a/n: first teen wolf story. go easy on me. comments are welcome, hope you enjoy. musical accompaniment for this chapter is silver, by conductive alliance.
CHAPTER ONE
Derek ran. His ear pricked picking up a sound and he jerked left just in time to avoid a crossbow bolt to the shoulder. He sprinted straight, making sure to check his left and right for any more arrows. Trees blurred as he flew past, the night moonless and pitch black, but his eyes could see just fine. And he knew the dark wouldn't hinder the ones pursuing him either. He was surrounded by a loose semicircle of hunters, some yards off but closing in fast. They had him cornered. He grimaced, kept running and didn't look back. He jumped over roots, swerved around trees, then ducked low when another bolt nearly struck home in his neck.
"Come on Derek! You'd be faster on all fours!" he heard the taunting shout from somewhere on his right. Definitely Kate. There were no words for how much he hated hunters, but Kate Argent in particular - screw her. Screw her with something rusty and serrated. A gun was fired, bullets hitting the ground right where Derek had just been, spurring an extra boost of speed in his step. They weren't making much of an effort to close in on him, instead they were staying at an even distance and that couldn't have been a good sign. Then it clicked - they were driving him. He cut right, changing directions, but knew it wouldn't be enough to lose them. He pushed his legs to move, move, when he finally spotted his opening. He pushed himself faster, thinking maybe he could make it just maybe, but then his step faltered. In the distance, he could see the silhouettes of more hunters. Derek's chest fell; the opening he'd thought might be his way out was a trap. There were more hunters, more guns, more silver-tipped crossbows. He was running right into their hands.
"Screw it," Derek muttered low, not changing direction. One hunter, maybe two he could take down. This was probably a stupid idea, but a great many ideas of Derek's were stupid ones and somehow he managed to make at least half of them work. Maybe tonight he'd finally get lucky. He could see the faint glint off the barrels of their guns, hear the crossbows clicking bolts into place, all aimed at him. He was a few yards off of the line waiting for him, working up the shift, claws growing from his finger tips-
And then something stopped him short.
Derek howled in agony as he was brought down hard onto forest floor. He should have seen this coming. Silver-tipped bear traps were a signature of the Argent's. He mentally pushed through the pain, and noticed a line in front and back of him, and more to his left and right. The one clamped on his left calf was only a foot or two away from a second one, and that stilled him instantly. One might hurt like a son of a bitch but the pain was meant to make him flail and try to frantically escape it, only to be caught in a second or a third. Derek shuffled as best he could into a position he could tend to his leg, but when he saw it he knew it was over. Adrenaline and the shift were helping him to push the pain to the back of his mind, but God, it was bad. Claw trap alone, the burn from the silver was agonizing. He gritted his teeth, tried pulling the claws open but it burned his palms and he recoiled when he couldn't take it anymore. With a hollow feeling of dread, he let his arms drop to his side. He could hear the hunters approaching. It was over.
Kate was the first to reach him. He didn't look at her, not even when she knelt at his side, the butt of her rifle right next to his hand.
"That's got to be kind of uncomfortable," she said, nudging the trap. Derek bit back a groan, knowing how much the sound would please her. He glared at the ground instead, trying very hard to fight the urge to lash out with his claws. He knew how futile it would be.
"Oh, Derek. And to think, you and your sister eluded us for two whole years. You must have thought you'd finally gotten away. This must really be hard for you," Kate continued to mock in her sickly sweet 'sympathy' voice. If looks could kill, the patch of grass by Derek's side would be deader than dead by now. He bit back the heated response he knew Kate was waiting for. She didn't push him; she must be really enjoying this. More hunters were coming closer now, guns lowered but still alert.
"Target is subdued, we're taking him in," he heard another voice say, then a staticy reply came from a radio. Kate tutted.
"You know I'm kind of disappointed, Derek," she said, shaking her head. "Thought you would've been more of a challenge than your bitch of a sister. Now, she put up a good fight. How many bolts did we have to put in her before she finally went down? Four? Five?" Kate taunted.
