appears.
Stiles winces a little but Deaton’s quick about rubbing the stone over his open
cut.
Deaton then places it in the palm of Stiles’s hand before closing Stiles's
fingers over it, closing his eyes and whispering a quick spell.
The rune stone begins to get warm and vibrates.
Deaton steps back and opens his eyes. “You must toss it in the river and utter
the words ‘panta de’which is ‘open up’ in Faerie,” he instructs.
Stiles nods and sprints to the riverbank, steering clear of any flailing
tentacles that try their best to grab him. “Panta de!” he shouts, his hand
glowing brightly with his magic and he hurls the rune stone in the water.
“Get back!” Deaton warns loudly.
Braeden marches over to Stiles, yanks him close and drags him a safe distance
away.
Stiles feels a firm tug on his navel.
The water begins to thrash and swirl with brilliant light, rumbling and
sparking like a hurricane would above the sea. The illuminated vortex widens
and dwarfs into a portal, sucking in the monster squid.
Stiles holds up his hand as it glitters with bright blue energy and he
concentrates on keeping the portal open. The portal becomes a startling vibrant
blue, colors sparkling like the inside of a raw cluster of amethyst crystals.
The tug on his navel gets stronger but he blinks past the feeling, focusing
with all his might.
The colossal squid fights furiously against the pull but to no avail. It gets
sucked in and when it completely disappears, Stiles closes his hand into a
fist.
The river settles calmly once more after the portal shuts.
Stiles exhales in relief as he drops his hand and leans against Braeden tiredly
as his heart continues it’s restless thudding in his chest. He feels high
almost, giddy with the influence of his magic’s power.
It’s a testament to how frazzled Braeden must be that she lets him catch his
breath while leaning against her. She’s panting herself from the exertion of it
all. “Okay,” she gasps. “I think, or at least suspect, that maybe someone’s
trying to kill us.”
Stiles can’t help it. He laughs breathlessly.
Deaton steps into his line of sight and rests a hand on his jaw, tilting his
head up and he makes a dissatisfied sound. “I did not mean to push you beyond
your limit,” he says, examining Stiles with a displeased expression.
Stiles frowns in confusion, but he feels something warm and sticky dripping
from his nose. He reaches up and when he pulls his hand away, he sees blood.
“Oh,” he says weakly and lets himself be caught by the older man when his knees
give out. His adrenaline washes cold.
“He did good, though,” Braeden reasons tiredly and retrieves a silk
handkerchief from god knows where to offer it to him. “I’m not going to want it
back,” she informs him and there’s the Braeden he knows.
Stiles snorts weakly and accepts it with a quiet thanks. He begins to dab at
his nose as he straightens with the help of his overseer and he looks around
for Derek.
“Enormous thing, isn’t he?” Braeden says fondly when she shifts so he can find
him, like she knows who he’s looking for.
The said enormous white wolf is sitting on his hind legs, almost a foot taller
than Whit Lee, who sits beside him at the edge of the river. He has his head
cocked, ears twitching as he stares bemusedly at the still waters with his pink
tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
“Hey, assholes!” Braeden shouts. “It’s not coming back! No point on trying to
set the water on fire with your laser beam stares!”
Both Whit Lee and Derek whip their heads to glare at her in tandem.
Braeden doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
“How do you feel?” Deaton asks, grabbing his attention.
Stiles goes back to trying to clean the blood off his face. “A little
lightheaded,” he admits. He blinks until his eyes cool when they shift to their
normal state. The heightened sight was not helping his headache. “It kind of
feels like a hangover.”
“That is common when opening and closing your first portal,” Deaton explains.
“You’re suffering the residual effects of having to usher through such a large
creature and keeping the gateway open for so long. Any longer and it would have
been dangerous to your health. You won’t die from it, but you will collapse
into a magical coma for an undetermined amount of time. Something to keep in
mind for the future, should you choose to attempt it again.”
“Duly noted,” Stiles mumbles from behind the handkerchief. “So what exactly was
that thing? And where did it come from?”
“Pterygioteuthis giardia,” Braeden answers before Deaton has the chance to.
“Aquatic soldiers to its Dragon host. They’re found in the great lakes residing
along mountains. They’re meantto protect against any unwanted intruders who may
fancy themselves brave enough to try their hands at conquering hills of
legendary treasures that rests inside the mountains with it’s fire-breathing
collectors.”
“Doesn’t explain why it was here,” Stiles points out as Whit Lee prowls closer,
nosing at Braeden’s shoulder with a petulant whine.
Braeden pets him distractedly. “I’m fine,” she assures her great cat. To
Stiles, she says, “It was obviously sent to us as some kind of an assassin.”
Derek treads over, his fluffy white fur bouncing with the movement as his tail
wags happily behind him. He takes a moment to duck his head and sniff at Stiles
with a curious whine, ears flickering anxiously.
“I’m all right,” Stiles says gently and reaches out carefully, hesitating when
Derek growls, but he just lowers himself to the ground so Stiles can reach him
and licks unhappily at the blood on Stiles’s fingers. “I’m all right,” he
repeats with a disgruntled laugh because his right hand is covered in slobber
now.
His magic lands on Derek’s wide back, perching, hooting, and shaking out
ethereal blue wings.
Derek’s ears swivel at the sound but he makes no move to shake them off. He
stares determinedly at Stiles with huge amber eyes, rumbling in pleasure when
Stiles runs a hand down his snout.
“Are Werewolves usually this big?” Stiles asks as Deaton steps away to collect
the gooey tip of a tentacle that had been left behind. “I mean I’ve seen Laura
shift, but she never became this.” He makes a sweeping gesture to Derek.
“It’s not an easy thing to do outside of the Full Moon,” Braeden says. “But
Derek’s always been an overachiever. He and Cora can do it at will, like
Talia.”
Stiles is about to respond but a huge wet tongue swipes over his mouth and
nose. He jumps back and spits. “Derek!” he complains. “Ugh, my mouth was open
and everything!” He spits some more.
Derek doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He just licks at his front
paw lazily as a bioluminescent blue owl settles on the crown of his head.
Stiles uses Braeden’s handkerchief to scrub viciously at his face.
“How long do you plan on staying like that?” Braeden questions Derek as Whit
Lee curls his long tail around her curvy waist and tugs her closer to him.
Derek just lowers his head to rest over his crossed paws as he stares blankly
at her.
“Is it because you’ll be ass naked when you shift back?” Braeden teases with a
smirk. “I’m sure Stiles wouldn’t mind that.”
Stiles chokes on his tongue and does notlet his mind wander with the imagery
that provides.
Derek barks reprovingly at his ridiculous best friend.
“Fine, you big baby, be like that,” Braeden sniffs haughtily. “Alan, you should
give those samples to my sister. Danielle’s quick with singling out any
indicative magical properties.”
Deaton returns to them with a thoughtful look. “If she does not find it
inconveniencing,” he supposes and hands over both the piece of tentacle and
contaminated grass.
“Please, this is her bread and butter,” Braeden assures, waving him off as she
accepts the samples. She magic’s it away. “She’ll have the results printed up
by Wednesday.”
Deaton gives a short nod and turns to Stiles. “If you feel up to it, we’ll
continue on to Mr. Ravenhill’s cabin,” he suggests.
“I’m fine,” Stiles promises, and he really is. He’s still a little shaky and
lightheaded, but he won’t collapse. “Lead the way.”
                                      ---
Mr. Ravenhill’s cabin looks different in the daylight.
It looks like it’s been pulled straight out of a fairytale with a happy ending
or a picture book for little kids. It looks like many things. It’s not rusty,
old or dusty, but rather welcoming. It crouches low into the grassy embankment,
as though it’s trying to hide, but the misshapen slate roof is too large to go
unnoticed. Coarse, unevenly sized, grey stones made up the walls. Hedges,
vines, and honeysuckles encase the lopsided cabin.
A green gate that Stiles doesn’t ever remember seeing comes into view. It’s
settled on the cabin’s outskirts; a narrow dirt path runs from the small door
of it with small pebbles.
There’s a tiny pond with lily pads and a few ducks, maybe a frog or two that
sits under a glass window. A two-meter hedge hugs the foundation of the cabin.
Vines grow up the walls and the arched wooden door with brown planks. The grass
is green and yellow, scorched by the hot, blazing sun and a result of being
left unattended for so long.
Stiles’s magic swoops down and lands in the yard, the roof of the cabin, and
the small pond.
Deaton unlocks the gate and heads straight for the door.
Stiles hesitates at the gate’s entrance when Braeden does. They turn in sync to
face Whit Lee and (a still fully shifted) Derek.
“Keep watch,” Braeden commands to Whit Lee. Then she rolls her eyes and adds,
“And keep a damn eye on this fool. Make sure he doesn’t run off to chase a
rabbit or something.”
Derek stomps his front paw with an indignant sound.
Braeden blows him a kiss before guiding Stiles away.
Stiles manages to escape her grasp by the time they step over the threshold.
Then he has to recoil slightly against the smell.
The birds in the cages hanging from the ceiling are dead.
There’s a pained look that passes over Braeden’s face, so distracted by the
smell and sight that she bumps into Stiles from behind. Her brow furrows and
she says, “That’s not going to do at all.” She rounds Stiles to start opening
up the small door to each cage. “Help me,” she demands.
Stiles swallows unsurely but he moves to do so, confused as to why they’re
doing it. He tugs up the collar of his shirt to rest against his nose like a
makeshift mask.
Deaton has disappeared into Mr. Ravenhill’s bedroom, as if on a scavenger hunt.
Braeden opens the last of the birdcages before she wanders over to the kitchen
area. She rifles through the cabinets before making a triumphant sound. “This
must be Fate,” she mutters.
Stiles frowns apprehensively.
Braeden straightens with a metal cup in hand, and exits the cabin to take some
water from the pond, and returns with it full. She bites down on the skin of
her thumb, hard enough to draw blood and she drips it into the cup, mixing it
with the water. She spits into it three times before resting her hand over the
mouth of it, closing her eyes.
Stiles watches curiously as the air of the cabin begins to vibrate.
“i' will en' umbar naa y' fortified minas,” Braeden chants. “i' innocent rima
a' ta ar' naa varna.”
Stiles inhales sharply in wonder as her magic consumes the chalice in ivory
flames before extinguishing.
Braeden opens her eyes and they’re glowing brightly. She begins moving around
the cabin, dipping her fingers in the metal cup to withdraw some bloodied water
and sprinkle the bird corpses. She repeats, “lle shall coia ar' il- gurtha!”
while she does.
Stiles wishes he knew what she was saying, but he can only guess when he
watches each bird twitch, and one by one, they spring to life.
They chirp and flap frantically as if overwhelmed.
Stiles assumes coming back from the dead has that affect on one’s system.
Braeden grins weakly and almost keels over but Stiles is quick enough to catch
her before she goes toppling to the ground. Blood descends from her nose and
her lashes flutter wetly. “Isn’t it wonderful, what we can do?” she says
dazedly. “To help them taste and see that Fate is good?”
“Braeden, what did you do?” Stiles asks worriedly. He presses her handkerchief
in her hands, even though it’s been thoroughly used; he has nothing else to
offer. “I don’t think you should have done that.”
“She should not have,” Deaton confirms, appearing out of nowhere and looking
Braeden over with a grim frown. He crouches down and picks up the metal cup
before closing his eyes in remorse. “Do you realize what this is?”
“Yes,” Braeden says shortly.
“Then you willfully gambled,” Deaton chastises, sending Braeden a stern look.
“You shave years off of your own life. Your body was sown to this Earth by Fate
and is perishable. It can only endure so much.”
“They were innocent,” Braeden insists. “I became their Witness before Death.
Fate would not have given them back to me if it was their time.”
“And now they will live forever.”
“So be it.”
“It is not for us to decide who lives and who dies.”
“Don’t preach,” Braeden complains, mopping up the blood from her nose with her
used handkerchief and she grimaces in disgust. “What’s done is done. The Virtue
you should worry about is right there." She nods to Stiles. "I’m sure he
doesn’t color outside of the lines like I do. I know you hate that. You made it
clear a long time ago.” She straightens in sheer stubbornness, shouldering past
Deaton to stumble out the door.
The birds she’s resurrected follow after her as if she were a real life Disney
princess.
Stiles scratches the back of his head, not sure what to do or say next.
Deaton’s grip on the metal cup tightens and his frown isn’t less grim. “Let
this be a lesson, Mr. Stilinski,” he gravely states. “We do not go looking for
the living among the dead. Bringing someone back from the brink of death is one
thing, but resurrection is an entirely different matter and is to only be used
to your discretion, if at all.”
“Uh, I understand, but I don’t really think I’m quite there yet to even
consider it,” Stiles informs him, twisting his hands together anxiously. “But,
um, what happens when it’s done carelessly?”
“Imbalance,” Deaton merely replies. “There cannot be life without death. If the
scale tips one way or the other, creating inequality, then it will be
corrected. By whatever amount it takes.”
“Oh,” Stiles says weakly. He can get Deaton’s perspective if that’s what the
consequence will be. “So since she brought them back…”
“Yes,” Deaton confirms. “Death will not pardon the theft. It will collect to
cover its losses. By any means necessary.”
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly and he takes the information to heart. He drops
his hands with a sigh. “What can we do?”
“Brace ourselves,” Deaton murmurs before he turns to make his exit.
Stiles looks around at all the empty cages and stands in the silence of being
alone. Then he too exits the cabin, closing the door behind him with a click
that feels final.
                                      ---
“I believe this is what your uncle may have been looking for,” Deaton reasons
as they stand at the front of his car. He holds up the metal cup Braeden had
used earlier. It looks like a cup that a king would drink out of it back in
medieval times (only there's rune symbols marked all around it). “It is the
Chalice of Resurrection. Its magical property is to revive the dead and
whosoever it revives is gifted with immortality. Lethal in the wrong hands.”
Braeden just examines her nails when he sends her a pointed look. If she’s
going for casual, it won’t work, what with all the birds perched on her
shoulders and hovering around her head and shoulders. Not to mention Whit Lee
sitting dutifully beside her.
Derek is nosing his way around Deaton’s Prius as if he’s looking for something,
his tail wagging happily behind him.
Stiles smiles a little at the sight before he grows serious. He looks to Deaton
and says, “Why would my uncle need it, outside of what’s obvious? I doubt he’d
want to kill himself just to be revived by the cup to be a cat forever. He’s
very unhappy with his current condition in my understanding.”
“I can think of no particular reason, unless he was assigned the task of
retrieving it for the Benefactor,” Deaton broadly deduces. “However, only a
Virtue can use it. This once belonged to Abraham, Talia’s first husband. It was
a family heirloom of his.”
“If a Vice isn’t able to use the Chalice, then why are they desperate enough to
kill Mr. Ravenhill for it?” Stiles questions. “What does the Benefactor want
with the Chalice of Resurrection?”
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Braeden remarks, lighting one
of her magical cigarettes, and seriously where is she pulling this stuff from?
“I can hazard a guess. Do you want to know what my theory is?”
“Leverage,” Deaton states before she gets the chance to. “For an ongoing
campaign. Gerard Argent has been looking for this as well. He thought I was in
possession of it at one point.”
“It always comes back to politics,” Stiles complains with a sigh. “So what do
we do now to make sure that the Benefactor nor Mayor Argent doesn’t getthis
leverage?”
“Any magical artifact with great power has to be handed over to the Silver
Magistrate,” Deaton announces. “But for now, it will have to be held in the
Hale Vault for safekeeping until a representative can be commissioned with the
task of retrieving it.”
“Which means you’re headed to the Hale Manor. Awesome. In that case, I call
shot gun,” Braeden says, exhaling twinkling purple smoke with the words. She
uses her free hands to send of wave of magic towards Whit Lee, shrinking him
down to the size of a household kitten.
Whit Lee snarls and growls his complaints at being compacted so.
Stiles guesses it must be an uncomfortable feeling.
Deaton rounds his car to get to the driver’s side. “You will not smoke in my
car,” he states, and his tone brokers no room for argument. “Stiles?” He’s
looking at the younger man expectantly.
“Uh, I’ll just walk back with Derek. It’s fine.” Stiles shrugs and crosses his
arms. “Are we done for today?”
“Yes,” Deaton confirms. “I will notify you of anything important, and you do
the same. Until then, I would like a few days to sort out several things and
rest, if that works for you. We can get started on your garden by the end of
this week.”
“No rush,” Stiles quickly assures. “Take all the time you need to heal.”
“I won’t need very much, but thank you,” Deaton replies before climbing in.
Braeden sucks down the rest of her magical cigarette greedily, gently shooing
the birds hovering around her at a distance before hunching low to pick up Whit
Lee and cradle him to her chest. She climbs in the car as well.
Stiles watches them drive off (and the birds that still follow after Braeden do
so again) before turning to Derek, who’s patiently sitting on his hind legs
with his head cocked. “I think all those birds imprinted on Braeden,” he
remarks and he wonders if it’s a side effect of the Chalice. He blinks and
saves the thought for later. “Uh, well, my internal compass is broken.” He
shrugs. “Show me the way?”
Derek huffs wolfishly before he stretches lazily, sniffling before
straightening. He trots forward, circling Stiles so he can stand behind him and
he nudges him forward with his snout pressing between Stiles’s shoulder blades.
“Okay, okay!” Stiles exclaims with a laugh. “Geez, you’re even pushier like
this. Didn’t think that was possible.”
Derek just growls playfully and nudges him along in the right direction.
They trudge through the noisy forest in companionable silence.
Stiles takes a moment to whistle, calling his magic to him, and its a few
minutes before he sees the shadows of it circling high above them. One by one,
it drifts down, breaking up and falling over him like sparkling snow made of
blue stardust before tucking away into his gut.
He glances over to Derek, who has slowed his pace to match Stiles’s, and he
finds the courage to say, “So, about that stuff you wanted me to tell you
about?” He pauses to swallow. “I think I’m ready.”
Derek doesn’t slow his pace as he studies him with glowing amber eyes and ears
flickering curiously. His head bobs encouragingly and moves so he’s closer to
Stiles. He exhales, mouth shifting around his pink tongue and somehow that
conveys that Stiles has his full attention.
Stiles reaches up with his left hand and threads his fingers through Derek’s
soft white fur as his hand shakes with nerves. He clears his throat and starts
from the beginning.
He starts by explaining the whole ‘Gerard is a secret pedophile’ business
because that’s always the most difficult thing to sort out. Then he talks about
what’s going with Parrish and Isaac. He talks about how Isaac’s related to Kate
and that Chris knows. He talks about Malia and Jackson, and how they’re
actually related to the Hales. He talks about Mayor Argent’s other kids who are
still out there (Erica, Ricky and Carter, and god knows who else). He just
really lays it on him.
With each confession, his mind becomes clearer, more at peace, as if each
weight of each secret is being peeled away from him. Even though it’s a one-
sided conversation, it still feels better than taking any healing medicine
could. He’s no longer lost to the storm of his guilt. He’s unburdened, and it’s
liberating.
When Stiles concludes his monologue, he lets go of Derek’s fur, shaking the
hand out so he can get some circulation. He realizes that he’d been clutching
Derek’s fur tightly the whole time.
Derek doesn’t seem to mind, but he does shake out his fur, slowing down to hop
behind Stiles. Then he swipes his tongue over the back of Stiles’s head with an
affectionate yipping noise.
Stiles laughs and spins around so he can walk backwards. “I know you like me,
Derek,” he teases. “No need to drool all over me.”
Derek may be a gigantic wolf but he can still pull off a flat stare. Then he
falls onto his side, hiding his face behind his paw so that he can whimper
dramatically.
“You big faker,” Stiles laughs as he approaches him. “You’re not crying.”
Derek just sniffles with another whimper.
Stiles rolls his eyes and crouches down so he can rub at Derek’s side. “So
dramatic," he murmurs fondly with a grin. "You realize you're almost the size
of a horse?"
Derek huffs but refuses to lift his paw away from his face.
Stiles rolls his eyes and continues to pet his side, taking the time to really
appreciate how soft his white fur is. "You know, I think you're even prettier
like this," he compliments.
Derek lowers his paw and his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth happily. He
barks.
Stiles laughs. "Ha, I knew that would get you out of that fake mood. Come on,”
he urges. “I’ve finally got my appetite back and I want to eat.”
Derek snorts but he leaps up and licks at Stiles’s left hand before darting
off.
“Hey! Wait! Slow down!” Stiles complains and rushes to catch up.
Derek doubles back to playfully circle him, moving in to nudge him roughly and
then darting away.
Stiles eventually catches the hint that Derek wants to be chased. “You’re such
a dork!” he exclaims but he runs after him.
Derek evades each one of his grabs with an eager woof.
This game of tag lasts up until they have reached the Hale Manor without
incident.
By then, Stiles is out of breath, sweaty, and starving. He and Derek part ways
at the steps, and he lingers a moment to watch Derek drift to the back of the
house to shift in private. He smiles to himself for no particular reason other
than because he’s just happy. He makes his way into the house and thanks
Derek’s good timing because it looks like lunch is being served.
Everyone is in the dining room, sitting at the long and wide oak table, which
has names carved into it.
Nana Hale is at the head of the table with Derek Sr., who is feeding Olive as
she sits in her high chair beside him.
Cora waves him over and he quickly settles in the empty seat beside her,
wedging himself between her and Sabrina.
Stiles reaches out and just grabs the first thing in reach, which happens to be
a pastrami sandwich on rye bread and a handful of sweet potato fries.
Derek returns sometime during Stiles trying to suffocate himself with his food,
fully clothed and grinning. He sits down across from Stiles between his Aunt
Emilia and his older cousin Delilah. He begins piling some grilled cheese
sandwiches on his plate and some plain chips.
“So how was your field trip?” Cora asks when Stiles stops trying his hardest to
stuff his face with sandwich after sandwich after sandwich. “Derek and Braeden
wouldn’t let me tag along. Something must have happened if you smell like blood
and…sushi for some reason.”
“Oh you didn’t miss much,” Stiles remarks lightly and grins when Derek snorts.
“Actually there might have been an unfortunate incident with a squid.”
Cora’s brow furrows in bemusement. “Is that some kind of euphemism?” she
questions, puzzled.
Derek laughs even harder.
“I wish it was,” Stiles admits with a weary sigh and chucks a fry at Derek in
rebuke.
Derek just catches it with his mouth and snickers.
Stiles gives her a quick run down of everything that happens, and pretends not
to feel curious eyes from around the table that stray his way. He knows they’re
all eavesdropping and he’s just accepting it.
“That explains why mom left with Braeden and Deaton to go put some kind of
witchy cup in the family vault,” Cora supposes.
Stiles huffs in amusement. “Yes, that would be the reason,” he confirms.
“Where’s Laura?”
Cora sends him a look. “She moved out, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Stiles says as a few people snicker. “I’m just so used to seeing her
here.”
“Trust me, we all are,” Sabrina chimes. “I’ve asked the same question like six
times already.”
Stiles sends her grin because that is consoling to know. He turns back to Cora.
“Do I still have blood on my face?”
Cora shakes her head no. “I can just smell it, but you can’t tell otherwise,”
she assures.
Stiles is thankful for that.
“Let’s go downstairs and bowl for a bit. I’m feeling neglected,” Cora swears,
dragging Stiles to the basement where they keep a small bowling alley. She wins
the first two games mercilessly.
Derek eventually meanders down the stairs just as Stiles is begging off a third
game. He grins fondly at Stiles before valiantly coming to his rescue by
challenging Cora to a few games.
Cora charitably accepts like it’s such a hardship, but she doesn’t stop smiling
or laughing with her older brother the whole time.
Stiles just sits back and watches them, indiscernible feelings of warm
affection floating through him. He then shifts his attention, fishing his phone
from his pocket and goes through all his missed texts and calls. There are none
from Isaac, which is worrying, but there is a text from his dad that reads:
Pick up something for dinner. I’ll quickpay you the money. We’re at the house
talking things over with Parrish. Take your time.
Stiles frowns and chews on his bottom lip as he checks his account, accepting
the money his dad sent for groceries. He sighs and sends his dad a confirming
text. Then he sends a few texts to Allison asking after Lydia, a few to Scott
and Jackson to ask after Danny, and a few to Peter to ask after Kate.
Allison says: adjusting still – she really wants to see you – breakfast
tomorrow?
Lydia says: Stop texting Allison like she’s my handler. I’m coming over
tomorrow morning and we are going to eat food like normal people. I know we
aren’t but we can pretend for thirty goddamn minutes.
Scott says: He’s like really lucid but awake. Jackson is totally fretting, wish
you could see it, dude! Danny's rolled his eyes like sixty times already.
Jackson says: Come see for yourself, loser.
Peter says: She won’t burn the town to the ground but I would not want to be in
Kyle’s shoes right now. Your father appears to have everything under control at
the moment.
Stiles smiles at all of them and replies with nothing but affirmative, positive
responses. He sighs once that’s all said and done, pocketing his phone.
Cora’s disappeared and Derek is lounging in the chair across from Stiles,
gazing at his own phone with a thoughtful frown.
Stiles stares at Derek until the older teen looks up at him.
Derek raises both his eyebrows with a questioning expression, putting his phone
away to devote all his attention to him.
Stiles grins shyly at that and says, “How do you feel about grocery shopping?”
                                      ---
Grocery shopping is, apparently, one of Derek Hale’s favorite leisure
activities. He even goes as far as driving Stiles to his favorite store,
Rothschild Kosher Supermarket, which is located in the heart of Beacon Hill’s
metropolitan area. He’s even on first name basis with the employees there.
“What?” Derek says as grabs one of the blue shopping carts. “Seriously, what?”
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”
Derek laughs and shrugs sheepishly. “I’ve been coming here with my dad since I
was a kid, and I just kind of never stopped,” he explains shyly. “I like the
atmosphere as much as I love the food. It feels nice to connect with my people
sometimes. I mean, you know, the Human side, I guess. Does that make sense?”
Stiles rests a hand over Derek’s. “I get it,” he promises. “Every year my dad
and I attend the Polish Festivals they hold in Los Angeles every October.
Sometimes you just need the association.”
“Exactly,” Derek says softly, looking at Stiles like he can’t believe he’s
real. “Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”
Stiles laughs and blushes a little. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he
supposes.
“You should,” Derek states firmly. He twists his hand so he can lace their
fingers together. “It’s amazing how much you get me sometimes. Is this okay?”
Stiles steers them towards the fresh produce and flowers because they are
seriously kinda blocking the entrance with all their teenage nonsense. “You’re
fine,” he says distractedly. “I think that too. That, um, you really get me,”
he admits, a little flustered by his confession.
Derek stares at him with that same look he gets when he’s talking about math or
space or both at the same time: enthusiasm, bewilderment, and devotion wrapped
all into one. Then he blinks, and shifts his gaze away, cheeks as pink as the
flowers he’s standing next to. “So,” he says, voice cracking a little. He
winces and clears his throat. “Any ideas about what you wanted to make for
dinner?”
Stiles studies him closely, wondering at the peculiarity of Derek’s behavior
and why he’s suddenly being so shy. He’s usually the brave one, but Stiles
knows better than to push or pry. “Homestyle stuffed peppers?” he throws out as
a suggestion.
Derek considers it for a moment before nodding. “Sounds good to me,” he says.
“Come on. The bell peppers are this way.”
Stiles lets himself be dragged towards the vegetables. He watches in amusement
as Derek retrieves everything he lists off from memory like an uxorious
husband. It is sickeningly domestic how easy it is to just dothings like this
with Derek as though it were as simple as breathing. He finds himself just
trailing after the older teen and watching him move in his element, thinking
over and over about how sweetDerek is.
If Derek notices how quiet and watchful Stiles is being, he certainly doesn’t
act like it. He just grabs all the ingredients Stiles needs, being quick about
it since it forces him to let go of Stiles’s hand sometimes. But then he’s
right back, like Stiles’s hand is a magnet he can’t free himself from.
Stiles is literally contemplating marriage when they hit the checkout and Derek
flirts (in impeccable Hebrew) with the old granny (her nametag says Rebecca
Rothschild) minding the register.
Rebecca looks at Stiles as the bag boy helps Derek put away the groceries, and
she says, “What a nice boy."
"Yeah, he's polite when it matters."
Rebecca laughs. "It's good that you're honest," she chuckles.
"I keep him humble."
"Good.” Rebecca winks, eyes twinkling as she adds, "In any case, I still
think he’s a keeper."
Stiles just flushes and hands her his credit card, knowing full well that Derek
will have heardthat. It doesn’t matter because he knows that she’s right. But
he doesn’t dare say that out loud, wanting to keep that knowledge to himself
for selfish reasons. He’s rarely ever selfish, so it feels good to have
something to be greedy over.
Derek tips the bag boy because apparently he can’t be perfect enough, and
commandeers the shopping cart as he says, “Race you!” before darting off.
Stiles thinks, I’ve never had anything like you before,and runs after him,
shouting complaints of ‘head starts’ and ‘dirty cheaters’.
                                      ---
The street lamps are turning on by the time Derek pulls up to the Stilinski
house and parks between Kate’s shiny, black Jaguar and Peter’s red Lamborghini.
There are two squad cars parked in the driveway.
They grab the groceries from Derek’s trunk and trek towards the house in
silence. He kind of wishes he could hear what’s going on inside so he can know
what he’s walking into, but then again he’s glad he can’t. He’d probably
chicken out and spend the night with the Hales.
He unlocks the door, unsuccessful the first two times because his hand is
shaking with nerves, and he pushes his way through the door and over the
threshold.
“— something countless times. To tell you the truth.” Parrish voice drifts from
the living room. “I just—”
Stiles and Derek dump the bags on the kitchen table where Peter is, for some
reason, and the sound garners the attention of the occupants sitting in the
living room.
“— didn’t know how,” Parrish finishes weakly. He’s sitting on the edge of the
coffee table and facing Isaac, who’s sitting in his favorite armchair.
Kate is leaning against the wall by the TV with an unhappy frown and crossed
arms. She’s glaring at the back of Parrish’s head.
Laura is sitting on the long couch on the side closest to his dad.
The sheriff is perched in his favorite armchair, still in his uniform like
Parrish is, and he’s watching the exchange with a guarded but grave expression.
Peter is drumming his fingers restlessly on the surface of the table as he
stares fixedly at his hotheaded girlfriend. He looks like he’s ready to
intervene at any point if necessary.
Stiles glances over and tries to assess just what his brother may be feeling or
thinking, but Isaac is a blank wall.
Parrish’s eyes are getting watery and he begins to curl his hands into fists
where they’re resting over his uniform-clad thighs. He swallows over and over
as his face gets red. “I can — can understand if you hate me or never want to
see me again,” he continues hoarsely. “I hate myself for not fighting harder
for you,” he admits quietly, lowering his wet gaze. “To claim you as mine.”
It gets quiet. Really quiet.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Isaac reaches out with one hand and rests it on
Parrish’s clenched jaw.
Parrish flinches like he’s been struck but stiffens in surprise when he
realizes he hasn’t been.
Isaac lifts his chin with an admonishing sound at the reaction, and says, “I
forgive you.”
Parrish gapes at him unattractively.
Even Laura and Kate stare with wide eyes.
“I mean, I am pissed that you left,” Isaac admits with a wry half smile. “But I
always sort of knew. Or at least, I hoped. Grandma and grandpa were kind of
awful people and I always thought, well, wouldn’t it be nice if Kyle were your
real dad and not just your brother? And sometimes you smelled like me. Justlike
me. In a way that the others didn’t, but I was always too afraid to ask or hope
to confirm it.” He drops his hand with a shuddery exhale and sits back. “But
I’m still pissed about you leaving. That was a shitty thing to do.”
Parrish winces in regret but he doesn’t argue as a tear slides down his
handsome face.
Isaac says, without missing a beat, “I’m not mad at you, Stiles. So stop
fretting. Wasn’t your responsibility to tell me, anyway. Don’t get all moody.”
Stiles blinks in surprise and flushes. “I’m not moody,” he protests but he
can’t say he hadn’t been worried. “And anyway, I thought I was betraying you
somehow by not saying anything to you or dad.”
“Might have been worse if you had,” his dad reasons.
Isaac nods tiredly in agreement, looking slightly emotionally drained. To
Parrish, he says, “So now what?”
Parrish sniffs and dries his face with a confused look.
Isaac clarifies, “Do you want to be apart of my life or not? You said you’d
been planning to tell me. Now you have.So, what now?”
Parrish looks a little bewildered and unsure. “Well,” he starts and pauses to
think. “I mean — that’s up to your — up to the sheriff. Legally, he’s still
your guardian, but I would like to be apart of your life, in whatever way you
would have me.”
“I’m not leaving my dad or Stiles,” Isaac says bluntly. “They’re my family now.
But I wouldn’t be opposed to spending time with you too.”
“Maybe we can work up to weekends,” his dad suggests evenly. “For now, I think
supervised visits are more than generous, given the circumstances.”
“Of course,” Parrish quickly agrees, twisting his body so he can face the
sheriff. “Anything you decide. I’m completely fine with.”
His dad just nods stiffly before rising to his feet. “You and I will talk more
about this and go over the details later. I think that’s enough for now.” He
looks like he has more he wants to say but he withholds it in favor of saying,
“You’re all welcomed to stay for dinner. Excuse me. Isaac, can you come with
me?”
Isaac silently nods and follows their dad up the stairs and out of sight.
“You got off too easy,” Kate mutters resentfully, pushing away from the wall.
“I’mstill pissed at you too. Why didn’t you tell me? Or any of us? I can’t
believe the first person you told was a kid who’d you’d known all but five
minutes!”
“No offense,” Laura is quick to add, directing it at Stiles before looking back
at Parrish. “But she’s kinda right. I’m upset you didn’t say anything too.”
“I’m not,” Peter chimes unhelpfully. “I’m more interested in the fact that my
dear sister neglected to tell me that we have two unclaimed family members. Now
that’sa betrayal worth looking into. Go easy on him, Kate. You’ve just earned
yourself a shiny, new brother. I’d give anything for that.” He stands and
calmly tucks in his chair as Kate winces guiltily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me —
I’m going to have a few choice words with my sister. Laura, are you coming?”
“Yeah,” Laura sighs as she stands too. “Guess we can talk later, Kyle. Call me
tonight if Kate doesn’t strangle you. Rain check on the dinner,” she says to
Stiles with a grin. She does the stupid finger guns thing at Derek and
that’swhere he gets it. “See you later, Der-Bear. Bring something useful to my
party.”
“I’m bringing a bag of ice,” Derek flatly retorts. “And don’t call me that,” he
adds like an afterthought. “You’re lucky you’re even getting that much.”
Laura cackles as she follows Peter out the door.
“You’re taking me out to eat,” Kate decides, directing it at Parrish. “And
you’repaying. We have a lotof catching up to do.”
Parrish looks a little uneasy at that but he nods.
Kate scoffs and stomps over to Stiles, pointing a finger at his chest to say,
“You and I are square. I really have no reason to be mad at you, but don’t
fucking pull that shit again, Tenderfoot. You're either for me or against me.
Got it?”
Stiles just nods dumbly.
“Good,” Kate simply says and snaps her finger at Parrish. “Let’s go. I’ll be
back tomorrow to check in on my littlebrother. God, I better get used to saying
that.”
Parrish follows her out the door, and it clicks shut behind them.
Derek waits a few minutes before he says, “Well. That was something.”
“Very,” Stiles wholeheartedly agrees. “I expected more dramatics. I’m kinda
disappointed.”
“I could flip this table, if that would help?” Derek offers in a mock serious
tone.
Stiles laughs and shakes his head. “No, I’ll just count it all joy,” he
decides. “You feel up to helping me make dinner?”
“Sure,” Derek agrees easily. “But you have to tell me what to do because I’ve
never made any of this before.”
“Don’t worry. I got you.”
Derek’s mouth slowly stretches into an indulgent smile. “I know,” he says
softly.
Stiles blushes but he can’t find the will to correct him. He clears his throat
and gets to work with unloading the ingredients from the grocery bags. “Okay,”
he says. “First things first. We need to brown the meat.”
They work in tandem to prepare dinner, orbiting like planets that are drawn to
each other.
The kitchen area gives over to chaos, only because Stiles is teaching Derek
everything he knows about making this dish. He can’t really follow his usual
pattern of cooking, which would be a lot neater, but he enjoys spending time
with Derek like this that he doesn’t mind.
It’s a good hour before they manage to get the stuffed peppers in the oven to
bake for a bit.
By then, Stiles can really feel his exhaustion biting into him, but he’s
determined to stay up long enough to eat and see how his brother is doing.
Thinking some fresh air might wake him up, he says, “Come meet Nana.” and they
exit the house together.
It’s a nice cool night out; an honest relief from the slow burn of the day. The
crickets make a crescendo of sound in the trees and in the bushes.
Stiles kicks off his socks and shoes, grabbing Derek’s hand so he can carefully
navigate through a cluster of fireflies because his backyard is a happening
spot for them.
Derek makes a curious sound as he gazes up at the magnificent tree they’re
approaching. “Never seen a tree like this before,” he mumbles in awe. “How can
a tree be so pretty?And it has apples and peaches, but I don’t think those
naturally grow together — are thoseroses made out of glass?”
Stiles turns away to face his magical tree with a private smile. He lets his
magic light his right hand with a brilliant shine. He reaches up to the
engraved triquetra to ignite it with the bluish glow of his palm and the symbol
activates.
Nana’s face bleeds through a moment later. “Good evening, dearie. Always such a
joyous occasion to see your lovely little face. And you’ve brought company.”
Then she pauses and really looks Derek over. “Wellnow,” she starts, tittering.
“I believe I know him. I’ve seen him wrapped up your thoughts, but no wonder
when he’s so handsome —”
“Nana,” Stiles admonishes, cutting her off as he blushes. “Behave.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous. I’m always perfectly polite,” Nana objects. “Go on
then. Introduce us.”
“I give you permission to see,” Stiles mumbles, idly wondering if he’s making a
mistake.
Derek’s eyes widen in awe but the first thing he says is, “Cora and Laura would
absolutely loveyou.” Then he says, “I mean, hello. Nice to meet you. I’m
Derek.”
“I know who youare,” Nana chortles, eyes twinkling in amusement. “But yes, I
would be more than happy to meet your sisters.” At Derek’s confused face, she
clarifies, “When Stiles calls upon me, I’m able to share a mental link with him
that allows me access to his memories and thoughts.”
“Ah, I see,” Derek says and grins. “That’show you know me. You have to tell me
what he thinks about when he’s thinking about me.”
“Absolutely not!” Stiles splutters and can’t believe the gall of these two when
they share a good laugh at his expense. “Knew this was a bad idea,” he mutters,
crossing his arms.
“Hush, sweetling,” Nana chastises but not unkindly. “I would never share your
private thoughts with anyone in or out of this world. You can stop fussing.”
Stiles’s frown just deepens.
Derek chuckles and drags him in closer by his belt loops, bumping their noses
together in an eskimo kiss. “You’re so adorable when you pout like that,” he
whispers.
Stiles flushes and gently pushes him away. “Derek,” he complains. “Not in front
of — wait, I am notadorable.”
Derek just cups his hand over the side of Stiles’s neck and drops a quick kiss
to his cheek before pulling away. “Agree to disagree,” he states breezily. “And
Nana doesn’t care. She’ll see it anyway. She’s gonna see anything we do.”
“That’s three cheek kisses I owe you now,” Stiles grumbles under his breath.
Louder, he says, “And don’t say it like that. I knowNana sees everything.”
“Nana has indeed seen a lot during her lifetime,” Nana interjects, humored. “I
doubt you’ll do anything I’ll find scandalous. But I digress. Derek, tell me
about what happened at the river.”
“Why aren’t you asking me?” Stiles inquires.
“I’ve already seen it from your perspective,” Nana explains patiently. “There
are still a few unclear things. I’m hoping his account clarifies. Now go on,
darling.”
Derek smiles at Stiles briefly before he turns to Nana to do just as she asks.
