Notes: We're in the home stretch now, folks. Immense thanks to Poicephalus for betaing this chapter despite the looming specter of midterms.


Chapter Eleven: "Good for Parts Only"

Matt Daehler joined the FDSI just over four months ago. Upon completing his training, he signed a release: in the event that he was killed in the line of duty, his body would be donated to the department's research division.

Harley has to commandeer a refrigerated truck from a small shipping company based out of Beacon Hills and park it outside the field station. The morgue isn't secure enough to store Matt Daehler's incalculably valuable remains.

She doesn't know how long she's been standing over the body, hands tucked into her armpits, by the time Lydia opens the door and climbs into the back of the truck.

"Hey," Harley says. "No luck, I take it?"

Lydia rubs her hands together, shoulders tight with frustration. "Chris Argent claims to have no knowledge of his father and daughter's whereabouts, or their recent 'activities.' More importantly, his very expensive and annoying lawyer says the exact same thing." She takes a breath and composes herself. "How'd Director Lei take the news?"

"She cussed me out for a few minutes, until I told her Heidingsfeld was the one who decided the Argents weren't a major concern. Then she hung up so she could go cuss him out. I haven't heard back since."

"Artfully done." Lydia looks down at Matt's body, then back up at Harley. "How long have you been in here?"

Harley shrugs.

"You're blaming yourself, aren't you."

"I thought he'd be safe. I figured putting him behind the wheel of that van was gonna keep him out of harm's way." She exhales, watching her breath freeze in the air. "Two of my partners have been killed in the last two months. I'm feeling a little paranoid about that."

"What, you think you're cursed?" Lydia scoffs. "You're not cursed, Harlowe. They just keep partnering you with idiots."

A moment passes. Harley says, "You know, the last time I cried was the day I got expelled from college."

Lydia arches an eyebrow. "You got expelled?"

Harley huffs out a quiet laugh. "I had issues with authority."

"Interesting career choice, considering."

"I came home that day, and my family had already found out. They didn't get why I couldn't just keep my head down and play nice. There was a lot of yelling, and after it was over, my grandma said, 'your mother would've been ashamed.'" Harley blows on her hands, and shoves them back under her arms. "I haven't cried once since then. Sometimes, though, I wish I could."

α

When Derek walks into the kitchen, Stiles is leaning back against the counter, phone to his ear.

"You have one new voice message."

"Stiles, please answer your phone."

Stiles spots Derek and raises his hand in a lackluster wave.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know what to do. He threatened to kill my mom. To kill you. I... call me, please, when you get this."

Stiles hangs up and shoves the phone in his pocket. "How are you feeling?" he says, reaching up to touch where the cut on Derek's neck used to be. The wound is mostly healed, although there's still a faint white line.

"Better." His breathing is still rough, and it hurts to swallow, but other than that it feels like Derek's burned through whatever strain of wolfsbane the witch dosed him with. "What about you?"

"The doctors checked me out. I'm fine."

"That's not what I meant," Derek says. "You should talk to Scott."

"Wow, things must be pretty bad if you're telling me I need to talk things out."

"I'm serious, Stiles."

Stiles lets his arm drop to his side and looks away. "I'll just end up yelling at him."

"He was trying to protect you."

"I don't need protecting!" The anger is gone in less than a second. Stiles sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes. "God, my head is killing me. Where's your pack?"

"Hiding. Allison knows who they are, which means Gerard probably knows who they are."

"Shit. We need to do something about that." Stiles pushes away from the counter, and is halfway to the door when he stops and says, "What day is it?"

"Sunday."

"No, I meant—never mind." Stiles checks his phone. "The eighth. Great. Happy birthday to me."

"It's your birthday?"

"Twenty-three years old as of—" Stiles checks his phone again, "—ten hours ago."

Derek isn't sure what response this warrants. "... Happy birthday?"

Stiles' laugh is high and bitter. "Thanks."

α

Allison hasn't slept.

The safehouse is more of an office than a barracks, so the only bed available is a futon in the corner. She spent a few hours lying on it this morning, before giving up and returning to the maps laid out on the desk.

