Title: Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: E/Romance/Mystery
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills' serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter's snare? That one he's not sure about.
An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.
This story includes a vague attempt at a murder mystery, human Alpha Stiles Stilinski (which he did not sign up for), full shift werewolves, Pack dynamics, OCs, Derek Hale having a life outside of tragedy, nonbinary Scott McCall, and titles that are way too long.
This chapter includes a bit of Danny/Stiles. Mostly in the form of Stiles wanting to tap that.
Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)
Chapter 2: I'm just a problem that doesn't wanna be solved (so could you please hold your applause)
-1-
Stiles is okay with being slightly third wheel. He really is. It's a sign of his maturity (or progress towards something like it) that he doesn't react to Scott being totally and disgustingly in love with quiet, simmering jealousy anymore. Scott dating his first and forever true love, Allison Argent, had been a trying time in high school, just one more thing on top of the shit pile for Stiles.
It probably helps that Stiles actually likes Kira.
(Which isn't exactly fair to Allison, because other than the sudden heartbreak Scott went through when they broke up, there wasn't anything about Allison that Stiles actually hated. Sophomore year is just a shitstorm for everybody, okay? No one is their moral best in sophomore year.)
But Kira - Kira he likes. He likes Kira with Scott. While Scott is completely in love with her, it's tempered from the borderline obsession that Scott McCall In Love has exhibited in the past (read: Allison Argent). They're still so sickeningly enamored with each other that Stiles wants to gag, but hey, that's love. That's these two adorable idiots in love.
But being stuck in the backseat with only the luggage for company while the two lovebirds giggle and sing and flirt for two and a half hours is well past what he can take. About halfway through he stops trying to engage in conversation, instead using whatever signal he has left to dick around on his phone. The knowledge that he's going to be spending an extended weekend as a joint fifth wheel with Danny hasn't done much for his mood. And griping about the trip repeatedly only gets him the combined force of not only Scott's puppy eyes, but Kira's. And that's just a weapon that shouldn't be released upon the world.
It'd be a lot more enjoyable of a trip if Danny had just let Stiles ride with him out to the cabin. But Danny's tolerance for Stiles has always been shaky at best - fluctuating regularly between annoyance and exasperation, and occasionally tolerating him long enough for them both to get off. Stiles doesn't really blame him for that, though. He's well aware that he isn't the kind of person that even a great guy like Danny can like 100% of the time. Or even 50% of the time. Still, he's going to promise Danny the best road head he's ever gotten if he can just ride with him on the return trip.
You've got to let me ride with you on the way back.
Stiles taps the message out on his phone quickly, only considering it for a moment before sending more.
Danny.
Danny I'm serious.
I will give you the best dick sucking of your life.
Danny
Daaaannny
Shut the fuck up Stilinski I'm driving
No texting and driving, Danny!
That's illegal in the state of California. I could give you a ticket for that.
Stilinski I swear to god
I'm using voice to text idiot
Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel!
Just remember that when I'm giving you head on the way back. ;)
He waits, but there's no response after that. He sends a few more texts, half out of spite, half out of a need for entertainment. Danny doesn't text back - which is good! Good and safe. Stiles gently tosses his phone onto the top of his bag.
The last forty-five minutes are pretty damned torturous. They turn off the highway into the shadowed lanes that cut through the forest, which are winding and completely canopied by the trees above. It's kind of cool - kind of fascinating and creepy - for about the first fifteen minutes. After that it's just the same dense tree line zooming past the window. The satellite radio cuts in and out enough that Scott flicks it off, effectively killing the last distraction Stiles has.
Stiles slides down in his seat, a rough sigh ripping free from his mouth before he can stop it. "I hope Jackson gets mud all over his stupid Porsche."
Kira peers at him from over the seat, all wide-eyed and hesitant sunshine. "You okay?" He really wishes he could be annoyed at her.
"Fine, fine. Absolutely… fine."
He catches Scott grinning at him in the rearview mirror. "He's just pouting because we made him go on this trip when he'd rather have his nose stuck in his case file."
Just to be spiteful, Stiles delivers a swift kick to the back of the driver's seat. Scott only laughs at him. Jerk.
