Isaac had an expression like he's trying to pry open every secret that had ever burrowed into Stiles' head. Stiles gawked, surprised, but a smirk nudged the curves of his gaping mouth.
"So all we have to do is teach you the voice trick," he said gleefully, slapping the taller teen on the shoulder, "then we can get this baby started."
"Yeah," he rolled his eyes and sighed, looking toward Ethan's location. "This'll go just peachy."
That night Stiles insists on everyone coming over just to hang. Leave all the drama at the doorstep, supernatural or otherwise. Allison and Lydia needed no convincing, besides. It's nice to catch up with their wayward friend as of late. Danny, ever suspicious of Stiles and his conniving, underhanded motives, was highly reluctant to come, but Ethan convinced him eventually. Who, of course, may or may not have been blackmailed himself.
As horrible as he should feel about the assumption, Stiles knew Isaac would be there despite his reservation.
It makes him proud, honestly.
Besides Danny, everyone assumes this impromptu get-together is a trust building exercise for the distrusting duo. They know Stiles. He isn't fooling anybody. But for the most part, with Stiles' incredible hosting and take-out ordering skills, they manage genuine amicable company.
Eventually, Stiles finds himself atop his roof, hand under head and a beer in the other, staring at the moon's pale cascade. He breathes deep in the smoke coughed up from their once neglected grill. The ladies seem enthralled with the couple's company. His dad, the Sheriff, might not be so chummy if he found out Stiles threw a party - with alcohol he might add - without his consent. Or at all.
Well. He was the only one drinking, so this might blow over more gently than he initially thinks.
He wonders if his dad is disappointed in him. He probably won't be giving his father any grandchildren. At least not the old-fashioned way. Sheriff seemed alright with him being with a guy, even joked that he was right; Stiles wasn't gay. More along the lines of head over heels for the crazy sarcastic types. But if he caught them in bed together again especially with no protection...
Stiles can't help but feel disgusting. He took a life and couldn't even make up for it.
Stiles ignores Isaac clambering up to the roof and takes a swig of piss incarnate. He could care a little less that he was here, that is until he snatches the bottle from Stiles' limp fingers and eyes the line of liquid.
Stiles almost hates that one raised brow demanding explanation as much as he hates his father's set and unmoving features.
Stiles attempts to yank to bottle back, but Isaac easily keeps it from him.
Frustrated, he quips, "I'm not drunk!" Isaac lets him retrieve his drink, but still holds his gaze.
"Ass."
He takes another gulp. Lays back down.
"I should be the one drunk," Isaac says stretching out beside him.
"Too bad," giggling, Stiles sloshes the nearly empty glass. The gentle gurgling of the liquid sends pleasant chills darting down Isaac's shoulder.
"You left me to fend for myself down there. You're horrible."
"Yet you can defend yourself against the likes of me?" Stiles mocks, smiles quickly, then notices Isaac's unsmiling face and apologizes. "Sorry."
"So what? You get tired of your own parties now?" Stiles doesn't look at him. He feels his breath quiver in the cold and Isaac imaginfingertipshieves again. They're dancing somewhere, between the glow of the stars or on the other side of the waning moon.
"Must've realized the company I was keeping."
The one who stole his best friend. The one who rejected him at every turn. The other one who stole his best friend. And Danny.
Silence blankets the two beneath an eternal, yet ephemeral mobile.
"So my eyes really look like that?" Isaac questions, nodding needlessly at the moon.
It made sense, Deaton's explanation of werewolves' eye color, how each was reminiscent of the moon. The blood moon crimson, harvest moon gold, and the rare blue moon azure. Werewolves drew their power from the moon. It made perfect sense that their eyes would reflect that. Stiles figured that out, but the significance of it all was left for Dr. Deaton to reveal.
Something about the moon goddess Luna or Hecate and something about a banquet celebrating the harvest. The elder being bestowed the mark of leadership and first meat. Something about the Scorned. A murder. Crippling guilt. And the moon goddess's favor for the outcast.
