A/N - The eternal dilemma between 'that's a really good last line' and 'but I love ridiculously long chapters!'
ix. what did you say?
At noon the next day, there's a pounding at Stiles' door, and he pokes his head out from beneath his nest of blankets, blinking blearily. He smacks his dry mouth a couple of times. He's still a bit high from the weed he smoked the night before after Kara left, so he can't quite figure out what that sound is.
The knocking comes again, and he tumbles out of bed and inches across the floor of his bedroom like a giant, blue caterpillar, rolling through the door and across his living room to the front door.
Superdouche stands out in the hall.
Stiles almost slams the door shut again.
"What?" he says grumpily, squinting in the light.
"Were you asleep?" Superdouche asks, and Stiles gives him a baleful look. "Can I come in?" Superdouche pushes past Stiles into the apartment, clapping Stiles on his squishy, cocooned shoulder. "Ms. Grant wants the article by Friday, so I thought we could work on the first draft today." He drops his leather bag onto the coffee table (bought by Lydia) and flops down onto the couch (also bought by Lydia). He pauses while pulling his laptop from his bag. "Is that a knife in your wall?"
Stiles looks over at Allison's knife which is still stuck in the plaster. "It's…decoration?"
"Is it real?"
"Of course it's not real. Do I look like the kind of person who would own a knife?" Stiles shuffles over to the open end of the couch and plops down with a whumph.
"It looks sharp."
"It's a decoration."
"Where's your laptop? I'll share the document with you." Superdouche finally finishes pulling his own device from his bag, a sleek, silver MacBook.
"In my room," Stiles sighs, slumping further down in his blankets.
"Want me to go get it?" Superdouche says because he's one of those overly helpful people.
Stiles almost says yes because he doesn't want to move, but then he remembers his uncovered investigation board. "No, I've got it." He slithers off the couch and over to his room when he climbs to his knees, turns the boards to face the wall, and grabs his laptop, tucking it into his cocoon so he can crawl back to the living room. Superdouche watches him, blinking slowly.
"What?" Stiles says.
Superdouche shakes his head and laughs. "I've just never seen anyone caterpillar across a room like that."
Stiles glares at him because that laugh sounds just like the one Derek only breaks out when he and Stiles are alone. Open. Head tipped back. Teeth flashing. Stiles' glare falters.
Broke out.
Were alone.
He squirms further down into his blanket as he pulls out his laptop, scooting it out to rest on his knees, his arms emulating a T-rex as he types in his password.
"What kind of writing experience do you have?" Superdouche asks.
"Uh, college essays?"
The two of them get to work, Superdouche sharing his research and article files with Stiles. Superdouche has three theories – animal attacks, budding serial killer, and gang violence. All boring theories, in Stiles' opinion, though he can't very well put forth the werewolf attacks idea.
Stiles pauses and sits up a little higher, tapping a pen against his teeth. Established werewolf packs don't leave their kills around for humans to find. They're too smart for that. So unless there's an Omega in town – which Stiles doubts is the case as a newly territorial Pack would be fierce in driving all other wolves from their territory – the Pack is up to something.
Stiles shucks the blanket off and rolls off the back of his couch, rifling around in a drawer until he finds a map of the city. He leaps back over the couch and falls to his knees by the coffee table. "Read me the addresses where the murders took place."
"What are you thinking?" Superdouche asks, leaning forward.
"Just read them to me."
Superdouche lists off the addresses, and Stiles marks them on the map with a Sharpie and then connects the dots using a ruler. He's left staring at a perfectly equilateral triangle.
"What is it?"
Stiles doesn't answer right away. He snatches up his laptop and opens the PDF spell book he scanned and downloaded over a long summer three years ago after stealing it from a black witch. His fingers fly across the keyboard until he finds what he's looking for. "It's a ritual," he says.
"A what?"
"Specifically, a power ritual." Stiles' eyes fly across the page. "The three murders form the boundaries of the spell and charge it."
"You're talking about magic."
"Whatever is in the center of the boundary receives the benefit of the spell." Stiles rubs at his chin. "I don't think the second part of the spell has been enacted yet. I think we'd know – there'd be a surge or something."
"A magic ritual? To do what?"
"To imbibe whoever enacts it with power. Incredible power."
"I don't know, Stiles. A magic ritual? It's a lot to swallow."
"I know what I'm talking about, Derek."
