Hands full with a large McDonald's bag and to-go coffee cups, Stiles walked through the uncomfortably familiar halls of Beacon Memorial Hospital, his eyes wandering over the numbers beside each room, looking for the one that held the McCalls.
Not long after leaving Derek's, Stiles's stomach had decided to make itself known with an irritable gurgle, empty from the night before and loudly voicing its displeasure at having been abused by alcohol and drugs. Still reeling from his mild panic attack in Derek's apartment, the distraction of his awakened hunger had been welcome, so after letting Scott know he was still alive Stiles had made a drive-thru pit-stop on his way to the hospital. The detour had given him an extra few minutes to gather himself (not an easy task without a handy dose of Adderall).
Granted, Stiles felt like he was bringing a peace offering for being such a thoughtless douchebag last night, but he was pretty sure that Scott's batteries were about tapped out as his were, with the accident and hours of sitting at the hospital, and hopefully he would just see the food gesture as Stiles being a good friend.
Stiles's fingers were crossed, hoping that Scott wouldn't ask too many questions. Right now, he felt as shaky as a house of cards—one good tap and he'd fall apart. Neither of them was emotionally up for another dam-burst of crap.
Brushing off his self-deprecating thoughts, Stiles used his elbow to push down the door handle to Scott's mom's room and nudged the door open with his hip, edging his way inside. He tapped the door with his foot to make it drift shut behind him, not about to try manipulating the handle with his elbow again.
The first thing his eyes found was Melissa, prone on the bed, sound asleep. She was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor, and Stiles's stomach rolled unpleasantly as he was forcibly reminded of his own mom and how this setting was eerily similar. Only Melissa had more hair than his mom had at the end.
"Hey."
Stiles nearly crushed the sack full of breakfast burritos against his chest, startled by Scott's soft greeting. He'd momentarily forgotten he was even there. "Hey," he breathed, more rattled by the sight of Melissa, post-surgery, than he thought he'd be. You can do this, he thought to himself. Do this for Scott. "How is she?"
"Better." Scott's face pulled into a grimace. It was probably the closest to a smile he could manage at the moment. "She was up about half an hour ago for a few minutes before she fell back asleep again. The nurses have been in and out. They say that all of her stats are coming up normal so she might be released in a few days." He took the coffee cup Stiles handed him with a grateful "thanks" and sipped at it while Stiles dug into the bag of food, setting the now-lukewarm food out on a rolling table near Melissa's bed. "What about you?"
Stiles froze, halfway to sitting in the chair beside Scott, his fingers digging into the yellow wrapper in his hand. "What about me?"
"Well, I couldn't get a hold of you last night, and then the next thing I knew, Derek was saying that you were crashing at his place. What happened?" Scott asked, looking concerned for him now. Which was great because Scott was all about spreading the love, but Stiles felt Melissa needed it more than him right now (especially since her misfortune was accidental, whereas Stiles's was completely his own fault).
Then relief swept through Stiles. If Scott was still curious about what happened to him last night then Derek probably hadn't told him all that much—whether to cover Stiles's ass or his own, Stiles didn't know, but at least he could be in control of editing last night's events.
"Last night…sucked," unhappily Stiles admitted. "Got messed up, struck out with the guy who bought me the drinks, and Derek showed up. I think Danny was still working on a hook-up so I just took off with Derek." —which was all true, Stiles just chose to bypass the whole nonconsensual drugging part.
Dealing with werewolves had taught Stiles how to lie better—by sticking with the truthful bits.
Scott clapped him on the shoulder before grabbing up one of the yellow wrappers on the table for himself. "Don't worry about it. It was just one night, you'll find someone," he said sympathetically. His eyes fluttered shit for a moment when he bit into the burrito and he groaned, scarfing down half of it within seconds, as if he hadn't eaten in a while.
Stiles didn't blame him. Hospital food was terrible.
Even nearly-cold fast food is better than the swill they serve here, Stiles thought, finally digging into his own food.
"So, you going back out tonight or what?" Scott asked around a mouthful of half-chewed egg and sausage. The sight was endearing. And kinda gross.
Considering the idea, Stiles's own chewing slowed down considerably. "Maybe," he shrugged. "I dunno. I might wait a few days so someone doesn't recognize me from last night." That and he wasn't really in the mood to try again so soon. Almost getting date-raped had sort of put a damper on the whole thing.
Scott winced. "That bad?"
Stiles snorted derisively into his half-eaten burrito he'd raised to his mouth. "I'd have been better off asking Cora out, as great as last night went."
Cocking his head thoughtfully, Scott paused, his hand hovering out over another wrapper on the table. "Why don't you ask Cora out?"
"Because I like my insides where they are—inside of me."
Shrugging, Scott let the subject drop and returned his attention to his food again, snatching up another burrito.
