"One for Sorrow" is a traditional children's nursery rhyme about magpies. According to an old superstition, the number of magpies one sees determines if one will have bad luck or not. On occasion, jackdaws, crows, bluebirds, and other Corvidae are associated with the rhyme, particularly in America where magpies are less common
Stiles with a magic bat? Cause why the hell not. I know it's been done before but damn it, I like it.
"Anything I should know about?"
Stiles looked up from his bowl of cornflakes, wondering if it were a loaded question or not. Admittedly, things had become a hell of a lot easier for them both now that Stiles had come clean and told his father about everything going on in Beacon Hill. Every little thing that had happened to him since that fateful day in the woods, when two teenagers went out into the wood looking for some excitement and a dead body.
The Sheriff had not been pleased, in any sense of the word, to find out what his boy had been up to. Relieved, yes. Happy that his only child had repeatedly run head on into danger and barely escaped with his life to tell the tale, hell no. Their relationship ended up cracked and brittle in places from the strain of it all, but not broken, never that. In the end, all that they had were each other and such bonds of blood are not so easily broken.
Complete honesty was their new policy, no matter how brutal and bloody it was. The rule now between them was as long as John asked, Stiles would tell him everything, whether he wanted to know all the grim details or not. He had to ask though.
"About?", Stiles ventured carefully. He couldn't think of anything too awful that he might of done this week. Blowing up the neighbor's garbage cans by accident hardly counted, right?
"When did you get into body art? Or is this a spark thing?", John motioned to Stiles's head before tapping behind his own ear to indicate the source of his interest. Stiles grinned around a mouthful of soggy cereal, partially out of relief. His crows were making themselves at home on his body, currently nestled behind his ears, peeking out from beneath the shade of his dark locks. Imbedded into his skin and imprinted on his soul, the crows were defined by complex Celtic knot work in shades of black, garnet, indigo, and violet, the colors rippling together whenever the Corvus corax moved.
"More like a spirit animal thing. They're my new peeps.", Stiles smiled, still quite pleased with himself though Deaton had thrown his quiet version of a shit fit about Stiles going off to the astral place by himself. Stiles now had to clean out kitty litter boxes for the next three months but it had totally been worth it. Despite his passive aggressiveness, Stiles could tell that Deaton had been pleased with his progress.
"They're gone. I think you embarrassed them.", John snorted, watching as the crows disappeared with a spray of ink that left trails in his skin before disappearing entirely, "Nice to know your new pets have better taste in jokes than you.".
"Whatever. They totally get me.", Stiles said, watching his crows fly down the length of his arms to glare up at him from his wrists. He thought it was great that the birds navigated around the minefield of moles on his skin.
John ended up dropping his toast when the crows flew out of Stiles's flesh, becoming corporeal on the table. "Ah, crap.", the sheriff muttered, one the crows flying off the table to snatch up the sheriff's ruined breakfast. The other bird seemed to be conferring with Stiles though, muttering to his son in low croaks and clicks. Stiles didn't look too happy about it and that alone made the Sheriff uneasy. "Everything alright?".
"Yes.", Stiles muttered, not convincing anyone with ears.
"Stiles….", John sighed. He knew that his son was just trying to protect him from this brave new world he had entrenched himself in, but it went against every parental instinct. The Sheriff had already buried a beloved wife. He didn't need to bury their child too. If that happened, John knew he would soon follow them both, drowning himself in the bottom of a bottle. All this supernatural crap left a bad taste in his mouth, but if he could help, John wouldn't hesitate, no matter how weird it was.
"I won't be home tonight.", Stiles told him softly, looking down at his cereal like it held all the answers to life, the universe, and everything else. "Something bad is coming.".
"How bad?", John made himself ask, ignoring the giant black birds fighting over his toast and being quite noisy about it.
"Do you really want to know?", Stiles looked up at him now, and part of John wished he hadn't. His son's eyes looked too old for his young face, a visage that had lost all its soft baby fat and rounded curvature. What was left was a countenance that had seen too much in too short a time, made lean and sharp from the knowledge that things went bump in the night were real and most of it was hungry. It was the face of a survivor, finished hard and lean by a resolve that came from making choices that no one should have to.
The fatherly part of him made John want to shoot point blank whoever or whatever had made his child, his wonderful inept child, into this man, the one who sat before him with the grim set expression. The rest of John though appreciated what he saw, the competent person that Stiles had become, the one whose skin glowed faintly with barely contained power that made the air itself crackle and spark.
