Act III

"...there's someone in my head but it's not me..."

Her fingertips slid across his back, applying hardly any pressure, yet sending shock waves over his flesh. Slowly — so slowly — her hands moved across his skin, down the sides of his stomach then up again. Just below his ear, Stiles felt her lips press against his neck, followed by another kiss just below it, then another, then another...

Her lips moved from his neck toward his cheek and then finally found his mouth. They kissed, wrapping themselves closer together. Stiles' blood burned within him, and he felt more alive in that moment than he ever had. He loved her, loved Kira so much that—

Kira?

Oh no.

Some coherent part of him immediately realized what was happening — and boy, was it pissed off. The rest of him, however, was still actually living in this encounter, experiencing it as though Stiles was the one being touched and kissed. That part of him couldn't break away. He'd merged too much with Scott, and for all intents and purposes, this was happening to Stiles.

No, he told himself sternly. It's not real — not for you. Get out of there.

But how could he listen to logic when every nerve of his body was being set on fire?

You aren't him. This isn't your head. Get out.

Her lips. There was nothing in the world right now except her lips.

It's not her. Get out.

The kisses were the same, exactly as he remembered with her...

No, it's not Malia. Get out!

Malia's name was like cold water hitting Stiles in the face. He woke up fast, so fast he fell out of the bed and hit his head on the bedside table. He felt smothered. His heart beat hard in his chest, and he tried to take deep breaths to steady himself and return to his own reality.

Times sure had changed. A long time ago, Scott's nightmares used to wake Stiles from sleep. Now his sex life did.

Stiles had actually gotten the hang of blocking out Scott's romantic interludes — at least when he was awake. This time, Scott and Kira had (unintentionally) outsmarted him. In sleep, his defenses were down, allowing strong emotions to pass through the psychic link that connected them.

"God," he spat, sitting up. Couldn't Scott and Kira have seriously kept their hands off each other until waking hours?

Worse than being woken up, though, was the way he still felt. Sure, none of that making out had actually happened to him. It hadn't been his skin being touched or his lips being kissed. Yet his body seemed to feel the loss of it nonetheless. It had been a very long time since he'd been in that kind of situation. He ached and felt warm all over. It was idiotic, but suddenly, desperately, he wanted someone to touch him — even just to hold him.

But definitely not Kira.

Stiles stood up on shaky legs, feeling restless and .. well, sad. Sad and empty. Needing to walk off his weird mood, he left his room for the bathroom down the hall. He splashed cool water on his face. His reflection looked sleep-deprived, but Stiles didn't want to go back to bed. He didn't want to risk falling asleep to that.

He left the bathroom and turned toward the stairwell, his barefeet light on the steps as he went downstairs. He didn't find anyone on his way out; it was almost noon, for crying out loud, middle of the night for half-breeds.

Once outside, Stiles eased the door shut as gently as possible. No noise. Cold wind blasted him in the face, but it was exactly what he needed. Squinting at the sunlight, he regretted not grabbing a coat, or a least put on some sleepers. He walked around the side of the building, toward a spot between it and the gym that wasn't quite so exposed to the elements.

Focusing on the cold in his body was better than remembering what it had felt like to have Kira's hands on him. Standing there, staring off at a cluster of trees without really seeing them, Stiles was surprised to feel a spark of anger at his friends.

It must be nice, uh? To do whatever the hell you want? the little voice said. Scott complains he wasn't able to keep his mind open to your experiences. But we both know, he has no idea how lucky he is. He has no idea what it is like to share a mind, right, Stiles? To have someone else's thoughts intruding on yours, someone else's experiences muddling yours. Scott lives his perfect love life when your own has to be kept secret. He doesn't understand how deep your feelings burn, how much they hurt you. No, he doesn't understand. But you can make him see, Stiles. If only you—

Shut up, Stiles told him.

The Trickster consented with a grin.

But his words wouldn't leave Stiles. The Trickster had been right: Scott didn't understand. He didn't have to. He could carry on with his own romantic affairs, with no regard for what he was doing to Stiles.

Stiles realized then that he was breathing heavily again. It was the rage. He felt anger and jealousy, feelings born of what he couldn't have and what came so easily to Scott. He tried his best to swallow those emotions back; he didn't want to feel that way toward his best friend. But still, it ate him up inside until he wanted to scream or kick something.

"Are you sleepwalking?" a voice asked from behind him.

Stiles spun around, startled. Malia stood there watching him, looking both amused and curious. It would figure that while he was raging over the problems of his unfair love life, the source of those problems would be the one to find him.

