Stiles murmurs, "Ally approaching," and hopes Scott catches it with his wolfy hearing from his position near the gym as he closes the last mountain ash line around a water fountain near the chemistry labs.
"This is going to end badly," Derek says as he snoops through someone's locker.
"Well, shit. Derek Hale thinks our plan is bad – that's a sign if I ever saw one," Isaac drawls, slouching against the lockers.
Derek's glare could drop a rampaging elephant at twenty paces.
And my pants, Stiles thinks as he eyes the crinkle of leather-clad biceps when Derek crosses his arms in disapproval. He shakes his head to dispel that thought because if Isaac ever caught a whiff of his lust he'd never hear the end of it.
They're at Beacon Hills High, eerily empty during Christmas vacation and the perfect place to spring their trap after liberating the keys from Mr. Yukimura.
It's part trap, part science experiment.
They haven't worked out exactly what will affect Matt in his new kelpie form, despite seeking help from Deaton and Argent's contacts. So, the plan is to basically throw everything at him and hope something sticks.
It's not the worst plan they've ever come up with.
But it's certainly not the best.
They can't afford to be on the defensive anymore though. In a rushed effort, Stiles managed to hastily ward the water mains leading to each of their houses and the loft for good measure. Obviously, it will only keep them safe so long as they're in their respective houses, but they're hoping it won't be an issue if they can get Matt to go to a watery grave tonight…for the second time, that is.
Mountain ash set, they jog their way to the gym's double doors and wait for the signal.
It's Scott's roar. That's the signal.
No one ever said this was Ocean's 11, alright?
The plan is simple – using Allison as bait, she holds several staged conversations about not feeling safe at home or outside after their last encounter. The very helpful suggestion to get her daily jog and shower in the safety of the school gym is made.
Unable to resist the chance to be a lecherous perve, cue gormless Matt slithering his way to the gym to follow her and they spring their trap. The stalker has become the stalked.
Stiles has carefully laid ash lines to prevent Matt from doing his murder puddle schtick out of the drinking fountains (and toilets, Stiles shudders) behind them. If all else goes to plan he'll be led along the main pipeline that leads to the locker room showers in the gym.
Deaton, Noshiko, Kira, Chris, and Scott lie in wait inside the gym. Stiles, Derek, and Isaac are on the exit into the corridor, and Peter, Lydia, and the Sheriff guard the side doors. In their pockets are hastily whipped up Notice-me-not hex bags to deflect unwanted attention. Deaton wasn't entirely sure it would fool another supernatural creature, but you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. Or he would say that if he wasn't his reticent, 'cards close to the chest' self.
It's a risk, but the plan is for Deaton and Stiles to close the mountain ash lines once Matt has made his grand appearance, hopefully trapping him in the gym without a water source. He's tactically ignoring that it will also trap the wolves in the room with Matt.
Scott, ever the optimist, suggested leaving the pack a stick so they could break the line and escape. Because horses don't have thumbs, Matt shouldn't be able to follow them, right?
Deaton's slow blink and audible sigh of disappointment made even Chris Argent shuffle uncomfortably.
"While mountain ash can stop any physical being, the barrier is held not by physically moving the ash with…a stick, as you suggested, Scott…but through force of will and belief. We know and believe the ash will hold…therefore it absorbs the intent of the belief and becomes impenetrable."
Scott quirks a brow and side-eyes Stiles, who presses his lips together firmly to avoid smirking at the word 'impenetrable.' The True Alpha, ladies and gentlemen. Still an absolute child sometimes.
The metallic squeal of the fire exit door signals Allison's arrival.
Isaac opens his mouth, presumably to ask if it's worked but Allison silences him with a death glare and a threatening gesture. She jabs a thumb at the drain beneath the drinking fountain and holds a finger to her lips for silence. Stiles can't hear a thing but judging by the twin canine-esque head tilts from Derek and Isaac there's something beneath the linoleum floor. Stiles spares a moment to bless his own foresight to ash circle the drains and taps or they'd be well and truly boned here.
Allison breezes past them, making more noise with her steps than he's ever heard as she leads her watery shadow into the gym. Argent and the sheriff have already disabled the automatic sprinkler system which leaves Matt only one choice if he wants to become corporeal – the locker room.
The pack carefully stay out of sight as Allison goes through the motions of dumping her bag (loaded with a crossbow, unbeknownst to Matt) and starts stretching. It's several long, awkward minutes of watching Allison run laps around the gym before they see it – a slowly creeping puddle from beneath the locker room doors. It's subtle enough that if they weren't on such high alert it would be all too easy to dismiss it as a minor spill.
"Hello?" Allison calls out into the silence, the only sounds are her harsh panting breaths. "Is someone there?"
Allison meets her father's eyes briefly in his hiding spot, shrugging helplessly. She slips her headphones back in her ears (though they're not playing anything, they're just to give Matt the illusion she's unaware of her surroundings) and continues her laps.
Derek absentmindedly scratches at the repulsion rune Stiles had etched onto his inner forearm with a sharpie half an hour ago. Without taking his eyes from the glass porthole window into the gym, Stiles reaches out and slaps Derek's hand away. He ignores Isaac's growing smirk when Derek jostles him back in retaliation.
"Don't you dare damage that rune," he hisses at Derek, eyes locked on Deaton as he silently lines the door to the locker room after Peter slips in behind Matt, the Notice-me-not spell seemingly working. Of course, the hex bags are only effective if you're trying not to draw attention.
Which they're about to do, of course.
It's a tense wait, the gritty ash seeping between Stiles' white-knuckled grip as he waits for his cue.
Isaac and Derek place clawed hands on the heavy swinging doors separating them from Allison. She's stopped running laps now, pretending to take a drink from a water bottle while texting on her phone. It's the opportunity Matt has been waiting for though.
He coalesces from the reflective film he was imitating just under the bleachers into his amorphous horse form. Stiles sees Allison reach for her crossbow under the pretense of tying her shoelace, her back still turned to the rapidly forming specter.
Stiles sees Scott's eyes glint red from his hiding spot, but before Scott can draw the breath for his roar, Derek shoves the door open with a crash. Isaac and Derek take point, their claws out and growling viciously as they draw Matt's focus for the few seconds they need.
