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He stared at the plate of food balanced on the U-haul box. Around him, half-empty boxes littered the floor, shoved up against the walls and stacked in a feeble attempt to get them out of the way.
Throughout the house almost every room was in a similar state of disorder.
“The moving truck should be here tomorrow with our furniture.”
His gaze slid up, glancing over the TV dinners and mugs of water until he met John’s gaze.
The move took its toll on both of them. John had deep circles under his eyes and the wrinkles on his face seemed to have deepened overnight, adding years to his face, making him seem older than he was.
John stretched one leg, wincing as the unforgiving linoleum dug into his backside. “It’ll be nice to have a table again.” He settled, pulling his other leg up so he could rest his elbow on his knee, head falling into his palm. He stared glassy eyed at the meatloaf in the thin black tray like he could will it into being something more edible.
The sound of John’s breathing seemed exceptionally loud in the empty eat-in kitchen, wheezy and labored after ten trips back and forth from the trailer they’d towed behind the Jeep.
He looked up again, eyes crinkling slightly. “You hanging in there, kiddo?”
His shoulder jerked in a shrug, a plastic smile curled up over his lips. “Of course.” His voice was too chipper, bordering on fake, but John only nodded, head tilting forward to stare at their makeshift table.
“I managed to get my old job back at the police department,” John said. He dug his fork into the fake mashed potatoes, pushing them mindlessly from one side of the tray to the other. “You probably don’t remember Jordan, but he managed to pull some strings to get me back on the force.” He huffed, smiling, “He invited us to the holiday party for the station, said they’re holding it at the Hales’ place.” He looked up, still smiling. “Isn’t that nice?”
He nodded, reaching for his mug. His palm hit the cool ceramic, nudging the mug forward across the cardboard.
John didn’t seem to notice.
“You were a toddler the last time we went.”
His fingers twitched, hovering just out of grasping range of the mug. The handle glanced off his palm.
“I think it’ll be fun,” John finished. His fork thudded softly down onto the tray next to the abandoned potatoes.
His fingers jerked hard enough to touch the glass; he yanked his hand back, dropping it on his lap to try and smooth the gesture. “Goodnight.”
John’s eyes widened slightly, then his brow furrowed in concern. “You alright?”
He barely managed to lifted and lower his head. “Just tired.”
John’s face softened, a thin, weary smile crossing his lips. “I feel you. Goodnight. Love you.”
He unfolded his legs, rising stiffly to his feet. He stepped out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway. The unfamiliar scent of the house made his sinuses burn; it would take some time to get used to.
He rubbed his face against his shoulder, turning to go up the stairs to the second floor. His fingers trailed lightly over the handrail, his every step just loud enough that he knew John could hear in the kitchen below. Slowly, he reached the top of the steps.
His turned into the room on the left, flinging a hand out to smack the light switch. His knuckles clacked painfully against the wall, inches away from their mark. The door swung closed behind him with a solid click and he leaned against the counter. The cool granite cut through his thin sleep pants, biting into his hips. His hands went to the edge of the sink, fingers curling around the porcelain as he leaned forward toward the mirror.
Even in the dark he could see his eyes staring back at him, set in sockets too deep and dark against a pallor.
His fingers scrabbled against the sink, each one twitching against his control.
He scrunched his nose, top lip curling. “Stop.” His fingers forcibly curled back around the sink, his knuckles white.
“Leave me alone,” Stiles whispered, it was more of a weak echo than a sound.
“Stop.” Black flooded across his eyes and he straightened, rolling his neck and loosening his grip on the sink. He flexed his fingers until the ache subsided. “Good boy.”
He opened the door, crossing the distance to his room in three steps. The scent of stale air greeted him when he opened the door; he paused, staring into the darkness.
He’d tossed his sleeping bag in the middle of the room earlier. The sleeping bag and a couple stacks of books were the only thing he’d put on the trailer. Tomorrow he would have his bed again.
He slowly closed the door, bracing one hand on the door jam and the other on the handle to make as little sound as possible. He let out a long breath, closing his eyes. “No matter how hard you try, you can’t win.”
He opened his eyes and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling across the floor to the sleeping bag. He burrowed under the side of the slick material, slithering and twisting until he was completely covered. “Goodnight Stiles.”
XXX
Beacon Hills High School looked boring. The bland red bricks, the dead grass in the fields, even the maroon School Spirit! signs blended into the background to the point of being unnoticeable.
He made his way up the front steps. Since he was late, the halls were already empty, clear of the usual cattle-herd shuffle of noise, pushy students. Good. He wouldn’t have to deal with other students for a little bit longer.
His footsteps echoed against the tile as he ducked into the front office.
Fake plants were the only source of color.
A woman looked up from behind the desk; her brow twitched, lips pursed in thought. “Can I help you?”
He shifted his weight, tucking his thumb under the strap of his bag to adjust it. “I’m new.” He paused, not sure if he needed to sign in or just say ‘lead me to my doom’.
Papers rustled as she grabbed things from various piles in front of her.
“You must be Stiles,” she said. A warm smile replaced her bland expression. “I have a syllabus for you, and a handbook— make sure your dad signs it and bring it back to the office.”
She kept talking, babbling about the layout of the school, what classes he had and the teachers names. He only half listened. Each school had the same typical routine.
He shifted over to a chair in front of a blue screen when she said she needed to take his picture for his school ID. A countdown and an awful imitation of a shutter click later, she frowned at the picture on her computer screen.
“It looks like the camera caught a glare, how about we retake it real fast?”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. It wouldn’t be any use retaking it, the flare around his eyes would still be there. He flashed her a false smile and said, forcefully perky, “It’s just a picture.”
After a beat, she shrugged, giving in. “It’s your ID.”
“Thank you,” he beamed. He plucked the schedule from the stack of papers she’d laid out for him. Chemistry with someone named Harris was first. This ought to be a blast. Or, he thought with a wide smile, at the very least he could make it one. Though nothing had been proven, he was still suspected for a minor chemistry lab explosion at his last school.
