The Beginning of a Week's End
Saturday, January 22nd
Stiles didn't get to sleep in near as much as he'd hoped. His father typically woke up in the AM hours, even without a shift to get to. The beep of the coffee machine and pop of the toaster made the new werewolf flinch awake from a heavy sleep. He caught a glimpse of his bedside clock and groaned. 9:07 AM. Who the heck wakes up at nine when they don't have work or school? With an annoyed grumble, the teen pulled his comforter over his head and tried to force himself back to sleep.
He'd stayed up late after finally watching the Westerns with his father, the man long asleep when Stiles went to bed after several hours of werewolf research. It had been interesting just how much of the werewolf mythos was developed in Hollywood or early fiction. That being almost all of it, to Stiles' frustration. The wolfsbane, the silver, the only turning on a full moon, the bite of any lycanthrope and killing the one that bit you: all had ties to pieces of fiction. As far as he could tell every culture around the globe had shapeshifters based on their local predators. And the folklore varied with how enlightened a place was. Christianity could be a really scary religion.
The ancient Greeks recorded other people's origins of werewolves, either through the sacrifice of a child or a natural transformation that occurred for ten years or the like. But the Greeks themselves treated lycanthropy like a mental disease. Which Stiles was pretty sure was a legit business. Some people were just nuts. And some ate moldy bread. Although the 'remedies' weren't pretty in any culture and usually killed the victims. The accused werewolves during the Dark Age witch trials were either likely serial killers, politically chosen victims, or… maybe the genuine article. If the pattern of confessions were given some grain of truth, it read like a person transformed by an Alpha and left to their own devices, which were naturally violent. That kinda sucked…
The Beast of Gevaudan's reign of terror reminded him of the Alpha, though the histories claim it was simply a pack of over-large wolves. The Navajo feared witch-wolves. The Haitian je-rouges spread their transformation by biting children volunteered up by their half-asleep mothers. Lycaon killed his own son for Zeus to eat and had his entire clan turned into wolves.
But then there was the lauded Prince of Polotsk in Belarus, and the French story of Bisclavret, the gentle Breton noble-wolf, the Viking Ulfhednar soldiers who answered to Harald I of Norway, or the Turkish shamans who became Kurtadam revered as the totemic animal of their ancestors, the Arcadians that transformed into wolves and without harming a person changed back years later, and Thiess who was called the 'Hound of God'. The stories all ran the gauntlet of violence to pure peace. Here and there Christianity dogged the folklore, making the lycanthropes only turn on holy days or full moons. Sometimes there was a belt or pelt that turned a person, or salve, an ointment, or a magical stream to begin the transformation. Sometimes it was divine retribution. A deal with the Devil. A victim could be cured by driving nails through their hands, or just calling their name three times. Sometimes they came back from the dead unless you decapitated them.
Needless to say, Stiles didn't get a lot of sleep.
The stories ran through his head concurrently with the many pages on his browser, mixing and meshing until he would get characteristics mixed up across three or more cultures. Eventually, though not very tired, Stiles couldn't stand to concentrate any further and decided to give up in favor of sleep. He felt lucky he hadn't had more nightmares. Dark brows furrowed as he rethought that. No, being on trial in a modern day court for lycanthropy was just weird, not scary. Downstairs the strong smell of coffee started to permeate to the second floor.
The younger Stilinski groaned, this time in reluctant want. Maybe he should keep a single-cup coffee maker in his room, then he'd barely have to leave his bed to make a cup and be right back under the covers. With a sigh, he kicked off the duvet and took his time getting upright. He wasn't even mildly sore, like a usual all-nighter at his computer left him. His bare feet touched the cold hardwood and he didn't flinch, skin too warm to be bothered. Stiles shivered at the strangeness, then turned his thoughts towards organizing what he'd read.
Body automatically making it's sleepy way down the hall to the restroom, he wondered if he'd saved all those pages and organized the bookmarks in his usual fashion. By the time he made it to the kitchen and beloved coffee maker, Stiles figured he'd have to go back through his history and check himself. Some of them had been more summaries than original sources, and he'd prefer to save the specialist sites over generalities like Wikipedia.
"Morning?" Sheriff Stilinski asked skeptically. A raised brow implied the obvious question, what was his son doing up before noon on a weekend? Stiles wished it weren't so, and growled in annoyance. Then stilled in shock while reaching for a mug. That sounded way scarier than it usually did. An embarrassed blush rose to his cheeks when he sensed his father's stare intensify.
Stiles cleared his throat, "Sorry. Uh, the appliances woke me up." He absently grabbed two slices of bread from the open packaging and dropped them in the empty toaster. Then poured coffee into his mug with his right hand and cranked the toaster dial with his left. Used to his boy's haphazard manner of kitchen prep, the Sheriff gave an acknowledging 'huh' and turned back to his newspaper.
The officer's son sighed when he saw the thickly layered newsprint and shook his head while he added a touch of milk to his brew. One of these days I'm getting him a tablet, he thought despairing of his father's 'old school' habits. Instinct had him manually popping his toast up before the dial indicated, and Stiles gave his own curious hum. There was the smallest hint of burnt bread in his nose and the pieces came out perfectly browned. Score one for the werewolf.