Maybe it was the fact that he was surrounded with no way out and the situation was already as hopeless as it was going to get. Maybe Derek just wanted to put the final nail in the coffin himself, get it over with. Or maybe he just really fucking hated Kate Argent.
Derek snapped, lunged, and went right for the bitch's throat. A taser to his back stopped him before he could reach his mark, and another in his side, and one more for good measure in his throat.
And then Derek blacked out.
"Ladies and gentlemen if I could have your attention please," Stiles said, trying his hardest not to sound like a sideshow circus clown. It wasn't working. He felt like a dancing monkey in his uniform, slacks and a button up shirt, green sanctuary-issued vest and the logo sitting proudly on his chest. He'd considered burning the vest on more than one occasion, but that would get him fired and Stiles needed the job. The loose collection of six or seven tourists in his group shuffled together, half listening to his direction. The woman in the muumuu was paying attention at least. The lady with the five dollar snapshot camera took a picture of the lobby and shushed the five year old at her side.
"Right, so," Stiles began when he had their (nearly) undivided attention. "If you'll follow me the tour begins this way," he motioned and set off down the hall, his shoes following the well-worn path that had unfortunately become so familiar it was second hand. The words he'd said a hundred times sprung to his lips almost on their own accord.
"The Beacon Hills Werewolf Sanctuary was founded in 1982 on a generous grant from the US government. Ours was not the first sanctuary in northern California, but it's certainly one of the oldest in our area and, if I do say so myself, one of the best kept. Since its founding we've hosted nearly one hundred and seventy werewolves at various times. At any given time we take care of somewhere around forty to fifty werewolves, but right now the number sits at around thirty or so lycanthropes in our facilities," Stiles moved the group down the hall from a picture of the grand opening of the facility dated September 5th, 1982. The picture was grainy, creepy more than anything, and Stiles hated looking at it. Moving down the hall he stopped them at a display of the grounds map, a picture of the building they were in along with several of the barrack-like housing in the sanctuary itself. "Beacon Hills is about your average size sanctuary," he motioned to the scale map, which depicted an overhead view of the facility. The compounding building and parking lot were shown to size and they were small. Most of the map was taken up showing how much land the sanctuary sat on. A long vaguely circular line stemmed from either end of the compound building and continuing in an unbroken line, showing the boundaries and the wall that surrounded the sanctuary. "Our sanctuary sits on nearly twenty-five hundred square acres of forest and grassland terrain. That's around four square miles, give or take. The sixteen miles of wall surrounding the sanctuary are forty feet high, eight feet thick and made to regulation thirty percent mountain ash/concrete. Standard silver-tipped barbed wire lines the top." A size comparison picture of the walls was next to the map. For some reason the folks who had built this place decided an extra ten feet of wall was necessary over the law-required thirty. Stiles guessed the extra ten feet went that little extra mile to show the people inside how trapped they were. Wouldn't want them to forget.
The lady with the cheap camera took another picture. Her five year old picked his nose. Now that facility information was out of the way, Stiles moved them down to their less Beacon Hills-specific displays and more to the generic stuff that most sanctuaries had hanging on their walls. Werewolf information, biology, human/werewolf teeth comparisons, clay reliefs of paw prints, news headlines from the early days of sanctuary reforms. The usual good stuff. Stiles steeled himself, fixing his face in a determinedly enthusiastic expression. When he couldn't quite manage that, he settled for neutral.
"As many of you may know werewolves have been public knowledge since the latter half of the eighteenth century," he began in his boring history lecture voice. The younger members of his tour group had already tuned him out. The children were oohing and ahhing over the teeth shown in shadow boxes on the walls. They weren't even real. "Initially werewolves were seen only as monsters, not people and were hunted to near extinction-,"
"Damn right, those monsters oughta be put down wholesale," Stiles heard from the back of his group and his mood instantly plummeted. He had one of those people in his group. He continued as if he hadn't heard the man.