Somewhere in Beacon Hills, the monster is hiding and licking its wounds.

"Allison."

"Busy."

The security feeds haven't turned up anything within the town proper. They'll have to widen the search.

"Allison," her dad repeats. "We need to talk about what happened last night."

"No, we don't."

Allison was nine years old when she went through her horse phase. She read Black Beauty twelve times in a row. About a year ago she decided to reread it, but gave up after reaching the author's polemic on blinkers. The magic was gone.

Personally, Allison likes the idea that you can cope with anything as long as you keep your eyes on what's in front of you.

"Dad, your phone's ringing."

Her dad grabs the phone from where it's been steadfastly buzzing its way toward the edge of the table. "Yes?"

Allison turns her attention back to the maps. Maybe it would be more effective to search on foot. Split the town up into a grid...

Dad hands her the phone. "It's Jackson Whittemore. He's asking for you."

"I'm supposed to be in hiding."

"He says it's an emergency."

Allison lets out an irritated sigh and grabs the phone. "What?"

"Allison, I screwed up."

"Jackson, I really don't have time for—"

"No, listen. There was this woman, and she said she could help me if I did what she told me to, but then she started killing people—"

Oh, no. There's no way he—

"... What does this woman look like?"

"I dunno... small. She's got black eyes. Like... all black."

Allison grabs a marker. "Where is she, Jackson?"

"She wants my help with something tonight, at midnight. I'm supposed to meet her at that old hotel outside of town."

Allison pulls one of the county maps toward her. "The Asteria?"

"Yeah."

She circles the hotel with the marker. "It's okay, Jackson. I'll take care of it."

"I knew you—"

Allison hangs up. "Lucky break."

"Maybe."

α

Harley is turning Field Station Artemis upside-down looking for something. Stiles can't figure out what, since every time he tries to ask, Harley gets another brainwave and dashes off to a completely different part of the building.

From Matt's bedroom, she shouts, "I can't believe you didn't tell me before now!"

"We were busy!" Lydia calls back, from the conference room.

Stiles' phone rings. He grabs for it like a drowning man who's been thrown a rope. "Yeah?"

"Stiles, it's Dad."

"Is everything okay?"

"We'll see. There's someone here at the station who's asking for you."

"Who is it?"

Harley breezes past Stiles and out the door, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "I need to check his pockets..."

"They've asked me not to say until you get here."

"I'll be right over."

α

Stiles knocks on the door to the sheriff's office. "Dad?"

"In here," the sheriff says. Stiles steps into the office and closes the door behind him, and the first thing he sees is Jackson Whittemore sitting in front of the sheriff's desk.

Stiles looks from Jackson, to the sheriff, and then back to Jackson again. "What's this about?"

Jackson clears his throat, fidgeting in the chair. "Can we talk alone?"

Sheriff Stilinski stands and says, "I'll be just down the hall."

"Sure, thanks," Stiles says, as his dad leaves the office. "What's going on, Jackson?"

Jackson takes a shaky breath. "I made a mistake. There's this woman, and she said if I did what she told me to, she'd help me get what I wanted, but she's—"

"Wait, wait," Stiles says, the gears in his head turning. "Skinny white lady, black eyes, wears a hoodie?"

Jackson nods.

"Oh, god. Jackson, it's vitally important that you tell me where she is right now."

"I don't know," Jackson says. "But I know where she'll be. You know that old condemned hotel out near the ravine? She's doing a spell or something there at midnight tonight."

"Okay." Stiles opens the door. "Stay home tonight, Jackson. Keep your head down. We need to have a talk later about whatever it is she made you do."

"Yeah, sure," Jackson says, and bolts from the office.

The sheriff comes back down the hall, standing behind Stiles and watching Jackson leave. "Anything I should know about?"

"God, I don't even know." Stiles scrubs a hand over the back of his head. "Be careful tonight, okay? I'm not sure what's going to happen, but it might get ugly."

"Stiles, what the hell is going on? I've barely seen you for weeks, and now one of your colleagues is—"

"I wish I could tell you, okay?" Stiles snaps. "I can't."

