Title: Crazy Little Thing (The Prepared Mind #4)
Author: Claire Watson
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Genre: A/U, Isolated/Trapped
Relationship(s): Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Content Rating: R
Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture
Author Notes: Trope Bingo #Isolated/Trapped
Beta: Grammarly!
Word Count: 9,108
Summary: For Stiles, all roads would eventually lead back to Beacon Hills. After being away for over half a decade, the pull to return was too strong to ignore. He said goodbye to Albion and made his way home.
He wasn’t in Beacon Hills a day before he was knocked unconscious and abducted.
When Stiles left Beacon Hills at the ripe old age of seventeen, he’d been full of raw, magical potential but untutored in its applications. Unlike a werewolf’s enhanced senses, which, for the most part, were just the same as normal human senses but on steroids, magical abilities required focused training to be of any use.
Now that he was coming back, he truly understood how blind he’d been to the magic that permeated his hometown. For instance, the Hale territory was more extensive than he’d expected it to be. Stiles was still over fifty miles from home when he drove through the Hale pack territory’s magical boundary.
It was like a silken cloth running over his skin. Between one heartbeat and the next, there was the overpowering sensation of a mature nemeton brushing against his mind. If Stiles hadn’t already been familiar with the Boston nemeton, he might have crashed the car. As it was, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel and pulled over to the side of the road to wait for it to pass.
The touch turned welcoming and joyful, and Stiles felt the tension accumulated in his muscles over the journey drain out of him. A light melody that reminded him of birdsong and the breeze through summer leaves began playing in the part of his brain that registered magic. It wasn’t intrusive or distracting, more like a natural white noise.
When Stiles pulled back onto the road, he was grinning like a crazy person. It was nice to be assured that he was wanted.
Those last fifty miles practically flew by. It was nice seeing all the familiar landmarks, mostly unchanged. There were new ones, of course. The road layout had been altered in places, and there were new houses here and there where there had been fields.
Stiles was tempted to stop in at the station—he hadn’t warned his dad he was coming, hoping to surprise him—but decided to continue to the house. He could feel the nemeton beckoning, the melody in his mind sliding into a call of invitation that he intended to answer. He just needed to drop his bags off before making contact with Derek and whoever had been acting as his Emissary.
The idea of pulling into the driveway while driving something other than his beloved jeep felt unappealing. Stiles looked forward to getting rid of this generic rental car and sliding behind the wheel of his best girl. His dad had promised to keep her in good shape, drive around regularly, and keep her up to date with her paperwork.
After a moment’s thought, Stiles parked the rental on the roadside. No need to give the game away; his father was a trained cop, after all. He’d just opened the trunk to get his suitcases when he heard the front door open.
“Stiles?”
Stiles looked up to see his dad framed in the doorway. Suddenly getting his luggage out of the car was unimportant. He hurtled over the intervening distance and into his fathers’ arms, hugging him as though he’d never let him go. “Hey, Dad,” Stiles said around the lump in his throat, “looks like I’m home.”
v^v^v^v
Stiles didn’t bother unpacking right away, just chucked his stuff in his bedroom before heading back downstairs to where his dad waited with freshly made coffee.
Stiles took one sip and nearly spat it out. “Oh my god, what the hell is this travesty?”
Noah widened his eyes. “I thought you’d be pleased. It’s a 50/50 blend of decaf and chicory.” His innocent expression didn’t fool Stiles in the slightest. “You’re getting older now, son. It’s time to start paying attention to what you eat and drink.”
“This is revenge, isn’t it,” said Stiles, staring mournfully at the mug of dark, steaming liquid in his hand. “It’s okay; I can take it.”
“Have some sugar-free cookies,” offered Noah, pushing a tin in Stiles’ direction. “Or there are some carrots in the fridge if you wanted something healthier.”
“I’ve created a monster,” Stiles breathed. A thought occurred to him. He squinted at his dad through suspicious eyes. “You’re not a pod person, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s exactly what a pod-person would say,” Stiles pointed out, eyes narrowing further.
“People often suspect others of crimes that they, themselves, commit,” replied Noah. “With that in mind… Are you a pod person?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Stiles. “If I was, do you think I would have brought the subject up?”
“It’s what a pod person would do,” pointed out Noah, not bothering to hide his smugness. “A clever pod person would be careful to make the first accusation so as to remain above suspicion.”
They eyed each other over the table.
“That’s a very Stilinski argument,” said Stiles grudgingly when it was clear that Noah wouldn’t concede.
“Naturally,” replied Noah. “I’m the most experienced Stilinski around, you know.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly,” Noah agreed. A broad grin crossed his face. “I’ve missed you, kid.”
“I missed you too.” Stiles blinked a couple of times to clear the blurriness out of his eyes. “Want to tell me what you’re doing home in the middle of the day? I thought you’d cut that shift-work crap out?”
“I have,” promised Noah. “I don’t even take call outs anymore. Not unless it’s something that specifically requires my clout, or we’re drastically short-handed. But since the council meeting is this Saturday and the cruiser needed to go in for servicing, I decided to take the morning off. It’s turned out well.” He raised his eyebrows. “You should have let me know you were coming; I would have taken the day and picked you up at the airport.”
“I felt like driving,” said Stiles, shrugging. He tried one of the sugar-free cookies. Not terrible. “I planned to do some shopping in Sacramento, in some speciality stores there. In the end, I decided to leave it for another day.” He didn’t want to discuss his ambivalence about coming home. By the look on his face, his father knew anyway. Why talk about difficult subjects if you didn’t have to? “What time are you heading in?”
“Parrish will be picking me up in half an hour,” said Noah, allowing Stiles to change the subject without argument. “Unless you want to save him the hassle and give your old man a lift into work?”