With a grin, he started to smear honey on each slice, pleased for the first time that morning. His dad rustled the paper, letting keen ears pick up the subtle sound of it landing on the table instead of rubbing against callused fingers. The Sheriff started, "So, any plans for the day?"
"Scott's coming over," Stiles answered without thought, and a combination of happiness and anxiety swirled in his stomach. He took a bite of the prepared bread to settle it, then spoke with his mouth half full, "I gotta find Derek somehow, maybe get him over here so you can do your official Sheriff thing."
"My official Sheriff thing should really be done at the station, kiddo."
"No it shouldn't," he countered, then turned to face a blue-eyed glare, "What? It shouldn't! We gotta talk about werewolf stuff and I know your office isn't soundproof." Whoops. The glare narrowed intensely on him, making Stiles gulp and hurry on, "We're going to have to talk about the Alpha and his sister, and you know, the whole story about his sister. Which is probably werewolf-y."
The officer sighed, lines creasing his wearied face when he raised a palm to his forehead. His son could read the 'I'm too old for this shit' as clearly as the Batman symbol in Gotham skies. He went quiet, sipping his coffee and trying to ignore the guilt that panged in his chest. Collecting his two slices of sweet bread with one hand, Stiles started to gesture as he changed topics and moved towards the stairs.
"You know, apparently the whole full moon thing is bullshit. I mean, it's in stories sometimes, pretty rarely, but it's mostly Hollywood. Other times it can be the new moon, which I get because you know, darkness is scary and all," the coffee almost slipped over his mug and he hastily corrected, making his movements even more awkward, "But, yeah, most of the time it's either at night or permanent for years, or just dealer's choice. I mean, the werewolf chooses to take off the girdle or whatever, you know?"
His dad was watching the monologue with a jaundiced eye, and answered sardonically, "No, Stiles. I didn't know because I didn't spend an all-nighter looking up werewolves. I would've, oh I don't know, gone to the library?"
Which is all the Sheriff needed to say on what he thought of Stiles' interweb sources. "Oh, like books aren't written by the victors. I could find plenty of mistranslations or outright lies in just as many paper-printed books, Dad," he leaned a hip on the balustrade, raising his voice just a little for clarity outside of the kitchen, "Besides, it's not like it's the Sunnydale High library. I'm probably not going to find any Watcher's diaries in there."
As he climbed the stairs and drank his morning addiction, trouble waiting to happen really, he caught the soft sigh of all exasperated fathers and a sarcastic, "And it's not like all those preconceptions you've filled your head with aren't going to annoy an actual werewolf."
Stiles opened his mouth, then shut it with a clack of molars. He just realized something very annoying. If he could hear his father anywhere in the house, and the man was obviously going to use that, then he's always going to get the last word. Unless Stiles felt like yelling and even then the man might not hear him clearly. Goddamn it, he thought with mild irritation. The teen didn't actually want to yell all the damn time. His new hearing disapproved of loud noises in general. He still hadn't figured out how to turn it off.
He also never realized how often he got the last word until he was never going to have it. Harrumphing to himself, the gawky boy kicked his computer chair enough distance from the desk to sit and emptied his hands before kickstarting his computer to check where he left off.
He would never admit it, but he spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for evidence of genuine werewolves on social media thereafter. He'd dropped his mythos kick in favor of trying to figure out if there were people like him on Facebook or Twitter. It's hard to tell if someone was hiding a wolfy secret in only a hundred and forty characters. He ran out of coffee after the first half hour and didn't notice when he finished his cold toast except now there were crumbs in his keyboard. Probably the only reason he took note was for the disturbing crunch that stilled his long fingers as he typed in another search tag. Looking at his work space, Stiles grimaced and warily raised his sticky digits away from the abused appliance.
Groaning at his own inattention, the shifter quickly wiped his hands clean on a dirty piece of laundry then picked up his mug to take to the kitchen. Absently taking in the sensory information around him while working out his search troubles, the bitten identified his father in his office as he made a second cup and hummed thoughtfully.
Derek didn't seem like the type for social media. Hard to picture him taking a selfie, Stiles thought with amusement. But there had to be other wolves somewhere in the world. It'd been pretty much established universally that all teenagers at some point felt misunderstood by their families and searched for validations elsewhere. In modern times, that meant the Internet. If they weren't making all their profiles private, which Stiles had to face was a likelihood in the presence of hunters.
Listening to his dad's heartbeat and clacking of the keyboard, he realized he could refine his parameters further: searching for posts specifically after this last full moon. If wolves were going to chat online, they'd probably make plans before, not be on the computer the night of, and chat about the full moon the day after. Wetting a paper towel with a little water, Stiles collected the canned air from the hall closet and slipped upstairs again. Cleaning up the mess took less than a minute, and the boy quickly put away those items and went back to work, reseting his search to people recovering after a Wednesday party.
