#hey listen. they make me want to climb walls and scream like a banshee. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandomrewrites · 3 years

Text

Season 3a; Episode 6: Motel California

Hello all! I really love this chapter because it let’s everyone see a little more of (Y/N)’s Zeta powers. We also have a few nice moments between (Y/N) and some of the other characters. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and as always constructive criticism is appreciated! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

Season 3a; Episode 6: Motel California

Pairings: Scott McCall x Twin Sister, Lydia Martin x Best Friend, Isaac Lahey x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, near death

Word Count: 3,955

Season 3a masterlist

Everyone steps out of the bus looking up at the old motel. "I've seen worse." Scott says.

"Where have you seen worse?" Stiles asks.

"Seriously, this place looks like the setting to a horror movie." I reply.

Coach blows his whistle before anyone can reply, "Listen up. The meet's been pushed to tomorrow morning. This is the closest motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgment in accepting a group of degenerates like yourselves. You'll be pairing up. Choose wisely."

Coach starts handing out the keys, he gives Allison and Lydia a confused look as they approach. Allison smiles brightly taking the key from him, "Thanks Coach."

Once all the keys are passed out Coach addresses the students once more, "And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you deviants. Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves."

Once he finishes everyone disperses, trying to find their rooms. Lydia and I hang back, looking at the motel buildings with unease. "Lydia? (Y/N)?" Allison's voice breaks us from our thoughts.

"I don't like this place." Lydia states.

"I don't either. I feel like something bad is going to happen." I say.

"It's just for one night." Allison replies, trying to reassure us.

"A lot can happen in a night." Lydia says. I nod in agreement then take a breath and loop my arm through Lydia's, gently pulling her with me.

Once we make it to our door Allison and I pause to look at Stiles and Scott. They both smile then head into their room making Allison turn and walk through the motel door. She throws her bag on the closest bed then looks back at Lydia and I who still haven't entered the room.

"You're both really freaked out, aren't you?" Allison asks.

"I just have this feeling like coming here wasn't an accident." Lydia replies.

"What do you mean? Like we were supposed to come here? Like fate?"

"I don't know. Something." Lydia whispers. As they talk my eyes scan the room and I strain my ears to listen to anything that screams 'danger'.

Allison takes both of our hands, tugging us into the room, "I don't believe in fate."

"Well, maybe you should start." Lydia turns towards me as the door swings shut, "Are you getting your danger sense?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel like it has before. But I know something is... different about this place. And it definitely doesn't feel good." I answer.

"Well, I'm going to shower." Allison says. She pulls clothes out of her bag then heads into the bathroom. A few seconds later she comes back out, "Can one of you get towels? These all smell like smoke."

Lydia and I both nod, taking the towels from Allison's hand. "I'll go." Lydia says to me.

"I'll come with you. I need to get out of this room." I reply, standing up and following her out of the room.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Lydia and I step into the lobby. Lydia walks up to the front desk, placing the pile of towels onto the counter. I stand slightly behind her, trying to focus on my breathing. "Excuse me, but the card on the dresser says we have a non-smoking room. Yet somehow every one of our towels reeks of nicotine."

The desk clerk turns around revealing a permanent tracheostomy tube in her throat. "That would explain it." I mumble.

At the same time the desk clerk addresses Lydia, "Sorry about that, sweetheart."

"What's that? That number." Lydia asks the clerk.

My eyes flicker to the number '198' posted behind the desk. "Oh, that's kind of an inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up." The woman replies.

"What does it mean?" Lydia asks once more.

The woman leans closer, "We're not going to make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer satisfaction."

"Obviously." Lydia states as I roll my eyes.

"But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening, more than any other motel in California, we've had the most guest suicides." She then points to the number.

"198." Lydia and I both say in disbelief.

The woman smiles, "And counting."

Grabbing the new towels, Lydia and I turn to leave the lobby. I suck in a couple of deep breaths once we are outside. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine."

"That doesn't really answer the question. Are you fine right now?"

I look at my best friend, "I feel a little sick. And I still have a feeling that we're in danger." I take another deep breath, "I've dealt with this feeling enough to know not to ignore it."

"Too bad the danger sense doesn't tell you what the danger is."

"That would be too easy."

*_*_*_*_*_*

Back in the room Lydia and I tell Allison about the suicides. "198?" Allison gasps out in shock.

I lazily nod, leaning against the headboard and trying to relax. "Yes. And if we're talking forty years, on average that's only about four point nine five a year which is sort of expected." Lydia says. "But commemorating it with a framed number? Who does that?"

"All suicides?"

"That's what she said." I answer, closing my eyes to avoid the girls concerned looks.

Lydia continues, "Hanging, throat cutting, pill popping, both barrels of a shotgun in the mouth suicides. And I don't know about you but-" She cuts herself off then starts speaking in a whisper, "Did you hear that?"

My eyes flutter open and I use my heightened hearing to try and figure out what she's talking about. "Hear what?" Allison asks.

Lydia stands up and looks towards the air vent. She quickly climbs onto the bed to try and get closer to it. "Lyds?" I question.

Lydia stays silent, intently listening to something that neither Allison nor I can hear. "Oh my God..." She mumbles.

"What is it?" Allison asks.

"Lyds, what happened?" I ask at the same time.

"You guys didn't hear that?" Lydia questions.

"Hear what?" Allison asks once more.

"They shot each other. Two people in the other room- they just shot each other."

Lydia stumbles off of the bed and rushes through the door. She moves to the room next door, Allison and I following closely behind. She swings the door open and reaches for the light switch.

The room is empty, plastic sheets cover the furniture and paint cans litter the floor. A heater is near the wall drying the paint. "I don't get it. It had to be here. You didn't hear them?"

Allison and I both shake our heads, "It was a guy and girl. They sounded young and... they were here. I'm not lying."

"Hey we believe you." Allison starts, "After everything we've been through, we believe you."

"It has to be because of what you are." I say watching as Lydia hurries out of the room.

"Have you figured it out yet?"

We walk back into our room and Lydia starts packing up her bag, "No. I know it has to be a banshee or phoenix like I said before but from what I've found so far a lot of the information online is just stories and myths. Nothing explaining the powers which makes it hard to figure out what you are."

We all pause for a minute then Allison asks Lydia, "You want to leave? Like find another motel?"

"I'll sleep on a park bench if I have to. Something's seriously wrong with this place and we need to leave."

"But they were suicides. Not murders. And it's not like the place is haunted, right?" Allison questions.

I bite my lip as Lydia replies, "Maybe it is. I bet that couple did their suicide pact right in that exact room. Maybe that's why they're renovating it. Maybe they've been scraping brain matter off the wood paneling."

"Maybe we should find out."

We all make our way to the lobby to ask the woman about the room next to us. A sign on the front desk reads 'back at 6am'. "There goes that." Lydia sighs.

Allison looks past the desk, "Didn't you both say that the number was 198?"

Lydia and I both look at the number which now says 201. "It was 198." Lydia replies looking at me for confirmation.

"Yeah, it definitely was 198." I nod, wrapping my arms around me.

"What's that mean? There have been three more suicides?" Allison questions.

"Or three more about to happen." Lydia replies.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Sitting in our room Allison, Lydia, and I tell Stiles about the suicides and the feeling of doom lingering over Lydia and me.

As Allison talks about something that happened between her and Scott earlier, I rest my head on Stiles shoulder and close my eyes, "Last time I saw Scott act like that was on the full moon."

Stiles adjusts the way we sit, wrapping his arm around me so that we would be more comfortable. He then starts speaking, "He was definitely off with me too. But actually, Boyd was really off. I watched him put his fist through the vending machine."

"See? It's the motel." Lydia then gestures to me, "Look at (Y/N)-"

"I am not acting strange." I defend myself, cracking an eye open.

"No but you're sick. I'm new to this werewolf thing but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to get sick." She glares at me.

I sigh and close my eyes again, waiting for Lydia to continue. "We either need to get out of here right now..." She trails off.

I hear a drawer being yanked open as she continues, "Or someone needs to learn how to do an exorcism ASAP before all the werewolves go crazy and kill us."

"Hold on. What if it's not just the motel? The number in the office went up by three, right?" Stiles asks.

"You mean like three sacrifices?" Allison questions.

"What if this time it's three werewolves?"

"Scott, Isaac and Boyd."

"Scott and Boyd maybe since we know they're acting weird but Isaac isn't the only other werewolf here. There's me and Ethan too." I say, opening my eyes once more.

Nobody replies as Stiles reaches out, "Let me see that." he says pointing at the bible in Lydia's hand. Lydia hands him the book then he opens it pulling out newspaper clippings.

"What is that?" Allison asks.

Stiles reads the piece of paper, "28 year-old man hangs himself at infamous Glen Capri." He turns a few more pages, finding more newspaper clippings.

Lydia grabs two, "Look at these two. They both mention room 217. These are probably all the suicides that happened in this room."

"So if there's a Bible in every room..." Allison starts, mind racing.

"There could be articles in all of the rooms."

"That's just beautiful. Most places leave a mint on the pillow. This one leaves a record of all of the horrible deaths that occured." Stiles sarcastically states.

"What if the room next door has the one about the couple?" Lydia asks.

"Well, let's go check." I say, sitting up. The two other girls have already made their way to the door as I move to stand, though when I do I stand quickly and almost lose my balance.

Stiles grabs my waist to steady me before I can fall, "You alright?"

I nod, "Yeah, just stood up too fast." He still looks concerned so I smile, "Seriously, I'm fine."

I grab his hand and pull him out the door with me. Lydia and Allison stand in front of room 216, "It won't open. It wasn't locked before." Lydia says.

Not getting the chance to reply, we all look at the door as we hear the sound of a saw. "I'm not the only one who heard that, am I?" Lydia asks.

"It sounds like someone turned the hand saw on." Allison states.

I gently elbow the two girls out of the way and reach the handle. I take a breath and using all the strength I can gather in my weakened state, I snap the handle. Opening the door we see Ethan raising the hand saw to his stomach.

"Ethan don't!" Stiles says, moving past me to grab the saw from the Alpha.

Lydia grabs the power cord from the wall just as Stiles wrestles the saw from Ethan. I rush over to Stiles as he falls almost landing on the still moving saw. I quickly help him stand and check him over to make sure he's okay.

Before I can ask, Stiles and I both turn our attention to Allison and Lydia who are trying to stop Ethan from putting his claws into his abdomen. Stiles and I join the girls but Ethan pushes us away. He falls back and hits the heater with his hand. "What the hell? What are you doing?" Ethan frantically asks us.

He examines our out of breath and concerned looks then asks another question, "What just happened?"

*_*_*_*_*_*

Ethan shoves past us heading out the door, "You seriously don't remember?" I ask, rushing after him.

"Didn't you hear what I just said? I don't remember how I got there or what I was doing." Ethan snaps.

I glare as Stiles replies, "Hey, you could be a little more helpful, you know? We did just save your life."

"And you probably shouldn't have."

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing." I say.

We watch as he slams the door to his room shut. "What now?" Lydia asks.

"I'll find Scott. You three grab Isaac and Boyd. The best we can do is get them out of here." Allison answers.

"If you need us just shout. I'll hear you." I say. She nods then quickly goes back up the stairs. I start moving in the direction of Isaac and Boyd's room but stop when I hear Lydia's voice.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I wasn't-"

"Stiles." Lydia warns the brunette.

"Okay," He sighs, "I didn't want to say it. But we've kind of been through something like this before. A lot like this."

"What do you mean? When?" I raise an eyebrow when Lydia asks, just as confused.

Stiles quickly glances at me then looks back at Lydia, "Your birthday party. The night you poisoned everyone with wolfsbane."

"If it's wolfsbane then that would make sense why I'm not being affected the same way as the others." I say, turning back around to continue walking towards Boyd and Isaac's room.

The other two follow, "Lydia I didn't mean you're trying to kill people. I meant that maybe you're somehow involved in getting people to kill themselves." Stiles tries to explain.

"But last time she didn't really remember much of anything because Peter was controlling her. She's perfectly fine right now and-"

Lydia cuts me off, "Do you hear that?"

We both shake our head, exchanging a look. "What do you hear?" Stiles asks.

"A baby crying. It's mother- she can't get it to stop crying. And I hear... I hear water running." She pauses as she listens, "Oh my God, she's drowning the baby."

She then whirls around to face me and Stiles, "Someone's drowning."

We quickly rush to Boyd and Isaac's room. In the bathroom, Boyd has a safe on top of him, keeping him under the water. "He blocked the drain with something. I can't get to it. Help me move the safe." Stiles says.

We all grab onto the safe and try to move it but it's too heavy. "Now would be a great time for the werewolf strength (Y/N/N)." Lydia mumbles.

"I'm a Zeta. I'm not as strong as a Beta or Alpha. And with me being weak right now I'm probably just back to my normal weak human strength."

"You weren't when you broke that handle earlier."

"Fine, maybe only slightly stronger than you two. But that still doesn't mean I'm strong enough to move this."

