You're not a hero, you're a liar

You're not a saviour, you're a vampire

Sucking the life out of all the friends you've ever known

Heroes – All Time Low


Getting to Stiles' house wasn't a problem. I slid through the trees and jumped onto the second storey, perching at his window, peering in through the darkness. He wasn't asleep, despite it nearly being daylight. I could hear his father's snores from down the hall. Stiles was sat at his desk, hand supporting his head as he stared down at an old textbook, lazily flipping the pages every few moments. I hesitated, unsure what I was even doing there. Was I there to threaten him? To yell at him? To kill him?

Despite my hesitancies, I tapped at the window, holding myself up with the awning and trying not to cringe at the pain that flared across my middle. Stiles gasped and spun around, a baseball bat all but appearing in his grasp. I supposed the events of the past twenty-four hours had a deeper impact than I had first assumed. He stared at me through the glass, shock and distrust on his face. After a tense moment he stood, though he kept a hold of the bat, and moved over to his windowsill. He unlatched the lock and I grasped the bottom, sliding it up and slipping through the gap, landing gracefully on the floor of his room. I was thankful I'd already received an invitation inside, pressing a hand to my painful injury and trying not to groan when it stung even more under my touch.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he asked, staring at me with wide, sincerely worried eyes.

I paused, staring back at him evenly, considering how to reply. "I will be," I decided to say, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

Stiles swallowed, glancing to the ground and running a hand over his short hair before saying, "are you going to kill me?" I blinked. I hadn't been expecting that. He twisted his hands in front of him anxiously, watching me wearily.

Was I going to kill him? It would be easy to get rid of him, then there was no chance of finding out who I was and what I was, no chance of the hunters coming after me, no chance of me dying for good. "I haven't decided yet," I told him honestly, letting go of my wounded stomach and crossing my arms over my chest.

His heart thudded in his chest, beating against his sternum like it was trying to break free. "I'm not going to tell anyone," he said quickly, a touch of desperation in his tone. "I mean, I've already told Scott, but neither one of us will tell anyone, I swear it. Also, it would be stupid to kill me, because I'm the sheriff's son, and the last thing you'd want is anyone finding DNA evidence of you on my body."

"Who says there'll be a body?" I asked, raising a single eyebrow at the nervous boy.

"Well-well I can help you," he stuttered, clearly grasping at straws in an attempt to convince me to spare him. "Yeah," he nodded, becoming more sure of himself as he went on. "Yeah, I'll help you. You need Scott, right? He's your way in to the hunters, and your way to getting the alpha. Anything happens to me, there's no chance in hell he'll help you. So, you see, I'm more valuable to you alive than-"

"How'd you figure it out?" I interrupted him, swiftly growing tired of his rambling.

He stopped, blinking at me stupidly for a moment before scratching his ear and beginning to ramble once again, "Well it was a lot of things really. Like when you came to my house you had to be invited in, and the fact you can compel people which I know for a fact werewolves can't do, then there was also the time I caught you smuggling blood out of the hospital, the fact you lack a heartbeat, and the way you sometimes speak like you're from another era-"

"I get it," I snapped, rolling my eyes and striding over to his bed, perching on the end and folding my legs under me. "I've been shitty at keeping it a secret."

"Not-not necessarily," he mumbled, tentatively sitting down in his desk chair, eyes never straying far from my face. "I mean, nobody else noticed. So I guess I'm just more observant than most people."

We were silent, both of us staring at each other. It wasn't awkward, just a little tense; each of us wondering what to say next.

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly, paling as my expression hardened into a glare. "Uh-I mean unless that's too personal..."

"I'm 203."

He looked floored by my admission, blinking those large, stupid brown eyes at me for a long moment. He seemed to be struggling to find words, but I wasn't in the mood to think of some for him, so I merely watched him impassively, I could practically see the cogs turning in his head. "Garlic."

I wasn't sure what I had been expecting, but that wasn't it. I had the feeling he had trouble concentrating on one subject at a time. I didn't mind, surprisingly I knew what he was on about. "Not a problem," I answered him with a shrug, grimacing as pain vibrated through my body at the movement.