…There were a stunning amount of people that shared his father's birthday. Really, that was all he'd discovered. The teen wolf's frustration mounted, making his fingers rigid, his molars grit, and his concentration falter. Where before he could hear and smell everything around him as a sort of white noise he'd gotten used to in the background, in his agitated state every noise or passing scent was a flare gun to his senses.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, Stiles snarled as he pushed his laptop away a little too hard. It slid across his desk and hit the wall with a frightening thud. Immediately regretful, he involuntarily whined and hesitantly reached for the device again. The screen was fine, the back saved by its flatness. Lifting the bottom revealed a small crack though, along the battery casing. He winced at the damage, then groaned as he started to reach in his drawer for the duct tape.
Instinct stilled his hand. Unsure at first, Stiles took a deep breath before realizing he was hearing a third heartbeat close by, an extremely fast one. So intent on his sensory analysis, the bitten wolf was startled by the loud ring of the doorbell and jerked from his leaning over posture-straight to the floor. He yelped before he hit the ground, and cracked his chin over the open drawer while his chair spun in the opposite direction. Dazed and annoyed, the clumsy teen belatedly tapped at his chin to find tacky blood and no wound. It had already healed.
"Stiles! Scott's here!" his father bellowed from below.
He sighed. Then started to get up with an exaggerated moan despite a lack of sore muscles. A quick trip to the bathroom washed away the blood, leaving none to remark on the incident save himself. He met Scott in the hall before his bedroom and greeted him warmly. "Scotty!"
"Hey man!" his best friend responded with a quick hug and shoulder clap, then entered Stiles' room as confidently as if it were his own. The place looked no worse for wear than usual and Scott immediately took a seat on the unmade bed to get comfortable. Acting as nonchalantly as possible, the teen wolf grabbed up his tape and flipped his laptop to start patching the crack in his electronics.
"So, how was the party?"
Scott's lips slowly parted in a dopey grin, "Oh, it was amazing. Allison is just so pretty, and smart, and kind, and…" a slight pause as dark brown eyes glazed over in memory.
"Amazing?" Stiles filled in, amused and smirking as he tore a piece of silver tape off the roll.
"Yeah… She's really sweet, and we talked almost the whole time," the boy ran on, fingers fidgeting with the comforter as he looked down. A small blush was barely visible across his tan cheeks and the shifter sensed a new scent in the air. Stiles smiled, unable to identify it but pleased for his best friend. He slapped the tape onto the bottom of his laptop, covering the crack, then swung his computer chair around so he could sit on it backwards.
"Almost?" he teased, "Well, what else did you do then?"
"Um, we danced too. For a while." Scott's smile grew and his blush darkened.
Stiles mimicked the grin leeringly, "Oh yeah? You kiss her?"
The new wolf heard the boy's heart rate leap, the blood rushing to his face ever faster, "At her door…"
"Aw yeah… That's my boy!" Stiles loudly encouraged, bro-nodding his head and leaning forward to ruffle the curly hair into an even bigger mess. Scott sputtered and protested, but both kept smiling, especially as Stiles almost lost his balance when his wheeled chair tottered to one side. His best friend caught him with a laugh, righting him easily, when a glance to the side seemed to subdue him. "What?" the wolf started and followed his gaze.
The sling. Oh. Right. Shit.
Concerned puppy-brown eyes refocused on him, "Are you okay, man?"
"Yeah," Stiles tensely answered, "Yeah, I'm okay dude. Um…" God, how was he going to put this? He wasn't even sure how to make himself shift. Everything he'd done so far had been involuntary.
"I mean, I feel like everything is suddenly going right for me, but you got all my bad luck instead or something. Getting mauled in the woods?" the Hispanic teen ducked his head to his chest, scent changing and making Stiles get up from his chair to instinctively sit closer. Scott's face was all guilt and the change in pheromones made the wolf feel the need to comfort him. Pain, he thought, emotional pain giving off the same signals as physical pain. "I'm so sorry, Stiles. We, uh, we don't have to talk about the party or anything anymore. Did you want to talk about that night in the woods?"
Stiles clasped his best bud's shoulder, holding tight for a moment and swallowing thickly. He wanted to tell him, he did. But… Scott's life was going right for him. First line on the lacrosse team, the girl he'd been crushing on for a week going to a party with him and kissing him… "Nah. Not-not yet. C'mon, let's go play some Black Ops."
This problem wasn't going to go away just because he didn't say it out loud. But he could put it off, just-for a little while. While he drummed up the courage to blurt it out as he usually did important things.
Scott agreed easily, and they trooped downstairs to the living room PlayStation 3. The bitten set up the game by habit, barely paying attention to the small talk as his human friend talked about what he was doing at the veterinarian's office that day. Something about assisting with a teeth cleaning; Stiles missed the majority while he fidgeted during the loading scenes. He didn't even realize he'd asked and confirmed the zombie feature for the game with Scott before he was playing the first round with him.
But when the game started up, the teen wolf automatically started dictating their character movements as he usually did. Only, he realized he was faster at it. Much faster. "Scott, on your left-"
"Dude, good catch, I didn't even see that one!" Scott would variedly exclaim. Stiles bit his lip, then stopped and straightened up tensely instead. It would do him no good to bite through his lip in front of the other boy. Heck of a way to convince him of the truth though. Maybe he'd get a knife from the kitchen when it came time.
