#along with like the GRIEF CUT IN ME and scott getting stabbed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

popculturebuffet · 3 years

Text

Uncle Scrooge by Don Rosa: The Isle at the Edge of Time (Thank You Comission For Rosie Isla)

Hello all you happy people! Today’s review is a bit special as it’s the result of another review. See I had trouble finding a translation of the subject of last weeks’ mother’s day special, Family Ties.

No not that one. I have Paramount+. I can watch all the Family Ties I want and that’s a fact that i’m pleased as punch about.

No it was the story 80 is Prachtig, called Family Ties in the copy used, Della’s first major comics appearance and one that explains what happened to her in the classic continuity, one that clearly served as the foundation for her far more fleshed out 2017 versions personality and backstory. It also had Pinocchio in it for some reason, and spent most of it’s large run time on a meta comedy plot that had nothing to do with the reason anyone wanted to read this story in the first place.

But despite being a vitally important story, it never got an english translation, something that baffled me till I read the story and found cameos of the racist indigenous stereotypes from Peter Pan. In 2014. You may commence booing. Even with how weird the story was I simply couldn’t find the story googling it and the Della tag is too vast and deep to go spelunking in.

So what’s all this have to do? Simple I put out a post last month when neither I nor Kev, who wanted to comission it as part of Moons, Millionares and Mothers, my coverage of all three season 2 Ducktales story arcs, could find a copy and offered a review to whoever found it. Weeks passed I got nothing.. then in the 11th hour I got a break as the lovely @rosieisla found a translation that was on this very site, one she seemed to have helped with. As a result I could do the review and as a man of my word, offered it up despite her clearly having not seen that part of the post and simply having done this to be nice. Still she gladly took up the offer and offered me my pick of two stories: The Carl Barks Story Back to Long Ago or this one.

As for WHY I picked this one Back To Long Ago didn’t seem bad, i’m just not a fan of “The Cast is put in the past as their own ancestors” type deals. Or in some cases put the cast as people from that time period. It’s just not for me and is most often done in TV where it can get really goofy, Beverly Hills 90210 being a prime example of this, though Girl Meets World was no slouch in being embarassing... that being said I really need to finish that show and miss it.

So yeah when put up against a story with two intresting hooks and FLINTHEART GLOMGOLD, even if i’ts not the version that’s my boy, it was no contest. So what are these hooks you ask? Well join me under the cut and find out.

We open with a weird stylistic choice: This story has a narrator complete with caption boxes. Now for those of you familiar with comics or pastiches of comics in tv and film, this probably dosen’t seem like a big deal. It was a common thing in comics from their inception to 90′s to have caption boxes, big boxes of text narrating the action to help move things along faster. It did start to fade out by the 80′s and was gone by the end of the 90′s for the most part, replaced instead with first person narration. It’s the kind of thing you’d see most often in the Golden and Silver Ages, with stuff like tihs

It’s not a BAD device, it’s good old cheesy and bombastic fun and some writers did get clever with it.. like that time Chris Claremont used the narration to yell at a greiving cyclops after he lost a teammate early in his long and storied run on the uncanny x-men.

This is a objectively weird scene that’s still somehow effective by the by. On the one hand it does come off as Chris Claremont essentally bullying Cyclops who already feels guilty for a death that was not in fact his fault as Thunderbird was told the plane he was attacking with fleeing villian Count Nefaria was about to explode and refused to listen.. and that they needed to get rid of either him or Wolverine as both served the same purpose and chose the non-white guy.

On the other htough it comes off just as much as Scott beating himself up in his grief and anger over the event and his perceived failings as a leader. It’s good stuff and shows why this run caught on as this was only three issues in. Also the rest of the issue features the X-Men fighting a giant cyclopian demon that Cyclops accidently freed in his rage by destroying the stone thing keeping him imprisoned. No really here’s the cover

Huh so tha’ts what Nifty’s dad looks like. Neat. Also I REALLY hope we get the X-Men fighting aliens or demons in the MCU. Unlike the XCU the MCU isn’t alergic to getting batshit.. and for the record Deadpool and New Mutants are the exception, not the rule.

My point that I swear I do have is that this was common practice for most comics.. but never really for Disney Duck comics. It popped up ocasionally, like with Scrooge’s introduction, but Barks and those after him never really used them that much. Sure they’d have caption boxes for flasbacks and what not but Barks and Co geninely only used this sort of thing to set up a story. The most i’ve seen it in a duck comic is life and times and even then i’ts usually only used for gags or to set up the passage of time, as the story IS covering decades and thus often needed to have montages to show time passing, and in the case of chapter 11, had to cover decades in the span of a single chapter, so it’s not like they had many other options. So even Rosa as a personal quirk didn’t really use these often.

Rosa used this specifically because he felt the plot was complicated by the use of the international date line. As for what it is, it’s essentially a line marking calender dates from one side of the hemisphere to the others. To use the offical defentition from the National Ocean Service I found via a quick google:

“The International Date Line, established in 1884, passes through the mid-Pacific Ocean and roughly follows a 180 degrees longitude north-south line on the Earth. It is located halfway round the world from the prime meridian—the zero degrees longitude established in Greenwich, England, in 1852.

The International Date Line functions as a “line of demarcation” separating two consecutive calendar dates. When you cross the date line, you become a time traveler of sorts! Cross to the west and it’s one day later; cross back and you’ve “gone back in time."

Despite its name, the International Date Line has no legal international status and countries are free to choose the dates that they observe. While the date line generally runs north to south from pole to pole, it zigzags around political borders such as eastern Russia and Alaska’s Aleutian Islands.”

Rosa felt this made the story complicated.... and that... really isn’t remotely true. The narration is mostly used for gagas and really dosen’t clarify anything. it’s mostly used well in the opening.. but the actual explinations for the date line are clear enough in the story that even if I hadn’t looked the thing up, I still would’ve got it and i’m sure a kid would’ve too. It just feels like a weird thing to ruminate on, especially because he’s got actual things to make up for: while to his credit the native american characters he cribbed from carl barks are sympathetic, their culture respected and treated decently and used for a green aseop, their dialouge is stitled and sterotypical something he dosen’t even comment on (And these trades ewren’t THAT long ago)

And of course it dosen’t help that he dosen’t even comment on using a common device in american superhero boooks.. in the same volume where he ONCE again makes an unwanted and outdated diatribe about superhero comics. I’ll probably cover the Super Snooper Strikes again so I can throughly tear this apart but higlights include: Calling superhero comics “Unwanted” just because he dosen’t like them personally, when people like me would disagree and they’ve lasted through a LOT of highs and lows, outdately saying they took over the American market as the only suitable comics which while true for a TIME,but by 2015 when this book was printed is laughably out of date, as non superhero works like The Walking Dead, Saga, and Scott Pilgrim were massively popular, one of my faviorite comics that is entirely slice of life and would go on to bea huge hit, Giant Days, re-debuted that very year. He also has the fucking gal to insult The Uncanny X-Men by name and I swear to god I did not know this when I made those references earlier, but as you probably guessed REALLY god me livid.

And this is just on his COMMENTS on the story I can’t imagine just how bad the content itself is and having read the first few pages which come off as Rosa using Donald to essentially do an “old man yells at cloud rant” about superhero comics, I really don’t want to. Might make htis a patreon exclusive or again would do it on comissoin. You all make the call.... the point is I don’t likes his elitist bullshit about superhero comics, and this is clearly something that gets my hackles up as I just spent a good two paragraphs of an entirely unrealted review yelling at the guy for it. I don’t like when he does this and this authors notes entirley felt like an excuse. I GET the dark age of comics were bad, they REALLY were that bad, but I will NEVER accept painting an enitre genre as bad just because one work in it is bad. And I wont accept it from someone who himself writes about an often throughly unlikeable anti-hero for a living. Scrooge may not have a gun on his gun on his gun or get to stabbing or have pouches, but he DOES finacially abuse his nephew, scoff at people’s personal troubles, and often refuse to use his wealth to help others in general. So yeah in conclusion Rosa really needs to say less about this subject.

Okay so where were we.. right the story hadn’t even started yet. Jesus.

Okay so our story begins with the narrator. Whose going on about time and what not. The main point of this speech about time is that it’s night in Duckburg and Scrooge is going to bed as, even being the workhorse that he is, he can’t keep going 24 hours. While he’s snoozing though something major happens and it’s the hook that made me pick this story along with the international dateline one.. an island rises thanks to volcanic erruption.. and the lava is GOLD. That’s just pure unabashed classic Duck Stuff: a mysterious treasure or phenominon of gold bound to bring scrooge in.

