Chapter Thirteen
Pulling the jeep to a stop in front of their house in Terrace Bay, Stiles turned off the engine and hopped out of the front seat. Isaac was already stepping out of his side and pushing the passenger seat forward so that Scott, who'd napped the entire way in the back, could scramble out. Rubbing blearily at his eyes with one hand, Scott passed Stiles a rucksack and then began patting absently at his pockets, no doubt looking for his house keys.
"Don't worry about it, buddy." Stiles was already heading up the sidewalk jingling his own keys in his hand. Something about sleeping during the day always made Scott about ten times slower than normal and Stiles found that it was best not to expect much from his best friend until he'd either a) had a shower or b) had something to eat.
Jogging up the front steps, Stiles unlocked the front door and pushed it open. He was halfway through the doorway when Isaac let out a sudden, chilling snarl and shouldered past, knocking him into the frame.
"What the fuck?" Stiles exclaimed, but then Scott was shoving past him as well and, ow, Stiles was going to have a bruise. "Jesus," he muttered, rubbing sullenly at his arm as he finally managed to make it into the front hallway, "I don't see why you guys are in such a…." the rest of the sentence died on his tongue when he rounded the corner and saw the utter destruction that used to be the kitchen.
Every dish they owned had been pulled out from the cupboards and smashed against the floor. The drawers had been pulled out, the contents emptied; the fridge door was hanging ajar and anything left in it had been dumped on the floor or smeared over the walls. "What the fuck," Stiles repeated, too surprised to even feel angry about the invasion.
Because of course that was what this had been—an invasion. There was no way this had been done by anyone but Marcus and his gang of thugs. Isaac came in from the back door, face grim and eyes all wolf-yellow, and a moment later Scott emerged from the top of the stairs and made his way down with his face twisted in an expression of rage so explosive that Stiles had to stop himself from backing away.
"Guess we're not getting that damage deposit back," Stiles joked, weakly, wondering what the proper response to having one's house trashed by a rival werewolf pack was. Should they call the cops? Their insurance provider?
"They're gone." Isaac ignored Stiles and spoke directly to Scott, who gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.
Moving slowly down the hallway, feeling a disjointed sense of unreality, Stiles joined Isaac and Scott who had both made their way into the living room. The couch was sprawled drunkenly on its back, the TV face down on the carpet, and the curtains had been torn down from the windows. Stiles's bookshelf of DVDs had been thrown halfway across the room and it looked as though someone had actually taken the time to pull the bulk of the DVDs out of their cases and snap them in half. But the pièce de résistance was carved into the wall opposite the window.
TICK TOCK
Stepping carefully over the jagged pieces of his DVDs, Stiles came to stand beside the two werewolves who were glaring with supernaturally bright eyes at the carving in the wall. He hefted his bag more securely onto his shoulder before stuffing his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips. "Well," he commented finally, when Scott and Isaac seemed too busy scowling to say anything, "It's not exactly 'surrender Dorothy'."
As though they were on the same marionette string, Scott and Isaac turned their heads to look at him with identical expressions of angry disbelief.
"What?" Stiles shrugged defensively. "Come on—that was funny."
"No, Stiles," Isaac said slowly, deliberately. "No, it wasn't."
"They were in our house," Scott snarled. "That's not a joke."
Stiles stared at them. "You guys are kidding me, right? All they did was break in and break our shit. That's it. Are you forgetting the part where they nearly killed Isaac on Friday?" He looked back at the wall and shook his head. "I'll take a trashed house and a vague threat over actual blood-and-guts violence any day."
"Don't you get it?" Scott gestured angrily. "This isn't about destroying our stuff. This is Marcus telling us he can come into our territory, into our fucking house, any time he wants."
"So could any douchebag teenager. It's not like we've got some sort of high tech security system. I don't see why you're getting so worked up over a little B&E—"
"Because it's not just 'a little'—" Scott broke off with a frustrated growl. "Nevermind. It's a werewolf thing, okay? You don't get it."