“Why not?” agreed Stiles. “Do you know what shift Derek is rostered on for? I should officially present myself to him as soon as possible.”
Noah nodded. “He’s undersheriff, responsible for the night shift.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s some quick movement up the ranks for someone who wasn’t even a deputy when I left.”
Noah shrugged. “There aren’t many deputies who like working nights, and Derek has a good work ethic and a remarkable solve record. I’ve been thinking that he might make a good successor in a couple of years, so I recently promoted him to undersheriff.”
Since Stiles deliberately hadn’t kept in touch with anyone in Beacon Hills aside from his dad—and Cora, but that was different—the idea of Derek as a pillar of the local community still seemed a bit weird. “Is Scott still in town?”
Cutting himself off from Scott had probably been the most challenging thing about moving to Boston.
As much as he’d realised that Scott had turned into someone he didn’t recognise, giving up on their history together had felt like a failure. Stiles had spent a lot of time with Frieda working through those feelings and detaching the lingering mental hooks that had developed over time, mainly in response to Stiles’ need to take care of those he loved.
By the time he started at Albion, Stiles’ thoughts of Scott were few and far between and had focused primarily on sadness for the lost potential. Whatever made Scott the kind of person who could plan the violation of someone the way he’d done with Derek, it also made him the sort of person Stiles didn’t want in his life.
He’d made a point of not asking either Cora or his dad about Scott, but now that he was back, he felt like he should be prepared in case they ran into each other.
Noah sighed. “About a year after the Argents left town, he convinced Melissa to relocate. She offered to keep in touch with me, but…” he shrugged. “When I found out that she’d never planned to fill me in on all the crazy stuff that was happening—even though she knew that you were in it up to your neck—I couldn’t trust her anymore.”
Stiles winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Noah assured him. “Melissa made her own choices, and I made mine. It turned out that our friendship was based more on our kids than anything else. It was telling that I didn’t miss her in my life.” He rose to his feet. “I should probably get changed.” He paused at the door, looking back at where Stiles still sat. “I’m glad you’re home, son. I missed you.”
Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I missed you too.” It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen his dad in those years. Aside from the Skype and Facetime calls, they’d made a point of meeting up in Boston whenever Stiles was stateside.
Stiles wasn’t quite ready to say that he was glad to be home. That would depend on whether Derek had a place for him in his pack.
v^v^v^v
Stiles drove out to see Derek immediately after dropping his dad off, partly because it was polite and partly because waiting was making him anxious.
He was nearly at the edge of the Preserve when he heard the whining of a dog in pain. He followed the sound to find a mud-covered dog with one of its front paws caught in a steel-jaw trap. As soon as the dog saw Stiles, it started growling.
Stiles frowned. “I forgot that those monstrosities are legal here.” Moving slowly, Stiles reached into his pocket for his pride and joy. This specially enchanted Swiss Army knife had won him a commendation from his notoriously exacting enchantment professor.
Each of the individual tools was enchanted to perform a different function, and one of them happened to be for dismantling inorganic devices. It was perfect for a situation such as this.
His hand had just closed around it when something heavy collided with his head, sending him into darkness.
v^v^v^v
When Stiles woke, he had a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth. It was so overwhelming that it took him several moments to realise what his inability to lift his hands and feet meant. There were metal cuffs on his ankles, wrists, and neck, holding him firmly to a cold surface.
The air around him felt heavy, charged with potential. Even with his ordinary sense of smell, Stiles recognised the odour of old blood around him.
There was power in death, but Stiles had never delved into necromancy. His magical skills were too entwined with life and growth, and while death was part of that system, it required too much rigid control to interest him. That didn’t mean he knew nothing of death magic, of course—just nothing beyond the basics.
He knew enough to see how many people had lain on this table, just as he was now.
Images of various naked men and women—even children—passed before his eyes like a slideshow. His headache got worse; his brain felt like it wanted to burst out of his skull.
At this point, Stiles was just glad he had his clothes on.
Focusing enough to survey the area for tools he could use was difficult, and the pain in his head made the concentration he needed to draw the earth’s power impossible.
Somewhere off to the side, an argument was taking place.
“You’re lucky he didn’t die! Aconite isn’t just poisonous to werewolves; it’s incredibly toxic to humans!” The voice sounded female. “Why do you think we all wear gloves and masks before working with it?”
“You said we needed to up our game,” another voice objected. This one was male, and it sounded defensive. “Five months with nothing to show for it! When he turned up, Jason had gone into town to restock our food, so I had to make a snap decision.”
“None of our surveillance has placed him with any of the pack!” the first voice responded. “The closest link we have is CCTV footage of him giving the sheriff a lift to work earlier today. The sheriff, you idiot! You can’t have missed the significance of his name. This man is either the sheriff’s son or some other relative. Do you know how hard this will be to hide? We can’t afford to alert law enforcement to our presence here, not after the mess the Argents made of everything. We’re only going to get one shot at the Hales; we have to make it count.”
“How was I to know he was related to the sheriff?” said the second voice. There was a thump. “I mean, sorry, you’re right. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“We know the sheriff has connections to the pack,” a third voice, also male, broke in. The third voice sounded calmer than the other two. “He works with the alpha. For all we know, this relative is a collaborator. We already know that the Hale pack isn’t opposed to including pure humans, and it’s suspicious that he survived the ‘bane.”
There was a sigh before the female voice started speaking again. “Fine. We’ve already come this far; we might as well conduct a full interrogation. Just don’t go making any more mistakes, and for god’s sake, don’t let him see your faces.”
“I’ll let you know if we learn anything,” promised the third voice. There was the sound of footsteps moving away.
