Author's Note: And here is Chapter 13! Hopefully I can get started on Chapter 14 soon and post it. I am adding a warning for this chapter for minor violence and implied violence. It's nothing squeamish or anything, but I just wanted to play it safe. Alright, read on! :)

The fluorescent light flickered, casting unsteady shadows on the grimy walls of the bathroom. Stiles gripped both sides of the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face was paler than usual, making the dark purple bruising around his nose even more prominent.

He brought a tentative hand to his face. As soon as his fingers brushed against his skin, he felt a sharp pain that made his eyes water. Definitely broken. At least the bleeding had stopped. Dried blood caked the lower half of his face and the front of his shirt.

He turned on the faucet and ran a paper towel under the water. He scrubbed his face, carefully avoiding his nose, until his skin was raw. Then he moved onto his shirt, scrubbing at the red stain, but it kept getting bigger and bigger the harder he scrubbed.

Frustrated, Stiles threw the paper towel into the sink. He looked up at the mirror again, but it wasn't his face looking back at him. He quickly turned away, clenching his eyes shut.

"Why won't you look at me, Stiles? You killed me after all," a voice accused, its tone laced with bitterness.

He covered his ears with his hands.

But it began again, louder than before. It cut through his eardrums like a knife, echoing back and forth in his mind. "It's your fault."

"It was an accident."

"You were weak. That's what it was."

The voice was taunting him. He couldn't, no, wouldn't listen to it. Because deep down he knew that if he did, he might actually start to believe those hate-filled words.

A warmth bubbled in his chest, like a fire was being kindled inside of him. It grew hotter and hotter until he was sure he'd pass out or self-combust. And it wanted out.

"Look at me, Stiles. Look at what you've done!"

He spun back towards the mirror, expelling the fire from his body.

"SHUT UP!"

A blue light bathed the room; cracks appeared in the walls and the mirror exploded, sending glass shards in all directions.

Just as quickly as it appeared, the light died down, leaving only wisps of light rising from his skin. It was on his hands, his arms. He had a sudden urge to see his face and picked up one of the larger shards. His eyes were also glowing a bright blue.

"What the hell is happening to me?"

Stiles dropped the shard and backed up against the door. Everything was spiraling out of control. First at the nightclub. Now this. Was he even human?

He couldn't take it anymore.

Reaching into his pocket, Stiles pulled out the slim black cell phone that Tim had given him at the museum. The screen lit up, displaying the time. It was late, almost two in the morning. Would Tim even be awake?

He dialed the number anyways. When he heard a tired hello on the other end, he couldn't help the sobs that wracked through his body.

"Tim, I- , I-"

"What's wrong?"

"I need your help."

6 hours ago

Since the heist, Cat had become his new tutor in the art of thievery, which included some lessons in hand-to-hand combat (Cat wiped the floor with him each time) and deception (not that he needed much help, keeping werewolves a secret was an art in itself).

Today's lesson was safe cracking. Cat didn't even bother teaching him to do it by ear, not enough patience she said, and instead opted for what she dubbed the "drill method". Which is why they were now in a more upscale part of the city, crouched in a closet in front of a safe.

"A little to the left."

"Left, gotcha."

"No, no, you have to angle it."

"Do I have it or not?" Stiles snapped but instantly regretted it. "I shouldn't have yelled. I know you're going out of your way to teach me. I just get nervous when you keep correcting me."

"I'm not trying to make you nervous. I've never had to teach anyone before." Cat took the drill from his hands. "Let me see this. I've been cracking safes like this one since I was a kid, so," she put the drill bit against the safe door, angling it with her arm, "I know exactly where to drill. You get in the wrong place and you're going to need a new drill. And I learned that the hard way."

The drill slipped into the metal with ease. When it was deep enough, Cat slid it back out and replaced it with a scope.

"Your turn," she said, handing him the scope.

Stiles looked into the scope. At first, he couldn't make heads or tails of what he was seeing- it was all fuzzy, like looking through a smudged camera lens. But as his vision focused, he could make out multiple gears that were connected to one another in a line. It was the safe's interior locking mechanism. He tried to remember what Cat had told him back in the apartment. What was it again? 'Just line up the notches. It'll open that baby right up.'