Stiles looks up. Superdouche sits on the couch and stares at him, blinking behind his glasses, cheeks smooth rather than stubbled, his hair neatly combed rather than spiked up at the front, dressed in light colors rather than dark.
"Who's Derek?" Superdouche asks.
"It's time for you to go," Stiles says abruptly.
Superdouche sets his laptop aside, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Why? What's wrong?"
"It's time for you to go," Stiles repeats.
"Okay. I'm sorry. We can pick this up another day." Superdouche starts packing up his things. Stiles knows that he should be the one apologizing and that none of this is actually Superdouche's fault, but he doesn't say anything. Just watches Superdouche sling his bag over his shoulder and open the door, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles for a moment before disappearing.
"I don't know, Stiles. It seems way too far fetched," Scott said, tapping his fingers against the margins of the centuries old book that Stiles was reading from. The rest of the Pack sat around the table, staring at Stiles with varying levels of dubiousness.
"I'm telling you, I've done my research," Stiles insisted. "This is it. In fact, this is the only thing it could be."
"I don't know…" Scott trailed off.
"If Stiles says that's what it is, then that's what it is," Derek said, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against. "End of discussion."
Stiles beamed at Derek, and Derek offered him one of his rare, soft, half-smiles before settling against the wall again and letting Stiles get back to it.
As much as he wants to wallow with several pints of ice cream, Stiles decides that he has things to do. He rides the subway to the stop nearest the Issylium Order store and steps inside, the bell tinkling overhead.
The shop keep looks up from her book and smiles. "Welcome back."
"I need stuff for another spell."
"How did the first one work out for you?"
"Great, thanks."
Stiles picks up a copper bowl, mortar and pestle, five black candles, some white chalk, and a few bottles of various spices. "Another IOU?" he asks.
"Bring me some of Supergirl's hair, and we'll call it even," she says.
At least that won't be too hard.
Stiles carries the paper bag home and spreads everything out on the kitchen counter along with another map of the city. He gets the werewolf claw that he found near the dumpster and uses the mortar and pestle to grind it up into a fine dust which he then combines with his various herbs in the copper bowl. On the counter, he copies a pentagram from his spell book in chalk, various druidic symbols swirled through the empty spaces, the five candles set up at each of the five points. The map gets spread out in the center of the circle.
Stiles spreads the herb and werewolf claw mixture across the map as evenly as he can and lights the candles. Then he sets the map on fire.
The flames burn white and purple and blue as they flare across the paper, traveling from edge to edge, gobbling up all the dried herbs and leaving the map behind, unscathed except for one patch in the southern part of the city which it burns away.
Stiles lines this map up over the one he drew the triangle on, and then he has the general location of the Pack lair, a small patch of suburbia just outside the city center. The spell can't give him an exact location as people move around too much, but it can pick up on where people spend most of their time.
Stiles' phone rings, startling him so badly that he jerks and almost knocks over one of the candles and burns his entire apartment down. The display reads, 'Detective Sawyer.' "Shit." He picks up. "Hello?"
"How the hell did you convince Dr. Connors to give you a medical marijuana prescription?" the detective demands.
"Well, hello to you, too, Detective Sawyer," Stiles says.
"I don't need lip from you right now, Stiles," she says. "I need you to explain yourself."
"It was the good doctor's idea, actually," Stiles replies. "Weed is legal here, you know. It's often used to treat people with my…issues."
"Not when I sent you to get help with your drug problem!"
"I don't have a drug problem," Stiles says. He leans against the counter. "Better weed than something stronger, right?"
"Not funny, Stiles." The detective's voice is hard and cold.
"Look, I don't know what to tell you. You'll have to take it up with the therapist."
"Oh, believe me, I will."
And Detective Sawyer hangs up.
"Rude," Stiles says, tossing his phone to the counter. "Not even a goodbye."
He's not quite ready to go investigate the werewolf lair – preparations to make, mountain ash to buy, a knife to sharpen – but he does head back out to look at the place in the center of the triangle.
He misses his Jeep as he walks along the sidewalk, the sun hot on his neck. Why didn't he drive it to National City again? Oh, that's right. Because of all the times Derek rode in it and bled in it or slammed Stiles' head against the dash. What Stiles wouldn't give to have a dash shaped headache again if it meant that he could see Derek for five more seconds.
Tears prick at his eyes. He keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets. The itch is back again along with the impossible thought that maybe, just maybe, if he sacrifices enough blood, he can bring Derek back.
Stupid.
Stupid.
