iv. an old familiar face
Two weeks pass. Stiles buys actual cooking supplies and his own sheets and blankets so he can return Kara's, and he shaves and gets a haircut, too, so he doesn't continue to look like a homeless bum. The itch dies down – it's still there but quieter – though he continues to go out most nights to roam the city's darkest streets to find…something. He's not entirely sure what. Maybe the lizard monster. Maybe another mugger to beat up. He hangs out with Kara, Alex, James, and Winn, and he very quickly figures out that Alex is not actually a lab technician but works with Supergirl, and that James and Winn are aware of Kara's secret. He doesn't tell any of them that he knows this. His dad and Scott don't stop calling. Stiles knows that he needs to answer eventually, but that eventually is not now.
On Friday night, he goes out to dinner with Kara and Alex to Noonan's, a local restaurant that Kara really likes. He's groomed himself for the occasion; shaved, hair cut, and laundry done. Alex drives them in a black SUV that screams Secret Government Vehicle to Stiles. When they arrive, Stiles hops out into the dying sunlight and straightens the sleeves of his black blazer. Alex wears her standard leather jacket, tank top, and jeans, and Kara has put on a yellow, pastel dress, her hair straight and falling over her shoulders. Stiles wonders how she gets her hair to curl so quickly when she turns into Supergirl and also where she keeps her costume when she wears short sleeves.
They enter Noonan's, Alex holding the door for the others. The inside is wide and spacious and full of dark, gleaming wood, a bar dominating the center of the floor, square tables scattered across the rest of the space. The hostess leads them to a table near the back, by the windows, so that the last of the day's sun falls across it.
Stiles sits so he can see the door and opens one of the menus. He hasn't eaten all day, and he's starving. He doesn't look at the drink menu. The idea of alcohol makes him feel a little queasy. So he orders a root beer instead when their waiter comes by.
"Have you started looking for a job yet?" Alex asks him as they look over their menus.
Stiles chokes a little. He knows he should probably be looking for work soon enough – he's draining the $17,000 he brought with him pretty quickly – but he has no idea what kind of job to look for. So he's been putting it off. And will probably keep putting it off until he's down to his last penny. "Uh…" he says.
Kara jumps onto the job bandwagon, too. "I think CatCo is hiring. Ms. Grant is looking for a new reporter. I could probably get you an interview."
Reporting? That actually sounds sort of intriguing. Stiles always did the research for the cases the Pack solved in Beacon Hills, and he enjoyed digging for clues and piecing information together. Reporting would be similar to that. It might be interesting. "Yeah, okay," he says.
Kara claps her hands together excitedly. "Yes! Great! I'll talk to Ms. Grant and set something up. I should warn you – she's kind of terrifying."
More terrifying than a Pack of psycho Alpha werewolves or a dark druid hell-bent on revenge or having your own body and mind hijacked by a Japanese chaos demon? Stiles doesn't think so.
The interview is scheduled for Tuesday at one o'clock. Stiles spends a sleepless night on Sunday worrying about it, though he doesn't allow himself to go out and wander the streets. He figures getting into a violent altercation right before a job interview isn't the best idea. He gets up early in the morning. He showers, shaves, combs his hair. He even makes himself breakfast: a cheese omelet and some fruit. Alex offered to give him a ride the day before, and she arrives at noon, so Stiles smokes a little weed out the window until she gets to the apartment building, then he sprays on a bit of cologne to cover the smell.
He grips the strap of his messenger bag as he hurries outside to where Alex's black SUV is waiting. He hops inside, smiling at her in hello. "Hey," Alex says. "You look good."
Stiles glances down at himself. He's wearing his black blazer, a dark green V-neck, and black slacks. He supposes he looks better than he has for a long time. It takes them about forty-five minutes to get to CatCo Tower in the noonday traffic, and by the time Alex lets him out in front of the main doors, Stiles' hands are slick with sweat, his heart is racing, and he wishes he had another joint.
"Good luck," Alex says.
All he can do is smile queasily at her.
Stiles heads into the building and finds the elevator, pressing the button for the correct floor. The metal box goes up, up, up, and by the time the doors ding open, Stiles has his nerves under control, sinking into his apathy just far enough to be calm. He steps out into a bustling room filled with desks and lots of wide windows to let in the sunlight. He sees Winn at one desk and James in one of the offices walled off by glass. Kara waves at him from across the room, and he hitches up his bag as he hurries over to her.
