"I don't understand why it isn't working anymore," Derek complains.
"Maybe it's like having an anchor," Isaac says. "You were pissed that last time we tried. Maybe the anger gives you the control."
"That'll be great. I'll just get really angry at him before I swipe at his neck."
"It's just a theory; I don't hear you coming up with anything better."
"Fuck, I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I'm just—"
Losing my mind trying to fix this but it's something I can't physically fight and I usually don't fare too well in those battles.
"In over your head?" Isaac asks with a knowing look.
Derek nods, sighing heavily and planting his face in his hands.
"We'll figure it out," Isaac insists.
"We better. You saw him at lunch."
You saw the confusion on his face the whole damn time. He doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about when I tell him there's not going to be any punishments for anything or when I tell him to whatever he wants not whatever he's told.
"I like to do whatever the pack requires me to do," Isaac quotes in Stiles timid monotone. He looks as sick as Derek feels at the memory. "It's creepy as hell, dude, and it's worse 'cause it's coming from Stiles of all people."
Derek agrees completely. It's creepy and sickening and just so many levels of wrong that he can't handle it. Watching what they've done to Stiles has him itching to shift and take out the anger on anything in reach. Lunch had been no better than breakfast—maybe even worse?—and no matter how many times Derek promises his frustration isn't because of Stiles, he knows the beta doesn't understand enough to believe him. He can't retreat to Deaton's forever, but he doesn't know what else to do.
"Come on," Isaac pushes. "Anger. Try it. Whatever you think about for the full moon."
"Fine," Derek agrees. "Worth a shot."
My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. Peter lost his mind because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. Laura is dead because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager.
He knows the instant he connects with Isaac that it worked. Isaac's sitting in a chair so he doesn't fall this time, but he still doubles over and grimaces in pain.
"Shit," he mutters. "Fuck—I mean good, 'cause it works—but damn that hurts."
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
"What did you see?"
Please not Kate. Please not Kate. Please not Kate.
"You went to college?"
"Yeah."
"Huh. You never mentioned that."
Derek shrugs. You never asked, either.
"Did you graduate?"
"No."
Driving back to California to find and bury my sister's dichotomized body sort of put a damper on senior year.
"Oh," Isaac says awkwardly before directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Well, so yeah, at least we know now the anger focus thing works, right?"
"Right."
"So, now we wait until I can go again? I don't think it'll take a full hour this time. That one didn't hurt as much. Maybe it gets easier with time?"
"Good," Derek says. "Here, I can take some of the pain."
"It's okay you don't have to."
"The better you feel, the faster you'll heal," Derek insists, placing a hand gently on the back of Isaac's neck. "It's gonna be a long day."
Stiles has been sitting idle on the couch for hours since Derek and Isaac left, trying desperately not to lose his mind with worry. He wishes Peter would give him something else to do, but after the way Derek reacted earlier, he knows better than to expect it will happen. The baseball game Peter's watching on the television isn't hard to follow; it doesn't occupy his mind as much as a task would.
f you're not being useful, you're being a burden. The mantra plays unbidden in Stiles' head. If you're not being useful, you're being a burden. If you're not being useful, you're being a burden.
He knows what happens to betas who burden the pack. Burdens are cut loose. Burdens are killed if they're lucky and cast out to be Omegas if they're not.
Burdens are left behind at vet clinics with notes carved in their backs.
And if you're not being useful, you're being a burden.
He doesn't know how to be less of one. No one has given him anything to do. Peter gave him a purpose for a few wonderfully clear hours, but Derek didn't like it. Derek was so mad, and, even after Derek tried to explain how things work in this pack, Stiles still can't figure out exactly why Derek was so angry. He always seems to be angry, and Stiles knows he could make it better if Derek would just tell him why and let him try to fix it.
I want you to do what you want to do, Derek had said. Not what Peter wants, or what I want, or what anyone else wants. Do things because you want to. It's okay to want things.
Stiles just wants to be useful, he just can't quite figure out how to do that here, not without more clues from Derek about what he wants from a good beta.
"Stiles?" Peter says, and Stiles surfaces from his sea of confusion and anxiety for just a moment.
