x. the babysitter's club
Stiles doesn't speak as he's escorted back to his apartment. The car ride is very tense, very awkward, and full of shared looks between people, none of which are directed at him. No one will even glance at him. Because he's the crazy one. The unstable one. The loony bin patient.
They arrive at the apartment building, and Kara, Alex and Superdouche form a brigade around him to keep him from bolting and locking himself in his apartment. "How about Thai food tonight?" Kara chirps in the elevator, forcing her voice several octaves higher in order to sound upbeat.
I only have two plates, Stiles thinks, but he doesn't say it. He's not sure if he's talking to them right now.
As Stiles unlocks his door, he considers just slipping inside and slamming it shut again, but Alex seems to have anticipated that move because she budges right up next to him and pushes past him into the apartment.
"Why is there a knife in your wall?" she asks.
"It's just a decoration," he says flatly.
Alex crosses the room and pulls the knife out of the wall to check the point. "No, this is a proper throwing knife. Good quality, too."
"Why do you know about knives?" Stiles says, hoping to trip her up. He takes the knife and heads for his room. Alex follows him. "What are you doing?" he asks at the door.
"Trying to make sure you don't go out the window."
"We're on the tenth floor."
Alex purses her lips but turns away and leaves him be, joining Kara and Superdouche so they can cluster around a Thai restaurant menu.
Stiles shuts the door. Sits down on his bed. Rolls the knife over in his fingers. The wolf plushy sits on his pillow and stares at him. The photo of Derek on the dresser breaks his heart. The overhead lights glint off the blade.
He has ruined everything. Again. He's scared off his new friends. Wrecked a bar. Attacked an Alpha werewolf. Failed to kill said Alpha werewolf. Failed to avenge Derek's death. Failed to accomplish anything that mattered. Just got himself stuck in his apartment with a bunch of around the clock babysitters.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting the inevitable thing he's been fighting since the night Derek died. Because let's face it, Stiles could continue to chase down the Essyolyte, and he could take on Deucalion's Alpha Pack, but where would that end? With Stiles standing on top of a pile of innocent corpses, that's where. Body unscathed. Soul darkened even more than it already is. So what's the point? If Stiles were truly a hero, he would take himself out of the equation completely and prevent Natural Disaster Stiles from tearing through any more lives.
And he could be with Derek again.
Though that's assuming he and Derek even go to the same place.
The knife blade slides to the inside of his wrist. He keeps the edge razor sharp. It wouldn't take much effort to slice through the skin. Just one quick press and slice, and blood would begin to well and take him away. Stiles sees the motion in his mind's eye, feel his fingers twitch.
There's a knock at the door, and Stiles jumps, the knife slipping away from his wrist without leaving a mark. "Stiles?" Alex calls. "Food preference?"
Stiles' breath comes out of him in a shuddering rush. Not here. Not now. He can't be one more mess for his friends to clean up.
He stands and deliberately puts the knife in the back of his closet. "Pad thai," he replies. He dashes wetness from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He hadn't realized he'd been crying.
"Sounds good. You gonna come out and join us?"
It will be suspicious if he doesn't. "Uh, yeah. Just give me one minute."
He finishes wiping off his face, puts on a too big hoodie, and sticks the wolf plushy in the front pocket where he can reach down and rub it. He leaves his room. He doesn't want to, but he does. The others are arranged on his couch and floor, a stack of board games on the table.
Stiles perches on his bean bag and burrows into his hood. "Want to play a game?" Kara asks.
"No, I'll just watch." Stiles stuffs his hands into his pouch and rubs his wolf's ears. Kara gets a game of Monopoly going while they wait for the Thai food, and Stiles pulls out his phone to text Lydia.
dont freak out okay?
Lydia replies barely a minute later. I don't like the sound of that.
its…dont worry. deucalion is here
A barrage of texts comes through.
WHAT?
WHAT THE FUCK?
WHEN?
WHAT HAPPENED?
STILES ARE YOU OKAY?
DO I NEED TO COME DOWN THERE?
SHOULD I BRING THE OTHERS?
Stiles waits for the texts to stop before he replies. no i dont need you guys to come down i can handle it i don't want you guys in harms way
he showed up while we were out getting drinks. we got into a bit of a scrape.
Stiles, you got into a FIGHT with DEUCALION?
he told my friends about my time in eichen house. they all think im crazy now
That thieving, lying, murdering son of a bitch! Why I should come right down there and tear his throat out with my nails!