And that's exactly what he did. It took a couple tries (maybe more than he'd like to admit) before the safe opened with a resounding click.

"I did it! I frickin' did it!" He whooped and pumped a fist into the air.

And Coach Finstock said he wouldn't get anywhere.

"Yeah, yeah. Take it in. You did good, Wolf."

Inside the safe, stacks of cash filled the bottom shelf. "Woah, that's a lot of money. What did this guy do, rob a bank?"

"Worse, Lincoln March's a politician."

"And that makes him a bad guy?"

"You ever hear of a clean politician? They're all the same, full of empty promises. In the end, it's always about themselves. And the money."

At least that abated some of the guilt he was feeling about robbing the guy. Not that it made it any better.

Stiles started emptying the money into his backpack. He felt a twinge of shame as the image of his father's disapproving face crossed his mind. Unspoken words of how he was raised better than this. He bit down on his lip and continued clearing the safe.

Cat reached over his head and grabbed some folders from the upper shelf. She skimmed the contents before slipping them into her sack.

"What's that?"

"Information. You never know when something like this might come in handy. Oh, and before I forget, this-" she said tossing him a small black pouch, "-is for you."

Stiles took a peek inside, revealing shiny and sharply cut diamonds.

"It'll impress whoever your working for." He opened his mouth to deny it, but Cat quickly cut him off, "It's obvious. Every job we've been on, you always prefer jewels over cash. And since you still have those hole-ridden clothes, I know you're not keeping any of it. Do they have something over you? I hate to pry, but if you're going to be my protege, I think it's something I ought to know."

"No one has anything over me." He swung the backpack over his shoulder. "It's...temporary."

"It's always temporary. Whatever you're mixed in with, make sure you have an out."

He hadn't thought about that. His first priority had always been to get his father out of prison. If he did succeed, he wasn't sure Alexei would be willing to let him leave. And being a thief for the mob wasn't his ideal career path.

"I'll deal with it when I get there."

Cat didn't comment, but from the slight frown on her face, he could tell she didn't approve.

"Let's get out of here." She walked over to the window and grabbed onto the bar connected to the zipline. Then, she jumped out, disappearing into the clear night.

"I still hate heights!" He yelled out the window after her. Cat landed safely onto the rooftop of the hotel across the street. "Alright, time to do this."

Stiles perched himself on the windowsill. He didn't even think about it; he just threw himself down the line, gripping the bar for dear life. While it still terrified him, he was starting to like the feeling of flying through the air. It was an exhilarating feeling. And when the rooftop came into view, he was slightly disappointed that it was over.

He let go of the bar when his feet were above concrete, falling into a tuck and roll.

Cat was there ready to help him up. "I told you you'd figure it out."

"How couldn't I? You threw me down the last time," he said, still miffed over that little fact.

"Oh, come on. You weren't in any danger. You had a harness. And you never would have jumped."

"I might have." Really, ten more minutes and he would have. Or thirty. Stiles slid off his backpack and handed it to Cat. "Keep the cash. I don't need it."

Cat seemed reluctant to take it. "I beg to differ."

"Well then, I don't want it. Just take it, please."

The money, he didn't deserve it. And this way, the guilt over keeping it wouldn't hang over his head.

"Okay. But if you ever need a place to crash, my door is always open."

"Thanks, Cat."

"Stay safe, Derek."

Cat jumped off the roof, using her whip to help her descend to the next one. Stiles then turned to the stairs leading into the hotel. When he reached the front lobby, he put his hood up to avoid prying eyes (another one of Cat's helpful tips). Luckily, the receptionist was too busy to notice his dirty clothes or lack of luggage. So, he left the hotel with relative ease.

The bus to Alexei's wasn't far. He waited for it to arrive and climbed on, sitting in the back row. He thought back to the museum-his first official gig with Cat. The fight with Robin; the blue light coming from his hands.

Recreating it had proved just as fruitful as his attempts to find out if he had jedi powers when he was ten. Nothing but a migraine.