Some tension melted from Stiles's posture, having been brought on, unnoticed, by the mini-interrogation. If there was anything he could count on Scott for, it was that he knew when to let something go (and that he could be easily distracted by food if you did it right).
It wasn't like Stiles hadn't already considered hitting up the people around him for a lay, but if any of them turned him down then he'd have to deal with the resulting awkwardness every time they met. Not to mention that nearly all of his closest friends/acquaintances were werewolves, so disembowelment was a very real possibility. He hadn't been joking, especially when it came to Cora, who always looked ready to claw him a new one.
Nope. He wasn't about to risk it.
For a while, the room was quiet but for the crinkling of wrappers and the steady beeping of Melissa's monitor.
Until a muffled trill erupted from Scott's pocket.
Curious, Stiles watched as Scott dug out his phone and checked his new message.
"It's Isaac," Scott said, answering Stiles's unvoiced question. "He says that Ethan didn't show up at school today. That's, like, the third day in a row." He looked over Stiles, frustrated. "Each of them but Deucalion disappears and comes back after three days, at the most. That means that, tomorrow sometime, Ethan will be back and one of the others will be gone agai—" His phone trilled again in his hand and Scott frowned down at his newest message. "Isaac must've told Derek about it 'cause he's gathering a meeting. Tonight." His gaze moved from his phone to his mom, still out cold.
"I'll go," Stiles said, drawing Scott's attention away from Melissa. "I kind of already promised to be at the next one anyway. You can stay here and look after her, and I'll let you know what we come up with, okay?"
Gratitude in his eyes, Scott smiled weakly at him. "Thanks. Normally, I'd be there, but… Part of me still thinks this" he nodded towards his mom "was them, even though Isaac and Cora said they didn't find anything. I just need to make sure she's safe."
"Get it. I'd do the same thing, if it were my dad," Stiles shrugged. If his dad got hurt, nothing could tear Stiles away from his side. Then again, if he thought for a second that someone was responsible for it, he'd do all he could to find that person. Find them and break them.
"You're the best. I owe you one."
"Don't think I won't hold you to that," Stiles warned. He took a bite and tipped his head back until it rested against the wall behind him, chewing wearily at the ceiling and wondering if he should drink to take the edge off before showing up to Derek's tonight.
Derek normally had a pretty good idea of why he did the things he did. A cause-and-effect type of thing: if something needed to be done, then he would do it. Plain and simple. The same principle went for when he lied—unless it was necessary, he tried not to do it.
But lying to Jennifer, telling her that tonight wasn't a good night for her to come over, was something that Derek couldn't explain without an extreme amount of awkwardness, mostly because he was near the epicenter of the mess with Stiles.
Derek wasn't stupid. He could put two and two together and still manage to come out with four (even on a bad day). Stiles had stopped coming to meetings soon after Jennifer had become part of Derek's life and had consistently stayed away for almost every meeting she had attended. But Derek had asked—okay, practically begged—for Stiles to come to the next meeting, and now that he knew the reason behind the teen's absenteeism, he could apply a simple solution to it: remove Jennifer from the meeting.
Unfortunately, the only foolproof way to do that was to lie, which was how Derek found himself spouting some half-assed story to her about needing a night to himself. He may have also thrown Peter under the bus in it by saying he'd had a fight with his uncle, but that part couldn't really be considered a lie when it had actually happened (except that the fight in question had happened several months ago instead of today like he'd told Jennifer).
"I really appreciate you doing this, Jen. I'm sorry about the change in plans," Derek said, talking into phone as he attempted to straighten out the covers of his bed one-handed, still mussed from where Stiles had unconsciously twisted them in his sleep.
After Stiles had left (fled, really), Derek hadn't really gotten around to returning his space to normal, having opted instead for a long, mind-numbingly hot shower. Isaac's text about Ethan though, had spurred him into action and he'd sent word around that he wanted to formulate a plan of action—which had brought about the need to deal with the Stiles's absenteeism sooner than Derek had liked.
"Don't be," Jennifer said, "I'd be upset after fighting with a family member, too. Take all the time you need. I can come over another night."
Derek firmly pushed away the guilt that had started gnawing at him from having to lie to Jennifer so soon after meeting her. He'd already alienated people close to him and he needed to start making things right. If it took another wrong to do it, well…
Derek's track record with his partners wasn't pure as the fallen snow, anyway.
"Thanks. I'll talk to you later, okay?" he said, tossing a stray pillow from the floor up towards the headboard.
"Yeah, that sounds great. Love you."
"Love you, too. Bye," Derek said, ending the call and dropping his phone onto the bed. It was only after he'd plopped on top of the coverlet and splayed out on his back that he realized what he'd said.
Internally, he cringed.