Stiles can see her pacing in her living room, long fingernails clacking away furiously at her phone, two bright spots of color on her cheeks. If he tells her he knows Deucalion had a hand in Derek's death, she really will come down here and try to murder the Alpha. So he keeps mum. Her presence here will just complicate things.
If you won't let us come down and help, then tell Kara and Alex. They can help. They can keep you safe.
Stiles can keep himself safe.
sure Lydia. foods here got to go
As Stiles types this message, the buzzer for the downstairs door rings. "Food!" Kara yells, throwing down the dice. "I'll go get it!"
"She's losing, too," Alex says after Kara slams the door shut behind her. "She'll use this as an excuse to stop the game."
Kara comes back with several bags of food, the smell wafting off them making Stiles' stomach curdle. She sets the bags on the coffee table and then goes to rifle through Stiles' cabinets for plates and utensils. She opens the fridge. "Do you have anything to drink other than water?"
"Nope."
Alex passes Stiles a Styrofoam box full of pad thai while Kara carries the plates over. Stiles sets it on the ground, not hungry, then sinks his fingers into his wolf's fur. He considers his options while the others begin to eat. He could use his powers to convince them to leave, but he's never tried to influence more than one person at a time before. Best not to risk it quite yet. So he'll wait. They can't all stay here all the time. Eventually, one of them will grow lax, and he'll slip out and find Deucalion. Vengeance will be his.
"Stiles, there's a lot you're not telling us," Alex says.
Stiles tips his head to the side. If they only knew, they'd go screaming into the night. "Everyone's got secrets."
"Not like you."
Oh, the irony of that statement, coming from her.
"I think you just found out my big secret," Stiles says, voice bitter. "My time in the crazy house."
"Why were you there?" Kara asks, leaning forward to look at him.
Nope, Stiles is not having this conversation sober. He reaches down and fishes a plastic bag out from under his chair. It's one of the various stashes he has hidden around the apartment. This particular one has two pre-rolled joints in it and a lighter.
"Woah, no, no, no," Alex says, practically leaping to her feet as he puts the joint to his lips. "I don't think now's the right time for that."
"What? It calms my nerves. Besides, I have a prescription." He flicks his lighter, running the flame over the end of the joint. "Does anyone want a hit?"
"Ooo, yes." Kara moves closer to him, and Stiles hands her the joint after taking a few puffs on it himself.
"Kara, no–" Alex sighs.
"What? I'm curious. I've never done it before."
"Clark…" Alex looks at Superdouche for help. He can only shrug. It's a little late to stop the two of them.
Stiles lets the weed relax him and wipe all thought from his mind as he settles back in his chair, pulling his wolf from his pocket so he can pet it more easily, missing the electric blue eyes.
"Oh my gosh, cute," Kara crows. "Am I supposed to be feeling something?"
"You've barely had any. Give it time."
"Does he have a name?" Kara asks.
Stiles rubs the wolf's ears. "Derek."
"Like your boyfriend?"
Stiles nods, making a humming sound in the back of his throat.
"How did he die?" Alex asks. "You've never said."
Stiles is just high enough to answer. "He was killed." He's hungry now, so he picks up his pad thai and stuffs a large forkful of noodles into his mouth.
"By who?"
God, look at the eyes on the three of them. So big. So concerned. Staring at him like they want to bore right into him. Stiles fills his lungs with more smoke. He sees blood and guts and the white poke of bone, scared eyes staring into his, weak fingers clutching at his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut, but that just makes the images worse. "An animal attack."
Again with the lying.
"Where you there?" Superdouche asks, and Stiles cannot look at him, cannot see that face because there's a different one overlaid in his mind's eye, one speckled with blood and stubble, lips forming the shape of Stiles' name.
He nods.
"This was after Eichen House?" Superdouche speaks. Stiles wishes he wouldn't.
"After. Just before I came here." Why is Stiles answering these questions?
"Why were you in Eichen House?" Alex asks again.
"My mother, she had frontotemporal dementia. I started…exhibiting similar symptoms junior year of high school. But turned out, I didn't have it. So." The lie feels flimsy. Stiles worries one of them will see through him to the rotten darkness that lies at the core of him. the darkness that he should really end sooner rather than later.
He takes the joint back from Kara and finishes it off, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. "I still don't feel anything," Kara says, disappointed.
Stiles shrugs. "It doesn't affect everyone."
"Hm. Sad."
"We can always try edibles." He sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Guys, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm going to head to bed. If you really want to keep babysitting me, I guess you can fight over the couch."
