Time felt suspended as bright blue eyes stared at him calculatingly, something meaningful and tempestuous brimming beneath the surface like a devastating storm about to be unleashed. Fingers dug into the tender underside of his arm, not quite enough to bruise his fair skin, but definitely enough to remind him how weak he was in comparison.
Hot breath spilled over his vulnerable wrist as he hesitated; he was frozen, fear and indecision paralyzing his mind and his body. He was weak like this, so easily overcome and always cast aside until he was deemed useful. He could be special though, no longer watching as everything happened to someone else. He would be strong and capable, more able to protect the people he held close to his heart.
It was what he wanted and they both knew it.
Teeth began to lengthen, each tooth extending into long, dangerous canines proficient for shredding through flesh and crunching through bone. He tried to pull away, fearful as the blue eyes too began to change, gradually tinting red until they bled scarlet like the blood pumping quickly through his veins, but the grip merely tightened and held him in place as the fangs penetrated his skin.
Pain like never before surged throughout his body in an instant. It was agonizing and crippling, a fire borne from the bite on his wrist that spread through his arteries and began to burn him from the inside out. He could feel the moment the infection tried to take hold, his heart aflame and aching as he collapsed to the ground and screamed.
Through the scattered and pained thoughts, a single word cut through his cries, the growling voice echoing in his mind as he writhed against the concrete. "Mine."
Stiles vaulted upright in an instant, the erratic scream catching in his throat with a choked cry. He struggled with the blanket, feeling claustrophobic and confused, not entirely sure where he was. There were no sleek, shiny cars surrounding him, no concrete slabs for walls or painted lines on asphalt beneath him; instead he saw the pale blue walls of his bedroom, the posters scattered about his walls, and the absolute mess of research materials all around him.
It had only been a dream. His heart still raced, pounding a fierce rhythm in his chest from the lingering terror he felt. He exhaled a long breath, briefly closing his stinging eyes as he drew his legs in close. He curled his arms around them and rested his forehead against his knees, trying to push away the lingering horror and swallow the bile lodged in the back of his throat.
Nightmares were something Stiles was beginning to grow accustomed to lately. He had been dreaming of a lot of things recently, perhaps the most notable being that night with the mechanic, the pleas for help still ringing fresh in his ears. But he had not had a nightmare about the other time, when Lydia had been attacked and he had willingly gone with Peter Hale in exchange for her life, since it all happened.
Stiles expelled another harsh breath and pressed the heels of his hands against his burning eyes; he just wished everything would stop. He wanted to be able to sleep for more than three hours at a time without nightmares and memories overwhelming him. He wanted to be able to wake up without his cheeks feeling damp from tears and his throat raw from screaming. He felt like he was still there every time he closed his eyes, still weak and helpless to protect himself or the people around him.
Most of the events played out exactly how he remembered them, every detail drawn up by his memory and replayed again for his own personal torment. Everything was so vivid, just so real that he could never distinguish when he was dreaming or awake. But sometimes… the memories were wrong, different and twisted to the point where they were not quite as recognizable and he was living a whole new reality.
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as if the physical motion would rid him of the thoughts plaguing him. He shook his head again forcefully, his hands balling into fists around his sheets. He needed to get out of his room, away from the loose piece of paper scattered on his bed or the half translated notes by his pillow.
A soft tap on the windowpane startled him before he could muster up the strength to move though. His heart lurching to his throat as he quickly rolled out of the bed and down onto the floor, becoming tangled in his blankets momentarily. His sudden fear and panic faded the moment he realized that it was only his very own, personal body guard checking in.
Stiles stared blankly at the golden eyes that peered at him through the window.
Isaac tore his eyes away a moment later, casting his gaze throughout the room; he was searching for a threat, if the extended fangs and claws were any indication. He must have heard the nightmare and decided to investigate, Stiles realized with an embarrassed flush. He sniffled a bit, looking away as he hurried to wipe his sleeves against his cheek and eyes to remove any of the lingering evidence, but it was hopeless to hide it considering that it was what probably drew the werewolf up to his room to begin with.