The sound of metal scraping across metal was like a knife being plunged into Stiles’ already traumatised brain. He couldn’t help wincing.
“Look, he just moved.” That was the second voice again. There was the sound of footsteps approaching.
“We know you’re awake.”
Stiles squinted through the pain to look at the speaker, the one with the calm voice. He was unsurprised that both his captors were wearing balaclavas.
“You probably heard most of that,” said the calm one. He was taller than his companion and stockily built with the kind of muscle Stiles mentally attributed to WWF fighters. “It’s unfortunate that you got mixed up in this business, but it’s too late for us to just let you go. I’m going to ask you some questions. It will go better for you if you answer them honestly.”
The shorter guy looked less like a bodybuilder but wasn’t exactly skinny. He was holding something that looked like a smartphone in one hand, and the faint glow from its screen cast shadows over his covered face. He didn’t say anything, just stared at Stiles through the eyeholes in his balaclava.
“I’ve seen enough movies to know that you’re not going to believe anything I tell you,” replied Stiles. He wished he had a bit of werewolfy healing going on. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any Tylenol. I’ve picked up a headache somewhere; can’t imagine where.”
“What is your name,” asked the taller one in that calm voice.
“My name is Stilinski, my quest is the holy grail, and my favourite colour is blue,” said Stiles, since they’d obviously already looked at his driver’s licence.
Shorter twitched slightly, but a glance from Taller settled him down again.
“A comedian,” said Taller, sounding slightly disappointed. “Let’s see if you find this question funny. What can you tell me about the Hales?”
There was no way Stiles would rat any werewolves out to hunters, but that went doubly for Derek’s pack. Even if he wasn’t already under Stiles’ protection by dint of his relationship to Stiles’ BFF, Derek had put up with enough shit from hunters to last several lifetimes. “Local family. Most of them died in a fire over a decade ago. Arson, apparently. Some perverted sicko, who will rot in hell, no doubt.”
“Wrong answer.” Taller nodded at Shorter, who poked at his phone.
Electricity coursed through Stiles, proving once and for all that these fools had no idea who they were dealing with. Offering free power to a captive magic user of Stiles’ skills was tantamount to signing your death warrant.
Latching on to the source of power so thoughtfully provided, Stiles followed the connection back to the switch Shorter had operated remotely. A quick burst shorted the receiver unit, ensuring that his energy supply would last as long as he wanted it to.
Then, Stiles used some of that power to shred the restraints holding him down, freeing himself in moments. He rose to his feet, condensing the nearby air to raise a transparent, non-Newtonian wall in front of him.
“Shit,” said Taller, finally losing some of his calm. “He’s a magic-user. Turn it off!” He pulled a handgun out of the holster strapped to his thigh and pointed it at Stiles.
“I can’t; the app isn’t working!” said Shorter, pressing frantically on his phone. He sounded terrified, but Stiles wasn’t inclined to be sympathetic.
Taller didn’t waste time talking, just fired his gun directly at Stiles’ chest. He continued firing until the magazine was empty. The bullets hit Stiles’ barrier and shattered, spending their kinetic energy. Powdered wolfsbane filled the air as the barrier rippled in reaction, and what was left dropped harmlessly to the ground.
While that was happening, Stiles took the opportunity to send a series of fluctuating electricity surges through the lines. That should be enough to take care of any surge protectors and fry anything plugged in. The increase of electricity in the air also had a comic effect on everyone’s hair, but Stiles was probably the only one who found it funny.
As Taller reached for another magazine, shorter was still fumbling to draw his weapon.
“I think it’s my turn,” said Stiles. His initial mild interest in plant magic, based around his aptitude, had skyrocketed after discovering that he was immune to plant toxins. Now, his skills with plant matter even surpassed his professors’. Unbeknownst to the hunters, they had provided him with more than enough to take them down.
Baring his teeth in a parody of a wolfish grin, Stiles felt for the infinitesimally tiny specks of life that remained in the powdered plant matter and funnelled some of the power he was pulling from the electrical grid into them. He didn’t bother with care or finesse—not that he had the capability of it right now, with how much his head was hurting—but since he didn’t need to worry about ensuring the resulting plants were able to survive once he stopped throwing power at them, it didn’t matter.
To the hunters, it must have looked like the wolfsbane plants appeared out of nowhere, growing from nothing into a forest of flowering death.
With a savage smile, Stiles stimulated the anthers, throwing so much pollen into the air that there was no way the hunters could avoid it.
Shorter coughed, Taller dropped his gun and tried to cover his face. It was too late. They both began convulsing; within a minute, they were dead.
Stiles dropped the barrier he’d been holding. “Typical hunters. Looks like you can give it, but you can’t take it. I guess you never paid attention to that old saying; ‘if you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’”
He considered taking one of their guns but decided against it. These fools had given him everything he needed to level a fourth level curse on their whole group, at which point there would be no need to shoot them.
That didn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of the pollen covering everything in case he wanted it later. Then he went looking for his Swiss Army knife. No way was he letting a bunch of hunter pricks deprive him of one of his most treasured possessions.
The door was steel and led to a short hallway. There were three more doors off it, all to empty interrogation rooms that looked just like the one he woke up in. At the end of the hallway was a staircase leading upwards towards another door.
It opened into a large room, set up like a command centre. There were six computer monitors in a group in front of a dining-room table set up as a desk. Five other desks were set up nearby in a rough circle, each holding a laptop.
“What do you mean there’s nothing wrong with the power? Everything went dead!” The woman whose voice he’d heard earlier was pacing in front of a set of windows looking out onto a winding driveway. Going by dimming light, it was past dinner time. She was on her phone and didn’t notice Stiles’ entrance.