He stubs out the last of the joint then stands and weaves his way towards his room, intent on burying himself under his covers. He hears whispering behind him but can't quite make out the words as he shuts his door and stuffs his hand through his hair.
He's halfway across the floor when there's a soft knock. "Stiles? Can I come in?" It's Kara's quiet voice.
Stiles makes sure that all his boards are facing the wall and flips Derek's picture down. "Sure."
Kara enters as he's climbing into bed and has no problem clambering in beside him. Stiles makes sure that they aren't touching. Wouldn't want to infect her, after all. "Oph, I think I ate too much Thai food."
Stiles doesn't have an answer.
"What was Derek like?"
The question surprises Stiles, though he's not sure why. "He was a bit of a dick, honestly. But he was my dick."
"I know what it's like to lose someone important to you," Kara says. "My parents died when I was young. The Danvers took me in and raised me, but I still feel the hole my parents left behind sometimes."
"It never goes away, does it?" Stiles sighs, drumming his thumb against his other hand.
"No, but I don't think I'd want it to."
"I got Derek arrested the first time we met," Stiles says, unsure why he's still talking. "And then got him put on the Beacon Hills Most Wanted list."
"What?" Kara asks. "How? Why?"
"Scott and I may have accused him of murder."
"Oh my God, how did he ever forgive you for that?" Kara demands, laughing a little.
"It's complicated."
The tears come then, burning Stiles' eyes, running down his cheeks. He would happily be enemies with Derek again or have Derek hate him if it meant Derek were still alive. Stiles would trade his own life.
"Oh hon," Kara wraps him up as he begins to shake. He focuses on the scent of her strawberry shampoo. It's a good thing she's here, because the itch is back, stronger than he's ever felt it. He wants to carve something out of himself, though he's not entirely sure what. His grief. His anger. His darkness. His life.
"Focus, Stiles."
"I can't focus. I have ADHD."
Stiles and Derek stood in the woods in the middle of a humid summer. Derek was, in theory, teaching Stiles how to track. Problem was, Derek tracked by scent, and Stiles didn't have the patience to scan the underbrush for tiny, nearly invisible clues.
"How is this any different from sifting through thousand-year-old books that you can't even read?" Derek demanded, frustrated.
"Excuse me, I can to read those books," Stiles corrected. "I've been learning my ancient languages."
"So think of this as an ancient language."
Stiles sneezed, nearly bashing his head on a tree trunk. "I think my allergies are acting up. Can we go home?"
"No," Derek grabbed the back of Stiles' neck and forced him to look back at the ground. "Not until you tell me which way Scott went. Come on. You can do it. Let your senses expand."
"What are you? A Jedi master?"
"Don't go nerd on me, right now. Focus, Stiles."
Stiles scanned the ground, searching for broken twigs, squashed grass, impressions in the dirt, or whatever. He honestly wasn't totally sure what he was supposed to be looking for. He hadn't exactly been listening when Derek had explained tracking to him, too distracted by the way Derek's lips moved.
"You could continue teaching me how to track, or you could make out with me," Stiles said slyly. He licked his lips.
Derek sighed. "Damnit, Stiles."
A second later, Stiles found himself picked up and shoved against a tree. Derek's lips were chapped and rough against Stiles' since the stupid werewolf refused to use the chap stick Stiles bought him. Hot hands squeezed Stiles' waist, stubble prickly against his cheek, and Stiles twined his fingers through Derek's thick hair. That was his favorite part of Derek aside from his abs and his chest and his face and his ass. Derek's hair was so soft. Perfect for petting.
"Are you shitting me right now?" Scott's incredulous voice broke through the bubble around Stiles and Derek. "Did you guys even try to find me?"
"Stiles distracted me," Derek said.
"Way to throw me under the bus," Stiles grumbled.
"Come on, guys, this is series. Tracking is an important skill for Stiles to know." Scott stood between two trees, staring at them with his arms crossed, trying to look authoritative, though that had never been a natural expression on him.
Stiles jumped on Derek, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist and his arms around Derek's neck. "Making out with Derek is an important skill for me to know."
"I'm going to have to agree with Stiles on this one," Derek said, smirking.
Scott threw his hands up. "You two are impossible." He stormed off, leaving Stiles and Derek alone.
"I thought he'd never leave," Derek muttered in Stiles ear, and, laughing, the two of them tumbled to the ground, wrapped around each other.
Stiles wakes up as the little spoon to Kara's big one. Tears prick at him again, but he forces them back. He wishes the arms were thicker, the chest broader. Only the temperature is about right. Kara feels him shift and wakens, yawning and stretching as she untangles herself. "Pancakes?" she asks.
