Chapter 19

Henley pushed away from the foam spraying around her. The flames met it and it evaporated the foam with a sharp hiss. She glared at Stiles. But it was short lived, the flames surrounded her heavily again, covering her sight with a haze of red and orange. Too thick to see through clearly. She reached for the faucet. Her hand was shaking. She didn't have any reserves left. Not after holding it together all evening. She turned the spray of cold water up higher.

All it did was steam more vigorously as it hit her flames, never reaching her skin.

The steam, the flames, the heat, they all swirled together around her. She couldn't keep fighting it. She had already lost control, there was no keeping herself calm. No way.

She had to let the flames wash over her, she couldn't fight them. She was going to be consumed by the fire and there wouldn't be any end to it. Her legs gave out and she crashed to the floor of the tub, her knees hitting hard against the heated material. The flames followed her, grew, covered her more fully. She was never going to be free of the flames.

Her breathing grew shallow, sucking in hot air relentlessly.

#

Derek didn't bother knocking. He could hear Scott and Stiles in frantic conversation inside Henley's apartment. He let himself in.

"Scott?" he called.

"In the bathroom," came the answering call.

Derek closed his eyes for a minute. He didn't want to know. He wanted to turn around, get back in his car, and go back to bed. But apparently Henley only had crises in the middle of the night. And Scott and Stiles weren't equipped to…that list was too long to think of right now.

With a sigh, Derek followed the sound of water and voices.

Derek found Stiles and Scott standing in front of a bathtub, and there was Henley. Or at least, flaming wings wrapped around what he assumed was his uncle's phoenix.

"We don't know what happened," Scott said. "It's like she can't…"

"There's no phoenix off switch," Stiles interrupted.

Derek eyed the flames. The shower spray beat down on the flames, but didn't extinguish them. She was huddled somewhere in there. He approached the tub and looked down at her. Not that he could see her buried under the layers of rolling fire.

"Come on, Henley," Stiles said. "Back to the land of fire retardant materials and extinguishers. Help us out here." With Stiles' words, something moved past Derek's shoulder and nudged into the fiery wings.

There was a small sound, suspiciously like a cry bit back from under the fire. Derek grabbed what Stiles held and pulled it away from Henley.

"Did you just poke her with a broomstick?" he asked.

Stiles' eyes flicked down at the charred broomstick, then back to Derek. "I didn't want that to be my arm."

Derek grabbed the broom from Stiles and tossed it aside with a clatter on the tile. "You two get out of here. Give her some space."

Derek didn't know if she needed space or not, but he definitely did.

He waited until they left. He stood, cracking open the small bathroom window. Between the steam and heat, he could barely breathe. Sweat beaded on his back.

"Henley," he tried again. He crouched down next to the bathtub. The fire thinned enough, just for a moment that he could see her within the fire. She was huddled on the floor of the tub, her wings around her protectively.

He had been through this before with her, but this time he could see her eyes when the flames wavered again. She wasn't just struggling. She was scared.

Derek sat back on the warmed tile floor. He studied her. She disappeared into the flames again. Then the fire would thin just enough for him to see her inside before they washed over her again. But she wasn't looking at him. When the flames receded enough, he saw her, huddled and broken.

He turned over options in his mind. Waiting her out would be the most likely option. It had worked before.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the water running over Henley, steaming violently when it hit her, getting infrequent glimpses of a girl who was falling apart under the fire.

"Hey, Derek," Scott said quietly.

Derek was aware of the phoenix flinching at the sudden sound of Scott's quiet words. He rose and stepped out into the hall with Scott, keeping an eye on the flames filling the shower.

"I called Parrish. In case…"

In case they needed someone who couldn't be burned. Someone who could actually touch a phoenix.

Derek nodded. It was a smart decision. His arm was still healing from his last encounter with Henley. He would be fine without a repeat of that.

There was a knock on the door. He looked at Scott who shook his head slightly.

"She's on fire again?" Malia's voice carried to them. "I think I like werewolves better. You chain them up until they get control and done. Straightforward."

"She can't help what she is," came Kira's answering voice.

"Stiles must have let them know what's happening," Scott said quietly.