"No. Something tells me that I had better hear this story after it's all said and done.", John admitted, hating himself for saying it, hating it even more when he saw some tension leave Stiles's shoulders. He should be able to do better than this, help his son, be a parent to him. "Can I do anything for you? Do you need anything? How can I help?".
"Keep people off the streets and out of the woods tonight. Set a curfew. Tell them it's mountain lions or rapid beavers, whatever you have to do.", Stiles said slowly, already looking distracted. John knew his son's swift mind was elsewhere, making plans on top of plans. "Stay away from the reserve and don't go patrolling. Catch up on some paperwork tonight.".
Body working in tandem with mind, Stiles was already up and out of his seat, his crows following behind him, the teenager muttering lists under his breath. John caught his arm before he could get too far. "Stiles…..be safe.", John made himself say. He knew when he let go of Stiles, the Sheriff would be letting his son leave for battle, one that he might not return from. "I want to hear this story when you get back. All of it.".
"It might not have a happy ending.", Stiles warned, hating himself as his father looked older for it. Truths were turning his dad's hair gray and wearing new lines into his face.
"I still want to hear it…..", the Sheriff made himself smile, "…over bacon of course. The real stuff.".
"Should I be worried that you equate impending bad news to pork products?", Stiles snorted as he gently pulled himself free from his father. He couldn't go win a war already wounded. There were so many things he still needed to do, spells he needed to prepare, prayers that needed to be said, offerings to old gods to be made. He still had to call Scott, inform Deaton and Lydia(though they probably already knew but it was the thought that count), and try to warn Derek. With their luck or lack there of, the pigheaded alpha was probably already in the woods being an angst filled martyr. He had yet to learn that his pain and guilt were not effective weapons.
"No. I just think a win for us deserves bacon.", John said softly, "Just….just come back home in one piece and I'll count it as a win.". He wanted to say more, say the right thing, the words that would bring his child back to him safe and sound.
It was enough to make Stiles falter for a second, mis-step and stumble as he climbed the stairs. He could only nod in response instead of answering properly, hoping and knowing that it wasn't enough to alleviate the Sheriff's fears. It was the best he could come up with though. Stiles was done lying to his father.
oOo
Derek was dying. He could feel it, knew the sensation well. He had felt it before, the chill feel of walking hand in hand with death. His wolf was familiar with it as well and was panicking, claws biting into flesh under skin, desperate for fight or flight. Last time when they were like this with a bullet wolf bane laced bullet lodged in his arm, they had sought out help, an unlikely ally in unfamiliar territory. A festering mixtures of smells and constant sound, Derek re-experienced the fresh hell that was high school, wading through cliques, hormones, and rampant insecurities in search of Scott. It was there his wolf caught scent of vanilla, faint yet everywhere, overlapping and weaving throughout the maze of halls and rooms. Derek had followed it to the baby blue Jeep, like it was the way to home, salvation, and redemption.
It wasn't here though. Not deep in the forest surrounded by the Alpha pack. They had found him alone, had found him wanting. Derek had been judged by his peers and his pack was considered pathetic, composed of an undead uncle, and two teenagers, one of which liked an omega more than his own alpha and the other a stubborn pretentious ass of a former kanima. If Derek was a little bit more self loathing, he would have to admit that they were right and he didn't deserve to live.
For all his sins though, Derek was about to pay them all off in full at once, pound of flesh by pound of torn out flesh. He was going to die bloody but he refused to die begging. The fallen alpha made himself stagger back onto his feet, glaring at his attackers, the alpha pack fanning out in a rough circle all around him. Multiple pairs of ruby eyes flashed like hellish fireflies, winking in and out as they paced. The noises that they made were worse by far, the still of the night broken with the wet snaps of jaw, the deep seated growls of the victorious, and the grind of sharp fangs rubbing against each other.
The alpha pack was feral, more beasts than human. Born and bred werewolves, they embraced the beast within but unlike the Hale pack who lived for unity and family, they only focused on the kinetic, the predator, the machine. To them, pack only meant power. Who was Derek to preach about family values and dissuade them otherwise? He couldn't exactly present the merits of his own pack or the beliefs of his family while bleeding out, but for the sake of everyone, he would do his damnedest and at least try. Maybe the alpha pack would spare his betas. Undead or not, Derek was grateful to have his uncle back in his pack. He could at least trust Peter to keep the betas safe long enough for them to hide or escape.
