Notes: Oh god, here we go again. Beta by Poicephalus, who regularly has to crack my head open and rearrange things so that I sound like a coherent human being.
The Infamy of Mirrors
Chapter One: "The Cracked Gate"
Every morning, Da-Xia descends the stairs to the foot of the mountain and collects the basket of food the villagers left for her during the night.
The offering itself isn't much: rice, fresh fruit, sometimes a little fish. The Old Man once told her that the rice used to be left in wooden bowls, but the rice Da-Xia gets comes sealed in plastic bags. She doesn't know what to do with the bags once they're empty, so she hangs them up in the trees around the house. She likes the colors.
There's another gift this morning, alongside the food: a tiger lily, made of silk. Da-Xia places it on top of the basket and begins the climb back up the mountain.
She's taken care of the house as best she can, but it's too big for just one person to maintain. The East wing finally collapsed last year. Da-Xia tried to keep the plants from overgrowing the rubble until she found a family of red pandas nesting in it and decided the forest would make better use of the land than she ever would.
After she's put away the food, Da-Xia fills a bucket of water and heads further up the mountain to tend to the statue.
The statue is enormous, and even older than the house; it perches on the mountain's peak, face tilted up to the sky. The Old Man once said it was a sculpture of a lion. Da-Xia's never seen a lion, so she took him at his word. She doesn't know that lions don't have horns, or hands, or feathers.
A bird has nested in the space between the statue's horns, so Da-Xia climbs up the statue's back and gently removes the nest. There's a tree nearby; Da-Xia slides down the statue's foreleg, hoists herself up into the tree, and settles the nest securely between two branches.
Then she cleans whatever parts of the statue aren't covered in moss, scrubbing away dust and mud and bird leavings. When she's done, she climbs up onto the statue's head and pulls away the moss covering its eyes.
The Old Man used to do this, and Da-Xia doesn't know why. But he's gone now, which means the responsibility falls to her.
Da-Xia allows herself a moment to watch the sun rise, painting the mountains and forests in shades of green and gold.
Then something goes crack.
Da-Xia startles and falls, tumbling into the dirt.
The statue is breaking apart.
Fracture lines spider across the stone. The cracks widen; chunks of rock start to break free and crash to the ground, revealing swathes of tawny fur.
The stone comes off the statue like the shell coming off an egg, and that leonine face turns away from the sky to regard Da-Xia with green eyes and haughty suspicion.
o
Two Months Later
Everyone is in Stiles' office, because he has a window and it's 4:47 on a Friday and the directors left for the airport like an hour ago and there are pigeons.
Heather, perched on the end of Stiles' desk, says, "That... is the fattest pigeon."
"How did that it even get up here?" Stiles says, chair rotating idly from side to side.
"It's a pigeon," Lydia replies from her desk across the room, where she's bouncing Stiles' rubber band ball off the walls. "It flew."
"There is no way that fat fucking pigeon can fly."
Greenberg says, "Maybe they're, like, robot spy pigeons." He thinks it over for a second. "Reporter pigeons."
"Dude, there are pigeons with war medals," Stiles says. "I can believe it."
Heather glances over at Stiles' computer. "Somebody's pinging you," she says.
"It's Dave," Stiles sighs. "He's bored and keeps sending me facts about ants."
"It's from reception, actually."
"What? Shit." Stiles spins his chair around. He tabs out of the chat window full of messages like 'ANT FACT 36: EACH COLONY OF ANTS HAS ITS OWN UNIQUE SMELL' and opens up the second one from reception:
Derek Hale is here to see you.
o
Here's how it works:
Stiles takes as many cases in California as he can. Every once in a while, he'll call Derek.
"Hey, I'll be in San Diego for the next week or so, if you wanna drive down."
Or: "I'm wrapping up a case in Fresno and was thinking I'd swing by Beacon Hills for the weekend."
In between, they talk on the phone, and Stiles sends Derek rambling e-mails at 3 AM, and it works.
But Stiles has been stuck doing desk work in Virginia for the last month, which is why Derek let Erica talk him into driving across the country for a surprise visit.
