AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers!
So I've read quite a few female Stiles fics, and am even working on one at the moment. But Female Derek is so few and far between. Derek is one of my favourite characters and has an amazing arc that I feel is very unique and only rivalled by that of Allison Argent's. I was curious to write Derek as a woman, and explore the elements of Derek's, or in this case, Willa's character, prior to the events of Teen Wolf and then by looking closer at the internal crisis explored in season 4, but like the show, not view it as a closure or send-off to the character but rather the beginning of a new chapter in her life outside of Beacon Hills.
It goes against saying that this one-shot is set to be a "backdoor pilot" of sorts into a crossover story that I have in the works and should begin publishing sometime next month. For more information please see the Author's notes at the end of this.
Also please pay attention to time stamps at beginning of each "section" as we will be jumping between past and present.
Unbeta'd.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters, nor any and all references to the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
BROOKLYN, NY
DEC 26, 2010
02:13 EDT
The pungent stench of blood, sweat and alcohol permeate throughout the small apartment, masking the sweet woodsy musk of old timber walls and paperback novels scattered across the coffee table and shelves.
Two women sit quietly in the dark; the elder, a svelte brunette fiddles methodically with a blow torch, her brow pressed with frustration and concern over her companion, her sister. The younger girl, one Willa Hale, is hunched over, her shredded bra barely hanging onto her broader figure; she's nursing a bottle of Jack, purposely avoiding her sister's disapproving eyes.
The window leading out onto the fire escape is hatched open, scratches along the lower frame from where she'd had to force it open several times after forgetting her keys and deciding it was preferred to explaining to her eighty-three year old landlord why he door looks like it's gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson - again. An icy breeze whistles through the open window, dropping the interior temperature to match the winter outside. Closing the window would not make much difference, their building several decades too early for central heating. The fireplace was the only way to stay warm, and yet the iron grate had stood untouched in the five years they'd lived there.
The very thought of lighting it causes Willa's heart to race, adrenaline flooding her veins, fear and anger and anguish bleeding from her. Red creeps into her vision, a familiar tearing in her fingers, an itch to be scratched. Closing her eyes, the twenty-two year old tears her gaze from the ashen fireplace.
The action so harsh and abrupt, it causes a spike of pain to shoot up her spine and elicits an annoyed grunt from the woman behind her.
A beat.
She brings the bottle to her lips, groaning with pained satisfaction at the familiar burn the whiskey elicits in the back of her throat.
The woman behind her tuts; there's a click that should not be audible if it weren't for the fact the apartment is completely silent. Then a hiss - a crackle more like - and another familiar burn, though unlike Jack Daniels, this is unwelcome. Willa grunts; the putrid scent of her own skin melting, bubbling, blackening hits her. This is the - what? - fifth time in the past thirty minutes or so. A depraved part of her takes satisfaction in her own pain; it's nothing short of what she deserves, bringing some penance to the perpetuity of her guilty conscience.
Minutes later, the woman behind her sighs. There's a click another click followed by a thunk as the blow torch is tossed haphazardly on the coffee table right in front of Willa. She stares at weary-eyed, wondering if once upon a time, a certain someone else had been so careless when setting fire to her home. 'No,' she thinks. 'He was methodical. He thought everything through. Nonchalant and conceited, but he was never careless.'
The same stone-face silence she'd been greeted with when she stumbled through her door, stretches between herself and her sister. Willa grits her teeth, the taste of blood in her mouth. "Just say it," she spits out, not bothering to look Laura in the face. She can sense her sister lean back against arm of their one sofa, arms thrown over her knees, and judgemental eyes curiously watching her. Scoffing, Willa turns to glare at her. "What? No reprimand? No disappointing accusation about how I'm being irresponsible and insensitive and suicidal?"
"Would there really be any point?"
She wants anger, she wants hate, she wants Laura calling for her blood. What she doesn't want, what she absolutely loathes, is the pity that bleeds from her sister's matching hazel eyes. She clenches her jaw, teeth grinding, her canines shredding her gums. "Don't!" she hisses. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what? Like you're a misfit delinquent wasting her potential?"
"Like you feel sorry me!"
"But I do feel sorry for you. I'm sorry you can't move on. I'm sorry that you're punishing yourself because you have survivor's guilt-" It's not survivor's guilt. Survivor's guilt is for victims. She wasn't a victim, not like Laura or Peter or the others who actually died. Willa all but lit the match. Laura sighs once again, dropping her knees, sitting up straight staring at her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry I'm not enough for you to want to keep living."
The blow winds her, stealing all her breath. "Is that what you think?" she whispers, incredulous.
"If I wasn't here tonight, you'd be dead… and I'd be alone."
It's not in Willa to be cruel. Menacing, threatening, sure, but not cruel. And yet she can't help but bite… "Don't act like I wouldn't be doing you a favour, Laura. You hate that I'm here. You hate being responsible for me. That's why you ran away," Willa says rising from her seat to glare down at her sister.
"I didn't run away, I was deployed. I had a job-"
"Your tour finished three years ago. You were barely with the NYPD a month before you joined SHIELD. You were jumping at the chance to abandon me!"
Laura rises to her feet, a low growl emitting from the back of her throat, eyes flashing a dangerous red. A part of Willa whimpers; but she's still running on adrenaline and bloodlust, her anger and frustrations strengthening her against submission. The older girl seems to sense this and backs down, brilliant scarlett irises fading to green. Sadness fills her face. "What happened to us? How did we become like this?"
Willa's answer is soft but clear, "My boyfriend died and you left me. You didn't come back until our family was buried too."
Silence. And then… "So this is my fault?" Despite the accusation in her tone, Willa can smell the guilt rolling off her sister in waves. Her heart aches ruefully, and just like that her anger dissipates. The burning gone, only leaving her cold, dark and empty. "No," she whispers, head shaking but afraid to look Laura in the eye; she's afraid her sister will see the truth in them. "I'm glad you weren't there. Otherwise you'd be dead too. Then I'd really be alone."
Laura shakes her head. "You can't know that. Maybe if I was there-"
"What?" Willa cuts her off. "What would you have done, Laura?" she demands to know. "If they could kill mom, what hope could you have possibly had?" It's not meant to be harsh. Yet Laura flinches, and Willa feels another stab of guilt. Without hesitation she closing the distance, wrapping her once bruised and bloody arms around the twenty six year old. "It wasn't your fault," she whispers. 'It was mine,' she thinks. "You couldn't have protected them. And you couldn't have stopped the Argents. You know what they did to Deucalion and the others." Laura's arms are tight around her bare waist, unknowingly squeezing a rather large claw mark; had Willa not been used to the pain, she would have complained about the pressure. Instead she remains silent, holding her sister in a rare moment of affection between the Hale girls.
Eventually, they pull apart but continue to hold onto each other steadfast. Laura squeezes her shoulders, smiling softly down at Willa. "You're right. I couldn't protect them," she relents, determination overcasting her features, "But I can protect you."
Willa shoots her an exasperated look. "I'm not going to stop like last time."
"No but if you keep going on like this, you're going to get yourself exposed."
"I'll be careful," Willa grunts, trying to move around her; a firm hand on her elbow spins her around to face Laura again.
"Three, Willa. That's three wolfsbane bullets. Not to mention a feral alpha's claws decorating your sides. Your lucky it was hunters this time. If they were ordinary civilians-"
"I know," Willa sighs. "I know."
"You're careful, you are. But one of these days you'll slip up. Humans… humans are afraid of what they don't understand. What they can't control, they destroy. Fear makes them dangerous."