Lydia appeared in the hall leading to the bathroom. She eyed Scott and Derek without comment and continued past them.

"Is everyone in here decent?" she called before entering the bathroom.

"Lydia," Scott hissed.

Lydia ignored his warning. "What? I have no idea what she's wearing under the flames and wings. She's in the bathtub, after all."

"Because it's not flammable," Scott said.

"I'm decent," Henley interrupted.

Derek's attention jerked back to her.

"Hmm," Lydia responded. "If you consider being a giant ball of fire 'decent'."

To his surprise, the flames receded enough to see the hint of yearning on Henley's face. Like she wanted to find humor. Or at least not be consumed by the life altering terror Peter's attack was still putting her through. Then the flames flared again.

Lydia pulled back slightly, but then settled on the closed toilet seat. "Can you turn up the water, please? This steam is going to do amazing things for my pores."

Derek watched another second to make sure flames didn't shoot towards Lydia. Everything looked…as calm as someone consumed by flames could look at the moment.

He retreated to the living room with Scott. Stiles, Malia, and Kira were there. Kira and Malia in pajamas. He glanced at his watch. It was almost 1 am.

Another knock on the door. Stiles went to get it.

Deaton stood there, unruffled by the middle of the night alarm someone had apparently sounded.

Scott went forward. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Deaton said. He looked around the room. "I've never actually seen a phoenix. It's incredible. One of the rarest supernaturals in existence."

Derek felt himself bristle slightly. "This isn't a zoo," he said. They weren't charging admission for emissaries and wolves to come gawk at Henley. He moved slightly, ready to block Deaton's path.

Scott held out a staying hand. "I thought maybe he would know how to get her powers under control. Before she burns someone else."

#

"I thought maybe he would know how to get her powers under control. Before she burns someone else."

The words thundered in Henley's ears. She wanted to lift her hands to cover the sound, but she didn't have the energy for even that.

"Rude," Lydia commented quietly under her breath.

Henley looked to her.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "And dumb. Did he forget you have werewolf hearing? Even I could hear that."

Henley felt a small ache in her chest at having an unexpected ally.

"Ignore them," Lydia said. She rose from her seat and went to the sink. "I usually try to." She poked around the few bottles of moisturizer lined up by the faucet. She picked one up and read it, turning back to Henley. "Does all the fire and burning and mayhem dry out your skin?" she asked.

Did she look that bad? Henley closed her eyes and started to sink farther into the flames, just give into them. She had been rubbing moisturizer on her face, her hands, arms, legs several times a day. Hopefully once she didn't have sparks as her constant companion, she wouldn't have the flaky skin that accompanied it. She just wanted to be normal again.

"I have the best moisturizer for you. Once you won't destroy your phone, I'll text you the name."

Henley watched Lydia. She didn't say anything else about the moisturizers, just set the bottle back down and went back to her seat on the closed toilet lid. "I'll also send you the name of a good concealer. Those dark circles are going to be epic if you don't stop spending your nights going up in flame."

Her matter of fact tone had Henley's frown loosening slightly.

Lydia just sat there. Prattling on like she was here for some high school sleepover, Henley wasn't ensconced in a ball of fire beyond her control, and a whole pack of supernaturals weren't sitting in her living room right now. Or, more likely, standing. Because she had burned up her couch.

"Also," Lydia continued. Henley brought her attention back to her. "We'll need to discuss your wardrobe eventually. This is Beacon Hills, not Seattle. Grunge is not a thing here. Or at least, it shouldn't be."

Henley let Lydia's life advice flow over her. She leaned back against the tile wall, letting Lydia's voice drown out the other sounds that insisted on intruding. A neighbor rolling over in bed upstairs. A car alarm several blocks away. Listening to Lydia helped her focus her hearing. And with that focus, some of the pain started to fall away.

#

"Where is she?" Peter demanded. He looked around the phoenix's crowded living room. "And why is the Beacon Hills lonely hearts club meeting here?"

"You know," Stiles spoke up, "if you weren't a bitter lone wolf with anger issues, you would understand what it means to support people. Be there when they need you."