"But as the twentieth century began, attitudes began to changed. In the latter half of the century, and especially during the rise of the civil rights movement, werewolf rights were petitioned for. Many conservative-minded folks didn't want to budge on the issue. To them werewolves weren't people and didn't deserve the rights of American citizens. They argued that werewolves posed too much of a risk on the population, given the rates of bite fatalities. Their arguments were totally bogus however and several important Supreme Court cases brought the issue to a compromise. Sanctuaries were legalized and created under government funding. All citizens carrying the lycanthropy 'disease' it was called at the time, were ordered to relocated to one, and here we are now," Stiles concluded the brief history lesson and moved the group down the hall and into their more exciting exhibit room. A display of a life-sized stuffed version of an alpha werewolf in actual wolf form stood the focal point of the hall, in the middle of the room surrounded by a low wood partition. Plaques were attached to intervals around the display, showing picture comparisons of alpha werewolves and ordinary wolves. The human to wolf shift was depicted in cartoon form on one of them. The exhibit room was where the tour would conclude, and Stiles spent the next half our ushering the group from one display to the next in a circle around the wide room until he finally gave the part of his speech.
"That concludes our tour, ladies and gentlemen. Don't forget to visit our gift shop, this sanctuary is funded by your support. The stairs to your left will take you up to our observation deck where for just a dollar ninety nine you are welcome to use our binoculars to see if you can spot one of our inhabitants." Stiles watched as the visitors became more excited at that notion. "Because spying on people in a giant concrete prison isn't creepyor a massive invasion of privacy at all." The last part Stiles added under his breath.
"What, you don't have them in cages for us to see? I thought you had them locked up in here. The one down in Texas had them in cages." Stiles recognized the voice as his heckler. Customer-service smile in place Stiles turned on the man.
"No Sir, here at Beacon Hills we prefer to treat our werewolf inhabitants as actual people, and we try to give them at least a little privacy and freedom. Whatever they do in Texas, we don't lock people up in cages for tourism." The man was broad-chested, grey haired and sporting a fanny pack. He had his hands on his hips now and Stiles was sensing imminent rant coming on. Stiles was already in a bad mood, he hated tours, and assholes like this did not make for a more tolerable work day.
"I paid good money to see those beasts!" the man complained.
"Sir, you paid ten dollars. Just like everyone else."
"Ten bucks I'm getting a refund for."
"Oh no. Please, don't do that." The man looked about ready to bust a hernia.
"I don't like your attitude young man. I'm a paying customer, where's your manager? I wanna speak to someone in charge of this place," he huffed, red in the face, and grabbed his five year old by the arm. His wife, who had stayed silent in the exchange, fluttered after her husband and wailing kid who was screaming about not getting to see the wolfies. Stiles sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and left his group who had mostly dissipated and moved on upstairs.
Finstock was going to give him so much shit for this.
"Stilinski!" Stiles was in the gift shop, picking through their aisle of snacks. Wolf cakes, wolf claws, little hard candies shaped like moons. The pickings were not all that great and all stupidly wolf-themed, but it was his lunch break and Stiles had forgotten to grab the brown paper bag his father had left out for him on the counter that morning. He turned when he heard his name, and sure enough it was Finstock. He didn't even look mad, just impatient and when Stiles made eye contact he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"My office. Now."
"Sir I'm on my lunch break," Stiles said. His boss glared, then rolled his eyes.
"I want you in my office before you go back on duty. I mean it, no slinking off. I will find you, Stilinski," he threatened without much heat. "Do not make me find you."
Stiles gave a mock salute, then Finstock was gone. He'd bought himself half an hour before he had to hear his boss' usual rant on the customer always being right. Incidents like that morning were not uncommon when Stiles was on tour duty. Stiles had little patience for jerkass customers, and Finstock knew he hated giving tours. So he made Stiles do them anyway when he was annoyed with him. His being on tour duty that day could well have been because Stiles had parked in Finstock's spot every day that week, but it could also have not been. Finstock didn't like Stiles, but Stiles had yet to do anything extreme enough to get himself fired. Well, that Finstock knew of.
Stiles picked out a bag of pretzels, a wolf claw, which was really just a bear claw with a cheesy name, and a Coke from the case against the back wall. He skirted around the displays of all manner of stupid and cheap souvenirs, the table of glass rocks that every gift shop in America seemed to have, and brought his purchases to the tired looking teenager behind the counter. The kid rang them up without a word and Stiles was on his way. He made his way to the front desk in the lobby where a certain pretty red head was answering phones.