Trying not to sway and making an attempt to shove his inside parts causally back in his gut, Derek faced the alphas. He was healing slow, most of his wounds still open and on fire, his body attempting to keep up with all the damage. Derek tried not to wonder what being torn apart alive was going to feel like as he put on a brave face.
"WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?!".
Apparently, life couldn't even let him die with some damn dignity. Karma was a bitch and it's name was Stiles Stilinski, the little shit himself walking up to them, like he owned the night itself. His partner-in-crime was at his heels, Scott growling at the alphas like the born moron he was. If he wasn't so busy keeping his intestines becoming used to open air, Derek would have face palmed. It wasn't helping anything either that his wolf was on their side, practically crying with relief. He wished he had that much confidence in, well, anything really.
Bold as the moon and seeming twice as bright, Stiles practically strolled up to them, wearing that wonderfully horrible red hoodie of his, the one that made Derek smile on the inside whenever he saw it. Mocking, always toeing the lines of decency and absurdity, that was Stiles through and though. Good taste, thy name was not Stilinski. Common sense wasn't either for that matter, Stiles grinning at them all now like a cat on crack and was strangely enough carrying a studded bat over his shoulder.
"Is this the Hale pack we have heard so much about? A human and an omega?", Derek heard one of the alphas growl.
"They look tasty.", said another, the sound of drool hitting the ground from a slobbering maw.
"Oh, that's so sweet! The little human came armed.", the one closest to Stiles snarled, "Are you planning on giving me some splinters with that shit? With your little bat?". That was all they had time to say cause Stiles just kept on coming. Without pause or warning, he swung the bat, the end of it connecting neatly with the nearest werewolf's head. Normally, nothing notably would have happened except for one having a very pissed off werewolf on their hands.
This time…..This time though, the werewolf's head came nearly clean off of its shoulders as the alpha went down in a mess of blood and still smoking flesh. The werewolf didn't get back up again. Derek was relieved to see everyone else was gaping at Stiles as well, and it just wasn't him hallucinating due to blood loss.
"I don't know. You tell me, bitch. How's it working for you?", Stiles grinned, so fearless and recklessly daring Derek honestly didn't know if he wanted to fuck Stiles or slap some much needed sense into him.
"Dude, where did you get that?", Scott was wide eyed, so obviously he hadn't been expecting that result either. That was the most charitable thought Derek could come up with for him at the moment. It continually amazed Derek that Scott was still among the living.
Stiles's own thoughts were actually along the same lines, just taking different routes. He also thought it was a good thing that werewolves had that rapid healing factor going for them cause Scott was going to give himself whiplash from looking back and forth between him and the alpha's corpse so rapidly.
"I made it in shop.", Stiles shrugged to an answering incredulous look from his best friend. "Hey, it was either this or a birdhouse.".
"Coach didn't have a problem with you making a weapon in class?", Scott mused. Flinstock really needed to stop teaching other classes.
"I told him it was for whacking moles. He was strangely fine with that.", Stiles shrugged.
'This' was a bat made of solid mountain ash with magical incantations burned and carved into it length. Stiles particularly liked the iron spikes driven through width of the bat and the braided leather wrapped around its handle ensuring a steady grip. Earlier, Scott had pointed out that iron didn't have an effect on werewolves. Stiles had been willing to bet metal treated with wolfbane and engraved with runes of pure kick ass would though. The dead alpha at his feet was proof enough of that.
Remembering that wolves could smell fear… and oh my god, he'd just killed someone….yeah, that someone was planning on killing them all….but shit, have the panic attack later when there weren't things ready to eat you…, Stiles tried to stay focused on the positive. He hadn't been too sure how effective the bat would be. He was stoked and more than a little relieved that the answer was 'fucking awesome'. Yay. One down, the rest of the alpha pack to go.
Derek could only stare. The frightened, nervous boy he had met so long ago in the wood now stood before them all a man, his lanky frame filled out muscular and lithe having finally grown into his hands and feet. Once a spastic mess capable of tripping over a flat surface, Stiles moved now with a grace that came with experience, age, and running for your life quite frequently. His wolf howled in appreciation, finding Stiles worthy. Much to his own surprise, Derek found that he did as well.
All his gazing in admiration was cut short as the two alphas closest to him burst into flame, the werewolves desperately rolling around on the forest floor trying to put themselves out. The source was Stiles, who casually tossed a small fireball up and down in his free hand.
