
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/945048.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Allison_Argent/Scott_McCall, Danny
      Mahealani/Stiles_Stilinski, Kate_Argent/Derek_Hale
  Character:
      Chris_Argent, Jackson_Whittemore, Lydia_Martin, Adrian_Harris, Isaac
      Lahey, Bobby_Finstock, Claudia_Stilinski, Talia_Hale, Peter_Hale, Melissa
      McCall, Laura_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Ghosts, Alternate_Universe_-_Human, Ghost_Sex, Drug
      Use, Underage_Drinking, Blow_Jobs, Hand_Jobs, Shotgunning, Implied
      Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Minor_Character_Death, Panic_Attacks, Teenage
      Derek
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-28 Words: 56572
****** here in the forest dark and deep ******
by grimm
Summary
     There's a boy in the woods.
     There's a boy in the woods and he's always there, rain or shine, day
     or night.
     There's a creaking in the hall and a knocking on the door and no one
     is ever there.
     Five people died in this house and Stiles Stilinski is not at all
     sure they're gone for good.
Notes
     First of all, a massive THANK YOU to Sam and Freck for reading
     through this and helping me through some difficult spots. You guys
     are the best, for real! Also thanks to Nashi for helping me with the
     Polish bit!
     Possible trigger warnings include: physical and sexual abuse of a
     minor, including sexual abuse by an authority figure (in this case, a
     teacher). It's only a mention, but it's there, and the effects are
     lasting. There's also a scene where two characters are making out and
     one characters begins to pressure the other into more, but nothing
     further happens. Other warnings include: drug use, underage drinking,
     underage sex, minor character death, panic attacks, and ghost blow-
     jobs. If I've accidentally missed anything here, PLEASE let me know.
     This is an AU where werewolves do not exists and, because they are my
     ultimate brotp and why not, Stiles and Allison are actual siblings.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles dreamt. He ran through a dense thicket of trees, branches slapping his
face as he pushed through the vegetation. He could hear his mother calling for
him, somewhere off in the distance and he had to get to her before it was too
late, before – Something stabbed Stiles just below the ribs and he yelped, his
eyes flying open.
Allison leaned across the center console of the Jeep, looking bemused and
faintly worried. “You okay?”
Stiles rubbed resentfully at his ribs where she’d poked him awake. He’d had the
dream for years, but that didn’t mean it was any less traumatizing every time
he had it. “Just dreaming,” he muttered, and lifted his eyes past the
dashboard. Allison had pulled into a gas station. Stiles lifted his eyebrows.
“Is this it? We’re moving into a gas station? What luxury.”
“Come on,” Allison laughed. “We’re still like two hours away, but the tank’s
almost empty. Do you want anything?”
Stiles shrugged and popped the door open, jumping out onto the pavement. It
felt good to stretch after the seven-hour journey from southern California. He
could feel the difference in the air already; it felt cooler, more humid. The
trees lining the road looked hardy, unwelcoming. He shuddered at the memory of
the dream and went wandering into the gas station while Allison filled up the
Jeep.
“Where’s Dad?” Stiles asked his sister as they waited in line to pay. Allison
had a Snapple and bag of pretzels, while Stiles had gone the imminent heart
attack route of Monster and Twizzlers. He’d eyed the curly fries sitting under
the heat lamp, but gas station food wasn’t always a safe bet.
“He said he’d keep going,” Allison replied, tucking a stray curl behind her
ear. “I guess the movers get cranky if you’re not there to meet them.”
They paid for the food and gas and headed back out to the car. Stiles looked up
at the grey sky and asked, “You excited for this?”
Allison smiled and nudged him in the side. “Only because you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” Stiles asked indignantly. “You think I’d just let you
and Dad move to the frozen north and leave me in LA all by myself?”
Allison laughed and tossed him the keys. “Your turn,” she said, opening the
passenger’s side door.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mumbled, clambering in and starting the car.
Two hours later found them passing a sign that said Welcome to Beacon Hills and
they both shifted a little, tension filling the car.
“I’m nervous,” Allison said suddenly, biting at her lip.
Stiles gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “Makes sense. New place,
new school—”
“Ugh, stop,” she protested, clapping her hands over her ears. “You’re not
helping!”
Stiles snorted, keeping his eyes on the road. He slowed as they began passing
through the town, staring at the stores and businesses as they passed. It was –
the word quaint wasn’t really in Stiles’ vocabulary, but it was close.
Picturesque, maybe. They passed the high school on the far edge of town and
stared as they went by.
“It looks – nice,” Allison said haltingly.
“No bars on the windows,” Stiles agreed, and she smacked him on the arm before
fishing out the directions to the new house.
The route took them on a winding road that quickly turned to dirt and Stiles
gritted his teeth as the Jeep bounced over potholes. They were surrounded by
the forest and even in the early afternoon light it was dark under the trees,
the branches forming a canopy over the road.
“I’m going to have nightmares about this,” Stiles muttered. He could just
imagine it; unseen things crawling across the road, blurry glimpses of unknown
beasts moving through the trees in the far distance, his mother’s voice calling
for him. He shuddered at the thought.
“Chin up,” Allison said. “At least if we throw parties, there’ll be no
neighbors to make noise complaints.”
“With what friends?” Stiles clicked his tongue as he caught sight of a house
through the trees. “Jesus, look at the size of it. D’you think Dad knew he was
buying a mansion?”
The house was massive, two stories with gables in the roof, and a porch that
wrapped around to the back. Their father’s SUV was parked out front next to a
moving van. Stiles pulled up next to the van, Allison hopping out before he’d
even set the brake. Their father came out onto the porch, smiling.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“I think we’d need about twenty more siblings to fill this place,” Stiles
replied, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up against the damp chill. No one
would ever guess that it was near the tail end of August, Labor Day just around
the corner, not with this cold permeating the air.
His father rolled his eyes at Stiles’ words. “It was either this or a house two
counties over, and it was a steal for the price.”
“Uh huh,” Stiles muttered. He didn’t bother mentioning that once Allison went
off to college, it just be him and his dad in this huge house.
Allison jabbed him in the side and beamed, “It looks great, Dad. Can we go look
around?”
Their father nodded, gesturing toward the door. “Don’t get in the movers’ way!”
he called after them.
Inside, the house smelled like fresh paint and sawdust. The living room was
massive, open to the second floor, with huge windows along the back wall that
would – theoretically – let in a ton of sunlight if the sun ever came out.
Allison grinned and headed for the stairs. Stiles followed slowly, not entirely
enthusiastically. For as long as he could remember, they’d lived in a somewhat
cramped three-bedroom apartment. He didn’t know if he’d be able to handle all
this space; it was like taking someone used to living in the mountains and
dumping them into the middle of the plains.
“Stiles!” Allison called from upstairs. He heaved a sigh and followed.
There were five bedrooms on the second floor, each with their own bathroom
(which was cool, Stiles had to admit, though years of sharing a bathroom with
Allison and their father had cut his preparation time in the morning to about
five minutes). He watched Allison waltz in and out of the room until she
stopped to lean against the hallway wall, smiling at him.
“C’mon, grumpy,” she cooed. “Aren’t you going to pick your room?”
Stiles grimaced. “We could each have two rooms. It doesn’t really matter to
me.”
Allison rolled her eyes and sighed, stepping forward to grasp his shoulders.
“Stiles,” she said seriously. “Dad tried really hard, okay? Can’t you at least
pretend to be excited?”
Stiles forced himself to smile and she smiled back, patting him on the cheek.
“There you go.”
-
Three days after they moved in, Stiles took his first excursion into the woods,
leaving Allison and their father to unpack the kitchen. All it had done so far
was rain, but the sun had finally come out and Stiles was ready to escape from
the big house. He didn’t like it; he was used the sound of traffic and the
upstairs neighbors cooking and the downstairs neighbors’ baby crying. The new
house was too quiet; he’d yet to sleep past five, when the birds starting
singing outside, loud enough to jolt him out a heavy sleep.
Out here in the forest was quiet as well, but it was less a lack of noise than
the noises were subdued. Water dripped from the trees around him, and birds
sang in the distance, but his footfalls were muffled in the thick loam, the
sound of his breathing dull in his ears.
His dad said that this area was a nature preserve; their house sat on a little
island of private land in the middle of county-owned property. There were
supposed to be walking trails and a pond somewhere, closer to town, but the
house was far removed from it all.
Being out in the woods wasn't much better than being in the house, but it was
better than the three days he'd just spent unpacking boxes. Stiles found a
clearing about fifteen minutes from the house and settled down on a large rock
at the edge. He sat for a few quiet minutes, listening to the quiet sounds of
the woods around him, then dug around in his pocket for his lighter and his
last blunt.
As Stiles laid back against the rock, exhaling smoke, his phone buzzed. He
wrangled it out of his pocket to see a new message from Allison: dad & I headed
into town to get some stuff. you want to come?
nah, Stiles texted back. thanks tho
He shoved his phone back into his pocket and stared up at the clear blue sky.
It felt like summer today, the forest humid and steaming. Stiles wiggled free
of his sweatshirt before sweat could start gathering in the small of his back
and balled it up under his head like a pillow, trying to relax.
He wasn't happy about the move. It wasn't like he had had a ton of friends in
LA to grieve their loss, but he liked routine as much as anyone, and this was
not routine. He knew that his dad hand been hand picked to replace the last
sheriff, who’d done something stupid to get himself fired, but the knowledge
that his dad was an excellent officer of the law didn't make him feel any
better. Worse, maybe, because no one wanted to be friends with the sheriff's
kid.
Allison had it easier because she was beautiful and had no problem talking with
strangers. He wouldn't be surprised if she came back from the trip into town
with three new best friends. Stiles, on the other hand, was awkward and gangly,
shaped like he still didn't fit into himself. He was a pro at making awkward
social situations worse, asking all the questions that no one should be asking,
not dropping topics when everyone else had clearly moved on.
He’d have thought, after a couple of years struggling with his sexuality and
finally deciding that he liked boobs and dicks (sometimes on the same person;
he watched a lot of porn), that things would get easier – like having a bigger
pool of possibilities would make his dating life that much simpler. Not true,
as things turned out; being bisexual just gave him two demographics to make a
fool of himself in front of instead of one.
He wasn't looking forward to starting school on Monday, was the long and short
of it.
Stiles sighed, irritated. The pot wasn't calming him like usual; he felt itchy,
like his skin was on too tight. All the tiny sounds of the forest began to feel
huge, each burst of birdsong ringing in his head like a bell, each drop of
water hitting the leaves loud as a cannonball. He shot upright when he heard a
branch snap a few hundred yards out in the woods, beyond the space of the
clearing.
"Allie?" Stiles called, his skin crawling. Even with the sun out in full force
today the woods were dark, the light cool and green, shadows deep. There could
be people out here, theoretically, but he was pretty certain he was at least
two miles from the nearest trail. Hunters, maybe? He didn’t think you could
hunt in game preserves, even if it were hunting season, which he was pretty
sure it wasn’t.
Another branch snapped, closer, and Stiles got to his feet, heart starting to
race in his chest. "Hello?" he called, his voice coming out embarrassingly
high. There was no answer.
Stiles stood still for what seemed like hours, though was probably no more than
five minutes, his pulse racing. No more sounds came from the forest, but he
couldn't relax; the pot had made him paranoid now, so he gave up and headed
back to the house. He was jumpy and restless for the rest of the afternoon,
every small noise startling him and he spent a lot of time thinking about how
much he hated his life.
It was getting dark by the time the rest of his family came home and he helped
them carrying bags of groceries and miscellaneous house wares from the car.
Allison had a big pizza, which everyone dug into enthusiastically. After
dinner, their father retreated into the living room to go over some paperwork
he’d picked up from the sheriff’s station and Stiles followed Allison up to her
room, where he helped her put together a particle-board cabinet for her
bathroom.
“So what’d you do today?” Allison asked, laying the pieces out on the tile.
“Got high and freaked myself out in the woods,” Stiles said discontentedly, and
frowned when she laughed. “I’m not kidding! It’s too quiet out there. I thought
I heard someone walking around.”
“You’re just not used to not hearing the highway all the time,” Allison
retorted, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, cheer up. I met this girl at the pizza
place—” It was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes, because hadn’t he guessed that
Allison would come back with friends? She smacked him on the arm and continued,
“I met this girl Lydia and she invited us to a party at her house next weekend.
Do you want to go?”
Not really, Stiles thought, sighing internally. He’d much rather stay at home
and play WoW with his online friends – at least he knew those guys. But Allison
was looking pleadingly at him and he sighed again, out loud this time. Maybe
he’d be able to score some weed from someone there. “All right.”
-
Monday rolled around dim and foggy. It took Stiles a while to make himself get
out of bed. He felt jittery again, unsettled, and jerking off in the shower
didn’t do anything to help. He had to resist the urge to take more than the
recommended amount of Adderall, because that would just make things worse, he
knew from past experience – too much would push him right into a panic attack.
Downstairs, Allison got up early and made a truly massive amount of breakfast
food. “I went for a run, too,” she confessed anxiously, leaning from foot to
foot as Stiles piled his plate with eggs and toast.
He licked butter off his thumb and said, “Take me next time. I feel like I’m
about to burst out of my skin.”
“No way,” Allison retorted, carrying her own plate over to the table nestled
into the kitchen corner. There was a big dining room just beyond the kitchen,
but they didn’t had a table in there, preferring the coziness of the kitchen.
“Last time I tried to wake you up for a run, you moved like a zombie the whole
way.”
“I was just trying to help you out,” Stiles replied gallantly. “You know, they
have runs you can sign up for where you get chased by zombies.”
“I think those zombies move a bit faster than a handicapped turtle,” Allison
giggled into her coffee. Stiles stuck his tongue out at her.
They both looked up as their father appeared in the doorway, all kitted out in
his new sheriff’s uniform, badge gleaming on his chest. “Well?” he asked,
spreading his arms. “What do you think?”
“You look good, Dad,” Allison said admiringly, and Stiles nodded his agreement.
The sheriff smiled.
After breakfast, as they prepared to leave the house, Stiles patted his pockets
and said, “Have you seen my wallet?”
His father made an exasperated noise. “Did you have to lose itnow?”
“I swear I put it in my pocket!” Stiles protested, looking around the hallway.
“Did—”
“Here it is,” Allison interrupted, handing it over. “It was in your shoe.”
Stiles blinked, looking at his wallet in confusion. He hadn’t even been in the
front hall that morning – how had his wallet ended up in his shoes, which were
sitting by the front door?
“Can we get a move on?” the sheriff asked, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts, and
the family slid into motion, heading out the front door and splitting into two
cars. The sheriff followed them to the high school before continuing on for his
first day on the job, and Allison turned the Jeep into the school parking lot.
She found a spot and parked, but neither of them moved immediately.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked Stiles.
Mom, he thought. He could still remember the touch of her hand on his, leading
him into his first day of kindergarten, the way she’d smiled softly before
leaving him in the classroom, the way he’d sobbed all through reading time.
“21 Jump Street,” Stiles said out loud. “Let’s not get our fake identities
mixed up, okay? I don’t think I could stand being a girl for the rest of the
year.”
Allison laughed and popped open her door. “And I don’t think I could stand
taking chemistry all over again.”
The principal was a slightly bewildered-looking English man who handed them
their course lists and a map of the school and they shook their heads when he
asked if they had any questions. When they left his office there was another
boy sitting in the waiting room, olive-skinned and dark-haired, next to a woman
with curly hair who had to be his mother. The boy looked up as they passed and
Stiles was somehow reassured to see he looked as nervous as Stiles felt. They
smiled at each other and then the boy’s dark eyes fell on Allison and a glazed
sort of dumbstruck look came over his face. Stiles rolled his eyes; he’d seen
that look on guys before. He saw Allison smile her please don’t try to flirt
with me; I’m just trying to have a normal day smile and the boy’s mother
elbowed him in the ribs.
One of the receptionists took command of Allison and Stiles, first dropping
Allison off at her AP Environmental Studies class, then shepherding Stiles to
his Critical Writing course. He stood in front of the class, staring at all the
apathetic faces staring back, and said, "I'm Stiles Stilinski," when the
teacher asked him to introduce himself. She nodded and gestured at him to take
an empty seat in the middle of the class.
As he slid into the seat and the teacher turned to the chalkboard, a boy who
looked like a J. Crew model - perfect, expensive-looking sweater and everything
- leaned toward him and sneered, "What kind of a name is Stiles?"
"It's a nickname," Stiles replied quietly, his jaw tightening. "Most people
can't pronounce my name."
The boy scoffed, looking unimpressed, and said, "Where are you from?"
"LA," Stiles returned, keeping his eyes fixed on the chalkboard.
"Mr. Whittemore," their teacher said, not turning away from the board, "let's
not get off track on the first day."
The handsome boy scoffed again and leaned away from Stiles, looking bored. At
the front of the classroom, the door clicked open again and everyone looked up
to see that the receptionist had returned, this time with the boy Stiles had
seen in the principal's office.
"Another new student?" their teacher remarked. "Tell us who you are."
"Um, Scott McCall," the boy said, smiling sheepishly. "I just moved here to
live with my mom."
The teacher nodded and Scott took the empty seat on Stiles' left. They
exchanged cautious smiles and when class ended and people began filtering into
the hall, Scott leaned across the aisle and asked, "Are you new too?"
"Yeah," Stiles said. "My sister and I. We just moved here."
"Awesome," Scott smiled. "You wanna eat lunch together?"
Stiles nodded, a grin breaking out over his face.
-
By the end of the day, Stiles and Scott were fast friends. They had the same
exact class schedule, and finding new classrooms was a lot easier when there
was someone to burst into fits of giggles with when they found themselves in a
janitor's closet after Stiles threw open the door declaring, "This has got to
be the math room!"
At lunch, they found a table to themselves. Stiles spotted Allison sitting
across the room, surrounded by - as he'd predicted - by a large group of teens
so perfect they looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch photo shoot. Directly to
Allison's right was a red haired girl so pretty she made Stiles' heart ache. He
stared as she laughed at something Allison said, gesturing with a perfectly
manicured hand. Someone smacked Stiles on the back of the head and he jumped
with a curse, twisting to see the J. Crew model from earlier smirking at him.
"Keep staring," the asshole said, jerking his head toward Allison's table.
"They're out of your league."
"Fuck off," Stiles retorted. "That's my sister."
"Yeah, right," the boy said scornfully. "Prove it. Go talk to her."
Stiles rolled his eyes at Scott, who grinned into his cheeseburger, and rose
from his seat. If this douchebag thought that Stiles was bluffing, he had
another thing coming. He crossed the cafeteria, feeling the boy's eyes on his
back, and approached the table.
Allison beamed when she saw him. "Stiles, hey! Do you want to sit? We can make
room-"
"That's all right," Stiles replied, grinning. He jerked his head across the
cafeteria, where the douchey boy stood next to Scott. "That prissy asshole over
there doesn't believe we're related."
"Oh, Jackson?" Allison said, at the same time the red haired girl said flatly,
"He's my boyfriend."
"Oh," Stiles said, his cheeks coloring.
"Stiles, this is Lydia," Allison said hurriedly. "She's the one throwing the
party this weekend."
"Oh," Stiles said again. "Hi. Uh, I didn't mean - about your boyfriend - "
Lydia flipped her red curls over her shoulder and said primly, "He is an
asshole sometimes."
"Hah," Stiles said, his stomach twisting, and looked back at Allison, who
smiled up at him. "Well, I'm gonna go eat. See you later!"
He crossed the cafeteria again, meeting the boy – Jackson? – halfway. The boy
didn't even look at him, though he slammed his shoulder against Stiles' hard
enough to knock him off balance for a moment. When Stiles sat back down at the
table, Scott said, "That guy's a tool."
"Agreed," Stiles confirmed, digging into his chicken tenders.
Scott hesitated before saying, "Your sister's really pretty."
"Uh huh," Stiles sighed, already knowing where this was heading. Every single
one of his guy friends had had a crush on Allison, and it never turned out
well; she was beautiful and kind and absolutely uninterested in dating. That
didn't seem to stop most people; for some, it just made them more determined.
"Is - " Scott hesitated again, side eyeing Stiles before asking, "Is she off
limits?"
"You can try," Stiles told him judiciously, "but you won't have any luck."
"Hm," Scott said thoughtfully, then grinned at Stiles. "Hey, so do you play
WoW?"
-
Stiles' last class of the day was Economics, taught by a man named Finstock
who, if Stiles' knowledge of psychological disorders was anything to go by, was
possibly bipolar. He ranted and roared through a sixty-minute lecture on micro
and macroeconomics, complete with sidetracked stories of his youth as a Jesuit
missionary, the one day he'd spent on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange,
and the time he'd taken a trip to Vegas and gotten a strip dance from a Goldie
Hawn lookalike.
At the end of class, Finstock caught Scott and Stiles by the arms and said, in
his loud voice, "Newbies. Are you going to try out for the lacrosse team? We
need fresh blood."
Not if you're coaching, Stiles wanted to say. He looked over at Scott, who
looked faintly terrified. "Maybe?" Stiles hazarded.
"You ever play?" Finstock asked insistently.
"I tried out," Stiles said. His high school had been a big place, though, and
he was nothing special. Maybe he'd have a better chance of getting on the team
at a smaller school.
"I was on my old school's team," Scott mumbled, his cheeks coloring.
"Excellent," Finstock hissed. "Tryouts are on Friday. I'll see you both there."
He finally let them go and they tumbled out of the classroom, laughing.
"That man is mad," Stiles cackled.
"I thought he was gonna eat us," Scott lamented as they pushed through the
front doors and headed toward the parking lot.
"You want a ride?" Stiles asked, nodding toward the Jeep, where Allison was
just getting in. Scott's eyes went a little unfocused as he caught sight of
her, but then he glanced at Stiles and shook his head.
"Mom dropped me off but I've got my bike," he said, sounding a little wistful.
"Thanks, though."
"Next time," Stiles grinned, and headed to the Jeep with a wave.
"So?" Allison asked as he climbed in. "As bad as you thought?"
"Nah," Stiles smiled. "Not at all."
-
Stiles and Allison were in the living room trying to set up the entertainment
center when their father came in, slamming the door behind him. The siblings
went still, exchanging worried looks as they listened to the sheriff bang
around in the front hall, muttering furiously to himself. Allison rose to her
feet slowly and Stiles followed her into the kitchen, where their father was
picking up the phone.
"Dad?" Stiles asked hesitantly. "Is everything okay?"
The sheriff waved an irritated hand at them, shooing them out of the kitchen as
he plucked their realtor's business card off the fridge. Allison and Stiles
retreated into the hall but hovered around the doorway, listening.
"John Stilinski," their father said, his voice low and clipped. Stiles knew
that tone; it meant his father was so mad he'd almost gone full circle, and
entered some kind of irate zen state. "I want to talk to you about this house
you conned me into buying. The deputies told me some things today that I am not
happy about." There was a long pause and then he snapped, "You have to disclose
that information; I know the law!" Another pause, then their father laughed,
sounding utterly unamused. "Yeah, all right, sure. You better hope I don't find
out that home inspector was in your pocket, because if this house falls apart
with my children inside, there will be hell to pay." He hung up the phone,
breathing furiously. Stiles and Allison peered around the doorway, watching him
run a hand through his hair.
"All right," their father sighed. "Get in here."
The siblings sidled into the kitchen and Allison asked timidly, "Is there
something wrong with the house, Dad?"
Their dad sighed again. "Come with me." He led them upstairs, down the hall to
the door to the attic stairs. They trooped up the steps behind him and stopped
abruptly when he flicked on the light.
The old beams of the house were black and scorched, the wood charred. Fresh,
pale wood supported the old beams, holding up the roof.
"There was a fire?" Stiles asked anxiously.
"I knew about the fire," their father said, rubbing a hand across his face.
"Most of this place was rebuilt afterwards. The home inspector assured me there
was no structural damage, but - but there's something else."
"People died here," Allison said suddenly, her eyes going wide with
realization. Stiles looked quickly at his father, who nodded, a pained
expression on his face.
"They didn't just die here," he said quietly. "They were murdered and the house
was set on fire. The murderer was never caught."
"Jesus Christ," Stiles said, his mouth falling open.
"I never would have bought the place if I had known," their dad said, his mouth
twisting unhappily. "State law says you have to tell potential buyers if
there's been a murder in the house in the last five years, but this - this was
five and half years ago."
"Of course," Stiles said, looking around again at the charred wood. He failed
to suppress a shudder.
"If you guys don't feel comfortable here, we'll leave," their father said
firmly. "I'll work something out with the agents—”
"No, Dad," Allison said, with a quick look over at Stiles for confirmation.
"It's fine. This is our house now. They're not here any more."
-
That night, Stiles had the dream again. He ran through the woods as something
ran parallel with him just a few yards away, black and lost in deep shadow, but
he got a glimpse of red eyes, glowing bright in the gloom of the forest. The
air was thick and heavy, hard to breathe and dense with the smell of smoke.
Flames burned in the distance, consuming the forest, throwing the world into
sharp relief, the thing running at his side made worse by the contrasting
light. Someone called his name, but it wasn't his mother; it was a boy's voice,
tight with pain and fear.
Stiles awoke with a gasp, his lungs constricting as he fought for air. He was
sweating profusely, his t-shirt drenched and clinging to his skin. He struggled
out of his sheets in a panic, freeing his legs and stumbling toward the
bathroom just in time to puke into the toilet.
Stiles slid to the floor, starting to shake as his body hit the cold tile,
sweat rapidly cooling on his skin. He pressed his cheek to the cool porcelain
of the toilet, forcing himself to breathe slowly. It had been a couple months
since his last panic attack; he’d almost forgotten how unpleasant they were.
"You're okay," Stiles muttered to himself, breathing in for a count of four. He
held it for a long time and then let it go slowly, drawing it out for a count
of eight. "You're okay."
He fell asleep there, curled around the base of the toilet. When he woke up,
there was a blanket draped across him and he pushed it away blearily. Allison
must have heard him get up, though why she didn't tell him to get back into bed
was beyond him. His body ached from sleeping on the hard tile and his mouth
tasted like something had died in it. Stiles rubbed his hands over his face as,
out in his bedroom, his alarm went off. He staggered to his feet with a groan.
Time to start the day.
-
The second day of school went much like the first. Stiles was pretty sure he'd
made a mortal enemy of Jackson Whittemore, who kept glaring at him during
English, and another enemy of Mr. Harris, the chemistry teacher, who overheard
Stiles asking Scott if he understood any of what he was saying about chemical
bonds, and seemed to take it as a fatal insult to his teaching abilities.
At lunch he and Scott befriended a senior named Isaac Lahey, who grinned
crookedly when he told them that he was on the lacrosse team and yeah, Finstock
was just as crazy on the field as he was in the classroom - crazier, maybe.
After school, Stiles headed home by himself; Allison had plans with Lydia so he
took the Jeep. He asked Scott if he wanted to come over and practice some
lacrosse before the tryouts on Friday, but Scott smiled apologetically and said
that his mom had gotten him a part-time job at the local animal hospital.
Stiles didn't mind until he pulled up in front of the house and realized that
he'd be there by himself until Allison or his dad got home. There hadn't really
been much more discussion after the big reveal last night. They'd all retreated
down to the living room and he and Allison had told their father about their
first day at school while they set up the entertainment center together. When
he finally did go upstairs to bed, Stiles fell asleep almost immediately, worn
out by the long day, and he'd slept solidly until being woken by the dream.
It wasn't like he was scared, but the fact that people had died in the house
was…kind of unsettling. He didn't know where they'd died but he willfully
ignored the fact that they had probably been in bed because there was no
fucking way he'd be able to sleep in his room if he knew someone had died
there.
Stiles dithered on the porch for a moment before unlocking the door. He didn't
know what he expected to see - burnt corpses, blood-spattered walls, maybe -
but the house was completely normal, no bloody handprints or wailing ghouls,
just the white painted walls and quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Stiles sighed, smiling sheepishly, and dumped his backpack on the couch before
heading upstairs.
He dug through his closet, where he'd shoved most of the stuff he didn't feel
like packing yet, and found the duffle bag with all his lacrosse equipment
inside. He changed into shorts and a loose t-shirt, then slung the bag over his
shoulder and headed into the woods.
It wasn't like he was trying to avoid the house, but he did need to practice,
and if that meant he could stay out of the quiet house for a few more hours,
that was fine with him. And he wasn't going to get high today; there was no
reason to be afraid of the forest.
Stiles headed to the clearing he'd found and dropped his bag by the rock he'd
lounged on. It was hard to get any real practice in by himself, but he did all
the drills he could remember. The clearing wasn't optimal for running around
in; the grass came up to his shins and several times he faceplanted after
tripping over a branch or stone hidden in the greenery. Stiles didn't give up,
though; he was sweaty and grass-stained by the time the sun began dipping below
the horizon. He was jogging across the clearing toward his bag, ball cradled in
the net of his stick when he tripped one last time. The ball shot off into the
shadows as Stiles flailed around trying to keep his balance and he cursed;
that'd been his last ball. He spent several futile minutes searching for the
ball, but with the deepening gloom and dense undergrowth, he knew it was a lost
cause. He gave up, knowing he needed to head back to the house before the light
disappeared - the last thing he needed was to get lost in the woods at night.
Stiles heaved a sigh, unhooked his shirt from the grip of some spiny bush, and
was just turning back to the clearing when he caught sight of someone standing
in the woods a few yards away. Stiles let out a yelp and fell sideways into the
spiky bush which eliciting another yelp, this time of pain. By the time he
managed to extricate himself, whoever had been standing in the woods was gone,
probably to go laugh themselves silly at his antics. Stiles winced, pulling a
thorn out of his elbow. That had been fucking scary, though - the forest was
getting so dark that all he'd been able to see was a dark figure.
"Asshole," Stiles muttered, picking up his bag and stalking off into the trees.
Because that was an asshole move, seriously. Why hadn't the dude said anything?
A hello would have been nice. Fucker.
"What happened to you?" Allison asked, looking aghast as he came through the
front door. Stiles waved an irritable hand, trying to express not now, please
without saying anything, and dropped his bag on the floor before heading into
the bathroom.
He was surprised to see the number of scratches on his face and arms; he
couldn't even remember his face getting cut up, though he'd been flailing so
hard to get out that he supposed it was possible. Allison's reflection appeared
in the mirror, leaning against the doorframe.
"Are you okay?" she asked, watching him dig around in the mess under the sink
until he rose, triumphant, with a bottle of peroxide in his hand and a bag of
cotton balls in the other.
"I'm fine," Stiles replied, beginning to clean the tiny cuts on his face. "I…"
He hesitated, not sure if he should tell Allison about the person he'd seen.
Maybe it hadn't been someone after all, maybe just an oddly shaped stump he’d
mistaken for a human in the dim light of the trees. "The forest is a lot more
dense than I thought it was."
"Oh," Allison said sympathetically, and pushed his hands away so she could take
over. Stiles winced as she cleaned a particularly deep scratch on his chin, big
enough that it had bled.
After Stiles' wounds had been patched up, he followed Allison into the kitchen,
where she'd been making dinner. Stiles slid onto a bar stool and folded his
arms over the counter, watching her cut up a tomato.
"How was hanging out with Lydia?"
"Oh." Allison smiled. "She's nice. Blunt, but that’s kind of refreshing."
"Her boyfriend's a tool," Stiles muttered.
"Are you jealous?" Allison teased. Stiles' cheeks went bright red as he thought
of Lydia's auburn curls. She sat a few seats in front of him in his math class
and he'd spent most of the hour staring at the back of her head, daydreaming
about her big eyes and full lips.
"No," he lied, but they both knew the truth by how long it took him to respond.
Allison laughed again, sounding sympathetic. "You'll find someone," she said.
"It seems like there's a lot of nice girls - and guys - at school."
Stiles sighed. "At least you've been kissed. I've never even had that!"
"I've - a little more than that," Allison said, her cheeks going pink.
"What?!" Stiles yelped. "Who? When?"
"That party Katie threw a few weeks ago," Allison said, her face red. "There
was this guy who's going to be a freshman at UCLA and we - well."
"I can't believe this," Stiles said indignantly. "You became a woman and didn't
tell me? You know that if I had any sort of sex life I'd tell you every sordid
detail."
Allison laughed and flicked tomato seeds at him. "It wasn't anything special.
Anyway, what about that guy you were sitting with at lunch?"
"Which one?" Stiles asked. He thought about Isaac and his lidded eyes and
impressive facial structure. "Hmm. Isaac seems nice, though I don't know what
his interests are – y’know, as far as sexual preference goes. Scott, though, is
developing a pretty severe crush on you." This was true; Stiles hadn't missed
the glances Scott kept throwing in Allison's direction all lunch period, or his
tiny, wistful sighs.
To his surprise, Allison flushed again and Stiles raised his eyebrows. "You
noticed?" It was highly unusual for Allison to show any interest in his
friends.
Allison gave a tiny nod and said hesitantly, "He's cute, but…" She looked at
Stiles, then down at the cutting board. "You met him first. I don't want to -
if he's off limits—"
She blinked in surprise when Stiles tilted his head back and laughed out loud.
"Now I think you guys have to meet," he told her, grinning. "He said the same
exact thing."
"Oh," Allison said, her cheeks coloring again. “Well. T-that’s considerate.”
“Relax,” Stiles laughed, tilting his head at the sound of the front door
opening and their father kicking off his boots. “I’m not worried about it.”
-
Jackson laughed himself silly when Stiles walked into class the next day. "What
happened to you, Stilinski?" he crowed. "Did you get attacked by a kitten?"
Stiles cast him a dark look - which he immediately regretted, because it made
his skin pull at the cuts - and didn't deign to reply. Besides, he wasn't sure
that falling into a bush was much more manly than being attacked by a cat, and
he didn't want to give Jackson more reasons to laugh at him. It was depressing
when, in Economics, Finstock asked the exact same thing, then laughed like a
hyena with a sore throat.
After school, Stiles grabbed his lacrosse stuff and headed into the woods
again, but it wasn’t until he was all the way to the clearing that he
remembered that he’d lost his last ball in the undergrowth somewhere. Stiles
spent a few fruitless minutes kicking around the loam and muttering furiously
under his breath before giving up. He settled down on the big rock, because
he’d walked the fifteen minutes to get there and he might as well relax for a
minute before heading back to the house.
The house.
Stiles hadn’t dreamed the night before – or at least, he hadn’t dreamedthe
dream. He felt kind of weird about the whole situation with the house. Was it
strange that he felt more worried about the fact that people had died there
than the fact that the killer hadn’t been caught? Because if he knew horror
movies (and he did), the murder would probably return to the scene of the crime
and he’d end up dead, a chilling mirror of what happened five years ago. But he
wasn’t worried about that.
And it wasn’t like he wasn’t curious. Stiles had an insatiable curiosity. He’d
gotten grounded for three months in the spring because his dad had found out
he’d been hacking into the California Highway Patrol’s database – not because
he was some sicko who liked looking at pictures of dead people, but he just
wanted to know more. Stiles was cursed with a burning desire to know
everything. He went on Wikipedia binges that lasted hours. In elementary
school, he’d gotten an award for checking more books out of the library than
anyone else.