"Mirrors?"

"Myth."

"Crucifixes?"

"Myth."

"Coffins?"

"Not since the nineteenth century."

"Huh," he hummed, crossing his arms and staring at me with a considering expression. He looked like he wanted to know more, like he had a thousand more questions, which I'm sure he probably did. I was having trouble focusing on the conversation at hand. Waves of nausea were rolling through me, and it hurt to breathe. "Are you okay?" he asked after a pregnant pause, the wheels of his chair squeaking as he rolled closer to me cautiously.

I wondered how he could stand to be so close to me, especially knowing what I was, but I didn't have the strength to ask. "No," I told him truthfully, letting my eyelids flutter closed as I took short breaths so the movement wouldn't hurt me as much. I burrowed deeper into his sweatshirt, which I had yet to take off. While a few days ago his scent had made me thirsty, now it was also accompanied by a sense of comfort. I could almost ignore the flare of hunger in my throat when I inhaled the scent clinging to his hoodie. I opened my eyes, frowning as the world suddenly tipped forwards.

"Whoa," Stiles mumbled quietly, shuffling forwards and catching my shoulders, propping me back into a sitting position. "Why'd you come here if you were so badly injured?" he asked, sounding annoyed. "This conversation could have waited until morning, you know?"

"Why won't you tell anyone?"

"Hm?" he said, popping his head back up to look at me through narrowed eyes.

I didn't have too much control over what I was saying. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I knew I had to get answers before I'd be able to get any sort of rest. "Before, you said you wouldn't tell anyone," I told him, moving my hands up and placing them over his on my shoulders, ignoring how warm his skin was and focusing my attention on his coffee coloured eyes. "Why not? What are you getting out of this?"

"Why would I be getting anything out of it?" he asked confusedly, a crease forming between his brows.

I frowned back, my head tilting to the side as I examined him carefully. "Why else would you be so nice to me?" And then, as though he'd suddenly forgotten, I reminded him, "I'm a vampire."

"Hey, none of that vampires-are-second-class-citizens crap," he said jokingly, his pale lips twitching up into a smile. I didn't indulge him with a smile of my own, merely frowning at him. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. What did he want from me exactly? Why did he care? There had to be an ulterior motive. The humoured expression on his face melted away and he frowned in a way that I would almost describe as sad. "Why are you so sure I have an ulterior motive?" he asked, practically reading my mind. I sagged, unable to hold myself up any longer. "Whoa," he muttered, catching me again, this time standing up and gently pushing me onto my back. I lay on his bed, blinking dazedly up at his cream ceiling. "You need to sleep... Wait, do vampires sleep?"

"Of course we sleep," I said sluggishly, my eyes stinging as I forgot to blink. I let them shut once more, sighing tiredly and nearly rolling onto my stomach before a flash of pain reminded me of my injuries. "I can leave," I said softly, without opening my eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped not unkindly, moving away from me, his feet thudding against the carpet. He returned a moment later and I felt him lay something soft and warm over me. I sighed again, a content smile spreading across my lips.

"Am I bleeding?" I asked as I felt him sit down on the edge of his bed.

"You-you want me to..."

"Lift up my shirt and tell me if the bleeding's stopped," I murmured softly, without my usual bite. I heard him swallow loudly, and he peeled back the blanket, hands shaking as he grasped the hem of his sweatshirt. "I think I figured out your ulterior motive," I said as he hesitated before slowly lifting the material. "You just wanted to get me into bed."

He spluttered suddenly, letting go of the fabric and all but leaping back. "What?!" he squeaked. "You told me to lift up your shirt-"

"Stiles," I said, my eyes opening just enough to peek at his panicked face. "I'm fucking with you."

He froze and I smiled, letting my eyes slide shut again. I felt more than saw him shake his head, a huff leaving his lips. After a long moment he grasped the hem of his sweatshirt, pulling it up to the base of my breasts. He didn't say anything for a long time, his breath unsteady as he stared down at me injury. Finally, I felt his hand touch the skin to the side of the gashes, and he gasped sharply, pulling away.