Stiles watches Derek interact with Nana while fireflies dance around them. At
one point, he reaches up with an amused grin and holds up his right hand to let
each one of them bump and glide across his hands like a strange handshake;
their bottoms flickering like lamps. They whisper indistinguishable greetings,
which he returns as best as he can without Glitter’s help (she seems to be
absent).
He allows his magic to become like a mist over them, and they vibrate joyously
at the attention.
“Stiles, dear, come here,” Nana calls and he makes his way over. “Based on what
Derek has told me, the squid’s first move was to not only grab you, but it
persisted in this action.”
Stiles nods.
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but does that not sound like more of an attempt
at abduction then assassination?” Nana points out. “It only became aggressive
when the others intervened.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Stiles says, uncertain still. “If it was sent by the
Benefactor —”
“See that’s the thing as well,” Nana gently interrupts. “I’m not altogether
certain it was a Seven of Vices that sent the creature. They only follow the
commands of their Dragon hosts.”
“So…Dragons are trying to abduct me?” Stiles reasons, trying to get the bigger
picture here. “Why?”
“In the old days, it wasn’t uncommon. Virtues were considered the ultimate
treasure,” Nana explains. “Otherwise, they could be trying to petition an
audience with you in the most incorrect manner. But, there is only one way to
confirm. We will have to dispatch inquiring parcels to the head of each Dragon
dynasty.” She adds, “Derek, darling, I wonder if you can run across the street
and convince Mrs. Doyle to meet with me.”
Derek nods and darts off.
“What?” Stiles exclaims. “You’re inviting over that nosey old woman from across
the street? Why?”
“Because she’s a Manic Pixie, sweetling,” Nana explains patiently. “And they
are the best Couriers there are. They can recite a message word for word
without missing a beat because their memory is unrivaled, even by one such as
me.”
“Yes, that’s all good and fine, but how do you know what she is? And why didn’t
you ever tell me?” Stiles presses. “This whole time I thought she was just some
snooping shut-in.”
“Manic Pixies are harmless when they are alone, so I didn’t think it prudent to
point out,” Nana explains. “And my roots grow deep in this earth. It gives me
the ability to sense out every magical creature within this neighborhood. There
are few in number, but they are all docile.”
“Like who?”
“It’s rude to expose creatures who blend in with Humans for the sake of
privacy, dearie,” Nana lightly scolds. “If they want to make themselves known
to you, they will. Be understanding.”
Stiles winces guiltily. Before he can apologize, Derek returns with Mrs. Doyle
in tow.
Now, Mrs. Doyle is quite aged, but not the kind of old you pity with their
frail bones and feeble limbs; but the kind who you can envision running an army
kitchen if given half a chance. She stands quite tall and slim, her short grey
hair neat and pinned up with old-fashioned rollers (the kind women use to sleep
in). Her face is made up with discrete makeup except her lips, which are thin,
pink, and slightly chapped.
Were she any paler her mouth would be garish, but against her sun-kissed skin
it looks right. She has on a thin cotton nightgown patterned with small roses
under a duck yellow bathrobe that matches her slippers. She doesn’t look like
some sort of Manic Pixie in the slightest but Stiles supposes that must be the
point of it all. When she extends her wrinkled and veiny hand to shake his, he
sees the soil caked beneath her fingernails. Not surprising since if she's not
in her house peering out her window, she's on her knees, elbows deep in her
garden. She does have the best front yard on their street for a reason.
“Alyssum Plumwink,” she says, reintroducing herself as Derek moves to stand
shoulder to shoulder with Stiles. “But please continue to call me Mrs. Doyle
for the sake of Human continuity.”
Stiles shakes her hand, and feels a brief spark of mischief and spirit ignite
at the contact. His magic tries to follow the sensation to the source, but he
holds it at bay, knowing it would be rude and invasive. “Stiles Stilinski, but
you already knew that, I guess,” he greets back in turn. “This is my — this is
Derek Hale,” he introduces and tries not to think about his slip or what he
might have said if he hadn’t caught himself in time.
Derek glances at him curiously (looking for all the world like he wished he
knew where Stiles was going with that sentence as well) before he refocuses his
attention to grin politely at her. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” he
says.
“It’s not everyday that a Werewolf is sent to my doorstep with a request from a
Woodland Spirit,” Mrs. Doyle supposes and lets go of Stiles’s hand. “Let’s get
to it, shall we? I just put on some tea, and I’d like to get back to it as soon
as possible.”
“I give you permission to see,” Stiles says, stepping back so Mrs. Doyle can
face his magical tree.
“Alyssum, my dear, long time no see,” Nana quips with undisguised amusement.
“Xyukx Wrihr Gluewth! As I live and breathe!” Mrs. Doyle exclaims. “Had I known
that it was you, I would’ve come sooner!”
“Oh, sweetheart, you mustn’t call me that. I’m not the sprout I used to be,”
Nana informs cheekily.
Mrs. Doyle chuckles. “Ah, yes, you’re the Mother Queen if rumors among us
Sprites are true. Forgive me,” she says. “How do they call you now?”
“Nana will do just fine.”
“Nana it is,” Mrs. Doyle agrees. “Well you must want something. You always did
have awful timing. I was just about to watch my nightly stories on the telly."
"You always did love drama," Nana teases.
"Ah, well I'm grateful to Humans for their invention of it," Mrs. Doyle agrees
with a grin. "In any case, you've called me over for a reason. You’re in need
of my services, then?”
“Very much so,” Nana confirms. She then looks to Derek and Stiles. “You two can
head inside. I’ll take it from here. Have a wonderful night, dearies.”
Stiles wants to linger and see where the conversation goes, but he knows better
than to argue. So he says, “Goodnight, Nana. Goodnight, Mrs. Doyle. Again, it
was nice to meet you.”
Mrs. Doyle offers him a kind smile. “Same here. Pleasant dreams to the both of
you,” she replies.
Derek gives her a nod of acknowledgement, waving at Nana quickly as he follows
Stiles back inside the house.
Stiles turns the oven off just as the timer chimes, and he uses the nearby oven
mitts to pull the tray of stuffed peppers out. He sets it on the burners above,
pulling the mitts off and shouting, “Dinner’s ready!” to wherever his dad and
Isaac may be in the house.
Derek gets to work with setting the table without being asked.
His dad comes trekking down the steps, still in his uniform, and Isaac is right
behind him.
Stiles takes a moment to study his brother, noting his flushed tear-stained
cheeks, and swollen eyes. His heart breaks in fractures because that’s a sight
he’d never thought he’d see again. “Can you, um, serve everyone?” he says lowly
to Derek. “I’ll be right back.”
Isaac doesn’t seem very surprised when Stiles tugs him out the front door and
to the top of the porch steps for some semblance of privacy. He sits down and
waits until Stiles does the same before he says, “I was crying because I was
angry,” he explains before Stiles has a chance to ask. “But I’m okay. Relieved,
maybe. Not thrilled that Mayor Argent is my biological father, but that doesn’t
have to mean anything. He doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“He never will,” Stiles agrees firmly and hugs his little brother with
everything he has in him. He rubs a soothing hand up and down his trembling
back. "You're honestly one of the best things that might have come from him,
despite the circumstances that led to it."
Isaac rubs his face against Stiles’s shoulder, drying his eyes with the
movement. “I’m afraid he’s going to leave me again,” he mumbles a little
brokenly as he refers to Parrish without actually saying his name. “Don’t tell
dad. I can tell he's already on edge about the whole situation. And you know he
worries enough for the both of us.”
“Isaac, I’ll do anything you ask, it doesn't take much,” Stiles admits with a
bitter snort. “Are you really going to be okay with everything?”
Isaac rubs his face against Stiles’s shoulder again and Stiles could almost
swear he can hear purring. “I think so,” he mumbles. “And if not, I have you
and dad to get me there.”
“Always,” Stiles swears. “Forever.”
Isaac huffs fondly and finally pulls away. “Why do you smell like sushi?” he
asks with puffy eyes and a nasally voice. He looks adorable."Don't call me
adorable, Stiles. Just answer my question."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "I didn't even say anything out loud," he denies.
Isaac just gives him a blank stare.
“Longstory,” Stiles replies, ignoring the look. “Call Cora. I’m sure she’d love
to tell you about.”
“I seriously might,” Isaac retorts and pinches his brother’s cheek. “You smell
like blood too. Should I worry?”
Stiles swats his hand away, thinking how funny his little brother is when he
pretends to be the oldest. “I’m fine. Just overextended myself doing some
magic,” he explains. He waits a few beats before adds, “You know I love you,
right?”
Isaac wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I know."
"You know, I forget how charming you are."
"Exactly. That's why you’ve loved me from the moment you set eyes on me,”
Isaac says smugly.
Stiles barks out a laugh. “Oh shut up and say it back, you brat,” he complains.
“Nope, sorry. I might’ve but you went and ruined it,” Isaac says with a
longsuffering sigh. “I don’t reward insults.”
Stiles splutters and storms after his little brother when Isaac trudges back
into the house.
Dinner turns into a pleasant affair after that. The food turns out better than
expected.
As Isaac clears the table without having to be asked because he was
manufactured in the goody-two shoes factory of perfect children, his dad turns
to Derek and says, “Isaac and I are going to a baseball game Thursday night.
Does that sound like something you and your dad might be interested in?”
Derek lights up at the mention of sports and ignores when Stiles snorts. He
says, “Yeah. My dad loves baseball. I’m sure he’d be up for it. So would I.”
The sheriff nods. “Good, good. I’ll call him so we can make some arrangements,”
he decides.
Stiles clears his throat pointedly. “Don’t I get an invitation? Or did you
forget you had another son?” he jokes.
“Stiles, you made dying noises the whole time during the last sporting event I
took you to,” his dad points out unkindly. “You’ll have to excuse me if I
naturally assume you’d rather forgo repeating the experience altogether.”
“You always did know me better than anyone else,” Stiles muses. “Still. It’s
just nice to be, you know, asked anyway.”
The sheriff sighs in fond exasperation. “Stiles, would you like to go?”
“Are you kidding? You know I hate baseball,” Stiles gasps dramatically,
pretending to be insulted. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”
His dad snorts and rises from the table. “All right, you’re milking it now,” he
says. He glances at his wristwatch with a frown. “Well, I have to get going.
I’m pulling a double tonight. I’ll see you and Isaac tomorrow evening. Are you
going anywhere?”
“Not as far as I know,” Stiles answers truthfully.
“Good, then your brother won’t be by himself,” his dad determines. “Text me if
either of you have company over, or if you've made plans to go somewhere.”
Isaac and Stiles nod.
His dad seems satisfied with the response and so he makes his exit.
“I should get going too,” Derek supposes with a sigh. “It’s getting late and
the curfew siren will be ringing soon.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Stiles offers, scrambling to his feet.
Isaac scoffs and mutters something about Mario Kart before he disappears into
the living room.
Derek seems more amused than anything but he keeps any comments to himself.
Stiles grabs his left hand and quickly walks him out the door and down the
steps to his car. He’s nervous more than anything about seeing Derek off and
what that will entail. He stops when they reach the passenger side and he turns
to face Derek with a steadying inhale/exhale. He says, “Come back tomorrow.”
“You’re not tired of me yet?” Derek teases but his hazel eyes are warm and his
grin is pure.
"Yeah, it's crazy, isn't it?" Stiles tosses back, if only to hide how anxious
he feels.
"Well, you're not always nice to me, so it's hard to tell sometimes."
"Oh I'mnot always nice to you?"
Derek shrugs with a sly grin. “I’ll bring Jordan and we can go to the dog
park,” he says.
“Bring Cora too,” Stiles suggests and laughs at the face Derek makes. “I just
mean, you know, so Isaac can have some company too when we go. It’s only fair.”
Derek’s mouth twists thoughtfully and he looks a little more receptive to the
idea.
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip anxiously as his magic rattles around in his
chest overwrought with anticipation. His heart hammers as he steps forward,
close enough that he can see the different flecks of green and brown of Derek’s
hazel eyes, and he touches shaky fingers to his jawline tentatively.
Derek stands still and watches him closely with an open and honest face that’s
both encouraging and intimidating.
“I still owe you,” Stiles remarks nervously, voice cracking slightly. He leans
forward to close the distance and gently presses his lips to Derek's right
cheek with just the right hint of passion.
Derek’s breath hitches and Stiles feels like he’ll melt when the sound makes
him flush from head to toe.
Stiles manages to steel himself as he pulls back and lands another kiss on
Derek’s other cheek. He feels practically consumed with how abnormally warm
Derek’s skin feels under his lips. The smell of him is intoxicating (vanilla
and jasmine) and it makes Stiles lightheaded. He shifts away again and leans up
on his tiptoes to plant the last kiss on his forehead before pulling away
completely.
Derek’s hands shoot out and he yanks Stiles into a hug, tenderly brushing his
heated lips against the curve of Stiles's neck.
Stiles shivers and clutches Derek’s shirt in his hands, heart thrashing wildly
behind his ribcage like a raging, drunken beast trying to get free. When he
feels Derek’s lips settle, not moving but staying right where they are on his
collarbone, his whole body grows hot.
Derek tightens his arms ever so slightly, one arm wrapped around Stiles’s lower
back while he presses his free hand to the space between Stiles’s shoulder
blades. He inhales deeply, as though committing Stiles’s scent to memory before
he lifts his head and gently extracts himself like it’s painful to do. He looks
a little dazed but very happy.
Stiles feels caught in the gravity of Derek’s cheer, his own lips twitching
against an elated grin that wants to spread across his face. Even still, he
can’t contain his magic as it bursts from him in a small flock of butterflies,
rising from his body unmercifully in a glittery blue swarm. His face grows hot
in embarrassment when he can’t control it.
Derek just snickers, watching it all happen in self-satisfaction like he knows
he’s the reason why.
Stiles silently admits that he is but it’s stillembarrassing nonetheless. It’s
completely telling and unfair.
Derek just grabs his left hand and kisses the tips of his fingers like he’s
reassuring Stiles he has nothing to be embarrassed about because he feels the
same.
While that does comfort Stiles, it does nothing about the blush staining his
cheeks.
The curfew siren rings in the distance.
Derek jerks and makes an unhappy sound at the interruption. Then he reluctantly
lets go of Stiles’s hand. “That’s my cue to leave, unfortunately,” he sighs.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Probably around noon or so.”
Stiles nods with a sigh of his own as his magic evaporates glumly at the
announcement, returning to the sanctuary of his gut. “Text me when you get home
so I know you made it okay,” he requests. He leans forward quickly and gives
Derek another kiss on the cheek before he can talk himself out of it.
Derek beams and says, “That’s four I owe you back now.” Then he playfully tugs
as Stiles’s left ear before rounding the front of his car to get to the
driver’s side. “I’ll text you when I get home. Later.”
“Later,” Stiles mumbles and hugs himself.
Derek pulls away from the curb in a U-turn, waving one final time as he passes.
Stiles waves back and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight. He
waits until he can’t see Derek’s car any more before he turns to trek back into
the house to join his brother and thrash him at Mario Kart until they both go
their separate ways for bed.
He slides into bed with an open window, Derek’s stuffed toys in his arms and
his phone pressed to his ear because Derek doesn’t bother texting when he can
just call. He listens as Derek divides his attention between talking to him and
playing Final Fantasy XIV with a bossy Braeden.
Stiles falls asleep to the sound of Derek complaining about being used as bait
without his permission.
                                      ---
Stiles wakes up to a cloudy Tuesday with the smell of bread and oil sneaking
through the cracks of his closed door. Thinking Isaac responsible, he climbs
out of bed and goes to investigate. He’s understandably confused when he sees
that his little brother is still sound asleep in bed. He also knows it cant be
his dad. He wasn’t due back until later in the evening. He treks down the
stairs fully prepared to call the cops but not expecting to see Boyd and Lydia
sitting at the kitchen table while Allison mans the burning stove.
Stiles thinks it might be ridiculous, but at the sight of Lydia looking just
like how she used to before her life got complicated makes him just a bit
teary-eyed. He also might not be fully awake, and he does tend to be emotional
in the mornings. Or something. Maybe this is a dream.
Lydia stands and she doesn’t seem to care that she’s just as watery-eyed as he
is because she runs to him, clutching him close as if in fear he might
disappear like smoke.
Stiles hugs her back without hesitation, noting the way she trembles in his
arms as she hides her face in his shoulder and he knows it’s not a dream. He
strokes a hand over her shiny hair (which smells like fresh cut strawberries)
and he isn’t surprised when his magic worms its way free to take the shape of a
blue bioluminescent baby hedgehog.
It then settles on Lydia’s shoulder.
Lydia jerks at the feeling, pulling away slightly to glance at her right
shoulder. Then she cocks her head before reaching out to pet his magic. “It’s
beautiful,” she compliments and then turns, taking his magic off her shoulder
and clutching it to her chest so that she can stroke it. “Come sit,” she says
as she settles down at the table across from Boyd.
Stiles makes sure to greet the quiet teen with a wave as he sits down beside
Lydia when she wordlessly insists. “Do you want me to wake, Isaac?” he asks.
Boyd snorts. “He’s still sleep? He texted me last night and asked me to come
over around this time,” he states and rolls his eyes. “I’ll wake him myself.”
Stiles snickers and watches as he rises from the table to do just that. He
twists so he’s facing Allison. “Hey, Allison. Long time, no see,” he jokes.
Allison graces him a dimpled smile.
“So, um, what’s on the menu?” Stiles asks, eyes straying back to the table
where there is a sweaty glass pitcher filled almost to the brim with ice,
water, raspberry and mangoes on the table. Beside it is a small white basket of
freshly cut begonias.
“Panko crusted grilled cheese, egg, and tomato sandwiches,” is Allison’s
graceful response. “My dad’s having some kind of serious conversation with my
mom, so Lydia and I figured we better make ourselves scarce. We took a cab
here. I hope this is okay?”
“Yeah.” Stiles glances at Lydia but she’s cooing over his magic still and he’s
just so happy to see her. “It’s perfectly fine.”
Boyd returns with a grumpy looking Isaac in tow and they join Stiles and Lydia
at the table by sitting across from them.
Lydia’s suddenly filling a tall glass cup with water from the sweaty pitcher,
going slow enough that the pieces of fruit inside don’t make a messy or loud
splash in conjunction with the ice chips. She pushes it over to Isaac like some
kind of peace offering.
Isaac frowns in confusion and looks at his older brother helplessly, unsure
what to do about it.
Stiles shrugs because he has no idea what that’s about either.
Isaac shifts his gaze back to Lydia who is watching him expectantly. “Thanks,”
he mumbles, and reaches out with his left hand to grab the glass. His aim is
off and his knuckles end up knocking it over, sending water splashing in
Lydia’s direction.
Lydia jumps up, bringing Stiles with her so they can narrowly avoid the first
wave of water as it rolls towards them like a thin tsunami.
Isaac lets out a few mangled swears as he starts throwing napkins at the mess
and at Lydia, who skillfully catches each one calmly as they’re hurled
erratically.
Allison makes an amused tsking noise as she continues to artfully man the
burning stove.
“Sorry,” Isaac mumbles, looking furiously embarrassed with his own
ungainliness. He angrily plucks up debris of raspberries, mangoes, and ice
chips from under and around a blanket of soggy napkins. He quickly dumps it in
the trash.
Stiles is a bit worried because Isaac isn’t usually clumsy.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Boyd assures, tone neutral but his face looks
a little relaxed with humor. He’s the only one still sitting. “It should have
been placed in better reach.”
“It was less than three inches from me. How much closer could it have —” Isaac
cuts himself short when he recognizes the barb for what it is. “Oh. Oh. That’s
notfunny. We’re lucky there wasn’t any red wine involved.”
Boyd smirks. “I’ve personally survived worse,” he dryly remarks.
Isaac gives him a withering glare.
Lydia just has this sort of calm, dreamy look on her face. She says, “I dreamt
about this.”
Stiles pauses in the midst of helping his brother clean the mess. “What?”
“I dreamt this,” Lydia reiterates as she strokes the ethereal blue hedgehog she
has clutched to her chest. “It happened exactly like this. And then…” She
trails off as she looks at the fridge. “Then she appeared.”
“What?” Stiles repeats, even more confused. “What do you mean? Who is —”
The refrigerator rattles noisily as the whole house shakes in the aftershock of
a powerful wave of magic that descends on it.
Everyone grabs onto something to steady themselves, but the quake doesn’t
repeat itself.
The fridge rattles noisily again before thrashing against the wall.
Stiles yelps and leaps back, standing in front of Lydia and Allison just in
case it explodes.
It reallylooks and sounds like it might explode.
Isaac presses a hand to Boyd’s shoulder, giving him a look when Boyd tries to
step forward to investigate.
The fridge stops all of a sudden and the door goes flying off with a cloud of
blue smoke.
Isaac yanks Boyd out of the way when it comes flying his way and it crashes
disastrously into the flat screen TV in the living room.
The door becomes wedged into the middle of the TV, sparks flying from the
cracked screen.
Everyone turns back towards the fridge at the sound of coughing.
The thick, heady blue smoke rising from the fridge eventually lifts and reveals
a middle-aged woman. Her eyes, like the indigo ocean, are pools of iridescent
blue, sculpted upon her creamy face like dazzling jewels. Strands of fiery red
hair tumbles out of her scalp and cascades down her back like a waterfall.
She’s wearing a strapless cocktail dress made of a silky black fabric with a
black faux fur mink wrap over her shoulders. She looks like a middle-
aged socialite.
“Blast!” she complains, waving away the remaining blue smoke with a cough. “I’m
despicably out of practice. Although, I probably shouldn’t have had those
cocktails before summoning that portal. This is Barcelona all over again. But
with fewer Centaurs. Thank Fate and Peril for small mercies.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Stiles says, exasperated. “But who are you, and
why did you climb out of my refrigerator?”
“Well I should hope you recognize me! But wait, yes, wait, I’m remembering now,
perhaps that’s asking too much. You were a just a small little baby the last
time I saw you. A newborn, in fact. That was Poland, spring of 1999, maybe? Or
was it 1998? What year were you born?”
Everyone stares at her.
Lydia leans in from behind Stiles and whispers, “It's Aunt Lorraine.”
It suddenly snaps into place for Stiles and he finds himself recognizing her
face from his mother’s childhood photo albums. “Aunt…Lorraine?” he repeats,
hollowly. It doesn’t look like she’s aged a day according to those photos.
“The very one,” Aunt Lorraine confirms as she gestures to herself proudly. Then
she frowns and says, “Not quite as sober as I hoped to be when I did this whole
thing but here we are. And so lucky to be in tact too! Also, side note —
emerging from your fridge was definitely not my first choice. I was aiming for
the front door and I must’ve taken a wrong turn because I ended up in
thereinstead. But that is the price of inter-dimensional, cross continental
traveling, even for a Blue Witch of my caliber. And trust me when I say that I
have been around for a very long time to confirm this. It never gets any
easier.” She sighs and turns to retrieve her large, expensive handbag from out
of the fridge. “I tried to tell your mother that once when she was a kid,
Stiles, but would she listen?
“No. She wouldn’t. That girl was always stubborn as a mule. I once had to
extract her from a very messy situation with a team of Unicorns, which, to be
fair, was more or less a cultural misunderstanding than anything. See she
tried Inter-Jumping to Prague when she was sixteen but landed on the Isle of
Monokeros instead, but lucky for her she was still a virgin at the time or that
could have turned ugly. Oh! What are we eating? It smells really wonderful.
Oops, did I do that with the TV — yes, it certainly looks like I did. But it’s
no problem, I can fix it like new. Or, you know, newish. Gently used might be
the proper phrasing. Though I’ve only ever done it once before. Not a big fan
of technology, but I am ace at everything else. You need a new tapestry set?
I’m your Witch! Trying to get one of those fruit named phones? Better go to a
Techno Warlock. My, these are some lovely looking begonias. I just adore
begonias! They are my absolute favorite. Does anyone mind getting me a cup?
This water looks so very tempting and I am just parched.”
Stiles stares at her and watches as she makes herself at home at his kitchen
table. He’s severely stuck between amazement, curiosity, and bewilderment.
And going by the looks on everyone’s faces, he’s pretty sure he’s not the only
one.
***** revelations *****
“You know, I would really rather not have to summon myself something. That
journey took quite a bit out of me. But let that be a lesson. No Inter-Jumping
while intoxicated. I’ve already wracked up a number of citations from the Mage
Border Patrol. Though, the MBP has been on my back for the longest time. I’m
like a favorite. On first name basis with half of the officers and everything!
Anyway, how are we coming along with that glass? Oh, and I’ll also need some
bread to soak up the alcohol still lingering in my stomach,” Aunt Lorraine goes
on to say.
She’s either ignoring or completely oblivious to the wide-eyed stares from all
around her. She taps her manicured fingernails against the surface of the table
as she stares at the white begonias. Her eyes go misty and her expression gets
a bit whimsical, as if she’s remembering a distant memory. And just like that,
there’s a flicker of sadness that passes over her face before she quickly shuts
it down.
Stiles finds himself wondering over what the older woman may be thinking about.
He’s familiar with that expression. His mother used to have it on her face when
she took the time to look at her family photo album, pausing when she comes
across the photo of a dead relative.
Aunt Lydia is suddenly frowning thoughtfully before she cuts her blue eyes to
Boyd. “Get me a glass of water, please. Seems I have to be specific with you
all. The questions being projected at me are practically stifling me. Lydia,
Stiles, have a seat.”
Boyd glances at Stiles as if he’s going to get an answer from him but he ends
up shrugging instead since Stiles looks as unsure as he does about what
direction this is all headed in. Then, wordlessly, he moves around to find a
clean glass.
Isaac frowns, looking grumpy with the fact that this stranger is accosting his
best friend, and he takes a seat at the table to frown at her.
Meanwhile, Lydia plops into the chair across from Isaac’s without hesitation,
and yanks on Stiles’s sleeve to get him to sit as well (which he does with
understandable hesitation).
“Who are you?” Aunt Lorraine asks as she narrows her blue eyes in thought at
Isaac.
“My friend is a guest here too,” Isaac answers instead and Stiles shoots him a
look that gets ignored. “You can’t just order him around like that.”
Aunt Lorraine’s eyes widen at his blunt tone before she laughs. “I meant no
harm. It’s just a folly of old age,” she explains. “I assume young people won’t
mind if I run them around for little things.”
“I don’t mind,” Boyd adds, still hunting for that glass. “My grams does the
same thing every time I visit. I can barely step through the door before she’s
asking me for favors.”
“It’s different when it’s family,” Isaac mutters, crossing his arms and still
eyeing Aunt Lorraine resentfully.
“You’re right, he hardly knows me. I get too friendly,” Aunt Lorraine agrees in
a placating tone. “Jo të gjithë mund t'i fusësh në një thes,” she adds (in
Albanian).
Isaac jerks in surprise and his scowl completely vanishes. “A flisni shqip?” he
retorts in the same dialect.
“Një gjuhë asnjëherë nuk është mjaft,” Aunt Lorraine replies with a private
smile. “Si ju quajnë?”
“Isaac Lahey.”
“You’re new to the family,” Aunt Lorraine guesses. “I keep these lineage books,
you see. It’s like a family tree that I use to keep track of my bloodline. I
would have remembered you in the latest edition.”
“I was adopted.”
“Ah, chosen family is always the best. I’ll be sure to add your name next to
Stiles so I don’t soon forget. Very nice to meet you,” Aunt Lorraine says and
Isaac nods, and he doesn’t smile at her but he’s not glaring anymore so that’s
progress. “And you.” She shifts her gaze to Allison. “I’m sensing something
muted…genetic...skips a generation...on your mother’s side...there it is! You
wouldn’t happen to be colorblind, would you, dear?”
Allison blinks and looks floored as she nods.
Aunt Lorraine smiles widely and her white teeth are almost blinding. “Tipsy and
yet I still haven’t lost my gift of discernment completely!” Then she glances
around and lowers her voice as if she’s sharing a closely kept secret with her
most beloved friends. “Oh, but you all must know that the best kind of foods
are prepared by the colorblind,” she stage whispers. Voice returning to regular
volume, she asks, “What’s your name? I’m seeing something with a double ‘A’.”
“Allison Argent,” Allison confirms, looking spooked with a mixture of awe.
“Argent? Hm, there’s a heritage of Huntsmen in that lineage if I’m not
mistaken. Allison is a very lovely name by the way. I once knew an Allison who
was the purveyor of M.A.B. and the like. Which happened to be the newest
discovery at the time, by the by. She always complained her peers never took
her seriously, but well, you can bet they changed their tune after that little
fact-finding expedition.”
“What’s M.A.B.?” Lydia asks, clutching Stiles’s magic close to her chest (still
presenting itself as an ethereal blue hedgehog).
Stiles can faintly feel the curiosity his magic has about his Aunt Lorraine,
and it settles at least some of his confusion to note that his magic doesn’t
view her as a threat.
Aunt Lorraine replies, “M.A.B. happens to stand for ‘Mood Adjustment
Butterflies’. They’re magically enhanced insects that can cure any sort of ill
temper disorder. For example, with the right amount of exposure, a person who
suffers quite badly from post traumatic stress can become free of the emotional
distress prompted by said ailment. When she was alive, Dr. Allison became a
renowned 45-L Enchantress of psychiatry. Her research and fieldwork has
contributed greatly to the Supernatural community.”
“What’s 45-L stand for?” Lydia presses.
Stiles couldn’t help but to wonder as well. There was a hungry churn in his gut
that made him feel so drawn to Aunt Lorraine’s voice. It felt like being in the
presence of a walking textbook for all things to do with the otherworldly. He
couldn’t quite explain how he knew she must be way older than what she looked,
but he knew.
“45-L means ‘forty-fifth level’. Enchantresses are another branch to the family
tree of Witches. Now while Color Witches are considered the strongest
bloodline, Graded Enchantresses are considered cousins to them much in the same
way that Werecats and Werewolves are. Or even Faeries and Mermaids.”
“Wait, Mermaids and Faeries are cousins? But I thought Virtues and Banshees —
Lydia and I —”
“Ah, I know what you’re thinking. Yes, you and Lydia are blood cousins, but
that is the genetics and familial aspect. In the Supernatural community, there
are also things known as Magical Bloodlines. It’s what connects us all to each
other as a society, just as Humans are connected by their ethnicities and
cultures. We all would’ve had to come from a single source, correct? Like
Humans with their theory of the first man and woman. For us Paranormals, there
was a tree. The first tree. The Tree of Creation. Where all of what we have,
originated.”
“It came from the trees…” Stiles murmurs, and thinks back to the unfinished
story Mr. Ravenhill once tried to tell him.
“Yes, correct. Anyway, back to the 45-L business. Enchantresses like to become
experts on all things, and they can only track their progress and experience
through a number system, much like Faeries do,” Aunt Lorraine continues to
explain. “Only theirs is much more vast. Their number system goes all the way
up to a thousand. With a thousand representing the least and one being the
greatest.”
Stiles doesn’t need to do the math in his head to guess that a 45-L Enchantress
isn’t someone to go toe to toe with.
“Right. So. Ms. Allison Argent. Don’t worry about your parents, or your father.
That will sort itself out,” Aunt Lorraine declares with a solemn nod in
Allison’s direction. “But you do need to forgive if you want the true path to
fulfillment to be revealed to you. The happiness in your life will follow,
okay? Hand me a sandwich, it smells absolutely divine.”
Allison is motionless for a moment, suspended in disbelief and vulnerable
sorrow. It’s few minutes before she’s making a clumsy grab for a paper plate
and putting a grilled cheese and egg sandwich on it with shaky hands. She sets
it before Aunt Lorraine almost piously before she sits at the other end of the
table wordlessly.
Aunt Lorraine wastes no time taking a loud, crunchy bite with all of the ‘oohs’
and ‘ahhs’ that Stiles isn’t entirely sure is staged.
Boyd pours her some fruit laced water in the glass he’s finally obtained
without being prompted before he sits to her left on the other side of Isaac.
He’s eyeing her curiously like he wants to see what she will do or say next.
“Thank you, dear. What’s your name? I’m sensing something shared…passed down?
Are you a fourth?” Aunt Lorraine questions, picking off the crusts from her
oily bread.
Boyd has an amazing poker face, so it’s hard to tell what he may be thinking,
but Stiles figures that the way he lifts both eyebrows must be an indication of
surprise. “Vernon Milton Boyd the Fourth,” he confirms.
“Ah, I thought so,” Aunt Lorraine replies whimsically. She sighs before she
glances around. “How about your brother, how is he called? He is the oldest
one, correct?”
Boyd nods. “His name is Roman. My mom had a hard labor with them, so she told
my dad that if he wanted any more children, he would let her name their first
child. She named him after her and I was named after my dad.”
“What about your little sister?”
Boyd’s grin is almost whimsical. “Veronica,” he answers, tone friendly. “How
did you know I wasn’t an only child?”
“You carry yourself like a middle child.”
Boyd says nothing to that but its obvious its something he’s heard before.
“Your mother and father follow the old gods and the laws that govern their
faith,” Aunt Lorraine states, matter of fact. “So in return they have been
blessed financially. Everything they touch turns to wealth.”
Boyd does look surprise then. “My mother follows the way of Karma. It was
introduced to her by a missionary that came to her village when she was a
child. And when my dad married her, he loved her enough to do the same,” he
admits. “They always say that everything we have here is owed to Jain Dharma.”
“Certainly when followed properly, yes,” Aunt Lorraine agrees. “I really
shouldn’t be the only one eating. Allison, be a dear, and serve the rest. I’d
hate for this delicious food to go to waste since you put your heart in it. You
cook almost as well as the Scorpion Queen, but between you and I, that golden
spatula she uses has magical properties. Cheating, if you ask me.”
“Oh, uh, thank you?” Allison says with a bemused, dimpled smile as she sets
plates before everyone. “Actually, I’m sorry but I have to ask. The Scorpion
Queen? Who is that?”
“Well she presides over the Mesopotamian tribe of Aqrabuamelu, who protect the
Scared Grove of Fruit Trees, which in turn leads to the entrance of Sheol, or
by earthly terms, Hell. You know, the bad place where Humans go if judged by
the Faceless as lacking in morals.” Aunt Lorraine grins and adds, “The
Aqrabuamelu are half women, half scorpion. I believe Hollywood did a sloppy
interpretation in The Mummy Returns.”
Dawning expressions of understanding ripple around the table on everyone’s
face.
“You must be very well traveled,” Boyd supposes before he starts eating.
Aunt Lorraine’s blue eyes glimmer mischievously. “Yes, that is a fair
assumption for someone my age. Go on. Guess it, if you can,” she challenges as
if it’s her favorite game.
Boyd doesn’t hesitate as he says, “Thirty-six.”
Aunt Lorraine throws her head back and laughs colorfully, causing the lights to
flicker on and off in a hiccupping display of magic. “Whoops, goodness me. I
have a bad habit of doing that when I’m tickled,” she gasps, waving her hand
quickly before wiggling her nose.
The lights return to their off state.
“Oh, you are very charming,” she says, pointing a finger at Boyd like she’s
accusing him of it. “But no. I haven’t been thirty-six for a very long time. My
origin of birth is one of my closest guarded secrets. It has to be.”
“Why?” Stiles asks when no one else will. He’s too distracted to eat.
“It’s the source of my immortality,” Aunt Lorraine vaguely replies. “Now, I bet
you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“The thought had crossed my mind a few times,” Stiles dryly admits.
Aunt Lorraine finishes up the last of her food before she wipes her mouth
quickly. “Family is the most important thing to me,” she says. She looks at
Lydia and Stiles with a soft smile. “I try and make it a habit of visiting
every generation of my family, if only for a short while. Especially to gage
where you are with your abilities, or what exactly it is you’ve inherited from
me. Maybe someday I’ll tell you more about who I am and where I come from.
After all, I am the source of the magical ancestry in this family of ours.”
“I saw you coming,” Lydia mumbles lyrically. She’s not eating either. “I dreamt
it.”
“I’m sure you did, darling,” Aunt Lorraine replies gently. “You’ve inherited my
gift of discernment, it seems. I’ll help you master it more efficiently while
I’m with you two. Oh! That reminds me. I need to give you your Conduit.”
Lydia begins to look positively thrilled. Certainly a pleasant change from the
detached, almost dreamy expression she’s been sporting this whole time.
Stiles feels a bit envious, but he’s happy for his cousin nonetheless.
Aunt Lorraine closes her eyes and mouths a few words silently. Her earlobes
wiggle.
The refrigerator rattles again, but there’s less smoke and commotion in
comparison to before.
Aunt Lorraine opens her eyes with an annoyed sound. “Not the fridge again. I’m
sorry, Stiles. I really don’t mean to make that my landing strip,” she promises
as she pats him on the shoulder before standing to her feet. She crosses the
kitchen to get to the fridge and reaches inside to pull out a full-grown Pygmy
Marmoset with brownish-gold fur and black beady eyes. It’s no bigger than her
hand. “This is my Conduit. His name is Jatiyashoyumize. But Jay works just as
fine if you can’t work your way through that mouthful. Jay, go be friendly with
my niece and nephew.”
Jay makes a bunch of high-pitched sounds at Aunt Lorraine, which she rolls her
eyes at but nods. Jay seems satisfied before he climbs up her arm and uses her
black faux fur to swing to the ground. He sprints over and climbs up Stiles’s
leg first, tugging on Stiles’s shirt until Stiles leans down to be at eye
level. He makes a few high-pitched sounds before patting Stiles’s nose and
moving on to Lydia to do the same.
Isaac, Boyd, and Allison just watch them quietly as they continue to eat their
food.
“His way of saying hello,” Aunt Lorraine explains before Jay makes his way back
to her. He climbs her body to settle on her shoulder and starts chewing on her
hair, though she doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Lydia, darling, he was very nice
to fetch you the egg we got for you while we were on holiday in the Bermuda
Triangle. One of the best concealed resorts for Colored Witches if you ask me.”
Lydia rests Stiles’s magic on the table so she can accept the turquoise jewel-
encrusted egg (it looks like one of those expensive Rosebud Fabergé eggs). She
holds it up so that she has it eye level and her hazel eyes grow misty as the
egg glows between her cupped palms.
Stiles can’t help but to notice the way her hands tremble in awe when it stops
flashing and settles. “What is it?” he asks curiously.
“It’s an egg,” Aunt Lorraine responds with a sly grin.
Stiles huffs. “No, I just mean, like, what’s inside?” he clarifies.
“Well, that’s for your cousin to decide depending on how she cares for it,”
Aunt Lorraine supposes. “And it is very important that you take verygood care
of it, Lydia. Treat it like a seed and it will blossom.”
Lydia nods solemnly and clutches it close. “It’ll never leave my sight,” she
swears.
Aunt Lorraine looks tickled. “That devotion is a good start, but it’s got a
tough shell, so no need to fret too much,” she assures. Then she looks to
Stiles and says, “Now then. I’ve heard rumors of a tree. If it’s anything like
what I helped your mother summon, it should be a sight to behold. Will you
allow me the honor of seeing?”
“No time like the present,” is Stiles’s response. “Everyone is invited by the
way,” he adds to the rest of the room.
There’s a moment where there’s some slight commotion of everyone standing from
their seats to follow Stiles out the back door and into his backyard.
Stiles calls his magic to him before he touches his glowing hands to the
triquetra to activate it.
Nana’s face bleeds through a moment later. “My, what an audience you have
behind you today, dearie,” she notes with undisguised amusement. “All right
then, do what you mean to.”
“I give them permission to see.”
Allison gasps and clutches at Lydia, who stiffens and shifts away but continues
to stare in awe at the tree as well.
Boyd looks to Isaac and says, “I thought you were being metaphorical when you
said it could talk.”
Isaac just rolls his eyes and starts climbing Nana, muttering something about
wanting some fruit before he disappears behind her purple-blue leaves.
Jay makes a high-pitched sound before he climbs off of Aunt Lorraine and chases
after Isaac, where he vanishes in the tree as well.