Heart pounding alongside his steps, Stiles flings his handful of ash into the air – eyes clenched shut, teeth gritted in determination.
Keep him in.
Keep us safe.
Trap him, contain him.
He can't escape.
Stiles hesitantly peeks through one squinted eye. It had taken far too many backyard practices ending with ash in his hair, eyes, and mouth to be entirely confident his circle has worked.
But it has.
Relief courses through his veins when he sees the large ring encircling the kelpie —Allison and the pack clearly separated from it by a solid, unbroken line of ash.
He pants with adrenaline, unable to suppress with the grin stretching across his face. Power tingles in his fingertips like a vacuum, leeching power from the ground, his success buoying him.
Derek claps him on the shoulder, gripping tightly for a second when their eyes meet. As one, they turn to face the kelpie, who is decidedly unhappy at his confinement.
It, Matt, he corrects, is fuming. Literally. Great gusts of fog erupt from the equine-shaped nostrils. Hooves a roiling mix of frothing water and murky smoke stomp against the floor. The eyes a dark swirl rolling wildly looking for escape. It's almost beautiful in its strange composition if it wasn't for the overwhelming miasma of rage and cruelty emanating from it.
"Remarkable," says Deaton reverently.
"Unusual, more like," Chris adds, scowling in distrust as Deaton approaches the line. "It doesn't match the bestiary at all. Don't be fooled, there's still a sociopath in there, somewhere."
Noshiko hums consideringly, "There are more things in heaven and earth than dreamt of in your philosophy."
"Is this really the time for Hamlet?" Isaac questions.
"To be or not to be, that is the question…" Deaton murmurs, curiosity in his eyes as he considers the beast before him.
Derek's lips twitch downward for a split second, betraying his impatience.
"Alright, let's get a move on," Noah says. "We don't have all night and we don't know how long that will hold him for."
The pack spread out evenly around the circle, human members lingering more than a few steps further back. The kelpie twists and turns, trying to keep them all in his line of sight, a gurgling braying echoing oddly in the empty gym.
From his position in the circle, Deaton picks up a copper bowl he'd hidden under the bleachers and murmurs over it for a few seconds, eyes closed in concentration. He tips the powdered mixture into his hands and, edging as close to the ash line as he dares, blows a puff of powder into the air. It settles, like ashes after a wildfire on the kelpie's form but nothing of note seems to happen.
Deaton frowns, puzzled. "That was the most potent sleeping charm I could find. It should have affected him at the least."
Chris shrugs and takes a step closer, unholstering a narrow-barreled gun from his thigh. "Let's try something more mundane then," he says, eyes watching the kelpie calculatingly. He levels his tranquilizer gun at its rear quarters and fires off a dart.
Which simply sails through its body, the resistance of the water slowing its trajectory until it lands with a sad plink on the floor.
Well, shit. There go the non-violent options.
To say it was annoyed would be an understatement. Stiles can't seem to reconcile the whirlpool of smoke and water as Matt in his head. It still seems too unreal that this clearly supernatural force of nature was once just a creepy neck-breather from school.
It looks like Allison can believe it though, as she strides up to the ash line fearlessly, Lydia trying to pull her back with one hand clamped around her wrist.
"Hey, waterboy!" She spits at the kelpie.
Even Derek's eyes widen at the barb.
"I'm not yours. I never will be. I know you can talk. I heard you- in my head. You got something to say? Say it."
It snorts angrily, steam rising from its snout. Form shimmering slightly, it twists, collapsing in on itself as it remolds to look more and more human.
This would be so fucking cool if it wasn't trying to kill us Terminator 2 style, Stiles thinks.
Matt, the thing, whatever the fuck it is, gapes its jaw unnaturally as it releases a burbling, muffled scream at Allison.
Allison, who didn't come here to play games. Quick as a snake, she whips out a spray can of silver nitrate and unleashes it right into the place its face should be.
There's a moment where everyone holds their breath, Allison's outstretched hand less than a foot from its face. The only thing standing between them is the ash line. He doesn't react to the spray, instead, the roiling turmoil of the water boils more viciously than before at Allison's audacity.
Great, now they've pissed off sexual predator Seabiscuit.
Allison refuses to break eye contact with it though, simply shrugging off Lydia's hand to raise her crossbow – loaded with silver-tipped arrow. The arrow which is simply enveloped by the humanoid Matt's chest and drops, useless, to the floor.
Well, scratch that off the list.
Chris shrugs when Allison meets his eyes, unholstering his Glock and leveling it at center mass.
"Not yet," murmurs the Sheriff. "Too loud – we don't want someone calling this in."
Deaton approaches the line with Scott by his side. "Seems brute force isn't going to work this time. Allow me," he gestures at Chris to stand down.
"Matt. Matthew Daehler," Deaton commands. "I know you're in there somewhere. Look at me."
The figure's head twists sickeningly around to stare at Deaton, torso never moving. Stiles shudders in revulsion as the figure lumbers oddly towards the emissary, head wrenched a full 180 degrees the wrong way. As he watches in disgust though, the form melts until what passes for feet re-form the right way.
No. Nope. I want to get off this ride. Full refund for this experience, please.
"Can you speak?" Deaton asks, as though its looming, writhing, sightless body isn't giving him the heebie-jeebies.
The water boils within, tendrils of the strange inky smoke creeping their way towards the ash line.
"I know you've spoken before. What is it that you want?" Deaton asks placidly like he isn't two feet from the swamp Terminator.
It, (Matt, he corrects in his mind), simply raises an arm and points at Allison.
"You can't have her. She's not an object you can take," Chris bites out angrily. Turns out Matt has some strong feelings on the subject, Stiles cringes, as he roils and grows murkier. Pointing more insistently at Allison's fierce glare.
Deaton's side-eye and grimace ever so politely urge Argent to shut the fuck up, you're making it worse.
"You've sought your revenge, Matt. There are no swim team members left in Beacon Hills. We can help you."
Isaac scoffs near silently. Perhaps not silently enough.