"We're dangerous too," Willa weakly argues, the part of that is still a stubborn sixteen year old. But she knows where this conversation leads; how many times had their mother put them through this same lecture. Laura raises a brow at her. Willa sighs, "I know-" repeating one of their mother's lessons- "Those who incite conflict court chaos."
Her sister's lips quirk a little. She feels Laura's gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, tracing down along her cheek and jaw as their mother had once done. "And?"
Willa drops her gaze to her bloodied knuckles. A frown tugs at her face. "We're predators, not killers." Laura's hand on her chin gently forces their eyes to meet. "Do you want hurt people or do you want to save them?"
Her silence seems to be answer enough for the older girl.
BEACON HILLS, CA
FEB 21, 2012
16:34 EDT
Daughter. Sister. Friend. Loved, Lost but Never Forgotten.
These are the words inscribed upon Laura Hale's gravestone. She's surrounded by their family, names of Hales dating back to the foundation of Beacon Hills.
Willa stares at the priceless marble, a sad smile on her face recalling fond memories of her sister, parents, uncles and aunts and cousins.
"I thought I'd find you here," a familiar voice rasps, followed by the clack of italian heels on cobblestone. A moment later, the dark-skinned merc is by her side, gaze fixed straight ahead on the Laura's gravestone. "She'd have been twenty-eight today," Braeden notes. Willa nods silently, her grin dropping. Twenty-eight. Too young. Laura was too young. So were their cousins, all children, and Erica and Boyd. All dead before they got the chance to live. Because of her. "Peter not coming?"
Willa exhales deeply through her nose trying to staple the sudden surge of anger and annoyance at the mention of her uncle. 'It's not his fault,' she has to remind herself. 'Not entirely.'
Shaking her head, she softly replies, "He hates coming down here. Feels too guilty or something. Like he doesn't belong." She's certain the Braeden has million and one cruel thoughts on the matter, but the mercenary keeps her tongue silent for Willa's sake.
Willa can't blame Peter for what he did when he was feral when she's part of the reason he became that way in the first place. He may be a pain in her ass and potentially psychotic… but he's remorseful and looking for redemption… and he's family, something she doesn't have much of these days.
"Nice flowers," Braeden comments, nodding to the irises. "They were her favourite."
"I guess this is the point where you stop pretending that my sister was just another colleague in the office," Willa remarks. Braeden doesn't answer, but she can sense the grief and longing pouring of the older woman. "You loved her," Willa realises, after a moment of studying the older woman.
The corner of Braeden's lips tug, almost as if to flinch, her expression torn. Pursing her lips, she corrects Willa, claiming, "We loved each other." Silence envelops them once more. The words, 'I'm sorry,' caught in Willa's throat; after Jasper's death, that's all people would say to her and she hated it. Instead she finds herself thanking Braeden, "-for loving her. For being there for her. For bringing back from every mission."
Braeden smirks but it's softened by bashful flush of her velvet cheeks. "I think it was actually Laura bringing me back each time."
"Still," Willa allows a sad smile, "I'm glad she knew love before..." she trails off, expression flickering. Clearing her throat, Willa looks pointedly at Braeden. "I'm glad she had you. She never mentioned your name, but I know what you meant to her, what you did for her." Willa doesn't hesitate to reach out for Braeden, squeezing the older girl's shoulder. "And I'm glad you're here now. I don't think I could have gotten through any of this without you."
Pretty features furrow as Braeden pulls away from her. The mercenary makes her way to the crypt entrance, taking a seat on the dusty bench that sits off the door. She's bent forward, focussed on her clasped hands, a furrow in her brow as she chews on rouge tainted lips. Without meeting Willa's bemused gaze, she begins to answer to the unspoken concern. "Missions were never easy. Every field agent knows the risks involved. But Laura and I... we worked together so well. We rarely ever doubted our chances of survival. But there were times we did. One of those times, we undercover in Aleppo. Our subject was tipped off by an informant, and the next thing we know, Laura and I buried beneath a building. I had a clear exit but s-she-" Willa watches as Braeden stutters to a halt, licking her lips with nervousness. She's so rapt with attention, she'd not realised that had drifted towards the mercenary's side. Taking one of Braeden's hands in her own, Willa offers her comfort, silently encouraging her to continue. "Lau-Laura, she was trapped under a column and ceiling fragment. And there was this water pipe that had gone right through her side. Broken ribs, and paralysed from the lega down. She wasn't strong enough to lift herself out of the rubble. And I wasn't strong enough to leave her. And she just kept bleeding. It didn't stop. There was so much-I-It was the first time I thought I could understand what scent must be like for your kind. She kept begging me to leave. I broke radio silence. Sent out a distress signal. At that point I didn't care who'd come for us - enemy or ally. Eventually, Fury himself came, with a jack-hammer. By the time we got out, Laura's wound had healed over and she was stumbling on her own two feet; god, it was like watching her trying to dance," Braeden broke off chuckling at the memory, tears streaming down her face, Willa looking much the same, taking on the merc's emotions to ease her pain. "She was pissed at me. Made me promise that if it ever came down to saving myself or dying with her, that I had to save myself. And not just for me." Molten brown eyes trap her own hazel ones. "She didn't want you to be alone, Willa. Scott and those kids, I'd give my life for them. But they weren't the job. You were. I came to Beacon Hills, for you."
"So Morell, Deucalion, the Calaveras?"
Braeden shrugs casually despite the sharp look in her eye that reminds Willa far too much of her sister. "Just a means to an end. Besides... girl's gotta eat."
"The Avengers Initiative?"
"Favour for Fury. Orders really, even though I'm technically not on his payroll anymore. Never promised him you'd comply, only that I'd ask."
Willa smirks, glancing at her hands. For the first time in twenty three years, she has callouses to show for her labours and struggles. Wryly, she quips, "Not like I qualify anymore, anyway."
From the corner of her eye, she notes the way Braeden's shoulders drop, long brown locks waving shifting over the merc's leather jacket as she shakes her head, brows furrowed with guilt. "I should have been there for you. Then none of this would have happened."
"Marcel did this to me. My powers are gone because of him," Willa emphasises, shooting her friend a stern look. "Not you."
Braeden bites her lip. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
Willa nods. Braeden's eyes flicker between her own, searching for the slightest hesitation, just a hint of fear, but Willa is resolute. Sighing, Braeden gets up. "Then you're going to need this," she says reaching for a duffel bag abandoned by the entrance that Willa had not taken notice of. Unzipped, Willa notes the various firearms, inside, before Braeden tosses a glock her way.
The former werewolf catches it effortlessly. A wry smirk pulls at her lips. "I still don't like relying on these things."
"You miss your power. I would too."
While she won't deny it, Willa admits there's more to it, claiming, "It's not about power, it's about being able to help. I don't like feeling helpless."
"I'm human,"Braeden points out, huffing a little as if insulted, despite the mocking amusement in her eyes. "Do I look helpless?" she asks, silently rubbing in the fact that she'd gotten the upper-hand during some of the spars.
Willa grins. "You're a much better shot than me."
Braeden steps up to her, frowning. "Do you really think you won't be coming back?"
"Not alive."
"You know I'm not okay with that," the older woman says, pressing forward, both of her hands grasping onto Willa's shoulders tightly. She doesn't exactly tower over Willa, both women more or less the same height, but even then, Braeden manages to look fierce and strong, even more so with the scars tracing along her left cheek and across her neck, left behind from Deucalion's claws. She's everything Willa hoped she could have been, despite being human; Braeden looks like someone who has endured and survived, wearing her scars like a badge of honour, where Willa has only ever felt like a victim, abused, abandoned and broken, marred by wounds that no amount of supernatural healing could have fixed. Braeden squeezes her shoulders and it almost hurts her, but she's too transfixed by the level of concern Braeden wears to care. "Willa!" she hisses, "Promise me you're going to come back alive."
