The Rain on the Fire

by Kindre Turnany

When Watchtower's former leaders start acting up, Stiles and Derek return by choice to regain control.

1. Monster

Trigger Warning for self harm in the first chapter. See end notes for brief description.

The title for this story comes from "Momentum" by The Hush Sound.

Beta'd by Chiomi! All remaining mistakes are my own, in some cases because she told me what was correct, but I said, "No!" in exactly the voice a petulant child would.

This is Part Four of Watchtower. Previous installments: This Is Not Our Fate, Shouting Back to the Night, We Will Take it Back.

One: Monster

Stiles woke screaming and restrained. His feet kicked wildly but found no purchase against the mattress and bedding. With one hand, he clawed at the arm pulled solidly against his chest, and with the opposite arm he jabbed an elbow backward. His attacker released Stiles with a grunt. Stiles twisted his body to slide one arm under his pillow for the switchblade hidden there. He had the blade open almost before it was out from under the pillow. He turned, gripping it, ready for another attack to find only a placating hand, raised several feet back from the bed, the distance gained while Stiles armed himself. Stiles focused on the man behind the hand and recognized his father. A trail a sweat slid over his temple as Stiles watched.

Not an attacker. His father.

Stiles dropped the blade, narrowly missing his own foot. He'd almost gutted his father. Stiles gasped, mouth gaping, trying to pull in air and catching only the barest tendrils. Derek was supposed to wake him from a nightmare. Derek was strong enough to restrain Stiles, patient enough to wait out his panic. Derek trembled now if Stiles accidentally brushed a hand across his arm reaching for the ketchup. Derek wasn't here now.

With a strangled mix of a sigh and a gasp, the sheriff dropped his hands and stepped forward. "Stiles," he said. "It's okay, Stiles. It's me. You're okay. You're safe."

Stiles nodded. It wasn't his safety he was worried about. He'd have to lock his door, keep his father out. What if Stiles had been faster? If he'd already been clutching the knife? He needed to sleep when his father was at work. Being the sheriff was a full-time job and then some. Stiles barely maintained a regular sleep schedule anyway. This might actually be easier.

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I didn't mean to scare you. You're safe. It's just me." His voice stayed soft, the voice you'd use to calm a frightened animal, a wolf with its leg caught in a trap. Tranquilizers would serve the wolf better, stop it from biting through its own leg or the hand of the person trying to free it.

The room was dark, lit only by the hall light Stiles' father must have turned on before entering his son's room. The streetlight out front was broken, the bulb smashed out in a fit of rage after a night of carefully not touching Derek or looking at him too hard. No light came in that way. Stiles' father stood almost silhouetted with just enough ambient light to make out his still-wide eyes and eyebrows raised in worry.

"You're safe, Stiles." He kept saying that. Why did he keep saying that?

Stiles pulled in air in tiny gasps. His fists clenched the sheets around him, desperate not to touch the knife again, not to point it at his own father. His eyes, wider even than his father's, darted from window to open doorway. Escapes, both useless. The sheets had shifted as he tensed and grabbed them, pulled the switchblade back toward the foot it barely missed before. He needed to close it before it cut something, but when Stiles reached for it, his hands shook. He sliced his foot trying to protect it.

Oh, Stiles realized, I'm still having a panic attack.

Two hands wrapped gently, but firmly, around the hand he still clutched the switchblade in. Stiles nearly screamed again and slashed out with it, but he couldn't get the air. He had to breathe to fight. He had to fight to breathe.

"It's okay, Stiles. Let go. You're safe now. Just let go."

Stiles didn't so much let go as suffer a muscle spasm in his hand. It worked about the same. His father took the blade away before he could do any more damage. He closed it and tossed it into the hall. Automatically, Stiles made a mental note that there was a weapon in the hall; he could grab it as he passed.

"Do you know where you are?"

That was different from before. A question. Stiles couldn't answer a question if he couldn't breathe. But he was breathing now, in deep gulps. There had been something. A nightmare.

"Stiles, do you know where you are?"

"Home. My room." His throat constricted around the words. He was safe. Safe-ish.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Of course I—"

"Just answer the question."

"Dad."

His father sighed in relief and ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I'll be more careful next time."

Stiles twitched his shoulders. He'd had nightmares sometimes before and woken to his father holding him. It had been fine. He hadn't kept weapons under his pillow before. "Next time," Stiles said bitterly, "Stay outside the room and pound on the door until I stop trying to kill you."

"You didn't—"

"I really did."

"Well, you didn't mean to."

"Oh, yes, sorry, Judge, I murdered my father on accident. It's okay because I didn't mean to." Stiles sneered. "One minute I was sleeping, and the next his intestines were just spilling over my hand."

"Stiles," his father warned.

Stiles scrubbed his hands through his hair and tried to think of a way to take it back. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"The nightmare, genius."

Stiles shook his head. "I don't remember it." He could almost feel it, like a word on the tip of his tongue or an afterimage from staring too long at the sun.

"Any chance you'll get back to sleep?"

"Not a hope in hell."

His dad nodded. "Me neither. Let's take care of that foot."

Stiles tried not to look dangerous while his dad bandaged his foot. He got the feeling his father was doing the same.

~.x.~

Stiles wiggled his foot a little, wincing at the pain. It was healing so slowly. It would have been better by now back when he'd been bonded to Derek, not fully closed maybe, but less painful anyway. He was working on a way to heal faster, but there was only so much he could do with Derek unwilling to bond again.

Lydia snapped her fingers about an inch from his nose. "Stiles, are you even listening?"

"Um." He considered lying, but Lydia was the type to make him prove it. "Sorry."

She sighed. Allison leveled a look at Stiles over Lydia's shoulder that would have sent wiser men running. The three of them were arranged on Lydia's bed because someone whose first name rhymed with 'cot' and whose last name rhymed with 'all' thought Stiles spent all his time either holed up alone in his room or bothering Derek. Just because it was true didn't mean they had the right to make him stop.

"I'm just... not going to college, so I don't have much to say."

"Why not? You got your GED." Lydia raised her eyebrows like fucking college was a reasonable plan for Stiles.

"It's not like you have to decide right away," Allison said, this time with a more subtle look for Lydia. "We're talking about next year or the year after. Scott's not willing to transfer to a university out of Beacon Hills until he knows someone is protecting the town, and that's if we decide to leave at all."

"And if we can agree on where to go," Lydia added. "We have some pretty variable academic preferences."

"Which is why we're looking at larger cities with multiple universities." Allison worded it to fit with Lydia's sentence but her tone sounded more like a reminder or correction. Stiles got the feeling they'd covered all of this while he spaced out.