Still, the shifter couldn't help but keep up the strategy. Every small movement on their split screens seemed like a flare, every creaky board or zombie groan a siren call over the TV speakers. It felt like his senses were almost back to the same sensitivity as when his concentration blew on his research, but this time it was working for him. They were doing even better this way than they ever had before, but the lycan was too distracted to enjoy it. Even Scott seemed to sense the disquiet, when after a few catcalls at the screen his best friend never bantered back.
They ended on a new high score. Both boys stared at it in silence.
"Man, that was-"
"I'm a werewolf!" Stiles practically yelped.
Scott laughed faintly, disbelievingly, "What?" The new wolf winced in response and felt his shoulders rise up to his ears involuntarily.
"I've got all the super senses, Scott. Seeing, hearing, smelling," he trailed off, finally hearing the minute creaking of plastic that prompted him to release the game controller before he wrecked it with his white knuckled grip, "And I'm like, super strong and I heal so fast, dude, it's ridiculous."
The human teen was still watching him in confusion, obviously not understanding a word, "Is this, um, a new feature on the game or something?"
Stiles shook his head with emphasis, "No!" Noticing the trembling of his hands, he shook them out before trying again, "Dude, I got attacked by a wolfman monster, under a full moon, okay? And it bit me. I got freakin' infected."
Here, his best friend finally looked more concerned than confused, "Infected with what?"
The turned wolf stared for a second, wide-eyed and baffled, "With lycanthropy, Scott!" The Hispanic boy flinched back at the shout, but his blank look caused Stiles' rant to continue, "It's really bad, man, the worst. But only once a month," Scott mouthed the last phrase with a furrowed brow, "You know, on the full moon? When I'll turn into a mindless, bloodthirsty beast?!"
Stiles didn't know, not really, if the moon would affect him so deeply, but years of horror movie cinema had indoctrinated those fears into his subconscious. Deep brown eyes followed his face cautiously, like Scott was looking at a stranger going off his rocket. The werewolf clenched his jaw, then his hands, thinking it was about time to get the kitchen knife. Or well… There was something that had already healed. And probably wouldn't give his friend an asthma attack, or make Mrs. McCall slap him again.
"Here, I'll show you," he started again after a breath and silence in response. Stiles started to yank on the collar of his shirts, but realized he couldn't reveal the massive bite radius through the small hole. When he threw off his plaid overshirt, Scott tried to protest, but fell silent as Stiles lifted his second shirt without pain. The dramatic background music to the military game upped the tension, and made the lack of words, lack of belief so obvious Stiles' eyes burned. His teeth itched. Stiles suddenly remembered that he hated being naked in front of people, felt oddly vulnerable despite the fact he wasn't hideous. Nevermind that his best friend had never incited that particular quirk before now...
Scott stared at the massive healed bite, and the shapeshifter could only helplessly look back at his friend. Anxiety crept through his veins, feeling his heartbeat in his fingers and ears, in the points of his teeth. He curled his fingers into a tight fist and bit down on his inner cheek. A horrible darkness fell across his friend's face.
"So why'd you have the sling?"
The anxiety didn't dissipate. Instinct kept it ramped, something in the lines of Scott's face, or his scent? Something told Stiles his best friend didn't believe him, wasn't coming to terms with what he'd been told. He couldn't open his mouth to answer, jaw clenched like lockjaw on a pitbull until he tasted copper on his tongue.
"You were barely even hurt, weren't you? Why would you-why would-" The human looked helplessly angry, stuttering and heart starting to pound. Stiles wanted to whine, but Scott suddenly spat questions even more quickly, "Is this because of me being first line? Because of Allison? Because everything's good now?"
"What?" Stiles croaked, with barely the breath to speak. He didn't know why he couldn't-why he couldn't keep trying to explain. It felt like his brain was boiling over, like his heart was simultaneously cracking and burning at the same time. Maybe because he didn't know why his best friend wouldn't even try to believe him. Believe he'd been attacked and irrevocably changed.
Ire etched across Scott's expression, carried in his voice as he stood, "Everything is perfect in my life, why would you try to ruin it with this stupid story? With trying to make it seem like you were more hurt than you were?" That was probably the worst part to Scott, Stiles thought in numb understanding. He believed Stiles was barely hurt, maybe just a little nibbled on. Nevermind that he'd probably still have scabs after only a couple days' healing. Scott saw scars. He saw only that it must have healed already. What other logical reason could there be?
Werewolves? Yeah. Right.
Stiles shuddered, turned to follow after his longest friend, "Scott-dude, wait, please!"
"I have to get to work." He didn't even look at Stiles to say it, just kept walking.
"Scott!"
The door slammed and the werewolf's heart spiked in tempo. The beat he could feel in all the places he now knew signaled the change upped into a bass drum. It felt like how he thought an echo would, reverberating through him. His vision reddened, fingers tightened and teeth burned. His breaths panted through his nose, every muscle in his body clenching up in a useless attempt to restrain the change in his blood.
"Stiles?" came a soft, concerned voice from the hall.