"I can't. Banshees predict death-"
"The deadpool doesn't exist anymore," Braeden cuts her off, harshly.
"Lydia used my name to break the code. She wailed at my door-"
"She could be wrong."
"Lydia's never wrong." Though she tries to hide it, the mercenary's tremble does not go unnoticed by Willa. "You don't owe me anything, anymore, Braeden. You made Laura proud-"
"This isn't about Laura. This is about you."
Weaving her fingers through Braeden's, she holds their hands still resting on her shoulders. Willa allows a small bittersweet smile. She whispers, "I'm willing to die, if it saves Scott and Kira."
LA IGLESIA
FEB 22, 2012
03:10 EDT
The road-trip had been long, approaching on nine hours. By her side, Stiles twitches nervously, watching the boy across from them. Liam's head is bowed, golden eyes staring at the triskele "talisman", whispering his mantra, "The sun, the Moon, the Truth," over and over. The human IED is otherwise still; it's one-eighty degree turn from the feral animal trying to decapitate herself and Stiles only hours earlier. Willa can't help a fond smile as she watches the kid; for Scott's first beta, Liam is nothing like his alpha. If she's being entirely honest with herself, Liam reminds her of herself. Impulsive, reckless, angry. It a strange way, it's fitting that Scott gave him The Bite; Liam's at a point in his life where he needs someone like Scott to save him, just as Scott had done for her.
"Do you feel it?" Stiles whispers to her; she glances sideways, meeting his whiskey-brown orbs in the shadows of the van. He's watching her aptly, studying her curiously, if with concern. His lips are parted ever so slightly, as if preparing to lay onto her barrage of questions or useless facts.
For a second, Willa frowns at him, not understanding what he's talking about; but then he turns from her, and she follows his gaze over Braeden's shoulder, to where the moon shines through the windshield. Stiles turns back to her then, question still painted on his features.
"No," she answers softly, pursing her lips. She gives attention to her clenched fists, remembering how they used to bleed from when her claws would pierce the skin of her palm - a conduit for her then fragile temperament.
"You know…" Stiles begins, clearing his throat, "Even without the claws, fangs and the super strength, you're still one of the scariest people I know."
Despite herself, she scoffs, "Just one of?"
"Have you met Scott's mom? Or seen Lydia at the mall?"
"Yes. And no."
"You don't want to."
"I believe that."
If it weren't for the weight of their situation, Willa thinks this might be the first time they both could share a laugh. He's wearing his signature dopey grin, which isn't uncommon, but this time it's just for her, and she likes it. Likes that after everything they've gone through, put up with, thrown at each other, that she finally earned his trust. Yes, it was a pain in the ass at first, but both he and Scott were too stubborn to see she was trying to help them; and there were only so many times she could take rejection from them. A year of betrayal, heartbreak, bloodshed and loss was what it took for the boys to finally understand and accept her. And now Scott's been taken, kidnapped, most likely to be sacrificed by her psychotic ex (the first one, Marcel, who just refuses to kick the bucket - perhaps the only good trait he rubbed off on her, though at this stage, it's most likely something she inherited from Uncle Peter, also previously psychotic - god, this is her life).
Suddenly the van jerks to a halt. Willa and Stiles share a concerned look before looking through the grate to Braeden. "What happened?"
"We're here," the mercenary announces, switching the gear shift into park.
Liam finally looks up, sweat dripping down his forehead. "We made it?" he asks.
Stiles and Willa reply with sighs of relief. "Yeah buddy, we made it," Stiles chuckles.
"I can't believe we made it," Liam replies, grinning a little despite the exhaustion already in his eye. "You know for a minute there I thought I was going to tear you two apart."
Stiles shakes his head, squinting at the kid, while Willa herself forces a slightly insulted expression to cover up her own prior fear of that very thing happening.
"Yeah that would have made for a very awkward ride home, so thank for not doing that," the seventeen year old quips.
Rolling her eyes at him, Willa looks at Liam sternly. "Think you can bring the same level of control and strength inside La Iglesia?"
The kid looks between the pair of them before bring his left hand up. Concentrating, he flicks his hand revealing a set of claws.
"We might actually be able to do this," Stiles mutters impressed.
"Really?" Liam asks, looking more to Willa this time.
"I'll have your back," she nods. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
She raised her brows, turning to Stiles. "See that wasn't so hard was it."
"Yeah well you weren't a total bitch to him like you were to us."
"I recall almost dying several times and being tortured by hunters to keep your assess safe."
Stiles waves her off nonchalantly. "Yeah but you're always, almost dying."
Willa growls at him - not even losing her powers can take away the fact that her personality had been part animal for the part of twenty-three years. Rising from her seat, she pushes past him to grab the door, when his wrist catches her. She meets his gaze irritably. "When I say almost, I mean it. You're coming back with us."
She feels her expression soften. "We'll see," she replies, her tone lacking in comfort, but he seems to understand.
Carefully sliding the door open, she scopes their surroundings, giving the others the all clear before hopping out of the van. Liam and Stiles follow.
The youngest of them tenses suddenly, his eyes shifting to the left, then up as if searching the buildings for something. No, not searching. Tracking. Noticing this, Willa steps closer to him. "What is it?"
He shakes his head. "I thought I hear-"
A strangled shout catches them off-guard. Malia's shouting Stiles' name, but she's too far. Taking her chances, Willa launches herself at the humanoid beast, throwing her full weight to knock the Berserker off its feet. The action breaks the bone-creature's chokehold on Stiles, who is left gasping for air, bruises already forming along the pale skin of his neck. The Berserker easily throws Willa off to the side, but she's fast to get to her feet again, whipping out the .45 caliber colt tucked into her waistband. She wastes no time letting fire, a silent prayer that raiding Argent's wolfsbane supply wasn't a pointless endeavour. The creature doesn't even seem to notice the three, four, five bullets embedded in its chest, skin healing over, forcing them out, out it advances on her. She dodges a swing to the head, but not the blow to her stomach. There's a sharp burst of pain, but she's running on too much adrenaline to give much thought to it. Extricating herself from its hold, she pushes to the side, sweeping its feet from under its legs. The creature doesn't fall like she hopes but stumbles, grasping her waist and throwing her sideways into a levelled wall. Through bleary eyes, she makes out vague shapes of Malia and Liam pouncing on the creature's back only to be cast aside like a pair of ragdolls. It then lumbers up to her with the speed of a cheetah, grabbing her by throat, lifting her and dropping her on the rough edge of the rock; there's a snap, but it barely registers to Willa when the Berserker's bringing a dagger like claw down on her chest. Three, four, five times, she counts, as if repayment for the shots she fired. Then the berserker is gone. Chased away Braeden's unrelenting winchester 1912.
Willa feels herself slide down along the cratered brick, dust and rocks rough beneath her fingers. There are more shapes around her. Someone's breathing hoarsely. For a moment she thinks, 'someone needs to put that poor dog down,' but judging by the concerned expressions on everyone's face, and the fact that Braeden and Peter are putting pressure where it hurts - god, does it hurt, it's hurts so much - she realises that the poor dog is her. She could laugh. She told them. She knew.
"How bad is it?" Stiles asks, voice wavering.
Peter looks ready to rip his throat out, but Willa grasps her uncle's attention as she slides her fingers into his bloodied hands - 'Why does he have- oh, that's mine.'
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she says hurriedly, because breathing is so hard and to speak any slower would probably mean not getting the words out all. "Just get to Scott." Peter and Stiles look set to disagree. "Just find him," she adds a snarl, pissed by the stony silence and inability to prioritise. "Go!" she orders, because she's fucking dying but there's still a chance to save Scott and they're not doing anything. She looks between them, incredulous that they're still there. Panting, she tries a reassuring grin, "It's okay. We'll be right behind you."