"Yes, Peter?"
"Do you want to get us sodas from the fridge?"
In doing something as simple as adding 'do you want' to the beginning of the sentence, Peter's kept to Derek's instructions but also given Stiles the directions he needs.
"Yes, Peter."
He can't help grinning as he hurries to fill the request.
Maybe Peter can be the link. He understands what Derek says, but he understands how to help me, too. Maybe he can help me be useful.
A few hours later, Stiles is in the kitchen fetching pie— he's grateful for the second request and that Peter could tell when it was so badly needed—when the sound of the key in the lock jolts him from the temporary calm of having a task. When the door opens, he turns just in time to see a flurry of red hair before something very human and very not pack wraps its arms around him.
"Stiles, it's so good to see you we thought—"
He shoves her back with a growl and shifts, lashing out. His claws sink into flesh, but the cry of pain isn't human. In the next instant, all consciousness is lost as he lets his instincts take over in the fight to protect himself and, more importantly, the pack's territory. Eventually he takes a blow that sends him toppling backwards, hitting his head hard on the corner of the counter as he goes. In the moment of charity, Peter's voce pierces through.
"Stiles, stop it right now. Stop it."
Peter's pinning him to the floor with a clawed hand on his chest. He doesn't dare strike the Second, though his instincts scream to attack again.
"She's not pack, Peter," he grits out angrily, trying to maintain some grasp on his control as the pain starts to fade.
"I know she's not, but it's okay. She's not a threat."
"Never trust anything outside the pack," Stiles insists. "Never interact with anything outside the pack. Nothing matters but the pack."
"Those are their rules, Stiles, not ours," Peter says firmly, digging his claws in just a hint deeper to emphasize the point, "Understand?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Can you stand?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Good."
He lets go, and Stiles rises slowly to his feet. He doesn't advance again on the beta that's tensed in front of him, shielding the human. The beta is pack, though Stiles hasn't met him yet, and Stiles can't understand why the traitor would defend her against a packmate or why he would've led her to pack territory in the first place.
"Shift back, Stiles. No more fighting, I mean it. You're not allowed to hurt her."
Ever obedient, he glances around for something sharp enough. He takes the fork from the counter next to him and drives it into his leg to get the surge of pain it takes to shift back.
"Stiles, no!" the girl shrieks. "Oh my God, one of you stop him!"
"What the fuck?" the other beta demands, shifting back into his human form. "You just stabbed yourself in the leg!"
"What an astute observation, Jackson," Peter replies, rolling his eyes.
"He just calmly stabbed himself in the leg with a goddamned fork!" the beta repeats, voice verging on hysteria.
"Yes, he did," Peter agrees. "I'm guessing he needed the pain to shift back?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Now, who wants to explain what part of 'Stiles has amnesia' was unclear?" Peter continues, "and why the hell you two lovebirds decided on a surprise visit that thoroughly fucked over what was a tolerable afternoon up to this point?"
"Would you just take the fucking fork out and let it heal?" the beta demands, ignoring the Second's question because his eyes are still transfixed on the handle of the fork that's protruding from Stiles' thigh.
"Peter, please, I'm not sure I can keep the control if I take it out," Stiles counters.
"Take it out, Stiles. I'll stop you if you shift," Peter promises. "Trust me," he adds with an encouraging smile.
Stiles hesitates before nodding. He withdraws the implement slowly, trying to make sure his pulse remains as even and as calm as possible.
"Very good, Stiles."
"Thank you, Peter."
"Stiles, what the hell did they do to you?" the girl asks despondently.
Stiles glances to Peter because he doesn't understand the question, not that he owes the human an answer, but it would be nice to at least know what the hell she means. He also doesn't understand why she's still crying when she's no longer in danger of being attacked.
"You're upset," Peter says to her. "Jackson's bleeding; Stiles is also bleeding and barely holding onto control; and I'm trying reallyhard not to hold it against you two that what was possibly the best blueberry pie I've ever eaten is now splattered against that wall. I'm not entirely sure anyone here is really feeling up to this visit."