The center of the triangle is a fountain in the middle of an unassuming park. Something under his skin tingles as he approaches, and he shivers – the fountain sits over a ley line intersection. Just a crossing of two small lines, but a crossing nonetheless. If the wolf completes the ritual here and absorbs the power of the lines…Jesus Christ, they'll be unstoppable. Stiles guesses that the second half of the ritual has to be completed on the next full moon. That gives him fifteen days to stop it.
He thinks about calling the Pack. His hand doesn't move to his phone. He just returns to his apartment with a cat calendar he bought from a drugstore and hangs it from his tack board with a big red circle around the next full moon.
"We've got ourselves a case," he says to his black wolf plushy. "New werewolf pack. Power hungry ritual. Sounds like another classic Beacon Hills disaster. And to be honest," he picks up the stuffed animal and turns it over in his hands, "I'm a little bit exhilarated. I'm all jittery. It's almost like old Stiles is back. I even quipped at a police officer today. Just like old times, eh?"
There's a knock at the door, echoing throughout the apartment. Stiles places the wolf carefully on his pillow, turns his boards around, and hurries to answer it. Kara, Alex, and Superdouche beam at him from the hallway. Well, Kara and Superdouche beam. Alex probably doesn't know how to form that expression.
"Hey, we're going out. Want to come?" Kara asks.
Stiles glances at Superdouche, wondering if he can hang out with the man in a social capacity. Kara reaches out and whacks him on the shoulder. "Come on, don't be lame. Come out with us."
"Well, when you put it that way." Stiles laughs because he wants to try out the idea of pretending to be Old Stiles. Normal Stiles. "Give me one minute."
Stiles gathers up his maps and candles and moves them into his bedroom, tucked into a drawer, then he slings a blazer on and grabs his jacket and keys. Back in the living room, he pauses, looking at his knife where it's still stuck into the wall. He forces himself to leave it where it is. He doesn't need a weapon to hang out with his friends.
"Alright, I'm ready," he says, stepping through the door and locking it behind him. "Where are we going?"
"Local bar," Alex answers.
Superdouche steps up beside him as the group starts for the elevator. "Hey, man, about earlier…"
Stiles raises a hand, cutting him off. "I'm going to stop you right there. I'm not talking about it."
"Okay. Sorry." Superdouche backs off.
"That's why you guys are here, isn't it?" Stiles says, glaring suspiciously at Kara's back. "You guys are worried about me or whatever."
Kara turns her head to beam at him. "Yup."
"Having friends is the worst," he sighs, mostly joking.
They wind up at a place called Patrick's Bar, an American attempt at an Irish pub. The tables are all made of a dark wood, highly polished, like the bar, and booths of black leather line the perimeter of the room. Most of the light comes from the dripping candles set into empty liquor bottles on every table and the fire crackling in the corner despite the fact that it's summer outside.
The four of them pick a square table on the opposite side of the room from the fire as most of the comfy booths are full. "I'll go get drinks," Superdouche says. "What does everyone want?"
"Red wine," Alex says.
"Gin and tonic. Thanks." Kara shrugs off her denim jacket.
Stiles pulls the candle closer to him and starts picking at the wax dribbled down the bottle. "Just a Coke."
"That's right, you don't drink," Alex says as Superdouche walks off with their order. "Why is that?"
"Bad college experience." Stiles leans forward and winks. "And besides, I prefer other means of intoxication." He lifts two fingers to his mouth and inhales.
"So Maggie says," Alex sighs.
Kara claps her hand down on Stiles' arm. "Do you mean pot? I've never tried pot before."
Stiles lifts a hand to his heart, mouth dropping open. "Never tried pot? Well, this simply cannot stand! We must rectify this problem ASAP."
"Please, no," Alex groans, dropping her head to the table. Kara just beams.
Superdouche returns with all the drinks clenched awkwardly in his hands, and he passes them around, sliding into the last chair around the table. "Is that a cosmopolitan?" Stiles asks, squinting at Superdouche's very red drink.
Superdouche turns a color to match the cocktail. "What? I like sweet drinks."
Stiles snorts into his own glass.
"What? Would you make fun of Kara or Alex for drinking one?"
Stiles sips at his Coke. "Yes, yes, I would."
"I would expect him to," Alex agrees.
"I think it's tasty," Kara says, stealing Superdouche's glass for a taste test.
Alex and Stiles sigh and shake their heads at each other. "Oh, you sweet, summer children."
