Chapter 23: I Am Not, Nor Have I Ever Been...a Witch?
"Stiles," Chris moved toward the kid, eyeing their audience. "You need to calm down."
"No!" Stiles shoved his arms out at the older man, the lights in the bar sparking as Chris stood firm.
The hunter's eyes narrowed on the teenager as a few bulbs burst. There was another flicker and this time when Chris blinked back at the brightness, Stiles was gone.
Jeremy steadied himself rather easily after being deposited by the vampire. The kid, on the other hand, was a mess of tangled legs and green cheeks as Damon let go of his shirt collar.
"Well, hello little witch," Damon crossed his arms, only to be rewarded by Stiles bending over in front of him, heaving.
It was the vampire's speed that saved his shoes from the contents of Stiles' stomach.
"Nice, Damon," Jeremy shook his head.
"What? You rather hunty-mc-grouchy-pants in there get his hands on him?" Damon jerked a thumb back at the bar across the street.
"Don't tell me you actually care about someone."
"Keep it up, little Gilbert. We need a witch. Tada," he waved his fingers at the kid still clutching his stomach, "we found one."
"A what?" Stiles started to laugh before retching again. "I didn't know vampires could move that fast. Did we move that fast? Or did I pass out?"
"They move that fast," Jeremy sighed.
"Oh, okay. Then now I'm gonna pass out."
True to his word, the kid pitched forward, eyes rolling backward and body going boneless. Jeremy caught him before the boy's head hit the pavement.
"Isn't this going to be fun," Damon grunted, helping heave the stranger off the ground.
"Hey," Jeremy shrugged under the weight. "At least you're not bored."
The taste of his own pillow - and old vomit - woke Stiles. He didn't remember being sick. In fact, he didn't remember much at all. That is, until he tried to move and a gong cracked against his skull, sending flashes of faces through his mind.
Lydia's words had weighed him down until his heart could no longer bear it. He needed Scott. Damn his own pride. Damn Scott's. They were brothers. The polished off bottle of booze from his father's liquor cabinet may have been helping him along. Either Stiles was going there to forgive Scott, or wail on him, the bourbon hadn't decided yet.
So when Stiles marched out from the protection of his mountain ash bordered house, armed with vervain and wolfsbane, he hadn't been on the alert from regular old humans as he crossed town on foot. Because it would be Stiles' luck that it wasn't Alphas that found him, corralled him, cornered him, in that back alley. Just a bunch of drunk college boys. Because it would also be Stiles' luck that, in his hurry, he had elbowed into one of them as they left the bar. He might have spouted something sarcastic, and well, very Stiles-like, when it happened too.
They left him on the concrete by the dumpster with just a bruised rib.
The panic attack had frightened them off. Probably thought they had somehow nearly killed the kid. They didn't know that when the loomed over him, Stiles saw the face of an old man. They didn't know that when they hit him and his vision blacked out for only a second, he was sent back to those days in the hospital, swimming in seas of darkness and pain and terror.
When he came back up for air, all he knew was that his attackers were gone and he wasn't going to see Scott. Not like that. Weak. Vulnerable. Human.
"Focus, Sleeping Beauty."
Fingers were snapping in front of his face and Stiles scrunched his eyes closed tighter.
"Do you want him to puke all over you again?"
"What I want is for our only chance to save my girlfriend to wake his hungover ass up. Now, rise and shine."
Stiles was proud of himself for biting down on the yelp that had leapt up the back of his
throat when the icy water hit his face. Or, at least, he would have been if some sort of strangled off scream hadn't still slipped out in its place.
"Rude," Stiles peeled back his eyelids, squinting at the unwelcome guests in his bedroom. "Whoa, whoa. Hang on." The kid started scooting up his headboard but then stopped to put a hand to his head. "Ow. Ow. But, still," he swallowed back the bile, "I repeat. Hang on. You're a vampire."
"Good morning to you too. And you're welcome for getting your scrawny butt home without being taken advantage of in your state last night."
"Ew," Stiles rubbed his face. "I'd say thank you but, you're a vampire."
"And you're friends with werewolves."
"And you're not answering my question."
"And you haven't asked any questions."
"Yes, I did. You're a vampire."
"You keep saying that. Still not a question."
Stiles' eyes blew wide and he sat upright, tilting only slightly.
"My dad. Wh -"
"He's at work," Jeremy sighed, understanding the kid's 'question'. "Damon compelled your dad to let him in the house, and forget he ever saw us. Your dad is at the station and he thinks you're here, playing video games all day."
"Compel?" Stiles blinked.
"It's like mind control," Jeremy shrugged.
"You Jedi'd my dad?"
