VI : D-DAY

It had been quite unexpected to see Derek Hale show up in the middle of his pseudo seance (which wasn't even a seance, in the end), full of his fangs, claws and all the other things that made him a super wicked and super deadly werewolf. Of course, as soon as he had noticed his presence, Stiles, or rather his brain, started to elaborate several situations, going from the adult who was content to ignore him after having lectured him on his behaviour towards Scott (a very unwelcome lecture, if you wanted his opinion), to Derek-the-wolf-who-tears-his-carotid-with-his-teeth. Multiple scenarios therefore, in which undoubtedly, he, the poor human of the pack, would end up getting his ass kicked. In no case would he have allowed himself to imagine that he would be the one who would make the Hale swallow his sourwolf pride. Well, to be honest, it had happened to him once. In a dream. Let's just say he'd happily busted the shifter's kneecaps with a spiked baseball bat, but that was only because he'd blown his nose off with a steering wheel. It had basically earned young Stilinski the right to dream of rearranging his face. Needless to say, after that, he had been particularly careful not to cross paths with Derek, convinced then that he had the ability to read his thoughts and thus, to tear out his throat with his fangs.

Yes, there was often a matter of fangs and torn throats when it came to Derek Hale. Probably because of the leather jacket, Stiles had once thought, absent-mindedly thinking that a Derek Hale-bis dressed as a hipster or a Sunday skater, would surely not have had the same effect... that he had now. But never mind.

So he hadn't expected to lose control. Basically. It had been sudden and, thoughtless. Irresponsible, too and, he knew it. God, he knew it. And yet, he couldn't seem to regret any of his gestures, any of his actions. It didn't matter that the man was now staring at him with some apprehension or even fear. It didn't matter that he had just put the lycanthrope's life in danger with this simple magical demonstration. Stiles was above that. At least at first. It was the euphoria of having the sensation of finally weighing in the balance. The satisfaction of having, for a moment, overcome his monster scare (no pun intended) of the black-clad adult. It was simply... power in its pure state. The power that was his (for another twenty-four hours, at least), the power that would allow him soon enough to finish off Deucalion and his pack for good. It didn't matter that there might be some broken pots along the way. After all, wasn't it said that it was impossible to make an omelette without breaking eggs? Derek had underestimated him. Because he was born human. Because he was small and not exactly super-strong.

Because he talked. A lot, often, without necessarily taking a breath between two sentences. Because he was, by Lupine standards, weak. Because.

Derek had never thought that, yeah. Maybe Stiles could be the one to give him a run for his money. It was unthinkable, according to the adult, impossible. As if Kate Argent hadn't been a painful enough lesson to learn. As if.

And yet.

The human was the one standing strong and proud, in front of the lycanthrope who, forced by the magic of the earth, had ended up bending his knees to this kid he hated for no particular reason. On the surface of his mind, the wolf growled. He was an Alpha, for God's sake. Why then was his other half kneeling before... this prey? This prey that he would have torn apart with his teeth until its blood filled his mouth and stained the hair on his muzzle. And... it was very stupid, he realized by himself. The prey wasn't even a prey, didn't even smell like one. It was... It was bigger. Stronger. Darker and, at the same time, brighter. It was... Oh. Wasn't this warmth-home-cocon-summer? He recognized it now! Wasn't it his scent that stained the entire forest? Or maybe it was the forest that had left its scent on this human- No. This Protector. The Protector. And, speechless, Derek felt more than he saw the spirit of the wolf, inside his head, inside his body, inside his consciousness, inside himself, as if he were lying down, paws forward and, muzzle between them.

"Holy shit," swore Derek.

"Holy shit," echoed Stiles as he realized what he had just done.

Bending to his will, the fucking will of that damn wolf. This wolf that Derek, adult, born lupine, whatever you want, still couldn't quite control, especially when emotions got too strong, too much.. And in all this...

In all of this, Eurydice burst into a crystal clear laugh. The kind that sends shivers down your spine, the kind that lifts your heart, but not in a bad way. She burst out laughing, simply because, for a moment, she had believed that Stiles would fall like so many others had fallen before him. All those men who had once promised that Gaia's magic would not pervert them. All those guys who had thought they were stronger than the Mother-of-All-Things herself. So yes. She had feared that Stiles would do something stupid. He had come so close... Without even realizing it though. It had been there, as real as she stood tall and alive, in front of the wolf and the human-who-wasn't-really-a-human. She laughed out loud, with all her might, because she had caught a glimpse of the darkness in her young foal's heart. As clear as water. She had felt the high schooler's desire for revenge. She had felt his pain, his anger, the injustice growing in his heart, the pain. It had been almost tangible. It had been fear, the fear that plants its roots in a soul and feeds on it, day after day. Fear of being abandoned, of losing loved ones. Fear of failing, of living, too. It had been there, swirling like a hurricane; it had been violent and hard and, without any explanation, the calm had returned to his head. Calm, disbelief too. Fear, again and again, because, for a moment, Stiles had understood too, that he had lost control. As simple as that. As easily as a slamming door, a bending tree in a storm. And the boy had been petrified.

It had been, among other things, like a whiplash. A whiplash that had made him come back to himself, flutter his eyelashes and take a long breath, while Derek had come to offer his throat against his will. Because the wolf, inside, had felt it. The raw strength. The Magic. Gaia, her powers. He had understood that Stiles, without being an Alpha, was the One who protected. Without asking anything in return, without even asking for the submission of a third creature. He protected because it was his duty, because he served Gaia. Because.