But this – even though some part of him did want to know about what had
happened at the house, another part of him thought it better left untouched. He
didn’t need to go about his life knowing that someone had been stabbed in the
kitchen or strangled in his bathroom. He didn’t. When he’d found out about the
fire a couple nights back, he’d gone online and gotten as far as the headline
of an article about the murders – Five dead in arson – before hurriedly exiting
the page. Out of sight, out of mind, or whatever. Leave that stone unturned.
Stiles was still lost in thought when something came flying out of the woods
and smacked into the side of his knee. Stiles howled in pain, his hands flying
out to grasp at his knee, just in time to see his lacrosse ball go bouncing
away into the grass. Someone laughed behind him, a guilty noise, and Stiles
twisted his head around to see a boy around his age stepping out from between
the trees.
“Sorry,” the boy said apologetically. “Threw it a little too hard.”
Stiles gaped at him because this boy – he was beautiful. Stiles was from Los
Angeles, a town full of beautiful, perfect people, but this guy – he was
amazing, all pale-eyed and dark-haired and sharp cheekboned. They were probably
around the same height, but where Stiles was lean and lanky, this boy was well-
built and broad-shouldered. He was looking at Stiles with pale hazel eyes and a
faint quirk of a smile on his lips, but Stiles thought the slump of his broad
shoulders looked unhappy, almost defeated. Stiles knew something about
unhappiness; there’d been enough of it after his mom died. He’d become an
expert at reading his dad and Allison, knew their bad days and the worst days,
when they were trying to hide it. He’d seen it enough on himself, looking in
the mirror after the dream, after a panic attack.
“Did I hurt you?” the boy asked, and Stiles blinked, realizing he’d been
staring wordlessly.
His knee was kind of burning, but he smiled and said, “Oh, no – it just
startled me.”
“Oh, good,” the boy said, smiling crookedly and the whiteness of his teeth was
kind of blinding. He held out a hand to Stiles. “Derek.”
Stiles shook it and tried to ignore the way his arm went all tingly at Derek’s
touch. “Stiles.”
“Are you new?” Derek asked him. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“We just moved here,” Stiles replied, waving a vague hand in the direction of
the house. “My dad’s the new sheriff.”
Derek’s smile flickered for a moment and then he said, “About time.”
Stiles wasn’t sure what that meant, but he asked, “Do you live around here? Do
you go to the high school?” He might have seen Derek in the hallways, but
probably not – he thought he would have remembered someone as striking as
Derek, but there had been a lot of new faces, so maybe not.
“I live over there.” Derek made a imprecise gesture in the direction of Stiles’
house and Stiles blinked. He hadn’t thought there were any more houses on the
road, but it didn’t dead-end at their house, so there must be. Derek inclined
his head toward the rock in a questioning manner. Stiles gestured hurriedly –
sit, please – and Derek settled down next to him. “I used to go to Beacon Hills
High,” he said, “but I transferred to Saint Germaine – it’s a private school.”
He nodded at the lacrosse stick laying by Stiles’ feet. “You play?”
“I’m trying out on Friday,” Stiles replied. “Do you?”
“Used to,” Derek said again. Then his crooked smile came back. “Is Finstock
still coaching?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I think he’s crazy.”
“Without a doubt,” Derek agreed solemnly. They fell into a slightly awkward
silence while Derek stared down at Stiles’ lacrosse stick, a considering look
on his face. Stiles looked around the clearing, trying not to stare at the
perfect slope of Derek’s nose like he really wanted to. After a long few
moments of silence, Derek asked, “Do you have anyone to practice with?”
“I—” Stiles hesitated. He only knew Scott. And Isaac, he supposed, but he
really only had tomorrow left to practice in. “No, I guess not.”
“I could practice with you, if you want,” Derek offered slowly, almost shyly.
“I don’t – I don’t have anyone to practice with either.”
Stiles found that hard to believe, because Derek was handsome as fuck; who
wouldn’t want to hang out with him? Maybe people up here found that level of
good-looking intimidating, but Stiles was used to being surrounded by models
and demigods. Well, not surrounded – it wasn’t like there were a million
celebrities at his high school (though there’d been that one kid who told
everyone he was Adam Levine’s cousin), or like they were attracted to him or
anything, but he saw them on the streets or whatever. Stiles was secure in his
insecurities.
“Okay,” he said easily. “Do you have a stick?”
Derek hesitated, a shadow passing over his face before he admitted, “I broke
it.”
“That’s okay,” Stiles said. “I think I’ve got an old one up at the house. You
want to meet back here tomorrow and I’ll bring it?”
“Sure,” Derek said, smiling again.
“All right,” Stiles said cheerfully, getting to his feet and picking up his
bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”
“Tomorrow,” Derek agreed.
Stiles tossed him a wave and left him sitting on the rock, staring out over the
clearing. It wasn’t until he was almost back to the house that it occurred to
him to wonder what Derek was doing so far out into the woods. He shrugged;
maybe the clearing wasn’t as far from the walking trails as he’d thought it
was.
-
The following afternoon, Stiles scrounged up his old lacrosse stick and headed
out to the clearing, where he found Derek waiting on the rock, leaning back on
his arms. Stiles swallowed and tried not to stare at the long, flat plane of
his stomach, and managing to rustle up a grin instead.
“Hey,” he said, tossing the spare stick to Derek, who caught it deftly.
They spent a few hours tossing the ball back and forth, running circles around
each other. They built a make-shift goal out of a branch laid across two y-
shaped branches and took turns defending the goal from each other. Stiles was
sweaty and out of breath by the end of it – he was already regretting being so
lazy over the summer – but it was fun. Derek looked solemn, but he smiled
readily, and he laughed at Stiles’ jokes, which not a lot of people did. They
talked as they slung the ball back and forth, offering little tidbits of
information between panting for air.
Derek had three siblings, one older sister and a set of younger twins, one boy
and one girl, and he and Stiles spent some time commiserating about the
miseries of female siblings. Derek didn’t seem to have any knowledge of pop
culture; he shrugged every time Stiles brought up a recent movie or television
show. He was kind of like an old man, and Stiles found it kind of adorable.
They took a break an hour in and sat on the cool grass with their backs against
the rock while Stiles dug out the bottles of water and chips he’d thoughtfully
packed into his bag.
“So does your school have a lacrosse team?” he asked Derek, trying not to stare
at how his throat moved when he swallowed from a bottle of water.
“Yeah,” Derek said, brushing the back of his hand against his lips. “I’m not
sure I’m going to try out, though.”
“Why not?” Stiles asked curiously. “You’re way better than I am.”
Derek gave him a half-smile, pleased. “No I’m not,” he said, though Stiles knew
he was just being nice. “And anyway, that’d make us opponents, right?”
“I guess,” Stiles agreed, and turned his head to look out at the forest, trying
desperately not to think about Derek slamming into him on the field, knocking
him to the ground with his weight.
“I don’t know,” Derek said. “We’ll see.”
By the time the light had dimmed enough that it made spotting the ball in the
gloom impossible, Stiles was soaked in sweat and there was a tightness in his
limbs that suggested unless he did a lot of stretching that night he was going
to wake up extremely sore. He gathered the ball and sticks reluctantly and said
to Derek, “Well, I’ve got the tryouts tomorrow, but maybe we could meet up
again sometime this weekend? I’ll definitely need more practice if I actually
manage to make it on the team.”
“You will,” Derek said, and Stiles could see the white gleam of his smile even
in the darkness. “Sunday, maybe? Around noon?”
“Sounds good,” Stiles replied, and fished around in his pocket for his phone.
“What’s your number? I can text you.”
Derek laughed sheepishly and said, “I don’t have one. I – my mom took it away.”
“Really?” Stiles asked with a faint laugh. “What’d you do to warrant that?”
“I—” Stiles could see the shoulders of Derek’s dark form shrug. “I fucked up.”
He sounded deeply unhappy all of a sudden and Stiles bit at the inside of his
cheek. He’d been there; he could still remember his dad standing in the doorway
of his bedroom after he’d found out Stiles had been hacking into the police
database, his voice quiet and cold when he said, “You did what?”
“That’s okay,” Stiles assured him. “We can just meet out here. Sunday at noon?”
“Yeah,” Derek said slowly. Then, more firmly. “Yeah.”
“All right,” Stiles said. “See you then.”
-
Later, back at the house, Stiles stripped out of his sweat-damp clothes and
stepped into the shower, crooning quietly as the hot water hit his aching
muscles. He’d done some stretches once he got home, but he was pretty sure the
damage was done, and just hoped he’d be limber enough to run around at the
tryouts the following day.
He scrubbed the salt from his hair and off his shoulders and then paused,
listening, before his hands slipped lower. That was the nice thing about having
his own private bathroom, though; he didn’t have to worry about Allison barging
in to put on her make-up, or his dad pounding on the door right when he was
about to come.
Stiles slid a hand around himself, breathing quietly through his mouth as he
tightened his grip, pulling himself to full attention. He bit his lip – even
with his own bathroom, he didn’t trust the thickness of the walls – and let his
thoughts flick from fantasy to fantasy, eyes settling closed. He thought about
Lydia Martin on her back with his mouth between her legs, tongue pressed inside
her. He thought about Isaac Lahey on his knees with his lips around Stiles’
cock, strong jaw working tightly, long fingers gripping at his hips. He thought
about Derek and just the memory of his face slick with sweat was enough to make
Stiles’ dick twitch in his hand, precome beading from the slit. Stiles rubbed
his thumb over the head, breathing fast, and leaned against the wall of the
shower so he could slip a hand behind him.
He’d never done it before, too nervous to try. He had this horrible feeling
that the moment he touched himself, someone was going to burst into the
bathroom, yank open the curtain and yell “Hah!” But Stiles’ curiosity was
getting the better of him, and knowing that he was alone, really alone, made
him bolder. He pressed a finger against his hole, pushing inside slowly,
carefully. And it – it felt strange. Not good or bad until he crooked his
finger and that – fuck, his toes curled. Stiles panted into the wall, choking
back the high noise trying to escape from him as he began to fuck himself,
pushing back on one hand and thrusting up into the other. He squeezed his eyes
shut, imagining it was Derek behind him, Derek’s blunt finger pressing into
him. Derek would set his teeth into the knob of Stiles’ spine and moan against
his skin and –
Stiles sobbed when he came, hip smacking into the wall with the force of his
orgasm. He had to lean there for a while, body trembling in the afterglow. He’d
never come so forcefully. He just – he just wished he could experience
something like that with another person present.
Stiles stood at the mirror wondering if he needed to shave when he heard the
door creak open behind him. “Can’t you knock?” he asked irritably, turning. He
expected to see Allison there – his dad always knocked; he said he knew what
guys got up to behind closed doors and had no desire to see his son doing any
of it – but there was no one there. Stiles took a step forward, craning to look
into his bedroom, but his bedroom door was still closed. His window was open,
though, and Stiles shrugged, figuring a breeze had blown it open.
He decided he didn’t need to shave (it was a little embarrassing that he was
seventeen and he didn’t need to shave every day or, really, every week) and
headed downstairs to scrounge up some dinner.
-
Stiles made the team. He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened because he was
still extremely stiff after the practice with Derek (and bruised on his hip
from where he’d smashed into the shower wall), but after Finstock had shouted
all the potential players through a vigorous trial, he gathered them up and
bellowed out a list of the new players’ names. He called Stiles “Bolinski,” but
when no one else reacted, Stiles figured that had to be him and let out a whoop
of excitement. Scott made the team too and they danced around like idiots while
Isaac clapped them on the back until Finstock yelled at them to save that crap
for the nightclub. Stiles spotted Allison, who was sitting on the bleachers
with Lydia, laughing, and waved. She waved, then waved again when Scott waved
tentatively, pink splotches of color rising on her cheeks. Stiles grinned.
The only damper on the whole thing was that Jackson was on the team and more
than that – he was team captain. He was not pleased that either of them had
made it on to the team; it was clear by the set of his jaw when Finstock read
off their names, but Stiles couldn’t have cared less because for once in his
life he’d been good enough to make it onto a team. He was going to be part of
something.
He couldn’t wait to tell Derek.
Before Stiles could, though, there was Saturday to get through, which meant the
party at Lydia’s. Their father was working an overnight shift, which meant it
was easy to sneak out of the house, though Stiles pointed out that it had been
a lot easier to sneak out of the apartment when they were living in LA because,
one: it had been as easy as slipping out the front door and down the hall, two:
they’d never needed to take the car before, and three: what if he sees us
driving around, Allie?
Allison smiled. “We just tell him we’re going to the video store.”
Stiles frowned. “Isn’t that place closed?”
Allison’s smile widened. “We didn’t know until we went there.”
Stiles grinned reluctantly. “You’re way too clever. What about when we’re
heading home at whatever time in the morning though?”
“I’m DDing,” Allison said judiciously. “You pretend to be asleep. We were just
hanging out at someone’s house. Scott’s, maybe?”
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles sighed in defeat. “Clearly you’ve planned this.”
Allison smiled again. “So…” she asked slowly, “do you think you’re have any
luck tonight?”
“What, in the romance department?” Stiles sighed again. “I doubt it.”
“Aw, come on,” Allison laughed, punching him lightly on the arm. “What about
that guy from the woods?”
“Derek?” Stiles tapped his fingers against his leg. He’d told Allison about
Derek, of course, though he’d left out his shower fantasies. “I don’t know. It
sounded like he’s gotten himself into some trouble, so he might be grounded.”
“Not if he came out to meet you in the woods,” Allison pointed out, turning
down Lydia’s street. “Unless he snuck out.” She smiled thoughtfully. “And he’d
really have to want to see you do that.”
“Cut it out,” Stiles said, his cheeks flushing. “I’ve seen him twice and only
once on purpose. Besides, he goes to a different school; I doubt he’d come to a
Beacon Hills party.”
Allison shrugged. “All right.”
It was Stiles’ turn to bestow a wicked grin on her. “What about you?”
“What about me?” she replied lightly, but he could see color rising on her
face.
“What about Scott?”
“Oh, him.” Allison feigned nonchalance. “I – Well, I saw him in the hallway at
school and told him he should come. I don’t know if he will, though.”
Course he will, Stiles thought to himself, grinning faintly as they pulled up
in front of Lydia’s massive house. And he was so totally right; Scott was
standing around in the front hall of Lydia’s place – she probably called it a
foyer – fiddling nervously with the hem of his shirt when they came through the
door and Stiles couldn’t help but grin again at the way Scott’s face lit up at
the sight of them. Or, more accurately, at the sight of Allison. Stiles
couldn’t be jealous, not when he wanted his sister to be happy.
“Hey,” Scott said breathlessly, sparing Stiles a quick grin. Stiles grinned
back and ducked away, leaving the two to their own devices.
Stiles wandered the house for a while, wandering between groups of chattering
teenagers. He accepted a shot from someone in the kitchen, which was huge and
tiled in marble, and another from a line set up in the living room. He went out
into the backyard, where things were much the same. People danced around the
edge of a huge pool. Stiles looked at all the faces, wondering if maybe Derek
was here. He didn’t see Derek but he did see Isaac, standing with a junior
named Danny. Stiles knew Danny; he was in a couple of his classes and he seemed
nice, but Stiles regarded him with caution because he also seemed to be
Jackson’s best friend.
Isaac caught his eye and smiled, gesturing at him to come over. Stiles grinned
back and lifted a hand, but downed another shot off a nearby table before
heading over.
“Hey,” Isaac said. “You know Danny, right? He’s on the team too – goalie.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, eyeing Danny hesitantly. “Hey.”
Danny inclined his head, looking faintly bored. “Congrats on making the team.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He felt jittery
suddenly, completely on edge. He wished the shots would hit him faster. “Do –
do either of you smoke?”
Danny looked at him, suddenly interested. “I do. You got any?”
Stiles shook his head ruefully and Isaac beamed. “Luckily for you both, I came
prepared.” He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a joint, holding it
aloft like a trophy. Stiles and Danny grinned in unison.
Twenty minutes later found the three of them sitting on the edge of the pool,
kicking their feet in the cool water and passing the joint around. Stiles felt
looser now, his head light, vision blurring around the edges. This was better;
he felt comfortable this way.
“So what’s LA like?” Isaac asked and Stiles looked up at the starry night sky
thoughtfully, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Big,” he said finally. “Noisy. Busy. Overwhelming sometimes.”
“I bet it’s more interesting than Beacon Hills,” Danny remarked, and Stiles
shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said. “We moved into a murder house, so I don’t know.”
“The Hale house?” Danny tilted his head to one side. “I thought that place
burned down.”
“They rebuilt it, I guess,” Stiles said with another shrug. “Don’t tell me –
everybody says it’s haunted.”
Danny frowned. “I don’t think so. I mean, they probably do, but no one really
talks about it at all. People don’t like to think about it, I think – because
they never caught who did it.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Is it creepy
living there?”
Stiles shook his head even though it was, kind of. “It’s just a house.”
“Hm,” Danny said, his eyes following Isaac, who got to his feet and said, “I’m
getting another drink. You guys want anything?”
“Sure,” Stiles said, but Danny shook his head. Stiles stared at the water
around his feet, blinking slowly. Next to him, Danny took a long drag from the
joint and carefully stubbed it out on the cement. He elbowed Stiles in the side
and Stiles looked up, surprised, to see Danny leaning over, lips pressed tight
together to keep the smoke from escaping. Stiles stared at him, lips parting,
heart suddenly thrumming in his chest, because he knew what Danny wanted. The
young man raised his eyebrows at Stiles, the corner of his mouth quirking up in
question. Stiles nodded quickly and leaned in to meet him, careful not to smash
their faces together.
Their lips touched, and while Stiles was frantically wondering if it counted as
a first kiss, Danny’s lips parted and he breathed the smoke into Stiles’ mouth,
tongue chasing after to swipe across Stiles’ bottom lip before he pulled away.
Stiles shut his mouth because that was what you were supposed to do, holding
the smoke in for a long count before exhaling slowly.
“Good?” Danny asked casually, and Stiles nodded dumbly, his cheeks heating up.
“Cool,” Danny said, and leaned in again, pressing their mouths together more
firmly. This was a real kiss, if the first one hadn’t really counted. Danny’s
mouth was soft and gently demanding, his teeth catching on Stiles’ lip and
whoa, it was really hard for Stiles not to listen to his hormones and just
throw himself at Danny. First kiss, he reminded himself. Be cool. But as much
as Stiles was enjoying himself, a voice at the back of his mind couldn’t help
but mourn the fact that he hadn’t lost his kiss virginity to Derek. Derek
looked like he was probably an intense kisser. He looked like an intense
everything.
Stiles wasn’t really disappointed when Danny eventually pulled away, but he
didn’t really know what to do with himself so he stammered, “I-I’m going to see
how Isaac’s doing with that drink,” and clambered to his feet. Danny didn’t
seem perturbed; he gave a two fingered wave and turned to look around at the
party.
Stiles got halfway into the house before he found his path blocked by Jackson,
whose face was red and livid. Great, Stiles thought dully. He’s an angry drunk.
“Move, please,” Stiles said, trying to sidestep around Jackson, but the young
man moved with him, stepping into his personal space. “Dude—”
“Stay the fuck away from Danny,” Jackson hissed, jabbing a finger into his
chest. “You think you’re something special, big kid from the city, but you’re
not. You’re boring as shit and if you think things are going to get better just
because you got on the lacrosse team, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Dude, fuck off,” Stiles said furiously. “I don’t know what I ever did to you,
but you need to back off, seriously.”
He tried to step around Jackson again but again Jackson moved with him, brow
furrowed like an angry bulldog.
Stiles sighed exasperatedly. He could see Allison and Scott standing behind
Jackson, looking confused and a little worried. He looked at Jackson again, at
his heavy eyebrows and the tight set of his jaw and he laughed suddenly, the
inflexion behind Jackson’s words hitting him. “Dude,” he choked. “Are you
threatened by me?”
Jackson’s face twisted and he moved before Stiles realized he was moving, his
fist colliding solidly with the side of Stiles’ face. He went staggering
backward as the party went silent around them but when he looked up, Scott
stood between him and Jackson.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Scott snapped.
Jackson scowled, something like a snarl pushing between his lips, and he looked
ready to swing at Scott, too, but then Lydia came pushing through the crowd,
her prim features tight with anger.
“You,” she said furiously to Jackson, “are ruining this party.”
Jackson scowled at her too, but half-heartedly, and she rolled her eyes,
putting her hand on his arm and tugging him into the house. Scott turned to
look at Stiles, his brown eyes soft with concern.
“You okay, dude?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, pressing a hand to his cheek, where the skin was hot and
ached ferociously. “That dude’s lame.”
“We should probably go,” Allison said quietly, stepping forward. “Sorry,” she
added to Scott, who shook his head.
“You’re my knight in shining armor,” Stiles said, patting Scott on the
shoulder. “I think bro code says we’re bffs now.”
“Okay,” Scott agreed genially, grinning. Allison rolled her eyes and led Stiles
out to the Jeep.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked Stiles, watching him climb into the
passenger’s seat.
“It hurts a little,” Stiles admitted, pressing his face to the cool glass.
“Don’t know what I’m going to tell Dad, though.” As Allison pulled into the
street, he added, “Lost my kissing virginity, though.”
“Oh yeah?” Allison smiled over at him. “With who?”
“Danny.”
“Everybody likes Danny,” Allison said. She looked over at Stiles with an
astoundingly sharp look to her eyes. “Do you like Danny?”
Stiles hmmed, tapped his fingers against the armrest. “I don’t think so,” he
decided finally. “Not like that.”
“Well then,” Allison said with a little shrug, “at least you’ve got some
experience for the next time.”
“Oh yeah,” Stiles retorted. “It only took me seventeen years to get to this
point. Only another seventeen until the next one.”
Allison gave him a look that was half exasperated, half fond, and Stiles shut
his mouth for the rest of the drive home.
-
The first time Stiles ever had the dream, he was five and drowsing on the couch
with his head on his grandmother’s lap, cranky and tear-stained from a tantrum
over the fact that he didn’t want to watch Pocahontas and Allison did (and
something like the very logical reasoning that it was Allison’s turn to choose
the movie wasn’t going to stop him from having a fit). Their father was out on
duty; he had to work double shifts as much as humanly possible to cover their
mother’s hospital bills.
Their grandmother had taken them to see their mother that afternoon and Allison
had cried the whole time but Stiles didn’t get it, not really. He didn’t
understand why his mother touched the top of his head and wearily asked him to
look after Allison and their father, but he did always want to please his mom
so he promised he would.
He was asleep with his hands curled in his grandmother’s sweater when the dream
hit. It was the same dream, even then, but he was smaller, ducking under
branches while his mother called his name and he didn’t know why, but it scared
him terribly. It scared him so bad he woke up screaming and his grandmother
cradled him to her chest while he cried, trying to comfort him. The phone rang
while she did her best and Allison skipped over to pick it up, then came
trotting over to the couch.
“It’s Daddy,” she said, holding the phone to their grandmother, and she gently
set Stiles aside.
“Make your brother happy,” she said, which was Allison’s job – it had always
been her job – and she went into the bedroom to talk to their father.
That was the night their mother died.
Stiles had the dream again that night after the party, and it was worse than
before. The thing running beside him was no longer there, and he couldn’t
figure out if that was better or worse because just because he couldn’t see it
didn’t mean it wasn’t there somewhere, waiting for him, and that threat of the
unknown was worse than anything. The fire still burned somewhere off in the
woods and he ran in that direction, unable to turn. He could hear the flames
roaring, wood popping and shifting, something breaking. Over it all was a boy
crying for him, wailing his name.
Stiles’ face was already wet with tears when he woke, choked on a sob when he
tried to breathe, and that would have been embarrassing if he could give
thought to any fact other thanI can’t breathe. It was the worst thing that had
ever happened to him and it was the worse thing a couple of nights ago, and
months before that, and it would never stop being terrible, never stop
terrifying him. It was awful when the room spun around him, when the darkness
clawed at his vision.
Even though his head was spinning and his lungs weren’t getting enough air,
Stiles managed to get himself out of bed and he stumbled over to the window,
sticking his head outside. The cool night air was like a punch to the face –
the second punch of the evening – and he found himself able to breathe again.
Stiles slumped over the sill, chest heaving, and let the cool air caress his
face.
Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized there was someone
standing in the driveway, staring up at the house. Stiles’ heart leapt in his
chest and then he realized – it was Derek.
“Hey!” Stiles called down, but Derek didn’t seem to notice or hear him because
he didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the front door. He looked miserable, his
mouth a thin line, brow furrowed. “Derek?”
Stiles pulled out of the window and padded out of his room and downstairs. He
opened the front door and stepped onto to the porch and – there was no one in
the driveway. He couldn’t see Derek anywhere. Stiles stood on the porch for a
long time, listening to the crickets, eyes focusing and unfocusing on dark
pieces of shadow, looking for Derek. He probably needed to go back inside,
before—
“Stiles?”
Stiles blinked blearily. He was still standing on the porch and his dad stood
in front of him, arms crossed on his chest, a strange look on his face. Stiles
sniffed, rubbing his hands over his face, the bruise on his cheek flaring with
pain at his touch. It was light out, the sky a pale grey. The woods looked
dark, desaturated.
“Stiles?” his father asked again. “Are you all right? What were you doing out
here?”
Stiles shook his head slowly, feeling like cotton wool had been shoved down his
ears. “I…I don’t know.” He rubbed at his face again.
“What happened to your face?” his dad pressed, stepping in closer. He took hold
of Stiles’ chin, tilting his head so he could look at the bruise under his
eyes.
“I don’t know,” Stiles said again, mind clear enough to know that this was a
good opportunity to pawn the injury off to the unexplained.
“I think you were sleepwalking,” his father said, sounding a little perplexed
and still worried. “You just stood there like a statue when I drove up.”
“Dreaming,” Stiles mumbled, yawning. He had a faint memory of coming down to
the porch earlier that night to see Derek, but why would Derek have come over
so late?
“Well, you should get back to bed,” his dad said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s
still early.”
Stiles nodded and turned to go inside, but his father didn't let go of his
shoulder. Stiles gave him a questioning look and his dad cleared his throat.
"I know this hasn't been an easy year," he said, fingers tightening on Stiles'
shoulder. "But I wanted to thank you for doing your best. Allison says you're
both making friends and - I'm glad. And you made the lacrosse team. I'm proud
of you, Stiles. I really am."
Stiles smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dad." He hesitated before saying, "I'm sorry.
About last spring. I don't know if I ever apologized, but I'm sorry." And he
was, truly; the whole hacking thing had almost cost his father his job, and
they hadn't spoken for a month after it happened.
His father sighed, letting go of his shoulder to ruffle his hair. "It's in the
past," he said gently. "Go get some rest."
Stiles headed upstairs, thinking that he didn't deserve a father as good as
his. He drank and smoked pot and got into fights at parties he wasn't supposed
to go to. His dad shouldn't be proud.
When Stiles went into his room, he found his bed a mess; all the sheets had
been ripped off and thrown to the floor, the pillows thrown after. Stiles
sighed; he must have done that in his frantic fight to get out of bed. He
gathered up the sheets and was about to flop into bed when he noticed something
sitting on the mattress cover. Stiles leaned over to see what it was and
sharply sucked his breath in through his teeth. It was a lump of charred wood
about the size of a matchbox car.
Stiles thought of the dream and the house's history and forced himself to keep
breathing evenly. It was a bad joke, he decided, gingerly picking up the cinder
and chucking it out the window. He listened to it clank to a landing in the
gutter, then forced it out of his mind and climbed wearily into bed.
When he woke up later, the sun was high outside and his room was stifling.
Though it was September, it seemed the summer had decided to come back into
play - according to the weather app on his phone, it was nearly ninety degrees
out. Also according to his phone, he had an hour before he was supposed to be
meeting Derek, so he pulled himself out of bed, sloth-like, and meandered into
the bathroom to wash the sweat and faint scent of pot smoke off himself.
Allison was in the living room when he came downstairs, eating a bowl of yogurt
and fruit.
"You're not funny," Stiles told her, thumping down next to her with a bowl of
cereal.
Allison glanced at him. "What are you talking about?"
"The ash?" Stiles said. "On my bed? Where did you even get it - out of the
attic?"
Allison frowned. "What are you talking about?" she asked again.
"I came upstairs and there was a piece of burnt wood on my bed," Stiles said,
his stomach twisting. "That was you, right?"
Allison shook her head. "Why would I put burnt wood on your bed?" She tilted
her head, considering. "Dad said you were sleepwalking. Maybe you should stop
mixing pot and alcohol."
"That's not it," Stiles said irritably. Though, maybe it was. Mixing the two
wasn't supposed to be good for you, not that he'd been thinking about that the
night before.
He was still thinking about it when he walked out to the clearing to meet
Derek. The young man was already there, stretched out in the sun in the middle
of the clearing. He must have heard Stiles approach because the corners of his
mouth curved up slightly, though he didn't open his eyes.
"How can you stand this heat?" Stiles asked, nudging Derek in the ribs with his
foot.
"The hotter the better," Derek replied. He opened his eyes and frowned. "What
happened to your face?"
"Got in the way of some asshole's fist," Stiles replied, dropping down onto the
grass next to Derek. It smelled sweet and green. "Jackson Whittemore. Do you
know him?"
Derek frowned up at the clear blue sky. "I've heard his name," he said. "His
father's a lawyer."
"Well, he's a dick," Stiles sighed. "And he also happens to be captain of the
lacrosse team."
Derek gave him an appraising look. "Did you make it?"
"Yeah." A grin broke over his face. "Thanks to your help, I wasn't nearly as
rusty as some of those dudes. You decide if you're going to try out yet? It'd
be a pity if I couldn't trounce you on the field."
"You think so?" Derek asked mildly, though the wicked gleam in his eye betrayed
his competitive streak. "Did you bring the sticks?"
Stiles laughed and clambered to his feet, Derek close behind. They played for
nearly an hour, the woods ringing with their laughter, before Stiles collapsed
into the grass, heart beating like a drum.
"Dude," he said. "I'm so sweaty I'm not sure I'll be able to get this shirt off
later; I think it's fused to me like a second skin."
"Gross," Derek commented placidly. He sat on the rock, staring up at the sky,
though he dropped his eyes to look at Stiles. “We could go to the pond.”
“That sounds amazing,” Stiles sighed, and Derek grinned lopsidedly.
The pond was only a ten minute walk away. It was big, and Stiles could see a
dock on the far side where the walking paths probably ended, a few people
splashing around over there, but their side was empty and quiet. Derek nodded
toward a tree on the edge of the water whose branches stretched out over the
still surface, a rope swing tied to one of the lower branches.
“My uncle hung that there when he was a teenager,” Derek said. “My sister and I
come out here a lot, but I haven’t had anyone to go with since she went off to
college.”
“I’ll come any time you want to go,” Stiles offered before he could stop
himself. He could feel his cheeks going red, but Derek looked faintly pleased –
or Stiles wanted to think so, anyway.
“C’mon,” Derek said, heading toward the tree, pulling his shirt off as he went.
Stiles swallowed as the upper half of his bare body came into view, muscles
bunching as he tossed his shirt aside and climbed up into the tree. Six feet up
he turned around and called, “Stiles!”
“No shame,” Stiles muttered, hurriedly divesting himself of his shirt (and it
was a miracle he didn’t get it tangled around himself in his hurry to get it
off; he had that sort of clumsy track record). It wasn’t fair that Derek was so
muscular – what kind of teenager had abs like that, honestly? He clambered up
the branches after Derek, pausing where Derek had his arms folded over a branch
about twelve feet up.
“You think it’s cold?” Stiles asked, fixedly avoiding staring at Derek’s
stomach, at the faint trail of dark hair that started below his bellybutton and
disappeared into his gym shorts. It was best not to head in that direction at
all, not when he’d been walking around in a pair of very wet, clingy shorts.
“It’s probably not too bad,” Derek said thoughtfully. “It’s had all summer to
warm up.” He looked down at Stiles. “You ready to go in?”
Stiles grinned. “Let’s do this.”
Derek smiled, unhooking his arms from around the tree. He held his hand out to
Stiles, who took it, ignoring the way his arm tingled at the touch of Derek’s
cool skin and the way his stomach clenched, warmth pooling in his body. They
walked out over the water, the branch beneath their feet solid and unbending,
using the branches above them to keep them steady.
“One,” Derek said. “Two—” With a shout of laughter Stiles jumped, pulling Derek
with him, and they hit the water with a noise like a cannonball. The water was
blessedly cool but not cold and Stiles resurfaced with a gasp, his skin buzzing
all over with relief. Derek came up next to him, grinning. “Asshole.”
Stiles blew him a kiss and Derek lunged, shoving him under the water with a
laugh.
They stayed at the pond until the sky began to turn red, jumping from the
branches and swinging from the rope swing. Derek could do flips from the tree
that made Stiles clench his teeth, both from the way it almost looked like he’d
hit a branch on the way down, and from the way graceful way his body folded and
uncurled.
“Were you on the swim team?” Stiles asked him after they’d gotten out of the
water and sat on the shore, waiting for their clothes to dry in the light of
the setting sun.
“Nah,” Derek said, shaking his head so he sprayed Stiles with water. Stiles
squawked and shoved at him. Derek pushed him back without any effort,
continuing, “I’ve just always liked water.”
“That’s cool,” Stiles said. “My mom used to take us to the community pool, but
after – my dad was too busy to take us all that often.”
Derek turned his pale eyes on Stiles, his face soft. “Did something happen to
her?”
Stiles nodded, his tongue sticking in his throat. It was still hard to say,
even twelve years later. “She died. Breast cancer.”
Derek looked away. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Stiles felt Derek pause before he asked, “And your dad never remarried?”
Stiles shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “My grandma always jokes he’s
married to his job.”
“That’s good, though,” Derek said, getting to his feet. Their clothes were
mostly dry now, cool and little damp. “We need a better sheriff after the last
one.”
“Why?” Stiles asked. “What did he do?”
Derek paused, his face darkening. “He beat me up,” Derek said finally, the
words spilling out of him. He turned on his heel without another word, heading
for the trees with long, fast strides.
“What?” Stiles exclaimed, trotting after him. “Derek, wait—”
Derek was gone. Stiles looked around the trees, squinting into the lengthening
shadows, but there was no sight of the boy. “Derek?” Stiles called. He couldn’t
even hear him, and wondered if he was standing behind a tree somewhere. “Dude,
you can’t just tell me something like that and then walk off!” He waited, but
there was no answer. “Fine! I’m coming back tomorrow, though; meet me in the
clearing after school!”
Stiles listened to his voice echo through the woods, not moving again until it
had faded completely. He struck off toward the house, wondering why Derek had
bailed. Maybe he was embarrassed? Maybe he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone?
