[The funny thing about death is that life doesn't stop for it.
It had been two months since Scott McCall's death. It went into the books as a mauling by a mountain lion, like the death of the video store clerk and the janitor--all that felt like years ago. Everything did, or at least it did for Stiles. Like everything around him was encased in molasses, sticky with guilt and tears and panic, nostalgia that hung over him like a curtain some days and sliced at him like a knife others. Stiles was no stranger to loss, but nothing, not a single funeral home or viewing, could have prepared him for having to bury his best friend. Every joke about him dying without Stiles had come to horrible, gut twisting fruition, and although he'd gotten to the point now where he was out of bed, walking around, talking to people again, the guilt found him in the dark of the night and around the corners of his room, striking in the shower or every waking moment he spent alone. What he could have done. What Scott could have told him, that stupid heroic bastard--
It didn't matter. No matter how many panic attacks he had, no matter how much he glanced to his right after a smart comment and felt his stomach twist up into knots until he wanted to vomit, nothing was going to bring Scott back.
So life went on. Harris still gave him detention. Finstock gave him this face that he was pretty sure was supposed to be sympathetic, but still ran his ass into the ground with suicides. Stiles had been given the best advice he could have asked for by someone he'd never expected so many months back, and he'd adopted it as a personal mantra. If you're going through hell, keep going. So Stiles got out of bed in the morning. He talked to people at school, Allison, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Isaac. In the end, he went to Derek with questions, and a talk over coffee had turned into several talks over coffee, until they'd bonded tight enough over their mutual trauma and quietly similar interests that he never really left. One day, they'd been enemies, the next, barely okay with each other, and then, friends, leaning into each other on the dip of Stiles' bed, so close that lines were being blurred, spending time together in comfortable, necessary, silence. Maybe he'd look back on that as strange later, but now, he simply needed Derek. As much as Derek needed him, grown into a mutual bond of trust, something he barely had with anyone anymore.
Especially when it came to his father. Scott's death steeled Stiles' resolve towards something else. Everything he felt over the gaping, aching hole of his best friend and what he could have done to help had become the boiling point on a tumbling mountain of guilt that had simmered since his mother's death. He couldn't lie to his dad anymore. And now, sitting in his room with his fingers loosely interlaced and hanging between his knees, he levels his gaze to Derek's, resolve firm in his eyes--for more than one reason, albeit one was just bubbling under the surface. A consideration, for now.
When he finally does speak up, it's measured, slow.]
I can't...I can't leave him in the dark anymore. Dad could help, and we're trying to lead him around with blinders on.
No stranger to the feeling weighing heavy on his shoulders, in the pit of his stomach, souring at the back of his mouth, Derek had been carrying a sensation of guilt for the past two months. There were far too many reasons for it, too, beyond simply feeling responsible for Scott McCall.
If he'd just gotten his head out of his ass sooner, maybe they would've been more solidified as a pack. They wouldn't have been operating in circles around each other, wary and hesitant to form a tighter allegiance than the one built on distrust and dislike. If he'd only gotten there sooner, when the sense of dread struck him too late. If he'd just done right as the alpha of Beacon Hills.
It was too late, after his death, but at least he could bury him somewhere safe. Sure, they'd buried a casket under the gravestone, but Derek was never one to adhere to human ceremonies. Not after everything that'd happened to him. Besides, there was only so much ashwood and wolfsbane could do in a graveyard to protect a body from the supernatural, from vindictive hunters out to provoke the pack into fighting them. Burying Scott in the forest, at the foot of a rowan-- healing, connection, protection-- with Deaton's help to ward it further had felt right.
He could do that much, for Scott.
For Melissa McCall, he could fill her home with pack. Keep her company, let her know that she wasn't alone. She was strong, but even that wasn't enough some days. Laura had always been the one to offer comfort to the upset, the grieving, but he could at least try for a woman who'd lost her son on his watch.
Nevermind how much it helped the pack, grieving at the loss of a packmate. Even one so disconnected as Scott had been. He'd been Isaac's friend, more than Erica and Boyd's, but that didn't change the fact there was a tangible tear slowly mending itself in their beta camaraderie.
Which didn't even begin to touch what he felt around Stiles. He couldn't explain, really, what compelled him to spend so much time around the human who'd lost his best friend. But from the moment that he'd seen Stiles the night that Scott had died, he'd known: he had to be there. So he was, starting out unsteady as they always did, before he stopped climbing through Stiles' window most of the time and started to use the door (admittedly only when the sheriff wasn't in, to avoid too many questions). The alpha could just look at Stiles and know that something had shifted, that something was on his mind.
Which is what he does now, eyes focused unflinchingly on him in silence. There's something more to this, but he doesn't press for it yet. ]
I was never against telling him the truth, so long as you knew what that meant. If you think he should know, then he should. It'd prepare him, make it so that he knows what he's up against the next time he steps into a crime scene that something inhuman is behind. [ A pause, and his voice softens a little, from his even tone. ] He'd be safer for it.
[Stiles looks up, his eyebrows rising just a millimeter and his mouth opening, before he shuts it again. He wasn't expecting Derek to just...agree with him. Derek is one of those people that continues to take the way he assumes things, dump them on their heads, and then shake them around a little bit for their lunch money. It's baffling at best, irritating and obnoxious at it's worst, occasionally enjoyable depending on the particular puzzle presented.
At the moment, he tries to cover his surprise, drawing his mouth into a line. There's just a beat of silence, both between them and mentally as his mind kicks itself into life, roaring into gear with the sudden affirmation. (And it's strange, that he sought out Derek's approval first. It's not actually that strange, and he can connect the dots to why; and maybe this is a first step in that direction.) It doesn't take Stiles long to start talking, moving his hands--he's thinking out loud, a habit that he'd never quite broken.]