Therefore, the wolf had offered his submission on his own. A sign of respect. Basically. And, it was so far from anything he'd ever known about Derek (not that he knew him that well either, eh), that it had simply been enough to bring him back down to earth, anchor-like.

"You are definitely a very interesting human, Stiles," Eurydice said when she was done laughing, emphasizing more than necessary the nickname of the high school student.

The boy lowered his eyes to the ground, the shame invading his being like a torrential downpour.

"I.. It's not.," he stammered. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"It wasn't..."

"I know."

"Can you stop saying that?!"

"That what?"

"That I know, damn it. You. I..."

Damn it, had he already mentioned that sometimes (often), Eurydice gave him the urge to kill? His tongue clicking against the back of his mouth, he glared at her slightly.

"Don't mess with me," he asked in a tone that he wanted to be light, but that seemed more broken than anything else.

Then the Dryad moved towards him, ignoring the werewolf who was recovering hard from his emotions, too, to come and cup the teenager's youthful face.

"I know," she repeated again. "You felt it, didn't you? The power. The one inside you."

"I..."

"Did you felt it, child?"

"Yes," he whispered softly. "It was big and strong. And, for a moment..." he said, a little hesitantly. "For a moment I felt myself falling. Then everything became cold and dark and I couldn't breathe. It was like my heart was being choked, like my lungs were frozen."

"You resisted it."

"I didn't want to... I mean. It was tempting. Really tempting. Like the answer to all my problems had been there. Like it was... Like all I had to do was let go and..."

"But you didn't let go," the dryad insisted.

"No. No, I did not let go."

And that was all. She offered him one of her smiles, those which knew how to make capsize the heart of the teenager, while her lips came to stray a short moment against the forehead of the boy. Behind them, Derek cleared his throat, straightened on his legs.

"Shit," said again Stiles while realizing that, since the beginning, the wolf had assisted to all of this, had been in the center of all this mess.

Eurydice laughed even more.

"As you say, child," she approved in a more mocking tone than ever. "What will I be able to do with him, from now on? The deal was clear. You know how our Mother is when men do not honor their words."

Immediately, the almost cheerful (or at least relieved) face that Stiles had begun to address, darkened.

"Shit," he said again. "Derek. I..."

"Gaia, uh," he simply commented, between incredulity and, weariness.

Of course it was Gaia. After all, it wasn't like Stiles had the annoying habit of getting into trouble up to his neck, was it?

"That wasn't..."

"Not what, Stiles? Did you even think for one second before dealing with the devil?"

Stiles rolled his eyes with all the insolence he was made of.

"The devil" he snorted a little unnecessarily. "You're making a fuss of nothing. You'll learn that Gaia is why you can parade around with your wolf superpowers, Hale."

"I know exactly who Gaia is, Stilinski. Unlike you, I've known about this part of the world all my life."

"Very little knowledge, it seems."

"Don't fuck with me."

"Then don't be a dick, Derek."

The high school student was running out of patience with the adult, so much so that he ended up scolding him, full of anger that he was. Why was he being so stubborn? It didn't make any sense to him, all these contests of who has the biggest cock exhausted him... even if, in fact, he had just proved that he had a big one.

"Charming, Mieczysław," dropped Eurydice mockingly, for a change.

The three of them exchanged glance after glance, until Derek opened his mouth, again, to ask:

"Mieczysław?"

Quickly cut off by the interested party, that said.

"You don't wanna know. And you, Eurydice, my head is not a theater. I'd like to have a minimum of privacy up there, if it's not too much to ask."

"Oh? And miss all that goes on there? You don't think about that, child!"

"I'm serious."

"Hello Serious, I'm Eurydice."

The teenager's hand came to rest on his face, in a very successful parody of the ultimate facepalm.

"That's too much," he growled, visibly offended, "I'm getting out of here."

"As if!"

"Your sense of humor is deplorable."

"You don't like daddy jokes?"

"Daddy jokes... God, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, it's much better for my sanity."

"Now you're insulting me, little human."

"You just single-handedly insulted almost all of the... raah, whatever," Stiles said, eyebrows furrowed and a pout on his lips.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to Derek who, surely lost by the spectacle that could offer a Stiles Stilinski and his buddy ... the talking tree (for lack of other words), had become silent.

"What am I going to do with you, sourwolf, eh".. he said quietly, knowing full well that the lycan could hear him.

There was a sound of throat on the side of the concerned lycan and with a little unhealthy pleasure, Stiles saw him decomposing, the face passing at first by a very suitable chalk white before turning red anger.

"There's no: what am I going to do with you, Stiles," he scolded moodily. "If you think I'm going to let you meddle with this..."

"Meddle with it?"

"Deucalion. You wouldn't have made a deal with the Mother-of-All-Things, just so you could chat with the plants, even though it might have been just like you."

"Nice, I like the way you see me. Like it's perfectly normal that, yeah, I might want to chat with a green plant, when it's not."

"Really?"

"Really!"

"... And I'd like to remind you that the famous green plant is there and hears everything you say, gentlemen," Eurydice intervened mechanically without seeming overly offended.

Stiles had the decency to wince a little, while Derek merely shrugged a shoulder, more annoyed than ever.

"It's not your problem," he insisted, not caring about the Dryad's interruption.

"Of course it's my problem, you damn wolf!"

"You're human. So you're not concerned, Stiles."

"That's exactly why I'm fucking concerned Hale! Damn it. Deucalion could go after my dad. It's my fucking problem when creatures of the night, like, I don't know, crazy werewolves, start killing everything that moves.

"If you had stayed away from the beginning, your father would have been safe."

So Stiles let out a big laugh. The kind that is joyless and very sarcastic, the kind that irritates ears and makes tongues snap.