"Sorry," I said with a self loathing grimace. "I know I'm disgustingly cold."

"Uh," he uttered, swallowing again. "That's-that's not-"

"It's okay, Stiles," I cut him off, frowning once more before I slowly and painfully pushed myself to my elbows, forcing my eyes open. "I'll let you get some sleep."

"No!" he exclaimed suddenly, too loudly. I heard his father's snores pause for a moment in the room over, then resume at full force. I raised a single eyebrow at him, wincing in pain as the position I was holding myself in made my gashes burn. "I mean," he began, shifting back slightly on the bed and looking anywhere but at me. "You don't have to go. Its been a rough, scary night, and-and your wounds could get worse or something. So-so I think it's better if you stay, just for a few more hours," he stuttered in a way that a few days ago I would have called pathetic.

I got the feeling he was asking less for my benefit and more for his own. Surprisingly, I didn't mind. I knew calling him out on it was a bad move, plus I didn't have the strength for an argument. So I nodded and let myself collapse back onto his bed. I couldn't blame the kid for not wanting to be alone after a night like the one we'd just had, to be completely honest, I didn't particularly want to go home to my empty house either. It was stupid, I knew logically that if the alpha were to attack again, Stiles would be more of a hindrance than a help. But, a small part of me felt better having him with me. The boy who made me smile.


I tapped the egg against the side of the pan a little too hard. Yolk splashed onto the stove top and I cringed. I usually had a good handle on the whole super-strength thing, but some things, like eggs, were kind of a guessing game. I cussed loudly, picking out another one and tapping it lightly against the rim of the pan. It cracked violently, but not too much that it fell out of my hand. I managed to angle it onto the hot face of the pan. I watched the yolk bubble for a few seconds before picking up a third egg and cracking it softly once more, this time landing perfectly in the pan.

I nodded to myself reassuringly, frowning considerably before picking up the bottle vegetable oil and upending it, letting it dribble out onto the eggs. I'd seen Jamie Oliver do it once on television, but I didn't quite understand the mechanics behind it. Either way I put down the oil and picked up the fork, looking at it with focused frown before running it through the mixture in the pan. It mixed together, bubbling up and becoming an unappetising yellow colour. Did humans really eat this stuff?

"What are you doing?" a familiar voice asked amusedly from behind me, and I jumped violently, spinning around so quickly that my elbow knocked into the handle of the pan, flipping it over and causing the contents to spill down my arm.

"Fuck!" I cursed loudly once again as my skin got smeared with the boiling oil.

"OhmyGod," Stiles breathed, rushing forwards and picking up the pan, putting it back on the stove top and pushing my hand under the tap, which he turned on full blast, letting it douse my burnt arm. "Are you okay? Holy shit."

"Stiles," I said meekly, pulling out from his hold and picking up the towel I had set aside earlier. "It's okay."

"Okay?" he asked dubiously, staring at me with wide, alarmed eyes. "You just spilt searing hot oil all over your arm!"

"Stiles," I repeated calmly, holding out my reddened arm for him to see. Slowly, I dragged the towel down my injury, and he watched in morbid fascination as the burn disappeared with the path of the cloth. "See?" I said, glancing down at my unblemished skin. "All healed."

He looked kind of pale, but I decided not to comment, moving back over to the pan and staring forlornly into its depths. "What were you trying to do?"

"Cook breakfast," I admitted with a frown, pursing my lips and furrowing my brow.

"...Why?"

"Um, you let an injured, dangerous, volatile vampire sleep in your bed while you barely got any sleep on your desk chair?" I replied, turning my frown around on him. "I might be kind of new at this whole friendship thing, but it seemed like the right thing to do."

Thankfully he said nothing about the casual admittance of considering him a friend. His gaze moved from me to the blackened mess in the pan. "When was the last time you cooked?" he asked hesitantly, lips curled like he wanted to smile again but was fighting the urge.

"1997," I told him with a frown, lips twisting at his incredulous look. "I haven't had the occasion."