After the last "mountain lion" thing--he was suspicious, he was always suspicious. He was the one who found the deer with Peter's mark of revenge on it. It's not like he couldn't have figured it out in the first place, but...[The words die in his throat. How can he connect those dots--tell his dad all along, that he's been involved in these ridiculous situations because his best friend is--was-- a werewolf? It seems so easy, but so impossible at the same time. Running his hand through the thick, dark hair recently grown onto his head, he shakes his head abruptly, exhaling loudly.] There should be a hallmark card for this. Sorry About The Werewolves.
[ Waiting patiently for Stiles to recover from his faint surprise-- hard to miss, when Derek looks for every shift in his expression these days, from subtle to exaggerated-- he pushes off from where he'd been leaning against Stiles' desk. Though he might seem like a puzzle to Stiles, he spends just as much time trying to figure out the teen in front of him. He's something of a mystery, despite how straight forward he can often be. It's... interesting, to say the least. Frustrating, sometimes, but always a challenge he's willing to take up.
He lets him voice his thoughts, moving across the room over towards him until he can drop to sit alongside him. Their knees wind up close together, as Derek leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs. Fingers laced together, he settles his hands in front of his mouth, letting out a quiet hum. The sheriff's suspicions hadn't escaped him, not when he had been monitoring all of Beacon Hills since his return.
There were only so many lies they could tell before the truth came out. ]
That'd make our lives too easy. [ It's a dry comment, but there's not too much humor to it. But the offer to come after the unfortunately true joke is sincere, as he turns his head to look at him. ] I'll help you tell him, if you want. It might be better to have a werewolf there as demonstration.
Mmmm. Can't exactly go "surprise, werewolves!" and not have any actual proof. [Nodding, he looks down at his own hands, not reacting as Derek's weight makes the bed bow a little, lining them up from thigh to knee. It's a nice feeling, comforting, and he furrows his brows, thinking.]
...he should know what really happened to Scott. [He scoffs.] Mountain lions. With that, and you and your teeth and general wolfishness, he's going to have to believe us. I mean, he said not to get involved with drugs or alcohol. I'm well behaved.
[Tilting his head a little to the side, he drops it on Derek's shoulder, sighing loudly in resignation.]
[ Head turning just enough to look at Stiles as he drops his own onto Derek's shoulder, he stays quiet as he mulls over the words. At the very least, they'd been able to tell Melissa about what had happened to his son. But it was different, here. The sheriff never did seem satisfied with a mountain lion being the culprit for an attack again, but it had been for his own good that he didn't know.
At first.
Turning his head the rest of the way, he noses briefly at the nest that Stiles has allowed his hair to become over the past couple months. ]
As long as we set it up so that he's not shocked into shooting me, I think things will go fairly smoothly.
[In the past few months, these sort of moments have become normal for Stiles, and he doesn't react at all to Derek's movement, just shifting a little closer into his shoulder. It's taken some dissecting, late, sleepless nights where he'd spent hours trying to compartmentalize his feelings towards things combined with werewolf instinct and the very strong word of pack.
It's part of what's motivating his other decision. If he already feels like pack--if Beacon Hills has lost it's number one hero--it's time for the "sidekick" to step up to the plate. And if his dad knows; if his dad reacts well? It'd be the last catalyst he needs.
Sighing through his nose, he looks down at his hands, gesturing weakly.]
"Hey, dad. I know we've had a lot of trust issues in the past, but I swear to God I was totally lying for a really good reason." Yeah. This is going to go great.
[Laying on the sarcasm so thick.]
And besides, it'd just sting for a minute, no big deal. Great way to teach him about healing powers.
[ There are moments, where Derek looks back on his time with Stiles since Scott's death, and can't help but question everything. If this is more than just pack-- he's come to the conclusion that it is-- or if Stiles hasn't come to mean more than he did at the start-- he has. It's something he doesn't quite ignore, so much as simply shift away. They have much more pressing things to worry about, than this connection.
And for as tactile as he can be when it's a quiet moment with the pack, individually or as a group, he rarely touches another person's hands. Occasionally, he'll hold Erica's as they sit together, but he never really makes that contact-- it's too personal.
Here, he shifts to hook their arms together loosely, taking one of Stiles' hands to still it and his gestures. To ground him. ]
You were trying to protect him, the same as he would've done for you if the tables were turned. He'll understand, later on if he doesn't now. [ He nudges at Stiles' hair again, before tucking the lower half of his face against it. ] He'll forgive you and want to help, regardless.
[The weirdest thing about that isn't that it's comforting, or that Derek's holding his hand. It's that it's normal. There'd be a time where he'd have been freaked out, before, but now? Now he just gives the hand against his, warm and calloused and pressed right into the crevices between his fingers like a perfect fit, a gentle squeeze. Stiles leans a little into his arm, closing his eyes and letting his head bow with the stress of several months of guilt and pain.]
I know he will. [He sighs softly, tilting his head up again just a little, to make it more comfortable for them both, and turns his cheek into Derek's shoulder.] ...I just don't know when he'll forgive me. And the last thing I need right now is my dad giving me that look again.
[ Returning the squeeze, keeping it firm but gentle, Derek closes his eyes as he listens to Stiles, lets him shift against his shoulder. The fact that this can now be considered normal, after months of turmoil followed by months of grief, is a little disorienting at times. But aside from what lead up to it, he wouldn't really change the fact that this is something he can do now.