Maybe that was why his mom had taken away his phone – but that didn’t make
sense, unless Derek had been the one to start the fight. Stiles heaved a
frustrated sigh, and another a few seconds later when he realized he’d
forgotten to tell Derek how he’d seen him the night before.
Stiles asked his father about the old sheriff when he came in the following
morning while Stiles and Allison were getting ready for school.
“You want to know what?” the sheriff asked, squinting tiredly at him.
“Why the last sheriff got fired,” Stiles said earnestly.
“Oh,” the sheriff sighed. “Apparently it was departmental policy to allow
bribe-taking – letting people get out of speeding tickets, misdemeanors. When
the district attorney found out, he fired most of the deputies and the sheriff
as well.”
“Oh,” Stiles echoed, slightly perplexed. “Not – he didn’t assault anyone then?”
His father frowned at him. “Who told you that?”
“Just – something I heard at school,” Stiles lied. Which – maybe what his
father said made sense. After all, Derek hadn’t said that that was why he’d
been fired, just that they needed a better sheriff. Maybe he really wasn’t
supposed to say anything and that was why he’d freaked out and disappeared.
The sheriff shrugged, watching his son with a faintly worried look on his face.
“I don’t know much about the man, but I heard he had some issues in the past.
Bad temper.”
“Huh,” Stiles said, and he would have kept prying, but the whole hacking thing
still hung over their heads, and he let the subject drop. That was a pretty
adult thing for him to do, he thought, and he left for school with Allison a
few minutes later feeling pretty pleased with himself.
School that day was more of the same, the days quickly falling into a routine.
He ignored Jackson's dark glare (though the bruise on his cheek throbbed at the
memory of Jackson striking him), and when he saw Danny, all the boy did was
smile at him – he didn’t seem at all concerned that they’d made out on Saturday
night, which was kind of a relief.
He ate lunch with Scott and Isaac and watched Allison sit and laugh with her
friends. He almost asked Scott and Isaac if they wanted to come hang out after
school before remembering that he'd told Derek he'd be waiting in the clearing.
Not that that guaranteed Derek would be there, of course, but Stiles hoped he
would.
When Stiles did arrive in the clearing after school, he tried not to be too
disappointed when Derek wasn't there to meet him. He shrugged and settled down
on the rock, pulling out his chemistry homework. When he glanced up maybe ten
minutes later, Derek stood a few yards away, watching him expressionlessly.
"Jesus, dude," Stiles hissed, clapping a hand over his thundering heart.
"You're like a fucking ninja!"
"Sorry," Derek said quietly.
"You want to sit?" Stiles asked, gesturing at the rock he perched on. Derek
shook his head and an uneasy silence fell over the clearing. Stiles scratched
at his hair with the tip of his pen. "Okay," he said finally. "Look, what you
told me yesterday, if you're worried about me telling other people, I'm not
going to do that, I promise."
Derek frowned faintly. "I don’t think you will."
"Then why'd you disappear on me?"
Derek hesitated, his lips going thin. "I'm - I wasn't supposed to say
anything."
"Did he threaten you?" Stiles asked, horrified.
Derek shook his head. "No, not him - the district attorney's office. They're
building a case against him and didn't want him finding out and disappearing."
"Oh," Stiles said quietly. "Um. Why'd it happen? Can I ask? You don't have to
say."
Derek shifted uncomfortably, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't want
to talk about it."
"Okay," Stiles said slowly. "Can you tell me, though - did he start it? Was it
unprovoked?"
Derek bit his lip, looking even more uncomfortable. "Everyone says it's not my
fault, but I'm not sure they're right."
Stiles stared at Derek, watched the way his hand clutched at his bicep, the way
he stared at the ground, and his stomach dropped. The way he acted, the way he
spoke - Derek sounded like an abuse victim and Stiles desperately hoped that
wasn't true. He'd gone on ride-alongs with his dad, watched him from the front
seat as he talked to beaten women and men, frightened kids. He swallowed.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Derek shook his head, briefly lifting his eyes to Stiles' before looking away
again. Stiles bit his lip and looked around the clearing. He spotted his
lacrosse stuff, which he'd forgotten to pick up after leaving the pond the day
before.
"Hey," Stiles said, and Derek lifted his head again. He nodded toward the
lacrosse sticks. "You wanna play?"
Derek remained silent for another long moment before nodding. "Yeah," he said.
"All right."
They didn't play that long; the sun was still above the trees when Derek set
down his stick and said, "I'm going to head home." Stiles didn't try to argue
with him; he was surprised Derek had stuck around as long as he had, even if
he'd seemed to brighten up as they played.
Stiles walked home slowly, head consumed in thought. He wondered if he should
tell his dad about Derek. Only Allison knew he'd met Derek out here - not like
he was hiding it, there just hadn't been a reason to bring him up. Telling his
dad seemed like a good idea, but if Derek was already working with the district
attorney, maybe he didn't have to. And he'd told Derek he wouldn't tell anyone,
and he wanted Derek to trust him.
Stiles' foot caught on a branch and he tripped, landing face-first in the loam.
He sputtered, spitting dirt, and as he sat up his eyes caught a glimpse of
something silver under the patch of leaves he'd just disturbed.
Stiles frowned and pushed some of the debris away. It was a length of silver
metal and he curled his fingers around it, tugging the object out of the dirt.
The tube felt hollow, light, like - Stiles' eyes went wide as the object was
revealed - like a lacrosse stick. It was bent in half, the metal rusted, the
lacquer bubbled and peeling. The plastic of the pocket was cracked, the rope
netting torn and rotted. Stiles twisted the stick in his hands and his eyes
landed on a name written in marker by the plug. It was faded and scratched but
still legible. Derek.
This was Derek's stick, the one he said he'd broken. But Stiles had been under
the impression that it had happened a couple weeks ago, maybe a few months
back. This stick, though, had been here a long time. Years, by the way it was
rusted. Stiles set it back down, feeling suddenly nervous. Maybe it was
nothing. Maybe Derek had a bad habit of ruining his lacrosse sticks. Or maybe
there was something he wasn't telling Stiles.
Stiles got to his feet, casting an anxious glance toward the clearing before
kicking leaves back over the stick. He wasn't sure why he felt so nervous all
of a sudden, but he very urgently needed to be out of the woods.
It wasn't until he was lying in bed that he realized that, for the second day
in a row, he'd forgotten to tell Derek how he'd seen - or dreamt - of him
standing outside the house Saturday night.
Stiles didn't make it to the clearing the following day, or the day after that.
Lacrosse practice started and he was at the school until six every day, running
laps, doing drills, being yelled by Finstock. As captain of the team, Jackson
was insufferable; he had the backs of most of the seniors and juniors and they,
as a group, mostly ignored Stiles and Scott, which made scrimmages hard.
Finstock yelled at them a lot. Danny was the only junior who didn't ignore
them, but Stiles felt weird around him, even though Danny had acted like the
kiss at Lydia's party never happened.
On Wednesday night, Stiles had the dream again and, like the two dreams before,
it changed. He wasn't running anymore; he stood in the shadow of the trees
before the burning shell of a massive house that looked vaguely familiar. The
smoke stung his eyes, and he heat from the flames hurt his face, but he didn't
– couldn’t - move because there was a woman standing a few yards in front of
him and something about her was wrong.
All he could see of her was long legs and golden light glinting off her wavy
hair. She stood with her hands on her hips, a casual lilt to her stance that
suggested she was absolutely unconcerned by the house burning in front of her.
Stiles couldn't put his finger on it, but whatever was wrong with this woman
was the reason why he woke up crying from this dream so often. He could feel
the air vibrating with something; a darkness that clenched at his shoulders and
pulled at his gut.
"Stiles!"
The boy's voice came from not the fire but the woods beyond the house, ringing
through the trees. He sounded hurt, bewildered, and Stiles saw, with a sudden
jab of horror, the woman turn her head in the direction of the voice. She took
a step forward and Stiles was suddenly, violently certain that she couldn't be
allowed to find the boy before he did.
"No!" he shouted. The woman turned to look at him - and he woke up. He was
soaked through with sweat again, his clothes and sheets damp under him. He
stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water over his face, fighting back the
urge to vomit.
When he finally reemerged, picking his weak way across his dark bedroom, he
heard footsteps in the hall outside. Suddenly Stiles needed to talk to someone,
even if it was just to hear his dad say good night or to hear Allison tell him
to go back to sleep.
Stiles jerked the door open to find an empty hallway. He froze, swallowing
panic, because there was no one there and he could still hear the fucking
footsteps. He heard them pause, then the boards creaked as they headed back his
direction and he did panic then, slamming his door shut and leaning against it
with all his strength. He couldn't hear much over the hammering of his heart
but he heard the footsteps faintly. They passed his door and continued down the
hall. They disappeared down the stairs and only then did Stiles let himself
relax, though "relax" was a relative term. What he did do was stuff a knuckle
into his mouth, biting down hard so whatever it was wouldn't be able to hear
him mutter "What the fuck, what the fuck!” over and over.
He slid to the floor and sat with his back against the door for over an hour,
every sense on high alert. He fell asleep there, slumped over, and woke up in
the morning feeling stiff and exhausted.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" Stiles asked Scott at lunch that day.
"Ghosts?" Scott repeated, his mouth full of pasta. He swallowed and narrowed
his eyes at the table. "I don't know. I've never seen one. Why?"
"I think our house might be haunted," Stiles admitted, and told him about the
footsteps.
"You sure it wasn't Allison? Or your dad?" Scott asked.
Stiles shook his head. "It wasn't Allison. I asked her this morning and she
said she never got up last night. And Dad had an overnight shift."
"Maybe he came home to check on you guys," Scott shrugged.
"I would have heard his car leave," Stiles pointed out. "And dude, I looked.
There was no one in the hall and I could still hear them."
Scott shrugged. "I dunno, dude. Maybe you were dreaming."
"I," Stiles began, and stopped. Maybe. He had ended up outside the previous
weekend. "I dunno." He heaved a sigh. "You wanna come over after practice? I
finally got the Xbox working."
"What, to your potentially haunted house?" Scott grinned lopsidedly. "Sure."
Stiles had the Jeep because Allison had gone to Lydia's house, so they bundled
Scott's bike into the back and bounced down the rough road to the house.
"Whoa," Scott said, leaning forward as the house came into view through the
trees. "This place is huge."
"I know," Stiles said. "I don't know what Dad was thinking."
Speaking of his father, his cruiser was parked in front of the house, but he
was getting ready to leave as they came through the front door. "Boys," he
said, raising his eyebrows.
"Hey, Dad," Stiles grinned. "This is Scott."
His dad nodded. "Scott. Nice to meet you."
"You too, sir," Scott said, his eyes going wide.
Stiles snorted and his father smiled faintly. "I'll be back around midnight,"
he said. "Don't get into any trouble - and you have school tomorrow, don't
forget."
Stiles rolled his eyes at the dad lecture and said, "Sure thing, Dad. You go
protect the town from all the violent criminals out there."
"Don't be smart," the sheriff replied as he headed for the door, but there was
a smile on his face as he said it.
Scott and Stiles spent an enjoyable evening playing video games and shouting
good-naturedly at each other - Scott did an impression of Finstock that left
Stiles crying with laughter. Stiles made a huge plate of nachos and they talked
about things. Stiles told Scott how he'd nearly cost his father his job, and
Scott told him he'd moved to Beacon Hills because of his own father, a banker
in Columbus who'd gotten remarried to a woman who didn't want Scott around.
"I really don't mind, though," Scott said with a shrug. "My dad's kind of a
tool. He only fought for full custody in the divorce because he wanted to make
my mom unhappy, not because he really wanted me around."
"Dude, that sucks," Stiles hissed sympathetically.
Scott grinned. "Whatever. I've got my mom and this town is way better than
Columbus."
It was fun hanging out with Scott, though. Stiles hadn’t had a ton of friends
back in Los Angeles, and three months of being grounded had kind of forced him
to lose touch with the few that stuck around knowing he would be moving soon,
so it was nice to know there was at least one person in Beacon Hills he could
hang out and be stupid with. Two, if you counted Derek, and Stiles wasn’t sure
he could yet.
Allison came home around nine and Stiles grinned at the hearts in Scott's eyes.
"You wanna hang out with us?" Stiles asked his sister.
"And watch you guys yell at strangers?" she laughed. "I'll pass, thanks." And
she disappeared, with Scott staring after her wistfully.
"Dude," Stiles said, digging his elbow into Scott's ribs. "Have you talked to
her?"
"Only at Lydia's party," Scott replied mournfully. "I don't really see her at
school."
"You should ask her out," Stiles said. "She's not going to say no to you.
Homecoming's next week. You should ask her to the dance."
Scott flushed, glancing up at the ceiling. "You really think she'd say yes?"
"I'm like ninety-nine percent sure," Stiles replied. "But dude, you have to
promise me that if you guys start dating, you won't tell me anything gross, ok?
I don’t need to know about my sister's sex life."
"Deal," Scott said with a grin, though the tips of his ears went bright red.
Allison was in the kitchen when Scott was getting up to leave and Stiles nudged
him in her direction, saying, "I'll see you tomorrow, dude. Ally, I think Scott
wanted to talk to you."
Stiles left them eyeing each other in the kitchen and went upstairs. He could
have eavesdropped, but even if Stiles was an asshole sometimes, he loved his
sister enough to give her the privacy she and Scott deserved. Besides, he knew
he’d be hearing the result from either or both of them soon enough. He laid
down on his bed, listening, and sure enough, he heard the front door open,
Allison and Scott’s low voices, then the front door shut again. Not even ten
seconds later his phone lit up with a text from Scott: she said YES!!!!
Stiles grinned into the darkness and texted back. Told you. Dont forget your
promise. No gross stuff.
Promise, Scott texted back. See you tomorrow!
Stiles rolled over and fell asleep long before his father came home at
midnight.
-
He could see Derek standing in the woods, his pale face a circle floating
amidst the darkness of the trees.
“Come on,” Stiles said to him. “You can come in.” Derek stared back at him like
he’d seen a ghost and didn’t move an inch.
“Stiles?” There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Stiles, son, what are
you doing?”
Stiles turned to look at his father. “Derek won’t come inside.”
The sheriff frowned. “What are you talking about? Stiles, you’re dreaming
again. You’ve got to wake up.”
It felt like his body had been held underwater, and was only now rising to the
surface. He blinked sleepily. “Dad?”
His father smiled uneasily. “That’s right. You understand me?”
Stiles scrubbed a hand across his face. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You weren’t making sense a second ago,” his father replied, putting a hand on
his shoulder and gently guiding him inside. Stiles looked around blearily, not
understanding how he’d ended up downstairs. At least he was wearing boxers –
sometimes he stripped in his sleep. That would have been embarrassing.
“Who’s Derek?” his father asked as they trudged up the stairs, and Stiles
jumped.
“What?”
“I asked you what you were doing outside and you sad, ‘Derek won’t come in,’”
his dad said. “Is that someone you know?”
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said wearily. “I met him out – out by the pond. He goes to
St. Germaine, but he used to go to Beacon Hills. We’ve been practicing lacrosse
in the woods.”
“I’m glad you’re making friends,” the sheriff said, stopping in Stiles’
doorway. Stiles looked at his bed, disheartened; his sheets were a mess again,
strewn across the floor. He sighed. “Stiles,” his father continued, “you’re all
right, right? This sleepwalking, it’s not – you’re not on anything, are you? I
won’t be mad; I just don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“No, Dad,” Stiles replied. And maybe the first time last weekend he’d still
been high when he went to bed, but he hadn’t taken anything tonight. “I’m not,
I promise. I just haven’t been sleeping well. Everything’s new, I guess.”
“Okay,” his dad said slowly. “But you let me know if you want to see a doctor
or something. I don’t want things getting worse. People have fallen down stairs
or been hit by cars while sleepwalking, and I don’t want that happening.”
Stiles tried to give his dad a reassuring smile, but it just came out tired.
“I’ll be fine, Dad. We haven’t even been here a month. I’m just still getting
used to things.”
“All right.” His dad reached out and ruffled his hair. “Get some rest.”
Stiles couldn’t even be bothered to make his bed again. He made something like
a nest out of the blankets and crawled inside, asleep before his head even hit
the pillow.
-
Scott was jubilant at school the next day, almost bouncing on his toes in his
excitement. Stiles was happy for him, but he was finding it hard to scrounge up
any enthusiasm; he felt completely drained. He wished that his ADHD didn’t make
drinking coffee an impossibility; rather than giving him energy, it made him
tired. He almost fell asleep in chemistry anyway, earning himself a dark glare
and more cutting words from Mr. Harris, while Jackson sniggered somewhere
behind him.
There was no lacrosse practice that evening, and it felt like a relief to get
home while the sun was still up, and he headed into the woods. Stiles hadn’t
seen Derek since Monday, and hoped that the boy hadn’t spent every afternoon
that week waiting in the clearing for him. Stiles felt guilty; he’d forgotten
to tell Derek that practice was starting.
Derek wasn’t there when Stiles reached the clearing, but Stiles laid himself
out on the warm grass, waiting, and Derek showed up maybe ten minutes later.
Stiles grinned.
“Yo,” he said, as Derek settled down in the grass next to him. “Long time no
see.”
Derek smiled and Stiles watched him carefully. He wasn’t tense like he’d been
on Monday, and Stiles took that as a good sign. There was still a sad cast to
his face, though, like he’d been in one too many fights he couldn’t win. His
expression rattled a memory in Stiles’ head and he said, “Oh!”
Derek lifted an inquisitive eyebrow and Stiles said, “Dude, I keep dreaming
about you!”
Derek opened his mouth, paused for a beat, then asked, “Do you?”
“I—” Stiles caught the innuendo and flushed. “N-not like that, shut up!” Derek
laughed and Stiles punched him on the arm. “No – I keep sleepwalking and ending
up on our front porch. I keep dreaming that I see you standing in the woods,
staring at our house.”
Derek gave him a bewildered look. “Why would I do that?”
Stiles threw up his hands. “I don’t know! It’s just a dream.”
“Do you have other dreams?” Derek asked curiously.
Stiles hesitated, looking down at the grass. He plucked at a stem absently.
He’d never told anyone about his reoccurring dream, not even Allison. He didn’t
know why; it wasn’t like anything really happened in them. “Not really,” he
said finally, deciding to keep the dream to himself for a little while longer.
“Why, what about you?”
“I don’t dream,” Derek replied with a shrug. “I just see this…sort of
darkness.” He closed his mouth and Stiles stared at him, watching Derek watch
the woods. After a long moment, Derek added quietly, “Sometimes I think that
maybe this is a dream.”
Stiles almost laughed, but the look on Derek’s face made his jaw clench. “I’m
real, dude,” he said. “This isn’t The Truman Show. At least, I’m pretty sure
it’s not.” He gave Derek a friendly smile. “Maybe you’re in my show and you
don’t exist when I’m not around.”
Derek didn’t laugh, and Stiles didn’t think about how strange that was until
much later.
-
Before Stiles knew it, another week in Beacon Hills had passed. It was Friday
and the lacrosse team was getting ready for their first game. He tried not to
reveal his nervousness as he pulled his pads on in the locker room, but the
incessant jiggling of his knee gave him away. Scott sat down on the bench next
to him, pulling a jersey over his head as he said, “Dude, calm down.”
“Sure, easy,” Stiles muttered, tugging his laces tight. His dad had gotten the
evening off of work specifically to see the game, and Allison and Lydia, and –
Stiles’ head came up as he remembered. They were playing Saint Germaine –
Derek’s school. He’d completely forgot to ask Derek if he’d joined the team,
but even if he hadn’t, maybe he was in the stands somewhere. Fuck, now he was
twice as anxious. “Aren’t you nervous?” Stiles asked Scott. “Allison’s going to
be watching, you know.”
“Thanks,” Scott grinned, elbowing him. “But whatever, dude! It’s just a game.”
“Don’t let Coach hear you say that,” Stiles replied. “Or Jackson.”
Scott rolled his eyes as Finstock came thundering into the locker room and made
the players gather around him. He launched into an epic speech that sounded
vaguely familiar; Isaac leaned over and whispered to the two of them, “It’s
from Independence Day.” Stiles did his best to contain an exaggerated eye roll
and was about seventy percent successful.
Speech over, Finstock began calling out the players that would be on the field
that evening, and Stiles tried not to let the disappointment show when his name
wasn’t called. Jackson smirked as he passed, giving Stiles a consoling pat on
the arm that was more like a punch.
“Keep practicing, Stilinski.”
“Fucker,” Stiles muttered under his breath and Scott, who hadn’t been chosen
for the field either, shook his head sympathetically.
Out on the bench, in the crisp evening air, Stiles watched the crowd as the
principal got up on a podium and began a long speech about school values and
sportsmanship. He squinted across the field at the opposing team all dressed in
gold and black, wondering if Derek was among them. Stiles hadn’t seen Derek
since the weekend. They’d hung out on Friday and Sunday, but Scott had come
over on Monday, and he’d had practice every night since then. Stiles was only
half listening to the principal, his eyes narrowed as he squinted at the faces
across the pitch, while the man finished, “And tonight we dedicate this
homecoming game, as we do every year, to player fifteen, D—”
“Stiles, there,” Scott hissed, jabbing Stiles in the ribs with his elbow.
Stiles jumped, his attention distracted, and followed Scott’s finger to where
it pointed at his dad and Allison sitting in the stands. The sheriff smiled
when he saw his son looking, and Allison waved.
People were clapping around them and Stiles looked back at the podium to see
the principal setting down the microphone. He’d missed the end of the speech
but, he thought, as players from both teams streamed onto the field to take up
their positions, it hadn’t seemed all that important.
Stiles spent most of the game watching the Saint Germaine players, seeking
Derek’s face. He ignored Finstock, who did a lot of yelling and stomping up and
down the sidelines, and barely participated in Scott’s animated commentary.
Stiles avoided looking at the stands where his father and Allison were sitting,
too embarrassed that he hadn’t been chosen for the field. His dad had gotten
the night off for nothing.
By the end of the game, Stiles hadn’t spotted Derek and Beacon Hills was down,
ten points to Saint Germaine’s seventeen. When the buzzer signaled the end of
the game, the opposing team had scored twice more and the crowd was subdued;
not a great start to the season. Stiles joined the line to shake the other
team’s hands, and his spirits sank further when Derek wasn’t among them; he’d
been hoping for the familiar sight of his half smile – anything to boost this
bummer of an evening.
After getting changed and gathering his gear, Stiles found his father and
Allison waiting outside. They were both smiling, but Stiles couldn’t find the
enthusiasm to smile back. He felt tired all of a sudden, his shoulders heavy.
“That was a good game,” the sheriff said, clapping Stiles on the shoulder.
Stiles shrugged his hand off and replied, “Sorry you had to sit through that.”
His father frowned and Allison said, “What are you talking about? I know you
guys lost, but it was still fun to watch.”
Stiles shrugged again. “Don’t get upset because you didn’t get to play,” his
dad said. “It’s only the first game.”
“That’s not – ” Stiles heaved a sigh. “Never mind. Can we go home?”
Back at the house, he laid on his bed and listened to Allison bang around in
her room as she got ready for the homecoming dance. Scott kept texting him, his
messages growing increasingly frantic as the time to the dance drew closer.
Stiles couldn’t deal with him and shoved his phone under his pillow so he
wouldn’t have to see the screen lighting up.
Someone knocked on his doorframe and he flipped over to see Allison standing
there, dressed in a silvery grey dress, her hair twisted up to one side in an
elegant knot.
“You look really nice,” he told her despondently.
She smiled faintly, but looked worried when she asked, “Are you okay? Scott
says you aren’t answering his texts.”
“I’m just…tired,” Stiles replied.
“Are you going to the dance?”
“I don’t think so.” It wasn’t like he had anyone to go with, and Allie and
Scott would be preoccupied with each other. He had no desire to be a third
wheel that night.
“Okay,” Allison said hesitantly, clearly unsure what to say to him. “Well. If
you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”
Stiles nodded and she disappeared. Ten minutes later, it was his dad’s turn to
appear in the doorway, looking faintly concerned. “You sick?” he asked.
“No,” Stiles sighed. “I’m just tired, Dad. It’s been a long week.”
The sheriff didn’t say anything for a long time. He stood in the doorway,
watching Stiles, and then he said, “You’ll get to play eventually. You’re still
a junior; there’s plenty of time.”
“I don’t care about the game,” Stiles told him, repeating, “I’m just tired.”
“Okay,” the sheriff said, after another long pause. He tapped his fingers
against the doorframe. “I’m headed to bed.”
“Good night,” Stiles mumbled into his pillow.
“G’night, son,” his dad said softly, pulling the door shut behind him.
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t dream.
-
His dad had Saturday off and Stiles went downstairs to find that he’d made a
huge spread for breakfast. Oddly, Stiles was up before Allison, who stumbled
downstairs around eleven in sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt, make-up still
smeared around her eyes. Stiles and their father both eyed her with interest
and she flushed, piling a plate high with pancakes and scrambled eggs.
“Late night?” the sheriff asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“Mm,” Allison said evasively, avoiding Stiles’ eyes as she dug into her
breakfast.
Stiles grinned. He was feeling a thousand times better than he had the previous
night, his bad mood long gone. “How was the dance?”
“Good,” Allison mumbled, eating a huge forkful of egg.
Stiles cast a gleeful look at his father, who leaned against the countertop and
said, “Do I need to have a word with your date?”
“No, Dad!” Allison exclaimed, her cheeks going a brilliant red. The sheriff
chuckled and disappeared into the bathroom.
When he’d gone, Stiles leaned across the table and hissed, “You’ve got a hickey
on your neck.” Allison turned an interesting shade of purple and clapped a hand
to her throat. There was no bruise there, but Stiles wasn’t fulfilling his
duties as an annoying younger brother if he didn’t tease her properly.
After they’d finished cleaning up after breakfast, the three Stilinskis piled
into the SUV and headed into town to do some grocery shopping. They hadn’t gone
as a family in a long time. When their mother was alive, they’d made a game out
of it, one parent to one child, splitting the list and racing off to see which
team could get all their items first. After their mother had died, their father
had still taken them; he’d worked so much that it was often the only time he’d
found to be with them. Nearly every trip he’d offered the two of them an
ultimatum; they could each get one treat, a book or a candy bar, and the
siblings had quickly figured out how to get the best of both worlds – Stiles
would choose the book while Allison chose the candy, and then they’d split the
bar and read the book, heads pressed together.
Now that they were older, things were a little different. Stiles pushed the
cart along absently, following his father and Allison as they sparred over
quinoa versus pasta and responsibly harvested grains. They were almost to the
end of the cookies and cracker aisle when Allison said, “I forgot the bananas!
Stiles, don’t let Dad get anything,” and spun on her heel.
“I’ll say those are mine if you promise to eat two at a time instead of four,”
Stiles told his dad, who was looking mournfully at the Oreos. Stiles knew
Allison was just trying to keep their dad healthy, but they’d get nowhere
without compromise.
“Better not,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Your sister would have my head –
and yours too, for conspiring with me.”
“True enough,” Stiles agreed, shoving at the cart to make the turn at the end
of the aisle. He could hear someone around the corner, a woman’s voice,
snapping, “You’ll fuck it up again, Chris. I told you to leave this to me.”
A man snapped back, “And I told you, I – get back here!”
Stiles came around the corner to see a blonde, middle-aged man blocking the end
of the next aisle. He was paying no attention to the store around him, but
glaring after a woman stalking away from him, her light brown curls bouncing
off her shoulders. Stiles frowned at her back. There was something familiar
about her – someone he’d seen before?
“Excuse us,” the sheriff said beside him, his voice mild, and the man’s eyes
snapped to Stiles’ father.
“Sheriff,” he said stiffly, his blue eyes narrowing.
“Mr. Argent,” the sheriff said politely, inclining his head. “If we could get
past…?”
The man nodded, an angry jerk of his head, and pushed his cart out of their
way. Stiles sidled past him, watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he
waited until they were halfway down the aisle before asking his dad, “Do you
know him?” A stupid question, maybe, since this was a small town and his dad
probably knew everyone, even after only a month of living here, but the
expression on the man’s face had made him curious.
“Chris Argent. He’s the old sheriff,” his father replied evenly. “Not my
biggest fan.”
Stiles twisted to look over his shoulder, but the man was gone. He turned back
around, his mouth dry. So that was the guy who’d beat up Derek? He certainly
looked like he was capable of it. But what about the woman? Stiles bit his lip.
He knew he’d seen that hair before, the brief glimpse of her profile – but
where?
-
Stiles didn’t see Derek that weekend; he went out to the clearing several
times, but Derek didn’t show up. It was hot again, so he went to the pond and
hung out on the shore for a while, cooling his feet in the water. Stiles
thought that Derek might show up there, or maybe even one of his elusive
siblings, but he was the only one at the pond that afternoon.
He didn’t dream at all that weekend, which was, frankly, a relief, though it
put him in mind of Derek’s strange words, about how he dreamed of a void.
Stiles spent some time on his computer on Sunday night reading about dream
recall, which led him to sleepwalking and other sleep disorders, which led him
to a Wikipedia surfing binge that lasted until midnight.
Though he didn’t dream, Stiles noticed…other things. Saturday was quiet; his
dad was hanging around the house, painting and fixing stuff here and there, but
the bathroom door opened on Stiles again when there was no one around and his
window wasn’t open that time. On Sunday he had the house to himself; his dad
was on patrol and Allison had joined the school newspaper and they were working
over the weekend to get Monday’s issue out (it was a deluxe edition on
homecoming or something; Stiles hadn’t really been paying attention). He kept
hearing things. Nothing as blatant as the footsteps he’d heard, but soft, far-
off noises; little clicks and taps and soft jingling sounds, like someone
shaking their keys.
He was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich for dinner when he distinctly
heard the sound of the floor creaking behind him and he froze, goosebumps
breaking out over his pale skin. He could feel a presence in the air behind
him, thick and cloying, and it took all his courage to turn, only to
see…nothing. There was no one behind him.
“Fuck off,” Stiles muttered, grabbing his sandwich and retreating up to his
room. It took a long time for him to stop shuddering reflexively.
-
On Tuesday, Mr. Harris assigned a partnered project in chemistry. Scott and
Stiles grinned at each other – a moment too soon, because Harris shook his head
and said, “I don’t think so. McCall, you’re with Whittemore. Stilinski – with
Mahealani.”
The smile faded from Stiles’ lips and he swallowed nervously. Okay. That was
okay. He hadn’t really talked to Danny since Lydia’s party except for a few
exchanges during lacrosse practice, but Danny seemed fine with the fact that
Stiles had disappeared during the party. Maybe Jackson had said something,
Stiles thought, picking up his things and switching seats with said asshole,
who glared at him as they passed. Or maybe Stiles needed to stop being a prude
and stop equating sex with an emotional relationship.
Whatever it was, Danny gave him a faint smile as he sat down, and their
conversation for the rest of the class kept to the safe topic of chemistry.
They kept working after school, breaking for lacrosse practice and then
retreating to the library when Harris kicked them out of the chemistry lab.
When they got kicked out of the library at seven, Stiles looked at his phone
and groaned.
“Everything all right?” Danny asked mildly.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “But Allison’s going to be working on the paper until
eight, so I’m stuck here for another hour.”
“I can give you a ride,” Danny offered, shouldering his backpack. “We could
keep working at your place.”
“You’re only interested in me because of my murder house,” Stiles said, before
he thought about what he was saying. He bit down on the inside of his cheek,
thinking maybe he shouldn’t joke about it – either the house or Danny being
interested in him – but Danny just grinned.
“Maybe so,” he said, heading for the front doors of the school. “I’ll admit I
am curious.”
Stiles laughed nervously and followed Danny out to the parking lot. They drove
the winding forest road to the house and Danny, like Scott, leaned forward to
catch a glimpse of it through the trees.
“It’s a lot bigger than I thought it would be,” he said.
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, anxiously tapping his foot against the car floor. “I
think my dad forgot that there’s only three of us, and next year it’ll only be
me and him when Allie goes to college.”
Once they were inside, he gave Danny a tour, because Danny seemed to expect it.
Stiles didn’t show him the scorched timbers in the attic, though; it didn’t
seem right. As they settled down in Stiles’ room, Danny taking the desk while
Stiles sat on his bed, Stiles asked hesitantly, “Do you know much? About what
happened here?”
Danny looked around and shook his head. “Not really,” he said, opening his
notebook. “I was in sixth grade when it happened. Lots of people were talking
about it, but I was too young – I didn’t really pay much attention to it. The
youngest kids – they went to my elementary school, but they were a year below
me. I didn’t know them.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, simultaneously relieved and disappointed; he wasn’t sure
what he’d expected to hear. They subsided into silence, which was fine with
Stiles; any moment they weren’t talking was another moment he wasn’t making a
fool of himself. He tapped his pencil against his notebook as he went over the
experiments they’d done in class, working on some equations. Stiles’ thoughts
drifted in dangerous directions, hyper-aware of Danny’s presence. He remembered
how Danny’s mouth felt against his, which made him wonder what Derek’s mouth
would feel like. Stiles blinked and realized he’d been staring at the same
problem for fifteen minutes.
“I don’t understand this,” Stiles sighed, giving up. Danny looked up and got to
his feet, sitting down on the bed next to Stiles so he could look at the
equation. Stiles tried not to fidget and pull his textbook toward himself in
the same moment; he was sporting a semi and really didn’t need Danny noticing.
Danny’s proximity wasn’t helping; even if Stiles wasn’t all that interested in
him, the heat from his body felt solid and reassuring, and he smelled like
cologne, and it did weird things to Stiles, twisted his insides.
“Oh, here’s the problem,” Danny said, tapping the paper. “You switched your
variables here.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, swallowing thickly. “Right. Thanks.”
Danny nodded but didn’t move. Heart starting to hammer in his chest, Stiles
turned to look at him and found Danny staring at his mouth.
“Can I?” Danny asked, leaning forward, already in his space, his lips
centimeters from Stiles’. Stiles breathed out harshly. Calm down, he told
himself. You might as well have some fun. He nodded and leaned forward before
Danny could respond, pressing their mouths together.
Somehow Stiles ended up on his back, angled across his bed with Danny kneeling
on top of him. He wasn’t all that comfortable – the corner of his textbook was
digging into his spine – but Danny had a knee pressed between Stiles’ thighs as
they kissed and his dick was definitely interested in the pressure.
“Fuck,” Stiles said quietly, when Danny moved his mouth down his neck, teeth
scraping against his skin. He dug his fingers into Danny’s shoulders, hissing
when the boy pushed up his shirt, fingers pulling at the button on his pants.
“Danny,” he said, his breath hitching at the contact. His dick wanted it,
definitely, but Stiles didn’t think – he didn’t think he could do this casual
sex thing. “Danny, I don’t – “
“I’ll suck your dick if you want,” Danny offered nonchalantly and Stiles’ hips
twitched.
But Stiles shook his head. “I don’t – fuck!”