The figure tilts its head to the side, considering. Or listening to their heartbeats – they don't know enough about what he can do like this to be certain. He hesitates for a moment. But just long enough to see Scott taking a subtle step closer, a bowl of mistletoe held tightly between his hands. It deliberately steps back towards Allison, arm still outstretched as if reaching for her throat.
"I see you cannot be reasoned with," Deaton replies with a note of finality. Judge, jury, and executioner passing down a death sentence. He takes the bowl from Scott and with a sweeping arc of his arm, scatters the mistletoe within the circle.
There's a beat. Stiles' breath catches in his chest.
Nothing happens.
"Interesting…" Deaton hums.
"We don't have time for science, Bill Nye," Isaac snarks, eyeing Matt's closeness to Allison.
Allison at least concedes ground, (first time for everything, Stiles supposes), and edges back towards Lydia – never breaking her stare down with Matt. Isaac slinks closer to the girls, claws out and ready to defend them.
Deaton tactfully ignores the interruption (a wise move when it comes to the pack) and moves on to his next trial, a hip flask with some sort of oil in it. Again, he flings the mixture onto Matt's viscous form, who slowly turns to look from the oil to Deaton. Stiles can't see a smile on his featureless face, but he gets the distinct impression that Matt is leveling Deaton with a wide shark-toothed smile right now.
Deaton better have the whole Kentucky Fried eleven herbs and spices in those pockets.
Brows furrowing in concern, the vet now withdraws a pouch of dried herbs and lilac colored petals.
Clearly dismissing this latest attempt, Matt swivels back to stare down Allison. A melodic whisper flits around the gym as though carried by a soft breeze swooping around them. Stiles can't make out the words – they're too indistinct, like a hushed conversation in another room.
"No… I won't," Allison ekes out between gritted teeth, eyes wide with fear, fists clenched at her sides even as she takes an unconscious step closer to the dark boundary line. The wind and whispers grow more forceful, buffeting them.
"Stop. Matt, stop it. Please! I don't want to!" she begs, tears running down her cheeks as she's drawn inexorably closer to the line by an unseen force. Her boots are less than a foot from the ash.
Isaac wraps his arms around Allison's waist from behind, trying to break Matt's hold in a game of tug o' war.
Matt makes a horrifying gurgling noise, rearing up just as Deaton's herbs find their mark. Matt shrieks in rage, slamming against the barrier separating him from Allison. He boils violently, steam rising from the furious specter, the inky tendrils whipping around until he explodes from the pressure. Steam billows to the roof as mist sprays in a blast radius leaving several of them uncomfortably damp.
Allison wipes her face with her sleeve, having copped the worst of it. "What was in that?" she asks in disbelief.
"Oh, a few herbs known to affect a variety of supernatural beings. Kind of a 'catch-all' mix if you will. Rosemary, thyme, garlic, fennel, sage…" he replies absently, intently inspecting the area Matt where was standing.
"Holy shit, Colonel Sanders saves the day," Stiles mutters in disbelief, catching Derek's smirk.
"Well, that was easy," Kira says brightly to a round of tired groans from the pack.
"What?" she asks innocently.
"You've jinxed us for sure," Lydia sighs. Nothing is ever that easy, he thinks bitterly. It could be his own paranoia speaking, but he's mollified to see that even Argent hasn't dropped his guard yet – gun still held at the ready, eyes flitting around looking for movement. Deaton moves to pack his copper bowl back into the rucksack he'd stashed beneath the bleachers, apparently satisfied.
Noshiko sheathes her katana, "Remind me to teach you the fable about the fox who tempted fate," she teases.
Noah wanders over to clap Stiles and Derek on the shoulders, "Cased closed, boys. Now I don't know about you, but I think I've earned a burger after all that," he announces.
"Well, guess that's that then. Go team!" Stiles cheers acerbically.
"We're not done here," Scott scoffs bitterly.
Isaac raises a quizzical brow at Scott, "I can't sense anything, can you? What more do you want?"
"I want answers. Don't you think it's a bit too coincidental that after two weeks of nothing this finally shows up?"
And Stiles thought he was paranoid. "Scotty, this whole Matt thing has been silently brewing for a while, man. Beacon Hills is a beacon," he shrugs.
"No, I think there's more to it. We don't see you or hear from you for two weeks and the first day I see you, you try to convince me there's something in the water."
"I – I…I was traumatized, Scott—I needed some time," he stutters, confusedly looking to his dad for reassurance.
"Clearly, he was right, son…" his dad says, looking in askance at Scott.
Scott snorts unattractively. "Yeah…you'd like to think that, wouldn't you? Trying to make this something Stiles isn't responsible for? You know the timing is suspicious. We all do."
Derek edges closer to Stiles, leather jacket a comforting pressure against his shoulder. "What are you on about, Scott?" he commands, eyes flashing an icy blue.
"How can we trust him?" Scott asks, gesturing at Stiles, beseeching the pack. "What if this is all some trick from the nogitsune. Make us trust him again. Let him be the good guy who saves the day. We were fine while he was sulking in his room. Now he's back and look at all the people he's killed just so he can weasel his way back into my pack. Nothing's ever your fault, is it? Not this, not the nogitsune, not the way you ruined my life!" Scott yells, eyes flaring red, claws unsheathed as he prepares to lunge.
Derek forces Stiles behind him, holding him there with one arm, growl rumbling his chest as the sheriff's taser whines loudly from his right, aimed unerringly at Scott.
"Scott," Deaton's voice rings out like a bell, silencing the growls. "Step towards me, now," he urges, eyes fixated on the ground. "Don't question it, just move – now," he overrides Scott's sneer.
Scott looks confused for a moment, before raising a sneaker-clad foot from the small puddle beneath him. Like a switch, awareness is back in Scott's eyes as he scrambles as far from the innocuous puddle as possible. Panting with exertion from his recent one-sided screaming match, Scott's wild eyes dart from the unmoving puddle to Stiles and back.
"I didn't mean those things, I swear!" Scott yelps. Stiles can barely hear him over the thundering of his own heart, eyes wet with betrayal. He clutches Derek's jacket between desperate fists, trying to ground himself before he descends into a full-blown panic attack.
