CHAPTER 2: Whales Belong In The Aquarium
CHAPTER 2: Whales Belong In The Aquarium
*HONK*
Startled, Stiles whipped around, only to stare in confusion at the Camaro driving hurriedly away. Huh. Weird.
Shrugging, he shuffled along, casually taking note of the morning's progress into an uncharacteristic light and warmth. It was usually a dreary little town here, home to a soporific morass of frumpy people and their frumpy activities. And yet, as he approached the bend, Stiles had no choice but to marvel at how much difference a little golden sun can make, throwing the place out of its lazy slumber like a harsh slap of ammonia.
The stores were wafting out dozens of different scents, the plurality not so much a noxious, odoriferous mess but a delightful aroma, the flowery fragrance from the florist's and the delightful smell of newly-baked bread blending together deliciously with the ambrosial bliss that is roast chicken and smoked peppers; served, with a curious but delectable hint of applewood and hickory from the furniture shop across the street.
The people seemed more alive and colourful as well, talking animatedly as they hustled down the streets, the hubbub peppered with the occasional bark of laughter or squeal of delight. The atmosphere was infectious. Invigorated, Stiles propelled himself forward with newfound confidence, which was good because there was never such a thing as too much chutzpah when you're about to. . . to. . .
Wow.
Stepping through the ornately carved threshold to a blast of warm air, Stiles found it incredible that he, having lived in Beacon Hills for his entire life, had never been acquainted with the opulence that is Beacon Hotel.
The lobby was enormous, a cavernous atrium nearly as high as the 7-story building itself, and yet yonder ceiling was blanketed with an entire host of modern art and intricate chandeliers, which hung low enough to brush affectionately against the quivering tips of yearning palm trees. The atrium floor was covered in lush blankets and modern furniture so chic that they must have been ordered straight out of sofa-Vogue, dotted here and there with serenely gushing fountains and towering statues. It should have looked an utter mess, really, but someone must be really good at decor because it all looked fucking grand instead; in fact, the only visible mess here was that bellboy's slightly askew hat. He'll probably get fired later.
Stiles stared intently at a pair of angel statues, suspended gracefully in midair as though in an upwards, spiralling flight. Then he realized that perhaps ogling everything like a wide-eyed doe wasn't exactly bolstering his credibility, and also, his neck was beginning to hurt like mad from under the strain; so he lowered his head.
A polite face was staring intently into his.
"AH! . . .Ah, hello."
"How may I help you, sir?" came the woman's voice, cool and clear, and yet oddly evocative of elevators and subway announcements. Stiles's eyes drifted downwards, landing fleetingly on the silver tag fastened to her blouse. Sarah.
"I am here to visit a friend, actually; a Miss Anita Scherzinger?" For the life of him, Stiles could not understand his choice in using a British accent. He also could not explain the sudden urge to fiddle with his collar and say: "Double-O-Seven, Secret Service."
"Do you know her room number?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Could you please call her?"
"Regrettably enough, I do not have Miss Anita's number, nor her email for that matter. It's been years since I last saw her, you see, and I have only recently found out about her most fortuitous return."
Sarah frowned. "How did you get wind of her return, then?"
"She calle—oh, yeah... err. . . it was a big sort of wind?" Stiles trailed off lamely.
The concierge's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "My apologies, sir, but we are unable to disclose any information which infringes the privacy of our customers."
"But I came yesterday, and another concierge took me to her room!" Stiles was flailing now, his Bond impersonation long forgotten.
Sarah pursed her lips. "That is unlikely. Which employee was it?"
"Well, he was tall, built, brooding, and he had dark hair and a stubble. He was also certainly a lot nicer than you," said Stiles. (Author's note: Stiles, are you even listening to yourself?)
"That will be Nathan, the newcomer. I shall have a word with him."
Crap. Stiles didn't really want to get anyone into trouble; the description was just a random collection of stupid adjectives which first came to mind. (Author's note: I wonder where from. . .)
The woman continued disdainfully. "Your statement, however, is inconsistent with your story. I should think that any person with even the most limited of observational insight would have been able to remember a simple 3-digit room number. On the other hand, I should also think that any person with even the most limited of observational foresight and decency would have asked for the number of a long lost friend."
Stiles would have been insulted if he weren't so nervous; and he'd been nervous for quite some time now, actually.
"Do you ever worry about getting crushed when you're working here?"
Sarah stared at him blankly.