Totally can't believe I'm saying this, but. [A soft smile slides onto his face and he rubs his thumb idly against the curve of Derek's finger, a calmer sort of nervous movement.] I really hope you're right.
[Exhaling a little, he goes to shift away from him, but pauses, lifting his head off his shoulder to look at him, really look at him. He's immeasurably thankful for...most of the things Derek's been able to provide since Scott's death, and it's hard to put it into words. For now, he settles for a soft mumble of gratitude, meeting his gaze.]
[ Rather than pulling away with the touch, Derek looks down to where their hands are joined, almost thoughtfully. It's such a surreal thing to see, to do, but he doesn't dislike it, exactly. He just doesn't want to attach any words to it.
So instead, he squeezes Stiles' hand again lightly, lifting his head as he does so that he can meet his gaze. His expression is quiet, as it has been these past two months, but there's something lighter to it.
Tipping his head forward, he briefly taps their foreheads together. ]
[Jeez, it's like getting double parented. The smile falls from his face and he nods, the weight of the upcoming conversation--far heavier than the one they'd been having--hits on his shoulders.
Gesturing at the chair, he waits for his dad to sit down before clearing his throat, meeting his eyes.]
...It's about Scott. --Well, it's...about a lot of stuff. Y'know how you said a while back that...you barely knew me anymore? [And oh, how much had that hurt.] I know it's been hard to trust me, and...to be honest, I seriously deserve that, because I've been a crap son, but I just couldn't tell you. I had to protect Scott, and, I guess I thought I was protecting you.
[He looks down at Derek's hand, inhaling slowly to keep his cool. Stiles had thought keeping his dad out of the werewolf secret was better for everyone involved for the longest time, but the more time passed, the more the guilt started to pile onto him until he was practically drowning in it.]
Do you remember how we all freaked out when Isaac Lahey got taken into custody? Or how Lydia got all bloodied and beaten up--or...all those weird murders that you'd pinned to Kate? Kate was definitely a murderer, god, don't get me wrong, but...it. Well, it wasn't a mountain lion.
[Stiles gives a little, humorless chuckle, but he turns his head to Derek. Show him.]
[ This is for Stiles to tell his father, because it's what he's been keeping from him, so Derek remains silent until he's prompted to assist. Otherwise, he stays silent, attentive to what's being said while gauging the sheriff's reaction to everything. Jona Stilinski is a reasonable man, but this is a fairly unreasonable thing to drop onto him now, even with an explanation.
As Stiles looks down at their hands, he squeezes carefully, acting as an anchor to keep him grounded. It was for the best, at the start.
But now, he needs to know. Just like Melissa does. He's been pack just as long as she has, it's only right for him to actually be aware of the fact.
When the focus is turned on him, Derek slides a glance over to Stiles, then back to the sheriff. Sighing through his nose, he closes his eyes and cracks his neck in a slow roll of his head, debating just how much he wants to show the elder Stilinski in one go.
He opts to simply let red bleed into his irises, opening his eyes to focus the faint glow of them on the man seated across from them. ]
[The sheriff listens quietly, posture straightening immediately. At the mentions of the crimes- of Scott and Isaac- he can't help but go into cop mode, and he measures each move the two young men before him make. All of Stiles's body language, and all the lack thereof from Derek- and with the bleed of red into the webbed muscle of Derek's irises, Jona finds his breath nearly faltering.
This is something far above him, things he's never fathomed, but he absolutely must not lose focus. Though he speaks to Stiles, he doesn't take his eyes off the alpha before him.]
I think the three of us need to sit down and talk about this. And I think that you, Stiles, need to be as clear as you can.
[Every bone in Stiles' body practically melts into jello at his dad's response. He'd been holding himself as tense as a strung bow, waiting for what was supposedly inevitable, the disappointment in his face, the disbelief.
It never comes. (Part of him never thought it would.)
His voice is a little shaky, and he gives a relieved laugh, drawing his eyes up to the Sheriff's, slowly. ]
...Heh. Yeah. Clear as glass. Got it.
[Giving another gentle squeeze, he realizes quickly what he could have insinuated.] --It wasn't Derek! Oh god. Like, I joke about the fact that he actually looks like a criminal but he's seriously as innocent as innocent can get. He's a good werewolf. So's Isaac--he's kind of a werewolf in training and--
[Wait, wait. Okay. Start again.] So...yeah. Werewolves? Totally real. That night when Scott and I were out running around in the woods, when all this crazy crap started--he ran when you made me go back to the car and got attacked by a wolf. [It hurts to talk about Scott--the newly familiar, sour taste in the back of his mouth, but he swallows.] He was bitten. Someone like Derek was born, like...most of the Hales were.
[Stiles glances at Derek for a minute, but soldiers on, talking about something he knows his dad does, too. There's a little venom in his voice as he finishes. Kate Argent's practically a swear word.] The reason Kate Argent burned down the Hale house was that she was in fact absolutely out of her frickin' mind, but also, because she was a hunter. And even though the Hales weren't hurting anyone--obviously, they lived here for decades--she set their house on fire to kill them all, even the ones that weren't werewolves.
[There's that. It's hard to compartmentalize this whole story into parts. But he's being as clear as he can.]
[ The look Derek quickly shoots Stiles is a vaguely aggrieved one, both because Stiles does like to tell him he looks like a criminal, and because he's sort of rambling about something entirely pointless at the moment. But as he gets back onto track, he's a little sated.
