Notes: Peripeteia: A sudden reversal of fortune or change in circumstances, esp. in reference to fictional narrative.
This is based on this head cannon.
I'm also keeping some of the same personal head cannon for family members from Dust Under Our Feet for this story. So… if you're reading both you might see similarities. I think of it as though these two stories started at the same place but diverged.
Scheherazade by Richard Siken
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means
we're inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.
Stiles wakes up on the side of the road with asphalt embedded in his right cheek and the taste of copper in his mouth. His first thought is, where is Scott?
Because out of everyone, Scott is the most likely person to have been involved in whatever got him here. Or, rather, he is most likely to have brought along Scott if whatever it was was his idea. Derek, Erika, Allison-even Jackson might have started to become staples, but no one beats Scott for a stupid idea.
Half of them are Scott's, after all.
It's only his third-no, fourth thought that manages to grab where am I? And by then he's sitting up swaying, staring at the row of trees and road dressed in twilight like it will open up and tell him.
In a way, it does.
It's cold. His breath comes out in white whips. He feels like Rip Van Winkle because he's dressed for summer and swears the last time he was outside it was 95 degrees and sunny.
It's not sunny now. There's a layer of frost covering his feet and his body feels numb against the prickle of late-season grass. In front of him is a street sign he can't quite read. Behind him is more woods or more road-he hasn't found it in him to check, notice, care.
Stiles thinks, somewhat hysterically, that this is his life: some werewolf masquerade mixed with The Hangover, and he hopes to hell that he doesn't have to find Scott and get him to his wedding because he seems to have lost six months between July and today.
Derek, he thinks, would be the tiger in the bathroom.
When Stiles finally gets his feet under him, he drags himself to the sign. It says: Bay Berry Road. Bay Berry is so far away it's almost out of town. It circles the long side of the woods and Stiles finally pats himself down, looking for his phone.
It's not there.
Figures.
Stiles huffs a cloud at the sign and puts his hands on his hips. No one is there to see him, his chest aches with cold and the bruising he got from nowhere, and he thinks-wouldn't it be fitting just to take the sign? I'd be a perfect souvenir for that one time that Stiles himself admitted I went too far.
He's still staring when a black camaro rolls up. For a moment he thinks it'll be Derek there to drag him back to reality. Instead a woman a woman leans out the window. "Hey." Stiles doesn't move. He's still staring at the sign trying to decide if he wants to steal it. "Hey-Kid!"
He's too cold to startle. Instead he turns slowly and stares at her. She's pretty, in her own way-older that Stiles with light brown hair and sharp eyes. Familiar in an unfamiliar way. She smiles at him and Stiles is struck with the feeling of wolf before he clamps down on it.
Not everyone is a werewolf. Not even if they are driving around some desolate stretch of wooded road. Stiles is not red riding hood.
"Hey." This time it's softer, as though she thinks speaking louder will send him running into the woods. "You okay? Need a ride somewhere?"
"No-I-" Stiles starts to answer before he thinks and he pats his pockets again as though to check. Yes. Still empty. No cell phone. No car keys. Just a handful of mountain ash and a receipt from July 24th for a red slushy at the 7-11 in town. "I-can I borrow your phone?"
His dad would be shocked-lost for words and admitting he must have gone too far. It's a day for the history books, but no one else is around to record it.
"No reception out here." It sounds like a lie, but Stiles can't see any benefit to lying. He's not some teenage girl alone in the dark-he's a boy for one. For another, he's the Sheriff's son. "Why don't you hop in? I live nearby."
No one lives nearby, Stiles wants to say. The only ones who lived nearby were the Hales and the Hale's...well. Derek has finally gotten an apartment in town and stopped staying in the burnt out husk of a building that had once been a home.
"I gotta tell you, if you're thinking of defiling me it's far too late for that." Stiles pulls the quip from somewhere deep inside as he slides into the passenger seat. "Not to mention my dad would hunt you down. Forever."
"Yeah?" The woman quirks an eyebrow at his lack of seatbelt once the door is closed and Stiles buckles up dutifully. "And who would that be?"
It's not the most artful prod for information, but Stiles gives it to her anyway, slumping against the passenger side door, "Sheriff Stilinski."
The car jerks, and Stiles' eyes flash open as he hits the seat belt. Bruises on bruises. It's all he can do not to wheeze. "Hey!"