His dad. No, no, no, no-
He couldn't do it again, he couldn't hurt his dad. His limbs were moving before he even realized what he was doing. Avoiding the hall to his father's office, the wolf clambered for the stairs, legs swift but clumsy with the supernatural strength restrained by sheer force of will. The red wouldn't leave his vision, and his heart pulsed in his ears, blocking out his father's voice.
But when he pushed open his bedroom door, Stiles' first reaction was to snarl. Intruder! his instincts screamed at him. He didn't get the chance to react.
The human form he'd seen through the haze rushed him, a black blur with a pale face snarled right back and slammed him into the wall. He was held up by the shoulders, pinching his skin with every finger, and Stiles grabbed for the wrists holding him almost off the ground in a grip stronger than he'd ever had before. Whatever good it did him. Stiles growled in helpless rage when he couldn't budge the trespasser. Then words carried through the racing blood, though it took long seconds before the bitten could decipher any meaning to them, "-tell the kid dating an Argent? What the Hell were you thinking?!"
"He's my best friend," he uttered absently, automatically, around a mouthful of growing fangs. His fists weakened a fraction then locked tight enough to make the small bones grind. The new werewolf's mind had finally focused on a target, remembering Derek Hale and his tragic loss. Remembering Derek and their last scuffle that had ended with Stiles belly up in a creek bed. His lip curled back. A righteous growl started low in his throat, vibrating through his chest. Intruder… Derek pressed him harder against the wall despite the pain he must've been in.
"He's human, Stiles. He won't understand."
And from the prior rejection, from the fear of losing his only true friend the transformation was fed. The red rage grew. Stiles realized he was staring at the other man's neck. His claws lengthened and dug into flesh as he zeroed in on the flash of carotid artery pulsing under the skin. A beastly voice murmured, "He will."
"Look at me, Stiles," Derek's right hand went to Stiles' jaw, ignoring the creaking in his arm in favor of directing that bright blue gaze to meet his own, "Look at me. Tell me what you're thinking right now."
"Gonna kill you…" the teen mumbled around his fangs. The blue-hazel, no-the human eyes stared back at him without blinking. And Stiles noticed then how utterly calm his opponent was, how in control even as he held another werewolf aloft against the wall of their territory. Derek wasn't showing a hint of fang or claw.
"Why?" he asked forcefully. The question jolted Stiles into finally blinking. No answer came to his tongue. The haze started to retreat, and with it the rage.
"You…" Because Scott left? "I don't…" Derek didn't make him leave. His hands loosened though the claws stayed. He could smell the coppery sting of blood, practically tasted it on his tongue, and couldn't help glancing down at the small cuts and bruises already healing on the older wolf's wrists. He pulled away in apologetic surrender, eyes widening with the sudden onset of regret, "I don't know."
"Hey," Derek said, giving him a small shake to redirect their eye contact again, "It's going to be okay, Stiles. You've got me. I'll teach you everything I know, alright?" The big hand on his jaw eased off to curl around the nape of Stiles' neck. At first he tensed without knowing why, but when Derek refused to look away or blink, he relaxed into it. The turned wolf nodded acknowledgement, sighing as the tension running his whole body eased for the first time since meeting with Scott.
The last Hale observed him closely, scanning his face and then looking down the length of him. Without removing the hand on Stiles' neck, his other palm smoothed down to rest on the soft flesh of the teen's belly and then he held their stare once more. Oddly enough, Stiles didn't feel vulnerable anymore. If anything, his body had relaxed even further, slouching into the wall and letting the older wolf lean into him. It felt strange, the way Derek had settled the rage in him with a few pointed questions and body language. But then, Stiles had never felt such a strong emotion before in his short life and was just grateful there was someone around to curb it.
"You know," came a dry voice from the doorway, making the boy jump and Derek release him suddenly, "as much as I appreciate the rescue, we do have a front door." The Sheriff stood in the hall with his arms crossed, and though he was out of uniform he still radiated authority while assessing the two younger men. "Everything alright now?"
Derek remained silent, eyeing the elder Stilinski with a stubborn look on his face. Like maybe the Sheriff was too human to be involved. Stiles wondered if he'd really expected a scared teen not to tell their parent they'd been attacked in the woods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm-" he started to gesture then was startled by the look of claws incongruously grown from his nail beds, "-still wolf-ed out. Huh."
He barely noticed Derek taking a step back and shoving his hands into leather pockets as he wiggled his long fingers and carefully tried a few gestures. The couple times he'd been in his right mind to notice he'd grown claws, he'd been too distracted to play with them before. Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow at a few awkward gang signs, blinking in confusion over the fact his son even knew them. When Stiles started to trail them over his forearm, getting a feel for the catch and length of them, the teen felt the sudden silence around him. He looked up to find two kinds of stares directed at him: exasperation from the new acquaintance and fond curiosity from his father.