"The heater- Ethan came out of it when he touched the heater." Stiles interrupts our arguing.

"Okay, but he's under water." Lydia says.

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Stiles snaps back.

"Wait, the bus, they'll be emergency road flares. They've got their own oxidizers. They can burn underwater."

Right after the words leave her mouth I stand up and rush out the door, "(Y/N/N)!" I hear them both yell after me but I don't let them finish. I'm the fastest out of us, even with me being weaker right now.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Running into the bus, I quickly found the emergency kit and pulled out three flares. I rushed back into the room, "Okay, here." I handed one to Stiles.

"What do I- how do I do this?" He asks.

"The cap. It's like a match- the cap lights it." Lydia quickly explains.

He twists the cap trying to light it. Lydia and I look on in worry waiting for it to take. After what felt like ages the flare ignites. Stiles shoves it into the bathtub, burning Boyd's arm.

Boyd lurches forward, shoving the safe off of him and onto the bathroom floor. Boyd quickly stands up and starts breathing heavily, "She's gone." he whispers between deep breaths.

"What?" Stiles asks.

"My sister. She's gone." He leans against the wall with a sad look in his eyes. I take a breath and turn around, going back into the bedroom. Stiles reaches for another flare so that he can ignite it.

Once it's ignited he kneels down to come face to face with Isaac who is hiding under the bed, "Hey, Isaac. Got something here for ya." He says as he places the ignited flare on Isaac's skin.

Once it touches he jumps and pushes himself away from Stiles, "What happened?"

"C'mon Isaac. You're okay now." I say as I reach a hand out, helping him stand back up. "You and Boyd should pack your bags. As soon as we find Scott we'll probably spend the night on the bus. This motel is messing with all of us."

Isaac nods, "Are you alright?" I ask before I leave. Lydia and Stiles already left to find Allison and Scott.

"Yeah, Boyd and I will meet you guys at the bus in a little bit." He leans down giving me a quick kiss and lightly pushes me towards the door.

I make my way over to Allison, Lydia, and Stiles, taking note that Scott isn't with them. "We still can't find Scott." Allison says as she sees me.

I don't answer her though and I quickly walk past her. My connection with Scott is kicking in and I know that he is in danger. I let instinct take over and walk to where I know Scott will be.

The others follow me as we all start smelling gasoline.

Scott stands drenched in the gasoline, a wet puddle around him and a lit flare held tightly in his grip. He seems to be in an odd trance-like state as he looks at us. "Scott?" Allison asks from behind me.

"There's no hope," he replies.

"What do you mean? There's always hope."

"Not for me. Not for Derek."

"But Derek wasn't your fault. You know it wasn't." She tries again. Tears rush to my eyes as I look at my brother.

"Every time I try to fight back, it just gets worse. People keep getting hurt. And the harder I try to protect everyone, the more people get hurt, the more people get killed."

Finally I speak up, no longer being able to listen. "Scott you know that's not true." I take a step closer. Lydia tries to stop me but I shake her hand off.

"Scott we need you. I need you. I couldn't do half the shit I do without you. You always do the right thing, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. Scott, I love you. I can't live without you." Tears are sliding down my face as I slowly take more and more steps towards him.

"You would be fine without me. You always have been."

I shake my head, "No. No that's not true. You've always been my rock. I may pick on you sometimes and I may not say it enough or hell, this may even be my first time admitting it but I never cared what others thought about me. As long as you loved me and cared about me that's all I ever needed."

I take one last step, now in the gasoline puddle with my twin. I slowly reach for the flare, "You’re my best friend, my brother. I wouldn’t know how to survive without you. So if you really want to do this, you're going to have to take me with you."

I gently and slowly pull the flare out of Scott's hand. He doesn't try to object. I throw the flare away from us and the puddle and instantly pull Scott in for a tight hug. Behind me I hear Lydia scream, "No!"

Then she pushes Scott and me away from the puddle. Landing on the ground we all turn to look at where we were just standing. The flare rolled back towards the puddle and a fireball erupts.

*_*_*_*_*_*

My head rests on Isaac's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We wake up to bright sunlight filtering in from the windows and Coach and the cross country team entering the bus.

"I don't want to know. I really don't. But, in case you missed the announcement, the meet's canceled. We're headed home. Pack it in." Coach says, looking at all of us.

I get out of Isaac's grasp to move my seat to share with Lydia again. Ethan stops near us, "I don't know what happened last night, but I know you probably saved my life." He says to Scott.

"Actually, I saved your life. But it doesn't matter really. Minor detail." Stiles says. I smile and shake my head waiting for Ethan to continue.

"So, I'm going to give you something... We're pretty sure Derek's still alive. But he killed one of ours. That means one of two things can happen. Either he joins our pack."

Scott interrupts, "And kills his own."

"Or Kali goes after him. And we kill him. That's the way it works."

"Your little code of ethics is kind of barbaric FYI." Stiles states.

Before the bus starts moving Lydia quickly stands up, "Coach, can I see your whistle for a second?"

Not giving him the chance to respond she quickly grabs his whistle pulling it off of his neck. "I want that back." He says.

Lydia cups her hand around the whistles vent and gives a short breath. She pulls her hand away to show her palm covered in purple dust, "Wolfsbane." She says.

"Every time Coach blew the whistle in the bus- Scott, (Y/N/N), Isaac, Boyd-" Stiles says.

"And Ethan." Lydia adds, cutting him off.

"We all inhaled it." Scott says.

"You were all poisoned by it." Allison continues.

"That's how the Darach got into their heads. That's how he-" Stiles starts.

"Or she." I pipe in.

Stiles looks at me with a look of disbelief. "What? I'm just saying not all killers are men."

"Yeah, you've said that before (Y/N/N). Thank you." Stiles then turns to Lydia and grabs the whistle out of her hand.

Just as the bus starts driving away he tosses the whistle out the window. Coach glares and starts to scream but Stiles speaks before he gets the chance, "I'll buy you a new one."

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @crazy-fan-101 @rogershoe

#teen wolf imagine #teen wolf rewrite #teen wolf #series rewrite #lydia martin imagine #isaac lahey imagine #sister mccall imagine

50 notes · View notes

beetlegoose01 · 3 years

Text

Frostbite- Recovery (Chapter 3)

It was a decent day outside after a long, boring day of school. Crisp, clear, the sun peaking out from behind the canopy of clouds scattering the periwinkle blue sky. Casey strolled through the crowded streets of New York, thrilled to hang with his best (non human) friends.

"Casey, wait up!" Riley whined, blowing a huge bubble of pink bubblegum. She trailed behind her older brother with less pep in her step, due to her lugging a heavy backpack. She was a short middle schooler, with a jet black pixie cut and dark almond shaped eyes. Freckles dotted her fair cheeks. A complete pain, but he would be lying if he didn't say he cared for the little squirt.

"Sorry kid." Casey said, ruffling his little sister's hair, much to her annoyance. "I'll walk slower."

"So what are we gonna do today?" She asked eagerly. "The sky's the limit!" She flashed him a cheeky, braces filled grin. Riley didn't really have any friends of her own. Too shy, and a bit strange around her classmates. Her love of sports made her an outcast with the girls, and none of the boys wanted to hang with a 'weirdo'. Luckily, Casey would be her best friend for life, he had vowed that.

"You said it!" Casey checked his phone. A text from Raph asking if he was joining them for patrol.

Riley frowned. "Is that one of your friends again? The super weird ones?"

"Er...yeah." He pocketed his phone. "Boring friend stuff."

"Yeah, your gang."

"They're not a gang..."

"Mhm. Sure. I won't tell dad you're a drug dealer if you tell me the truth." She sang.

"I'm not a..." Casey said. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" She looked mischievously at him, winking.

Laughing, Casey flicked her nose.

Riley looked at him seriously. "You're not gonna ditch me for them, again, right?"

"Nah, don't worry. Come on, let's go to the rink."

But Riley seemed distracted. She trailed ahead, following something that Casey didn't see.

"Hey, Ri! Wait up!" He panted, raising an eyebrow. "Riley Elizabeth Jones! You can't just run off..." He was starting to sound like her mother- which was enough to make him stop talking.

"Look at it..." She crouched down, cooing at a little racoon blinking and twitching its nose at her. "I'm gonna call you Sparky."

Casey winced, reminded of rats just by looking at the weird creature. "Ugh, no you're not- come on before the rink closes, pipsqueak."

"Aw, okay."

~•~

Evening drew quicker than he expected, and before he knew it, the sun had dipped down the horizon and the sky was a peachy orange. After making sure Riley was safe at home, he ducked through a manhole cover and climbed into the depths of the creepy sewers. The sewers weren't terrible, but he would be lying if he didn't have to plug his nose in order to prevent the foul odors from entering his precious nostrils. He didn't know how the turtles managed it. Wait...do turtles even have noses?

'I'll have to Google that later.' He thought to himself, trudging through the mucky waters, trying his best not to think about what exactly was in the water. Though he already knew the answer, it wasn't fun to dwell on such disgusting matters.

No, Casey Jones could handle the smell. But what he couldn't handle was...

A rat scurried past him and he let out an involuntary squeal of horror.

Rats still gave him the creeps.

Sighing, Casey stumbled his way into the lair, where he was pleased to find Raphael hunched over a game of pinball, deep in concentration.

"Hey Raph." He greeted, leaning forward to get a closer look.

Raph only grunted in response.

"We're still on tonight to ride our bikes?"

"No, Dr. Frankenstein still hasn't fixed my bike."

"Ah jeez. We can still hang though tonight? At patrol?"

"Ha, I wish! Nah, Leo wants us to go searching for the mutant tonight." He grumbled back. The ball spun around and fell forward, the brief moment of distraction causing the turtle to lose. A big 'Game Over' in neon lights hung mockingly over his head. "Argh...damnit!" He punched the arcade machine so roughly it nearly toppled over. "Whatever, that game's stupid anyway."

"Where is Leo anyway?"

"Doing some meditation shit with April and Sensei." Raphael shrugged. "To focus their minds. I dunno, I wasn't really listening. I tend to tune Leo out, y'know?" He gave a wicked grin. "Say, we might have some time to read some comics or-"

An aggressive, distorted guitar riff interrupted their banter- followed by what sounded like a man screaming like a banshee.

"Woah!" Casey exclaimed.

Raph grimaced. "Not again. He's always playing it at the worst possible moments."

"Mikey?" Casey wondered, thinking the genre of music must be the orange clad turtle's choice.

"Mikey?" Raph repeated, shaking his head. "Nope, that's all Donnie. When he needs to 'unwind' he plays it as loud as possible. Even without headphones!"

"Donnie?" Casey said, flabbergasted. "But he's so-"

"Geeky? Yeah I know. I can't believe he of all turtles thinks that crap is real music."

"Hey, it is real music!" Casey said defensively.

"Oops, did I strike a nerve?" Raph teased. "Didn't know you liked it."

"Well yeah! The Electric Skullz are legendary!"

"Aw, nerd bonding." Raph held a stubby hand up. "Please save me the embarrassment and go talk with someone who cares." He gave Casey a condescending pat on the head.

"Maybe I will." He said gruffly, following the noise.

Raph chortled with laughter, only stopping when he realized Casey was serious. "Wait- come on, man. I thought you and Donnie hated each other? Let's go do something- and he's gone."

Realizing he was now alone, he crossed his arms. "Eh, I'm gonna go watch Full House."

~•~

Casey hesitated, but ultimately his love for the heavy metal tunes was enough to follow it. He felt awkward, like he shouldn't be doing this. Casey Jones was no snoop- he just was embarrassingly curious for his own good.

Passing Leo's room, then Mikey's, he finally found the last room in the hall. He creaked open the door, peering inside.

Donnie's room had clearly not been slept in very often. It was neat, but not in the same neatness as Leonardo's, who frequently cleaned his room but it still looked used. This room looked barely touched, and the bed had no creases or anything proving a living being had slept in it. A folded tatami mat was poking under the bed. Posters of scientists, newspaper clippings and photographs were decorating the dull grey walls, strung together with such precision. Some inventions were scattered on the floor, clearly failed ones as they had wires sticking out.

But what caught his eye was the turtle in the middle. He was...dancing. Every movement he made was precise, delicate. Of course, the skills of being a ninja helped, but each step was to the beat (well, less beat, more of intense screaming). It was surprisingly adorable.

Wait...adorable? That couldn't be the right word.

"Sick moves!" He said, hoping his voice was loud over the music.

Donnie froze, suddenly aware he was being watched. His expression was a mixture of being mortified, then slowly switched to horror and anger.

"Wh- I- I wasn't-" He sputtered, blushing and stumbling over to shut the stereo off.

"Hey, hey, chillax." Casey raised one hand to show he meant no harm. "I love the Electric Skullz too!"

Donnie looked puzzled. "Y...You do?"

"Heh, for sure!" He replied genuinely, a smile revealing itself.

Donnie smiled back, finally relaxing. "And you're not just pulling my leg?"