Stiles hadn't heard her approach at all. So much for his ninja skills.

"I was testing dorm security," he said. "It sucks."

A hint of a smile played over her lips. "Really, no shoes? You must be freezing."

"Yeah, I can't feel my feet. But what are you doing out here? Are you testing security too?"

"I am security. This is my watch."

"Well, good work," said Stiles. "I'm glad I was able to help test your awesome skills. Would you mind warming me a bit now? It's getting critical." He went forward until they were very closed to each other; Malia didn't step back.

"Stiles—" She took his hand, and despite all the wind and chill and slush, a flash of heat shot through him. "What are you really doing out here?"

He shrugged, focusing on the rare moment he had with her. "I had a bad dream. Fell out of bed. Needed some air."

"So you just rushed out. Breaking the rules didn't even cross your mind — and neither did putting on a coat."

"Yep. That pretty much sums it up."

Malia actually giggled. Stiles couldn't believe his luck. Before anything could ruin her rare good mood, he kissed her.

"What are you doing?" she asked in between kisses.

"Well, my birthday's coming up," he said, "I want kisses."

"Is that all you want?"

Stiles started to make another joke, but the image of Scott and Kira flared into his mind again. That sad and empty feeling in his stomach returned. Anything he might have wanted suddenly seemed trivial. What did material things like that mean compared to the one thing he wanted most of all?

The amusement on her face suddenly faded, her expression growing troubled. She studied him for several moments. Sometimes Stiles felt as though her eyes could see right into his soul. "If you could pick anything at all, Stiles," she said. "What would it be?"

Freedom, he thought. That was the only gift he longed for. Freedom to make his own choices. Freedom to love who he wanted.

"It doesn't matter," he said instead.

"What do you—" she stopped. She understood. She always did. It was part of why they connected so well. In a not-so-obvious attempt to change the subject, she said, "Gosh, you really are freezing," as she rubbed his arms with her hands. "Let's go inside. I'll take you in through the back."

But he didn't want to go inside. Well, part of him did; the part that was really cold. But once inside they wouldn't be them anymore. Inside it was her and him .Inside they couldn't touch. He would rather freeze.

"I think you're the one who's cold," he teased, but it didn't much work because his teeth started clapping as they walked around the side of the dorm holding hands. "Is it true you're never cold? Because you're used to harsher weather?"

"I think you're imagining Turkey the wrong way."

"Possible. In fact, I'm not entirely sure where that is," he said truthfully.

"It's warm as hell," was her answer.

"Do you miss it?" he asked. It was something he'd never considered before.

"All the time," she said, her voice a little wistful. "Sometimes I wish—"

"Guardian Tate!"

A voice was carried on the wind from behind them. Malia muttered something, and then shoved Stiles into some bushes. Stiles fell on his knees and the thick clusters of sharp, pointed leaves scratched where his skin was exposed.

"You're not on watch," he heard Malia say several moments later.

"No, but I needed to talk to you." Stiles recognized the voice. It belonged to Chris Argent, captain of the Academy's guardians. "It'll just take a minute. We need to shuffle some of the watches while you're at the trial."

"I figured," Malia said. There was a funny, almost uncomfortable note in her voice. "It's going to put a strain on everyone else — bad timing."

"Yes, well, the queen runs on her own schedule." Chris sounded frustrated, and Stiles tried to figure out what was going on. "Celeste will take your watches, and she and Emil will divide up your training times."

Training times? Malia wouldn't be conducting any trainings next week because — Ah. That was it, Stiles realized. The field experience. Tomorrow kicked off six weeks of hands-on practice for the novices. They'd have no classes and would get to protect half-breeds night and day while the guardians tested them. The 'training times' must be when Malia would be out participating in that. But what was this trial he'd mentioned?

"They say they don't mind the extra work," continued Chris, "but I was wondering if you could even things out and take some of their shifts before you leave?"

"Absolutely," she said, words still short and stiff.

"Thanks, Tate. I think that'll help." He sighed. "I wish I knew how long this trial was going to be. I don't want to be away that long. You'd think it'd be a done deal with Gerard, but now I hear the queen's getting cold feet about imprisoning a major royal."

Stiles stiffened.

"I'm sure they'll do the right thing," said Malia. Stiles realized at that moment why she wasn't saying much. This wasn't something he was supposed to hear.

"I hope so. And I hope it'll only take a few days, like they claim. Look, it's miserable out here. Would you mind coming into the office for a second to look at the schedule?"