Up until he starts talking about Kate Argent, and everything in his body tenses, save for where he's holding onto Stiles. His fingers twitch, but the feeling of warmth and lightly calloused skin from lacrosse has him stopping before he tightens his grip and inadvertently hurts Stiles. Still, his jaw works a little, just short of grinding his teeth, and the line of his shoulders is tight, unmoving.
It's the only posture present, now, and the look in his eyes is barely restrained pain and hate. Even now.
But he exhales through his nose, closing his eyes a moment. Stiles has the right idea, but he feels like he needs to filter it a little more concisely. ]
Starting from the beginning. The supernatural exists, primarily werewolves-- a family of them, my pack, has been living in Beacon Hills for decades. Humans and werewolves used to make up the pack, both born wolves and bitten-- turned-- ones. But the fire was... [ His lips curl a little, still blunt teeth bared briefly as a very animalistic growl comes from his throat. It tinges the edges of his words, as he speaks again. ]
A hunter, going against their codes-- don't kill innocent wolves, children, or humans-- set the fire to kill everyone inside. [ He doesn't need to remind the sheriff of the child-sized body bags that had been brought out of the house. ] You know who the only survivors were, and what happened to Peter Hale.
[For a moment, Jona looks almost as though he doesn't believe them. His thoughts wouldn't be unfounded, really; it was Melissa who'd locked herself in her room away from Scott for days.
Leaning against Stiles's desk, the sheriff rubs his chin, looking contemplative.]
Then the murders weren't Kate Argent. They were Peter. And you-- [He points to Derek..
but then around to Stiles.]
And Scott. You were the ones to kill Peter. He wasn't missing from the clinic at all.
[That was why they'd never had the answers. It was because the answers were beyond reason and possibility- beyond what anyone in Beacon Hills would want to believe.
The reason he'd had to oversee babies taken out in body bags covered in ash. The reason he'd had to tell a young boy and his sister that their family, their entire family, was dead.
It had all been because one young woman had been so hateful- and had landed Scott and his own son in so much danger.
For a few moments, the sheriff doesn't speak. His gaze doesn't leave the ground when he does begin to speak, however.]
...And Peter... changed Scott. The lacrosse practice, the grades dropping... That was all because of this.
[Stiles' eyebrows raise, just a centimeter, as his dad works his way through his thought process, and he can't help the feeling of immense pride that blooms in his chest. It's combined with uneasiness, particularly when he gets to the part with Peter's death, but god. Stiles had always been smart as a whip, people had told him that, and it came from his dad. He couldn't be more proud of how he was handling this entire situation, honestly.
He can feel Derek tense up under his hand--although, he wouldn't even have to be near him to know it was coming. Derek was burdened with so much guilt about the Kate thing it hurt to look at him sometimes. The pressure he gives is just a little more than before, sweeping his thumb gently across the arc to his index finger; he's right here.]
Yeah. Exactly. Peter's...a whole other frickin' story. But when he died, the dynamic of the Hale pack shifted, so Derek here became the alpha. Thus the red eyes.
[He exhales again.]
Every time something happened and Scott and I were there, it was because we needed to be, like at the club. It wasn't because we were just being dumbasses--our friend got attacked, and we were there to try and catch the thing that attacked him.
...I was with Scott from day one on all of this wolf stuff. On-- oh, crap. It's--I'm not a werewolf. Promise. [He can already guess his dad's reaction to that, and he gives a small gesture towards his eyes, still whiskey brown and as human as can possibly be.] I'm as human as human can be.
Stiles, I know you're not a werewolf. We all watched your last game.
[Sighing heavily, Jona rubs his temples.]
Does this have anything to do with how some kid was able to take out some of my finest officers? Or with how Jackson died on the fields and then walks around not even a week later?
[He sounds exhausted, but there's something else there, too. The concern is heavy in his voice.]
And what killed Scott? Is there something I should be, I don't know, finding some shaman to track down?
[ Derek tries not to visibly lean into Stiles at his touch, closing his eyes again as he grounds himself underneath his guilt and pain. It's not his anger that he uses as a tether, though-- as strong as it would be-- but instead, that touch. When did things shift in that direction so drastically?
Once he's calmed, he sighs heavily and opens his eyes again, the red still lingering in them. It's hard to get the color to fade, when they're all so focused on the topics at hand. The pain of the fire burns fresh under his skin, but he tries not to linger on it as they shift forward and towards the most recent events. ]
Peter's mind slowly healed itself while he was at the clinic, but it healed wrong. He went crazy, and called Laura-- the Alpha, after the fire-- back to Beacon Hills so he could take her position by killing her. Afterwards, he killed everyone that helped put the fire together and bit Scott.
[ And the rest, the sheriff has already figured out. They killed Peter-- nevermind the fact that he came back, again-- and now, they're onto the kanima issue. ]
I bit Jackson. [ The guilt is obvious here, too, but it's quiet regret in the face of everything turning out right, with time. ] But the bite didn't take, and he became a kanima. They're similar to werewolves-- sort of a mutation of the werewolf-- but where a wolf has a pack, a kanima has a master that uses it to enact revenge on those that have wronged them. Matt was Jackson's master, until Gerard Argent killed him.
[ With the questions regarding Scott, he falls silent, and slowly looks at Stiles. ]
[It's just a little aside though; surely, his dad fixes him with a stare and he rolls his eyes, letting the conversation continue. He continues to stroke Derek's palm idly, absurdly in touch with the guy's emotions. Seriously, he could tell when Derek was hungry, let alone buried under the avalanche of his own guilt and sorrow. He doesn't know about the anchor thing, not yet, but the touch is just as comforting to him as it is to Derek.