For the longest time, Isaac said nothing, his inhuman features having faded by the time he finished climbing through the window. His eyes were now a surprising mixture of sea green and teal, which softened the edge of his deep seated frown. He was very quiet as he finally moved away from the window.
"… Hey, Isaac," Stiles said awkwardly in greeting, picking himself up off of the floor once he managed to untie his ankles from his comforter. He scratched at his forehead slightly, studying the other boy as he began to shuffle gracefully, noiselessly, around the room with a curious air around him.
Stiles honestly knew very little about the other boy. It was actually a bit surprising since they had shared a bench almost every day since last year when they both joined the lacrosse team as benchwarmers. Isaac hardly spoke though, contributing almost nothing to the constant conversation on the sidelines, so perhaps it shouldn't come as quite the shock that he was a bit of a mystery.
Isaac studied the various band posters along the walls, his frown turning bewildered at the unfamiliar names strewn across them. He seemed to be even more confounded by the impressive collection of graphic novels and comic books scattered over the desk, as well as the array of science fiction, fantasy and horror books lining the shelves of the book case in the corner. He paused, however, coming across the notebook that had been left out in plain view at the foot of the bed.
It was the notebook that Stiles was using to chronicle any relevant werewolf information in, such as everything that Derek had told him earlier as well as the few bits and pieces he had managed to confirm on his own. He had cataloged quite a bit of content so far, much more than he had been expecting initially.
Stiles had actually been under the impression that the sour wolf would go back on his word the minute he got what he wanted. He thought that maybe one or two things would be clarified, but that the rest of his questions would just be ignored. He never really expected that Derek would be quite so forthcoming about all of it.
And while he was grateful that his questions were being answered, Stiles was actually beginning to regret not letting sleeping wolves lie, so to speak. There were things he would probably be better off not knowing… such as the wrist biting thing. He shuddered as the memory flashed through his mind once more, of gleaming red eyes peering at him with an expectant, knowing look.
"We aren't allergic to silver?"
Stiles blinked in confusion as the quiet voice penetrated his scattered thoughts, drawing his mind away from the revelation he was not quite ready to contemplate just yet. He pushed it all to the back of his mind and glanced up at the other boy as he cleared his throat. "What?"
Isaac looked over at him curiously. "You have it written that werewolves are not allergic to silver," he said softly as he pointed to the passage, his voice sounding much the way Stiles remembered it to be. He lacked the dark, haughty edge that Scott had described from that night at the ice rink. He sounded calm and quiet, and just as painfully shy as he had been before the bite.
"No," he told him, clearing his parched throat again. Stiles reached up to rub his short head, releasing a quiet sigh. "No," he repeated. "Silver has absolutely no physical effect on you guys… which is kind of strange, because that was actually the one fact that every myth seemed to have in common."
Isaac inclined his head. "That is strange," he agreed, puzzled.
"I kind of have a theory about that though," Stiles offered, not entirely sure how to interact with the other boy now. He rifled through a few of the papers on his pillow, finally retrieving the one he was searching for. "Allison leant me one of her family heirlooms—you know who her family is, right?"
"The Argents," he nodded. "They are hunters."
"Do you happen to know what the word argent means?" Stiles queried as he handed him the paper. "It is the literal translation for silver. It got me thinking about just how far back the Argents might have been hunting werewolves. See here? Her family has been doing this for centuries; the book Allison lent me goes pretty far back too. Things get mixed up in translation very easily… all it takes is for one single word to get mistranslated and it could completely mess with the mythology."
"You're saying that it isn't the actual precious metal that is harmful to us," Isaac concluded with a raised eyebrow. "But the family silver." He looked vaguely impressed, tilting his head curiously. "It would explain why silver is the one consistent factor despite the fact that it is completely irrelevant."
Stiles smiled sheepishly. "Just a theory," he admitted, but it felt good to know that someone else agreed with his harebrained speculations. "There is no actual way for me to prove it, because everyone who might be able to corroborate has been dead and buried for a very, very long time. Besides, like you said, irrelevant."
"Is there anything we are allergic to?" Isaac gave him an inquisitive frown.