"Oh yes!" He ironized. "Because it's worked so well so far. Do I need to remind you that most of the people that were killed, had nothing to do with any of this?"

Derek rolled his eyes, not quite believing what he was hearing. Since when were kids supposed to be so stubborn?

"Anyway..."

"Don't anyway me, Derek."

"You acted without thinking. It was... What if your Gaia had turned out to be worse than Deucalion?"

"I can hardly imagine worse than Deucalion, sorry."

"Really?"

"Well, maybe not, because it's true that Hitler was a bloody fat fuck..."

"What the..."

"I think this trought ok ? Very seriously. For weeks. I'm not stupid, unlike what you seem to think, damn it. I think before I punch, not like some people."

"What are you trying to imply here?" the lycan growled, his wolf back on the surface of human consciousness.

"I'm not implying anything, Derek. I'm stating fucking facts. All you know how to do is run headfirst into it and pray no one gets killed. That's not how things are supposed to work, okay? It's against the rules. That's... It's just not possible, okay? We needed a plan this time. A real one."

"Because Gaia turns out to be a better plan than anything we've ever discussed?"

"Yes. No. Maybe."

"Stiles..."

"No, Derek, fuck that. Look. Just listen, okay? Every time, our plans go to shit and... Oh, don't make that face. You know I'm right. Our plans are great, until someone comes along and screws it up. I'm not blaming you, okay? It's not us. Not really. It's just... We're human, okay? We run on love and affection and don't you roll your eyes Derek Hale, you know damn well I'm right. Scott goes and kicks ass, the big bad guy threatens to go after his classmates, his mother, damn it, his own mother and, Scott decides to sacrifice himself instead."

"That's not..."

"True or not true?"

"Stiles it's not..."

"True. Or. Not. True?" he insisted, his jaw clenched.

Derek glared at him, as he let out a : True, with great reluctance.

"There are always dead people no matter what we do. Not on our side, not always, but others often pay for our mistakes. Because the truth is, Derek, we're just kids. We shouldn't have to deal with the Mystic Magic side of the world, the Supernatural side. Scott is a werewolf. Whatever. He has fucking fangs and claws, becomes murderous at the full moon, automatically heals at the slightest injury... Okay. Okay, I get it. He's a teenage fucking werewolf and, so far, it hasn't been that... crazy. I mean, I'm pretty sure NASA is hiding Alien or Transformers from us on the dark side of the moon, so werewolves, frankly, weren't a big deal. But you know what? People started dying. People started dying and the hunters got into the game, like it was perfectly normal to want to kill people just because they were a little bit different. And you know how that ended?"

"Stiles..."

"It ended with Lydia in the hospital, with some guy almost biting me and turning me into some kind of freak show, damn it and with everyone else in danger."

"Stiles..."

"Well, maybe not the whole world, okay, but Beacon Hills. But it was okay. Because through it all, through the threat of Kate and her crazy family, we managed to survive, us. Our little insignificant band. And, you had to create more werewolves, because you felt alone.."

"I don't feel..."

"Because mister's got an ego to satisfy," Stiles ignored him, rolling his eyes, a pout on his lips. "And then Jackson became a fucking Kanima and more people died again and I almost died in a fucking pool, in a fucking garage, even and you too. And so did everybody else. Everybody fucking almost died and it was almost normal, that people were after us. Like it was normal for teenagers to be near death every day. Like it was normal to have to constantly look over your shoulder."

Stiles took a deep breath as he realized his hands had started to shake again and his voice had gone weak as well. He breathed in, breathed out, glared at the adult when he even pretended to approach and nervously ran his hands against his nearly shaved head. He was well aware that his speech was a little (a lot) disjointed, to put of course, on the account of his hyperactivity and thus, things that went much too fast in his head, basically. But the facts were there, he thought, forcing his anxiety down a notch. None of what they'd been through in the past year and a half made any sense. It should never have happened, and sometimes he felt like he was the only one who really knew that. And Hale... Hale in all of this, was beginning to see the possibility that maybe people weren't like him, used to having to live in secrecy, all the time, constantly, with like a sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Because he knew, he had known since he was a kid, that the slightest wrong move from him would lead the hunters to become aware of his existence and therefore, would make sure that his life would end as quickly as it had begun. Slowly, Derek moved one of his hands against his face, a sigh catching him off guard.

"Stiles," he said quietly. "This is exactly why I didn't want you in the pack."

And, Stiles ached, his lips pursed and his eyes dark.

"Oh, please, if I'd run up with my tail between my legs and asked you to bite me, you would have agreed without a second thought."

But Derek shook his head.

"Hyperactivity and lycanthropy don't mix," he said simply.

The high school student, too surprised to react, opened and closed his mouth, once, twice, three times.

"What?" he croaked without really meaning to and the wolf simply shrugged.

"Hyperactivity and lycanthropy, don't mix well," he repeated more slowly this time, as if he were talking to a toddler.

Honestly, Stiles didn't know if he should feel offended or hurt that he was talking to him this way, or if it was because, once again, his condition had been the one to decide for him. Fortunately for him, he felt a caress in his mind, and the sense of injustice he had begun to feel went away as it had come. He was one of Gaia's Servants now. One of the Protectors of Nature, the one on whom the creatures that it is; out of the common or perfectly normal, counted henceforth. So it was not his place to complain about not being part of this caste to protect. It was his job now - for a few more hours, at least. So it was ok. And, this observation brought him back well as it was necessary, to the why of the how at the beginning , he had found himself in this fucking forest and, by swearing a little, he addressed a new glance to Eurydice, as if he looked in the eyes of this last one, the answer to all his questions.