"Sure," she said. "Let me check on something first. I'll be right there."

"Alright. See you soon."

Silence fell, and Stiles had to assume Chris was walking away. He shot up from his hiding spot. The look on Malia's face told him she already knew what was coming.

"Stiles—"

"Gerard?" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low so Chris wouldn't hear. "As in Gerard Argent?"

She didn't bother denying it. "Yes."

"And you guys were talking about... Do you mean..." Stiles was so startled, so dumbstruck, that he could barely get his thoughts together. This was unbelievable. "I thought he was locked up! Are you saying he hasn't been on trial yet?"

Malia had a look on her face Stiles knew well. It was the one she got when she thought Stiles might punch someone. "He's been locked up — but no, no trial yet. Legal proceedings sometimes take a long time."

"But there's going to be a trial now? And you're going?" Stiles spoke through clenched teeth, trying to be calm. He suspected he still had the I'm-going-to-punch-someone look on his face.

"Next week," she said. "They need me and some of the other guardians to testify about what happened to you and Scott that night."

"Call me crazy for asking this, but, um, are Scott and I going with you?" He had already guessed the answer, and didn't like it.

She hesitated. "No."

"No?"

"No."

Stiles crossed his arms. "Look, doesn't it seem reasonable that if you're going to talk about what happened to us, then you should have us there?"

Malia, fully in strict-instructor mode now, shook her head. "The queen and some of the other guardians thought it'd be best if you didn't go. There's enough evidence between the rest of us, and besides, criminal or not, he is — or was — one of the most powerful royals in the world. Those who know about this trial want to keep it quiet."

"So, what, you thought if you brought us, we'd tell everyone?" Stiles exclaimed.

"I didn't think anything, Stiles. I don't call the shots—"

"Come on. You really think we'd do that? The only thing we want is to see Gerard locked up. Forever. Maybe longer. And if there's a chance he might walk free, you have to let us go."

After Gerard had been caught, he'd been taken to prison, and Stiles had thought that was where the story had ended. He'd figured they'd locked him up to rot. It had never occurred to him — though it should have — that Gerard'd need a trial first. At the time, his crimes had seemed so obvious. But, although the half-breed government was secret and separate from the human one, it operated in a lot of the same ways. Due process and all that.

"What makes you think it's up to me?" Malia said. "I don't have a say in it."

"But you have influence. You could speak up for us, especially if—" Some of his anger dimmed just a little, replaced by a sudden and startling fear. Stiles almost couldn't say the next words. "Especially if there really is a chance he might get off. Is there? Is there really a chance the queen could let him go?"

"I don't know. There's no telling what Natalie or some of the other high-up royals will do sometimes." Malia suddenly looked tired. She reached into her pocket and handed over a set of keys. "Look, I know you're upset, but we can't talk about it now. I have to go meet Chris, and you need to get inside. Your feet are blue. The square key, remember?"

He did. "Yeah. Thanks."

He was sulking and hated to be that way — especially since she was saving him from getting in trouble — but he couldn't help it. Gerard Argent was a criminal — a villain, even. He was power-hungry and greedy and didn't care who he stepped on to get his way. If he were loose again... well, there was no telling what might happen to Scott or any other half-breed. It enraged Stiles to think that he could do something to help put him away but that no one would let him do it.

Malia took his hand again. "Stiles?" He glanced back. "I'm sorry," she said. She paused, and her expression of regret turned wary. She gave him a peck on the forehead. "And you'd better bring the keys back tomorrow."

Stiles turned away and kept going. It was probably unfair, but some childish part of him believed Malia could do anything. If she'd really wanted to get Scott and Stiles to the trial, she certainly could have.

When he was almost to the side door, Stiles caught movement in his peripheral vision. His mood plummeted. Great. Malia had given him keys to sneak back in, and now someone else had busted him. That was typical of his luck. Half-expecting a teacher to demand to know what he was doing, Stiles turned and prepared an excuse.

But it wasn't a teacher.

It wasn't a guardian either.

Or a student.

It was probably not even human...

This had to be a trick.

A mistake.

For half an instant, Stiles wondered if he'd ever really woken up. Maybe he was actually still in bed, asleep and dreaming.

It had to be a dream.

Because surely, surely that was the only explanation for what he was now seeing in front of him on the Academy's lawn, lurking in the shadow of an ancient, gnarled oak, looking right at him like she had something extremely important to say.

Erica.