A/N - So I think the last chapter marked the midpoint of this fic. In my horror film class, we've been talking a lot about the 8-sequence story-telling structure. After the midpoint comes the subplot which involves emotion/character development/what not, which is what I feel like this chapter is doing. But also I don't plan or plot shit so I could be totally wrong. Either way, enjoy!
xii. want
Stiles staggers into his room and collapses into bed without bothering to shuck his dirty clothes or wipe the mud and blood from his body. His limbs are heavy, so heavy. Everything hurts. He's unconscious the moment his head hits the pillow.
The sound of bubbling water fills his ears, delicate and clear like a child's footsteps pattering down wooden stairs. He and Derek sit on a fallen tree trunk that stretches across the river, their feet dangling six inches above the clear water. The light is golden, the leaves thick and lush. Derek's fingers are laced through his, and they throw bits of bark downstream, competing to see who can launch them the farthest. Derek wins, of course. Derek always wins. He would never allow Stiles the false dignity of pretending to lose. Derek uses his left hand, too, which just adds insult to injury.
They throw one last round, and Stiles leans in for a kiss, sees the start of a smile on Derek's lips, and shoves him into the water. Derek yelps—yips, actually—but grabs Stiles' leg on the way down. They both tumble into the water which is cold and crisp and deep enough that they're allowed to sink for a moment before their feet touch the bottom.
Derek surfaces first, pulling Stiles after him, and they stand chest deep in the water, Derek's blazing hands running up and down Stiles' goosebumped flesh.
"I love you," he says in a quiet sort of voice that Stiles hasn't heard before. It's the first time he's said the words, and he beat Stiles to it—Derek, who has never exactly been in touch with his emotional side; Derek, who has lost everyone he's ever loved; Derek who has had his own love betrayed time and time again.
Stiles takes Derek's face in his hands. "I love you."
There is a house in the woods, fading into existence over a river not far from its property line. It has a porch swing that creaks in the wind and low windows that look more like half-lidded eyes. The wood is dark, almost rotten. Stiles lies inside, in a basement hidden underneath a trapdoor, hands and feet bound, eyes burning with unshed tears.
A hunter—not one of Chris's—holds him for leverage over Scott, over Derek. "How can you be in its Pack?" he asks, rolling a large knife back and forth between his fingers. He's already cut Stiles with it once, twice.
"Fuck you," Stiles grunts to hide his fear.
The hunter concocted this plan to get at Scott, knowing that virtuous, do-no-harm Scott would come to negotiate, but he hadn't counted on Derek and his anger.
Derek crashes through the ceiling, fully shifted. He wastes no time leaping across the room to catch the hunter by the throat and tear it out before the man can so much as blink. Blood sprays, splattering Derek's face, his arm, his hand. He lets the body drop. The thud it makes reverberates through Stiles' chest.
Derek rushes to his side and slits the ropes that bind him, gathering Stiles' shaking body to his chest. Stiles finally lets his tears flow free, and they soak through Derek's shirt. The sound of his sobs are ugly in the cramped room, like a mangled frog by the side of the road.
"Shh, you're okay," Derek murmurs into his sweaty hair. "I've got you. You're okay. Everything's going to be fine."
"You're telling me Stiles—skinny, defenseless Stiles—is the Nogitsune?"
Derek's tone is incredulous, and Stiles snorts from his hiding place. Yes. That's right. Poor, weak, defenseless Stiles. Who would ever suspect him of such power? Trickery, yes, but he's never had the strength to back it up before.
He slips from the rafters and out a window, glancing over his shoulder in time to make eye contact with Derek, whose mouth drops in shock, though he hides the expression from Scott and the others. Stiles crooks a finger at him and grins.
Five minutes later, Derek grabs his arm and drags him into an alley. "Stiles, what the hell is going on?"
Stiles grabs a fistful of Derek's shirt and draws him in close. Derek's eyes shift colors in the uneven streetlight. "You can't tell the others," Stiles says in a hushed whisper. "Promise me, you won't tell the others."
Derek's eyes lock onto him, somber, focused, sensing the tension in Stiles' body and the tightness of his voice. Derek has always been so good at reading the tics of Stiles' spastic limbs. "Okay. Yeah. Stiles, are you okay?"
He shakes his head. "No, I'm not. I'm not okay. Derek, I can feel it inside of me. It's scratching at my brain, searching for purchase. I don't know what it wants. It's like flies beneath my skin. If I can just…" He starts scratching at his arms, under his sleeves, harder and harder like he can break through and free them all.
Derek grabs his hand and stills his fingers. "Stiles, stop. We'll figure this out."
