Title: The Cleaner
Author: JenF
Chapters: 1 of 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Derek Hale, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
A/N: This is my first Teen Wolf fiction. I haven't quite got the characterisation right yet but I'm working on it. This is a stand alone, one shot. Enjoy.
Stiles Stilinski
The name rolls off his tongue and echoes round the empty room.
Stiles Stilinski
It's not his fault, he tells himself. He's simply serving a higher cause. If it weren't him, someone else would do it. The boy has brought this on himself really. He can't be held to blame for what he has to do.
Stiles Stilinski has to pay for what he's done, what he's still doing, what he might do in the future.
The school day has ended and he's watching Stiles like a hawk. The rest of the school population has faded into obscurity in his mind, the chattering and laughter simply a backdrop to the main feature.
Scott McCall is there. He always is. He wonders sometimes if there's something more than friendship there but it doesn't really matter. If Scott gets in his way, he'll just deal with him. Yes, he knows his true nature, knows the werewolf that lies beneath that innocent exterior. And he knows how to overcome that little problem – he's known enough hunters to have picked up a few tips along the way.
On balance though, he decides as he fingers the packet of wolfsbane in his pocket, it'll be easier to wait until Stiles is alone. He's waited this long, he can wait another couple of hours. He knows the boy will head home sooner or later; he knows the Sheriff is on nights this week; he knows Derek Hale will call Scott to the woods later to continue his training; he knows Stiles will be alone.
So he takes his time, follows the two boys out of school, watches from the sidelines as they talk and laugh and finally, finally, go their separate ways.
He knows Beacon Hills well, knows all the alternate routes to get to Stiles' home. He gets there before the boy, opening the door of the house silently and readying himself for what he knows is to come.
The boy won't be expecting anyone here. He's confident he's got the element of surprise, the advantage of speed and the benefit of strength. Stiles Stilinski doesn't stand a chance.
He waits patiently in darkened hallway, gathering his thoughts, running through his plan one last time. He'd considered ending it all here but that would be too easy. He takes pride in his work and, surprising though it seems, he has a deep found respect for the Sheriff. He doesn't want the man to find his son in their home. He knows the man has suffered enough loss and he wants him to still have one place he can feel safe and secure in.
The irony sits in his stomach as he smiles dryly. Then there is the sound of the door opening and he stiffens in preparation.
Stiles doesn't turn the light on – although outside is still dusk, the house itself is in darkness. He supposes the boy doesn't need to see what he knows so well. Or what he assumes he knows so well.
Sneakers quiet on the wooden floor, he creeps up behind the teenager and, in a move more calculated than any he's ever made before, he snakes his arm around Stiles' neck, yanking the boy backwards so he's flush against his chest.
One hand over the boy's mouth, moving his other hand down his body, pinning his arms to his side, holding firm and steady against the futile struggles, he pulls Stiles towards the door.
"If you struggle," he hisses, "I'll kill you here. If you come quietly, your father won't have to find you in pieces in his kitchen. Your choice."
He didn't know if this approach would work but he's done his research on this kid. His weaknesses? His family and his friends. But mostly his family. It seems his research was on the spot. Stiles ceases his struggles but doesn't help either.
On some level he feels a grudging admiration as the teenager lets himself go limp, making him take the boy's weight and drag him the rest of the way down the path and out to where he's left his truck. He decides he's not going to get Stiles in the truck voluntarily, that this is probably as far as he can rely on the kid walking by himself. He knew he brought the chloroform for a reason.
He's starting to worry. It's been a couple of hours now and he thought the boy would have regained consciousness by now. Maybe he miscalculated the dosage required. Stiles is, after all, considerably skinnier up close than he thought.
Still, he muses, it gave him time to arrange things just so. The boy is securely restrained with ropes and propped up in the corner. The daylight has faded completely but he's not worried about being found. He chose this cabin for a reason – it's far away from Beacon Hills' prying eyes and just close enough to Derek Hale's place to be a temptation without putting himself in any serious danger.