"Nothing that seems conclusive," Stiles shrugged carelessly. "So far the only thing I know you guys are susceptible to is wolfsbane—" He squinted as the other boy gave him a decidedly blank look at the word, as if it were unfamiliar. "You have got to be kidding me." He shook his head, casting his eyes heavenward incredulously. "Seriously, what the hell is Derek teaching you if both you and Erica don't even know the basics?"
Isaac suddenly developed a rather guarded look. "To survive," he murmured, rubbing oddly at his arm as he turned to look back out of the window. "What is wolfsbane?"
"Considering the name, what do you think it means?" Stiles said carefully, lifting an eyebrow meaningfully, taking the notebook for a moment and leafing through the pages until he found the correct one. "Read that. The bane of a wolf kind of sums it up nicely. Basically it is a poison to you guys. It can be harmful to humans too, but it would require large quantities to receive aconite poisoning—another name for it. It only takes a little to hurt you guys though."
Stiles was actually a bit concerned at the apparent lack of knowledge the wolf pack seemed to have regarding their own weaknesses and even their abilities. Surviving was definitely a priority, one of the main priorities even, but how could they even be expected to survive if they knew next to nothing about themselves?
It was somewhat disconcerting that he wasn't even a werewolf himself and yet he seemed to know more than they all did. He shifted uneasily as Isaac read what he had written on the subject, scratching the back of his neck. Perhaps it was time to meddle with pack affairs; he thought maybe he should broach the subject with the unfriendly neighborhood alpha when Derek came to pick him up later.
Stiles grimaced at the mere thought. That would not be a very pleasant conversation at all. He doubted the unusually accommodating attitude would extend to questioning the way Derek ran his pack. Maybe he should wait until they were done shopping tomorrow and back at the house before raising the issue, otherwise he may find himself kicked out of the shiny, black Camaro with no way to get his groceries home.
"Hey, are you thirsty?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. Isaac made a noncommittal sound and turned the page, staring at the small hand writing in unbridled fascination. He grinned and decided to leave the other boy to continue reading undisturbed, slipping away unnoticed.
Downstairs was utterly quiet as he made his way to the kitchen, though almost all of the lights were on. He had turned them all off except for the front porch light last night before he had retreated to his room, and he had an inkling as to why they were all on now. Sure enough when he peered into the living room, he spotted a familiar figure slouched over on the couch.
Stiles released a quiet sigh at the sight. His father was sprawled out over the seat, his neck at an awkward position as he slumped over to the side a bit. There was open case files that had undoubtedly been scanned through several times over the past few hours and an empty bottle of whisky dangling forgotten from the loose fingertips hanging over the edge of the armrest.
It was a very familiar scene. Stiles often found him passed out over his work, much the same way he had been passed out over homework and research almost every night. Never let it be said that Sheriff Stilinski was nothing like his son in that aspect. The only difference was perhaps the alcohol.
Stiles had been drunk maybe twice in his whole life, and only the time he had dragged his best friend out into the woods had been voluntary. His father, however, seemed to be drinking quite a bit lately. Stiles couldn't help but wonder if he was a contributing factor to the excessive amounts of alcohol poisoning his father. He probably was.
Deciding to deal with it in just a few moments, Stiles continued toward the kitchen to find something to soothe his raw throat and maybe something sugary to boost his energy. He grimaced when he spotted the digital clock gleaming from the microwave, noting that it was barely even eleven o'clock. He had only slept for all of an hour and a half rather than the three he had been hoping for
It was better than no sleep at all, he supposed, but not exactly restful.
Stiles scanned the contents of the refrigerator, briefly scowling as he recalled that his ample supply of carbonated energy had vanished in the night yesterday. He wondered if this feeling of irritation was the same one his father felt every time Stiles brought him vegetables or healthy alternatives instead of the greasy, fried foods and fat loaded burgers that could work his body into an early grave.
Derek Hale was a surprisingly health conscious individual. Maybe it shouldn't come as such a surprise though, because the man obviously took good care of himself. His muscles were firm and sculpted, and being a werewolf was not an immediate makeover that gave you well defined arms and a broad, muscular back or even a washboard abdomen.
