He didn't know how much time had passed after that. It felt like hours, minutes dragging by one second at a time until he was sure he was hallucinating the tick of a clock. Scott had actually fallen into a light doze from his position on the couch, snoring softly, so Stiles didn't even have a conversation to distract him or to mark the time with, and the longer he sat in the silence the more anxious he became. He wondered what could be taking the Alpha so long to decide on his offer, to apprise them of their fate. He wasn't sure the delay boded well.
Just as he was ready to get up and start pacing, a low rumble announced the opening of the heavy doors, and Stiles was on his feet and facing them before they'd even opened a full inch. For his part Scott had jerked awake and gone rolling off the couch like some sort of fail ninja, ducking behind the furniture to hide like he'd totally forgotten the wolves could smell his fear, hear his heart beating. From the look that Derek and Calvin were shooting at the sneaker sticking out from around the piece of furniture, they were just as impressed as Stiles.
"Well?" he asked, and Derek flashed his eyes in Stiles' direction but didn't comment.
For his part Calvin appeared as unruffled as before and Stiles realized that he'd already come to count upon the man's calm, unflappable exterior in a strange way. Stupid, since they'd only exchanged about five minutes of time and talk together, but the werewolf felt stoic and solid despite his battle-worn face, and that seemed like a good thing.
Stiles hadn't even known werewolves could scar.
"Has your Alpha contacted my dad?" he asked again, sparing a glance for Scott who had come creeping out of his hiding place to stand nervously at his side. "Or his mom?"
"She's agreed that calling for renegotiations is the current best course of action," the older werewolf answered while neatly evading the question, and there was a hint of amused accusation in his tone. "Not that she had much choice."
"Yeah, sorry about that," Stiles said sarcastically. "But you know if you want to just let us walk on out of here instead, that's cool too."
"Just him," Derek said gruffly, and then he was grabbing Scott by the arm and pulling him away, but not fast enough that Stiles couldn't latch on to his other elbow first.
"Wait, what?" he demanded, refusing to let go and ignoring Scott's plaintive whimpering as he tried to squirm out of Derek's grasp. "Where are you taking him?"
"To the border," Calvin replied agreeably, in total contrast to the spark of blue around Derek's eyes, giving away some unrecognizable emotion. "Alpha Hale will give him a message for your father and then he'll be sent on his way."
"Why can't Stiles come too?" Scott yelped, still fighting the tug of war, and this time it was Stiles' turn to show his annoyance with a roll his eyes. "He can tell his dad himself!"
"Your friend is taking your place as collateral hostage until negotiations are over," Derek growled. "He stays, you get to go. Now move."
With a rough tug that seemed to require no effort at all, Scott was ripped out of Stiles' grasp and shoved toward the doors, handled much less gently than he had been. The guy was staring back with the kind of look that prisoners wore on the way to the firing squad, and Stiles couldn't help but feel an answering bolt of fear strike him hard and hot.
"Tell my dad I'm ok!" he shouted, just as the doors began to roll shut, but then they were slamming home and he was alone inside the building with nothing but his panic to talk to.
"Calm down," he muttered, fisting his hands in his hair. "You got Scott out, that's what you came to do."
But now he had an even bigger problem.
He'd demanded negotiations, a redrawing of the treaty on behalf of Beacon Hills, and he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say once they started. He'd only wanted to save his friend, and himself if at all possible, and he wondered if Talia Hale already knew that. He was playing a dangerous game and there was no telling how many tricks his opponent had up her sleeve, where he only had the one under his.
Rubbing at his shoulder, Stiles flopped back down into the rickety arm chair and tried to think, tried to plan.
Problem was he only had half the pieces.
But if the wolves had kept their word then Scott was already on his way through the Preserve, back to the border where there was likely to be a whole road full of cop cars to greet him. Stiles had gotten a glimpse of the sky outside before the doors had been shut on him and night had well fallen, which meant that, at least by morning, their message would have been delivered and his dad would be preparing to bluff his way through a whole new treaty deal.
Oh, Stiles was so dead.
With that thought to comfort him, he took a page out of Scott's book and tried to sleep, the emotional distress of the day dragging at him, wearing him down until he couldn't quite keep his eyes open anymore. Hours passed as he drifted in and out, not nearly comfortable enough to be lulled fully to sleep. Every noise, every creak of the old building or distant voice sounded like a threat, even if it was just his imagination, and at one point he even thought he heard a long, echoing wolf's howl somewhere far off in the distance. It was like being in a fever dream, a stream of half-lucid thought playing through his mind until watery sunlight began to pour through the single, tiny window high in the rafters and he came fully awake again, stiff and sore from sleeping curled up in the chair all night.