"Nope. I'll prove it to ya. In 2012, the lead singer of the Electric Skullz was Nova Kun. She then stepped down after mysteriously disappearing. And then was replaced by-"

"James Mercedes!" Casey and Donnie finished in unison.

"Woah..." Donnie's eyes sparkled with delight. "My brothers always hated heavy metal. I don't even think they consider it real music!"

"Not even Mikey?"

Donnie shook his head. "He likes that bubblegum pop stuff. It's okay but..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Not really my thing."

"Me neither." He agreed. "Don, you shouldn't be embarrassed or ashamed. This stuff's cool."

"You think so?"

"Would I ever lie to you?"

Donnie looked at him wearily.

"Would I ever lie to you about music?" Casey said. "I'm very serious when it comes to good tunes."

He thought for a moment, then smiled. "I guess not."

Casey returned the smile, bumping his shoulder playfully. The turtle's cheeks warmed, chuckling.

"Maybe you aren't so annoying."

"Gee, thanks, I'm touched." Casey said sarcastically. "You aren't so terrible either."

The bedroom door slammed open abruptly, causing both human and turtle to jump. A stoic Leonardo was behind the door.

"Patrol time Donnie." He said simply, his arms behind his back. "...and Casey?" He squinted, trying to process what he was looking at. "Uh...what's going on guys?"

They exchanged looks.

"Nothing!" lied Donnie.

"Just a couple of dudes being bros." Casey said, draping his arm around the tall turtle's shoulders. "Amigos, chum of chums..."

"Not there yet, Jones."

"Eh, he's warming up to me. We're like comrades...buddies..."

"I think I get it." Leo smirked.

Casey found himself leaning against Donnie's closet after he was pushed aside. "Say...why do you even have this? You guys don't even wear clothes..."

"That information is classified." Leo narrowed his eyes. "So, patrol?"

"No problemo Leo." Casey said quickly, stepping away to leave the room. "Are we partnering up again?"

"No, this is a solo stake out mission."

Casey looked back at Donnie who's eyes flickered in ...disappointment? The action was so brief, he barely caught it. No doubt Donnie was just upset about not being partnered with April. Yes, that had to be right. Why else would he be disappointed? Though Casey would be lying if he said he didn't want to talk about the Electric Skullz some more.

"You coming, Don?" Leo glanced back at his younger brother who hadn't moved from his spot.

"Yes, of course." The blank stare from Donatello had switched to a serious, determined one.

"Let's go."

~•~

Leo climbed out of the manhole cover, followed by Raph, Mikey, April, Casey and Donnie. He scanned the area, checking for anything suspicious. As the oldest brother and arguably the most mature, he had a duty to protect his family. So far the only suspicious activity was a raccoon rustling through a trash can. But he would never let his guard down for anything.

"Mikey and I last saw the mutant near Eastman and Laird. I'm thinking we scope around, keep our eyes peeled. If you see anything- and I mean anything, contact one of us and we'll come for backup. Your T-Phones are there for a reason."

"I dunno, Scalysnout was pretty tough!" Mikey said.

"Scalysnout." Raph repeated.

He looked sheepish. "Eh, it needs work."

"A lot of work."

After each member was assigned locations, Donnie started his mission alert and focused. Though he liked working with his brothers, April and to a lesser extent Casey, he was more in his element when he worked alone. It gave him time to breathe. Of course, the return of a dangerous mutant wasn't exactly comforting.

Climbing the roofs, the mutant ninja concentrated on making sure he wasn't being followed. Which involved him frequently checking behind himself.

'It's not paranoia, it's called being sharp.' Donnie silently quoted Leo under his breath.

The night was oddly quiet though. One would breathe a sigh of relief at the prospect of an early night, but Donnie still felt uneasy. He glanced around, the full moon glistening in the sky over a blanket of stars. Peaceful, if one wasn't anxious about a rampaging monster patrolling the dark streets.

Still...it didn't seem like anything was happening.

"Hey, let go of me!"

'And once again, I've spoken too soon.' Donnie thought bitterly to himself, but he followed the sound of distress.

He slid down the fire escape, landing in a dark alleyway. Turning the corner, but still hiding in the shadows, he found the source.

A girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old was furiously fighting off two Purple Dragons with her fists. Her attacks, though admirable, were completely useless. The gang members merely jeered and pushed her effortlessly to the ground. The girl was definitely a bit strange, especially with the racoon perched on her shoulder- but Donnie didn't have time to judge her.

"Ha, got it!" One of the members snatched her phone, tauntingly holding it over her head. Because of her size, she had no chance of grabbing it back.

"Give it back, creep!"

Donnie had to act now or this girl was toast. Raising his bō in front of him, he whacked one of the members to the ground with a swift movement.

"What the-"

"Who did that? Show yourself!" One of the men demanded, swinging his switchblade defensively.

The other lay on the ground groaning in pain.

Donatello knew better than to make himself seen- especially in front of the girl. But that didn't stop him from defending her. He jabbed his staff directly in the other man's solar plexus, knocking him down instantly.

Realizing their invisible opponent was fierce, the Purple Dragons made a hasty retreat.

"Wow that was nuclear!" The girl exclaimed, eyes wide. "Thanks, er, whoever you are."

"Not a problem. Do you need help getting home?"

"Yeah, my brother would probably kill me if he knew I was walking home alone. I just came to pick up some food from Murakami and then those creeps attacked me."

"They're known for that." Donnie agreed. "You really shouldn't be walking alone at night. It's dangerous for a kid." He hadn't meant to sound condescending, but the girl bristled anyway.

"Hey, I'm thirteen!" She paused, biting her lip. "Almost."

Donnie chuckled lightly. "Still, I'll help you get home."

"Thanks...erm...?"

"Donatello." He supplied.

"I'm Riley." She started to walk ahead, but realized her new friend didn't seem to be following her.

"I'm behind you, don't worry." Donnie said. "Just have to keep my distance."

"Ain't ya gonna show yourself?"

"Better not. But if anyone comes at ya, I'll help."

Riley stopped, now suspicious. "Come into the light."

"Riley I..."

"Do it now."

He could hear Master Splinter's scolding as he stepped out of the shadows in front of the streetlight. He held his breath, awaiting a scream. A little girl seeing a giant humanoid turtle was destined to end horribly. But she had a gutsy look in her eye that comforted him slightly.

"Woah..." Riley uttered. "You're a ..." She reached a shaky hand to lightly touch Donnie's bicep. "You're real?"

Donnie nodded slowly, his brown eyes looking gently at the little girl. "I am."

"Are you an alien or...is this a costume?"

He chuckled. "Not quite."

"Either way, I owe you one for saving me. I don't care what you look like. I've seen weirder."

Donnie had a faint suspicion she was referring to the Kraang invasion.

"Besides," She continued. "No one will mess with me if you're by my side." She smirked, and Donnie swore her cheeky grin looked strangely familiar.

~•~

By the time Donnie had returned, the other three brothers were already at the lair. To his surprise, it wasn't Raphael who was in a sour mood. It was Leo, who stormed over with the rage of someone who was told Space Heroes had been cancelled.

"Where have you been?" He demanded, cutting any small talk.

"On...patrol?" Donnie stared down quizzically at his shorter brother. "Like we were supposed to."

"Don't sass me. You had us worried."

"I wasn't worried." Raph replied honestly. " "Chill, Mother Hen. Donnie's a big boy." Raph rolled his eyes.

"Thank you, Raphael."

"We all came back half an hour ago." Leo crossed his arms bossily.

"Don't mind him. He's just grumpy because none of us found Scaleysnout." Mikey murmured, eyes glued to the TV screen.

"That's not why I was...I was concerned, is all."

"I wasn't aware there was a curfew." Donnie shot back irritably. "Something held me up."

"Like what? A stop sign?" Mikey said, collapsing into giggles as if it was the funniest joke. When nobody laughed he scooted back to the television set. His oldest brothers stared at him for a moment, before looking back at Donnie.

"Explain?" Leo asked.

"The Purple Dragons attacked some kid. I couldn't just stand there so I defended her."

"Nice work D!" Mikey praised.

"How admirable." said Raph sarcastically. "You saved one person. Do you want a gold star? We save people all the freakin' time, genius. Except we don't usually gloat about it."

"I'd hardly call that gloating." defended Donnie.

"Besides you should really talk. You gloat, like, all the time Raph." Mikey teased, bracing himself for Raphael to slap him on the head. "Uncle, uncle!" He wailed. "I'm sorry! Raph, stop!"

Leo stayed silent, analyzing the situation.

"She was just a kid. I didn't know what else to do." Donnie said, reading Leo's unimpressed body language. "And she didn't freak out when she saw me...so that's always a plus."

"She saw you?" Leo repeated. "Donatello, that was completely foolish! You know Sensei always told us to stay in the shadows."

Donnie hung his head, already preparing himself for a lecture.

"When I tell Splinter..."

"You wouldn't, Leo." Donnie interrupted. "Because that would be so hypocritical of you, and you know it. Showing myself was the only way to save her- Riley. And who's going to believe that a giant talking turtle saved her from a gang? Be realistic."

Leo's lips twitched, ready to retort, but didn't. "Fine."

Raph looked up, releasing Mikey from a chokehold. "Did you say Riley? That's weird."

"It's a fairly common name Raph."

"Well, yeah. It's also Casey's sister's name. He's mentioned her a few times to me."

Donnie perked up slightly. "Oh...that's interesting."

"Could just be a coincidence. New York is a pretty big city."

"I guess so."

"You need to be more careful, Donnie." Leo scolded. "You were lucky this person you saved was related to one of our friends. If she even is."

"Jones and I aren't really friends." He thought for a moment, remembering just a few hours ago when they bonded over music. "It's complicated."

"Aw no way!" Mikey complained. "I thought you two were finally getting along! This is bogus, dude!"

"Why do you even care?"

"Because you two have a lot in common!" Mikey scooted over. "I thought you guys would be bros in no time." He pointed at the screen. "Watch this for a sec. See, these two characters Ripjaw and Ellie hated each other!"

"Yeah, and?"

"I remember this episode." Leo said fondly.

Donnie watched the television moodily. Two heroes in spacesuits seemed to be arguing about something.

"Stop following me, you fool! You're always getting in my way."

"So?" He said, hands on his hips. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Keep watching!" Mikey snapped, uncharacteristically harsh. "Look!"

"We have to put aside our differences!" Ellie yelled. "If we don't, the evil Slothman will kill our friends!"

"I'm not working with you!" Ripjaw sneered.

"Stop being selfish! Why do you even hate me so much?"

"Because...I love you."

"You...do?"

"More than anything."

"I love you too!"

Donnie made a face of pure horror as the character's embraced. "No. No way!"

Leo and Raph meanwhile seemed to find this extremely amusing.

"See what I mean?" Mikey pointed out, oblivious to the implications.

"Oh you bet we do." Raph sneered. "Can I plan the wedding?"

Leo batted his eyelashes. "I'll be the best man." He concluded.

"I'll be the Flower girl!" Mikey chimed in, eager to be included.

Donnie's cheeks turned beet red.

"Well I didn't mean you two kiss or anything." Mikey said sheepishly. "But you could totally be friends!"

Donnie shook his head furiously. "Over my dead body. I'd rather eat raw sewage than be friends with him. Let alone-" He blushed.

"Aw, love is still alive." Raph rested his head on his palms.

Donnie scowled.

Leo frowned. "Come on Don, you know we were only teasing."

"Whatever. This show is clearly for kids. I've got work to do."

The three remaining brothers looked at each other uneasily as they watched Donatello storm away to his lab.

"That ...didn't exactly go to plan." Mikey said nervously.

2 notes · View notes

imagineseclipse · 5 years

Text

Stiles Stilinski x Reader- Don’t Move

Part 1 Part 3

You wished that you had just stayed in the comfort of Stiles’ room like he had just told you to, if only it was that simple. As soon as he’d left the room to urgently call Scott you had stood up from your seat on the end of his bed. Glancing around his room at the photo’s on his wall, his notes that were scattered around on the floor peaked your interest.

You slowly bent down, picking a crumpled piece of paper up off the floor. Your eyes scanned over the notes, reading about something called the ‘Kanima’. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you turned over the paper Jackson’s name immediately popping out to you.Your hands reached up to rub your temples, not being able to understand anything Stiles had written, this was way out of your depth.

Something out of the corner of your eye had made your heart stop as you slowly approached Stiles’ window, noticing the black figure stood across the street watching Stiles’ house. Your chest started to rise and fall quicker.

It was the person, the thing that had been following you. It had found you. For a moment you could see it looking directly into his bedroom window, directly at you.

However seconds later, its attention turned somewhere else. You could tell that it’s eyes were now trained on Stiles down on the floor below you because it’s head was turned at an angle and you could hear Stiles’ muffled pleads to Scott from where you were stood shaking.

Your eyes widened when you caught a glimpse of the figure moving towards the house. In that moment all that you could think about was Stiles’ safety. This thing was after you, not Stiles so if he wanted you then that’s what you were going to give him. You couldn’t stand to watch Stiles get hurt because of you.