They come upon their rented cabin eventually, and Stiles finds that it's more like a gigantic cabin mansion in the damned forest. Three stories tall with wide verandas and balconies, and with just enough space in the clearing that it was obvious the builders took special care in not disturbing the forest around it.
The scent of money is so strong that Stiles can practically smell it from inside the car.
Scott pulls the car up alongside the cabin, Jackson calling dibs on the garage on account of him and his asshole car, and Danny pulling up behind him in his much more sensible SUV. It's only when Scott taps on his window that Stiles realizes he's the last one to get out. Heaving a sigh, Stiles wrenches the door open, glaring up at the cabin with an inordinate amount of spite. "I thought your family had a lake house," he calls to Lydia, who's standing with Jackson and Danny in front of the cabin, absently putting her (perfectly curled, strawberry-blonde) hair back into order. "Why do we need a big ass cabin?"
"We can go to the lake house anytime," she answers crisply. "I wanted something new."
"You wanted to spend money," Stiles grumbles. She isn't paying attention to him anymore, not surprising. She's already pointing Jackson in the direction of unloading their bags from Danny's SUV. "Just wanted to spend money on a cabin mansion. Where you've all got your own rooms and are going to spend the entire weekend doing the nasty where we all can hear it." He rounds on Scott just as his best friend starts laughing. "And you are too! Don't even try to lie, asshole!"
"Stilinski, shut the fuck up and pull your weight!" Stiles barely has time to turn before a duffel bag is being shoved into his torso. He lets out a winded 'oof!', almost stumbling into Scott as Jackson brushes past him. His irritation jumps few more notches. Oh yeah, this forced vacation is going to be great.
If someone had told him in high school that he'd come to count Jackson, Danny, and Lydia among his circle of close friends, Stiles would have laughed at them. By all logic it was something that should never have happened. But Scott had been dating Allison at the time, who was best friends with Lydia, who was dating Jackson, who was best friends with Danny. It was a chain of acquaintances that, by high school logic, meant that the six of them would sit together at lunch or sometimes hang out because Lydia wanted a double date and neither Jackson nor Scott wanted to go through it without their best friend buffer of choice.
And then the Alpha killings happened. And by the end of sophomore year half of their "clique" had gone through the worst kind of emotional bullshit because of it. Jackson and Lydia had near simultaneous nervous breakdowns, ending in a nasty breakup and Jackson being withdrawn from Beacon Hills High altogether for an extended recovery in London. Allison grew ever more distant until she and her family left the summer between sophomore and junior year, breaking Scott's heart along the way. That should have been the end of their little web of friendship. But Lydia stayed, and so did Danny. And when Jackson finally returned to Beacon Hills at the start of their senior year, he slotted himself back into their fold acting for all the world like he'd never left. And it sort of… stayed that way. All through going to separate colleges and even living in separate cities for a few years. Weekly Skype hangouts were a thing. Kira joined them along the way, first as a teammate on the lacrosse team and then as closer friends at Berkeley before she and Scott started dating.
So they're friends. Pretty good friends, even though they annoy the piss out of each other sometimes. Like right now - when they strong arm him into going to a luxury cabin in the woods to be co-fifth wheel all in the name of "his health."
Right now Stiles kind of wants to strangle all of them. And because they're friends, none of them are threatened by this fact. And instead take quiet glee in it.
Stiles is quick to claim a bedroom on the far end of the second floor. It's not isolated from the rest of the rooms, but there's enough distance that he hopes he won't have to listen to his friends getting freaky. Maybe if he's extra lucky Danny will take one of the other rooms on the second floor and the lovebirds would take rooms on the third. It would certainly make slipping into Danny's room, or Danny slipping into his, much easier.
If Danny's even up to sleeping with him over the weekend, that is. Sometimes it happens. And Danny is awesome and pretty damned attractive and casual, friendly sex with him is always a fun time. But sometimes Danny just doesn't feel it (read: finds Stiles too annoying) during the times when Stiles is up for rekindling that occasional benefit of their friendship.
Stiles really hopes Danny's feeling it this time. To his great pleasure, Danny does take one of the other rooms on the second floor. Stiles spends about fifteen minutes trying to get his attention, communicating his silent questions in not-so-subtle eyebrow waggles and seductive grins. Danny rolls his eyes at him, but doesn't actually turn him down.