"Hello Lydia," Stiles leaned over the tall counter to peer over at her. She didn't look up, not even when he dangled the pastry he'd just bought.
"No," she said.
"No? No what I didn't even say anything-,"
"That's your 'I want something'voice. Whatever it is, no." She looked up, looked at the pastry, narrowed her eyes, and took it anyway.
"I don't have an 'I want something'voice. That's totally not a thing. And besides, can't I just be a nice guy willing to buy a girl her favorite snack?" She looked up at him, arched one perfect eyebrow and he rolled his eyes.
"Point taken, I do want something actually," he admitted. She opened the offered treat.
"Shocker there."
"Derek Hale," Stiles said. Lydia paused, about to deny him whatever it was he asked. Instead she looked up at him. He pressed. "I know he's here, gimme details. When'd he get in, who got him, is he still in holding?" She pursed her pretty glossed lips, deciding.
"It's going to cost you another one of these, tomorrow," she relented. Stiles nodded enthusiastically. He'd buy her a hundred. She took a bite of the pastry, then began, "Argents caught him about a week and a half ago down near San Diego-,"
"San Diego? What the hell was he still doing in California?" Lydia shot him a look. "Sorry, continue."
"He's here, he's been processed and he was released into the sanctuary something like…three days ago? So I heard."
"That's it? That's all you've got?"
"What do you want from me Stiles? That's all that happened. No incidents to report," she shrugged.
"That's a lot more banal than I thought it would be when I heard they finally got him," Stiles mused. He backed away from the counter. Derek and his sister Laura had been priority Numero Uno for the hunters that worked out of Beacon Hills, primarily the Argent family, for two years since their big escape. The Hales were always mega news around here, a sensitive topic for most and definitely a prickly one for Stiles.
"Goodbye, Stiles," Lydia finally said, breaking his thoughts. "And don't avoid Finstock too long, I heard him looking for you earlier and I am not about to cover for you if you sneak off to the janitor's closet by the bathrooms to take a nap. Again." And with that she dismissed him with one perfectly manicured hand, so Stiles left. He had no problem with her brusque attitude towards him, it was Lydia Martin. He was lucky to get an actual conversation with her most of the time.
Down the hall from the front desk was the employees-only door that led into the staff rooms, Finstock's office and the elevator that led to the upper and lower levels, neither of which regular customers were allowed access too. The break room was blessedly empty. The lunch breaks were already staggered, but there was always at least a handful of employees off at the same time. They, however, usually went to the café on the third floor behind the observation deck. Stiles was the only one who went to the break room for his lunch.
He didn't stay - he grabbed his backpack from his locker, shoved the pretzels and soda inside along with the rest of his stash of snack food, and shouldered it. Making sure the coast was clear, he pulled a key card out of one of the side pockets and slid it through the elevator's reader. The elevator couldn't be accessed without it; employees had to have special permission to go to either the upper offices or the facilities under the visitor center. Stiles did not have either, but he'd swiped the card from the head of security, aka his dad, ages ago and had figured out the code to get to the lower levels fairly easily. The elevator doors opened for him, and inside he punched in the four digit passcode that would get him down below. The door slid shut and the elevator moved.
He pressed himself to the side of the door when it stopped, peeked out when the doors opened and made sure the coast was clear. Stiles had specifically picked this lunch period because he knew the ladies behind the security desk on this level took their afternoon smoke break like clockwork at that exact time. He had give or take ten minutes before she returned. No one else was around, so Stiles moved quickly out of the elevator and past the security desk. A set of metal doors opened into a long hallway that ran the length of the lower level. The speckled grey-white linoleum floors and fluorescent lights were drab and clinical in comparison to the visitor center level, but the rooms down here weren't meant for tourists.