And, this observation brought him back well as it was necessary, to the why of the how at the base, he had found himself in this fucking forest and, by swearing a little, he addressed a new glance to Eurydice, as if he looked in the eyes of this last one, the answer to all his questions.

"It doesn't matter," he finally said to Derek, waving his hand in front of him as if to chase a fly, while he resumed more or less where he was, before almost spitting out his lungs, so much he spoke quickly and a lot.

He took another long breath.

"We needed a good plan this time. A plan that wouldn't put anyone in danger."

"No one but you."

"No one. I don't risk anything at all," he lied brazenly, knowing full well that the werewolf might or might not, catch on to the immense fib.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Asked the adult, arms crossed on his chest, in a posture that he wanted undoubtedly, intimidating and Stiles said to himself then that the lie had gone well.

Then more serenely, he answered:

"Because when people know about the plans, you take the risk that the enemy will eventually find out and therefore, by extension, people will eventually die."

"That's stupid."

"Strategic, Derek. It's strategic. Not stupid."

"If you had mentioned it..."

"Then Scott would have wanted to take my place, because that guy is a big Drama Queen. And then he'd probably be dead."

There was a moment of hesitation, during which the teenager took the time to think about what he had just said and, immediately, it was a loud: shit, which passed the half-open barrier of his lips, while Derek displayed a too mocking look on his face.

"Nobody risks anything, eh."

"Yeah, well. You know what they say? You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs."

"That's stupid," the wolfman repeated, eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for my pack."

"I'm not asking your opinion, Derek."

"You're a kid, Stiles."

"From a guy who throw a tantrum because a human is trying to save his ass... I'll take that as a compliment."

"Don't push me, Stiles," the lycan barked again, all fists clenched.

"Then don't be a child. Damn it Derek, this isn't even about your pack. It'll probably save Boyd and Erica's asses. Fine. But I'm not doing this for your pack. I'm doing this for me, for my dad, for this damn town I grew up in. For my mother. And you can't take that away from me, okay?"

"Then don't expect me to let you. You're just a kid, Stiles. What do you think your father is going to say when we bring him the fresh corpse of his only son, if corpse it remains?"

"You don't think I can defeat Deucalion?" Accused the teenager, eyebrows furrowed.

"I mostly trust this man to kill anyone who stands in his way. What are you, fifteen?"

"Sixteen!"

"You're just a kid," the adult exasperated. "You're not supposed to handle this kind of thing."

"Werewolves weren't supposed to exist either."

"They've always existed, Stiles, always. It's just that nobody ever knew about them."

"Whatever," swept the human. "It's not up to you anymore."

That was the end of the lupine displays of strength. Stiles had although being terrified by Derek, deep down, he knew that he was now able to make himself heard. In front of him, Hale took a slow, deep breath. Was he trying to calm his impulses? To control a transformation? His anger? The emotions included in the package? The teenager couldn't tell. As much as he could perceive the wolf's aura, it was as if Derek managed to camouflage most of himself. All he could now be sure of, was that the Wolf clearly did not agree with his half.

"I can't let you do this Stiles," Derek said, just before he pounced, all fangs and claws. "I'm sorry."

Three, were the number of consequences that resulted from the lupine gesture.

The first, was that Eurydice interfered. As quickly as a breeze, she had moved and emerged in front of the Servant of Gaia, the features of her face as if trapped in a block of stone. Of course, Derek never had time to retract his blow. It was much too late, much too quick, much too powerful for him to even think about it. Then the hand adorned with claws crossed what seemed to be the chest of the dryad like a knife of butter, reducing to dust on its passage, the branches, leaf and other plants which constituted the body of the woman - for lack of other words.

Stiles did not take long to realize what had just happened. Mouth agape at first, eyes wide with astonishment, fear in his stomach. He had made himself immobile, his eyes fixed on the scene there, to some centimeters of the place where he was, on the arm which appeared as suddenly as that through Eurydice. Then he had escaped a: What? his eyelids fluttering repeatedly, as to get rid of the scene on his retinas.

Nobody had sketched the least gesture.

Not even Derek.

Not even Stiles.

Eurydice, even less.

Then, the forest had started to sing in the head of the human who-was-not-really-one, like a caress against his skin. Like a: everything will be fine, like a child tries to reassure a parent.

Except Stiles hadn't been receptive to it.

Not at all.

He had looked up at Derek - since he was a good head taller than the Dryad - and his thoughts had become clouded.

"Stiles," the wolf-man had said in a strange tone, as if he himself was particularly surprised by what had just happened - surprised at his own action.

He didn't really have time to lose himself in speculation, however, as the second consequence came.

The ground cracked under the Hale's feet.

A hole opened up, without further ado.

Derek fell.

No one heard the wolf howl his descent.

Not Stiles, lost in his anger, his incomprehension, his desire to hurt the adult.

Not Eurydice, who still hadn't made the slightest move.

Nor even the Forest who had been silent.

Then, Eurydice cleared her throat, while the gaping hole which let glimpse the interior made of branches and other, of the dryad, began to close itself, to heal, quite simply.

"Well," she quipped, "that was hardly clever of you, child."

Stiles stared at her stupidly, mouth open, then closed, then open again, yet no words were heard. Then, after what seemed like hours, he stepped forward, arms raised toward the creature's shoulder and shook it briskly. Was it to make sure it was alive and well? Or to clear her head, perhaps, Stiles couldn't tell, except that he was clearly having a blast, miles away from caring about any propriety, or anything else.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he bellowed. "To interfere like that is crazy! Are you all right? Why the hell aren't you bleeding to death on the floor? Are you even able to bleed, or is that sap? Are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital or something? Whatever. On second thought, that would be a really bad idea. The idea of having wolfman DNA doesn't help the poor guys, but if I bring back a live tree branch... Not that you look like... I mean, no offense, I mean. Whoa, you're really glowing and everything, but, like, not very human. And the thing about humans is that when other things that aren't very human, but look very much like them appear out of nowhere, they start to panic a little bit, as much as they are and, shoot everything that moves."