"Stiles," the Sheriff started and held out his hand in request, "Could I…?" Stiles grinned and held out his hand for examination. Hale huffed an irate breath, but said nothing. That seemed to be his default setting. The high schooler carefully curled the claws of his free hand into his palm and scratched at the skin to test the points. His dad was feeling the tops of the roughened nails, tapping them and asking if he could feel that. Stiles answered with an ambivalent shrug and a pleased expression as he watched his dad feel out the claws in a way Stiles couldn't with both hands turned into weapons. The still bandaged scratch on his father's arm appeared long forgotten. And Stiles never realized that human nails could actually feel quite a lot, not in the same way as skin, but close to. The claws dulled sensation; they were obviously there, a tiny weight on each finger, but he couldn't feel the heat of his dad's touch only the vague pressure. It was kinda fascinating. "So, uh, how do you-what, sheathe them?"
Stiles made his 'dunno' face, eyebrows lifting and lips in a pursed frown, before facing Derek for answers. At first the man scowled at him, before apparently thinking better of giving a dirty look in the Sheriff's vicinity and settled for mild disapproval, "You want the short way or the long way?"
"There's shortcuts to being a werewolf?" the teen blurted, then grimaced at his dad's glare, "Um, tell me how to put them back real quick and we'll make a lesson plan later?"
The raven haired wolf gave about half an eye roll, stopped with a sigh, and then paced forward to grab Stiles' wrist. Thinking he was about to get a hands-on demonstration of some kind, the bitten wolf didn't think anything of it, making him terribly unprepared for his wrist getting twisted in a bruising grip. He yelped embarrassingly like a startled dog.
"What the Hell!" the Sheriff exclaimed.
Derek quickly answered, "Pain. Pain makes us human before we gain real control." He dropped the boy's wrist like a hot potato, stepping back out of arm's reach like he was expecting retaliation.
But Stiles was far too busy examining his own hands like he'd never seen them before. His regular old human nails were back and suddenly his mouth felt much smaller-without the fangs. The mild attack was already forgotten in the wake of this new knowledge. Had pain been what had stopped his panic attack in the woods? How much pain would it take to pull him directly from a rage into humanity? And wait a sec...
"That doesn't make any sense," Stiles complained. His father gave him a dry look, silently saying 'Werewolves, Stiles. None of this makes sense', but the boy shook his head, "No, I mean, from like an evolutionary standpoint. Something pisses you off into attack-mode, but pain makes you lose your super strength? That's dumb!"
Derek looked annoyed. Then again, Derek had looked distinctly annoyed over half the time Stiles had known him. "When a werewolf first begins the change, it doesn't take much to set them off. Losing our weapons in response to pain is instinctive. It saves young wolves from killing themselves challenging the Alpha. Staying in the change despite pain is an indicator of control."
Oh. Well… Fine. Make sense of the weirdness in my life then. Stiles blinked through this rationalization and dropped his hands with a quiet, "Huh." The Darwinian implications were kind of mindblowing. He never would've thought of that. But he hadn't thought being a freaking werewolf was a real thing either.
His thoughtfulness was quickly broken by an impatient father figure clearing his throat. Stiles jerked to attention, heart quickening as he realized that talk was going to be starting soon. At least Derek seemed less pissed than he'd been on the lacrosse field. When the Sheriff looked at his son pointedly, Stiles raised his eyebrows then swiftly blushed as the man looked down at his naked torso. The turned wolf couldn't help following the glance and resisted the urge to cross his arms like old fashioned maid. He cleared his throat too.
"I'll-uh… Go get my shirts." And cover up my pasty, freckled chest. Jeez… He couldn't believe he'd been so distracted he'd forgotten he was half naked. His blush deepened halfway down the stairs when he remembered just where Derek had touched him, how he'd leaned in with that intense stare. At the time it wasn't at all sexual, but looking back it started to heat his blood. A mix of humiliation and arousal which he wasn't unused to, but couldn't say he'd felt about a man before.
It was while he was gathering his haphazardly flung tops that he finally realized the adults upstairs were starting to talk. His father was apologizing for his nudity, "Stiles can be… absent-minded at times. He thinks about too much at once and forgets what his body is doing. Or in this case, what he's not wearing." Gee, thanks Dad!
"I didn't mind."
…He dropped his shirts.
Stiles swore his mind froze for an instant. Like a computer's 'Blue Screen of Death'. Given the silence upstairs, he thought his father was having the same problem.
"I mean!" Evidently Derek noticed the issue with that statement. Or just that the Sheriff was looking at him like a sexual predator. "Nudity isn't a big deal among werewolves. It's not-I mean, no one cared. It was just part of…"
Sure his face was flushed entirely red, the younger Stilinski pulled on his T-shirt then started doing the buttons on his plaid. He could hear his father sigh, probably facepalming if he knew the man. The creaking of the stairs indicated they'd started coming down. "I understand. Must have different social norms, I suppose. Werewolves..." The Sheriff and last Hale entered the living room several feet apart; obviously someone was keeping a safe distance no matter that the officer wasn't armed at the moment.
"So!" Stiles almost shouted in his awkwardness, a manic smile highlighting his embarrassment, "Where do we start?" Sheriff Stilinski grimaced. Probably just remembered his son could hear every word.