Stiles rushed, "I mean, look at those two angels up there. What if one day, the wire meshing snapped and they both landed on your head? Even if it doesn't fall directly on your head, what if the impact were so great, its shattered pieces fly everywhere like sharpnel? What if you get a concussion from getting hit in the back of the head by an angelic foot? Does the workplace insurance cover that? And if you go into a coma, does your boss get to pull the plug?"
Both heads turned up to stare, mesmerized, at the stone angels floating menacingly overhead.
Sarah pulled out her cellphone and began tapping away furiously. Uh oh.
"Look, I'll leave, just don't call secur—whoah!" Stiles yelped as the woman yanked the front of his shirt in a death grip.
"Come with me."
"Wait, what?" Stiles floundered, her unnatural strength propelling him forward.
Towards the glass elevators.
The elevator buttons were of your typical "up" and "down" configuration, the pair symbolized with semiotic triangles in reflective rotations. From first glance, the flat buttons made it obvious to Stiles that they were probably sensitive enough to require nothing more than a light, gentle touch. There was nothing light nor gentle, however, about the way the concierge broke her nail as she plunged it furiously into the chrome.
Stiles's mouth gaped open in tune with the elevator doors.
"Get in," Sarah said as she walked hurriedly inside.
It took Stiles a moment's hesitation before he followed suit, his senses dulled by surreal, dreamlike disbelief. And like most dreams, spatial travel took little to no time at all, because Stiles swore that it was hardly a few seconds before he was standing before a penthouse door, 1010 engraved in golden wreaths.
Do not disturb.
"Miss Scherzinger should be inside," the concierge said.
Stiles waited patiently for the concierge to leave. She didn't.
"Shall I ring the doorbell for you?"
Stiles coughed politely. "Err. . . thanks a lot, but I can take it from here."
"Ah, that is fine, I suppose. Would you like anything else?"
"No, thank you."
"Alright then."
Stiles waited. She still doesn't budge. Right.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I. . . I would like to verify that you were telling the truth. Should Miss Scherzinger declare that you're not acquainted with her, I shall have to be here to escort you to the exit."
Stiles couldn't really see a way out of this so, trembling slightly, he rang the doorbell.
Silence.
Phew, he hates to admit this, but he's almost relieved tha—
The double doors swung open, held wide apart by a pair of slender bronze arms; then Stiles rested his eyes upon the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Her ebony curls crashed like cascading waterfalls upon her delicate, toned shoulders, framing a face so . . . so perfect that it's like a work of art stolen from the gallery of heaven itself, then some tool decided that it wasn't perfect enough, so he airbrushed it.
The alpha's gorgeous almond eyes landed fixedly on Stiles, causing his heart to leap violently into his throat.
"My apologies for the disturbance, Miss Scherzinger, but this young man here claims to be an old friend of yours. Could you please verify this?" asked Sarah. Stiles felt relief surge through him as Anita switched her attention to the concierge.
Such respite was tragically short-lived, however, when the Indian goddess swiftly returned to pin him under questioning, penetrative eyes; and Stiles sweared that, for one fleeting instant, they were staring all the way through the very windows of his soul.
Anita's brow crinkled into a barely noticeable frown.
She's not going to go with it, Stiles thought in a panic. Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh cra—
"Oh my God, Ted! It's been so long since I last saw you. How did you find out that I was in town?" cried Anita in joyful disbelief, her arms abandoning their hold on the doors to pull him into a tight hug. Mm. . . cinnamon.
The concierge was rooted to her spot, surprise etched across her face. Take that, Stiles thought, told you she's a friend. Except she's not, really. More like a complete stranger he'd never even met before.
Also, she's the bloodthirsty alpha of the alpha pack, who could probably break every single bone in his body with one light squeeze.
Stiles was suddenly extraordinarily uncomfortable in her embrace.
"Thank you so much for bringing him here. Come on in, Teddy, we've got soo much to catch up on." And before Stiles even knew what was happening, he was being pulled forward, the doors behind him slamming pointedly in the concierge's disheartened face.
-(O.O)"/
-(O.O)"/
The first thing that captured Stiles's attention is the private swimming pool out on the balcony; the next was the realization that the place is a chrome white and incidentally, twice the size of his house; and the third was the collection of alphas draped languidly over colorful sofas, tearing their gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling plasma screen to stare at him like. . . like lunch has arrived.
*Gulp*
"Now, could you please tell me what all that was about?" came the gorgeous East Midlands vowels. How befitting of someone so beautiful and breathtaking and drop-dead gor-
Stiles was going to die today, he's sure of it.
"Well?" Anita prompted, tapping her fingers impatiently against her elbow.