Stiles can’t really see what’s happening, even as he leans against Nana to gaze
up to the top of her, but he can hear Isaac fussing at Jay about stealing his
peaches.
“I may speak in metaphors from time to time,” Nana says, addressing Boyd. “But
I am very real otherwise. What’s your name, dear?”
“Vernon, but I answer to Boyd,” Boyd replies as he looks her over. “My little
sister would really enjoy meeting you, I think. She’s obsessed with the tree
from Pocahontas.”
“Bring her by and I’ll be happy to talk to her,” Nana vows delightedly.
Boyd laughs. “In theory, yes I would. But that little girl has a mouth on her,
and she’d go around telling everyone. I don’t think Stiles would appreciate
having some onlookers come to his house on a fact finding mission,” he reasons.
Stiles smiles at his consideration. “Not really, no,” he confirms.
“In any case, I’ll be here until you decide that she’s ready,” Nana says. “What
about the rest of you?”
Lydia steps forward and introduces herself.
Stiles is surprised to note that she looks nervous and hopeful.
“Don’t be shy, dearie,” Nana coos. “Stiles thinks on you a lot, so I’m a bit
familiar with who you are. Come touch your hands to my face and we’ll get
properly acquainted.”
Lydia hesitates and looks to Aunt Lorraine (who appears to be taking notes in a
small glittery journal that she materialized out of nowhere), and when the
older woman nods encouragingly at her, she walks forward. She pushes her egg
onto Stiles without asking and he scrambles to clutch it before it falls. She
lifts her hands and blows on them until they glow with a red bioluminescent
glow. Then she presses both palms to Nana’s cheeks as they stare at each other
almost soulfully.
Aunt Lorraine continues to scribble down some notes as Boyd cups a hand over
his eyes to gaze up at her branches, while Allison fidgets anxiously beside
him.
Stiles watches as tears begin to stream down Lydia’s face while she presses her
trembling lips together. “Nana,” he says sharply, straightening with a worried
frown.
“Hush, dearie, I’m not hurting her,” Nana promises. “What a beautiful soul you
are. Peril could not have done any better.”
Lydia begins to sob audibly as she sinks to her knees, and Stiles quickly
rushes to her side to hold her. She makes an unhappy sound, stiffening under
his touch before shying away.
Stiles quietly apologizes, remembering that she doesn’t like to touch unless
she’s the one to initiate the contact. So he sits besides her and waits it out.
Allison wanders over and joins them as well.
“The path to healing will be a long journey, but you have a lot of people who
love you and are willing to travel with you,” Nana concludes. “Myself
included.”
Stiles strokes Lydia’s egg anxiously as it shakes unhappily in his hands. His
magic breaks away from his body to form into a small blue hedgehog again and
settles in her lap.
Lydia doesn’t smile but she does pet Stiles’s magic as her hands continue to
glow. She eventually relaxes and sniffs fretfully. “I want to go back inside,”
she says as she grabs her jeweled egg from Stiles, and it finally stops
vibrating. “I’m hungry.”
“Your sandwich should still be on the table,” Allison says before looking to
Stiles. “I’ll take her in and sit with her a bit. I think she’s feeling
overwhelmed. To be honest, I kind of am too.”
“Yeah, sure. Let me know if you need anything,” Stiles says, standing when
Allison and Lydia do so. He steps out of the way and watches the two of them
venture back into his house and out of sight. Then he turns to Nana. “What was
that all about?”
“I did not do much. Not as much as I wanted to,” Nana admits. “She’s never had
the time to digest all the changes in her life, or properly grieve her parents.
I took on some of those burdens for her.”
“Oh,” Stiles says and feels a little bad for his slightly accusatory tone.
“Thank you. That’s — thank you.”
“She’s important to you, and you are important to me,” Nana merely states. Then
she turns her gaze to Aunt Lorraine. “My dear, I usually like to know someone
to a certain degree before I let them study me in such a way.”
Aunt Lorraine snaps her journal shut with a smile. “Understandable. I am called
Lorraine — a Blue Witch that originally hailed from Scotland before migrating
to Poland during my first marriage. I’m Stiles and Lydia’s many great aunt,”
she introduces.
“I sensed the magic, but I had no idea you were kin to my young ward,” Nana
replies with a speculative tone. “I’d love to know more about you.”
“Absolutely. I have nowhere to be, and I plan on being around for a good
stretch of time while I get Lydia attuned to her abilities and her Conduit. I
also thought to perhaps help Stiles in anyway he needed as well,” Aunt Lorraine
confesses. She turns to Stiles and says, “Why don’t you run along, darling. I
think I’ll be out here for a while, and I don’t want to bore you to tears with
all this talk.”
“If you’re sure…” Stiles says slowly, glancing between them. Under normal
circumstances, he would have begged to stay, just on the chance that Aunt
Lorraine brought up his mother or more intimate details about herself. But
judging by where the sun was in the sky, it was getting close to noon, and
he’ll be expecting Derek soon.
“Go on, sweetling. And take your brother with you. He and that funny little
creature are causing quite a stir up there,” Nana says admonishingly.
“I’m on it.” Stiles carefully climbs up in search of his brother.
Isaac is sprawled over the highest branch eating a green and fuzzy peach as he
feeds Jay a few bites as well. It appears that they’ve settled their
differences somehow.
“Cora’s coming over,” Stiles warns. “Specifically to hang out with you.”
“I know,” Isaac replies with a shrug. “She texted me last night.”
“Don’t you think she’s gonna mind if you’re sleep the whole time?” Stiles asks
as he watches him continue to tear into a peach. “You knowwhat Nana’s fruit
does.”
“I do,” Isaac agrees calmly. “But Nana told me a long time ago that as long as
I don’t anything that’s ripe, I’ll be fine. I mean it’s a little more sour than
I would usually like, but it’s still some of the best fruit I’ve ever eaten.”
“Ohhh, okay,” Stiles says and wordlessly files that information away. “Well,
come on. They’re gonna be here soon. We should at least make ourselves
presentable.”
Isaac follows him as they climb down together. “I don’t care about being
presentable. You just want to look good for your boyfriend,” he disparagingly
remarks.
Stiles almost loses his footing. It takes him a few minutes before he can even
get a response out. “He’s not my — why are you so mean to me?” he exclaims in
outrage when they finally reach the ground.
Isaac just smirks as Jay curls up on his shoulder and he takes confident
strides toward the house.
“All I do is love you!” Stiles shouts after him in complaint but the slam of
the backdoor is his only reply. Stiles grumbles to himself.
Aunt Lorraine, who seems to have materialized a black wicker chair for herself,
pauses her conversation with Nana to shoot him a curious look. “What’s this
about a boyfriend, darling?” she asks.
Stiles turns red while Nana chuckles. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” he swears.
“Not yet, at least,” Nana chimes unhelpfully and why do the people in his life
hate him so much? “He’s such a charming little thing too. A handsome Werewolf
no less. From a very respectable Pack.”
“My, my. This sounds more and more intriguing,” Aunt Lorraine says with a sly
grin. “Come here and tell your aunt all about this boy whose made away with
your heart.”
“No thank you!” Stiles sprints to the house before she can probe any further or
before Nana can say anything else embarrassing. Even when he closes the
backdoor behind him, it still doesn’t feel like enough distance from the
situation. “How’s she doing?” he asks, approaching the kitchen table where
Allison and Lydia still reside.
Lydia is still working her way through her first sandwich but she scoffs.
“Sheis just fine. No need to talk over my head,” she interjects before Allison
gets the chance to.
“Sorry, Lyds,” Stiles says as he sits down across from them and watches in
amusement as his magic noses around her plate like it's searching for
something. “I throw myself at your mercy.”
Lydia gazes at him with an odd smirk on her face. “I don’t understand,” she
says pointedly.
“I’m speaking nonsense. Don’t mind me,” Stiles sighs and smiles at her but she
looks away. “I’m happy to see you.”
Lydia doesn’t look at him again. She stares at her plate. “I’m feeling better,”
she says quietly. “Maybe not the same as I was before, but getting there.” Then
she says, “You and Aunt Lorraine are the only family I have left, Stiles. Don’t
leave me.”
“Never,” Stiles promises without hesitation.
“I won’t smile at the drop of a dime for you,” Lydia warns. Her small fingers
are greasy as she rips apart her sandwich with a vengeance. “I won’t even
pretend. That’s not who I am anymore. I don’t understand happiness in the way I
used to, but I do know satisfaction. I don’t like to be touched, and I don’t
laugh much. You can’t always be sarcastic with me because sometimes I won’t
understand. I’m very good at mimicking normal behavior but I don’t always
understandit.”
“You don’t have to pretend for me.”
“I know.”
Stiles reaches out with his hand, and drags his magic back to him, breathing it
in when it comes without a fight. Then he says, “I can’t promise to always be
available for you, but I do promise to try. If you have something to say, I
will listen.”
“Don’t talk over me then. Or through me. Talk tome,” Lydia says and starts
eating again. “Tell me everything I’ve missed.”
Stiles opens his mouth.
“Not now. Later,” Lydia interrupts with another odd smirk. “Isaac is important
to you.”
Stiles blinks at the sudden redirection in conversation but he nods.
“Then he’s important to me too,” Lydia decides but she frowns. “How can I
connect to him? Friendships are...challenging right now. Sometimes I feel like
I don’t remember how to do it. How do I get him to like me?”
“Don’t treat him like a little kid or eat any of his stuff and you’ll be fine.”
Lydia takes what he says at face value. Then she says, “Allison is my best
friend. I’m going to have to tell her everything.”
“I thought already knew everything,” Allison admits with a sad smile as she
grabs a nearby napkin and rips it to shreds like she needs something to do.
“But I’ve missed a lot it seems. You’re a...Virtue? What is that?”
“It’s a type of Faerie.”
“Faeries. Wow. Okay.” Allison turns to Lydia with a bewildered expression.
“I’ll explain later,” Lydia promises before she stands. “We have to get ready
to leave. Stiles is going to have company over soon.”
Stiles laughs, even though he doesn’t mean to. “I never told you that,” he
points out.
“You don’t always have to,” Lydia responds as she primps herself. “Aunt
Lorraine said it plainly. I have the gift of discernment.”
“Yours is certainly stronger than mine,” Stiles sighs as he stretches. “You
think she’ll teach me how to be better at that too?”
“If you ask,” Lydia replies as she tucks in her chair and takes her plate to
the sink so she can wash it.
“You guys have any plans for today?” Stiles asks.
“Coming to see you was at the top of our list,” Allison says. “We were going to
meet Malia and Scott at Beacon Hills Cinema. Lydia really wants to see
Maleficent. Wanna join us?”
“I’ve seen it already,” Stiles admits, slightly apologetic. “And I have some
plans. Rain check?”
“Sure.” Allison gives him a dimpled smile.
Lydia has her smartphone out and she’s texting away on it. “I’m going to invite
Isaac. I would also like to come back for dinner and stay the night. We have a
lot of catching up to do.”
Stiles lifts both his brows at that but he grins. “I have no objections, but
I’ll have to run it by my dad to see if the additional company will be okay,”
he says.
Lydia nods and, without pausing her texting, walks to the stairs, then up them.
Stiles assumes she’s going to talk to Isaac. He looks at Allison with a smile.
“How is Danny and Jackson?” he asks.
“Steady,” Allison replies with a dimpled grin. “Jackson is being a helicopter
mom according to Scott. Lydia and I were going to go see for ourselves after
the movies. When do you think you might go?”
“I’m not sure. Definitely before Danny’s released. I just have a few things I
have to sort out too,” Stiles remarks, though in truth, he’s a little nervous
about seeing Danny too. He’s not exactly sure why, but there’s some
apprehension there. “I’ll text Jackson and figure out the best time to come.”
“He’ll appreciate it if you do,” Allison confirms. “And...Isaac. How is he?”
“Uh,” Stiles pauses. Not sure if he should break the news to her or not. “Well.
Um.”
“I know he’s my uncle,” Allison says with a self-deprecating smile. “My dad
told me when he came over this morning. It’s part of the reason I had to bail
since it turned into this huge argument with my mom. Now I feel really
embarrassed by my past behavior, if not slightly horrified.”
“Ah, well.” Stiles fidgets. “Understandable, given the circumstances.”
“Yeah, but my dad didn’t really explain the circumstances behind my relation to
your brother,” Allison mutters. “Though I can hazard a wild guess if he’s my
uncle.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “You might want to ask Isaac about that. Or
Kate,” he suggests.
“Oh, that’s right. Wow, she must have been pissed when she found out too,”
Allison supposes, thinking it over. “My aunt has a temper. I know that much,
even if we don’t really spend any time together. But she and Laura moved into
our duplex, so that might change.”
Stiles nods.
There’s a knock to the front door.
Stiles excuses himself to answer it, and his heartbeat kicks up a notch when he
sees that it’s Derek and Jordan on his doorstep.
Derek smiles widely at him, quickly stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek
and stepping back before Stiles can so much as blink. Then he says, “I’ve been
texting you all morning.”
Stiles can still feel the impression of his warm lips on his cheek, and his
magic is squirming in his gut like eels in a small bucket at the sound of the
older teen’s voice. “I’m — I was — I got distracted,” he finally stammers out.
“Clearly,” Derek retorts wryly, eyes sliding down his body with a grin. “Nice
pajamas.”
Stiles blushes and squirms under his gaze. He’s wearing nothing but a tank top
and a pair of Iron Man pajama bottoms. “Well, I know I said I was for Wonder
Woman. But I’m, you know, not againstTony Stark.”
“Uh huh,” Derek replies, amused. He pauses and he goes curiously silent as his
head cocks and his gaze drifts around like he’s listening for something. Then
he says, “Oh. You have company over.”
“Unexpectedly, yes,” Stiles clarifies. He moves out of the way so he can
gesture Derek in. “Where’s Cora?”
Derek steps over the threshold as he says, “Still in the car. I told her this
was going to take a minute, but she insisted.”
Stiles leans forward out the doorway to look for Derek’s car as he pets Jordan,
who licks happily at his right hand before darting off into the house. “You at
least left the windows rolled down, right?” he jokes.
Derek snorts. “Cora doesn’t settle for the breeze if she can have central air.”
He adds, “Also, if you’re looking for my car, you won’t find it. I borrowed my
Uncle Jonah’s hummer since I knew it’d be a handful of us and my car isn’t big
enough to fit four people and two large dogs.”
“Smart.” Stiles spies the large yellow hummer parked in his driveway. He waves
to Cora, who gives him the middle finger before she goes back to messing with
her smartphone. Stiles huffs. “You sure she doesn’t want to come in while I get
ready?”
“Nope. She’s got enough to keep her preoccupied anyway. Our cousin Sabrina
introduced her to something called Piano Tiles, and now she’s obsessed. She’ll
hardly notice if we take long or not.”
Stiles hums thoughtfully at that with a grin. “Okay then.” He closes the door
and walks down the hall to the kitchen. “Uh, I’m not sure if you’ve met
Allison. But Allison, this is Derek.”
Allison is on bent knee, rubbing down Jordan with cooing noises as he wags his
tail excitedly at the attention and affection. She stands to face them but she
keeps one hand rested on the top of Jordan’s head. “We know each other,” she
says.
“Kate?” Stiles watches as they both nod. “Figures. Okay. Well. I don’t think
Isaac is coming with us after all. My cousin Lydia has plans to steal him away.
So.” He shrugs.
“It’s fine by me, but I can’t speak for Cora,” Derek says. He gives Allison a
friendly smile. “It’s nice to see you again. Will you be at my sister’s
housewarming party?”
“Almost assuredly,” Allison replies with a dimpled grin. “Is Cora here?”
“Yeah, she’s in the car if you want to talk to her.”
“I think I will.” Allison stands and rounds the table to hug Stiles. “Stiles,
I’ll see you later if we don’t run into each other again before either of us
leaves. We should really do something together soon, though. It feels like it's
been forever. And if Lydia catches me up to everything like she’s been
promising, I’m sure I’ll have some questions for you too. Your tree is really
amazing by the way, I don’t know if I’ve said.”
“Thank you. She’s one of a kind,” Stiles agrees as he hugs her back and lets
her go. “And you have my number. Just text me or call me if you can think of
something for us to do.”
Allison nods before she waves at Derek, then she pets Jordan and exits through
the front door.
Jordan quickly follows her outside, however.
“Outside of the unexpected company, what else had you too distracted to text me
back?”
Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes as he heads toward the stairs with Derek on
his heels. Once they’re in his room, and he closes the door, he starts telling
Derek about what an exciting morning he’s had while the older teen makes
himself comfortable on his bed.
Derek listens with an attentive ear as he watches Stiles walk to and fro around
his room in search for something clean or something that at least is close
enough.
“So yeah,” Stiles concludes as he treks to his closet to see what he might have
there when his dressers and his bedroom floor are a dead end. “That about sums
it up.”
Derek slides off the bed to walk over to his open window and peer out. “That’s
your aunt? The one in the chair with the red hair?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. She’s really pretty.”
“And possibly centuries old if that helps,” Stiles adds, trying to assess
Derek’s tone. He wonders if Derek’s attracted to his aunt, and that’s kind of
unsettling for Stiles.
“I was just making an observation,” Derek says, like he knows what Stiles is
thinking.
Stiles snorts, and then grumbles, “Yeah, but I know how much you like older
women.”
Derek barks out a laugh at that. “Maybe. But I’m pretty gone on you,” he
cheerily replies. “Still. It’s adorable that you’re jealous, babe.”
Stiles blushes and slams his closet door shut so he can change in peace.
Derek makes a tsking sound. “Completely unrelated but do you think I have a
chance with your aunt? You know, if I theoretically wanted to take a shot,” he
calls out from the other side of the door.
“Very funny.”
Derek chuckles before he makes an annoyed sound. “Why is your room alwaysa
mess?”
“You call it a mess but I call it character,” Stiles retorts as he slips into
some shoes. He exits his closet and rolls his eyes when he sees Derek cleaning.
“This is really going to set us back even more.”
“So help me then. It is your room,” Derek points out, needlessly. He’s making
Stiles’s bed with exaggerated movements. “Do you want to deal with your dirty
clothes, or should I?”
“Don’t go anywhere near my delicates, thank you,” Stiles is quick to say. He
hauls his laundry hamper out the room and pauses outside of Isaac’s door.
Isaac and Lydia are just exiting, while Boyd remains on the edge of Isaac’s bed
with his phone pressed to his ear and Jay settled on his right shoulder.
“I’m going to the movies,” Isaac announces while Lydia stands behind him with a
very satisfied look on her face. “I already texted dad to let him know.”
“Really?” Stiles says, a little surprised. “Even though you’ve already seen the
movie?”
Lydia’s face changes, and she looks upset at the possibly of having
miscalculated. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Isaac shoots Stiles an exasperated look before he quickly turns to Lydia. “I
didn’t think it mattered, since I liked it enough to want to see it again,” he
promises. “Can you give my brother and I a moment, please?”
Lydia glances between with narrowed eyes, like she’s trying to gauge the
situation. It takes a few silent seconds before she nods once and disappears
down the steps.
Stiles waits a few beats before he says, “What? What did I do this time?”
“I’m trying to be nice,” Isaac replies, evenly. “I want to — I’m trying to be
better with people.”
“How do you mean? I think you’re doing just fine so far,” Stiles admits.
“That’s because I’m trying really hard,” Isaac retorts, almost impatiently but
it seems like he’s doing his best to explain what he means. “Listen, before you
and dad came along, I was alone. I didn’t really — no one tried to be my
friend. No one cared enough to even try, and now I have some of the most
popular people at my school asking after me. It’s just — it’s a lot but I — I
don’t know. I want to be more like you.”
“What?” Stiles is totally lost now. “Wait, what?”
Isaac sighs heavily in annoyance. “You don’t live in a bubble,” he says,
talking very slowly. “When you meet someone, you engage them. You have a large
circle of friends. I want to be more like that. I want to try. Is that any
clearer?”
“Not really,” Stiles confesses. “But, listen, you don’t have to make yourself
be a people person, or push yourself outside of your comfort zone because what
I do seems like what normal should be. Isaac, there’s nothing normal about me.
And there’s nothing normal about you either, but I love you for it. If other
people can’t, then that’s on them.”
“You’d prefer me to be rude to your friends?” Isaac asks but there’s a teasing
lilt to his voice.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly rude. You’re just blunt. But I like
when you speak your mind unapologetically. I’d take that over the days when you
didn’t say anything at all.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate your support,” Isaac remarks, genuinely. “But I
still would like to try, okay? I want to step a little out of my comfort zone
and see what happens.”
“If you’re sure…” Stiles takes a moment to smile. “Look at you. You’re growing
up so fast.”
Isaac huffs and shakes some of his curls out of his eyes (his hair has gotten
longer). “Lydia is trying really hard too,” he points out. “She loves you
enough to want to create a relationship with me. I can relate to that urge.”
Stiles grins and waves him off. “Eh, I’m nothing special, but I do appreciate
you two trying to bond. I think more support is something maybe she could use
more of,” he supposes.
“That’s what I was trying to say before, but you put it better,” Isaac says. “I
want that too. More support.”
“Ah, okay. Then I’m a little less concerned now,” Stiles says. “I’m not going
to hold you then. Have fun at the movies and text me for whatever.”
Isaac nods. “Boyd says he’s staying behind. I’m not sure what he’s going to do
but he didn’t really feel like going to the movies. Lydia also insisted he stay
for some reason. She said something about him thanking her for it later, but I
still feel a little bad for inviting him over and then ditching him.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind inviting him with us,” Stiles says.
Isaac sends him a grateful smile before turns to wave at Boyd (who gives a
distracted wave back since he’s still on the phone). Then he makes his exit,
presumably to go look for Lydia and Allison.
Stiles waits for a few minutes to see if Boyd is wrapping up his conversation,
but it doesn’t look as if he’s ending the call anytime soon. So Stiles resumes
his trek to the basement to dump a load in the washing machine. After he turns
it on, he takes a few moments to text his dad and bring him up to speed with
several things (i.e. his aunt’s unexpected arrival, Derek’s plans for the dog
park, Lydia’s visit, and etc.).
By the time that’s all worked out, he’s switching out his clothes into the
dryer and dumping the second (and last) load into the washing machine. With
that taken care of, he sprints up the steps, and finds his way to his room
again.
Derek is on his stomach on the floor beside his bed as he fishes out all the
junk underneath while Boyd is sweeping his floor (Jay is nowhere in sight).
Stiles stumbles into the doorway of his room. “Whoa, uh, what’s all this? Did
he trick you into helping?”
“You were taking forever,” Derek says, half of his body is under the bed now as
he bats out some shoes and a few empty bags of chips. “I wouldn’t have to rally
more people into joining me if you’d just keep your room clean.”
Stiles is a bit embarrassed and completely bereft. He quickly moves to grab the
broom from Boyd’s hands and resumes sweeping himself. “I’m sorry,” he says and
gestures for Boyd to sit down at his work desk. “He’s a neat freak.”
“Please. It only seems that way because you’re a slob,” Derek retorts from
under the bed. His expedition has led to him unearthing a few notebooks and
schoolbooks that Stiles has been wondering about for the longest time. “I mean,
Mother Moon, who keeps six unopened cups of lime shrimp flavored instant
noodles under their bed?”
“Oh, dude. No way!” Stiles laughs. “I forgot about that. I was trying to hide
it from Isaac. He powers through those like nobody’s business and never leaves
me any. Are they any good?”
“You’re kidding, right? Judging by the date on these, it’s like ancient
history.”
“You think I could donate them to the Smithsonian?” Stiles asks and then laughs
obnoxiously at his own joke.
“Can’t believe I’m trying to date you,” Derek mutters. “What does that say
about me?”
“You have a really sublime taste.” Stiles tosses Boyd a wink.
Boyd seems amused by their antics more than anything.
Derek reappears from under the bed with a wrung out sigh. His hair is kind of
messy and he has a blue sticky note stuck to his right cheek. He holds up a
handful of used glow sticks and a rubix cube keychain. “What should I do about
these?” he asks with a furrowed brow.
Stiles has never found him more attractive than in this moment. He clears his
throat and shifts his gaze away, feigning intense concentration on his sweeping
task. “Uh, we can toss the glow sticks, but keep the cube. I think my keys are
on the nightstand if you want to link it on for me,” he suggests.
“Might as well,” Derek grumbles, but he doesn’t appear to be overly bothered by
the request. “Hey, no!” he exclaims, springing to his feet to grab Stiles by
the waist and turn him from the doorway where he was sweeping everything out
into the hall. “You don’t just sweep the dirt somewhere else and call it done.”
“Why not?” Stiles whines, if only to cover how quickly his heart is racing from
having Derek so close. “It’s how my father does it, and how his father did it
and so on and so forth. I refuse to break tradition.”
“One, I know you’re lying. Werewolf. And two, you’re just making more work for
someone else,” Derek says as he gestures to the dustpan.  
“Ugh, why can’t you just let me be myself?”
Derek rolls his eyes but watches with a satisfied grin as Stiles properly
disposes of the dirt and dust.
Stiles returns a moment later (after having put the broom away) and sits on the
edge of his bed to watch Derek wrap up the rest of the cleaning. He turns to
Boyd and asks, “So did you have any plans? I know Isaac invited you over and
then fled, but I don’t mind if you wanted to hang out with me. I know I
probably pale in comparison to his company but we were going to go to the dog
park.”
Boyd shrugs but nods.
Not even a half second later, Ginger comes sprinting into the room and
practically climbs into Boyd’s lap. He laughs at her enthusiasm as she licks at
his face.
Cora comes marching in with a thunderous expression. “What’s taking you guys so
—” She stops dead in the doorway.
Boyd quickly stands to his feet to face her. “Hi,” he says, voice a few octaves
higher than normal.
“Hi,” Cora says back, voice almost a whisper.
They stare intently at each other.
“Uh…” Stiles glances between them as Derek joins him on the bed, pressing the
warm line of his body into Stiles’s side. “So...what’s that?” he asks.
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and he seems surprised himself. “Oh,” he says as his
nose twitches and he starts laughing. “No way.”
“What?” Stiles hisses and rolls his eyes when Derek leans on him and begins
laughing to an obnoxious degree. “Derek,” he sighs but it’s no use.
Derek is so beside himself with glee that he’s fallen off the bed and is now
laughing on the floor.
Boyd and Cora are stillstaring at each other.
Ginger barks unhappily, seemingly annoyed that Boyd’s attention is elsewhere
now.
That seems to snap Cora and Boyd out of whatever daze they’re in.
Boyd looks down at Ginger fondly, dropping to one knee to lavish her with some
attention.
Cora’s tucking her hair behind her ears as she runs her hands over the cotton
white dress she’s wearing, almost like she’s primping herself. “Sorry,” she
says after she clears her throat. Her cheeks are a little pink and there’s this
dreamy look in her eyes. “Once she can get you to pet her the way she likes,
she’ll keep bugging you for it,” she explains.
Boyd’s mouth curls in amusement. “I don’t mind,” he promises. “She’s very
pretty,” he compliments. Then he adds, slyly, “Like her owner.”
Cora’s cheeks take on an even pinker hue. “I’m Cora,” she says, and offers Boyd
her left hand.
Stiles’s jaw drops.
Derek has seemed to calm down at this point and takes his place beside Stiles
on the edge of the bed once more.
Stiles whispers, “Is she giving...”
“Yup.”
“To him?”
“Yup.”
Stiles speechlessly watches as Boyd accepts the offered hand with his own.
“My family calls me Junior, but my friends call me Boyd.”
“Boyd,” Cora repeats, still shaking his hand like she can’t be bothered to
stop. “That’s — different. Good different, I mean. Not bad. Just I haven’t
heard anything like that. Until now,” she nervously rambles.
“It grows on you,” Boyd supposes, amused. “After a while, maybe.”
Cora nods but she’s still staring into his face and shaking his hand intently.
“Do you mind if I take my hand back?” Boyd asks gently.
“What?” Cora blinks and looks down. She snatches her hand away, looking
dismayed for a moment at her social blunder. “Sorry.”
Boyd grins with a shrug. He doesn’t seem too bothered. He actually looks pretty
charmed by her.
Cora clears her throat and turns away to finallyacknowledge Derek and Stiles.
“Are we ready to go or what? It’s been almost over an hour and a half,” she
complains.
“Relax,” Derek says and weathers her glare with a smirk. “I have a few things I
had to help Stiles with. We can leave now. Boydwill be joining us.”
Cora looks both delighted and horrified at the thought. “Derek,” she growls
lowly. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Derek replies innocently as he stands to his feet,
pulling Stiles with him. “We’ll see you two at the car. Take your time.”
“Derek!” Cora’s face is a mess of splotchy red.
Stiles feels a little bad for laughing as Derek bodily drags him out the room
and down the steps to the front door. “She’s probably going to murder you in
your sleep,” he says, closing the door behind them.
Jordan is lounging at the top of the porch steps, watching the busy
neighborhood. He springs to his feet when he sees them and goes to Stiles first
to lick his right hand before trailing after Derek down the steps and to the
yellow hummer. He climbs obediently in the back when Derek opens the trunk for
him.
Stiles climbs into the passenger seat as Derek slides into the driver side,
taking a moment to turn on the car and blast the air. “It’s not as hot as it
was yesterday,” he remarks.
Derek shrugs as he switches radio stations. “It always feel the same to me,” he
admits.
Stiles finds that interesting. “Must be nice.” Then he says, “So that thing
with Cora. You want to confirm my suspicions or should I continue to guess
wildly?”
Derek snorts as he switches off the radio and sits back. “Yes, Cora likes
Boyd.”
“So she isattracted to him,” Stiles marvels. “I didn’t even know Cora found
people attractive.”
“We all used to think the same thing too until she came out as aromantic,”
Derek says. “Our Aunt Daphne, on my dad’s side, used to try to set her up with
some ‘nice, respectable boys from temple’. Behind our dad’s back of course, and
Cora may be blunt, but she’s extremely patient with our Human side of the
family because she feels a little guilty dad can’t go visit them as much since
he’s with us now. So she let Aunt Daphne set her up once, again behind our
parents back. Cora later said it was the worst blind date a person could
imagine.
“The guy forced her to help him crash his ex-girlfriend’s little twin brothers’
bar mitzvah. There was this big commotion and the rabbi spit in her eye. Her
date tackled his ex into a cake tower shaped like the Torah. She said she was
almost stabbed with a Kiddush cup by a toddler.” Derek shakes his head as he
thinks on it. “When she came home with bits of matzo balls, brisket and challah
threaded in her hair, dad demanded to know what happened. After she told him,
dad was on the phone so quick, it was amazing. And he yelled too. Dad
neveryells. We’d never seen him go off like that. Aunt Daphne said that in her
defense, she was only worried that Cora was ‘some kind of lesbian’. My dad went
quiet for a few minutes before he calmly told her exactly where she could stick
her nose. We haven’t been back to her house for another Yom Kippur since.”
“Wow,” Stiles says, amazed. “There are several things I want to touch on, but
first, you said she’s aromantic?”
Derek nods. “If you have questions about that, I can field it as best as I can
but talking to Cora directly is better,” he says.
Stiles does have questions but he agrees with Derek’s suggestions, so he puts
in his back pocket for now. “Okay, I will,” he says. “About your dad’s side of
the family…”
Derek gestures for him to continue.
“You don’t have a good relationship with them?”
Derek shrugs. “It’s not bad but they just don’t really see the big picture when
it comes to Cora and I,” he carefully explains.
“But they know you’re Werewolves? That your dad married into a family of
Werewolves?”
“Yeah. At least, only the immediate family does. Mom said she and dad wanted to
do things right by being completely honest and transparent,” Derek says as he
threads a few fingers through his hair in thought. “They...didn’t take it well.
But it could have been worse. Our grandparents were fine at first, until they
realized we took after my mom and then some of my dad’s brothers and sisters
sort of followed. The rest of the family just assume the rift is because my mom
didn’t convert to Judaism before they got married. Aunt Daphne is ignorant, but
she was the only one that didn’t care about what we are.”
“It must be tough, to be on the outs like that with people you share blood
with,” Stiles supposes, tone empathetic.
Derek sighs and drops his hand. “Holidays are awkward, but it’s probably
tougher for my dad more than anything. He tries to skip out on any invitations
but my mom always pushes him to go. She’s adamant that they’ll all come around
some day,” he reasons. “He loves my sisters and I fiercely, and swears he’ll
never regret meeting my mom for as long as he breathes, and even yet still
while he gives over to what comes after.”
“That’s incredibly romantic.”
“That’s my dad,” Derek says, but he’s smiling fondly. “Mom says I get that from
him. He swears I get that from her.”
“And what do you say?”
Derek leans over and kisses Stiles on the cheek. He pulls back with a grin,
taking a moment to watch as Stiles splutters in surprise and goes pink. “I
think I got it bad both ways.”
Stiles reaches out and tugs Derek’s hair. “You’re a menace,” he swears, but he
knows his tone isn’t any less fond.
Derek just grabs his left hand before Stiles can tug his hair again and he
laces their fingers together. He presses his warm lips to Stiles’s knuckles.
Stiles sighs as his magic squirms happily in his gut.
Cora and Boyd finally climb into the backseat after Cora situates Ginger in the
back with Jordan.
“Took you two long enough,” Derek complains and ducks forward with a laugh when
Cora tries to swat at the back of his head. “No hitting the driver. Buckle up
so we can leave.”
                                      ---
Beacon Hills Park District (#1) has beautifully maintained landscape.
The entrance alone leads you up a walkway that curls around a glittering water
fountain and separates into two different pathways. One of the pathways lead to
the large building made of large cement blocks and huge windows. The entrance
is a set of glass double doors that swing open and close with people of all
types: families wearing the same color scheme of bathing suits, goggles,
inflatable pool floats in the shape of animals, and sunburns; sweaty women in
yoga pants dabbing their foreheads with hand towels as they power down their
grass wheat smoothies; camp counselors escorting a line of kids with neon
purple shirts on, who follow behind them like ducks; senior citizens with bingo
cards, or crotchet doilies; young boys and girls adorned with karate or boxing
gear.
After Derek parks, the four of them take the other pathway, which coils around
the right side of the building, past the basketball and tennis courts (which
are fully occupied), past a park filled to the brim with a horde of children;
they laugh as they run around with bare feet on the red sand that acts like a
cushion, or a bed that is the foundation of the jungle gym themed after the
style of Toy Story. Opposite to that, there is a food stand settled under a
pavilion (it looks like they sell things like popcorn, cotton candy, loaded
nachos, hotdogs and ice cream). The concession stand has a large dining area
with tables that have umbrellas in the middle of them, acting as artificial
shade.
This park happens to be at the epicenter of what is considered the downtown
retail marketplace of Beacon Hills; a metropolis lined with a high
concentration of restaurants, bars, cafes, and boutique shops. It’s obvious
where all the funding is coming from. The neighborhood and real estate
surrounding this area are meant solely for the upper class. He knows for a fact
that Mayor Argent lives only minutes away in his intimidating manor; City Hall
and the Municipal District Courthouse are literally within walking distance
from here. He also knows that Allison and Malia happen to reside down the same
street; a charming tree-lined cul-de-sac filled with examples of Victorian-era
buildings, showcasing beautiful and diverse architectural styles, with
townhouses, duplexes, single-family homes, and condominiums.
Stiles thinks about the last time he was here. He thinks about Deucalion, and
before his mind can wander to that fateful encounter, his magic bristles and
wraps protectively around his heart.
I failed you that day, but I will not fail you again. No one will cause you any
physical harm while I’m active.
I know. I’m not afraid.
You are mine to protect always. I would see the world turn to ashes before you
are in the hands of our enemies.
I knew you loved me. And so passionate too! I’m severely touched.
Why do I bother wasting words on you?
I am your diamond in the rough.
Unbearable Faerie.
Dutiful Ethereal.
His magic bristles in embarrassment at that. But Stiles smiles to himself and
presses feelings of gratitude and affection towards his magic, which gets
volleyed back to him almost immediately.
Ginger and Jordan have somehow wormed their way to the front in their
excitement of being here.
“Do they know where to go?” Stiles asks Derek as Cora and Boyd continue a lazy
stroll just a few feet behind them. “They seem to know where to go.”
Derek huffs and bumps their shoulders together. “This will be their first time.
They probably just sense the other dogs. Our companions are good at tracking,”
he explains.
Ginger and Jordan leads them past the picnic and barbeque area littered with a
sea of birthday parties, family reunions, and graduation celebrations.
The four of them go further, past a fishing pond with a flat wooden bridge that
cuts across the middle of it. It’s a pond full of lily pads and moss, ducks,
and fisherman.
The path starts to wind down and curve around an expansive urban dog park next
to the park’s second parking lot. There’s an active dog area where owners of
all ages interact with their canines, whether that be by tossing Frisbees and
balls, or playing tug of war with them. There’s a drinking water fountain where
some dogs trek over to and drink out of with wagging tails.
Off to the side there is the passive dog area where canines roam amongst
themselves while their owners occupy the benches on the looping pathway. About
ten feet away from that, is another, very similar food stand settled under a
pavilion, and it looks like it sells just the same kind of food the other does.
Jordan and Ginger sprint to the active dog area, immediately engaging with the
other dogs, and sniffing curiously at their owners.
Ginger is halfway to tackling a Chinese couple.
“Ginger! Chill!” Cora snaps unhappily. “Ugh. Unbelievable.” She starts marching
angrily over to her exuberantly affectionate dog. It looks like she’s prying
Ginger from the laughing couple, which seems to be taking it in good stride.
Jordan is sitting back on his hind legs with his head cocked, watching Cora
interact with these strangers, while a pair of the couple’s Shih Tzu puppies
attempt to climb up his back like a mountain.
“So, I forgot to get some of Jordan’s toys,” Derek says suddenly. “I’ll be
back.”
“You don’t want me to come with you?” Stiles offers, shifting his gaze away
from the scene just as Boyd saddles up to his other side.
“Uh, no. I should be good.” Derek shrugs his mouth thoughtfully and tosses Boyd
a look. “Besides I need you two to keep an eye on Cora. Make sure she doesn’t
pounce on the locals.”
Cora whips her head in their direction and glares.
Derek just smiles widely and waves before he begins his trek back to the car.
It’s just Boyd and Stiles now.
“So,” Boyd says, breaking the silence. “I don’t like to presume but, you and
Derek, huh?”
Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes at himself when he feels a spark of
satisfaction at the sound of ‘you and Derek’. “We’re really good friends,” he
replies, keeping his answer as vague as possible.
Boyd tosses him a side glance as he smirks and looks back towards Cora’s
direction. “If that’s what you call it, then I think I’d like to be really good
friendswith his sister,” he artfully states.
Stiles snickers and notices, even from this distance, how red Cora’s cheeks
begin to get. “Good luck with that, buddy. She’s not the easiest to make
friends with. But definitely well worth it in the end,” he praises.
Cora nods at whatever the Chinese couple is saying to her but her mouth is
curled into a smile.
Stiles would like to think he’s responsible.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Boyd says. “No time like the present.” He starts
walking over to where Cora is at, taking the time to stand close to her as he
shakes the older couple’s hand and introduces himself with a charming grin.
Stiles watches it all unfold with deep-seated amusement, and he’s more than
ready to invest into following the development of their relationship.
Jordan trots over, sniffling at his right hand before barking.
Stiles blinks and looks down, taking a moment to pet his white fur and he’s
vaguely reminded of Derek when he’s fully shifted. “Hey, big guy. What’s up?”
he asks, scratching Jordan behind his right ear (his favorite spot).
Jordan’s pink tongue lolls out the side of his mouth while his ears swivel on
top of his head. He begins whimpering and growling. Then he bites at the hem of
Stiles’s shirt, tugging him forward before darting off.
Stiles doesn’t quite know what’s wrong, but he’s pretty sure that the medium-
sized Tibetan Mastiff wants him to follow. So he does, navigating his way
through the crowds of dogs and their masters. He didn’t realize until now how
busy the park appears to be today. There are a lot more people here than there
was the last time he visited.
