Teen Wolf fic - we dance the best we know (AU, PG)
Title: we dance the best we know
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kate Seredy
Warnings: Goes AU during Letharia Vulpina, and AUish for everything that came before.
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1960
Point of view: third
Look out for Deaton, a voice whispers in the back of the mind. He’s tricky.
So when there’s barely a whisper of displaced air (he’s trained himself for silence, dealing with werewolves), the fox hears it. The fox reacts as quick as a wolf and catches the hand holding poison, and then makes a small noise of disapproval.
Deaton lands next to Kira on the floor. Scott is still gasping and whimpering, and the fox leans in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Be good,” the fox whispers.
Please, a voice begs in the back of the mind. Don’t hurt him anymore.
Of course not, the fox says. What’s yours is mine.
The fox leaves the clinic, but pauses outside the door: three oni are still on the ground. He smiles. The little fireflies flicker in the rain and barely struggle as he crouches down.
What now? the voice asks as the fox trails his fingers along the jeep. He leaves it and keeps walking.
We have to talk, the fox says. But first, I have to find a safe place.
The voice says nothing else and the fox walks.
.
He’s sitting at a table eating curly fries one at a time when the fox sits down across from him, identical in every way. “Want some?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” the fox says.
He shrugs and grabs another fry.
Tilting his head, the fox asks, “Why did you warn me about the emissary?”
He pauses with a fry halfway to his mouth, sets it down, meets the fox’s eyes. “Because… because my mother once told me that doors are meant to be open.”
The fox smiles, smug and slow. “She was a wise girl, Claudia. The fit was… almost right.”
“The door wasn’t to the nemeton, was it,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Oh, no,” the fox replies. “I’ve been here from the moment of your conception.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I came over from the Philippines with your great-grandfather, went to your grandfather, and then your mother. And then there was you.” He grins, teeth glinting. “There was you. I crawled inside and made myself comfortable, and I slept.”
“The frontotemporal dementia?” he asks, shoving another fry into his mouth.
The fox says, “Haven’t you noticed people die young in your family? Your great-grandfather died when your grandfather was barely toddling around, your grandfather just after your mother went to the big kid’s school, and your mother - she held on for nearly a decade, just for her baby boy.”
His hand clenches around the fry, but he says nothing. The fox continues, “She locked me away inside your head with the very last of her power. She was almost exactly what I needed, but not… quite… right.” The fox reaches out to pat his hand. “You, though. You’re perfect.”
He closes his eyes. The fox says, “She locked me away, but you opened the door.”
“And what’s the plan?” he asks, opening his eyes to glare at the fox. “What the hell has all this been about, bombs and electricity and what the fuck ever else you’ve been doing - what’s the point?”
“Chaos,” the fox says. “And strife, and pain. We’re tricksters. We trick everyone - even ourselves.” The fox pats his hand again. “When is a door not a door? Everyone has it but nobody can lose it. They go together, baby boy.” The fox grips his hand, pulling him across the table, getting right up in his face. “A jar, you told me. And a shadow. Neither was right, so tell me now.” Claws dig into his wrist. “Tell me now.”
He tries yanking his arm away; the claws just go in deeper, cutting him to the bone. “You were born for me,” the fox snarls. “The door is not a door, and everyone has it. Nobody can lose it. You’re the clever one, so clever. So answer the riddle.”
The blood sounds so loud as it drips onto the table, the only noise besides his gasps and the fox’s steady breaths. Not a jar, he thinks. Not a shadow. His arm throbs and the fox slowly lets go, still glaring at him; the fox’s other hand gently curls around his throat, one finger pressing lightly into his pulse.
“You won’t kill me while you’re in here,” he mumbles, wrapping his own hand around the furrows in his wrist.
“What is the one thing neither of us has said?” the fox asks.
He stares into the fox’s eyes and then lets his head fall.
.
The fox carefully settles the boy back into his chair. “Do you remember when you became Stiles?” he asks. “You were nine years old. Your mother had been in the ground for five months. Your father had finally crawled out of the bottle and could bear to look at you again.”