Aptly named, he's a Silver wolf. A true omega, apparently. He supposes it's better than some awkward offhanded greek letter.
The only thing Isaac is absolutely certain of is the guy in the fable was too loyal. Too eager to please. Too quick to concede. Much like himself.
"Am I supposed to pray to some big space rock now?" Isaac asked baffled.
"I don't know," Deaton responded, signaling the end of story time, "I've never met her."
Stiles answers quickly and the sudden slur surprises him, "Nope."
Isaac looks at him, but he's ignoring him again, eyes locked on the stars.
"They're more blue than any blonde kid's deserve to be. They're liquidy and shimmery, like those pools of fresh water lakes you see on hipster Tumblr blogs," the shift of Stiles' head turning to face him draws Isaac's attention.
"That's how beautiful your eyes look. Not cold and lonely like the stupid moon."
That sets Isaac's heart aflight, and he takes comfort knowing Stiles is right there with him, uncertain and awkward and reckless. He hears Dearly Beloved playing twice simultaneously, and they're a little unsynchronised. But he likes that. He reach out, touches Stiles cheek. The grizzle of his sprouting beard rustles under Isaac's fingertips, and he thinks it more calming that the spread of wind through grass or hair as he strokes the freckled panes with the pad of his thumb.
Stiles nudges into his touch, edges nearer into his space.
"You're so drunk, Stiles." Isaac chuckles.
At that, he rolls over onto his back, lets the beer clink against the asphalt roof and sighs, "Ass."
Isaac still visits his old home sometimes. It hasn't been sold yet even though it's a beautiful house just on the right side of the neighborhood. Not to mention its price dropped three times since its vacancy. He visits less so now, steals away fewer of his memories; he doesn't need them as much as he used to.
With fire and hammer, he's forging new ones.
There's a moment, as Isaac pulls his shirt over his head, where he wonders if Stiles knows that he watches him from across the locker room. He isn't surreptitious about it all, even stares in his general direction when the metal cages obscure his view. He's slender yet sturdy, and patches of hair accentuates the muscles in his chest and forearms and legs and leaves a trail down where only his imagination is allowed. Stiles jokes about being one-forty, skinny, and defenseless, but Isaac thinks he'd be a reckonable force with a little confidence and maybe some martial training. The charade must go on however, Stiles bumbling on the lacrosse field and scrambling for purchase. Isaac figures he must have adopted the propensity for withstanding an ass beating from Scott, restraining from unleashing his full potential. Sometime later, after lacrosse practice and after their makeshift pack meeting, Isaac would rile him up. Get him angry, hate him even, maybe for a little while. Just prove to Stiles that he's more than just a whipping boy.
"Now please try not to kill each other while I'm gone," Stiles stresses, completely serious, glancing between Ethan and Isaac after briefing them on what they should be doing.
"You're leaving?" Ethan pleads, and Isaac is surprised the words didn't fall from his own mouth.
"Yes. I have to meet up with Lydia and Allison at Allison's place. The brains of this operation?" Stiles gestures exasperatedly, like he has no time to explain the simple and the obvious.
"Be good little," and at Ethan's death stare, he backpedals, "muscle men, and play nice." And as he walks backwards, he adds pointing toward Ethan, "My promise to shove that stick up your ass still stands. Always."
Isaac can't stop smirking as Ethan watches Stiles saunter off to change. He shrugs when Ethan looks to him for sympathy.
Surprise still overtakes him when he thinks of how Deaton travelled all the way to Sicily just to confirm with absolute certainty that his suspicions were correct. Isaac's mind wanders. The doctor must have a reserve of resources to go and return in such short time.
Isaac knows what a shiny pokemon must feel like. He isn't enthused by the attention.
"So basically I just chase you around while you figure out how to throw your voice?"
"Pretty sure Stiles' instructions were more detailed than that?"