Pause. Long breath and... new jolt given at the level of the shoulders of the Dryad then Stiles took back a :

"Say something!"

And Eurydice answered with a smile:

"Something."

Then, for a moment, Stiles said to himself that he had the right to hate her very much. For her clearly overrated sense of humor, for the concern he had felt when he realized that she had almost been gutted by Derek and...

Derek.

Fuck, hadn't he just opened the fucking crust under the lycanthrope's feet?

Eurydice offered him a sympathetic smile. As if she had been able to follow the flow of his thoughts (which had been the case, let it be understood), as if noticing that this human was the most distracted guy in the world was insanely amusing, as if all this wasn't already strange enough.

"- Shit," Stiles said as he walked over to the edge of the crater he had opened and almost closed, hoping to catch any sound. "Is he... Dead? Like, sunk to the bottom of the earth, in an ocean of lava... Or returned to China... Something?"

"Mmh, your take on Earth Space is... Interesting for sure," the Dryad laughed, dusting a few leaves (yes, yes) with their pollen. "He is currently knocked out and, is probably keeping Daedalus company."

"Daedalus? Like. Daedalus. Daedalus with a D, like... THE Daedalus?"

"Who else?"

"I... Whoa. Okay."

"What did you expect, child, when you invoked Gaia, Mother of All Things?"

"Uh... Clearly not this... ", he grumbled at the peak of surprise.

What did you want him to say to that? It was obvious, after all. Wasn't Gaia the very first Goddess? Nervously, because he had never really stopped being one, Stiles slid one of his hands against the back of his neck, massaging it for a moment, before sliding down to his short hair. It was clearly not a subject he wanted to lose himself in right now, when he had so little time left before the bell rang to end this gigantic, monstrous race against time.

"All right," he breathed softly. "Is he in danger?"

"No. No, not really."

"Then he can probably stay there, until I get back. I don't want to... You know? Just show up at the most crucial time and blow everything. Not after all this."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. If it's okay... I mean, he's not going to come out with horns or, like, anything, right?"

"No, kid. He's not gonna come out with horns and stuff. Claws and fangs are plenty, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they are. Probably."

"Good," the Dryad smirked, the mysterious kind, the kind that didn't have time to catch Stiles' eye.

"Good," he repeated.

And he walked away.

Without looking back, without even a sense of regret or anything else. He had priorities. And, Derek was not currently one of them. Not while Deucalion was still in the running. No matter if the lycanthrope decided, afterwards, to rip his throat out with his fangs. It seemed, to the teenager, always more preferable than the Alpha's pack and the countless lifeless bodies they sowed in their path. Taking a deep breath, Stiles thought to himself that he had made a good choice. Yeah. He was sure of it. So, with a clear head, he turned back. He only had a few hours left and still had a lot to do. That and a note that he intended to leave with his father.

Just in case.

As he walked into his own house, exactly thirty-eight minutes later, Stiles was assailed by a strange and overwhelming urge to cry. He had this big ball of emotion stuck somewhere between his lips and his stomach and he didn't know where it came from, or even why, or even how. Or maybe he just knew where it came from. From the terror that silently consumed him. Because he was only a child and he was about to face the most frightening monster he had ever seen. He was terrified, he wanted to hug his father for as long as possible and let his father tuck him in, kiss his forehead and run his thick hand through his shaved hair, like when he was seven or maybe eight. Like when his mother watched them from the door of her room, smiling and eyes sparkling with love and mischief.

Breathe, child, Eurydice's voice said softly in his head.

And Stiles obeyed. He took a deep breath. Blocked it for three seconds, and exhaled. He didn't feel much better for all that. It was still a kind of giant maelstrom inside his head, his fear flirting with panic, but he didn't give in. And the dryad congratulated him of a mental embrace, which was a very strange experience on which Stiles decided not to linger and at once recovered his spirits and started to wander in his own house, the lively and assured step. A detour to his room and he retrieved his course bag, which he emptied into his comforter, without even bothering to look at the mess of pages, pencils and other books that immediately reigned there. It was stupid, he thought as he tossed his favorite sweatshirt into the bottom of it, because he felt like he was getting ready for a silly sleepover. Probably the excuse he'd give his dad if he came home from work too early. To tell you the truth, he didn't even know why he started piling a few extra things into the backpack. It wasn't like he was planning to leave town or anything, and he sincerely doubted that if he died (violently and painfully), his clothes would still be useful. But he needed them. Without even knowing why. Maybe it was the promise that he would come back. Like every time clothes had been in that famous bag. Like every time he spent the night at the McCall's. Like every time he came home safe and sound, because it wasn't like anything could really happen to him at Scott's house. Not when Melissa tended to worry a little too dramatically when one or the other of them was unfortunate enough to get hurt (what idea had they had, as a child, to climb down from Scott's window, through the tree facing the latter's room?) He would come home safe and sound, he promised himself.

But he left the bag, barely filled, on his bed, his hands trembling, his throat tied.

And again he turned on his heels, swallowing the stairs four at a time as he hurried to the kitchen. It was necessary that he changed the ideas some moments. Just a few moments.

The little human is restless tonight, sang the orchid abandoned on the windowsill.