Two other occupants of the room, both male, were poking at the laptops. The younger of the two looked up as the woman finished speaking. “Sira!” he said, rising to his feet and reaching for the gun holstered under his arm.
The alarm in his voice caught the attention of the other two. Moments later, Stiles was staring down the barrels of three guns.
“How did you escape?” said the woman, moving back slightly as the other two came forward. She was significantly older than the other two, confirming Stiles’ impression that she was the leader. All three of them held their guns properly, indicating that they were familiar with using them.
Stiles encased himself in his barrier again, covering himself on all sides. The last thing he needed was for someone he’d missed downstairs to come up behind him and shoot him in the back. It wouldn’t protect him against a physical strike—those moved too slowly to activate the barrier—but nothing was perfect, and hunters were laughably predictable.
“He’s some kind of witch,” warned the one who hadn’t spoken yet. “What did you do to Rico and Arthur, witch?”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Nothing, until they started shooting at me. After the taller one emptied an entire magazine in my direction, I felt justified in retaliating.”
Ignoring the unsubtle warning, the youngest one opened fire, joined shortly after by the other two. The scene from downstairs replayed itself. The bullets hit the barrier and exploded, dispersing their powdered wolfsbane into the air.
Stiles laughed. “Oh, you hunters. You never learn, do you?” He pulled on the electricity he was still connected to, drawing it into himself, letting it infuse every aspect of his being. His headache became nothing but minor background noise as the energy running through his cells mixed with his magic, boosting his reserves far beyond what he was usually capable of.
It was more than even a trained human body could hold for more than a minute or two. Without an outlet, Stiles would have shattered into pieces. Luckily, he was a trained curse master, and he knew just what to do with it.
“This I lay on those who take it upon themselves to hunt the supernatural,” Stiles declaimed, hearing multi-layered tones coming from his throat. Good, that meant that this was working. “You, and all those of your ilk; you who would have tortured and killed me unprovoked; you who commit atrocities based on fear, prejudice, and hate, you who relish the pain and agony of others—”
“Stop him!” the woman shouted desperately, ejecting her spent magazine and inserting another. She stopped aiming for his chest, trying to find a weak point anywhere in his barrier.
Stiles had gone too far to be stopped. As he spoke, his voice got progressively louder. “Let the pain and terror delivered upon others be reflected unto the deliverer; may you reap what you have sown. Let those who have killed the innocent suffer and die as those they harmed did.”
The force of the magic Stiles was using manifested in the air, a dark red mist the colour of venous blood. There was enough of his actual blood in it that Stiles started to feel slightly faint.
He powered on. He needed to get this out before the magic recoiled on him and blew him apart. Gilbert had shown him pictures of curse masters who’d botched curses, and Stiles had no wish to end up like any of them.
“Let every drop of supernatural blood you’ve spilled give power and strength to this working.” Stiles could feel the tissues in his throat starting to tear. “Let it be, until the magic gives out, or until you and those of your ilk are gone from the world, never to return.”
Stiles took in a deep breath, gathering everything he had. He pulled on the memory of the Argents and their crimes in Beacon Hills, on these new hunters and their unprovoked attack on him. He dragged it all together and shoved it into the magic he was doing. “Be cursed!” he roared, the words rolling out of him like thunder, gaining an almost physical presence.
Magical weight pressed in on him, and time seemed to stand still as the balance was weighed. Despite Stiles’ confidence that six unprovoked murder attempts would tilt the scales in his favour, cursing a group of people was always a delicate matter. Hopefully, he’d worded it right, but only time would tell.
It was over within moments. The pressure lifted, and all the hair on his body stood on end. The force of the curse hit the red mist, which glowed brightly before disappearing, dispersed beyond Stiles’ sight.
Stiles could hear screaming as the three hunters in the room who were still trying to kill him felt the curse activate, but he was too focused on providing power for the ever-growing behemoth of a curse he’d just unleashed to care about assholes like that.
Magic rushed out of him, faster than he’d expected it to. All the extra magic he’d built up was quickly gone to feed the curse he’d spoken, followed soon after by his own, more modest, reserves.
Whoops. He might have miscalculated a bit.
As he neared empty, Stiles accepted that casting this curse would kill him. Hopefully, adding his life force to the magic he’d already offered would be enough to make the curse stick.
As the last of his magic flowed out of him, the song of the nemeton rang in his mind, and he felt a new surge of familiar magic start to pour into him. It flowed out as fast as in, leaving Stiles as little more than a conduit for a torrent of magic rushing through him.
Then a second familiar magic joined the first one, followed by more magic that he didn’t recognise.
On and on, it flowed, the curse drawing more power than Stiles had thought possible. Finally, it was over. The curse, now complete, detached from his centre. The energy pouring into him dropped away, leaving him a hollowed-out, empty husk with a raging headache.
Before Stiles slipped into unconsciousness for the second time that day, his only thought was that it was worth it.
v^v^v^v
When Stiles opened his eyes, he was in the hospital. His head felt a lot better, which he was grateful for, but he still felt empty. The nemeton’s call was back, louder than before. It sounded almost annoyed. I promise I’ll come see you soon, Stiles thought in its general direction. It might have been his imagination, but the call subsided to a more manageable level.
“You’re awake!”
Stiles turned his head to see his father sitting beside him. He looked tired and worried but otherwise seemed in good health. “Dad? You okay?” Stiles’ throat felt raw but not as torn up as he’d expected it to be.
Noah’s laugh was rueful. “Kid, you just won me twenty bucks. Hang on; I’ll notify the nurse’s station that you’re back with us.”