"Scott – what happened?" Chris barks, gun amusingly aimed at the seemingly harmless puddle.
"I- I don't know," Scott pleads. "I just got…so angry! And hurt. I wanted to hurt you. But I swear, I've never thought those things. Stiles, you have to believe me," he begs.
"Stiles doesn't have to do anything," Derek snarls defensively.
Deaton slowly withdraws the herb pouch from his pocket, eying the small, inoffensive looking pool warily. "It would seem we were premature in our celebration. Keep your eyes open, don't let the water touch you." Deaton sprinkles the mix around Scott's feet and cautiously makes his way around the ash ring, sprinkling each pack member with a layer of protection.
Argent moves up onto the bleachers like he's playing a weird game of 'The Floor is Lava', gun still at the ready, head swiveling for signs of movement like a bird of prey. "Scott," he barks, "the things you said – were they your honest thoughts?"
Scott stammers, confused, "No, I mean kind of, but not like that!"
"Is this really the time for relationship counseling?" Isaac asks, clawed hands splayed out wide in anticipation of an attack on Allison.
"It's important, Scott," Chris urges. "It's the difference between Matt heightening emotions already there, using telepathy to extract thoughts, or forcing you to say words he puts in your mouth."
As one, the pack's eyes swivel to Scott in varying degrees of horror, doubt, and scientific curiosity (Lydia and Deaton, of course).
"Uhh…" Scott hesitates as he thinks. Stiles can tell, Scott always gets this crinkle between his brows when the cogs are working overtime. "Is 'all of the above' an option?" At Lydia's impatient tutting he scrambles to clarify. "It was like a wave of emotion, the anger, the intent to hurt – but it felt like mine. I couldn't tell he was…influencing me I s'pose is the best word for it. I don't think he read my mind but it's like he reached inside and pressed a button. It felt like I had no control. I was just along for the ride until all this emotion ran its course."
"Why did he want you to attack Stiles though?" Derek asks, still standing defensively between Scott and Stiles.
"It's like a Horcrux," Lydia murmurs.
"Can you say that again, but in English, please?" Noah asks exasperatedly.
Despite being at risk of an imminent attack by a drowning fetishist, Lydia still finds the time to flip her hair over her shoulder and fix the Sheriff with a patronizing look. "A Horcrux, from the Harry Potter series. An object which holds part of a dark wizard or witch's soul and can influence and taint the emotions of the bearer. It's a defense mechanism to prevent it from being destroyed. If Matt wants to escape his best route is to leave us distracted and fighting amongst ourselves while he slips out unnoticed."
"You mean like he's just accomplished here,"' the Sheriff says dryly.
From the bleachers, Kira tentatively raises her hand, katana and all. "Uhh…probably a stupid question…but how many times do you think he's done that to us? Also, follow-up question – did we just breathe him in when he disappeared in a puff of steam?"
The pack looks vaguely sickened by the thought. Heh, death by aromatherapy diffuser, Stiles thinks to himself, willfully ignoring the confused side-eye Derek gives him when he chuckles.
"The night I got lured in by him – I'd gone to get a glass of water from the kitchen," Allison says in muted horror.
"I…I think the creek water samples?" Stiles says tentatively. "Both you and Deaton got…defensive…about them."
"The bath," Lydia says quietly to Allison.
"Talk about it later! There are bigger issues. Worry about where he is and how he got past the ash. I don't think a bag of seasoning mix is going to keep him at bay for long," Derek snarls.
"He's right,' Deaton says. "We can debrief later. The ash line is made to hold supernatural beings inside. My guess is that when Mr. Daehler assumed his vapor form the particles were too diffuse to trigger the ash's protective properties."
"How are we supposed to catch him then if he can just mist his way outta every box and trap we can think of?" the Sheriff asks exasperatedly.
"It does have its challenges, yes—"
Stiles doesn't hear the rest of Deaton's patience-laden words, however, as his eyes are drawn to Derek reaching into his jacket pocket slowly as to not draw attention. Derek's attention is over his right shoulder – ears pricked, and head turned ever so slightly so he can watch something from the corner of his eye. Smoothly, silently, Derek takes out a small black can and a silver rectangle from his inside pocket. He leans in closer to Stiles and mouths quietly, "When I say 'now,' duck and get behind me." There seems to be some sort of silent signal passed among the wolves as they all perk to attention staring off into the space behind Stiles. He desperately wants to turn around and look, but he knows his horror movie tropes. Never look behind you. He meets Derek's eyes as the wolf casually maneuvers to face Stiles. Derek must be able to sense Matt behind them but doesn't want to tip his hand just yet. Stiles clenches his eyes shut, the feeling of being watched so powerful, the urge to bolt rising in his chest. He can hear the faint shuffling of the pack as they prepare themselves for an assault and a confused, quickly silenced noise from Lydia, once again left out of the loop.
Stiles takes deep, calming breaths even as his heart pounds in his chest. He's close enough to Derek that he can feel his body radiating heat like a furnace. The leather of Derek's jacket makes a soft creaking noise as he prepares to attack. It's nearly enough to drown out the soft plinking noise of droplets creating a puddle that suddenly seems to reverberate around the gym. Quiet sloshing and bubbling noises grow louder until he can pinpoint the noise's direction –a few feet behind his left shoulder. His eyes fly open to meet Derek's matching determined stare, inches from his own.
"Now!" Derek yells.
Stiles drops to the floor, scrambling around Derek's jean-clad legs towards his Dad who has a hand outstretched to pull him to safety inside the ash line. Stiles whips around to see Derek fending Matt's half-human form back with a jet of flame. It seems to be working. There's an almighty whoosh of dangerous flame, and an awful sizzling noise followed by a screech when the flames get close enough to lick at him.
Thankfully, Noshiko unsheathes her katana, wreathed in foxfire, and joins Derek in shepherding Matt away from the exposed members of the pack.
It's working. It's actually working!
Holy shit, call Derek the Avatar but fire beats water it seems!
But there are only two of them with fire at their disposal and Peter, who up until this point had been observing carefully, now edges as far away from the flames as he can.