She offered him a small yellow slip of paper with instructions to give that to the teacher when he got there. “Last door on the left,” she said as he slipped back out into the hall.
He found the classroom easily. He stared at the cheap wooden door for a second, then, reluctantly, knocked.
The gentle murmur of conversation on the other side stopped. He waited.
A dark haired man with glasses opened it, his gaze flicking dismissively over him.
He stared back, impassive and unimpressed. This worm was meant to intimidate a room full of hormone drenched adolescents? Please.
“You must be Stillinski.” Harris’s eyes narrowed. “You’re late.”
“Congratulations, you can tell time,” he deadpanned.
Harris’s lip twitched, revealing a hint of teeth.
He smiled back, all teeth, and no happiness.
“Get in here before you delay the class longer.” Harris held the door open wider and stepped aside the side to allow him to pass.
Desks were set side by side, forming long rows throughout the room. At least two dozen eyes were locked on him, and a handfull of those closest to the door blatantly stared, wide eyed and shocked after hearing the conversation.
“Sit between McCall and Hale,” Harris snapped, slamming the door shut behind them.
He looked over the sea of faces. A brunette boy dead center smiled and waved, tugging out an empty chair between him and a brown haired girl.
“Hey dude, welcome to Beacon Hills.” McCall grinned as he made his way through the maze of bodies toward them. “I’m Scott.”
He dropped his bag, toeing it under the desk. “Stiles.”
Scott’s smile didn’t falter.
Hale snorted; what little of her expression he could see looked bored beyond relief.
He could relate to her.
“That’s Cora,” Scott said. “She may seem mean but she’s actually pretty nice. It’s like a family trait of theirs to come across as pissed off ninety-nine percent of the time.”
Cora rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat. Though she was trying to be subtle, he could see her casting curious glances at him from the corner of her eye.
“Do you have something to share with the class, McCall?” Harris demanded, taking his spot back at the front of the class.
“Nope.”
By the end of class he’d learned the pipes next to the sinks at the back of the room that should have held gasses for the class to experiment and learn from had in fact been shut off years ago. He sighed sadly, he’d need to find another way to entertain himself while he was here.
Scott, it turned out, was in his second class also, along with a girl he introduced as Erica, and her boyfriend and partner in crime Boyd. He’d forced out a semi-polite greeting and resigned himself to the readings of Throeau.
After third period math, he thought he’d officially escaped the overly friendly group. He trudged his way through the cafeteria line, carrying the tray of bland food out into the large dining room. He could see tables outside through the large windows, presumably to use when the weather is nice.
He’d spotted an empty table tucked away in the back corner when familiar voice reached his ears.
“Guys, he’s hurting.” That simpering earnest voice had to be McCall.
He rolled his eyes. He’d be willing to bet his immortality that if the McCall boy saw him he’d be immediately invited over to their table. And he wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to be babbled at. He shifted his weight stiffly, casting his gaze around the room until he spotted McCall at a table to the right.
Next to Scott sat Cora, Erica, Boyd, Lydia- she was in his math class- and a boy and girl he hadn’t met yet.
The unknown girl placed her hand on top of Scott’s reassuringly. “Leave him alone, he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
“He needs friends, Allison. A big move like that has to be hard. This is probably just his way of coping.”
“You can’t help everyone, Scotty. Especially those who don’t want help.”
Cora shook her head slowly. “Drop it, something’s off about him anyway. I kept getting bad vibes from him.”
He beamed. Now this… this could be fun. He switched directions, cutting between the two tables between him and Scott’s table. With each step he adjusted his posture: his shoulders slumped, his face muscles relaxed, and a pleasant smile rolled out across his mouth.
The unnamed boy noticed him first. Thick dark brows rose and his nostrils flared.
The rest of the table turned, noticing him at last.
“Hey Stiles.” Scott beamed with an inhuman measure of goodwill. “Want to sit with us?”
“Yes, please, thank you.”
Cora and Allison stared at Scott, expressions flat and disapproving, who opened his eyes wider and shrugged innocently.
“Stiles, this is Lydia.” Scott motioned to the red head.
“We’re in math together,” Lydia cut in, nodding cooly at Stiles.
“Oh,” Scott’s face fell a fraction, then lit back up. “That’s Derek, Cora’s older brother, he’s a senior.”
Derek scowled the he took the seat next to him. It was the only one available, but it also put him directly next to Scott. And Scott was the one he’d chosen. He could play sweet, become friends, learn Scott’s ins and outs and destroy him by the end of the semester. It’d be great.
He smiled at Derek. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Derek said. He looked at Stiles for a second more before focusing on his food.
The table had gone silent. No one was looking at him directly but the hair on his arms stood on end, they were wary of him. Usually humans didn’t notice anything off, definitely not this quickly. Well, there was that one person in San Francisco, but they had accused everyone of having demons inside them. They hadn’t known what to do when Stiles burst out laughing.
He lifted his hand, forcing his fingers to curl around the plastic fork. The movements were still jerky, like an unpracticed puppet master was pulling at his strings, but it was smoother than they’d been the night before at the dinner table. It was easier to control his body when Stiles wasn’t fighting against him.
Derek shifted, leaning into his space for half a second before straightening quickly, face tensed and closed off.
He looked up, prepared to tell the guy to back off, when sunlight caught Cora’s eyes and for a brief moment, it looked like they flashed gold. He tilted his head, fascinated. That was new. THere was so much about this human world he didn’t understand, it was easy to get distracted by the sensations, sights, and smells.
Perhaps it was the potential flash of gold in Cora’s eyes, or the distraction of Derek leaning in when everyone else always leaned away. Perhaps it was just that Stiles had been quiet all day. Regardless, he was not prepared for his right side to seize out of his control.
His hand snapped out, grabbing Derek’s forearm and digging his fingertips into his skin. “Help.” His voice was a bare tremble of sound, his face still turned forward, away from Derek.
Immediately, he yanked his hand back, eyes wide in shock. He’d never lost control like that.
You know better than that, Stiles.