Stiles blinked at him. “Okay.” He yawned.
Noah left, coming back with a man who did all the usual nurse things before cheerfully promising to send one of the doctors in soon.
Stiles didn’t take much notice. There was something he knew he should be remembering, hovering just out of reach. “Wait, last I knew, I’d been kidnapped by crazy hunters. There was a dog stuck in a bear trap. How did you find me? I had no idea where I was.”
Noah sighed. “I’m not the best one to ask, son; I don’t know much. Derek rang to tell me that he and his latest Emissary, Reuben, had gone to investigate some magical explosion over in Sierra County, only to find you passed out in what looked like a hunter base.”
Stiles felt stirrings of alarm. “He didn’t go downstairs, did he? Come to think of it, I was probably covered in aconite. Are they okay? I’d hate to hurt someone accidentally.”
His mind replayed the words ‘latest Emissary.’ Did that mean what he thought it meant? He didn’t want to get his hopes up, only for them to be dashed. Being connected to the nemeton didn’t automatically mean acceptance from its Guardian pack; he’d read enough histories to know that.
Noah raised his eyebrows. “As opposed to the ones you hurt that weren’t an accident? Derek said they found five dead bodies.”
“I didn’t kill them until they’d already tried to kill me more than once,” said Stiles defensively. “They didn’t even know who I was! They just thought I might be connected to the Hale pack, and that was good enough for them.” He yawned again. “They probably also hurt that dog. I hope it’s okay. Is there a reason I’m hospitalised? What’s wrong with me?”
“Reuben did some magical voodoo or whatnot and discovered that you suffered from a concussion and magical exhaustion. Since you were stable enough to transport, they brought you back here. I decided I’d rather be safe than sorry and had you admitted to the hospital. That was last night.” Noah ran a hand over his face. “Hell, Stiles, you hadn’t even been home half a day! I didn’t even know you were missing! When Derek told me that you had restraint marks on your skin… I haven’t been so scared in years. Not since that time you were kidnapped off the lacrosse field.”
“Sorry,” said Stiles, feeling guilty for making his dad worry. “I wasn’t expecting to be attacked; I didn’t have my guard up.”
“Don’t apologise for other people’s crimes,” replied Noah. “What a god-awful end to a day that started so well.” He stretched in his seat, groaning. “I’m sure a doctor will be coming by to ask you some questions. How are you feeling?”
“Just a headache,” Stiles reassured him. “Unless there’s something I’m not aware of, they’ll probably discharge me.”
Noah looked doubtful. “You’ve been unconscious for hours, Stiles. I’m not sure they will want to let you go so soon.”
Stiles waved a dismissive hand. “That was the magic more than anything else. I can’t stay here; sitting around with nothing to do for a couple of days would drive me nuts. If I have to, I’ll sign out AMA.”
“I’m not going to be able to go home and sit with you,” Noah warned him. “It’s what I would prefer, but I’m suddenly down two deputies, and we’ve got a possible serial poisoning case to investigate.”
Stiles was only a little disappointed. To be honest, the idea of having his dad at home to take care of him was probably better than the reality would be. Stiles was used to taking care of himself when he was sick, and these days he found any kind of fussing extremely grating on his nerves.
“What happened to your deputies? Are they alright?”
Noah shook his head. “I don’t know. Out of the blue, they just started screaming their heads off. We tried to help them, but they didn’t answer any of our questions, just kept screaming. Eventually, we managed to restrain them and got them to the hospital and sedated, but whenever they wake up, they just scream.”
Stiles put the pieces together. “They were probably hunters, then. Not the ‘keep the deer population in check kind, the nasty, ‘torturing and killing for the fun of it’ kind. Right now, they’re reliving things that they’ve done to other people. If they die, it will be because they’ve deliberately killed innocents.”
Noah sat back. “Hunters? Like the Argents?”
“Pretty much. Same charming habits, as far as I could tell. I overheard enough to know that they were watching the town. From what they said, they’d been trying to get their hands on someone pack related for some time. Have you had anyone go missing in the Preserve recently that Derek couldn’t find? Because I might not have been the first victim.”
“There were two kids who went missing last month,” said Noah slowly. “A couple of teenagers. They told their parents they were going camping in the Preserve, but there were no signs their vehicle even made it that far. When Derek couldn’t find any trace of them, we started looking elsewhere for answers. You think the hunters might have taken them?”
“I can’t say for sure,” replied Stiles. “Whoever the hunters who took me were, they’d been set up long enough to build and outfit an underground bunker with four separate rooms, each with a torture table and monitoring equipment. It looked clean to the eye but reeked of old blood.” He shivered at the memory. “I could feel the weight of death around me.”
Noah pursed his lips. “Can you contact the dead? Is there a way to find out if those kids were there? Some kind of necromancy?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Stiles. “Firstly, I’m not a necromancer. Secondly, necromancy is about harnessing the power of death, not about talking to dead people. As far as I’m aware, dead people don’t talk. Sometimes a person with enough inherent power can leave an imprint of themselves, but it’s not something that happens accidentally. It usually involves a deliberate, continual connection to a living magical entity.”
“I’m not sure I get the distinction,” admitted Noah.
“Sometimes, people turn their deaths into power, a purpose and malice that can be directed against their enemies. Most magic users can do it, but people without training can manage it too, especially if the path has already been made, so to speak. The place the hunters were keeping me was steeped in violent death, a source of power waiting for a chance to turn against those that tormented the victims there. But that energy doesn’t have any real intelligence. It’s raw, primal. I was only able to use it because I was acting against the hunters. A properly trained necromancer would have been able to use it for other things and would have done a tidier job.”
“So, there’s no way of finding out.”