It wasn't long before he fell asleep, jolting awake when the bus pulled up a street behind Alexei's club.

"Read 'em and weep, boys." Stiles revealed his hand. "4-of-a-Kind."

"I swear that little fuck is cheating," Dimitri said, throwing his cards angrily down on the table.

"Maybe I'm just that good."

Dimirti flipped him the bird. Stiles only smirked in response.

Sergei pushed the money pot in Stiles's direction, his face also sour. "Don't get too cocky. It's beginner's luck."

"I think four times isn't beginner's luck."

Dimitri folded his hands over his chest. "Well I'm not playing him again."

"Afraid you're gonna lose."

He knew that he shouldn't try to rile him up but it was just too easy. Dimitri hated his guts, never really warming up to him since the jewelry heist. And he made sure to remind him every chance he got.

"Why I oughta-"

"Enough Dimitri," Sergei said, putting his hands up between the two, "Boss is almost done anyways."

"What's Alexei doing?" Stiles asked. He had been waiting for an hour with the diamonds, passing the time with Sergei and Dimitri by playing poker. They didn't usually let him play, so he took it as a sign that Sergei at least wanted him around. Or maybe was even starting to like him.

"He's talking to his girlfriend," Dimirti grumbled.

"I didn't know he had anyone." Alexei didn't seem the type to be in any kind of relationship. His cold exterior was somewhat off-putting to people. It had sent him scurrying out the door on more than one occasion when he arrived with his tribute.

"Why are we gossiping like old grannies?" Alexei asked, coming up from behind and making Stiles and Dimitri both jump.

Speak of the devil.

Sergei straightened up immediately, eyes like saucers. "Ah, forgive me Alexei, it was all in good fun."

Alexei wacked him in the back of his head. "I don't pay you to sit around and play games or talk about my love life."

"Sorry, boss." Sergei rubbed the back of his head. "Won't happen again. We were just waiting with Derek. He's here with some diamonds."

Stiles offered the diamonds to Alexei. "I hope they're to your liking." They were no Cat's Eye, but the size of them, they had to be worth something.

Alexei eyed the contents of the pouch and gave a nod of approval. "These are good. I have business at Mooney's. You can come with us."

"Mooney's?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

Mooney's. This was what he had been waiting for. Without missing a beat, Stiles said, "Of course, sir."

The van pulled up to the curb in front of Mooney's. At first glance, the black nondescript building didn't really give off the appearance of a high-class, mafia-run nightclub, but after spending weeks staking the place out, he knew that appearances could be deceiving. The only thing that gave it away was a pink neon lit sign in the window that was shaped like a fish skeleton. It was like a bad omen, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

An irrational part of him wanted to turn around and forget the whole thing. Mooney's had always been part of the plan- ever since Vicki Vale had given him that FBI case file back in October. But things were different on paper than they were in real life. Doubt swirled in his mind as to whether he could actually pull this off, filling him with uncertainty and increasingly absurd what-ifs. He stared at the light flickering across the window for the longest time, until someone rudely snapped their fingers in his face.

"Get out already, we're here." Sergei said.

Stiles looked around the van and realized that he was the only one left inside. Everyone else was already standing by the door with varying degrees of annoyance on their faces. He smiled sheepishly. To them, he was only an outsider- no more than the dirt off their shoes. Their loyalty to Sergei was the only thing keeping them in line.

Much to his relief, the door swung open, drawing everyone's attention away. A burly man stood in the doorway with what looked like a permanent scowl on his face. Alexei and the man exchanged a few words and the next thing he knew, they were making their way inside the nightclub.

It was nothing like he imagined. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke and alcohol permeated through the air. To his right, there was an oak finished bar and scattered throughout the room were booths filled with women and men in cocktail dresses and two-piece suits, laughing and drinking wine with one another. And at the very end of the room was a curved stage with a lounge singer at the microphone.

Sergei stopped by the bar and motioned for the rest of his crew to stop as well.

"This is as far as we go."

"Wait, what?"

"Sit at one of the stools and be quiet."