“What?” Danny lifted his head, looking alarmed. But Stiles wasn’t looking at
him; he was staring past Danny’s shoulders to the door, where he’d just seen
someone walk by. Stiles pushed Danny away, scrambling to his feet, ready to
apologize to his dad or Allison, but when he burst into the hallway there was
no one there.
“Stiles?” Danny called from behind him, but Stiles ignored him, trotting
through the house, looking in every room. He went downstairs and looked outside
but there was only his dad’s SUV and Danny’s car, no sign of his father or
sister. Stiles went back upstairs slowly, panic settling into his chest. He
knew he’d seen someone, a dark, solid form that, now that he thought about it
more, had looked like a woman, tall and dark-haired, her back a serious,
straight line.
Danny was sitting on his bed when he came back into his room, looking
bewildered. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said distractedly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I
just – I think you should get home. We can finish tomorrow at school.”
Danny nodded, his mouth going thin, and gathered his things. Stiles managed to
hold in the panic attack until he heard Danny’s car door open and close, and
then he slid to the floor next to his bed, shoulders heaving. He didn’t know
how long he sat there, struggling for breath, tears welling in his eyes, but
when someone touched him on the shoulder, he nearly screamed, flinging his arms
wide and shouting, “Leave me the fuck alone!”
“I – “ Stiles blinked and realized Allison was kneeling next to him, her eyes
wet. “I – sorry, I thought you – ”
“No,” Stiles said hurriedly, his eyes burning with tears. “I didn’t mean – I
thought you were – ” A ghost, his mind finished for him, but he didn’t say it
out loud. Allison had noticed nothing unusual about the house, and he didn’t
want her thinking he was crazy. Stiles took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Allie. I
just – ”
“Is everything okay?” she asked tentatively. “You were – was that a panic
attack?”
Stiles bit his lip and nodded. Her face softened further.
“What’s the matter?” Allison asked quietly. “Did something happen? You haven’t
had one in a while.”
As far as she knew, it had been months since his last attack, but Stiles didn’t
correct her. “I’m fine,” he said, touching her hand. “I just scared myself.”
“And me,” she said ruefully.
“Sorry.”
Allison watched him carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay? You know you can tell
me, if something happened – ”
“I’m fine,” Stiles insisted. “I promise.”
Allison smiled hesitantly but didn’t look like she quite believed him.
-
That night, Stiles locked the door to his bedroom and dreamt of the woods and
the woman and the house on fire. The woman spoke to him in a soft, husky voice,
low but loud enough to be heard over the sound of the flames and the pained
cries of the boy in the woods.
“You can’t save him,” she said gently, soothingly, and the sound of her voice
was enough to start him shuddering. She sounded like a parent telling their
child that their favorite pet had been hit by a car and was going to heaven. He
couldn’t see her face, head backlit from the flames of the burning house. “He’s
already dead, hon.”
When Stiles woke he was panting on the floor of his bedroom, the sheets piled
around him. A woman leaned over him, her hand pressed to his forehead. Stiles
stared up at her, wide-eyed, because this was the woman he’d seen walk by
earlier, long, dark hair pulled over one shoulder. There was something familiar
about her pale eyes and strong cheekbones that he couldn’t place because he was
too busy panicking over the fact that there was a strange woman in his room
whom he was almost one hundred percent certain was a ghost – unless she’d
broken in, and –
“Shhh,” the woman said gently, pressing her cool palm to the apple of his
cheek. Stiles found himself relaxing despite himself, body going loose and
pliant under her touch. It gave him the clarity to notice that she didn’t feel
threatening; if anything, she felt concerned, worried about him. There was a
motherly light in her eyes he hadn’t seen since his own mom passed away and he
found her soothing.
“I’m okay,” Stiles mumbled, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.
“Shhh,” the woman said again and Stiles’ eyes drifted closed.
When he woke up the following morning he was back in his own bed with the
sheets tucked in around him.
-
The house was quiet for a few days after that. Stiles didn’t feel anything,
didn’t hear anything, didn’t dream. Allison and his father, who had started
looking worried when he was around, seemed to relax, and Stiles relaxed as
well. He finished the chemistry project with Danny, who didn’t seem to want to
talk to him any more (which was fine, honestly – things were a lot easier that
way and he didn’t have to think about what might have happened if Danny had
kept pushing instead of listening to him), and endured the ensuing dark looks
from Jackson. He didn’t see much of Derek because Finstock upped practices to
four days a week, leaving his only free afternoons on Mondays.
He spent a lot of time with Scott and Isaac instead; he found an old bicycle in
the shed in the backyard and rode back and forth to Scott’s and Isaac’s houses.
They spent most of their time at Scott’s house because his mom worked a lot and
it was central to all three of them, easy to get to. Stiles didn’t really like
going to Isaac’s house – his father ran the cemetery and seemed like he was
always on the verge of a furious outburst.
Stiles got used to riding through the dark woods after the sun set, the dirt
road only lit by his headlamp and a Maglite he’d stolen from his dad’s cruiser.
It was still kind of creepy, but he’d spent so much time out in the forest with
Derek that the woods didn’t weird him out so much, even at night.
He was coming home from Scott’s late one night, bombing down one of the hills
close to the house when the light in front of him flashed over a figure
standing by the side of the road.
“Fuck!” Stiles bellowed in surprise, hitting the brakes so hard he was
surprised he didn’t flip. He skidded to a halt and twisted around, shining the
flashlight’s light toward the trees where he’d seen the person – but there was
no one. Stiles took a deep breath and called, “Derek? Was that you?” He moved
the beam from tree to tree but saw no one and heard no response.
“Okay,” Stiles said to himself, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Just a
weird tree or something. Okay.”
And he headed off toward the house again but slower this time, sweeping the
flashlight’s beam from side to side as he pedaled, scanning the trees.
He was almost to the house when he realized the woods were glowing red and his
head came up sharply, panic flooding through him when he spotted the flames,
the smell of smoke harsh in his nose. The house was on fire. Their house, with
the cruiser and the Jeep parked out front, was on fire.
Stiles threw himself off the bike and ran up the driveway. He could feel the
heat as he drew close, hot enough to blister the pain on the cars, but he
pushed himself forward, screaming, “Dad! Allison!”
He’d never realized how loud fire was. It roared as it consumed the house,
feeding on the cool night air, popping and cracking, drowning the sound of his
voice. Stiles cried as he ran up the front steps, breath hitching in pain when
he wrapped a hand around the doorknob and the metal burned his skin.
“Allie!” Stiles wailed, stumbling backward, his skin tight and burning from the
intense heat. “Dad!”
“Stiles?”
There were hands on his face, clasping his cheeks. Stiles blinked rapidly and
saw his dad standing in front of him, Allison behind him, her hands over her
mouth. He looked around, bewildered, and found himself standing in the front
hall of the house – the house that was quiet and cool and in no way on fire.
Stiles looked down at his hand, the one he’d burned on the front doorknob. It
should have been red and blistering and painful, but the skin on his palm was
smooth and pale. He looked at Allison’s terrified face and his dad’s alarmed
expression.
“I,” he tried, tears starting to slip down his cheeks. “Dad, I – “
“It’s all right,” his father said swiftly, gathering him into a tight hug.
“Stiles, you’re all right.”
“But the house,” Stiles mumbled, clutching at his dad’s shoulders. “It was on
fire.”
“Shhh.”
Stiles lifted his eyes, past Allison, to the base of the stairs. The woman he’d
seen in his room was standing there, a soft, worried expression on her face.
Stiles coughed on a sob and pressed his face to his father’s shoulder, focusing
on breathing in the solid, steady smell of whiskey and aftershave. Allison said
something and his father responded, his voice low and vibrating against Stiles,
but Stiles wasn’t listening, just concentrating on keeping the world steady.
“Stiles,” his father said quietly, when Stiles finally felt strong enough to
push himself away. “I’m worried about you, son.”
Stiles took a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Can we talk in the
morning, please?” he asked weakly. “I just – I want to sleep.”
“Just tell me, please,” the sheriff insisted, catching Stiles by the shoulders
as he tried to head for the stairs. “Is there something you’re not telling me?
Are you in trouble? You know you can tell me anything, right?”
“I – no, Dad,” Stiles said wearily. He glanced toward Allison, who watched them
uneasily, her mouth puckered with worry. “I don’t know what’s happening,” and
that was the honest truth. He had no idea why he kept dreaming these things and
it worried him, too. He squirmed out of his father’s grasp and headed for the
stairs, which had thankfully been vacated by the dark-haired woman.
Allison slipped into his room ten minutes later, when he was already in bed.
The sound of the door opening made him jump, heart skittering nervously, but he
calmed when he heard her whisper, “Stiles?” The mattress dipped as she sat down
next to him.
“What do you want?” Stiles mumbled into his pillow. He felt heavy, like he’d
run a marathon, like someone was sitting on his chest and pressing him into the
mattress. The thought reminded him of Danny kneeling on top of him and he
shuddered faintly.
“Dad’s really worried about you,” Allison whispered.
“I know.”
“I am, too.”
“I know.” Stiles sighed, flipping so he could look at her. His heart hurt at
the sight of tears in her eyes.
“Will you please tell me what’s going on with you?” she asked. “I won’t tell
Dad, I promise, but you’re scaring us. Dad thinks you’re on drugs.”
“I’m not,” Stiles said. “I swear, Allie. I just – I keep having these dreams
and I don’t know why. I know,” he swallowed nervously and forced himself to
say, “I know you haven’t noticed anything, but there’s something going on with
this house, Allie. I hear things, I see things, I feel things.”
Allison bit her lip. “I haven’t seen – ”
“I know,” Stiles sighed, frustrated. “I can’t explain it, but I’m not making
this up.”
“I’m sure you aren’t,” she said hurriedly. “I just – there has to be an
explanation, right? Why would you be seeing these things and not me or dad?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles replied, sighing again. “Can we talk about this later?
Please? And don’t tell Dad; I want to tell him.”
“Okay,” Allison agreed, worry creeping back into her voice. “But keep me
updated, all right?”
“I’ll try,” Stiles said, which was as much as he was willing to give.
-
He didn’t dream that night, a small blessing mixed into a cloud of misfortune.
-
Stiles avoided talking with his dad by waking up early and riding his bike to
school. He hadn’t been lying when he told Allison he wanted to be the one to
tell their father about what had been happening, but he felt, reasonably, that
seven-thirty in the morning was a little too early in the day to be having a
serious conversation about ghosts.
He skipped lacrosse practice that afternoon. He’d face Finstock’s wrath in
class the next day, but with every part of him feeling disjointed and ill-at-
ease, all Stiles wanted was an afternoon in the woods.
“Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?” he asked Derek, the moment Derek
stepped out from amongst the trees.
Derek frowned at him and settled down into the grass, leaning back against the
rock at the edge of the clearing. It was a chilly, overcast day, the woods
thick with mist. Stiles was layered in a sweatshirt, a long-sleeve shirt, and a
t-shirt, but all Derek wore was a thin cotton shirt and gym shorts. Wasn’t he
cold?
“You mean actually crazy?” Derek asked slowly, “or like ‘real life is
overwhelming’ crazy?”
“Both,” Stiles sighed, settling his head back against the rock and shutting his
eyes. He thought about the expression on Allison’s face when he’d told her
about the house and decided not to tell Derek about it for fear of the same
reaction. “There’s just a lot going on.”
“My mom would say that’s just part of being a teenager,” Derek said moodily,
and Stiles cracked his eyes open to glance over at him.
“Do you get along with your parents?”
“Yeah,” Derek sighed. “Usually. It’s just lately I – there’s been a lot for
them to stress out about. I’m not their favorite person right now.”
Stiles wrinkled his face in sympathy. “Sorry, dude.”
Derek looked over at him. “What about you? Do you get along with your dad?”
Stiles shrugged. “It’s been better lately. I kinda – I messed up this spring. I
was hacking into the police records and he almost got fired, but he’s good
friends with the commander or whatever and got recommended for this job
instead. We didn’t talk for a while. Felt like shit about it.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “Because I could? Because I’m nosy as fuck? It was
really stupid.”
Derek snorted and they fell into silence. Stiles closed his eyes and reflected
on how different he felt hanging around Derek than he had hanging around Danny.
He wasn’t stiff around Derek; he felt natural, even if the way Derek looked at
him sometimes mad his stomach flutter. If Derek were to lean over and kiss him
right now, he’d make no protests. Of course, Stiles mused, his spirits sinking
a little, he didn’t even know if Derek would be interested in him – if he liked
guys or girls or landed somewhere in-between.
Stiles licked his lips and cracked his eyes open again, stealing a glance at
Derek. The expression on his face made Stiles open his eyes all the way,
pushing himself up onto one elbow. Derek was staring at his hands and Stiles
could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Dude,” Stiles said softly, “are you okay?”
Derek glanced over at him and then away, his mouth going thin. “You know how I
told you I fucked up?” he asked quietly, and Stiles nodded. Derek gritted his
teeth and bit out, “I slept with a teacher.”
Stiles stared at him, his mouth falling open. “You – “
“I fucked a teacher,” Derek said furiously. “She – “ He cut himself off with a
bitter laugh and said, “She said she loved me.”
Stiles watched him, his stomach twisting. Holy shit. Holy shit. He didn’t know
what to say – what could you say to something like that? “Do – does anyone
know?” he finally managed.
“My parents,” Derek replied quietly. “And the sheriff. He’s her brother.”
Not my dad, Stiles thought.He means the old sheriff. And that – shit. “That’s
why he beat you up,” Stiles whispered.
Derek nodded curtly, looking down at his hands. “He wasn’t pleased.”
“Does the DA know?”
Derek shook his head, misery creeping over his face. “I don’t want anyone to
know,” he choked out. “I – I was so stupid.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said carefully, “but that’s illegal, dude. She can’t…take
advantage of you like that.”
“I don’t care,” Derek replied stubbornly. “It’s over. I just want to forget
about it.”
Stiles was silent for a long time, watching Derek grip at the knees of his
jeans. “So this is why you changed schools?” he asked quietly, and Derek nodded
again. “Does she still teach at Beacon Hills?”
“I – maybe. I don’t know. She was a sub.”
Stiles bit his lip. “Is there anything I can do?”
Derek looked over at him, a faint, unamused smile on his face. “Keep coming out
here,” he said. “Hanging out with you, it’s – it’s good.”
Stiles grinned. “Well, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, dude.” He offered
his fist to Derek, who brushed their knuckles together with a faint snort,
sending sparks flying down Stiles’ wrist.
-
Late that night Stiles lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about
Derek’s confession. It made his stomach turn just thinking about it. Suddenly
the careful way Derek held himself, shoulders hunched like he was ready for the
world to attack – it made sense. He had been abused, and not just by the old
sheriff. The defensive way he spoke wasn’t of someone who was proud of what had
happened; it hurt him, revolted him, and that pain sickened Stiles. She said
she loved me. Stiles blanched at the ceiling. There’d been nothing in those
words but disgust and regret.
Stiles bit down on his lip, worrying at the skin with his teeth. He wanted to
tell his dad. He knew Derek didn’t want anyone to know, but this lady was a
predator. What if she was still seducing kids? Someone needed to stop her.
Stiles flipped onto his side and found his ghost woman sitting at his desk, her
face turned to look out the window. The moonlight illuminated her face,
lighting up her pale eyes, and the way she tilted her head reminded him of
someone, but who? She looked over at him as if sensing his gaze, and it was
shocking how not shocking she was any more. All he felt from her was calm,
comfort.
“How do you help someone who doesn’t want to be helped?” Stiles asked her. She
tilted her head to the side, considering. She held her hands out flat in front
of her, palms facing the ceiling, then brought them together as if in prayer.
Stiles squinted, trying to understand. “A book? Reading?”
She nodded and then faded from sight very gently, leaving Stiles staring at the
empty chair, confused. How was a book supposed to help Derek?
-
A few days later found Stiles skipping practice again so that he could go to
the offices of the local newspaper, the Beacon Hills Tribune, and browse their
archives for a paper he was writing for his history class. The secretary, a
kind woman with a round face, was happy to direct him to the dusty upstairs
room lined with large bound books of old newspaper issues, and Stiles spent
hours sitting in the fading sunlight, browsing the volumes of the early
twentieth century for articles on a major flood that had hit Beacon Hills in
1913.
It was peaceful and quiet, a Thursday afternoon when news was slow. The
secretary had explained to him that, in recent years, the paper had taken cost-
cutting measures and only produced a new issue once a week, on Thursdays, so
most of the staff had gone home after the Wednesday rush to get the edition out
the door. So the place was calm, but also a little boring, and as it turned
out, no one even died in the Great Flood of 1913, not even any livestock, so
Stiles couldn’t be blamed for his attention drifting.
His eyes kept wandering to the far end of the room, where the most recent
issues of the newspaper were kept, bound in navy leather, with gilded type down
their spines with issue number and dates of release. Stiles knew there had to
be articles about the house and the fire, and his insatiable curiosity was
licking at his mind again, fingers twitching against the old paper in his
hands. He tried to fight it, reasoning that there was nothing in there that
would make anything about living there better, but he could feel himself giving
in, rising to his feet to wander over to the new books, trailing a finger along
their stiff spines.
Five and a half years, his dad had said, and Stiles breathed out carefully as
he touched the volume labeled January – April 2007. Five and a half years. That
would put the fire in March or April. He bit his lip as he pulled the heavy
book off the shelf and brought it over to the table in the center of the room,
flipping through the pages until he found it. The March 22, 2007 issue, and he
sucked his breath in through his teeth when he realized that that was his dad’s
birthday. Weird coincidence.
Even weirder that the fire wasn’t front page news, but tucked a few pages in.
You’d think a fire in which five people died would make the front page of a
small-town newspaper, but apparently not. The story was only a few sentences
long, squeezed in beside a much longer article about a local man’s chicken
farm. Five dead in arson, Stiles read, his heart pounding in his chest.
Firefighting crews from four towns rushed to the scene of a deadly house fire
Monday night, battling the blaze into the early hours of Tuesday morning.
Subsequent investigation of the Hale house on Pond Road found the bodies of
five as-of-yet unidentified victims inside the house, as well as a sixth
critically injured victim in the woods beyond. Investigators are calling the
blaze suspicious, and say they have found evidence of an accelerant used to
start the fire. The medical examiner has yet to confirm the cause of death.
Any tips can be called into the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department’s hotline at
555-2784.
That was it. Five people died and all they got was five sentences in the middle
of a small-town newspaper. One sentence apiece. His eyes moved back to the top
of the article and stuck there on the name of the reporter who’d written the
piece. Kate Argent. Argent, Argent – Stiles’ eyes went wide. Chris Argent, his
dad had said at the grocery store, the old sheriff, which made Kate his wife or
– sister.
The sheriff, Derek had said. He’s her brother.
“Can I help you, hon?”
Stiles froze, his head still bowed over the book in front of him. That husky
voice – he’d heard it in his dream, telling him the boy in the woods was dead.
He looked up slowly, skin crawling, and there she was standing in the doorway,
the woman from his dream, her dirty blonde hair curling over her shoulders,
dressed in tight jeans and a chic leather jacket. He could see her face now,
sparkling brown eyes and an impish quirk to her lips. She was pretty –
beautiful, maybe – but her face was split by a heavy white scar that started
under her chin, broke past her pink lips, and ended in a point on her right
cheekbone.
But she wasn’t just the woman from his dream; she was the woman he’d seen
stalking away from Chris Argent in the grocery store which made her, in all
likely scenarios, Kate Argent. This was the woman who’d taken advantage of
Derek, who’d made him so miserable, who’d made him hunch his shoulders like he
expected to be hit at any moment. Fury and hatred twisted his stomach, burning
like fire in his gut.
Stiles realized he’d been staring – glaring, more like – when the woman quirked
her eyebrows at him, smiling benevolently. “Uh, no,” he said quickly, hurriedly
shutting the book and pulling one of the ones from 1913 on top of it. “I’m just
doing some research for a class project.”
“Anything I can help you find?” she asked, and he tried desperately to ignore
the way his skin rose into goosebumps when she stepped into the room. “I wrote
a lot of these articles – “ which definitely meant she was Kate “ – and I’ve
got a history degree.”
“No,” Stiles said, more blunt than he meant to be, and when she blinked,
looking a little startled, he hurried to add, “Thanks, but I’m almost done.”
“Okay,” she said, a little wary now, but she stepped backward. “The office
closes in ten minutes – just so you know.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said again, scrounging up a half smile. Kate nodded and
disappeared and Stiles shuddered, his skin still crawling. Stiles waited a long
moment, listening hard before pulling out the book from 2007 again. He began
flipping forward through it, looking for any updates on the case, obituaries,
but there was absolutely nothing, not even an update on the unnamed sixth
victim they’d found still alive. “Fuck,” he muttered, as he heard the town hall
clock begin to ring seven, and he scrambled to put the volumes back on the
shelves before the secretary showed up to turn him out.
Outside the orange sunlight had faded, giving way to a chilly evening rain.
“Fuck,” Stiles muttered again, swinging a leg over his bike and setting off
doggedly into the falling gloom. As he rode home, getting steadily more wet as
he went, he thought about what he’d learned. The paper had said the fire was
suspicious, but it didn’t say anything about murder, so why had he been
thinking they’d been murdered? He guessed arson was murder, if people died
because of it, but then why –
Stiles almost fell off his bicycle when he remembered. It had been his dad
who’d said it, while they were standing up in the attic looking at the scorched
roof. They were murdered and the house was set on fire. The murderer was never
caught.
Stiles was thoroughly drenched by the time he got home and he was disappointed
to see his dad’s cruiser wasn’t in the yard. He’d been looking forward to
interrogating him about what he knew because now that Stiles had started down
this road, he wasn’t stopping.
Instead, the Jeep was parked out front, and Scott’s bike was leaning against
the front porch, and Stiles’ heart sank further, because he knew what that
meant. Scott was chivalrous and all, but he was a teenager. Stiles had a dick;
he knew how it was. He sighed as he leaned his bike up next to Scott’s. At
least the house was big and seemed to well-insulated; if they were up in
Allison’s room, he probably wouldn’t be able to hear anything.
Stiles took his time unlocking the door, jangling his keys so if they were
making out in the living room there’d be plenty of time to get themselves in
order. The first floor was quiet, though, and he forced himself not to listen
harder, because the last thing he needed to hear was the emotionally scarring
sound of his best friend getting it on with his sister.
He went into the kitchen instead to make himself dinner. He was scrounging
through the fridge, looking for something to eat, when he felt pressure growing
in the kitchen behind him. Stiles swallowed and shut the door slowly. Whoever
was behind him, it didn’t feel like the woman he kept seeing. Not evil,
exactly, but angry. Not at him, either, but just…mad at the world.
“Okay,” Stiles said softly, turning very, very slowly. “I don’t – ”
He stopped. There was a man standing behind him, arms folded over his chest. He
looked a little like the woman Stiles had been seeing, a familial resemblance
there – siblings? He didn’t look angry; he looked clean and well-kempt, his
goatee trimmed.
“Can I help you?” Stiles asked carefully. “Do you need – ” The man disappeared,
just like that, and Stiles scowled at the empty air where he’d been. This was
becoming entirely too normal.
Scott and Allison came stumbling downstairs an hour later, when Stiles was
sitting in the living room, playing Saint’s Row. They were both giggling, but
stopped abruptly when they spotted Stiles, who gave them his longest, most
judgiest look, then turned back to the television without a word. They tiptoed
into the front hall, where Stiles could hear them whispering and Allison
giggling again, then a long silence that was probably them sucking face, then
the front door opened and shut. Allison slunk into the living room a few
seconds later, looking guilty.
“I don’t care,” Stiles said, before she could say anything. “And I don’t want
to hear about your sexcapades.”
“We haven’t had sex,” Allison said resentfully, then added with a wicked smile,
“yet.”
“Gross,” Stiles groaned, as she settled down onto the couch next to him.
“Are you doing okay?” she asked carefully.
“I’m not going to break,” he said, his turn to be resentful. Sure, he was
seeing ghosts and a woman he’d dreamed about had just showed up in real life,
but hey, he wasn’t going crazy. Yet. And anyway, there was another distraction
coming because he’d just heard their father pull in and he had things to ask
him.
“Dad!” Stiles yelled, when he heard their father come in. After a long moment,
which was probably him taking off his shoes and belt, his father appeared in
the living room. “Dad,” Stiles said without preamble, “how did you know the
people who lived here before were murdered, and they didn’t just die in the
fire?”
“Nice to see you too, son,” the sheriff replied mildly. “Allison.”
“Hey, Dad,” Allison smiled, and elbowed Stiles in the ribs.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, hi, can you answer my question?”
“I took a look at the medical examiner’s reports,” his dad said, raising his
eyebrows. “They were all shot first.”
“What about the sixth person?” Stiles insisted. “The one who made it out?”
“I…didn’t realize there was one,” his father admitted. “I didn’t dig too deep,
Stiles. I was too mad that the real estate agent didn’t say anything.”
“Can you,” Stiles began, but his father held up a finger.
“Oh, no. You stop right there and tell me that you’re not going to do anything
stupid like, say, hack into the sheriff department records.”
Stiles winced. “I’m not going to do that. I learned my lesson.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Stiles sighed.
“And promise me you’re not going to ask me to bring any files home.”
Stiles wriggled around on the couch. He hadn’t been planning on it, but now
that his father had brought it up… “Dad – ”
“Stiles.”
Stiles sighed again. “I promise.”
His father leveled him with a long stare, then headed into the kitchen.
“Why are you curious about the house all of a sudden?” Allison asked.
“Aren’t you?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not really. Is it – is it because of
the ghost stuff?”
“I guess,” Stiles said, scratching his chin. “But it’s mostly because – well,
it’s strange. I was at the newspaper’s office today and the only information on
the fire was this tiny article. It’s like they don’t want anyone to know what
happened.”
“Is the investigation still open?” Allison asked. “Maybe you should ask Dad.”
Stiles glanced toward the kitchen, where he could hear their father banging
around, humming to himself. “I think I’ll wait a few days.”
-
In his dream that night, Stiles was running again. He’d left Kate Argent and
the burning house behind and now he was running through the dark woods,
searching for the boy crying for him. No matter how hard he ran, though, the
boy’s voice remained the same distance away, never close enough to locate.
“Where are you?” Stiles bellowed into the trees, fighting back frustration and
panic. “Tell me where you are!”
“I’m right here, Stiles!”
Stiles blinked at Derek, who was standing in front of him, a worried frown on
his face. Stiles looked around wildly. He was in the middle of the woods and it
wasn’t night time any more – the light around him was mixed green and gold, the
sun high overhead.
“What,” Stiles said weakly, his heart starting to hammer in his chest. “Oh my
god, I – ”
“Stiles,” Derek said tensely. “What are you doing out here?”
“What am I – what are you doing out here?” Stiles asked accusingly, trying to
distract himself from the panic rising inside him. Fuck, it was Friday and he
had no idea what time it was or how far he was from the house or how he’d ended
up in the middle of the fucking forest. His feet were bare and covered in dirt,
his legs and arms covered in long red welts – from being slapped by branches
during his mad run through the forest, no doubt.
“I’m a character on your Truman Show, remember?” Derek reminded him morosely.
“Stiles, come on – ”
But Stiles wasn’t listening. He’d sunk to his knees, breath catching in his
throat, no air in his lungs. There was something wrong with him, wrong with his
head. He shouldn’t be doing things like this, walking in his sleep, seeing
people who weren’t there.
“Stiles!” Derek crouched down next to him, looking frightened. “Stiles, you
have to breathe, please!” He put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, cool and
reassuringly solid, his touch sending Stiles’ whole body tingling.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasped, falling onto his ass, clutching at Derek’s knee. “Fuck,
fuck – “
“Calm down,” Derek commanded, fingers curling around his shoulder. “Stiles – “
“Are you real?” Stiles cut through him, and Derek blinked. Stiles wanted to
cry. This stuff that was happening was scaring him, and he was afraid Derek was
part of it. “I keep – I see people in the house that aren’t there, and you’re
always here, out in the woods, and I’ve never seen you in town, and I – ”
“Stop freaking yourself out,” Derek said gently, reaching out with his other
hand to cup the side of Stiles’ face. Stiles stilled at his touch, suddenly
hyperaware of how close Derek was, how Stiles’ fingers were curled around his
knee. Derek’s face was serene, the misery in his eyes tucked away for another
time. He smiled faintly. “I’m real,” he said, sweeping his thumb along Stiles’
cheekbone. “Do you want me to prove it?”
“Yes,” Stiles said hoarsely, through a mouth that was suddenly as dry as the
Sahara.
Derek’s smile broadened as he leaned in, just close enough for his lips to
brush against Stiles’. He pulled away a moment later, just enough that Stiles
had room and time to protest, but Stiles was not protesting. Stiles was so not
protesting, though he was gripping at Derek’s knee so hard he was probably
cutting off circulation to his lower leg. Derek didn’t seem to mind, though,
because he leaned in again and determinedly pressed his lips to Stiles’.
Stiles was so glad he was already sitting because he probably would have gone
weak at the knees – and as it was, he was tingling all over, the tips of his
fingers going numb at the touch of Derek’s mouth to his. It was so different
than kissing Danny – Derek was all firm pressure but soft touch, and he tasted
– Stiles made a soft noise against his lips – he tasted like mint and fucking
fresh air and sunshine and it was incredible.
Derek pulled back eventually, though not far, his nose brushing against
Stiles’. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admitted.
“Then why fucking didn’t you?” Stiles demanded, prying his hand off Derek’s
knee and wrapping it in his shirt instead. He pulled Derek back in for another
kiss, rougher than the first. He let his mouth fall open, letting Derek lick
into him, choking back a quiet noise when Derek’s teeth caught his lip. He was
thinking that maybe he could pull Derek down to the forest floor with him when
he heard someone calling his name.
Derek jerked away from him, his face flushing bright red, and Stiles swallowed.
He’d forgotten, almost, how he’d ended up out here (or, rather, he’d forgotten
that he had ended up out in the middle of the woods, but not necessarily the
how). It was late enough in the morning that people had probably noticed he was
missing and his stomach twisted at the thought of his dad discovering his bed
empty.
“I – I need to get home,” Stiles told Derek reluctantly.
Derek nodded, then asked hesitantly, “See you out here later?”
“If I don’t get committed,” Stiles replied unhappily, letting go of Derek’s
shirt. He got to his feet and had to grab onto a tree, suddenly lightheaded.
“Stiles?” Derek asked hurriedly, reaching for his arm, but Stiles waved him
away.
“I’ve got it,” he said weakly, though his vision was spinning. “You go on.”
Derek watched him for a long moment, eyes clouding with worry before nodding
and spinning on his heel, disappearing among the trees. Stiles took a deep
breath and closed his eyes, willing the world to stop spinning before heading
toward the voice he could hear calling his name.
It was his dad. Stiles spotted him crashing through the undergrowth, yelling
for him. There were sudden tears welling in Stiles’ eyes at the sight of him,
all the warmth and comfort he’d gained from Derek’s presence dissipating at the
sight of his father’s frantic face, at the reminder that he’d sleep-walked into
the middle of the forest.
“Dad!” Stiles called, his voice coming out in a rough croak. His father’s head
whipped around and he came smashing through the trees and engulfed Stiles in a
hug so tight he was lifted off his feet. Stiles hiccupped and patted uselessly
at his father’s back, mumbling, “Dad, Dad, I – “
“Jesus,” his dad kept hissing. “Jesus, Stiles, I woke up and the front door was
wide open and your bed was a mess, and I – Jesus.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I just woke up
and I was out here, and I don’t know how. I’m sorry, Dad!”
His father let out a deep, shuddering breath and pushed him back so he could
look at Stiles, his mouth going tight as he took in the scratches all over
Stiles' arms and legs. “Well,” he said shakily, “I guess I can cancel the alert
I put out.”
They walked back to the house in silence. It wasn’t that far – only a couple
minutes’ walk through the woods, but it was in the opposite of the direction
that Stiles usually went, which explained why he hadn’t recognized where he
was. His dad kept a firm hand on his shoulder, which Stiles thought was
probably more for his own reassurance than Stiles’.
Allison was sitting on the porch, her dark eyes filled with tears, and she
leapt to her feet when they came around the corner of the house, flinging her
arms around Stiles. He clutched at her back, his eyes filling with tears again.
“This is going to stop,” the sheriff said. “We’re going to find you a doctor
and get this taken care of.”
“Okay,” Stiles agreed quietly, because it was scaring him too.
-
The sheriff made Stiles stay home from school that day, even though Stiles
insisted that he was fine, but the effort to find a doctor was delayed by a
massive traffic accident a couple towns over. The sheriff left with a worried
look at Stiles, who waved him on his way, and he didn’t come back until past
midnight.
The house was quiet that day, for the most part. He didn’t see the woman or the
man he’d seen in the kitchen. He did hear laughter while he was laying on the
couch in the late afternoon, fighting with himself over whether or not he
should sneak out of the house to go see Derek. Allison was in the kitchen – he
had a strong suspicion that his father had asked her to watch him – and he
decided, dejectedly, that it wasn’t worth the risk. His father was already
wary; he didn’t need to add sneaking out of the house to the list of reasons
his father had to distrust him. The laughter he heard, though, sounded like
kids in the backyard, bright and happy. He fell asleep there on the couch
listening to it, weirdly lulled into a blessedly dreamless slumber.
Stiles woke up later that night – on his own, not because of a dream – and rose
to use the bathroom and head upstairs. He was just climbing into bed when he
froze, hearing the sound of footsteps out in the hall. His dad wasn’t home yet
– Stiles had checked for his cruiser before heading upstairs – which meant it
could be Allison…or it could be one of his semi-friendly household ghosts.
Stiles took a deep breath and climbed back out of bed, treading silently across
his room. He shut his eyes briefly before yanking open the door to see –
“Scott?!”
Scott yelped and leapt away from him, crashing into the wall. Stiles stared at
him, perplexed.
“What are you doing here?”
“Allison invited me over!” Scott hissed. “I – you were asleep.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, relaxing. “Oh.”
Scott gave him a lopsided grin. “Did you think I was a ghost?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I did.”
Scott’s grin faded away. “Um,” he said hesitantly. “Allison told me about what
happened. How you ended up out in the woods. If there’s anything I can – ”
Stiles shook his head hurriedly. “It’s out of your control, dude. It’s out of
my control. I just – ” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s late, ok? You
probably shouldn’t ride your bike or my dad might intentionally run you over if
he passes you on the way. Why don’t you spend the night?”
“You sure?” Scott asked doubtfully.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I wouldn’t mind the company, and anyway, it’ll be worth
it to see Allie’s face in the morning.”
“All right,” Scott agreed, his eyes going unfocused at the mention of Allison.
Stiles grinned and pulled a bunch of blankets out of the linen closet so Scott
could make a sort of nest on his bedroom floor. Stiles was kind of awake now
after having slept most of the afternoon and evening, and he and Scott talked
for a while. Stiles told Scott about his trip to the newspaper office and the
tiny article about the fire. He didn’t tell Scott about Kate Argent, or what he
knew she’d done, but he did tell Scott about Derek for the first time, how
they’d been practicing in the woods. He didn’t tell Scott about the kiss
because it was too new, but he did talk about the ghosts a bit.