Stiles looked away, literally biting his tongue to stop himself from saying something he would regret later. "Fine. I guess I don't." Turning, he walked past Scott and Isaac and back out into the hallway. "I've got to get to class." They'd left Beacon Hills early so that Stiles could make his 9am Intro to Philosophy. "Let me know if you want me to pick up anything on the way home."
"Yeah, thanks," Isaac responded absently after a moment.
Letting out a huff of breath Stiles headed up the stairs towards his room. He needed to drop off the bag he was carrying and pick up his school one. Somehow he didn't think his professor would appreciate it if he showed up to class toting several mason jars of mountain ash, a wooden bat, one wickedly sharp knife that was nearly the length of his forearm, and a few sprigs of wolfsbane.
Chris had made sure Stiles was well-supplied for his return to college.
Shouldering open the door to his room, Stiles groaned in annoyance. It had been given the same treatment as the rest of the house—his mattress was pulled off the bed, his Ikea bedframe twisted and warped, they'd upended both his dresser and his desk, and someone had scattered his books all over the floor. Stiles was just glad that he'd already taken out the bookshelf. But, he reminded himself, it wasn't like anyone got hurt. And it wasn't like he had anything actually valuable. He was an eighteen-year-old boy; the worst thing they could do was—shit. His laptop. Which, now that he was looking for it, he could spot under the toppled over desk.
Gritting his teeth, and praying that the assholes who'd done this—probably Ethan and Aiden, the fuckers—had gently placed the desk on top of the laptop rather than dropping the thing, Stiles heaved the desk upright and opened his MacBook.
The screen stared back at him, cracked in about a thousand different places, and no matter how many times Stiles pressed the 'on' button it remained very firmly 'off'. With a curse, Stiles snapped it closed and dropped it back to the floor, leaning forwards and resting his forehead against the wood of the desk.
It's just a computer, he reminded himself again. They're just things. Things could be replaced. It wasn't like he owned anything really expensive or really important. Nearly all of his mementos and keepsakes and things of his mom's were back at his dad's house. Stiles hadn't taken any of that kind of stuff with him. All he'd brought to Terrace Bay was… his wolf charm.
Before the thought had even finished forming, Stiles was yanking open the desk drawers, his fingers shaking and clumsy as he tore through all the junk he kept in his desk. He had like a dozen USB keys and more pens than any one person could ever possibly use up in one lifetime and did he really need eight different unused or half-used journals? Panic tightened his chest and it wasn't until he'd finally reached the small drawer on the right hand side and found the silver charm tucked in beside a pencil sharpener (when was the last time he'd used a pencil that wasn't mechanical?) that Stiles could take a full breath.
Sinking back to the carpet, he clenched his fist around the silver wolf and tried to slow the racing of his heart. He had it. It was okay.
He brought his hand up to his mouth, pressed it there as his teeth dug into his lip and the wolf's tail dug into his palm. If it had been gone… if Marcus or whoever had taken it…
Stiles's phone buzzed in his pocket and it jerked him back to the present. Still unwilling to let go of the wolf, he fished his phone out with his left hand to read the text from Danny.
Can't find my textbook, can you bring yours?
Textbook. Right. Because they had class in—Stiles checked the time—half an hour. Stiles glanced around the room, knowing he'd left the textbook on his bed but not sure where it had wound up. After a second he spotted it lying in the bathroom and he got to his feet, sending a reply to Danny to say he'd bring it with him.
But before that, Stiles reached into his other pocket and pulled out the vial of mountain ash that hung from a silver chain. Resting it on the desk he opened the clasp and then carefully threaded the wolf charm onto the chain. He'd never worn it before, despite the tiny loop on the wolf's back, because he liked having it in his pocket. Seeing it now though, resting against the mountain ash with its head thrown back, howling and defiant, it looked right. And this way Stiles wouldn't have to worry about losing it again.