It took time to achieve a chiseled physique, time that Derek obviously spent well, and a healthy diet. And apparently he honed in on the fact that Stiles was basically living off of energy drinks anymore and took offense enough to remove the products entirely. He wasn't sure why Derek even cared what he did. It was baffling and perhaps more than a little irritating, but he chalked up the interfering as some crazy werewolf thing and decided not to pursue it any longer.
Finally settling on the last one the orange juice, Stiles forwent grabbing a glass and drank directly from the container. There was not much left, so why bother? He also took a few tablets for pain since he could already feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a preemptive strike against the steadily progressing headache.
Stiles finished his juice in silent, trying desperately not to let his mind wonder back to his nightmare or what it meant that he was dreaming about that night again after so long. He really hated Peter Hale. He never actually thought he was capable of conjuring such an emotion; he threw the word around a lot, mostly in jest or maybe at Jackass Whittemore, but he never actually felt that way.
Peter Hale had inspired some very new, dark and angry feelings in the short time they had been acquainted. He could understand the motivation behind what the man had done for the most part; he was without a pack—which Stiles was coming to understand was weakness in werewolf terms—and bit Scott to rectify that. It was perhaps not the smartest move, because his best friend was not the brightest crayon in the box and he had not wanted this life.
Stiles could also understand the murders on some level. Revenge on the people who enabled his entire family to be brutally murdered could be viewed as justice to someone like Peter, and hell, even Stiles could see the appeal of revenge. He doubted anyone would not want some kind of retribution for the murder of almost all of their family.
Peter had only been thinking of himself when he followed through with his plans though, or perhaps just not really thinking at all. He had murdered his own niece without remorse, just to inherit her position as the alpha. She had not deserved to die; she had nothing to do with the fire or the cover up. She was just someone standing in the way of his revenge and his lust for power.
It was terrible and heartbreaking and completely unnecessary.
Derek had come looking for her then; he had already lost so much in his life, but too lose the last person in the world he held dear… tragedy seemed too trivial of a word to describe that sort of loss. Not only had he lost her, Derek also found part of her remains out in the woods around his house, her eyes staring blank and almost terrified in her death. He had buried her; he had dug a grave and placed her in the ground himself.
Stiles was horrified to suddenly realize that neither he nor Scott had ever apologized for what they had done after that. They had been so consumed with their scheming and theories that they never stopped to consider other alternatives. He could not imagine how Derek had felt after they had finished unearthing the body or how angry he must have been when Stiles had climbed into the front of that squad car after he had been arrested.
A soft snore broke through his thoughts, and Stiles gratefully shook himself of the dark cloud surrounding him. He took in a deep breath and rubbed at his tired eyes, blinking when he realized after a glance at the clock that he had been standing here for more than twenty minutes without even noticing. He shook his head.
"I must be losing my mind," he muttered under his breath, quickly moving into the living room a moment later. He frowned deeply at the sight of his father; the sheriff looked completely exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes a very prominent feature. He sighed and grabbed the empty bottle from his loose grasp and set it aside.
Stiles tried to arrange him more comfortably without waking him. He knew how precious sleep was nowadays, especially as the sheriff. He knelt down to unlace the boots still tied to his feet, setting them aside beneath the coffee table, and froze when he set eyes on the belt and holster. He felt his heart lurch slightly, an unknown feeling of unease surging through him.
Sheriff Stilinski was usually very careful to hide his weapons away in the gun cabinet, locked away and completely out of sight or reach. It was often the first thing he did when he arrived home; unbuckle the belt and the holster, tucking it carefully into its space to be forgotten until the next day.
Staring down at the gleaming metal now, Stiles flinched slightly and tore his eyes away from it. He knew exactly what the make and model was; he knew how to handle the weapon safely and proficiently, how to care for it and clean it. He could probably still break down and reassemble a gun blindfolded, as if it were muscle memory—he had done that in fact, because sometimes the shiny things distracted him.
Trips out to the shooting range seemed like such a far off memory, but in truth it was less than five years ago since the last time they went. There was a time when he and his father went every other weekend as part of the whole father and son bonding experience, back when things were less tense between them. He had struggled with accuracy at first, but he was nothing if not a fast learner.