"Wouldn't they have established packs too? Do they get territorial?" Stiles asked.

Allison said, "Derek says it's normal for packs to coexist. They just have to agree on terms at the outset instead of waiting until one side angers the other."

"Oh, you talked to Derek too."

"Yes."

Stiles bit his lip. He wanted to say something cruel because apparently Derek talked to them freely but mostly stared at Stiles without saying a word unless it was at his expense.

Lydia pointed a finger at Stiles. "He dropped out too you know. Maybe he could finish too."

Stiles scowled. "I didn't drop out. I was kidnapped, tortured, and forced to kill to survive. Not much time for classes between gladiatorial bouts." Actually there was plenty of time for classes, but he'd been kept in a cell instead. "Besides, do you remember what happened last time I went to the mall, which everyone assured me would be a lot less stressful than trying to finish high school was and is certainly less stressful than college would be?"

The girls winced at that. He'd had a panic attack, then tried to attack the mall security guy when he asked if he could help. Scott had been there to hold him back, at least, but Stiles was politely asked not to come back until he'd gotten help. Lots of help.

"You could take online classes," Lydia offered.

Stiles ground his teeth.

"When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes. Allison couldn't just change the topic and think he'd forget what they were trying to get from him.

"I wanted to be a cop like my dad."

"Do you still want that?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well, I'm a criminal, for one. Just because I'm not convicted of anything doesn't mean I haven't broken the law."

"You were a criminal before. It didn't bother you then."

"And even if it went to court, you wouldn't be convicted. You know that," Lydia said while Allison nodded in agreement.

"Ah, yes, the good old self-defense claim."

"Stiles." Allison was giving him the stern look people did when they said his name and meant it for admonishment instead of getting his attention.

"I don't like school," Stiles snapped, tired of their games. "I don't like discipline. I don't like people. I don't like tests. I don't like going places or doing things. If you hadn't dragged me over here right now, I would probably be sitting in the dark in my bedroom doing nothing at all. That sounds like a good day to me. Maybe I'd look up some bullshit online or visit Derek. At most." Honestly, how bad of a self-pity party would it take to drive these two off?

"We know." Lydia raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips to make it clear Stiles idea of a good day was a very bad idea of a good day.

"And you don't need me to go with you to leave town for college. I've still got my dad." And Peter, and probably Derek because, honestly, Stiles couldn't see Derek going away to school. "We could probably watch the town for you anyway. He's literally the sheriff, and what are the odds of Beacon Hills never actually having a break?"

"Damn high," Allison said, no hesitation. "It's literally a beacon drawing the supernatural here."

"Not all of them are evil."

"Not all of them are good," she countered.

"The only reason you don't know about the monsters coming through town," Lydia added, "is that we don't tell you anymore."

Stiles' right eye started twitching. It did that sometimes.

"We told you about the nemeton." Some dumb magic tree that was probably a little evil. "Did we tell you what we did to stop the darach using it?" Stiles would have answered Allison, really, but he was trying to remember if 'darach' referred to the alpha pack leader or the evil druid. He thought the wolf called himself the Demon Wolf (maybe in all caps instead of just initial ones), so that left the serial killing evil magic lady who his father had tried to arrest.

Lydia snapped in front of his face again. "Stiles, pay attention for once."

He sneered. "Scott said you did some weird ritual to find the tree so you could save your parents, who the darach had kidnapped for sacrifices." Their parents, Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, and Natalie Martin, most of whom had already known about the supernatural.

"It was more than a ritual. We killed ourselves. Drowned ourselves in tubs of ice water to take our parents' place as sacrifices, and we almost didn't make it back." Lydia seemed a little peeved Stiles didn't care more about the time she died. He was pretty sure she'd been nearly strangled by the darach too, unless he was mixing up his bad guys again.

"We gave the nemeton power again," Allison continued for her. "Real power, not the trickle it'd been getting from the darach. And it left a mark in us too, a darkness around our hearts. Maybe it's not the same as yours, but we still feel it, all of us, every day."

Oh, god, he'd gotten in trouble with Allison by ignoring everyone else's problems and focusing on his own obnoxious angst. Again. He opened his mouth, shut it, and the girls looked at him like that had been the right decision.

"So," Allison said in the tone of one starting anew, "If you don't want to be a cop anymore, what do you want now?"

Stiles shrugged.

Lydia arched an eyebrow. "No plans whatsoever for the rest of your entire life? Not even anything as simple as getting Scott to watch Star Wars?"

Stiles bit his lip, mentally told his hands to sit fucking still, and shrugged again. "I like staying not dead, I guess."

"What about Derek? You're still hoping to win him back, right?"

Stiles nodded.

"So Derek's Boyfriend is the most you want out of life anymore?"

Stiles tried to find the right words to explain that it wasn't so much that he wanted nothing as that he couldn't have anything anymore. His friends believed all he needed to do was decide to be normal again, and it would happen. But it wasn't that simple. Watchtower would come for him again. Maybe they'd even look like a friend when they did it. Maybe they'd look like Cat or Setter or Gregson, all of whom Stiles actually thought he could trust, though not as far as he would trust pack. Cat was pack now. He could trust her, at least.

"There is something I want," Stiles said, feeling the grin spread. It had been a mask once. "I want to be the man who burns Watchtower to the ground."

"And after that?" Allison brushed aside his strongest goal like dust. "Who do you want to be then?"

Stiles shook his head. "All I want to be is fire. When I'm done burning them, I'll find someone new." Maybe that explained why he was so bad for a man who'd lost his family and his life to fire.

Allison shook her head while Lydia frowned. Stiles laughed. He tried to hold it back for his friends' sakes, but like the grin, it wasn't a mask anymore. He couldn't turn it on and off at will. It only made him laugh harder.

~.x.~

Even with multiple visits under his belt, Stiles had to take a breath and steel himself to enter Trick's tattoo parlor, uncreatively called Trick's Ink Treats. There were just so many needles. The idea of all those needles was worse than the reality, but still he paused with his hand on the door. Through the glass he saw Trick inside, rolling their eyes and shaking their head hard enough to bounce their mop of sea green curls. Trick didn't think much more of Stiles' nervousness than they had about his attitude toward the spade they'd inked onto his face. By the time Stiles opened the door and walked inside, Trick had schooled their face to stillness.

Trick waved to the chair. "Sit whenever your nerves have settled but not before. I don't need you jumping around like last time."

"I didn't jump."

"And don't pout." Trick scoffed. "Magic is stronger if you stay focused."

"I'm not pouting," Stiles muttered under his breath. By the eyebrow Trick raised, he guessed they'd heard him anyway.