He swept his arm across the table, sending his tray and carton of milk flying. He jumped to his feet and bolted. He’d have to do damage control later, figure out a way to fix the scene Stiles had caused. Sure, he’d talked his way out of more, but if this threw a wrench in his plan for Scott he was going to be pissed.
He power walked down the hall until he found a bathroom; he ran inside, ducking in the first stall he came across.
He waited, ears straining to hear if anyone from the table had followed him. Aside from his heavy breathing and the sound of blood rushing in his ears, there was nothing.
XXX
His gaze never wavered from the clock mounted above the whiteboard, even though he could feel the teacher’s withering stare. What did he care?
The bell rang, bringing with it a collective sigh of relief and a flurry of movement. The teacher didn’t even bother trying to stop them. She went to her desk to gather her things, as eager to leave as her students.
He zipped his bag up and stood, already halfway to the door when someone stepped in front of him. Big, earnest brown eyes, dopey, wide-open expression. Scott. Right.
He grinned crookedly as he blocked their path, with Derek flanking him and a tall unfamiliar boy hovering uncertainly in the background. “Hey, Derek said he can drive everyone home.”
“Did I?” Derek muttered, making the tall boy huff an almost silent laugh.
“Yes,” Scott said, firm and cheery, “and I’m sure Stiles would like to ride with us. Right?”
He bet that easy assumption of friendless worked on plenty of people, weak, simpering worms that they were. He looked at Derek and twisted his lips into a smirk.
Fine, he said, you want to talk to your new friend? Let’s talk. The stirring of panic and fear fed him, sent a shiver of power through him and made his smile widen delightedly.
Scotts answering smile was blinding.
“This is Isaac.” Scott motioned to the kid behind Derek.
Isaac nodded at him in greeting and took half a step back, letting them leave the classroom first.
“Derek drove his dad’s van today so there’s totally room for all of us.” His step faltered. “Your dad wasn’t supposed to pick you up, right?”
“No.” He shrugged. “I walked this morning. I don’t live too far away.”
“Great!” Scott beamed.
Derek huffed, herding them down the hall.
“The van can hold like ten people-“
“Eight,” Derek interjected.
“Like eight people,” Scott corrected without missing a beat.
“Who all’s getting a ride?” he asked.
Scott stopped next to the vending machines by the exit. Crowds of students shoved their way by, causing Derek and Isaac to take refuge next to them.
“Me, my bike has a flat tire, Isaac, he basically lives at the Hale house, Cora, she actually lives there, Erica, Boyd, Lydia, and her boyfriend Jackson.”
There was a pause before he asked, “Who’s riding in the trunk?”
The perpetual smile on Scott’s face faltered. “What? That’s seven people, the van fits eight.” He ticked his fingers for each of the names he’d said, brow furrowing.
“Then Derek as the driver, and me,” he said, delight filling him at the anxious expression on Scott’s face.
Derek crossed his arms and leaned against the machine, a deep scowl on his face. His eyes locked him. “Laura picked Cora up early for a swim meet,” he said stiffly. “We’ll all fit.
Scott’s face lit up once again. “That’s awesome!” He slapped Stiles on the shoulder.
xxx
They piled into the van, at Scott’s insistence he took passenger seat since he was going to be the second stop.
Erica and Boyd were the first. They said something about a science project and finishing it at Erica’s before adding almost sadly that Cora, Scott, and Stiles were going to probably be getting the project next.
Lydia sat between Jackson and Isaac in the third row.
Derek pulled out of the school lot, breezing past the parent brigade and onto the main road.
Trees and buildings blurred past the windows.
Scott chatted happily at Boyd and Erica. Apparently they’d all been friends since elementary school. It was cute, in a human sort of way. He could fix that.
The tires rumbled over the pavement, the low beat of the radio and occasional crunch of gravel under the tires almost mesmerizing.
He tilted his head. Rocks. Scott said he had a flat tire on his bike; what a good idea. That would certainly liven up the drive home, and perhaps concuss someone in the process.
Don’t! Stiles yelped, but he barely felt any resistance. His little stunt at lunch must have exhausted him.
BANG.
The car tilted, careening toward the curb at the ear splitting explosion of the back tire.
Derek twisted the wheel, cursing as the car skidded to a stop.
The radio crackled, cutting between static and the DJ of a local station.
“Everyone okay?” Derek asked, looking at them in the rearview mirror when the car finally came to a stop.
You almost hurt them! Stiles yelled, fear and anxiety flooding his veins.
Pity it didn’t, he sighed. His fingers curled around the handle on the door to hide the trembling as Stiles fought for control. He was getting tired. He huffed in irritation; sleep was almost as boring as school. But if he wanted to remain in control, he needed to be strong, and if he wanted to be strong, he needed to take a break every now and then.
You’re a monster, Stiles spat.
I’m a demon, darling. This was just for fun. He caught sight of his reflection in the side view mirror and grinned, knowing full well Stiles could see him.
After everyone assured Derek they were okay, he climbed out, Scott on his heels to help with the spare.
Behind him, in the reflection of the mirror, Lydia stared. Her eyes were slightly too wide, mouth set in uncertainty. She jerked her eyes away, ushering Jackson and Isaac out so the van would be lighter.
He frowned, tracking her movements. Sure, the accident could have shaken her, but would she have been looking at him like that? The radio cackled again. He glanced at it. Surely she hadn’t heard him and Stiles.
What?Stiles asked, his voice wobbling.
Nothing. He’d have to be more careful around her. He tossed the door opening, leaping out to join everyone on the sidewalk. If Lydia became a problem, he’d just kill her.
XXX
“I don’t understand.”
If Stiles laid still enough, he could hear his dad talking on the phone. To whom, he didn’t know, but the sound of John’s voice still soothing, despite the soul-crushing things he was saying.
“He’s a different kid.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” The talking stopped, replaced by the soft creaking of floorboards as he paced between the kitchen and living room.