"Kira! More foxfire!" Noshiko calls to her daughter. Kira races over, her own sword stuttering in stops and starts with foxfire. They all forget, in the excitement of discovering her kitsune heritage, that she's only had a handful of month's practice at using her abilities.
Noshiko clashes her sword against Kira's, sharing the bright orange flames like an Olympic torch. With a flick as quick as lightning, Noshiko spins her katana and slams it into the ground point first. Kira looks confused for a moment until her mother begins dragging the sword to form a ring around Matt, the gouges in the floor leaving foxfire in her wake. He twists and turns within his fiery prison, shrieking when he ventures too close to the heat. It's just in time too, as whatever Derek was doing to spurt flames at Matt has been spluttering in bursts, failing.
There's a moment of relieved silence.
"Coach is gonna be piiiiissed," Stiles winces, staring at the fiery carvings in the floor.
"Well then, it's a good thing your friend Danny is erasing all the security footage, isn't it?" his dad says wryly as he steps over the ash. He claps Derek on the shoulder, gripping him tightly for a moment. "Thanks for looking out for him, son," he says looking Derek dead in the eyes. "I rest a bit easier knowing you've got his back." Derek looks oddly touched by the praise, a smile wavering at the corner of his mouth. It must have been about seven years since Derek's been called 'son' by anyone, Stiles reflects sadly. His dad seems to recognize the melancholy in Derek's eyes and with a final clap, he wanders over to Argent who is urgently conferring with Deaton and Noshiko who watch the foxfire like a hawk.
"How did you do that, by the way?" Stiles asks, stepping over the ash line (and yes, closer to Derek).
Derek smirks, "Well, while you were busy arguing with Isaac in the hall, I stole this from a locker." He holds up a pilfered Axe body spray. "Apparently it belongs to some kid called Greenberg. There were six of these in there," he says, puzzled.
"Well, I guess we're even now – I saved you with a Molotov, you saved me with a flamethrower…" Stiles teases.
"Uhh… we are not even. I definitely have more saves than you—"
Stiles gasps, affronted. "Excuse you, wolf boy. That is completely wrong. But that's not the point here – Derek, did you realize you just won a fight? First time for everything," he winks.
Derek simply rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles' face away from him with a broad hand.
Undeterred by the hand plastered across his face, Stiles continues, "And since when did you carry a zippo everywhere? Did you take up smoking? Wait, can werewolves even get a nicotine addiction? Lung cancer?"
"I keep it for wolfsbane poisoning. Wouldn't want you to faint from the sight of a chopped-off arm now, would we?"
"Your efforts are appreciated," Stiles says mockingly.
Stiles flushes red at his fumbling attempts at flirting (and isn't that a mind-blowing revelation: mutual flirting…it is mutual isn't it?! Maybe he's reading too much into it, it's not like throwing away all sense of self-preservation to pursue what he wants is a new behavior for him.)
The afterglow of a successful ~interaction~ is ruined though by Kira's panicked shout. Stiles has been so caught up with Derek that he's completely ignored the little Supernatural style holy fire ring in the background. Matt is less patient. Despite the ring of flames reaching a solid four feet from the ground, the kelpie is stretching upwards trying to pour itself over the circle. He never thought water could look so absurdly threatening but with each passing moment the viscous water begins to dwarf the flames. Noshiko is trying in vain to fan the foxfire higher, but it doesn't seem to be having much impact.
"Is he just gonna slinky walk his way out of there?" Stiles asks in disbelief as the water leans dangerously over the flames like a wave about to crash.
Derek shakes the empty Axe can in vain. Stiles grabs his jacket sleeve and starts edging them back over the ash line, scuffing it with his shoe so he can drag Derek to safety. Well, relative safety, since Matt can do a watery Dracula impression and just fwoosh his way in and out like a swarm of splashy bats.
Deaton is trying to disperse it by flinging his herb mixture at the looming wave, but he looks like an absurd flower-girl at a wedding with his fistfuls of petals and greenery.
That's not Stiles' concern though. Not Argent, who is still pointing his Glock menacingly at Matt. Not Allison who looks like she's ready to volunteer as tribute so he'll leave them alone. Not Scott, who is doing his 'I'm a True Alpha' righteousness pose (which he totally stole from Captain America btw).
It's Kira. Clutching her katana in a white-knuckled grip. Eyes burning molten orange and electricity sparking from her fingertips along her blade.
They're in a box with a metal roof, surrounded by metal bleachers on a big empty surface. Stiles already has one Lichtenburg mark, he's not keen to get a second.
"Kira," he calls tentatively. "Can you ixnay on the Tesla coil impression? In case it had escaped your notice, we're in a big metal box."
The Sheriff tries and fails to take a large, surreptitious step away from the kitsune.
"Kira…" Noshiko urges, "Calm yourself, you don't want to hurt your friends."
"Water conducts electricity – it could help!" Kira cries.
"Yeah, but you know what else conducts electricity? Us!" yells Isaac.
The raised voices all aimed at Kira are enough to panic her even more, though. White-hot lightning sparks and flashes from her sword, cracking loudly against the bleachers, the overhead lights, and Matt.
Kira's right – it does seem to be helping. The pillar of water trembles and bucks as it is forced back into a humanoid corporeal form.
"See!" Kira shouts joyfully, "I told you I could do it!"
More lighting ricochets from her outstretched arm, bursting bulbs and spraying glass shards – Derek hurriedly covering Stiles' head under his jacket as they duck and hide their faces.
Lydia slowly rises from her crouch, her calculating eyes darting from variable to variable. "Kira," she calls out tentatively, eyes watching Matt's form as the electricity surges into him, "you need to stop right now!"
"But I'm helping, see?" Kira cries, two hands on her blade now, the air surrounding her a blurry mirage under the heat and pressure.
"You're helping him!" Lydia yells. "Where does the energy go, Kira?"
"It's hurting him!" she yells back, forcing more power down the blade.
"Not if he's conducting it! He's absorbing it! Stop!"
She's right, Stiles realizes, horrified. The electricity may have been hurting him at the first strike, but now Matt seems to be leeching more and more energy from Kira, the water now churning with an odd inner glow.