"You're drinking a Coke!" Superdouche points out.
"Dude, Lydia and I once created a drink so strong it would literally make a normal person blind."
Alex laughs. "Knowing Lydia, I'd believe that."
"What was in it?" Kara asks in wonder.
"You don't want to know."
Here he is, joking about a thing that played a hand in Derek's death. A thing that he created. What the hell is wrong with him?
"Well, isn't this a twist of fate."
Ice slides down Stiles' spine at the sound of the new voice. A middle aged man of average height and average build stands across the table from him. Light brown hair falls across his forehead, a small smile on his face. Dark glasses cover his eyes. His hands wrap around the top of a slim, white cane.
"You." Stiles' voice cracks on the word. Why the fuck did he leave his knife behind? God, he's so fucking stupid. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Deucalion takes a step forward. Stiles curls his hand around a napkin wrapped set of silverware. "Come now, that's no way to talk to an old friend, is it?" He pauses as he catches sight of Superdouche, flicking his gaze up and down the man's body. His smile stretches. "Well, now, this is interesting. I heard your boyfriend was killed." He looks Stiles right in the eyes as he says this.
Stiles flings himself over the table, scattering glasses, his friends shouting in surprise. He crashes into Deucalion, and the two of them tumble to the ground. The silverware clatters away, but Stiles doesn't care. He drives his fist into Deucalion's face. "What did you do?" The other fist. "What did you fucking do?"
A hand catches his wrist before he can punch Deucalion again, and then Kara lifts him up and away. Stiles flails. "Let me go! What did you fucking do?"
Kara sets him down, and she must not be using her full strength because Stiles tears himself free and launches himself at Deucalion again. "You fucking psycho! I'll kill you!" Before he can get another swing in, a different hand grabs his arm, bigger, rougher, claws digging into his blazer, and he's tossed back, stumbling into the table where Kara and Superdouche catch him and hold him. Ethan or Aidan leers at him.
"Tell me what you did!" Stiles roars at Deucalion as the Alpha slowly rises, taking Aidan or Ethan's arm for support. He wipes a smear of blood from his lip with his thumb, still smirking. He had a hand in Derek's death. Stiles can see it in that prideful grin, in the way he speaks. Stiles can fucking tell.
"TELL ME!" he roars, his power swelling inside of him, bursting free, uncontrollable.
All the lights flare and die in a series of bangs, plunging the room into semi-darkness. People scream, but a second later, the bulbs all wheeze back to life, almost blinding.
"What the hell was that?" Alex gasps. Her hand drops to her belt, but there's no gun there.
Aidan or Ethan helps Deucalion stand, and for a moment, the Alpha stares at Stiles in shock, and Stiles is reeling, too, the blaze of power that razed through him leaving sparking synapses behind. Black spots flash across his vision. He can't think.
"What the fuck is going on here?" The bartender storms over to them, face red, wringing his dish towel between his hands.
"We're so sorry," Kara begins, but the bartender cuts her off.
"No, I don't want apologies. Y'all are going to sit right there until the police get here." He has a phone in his hand which he lifts to his ear, gesturing towards the table with his rag.
Kara and Superdouche steer Stiles towards a chair and sit him down. Tipped over glasses and spilled cocktails cover the tabletop. Deucalion and Aidan or Ethan sit at the next table over, and Stiles glares at them over Alex's shoulder.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Alex hisses, snapping her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. "You attacked a blind man!"
"He's not totally blind," Stiles says. He doesn't take his eyes off Deucalion who still looks a little bit shell shocked. A grim smile curls his lips. The Alpha is not an easy wolf to rattle.
"He looks pretty blind to me."
"He's a fucking psychopath is what he is."
"Stiles…"
"Alex." Kara cuts her sister off before she can finish whatever sharp comment was about to come out of her mouth. Kara turns to Stiles and takes his hand, tries to hook her fingers around his chin and get him to look at her, but Stiles isn't taking his eyes off Deucalion. "Stiles, talk to us. What is going on? Who is that man?"
But before Stiles can answer, the bar door bangs open, and Detective Sawyer barges through with two uniformed cops behind her. When she sees Stiles, there's a slight hitch in her step and a sigh in her shoulders like 'of course it's him again.' Because that's Stiles. The walking human disaster.
She talks to the bartender first who gestures emphatically and jabs his finger at Stiles a couple of times. Detective Sawyer jots it all down in her notebook and then comes over to talk to the rest of them. "All of you up. Around me. What happened?"