"Sure," Stiles mumbles.
Kara rolls out of bed and disappears, leaving Stiles drained and exhausted despite the night's sleep. She brings him breakfast in bed because she's good like that, and her pancakes are delicious, like they should be. Like the ones Stiles used to make for Derek.
"Eat up," Kara says, forcing a smile.
A week passes. Kara, Alex, Superdouche, and Winn take turns babysitting, with James covering a few shifts when he's not too busy at CatCo. Stiles and Superdouche turn in their first article, though Ms. Grant wants at least one more follow up. There's no mention of Stiles' magical ritual theory, which Superdouche hasn't brought up since that day but Stiles hasn't forgotten. He's got only eight days left until the next full moon.
He goes to his therapy appointment, escorted to and from it by Alex, who thankfully doesn't ask what he's doing. Most of the time, he just paces around his apartment like a caged animal, snapping at whichever friend is watching him that day. That or he mopes all day and refuses to say a word to anyone. He's still formulating a plan for getting at Deucalion.
"Alright, get up," Alex says when it's her turn to watch him. It's one of his moping days, and he's currently wrapped in his comforter eating Ben and Jerry's.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because you need to get out of this apartment, and I've got an activity that'll clear your head."
Stiles looks at her suspiciously. "What kind of activity?"
"It's a surprise. Get dressed. Athletic clothes."
"You won't take no for an answer, will you?" Stiles asks.
"Nope."
"Fine," Stiles sighs and rolls out of his chair. Does he even own athletic clothes? When he gets into his room, he finds that the answer is no, he does not. The closest he has is a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. Of course, this leaves his scars exposed. He looks at them in the mirror. Ugly. Red. Humiliating.
"I don't own exercise clothes," he calls through the closed door.
"I thought you might say that. don't worry. I brought you a set."
Alex opens the door and tosses a bag at him. Inside, Stiles finds a pair of basketball shorts and a lightweight, long sleeve shirt. He approves of the color scheme – red and black – so he gets dressed and then rejoins Alex.
"I don't like surprises," Stiles says. He's had a few too many nasty ones in the past.
But Alex just leads the way out of his apartment and down to her car. Stiles sits in sullen silence in the passenger seat, drumming his thumb on his knee. They wind up at a small gym with only a few cars parked around back. The brick building is a little dingy looking, with graffiti crawling up one wall and scraggly grass pushing through the cracks in the sidewalk.
"Are we meeting with a mob boss?" Stiles asks as he steps from the car.
Alex laughs, dragging a duffel bag out of the trunk. "Not exactly."
They head into a room with lightly padded floors, white circles marking up the black. Alex drops her duffel to a bench and unzips it, pulling long strips of cloth from inside. "Give me your hands," she says and starts wrapping the strips around his wrists and hands. "Ever thrown a punch before?"
Stiles just kind of shrugs.
After a few years of getting their asses kicked, the Pack realized that Derek, despite his claims, really had no clue how to fight, so the entire Pack went out and took various martial arts lessons until they could finally hold their own.
"I'll teach you a few things." Alex lifts her hands into a guard and bounces away from him. She's stripped off her leather jacket to just a tank top, muscles banding her arms.
"Why are we doing this?" Stiles asks.
"To distract you. Help you clear your mind. Come on, try to hit me."
"You're a scientist. How do you know how to fight?" Stiles asks as he paces into the center of the circle, hoping to catch her in a lie.
"I've been taking lessons since I was young." Alex grins at him, beckoning with one hand. "Now, come on. Try to hit me."
"Do I have to?" Stiles sighs. He doesn't feel like doing this. It seems like a lot of work.
"Fine. Then I'll hit you."
Alex comes at him, lashing out with one fist, moving faster than Stiles expects even though he knows that she has secret agent training. She's almost werewolf fast. But Stiles has always trained with people who are quicker than him, so he's able to just barely able to sway out of the way. Alex looks a little surprised when her fist connects with nothing but air. Stiles snaps his hand up, going for her throat from the side, and Alex blocks him with a forearm.
"Stiles sends a snap kick at her knee, catching the side of it as Alex twists out of the way, and Stiles pushes forward as she crumbles back, and then suddenly, he's on his back as Alex somehow knocks his legs out from under him. "You do know a few things," she says, sounding impressed.
"My dad's a sheriff. What do you expect?" Stiles sweeps his legs as he finishes talking and knocks Alex over, immediately lunging at her stomach elbow first. Alex bats it away, and they roll across the pads, fighting for the upper hand.