The sheriff re-holsters his taser with a resigned, "Aww, shit", just as Matt explodes outward with a shock wave that bowls the pack over.
For a moment there's disconcerting, muffled silence.
Then a deafeningly loud discordant ringing overwhelms his senses, light popping and flashing in his vision as he struggles to orient himself. Stiles wildly flails a hand out, attempting to gain purchase on anything (he knows he's laying on the ground, but why is it so goddamn hard to find?). He manages to grip something and haul himself onto his side, nausea gripping him with the sudden movement.
It's Derek's sleeve, attached to a face-down Derek. Blood trickles from his ear into his stubble as his claws flex and retract in spasms. Stiles groans and blinks rapidly to make sense of his surroundings. It's far darker than before thanks to Kira blowing out nearly all the lights. Not too far from him, his Dad has managed to push himself into onto all fours, shaking his head to clear it. Chris Argent lies awkwardly across the bottom of the bleacher stairs, hand grappling for his gun. Thanks to their distance, Isaac, Allison, and Deaton seem to have escaped the worst of the epicenter but aren't entirely unscathed as Isaac has his clawed hands clamped firmly over his pointed ears. Kira is out cold though, with Noshiko crouching beside her, brushing Kira's hair from her face.
Derek painstakingly rolls onto his back, panting with exertion.
"Is everyone alright?" Scott calls out weakly. He's answered by varying groans of assent and muted swears.
"Eardrums are not fun to heal," Derek mutters though it still sounds like it's coming from underwater to Stiles. He's lucky to have avoided rupturing an ear drum, but he's definitely having flashbacks to the aftermath of the All Time Low concert he saw in LA with Scott three years ago when his absent father was still trying to buy his affection.
"Is it over?" Scott asks plaintively.
"I'm no scientist," his dad drawls hands on his hips as he stares at the ceiling, "but I don't think those look like a good sign."
Stiles tears his gaze from his dad and looks at the vapor lingering near the roof. As he watches it coalesces and condenses, forming clouds. It's almost beautiful, and Stiles lies there, mesmerized by the cloud formations.
Until they darken to a threatening gray color and sink closer as they condense. Lightning flashes briefly within the largest cloud and Derek jumps to his feet, snatching Stiles' hood and jerking him to his feet hurriedly.
"Go, we need to move," Derek barks, his other hand hooking around Noah's elbow and dragging the Stilinski's away from the rapidly brewing miniature storm.
A single, fat drop plinks loudly onto the court, followed by a few more.
Scott holds out a hand to catch one and jolts a little in surprise, eyes looking at the clouds, betrayed. "It zapped me!" he whines. "Not badly, but—" he dodges the next fat drop falling beside him.
Scott's words open the floodgate though and the few drops become torrential, bucketing down in heavy drops. Stiles hisses when the drops hit bare skin – it's like licking a 9-volt battery everywhere the rain touches. He's never been more thankful to wear a hoodie.
The deluge is short-lived, thankfully.
The wolves' eyes glow in the now dimly lit gym, Isaac rubbing his sleeve over his face to dry it, looking revolted. They struggle to regain their balance, feeling the impact of the electricity more acutely than the humans for once. Surprisingly, his dad is one of the first to his feet, followed swiftly by Argent and Peter who'd wisely ducked for cover at the first flash of lightning.
"Mandatory taser training," he says in response to Stiles' disbelieving and questioning look. "Not my first rodeo getting shocked." The pack pant as though they've run a race, fangs exposed and breath fogging in the chilly December air. Allison tries to wring out her sweater in vain and Lydia's hair is a matted curtain over her face as she fumbles to a stand, a rare moment of inelegance.
Isaac huffs, flicking curls out of his eyes with a toss of his head. "We are still assuming he's alive though, right? Is he dead?"
"No thanks to you," Lydia says darkly, water spilling down her chin as it overflows past her lipstick smudged bottom lip. Her eyes are vacant, like a banshee fugue state, but there's no mistaking the uncharacteristic malice on her pale features.
"You sat back and watched me drown the first time, Lahey. It's time to repay the favor," Lydia gutters and chokes on the water trickling from her nose and mouth.
Scott unsheathes his claws, stepping towards her, but hesitates. "Get out of her, now!" he orders, eyes flaring red in the darkness.
Lydia's head tips to the side mockingly, a purely Matt smirk spread unnaturally across her features as Lydia's arm jerks up to waggle a finger at him like a poorly controlled marionette. "Uh uh," she tuts, "You don't want to hurt poor Lydia, do you?" Her body jerks and shudders like she's fighting back control. "She's not very happy in here, I'm afraid," he teases in a babyish voice, "she's screaming so loudly, but you'll never hear it."
Allison lets out a pained gasp, watching helplessly as her best friend chokes and half drowns in possession. A spark of adrenaline races like wildfire in Stiles' veins. Snatches of forgotten passages from the bestiary flash before his eyes. Lydia might be screaming, but maybe she's not predicting her own death but trying to force Matt out with a scream. He somehow makes eye contact with Peter across the gym, heart pounding in his chest, mind anxiously counting how long he's been controlling her and oxygen saturation rates over time in drowning. Peter stares back calculatingly, almost as if he can see Stiles plotting and has come to the same conclusion.
Peter takes a few bold steps forward to draw Matt's attention, "You're not the only one who's died here, cockroach. We'll find a way to make it stick this time," he smirks, eyes firmly on Lydia as Stiles plunges his hand into his hoodie pocket, fist tightening over his ash tubing.
He just needs a moment of opportunity, Stiles thinks as he edges towards her exposed back, unraveling the lasso of mountain ash. Lydia hisses and gurgles oddly at Peter as the water on the floor draws towards her feet as though magnetized. Peter's eyes widen fractionally, darting to Stiles for a split-second but it's just enough of a warning. Element of surprise lost, Stiles desperately flings the lasso over Lydia's body, yanking it tight around her waist.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then she jerks, a spark of awareness back in her eyes long enough to suck in a desperate breath and muster up a banshee scream. The IV line did its job, disrupting the kelpie's influence so Lydia could fight back and disperse him. Her wail echoes deafeningly in the empty space, the wolves clapping clawed hands over their ears to block out the tremors.