“N-no!”You shouted out, watching intently as the figure crept towards the house. You fumbled around with the locks on Stiles’ window, opening it quickly. You’d have to lead it away from him. From Stiles.

Luckily there was a tree just outside his bedroom that you could climb onto, before the unknown stalker could reach the front door you jumped from the branches, landing with a bone crunching thud on the muddy ground.

“H-hey, over here”you called out angrily. The figure stopped advancing towards the Stilinski house and your breath could be seen in the cold winter air as you exhaled raplidly. Finally you had gotten its attention, however at this point you were frozen to the spot with fear, your legs still sprawled out on the grass in front of you as a pain shot up your thigh.

You mustered up the energy to lift yourself from the ground, sprinting in the opposite direction of the house as the thing followed you close behind. Meanwhile Stiles had heard the commotion up in his room, he immediately dropped his phone to the ground not caring that he was still on the line with Scott.

He threw his bedroom door open, his worst fears playing out in front of him when he saw that you weren’t there, his bedroom window wide open as the wind blew in cold winter air scattering his notes everywhere. He started to panic after finding your phone laying on his bed where you had been sat minutes earlier.

Stiles gulped, rummaging through his draws for the keys to his jeep, not forgetting to pick up one of his hoodies as he clumsily stumbled out of his room, almost falling down his stairs towards his phone that was still on the floor, Scott’s voice buzzing with worry on the other end.

“Scott, I don’t care what you’re doing right now, you need to get your ass on your bike I need your help”Stiles demanded as he ran out of his house, slamming the door behind him.

“Stiles, what’s going on?”Scott questioned his voice riddling with anxiety.

“I’ll explain when you get here, just bring everyone, bring the pack, bring your dad j-just bring everyone you know”Scott listened to Stiles’ voice crack and the alpha sprung into action. Not doubting for even a second that this wasn’t important.

“So you’re telling me that y/n, your y/n is a banshee, the same y/n that you have been in love with f-

“Yes Scott, my y/n”Stiles’ leg bobbed about underneath his steering wheel impatiently as they scanned the streets of Beacon Hills for you. Lydia’s head poked out from the back seat, a frown on her face.

“If she’s just been turnt then she’s going through hell right now, the poor thing must be so confused and lost I know I was”she shook her head sympathetically.

“Not helping Lyd”Stiles’ sore eyes flickered up, glancing at Lydia in the mirror.

The whole pack was out looking for you, Stiles had his father and half the Sheriff’s office scouting around. Even Derek and Peter had been summoned from their loft to join the search party.

Stiles knew that he was desperate because he’d even recruited Theo Raeken to hunt you down. Supervised of course.

With every passing second Stiles grew more upset and angry. Scared that someone had taken you.

“She was attacked okay, at some dumb party that she never should have gone to, her friends are so stupid for taking her there and I just wish-

-you wish you’d told her that you loved her sooner”Scott nodded regretfully, remembering the pain he’d went through when Allison had passed away.

Stiles bit the inside of his lip as they passed by the Beacon Hills preserve, that by this point was dark and gloomy. Lydia’s head appeared in between the two boys again, her voice booming throughout the jeep.

“Stop the jeep, I feel something, I think she’s in there”Lydia jumped out of the backseat as Stiles slammed his breaks down.

Scott’s eyes glowed a deep red, his eyebrows knitting together as he sniffed the air.

“Scott what is it?!”Stiles rushed to his best friends side.

“I think there’s another Alpha here, possibly one that attacked y/n”Scott’s claws appearing from the sleeves of his leather jacket.

“But if she didn’t turn into a werewolf and she’s not a beta, what does it want with her?”Liam piped up from beside Lydia, arriving just on time alongside Mason and Hayden.

“Well it has no use for her so-

“It’s going to kill her”Stiles tried to speak but the lump in his throat caused his voice to break spinning on his heel running deep into the woods, his friends close behind.

You clutched your chest as you continued to sprint through the foggy woodland, not stopping for even a second. Scared that whoever was following you was close behind. When you could feel your lungs start to burst you rested your hand against a large tree bending down carefully so that you could catch your breath.

A twig snapping close by caused you to stop breathing all together, positioning yourself so that your back was hidden by the tree stump. Your vision became blurry and you suddenly felt lightheaded, your mind was clouded with all of these visions and noises. It was making it impossible for you to concentrate on keeping yourself safe.

Just as you were about to make another run for it a pair of hands clamped onto your shoulders, throwing you to the ground violently. The fall had literally knocked the air out of your lungs and you chest started to rattle as you began to cry uncontrollably. The black figure looming above you ready to attack you again.

Your mouth fell open with horror as the figure in front of you started to contort in ways you didn’t know the human body could, it’s bones cracking out of place as it grew taller and stronger, growling as those big red eyes stared into yours.

It’s claws wrapped around your throat, lifting you from the ground squeezing your windpipe. The sounds of your choking and wheezing could be heard as black spots started to fill your vision.

The moonlight shone on this beastly creature as you took what you presumed to be your last breaths, this familiar fizzing feeling conjuring up in your stomach and your lungs to the point where you couldn’t take it anymore.

Before you lost consciousness your mouth opened, letting out a long ear peircing scream that could be heard from where Sheriff Stilinski was stood on the other side of Beacon Hills.

Stiles’ head snapped towards the direction of your scream, without hesitating he sped towards the noise not caring about the fact that the pitch of your voice could kill him.

The pack ran alongside him, Lydia knowing exactly where to go, her being a fellow banshee was very convenient in this situation. Stiles’ heart sank when he caught sight of your lifeless body laying on the ground. Alone.

He sped towards you, skidding to the ground next to your body. Stiles lifted you onto his lap, noticing that there was blood coming from your ears and your nose, your lips were tainted blue.

Stiles pulled out the spare hoodie he had brought for you, wrapping you in it as your skin grew colder and colder.

“Y/n, I need you to wake up, I n-need you to open your eyes, s-show me your eyes, please wake up for me let me help you, you asked for my help and I’m here, I’m here for you j-just please wake up...I-I love you”Stiles sobbed as he cradled your lifeless body.

The pack stood around you, falling silent as Scott noticed the trail of blood leading away from you. You had injured the alpha gravely with your set of lungs, it hadn’t realised how much power it had given you the night it attacked you.

“Liam, call Malia, Derek and Peter. Tell them to get here as soon as possible we have an alpha we need to find”Scott ordered his young beta.

“Stiles, we need to take y/n to a hospital, or deaton”Lydia kneeled down next to the two of you, holding your hand gently. She jumped back slightly surprised at how cold you had gotten.

“Stiles”Lydia pressed as she squeezed his shoulder. You lay with your back against his warm chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively like a warm blanket.

He snapped out of his daze, tucking his hoodie tightly around you as he lifted you from the ground.

“Is she going to die, I mean surely you can tell if another banshee is about to die?”Stiles’ voice was quiet and it was obvious he was still in a state of shock as he jogged alongside Lydia towards his jeep.

Lydia pressed her lips into a firm line as she jumped into the drivers seat, Stiles climbing into the back carefully still holding you close to his body.

“I-I can’t tell, I don’t know why I’m so sorry”she replied guiltily, throwing the keys in the ignition.

A/N:there will be a part 3 dont worry❤️

Taglist: @stilessarcasmqueen @stiles24ever @xceafh

133 notes · View notes

just-jordie-things · 7 years

Text

The Child and the Coyote - Malia Tate (part four)

word count: 2816 summary: the search for malia tate begins warnings: nakedness, lots of anxiety, swearing

[part one] [part two] [part three]

You stood in the woods the next morning, just outside your doorway and enjoying the fact that it was a Saturday and you didn’t have to go to school. As well as your father telling you he was going into work for the whole day to make a few extra bucks to have floating around.

You were waiting for the pack to show up, Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Allison, Isaac. Your circle had expanded from when you were kids and were too shy to hang around anyone but Scott. But if one thing was for sure it was that you certainly weren’t kids anymore.

But as you stood there, your arms holding your cardigan against your body closed and closely, trying to preserve your warmth on the chilly day. You couldn’t help but hope that Blue- Malia… hope that Malia, would show up.

You had come home last night, rushing past your questioning father and to your room, opening the closet door and looking all over for the coyote you’d left at home, but you couldn’t find her.

She didn’t show up for her dinner either.

And now, she still hasn’t come around, and you were growing worried. It was illogical, but somehow you felt like she knew, knew that you found out the truth.

The truth that Malia was a werecoyote. That she was born this way, and was adopted by a family who didn’t know this about her. That when she was eight years old, she lost control on a full moon, and her father crashed the car he was driving. That she killed her sister and mother because she couldn’t ground herself and stay human. And every since then, she’s lived in the woods, stuck in the body of a coyote.

And not more than a year after, you met her, all skinny and dangerously close to death from the extreme hunger she’d gone through.

You weren’t sure what to think. But your mind was also swarmed with thoughts and realizations. You didn’t even know where to begin.

The animal, the pet, the friend, in a way, that you’d known as Blue, was a human girl that you’d grown up with. A human, a person, someone real. And you’d always just thought that you had some strange connection with this coyote that could communicate with you in small ways.

“Ready?” You looked up to see Stiles pulling his Jeep in, Scott in the passenger seat. “The girls and Isaac took Allison’s car, they’re looking for all the traps that Henry Tate put out while also looking for Malia” He told you. You climbed into the backseat, quiet as Stiles drove off.

“And where are we going?” You finally spoke, your voice shaky.

“To the Tate house” Scott told you.

Your throat went dry.

When you arrived at the house, you almost knocked on the door, before Stiles grabbed your arm and dragged you around the back.

“Supposedly he’s at work, but we don’t know” Scott told you in a hushed tone as he picked the lock with his claws, then going inside. You walked in hesitantly, not even sure what to say to them. You wanted to help you did, for Malia’s sake, so she can be human again, see her Dad again. But all you could think about were those big beautiful blue eyes and soft grey fur.

You followed the boys up the steps, Scott sniffing around like a police dog while Stiles touched and messed with everything, from pictures on the wall to drawers on cabinets and dressers. You’d think he’d learn not to leave fingerprints. But you kept to yourself, looking at the photo frames on the walls as you went upstairs, but didn’t want to touch anything. You didn’t want to set anything off, disrupt the household in any way.

“Hey- hey I think this is her room” Scott said, opening a door. You held your breath unintentionally, stepping inside slowly and your eyes darting everywhere at once.

It didn’t seem like the room was changed in any way since Malia had ‘gone missing’. The bedsheets were all pink, and covered in stuffed animals. Other things around the room that a little girl would need, such as dolls, play makeup sets, it almost seemed like it was freshly played in.

While Scott and Stiles were going through drawers again, you picked up a small picture frame, featuring who you recognized as Malia from the file, and a much younger girl. Your brows furrowed as you studied the photo frame, before sliding it discreetly into your bag.

It had to have been her sister. You were sure of it.

When they finally picked something to catch her scent with, a small stuffed elephant that Scott carried around like it was his own, they deemed it was time to go and you blindly followed the back out of the room, giving the room one last once over as you slowly shut the door behind you.

You tried to listen in on Stiles’ excited ramblings, about all of the stories this girl must have. He went on and on and your frustration was growing by the second, manifesting off of your anxiety and bubbling up into something more aggressive.

“She’s not ‘some girl’ Stiles!” You finally yelled when you got outside. The pale boy gave you a surprised but concerned look. “She’s a human girl, her name’s Malia, she had a life!” Scott put his hand on your shoulder, trying to ease your perplexed state. “Stop- stop it!” You shrugged him off and began storming down the driveway.

“y/n I’m sorry!” Stiles called. “Where are you going?”

“Away! I’ll find her myself I care more about her than any of you do” You said, giving them a fiery look. Neither of them said anything, just let you angrily walk yourself towards the woods.

You’d eventually gotten deep enough in the trees that you felt like you had to be close, constantly calling out Malia’s name in hopes she’d hear your voice and want to come to you. But the longer you looked and louder you yelled, there was still no sign of the coyote. You held your cardigan closer to you, picking up the pace of your walking, hoping for some sort of sign she was even still out here.

“Why’d you run away?” You sighed.

“y/n?” You perked up upon hearing the familiar voice of your banshee friend, seeing her, Isaac, and Allison.

Your eyes landed on the large gun in her hand.

“What is that!?” You shrieked, your arm flinging out gesturing towards the weapon in her hands. She had to hold it with two hands. Which really only irritated you further. “You’re gonna shoot her?” Your voice carried seemingly through the woods as you made your way over to your friends. “What is wrong with you people! She’s a pers-!”

“y/n look out!” Isaac yelled, running towards you and shoving you back swiftly. You fell back onto the ground of leaves, and looked up just in time to see the reason for his antics.

His leg was ensnared by a bear trap, and he let out the most pained scream as his eyes glowed their beta yellow and his fangs and claws extended, his loud roar echoing throughout the Beacon Hills Preserve.

“Isaac!” You scurried over, desperate to figure out how to open the trap, all the while thinking it could have been me it could have been me.