"You're dating my daughter," Peter reminded him.

"I personally like bitter lone wolves with anger issues," Stiles clarified quickly.

Peter looked at Malia, once again questioning how anyone related to him could find a reason to date the Stalinski kid.

"She's in the bathtub," Deaton said.

Memories of Henley in the bathtub, boiling herself alive gave way to the memory of her stepping out of the bathtub. Not something he wanted to picture—or happen—with an apartment full of people. One of whom was his daughter.

He dragged his thoughts back on track. This phoenix had the ability to get under his skin, distract him. He needed to focus.

"And you all showed up to help her pour the bubble bath?" Peter asked.

"She's on fire," Scott said. "She can't stop."

That was the same as what Derek had told him in his text. Peter idly wondered if this bout of flames had happened before or after the end of her date. He allowed himself a minute to enjoy the thought that it happened as a grand finale, blocking any chance of a second date.

"And you're all here for moral support?" he asked.

"Deaton thinks she's been holding it together for too long," Derek said.

Peter bit back the comment he wanted to make. If the destruction and out of control fire was the phoenix "holding it together", he couldn't imagine what losing control looked like. But he was intrigued. Her power was unlike anything he'd ever seen. She was unique beyond what any other supernatural could offer.

He thought of the way she had looked tonight, on her date. Then reminded himself it was just her powers that intrigued him. He had no use for her other than her ability to destroy.

He looked over the motley crew. Clearly half the crowd had been called out of bed to come over and…do whatever it is they thought they could do here. Sweatpants on Derek, fuzzy pajama pants on Kira, everyone but Scott and Stiles were in some sort of pajamas. He didn't comment on that. Instead he went toward the bathroom.

"…and I have no idea what Derek is thinking with his interior decorating choices. Warehouse chic has its place, we can totally agree on that. But what he's done with his place is just depressing. It's more like mid-century gulag."

Lydia's chatter filtered out through the open door. The air was hot enough to sear his lungs with every breath. Peter entered the doorway to see her flipping idly through a magazine while she shared her commentary. The steam in the air had curled the pages of the magazine.

Henley was in the tub, as Deaton had said. She was leaning back, but instead of relaxing back in warm water, the tub was filled with flames. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved slightly with the hint of humor at Lydia's monologue. She looked better than Derek's text had warned him. She was at least visible through the flames.

He entered the small bathroom and her eyes went to him immediately. Her entire body tensed. The flames flared.

He deserved that. But it wasn't helpful.

"Um, hello?" Lydia said, setting the magazine in her lap. "Can we help you?"

"Derek texted," Peter said with a glance at her. He studied Henley. The sudden flare of flames hadn't died down. "Rough night?" he asked her.

He could barely see the narrowing of her eyes through the new flames rising. She glared at him without a response and he assumed she was still holding a grudge about him showing up on her date. Which was fine. Because he was still holding a grudge for her making a date with such sorry choice. She was a phoenix with powers bigger than legend, and she chose to spend an evening listening to excruciatingly painful screaming mislabeled as music with a high school lacrosse coach. He wasn't sure he'd be able to trust her judgment after that.

"Did you need something?" Lydia asked. "Because this bathroom doesn't exactly have seating for three."

Peter looked over at her. He flicked his eyes over her outfit, put together like she was on her way to yearbook photos, a cleanly pressed shirt, short skirt, and heels. Her red hair fell over one shoulder in perfectly casual waves. She blinked at him with flawlessly made up eyes.

"I see you didn't get the memo this was a pajama party," he commented.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Please. We know she goes up in flames, like every 12 hours. Nothing was going to change just because I decided to make myself presentable." She turned to Henley. "No offense."

Henley closed her eyes. The flames started to ease.

Peter heard a knock. The front door opening and quiet talking as whoever the new arrival was spoke with the pack in the living room.

"Was there anyone who didn't get an invitation tonight?" he asked tightly. He looked at Henley again, wondering if she wanted to be surrounded by people she barely knew and, from what he had gathered, could barely stand. Himself included.

Annoyance flared on Lydia's face. It wasn't an unfamiliar expression. She hadn't been thrilled when he had helped her access her banshee abilities.