Stiles was not even sure what had happened to the gun he had claimed as his own, the one he had fondly called Xena; it was probably hidden in the gun cabinet or maybe sitting at the pawn shop in town. He wondered if he was still any good after so long. He may actually need his warrior princess if recent events were any indication at how helpless he was to defend himself.
Not that he thought his father would willingly place a dangerous weapon in his reach without constant supervision. It was very unlikely indeed.
Stiles quickly divested his father of the belt and holster with deft fingers, discarding it gingerly upon the table with haste. He reached for the crocheted blanket always hanging off the side of the couch and covered the man up carefully. He glanced down at the paper work on the table as he took the empty bottle back in hand, giving the loose stack a contemplative look.
Debating with himself for a moment, Stiles eventually let his curiosity win out and he chose a random paper from the pile. He winced immediately, sharp features staring back at him from a photograph paper clipped to the profile. It was the mechanic from the other day, the man he had seen crushed to death right in front of him.
Cornish, Tucker.
A humorless laugh bubbled in his throat as Stiles read the name, his voice sounding harsh and broken to his own ears. He was such a horrible, selfish person. He had watched this man die how many days ago now? It already felt like so long ago when in reality it had been little more than a week. And he had never even bothered to learn his name before.
Tucker Cornish probably had a family and friends somewhere mourning his death, and Stiles had consumed himself with other things and had not spared a thought for the mechanic unless it was to wallow in self-pity about his nightmares. He closed his eyes tightly as he fought off a surge of overwhelming emotion.
"Stiles?" a soft, somewhat hoarse voice called.
Stiles immediately tensed, lowering the profile back onto the table as inconspicuously as he could. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, and he cursed himself for making any noise, let alone a sharp, bitter laugh as he turned in place. His father peered up at him with tired, bleary eyes that begged for more sleep.
"Yeah, it's me," he told him quietly, tucking the blanket around him a bit more. He smiled weakly when his father gave him a questioning look. "Everything is fine, dad. Go back to sleep." He released a quiet breath of relief when the man did as he was told, eyelids falling shut without another word.
Stiles decided not to pursue any case files again tonight. He was not entirely sure he wanted to know more about the Cornish case. He had witness it; he would rather not read the coroners reports or the autopsy. Besides, he had company upstairs and it would be very rude to keep him waiting anymore. He finished cleaning up the alcohol tumbler and bottle and retreated back up to his room.
Isaac was still occupied with the book when he returned, or rather, trying to appear engrossed with the werewolf lore. He had a very peculiar expression clouding his features though, and he was gnawing slightly on his bottom lip as he absently turned the page without actually reading it. He was so obvious; he had been eavesdropping.
"It's okay," Stiles said, unsure how to handle this situation. "Eavesdropping is actually a natural trait of yours," he said wryly, throwing him a careless grin. "Such big gossipers you are, you can't help but listen to everything around you," He received a tentative smile for his attempt at humor, but it faded quickly, leaving a very worrisome look instead.
"It smells like whiskey," Isaac said lowly, a dangerous edge to his voice as his eyes suddenly flared golden. "Does he drink often?" He clenched his jaw, glancing toward the door as his fingernails began to elongate.
Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in apprehension. "Often enough," he admitted, alarm bells going off in his mind when the subdued growl echoed throughout his room like a warning. He took an automatic step back toward the door as if to block should the werewolf lost control and decided to attack his father for indulging once in a while. "He only drinks when he is upset or stressed, and never more than a few ounces."
"It started after your mother died?"
Stiles flinched as if he had been struck. "… Yes."
Isaac was tense like a coil, his knuckles turning white cracking loudly as he curled his hands into fists. "Does he ever hurt you?" he asked sharply.
"No!" Stiles denied vehemently, shaking his head in earnest. "No, never," he repeated, all the tension draining from him as he watched the golden eyes fade at the truth in his words. He was relieved that the other boy had calmed, and if not a bit upset that anyone could ever think that of his father. But he thought he might know where Isaac would get that notion.
This was a very awkward and unnerving conversation. He knew enough about what had happened to Isaac given what happened to his father; it had actually become the local gossip around town, especially now that Isaac was the main suspect in the murder case. He learned the most from what his father had found out during the initial investigation and what Scott had seen that night in the Lahey house.