"You're a little early," she says, looking at her tablet. She's technically a reporter for the magazine, but Cat Grant still uses her as a personal assistant a lot of the time. "So you can just hang out here for a few minutes. Are you nervous?"
"No," he says.
Kara cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. "Alright then. Come on, I'll announce you."
He follows her to the giant office just to the right of her desk. The space is open and airy with a giant wall of televisions behind the desk and a pair of white couches in the center of the floor. Kara knocks lightly on the glass door, and the woman behind the desk looks up. She has wavy, shoulder length, blonde hair and is impeccably dressed, her green eyes sharp and intelligent as she scrutinizes him. Stiles feels like he's under a microscope, one that's magnifying the sun.
Okay, Kara was right. She is terrifying.
"Ms. Grant, your one o'clock is here," Kara says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
"Thank you, Kiera, you may go," Cat Grant drawls.
Kiera? Stiles doesn't get a chance to ask Kara about it because she whispers, "Good luck" to him and turns around to return to her desk.
Stiles walks briskly up to the desk and holds out his hand, trying to act confident. "Ms. Grant. I'm Stiles Stilinski."
The Queen of All Media lets his hand hang there as she puts on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and looks over his resume with an unimpressed expression on her face. Stiles awkwardly lets his hand drop. "You have no real reporting experience? Or writing experience?" Ms. Grant says finally, looking up at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Uh, no." Stiles resists the urge to scratch at the back of his head. He also wishes he could have a place to sit down. "But I majored in Criminal Investigations, so I'm pretty good at, uh, investigating." He hopes his face isn't as red as it feels.
"Uh huh." Ms. Grant doesn't sound impressed. Stiles knows he has to do something big to get her attention.
"You're lonely," he says and sees shock flicker through her eyes briefly. He's using the smallest bit of his power to brush up against her mind, but it makes him feel nauseous and disgusted with himself. "You're very good at pretending you're not, but deep down, you're so lonely. You have the perfect job, millions of people look up to you, and you're one of the most influential people in this country, yet none of that fills the hole inside of you."
Ms. Grant just stares at him, her eyes flat and a little alien. Stiles begins to worry that he's made a terrible mistake, but he presses on anyways. "You desperately want to know for sure who Supergirl is," he sees that she suspects Kara but isn't totally sure, "so you can thank her and tell her how much she inspires you."
"That's a cute trick." Ms. Grant drums her fingers against the surface of her desk. "How do you know all that?"
Stiles shrugs. "I'm just really good at reading people."
"I see." The drumming fingers get steepled before her face. "I like your honesty. It's refreshing. So many other applicants who have come through that door tried to flatter me or were too embarrassed to take ownership for their own skills."
"Life is too short for bullshit." Stiles knows this better than most. Then he cringes. Maybe saying bullshit in the middle of an interview is a bad idea.
Ms. Grant's face remains impassive and hard to read. She stares at him for a long time, so long that Stiles begins to grow uncomfortable, uncertain if he should say something, but he keeps his mouth shut. "Alright," she says finally. "I'll give you a trial run. Kiera will email you the details once I've decided what you first task will be."
"Thank you, Ms. Grant." He feels like he should bow – Ms. Grant exudes that much gravitas - but instead, he turns to leave.
"I looked you up." Ms. Grants voice stops him. Ice slides down Stiles' spine at the thought. He doesn't know what there is to find on him, but he can't imagine that any of it is good. He slowly spins back around. "Son of a sheriff. Your town – Beacon Hills, right? – has seen a lot of deaths over the years, and you always seem to be right in the middle of the investigation."
Stiles says nothing.
"The newspaper articles never say anything about the killer's identity." Ms. Grant watches him closely.
"Some things are better left unsaid."
Ms. Grant hesitates just slightly. "And I found an obituary."
Stiles stiffens, every line in his body going ramrod stiff and his face darkening into something hard as ice. Ms. Grant reads every expression that rushes across his face; anger, guilt, hate, incalculable grief. "I'm sorry," she says as he looks away, trembling hands clenched at his sides.
"I don't need your pity," he says in his ice cold voice.
She nods. "I'll have Kiera email you the details." She looks away from him, an obvious dismissal, and Stiles walks out of her office.
"How did it go?" Kara asks when she sees him, popping up from behind her desk. She sees his sharp eyes, and her smile collapses a little bit, so he tries to force some of the darkness away.
"It went fine. Thanks for setting this up."
Her smile comes back, bright as the sun. "That's fantastic! I'll see you tonight?"