Jordan seems to always backtrack to find him, making sure he’s following before
continuing on again.
Stiles is almost beside himself with curiosity when he’s led to a quiet area on
the edge of the passive dog park side and he realizes it’s a set up.
Derek is waiting for him, cross-legged on a large, red and white-checkered
picnic blanket, complete with a brown whisker picnic basket and all. Derek
grins when Jordan sprints to his side, licking at his face while he says, “Good
boy! You did so well, leading Stiles right to me. So clever and handsome.”
Stiles huffs in amusement as he walks over to settle down beside the older
teen.
Derek spends a good minute rubbing his dog down while he coos praises with
puckered lips that would look ridiculous on anyone else but of course Derek can
manage to make it look so dignified and attractive.
Stiles watches as Derek grabs a tennis ball and hurls it further than what
should be possible while Jordan barks excitedly and goes dashing after it.
“That should buy us some time,” Derek supposes, staring after his dog wistfully
with a fond grin. Then he turns his focus onto Stiles. “So I had a plan. I was
going to make some sandwiches and potato salad. You know, get a real
traditional picnic menu layout going,” he says as he crawls forward to riffle
through the basket. “But then I realized I have no idea what kind of sandwiches
you like. Or if you even like potato salad.”
“Only if it took you three days to make,” Stiles replies in a mock serious
tone.
Derek snorts. “Spongebob, huh?”
“I’d be disappointed if you missed the reference,” Stiles says with obvious
pride.
Derek shrugs with a grin. “I’m not a total lost cause,” he says as he pulls out
some white carton containers. “Anyway, the point is that I wanted to do
something, so I figured, when in doubt, order spicy Thai wings and French
fries.”
“All this for me?” Stiles says, slapping a hand over his heart.
“Well, halffor you, if you want to get technical.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and accepts a container of wings when it’s passed his
way. “This was almost romantic until you followed it with that comment,” he
grumbles.
Derek laughs, looking absolutely delighted. “Good. I like to keep you on your
toes,” he admits.
Stiles shakes his head before taking a bite into a one of his chicken wings and
moaning. “Oh...god...this is amazing,” he praises. “Ugh, I don’t even care that
it’s cold.”
Derek flushes but he looks pleased. “Glad you like it,” he mutters, shifting
with an intense look on his face.
Stiles hardly notices as he continues to make indecent sounds. “I want to
marrythe person that made these,” he groans, sucking on his sticky fingers as
he tries to also lick the grease from his lips.
Derek chokes on a fry as he ducks his gaze. “Would you believe me if I told you
that I did?” he asks, voice slightly cracking at the end.
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right. It’s like against the laws of nature to stand in
the way of true love. Just tell me where you got these from and I’ll take it
from there.”
“And immediately lose the upper hand I have? In your dreams,” Derek retorts,
tossing a fry at him.
Stiles throws the fry right back at him as he chows down on another wing. “Fine
then. I’ll just Cinderella it.”
“What, you mean go from restaurant to restaurant and eating every wing until
you find the source?”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Good luck with that,” Derek says with a tone that suggests he knows
something that Stiles doesn’t. “What kind of sandwiches do you like?”
“Anything but tuna. I like fish just fine otherwise,” Stiles replies between
bites. He takes a moment to exhale and fan at his face. The spices are starting
to kick in.
Derek grabs one of the juice pouches he has stashed away in the basket and
tosses it to him. “Yeah, but if you had to pick a favorite, what would it be?”
he presses.
Stiles spends a few seconds draining the juice pouch he’s been handed until the
burn on his tongue is a little more manageable. Then he says, “PB&J.”
Derek sighs in a lovelorn manner. “I love PB&J,” he agrees. “It’s like the only
thing I’m sure is absolutely right in the world.”
“With a tall glass of milk? Absolutely,” Stiles concurs. “What about potato
salad, though? I know we were joking before, but I’m curious now.”
“Eh,” Derek merely says with a shrug. “I never came across any that made me
think twice.”
“You should try mine then,” Stiles suggests. “No, I’m kidding. I hate potato
salad.”
Derek huffs in amusement. “Good to know.” He then proceeds clear a few wings of
it’s meat until there’s nothing left but the bone and he tosses it to Jordan
when he reappears with his tennis ball. Jordan drops the ball at Stiles’s feet
before trades it for the chicken bones, carrying them off to a nearby tree to
sit under the shade and gnaw at them in peace.
“Thanks for bringing all this,” Stiles says as he munches away on a container
of fries. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
Derek ducks his head shyly and looks at Stiles from underneath his lashes. “I
wanted to do something nice for you,” he admits. “I’m glad you didn’t think it
was too over the top or anything. Laura said it would be fine, but you and I
have had a few misunderstandings lately. I didn’t want you to take this the
wrong way.”
“Oh.” Stiles takes a moment to think. “Well.”
He gets this sudden and unexpected visual of Derek standing in his own kitchen
with his phone pressed to his ear (Laura on the other end), agonizing over what
might be the right thing to bring to a picnic for a friendship that’s slowly
turning into something more, until Laura takes pity on him and offers some
advice. Stiles is laughing before he can even help it and he has to quickly
hold up his hand when Derek looks at him, startled.
Derek’s brow furrows and at first he looks confused before it bleeds into
annoyance when he realizes that Stiles must be laughing at him. His eye color
flickers to gold, and before Stiles can react, he pounces.
Stiles is knocked flat on his back, blinking up at Derek who is hovering above
him with an unhappy frown while the sun burns behind Derek’s head, creating a
sort of halo around his raven hair. Stiles’s laughter is curbed by the sight,
and his stomach is riddled with butterflies, and hummingbirds, and bats, and
every winged creature imagined.
You see, Derek’s more than pretty. He’s more than handsome. He’s more than the
"boy-next-door", because it’s not just one single feature that makes Derek so
uniquely attractive. And while it’s true that Derek is growing into his
features effortlessly (bone structure perfectly symmetrical), there’s something
more to him than that.
Though if Stiles were forced to decide, Derek’s eyes come close to being
Stiles’s favorite part about him. Everyone always places an importance on the
color of a person’s eyes, but the thing is that Stiles is so remotely sure that
Derek’s would be beautiful in any shade. His are expressive to an almost
vulnerable degree, inner beauty shining through like a lighthouse signaling a
lost ship home.
Derek’s face changes suddenly, and he goes from looking irritated to flustered
to wide eyed and enthralled. “Stiles, why are you — what on earth are you
thinkingabout? I can barely — you smell so —”
Stiles can’t check his behavior then at how overwhelmed and practically wrecked
Derek sounds. He reaches out with arms opened wide and tugs as hard as he can
until Derek collapses on top of him and he buries his face in the side of
Derek’s heated neck. It’s such a risky embrace, holding Derek like this in
public, but he can hardly care, unable to stop the natural flow of events as
they happen.
Derek rumbles deep in his chest. It’s a lowly animalistic but pleased sound,
tinged with something almost possessive yet affectionate. He twists so that he
and Stiles are lying on their sides and pulls away so he can prop his head on
his fist to gaze at Stiles with a glazed look and pink cheeks.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Stiles says gently, when he’s sure that Derek isn’t
annoyed anymore. He seems more distracted than anything, and Stiles thinks
maybe he likes Derek this way the most. When he’s incredibly docile. “If
anything I’m laughing from disbelief,” he goes on to say and, working on
instinct, presses his left hand on the side of Derek’s neck, palm growing hot
with magic. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”
Derek swallows and presses his right hand over where Stiles is resting his hand
on his neck, magic burning a blue handprint there like some sort of sticky
adhesive. He seems overly pleased and disbelieving himself that it’s happening.
“All the things that have happened to me and still you’re what makes me feel
lucky,” Stiles confesses before pulling his hand away to stare at the mark he’s
left. It gleams like a glittery blue bioluminescent temporary tattoo. Like the
kind you can get easily at a carnival or a birthday party. There’s something
that shifts then in their dynamic, almost like an understanding. He exhales
shakily, even as his cheeks fill with color, and his voice shakes while he
says, “I don’t have any prior experience or skills in the field of dating but I
think I would like to start trying with you.”
Derek stares at him like he can’t believe he’s real. He seems to be at a loss
of words. The blank stare, mixed with his lasting silence, is both maddening
and compelling.
“Derek, you have to say something because I’m losing my nerve,” Stiles warns,
teasing but truthful as he fidgets under Derek’s intense gaze.
Derek blinks before he leans forward and presses a sloppy kiss on the corner of
Stiles’s left eye. “You want to date me,” he whispers against Stiles’s skin.
“You want to dateme.”
Stiles scowls as Derek’s tone shifts from awed to smug. He lets Derek’s lips
linger at the bridge of his nose for a little longer before he pushes him away.
“This is a trial run, you know. I’m allowed to change my mind at any time,” he
lightly threatens.
Derek laughs, tackling him to the ground again and rolling them off the blanket
onto the grass. “You’re nevergoing to change your mind if I have anything to
say about it!” he exclaims, stopping their roll so Stiles is the one on top
this time. “I wasn’t expecting this, but it’s way better than I imagined. You
want to dateme.”
Stiles groans, dropping his forehead to rest on Derek’s collarbone. “Why are
you like this?” he complains.
“Maybe because the most attractive boy in all of Beacon Hills wants to dateme,”
Derek cheerily replies, resting his hands behind his head.
Stiles’s cheeks flush hotly before he can kill the reaction and he bites
Derek’s shoulder in retaliation. He springs to his feet and runs like hell,
knowing Derek will give into the chase. “Jordan! If you love me, you will
protect me from Derek!” he shouts, circling back to the tree that Jordan is
posted at.
“What’s this?” Derek yelps when Jordan actually tackles him into the grass. “Is
there no loyalty?”
Jordan just barks, pressing a large paw to Derek’s chest to keep him pinned as
he licks away at his face.
“Okay, okay,” Derek grumbles, sitting up and pushing Jordan away. He uses his
arm to scrub his face dry.
Stiles is leaning against a tree as he watches them interact, stomach
somersaulting in a pleasant way. He grins affectionately as Jordan returns to
his side, looking up at him with big, hopeful eyes. He pets Jordan and calls
him a good boy, grin curling into a smile as Derek makes a show of looking
annoyed and betrayed.
Derek stands and walks over.
“You have any treats for him? I think he deserves some,” Stiles says.
Derek smacks his lips, looking bereft. “Well now, I don’t know if I want to
reward him for double-dealing,” he mutters but he’s already walking back to the
picnic spread to grab some.
Stiles squats down so that he’s at Jordan’s eye level, letting the white dog
sniff at his hands and his shoulders, and then finally his face (the spots
where Derek’s kissed him) with a curious whine. He begins to pet Jordan’s neck
and shoulders, before he slowly makes his way up to the top of his head,
scratching behind Jordan’s ears.
Jordan rumbles, tail wagging as he melts under the attention.
“These are his favorite,” Derek announces when he rejoins them. The bag in his
left hand crinkles as he hands it over and Jordan barks excitedly. Derek smiles
and pushes him back. “Hold on. I’m giving them to Stiles, and you can hassle
him.”
Jordan barks before latching onto the front of Stiles’s shirt and tugging
impatiently.
Stiles laughs and pets him on the head. “Okay, okay. You mean business. I get
it,” he swears as he opens the bag and offers a dark sausage link.
Jordan grabs it quickly, chewing on it as he lowers himself to the ground and
focuses on gnawing it into nothing.
Stiles holds up the bag in his hand and squints at it.
“It’s the duck and apple recipe from Zuke’s,” Derek says to his unanswered
question. He always seems to know what Stiles is thinking before he even has
the chance to voice it. “He should only have four. Don’t let him convince you
into giving more. He’s good at that when they aren’t coming from me. He knows
I’m strict about that.”
“Yeah?” Stiles snorts and looks at Jordan as he tosses him another link.
“Crafty and handsome, hm?”
Jordan barks happily before he turns his attention on his treat.
Derek sniffs haughtily and crosses his arms. “He gets it from me,” he says.
“Uh huh,” Stiles replies and straightens.
“Hm. I don’t think I like your tone,” Derek drawls before he turns and walks
back to the picnic blanket. “I have some candy if you want in on that.”
“Candy? Geez, you’re already on the path to winning my heart. I don’t think I
can take one more fantastic surprise.”
Derek laughs and says, “Shut up.”
Stiles smiles and walks over to join him on the blanket just as Derek is
unearthing all different variety of confections. Stiles almost lunges at the
bags of sour gummy worms and skittles, making a quick work of combining them
and moaning in triumph of his success.
Derek raises both eyebrows at the mixture as he slowly and meticulously unwraps
all the pink and red starbursts within reach. “You are so weird sometimes,” he
remarks before popping a handful of fruit chews in his mouth.
“You dig it,” Stiles retorts, waving him off.
“For some reason I do,” Derek agrees with a heady sigh that’s supposed to come
off as annoyed but just sounds sweet-tempered instead.
Stiles grins to himself when he thinks Derek can’t see and he moves his body at
a different angle so that they are sitting pretzel-legged across from each
other.
There’s a sea of candy between them.
Jordan trots over, sniffing at Stiles’s ear and licking at his right cheek with
a curious whine.
“No worries, big guy. I got you,” Stiles says and twists his body to reach over
and grab the sausage links. “What number is this one now? Two? One? Let’s just
start over.”
“Watch it,” Derek growls, eyes flashing gold playfully.
Stiles just snickers and gives Jordan two more links before he seals the bag
with exaggerated finality.
Ginger comes flying over and she manages to steal one of Jordan’s links before
darting off as Jordan gives into the chase.
Stiles is not surprised to see that Cora and Boyd are not too far behind.
Cora drops down to sit to Stiles’s right as she grabs one of the leftover
containers of wings and goes to town.
Boyd declines the offering of fries that Derek gestures to but he does get in
on the action when it comes to the candy. He tears open a bag of red candy
vines and watches Cora eat like he’s witnessing artwork.
Stiles can tell that Cora is pretending not to notice, yet still reveling in
the attention. She is funny like that.
“Why do you have blue glitter in the shape of a handprint on your neck?” Cora
asks, tossing a newly cleaned bone to Ginger as she and Jordan return from
their quick play.
Stiles rolls his eyes when Derek smirks suggestively and shrugs.
“Fine, keep your secrets,” Cora says. “What have you losers been up to? Besides
being gross.”
“Reciting sonnets that chronicle your beauty and your good character,” Derek
sarcastically replies.
Cora shoots him a withering look and throws a wing at him.
Derek makes a face when it slaps him in the cheek and he tosses it back before
using the hem of his shirt to wipe away the smear of grease and chili garlic
sauce.
Stiles has to avert his gaze before he starts to openly drool. It slips his
mind how unfairly in shape Derek is sometimes. It’s slightly frustrating and
intimidating as he thinks of his own pasty, wiry frame in comparison. He sighs
before he can help it, and can’t help but to wonder why Derek is crazy enough
to settle for him when he can have anyone else.
Sometimes (more often than not) Stiles feels like a radish in a bush of roses.
Cora waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey, space cadet. Did you hear what I
said?”
Stiles blinks and turns his head to look at her. “Nope, not at all,” is his
truthful reply.
“Well what are you thinking about anyway?” Cora presses with a scowl that
manages to be a mix between concerned and annoyed. Her brow is furrowed and she
couldn’t look anymore like Derek even if she tried. “You smell upset.”
“I’m not,” Stiles lies and Derek cocks his head with a look that says he knows.
“I’m not!” he insists.
“Then why do you smell like pineapples that have gone sour?”
“Pineapples? I was told that I smell like bananas that are too ripe when I’m
upset.”
“No, you smell like that when you’re unhappy,” Cora corrects.
“It’s sour pineapples when you're upset,” Derek confirms before popping another
pink starburst in his mouth.
Stiles gets a little flustered. “You know, it’s crazy how you guys know what
I’m feeling based on what I smell like.”
“Not too crazy since we’re Werewolves,” Cora responds. “Scenting is like stuff
we learn in our preschools and at home. It’s like learning how to walk for
Humans. Something that’s natural but also expected.”
“Right, of course,” Stiles says with a sigh as he chews on another gummy worm.
“I guess I don’t really get what the difference is between upset and unhappy.”
Boyd interjects, “Common mistake. I actually had to break this down for my
little sister the other day. Being upset is a short time feeling caused
generally by a single event and causes more immediate responses like crying,
sighing, irritation and so on, because your brain is able to process the
information and help you sort through it before moving on. Like failing an
exam. Whereas being unhappy is long time feeling caused by a series of events
which ends up in dissatisfaction, and is usually something your brain has to
recycle before it can better acclimate how you respond, leaving it open to you
experiencing a range of feelings and emotions that are harder to pinpoint.”
“Like the loss of a loved one,” Derek adds. “So, what’s wrong? Why are you
upset?”
Stiles snorts wryly. “What? You mean my plan of distracting you guys by asking
questions isn’t working?”
“Goes to show how used to you we are,” Cora replies as she tosses another bone
to Ginger before starting on the next wing. “So, spill.”
“It’s nothing really,” Stiles promises. “Typical teenage mood swings.” He adds,
in Polish because he knows they won’t understand, “Just your average mix of
self-doubt and hormones.”
Boyd looks amused while Cora looks annoyed that she can’t understand.
Derek is grinning excitedly. “Ah, so you doknow another language,” he reasons.
“I had my suspicions.”
Stiles laughs and says, “Oh yeah? How?”
Derek shrugs but he doesn’t stop grinning like he’s just discovered the best
thing. “Sometimes you say certain words differently than a regular English
speaker does. It’s not toonoticeable, but if you’re looking for it then it can
be. Sometimes it’s like, I don’t know, words with shorts vowels, you know?”
“Oh god. Yeah, I do. I thought I grew out of that,” Stiles admits. “My mom’s
from Warsaw, so that was her first language, and my dad thought it would be
better if they taught me to speak that for the first four years of my life
before they weaned me onto English.”
“My parents kinda did the same thing with me,” Boyd says. “But it was tougher
to navigate since my dad’s originally from West Africa, and they have like
different languages stacked on top. There’s a universal language spoken, like
French, and then under that that are the lesser-known languages of the area
depending on the city or the village. My mom’s from Haiti and she knows French,
Portuguese, Taíno, and Haitian Creole French. While my dad is from Benin but he
speaks like French, Portuguese, Fon, Mina, and Goun. So together, my parents
had my siblings and I speaking maybe five to six languages at a time, not even
including English.”
Cora says something to him in French with a half-smile.
Boyd laughs and replies back in the same dialect. Then he adds, in English this
time, “Nah, Goun and Fon are the languages of Benin. I only use it when I’m
talking to relatives on my dad’s side or when we go to visit for the holidays.
Mina is just like, I guess you would say the ‘slang’ of the area.”
“That’s really interesting,” Cora says and then says something else in French,
pauses with a frown as her mouth wiggles in thought, and then says, in English,
“What’s the proper word for, eh...you know, remarkable. I always get it mixed
up with like...L’effondrement du bâtiment est imminent.”
“Oh, yeah. You mean more like, uh, if you said...Un éminent personnage.”
“Exactly!” Cora looks absolutely thrilled as she dives back into the French
language.
Boyd volleys back the dialect easily with a small grin of his own.
“Do you speak French?” Stiles asks, turning away from them to look at Derek,
who is texting on his phone.
“Nope, that’s something only Cora’s learning,” Derek replies before putting his
phone away. “I’m studying Greek and Arabic though. But I do know Latin, German,
Hebrew, Italian, and some passable Spanish.”
“Geez,” Stiles says, impressed. “I feel way behind. I only know Polish and
English. I’m passable with Armenian in dire situations, and I know like maybe
six words in French.”
“It’s never too late to pick up another language,” Derek points out. “Is there
a language you might like to learn?”
Stiles wants to say Yiddish, but he wonders if that would be too telling. So he
says, “I’ll have to think about it, but you’re right. It’s never too late.”
“For sure,” Derek agrees and he looks down before looking around. “You wanna
play some frisbee?”
Stiles nods.
Derek says, “Wait here a sec. I have a specific way I like to play.”
Stiles watches with mild curiosity as Derek disappears into the trees with
Jordan before reappearing as a small, white Samoyed dog. “No way…” he murmurs.
Cora pauses her conversation with Boyd to watch her brother walk over in his
newly shifted form. She snorts. “He’s such a showoff.”
“I thought you could do that too,” Stiles says, question obvious in his tone.
“I can shift into the full transformative Beta wolf matrix, as big or as small
as I like, but I can’t imitate other breeds of dogs like my mom and Derek can,”
Cora explains as she flips some of her dyed hair over her tan shoulder.
Stiles marvels at this new information as Derek trots over and licks at his
face with a curious whine that Jordan imitates. Soon, both of them have him
pinned to the ground and are licking at his face. “Oh gross, come on guys. My
mouth was kind of open!” he complains, rolling from underneath their hold and
to his feet. He uses a nearby napkin to dry his face.
Derek just sits back on his hind legs, head cocked in amusement as his tongue
lolls out the side of his mouth.
Jordan seems like a giant in comparison as the white Mastiff sits beside him.
“Menaces. Both of you,” Stiles grumbles. “Where’s the frisbee?”
Derek barks and bumps his snout into Jordan’s shoulder before the larger dog
barks back.
Jordan wanders over to the picnic basket and manages to tug out a neon orange
frisbree.
Stiles takes the frisbee when it’s offered to him, petting Jordan fondly before
he turns to Boyd and Cora. “You guys want in?” he asks.
Boyd opens his mouth, possibly to accept, but Cora puts her left hand over his
and, voice suspiciously even, replies, “We’re going to sit this one out.”
Stiles lifts an eyebrow with a sly grin.
Cora glares, daring him to make a comment.
Stiles just laughs (even though he’s really tempted) and jogs over to Derek,
Jordan, and Ginger as they patiently wait for him to start.
He knows how to choose his battles.
                                      ---
They leave the park almost three hours later as the day rolls into the evening.
It takes them a good ten minutes to decide what their next plan of action is,
however.
Derek and Cora mostly banter about going back to their house.
“Look, just drop Boyd and I off there,” Cora says from where she’s sitting
behind Derek in the car, tone teetering on impatient. “That way you can swap
cars, and take Stiles home.”
“Does mom know you’re bringing a guest over?” Derek presses, glancing at her
with the use of the rear view mirror.
Cora scowls. “What’s it to you anyway? Let me worry about that,” she says.
“Cora,” Derek growls, eyes flashing gold. He says something to her in Hebrew.
Cora repeats, pointedly in English, “Let me worry about that.”
“I’m not starting this car until you call her and she says it’s okay. I don’t
care if he’s your Match,” Derek insists and ignores the betrayed and outraged
look Cora tosses him when she flushes. “No offense, Boyd. I like you just fine,
but we have rules to protect our Pack for a reason.”
“Hey, I get it, man,” Boyd promises with a placating tone. “I don’t want to get
anyone in trouble.”
“No, it’s not like that,” Cora says quickly, cheeks still pink. “My brother is
just being dumb.”
“It’s not dumb to obey our Alpha,” Derek snaps, crossing his arms. “Mom made it
very clear about new visitors.”
Cora eyes flash gold and she growls. Then she says something in rapid Hebrew.
They both pause and stiffen.
Cora gets pale. “I wasn’t — I — Derek, I didn’t mean that,” she swears.
Derek is just staring blankly through the windshield, not saying a thing.
“I’ll — I’m gonna call mom, okay? Just — I’m gonna call her,” Cora says as she
quickly pulls out her phone.
Derek doesn’t respond.
The car is completely silent and drowning with tension.
Stiles really wants to know what Cora said to make Derek react like that
because he’s never seen Derek look that way before, even while he was going
through his heartbreak with Paige.
Cora speaks in the next moment when Talia picks up the phone, and she puts her
on speaker but she addresses her mother in Italian.
Stiles assumes it's for some privacy, and whatever is being said, she doesn’t
want either Stiles nor Boyd to know. This does not help sate his curiosity at
all.
There’s a pause in the conversation between Talia and Cora, and it feels like
they’re waiting for something.
It makes sense when a moment later, Derek bitterly mutters, “Sono contento che
a te stia bene.”
Stiles would be entranced by the way Derek’s accent seems to cut through the
air like a gorgeous steel blade, if he wasn’t too busy being overwhelmingly
curious about the conversation itself.
Talia sighs on the other end and replies, “Per favore chev, capisci che non è
nulla di personale. Lo so che sei sconvolta... ma ti prego cerca di capire.”
Derek says nothing, and his face is still a blank slate.
Talia seems to sense that she’s not going to get much of response from him.
“Come home. Cora, we’ll sort this out when you get here.”
“Okay,” Cora whispers.
“Derek, try not to hold a grudge against your sister, carissimo,” she murmurs,
voice soothing and warm. “She loves you very much.”
Derek’s silence remains firm.
Stiles chances a glance to the back and is startled to see that Cora looks
about as close to tears as he’s ever seen her. He quickly turns his gaze away,
and says nothing. He’ll ask Derek about it later when it’s the right time.
Derek starts the car and goes through the motion of exiting the parking lot.
Stiles’s pocket vibrates a moment later. He pulls out his phone.
Boyd’s text says: You wouldn’t happen to know Italian would you?
Stiles snorts quietly and responds: Dude, I haven’t been more sorry that I
don’t know than I do now.
Boyd huffs from the backseat. A moment later he texts: Same here
Man, I’m really nervous. I’ve never met anyone’s parents before
Especially only within a few hours of knowing them
I mean they’re Werewolves so I’ve learned the same rules we’re used to don’t
apply
Also the Hales are really nice, you don’t have to worry too much
True, okay thanks. Do you know what a Match is?
No clue, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Tell me when you find out though.
Word. I got you man ;)
This silence is killing me a little bit. Can you turn on the radio?
With pleasure !!!!
Stiles puts his phone away and fiddles with the touch screen satellite radio.
Something called Timber by Pitbull feat. Ke$ha begins to play.
                                      ---
When they pull up to the Hale Manor, Talia is already sitting on the front
porch in a rocking chair with a book (The Kitchen God’s Wife) and some reading
glasses on while Olive is fast asleep over her lap (face down).
There’s a gang of kids and preteens running around, chasing each other and
tackling one another into the grass. Most of them don’t even have their shirts
on (or their shoes).
Cora and Boyd exit the car, making their way up the porch steps as Talia stands
to greet them.
“I’m going to grab my car,” Derek says and Stiles almost jolts in surprise.
Derek smiles wryly at the response. “Do you mind letting Jordan and Ginger out
and waiting for me?”
“Yeah, sure. Yes. Take your time,” Stiles quickly replies, maybe a little too
excitedly. He hadn’t realized how much he missed hearing the older teen’s voice
until now. “Are you — am I getting dropped off?”
Derek nods. “I might stay over a little for dinner. Is that okay? I don’t
really feel like being home right now,” he admits with a sad grin.
Stiles finds it to be absolutely heartbreaking. “You’re always welcomed at Casa
de Stilinski,” he firmly promises.
“Thanks,” Derek says softly. He reaches out and slides the fingers of his right
hand over the pulse point of Stiles’s left and his grin is a little more
lighthearted when he watches the way it makes Stiles flush. “See you in less
than a minute.”
Stiles feels a little tongue tied under his intense gaze, so he just leans over
and pinches Derek’s right cheek before hopping out of the car in an attempt to
flee from any retaliation.
Derek is nice enough to pop the trunk for him so that by the time he reaches
the back, Jordan and Ginger are already leaping out.
Stiles slams the trunk door close and pats the back window in a signal for
Derek to head off. When he turns, all of the kidsare watching him, golden eyes
gleaming mischievously. “Oh no. Guys, give me a break here. Whatever you’re
thinking in those devious little Werewolf minds —”
“Let’s get him!” someone shouts.
Stiles widens his eyes and squawks out an embarrassing array of sounds as they
all tackle him into the grass like mini-football players. He let’s out a soft
oomph as they pile on top of him, squirming like worms, and sticking their
noses on different parts of his body and oh god is someone licking him?Yes,
that was definitely a tongue!
Stiles can only lie there in surrender as the little ones squirm against him,
hugging each of his limbs to their unnaturally warm bodies as they growl in
satisfaction. Some of them stick their nose is odd places like by his ankles or
his armpits or his ears. This silent exchange lasts no more than three minutes
when Derek pulls up beside the commotion in his lime green Camaro.
“Okay that’s enough,” Derek says and honks his horn with Jordan in the
backseat. “Come on. Stiles doesn’t have time to indulge you. Get lost.”  
One by one they clamor off of him, satisfied with the scenting, running off
with excited yips and yells, and go back to whatever it is they were doing
before (blowing bubbles, riding bikes, wrestling, etc).
Stiles stands and dusts himself off before he sends Talia a lazy wave as he
climbs into the passenger seat.
“Home before the siren, Derek,” Talia warns as she hands (a still sleeping)
Olive over to Cora as she guides her and Boyd inside the house. “No later.”
“Understood,” Derek replies before letting down all his windows and driving
off. He doesn’t bother switching on the radio like he usually does. He appears
to be lost in his thoughts.
It’s a silent drive because of this, and Stiles feels the need to be
considerate of Derek’s feelings by not pressing him to talk about whatever is
troubling him.
He spends the silent car ride staring at the blue handprint still glittery and
present on Derek’s neck. He wonders if it will ever fade, and he flip-flops
back and forth between hoping that it does (so he can do it again) and hoping
that it doesn’t.
                                      ---
The street is quiet and clear when Derek pulls up to the Stilinski house.
His dad is sitting out on the porch with Aunt Lorraine in a pair of white
wicker hanging chairs artfully installed on the left side of the porch, in
front of the large living room windows. They appear to be chatting over some
coffee.
Stiles is the first to exit the car, and he moves to the back to let Jordan
out.
Jordan sprints to the stairs to greet his dad and Aunt Lorraine.
Aunt Lorraine appears openly charmed by the white furred dog, and she takes the
time to pet him.
Stiles waits a moment so that he and Derek can walk towards the house side by
side. Secretly, he’s amping himself up to tell his dad about his decision to
start dating Derek. When they reach the top of the steps, he says, “Dad, I see
you met Aunt Lorraine.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the sheriff admits. “She attended me and your
mother’s wedding. And she was there when we introduced you to your grandparents
in Poland for the first time.”
“Oh.” Stiles hadn’t known that. Well that makes this a little less awkward
then. “Aunt Lorraine this is Derek Hale. He’s my — a really good friend of
mine.” He flushes at his almost slip.
Derek smirks but holds out his right hand. “It’s nice to meet any relative of
his,” he says with that charming boyish grin of his.
Aunt Lorraine presses her left hand to her cheek as she shakes his right hand
with her own. “Ah, so you’rethe Hale boy our Nana was speaking so fondly over.
Yes, you are as lovely as she said,” she remarks.
Derek’s grin widens, even though the tips of his ears get a little pink.
“But I’m a little confused. I thought Isaac mentioned something about him being
your boyfriend,” Aunt Lorraine references, pretending to look confused as the
flush Stiles had justgotten rid of returns full force. “Unless he meant someone
differently? How many suitors do you have, sweet nephew?”
“Aunt Lorraine!” Stiles exclaims, scandalized and sends his father a betrayed
look when he tries to cover his laughter with an unconvincing cough. “That’s
not — we aren’t — we just decided to start dating.”
“Oh? This is news to me,” his dad says, voice full of mirth even though he
keeps a straight face. “Go on, tell me more.”
Stiles groans and takes a moment to hide his face behind his hands. He takes a
deep breath and drops them. “If it’s okay with you, dad. I’d like try,” he
asks, fidgeting nervously. “With Derek.”
The sheriff decides that this is the perfect time to take another nice, long
sip of his coffee while his son waits desperately for a response. After a few
more excruciating moments, he finally says, “Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect
it. Hell, Derek already beat you to the punch when he asked me for permission
the night you got back to town.”
Stiles looks at Derek sharply in amazement. “We were in the middle of a fight
and you stillasked my dad if you could date me?” he questions with unconcealed
disbelief.
Derek simply shrugs like it’s not a big deal even though it very clearly is. “I
would have asked him the night I gave you my letterman jacket if I thought I
could get away with it,” he confesses. “But the timing wasn’t right.”
Stiles stares at him.
Derek stares back.
“How well-met,” Aunt Lorraine comments as she gazes at them with an airy sigh.
“You two are verycompatible. I can tell that now with knowing as little as I
do. But, that’s a conversation for a different night.” She claps her hands
together with a joyous smile. “I believe you will be happy to know that I’ve
got a few things brewing in the kitchen. Derek, love, won’t you please join us
for dinner?”
“That sounds great, thanks.” Derek waits until Aunt Lorraine and the sheriff
turn to the house and disappear inside before he presses a warm hand to
Stiles’s lower back to pull him close. “You know,” he murmurs, lips close to
Stiles’s left ear. “If you keep saying ‘my’ when you’re introducing me to other
people, I’m going to start getting all sorts of ideas.”
Stiles shivers as warmth pools in his guts and he elbows Derek while he gets
his racing heart under control. “Get over yourself,” is his weak reply. “I keep
thinking to call you my math tutor before it hits me that we’re actual
friends.”
Derek doesn’t look like he buys it but he pulls away to go into the house
without another word.
Stiles sighs shakily and wipes his sweaty, trembling hands against his jeans
before looking down to where Jordan is still sitting dutifully at his side.
Jordan’s ears swivel forward as his tail wags happily under the attention.
“I’m going to have my hands full with him, aren’t I?” Stiles asks, knowing all
too well that Derek will hear what he’s saying.
Jordan cocks his head.
Stiles smiles and pets him before turning to join the others in the house. He
closes the door behind him as his magic begins to stir in his gut. He wanders
into the kitchen, just as it begins to break away from him and form into a
barrel of Pygmy Marmosets, imitating his aunt’s Conduit.
Speaking of Jay, the small monkey is perched on top of a (newly installed)
stainless steel fridge eating through a bunch of red grapes.
His magic (in it’s new form) begins swinging around the kitchen, sitting in the
middle of the kitchen table, hanging off of his father, settling on the crown
of Derek’s head, running laps through his aunt’s legs while she uses her own
magic to see to the bubbling pots and pans over the stove.
“You’ve been up to a few things, I see,” his dad comments with an amused grin
as Stiles’s magic perches on his shoulder to peer into the coffee mug in his
hand. “How did this become my life?” he asks, but his voice is full of humor
and affection.
“You’re that lucky,” Stiles quips as he takes a seat at the table to watch his
magic fiddle with the bouquet of begonias, which have found their way into a
vase of water. “Hey, Aunt Lorraine. Are you responsible for the new fridge?”
“Oh, my, yes!” Aunt Lorraine opens the stove to pull out a glass tray of what
looks like homemade macaroni as Derek settles at the table beside Stiles. “I
felt so completely awful about that nasty business this morning. I thought it
only fair that I right a few things.”
Stiles looks at his dad, who snorts and sends him a look while nodding towards
the front room. Stiles twists his body and gawks at what he sees.
There’s a 110-inch ultra HDTV, complete with surround sound settled against the
wall in the living room where their old TV and entertainment system used to be.
“Had to call in a few favors for that one,” Aunt Lorraine continues, unaware of
her nephew’s wide eye stare of disbelief. “Like I mentioned before, I’m piss
poor with those new age digital transmorphism spells. So, yes, I called in my
favors and figured this could also make up for all those missed birthdays and
Christmases, which won't be a future concern as long as I have anything to say
about it. Why? Do you not like it?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in my young life,” Stiles
assures.
Aunt Lorraine grins at him and he realizes she was just teasing him. “Happy to
hear it,” she says before she turns to his father. “Jonathan, please be a dear
and set the table for six. Here, this should help.” She takes a moment to
twitch her nose and the kitchen table trembles before expanding a little
further to accommodate the request. “Ah, that should do very nicely from now
on. Your son is a very popular boy, and I imagine you’ll be getting a lot of
company in the future.”
The sheriff moves to do just as she asks. Then he says, “Besides my youngest,
who else is joining us tonight?”  
“Lydia, if I’m not mistaken. The two of them should be walking through the door
any moment now,” Aunt Lorraine replies as she turns off the stove.
The smells coming from those assorted pots and pans are making Stiles’s mouth
water and his stomach gurgle in anticipation.
Derek shoots him an amused look because he must hear it.
True to Aunt Lorraine’s foresight, the front door creaks open and closes.
Lydia and Isaac appear moments later, smelling of popcorn, but also of hospital
antiseptic.
Stiles can guess where they must have gone after the movies.
Lydia sits across from Derek (with her jeweled egg resting next to her plate)
while Isaac sits across from Stiles.
The sheriff sits at the head of the table when he’s done setting it.
Aunt Lorraine sits across from him at the other end and takes a moment to smile
at everyone. Then she wiggles her nose and food appears on their plate from
behind a puff of blue smoke. “There now! I’ve made macaroni, smothered steak,
stuffed potatoes, sweet yams, and a vegetable medley. Bon appétit. Don’t be
shy! Dig in,” she encourages.
No one needs to be told twice.
Stiles hasn’t eaten anything this savory since his mother was still alive. He’s
beginning to realize that there is probably more magic at work here than there
are spices. He makes a mental note to ask her later about how she does it and
if she can teach him (or if she taught his mom).
Lydia, to her credit, waits until the main course has been cleared away and
dessert is being served to ask, with a sickly sweet tone (in Polish), “Cousin,
how is it that Derek Hale is at your table with a glittery blue handprint that
looks suspiciously like yours on his neck? Is this the boyfriend Isaac was
talking about?”
Stiles nearly chokes on his first bite of blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream.
His dad and Aunt Lorraine both look equal amounts amused and concerned.
Meanwhile, Isaac and Derek just shoot him confused and concerned looks.
Stiles grabs a glass of water with a shaky hand as Derek gently pats him on the
back.
“Lydia, darling, be nice. That was positively wicked,” Aunt Lorraine reprimands
in the same dialect.
Lydia shrugs as she gracefully cuts into her own slice of pie. She turns to the
sheriff and says, “Sir, can I call you uncle?”
His dad blinks in surprise but replies, “Any family of Stiles and his mother, I
consider my own. Feel free to address me however you need, sweetheart.”
Lydia smirks and Stiles feels a sense of foreboding. He nearly breaks out in a
sweat when she goes on to say, “Uncle, am I wrong to assume that this is the
boy that has won my cousin’s affections?”
“Oh god, why me?” Stiles groans and hides his burning face into his hands. “Why
me?” he repeats in English this time.
“At least you can understand what’s being said,” Isaac remarks, shooting them
all unhappy looks. “Can we switch back to English please? It’s obvious you’re
talking about Derek.”
“He’s right, we’re being rude,” the sheriff says. “I’ll let you three sort this
out. I have to hit the sack. I’ve got another double shift tomorrow. Lorraine,
again, please feel free to stay as long as you need if you can clear out the
basement to make yourself comfortable as you’ve said.”
“Oh it’ll be no problem at all, Jonathan,” Aunt Lorraine assures. “I promise
not to wear out my welcome.”
“I doubt you could,” his dad says with a wink and Lorraine giggles. “Goodnight
all.”
“Can I stay the night?” Lydia is quick to ask and she turns her gaze to her
cousin. “Stiles and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
His dad nods and says, “As long as it’s okay with your guardian. If you need, I
can drop you off tomorrow on my way to work.”
“That works perfectly, thank you,” is Lydia’s polite response.
His dad nods once more before trekking to the stairs and he disappears up them
a second later.
Aunt Lorraine stands and turns to his little brother. “Isaac, dear, would you
mind giving me a helping hand in the basement?”
“Use your magic,” Isaac replies petulantly as he finishes up the last of his
(third slice of) pie. “You don’t need my help. You’re just trying to make an
excuse so that I’ll have to leave the three of them to talk in privacy. I’d
hear it anyway.”
“Very right you are, but this is not a trick. As grateful as I am for magic, it
does not always solve all of my problems,” Aunt Lorraine patiently responds. “I
truly only mean to spend some time with you as I sort out the mess downstairs.