Stiles gave him a questioning look. "That's all we're going to be doing?"

"Alexei only needs us here if something goes south. Nothing more, nothing less. So, sit on one of the stools and be quiet."

"Bu-"

Sergei cut off any protests with a stern glare. Stiles huffed in response and plopped himself onto a stool at the end of the bar.

Alexei continued on to a little table by the stage. A woman got up to greet him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was Mooney, dressed in all red. There she was, only a few feet away, and he was stuck on guard duty. He wasn't even guard material. At most, he could throw a few punches, but overall he was pretty useless in a fight.

The bartender seemed to pick up on his sour mood. "Anything to drink, sir?"

"Water?"

"A water it is," the bartender said, sliding a bottle of water into his open hand.

Stiles swiveled around in his stool so he could face the stage again. He let the singer's lulling voice take him far away from the nightclub. Far away from all of his troubles. For a moment, he wondered what it would have been like if his father hadn't been arrested. Would they be at home eating Stiles's newest attempt at a healthy dinner? Or maybe catching a lacrosse game on their small TV? The ghost of a smile crossed his face.

Then, the sound of glass shattering cut through the song and his musings, and he turned back to the bar. Wine was dripping off the counter and the bartender was frantically trying to clean up the mess. Stiles picked up a napkin at his side and started dabbing the red liquid that was now making a large stain on the floor.

"No, no, leave it."

"It's fine. I got it."

The bartender slapped his hands away, "I said leave it!"

"Jeez, I was just trying to help." Stiles said, holding his hands to his chest. He took a step back, but found himself lifting his foot when he felt something crunch under his sneaker. In between the pieces of glass was a purple flower. He bent down and picked it up off the floor.

A nagging feeling of deja vu washed over him that he couldn't quite place. As he turned the flower over by its stem, he felt his finger start to numb. That's when it all came back to him. Derek. The bullet from Kate Argent.

It was Wolfsbane. Aconitum napellus. Extremely poisonous. Even touching the roots could be fatal.

He dropped the flower immediately as if it had stung him and wiped his hands on his jeans. When he was satisfied that there was no trace of the poison on his skin, he looked up and caught the bartender staring intently at him.

"I got some wine on my hands," he offered up as an excuse. The bartender seemed unconvinced but nodded anyways.

Stiles returned to his stool, throwing a glance over his shoulder every once in a while. He saw the bartender shakily grab the tray with the remaining wine glasses and begin to walk in the direction of Mooney and Alexei's table.

There was only one conclusion that he could draw. It was insane to even think it, but Wolfsbane wasn't exactly something you used to complement wine. The bartender intended to kill one of them. Or both.

He had no idea what to do. There was no way he could waltz in there and just tell them. They'd never believe him. But if he did nothing, they could die. Criminals or not, that's not something he could let happen. The selfish part of him thought, if Mooney died, his only lead would disappear, too.

So there was only one option left. Get the drinks away from the table before anyone had time to ask any questions.

Stiles followed after the bartender, getting to the table at the exact moment he arrived. Alexei looked up at him in surprise, which quickly morphed into anger when he realized it was him. Mooney, on the other hand, was looking on with mild interest.

"What are you doing here, Derek?" Alexei asked with a tight smile.

"Yes, what are you doing here, Derek?" Sergei repeated, appearing behind Stiles.

All their eyes were on him. Stiles froze, suddenly becoming painfully aware of his heart in his chest. His plan of dashing away with the tray unnoticed went quickly down the drain.

'Don't say anything stupid. Don't say anything stupid.'

"Um, I thought I saw a fly buzzing around one of the glasses...yeah a fly," he said, mentally face palming in his head. Of all the things he could say.

"A fly."

He could see the anger in Alexei's eyes intensify, threatening to boil over. Why was he even trying to save this guy again? If looks could kill, he'd already be dead.

"Huge fly. You know what they say: when a fly lands, it takes a shit on whatever it lands on. It's disgusting stuff; you don't want any of that ." He grabbed onto the edge of the tray. "I can just take it back…"

The bartender tugged the tray towards himself. "There was no fly."