That was the first time he'd said those words to her. And to have uttered them after lying to her made the guilt twist even deeper inside of him, like a knife to the gut. He and Jennifer hadn't had time to talk about their relationship much or where it was going and he wanted to kick himself for automatically responding—even though he felt like he'd been blindsided into saying it. He might not be an expert when it came to women, but he was pretty sure that if one tells you that they love you, then anything other than an 'I love you too' in return might not be acceptable.
That thought still didn't make him feel better.
"I'm proud of you," said Peter from across the room.
Derek snapped his head up from the bed, his eyes finding his uncle. He glared, furious that he'd been too wrapped up in his phone call with Jennifer to notice the whine of the elevator. "Not that I care, but what for?"
"Your little story to your girlfriend. After weeks of witnessing nothing but lovey-dovey mush, I'm happy to finally see some life come into your relationship. Nothing stirs up excitement like a healthy lie," Peter said, a vaguely reminiscent smile on his face.
Derek thought it made Peter look cruel.
"Keep it up and it won't be a lie," he growled threateningly, sitting up. Derek may not have cared much about Peter's relationships when he was a kid, but he could remember that they had usually been short-lived, his uncle carefully choosing his conquests before casually discarding them. Derek hadn't liked it then and he didn't approve of it now.
He, himself, was too cautious about letting people in to want to go through them like they were tissues.
Peter rolled his eyes at Derek's attempt at posturing. "Fine. So...if the pack is meeting tonight, then why lie to her about it? What's different with this one?" he asked as he strolled up to the bed, looking down at his nephew piercingly. "Why don't you want her here tonight?"
"You don't think I should try to protect her from what's coming?"
"I think that if you were concerned about her safety, then you shouldn't have let things get this far," Peter stated matter-of-factly.
Derek hated how close to home the comment was. The notion had been nagging at him for some time now, but that didn't mean he cared to have it voiced out loud, making it real…
"And since the problems at hand haven't drastically changed," Peter continued, his head cocked and eyes narrowed, "then maybe it's an issue of those attending tonight. Someone you don't want her to see? Or is it the other way around?"
"Get out." Derek stood, shortening the distance between himself and his uncle to a mere few inches. He didn't know why, but all of a sudden it felt like his grip on his anger was slipping, threatening to come unleashed in the form of deadly-sharp claws.
But Peter didn't move, whether because of the not so subtle threat of violence or because he didn't think one existed—which Derek doubted, as the man's intuition had led him this far, this alarmingly close to Derek's innermost thoughts.
"Y'know, I got to thinking on my way back from here this morning. About how it was the first time in weeks that I had seen Stiles anywhere near here," Peter said conversationally, straightening to his full height (not that the move was terribly impressive, given that Derek still had the edge there, but it still screamed confrontation to Derek's subconscious).
"Get. Out," Derek repeated, adding a touch of a growl to the words.
Peter ignored him. "I smell now what I scented hours ago: guilt. At first, I thought it was because you felt responsible for Stiles almost getting himself raped last night, but that's not it, is it? Exactly how long did it take you to put together Stiles's absence and Jennifer's involvement?"
"Get. Out." Derek stepped forward, so close to Peter now that their clothes brushed with the slightest movement. His jaw was clenched tight, partly to keep him from saying anything he might later regret. A dull ache centered around his canines as he fought the change, a similar sensation starting in his fingertips, fading slightly when Derek balled his hands into fists.
The thought of hitting Peter was so tempting…
A tiny smirk tugged at Peter's lips as he held his hands up in surrender and started backing away. "Okay," he said, gamely. "Okay, I'll go. You get some rest. You look like you could use it after being up all night." Even in retreat, Peter looked smug, like he'd gain something.
In a way, Derek supposed he had.
As Peter sauntered to the elevator, Derek cursed himself for not reigning in his emotions, for letting his uncle get under his skin and see some of the turmoil underneath. Giving so much of himself away—to Peter of all people—only ratcheted up his frustration and anxiety, making him feel almost weak with helplessness. He was only faintly aware of the drone of the elevator through the cloud of his emotions, descending with his uncle inside of it.
He'd underestimated Peter's perceptiveness (as he always had) and now he'd have to deal with it.
If there was one thing Derek knew for sure about his uncle, it was that Peter liked information. Liked obtaining it, liked having it at the ready in case whatever tidbit he'd gleaned turned out to be useful.
Derek couldn't see how useful their conversation could possibly be to Peter, but then again, betting wasn't Derek's strong suit, so dismissing the event entirely would probably come back to bite him in the ass.
The whole mess just served to piss him off.
Tired, worried, and irritated beyond reason, Derek did the only constructive thing he could think of: he kicked off his shoes and settled into the bed, tightly winding the blanket around him as if it could shelter him from everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.
Face half-buried in his pillow, Derek found sleep surprisingly quickly, lulled away by the feeling of springy-softness and a faint scent that seemed so familiar…
As big as the main area of the loft was, it amazed Derek how small it seemed when it was filled with roughly half a dozen people.