Stomach rumbling, he dragged himself upright and walked to the back of the barn, found the small bathroom that Scott had mentioned. There was no shower, but there was a toilet and a sink with running water and a small mirror above it framed in thick, heavy plastic, practical enough that he could pee and splash cold water on his face, slurp up a drink by sticking his head beneath the faucet. Straightening up, he dried his hands on the seat of his jeans, stared at his reflection. His face was pale, far more than usual, and there were light shadows starting to show beneath his eyes, huge and whiskey-colored and dull compared to the glint of a werewolf's. He'd been growing his hair out ever since summer had started and was regretting it now, since it was matted and sticking out all over the place, even after he tried finger-combing it. He looked like a freaked-out mess, and it made him wonder what Laura had seen through the webcam the day before.
A pale, scrawny kid who was scared out of his mind? Someone who was weak, vulnerable, prey?
Swallowing hard, Stiles reached up and pulled aside the collar of his hoody, careful not to stretch the neck of his t-shirt. His fingers shook as he traced the scar there, thin, silvery, only just discernable by touch. A bite mark, a soul mark, there since the day he'd been born, and below that small black letters that had risen to the surface of the skin the year he'd turned thirteen in a neat, horizontal line of script along his collarbone.
He wasn't sure he believed the legends, even though there was some pretty solid proof staring back at him in the mirror. Not a lot of humans were born with fang marks set into their shoulder anymore. The story went that only one wolf's teeth would match that scar, that you belonged to them even before they gave you the bite, reinforcing the bonds that were just waiting to be activated. For years he'd hated not knowing, and then the words had come when he'd reached puberty, the first words that the wolf would speak to him and that was even worse. Suddenly he hadn't wanted to know at all, didn't want to be bound by fate to someone he'd never met. His mother and then later his father had done their best to help him understand the mark placed on him, to make sure that the prejudices held by the majority of the human race were not instilled in him, but the unhappy fact remained that Stiles was as good as property if he ever heard the words written beneath that scar.
In coming here he'd told himself that he'd be protected by the soul mark - that werewolf law prohibited harm to any bearing one - but in reality he feared he'd put himself at much greater risk.
You couldn't be bonded to a wolf if you never met one.
Because that had been his plan, ever since he'd been old enough to realize that he wanted no part in the whole business.
Stay away.
Don't go into the Preserve, don't go near the border…
Just stay away.
Feeling a shiver roll down his spine, Stiles let go of his collar and readjusted his shirt, making sure that both the scarred bite and the words were covered.
Very few people knew he was one of the bonded, and he intended to keep it that way. The world wasn't nice to people like him, could be just as prejudiced as they were against the werewolves themselves. There had been one other boy he knew, a kid named Matt Deahler, who had his own bite mark and was less than cautious in showing it off. He'd ended up being drowned when some cruel treatment at the community swimming pool had gone too far the summer they were in the fourth grade. Stiles was a lot more careful after that, made sure to wear a shirt religiously from that day onward, so in the end it was his mom, his dad, and his doctor who knew, no one else - not Scott or anyone.
And no one knew the words.
The four black words that had all the potential to end life as he knew it.
He'd made sure of that.
So unless he had to, unless it would save his life, he wasn't sharing his dirty little secret today. It was his hidden gambit, his ace in the hole, and he was going to hold on to it as long as he could.
A dull creak and a rumble cause him to jump, spooking him out of his musings, and he did a nervous double-check to make sure nothing was visible, to make sure that his hoody wasn't lopsided, before stepping slowly and cautiously out into the main room. Derek was standing at the open door, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, wearing a darker pair of jeans than before and a fresh shirt, looking like he'd shaved… his hair was even a little damp.
Must be nice - Stiles would kill for a hot shower right now to work the kinks out of his neck.
"Let's go," he said shortly, and Stiles shrugged, expecting no more explanation as he stepped past him into the backyard and looked up at the sky, iron grey and cloudless.
It would rain soon.
"Any particular direction?" he asked, jamming his own hands in his pockets while Derek closed up the barn behind him. "Say… towards the border line maybe?"
Derek rolled his eyes, thrust his chin toward the main house.
Not a fan of sarcasm then.
Huffing in annoyance, Stiles started off at a march, fast enough the he was able to keep up with the guy this time once he fell into line beside him, which made for a pleasant change from the last little stroll they'd taken together. He thought about asking some more questions - he had about half a dozen saved up - but something told him he'd have more luck with another wolf; Calvin maybe, or David. Hell even the Alpha seemed more talkative than her broody son.
Ushered into the house, he was herded in the opposite direction of the library, past a large living room and the long dining table, into an airy, open kitchen where the smell of bacon lingered in the air and had Stiles practically drooling. There were two young girls at the sink, remarkably similar in appearance with honey-colored hair plaited into long braids that hung down to their hips, and they watched him with great curiosity while they washed and rinsed an enormous stack of dishes. The pack had apparently already eaten, no actual food in sight, and his stomach turned with disappointment, sure that he'd been brought in just to be tormented by the thought of pancakes and eggs, but then Derek was pushing him down onto a barstool at the island counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room and moving around to the other side, headed for one of two massive refrigerators situated between a walk-in pantry and a wall of cabinets. Doing his best to be still and unobtrusive, Stiles flushed when his stomach growled loudly and set the girls at the sink off into a round of giggles.