But Scrooge isn’t stupid: the sun comes up and the world still spins while he sleeps, so he set up a satalite to monitor for this sort of thing. The thing naturally goes nuts.. and even more naturally breaks down becasue Scrooge bought cheap parts. A nice gag and a fully in character way to bring our antagonist into the picture, as the Satellite of Loaded falls in the middle of South Africa... right on the property of my boy Flintheart Glomgold.

This is something Rosa brought up in his commentary for the story i’d never thought about. It turns out Glomgold being a citzen of Duckburg WASN’T an invention of the original Ducktales but the comics: some overseas had understandably moved him from his home country of South Africa. Him bieing in the same town as Scrooge instead of half a world away allows for easier setups and more intresting ones.

Rosa however being obdient to Barks Version of things, ketp Glomgold in South Africa like barks did, which was an .. ifffy decision given Apartheid had JUST ended at the time of this story. Not so much in the reboot as not only had apartheid been long gone by the time of the reboot, but that’s more fair. Still we do get some gorgeous vistas as a result as Glomgold’s minon goes to look at it and finds it’s from McDuck Mining company... Glomgold’s reaction is obvious.

So on that note we cut to Scrooge rushing to Donalds house and forcing him awake and not telling him anything at first. Look his Ducktales Counterpart straight up kidnapped his donald in my last review, I’d call this a win. He also tries to dress Donald while explaning both his panic to find the crashed satlitle and what it found: the golden island. The end result of him dressing donald is worth a chuckle

So after Donald puts his shirt and little hat on our heroes get rollin rollin rollin what keep rollin rollin rollin who to Manilla. On the plane we get the scene I mentioned: The boys make a quip about Scrooge having lost a day and the group go over the international date line. It’s a fun little scene especially Donald trying to get paid early at the end. Classic scrooge and donald stuff without the abusive undertones some of their classic stuff has.

Meanwhile Glomgold works out the data and finds out about the gold island, and his excitement accidently wakes a giraffe outside.. welll it was nice knowing him, Giraffes are the deadliest species known to man.. here’s an educational video t back that up....

youtube

So at Manilla Airport, Scrooge finds out abotu the south african crash, figuring he’ll get a laugh out of glomgold being there ... only for Donald to spot the Jet. Scrooge figures this can’t be anything good... now come on man maybe he’s just promoting his energy drink.

As super sayin god super sayian as my witness, I will never get tired of Ultra Instinct Glomgold here.

Scrooge isn’t so nice about that though and figures he better find out if Glomgold knows about the island and bribes one of the fueling crew for his uniform. He sucesssfully eavesdrops on Glomgold talking to his pilot, finding out from him exactly WHERE the island is. He ends up hilariously botching the mission though: when getting ready to leave Glomgold complains abotu the price of gas and that naturally causes Scrooge, just as cheap, to join in... and Glomgold to find out it’s Scrooge. The two wrestle outside the plane but before this can progress to a game of Naked Robber an airport security guy comes up and Scrooge cleverly claims that Glomgold’s plane has an infestiation, requring it to be quanrantined and allowing Scrooge to jet on.. thoguh not with an actual jet. With Glomgold seemingly dispatched, he can afford to save some money and take his time with a seaplane and I know just the man for the job.

Oh nope looks like he’s busy. So one time related rambles later we meet Keoki, their asian pilot from the tiny island of Wookawooka.. and no that’s not a real place i checked... and no Fozzy dosen’t own it his check bounced. That being said it is a very well done represntation of someone from a smaller country: he’s doing this job to try and bring money back home, but being a seaplane captain just isn’t enough and his island is dying. Scrooge naturally is about as sympathetic as you’d expect, having apparently never even heard of the idea of a bonus when Huey, Dewey or Louie suggests it.

Even less suprising is that Glomgold streaks by in his Jet:turns out Manilla was already overun with the bugs Scrooge claimed and Donald rubs it in that had Scrooge got a JET this wouldn’t of been an issue.

So Glomgold easily beats them there, and to add insult and actualy injury to a cash based one, our heroes get blasted by golden lava on the way in and crash. Should’ve gotten launchpad... got the crashing professional. Keoki is dispondent as this means his people are doomed. He also dosen’t know waht staking a claim is when Scrooge mentions it and the boys bring him up to speed with the poor guy saying he wish he could for WookaWooka. Donald also makes a valid point about how greedy and heartlress scrooge can be.. and really billiionares in general.

No no YOUR the Grouch who refuses to have one drop of emapthy. Donald’s just pissed at your general selfish and terrible behavior.

Glomgold glomgloats and has seemingly won... but naturally that rant that seemed extranious at the time about the date line comes into play: turns out the Island is on it, and since glomgold put his marker int he west, Scrooge simply puts his in the east which is a whole day before. Now GRANTED there’s nor eal legal prescendice for the intetaoinal date line itself , as noted above... but there’s enough witnesses in Scrooge’s favor that it simply does not matter anyway. Scrooge SEEMINGLY wins.

But Huey, Dewey Or Louie instead backs another claim: Keoki’s from earlier. While it was made in gest, he and the others along with Donald back it as witnsses instad. WookaWooka is saved and SCrogoe ends the story yelling at the narrator.

Final Thoughts: Don Rosa.. did not like this story, feeling it wasn’t one of his best and apologizing for it. I however.. really loved it. It’s not PERFECT: the narration feels not entirely necessary and the gag isn’t as funny as he thinks, though the payoff of scrooge saying “it’s time for this story to end” is fucking hilarous. I also feel it’s a bit too compressed: the story is only 16 pages and was only THAT long because Rosa added a few for exposition, a worthy addition. This feels like one of his 30 page adventure stories but slightly crammed into half the length. I also feel the golden island bit was BADLY underused as it’s such a cool setting but barely shows up in the story.

But despite that.. it’s still a fun story: as is standard for Rosa the art is gorgeous and the humor is great. And unlike some stories where Rosa casually ignores how terrible scrooge is, here it’s his own greed and hubris that do him in: had he actually agreed to help Keoki, the boys likey would’ve let him keep the island but his own cold refusual to be a human being does him in, just as his cheapness nearly did. Flintheart is also decent here.. not the deepest foe but frankly most classical duck antagonists really aren’t all that fleshed out, and we still get some good bits with him. The dateline bit, while telegraphing that it will be important, as I said REALLY isn’t that hard to understand. All in all while i’ll agree with Rosa this isn’t his BEST, it’s still a really damn good story and one he shoudln’t be ashamed of.

Tommorow: Green Eggs and ham is back for some train shenanigans! Kay.

Saturday: The Tom Retrospective returns for it’s last detour! Eclipsa and Moon team up to stop meteora but grapple with diffrent wants: One to save her daughter.. the other to stop waht she clearly sees as an out of control monster. The result.. will only lead to tragedy and a hell of a two parter.

If you liked this review consider joining my patreon, patroen.com/popculturebuffet. At as low as 2 bucks a month you get accesss to my patreon discord, exclusive reviews, and to pick a short when I do one of my shortstragavanzas, a marthon of theatrical shorts honoring a characters birthday. And given Donald’s is next month, now’s the time to get on board.

But if you go up to 5 you get a guaranteed review of whatever you want every month, and will get me to my next milestone, which will give everyone including yourself a monthly public darkwing duck review, reviews of the two Ducktales minis’ I haven’t covered (Time is Money and SuperDuckTales) and a reivew of the Danny Phantom film the Ultimate Enemy. So please join today and if you cannot, like this review, subscribe and give me your opinions on it bellow. Or even if you can feedback is always appricated and I will see you at the next rainbow.

#donald duck #scrooge mcduck #don rosa #ducktales #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #flintheart glomgold #gold #island #volcaones

21 notes · View notes

goddamndumbass · 4 years

Text

The Thorn of Memory || Jean & Jessica

summary: before the holiday benefit, jessica hears some terrible news. to cope, she seeks out the help of dr. jean grey -- and not for her medical expertise

trigger warnings: death, suicide, grief, brief mentions of shooting/stabbing/violence etc, but mostly this one is feels

featuring: @jeanelcinegrey

Jessica: She knew pain. She had been shot and stabbed, knocked out, thrown the room, slammed up against buses. She had lost an organ, and she had scars all over her body, inside and out. She knew pain, the kind that burned, ached, itched, twisted, stung, red-hot, ice-cold, so quick it was only seconds but so intense that every second felt like a lifetime. She had been broken and cracked and bruised in so many ways, and she still kept going.