"It's not the sort of thing you can figure out. It's old, and it's angry, and…" it's everything I've ever wanted, "…it's strong. I don't think it's the sort of thing you can protect skinny, defenseless Stiles from."
Derek at least has the social competence to look embarrassed. "Stiles, I didn't mean—"
"No, it's okay. It's true, isn't it? You're always protecting me. saving me from myself, most of the time. What would I do without you, huh? I bet it gives you a real hard on, doesn't it? You've always wanted to be the protector, haven't you, and you've always failed, and you're trying to make up for it by looking after poor, skinny, defenseless, Stiles. You failed to protect Boyle and Erica. You failed to protect your family. You think you can fix all that if you can just protect skinny, defenseless Stiles, but guess what, you can't. Because skinny, defenseless Stiles doesn't need your protection any more."
The grin he grins is not his own. It's sharp and feral, made of razor edges and jagged teeth. Derek looks like he's had his guts ripped out by a rusty, saw tooth blade. "Stiles, what—"
"And do you know what makes it worse? The fact that you think you love him. You, who doesn't even know how to love, who fucked the woman who fucked your family. You think you love him even though you know he'll never love you back. How could he ever love you? You're brittle and dark, and you break everything you touch."
"You're not Stiles." Derek's voice shatters like glass hit by a hammer.
"Aren't I, though? I'm Stiles uncensored. Stiles as he could truly be. And he fucking loves it." Stiles grabs a fistful of Derek's shirt and yanks him close, mashing their mouths together. He forces his tongue between Derek's lips, nips at the soft flesh. Derek can't break free of his hold. Stiles pulls away but keeps their faces close. "Did you enjoy it? It's probably the only taste you're ever going to get. You should thank me."
He drops Derek's shirt and saunters off, hands sunk deep in his pockets, whistling a little tune.
Stiles awakens to a frenzied pounding at his door. He starts upright, leftover magic fizzling around his fingers, and groans. His body more than aches. It pounds and burns and bellows at him. His head feels ready to split, and each cut slips all the way down to his bones.
The knocking grows louder, and Superdouche calls his name.
Fuck. He's still covered in mud and blood and the stink of battle.
"In the bathroom!" he calls in a raspy voice.
The banging stops, but he knows he doesn't have long before Superdouche decides to break down the door. He stumbles out of bed, and his knee nearly collapses beneath him as he heads for the bathroom. "Fuck." The whole joint is mottled black, blue, and red, and something is definitely the wrong shape.
Stiles limps to the sink and does his best to clean the grime from his face. He peels his pants off—which are stiff with god knows what—and he throws sweatpants and a hoodie on. A spritz of cologne mostly takes care of the smell.
The knocking starts again as he crosses the living room, and he yanks the door open irritably. "What?"
Superdouche, Kara, and Alex barge into his apartment, looking tired and peeved.
"Come right in," he grumbles.
Superdouche snaps his fingers, forms the hand into a fist, then awkwardly pushes it down to his side. His jaw clenches and unclenches. "Take off your shirt."
"Woah there," Stiles sneers. "I usually prefer a man buy me dinner first."
Alex puts a hand on Superdouche's shoulder before he can rush Stiles. "Did you hear about the fight at Avalon Park last night?" she asks.
"No." Stiles shrugs. His shoulder aches from when Deucalion flung him across said park. "I was, ah, having a rough time last night."
He see's Kara's eyes melt, but she holds herself back, hands shoved in her pockets.
"Maggie told me someone who looked an awful lot like Deucalion was there," Alex says.
It's a flimsy lie. Stiles makes his eyes widen. "What? Deucalion? What was he doing there?"
"Maggie's not sure. He and his buddies disappeared. She said they were fighting with some guy in a mask with weird symbols cut into his skin. They were throwing around some serious power. There's footage all over the Internet."
"What does this have to do with me?" Stiles asks.
"You knew Deucalion was going to be there—you've been pushing your magic ritual theory on me for weeks." Superdouche shrugs Alex's hand off and crowds Stiles into the counter. "Was the man in the mask you?"
Stiles would move, but he doesn't want them to see his limp. "What? Come on, man, that's ridiculous."
"Then take off your sweatshirt."
"No."
Alex and Kara raise their eyebrows at his sharp, cool tone. "Why not?" Superdouche asks. "Got something to hide?"
"Yeah, I got something to fucking hide." Stiles pushes off the counter so he can stand chest to chest with Superdouche. The man has two inches on him, but he tips back his head and glares. "I've got cuts all up and down my arms."