Alex is much better than him. That much is readily apparent, and Stiles knows he will lose this fight in the next couple of seconds if he doesn't do something tricky, but that's okay; Stiles is used to fighting losing battles.
Something in Stiles' brain switches. Suddenly, he's not sparring with his friend in the safe confines of the gym; he's scrambling for survival in the dark of the forest while claws scramble for his throat.
He twists, bucking like an animal, clawing at soft, vulnerable spots, elicits a cry of pain, of shock, and then the monster is trying to twist away from him. He clamps down tighter. If he can get his arms around the neck, he can end this. Fur turns to scales beneath his hands. It's Derek's killer he's fighting. This is his chance.
An elbow connects with his head, and he's knocked away. He rolls backwards, comes to his feet, standing in a dark, dead forest, ash floating through the air. There the Essyolyte stands. Hulking. Scaled. Monstrous. It roars at him, and something buzzes in his head, but he's wise to its tricks now, and he blocks it out.
"Your mine," he whispers.
The Essyolyte bellows at him, like it's trying to say something, making no move to come for him, and Stiles has no weapon with him, but that doesn't matter. He has his hands. He launches himself at the alien, and an instant later, he finds himself on the ground, smacking his head on the strangely soft ground so hard everything begins to ring, and oh God, it's going to kill him, claws on his throat, over his heart, and he can't decide if this is good or not; a chance to be reunited with Derek in exchange for his shot at revenge.
He blinks.
The world fuzzes, blurs, then re-resolves around him. He stares up into Alex's face. He's rattled the unrattleable; he can see it in her eyes. A deep shock. An open fear.
"I—" Stiles doesn't have words. He doesn't think he can talk his way out of this one.
Alex climbs off of him. Hops back several feet. "What the fuck, Stiles?"
"I—" Stiles doesn't move. "I'm sorry."
"What the hell happened?" Alex doesn't want apologies.
"I…dissociate sometimes."
"Where did you go? You—you looked like you wanted to kill me."
"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers, staring up at the ceiling.
"I want the full story, Stiles. I know there's a lot you're not telling us, and I was willing to let it slide before, even last week when we asked you point blank and you gave us half-truths. But that was serious. You tried to kill me."
Stiles' voice goes detached. "You wouldn't like the full story."
"I like not knowing even less."
"It wasn't an animal attack," he says after a long pause. "A creature killed him. Some kind of alien. Right in front of me. That's where I was. It was trying to kill me."
"And Deucalion?"
"I believe he controls the alien."
Alex moves to stand beside him so he's forced to at least see her in his field of vision even if he doesn't look at her. "That's a big leap to make."
"You don't know him like I do." Even just talking about Deucalion fills Stiles with a burning, itching rage, and his hands clench by his side, knuckles digging into the mat.
"There's still something you're leaving out," Alex insists. She kneels and grabs a fistful of his shirt, forcing him to sit up and look her in the eye. Stiles wonders if she'll hit him. He wonders if he wants her to
"That's all. I promise." Stiles nudges out with his mind, but he finds walls where he usually finds open roads to the origin of thoughts and feelings. He doesn't push, like he might with anyone else. Instead, he turns to oil and oozes around her walls, searching for chinks, cracks, crevices. The armor is nearly impervious, but he finds a single hole, tiny but enough to slip through. "That's all," he repeats as he nudges her disbelief down just enough. The lightest of touches. Stiles doesn't think she even knows he's there.
Alex blinks and loosens her grip on his shirt. "You promise you've told me everything?"
"Yes." Stiles nods.
Alex stands, dragging a hand through her hair. Stiles slumps back to the ground. "I guess we shouldn't do any more sparring."
"Probably smart."
Alex tosses a towel on his face. "Come on. Let's go."
"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers in the car. He should have expected this to happen. He hurts everyone he cares about. He should just cut all ties. But he finds he doesn't want to. "I'm evil." The words are out before he knows they've even formed.
"What?" Alex shoots him a startled look, but the vehicle doesn't even swerve.
"I'm evil. You shouldn't associate with me. You'll just get hurt."
"You're not evil, Stiles. I've seen evil. And you're not it."
"You're a lab tech. When have you ever seen evil?" Another chance to catch her in a lie, not that he really cares. It's simply the thing he's supposed to say.
"You're not evil." Alex reaches over and squeezes his hand, and Stiles begins to cry.
Two days have passed since the incident at the gym, and Alex doesn't say a word about it, to him or anyone else. Stiles chooses Winn as the weakest link to exploit for the first part of his plan, Tonight, Winn is his babysitter, perfect timing, schlepping half an electronics store over to Stiles' apartment for a serious video game night.