Which means getting laid is something he could be doing this weekend.
Forced vacation almost saved.
Almost.
It goes pretty well after that. Stiles takes a chance to explore the spacious cabin while Kira and Jackson go to pick up groceries for the weekend, and his mood starts to settle. It's actually a really nice cabin. Big screen TV, huge verandas on the first and second floors, a hot tub, a pool table, breathtaking views of the forest… it's luxurious and simple all at once.
By late afternoon, Stiles has made peace with the idea of spending a long weekend out the in the woods with his friends.
Or at least he had made peace with it. And then Lydia marches up to him, looking fierce and gorgeous as always, and holds one slender, well-manicured hand out to him. Stiles stares at it. "Uh."
"Your phone," Lydia chirps, twitching her fingers at him. There's a smile on her face that is the perfect combination of kittenish and deadly that only Lydia Martin can pull off. "Hand it over."
Stiles, understandably, balks. "Why?"
"Because you may act like one, Stiles, but you're not an idiot." And wow, that's an actual compliment. A backhanded one, but he'll take it. He can already imagine his teenaged, and obsessively infatuated, self nearly fainting at the very idea. "You have at least some of the case files on your phone, or are planning to hack into your work computer from it. This is a work free zone. So hand it over."
"Lydia. Lyds-"
But her smile only sharpens. She may have spent most of their high school years pretending to be a high-society airhead, but Lydia Martin is terrifyingly smart and there's nothing Stiles can do but resign himself to defeat. She's smarter than he is, and just as crafty.
God, it's thrilling. But he can't admire it. Not when she's using it for this particular brand of evil.
"No," he bites out, phone already in hand and turning as if to curl around it protectively.
"Stiles."
"Oh, come on!" A hand darts into his peripherals, snatching his phone right out of his hand. Stiles flails, catching Jackson – the douchebag – in the shoulder with his elbow as he does. "Hey! You fucking-"
His curses go unheeded. His phone is deposited in Lydia's slender hand and quickly stowed away in her pocket. "This stays with me. You'll get it back when we leave." For a moment, Stiles is so angry he can't even speak. The words are lodged in his throat, his face hot and probably an ugly, splotchy red. Lydia only smiles at him. "Come on. We're going to have a little bonfire on the back patio. You can take out your frustration there." She turns, flipping her luscious strawberry-blonde hair as she goes. Jackson follows her, shooting Stiles a smug grin over his shoulder.
He wants to punch it straight off his face.
He must look it too, because Scott looks just this side of guilty when Stiles finally joins the rest of them out back. They've set up in a nice little nook, artfully shaded by trees and a pergola. There are cushioned benches and chairs and even a swing, which Lydia and Jackson have of course claimed for themselves, all surrounding a raised fire pit. It's just as nice as the rest of the house and Stiles irrationally hates it right now.
There's a seat free between Scott and Danny, as far away from Lydia and Jackson as they could make it without it being obvious. (It's obvious anyway.) He sinks down into it, and is immediately handed a beer and a lighter by Scott.
"You should probably reconsider this combination, Scotty."
Scott grins at him. "No way, dude. You get to start the bonfire."
"It's not even close to sunset yet."
"Yeah, but we're gonna make kebabs!"
Danny takes the moment to gently elbow him. "Just start the fire, Stilinski."
"Fine! Fine." He stands, taking a swig of his beer. The impulse has already sprung, fully formed, into his mind. It's nothing at all to poke at the kindling and sticks resting in the fire pit, taking advantage of the longer pause to take a second sip. Stiles clicks the lighter a couple times, watching the flame sputter from the tapered end. On the final click, he meets Lydia's eyes first, and then flicks his gaze to Jackson with an evil grin. It's the only warning he gives, but he sees them tensing anyway; sees Lydia opening her mouth to snap at him.
She doesn't even have time to form the words before he sprays a fine mist of alcohol over the end of the lighter. Instant inferno, a la fire-breather. It's only a short burst, the heat instant, but he stops and turns his head slightly away before the jet of flame can go out of control.
The shrieks of terror and outrage make the danger worth it.
"Stilinski, you fucker!"
"STILES."
"Not cool, man!"