"Uh, maybe," he says. Probably not, actually. He doesn't think he'll be in any mood to socialize.
Winn waves at him as he heads for the elevator, and once inside, Stiles slumps against the back wall, glad to be alone for a moment. Alex said she would give him a ride home if he wanted, but Stiles decides to walk instead. The afternoon sun beats down on his head, and he feels himself begin to sweat a little beneath his blazer. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and even though he knows it's probably another call for his dad, he pulls it out anyways. He's surprised to see Lydia's name on the caller ID.
Stiles debates answering but ultimately lets the call go to voicemail. He's too tired at the moment to talk. It takes nearly an hour and a half to get back to his apartment, and he feels a whole load of tension roll off of him when he closes the door.
Despite having fleshed out some parts of his apartment, the space is still pretty sparse. He doesn't have a couch or any furnishings in the living room, no dining table or even a chair. He does have a beanbag that he bought for five dollars, but mostly, he just hangs out on his bed or sits on top of the kitchen island to eat.
He feels antsy. Lying down or napping won't do, despite how tired he is, so he decides to bake instead. He thinks he's got all the ingredients for gooey chocolate brownies already. He gets started, pulling out his glass pipe and smoking a bowl from it as he does, and the actions quickly calm him down. He remembers doing this same thing with Derek a few years ago.
They were in the Hale house kitchen. It was bigger than Stiles' kitchen, and after they accidentally got flour in every nook and cranny during a mishap with the mixer, Sheriff Stilinski had banned them from baking in his house ever again.
Derek wasn't being very helpful. He was too busy putting his hands all over Stiles' waist and playing with his hair. He kissed Stiles just as Stiles tried to add the oil in, so he ended up spilling half of it across the counter. "Goddamnit, Derek!" Stiles pushed Derek away playfully to the sound of Derek's low, rumbling laughter.
Stiles grabbed a rag to map the spill up, but Derek plucked it away. "Sorry. But would you rather make brownies? Or would you rather kiss me?"
"I would rather have both."
Derek lifted him up onto the counter and trapped him there with his big, strong hands. He leaned in, pausing with his mouth just a hair's breadth from Stiles', then closed the rest of the distance, one hand knotting into Stiles' hair.
Kissing Derek was like putting that last puzzle piece into place. A sense of completion, of oneness. Usually, Stiles' thoughts never stopped. They just churned and spun and banged against the inside his skull. But Derek quieted all of them, silenced them with a single touch.
Stiles loved the feel Derek's hair under his fingers. It was impossibly thick and soft, and the prickle of Derek's stubble always made him laugh. That day, Derek tastes like Altoids.
Stiles broke away, grinning as he rested his forehead against Derek's. "I want brownies."
Derek's eyes twinkled. "Alright. We'll make brownies."
Stiles comes back to himself with wet cheeks and blurry vision. He wipes his face with a shaking hand and focuses on the brownies, mixing the ingredients together then pouring it all into a greased pan, the oven already pre-heated. He slides the pan inside, shuts the door, and sets the timer. He reads a book – Kara showed him the local library – until the time is up and uses oven mitts to juggle the pan out and put it on the counter. A lovely smell fills the apartment, sweet and chocolaty. It makes him smile.
He cuts them when they've cooled off and loads them onto a plate so he can take them over to Kara's apartment. "Coming!" he hears her yell when he knocks. A few seconds later, the door swings open, and Kara beams when she sees him, a floppy cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. "Stiles, hey! What's up?"
Stiles holds up the plate. "I made brownies, and I wanted to thank you again for getting me that interview."
Kara's eyes widen excitedly. "I love brownies!"
He smiles hollowly as she lets him in, and he sets the plate on the counter. Kara picks one up eagerly, and bliss melts across her face as she takes a bite. "God, these are good!"
"It's my own recipe. I used to make them with…" he trails off, covering it up by taking a square for himself.
"With who?" Kara asks, cocking her head to the side.
Stiles just looks away and shrugs. "Enjoy the brownies."
He moves for the door, but Kara reaches out and grabs his hand. "No, wait. Do you want to watch a movie? We don't have to talk."
Stiles looks back at her, and her eyes are open and earnest, kind. He nods. He wants to stay in the warmth of that kindness a little longer; it soothes his sadness and quiets the itch a little.