It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if some of them were actually invited.
"Would someone please explain to me what he is doing here," Derek growled, pointing at Chris Argent, who had just walked out of the elevator with Allison and Lydia (who also hadn't been invited). The girls were getting to be something of a regular nuisance, but this, this was over the line.
"I'm just here to help. From what I've been hearing, it looks like you could use it," Chris said evenly, seemingly unbothered by the threat in Derek's tone. But the older man did stop several meters away from Derek.
It would have been a safe enough distance from a beta.
But Derek wasn't a beta.
"He was with us when we got the text about the meeting," Allison said, her tone all business. "He has training and information that you don't have so, instead of making this a grudge match, how about we set aside our differences for now. Unless you don't want to get Boyd back?" she asked, disdainfully.
The question was rhetorical—a dig, more than anything—but she did have a point. They needed to free Boyd from wherever the alpha pack had moved him to before they decided that their pawn against Derek was useless.
A couple of weeks ago, not long after Deucalion had personally dropped by to give Derek his 'sales pitch', Boyd had been snatched again. It had been a warning and blackmail all at once: do what we want or else. No matter what, Boyd might probably end up dead, but Derek wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't do everything in his power to try to get Boyd away from them (again).
It was a means of redemption. Derek was the one who had turned him, made him pack (even though Boyd had left, Derek still considered him pack), and Derek was the reason Boyd was kidnapped—not once, but twice—and used like bait as the alpha pack twisted Derek's arm, trying to make him dance without exerting much effort on their part. The move would have been effective, but Derek refused to kill Isaac (or Cora) just to play Deucalion's game.
Which was why they needed to get Boyd back as soon as possible, before Deucalion got tired of Derek being an unwilling participant.
So far, their attempts had been fruitless, Boyd being moved by the time Derek or one of the others could catch the trail of him and the alpha guarding him. Peter had noticed that one of the alphas would disappear for three days at max before they reappeared and then one of the others would disappear, like a changing of the guard. Breaking into the alpha pack's apartment a few days ago had been a wasted effort. There had been nothing to give away Boyd's location, no trace scent that was remarkable, forcing Derek and those with him to retreat with only more resentment and frustration.
Everything they did seemed futile, and the string of murders in Beacon Hills didn't help either. But the promise of a rotation in Boyd's guard tomorrow was promising, and if Derek and the others could successfully follow Kali or Ennis or Aiden (whichever left tomorrow), then maybe they would finally be able to free the captured beta.
With a bitter taste in his mouth, Derek bit out a "fine", hating how he wasn't able to contain the situation on his own, how he needed an Argent on his side (again). "But I didn't ask you here—" He broke off, noticing how Isaac ducked his head, the scent of guilt coming off him. Derek's eyes narrowed at the teen.
So that's how the unwelcome trio knew about the meeting. Guess Isaac was more forgiving of those who had hurt him than Derek was.
Then again, Derek supposed that was nothing new.
He sighed, getting fed up with everyone's little manipulations and secrets and personal agendas. Times like these made him wish Laura was still alive. At least she had always been straight with him, almost brutally so. Not to mention he could use someone who was entirely on his side.
He couldn't say that of anyone in the room right now.
Shaking his head, Derek crossed over to the table on the other side of the loft, covered by maps of Beacon Hills, maps that Peter and Cora had been poring over before Lydia, and what was left of the Argent family strolled in, Isaac having turned up a scant five minutes before the human trio.
As Derek approached them, Peter gave him the barest shake of his head—which could mean anything from disapproval of letting them in to warning Derek to control his temper. It was hard to tell with Peter. Not that Derek cared to ask at the moment. He was still irritated with his uncle from hours ago.
Cora, though, was quietly taking in the humans, a bland look on her face that Derek took to mean distrust. He didn't blame her.
The table was big, but with 7 people crowding around it, it certainly didn't seem so and only partly because of the thick, layer of tension between those gathered. Thankfully, Peter and Chris were positioned about as far away as you could get from each other. Lydia had done the same, sticking to Chris's side, her arms crossed as she glared daggers at the man who had nearly torn her mind apart. The others, while not necessarily comfortable with the proximity of each other, were at least less likely to draw blood by standing next to each other.
The whole room had the feel of a keg of gunpowder, just waiting for a spark…
It was a relief when the elevator began its pathetic whine, lowering then rising again and shuddering to a halt, its doors opening to reveal Stiles, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking for all the world like he'd rather be somewhere else.
Derek was fairly sure that he was part of reason for it.
The room had gone eerily quiet when the elevator had started up again and it remained that way until Stiles got closer to the table, doing a damn good job of avoiding Derek's eyes.