Amongst your fumbling with the knobs on the metal contraption, Isaac leaned over, panting heavily as he pried the trap off of his ankle, revealing the bloody mess that had crushed his leg.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry I was just so angry-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay” He breathed out, wrapping his hand around the wound and trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. “I’ll heal, you wouldn’t have” With hat he stood up, then helped you up as well. “Allison had a tranquilizer, just in case” He emphasized, and you nodded, understanding now.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry Stiles just really pissed me off earlier and he didn’t mean to but I just feel really off-”

“We get it” Lydia told you softly, setting a gentle hand on your arm. “She was a friend to you, this is.. This is earth shattering for you” You’d never felt so thankful that someone understood. Relief flooded through you as you hugged the strawberry blonde quickly.

“I’ll help you guys” You told them, and began walking along with them.

“We’ve just been closing up traps and looking for her” Lydia told you.

“But so far we’ve just been closing up traps. There’s barely been any sign of her” Allison sighed, staring at the ground as she walked. You figured she was looking for some kind of prints. “You wouldn’t know anywhere that she goes, would you?” The huntress asked you. “Any secret places or hiding spots, where she hunts for food maybe?” You shook your head, sighing and stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jeans.

“I don’t know a damn place” You admitted, your shoulders slumping in a defeated fashion

The group had all met up and then branched off again, Stiles and Lydia doing their own detective work Isaac and Allison continued their hunt. Which you liked to think off as a search party… but it felt like a hunt. You stuck with Scott, thinking that he could find her faster with his heightened senses, but you seemed to be getting nowhere.

“Still nothing?” You asked for what felt like the billionth time. You feet dragged on the ground as you struggled to have the will to keep up with your friend.

“I promise y/n, we’ll find her” He said, but you couldn’t help but feel like he was only saying it lift your spirits.

“She feels like she’s gone forever” You muttered bitterly. “She’s probably not even in Beacon Hills anymore” Scott gave you a look but you ignored it. “I don’t know what I did to make her run away. She probably hates me but I don’t know why-”

“I completely doubt that she hates you” Scott said, but you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah? Well why’d she leave as soon as I got back home? Because the moments leading up to before you called me, she was happy, and cuddly, and sweet as always” You ran your hands over your tired face, willing yourself not to get emotional. “But as soon as I got home she was-” You choked, unable to finish the sentence.

“She was probably just scared” He assured you. “I mean, she’s had this secret her whole life, and wasn’t ever able to tell you. Maybe she felt like she’d let you down, or betrayed you” Scott guessed, but you could only shrug.

“I don’t think she liked me anymore” You said quietly. Scott gave you a look, but didn’t know what to tell you anymore. You had more of a connection with Malia, with Blue, than you had with anyone else. It had grown from a child and her pet, to a girl and her closest friend. A special secret only known by Scott and yourself. And just another thing on your list of secrets that just grew by the day.

“I would doubt that y/n” He finally said, and again you didn’t reply to him. There was nothing left to say. “You were her best friend too” He added.

You kept silent the rest of the walk in search of her. Just watching as Scott would smell the stuffed animal then go off on a path like hed finally found her. But the more he did it the more you felt like a failure.

You just miss her.

What if she really had already run away? You never got to talk to her, meet her as a real live person. You never got to do a lot of things, normal things people do. It would’ve been like becoming friends with her all over again. She was just like your best friend, she really, and truly was, the one person that you could confide everything to, you trusted her so whole heartedly because who could she spill your secrets to? And now there’s a chance you may never see-

“y/n” Scott whispered, holding a hand out in front of you to halt your movements. You looked wildly all around you, in hopes of catching sight of familiar grey fur. But you didn’t see her anywhere.

“Do you-”

Before you could finish the question Scott was sprinting off into the trees, still gripping onto the stuffed animal.

“Did you find her!?” You yelled, trying to run after him but his speed wasn’t human, so you kept falling behind. You were far too tired to be sprinting after him as much as your legs could push you but it was like you’d just drank an entire Red Bull.

Your will to find Malia was so strong and the thought of seeing her again was so empowering that you found the strength to run after him in the hopes of finding her.

“Scott!? Malia!?” You called for the both of them. Scott was merely a small figure off in the distance. You kept yelling out for them, worried that you’d fall to far behind and wouldn’t be able to find Malia, or that you would lose Scott. You knew these woods like the back of your hand after living there your whole life, but you couldn’t simply ‘pick up a scent’ or ‘track prints’ like the few of your friends could. So losing them would result horribly.

“Just stay back!” You heard his voice, far out and distant. “There’s still traps!” He added, and you slowed your running, having practically forgotten about the bear traps that you wouldn’t heal from. In fact, if you were alone and got caught in one, death was likely.

But you took off running again anyways, not really caring. Somewhere, in the back of your head with all your crazy and frantic jumbled thoughts, you figured if you did happen to step in one that you could always have Scott take your pain. You weren’t really in the right mindset at the moment, to put it lightly.

“Malia! Malia!” You screamed, begging for her to show up as you pumped your legs even faster. “MALIA!” You sounded so desperate, and you were. You’d never felt this panicked before.

There was a chance you could have her back. A chance to see her again, hold her again, start all over. And you weren’t going to pass it up. You couldn’t.

“MALIA PLEASE!” You gasped for air, but didn’t slow down. You’d never run this fast before, in all of the supernatural nonsense that you’d gotten mixed up in, you hadn’t once moved this quickly. You felt more worried looking for Malia than you had when Kali was chasing you down out of blood lust. “Malia-!” You were cut off by a roar.

Scott’s roar. An alpha’s roar.

And although you were human, you were still a part of the pack, and the deafening sound shook you to your core, causing you to collapse face first onto the ground, your hands slammed over your ears and begging for mercy that the horrible noise would stop echoing throughout your head.

It seemed to last for minutes, even as you pushed yourself up, moving as quickly as you could towards Scott, realizing he was at a stand still when you finally reached him.

“Sc-Scott” You groaned weakly, still hearing his roar in your head. It made you shake slightly, but you brushed it off quickly upon taking in the sight in front of you.

A girl was there, lying on the floor of leaves and dirt, her hair messy and body dirty. She was very human, and very naked. For a moment you bashfully looked away, cheeks flushing pink before your mind clicked back into reality and you rushed over to her, no longer caring about the cold as you shrugged off your cardigan, wrapping it around her. She looked up at you, eyes wide and a shade of brown that made you crave a chocolate bar. Her gaze turned downwards at her body,studying her shaking hands and touching the dirty areas of her skin.

She looked back to you, and you could see tears welling in her eyes.

“y/n?” She mumbled out, and you nodded, rapidly and tearfully. You felt a crazy amount of relief crash over you, your hands coming around her face as you took in all of her features. The ran through her knotted dirty blonde hair and stroked over her cheeks.

“Blue” You whispered out so softly, you weren’t sure if she could hear you even with her enhanced were coyote senses.

You had her back.

*heart eyes @ malia*

tag list: @chivesoup @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @noraliseismyotp @sxph-t @impossiblybeautifulbouquet @high-functioning-fangirl02

~ jordie

148 notes · View notes

pantstomatch · 7 years

Text

@andromedainwonderland said:

Teen Wolf-Scooby Doo, as in, the Teen Wolf crew driving around in the Jeep solving supernatural mysteries. Just me?

So I don’t know what this is, but this fic turned out to be my ARCH NEMESIS, so, you know, make of that what you will. It’s even alternating POVs, which I haven’t written in years upon years. So please appreciate how much this story wanted to kill me, and how we’re still eyeing each other with open hostility from different corners of the room.

The groundskeeper has gnarled, knotted fingers and rheumy eyes, and it takes five hundred years for him to turn the key in the rusted padlock. The gate creaks almost as loud as his bones, and Derek flicks an ear in irritation.

“That’s a big dog you’ve got there,” he says, only mildly curious.

Stiles buries one hand in the scruff around Derek’s neck. “Not sure he is one,” Stiles says, and Derek cocks his head up at him.

Scott has the van idling behind them.

Derek takes a deep breath and sneezes. Decay, old blood, and sulfur flood his senses—he whines softly. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

The old house looms in front of them, stone and spires, ominous, cloaked in shadows thrown by the nearly full moon. His skin ripples under his fur, uneasy, and he tucks his tail between his legs.

“Relax,” Stiles murmurs to him. “This is easy money, right? A simple salt and burn.”

Derek huffs, knocks into Stiles’ side as he hastily turns around, and then slinks back to the van. He doesn’t like this place. He never likes haunted places, too much lingering despair that stirs up old guilt, but this house feels like it’s made out of skeleton bones, dread sits like a stone in his belly.

Lydia already has the side of the van open. He hops in, slides past Kira, and then digs into Stiles’ open duffle, buries his snout in an old t-shirt that smells a little bit like Scott, too.

“Dude,” Stiles says when he climbs in after him. “Come on.”

Derek growls, low in his throat, and Stiles backs off with a huffy, “Fine, be that way.”

The van grinds into gear and rolls forward slowly, tires bumping over the cobblestone drive, and Derek feels like his chest is caving in.

Stiles doesn’t know why he gets to be Keeper of the Wolf: official title. Wolf doesn’t seem to particularly like any of them, is the thing, except Stiles is generally the only person he’ll even remotely listen to—barring Scott’s Alpha Voice, which he rarely, if ever, uses—and more often than not Wolf just… follows Stiles around.

It’s not like Stiles can’t guess who he is. He’s a traumatized Hale relation, obviously, since they found him two months ago living in filth and sadness in the shell of the old Hale house—and hadn’t that been a fun job, with a half-feral werewolf trying to thwart all their plans to lay the Hales to rest. Granted, they’d been hired by a contractor to help tear the place down. The ghosts were the peaceful part of that deal.

Nobody had warned them about the locally famed Demon Wolf that guarded the place.

They’d had a couple things to their advantage, though. The really big one being Scott’s True Alpha status, and the astoundingly effective way it made Wolf come to heel. Their backup plan had included Kira calling down lightning and Stiles’ stash of mountain ash, and he’s really happy they didn’t actually have to use that, in retrospect.

Wolf has a sensitive nose and a deep-seated fear of thunder storms.

This house, the North Mansion, has been languishing on the real estate market for over five years, and the current owner’s sick of all potential buyers getting chased off.

It could be raccoons—that’s happened before—but going by Wolf’s reaction, Stiles is leaning a little more toward malicious poltergeist.

He rubs his hands together in anticipation as they pull up to the top of the curved drive. They haven’t had a good old exorcism for a while. This is going to be fun.

Even though Derek wants to hide away in the van for the entire job, he only hesitates a moment to follow when everyone else clambers out. He keeps low to the ground, gaze dipped, and seeks out Stiles by scent.

Stiles rubs one of his ears between his fingers, and Derek noses the back of his knee.

Lydia says, “Huh,” and Derek finally looks up just in time to see her stuff her phone back into the purse she has slung over her shoulder.

“What?” Kira says, glancing around wildly. “Does anyone else think this house is, like, extra creepy?”

Derek woofs in agreement.

And then the door slowly creaks open on its own.

Stiles says, “Cool,” with a stupid amount of enthusiasm, and Derek bites into his jeans to keep him from just flouncing inside. “Ow, what the fuck, dude?”

Stiles tries to shake him off, but Derek feels like he’s being watched, the hair down the middle of his back bristles, and his lips open up into a soundless snarl around the caught denim.

Kira’s eyes flare orange and a light beyond the doorway flickers on.

“No, wait,” Scott says, a hand on Lydia’s arm. “What do you mean by huh?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Lydia says, hands on her hips. She looks at the open door, tilts her head back to gaze up the slick, moss covered stone. “Ask me again after we step inside.”

There’s an elaborate wolf head carved into a knocker on the door, elongated canines carefully fit around a metal ring.

Derek’s ears flatten against his head. He can hear the echo of phantom howls, and he lets go of Stiles’ jeans to press closer to his legs.

Stiles stumbles under his weight, says, “Whoa, Wolf,” and lets him huddle between his feet, hastily balancing into a crouch over him.

Derek only relaxes minutely under the hands on his head and back.

Something wrong happened here.

There are too many dead, and all of them are angry.

Lydia freezes in the front foyer at the bottom of a wide staircase, eyes glazing over, fingers curled into Stiles’ arm. Her nails dig into his skin hard enough to cut, and he wraps his other hand around her wrist to ground her.

“What is it?” Scott says.

The air inside is cold. Stiles doesn’t hear the dead, not like Lydia, at least, but he can tell when the space is so packed with spirits no warmth can touch it.

He can see his breath, and Wolf shivers beside him.

It’s oppressive, and Wolf backs up onto his haunches, like he’s ready to bolt.

Lydia’s voice does the eerie doubling thing, like two of her are talking at once. “The wolves,” she says, words echoing off the marble tiled floor. “They slaughtered them all.”