"She shouldn't be alone," Lydia said hotly. He was surprised by the fierceness of her voice, her eyes flashing. "She needs a pack."

Peter was about to respond that the phoenix had a pack, but stopped himself when the flames flared slightly. Not the time to argue about the benefits of Henley helping him, versus aligning herself with the boy scouts and their misfit friends. If she was getting some sort of comfort from the teenagers and Derek, then he'd leave it alone for now.

Without comment, he left the bathroom. The group had grown. Parrish was there, in uniform. Peter figured he was the only one who really needed to be there. No one else would be able to touch Henley without getting burned if they had to get her under control.

Chris Argent and Alison were talking with Scott.

"Well now it's a party," Peter said with feigned enthusiasm. "The hunters have arrived!"

Chris turned to level a hard stare at Peter.

"The feeling's mutual," Peter told him.

"You have no idea how you've ruined her life," Chris said.

"I improved her life," Peter responded. "You want to talk about ruining lives, go find your psychopath of a sister."

"Ok, this isn't the time for this," Scott said, moving to get between them.

Peter held Chris' eyes. He curled his lip slightly.

"We're here for Henley," Scott reminded them.

Peter growled, low in the back of his throat, the hunter in his sight not cowering.

"This isn't going to help anything," Scott added.

Chris hesitated, but finally took a step back, turning away from Peter slightly.

Peter echoed the move. He felt his eyes shift back to normal, fangs recede. He hadn't realized he had brought forward any of that.

"Is that what you all are doing?" Peter asked. "Helping her?" He wanted to throw them all out the door. Surrounding her, coddling her, not helping her actually use her fire. None of that was helping her. It was hindering her. Making her weak. She would eventually succumb to the powers if they kept it up.

"And what are you doing for her?" Alison asked. She lifted her chin slightly, clearly unfazed by Peter's answering scowl.

Peter was laying a foundation. He was preparing Henley to see what had to be done. What had to be destroyed. But he wasn't about to say that. Not in front of Dudley Do-right and his gang. "I'm not indulging her," he answered.

"That's not what we're doing," Scott said, stepping closer to Peter. "We're trying to help her control herself. Not feel so alone."

"Clearly she's not alone," Peter said with a gesture to the crowded apartment. This was ridiculous. Were they planning on holding a vigil every time she went up in flames?

"She is," Scott insisted. "She doesn't have anyone. That's why we had Isaac talk to her. Make friends with her. She doesn't know he's one of us. We thought maybe if she had someone she felt like she could talk to, someone normal, it would help."

Peter motioned toward the bathroom. "Clearly an excellent plan. Great results."

The sudden roar of flames, sucked at the air around them, heat rolling in a sudden fury through the living room. Peter dropped to the floor, barely missing the flames that flew over his head.

#

Henley heard Scott's words. She had let the sounds from the living room overtake the continuous hum of Lydia's voice when Peter had started talking. Listening to his voice, hearing what he said.

She had felt almost…relaxed while she listened to Lydia. Not just too exhausted for control, but almost peaceful. Cared for. Like she wasn't completely on her own. This group had come to check on her. And then stayed to make sure she was ok.

But then she heard what Scott said. That's why we had Isaac talk to her. Make friends with her.

Henley bolted upright, flames flaring to the ceiling.

Lydia jolted back with a gasp.

Henley ignored her. She hauled herself out of the tub, trying to ignore the way her legs wobbled, like all the life had been drained of them—used up trying to hold onto a thread of control during her date. The flames expanded with a whoosh, filling the bathroom, making Lydia duck, and roaring ahead of her down the hall.

Henley stormed down the hallway, aware that the wings that had been wrapped around her, cocooning her while Lydia lulled her into complacency now spread out behind her. A framed poster knocked from the wall and fell to the ground on fire. No doubt burning a new hole in her carpeting.

Any comraderie, feeling of being taken care of, was gone. Burned away.

Her living room was full of people. People who lied to her.

"Henley," Scott said. Stiles jumped up and reached for… a pitcher of water? Henley glared at him and his pathetic attempt to douse her.

