Three Misfits in New York
Chapter 10
"You know that there's still a chance of the police calling on you," John says after they've converged in the Martins' hotel room. "It'll just be routine questioning if that bellboy doesn't give you up, but you should be prepared. I'm not sure how often championship participants flip out and scream their heads off."
"Happens more often than you'd think," Lydia says dryly. She nurses a glass of ginger ale because her mother won't let her have a real drink, no matter how well deserved. "If they ask, I'll blame it on my nerves and they'll believe it."
The sheriff smiles faintly. "Alright. Now on to the hard part. Who wants to do the honors?"
None of them is too eager and so Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes and takes it upon himself to once again introduce an adult to their crazy teen horror universe. Mrs Martin takes it all in with the expected amount of drama and when he's finished, both she and Lydia are sobbing.
"I'm so sorry I didn't believe you when you told us that a man had attacked you," Natalie whimpers. "Just say the word and I'll find someone to kill him, honey."
"Uh, please don't. Peter's just getting his act together and we need him if we want to keep Beacon Hills safe from that damned alpha pack." Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not that I like it or anything and I'm not defending his actions, but ... he's been through a lot, too, okay? Maybe we should give him some more time to heal before we wash our hands of him."
"John?" Natalie looks at the sheriff. "What do you think?"
He shrugs. "I trust my boy. Peter has a lot to make up for, but Stiles is right: if it weren't for the Argents' attack, none of it would've happened in the first place." He nods at the charm around Lydia's neck. "As far as I can see he's willing to make amends. How you deal with it is up to you, of course, but keep in mind that somebody has to teach her how to be a banshee."
They fall silent.
Mrs Martin breaks first. She mutters a heartfelt, "Oh, fuck it!" and raids the minibar. Everybody gets a tiny flask and she sarcastically cries, "To Beacon Hills, our personal hellmouth. Bottoms up!"
Stiles wrenches his bottle open and guzzles the shot of vodka down before his father can stop him. Lydia does the same with her Jägermeister. The sheriff only sighs and hands Natalie his bottle when she's downed hers.
"I'm sorry," Derek says into the morose silence. His voice is wrecked. "It's my fault."
"Dude, no," Stiles protests. "It isn't."
"Yes, it is." Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Derek continues, "If I hadn't been so stupid and gotten involved with ... I told her what she needed to know."
Natalie eyes him blearily. "What?"
"You don't have to tell them," Stiles insists.
Derek does it anyway. He confesses his part in the destruction of his home and the death of almost all his family members. His short, concise tale is heart-wrenching and when he's finished, Mrs Martin's fury has found a new target.
"That woman can be glad she's already dead!" she rages. "I can't believe what kind of people our school board hires. I'll have words with them about that!"
Lydia tenses and Stiles is fairly sure that Natalie Martin having words with someone was only one step up from being skinned alive.
"Unfortunately that doesn't change anything," Derek murmurs, defeated. "They're still dead and Peter's still insane. I wish I hadn't been so stupid."
Stiles can't take his self-flagellation anymore. "Dude, do you really think she would have left your family alone if she hadn't been able to get close to you? That bitch had years of experience on you, she'd have found out whatever the hell she wanted to know anyway."
The sheriff steps up to the werewolf and rubs his shoulder. "He's right, son. I questioned Stiles' teacher, Harris, at some point and he confessed that he and Kate Argent met in a bar before the Hale house fire. He was already drunk and told her everything she needed to know about committing arson and getting away with it." He looks Derek in the downcast eyes. "He should've known better and he was an adult at the time. If we play the guilt game, the same rules apply. Argent could have easily found out via the internet or from her hunter buddies but she chose to seduce Harris because apparently that's how she operated. She wanted to ruin as many lives as possible, even if it was second-hand. His refusal wouldn't have stopped her, just made it a little harder for her, and maybe even more exciting, don't you think?"
Derek looks at him as if he desperately wants to believe him.
"Can we agree that he'll keep it in his pants next time and get on with it?" Lydia asks and slurps down another bottle from the bar. "I'll wear the damn thing, okay? No more dead bodies for Lydia."
"You didn't even see it," Stiles snarks. "Just made a royal fuss."