While they're talking about the kanima, Stiles is silent, trying to formulate the words for what happened to Scott. The wound is fresh--it's going to hurt him forever, probably, but right now, even mentioning his name makes his stomach twist unpleasantly and panic creep at the edge of his lungs. He takes in a long breath before he speaks again, his voice surprisingly level, but unable to look away from the floor.]
...after we dealt with the kanima, a pack made up entirely of alphas came to Beacon Hills with the idea of taking it over--this place has been Hale territory for so long that when it was taken over by a new alpha, they thought it'd be easy pickings. So they came with the express intent to kill or convert all the wolves in town. Erica and Boyd--when we came to grab them from the pack--they'd been captured when they refused--it was a trap.
They were waiting for us. I could have died, too, if it wasn't for Scott. He was seriously--a hero, the bravest guy in the whole world. He went in there to save Erica and Boyd, and...[Now, his voice hitches. There's a part of him that whispers should have died, should have died in the back of his head, but he pushes it aside, finally lifting his gaze towards his dad.]
[ The same way that Stiles is so in tune with him, Derek is aware of every little shift in Stiles. All throughout his explanation of the kanima, he starts to rub his thumb along his fingers, sensing the edges of panic before they really present themselves even minutely. It's not even completely his werewolf senses, so much as the fact that he just knows Stiles now.
And the moment that he starts to talk about Scott, about what happened, he can't help but briefly shift closer to him. Every part of him-- every wolf instinct ingrained into him since birth, never separate from him like it was with the bitten-- wants to just pull him in and curl around him, press his face against Stiles and keep him safe and away from that pain and guilt that he feels.
Instead, he squeezes Stiles' hand one last time before slipping his fingers from his, shifting sideways on the bed the moment that Jona comes closer and removing himself from the moment in total silence. ]
I'm an enigma. [It's just a stupid aside, and he tries to hide the fact that there's a blush on his face, because jesus. Really Stiles. Really. Even he gets embarrassed at himself sometimes.]
Considering I practically have the damn thing memorized. But hey, if you're up on your D&D, you've probably got a good idea of all the things that go bump in the night, forreal. The boogeyman thing is so totally a lie, by the way. I tried to tell you when I was seven and you just didn't believe me.
[Finally stopping his side comments, he lets Derek talk instead. He's already another pair of eyes for his dad, always has been, so he just nods in agreement and solidarity.]
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cracks knuckles
It had been two months since Scott McCall's death. It went into the books as a mauling by a mountain lion, like the death of the video store clerk and the janitor--all that felt like years ago. Everything did, or at least it did for Stiles. Like everything around him was encased in molasses, sticky with guilt and tears and panic, nostalgia that hung over him like a curtain some days and sliced at him like a knife others. Stiles was no stranger to loss, but nothing, not a single funeral home or viewing, could have prepared him for having to bury his best friend. Every joke about him dying without Stiles had come to horrible, gut twisting fruition, and although he'd gotten to the point now where he was out of bed, walking around, talking to people again, the guilt found him in the dark of the night and around the corners of his room, striking in the shower or every waking moment he spent alone. What he could have done. What Scott could have told him, that stupid heroic bastard--
It didn't matter. No matter how many panic attacks he had, no matter how much he glanced to his right after a smart comment and felt his stomach twist up into knots until he wanted to vomit, nothing was going to bring Scott back.
So life went on. Harris still gave him detention. Finstock gave him this face that he was pretty sure was supposed to be sympathetic, but still ran his ass into the ground with suicides. Stiles had been given the best advice he could have asked for by someone he'd never expected so many months back, and he'd adopted it as a personal mantra. If you're going through hell, keep going. So Stiles got out of bed in the morning. He talked to people at school, Allison, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Isaac. In the end, he went to Derek with questions, and a talk over coffee had turned into several talks over coffee, until they'd bonded tight enough over their mutual trauma and quietly similar interests that he never really left. One day, they'd been enemies, the next, barely okay with each other, and then, friends, leaning into each other on the dip of Stiles' bed, so close that lines were being blurred, spending time together in comfortable, necessary, silence. Maybe he'd look back on that as strange later, but now, he simply needed Derek. As much as Derek needed him, grown into a mutual bond of trust, something he barely had with anyone anymore.
Especially when it came to his father. Scott's death steeled Stiles' resolve towards something else. Everything he felt over the gaping, aching hole of his best friend and what he could have done to help had become the boiling point on a tumbling mountain of guilt that had simmered since his mother's death. He couldn't lie to his dad anymore. And now, sitting in his room with his fingers loosely interlaced and hanging between his knees, he levels his gaze to Derek's, resolve firm in his eyes--for more than one reason, albeit one was just bubbling under the surface. A consideration, for now.
When he finally does speak up, it's measured, slow.]
I can't...I can't leave him in the dark anymore. Dad could help, and we're trying to lead him around with blinders on.
Stiles. ):
No stranger to the feeling weighing heavy on his shoulders, in the pit of his stomach, souring at the back of his mouth, Derek had been carrying a sensation of guilt for the past two months. There were far too many reasons for it, too, beyond simply feeling responsible for Scott McCall.
If he'd just gotten his head out of his ass sooner, maybe they would've been more solidified as a pack. They wouldn't have been operating in circles around each other, wary and hesitant to form a tighter allegiance than the one built on distrust and dislike. If he'd only gotten there sooner, when the sense of dread struck him too late. If he'd just done right as the alpha of Beacon Hills.