Stiles struggled to regain the ability to speak, which was demonstrably more strenuous an effort than hiking through the anticyclonic storms of Jupiter, an endeavour complicated considerably by the fact that Jupiter doesn't have a solid surface.
"I. . . I want to join your pack," Stiles finally said in a rush; half-convinced that he was about to be savagely torn from limb to limb by a pack of ravenous wolves.
Anita just stared at him blankly; the tension in the room melting away as the other alphas returned their attention to the telly.
Right. Awkward. Did he get the wrong room? Are there two Anita Scherzingers? No, no; it's not possible for two angels so wonderful to exist together at the same tim-
"No," said Anita.
Stiles wasn't quite sure if they were on the same wavelength here. For all he knew, she could be talking about party packs. "No. . .?"
"No, you can't join our pack," Anita said kindly; there was an eruption of laughter from the alphas (or humans). Stiles turned around, just in time to see a Jonas Brother getting conked in the head by a high-definition coconut.
"And by pack we mean a pack of. . ."
"A pack of werewolves. Alpha werewolves, to be precise."
Gazing into the alpha's apologetic face, Stiles realizes in a daze that this really wasn't the way he expected things to go at all. None of his bones have been broken, his skin was still intact, he still has all four limbs. . . Really, he ought to have been slammed into the floor by now, or at least been sent cowering under a slew of violent interrogations and mortal threats.
Guess Derek's just a special case of sourwolf.
"Why not? If it's because I'm human, you can just give me the bite!" Stiles mimed clamping his teeth around an arm. "Well, not this arm, I think the scar would look cooler around my left arm, because you know, angles, aperture, lighting and all that. Is there a code for bite marks, like how an earring on the left lobe means someone's gay? Does that make me gay? Because I had this weirdest dream the other night about my chemistry teach—"
"What's your name?" Anita interrupted, somehow looking slightly less sweet. Is this actually her version of being irritated? Stiles felt sick to the stomach for actually managing to irk someone so lovely and wonderful.
"It's Stiles," he answered, diminished.
"Stiles, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but werewolves don't retain scars," Anita said, her tone curious. "It puzzles me how a human could not know about a werewolf's healing faculties, when he knows about the alpha pack—" She paused, as though struck by a sudden thought.
Stiles thinks she's the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth; but she's pretty slow for an alpha.
Which was ironic because within the blink of an eye, he was being slammed back against the doors, her deceptively delicate fist lifting him up by the scruff of his shirt.
"How did you find us?" she gnashed, her eyes gleaming a deep shade of purple. Stiles gulped. "You're a human, you could never have caught our scent. Someone must have told you how to track us. A werewolf." She sniffs his neck.
"Whoa. . . Easy, tigress. Or wolfress. Or wolveress? What's the exact ter—"
"Hale," she snarled. At that revelation, the alphas around the tv turned to stare, their eyes gleaming menacingly in colours of every shade and hue. Uh oh.
Stiles completely forgot about Derek's scent. Guess he's pretty slow himself.
Just go with it.
\(O-O)!/
\(O-O)!/
Yellow shifted to red with a languid smugness, and the Camaro slowed to a halt before the intersection; it was the tenth time it's passed through this stupid area, and it's also the tenth time it's been held up by that accursed traffic light.
Derek scowled, the two rows of crescents on the steering wheel the only indication of the worry gnawing away restlessly inside. He dug his nails into the leather, deeper this time, perhaps ruining it permanently; but right now, he simply couldn't care less. Stiles was deep in the enemy lines, risking his life, whilst he's here circling aimlessly around the hotel.
What if something happened to Stiles? He would never be able to forgive himself. Damn it! He needs to be there, to keep an eye out for him, to make sure he's all right, but they can't risk jeopardizing the plan by having the alphas catch his scent. With a frustrated growl, Derek slammed a fist into the dashboard.
He had almost told Stiles about his—his. . . feelings. And now he wonders if it was the last chance he will ever have, and if Stiles will never kno—
Stupid thoughts. He'll be okay. He's always okay.
Derek inhaled a long, deep breath, the remnants of Stiles's scent soothing his nerves. It was a dreamy scent, mixed with the remnants of peach shampoo and the slightest hint of aftersh. . . sh. . . shit.
FUCK.
There was a chorus of screeching tires and irate honking when a black Chevy Camaro stole into the intersection, the red light hollering angrily in its wake.
/(O.0)"\
/(O.0)"\
"Talk," Anita shook him by his collar, snarling.
Stiles thought absently that even though she was sporting those deadly canines, she was still really pretty.
"You know, this is actually how I expected the day to turn out. Thrown against the most immediate solid surface, interrogated on threats of violence, abject terror, the like."
Anita jerked him forward, then slammed him back into the doors. Hard. Stiles winced.
"We don't do threats of violence, young man, we get straight to it," she snarled.
Stiles blinked.
"You know, technically that's untrue because I'm pretty sure that that counted as a threa—" Fangs and claws. "Okay, okay! Look, just calm down. Yes of course you smell Derek on me," Stiles paused, then declared tentatively, "it's only natural, after all, since I've been spending so much time with his pack."
There was a collective *chink* of claws popping out.
"Just hear me out before you eat me, okay?" Stiles whimpered, holding up his palms in placation.
"This had better be a convincing story, or I will rip you to ribbons."
"Right," Stiles said, the alpha's face far too close for comfort. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead, and he found himself concentrating on that instead. "I'm a member of Derek's pack. Well, sort of. I wanted the bite, but he kept rejecting me because apparently, he didn't think I could handle it, like I'd die or something." Stiles rolled his eyes. "He's always been like that, you know, Derek? You try to talk some sense with him and he just goes wolf on you and you can't really say anything, because it's really scary and you're afraid he might kill you. I've always told him that it wasn't fair for him to use hi-"
"Get to the point!"
"Right. Which is fine, because I don't want his bite anymore."
"And why is that?" Anita asked, her expression clinical.
"Because he's weak, and he's a failure of an alpha. I want to be strong, and a werewolf is strong. But I want to be more than just strong; I want to be stronger than anyone else, including the other werewolves; I want to be stronger than the weaklings like Derek." Stiles felt his eyes flare in determination and disdain.
"And that's why, after Derek mentioned that the alpha pack is here, I came looking for you," Stiles said. "I want. . . to become an alpha."
Wow, he's on a roll. He should really look into acting as a career, because he's pretty damn good at it; it's just like he's channeling Meryl Streep. Or Mitt Romney.
"That's an. . . intriguing story." Anita seemed utterly convinced. Yay Stiles!
"So can I have the bite now?"
"No."
Perhaps that "yay" was a tad premature. No yay for Stiles.
"Do I need to do something? What do I have to do? Because I will do anything to get into your pack. I'll do the groceries, I'll do your laundry; hell, I'll even wash the dishes. Or do you alphas just eat stuff with your hands? Do you eat meat raw? I'm not so sure about that raw part because the last time I had sushi, I barfed into the soup bowl; then I covered it up and put it back on the conveyor belt and some old lady—whoah!" Stiles stumbled to the ground as Anita released his collar.
The alpha of alphas took a step back, the tension gone from her face; on the other hand, the rest of the pack probably need to take some of Stiles's Adderall, because most of them were out on the balcony playing water polo. "A very tempting offer, Stools (it's Stiles), but I'm afraid not."
"Why not?" Stiles whined.
"Because you're too power-hungry. Now, if you'll be so kind as to let yourself outside—"
"What? I thought you lot liked us power-hungry types because we're so easy to manipulate and corrupt!"
"We're alpha werewolves, not an episode of Buffy."
Stiles could not believe that this was happening. Damn his flawless acting. Damn Meryl Streep and Mitt Romney.
Focus.
"Wait! Shouldn't you appreciate power more than anyone else? I mean, you're the alpha of an alpha pack, aren't you going to take advantage of this? A simple bite from you will give your pack another loyal member, and that in turn will make you stronger as wel—"
"Steels, you ne—I'm sorry, Stiles. Forgive me, but it is a rather unusual name; I want to give you a piece of advice." Anita paused, frowning in concentration, as though summoning all the wisdom of her alpha ways. Stiles's eyes widened in anticipation.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
Two faces, one solemn, one incredulous, stared intently at one another.
"But that's from Spiderman!"
Anita looked genuinely surprised. "Is it really? I honestly can't quite remember, but I do recall it having struck me as deeply profound. Regardless of its origins, it retains the essence of the advice I'm imparting to you. Power requires discipline and regulation, for it is nothing without control. After all, power is only as strong as those who wield it, and those who crave power for the sake of power itself are the most powerless of us all. Remember that, and you will truly be strong," she said sagely.
This is ridiculous. Stiles doesn't even really want to become a werewolf. Maybe he'll just tape this Spiderman lesson and give it to Derek.
"Okay, so the real issue here isn't that I yearn for power, but your assumption that I will have no control over it, am I right?"
Anita frowned, deep in thought, and Stiles thought that it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
What was wrong with him?