He chucks a controller into Stiles' lap. "Call of Duty or Fallout?"
"Fallout." Stiles lifts a plate off the coffee table and holds it out to Winn. "Brownie?"
He's spiked the batch as part of his plan. He feels a little bit bad about it.
"Yes!" Winn crows and devours a square. Stiles smiles to himself. Phase one, complete.
They play Fallout 4 until the pot begins to kick in, and Winn grows looser and louder, more apt to laugh. Stiles reaches out and finds his mind pliable. It's easy enough to plant an image of himself on the couch, contentedly playing the game, in Winn's mind, and Winn doesn't blink when Stiles stands and goes to his room to prepare. Phase two, complete.
Derek's leather jacket goes on over a red and black plaid like armor, Allison's knife secreted away in a pocket, magic doodads scattered about his body. He leaves the apartment to the sound of Winn's laughter over something phantom-Stiles says.
It takes Stiles an hour to travel across the city to the suburb that houses Deucalion's den. He doesn't yet know what his plan is. He doubts he can kill Deucalion by himself, though the desire to do so burns within him. He suspects the Alphas are behind the ley line ritual but he needs to know for sure, and he needs to know if they have some kind of wizard or druid with them, summoning flame sprites and golems, or if that's someone else entirely.
Stiles pulls a white crystal from his pocket and wraps a strand of wolfsbane around it, and the gem grows a darker green the closer he gets to the epicenter of the werewolf energy. It leads him to a grey, two-story home with pale blue trim and flowers out front that are just well tended enough to be socially acceptable. Stiles imagines he can see rot seeping out from beneath the paneling, oily smoke billowing from the chimney, red eyes blinking in the darkened windows.
The home across the way has a tree house settled in the branches of a tall oak, and Stiles scrambles up the ladder. The inside is loosely decorated with a child's drawings and bright fabrics. Stiles drags the low table over to the window that looks across at the Den House. He sits on top of it, lifting a monocle to his eye. The whole world goes dark but for three vaguely humanoid splotches, glowing fiercely red against the blackness. One floats above the others—the second floor, presumably, and blazes like a sun through a sky of blood.
A breeze stirs Stiles' hair, drifting in through the window, but he's not concerned about the werewolves smelling him; that's what the pendant around his neck is for. He puts a different monocle to his eye, searching for magical energies of any kind, and there it is—navy blue swirls oozing through the darkness.
Stiles ticks off facts in his head. He's seen Deucalion with the twins, but he has yet to spot Kali or Ennis. He knows of no reason why they wouldn't be here, though. They also have a sorcerer/wizard/Druid with them. Which complicates matters. He has four days until the next full moon.
He can't take out three to five Alpha werewolves by himself, no matter how badly he wants to rush in there and fuck some shit up, or take a match and set the whole building on fire.
He needs help. And he knows just where to get it.
The next night, Superdouche is his babysitter which is perfect for his plans. Superdouche sweeps through the door bearing two pizza boxes, which he drops on the counter. "So Kara told me I need to watch Alien," he says, falling on Stiles' couch. "Have you seen it?"
"Aliens is better. if you're going to watch one, watch that one." Stiles blinks. Was that a semi-normal conversation? God no. "But I have a better plan." Stiles sits down beside him, almost too close, and stares Superdouche full in the face because he knows how disconcerting (and thus convincing) he can be close up, what with his too-dark brown eyes and his pale skin.
"What?" Superdouche asks, sounding a little suspicious.
"I know who killed those people, and I know where to find them."
"So call the police."
Stiles shakes his head. "Think of the scoop. The profile." In every sense of the word, it's bad logic, but that doesn't matter when you have mind control on your side.
"You want to try and take the murderers on?" Superdouche demands, shocked. He tries to scoot away from Stiles, but there's nowhere to go, trapped as he is against the couch arm. "We'd get ourselves killed."
Stiles begins reaching out lightly with his darkness, feeling a bit nauseous. "No, we won't. Look, there's not enough time to go to the police, for them to find enough evidence against these guys to get a warrant, order and receive said warrant, then go after these dicks. I know you don't believe mea bout the magic ritual, but believe me or not, the next phase is in three days, and people are going to die. We can stop that." Always play on the heroism. Stiles turns that dial up in Superdouche's brain.
"How do you know it's them?" Superdouche asks. Stiles can tell he's beginning to waver.
"I majored in Criminal Investigations. My dad is a cop. I know it's them."