Scott was a good listener. He was so quiet Stiles thought he might have fallen
asleep, but when Stiles peered surreptitiously over the edge of the bed, Scott
was staring up at the ceiling, hands twisted in the blankets.
“Who do you think did it?” Scott asked. “Burned the house, I mean?”
Stiles sighed softly. “I have no idea,” he said. “I don’t even know who the
people who died were. I can’t find anything on them, and Dad made me promise
not to get into the police stuff.”
“Tax records,” Scott said. “You could go to the town hall, see who owned the
house before.”
“You, my friend, are a genius,” Stiles said proudly, and added it to his list
of things to do on Monday.
They were silent for a long time, and Stiles was in the middle of a huge yawn
when Scott asked slowly, “So this guy you’ve been meeting out in the woods…you
like him?”
Stiles’ jaw snapped shut with a click of teeth. “Yeah,” he said, glad the room
was dark so Scott couldn’t see his face flushing as he remembered the heat of
Derek’s mouth. “I – can take you meet him tomorrow, if you want? He’s usually
around.”
“Okay,” Scott said with a grin. “Cool.”
-
As it turned out, Allison’s face when Stiles and Scott walked into the kitchen
the next morning was totally worth it, as was the way she shrieked and nearly
fell off the bar stool trying to pull her oversized t-shirt down to her feet.
Scott looked mortified but Stiles howled with laughter while the sheriff looked
on from the table, faintly bemused as he sipped on his coffee.
Later, after they’d eaten, Stiles led Scott into the woods. Derek wasn’t in the
clearing when they reached it but Stiles didn’t let that bother him; sometimes
Derek was there first and sometimes Stiles was, but Derek always showed up. He
and Scott picked up the lacrosse sticks Stiles had left behind and lazily slung
the ball back and forth.
Half an hour later, Scott said, “You think he’s coming?” and Stiles was forced
to sigh and shake his head. He was a little worried, but Derek had a life. He
was real, and if the kiss hadn’t proven it, this did; he wasn’t just a figment
of Stiles’ imagination or he would have shown up by now. He was fallible; he
was human.
They abandoned the clearing and headed for the pond instead, where they walked
around the edge until they hit the dock on the other side, then followed the
walking trail until it reached the main road. It was fun, even if there was a
feeling at the pit of Stiles’ stomach that something was wrong. Maybe Derek had
come to the clearing and seen Scott and left again. Maybe he wanted privacy
after the kiss the previous day. Stiles did too, if he was being truthful; he
wanted nothing more than to lay in the grass with Derek and make out lazily,
but he had other friends, other obligations. He didn’t see why the two couldn’t
mix (not making out with Derek in front of Scott, though; that’d just be weird
and awkward).
They walked back to the house and played video games until the late afternoon
and then Scott took Allison out to dinner. She was still mad at Stiles, but
managed to blush when he winked at her as Scott led her out the door.
Stiles found himself alone again. His dad was pulling a double and wouldn’t be
back until later, and neither would Allison. Stiles dithered around downstairs
for a while before giving in to what he really wanted to do, which was to jerk
off while he had time to himself.
“Yo, ghosts,” Stiles announced cordially as he pulled his laptop onto his bed.
“This is about to get explicit.” He snorted as he pulled up his favorite porn
site; this was his life, warning ghosts he was about to masturbate. What a
joke.
It seemed to work, anyway; there were no ghosts in sight when he pushed his
pants off and went to town, slicking his hand with lotion and digging his heels
in against the bed as he jerked himself off with long, steady strokes. Stiles
thought about Derek and his soft mouth, his entire body shuddering in
anticipation of the things they might do together. He imagined Derek pressing
him down into the bed, prying his legs apart with his big hands. Stiles sighed
softly as he slipped a hand between his thighs, brushing past his balls to
press a finger against his entrance.
He went slow, rolling his hips in a gentle motion, fisting his cock in time
with his deep breaths, relaxing as he pushed a finger inside him. Stiles
thought Derek would go slow, shy. He was devastatingly handsome, but Stiles had
a feeling that Derek didn’t have a lot of friends or too much social
experience. Why else would he hang out in the woods every day? He seemed like
the type of person who’d be popular because of his looks, but would sit
silently at the popular kids’ lunch table and only laugh when everyone else
did. Had he ever dated anyone? Well, Kate Argent – no, that was a dangerous,
boner-killing route to go down and he shook his head.
Stiles whined as he hitched his hips upward, thinking about Derek’s face, about
his small, secretive smile that seemed to exist only for Stiles. He imagined
his hands clutching at Derek’s broad shoulders while Derek breathed against his
throat, thrusting into Stiles with heavy, forceful strokes. Stiles’ back arched
as he came, moaning open-mouthed, come splattering against his stomach,
pleasure sparking through his spine, rolling on for so long it almost hurt.
When it finally faded, Stiles found himself panting, his body shining with
sweat. He was going to the clearing tomorrow and he’d sit there all day if he
had to, because he needed to share this pleasure with Derek.
-
It was nearly noon when Stiles rolled himself out of bed but he dressed quickly
and ducked out of the house without stopping for breakfast, determined to see
Derek. To his relief, Derek was already at the clearing, lounging in the sun.
“Hey,” Stiles said, his face breaking into a wide grin.
Derek got to his feet, mirroring Stiles’ expression. “You made it,” he said.
“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Sorry, I – fell asleep on Friday, and I came out here
yesterday with Scott and I didn’t see you, but – ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said, still grinning. “You’re okay, though?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said again. “I – well, maybe. Dad’s going to make me see a
doctor, which is probably a good idea. I’m glad you found me the other day. I
could’ve run off a cliff or something.”
“There are no cliffs around here,” Derek said, mouth twitching as he stepped
closer.
“Well, you get my drift,” Stiles said, gesturing expansively, trying to keep
his breathing even as Derek moved in. Derek nodded, his pale eyes bemused, and
slid his hands around Stiles’ waist. “Ohhh, hey.”
“Hey,” Derek said softly. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay,” Stiles whispered, tentatively lifting his hands to cross the
back of Derek’s neck. His skin was cool to the touch, and Stiles could feel
himself relaxing against him. “I’m mad we weren’t doing this weeks ago,
though.”
“Sorry,” Derek murmured, nose brushing against Stiles’ cheek. “Just have to
make up for lost time.”
“Mm,” Stiles breathed, eyes fluttering shut as Derek tilted his head to kiss
him, hands coming up to cradle Stiles’ head, thumbs pressing against his
cheeks. “Jesus,” Stiles murmured against his lips as they broke for air.
“You’re so fucking hot.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?” Derek retorted, sinking slowly to the grass and
pulling Stiles down on top of him. He let Derek arrange them so Derek’s back
was against the rock and Stiles straddled his thighs, his fingers burning holes
at Stiles’ waist.
It seemed to Stiles that, as they kissed, the whole world was slowing down
around them. He could hear his heart beating in his chest, leisurely and
steady, his breathing slowing to a crawl like gathering air wasn’t really
necessary. He sighed as Derek kissed at his throat, tongue slipping across his
skin. Stiles curled his fingers in Derek’s soft hair, sliding one hand down
Derek’s firm chest to feel his heart pulsing in his chest, so much faster than
Stiles’. He hissed when Derek shifted slightly and Stiles felt the hard heat in
Derek’s jeans brush against where Stiles was stiff and aching.
Derek stilled, his mouth against Stiles’ collarbone. “Can I,” he said, his
voice vibrating against Stiles’ ribs.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, slipping his arm around Derek’s back to dig at his
shoulder blades. “Whatever you want to do.”
“Can I touch you?” Derek persisted and Stiles nodded, open-mouthed and sucking
in air.
“Yeah,” he murmured, breath hitching as he felt Derek’s hands unbuttoning his
pants, pushing them down around his hips. Stiles felt Derek’s fingers brush
against his cock and he whined, his dick pulsing at the touch. “Derek, I – ”
Derek’s fingers wrapped around him and suddenly it was ten times harder to
breath, black spots dancing in his vision, and that it wasn’t good. He could
feel the blood rushing from his face, limbs suddenly like lead, and he pushed
at Derek’s shoulders. “Stop, I can’t – ”
Derek relaxed his grip as Stiles fell sideways, panting. “Stiles? Are you all
right?”
Stiles groaned as he rolled off Derek, pushing his shoulders into the cool
grass. “Fuck, I got dizzy all of a sudden. Thought I was going to pass out.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Derek asked, looking worried. “I’m sorry, I
shouldn’t have – ”
“Dude, that was in no way your fault,” Stiles said firmly. “I wanted everything
about that. I just – I didn’t eat breakfast, probably should have.” He couldn’t
remember if he’d eaten dinner last night either, or lunch before that. Whoops.
“You’re skinny,” Derek said, pushing a finger against Stiles’ hipbone where his
shirt had ridden up.
“Things have been stressful,” Stiles sighed. “Sorry I ruined the mood.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said, dragging his fingers across Stiles’ skin.
“You should probably go eat something, though.”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighed in agreement. He didn’t want to, though. He wanted to
stay out in the woods and make out with Derek all day. He chewed at his lip
contemplatively. “So…is this a thing now? That we’re going to do?”
Derek gave him a bemused look. “Are you asking if we’re dating now?”
Stiles kicked the rock anxiously. “No? Yes? I mean, if you want to.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, curling his fingers around Stiles’. “I want to.”
“Cool,” Stiles said. He smiled up at the clear sky, but something gnawed at his
stomach, keeping him from being truly happy. “Um. I don’t want to kill the mood
even further, but…I was wondering.”
“What?” Derek asked steadily.
“Uh. How – how is the case going? Against the old sheriff?” Stiles winced. He
hadn’t meant to ask about that part of it, though it was as good a place to
start as any.
The change in Derek was instantly noticeable. His shoulders stiffened, his eyes
dropping away from Stiles. He didn’t let get of Stiles’ hand but his fingers
went limp, ready to pull away at any moment.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles said immediately. “It’s not – ”
“No,” Derek said quietly. “You can ask. You can ask me anything. I just…try not
to think about it a lot.”
Stiles bit his lip before asking, “What happened? How did it start?”
Derek took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “The teacher, she – Kate subbed for
my history teacher while she was on maternity leave. I’ve never been all that
popular, never had a girlfriend, but she – she paid attention to me. She was
always talking to me, smiling, touching me.” Derek, his eyes still closed,
shuddered. “It felt so good to have someone interested in me, I didn’t think
about what I was doing.”
Stiles didn’t say anything; he squeezed Derek’s hand in silent support. Derek
opened his eyes, dark and shining with misery.
“I hate her,” Derek whispered. He pulled his hand from Stiles’ to cover his
face, his voice muffled when he said, “The sheriff found out. I don’t know how.
She told him, probably. But he was mad. He pulled me over one night and yanked
me out of the car and – “
“Stop,” Stiles said softly. “You don’t – you don’t need to.”
He heard Derek take a deep, long breath that sounded like him getting himself
under control. Derek took his hands away from his face after a moment. “You
should get home,” he told Stiles quietly. “Go eat.”
The dismissal was swift, sudden, but Stiles could understand Derek wanting to
be alone. He sat up slowly, licking his lips nervously. “D-do you want to come
over later? I think my dad and my sister are going to be home, but we could
watch a movie or something.”
Derek was quiet for a long time. Stiles counted ten seconds before Derek nodded
slightly and said, “All right.”
“Cool,” Stiles said anxiously, getting to his feet and fighting the urge to
pass out. Standing up so fast had not been a great idea. “I-I’ll see you, then.
Around eight, maybe?”
“Eight,” Derek echoed with another nod. “All right.”
Stiles had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself walking, consumed in
thought, a faint white haze obstructing his vision. He stopped when he nearly
ran into a tree, shaking his head and breathing in slowly until he felt a
little more steady.
Derek’s story hurt him. It infuriated him. He wanted to track Kate Argent down
and kick her in the cunt. He felt guilty for asking Derek what had happened,
for dragging that shit to the surface. He felt sick, so many emotions swirling
around in his head.
When Stiles came out of the woods, he found Allison lounging on the front porch
reading a book.
“Hey,” she greeted, putting down her novel. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“Derek’s coming over later,” Stiles told her dazedly. Terror struck him
suddenly. “Oh my god, Derek’s coming over. I-I’ve gotta go clean!”
Allison followed him into the house, laughing. “Soooo,” she asked, watching him
survey the living room. “Did you finally get a kiss out of him?”
“More than that,” Stiles grinned faintly. “Well, almost more than that.” He
frowned up at the ceiling, remembering how he’d almost fainted, and that
reminded him that he really needed to eat something.
Stiles cleaned the house until it shone, but even then it was only four
o’clock, and he felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin, so he rode his
bike over to Scott’s and forced himself to forget about the time and all of
Derek’s problems. It was nearly seven-thirty by the time he went home. Scott
rode with him – he said he wanted to meet Derek and Stiles tried not to groan,
because he hadn’t intended this to be like a whole meet the family get-
together. Even worse, his dad was home when they arrived and he pulled Stiles
into the kitchen to say, “Allison says you’ve got a friend coming over.”
“Yeahhhh,” Stiles said, pulling his arm out of his dad’s grip. “And?”
“Well?” his dad demanded. “Who is it? Is this someone you’re – you’re
interested in?”
“Jeeze, Dad,” Stiles muttered, his cheeks going red. “Yes, ok?”
His dad straightened and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do I have to do the
sheriff talk?”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at his father. “Did you give Scott the sheriff talk?”
“No, now that you mention it,” the sheriff said, brightening. “I could lecture
them both at once. Save some time?”
“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned. “I’m gonna go sit on the porch.”
It was quiet outside, kind of peaceful. Stiles sat on the edge of the porch,
swinging his feet back and forth while he played a game on his phone. He could
hear his dad and Scott and Allison in the living room, and he hoped that his
dad liked Derek as much as he apparently liked Scott.
Eight approached. Stiles tried to pretend that his palms weren’t sweating. He
didn’t know why this felt so different than hanging out in the clearing. Maybe
because other people would be around, or because the clearing was neutral
territory. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know where Derek lived. He
didn’t even know his last name. Shit, why had he never asked? His dad was
definitely going to want to know more about him.
Eight came and went. Stiles tried not to watch the time on his phone. He tried
not to worry. He’d said around eight, after all. Maybe Derek was one of those
people who was always late to everything. He should have said seven if he
wanted him here by eight.
At nine, the front door opened and Allison said hesitantly, “Stiles?”
“Go away.”
“Maybe he – ”
“Allison, fuck off!”
Allison slammed the door behind her. Stiles sat hunched over his phone, teeth
digging furiously into his bottom lip. He felt like he was about to puke. He
kept coming up with excuses in his head – Derek got lost, Derek got grounded –
but nothing made him feel better. He felt like shit. Maybe he’d screwed himself
over by being too curious; maybe Derek didn’t want someone digging at his deep,
dark secrets. Maybe he’d fucked this up before it could even begin.
He went inside at ten, miserable and cold. His family sat in the living room,
silent as he passed, and he was grateful that no one tried to say anything like
You deserve better, Stiles, because he might have screamed. He nearly did
scream, because the woman ghost was standing by the window in his bedroom, but
he picked up a book instead, throwing it at her dark silhouette. He missed, the
book sailing out his open window, and the ghost gave him a reproachful look
before disappearing.
“Just leave me alone,” Stiles muttered, collapsing onto his bed. He fell asleep
there, still dressed.
-
When Stiles woke up, his room was dark and hazy, the air heavy. He sat up in
bed and immediately started coughing, his lungs and mouth burning with the
taste of smoke. He could hear something beneath him, a deep roaring that shook
his bones. The floor was hot when he put his feet down.
“Oh fuck,” he whispered, voice going high with panic. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Stiles touched the doorknob hesitantly, but it was cool to the touch and he
yanked it open to find a hallway thick with smoke and shimmering with heat.
“Allie!” he screamed, leaping down the hall to her room, bursting through the
door. “Allie!”
Allison sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. Stiles saw, but didn’t register
Scott in bed next to her, looking bewildered. “Stiles?” Allison said. “What are
you – ”
“Come on,” Stiles said frantically, pulling at her arm. “We have to get Dad.
The house – ”
“Stiles,” Allison said, resisting his pull. “Stop, you’re freaking me out!”
“Allie!” Stiles exclaimed, voice rising. “We have to go! The house is on fire!”
“No it’s not!” Allison protested, panic in her own voice now. “Scott, help me!”
Scott scrambled out of the bed, trying to get in-between Stiles and Allison,
but Stiles looked right through him, like he wasn’t there at all. “Stiles,”
Scott tried, putting a hand on his shoulder, but Stiles shrugged off his grip,
still trying to pull Allison out of the room.
“Please,” he begged his sister, tears burning in his eyes. “We have to get out
of here, Allie.”
“Dad!” Allison screamed. “Dad!”
There was a thump from out in the hallway and the sheriff came racing into the
room, gun drawn. Scott leapt backwards, looking panicked, and the sheriff
glared at him briefly before his eyes settled on Allison and Stiles.
“Dad!” Allison panted. “Stiles, he – ”
But Stiles cut through her, turning towards his father and exclaiming, “Dad,
the house, we have to go!”
“He thinks it’s on fire,” Allison said, her eyes shining with tears.
“Stiles,” their father said, taking a slow step forward. “There’s no fire,
son.”
Stiles could barely see his father through the haze of smoke. “It’s here!” he
cried. “Dad – ”
“Scott, grab his arm,” the sheriff commanded, taking hold of Stiles’ other arm.
“Help me bring him into the bathroom.
“No, what are you doing?” Stiles wailed, struggling against their grip. “Dad –
“
“Hush, son,” his father said gently, turning on the shower. He nodded at Scott
and they lifted Stiles under the water. He sputtered and coughed and fought
against their hold on him, but he weakened as the moments passed.
After a minute or two under the water, Stiles shook his head and blew water off
his lips, frowning vaguely. “Dad?”
“Jesus,” his father hissed, yanking him forward in a tight embrace. Stiles
clung to him weakly, staring around the bathroom in confusion. Scott backed
away, looking troubled. Stiles watched him, his brow furrowing.
“What did I – what did I do now?” he whispered, fear surging in him. He looked
at Allison standing in the doorway. “Allie, did I hurt you?”
“No, of course not,” Allison said hurriedly.
"You didn't hurt anyone,” his father said soothingly. “We're all okay. You're
okay; you were just dreaming again."
"Dad," Stiles said again, his body starting to shake as shock and the chill of
his soaked body set in. He blinked against sudden tears, the terror of not
knowing what he’d just done sinking in.
"Come on," his father said gently, pulling back so he could grip Stiles' arm
firmly. "Can you walk with me?"
The sheriff led Stiles back to his room, Scott and Allison following in
silence. "Back to bed," he said to Allison, pausing in the doorway of Stiles'
bedroom. "And you," he added, narrowing his eyes at Scott, "will sleep
downstairs on the couch." The tone of his voice said we'll be having a talk in
the morning, and Scott didn't argue, casting a worried look at Stiles before
disappearing down the stairs.
"Dad," Allison said anxiously, "is he going to be okay?"
"I'm right here," Stiles complained wearily. “I can hear you.”
The sheriff's hand tightened on Stiles' shoulder, a gentle warning as he told
Allison, "He'll be fine. Go get some rest." And he pushed Stiles into his room,
shutting the door behind him. His father sat down on the edge of the bed,
watching Stiles strip out if his sopping wet clothes. He made a low, worried
noise when Stiles stripped off his t-shirt. "Christ, Stiles; I can see your
ribs. Have you been eating?"
Stiles glanced at himself in the mirror hung on his bathroom door and found his
father was right; he'd lost a lot of weight around his hips and chest, his
bones casting sharp shadows on his skin. "I keep forgetting," Stiles shrugged
wearily, pulling on a fresh t-shirt.
"I'm worried about you," his father said softly, shifting aside so Stiles could
slip into bed.
"You're not the only one," Stiles replied, his throat burning. "What's wrong
with me?"
"I don't know," his father said, carefully ruffling Stiles' hair.
Stiles sniffed, rolling onto his side so his father couldn’t see how frightened
he was. He felt lost, adrift, like he’d lost control of every aspect of his
life. “W-what did I just do?”
“You thought the house was on fire again,” his dad said gently, rubbing a
soothing hand down his back. “It was just a dream.”
“I feel like I’m going crazy,” Stiles whispered, and clamped a hand over his
mouth to stifle a sob.
“You’re not crazy,” his father replied firmly. “We’ll sort this out, I
promise.”
“I hope so,” Stiles mumbled, his eyes drooping as he slowly drifted off to
sleep.
His father never moved. Stiles woke several times in the night to find him
still sitting next to him, a hand resting on his back. The weight of it was
comforting, as was his father's presence, and apart from the waking nightmare,
Stiles slept more soundly than he had since moving into the house.
-
Breakfast was subdued the following morning. The sheriff had woken Stiles, then
left him to shower and dress, and it seemed he'd had a sharp exchange with
Scott and Allison because they both looked unhappy. Stiles wasn't feeling very
hungry, but he remembered the concern on his father's face when he’d seen
Stiles’ ribs and ate a huge bowl of cereal to make him happy. It left Stiles
feeling too full and a little sick to his stomach, but the encouraging smile
his dad gave him was worth it.
He’d stood in front of the mirror for a long time after getting out of the
shower, looking at all the places on his body where the skin had gone thin,
stretched over bone. He wasn’t skeletal, and he was still weirdly muscular from
lacrosse practice, but he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed how thin he’d
gone. Stiles hadn’t meant for it to happen, but what with the stressful dreams
and waking nightmares and everything else in his life, he hadn’t had much of an
appetite.
After they’d eaten, the teenagers grabbed their school things and headed out
the door under the watchful eye of the sheriff. Stiles paused at the door,
thinking he should say something to his dad, but not sure what. His father
smiled faintly, a sad smile like the one he’d worn the whole time Stiles’ and
Allison’s mother was in the hospital, and that hurt. Stiles didn’t want to hurt
his dad at all.
“Don’t worry,” the sheriff said quietly. “I’ll do some digging at work today
and as soon as I get home, we’ll talk about doctors, all right? You just enjoy
your day at school.”
Stiles snorted and said, “Unlikely but – thanks, Dad.”
His father nodded, and Stiles went out to where Allison and Scott were loading
Scott’s bike into the back of the Jeep. As they drove through the woods in
uncomfortable silence, Stiles took a deep breath and said, "Allie, I'm sorry
for snapping at you last night. And for scaring you. Scott, you too. I’m
sorry."
"It's okay," Allison said softly, while Scott shook his head in the back seat.
"You can’t help the dreaming, and I know you were upset about Derek.” Stiles
grimaced and she gave him a sympathetic look. "What are you going to do?"
"Want me to beat him up?" Scott asked.
"No," Stiles sighed. "I'm going to hear what he has to say first."
School dragged by that day. Stiles endured a ten-minute lecture from Finstock
for missing practice three times the week before, which he bore silently while
Jackson sniggered somewhere at the back of the classroom. If Stiles hadn’t
cared about upsetting his father further, he probably would have started a
brawl with Jackson, but he bit his lip instead, keeping his head bowed as
Finstock ranted about exercise and commitment. The shrill ring of the bell at
the end of class sounded like angels singing.
As soon as Allison parked in front of the house, Stiles flung himself out of
the car, threw his backpack onto the porch, and grabbed his bike, too impatient
to walk the fifteen minutes to the clearing.
"Stiles?" Allison called hesitantly, and he paused at the edge of the yard,
twisting around to look at her. "I think Dad wanted you here when he got home."
Stiles sighed and glanced at his phone. Three fifteen. "I'll be home by four
thirty," he promised. "Dad's not home until five."
"Okay," Allison nodded, though she looked uncertain. Stiles gave her one last
look before kicking into gear, speeding off into the forest.
Derek waited for him in the clearing, sitting on the rock with his arms wrapped
around his knees, looking morose. "I'm sorry," he said, before Stiles could
even get off his bike or open his mouth to speak. "I tried, but I kept getting
turned around in the dark. I kept ending up here."
"Why didn't you call me?" Stiles asked, leaning his bike against a tree.
"My mom took my phone," Derek reminded him ruefully. "And I don't have your
number anyway."
"So give me your house number," Stiles sighed, patting his pockets and locating
a sharpie. "I'll give you my cell number."
"I'm sorry," Derek said again, looking worried.
“No, I am,” Stiles said. “I asked you all that stuff yesterday and I thought
maybe I pushed the line and you changed your mind about wanting – about being
us.”
“No,” Derek said quietly. “No, I – It felt good talking about it. I know I can
trust you. I know you’ll listen.”
Stiles smiled tentatively, gesturing at Derek to give him his arm so he could
write his cell number on Derek's palm. "We've all been lost in the woods. You
should ask your mom for your phone back, though," he added seriously. "What if
there was an emergency?"
"Out in the woods?" Derek asked doubtfully, plucking the marker from Stiles'
finger so he could write down his number. Stiles didn't bother pointing out he
had his phone on him and could just enter Derek's number into it; he was
enjoying the touch of Derek's fingers curled around his wrist.
"Especially out in the woods," Stiles told him. "What if you fell out of a tree
and broke your arm or something?"
"I don't climb trees," Derek replied, handing Stiles the marker back. He didn't
let Stiles' hand go, though, slipping their fingers together. "Well, apart from
the tree at the pond."
"And that's safe?" Stiles grinned.
"As long as you don't hit a branch on the way down," Derek shrugged. His
fingers tightened around Stiles'. "Are you all right? You look exhausted."
"I - I didn't sleep well," Stiles murmured, unwilling to admit that he might be
going kind of crazy.
Derek frowned. "Bad dreams again?"
"You could say that," Stiles sighed.
"Can I…make it better?" Derek asked, smiling a shy, suggestive smile.
An answering grin tugged at Stiles' lips. "Depends on what you have in mind,"
he replied diplomatically.
“Let me show you, then,” Derek said, leaning in for a slow, burning kiss.
Stiles sighed, relaxing into him, dropping Derek’s hand to fist his hands in
his shirt. Derek made a deep, satisfied noise at the back of his throat and
pulled back, biting at Stiles’ lip before dropping to his knees.
“Oh my god,” Stiles croaked, all the breath strangled out of him.
Derek looked up at him and it was like all his masturbatory fantasies come to
life, from the way his hazel eyes went dark and blown with lust, to the way the
corners of his mouth quirked up as he asked, “Can I?”
“Please,” Stiles said weakly, trailing his fingers along the strong line of
Derek’s jaw.
Derek licked his lips as he turned his attention to getting Stiles’ belt
unbuckled and his pants pulled down his thighs. They both moaned a little when
Stiles’ dick came into sight, half hard but rapidly swelling to attention –
Stiles from the cool air hitting his burning skin, and Derek moaning at the
sight of him, apparently, which – Stiles’ dick jumped at the thought.
“I’ve never done this before,” Derek said, sounding a little awed as he gently
curled his fingers around the base of Stiles’ dick. “You’ll have to tell me
what you like.”
“Well, this hasn’t exactly happened to me before – mmn!” Stiles groaned as
Derek leaned forward and took him right in. “Oh, fuck, I am not going to last
long, dude.”
Derek pulled off him with an obscenely slick noise and grinned faintly, and
maybe he’d never done it before, but he certainly knew how to use his mouth,
fuck. Stiles’ hands fluttered uselessly at his sides before landing in Derek’s
hair, and it was all he could do to keep himself from yanking Derek’s head
forward, to keep himself from fucking into Derek’s mouth. His hips kept making
these aborted little thrusts and every time, god, the noise Derek made.
Stiles’ vision was starting to go white and it took him a long moment to
realize that it wasn’t because of the good things Derek was doing to him. He
was losing sensation in the tips of his fingers and toes, his body starting to
feel heavy.
“Fuck,” Stiles muttered, tapping Derek on the skull. “Der.” It came on so
quickly. He could hear the slur of his words but could do nothing to stop them.
He shut his eyes to keep the world from spinning but he could still feel it
twirling around him and Derek’s mouth was still fucking on him, and he was –
“Derek.” It was a trial getting the words out whole. Fuck.
Derek pulled back just as Stiles’ knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground,
his vision going white, quickly fading to a pinprick of light in a sea of black
before everything went completely dark.
-
Stiles dreamt. He ran through a dark forest dense with brambles, branches
whipping red lines across his face as he sped through the trees. He called out,
searching for the boy, calling for him while Kate Argent laughed in his ear,
singing, “He’s dead, he’s dead!”
Stiles burst into a clearing and there was his boy. It was Derek, on his back,
clothes torn and burnt, skin peeling and raw. His face pointed to the sky, pale
eyes open and unblinking. His chest did not rise and Stiles bent over, heaving,
bile burning his throat.
“Told you,” Kate Argent said from behind him, but when Stiles turned there was
no one there.
Someone touched his forehead and Stiles jolted awake. More dreams: his mother
sat on the edge of the bed next to him, her long dark hair braided in a fat
plait, hanging loose over one shoulder. She looked better than the last time
he’d seen her, her face full and healthy, glowing with love.
“My baby boy,” she said softly, long fingers cool against his burning skin.
Stiles stared at her, blinking back tears. She smiled sadly at him, sorrow
flooding her amber eyes. “You’re trying so hard.”
Stiles looked past his mother, so used to the weird shit going on in his life
that he was hardly startled by her presence. He was laying in an unfamiliar bed
in a small, clean white room. There was an IV hooked into his hand and machines
hummed softly next to him, heart monitor beeping faster as he realized he was
in a hospital.
He hated hospitals. He'd successfully avoided stepping foot in one since the
day his mother died, but the horror was coming back to him now, miserable days
seeped in the smell of death cloaked under disinfectant, long hours curled in a
chair next to his mother’s bed, staring at a beautiful face gone thin and hurt.
The EKG beeped faster, his heart rate rising, panic surging inside him. He
couldn't breathe, he couldn't -
Two cool hands took hold of the side of his face. "Look at me, sweetheart," his
mother said gently, and Stiles gaped at her, tears spilling down his cheeks.
"Breathe. I know you can do it."
Stiles gasped, his throat feeling raw, but air filled his lungs and he took
another deep, steadying breath. "I'm scared, Mom," he told her when he could
speak again. His hands shook uncontrollably. "Everything - I don't know what's
happening to me."
"Shhh," she said softly. "You'll be okay. You're helping someone who's been
lost for a long time."
"Who - Derek?" Stiles asked hoarsely, breath hitching as he remembered the
dream, Derek's blank eyes turned to the sky. He remembered being with Derek,
Derek’s mouth on his cock, his vision going foggy. "Oh my god, I - "
"Shhh, shhh," his mom soothed. "Don't panic. I love you, baby boy."
"No," Stiles protested weakly, trying to grasp her wrists. "No, Mom, I miss
you. I - "
"Stiles?" came a strangled voice from the doorway. Stiles looked up to see his
father standing there, face white like he'd seen a ghost. Stiles immediately
turned to look at his mother but she was gone, the spot where she'd been
sitting smooth and cool. "Who are you talking to?"
“No one,” Stiles mumbled, chest filling with misery.
His father stepped into the room. Stiles looked at him wearily and realized he
was still in his sheriff’s uniform, badge shining on his chest, gun belted to
his hip.
It hadn't really sunk in before, too distracted by his mother's presence and
the fear of being in the hospital, but it occurred to him that he was in the
hospital and fuck, how had he ended up there? If his dad was in uniform it
meant he'd still been, or was on shift, and fuck. Who had gotten him here? The
last thing he could remember was being out in the woods with Derek. Had Derek
called 911? He didn't have his phone, but Stiles had had his.
The sheriff settled into the chair next to Stiles' bed with a sigh. Stiles
watched him rub a hand over his face, guilt surging through him. He didn't want
to worry his dad. He didn't want to stress him out. And yet, he kept ending up
in these situations where he did exactly that.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Stiles said quietly.
His father looked at him then, his eyes weary. "You have nothing to apologize
for," he said. "How are you feeling?"
Stiles took a moment to analyze himself. He kind of felt like a punching bag,
body heavy, limbs weighted with lead. "Tired," he decided. "Confused. How'd I
get here?"
"Got a 911 call," his father said slowly. "No one on the line, but we were able
to triangulate your location. You should be glad Allison knew you were supposed
to come back, and you showed Scott that field you hang out in, or we'd probably
still be looking for you."
No one on the line? Stiles' heart sank. What happened to Derek? Had he been so
freaked out by Stiles fainting that he'd left him there in the clearing? Stiles
must have come back from unconsciousness at same point, lucid enough to dial
911 but not enough to talk. His stomach twisted. How could Derek have just
abandoned him like that? "What time is it?"
"Nearly ten," his father replied. "The call came in around five, and we got you
here around six."
"Do…do the doctors know what's wrong with me?" Stiles asked, his throat
sticking.
The sheriff sighed. "They think you're suffering from exhaustion," he said
gently. "You're dehydrated, you're underweight. It's all tied together." He put
his hand on Stiles' wrist, careful to avoid the IV in the back of his hand.
"They say it's usually caused by stress. I know I've asked you this, and I hope
you've been telling the truth, but please, Stiles - is there something going
on? The stress, the sleepwalking - this wasn't happening before we moved up
here, so what's changed? Is it school? Being on the lacrosse team? Is there
someone at school bothering you?" His face hardened. "What about this boy you
know? Is he hurting you? He didn't show up the other night, and I know that
must have hurt - "
"Dad," Stiles said vehemently. "Derek didn't do anything to me."
"Okay," his dad said, subsiding a little. "But what is it? Will you please talk
to me?"
Stiles sighed. Every reason his dad had listed off was a plausible excuse. He
could pick any one of them and claim it as the truth, but he was sick of lying
and keeping things to himself. Aware that what he was about to say was going to
make him sound crazy, Stiles said, "The house is haunted."
For a moment his father just blinked at him, confusion clouding his expression.
Then he said, "Stiles, this isn't a joke - "
"No," Stiles said forcefully. "It's not a joke, Dad. I am so not joking. Ever
since we moved in, I've been hearing things, feeling things, and I thought I
was going crazy."
His father stared at him for another long moment, then asked carefully, "Have
you seen anything? It's an old house, son, there - "
"Yes," Stiles interrupted firmly. "There's a woman. I've seen her in my room,
and in the hall and on the stairs. I saw a man in the kitchen, and I heard kids
playing, and - " He cut himself off at the look on his father's face. He wasn't
upset, exactly - he looked more tired than anything, sad.
"You know," his dad said. "You were born with a caul. Did you know that?"
Stiles shook his head mutely. He didn't even know what a caul was.
"It's a membrane covering the face," his father told him, gesturing. "They -
your grandmother always said that being born with a caul was lucky - w czepku
urodzony is what they say in Polish. Your mom said that babies born with a caul
were supposed to be…special.”