At Peter's words, Stiles looks around to take in the mess of the kitchen for the first time. He knows in one glance that Peter's suggestion that the others leave is a good one. He can feel the control slipping as the panic rises in his chest. Plates and glasses are smashed all over, there's blood mixed with the remnants of the cake all over the tile and counters, the pie is indeed smashed against the wall just beside Stiles.
Oh please God let me get this cleaned before the Alpha comes back.
"Maybe we should call it a day," Derek suggests. "Or take a break at least. You look like shit."
"Back at you," Isaac replies. "Just give me time to heal. I'm still good to go a few more rounds."
Plus it's kind of interesting to get flashes of your past. It's not like you ever talk about it. College, your family, you never talk about anything but pack business.
"If you're sure," Derek concedes.
"I've seen how bad Stiles needs this. I'm sure."
I can't handle seeing him like this any more than you can. He doesn't deserve to keep living like this, and I can't take seeing the fear in his eyes all the time.
He winces as an aftershock of pain from the forced memory twinges in his head.
"They were doing this to him for months, Derek," he says, sick with the thought of it. "Eating away at his memories while they trained him into—whoever the hell he is now."
"I know," Derek replies quietly, eyes shut tight like he's trying to erase the images of terrified Stiles as hard as Isaac is.
"You really think we can reverse it?" Isaac asks.
"We can damn sure try."
They share a few more minutes of silence before Derek's phone starts ringing.
"Jackson?" he asks as he answers.
"I want to help with whatever you're doing to get Stiles' memory back," Jackson says from the other end of the line, the undercurrent of panic evident in his voice. "Are you at Deaton's?"
"Jackson, did you see Stiles?" Derek replies.
"Lydia wanted to see him; she though familiar people would help."
You fucking idiot, Isaac seethes. How could you be that stupid?
"Dammit, I told all of you he doesn't remember anything."
"I know, but we—we didn't think it was this bad."
No one could've pictured it being this bad.
"Well, it is," Derek snaps back. "What happened? Is everyone okay?"
"He shifted on Lydia, but I stopped him before he attacked. Peter talked him down."
"Good."
"Have you seen him try to control the shift yet? He—"
"Uses pain, I know."
"He stabbed himself with a fork like it was the most natural thing in the world," Jackson expounds, and Isaac honest to God thinks he might throw up just hearing it. "I mean, what the fuck, Derek? What did they do to him?"
"The easier question would probably be what didn't they do to him," Derek answers morosely.
"Motherfuckers, I—ugh!" There's a dull thud on the other end of the line as Jackson takes out some of the frustration by hitting what sounds like his steering wheel. "I want to help," he says again. "Are you still at Deaton's?"
"Yeah."
"I just dropped off Lydia. I'll be there soon."
"Peter, no," Stiles says as the Second reaches for the broom to help clean the mess of the kitchen. "It's my fault. Please let me."
"It's not your fault."
"I know I fucked up, but I can be useful. I can clean it up. All of it. I promise, Peter."
"If you want to, I'm not going to stop you," Peter replies with a shrug.
He walks back to the den and leaves Stiles to his penance. Stiles knows this isn't enough. He can clean, but there's no changing the fact that he cost the Alpha plates and glasses and food. What's worse, so much worse, he lashed out against a higher betaand the Second. It's more luck than he deserves that none of his blows actually hit Peter, but what he did to the other beta—Jackson?—is more than enough to bring Derek's wrath. He tries to focus on cleaning, but he can feel the tremors in his hands starting already.
You never, ever strike a superior pack member, the authoritative voices of past alphas echo in his mind, I don't care if they're beating you senseless. If you raise a hand against them, you lose the hand. Do you understand, you worthless little shit?
He pushes past the panic because he has to at least get the kitchen in order before Derek gets back. It's the one, small thing Stiles can do in an attempt—albeit a pathetic attempt—to show he's not entirely useless and burdensome. He succeeds in keeping the terror at bay until he begins to clean the pie from the wall. It's clear within a few minutes that the ugly purple stains aren't going to wash completely off the wall no matter how desperately Stiles scrubs. He can't stop the whimper that escapes him.
"Stiles?" Peter says from the den.