This level of the sanctuary compound was dedicated to the more medical aspects of caring for the werewolves in the sanctuary. There were checkup rooms and operating rooms in case they got hurt or needed attention of that kind. There were processing rooms for moving them in and out of the sanctuary, and Stiles was headed down to one of them now. It was a couple turns down the narrow halls, but Stiles knew the way well by now and knew which door to look for. There were cameras at several intervals down this hall, but Stiles knew none of them were turned on; the compound didn't bother monitoring this section of the hallway. They were generally more concerned with the upstairs gift shop, those cameras were never out.
The insides of each processing room were the only other areas monitored 24/7, but not the one Stiles was looking for. Second to last at the end of the row, the outer door had malfunctioned well over a year ago and no one had ever bothered to fix it. The hallway door had been left locked and forgotten about, but Stiles was a wizard with a lock pick and had managed to jimmy his way in. He slipped inside now, careful to shut the heavy metal door after him as quietly as he could. Inside the processing room was dark, but emergency strip lights around the floor were still working even if the room wasn't in use. The space wasn't large. It had the same speckled linoleum floor as the rest of the level, and pale grey walls lined with heavy duty metal cabinets and counters. It resembled an average clinic room, and for all intents and purposes it was. Except for werewolves. Most of the machinery was gone, gutted when this room had been phased out of use. The only thing that remained was the gurney-like table in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor with some serious hardware. The table was flat, long enough for a grown adult man, and sported thick leather straps. He knew exactly what it was for, so Stiles tried not to look at it every time he came in here. He crossed the room to the wide hatch-like door opposite.
This was the only thing separating inside the facility from the sanctuary, and naturally had to pretty heavily reinforced. The hatch resembled a bank vault door, made of solid steel coated with a layer of silver, just for added lycan repellant. A hand crank was set into the middle, but processing room doors took several layers of electronic and manual locking mechanism to open. A couple of them had malfunctioned on this particular door, and no one had ever bothered to fix them seeing as the compound had five other rooms and hardly ever used them. Once Stiles had found the room, however, the locks were a quick fix for his hyperactive mind and technical prowess. Security for the room had long since been turned off for power saving purposes, so all in all, this room has been a gift from the gods themselves for Stiles. He cranked the door open, gave an almighty heave, and then he was inside the sanctuary.
It was always eerily quiet on the inside. Acres of forest stretched out before him, the tree line beckoning to him several yards away. This was always the part he felt a tinge of apprehension about. He was just visible from this side of the observation deck, but only if someone were to stand in exactly the right spot. It was far better to be safe than sorry about his escapades into the sanctuary, that he knew. God knew what the consequences would be if anyone were to catch him. There was no choice but to be careful enough not to ever find out. Before he could take off into the woods Stiles made sure his way back in was secure. The processing room doors were designed to blend into the sanctuary walls once closed and be impossible to open from this side. So Stiles picked out a thick and sturdy enough stick to lodge between the door and frame just enough so it wasn't obvious it was open, but would stay so until Stiles returned. Once he double and triple checked the door he set off along the wall until he was far enough from the observation deck to be seen, and jogged across the clearing and into the woods.
The sanctuary sat on several acres of prime northern California forest. The trees were tall and cast the scrub underneath in deep shadow. The ground was mostly flat, rocks and boulders the only thing breaking it up. Grass was sparse but ferns grew everywhere, around and under tall, scraggly bushes and shrubs. Stiles stepped over fallen logs slick with moss and followed a familiar route through the trees. He occasionally had to swat away a mosquito, but the middle of summer was usually the only time they were bad around here. It would be a while before he reached his destination, and in the meantime he enjoyed his little hike. Stiles had always liked the outdoors, and in here it was almost easy to think he was just on a walk through the preserve. It was almost easy to forget the forty foot walls cutting him off from the outside world.
For all the acres of forest the sanctuary sat on, the only housing for its inhabitants was a loose collection of depressed-looking concrete buildings in several rows. There was a wide expanse of dirt in the middle, a taller concrete building meant to be the mess hall and recreation area, a couple of drab looking courts for tennis and basketball, and a pool that had never seen water for as long as Stiles had lived in Beacon Hills. A metal hatch was embedded in a square of concrete on the ground in the middle of the clearing, and Stiles knew that was the feeding hatch. Workers at the compound called it that in a joking manner as if this was some kind of zoo, but that's essentially what the hatch was. Once a month a cart that ran on an underground track all the way from the compound to here would come up the hatch laden with supplies for the inhabitants of the sanctuary. Foodstuffs, clothing, non contraband requested items like books, magazines, toiletries, or other sorts of things. It was a short list of what was allowed in the sanctuary, but for everything else that's what Stiles was here for. He made his way to the mess hall.