It's the first time he's actually admitted it aloud, and he shocks himself into silence. The others can only stare at him, guilt flashing across their faces, and Superdouche takes two steps back. Stiles can't help but feel a little satisfied at their reaction. He curls his lip. "So excuse me if I don't want to put them on display for all to see."
His phone buzzes, and he pulls it from his pocket, the calendar reminder for his therapy appointment giving him a much needed out. "Shit. It's later than I thought. I have to go." His next words come out acidic. "Unless you want to accuse me of anything else?"
"Stiles, we're sorry," Kara says. "It's just…you've been pulling away from us without explanation. And then we saw the reports from last night. We didn't know what to think."
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So you thought I was some kind of freaky vigilante?"
None of them have an answer for him, and after a beat, Stiles points at the door. "See yourselves out."
He heads for his room without waiting to see if they'll obey. "Why are you limping?" Superdouche asks.
"I fell in the shower. Mind your own business."
"Ms. Grant called me after she couldn't get a hold of you. She told me to tell you that you're fired."
Stiles pauses with his hand on the doorknob and slowly turns his head to look at Superdouche, a snide smile spread across his lips. "Good. I won't have to work with you anymore." The 'you' holds multitudes—derision, scorn, something rotten and unspeakable deep beneath its surface.
Kara's hands fly to her mouth. Even Alex looks stunned. Somewhere inside himself, Stiles screams. But he can't stop that squirm of pleasure at the pain he's caused or the hand that yanks the door open for a dramatic exit.
Superdouche barges after him and shoves him into his room. It's the first act of true anger he's seen from the man. Stiles likes it. A grin is feral on his lips. "What is your problem?" Superdouche demands. "We only want to be your friends. Why are you being such a dick?"
He shoves Stiles again, and his back strikes the wall. Superdouche's steps are fast and clipped as he approaches, but he freezes in his tracks just outside Stiles' personal space, eyes locked on something to his left. When he speaks next, his voice is much softer. "Why—why do you have a picture of me?"
Panic flashes through Stiles as Derek stretches out a hand towards Derek's framed photo, and he snatches it up first, clutching it to his chest.
"Stiles, why do you have a picture of me beside your bed?"
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. No, no, no, he doesn't want this to be happening. "It's not a picture of you."
"I don't understand."
Though his eyes are still shut, he knows Kara and Alex are right behind Superdouche. Slowly, he unclenches his muscles and offers out the photograph. Gentle fingers take it from his hand. "It's Derek."
"Why does your boyfriend look just like me?"
Dead boyfriend.
"I don't know."
Stiles opens his eyes to see Kara, Alex, and Superdouche clustered around the photograph. "I can't look at you without thinking of him. Every gesture, every expression you make is so similar but just different enough that it breaks my heart. You're polite where he's sarcastic. Soft where he's brittle. Open where he's closed. Interacting with you…I can't. I'm sorry."
Superdouche hands the picture back, but Stiles can't look at it. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't know."
"Not your fault. How could you know?" Stiles shrugs and reverently sets the photo back in its spot. "I've behaved abominably since, well, since I met you. I am sorry for that. I don't expect you to forgive me. I wouldn't. I'm toxic. You're better off without me in your life."
Superdouche opens his mouth to answer, but Stiles barrels over him. "I have to go. Shut the door on your way out, will you?"
He rushes from the room and the apartment as fast as he can with his limp, and then he's safe and all alone in the elevator. Stiles slumps against the wall. His hands shake, his head pounds, but he ran off without any of his weed, so he can't calm them down.
The shaking continues all the way to his therapist's office and doesn't stop until he glares at his hands and lifts one to knock on the door. Dr. Connors answers, dressed in a Psycho t-shirt this time. Stiles approves of her pop culture references.
"Stiles, come in." She smiles. It's genuine.
He winces as he mounts the last step and enters her office. "Before you ask, I tripped in the shower and sprained my knee. I'll be fine." He gives her a look that dares her to comment.
"Good to know," she says as she shuts the door.
He wanders back to her bookshelf, his favorite place to spend their sessions. "Did you hear about the fight last night?" Dr. Connors asks, holding up a tablet with an article splashed across it, a grainy photo of himself and Deucalion's back under the heading. His blank mask looks nice and spooky in the low light.
"Just a little bit. Some new vigilante, right?"
"Real violent guy. It says he burned one of his opponents up."
"Who was he fighting?" Stiles asks. Might as well get some information out of this.
Dr. Connors shrugs. "There's no information on them. Or why they were fighting. Supergirl and Superman showed up and broke it up."
Stiles hums noncommittally.
"The article speculates it might be connected to those three murders."