It was too late, after his death, but at least he could bury him somewhere safe. Sure, they'd buried a casket under the gravestone, but Derek was never one to adhere to human ceremonies. Not after everything that'd happened to him. Besides, there was only so much ashwood and wolfsbane could do in a graveyard to protect a body from the supernatural, from vindictive hunters out to provoke the pack into fighting them. Burying Scott in the forest, at the foot of a rowan-- healing, connection, protection-- with Deaton's help to ward it further had felt right.
He could do that much, for Scott.
For Melissa McCall, he could fill her home with pack. Keep her company, let her know that she wasn't alone. She was strong, but even that wasn't enough some days. Laura had always been the one to offer comfort to the upset, the grieving, but he could at least try for a woman who'd lost her son on his watch.
Nevermind how much it helped the pack, grieving at the loss of a packmate. Even one so disconnected as Scott had been. He'd been Isaac's friend, more than Erica and Boyd's, but that didn't change the fact there was a tangible tear slowly mending itself in their beta camaraderie.
Which didn't even begin to touch what he felt around Stiles. He couldn't explain, really, what compelled him to spend so much time around the human who'd lost his best friend. But from the moment that he'd seen Stiles the night that Scott had died, he'd known: he had to be there. So he was, starting out unsteady as they always did, before he stopped climbing through Stiles' window most of the time and started to use the door (admittedly only when the sheriff wasn't in, to avoid too many questions). The alpha could just look at Stiles and know that something had shifted, that something was on his mind.
Which is what he does now, eyes focused unflinchingly on him in silence. There's something more to this, but he doesn't press for it yet. ]
I was never against telling him the truth, so long as you knew what that meant. If you think he should know, then he should. It'd prepare him, make it so that he knows what he's up against the next time he steps into a crime scene that something inhuman is behind. [ A pause, and his voice softens a little, from his even tone. ] He'd be safer for it.
8C
At the moment, he tries to cover his surprise, drawing his mouth into a line. There's just a beat of silence, both between them and mentally as his mind kicks itself into life, roaring into gear with the sudden affirmation. (And it's strange, that he sought out Derek's approval first. It's not actually that strange, and he can connect the dots to why; and maybe this is a first step in that direction.) It doesn't take Stiles long to start talking, moving his hands--he's thinking out loud, a habit that he'd never quite broken.]
After the last "mountain lion" thing--he was suspicious, he was always suspicious. He was the one who found the deer with Peter's mark of revenge on it. It's not like he couldn't have figured it out in the first place, but...[The words die in his throat. How can he connect those dots--tell his dad all along, that he's been involved in these ridiculous situations because his best friend is--was-- a werewolf? It seems so easy, but so impossible at the same time. Running his hand through the thick, dark hair recently grown onto his head, he shakes his head abruptly, exhaling loudly.] There should be a hallmark card for this. Sorry About The Werewolves.
HOLDS HIM
He lets him voice his thoughts, moving across the room over towards him until he can drop to sit alongside him. Their knees wind up close together, as Derek leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs. Fingers laced together, he settles his hands in front of his mouth, letting out a quiet hum. The sheriff's suspicions hadn't escaped him, not when he had been monitoring all of Beacon Hills since his return.
There were only so many lies they could tell before the truth came out. ]
That'd make our lives too easy. [ It's a dry comment, but there's not too much humor to it. But the offer to come after the unfortunately true joke is sincere, as he turns his head to look at him. ] I'll help you tell him, if you want. It might be better to have a werewolf there as demonstration.
he needs the holdings 8(
...he should know what really happened to Scott. [He scoffs.] Mountain lions. With that, and you and your teeth and general wolfishness, he's going to have to believe us. I mean, he said not to get involved with drugs or alcohol. I'm well behaved.
[Tilting his head a little to the side, he drops it on Derek's shoulder, sighing loudly in resignation.]
Damn it.
Personal packpiles with the alpha. B<
At first.
Turning his head the rest of the way, he noses briefly at the nest that Stiles has allowed his hair to become over the past couple months. ]
As long as we set it up so that he's not shocked into shooting me, I think things will go fairly smoothly.
Aw yeah.
It's part of what's motivating his other decision. If he already feels like pack--if Beacon Hills has lost it's number one hero--it's time for the "sidekick" to step up to the plate. And if his dad knows; if his dad reacts well? It'd be the last catalyst he needs.
Sighing through his nose, he looks down at his hands, gesturing weakly.]
"Hey, dad. I know we've had a lot of trust issues in the past, but I swear to God I was totally lying for a really good reason." Yeah. This is going to go great.
[Laying on the sarcasm so thick.]
And besides, it'd just sting for a minute, no big deal. Great way to teach him about healing powers.
[So thick.]
Kind of need all of them.
And for as tactile as he can be when it's a quiet moment with the pack, individually or as a group, he rarely touches another person's hands. Occasionally, he'll hold Erica's as they sit together, but he never really makes that contact-- it's too personal.
Here, he shifts to hook their arms together loosely, taking one of Stiles' hands to still it and his gestures. To ground him. ]
You were trying to protect him, the same as he would've done for you if the tables were turned. He'll understand, later on if he doesn't now. [ He nudges at Stiles' hair again, before tucking the lower half of his face against it. ] He'll forgive you and want to help, regardless.
ridiculous amounts of packpiles.
I know he will. [He sighs softly, tilting his head up again just a little, to make it more comfortable for them both, and turns his cheek into Derek's shoulder.] ...I just don't know when he'll forgive me. And the last thing I need right now is my dad giving me that look again.
And smooches. I mean what.
Whether he would admit to it or not. ]
It won't be long, Stiles. I know it won't be.
Yes those too. eue
[Exhaling a little, he goes to shift away from him, but pauses, lifting his head off his shoulder to look at him, really look at him. He's immeasurably thankful for...most of the things Derek's been able to provide since Scott's death, and it's hard to put it into words. For now, he settles for a soft mumble of gratitude, meeting his gaze.]