"He's fine," Jeremy lifted his hands.
"For now."
"Whoa, what?" The head-spin-and-snap motion that Stiles did toward Damon and then back to Jeremy had him almost heaving, again, but his mouth kept busy, despite the blurred vision and roiling gut. "You said last night that you're the good guys. At least, I think you did somewhere in the fuzz. Pretty sure you're vampire friend just mumble-threatened my dad."
"Be happy I brought you back here," Damon leaned toward the boy. "I liked your spunk last night."
"My spunk? You gonna compliment my moxy next?"
"Careful. There's a fine line between the amount of attitude I admire, and the amount that annoys me."
"Listen, Hemo-gobbler. I'm very hungover, if you can't tell with all your extra spidey senses. And, in a few minutes, when my bedroom goes back to my bedroom instead of this merry-go-round, I plan on crawling underneath these covers and sleeping for a solid day - and, thanks, by the way, for not tucking me in because it's already embarrassing and creepy enough one of you carried me here. So, whatever it is you want from me, tell me now, before the elephant doing the salsa on my skull gets a dance partner."
"We need your help," Damon cut in, "more accurately, we need a witch's help."
"A witch? What? You need me to find someone? Use my dad's connections?"
"Don't play dumb. We're working with your wolf friends and haven't killed any of them - yet. We know you're a witch." Damon rolled his eyes. "We're not gonna hurt you. What I can't figure out is why they haven't asked you for help yet."
"I - you think I'm - what? Am I still drunk? Are you drunk? This, right here," he waved his hands, gesturing up and down his body, "is 100% human."
"Technically witches are still human," Jeremy tilted his head.
"Fine, I'm 100% human and 100% not a witch. I'm just Stiles. Normal, human, clawless, powerless, Stiles."
"You've got to be kidding me," Damon tilted his head back after eyeing the boy for a long, squinting, moment. "We finally find a witch, the one thing we need to save my girlfriend, and we get stuck with a greenie."
"Locator spells are pretty simple," Jeremy shrugged, side-eyeing the ghost in the corner. "Shouldn't be too hard for Bonnie to teach him."
"Jer, he doesn't even know he's a witch. Give him a minute. I was freaked when I first found out."
Jeremy paused and side-eyed the ghost in the corner.
"Yes, except locator spells haven't worked," Damon spun and threw his hands up. "We need something that packs more of a magical punch. Besides, can't hurt to have him on our side when we face any of those Alphas again"
"How - why do you even think that I'm some sort of Harry Potter?"
"Last night," Jeremy started before Damon could scare the kid any more than they already had. "You were upset. The lights flickered."
"So - so that crap bar has bad wiring and you immediately leap to the conclusion that I'm Miracle Max?"
"Look kid," Damon sighed, his impatience bleeding through, "I've seen magic before. That was magic."
"Isn't witchcraft a family thing?" Stiles squinted. "Passed down? Hate to break it to you, but no one in my family history so much as floated a pencil. I think I would've noticed something in my eighth-grade genealogy report."
"Not if it was kept secret." The three turned as a strawberry blonde young woman opened the door and walked across the room as if it was her own. "Most of the people that were drowned and burned in the trials weren't real witches. The true witches were smart and skilled enough to hide their craft."
"Lydia?" Stiles flailed in his blankets, bringing them up over his chest and then remembering he was still in last night's clothing. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, let's see. You texted saying you were finally going to grow up and talk to Scott, but then never texted again all night. Then Jackson tells me you never came by Derek's place. Then, Allison calls saying her dad came home last night and started asking all sorts of questions - about you."
"Great," Stiles flung his head back. "Now Argent thinks I'm some witch too. He's wrong, obviously. Just like you all are."
"Fine," Damon slammed a fist against Stiles' desk. "Maybe he's wrong. Maybe I am. Maybe we're not. But maybe you're tired of being a pathetic, useless human too. So, maybe, there are enough maybe's for you to shut up and try, or you're going to find out just how weak humans really are compared to vampires."
"Did you just threaten him?" Lydia cupped her hips in her palms.
"No," Damon shook his head and then suddenly, he was across the room, and Stiles was no longer in bed, but pinned to the wall underneath him. "This is threatening him. I am so over playing nice. My girlfriend's time is running out and my witch is having a power outage. Oh, and every other witch we've hunted down has a nasty habit of giving me a magic migraine and disappearing."
"I wonder why," Stiles choked out.
"Jer," Damon tilted his head while still gripping the kid's neck, "call Bon-Bon. We've got a witch to train."
A/N: Is Stiles a witch? Or something else? Why did his body react that way to vampire blood? Why are drunk college boys so mean? What the heck is going on?