He snorted, gently pushing me aside and taking my spot at the stove, picking up an egg and lightly cracking it into the pan. "So what've you done with your time then?" he asked casually, though I could sense his burning curiosity underneath it all. "How does one spend eternity?"

I considered lying, making it sound more glamorous than it actually was, but what was the point? I knew one thing for sure, I definitely wouldn't be telling him of my rebellious years, the years where I'd taken so much life, drunk so blood it could fill a swimming pool. I wondered if my answer would satisfy him. "I spent a lot of it in school," I said as I slipped into a chair by the bench, idly picking at my nail polish as I talked. "The younger I pretended to be when moving to a new place, the longer I could stay."

"What's the youngest and oldest you've ever pretended to be?" he asked lightly, cracking another few eggs into the pan.

"Fifteen is the youngest," I admitted freely, folding my hands together and looking up, relieved to see he was focused on the stove in front of him and not me. "And twenty-five is the oldest. I can't get away with much more than that before people start asking questions."

"When you say you spent it in school, do you mean high school?"

"No way," I said with an unexpected laugh, making him glance over at me with a confused frown. "Most of it was in college. It was easier to do different subjects every few years instead of the same curriculum over and over."

"What'd you study?"

"A little bit of everything," I told him, smiling as I recalled my college days. "Music, medicine, art, psychology, biology, chemistry, law," I listed off a few.

He smiled back, "and what was your favourite?"

I pressed my lips together, hoping my answer wouldn't make me seem totally lame. "Literature," I admitted. "We might sleep, but we don't need nearly as much as you humans do, so I spent a lot of my nights reading."

"What do you read?"

"Everything," I said as I watched him pull bacon bits from the fridge and sprinkle them into the yellow sludge in the pan. "Biographies, Hemingway, Dickens, Emily Rodda, Edgar Allen Poe, Kurt Vonnegut is one of my absolute favourites. Not to mention good old J.K."

"Harry Potter?" he asked incredulously, stopping what he was doing and wheeling around to fix me with a dubious look. "You're kidding."

"No?" I responded in confusion, tilting my head at him curiously.

"A vampire that reads Harry Potter," he said mostly to himself, a small, amused smirk rest on his pale pink lips. "Don't tell me you read Dracula too."

"Are you going to kick me out if I tell you I read it every Halloween?" I asked with a matching smirk, and he laughed loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls, filling me with a strange sort of warmth.

"So why high school now?" he asked me after a long moment.

I considered my answer carefully. I didn't want to go into everything with Macy, so I just kept my answer simple. "I just didn't want to have to move again so quickly," I said honestly, only lying by omission. "I wanted to put down roots, make some friends, be somebody."

"I bet you didn't factor a rouge alpha problem and a teen wolf into your plans when you picked Beacon Hills to move to," he replied with a cheeky grin, bending to slide two plates out of the cupboard to his right. I didn't say anything about how I wasn't planning to eat, keeping quiet instead. I didn't want to make him feel awkward, so I watched him load both plates up without saying anything, no matter how unappetising the food looked.

"I don't mind actually," I admitted. "Keeps me from going stir crazy."

He slid the plates onto the counter in front of us, dragging a chair across the tiles, the screeching sound making me wince. He handed me a fork as he took a seat on the bench opposite me, instantly digging into his breakfast.

"So what do you do about ID and stuff?" he asked curiously after a moment, barely noticing I'd yet to touch my food. "I mean, surely you need to it enrol in school and stuff."

"I know a guy on the east coast," I told him with a shrug, not minding that I was telling all of this to the Sheriff's son. I knew in my gut that he wouldn't say anything. "He does all my papers for me."

"Can you get me a fake ID?" he asked immediately, eyes going wide, a piece of egg falling from his lips and onto the counter.

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"No."

He crinkled his nose at me, reminding me for a second of a bunny, before he dug back into his meal, apparently getting over it quickly. "You haven't touched your food," he said after a long pause, half his plate already eaten. I picked up the fork again, nudging the mess with it cautiously. "Don't tell me you can't eat."

"Oh no," I said, shaking my head. "I can eat. I just...don't."