Oh, and the ring of mountain ash round the structure helps.
He turns to the table, the only piece of furniture in the room, and turns up the oil lamp. He can feel the chill of the night seeping through the wooden walls and is grateful for the grey hoodie he picked out this morning.
He inspects the array of implements on the table, picking up one item after the other, feeling the weight of each, turning it in his hand before replacing it and moving on to the next item.
A stifled groan from the corner attracts his attention and he turns to look at Stiles. In the dim glow of the oil lamp the boy looks unforgivingly young. Part of him wavers at the sight of him. He's never dealt with a problem this young before and he wonders if this will be any harder or easier because of it. It suddenly hits him that Stiles is just a child and somewhere there's probably a code, or at least guidance, for situations like this.
But just as he's beginning to doubt himself, Stiles opens his eyes and lets loose a string of profanities that he's obviously been holding back for some time, possibly his whole life.
He lets the obscenities wash over him, turning to gaze at his captive. For the first time he looks at Stiles. Really looks. He knows what he should see but somehow he finds it hard to reconcile the human pack member he's been told about with the frightened boy at his feet. Because Stiles is frightened. He's trying his best to hide it and that, at least, deserves respect. But the boy is scared and confused and he's clearly trying to bluster his way through it.
Turning back to the table, he runs his eye over his choices. His hand reaches out, almost of its own volition, and selects a blade. It's smooth and warm in his hand and the steel catches the light of the lamp in a strangely beautiful way.
Stiles, he notes, has fallen silent and when he looks at him, he can see the teenager is transfixed by the weapon. He scrabbles pointlessly backward until his back is pressed into the corner and he can go no further. There is no escape and they both know that.
The words, when they come, are so quiet he's not quite sure he's heard them at all.
"Why are you doing this?"
He stands above Stiles and wonders what he had been expecting. Anger? Defiance? Bravado? He's heard about Stiles' incessant talking and apparent inability to be still. But looking at the boy now it's as if his research was on a different person altogether. He thinks he probably owes him an explanation but he doesn't know whose benefit he would be doing it for – Stiles or himself.
"Why?" Stiles repeats, voice cracking, eyes wide and unblinking.
"You're an abomination," he says, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice. He hadn't been expecting that. "You keep the wrong company and it's only a matter of time before you become a monster yourself. I think you might already be one."
Stiles closes his eyes and seems to be thinking about that.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. We can work that out."
He wants to laugh. How does this child think he's going to talk his way out of this. He bends down so his face is mere inches away from Stiles. He can feel the fear radiating off him, can see the tiny tremors wracking his body and he can hear the boy's breathing speeding up.
Before he knows it, the knife is under Stiles' chin, pressing into the soft flesh there hard enough to leave a red mark but not enough to draw blood. Not yet.
"There's no working out to be done," he replies, each word colder than the one before. "There's only one way this is going to end."
Stiles takes a shallow breath and looks him directly in the eye. "They'll find me," he states.
"Probably," he agrees. "But they won't be in time."
"Are you just going to kill me then?"
"What would that achieve?" he questions, knowing there is logic in what Stiles is saying. He had considered it but then there would be no message to be sent to the pack.
"Well," Stiles answers, "you'd be rid of me quickly, you wouldn't get your hands dirty, you'd have time to get away, you'd…" he stops suddenly as though he's just realised he's giving all the wrong reasons to keep him alive. "But, you know, you don't have to do any of that. I can just go. I won't say anything to anyone. You can go back wherever you came from and I'll just go home, make my dad dinner, watch some TV. You know. Normal kid stuff."
Now this? This is more what he'd been expecting from Stiles Stilinski. This is what he'd been told to expect from the kid who doesn't know when to stop talking. He smiles and pushes a little harder on the knife. Stiles drops into silence again, swallowing thickly against the blade.