“I got something of a slideshow,” Stiles explained. “A series of captured moments in time held in place by the accumulated death power. But the impressions themselves weren’t connected to the people they portrayed, and when I used the power, they were lost forever. There were too many of them, and it was over too quickly for me to be able to identify anyone specific.”
“In the movies, ghosts help catch their killers all the time.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “How shocking it must be for you to discover that life isn’t like the movies. According to my studies, some powerful necromancers can create something like ghosts, providing they have everything in place to do so at the exact moment of that person’s death. But they’re more like a static image than anything else. Looking at the image can’t give you any information about the person that wasn’t visible when the ‘photograph’ was taken.
“What’s more, unless a living magical being constantly pours power into it, the ‘photograph’ can’t maintain cohesion. Disconnect that power, even for a second, and the image is gone forever. It’s considered more trouble than it’s worth.”
“So, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Not ghosts connected to actual dead people,” confirmed Stiles. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t entities that might take the image of dead people for their own purposes, but that’s hardly the same thing.”
“If dead people are dead, how did Peter Hale come back to life?”
Stiles sighed. “That was something different and not something I’m willing to talk about without Peter’s approval.”
Noah narrowed his eyes. “It probably means he was never truly dead. Like Sauron, or Voldemort.”
Stiles laughed. “Not like them either, although it’s closer to the truth.”
“I would have thought—” He was interrupted by the door opening.
“Mr Stilinski?” said the doctor, a friendly-looking woman. “Let’s have a look at you.”
v^v^v^v
Four hours later, Stiles was home.
The doctor had been reluctant to release him due to the length of time Stiles was unconscious but agreed that Stiles was in his right mind and able to make rational decisions.
Despite Noah being needed back at work, Stiles wasn’t alone in the house for long. Ten minutes after his father left, there was a knock at the door.
Stiles opened the door, and his mouth went dry.
Stiles knew what Derek looked like. He’d spent enough time with him in those crazy six months after Scott was bitten to become accustomed to how he looked.
The Derek in Stiles’ memory was hot, in a bad-boy way. All brooding, with designer stubble and expressive eyebrows, tight pants, leather jacket, and a body that filled his clothes perfectly. Derek was still most of those things, although he’d lost the designer stubble. Stiles just didn’t remember him having this…presence.
It was comforting that Derek seemed just as struck dumb as Stiles was.
The grey-haired man standing beside Derek raised his eyebrows. “Wow. If that’s the kind of magic you’re packing, I understand why you were unconscious.”
Stiles dragged his gaze away from Derek’s—he’d never noticed how clear and beautiful Derek’s eyes were before—and looked at the stranger properly. “You must be Reuben,” he greeted. “My dad said that you were with Derek when he found me. I’m Stiles; nice to meet you.” He stepped back. “Come in, both of you.”
Derek remained silent as Stiles led them into the lounge. His stare might have been unnerving, but Stiles remembered Derek’s aversion to talking and wasn’t put off. Derek would speak when he felt like it.
Stiles settled his attention on Reuben. “I’m guessing you have questions. Dad said you were investigating a magical explosion?”
Reuben nodded. “Yes, it was a magical event of epic proportions, potent enough that the nemeton began pulling power from the earth. At first, I thought someone might have accidentally destroyed a supercharged magical relic, but I searched the site for anything resembling an ALA and found nothing. Also, there were no signs that anyone had been deliberately trying to tap the earth’s power. The only thing even remotely capable of acting as a powerful magical conduit to be found, was you. And a single human intentionally channelling that much raw power would be an act of desperation or insanity.”
“What’s an ALA?” asked Derek.
Reuben glanced at him. “Ancient or Legendary Artefact. It takes centuries for such things to absorb the levels of ambient magic required for a discharge of that immensity.”
Stiles heard the unasked question loud and clear. “The hunters attacked me because I went into the Preserve, and once they discovered that I was human, they decided to interrogate me anyway. If I weren’t as well trained as I am, I would have died at least six times. I used that to curse them.”
Derek growled, eyes glinting red for a moment. “We knew the Tods had been seen in town; we just didn’t know what they were here for. Reuben created talismans for the pack to help us avoid malevolent sight, and we’ve been careful about being outside warded areas alone.”
“They were getting frustrated that they couldn’t find you,” said Stiles, wishing his head would quit aching. The pain relief the hospital had given him had worn off long before his discharge came through. Inability to enjoy pain relief benefits was one of the few downsides to being able to neutralise plant toxins. Ignoring the pain as best he could, he related the conversation he’d overheard on waking up.
“Surely a curse on those who’d wronged you shouldn’t have produced such an…explosive effect,” remarked Reuben.
Stiles winced. “I set the parameters rather wider than that. There were a lot of people who’d been captured, tortured, and then killed either in that basement or on that table. They might not have had the magical ability to curse their tormentors, but the negative potency they’d left behind was tangible. I figured their ill-will would boost my power, and I had all that electricity at hand… Why waste it on the few hunters that just happened to be in the building right then? But I might have taken it a bit far.”
Reuben nodded. “It’s not what I’d call traditional, but it seems plausible. Curses can be tricky, though, and can easily backfire. It’s best to avoid them if you can. Or, if you can’t, get advice from one of the masters. If you like, I can put out some feelers for you and find someone willing to assess the situation.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got that covered,” replied Stiles. It was a generous offer, considering Reuben had never met Stiles before. Acting as a go-between for other magic users could be a risky prospect, and curse masters were known to be touchy. Gilbert certainly lived up to the stereotype.
Reuben frowned, looking doubtful. “Are you sure?”