They decide to watch Blade Runner. Kara has never seen it before, and Stiles, as the Official Movie Connoisseur of the Beacon Hills Pack, knows that it's awesome, and they both agree that young Harrison Ford is a stud. They bring the plate of brownies to the couch, adding a pint of ice cream to the pile, and Stiles wraps himself up in one of Kara's blankets, a pillow squished against his stomach. A few of the cuts on his arm burn, but he ignores the urge to scratch them.
Thirty minutes into the movie, Kara scoots over so she can lean against his side, and Stiles lets her stay there, her weight warm and nice. He and Derek used to sit like this when they watched movies, and he tries hard to keep the sadness from swallowing him, focusing instead on Harrison Ford. He and Kara eat more brownies and ice cream for dinner, and when the credits begin to roll, Kara convinces him to stay by draping herself across him so he can't get off the couch. Stiles relents with a laugh, and they start Lilo and Stitch.
"Why does Ms. Grant call you Kiera?" Stiles asks a few minutes in.
Kara groans a little bit and rolls her eyes. "She started that when I first began to work for her, and she just won't stop. I think she's called me Kara…once, maybe? And that was only after I did something really, really well."
"Do you ever try to correct her?" Honestly, Stiles would be too afraid to try and correct that woman.
"I did once." Kara shudders from the memory. "It did not go well."
It's getting late when the second movie finishes, so Kara lets him get up, and she follows him to the door, carrying the plate. "Thanks for coming over," she says before he steps out into the hallway.
"Thanks for putting up with my mopiness." Stiles forces a laugh.
"I'm here if you ever want to talk," Kara assures him. He wonders how much she knows or suspects. He knows she saw the cuts on his wrist during game night, but he couldn't tell if she believed his lie about the thorn bushes.
He nods to acknowledge her words without committing himself. Kara leans forward and kisses him gently on the cheek, the smell of her mint shampoo all around him. "Have a good night," she says, and he smiles as he closes the door.
Stiles doesn't spend much time in his apartment when he returns, staying just long enough to exchange his blazer for a leather jacket – not Derek's, that one's still hanging in the back of his closet – and his slacks for dark jeans and sneakers, sliding his triangular knife through his belt.
Then he heads out into the night, walking swiftly towards a section of National City that he hasn't explored yet. It's some kind of industrial district with big, wide storage facilities mixed in with the factories. It's quiet here, most of the workers having returned home at the ends of their shifts, so Stiles has the streets to himself.
He walks for about a half hour before he hears a sound like a metal trash can being knocked over and rolled across the street. Stiles stops, a shiver going down his spine, and he steps back a bit so he can investigate. What he sees down the side street freezes his heart for a moment.
It's Derek's killer. The lizard monster. Its red scales glow slightly in the light of the street lamp, its eyes glinting. Its spiked tail knocked the trashcan over. Stiles sees that tail smash into Derek's chest, sees those claws shred skin and shatter bone.
Stiles' heart restarts all at once, racing forward at a thousand miles an hour as rage floods his body and takes over his mind. "You!" he bellows as he draws his knife. The monster looks over at him, black eyes flat and dead and without any recognition but for the threat he represents as he barrels towards it. The anger and hatred has completely taken hold of him. He's going to rip this thing apart, rend its arms from its torso, pop its eyes, tear that fucking tail off. He's going to make it suffer. Make it feel pain. Make it wish it had never heard of Beacon Hills. Make it regret killing Derek.
He lunges forward when he gets in range, but the lizard monster roars and bats at him with its tail, the spikes narrowly missing him as the meaty part drives all the air from his lungs. He finds himself flying through the air, and he hits the wall of the opposing building hard enough to make dust rain down around him as he falls to the ground. He doesn't feel any pain. Instead, he climbs back to his feet, face contorted in a snarl, and bellows in anger because the beast is climbing up the building, about to disappear.
Stiles races after it, teeth gritted, head tilted to the sky so he can keep it in sight. Even when it disappears, he can still hear its claws scraping across the stone. He pushes out with his thoughts, Get down here. When the beast tries to jump the next street, it stumbles, and slams into the wall rather than the next roof. It crashes to the ground with a shriek.
Stiles jumps forward, his knife arcing down as he lands on its back, but the blade skates off the scales without making a scratch. The lizard monster reaches back and wraps its giant hand around his chest so it can fling him off it. He hits the ground and rolls, coming back to his feet, ready to attack again. The monster climbs back upright and faces him, snarling. Stiles twirls his knife and prepares to attack, but the beast lunges forward before he can. He gathers his will and flings it at the lizard monster, freezing it in its tracks, his hand upraised to help him focus.