She throws her pillow at him and he throws Mrs Martin's shawl back. Just like that the heavy tension lets up and they can breathe again.
Later, when they've calmed down enough to go out for food, Derek invites them to pizza and the best tiramisu on this side of the Atlantic.
oOo
On Monday, Lydia and her mother put on their war paint, choose their armor with care and tell the men not to bother accompanying them to the first round of the championship.
"You can come watch when I've reached the quarterfinal. Before that it's not worth anyone's time," Lydia says and sounds so bored that Stiles has to repress his fervent admiration for her. "There's a participants' dinner tonight and afterwards we'll catch a show, so don't wait for us."
"Yes, ma'am," Stiles grins. He turns to Derek and his father. "Does that mean we can crawl all over Manhattan today?"
The others like the idea and so they part ways. First order of the day is, of course, a green juice. Stiles gets one for Derek, too, just because he's being reluctant and broody. While they wait, his phone chimes.
"Is it Melissa?" John asks. "You did promise to send her pictures."
"I did and she was jealous of our spring rolls and my chess game in the park," Stiles replies, frowning as he sees Scott's name. "Ugh, it's from Scott."
Derek sounds as reluctant as Stiles feels when he asks, "What does he say? Is something the matter at home?"
"No, thankfully not." Stiles lifts his phone a little and reads out loud, "Dude, what's up? Are you really in New York? Why didn't you tell me? We always wanted to go together. Bring a souvenir! Talk to you later."
He shows the text to his dad and snorts at his bewildered frown. No wonder, Scott has actually written, Dude, wu? R u rly in NY? Y didn u tell me? We always wanted 2 go 2getha. Bring a souv! Ttyl.
"Do I have to answer that?" he wants to know.
"Not right now, no," John decides as he rubs his temples. "But if you do, please use proper language. This chat speech is an abomination. I raised you better than that."
It's as much of a permission to procrastinate as Stiles is likely to get and he sighs quietly in relief. Scott's intrusion into their family time is as jarring as it is unwelcome and he just hopes that his erstwhile former best friend won't suddenly want to have regular contact again. He's just gotten used to not continually having Scott around. It also rankles that he's only texting because he wants something.
"It'll keep until we're back at the hotel tonight," his father reassures him, clapping his shoulder. "Our order is nearly ready, anyway."
Juices in hand they then make the journey, braving the Monday morning rush hour and the press of people in the streets. Both Derek and John's tempers are frayed when they get off the subway near Central Park and so they take a short walk through the park where they only have to dodge joggers and moms with their trolleys.
Stiles easily finds the chess players who're just setting up their boards. When two grizzled, old men invite him to play, he can't help but being enthusiastic. After sending his dad and Derek off for a few minutes, he sits and plays a quick round. When it becomes apparent after their game that his opponent is homeless, Stiles doesn't hesitate to give him and his friends a few dollars for coffee. They shuffle over to the cart with a cheery salute, leaving him by himself. The finished game, which Stiles won, is still on the board.
"What a charming little act of humanity," a gentle voice mocks him.
Half expecting it to be Peter from the sarcastic tone alone, Stiles looks up - and starts. Before him stands a slender man in the most unusual clothes he's seen in a long while, and there'd been the drag queens at Jungle not too long ago. He has long, black hair, light eyes and a pointed chin.
Like Draco Malfoy, Stiles sniggers to himself.
Out loud he says, "Don't be a dick. Coffee is manna, even for homeless people like Stan and his buddies." He collects the figurines and points at the empty bench. "If you wanna play, just say so."
The man regards him as if he can't quite believe how Stiles his talking to him.
"Very well," he draws at length and sits down. He meticulously folds his green coat and leans a fancy looking stick with a sharp blade against the backrest. "Explain the rules of this puny game and I shall defeat you."
Stiles bites back a laugh. "Alright, dude." He shows the stranger what each piece can do and they start a first test game. "By the way, are you coming from a cosplay party or something? I really dig your costume, man."
"Cosplay?" the man asks, pausing. "I'm not sure what you mean. My coat is made of the finest leathers and spider silks. Asgardian, of course."
Stiles smirks. "Of course." He takes a rock. "Do you mind telling me your name, Asgard dude?"