“Special?” Stiles repeated, his voice shaking. “What do you mean?”
“Like they have abilities others don’t,” his dad said softly. “Things most
people don’t believe in.”
“Like seeing ghosts?” Stiles asked.
“Maybe.”
Stiles rubbed the hand his father wasn’t gripping over his face, aching in his
bones. He was so fucking tired; he couldn’t process this new information.
“Stiles,” his father said, voice dropping, so quiet he was almost whispering.
“When I came in, you – your mom?”
Stiles nodded slowly, his heart aching.
“She – was she really there?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles mumbled, tears welling in his eyes. He missed her cool
touch, her soothing words. He missed her every day.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” his father said hurriedly. “But if you see her again,
tell her – you know. We miss her.”
Stiles nodded again, wiping a hand over his eyes.
“Okay,” his dad said steadily, squeezing his wrist, then letting go. “You’re
going to be okay, son. The doctors want to keep you here for a few days, get
some fluid in you, get your weight up. That okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled, eyes still fuzzy with tears.
“Okay,” the sheriff said again. “I’m going to let you rest in a minute, but I
have to put on my cop hat for a second. What were you doing out in the woods?”
“I was with Derek,” Stiles muttered, fingers curling in the blanket over his
legs.
“Doing…?”
Stiles winced, his cheeks growing warm. “You don’t want to know.”
His father frowned at him. “I need to know, Stiles.”
“I – “ Stiles sighed. “We were getting physical, okay?”
“You were right; I didn’t want to know,” his dad said mildly. “You can skim
over that. What happened next?”
“I – I started getting dizzy,” Stiles said. “I don’t know what happened after
that.”
The sheriff looked extremely alarmed. “You passed out? And Derek was still
there?”
On his knees, Stiles thought faintly. “Yeah.”
“There was no one in the clearing when we found you, Stiles,” his dad said,
looking furious. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles said, trying to ignore the miserable twist of his
stomach. “Maybe he went to get help, I don’t know.”
“I’m going to need to talk to him,” the sheriff said, pulling a notebook from
the pocket of his jacket. “What’s his last name?”
“I – “ Stiles shifted uneasily. “I don’t know.”
The sheriff gave his son a dark look. “You don’t know? Where does he live?”
“Uh,” Stiles said, avoiding his eyes.
“Stiles,” his father said angrily, “you’ve been hanging out in the woods with
someone whose last name you don’t know and you don’t know where he lives? Have
you listened to anything I’ve taught you?”
“I have!” Stiles protested. “I just – I got excited about having a friend.” He
felt guilty at the way his dad’s face softened. “And I did ask him where he
lived and he pointed toward our house. I assumed he lived in one of the houses
further down the road.”
“There are no houses further down the road,” the sheriff snapped. “Where did
you say he goes to school?”
“Saint Germaine,” Stiles said miserably. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“What? No!” the sheriff exclaimed, looking more irritated than ever. “I just
want to talk to him. Now, you get some rest. I’m going to try to get in contact
with the school. If I’m not back tonight, I’ll stop in before my shift starts
tomorrow morning, all right?”
“Okay,” Stiles mumbled. His father got to his feet, leaning over the bed to
press a kiss to his hair.
“You’re safe,” he said softly. “I’m not angry at you. I’m glad that you’re
okay.”
“I know,” Stiles muttered. “Good night, Dad.”
“Night, son.”
Stiles watched the door close behind his father and then slumped against his
pillows. He meant to stay awake, meant to sit and process everything that had
happened that evening, but the room was quiet and calm, the hum of the machines
soothing, and he fell asleep before he realized it.
His sleep that night was deep and even, undisturbed by dreams of the woods - or
any dreams at all.
-
When his father returned the following morning, Stiles was already awake,
staring blearily up at the ceiling. He’d been up for a few hours, rested but
restless. Scott’s mom had come in to visit, bringing him a tray full of
breakfast food. Stiles liked Melissa McCall; she was funny and sharp as a tack,
her smile so much like Scott’s. She’d sat with him while he ate and told him
stories about all the crazy patients she’d had to deal with in the last few
days.
Stiles sat up when his dad pushed open the door, smiling when he saw Allison
trailing behind the sheriff.
“Brought your sister,” his father said. “She was worried about you.”
“If I scared you – I’m sorry,” Stiles said to Allison, who shook her head.
“Don’t be,” she whispered, looking like she was on the verge of tears.
“Now you’ve seen he’s whole and well,” the sheriff said patiently. “I’ll bring
you back after school, but would you mind waiting in the hall for a minute?”
“Sheriff hat,” Stiles said sagely, and Allison nodded and disappeared outside.
The sheriff gave his son a considering look. “How are you feeling?”
“A lot better,” Stiles told him truthfully.
“Good,” the sheriff said slowly. “Now, I’ve got something to tell you, Stiles.
I called Saint Germaine and they – there’s no record of anyone named Derek at
their school.”
Stiles stared at his father, all the air rushing from his lungs. “Then what – “
“Stiles,” his father said firmly. “I’m going to need you to give me a detailed
description of what this kid looks like. I’ve got to get an APB out – we need
to talk to him.”
“But,” Stiles said unsteadily. “But Dad, what does that mean? Is he – ” He
swallowed. “Is he in trouble?”
“He may be,” the sheriff told him gently. “Stiles, if he’s not a student, I –
he could be any age. He could be pretending. And if he touched you and he’s an
adult, that’s – ”
“No,” Stiles whimpered, hunching over, the sound of his heartbeat suddenly
deafening. “No.” Derek wouldn’t have lied to him; why would he have lied to
him? It didn’t make any sense. He tried to take a deep breath to steady
himself, to explain to his dad that he had to be wrong, Derek had to go to
Saint Germaine, but he couldn’t seem to draw in any air. There were hands on
his face, tilting his chin up as the room spun around him, lights flickering.
He could hear his dad saying, “Breathe, Stiles, breathe, easy now,” and he
wanted to laugh because a lot easier said than done, right?
There were other voices in his room, people he didn’t recognize. Someone pushed
a pill into his hand and coaxed him into swallowing it. Things started to slow
down after that, the world rightening around him. His dad stood next to him, a
heavy hand on his shoulder, worry creasing his tanned face.
“Sorry,” Stiles whispered, his stomach churning.
“Don’t you apologize,” his father said steadily, hand tightening on his
shoulder. “We’ll fix this, Stiles. I promise.”
Stiles blinked and leaned away from him. He put his head over the side of the
bed and threw up his breakfast.
-
Stiles stayed in the hospital for three long, boring days while the doctors
pumped fluids into his body, trying to get his weight back up. Allison and
Scott came to visit him after school and his dad stopped by whenever he could,
but other than that Stiles was left to himself for long, mind-numbingly boring
periods of time. He slept a lot and ate a lot, but there was still a lot of
sitting around doing nothing.
After his panic attack following his father's questioning, the sheriff hadn't
pressed him again, except gently, for a description of Derek, which Stiles gave
him with his stomach heavy. He couldn't believe that Derek had lied to him. Why
would he lie - unless he had something to hide? Was he really just a predator?
Every time he thought about Derek's mouth on him, it made his stomach twist,
heart rate rising until a nurse came in and gave him a Xanax. He didn't dream,
though, and he had no more panic attacks, which was a small wonder.
Ms. McCall came in some times to visit with him, but his usual nurse was a
cheerful petite woman named Sarah. She came in sometime on the third afternoon
and said, "Bored?"
"So bored," Stiles replied. He'd already done all the homework Scott had
brought him, even chemistry.
"Feeling up for a walk?" she asked brightly. Stiles tilted his head,
considering. He hadn't done much moving around since being admitted, but seeing
something other than the blank green walls of the hospital room would be nice.
"Sure," he said, and Sarah beamed.
She helped him down the hallway, pushing his IV drip as he walked along, one
hand on the wall to keep his balance. His legs were wobbly after days of laying
around and he didn't like feeling so weak; it reminded him of his mom. He hated
that his dad had to see him like this because it probably hurt him even more.
"Anything you'd like to see?" Sarah asked. "I can't take you to the morgue, but
anywhere else shouldn’t be a problem."
Stiles shuddered and shook his head. "Is Ms. McCall working?"
"I think she's covering in long term care today," Sarah replied. "You want to
go visit?"
Stiles nodded and she led him down the hallway. They rode the elevator up to
the fifth floor and walked to the long term wing. It was quiet up there, far
removed from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room and surgery theaters.
"Melissa?" Sarah asked a nurse at the floor station, and the woman gestured
down the hall toward a door Melissa was just disappearing through. Sarah nodded
and led Stiles down to the room.
"Is this okay?" Stiles asked, hesitating outside the door.
"Most of the people in this wing aren't going to notice you're even here, hon,"
Sarah replied, pulling on the door handle. "It's all right."
"Okay," Stiles said, slipping inside.
The room was plain, devoid of any personal effects. He saw Melissa first,
leaning over the bed of a patient. Then his eyes fell on the patient's face and
Stiles' mouth fell open. He was older than Stiles by a few years, chin blue
with stubble, white scars licking up one side of his neck, but it was Derek.
Derek and his stupidly handsome face, the thin, unhappy set of his lips, the
furrow of his brow, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. Stiles leaned back
against the wall, breath catching in his throat. It was Derek but it wasn't
Derek, not the Derek he knew. What was going on?
"Hey, Melissa," Sarah said cheerfully, unaware of Stiles' horror. "We popped in
to visit."
Melissa turned and the smile beginning to quirk her lips disappeared when she
spotted Stiles' rapidly graying face. "Get him out of here!" she exclaimed.
Sarah twisted, her mouth forming a round "oh" of surprise when she saw Stiles'
face. She pulled him out of the room and managed to get him a few feet down the
hall before he collapsed against the wall, panting for air. He could hear Sarah
talking, trying to soothe him, but all he could think about was Derek laying in
that bed, pale and scarred, Derek in his dream, burned and ruined, Derek in the
clearing, young and unharmed and unhappy.
When the attack passed and he finally made it back to his room, Stiles curled
up in bed, too exhausted to think. He didn't understand what was happening. He
didn't have - no, he had Derek's number. Stiles turned his wrist to look at the
phone number Derek had written on his palm, mostly faded but still legible. He
swallowed, picking up his phone. He had to know. He needed to know if Derek -
his Derek, the Derek from the clearing - was real. Stiles dialed the number and
held the phone to his ear, biting his lip. It rang once and then -
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check - "
Stiles hung up, his hands shaking as he set his phone on the bedside table.
Fuck. Fuck, what did this mean?
There came a knock on the door and Ms. McCall stuck her head into the room.
"Hey, hon," she said. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Stiles replied quietly, gesturing at her to come in. Melissa smiled and
stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. Stiles shut his eyes, breathing
in deep, gathering the nerve to ask, "Who was that?"
"Who was who?" Melissa asked, tilting her head. "Oh, in the room? His name's
Derek, hon. He - oh, but you - "
"Just tell me, please," Stiles said, gritting his teeth.
Ms. McCall sighed softly. "His family were the ones who died in your house,
Stiles. He's the only one that made it out."
Stiles stared at her, his mouth falling open. He thought of the article - Derek
had lived in his house? He'd been the sixth victim? Holy fuck.
He must have said that out loud because Ms. McCall smiled uncomfortably and
said, "There's nothing you could have done, hon. It happened five years ago."
Stiles swallowed. "Is he - is he okay?"
"Mm." Melissa shook her head. "He hasn't woken up since he was brought in. His
body healed, but he’s been in a coma for five years. It's like there's nothing
left inside him."
No, Stiles thought, because he's haunting the woods outside our house. Things
were starting to fall into place, making sense; why he only saw Derek in the
clearing, why Derek had never showed up at the house, why he dreamed of Derek
standing outside, why the school had no record of anyone named Derek. Stiles
scrubbed his hands over his face. God, was he fucking stupid or what? Could he
get any more dense?
"You okay?" Melissa asked, looking worried.
"Yeah," Stiles said hoarsely. "Yeah, I just - I'm tired. I think I'm going to
take a nap."
"All right," she smiled. "Rest up. I think you're being released tomorrow
morning."
"Oh," Stiles said blankly. "Good."
She patted his leg and left. Stiles leaned back against his pillows, his head
spinning. What the hell did this mean? Derek wasn't dead, but his spirit or
soul or something was trapped in the woods? Or was he even trapped - they'd
gone to the pond, after all. So Derek was a Hale; it made sense now that Stiles
dreamed of him staring up at the house. Maybe he needed to get back inside? Did
Derek even know that he was lost?
-
Stiles woke with a jolt. He couldn't even remember falling asleep but it was
later now; the clock on the wall said it was close to nine-thirty. An empty
coffee cup on his bedside table told him his dad had probably stopped in but he
seemed to have gone. Stiles checked his phone; no messages.
Stiles slipped out of bed, unhooking the drip from his hand. He stuck his head
out the door; the floor was empty and quiet at this time of night. Stiles
slipped out and down the hall, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. The
nurse's station was deserted as he passed, a small miracle, and he paused
outside of Derek's room, steeling himself before pushing open the door.
The room sat quiet, lit only by the light of the moon coming in through the
windows. There were no machines humming away - apparently Derek could breathe
on his own and needed no monitoring. Stiles breathed slowly as he approached
the bed, skin breaking out into goosebumps. This was creepy. This was so
fucking creepy. There he was, sneaking into the hospital room of the guy whose
- soul? Ghost? - had sucked his dick. Oh, fuck, this was weird.
Stiles reached the side of the bed and stood over Derek, licking his lips
nervously. Derek looked like himself but not, like a stranger he'd seen in a
dream, familiar and alien all at once - he was older, his face longer,
cheekbones more pronounced. He was a lot skinnier than his ghost, which made
sense; it wasn't like you got a lot of physical exercise when you were trapped
in a coma. Understandable.
Stiles swallowed and reached out a hand, brushing his fingers against Derek's.
He didn't know what he expected to happen - for Derek's eyes to open, for his
fingers to curl around Stiles', for him to sit up and say Stiles? None of that
happened; Derek's eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Stiles stared at
him and wondered who shaved his face. The Derek Stiles knew kept his face clean
shaven, but the three-day-old stubble was a good look.
Stiles shook his head, getting angry at himself. He was being stupid, standing
over Derek and thinking about how good he looked when there were more important
things to worry about - Derek's doppelganger out in the woods, for example.
Behind him, the door clicked open and the lights flickered on. Stiles turned
and froze, as did the young woman in the doorway. She was probably in her mid
twenties, dark-haired and beautiful, dressed in a light coat and dark jeans.
She looked furious, and Stiles' heart sank. Derek had had some beautiful
girlfriend when the fire occurred and she'd stuck with him all these years. Of
course.
"Who are you?" the woman snapped, stepping forward. Stiles tried to back away
but his legs bumped into Derek's bed, trapped. "What are you doing in here?"
"I - " Stiles paused. He didn't really have an excuse; anything he could say to
her would sound extremely unbelievable.
"My brother is not an exhibit," she said furiously. "He's not here to be stared
at. Get out."
"I - I'm sorry," Stiles stammered, even as relief rushed through him. This had
to be Laura, Derek's older sister. Derek had told Stiles about her, complained
about the way she hogged the car and called him "Der-bear" and ate all the good
cereal before he could get any. Stiles wondered if he could tell her about the
Derek he'd befriended in the wood, but scratched that idea as she grabbed him
by the arm.
"Get out," Laura repeated, the words hissing from her mouth like acid. "I see
you in here again and I'm calling security. Out!"
"Okay, okay!" Stiles said, letting himself be shoved toward the door. He could
feel Laura's glare on him, dark and furious.
He got caught by the night nurse on his floor and endured a five-minute lecture
before being allowed to return to his room. Once back in bed, Stiles sat and
ran his hands through his hair. He didn't know what to do, what he needed to do
to help Derek - if Derek even needed to be helped. If he could be helped.
His sleep was restless that night, though his mind remained blank and
dreamless.
Stiles was released at noon the following day. His dad was on shift but came by
the hospital to give him a ride home. Stiles thought about going to see Derek
again before he left but there was no time and anyway, what could he do except
loom over him and feel depressed? He also had a feeling that if Laura saw him
in there again, she wouldn’t call security, just kick his ass herself.
So Stiles sat on a bench outside the hospital in the weak October sunlight and
got into the cruiser when his dad pulled up. He was cold, even in his
sweatshirt; he'd gained maybe five pounds in the hospital but the skin still
clung tight to his bones.
He and his dad didn't talk much on the way home but as they pulled up in front
of the house, his dad put a hand on Stiles' knee and said, "I want you to
promise me you'll stay out of the woods today, all right?"
Stiles nodded. He hadn't bothered to tell his dad that the guy they were
looking for lay comatose in the hospital, and had been for almost six years.
And he wasn't planning on going into the woods anyway - not today, at any rate.
He needed more information before confronting the Derek that lurked in the
woods.
"All right," his dad said. "You get inside and have some lunch. I'll be back at
six."
"You want something?" Stiles asked carefully. "I thought I'd make soup."
His father shifted in his seat, then smiled like Stiles offered him a rare
treat. "Half an hour won't hurt. What kind of soup?"
Stiles made chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. He was careful to eat
everything, aware that his dad was watching him, trying to hide his concern.
After they ate, his father patted him on the shoulder and Stiles watched him
drive off into the trees. He gave his dad a ten minute head start before
snagging the keys to the SUV - he wasn't quite feeling up to riding his bike
around yet.
Stiles drove into town, watching carefully for any sign of his dad, but he made
it to the town hall without incident and spilled out of the car, almost falling
in his hurry. He knew, from careful investigation, that the basement of the
town hall held not only the town records, but a caged-off area held archives
from the police station - everything older than five years, which meant there'd
be information on the fire.
"Hi," Stiles said, plastering a fake smile on his face as he addressed the old
woman behind the counter. "I'm doing a project for school and need to look at
some old tax records. Could I get into the basement?"
The old clerk was only too happy to let him downstairs. She showed him the room
where the records were kept and Stiles smiled and waited for her to disappear
back upstairs before trotting off down the hallway. He found the room he needed
around the next turn, labeled with a sign on the door that said Police
Personnel Only. Unauthorized Entry Punishable By Law.
"I'm police by relation," Stiles muttered, slipping his hand into his pocket
and pulling out a set of keys. He'd grabbed them out of his dad's jacket while
he was in the bathroom after lunch. Stiles felt bad about using his dad to get
at his keys, but Derek's soul was hanging in the balance, and it wasn't like
he'd broken his promise to his dad. He hadn't asked for the records, and he
wasn't hacking into the system. He was just…cheating a little.
Stiles slipped into the room, flicking on the overhead light as he did. The
room was cool and smelled of old paper and dust, lined with rows and rows of
shelves. All the evidence was kept at the station, but all old reports were
kept here, locked inside a metal cage.
Stiles used the second, smaller key to get into the cage, carefully shutting
the door behind him. The newest files were on the far wall, paper folders
brighter, not yet yellowed by age and damp. It didn't take Stiles long to find
the papers on the Hale fire; there were several thick folders bound with rubber
bands that crumbled when he touched them. He pulled the folders off the shelf
and settled onto the floor, careful to make sure he was out of sight of the
door just in case someone else came in.
Stiles set the folders in front of him; there were three, all fat with
information. One was full of crime scene photos and Stiles set that aside, not
needing to see the charred faces of the people who'd once lived in his house.
The other two, though, were packed full of crime scene information, witness
interview transcripts, medical examiner reports, and a plethora of other
information. He sat on the hard cement floor for hours, learning all he could.
He met Derek's family, a small photo attached to a page on each Hale. His
father was unfamiliar - though Derek had his nose and high cheekbones - but his
mom, Talia, was the woman Stiles had seen in the house, who soothed him after
his panic attack. Derek's uncle, Peter, was the man with the goatee Stiles had
seen in the kitchen. Derek talked about him sometimes - he was the one who'd
hung the rope swing at the pond. Derek's two younger siblings, the twins Cora
and Michael, were probably the kids Stiles heard laughing in the backyard.
It hurt to see them all laid out before him. They reminded him of his mom, her
loss hanging heavy in his heart. He wondered if maybe it would be better if
Derek never woke up, because their loss would be more painful than any bodily
injury. But then he thought, no, because there was Laura, too, and to have lost
her family and have her only remaining sibling trapped inside his own body -
that was the worst. And Stiles, selfishly, wanted Derek awake, wanted to know
him as a real person.
Because Derek was going to wake up; Stiles was determined to find the solution.
He had it in his head that if he figured out who had killed Derek's family that
it might be enough to settle his soul, send it back to his body. As Stiles
poured through the evidence, though, it became clear that the sheriff's
department had struggled to finger any suspects. The first interview they had
was with the sheriff Chris Argent himself, already under investigation for
assaulting Derek, but he had a solid alibi. The next interview made his stomach
twist, for it was with Kate Argent. Derek had said he, his parents, and Chris
and Kate Argent were the only ones who knew about his involvement with Kate and
she didn't seem to be a suspect. She… Stiles' eyes widened as he read through
the interview with a Deputy Thompson.
Deputy Dale Thompson: What's your relationship with the Hale family?
Katherine Argent: I work as a substitute at the high school. I've taught
classes with the two older children, Derek and Laura.
DT: And are you aware of the allegations against your brother?
KA: That he allegedly assaulted Derek Hale? Yes.
DT: Teachers at the school say you seemed close with Derek. Can you tell me
about your relationship with him?
KA: He's a sweet kid. Doesn't have a lot of friends. He'd hang around on my
lunch break, talk. I think he had a little crush on me.
Stiles gritted his teeth, stomach churning. He could just imagine Kate sitting
there, laughing pityingly at Derek's "little crush." She said she loved me,
Derek’s voice whispered in his head and he bit his lip until he tasted blood.
DT: Has his behavior ever concerned you?
KA: What do you mean?
DT: Has he ever had any outbursts in class? Does he have a temper? Has he ever
fought with other students?
KA: Why? Do you think he had something to do with this?
DT: I can't answer that. Please answer the question.
KA: He can be emotional. He gets frustrated easily. Lately it seemed as though
there was something bothering him, but he wouldn't talk to me about it.
DT: When was the last time you spoke with him?
KA: Maybe two months ago? He transferred to Saint Germaine and I haven’t seen
him since.
It was you! Stiles wanted to shout. You fucking did it to him. He angrily
flipped through more interviews - kids at the school, family friends - and his
stomach sank as he realized that a lot of the questions - a vast majority,
actually - were about Derek. Derek. Derek was their one and only suspect.
That couldn't be true though, right? Derek was good and kind and - Stiles bit
his lip. The Derek he'd met in the forest was good and kind, but how well did
he really know him? Sometimes people just broke, and if the thing with Kate -
if it had really happened - had pushed him too far? He could see why the police
suspected him; Derek was the only family member who hadn't been shot, the only
one to make it out of the house. All the interviews painted him as quiet but
troubled. It didn’t look promising.
The last interview in the folder was with Laura Hale.
DT: How's your brother doing?
LH: Okay. The doctors say the smoke damage to his lungs was minimal. He should
be able to breathe on his own soon.
DT: I'm glad to hear it.
LH: Thank you.
DT: Did you talk to your brother in the days before the fire?
LH: A couple of days before. Friday, I think.
DT: And how did he seem?
LH: I - distracted, I guess.
DT: Was something wrong?
LH: I'm not sure. I think something was going on, but he wouldn't talk to me
about it.
DT: You have no idea at all? Something family related, maybe?
LH: I don't know. Everyone was kind of quiet. My mom - wait, why are you asking
about Derek?
DT: That's irrelevant. Please answer the question.
LH: No. Oh my god. You think he did it.
DT: I can't -
LH: This is fucking unbelievable!
DT: Miss Hale, sit do -
LH: My family's dead and you expect me to believe my baby brother did this?
Fuck you! Fuck –
Interview ended 13:16 March 26, 2007.
-
Stiles was unable to get into the woods that weekend. Allison and Scott hung
around the house, watching him like a hawk. Stiles didn't mind; it gave him a
chance to sit and think things over. His mind stuck on the information he'd
learned from the police records, churning through it over and over. He sat on
the couch in the living room, staring absently out at the backyard while he
thought about Derek. Derek being behind everything made sense on the surface
but when Stiles really thought about it, it didn't add up. Derek loved his
family; he complained about his siblings and parents, but everyone did that.
His parents were supporting him after Kate and he seemed grateful for their
support. Stiles couldn't think of any reason why he'd snap and shoot them all.
He jumped when Allison sat down on the couch next to him. "Sorry," she said
apologetically. "You okay? You're off in another world today."
"I'm fine," Stiles replied automatically. He'd thought about telling Allison
about the two Dereks but was hesitant to do so. She was already worried about
his sanity and he wanted Derek's side of things first. Stiles tried to smile
when she still looked uncertain. "Really, Allie," he said. "I'm feeling a
thousand times better."
He was, really; he'd gotten a few solid nights of sleep and he'd remembered to
eat (always under the watchful eye of his sister or dad). His head felt more
clear than it had in a while.
"Okay," Allison agreed, but stayed on the couch with him until Scott wandered
in and then the three of them watched a movie together.
He saw the woman in his room that night, standing by the window after he came
out of the shower. "Talia," he said out loud, reminding himself of her name.
Derek's mother. He could see the familial resemblance now, her dark hair and
pale eyes and thin lips. She turned when he said her name, inclining her head
with a soft smile.
"Do you know you're dead?" Stiles asked her. He'd done some reading on his
phone while in the hospital, researching ghosts and incorporeal states. It
seemed like a common problem with ghosts was that they weren't aware they were
dead and thus couldn't move on to the afterlife. What did that mean for Derek?
He wasn't dead - could his soul move back to his body?
Talia inclined her head again, her smile fading. Stiles breathed in deep. "Do
you know who killed you?"
She shook her head, looking sorrowful. Stiles sighed; he should have expected
that. "Derek's alive," he told her carefully. "Did you know that?"
Talia shook her head again, a sad smile on her face.
"He's stuck," Stiles said. "In the woods. His body's in the hospital, but his
spirit's out in the forest. What do I need to do to save him?"
Talia spread her hands helplessly. I don’t know. Stiles sighed again. "Worth a
shot," he said. "Thanks anyway."
-
Stiles returned to school on Monday, attracting himself a large number of
curious looks. It was a small town; news traveled fast that one of the students
had gone missing, only to be found unconscious in the middle of the preserve.
Everyone wanted to know what he'd been doing out in the woods. Stiles certainly
wasn't going to admit he'd been getting his dick sucked by a ghost, and at
lunch time Scott told him that most people seemed to have decided it was drugs,
because why else would a healthy young man pass out in the middle of the woods?
Stiles sighed, not sure which answer was worse.
Drugs, it turned out, because the administration heard the rumors and he was
pulled out of his math class in the middle of the afternoon to go have a talk –
an intervention, really – with the school's guidance counselor, Ms. Morrell.
Stiles sat and listened to her talk about wise choices and health and told her
that his dad was the sheriff, thanks, and he'd already ordered a blood test
done at the hospital, which Stiles had passed with flying colors. Ms. Morrell
looked faintly disappointed and Stiles had to wonder just how boring it was to
be a small town high school's guidance counselor.
Stiles took his time walking back to class. He walked past a display case of
trophies he'd passed a thousand times before skidding to a halt and stepping
back to stare up into the case. There was a small framed picture up on the top
shelf he'd never noticed before - a photo of Derek in lacrosse gear, beaming at
the camera and looking utterly carefree. Tucked into the corner of the frame
was a clipping from the newspaper written by - yep - Kate Argent, headlined
Homecoming game dedicated to injured student. Stiles' eyes slid to Derek's
chest, to the number fifteen emblazoned there. Holy shit. He remembered the
principal at homecoming, his words, "And tonight we dedicate this homecoming
game, as we do every year, to player fifteen, D—” He would have said Derek’s
name. Scott had interrupted his speech, distracting Stiles with some kind of
question, but if he had paid just a little more attention, he could have
figured this out a month ago.
Stiles groaned. He really was thick sometimes.
-
Allison stayed late at school that evening to work on the newspaper, giving
Stiles his first opportunity to head into the woods to talk to Derek. He walked
slowly though, worried about what to say and how Derek might react. Did he know
he was in limbo? What if he got angry? Ghosts grew more powerful when they got
angry, he knew from his research. Or what if Derek didn't believe him? Stiles
knew how crazy the whole thing sounded; he'd repeated it to himself enough
times in his head to be very aware of that.
He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or turn tail and run when he found Derek
sitting on the rock in the clearing, misery clouding his face.
"Stiles," Derek croaked when he spotted him, clambering to his feet. "I'm so
fucking sorry. I don't know what happened. I called 911, but I think there's
something wrong with your phone because the lady couldn't hear me, and I stayed
here, I swear, but your dad came and it was like he couldn't see me, and I - "
"Whoa," Stiles said, holding up his hands placatingly. "It's okay, dude. They
found me. It's not your fault."
Derek bit his lip, looking wretched. "Are you okay, though?" he asked. "You
went white as a ghost and kind of just keeled over."
"I'm fine," Stiles said soothingly. "Just hadn't been eating enough. C'mon, sit
with me." He settled down on the rock, patting the stone invitingly. Derek sat
after a moment's hesitation, nearly vibrating with worry. Stiles wondered why
he didn't notice the cool air rolling off him before, or the way he wore the
same shirt and shorts every day, regardless of weather. "Can I ask you a
question?"
"Of course," Derek immediately replied.
"Okay," Stiles said slowly. "Okay. Um. What'd you have for dinner last night?"
Derek frowned at him. "What? Why?"
"Just tell me," Stiles insisted.
"I - " Derek frowned up at the trees. Stiles watched his face as he thought,
seconds ticking by. Derek's frown twisted into a look of confusion. "I don't
remember."
Stiles exhaled. "All right. What'd you learn at school today?"
Derek bit his lip, teeth worrying at his skin. Stiles could see worry creeping
into his eyes. "I - I can't remember," he said eventually. "I went to school
today. I did, I know I did. I just - " he turned to look at Stiles, panic in
his expression. "I don't remember being there."
"Derek," Stiles said carefully. "Why is it that, when I tried calling your
house, I got a message saying the number had been disconnected?"
"I - That's not true," Derek said forcefully, his voice high with panic. The
edges of him were starting to vibrate violently. "That's not true!"
Stiles swallowed and pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Derek's
number, carefully entering the digits so Derek could see they'd been put in
correctly, and hit call. They listened to the recorded voice and Derek reared
back in horror.
"No!" he said vehemently, his whole body jittering like static on a television.
"No!"
"Derek," Stiles said, but Derek was just gone, vanishing into the air without
another sound. Stiles stared at the place where he'd sat, his heart pounding in
his chest. "Derek?" he called, but there was no response.
Stiles sat in the clearing until the sun passed below the trees, worrying
building inside him. Derek didn't come back and Stiles worried that he'd done
something horrible. That couldn't have been enough to send him back to his body
- right?
His father was home by the time Stiles returned to the house. He gave Stiles a
dark look. "You weren't where I think you were, right?"
Stiles licked his lips uneasily. "Maybe?"
"Stiles," his dad said angrily, "I told you to stay out of the woods - "
"On Friday," Stiles argued desperately. "I promised to stay out of the woods on
Friday."
"Don't be smart; you know what I meant," his father said flatly. "You're
grounded. Get your ass upstairs."
Stiles glowered and stomped up to his bedroom. He did his homework angrily,
barely able to concentrate on the math work he'd missed in class that
afternoon, mind whirling, full of concern for Derek. The moment he heard
Allison, then his dad go to bed, Stiles was out his bedroom window, skidding
down the porch roof and landing on the front lawn with a heavy thump. He
grabbed his bike and sped off down the driveway, skimming through the dark
trees. The forest seemed extra dark that night, more threatening than it had
seemed in a long time, but Stiles ignored the hovering gloom, pedaling
furiously into town.
He locked his bike up in front of the hospital and slipped inside. He made it
up to the fifth floor without being waylaid. A nurse came down the hall just as
he reached Derek's door and he scrambled inside - safe! - only to smack right
into Laura Hale.
"You!" she said furiously. "I told you - "
"Is he awake?" Stiles interrupted breathlessly. He could feel his hands
starting to shake; the physical exertion of biking to the hospital was already
catching up to him.
"What?" Laura frowned, caught off guard. "No! Who the hell are you?"
"Stiles," he said, trying to look around her to see Derek. Laura moved to block
him. "I'm the sheriff's son - the new sheriff, not Chris Argent!" Stiles added
hurriedly, seeing her expression darken.
Her face didn't lighten, though some clarity came into her eyes. "You moved
into our house."
"Yeah," Stiles said quietly.
"And you're interested in my brother why?" she demanded. "You think you're some
kind of junior detective who can see what the police couldn't?"
"You really like jumping to conclusions, don't you?" Stiles snapped. Weirdly,
this seemed to relax Laura a little. She nearly smiled - Stiles recognized that
look of hidden amusement from Derek. Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets
to keep them from juddering all over the place. Laura was still watching him,
though, waiting for an answer. Stiles scuffed a sneaker against the tile floor
and decided to take the plunge. He didn't know Laura, and he had no idea how
she'd react, but her knowing couldn't hurt, right? He took a deep breath and
said, "You're Laura, right? Derek told me you kept People magazines under your
mattress because you didn't want anyone to know you read them."
"I did!" Laura said, her face lighting up. "I'd totally forgotten! How did you
- " Her tone changed abruptly, eyes narrowing. "Who the fuck told you that?"
"Derek," Stiles repeated, and launched into a carefully worded explanation of
everything he'd seen in the last two months, starting with his first encounter
with Derek in the field. He didn't tell Laura everything - he said nothing
about Derek's relationship with Kate Argent, or his own relationship with him,
but he did tell Laura about the ghosts he'd seen in the house, and about the
evidence he'd found in the police archives. To his surprise, Laura watched him
talk silently, arms folded over her chest, making no effort to interrupt.
When he finished, however, ending with his experience in the field with Derek
just a few hours earlier and how he'd come running to the hospital to see if
Derek had awoken, Laura stared at him for a long moment before saying, "I'm
calling security."
Stiles threw up his arms in frustration. "I'm not lying!"
"Sure," Laura agreed, "but you've clearly escaped from some kind of ward and
you should probably get back."
Stiles heaved a sigh. "What do I have to do to prove it to you?" he asked.
Laura spread her arms, a sardonic expression on her face. "Conjure him up," she
said. "Show me my brother."
"I can't do that," Stiles said irritably. "First of all, I'm not a magician,
and second - I think he's trapped in the woods. That's where they found him,
right?"
Laura's face softened, but her mouth remained firm. "I think you need to
leave," she said.
"Fine," Stiles sighed, stepping toward the door. He paused with his hand on the
handle. "The police think he did it," he told Laura. "What's going to happen
when he wakes up? I can solve this; I know I can."
"It doesn't matter," Laura said quietly. "He's never waking up." Stiles stopped
and she turned her head to look at him, tears shining in her eyes. "Don't
fucking talk to me about ghosts," she said fiercely. "Don't talk to me about
hope. Derek's all I have left and there is nothing inside him. Nothing."