There was no one around. Either they were in their own quarters or off doing mysterious werewolf things in the woods, Stiles didn't know. Inside the hall was nearly empty, save for three figures sitting around a round table in the eating area. One head went up as soon as he entered, and sprung from his chair. Scott came bounding up to him.
"Stiles!" Scott greeted him in his usual manner - a bear hug around the middle that was more of a tackle. Scott was new to the whole werewolf strength doesn't mix well with humans thing. He'd only been bitten less than two years ago.
"Ow, ow - holy fuck Scott, great to see you too but my ribs-," Stiles struggled in his best friend's embrace and finally wriggled enough for Scott to get the message and set him down.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry man, it's just so freaking good to see you," Scott backed off and beamed. Stiles clamped his shoulder, maybe a little extra harder than he normally would've, just to see if Scott recoiled, which he didn't, and nodded.
"Good to see you too buddy. Not like I wasn't just here two days ago. But it's good to know my absence is felt." Scott laughed.
"Well with nothing but nothing to do around here, yeah you're more or less the highlight of my life these days. God that sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud," Scott said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
"Aw, no, I think it's really sweet," Stiles said, grinning wide. Scott smirked.
"Yeah, yeah."
"And I bring the party with me, so yeah of course I am the highlight of your life. Speaking of which," Stiles paused to swing his backpack around to the front and dug several goodies out of his stash. Scott's face light up at the sight of real junk food.
"I love you, Stiles. I love you so so much."
"I know buddy. The feeling is mutual."
The other two heads at the table belonged to two other young werewolves around Scott's age. One was a pretty but slightly scary blonde girl Erica, and the other was a tall and intimidating black boy named Boyd. There was one other were youth Stiles knew of, Isaac, but he didn't seem to be around that day. They all knew of Stiles' comings and goings in the sanctuary, and begged for contraband when they could. Stiles liked them all well enough, and they seemed to be treating Scott well too. They were his new group of friends now, like it or not.
"Lays and red bull for Scott," Stiles said as he dished out his goodies. "For Erica, a family sized pack of peanut M&Ms, and for Boyd, you seemed like a Chex Mix man. And I've got a bunch of other stuff I'm sure won't go to waste," he said as he upended his bag and let the rest of his loot fall out.
"Your friend is a godsend Scott," Erica graced him with a compliment.
"I do try," Stiles said, beaming.
There wasn't much to talk about, after the how have you been's and any updates from the inside. There weren't many, and Stiles refrained from talking about the outside world on account of how much they probably missed it. Scott, being the eternal ray of sunshine that he inherently was, had taken the change fairly well after the initial incredibly traumatic event that had led to him being bitten in the first place. Another topic of conversation they tended to avoid. But even if avoidance was a coping mechanism, it was helping him cope well. Two years ago Scott had been a regular high school freshman with nothing but the everyday pain and misery that was high school to suffer through. He had a great mom, an awesome best friend, a wonderful girlfriend and a spot on the lacrosse team. Well, on the bench anyway.
And now he was stuck inside forty foot concrete walls for the remainder of his natural life. But Scott still managed to smile his dumb, dimply smile every time Stiles saw him. It made Stiles sad, and furious, in a way that he never let Scott see.
As for the other two, he knew only what Scott had told him. Both Boyd and Erica were bitten like him, but had been at Beacon Hills far longer than Scott. Erica didn't like to talk about the circumstances of her being bitten, but Boyd had told Scott about the night his family's house had been broken into by a wolf on a full moon spree, and had been the only one to survive the bite. Only one in four do, for the rest, it doesn't end well.
Again, all topics Stiles tried very hard to avoid. But there was one he was dying to ask about, once Stiles was through catching them up on the latest episode of Game of Thrones. (There was TV in the sanctuary, but not that many channels.)