I could use the company.”
Isaac’s mouth wiggles thoughtfully as he narrows his eyes at her. He must see
something that changes his answer because he sighs and says, “Fine. But only
because I see you got us a better TV.”
“Isaac,” Stiles sighs admonishingly.
“What?” Isaac volleys back, unrepentant. “Cake boss is going to look
amazingthis season.”
Aunt Lorraine throws her head back and laughs explosively as Isaac follows her
to the basement and the lights flicker in response.
The door clicks shut behind them and the lights settle.
“And then there were three,” Derek jokes, looking completely relaxed under
Lydia’s hawkish gaze.
Stiles is not envious of him at all.
“So,” Derek continues when Lydia continues to stare at him without saying
anything. “I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. I’m Derek.”
“I witnessed my parents brutal murder and was quickly institutionalized
thereafter. When would we have found the time to meet, Derek?” Lydia replies,
expression blank but voice sharp like a steel blade. She picks up her egg since
it’s trembling unhappily without her touch and places it in her lap away from
view.
“Lydia. Please,” Stiles hisses in Polish. “I really like him. You don’t have to
have to treat him like the enemy —”
“Still that lovely tongue of yours, Stiles. My cousin has a heart that is worth
more than a thousand clusters of diamonds and I need to know exactly who it is
he’s giving it to,” Lydia retorts in the same dialect, tone completely even.
Stiles can’t really find anything to say to that.
“What’s your GPA?” Lydia asks in the next moment, switching back to English.
“Quickly. We have thirty-six minutes before the curfew siren rings, and you’ll
have to leave.”
Derek’s eyebrows lift in surprise that she even knows this information. “I see
you’re as gifted as your aunt,” he says, instead of answering or even asking
how she knows what she knows.
“You’re wasting my time, Derek. Not a good start.”
Stiles winces but holds his tongue.
Derek reaches out and holds his hand under the table as he keeps his expression
neutral. He squeezes Stiles’s hand in a reassuring way before he replies,
“Weighted, I average at a five point three two. Unweighted, it’s a four point
six eight.”
Lydia lifts a brow and she doesn’t look impressed. “How did you meet Stiles?”
“Through a series of misunderstandings. And I also suspect my uncle had a
manipulative hand in it also.”
“What, no love at first sight?”
“Well I can’t say that’s the case for us. We took off on sort of a rocky
start.”
“Then what is it? What brings you here now? There must be a reason why you want
to date my cousin.”
“There are many reasons why, and I’m still adding to that growing list every
day.”
“Any examples you want to divulge?”
“He has a really nice smile, and a very big heart.”
Stiles slowly smiles as he takes that in.
“Plus my dog Jordan really likes him too. That’s always a bonus.”
“Jordan? Like the basketball player?”
“Like the river of my people actually, but a lot of people assume otherwise
since I play basketball.”
“Do you? What position?”
“Captain.”
Lydia continues to needle. “Future plans?”
“I’m shooting for a degree in astrophysics.”
“Fond of space?”
“More than fond. I like the stars and I like math. It fits.”
Lydia just hums thoughtfully. “How are you spending this summer?”
“I’ve accepted the job offer from BHU to teach a course in mathematics two
times a week starting next week.”
Lydia face changes subtly but it’s enough to compel Stiles to relax. “Riemann
hypothesis?” she presses.
“Nah. Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture. I like a challenge,” Derek says
with a shrug.
“Interesting. Do you suppose I could write some insane mathematical theorem
that wins me the Nobel Prize?”
“Nobel doesn't have a prize for mathematics,” Derek corrects with a grin. “A
Fields Medal's the one you’ll be winning. That was a trick question.”
“I had to be sure,” Lydia sighs like she’s upset it didn’t work. She turns her
gaze to Stiles and says, “I see we have the same taste in boys. Almost too
pretty to look at, and undoubtedly brainy. I approve. But if he breaks your
heart, I’ll personally deal with it myself.”
Stiles frowns, unsure what something like that would entail. He’s a bit
worried.
Lydia gives him a razor sharp grin in reply. “Don’t frown, Stiles. Someone
could be falling in love with your smile,” she says as she rises from the
table, flipping her strawberry-blonde curls over her shoulder, egg still
clutched firmly in one hand and goes floating to the stairs like she’s walking
on air. She disappears a moment later.
“Sorry about that,” Stiles says when he’s sure they’re alone. “She means well.”
“I get it,” Derek promises and leans over to kiss him on the cheek again.
Stiles gets pink and rolls his eyes with a sigh as he gets warm all over at
that bit of contact. “Derek. I haven’t been keeping track,” he complains.
Derek shrugs and stands. “I’ve kind of lost count at this point too. What can I
say? I’m just following my heart,” he teases.
“Handful, I swear,” Stiles mutters as he rises from the table as well.
Derek gives a low whistle and Jordan comes sprinting down the steps from
upstairs.
Stiles wonders where he’s been and what he’s been doing this whole time. “I
feel bad that we didn’t set something out for him while we were eating,” he
says as he follows them to the front door and then out.
“I’ll feed him when we get home,” Derek assures. “Trust me, if he was that hard
up for food he’d let us know. I think he just wanted to scent the house and see
what might have changed since the last time he’s been here.”
“So that’swhat he was doing.”
Derek wirelessly unlocks his car and opens up the passenger side door for
Jordan.
Stiles feels that anxious feeling of need creep into his system right on cue at
the realization that Derek is going away. “I’m probably going to be with Deaton
all day tomorrow. Do you want to come over when I’m free?”
“I doubt I’ll be doing anything else that will keep me from seeing you,” Derek
responds as he reaches out and presses the heated palm of his left hand to the
left side of Stiles’s neck. “This okay?”
Stiles nods, swallowing dryly as Derek pulls him closer for a few minutes of
scent marking. He melts into the hug that comes after and wraps his arms around
Derek’s neck as Derek lowers his forehead to his collarbone and rumbles.
“I really don’t want to leave now,” Derek admits quietly. “Do you think your
dad will let you spend the night at my house tomorrow night? We kind of need to
talk to my mom about us.”
Stiles threads his fingers into the hair settled on the crown of Derek’s head
and his heart leaps at the suggestion. “Uh, I’ll ask him and see,” he says.
“Is...is this the same kind of talk that Cora and Boyd were getting when we
left earlier?”
Derek nods wordlessly.
Stiles is a sudden mess of nerves. “Derek, what did she say to you that had you
upset?” he asks to avoid asking what he really wants to know. The word ‘Match’
is burning like a torch in his mind and his magic is beginning to circle them
like a cluster of butterflies.
Derek extracts himself from their embrace, looking as dazed and flustered as he
always does whenever their hugs come to an end. He blinks and actively focuses
on Stiles’s magic in a subtle way to avoid Stiles’s gaze while he says, “She’s
not usually so cruel, but I think meeting Boyd made her a little more emotional
than she was used to.”
“What did she say?”
Derek’s mouth dips into a frown and it’s a long moment before he answers. “It
doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”
“Derek…”
“It’s fine,” Derek insists and he smiles sadly. “She was wrong anyway. I have
to go. The siren is going to ring and mom will ground me if I’m not back before
that. Then we wont be able to see each other at all for a while. I don’t know
about you, but I’d rather avoid that fate.”
Stiles barely has any time to react before Derek is kissing his cheek one
moment and sliding into the driver’s seat of his car in the next.
Derek starts his car and gives a wave. “I’ll text you to let you know I made it
home,” he promises. “Later.”
“Later,” Stiles faintly replies and watches what feels like a piece of himself
drive away. His magic sinks back into his mouth when he opens up to receive it
in. It twists and folds into itself behind his heart, quelling with
dissatisfaction.
He treks back to the house to get ready to settle down for bed. He pauses as he
passes the kitchen and takes a moment to marvel at the way the dishes are
cleaning themselves as they float over the sink on puffy clouds of blue smoke.
Aunt Lorraine is definitely to blame.
Jay is sound asleep on top of the fridge.
Stiles snorts at the sight but continues on to his room and finds Lydia already
there folding the laundry he forgot about.
“How do you let this much laundry pile up and not doing anything?” Lydia asks
as she starts tucking the clothes away in his dressers. “I’m surprised that
you’re not wandering around naked.”
“You sound like Derek,” Stiles complains as he moves to help her clear his bed
of all the folded clothes.
Lydia pauses and lifts an eyebrow. “He talks about you being naked?”
Stiles stumbles but laughs on his way to his dresser. “That’s not what I meant!
I’m just saying that he’s always ragging on me about keeping my room clean. Not
anything about being naked!”
Lydia hums as she puts the last of his clothes away before rifling through the
same drawer for something to sleep in. She borrows one of his sports jerseys
and a towel before she wanders off to take a shower (taking her egg with her).
Stiles moves to his window and opens it up, taking a moment to peer out at the
swarm of fireflies littering his back yard and swaying in the air around his
magical tree. He rubs at his eyes with a yawn and decides to start getting
ready for bed himself. He changes into some pajamas and slips into bed with the
bible of Virtues and his phone.
He spends the next forty-five minutes juggling his attention between texting
Derek and studying the book of Temperance so he can have his questions ready
for Nana the next day when he goes out for his study session.
Lydia returns to the room when he’s reaches the end of the book, and he tucks
the bible away in the drawer of his nightstand as she climbs into bed with him
after she turns off the light. She sighs with bone-deep exhaustion while she
puts her jeweled egg on his nightstand and scoots closer.
They are both lying on their sides facing each other on top of his covers as
the sweet smell of the summer’s night air drifts into his room.
Lydia clutches his hands between her own and says, “Tell me everything I’ve
missed.”
Stiles clears his throat and starts from the beginning. He starts by explaining
the whole ‘Gerard is a secret pedophile’ business because that’s always the
most difficult thing to sort out. Then he talks about what’s going with Parrish
and Isaac. He talks about how Isaac’s related to Kate and that Chris knows. He
talks about Malia and Jackson, and how they’re actually related to the Hales.
He talks about Mayor Argent’s other kids who are still out there (Erica, Ricky
and Carter, and god knows who else). He mentions Heather and her situation. He
then talks about his relationship with Derek and how it’s developed to where it
has thus far. Then he talks about Braeden, and his internship with Deaton, as
well as Talia’s offer to him as her Second (and eventually Cora’s). He just
really lays it on her because this is what she asked for. This is what she
wants to know.
“I’ve been trying to remember what happened that night,” Lydia confesses at the
end of his monologue. “With my parents, and the night they died. I know that it
was a Were, and I know it happened on a New Moon, but my mind feels blocked
somehow.”
“If it’s the trauma of what happened, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Stiles whispers
back. “I think that what you saw would help us, but I’m not going to push.”
Even in the dark, the trembling of Lydia’s bottom lip is visible and the tremor
in her voice confirms it as she says, “I wish I could be better for you.”
“Don’t say that,” Stiles lightly chastises. “It means more to me that you’re
here beside me and that you’re trying as best as you can more than anything
else.”
Lydia sniffs and nods. She says, “I’ve been trying to draw everything I can
remember. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Don’t force yourself. Together, we’ll get there,” Stiles promises and reaches
out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear so he can see her face as best as
he can with nothing but the moonlight to go off of.
Lydia sighs and says, “My parents, when I was little, when the doctors couldn’t
decide whether I had Asperger’s or was atypical, they hired a woman who had won
thirtydifferent pageants to teach me to smile. To wear it like a plastic crown
and a sash. And you know what?”
Stiles says nothing. He clutches her hands and gives them a comforting squeeze.
If she has something to say, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t listen.
“She was good,” Lydia continues, her face pale and her eyes distant. “She was
the best. And I could pretend for a long while around the other children so
they didn’t notice I had something lacking in me. But the only two people that
were able to see through me were Scott and Jackson. Sometimes I didn’t have to
pretend as much with them. But for my parents it was importantthat I was
normal. All that money and success but they had an autistic daughter.”
Stiles inhales sharply at that.
“They wanted normal and so I gave it to them. I gave it to them until I had
them fooled. But then my dad took me camping when I was nine to break the news
to me that they were getting divorced and he was moving to Boston to open up a
private practice there.” Lydia’s mouth trembles but her voice is steady and her
gaze is determined. “I don’t remember running off. Not really. I was so upset.
I found myself being furious. All that practicing. All that pretending. And
what did I have to show for it? Still a broken home. Then I was attacked.”
Stiles hardly lets himself breathe as he listens closely. He knows this part
from what little Erica told him a long time ago.
“Red eyes like those...you don’t ever forget. It sliced its claws into me like
it was trying to get to bone, and it bit into me over and over again like it
was trying to shape its own teeth with nothing but my skin and muscles. While I
screamed, it just howled at the moon,” Lydia goes on to say. “I woke up in the
hospital a little later, thinking maybe it was a terrible nightmare. But Dr.
Morrell was at my bedside. My parents clutching at what was left of me. I don’t
think they expected me to survive the night. But I did. That’s when the voices
started. I couldn’t face it, but Dr. Morrell wanted me to. She said it was
important. What I mistook as therapy turned out to be something different. And
when my parents noticed I wasn’t getting better, they pulled me off her
treatments.
“They shoved me towards someone who could feed me pills and make the voices
quiet. It worked for a little while, and my parents never separated. I think it
was the guilt. I became a project for them. Something to fix while they ignored
their own broken marriage,” she says. “So they brought back the woman who made
me, so that she could make me again. My parents and I never really talked about
what happened to me. The fact that all my scars had vanished on its own was
largely ignored too. Life pushed forward anyway, and then you came to town. The
whispers came back. They wouldn’t be ignored this time.”
“Lydia, I had no idea you went through all of that,” Stiles confesses.
“How could you? We didn’t know each other yet,” Lydia replies and she sounds
drowsy now. She gives a bone-cracking yawn. “Take me with you when you go see
Deaton tomorrow. I think I can help with the Nymph.”
Stiles nods and watches as she lets go of his hands to roll away to the other
side of the bed and grab her egg from his nightstand to clutch close to her
chest.
Lydia’s voice is drowsy, and she’s obviously near sleep as she murmurs, “Hold
your phone in your hand while you sleep.”
Stiles mumbles in confusion as he drifts off himself.
“I’m not sure why you should either. It’s a feeling I can’t explain. Just trust
me.”
Stiles sighs and slaps his hand onto the top of his nightstand. He feels around
before he comes across his phone. He pulls it into bed with him and falls
asleep with it in hand.
                                      ---
Stiles awakens to the insistent vibration of his phone in his hand. He blinks
blurrily and in confusion at his lit screen but his eyes are too damp with
sleep. He sighs and just answers with a scratchy voice, “Hello?”
“Finally,” Kate hisses from the other end. “I was worried I would have to scale
your house and climb into your window to drag you out of bed myself. Get
dressed and come outside. I need to talk to you.”
Stiles opens his mouth to ask her what the hell is going on but she must
anticipate that because she hangs up. He exhales in annoyance and rubs tiredly
at his eyes as he tries to mentally talk himself into getting out of bed.
Five minutes later, he’s hunting around in the dark for some clothes, trying to
be as quiet as possible so he doesn’t disturb Lydia or anyone else in the house
(not even his magic, which is sound asleep between the teeth of his ribcage).
He tiptoes out of his room, down the steps and out the back door. He makes his
way around the house to the front where Kate is waiting in her shiny, black
Jaguar.
“Took you long enough,” Kate says, and for once she’s not on her phone or
fiddling with her radio. Today she’s drowning in a Super Mario sweater that
clearly isn’t her own and some black leggings that make her knees look knobby
and her legs like baseball bats. Her hair's a mess and she has no makeup on,
but even barefaced she’s beautiful. She looks less threatening than normal.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you, but not here.”
“It’s four in the morning. I hope this is good.”
Kate doesn’t confirm whether it is or not. She just drives. She takes him to
Little Slices of Heaven, the 24/7 café, which is located in the heart of Beacon
Hill’s metropolitan area, and she gives some kind of secret phrase to a female
bouncer.
Stiles finds it bizarre that a cafeneeds a bouncer.
Kate grips his right arm as the bouncer steps to the side to let them enter.
It’s pretty crowded, which is surprising because it’s four in the morning on a
Wednesday.
But the more Stiles lets his eyes explore, the more he notices that the crowd
is mostly what appears to be college kids. Then he takes the time to really
look and realizes that there are all different sorts of age groups. People in
their late twenties, early thirties, or even middle aged people too. There’s a
mix of nationalities and genders, all different colors, much like a crayon box.
Some of them sit at the cafe tables or stand around communing with each other
over mugs of tea or coffee.
To the very back of the cafe is a platform, almost like a stage, with a light
beaming towards a brick wall and a mic on a stand.
Kate wordlessly pulls him to the other end of the room with the best view.
They sit at a booth across from each other as some guy with a bushy beard,
thick eyebrows, and sleeve tattoos on both arms pours them a cup of coffee
before wandering off to attend to a group of punk chic ladies lumped together,
muttering things about feminism and reproductive rights from behind their
journals - then they start discussing the economic implications of Valkyries
drafting themselves into the US military.
“The salmon burgers here are excellent,” Kate remarks as she looks out the
window they’re seated near.
“I’m not hungry.” Stiles downs his cup of coffee before he snatches her mug to
down that as well and she doesn’t even blink.
The burly barista descends on them once more and refills their cups.
Stiles takes the time to notice he has a tattoo of a Centaur on his neck, and
he starts to wonder.
Kate takes back her mug and sends him a look that dares him to fight her for
it.
Stiles doesn’t even try. He takes slower sips of his third cup as he begins to
wake. His leg begins to bounce as the caffeine floods his system. “So...what’s
going on?” he asks. “Where are we, and why do I feel like everyone here feels
familiar to me?”
“It’s a regular cafe by day,” Kate admits. “But once a month some of the
Supernaturals gather here to commune in peace and private.”
Stiles feels his knee jerk into the bottom of the table in surprise, rattling
everything on top and he curses as the spot pulses with pain. “You mean
everyone is —”
“Listening to everything we’re saying? Yes, so choose your words carefully,
buttercup. You’re a new face around here, so they’ll want to eavesdrop to
figure out what you are,” Kate warns. She takes a moment to take a nice long
sip of her coffee.
Stiles chances a glance over to the crowd, and while some of them are
whispering amongst each other, a few of them are glancing his way with
unconcealed curiosity.
“Relax,” Kate urges. “No harm is going to come to you here. It’s the safest
place at the moment. No one steps foot in this place unless management
fortifies it with all sorts of security wards and details.”
Stiles is trying to process all this information but he’s kind of still waking
up.
“Watch,” Kate finally says. “It’s open mic night.”
“What?”
Kate presses a slender finger to her lips before pointing to the stage.
Stiles turns.
Stepping onto the platform is a light sepia colored woman with cropped black
hair that hangs slanted right around her chin. Her brown eyes sit behind thin
black-framed glasses, and she looks to be in her mid-fifties. She’s wearing a
leather dress with a v-neck opening in the front, which dips scandalously low
towards her pierced bellybutton. She is covered in tattoos from shoulder to
ankle.
A sudden hush falls over the cafe.
“Hello everyone. As always, it’s wonderful to see such an awesome turn out.
Last month we ran with the theme of Presentation, and what our experiences were
like when we came into our paranormal inheritance. We heard some lovely stories
from Werewolves, and Witches, and Werecats, and Harpies, and so on and so
forth. So let’s take the time to give a round of applause for that and to those
who participated.”
Everyone claps, and even some people whistle.
“Thank you. For those of you who are new here, my name is Ava. My son and I,
the very attractive but surly looking barista who has been serving you drinks
named Rosamie, are the owners of this fine establishment,” Ava says. “We moved
here from the Philippines to blend in and offer business to Humans, but also to
root ourselves in the Supernatural community and act as a bridge between both.
The only way we can do that is to make sure that we as Paranormals are in
harmony with each other first. Which is why we started these Paranormal Potluck
Nightcaps every first Wednesday of the month.”
Everyone claps in agreement when her next pause cues it.
Stiles starts dumping cream and sugar into his coffee this time because he
can’t take anymore of the bitter aftertaste.
“Tonight’s theme is ‘death and family’. I have a special guest. One of our
favorites, who is going to set the mood before we open the floor to everyone,”
Ava goes on to say. “Everyone give a warm reception to Kate Argent as she
comes.”
Everyone cheers excitedly and Stiles realizes that Kate must attend these
regularly to get a response like that.
Stiles lifts his cup, blows on it and watches as the older woman slides out of
the booth.
Kate pauses near him before she passes, looking oddly out of sorts for a moment
before she says, “I slept with Parrish the other night.”
Stiles chokes on his next sip of coffee and it spills down the front of his
shirt.
Kate leaves him just like that to wander up to the stage as everyone begins to
clap again. She runs her fingers through her hair as the stage light shines
brightly on her and she adjusts the mic stand to her liking. Then she
straightens as she runs her tongue over her white teeth and sighs.
An attentive hush falls over the cafe.
Stiles, still dabbing away at his wet shirt, turns to watch and listen to what
she will say.
“Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent,” Kate says softly in French, slipping
into her mother tongue as easy as she could slip on her makeup. “We hunt those
who hunt us. Growing up, this was my dad’s lullaby to me. While other fathers
were taking their daughters to see Disney on Ice, mine took me to the shooting
range to perfect my aim. He said he was preparing me for war. He said a head
full of fears has no space for dreams. When I rebelled, he called me spoiled.
When I cleaved myself to the Hales in an open act of defiance, he called me
naive.
“And when I told him that I planned to marry into a family of Weres someday, he
shoved me into his car and took me out into the woods,” she says and pauses,
making sure she has every ear. “He pointed out to the nearby path and told me
to walk that way. I stepped out onto the gravel road as it cut its way before
me like a black river through the grassy plain. I thought this was some kind
scare tactic, and I called his bluff. But my confident stride, as I got closer,
slowed into timid and careful steps when I noticed the body. Well at least half
of a body.”
Someone gasps.
Stiles is on the edge of his seat now.
“My knees started to buckle under me as my heart thrashed wildly in my chest
like some drunk and enraged animal bashing against its cage for freedom. I’d
never smelt death before, or even seen it, but I knew it was something
unpleasant. I didn’t know what it would smell like, but I still cradled my nose
behind my hand just in case,” Kate continues. “Once I got closer, I immediately
wished I hadn’t walked over at all. The woman was laid out on her side just
along the edge of the road. I knew without really knowing that she must have
crossed some fatal path with my dad and his goons. I stood in front of the
woman with her bloodied breasts and stomach facing my direction. Even as half
of a person, she was so small, so still.
“This curve of flesh drenched in chunks of red that darkened the contrast
between her pale skin and the blood that was matted against it. Her grey eyes
were wide, unblinking and unfocused. To me, it still looked like she was
choking on a heap of unsaid words since her mouth sat agape in horror; tongue
sagged. The ground underneath her seemed to cry out, intoxicated by the deep
and sticky wine that spilled from her gutted middle. The flies and the
freckled-sized gnats seemed to join in on the celebration as they jumped from
angle to angle, hair to hair, eye to eye. I saw worms squirm their way upwards,
as though they had used the long threads of blood that had sunken into the
ground as their ropes, hoisting themselves up until it ended at the source.
“They gathered among themselves and danced around the decay in short, erratic
movements. The sight of it, so close, made my stomach twist around itself and
my throat jerked forward towards the back of my tongue like it was trying to
escape. I had no illusions that she would move nor that she would come alive by
some miracle if I prayed hard enough. Faith in the goodness of my kind had
sifted away in the presence of reality. I couldn’t help but to think, what if
this had been my best friend, or her mom or any one of them? It made me sick.
In that moment, I knew that I would never be able to accept my heritage as a
Hunter.
“As soon as the thought glazed though my mind, I felt this burning pain in my
cheek,” Kate says as she touches her hand to the right side of her face as if
she could still feel the pain, even now. “My dad had struck me when he saw the
tears. He seemed disgusted in that moment to witness my empathy at work. He
told me not to bother feeling sorry for it. He said Weres like her don’t weep
over the corpses of the little girls they kill. That they like to eat the
hearts of weak-willed children. Like me. See, he was trying to instill fear in
me that moment, hoping that it would incubate blind hatred I could grow into
and feed endlessly for the rest of my life.
“Your enemies prowl around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour,
he warned me when I continued to seek out the Hales as my chosen family, my
chosen friends. He sees Supernaturals as monsters instead of the people
underneath. He walks around with that contempt thundering above his head like a
cloud, while he calls himself a leader of our town. Yet he forgets the most
important lesson,” she goes on to say. “That whoever fights monsters should see
to it that in the process they, themselves, do not become a monster. And that
if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. Thank
you for listening.”
Ava engulfs Kate in a hug as she exits the stage while the occupants of the
cafe clap boisterously in the background.
Stiles is among those who cheer and he waits anxiously as she makes her way
through the swaying crowd.
Kate has to stop a few times to shake hands with people who are eager to pay
her compliments for her performance. There are more pats to the back, and
verbal praises before she reaches their booth, successfully extracting herself
from the fanfare.
“You were amazing,” Stiles commends as they sit down across from each other
again. He notices that her hands are shaking when she hides them under the
table. “Do you ever write any of this down?”
“Of course,” Kate says evenly, poker face set in place. “My memory is shit
otherwise. Laura always said I could spin a tale better than most, and my
guidance counselor was always on my ass about taking creative writing courses
during the summer when school was out. It seems so foolish to make a career of
it, but I’m not good at much else.”
Stiles knows she’s really downplaying her talents, but he foregoes commenting
at the moment to say, “Kate, if any of what I just heard is any indication, you
have a resonating voice. And everyone here seems to already be invested. You’ll
be a wonderful writer.”
Kate huffs but tosses him a wry grin. “Thanks, Tenderfoot.”
Stiles nods and waits a few moments before he follows up with, “So when you
said you slept with Parrish…”
“I mean that I rode him until we were both cross-eyed,” is Kate’s crude
response, smirking when Stiles gets flustered. “To put things in perspective,
Peter slept with him first.”
“What?”
“Well, yeah. You didn’t think Peter was a nun while we were growing up, did
you? I wasn’t always the apple of his eye. He had it bad for Kyle way before I
was in the picture,” Kate patiently explains. “We know recently that Kyle
didn’t lose his virginity to Peter. But Peter did give his to Kyle, and Kyle
had to go and break his heart by running off to the military shortly after.
Finding out about what my dad did to him when he was around your age was
another blow too.”
“Peter and Parrish used to date?” Stiles reiterates because he’s trying to
understand.
“No,” Kate sighs as she shakes her head. “They were best friends since
childhood, but the feelings came later. As did the physical things, but like I
said, Kyle ran off before they could make it official. When he came back to
town, Peter tried to downplay the whole situation but I know that idiot like I
know myself. He thought Kyle came back for him.”
“But it wasn’t for him. It was for Isaac,” Stiles realizes and all their past
encounters are making more and more sense. “Peter’s devastated, isn’t he?”
“Yup,” Kate says, lips popping sharply on the ‘p’. “I wish he would just be
honest with me about how he feels. I told him that I didn’t care, and that I
liked Kyle too. Enough to invite him into our dynamic without it getting weird,
but I think he thinks that I’m trying to trick him or something. Like I’ll
break up with him if he tells me not all of his heart is mine. But I don’t know
how many times I have to make it clear until he understands that he’s it for
me, and that I wouldn’t give him up without a fight.”
“But you slept with Parrish because…”
“Oh, that.” Kate shrugs as she sits back and crosses her arms. “Someone had to
break the sexual tension. And maybe this way Peter and Kyle can stop tiptoeing
around me and realize I’m cool with it. Also, I mean, have you seen Kyle? Tell
me you wouldn’t hit that either.”
Stiles wrinkles his face into a frown. “He’s my brother’s dad. That’s
like...pseudo-incest or something.”
Kate laughs sharply. “If you say so,” she replies. “Anyway, I thought I could
talk to you about it before I fessed up to Laura, and that girl can get so
judge-y with me sometimes. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d ditch her.”
Stiles snorts. “I’m honored, I guess,” he says, but it’s a really weird
situation. “Peter won’t be upset?”
“Only that I beat him to the punch and that he didn’t get to watch,” Kate
admits with another carefree shrug. “We’ve had threesomes before. It’s nothing
new.”
“Okay, waytoo much information,” Stiles complains and rubs at his face. Then he
realizes something. “Wait, you said it happened the other night. You slept with
him when he took you out to dinner?”
“Let’s just say that if I hadn’t swung by to grab you tonight, I probably would
have still been in bed with him,” Kate clarifies with a grin. “I’m starting to
understand where Peter gets some of his tricks.”
Stiles sends her an exasperated look and shakes his head.
“Now come sit over here with me,” Kate instructs. “I’ll order you a brownie,
we’ll finish watching the rest of the performances, and then I’ll take you
home.”
Stiles is settling on her side of the booth when she waves over the burly
barista and puts her order in (a la mode).
A male, who looks to be around his age group, takes the stage next. He has
chestnut skin, brown eyes, and curly-coily hair that hangs like a massive dark
cloud around his oval-shaped face. He has a horizontal brow piercing, and a
septum piercing. He takes a moment to adjust the mic, bring it up higher since
he appears to be taller than Kate.
“Yo, how’s everyone doing tonight?” he asks with an amused smirk while
different people respond. “My name is Octavian for those who don’t know.
Originally from South Central, born and raised. Uh, I just turned seventeen, so
yes I am as young as I look. Ey, let’s take a moment to give Kate one more
round of applause, that was some deep stuff, man.”
Everyone murmurs in agreement as they clap.
“That’s right. That’s right. Cause anyone here can speak to how hard it is to
get up here and fucking bare your soul in front of strangers,” Octavian says
over the sound of their clapping. “This woman came from a bloodline of people
who make it their mission to take us down. But she’s taking a stand, and in
these times, we really need that now more than ever.”
The clapping gets louder.
Kate just nods amiably and sends Octavian a thumbs-up.
Octavian laughs and then makes a gesture for the crowd to settle. “Also big
props to Ms. Ava and to Rosamie for holding it down and keeping their doors
open to us.” Speaking louder, while everyone is clapping, he adds, “Without
them, none of this would be possible. I know I’m grateful. I’ve made more
connections here outside of my own people than I have anywhere else.”
Ava smiles and tosses him a kiss from where she’s working from behind the
counter, peddling coffee and pastries upon request.
Octavian waits until the noise dies down. He says, “Also another reminder. We
have our semi-annual Paranormals at the Park coming up soon. Originally it was
set for the twenty-fifth but based on last year’s feedback, we’re bumping it
back to the first of July. For any of you who don’t know what it is, Ms. Ava
and Rosamie reserve the whole of Beacon Hills District Park number three. So
bring ya families and ya friends. They rent out bouncy castles for all the
shorties, and get food catered so you don’t gotta worry about nothing but
showing up, networking, and having a good time. So mark your calendars.”
“You ever been to any of those?” Stiles asks as Kate leans against him.
Kate nods. “I usually bring Laura and Peter with me when I go. It’s actually a
lot of fun. They have games and events you can participate in to win prizes and
stuff. Why? You interested?”
Stiles is thinking mainly about Isaac and Lydia. He thinks it’ll be good for
them too. “Maybe. If you’re going then let me know. I start my driver’s ed
classes soon, but I’ll work it out,” he promises.
Kate nods from where she’s resting her head on his shoulder.
Rosamie returns to their booth with their brownies (a la mode) before moving on
to the next table.
Stiles has never tasted such rich chocolate before. When he finishes his, he
starts pecking away at Kate’s plate.
Kate starts fussing but Stiles says it's payback for all those lost jello cups.
Octavian, still behind the mic, says, “Alright ya’ll, I been working on this
for a hot minute so be gentle with me. This piece is called The Hanging Tree.”
He clears his throat and continues, “My grandma, the High Priestess to the
Pegasus Clan of South Central, used to say that a person with no good manners
ain’t worth much more than a pig in a sty waiting for the slaughter. That even
if it was Peril who invited you for dinner, you shouldn’t say no. It was late
May, the eve of my thirteenth birthday, just when I teetered on the cusp of
puberty, when Peril’s invitation came in the form of my best friend Chuno
Lopez. Now this was way back before he was gunned down before our eighth grade
graduation…”
Stiles lets himself get lost in the narration of this story, and all the other
performances that come after. Nana once told him that Beacon Hills was flushed
with Supernaturals of all kind, but he doesn’t think he realized to what extent
she meant. He certainly does now.
When it’s nearly seven in the morning, and everyone is gearing up to leave, or
stay and socialize for a little longer, Kate walks him around and introduces
him to some of her friends.
They all seem amused but unsurprised that Kate is being tight-lipped about what
breed of paranormal Stiles is. They call her a tease but quickly move on to
other subjects, not seeming too bothered about being kept in the dark.
Stiles actually enjoys talking to the people he does meet, and he ends up
exchanging numbers with a few of them, promising to follow up on all the offers
and invitations he gets. Things like bowling, skating, movies, hiking, camping
and so on and so forth.
Kate eventually has to extract them since the sun is starting to rise, and they
exit the cafe when most of the nearby businesses are opening for the day.
Stiles waits until they’ve driven a good distance out of hearing range to ask,
“Is there any particular reason why you didn’t want them to know I was a
Virtue?”
“Are you kidding? Then they really wouldn’t have let us leave,” Kate laughs.
“Stiles, you get that as a Seven, that makes you like the Beyoncé of the
Supernatural community? You tell me what you think would’ve have happened if
they knew.”
“Ah,” Stiles says, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “Flying under the radar is best
then.”
“Exactly.”
The rest of the car ride is spent in silence.
Stiles doesn’t even want to glance at the time when they finally make it to his
house.
Kate pulls into his driveway and turns off her car. “You mind if I crash on
your couch? I’m not ready to go home yet and face the music,” she admits.
“Uh, sure, but let me run it by my dad real quick.”
Kate waves him off and they climb out of the car together, walking around the
side of the house to get to the back door.
It’s still quiet when they enter, and Stiles reasons that everyone is still
sleep. He quickly jets up the stairs (leaving Kate downstairs) and to his dad’s
room, knocking and waiting until his dad mumbles for him to come in. He does
and drops down on his knees at the edge of the bed.
His dad turns over and looks at him with red eyes. “Where did you run off too?
I heard you leave early in the morning,” he says.
Stiles smiles apologetically. “I was with Kate. She took me to this like open
mic thing for Paranormals. It was really nice.”
“I’m sure it was,” his dad says gruffly before leveling him with a sleepy eyed
stare. “Your lucky your aunt warned me beforehand about you sneaking out, and
that you’d be okay. Even so, run it by me next time. You’re fifteen. This is
your only warning.”
“Understood!” Stiles swears quickly. “Sorry. Uh, Kate wants to know if she can
stay over?”
His dad sighs before rolling back over. “That’s fine. Give her one of the
blankets from the linen closet,” he suggests before going back to sleep.
“Thanks, dad. You're the best,” Stiles whispers before he exits, closing the
door behind him. He tiptoes back down the steps and to the linen closet located
next to the food pantry near the back door. He grabs one of the fleece blankets
and takes it to the living room.
Kate is already sprawled out on the long couch, fast asleep with her thumb in
her mouth.
Stiles huffs and shakes his head, shaking out the blanket and carefully tucking
her underneath. He yawns and drags himself towards the stairs, then up them. He
grumbling groggily to himself as he climbs into bed beside Lydia, who is still
sound asleep.
He doesn’t even bother to untie his shoes as his exhaustion hits him full
force. He’s out like a light the next moment.
***** match *****
Stiles wakes up by himself, which is not the least bit surprising since it’s
pushing well into three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon when he next wakes.
The world has moved on without him and he’d been so exhausted the night before
that he was fine to let it. He doesn’t usually like to sleep past noon (it
seems so wasteful on summer break). He gives a content stretch, before resting
his hands behind his head as he faces his ceiling.
There’s a certain ache in his bones that he’s not familiar with, but he figures
it's because he might have slept wrong or something. He takes a moment to
meditate on what he can hear outside his open window, and he internally gropes
for his magic, and finds it absent but still senses that it’s close.
He rolls off his bed and to his feet (not as gracefully as he would have
liked). He rakes his long fingers through his messy hair as he wanders over to
the window to see (just as he thought) his magic littering his backyard in the
form of some glittery blue bunny rabbits. It’s nosing its way through the
grass, against the edge of the wood plank fences, around the base of Nana’s
tree and over her exposed roots.
His Aunt Lorraine is out there as well, conversing with Nana just in the same
way she had been the day before. She’s in a long, royal blue sundress with a
big white floppy hat that sits over her shiny strands of fiery red hair, and
she’s leisurely sipping on some fruit laced water. She must see him out of the
corner of her eye because she shifts in her black whisker basket chair, and
tosses him a thousand watt smile with a jaunty wave.
Stiles sends her a slightly more tame one back before pushing away from the
window when it appears that nothing out of the ordinary is happening. He
decides he should probably shower before getting dressed in some fresh clothes.
Which is what he spends the next fifteen minutes or so doing. Scrubbed to the
point of being pink, he returns to his hot room to slip into a thin, short
sleeved dark blue/black checkered flannel shirt and a pair of dark grey
sweatshorts.
It’s not until he’s slipping into a pair of sneakers does he realize and notice
how scorching and muggy it feels. Frowning, he guesses that it’s going to be
another particularly steamy day. He sighs to himself and goes in search of his
phone, which he finds behind his nightstand. He breaks out in a light sweat
over the struggle of retrieving it and is annoyed almost instantly.
There are a few texts and missed calls that pop up as notifications on his
phone (and it distracts him from his irritation with the temperature). A good
portion of them are from Derek, Deaton, Cora, and Scott.
Stiles calls Deaton first because he ranks in importance at the moment. He’s
glad that the older man picks up after the second ring. “You’re feeling better,
I hope,” he says, by way of greeting.
Deaton responds, “As well as can be managed with the time I gave myself to
rest. Thank you for your concern.”
Stiles shrugs, even though he knows the older man can’t see. “Your bruises were
pretty noticeable,” he points out. He doesn’t really mean to mention it but
he’s still upset about his mentor’s mistreatment by his Dwarven hosts.
Especially since he feels partially responsible.
“I’ve endured worse,” Deaton replies, voice steady but vaguely consoling as
well. “Though they were hardly gentle, they quickly corrected their temperament
when they realized their mistake.”
Stiles just hums and says nothing of it.
“Since I have your ear, I was hoping to drop by later this evening so we can
start working on the layouts for your garden. I was able to go to City Hall’s
building department and have a clerk commission some blueprints for your front
and backyard. Will you be free? I would come sooner but I have to meet with
Braeden and her older sister in regards to the test results for the type of
poison used on Mr. Ravenhill. I don’t want to presume to take up any of your
time if you have other plans.”
Stiles is bubbling with excitement when he replies, “Even if I wasn’t free, I
would cancel all other plans. Are you kidding? This takes precedence over
everything else in my life.”
Deaton sounds just a touch amused when he says, “Your enthusiasm is
appreciated, Mr. Stilinski. I’ll be there within a few hours, or sooner if it
can be helped.”
Stiles gives him a distracted goodbye, mind already far and wandering over the
possibilities that await him once his mentor shows up. His stomach rumbles,
drifting his attention elsewhere, and he makes his way to his kitchen with the
bible of Virtues in hand.
The house is blessedly cooler on the lower level (all the windows are open for
a nice breeze to float through).
Isaac, Lydia, and Kate are in the living room.
Isaac is curled up in his favorite armchair with a shiny, new red etch-a-sketch
Stiles doesn’t ever remember him having. He seems to be outlining an owl with
elaborate feathers.
Meanwhile, Kate is still an immobile, unseen lump hiding under a powder purple
fleece blanket on the long couch (chest rising and falling slowly).
Lydia is sitting in his dad’s chair on the other side of the coffee table with
her legs pretzeled under her and her jeweled egg clutched in her red
bioluminescent hands. It looks like she’s feeding her magic to her unhatched
Conduit.