Isaac (who stood on Derek's left) moved over enough to give Stiles space at the table next to him—next to Derek— and everyone else shifted to accommodate the addition. Derek didn't have to look at Peter (who stood at his immediate right) to know that his uncle was taking in everything, Stiles's mannerisms, Derek's reactions, confirming or adding to whatever conclusions the man was forming about the situation.
Derek didn't like it.
Forcing himself to take charge (and push away the newest layer of discomfort that had materialized with Stiles's arrival), Derek launched into an explanation about his 'pack's' movements, what they've been doing and where they've been looking. It was mostly for the Argent's benefits, but it also served as a recap for everyone.
Chris, to his credit, ignored Peter's calculating stare and listened carefully, taking note of everything with keen attention to every detail, even asking about timing and entry routes until he pretty much had the whole picture without having been with them.
Stiles was doing the same, having only been present for one of the operations, but far more silently, whether to take everything in or to avoid drawing attention to himself.
Regardless, Derek was hyperaware of the teen at his side. Constantly Derek found himself taking in Stiles's scent as discreetly as he could manage in order to gauge the teen's emotions, hidden as they were beneath a mask of concentration. Was Stiles still going through whatever had set him off this morning, forcing him to escape the loft? To run away from Derek? Derek still wondered about what had been going through the teen's head as he'd stood frozen, trapped in his mind as his body seemingly went haywire.
If Stiles's only recourse had been to get away from Derek to escape the nightmare of his thoughts, then what chance did that give Derek to fix the damaged he'd caused? How was he supposed to help if Stiles couldn't stand being in the same room with him?
The enormity of the task he'd set for himself struck him, combining with the mounting desperation to find Boyd, inundating him with fear. How was he supposed to save everyone?
Caught up in feeling so lost, Derek almost missed Chris's comment, something about currents.
"What are you talking about?" Derek asked the older man, hoping that no one else had noticed his momentary loss of control over his emotions. Well, everyone but Peter, who glanced at him in something like concern.
Focus, Derek told himself. Boyd was the one in danger right now, not Stiles.
"The Telluric Currents," Chris repeated. "I'd been wondering if there was a connection between the darach's movements and the alpha pack's, but hardly any of the sites coincide. They must be operating completely separately, the alpha pack sticking to places where they aren't likely to be noticed and the darach sticking to the locations along the currents."
More than one person was staring at Chris in confusion (including Derek). "What are these currents?" Derek asked. He wasn't sure how (or if) they meant anything to finding Boyd, but having more information about the darach's movements couldn't hurt, especially if they were going to have to redirect their efforts to that problem later.
Peter ducked his head closer to the table to examine part of the map in front of him, apparently paying attention as Chris explained what the currents were, but not asking questions, as though he already knew what they were. He probably did, too, and just didn't feel like sharing. Or his moment to shine with the information hadn't come along yet. Better to appear ignorant of information than a withholder of it. Derek was going to have another Q&A session with his uncle whenever he could manage it. If Peter was going to stick around, then he was going to have to be useful.
"But you don't think they're connected?" Isaac asked. "The alpha pack and the darach?"
"I don't think it's a coincidence that they're all here at the same time, but no, I don't think they're working together. If you've been following the movements of the alpha pack as closely as you say, then I don't see anything that links them," Chris said, his eyes flicking over the map, comparing the marks of the darach's victims and the places the alpha pack were known to have held Boyd, if only for a few days.
"The alpha pack's movements are random," he waved his hand at the markings, "trending towards places where they aren't likely to be noticed by the public. The darach, on the other hand, is methodical, taking and killing with precision at locations coinciding with the currents, as if completing a ritual. If he or she is following the pattern that I believe they are—five symbolic elements, with three sacrifices for each one— then there are four more deaths coming. At least. The darach seems to be gathering power, but the motivation behind it?" Chris shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he trailed off, his features tight with grim weariness.
"If they're not connected, then I don't see how any of this helps us find Boyd," Cora piped up, glancing around accusingly. "The darach isn't our problem, the alpha pack is."
"You might not think so, but remember that there are four potential victims out there. Who's to say one of them isn't in this room?" Chris pointed out.
"We don't know if the darach even knows about us," Cora countered. "What we do know is that the alpha pack has Boyd. Eventually they're going to get tired of moving him around. We need to find him before that happens."
The room was uncomfortably silent for a few moments, the vehemence in Cora's words ringing in everyone's ears before Peter finally chimed in.
"You consult in weapons and security," he said casually, watching Chris closely. "Am I right in saying that you have access to surveillance equipment?"
Hope rose inside Derek at the idea of having a trail the alpha pack's emissary couldn't manipulate (which had been a large part of their problem tracking them, thus far), but the guarded expression on the hunter's face soon squashed it.
"You want a favor?" Chris asked, his tone dubious at best.