"Just a little," Stiles smiled nervously as he poured the bottom of a glass of water over the roots of the flower, which immediately quivered with happiness.

Is it Big Night?

"Yes."

Oh. Little Human come back?

Stiles didn't even have the heart to lie.

"Maybe," he said, "maybe not. It all depends on how... On how things will go down there."

The Bad Beast?

"The Bad Beast," the teenager confirmed softly, the pad of his fingers lingering for a moment on his friend's delicate petal.

He was going to miss this. This, the conversations with the plants. It was stupid when you put it that way, he was well aware of it. Anyone would have thought he was crazy to see him acting like that, towards a flowerpot. But it was bigger than that. Before Gaia, before magic and all that went with it, Stiles had never really realized how big the world was. He loved animals, cherished them, deeply despised people who intentionally hurt them. Because until he became a Magic Bearer, he had only seen the tip of the iceberg. Hairy, cute, fun, endearing critters and, well, that was about it. He would never have imagined that a whole world was hiding there, right before his eyes. Made of consciousness and, love and warmth-home-cocon-summer. And it hadn't just been dogs and cats and damn rabbits. It had been Life.

Life, with a capital 'L'.

It had been the Song of the Forest.

It had been the Whisper of the Wind.

It had been big and awesome, and epic, and great.

And he had been a part of it all, for thirty days.

The most incredible thirty days of his whole damn life.

He didn't have the words to express how he felt, so intense was everything. And to think that he didn't even know one hundredth of what the rest of the world was still hiding. The mystical and magical side of the world, he heard. He had barely scratched its surface. There, with the flowers and the cacti, and the rabbits, and the wind spirits, and everything else.

The dryads existed, even if he had only met Eurydice.

And the fucking Daedalus too.

What else was hiding there, right in front of his eyes, yet he never noticed it?

Now that you ask, have you ever heard of dragons? The aforementioned Dryad said cheerfully.

Stiles dropped the plate in his hands.

"I beg your pardon?" He almost choked as he momentarily leaned on the edge of the sink, his face marked by a mixture of horror, disbelief and excitement.

A very, very strange mixture.

Well, the voice seemed to amuse itself, I'll take that as a yes!

Not even a thousandth of a world, Stiles mentally corrected as he noticed the dustpan and broom to clean up the porcelain debris resulting from the plate that had shattered with a loud crash. He didn't know whether to be amazed or mortified.

Dragons? Seriously? Had he fallen in Harry fucking Potter recently?

He was honestly starting to wonder.

Later, as he was cooking dinner, the one he hoped would not be the last one he would share with his father, he left the cooking of homemade vegetarian lasagna for a few moments to find a piece of writing paper and a blue ink pen. Wasn't it customary to leave some kind of note just in case something happened to him?

Not without thinking that this was definitely a lot of just in case, the Stilinski set about writing his message. For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen counter was covered, if not completely buried, with a good dozen crumpled balls of paper. Stiles just couldn't get his words down on the damn paper. It wasn't hard though, was it? All it took was a... What exactly? What were we supposed to say right before death came to us? Apologize? For what? For being selfish? For being the one who would protect? For saving everyone's ass (again)? Asking for forgiveness? For what? For not telling anyone about his idea? For bringing Mr. Argent and Deaton into his mess? For causing pain and suffering?

Stiles didn't have much time to dwell on what he was writing. The unmistakable smell of a burning dish soon became apparent and, not without cursing loudly, he turned from his writing to the oven, which he hastily opened. The heat that came out of it, stung his eyes unpleasantly, almost making some tears spill out and, an umpteenth swear word escaped him, while he stretched a hand towards the famous dish, almost burning himself because of a forgetfulness of wearing potholders.

"Fuck," he grunted as he quickly ran his fingertips under the cold water. "This is really not the time right now."

And he reset the timer, and all the other buttons to zero, before grabbing the pair of potholders in one of the kitchen drawers. This done, he could take out his lasagna dish from the oven and notice with relief that, if the cheese seemed a little too golden on the top, it was not black at all, or anything, and he allowed himself to blow and put a support against the kitchen counter, the time to recover from his little fright.

It was that he was getting way too emotional, with all this crap.

That said, since the dinner was still a success, his good mood quietly returned. So, whistling a cheerful tune - with a bit of a Celtic feel - he quickly set the table for two. White tablecloth, porcelain plates, silver cutlery, crystal glass. If he hadn't prepared a festive meal, considering that it wasn't because he might (or might not) die in the next few hours, that it meant that his father would be allowed to gorge himself on pizza and burgers or any other deadly junk food in the long run. And he was weighing his words very sincerely.

Another ten minutes or so later, everything was perfect. The table was set perfectly and a large piece of lasagna had been placed on each of the two plates. The glasses had been filled with water - since he didn't really intend to make his father drink, although on second thought, the Sheriff would probably have fallen asleep faster with it. But he didn't want to make a habit of it. Drinking himself to sleep was already something he had slowly begun to do, because of all the dead bodies and unsolved cases that were beginning to pile up both in the morgue, and on the Sheriff's desk.

It was like going back a few years, when Claudia Stilinski had just been buried and Noah had momentarily indulged in drinking. Something, among other things, that the teenager refused to think about.

Nor even of what would happen to his father, if he did not return at all from his small nocturnal escapade.

Fighting the new lump of sadness that had settled in the back of his throat, Stiles took advantage of the fact that his father had not yet arrived to go upstairs to the bathroom, take a shower and put on some clean clothes. He didn't want to look sloppy. Not tonight, not then...

Breathe, Eurydice's voice said again in his ear. Panic won't help, child.