Peter leans forward, placing a tender kiss to her forehead. And then he's gone, too afraid to look back because they both know if he does, he won't complete their mission. He could give zero fucks about Scott McCall, the kid he bit. Malia, her long-lost cousin, shares a look with her; it lacks some of Peter's sympathy and guilt but there's a sense of loss there still and a determination to see to Willa's last request. Nodding at Willa she follows her father into the temple, Liam on her heels looking like a kicked-puppy, as he keeps glancing back at her.
Stiles is still standing there, looking like he wants to say something but doesn't know where to start. She lets slip the facade of trying to look strong - she was never a good liar anyway. Secrets sure, but straight-up dishonesty… "Save him," she whispers. "Save him."
He only manages a few steps before turning back around once more to take in the sight of this woman - his friend, his ally, a woman who he's only known for a year and still can't remember what life was like before she disrupted his. Those whiskey eyes shed a tear as he turns away from her, finally and runs into the temple.
She lets her head fall back, chest heaving short, sharp rasps. She can hear the fluid in her lungs. It's laughable really - her family died by fire but now she's drowning in her own blood, alone. Well not entirely alone. Braeden is still by her side and refusing to leave. Willa's not entirely sure why she doesn't beg the merc to leave her. Maybe because she doesn't really want to be alone these last few moments. But she doesn't want the others to see her like this. They've already seen her at her lowest points, losing herself, her family, her pack, because of her own bad judgement and trust issues. The past few months, Scott helped her pick herself up and put herself back together; becoming human broke something in her, but it also gave her something else, a new kind of strength, a sense of self, or purpose. She'd like to think she redeemed herself in Scott and Stiles' eyes; she doesn't want their last memories of her to be dying, weak and helpless - Allison's death was enough.
Braeden's trying not to look at the bloody mess on her hands as she keeps switching positions, trying to stop the bleeding. For a mercenary, she looks surprised at the moment of blood she's witnessing. Willa can't help the slight chuckle, that escapes her lips.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" Braeden shoots her a pissed glare.
"Told you. Lydia's never wrong."
"Only you would laugh at your own mortality."
"Not true. Have you seen the Ironman footage? Hey, have you met Tony Stark? I figure working with SHIELD you must hav-"
"Tell you what, you stay alive, I'll get you a VIP to his Malibu beach house."
"I'll hold you to that."
She feels something cool and metallic against her fingers. A gun, she realises. "Think you can still pull a trigger?" Braeden asks.
"Yeah," she breathes.
"Stay with me, you're going to be okay."
"It's a mortal wound, Braeden. Right now I'm feeling pretty mortal."
Braeden grasps her shoulder firm but not painful. Brown eyes stare back at hers, a determination in them. "I'm not going to let you die."
A low whistle, almost like a howl echoes around the wasted township. Both stare down the road where the noise comes to a halt. "I think you need to worry about keeping yourself safe," Willa says in between gasps. Offering one last reassuring look, Braeden takes off for a nearby ledge, rifle at the ready. The dark skinned woman seems to spot something in the next street. Throwing her an indiscernible look, Braeden pounces, disappearing from Willa's view but not before letting slip a word. A name. Marcel.
She tries to call for Braeden but her voice is exhausted; it would be a wasted effort as there's no way the merc would hear Willa above the sound of her own artillery. Squinting through the darkness, Willa searches desperately for some sign of her friend, the gun in her hand slipping from her weak fingers.
Suddenly the shots cease. Willa faintly hears a grunt. The following silence is deafening, filling her with dread. But the moment passes, engines and gunfire stirring up the quiet.
It's a battle. Mayhem. Chaos.
The Nogitsune would have had a field day.
Hunters.
Hunters and Berserkers.
Willa's not sure whether she should laugh or cry.
She doesn't have the energy for either.
Either they don't seem to notice her, or they don't care. She hasn't moved a muscle in what feels like hours (asides from the excessive rib retraction that just fucking burns but she can't help it). They probably think she's just another corpse in the middle of their battlefield.
She tries to straighten up to get a better view, a shout tearing from her throat. Blinding white pain shooting through her as the feeling her chest grows heavier while her head grows lighter. She's wheezing between strangled coughs; the taste of iron on her tongue.
Her vision blurs in and out of focus, black spots clouding in. Her hands appear an odd blur of tan and crimson under the pale moonlight. There's a thud to her right. Two thuds. She looks up seeing one very large shadow. They begin to separate. A gorgeous dark skinned woman with the scars of a werewolf's claws along her jaw and collarbone. Braeden. And then there's the man. Blonde hair beginning to gray, close shaven, sky blue eyes sharp and analysing - honestly the similarities to Marcel are painful, but if there's one thing Marcel lacked, it was kindness - sure he'd been charming and polite, but there was something wild and feral about him (maybe that's why she fell for him, because he didn't remind her of Jasper). Chris Argent's eyes are kind. They weren't always, not for her, but things changed - they changed.
With his free hand he cups her face, fingers knotting with her matted, bloodied and dust-riddled hair. She thinks he's mouthing her name. It takes her a moment to realise he's shouting it, trying to snap her out of her daze, but it all feels like being underwater.
There's heavy gunfire a few feet away, ripping apart the brick and dirt hurtling sharp debris their way. Braeden braces herself over Willa while Argent tries to cover her head. For a moment she can hear again.
Her pain seems lesser. Numb almost. A little cold too.
"Hold on," Argent tells her. "I'm going to get you out of here, Hale. Just hold on." His voice is desperate though it doesn't shake. It's an order she realises.
She's never been good with authority, lone wolf and all.
The corners of her lips pull at the wry thought.
His eyes widen, perhaps getting the message. "No, no, no. Stay with me Hale. I'm not losing you too."
There's a hand on her cheek. Her gaze turns to Braeden.
"Hale," Argent keeps repeating over and over to snap her out of it.
She smiles because she's never been afraid of this.
"Willa," Braeden whispers unsure of herself.
She smiles because there's no more hurt.
"Willa?" two voices, both broken.
She smiles because she's finally at peace.
CALVARY CEMETERY
BEACON HILLS, CA
DEC 14, 2011
15:20 EDT
It's a beautiful day, despite the winter nip in the air. Daisies adorn the chairs and altar, a burst of every colour of the rainbow wherever you looked; yet it was done elegantly so, simple, regal almost. Allison hated roses. She thought they were cliche. She hated lillies too. Said they reminded her of funerals, which she'd been witness to, one to many times.
This is one funeral she would not witness.
Allison looks beautiful, robed in green lace. Lydia chose the dress; said that green was-is Allison's favourite colour because it reminds her of the forest. Willa shares this sentiment. The huntress' dark hair is curled exquisitely, just the right amount of blush applied to her cheeks to make her look like she's sleeping. Everyone wants to fool themself into thinking this is true, especially the shape-shifters who are trying their damn hardest to ignore the fact there is one heartbeat short for all people in the church, not to mention that no amount of balming agent will nullify the stench of death to their supernatural senses.
The pack buried Aiden the day before. No bells and whistles. Just a grave in a pretty grove with a moment of silence. The Hale crypt was located at the edge of the cemetery, underneath a pair of pretty oaks; Willa offered to foot the bill for Ethan, letting him bury his twin among her ancestors.
Today he stands alongside Isaac and Danny, offering comfort to a former enemy in their hour of mourning as they pay their respects.