The one simple task of cleaning the kitchen and you're not even good for that. How can you expect to be kept when all you do is fuck up because you're too stupid to understand what Derek wants and how his pack works? What use are you?
Stiles can feel the tears of shame brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over. The panic is so suffocating he can barely breathe, and he grips the edge of the counter hard for support. He looks to the knife block next to the stove and almost reaches for one but decides against it. They all seem unhappy when he uses the pain for control, better to hold off as long as he can.
"Stiles?" Peter repeats, standing to walk into the kitchen this time.
"What happens when the Alpha gets back?" he dares to ask softly as he turns to face Peter.
If I know what he'll do, I can take it better. I can prepare myself for whatever's coming and show Derek I can take the punishment—beating or fucking or whatever I deserve for this—so he'll see I really can learn from it. I need to show him I can be taught how to act in the Hale Pack. I can be useful. I don't want to be a burden.
"We'll have a nice memorial service for the pie and be thankful for the stain on the wall we have to remember it by," Peter replies with a grin.
Stiles fails to see what could possibly be amusing right now.
"Shit, Stiles, look at you. You're really scared of him, aren't you?" Peter asks, grin replaced with a more somber look Stiles finds much more appropriate to the moment. "What do you think is going to happen? Which Alpha Pack rule did you break?"
"If you raise a hand to a superior pack member, you lose the hand," he answers quietly.
"That's not going to happen," Peter assures him. "We don't rank the betas in this pack. What happened with Jackson doesn't matter. The only superiors you have to worry about are me and Derek."
"You had to stop me though; I must've done something to you before you—"
"Nothing Derek needs to know about."
"You can't lie to the Alpha!"
"I'm not going to lie," Peter replies calmly, "but I can leave that part out if he asks me about what happened."
"Why would do that?"
Why would you risk withholding it? You risk bringing punishment on yourself if he finds out. Why don't you just let me take it now?
"I want to help you, Stiles. I don't want to see you punished for fighting; it wasn't your fault."
"You shouldn't risk it when there's so much else; it won't matter if he doesn't know what I did in the fight. I still keep fucking up. I've been here two days and nothing I've done has been useful to the pack. If I'm not being useful, I'm being a burden, and I ambeing a burden, Peter. I shift when I'm not supposed to. I don't understand the instructions Derek gives me. I make him so angry, and I can't figure out why."
"Don't worry. You'll figure out your place in the pack before long."
"I know my place, Peter. I do, but he hasn't given me anything to do to make up for everything I do wrong, not a punishment to learn from or anything. I can be a good beta; I can be useful. I don't want to be a burden. I know what happens when you burden the pack, and I can be better than this. I swear I can, Peter."
"Stiles—"
He shouldn't speak over Peter, but he's completely frazzled from stress and fear and the overwhelming, bone-crushing feeling that his chance to prove he belongs here is slipping through his fingers. He can't help the pleas that continue to pour unbidden through his lips, "I swear I can do whatever the pack needs. I swear. I'll do anything, everything if Derek will just tell me what to do, but he hasn't given me rules or orders or jobs. I have to do something if I'm going to stay. Derek said to just do what I want, but that's what I was doing when I followed your directions and cooked and all that did was make him mad. I just—" he loses his battle to hold back his tears as he falls to his knees, head in his hands, and confesses miserably, "I just don't understand what I'm supposed to do."
He can't stop himself from begging for the one chance at purpose he has besides Derek, "Peter, please. You're the Second. You can give orders; you can help me. Derek said it was okay to want things, and I want you to tell me what I'm supposed to do. I want to be useful. I want someone to tell me how to be useful. Please, Peter. Please."
I need someone to tell me before I go crazy trying to figure it out on my own. Tell me before I fuck up so badly Derek decides I'm not worth the trouble. Please, please just tell me how to earn my place here because I don't understand anything anymore and I just need something that makes sense.
"We really must confuse the hell out of you," Peter says pityingly, moving slowly to stand directly in front of Stiles. "Your life was so much simpler before this."
Stiles doesn't respond; it's not his place to criticize Derek's pack, but it doesn't make Peter's words any less true.