He shrugged out of his jacket but took his time about it. Eventually, after getting used to his talisman, Stiles had returned for another tattoo, something to replace the healing he'd lost when he broke his bond with Derek. He'd tried to be subtle, asking vague questions and offering vaguer answers, until Trick physically shoved him into a chair and explained exactly how his first tattoo worked to prove they knew what he was after and could help if he'd just admit it. Several of Trick's tattoos had protective powers too because, as they put it, "Humans don't stand a chance in this fucking town without some goddamn supernatural help." Trick had been planting protective charms into ink for local humans for years to defend them, but nothing as powerful as Stiles' talisman. Apparently the power for that came from Stiles.

"Shirt too if you want to finish this thing," Trick called from behind the counter where they'd settled down with a soda. It always took Stiles a while to get ready to be stabbed repeatedly, even when the blades were very tiny and used to transfer ink.

He flipped Trick off and pulled his shirt over his head.

"Good. Now study the ink. You need to imagine it closing as I work."

"Wow, I wouldn't have remembered that if you hadn't said anything."

"I know."

Stiles scowled. He knew exactly what he needed to do today, had been preparing for it since he first returned to Trick's shop. Stiles stepped in front of the mirror and studied his in-progress tattoo, his new talisman. It was a diamond, or the negative space of one outlined by the patterned ink of a watercolor nebula. The lowest point was at his left hip, and the shapes' edge, hard on the inside but flowing unevenly away on the outside stretched across his torso to another point over the ribs on his right side. It was mirrored on his back, with both of those points reaching upward to the final, unfinished point that would be on the left side of his neck. It had the effect of a flat diamond shoved over his body from the left side to wrap over his torso. At first, he hadn't been sure when Trick told him how large an effective healing talisman would have to be, but he'd felt the power seeping in as they worked and almost worried now that they'd made it too small.

"Ready yet?" Trick sipped their soda noisily through a straw Stiles was sure hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Yes, fuck, keep your shirt on."

"Well, duh, you're the only one here who needs their shirt off." Trick furrowed their eyebrows like that was only obvious before falling into a wide grin. "Come and sit already. It's time to finish this."

Stiles took his place while Trick prepped. He closed his eyes long before anything remotely needle-like touched his skin and thought healing thoughts. Trick snorted loudly enough for Stiles to hear, but he felt, through the tattoo, the power of their intent aligning with his.

"Try not to twitch so much every time I touch your neck."

"Fuck you, I'm not—"

"And don't talk. It'll make me miss."

Stiles scowled, but Trick ignored him.

"Focus, Stiles."

At that, Stiles scowled harder. They had been the one to distract him in the first place. He focused again on the talisman, on it healing his future injuries. Without realizing it, Stiles had relied heavily on the improved healing he gained through his bonds with Peter and Derek. From now on, the healing would be of his own power, gained through this new talisman. If it came to fighting and torture again—and in his experience it always came to fighting and torture—Stiles would be prepared to endure, survive, and overcome whatever the Watchtower or anyone else could throw at him. Stiles only realized he'd adopted a twisted grin after Trick stopped glancing at his face.

~.x.~

Stiles had the house to himself. His father had insisted on sharing guard duty over Haha, No even though he worked full-time and overtime to protect the citizens of Beacon Hills. For once, it worked to Stiles' advantage since he needed to test a mostly-healed magical healing tattoo. Trick told him it should have limited power on itself, but it seemed to be healing as quickly as his old tattoo had. He took one of his knives and the first aid kit to the bathroom. If this went wrong, he wanted cleanup to be easy. He stripped down to his boxers for the same reason. Then simple paranoia pushed him to lock the door.

The cut on his foot was healed over completely. He could almost think he'd imagined it during his panic attack if walking hadn't been a pain in the ass—foot?—for days afterward. It was the only recent wound he had other than the tattoo itself. He wanted to test the talisman with something newer, to make sure it worked and determine its limits, within reason.

After setting some cotton swabs, bandages, and antiseptic on the counter where he could reach it, Stiles sat on the closed toilet lid and propped one foot up on the opposite knee. He set the knife against the skin of his ankle and pressed a shallow cut into the skin. Then he watched it, unsure how long healing should take. He tried to think healing thoughts, imagined the wound closing and disappearing.

Maybe the healing only cut a few days off the process. That's how his old power had worked, roughly. Usually. He thought. Or maybe the talisman would only work on deeper wounds. Stiles hesitated, watching the shallow cut in case it healed soon enough to stop him. It didn't, so he ran the knife through his leg an inch higher and much deeper. This time, he grabbed a handful of cotton swabs right away and slammed them against his leg to stem the bleeding. He thought pressure was supposed to relieve pain too. So far as he could tell, it didn't.

"Fucking idiot," Stiles muttered to himself, grabbing the antiseptic from the counter so he could wash the gash he's just made in his leg.

The bleeding had slowed, so Stiles didn't rush to bandage himself, secretly hoping the wound would heal if he waited just a few seconds longer. The first cut looked the same still. Stiles cleaned it. At least the pain had subsided. Stiles wiggled his foot and flinched. The pain returned when the cuts were stretched. He grabbed at his cotton balls to stem the fresh flow of blood before realizing there wasn't one.

Stiles pinched the skin on either side of the deeper cut to push blood out. It hurt but didn't bleed. Stiles grinned. He couldn't tell how long it would take to heal fully, but the talisman was having some effect only moments after he'd been injured.

The front door shut. Stiles hadn't heard it open. "Stiles," his father called up, "you hungry?"

"Shit." Stiles scrambled for bandages, threw the bloodied cotton balls into the trash and shoved fresh toilet paper over them, hoping his father wouldn't notice. He practically leapt into his clothes and flushed the toilet to create an excuse for sitting in the restroom instead of greeting his father. He washed his hands before opening the door.

"There you are," his father said with a smile after Stiles opened the door. He made his way down the hall to stand by Stiles as he exited the restroom. "I convinced Isaac to relieve me a little early tonight so we could go out to dinner. There's a new steakhouse—"

"Salad."

"What?"

"If we go to a steakhouse, old man, you will eat salad."

His dad scowled. "Just because you think you're looking out for my health doesn't mean you get to take all the good things out of life. And for the record, I'm the one who should be looking after your health. Not the other way around."

Stiles paused, thinking. "Steak salad?"

"But it's still so leafy..."

"Side salad."

"Salad's not the healthiest food on the planet you know."

"You're right. Most steakhouses have hamburgers. Do you think they have veggie burgers?"

"I'll get the side salad."

Stiles grinned, and it shouldn't have felt strange for having been honest and happy.