"Sorry." The woman is eyeing him like there's something stranger going on than picking up teenage boys with road rash in the middle of nowhere. "Deer."
Stiles surreptitiously scans the darken street before them. There is no deer. "So, yeah." He flashes her a tight smile. "What's your name again?"
"Laura Hale."
And isn't that the biggest pile of bullshit Stiles has ever heard in his life-and Stiles has heard more than his fair share. "Uh-huh. Okay." He says-because what do you say to someone who is bullshiting you while they're driving? Call them on it and have them crash into the tree line?
'Laura' seems to agree because she keeps sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She almost crashes once more, into a ditch along a long stretch of wooded street, and by the time they roll up to a house in the middle of the woods, Stiles is on the edge of his seat. He considers throwing himself from the car. As is, he is estimating his survival rating if he gets out as the car stops and starts running.
He does neither because he knows the house the stop at.
Four story. White paint. The last time he visited it, it was gutted and a hazard. Broken floorboards, torn up banisters, and the smell of smoke long gone.
This house is four stories. White paint. Potted winter plants on the porch-though none seem to be flowering now. There are lights on on the first floor and third. There are shadows across the curtains and when he opens the door-slowly, slowly-he swears he can hear some music. A little laughter.
"Well, Stilinski, my mom's probably making dinner." Laura is out of the car and at his side-one firm arm around his, grounding him. "She'll be thrilled to have a guest." She smiles and Stiles swears for a moment he can see in inch of Derek in her. It's not quite happy, more determined, but real all the same. "Though you'll probably need to wash up first."
It is then that Stiles remembers he's still covered with gravel. He sucks on his teeth as he pulls in a breath and grimaces at the taste. "Yeah-yeah. Then I have to call my dad."
He sounds a lot younger than he wants but his feet are on some porch steps which should be rotted through but aren't.
The front door bursts and there's a kid - easily two years younger than him with blond hair and brown eyes. "Laura! You're-" The words are cut in half and the boy frowns, crossing his arms over his chest "Who's this?"
"Guest for dinner, Phil. Go tell my mom."
Phil Marks-son of Paul Marks and Jessica Hale. He had been a few grades behind Stiles, and he and his sister had been home schooled.
Eight people dead.
Phil disappears into the house, and the next thing Stiles knows is he's being blinded by the lights, the heat, and noise.
This is not the husk of a house where eight people died. This is a home where eleven people live on four floors. They whisk around an older couple-grandparents, Derek's grandparents-who are setting a long table in the dining room and up a set of stairs. Stiles is too frozen to protest, ask to stop, or spit out what is going on.
"Derek." Laura's voice is a command and Stiles suddenly notices they are on the second floor in front of a bedroom. It looks normal enough-sort of like it hasn't been updated in several years. Wood floors falling into dark blue carpet. College student normal, Stiles assesses distantly. "We've a guest. Get out of the bathroom and help him get cleaned up." Laura pauses, looks down at Stiles' ripped t-shirt and jeans, the ground in dirt and blood on his cheek. "Give him a pair of your pants."
"Give what-?" Derek comes out from what must be the adjoining bathroom toweling his hair. He's clean shaven and shirtless and the look on his face is comical. Bemused confusion. It's a look Stiles assumed he'd never see on the Alpha's face unless he were well and truly wasted. "Who's this?"
"Stilinski's kid." She eyes her brother, then Stiles. "Yeah, he's a little skinnier than you but the length will be fine. Pants him."
Then Laura is gone and Stiles is left standing in the doorway looking like roadkill in front of a facsimile of one Derek Hale: Beacon Hill's Alpha.
At least he looks a little more like the Derek he knows now. Gone is the bemused expression and in with the frowning foreboding look of Derek. It almost makes Stiles relax. Almost.
"Come in." Derek says after a moment. He reaches out and Stiles almost jerks away. He shuffles in suddenly feeling every ache from the side of the road and hyper aware of the silent assessment this 'Hale' is giving him.
Everything is borderline normal until that teasing smile curls across Derek's lips, "I'm not going to bite, you know."
And that everything wrong summed up. Derek has always been aggressive. Biting notwithstanding. Stiles almost bolts, but Derek lays a hand on his arm and starts firmly guiding him into the bathroom. It's still warm from Derek's shower, apparently, and the heat makes his cheeks tingle. "I'm-Fine."