Though he keeps his eyes down, he can feel Peter's gaze on him, studying him a few moments more before asking, "So you wantsomeone to tell you how to be useful, Stiles?"
"Yes, Peter, please." More than anything.
"You said 'anything and everything'."
"Anything I can do, Peter," he assures, lifting his eyes to Peter's face.
"Anything?" Peter repeats, and there's a lascivious glint in his eye that Stiles knows too well to mistake.
"Yes, Peter."
Anything but sitting here feeling like a failure to the pack. Anything I can do.
"If you want to be useful, then I want to help you," Peter says as he reaches down and cups Stiles' face in one hand more tenderly that Stiles can ever remember being touched. He smiles warmly down at Stiles, "Okay?"
"Yes, Peter."
"No matter how confusing things are with Derek, this can be simple," Peter promises, thumb gently brushing Stiles' lips, "one simple way you can be useful to your pack by fulfilling the need of your Second. No matter how long it takes you to understand how everything else works, this will be one way to keep yourself from being a burden."
"Thank you, Peter."
Peter reaches to unbutton his jeans, and Stile takes over from there, tension leaving him as he eases into the comfortable rhythm of moves he's done countless times before: unzipping Peter's jeans, pulling down his boxers, and working his way up to taking Peter deep into his throat, gag reflex long forgotten through months of training.
This is something Stiles understands. Something that's mercifully simple, a way to be useful even if he fucks up everything else. He does every trick he knows to make sure Peter understands just how grateful he is to have this.
Please don't promise me this and take it away. You're right. I do need something simple, Peter, please.
But he doesn't think Peter will go back on his word. Peter's murmuring encouragements, not demands; his fingers run through Stiles' hair and grip tight but not enough to hurt; and when he finally comes he says Stiles' name like he's something precious.
Something useful. Not a burden, something to be kept.
Peter answers on the fourth ring.
"Derek?"
"Yeah, it's me. I wanted to call because Jackson came to help us too," Derek informs him. "We're going to stay a little later than we thought since Isaac doesn't have to handle it on his own anymore."
"Then I take it you heard about Jackson and Lydia's catastrophic surprise visit this afternoon?" Peter asks.
"Yeah, I heard. How's Stiles?"
"Well, once I promised him you weren't going to beat the shit out of him for trying to beat the shit out of Jackson, he calmed down a little."
"I'll promise him myself," Derek offers. "Hand him the phone."
"He's showering," Peter replies. "I told him to get cleaned up once the kitchen was done."
"Tell me you didn't make him clean up the mess by himself."
"He begged me not to help," Peter replies, "What was I supposed to do?"
"You were supposed to help him anyway! How's he going to understand we're different if you keep playing to all his conditioning from the alphas?"
"We can't all run away to the clinic when his issues freak us out," Peter snaps back.
"Fuck you," Derek retorts as guilt surges through him.
"Look, Derek, I'm making due. The kid was going to stress if I helped clean, so I didn't. I'm not going to apologize for doing what he wanted to keep him calm."
"Just—don't take advantage of the situation."
Who am I kidding? You thrive on taking advantage of the situation.
"If he wants to cook or something again, that's fine. You need to make sure he eats dinner anyway," Derek continues, "but no more fucking feasts and shit just because you think it's cool to have a servant. Got it?"
"Yes, O Mighty and Wise Alpha," Peter replies with a huff. "Anything else?"
"Just—tell him again I'm not pissed," Derek says, "and I'm not gonna be pissed. Tell him not to worry about that."
He won't believe you. He'll still worry, but tell him anyway.
"Sure," Peter agrees. "See you when you get home. Don't kill yourself trying to rush and get memories he doesn't want anyway."
"He needs them whether he thinks he wants them or not," Derek replies. "We're going to make this work."
He hangs up the phone and tosses it to the side.
"Peter's juts being an asshole," Jackson mutters.
Like you're one to talk.
"Don't listen to him. Come on, I'm healed up," he adds. "Let's go again. Here's hoping for something a little more interesting than your Hot-Wheels-themed seventh birthday party this time."
Thank you for reading this chapter! Remember reviews and favoring keeps this going!
Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook