Please Rip My Throat Out Chapter 2
Stiles rolled his eyes. He really shouldn't have to explain this.
"As the Sheriff's son, I know how important it is to review the evidence. By examining the case I can get a feel for any weaknesses in the fairy prosecution, test the strength of their argument, and see where there may be grey areas or a technicality we can exploit.
"I need to go over this in case I've missed something, and you should listen to my analysis and see if anything jumps out at you."
It was the werewolf's turn to roll his eyes now, but he also nodded, so Stiles ploughed on.
"Right, well... Looking at the terms of this hex thing: 'Of their own freewill, without compulsion, deception, commerce or compassion'.
"So, the bearded lady said there are no restrictions on explaining the curse to a potential, uh, friend with benefit per se. But if their knowledge of the forfeit I have to pay if I don't do the deed makes the other party feel 'obliged', through good manners or feeling that they have no choice, given the dire consequences, then I fall foul of the 'no compulsion, no compassion' bit.
"They have to want to do it, without my imminent demise being a motivator.
"But if I don't tell them about the curse, so that they aren't swayed into wanting to help me out like some sort of sexual Good Samaritan, then it'll likely trigger the 'no deception' clause.
"I mean, what if the only, or main, reason I have for sleeping with that person is the fairy sword hanging over my head. In the spirit of informed consent they would have a right to know that. So, by not being upfront about why I'm coming on to them, I'm being deceitful and nixing the whole shebang before we've even started.
"So, I'm damned if I tell them, damned if I don't.
"Commercial arrangements are out – which, apart from that excluding a likely way to save my figurative sorry ass, I'm actually relieved about – and Deaton says even asking you to bite me," Derek's eyebrows effected some kind of semaphore at that, "won't work because fairies are immune to werewolf powers. So they would still be able to torture and – one hopes, given said torture, – kill Stiles the Werewolf with impunity.
"There's no logical way out of this, dude. Whichever way you look at it, I'm meeting my maker at daybreak.
"And oh my god, I'm gonna be ripped to shreds by fairy talons, and that's the best case scenario. Just because I engaged in a little witty banter with a bunch of arrogant Homo floresiensis fail-clones who left their collective sense of humour and sense of proportion at home; assuming they had either to begin with, and—"
"Stiles, stop." Derek stepped nearer. "Your heart's racing and you're breathing too quickly. Relax. You'll give yourself a heart attack."
Stiles drew in a deep breath, intending to hold it for a beat and then exhale slowly, but before he could enact that plan, his mouth was working again. "Heart attack? Bring it on. Because that has to be a better end than the one those goddamn fairies have in store for me. Holy crap, I'm going to die!"
Derek was now in his personal space, his eyebrows drawn together, lips a narrow line. One fist wrapped around Stiles' bicep, while he raised his other hand as if to slap the teen across the face, as one would a hysterical trauma victim in a bad, medically inaccurate, melodrama.
"Stiles! Calm down."
"Do your … worst, big guy," Stiles said between gulps of breath. "I'm not surviving this without … someone to sex me up before … I can order from the MacDonald's breakfast menu. Seriously … I'm as good as dead so just put me … out of my misery now—hey! Wait… You! ... Oh my god, that's it! … Why didn't I think of this before? You can do this—"
Derek shot back two paces, his hand flying from Stiles' arm as if it had suddenly become connected to the Beacon Hills power supply. Then everything about the werewolf stilled and he closed his eyes for a moment. The cyborg was back.
"Please, please Derek. I wouldn't ask, but you know what Deaton said about how the fairies intend to kill me. It's not gonna be pleasant – uh, not that any execution is ever pleasant but…I mean, what they have planned for me is gruesome with a capital 'gross'. So you gotta do this for me. Please."
Derek opened his mouth but no words emerged. His eyebrows were hiding out near his hairline and now his eyes were as round, and as big, as the wheels on his Camaro.
Suppressing a giggle at that thought, a giggle that just might turn into hysterics if he gave it voice, Stiles continued, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't the only way. Please, Derek. Look on the bright side: I'll never ask you for anything else ever again."
Derek narrowed his eyes, his jaw tight but for a rhythmic twitch. Stiles bit his lip. This wasn't good. The werewolf was angry with him. Disappointed too. He had to make Derek see the sense of what he was saying.
He had just one shot at making a cogent argument here; there was no place for sentimentality if he was going to plead for a mercy killing.
He knew Derek's history; knew what had happened with Paige. He understood just how awful this would be for Derek. This was the worst thing he could ever ask of him.
But he was out of options.