The lizard monster strains against him, its hallucinogenic power against his red-hot rage. Its limbs tremble, locked in place, and it howls at him. Stiles steps forward, though it takes a great amount of effort, like he's walking through cement, the lizard's power a wall between him and it. His head pounds, excruciating, as he takes another step, and he feels something warm and wet slide out of his nose.
He's going to do this. Seven more steps, and he'll be able to plunge this knife into its filthy heart. Another step, and his headache is an explosion, then a supernova, red and black lights flashing across his vision. The next step, and the beast begins to fight back, freeing its arms from his hold, its neck rolling. He's going to kill it, or it's going to kill him.
One more step, and the monster takes a step towards him as well. Then something slams down between them, someone dressed in red and blue, though Stiles can tell right away that it's not Supergirl; too tall, too masculine, too dark haired. He punches the lizard in the chest so hard that it flies backwards through three walls, disappearing from sight. Then the man turns to Stiles. "Are you okay?"
Stiles doesn't look at him, just pushes around him, and runs to the hole in the wall so he can search for his prey. But there's no sign of it, just dust and rubble and the innards of an empty warehouse. "Why the hell did you do that?" Stiles yells, fury pulsing through him.
"I just saved your life," the man says, sounding a little puzzled.
Stiles spins around to give this fucker a piece of his mind, but when he finally looks at the man, everything stops. His brain freezes, his heart turns to stone and drops to his shoes. He staggers back, pressing himself into the brick. He can't breathe. He – he–
Because the man standing before him, dressed in red and blue and wearing a cape, looks just like Derek. Same height, same build, same swell of muscle. He's clean shaven, but there are those sharp cheekbones, his grey eyes heroic rather than dark and brooding, his hair spiking up in just the same way as Derek's.
Stiles chokes, and his legs give way, sending him crashing to the ground. He still can't breathe, and he feels light-headed, lights flashing before his eyes, and all he can hear is a sort of rasping sound. The man, not-Derek, crouches down before him, looking concerned. "Hey, are you okay? Did that creature hurt you?"
Stiles lashes out, both palms slapping against that bright yellow S, shoving not-Derek away, so he can sprint off, desperate to be as far away from this man as possible. He runs and runs, feet pounding against the pavement, blood rushing through his head. Finally, he has to stop because he can't breathe, and he thinks he's going to fall over. He leans up against the wall and wipes a hand across his mouth. It comes away smeared with blood, and he can feel more leaking out of his nose. With shaking hands, he rolls a joint, smokes it, then rolls another and smokes that, too. It only calms him down a little bit.
He stumbles away, craving more distance between him and not-Derek. He wants something stronger than the weed. It's lost its touch, and he wants something that will turn this entire night into oblivion. His pot dealer sells other drugs, so he heads towards where he knows the man likes to hang out and he finds that the guy has LSD for sale. Stiles buys a tab with wooden motions.
He knows he should go back to his apartment before he takes this, but he doesn't want to wait, so he puts the tab under his tongue. His saliva dissolves it quickly, and he stumbles. Before long, all thought is wiped from his mind, the buildings and shadows stretching out around him as he wanders. He loses track of time, loses track of himself, just as he wanted. He's empty. A shell. Just a body moving through space.
"Hey, twink." An indeterminable amount of time later, a voice breaks through his haze, and Stiles turns slowly to see a man in a muscle tank and jeans glaring at him, swaggering, thumbs in his pockets. "What the hell are you doing in my streets?"
Stiles cocks his head slowly to the side. This man has dark smoke rising off of him and red flickering in his eyes. Stiles doesn't respond. He just smashes his fist into the other man's face, making him stumble back. Stiles hits him again and again, driving him to the ground, and then he beings to kick. Kick and kick and kick, letting all his anger and frustration rush out of his leg and into this stupid man's body.
The man whimpers and curls into a fetal position. Stiles doesn't care. Any scrap of self-control he has is gone. The man has warped into the lizard monster, and he's going to kill it.
Dimly, somewhere far in the background of his hazy mind, he registers a wash of red and blue light, hears the sound of shouting. Then hands grab his arms and rip him away from his prey. He bellows his endless frustration at the sky, tries to kick out with his legs, but he seems to have lost control of them. He feels something cold clamp around his wrists, feels a pressure on his head, forcing him down into a small space that he doesn't comprehend. The red and blue lights are disorienting.
"Derek," he says, tries to say, desperately hoping Derek will come save him from this hell.
His plea goes unanswered, the darkness claiming him for its own.