With a sickening gush, Lydia hunches over and vomits up the remaining water, gasping for air.
"These boots were designer," she coughs sadly.
Allison sprints to Lydia, tucking her bedraggled red hair behind her ears so she can clutch the sides of her face turning her this way and that to make sure Lydia is ok. Seeing Lydia's relieved smile, she drags her into an almost violent embrace. "I thought you were screaming for you," she sobs, fists tightening in the back of Lydia's jacket.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Scott asks urgently, slipping a little in the wet as he skids to a stop next to the still embracing friends.
"No," Lydia shakes her head, arms contorting as she tries to escape the ash restraints, "he wasn't really trying to drown me. If he wanted to, I'd already be dead. He just wanted to taunt you – to talk to you. He saw his chance and he took it."
"Oh my god, sorry," Allison mutters as she unties the ash lasso from Lydia.
Stiles elbows Derek none-too-gently and mutters smugly, "and you said it wouldn't work."
"I think he'll just catch it next time, Wonder Woman," Derek says dryly.
Deaton hurries to Lydia's side, taking her pulse as he urges Scott to check on the still unconscious Kira.
"Are we sure he's gone?" Isaac asks, looking wary of the wet floor.
"I suspect so, I can't sense a presence so my best guess is our little banshee here is the key to banishing your friend Matt, however temporary that may be," Peter muses, prodding a puddle with a boot.
"Look, not to rush you or anything, but someone might've called that scream in. We should leave the scene," his dad says, checking his cell phone.
"He's right," Argent calls out. "Get your gear and go – wipe down any door handles on the way out. Meet at the van in 3."
Scott hoists Kira into his arms and makes for the locker room door, Noshiko collapsing Kira's sword back into an unobtrusive belt.
Isaac snatches up the abandoned Axe body spray can and waggles it at Stiles, "Wanna frame Greenberg?" he asks, eyebrows jumping in glee.
Stiles scoffs, "Ten bucks says Coach blames him anyway." Lydia lets out a ladylike snort and gives a watery smile as Allison leads her away, mountain ash tubing in hand.
He casts his eyes over the thoroughly trashed gym looking for anything else incriminating he may have left behind. Chris has picked up the arrow Allison fired through Matt and Deaton is zipping up his duffel bag stuffed with his weird druid bowls and herbs.
Ah, shit, Stiles realizes.
"Deaton!" he calls out, "what are we supposed to do about all the ash circles? I'm no cop, but they'd look pretty freaking suspicious to me."
Deaton gives Stiles that mysterious wry smile of his. "I think the better question is, what are you going to do about your ash circles?"
Stiles gapes at him and flails in disbelief.
"You've got to be shitting me. We have two minutes and now you want to go all Mr. Miyagi on me? Can't you help me just…I dunno, kick them apart?"
"You laid those lines with a specific intention – to keep harm away. If another druid or spark such as yourself could disrupt another's intentioned casting, then what would be the point of the ash? The ash will protect you and itself – even from me because you willed it so. It would take time, energy, and willpower for me to negate yours. Time we don't have - you have to undo your own casting I'm afraid."
Stiles gawks at him soundlessly. "With what?" he says, baffled. "A dustbuster? Got a Roomba handy?"
"The same way you laid them, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says, unruffled in the face of Stiles' diatribe. He pushes a large, empty mason jar from his duffle into Stiles' hands. "You'd better hurry, though."
Stiles looks from the jar to the large, smudged ash circle on the floor helplessly. Can he whistle it back into the jar like an obedient dog? He side-eyes Deaton and wisely decides not to attempt it. With witnesses at least.
With trepidation, he places the jar at his feet and tries to psych himself up. Ash circles he can throw. He's had practice. But with those trials have been errors. Errors he can't afford right now.
He stares at the ash and thinks Go in the jar.
Nothing happens.
He's completely unsurprised but also panicking. It didn't work.
"You need to will it. Imbue it with your intentions."
"I did!" he blurts.
"Hoping isn't the same. Hope comes with doubt. There can be no doubt. Willpower or not, there's no in-between."
Stiles raises a disbelieving brow, "Did you just badly quote Yoda to me?"
Deaton's eyes sparkle, "Do or do not, there is no try, Stiles. You have one minute." With that, he follows Noshiko and Isaac out the locker room doors. He casts his eyes around wildly, Peter stands near the doors, eyes gleaming with interest and anticipation. Derek behind him, quiet determination writ on his features. He stares into Derek's green eyes a moment longer, he can almost feel the waves of support and strength surging down the pack bonds, bolstering his intuition.
He closes his eyes, feeling vulnerable but knowing Derek has his back. He tries to shut down the part of his brain that reminds him he looks stupid, with one shaking hand hovering out in front of him like a Jean Grey wannabe.
He spreads his awareness out, seeking the dense, heavy feeling of the ash lines, so solid feeling compared to the physical walls of the school. He tries to hold them all in his mind's eye, every ash line from the entire building and tugs.
For a moment nothing happens.
Come back to me, he wills, trying to send a sense of completion, of a job done. It sounds silly, ash isn't sentient. And yet.
With a low slithering sound like sand shifting, the ash trickles and flows across the floor. Slowly at first, but gathering speed like it too is buoyed by the feeling of success pounding in Stiles' chest.
He can feel it – the inexorable pull, the ash succumbing to his gravitational force. His magic.
He cracks and eye open and peeks down. The jar is full once again, looking innocuous and still despite his spark giving it purpose a few short seconds ago.
He's broken out of his savoring of success by Derek squeezing his elbow with a broad hand. "We have to go," he urges.
They set off at a light jog, careful not to leave prints on the doors as they circle back to the service entrance of the cafeteria, where Argent awaits with a 'Posthaste Post' branded courier van, the engine already rumbling.
Slamming the backdoors shut behind them, they settle on the in-built bench seat – the once innocuous van looking more like a SWAT armored transport on the inside.
"Yeah, nothing suspicious about this free candy van at a school, huh?" Stiles mutters to Allison on his left.