A low thrum deep in the back of his head indicated the demon’s absence. It had gone dormant as soon as they’d reached Stiles’s room after dinner and making a show of saying goodnight to John. Stiles had fought again at dinner, even managed to knock his slice of pizza off the counter, but the demon played it off as clumsiness from being tired.
It wasn’t often it needed to rest. It was always there, just below the surface, waiting to wake at any moment.
He strained his ears but John’s voice had become a distant murmur as he moved deeper into the house.
Tears ran down his cheeks. He’d tried to tell John what was wrong before. The first time the demon went dormant he’d run to him for help, woke him up out of a dead sleep, but as soon as John asked him what was wrong, the demon snapped awake and lied. Said he’d had a nightmare.
Months later, the second time, Stiles thought he was clever, and wrote a letter. If he moved slowly and spoke softly, the demon didn’t stir. So he wrote a letter explaining he was possessed and he was scared. He slipped the note under his dad’s bedroom door, and ducked back off to bed. The next morning when John woke and asked him about it, the demon had promptly ripped the note away before John could read it, and played the whole thing off as a prank. And John believed it.
He rolled over, levering himself off the bed. He wasn’t alone, not really, not ever. The toxic presence pressed into his skull, a constant reminder even when he wasn’t fully there.
He crossed the room to the window, staring at the large tree that sat just outside in the yard, it’s thick branches curling close the the glass.
At first he thought it was a bush in the yard. A tall one, just next to the property line. But when it moved he froze, his heart skipped a beat. Was someone breaking in?
The figure stepped forward until their face was illuminated by the floodlight on the side of the house, and Stiles relaxed. Derek. He shook his head, trying to brush off the fright. He was glad Derek was okay after the stunt earlier. They’d changed the tire quickly and had been on their way with little fuss. He was probably just coming over to make sure Stiles was okay, too.
He glanced at the clock on the floor by the wall; it was barely after seven.
Anxiety gripped his chest. He took a step back, away from the window. If the demon woke up while Derek was here, he’d hurt him.
But there was something about Derek that Stiles couldn’t shake. It felt like one of the crushes he’d gotten in middle school, but stronger. An insistent pull, a desire to go to him, to seek out his company. He stepped back up to the window.
Derek was closer now, hesitating between going around to the front door and looking up at the window with an ‘oh, fuck it’ expression.
Stiles chuckled.
He could try to warn Derek that Scott was in danger at least. Maybe. Derek cared about Scott, they were friends. Even if he didn’t believe him, planting a seed of suspicion might help them later.
“Please don’t talk,” Stiles whispered, hand coming up to rest on the glass. “I’ll let you in, but please don’t talk.”
Derek stopped at the base of the tree, head tilting like he’d heard him. But that wasn’t possible. There was glass and easily twenty feet between them.
Derek looked up at the window, an eyebrow lifted curiously.
Stiles smiled. He fumbled with the latch on the window, wincing as it groaned open. Holding his breath, he listened for any indication John might have heard. There were no creaking floorboards, or thundering steps up the stairs. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
The demon hadn’t stirred either.
“Please don’t talk,” he said again.
Derek reached up, pulling himself on to the lowest branch with ease, then reached for the next one. Before Stiles could back out of the way, Derek was easing himself through the window.
Stiles lifted a finger to his lips, signaling for Derek to stay quiet.
Derek straightened in the dark room, glancing around as if looking for a threat. He opened his mouth and Stiles darted forward, hands flying up to cover his mouth.
“No talking,” Stiles good, eyes wide. “No whispering, no words.” He shook his head. This was a bad idea on so many levels. John was downstairs and if the demon thought he liked Derek, he would target Derek just to hurt him. He’d already tried and that was just because he was bored. He put Derek in danger by letting him in his room. It was too late now.
“Only I can talk, or you’ll wake him,” Stiles said softly. He stared at him until Derek nodded. Stiles let his hands fall away, the warmth of Derek’s lips lingering on his skin. He sucked in a long breath. This was such a bad idea. But, he realized, Derek hadn’t spoken yet. He could still warn him about Scott. Maybe Derek could keep his friends away from him. Keep them safe.
His heart twisted painfully; that would mean Derek probably wouldn’t want to be around him either. He bit the inside of his cheeks, reminding himself that it was for the best. The demon woud be in control anyway, so whether Derek stayed or not, he was out of Stiles’s reach.
Derek flicked his wrist, waving his hand to get Stiles’s attention.
Stiles looked up in time to see Derek drag his finger across his opposite palm, eyebrows raised in question.
Writing.
“Maybe?” Stiles looked around the disorganized room. “I haven’t been able to try that yet.” He reached for his school bag, catching Derek’s concerned expression in the corner of his eye. He pulled out a notebook and the first pen he touched—a neon blue highlighter. He offered the items to Derek, who stared at the highlighter, then shrugged.
Stiles shuffled over to his makeshift sleeping area, reaching for the small lamp John had dug out for him earlier that day. He turned it on, casting the room in a dull yellow light.
Derek winced, blinking as his eyes adjusted.
“If,” Stiles began.
Derek looked up from the notebook, flipping it open to the first blank page.
“If,” Stiles began again, “I start acting strange, you need to leave, alright?”
Derek frowned, not understanding. He flicked the cap off the highlighter, scrawling across the paper. ‘What’s wrong?’
Stiles stared at the words. It was such a simple question. What’s wrong? Everything? A nervous laugh bubbled up from his chest and he sat back in his nest of blankets. He patted the floor next to him, inviting Derek to sit down.
He stilled, but the steady thrum of the demon didn’t change. Hope briefly filled him; maybe passing notes like this could work but... “You won’t believe me.”
Derek rolled his eyes, taking a seat where Stiles indicated. He hunched over the paper, then held up, ‘Try me’.
Stiles tried to smile, but it only wobbled and vanished. He looked at the still open window. He wrung his hands together to stop the trembling. The demon wasn’t even fighting for control and he was shaking. So pathetic. He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to warm up.
What would happen if he told Derek? Would the demon still know? Would he be able to play off what Stiles tells him like he did with John?