~.x.~

Derek wore a grey sweater with thumb sleeves. Something about the cloth stretching over his hands and his thumbs poking through the holes made Stiles want to hold Derek and tell him everything would be alright. It made him vulnerable and young. Derek rubbed his hands against his legs, and the cloth of his thumb sleeves covered his palms like he was hiding them, like his hands were afraid of Stiles. Derek picked up the remote from the couch cushion beside him and pressed the pause button with his sleeved thumb. The movie paused, and everyone looked to Derek. They—Scott's McCall's pack—were arrayed about Derek's loft to watch a movie because Scott had decided spending time together without almost dying would help them bond. Stiles thought mortal peril made for great bonding.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, instantly concerned, voice soft for Derek like he believed the thumb-sleeve vulnerability even though Derek was still an alpha.

Derek hesitated, eyes darting.

"You wouldn't have paused the entire movie if you didn't want us to know," Lydia said matter-of-factly.

"He's not watching." Derek didn't have to say who he meant. Every eye turned on Stiles, and he wished suddenly Peter counted as part of Scott's pack so he'd have someone there to take his side.

"Of course I am."

"Stiles," Scott said, and his tone made it a warning.

"What? I'm watching." Half watching, half falling asleep while watching Derek's hands. It still counted as watching.

"He keeps looking at me instead." Derek didn't look at Stiles, didn't even speak to him.

"If you want me to stop, then just say so," Stiles spat. "But don't try to act like I can't hear you, like I'm not part of the group you're announcing my actions to while you refuse to acknowledge me directly."

Derek hunched forward in his seat, rubbing the fabric over one sleeved hand with the other. His eyes slid across the floor until they reached Stiles' feet and stopped. "I don't. I just lost track of the movie. I'm not sure where the little green thing came from." He let go of his hand to grab the remote again and rewind to before Luke reached Dagobah.

Stiles sputtered. "Li-little green thing? That's Jedi Grand fucking Master Yoda, not some little green thing. He's one of the most—"

Derek snorted softly and rubbed a hand against the side of his leg.

"You're fucking with me, aren't you?" Stiles said, deadpan.

Instead of answering, Derek hit play.

Lydia leaned closer to Derek to whisper to him. Stiles wasn't sure if she underestimated his hearing or wanted him to overhear her tell Derek, "Maybe if you don't want to date him, you also shouldn't flirt with him."

"He deserves someone giving him shit," Derek answered in a normal voice as he set the remote aside. His eyes never left the screen.

Stiles tried to enjoy the movie, or at least enjoy Scott's reactions to it since this was his first time watching. It wasn't as fun as he would have imagined it, but he thought that was something to do with him, not the movie or his friends. He kept catching himself almost scratching the still-healing cuts on his ankle or nearly falling asleep only to jerk awake and try to scratch the tattoo instead. His phone vibrated, but when he reached for it, Scott caught his arm and gave him a warning look. No phones allowed during movie night. Stiles rolled his eyes.

His phone vibrated again. Scott gave him a look that translated roughly to, "If you answer that phone, I swear I'll tell them all about that time you peed in the pool when we were four."

The phone vibrated. It continued going off until it finally turned into the continuous vibration of a phone call. "Scotty, I don't think they're going to stop."

"You could turn it off."

"How many people outside of this room even have my phone number? I don't have other friends. It's probably important."

"But it's movie night." He looked like a kicked puppy. Only Scott could give a murderer puppy dog eyes and have them work.

Derek intervened with a sigh. "Just let him answer his phone."

Scott threw up his hands in defeat just as Stiles' phone stopped. He pulled it out anyway to find eighteen texts and a missed call from Gregson. When she called again, he answered.

"Why do I have sixteen texts consisting entirely of the word 'sir'?"

"Because you didn't answer the first two that said I needed to speak with you, sir." Gregson sounded calm for someone blowing up his phone as she had been.

"Of course."

"The board is meeting. In secret. They couldn't authorize anything without Smiler, who wouldn't go to them behind your back, so they're on their way here and prepared to claim he knew nothing if someone tells you and No about it."

"What the hell do they want?"

"Not to die would be my guess. They're none too happy with your orders that they enter the arena."

"Didn't No disband the board until they proved themselves or something?" Stiles groaned. He'd asked Gregson to keep him up-to-date on Watchtower's goings-on, but mostly it was a pile of werebullshit.

"That's why they need Smiler. He and Nike won their first match, so No granted them provisionary administrative authority while they figure out how much fighting it takes to prove themselves."

Isaac raised a hand. "Does this sound like gibberish to anyone else?"

"At least you can hear both sides," Danny said.

"Stop listening in on my phone calls then," Stiles snapped. "What are the chances of the board accomplishing anything? And who are the board; is that something I should know?"

"If they reach Smiler with you and No both absent, chances are high. Everyone's terrified of you when you're close, but you've both been away a while now. And when I told you about the board, you weren't paying attention, so sort of. Sir. One has already arrived. The others are due in by morning. Are you coming?"

"Yes." He hung up and turned to Scott, who stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "I need to borrow your prisoner for a field trip," he said.

"Are you kidding?" Scott asked. "That sounds so much like a trap that I think it sounds like a trap."

"I'll have my own security detail. Don't worry."

Allison made her way across the room to join the others by the couch. "Fill in those of us without super hearing. What happened?"

"A bunch of people I took power away from to begin Watchtower's fall have a plan to take the organization's president back to undo what I've done and probably kill me. I need to go stop them, and I need to take Haha, No with me because he's got more sway with those we left behind than I do. If we present a united front, even the former board of directors will probably have no choice but to back down and tell us what a lovely place we have here."

"There is literally no chance of it being that easy," Lydia said. "You said you'd have a security detail. Well, so will they. Their bodyguards will probably have orders to shoot you on sight."

"Kill the Joker and take his place on Watchtower's scariest leaders list," Cat agreed.

Danny raised a hand. "Is everyone forgetting that I've almost finished decrypting those files we launched a full-out assault to steal because I feel like you're all treating this as a serious problem Stiles has to solve when it's not. I've got this. Eventually."

"Which is why," Stiles said, "I've still got to go to stall whatever they're trying to do." Or solve it without Danny since they couldn't know how useful his files were since he couldn't read most of them yet.

"Why is it you want Gregson to defend you instead of us," Derek asked.

Stiles scowled. Once upon a time, Derek would have known better than to ask. Most likely, he still did but chose to ask anyway because he couldn't be bothered to make anything easier on Stiles.

When Scott spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous. "Answer the question, Stiles."

"Because when I'm with you, I like to be Stiles, but if I go there, I'm going to be Joker." He bit off each word. He didn't want his friends to see the monster he'd become.