Cora leaned forward over the table, resting her hands on it. The position wasn't overly threatening, but the potential was there, and Derek was sure that Chris recognized it. "I thought you were here to help?" Cora asked waspishly.
"I am," Chris affirmed, "just as I helped corral you and Boyd a few weeks ago when you were under the influence of the full moon," he told her. "But you're asking me to actually be involved, to put myself fully into a situation which should have been controlled by now."
Derek bristled at the criticism. Chris made it sound like he wasn't trying to eliminate the problem, but there were only two paths Derek could see: bend to Deucalion's will or fight to save his pack—and he wasn't about to do the first one. One alpha with a mixture of betas and humans going up against a pack comprised entirely of alphas didn't exactly have the greatest of odds in the first place. Frankly, he felt he deserved credit just for trying.
"These aren't betas we're going after, they're alphas", Chris continued, "and if you want me to risk everything to try to track their movements then I'm going to need something in return."
"Something like what?" Peter asked.
"A favor," Chris said, after a brief pause.
"What kind of favor? From who?" Derek asked.
Already, he didn't like the idea. It was too nebulous, too innocent, too full of possibilities, and Derek was caught between a rock and a hard place, not in any position to refuse the hunter's demands. The last thing Derek needed was to have to worry about being stabbed in the back (they had enough to worry about with keeping Peter around).
"From you," Chris said, looking at Derek. "As the alpha, you have the most responsibility here. And you're the only one I'd trust to carry it out. Not now, but sometime in the future. I'll come to you for help and I'll expect it."
"A favor is a small price for our help to get Boyd back," Allison said, her expression as impassive and cold as stone. "When we could get killed trying to do this for you."
She made it sound so simple, but the hard glint in her eyes spoke volumes, how she unhappy she was to be selling their services to the man who had put her mother's suicide in motion (even if she now knew the whole story).
"Don't make this about settling scores," Derek growled. "You won't win." He understood Allison's anger, her pain at losing half of her family, but it was nothing compared to what Derek had lost. What Peter and Cora had lost.
And Laura, he mentally added, though the loss there was wrought by a double-edged sword.
The Hale's had already lost everything. This bitch knew nothing about pain.
"Alright, everybody just calm down," Stiles threw out, making Derek start. Once the bickering began, his attention had managed to shift away from the teen. If only for a little while.
"You can argue all night long about who owes who, but that's not gonna change anything and it's sure as hell not gonna fix our problems right now," Stiles emphasized. "Either of them. Okay? So let's just agree that both of your families have done some really messed up stuff," Stiles's eyes paused the longest over Peter, who just raised a brow in challenge, "and everyone's suffered from it. Pecking at each other won't make it all better so if we could try to move on a little bit here, that would be great."
The whole group stared at Stiles, their expressions ranging from awkward acceptance to open hostility to just plain disbelief (Derek's being in the last category).
The teen had a point, though. This meeting had been about saving Boyd and had somehow devolved into a battle of pride and old resentments (some older than others), ultimately getting nowhere. As much as Derek wanted to lead his pack with a cry for blood, Stiles's logic rang true.
It wouldn't bring his mother back, or any of the other Hales killed in the fire. It wouldn't bring back Allison's mother and aunt. If they kept on this endless hunt for retribution, the rift would only grow between the survivors and stifle any future alliances.
And the next casualty would be Boyd.
"I'm in if you are," Derek offered, ignoring the affronted and sour looks from Cora and Peter, respectively. Like Chris had said, Derek was the alpha of his pack. He would take the responsibility of the first step. And make sure the others fell in line behind him.
"So are we," surprisingly came from Allison, not her father, the rumored Argent matriarchy apparently still in full swing. "As long as you hold up your end when we need it."
"Fine," Derek said, as neutrally as he could. He wasn't eager to be in the Argents' debt, but he didn't have much of a choice, not if he wanted to save Boyd. Or his battered, half-assed excuse of a pack.
"Great," Lydia said, clapping her hands together as she smiled at those gathered around the table, her annoyance evident in the show of faux optimism. "Think we can get this train back on track, now?"
It was another hour before they had anything resembling a concrete plan (or at least a plan that everyone could agree on). There was more arguing and a few insinuations that threatened to bring the pot to a boil again, but Stiles played mediator well enough that any spat was negated before things got bloody.
Derek appreciated the help. Stress and exhaustion had thinned out his patience, forcing him to bite his own tongue against a cutting retort more than once. If he'd had to referee for both sides, it's hard to say who he'd have snapped at first, Peter or Allison.
Thankfully, it hadn't come to that and they had developed a plan they could set in motion as early as tomorrow night.
With the Argents and the alpha pack living in the same building, Chris and Allison could easily set up a few discreetly placed wireless cameras in the lobby and around the perimeter to get a basic direction of everyone's movements.