His breathing grew faster, his knees beginning to shake. He fucked up. He should have left Derek out of this. But he needed to warn him about Scott. He took a slow breath. He had to tell Derek at least that much.
Derek’s hand reached out toward him, then stopped, inches from his leg.
Stiles tensed, he had to tell Derek something. “Scott’s in danger,” he blurted. Derek cocked his head to the side.
‘From what?’
Stiles laughed humorlessly. “Me?” He rested his forehead on his knees, fingers carding through his hair nervously. He listened to the gentle squeak of the pen against the paper. When the sound stopped he took a moment before looking up.
‘Why would you hurt Scott?’
“Well, not me exactly.” He fixated on the logo on Derek’s shirt, a man riding a horse with a stick in the air; it was easier to talk if he wasn’t looking directly at him. “I’m,” he dug his thumb into his palm, eyes burning, “I’m a demon.”
Derek stiffened, pulling away.
Stiles flinched, eyes squeezing shut, not sure if it would have been easier or harder for Derek to just laugh at him. Demons weren’t real, they were like ghosts, or bigfoot, something to scare kids into acting straight.
He hadn’t been prepared for Derek to back away, despite it being a logical reaction. He wanted Derek to like him. He wanted to be friends with him. He didn’t want to drive him away.
The squeak of the marker was louder this time. Derek was writing heavier, faster.
The thrum in his mind wavered. He was getting too worked up.
Stiles took several deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. It was too late to back out now. The squeaking stopped. He couldn’t look. “I need help,” he whispered.
“I can help you!”
“No!” Stiles gasped, leaping to his feet. It was too late. The thrumming blared as numbness spread through him, like the demon was stretching out inside of him, one limb at a time. He slapped his hands to his ears, eyes widening in horror.
Derek jumped up, hands held out like he was unsure if he should offer support or keep his distance. “I’m sorry, I-“
Oh, Stiles, the demon purred. What have you done?
His vision flickered in and out of focus. If there had been a mirror close by, he knew his eyes would be black and void.
Derek took a step to the side, toward the window.
“What might you be?” he demanded, gaze wracking Derek from top to bottom. Maybe it was him he should be concerned about and not that nosy little redhead.
Leave him alone! Stiles shouted.
His head jerking to the side was the only outward sign of Stiles’s struggle. He rolled his neck, shoving the inferior human down.
Derek bared his teeth. His gaze darted around the room, but there wasn’t anything he could attack the demon with without hurting Stiles, which he seemed to realize.
“Boo!” He lunged forward, hands outstretched.
Derek jumped back, turning and diving out the window. He landed on all fours, and bolted across the yard.
He smiled. What do you see in him?
He looked down at the discarded notebook.
‘I believe you’ was written in bold and underlined crossed the page.
Stiles, he tisked, you don’t understand, do you? He picked up the notebook, slowly tearing the page out. Each rip of the paper against the spirals seemed louder than the last. You’re mine. He yanked the rest of the page out, balling it into his fist. Smoke streamed from between his fingers, the burning paper seared into his palm. I think you need a time out.
NO! Stiles shouted, then the world went black and silent.
XXX
Sound came back first, distant voices that floated in and out. When he could finally distinguish the different tones, sight came next. It started in a similar manner. Colorful blurs, just out of focus.
Wherever he was, there were quite a few people. He could feel something both hard and soft beneath him, he was sitting on the floor, on a carpet. Next to someone? A dark green shape stood, saying something loudly to someone Stiles couldn’t see.
“Just water, please.” Stiles recognized his own voice, though he wasn’t the the one who had spoken.
He was watching the demons actions again.
His fingers flexed, twitching into the carpet beneath him. He was sitting on the floor in an unfamiliar living room. It certainly wasn’t his and John’s place, it was much too big and bordering on fancy.
As his vision came back, he examined the things around him in a daze.
The couch was huge, curved around the room in front of a massive fireplace. Above the fireplace, a TV was playing a music channel.
Green Shape came back. And then Cora became clear when she leaned close to him. She frowned. “Are you going to get sick?”
Stiles sure hoped not. “No.” He shook his head.
How are you back? the demon demanded in a furious hiss.
Stiles shook his head; he didn’t understand... Where had he gone? Where were they? He tried to open his mouth, but the demon clenched it shut. So he focused on the room around them again.
“Good,” Cora chirped, “we need to get this project done.”
A large catwalk stretched above their heads, stopping on the other side of the house where the living room blended into the kitchen. Father past that, was a dining room.
The thrum in his head pulsed.
“Cora, be nice.” A dark haired man with a goatee watched them from the kitchen. Who was he?
Stiles lifted his hand.
The demon forced it back down in his lap.
Stiles blinked.
The demon glowered.
You need to listen to me. The demon’s voice cracked.
Stiles blinked again. A hand held a water bottle out to him; his gaze traced the hand, up the arm attached to it, finally landing on Scott’s face.
Scott couldn’t smile fast enough to hide his worried expression.
Scott was here! That was good. He was alive. His heart pounded erratically in his chest. But where were the others? Where was Derek?
The man in the kitchen didn’t look away from him, his gaze hard, calculating. Even with the distance between them, he was sure he saw him take a deep breath and wince. The following flash of emotion was too quick for him to place.
“You alright, Stiles?” the man asked.
Stiles flinched. It was over. Someone had spoken to him while the demon wasn’t in control. He waited for the pressure of the being to take over. His stomach clenched with anticipation.
The music from the TV was the only sound as everyone waited for his response.
His head ached, a low pounding in his forehead, each pulse of his heart sending the pain deeper into his skull until he imagined he could feel it on his brain stem. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was a low murmur of conversation around him, but the words didn’t make sense. Was he saying them? Or were they speaking to him?
The demon roared, flinging itself at the edges of his consciousness. Stiles’s shoulder jerked forward, but it was only one hit. For once it was the demon fighting while Stiles held the advantage, the demon struggling for control while Stiles held him back. Stiles had the upper hand finally.
Something snapped. The thrum vanished, pain gone, rapidly replaced with nausea. He wheezed, chest heaving. “Bathroom?”