A Property Brothersmarathon on HGTV solidly has his little brother and cousin’s
attention at the moment.
His father is sitting at the head of the kitchen table with the morning paper,
looking well rested and cheerful. He also has a stack of tupperware with last
night’s leftovers packed up and ready to go.
Stiles figures he must be leaving for work sometime soon.
His dad shakes out the paper, and grunts, “Look who has decided to join the
land of the living.”
Stiles rolls his eyes while he dials Cora’s number next. Her texts were a bit
on the edge of frantic. “That joke lost it’s charm when I turned six, old man.
You gotta find some new material.”
The sheriff huffs in mock offense from behind the sports section.
“Dad, do you think I could go over to Derek’s and spend the night?”
“Let me reach out to Talia first, and I’ll get back to you on that,” his dad
decides and Stiles tries to hide his disappointment but his dad gives him a
look that says he isn’t successful.
“Stiles?” Cora says after picking up on the seventh ring.
“Speaking,” Stiles replies as he grabs what he needs to make a couple of PB&J
sandwiches. He feels famished. “What’s going on? You don’t usually blow up my
phone.”
“Yeah, well that’s because I screwed up. In a major way. I just— I seem to be
saying the wrong things lately. First with Derek, and now this,” Cora quickly
says. “I don’t know where Boyd is or where he wandered off to but I swear to
the Great Mother Moon and on Ginger that I had no idea he didn’t know about
Isaac! All I did was mention it in passing. I didn’t think that— I didn’t
know—”
In the living room, Isaac stiffens noticeably before he rights himself on his
armchair like he’s been zapped with something. “Cora...what are you talking
about?” he says lowly.
Cora inhales sharply in Stiles’s ear through his phone. “Isaac, I’m so sorry. I
thought he knew! I thought he knew!” she swears apologetically. “Now he’s
really upset. He thinks I’m being mean — that it’s a joke or a prank or
whatever. He doesn’t believe me. He swears you would have said something if it
were true. I didn’t know what to say. I was confused myself since I know he’s
your best friend. Isaac, why haven’t you told him?”
Isaac looks a little pale but also heavily confused. “Why are you talking to
Boyd about me?” he asks slowly. Cora’s other words don’t seem to be sinking in
fully. He looks a little like he’s in denial. “When would you have...what’s
going on?”
The sheriff lowers the paper with his own frown. “Stiles?” he says and looks to
his oldest son. The question in his tone is obvious.
Stiles shrugs wordlessly, a little loss himself as he keeps his phone pressed
to his ear.
Even Lydia is muting the TV in concern as she glances over in the direction of
the kitchen. She’s not looking at anyone or anything in particular, but it’s
clear she’s paying close attention to what’s happening.
“Ugh, just — put me on speaker,” Cora hurriedly demands.
Stiles does what she says and puts his smartphone face up on the table.
“Isaac, listen,” Cora sounds frantic now. “I was waiting to go to the park with
you, remember? You went elsewhere, and I guess I didn’t see you leave, but
Derek was saying that Boyd was joining us in your place. We connected and — I
don’t think either of us were expecting it, you know? So he spent the night,
after we left the park. Just as a formality. I had to — he needed to be
introduced to the Pack. We were going to tell you after we talked to my mom to
start the Bonding process with her permission. I know he’s your best friend and
—”
“I don’t understand,” Isaac interrupts but his voice sounds shaky. Not like
nervous, but leaning towards upset. “Bonding? What bonding? You make it sound
like you two — that he’s your —”
Cora grows deathly quiet on the other end.
“Cora. Tell me you didn’t.”
Cora’s response is guilty silence.
“I don’t understand. I asked you if — but you said you would never —” Isaac
cuts himself off with a frustrated growl. Then he tries again, saying, “I don’t
understand.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Cora promises, voice nasally and Stiles jolts with the
realization that she’s crying. He has no idea what’s going on here but it’s
obviously very serious.
Isaac looks thunderously betrayed.
Cora sniffs. “Isaac, please, I swear I didn’t lie. I never thought I would find
my Match.”
“He’s mybest friend, Cora. Did you even consider that?”
“Of course I did!” Cora snaps. “Don’t be unreasonable. You know things like
this aren’t up for us to decide.”
“For someone who backs science and facts and reason so much, you’re sure quick
to blame this on chance!” Isaac retorts, tone just as testy.
“That’s because it was! Don’t do that. Don’t toss my beliefs in my face like
that,” Cora growls but she also sounds sad. “I had no idea — I thought you
would be happy—”
Isaac barks out a laugh and it sounds both cruel and vulnerable. “Happy, right.
Like it’s not even enough that you’re trying to steal the only best friend I’ve
gotten the chance to know, and then you went and told him about me when I
wasn’t ready. You had no right. And I’m supposed to be happyabout all this? How
could you —” He cuts himself off again with another frustrated growl. His
expression goes livid and cold. He inhales slowly before he exhales. “Hang up
on her, Stiles.”
“Isaac!” Cora says sharply. “Don’t ice me out too! Boyd already isn’t returning
any of my calls or responding to any of my texts. And I didn’t know, so you’re
being really unfair!”
“I don’t care. You Werewolves are all the same. You see something you like and
you have to go and claim it for yourselves for all of eternity. Damn the
consequences and everyone else. I can’t believe I thought you were any
different,” Isaac replies coldly as he marches over and snatches Stiles’s phone
off the table. He hangs up on her himself.
“Uh, son. That was kind of harsh,” his dad says, folding up his paper and
pushing it to the side.
Isaac shrugs wordlessly with a prominent frown and moves to hug his dad from
behind, ducking his head low. He rubs his face back and forth against his
father’s right shoulder as his scarred face grows red, and he sniffs. “’m
sorry,” he mumbles, and he sounds a little ashamed.
The sheriff sighs in concern and reaches up to pet his youngest son on the head
in attempt to comfort him. “It’s okay, Isaac,” he assures. “We talked about
this before. You’re allowed to get angry and express yourself. It’s healthier
to get it out than to bottle it in.”
Isaac sniffs again and he’s shaking a little. “I don’t like the way it makes me
feel, dad,” he mutters.
“That’s perfectly normal,” the sheriff promises and pets him on the head again.
“Emotions are tricky, but we’ve got to navigate through the good and the bad.”
“Here, here,” Stiles chimes as he pockets his phone. “Dad’s right. Your
reaction was harsh but it’s not like you broke my phone or anything. You made
it veryclear that you were unhappy. Remember when you just wouldn’t say
anything at all and it was like silent charades? You’ve come so far.”
His dad shoots him a grateful look as he continues, “You really have. So now
what? You think you can call Boyd and try to straighten out this situation? You
probably should have told him, Isaac,” he says, not unkindly.
Isaac mumbles and continues to stubbornly rub his face against his father’s
shoulder.
“Use your words,” his dad lightly chastises.
“I lost my phone yesterday,” Isaac admits as he pulls away. His blue eyes are a
bit misty and his brow is crinkled with his upset. He looks endearingly grumpy.
His dad scoffs and shakes his head. “And just when were you going to tell me?”
“Before you left,” Isaac is quick to say, looking cornered. Then he looks
guilty as he adds, “Maybe.”
“That was an expensive phone,” his dad presses with a bothered sigh. “I’ll call
the phone company later to see if they can trace it, or see how much money I’ll
have to fork over to replace it. I’m tempted to hold off on that as
punishment.”
Isaac pouts and crosses his arms but he doesn’t argue. He looks at Stiles and
says, “Sorry we put you in the middle of that.”
Stiles grins fondly with a shrug. “For what it’s worth, I really don’t think
she knew that you hadn’t told Boyd yet about being a Werecat.”
Isaac mumbles something as he rubs at his eyes with a perturbed sound.
The sheriff leans back to eye him and asks, “So what’s the deal? You seemed
disappointed when she broke the news about her and Boyd. You sounded fond of
Cora the last time you mentioned her to me. Said you set aside your biological
differences.”
Isaac laughs bitterly and it kind of breaks Stiles’s heart to hear the sound.
“Cora said she didn’t think she’d ever find who was right for her. She always
thought that having a Match was nonsense, and something people made up to avoid
the terrifying reality that no one wants to be lonely, and that it’s just some
fantasy to find the one. So we made a pact to bond when we got older because we
liked each other enough not to have any expectations about a romantic
relationship or whatever. But now this…”
Stiles is beginning to understand, and by the expression on their dad’s face,
so is he.
Isaac continues. “It was just a stupid kid’s promise. It doesn’t matter now.
And I wouldn’t have cared as much if she’d picked anyoneelse,” he mutters, face
going a bit pink with his irritation. “I better go find Boyd. He’s probably
pissed at me. I —I don’t want to lose him. I mean I kind of already am but...”
He doesn’t complete the thought. He sighs.
“Did you want me to come with you to find him?” Stiles asks, softly.
Isaac shakes his head.
“Now hold on,” the sheriff says. “I get that you’re in a predicament, but
understand me clearly when I say that I’m not comfortable with you leaving the
house on your own when we have no way to contact you.”
Isaac looks crushed.
“Isaac, stay,” Lydia says as she rises from her seat with her egg in hand.
“Bud out,” Isaac retorts as he glares at her. “This is your fault too, I think.
You insisted that Boyd stay behind. Did you know? Did you know what would
happen?”
Lydia’s face clears of all expression but she seems defensive. “I just had a
feeling. I couldn’t really know. My gift isn’t ‘exact’ like that, but I saw joy
in his future, and I knew that for some reason it started here in this house.
But if you want to blame me, you can.”
Isaac just frowns at her, but it’s losing some ire.
“Stay,” Lydia insists as she walks over and nods to the sheriff. “Don’t worry.
He doesn’t have to leave. I think Boyd’s already on his way here.”
Isaac eyes her and it’s clear he’s wondering if he should even trust what she
says but then the doorbell rings. He looks nervous but determined as he walks
to the door.
Stiles can hear Boyd’s voice clear as day. His tone is steady but he’s clearly
upset. Then there’s the click of the door closing.
“They stepped outside on the porch,” Lydia clarifies when both the sheriff and
Stiles frown in confusion.
His dad silently rises from the table and enters the living room to carefully
watch things unfold from behind the fluttering window curtains.
Lydia sits at the table and gestures for Stiles to continue what he’s doing.
“Make me one too. How did you sleep?”
“Dreamless, but I’m pretty sure I got my recommended eight hours,” Stiles
answers as he makes her a sandwich first, before he makes three for himself. He
sits down across from her with a content sigh. “How about you? I didn’t even
feel you get up.”
“Dreamless. Hasn’t been that way for a long time though. Pleasant surprise, if
anything,” Lydia admits, breaking her sandwich apart piece by piece before
popping the pieces in her mouth (one by one). “Being near you settles me.”
“I’m glad,” Stiles says around a mouthful of food. He grins when she rolls her
eyes at his rude behavior. “Plans for the day?”
“Aunt Lorraine insisted I stay. Uncle Jon was going to take me home but she
said she would do it. She says she’s going to teach me about Banshee anatomy,
and where my seven main points of Chakra are located since that is where I pull
my magic from,” Lydia says, voice tinged with contained excitement at the
prospect. “If that goes well, she’ll start showing me how to access all my
points through Yoga and Meditation.”
“Cool,” Stiles says because it does sound interesting. “I think I’ll sit with
Nana and resume my lessons. Today is going to be about Temperance. And Deaton
is coming over to help me map out my garden later.”
Lydia lifts her gaze from her plate and stares at him for a long time before
she says (in Polish), “Do what you will, cousin, since it is your territory.
But for my sake, make it feel like home.”
Stiles doesn’t let it slip his notice the way she emphasizes the word ‘home’.
“I know, Lyds,” he says softly in the same dialect. “I will. I promise. That’s
important to me too.”
Lydia nods in approval and, in English, says, “I look forward to seeing how you
master it, then.”
“The construction will be interesting,” Stiles agrees between bites. “Is it
crazy that I’m nervous?”
Lydia shakes her head. “Stiles, don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”
“Is that the discernment talking?”
“No, that’s me being proud and confident in my older cousin’s abilities as a
Virtue.”
Stiles ducks his head shyly and smiles as he’s overcome by warm affection for
her. “It’s honestly strange when I think about homefor us. In the back of my
mind it’s like a dream, you know?”
“Something just out of reach,” Lydia adds, and it’s clear she understands what
he means. “Almost like missing or wishing for something you don’t even really
remember.”
“Exactly,” Stiles sighs in a whimsical fashion. “Deep into that darkness
peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing.”
“Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,” Lydia
finishes, reading his thoughts. “Poe paints such a vivid picture, doesn’t he?”
Stiles nods as he thinks on the poem. It was always his favorite back in grade
school (and still even now), simply because it seemed so familiar to him.
“I think he dreamt many dreams each time the love of his life slipped from his
fingers,” Lydia supposes with a faraway look that’s almost chilling to witness.
“I went to this cafe called Little Slices of Heaven, and I heard a rumor that
Poe was a Banshee.”
“A Vice, I think,” Lydia corrects as she thinks on it as well. “Of Pride and
Wrath.”
“Do you think maybe Poe had ever been to Faerie? Do you think Vices are even
allowed?”
“They are Fae as well, so if I can enter into the Great Garden, then why
wouldn’t they get the same courtesy?”
“I don’t know, I guess. My experience of Vices so far makes me think that they
aren’t good,” Stiles explains as he thinks of the Benefactor in particular.
Lydia says, as though she’s reading his mind, “The Benefactor really isn’t the
best example for all Vices. We should ask Nana for sure.”
Stiles nods in silent agreement. He’s no longer hungry, but the ache in his
bones is still there, and he feels a little hot, even though he probably
shouldn't be since it’s a really nice temperature in the lower level of the
house. Outside of that, he doesn’t feellike he’s sick or coming down with
something.
A breeze sweeps into the room and the zoom of a motorcycle echoes in the
street, magnifying all at once before shrinking into nothing at the next
moment.
Stiles uses the pause to text Scott.
Scott replies: Dude!!! I’m supposed to go with your dad to a baseball game
tomorrow !!! Are you coming? You should totally come !!!
Not into baseball. Find it way too boring. I would, Scotty, if I thought I
could stand it.
Aw rats! Well I’ll see you this weekend at least! I’m looking forward to it,
like, it feels like years when we don’t see each other everyday.
Haha, so true. Yeah, I’m excited about this weekend too. Dragon Age II and Game
of Thrones marathon?
I’m game! Lydia says you're dating Derek Hale now.
Of course she did. She’s probably told all of Beacon Hills lol. Yes, it’s true.
I was going to tell you.
No worries. Me and Allison beat you two to the punch by a week or so.
Sweet! It was a long time coming. Congrats!
Thanks. :) Same to you. We should totally double date! Anything but bowling or
ice-skating!
We’ll see. :)
The conversation ends there. His phone vibrates not even a second later.
Derek texts: It breaks my heart when you don’t respond to any of my texts
Or it worries me
Text S O S if you need immediate assistance or you're being held hostage!
Stiles rolls his eyes, grinning to himself.
I literally just woke up about an hour ago.
Yeah but it takes like a second to show me some love (:
I’m rolling my eyes at you. Kate kept me out pretty late last night.
Did she take you to the Paranormal Potluck?
Yeah. Have you been?
Ha, I wish! I’ve begged her only a million times to take me
She only lets Cora and I tag along to the Paranormals at the Park events
Oh, well that’s too bad. It was actually really cool.
Unfair. Sneak me in next time.
Sure, totally. You got it, buddy.
You know, I feel like you’re being sarcastic but it’s super hard to tell
through text
Me? Sarcastic? No waaaaaay.
Cute. Real cute.
I try.
Just for that, when you get here, I’m not holding your hand
Seriously though. How come you called Cora before you texted me?
I feel cheated
Don’t be such a baby haha you must have heard how *that* conversation went.
I did
I would almost sympathize if I wasn’t already pissed at her myself
Are you ever going to tell me what she said to you?
Nah
Derek come oooooooon.
Did you ask your dad if you could come over?
You’re totally changing the subject, but yeah, I did.
And?
???
???
???
OMG would you chill haha and he didn’t say anything. He said he’s going to call
your mom and then let me know.
Uh oh
Maybe I should preemptively let my mom know he’s going to call her
Give her some puppy eyes and beg her to sweet talk the sheriff into saying yes
She’ll totally do it
I’m her favorite kid
I’m pretty sure that’s Olive, not you, but you can try.
I totally am, and trust me, I will. (:
I’m everyone’s favorite!
Even yours
Someone has been feeding you outlandish info. Isaac is my favorite if anything.
Why are you so cruel to me, babe? ):
Stiles rolls his eyes as he flushes but he smiles and tucks away his phone. He
glances at his cousin and says, “What’s your favorite flower?”
Lydia smiles to herself before it disappears just as quickly (almost like it
didn’t happen at all). She looks at him slyly, and asks, “Why? What could you
possibly do with that information?”
“I have a feeling you already know,” Stiles replies and rolls his eyes when she
shrugs innocently. “Come on, Lyds. Go easy on me here.”
Lydia gives him a put upon sigh that he’s so convinced is for show, and she
answers, “I don’t care much for flowers but I do like black cherries.”
Stiles makes a mental note of it. Putting her on the list he’s already started
compiling in his head. He finishes up his first sandwich, and begins to eat the
second.
When Lydia snatches his third right off of his plate and eats it, he pretends
that it bothers him but the playful grin on his face probably makes it obvious.
His dad suddenly scrambles back to the table and picks up his paper in an
attempt to look casual (not at all like he’d been spying just moments before).
Lydia and Stiles send each other amused looks just as Boyd comes bounding into
the kitchen with a grouchy but relieved Isaac tailing after him.
“Mr. Stilinski, I know it’s short notice, but would you mind if I stayed the
night? I already okayed it with my parents,” Boyd asks as Isaac fidgets
unhappily behind him.
The sheriff shakes out his paper and pretends to mull it over before he nods.
“That will be just fine with me, but only if Isaac is alright with it as well.”
Isaac mumbles something that sounds like he’s agreeable before he sighs and
says, “He wants to invite Cora over to stay as well.” Then he takes a moment to
smirk sarcastically as he adds, “He’s assuming I’ll even want that.”
Boyd sends him an exasperated look that gets openly ignored.
“If it will help clear up this quarrel, and if her mother is agreeable as well,
I still don’t mind,” the sheriff assures. “There will be an adult present, so
I’m not too worried on having so many teenagers here without my direct
supervision.”
“You mean Kate?” Stiles jokes and laughs when his dad sends him a flat look
(Isaac also wrinkles his nose). “Oh, you meant Aunt Lorraine. Right. Gotcha.”
His dad rolls his eyes before he stands. “Isaac, I’ll be seeing what I can do
about your phone. In the meantime, use the landline if you need me. Stiles, I
got a call from Deaton that he’s coming over?”
Stiles nods as he goes to pour himself a cup of milk, and ends up getting two
glasses because Lydia makes a gesture that she wants one as well.
“Keep me updated on anything you think I should know. I need to head to work
now. I’ll see you boys tomorrow,” his dad announces, clapping Stiles on the
shoulder before making his way around the table to ruffle Isaac’s curls. He’s
out the door a moment later.
“I’ll call Cora,” Boyd says, breaking the silence. “I really think we all need
to talk.”
Isaac crosses his arms, looking completely resistant to it but he doesn’t voice
this argument. He wanders into the living room and sits in his favorite
armchair so he can sulk and turn up the TV.
Boyd doesn’t acknowledge this behavior as he talks lowly into his phone in
rapid French.
Stiles downs his first glass of milk before pouring himself another.
Lydia takes her time with her own. She carries it with her outside once Stiles
moves to wander out to his backyard with the bible of Virtues in hand.
It’s hot. Like really hot. And uncomfortably humid too.
But Nana’s clustered purple-blue leaves provide an almost unnatural relief with
their shade. Even the air thins out pleasantly like a cool mist once Stiles and
Lydia settle on one of Nana’s exposed roots.
“Hello, dearies,” Nana croons as she drops her gaze to them. “What brings you
out here?”
“I wanted to pick up on my lessons,” Stiles answers as his magic transforms
from bunnies to glittery blue frogs and leaps over to him to settle in his lap,
shoulders, and the top of his head. “But Lydia and I also had some questions
about Vices.”
“Alright. What did you want to know?”
Aunt Lorraine also looks interested in this line of conversation from where
she’s perched on her black wicker basket seat. She wiggles her nose and her
fruit laced water refills itself under a puff of blue smoke, and a blue straw
also appears. She sips quietly as she watches them.
Lydia is the first to speak, and she asks, “Would you consider Vices to be
evil? Do they have permission to venture into Fae like Stiles and I do?”
“Very good question,” Nana replies and takes a moment to consider how to spin
her next words. She says, “No one is born inherently evil, dear. It’s our
choices in light of circumstances that define us in the long run. Vices are no
more evil than Virtues are. Their purpose is simply different. They have the
gift of influence that has the goal to antagonize their victim’s moral compass.
They are good-natured Tricksters at best. Depending on their field, their task
is to use their mischief to be the obstacle that the hero or the heroine must
face in order to fulfill their own destiny in this realm. They don’t dish out
more than what their victims can handle. It’s not their job to.
“For example, a Vice of Lust is allowed to test the integrity of a bond or a
marriage or a coupling for the purpose of giving perspective. However, they
must never step out of line by directly involving themselves or making it so
personal that it escalates the situation where it acts out of the ordination of
the Common Good,” she explains. “So long as a Vice follows the doctrines and
guidelines of their chosen field or fields, they will never fall to Acedia and
they are allowed entry into the Great Garden, which is paradise for Fae but the
Veil for all Paranormal creatures to pass though briefly before they continue
on to their own paradise.”
“What is Acedia?” Lydia asks.
Aunt Lorraine is the one to clarify by saying, “It’s like if a Virtue rebelled
against their calling and became a Vice. Therefore if a Vice did so too, they
would become Acedia, which Virtues can also fall into if they continue to rebel
even after being demoted to a Vice. It is the strongest form of apathy, only
it’s unshakeable once you fall into it. You stop caring about life, family,
friends, and community. All the things you once found pleasure in just becomes
a burden instead. It prevents you from performing any duty, and it’s as close
to Spiritual Depression as one can get. I urge you two to never find out.”
“Geez, of course not,” Stiles agrees while Lydia nods as well. “That sounds
like a purgatory of your own making.”
“It truly is,” Nana confirms. “Did that answer your question?”
Lydia nods but Stiles asks, “There’s one thing you said. Something that I’ve
heard before. The Common Good. What is that?”
Nana responds, “The Common Good is what is shared and beneficial for all or
most members of a given community, or alternatively, what is achieved by
citizenship, collective action, and active participation in the realm of
politics and public service. Virtues and Vices are supposed to preserve the
balance for all of mankind and creature-kind; creating a community between the
two so that we can all work towards it.”
Stiles files that away with a nod. “While we’re bring stuff up. You think you
can tell me about the Great Migration now?”
“Goodness!” Aunt Lorraine laughs and looks both delighted and whimsical.
“You’re really taking me back with that one, sweet nephew. How busy those days
were.”
“You were aroundduring those times?” Stiles gawks, even though he knows he
really shouldn’t be surprised. “Wait, just what times were those anyway?”
“Well the Great Migration itself lasted from 1786 to 1919,” Aunt Lorraine
replies. “This is a time when all Paranormal creatures from across the globe
heard about how spacious the North American soil was, and how Humans were
taking advantage of it and it’s Natives already. I only showed up a few years
after the Civil War ended.”
“That’s...like 1865…”
Aunt Lorraine just shrugs cheerfully and resumes sipping her fruit laced water.
“After a while, the years tend to blur together like one long day that never
ends,” she merely says.
Lydia stares at her with unconcealed fascination and awe.
Stiles can barely wrap his head around it.
Nana is speaking before they continue this line of conversation, “What did you
want to know specifically about this time period?”
“Uh,” Stiles blinks and tries to gather his thoughts. He rubs at his damp
forehead because even in this shade he’s getting frustratingly warm again, and
the ache in his bones is slowly becoming more prominent.
Aunt Lorraine’s blue eyes flash with somethingas she eyes him sharply.
“I guess I wanted to know just anything about it,” Stiles finally says as he
shifts around for a more comfortable position that has him sliding down to the
soft grass so he can lean back against one of Nana’s exposed roots instead.
“Ah, well.” Nana takes a moment to think. “Humans were overtaking the land here
and once word spread, a lot of Supernatural kind wanted the opportunity to
venture towards unknown territory to preserve their growing families. The world
was getting small, and around this time, a lot of otherworldly folk had to go
into hiding, if they weren’t already. They saw North America as a chance to
begin anew since territory elsewhere was shrinking. But the problem was that
there was an aggressive cocktail being made when everyone quickly traveled
here. So many fights over land was with each other and the Humans.
“The wars instigated by Humans for their own battles bled together with the
Territory Wars instigated by Paranormals, and our kind experienced more losses
than the Humans did,” Nana goes on to say. “This is why they still greatly
outnumber us to this day. And this is why back then, all major representatives
from each supernatural culture had to band together to form the Silver
Magistrate.”
“What is the Silver Magistrate?” Lydia asks, quickly interrupting before Nana
can continue.
“It is a mixed panel comprised of supernatural creatures to ensure fairness, as
they play both judge and jury,” Aunt Lorraine answers. “Like how Humans have
their Supreme Court, and therefore, so do we.”
“Correct,” Nana agrees. She continues, “They were the ones, when the Territory
Wars came to a close, that insisted each otherworldly culture have their own
legislature. Which is why you have things like the Alpha Parliament for
Werewolves, or the Chamber Guard for Gnomes. There’s the Pacific Ocean Congress
for Mermaids, Sirens and the like. Or the Clawed Senate for Werecats. There are
more I could name, but I think you get the general idea.”
“That’s so cool,” Stiles says. “What about Virtues and Vices? What do we have?”
“Since you are already ambassadors for balance, you answer to no one but Fate
and Peril themselves,” Aunt Lorraine answers. “For the rest of your kin, they
must answer to the Lady of the Garden, for she is the Queen of all Faeries. It
is who Lydia would answer directly to if she did anything that required that
kind of escalation.”
“So you mean to tell me, that if I were in trouble or did anything that would
garner further attention,” Stiles says slowly. “Fatewould correct me? Like
we’re talking about the same omnipotent being, right?”
“Yes, dearie. But why would you have to do something bad or extreme to garner
Fate’s attention?” Nana volleys back. “You are never separate from Fate, who is
your Mother-Father. You already haveFate’s attention. Is it not obvious by how
abundant your life is, or how much favor you have with anyone you cross paths
with?”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t really stop to think about
how good his life actually is — how amazing, really, if he were being honest.
“You meditate on that, and be sure to be thankful. It’s important for you to
know that you are always under Fate’s watchful eye. For what could separate you
from their love? Nothing,” Nana asks and answers within one breath. “You should
pray more too.”
“I try to,” Stiles swears, a little annoyed and he doesn’t know why. The ache
in his bones is getting to him and he’s breaking out in another sweat. “I feel
so...foreign to it though. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m talking
to myself with no results. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Or what I should
be asking for.”
“It’s not always about requests, sweetling,” Nana gently corrects. “Before you
even open your mouth, Fate already knows what it is you desire. You see how you
speak to me and ask me questions? That’s what prayer is. It’s an open ended
conversation and Fate can’t wait to talk to you.”
Stiles never thought of it like that. He always viewed it like a ritual he
could never get the hang of. “I’ll try it that way,” he decides, even though
it’s strange to talk to someone or something you can’t see. “Also, I finished
the book of Temperance.”
“Good, tell me what you thought of it,” Nana requests as Lydia slides down on
the ground beside him to lean against him with her jeweled egg clutched close.
“It’s about practicing self-control,” Stiles supposes. “For a Virtue it’s
important to continue to be sure I’m thinking clearly, and that my actions are
lining up with my words.”
“Hypocrisy is dangerous thing,” Nana confirms. “The mantle of Temperance
ensures that you ‘practice what you preach’.”
Stiles nods. “In the second book, the writer was a South African woman named
Ngantou who was sold into slavery by her older brothers out of jealousy. She
was given to the Rain Queen, who put her in charge of her entire household and
tribe, and because she had favor, she convinced the woman to abolish slavery.
Most of the Rain Queen’s riches came from investing in slavery, so Ngantou had
to promise she could find a different way to keep the tribe as one of the most
abundant ones in all of Africa. So she told everyone to invest in rice and sure
enough, they made much more than they ever did. But years later, the very
brothers who sold her into slavery, were themselves being offered to them.
“There was a sickness and famine that swept over the tribe, killing most of
their field workers, and harming the crops. Ngantou was tempted to accept the
offer the slavers were giving since she was still angry, but she bought their
freedom and offered them jobs instead,” Stiles goes on to say. “What stuck out
to me the most is when she said that the hardest thing about Temperance is
being able to know and understand you want to do the wrong thing because it’s
what easy or more appealing but saying yes instead to the very decision you
don’t want to make instead. So how do I gain this mantle?”
Nana looks highly amused. “You seem so sure that you haven’t already,” she
says.
Stiles blinks. “But...I would know. Wouldn’t I? Wait, what?”
Nana chuckles. “Stiles, you already have the mantle for Temperance. And for
Patience, Diligence, and Kindness too. Think about how you helped Paige, even
after her mistreatment of Derek. Think about your encounters with Braeden, and
yet while even with her sometimes harsh behavior, you still act as a friend and
listen to any feedback she gives. Think about the loving kindness you have
shown to Isaac. Think about how you helped free those children from the
clutches of those dreaded Ghouls when no one else took it seriously. You
already stand firm in your beliefs, even when others take the easy route by
dismissing it all. The only mantles you haven’t been given is Humility and
Charity. It used to be Chastity included into that as well, but I’ve guided you
into gaining that already.”
“Oh,” Stiles says shortly as his cheeks heat from flattery. “Why didn’t you
tell me, then?”
“I’m telling you now since it’s clear you hadn’t already known, which I
assumed,” Nana replies. “I still think you should go through each of the seven
books to make sure you have a firm understanding of all the fields. We’ll leave
the added books in the different languages for when you get your Conduit so you
can get the help you need to translate the reading.”
Stiles nods even though his mind is tinkering away. He starts a bit when he
feels Lydia’s head drop to his shoulder, and he realizes that she’s fallen
asleep. He shifts so he can arrange for her head to rest in his lap, and she
doesn’t stir.
“She’s feeding her magic to her egg,” Aunt Lorraine reasons as she peers down
at her niece. “It’s taking a lot out of her. Which is why I had hoped to show
her all of her Chakra points so she doesn’t overextend herself. Summoning,
fostering, and birthing forth a Conduit is just as exhausting and laboring as
actual pregnancy.”
Stiles takes the information to heart, wondering what the experience will be
like for him, and he feels that strong and desperate desire to know rise up in
him again.
His magic begins to fuse together and becomes a small, glittery blue
rhinoceros. It headbutts him before curling into his side as if to console him.
Stiles smiles and sends it waves of affection, which it volleys back almost
instantly.
Jay, Aunt Lorraine’s Conduit, comes sprinting out into the backyard and
playfully tackles his magic.
His magic bristles and gives into the chase, shifting into the form of a hawk
and diving low to use it’s talons to sweep the Pygmy Marmoset up by it’s
brownish-gold fur.
Aunt Lorraine watches the display as well, tsking but looking very tickled
while she does it.
“Stiles, my dear, we need to discuss your next plan of action for obtaining the
mantle of Charity,” Nana says.
Stiles pulls his gaze back to his magical tree and nods.
“Since it is the third book, I want you to go ahead and have it studied by next
week,” Nana instructs. “Be sure to prepare some ideas of how you might want to
tackle this task. Sound good?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Stiles promises as he strokes Lydia’s hair. “Deaton is
dropping by to help me with my garden.”
“That’s wonderful news, little one,” Nana croons. “You must be excited.”
“Practically vibrating with it.”
Nana laughs and it makes her purple-blue leaves shake and the ground tremble.
Stiles smiles in return because this type of laughter is his favorite of hers.
Kate comes strolling out of the house a moment later, looking bothered and
rumpled from sleep. When she reaches him, she gives a quick cursory nod to Aunt
Lorraine and then turns to him to say, “Why are you smiling at your tree like
that?”
Stiles realizes that she hasn’t been formally introduced. Before he does, he
decides to mess with her. “I’ve gone insane. Can’t you tell? There’s a lady in
my tree that I’m talking to.”
Kate gives him a dry look for that. “Nice try. What’s the truth?” she presses.
Stiles just shrugs and says, “I give you permission to see.”
“Good afternoon,” Nana says and Kate doesn’t even blink. “My name is Nana. I’m
Stiles’s spirit guide.”
“People call me Kate.”
“You must be Isaac’s older sister,” Nana guesses.
Kate actually stumbles verbally at that, and it takes a moment for her to
collect herself before she says, “We have a...blood connection, yes. He’s
actually part of the reason I’m out here.” She looks to Stiles, “I think you
better mediate. He and Cora were yelling at each other. Woke me up from a
perfectly good dream.”
Stiles sighs but nods. He glances down at Lydia and tries to think of the best
way to extract himself without waking her.
Aunt Lorraine solves his dilemma for him by wiggling her nose and making a
hammock appear under the puff of blue smoke. Then she wiggles her nose again to
levitate Lydia from off the ground before settling her into the hammock without
stirring her once.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off.
“Think nothing of it, sweet nephew,” Aunt Lorraine says with a grin. “Now go
and help your brother with his affairs. You have more company coming over soon,
though I feel it’s not you they’ll be looking for.”
Kate ignores the look tossed her way and urges Stiles to hurry inside the
house. Once they close the back door behind them, she whispers, “Something is
off about that woman.”
Stiles pauses at that. “My Aunt Lorraine? What do you mean?” he asks slowly.
“I can’t put my finger on it, but she seems like she’s waiting for something,”
Kate attempts to explain. “I don’t know. She’s not like giving me ‘major evil’
vibes or anything. But...I don’t know. When did she come?”
“Yesterday.”
“How often does she visit?”
“Uh, actually this is the first time I’m really meeting her.”
Kate gives him a dry look for that. “Just watch her, Tenderfoot. You’re almost
sixteen and nowshe decides to make a house call? She has that look in her eye
that my dad gets when he sees an investment no one else has picked up on. Watch
her.”
Stiles swallows his disappointment but nods nonetheless. He and Kate continue
on into the kitchen.
“You’re acting so irrational!” Cora is shouting. “You would have introduced him
to me anyway!”
“You don’t know that!” Isaac snaps back. “You think you know everything! I bet
you just bullied him into this whole thing like you do with everything else!”
Cora looks outraged. “I’ve never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to!”
“Yeah, well I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Isaac, stop. You know she’s not like that,” Boyd calmly interjects.
“Know more than you do. You guys know each other all of, what? Twenty-four
hours? And suddenly your experts on each other’s behavior?”
“We connectedand I don’t expect you to understand that,” Cora gripes. “But hey,
maybe it is like you said. Maybe I’m succumbing to my pea-brained biological
cavemen instincts. Guess I don’t know right from wrong.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know why I’m ever surprised by anything you
Werewolves do.”
“Werecats have been scientifically proven to be more moody than Werewolves are,
thanks very much.”
“Whatever. You and your brother have been nothing but a pain. He’s trying to
take my brother and now you’re trying to take my best friend!”
“I’m not trying to take anyone!”
“Bite me!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Stiles sprints the rest of the way into the kitchen to
stand at the head of the table. “Let’s everyone just relax, and talk about this
rationally. Sit down.”
Boyd takes a seat at the lower end of the table while Cora slowly sits to his
immediate left.
Isaac sits across from her to Boyd’s immediate right.
“Good. Thank you,” Stiles says with a sigh and sits at the head of the table.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Kate asks from behind him.
“Upstairs, past Isaac’s room,” Stiles says and takes a moment to watch her
disappear up the stairs. He turns back to the three younger teens.
Isaac and Cora are glaring daggers at each other.
Boyd seems a bit upset himself, but he’s calmer than Cora and Isaac are about
it.
Stiles appreciates that for the moment. He says, “Let’s open up the floor for
clear and respectful communication. Isaac, why don’t you go first?”
“I said what I needed to say,” Isaac mutters and crosses his arms.
“Okay. Cora?”
“I’ve saidwhat I needed to say,” Cora deliberately mocks.
Stiles shoots her a warning look.
Cora scowls and hunches down in her seat.
“Boyd,” Stiles says. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”
“Yes, actually,” Boyd says and divides his gaze between bouncing from looking
at Cora to looking at Isaac. “While you two are so busy being frustrated with
each other, neither one of you asked me how I felt or what I thought.”
Stiles silently thanks him for making such a valid point.
“You keep saying I’m your best friend, but you never told me about being a
Werecat,” Boyd points out. “Not saying you owed me that explanation, but it did
hurt, man. It felt like you didn’t trust me.”
“That’s not it!” Isaac exclaims. “I just...I didn’t want you to look at me any
differently.”
“But you are different,” Boyd retorts, not unkindly. “I celebrate your
differences, Isaac. Just as I’m sure you would for me. I’m black, so I know how
to embrace diversity from personal experience.”
Isaac nods sheepishly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Boyd sighs and shakes his head. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just want you to
know that I’m not going to judge you for anything other than you lying to me.
No need for secrets.”
Isaac swallows and nods again.
“Now why are you so against me being with Cora?”
Isaac glowers and crosses his arms again. “I’m not like...againstit,” he
reluctantly admits.
“What is it then?” Boyd is saying. “Do you have feelings for Cora? Is that it?”
Isaac goes pink in the face while his arms remain stubbornly crossed. He
mutters, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Cora gives him a wide eyed look as her scowl falls away as her jaw drops.
Boyd doesn’t look surprised by this response. If anything, he appears even more
determined when he asks, “Do you have feelings for me?”
Isaac swallows and, voice a little shakier, repeats, “I don’t know what you
want me to say.”
Cora glances between them as her own face goes pink with disbelief.
Isaac suddenly gets defensive. “Look, I just can’t — I don’t understand how I
feel. You both know it works differently for me,” he confesses. “I don’t think
it’s...love or anything, or maybe it is, I don’t know. It could be something
close to it, and you know, it’s not like I want to kiss either of you or hold
your hand. But the thought of you two being together and leaving me behind
makes me want cry.” He exhales shakily. “So yes there are some feelings.”
“Oh…” Cora is staring at Isaac and any traces of animosity that were present
before are completely gone now. “Oh. Oh, Isaac. You absolute butthead. You
should have just said that.”
“Don’t call me a butthead,” Isaac weakly argues, growing flustered at her
affectionate tone. “I’m still not sure I even like you.”
Cora just grins as her shoulders fall into a relaxed line. “Out of anyone, you
should have known that I would have understoodwhat you mean. You think I would
try so hard to make things right and apologize if I didn’t care about you?” she
says as she sends Boyd a look.
Boyd starts to grin with a slight nod, as he adds, “Cora and I would never
leave you behind. We don’t expect you to conceal, and don't feel. You’re our
forever too.”
“Right, because some people are worth melting for.”
Isaac makes an exasperated sound as his flush darkens. “God, I hate you both. I
really do,” he lies. “Don’t think for a second that quoting Frozen will win me
over either. That wasn’t even gracefully done.”
Boyd and Cora smirk at each other, and they have a six second conversation in
French before they nod in agreement and stand to their feet.
Isaac looks horrified when they approach him with open arms.
“Only true love can thaw a frozen heart,” Boyd and Cora sing simultaneously as
they engulf Isaac in a hug.
Stiles smiles as he rises from the table and quietly slips away to the front
porch.
Isaac is loudly complaining about this mistreatment but it’s obvious that he’s
doing it all for show.
                                      ---
                                             From: mskirathunderkat@outlook.com
                                                  To: stilinski_kid99@gmail.com
                                                                     2014 May 8
                                     猿も木から落ちる — “Even monkeys fall from trees.”