The words are spat out because Stiles isn't sure what else can be said. Desperate for deflection and this is the one time he can't quite find it, can't quite say it. "Uh-huh."
"No. Really. I'm fine. I just need to call my dad."
There's a look, then, something calculating and curious. Derek deposits him on the toilet seat and pulls out a wash cloth. "Sheriff Stilinski."
"Yeah, duh." Even if Stiles' has stumbled into an alternate universe or, most likely, a delusion filled haunted house his dad is still the Sheriff. He's been the Sheriff since Stiles was twelve.
"Where were you?" The wash cloth is almost too hot when it brushes over Stiles' cheek but that's probably because he's still chilled from being outside all this time.
"Bay Berry." Stiles wonders if this is all a curse. Perhaps if he shakes Derek hard enough they will both wake up and find themselves in what's left of the Hale house. Or maybe he's still on the side of the road. Dreaming.
"No-I mean..." Derek looks concerned now and the expression makes Stiles' stomach churn. He shakes his head and Stiles suddenly notices that his hair is longer now. It flips slightly over his eyes as he turns. "I'll get you those pants."
"What's wrong with my pants?" Stiles squawks as he takes the washcloth from Derek's hand. Sure his pants are dirty but it seems wrong, awkward, to be taking anyone else's clothing-especially doppelganger ghost Derek's.
"If you have to ask you haven't smelled them."
Stiles frowns at the bathroom door then leans down to sniff. "Oh-OH MY GOD."
There's a chuckle from the other room.
"Dude, just hurry up and give me those pants."
He's in Derek's clothes, a pair of pants that are slightly too big in the waist and a shirt that is roomier than anything he has ever lent Derek, before he realizes that this is all fine but that Derek hasn't called him Stiles the entire time. He was always Stilinski's kid. Stilinski's kid with a dubious look.
Stilinski's kid being patched up after being found on the side of the road.
Stilinski's kid.
And he hasn't even called home yet.
It hits Stiles like a freight train. This could be a nightmare. It could be some screwed up magic.
Either way, he can't sit on the edge of fake-Derek's bed talking about Lacrosse and the one game he played.
Someone from downstairs start's calling for dinner. The voice is sweet but commanding, and Stiles thinks Mrs. Hale.
And the next moment he is tumbling down the stairs-tripping over his feet and skidding across and down the banistered wall on the left side of the stairwell.
Derek is four steps behind him, his stupid face reading surprise as Stiles breezes past the other boy's mother.
Because it couldn't be anyone else. Brown hair curling up around her ears. A kind smile twisted, now, in shock. Stiles met her a few times when his mom came over for tea. She looks older now-more lines around her eyes. Lips.
And it is only in seeing her for the barest moment that Stiles is sure. This Mrs. Hale is a ghost of would-have-beens. The things here are not real and he has to get to Scott, to Dr. Deaton, to somebody, to fix this.
Because Derek doesn't know.
He steals the camaro. Steals is a strong word though.
So, he hotwires it with intent to return.
Stiles catches sight of Derek's face as he speeds off. Also Peter's. Mrs. Hales. Phil and Jeni's faces in the window. Laura may or may not be yelling obscenities, and Stiles sends a silent sorry you are all dead and therefore make believe as he tears out of there and onto the road.
He doesn't go home. His dad is awesome, but he's never explained the whole werewolf thing and he doesn't want to now.
So, Stiles goes to Scott-because he got Scott through weird shit and now it's Scott's turn to pull him down to earth.
The car is left out front as he climbs up the tree to the window. With luck, Allison won't be there. Without it-well, Stiles had courted less attractive peep shows in the past.
Through the window. Stiles gets two feet closer to Scott's empty bed before a baseball bat slams into his chest.
"Dude-" Stiles wheezes, blinks at him, and then collapses onto Scott's carpet.
"Who-" Scott still has the bat raised, as though Stiles could ever put up more of a fight against a baseball bat, and he glares down without comprehension. "Who the hell are you?"
Stiles is sprawled against his elbows, eyes watering. He flicks a three fingered 'hello' to Scott, "Dude-it's just me!"
"Just who?"