“First door on the left, next to the front door,” Cora replied quickly.
He stood on trembling knees. He didn’t know where the front door was, but Cora had glanced over the couch so he took that as a good direction. He bounced off the corner of the wall, and cracked his knee against the stair banister, but found his way to the half bath just in time. He kicked the door closed, dropped over the toilet, and heaved. Nothing came out.
What did you do? the demon demanded, his voice soft and distant.
Nothing, Stiles said. But clearly something had changed, something had happened, he’d never gained control like this before.
His fingers curled and uncurled around the toilet bowl. Stiles fought the grasp when the demon tried to move his hands away.
The demon howled.
Several minutes passed before Stiles felt it was safe for him to move. He hadn’t actually gotten sick, but the nausea lingered.
The demon was still there, recognizable by the annoying itch, the impulse to do something he didn’t want to do. But he could ignore him.
He laughed nervously. This didn’t make sense, but he was going to go with it. For the first time, he had more power than the demon.
He opened the bathroom door, stepping into the hall. Voices came from the direction of the living room, so he followed them.
“—the wards.”
“Talia should be home tomorrow.”
“Is that soon enough?”
He thought he recognized the man’s voice who had been in the kitchen, but the second wasn’t familiar. His knees had gone from trembling to shaking by the time he made it to the living room. He balked, one hand resting on the back of the couch, as he came face to face with two men talking to Cora and Scott.
Goatee Guy looked him up and down while the man next to him smiled warmly. “Hello Stiles, I’m Chris.” He glanced at Goatee Guy. “I’m sure you’ve met my husband, Peter.”
“Nice to meet you,” Stiles croaked. He tensed, waiting for the moment he lost control. Like before, it never came.
Peter and Chris excused themselves back to the kitchen to finish making dinner, calling out that Laura, Derek, and Aaron should be home shortly.
Stiles beamed at the mention of Derek. He was alright! Relief washed through him. It seemed everyone the demon had been intent on hurting was okay so far. Everything was might end up being okay.
He, Cora, and Scott finished the project easily. It turned out they’d already built the model volcano and only needed to write the essay part now. It was also, Stiles found out, the same project Erica and Boyd had been grumbling about weeks before in the car ride home.
His heart skipped a beat when he realized how much time had passed. Weeks? He stared at the carpet where it met the wall. He’d been gone for that long? His heart began to beat faster. Was his dad okay? Was he really over here for just a project, or was it something more? He pictured his dad, pale, lying helpless in a hospital bed. He could have hurt him.
“Stiles?”
His head snapped up. Green eyes bore into his, warm hands resting on his shoulders. Derek.
Stiles lurched forward, gripping the front of his shirt and clinging.
“Take deep breaths.”
He could feel Derek’s chest moving, and he tried to match the movement, but his chest just shook, breaths stuttering stuttering ineffectively at his lips.
“Everything’s okay, I promise.” Derek held him tighter, lowering himself to the floor next to him. “Everyone’s okay.”
Stiles clung to him. If Derek said everything was alright, then it had to be. He trusted him. But the nagging feeling of dread didn’t go away.
“Come on.” Derek helped him to his feet, gently leading him away from the living room, and the rest of the house’s watchful eyes. Derek guided him past the stairs and bathroom he’d been in earlier to a set of double doors. A library, Stiles realized as they swung open. Bookshelves lined all four walls, a comfy looking couch in the center of the room.
Derek sat on the couch with Stiles tucked against his side, his arm draped protectively across his shoulders.
The room had a calming effect, or maybe it was being with Derek. He leaned against him and breathed. “What happened?” Stiles asked. He needed to know, rip it off like a bandaid. The last thing he remembered was talking with Derek in his room and gods know what happened between now and then.
“Beacon Hills isn’t normal,” Derek said evenly.
Stiles frowned, but waited. Beacon Hills seemed normal.
Derek stilled, “I came home and told my dad what happened.”
Stiles jerked back, looking up searching his face wildy, but he only saw determination in his expression.
“My mom would have been able to help you faster.” Derek winced apologetically. “But she’s busy with pack business at the moment though. She won’t be home until tomorrow.”
“How long has it been since we talked?” Stiles asked slowly, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.
“Three weeks.”
Stiles flinched, and Derek continued, “Dad and Deaton put wards around your house to try and drive the demon out.”
“Are they witches?” Stiles’s brow pulled down. Witches aren’t real. Then again, neither are demons for most people.
“Druids.” Derek smiled, watching Stiles carefully, like he was expecting Stiles to freak out and run. “I can stop if you’d like, wait until you’re feeling better.”
Stiles shook his head. “I want to know.” He curled his fingers in Derek’s sleeve. “Did you know before you came over to my house?”
There was a pause. “Lydia had an idea. When the tire blew, and the radio cut to static, she said she could hear you arguing with something, so she wanted me to check on you that night.” He took a breath. “Not that I didn’t want to see you, I just figured you wanted your space. But dad and Deaton thought the wards would help, and we did think they worked at first.” His face tightened with anger. “But it was playing with us.”
A burst of happiness inside him made Stiles wince. The demon was still there, weak but gloating about how much fun he’d had playing with the emotions of those around them. “I’m shocked,” he said dryly.
Derek rubbed comforting circles into his shoulder. “They put the same ones up here when Cora said you, her, and Scott had a project due together over fall break. You and Scott were going to stay over here and work on it until after the holiday party.”
Stiles shifted. “How long have I been over here?”
“This is the first day. No one was expecting these ward to work any different than the ones at your house. But, clearly something worked, right?” Derek smiled down at him.
Uneasiness grew inside him, it seemed to be working, but the sublevel thrum continued; “My dad knows I’m here?”
"Yes, and about what's going on."
Stiles gaped soundlessly for a moment, then managed to squeak out, "My dad…knows? About--about the demon, the...everything?"
Derek nodded, his eyes gone soft with sympathy. "Yeah, he knows everything. He's thrilled that we can help you."