Because there was another type of pain. Something far worse, an emptiness that became a black hole, the kind that swallowed you entirely and spat out jagged pieces. The kind of pain that couldn't be soothed with a shower or icepack or whiskey. Agony. Despair. Depression. Nightmares and flashbacks.

She could live with a bruised body and she could limp along with a battered mind. But a broken heart?

Not this time.

She was done. She was tired and cold and she didn't have anything left in her. She had been spiraling towards this for a while, but now she was circling the drain. That phone call had been the last straw. That grief had taken the last, malingering pieces of her heart and shattered it. The shards were digging into her chest, making it harder to breathe than the pneumonia had. She knew pain.

She knew there was no escaping it forever. Sooner or later, it caught up to you. Sooner or later, it dragged you under. She just wanted to pretend she could float for one more night. Jessica walked into the ER, stopping at the desk. "Jean Grey," she said to the nurse behind the counter. "I need to see her. Now."

Jean: Long before a nurse came searching for her, Jean could feel Jessica’s presence in the emergency department. Long before she saw her name on the screen or had her notes passed into her hand, Jean could pick up on the aura walking through. There was something special about Jessica’s mind, something far beyond the suffering and pain that was palpable even without the interference of telepathy. There was something that pushed Jean out, even as she took a careful walk around the outer edges of her subconscious. It wasn’t something like the Phoenix, wasn’t another entity or a psychic block placed by someone of a skill level such as Charles or Emma. No, it was something far more rare, something that should be easier to understand but instead proved elusive.

Force of will.

And Jessica truly was a force to be reckoned with. Something changed since their last meeting. When she walked through the doors of the hospital, Jean didn’t pick up on that void, on that pushback. Instead there was something deep and visceral inside of Jessica, a pulling, dragging pain that Jean knew intimately from Scott’s mind when he thought of her death.

Jean stepped out from the office behind the nurses’ station. “It’s alright, Julie,” Jean said, resting her hand softly on the nurse’s shoulder. “I’ve got this one.”

Julie’s gaze flickered between the two women, but she made the executive decision to leave the doctor to her own devices, a clear message of I hope you know what you’re doing reflected in her eyes. Julie thought Jessica was a problem patient, one of the many who refused to let go, but even at that Jean would’ve spoken to her. People who created issues were in need of help themselves, most of the time.

“Jessica,” Jean said, taking care not to look too closely at the woman until they were away from prying eyes. “This is a surprise. Do you need more antibiotics?” She stepped around from the desk, gesturing towards one of the doors at the end of the corridor. “Come into my office and we can talk about it – starting at the beginning.”

Jessica: Julie was starting at her. People were always goddamn staring at her, at her trial, on the streets, in her nightmares – so many eyes. Sometimes it felt like they were inside her skull, the paranoia burned. But tonight she didn't care. A mind could only hold on to so much pain at once. She had barely felt the injuries from the crash, but she cried herself to sleep for three months straight. Even with him, with Kilgrave, there had been moments where she just stopped fighting it. The fact that she could even think his name without wanting to claw her skin open...

When Trish's claws dug into her palm, she had barely felt it. She knew it happened, she saw the blades through her hand, saw the tear in her glove, but it was the look in her sister's eyes that really pierced her. Those eyes had carved her open, cut a jagged hole right through her, she felt it in her chest.

She thought nothing would ever hurt that much. She didn't have words for how much it hurt. For how it felt when your family, your best friend, your person – your only real person, was the one to drive the knife in. Getting stabbed in the back sucked, but watching it happen was so much worse. That moment had taken her last bit of hope and crushed it. All that was left was a wisp of smoke and hazy memories, and she thought was as low as her life would ever get.

But she was wrong.

She was wrong about so much.

Jessica didn't bother to answer Grey, didn't speak until they were inside her office. "You know I don't need any more goddamn antibiotics," she said, arms wrapped tight around herself. "Because you're in my head, right? With your goddamn superfr..." She sighed, losing the energy for the words before they were even finished. "It's good actually," she said after a long pause. The air in the room tasted strange. "I need you to – I don't even know if you can, but I thought..." She was tired. So tired. It was too much, all of it too much.

Jean: The news was waiting on Jean’s desk when she arrived at work that morning. She was on the phone to Scott, reassuring him that yes, they had all the milk they needed, yes, she was there safe, she had faced worse than a trek across a hospital car park on a dark winter’s morning, yes she missed him too — and then she stopped and read the notice left by one of the nurses. An inquest into Patricia Walker, found dead several days before in the same cell Jean had met her in. They were questioning her mental state at the time of Jean’s consultation, raising questions and concerns about her conduct, looking into Jean’s history for an explanation.

None of that mattered. Jean knew she acted according to guidelines, even if her presence in the Raft at the first place was something of a sticking point. Whether she would be brought before a tribunal or not, whether she would have to explain this to the medical director or not, Jean’s person was on the other end of the phone line, and Jessica’s never would be again.

“I had to give them something. It’s a likely cover, should give us some time.” Antibiotic prescribing could sometimes be complicated, depending on side effects, adverse reactions, patient history. Jean could bluff it well. “I don’t need to be in your head to read you, Jessica.” And she didn’t. She didn’t, because Jessica’s thoughts screamed as much as the sag of her shoulders, or the scuff of her boots against the ground, heavier than they’d ever been. Jean watched Jessica carefully, not moving to sit at her desk, not moving to lean against it. She remained steady, unmoving, in front of the other woman.

”No matter what my personal feelings are,” Jean began, “I do want to help. I think I can.” She paused, chewing down on her lip. “I heard about your sister. If you want me to do what I think you’re suggesting, you need to say it, Jessica. I need to hear you say it.”

Jessica: A cover. Christ, she hadn't even thought about that, she didn't want to think about that. She was so tired of this superhero shit, this world she didn't belong in, the world that had stolen her sister. If heroes didn't exist, Trish would still be...

She couldn't say that though, could she? She was just spiraling down into what if, if only, and that game never ended well, always landing on Jessica's failures. Jessica wasn't good enough. She wasn't strong enough or smart enough or just – whatever enough. She couldn't save Hope Shlottman, or Reva, or her mom. And she couldn't save Trish, not even from herself.

Briefly, she entertained the idea of being offended by Grey's words. But she wasn't. She didn't have the energy to be offended, to even care, she just nodded vaguely. But then Grey said your sister, and her words became commands, and Jessica wanted to scream or throw up or tear all the skin off her body because none of it was clean, there was no getting rid of this guilt inside her –

Not forever anyway.

"She's dead," she said, realizing how quiet she had been, at least out loud. She was sure every goddamn thought was screaming at Grey and all her grief was echoing around inside the doctor's skull. "She's dead, and I didn't – I don't..." She closed her eyes tightly, sucked in a breath that wouldn't steady her. Why do you get to breathe? a voice whispered in her ear. Was it Kilgrave? Sallinger? Hope, Reva, Matt? Was it Trish? She didn't even know anymore. All her ghosts sounded the same.

"I want one night," she breathed finally, leaning forward against Grey's desk for support. "One night where I just – don't remember. Where I don't know this." She felt the shame rolling through her veins, like a tidal wave slowly dripping into her lungs. She just wanted to breathe. "Can you do that?" she whispered. "Can you make me forget?"

Jean: Dead. Jean knew all about death, had experienced it more times in her life than she could count on two hands. She had died herself three times over, had felt that cool ice creep through her veins before the warmth burst through and she saw the light envelop her, was front row and center for her best friend’s death at the hands of a drunk driver in the middle of the day, felt the other X-Men die even a hundred miles away when they were in battle because she was so closely attuned to them. She knew death. She could describe it if she was asked, could write an essay or a book on it without much encouragement, but if anyone asked if she was used to it, she would have to say no.

Nobody ever got used to death, not even the Phoenix, who grew out of the ashes of her former self to become something not better or worse but different. Jean knew what grief felt like, but she didn’t know how Jessica’s grief felt. It was as personal a thing as the breath in her lungs or the path her thoughts took in her head.

Some people tried to drink the pain away. Others tried to join their family members, tried to get closer to them in any way they could, searched for them in everyday occurrences. Others became angry, or depressed, retreating within themselves or chasing their pain with drugs or drink or anything that took the edge off. Jessica Jones was standing here now asking Jean to be her drug of choice, the thing that made her forget. Jean should say no. Ethically, morally, she should say no. She had a stethoscope around her neck. She was in scrubs. She had an X-Men badge tucked into her bag. She should say no, but she knew death.