Stiles hopes there is a god and that for some reason, in the middle of winter, Scott has developed temporary blindness because there's no other explanation that makes any sense. "Stiles!" He sits up a little more and wheezes. "Stiles. You know. Your best friend. Stiles Stilinski."
Scott might not be the brightest bulb in the pack but even he has to remember his best friend.
"Stiles? Stiles disappeared when I was eight." The words are worse than the baseball bat, which is lowered to the ground before Stiles' eyes. "Dude! Have you called your dad yet?"
"No." Stiles means-No, I haven't. No, I found myself on the side of the road. Alone. Without a car or a phone. No, I was at the Hale's house until seven thirty tonight talking with ghosts of people who should have been. No and you're supposed to be my best friend. "No."
He gets up with Scott still trying to talk-"Hey, I have a phone. We can call them now!"-one hand pushing his friend to the side and the other cradling his aching ribs.
"No." Stiles lurches to the window. "No. I'll-I'll go home. Now. I mean. Now."
He is lying.
Scott doesn't remember so there's only one place he can think of to go to try again. One more time. To get answers. Dr. Deaton.
The vet of magic-if anyone knows what's going on, what's happened, it'd be him, wouldn't it?
Yes.
Stiles almost falls off the roof in his haste to scramble down. He hotwires the car again. He's got it down to less than a minute, so Scott hasn't even gotten from his room to the stairs by the time he's gone.
It's eight thirty on a cold winter night when Stiles breaks into the vet's office. It's too late for visitors, but he had a feeling Dr. Deaton would be there anyway.
He's right.
The man freezes over his accounting books when Stiles storms in-all nervous energy thrown everywhere and a hazy understanding of what's going on. "They're all alive."
Stiles is so worked up he's bitten his lip open and hasn't noticed. The gravel is off his face and he's relatively clean otherwise but he feels tight, close to bursting.
Scott didn't know who he was.
Derek. Derek and his family.
"I don't know what's going on." And neither did Dr. Deaton from the look on his face, but Stiles can't stop now that he's slammed forward into the one office he's sure-sure the person there will understand. "I woke up and it was winter. And then there were the Hales. Only the Hales are dead."
And isn't that an unfortunate turn of phrase. Dr. Deaton stands, serious and unintimidated by the frazzled teen pacing across his floor. "The Hales are dead?"
"No-yes-no." Stiles runs a hand through his hair and sucks on his bottom lip. "They were. Now they're not." He lets out a breath thats more of a whine. "Dr. Deaton I don't know what's going on."
"That makes two of us." The man keeps his distance. Four feet away he stops, puts out his hands. "How about you sit down and tell me about it."
And Stiles' might have-only next the door burst open and there is Derek. Leather jacket, serious faced. Derek.
Stiles wishes he could be sure that this was the Derek he knows but he just came from Scott's and he still has the bruises to prove that nothing is as it seems.
"Derek." Doctor Deaton sounds relieved and Stiles feels sick. "This boy was just telling me he met your family..."
"Yeah." Derek walks over and sends an apologetic smile Deaton's way. "Sorry. He's a little confused. It's, uh, apparently Sheriff Stilinski's son."
"Stiles?" It's the first time he's heard his name from someone else's mouth, discounting the failure that was visiting Scott, all day. Stiles sags against the vet table, wheezing and trying to keep his arms from skittering uselessly over the metal. He's nervous. Nervous. Scared. Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.
"Yeah, I called-"
The door to the vet's office swings open again.
Stiles thinks he know's what to expect but he doesn't. His dad is not so much of a surprise. Law enforcement browns, lines around his eyes-his lips tight. Stiles would expect nothing less.
And he probably could have handled that it if it was only him.
But trailing behind in a blue smock dress, dark hair pulled back with a tie, is a woman. She's thin boned but tall. She's as tall as he remembered. He'd be eye to eye with her now. Her lips look thin in the light but her coloring is healthy.
He doesn't remember her ever looking so well.
Stiles feels his mouth dry. He stares. They stare back-still standing in the doorway.
It's one moment. Two. Stiles can't breath. His chest seizes and in a bid to throw off the panic he jerks himself hard into the metal table edge. It hurts, but it hurts more to look at the people in the doorway. His father has one hand behind him, holding his mother's hand. It's too much.
Stiles screams.