And once again, Stiles obeyed. Without even caring, that once again the Dryad had apparently invited herself in his head, while he had started to take off his clothes. Probably that he had not had to look at himself in a mirror for a very long time, because what he saw there, froze his blood, the time of an instant. He had not completely realized, earlier, when Derek had seized his arm in order to put under his nose, the blackish veins which traversed his skin, as one plunges the muzzle of a pup on its excrements - that it was at this point, that his epidermis had been marked.

And even more.

Like the flow of a river, like a venous circuit, a bloodstream, the dark lines stretched across what seemed like miles and miles of skin. From the inside of his wrist, to the hollow of his elbow, then higher still. His biceps, his shoulder, his throat, the very edge of his jaw. It stretched endlessly, without limit. His torso was scarred, his belly was scarred, as was his waist and his thighs and more. And, from what he could see, his back hadn't been spared either. Adam's apple twitching nervously in the hollow of his throat, Stiles suddenly felt like a road map.

An ugly, living road map.

He closed his eyes and turned away from his reflection to enter the shower cubicle, tense as ever. Eurydice had never really wanted to epiloguer on the traces of his skin. She was satisfied to say to him that it was there like a giant chronometer, but her words gave the impression to hide some other. However, if there was well a thing that the teenager did not support, it was well that one lied to him. That one hides him things. Especially when he had finally granted his confidence to the aforementioned person - even if of person, Eurydice had hardly the name of it.

However, this evening, Stiles did not really have the head to lose himself in the administrative details of his agreement with Gaïa. Consequences that he would sooner or later be forced to acknowledge (as if dying wasn't enough, right?). Instead, he closed his eyes a little more and let the hot jet of water slide against his skin. His shower didn't last forever. He washed his hair and his body with the same shower gel - the blue one with a very musky smell, bought very recently, then left as soon as he was satisfied with his corporal smell.

He was putting on a T-shirt when the doorbell rang throughout the house. Eyes raised to the ceiling, Stiles slipped his arms through a sweatshirt and then gained the entrance, all babble and other smiles, as soon as he opened the door.

"You know, Dad," he said as he finished adjusting his garment against his body, "permanently forgetting your keys like that, you're going to end up in a nursing home sooner than you think. Besides, it was open, you know? You could have just walked in like the normal people and.. Tara?" he said, his head barely out of its hood, a suspicious crease between his eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

He pushed the Sheriff's Deputy back a few inches to look outside, searching for his father's patrol car, but never finding it.

"What the..." he sighed, but it sounded more like the cawing of a crow about to have a heart attack than actual words. "Where is my Father?"

He was already on the verge of panic, seeming to understand that something was wrong. Noah Stilinski had specifically said he would be here, hadn't he? Then he should have been there. He wasn't the type to throw words - promises - up in the air. Not after Claudia. Not after all this.

"Did something happen?" Stiles quickly panicked. "He's hurt, right? In the hospital? Or even dead? Oh, my God. He's dead. No. I. He can't be dead, okay? I just... I don't have anyone else but him, he can't be. Do you hear me? He- I can't and..."

And he ran out of breath.

And Tara Graeme stared at him for a long time, her eyes wide open on the almost-suffocating face of her boss's son, and she inwardly flogged herself for having forgotten that this particular kid tended to see the glass as half empty, when his family was in the line of fire. It wasn't his fault, of course. He'd lost his mother when he was a kid, and his father was a police sheriff in an incredibly dangerous town, last she'd heard. The bodies found in great numbers certainly didn't help the teenager fall asleep peacefully at night, thinking that his father was out there hunting down those responsible.

"Oh Stiles, I'm sorry!" she said, but that only seemed to panic the high schooler even more and she swore through her teeth again as she realized that her words could be taken as condolences. "I mean. Stiles, it's okay!" she said quickly in front of the kid's bright chocolate eyes.

"What?" he said, sniffing softly.

"The Sheriff is doing great, Stiles. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you, I handled it badly!"

She offered him a contrite smile, while the boy's terrified look was hopeful, if suspicious.

"Are you sure?" he asked anyway, not caring that he was currently doubting the word of a police officer.

" Well of course I'm sure. He's doing great," she repeated, deadpan.

"One hundred percent sure? Because, by the time you came here, he could just as easily have been attacked by a lunatic. A blind deranged person with fangs and claws and the ability to turn into a wolf on a fucking full moon."

"I'm not sure about..."

"And the red eyes. The creepy fucking red eyes," Stiles insisted.

Mute with amazement, Tara fluttered her eyelashes furiously.

"Wow," she said, looking genuinely impressed. "I didn't realize you were actually so... Wow. Just. Woah."

"Oh," Stiles nodded, not really knowing what to say to that. "Uh, thanks?"

"That wasn't really a compliment."

"Ah," he said this time, almost genuinely annoyed. "Sorry?"

But the young woman simply laughed.

"I'm teasing you, Stiles," she pointed out, amused as she was. "That said, I really think you should go easy on the video games. Or TV shows. Or... Movies? I don't know, honestly."

With a suddenly red face, the teenager realized that he had thrown the big-secret-lupine to a police officer and took three good seconds to mentally slap himself, under the crystal-clear laughter of Eurydice who seemed to be enjoying her human's misfortunes, as always.

"I would see to it," he chattered in his non-existent beard, letting shortly after the silence settle down, with to realize once more that Tara Graeme was always on the step of his door.

Then his eyebrows were frowned again and, his face suspicious.

"Are you sure my old man is okay? Like, sure of sure?" he asked again.

Tara rolled her eyes before reaching for the radio on her shoulder. Twice, she pressed the buttons present on the sides of the device, before starting a communication.