Lydia began, "Stiles, we've seen—"

"No," Allison cut her off, "I don't think we have." Stiles winced as she continued. "You're not going in there defenseless except for Watchtower agents. You can't risk taking the whole pack in case something goes wrong, but you need at least two of us to watch your back. I assume you'll choose Peter first, so make me the second."

Stiles gaped. So did the others.

"Well?" She asked.

"Um. You don't have—"

"Supernatural powers? I'm a trained hunter. I can take care of myself."

Stiles tried to think of an argument against that but instead just came back again and again to her hunt for Derek. Allison had gone dark side before, looked into herself and found a monster waiting. She wouldn't be afraid of Stiles. She'd come closer than any of the others to understanding him. "Okay," he said at last.

~.x.~

Haha, No's cell had been improved, though it was still in Peter's old warehouse. He had a mattress—memory foam so there wouldn't be any springs he could use as weapons—and bedding, a collection of clothing fashionable enough for his taste and harmless enough for the sheriff's, a plastic tub to hold his clothes, and another plastic tub to hold books and files ranging from fairy tales to Watchtower paperwork. He was only allowed pencils to write with. Peter had even hired a contractor to run enough plumbing for a small bathroom with hanging sheets in place of walls. Metal bars still enclosed the cell, though Stiles thought it was a larger area than before. Haha, No himself lounged on the mattress in an undershirt and pinstriped slacks with a pile of papers by one hand and a pencil spinning in the other. Stiles wondered how he sharpened them.

"I still think you could have built a real cell if we were going to this much effort," Stiles said.

"I don't want him to feel like he can hide anything from us," Scott replied.

"That's what cameras and mind games are for." That's what Haha, No had used on Stiles, anyway.

"We've got those too, but this way there's a breeze."

Haha, No glanced up briefly before turning back to his papers. "What's wrong with your neck, Joker?"

Stiles' hand slapped over the top corner of his new talisman before he realized Haha, No could have simply been goading him. Still, he'd realized Stiles had hidden his neck instantly. Maybe it was too hot for such a high-collared jacket. Or maybe the way Stiles read Haha, No's intent actually worked both ways.

"We have a problem with the board." No point in answering the question, even if Scott looked at him strangely for overreacting. "They think they can get out of their fights if they work with Smiler behind our backs."

"I wondered how long it would take you to work that out."

Stiles' eye twitched. "If you already knew, why didn't you tell me?"

"I just told you I wondered how long it would take you to work out." Haha, No set his papers and pencil aside and sat up with his legs stretching off the mattress in front of him and his feet against the floor.

"Then do you have a plan?"

"Of course."

Stiles waited for him to share. "Well?"

"First, I have a package for you. I think they set it over there." He motioned to a folding table the pack sometimes used to play cards or arm wrestle on when they got bored with guard duty.

"No, plan first."

"It's part of the plan, idiot."

Stiles raised his hands but clenched them uselessly in front of him because he couldn't strangle Haha, No. He stalked to the table and found a red leather jacket spread over it. "This?" He raised it up and noticed the image of a jester's hat tooled into the leather on the shoulder. On the other shoulder was Watchtower's rook.

"Yes, that. Apparently it has too many metal buttons and accents to be allowed near me, so I don't even know if it was made properly."

"What the fuck does a jacket have to do with anything?"

"You're in command now. I need you to look the part."

"For?"

"We're going to go intimidate everyone again. It'll be fun."

"That's your plan? Show up in my pretty new jacket and hope everyone still thinks I'm scary?"

Haha, No raised an eyebrow. It was the eyebrow he used when feeling particularly judgy. "Was your plan any better?"

"Um, no. Except for the jacket, my plan was that exactly. I'd actually sort of hoped you'd have an idea. I called Peter. Maybe he'll think of something by the time he gets here." Stiles fidgeted with the jacket. "Besides, isn't Smiler's face supposed to keep people scared of us? What exactly would I be able to do that scares them better than just looking at him will?"

"Don't forget Wight's face too."

Stiles winced.

"No matter." Haha, No dismissed the faces Stiles had ruined with a wave of his hand. "Check the jacket. It should have partial Kevlar lining, though not in the joints because you need flexibility. The sleeves are designed so you can conceal knives without making your hoodie bunch obviously over them like it is now, and there's a sheath sewn into the back just below the collar so you can keep one there as well. There is supposed to be a light protection charm, more of a luck charm to keep you from being hit than anything else, but Deaton wouldn't tell me if it was present. His exact words were, 'It won't harm Stiles if he decides to wear it,' and he said them to the Sheriff."

Stiles studied the coat. After two talismans, he thought he should have at least a feel for magic, but he detected nothing.

"Deaton says the luck charm is there," Scott said, sliding his phone into his pocket. "He also says the jacket is safe."

"That doesn't mean I want to wear it." Stiles held the thing at arm's length. He didn't want gifts from his arch nemesis.

Scott looked oddly relieved at that.

The warehouse door opened and closed behind them, and Stiles glanced back to see Allison and Peter walking toward him, talking like they weren't sort-of-mortal enemies. Stiles hoped they were planning.

"Because it could shortly be relevant to my survival," Haha, No said, drawing Stiles gaze back toward the cell where he'd moved to lean against the bars. "What's the new talisman do? Is it as fun as the other?"

"It does nothing for you."

"Talisman?" Scott asked. "What talisman? Does he mean the tattoo? Is it magic like the other one?"

Stiles granted Scott a flat stare. "It's a healing talisman. It heals only me, and it's still less effective than your healing."

"Oh, so you've tested it." Haha, No grinned. "Can I see?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes and made a face at Haha, No. "No."

"Yes, I am No."

"I meant, No, fucko, you can't see."

"No knows."

"Oh, God, I hate you." Stiles ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Stiles, stop letting him bait you," Allison said. "We need to talk." Stiles tried to argue that he wasn't letting Haha, No do anything to him, but she spoke over him. "We think you should bond Cat."

"What? No. That's dumb." Stiles tried to convey its dumbness with his face, but by Peter's expression he mostly just made himself look dumb.

"You can benefit a lot from a bond with a werewolf, and it would allow Cat to track you down when this inevitably goes horribly wrong," Peter pointed out.

"There's a lot more involved in magical soulbonds than convenience, okay."

"Is there?" Peter asked. "Because as I recall, we were bonded in a moment when you believed I was going to kill you, had as good as killed Lydia, and would probably very shortly kill the rest of your friends."

"I don't claim to understand what more there is than convenience."

Allison shook her head. "Stiles, you're essentially going in there defenseless."