“Hunters?” Stiles says. They’ve had the displeasure of coming across many a hunter over the past couple years—a ragtag group of supernaturals solving mysteries attracts an unsurprising amount of attention. They always leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“No,” Lydia says, and then shakes off the voice with a slight stumble of step that she’s visibly annoyed by. She straightens and tugs down her shirt and clears her throat.

“Who was it?” Kira says. She’s poking around the light fixtures, and then the hallway to the left lights up, bulbs glowing one by one down the long corridor. She grins brightly and does a fist pump.

“I’m—“ Lydia’s perfect brow wrinkles a little. “Wolves?”

Wolf’s ears suddenly prick up, and he lurches forward, nose in the air.

Scott’s fangs drop and his eyes flash red. He says, “Someone’s in here. Alive.”

All the lightbulbs explode at once, and Kira says, “Sorry,” just before Derek gets thrown back against a wall.

His head spins, there’s a pressure in his chest keeping him pinned in the corner of the foyer, paws scrambling uselessly on the floor.

Stiles yells, “Why do we always fucking do this at night, how come that’s a thing?” and then Derek’s temporarily blinded by the beams of three flashlights.

The vice grip on his chest travels up to his throat, invisible hands forcing his head back. He lets out a long, drawn out howl. And then the pressure’s just…gone.

Derek sags down onto the floor, heaving panting breaths, whole body wracked with spasms, and then buries his head in Stiles’ lap when he drops down in front of him.

“Hey, big guy, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek says, and then Stiles says, “Holy shit, you can talk!”

Officially, Scott and Stiles started off as supernatural debunkers. Shithead eighteen year olds with a couple gopros, a book of magic lore they’d ‘borrowed’ from Scott’s veterinarian ex-boss, and a YouTube channel. They guilted Scott’s dad into buying them a used van, downloaded a map of haunted places, and set off across the country for a gap year that stretched well past what their parents think is acceptable.

And then Scott got bit by a werewolf off highway 95, they accidentally set Kira free from an Arizona desert prison, and Lydia Martin, Stiles’ high intensity high school crush, aka the smartest and most beautiful woman in puppet land, called him up out of nowhere at 3 am one random Tuesday and nearly blew out his eardrums with a banshee scream and a death omen.

Stiles has business cards introducing himself as a mage, which started off as a token human joke and then got a whole lot real when he figured out how to make himself invisible by sheer wishing and willfulness.

Scott’s veterinarian ex-boss calls him a spark, but Stiles doesn’t feel like spending the money for a reprint.

They no longer film themselves. It’s all a little too damning.

And two months ago they acquired their very own Scooby to round out the mystery gang, never mind that it was a werewolf seemingly very happily stuck in a full shift—so of course, why not, why not have him talk.

“It’s like some storybook Gmork shit, you shouldn’t have the vocal chords for this,” Stiles says, absolutely fascinated as Wolf says, wearily, “Shut up, Stiles.”

“Could you always talk?” Stiles says.

Wolf gets to his feet and licks his chops. His mouth works open and closed, it’s so fucking weird, and then he says, hoarse, “No.”

Derek doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows it’s probably bad.

His throat feels raw and overworked, like something has rebuilt his insides. He fights down a rising panic, and then a vision in white, a woman that flickers between being viciously scarred and serenely pretty, appears in the middle of the stairs and smiles at him.

He can hear her heartbeat. It’s louder than anyone else’s in the room.

“There,” she says. “Isn’t that better?”

It’s probably really fucking strange that Stiles only notices that Kira and Scott and Lydia are no longer in the room with them when the scary lady starts talking.

Stiles holds up a hand. Salt works for ghosts, but ash works for creatures, and he’s not sure yet what he’s dealing with here.

She grins wider. “I’m sure we can all be nice,” she says. “After all, I did give poor Derek here back his voice.”

Derek, Stiles thinks. Derek Hale, the kid everyone thought actually set the Hale fire all those years ago. Huh.

Derek growls. “It was never missing,” he says. His mouth moves when he talks, and there’s a strange disconnect, like Stiles is watching something break and reform with every impossible word. Wolves’ mouths aren’t shaped for speaking.

“Oh, of course,” she says, face light. “But when you refuse to shift,” she shrugs, “we work with what we have.”

The bigger question, Stiles thinks, is why this crazy lady wants Derek to talk.

“Now, we can all sit down for a nice long chat later,” she says, and her eyeballs get full-on zombie white. “I need to find your meddling friends first.”

Stiles has a brief moment of relief that Scott and Kira and Lydia are purposely missing, hopefully working on a solution to this mess, and then everything goes black.

It’s cold, and Derek curls around Stiles, wriggling his head into Stiles’ chest so he’s nested up against him. Stiles’ warm breath and plodding heartbeat are reassuring.

They’re in the basement, thin planks of wood underneath them, loose boards to cover the dirt—it’s like laying on a block of ice.

The still air is dank, and Derek buries his head against rising whispers. Thin, reedy howls. Cries of anguish, pain, revenge.

She’s got an army of wolves in the house. They’re buried underneath the floorboards.

Stiles groans and shifts against him—his arms tighten around Derek’s neck and then release as he gingerly pushes up onto his elbows. “What happened?” he asks. “Where are we?”

“The basement,” Derek says.

“Crap. That’s never going to stop being weird.” Stiles pokes at Derek’s mouth and Derek snaps his teeth at him.

“Stop it.”

“Okay.” Stiles cradles his head in his hands. “Okay, so what’s the plan, big guy? Wait it out? Hope Scott smokes the lady and rescues us?”

Derek snorts.

Stiles stifles a laugh, says, “Right. Right.” He leans heavily against Derek. “Do we have any idea what’s going on here?”

The chill is tense and thick, like the wolves are standing guard.

Years ago, Derek remembers, certain packs had disappeared. Wiped entirely off the map, leaving gaping holes in the northern California territory. His mom had been nervous about it. He doesn’t think this mass grave is a coincidence.

Derek sniffs the air and says, “Maybe.”

“Wolves,” Derek says, after pacing the length of the basement restlessly.

Stiles narrows his eyes and says, “What?”

Derek pads up to him, drops down close, so they’re touching again. “The ghosts are all werewolves,” he says, clearly irritated.

“Huh,” Stiles says. “So that’s what Lydia meant.” He props his back up against the cold concrete wall, rolls his shoulders against the rough texture and resists running his hand over the ache at the back of his head.

Derek is a soothing wall of furry warmth next to him. Stiles curls his cold fingers into a fist to keep from petting him. He wouldn’t have hesitated before, but it’s a little weird now that he can talk.

“Ghost wolves, ghost lady—”

“She’s not a ghost,” Derek says. “I don’t know what she is, but she’s not dead.”

Probably magical then, Stiles thinks. In charge of ghost wolves and strong enough to take down Derek—Stiles has witnessed Wolf tear a chupacabra to shreds—“So… we’re thinking… witch?”

“The word you’re searching for is Darach, darling,” the woman in question says, feet soundless on the basement steps. “We’re a bit more specialized.” She pauses at the bottom, one hand on her hip, the other skimming lightly over the rickety-looking rail. “Now, Derek, tragically, I see you’re an alpha of none.” Her eyes are shrewd. “There seems to be a lot of that going around.”

Wisps of cool smoke swirl around her legs, coalescing here and there in snaps of teeth, furred snouts and paws with big-ass claws.

“Unfortunately, I can’t use you as bait.” She pouts, a parody of disappointment. “Despite quite a lot of nasty rumors, it seems you didn’t actually kill your entire pack.”

Derek snarls.

Stiles says, warily, “What are you talking about?”

The woman flickers, like a TV with a loose cable, and then her glamor drops to reveal a gray face full of scars, her head and neck slashed—her grin shows off blackened gums, and she says, “I’m talking about revenge.”

Derek shrinks away from the Darach when she leans toward him. He feels Stiles grip the fur on his back, an anchor, and forces his eyes wide when she crouches in front of them.

She says, “Tell me everything you know about Deucalion.”

Derek bares his teeth. “I don’t know anything.”

Stiles gives out a pained cry as she shoots an arm out, blindly squeezing a hand around his throat. Derek’s ears flatten against his skull, listening to the dry rasp of Stiles failing to drag in a breath.

“Talia was a close friend,” she says, impassive. “Your mother was there when the hunters took his eyes.”

Derek had been fourteen and oblivious to almost everything except his first girlfriend. “I don’t know,” he says.

Stiles is choking to death, and the Darach isn’t even looking at him.

“Hmmmm,” she says, and then abruptly releases Stiles—he slumps over Derek, coughing—“Kali?”

Kali, Kali, Derek scrambles for anything, any bit of information he remembers, and blurts out, “She gave me condoms. Once.”

The Darach’s laugh is mean-edged, but breathless. “Julia gave you condoms,” she says, and then drags both hands over her eyes, her mouth; there’s a slump to her shoulders that has Derek freezing in place.

Stiles says, “Derek,” a croak in his voice, and Derek whimpers a warning for him to stay quiet.

“I could make you a man again,” she says, voice muffled. She drops her hands and her glamor is suddenly back in place, brown, wavy hair framing a pale, delicate face. “Would you like that, Derek Hale?” Her fingers lightly play over the fur on Derek’s brow. “To be a real boy?”

“Leave him alone,” Stiles slurs.

She ignores him and says, “I bet you grew up fine.”

Derek doesn’t know how he grew up. Sometimes he doesn’t think he grew up at all. How many years has it been? Six? Ten? Twelve? Everything up to Stiles, and Scott, is pale gray and faded, like old newspaper ink.

“Don’t listen to her, Derek,” Stiles says, as the Darach clucks her tongue, eases fingers over Derek’s right ear.

“I wonder whose fault it really is,” she says idly, “that Argent burned your whole family alive.”

Derek pushes down the hurt and guilt, lets the wolf snap forward and snarl. He whips his head up, catches the thin skin of the Darach’s wrist between his teeth and shakes.

She laughs as he bites down, and pets his head with her other hand.

“Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek bristles, hunches down, coiled in anger with blood in his mouth.

“Derek,” Stiles says again louder, a hint of horror in his tone, and Derek shrugs off his grip, locks his jaws, feels the bones in his mouth crunch and splinter.

And then the Darach says, voice steady, “Good boy,” and Derek—he lets her go with a whimper and a gasp.

Good puppy, Kate would say. Good boy.

The Darach gets to her feet with a cloak of anger wrapped around her, finally turning to narrow her eyes at Stiles. And then:

The door at the top of the steps slams open; Derek’s ears ring from the echo of Lydia’s scream. All the lights burn bright in a sizzle of sparks, and then Scott is slicing through the pack of ghost wolves with an iron fire poker as Kira summersaults through the air to slice off the Darach’s head with her sword.

Stiles says, weakly, “10/10 form there, Yukimura. Would recommend,” before passing out.

Stiles wakes to soft slaps on his face and a concerned Scott hovering over him. He winces at the overhead lights and pushes away Derek’s insistently nudging head.

“I’m up, I’m up,” he says, struggling into a sitting position.

“We need to get out of here,” Scott says. “Can you walk?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. He’s pretty sure he can. Whatever whammy the Darach put on him made his limbs loose and his head rattle, and his throat feels tight and hot—his bruises are going to be spectacular—but he’ll crawl out of there if he has to. Stiles has faced down demons and spectral dragons, but that lady was the worst.

They’re in a salt circle. They’re practically in a salt field, considering the amount they’ve dumped all around them, but Kira is busy prying up floorboards with Derek’s help, so Stiles figures their reasoning is two-fold. “We’re burning the house down,” he says, not really a question.

Scott grins at him, strained at the edges. “We’re burning the house down.”

“What are the odds of us not getting arrested for this?” Stiles asks.

Lydia looks up from where she’s painting containment sigils all over the Darach’s headless body with her lipstick. “Faulty wiring,” she says. “I’ll call Jackson tonight.”

Outside the salt, the ghost wolves are milling, howls rising like echoes in a cavern. Scott leverages Stiles to his feet, and Stiles throws an arm over his shoulder to steady himself.

“We need to get out of here,” Lydia says. “Now.” She caps her lipstick, stuffs it into her purse, then hefts the iron poker Scott had brandished earlier.

Kira tosses the now-empty sack of salt into the corner of the room. She flicks out a lighter and looks over at them. “Want a head start?”

Scott lurches forward under Stiles’ weight. Lydia is already halfway up the stairs, slicing through wolves with the poker, and Scott and Stiles follow right behind, Derek at their heels. He pushes steadily on the back of Stiles’ legs, urging him to go faster.

The fire has already spread to the kitchen by the time they all make it outside.

Dawn is creeping over the tops of the trees and flames are licking out of the second story windows when Lydia finally calls 911.

The smell of smoke makes Derek’s eyes burn and belly cramp, and he worms his way under the van to hide.

He watches Stiles’ beat up sneakers slowly walk toward him before he collapses on the ground by the back tire.

After a long pause of silence, the crack and roar of the fire and the distant echo of sirens the only sound, Stiles says, “She was wrong, you know.” Stiles’ long-fingered hand is pressed flat on the stone next to him, and Derek shuffle-crawls close enough to nudge his nose into his pinky.