"Call Supergirl," Superdouche suggests. "James can get ahold of her."
Stiles pushes harder. "It has to be us."
"Supergirl is busy," Superdouche agrees distantly, nodding. "I think I saw that she's fighting some alien down at the docks."
Stiles has to suppress a smile that quickly turns into disgust. It's too easy. "It has to be us," he repeats.
A nod from Superdouche. "It has to be us."
"Good."
Leaving the pizza cooling on the counter, the two of them head out into the city, taking Superdouche's dumbass yellow bug out to the suburbs, Stiles directing. He has Superdouche park two blocks away from the Den House. "Here. Put this on." He holds out a pendant that matches his own, that will mask their scents from the Alpha Pack.
"I'm not really a jewelry person."
"Neither am I. Put it on."
"Why?"
Stiles huffs out an annoyed sigh and tosses the cord over Superdouche's head. "Just trust me."
They move through the dusky, darkening streets, and Stiles makes a beeline for the treehouse, clambering up the ladder. But Superdouche pauses halfway across the lawn. "Have you been here before?" he demands, arms folded in righteous indignation.
"Keep your voice down," Stiles hisses, shooting a glance at the Den House, but nothing moves. "Get up here."
Superdouche eventually joins him up in the treehouse, giving Stiles enough time to check the house out through his monocle. Five signatures. Just his luck. "You've been here before," Superdouche repeats as he walks up behind Stiles. He at least keeps his voice down.
"Fine, yes, I was here last night," Stiles admits, still focused on the Den House.
"How? Winn says he was with you all night."
Stiles shrugs. "I slipped him a bunch of weed and snuck out."
Superdouche's mouth drops open. "You what?" He sounds like he's not sure if he should be furious, stunned, or a little bit awed.
Stiles doesn't reply, just studies the building some more. "I think there are five of them."
"Five? Stiles, that's way too many for us to handle!" Stiles can sense that his influence is slipping a little bit, but he's too intent on his surveillance to fix it right now. "What the hell are we doing here? This is insane!"
"This is justice," Stiles whispers.
"Justice? Or revenge?"
Stiles tears his gaze away from the house long enough to glare at Superdouche. When he turns back, Deucalion stands in the lawn, staring up at the ripening moon with his blind eyes. A sour smile crosses Stiles' lips. He moves to leap out the window like that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, but a hand grabs the back of his collar and yanks him down. "What are you doing?"
"Shh!" Well shit, now Deucalion definitely knows they're here.
Superdouche peeks out the window. "That's Deucalion. Stiles, you lied to me."
"I did not lie." Stiles pokes his finger in Superdouche's face, fighting down his rising rage. "Deucalion and the killer just happen to be the same person."
There's a knock at the treehouse trapdoor. The two of them freeze-frame, staring at each other with wide eyes. Before either of them can move, the trapdoor opens, and Deucalion climbs into the small room. Though he's not a physically large man, his presence fills the small space, Alpha waves rolling off him. "Door was unlocked. The knock was just a courtesy." He smiles at them—bares his teeth, more like. "Now, doesn't this count as trespassing?"
"Maybe. But so are you," Stiles points out.
"What are you doing here, Stiles?" Deucalion leans on his white cane, blocking the exit.
"Gig's up, dickface," Stiles snarls. "I know what you're up to. It ends here."
"Yeah, and who's going to stop me?" Deucalion says it as a joke, no doubt for Superdouche's benefit. He adds a smile sharp only to Stiles' eyes. "You and your boyfriend's lookalike?" He studies Superdouche a little more closely. "Certainly is interesting company you keep."
Superdouche starts a little, takes a single step back.
Stiles straightens, his hair brushing the ceiling, and takes two paces towards the Alpha. "Do you know what Scott, Allison, and I had to do to stop that Darach you created?" He pitches his voice low. "Do you have any idea the mark it left behind?"
"Which one is Allison again? The pretty brunette one that died?"
Allison's knife flies out of Stiles' pocket, but Deucalion sways to the side just enough to make it look like a miss.
"Stiles!" Superdouche yelps.
"Would you two like to come in?" Deucalion asks, smiling a sickly John-the-next-door-neighbor smile, and beckons for the trap door. "Have a drink? Talk this out?"
"No," Stiles snarls.
Deucalion tsks, wags a finger. "It wasn't a request."
Stiles narrows his eyes but walks towards the trapdoor, Superdouche hanging onto his sleeve and trying to whisper something in his ear. Stiles shakes him off. Derek would kill him for walking into the Alpha's lair, but then, Derek would do the exact same thing, only his goal would be to start a fight rather than gather info. Though Stiles may also be looking to start a fight.