“Please,” the boy whimpers, blood-soaked napkin wrapped around his wrist, head in his hands. “Please stop.”
“Your mother called you her lítið Refr, her sweet baby boy, such a clever boy. But your father - long-suffering, kind - he could not pronounce it, could he?” The fox leans in, resting his chin on the top of the boy’s head. “No, no one but Mama could pronounce her baby’s name - and so you cast it away. But you never lost it, did you? Oh, no no, you didn’t.”
“Please,” the boy begs again, trying to jerk away.
The fox merely tightens his grip, arms around the boy. “Your mother locked me in your head and you became Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” The fox laughs while the boy shudders. “Tell me, Stiles - what name did your mother give you? What name did you cast into the dark, behind a locked door, where you never thought it again?” And he shifts slightly, putting his mouth right next to the boy’s ear, to murmur, “When is a door not a door? What does everyone have and nobody lose?”
“A name,” the boy whispers, voice thick.
“Tell me,” the fox commands, just as softly, “what is mine?”
“Refr,” the boy says.
“Such a clever clever boy,” the fox croons, rocking the boy back and forth in his arms. “Clever like a fox.”
“I don’t understand,” the boy says, bringing his hands up to cling to the fox’s arms. “Please, what do you want?”
“I’ve been locked away for half your life,” the fox says, pulling back and turning the boy’s head so that they are eye-to-eye. “I want only to see the world again. I crawled into your great-grandfather, and his son, and his daughter, and then you - because of a tiny little spark.”
The fox suddenly lets go, lunging away, gesturing to the empty walls around them. “We’re in your mind, Stiles, in the tiny little room where I slept. Your mother didn’t work, or her father, or his - but you, you, clever boy, you were made for me.”
“But what does that mean?!” the boy screams, shooting to his feet and kicking at the table. “What the fuck do you want?!”
“You!” the fox screams right back, once more getting in the boy’s face. “I want a body again. I want to interact through more than a host, I want to breathe and feel and taste. I almost did with your mother, but she refused to go the final step. She refused me, Refr! She refused me and locked me away.” The fox sags down, hanging his head. “She locked me away inside the perfect vessel and forced me to sleep.”
The boy just looks at him, clenching his fists. “That’s not my problem,” he says.
The fox laughs sharply. “Oh, baby boy, yes it is.”
.
“My name,” he says, “is Stiles. Refr doesn’t exist, and hasn’t since you killed my mother.”
“No,” the fox replies. “Refr was just sleeping inside you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not - I won’t help you. You’re going to kill everyone I love and I’m not gonna help you.”
The fox leans in and murmurs against his lips, “What’s yours is mine. What’s mine is yours. I will love what you love and hate what you hate. I will have your spark. You will have… all that I am.” His hands gently cradle the boy’s face. “We will be together always, lítið Refr, completely as one. Neither of us will ever be alone again.”
Stiles shakes his head. “No.”
“We’ll never be forgotten,” the fox says. “Never left behind or ignored. We’ll be one, completely.” He looks Stiles straight in the eyes. “Don’t you want that?”
“No,” Stiles says weakly. “No, I don’t.”
“You’re lying,” the fox says with a tiny little smile.
“You’ll love who I love?” Stiles asks. “You won’t hurt them?”
“I’ll be you,” the fox says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, “and we’ll be we. For the rest of my life - and I’ll live a very long time.” He smiles. “We’ll live a very long time.”
“But chaos, and strife, and pain,” Stiles says.
“You already cause those without me,” the fox says, a little laugh in the words. “This is just… an upgrade.”
Stiles closes his eyes and lets his cheek rest against the fox’s. “Never alone inside my head again?”
“Never,” the fox promises.
“And what about the oni? Deaton? Will they be able to tell you’re there with me?”
“No,” the fox says. “I won’t be there. You won’t be there. We’ll be.”
Stiles takes a deep breath and pictures his father’s face the day he cast aside the name his mother gave him. “We’ll protect them if something happens?”
The fox nods. “We will be the same, never parted.”