Fastening the chain, he pulled it over his head and tucked the charm and the vial underneath his shirt before grabbing his backpack and heading into the washroom to retrieve his Philosophy textbook.
Derek let his Camero glide to a stop behind Stiles's jeep, glancing out through the passenger window at the nondescript suburban house the boys were renting. From where he was parked at the curb nothing seemed amiss. If Scott hadn't sent Derek a picture of the living room after his livid phone call, Derek would have no idea of the destruction inside. Trying to keep his own anger banked until he saw what he was dealing with first-hand, Derek unlocked the trunk and slid out of the car.
Grabbing his bag from the trunk, he took out the spare key Scott had given him at the beginning of the school year and made his way up to the house. He'd managed to talk Scott down. The kid had been practically frothing at the mouth, ready to abandon any sense of caution and hunt Marcus and his cronies down armed with nothing but his bare hands (or claws), but Derek had convinced both him and Isaac to go to class. Acting rashly would only play right into Marcus's hands. It was better to keep their cool and try not to let the other pack succeed at completely disrupting their lives.
Once Scott had grudgingly agreed and hung up the phone, Derek had tossed a week's worth of clothes into a duffel bag and had been out of the door in less than half an hour.
Letting himself into the house, Derek dropped his bag in the front hallway and began to catalogue the extent of the damage.
Two hours later and he was up to his elbows in a bucket of soapy water. He'd made it a priority to bag up everything that had been broken or damaged beyond repair. The sheer pettiness that was the destruction of Stiles's DVD collection had made Derek need to take several deep breaths and actually leave the room before he could begin tossing the broken pieces into garbage bags. It was stupid to feel so outraged and impotent over the shards of what used to be the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but Stiles loved that goddamn show and someone—five someones, judging by the scents left behind—had destroyed it just to make a point.
Even thinking of it now had Derek's ire rising and he willed himself to stay in control. He wasn't going to wreck Isaac's rubber gloves because he couldn't keep his claws in check. Wringing the dishcloth out, Derek rose to his feet and began to scrub at the mustard and god knew what else that had dried and hardened on the kitchen walls.
He couldn't do much to undo the damage Marcus had inflicted, but he could at least do his best to make sure that Scott and Stiles and Isaac didn't have to relive it all over again when they got home from school.
The first thing that struck Stiles when he got home from class was that the house smelled clean. Lemon-fresh and without a hint of that sour, food-gone-bad stench that had been there when they'd returned from Beacon Hills. He made an approving sound as he closed and locked the front door behind himself, toeing off his shoes and heading into the kitchen.
"Hello?" He called as he made his way towards the refrigerator. "Anyone home?" When there was no response Stiles shrugged and opened the fridge—remembering belatedly as he stared at the empty interior that all their food had been turned into some douchebag's version of abstract art. Letting the door swing shut Stiles gave a dejected sigh and wandered out into the living room.
Isaac and Scott had done a really good job cleaning up, Stiles thought appreciatively. If it weren't for the fact that half of their possessions were gone—the TV stand stood empty, the bookcase that had held the DVDs, which were also missing, was nowhere to be seen, and the couch that had been unceremoniously un-stuffed by several pairs of supernatural claws had vanished—he would have been hard-pressed to tell that anything had happened. Minus, of course, the words torn into the wall.
Dropping his backpack onto the floor Stiles sat down on top of the coffee table, which hadn't suffered more than a few splintering puncture wounds on one of the legs, and pulled out his phone. If Isaac had texted him he would have picked up something for them to eat on the way home, but he guessed it was probably a pizza night anyway. Which Stiles wasn't exactly opposed to since all their dishes had been broken, but he was hungry.