"I'll prove you wrong," Stiles said, his voice wavering, and he pushed out of
the room, leaving Laura staring after him.
He biked home slower than he'd came, his heart aching. The loss on Laura's
face, the intense grief and sadness there - it was painfully familiar. He rode
through the dark woods, darkness pressing down on his shoulders, and tried not
to give in to the despair curling around his heart. Stiles made it home,
slipping noiselessly through the front door and up the stairs before collapsing
into the cradle of his bed. He shoved his face into his pillow and cried,
overwhelmed and scared for Derek, scared for Laura.
-
That night, Stiles dreamt of the forest. He stood alone in the empty woods, no
Kate, no Derek, no sound of his mother's voice calling him. The shadows fell
around him, swallowing him whole.
-
Stiles didn't remember school the next day. He remembered arriving and he
remembered walking from class to class on automatic, all of his thoughts
consumed by Derek. He didn't go to lacrosse practice; he'd been kicked off the
team for missing too many practices and he wasn't supposed to be doing a lot of
physical stuff anyway. He didn't really care he was off the team - it wasn't
like he'd gotten to play in any games anyway - and now he had time after school
to go see Derek.
"Okay," Stiles said, as Allison pulled up to the house after school. "I know
Dad probably asked you to keep an eye on me, and I know I'm supposed to be
grounded, but I have to go to the clearing."
Allison watched him for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip. "Something
important is going on," she said, not a question, but Stiles nodded anyway.
"Yeah," he said. "I promise I'll explain what's going on, but I need to get out
there before Dad comes home."
Allison looked at the dashboard clock. "You've got an hour," she said finally.
"Dad will be home at five. If you're not back by then, I'm not covering for
you, but if he asks if you left while I was gone, I won't say anything."
"Allie," Stiles sighed, relief flooding through him."Thank you."
She smiled grimly. "You have to tell me what's going on," she said.
"I will," Stiles agreed, scrambling out of the car. "I promise."
He jogged through the trees. When he reached the clearing it was empty but it
didn’t…feel empty. Maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he could sense
something in the air, a faint vibration that set his teeth on edge and his skin
pimpling into goosebumps.
“Derek?” Stiles whispered. The forest lay still and quiet around him, no birds
singing, no insects buzzing. He thought he heard a sigh and twisted around but
the air was empty. Or – was it? He pushed a hand through the air and his
fingers brushed through a patch of air that sent his body jerking backward like
he’d received an electrical shock. The air seemed to condense at his touch,
darkening, forming a humanoid shape before him. The sight of it sent Stiles’
whole body shuddering but he knew it had to be Derek and he reached for it
again. His fingers couldn’t quite close around its vague arm but he felt it,
cold air under his hands, and he felt the moment he made contact, electricity
skipping up his arm, jangling through his bones.
He’d felt it before, he realized, holding on grimly as the shape beneath his
hand flickered and continued to solidify. Every time he’d touched Derek in the
past he’d felt that same feeling sparking up his fingertips. He’d thought it
was nerves, the excitement of touching Derek, but now he realized it was Derek
himself. Derek did something to him, pulled something from him. Maybe – Stiles’
eyes widened as features formed on the figure’s face, strong cheekbones and
pale eyes. He could feel the energy rushing from him, a hundred times stronger
than he’d ever felt it, and he had to pull his hand away while Derek was still
see-through, close to fainting. Derek pulled the life from him to make himself
solid. No wonder he’d fucking fainted. He sat down on the rock, limbs shaking.
“Stiles,” Derek said, and his voice sounded as though it came from far away,
heard over an old radio, echoing and faint. His face was pale, frantic. “What’s
going on? What’s happening to me?”
Stiles took a deep, steadying breath. “Derek,” he said gently, “look, this is
going to sound crazy, but you’re not – you’re not really here.”
Derek stared at him, his mouth falling open. Stiles took another deep breath
and said, “There was a fire at your house. You made it out…but your family
didn’t.”
“What?” Derek asked hoarsely. “What – Stiles. Is this a joke?”
Stiles bit his lip at the look on Derek’s face, at the transparent tear that
spilled over his dark lashes and went slipping down his cheek. “It’s not,”
Stiles said quietly. “I live there – in your house. It’s been five years,
Derek. Your body’s in the hospital.”
“That can’t be true,” Derek whispered, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “It
can’t be. My family – who did it? How did it happen?”
Stiles hesitated before telling Derek everything he’d been able to find out
about the case. Derek stared at him as he spoke, fresh tears sliding down his
face every time he blinked. The slow horror of belief dawned over his features;
Stiles was in the middle of explaining his research in the police archive when
Derek sank to the grass and buried his face in his knees, his shoulders
shaking. Stiles stopped talking and slipped off the rock, landing in the grass
next to Derek. He couldn’t keep his hand on him for long – the minute he
touched his hand to Derek’s shoulder blades he could feel the energy seeping
from him, aching like a toothache – but he stayed as long as he could.
“I saw Laura last night,” Stiles told him, pressing his forehead against
Derek’s shoulder. “She didn’t believe me when I told her about you.”
“She wouldn’t,” Derek said without lifting his head, letting out a miserable,
muffled laugh. “My mom always said she had no imagination.”
“Do you remember anything?” Stiles asked carefully. “About that night?”
Derek exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to the sky. “I…I remember eating dinner.
Laura wasn’t there – she was at school. Cora was mad at Michael because he kept
kicking her under the table. Mom sent them both to bed early.” Derek’s eyes
welled with fresh tears, shining in the afternoon sunlight. “I remember working
on homework and going to bed, and then – being here. Seeing you.”
Stiles squeezed Derek’s arm before he finally had to let go, his hands shaking.
Derek looked even more distressed but Stiles shook his head. “I’m okay,” he
said. “And I’m sorry, Derek, for everything that happened.”
“I just – I don’t understand,” Derek murmured, wiping at his cheeks. “Why
anyone would do that do us.”
“I don’t know,” Stiles replied softly, “but I’m going to find out. I promise.”
He watched Derek cross his arms over his knees, the tears on his cheeks drying
slowly in the late afternoon sunlight. Stiles’ heart ached for him.
“I guess this makes sense,” Derek said after a while. “I kept – remember how I
said I don’t dream? I – I think that I only exist here when you’re here. The
only thing that I can remember – for days – is just you and that darkness.”
“I’ll come back as often as I can,” Stiles assured him, heart clenching. “Dad
grounded me but I – shit!” He glanced at the time on his phone as he spoke; it
was already four forty-five. His dad would be home in fifteen minutes. “I have
to go, but I’ll be back, I promise, okay?”
Derek nodded miserably as Stiles scrambled to his feet. He hesitated, then
pressed a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek before taking off through the woods.
Stiles tore across the front lawn thirty seconds before his dad’s cruiser came
up through the woods; he was inside by the time his dad drew within sight of
the house. Allison was watching television in the living room; she gave him a
reproachful look as he peeled past.
“You’re late,” she said pointedly.
“I know!” Stiles panted, tearing up the stairs. “I’m sorry!”
He made it to his room before his father came inside the house, was in the
shower by the time his dad knocked on the door.
“Stiles?”
“Hey!” Stiles called back, grateful the sound of the water would muffle his
voice, cover how out of breath he was.
“You okay?”
“Peachy!”
There came a long pause. “All right,” his father said eventually, and Stiles
heard him shut the bedroom door behind him.
When Stiles came downstairs, hair still damp, he found his father and Allison
standing in the kitchen, looking disconsolate.
“Why the long faces?” he asked.
“Something’s wrong with the fridge,” his father replied. “All the food’s
spoiled.”
Stiles looked around automatically. “Peter,” he muttered, and his father
frowned.
“What’s that?”
“Peter, I said,” Stiles said, a little too loudly. “He’s the dude that haunts
the kitchen.”
His father and Allison exchanged unreadable looks. Stiles wanted to stick his
tongue out at them.
“Do you want me to go to town and grab something? You just got home; I don’t
mind going.”
“If you would,” his dad sighed. Nothing to say about the ghosts? Stiles
frowned. His father turned, riffling through the drawer by the stove, where
they kept a growing pile of take-out menus. He offered them to Stiles. “Here.
If you’re going to go pick it up, you can choose what we eat.”
They settled on Indian. The sheriff called in the order and Stiles hopped onto
his bike and rode into town. He wouldn’t deny that he was trying to take his
mind off things – Derek, specifically – for a little while. It was wearing on
him and he wasn’t eager to end up in the hospital again.
His hopes were dashed when he walked into the restaurant and found Kate Argent
leaning against the counter. She turned when he came in, a slow smile spreading
across her face. Stiles pretended not to recognize her and sat down at a table
to wait for his food. He could feel Kate’s eyes on him – maybe he was ignoring
her a little too plainly, but he really, really did not want to talk to her,
now or ever.
“You were at the newspaper office,” Kate said eventually. Stiles couldn’t
pretend she was talking to someone else; they were the only two customers in
the restaurant. He looked up at her, a dark look on his face, and she smiled.
“How’d your project turn out?”
“Fine,” Stiles said shortly. His tone booked no invitation but Kate ignored it
completely; she sauntered over and sat down on the other side of the table. He
caught the way she looked him up and down, her look predatory. It took
everything in him not to cross his arms over his chest.
“You know,” Kate said, “if you ever need help in the future, I’m available for
tutoring.”
Stiles wanted to puke; all the insinuation was there, no sugarcoating. She
might as well have said I’ll fuck your brains out, little boy, for how blatant
she was being. He thought of Derek, miserable. She said she loved me. Rage
curled in his stomach, burning and harsh.
“No thanks,” Stiles said bluntly, anger making him bold. “I’d rather get a
blowjob from a shark than fuck your ancient cunt.”
Kate sat back in her chair, blinking like she’d been slapped. A smile spread
across her face, slow and not at all friendly. “Careful, hon,” she said.
“You’re on fire tonight.”
“You think?” Stiles retorted, scrambling to his feed as the man behind the
counter called out his name. “Did you say that to Derek too?”
Kate’s face went blank and Stiles dived for the counter, slapping a twenty down
on the polished wood before making a break for the door. He chanced a glance
over his shoulder as he pushed outside; Kate stared after him, her face white
and furious.
Stiles was halfway home, shaking with adrenaline, surrounded in a gentle cloud
of cardamom and curry, when Kate’s words hit him. You’re on fire tonight. On
fire. Fire.
“Shit!” Stiles exclaimed, nearly running himself off the road. Why hadn’t he
suspected it before? Kate and Derek – what if Kate had been the one to set the
fire? He pedaled furiously, trying to remember what the records had said about
her. Had she given an alibi for that night? Had she even been considered a
suspect? “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles muttered as he sped along the side of the
road in the darkening gloom. He’d had to go to the town hall after school.
Maybe he could skip Econ. Finstock would blow a gasket, but he could suck it.
The road was quiet at this time of night. Not a lot of people lived on this
side of town, toward the preserve. He could hear, peripherally, a car coming up
behind him, driving fast, but it was probably some kids from the high school,
some goons in a pick-up truck driving fast on a – what was today? Tuesday?
Stiles couldn’t keep track of his days any more. Still, they were going fast.
Stiles twisted to look over his shoulder and saw a massive black SUV bearing
down on him, riding right on the shoulder. He didn’t even have time to swear
before it smashed into him with a crunch of metal. He went flying into the
field beyond the road, pinwheeling through the air. It seemed to happen in slow
motion; he had time to note the land, the sky, the land, and the sky again
before he smacked into the ground, flat on his back, and the world went black.
-
For the second time in a month, Stiles opened his eyes to find himself in a
hospital. It sunk in faster this time; the white ceiling and bland walls, the
beep of machines around him. His mom wasn’t there that time, which was mildly
disappointing. There was no one in the room with him; the door was closed,
curtains drawn. He lifted tired eyes to the clock on the wall. Four twenty-six.
In the morning? The golden light creeping around the edges of the curtains
seemed to suggest otherwise.
Time to assess. Stiles shut his eyes again. His head hurt; it felt like there
was a steel band wrapped around his temples, and it was making a valiant effort
to squeeze his brains out through his ears. His chest felt much the same; way
too tight. He had to take shallow breaths in order to avoid stabbing pain. His
right arm felt stiff and foreign; he opened his eyes to peek at it and found it
wrapped in a cast. On top of all this was a multitude of aches and pains all
over.
Not panicking was the important thing, he thought, taking slow breaths. If he
had a panic attack at that moment, he felt like his head might actually split
apart. Just stay calm and try to think. What had happened? How had he ended up
in the hospital again? He remembered cycling into town. He remembered talked to
Kate Argent at the take-out place, and he remembered – nothing. Stiles’ brow
furrowed. He remembered talking to Kate. He remembered saying something about a
fire – or had Kate been the one talk about fire? Fuck.
Stiles took a deep breath – as deep as he could with his lungs aching like they
were – as memories came ricocheting back to him. Kate hitting on him. Kate
saying you’re on fire. A big car barreling down the road toward him. It had
been Kate who set the fire, he was almost sure of it; he just needed the
evidence to bring to his dad. He needed to get to the town hall and – Stiles’
eyes shot open to look at the clock. He needed to get to the town hall and it
was already four-thirty and they closed at six. He needed to get out of here.
Stiles couldn’t wait around for his dad to show up, or a doctor to come tell
him what was wrong with him. He struggled out of bed, his entire body
protesting the move, yanking drip lines out of his arms. His clothes sat folded
on a chair next to the bed and he struggled to get them on. Getting his
sweatshirt over his cast was a challenge, but he managed, eventually, though
not before he noted the reddish-brown blood stains smeared across it. His phone
sat on his bedside table, but the screen was shattered and it didn’t turn on
when he tried it, so Stiles left it, toeing on his sneakers and heading for the
door.
The floor was quiet; the nurses were off getting the meals ready for dinner,
and no one else was about. Stiles slipped off down the hall and took a flight
of stairs down to the first floor, where he slithered out a side entrance and
disappeared into the golden sunlight.
It was nearing five by the time he reached the town hall; he couldn’t move fast
with his lungs hurting the way they were, and when he got to the building his
head was pounding so hard he had to lean against the brick and retch at the
pain. It did not help his head any.
The old woman behind the desk looked extremely concerned when he appeared. “Are
you all right, hon?”
“Fine,” Stiles smiled, though she was in fact splitting in two, her form
wavering all over the place. He blinked determinedly. “I’m in a play.”
“Oh!” she said, like that explained everything. “How can I help you, then?”
“Just need to do a little research,” he replied, clutching at the wooden
counter so he wouldn’t keel over sideways. “Tax records. You know.”
“Follow me,” the old woman said briskly, and led him down into the basement.
Before she left him, though, she turned and said, “Just so you know, we close
in an hour.”
“I know,” Stiles said wearily. “Thank you.”
She smiled and said, “That is just the most convincing makeup,” before
disappearing upstairs. Stiles stopped smiling and slipped off down the hall. He
was almost to the door of the records room when he realized he didn’t have the
keys this time. He glowered balefully at the Police Personnel Only sign on the
door. He didn’t have time for this.
“Fuck it,” Stiles muttered, and turned back down the hall. A brick held the
door to the tax room open and he picked it up. The sound it made smashing
through the small window of the records room was highly satisfying, though
Stiles stood still for a few long moments afterward, making sure he hadn’t been
heard. When he was satisfied he was safe, Stiles slipped inside. The door to
the cage was a little trickier, but it soon succumbed to repeated blows from
the brick. Stiles panted as he walked down the row of shelves. His head really
hadn’t liked all of that exertion, and it took a lot of concentration to find
the folders on the Hale fire again.
Stiles flipped through the pages, breathing heavily, squinting until he found
an information sheet on Kate Argent. Alibi, he read, Kate Argent had dinner at
Micucci’s Eatery with her brother, Sheriff Christopher Argent, the night of the
fire.
Stiles frowned. Had it been verified, though? What had Chris said? He flipped
through the folder until he found the old sheriff’s statement. I had dinner
with Victoria Hayes at Micucci’s from eight to ten. Underneath that was a
statement from the investigating detective corroborating Chris’s alibi – a
hostess and a waiter at the restaurant confirmed he’d been there . So why had
Kate’s alibi gone unverified? Why had no one noticed the lie? Had the detective
heard Micucci’s and assumed Kate had been part of the dinner date? Stiles
groaned. He sincerely hoped that Detective Dale Thompson had been one of the
crooked cops who’d been fired for taking bribes, because he was fucking
incompetent. Even if Kate had never been a suspect, someone should had noticed!
Stiles slammed the folder shut. This was good, but not good enough. He needed
proof. He needed – he needed to talk to Chris Argent, he realized. Of all
people, he’d know what his sister had been up to. He’d talk – he had to. Stiles
had trouble believing anyone would want to help someone who’d killed five
people and landed a sixth in a coma. Unless Chris had had something to do with
it, but Stiles pushed that possibility aside. He just needed to figure out
where Chris lived and – Stiles’ head came up, a bright smile passing over his
lips. The tax room!
Shoving the folders down the front of his sweatshirt, Stiles abandoned the
records room and headed for the tax room. He thought of his dad as he stepped
over the broken glass from the window. He was probably going to be grounded for
life once his dad found out about this, but that was a risk Stiles was willing
to take if it got Derek back.
Chris Argent’s address was easy enough to find. Out of curiosity, Stiles looked
for Kate’s and found it was the same as Chris’s, which gave him pause. He’d
have to be careful; if Kate was home, he didn’t know if he’d be able to talk to
Chris. Kate had to know he knew something after the conversation they’d had
last night – he’d mentioned Derek to her, so she had to have her suspicions.
Stiles left the town hall, waving to the receptionist as he jogged out the
front door. His head still hurt, but his vision was clearing, and he’d started
breathing easier. It made the walk across town a lot more bearable.
He approached the Argent house carefully. Aided by the darkening sky, Stiles
was able to slip right up to the back of the house and peer cautiously through
the kitchen window. He saw Chris moving around inside. This was only the second
time Stiles had ever seen him; the first time had been in the grocery store,
and Stiles hadn’t really taken too good of a look at him. He was tall, slim, a
grim expression on his face even when he was relaxed – or at least, Stiles
assumed he was relaxed right now, pouring pasta through a strainer. He didn’t
really look like the type of dude who’d take bribes but then, looks could be
deceiving, Stiles supposed.
He watched through the windows for nearly fifteen minutes before coming to the
conclusion that Kate wasn’t home. It was dangerous to assume – she could easily
be upstairs, but he couldn’t stand around all night, so he moved around to the
front of the house and rang the doorbell.
When Chris opened the door, Stiles said, “Hi,” and Chris said nothing for a
long moment, his pale eyes looking Stiles up and down, taking in his bruised
face and the blood on his clothes. Stiles recognized that look; it was the cop
look. It was the look his father got every time he suspected Stiles of doing
something he shouldn’t have.
“Can I help you?” Chris asked eventually, tone cool.
“I need to talk to you,” Stiles replied promptly. “I’m – “
“The sheriff’s son,” Chris finished, his tone not changing. “He’s looking for
you.”
“What?” Stiles asked, dismayed. “He’s looking for me?”
Chris nodded slowly. “Heard it on the scanner. You snuck out of the hospital,
did you?”
“This is important,” Stiles said. “I really need to talk to you.”
“About?”
Stiles took a deep breath. “The Hale fire.”
Chris didn’t say anything for another long moment. He looked past Stiles, down
the street, pale eyes observing every car and house on the block. They finally
snapped back to Stiles and he said, “Come in.”
Stiles ducked inside past him, body vibrating with relief and nervous energy.
Chris shut the door and gestured toward the dining room, where the table was
set for one.
“You want to eat?” Chris asked and Stiles shook his head. Chris shrugged and
sat down at the table. “Ask me your questions, then.”
Stiles took another deep breath and pulled the folders out of his sweatshirt.
Chris raised an eyebrow at his unorthodox transportation methods, but said
nothing as Stiles laid them on the table. “I’m sure you’ve seen all of this,”
Stiles said, and Chris nodded slightly, spearing a forkful of rotini and
lifting it to his mouth. “Okay,” Stiles continued nervously, “um. And you –
your alibi for that night was confirmed.”
“Yes,” Chris said. He almost sounded amused, but there was a hint of impatience
in there that told Stiles he better get to the point.
“Okay,” Stiles said again. “So. Did you know that Kate – your sister – she gave
you as her alibi?”
Chris set down his fork very carefully; it didn’t make a noise against the
wood. “Excuse me?”
“Kate, she – she told the detective that she was with you the night of the
fire,” Stiles said, watching Chris apprehensively.
“What are you insinuating?”
That was such a cop move, to ask a question you already knew the answer to, but
Stiles bit. “I think she – she might have had something to do with it.”
Chris went silent for a long time, staring at Stiles with absolutely no trace
of emotion on his face. “You’ve got some spine,” he said eventually, when
Stiles’ palms were sweating. “Coming into my house and telling me that my
sister set that fire.”
“I’m just – “ Stiles swallowed dryly. “I’m just trying to figure out what
happened. Do you know where she was?”
“That was five years ago,” Chris said, abandoning his dinner to fold his arms
over his chest.
“That’s not an answer,” Stiles shot back. Chris smiled, but he didn’t look
amused. Stiles tried again. “Come on. Five people are dead and there’s another
in a coma. Don’t you think they deserve justice? If Kate did have something to
do with it – “
“Out,” Chris said, and Stiles’ head came up sharply. “Get out.”
“Please – “
Chris shook his head, getting to his feet. “You’re a kid – why should I sit
here and listen to your bullshit?”
“Because I know what she did to Derek!” Stiles snapped. “And I know what you
did to him!”
Chris went very still. Stiles continued, lowering his voice, “If you can sit
there and tell me that she didn’t have a single reason to go after him, go
ahead. And if you can tell me where she was, I’ll leave. But if not – “
“I don’t know,” Chris said flatly. “I never asked. I – I didn’t want to know.”
Stiles felt disgusted. “You’re a cop!”
“People can be stupid about family,” Chris snapped, but he sat back down at the
table, his mouth thin.
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed quietly, thinking about his dad and how Stiles had nearly
cost him his job.
Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh god,” he said quietly. “I never wanted
to think – that she had that in her.”
“You have to tell my dad,” Stiles said. Lives depend on it, he thought to
himself. A life. Derek’s life.
“Yes, I’ll – “ Chris’s head came up suddenly, his eyes going wide with shock.
“We need to go.”
“Huh?” Stiles blinked at the abrupt statement. “Why?”
“Because half an hour before you got here, Kate said she was heading out to do
a story on the house, and I didn’t think – “
“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, scrambling to his feet. “We gotta – oh my god,
Allison.”
Chris went racing out of the room and Stiles hobbled after him as fast as he
could. Chris didn’t say a word when Stiles climbed into the passenger seat of
his truck, just backed out of the driveway and roared off down the road. Stiles
stared desperately out the front window, trying not to panic.
“Call your father, get him to the house,” Chris snapped, breaking him out of
his thoughts. Stiles nodded frantically, patting his pockets before he
remembered.
“My phone – it’s at the hospital. It’s broken – “
Chris made an irritated noise and digs into his pocket to grab his own phone.
Stiles listened to him call the dispatcher.
“Meg, it’s Chris. I know, I know, but I’ve got the sheriff’s son and I need
backup at the old Hale house immediately. There’s been a break-in, possible
hostage situation – the suspect is my sister, Katherine Argent.”
Stiles bit his knuckles as they turned onto the dirt road into the forest,
listening to Chris argue with the dispatcher. Just before the road curved and
the house came into sight, Stiles breathed in raggedly because there was a
black SUV pulled to the side of the road and that –
“That’s Kate’s car,” Chris said sharply. “What is it?”
“That’s the car that hit me last night,” Stiles said, his breath coming in
short bursts. Chris smacked him in the shoulder.
“Don’t pass out on me,” he said. “Breathe.”
Stiles nodded, panting hollowly as the house came into sight. It wasn’t on
fire, which was a relief. It looked…normal. There were lights on in the kitchen
and the living room; even the porch light was on. Stiles groaned when he saw
Scott’s bike leaning up against the porch steps and said, at Chris’ questioning
look, “Allison’s boyfriend is here.”
Chris’s mouth went even grimmer, but he pulled right up to the porch. “No point
in tiptoeing around,” he said, climbing out of the car. A chill ran up the back
of Stiles’ neck when he saw Chris pull out a gun, but he followed, heart
pounding like a hammer in his chest. The front door was unlocked; Chris strode
right in, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight for the living room.
There, he stopped so abruptly that Stiles ran into his back, but when he peered
around Chris, he saw why.
Kate Argent stood in the middle of the living room, a thin smile quirking her
lips. Allison knelt on the floor in front of her, her cheeks stained with
tears. Kate had a gun to her head. Scott knelt next to Allison, his hand
clasped around hers.
“Chris!” Kate said. “What an unexpected surprise. And Stiles, sweetheart,” she
added, smiling amiably. “I heard you left the hospital, and I had to come see
if you were all right.”
“After you didn’t kill me last night, you mean?” Stiles snapped. “Fuck you.”
Chris gave him a sharp look and said to Kate, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” Kate shrugged. “Funny how time moves in
circles, hm? Seems like only yesterday I was standing in this same spot with
the Hales.”
“Kate,” Chris said firmly. “Let them go. They’re just kids.”
“She doesn’t care,” Stiles said bitterly. “Derek was just a kid and she lit him
on fire.”
“Sucked his cock, too, sweetheart,” Kate said with a laugh. “You teenagers are
so trusting. Like your sister and her boyfriend, here – only too happy to help
when I knocked on the door and said I’d gotten turned around in the preserve.”
She laughed again. “Your parents raised you right.”
“Why are you doing this?” Chris asked, his tone softening. He sounded almost
resigned. “Why did you kill the Hales?”
“Finally got there, huh?” Kate said approvingly. “Or was it Stiles? He’s got a
sharp head on his shoulders. Maybe he knows.”
“I - “ Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking. Allison looked up at him,
pleading, but he didn’t know what to do, just kept talking. Dad had to be on
his way. “Because of what you did. But he wasn’t going to tell anyone – “
“Wrong,” Kate sang. “You know, his mother saw me in the grocery store and told
me I was going to hell. That’s when I knew. And then I saw him at the
courthouse talking to the district attorney and, well – ”
“You’re fucking stupid!” Stiles snapped. “They were making a case against
Chris!”
Next to him, Chris started in surprise and Kate frowned.
“They were going to press assault charges,” Stiles said. “They were building
the case.”
“How do you know that?” Chris asked.
Kate blinked, and her smile came back like a light switch had been flicked on.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I saved an Argent from jail one way or another. No
one ever pressed charges.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Chris snapped, his face flushing with anger. “You killed five
innocent people so you wouldn’t go to jail because you couldn’t keep your hands
off a fucking teenager?”
“I never meant to kill anyone!” Kate snapped back, some of her glittery façade
cracking. “I was just – I was just going to shake them up a little, but then
that stupid Peter Hale thought he’d fight back and – well. Couldn’t go back
from there!”
Stiles felt sick. Chris looked nauseous. He opened his mouth to say something
when Kate’s eyes moved past them and they all heard it – sirens, headed their
direction.
“Chris,” Kate hissed. She shoved her gun forward, knocking against Allison’s
skull. Allison cried out in pain, but Chris was already moving, even as Kate
snarled his name, bringing his gun up and letting off a shot that struck her
square in the shoulder. She stumbled backward and Chris and Stiles both dived
forward – Chris to Kate and Stiles to Allison and Scott. Stiles threw his arms
around Allison, who burst into tears, clutching at his shoulders. Scott hovered
close, his face unusually pale, looking scared and bewildered.
By the time what looked like half the sheriff’s department came barreling
through the front door, Chris had Kate on her stomach, hands folded behind her
back. She was spitting with rage, the wound in her shoulder pumping blood onto
the hardwood floor. Stiles, Allison, and Scott stood in a tight group across
the room and when the sheriff came in, he ignored Kate entirely, crossing the
room in a few long strides, throwing his arms around his children. Stiles
clutched at the back of his jacket, breathing in the reassuring smell of him,
aftershave and whiskey and cotton. He tried not to think about how he’d almost
died, how Allison and Scott had almost died, how he’d brought this upon them by
digging up the past.
The next few hours were a blur. Stiles’ dad, shaky and pale under his tan, made
Stiles go back to the hospital. He had, he found out, not only a broken arm,
but a concussion and several broken ribs, which explained why it hurt to
breathe. The doctors were not at all pleased about his earlier escape, and
neither was his father, which was why there was a deputy posted outside his
hospital room. Another deputy came in some time later to get his statement and
Stiles had a hard time finding a way to explain how he’d known about any of
this to start with, because my boyfriend, who is a ghost or, at the very least,
incorporeal, told me was not an acceptable excuse.
Which made him think about Derek. They’d caught Kate. His father came in some
time after midnight to tell him that she’d admitted to most everything – and
that Chris had told them all he knew. So had it worked? Had Derek been returned
to his body? If there hadn’t been a deputy posted outside his room, he would
have snuck out to see. As it was, there was no way for him to tell.
When Stiles woke up in the morning, Allison was sitting next to his bed. She
was none the worse for wear – physically, at least – and when she saw he was
awake, she said primly, “You owe me an explanation.”
“Now?” Stiles groaned, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
“Now,” Allison said firmly.
Stiles sighed, but he had promised her. He told her everything from the
beginning; from the first time he’d seen Derek, to finding out about the Hales,
to the ghosts in the house, to Derek in the hospital – all of it. Allison
listened attentively, frowning slightly. When Stiles finished, she said, “Your
boyfriend is a ghost.”
Stiles sighed. “Is that all you got out of that?”
“No,” Allison said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I just find it kind of
hilarious that the first person to touch your dick was a ghost.”
Stiles groaned and Allison grinned. “I’m kidding! Kind of. Dad’s really proud
of you, though.”
Stiles perked up. “He is?”
Allison nodded. “You solved a five-year-old cold case! Of course, he’s really
pissed, too. Someone already told him about the break-in at the town hall.”
“Grounded for life, you think?” Stiles asked, his heart sinking.
“For the century, at least,” Allison agreed with a nod. Stiles sighed.
-
Stiles didn’t see his father all morning. Allison said he was busy at the
station. Stiles thought about Laura Hale and wondered if anyone had told her
yet. Allison, sensing his distress, tried to go upstairs to see Derek, but came
back with the discouraging news that the door to his room had been locked.
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” she said reassuringly. “Maybe it means he’s woken
up.”
“Or maybe they’re just giving him a sponge bath,” Scott put in helpfully. He
seemed to have bounced back quickly from the previous night’s trauma. He and
Allison had been hanging out in Stiles’ hospital room for the past few hours,
as the house was still being processed as a crime scene.
“Oh my god, why are you still here?” Stiles groaned, trying not to flush at the
idea of Derek getting a sponge bath; fuck his hormones. “Go to school or
something.”
“Mom said I could take the rest of the week off,” Scott said smugly. “I’m not
going anywhere.”
“Me too,” Allison piped.
They were being cheeky, but the smile faded from Stiles’ face. “I’m sorry,” he
said. “For last night.”
“It’s not your fault,” Allison shrugged.
“Well – it is, kind of,” Stiles said unhappily. “I mean, if I hadn’t started
digging around – “
“Hey,” Allison said, leaning over and putting a hand on his arm. “You did a
good thing, okay? Now Kate’s going to pay for what she did to us – and the Hale
family, and it’s all because of you. It was scary, sure, but you should be
proud. We’re proud of you. Dad’s proud of you. Mom – well. I’m sure she would
have been too.”
“You think so?” Stiles asked, his throat tightening.
“I know so,” Allison smiled.
Stiles was released a few hours later and the deputy who’d been standing
outside his room drove the three of them back to the Stilinski house, where
their father sat on the front steps looking exhausted, a cup of coffee in his
hands. He waved at his deputy and stood to greet them as they clambered out of
the squad car. Stiles slowed, letting Allison and Scott go before him. His
father hugged Allison and patted Scott on the back, stepping aside so they
could head inside the house.
His dad hadn’t said much when he came in to the hospital the evening before,
stayed long enough to kiss Stiles on the forehead and tell him that Kate had
confessed. There’d been too much going on for him to stay any longer. Now he
looked at Stiles, his face weary, and Stiles swallowed nervously.
“Dad,” he said. “I’m – “
“Come here,” his father said tiredly, holding open his arms. Stiles took a
hesitant step forward before jolting forward, crashing into his dad’s embrace.
It was gentle – his dad was taking care not to crush his broken ribs – but
firm. “I’m proud of you, son,” his dad murmured. “You saw what everyone
missed.”
Stiles blinked fiercely, fingers curling in the back of his dad’s jacket. “I
almost got Allison shot,” he mumbled, his throat burning.
“That’s not your fault,” his dad said firmly. “No one’s blaming you for that.
You put five souls to rest. That’s all that matters.”
Souls. Stiles tilted his head, looking up at the house. Was there anyone left
inside? Had he freed them?
“You thinking about your ghosts?” Stiles' father asked, letting his arms drop
to his sides as he stepped back. He glanced up at the house, blue eyes
calculating.
“They’re not my ghosts,” Stiles sighed. “But yeah, I am.”
“Well?” His dad gestured at the front door. “You going to go in?”
Stiles swallowed again. “Yeah.” He straightened, drawing in as deep a breath as
his broken ribs allowed. “Okay.” And he headed for the door, swinging it open
and stepping inside.
Inside, the house felt…how it always felt. Stiles’ shoulders slumped. He didn’t
know what he’d been expecting; an empty feeling, maybe. Some sort of
loneliness. Relief, even. But the house felt like a house. He turned to face
his father, who’d moved to stand in the doorway.
“Nothing,” he said morosely.
“No ghosts?”
“No,” Stiles said. “Nothing. I don’t feel ghosts or a lack of ghosts.”
“Oh,” his father said. “Well, maybe it takes some time?”
“Maybe,” Stiles muttered, and headed up to his room. He shut the door behind
him, closing his eye tight. “Talia?” he asked out loud. “Are you still here?”
He opened one eye, but his room remained empty, early afternoon sunlight
streaming through the blinds. He couldn’t think of a time he’d ever called for
the ghosts. Maybe they were gone. His fingers itched; he needed to get out into
the forest and see if Derek was still there. His soul mattered the most; it had
a body it needed to get back to.
Stiles tramped back downstairs. His dad was in the kitchen, eating a sandwich.
“Anything?”
Stiles shook his head and his father narrowed his eyes, watching him grab his
shoes.
“I have to go back out on patrol, but you better be here when I come home.
Despite the fact that you solved a five-year-old homicide case, you did break
into police property.”
“I know,” Stiles sighed, “and I’ll be home, I promise. I just have to check one
thing.”
“Hm,” his father said discontentedly, but made no move to stop him. Stiles slid
on his shoes and left the house, trotting off into the forest. His body was
still stiff, and he couldn’t move too fast, but he could still go faster than
the hobbling pace he’d had to set yesterday.