Deucalion frees the knife from the wall. Stiles tenses, but the wolf just flips it around and offers it to Stiles hilt first, smiling. Stiles warily tucks it into his pocket.
"Come on then." They follow Deucalion out of the treehouse and across the road to the Den House, led all the way to the kitchen, to the belly of the beast. The rest of the Pack lounges around the island. The pug-faced twins. Sharply grinning Kali who has at least put her claws away, and the stony Ennis, who Stiles has never actually heard speak.
"If we get out of this, I'm never listening to a word you say again," Superdouche whispers in Stiles' ear.
Kali grins, shark-like.
Stiles notices a sixth person in the room, one that Superdouche doesn't see. They're dressed in black, sunk deep into the shadows of the corner, silver glinting out from beneath a deep hood.
Hello, child of the Nemeton, a voice like liquid mercury whispers in his head.
"Would you boys like anything to drink?" Deucalion asks before Stiles can answer the voice.
"No," Stiles says.
"Have one anyways." Deucalion snaps his fingers and Ennis starts pouring scotch. "I heard rumors about what happened after we left. About the things you did. What was it like? Having all that power?"
"What are you guys talking about?" Superdouche asks. Ennis tries to hand him a drink, but he just stares at him.
"Clark, go home," Stiles says without taking his eyes off Deucalion.
Deucalion shakes his head, and one of the twins moves towards the door. "Your boyfriend's lookalike isn't goint anywhere."
An alien, a dark spark, and an Alpha werewolf walk into a bar… the voice murmurs.
Deucalion accepts a scotch from Ennis and takes a sip, perching on the stool Kali draws up for him. For a moment, Stiles is struck by the dichotomy of their situation. An alien, himself, and a Pack of Alpha werewolves all seconds from ripping each other's throats out, all sitting around a granite island in a kitchen that a forty-year old socialite would've drooled over.
"Now, I was wondering," Deucalion continues, "did you kill your pretty little friend yourself, or did you just orchestrate the circumstances?"
Don't try to use your powers, the voice warns. You won't like the results.
Stiles stares at Deucalion, working his jaw, his fingers drumming on the granite. "Once upon a time," he begins, his voice rolling out of his mouth like black honey, "there was a boy. All he wanted to do was save his father's life, and so he did what any good son would do. He risked everything—mind, body, and soul, and he found his father just in the nick of time. And everything was fine. For a while."
"I didn't invite you here for story time," Deucalion drawls.
"But the boy had opened up a door inside himself." Stiles looks at Superdouche, offers him a small smile. Cat's out of the bag now. "And something found its way through. The boy became a thing. And the thing committed terrible acts, hurt everyone around him, even the people he cared about the most." Stiles looks down at his hands. The fingers that never belonged to him. The palms that were made out of darkness and dust and dirty white bandages. He's surprised that dust doesn't pour out with every cut he makes. "The boy's friends exorcised his demon, but when the boy came back, his very form had been stolen and something of the demon left behind, something that the boy spent so long hiding that it began to fester and rot him from the inside out, leaving behind nothing but a shell."
Deucalion claps slowly; one, two, three. "A cute fairytale."
"A warning," Stiles says with a shrug. "Ask your friend in the shadows."
Superdouche jerks, noticing the hooded figure for the first time, his fingers landing on Stiles' shoulders.
"Now, if you don't mind, we'll be leaving." Stiles turns Superdouche towards the door and walks right up to the twin who doesn't move until he gets a nod from Deucalion. "Be seeing you."
I'm sure we will.
Stiles and Superdouche leave the Den House and walk down the street in silence, Stiles just a few steps in front. "That story," Superdouche says when the car is in sight. Here it comes. "That was… a metaphor, right?"
Stiles snorts, unable to believe that Superdouche just handed him such an easy out. "Yeah, something like that."
"Look, I didn't understand a lot of what happened in there. Why Deucalion kept calling me your boyfriend's lookalike, or what happened to your friend, but Stiles, you're not rotten. You're a good man."
They're driving by this time, and Stiles stares out the window, watching the streetlights flash by, blurring in the darkness. He doesn't answer Superdouche.
"Look, tell the others about to night, or mention that you snuck out on Winn." Superdouche guides them through a turn, grandpa slow. "But those guys aren't the killers. You should try to put them out of your mind. And about that magical ritual. Focus on yourself."
That's the last thing Stiles wants to do. Looks like he's alone on this one.