“One night,” she repeated, “or twenty-four hours?” The specifics mattered, especially for someone like Jessica. Jean didn’t know all the details, but she could pick up on enough. “I can,” Jean replied. “Easily.” She could make the team forget entire battles if she wanted, could wipe the minds of a small country with Cerebro’s assistance. “It’s whether I should or not that’s another question. Are you sure you know what you’re asking for, Jessica? This … this might feel like before.” Jean liked to think her telepathy would feel different to what Jessica had experienced, but you could never be sure what the mind would bring back. “I don’t want to make this worse for you than it already is.”

Jessica: Easily. It was the answering she'd been hoping for. The answer she'd been dreading. She had only an idea about Jean, about what she could do. Ever since she felt her that night in the alleyway, that buzzing, tingling touch across her mind – Jessica had been, in no uncertain terms, terrified of this woman. The things she could do. Only idiots pretended they were never afraid, and Jessica wasn't that kind of idiot. She hadn't obsessively looked into Jean like she usually did, she tried to avoid her until that night in the ER. After that... well, she was still terrified. But Jean had shown her that no matter what 'gifts' the other woman had, Jessica still had control over her own mind.

She was in control now.

This was her decision.

She just needed to say it.

"No, it won't," she whispered, voice hoarse and ragged and raw. Her bloodshot eyes met Jean's, burning with unshed tears and agony she was barely holding back. She had control, but there was no point in hiding it. "He never gave me a choice. He didn't stop until he couldn't control me, but you – you've never–" She sucked in a breath, arms shaking as she pushed herself up. "You can't make it worse. It's as shitty as it's ever going to be." That was the thing about death. It was so final.

"But you can give me twenty-four hours," she breathed. Matt's face flashed through her mind, centering her, grounding her, reminding her why she was doing this. Not just for him, but for herself, because jesus – they both deserved a decent goddamn night. Just one. "Twenty-four hours where I can pretend my life isn't falling to shit. I know – I know I can't avoid it forever," she whispered, face falling. "But she killed herself. After I told her everything was her fault. I can't change that, no one can, I'm not asking for a miracle. I'm just asking not to feel this way so I can spend one night with someone who matters to me." She had her whole life to grieve. "I've already wasted so much time."

Jean: For some reason, standing in her office looking at Jessica Jones with a puffy face and bloodshot eyes, Jean thought back to sitting across the table in the restaurant with Erik. She thought about the fire in her veins when she said she was never going to be able to lose control completely, that she would be a live wire coiled so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t explode until the day she did. Charles called her a firecracker, but Jean knew the truth. She was an atom bomb. She spent her entire life hearing other people’s thoughts, living in their minds, taking pieces of them whether she meant to or not. There was never any turning it off, never a moment of the day that passed where she could live in blissful ignorance.

The only peace Jean knew was the block Charles placed on her telepathy as a child, until the time even he couldn’t hold her back without damaging a part of her mind. That peace ... that was what Jessica was asking for, wasn’t it? That moment of quiet. That beat where you could breathe, where you could think of something other than the person you loved six foot under. “It wasn’t your fault she made that choice, Jessica,” Jean said, firmly but softly, as softly as she could manage without pushing Jessica in the other direction. She knew enough from spending time with Logan to know how gentle sat on people who thought themselves unworthy. “I feel your thoughts, but I felt hers too. I met Trish, on the Raft. She needed help, and I tried to give it to her. I didn’t push enough, I know that now ... but I also know it wasn’t only on me. She had a lot happening inside of her, Jessica. A lot that you couldn’t, with all the power in the world, erase for her. She made her choice. You didn’t push her to anything.”

Jean understood why Jessica needed this. Why she wanted this. Any hesitation she had was erased when Jessica continued. I’ve already wasted so much time. Life was short, fleeting. Jean knew that more than most, and Jessica was tasting it now for what wasn’t the first time. Jean nodded, slowly at first and then more emphatically. “I’ll give you a thirty minute lapse,” she explained. “I’ll put in the block, and you’ll have half an hour to get home before things feel foggy. That should pass, after a few hours or so – I would recommend sleeping, if you can. After that, you should feel like normal, unless you try to access the memory. If that happens, you’ll notice something missing, and your brain will move quickly to fill the gap. They’re good like that.”

She took a breath, eyes flickering to the door as she checked for energy signatures coming down the hall. No one was looking for them. Jean met Jessica’s eyes one more time, then pressed two fingers to her own temple, closing her eyes and focusing on Charles’ patient voice telling her just how to construct a cardboard box in the mind, strong enough to hide but never to erase.

Grief, after all, was a part of you. Death was a part of you, a part of Jessica now – and she hadn’t asked to forget her sister. Nowhere close.

#aka discords #jean #jean: thorn of memory #thorn of memory discord #tw: suicide #tw: death #tw: grief

3 notes · View notes

selfignitingimagines · 5 years

Text

Derek- Not Again

Request- Okay, so my request. Can you write an imagine where Derek breaks up with reader, to protect her or something and on her way home, her car stops. She is in the middle of an empty road and no one else helps so she calls Derek. He comes and after a while they decide that breaking up was stupid. Thank you! / 6, 7 or 9 with Derek please?

A/N: So I combined these two and put my own spin on it. Hope you guys like it!

It didn’t really hit you until New Year’s.

The night the pack had killed the Nogitsune, you had fought with Allison’s old weapon. The battle was won, but it didn’t feel that way as you stood there on the dark pavement.

You had dropped her bow on the ground, along with her quiver of arrows, suddenly feeling so unbearably empty. You may have saved a life with it, but it felt wrong to hold it in your hands. It felt stolen.

You had left it there on the pavement, sent Derek and your uncle Argent a text saying you were leaving, and drove off.

That had been weeks ago, and ever since the only thing you had wanted was to isolate yourself from the rest of the pack. All you could think about was the way Allison had looked right before she was stabbed. Her lips had been curling up, smiling at the fact that she had found a way to win, just before she was run through.

Over and over, it played in your head, and you were unable to forget the way your cousin’s knees had buckled. You were unable to forget the terrified shock in her eyes as you caught Allison in your arms.

“It’s okay,” Allison had choked. “You’re stronger than I am. You always have been.”

But you didn’t feel strong now. You felt empty, hollow, and you really didn’t want to see anyone, even if it was a holiday. You hadn’t even responded to the frantic texts or calls of the others, wanting to know where you were and if you were okay.

Was it that obvious that you weren’t? Maybe they were just trying to deal with their own grief by offering help. Either way, you were sick of it. You were sick of pretending like everything was normal, like Allison wasn’t gone.

You were even ignoring Derek and you had been for weeks, although you felt a little guilty about that. You didn’t want to push him away, but you didn’t want to drag him down with you either. To be honest, you weren’t even sure if you were still together.

As you drove to the New Year’s party Scott was supposed to be throwing in the Loft, you wondered what you would even say to him, to all of them. You had lost your family to a car accident when you were young, only to gain another one when the Argents took you in. Then they had been ripped away from you all over again.

Allison had been six years old when you came to stay with her and your uncle and aunt. You were her friend, you were her protector, and for all intensive purposes, you were her sister. It would have been an understatement to say you were struggling with her death.

You car sputtered suddenly, causing you to grip the wheel nervously. It began to slow, no matter how hard you pressed on the accelerator, and you quickly pulled to the side of the road before you stopped in the middle of it.

You turned your car off, waited, and put the key back in, but it wouldn’t start back up. With a groan, you let your head fall back against the seat. When you reached for you phone, you saw five texts. One was from Scott, one was from Lydia, and three were from Derek.

Scott 6:45pm: Hey Y/n, I understand if you don’t feel like showing up tonight. Just know you’re welcome and that we’re all here for you. :)

Lydia 7:01pm: Are you still coming tonight? You promised, remember?

Derek 7:03pm: I know you don’t want to talk to me. I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t be with the others because of me. I hope I see you tonight.

Derek 7:17 pm: Lydia said that you promised you would come. What time will you be here?

Derek 8:12pm: The party started an hour ago. Are you ok?

You sighed, and placed your phone facedown on the passenger seat. You had promised Lydia you would come, but only so she wouldn’t be alone. You were the opposite, and that was all you had wanted for weeks now.