Stiles could grasp why Isaac was becoming upset by the excessive drinking, but his own father was not like that. He drank, yes, frequently even, but John Stilinski would rather saw off his own arm then ever raise a hand to him. His father had never even spanked him, not even when he was being intentionally infuriating to get attention or when he did something incredibly stupid that could probably land him either in juvenile hall or perhaps an asylum.
There was nothing Stiles could think to say that might alleviate some of the sadness he could see in Isaac. He hated seeing people in pain and he wanted to erase that look immediately. He could not offer an apology though, because it would only sound insincere, especially since it was not something either of them could have controlled.
"It started after my brother," Isaac offered somberly, averting his eyes now that he was no longer in danger of shifting. His jaw tightened again. "It was only drinking then too."
It struck him then that Isaac was not searching for apologies or sympathy for his past hurts. He was worried that the same thing may happen to Stiles. He knew it would never happen, because his father was still his super hero in disguise and would always protect him no matter what, but the sentiment was strangely heartening.
Isaac stiffened suddenly after drawing in a quiet breath, sparing him of having to come up with a way to break the heavy silence that settled over them. His head turned, not urgently or fearfully, and instead of looking toward the window like Stiles would have expected, he turned toward the dresser along the wall with a strange frown before he began to approach it. He yanked one drawer open and peered down.
"… Do you need a new shirt?" Stiles asked in perplexity, not entirely sure what the other boy was doing. A thought occurred to him then, and he asked, "Dude, do you even have any clothes? I mean… being on the run and all, you can't necessarily go home to pick up a fresh pair of und—"
"Why does this shirt smell like Derek?" Isaac cut him off with a speculative look.
Stiles could only stare blankly, confounded for a moment. "Eh?" he choked out, eyes widening as the words registered in his mind. "Why does that…? Say what?" Isaac lifted up a shirt he had retrieved from the drawer, dangling it from his long fingers. It was a very recognizable shirt; it had a low collar with three white buttons, and orange and blue alternating horizontal stripes. "Oh! Wait, you could smell that? Dude, that was like a month ago!"
Isaac ignored the question, apparently taking it as a rhetorical one since it was obvious that he had sniffed out the article of clothing. "Why does it smell like him?"
"You aren't exactly the first fugitive that I've harbored in my bedroom," he said offhandedly, pausing a beat later. "Just ignore that last statement, because that sounded really awkward," He scratched his head sheepishly, trying to think of a better way to phrase it. "Your alpha needed a place to crash for the night and my bedroom was apparently the safest place to be, and I may have used him as eye candy for Danny Mahealani so he would do us a favor."
Isaac gave him a wide eyed stare.
Stiles backpedaled quickly as he realized how what he just said could be construed. It was worse than what he opened with. "Not that kind of favor! Not like, you know, a sexual favor or anything like that. Not even a favor really. We just needed his assistance." He winced at the odd, strangled noise it drew from the other boy. "No! No, assistance was a bad word choice," he hissed in embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck with a pinched expression. "He helped us, and there was nothing sexual about it or—"
Isaac cut him off with a barrage of uncontrollable laughter. "You…" he wheezed, grinning slightly, apparently not unnerved by the wholly unimpressed glare he was receiving in return for his hysterics. "You are worse than Coach Finstock!"
Coach Finstock was known for putting his foot in his mouth. Practically every word he spoke was laced with unintentional innuendos that either made the whole team crack up or feel extremely uncomfortable. It was not a very fond comparison.
"Glad to know I amuse you," Stiles drawled sullenly, crossing his arms as he tapped his foot impatiently. He let the chortling continue for a while, grudgingly pleased that his humiliation had served to elicit a positive emotion from the boy.
Stiles frowned speculatively as he studied the other boy and another thought occurred to him as he waited for the noise to settle. His mind suddenly went in a whole new direction; he recalled his conversation earlier while cooking dinner. The whole evening had proved to be a rather enlightening, horrible and strangely awesome experience.