So Superdouche is finally catching wise. If Stiles were still doing the hero thing, he would clue the others in on the supernatural world so they can do their jobs better, but he's not going to do that, not going to explain how he knows about it all.
"What do you think of him?" Dr. Connors puts the tablet away.
"Of who?" Stiles asks.
She gives him a look that says she's not putting up with his bullshit today. "Of the vigilante. They're calling him Void."
"I don't have an opinion on him yet."
"Indulge me."
Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Obviously, burning people up is a shitty thing to do." That's the correct response, right? "But like you said, we don't know why they were fighting. Maybe the other guys were worse."
"Would you kill to protect someone you love?"
He already has. "Wouldn't anyone?"
"I look forward to the day when you finally give me a straight answer to a question, Stiles," Dr. Connors says, crossing her legs and resting a finger on her yellow notepad.
Stiles leans against the bookshelf and mirrors her posture in a standing position. "You'll be waiting a long time since I'm definitely not straight."
"When did you come out?"
"Officially? The end of junior year, but let's be real, everyone knew long before that, when Derek and I met." Stiles smiles faintly. He was not subtle about his attraction.
"Did you know you liked men before Derek?"
"I think maybe I was bi-curious. I certainly spent enough time pestering Danny about whether or not he found me attractive. But I'd also been deeply in love with Lydia Martin since the fourth grade."
Dr. Connors laughs. "I take it Lydia didn't return your affections?"
"Hell no. She barely knew I existed."
"So Derek was your first romantic partner."
"Yes." Stiles narrows his eyes slightly. Where is this going? He's not sure he's likes the sincere, comforting expression on the doctor's face.
"You two were serious."
"Yes."
"Will you date again?"
And there it is. Stiles knows it's a reasonable question, but he still feels a flood of rage at the words. He clenches his fists, nails biting into flesh, and he turns his head so the doctor won't see the darkness flashing there. "No," he says in a low voice. "Some people only get one chance."
"It's okay to move on. I'm sure he'd want to."
"Don't tell me what he would want!" Stiles yells, just like he yelled at Scott so many months before. His words bounce off the walls, and the lights flicker. Dor. Connors swallows, leans back in her chair, but Stiles just wants to put his fist through something. Derek doesn't get to want anything anymore. Stiles would put himself in chains to see Derek want again—would drop himself in the ocean encased in lead, would carve out his own heart and put it on display, but that's not how things work. There's no such thing as equivalent exchange, no life for a life, no such thing as necromancy.
Stiles knows. He looked into it.
He swallows a third of his fury. Cocks his head to the side. Prowls forward a step or two. There's a flicker of unease in Dr. Connors' eyes as Stiles slips around the couch, trailing a nail along the armrest. "I think we're done here," he says. "For good."
"Stiles, I know you're angry, and I know you're hurting, but you can't pull away from this." Dr. Connors keeps her voice oh-so-low, the way she might talk to a wounded, vicious animal. "You have to face it. Deal with it."
Stiles is halfway to the door. He stops by her chair, and she has to turn her head uncomfortably far to look at him. "You can tell Detective Sawyer whatever you like. She's welcome to try and slap me with those drug charges. But we're done here."
"Stiles—"
"You can't fix me, Doc." He bites off the 'c.' "Thanks for trying, though." He's only being a little sarcastic.
He walks out the front door.
Maybe Dr. Connors is right. Maybe he does need to talk about…this, about Derek, but he certainly can't talk to her. There are too many years of shit and darkness and fucking werewolves to explain, and he'd never be able to make her believe enough to understand. To be able to help. So he shuts her out. Walks away.
Maybe he's protecting her. Keeping her from a whole world of shadows that would haunt her till she dies.
Maybe he's just protecting himself by keeping the shadows inside.
The day is too bright, too sunny when he leaves the therapist's office. He squints and lifts a hand to shade his eyes, the budding scabs along his arm stretching painfully. He limps home, knowing he should take the subway or call a cab, but he hasn't the energy to care. So he walks, and he aches, and he barely makes it home. He slumps in the elevator, pain pulsating through his body, and staggers to his door, trying to keep his shaking fingers quiet as he inserts the key in the lock.
His apartment is dark and empty. Cold. Though his bones drag him towards his bed, he updates his board instead, stripping the werewolves from around the Essyolyte, slapping a great, big question mark in their place.
Back to square one. That's just fucking great.
A/N - No one's reading this, but that's okay. It's a crossover, and it's harder to get readers for those on this site than it is on AO3. I'll keep posting chapters here anyways. If you are reading, I'd love to hear from you and know what you think of the fic.