Willa stays back. She's here for Scott and Isaac. She's here because she feels guilty that Argent saved her life. Allison had been her enemy and reluctant ally. Allison had hated her, wanted her dead for some time. Allison never trusted her. But the huntress trusted Scott, as did she. The huntress cared for Isaac, as did she (not exactly in the same way, mind you). The huntress wanted to save Stiles at all costs, as did she. The huntress was tired of being a predator, and decided to protect people instead.
Chris talks about the baby girl who loved gymnastics and archery tournaments; he doesn't mention the woman who became a warrior even though he loves her more and was proud of her. Willa knows it's because a part of thinks if the sweet girl never became a warrior, she would still be alive. He's not wrong. He's not right either.
Lydia Martin (arguable love-child of Tony Stark and his for PA, given the genius brain tucked inside the body of a seventeen year old strawberry-blonde femme fatale, according to Stiles Stilinski) talks about her best-friend, her inspiration and rock through her every hardship. She breaks down, talking about how brave Allison was, how she was too stubborn to let anyone define her by their own standards. She doesn't mention that Allison was always scared and hated it. Probably because Allison never let Lydia see this side of her - she had to be brave for the banshee, for the both of them.
Scott - sweet, sweet Scott - talked about his first love, the girl he would always love, the girl who became one of his most trusted friends. He talked about how she was his anchor. He talked about her bravery and her strength; her hopes and dreams; he talked about her fears. He talked about hating himself for bringing her into his world. But he could never regret meeting her. Isaac cries. Willa doesn't sense any hatred or loathing from Isaac to Scott, nor any jealousy. Only grief for the girl they both loved.
Isaac doesn't say anything, just places a necklace around Allison's fingers. A silver heart pendant. It belonged to his mother.
Stiles doesn't say anything. He still blames himself for getting her killed. Like Isaac, he leaves a gift. Flowers for Algernon - it was their favourite book. Apparently he found Allison crying over it one day; they ended up watching the movie and crying together.
Kira, the latest addition to their mismatched group of supernaturals, wishes she could have known Allison better.
Then there's a moment of silence.
Someone coughs rather forcefully.
Willa's staring down at her hands when she takes an elbow to the ribs. She glares sideways at Isaac, but the heat falls away at the sight of his disappointment and heartbreak. "Don't you have anything to say? At least an apology?" The former alpha can't help but flinch at her former beta's words, more stricken by the tone than anything.
"I-" she realises the others are looking at her just as expectantly, except Scott and Stiles. But it's Chris Argent's face she locks onto, his expression indiscernible. She flounders for a moment under his gaze, feeling Isaac's turbulent emotions at her side. Managing to peel away her gaze, she avoids looking at anyone else. Her gaze falls on Allison, lying as if asleep in her coffin. She's so young. So beautiful. "I don't think she'd want me to say anything," Willa admits honestly.
"I'd like to hear it," Chris replies instantly it takes her by surprise.
Willa gulps, hands shaking nervously. Her gaze is still on the huntress. "She didn't like me. She didn't trust me. The feeling was mutual." Not a good start, judging by the others' silent reactions. "But, after the past few months, I was thinking, I was hoping that maybe, once all of this blew over… Allison and I could have started over." That seems to surprise them. "She wasn't perfect. She'd made mistakes. She was naive and too trusting. Made bad decisions because people who should have loved and protected her, betrayed her instead. They used her fears, her weaknesses and vulnerabilities to manipulate her, they made her into something she hated-" Willa can feel the growing discomfort and pain, radiating from the others, guilt and anger especially from Argent. She doesn't look at them when she adds, voice softer, almost broken, "I understand a little of what that's like. Unlike me, Allison still believed in the virtue of humanity. She didn't look at this world and hated everyone else for being happy and loved. She saw the people she wronged, she saw friends she loved, she saw innocents she wanted to protect. Allison didn't give up. She didn't let herself be marred by what others did to her - like Lydia said, she was too stubborn to fit into anyone's mould." Licking dry lips, Willa takes a breath before finishing, "Allison was a good person. She died the way she would have wanted, fighting till the end, in the place of someone she loved. We owe it to her to honour her memory. To continue her legacy."
"Nous protegeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se proteger eux-meme," Argent says. When Willa meets his gaze, his mask is broken, eyes wet with tears he refuses to let fall. He bows his head, slightly, a silent thank you.
Lydia nods, smiling a sad smile to herself as she stares at her best friend's figure. Voice heavy with grief, but eyes twinkling with pride in the woman she'd never walk the hallways of the high school with, she translates Chris' words, "We protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Hours later, everyone's gone. Allison's coffin rests beneath the earth, though her memory remains in their hearts. Willa alone lingers in the cemetery. Allison's grave sits next to her mother's. The row behind are two gravestones marked, Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd.
The sun begins to set on the horizon, throwing startlingly beautiful hues of pink and orange across the sky. A set of familiar footsteps tread over the grass towards her.
"Didn't see you at the funeral."
"I tried to rip out her throat once. I doubt her father would have wanted me here. Actually I'm surprised you even showed up. Didn't she try to kill you once too?"
"She had her reasons," Willa brushes him off. "Besides you tried to kill all of us once too. I figured you'd pay your respects anyway."
"Paying my respects to the little huntress wouldn't amend my sins sweetheart."
"No, but it wouldn't have killed you to show a little sympathy."
"No arguments there," Peter concedes. "How was it?"
"It was a funeral," Willa answers bluntly, still staring down at Allison's grave.
Peter hums. "You said nice things about her."
Willa turns sharply at there. "You were here?"
"In the treeline, downwind," he admits, nonchalantly.
After a few quiet moments, with only the sounds of the heartbeats and the whistling breeze to fill the silence of the cemetery, Willa asks him the question she'd been too afraid to ask since he came back… "What was it like? When you died?"
"Which part? You ripping out my throat or the dead part?" It's meant to be a joke, but she can't help the small thrum of guilt in her bones. She can perfectly recall the feel of her claws sinking into his singed flesh, soft and warm and oh so fragile; she can recall the swift sound of skin and muscle being torn apart, spray of his hot blood decorating her hands and chest and face; she can recall the sudden rush of a blinding white heat through her veins, nothing like anything she'd ever felt before, a burning in her wolf's eyes as they changed from a cold steel blue to the crimson red of an Alpha.
"The dead part," she grits out, clenching her fists tightly. She feels her uncle's fingers slips into hers. She flinches at the contact but doesn't unthread their fingers. She wants this comfort because it reminds her of how things used to be. His thumb strokes circles over her knuckles to relax her.
He gives it a moment to think it over.
"It was peaceful," is Peter's answer. "I'd never felt so at peace before."
She looks at him, bemused. "Then why come back?"
He sighs, dropping his chin, before looking up at her through dark lashes. "Because I wasn't ready for it. I didn't deserve peace."
They hold each other's gaze a moment longer. She let's the corners of her lips tug upwards. "After everything, I'd have thought you'd have gone straight to hell."
Peter chuckles at the sly remark. "No argument there."
She looks at him with softer eyes. "You weren't in control. You were feral. Out of your mind. You were running on animal instinct."
"Revenge isn't an animal instinct, dear niece."
"It wasn't you," she insists. She's not sure why she's trying to comfort Peter. She still hates him for killing Laura, for almost killing her and for tormenting the kids. But they only have each other, she reminds herself. She's tired of being alone. Sure there's Scott but she's not really part of his pack, just like he was never hers. He wants you here, though, she thinks, reminding herself of the conversation they had at the hospital. A more spiteful part of her remarks, 'Scott doesn't really want you. He just needs you for answers.'