The sheriff sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped. Neither of them has ever been able to keep an argument going for long.

"Sorry." Stiles heads for the exit, pausing long enough to say, "Take care of yourself. I love you."

α

Stiles is barely in the front door of the field station before Harley appears out of fucking nowhere, waving a flash drive in his face and saying, "I found it."

"Found what?"

"Remember how I asked Matt to figure out some kind of solution to the Argents' surveillance tap?"

He doesn't. "... Yes?"

"Well, the little bastard actually figured it out, and I just found the drive he stored it on."

Stiles shuffles to the side until Harley doesn't have him cornered anymore, and takes a few steps away so he can actually get some breathing room. "What did he do?"

"Lydia says there's a program on here that will sample and loop footage on every camera the Argents have tapped," Harley says. "It'll only work for a few hours. We're trying to figure out how we should use that time."

A few hours, completely surveillance-free. Stiles can work with that. "I might have a few ideas."

α

The meeting is held at the Hale house, after Derek has checked that the hunters have cleared out for good. Erica's truck pulls up first; a few minutes later, Scott walks up the road and joins them by the front porch.

They're all jumpy. Isaac especially is on high alert, twitching at every little noise.

"Something's happening tonight," Stiles says. "We don't have many details, but the witch is conducting some kind of ritual at midnight."

Boyd says, "Okay. What does that mean?"

"It means you're leaving."

The response is... mixed, to say the least. Erica looks furious, all clenched hands and gritted teeth. Boyd's much harder to read, but he almost looks relieved. Isaac keeps looking between Stiles and Derek, like he's not quite sure how to react.

Scott isn't saying anything. He isn't even looking at Stiles; he's staring down at the dirt, hands in his pockets.

"Stiles and I already talked this over," Derek says. "We have a chance to make sure you can leave town without the Argents knowing."

"The hunters know who you are." Stiles glances at Scott. "They won't hesitate to use your families against you. Go home. Tell your parents whatever it is you need to convince them to leave."

Erica rounds on Derek. "We're not leaving you."

"It's not permanent," Derek says. "I'll contact you when it's safe to come back."

Isaac's head tilts to the side. "That was a lie. You're lying."

"Seriously?" Stiles says. "You taught them the polygraph trick?"

"I promised all of you a better life if you joined me," Derek says, staring his pack down. "This is me keeping that promise."

Erica is the first to leave, spinning on her heel and storming back to where she parked. Boyd isn't far behind.

Finally, Scott looks up. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Stiles says. "It's okay."

Scott and Isaac leave together.

Derek's staring up at the house. Stiles watches him for a while. "You hate this, don't you?"

"I made a promise, when Laura died," Derek replies. "No more running."

"Would it help if I told you to think of it more like a tactical retreat?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

Derek turns his back on the house and starts walking back to his car. "I'll meet you back at the field station."

α

"He's upstairs," Lydia says, before Derek even has the chance to ask.

"... Thanks."

Derek takes the stairs slowly, listening. He can hear typing from the office, and intermittent clicks from the living room where Lydia's running an equipment check, but other than that the field station is quiet. The silence is oppressive.

He knocks on the door to Stiles' bedroom.

A few seconds later the door opens. Stiles looks like he's been trying to get some sleep, and failing.

"Hey," he says, stepping aside to let Derek in.

"The pack just left town," Derek says. "Scott too."

"Okay. Good." Stiles' eyes flick down to the book in Derek's hand. "What's that?"

Derek holds the book out. "It's yours, actually. Happy birthday."

Stiles gently takes the book, turning it over in his hands. It's old, hand-bound, with a featureless leather cover. "Where'd you get this?"

"Some of my family's library survived the fire. Laura and I put them in storage."

"Derek, I can't take this."

"You'd get more use out of it than I would."

Stiles shakes his head and opens the book to the first page. "'William Hale.' Relative of yours?"

"When the Hales first settled here, he was the Alpha's mate. This is his journal."

Stiles puts the journal down on the side-table, then turns and slips his hand up around back of Derek's neck, kissing him slow and deep. "Thank you."