FDSI headquarters is a nondescript office building just off the main strip in Glassburg, Virginia, with quite possibly the most claustrophobic and least inviting reception area to ever exist. The receptionist is a small, birdlike woman, and very annoyed that Derek is keeping her from punching out early.
She says, "He'll be right down," and goes back to... whatever it is she's doing on her computer. Derek can't see from this angle. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do now; there aren't any chairs, but the receptionist probably doesn't want him to keep leaning on her desk.
The elevator doors open, and Stiles rushes toward the reception desk, buzzing with barely-restrained panic. He's been growing his hair out, and right now it's sticking up at all angles like he's been nervously running his hands through it.
"Derek! Are you okay? Did something happen?"
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake.
"I'm fine," Derek says. "Everything's fine."
Stiles screeches to a halt right in front of him. "What are you doing here?"
Derek's eyebrows come down. "I'm... here to see you?"
"Oh, god." Stiles lets out a strained laugh and rubs a hand over his face. "Oh my god, I'm turning into a paranoid. Of course you are."
"This was a bad idea, I should've called."
"No, no, if I were a normal person this wouldn't have been a problem."
The receptionist is laughing at them and not even trying to hide it.
"Stop judging me," Stiles snaps at her.
With a sugary-sweet smile, the receptionist says, "Will your guest be needing a visitor's pass, Agent Stilinski?"
"No, it's fine." To Derek, Stiles says, "We could go get dinner, I guess? Then head back to mine?"
The elevator doors open again, and a group of agents pile out. Someone Derek doesn't recognize shouts, "Stiles! Beer 'o' clock!"
Stiles half-turns and yells back, "Rain check on the pub, guys."
Lydia strides over, raises an eyebrow at Derek, then turns to Stiles and says, "Or he could come with."
Stiles says, "Absolutely not," at the same time Derek says, "Sure."
The receptionist starts laughing again.
"What? Really?" Stiles says.
Derek shrugs.
"... Okay, but we need to leave before the house band starts playing."
o
The pub is called The Lion's Head, and Derek thinks there may be exactly one person in here—besides himself and the bartender—who isn't a federal agent.
Stiles has taken his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt a bit. Derek keeps catching glimpses of his collarbone and the hollow of his throat, and it's distracting. However, so is Lydia's choice of small talk.
"A lot of scavengers will go right for the ass," Lydia says, waving a carrot stick around like she can somehow use it to illustrate her point. "The haunches have plenty of meat on them, and the anus provides easy access to internal organs."
Stiles looks utterly horrified, but not on his own behalf. He gives Derek a sidelong glance and says, "This isn't freaking you out, is it?"
"I'm a werewolf whose father was a taxidermist." To Lydia, he says, "I remember my dad used to say 'nothing is truly a herbivore.'"
Lydia nods. "Tansey's Law."
"What?"
"Nothing, inside joke."
Stiles says, "Your dad also said 'a snake can't be poisoned by its own venom.'"
"The snake venom thing is extremely wrong, but the herbivore thing is true," Lydia says. "There are very few animals that will pass up free protein. I found a paper once that was all about scavenging of human corpses by songbirds."
Stiles gapes. "Songbirds?"
"They crawl under clothing to get at the genitals, apparently."
Another agent comes over and claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Stiles!"
The smile on Stiles' face is more of a grimace. "Greenberg. What do you want?"
"Did you ever hear back about the Artemis rotation?"
"Still waiting," Stiles says through his teeth. Derek hears his heartbeat ratchet up over the words. "Hey, I think Heather is calling you."
Greenberg wanders off. Derek watches him go, then looks back at Stiles. "What was that about?"
"I, uh... I applied for one of the permanent postings at Beacon Hills. It might get rejected. I didn't want to get your hopes up." He stands a little too suddenly, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "I'm gonna get another drink. You guys want anything?"
"Still working on this," Lydia says, holding up her martini. Derek shakes his head.
Once Stiles is out of earshot, Lydia says, "It was approved."
"What?"
"Stiles' application. It was approved. He knows it was approved. He just hasn't decided whether he's going to go through with it or not."
Derek watches her as she takes a casual sip from her martini. "Why?"
"Knowing Stiles, he's thinking about everything that could go wrong."