Part of the problem in tracking them via scent had been the alpha pack's emissary. It had taken Derek and the others longer than he'd like to admit to realize that, somehow, Morrell was altering the scent trail, driving Derek's pack one way only for it to come to an abrupt stop once they were well off course, all traces of it disappearing.
Directly spying on them had failed as well because they always seemed to know when Derek or one of the betas was watching, waiting for them to slip up and lead the way to Boyd. But, during these times, the alpha pack would just stay in or do mundane things like, go to the store or grab takeout at a nearby restaurant.
It was infuriating, a slap in the face meant to show Derek and his pack who really had the upper hand in this game.
But it was high time that the rules changed.
Once the cameras established a direction, Chris would then be able to utilize his existing web of clients, spread out all over town, to follow the alpha pack's movements via his pre-existing camera systems. And even if surveillance web failed to find them, they still will have narrowed down the possibilities to a handful of gaps, rather than Derek and the others having to scour the whole damn town.
Derek wondered if the hunter's initial reluctance was from having to reveal one of the more sensitive weapons in his arsenal. He had a feeling that Chris was already doing something like this, using his work to spy on locations coinciding with the Telluric currents to try to catch the darach. Or maybe to spy on potential threats.
Like Derek.
Or Peter, even.
After pointing out how Chris could help them, Peter had gone quiet, watching rather than getting involved, like he was assessing the new information.
Or confirming old suspicions.
Derek knew where Peter's apartment was (knew about it, but had yet to actually visit it) and he vaguely remembered that some of the nearby businesses employed cameras aimed outside. He wondered how many—if any—of them had been installed by Chris Argent, if this was why his uncle's gaze had then flicked over the map with closer scrutiny than he had so far.
Most of the arguing had been about who should be on duty where and at what times, with interjections from Chris about school attendance when the betas (and humans) were brought up. His discontent about using the minors during the day was brittle, a half-hearted attempt to act responsible, if only for Allison, but in the end even Chris bent to the logic that 3 adults (an alpha, a beta, and a human) alone would have much less of a chance at cornering an equal number of full-on alphas than if they included a few underage werewolves. The underage humans, however, were forced out of the equation almost entirely, the exception being Allison, who was far more trained than either Lydia or Stiles could hope to be, given the situation.
It was a point that Stiles had spent a good amount of time railing against.
"But I can help," Stiles had stressed (almost whined, actually). "I can be another set of eyes and call if I see anything. And I can make barriers with mountain ash. Derek, you saw it. Tell them I can do stuff." The teen had rounded on him expectantly, giving Derek full eye contact for the first time since that morning, desperation coming off him in waves. "Come on, if Scott's watching over his mom in the hospital, you're gonna need some who knows what to look for. I can do this," he pleaded.
But the idea of including Stiles in their active plan would mean exposing him to the alpha pack, endangering him, something Derek was unwilling to do. He would never forgive himself for getting the teen hurt—or killed—on his watch when he could do something to prevent it for a change. Then there was Stiles's father and Scott, who would blame him for not doing all he could to keep Stiles out of it.
As for Stiles…
Well, this was just going to have to be one more transgression of Derek's in the Stiles's eyes. Because like hell if Derek was going to let his burden become Stiles's when the teen couldn't fully handle it.
"I know," Derek said, hating how Stiles's face lit up at having been agreed with. "But that's why I need you to take Scott's place at the hospital." The hope and eagerness in Stiles's eyes dimmed and Derek hated himself for it, even though it was probably the only full-proof way of keeping the teen safe and alive.
He couldn't hate Derek if he was dead.
"We can't manipulate mountain ask like you can," Derek said, trying to soften the blow he'd dealt to the teen's ego. "She'd be safer with you there with a ring of ash around her than if it were just Scott. Especially if Deucalion decides to gun for her while she can't defend herself." Not that she could do much even if she wasn't bedridden. "I need you at the hospital. You're the best defense Melissa has. And not just for me, but for Scott. Scott needs you to do this," Derek threw in at the last moment, using the 'best friend' card in an effort to make this less about what Derek wanted.
He could tell by the way Stiles's expression closed off, by the anger and hurt pouring off of him, that the teen hated every aspect of the idea, of being shunted away from the main battle stage because of what he was, of what he couldn't do, and Derek felt helpless, having no way to console Stiles, because it was like Peter said—without Derek giving Stiles the bite, the teen was vulnerable. But biting him wasn't an option for Derek, so that left him in the awkward position of having to let Stiles down yet again, having to willfully damage the tenuous relationship they had left.
Derek's hands were tied.
Thankfully, Stiles didn't fight him any further on it, doing little more than biting out a terse "fine", before settling into a sulky silence, seeming to hunch in on himself a bit. Which was good, because Derek wasn't sure how strong his resolve would have kept had the teen really pushed the matter.