Anita laced her fingers together. "I suppose that there is some startlingly subtle truth to that."
"Then let me prove to you that I have the control and means to harness the power of an alpha. Give me a mission, or a job, or a test; anything that you think will prove my control and loyalty to you." Stiles's voice was held by uncharacteristic resolve, and he could see the interest slowly stirring in the alpha's eyes.
"Now there's a thought. . ."
r(0-0)"
r(0-0)"
The glass doors flew open as an anxious man dashed hurriedly into the lobby, his panicking eyes wild and everywhere, scarcely taking in the the lavish extravagance so resplendent in the vast atrium.
He can't find Stiles's scent.
No, no! The fucking place had just been cleaned, the air heavy with the suffocating haze of soapy detergent. Derek's eyes landed frantically on the alcove of elevators in the far right. No, there are too many floors, he'll never find him in time. He needs to find someone who's seen the idiot before; one of those butler-people, perhaps, or a bellboy. It was only then when Derek noticed how many hotel staff there were, sprawling everywhere in a flowing mosaic of red and gold. Which one?
A woman's bloodcurdling scream pierced through his thoughts.
"I won't go out there, you can't make me!"
The concierge was clinging on to half an elevator door, slapping away hysterically at the outstretched arms of two concerned colleagues. She screamed some more, her words too overwrought by panic and delirium to make any sense, though Derek managed to catch a few choice expletives and jumbled epithets about how "whales belong in the aquarium, not the fucking ceiling!". The elevator's other metal door was trying desperately to close, but to no avail; bouncing off sorrowfully everytime it jammed into the woman's tremulous arse.
Derek didn't know what the hell was going on, but something about it just screamed "Stiles was here."
He pushed past the two uniformed butler-people, not hearing their exclamations of surprise and irritation. The concierge, Sarah, looked up from her door, bewilderment etched across her tear-stained face. "Wha-"
"A teenager, short brown hair, tea-green eyes, flails when he talks, cute as a button - do you know where he went?"
"Teddy?"
Derek didn't know much about stuffed animals, and he was also fairly certain that this woman was insane - but he could see the recognition dawning in her eyes. That, and the traces of Stiles's scent left on her hand were enough for him to tear her from the elevator door and push her inside. Her butler-people friends cried in protest, but Derek had ears for no one but the dazed, if oddly relieved figure before him.
"Where did he go?" He asked again, impatience sending him dangerously close to the edge. Sarah cowered in fear.
"1010—" she whimpered, and Derek struck the button like lightning. "—Tenth floor. Met long lost Indian friend who has big wind."
That's it; this woman is officially cuckoo.
Derek glared impatiently at the digital screen, silently roaring at 3 to get a fucking move on and turn into 4 already. Damn stupid hotels and their glass elevators. He was in no mood to admire the dolphin statuettes swimming playfully in thin air, nor does he appreciate how the replica of Saturn and its moons brushed ever so slightly against the elevator, jiggling the rest of the planets into orbit. He glances back at the screen. 5.
Hurry up!
"Not the angels. Fucking angels. I should have went into insurance like Kelly. Fuck the angels."
Derek whipped around to tell the concierge to shut up, when something caught his eye.
The neighbouring elevator was carrying a janitor, his trolley of cleaning supplies and dirty mops taking up most of the elevator's space. In fact, there was so little room that its only other occupant was squished up against the side, his face pressed up against the glass like a trapped gold fish.
Stiles's eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Derek, his pupils tracing the alpha's progress upwards even as his own elevator moved ever so slowly away.
"Fucking angels," came Sarah's weak voice.
Indeed.
There was a loud crash as Derek banged his head into the elevator doors.
~TBC~
~TBC~
1) 22 follows. 9 Favourites. 4 reviews. Well, that's certainly an improvement. Many thanks for your support (especially you reviewers and favouriters, many hugs for you!)
2) About the hotel. I went to Singapore's Marina Bay Sands once, and the amount of art and class there was just mindblowing (7 stars!). You should definitely google some images. (I had a Japanese concierge friend who worked there, whose name is, believe it or not, Marina! She's also the most amazing person ever, but I digress.)
3) More apologies incoming. I know it's all a little bit crackish; sorry, but I rather like it this way. I hate depressing stuff, and you may be glad to know that while Sarah never overcomes her anxiety and paranoia; she eventually quits her job, goes into insurance, and curiously enough loves it a lot more than the service industry.
4) Be patient, Sterek will come!
5) Fav and review, and I will love you! (You are now hypnotized by this rhyme)