Drumming his fingers on his thighs for a few minutes, Stiles debated whether it would be worth it to head to the store to pick something up. It wasn't like a house full of teenage boys couldn't use some snack food lying around. But he'd probably better head upstairs and start setting his own room back to rights, since he figured Scott and Isaac probably wouldn't have had time to clean the second floor before they'd had to go to class. As it was, he was surprised at how much they'd managed to do. Maybe they'd skipped their first classes. Or cheated and used their werewolf super-speed to get it done. Honestly, it was kind of unfair that they ever made Stiles help out with the cleaning when they could get it done in a third of the amount of time and with less effort. He'd argued the point to Isaac once, but Isaac had just laughed and tossed the Swiffer at Stiles, who'd nearly wound up with a bloody nose trying to catch it.
Deciding he'd rather put off cleaning for as long as possible, Stiles pushed off the coffee table and reached down for his backpack, but just then he heard the sound of keys in the front door. Frowning, he glanced down at his phone. It was only 4:30—both Scott and Isaac had class until 5:00 on Tuesdays. But since no one else had keys one of them must have gotten out (or ducked out) early.
"Hey," he said, making his way towards the hallway. "Thanks for cleaning up."
Whoever was at the front door had paused in the middle of stepping through it, and when Stiles came around the corner he realized why.
"What," he said, all the warmth gone from his voice, "are you doing here?"
Derek shifted the bags of groceries he carried and came completely into the house, pulling his keys—his keys—out of the lock and closing the door behind him. "Scott called."
"So?"
"So I came." Derek replied with a hint of impatience. "You want to move out of the way?"
Stiles did not, and almost said as much, but he figured that there was probably something to eat in one of the bags Derek was holding and he wanted to make sure those got into the kitchen before he kicked Derek right back out the door. Saying nothing, he stepped back and let Derek walk past him.
Derek placed the paper bags on the counter and began taking groceries out. Stiles stood in the doorway and tried to ignore the fact that his heartbeat had sped up—and hadn't yet slowed down—when he'd seen it was Derek at the door. He couldn't tell if it was anger or shock or just plain old lust at seeing the Alpha, but it made his blood roar in his ears and had heat flushing high in his cheeks.
As far as Stiles knew, this was only Derek's third time in the house. And yet he seemed to have no trouble figuring out where Isaac kept the pasta, for instance, or which shelf in the fridge was for milk. Maybe he could smell where everything used to be, or maybe…. Stiles felt a jolt run down his spine and he pushed up from where he'd been leaning against the doorway. "How long have you been here?"
Glancing up from where he'd been placing a bundle of tomatoes on the counter, Derek frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Like, did you just get into town and stop for groceries, or were you already in the house?" Stiles was pretty sure he knew the answer and, while only minutes ago the fresh-clean scent of the house had been a relief, now it made his skin prickle.
Derek took his time folding up the last of the paper bags and tucking them in the recycling bin before he answered. "I've been here a few hours. I ran out of garbage bags so I went to—"
"Why the fuck," Stiles couldn't keep the growing fury out of his voice, "did you think you could come into my house uninvited and start—"
"Start cleaning? Yeah, right, Stiles, that does seem very underhanded of me."
"Don't turn this around on me. Don't act like you didn't know exactly how much this would piss me off."
"Not everything is about you," anger rippled through Derek's voice. "This is Scott and Isaac's house, too."
"Yeah, and?" Stiles couldn't believe Derek's audacity. He couldn't fathom why Derek thought showing up at Stiles's house unannounced would be a good idea. "We've already had one home invasion this week, we really don't need two."
"That's what you think this is?"
Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to back down when Derek's expression darkened. "That's what it looks like to me, yeah."
"Oh, go fuck yourself."
Stiles stared, speechless and sputtering. "You can't come into my house and—"
"And clean it, Stiles? For fuck's sake you're acting like I'm the one who trashed it."
"Look, I don't know how you got a key," except that yes, he did—fucking Scott, "But that doesn't mean you can just show up whenever you feel like it. So get out."
"No."