He whines.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Stiles says, “but she’s wrong.”

“You don’t even know what happened,” Derek says.

“Well, big guy,” Stiles says, lifting his hand to scratch behind Derek’s ears, “I know who the black sheep of the Argent clan are. And I know you always have my back. I’m pretty confident in my assumption here.” He scratches a little harder, and Derek tilts his head into his hand. “If you ever wanna give me the rundown sometime, though, I’m all ears.”

Derek is quiet through the full moon, and Stiles doesn’t know if that’s because whatever the Darach did to him wore off, or if he just doesn’t have anything to say.

They spend the long night in a motel just outside a preserve, and their resident werewolves scuffle like puppies in the woods. Stiles thinks Scott’s a little disappointed he can’t shift past beta, but he doesn’t seem to let that stop him from joyously running off with Derek every full moon anyhow.

Stiles sleeps in fits and starts, ears straining toward the playful yips and howls—he’s worried, for probably the first time, how Derek is actually doing.

Wolf was such a separate being, a tag-along, a warm body to curl up with. Derek watched his family burn, and then hid for years in the ruins. Stiles isn’t exactly a sensitive soul, but he tends to latch onto people he cares about and never let go. Somehow, Derek has managed to weasel his way into his heart.

At little before dawn, Stiles’ door gets bumped open, and Derek pounces through with a goodbye wave from Scott—Stiles watches sleepily. Derek has his tongue out, panting, and his tail and furry butt wag as he prances toward the bed.

Stiles yawns around, “Have a good time?”

The mattress shakes as Derek jumps up and spins in a circle, letting out a humph as he drops down in the bend of Stiles’ knees.

Derek stares down at his hands, bigger than he remembers. Hairier. The muscles in his legs feel strange. He wiggles his narrow feet against the rough carpet, fascinated with the knobs of his ankles. The sheer difference in the width of his chest has him purposely heaving breaths, rolling his shoulders. He remembers lean arms and peach fuzz—he palms the side of his face and thinks he probably needs to shave.

Behind him, Stiles stretches awake. He says, “Der—“ and cuts off with a yelp, a, “Holy fuck,” and a muffled thump as he rolls off the other side of the bed.

Derek grins into the mirror propped over the dresser across the room. His cheeks puff out and his ears flush.

“Derek?”

Derek turns to look over his shoulder at Stiles, huddled in all the sheets pulled off the bed, hair sticking up every which way, eyes impossibly wide as he clutches the side of the mattress.

“Derek?” Stiles says again.

Derek says, “Hey.”

Stiles can’t stop looking at Derek. Scott’s shirt fits him pretty good, but Stiles’ pants are tight across his thighs—Stiles watches Derek’s hands curl and uncurl against the fabric.

“Dude,” Scott says, flicking him a glance through the rearview mirror. “Stop making it weird.”

“I can’t help it!” The whole situation is already weird; this is not Stiles’ fault.

Because Derek Hale is hot. Derek Hale is surface-of-the-sun hot, but Derek Hale is also quiet, slightly awkward in his skin, and keeps making aborted movements toward Stiles, like he wants to rub up against him. Stiles tends to freeze when that happens, buzzing with nerves and anticipation, causing Derek to soundlessly back off, even though that’s the exact opposite of what Stiles actually wants him to do. He can’t quite bring himself to say that out loud.

Lydia had been all narrow eyes and questions that morning over breakfast, but now she’s adopted a bored-with-it air, riding shotgun, bare feet curled up on the dash, concentrating on making sure the government knows Derek is still alive.

Kira had been trapped underground for three hundred years before they found her. She’d shaken Derek’s hand with a sunny smile and offered him half of her share of bacon. Currently, she’s calling up possible clients in the way-back seat with her regular cheerful zeal.

Stiles’ hands desperately want to pet Derek, rub over an arm, slide fingers through the hair at his nape, but his mind keeps flashing warning signs to back off. Derek is not a dog.

It’s like Stiles’ brain and body aren’t syncing up, and the strain of holding back is exhausting. Finally, in the heat of the late afternoon, Stiles can’t take it anymore. He slumps into his seat, presses his shoulder against Derek’s, carelessly knocking their knees together. The rocking of the van over the stretch of route 66 lulls him into a waking coma, he blinks against flashing trees and long dashes of beige. He doesn’t even fully register it when Derek worms his hand into his and holds on.

When they’re working, Derek still prefers to stay a wolf.

He tells Stiles it’s because his senses are keener, when really he feels like he’s layered in armor—he has sharp teeth and big claws and the only creatures that don’t seem impressed by that are the family of opossums they find in the attic of a house in Nevada.

He tells himself it isn’t because when he’s a wolf, Stiles finally relaxes around him again.

Whatever the Darach did to his canine throat had disappeared with his first shift. At first, Stiles had seemed disappointed, but then it was business as usual—salt and burn the ghosts, exorcise the demons, keep out of the way of anything fae, call an exterminator for the snakes and raccoons.

“Bats,” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around his chest and shoving hands up into his armpits. He has a sluggishly bleeding scrape on his forehead and a sour expression. “I hate bats.”

Derek woofs and licks his forearm.

“Come on,” Scott says. He slaps Stiles on the back as he hops down the front stoop. “Let’s get something to eat. And then we can go home.”

Stiles’ face lights up at the word, and something hot squeezes around Derek’s heart.

Their last job bought them close enough to Beacon Hills to justify a detour home, one they try to manage at least once every couple months. The last time was when they were on their way to the Hale job, just outside Beacon County.

Stiles is irrationally disappointed when Derek refuses to shake off his fur to meet his dad.

He understands it, is the thing. He totally gets why Derek tries to hide behind his legs when his dad pulls him into a hug at the front door.

He gets why he lies under the kitchen table during dinner, and then flops down across his feet in his tiny twin bed.

Stiles says, “I’m not going to be able to feel my feet in the morning,” and Derek just grunts, squirms over onto his back to really dig into Stiles’ ankles, legs playfully kicking at the air.

His dad knocks on the half open door, eyes them both, and says, “I somehow expected this to be less weird.”

Derek rolls up onto his haunches, ears alert, half the covers pulled down around his paws.

Dad points at them and says, “Let’s all try to be human for breakfast, okay?” and then wanders off down the hall, muttering to himself about dang werewolves.

Derek huffs and hides under the blanket, and won’t budge no matter how hard Stiles kicks him in the head.

Somehow, it’s always been easier to sleep on the road than at home—curled up in the van, sharing dumpy motel rooms. He has too much energy, most nights, to have any sort of restful sleep if he’s not bone-deep exhausted from the day.

He stares at the ceiling of his old bedroom, pinned down by Derek’s weight. He doesn’t think Derek’s sleeping either.

He says, “It’s only for a couple days,” into the darkness, and isn’t all that surprised when Derek doesn’t make a sound in answer.

When he finally drifts off, eyelids falling heavy against the moon shadows lengthening across his ceiling, Stiles dreams of the Hale house.

Of the burned-out husk, the ash-gray of the front veranda, the moldering charred remains of a house that was, miraculously, mostly still standing. The fire had been localized in the back of the house, like a bomb went off where the kitchen used to be. The door leading to the basement hanging off its hinges. Lydia wouldn’t go near it.

He dreams of red eyes, like a crouching demon in the dark.

He dreams of howls, thin and plaintive, round and angry, and when he wakes up, panting, the ghost of hot breaths and sharp fangs against his skin, fingers clenched in his messy sheets, Derek is gone.

The call is familiar, like an old ache, and Derek shoves open Stiles’ window and slips outside. He hops to the ground and leaps back into the wolf, digging his back claws into the soft dirt, scraping long grooves into the grass. He scales the fence with a brush of his underbelly against rough slats, and then he pauses, ears up.

The howl is long, mournful, and faint, and Derek knows it’s traveling over miles.

He glances back at the house once, dark and quiet, and then sets off through the woods, hope and wonder lengthening his strides.

They wait a week; three days longer than they’d planned to stay. Even Lydia is getting restless, and finally Stiles folds and they pack up the van: extra food from Melissa, two more books from Deaton—given freely, this time, along with a small supply of animal tranqs—and brand new socks and underwear for all. It’s like they’re on tour, except instead of being in a band, they save the world from supernatural creatures and possible rabies.

Scott gives Stiles not-very-encouraging smiles, and by the time Beacon Hills is fading from their rearview mirror, Stiles has a halfway formed plan in his head that involves a very small detour to the Hale house that’ll only put them another day behind.

“No,” Lydia says.

“What’s another day, we’re already late!” Stiles says. “What if something’s wrong?”

“We got rid of everything that was wrong there,” Lydia says, one eyebrow arched pointedly. “I told the DeMattos we’d be there the day after tomorrow.”

Scott stays silent, mouth pressed closed, and Kira is shooting everyone indecisive puppy-eyes.

Finally, Scott sighs and says, “Look. Look, Stiles, I know how you feel, man, but Derek knows how to find us, okay? He’s got a phone and everything now.”

“He left his phone when he ran away from my house naked,” Stiles says. Naked, wolf, same thing. He left his duffle with every single piece of his clothing in it; Stiles very shamelessly rifled through it before tossing it in the back of the van. He sinks down low in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, biting his lip. “What if something’s wrong,” he says again.

“He’s a grown wolf,” Lydia says primly. Then she leans over and squeezes Stiles’ leg. “He’s going to be fine. And if we haven’t heard from him by the time we finish with the DeMattos, we can come back and check.”

The house has a very distinctive smell: a mixture of mold, ash and despair. Derek didn’t realize how used to it he’d become over the years. Now, it makes his nose twitch and burn, the fur on his back prickle with unease.

There’s a woman sitting on the porch steps, dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Derek pauses just outside the tree line, crouching in weeds and wildflowers, watching.

Her head jerks up, eye’s narrowing in prickly rage, a flash of gold, and then a split-second later they round with disbelief. “Derek?” she says.

Derek slinks forward, belly low to the ground.

Cora—this is Cora, all sharp cheekbones and thin wrists—slowly stands up, arms falling limply to her sides. The last time Derek saw Cora she’d just turned eleven, baby pudge still soft on her face, and Derek thought she’d died in the fire. Derek doesn’t know what to make of her now.

She says, voice hoarse, “I heard they were going to knock it down.”

Derek wants to say: they tried.

He wants to say: Stiles wouldn’t let them and I’m sorry.

Instead, he huddles at Cora’s feet and pushes his head into her hand.

“What the fuck, Derek,” Cora says, and then drops to her knees, wraps her arms around his neck, and buries her face in his fur. “I thought you were dead, asshole.”

Derek whimpers and licks at her wet cheek.

The DeMattos have an amusement park problem. Various eye-witnesses describe a slimy swamp-like monster that rises out of the pond around the Tunnel O’ Love, but Stiles’ money is on a bunch of stoned kids fucking with them.

“This is classic Scooby Doo shenanigans,” Stiles says, waving his flashlight around. “All we need is the Harlem Globetrotters and Don Knotts to show up.”

It’s weird, he feels strangely vulnerable without Derek’s furry presence at his side, despite having done this for years before they found him.

Normally, this kind of job would be awesome—spooky abandoned amusement park, chockfull of expired corn dogs, paint-peeled clown statues that hilariously freak out Scott, and the rickety spires of roller coasters that have an eighty percent chance of actually killing someone. The greater worry here is the risk of getting lockjaw, not getting eaten by a swamp monster.

There’s no such thing as a swamp monster anyway.

Stiles kicks at some gravel and tries not to pout.

He keeps checking his phone, like Derek’ll call him even though his phone is still buried at the bottom of his bag in the back of the van.

Kira says, “Okay, but do you think they’re hiding a weed crop or a meth lab?” as the two of them examine the control panel for the Tunnel O’ Love. She wiggles her fingers and the lights flicker and burn, a loop of plinky carnival music starts up, and half-sunk swan boats clunk into each other at the dock.

“Why would anyone want to reopen this fun house of horrors?” Stiles says. “They should just leave it to the local swamp monsters. Wanna set something on fire?”

“That’s arson, Stiles,” Kira says, but she looks intrigued.

They’re gonna get a reputation.

“Scott would be mad,” Stiles says.

They stare at each other.

“Lydia would be furious,” Kira says.

The loudspeaker across the park suddenly crackles on, echoing demented clown laughter all over the grounds, and in the distance: baying hounds.

Stiles cocks his head. “That’s a weird combination,” he says absently. “That’s weird, right?”

“Stiles,” Kira says, grabbing his arm and shaking him. “Stiles, look.”

While the presence of a hulking, oozing man-shaped mass sloping toward them could be the result of Stiles getting too little sleep in the days since Derek disappeared, it’s kind of tough to argue that when Kira can see it too.

Kira says, “Oh no,” and Stiles takes an unsteady step backward. Both of their hands are raised, Kira with electricity jumping from finger to finger, Stiles pooling wishes in his palms.

And then the dock makes an ominous crack and Stiles goes flailing into the murky Tunnel O’ Love pond.