"If there was another way…" he began, saddened but no longer ashamed by the pleading quality he could hear in his own voice. "If it was anything other than a painful lingering death awaiting me, I would never even consider dragging you into this.
"I know what I'm asking and, believe me, I really wish I didn't have to. But you are the only one I can ask, Derek. The only one I trust enough to ask."
"Trust? You trust me?" Derek's voice was so low that Stiles wondered if he ought to remind the guy that he wasn't blessed with werewolf hearing.
"Yeah, I trust you. Of course I do. After everything we've been through together? Who else would I trust to do this? But I know this isn't an easy thing to ask of you. Not after everything that's happened. I'm sorry to add to that. Truly. But you have to believe me when I say that I want this."
"You do? Doesn't sound like it." The expression on Derek's face dropped away leaving that 'blank canvas' look of his that Stiles really hated. He had the sudden urge to punch the werewolf just to see an emotion back.
"Of course I want this. How could you ask? I need you to do this for me, Derek. I want you to do this for me.
"But Derek, you have to be okay with this too. You must never doubt that it was the right thing to do. No regrets. No second guessing, what ifs or misgivings. None of that self-doubt you excel at. 'Cause, man, I gotta tell you, you wear guilt like a homeless guy wears dirt.
"So no guilt, no regrets here. Okay? You need to remember that this is right. It's what I want and you have to believe that. I couldn't bear the thought of you coming to regret this."
At some point, either Derek or Stiles himself – he really wasn't sure – had moved closer again, so that now Stiles could feel the heat radiating from the werewolf.
Derek's features were still closed off but he was staring with an intensity that had Stiles' flesh crawling. He wondered if there was something in his eye that he couldn't feel. A supernatural mote, perhaps. Wouldn't that just be the rancid frosting on the mouldy cake.
"I... I would never regret… Why would you even think…? I couldn't ever…"
"I know you, Derek. You over-think things and have a tendency to self-blame that medieval self-scourging masochists would envy. So forgive me if I—wait… Does that mean you'll do it?"
"In a heartbeat. I… Yes, of course."
For a split second it looked as though Derek's lips had flicked up into a smile and it dampened Stiles' relief at Derek's agreement. The expression was so fleeting that Stiles might have concluded he had imagined it, but for the werewolf's softened features and satisfied tone.
"Wow, uh, okay. No need to sound so pleased though. But, uh, thanks. I'm really grateful. I know this isn't easy for you. That you don't really want to do this, but, honestly, as a Plan B, and in the absence of any Plan A, this is the only option left to me. So, yeah, thanks. Really, thank you."
"Why wouldn't I be pleased? And I do want to do this. I've wanted… Wait. You don't really want to do this, do you?"
Squinting at the man in front of him as if that would sharpen his hearing, Stiles tried to glean some understanding from the werewolf's words, which might have spilled from Deaton's lips for all the sense they made.
"Well, yeah, like this is up there on the top of my list of favourite ways to pass the hours of darkness. You know, a close run thing with root canal work à la Midnight Express and Saturday evening detention with Harris. Not only isn't it on my bucket list, it kinda is the bucket, so to speak.
"So no, of course, I don't want to do this. But I think we've already established that I don't have a choice here."
Derek snapped his body to stand straighter and crossed his arms, the hard, empty expression back, his voice icy when he spoke.
"I thought… I thought you wanted this. Wanted me to... It won't work if you don't want this. You know that. You have to want this."
"Jeez, Derek. Of course I don't want to die." Stiles threw up his hands and pushed past the werewolf back to the couch, where he flung himself into the corner seat again. "I don't have a death wish. I'm not pining for the fjords. Not looking to cash in my chips just yet, thank you all the same.
"But what I want, and what I can have are two mutually exclusive entities right now.
"So I'd rather die at your hands, than be tortured for days, months even – oh my god, it could be years 'cause I've got good genes, ADHD and alcoholism notwithstanding – so yeah, years of torture by rabid fairies who think Jack the Ripper was a lily-livered humanitarian, if Deaton's to be believed. .
"Small wonder that, given the choice, I'd rather not become some weird parody of Dean Winchester in the pit. I'd much prefer to shuffle off this mortal coil quickly without the bladder-emptying terror or the protracted agony that's lying in wait for me, thank you very much."
"I… Who? What?"
And there it was: Derek was having second thoughts, Stiles just knew it. But given the guy's past experiences, he couldn't find it in him to force the issue. Even in the face of impending torture and death – undeserved and grossly disproportionate btw – he couldn't catch a break.
"D'you know what, Derek? Forget it. Just bring on the fairies."