"I could do that, Stiles," he says. "Or I could make sure that Scott and Derek and all the other members of your pack know that humans are off limits. That they should be looking out for themselves because they're next."
"So you're a hunter?"
He tilts his head and lets the knife fall away from Stiles' throat. Instead he trails it down the side of Stiles' face, letting the blade's edge slice through fragile skin to leave a trail of bright red blood in its wake.
"No." He shakes his head as he watches the blood trickle down the face before him. "No. I'm a cleaner."
"A cleaner? What the hell is a cleaner?" Stiles jerks his head away, knocking it against the wall in the process. He finds it hard not to laugh at this lack of coordination. He wraps his free hand in the soft fabric of Stiles' hoodie and pulls the boy forward.
"A cleaner," he starts, "is just what it sounds like. I clean up the mess the hunters leave behind. And you – you're a mess the Argents left behind."
He stands abruptly, pulling Stiles with him. He's annoyed that the boy seems to need help to remain upright without swaying. Next time, he thinks, he'll be far more careful with his medicinal calculations.
Stiles raises his bound hands and swipes at the blood on his face, smearing it across his cheek and down his chin. He smiles weakly.
"For a cleaner you're making a hell of a mess," he huffs, looking at the blood now covering his hands.
"I clean up messes," he reminds the boy. "You're a mess."
"Don't I know it," Stiles sighs, and he wonders if he was meant to hear that.
But it doesn't matter because he is a cleaner and he will leave Beacon Hills pristine and sparkling. He'll start with Stiles Stilinski because he has no business being part of a pack of werewolves and god knows what else. He's a human and he shouldn't even know of these things but not only does he know, he helps them. And as a cleaner, he can't have that.
A sudden rush of rage courses through his body and his fist makes contact with the boy's face before he even realises he's done it. He hears the cry of pain and watches as Stiles falls to the floor, eyes wide and shocked. He watches as the blood on his cheek is joined by blood from a split lip. He's fascinated by Stiles' tongue, peeking out through his lips, dabbing at the injury.
Now first contact has been established he's finding it hard to hold back. A swift kick in the ribs, toppling Stiles over, is followed by another to the boy's back. He drops the knife and hauls Stiles into an upright position, backhanding him violently, sending the teen's head back into the wall with a satisfying crack.
It's laughable, he thinks, how the boy tries to defend himself, raising his bound hands up to his face, trying to protect his head. His legs are scrabbling at the floor, trying to find purchase. He's failing.
He grabs the bound hands and pulls hard, hard enough to dislocate a shoulder and the accompanying scream lets him know he's managed it. His training didn't just include cleaning, it included the cleanest ways to hurt, to gain information, to achieve his aims.
He looks down at Stiles and sees a mess to be cleared up.
Turning his back on the quivering body on the floor, he returns to the table. He runs his hands lovingly over the items on top, relishing the feel of the guns, the smoothness of the knives and daggers before letting his hand rest on a syringe. He caresses the cylinder containing the clear liquid. It's cool and its weight feels good in his hands.
He lifts it upright, tapping out any air bubbles. He almost laughs as he does so. The drug will kill the boy so why worry about air bubbles?
Stiles has rolled onto his back and is making strange noises. He knows the boy is trying to hold back tears. They both know his time is up and as he advances, Stiles seems to go limp. Maybe, he muses, he's given up, realised he can't win.
Crouching down next to him, he takes hold of the boy's hoodie, lifting him off the ground.
"They didn't come for you," he sympathises. "They don't care for you or about you. This is for the best."
"They'll come," Stiles gasps. "They'll always come for me."
"Werewolves can't get past mountain ash," he tells Stiles. He doesn't know why he says that. Is he trying to comfort the boy, or torment him, or reassure himself?
It doesn't matter now though. He pulls up the sleeve of Stiles' hoodie and checks the syringe one last time.
"Werewolves can't," comes a voice from behind him. "But we're not all werewolves. And Stiles is right. We'll always come for him."