She says:

"This is Deputy Graeme. Requesting confirmation of Sheriff Stilinski's condition for his son."

They waited a moment, then another. Stiles slowly but surely began to feel the familiar panic churning in his stomach as he judged that the silence had stretched on for a very long time before the unmistakable crackle of an incoming call was heard.

"This is Stilinski, Deputy Graeme," came his father's deep, amused voice. "Stiles, I'm fine. Stop bothering my officers, will you? They've got work to do, damn it!"

Hearing his father's voice genuinely warmed his heart. It made Tara smile a little sheepishly, and her smile soon spread from cheek to cheek, without her even trying to suppress it. There was however no mockery in this last one. Just a lot of tenderness for the much appreciated father-son duo.

" Still...," the teenager grunted as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Why is it that he isn't here and you are? Not that I don't like you, you're nice and all, but I prefer my father.

"Your father sent me to warn you that he wouldn't be coming home tonight," replied the half-amused, half-sorry deputy. "He preferred that we tell you in person, rather than a vulgar message."

Stiles laughed stupidly.

"Oh," he said, unable to stop the wave of disappointment that suddenly swept over him. "I see. I. That's very thoughtful of him."

And he cracked a smile. A falsely happy and amused smile. A smile that seemed to say, No worries! but threw a: No! heartbreakingly silent.

"Isn't that right? So I won't linger, now that the message is delivered," she winked again. "It's that the officers have work to do, damn it!"

The high schooler shook his head slightly, a light, cracked chuckle at the edge of his lips.

That was not to be heard, was it?

Caught in a doubt, nevertheless, he asked again:

"Did something happen? He doesn't usually spend the night at the station unless something has happened," he says with great seriousness.

" ... We can't hide anything from you," she sighed, after a brief moment of hesitation. "You're a smart boy Stiles, you'll make a good investigator if you decide to follow that path one day, after your studies maybe."

"Mmh, probably... Is it serious?"

"Things are always a little dramatically serious, these days," she evaded.

But as she rightly pointed out, Stiles was very smart, very perceptive, at least.

"You found another body," he said simply, not getting an answer, nonetheless.

A shrug from the deputy, and that was it. Stiles understood that she didn't really want to say anything more.

He was the Sheriff's damn son. A child, in the eyes of every adult in this damn town. So police business didn't have to be flaunted under his nose. She was about to turn back, after wishing him a good evening, when the high school student held her back with a hand around her wrist.

The raised eyebrows, she asked:

"Anything else?" Which made the teenager blush with embarrassment.

"Take care of my father," he said, his heart swelling with sorrow.

A sorrow that he managed to hide from his eldest, who gave him an indulgent smile.

"Of course, Stiles. It's my job after all, isn't it?"

He nodded absently, not quite sure, though.

"I mean... If he were to be alone. He couldn't... Just. I mean that..."

"Is everything okay, Stiles?

"Yes!"

"Are you sure? Because you sound like someone who is about to disappear."

"Disappear?"

"You're not... depressed, are you?"

"What? Of course not! Do I look depressed? I'm fine, Lord God! I'm in great shape. Well, okay, the Harris exam makes me want to throw myself off a rope, but, okay. Maybe not a rope, because you're staring at me like a cow's head just suddenly popped off. I'm not depressed. All right? I'm fine. I'm not planning on killing myself or anything like that."

"Anything like that," the woman repeated, her lips pursed.

"I'm fine. I'm fine, really! I'm just worried. With all the deaths and, well, everything."

"Oh, Stiles, no one's going to let anything happen to you, if that's what you're worried about. The person, for all we can call it, who's sowing these bodies is not going to come near you, okay?"

Well, that wasn't quite what he had in mind, initially.

Also, Deucalion was going to eat him alive, so technically, Tara was way off base, but Stiles didn't say anything about that. He slipped into the skin of the teenager frightened by the Big Bad Killer, eyes glistening and head lowered nervously to the ground.

Tara squeezed his shoulder tenderly.

"Your dad won't let anything happen to you. Don't worry, okay? In exchange, I'll look out for him."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Stiles. Now go home. You've got that famous exam to study for, don't you?"

"Tell me about it!" He winced. "I have a strong feeling that I'm going to screw the thing up miserably anyway."

"A little optimism, kid. What are you, fifteen?"

"Sixteen," grinned said kid in an eye roll that made the Deputy giggle.

"Then you don't have the right to be pessimistic yet. In thirty or forty years, maybe. And again, say, sixty, just to be sure."

"Why sixty?"

"That's about the age when you realize that no matter how much you dye your hair, it stays white until the end," she teased.

And Stiles laughed. He laughed sincerely, to the point of feeling a sense of lightness.

"Thanks," he said sincerely.

"At your service, kiddo!"

Tara Graeme turned on her heels, with a final wink and wave.

Stiles stood in the doorway for a few more moments. Until the patrol car pulled away. Until the feeling of lightness disappeared.

Until the anguish gripped his stomach once more.

And then the door closed with a loud bang and there was silence again in the Beacon Hills Sheriff's house. A heavy silence. A silence that Stiles found very hard to bear, as he realized that he had forgotten to ask Tara to tell her father that he loved him.

This was his perhaps (likely) last night and, his father was working.

He was alone.

And that hurt.

Beside that, he remembered, a body had been found. Another one. One whose death he surely could have prevented, if he hadn't dwelt on useless details all day. If Derek hadn't intervened. If he hadn't decided to play the perfect good boy while cooking dinner.

The light and ghostly caress against his mind and, Eurydice resounded.

It's time, she said softly. Get ready.