"No," Stiles growled. "I'm going in there with a hell of a lot more defenses than I've ever had before. I'll have a hunter and a werewolf, a stunning talisman, a healing talisman, an enchanted leather Kevlar jacket piece of shit, my squad of soldiers, my pair of Princes, every bit of training I've had from you and experience from the arena, and I'll be holding the guy supposedly in charge by his neck, all on top of the defense I've had every single time that is really all I need to get in, out, and my enemies dead."

"And what is that?" Allison demanded.

"My pretty smile." He flashed it for her. "It'll be more surprising if they survive than if I do, so kindly fuck off and leave Cat out of this."

Haha, No applauded, so Stiles grinned harshly for him too.

Allison frowned. "This is going to be harder than you think."

"Depends on your definition of hard." Stiles would have to kill at least one of the board to cow the others, he was sure of that much. He'd probably have to force one of them to fight Smiler and Nike too.

"What about Peter?" Even as she spoke, Allison's voice pulled back like she wanted to unsay it.

"What about him?"

"Would you bond him instead?"

Peter turned toward her, "I think—"

"No," Stiles said. "I won't bond anyone." Except Derek, and Derek wouldn't have him.

Though Peter continued facing Allison, he swung his eyes around to glare at Stiles. "As, I was saying, I think it's better we not, given both of our histories of instability, there's too great a likelihood of a self-sustaining downward mental spiral."

"Plus, then it would prove I was right about them, and they can't have that." Derek? Stiles spun his eyes around and found Derek standing just inside the door. He must have slipped in while they were distracted, or at least while Stiles was. With everyone's attention on him, Derek shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and stepped forward to join them. "If you're going back to the Watchtower, I'm going too."

"Derek," Stiles said, "You don't need to—"

"I didn't say I need to," Derek cut him off. "I said I am."

"What would you do that we can't? I didn't need you last time, and—"

"If I'd gone last time, I might have stopped you from mutilating a man's face and becoming one of Watchtower's leaders instead of destroying it. I know you were trying to set something in motion, but it's his agenda, not yours." Derek nodded his head at Haha, No as he spoke. "I might have stopped you from giving him back all but the smallest piece of the power he's ever had in Watchtower. This time, I'll be there to stop you."

"The one we need to stop is Watchtower!"

"You are Watchtower."

Stiles took a step back before he'd realized it. He shook with rage but had nowhere to direct it, no argument to refute Derek. He shrugged into Haha, No's coat and turned his back on Derek. "Unlock the cell," he said. "It's time to go." When Scott hesitated, Stiles stunned him with his spade talisman and took the key himself. Haha, No chuckled as Stiles released him.

~.x.~

Gregson met them in the forest with her full squad, including Setter and Spade. The two stood slightly apart from the others, though the rooks—black for human, white for shifter—on their uniforms set them apart clearly enough anyway. Stiles had ordered them to follow Gregson's orders. Maybe he should have specified joining the squad. He needed his few allies united, not splintered.

"Sir." Gregson saluted. She eyed the others with him momentarily before turning back to Stiles. "They beat you here. They've hard-locked the cells and those corridors with security measures to block prisoner escape routes."

"If they can do that, why didn't they last time I was here?"

"The Sandpit has been significantly remodeled and upgraded in the past months."

"What the hell is a Sandpit?"

"You're standing in front of it. That's the name of this facility."

"Well, it's a stupid name." Stiles bunched his face up like he could block the stupidity of the name that way. "It needs a better name."

"As you say, sir."

"That's what you tell me when I'm full of shit and you're not sure you can say so."

"As you say, sir." Gregson smirked.

Stiles ran a hand over his face. "I assume you told me about all the remodels, and I ignored you."

Gregson hesitated only a moment. "As you say, sir. You can be... distracted."

Stiles chuckled. "As you say, Gregson."

"You said some paths are blocked, but not if there's a way to reach this board or where exactly they are," Peter pointed out.

Gregson shook her head. "Most of the soldiers stationed here aren't sure who to follow, so I don't even know which paths are safe. That's part of why I asked Joker to come. I hate to say it, but I lack his charisma, and that may be the only thing to get us through the halls anymore."

"How many of the board have come?" Haha, No asked. "It's too much for them to present a unified front toward anything, even their inevitable deaths."

"There are five: Felix Lorrain, Brenna Dorian, Cormac Flynn, Yukio Jackson, and John Mortimer."

Haha, No swore.

Gregson continued. "As I understand it, the others have already been killed except for President Smiler himself and Delilah Keynes, whose whereabouts no one seems to know."

"Can we even get through the door?" Allison asked.

"Of course. Most of us are in uniform, and the rest of you are Joker's pack. It's getting close to the board that will give us trouble."

Stiles eyed his soldiers. They looked... worried and kept studying him from the corners of their eyes like he wouldn't notice so long as they didn't look straight at him. "Why do they look like that?"

"Sir?"

"Them!"

"They are definitely them, sir."

Stiles frowned. "They look like they're having second thoughts about following me. Why?"

"I've been in contact with you regularly for a while now, so I'm used to your eccentricities. They are not."

"Dumbo hasn't been talking to me, and he doesn't look worried." Actually, Dumbo looked excited, which might have been worse.

"Dumbo's special."

"He's not that special."

"He requested entrance into the arena program so he could prove himself to you."

"Okay, Dumbo's special. I take it you denied him?"

"No viable partners who I didn't think would get him killed."

Dumbo raised a hand, "You realize I right here, right? Sir and um sir."

"That's why I'm talking loudly enough for my voice to carry to you." Stiles raised his hands as if to say that was obvious.

"Why are we wasting time?" Derek demanded.

"I assumed we were waiting for Wight. Is she not coming?" The last Stiles directed at Haha, No.

Haha, No shrugged. "She hasn't been returning my letters."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Gregson, do the formation thing and take us inside."

Gregson's soldiers surrounded the group with Gregson and Setter at the front and Dumbo and Spade in the rear. The boys seemed friendly, though Setter and Gregson marched coldly beside each other. Stiles wondered if he'd made a mistake putting Gregson in command of the princes. Setter had wanted to follow him, not his lackey.

"If Wight's MIA, who is your primary contact?" Stiles asked Haha, No. He didn't think the man would trust the Riders, and he knew no one in their right mind would trust Cole.

"Nike. She's a special sort of grateful for the way I forced Smiler to legitimize their relationship." Haha, No shrugged but didn't elaborate, either because he thought Stiles understood or because he wanted Stiles to ask.

"Just Nike?" he asked instead.

"I've had spies throughout Watchtower for years, Joker. Wight was one of my best agents, but hardly my only one." He grinned at that.

"Was?"

"Did you miss the part where I mentioned she hasn't been reporting in?"

"I didn't think she was capable of betraying you. She seemed... loyal?" That wasn't quite the right word.