Derek was a horrible cook. He was literally the worst cook that Stiles had ever had the misfortune of sharing a kitchen with, and that included Scott who could, in fact, burn water. It was also a very good thing that Derek healed fast after the onion incident and hey! Stiles had forgotten to add to his notebook that though werewolf extremities do not grow back, that can be put back together. But Derek had mentioned trying to find a way to exonerate Isaac after his finger grew back.
And just for the record, no fainting had occurred at the sight of the amputated finger. Honestly. It was just the onions; they'd made him lightheaded along with teary.
Stiles had an idea though, and an idea was a very dangerous thing to have. He narrowed his eyes as he ran scenarios in his head. He had done something similar months ago after he and Scott had inadvertently turned Derek into a scapegoat for the crimes his uncle had been committing, although granted, they had been unaware who was truly responsible and at the time they were under the impression that Derek was dead. He searched for a way to prove Derek was innocent after they learned he was still alive.
Isaac had better odds in his favor though. He may not have a solid alibi, but Stiles was very inventive when it came to storytelling and excuses, especially when he actually had time to carefully construct them into a believable defense. Isaac was a minor, someone who had suffered immeasurable emotional and physical trauma, and it was entirely plausible that he had simply ran away from home… especially considering it was sort of the truth. There was also one more thing that could essentially turn this idea into a reality: the man masquerading as a deputy.
"Are you done laughing yet?" he asked abruptly, eager to share his epiphany, especially before he got distracted and lost his thoughts. He may not know Isaac very well, but he seemed nice enough and he deserved more than to be on the run.
Isaac snickered a moment more, the timid grin still in place as he nodded.
"Good. So… speaking of you being a fugitive…"
Isaac tilted his head curiously. "What about it?"
"Do you remember what happened the night of the last full moon?" he questioned, unsure just how aware Isaac had been during his first transformation. He saw a small flash of contrition in blue eyes as he nodded.
"I'm sorry about—"
Stiles waved off his apology. "No worries. Scott tried to kill me too at one point, so I figure it may just be your natural reactions."
"Scott tried to—"
"The deputy who came to inject you with the poison was actually caught by the security camera in the hallway," he interrupted, not wanting to get his friend in trouble because Isaac seemed horrified by the fact that he was not the only one who had thought him a chew toy on occasion. "Do you know what happened in that hallway?"
Isaac shook his head, still looking as if he wanted say something.
"Derek and I were there to bust you out before the hunters could kill you, and that guy grabbed me in plain view of the camera. He wrapped his arm around my neck and started to drag me off, the needle clearly visible and immortalized on film." Stiles smiled a slow, satisfied smile. "It looked like he was actually trying to kill me, and my face… well, my panic only reinforced that mentality."
"… Oh," he said faintly, his blue eyes wide.
"My dad was pissed," Stiles told him gleefully. "They ran his prints and got hits in multiple states for several counts of kidnapping, arson, and suspected murder. We can add impersonating an officer to his list of offenses too. You may have put the guy in a coma after bashing his head against the wall, but he is royally screwed if he ever wakes up. He dug his own grave when he decided to eliminate the witness—the witness being me. My dad is going to destroy him."
"What does that have to do with me though?"
"My father is under the impression that I interrupted a kidnapping or possibly a murder," Stiles told him, and then he frowned slightly. "Come to think of it, I kind of did interrupt a murder… so really, that was probably the only situation where I actually told the truth in my official statement. Go figure," He shrugged. "The damage done to your cell was not easily explained, but they determined that it you were obviously his intended target."
"I still don't understand."
"I have an idea, which may or may not be a good thing, but could also, maybe get you exonerated and remove your fugitive status," he concluded, smiling proudly, but gave him a probing frown a second later. "But you may not like it, and actually, you really won't like it, because my ideas tend to go fifty-fifty, so there is a possibility that it will utterly fail and you may end up with another charge of attempted murder."
"… Does…" Isaac breathed out in shock. "What does that even mean?"
Stiles smiled at him mischievously. "How do you feel about holding me at knifepoint? Oh, and we have to do this before Derek gets here tomorrow morning, because he will definitely not approve… then again, he never approves of my plans."
Isaac looked suitably horrified by the idea, but he turned chalk white at the notion of not consulting his alpha first. "Can I just stay a fugitive?" he asked tentatively.