"So have any of you guys seen Derek Hale around?" The three were teens exchanged glances.
"Yes and no," Scott said.
"You're going to have to explain that one."
"They brought him out here on a jeep a couple days ago, but he didn't stick around after they released him. He was out of here right after they left, and we haven't really seen him since," Scott explained.
"Gotta admit I was curious about him," Erica said, leaning forward. "So I tried following him but damn he's fast. It's not a big place, but he's good at not being found when he doesn't want to. Perks of being born with it, I guess." Boyd shrugged. Thus far, the tall boy hadn't contributed much to the conversation. But he never really did anyway. He kept looking at Scott, then looking away, like he was burning to ask something. Stiles had a good idea what, if Scott had told them as much about his bite as they had shared about theirs. Boyd didn't look like he was going to, so Stiles asked on his behalf. Carefully, he turned to his friend.
"It's not…weird, being in here with him, is it? Are you alright?" Scott turned a little in on himself, didn't look at Stiles right away. His happy Scott face fell a little.
"No," he said, fidgeting under the weight of their sympathetic looks. So they did know. "It's not like he was the one that…you know. I don't think it was his fault, either. I don't blame him," Scott said.
"It might have been," Stiles said quietly. But like Scott, there wasn't much heat behind it. Two years ago Scott had been bitten when a large group in the sanctuary, primarily comprised of the Hale family, had led a massive escape attempt. They'd gotten as far as the lower levels before being gunned down by security inside. There were no prisoners taken at the time, not when full werewolves were biting anyone they could get their teeth on. Including a high school kid who was delivering his mother a late night pick me up, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Melissa, a nurse working the processing rooms at the time, still blamed herself for putting Scott in harm's way. Scott hated that she did, it wasn't her fault. If anyone it was the Hales, who must have known their attempt wouldn't end well. But even then, Stiles knew where they were coming from. It was hard to resent them, even if it landed his best friend inside.
The Hale's assault hadn't been entirely unsuccessful, however. Two had made it out of the chaos that had ended the life of the rest of their family; Derek and Laura Hale. And for two years both of them had managed to stay off the radar. Now Derek was back inside, a cruel twist of fate after everything he'd gone through to get free. Stiles could understand if his friend had mixed feelings about being in the same four square miles as a member of the Hale pack, but Scott waved off his worries.
"Besides," Scott said, "It doesn't look like he wants anything to do with us, anyway. There are a few like that. There's less than thirty of us in here now, and there are the loners who live out in the woods and only come here to get food. There are a handful of other houses out there, if they don't want to live here. Maybe Derek just likes his space."
"It's a total waste. I got a good look at him when he came in, he's not terrible to look at. He's very not terrible to look at. And so are his abs. Not saying the pick around here isn't…ah, inspiring," Erica said, looking around the table, "But damn." Boyd looked particularly ruffled at this, and Erica laughed and patted his shoulder. Stiles watched Scott for a beat, but he seemed sincere. Stiles wanted to say something more, but the black watch on his wrist beeped a shrill staccato and he sighed. Scott turned to him.
"Not already?" Scott said, looking sad. Stiles stood from the table and clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Sorry bud, maybe on my weekend shift I'll be able to stay longer," Stiles promised. Scott was dangerously close to pulling out the puppy dog eyes that he knew Stiles couldn't resist, but he couldn't stay. There was a limit to how much work he could miss to reasonably chalk up to an extended lunch break, so the window of time he allowed himself visiting Scott was an unfortunately small one. He bid his buddy goodbye, and after another rib-cracking hug, Scott let him go.
Remembering Finstock was supposed to yell at him for that morning made Stiles want to drag his feet and put off his suffering, but he couldn't risk getting caught just to avoid his boss. He picked up the pace on the way back, hoping to shave time off the return trip to give him a minute or two to cover his tracks and get the wet dog smell Scott always reeked of nowadays out of his shirt.
His feet found the path well enough, and he made good time. But as Stiles made his way back to the hatch, he had the weirdest feeling he was being watched the entire way there.