"Isaac's one of you?" she demanded. The flames flared brighter with her words and she was aware of the group taking a protective step away from her.

Let them. Let them back away. Everyone she thought was here for her. They had all been lying to her. Isaac hadn't been a nice guy, trying to befriend her. He was lying.

"We just wanted to keep an eye on you," Stiles said. "Make sure you were ok."

"Make sure you didn't kill anyone," Malia added.

Henley swung toward her. She launched a ball of fire at the girl.

Peter stepped toward her, getting between her and Malia while everyone jumped back another step. "Don't," he said sharply.

She eyed him, but lowered her hand before she slung another meteor at anyone. She turned her attention back to all of them. "Bobby?" she asked. Everything in her braced for the answer. "Him asking me out." She ground the words out through a clenched jaw. "Was that to keep an eye on me?"

"No," Scott answered firmly.

Stiles shook his head quickly. "We wouldn't ever be desperate enough to get involved with Coach's love—love," he gagged slightly and gathered himself. "Love life."

She stared at him. Not sure she believed him. Believed any of them. "Get out of my house," she ordered.

Chris approached. At the sight of him, her chest burned hotter. She shoved a hand toward him, shooting flames that stopped just short of his chest. She drew the flames back in, but held him with a glare. "You started lying to me before any of them. All the time I've known you, you were a hunter," she nearly spit out the word because that was the word that Peter had used to describe her family. Their lies to her.

"Someone needs to stay with you," Scott said. "Make sure you're alright."

"Not you. Not any of you," she nearly spat the words at him.

"You don't want to hurt anyone," Derek finally spoke. His dark eyes met hers. Henley forced herself to look away. Not to remember him going into the lake to carry her out when she had panicked, not knowing what she was or who these people were. How he had let her stay at his place until she regained her strength when she had spent it all raging at the gravel pit. It was all a lie.

But his comment rang true. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She didn't want to accidentally burn down the apartment building.

"Peter can stay," she said.

There was silence in the group.

Malia was the first one to speak, clearly saying what no one else could find the words for. "Peter?" she asked. "You don't want us to stay, but you trust Peter?" She glanced at Peter. "No offense," she said to him.

"He's the only one I trust," Henley snapped.

"He tried to kill you," Stiles said, as if Henley needed reminding.

"He hasn't lied to me," Henley answered hotly.

Her hands started to shake. The vibration spread through her. Sparks came loose from the flames and fell to the ground around her. She looked to Peter. Saw him differently. No longer the one who she couldn't trust.

Peter ignored her stare and went to the door, opening it.

"You heard the phoenix," he said. "Closing time. You don't gotta go home, but you can't stay here." He motioned them toward the door.

Henley stood rooted to the spot. As her anger ebbed, loneliness—betrayal—started to flow in.

She didn't even know one of the men who was in her apartment. She had heard him talking, heard someone use the word 'emissary', but it didn't make sense and she didn't care. Hadn't cared at the time because she had started to like—to trust—this group. And it was all a lie.

The door closed behind the last of them. Peter turned toward her. She met his eyes.

She stared at him. She didn't know what to do. The sudden realization disarmed her. She'd been muscling along, letting her anger at him drive her, keep her upright. And now that it was gone, she didn't know what to do.

"Did they drink everything you have?" Peter asked.

Henley shook her head, unsure of what had been happening out here while she had let herself float along on the start of good feelings. Like an idiot.

Peter gave her wide clearance, angling past her flames and going to the fridge. He opened it and looked inside. He pulled out two cans and tossed one to her.

Henley caught it. It sizzled when it hit her heated hand. Condensation formed from her heat and then evaporated just as quickly.

Peter opened his drink and took a sip, then looked around the living room. "Are you supposed to stand all night? Where do you sit?" he asked.

Henley sighed heavily. "The bathtub." It was the only nonflammable option.

She carried her drink with her and climbed back into the tub, setting the can on the edge. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Let the flames warm her. Tried to let them melt away the memories of the evening.

She was aware that Peter had pulled one of her kitchen chairs into the small bathroom and sat in it. But she didn't say anything, and neither did he. She let her eyes close again and wished away the entire night.

#