"Tell me you could keep up with that."
Isaac smiles real wide and begins jogging backward, "Way better than you can keep up with me." He flashes his eye just to show off, and the familiar surge of supernatural energy surges through him.
Isaac bolts. Ethan follows on his heels.
As a packless wolf, he can never be as strong or durable as a proper beta, much less an alpha. But he was given tools most other omegas go their entire lonely lives without experiencing. Just like the Scorned who heard the truth, Isaac hears it all. Sound beckons to him like a lighthouse overlooking the sea. His body responds to the lovely waves, immersing himself in safety. Likewise, his own voice held influence, could protect him from danger.
If done right, he could never be tracked by sound. He could flee from his pursuers, never to be caught. Running at the speed of sound.
As proud as he is at outrunning Ethan, the whole ordeal made him feel silly. Howling like some poor unfortunate soul. Where only recently, Ethan and Aiden had captured and pinned him faster than he could think, he left Ethan winded and panting through puffed cheeks.
"Holy shit man."
Yeah, ultimately it was still a failure. But at least he got to put off most of his homework.
"Where're you going?" Ethan asks breathlessly, clearly resenting the prospects of moving.
"Allison's. If you must know." With hands on hips, Isaac lolls his head in the other wolf's direction. His poise exudes impatience.
"You're just gonna walk there? I could give you a ride."
Isaac has no vehicle, so he's not sure how else Ethan thought he was going to get home. He refrains from saying that aloud because as much as Isaac doesn't want to like the guy, he is making an effort. Declining would be rude.
"You want me to ride a motorcycle with you?" Isaac squints with the evening sun suddenly in his eyes.
"I think I'd rather walk."
At the very least, Ethan's bike ran smoother than Scott's. Seriously, why pretend a dirt bike was meant for the road?
Allison let Ethan in her house, which surprised Isaac, certainly, but then he remembers Ethan has a stake to claim in all this too.
"Hey guys. How'd it go with the..." Allison sees the answer obvious on their exhausted faces as their lifted into the Argent's den.
"None of his howls even came close to the one he did that night."
Isaac leans on the elevator railing and waits until the journey ends.
Books, random stacks of paper askew, and three laptops lay strewn about a large, dark wood table. Pens and a random assortment of bright highlighters have rolled into odd places. Some rest forgotten on the floor.
"Well did you che - "
"Yes," Lydia drones, bored.
"What about Dicker - "
"Yes," she stresses, sensing the onslaught of questions, "Wherever you're thinking, yes to that too. These are public schools Stiles, they're not going to dole out information about their students."
"What's the point of them being public then?" He grumbles, settling back into scanning a loose piece of paper. Lydia idly turns a page.
"It was just Isaac and Ethan," Allison informs the as she strides over and sets her belongings among the mess.
"Isaac? Why are - " Stiles begins, looking over his shoulder, but Isaac is already looking over the other, eyes grazing the scrawl of notes riddling the paper.
"Your handwriting is shit. What does that say?"
"Ho-ly fuck," Stiles jerks, startled, but recovers realizing there's no real danger. Which is an odd thought to have given three of the four other people in the room could easily assassinate him in his sleep, and the fourth would probably hire them to do it.
"Do I need to put a bell on you? Jesus." He hears Ethan snicker, but rolls his eyes and begins deciphering his chicken scratch for Isaac's understanding.
He doesn't catch Allison and Ethan's exchange of words, doesn't see the cheeky grin splayed across their faces, but Isaac does. The urge to inch away is strong, but Isaac resists.
"We think they're somewhere in Orange or Los Angeles. The packs there are lead by the sort of Alphas Deucalion would be interested in assimilating."
"Problem is, we can't find any proof that Aiden or Scott or enrolled in any schools there, or anywhere else," Allison adds.
"That's not surprising. Ethan and Aiden only attended Beacon Hills High to get to Scott," Lydia supplies, hinting at an earlier debate.