When the shrill ringing of your phone cut through your thoughts, you almost didn’t answer it. Fighting your better judgement, you snatched it up and answered, hoping it was Lydia.

“Hello?”

“Y/n.”

It was Derek. You felt your breath catch in your throat at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, Derek.”

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “You told Lydia you were coming and then you never showed.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you admitted. “And then I decided I would go, and my car stopped working, so I think that’s a sign-”

“Are you still at home?” Derek asked. “I’ll come get you.”

“No, I’m not,” you told him. “It’s fine. I’ll just call Argent to take me home.”

“I thought you were coming.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Y/n, I’ll pick you up.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t mean anyth-”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “Don’t come get me ok? Just don’t.”

Before he could get another word in, you hung up the phone, slumped back into your seat, and started to cry. Deep sobs shook your chest and the phone fell from your trembling hands somewhere onto the floor.

You knew Allison would be ashamed of you, sitting there on the side of the road when you could have been helping her friends. But they were just another reminder of her that you were too afraid to face.

It wasn’t long after that when you saw headlights approaching you from the front. You assumed the car would just pass by, but in your blurry mirror, you watched it make a U-turn and come right back around to park behind you.

You shook your head in disbelief, having recognized Derek’s car the minute it turned around. He had still come for you, whether you liked it or not.

As he approached the window, no doubt getting soaked in the pouring rain, you purposely looked out the passenger side of the car. It wasn’t until his persistent rapping on the window started to get on your nerves that you finally turned.

You cracked the door only a smidge, but you could still see him out there, leaning against the car as his dark hair fell flat against his head from the rain. When you glimpsed his green eyes, you could still see the concern in them, and it made you angry.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked when you finally cracked the door.

His voice had no anger in it, just worry.

“I told you I was going to call-”

“We both know Argent left for France two weeks ago,” he interrupted. “And you were going to sit out here, stranded, until god knows what happened…”

“I can handle myself,” you snapped.

“Can you?” he asked. “Because no one’s heard from you in weeks. You’re ignoring every call, every text. You won’t even answer your door. So, please, tell me how well you’re handling this.”

“I just want to be left alone,” you spat, feeling hot tears pooling once more.

“You know that’s not the way to deal with this.”

“So how do I deal with it then?” you demanded. “How do I deal with the fact that Allison is dead and it’s because of me?”

“By letting us help.” His voice was pleading, almost desperate. He wanted nothing more than to break through the window and hold you right then, but he wasn’t even sure if you wanted him anymore. “And you know it’s not your fault.”

“Leave me alone, Derek.”

“No,” he said, and this time his voice was angry. “I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

You gritted your teeth and leaned forward. “You don’t have a choice.”

Stubbornly, you yanked the door closed, but he caught it with his hands.

“You know that I understand exactly what you’re feeling right now. I know what you’re thinking. I know how it feels, and I know holidays are always hard. But whatever voice in your head that’s telling you this is your fault, it’s wrong.”

“Derek-”

“No one blames you,” he continued. “They’re only worried about losing you. And so am I, just like I always have been. Please, Y/n, just let me in.”

When he said those last three words, you knew he wasn’t just talking about the car. Something in his eyes was so desperate and pleading, and you felt something inside you crack. You reached over and flipped the lock for the passenger side door. In seconds, he was crossing to the other side and coming to sit next to you.

He didn’t hesitate to lean across the console and pull you into his chest. He was soaking wet, but the simple feeling of being in his arms was enough to send you into hysterics.

“I should have protected her,” you choked through tears. “I should have stopped them.”

“Y/n,” Derek whispered, running a hand down your damp hair. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know. I know, and it still feels like someone shot me in the chest. It still feels just as awful.”

“It’s going to,” he said softly. “But you’ve been through this before. You know you can still survive it.”

“Can I?”

“I know you can,” he told you, tightening his arms around you. “And you don’t have to do it alone either.”

You gave a shaky nod as tears still streamed down your face. “I’m sorry for ignoring you. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I understand. And I understand if maybe you don’t want to do this right now, or if…”

“If what?” you whispered.

“If you don’t love me anymore. I understand.”

“What?” you demanded. “Are you insane?”

“I almost tried to set you and your uncle on fire,” Derek reminded you gently. “And we never really got the chance to talk about it before…”

You shook your head in disbelief. “You think I could stop loving you because of something you did when you were being controlled by someone else? Derek, I don’t think I could ever stop loving you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he said, rubbing your back. “Because I was prepared to break out the chocolate and sappy romantic movies if you did break up with me.”

Without realizing what was happening, you let out a watery laugh. It was the first time you had laughed since Allison had died.

Derek smiled softly, and reached out to grab your hand. “I can take you back to the loft tonight. Only if you want to though.”

You took a deep breath and nodded. “We can do that. I think I’m ready to see everyone.”

“You’re sure?” Derek asked carefully.

“I’m sure.”

He shrugged off his soaked leather jacket and wrapped it around you before helping you out of your car. You hadn’t exactly prepared for the weather, and he wasn’t about to let you get soaked. Then he led you over to his car, holding the door open for you to hop into the warm Toyota.

Before you pulled away, he leaned forward hesitantly, but as soon as you smiled at him he knew everything was okay. He pressed his lips against yours in one deep, loving kiss, letting you know that nothing had changed between the two of you.

Things were going to be hard without Allison, but it seemed the worst was over. You had lost so many people in your life and now you were beginning to think it was time to focus on the ones that were still here. And as Derek squeezed your hand, you knew he was a good one to focus on.

#teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #selfignitingimagines #derek hale imagines

184 notes · View notes

whistledylan-blog · 7 years

Text

The Little Things

5 times Derek notices things about Stiles he has never noticed before.

1. The tiny specs of colour in their eyes.

For a moment, Derek was floating. He was weightless, mind adrift. And then suddenly, it was like he was dropped into a pool of cold water and he was being thrown into consciousness.

His eyes snapped open, breath leaving his lungs. He barely caught the fist swinging towards his face, the small, cold knuckles swarmed in his own collaused palm with a painful slap of skin against skin. He looked above him, eyes leaving the two hands, and found Stiles staring down at him. It was just as much of a shock waking up as it was seeing cold, stomach dropping fear glistening in Stiles' eyes. His face was illuminated green, shadowed from the prominent cheekbones and ridiculously long eyelashes. The lights around them were flickering on and off, making Derek's sense of his surroundings even more off.

He looked around, dazed and confused because what the actual fuck? He couldn't figure out what was going on. What happened and why was Stiles staring at him like he's dropped from the fucking sky?

Suddenly, it all came rushing back like a tidal wave.

"Where is she?" He shakily asked after he glanced out of the elevator he was laying in, looking at the dimmed and abandoned hospital ward.

"Jennifer?" Stiles croaked above him, voice raspy like he'd been crying. His eyes didn't look red, but Derek did find himself unable to take his eyes off them - doe and big. "Gone— with Scott's mum."

Derek felt his stomach twist uneasily, guilt swarming his gut. "She took her?"

"Yeah," Stiles nodded. "And if that's not enough of a kick to the balls, Scott left with Deucalion. Okay? So, we gotta get you out of here—" he could hear the teenagers breathing picking up, noting the anxious way he was sparing nervous glances down the end of the hall. His wrist was still in Derek's hand, shaking. "The police are coming right now, and we gotta get you the hell out-ta here—"

"Woah," Derek cut him off, sitting up and ignoring the scream from his muscles. He felt so impossibly drained. "What about Cora?"

"She's fine," Stiles replied, quick and high. "She's with Peter and Isaac. Look, we gotta go, okay? Can you stand? Did she break anything or—"

"I'm fine," Derek answered shortly. He wasn't fine, but he wasn't broken or physically injured. Maybe mind-fucked and internally scarred by the fact that he was sleeping with a goddamn Darach who while she wasn't in his bed, was actually out killing people for sacrifices. He was more worried about Cora at the moment, but Jennifer was large play in his mind - especially now she has Stiles' dad and Scott's mum.

"Okay, good," Stiles nodded and he didn't waste another moment before he was grabbing Derek by the shoulders and pulling - non helpfully - Derek to his feet. He stumbled when he was vertical, blood rushing to his head like he'd been hanging upside down instead of laying on the floor. "Woah—" Stiles rushed to his close side, hands everywhere and eyes tracking him. "You okay, big guy?"