Derek puts a hand on Stiles' hip when he moves to pull away. "You okay?"

Stiles sighs and rests his forehead against Derek's shoulder. "I'm fine. I'm just in a weird mood. I don't know if it's because I'm worried about tonight, or if it's about Matt..." He takes a step back, scratching nervously at his scalp. "Shit, I don't even feel that bad about Matt. And then I get guilty because I don't feel worse about Matt."

Derek sits on the bed and waits, watching Stiles rock on his heels, thinking.

Eventually, Stiles blurts out, "I just wish someone had told him, you know?"

"Told him what?"

"When we sign up, they feed us this Uncle Sam bullshit, all 'You are the Best and Brightest,' but they don't warn us." Stiles is ranting now. "They don't say, 'This job eats your life. It hollows you out so it can live inside you. And eventually—" Stiles pauses, takes a breath. "Eventually, it'll kill you.'"

Derek meets Stiles' eyes and says, "Do you wish someone had said that to you?"

Stiles looks away, running a hand over his mouth. "... You know I'm not going to die of old age, right?"

Derek doesn't have an answer to that.

Stiles doesn't wait for one, though, because a second later he's crawling into Derek's lap, kissing him over and over again, needy, desperate.

Derek lets out a shocked noise, low in his throat, and grabs onto Stiles' hips, holding him steady. He gives as good as he gets, biting Stiles' lower lip, fingers sliding beneath Stiles' waistband.

Stiles pulls his mouth away from Derek's long enough to gasp, "I can't stop thinking." He presses his forehead against Derek's. "Distract me. Come on."

In reply, Derek rolls Stiles onto the bed, pulling his shirt up and mouthing over his stomach. Stiles' skin tastes like sweat and antiseptic and the medication he's been doubling up on to stay focused. Stiles pulls his t-shirt off and tosses it over the edge of the bed, then reaches for Derek, shoving his jacket down his shoulders.

Derek sits up long enough to shrug out of his jacket and tug his henley over his head, then he's pulling Stiles up into his lap, laughing a little as Stiles swears and tries to get Derek's fly open.

They fuck like that, Stiles straddling Derek's lap, riding him, and Derek comes with his face buried in the crook of Stiles' neck. Once he's caught his breath, Derek lowers them both to the bed and strokes Stiles' cock until he's gasping and coming, short fingernails digging into Derek's shoulders.

Derek can tell Stiles is still too wired to sleep, but they lie there for a while anyway until Derek murmurs, "I still need to tell you."

Stiles rolls to face Derek and, with an utterly straight face, says, "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"No," Derek says slowly, like he's talking to a child. "That's not even—no."

Stiles sits up a bit, leaning on his elbow. "What is it?"

Derek closes his eyes for a moment. This is the worst possible time to do this, but if he doesn't tell Stiles now, he might not get another chance. "It's about Kate."

He feels Stiles tense up, and when he opens his eyes, Stiles is looking down at him, wary and confused. "Okay."

"Remember when Lydia said that Kate must have had a source inside my family, before the fire? You thought it was Laura." When Stiles nods, Derek continues, before he can talk himself out of it: "It wasn't Laura. It was me."

Stiles goes completely still.

"I was an idiot. I thought we were in love, that we were going to—" Derek shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. It was my fault. I only ever told one person, and he was a complete stranger. And I just—I wanted you to know. You deserve to know."

He looks up at Stiles again, expecting to see disgust or horror, but the expression on Stiles' face is just... broken. "You were a kid."

"I was a teenager. I should've known better."

Stiles settles back down on the bed and reaches for Derek's hand, wrapping long fingers around his wrist, thumb stroking across Derek's pulse. Almost too quiet to hear—so quiet that Derek knows it can't have been directed at him—Stiles says, "Me, too."

α

"Is it done?"

The smell of mold and rotting wood is overwhelming to Jackson's newly-enhanced senses, and he can hear every creak the hotel's foundations make.

"They're on their way," he says. "All of them."

"Good." The woman pulls a black feather from her pocket and smooths it out, then reaches for the knife tucked into her belt. "Now, this next part is going to hurt."


Next: "Pyre"