The two groups stand and form a half circle around the detective, Stiles' friends making sure he's as far away from Deucalion as possible. Detective Sawyer glares at them all until one of them finally starts talking. "We were out for drinks," Kara begins.
"Not you," Detective Sawyer cuts her off, looking at Stiles. "Stiles?"
"We were having drinks. Deucalion showed up. I jumped over the table and attacked him." Stiles' voice stays flat, emotionless.
"Why? Did he provoke you?"
"No." Deucalion pokes his head forward. Stiles clenches his fists to keep from decking the Alpha.
Stiles grits his teeth. What to tell them? Stiles still wants to keep as much of his past in the past as he can. "We've had…run-ins in the past. He made a snide comment about my boyfriend."
"I don't want to press charges," Deucalion says with an oily smile on his face. "Stiles and I have a long and colorful past."
"Yeah, because you tried to kill all of my friends!" Stiles yells. He can't take it anymore. Kara has to grab him before he can try and claw Deucalion's throat out.
The entire bar goes silent. He can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him. "What?" Kara says.
But Deucalion folds his face into a mask of sympathetic pity. "Stiles, you know that's not what actually happened."
Stiles gapes at him. What kind of game is the prick playing? "What the hell are you talking about?"
"We met when you were in Eichen House, remember?"
Stiles' blood runs cold, and there's a roaring sound in his ears. That liar. That fucking liar. What the hell is he doing? He tries to tell them it's not true, but his voice isn't working. His throat has sealed itself off. He can't feel his fingers or toes, either.
"What's Eichen House?" he hears Kara ask, though the sound is dim.
Don't you fucking dare.
"A mental institution," Deucalion says. Stiles' legs give way, and only Kara's hand on his arm keeps him upright. He barely feels it when she helps lower him into a chair. "Stiles was a patient there his junior year, when we met. It's the same institution his mother was in, too, before she died."
Stiles launches himself out of the chair before Kara can stop him and tries to tackle Deucalion. "Don't you talk about my mother!" Aidan/Ethan catches him and tosses him back again. Hands seized hold of him and drag him away, then Maggie is yelling in his face.
"You, outside! Get some air. Kara, go with him."
Gentle hands urge him away from the group, and Deucalion's faux innocent face makes Stiles sick. He can't look at it anymore, so he lets himself be led outside. Sunlight spills across his head as they step outside, mocking him. Stiles rips himself free of Kara and stalks off, kicking a metal garbage can. The dull thud is not at all satisfying, and he only succeeds in hurting his toe.
"Stiles," Kara says, calling him back to himself. "What's going on?"
Again, Stiles has the chance to tell her everything, and again, he falters. Maybe after so many years, the lying and the hiding have become ingrained in him. Maybe it's because if he tells her one thing, he'll have to tell her everything – about the Nogitsune, the people he hurt, the boy he killed. Kara is so good. She'd never look at him the same way again.
"He and his…crew came to town while I was in high school," Stiles says in a bland voice. There's a napkin near his foot, and he focuses on that. "They starting causing havoc. A lot of my friends got hurt." His words gain a sharp bite. "He and everyone he runs with are more dangerous than you can imagine. You can't trust anything he says."
"And this Eichen House business?" Kara asks.
Stiles scowls.
"That part is true, isn't it?" Kara says. Stiles' deepening scowl is answer enough. "Why were you there?"
Before Stiles can come up with a suitable answer, the bar door bangs open, and Detective Sawyer, Alex, and Superdouche pour through. "You're lucky Deucalion isn't pressing charges," Detective Sawyer says. She no longer sounds angry, just tired. "And you're lucky nothing in the bar was broken."
"What did he tell you?" Stiles demands. "You can't believe him."
"Kara, take him home. Somebody stay with him," Detective Sawyer says instead.
Stiles gapes at her. "I don't need a babysitter!"
Detective Sawyer gives him a glare that says she knows exactly what he's thinking; he'll go after Deucalion again the second he gets the chance. Everyone is looking at him differently. Watching him out of the corners of their eyes so they don't have to look at him directly or meet his eyes. They think he's crazy.
And you know what, he is fucking crazy.
He went off the deep end after Derek was killed, maybe even long before that.
There's a darkness in him; he accepts that now. Maybe he's not evil like Deucalion or the Dread Doctors, but he's not good, either.
He's got power, too. Might as well use it.