"She's right, we were truant most of our lives and that didn't change when Deucalion picked us up.
"So...what about those Alphas? What sort of whistle do they have that the 'demon wolf' would want them?" Isaac asks, pointing to a particularly underlined and bolded patch of granite he still couldn't quite make out.
"One can steal memories with just a skin deep cut, and the other can give pain she's absorbed. Apparently."
Neither sounded pleasant. Neither sounded like anything Deucalion should have his hands on.
Finding Scott is one thing, though Orange or Los Angeles seemed to be their best shot, but freeing him from that tyrannical bond would be completely different. Isaac knows, without an ounce of uncertainty, that if Deucalion gave the word, Scott would kill them. Not every Alpha shackles their betas so tightly. Not every Alpha has the power to. With Scott, Isaac did it himself, pushing himself, wanting desperately to be part of something. Tied the noose tight around his own neck and gave Scott the leash. He never abused that power, which Isaac is glad for.
But Isaac knows if Scott commanded it, he'd forfeit his own life to him without a fight.
Which makes him think. Is he really even an Omega? Are Omegas that helpless that any Alpha can toss them around? Ethan's story comes to mind and he winces.
An Omega. A packless animal. Not a beta without purpose. An Omega.
Suddenly Isaac knows. The voice trick isn't a magical sonic wave. It's a reminder of choice. But in order for it to work, Isaac must make his own decision first.
Before night settled and starts obfuscate behind inky clouds, they head home with the decision to check Orange first, the Los Angeles, and possibly neighboring counties. They trekked the naked streets, Stiles at the wheel with Isaac slumped in the passenger seat.
"No stop keep it here!"
"I am not listening to bloody Boom Clap again," they bicker as Isaac clicks over to the other saved stations as Stiles button mashes the 6 button.
"I'm the driver. This is my car - which I just got out the shop from when you wrecked it by the way! We're listening to Boom Clap!" Stiles isn't paying attention to the road, rather staring Isaac down as he tries to shoo Isaac's long fingers away from the radio.
"All About That Bass!" and just like that, the vote was unanimous. Isaac would probably fear for his life, with the way Stiles is recklessly swerving to the rhythm and gyrating about, but he's too busy dancing himself. Shamelessly.
Stiles giggles, "You're the only lame ass who can get away with doing the orange guy's dance and not look completely ridiculous.
"If that's what you're into then go 'head and move along,"
They fight over what to listen to the whole way, but they end up dancing and almost dying the whole way too.
If Stiles thought he could get clunk out soon as he hit the bed, he was wrong. Isaac forced him up, to help him finish that math homework he never got around to doing. Junk food piled around the their workspace while the television flickered brightly, silently. Despite only getting halfway through, Stiles distracts with casual, menial conversation.
"How else do you think he got the job? They took one look at that performance and snagged him up," Stiles throws his head back and pops a cheesy dorito into his mouth. "Yoink. Didn't care if he could act," he shrugs, "just hoped they could sell the pilot based on that face alone."
"Getting cast on Glee probably helped," Isaac replies, attempting to focus on working out the rest of that problem and on whatever Stiles decided to bring up.
"But that can't be a coincidence! He sings Run Away With Me, and then gets to play THE Flash? No way. That had to be planned."
"But he's plays a good Flash."
"He does play a good Flash."
Stiles glances at his work, then at the images played out on the screen.
"You switched a negative."
Stiles turns back to Isaac.
Isaac kisses him. Slow and wading, but he wants Stiles to feel it, exactly what he thinks of their relationship. He isn't great with I love you's and he's not one hundred percent sure his affection takes a recognizable form. But here it is. Plain and clear.
Stiles doesn't pull away.
Stiles' eyes are closed.
Isaac ejoys the way Stiles' heartbeat sounds like his own. Not frantic, but excited yet calm simultaneously.
The kiss is slow, but it's also quick. They return to their conversation, as if everything were natural.