Glancing around the table to take stock of things, Derek's eyes met Peter's. His uncle's face shifted swiftly to impassiveness, whatever emotion on it vanishing too quickly for Derek to interpret it. Uneasiness swelled within Derek, but Peter remained quiet and feigned interest in the map again, the spitting image of benign curiosity.
No one else seemed to find anything odd so Derek did his best to shrug off the paranoia scuttling around in the back of his mind and got back to confirming everyone's assigned Beacon Hills section, who would be rerouted where depending on what direction the alpha pack took. Lydia, who would be safe in the Argent's apartment monitoring the camera feed and would essentially be their eyes during the operation, took down everyone's phone numbers (even Peter's) so that she could move them around like pieces across a chess board when the alpha pack changed guards.
She seemed pleased with her role, though she was careful to school her features to a muted level of determination, sending apologetic glances to Stiles that went unnoticed as he stared blankly at the map.
Then there was nothing left to do until tomorrow. The Argent's and Lydia would start working on camera displacement and making arrangements to remotely commandeer surveillance systems around town tonight, but the main planning was done, the only thing really left was filling Scott in on the plan.
The Argent's left first, Isaac following soon after when he seemed to realize that there was no reason for him to stay, Derek having kicked him out weeks ago for his own protection. The scent of resentment and sadness trailed behind the teen, evoking the same feelings inside Derek, but with Deucalion's demand that Derek kill one of his pack still in effect, Derek could do nothing but let Isaac go.
He was safer with Scott right now, anyway–and as it was, Derek doubted Isaac would come back even if asked, having stooped so low to make him leave in the first place. It was yet another mistake Derek needed to rectify once he could breathe freely again, something on the backburner until the threat of Deucalion and his pack were gone.
Stiles, though, hadn't been directly threatened and probably wouldn't be touched unless Deucalion wanted to send an even crueler message (to keep a pack free of the weakness of humans), but so far there had been nothing, just the order to kill off the betas. For Derek, this alone was enough to tie his insides with knots, but if the alpha's unseeing eyes were to turn to the human's loyal to Derek's cause, nothing good would come of it.
Hopefully, once Boyd was safely out of their clutches, the alpha pack would focus their anger solely on Derek and overlook his more vulnerable allies, see the humans as little more than flies.
Hopefully.
Hope was about all Derek had left as, one by one, those he had tentatively considered friends were forced away from him. Or walked away on their own, as Stiles was doing now, without a word to the Hales still standing around the table.
After allowing Stiles to get halfway across the loft, Derek pushed away from the table, not looking at either Peter or Cora, and strode after the teen, his long strides carrying him to the elevator doors by the time Stiles had the button pressed.
"Stiles," Derek said, placing a hand on his shoulder. The teen jerked, giving a startled squawk, the rattling of the elevator having masked Derek's approach. The reaction strengthened Derek's resolve to keep Stiles out of tomorrow's hunt. Stiles could be pinned and gutted by one of the alphas before he could bat an eye. He belonged behind a ring of mountain ash, not out in the open where claws could reach him.
"What?" Stiles sighed resignedly, glancing furtively at the elevator doors. It was obvious he wanted out, that he didn't want to talk about his crap assignment (or maybe even his episode from that morning), but Derek needed to verify that he was okay, that he wasn't going to go home and fall to pieces and be as much a danger to himself as the alpha pack was. And Derek only had seconds to do that, when his words would be covered from prying ears by the loud mechanical clanks and screeching.
"I'm sorry," Derek said quickly, his voice low, and Stiles's eyes went wide at the apology, "I know you want to help, but I can't ask you to get any closer to this. I need to know that at least one of us will be safe tomorrow night when shit hits the fan."
Derek didn't think it was possible, but Stiles's eyes got even wider, his mouth going slack for a moment. A mixture of confusion, guilt, and anger came off the teen in waves, but the latter seemed to be dissipating, replaced by some other emotion that Derek found hard to pin down. Happiness? No, that didn't quite match. Something like satisfaction? Calmness?
Regardless, the lack of negativity in it was comforting and he clung to that knowledge like it was a lifeline, proof that he could still reach Stiles when the teen seemed so far away.
Just when Stiles was about to respond, the elevator doors slid open, distracting the teen. For a moment, all they did was stand there, looking at each other awkwardly, before Stiles was moving forward into the compartment. "I get it," he said, sounding tired and sad as he pushed the button for the ground floor. "It's fine, dude. Be careful." And then the doors closed around him, carrying him down, down, down, leaving Derek standing by himself, aware of Peter and Cora's eyes trained on him, watching.
Derek made sure to steel himself, to wipe his face clean of emotion and center himself before rejoining his family at the table to help clear away the detritus of their planning, because he honestly didn't things were 'fine'.
Nothing about any of this was fine at all.