Dear Stiles,
Attached you will find some awesome pictures of me and my cousins successfully
sneaking into the Short Shorts Film Festival and Asia. We even met Ryuhei
Kitamura! It was so cool! I felt like I was going to throw up all over him, I
was so nervous! I realize I could have texted all this, but I figured since I
was going to email you anyway, I might as well make you a powerpoint! So I did.
Enjoy.
                                                                      Kira xoxo
                                      ---
Stiles is swaying lazily in one of the white wicker hanging chairs with the
bible of Virtues spread open across his lap (Kate’s in the other chair eating
some week old watermelon) when Laura and Peter roll up in his hotrod red
Lamborghini.
“Guess my holiday has come to an end,” Kate sighs, licking the juices from
between her small, thin fingers.
“Ah, so you wereavoiding us!” Laura exclaims with an amused grin as she and
Peter climb the steps. “What’d you do this time?”
“Parrish,” Kate casually comments.
Peter stumbles on the top step and sends her a sharp look when she laughs.
Stiles snorts and coughs when Peter tosses him a glare.
Laura just sighs and steals the rest of Kate’s watermelon as she sits down by
her dangling legs.
“When?” Peter asks as he stares intently at his girlfriend.
“Monday night.”
“Venue?”
“His place. I wanted a hotel but he fought against it. He lives in such a
shitty, out of date house.”
Peter runs his fingers through his hair as he makes a vague sound of agreement.
“I told you I was okay with it. Okay with him. Okay with us.”
“You have an amusing way of driving a point home,” Peter mutters dryly.
“Actions speak louder than words, as they say.”
Peter doesn’t respond. He’s already pressing his smartphone to his ear.
“Are you mad?” Kate asks, but she doesn’t sound worried. More intrigued and
excited if anything. “Do you want to spank me?”
“Both of you actually,” Peter replies as he turns his back to all of them.
“Kyle. Don’t hang up. My girlfriend just told me some interestingnews. Seems
the three of us are long overdue for a conversation. Why don’t we meet for
dinner at the Rainbow River Hotel downtown?”
Kate’s grin turns wicked as she quickly climbs to her feet.
“Hang on,” Laura protests as she climbs to her feet. “You two aren’t about to
ditch me to go bang Kyle, are you?”
Peter doesn’t confirm or deny and Kate just blows her some kisses as they trot
to Peter’s car. She says something to Peter before she doubles back to climb
into her own car.
“Ugh,” Laura groans and shakes her head. “You’re paying for my Uber!” she
shouts at them.
Their response is the screech of tires against the asphalt as they both zoom
out of sight.
Stiles closes his bible and rises to his feet. “We have leftovers from last
night’s dinner if you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.”
Stiles snorts and watches her disappear into the house. He doesn’t quite follow
yet, he has this indescribable urge to let himself linger for a moment longer.
He walks forward until he’s standing at the very top step of the porch stairs
and he squints his eyes as he peers out to the end of the road up ahead.
The curfew siren rings loud and clear in the distance.
Three minutes later, Deaton’s white Toyota Prius is rolling down the street.
Stiles is giddy with excitement and he all but runs up to his mentor’s car when
he parks it in the driveway.
Deaton exits shortly after, and though his face is neutral, there’s something
in his eyes that says he’s amused by Stiles’s enthusiasm. “Mr. Stilinski,” he
greets. “Would you care to lend me a hand with retrieving your blueprints?”
“I do not care at all,” Stiles swears. He senses his magic vibrating somewhere
in the upper part of the house. “Take as many of my hands as you need!”
Deaton gives a short nod as the corner of his mouth quirks for less than a
second. He gestures to the back seat after he opens the door. “Easy,” he
lightly rebukes when Stiles practically leaps in his car to snatch up as many
of the rolled up papers he can.
“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles, face a bit pink as he slides out of the car with his
arms full. “This is all I can manage. I’m guessing you’ll grab the rest?”
“You are correct. Go ahead and take them inside. We’ll decide which ones you
want to keep and which ones will be returned.”
Stiles nods and treks back to his house before venturing inside to lay
everything on the kitchen table. He’s never been more grateful that his Aunt
Lorraine has expanded it.
Cora, Boyd, Laura, and Isaac are in the living room watching the latest episode
of Kitchen Nightmares.
Laura is sitting in his dad’s chair, balancing a plate of microwaved leftovers
from last night on her right knee as she uses her left hand to text away on her
smartphone.
Isaac is curled up in his favorite arm chair with his etch-a-sketch again,
drawing what looks like a comic worthy version of Gordan Ramsey.
Cora is sitting on the floor beside him, hugging her legs to her chest as she
leans slightly towards him with her left shoulder grazing his hip.
Boyd is seated in the middle of the long couch with his arms spread out on the
back of it while he snickers at something Isaac points out.
Soon Cora is snorting as well while she says something that makes both Boyd and
Isaac laugh explosively.
Stiles is glad to see they have completely worked out their issues enough to be
at least on friendly terms again. He glances around some more before heading to
his back door to peer out into his backyard.
It’s empty, save for the cluster of fireflies swarming under the dusty pinkish
orange sky.
Stiles frowns and closes the door before returning to the kitchen.
Deaton is just in the middle of dropping the rest of the blueprints onto the
kitchen table.
“Be with you in a sec,” Stiles says before he approaches the living room. “Hey
guys, have you seen Lydia?”
“She’s in the basement with your aunt,” Isaac says as he hands Cora his etch-a-
sketch when she insists on taking a picture to save for later. “Don’t put that
on Instagram.”
Cora snorts. “I’m putting it on Snapchat.”
“What’s a Snapchat?”
“You’re kidding, right? Where have you been?”
Isaac rolls his eyes and looks to Boyd. “What’s a Snapchat?” he asks again.
Boyd smirks in amusement. “I’ll show you later if you ever get your phone
back,” he promises.
Cora twists so she can stare up at Stiles. “Do you have a Snapchat? Add me if
you do.”
“I honestly don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Stiles admits.
“Not you too,” Cora complains, wrinkling her nose. “Next you’ll say you don’t
know what Tumblr is.”
“I don’t know what Tumblr is,” Stiles laughs.
Laura cackles from across the living room as she says, “Don’t be fooled, Blue.
Cora wasn’t in the know about it either until a few months ago.”
“Shut your big mouth or I’ll unfollow you,” Cora mutters.
Laura scoffs between bites. “With my ample fanbase? Would I even be able to
tell you had?”
“Ouch, major burn,” Stiles chimes before he turns to rejoin Deaton in the
kitchen while Cora continues to fuss at her older sister. “Sorry, I’m totally
ready and my attention is completely yours.”
Deaton doesn’t comment on the apology but he does begin to unfold the first
blueprint within reach. “Have a seat. This may take a while,” he warns.
Stiles sits across from him while Deaton pushes the first blueprint over to
him. He takes a moment to eye the layout of the whole property (with the house
excluded).
“This model is a copy just for you, so whatever diagram key you want to write
in the corner here to indicate what you would like to put where, I will mirror
it,” Deaton says as he hands him the appropriate writing and measuring tools to
do so.
“Uh, well, I mean I’m really not talented when it comes to drawing,” Stiles
confesses. “Not like my little brother is. I got stick figures down, but
everything else is a lost cause.”
“You don’t have to draw anything extraordinary, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton assures.
“You can use shapes to represent what you would like to plant where. For
example, here you can draw circles to represent the Mother Queen’s solidified
placement in the landscape.”
“Ah, okay yeah, that’s definitely doable,” Stiles says before taking a moment
to draw a leaf to mark and represent Nana before adding it to the diagram key.
Deaton mirrors the placement exactly.
Stiles drums his knuckles against the table for a moment as he thinks. “So, if
memory serves correctly, the fences are here and here and here,” he supposes as
he uses a ruler to draw the lines.
Deaton nods in approval as he mirrors that as well on his own copy. Then he
says, “We’ve got the basics out of the way. You’ve done good so far. Now let’s
focus on the areas left over.” He leans over to grab a few blueprints. “I
brought some examples of other gardens to assist in giving you an idea of which
way you might want to go about your own.”
Stiles nods and watches Deaton unroll the first sample.
“This is a basic Human garden. Note the position of the bushes, the walkway,
the arches and the lawn furniture. It has the intention of giving comfort to
the home owners and their guests,” Deaton points out. He swaps out the
blueprint for another. “Now here we have a Deer Woman’s garden. Note the
placement of the gazebo to the lily pond. There absence of grass where sand has
replaced the walkable area. This design has the intention of being only
exclusive to the person who tends it...”
This line of conversation continues for the next two hours, with Deaton showing
him samples of other gardens to influence his own inspiration. In the midst of
all this, Laura orders several pizzas (that everyone partakes of in the living
room since the kitchen table is thoroughly occupied). Stiles is too distracted
with drawing in his final placements (with Deaton mirroring everything he does)
to really make himself eat.
Meanwhile his Aunt Lorraine and Lydia reappear from the basement (Lydia looking
a lot more settled and at peace). She announces that she’s taking Lydia home
shortly after, offering to drop off anyone else if needed but everyone else
shakes their head. Lydia juggles between feeding her jeweled egg more of her
magic and giving Stiles a loose armed hug over his shoulders.
Stiles returns it distractedly before erasing a mistake on his blueprints that
Deaton is kind enough to point out (making sure to offer an alternative
suggestion).
Lydia and Aunt Lorraine are grabbing each other’s hands before disappearing
under spark of white light, a rumble similar to thunder, and a puff of blue
smoke.  
While Cora wanders over to demolish the last of the pineapple and chicken
pizza, she sends Stiles a look he almost misses and asks, “Is your aunt a
witch?”
“I thought Isaac would have told you.”
“Why would I be asking if he did?” Cora replies as she sends him an exasperated
look.
“Yeah, she is but how did you accurately guess that?”
“She smells like ozone and hot metal,” Cora responds simply before hauling the
pizza box to the living room. She starts fussing at Laura when she flips the
channel to watch the premiere of something called Catfish.
“I think this is enough for now,” Deaton announces as he glances at his watch
briefly while he stands and begins to gather his things, as well as the
leftover blueprints. “If you're satisfied with the layout, I’ll get it
laminated and have it ready for you to take home tomorrow.”
“Okay, thank you,” Stiles says with a satisfied sigh. He’s feeling pretty good
about things by far. It’s like he’s just completed a challenging project, and
he’s on the path to getting rewarded for his efforts. “When should I stop by?”
“Noon, exactly,” Deaton instructs and gives Stiles a grateful nod when he
starts helping him carry everything to his car. “We’ll talk about my findings
for the Nymph, and we can discuss how my conversation went with Braeden’s older
sister went. They may be stopping by tomorrow. I also want to get you started
on studying botany charms and enchantments.”
“I’m on board with all of that,” Stiles says as he stretches (even with his
arms full) and winces while he follows his mentor outside. The ache in his
bones is returning and a flash of heat zaps through him. He stumbles a bit down
the porch steps but he makes it to the white car parked in his driveway without
injury.
Deaton places the blueprints in his arms in his backseat and watches as Stiles
struggles to do the same. He frowns thoughtfully and says, “Come here, Mr.
Stilinski.”
Stiles ventures closer to him and stands directly before him.
Deaton lifts both hands and keeps them hovered over Stiles’s temples. He closes
his eyes in concentration, his eyes moving rapidly under the lids.
Stiles fidgets but doesn’t question it as the ache in his bones thrums under
his muscles like a low simmer. It’s cool out since the sun has long set but he
still breaks out in a sweat.
Deaton drops his hands with a thoughtful sound. “I suspected this may happen,
but you’ve developed such an abnormally strong bond with your magic already
that I assumed you may never go through this stage in your development,” he
says as he steps back, gazing intently at Stiles calculatingly.
Stiles fidgets with uncertainty. “What do you mean?”
“The Changing Fever,” Deaton explains plainly. “To be rather blunt, it’s
puberty for the supernatural. It’s the phase where you gain your paranormal
inheritance.”
Stiles uses the back of his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Should I
be worried?”
Deaton shakes his head. “It’s normal, but I believe the term ‘late bloomer’
applies in this situation. A high percentage of the paranormal go through this
phase around twelve or thirteen,” he clarifies. “It’s still early stages yet.
You have a few weeks, give or take, before you’ll be incapacitated for a couple
of days as your body gives over to the adaptation. I’ll talk to your father so
he can be prepared to nurse you through it.”
Stiles nods with a yawn and attempts to stretch again. It doesn’t really help
but he feels the urge to do something because his skin feels too tight over his
aching bones.
“Try and get some rest,” Deaton continues. “You did well today, Mr. Stilinski.”
Stiles grins sheepishly but he’s secretly pleased to hear the older man say as
much to him. “Have a good night,” he replies, stepping more into the grass and
out of the way so he can watch his mentor give a short nod before climbing into
his car.
Deaton’s starting up his car one minute and then backing off before he drives
out of sight the next.
Stiles closes his eyes as he lets the cool night air settle around him before
he shivers when the ache in his bones disappears completely. He jumps when his
pocket vibrates and when he pulls his phone free, he sees it’s his dad calling.
“Hey, dad. What’s the word?” he asks, carefully concealing his anticipation.
“I didn’t forget about you,” his dad promises with fatherly amusement. “Talia
and I had a long discussion about what this relationship between you two kids
will mean going forward. She enlightened me about a few things, and vice versa.
That being said, we have a good understanding now. So, I know it’s late, but if
you still wanted to spend the night, you have my permission. Talia said she can
pick you up if you needed her to, so just call her if so.”
“Okay,” Stiles says and he can’t hide his excitement now. “You're the best dad,
you know that right?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. You just watch yourself. I trust you and Derek to make good
decisions.”
“Dad…”
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
“Night.”
His dad ends the call.
Stiles wanders over to the house with a grin as he texts Derek.
So no big deal but I’m on my way over.
Derek’s quick response is both funny and sweet.
Yeeeeeeeees! Come to me!
Ridiculous.
Yeah fine whatever you say just hurry up!!!
Stiles laughs as he sprints up the steps, pocketing his phone just as the house
trembles with Aunt Lorraine’s reappearance. His grin falls as he thinks of
Kate’s earlier words and he feels awkward when she shoots him a genuine smile
while he closes the front door behind him.
“Shall I make you something, sweet nephew? You haven’t eaten,” Aunt Lorraine
says as she gestures him closer to rest a cool palm on his cheek. “How about
some soup?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m on my way out the door,” Stiles says and scans her face for
any signs of malice but there’s nothing but warm affection to be found. Her
touch isn’t sending any warning bells to his gut either.
Aunt Lorraine grins fondly and her expression is whimsically sad. “Yes, I was
afraid you might say that. Very well. We have plenty of time to catch up, I
suppose,” she promises before turning away with a cheerful facade. “Who’s up
for some homemade gooseberry tarts?”
Cora and Isaac, who are still in the living room fighting over Isaac’s etch-a-
sketch, pause with evident interest.
Boyd politely declines while he accepts the remote from Laura when she hands it
over before wandering over to Stiles.
“Heard we might be headed in the same direction,” Laura slyly comments as she
follows him up the stairs and into his room. She settles on his bed as she
watches him pack an overnight bag. “We can share an Uber. It’s Kate’s treat
after all.”
Stiles nods distractedly as he stuffs his backpack with things he things he
might need.
Laura crosses her legs and leans back on her elbows. “So...you and Derek?” she
presses.
Stiles rolls his eyes as he zips up his bag. “Obviously you were eavesdropping,
so just ask what you want to,” he replies.
“Oh I already know, I’m just teasing,” Laura cackles as she uses her smartphone
to summon the Uber. “I’m happy for you two. I really am. Mother Moon couldn’t
have paired a better Match.”
“Thanks. I think. What exactly is a Match?” Stiles asks as he turns of his
light and exits his room.
“Oh you’ll soon find out,” Laura promises and watches him pause at the top of
the steps to summon his magic from its froloicking with Nana and the fireflies
in the backyard. “Uber is pulling up in a minute.”
Stiles nods as he opens his mouth and swallows his magic down. It settles
anxiously in his gut and he gets the impression that it’s way more excited than
he is about seeing Derek tonight. He hugs his brother goodbye before he leaves,
and Isaac gives him that unhappy look he always does when Stiles goes
elsewhere.
Isaac likes to keep him close.
Cora rolls her eyes and manages to remove the etch-a-sketch from his slack
grasp while he’s distracted. “He’s not leaving forever,” she wryly comments.
“Bud out. You let me worry about my brother,” Isaac complains but shifts over
in his favorite armchair so she can share it with him. “Also, that’s not how
you draw a banana.”
“That’s not how you draw a banana,” Cora mocks.
Boyd rolls his eyes at the two of them before twisting from where he’s seated
on the middle of the long couch to do a quick handshake with Stiles. He says,
“Take it easy, man. Thanks for your help earlier.”
“I really didn’t do anything,” Stiles replies with a shrug.
“If you say so, but I know different,” Boyd confidently states before he turns
away to up the volume on a rerun episode of Wild 'N Out.
“The driver is here,” Laura says, already halfway out the door.
Stiles is soon to follow when he waves one final time to his Aunt Lorraine (who
is elbow deep in dough and gooseberries).
Laura gestures for him to climb into the backseat of the rumbling minivan first
before she joins him.
Stiles leans back after he buckles up and idly listens to Laura and their
driver make small talk with each other while he flips through the powerpoint
Kira sent him in her latest email.
                                      ---
From: stilinski_kid99@gmail.com
To: mskirathunderkat@outlook.com
5/7/14
Kira
Your pictures in the powerpoint were awesome. Can I reiterate how jealous I am?
Things are picking up fast for me. I went to Chicago recently. Did I mention
that? I should have. Well maybe not Chicago, but we went to Six Flags for
Laura’s birthday. It was pretty amazing. It was only a few days ago, but I
can’t help but to think back to the beginning of this year when I had literally
no friends to speak of and most of my time was spent indoors by myself. Time
certainly flies, but I feel like I want to remember everything, you know?
Sometimes I think I should make a video time capsule and address it to myself
for fifty years from now, or to my future kids, or grandkids. I mean, these can
be just as good as home movies and you can do a range of things. I might go
nuts with this video. Maybe dress up in seventies attire or wear a dress made
entirely of Doritos bags.
It’ll give my future kids or grandkids something to laugh about. I think I
would mostly complain to them just how embarrassing I used to be. Or I think I
could be serious enough to talk about the issues of today and my hope for the
future. Like beneficial environmental changes, or excellent breakthroughs with
medical technology.
I, for one, would selfishly hope that WiFi will be free someday in the future.
This is a simple pleasure. Anyway, I took an Uber with Laura and she and our
driver got on this big debate about the value of a bucket list. Everyone has a
bucket list, I think. Even those who think they don’t but do.
Honestly, I believe a bucket list doesn’t always have to be confined under the
umbrella of things you want to do before you die. Sometimes it’s a list of
things you want to do before you reach a certain age, or move to a certain
country or state. Sometimes it’s a list of things you want to do before you get
married or have kids.
What would your bucket list be?
Stiles
                                      ---
The Hale Manor is dark and abnormally quiet by the time Laura and Stiles roll
up to the house. Laura exchanges a few parting pleasantries with the driver
before she sends him on his way and grabs Stiles’s right hand to lead him
around the house to the garage. They enter through the door there, and into the
kitchen (the only lit room of the house at the moment), where Talia and Derek
are already conversing over some cups of hot cocoa and s'mores.
Derek, like the ridiculous person he is, is outfitted in a dark blue wolf
pajama onesie. Talia is wearing a long, dark red silk nightgown with her hair
tied back in a low ponytail.
Derek’s face instantly brightens and he quickly slides off his stool to engulf
Stiles in an enthusiastic hug that has Stiles’s heart hammering like a
jackrabbit while his cheeks turn pink under Talia and Laura’s watchfully amused
gazes.
“Laura, I’m surprised to see you,” Talia murmurs as she gazes at her oldest
daughter over the rim of her cup. “Understandably so, when you made it very
clear you planned to never return.”
Laura walks over with a shrug as she takes a moment to stand between her
mother’s knees, leaning forward to steal one of her s’mores while casually
baring the line of the left side of her neck. She says, “It’s exhausting being
mad at you. I don’t even know why I bother.”
Talia snorts but uses her free hand to press a prominent scent mark to the back
of Laura’s neck before she pulls away just as quickly. “As frustrating as you
are, my door will always be open to you, luce dei miei occhi,” she murmurs
before gracefully flicking her fingers like a queen dismissing a fellow
courtier. “Now run along. I need to have a private talk with your brother and
Stiles. I’ve already given your room to Delilah, so you’ll have to stay in
Cora’s tonight. Braeden’s been sharing her room but tonight she’s away visiting
her older sister.”
Laura just shrugs before she snatches up another s’more and with a wink and an
impish grin, she says, “Have fun.” She does that stupid finger-guns thing at
Stiles and Derek before she prances out of the kitchen with a snicker.
Stiles shakes his head as Derek finallypulls away from their elongated embrace
and makes a show of grabbing his left hand, like, right there in frontof his
mother with no shame.
Derek uses the grip to drag Stiles over to the island counter.
Stiles scrambles to sit on the stool beside Derek as they both sit across from
Talia.
“Stiles, can I offer you some hot chocolate?” Talia asks as she pins him with
an eagle-eyed stare. “I want you to feel at home here. I have a feeling that if
my son gets his way, as he often somehow seems to, your visits will be
increasing in number.”
Stiles turns pink again, and he knows without really knowing that she’s teasing
him somehow. “Uh, no. I’m okay,” he manages to mutter.
“Mom, stop,” Derek groans and rolls his eyes as he picks up his own steaming
cup. He pauses when he hears Stiles’s stomach gurgle. “So you arehungry,” he
accuses.
Stiles crosses his arms and he means to look defensive but he just ends up
hugging himself instead. “I kinda...got sidetracked earlier. I meant to eat but
then Deaton came over and we started working on the layout for my garden. I
mean Laura ordered some pizzas but like I said, I was too distracted to eat.
And then my Aunt Lorraine offered to make me something but you were rushing me,
so like, this is kind of your fault, I think,” he rambles.
Derek shoots him an exasperated look but he’s already sliding off his stool to
round the island counter for the fridge. He says, “I think we still have some
leftovers from dinner. Do you like shepherd's pie? It has lamb in it.”
Stiles’s stomach gurgles again as his mouth waters. “Nope, no complaints from
me. I’ll even eat it cold if you wanna go ahead and hand that over,” he
partially begs.
“You can wait like two minutes, Stiles,” Derek retorts as he pops the porcelain
bowl in the microwave above the stove.
“Now that you’ve put the idea in my head, I really don’t think I can.”
Talia smiles behind her cup of hot cocoa in amusement.
Stiles fidgets and fiddles with Derek’s plate of s’mores shyly. He kind of
forgot she was present for a second there.
A moment later, the savory smelling dish is being set before him and he uses
the spoon he’s given to dig in immediately. He groans in pleasure and just goes
to town on the pie.
Derek returns to his place at Stiles’s side as he watches him devour his food
with red ears and a satisfied grin.
“It’s very good, isn’t it?” Talia says as she reaches for a s’more and eats it.
She politely places a hand over her mouth as she continues, “Derek and his
father are responsible, if you must know.”
Stiles shoots Derek a look at that. “Another thing to add to the list of things
you are unfairly good at making, huh?”
Derek gives a humble shrug but he seems really pleased otherwise.
Talia waits until Stiles takes his last bite before she speaks. Calmly, voice
low like a murmur, she says, “Anyone listening and is open to the sound of my
voice, I’m giving you five minutes to put in your ear plugs or some headphones.
This conversation is to be kept private.”
Derek pushes his plate of s’mores over to Stiles in silent offering while they
wait out the next five minutes.
Stiles takes about two or three s’mores and tries to patiently wait as his
magic squirms in his gut in thrilled anticipation.
Talia waits an extra minute, cocking her head as her gaze wanders aimlessly for
a moment while she listens. Finally, she nods in satisfaction and continues,
“I’m under the impression that you two have decided to move forward in your
friendship and escalate it to dating?”
Derek and Stiles nod.
“Okay,” Talia simply says. “Let’s get a few things out in the open, then.
Stiles, do you know what a Match is?”
“No idea. I mean I’ve heard Cora and Derek say it a few times recently but
before yesterday I’d never even heard of it.”
“Thank you for your honesty. I will be happy to explain,” Talia replies.
“Matches are a very private subject, and it’s not something to discuss socially
with outsiders on a whim. It is a very versatile term, being defined
differently by different individuals, as it is related to the concept of love
or soulmates.”
“Ah,” Stiles says weakly. He’s not really surprised, he kind of had his
suspicions, but it’s a bit overwhelming to have it verbally confirmed. “How do,
uh...how do Matches work? Is this normal for everyone in the supernatural
community?”
Talia appears to expect this question. “It’s exclusive only to Werewolves. I’m
sure other paranormal cultures have their own defining terms when it comes to
relationships, but this one we have claimed as ours.”
Stiles nods as he fidgets and his cheeks heat with his next question. “Um,
Derek is — I mean am I — how can we tell?” he stammers.
“It’s something we, as wolves, can tell right away. Though deny it we may try
in some occasions, instinct always prevails,” Talia explains. “To put it in
perspective, the sensation is as certain as knowing that you’re hungry or
thirsty. The feeling itself ranges widely and cannot exactly be pinpointed.
Werewolves can have many Matches throughout their lifetime, or they can have
one True Match. No matter which is which, you can find yourself feeling
‘completed’ by the other person. It is a connection that is about mutual
evolution rather than instantaneous harmony. All relationships take a bit of
work, but with a Match, things move more fluidly.”
Stiles takes that all in and allows himself a moment to think back on how his
relationship with Derek has evolved over the months. Sure there was a rocky
start, but the forward momentum of it never felt forced or counterfeit. He’s
already honestly thought to himself more than enough times about how easy he
thinks it would be to spend the rest of his life with the other teen. Despite
his initial reluctance, he thinks he’s always known he’s wanted it all to end
up this way.
Seriously, he can sit here and try to fantasize about a life where he and Derek
don’t end up together somehow and all it does is registers different levels and
variations of wrongin his mind. He thinks of his staggering lack of
relationships in the past and he wonders if he’d been unintentionally waiting
for Derek this whole time.
His magic decides that this is the best moment to gloat.
Did I not already tell you? His wolf calls to us. He is what we desire: free
spirit, wild heart.
Yes, yes, geez I know I’ve been slow on the uptake but maybe things were meant
to happen at this pace.
Do not misunderstand me. Why should I care about the journey as long as we
reach the destination? He is our Twin Flame, but this you’ve always known, even
if you never wanted to acknowledge it.
Twin Flame? What’s that?
It’s the closest Human term to ‘love’ that equals the expression in the
language of the Faeries. It is someone you burn for, who in turn, burns for
you. An all-consuming fire that is without end.
Matches and Flames. God, this is a lot to take in.
Take it in, Princeling. Truth bends for no creature.
I’m sure it doesn’t. But still.
“Did you have any other questions?” Talia probes, mistaking his silence for
confusion.
Stiles blinks and presses his magic down before he replies, “Oh, well, I was
just thinking over everything you’ve said so far.”
“Yes, I imagine,” Talia responds knowingly. “It’s sometimes hard for outsiders
to grasp if they did not grow up in a Werewolf household. If you don’t have any
other questions, we can move on to the next topic, which is the stages each
Match goes through.”
Stiles shakes his head and eats another sticky s’more. The soft graham cracker
breaks easily under the pressure of his teeth.
“There are four stages,” Talia goes on to say. “The first stage is the Primary
Compatibility, which is based on personality, a basic connection, and scenting.
Do you believe that you two share common interests and values?”
Derek glances over to Stiles and lifts his eyebrows but Stiles gets the message
being relayed to him, so he’s the one to respond confidently with, “Yes, we
do.”
Talia nods as she folds her hands over the surface of the island counter. “And
Derek, how has the scenting been? Any complications, or warning indicators?”
she asks.
Derek fidgets as a flush rides up the back of his neck to the top of his ears.
“Yeah, uh,” he pauses to clear his throat. “It’s been really good. Reallygood,”
he admits. “Sometimes I get carried away.” He quickly adds, when Talia lifts an
eyebrow at that, “But not toocarried away.”
“I see. Thank you for your honesty,” Talia replies, voice lilting with humor.
“I trust you, Derek, to control your actions. It’s perfectly normal to slip now
and again, but if it becomes an issue, you need to let me know. I don’t want
you to give him a claiming mark before the appropriate time.”
Derek flushes harder but he nods.
Talia shifts her gaze over to Stiles. “And you, Stiles? How has the scenting
been? You can be honest. Derek can handle anything you have to say, I’m sure,”
she assures and gives her son a warning look that urges him to prove this
statement to be true.
“Mom, I won’t say anything,” Derek dryly states as he grabs a piece of
chocolate and a marshmallow from a nearby bag.
Talia just makes a thoughtful sound as she gestures for Stiles to speak.
Stiles licks his lips nervously and says, “He’s...I mean it’s okay. Or no,
that’s not fair. I’m kind of downplaying it. It’s really good, like Derek says.
Just — he seems to always know what he’s, ah, doing?”
Derek scratches the side of his nose, which is his way of hiding a self-
satisfied grin.
Stiles blushes and knocks him in his side with his elbow.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Talia repeats. “Scenting is very important for
Werewolves. It expresses things like territorial marking, mood, and attraction.
It’s also a social responsibility that opens the door to giving and receiving
respect. In this aspect, since we do have specific dynamics and ranks within
the Werewolf community, it helps outline in the best way possible how we define
ourselves and our place among others. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles responds. “What you’re saying, I believe, is that
scenting is almost like another underlying way of communication to others of
what your intentions are.”
“Exactly,” Talia confirms. “I know it can seem invasive at times, but it really
is our way of talking to each other without words. Derek will be very
interested in committing to this act with you more frequently than others since
he considers you his Match. It’s instinctual more than anything, but you are
allowed to refuse if you don’t want to. Scenting is also about social cues, but
since you were not born a Were, we make sure to emphasize consent in this
matter as well but it’s not normally an issue.”
“Mom’s right,” Derek agrees and gives Stiles an earnest look. “I feel like I’m
pretty good at reading you but I’m open to the possibility that I can get it
wrong sometimes, so if I’m making you uncomfortable or if the scenting doesn’t
seem right or well-timed, you can let me know.”
“Okay,” Stiles acknowledges shyly.
Derek gives him a smile and grabs left hand with his right one, squeezing
briefly before releasing. He nods at his mother.
Talia continues, “The second stage would be Kinship, which is where you form a
fellowship with each other’s family, friends, and the like. This makes sense
because if you two are going to be with each other for the foreseeable future,
it’s best to explore how well you’re able to integrate yourselves in each
other’s lives. Stiles, you’ve spent a very large amount of time with us. Do you
feel as if you’ve gotten a glimpse of Derek’s lifestyle and interaction with
his packmates and family?”
“I think so, yeah. Of course there’s always more to see or learn.”
“Very true.”
“But,” Stiles adds. “I think I’m pretty close with everyone here. I’m still
working on Braeden, of course. Other than that, it always feels like a second
home whenever I come over. That’s — I can’t say it’s ever felt like that
anywhere else.”
“I’m very flattered,” Talia teases and Stiles huffs. She smiles and goes on to
say, “All joking aside, you are always pleasant company. I know everyone here
is fond of you as well. I once told you that you share a connection with our
family that goes beyond the rationalization of Human relationships. I couldn’t
pinpoint it at the time but I’m getting the full picture now. I look forward to
officially solidifying your link with us someday.”
Stiles’s cheeks go pink when his eyes get a little watery, but it’s just that
her prominent acceptance of him strikes such a deep chord within him, and he
stammers as he says, “Thank you. I — yeah, I’m very fortunate to know you all.”
Derek rubs a heated palm up and down his back.
Stiles laughs wetly as he accepts the napkin Talia hands over. He feels a
little embarrassed by his emotional response.
Talia doesn’t comment on it, but she addresses Derek next, if only to give
Stiles a moment to gather himself. “How is your relationship with Stiles’s
family and friends?”
“Pretty good,” Derek answers. “I haven’t met all of his friends yet, but the
few I have, I mean, we’ve gotten along just fine. And I think Isaac and the
sheriff like me well enough too. We’re all supposed to go to a baseball game
tomorrow. I don’t know if dad told you.”
“He did,” Talia confirms. “I think that’s very good. It seems to me that family
is important to you both, which is an excellent thing to share in common.”
Derek nods as he shifts his stool closer to Stiles’s and rests his arm over his
shoulders.
“The next stage,” Talia continues. “Is the phase you should be in now, called
the Settling. This is where you two will focus on developing a interpersonal
relationship with each other. It’s the only way you can decide if you’re
absolutely certain about spending the foreseeable future together. This means
you will do different things to connect with each other on a deeper level. This
is exercised by finding the right balance between individual time versus time
spent together. You can learn how you are able to support each other and your
dreams. Making sure that you feel safe to be open and honest, and more
importantly, being able to properly navigate conflict and handle each other’s
stress.
“When it comes to Matches, back in the day you would have to get express
permission from each member of your household before you were allowed to
transition into Settling. However, times have changed and the way we do things
have evolved. Permission from the Alpha of the Pack is enough of a green light
to go forward.” Here, Talia purposefully pauses, as though she’s building
suspense. Finally, when she gets both Derek and Stiles to fidget with
uncertainty under her eagle-eyed gaze, she says, “After everything I’ve seen,
and after everything I’ve heard tonight, I am more than confident about the
progression of things. So, yes, you have my explicit permission to continue on
until you get to the Bonding stage.
“It’s the final state of the relationship. It’s marriage, if you need simpler
terms. Should you and Derek decide to make the commitment an eternal one, you
would accept his claiming mark during a ceremony attended by family and
friends. It usually happens the night of a Third Quarter Moon, when the left
side is most visible. Call us romantics, but we don’t do things in halves.”
“That’s something to revisit way in the future,” Derek quickly assures. “We’re
not really near that point.”
Stiles scoffs and grabs the wrist of the arm Derek has draped over his
shoulders. “Obviously,” he replies. “We’re like fifteen.”
“Fifteen and a half.”
“Oh gross, no, please tell me you're not one of those.”
“He really is,” Talia chimes and chuckles when Derek shoots her a look of
betrayal. “I’m going to bed now,” she announces, rising from her stool and
tucking it close to the island counter. “Stiles, I think it goes without saying
but make yourself at home. Be sure to clean up all this before you go, boys. I
want to see your face before you leave tomorrow, Derek. Try not to sleep in too
late since you have plans.”
Derek nods and jams another s’more in his mouth while she kisses the top of his
head before doing the same to Stiles.
Talia bids them a soft spoken and affectionate goodnight before disappearing.
Stiles rubs at his eyes and straightens when Derek kisses him on the cheek
before pulling away. He grins behind the back of his hands.
“Tired?” Derek asks as he starts cleaning off the counter.
Stiles sighs as the ache in his bones starts to return in low waves. “Yes. No.
I don’t know,” he replies. “Want me to help?”
Derek shrugs. “You can, but I’m fine otherwise.”
Stiles slides off his stool to help regardless because it’s what he needs to
distract him from his physical discomfort at present. He works in silence with
Derek, helping him by wiping down the counter once the other teen has cleared
away all of the dishes and loaded them in one of the threedishwashers they have
on hand.
Derek turns all three of them on before cutting off the lights and grabbing
Stiles’s left hand to guide him through the dark to the stairs, up them, and
into his room. He closes the door behind them as Jordan perks up from where
he’s perched in the middle of Derek’s bed.
Stiles grins and crouches down when Jordan hops off the bed excitedly to run up
to him. He spends a moment lavishing the dog with his attention, paying him
compliments and rubbing him in some of his favorite spots. He catches Derek
grinning to himself while he messes with his entertainment system out of the
corner of his eye as he does and it makes one spread across his own face.
Derek puts the volume low as he straightens and doubles back to one of his
dressers while he says, “I forgot to tell you not to bring any pajamas. I have
something for you.”
Stiles straightens but barely has enough time to catch the matching dark blue
wolf onesie. “You are so extra!” he exclaims and shakes his head. “Did you buy
this so we could be identical?”
Derek laughs, leaping on his bed and situating himself against the pillows at
his headboard. “Nah, I always had an extra one. I have this habit of buying
three of everything when it comes to my clothes,” he admits before shifting his
gaze to his smartphone.
Stiles frowns thoughtfully as he tucks away in the bathroom to strip down
before hopping and wiggling into the onesie. He zips up the front opening and
runs his hands over the soft short hairs. It feels really nice. “Why?” he asks
when he exits.
“Why what?” Derek says, glancing up from where he’s texting on his phone.
“Why do you always buy three of everything?”
“I don’t know. I just like to be prepared in case of anything,” Derek supposes
as he starts flipping channels, and pauses when he lands on a rerun of Golden
Girls.He puts his remote down on his nightstand before patting the space beside
him. “Come on. I’ve been waiting all day to see you.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and gnaws on his bottom lip to hide his fond grin as he
treks over. He slides into bed and begins to purposefully putting up a wall of
pillows between them while Jordan settles at the other end of the bed.
Derek makes an annoyed sound, knocking the pillows out of the way and using one
to swat Stiles in the head.
Stiles laughs as he gets whacked in the face and dragged closer before Derek
plants an apologetic kiss on his temple. He patiently allows Derek to rearrange
them where he’s comfortably propped up against the pillows lined against the
headboard while Derek lies his head on his lap so he can face the TV.
Derek rumbles in pleasure when Stiles starts running his long fingers through
Derek’s dark hair, lightly scratching at his skull. Under the collar of his
onesie, he still has Stiles’s glittery blue handprint resting across his left
collarbone.
Stiles is internally pleased to see it withstanding.
Derek huffs at something Sophia says to Blanche as he rubs his hand up and down
Stiles’s leg. He waits until the episode ends and it cuts to commercial to say,
“Do you want to tell me about your day? What kind of things did you get up to?”
Stiles takes a moment to think as Derek twists onto his back so he can stare up
at him. Strangely (or really not so strangely) enough, Stiles feels completely
comfortable with the attention as he rambles on about his experience at his
first Paranormal Potluck Nightcap. He talks about the people he met and the
numbers and invitations he got as a result of him networking. He takes a few
minutes talking about his admiration of Kate having the courage to share what
was probably one of her most intimately private memories.
Ultimately that reminds him of the bombshell she dropped on him about sleeping
with Parrish but Derek huffs and rolls his eyes like he’s not even surprised.
He’s probably not given the fact that he unfortunately has had the room under
Peter’s for a number of years now. He also brings up Kate’s unsettling comment
about his Aunt Lorraine.
From there he starts talking about everything he learned today about the
difference between Vices and Virtues. He also brings up what Nana told him
about the Great Migration, and the Territory Wars. He ends up asking questions
about it and Derek is patient enough to answer him because, he admits, his
Uncle Peter was always tasked with teaching him, Laura, and Cora about
supernatural history and culture since none of them attended any of the private
Were academies.
He spends the next moments after that discussing his work with Deaton and how
they got through making viable landscaping plans for his backyard. He tries to
downplay how much it meant to him but Derek seems to see right through his
facade, smiling and asking the most clever and frustratingly accurate questions
that Stiles can’t help but answer with an elated and anxious tone. This pattern
continues until Stiles has laid all his plans bare and Derek has nothing else
he can absolutely ask without already knowing the answer.
Sometime around midnight, Stiles eventually gets to talking about the whole mix
up with Isaac, Cora, and Boyd, and how they were able to resolve things in the
end. Of course at any mention of Cora at all, Derek gets this complicated
neutral expression he puts on, and it reminds Stiles of the days when Derek
would do the same each time someone inadvertently mentioned Paige after their
messy breakup.
Stiles threads his fingers through Derek’s hair when Derek’s gaze grows
distant, and he becomes quieted by his upset. “You know,” he murmurs lowly. “I
wish you would tell me what she said that’s making you slip away from me right
now.”