Tears pricked Stiles's eyes, so he looked away. "When's the party?" he asked, to distract himself.
"Tomorrow. Mom will be home way before it starts; she'll help you, I promise."
Stiles smiled sincerely for the first time in a year as exhaustion crept into every bone and muscle. How exactly was she going to help him? “Thank you.” Perhaps they were going to try with more wards. Were wards the same as spells? It seemed like they’d be similar. Stiles chuckled. Druids. It felt like he was caught in some D&D game.
It took a second for him to realize his eyes were closed.
Derek spoke soft, reassuring words, and that made him more tired. He let out a content sigh. Everything was going to be okay. Derek’s mom would fix it.
XXX
Everything was grey and in slow motion.
Stiles saw himself push open the doors to the library and step into the hall. The house was dark, the air eerily still.
He didn’t need to look behind him to know Derek was asleep on the couch where he’d left him.
A slow smile curled over his lips. He wouldn’t be asleep for long.
He’d wanted to wait until this Talia person and John were here before killing them all. But an unsettling warning kept stirring in his gut. If he wanted anyone to die, he’d have to do it before she got here.
It was almost sad that Stiles didn’t know how close to freedom he’d actually come.
He padded silently across the hall, through the formal dining room that looped through the kitchen. He trailed his fingers over the closed wooden drawers and cabinets, eyes set on the knife set by the stove. A gas stove, he realized with delight.
He flicked each of the burners, and grabbed the largest knife in the set. It was too perfect; he’d kill who he could and burn the evidence.
You thought you won? he asked Stiles with a shiver of excitement.
Stiles recoiled in horror, then exploded into life, thrashing useless, proverbially clawing at his insides to no avail.
He grinned, looping out through the living room and down the hall, back toward the library.
How about we kill your soulmate first? The demon thumbed the blade of the knife, drawing a thin line of blood. It’s really a pity humans take longer to notice soulmates, but the aftermath will be delightful.
Stiles screamed in rage.
The demon didn’t notice.
Behind him, something clicked. “Freeze.”
He stopped, hand outstretched for the door he’d left ajar. He turned his head slowly, looking back the way he’d come.
Chris stood, legs braced, gun drawn and pointed straight at his chest.
“Are you going to shoot him, Christopher?” he asked sweetly. His lips curled up in a cheshire grin. “You’ll kill both of us.”
Chris sniffed, jaw clenching when he caught the slithering scent of gas from the kitchen.
“If you wait too long, the discharge might blow up the whole house. Tick-tock.”
Chris didn’t move.
If he moved quick enough he could bolt through the doorway. The doors swung inward, so they’d be easy to barricade, then it’d just be him and Derek.
Chris’s gaze cut to the arched doorway of the dining room.
He spun, knife raised, lashing out at the figure flying toward him.
Yellow eyes flashed, and a low growl reverberated through the darkness.
He snarled back, twisting as strong arms wrapped around him, pinning his hands to his sides.
Peter.
He gripped Peter’s wrist, his hands growing hotter by the second. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the gas.
Peter growled but didn’t let go.
Footsteps pounded above them, thundering down the steps to their right. The library doors flew open as Derek spilled out, disheveled and furious.
“Get back.” Aaron lifted his hands.
Laura snarled, eyes glowing, claws descending.
Peter let go, leaving only an ache in his borrowed bones where he’d been squeezing too tight.
He twisted and flung the knife out, burying it deep in Peter’s shoulder.
Something slammed into his back, making his knees buckle. He screamed.
XXX
His hands were bound behind him and something hard was digging into his back. A quick test of his legs told him they were tied to something hard, and not on the ground.
He lifted his head. It wobbled for a second as everything spun into view.
He was in the dining room, the table and other chairs had been pushed out, leaving him alone in the center. From where he was seated, he could see into the kitchen, and across the hall through the library door. All the lights in the house were on.
“Talia’s on her way,” Aaron said, sounding exhausted. Good.
The smell of gas was gone now. He snarled. He’d kill them.
Derek’s concerned face appeared in the entry of the kitchen. “Stiles?”
He sneered, head falling back.
Please stop, Stiles begged. Leave them alone.
No.
Derek had said Aaron was a druid, which was a nuisance but something he’d been able to handle in the past. It was the rest of them that he was having growing concerns about. The banshee wasn’t in the house right now, so that just meant he had to figure out what the rest of them were so he’d know how to handle them.
He tested the restraints holding his wrists. Whoever tied them knew what they were doing. The knot didn’t budge. He took a breath, shooting flames out around his hands. If he couldn’t untie them, he’d burn them off.
The talking in the other room halted.
The ropes smoldered and smoked but didn’t fall away.
He roared, jerking forward against them so hard his shoulders strained, threatening to pop out of their sockets.
Derek flinched and Chris stepped around him into the room. He crossed the short distance, careful not to get too close.
He looked down; There was a ring of salt around the chair. He outright laughed.
Chris stiffened.
He didn’t know how to deal with them, and they didn’t know how to deal with him! A salt ring wouldn't hold shit, he wasn’t some lowly ghost.
Chris squatted in front of him so they were eye to eye. He could see the gun holstered on his hip, and this close could smell something strange lingering on the bullets lodged inside.
“Why don’t you kill me already, hunter?”
Chris’s face didn’t falter, didn’t give away if the question surprised him, or made him mad. He only shrugged. “That’d be too easy, and would hurt someone who doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
A big smile curled across his face. “You don’t know what we’ve done together. He might deserve it.” He jostled the rope so it rubbed against the chair and squeaked.
“You have two options,” Chris said, speaking clearly and slowly. “You can remove yourself from Stiles, or be removed.”
“I can’t be exorcised, this isn’t some shitty horror movie,” he spat.
Chris smiled, rising to his feet. “Alright.”
He waited. He expected Chris to hit him, for Aaron to come forward and cast some useless spell. For them to try and beat him out of the kid. Instead, Chris walked away, vanishing into the kitchen. He snarled, and jerked and rocked in the chair, left then right, trying to topple the chair. He was covered in sweat and breathing heavily when the front door opened. A cold gust of air rushed by, drawing his attention.