Clearing his expression and putting on what his son considered his 'cop face', the Sheriff turned to Derek and gestured to the couch, "Please, sit." The other Beta immediately tensed, but slowly complied. Stiles decided to also sit on the opposite couch cushion out of werewolf solidarity, while his dad sat between and in front of them on the coffee table. "I'll tell you what my officers have made of the crime scene, but first I'd like to hear everything you know. After that, we'll discuss what would be safe to say as an official statement down at the station."
Derek somehow went even stiffer than he'd been before, the lines of his body almost vibrating with tension. The teen reached out instinctively, then paused, uncertain where the gesture came from. He didn't know the older wolf, not really. Still, he rested his palm on the closest leather clad shoulder and didn't stare. Ever so slowly, Stiles could feel the muscle relax under his hand. The youngest man quietly offered, "You're her next of kin. You have to talk to them eventually. But we'll keep you in the loop too."
The last Hale stared into the distance, but nodded and with a quiet breath began as Stiles let his hand slide back to into his own personal bubble, "Laura decided to come back to Beacon Hills last week. She knew I wouldn't want to. Said she was going to take care of our property…" A slight pause made Stiles wonder if there was more to it than just checking on their old house, "She checked in every night except… Except that night."
Sheriff Stilinski nodded understandingly and gently interrupted, "The officer taking your statement will want you to be specific. Tell them the date and around when you would've expected her call."
"The full moon-Wednesday night. She would've called… around six I think. When the moon came up," Derek's lips tightened as he stalled again, censoring himself for some reason. Stiles wondered why, if maybe it was personal. "She didn't. And I called her over and over until I just… Grabbed a Red Eye from New York and got here as quickly as I could. I got in Thursday morning, rented a car, drove up to Beacon Hills and-" the dark haired man bowed his head, gritted his teeth and went tense again, "I could smell the blood. And. The Alpha."
The teen wolf fidgeted; his instincts warring with his caution. He could scent something familiar, and it reminded him of Scott's guilt when they were upstairs. Derek was in pain. And Stiles' first instinct was to get closer. Actually he wanted to cover the older male with a blanket, hide him away from the world that had treated him so harshly. A glimpse of his father's sympathetic face made Stiles realize that that desire might be more compassion towards his fellow man than wolfy need. He gave in, reaching for Derek once more and holding still when Derek tried to flinch away. The young wolf didn't give up, just holding Hale's shoulder in silence despite him resisting comfort.
The Sheriff took a slow, audible breath, trying to ease around Derek's grief without drawing attention to the prickly man, "You'll have to come up with another reason you were searching for your sister in the woods. And you can simply mention the crime scene tape, rather than what you sensed. Here's what my department will know… A couple joggers spied Laura close to a path. The part of her without means of identification was placed closer to the public, meaning she was more likely to be discovered but belatedly identified. Whether this was out of pathology we don't know yet. There were no signs of remorse in the placement of the body. It fully appeared to be an animal attack, and had no indicators of a human element except for one thing."
Stiles got a good look at Hale's profile when he turned that intense stare on the Sheriff, and retreated from arm's reach instinctively when a new scent came to him. "Hunters," Derek sneered. Based on the sheer hatred in the born wolf's voice, the bitten was going to bet that scent was anger.
The elder Stilinski gave a considering nod, tilting his head just so in a way that Stiles realized showed his neck. Was that purposeful? Or intuitive? Either way, the strong scent of anger eased as the human began again, "She was cut with a blade," In half, Stiles thought involuntarily with a grimace, grateful for his father's kinder wording, "My Deputies collected animal hairs at the scene and they've come back with wolf DNA. If it were a natural animal attack, there's no point in the mutilation after except psychopathy. Since there are no wild wolves in California, it's currently thought to be purposeful. The theory is an assailant used a wolf as a weapon and then the blade afterwards to bring her to the attention of the authorities. This is backed up by the lack of scavenging thereafter."
The turned teen couldn't help curling up against the arm of the couch, feet on the cushion and arms holding his guts against the nausea and images that flashed through his mind. He hadn't had heightened senses when he found Laura, but he remembered the look on her face, the curl of her fingers. The shine of blood and gore, slick and black under the full moon. He shuddered.
Guilt had Stiles turned away from the other men, unaware as they glanced at him. His father was concerned, wanting to shield his son from such memories, but also aware that he'd brought it on himself. Derek Hale was… Confused. And angry. Heartbroken from the loss of his sister, and angry at the Alpha, at the Argents. But also confused by the new wolf next to him, that had reacted so strongly to the relatively benign description of death. He couldn't imagine a human feeling compassion for a werewolf, even if they were now a werewolf themselves.
"Derek," directed the blond Stilinski, trying to bring a little objectivity to the conversation, "Can you tell me why werewolf hunters would do that if they had nothing to do with the death?"
A grim expression formed on Hale's face, and he placed his elbows on his knees to lean forward while he spoke, "They were hoping to draw out another wolf. The Argents have a history of cutting wolves in half, their go-to among the various ways to kill us."
Stiles lifted his head, distracted by the turn of conversation, "So we're pretty tough to kill then?"
The born wolf nodded, giving the boy a considering look, "Our bodies will heal just about everything. The only sure ways are decapitation, destroying the heart, or cutting us in half like that." Derek's lips turned down and he added in a softer tone, "And fire. Fire works too."