She shakes her head, trying to push away such self-loathing thoughts. But it's hard. She's been living with them for too long. Instead she focuses on Peter. She can help ease his guilt. She's aware of the hypocrisy in that. Squeezing his hand, she presses again, "It wasn't you, Peter. Not really. I know who you are. I remember. You were a good man. A cheeky, narcissistic bastard, sure, but a good man beneath that."
He chuckles at that. "Ah, my sweet niece. You always had a way with words." She shrugs casually. "But really, what you said today, it was beautiful. Allison would have appreciated it. Did you mean what you said?"
She blinks at him, raising her chin a little. "Every word."
"Even the part about wishing you could trade places with her?"
"I never said that."
Peter smirked a little, tapping his nose. "I read between the lines, sweetheart." He frowns then, expression solemn. "Did you mean it?"
Willa feels her resolve waver. It's like a wall breaking down inside of her. She doesn't hold his blue gaze, turning her face to the setting sun. "Maybe," she whispers after a moment. "She would be better than me. I'm too…"
"Broken?" She nods in response. "You said she put herself back together. You can do the same thing."
"I know. But sometimes… it feels like I don't know how to anymore." Her gaze then shifts Erica and Boyd's graves. "Sometimes… I just want it to end," she says after a moment.
"You know your father was my best friend," he says after a few moments. "Age gap aside, he was to me what you are to Scott-" Willa doesn't correct him, since she doesn't really know where she stands with Scott, "-and what I used to be to you. When your grandfather, my father was killed by a rogue hunter… it was hard. Talia had to step up as Alpha, settling dispute within and between packs, and with the hunters. We didn't have time to mourn together. I was angry. Vengeful. And I couldn't do anything about it, because she wouldn't let me. I spent a lot of time at the crypt. Talking, taking out my frustrations. I did some stuff, that almost got me killed by the Calaveras. Your dad-" he looks at her then, "James, he saved my life. Told me to get my head out of my ass. Said something to me, that I've never forgotten. I remember reciting it to myself when I was a catatonic burns patient who couldn't communicate that the morphine they'd give me would burn out in under five minutes, just wishing I was dead with the rest of our pack. He said, 'In death comes peace. But pain is the cost of living. Like love, it's how we know we're alive.'"
THE OTHER SIDE
FEB 22, 2012
03:43 EDT
No more pain.
No more suffering.
No more guilt.
She wonders if this is peace.
Something tells her it should be. She died. She knows she died. She heard her own heartbeat still before her brain shut down.
And yet… something doesn't feel right.
Maybe this is hell. But there's no pain. No suffering.
Where is she?
"A place between life and death," a soothing voice echoes. She turns. She didn't know she could do that. There's a sensation, like going down on a rollercoaster. The next thing she knows, she's staring at her hands. Willa realises she hadn't had a physical body moments ago, in that eternal darkness she was in. How long was she there? Seconds? Hours? Days? Years?
As her vision begins to sharpen, she sees past her fingers, to the undergrowth and dirt. She's in a forest. Not just any forest. The Preserve. How did she get back to Beacon Hills?
"You're not in Beacon Hills, not really." It's the same voice as before. Only now she recognises it. Willa feels her throat close up. Tears well in her eyes. She shuts them tight, shaking her head. She's afraid that if she turns around, the woman will be gone.
There's a pressure on her shoulder. A hand. Warm and soft. Familiar.
"Look at me, sweetheart."
Another hand tucks under her chin, gently forcing her to turn.
"Willa, please."
Her eyes crack open. She gasps. The woman looks the same as she did seven years ago. Brilliant burgundy hair, and sagacious brown eyes sparkling with life and love. "Mom," Willa whispers. Talia Hale smiles, that same beautiful, crooked smile, pulling her weeping daughter, her littlest wolf, into her arms.
Willa laughs through her tears, holding onto her mother for dear life. She inhales her scent - redwood and cinnamon mixed with the french perfume dad bought her. Without releasing her mother, she says, "I missed you."
Talia's fingers curl into her daughter wavy hair, stroking through it gently. "I know. I missed you too. I've been watching over you, Willa."
Willa chokes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry mom. The fi-the fire was- it was my fault," she pants as she continues to cry.
Talia hushes her. Resting her cheek Willa's head, she shakes her head. "It wasn't."
"But-"
Talia pulls back, but keeps a firm grip on Willa's shoulders. She looks her daughter square in the eye - "That Argent boy, Marcel, he started that fire. He used you. You couldn't control that."
"I was stupid-"
"You were a child," Talia tuts. Then softer, shaking her head pityingly, "You still are. You're only twenty four. You father and I weren't even engaged yet, when I was your age. And the things you've seen-" Talia cuts herself off, seeing the pain in her daughter's face.
Willa crumples, hugging her mother once again. "It's been so hard," she whispers, voice cracking.
"I know, darling. I know."
When Talia hugs her again, Willa senses something not quite right. Her mother is stiff. She's holding back on something. It's then she recalls her mother's first words.
"This isn't going to last is it?" she hears herself ask, even though she's afraid of the answer.
"No," Talia sighs.
"Am I going to hell?" Willa had never really been very religious. Her father had been, though. She prayed every day and every night till their family was killed. After that, she didn't have it in her to believe in a god who could could let something like that happen. By the time she'd started to have hope again, there'd been too much blood on her hands.
Talia chuckles, as if the thought ridiculous, until she sees Willa's expression. "No," she affirms. "You're a good person, Willa. You sacrificed yourself for that boy's life."
"Then why don't I get to stay here with you?"
"The banshee was not wrong. But she was not right either," Talia begins, earning a bemused look from her daughter. "You're life has been so turbulent. You've been tested time and time again. You didn't always win."
"I don't think I ever won."
"You never gave up. People kicked you down. Enemies, allies… loved ones. You still continued to fight. You still continued to care, even for people who wronged you. When you lost your powers, you could have given up. But you've learnt that true strength, true power, is a measure of character. Werewolves walk the line between animal and man; they are easily consumed by one or the other, letting emotions dictate carnal instinct and vice versa. They run the risk of becoming feral. Monsters."
"Like Peter," Willa finds herself saying. Talia nods at her sadly.
"Few, can control their instincts, can control their emotions; they can anchor themselves to their humanity to tame the beast within. Like your friend Scott."
Willa smiles. "He's pretty good at that."
"He had a good teacher."
"I'll be sure to tell Deaton," Willa jokes. Talia shakes her head at her daughter in amusement. Willa smiles more open-heartedly.
"Rare," he mother begins, pushing back to the matter at hand, "-can one find the balance between humanity and their wolf's instinct. See where they meet and coalesce. Experiencing them as two sides to the one coin. Two parts of the one whole. Yin and Yang."
"Seemingly contrary forces, interconnected and interdependent," Willa recites remembering her mother's earliest teachings.
Talia smiles. "Exactly." She brushes a loose strand of hair off Willa's cheek; the younger woman leans into her touch, cherishing this moment. "I know you must think you're not worthy. But the fact that you're here proves you are." Talia notes Willa's wavering expression, senses her growing despair and yearning. Stroking her cheek, Talia muses, "You're afraid."
"I don't want to lose you again."
"You won't."
LA IGLESIA
FEB 22, 2012
03: 47 EDT
Peter and Stiles stumble through the ruins of the church, Scott between them, still weak from his transition into a Berserker and back. It had been close, Malia almost delivering a fatal blow to the alpha she couldn't recognise. Had it not been for Stiles and Peter finding Kira and discovering Marcel's plot, Scott would have been dead at the hands of his friends, crippling their pack.
As the pack approach the main atrium of the church, the sound of gunfire and battle reaches their ears.
"Hunters?" Malia asks to no-one in particular.
"Calaveras," Peter responds, unsure whether this was good or bad. They see a figure duck inside the entrance, long brown hair whipping over her shoulder as she takes aim. Braeden.