"It's Loki, brother of Thor, son of Odin." He moves to take one of Stiles' pawns. "I suppose it's custom to now ask for yours, even though your life span is only just above that of an insect."
Stiles, who is way too used to rude people, merely shrugs. "Call me Stiles. My real name would make you weep and I can't see gods cry."
"Are you mocking me, human?"
"Only a little."
Loki's pinched face relaxes and he smirks. "Hmm."
They play in silence, Stiles mostly reacting to the other man's strategy, but predictably wins against the newbie.
"Not bad for your first time," he offers and stands. "I'd stay for another one but my dad is waiting over there and he's looking a little pissed."
"You have quite a courageous heart," Loki says. "We shall see each other again and I'll test your mettle on this checkered battle field once more." He collects his staff and saunters off, coat billowing behind him.
"We're gone for ten minutes and you're already attracting the loons," John says and shakes his head. "Come on, we discovered a tourist bus stop just outside the park."
They board the bus and Derek sits next to Stiles, sniffing him carefully.
"You smell strange," he declares and raises an eyebrow. "Who was that guy?"
"No idea. He calls himself Loki. I guess he's a cosplayer or something."
Derek still looks a little dubious but lightens up as soon as they come near his old neighborhood. It's good to hear him talk about his years in the city and to see the coffee shop where he spent a lot of time studying and meeting with friends.
All too soon, however, the bus carries them away from Derek's old haunts and the werewolf becomes quiet once more. Stiles is tempted to ask if they can get off and spend some more time there, just to see Derek relax and maybe smile, but it's getting late and they still have a lot to see before they can even think about lunch.
Their tour guides them through all of Manhattan and of course passes the Stark Tower which is situated almost next to the Grand Central Station. Stiles can't get enough of the huge building and cranes his neck until they turn a corner and he has to give up.
After completing one round they get off for delicious Indian food and seek out the first of the five addresses Deaton has given Stiles. Upon seeing the tiny esoteric store, the sheriff excuses himself in favor of finding the next coffee shop, but Derek comes in with Stiles.
A small bell jingles above the door and it's very quiet once it closes after them again. The small place is cramped with narrow shelves, each overflowing with trinkets and books. Stiles has a hard time keeping his hands to himself.
"Dude, are those real harpy feathers?"
"Don't call me dude." Derek scrunches up his nose. "They smell like moth eaten bird and old man."
In that moment a woman in her thirties comes out from the back and greets them cheerfully. She's got red, curly hair and dresses like Catwoman, except this Catwoman wears faux leather and has bare feet. Around her neck she wears a chaos star.
"Hey there, what can I do for you?" she asks with a welcoming smile.
"No idea, but Alan Deaton said to visit you," Stiles replied. "Hi."
She inhales, at once alert. "You must be Stiles. I didn't know you'd bring a protector, otherwise I'd have loosened my wards." She turns to Derek, quite obviously checking him out and liking what she sees. "As long as they're in place, no other being will be able to determine whether my goods are valuable or mere toys for wannabe witches."
"It's fine," Derek says stiffly.
"I apologize anyway, it's bad form when guests are expected. Come on in, I'll make you tea."
She locks the door, flips the sign at the front door from open to closed and leads them into a tiny room that's only barely less cramped than her shop.
"I'm Cordula, by the way. Alan told me what your talents are so far," she calls from the equally tiny kitchen. "I know he gave you books; do you know what kinds of magic you might be interested in yet?"
Stiles shrugs. "I want to know everything eventually, although being able to kick ass might be good. Our town has kind of become a hellmouth lately."
"Yes, I heard what happened." Cordula places two steaming mugs of fruit tea on the table. "Alan is by no means a gossip but when a nemeton dies it's a pretty big deal. The one near your home town has declined for a long time, I'm sorry to say."
"What's a nemeton?"
She smiles warmly. "You're a curious one, that's good but I'm getting ahead of Alan's training. I shouldn't explain too much or you'll become confused. Just know that nemetons are magical trees. They're collectors and beacons of great power. If one dies, its stored magic becomes corrupted and attracts all kinds of things you don't want to deal with. They can be saved but that's not my story to tell. Let's talk about that ass-kicking you mentioned. Whose ass do you want to kick, and why?"
End of part 10