“Oh, gross,” he says, coughing and swiping suspiciously slimy water off his face. He can’t see anything beyond the broken planks overhead, but he hears Kira yell, “Fuck you, motherfucker!” which is, like—he winces to himself, Kira’s cursing usually consists of liberal use of poop with some grandmotherly dang-its thrown in for good measure.

He’s just about pulled himself back up onto dry ground when a familiar fur-face barrels into him and accidentally—hopefully—pushes him back in.

Stiles smells like gasoline and sludge and old corn dogs, but it doesn’t make Derek back off.

Cora huffs at him, wrinkles her nose and then retreats a good distance away, where Scott is tying up three teenagers who are high as kites and laughing their asses off.

Stiles wraps himself around Derek and says, “Oh my god, you tried to kill me,” but he has his face planted in Derek’s side, so Derek’s pretty sure he knows it was an accident.

One Cora will never let him live down.

He didn’t expect to miss Stiles this much, especially after finding Cora. But there’s a weird tentativeness between him and Cora that didn’t exist ten years ago, and he has no idea how to make it go away—or if it ever will.

They’ve spent their nights curled up together as wolves, but traveling miles apart during the day, keeping track of each other by howls.

Stiles hugs him tight and says, “Hey, Wolf, hey,” and murmurs, “Missed you,” and the bright flush of embarrassment and pleasure make him warm all over.

When they finally make it over to the others, Lydia has her phone out and Scott gives Kira a high five, and then everyone stares at Cora—she has her head held high, ears pricked, and only Derek and maybe Scott can tell it’s more from apprehension than disdain.

Stiles says, “Who the heck is that beauty,” with an exaggerated wink at Cora and Cora snaps her teeth at him. He holds up his hands and says, “Alright, Lady Wolf, cool your heels and watch your fangs.”

Cora growls, low in her throat.

Stiles says, “I’ve dealt with Grumpy for over two months, I can handle a little Surly,” with the hint of a waver in his voice that makes Derek maneuver himself fully in front of him and stare Cora down.

Cora as a wolf is lean, red and rangy, taller at the haunches than Derek, faster, if push came to shove, but without his muscle bulk and his terrible stubborn willingness to protect Stiles at all cost.

Cora dips her head, though, pads forward to rub her cheek along his.

“Aww, isn’t that adorable?” Stiles says. “Hey, Scotty, how come you can’t go all full wolf?”

Cora silently bares her teeth at him and then transforms into human shape with a fluidity Derek envies, a smirk firmly affixed on her face. “Because he wasn’t born one.”

“So that’s your sister,” Stiles says, cupping his hands around a warm mug of coffee. He won’t admit to being briefly jealous of Derek’s new lady friend, but he thinks maybe Derek knows about that anyhow. “Also, I mean, there’s no tactful way to say this, but… I thought she was dead?”

Derek shrugs, picking apart his muffin with his fingers. “You thought I was dead, too.”

True, true, Stiles nods, pretty much all of the Hales were presumed dead, given that no one knew they could turn into large hairy wolves. “You, though,” he grimaces, “the famed Demon Wolf of the woods—we know where you were hanging all those years. Where’s she been?”

Derek’s muffin is massacred on his napkin, Stiles is pretty sure none of it ever made it to his mouth.

Derek says, “I don’t know,” shoulders hunched in to make him look smaller.

It should be ridiculous, Derek’s muscles have muscles, but it just makes Stiles want to press his palms into the back of Derek’s neck and let him hide his face against Stiles’ chest. Stiles keeps his hands to himself, though, because Stiles is a gentleman, and Derek only seems to invite pets when he’s got four paws and a tail.

Stiles could sing songs about his spring green eyes and the way they change color in the sun, but he does not.

He could write poetry about the careful fold of his shirt cuffs over his forearms.

He shifts in his seat, lets go of his coffee cup to tap his fingers on the table. He bounces his leg and feels weird about the way the gang is three tables away, giving them some semblance of privacy—that Stiles is staunchly pretending he doesn’t know why they need, ignoring Kira’s exaggerated winks—and he can only thank mother moon that Cora is back at the motel getting a shower, because he’s pretty sure she’d be able to feel his emotions spilling all over the place.

Someone needs to put him out of his misery here.

Derek’s chest expands on a big breath. He says, “She wants me to go back with her.”

Stiles freezes. “You don’t even know where she’s been all these years, but you’re going to leave for parts unknown with her?” He shoves a hand through his hair. “What, did you come find us just to say goodbye? Jesus Christ, Derek.”

Derek’s eyebrows slant down, mouth frowning. “She’s my sister.”

“Yeah? A sister who abandoned you—”

“She was eleven,” Derek says, voice rising.

“And it’s been over a decade, Derek, she didn’t stay eleven, did she?” Stiles pushes back his chair, it makes a screeching noise that echoes around the small cafe—Scott glances over, alarmed, but Stiles holds a hand out to stop him from coming over. He takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says finally, “I get it, okay? We’re just—“ he flops a hand between them, trying hard not to let on that his heart is breaking, what the fuck, “—you do what you gotta do. I guess maybe I’ll see you around. Sometime.”

Scott is giving him big, worried eyes when he moves past their table, but Stiles just shakes his head, he doesn’t want anyone following him right now.

It’s ridiculous and it’s total crap, and he’s a big boy. He can handle this.

Fuck.

Cora finds Derek sitting on top of a picnic table around the side of the motel. It’s almost sunset. He can hear the van idling in the parking lot as the gang packs up their things.

They have a job on the east coast. They need to start moving soon.

Cora hops up on the worn wood next to him and bumps their shoulders. She prefers to be human, she’s told him, and she seems a lot more comfortable around him than when she’s a wolf. When her instincts take over. He’s not sure what that says about them—he doesn’t think it’s anything good.

“You ready to go?” she says.

Derek shoots her a glance, but she’s not looking at him. She has her hands on her knees and her face to the sky.

The sun is low and golden. There are darkening clouds to the east, a storm rolling in. The wind picks up and ruffles the ends of his too-long hair.

Cora’s hair is a mess to her shoulders, framing a solemn mouth and rueful eyes. She plucks at his shirt, a playful tug on his sleeve, and suddenly: she’s ten and needling him for the last of his pancakes. Nine and using her doe eyes to borrow his precious comics. Seven and hiding with him in the attic after using up all of Laura’s lipstick.

He’s ready, he thinks, and opens his mouth and says, “No.”

It doesn’t take very long to pack up, but Stiles drags his feet. He dumps his bag out on the bed and methodically separates his clothes into clean, relatively clean, and dirty piles. He wipes down his deodorant, trashes his last toothbrush, throws out the boxers he was wearing when he fell into the amusement park pond.

Derek’s duffle is zipped up and sitting on the floor by the door, mocking him.

Scott peeks around the doorjamb and says, “We need to get at least six hours of driving in today, dude,” with an apologetic frown.

Stiles sighs. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says, and then sweeps up all his piles together and stuffs them haphazardly in his bag.

He leaves the door open, for Derek, and then shoves his bag in the back of the van, under the seats.

Kira’s already in shotgun and Lydia’s got the wheel. She’s far too classy to make impatient noises, but she glares at him and his sloth-like speed as he hefts himself through the side door.

It’s just… he’d been hoping to say goodbye to Derek again. He hates that he made it weird.

And then Scott says, “Whoa, hey,” and a massive black wolf pushes past him to scramble in the van—he sits on his haunches directly behind Lydia and gives Stiles and Scott an innocent well, what are you waiting for look, and it’s—

Stiles doesn’t bother trying to stop the wide grin he can feel blooming across his face.

“There better be room for me,” Cora says from behind them.

Stiles whips around to see her lugging Derek’s bag with a resigned expression. She says, “I’ll need to stop for clothes,” knocking Scott to the side.

“No, really, what’s going on?” Stiles says before he can stop himself.

Derek huffs.

Cora wrinkles her nose and says, “Derek thinks McCall here is his alpha.”

“Can alphas have alphas?” Stiles says. “Is that a thing? Wait, you know what, I don’t actually care.” He thumps his butt down next to Derek and feels his warmth all along his side.

Scott pulls the door shut behind himself before joining Cora in the way-back.

Lydia says, “Seatbelts, please,” like none of this is odd, and then they’re off.

They play musical chairs at the next rest stop, and Derek ends up next to Cora in the third row of seats.

It’s full dark, and he stares at the moon outside the window, feels Cora sigh and shift and pointedly not say anything.

Derek waits her out.

Finally, she says, soft, “Satomi took me in.”

Derek tenses, watches Cora’s reflection in the window.

“I was in the attic,” she went on. “Dad tossed me out the dormer before going down to help everyone else. He took Teddy, because he wouldn’t have survived the fall.”

Derek’s chest is tight, and his eyes burn.

She says, “You were napping in your room,” a hitch in her breath. “I remember. I remember you snapped at us to leave you alone, and then I never saw you again.”

Derek blindly gropes for her hand and squeezes.

“I went to Dad’s family, in South America. The pack Cousin James married into.” Derek can feel her shrug, stiff and forced. “And then you know the rest.”

They’re quiet again for a while. Stiles is in front of them, head tipped back and snoring.

After a few long moments he slips his sweaty hand out of hers and says, “Thanks.”

She arches an eyebrow at him.

“For coming with me,” he clarifies. He gives an aborted wave toward Stiles and she snorts.

She snorts and then covers her mouth with the back of her hand, failing to hide a smile, and says, “Good luck with that. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Derek has no idea what he’s doing, but he thinks that’s okay.

“You don’t really think Scott’s your alpha, do you?” Stiles says, curled up on a bed in the cheapest motel they could find outside of Tucson, watching through the mottled window as the sun creeps up over the horizon.

“You’re fishing,” Derek says, voice sleep-rough.

Stiles rolls over to look at him. At some point in the middle of the night, Derek had slipped from wolf to man. He’s got his head pillowed on a massive bicep, the sheet tucked just over his hip, and Stiles tries to keep his eyes firmly on Derek’s face. It’s not a hardship. Derek has pillow creases on his cheek, enough dark scruff to be officially dubbed a beard, and a soft smile on his lips.

“Answer the question, Wolf,” Stiles says, poking the divot in Derek’s chin with a finger.

“Yes, Stiles, I really think Scott is my alpha,” he says, but he curls his hand around Stiles’ and slowly drags it down his throat—Stiles fans his fingers out and swallows dry.

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding slowly. “Okay, but you’re an alpha too, so how does that—”

Derek’s other hand fists in the front of his t-shirt and Stiles flails a little with a squawk of surprise, and then Derek’s mouth is opening up under his and—okay. Okay.

Stiles shakes his hands out of Derek’s grip and threads his fingers into Derek’s hair, pressing up against him with a groan. This is all good, right? This is like—Stiles has no idea what’s happening, but everything is a-okay with him. There’s the hot slide of Derek’s naked muscles underneath him, basically the only thing holding Stiles back right now is the tangle of sheets around his legs.

And then there’s a pounding on their door and Cora shouting through the thin wood: “Hurry up, Losers!”

Stiles backs off of Derek with wide eyes, leverages up with his palms flat on Derek’s chest. “That was…” He trails off, not sure what to say.

Derek blinks blearily up at him. His soft grin is even softer. Derek is like a puzzle within a puzzle—his tragic past, his dark years, the way he looks at Stiles, sometimes, like Stiles is some kind of hero, like Stiles could be his whole world.

That’s a lot of pressure to put on a twenty-something dude who fights supernatural baddies for pennies and still gets an allowance from his dad.

Stiles stares at him, and the longer Stiles stays quiet, the more concern creeps into Derek’s eyes.

Stiles straightens up and away, kicking his legs out of the sheets to crisscross in front of him.

Derek shifts on the mattress, a dull flush on his ears, says, “Stiles, you don’t—” just as Stiles says, “I hope you realize this makes us boyfriends.”

He’s not going to have rules, like Derek has to be human with him eighty percent of the day—impossible to expect—or Derek can’t rip out the throats of his enemies to protect him—because that’s badass, even if Stiles can take care of himself.

But they’ve kissed, Derek kissed him, boyfriends is non-negotiable.

One of Derek’s hands curls over his bare knee. “Okay,” he says.

“Right, uh,” Stiles clears his throat, jerks his gaze away from the dip of the sheet at Derek’s groin, the smooth skin of his throat, the curve of his jaw under his ear, “we better get a move on. Before Cora turns the hose on us.”

Derek moves up onto an elbow and cocks his head—Stiles manfully resists inserting a dog joke—and his blush becomes more pronounced, grin sheepish. “Scott’s, uh, lecturing her on patience and privacy. They’re going to breakfast without us.”

Stiles says, “Oh, good,” and tackles Derek back onto the bed.

Derek laughs into his mouth. “Slow down,” he says. “We’ve got a while.”

#tumblr prompt #my fic #scooby doo #sterek #teen wolf #andromedainwonderland #I still want to murder this fic #tumblr prompts

782 notes · View notes