He tugged it right back. "Yes there was."

"No, there wasn't!"

Mooney raised a manicured hand in the air. "Enough."

Everything became deadly silent. Almost as if her command had seized everyone in the room with an iron grip, paralyzing them where they stood.

"Everyone out."

At the snap of her fingers, everyone scurried out of the nightclub, leaving behind their meals and drinks. A few key people remained from either Mooney's or Alexei's side. He had her undivided attention. He wondered if it wasn't too late to bolt right then and there.

"Give me a glass, Butch."

The man that they met at the entrance lumbered over and grabbed a glass from the tray, placing it in Mooney's outstretched hand. Stiles gave a sideways glance at the bartender, but he was stony faced. Not a hint of emotion behind his eyes.

"What's your name?"

"Derek."

"And he's with you, Alexei?"

"Yes." Alexei answered, glaring in his direction.

"Butch."

In a quick motion, Stiles was on the table, his arm twisted painfully behind his back.

Mooney put the glass in front of his face, "Now you're going to tell me what's really wrong with my drink."

"Alexei…" He heard Sergei say.

"Answer her."

He hesitated. "I-"

"And here I was hoping we could do this the easy way."

Butch lifted his head and banged it violently against the table. Stiles felt his nose break, blood dripping down his face. "Fuck!"

"Now," she said in a sickeningly sweet tone. "If you don't tell me what I want to hear, I'm going to force this cup of wine down your throat. Then I'll have my answer, won't I?"

His arm was twisted further behind his back, making him yelp from the pain. All he could think about as he struggled in Butch's grip was that he was going to die. Die without seeing his dad again. Without saying goodbye to Parrish. In a moment that will haunt him for the rest of his life, he said in between labored breaths, "Poison...the bartender…poison."

The hands retracted from his head and he collapsed onto the floor. Sergei was next to him holding a paper to his nose. "Are you alright?"

No. He wasn't. His body was shaking with fear and he was on the verge of a panic attack. But he nodded, the words getting lost in his throat.

Mooney turned her attention to the bartender. "So you tried to poison me?"

"No, I would never! I swear!"

She wrapped her hand around his tie, "Not even if someone paid you to do it, Ben?"

"No!"

"Okay, I believe you." Mooney said, surprising everyone. "How could I not? Such a loyal, trustworthy employee."

She let go of Ben's tie and placed the glass in his hands. "One thing. Try it for me. Just a sip, to make sure it's safe."

"N-"

Sergei's hand covered his mouth, muffling any protests and making the pain in his nose flare up. Then, low enough for him to only hear, Sergei said, "Don't make a sound if you value your life."

Sergei removed his hand, and Stiles could only watch with bated breath as Ben brought the drink to his lips. It actually looked like he was going to drink it.

Was he wrong?

After a long pause, Ben lowered the glass, resignation written across his face.

"That's what I thought. Butch, take him out back for a conversation. We'll finish this meeting in my office, Alexei." Turning to Stiles, she said, "And hon, next time, don't be afraid to speak up."

Alexei took Mooney's proffered arm. "We will discuss this later, Derek."

In reality, he knew there was nothing to discuss. Alexei wouldn't tolerate his disobedience. He might have escaped Mooney's wrath, but Alexei would not be as forgiving.

Butch and another man then proceeded to drag a kicking and pleading Ben out of the nightclub. He wanted to run after him, do something to help him; it's what his dad would do. But his feet stayed rooted to the ground. Self preservation trumping any urge to play the hero.

"They're not going to talk, are they?"

"No."

There was a resounding pop, making him flinch. And then another.

He seized up at the implication of the sound. "They…"

"There was nothing you could do."

Sergei patted his shoulder awkwardly. Stiles angrily shrugged his hand off. "Don't touch me."

He didn't need comforting. This was all his fault. He killed Ben.

He killed Ben.

He was going to throw up. Stiles pushed past Sergei and ran out of the nightclub. No one made a move to stop him.

He ran until there was enough distance between himself and Mooney's, eventually coming to a stop in front of a corner store. He made a beeline for the bathroom and locked the door.

What had he done?