Stiles didn’t want to come out and admit his skills; he would prefer to remain relatively unknown than attempt to develop the level of assholery that Gilbert seemed to revel in. “My aunts, Danuta and Besi, have connections to Gilbert Hertzog,” he said, which was an obfuscation that benefited from being true. “He owes them a few favours.” One of which had been used up by agreeing to take Stiles as an apprentice, but Reuben didn’t need to know that.
Reuben’s eyes widened, the doubt slipping away and replaced with astonishment. “You’re related to Boston’s Guardians?” He blinked. “Do they know what happened?”
“I haven’t spoken to them yet,” replied Stiles. “I don’t suppose either of you came across my phone? I haven’t seen it since I woke from the attack.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, what happened to the car I was driving? It was a rental. Wait, never mind; that’s something I should cover with my dad.”
“No phone,” said Derek, reaching into his pocket, “but this was on the floor beside you.” He tossed Stiles a familiar Swiss Army knife.
Stiles beamed at him. “Thank you!” He frowned at the fine pollen that still clung to it. “I hope the large quantities of wolfsbane in the building didn’t cause you any trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” said Derek, frowning. “That was wolfsbane?”
Reuben raised his eyebrows. “Remarkable. It looked like aconite, so I took all the necessary precautions. When Derek didn’t react to it, I assumed it was a variant or hybrid with the toxicity bred out. Maybe even a genetically engineered cross-species. It did strike me as odd that hunters would eliminate the characteristics that make aconite such a useful tool. Still, there is much I don’t comprehend when it comes to hunter thought processes.”
“Yeah, like why they’re such bell-ends,” agreed Stiles. “Huh. It was definitely toxic. When I was in the basement, I made the flowers bloom and then threw the pollen in the hunters’ faces. They died really quickly after that.”
“Interesting,” said Reuben. “I brought some specimens back to study. You’re welcome to join me if you like.”
“It sure beats driving there to get my own,” agreed Stiles. “Speaking of which, did you just leave everything how you found it? What about the dead hunters?”
Reuben shrugged. “By the time we got there, they were long dead, and you were mostly fine. So we decided to have a look around before deciding what to do. It was clearly a hunter hideout, and neither of us thought it was a good idea to be found there, so I just grabbed some samples, did a quick spell to remove any cellular evidence that the three of us were anywhere in the area; and then we came back.”
Stiles frowned. “What about surveillance?” He remembered frying lots of things, but he hadn’t exactly been in a position to take notes.
“The entire property was an electrical dark zone,” said Derek. “The hum of electricity was completely absent, and the only battery-operated devices still functional were some phones. We destroyed them and smashed the chips, just in case.”
“Thanks,” said Stiles. “There’s not much we can do about anything that might have already synced to offsite storage, but it’s always possible that I’ll get lucky and discover that these assholes were too paranoid to send their data over the internet.”
“We can deal with consequences as they happen,” stated Derek. “The Tods were operating outside the code, and if any of their hunter buddies try to claim otherwise, they’ll find out that the Hale pack isn’t as toothless as it was back when the Argents were running amok.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Amok, Derek? That’s not a word I ever thought I’d hear you use.”
Derek raised his eyebrows too, but they were slanted with humour more than offence. “It was on my ‘Word of the Day’ toilet paper.”
Stiles laughed, delighted. “Oh yeah? I can’t wait to tell Cora. She might have to up her game to keep her place as the most erudite werewolf of my acquaintance.”
“Neither of us would win that title,” replied Derek, mouth twitching. “Peter likes to sprinkle his conversation with words the rest of us have to look up. Although, if you go round using words like ‘erudite’ in casual conversation, he might have met his match.”
Reuben looked from Stiles to Derek and then back again before rising to his feet. “Thank you for making time for me, Stiles. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. Why don’t I let the two of you catch up? Derek, you know how to contact me if you need me. Stiles, I’d like to meet up once you’re completely recovered. Derek can give you my contact details. No, don’t get up; I can see myself out.”
Stiles blinked. “Wow, he was in a hurry all of a sudden. Is he usually like that?”
Derek shrugged. “I’ve only known him a month. He seems nice enough, although I sometimes find his enthusiasm tiring.”
“You know us magic types,” Stiles joked, trying to hide his discomfort. He’d often been told he was too enthusiastic for his own good; was Derek making a passive-aggressive comment about him? “Wait, you’ve only known him a month?”
“He’s one of the magical temps the agency periodically sends our way,” replied Derek, relaxing back into his seat and stretching his denim encased legs. “He’ll study the area for a few months and then move on.”
Stiles frowned. “I thought he was the Hale Pack Emissary?”
“We don’t have an Emissary,” said Derek, watching Stiles intently. “Not an official one.” He told Stiles about applying to the Smiths and discovering that the nemeton had already chosen the Hale pack’s Emissary.
“Who is it?” Stiles asked, hoping that it was him. Besi and Danuta said that the nemeton had marked him as taken, but did that really translate to being pack Emissary? All the evidence stacked up, but this was the moment when it either happened or it didn’t. “The one the nemeton chose, I mean. Is it me?”
“I always suspected it was you,” admitted Derek. “I hoped it was you. I’ve been waiting for you to come home so I could find out.”
Stiles took a deep breath. “There’s only one way to know for sure. Why don’t you take me to the nemeton?” The song in his head intensified. It was weird; Stiles was already so used to it that he’d stopped noticing it until it changed.
Derek gave him a flat stare. “Have you forgotten you’re supposed to be recuperating?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m fine; just a bit drained and a lot headachy.” Derek’s expression didn’t change. “Come on, Derek, it’s not like I’ll be alone. I’ll have my werewolf health advisor with me every step of the way!” He sighed. “Do you think the nemeton would harm me?”