Not by a long shot, Derek wanted to say. "I'm fine," he gruffed instead. It was obvious Stiles didn't believe him, his brown eyes unconvinced and shining evident disbelief, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he nodded, breathing shakily. They were at eye level, eyes directly looking into one another and if it was under different circumstances, Derek would have taken the time to admire the fire behind the teens eyes, or the way lighter shades of brown sparkled along side the dark, glowing whiskey. But right now, the circumstances were shit, and they needed to get out.

"Let's go," Derek said, and neither of them wasted another moment before they turned and ran.

2. How someone looks when they think nobody can see them.

Everything was better now. Cora was cured and currently out of town. She'd left only two days after she was well enough to stand, calming telling Derek she couldn't stay because everything here reminded her of pain and misery. Derek couldn't disagree with her, or make her stay. But he also declined her offer to go with him, knowing he needed to stay with his pack and some Hale member had to stay here. But things were better. The sheriff, Melissa and Chris were rescued and safe. Scott, Allison and Stiles got their parents back. The sacrifices worked, or, at least that's what Derek was told.

He didn't believe they worked, didnt believe everything was alright. The sacrifices gave them the location of their parents, but it's physically and mentally scarred them for life. The darkness around their hearts, as Deaton explained, was perminant. It was a scar, ugly and unremovable. Derek had no idea what it felt like, but he imagined it was like a hole in your chest, a big black void of nothing, just gaping like a bloodless bullet wound. He assumed it felt like grief, consuming and a consistent ache or feeling.

Derek couldn't imagine what it actually felt like, pooling in his chest continuously.

The pack meeting came to a stuttering end about half an hour before the members began to leave. Lydia and Allison went first, claiming they needed shopping as Lydia was sure it was the only way to properly cheer Allison up. Derek could see the frustration in Allison's form, the aftermath of the sacrifice turning her paranoid, saying she can keep seeing the ghost of her dead aunt.

"Hey, Scott," Stiles said, catching the doe-eyed true alpha. They were standing in the middle of the loft, Scott having just began to make his way to the loft door. He turned around on Stiles' call and waited for him to continue. "Are you still free today? I was wondering if we could hang out, I need to tell you—"

"Sorry, buddy," Scott cut him off, and the drop in Stiles' hopeful expression told Derek the younger teen knew he was being ditched. "I was gonna hang out with Kira, do some history notes together," Scott looked at Kira over his shoulder, the small girl sending him a sweet wave when she noticed him looking. Scott, like a lovesick middle-schooler, waved back with doe eyes. He turned back to Stiles, talking in a low voice so no one could hear, stupidly forgetting he's surrounded by werewolves with enhanced hearing, "she's finally noticing me, Stiles. I know you wanted to hang out, and we will — I promise! But, I really like her, like, like her. I haven't felt like this about anyone since. . ." He trailed off and the small 'Allison' didn't go unheard.

Stiles shook his head, lips pulling up into a smile that was so painfully forced. "It's fine. Totally cool. You go, write notes and woo her with your puppy eyes. I can talk to you another time."

Scott grinned. "Thank you!" He clapped a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "You're the best, Stiles. I promise we'll hang out tomorrow, okay?"

Stiles nodded, muttering, "Okay. Sure."

But Scott was already turning away, going to Kira and it took all of Derek's willpower not to grab Scott by the collar and drag him to Stiles' feet and force him to apologise to his best friend that so obviously needs him.

The second Scott was out the door, it was like Stiles was physically punched. Derek watched his face morph into a mixture of pain, anxiety and hurt. He wrapped his arms around his middle, cuddling himself as if it would give him some source of comfort. Derek could tell his eyes were trained on the floor, despite standing behind him. The angle of his head was down and bowed, and Derek officially declared Scott the biggest oblivious idiot in the pack. How could he not see? How could he not see the obvious signs of his best friends suffering? Derek has watched Stiles turn up to meeting after meeting since the sacrifices, watching his skin get paler and tighter from exhaustion. The purple half moons under his eyes becoming horrifically prominant, standing out against the white of his complexion. His hair was hazardous, sprawled in every direction like it's been pulled with stress.

Stiles was suffering, and Derek could see him suffering in silence.

Derek didn't know if Stiles realised he was there, especially considering it was his loft, but Stiles seemed to be in his own head. He seemed unconscious that Derek was standing behind him, watching and observing the way he's curling in on himself like a wounded child. The way waves of misery and hurt are rolling off him and smacking Derek like a physically tsunami. Realisation dawned on him that Stiles wasn't okay, and that everything wasn't better now just because no one was in immediate danger.

Derek moved, the floor beneath his feet moaning and Stiles spun around so fast Derek was surprised he managed to stay standing. Stiles' eyes were wide, swimming with surprise and also a hint of embarrassment, which had Derek almost frowning because, why?

"Are you okay?"

Stiles nodded, and suddenly, it was like a masked was slipped on. His face became neutral, emotionless and all the pain shining through the exhausted whiskey eyes was covered like a shield. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Derek nodded back. He didn't have another chance to speak to Stiles, for the brunette teenager was grabbing his bag by the strap and darting out of the loft like a streak of light.

3. Real meanings behind spoken words.

Derek didn't know how it had come to this. He didn't know what he did to deserve this, but through out his entire life, he's never been so terrified. Even when he watched his family burn, or spent years hiding away in New York, grieving with Laura, or when he came back to this god-forsaken town to find his older sister dead at the hands of his psychopathic uncle. He has never felt as truly scared as he is now.

He was standing in Deaton's veterinary. It was cold, the chill from outside seeping into the dark room. Scott was leaning against a metal table, hand on his recently healed stomach. There was a large blood patch on his t-shirt, the wet, sodden fabric ruined by the gaping hole in the middle. He looked close to tears, and that wasn't because he was stabbed and basically had death flash in front of his eyes. No, Derek knows he's close to tears because of the teenager laying on the table opposite him.

Stiles had been unconscious when Derek ran in from the rain. The teen then, however, had been laying on his side on the cold floor, Deaton standing above him with a needle in his hand like a mad scientist out of a horror movie.

At first, Derek had demanded answers. He wanted to know what the fuck was going on and how the hell Scott, the true alpha, had managed to get stabbed by his hyperactive human best friend. Except once Derek had lifted Stiles onto the table, his body disturbingly lax in his arms, Deaton had then explained that Stiles was not only Stiles, but actually possessed by a thousand year old Japanese spirit.

It had been quite a shock. Sure, Derek had his suspicions, but no one had confirmed it to him and to hear Deaton tell him, when Stiles was drugged to unconsciousness and Scott was recovering from a stab wound to the stomach, it made Derek want to throw up.

After ten minutes of eery silence, Derek asked the only question he was sure he could voice without vomiting. "What do we do?"

His voice broke the quiet like a sledgehammer on a sheet of glass; shattering it. Scott physically flinched when he did, and for the first time in a long time, Derek saw the vulnerability in the True Alpha.

"The wolf lichen should knock him out for a while, and when he comes around he should be in control of himself," Deaton answered.

Derek looked at him. "And what happens if Stiles isn't in control when he wakes up?"

"We'll deal with that if and when it happens. For now, we need to assume the wolf lichen will work and the fox will be effected."

"Is it going to hurt him?" Scott asked, his eyes still locked on Stiles' form. When no one answered, he looked up and directly at Deaton. "Is the wolf lichen going to hurt Stiles?"

"No," Deaton said. "It won't harm his human side, only the fox inside him."

"Then why is he still passed out?" Scott shouted, a growl itching into his tone.

Deaton seemed unfazed, as usual. "Because the wolf lichen will act as a sedative until the fox is weak enough for Stiles to take control again. He'll be fine, Scott." His last words sounded flimsy but it was the best they had.

"Okay, so assuming Stiles is in control, what should we do? The wolf lichen isn't permeant, and if the fox is as powerful as you said it was, then it isn't just going to sit back and let Stiles have his life back again," Derek said, and once the words left his mouth, he felt like he was going to be sick again.

He looked at Stiles, and instantly he regretted it. The teenager was still passed out, lax and limp on the table. His head was turned to the side, face in their direction. His skin was white, eyes bruised and purple. His lips were cracked, colourless like the rest of his complexion. His hair was stuck to his forehead in wet curls like seaweed washed up on a pale shore. It was scary, to see Stiles so still. In all the years Derek had known him, Stiles was a constant flurry of movement and colour but now, he was like a grey form of stationary misery.

"How can we help him?" Derek asked. "How do we stop whats inside him?"

Deaton shook his head. "I don't know enough," he said.