"Could you two shut up?" Derek groaned.

"This is important," Stiles said.

"It's not."

Stiles scowled. It was important. Wight hated Stiles, but she'd worked with him in the past at Haha, No's orders. If she had abandoned him, she would be free to take revenge for her partner and her face.

They entered the facility then, and Stiles noted the way each soldier stood straighter when they recognized him or Haha, No. He couldn't say which but wasn't sure it mattered yet. Eventually it would because eventually Haha, No would betray him, or he would betray Haha, No. None of these soldiers were princes though. Stiles had yet to see any but his own.

Gregson led them through the halls. No one challenged them, but they kept hitting dead ends where there should have been open corridor. Each time, human guards stood outside the blocked passage and signaled to Gregson, usually through a shake of the head, that they could not get through. Stiles almost asked if that shake meant they couldn't or wouldn't let him by but bit it back when he caught Haha, No smirking at him.

Instead, Stiles said, "This place is huge, and the others I've seen are just as big. How do you keep something like this secret?"

Haha, No shrugged. "Bribes and magic."

"Fine, for the buildings. But what about the people? You've got soldiers, janitors, scientists, probably cooks somewhere—though not very good ones unless they intentionally fed me shit—architects, construction crews, captives... all those people have to come from somewhere." Behind him, Derek groaned. Maybe he didn't want Stiles to talk to Haha, No. Maybe he didn't want Stiles to talk at all.

"Over six-hundred thousand people are reported missing every year in the US alone. Even with as many people as we take, it's just a drop in the well. And many of our employees aren't missing. They're legally employed by our stockholders. Watchtower is a legitimate business that's been making the right bribes for as long as there were bribes to be made. No one looks too closely one way or another." Haha, No looked too pleased with himself, so Stiles chose not to ask anything else.

"Sir," Gregson said. "Trouble."

The passage ahead was open except for a solid wall of maroon-clad soldiers three deep and stretching across the entire hall.

"You're him, aren't you?" One of them asked in a rough voice too old for his young face.

"More specific, please," Stiles said.

"You're the one who killed my brothers."

"More, more specific?"

"You go on rampages killing everyone in your way like they matter less than you do, like you think you deserve to leave more than the rest of us. My brothers were guards, and you slaughtered them." He was red in the face with shaking fists. The soldiers on either side of him held him still with more solidarity than restraint.

"I was a prisoner. If I killed anyone, it was because they were guards trying to keep me trapped and tortured." Stiles sneered before he remembered a grin would work as well. Better, even. "Everyone I've killed made the mistake of getting in my way. The mistake you're making right now."

"You think we're here because we want to be just because we have uniforms and weapons?" the man demanded, shaking more violently with rage. "You're the same! Dressed in that coat, surrounded by people to do your fighting for you, practically hand-in-hand with him." He jabbed a finger at Haha, No. "You used to be a prisoner, and now you're that, so where do you think we came from?"

Stiles turned to Haha, No. "Legitimately employed?"

He shrugged. "I said some."

"I'M TALKING TO YOU, YOU MONSTER!" the man screamed, spittle flying as his companions' grips changed to outright holding him back. "Don't you just ignore me. You're not better than me. You're not better than any of us."

"What do you want then? Why are you blocking my path?"

"They're here to remind you of what you've done and what you're doing," a woman's deep voice said from behind him. Jenneva Cole's voice. Stiles spun, found her standing with her hands up, Spade and Dumbo's guns already trained on her. She wore a white coat and plastic badge but otherwise dressed more like a model than a scientist. Beside her stood Wight, dressed all in white as if perfectly clean and straight clothing could make up for her perfectly ruined and broken face. Standing beside Cole—more handsome than beautiful but dressed and made up exquisitely—only emphasized how ugly Wight was now. Stiles wondered if she'd considered plastic surgery, if she'd kept the face as a reminder or a necessity.

"Like, moral shit?" Stiles asked Cole. "Because you're about as amoral as they come."

"Do you know why I liked to talk to you and No liked to shock you?"

"That's a non-sequiter."

"He believes you learn more about a man pushed to his limit than you can about one who knows he will survive. The entire Watchtower system relies on this principle. It's why subjects fight to the death. It's also why it's taken centuries to realize there isn't an answer, though they haven't admitted it yet."

"No," Haha, No, growled. "There is an answer. We are the answer. We proved we're the most powerful, the most worthy."

"The most fucked up," Derek corrected.

"You're wrong," Cole insisted. "They used to separate subjects by species, but the humans nearly always died. Someone decided it was because they took away the humans' weapons but not the werewolves'. Someone decided the experiment should compensate by making the werewolves intothe humans' weapons. When someone suggested this implied the humans were superior, someone else countered that it couldn't because the werewolves were winning fights before." Cole threw up her hands. "All they do is find more ways to keep going. It's not even about the question anymore. It's about the power."

"Sure, but what's this conversation supposed to be about?" Stiles asked. "Are you stalling me? I feel like you're stalling me."

Wight made a frustrated sound at the back of her throat. "You're not listening to her."

"Because she's not telling me what she's trying to say."

Cole continued, "There are so many deaths that each Watchtower arena or training facility has a crematorium. The organization, once a sort of religious cult, now has a board of directors and a president running and funding it. We even sell our research for profit."

"Just tell me what you want."

"You aren't saving anyone by working with him. You're condemning all of us."

"I'm doing the best I can."

"Like you did when you slaughtered the guards trying to keep you imprisoned? They're told you're criminals and volunteers, psychopaths and monsters. They're told we're doing research but not what it is. They're told you're going to kill them at the slightest provocation. Do you expect them to just let you go?"

"Gregson?"

"True, sir."

"You never told me they were lying to you."

"I don't believe they're lies, sir."

Cole's dark eyes burned with passion, though passion for what, Stiles still didn't know. "Supernaturals live at the edges of society. Usually they're forced to it, sometimes they choose it. Bitterness and darkness become part of them because they're trapped on the fringes, never accepted, not completely. Watchtower promised an end, promised an answer, and decided the only appropriate answer was death because humans and monsters can't live together. And when that was disproven, when humans and werewolves bound their souls together to overcome the monster Watchtower had become, they used it to excuse more death."

"You're a spy, aren't you?" Stiles made a face. He didn't have time for more secret organizations. Still, he wondered who Cole worked for and guessed they'd recruited Wight away from Haha, No.

"And you're a monster, the perfect Watchtower soldier. You're everything he wanted you to be down to the last detail, and you can't even be bothered to fight it. You're here because of the board, because they're ready to save their own asses and continue killing and weaponizing innocents. You're here only to stop the first part."