Someone has a hand on the back of his shirt and is pulling him down into the seat. He doesn't know if it's Danny or Scott and doesn't too much care at this point. "Thank you, thank you!" he cackles, "I'll be here until Monday. No, seriously, because of someone I can't leave. You're stuck with me."
His friends don't seem too amused, but at this point Stiles doesn't mind. Even Danny's disapproving glare is met with the most shit-eating grin he can muster.
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Danny asks him, voice flat. "You're a cop, you should know better, you idiot."
"Yeah, yeah. High combustion point, not proper for fire-breathing. I know, Danny. Relax. I knew enough not to burn my face off. And look!" Stiles waves a hand at the campfire, which is now eating its way through the kindling and smaller twigs. "Insta-fire!"
"I take it back. You're an idiot," Lydia bites out each word. She has her legs tucked up on the bench, still in a defensive curl. "Don't ever do that again."
He should feel bad about scaring her – after all, he likes Lydia. Even though his breathtaking infatuation with her has faded, Stiles still loves her. Platonically, now – well, mostly platonically. They're close. He should be feeling so very guilty about doing that.
But he doesn't. Because he's a bit of a sadist. "I was pointing it down at the pit, not at you. It was cool, admit it!"
"It was kind of cool," Scott agrees softly.
"Yeah! See, Scotty's got my back!" Stiles offers him a high five, because Scott is the best and deserves all of them. And because Scott is the best, he returns it without hesitation.
That's where it should've stopped. They should have just settled in for a lunch of tasty kebabs and beer, and just talked about normal things. About vacation things. But they don't. Instead, Stiles exacts his full revenge for them trapping him here, for them taking his phone. They've forbidden him from actually doing work, but that doesn't mean he can't talk about it. So he does. He talks about new theories and possible new leads and comes up with a few of them right there on the spot. Stiles, being Stiles, can hold a whole conversation right there without any input needed.
The beer helps a bit. It's weak and tempered by food, but it helps get the words flowing. "So the spiral. No one really's gotta clue what it is. I mean, s'his calling card. Obviously. He puts it where people can see it. Carves it, draws it, burns it. Always where we'd notice."
"Can we be done with this conversation?" Lydia mutters from across the fire.
"Why does it have to be a man?" Kira pipes up, leaning around Scott. "There wasn't ever any evidence of that right?"
There's a reason he likes her. "You're right. You're totally right. I like her, Scotty. We can keep her-"
"Good thing, since she's been here for four years already."
"-We don't have any DNA evidence proving the Alpha is a guy. We don't really have any DNA evidence at all, other than the animal DNA. But statistically speaking this kinda messy spree killing style are usually done by a man." Stiles nods, more to himself than anything. "Yeah, yeah. See none of the murders are really methodical? There's no pattern to it. Usually serial killers have a pattern. A ritual. The Alpha doesn't. See, I don't think he's really a serial killer. A mass murder, yeah. A spree killer. But each of his murders've been pretty different. The only thing they've got in common is the spiral, the animal, and how bloody they all are. You'd think if you wanted to claw open someone and eviscerate them, you'd plan it out more-"
"Stilinski!"
It's the tense crackle in Jackson's voice that actually gets him to stop. It's not a tone he hears from Jackson often – if ever. But he knows the razor sharp edge of panic all too well, and hearing come out of Jackson sends his rambling to a halt. He finally pauses to look – actually look – at the pair sitting across from him. Lydia's expression has frozen into one of carefully crafted boredom, a mask that she usually affects. But there's a turmoil just behind it this time, just below the surface – a pinched appearance to her eyes and mouth. And she's not looking at him, either, instead staring at the fire, her hands in a white-knuckle grip on Jackson's arm. Jackson's returning it, one hand clenched around both of hers. But Jackson has his eyes trained on Stiles, and there's a hollow sort of anger and panic twisting his face.
And Stiles… Stiles is an asshole. A giant, raging asshole.
Awkward silence falls heavy between them.
"I- shit." He oh-so-eloquently blurts. "I'm- I'm just- I'm gonna go… walk this off." Stiles shoots to his feet so quickly that he sways, but it's got nothing to do with the beer. He steps around his friends, who are making a grab for him.