Scott frowns. Minutes ago he'd questioned why Peter was there saving his life and not Willa. Stiles said she was with the mercenary; Scott could tell his best friend was withholding something from him. Now as they approach Braeden, he directs his question to her.
She looks surprised, jumping as the pack stop behind her. She'd not noticed them. Scott analyses her a second: she's jittery, tense, not at all the collected gun-wielder he's come to know. She seems panicked, tear tracks dried on her face; there's blood on her hands, but not hers. She's angry and sad. "Where is Willa?" he presses for a second time. This time she hears the question clearly, but can't summon the strength to answer. She shakes her head, lips trembling.
Scott's arm drops from where Peter had practically thrown it off his shoulder. The older werewolf moves into Braeden's space, shaking her by the shoulder. "No," is all Peter says. Over and over, begging Braeden not to lie to him.
Scott's head's still reeling from the fight earlier. He gets the feeling of a brick dropping in his stomach.
Willa's dead.
She'd been dead before. But that was like Jason Bourne dead. This time there was a witness. Two witnesses - according to the merc, Willa died in Chris Argent's arms.
Stiles' breath hitches. As he shifts his weight, he takes Scott with him; Scott frowns catching a glimpse of the battlefield.
Marcel. Except… not quite. Glowing green eyes inset a blue-purple face, patterned like a wildcat. Nagual. Still those eyes carried the same vindictive bloodlust Scott remembers.
Marcel pounces on a pair of hunters, the screams dying in the throat as he rips through them with a swipe of his claws. He's unflinching in his murder, bouncing on the balls of his feet, stalking for his next prey. Cold and calculating. Definitely Marcel Argent.
Scott pushes off Stiles, leaping at the door.
His vision is soaked red. Revenge.
He suddenly understands why the fucking spiral was so important to werewolves.
He'd never felt the need to take life as much as this.
This time he wants to give in.
He ignores Stiles and Malia trying to grab him, launching himself out the door and down the steps.
He feels his face shift, knows it's something more animalistic, more demonic than normal.
He swipes at Marcel, surprising the older man. Marcel himself looks shocked, then pissed.
"Your plan didn't work," Scott hisses, catching a blow aimed at his head.
"I guess I'll just have to rip out your throat myself. Shame. Power of a True Alpha… the things I could have done," Marcel snarls gleefully. He's wild and erratic, clawing, punching, kicking at Scott with reckless abandon. The seventeen year old manages to dodge his attacks for the most part, tearing up Marcel's sides in a fashion Peter Hale would describe as "Horrifically lovely."
There's a sharp pain in his back; suddenly he's four feet off the ground. Looking over his shoulder, there's a berserker there, it's claws inches deep into his back. He shouldn't have looked. As he turns around, he's met with a kick to his chin, tearing him off the creature's claws, landing a few metres away. He grunts, struggling to push up, the open wounds on his back burning.
Not far from them, Kira and Malia are tag teaming a berserker, Liam and Peter doing the same, with Stiles surprisingly providing fire-power. Their efforts are to no avail, however.
Marcel's feet tread proudly across the dirt towards him, mocking Scott and his little friends. Blaming Scott for getting Allison killed, for being the reason the rest of his pack will die.
The former hunter kicks him in the side; he's sure there's a loud crack indicating a few broken ribs. Landing on his back, Scott glares up at the blonde snarling back down at him.
Marcel draws out his claws gleefully, leaning down for the kill…
A howl echoes through the night. It's deep and gutaral, sending a shiver up Scott's spine.
The gunfire ceases; the air is mingled with confusion and fear.
Even Marcel freezes up, eyes searching for this new player. It's primal instinct.
Out of the ashes a wolf emerges. It's unlike anything Scott has ever seen. Not the biped monster Peter turned into during his time as an Alpha. Not a typical wolf either. This thing was the size of a small horse, and would probably have eclipsed Lydia in height.
The creature landed before them, across the yard, black fur glistening in the moonlight. As it raised its head, cold steel blue bled into dark irises.
Scott feels a wide grin pull at his lips, ecstatic relief flooding through him. "Willa," he breathes.
She seems to consider him a second before turning her attention to a disbelieving Marcel. Without much hesitation, the wolf launches herself at the nagual. Teeth and claws carving into him, dragging him across the dirt as he helplessly fights back. Marcel sneaks in a few swipes and punches of his own but his efforts are futile. When the blonde manages to break away, it's not of his own volition. Willa had backed off on purpose, allowing the bastard a reprieve to try to drag his battered and bleeding figure through the dust.
Scott watches in awe as the wolf bows, curling in on itself; her muscles rippling, shrinking as the dark fur recedes into unmarred sun-kissed skin. Mass of curls flip back, revealing the face of his mentor, normally hazel eyes glowing their bright steel blue, brighter than he can ever recall, that there's almost a silver quality to them. She smirks, revealing a set of fangs. That's not the only thing she's revealing, but Scott's too shocked to be embarrassed by her nudity at this point. Besides, she doesn't seem embarrassed in the slightest (he doubts she's even noticed).
Willa stalks Marcel like the predator she is.
The man quivers, revealing his fear - "You-you were dead."
"No," she shakes her head. "I was evolving. Something you'll never do." She has her claws ready to strike when the berserker that attacked Scott earlier lunges for her. She moves with unmatched speed, dodging potentially fatal blows, before throwing her hands on the creature's skull mask, The bone gives way in seconds, golden light disintegrating the monster within.
Willa drops the skull, staring at her hands a wide grin on her face. She turns around to find Marcel gone. A frown creeps onto her pretty features.
"Don't worry about him," Stiles says running up to her, the others in tow. "Peter and Argent are on Marcel." The kid's grinning like a complete idiot, pointedly staring into her eyes… and holding out a jacket for her. It's then she realises her lack of clothes. Blushing, she quickly takes it and zips it up. It isn't exactly big on her, but just manages to cover her ass, so it's something.
Scott's still sitting on his ass in the dirt staring up at her, when she turns to him, hand outstretched. He looks between it and her for a second, before grasping it. The young alpha let's her pull him up, using the momentum to haul her into his arms into a tight hug. She squeezes him comfortingly.
"Stop almost dying," he mutters.
She chuckles. She's alive, smiling and chuckling. Maybe Willa Hale actually did die and someone else is possessing her body. She pulls back. "Stop being an idiot." Nope, definitely Willa Hale.
BEACON HILLS
FEB 28, 2012
10:15 EDT
A pair of Versace thigh-highs is the last thing to go into the duffel. The morning after their return from La Iglesia, Willa had found the familiar boots waiting for her on the table, a manilla bearing the nondescript word "CONFIDENTIAL" leaning against them. As if to further the oddity, Braeden had gone and whacked and frilly red ribbon on top.
The boots had belonged to Laura. Apparently while she and Braeden were pulling a job in Salzburg, they took a day-train to Milan and ended up carding SHIELD a cumulative € 3000 on private expenses. To be fair, the two were supposed to be on vacation when the boss called them in.
Willa's fingers trail across the smooth leather that still smells faintly of her sister, as she tucks them into the bag. She spares one last glance around her room before zipping up the bag and dragging it behind her, through her hole-in-the-wall into the loft's living space.
Stiles looks up at her entrance, from where he's leaning against her table, arms crossed and biting on his sleeve. It's a nervous habit she thought he lost months ago. His whiskey eyes flicker between her face and the duffel in her grasp. Stiles drops his eyes to his fidgeting hands. "I still think it's too soon," he tells her, shaking his head. She watches him with a worried frown. Making note of the tension in his shoulders, his nervous jerky fidgets, the way his fingers close one at a time as if he's countin… dropping her bag, Willa closes the distance between her and Stiles. Hesitating a moment, she lays her hand to rest on his, making him stop and look at her. "I'm fine, Stiles," she entreats. "I will be fine."