"Unless I'm here to kill them all because it's the first time they've been gathered so conveniently for me." Stiles scowled because the thought hadn't even occurred to him before.

"If you kill them, what happens to the rest of us?" Setter asked. "They framed me for murder before taking me from my family. I'm a fugitive. I can't go anywhere else."

Stiles turned from Setter without answering and addressed Cole instead. "When you tried to have me killed, you knew I would make them fight each other. You knew I would because I came with Haha, No." He waited long enough for Cole to nod. "And what the fuck would you have done instead that's so important you wanted me dead for it?"

"I was going to help them, but I can't if you keep pushing Watchtower toward killing for power. None of their plans have stopped, none of their operations, none of their murders. You came here, showed off how powerful you are, and left everything to keep running on the promise that a few extra people would be dead by the time they saw you next."

Haha, No sighed loudly. "She's definitely just stalling us."

Derek said, "She isn't."

"Then what's the point of all this?" Stiles asked. "She still hasn't said what she wants from me or why she stopped us, or why that raving idiot is still foaming at the mouth to squeeze the life out of me. What the fuck is it you think she's trying to do?"

Derek stared at Stiles. The others waited, silent, even Cole and Haha, No. Finally, Derek reached a hand forward to brush the solid black spade tattooed onto Stiles' cheek. "The same thing you are. Even the odds."

"I can replicate the bond's effects," Cole said. "It changes people. You're still technically human, but you're different now too. I know you can feel it. That tattoo should just be ink, but you made it into a tool. Humans can't do that, not until they become something more."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Stiles growled. "Gregson, if the next sentence out of her mouth isn't an explanation, I want her and her friends dead. All of them."

Gregson hesitated.

"You will shoot at least one of them personally, or I will gut you."

"Yes, sir."

Cole took a slow breath. "I want Watchtower's resources to spread my solution and make humans and monsters into supernatural equals."

"I guess no one's getting shot. I assume this is to happen whether humans want it or not?"

"Humans always want power."

"And yet many of us refuse the bite."

"But you didn't refuse the bond, not even from Peter Hale."

Stiles sneered. "I don't trust you."

"But you trust him?"

"No." I understand him.

"He's trying to destroy humanity. I'm trying to save them."

"Villains always think they're doing the right thing," Stiles said.

"Like you?"

He gritted his teeth, remembered Derek telling him, 'You are Watchtower.'

"Like me." He shouldered his way forward, and the guard of soldiers moved with him. Cole's lackeys moved aside, dragging the man who'd screamed at Stiles with them.

~.x.~

They found all the princes crammed into the space in front of a door that looked like most of the others but with sturdier locks. They lounged rather than stand at attention but blocked the path no less for it. Those in the back feigned not to notice Stiles approaching with his pack and his squad. A few nearer the front—the first he would kill if he chose to attack—stared him down openly, as if they thought to intimidate him. Stiles chuckled. Intimidation was his thing. A few of the princes flinched obligingly.

"That's where they're meeting?" he asked Gregson.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, let's go." He turned away. The others hesitated before following. They would need a plan to get past that unless he wanted everyone to die charging into a hoard of werewolves and bonded humans. Stiles turned to Peter and tapped his ear. Peter nodded, and they continued walking until Peter set a hand on Stiles shoulder.

"We should be out of hearing range now," he said.

Stiles nodded. "I assume that room is not this place's equivalent of a security desk."

Gregson answered, "'This place' is called the Sandpit, sir, and—"

"I said that named sucked."

"And no, it's not."

"Good. Let's go there instead." With all the princes blocking the boardroom, or whatever they were using as a boardroom, security where they handled security should, ironically, be lighter.

Gregson led the way.

"Stiles," Allison said, moving to walk beside him. "What exactly is our plan here?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I can't say until I know what security is like and if they're listening. It's a shame I had to say we were visiting in the first place."

"You get really obnoxious when you think you're being clever."

"Don't most people?"

"Yes, just most of them don't need it pointed out quite so badly as you do."

"Thanks then, I guess."

"And button up your coat. Armor only helps if you use it properly."

"Yes, ma'am." His tone was sarcastic, but he followed her orders regardless.

Peter touched Stiles hand. When Stiles looked at him, he tugged his earlobe back. It either meant Peter had an itch or they were being followed. Maybe Stiles missed the bond a little. Once upon a time, Derek could have just thought the words to Stiles. When Stiles glanced at Derek, he nodded slightly to confirm what Peter had indicated. Stiles sighed.

"Sir?" Gregson asked.

"I told you so," Allison muttered, apparently having caught Peter's warning too.

He waved Gregson's question and Allison's comment away and continued walking, keeping an eye on Peter, which is why he wasn't watching when Derek tackled him from behind. There was a boom, or maybe that had come first. Stiles struggled to stand, ears ringing, but there was a weight on top of him pushing him down, hands pulling his arms from under him, and Derek's breath, steady on the back of his neck. He calmed at that. Derek would protect him.

Shouting. Someone, several someones, had begun yelling, orders and questions. Smoke filled the corridor. Derek ripped his shirt and wrapped the cloth around Stiles' mouth. "We're cut off," he whispered. "Do not let them break you." He said it with such intensity Stiles half-thought it had been telepathic. But it hadn't. It couldn't. He nodded dumbly before shaking his head.

"No," he growled. "I won't let them take me." He tried to stand, turning. He could stun them with his talisman. No one would take him ever again.

Derek pulled him back down into the corner he had tackled Stiles into before. "I told Peter to get Allison out, but we can't. We're trapped."

"Can't they hear us talking?"

"The squad has us surrounded. I know you can't see, but you can still think, can't you?"

Stiles winced. "I can fight. We should fight."

"Oh, you're going to fight alright," a voice said, female and smoothly arrogant. Stiles had heard it before but couldn't place where. She stepped from the smoke, blonde hair hanging around the black leather jacket over her shoulders. For a second, Stiles thought it was the alpha kanima from their first arena, but it was worse.

"Kate?" Derek's voice broke over the name. His grip, holding Stiles down from the smoke and the fighting, fell away.

"Miss me?" Kate Argent smirked, eyes glowing green as a dark, feline, pattern spread over her face and fangs grew from her human teeth. She raised a shotgun and fired into Derek's middle before either of them recovered from their shock. Stiles charged wildly, but Kate knocked him back. With a crack, his head collided with the cement wall. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. His last thought before blacking out was that no one could be bothered to stay dead anymore.

~.x.~

Possible Trigger Description: Stiles gets a new talisman, this one meant for healing. He cuts his leg to test its healing properties. He thinks of it solely in terms of a test, not as a way to hurt himself. He makes two incisions.