Derek blinks out of his thoughts and shifts his hazel green eyes up to him.
“Huh?” he says with a furrowed brow.
“It’s very unsettlingwhen you won't tell me what Cora said that has you upset,”
Stiles probes with a dry joke. “Did you just catch what I did there? I said
‘unsettling’ since we’re in the Settling stage.”
Derek rolls his eyes and makes an exaggeratedly wounded sound when Stiles tugs
his hair gently like a reprimand. “I guess I’m just trying to convince myself
that what she said wasn’t a big deal and I’m trying to not let it get to me.
Like I said before, she’s not usually so cruel. I keep thinking that it wasn’t
really her talking, but the side effects of the Match. When you first encounter
a potential True Match, your emotions kind of go on the fritz.”
Stiles thinks back about his first encounter with Derek and how bizarre it was
to be cornered by someone he had initially considered to be laidback and
friendly. He wonders if that’s what it was for them and he says as much aloud.
Derek stares up at him for a moment before he laughs softly. “Yeah, geez, as
embarrassing as it is to admit, you're right. I was hoping you wouldn’t connect
the dots because that honestly was not one of my more charming moments.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Derek snorts. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve regretted it ever since,”
he confesses.
“Your attitude hasvastly improved since then so I guess I can’t really hold you
to it.”
Derek scoffs and grabs his left hand so he can kiss the fading bruise still
resting on his inner wrist.
“Still waiting for you to tell me what she said.”
Derek groans and uses Stiles’s left hand to cover his eyes. “Pushy,” he
mumbles. But louder, he says, “She accused me of being jealous, which, okay,
whatever. No big deal normally, but what made it worse was when she followed it
up by adding how it wasn’t her fault that I let my True Match slip through my
fingers and now I’m just on the rebound.”
Stiles pauses at that, fingers twitching with his upset over Derek’s face and
he knows it’s probably noticeable. “Oh,” he finally says and swallows. “I, uh,
I’m sure she didn’t mean that.”
“That’s what she says.”
Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip as his magic swirls in his gut with rising
agitation. It doesn’t help that the ache in his bones appear to be returning in
consistent waves that makes it hard to ignore.
“Now you see why I’m not so quick to forgive her yet,” Derek gruffly states. He
moves Stiles’s left hand from his eyes so he can stare up at the younger teen.
“Anyone who insults you, insults me. There’s no separation with that.”
Stiles feels the corner of his mouth kick up slightly as his magic calms to an
alarming degree at the words. “Oh yeah?” he challenges and watches Derek nod
over his thighs. He leans down, when he can’t help himself, and he kisses the
space between Derek’s eyebrows. Pulling away, he says, “Same here, big guy.”
Derek flushes in pleasure, and Stiles is pretty sure he’s mirroring the
expression when Derek grabs his left hand to kiss at his fingertips.
“So, uh, I guess Paige was your True Match, huh?” Stiles asks carefully,
keeping his tone neutral and braces himself for the disappointment that will
shortly follow.
But Derek looks at him like he’s the craziest weirdo on the planet and, yeah
wow, it’s been a long while since Stiles has seen that expression.
“What?” Stiles says defensively. “It’s — I don’t — I’d understand because — I’m
just saying — uh. Look, it’s fine or whatever. Even though it wasn’t in your
control how things ended, I get that there was — that you still have a part of
you that cares about her. Which, I get, I do. Because it’s not like you can
forget what you felt —”
“She’s not my True Match.”
“— and she’s not your True Match.” Stiles pauses his ramblings as the words
sink in. “She — what?”
“Paige isn’t my True Match,” Derek repeats slowly as he stares up at him
calmly. “She never was. You’re the one I — seriously, babe, are you going to
make me say it?”
“Oh.” Stiles feels a slow flush spread across his entire body. Derek has just
made it hard to misunderstand what he means. “Oh. Uh, okay. Cool. Yeah. Great.
Awesome. Yes.” He exhales shakily as his shoulders slump in relief.
Derek snickers, looking entirely at ease with the situation and he knocks a
loose fist against Stiles’s jaw. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” he announces
cheerfully as he rolls off the bed and goes to do just that.
Stiles exhales shakily as his shoulders slump in relief. He’s glad that his
magic is sound asleep, otherwise he’s sure he’d be subjected to some merciless
teasing in a heartbeat. He slumps down and grabs a pillow so he can attempt to
smother his red face as he replays Derek’s candid words over and over in his
mind. He squirms when his attention is caught by the ache in his bones and the
heat searing its way through his muscles. He groans and presses Derek’s pillow
harder to his face.
The bed dips a moment later and Derek is gently tugging the pillow away so he
can hover over him with a concerned frown. “What’s wrong? Your heartbeat is
doing that thing it does when you’re in pain,” he says.
“Will I ever stop being surprised by the things you notice about me?”
Derek smiles with a shrug before it vanishes again, replaced by a frown as he
rubs his fingers over Stiles’s damp forehead. “You definitely shouldn’t be
sweating,” he reasons.
“Maybe it’s this onesie you gave me. Also, you’re like a living furnace too.”
“Stiles, we have central air on as low as can be bearable for the Humans in the
house.”
“Well you got me there.”
Derek looks like he wants to shake him but he just asks him again what’s wrong.
Stiles is reluctant to share (just out of embarrassment of being labeled as a
‘late bloomer’) what he’s recently discovered thanks to his mentor’s
perceptiveness over identifying his paranormal growth spurt.
Derek is nothing but empathetic. “I remember what that was like,” he
acknowledges. “Definitely don’t miss those days, but we all had to go through
it. Mine struck pretty early on. Like when I was eleven, which isn’t unusual,
but it’s not common either for males. Till this day I maintain it’s Cora’s
fault because she was going through hers and we’ve always been so close that no
one seemed surprised we were hit around the same time.”
“Did you feel like you were stubby?” Stiles questions as he stretches in such a
ridiculous way that makes Derek laugh as he sits up. “What?”
“Your skin feels tight, you mean?” Derek snickers.
Stiles snorts as he settles down and folds his hands over his stomach while he
lies flat on his back. He exhales in annoyance when another wave of ache sinks
into his bones and a flare of heat has his skin and muscles tightening up.
“Hang on,” Derek says after a moment of watching him in slight worry. “I’ll be
back. You can pick something to watch.”
Stiles accepts the remote Derek passes over while he climbs out of the bed and
quietly exits the room. He shifts onto his side, scooting over because he
honestly always prefers the right side of the bed, and so he can face the TV
properly.
Jordan is snoring softly at the end of the bed.
Derek returns with a long, blue popsicle and a cool washcloth. He climbs into
bed and hands over the popsicle while he lays the moist cloth over Stiles’s
damp forehead. “The summer between sixth and seventh grade was pretty brutal,
but my mom always stayed up with Cora and I at night during those particularly
excruciating stretching blocks. She fed us popsicles and covered our forehead
with cool washcloths until the pain passed,” he explains without prompting. He
strokes the back of his hand over Stiles’s pink cheek. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs gratefully as he sucks on the cold popsicle. “God, you’re
so good to me that it’s almost annoying. You’re like the curly fries at the
bottom of the bag.”
Derek laughs softly as he rearranges Stiles so that he’s the one resting in his
lap this time. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess. What are we watching?”
“Jumanji,” Stiles mutters around his popsicle. “You haven’t missed anything, it
literally just started. Fair warning though, I might fall asleep halfway
through.”
“I won’t mind,” Derek promises. “Never seen this movie before. I’m probably
gonna watch it until the end.”
Stiles makes an exasperated sound. “Seriously? You’ve never seen Jumanji? How
is that even possible?”
“It just is. I mean I know of it, but I haven’t watched it before,” Derek
replies distractedly. The movie appears to already have his attention.
Stiles wants to pester and tease him more about it but he decides to be nice
and just leave him be. True to his word, just as Alan Parrish meets the gaze of
his old friend, Karl the police officer, in the rear view mirror and confesses
his identity, Stiles drifts off with Derek rubbing absent-minded circles into
his back.
With the smell of vanilla cloying to the inside of his nose and curling in his
lungs, he sinks into the awaiting abyss of sleep.
He still has the popsicle stick in his mouth.
                                      ---
Stiles jerks awake early Thursday morning to the noise of laughter, unnamable
thumps and thuds, running feet, and streaks of sunlight pouring through the
closed blinds landing on his face. Jordan’s resting heavily on his back,
pressing his wet nose behind Stiles’s left ear with soft, quick breaths. He
shifts and Jordan snuffles, sits upright, head cocked and tail wagging happily
as he pulls back to let Stiles shift onto his back.
Stiles shoots the dog a small, grateful smile as he stretches contently with a
yawn before looking over to where Derek is lying on his stomach with his head
resting against a pillow cradled between his arms and the side of his face. His
full bladder urges him to slip away and use the bathroom quickly. He doubles
back to fish for his toothbrush in his backpack and ends up running into Laura
in the bathroom.
Laura’s hair is wild from sleep but she still manages to pull off a
particularly award winning pageant smile when she meets his gaze through the
reflection of the mirror.
Stiles returns it when she scoots over to give him space at the double sink and
they share some toothpaste between them as they brush their teeth together.
“I was on my way down to catch breakfast,” Laura announces after she spits and
rinses. She takes a moment to brush out her hair. “Care to join me?”
Stiles nods and glances back in the room where Derek is still sleeping,
internally debating whether or not he should wake the older teen.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t even think about it. Derek’s super grouchy when he’s forced
to be awake against his will,” Laura warns, as though she can read his mind.
She steers him out the bathroom, and they wander through Cora’s room to get to
the hallway. She lets Jordan trot ahead of them when he trails after them.
“He’ll come around if he smells the food and decides he wants in on the action.
Otherwise, it’s best to leave him be.”
Stiles nods again and takes her words to heart. He realizes too late that he’s
barefoot and that he’s still in Derek’s wolf onesie as he follows Laura down a
flights of steps. He doesn’t feel like turning back at this point so he bravely
ventures forward until they’re in the dining room.
It’s presently swarmed with young Hale children of all ages and sizes. Most of
them are outfitted in the uniform of their academy: the boys are wearing red
polo shirts under a dark blue blazer, with the insignia of the triskelion on
the left breast pocket, and khaki shorts, which are belted at the waist with a
leather belt; and the girls have the same, only they’re wearing plaid skirts
with no belts and knee high socks with mary jane shoes.
It doesn’t look like any of their parents are around, and Stiles figures that
most of the adults have already left for work since it is still a weekday after
all. The kids only eat at the long oak table with names carved into it when
most of the adults aren’t about.
Stiles settles between Laura and Delilah at the middle of the table while
everyone passes around the servings of breakfast. He slides the tips of his
fingers over the indentions of any name within reach while he waits for the
platter of waffles to make it’s round to him. He secretly hopes that one day
he’ll be given the permission to add his own name into the mix.
Talia is seated at the head of the table between Nana Hale and Derek Sr. (who
is feeding Olive as she sits in her high chair).
The table fills up quickly and the dining room is abuzz with excited chatter,
mostly over the events they’re expecting to do at their schools today. They
swap homework sheets, and copy from each other, or fight over bottles of
blueberry syrup, or Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes loaded with chocolate chips.
“You guys are still in school?” Stiles asks as he drowns his banana pancakes in
vanilla cheesecake icing.
Delilah responds, “School doesn’t end for us until the first of July. We only
get a month break before we start up again in August. All of the Were schools
are strict about the length of time they let the students stay out of school.
It’s viewed as a waste.”
“Wow, I don’t know if I should be impressed or sympathetic,” Stiles replies and
grins when it makes Delilah laugh.
“Both, I think,” Delilah says. “Derek and Cora are the envy of the house during
summer vacation. You guys go back in September right?”
“Middle of August,” Stiles corrects between bites.
Delilah nods and quickly snatches up the last tapioca pudding cup floating
around.
Stiles grabs a couple of turkey sausages and bacon as he humoredly thinks about
how everyone seems to pounce on food like they’re hunting in the wild for game.
Talia announces, “This is your six minute warning. The bus will be here soon to
pick you up. It won’t wait.”
There’s a sudden flurry of movement as some pick up the pace to clear their
plates, while others sprint from the table to locate their scattered bookbags
or their shoes. Eventually they all evacuate the house at the sound of three
warning honks coming from outside.
Derek Sr. and Talia go out of their way to come and talk to him for a moment
while Olive tries to climb into his arms.
Stiles takes her with a laugh as Talia shakes her head in amusement. He knows
what she must want when she claps her chubby baby hands over his cheeks with
throaty, demanding, gurgly sounds. He pulls a bit of magic from his chest and
forms a small, glittery blue duckling for her to play with while he continues
exchanging pleasantries with her parents.
“I don’t really feel like we’ve had the chance to properly know each other,”
Derek Sr. says with a kind smile. “Though my son talks about you extensively
and enough for me to feel like we have already spent enough time together.”
Stiles flushes and laughs a little self-deprecatingly. “He doesn’t really do
that, does he?”
Derek Sr. shrugs with a slight smirk and, yeah, wow, Cora and Derek are sohis
spitting image.
Talia scoffs and swats at her husband’s shoulder. “You know Derek would have a
fit if he heard you teasing him like this.”
“Ah, but it’s my right as a father, I think,” Derek Sr. supposes with a playful
grin as he wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her quick while she
pretends to be annoyed. He bumps their noses together until she laughs and
pushes his face away.
“Behave,” Talia implores.
“If I must,” Derek Sr. sighs before turning back to Stiles with a cheerful
smile. “I was told that you share the same love I do for the sci-fi and fantasy
genre.”
Stiles brightens as they begin discussing the latest Supernatural episode where
Dean confronts Abaddon alone and succeeds in killing her with the Mark of Cain.
They debate in great lengths about the effect the First Blade is having on the
oldest Winchester sibling and their speculations about what may happen in the
next episode.
The conversation ends with Stiles making plans with Derek Sr. to attend Beacon
Hills annual Fannibal Fantasy Convention happening next Sunday.
Derek Sr. and Talia carry off Olive (who fell asleep in Stiles’s arm, clutching
his magic close) and travel elsewhere in the house while Laura and Stiles stay
behind to help Nana Hale clear the table and load up the dishwasher.
Stiles downs about three glasses of orange juice just as Laura loads the last
of the silverware and cups.
Nana Hale kisses the corner of Laura’s mouth with a murmured thanks before she
turns to Stiles. She says, “Congratulations on your Match with Derek. I always
had high hopes for you two.”
Stiles flushes as she kisses the back of his right hand and pats it sweetly (as
she always does). He scrambles to say, “Thank you.”
Nana Hale merely smiles before she turns to Laura. “Since I know you have some
time to spare, why don’t you help an old woman complete a quilt for the
upcoming Assembly. I heard your cousin Cecilia plans on finalizing things with
her Match and I want to give this to her as a gift for the bonding ceremony.”
“I’m a bit rusty, but I don’t mind lending a hand,” Laura assures. She hugs
Stiles before they both exit the kitchen to settle in the living room.
Stiles talks himself out of and then into getting another glass of orange juice
before he ventures back upstairs. By this time it’s about eight in the morning
and Derek is still sound asleep when he returns to the room. When he walks
closer, it’s just as he thought.
Derek has on those dark green heavy duty construction silicon ear plugs.
Stiles turns away to fish out his phone and his charger before returning to the
other side of the bed to settle in again. He lets his phone charge as he idly
checks his emails, his missed calls, and returns a few missed texts. When
there’s nothing left to do, he puts his phone face down so that it can continue
juicing up in peace and he shifts onto his side as he slides under the covers
with his back to Derek. He spends a few moments staring at the light filtering
through the blinds while he prays, trying out the advice that Nana gave him the
other day and talks to Fate like he would to any other friend.
He gets distracted a few times and has to fight his way back to his original
train of thought, but it feels a lot more fluid and organic than all the other
previous times. He ends his prayers on a light note by being grateful for all
that he has, and he hums to himself while he begins to drift off to sleep. He
jumps a little when he feels the bed shift and he looks over his shoulder to
see Derek removing his ear plugs and setting them on his nightstand.
Stiles shoots him an annoyed look as he attempts to get his heartbeat under
control.
Derek makes a sleepy sound of amusement as he drags Stiles closer and presses
his forehead between his shoulderblades, holding him by the waist. “You smell
like you’ve been rolling in bananas,” he murmurs.
“What?” Stiles laughs quietly and instantly forgets his annoyance. “I mean,
yeah, I just got back from breakfast. You missed out. There was waffles.”
Derek just mumbles something nonsensical before going right back to sleep.
Stiles rolls his eyes but he falls asleep shortly after too.
                                      ---
Derek is kissing the knuckles of both of his hands the next time Stiles wakes.
He gazes up at Derek with sleepy confusion as the other teen smiles down at
from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed (fully dressed in a pair of dark
jeans with a San Francisco Giants jersey and a matching hat).
Stiles yawns and rubs at his eyes tiredly. “What time is it?” he asks from
behind his hands.
“Quarter past eleven,” Derek replies as he watches him. “Your dad and your
brother are here with Scott. So if you want to see them before we leave, you
should get dressed now. Plus I know you said that you have to meet up with
Deaton at noon, and as much as I like having you in my bed, I don’t want you to
be late.”
Stiles groans, too tired to blush but he still shoots a hand out to swat at
Derek’s face. “Ugh, and I was just about to thank you for your efforts,” he
complains before he rolls over onto his other side with his back to the older
teen.
Derek snickers and crawls after him, sitting close and begins to poke Stiles in
his sides until he jerks with a laugh. “Why are you annoyed with me? I do like
having you in my bed,” he insists as he keeps poking Stiles.
“Stop saying it like that,” Stiles complains between laughter.
“Like what?”
“Like you mean something different then what you mean.”
“I meant sleep, but yeah, if you really want me to be honest, sometimes I do
think about all the things your mouth can do when I’m alone.”
“Derek!” Stiles squawks as he gets hot all over. “Jesus, I’m not even fully
awake to entertain this conversation.”
Derek shrugs and goes back to tickling him. “The point is that I’d have you
here everyday with me if I could.”
“Okay! Okay!” Stiles begs as he gasps out his laughs. “God, okay! Mercy! Uncle!
Whatever!”
Derek grins but he eases off of him. “You sure you don’t want to come with us?”
he asks.
Stiles makes a face that has Derek laughing.
“Fine, but I think this is a serious conversation we should revisit because I
really like sports, and I’ll want to go to events with you in the future,”
Derek warns as he slides out of the bed. “I’m going to go find my mom. I’ll
meet you downstairs.”
Stiles just hums and waits until Derek closes his door behind him before he
climbs out bed to get dressed. He takes a minute to account for everything
before he tosses his backpack over his shoulder and exits the room. He can hear
his dad’s voice floating up the steps from the foyer, and when he gallops down
the stairs, sure enough, his old man is conversing cheerfully with Derek Sr.
while Isaac and Scott talk amongst themselves.
Scott is the first to spot him, and Stiles barely has enough time to lift his
foot from the last step before he’s being ambushed by an enthusiastic hug.
Stiles laughs and returns the hug with equal vigor.
Scott pulls away with his trademark sunshiney smile and says, “Jackson texted
me earlier. They’re going to release Danny tomorrow.”
“Really? That’s...good, yeah. I should see him today,” Stiles supposes. That
nervous feeling returns and he still can’t quite place why that is. “You
look...is that face paint?”
Scott nods proudly as he points at his face. There’s a one on his right cheek,
and a six on the other cheek while his forehead reads ‘Pagán’ in black and
orange. “He’s my favorite infielder,” he explains.
Stiles glances over Scott’s shoulder to see Isaac, his dad, and Derek Sr.
dressed similarly as well (sport’s jerseys, hats, and all), but Scott’s the
only one with face paint.
Isaac wanders over and he gives Stiles a quick hug before he says, “Dad is
trying to make me wear one of those finger foams.”
Stiles laughs because he knows all too well what his little brother means.
“Sorry, buddy. It’s like a rite of passage. My dad did it to me when he took me
to my first game. I don’t think there’s any getting out of it,” he admits,
voice tinged with humor and apology.
Isaac sighs as he crosses his arms. He mutters, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“I like finger foams,” Scott declares with a happy grin.
“Scott, that doesn’t surprise me,” Isaac replies with a lifted brow and Stiles
snorts but makes a sound of agreement. “You can wear mine then.”
“Oh, no need to be so generous, son,” the sheriff says, pausing his
conversation with Derek Sr. (who looks on in amusement). “I plan on buying
enough for you, Scott, and Derek.”
Isaac looks so comically devastated that Stiles almost chokes on his own spit
in his haste to laugh.
“Dad,” Stiles chokes out as Isaac glares meanly at him. “Dad, pleasetake
pictures.”
“Oh don’t worry. I will.”
Scott’s attention gets snagged by the sight of Laura and Nana Hale still
diligently working on a wide and long quilt with different, meaningful
patchworks to them in the living room. He wanders over to question them about
it and both Laura and Nana Hale seem charmed by his wide-eyed curiosity,
answering his questions with endeared patience.
Derek gallops down the steps as he twists his hat to rest backwards on his
head. “Hey, dad, mom wants to know if you can take Olive. She says she’s
pumping some milk now to take with you if you can, and it should keep her under
for most of the game,” he announces, draping an arm over Stiles’s shoulder and
leaning into his side.
Derek Sr. exchanges some quiet words with the sheriff before he turns to
disappear up the steps, presumably to grab his youngest daughter. On the way
up, he says, “Derek, do me a favor and put her stroller and her car seat in the
minivan. Both of them should be in your mother’s truck.”
Isaac perks up, going from annoyed to excited at the prospect of being able to
spend some time with the littlest Hale. “Do you need help?” he asks.
Derek nods with a grateful half-smile, and he’s pulling away from Stiles to
trek through the dining room towards the kitchen with Isaac on his heels.
Stiles takes a moment to wander over to his dad and give him a one armed hug.
“So where’s Cora and Boyd?”
“Last I saw, Boyd’s mother had swung by to pick them up. If they aren’t here,
I’m assuming they went elsewhere,” his dad reasons. He rests a calloused hand
on the crown of Stiles’s head as he looks him over with his normal amount of
fatherly concern. “How are you feeling?”
Stiles scoffs. “Deaton must have talked to you,” he says.
The sheriff nods but waits for him to respond to his question.
“I’m fine,” Stiles assures as he pulls away. “For now. I mean the aches don’t
feel nice when they hit, but it’s not like unbearable, you know?”
“Well I need you to tell me when it is,” his dad urges. “From the way that
Deaton made it sound, I should be prepared to take off a few days of work.”
Stiles shrugs but he doesn’t try and tell his old man to do otherwise.
“Stiles,” his dad presses.
“Sorry. Yes, I will tell you if it gets to be too much.”
His dad nods in satisfaction before he glances at the watch on his wrist. “I
think we’re going to be hitting the road soon. Did you want us to drop you off
at home?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m headed to Deaton’s anyway. I think I’ll just like Uber
there or something.”
“You be safe then. Let me know when you get there, and where you go after.”
Stiles nods and watches his dad gesture for Scott to follow him outside where
Derek Sr.’s minivan is already parked and waiting.
Derek and Isaac are both wrestling to put Olive’s pink and black/white
polkadotted Minnie Mouse car seat in the back. It looks like they’re trying to
make sense of what straps go where.
Lucky for them, his dad wanders over to offer some of his veteran advice.
Stiles steps out onto the porch when Derek Sr. comes passing over the threshold
next with Olive in one arm, and her baby bag in the other. He pauses long
enough to say goodbye to Stiles before he moves to get his daughter situated in
the car.
His dad waves at him before sliding into the passenger seat.
Stiles waves back, and tosses a few more to Scott and Isaac but rolls his eyes
while he grudgingly laughs at the obnoxious way Derek sends him a few smacking
air kisses with an exaggerated pout. He lingers out on the porch a while longer
to watch them drive off and disappear into the trees.
He’s running short on time but he makes it a point to double back in the house
and exchange a few goodbyes with Laura and Nana Hale. Before he can move to
look for Talia, she’s already wandering down the steps with her two older
sisters, Rosemary and Meredith.
“We’re heading into town,” Talia says. “Stiles, I can drop you off at Deaton’s
on the way. Laura, what will you be doing?”
“I’m gonna stay with Nana for a little while longer,” Laura replies, pausing
her needlework to give her mother her full attention. “Kate’s supposed to be
picking me up later so we can get ready for our party tomorrow night. You know,
just go over the final touches and tidy up the itinerary.”
Talia nods and walks over to give her a kiss on the cheek, before she turns to
Nana Hale and does the same thing.
Rosemary and Meredith follow her lead and they do the same before wandering
towards the kitchen to get to the garage.
Talia approaches Stiles and presses a heated palm over the back of his neck,
using the gentle grip to guide him after the others.
Meredith and Rosemary are already chatting idly in Italian from where they’re
sitting in the back.
Talia encourages him to take the passenger side seat as she climbs in to take
her place behind the wheel of her BMW X1. She’s reversing out of the garage
expertly in one moment, and steering her way through the forest preserve the
next moment.
Lydia sends him a text that says: Send me Deaton’s address. I’ll meet you there
and help you like I said I would.
                                      ---
Stiles is not surprised to see that Violet and Garrett are parked across the
street in that black Chevrolet Tahoe, watching him blankly. He doesn’t even
want to waste his time entertaining them. He just stands out in front of the
glass window with painted gold letters that say Alan's Old Antiquitiesand waits
for Lydia. She shows up in a cab within a few minutes, clutching her jeweled
egg close.
She’s wearing a sleeveless romper in a dusty rose color paired with some white
sandal wedges. She has on her silver septum nose ring and her strawberry blonde
hair is in flowy beach waves. She looks just as beautiful as she did when he
first met her.
Stiles watches as she pauses to peer at the adopted Argents.
Lydia stares at them for a long time before she shifts her gaze away. “How are
you?” she questions as they walk into the dusty, poorly lit shop while the bell
chimes overhead to announce their arrival.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Deaton calls out from all the way in the back.
“I’m fine,” Stiles says to Lydia while they approach the glass counter. “How
are you?”
Lydia shrugs, but she’s got that dreamy expression on her face again. She takes
a moment to sit down in the nearby rocking chair. After a while, she says,
“They’ve been following you for a while now, haven’t they?”
Stiles doesn’t know who she means at first until he realizes she’s referring to
Violet and Garrett. “Yeah, but I’m getting to the point where I’ve decided not
to let it get to me,” he supposes.
“But if it could stop, you would prefer that?” Lydia probes a bit obscurely.
“In a perfect world,” Stiles passively verifies. “But they’ve already informed
me that even if I wanted to do something about it, there would be no use. So
don’t sweat it, Lyds. How are you doing?”
Lydia spends a few seconds rocking the chair slowly before she replies, “I keep
dreaming that you and I are standing on a small island made of white sand. All
around us is a raging sea of black water, but then we hold hands and you speak
to the North Wind while I speak to the South Wind until everything settles, and
there is peace.”
Stiles finds both of his eyebrows lifting at that. “Well, I’m not much for
dream interpretation so I can’t tell you what that means.”
“I know. I think Peril is trying to tell me something. I’ve been praying before
I go to bed every night, and I think this is Peril’s way of communicating
back,” Lydia reasons with a whimsical tone. “You already know the answer, you
know.”
“I do? Wait, let’s back track because I think now you mean something else.”
Lydia gives him an odd smirk like she doesn’t understand his tone but she
shrugs. “The Nymph. You’ve been trying to figure out her affliction, but you
already know.”
“I do?” Stiles frowns and tries to think back but nothing comes to him. “I
really don’t think I do.”
Deaton appears from behind the doorway of hanging beads with his Grimoire in
one hand, and Stiles’s newly laminated blueprint for his backyard’s layout.
It’s been shrunken down and is now roughly the size of a kid’s menu at a
restaurant.
Stiles loves it, and he’s proud of himself when he doesn’t snatch it from
Deaton’s grasp out of excitement. He looks it over with a sense of fulfilled
awe, and when Lydia makes a gesture of wanting to see, he does not withhold it
from her.
Lydia stares fixedly at the blueprint and continues to rock the chair gently.
Deaton sets the Grimoire on the surface of the glass counter, successfully
catching Stiles’s attention again, and he says, “Do you remember I told you
that Mermaids need a natural stream of water in order to travel between their
aquatic realms?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says as he accepts back his blueprint when Lydia hands it over.
He tucks it away in his backpack before he puts it on the floor at his feet.
“You said the safest way for them to travel and protect their kingdoms is to go
through portals they activate and will only accept the passage of a pureblood
Mermaid.”
“I also reasoned that if Heather cannot do that, then the problem must lie in
her blood. I assumed she had a parasite.” Deaton pokes at the cover of the
Grimoire as he continues, “I’ve read this from cover to cover, and I cannot
pinpoint any such parasite that would cause this particular affliction.”
“That’s because it’s something of her own doing,” Lydia chimes from the rocking
chair, and easily shoulders their gazes when they slide over to her. “Stiles, I
told you. You already found the answer. You just didn’t know it. What did you
first do when you couldn’t figure out how to make tea like Mr. Deaton asked you
to?”
Stiles stares at her while he feels his mentor’s gaze shift to him with
calculating focus. “I mean I couldn’t really make it and I tried to pull on my
magic to help but it wouldn't. But it just led me over to the bookshelves and I
found this book…” He pauses as his magic floats up to his mind with smug glee,
unraveling the memory for him with such startling clarity. That’s when it
suddenly occurs to him what she means. “The Garden of Hesperides and the
daughters of the evening.”
“Find the book again, and you’ll remember the answer,” Lydia instructs.
Stiles looks to Deaton with uncertainty but the older man says, “Your cousin is
offering you wise counsel. I would heed it.”
Stiles releases his magic and it swirls to the ground before transforming into
three glittery blue, adult-sized mountain gorillas. He implores one of its
copies to retrieve the book and it trots off to do so, no questions asked.
Meanwhile, one of the other glittery blue gorillas stays by his side while the
third one wanders about the inner perimeter of Deaton’s shop, as if to test the
integrity of the security of the building.
Lydia folds her legs under her as she uses her own red colored magic to feed
her jeweled egg, which seems to have grown almost three sizes bigger in a span
of a second to the size of a cantaloupe.
His magic returns with the book and Stiles gives it a murmur of genuine
gratitude that makes all three versions of the glittery blue gorillas preen and
puff up in pride as they glow a bit brighter under his attention.
Stiles smiles to himself at the sight before he quickly flips through the book
to double back to the passage he knows he needs to look at again. His eyes runs
over it until he stops on one particular sentence. He reads it at least five
times before he’s absolutely certain of the answer he finds.
“Is there anything of interest?” Deaton asks from where he still stands behind
the glass counter.
“Yeah, but Heather really, reallyisn’t going to like what I have to say,”
Stiles admits with a sigh as he slides the book over to his mentor, and points
to one particular sentence. “That’s pretty much the whole problem in a
nutshell.”
“I see,” Deaton murmurs as his eyes quickly surveys the passage. “That does
present a problem.”
Stiles snorts because that’s putting it lightly. “She’s going to be furious,”
he reasons as he closes the book. “But I think I’ll ask Nana if she can get
Mrs. Doyle to send a message to Heather’s family about the situation.”
“That would be very wise,” Deaton agrees. “In the meantime, until Heather
returns to confront you about your findings, there are a few things we should
discuss. Braeden’s older sister was able to identify the poison given to Mr.
Ravenhill. She found traces of Porcelain Mushrooms.”
“Porcelain Mushrooms? What are those?”
Deaton opens the Grimoire to a specific passage, and points to the illustration
of a portobello shaped mushroom the color of alabaster white. “Porcelain
Mushrooms are magical funguses that are only found around Mayan Ruins. The
Werepanthers in the Mayan culture grew and used them as inhibitors. A lot of
Human recreational drugs are based off of the euphoric side effects of this
fungus. In small doses, it has the same effects as an entire bottle of vodka or
an ecstasy pill. But in larger doses, as we’ve already seen, it can be fatal.”
Stiles tries to swallow down his upset in order to motion for him to continue.
Deaton gives him a look that could almost be categorized as sympathetic as he
adds, “Based on the sample I gave her, she ultimately concluded that the
poisoning had been happening over a long period of time.”
Stiles blinks very quickly as his eyes get wet and he exhales shakily to get
himself under control when the lights flicker overhead and the glass counter
between him and Deaton begins to tremble. When his thoughts tilt towards
violent fantasies, his uncle the main star of them all, he has to quickly think
on more pleasant things because something very dark in his mind blindsides him
for a moment and he knows instantly that he does not want to go there.
He thinks about Derek with all his might and all his will. He thinks about how
sweet, and kind Derek is, and how differently the older teen would look at him
if he acted on those cruel urges. It’s enough to make him feel sick and he’s
able to let go of his anger. Mr. Ravenhill is among the stars now, at peace,
and no amount of revenge will bring him back. But Stiles can do this right. He
can still get justice.
The lights settle, as does the glass counter.
Stiles murmurs a quick apology to his mentor and turns to do the same with
Lydia, but she’s sound asleep in the rocking chair, her jeweled egg pressed to
her stomach as her hands continue to glow with the bioluminescent red of her
magic.
“I understand how upsetting this news is, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton remarks and
waits until Stiles turns his gaze to him again. He goes on to say, “But you
must never use your magic to harm or lash out on another. Doing so opens up a
doorway for Peril to come in and claim you for it’s own. If you become a Vice,
I can no longer be your handler.”
Stiles swallows dryly but nods to show that he understands.
Satisfied, Deaton adds, “Though sorrow may last for the night, joy comes in the
morning. Remember that it’s always darkest before it’s dawn. You are doing very
well so far, and I would hate to see you forfeit your destiny. I see great
things for you.”
Stiles nods again with tired resignation.
“If Fate is merciful, perhaps one day you will find a cure to counteract such a
poison,” Deaton states, and though his voice is monotone, it comes off as
encouraging somehow. “Shall we begin studying the botany charms and
enchantments I mentioned before? We can start with the plants that are best for
protective wards.”
Stiles feels a bit more cheered by this subject. “So, does this mean I can
start studying from the Grimoire now?” he asks, voice edging upward with hope.
“You may take notes, but as far as borrowing it, that’s still out of the
question. You aren’t quite there yet,” Deaton replies rather candidly. He flips
through a few pages and shows him a passage about rose bushes. “Since you have
yet to elect a landscaping design for the front and sides of your house, may I
suggest starting here?”
Stiles unearths a notebook from his backpack (along with a blue pen) and starts
taking some notes on the combined magic of roses and immunity charms.
Lydia sleeps all the while, and his magic (still in the form of three mountain
gorillas) treks to and fro around Deaton’s shop, messing with different knick
knacks to be found.
While Deaton and Stiles are making plans to get started on the groundwork this
coming Saturday, Lydia jerks awake with a gasp before fishing out her phone and
staring at it for a long time.
“Something wrong?” Stiles asks in concerns.
Lydia mumbles incoherently as her phone suddenly pings loudly with the arrival
of a text message like she’d been waiting for it (expecting it). She reads it
quickly before she scowls and climbs to her feet. “That idiot,” she mutters.
She looks at Stiles. “I have to go. Jackson’s done something very foolish and I
— I have to go. I’ll tell you later when everything settles,” she promises. She
crosses the room and she’s exiting the shop within the next moment.
Stiles hopes it’s nothing too serious, but it’s hard to say with as little
information about the matter presently. He just looks at Deaton and shrugs as
his mentor begins handing him some extra books to study in preparation for
Saturday. He’s packing it all away when the bell of the front door chimes. When
he turns, he sees someone who he didn’t think he would for a long while.
It’s Journey from the college frat party back when he was helping Kate and
Parrish locate the Heather and her brothers, and she’s sending him the same
bewildered wide-eyed stare he must be sending her.
Braeden nudges her forward out of the doorway with an annoyed scowl. Whit Lee
is nowhere to be seen but she still has Mr. Ravenhill’s birds perched on her
shoulders and hovering around her head and shoulders like a Disney princess.
“Can you not crowd the doorway like that?” she complains. She pauses when she
notices the way she and Stiles are looking at each other. “Ey, what are you
looking at him like that for?”
Journey blinks and says, “Remember that white boy I told you about some weeks
ago?”
“Yeah? So?” Braeden frowns when Journey gives her an exasperated look.
Something seems to click. “No. Oh no. Not him. This was the guy you wanted to
take to a buffet and then bang twelve ways to Sunday? Please don’t tell me you
meant him,Danielle.”
“Yes, Pookie, this is the very same him.”
“Goddess, the things you told me you wanted to do to him,” Braeden says as her
face twists with displeasure. “I’m about to lose my breakfast.”
“Uh,” Stiles says, unhelpfully as he flushes. His magic, sensing his distress,
fuses itself together and swirls above his head like sparkling blue clouds (but
also like a warning to the newcomer). “So I meant to call you but...things
happened.”
“I’ll say. You kinda lied about who you were, I’m realizing,” Journey retorts,
not looking amused at all by this fact as she gazes up at the magic hovering
over his head. “When my baby sister told me she was bringing me to meet the
Seven who was dating her best friend, I didn’t think she meant the skinny guy
who managed to charm me some time ago.”
“I didn’t know you two were related,” Stiles admits unnecessarily and they send
him twin looks of displeasure. “If it makes a difference, I really felt awful
about lying to you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Journey replies as she waves a hand at him dismissively. “You can
make it up to me by treating me to lunch. Just me though, aight? I ain’t trying
to make you pay for this ugly brat.”
“Bitch, who you callin’ ugly?” Braeden snaps as she crosses her arms. “I know
you really not talking, Ms. Big Booty Judy.”
“Don’t be mad I got more cake then you, Pookie.”
“Ey, chill with all that.”
“Nah, I’mma stay on that with you.”
Stiles quickly jumps into the conversation and says, “I’m done here, so we can
go to a sitdown restaurant and I’ll explain what I was doing there that night
if you want.”
Journey nods and Braeden just sighs impatiently.
Stiles turns to Deaton, who has been watching the whole commotion with silent
regard, and he says, “Should I come back tomorrow or are we just meeting up
Saturday?”
“I have an appointment with Talia and Cora tomorrow, and then I have to consult
with the Calaveras before we give them permission to have an open audience with
you.”
Stiles isn’t surprised by this information. “So, Saturday then?”
“Saturday.” Deaton gives all three of them a parting nod before he picks up the
Grimoire and disappears in the back with it.
Stiles turns and approaches Journey and Braeden to ask, “Where did you want to
go?”
“There’s a cafe we passed around the corner. It’s walking distance. I don’t
really feel like paying for the parking over there,” Journey admits as they all
exit the shop. She walks ahead of them to lead the way.
Braeden presses a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Here. I wrote down a
translated version of what was on the scroll that Lei Shěn gave to us.”
Stiles mumbles his gratitude as he quickly unfolds it and reads:
I have thought on everything you've said Deucalion, and have decided to join
your cause. However, can a country [dominant race] be born in a day or a nation
[species] be brought forth [rule over another] in a moment? We must start
somewhere, so I will use what [tools] you have given to me and give it to the
idiot boy [man of the law] whose heart I have in my hand, and he will give it
to the girl. This sacrifice [mercy killing] will be like the beginning of birth
pains. We will expose what we are to them [Humans] who are blind and boast of
themselves [outnumber us], so that when they rise up against us, we will fight
back. Every banner [Paranormal] will rally together and become one body,
regaining the inheritance [North America] which was stolen from us. Above all,
you must understand that the days are coming when we no longer have to wait in
secret for the Children of Men [Humans] to remember us again. Though certain
forfeits [death] will have to be made, I will gladly give up my firstborn
daughter [Gurnee Pack] to be able to step into the light again.
End Notes
     “I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab
     us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow to the
     head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you
     write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and
     the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write
     ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a
     disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved
     more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from
     everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea
     within us.” — Franz Kafka.
     http://whatshouldntbe.tumblr.com - #blacklivesmatter
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