"'No'?" Stiles echoed, disbelieving. "You don't get to say no."
"Yes, I do. I'm the Alpha."
"Oh, you've got to be—" Stiles broke off, too outraged to continue for a moment. "For starters, you're not the Alpha. You're one of the Alphas. That's Alpha with an 's'. Plural. So don't pull this bullshit—"
"'Bullshit'? This is my pack and I'm staying here until we—"
"Oh, no, you're not. Don't even think about it. Over my dead body."
"Your dead body is exactly what I'm trying to prevent."
"Please," Stiles spat, "I don't need you protecting me. I don't need protecting, period." He'd crossed the room at some point, was standing nearly face-to-face with Derek, close enough that he could feel the heat from Derek's body. "But I especially don't need it from you." He punctuated the last word with a shove. "Now, get out."
Derek grabbed for Stiles's hand as he went to shove Derek again but as soon as Derek's fingertips touched the bare skin on Stiles's wrist he jerked back with a snarl of pain, his eyes suddenly, furiously red.
Stiles smirked. "And don't touch me."
"What are you wearing?" Derek's voice had gone dangerously quiet.
"Like I said, I don't need protecting."
"Stiles," the growl of warning was low and deep and sent a delicious shiver down Stiles's spine. The air between them felt suddenly thick, charged, and from the dilation of Derek's pupils Stiles wasn't the only one who felt it. "Take it off."
"Well," said a voice from the doorway, "I really hate to interrupt… whatever this is, but I was told we were having a pack meeting." Jackson raised his eyebrows. "Or do you two need a couple minutes alone?"
"A pack meeting?" Stiles turned back to Derek from where he'd been scowling with baleful animosity at Jackson. "You called a meeting at my house and didn't bother to let me know?"
In the doorway, Jackson made a noise of disgust and walked out, presumably to sulk in the living room.
"Could you get over yourself for one second?" Derek's patience had long since worn thin. "At this point you're giving Jackson a run for his money."
"I heard that," Jackson commented from the living room.
"Fuck you," Stiles tried to leave but Derek stepped in front of him, blocking his way.
"Tell me what you're wearing."
From the outside the kitchen there came a choking noise of protest.
"No."
"Goddamnit, Stiles, this isn't a game."
"No, Derek. It's my life. I can wear what I want—I don't see how that's any business of yours."
"Do you go out of your way to be this thick headed or does it just come naturally?" Derek wondered out loud.
"I'm protecting myself." Stiles was beginning to feel like he was on repeat, and frustration had his voice rising. "How is that stupid?"
"You don't need to protect yourself from us."
"Don't I?" Stiles asked.
Derek had opened his mouth to reply but shut it, looking somehow smaller. Stiles's left hand went up unconsciously to finger the thin chain from where it peeked out over the collar of his shirt. He'd have pulled it out ages ago, waved the vial of mountain ash in Derek's face, except that he didn't want Derek to see he'd still kept the stupid wolf charm. He didn't want Derek to know it still meant enough to Stiles for him to want to keep it close.
When Derek continued to say nothing, just looked at Stiles with his unreadable green eyes, Stiles dropped his hand and sighed.
"Alright, I'll take it off." He'd never really been planning to wear it around the house anyway—he would hate to accidentally hurt Scott or Isaac if he brushed arms with them on the couch or bumped into one of them in the hallway. He just hadn't had a chance to go upstairs and take it off before Derek had shown up.
"Thank you." Derek stepped back to let Stiles through. "Once Scott and Isaac get back we'll start."
"Sure, whatever." Stiles ignored the heat that pooled in his stomach as he passed within inches of Derek's body. He'd go upstairs, take a cold shower, and hopefully by the time everyone else showed up there'd be dinner to go along with the meeting. And hopefully someone would have remembered to pick up some alcohol—judging by how the day had gone so far, Stiles was going to need a drink (or several) to make it through the evening.