...thanks.
uvu
So instead, he squeezes Stiles' hand again lightly, lifting his head as he does so that he can meet his gaze. His expression is quiet, as it has been these past two months, but there's something lighter to it.
Tipping his head forward, he briefly taps their foreheads together. ]
You don't need to thank me, Stiles.
should we bring the sheriff in soonish?
Soonish y.
smooches first eue
Lots of smooches.
and then the sheriff shows up whoops
IT'S ... definitely what it looks like.
DAD I KISSED SOMEBODY i mean he's a 22 yo exonerated criminal but LOOK!!!
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Gesturing at the chair, he waits for his dad to sit down before clearing his throat, meeting his eyes.]
...It's about Scott. --Well, it's...about a lot of stuff. Y'know how you said a while back that...you barely knew me anymore? [And oh, how much had that hurt.] I know it's been hard to trust me, and...to be honest, I seriously deserve that, because I've been a crap son, but I just couldn't tell you. I had to protect Scott, and, I guess I thought I was protecting you.
[He looks down at Derek's hand, inhaling slowly to keep his cool. Stiles had thought keeping his dad out of the werewolf secret was better for everyone involved for the longest time, but the more time passed, the more the guilt started to pile onto him until he was practically drowning in it.]
Do you remember how we all freaked out when Isaac Lahey got taken into custody? Or how Lydia got all bloodied and beaten up--or...all those weird murders that you'd pinned to Kate? Kate was definitely a murderer, god, don't get me wrong, but...it. Well, it wasn't a mountain lion.
[Stiles gives a little, humorless chuckle, but he turns his head to Derek. Show him.]
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As Stiles looks down at their hands, he squeezes carefully, acting as an anchor to keep him grounded. It was for the best, at the start.
But now, he needs to know. Just like Melissa does. He's been pack just as long as she has, it's only right for him to actually be aware of the fact.
When the focus is turned on him, Derek slides a glance over to Stiles, then back to the sheriff. Sighing through his nose, he closes his eyes and cracks his neck in a slow roll of his head, debating just how much he wants to show the elder Stilinski in one go.
He opts to simply let red bleed into his irises, opening his eyes to focus the faint glow of them on the man seated across from them. ]
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This is something far above him, things he's never fathomed, but he absolutely must not lose focus. Though he speaks to Stiles, he doesn't take his eyes off the alpha before him.]
I think the three of us need to sit down and talk about this. And I think that you, Stiles, need to be as clear as you can.
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It never comes. (Part of him never thought it would.)
His voice is a little shaky, and he gives a relieved laugh, drawing his eyes up to the Sheriff's, slowly. ]
...Heh. Yeah. Clear as glass. Got it.
[Giving another gentle squeeze, he realizes quickly what he could have insinuated.] --It wasn't Derek! Oh god. Like, I joke about the fact that he actually looks like a criminal but he's seriously as innocent as innocent can get. He's a good werewolf. So's Isaac--he's kind of a werewolf in training and--
[Wait, wait. Okay. Start again.] So...yeah. Werewolves? Totally real. That night when Scott and I were out running around in the woods, when all this crazy crap started--he ran when you made me go back to the car and got attacked by a wolf. [It hurts to talk about Scott--the newly familiar, sour taste in the back of his mouth, but he swallows.] He was bitten. Someone like Derek was born, like...most of the Hales were.
[Stiles glances at Derek for a minute, but soldiers on, talking about something he knows his dad does, too. There's a little venom in his voice as he finishes. Kate Argent's practically a swear word.] The reason Kate Argent burned down the Hale house was that she was in fact absolutely out of her frickin' mind, but also, because she was a hunter. And even though the Hales weren't hurting anyone--obviously, they lived here for decades--she set their house on fire to kill them all, even the ones that weren't werewolves.
[There's that. It's hard to compartmentalize this whole story into parts. But he's being as clear as he can.]
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Up until he starts talking about Kate Argent, and everything in his body tenses, save for where he's holding onto Stiles. His fingers twitch, but the feeling of warmth and lightly calloused skin from lacrosse has him stopping before he tightens his grip and inadvertently hurts Stiles. Still, his jaw works a little, just short of grinding his teeth, and the line of his shoulders is tight, unmoving.
It's the only posture present, now, and the look in his eyes is barely restrained pain and hate. Even now.
But he exhales through his nose, closing his eyes a moment. Stiles has the right idea, but he feels like he needs to filter it a little more concisely. ]
Starting from the beginning. The supernatural exists, primarily werewolves-- a family of them, my pack, has been living in Beacon Hills for decades. Humans and werewolves used to make up the pack, both born wolves and bitten-- turned-- ones. But the fire was... [ His lips curl a little, still blunt teeth bared briefly as a very animalistic growl comes from his throat. It tinges the edges of his words, as he speaks again. ]
A hunter, going against their codes-- don't kill innocent wolves, children, or humans-- set the fire to kill everyone inside. [ He doesn't need to remind the sheriff of the child-sized body bags that had been brought out of the house. ] You know who the only survivors were, and what happened to Peter Hale.
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Leaning against Stiles's desk, the sheriff rubs his chin, looking contemplative.]
Then the murders weren't Kate Argent. They were Peter. And you-- [He points to Derek..
but then around to Stiles.]
And Scott. You were the ones to kill Peter. He wasn't missing from the clinic at all.
[That was why they'd never had the answers. It was because the answers were beyond reason and possibility- beyond what anyone in Beacon Hills would want to believe.