She remembers the look he gave her in La Iglesia. There'd been something broken about it, as if he felt responsible for her, afraid for her. He cared. He still does. Offering him a reassuring grin, she promises, "If a demon decided to hitch a ride inside my head when I came out of Bardo, you'll be the first one I'll call."
"This isn't a joke."
"I'm not laughing," she concedes, expression light but serious.
He seems to contemplate her a moment, before sighing. "You sure about this?" he asks.
"No. But it's what Laura wanted."
"Yeah… but is it what you want?" Scott chirrups in. He's sitting on her couch, the manilla folder open in his hands.
She shoots him a tired smile. "I've got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it clean."
"Yeah, but none of that was your fault, not really," Stiles insists, kicking off the table, squeezing her shoulder.
She looks between them sternly. "If I told you both that you weren't responsible for what happened to Allison, would you believe me?"
No. They wouldn't. They know it and so does she.
She takes a seat on the chair across Scott. Her hands are clasped together between denim-clad knees. Calluses and blisters that littered her hands a week ago, no longer there, her skin as smooth as velvet. She misses those little imperfections. "After the fire, I had a lot anger. A lot of guilt. I was still struggling with control. Even with an anchor," she explains, vaguely.
Stiles snorts, "Probably didn't help that you anchor was anger."
She glares at him, but doesn't argue. Breezing past his comment, she continues, "I found a release for it. I called it atonement. Laura called a path of self-destruction. She was worried I'd jailed, or worse, hunted - she wasn't wrong. She kept trying to make me stop and it worked for a while, but I always ended up where I started: blood on my hands." She stares at her hands, as if imagining her victims' blood still there, recalling with accuracy the fear in their voices as they begged for their lives.
She doesn't notice the worried look Scott and Stiles share, as if affirming the turbulent waves of emotions beneath her cool facade. Stiles clears his throat, dragging her attention to him. Awkwardly running a hand through his hair. "I read the reports. SHIELD's-" he gestures to the file in his best friend's hands, "and the ones I dug up using Danny's hack."
"You hacked the NYPD?" She interrupts, surprised and incredulous.
"Yeah. I mean they might not be you, but given the dates, witness and forensic accounts, I'm eighty percent sure they were yours." Willa's impressed but doesn't say anything, allowing the boy to continue. "My point is. Maybe you were a little excessive but those all those people you took down-" she appreciates that he doesn't use the word victims even though they both know it's true, "they were bad people. Rogue hunters, rapists, human-traffickers, child-molesters. You killed horrible people."
There's an uncomfortable tension in the room, discussing her dubious past, given that they hadn't really known the full truth about her life in New York until she'd shown them the file SHIELD had on her. She knew they had there suspicions, and had correctly assumed that Stiles had done some digging but she'd not known the extent of it. Still, she appreciates the effort they're making not to judge her or punish her anymore than she already does to herself. Offering a small guilt-ridden grin, a barely-there smile that just looks awkward and strained, she replies, "But they were still people. That's blood on my hands."
This time Scott refutes, saying, "Yeah but if you didn't stop them, there would have been more blood on your hands. You saved a lot of people." Unlike Stiles who would more likely understand and sympathise with her morally grey actions, Scott walks the straight and narrow. He's Scott there's-always-another-choice McCall. So when he looks her in the eye and tells her that there's nothing to forgive, his heartbeat steady and his eyes kind, Willa feels some of the weight lift off her shoulders. Not all of it. But some. Just a little. Maybe there's something in her expression or scent, that tells him this because his expression softens even more (she didn't think it was possible). "But I get why you think you have to do this," he waves the file in his hands before dropping it on the centre of the coffee table. A candid shot of her from a few years back is stapled onto the top left corner, as well as as other notes on her demographics. A few sheets slide out from underneath, the words recruit and covert and Phase 1 catching her heightened sight. "But," the word catches her attention as Scott speaks up again, "I hope you're not doing this because you think you need to be controlled."
"Oversight isn't a bad thing, Scott," she points out. "Every occupation has it. Military, Medicine, Education. Law Enforcement shouldn't be any different."
"But," he presses again, repeating himself slower, "You're not doing this because you think you need to be controlled." It's almost a question. "We're predators, not killers. You taught me that," he reminds her.
Smiling slightly, she replies, "Whenever hunters came to town, whenever I was afraid of what I was, my mother used to tell me that. Somewhere along the way I forgot that." Looking him in the eye, she adds, "You reminded me." Then taking in a deep breath, she answers his earlier question, "I'm doing this because I know I have a choice. I don't have to hurt people to redeem myself. I can choose to be better."
Stiles, ever the devil's advocate, quips, "Well, you'll be taking down criminal masterminds and terrorists. I'm pretty sure that involves some level of maiming and… death." The idiot hads the courtesy to wince at his own words.
Scott glares at him, shaking his head.
Willa simply rolls her eyes. "Fine," she huffs. "I won't be senselessly killing people out of a depraved sense of justice. Besides, if I do my job well, I won't be killing anyone. I don't know the details, but from Braeden's briefed me on, I'll be working covert and recon; intelligence, security."
Stiles snorts, "If they really wanted to get their value for money out of you, they should stick you on Interrogation and intimidation."
"Intelligence," she repeats with a raised brow, smirking as his grin grows too.
"Please tell me you're going to threaten to rip their throat out… with your teeth."
"You're an idiot," she muses, irritably, hiding her fond amusement. She's actually going to miss these two idiots. She feels her grin begin to falter, a thought suddenly entering her mind. There was something else she'd been keeping from them for the past week; it had been tearing her up inside whether she should tell them. But seeing the pair of boys she'd come to consider family, smiling and laughing and joking with her… it makes her stay silent about the other reason she's leaving Beacon Hills.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: So there we have it, not the end but the beginning to a story. If you'd like to continue, keep a look out for Out of Ashes posted to the Teen Wolf archive or From the Ashes posted to the Avengers archive. They will be the same story just separate locations so its easier to find.
That story will be primarily set within the MCU, though Willa be returning more frequently to Beacon Hills than her counterpart has, not to mention that as the McCall pack graduate and move out into the world, they will too become drawn into the MCU events, as the world becomes more aware of supernaturals too.
I also just had to pay homage to Allison. I know some people don't really like her character and I understand that. For a while I too didn't like what happened to her in season 2, but then I remembered, she's a teenage girl, vulnerable and emotional, trusted too easily and people used that trust to manipulate her... sounds like Derek, no? I realised the two were like Yin and Yang, diametrically opposed but also the same, especially when they shared that look in the Loft when the Oni attacked, watching each other's back without hesitation. I just thought, damn, they would have had such an amazing dynamic if she hadn't been killed (sort of like Bonnie and Damon from Vampire Diaries).
Okay, that's my bit.
Please, please leave a review, especially if you have any queries about Willa's story continuing into the MCU.
One more thing. I'm not really big on the whole face-claim thing, but with Willa it has been bothering me. I think it's mostly because I don't want to keep writing her with Black hair and green eyes and 6'1" like Tyler Hoechlin is; he was cast. I want to cast Willa as well for the actress I think would best tell her story and describe her as such. I've short-listed two actresses: Caity Lotz (reference work, see Sara Lance from Arrow and Legends of Tomorrow) and Kat Graham (reference work, see Bonnie Bennett from Vampire Diaries, specifically seasons 6-8).
I've made a poll. Please cast your vote. You can even PM your reasons. I'll announce the final casting when I start posting the continuing story within the next month.