"Don't you like human food or something?" he asked curiously, tilting his head at me.

I shrugged, not really having an answer. "Some vampires eat all the time, I have friends who eat all three meals a day. We just don't need it to survive, and we don't crave it, so I don't really see a point in eating it."

"Well, you picked a good day to start," he said with a grin. "Scrambled eggs and bacon happens to be my specialty."

"Is that so?"

"Uh-huh," he hummed, nodding his head enthusiastically. "Come on, just try it," he said, blinking those large, stupid coffee eyes at me. "For me."

"Fine," I gave in reluctantly, making sure to send him a sour glare. "But not because you asked. Just because I'm curious about your cooking skills."

"Whatever you say," he said with another grin, pausing the inhaling of his food to stare at me unabashedly, waiting for my reaction.

With a cautious sigh I stuck the utensil into the pile on my plate, picking up what seemed like a decent amount and hesitating only a brief second before shoving it passed my lips. I chewed quickly, expecting it to be terrible. I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't. The texture was kind of gross, sort of slimy and spongey, but the taste was actually rather good. "Bellissimo, Stiles," I told him with my kindest smile, enjoying the way his face lit up at the praise.

"You speak...Italian, was it?" he asked after a pause, where only the scraping of our forks against our plates could be heard as we ate our food.

"I'd hope so, considering I lived in Italy for seven years," I told him gently, my tone lacking its usual bite.

"Oh wow," he said, finishing the last of his eggs and putting down his fork, folding his arms on the counter and merely watched me eat. "Where else have you been?"

"Greece, Australia, Germany. Russia, Egypt, Cambodia. Spent a few years in Alaska, I raised huskies, those were a good few years," I told him, and I realised as I was speaking that it was the most I'd told anyone about myself in a long, long time. "I was born in England, you know?"

His eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah. I do miss it sometimes but I have come to really love the States," I said in my English accent. It was like slipping on a hat, it was so easy to go between that and my American one.

He clapped his hands like I was a fucking trained monkey, but I found I didn't really mind, the look of wonder on his face was enough to keep me from getting irritated. "Man, you've gotta show that to Scott."

I laughed lightly, shovelling the last of my eggs into my mouth. "So what about you?" I asked casually once I'd finished my mouthful, and his face twisted in confusion.

"What about me?"

"You've had me talking about myself all morning," I said. "It's your turn to spill."

"Trust me," he scoffed. "I'm really not that interesting."

I shrugged, "I beg to differ."

I stared at him until he got uncomfortable and started rambling. "Well, I mean, I was born here. Uh, my mom died a few years back, Scott's my best friend, my favourite food is curly fries and I watch the Nightmare Before Christmas every Halloween."

I smiled at the reference to our earlier conversation, but then frowned as I remembered one other piece of information he'd left out. "And you've been in love with Lydia Martin for how long?"

"I-I..." He stuttered, red blotches appearing on his freckled skin. "Uh, how did you-"

"It's not exactly hard to tell." He looked down, something about what I'd said apparently making him feel bad. "I should go," I said regretfully after a long silence. "You need some sleep in a proper bed, and I need to go take care of some things."

"Wait," he called as I slid to my feet, and I looked at him in surprise. "Uh, how's your stomach?"

I frowned, having almost forgotten I was injured. I reached down and lifted my shirt up slightly, just enough to expose the bottom of the scratches which were already starting to turn into what would be only temporary scars. "Nothing a little more blood won't fix," I told him, cringing as I said the words. To my pleasant surprise he didn't grimace in disgust, merely nodding like I was talking about the weather. "Thanks again, Stiles," I said quietly as I stepped away from the counter. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you later," he echoed halfheartedly.

"For the record, Stiles," I said, turning back around to look him in the eye. "I think you're too good for her," and with a final smile I disappeared, out the back door before he knew I was gone.

A/N: I have the biggest news. I met Tyler Hoechlin on the weekend. He is literally the sweetest soul, so kind and beautiful. Anyway, that's all I wanted to say, I had to brag about it to someone! Much love, let me know what you thought of this purely fluff chapter :)