"Stiles, don't- you shouldn't go walking in the woods by yourself! I'll come with you." Scott is already half out of his seat when Stiles waves him away.
"No. No, I'm just gonna… I won't be gone long. I'll be back by sunset. I just need to uh… go." Go and stop being the worst friend in existence. He bounds off down the path of stepping stones towards the woods, plastering a careless smile onto his face when he calls reassurances to his friends over his shoulder. He doesn't let it drop until he's safely under the trees, and he can't see the cabin anymore.
His shoulders sag. "Shit. Way to go, Stilinski. You knew better. You just couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut. And now you're talking to yourself in the woods like a moron." Even if Stiles hadn't lived the case as it was happening, he knows the case file cover to cover.
And under the documentation for the third murder, there's two witness statements labelled Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin. And after are two reports on the nervous breakdowns both of them had suffered soon after witnessing the murder.
"I… am a horrible person," he sighs. Maybe after a walk in the woods, he'll come back as less of one.
-2-
Derek gives the chains another experimental tug, but the steady hold they have on his wrists does little to comfort him. His last resort against the Alpha - the only set of surviving chains left in the tunnels beneath his family home - is a futile one at best. But still Derek huddles in the corner of his hotel room, chained to the radiator.
The call has gone back down to a constant burn - an ache that presses against the back of his eyes and makes him feel like his muscles have been stretched thin. It crests and ebbs in unpredictable patterns, and he finds himself caught off guard by the full-body burn again and again. It's worse than it was in New York, undoubtedly due to this proximity to the Alpha. But the Alpha hasn't demanded his presence and caused him to black out yet.
It worries him.
The next wave crashes down on him, pain flaring so hot that he feels it in his teeth. His fangs descend through his gums so fast he tastes blood. It's all he can do to grab onto the radiator and just hope that it will pass at all. Each second feels like eternity. He's left drenched in sweat and gasping for breath when it finally does pass, his head swimming and muscles jerking in lingering pain. He listens hard, senses taking in the sounds of the hotel and hoping he hasn't screamed and put the staff on alert.
And then, in far too short a time, another torrent of pain. And then another. And another. Each growing more violent and frequent. Derek thinks his face may be wet with tears, but he can't get his brain to focus enough to tell. His throat burns, but he can't hear if he's screaming. His jaw aches from trying to keep them back.
'Stop!' he wants to beg. But it's a plea that isn't going to be heeded. The Alpha has changed tactics, it seems - trying to break him with the torture of not obeying the call. 'Don't listen. Don't break. Just hang on.'
Except there's nothing and no one coming to save him. He's fighting a losing battle because there isn't going to be a safe end for him to wait for. There's just death at the hands of an Alpha.
'Fight it. FIGHT IT.' It's his last chance.
The howl slams into him, the distance meaningless to the sheer force of the command that rattles his very bones. To human ears it will barely be an echo, but to Derek it feels like his head is about to split open. His entire body seizes. He's sure he does scream, then. But he doesn't answer the howl. By some miracle, he doesn't give in to the compulsion to answer it.
His world tilts, his vision swimming and over-saturated. His skin burns - it feels twisted and too tight. Derek's bone shift. His joints crack but the pain is nothing compared to the agony he's already in. He twists, writhes, gets caught in his clothes. Paws skitter across the carpet and he sticks his muzzle under the cracked window to open it, squeezing through the gap.
And then he's free. The autumn air is cool through his fur, the leaves crunching under his paws. It feels like a lifetime since the forest felt this much like home.
Pack. Alpha.
Alpha. He needs an Alpha.
He doesn't want to be alone anymore.
He runs. The instinct drives him, the ground flying by beneath his paws, the undergrowth whipping past his body. It doesn't matter how far he races through the dense forest. He'd run all night at this point.
He wants. He wants – he wants.
But he shouldn't. He can't.
He picks up the scent – earthy, sweet, familiar – too quickly for him to turn. He almost trips over his own legs in his attempt to change course. It's welcoming and warm. It smells right.
He wants.
There's a scent of gunpowder, metal, and wolfsbane in the same direction. It should be a warning, but this time, it's a salvation.
The burn of wolfsbane soaked steel is a welcome one.
END CHAPTER 2.