Both Stilinskis winced in varying degrees. For differing reasons. Stiles' mind had skipped over the Hale Fire as too much grief and was listing the variety of things that could have killed him when he was mortal that would now heal. While he was just about able to bite his tongue on the million questions that would no doubt annoy both father and acquaintance, he couldn't help blurting something that flashed like a neon sign through his skull, "Could Laura-could the Alpha not have killed her then?" And now he was treated to double the incredulous stares, plus a side helping of hostility from Hale. Stiles winced, but felt he had to throw out the option, "I mean, he could've attacked her and then fled when the hunters came, right? She would've been vulnerable while she was healing." She could've even looked already dead from their perspective…
"No," said Derek definitively, "If a human kills an Alpha, the power passes on to the next in line. It's always family or the strongest Beta available. The Omega became an Alpha, which means he had to of killed Laura."
His dad took the question off his tongue with a quick, "Omega?"
Hale glanced first at the Sheriff then to Stiles, "A lone wolf. The weakest of us because they don't have a pack to draw strength from."
The teenager could literally see the older Stilinski redefining that word in his head by the pursed face of concentration. He let a lip quirk up in mild amusement, but became serious again, "So were the Argent's trying to trap you or the new Alpha?"
Derek scowled at the ground and gave a frustrated growl, "I don't know. If they recognized Laura… They'd know about me."
Stiles ran through the scenarios in his head with what he knew of the Argents and what little Derek had told him about the fire in his childhood. That was obviously a touchy subject for the last Hale, and the Sheriff would know more than he did. Amber eyes met blue while Derek was preoccupied. A mutual respect kept them from asking the tragic man more about the fire. For the moment.
"So as far as they know, there's only one werewolf in town," the Sheriff began thoughtfully, "And depending on their information, they probably don't think it's you. But I'm not sure how quiet I can keep the investigation. Having the wolf DNA means the Department will expect us to use the public to find the animal to find the perp. Information about the victim inevitably comes out."
The born wolf kept his silence, not looking at either of them. Stiles didn't know what he'd been hoping for. A promise the man would be okay? It sounded naive just thinking it. A plea for help? Obviously not in Derek's vocabulary. The teen still wanted to keep the werewolf out of the Argent's line of sight, and since he didn't even know where the guy was bedding down for the night that seemed an impossible task.
Just as Stiles was getting over that thought, his body interrupted the conversation with a loud gurgle. He sat up, startled, and saw his companions staring with varying degrees of amusement. Then he realized, "I haven't eaten since breakfast, and that was just-like, toast and coffee." The sun had already reached it's peak and was starting a Western descent. He hadn't realized all his varied conversations had taken the entire afternoon. Cringing, the bitten added, "Man, and I haven't even started my make up work yet."
The Sheriff chuckled, "Well, there's nothing in the fridge or I'd offer to cook. I'll go to the store then. 'Bout time we got good food in this house."
His son's nerves jumped with the words, what he considered his 'health food instinct' rearing up. He immediately countered, "Oh no. No, I don't think so. I'll get the groceries in this house." Stiles tried to stare down his father, but the man turned nonchalantly to their guest.
"You don't think Stiles should stay home? Being in public with all his new senses could be risk, wouldn't you think?"
"Dirty pool!" the teen shouted, almost flailing himself to his feet except he felt the need to turn to the older wolf as well for an answer.
Poor Derek's wide eyes were bouncing between them in obvious bewilderment. Finally, he landed on Stiles and seemed realize the Stilinskis were serious in wanting an answer. He stumbled at first, then tried, "It's probably fine, I mean-I wouldn't trust a new wolf around people so soon," Hale continued to fumble between decisions as the other two began playing up their reactions, trying to tease him into capitulating to their side, "But Stiles was mostly good at the lacrosse try outs. Still, he shouldn't-I mean, he'll be fine, just-" and finally gave up with a sigh, "He shouldn't be left alone."
Stiles shrugged, acknowledging that this was probably true since he'd just witnessed his own temper earlier. Turning to his father, he said, "Well, you know what that means."
Sheriff Stilinski rolled his eyes in good humor, but agreed, "All hands on deck." Though he did something his son didn't quite expect. He looked to Hale again, "Care to come with? I could use a hand with this one, and I'll pay you back with dinner."
"You mean I'll be paying him back, since I'll be cooking," Stiles rephrased, but wasn't displeased. Most of his dad's expertise in the kitchen revolved around red meat and quick manly sides. He almost wanted to keep talking, try to goad the young adult into coming with, but decided silence to let him answer the Sheriff could work just the same.
Derek still hadn't lost that bewildered expression, much to the Stilinskis' entertainment, "O-okay?"
Unbeknownst to them, father and son were both thinking that the man looked to be bulldozed into the decision but determined their tactics hadn't reached the levels necessary for guilt or backtracking. And so, almost at once, the little family stood and absently began bantering as they collected the supplies for their outing. As much as Derek Hale wanted to be left in their wake, he was prodded along with short jabs from the younger and expectant looks from the older Stilinski, and so was inadvertently collected onto the list of people who were their self-made family.