"Well learn something!" Derek snapped. "We need to help him."

"I know," Deaton said, and it almost sounded like a sigh.

"We need to get it out," Scott murmured. "We need to get that thing out of him."

Deaton nodded. "I'll see if I know any contacts who might be able to help. I recommend speaking to Chris, he might know more about this than me."

"I'll do it," Derek said, knowing Scott wasn't up for anything else tonight. "You should go home, Scott. Get some rest-"

Scott's head snapped up at the mention of his name. "W-What? No! I can't— you don't. . . I need to help—"

"Scott, you had a sword pushed through your stomach. You need to rest and heal—"

Scott pushed off the table. "I've healed! I—"

"Scott," Derek said, voice rumbling. If he was an alpha still, he knew he would have flashed his red eyes, but he didn't bother now. "Go home, we'll phone you if anything changes," he added, "I promise."

Scott looked like he was going to protest, but then he must have come to his senses and realised he needed to go home.

"Call Kira when you go," Deaton said. "Make sure she's okay."

Derek doesn't know who Kira is or what happened to her, and if he was honest with himself then he didn't want to know. The only thought that connected in his mind was if Stiles had hurt her? If the thing inside his head had hurt someone?

Derek cut out of his thoughts when Scott began to head towards the door, looking over his shoulder ever three seconds, eyes on his best friend as if walking out the door without him is like he's saying good bye. The door shut behind him with a deafening silence.

"Take me to Eichen,"

Derek spun on his heel as fast as light, ears ringing with the croaking voice.

Stiles was awake, eyes open and shining through the whiskey orbs was such raw fear that Derek could literally taste it on his tongue. He hadn't even realised Stiles was awake, and now he listened, he could hear the racing beats of his heart.

"What?" Derek asked, brain not fully processing Stiles' words.

"Take me to Eichen House. I can't be around you guys—"

"No way in hell are you going there," Derek said adamantly.

"Derek—"

"Stiles, Derek is right. I don't think—"

"I have to. I heard what you said about the wolf lichen, and I know it isn't going to hold forever. You can't just let me roam the streets. I might— it might hurt someone. Please, I need to do this."

Derek sighed. His chest was aching. "Stiles, Eichen isn't safe,"

"It doesn't matter. If I'm in there, so is the damn thing possessing me. Everyone will be safe, and it will give you guys more time to figure something out."

"We're going to kill it, Stiles," Derek said, voice more solid than it had been all night. He was confident that Stiles was going to get out of this alive, and no way in hell was Derek going to let the brave, stupid, idiotic spaz go down this way after everything he's been through. "You're going to be okay."

"You can't," Stiles whispered. His voice cracked, croaking when he spoke.

"Stiles, we can and we will," Derek snarled.

"How?" Stiles asked, and then Derek noticed the glistening in his eyes and the salty tang to the air. "How do you destroy a monster without becoming one?"

The words hit Derek so hard he had to take a physical step back. He didn't know exactly what Stiles was implying, but the words were cold and sharp.

Monster.

Was Stiles implying that Derek was a monster? Or that Stiles himself is a monster? The questions flew back and forth like a boomerang, spinning inside his head.

"Stiles," Derek began, but prominently cut himself off. What the fuck was he meant to say to that?

"Please," Stiles begged, sounding so small and hurt it physically wounded Derek like a punch to the chest.

Derek sighed. He looked to Deaton, who met his eyes with a familiar gaze. Derek looked back to Stiles, who was staring at him with a hopeful and desperate look that could have made the newly made beta crumble, even in alpha form.

"Call your father," Derek said. "You need his consent first."

4 . Emotions they are trying to hide.

When Derek next saw Stiles, it was a week after the Nogitsune was diminished and two friends were buried in the ground. The remaining pack were damaged, the entire pack and its balance fractured, possibly beyond repair.

Scott was heart broken, internally destroyed from having his first love die in his arms. Derek could relate, horribly, and he knew that kind of pain didn't just go away with a few good nights sleep and a lot of hugs. It was scarring, deep and un-healable.

Lydia was just as distraught, though her's was less visible. She had been the one to plan the meeting at Derek's loft, insisting they needed to get back to some sort of normalcy. She'd turned up the following day, Kira at her side, saying the pack meeting was happening and everyone was going to be there.

At first, Derek didn't believe her or the idea that everyone would come. Grieving was hard, and for most people, it was actually easier to do alone. Or at least, that's what people believed when they were grieving. It was like dark cloud hanging over you, and your constant worry was getting everyone caught in your own storm. Derek knew what it was like to hide away in grief, he'd done it twice before and he was sure as hell not going to criticise the pack for doing it themselves. The only member of the pack Derek had actively seen was Isaac, and that was only because he'd moved back in with him. He didn't comment, the first night Isaac turned up at the lofts door with a duffel bag and red eyes, he only opened the door wider and offered his bed, knowing the beta needed it.

Scott and Isaac arrived together, looking hunched and sad. They barely said a hello to everyone before dropping down on the sofa.

Stiles was the last to arrive, and when he did walk through the door, Derek could have cried. Stiles was the definition of mentally broken. His physical appearance was haunting, from his translucent skin and exhausted eyes to his sluggish movements and sharp cheekbones. He walked with hunched shoulders, like he was carrying the weight of the world on the producing bones. Lydia approached him as he crossed the loft and immediately pulled him into a hug. Derek noted the raise in heartbeat and how Stiles stiffened like a plank, muscles stiff. Lydia didn't remove herself, and eventually, Stiles sagged against her, shaking hands wrapping around her back and forehead dropping to her shoulder. Derek shoved down the swell of jealously and was instead thankful that Stiles was even there.

When Lydia detached herself, she grabbed Stiles by the hand and guided him to the sitting area. Stiles situated himself in the empty love seat, looking small as he curled in on himself against the mountain of pillows.

"What are we doing here?" Scott had asked, voice small and cracking.

"We need to heal, and we should do it together. Allison wouldn't want us like this, she'd want us to carry on with life. We need to find some normalcy, so we're going to watch a movie together and eat some food like we used to."

No one had argued when Lydia put a Disney film on the TV and curled up on the couch beside Scott. After that day, things did improve. The pack began to heal, slowly but surely. The meetings and Friday movie nights became routine again. Everyone was beginning to fall back into place, sealing the cracks that had formed and repairing the damage done. It wasn't perfect, and it was never going to be. They had lost a large, vital and irreplaceable member of their pack and lives. It was never going to be the same, but that didn't mean they couldn't be happy and heal.

Derek doesn't know what urged him to go over to the Stilinski house hold a few weeks later, but he's bloody glad he went. He was barely a few feet away from the grass below Stiles' bedroom window when he heard the familiar sound of a faint sob. The sound, despite being quiet and muffled, sent Derek's wolf into overdrive and he was leaping up onto the window ledge and climbing inside before he could really think about it.

He was startled to find the bedroom empty. The first thing that hit him was the scent of misery and guilt, so strong and suffocating as it clung to every inch and object in the room. Derek could barely stop himself from whining, unable to understand why Stiles had to suffer through this alone.

The next soft cry snapped him out of his thoughts. He was following the sound before the next cry followed, leading him to the bathroom where he found the door wide open and Stiles sitting under the sink.

The teen hiccups when he looks up, tears streaming down his cheeks like small rivers and eyes puffy and red, swollen with misery. He's curled in on himself, knees up his chest and trembling arms wrapped around himself as if he could make himself unseen.

Derek felt his heart literally break.

"Stiles," he whispered, approaching slowly and cautiously. When he was close enough, he crouched down almost at eye level with the shaking male that was no more than a child. Now he was closer, he could see the sharp lines of his prominent cheekbones, the colourless lips disgusting with the sickly pale skin. Underneath the blood-shot eyes were bruises of obvious exhaustion.

Derek wasn't expecting Stiles to launch himself into Derek's chest, but he reacted quickly, taking in the sobbing teen and wrapping his arms protectively around him. Stiles cried into his chest, wailed and trembled. His pain was pouring out, coming so unexpectedly that Derek cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Not addressing the pain he had suspected Stiles was in, should have acted on instinct and the duty of a friend, because it was obvious Stiles needed a shoulder to cry on.

"You're okay," Derek murmured, rubbing a hand up and down the shaking knobs of his spine. "You're gonna be okay, Stiles. You're not alone, it's not your fault. Breath with me, calm down. Everyone's okay, everyone's fine."