The reason he'd had to oversee babies taken out in body bags covered in ash. The reason he'd had to tell a young boy and his sister that their family, their entire family, was dead.
It had all been because one young woman had been so hateful- and had landed Scott and his own son in so much danger.
For a few moments, the sheriff doesn't speak. His gaze doesn't leave the ground when he does begin to speak, however.]
...And Peter... changed Scott. The lacrosse practice, the grades dropping... That was all because of this.
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He can feel Derek tense up under his hand--although, he wouldn't even have to be near him to know it was coming. Derek was burdened with so much guilt about the Kate thing it hurt to look at him sometimes. The pressure he gives is just a little more than before, sweeping his thumb gently across the arc to his index finger; he's right here.]
Yeah. Exactly. Peter's...a whole other frickin' story. But when he died, the dynamic of the Hale pack shifted, so Derek here became the alpha. Thus the red eyes.
[He exhales again.]
Every time something happened and Scott and I were there, it was because we needed to be, like at the club. It wasn't because we were just being dumbasses--our friend got attacked, and we were there to try and catch the thing that attacked him.
...I was with Scott from day one on all of this wolf stuff. On-- oh, crap. It's--I'm not a werewolf. Promise. [He can already guess his dad's reaction to that, and he gives a small gesture towards his eyes, still whiskey brown and as human as can possibly be.] I'm as human as human can be.
[For now.]
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[Sighing heavily, Jona rubs his temples.]
Does this have anything to do with how some kid was able to take out some of my finest officers? Or with how Jackson died on the fields and then walks around not even a week later?
[He sounds exhausted, but there's something else there, too. The concern is heavy in his voice.]
And what killed Scott? Is there something I should be, I don't know, finding some shaman to track down?
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Once he's calmed, he sighs heavily and opens his eyes again, the red still lingering in them. It's hard to get the color to fade, when they're all so focused on the topics at hand. The pain of the fire burns fresh under his skin, but he tries not to linger on it as they shift forward and towards the most recent events. ]
Peter's mind slowly healed itself while he was at the clinic, but it healed wrong. He went crazy, and called Laura-- the Alpha, after the fire-- back to Beacon Hills so he could take her position by killing her. Afterwards, he killed everyone that helped put the fire together and bit Scott.
[ And the rest, the sheriff has already figured out. They killed Peter-- nevermind the fact that he came back, again-- and now, they're onto the kanima issue. ]
I bit Jackson. [ The guilt is obvious here, too, but it's quiet regret in the face of everything turning out right, with time. ] But the bite didn't take, and he became a kanima. They're similar to werewolves-- sort of a mutation of the werewolf-- but where a wolf has a pack, a kanima has a master that uses it to enact revenge on those that have wronged them. Matt was Jackson's master, until Gerard Argent killed him.
[ With the questions regarding Scott, he falls silent, and slowly looks at Stiles. ]
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[It's just a little aside though; surely, his dad fixes him with a stare and he rolls his eyes, letting the conversation continue. He continues to stroke Derek's palm idly, absurdly in touch with the guy's emotions. Seriously, he could tell when Derek was hungry, let alone buried under the avalanche of his own guilt and sorrow. He doesn't know about the anchor thing, not yet, but the touch is just as comforting to him as it is to Derek.
While they're talking about the kanima, Stiles is silent, trying to formulate the words for what happened to Scott. The wound is fresh--it's going to hurt him forever, probably, but right now, even mentioning his name makes his stomach twist unpleasantly and panic creep at the edge of his lungs. He takes in a long breath before he speaks again, his voice surprisingly level, but unable to look away from the floor.]
...after we dealt with the kanima, a pack made up entirely of alphas came to Beacon Hills with the idea of taking it over--this place has been Hale territory for so long that when it was taken over by a new alpha, they thought it'd be easy pickings. So they came with the express intent to kill or convert all the wolves in town. Erica and Boyd--when we came to grab them from the pack--they'd been captured when they refused--it was a trap.
They were waiting for us. I could have died, too, if it wasn't for Scott. He was seriously--a hero, the bravest guy in the whole world. He went in there to save Erica and Boyd, and...[Now, his voice hitches. There's a part of him that whispers should have died, should have died in the back of his head, but he pushes it aside, finally lifting his gaze towards his dad.]
And they tore him to shreds.
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Stiles. I've told you before.
[He looks almost pained, trying so hard to communicate through his eyes how important his son is. How much he loves him.]
It wasn't your fault. You deserve to be here just as much as he does. That's why- that's why Scott was a hero. Because you deserve to live.
[Breaking the stare so he can swallow the lump in his throat, Jona's hands slip down to Stiles's shoulders and give them a squeeze.]
...And that's why I need to keep you safe.
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And the moment that he starts to talk about Scott, about what happened, he can't help but briefly shift closer to him. Every part of him-- every wolf instinct ingrained into him since birth, never separate from him like it was with the bitten-- wants to just pull him in and curl around him, press his face against Stiles and keep him safe and away from that pain and guilt that he feels.
Instead, he squeezes Stiles' hand one last time before slipping his fingers from his, shifting sideways on the bed the moment that Jona comes closer and removing himself from the moment in total silence. ]
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Considering I practically have the damn thing memorized. But hey, if you're up on your D&D, you've probably got a good idea of all the things that go bump in the night, forreal. The boogeyman thing is so totally a lie, by the way. I tried to tell you when I was seven and you just didn't believe me.
[Finally stopping his side comments, he lets Derek talk instead. He's already another pair of eyes for his dad, always has been, so he just nods in agreement and solidarity.]