When he came into the clearing, Derek sat on the rock with his arms around his
knees, and Stiles felt his heart sink. “Oh,” he said.
“Hey,” Derek said miserably. He looked up at Stiles, alarm creasing his face.
“What happened to you?! Why are you all bruised?”
Stiles sighed and settled down on the rock next to him. “I’ve got some things
to tell you,” he said softly, leaning into Derek’s side. It made the whole left
side of his body tingle and break into goosebumps, but it was worth it for the
way Derek leaned back against him, seeking comfort. Stiles swallowed and told
him about Kate; their confrontation at the restaurant, and how he’d made the
connections in the records room. He told Derek what his father had told him of
Kate’s confession, of what happened that night in the Hale house. She’d gone
over to threaten the Hales late at night, scared she was going to be prosecuted
for abusing Derek. She said there’d been a struggle – that Peter had tried to
take her gun, that it had gone off accidentally, that things had gone downhill
from there.
Derek was silent the entire time Stiles spoke, and when Stiles tilted his head
to look at him, he could see tears trailing down his cheeks. The sight made his
heart ache and he put his arm around Derek’s shoulder, even though it went numb
a minute later.
They would probably never know what really happened that night of the fire.
Stiles’ father had sighed and said it made no sense to go over with a loaded
gun if Kate’s intent was only to threaten them. Maybe she thought she’d need to
protect herself. Who knows? Kate still smiled, smug, like she’d won somehow.
Her arrest didn’t feel like a victory, not with Derek still stuck in the
clearing.
“What about everyone in the house?” Derek finally asked, like he could hear
Stiles’ thoughts. “Are they still there?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugged. “I called for your mom and she didn’t appear,
but that might not mean anything. I’ve gone for days without seeing her.”
“Oh.” Derek’s shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Stiles looked around the clearing, tapping his fingers against his leg. “Hey,”
he said thoughtfully. “How far can you go?”
Derek frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how far can you get from the clearing?”
The frown remained on Derek’s face as he looked up, eyes searching the trees.
“Not very far,” he said. “I can go to the pond, but if I try to go the opposite
direction, I only get about twenty feet outside the clearing before I end up
back in the middle.”
“That makes sense,” Stiles says. “That night you were supposed to come over,
you said you kept ending up here.”
“Yeah,” Derek sighed. Stiles took his arm from around Derek’s shoulder and
caught his hand instead. “Do you think I’ll ever get back?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Stiles promised, leaning his head on Derek’s shoulder.
“What if - what if I don’t remember you when I wake up?”
Fear stirred at Stiles’ heart; he’d worried the same thing. But he smiled
bravely and said, “You like me, right?”
“Instantly,” Derek said, without hesitation.
“Well, then hopefully you will again.”
“I’m twenty-two,” Derek said slowly. “That’s so weird.” He shifted uncertainly.
“Do you think that’s weird?”
“It’d only be weird if you were, like, as old as my dad,” Stiles replied. “Five
years isn’t a big difference.” He stared at their clasped hands, an idea
forming in the back of his mind. Arresting Kate hadn’t been enough. Derek
obviously needed something more to get back to his body – some sort of push.
Maybe he was lost. Maybe he didn’t know how to find his body. Maybe he needed
to be reunited with his family.
Stiles thought about how his touch made Derek more real. Maybe there was
something he could do. Stiles leapt to his feet, tugging at Derek. “Stand up,
come on,” he said.
Derek stood slowly, looking wary. “What is it?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Stiles replied, pulling him toward the trees. “I just need
to test it out.”
Derek looked worried. “What are you – “
“Don’t worry,” Stiles said, as they stepped into the forest. “I think this is
going to work.”
He saw the way Derek’s face wrinkled with uncertainty, but as they walked
through the trees, getting further and further from the clearing, his face
changed, awe sliding over his features.
“This – “ Derek sounded excited. “This is further than I’ve ever gone!”
“Yes!” Stiles had to resist the urge to do a stupid dance; if he let go of
Derek’s hand now, he’d go shooting back to the clearing. Problem was, he was
already starting to feel shaky; he’d been touching Derek since he’d come into
the clearing, and it was starting to wear on him. “Okay. This is good news,
because it means I can take you places. Do you think we need to get you to the
house? Or the hospital?”
Derek frowned, his fingers tightening around Stiles’. “I’m not sure,” he
confessed. “I don’t feel like the house is where I need to be, but everything’s
so vague. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Stiles said, thinking hard. “We’ve got to plan this out, because I
don’t know if I’ll be able to do this without passing out. If I go home and
have something to eat, get some strength back, I’ll come back to get you. We
can try the house and if that doesn’t work, we’ll head to the hospital. I’ll
have to see if Allison will drive, because I don’t know if I’ll be able to make
it to the hospital and it would probably suck to pass out while I’m driving.”
“Stiles,” Derek said, looking worried. “I don’t want to hurt – “
“It doesn’t hurt,” Stiles said, smiling tiredly. “It just feels like falling
asleep, and if we can get you back to your body, it’s worth it.”
Derek bit his lip. “You’re sure?”
“Course I am.” Stiles leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Derek’s cheek.
“I’ll be back in like an hour, okay?”
“Okay,” Derek agreed, though he still sounded certain, his fingers flexing
against Stiles’ hand.
“Don’t worry,” Stiles told him. “It’s gonna work.”
-
An hour later found Stiles leaving the house with Allison and Scott. His father
had left before he got back from the clearing, back on shift until later that
evening. Stiles had explained everything to Allison and Scott. He found it
heartening, the way they both immediately went along with his plan. He wasn’t
sure they believed him – he was still the only person who’d ever seen Derek, or
the ghosts in the house, for that matter – but Allison had smiled and said,
“We’ll do what we can to help.”
“You ready?” Stiles asked Derek upon reaching the clearing.
Derek, who’d been sitting in the grass, got to his feet and nodded. “You too?”
Stiles grinned. “I ate a huge turkey sandwich. Protein boost should do it.”
They walked to the edge of the clearing, where Stiles offered Derek his hand.
Derek hesitated.
“Stiles,” he said quietly. “If this doesn’t work, maybe – maybe you shouldn’t
come back here.”
Stiles’ face fell. “What do you – “
“I just – maybe it would be easier on both of us,” Derek sighed. “Maybe this is
it for me and I’m trapped here forever. I don’t want you obsessing over trying
to free me. If this doesn’t work, maybe you should tell Laura that I – tell her
to pull the plug. Maybe if I die, that’s when I’ll be free.”
“Dude, no!” Stiles exclaimed, horrified. “I’m not going to do that!”
Derek shrugged, looking pained. “What are our other options? You’re going to
leave eventually, Stiles. You’ll go off to college and grow up and I’m going to
be stuck in this field forever, seventeen years old for eternity.”
“That is not going to happen,” Stiles said firmly. “This is going to work,
okay? Now take my hand!”
Derek hesitated again but reached out this time, his fingers curling cool
around Stiles’, that jittery feeling running up his arm.
“Ready?” Stiles asked, and Derek nodded.
“Ready.”
They took off through the trees, Stiles moving as fast as he could with his
injuries. It was twenty long minutes before the house came into sight and he
was panting like a racehorse. Derek made a quiet noise at the sight of the
house, his feet slowing.
“Derek,” Stiles warned. His hand was completely numb from holding onto Derek,
the tingling sensation growing violent. They didn’t have time to slow down; he
could feel the trembling his knees already.
“It’s not the same,” Derek breathed, sounding hurt. “I don’t – that’s not the
place I need to be.”
“You sure?” Stiles asked as they rounded the corner. Allison and Scott sat in
the SUV, waiting for them. He saw Allison’s head turn, her mouth dropping open
when she spotted the two of them, and he grinned in faint relief; it wasn’t
just him now.
“No,” Derek said, shuddering. “That’s not my home.”
“Okay, then,” Stiles said, pulling him toward the car. Derek slowed again,
seeing Allison climb out of the car, but Stiles tugged him forward.
“Um,” Allison said, her face white. “Hi. Derek?”
“See?” Stiles said triumphantly. “Not crazy. Not totally, anyway.”
“Hi,” Derek said to Allison, sounding almost shy.
In the SUV, Scott leaned across the center console, a huge grin on his face.
“Hey, dude!” he said cheerfully. “Nice to finally meet you!”
Derek nodded, taking an uncertain step sideways, which brought him in contact
with Stiles’ side. It seemed to bring him comfort, but Stiles shuddered; he
couldn’t keep up the connection like that. He’d faint in no time.
“C’mon, Der,” Stiles said instead, leading him to the car. “Let’s get on the
road.”
Climbing inside without breaking their hold was a challenge, especially with
Stiles’ broken arm, but he managed to clamber inside, Derek sliding in after
him. Allison climbed back into the driver’s seat and drove off down the
driveway, bumping over potholes. Scott twisted around so he could grin at them.
“This is pretty awesome,” he said. “I’ve never seen a ghost before. You look
just like a real dude.”
“Scott,” Stiles said weakly, leaning his head against the glass window. “He is
a real dude.”
“Sorry,” Scott said, still grinning. “This whole world’s new to me.”
“Me too,” Derek said, his hand tightening around Stiles’. He was nervous.
Stiles could feel how his body pulsed with uncertainty and that was – that was
strange. He shouldn’t be feeling what Derek felt.
“Allie,” Stiles said, closing his eyes, “I’m going to need you to go a bit
faster.”
He heard Allison shift in her seat. “Are you going to make it?”
“If you go faster, I will.”
“Stiles?” Derek moved next to him, his knee brushing against Stiles’ leg.
Stiles pulled away; the hand-touching was about all he could handle right now.
“Don’t pass out, okay?”
“Trying not to,” Stiles agreed. The cool touch of the window helped; it
anchored him to something real. Not like Derek, who was feeling further and
closer at the same time. If he passed out, would Derek disappear? What if he
stayed? Would he eventually suck all the life out of him? Maybe that was the
boost he needed to be real again. “Faster, Allie.”
“If I get pulled over – “ Allison made a worried noise. “That would be worse,
wouldn’t it?”
“Just go,” Stiles groaned. “Have you ever seen a cop out here besides Dad?”
“Well – no,” Allison said. Stiles could feel the noise of the SUV kicking into
gear as she sped up.
The next few minutes of the drive passed in silence. Stiles mentally calculated
their path, following the curves and turns of the road. They should be at the
high school by now, and from there it was another fifteen minutes at normal
speed to the hospital. He hoped he could make it.
“Oh – shit!” Allison exclaimed. Stiles felt her slam on the brakes, but it was
too late, apparently; sirens came on somewhere behind them.
He groaned. “Typical.”
“What do I do?” Allison wailed.
Stiles forced his eyes open. He saw Derek first, hunched in his seat, looking
pale and frightened. Stiles tried to find an encouraging smile and twisted
around to squint at the cruiser flying down the road behind him. “Oh. That’s
Dad. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“Call him,” Scott urged Allison. “Tell him Stiles got sick again.”
“That’s the truth,” Stiles mumbled, sitting back in his seat. Derek looked over
at him. He looked pained. Stiles squeezed his hand.
“Oh gosh, oh gosh,” Allison stammered, fumbling out her phone and flicking
through her contacts. She hit their father’s number, turning it on speakerphone
so they could all hear him roar, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Dad,” Allison said quickly. “I’m sorry, but Stiles fainted again and we – “
“Pull over.”
“No – “
“Allison, pull the goddamn car over or – “
“There’s no time!” Stiles yelled, startling his father into silence. “We have
to get to the hospital!”
“Okay,” his father said after a long pause. “All right.”
The sound of the sirens changed; everyone turned to see the sheriff’s cruiser
fly past them, pulling back on the road in front of them like an honor guard.
Stiles relaxed minutely; this meant they could go even faster, which he really,
really needed.
“How are you doing?” Derek murmured.
“Shitty,” Stiles said. His head was starting to swim; he was going to pass out
if they didn’t get to the hospital soon.
It took another five minutes for them to reach the hospital. To Stiles’
surprise, Mrs. McCall was waiting outside with a wheelchair. Scott grinned
guiltily. “I may have texted her on the way.”
“She knows?” Stiles asked, sliding out of the car, Derek following close
behind. He almost collapsed when his feet hit the ground but Scott was suddenly
there on his other side, catching him under the arm.
“All she knows is you need a wheelchair,” Scott muttered, guiding Stiles and
Derek over to Melissa. Somewhere over to his left, a car door slammed and
Stiles heard his father say, “Who the hell is that?”
“Allison,” Stiles said. “Can you distract him?”
Allison nodded firmly and trotted over to meet their father, whose face was
going bright red. “Is that – “
“Thanks, Mom!” Scott said loudly, shoving Stiles into the chair. Mrs. McCall
looked bewildered; she looked from Stiles to Derek to Scott to the sheriff and
back to Derek again, a frown creasing her brow.
“Who,” she began.
“Sorry!” Scott interrupted, moving around to the back of the wheelchair.
“Thanks for your help!” He took off into the hospital at a run, shoving Stiles
in front of him. Stiles would have laughed if he hadn’t been ready to pass out.
“We can do this,” he heard Derek murmur next to him. “We can do this.”
“Yeah we can,” Scott said firmly. “Just hold on, dude. We’re almost there.”
There was a lot of shouting going on behind them, but none of them dared turn
and investigate. They made it the elevators without being stopped. The quiet,
minute-long ride to the fifth floor was strangely surreal. Stiles felt like he
was floating, and he couldn’t tell if it that was adrenaline or because he was
about to lose consciousness. The white fuzz in the corner of his eyes was
definitely because he was about to lose consciousness.
They burst out of the elevator as soon as the doors open. Scott took curves
like madman on a motorcycle, using his entire body to twist them around without
losing speed. “Point me, point me,” he panted, and Stiles managed to squint
enough to see the room number –
“I can feel me!” Derek cried. It felt like he was trying to move faster, trying
to pull away and get back to his body, but Stiles didn’t dare let him go until
it was in sight, not after all this work.
There were nurses chasing after them, yelling, but they were almost there. The
door wasn’t locked this time, thank god, and they exploded into Derek’s room.
Laura was sitting by the side of the bed and she twisted around to gape, her
cheeks stained like she’d been crying. Derek made a low noise at the sight of
her – or maybe it was the sight of his body laying in the hospital bed – that
hurt Stiles to hear.
“Derek?” Laura gasped.
“No time!” Scott said, pushing Stiles right up to the edge of the bed. Derek
leaned over his body – and stopped.
“What do I do?” Derek asked Stiles, who struggled to focus on him.
“I – touch him, I guess,” Stiles mumbled. “Hurry.” The room was going dark
around the edges. He could hear Laura talking, furious and bewildered, but all
the attention he could muster was on Derek.
“I – “ Derek cut himself off, nodded. “Okay.” And still holding Stiles’ hand in
his, he leaned even further forward, placing his free hand on his body’s chest.
It was like in science fiction movies when a spaceship got sucked into a black
hole and everything went stretched and thin and moved very fast and very slow
at the same time. Stiles blinked and Derek was gone; there was just Derek’s
body on the bed, older and skinnier and unconscious.
“What thefuck?” Laura yelled, shaking his shoulder.
Stiles blinked wearily. “I told you,” he said. “Told you he was a ghost.”
Two nurses burst into the room behind them. “What do you think you’re doing?”
one of them snapped. “This is a hospital, not a racetrack!”
“Sorry,” Scott mumbled.
“Where’d the other one go?” the nurse asked. “Hm?”
Everyone looked at Stiles. “Guess he took a detour,” he said, and passed out.
-
Waking up in the hospital was quickly becoming a trend, and Stiles didn’t like
it. He stared up at the bland speckled ceiling for a while before becoming
aware that he wasn’t the only one breathing in the room. A woman sat next to
his bed – not Allison, not even his mom – Laura. She was reading a magazine,
chewing anxiously on a nail, though she looked up when Stiles shifted and gave
him a cautious smile.
“You gonna shout at me some more?” he asked.
Laura’s smile turned guilty. “Only if you want me to,” she said.
Stiles watched her for a long moment. “How’s Derek?”
“The same.”
“Oh.” Stiles tried not to think about what that meant.
“Um,” Laura said. “Your friend and your sister tried to explain to me what just
happened, but I can’t say that I really get it.”
“Derek said you had no imagination,” Stiles told her and she laughed stiffly.
“I’ve always considered myself a realist,” Laura sighed, “but based on
statements like that and the fact that I’m pretty sure I just saw a younger
version of my brother get sucked into his body, I’m coming to the uncomfortable
conclusion that it may be time to change my world view.”
“You may find that necessary,” Stiles agreed.
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Laura fidgeted with her magazine for a
few seconds before asking, “Can you explain? I mean, I know you tried before,
but I’ll admit that I wasn’t really listening. With everything that’s happened,
though, and you getting Kate Argent arrested, I – I think I owe you that.”
Stiles watched her face. He could see the misery etched on his skin, lines of
loss around her eyes and mouth. She looked so much like Derek, dark-haired and
pale eyed and thin-lipped. He couldn’t stand to see the melancholy on her any
more than he could stand to see it on Derek. “Okay,” he said, and tried again.
Laura listened attentively this time, her hands clasped over her knee. There
was more to tell her this time – everything that had happened with Kate since
the last time he’d talked to her in the hospital, and all that had transpired
in the woods with Derek. When he finally finished, she breathed out slowly.
“You know how unbelievable all that sounds, right?”
“I know,” Stiles said quietly. “I spent the last two months thinking I was
going crazy. I know.”
Laura rubbed a hand over her brow. “I went back to the house a couple of
times,” she began slowly, “after the fire. I went out to that clearing. That’s
where they found Derek, you know. He’d crawled all the way out there.” Her eyes
went glassy and Stiles swallowed, looking away. “I never felt a thing and I
wanted to, so bad. I wanted a sign from one of them, any of them, that they
were okay, and knowing that they were trapped in the house, that Derek was
stuck out there all by himself, it just – ” She sniffed loudly, her voice
wavering. “I feel awful.”
“It’s not your fault,” Stiles told her gently. “I just happen to have this, uh,
gift, I guess. Dad said I was born with a caul and it’s like – it’s like in
Harry Potter and the people who’ve seen death can see thestrals. I was born
with this veil or whatever and now I can see dead people.”
Laura gave him a blank look before smiling faintly. “You’re such a nerd,” she
said, sounding almost fond. “No wonder Derek likes you.”
Stiles grinned.
Laura wiped at her eyes. “You think he’s going to come back?”
“I really hope so,” Stiles said quietly, his grin fading. “I don’t know what
our other options are, otherwise. There’s not exactly a guidebook to all of
this.”
“Handbook for the Recently Deceased,” Laura sniffed. “Except he’s not dead.”
“He’ll come back,” Stiles said. “He has to.”
-
A week passed. Stiles was released from the hospital again and grounded again.
His father understood that the boy he’d seen at the hospital was Derek, but he
couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the news that there had been two Dereks
and Stiles gave up on trying to explain it. For all that his dad had accepted
the idea of ghosts in the house, the fact that he couldn’t understand that the
fire had knocked the soul out of Derek’s body was discouraging, but maybe
understandable – it was a lot less straightforward than “he’s dead and his
soul’s trapped.” Living people weren’t supposed to have ghosts.
Despite the fact that he was grounded and was technically supposed to go
straight home after school every day, Stiles went to the hospital instead.
Laura was there every day now and they’d sit for long hours by Derek’s bed,
waiting, hoping. Laura told him stories about growing up in the house – he’d
heard a lot of them from Derek already, though he definitely had not heard the
one about Derek’s junior prom and his pale blue suit. He filed that one away to
tease Derek about someday, because there was going to be a someday, there was.
As the week mark passed, it got harder to keep his hopes up. Surely something
would have happened by now, if it was going to happen at all. He still spent
hours at the hospital, ducked his head at the furious expression his dad made
every time he came home, but it was wearing on him. Allison had to keep
reminding him to eat, because he’d come home and collapse onto the couch and
sleep if she didn’t.
The only heartening news was that all the ghosts in the house seemed to have
gone. He hadn’t seen Talia since before the incident with Kate, hadn’t heard
any laughter from the backyard, hadn’t felt Peter’s presence in the kitchen. At
least that had worked, and it was the only thing that gave him hope that maybe
Derek might come back – unless Derek’s soul had gone with the rest of his
family, and his body laying in the hospital was truly an empty husk now. He
tried not to think about that possibility.
A week and a half after they brought Derek to the hospital, Stiles was sitting
in chemistry when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He frowned and slipped a hand
into his pocket, eyeing Mr. Harris watchfully as he thumbed open the lock
screen under the table. He’d had to pay for a new phone because his dad was
still pissed at him, but he was so, so very glad he had when he saw a message
from Laura that said simply HE’S AWAKE.
The world around Stiles seemed to grind to a halt, all of his attention focused
on the two words on the screen.
He’s awake.
He’s awake.
Derek was awake.
“Stiles!”
Stiles’ head jerked up. He found himself halfway out of his chair, phone
clutched in his hand. Everyone was staring at him. Next to him, Scott’s eyes
were huge. Jackson Whittemore was laughing quietly somewhere behind him. Mr.
Harris had his arms crossed over his chest.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Stilinski?”
“I – ” Stiles glanced down at his phone and sank back into his seat. “No.”
“Dude,” Scott hissed, as Harris turned back to the chalkboard. “Are you okay?”
“Derek’s awake,” Stiles murmured.
Scott’s eyes went wide again. “He is? Are you going to go see him?”
Stiles bit his lip. “I can’t miss any more classes. This fucking sucks.”
“He’ll still be there later,” Scott said soothingly. “You’ve got all the time
in the world.”
Despite the fact that that was true, it didn’t help the day pass any more
quickly. Quite the opposite; Stiles was sure that time had deliberately slowed
down, just to fuck with him. The instant the final bell rang, Stiles was out of
his seat and rushing for the parking lot. He’d been taking his bike to school
so Allison wouldn’t get in trouble for taking him to the hospital, but he
couldn’t wait today. He intercepted her at the Jeep and said, “I need to take
it.”
Allison made a face. “Come on, Stiles, I’m not taking your bike.”
“Then drive me to the hospital,” he demanded, and when she frowned he said,
“Derek’s awake.”
“Oh!” Allison exclaimed. “Get in, then!”
The ride to the hospital passed unbearably slow, but he knew it would have been
even worse if he’d been on his bike. Allison seemed to no rush to get pulled
over again, which was understandable – she’d been grounded too, for her part in
the hospital escapade – but it didn’t stop Stiles from impatiently tapping his
foot on the floor.
“Stop that,” Allison said mildly.
“I can’t,” Stiles retorted, aggravated. “Allie, what if he doesn’t remember
me?”
“You won’t know until you go in there,” Allison replied, infuriatingly calm.
“Stop freaking out.”
“Easy for you to say,” Stiles muttered, glaring out the window.
When Allison pulled up in front of the hospital, Stiles froze. He was terrified
suddenly, scared of what he’d find in Derek’s room.
“Go on,” Allison said gently. “You want me to come with you?”
Stiles swallowed, his mouth gone bone dry. “No,” he murmured, hands fumbling
with the door handle. “No, thanks. I’ll just – “ And he tumbled out of the car.
The air felt too real.
“Call me when you want a ride home!” Allison called after him and he nodded
without turning, walking robotically through the front doors of the hospital.
When he got into the elevator he had to lean against the wall and close his
eyes for a long moment, breathing in deeply. The walk down the hall to the
long-term care wing seemed to take hours and, at the same time, only seconds.
His stomach turned when he spotted Laura just leaving Derek’s room, wiping at
her eyes. She beamed when she saw him, throwing her arms around him. It hurt;
his lungs were still healing, but the pain helped clear some of the fog from
his head.
“I have to go,” Laura mumbled in his ear. “I have to go tell your dad he’s
awake. I – you’ll be okay?”
Stiles nodded stiffly, his throat burning. He didn’t trust his voice.
“Okay,” Laura said with a little laugh, pressing her lips to his forehead.
“We’re all okay!”
She left him standing there outside Derek’s door, arms hanging limp at his
sides. He had to stand there for a few minutes long before he could put his
hand on the door and push it open.
Derek sat in his bed, hands folded in his laps, eyes turned to the window. He
looked ancient and frail, the lines of his body weak. He turned his head to
look at Stiles, frozen in the doorway, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t
dare breathe because the expression on Derek’s face wasn’t changing; he wasn’t
smiling, didn’t seem to know him at all until suddenly something shifted and he
breathed, “Stiles.”
A deep sob wracked Stiles’ chest as Derek held out a hand to him, inviting. It
took him less than a second to cross the room, to throw his arms around Derek’s
neck, for Derek’s bony arms to close around his waist.
“Thank god,” Stiles groaned into his shoulder. “I thought – I was scared you’d
never come back.”
“Thank you,” Derek mumbled into his neck. His voice was hoarse from years of
disuse, words halting, but deeper than Stiles was used to; his voice had
changed while he was unconscious. “You got me here. You brought me back.”
Stiles cried then, all the stress and craziness of the past few months rushing
out of him like a dam bursting. He thought Derek cried too, because when they
eventually pulled apart, his eyes were red and watery.
“I remember everything,” Derek told him, his hand finding Stiles’, thumb
stroking over his skin, “from the past few months. I remember you.”
“Do you – remember the fire?” Stiles asked haltingly.
Derek shook his head, misery softening the lines around his eyes. “Not really.
I’d gone to bed, but I woke up. Laura says – she thinks Kate didn’t shoot me
because she had a soft spot for me.” He shrugged, mouth tightening. “The
doctors think I fell out of bed – or fell into a wall.” Derek gestured at the
line of white scarring licking up the side of his body. “I don’t remember. Just
bits and pieces. Being in the woods, on the ground. Then nothing, and then
you.”
Stiles held out a hand hesitantly, reaching for Derek. “Can I?”
Derek nodded and Stiles put his hand on Derek’s neck, brushing the tips of his
fingers against the white skin. He moved his hand up, cupping the side of
Derek’s face, sliding his thumb along Derek’s cheekbone. Derek’s eyes fluttered
shut as he leaned into Stiles’ touch.
“So what now?” Stiles asked quietly.
“I don’t – there’s a lot of things I have to do,” Derek replied, keeping his
eyes closed. He slid a hand over Stiles’ knee, hand heavy and warm. “I can’t
walk. I have to do all kinds of physical therapy. I’m probably going to have to
testify against Kate. Laura said she’s going to have to find a new place to
live so there’s room for me.”
“Away from Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked, suddenly terrified.
Derek opened his eyes, meeting Stiles’ firmly. “No,” he said. “I told her no.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, relief flooding through him.
They fell into silence then, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Derek shifted over
silently, another invitation, and Stiles took it, climbing onto the bed with
him, tucked against his side. It wasn’t exactly comfortable; Derek didn’t have
a ton of muscle or fat on his bones, but it didn’t matter because it was Derek.
“I’m glad we can do this without me passing out now,” Stiles mumbled. Derek
laughed, the vibrations buzzing in Stiles’ lungs.
“We never did finish what we started,” Derek teased.
Stiles grinned sleepily, eyes fluttering shut in the afternoon sunlight. “We
will,” he said. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
-
That night, Stiles dreamt of the forest. He stood in the middle of a clearing,
the night sky above him bright with stars. The night air was clear and cool,
soothing on his skin. He was alone, but for the first time, it didn’t bother
him. No one called his name; no fire scorched his skin. He laid down in the
cool grass and folded his arms underneath his head, staring up at the sky,
listening to the quiet sounds of night birds and crickets. His eyes fell shut
after a while and he drifted into true slumber, deep and unhurried. He never
dreamt of the forest again.
-
SIX MONTHS LATER
 
“Don’t you dare,” Stiles said, shaking a warning finger at Derek. It was the
beginning of May, unseasonably warm, and Derek was ten feet away with his arm
raised, poised to throw a very large water balloon at Stiles. Derek grinned his
bunny-toothed grin and cranked his arm forward. Stiles tried to duck but the
water balloon smacked him square in the chest, sending water cascading into his
underwear and sneakers. “F-foul!” he spluttered resentfully. “Ref!”
Laura didn’t even look up from where she was laying on the back porch,
stretched out in the sun with a magazine. “Point Derek,” she said.
Stiles stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re biased. He’s your brother.”
“You’re acting like a baby,” Laura retorted, sounding bored.
“You’re a horrible referee,” Stiles huffed, turning. He narrowed his eyes.
Derek had disappeared. He wasn’t sure where Scott was – no, he was certain that
his teammate and Allison had slipped off to go make out somewhere. That left
him defenseless against a dude who was surprisingly spry considering he’d been
in a coma up until six months ago. “Bastard,” Stiles muttered, backing away
into the trees, eyes narrowed as he searched for Derek. He really shouldn’t
have been surprised when he backed right into a solid wall of warm muscle and
two arms looped around his waist, lifting him off his feet. Stiles squawked
indignantly, squirming as Derek shoved his face against the back of his neck.
“Bastard,” he said again, but with less venom.
“You want to go to the pond?” Derek asked, right up against his ear. Stiles
squirmed again, a flush rising on his cheeks. He kicked at Derek’s shins.
“Dude, I can see my dad through the kitchen window.”
“He’s not going to shoot me,” Derek said confidently, though he still let go of
Stiles, setting him gently back on the ground. Stiles turned with a grin.
“You’re still lucky I convinced him to cancel that APB he had out on you. You
could have beenarrested.”
Derek looked up toward the house, a smile playing around his lips. “Yeah, I
guess I am.”
Stiles slid his hand into Derek’s. “Pond?”
“Pond,” Derek agreed. He leaned around a tree and shouted, “Laur, we’re going
to the pond!”
She waved without looking up from her magazine. “Don’t use that rope swing!
Uncle Peter was not a Boy Scout and did not know his knots.”
Derek rolled his eyes and tugged on Stiles’ hand. They set off through the
trees at a leisurely pace. Derek still moved stiffly after years of laying in a
bed, but he’d gained at least fifty pounds since leaving the hospital, most of
which was muscle. Stiles liked to call him old man, if only because it usually
got Derek to pick him up and swing him around in an effort to prove he wasn’t
old.
He was different than the boy Stiles had known last fall, a miserable soul with
a lacquer of cheer coated on top. His unhappiness was more pronounced now – and
Stiles understood that. How could it not be? Derek had come back to life after
being trapped in a coma and an empty clearing in the woods for five years to
find that most of his family was dead and his childhood home had been burned to
the ground. But unlike before, it came and went. He had days were he went quiet
and wouldn’t talk to anyone – not Stiles, not Laura. But now that he’d started
seeing a therapist and he’d done enough physical therapy to regain control all
but the finest of motor control, Derek’s bad days were growing few and far
between. What was left were days like today, when he held Stiles’ hand without
worry, when the slump of his shoulders was from relaxation, not stress. He was
going to work on his GED in the fall, as Stiles entered his final year of high
school, and he’d said some tentative things about going to college and Stiles
had grinned and pressed their mouths together.
Stiles was happy. He hadn’t had a panic attack in months and he hadn’t seen or
heard any ghosts since Kate had been arrested. Derek had given the district
attorney all the information he could and now she sat in jail awaiting trail
which, with all the motions and petitions her defense attorneys kept filing,
could take years to get a court date.
He had an amazing boyfriend he could touch without passing out and he was a
month away from summer vacation, which meant that soon he and Derek would be
able to spend all their time together, not just the weekends. He liked Derek.
He liked Derek a lot, and he knew Derek liked him too – or at least, he hadn’t
run for the hills once he’d gotten out of the coma. Stiles’ dad liked Derek,
and so did Allison and Scott, and that was important. Stiles even liked Laura,
who was bossy and loud and probably way too similar to him for them to ever be
best friends, but she was kind and obviously loved Derek a lot. He was happy.
Just before they reached the pond, Derek stopped, nudging Stiles back into a
tree so he could kiss him. He tasted sweet, like the popsicles they’d been
eating earlier. He and Laura came over to the house a lot on the weekends.
Laura made a lot of noise about how their apartment in town didn’t have any
sort of outdoor area for her to sunbathe in, but they’d started showing up back
in January when it wasn’t exactly sunbathing weather. Stiles thought maybe they
missed the house; it was where they’d grown up, after all. He’d asked Derek
once, soon after he’d come out of the coma, if it hurt, going inside, and Derek
had shaken his head after a moment of consideration. “Too many good memories,”
he’d said. “And you’re there, too,” which had made Stiles flush all the way to
his shoulders.
Derek leaned against him now with his whole body, warm, but not too hot in the
shade of the trees. Stiles relaxed against him, hands coming up to cradle the
back of his head, fisting in his hair. Derek liked it when Stiles got handsy,
if the way his breath always hitched in his throat was anything to judge by. He
pushed his hands under Stiles’ damp t-shirt, fingers slotting against the
grooves of his ribs. Stiles hummed and titled his head, biting at the line of
his jaw, tongue burning against his stubble as Derek’s hands slipped lower,
tugging at the waistband of his board shorts. He sighed as Derek slipped to his
knees, knowing what was coming next; he didn’t know if it had been scared into
him or something when Stiles fainted, or if Derek just loved it, but he gave
Stiles amazing head at least three times a week, which Stiles was only too
happy to receive. (Sometimes in really inopportune places; he’d lost count of
the number of times his dad or Allison or Laura had walked in on them.)
Derek went about it slowly, unhurriedly, stroking Stiles to hardness while he
sucked a bruise into the skin over Stiles’ hipbone. “You’re still skinny,”
Derek murmured into his skin.
“Said the dude who woke up looking like a skeleton,” Stiles replied scornfully.
His face softened as he ran a hand through Derek’s soft hair, hips jerking as
Derek ducked his head to lave a thick line over his balls. “I – I’m thinking
about joining the track team in the fall.”
Derek hummed, his breath hot on Stiles’ skin. “You’d be good at it,” he said,
and Stiles brightened.
“You think?”
“I know.” Derek leaned forward, sliding his tongue up the length of Stiles’
cock. Stiles shuddered as his mouth skimmed over the tip, achingly slow, before
Derek took him into his mouth, so deep Derek’s nose brushed against Stiles’
happy trail. Stiles groaned softly, one of his hands slipping from Derek’s hair
to touch his throat, feel the bulge of his cock there. Derek groaned at his
touch, the vibrations traveling from his mouth and up Stiles’ spine.
“Fuck, Der,” Stiles said quietly, as Derek slowly pulled off him, a strand of
spit trailing from the end of Stiles’ dick to the corner of Derek’s quirked
lips. “You’re always finishing what we started.”
“Finishing?” Derek repeated, licking his lips like he couldn’t wait to consume
Stiles’ cock again. “Who says there’s an end? We’ve got all the time in the
world, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as Derek put his mouth back
on him. He sighed like it was a promise, pressing his hands to Derek’s cheeks.
“All the time in the world.”
End Notes
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     EDIT: 9/10/13: MASSIVE thanks to everyone for the sweetest and most
     thoughtful feedback I've ever received on a story. I've just reached
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