"Nice, dude.", Scott grinned, impressed with his friend. Stiles had come a long way from mistimed explosions.
"Yeah, I'm totally making Latin my bitch.", Stiles smirked. Of course, it helped that he had a beautiful study partner who mercilessly berated him every time he screwed up. Lydia was in her element when it came to insulting people descriptively in a dead language.
"YOU'RE DEAD!", was howled in unison at the pair. Derek's heart hit the floor of his stomach as what remained of the alpha pack surged forward, all fangs and claws baring down upon Stiles and Scott like a storm of swords.
And then all the stars went out.
At least that is how it seemed at first, that the night itself had descended upon them, snuffing out all the light with it. Not even the blessed luminance of the moon shone through this void. The light was all gone but sight was only one of five senses. Though he could no longer see, Derek could hear, and hear quite well, like all of his kind could. Heartbeats, breathing, talons and teeth clinking together, and underneath all that, the soft movement of wings. Hundreds of them, the murmur of soft feathers like cool silk over the senses.
"One crow sorrow." shattered the dark and became the only noise within its confines as everything else came to a standstill. Stiles's voice was soft. It didn't need to be loud considering his audience. It carried anyway, floated on unseen wings and was echoed by throats that usually croaked more than spoke.
"Two crows joy." and then someone off to Derek's left was dying bloody. The wolf could smell the alpha's pain through the void, heard it as hundreds of razor beaks torn a werewolf apart into tiny bite sized pieces.
"Three crows a letter" more wolves were fighting or at least trying to. The movement caused the fake night to shudder and shift revealing the cloaking was all made of moving shadows. Crows of shade flew and dived on swift wings at the alphas.
"Four crows a boy". Stiles's voice was calm, patient even. Derek could catch glimpses of him every now and again as the night moved all around him like a nexus of glittering midnight made of claw and obsidian.
"Five crows silver, Six crows gold.", made Derek shiver. The air was thick with the scents of death and blood and pain and yet nothing touched him. It left him feeling cold for some reason.
"Truce! We call truce!" was yelled out from somewhere. Derek didn't feel a need to answer it. His wolf didn't either. The alpha pack deserved what was coming to them.
"Seven crows a secret never to be told." was whispered right by Derek's ear. He turned his head to see Stiles standing beside him, all pale and shimmering with power. Two crows, large evil looking birds, rode his shoulders on either side, their lethal beaks and claws gunmetal dark, their too black eyes filled with the knowledge that only came from consuming the secrets of the dead. He had never looked more beautiful.
"Eight crows for a wish.", Stiles told Derek. He didn't know where Scott was but fuck, if he could bring himself to care, to occupied by Stiles moving closer to him. The kid…the man…had a good inch on him now and it was a little disconcerting.
"Nine crows for a kiss.", Derek shuddered as hot breath ghosted over his skin, Stiles so close, too close, as he leaned into his side to take his weight. The alpha was torn between shoving him away to prove how strong and capable he was, and being grateful to Stiles for seeing how hurt he actually was.
"Ten crows a surprise you should be careful not to miss.", Stiles practically sang to the sky and the midnight wood, making the world tremble to do his bidding. The screaming, the howls of the fallen were all turning more into softer death rattles now, the forest readily accepting the new ghosts. Derek could still hear some resistance, but it was waning as blood soaked into the thirsty dirt.
"Eleven crows for health.", they were joined by Scott who walked on Derek's other side, the younger werewolf looking no worse for wear. He didn't dare to touch the wounded alpha so Derek did his best to ignore him.
"Twelve crows for wealth.", Stiles sighed, the spell coming to its inevitable end as the powers he had summoned wound down. It didn't matter though. All the wolves were dead or dying, leaking out what was left of their life from all the innumerable tiny cuts that covered their skin and refused to heal. It was worth it though, it was worth the price he would have to pay. Like all things in life, magic wasn't free and this kind of power, what he had been willing to do tonight, came at a high cost. Stiles kept telling himself it would be alright, that he had made the right choice. It was worth it.
Derek realized he was going to live, he was going to survive, his pack was going to survive. They had won or more accurately, Stiles had won this one for them, saved everyone. Impossibly, unbelievably, they were safe.
So why did Derek feel so fucked?
"Thirteen crows beware it's the devil himself."
Notes: Thanks for reading