Argent senior ignores his brilliant commentary and pulls out into the small drive towards the parking lot exit.
The pack sits in awkward silence together, clothes uncomfortably drenched, shoes squeaking on the plastic flooring of the van. Their eyes dart from Scott to Deaton, to Chris and his dad just waiting for someone to take the lead. Several long minutes pass. Noshiko's judgmental eyebrow slowly reaches new heights from where she sits with a now awake, but very quietly ashamed-looking Kira.
Peter sighs, "Well this is productive…anyone? Thoughts, feedback, commentary? No? I'll start then, shall I – Kelpies can't do that," he aims at Deaton, sure of his words. A demand for answers.
"Look, I can't pretend to be the expert on the supernatural," his dad drawls, "but that was weird right? Do all your plans go like that?" he asks the pack.
Scott frowns, Lydia purses her lips, Allison avoids eye contact, Derek shrugs, but Stiles see saws his head consideringly hemming and hawing.
"You're right," Deaton directs at Peter. "While this plan may have gone a little awry—"
"A little?" scoffs Isaac-
" — the fact of the matter is we still gained useful information from the encounter," Deaton continues as though Isaac had never spoken.
"Ok," his dad says patiently, "let's go through it then - what exactly was unexpected here?"
"I have never heard of a Kelpie being able to turn into rain. I'll admit, the changing forms between water horse, water, and humanoid form was a new development," Peter muses, "but the amount of spark needed to manipulate shape like that?"
Deaton hums his agreement, "Yes, that concerns me greatly as well. My sources speak only of the water horse form and a nebulous half form when dormant. The fact that Matt is demonstrating abilities beyond that range…"
"Means what exactly?" Derek asks, impatient.
Peter turns serious eyes to Derek, "It means either we don't know enough and are woefully ill-equipped to deal with this problem or something else is at work here."
"Wait – you're saying he's like an Alpha kelpie, then? Or has an accomplice or something?" Scott asks confused.
"We don't know yet, Scott," Deaton replies. He turns to Lydia, "Can you describe what happened to you?"
Lydia bundles her jacket tighter around herself, jaw clenching in upset, "He possessed me. He wasn't influencing me, like Scott." She frowns, "I was in the passenger seat, but I was fighting to claw back control."
Stiles is only too familiar with that sensation. Of being the spectator in a glass cage, watching your mouth say things against your will, your body move against your control.
"How is that even possible?" Stiles asks. "There was nothing in any of the lore about possession. Influence and thrall- yes, but straight up Linda Blair - no."
Lydia rubs a thumb against the inked repulsion rune Stiles had sketched onto her wrist, "Is this rune ineffective? Does this mean our houses aren't safe like we assumed?" she asks, eyes darting between Stiles and Deaton.
Stiles feels dread pool in his gut. He'd thought they worked. He'd felt secure with the wards on the pipes. Maybe it was just a placebo? Maybe he's lured them all into a false sense of security and they've been sitting ducks this entire time—
His spiraling panic is defused when Derek places a hand over his clenched fist and squeezes gently. Stiles looks at their joined hands. One tanner and hairier than the other, one with anxiety chewed nails and knobby knuckled fingers. It should look strange. But it doesn't.
"The ward works as intended, I assure you," Deaton says calmly. "But wards are simplistic, and not infallible. I think the fatal flaw lies with you, Lydia. I suspect your nature as a banshee as a gateway between realms and natural immunity to certain magics is negating the ward working as it should."
"It didn't stop me being influenced," Scott adds, shamefacedly.
"It wouldn't," Peter adds. "It repels unwanted intruders– technically it influenced you psychically, not possessed you physically."
"Well, that's a bit of a loophole," Isaac snarks.
His dad looks speculative, "So, what – we're thinking Ellis wasn't influenced to walk to his death but was possessed instead?"
"Wasn't he already dead though, with the sink water?" Allison asks.
"Urgh, gross. Soggy meat puppet," Stiles cringes, manfully ignoring Lydia's glare.
"What I find most interesting," Noshiko says, "is that Lydia could banish the creature with a scream."
Peter frowns in thought, "that…is very annoying, actually. Not that it worked, but it shouldn't have worked."
"Why not?" asks Scott. "Banshee screams hurt us?"
"It's not the same," Peter shakes his head. "A banshee scream hurts us physically due to the decibels and frequencies. Matt just disappeared."
"Kelpies are traditionally associated with the fae," Argent calls over his shoulder as he drives, "maybe there's a connection there?"
Peter still looks dissatisfied, "It's a ball of contradictions. It looks like a kelpie, but the behavior, the abilities…it's off. It's a perversion of the norm."
"Well," Stiles shrugs, "how would Matt know how a kelpie acts? It's not like he had an alpha kelpie showing him the reins. Before this we had no idea kelpie could be made or turned or whatever. We can't tell fact from fiction at this point."
Scott leans in, "We need more information." He looks at Deaton expectantly.
"I've asked my contacts, the Hales, Noshiko, and Chris have asked theirs. At this rate, I'm not sure who else we can turn to."
An idea sparks in Stiles' mind.
It's not a good one. Derek will hate it.
But aren't all his best ideas the ones that Derek hates?
"I can think of someone who might know more," he suggests.
"Who?" Isaac demands.
"Well," Stiles meets Lydia's scheming eyes, "which other magic user in town has more knowledge than us?"
"Jennifer Blake," Lydia answers for him.
Isaac looks nonplussed, "Like she'd help us. She's tried to kill half the people in this van!"
"What happened to her anyway?" Noah asks.
Peter smirks viciously, "I did. She reaped what she sowed," he says nonchalantly, raising a brow at the sheriff who sighs resigned.
"So, a dead-end then," Isaac rolls his eyes.
"I wasn't going to ask her for help," Stiles says, a plan brewing in his mind. "All that knowledge, those resources come from somewhere. She was planning the hit on the Alpha pack for years – I bet she has a stash of magical hoodoo wherever she was holed up. If she's dead, I mean…it's not like she's using it?" he shrugs.
His dad lets out an explosive sigh. "Sure, why not. Let's add another few felonies to the list. What could go wrong?"