"Knock it off," Derek rumbled, thunking a bowl down in front of Stiles before handing him a box of Cheerios and a half-full gallon of milk.
Not surprisingly this just caused the two to giggle even harder, something Stiles tried to ignore as he poured himself a giant bowl of cereal. Derek rolled his eyes, grabbed them both by the back of the neck in a way that seemed more affectionate than threatening and shoved them out of the room. Leaping at the opportunity to get out of their chores, they took off running down the hallway, laughter not fading until the sound of a door slamming cut them off.
Shoveling up his breakfast at breakneck pace before someone could decide to take it away from him, Stiles watched as Derek turned his back on him and picked up a dishtowel, started stacking plates in a cupboard. Stiles was sixteen and this guy couldn't be more than a couple years older. So what, eighteen, twenty? It was weird - he walked around with his shoulders hunched like some kind of nervous kid, but the other half of him seemed so much older than that, too old, paranoid, wary…
He made Stiles nervous just by proximity.
What had happened to him, what had he seen that made him so cagey, made him flash his eyes in Stiles' direction like he was afraid of what he was thinking? What made him force himself to turn his back on the human like he was proving something, to Stiles, to himself?
Because that was what he was doing.
Stiles could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders beneath his jacket, the way he would angle towards Stiles and then twitch back around again.
Moving slowly, Stiles stood and carried his bowl to the sink, intentionally brushing elbows with the wolf just to see what would happen, to judge the consequences. Maybe not the smartest thing, but he wasn't disemboweled, so… success. For his part of the experiment Derek reacted exactly how Stiles thought he might, jerking away but attempting to cover it by turning to watch intently as he dunked his dishes into the sink full of soapy water and scrubbed them off, rinsing and stacking them in the draining rack. He thought there might be something just a little bit approving in the way the guy nodded at him before putting the milk and cereal away. Deciding to push his luck that much further, Stiles leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, watching the guy closely.
"What now?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall above the stove. Going on ten. "Have you heard from my dad?"
"My mom'll tell you," Derek said, answered, nodding toward the hallway.
"Don't you mean your Alpha?" Stiles asked, falling into step behind him. He wasn't trying to be an ass this time, he was just honestly curious, and he figured it couldn't hurt to be more informed than he was.
"She can't be both?" Derek countered, and ok, point, but it didn't help Stiles know how he should address the werewolf.
Talia, Mrs. Hale, Alpha Hale, Your Grand High-Alphaness…
Best to ere on the side of the cautious and respectful he supposed.
Alpha Hale it was.
And speaking of…
"Mr. Stilinski," Talia greeted him, and he ducked his head, flicking his gaze left and down, showing a bit of his neck. The submissive gesture was instinctive not intentional, and Stiles wondered if it was her presence that brought it out of him or some deeper, ancestral warning at the back of his psyche trying to keep him alive.
"Alpha Hale," he said quietly, and she seemed accepting of his address because there were no red flashing eyes today, no sharp teeth. Just a nod of acknowledgement, a gesture for him to sit, in one of the wing-backed chairs today instead of the torture tool he'd been put on yesterday.
Hesitantly he did as he was meant, watching as Talia stepped behind the desk she'd stood over the day before, took her seat and gestured for Derek to sit as well. Stiles wondered where David was this morning, or Calvin or the little old lady, but he supposed there was a significant amount of scrambling going on behind the scenes in preparation for the political talks about to begin. Still, he thought he might've been just a little bit more comfortable having either one of the betas present. Sure it would be one more werewolf in the room, but they'd both been fairly kind and seemed to counterbalance Derek and Talia's attitudes.
"Your father contacted me as soon as he received my message via your friend," she began briskly, all business now. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the smart navy slacks and white button down she wore in place of the casual cotton of yesterday. "He seemed rather displeased, if unsurprised."
Stiles scowled.
The last thing he needed was an Alpha werewolf taking sides with his father, ganging up to ground him into oblivion.
Her tone was a little too judgmental for his tastes.
"Nevertheless," she continued, "He conceded to having the renegotiations take place on this side of the boundary line and will be escorted across the border this afternoon. As collateral hostage, and as the one coming forward on behalf of Beacon Hills, I certainly hope you're ready to speak once the tables have been opened."
"What, me?!" Stiles yelped with disbelief, his whole brain suddenly snapped to attention.
Sure he'd been the one to initiate this stuff, but he'd been bluffing, and as she had so helpfully pointed out the day before, who was he? He was just a kid, a teenager with a loud mouth and a reckless friend, even if he was the Sheriff's son. He'd read the treaty, most of it anyway, but he certainly didn't remember reading that.
Talia raised an imperious eyebrow and Stiles fought to get his expression back under control, to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat.
"I trust that won't be a problem Mr. Stilinski," she added, and everything in her voice said that she thought it would be, but rather than hang him she was just going to hand him the rope and sit back to watch him do it himself.
"N… no," he managed around the lump in his throat, "No problem. I'll… be ready."
And he would, because he would have to be.
He had no other choice.