“No, I don’t.” Derek frowned at him, shoulders tensing in his leather jacket. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I’m only doing this because I know that you’d head out there by yourself if I didn’t.”
Stiles frowned back. “If you really don’t want to, we can wait. I won’t try to access the nemeton without your permission, Derek. I’m not quite as reckless and impulsive as I used to be, and this is your territory. I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Then we can wait.” A noise like an old car horn came from his jacket pocket. Derek ignored it.
Stiles heaved an exaggerated sigh and let his body relax back into the couch. “You and Cora are both secret mother hens, you know.”
The tension in Derek’s shoulders eased. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Pack members should take care of each other. Also, I’ve spent years listening to your father’s complaints about the diet you have him on. A little bit of pot and kettle, don’t you think?”
Stiles laughed. “Caught me there, Sourwolf. I don’t suppose your mother hen routine runs to making dinner? Hospital food is crap.”
“Sure,” said Derek, getting to his feet in a smooth motion that drew Stiles’ attention. “You deserve a treat for being reasonable, after all.” He went straight to the fridge, opening it and looking inside.
Derek moved around the kitchen with the confident familiarity of someone who’d done this before, allowing Stiles to note the differences that six years had wrought.
There weren’t as many as he would have expected. Aside from the odd grey fleck in the jet-black hair and the lack of scruffy facial hair, the only difference was how he held himself.
With Reuben gone, Derek was relaxed in a way that Stiles had never seen him be before. It made him wonder what Derek would have been like without the tragedies that had shattered his world at such a young age. At sixteen and seventeen, Stiles had looked at twenty-one-year-old Derek and seen a grown man.
At twenty-three, Stiles was all too aware of how young and unprepared Derek had been. The only advantage he’d had over Stiles and Scott back then was that he’d been born a werewolf and therefore had come into the situation with more knowledge.
Sometimes, when she was drunk, Cora talked about what life had been like in the Hale pack before the fire. According to her, betas were assigned roles based on their personalities, likes and dislikes. At the same time, they were discouraged from taking the initiative. She told him Talia had ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove, whereas Laura hadn’t worked out the velvet part.
This meant that Derek had gone from having all his decisions made for him to being the only one with any knowledge in a situation that meant life and death. Not just for him, but for a bunch of asshole teenagers too. A lesser-willed individual would have high-tailed it out of Beacon Hills as soon as the Argents appeared on the scene.
Derek might have frequently stumbled and fallen, but he always kept moving forward, kept trying.
Six years on, six years during which they’d not once spoken to each other, and Derek was still coming to save Stiles.
Stiles leaned in the kitchen doorway while Derek put together a cheese and pickle sandwich. Watched as Derek cut the crusts off the way his mother used to do before her illness had hospitalised her. Suddenly, the world seemed clearer than it had ever been before.
The air felt heavy with potential, and all Stiles could see was Derek.
“I want to be pack,” Stiles said, accepting the plate when Derek handed it to him. “You’re the alpha of a Guardian Pack, and I’m the Emissary the nemeton has chosen. I choose you as my alpha, Derek Hale. Do you choose me?”
Derek’s smile was like the sun coming out. “I chose you six years ago, the moment I discovered there was a choice to make. I’ve been choosing you ever since.”
The last jigsaw piece of the puzzle inside Stiles slotted into place with an almost audible click. A door that had been shut in his mind that he hadn’t even known existed, opened. With his choice made of his own free will, the nemeton sang loud in his mind, the beacon the town was named for.
Stiles could suddenly see what had been hidden from him all this time. The claim that he’d been kept from seeing, that he’d had difficulty believing in, was an almost tangible thing. It brought to mind that old saying, ‘If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re yours; if they don’t, they never were.’
The nemeton had set him free in the only way it knew how, and Stiles had come back.
Those faint bonds he’d consistently refused to cut surged with new life, connecting him to the Hale pack.
The strongest bond led straight to Derek. It wasn’t like the other bonds, though. It felt tougher than graphene, stronger than diamonds, yet softer than silk. It warmed him all the way through, and, along with Derek’s unmistakable presence, he could feel the nemeton’s triumphant crescendo in every cell of his body.
For the first time in decades, the Guardian Pack of the Beacon Hills’ Nemeton was whole.
“Derek,” Stiles said as joy coursed through him. “Will you marry me?”
Derek’s smile was a thing of beauty. “Of course.”
Stiles had finally come home.
I cannot believe you just threw all of that at us in a single installment! That Stilinski reunion melted my heart. I will never not love BAMF Stiles and that confrontation was particularly inventive. Then Rueben removing himself because clearly that reunion needed privacy. Somehow you got all the way to a marriage proposal and I adore it!
I’m glad you liked it 🙂
BAMF Stiles is my favourite too
Great story. Thank you!
Thanks!
I am just absolutely in love with this series. BAMF! Stiles and confident, settled Derek are a hell of a pair. <3 <3 <3
Thank you, I’m glad you like it so far 🙂
Brilliant! I loved every bit of this!
Thank you!
I am truly amazed at just how much content you managed to include in less than 10k. Love Stiles’ curse on hunters. Epic. Can’t wait to see the fallout.
Stiles and Derek. That was a marvelous reunion and I love how everything just clicked. They’ve waited so long.
Thank you
lol, yeah I was keeping my eye on the word count as it crept up.
Thank you, I’m glad you liked it 🙂
Great Story. Thank you for sharing
Thanks
That was epic, so much happened in such a short time, yet it felt more like completing tasks than starting afresh.
The proposal was unexpected, but so Stiles and so right given their history.
I love bamf Stiles and the curse is a thing of beauty.