Stiles choked a sob against his chest, hands wrung in his shirt, gripping tight and desperate. He sounded so fragile, so hurt and broken that Derek could barely blink back the tears in his own eyes. He'd never felt this sad and distraught since the fire, and the time before that when Paige was dying in his arms. But even then, it didn't hurt like this. This was worse, deeper like a never healing knife wound. This hurt more because it's been going on for weeks, Stiles has been crumbling and suffering alone because Derek was too weak and pathetic to act on his feelings and help Stiles.

Derek doesn't know how long he was sitting on the Stilinski bathroom floor, cradling and supporting his pack mate. But when Stiles finally found the breath to sit back, he looked worse than before. His eyelashes were clumped together, jet black with tears. His cheeks were wet and tinted red. Eyes sore and raw. He looked open and vulnerable, ruined and battered like a old toy that has been abandoned after years of careless play.

With a gentle touch, Derek brushed the pad of his thumb under one of Stiles' eyes, wiping away the falling tear. Stiles was staring back at him, whiskey orbs bright in the florescent bathroom lights.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles whispered, voice cracking and raspy.

Derek flashed him a small smile, hoping it would transfer some sort of comfort to the aching teen. "I came to see if you were okay," he replied, tone as gentle as the hand rubbing Stiles' shoulder with small circles. "You're not okay, are you?"

Stiles continued to stare at him with unblinking eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and Derek would bet his right arm he was going to lie 'I'm fine'. But then his mouth snapped closed, lip trembling and eyes filling with a fresh pool of tears. He shook his head, small and shakily.

Derek didn't hesitate to pull Stiles back into his chest, arms winding around his back for security. Stiles curled into his chest without protest, small sobs starting again.

"It's okay. It's okay not to be okay," Derek whispered into the soft, messy mop of brown hair. "You'll heal, it'll get better and one day you can say you're fine and won't have to lie about it. But it's okay that today is not that day."

They moved into the bedroom sometime later, laying down on the bed. Derek wasn't planning on staying, but when Stiles grasped his wrist and looked at him with those big, hopeful and scared eyes, he didn't hesitate to kick off his shoes and climb under the covers next to him.

Stiles was the same as he had been at the pack meetings. He hadn't changed, good nor bad. He was still keep his distance from the pack. Still looking pale and sick, tired and wary, jumping at every sudden and small sound. It pained Derek to see him so uncomfortable in his own skin.

Stiles was falling asleep next to him, breaths deep and soft, but Derek could see him resisting. In the dim light of the room, Stiles kept desperatly blinking his eyes open in the will to stay awake. Derek couldn't stand it any longer, looking at the exhausted face and sunken eyes in so much need for rest. He grabbed Stiles' hand, the skin cold against his own and small. Stiles' eyes met his, and Derek squeezed his hand gently.

"Go to sleep," he whispered into the silence. "I'll be here when you wake up."

The short reassurance seemed to calm Stiles somewhat. His tense body lost some of the stiffness and he relaxed slightly against the mattress, but not by much. He was still too wired to fall asleep, so Derek took charge.

He moved closer, pulling Stiles into him gently. He kept their one hands connected, pressed between their chests and he wound the other one around Stiles' neck to hold his head, running his fingers gently through the soft strands of hair at the back of his head. The small, comforting gestures caused Stiles to drop like a hot rock into the abyss of sleep.

Derek followed soon after, rocking and comforted by the steady heartbeat and rhythmic breathing.

5. The melody of someone's voice.

"What was it?"

"There's a lot of myths," Derek began, looking up from the locker room floor to Stiles, who was standing a few feet away. "About how people can be turned into a werewolf. Usually, it's a bite, and there's one about rain water."

"Rain water out of the puddle of a werewolf's print," Stiles said, nodding.

"There's another one," Derek continued. "A way that someone can be turned by a scratch, if the claws go deep enough. I dreamed. . .I dreamed about Kate. She wasn't dead, she was alive, she was a were but I don't know which one. She didn't die when Peter killed her, she turned, and she was in my loft."

"Derek," Stiles sat down on the bench opposite him, looking at him with concern, "if this is all just a dream, then why do you look so worried?"

Derek shook his head in small movements. "Because I don't remember waking up. So. . .so tell me, how do you know? How do you know if you're still dreaming?"

"Fingers. In dreams you have extra fingers," Stiles replied. Derek didn't hesitate a moment before he snatched Stiles by the wrist and brought his hand up.

6 fingers.

Suddenly, the world folded like an envelope. Stiles was gone, as was the locker room. He was standing in his loft, smoke and darkness around him. His chest burned, fire and pain burning through him. He dropped to his knees, hands hovering over the sudden gun shot wound at the bottom of his chest.

He looked down at the blood stain. "It's real," he whispered to himself.

Looking up, he saw a figure approach and appear in the white fog around him.

"You're real,"

"That's right, Derek," Kate replied as she stalked forward, hips swaying and gun loose at her side in her fingers. "And if seeing me is a surprise, watch this,"

Suddenly, like a werewolf would, her face began to morph and shift. Only, she wasn't shifting into a wolf. Her eyes glowed green, teeth canines growing and skin turning blue with black smudges. She let out a roar, deep and loud.

"Derek,"

The voice that spoke didn't belong. It wasn't here, it was distance, like an echo. Derek barely heard it over the deafening roar.

"Derek, wake up,"

He couldn't pin point who it was or where they were. Black spots were dancing in his vision. His head felt cloudy, ears muffled. Kate was watching him, Kate was alive and he couldn't breath.

"Derek! Wake up!" The voice was more urgent, pleading.

His lungs stopped working. He was suffocating. He couldn't—

"Wake up!"

Derek snapped into consciousness with a breathless gasp. The first thing he saw was the ceiling, and then he was jackknifing into a sitting position. His skin was crawling, tingling and too tight. His hand went to his chest where the gaping hole was no longer there, where his t-shirt was no longer sticky with blood. His lungs were clenched, muscles tort and refusing to expand. His breath was short, neck cold with sweat.

"Derek?"

The small, unsure voice sent him into a spiral of confusion. His head snapped in the direction to see Stiles sitting up next to him, eyes wide and skin white pale in the moon light that glowed in from his bedroom window.

Derek tried to calm his breathing, to find some kind of steady pattern or rhythm, but he couldn't.

A hand grabbed his own, another one coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Derek," the voice was steadier this time, more stern and commanding. Stiles' eyes met his, the whiskey colour gleaming with a determination that had been missing for so long. "Breath with me. Hold you're breath."

It wasn't helping. This had never happened, in all of Derek's traumatic years, he'd never had a panic attack and he hated this. He couldn't breath and the lack of oxygen filling his lungs only made him panic more. It was a vicious circle, no way out, trapped and—

A pair of lips covered his. He was so startled and surprised he didn't even register the intake of breath he stopped. He sighed into the kiss, melting against the lips against his. Something warm and pleasant fluttered in his chest, replacing the recent panic and tight feeling. It was over as soon as it started and Stiles was pulling away.

Silence settled. Derek was speechless, awed and embarrassed. He'd panicked like that in front of Stiles, something that made him open and vulnerable - something he'd tried so hard to mask. His eyes were conflicted between looking at Stiles' lips or his eyes, both open and unreadable. Stiles was staring right back at him, his own breathing deep as if the kiss had surprised him as much as it had Derek.

The wolf couldn't stand it anymore. He grabbed Stiles by the cheek and collided their lips together again. This one was better, longer, deeper. It was passionate, sweet and sour, like burnt sugar. It was captivating, sending tingles down Derek's spine. Stiles' lips moved with his, as if they had done this a million times. What surprised him most was Stiles was kissing back with as much if not more enthusiasm.

The next time they pulled away was because they were breathless. Derek took in Stiles' appearance with one look. He was still pale and he looked just as tired as he was hours ago before they fell asleep, but now his cheeks were tinted with a healthy red glow, eyes dilated and lips swollen and pink.

"You like me?" Stiles whispered, breaking the silence that was only filled by their heavy breathing.

Derek smiled and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Stiles smiled back, a small action that had been absent for too long and made Stiles look hypnotising-ly beautiful. "I like you too. I like you a lot."

"Good," Derek replied, pulling him in for another hungry and desperate kiss. "You're it for me, Stiles." He whispered against the teens lips. "You're everything."

They were healing, Derek decided. And now, they could heal together.

— fin.

#one shot #Sterek #sterek one shot #imagine #teen wolf #stiles stilisnki #derek hale #sterek imagine

135 notes · View notes