Stiles collapses back into his chair, empty-handed, and says, "What time is it?" with alarmed desperation.
Lydia checks her phone. "Five to seven."
"Oh, shit. We need to leave."
"What's wrong?" Derek says.
"The house band comes on at seven."
Derek would laugh if it weren't for the borderline tortured look on Stiles' face. "Are they really that bad?"
Lydia says, "Their opening number is an electronic version of the Spongebob Squarepants theme song."
"We need to leave," Derek says.
o
Stiles' apartment is in a high-rise with enough security to rival a Swiss bank. There may actually be Nazi gold stored here. The suite itself isn't particularly remarkable: everything is beige, and clean in a way that suggests Stiles hasn't spent a lot of time here.
"Did you just move in?" Derek says, shrugging off his jacket.
Stiles walks to the kitchenette, turning lights on as he goes. "Uh... that depends on your definition of 'just moved in.'"
"So..."
Stiles looks like he's counting in his head. "... Eight months ago."
Derek looks around at the piles of partially unpacked boxes and raises an eyebrow.
"I've been busy!" Stiles protests.
"At least you got the aquarium set up."
"Yeah, and then the fish-sitter killed all my fish. It's a snail habitat now." Stiles starts opening and closing cupboards. "I'm supposed to have some coffee in here somewhere..."
He trails off when Derek steps up behind him, puts his hands around Stiles' hips, and licks up the side of his neck.
"I missed you," Derek murmurs, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against Stiles' skin.
"Missed you, too," Stiles gasps. "God, all the desk jockeys went on vacation and we've been covering for them and I have been losing it, Derek, you have no idea," and then he turns to face Derek and pulls him in so he can roughly press their lips together.
Derek growls into Stiles' mouth—actually growls, Jesus, he hasn't done that since he first came back to Beacon Hills—and pushes in closer, pressing Stiles against the counter, hands braced on either side. One of Stiles' hands winds into Derek's hair, and Derek is content to let Stiles move him where he wants him. He can feel the weeks' worth of pent-up tension in Stiles' body.
When Stiles pulls away, gasping for breath, Derek drops to his knees.
"Oh, god," Stiles says, still a little breathless. "You'll wreck your joints, doing that."
Derek doesn't look up from where he's unbuckled Stiles' belt and is working on his fly. "Your bedroom talk still sucks."
"We're not in the bedroom, we're in the kitchen."
Instead of answering, Derek sucks Stiles' cock into his mouth as deep as it will go.
"Oh my god. Okay, yeah, semantics, point taken."
It took Derek a while to get the hang of this, but Stiles was more than happy to be practiced on. His hand is still in Derek's hair, while the other has a white-knuckle grip on the counter, and Derek suspects the neighbors will be filing a noise complaint.
Stiles comes quickly, letting out an embarrassed moan.
Derek can't help but feel a little smug as he pulls off and stands, nuzzling into Stiles' shoulder. Stiles is loose and relaxed against him.
Stiles snakes a hand between them, rubbing the heel of his palm over the front of Derek's jeans. Derek rolls his hips into it.
"Bed?" Stiles suggests.
"Bed," Derek agrees, and spends the rest of the night taking Stiles apart.
o
Derek wakes up briefly when Stiles' phone alarm goes off at 6:30; Stiles smacks it into submission, rolls back into Derek's side, and they drift off for another few hours.
When Derek wakes up for the second time, the sun is in his eyes and he really can't stay in bed any longer.
He props himself up on an elbow and leans down to kiss the corner of Stiles' mouth. "Morning."
"Morning." Stiles' eyes open, then narrow in suspicion. "You're getting up, aren't you."
"Yeah."
"Does that mean I have to get up?"
"You probably should."
"Ugh." Stiles sits up on his elbows, wobbles, then collapses back onto the bed. "Nope, that's not happening. Ow."
Derek huffs a laugh and sits up, stretching.
Stiles glares at him. "Stop smirking, asshole."
"I'm not smirking."
"You are, that's your 'my sexual prowess has destroyed Stiles, and this pleases my werewolf brain' smirk."