A stately, dark haired woman stood in the door, backlit by the slow-to-rise winter sun, studying him with a clinical, detached expression.
Her demeanor and expression were so much like Derek and Cora’s that she must have been Talia Hale.
“Hello,” he greeted cheerfully like he wasn’t strapped to a piece of furniture in her home.
“Hello.” She dropped her bag where she stood, head tilted, brow pinched as she assessed him.
He smiled pleasantly.
She stepped forward across the threshold of the dining room. Her eyes flashed red.
A primitive fear rose through him, along with the growing urge to flee.
She stepped over the salt barrier and reached for him, one hand curling around the back of his neck.
He turned, sinking his teeth into the soft part of her arm.
Her eyes flared, fangs dropping from her mouth, but she didn’t attack or fight back. The tips of her claws pressed into the tender skin on the back of his neck, a split second of warning before they pierced his flesh, digging in deep and flexing against him. She smiled. “Got it.” She pulled her hand out, yanking the demon right out of the shadows of the Stiles’s soul.
Stiles slumped forward, a sudden weight gone. Trembles shook his body. He felt whole and empty at the same time.
The demon shrieked, a whispy black entity clutched in Talia’s claws. Claws? Her eyes were red, face twisted into an animalistic snarl.
His heart sunk; he’d escaped one monster and fell into the clutches of another. He tried to curl in on himself, make himself as small and unappealing as possible. A sob ripped itself out of his chest. He was so tired.
Derek knelt in front of him, tearing the binds on his feet free before moving onto his hands.
Pack. Derek said pack. The claws, the fangs. Stiles couldn’t breathe.
Derek stilled, hands hovering over him like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.
Stiles leaned forward, burying his face into Derek’s shoulder. He didn’t know what was going on, but Derek was safe.
“You have to breathe.” Derek wrapped his arms around him, drawing him into a loose comforting hug.
Stiles tried. Each breath felt like a thousand pound weight being dragged up from his core.
Stars danced in his vision.
“Breathe with me.” Derek took an exaggerated breath in.
Stiles sucked in a smaller shaky one.
“Good, now out.”
It took a couple breaths before the stars went away, and a few more after that for the constriction in his chest to lessen.
He and Derek were on the floor next to the chair, the rest of the family hovering in the kitchen and hallway.
“Pack,” Stiles said softly. “Werewolves?”
Derek tensed. “Some of us.” He ran a hand up and down Stiles’s back. “Dad’s a druid.”
Stiles nodded, he said that earlier.
“Chris is a hunter, he hunts bad supernaturals, and Lydia’s a banshee, that’s how she heard you, along with the static.”
Stiles nodded, too exhausted to freak out again.
“How about we talk about this later?” Derek suggested cautiously. “You can ask as many questions as you’d like.”
He pressed the tips of his fingers against Derek’s.
Derek obliged the silent question, letting long claws extend from his fingertips.
XXX
It took quite a bit of convincing to make sure Aaron didn’t call Jordan and move the holiday party to the high school football fields.
“We’re on break, we don’t want to go back to school, even for a party,” Stiles reasoned. “And whether it was held here or there, I’m still going.”
Aaron eventually sighed, resigned, and Talia smiled.
John arrived first, hours before the cooking started.
Stiles leapt up from the couch, darting across the house, and threw his arms around John’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
John held him back, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.
The rest of the force trickled in as the morning dragged on. Everyone greeted each other with warm smiles and hugs, like they were genuinely happy to see each other. People mingled in the living room and out on the deck where Laura stood by the barbeque, fending off the hungry with her spatula.
Stiles smiled at the scene, and even chuckled at few of the jokes the officers cracked. It felt foreign to be so much in control, and slightly overwhelming. He made his way back to the couch where Derek sat with a book. He had a good system, get up, go say hi to a few people, and then return until he felt recharged enough to get up again. He dropped to the cushin next to Derek, leaning up against his side.
Something crashed in the kitchen, followed by a long stream of curses mixed with apologies. Stiles smiled, looping his arm through Derek’s.
With everyone distracted, he turned to Derek. “Are we really soulmates?”
Derek looked up from his book, closing it without marking the page.
Stiles pushed on nervously when Derek didn’t answer right away. “The demon said it takes humans longer to notice, which implies that you may or may not have felt something already. And I certainly feel something for you.” He stared, braced for rejection. The demon had lied before, after all.
“Yes,” Derek said, stalling anything else Stiles was going to say. “I felt it at the lunch table. But it was... different, weak.” He gave a small smile. “Guess we know why.”
“I swear!” Chris dropped to the opposite end of the couch. “Every party, without fail, birthday party, holiday party, promotional party. Someone gets sick, there’s some kind of accident, someone cries, and someone gets kissed.”
“What happened?” Derek asked, draping an arm around Stiles’s shoulders.
“Talia and Peter are arguing over the last turkey leg.” Chris rolled his eyes, collapsing back against the couch.
“Was that the crash in the kitchen?” Stiles smiled.
“Yes! Jordan made himself sick on cream puffs, at least one dish is broken, and either Talia or Peter are going to end up in tears from losing.”
“Or both of them if Cora snatches it from between them like she did the ham last year.” Derek chuckled.
Chris’s eyes flew open, a loud laugh bubbling up from his chest. “I forgot about that.” He rubbed his eyes. “That was the most stunned I’ve seen either of them, ever.”
“She grabbed the whole ham and ran,” Derek told Stiles.
Stiles’s smile widened. “I would have liked to see that.”
“I should probably go play damage control.” Chris stood, eyeing the kitchen warily.
“Let them fight it out!” Aaron called from the porch.
Stiles laughed. The sound reverberating through the room, light and free. Derek grinned over at him, eyes sparkling.
“Can I kiss you?” Stiles asked.
“Of course.” Derek leaned forward, brushing their lips together. It was chaste, but perfect, lighting up the darkest parts of Stiles’s heart, banishing the lingering ache of the demon. This was happiness.