"I didn't destroy you, you're just sore because this is the only exercise you get." Derek pulls on his jeans and heads for the kitchen.
"I exercise!" Stiles yells after him.
"Running away from things that want to eat you doesn't count."
He turns the TV on, but only devotes a little of his attention to the news as he rummages through the kitchen. There's nothing in the fridge except for condiments, milk, and some bacon that may or may not be safe for human consumption.
"Stiles, when's the last time you went grocery shopping?"
"Uh... December."
It's August. Derek shakes his head and closes the fridge. "Let me guess, you've been busy."
"I'm sensing a lot of judgment from the guy who lived in a train depot for like a month."
Derek's wondering if he should take his chances with the bacon when the TV catches his attention.
"—explosion at a federal research facility in Kenopsia, Colorado this morning—"
Accompanying the story is shaky footage of the building in question. It's built into the base of a mountain; Derek would guess that most of the facility is underground. Smoke pours out of an enormous hole in the facade.
Stiles, half-dressed and standing in the bedroom doorway, says, "That's Field Station Tian-Hou."
His phone rings.
Stiles disappears back into the bedroom. Derek hears him say, "Lydia? Yeah, just saw it."
Derek tunes out the conversation and focuses on the news again. The anchor doesn't have much information to work from, so she just keeps paraphrasing the same information over and over: the explosion came from the inside. Maybe an accident. Maybe not. Nobody claiming responsibility. Casualties unknown. Authorities and rescue agencies ordered to stay away from the site.
"Derek, where's your phone?"
"In my jacket." Derek drags his attention away from the TV and watches Stiles cross the room to where Derek's jacket is draped across a chair. "What's going on?"
Stiles pulls Derek's phone out of his jacket pocket and says, "Who knows you're here?"
"The pack. Scott, I think."
"That's it? Nobody else?"
"That's it."
"Okay." Stiles drops both their phones into the aquarium. "Get dressed. We need to get out of here."
o
In the elevator down to the parking garage, Stiles says, "Pay cash for everything. Don't tell anybody your real name, or where you're really going. Don't buy another phone until you get back to Beacon Hills. Stay away from Field Station Artemis."
"If you would just tell me—"
"I can't. I'm sorry."
The elevator doors open. Stiles walks Derek to his car.
"Stiles, whatever's going on, I can—"
Stiles grabs Derek and slams their mouths together, kissing him like he might never get to again. As abruptly has he started, he stops, shoving Derek towards his car.
"Be safe," Stiles says, blinking like he's trying to hold back tears. "I'll contact you when it's over."
"When what's over?"
"I don't know yet. Just... look out for my dad, okay? And Scott. Please."
Derek stares at him for a long time.
Then he gets into his car and starts the engine.
o
Hui finds her sister on the hill, overlooking the half-destroyed field station. Sha hasn't let go of the artifact ever since she pulled it from the rubble of the archive; she keeps turning it over in her hand, rubbing the edges with her thumb. It's such a tiny thing, no bigger than a coin: one-third of a disc, carved from jade, edged in gold. Almost an exact match to the piece they already had.
"Sha?"
Sha doesn't take her eyes off the ruin. "We're in the field, Major. It's 'Colonel.'"
"Colonel. The others are looking for you."
"They're ready to leave?"
"Almost." Hui steps up next to Sha, takes in the disapproving set to her jaw. It's been a trial, learning to read these human faces, but Sha has always been an open book to her. "What's wrong?"
"That," Sha snaps, nodding at the plumes of black smoke curling into the sky. "Too big. Too loud. Too many casualties."
"The war will be more of the same."
"I know."
"Sha—Colonel—" Hui takes a breath, collects her thoughts. "We can't afford doubts. The Empire needs us at our best."
Sha sighs, and finally turns away from the ruin, heading back down the hill. Hui follows her. "This is a mission just like any other, Major," Sha says. "Drop the rhetoric."
"Of course, Colonel."
Sha takes one last look at the artifact, then tucks it into her pocket. "I suppose this counts as our declaration of war."
"We declared war almost five thousand years ago," Hui says. "The Empire never officially ended hostilities with this world. It's not our fault they forgot."
Next: "Radio Silence"