Stiles asks, “And Scott? You won’t hurt him again?”
“Never,” the fox promises.
“What about tricking everyone?” Stiles asks, one hand clutching the back of the fox’s shirt. “That’s what you told Scott.”
“We don’t trick ourselves,” the fox says, “not when it’s important. And this? I can’t trick you about this.” The fox nuzzles in, letting his forehead rest in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “You have to agree, knowing everything. No lies , lítið Refr. No trick and no traps. Just me and just you, here.”
“Us,” Stiles whispers.
“Yes,” the fox murmurs into his throat. “Us.”
.
“Stiles!” Scott shouts, barely outrunning the oni. “Stiles!”
The oni pushes past him and grabs Stiles by the shoulder, spinning him around to stare into his eyes. The rest of Scott’s pack, and Kira, and Sheriff Stilinski surround them, but the oni doesn’t look away, and neither does Stiles.
Finally, the oni lets him drop and vanishes into smoke. “Stiles!” the sheriff shouts, slamming down beside him and turning him over. “Stiles!”
Scott crouches down next to them and looks behind Stiles’ ear, which finally has the same sigil as everyone else. “It’s not…” he says. “The nogitsune isn’t in him anymore? Where’d it go?”
“Dad,” Stiles cries, throwing himself into his father’s arms. “Dad, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got you, son,” the sheriff says. “It’s alright now. I’ve got you.”
.
Their father takes them home, after the hospital, after the interviews. Amnesia, they claim for the official report. No memories after the MRI. For the pack, for Kira and her parents, for Deaton, for Dad - there were glimpses, a few, where Stiles was able to glance out. But he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t fight. Could only scream and beg and plead. Locked inside.
They sleep easily. In the morning, they hug their dad and eat breakfast and lounge on the couch, watching a program about baleen whales. (No school for the rest of the week, doctor’s orders.)
Baleen whales are cool, they think, grabbing their laptop. We should go to the ocean sometime.
We will, they decide.
Parts 2&3 here
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kate Seredy
Warnings: Goes AU during Letharia Vulpina, and AUish for everything that came before.
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1960
Point of view: third
Look out for Deaton, a voice whispers in the back of the mind. He’s tricky.
So when there’s barely a whisper of displaced air (he’s trained himself for silence, dealing with werewolves), the fox hears it. The fox reacts as quick as a wolf and catches the hand holding poison, and then makes a small noise of disapproval.
Deaton lands next to Kira on the floor. Scott is still gasping and whimpering, and the fox leans in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Be good,” the fox whispers.
Please, a voice begs in the back of the mind. Don’t hurt him anymore.
Of course not, the fox says. What’s yours is mine.
The fox leaves the clinic, but pauses outside the door: three oni are still on the ground. He smiles. The little fireflies flicker in the rain and barely struggle as he crouches down.
What now? the voice asks as the fox trails his fingers along the jeep. He leaves it and keeps walking.
We have to talk, the fox says. But first, I have to find a safe place.
The voice says nothing else and the fox walks.
.
He’s sitting at a table eating curly fries one at a time when the fox sits down across from him, identical in every way. “Want some?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” the fox says.
He shrugs and grabs another fry.
Tilting his head, the fox asks, “Why did you warn me about the emissary?”
He pauses with a fry halfway to his mouth, sets it down, meets the fox’s eyes. “Because… because my mother once told me that doors are meant to be open.”
The fox smiles, smug and slow. “She was a wise girl, Claudia. The fit was… almost right.”
“The door wasn’t to the nemeton, was it,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Oh, no,” the fox replies. “I’ve been here from the moment of your conception.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I came over from the Philippines with your great-grandfather, went to your grandfather, and then your mother. And then there was you.” He grins, teeth glinting. “There was you. I crawled inside and made myself comfortable, and I slept.”
“The frontotemporal dementia?” he asks, shoving another fry into his mouth.
The fox says, “Haven’t you noticed people die young in your family? Your great-grandfather died when your grandfather was barely toddling around, your grandfather just after your mother went to the big kid’s school, and your mother - she held on for nearly a decade, just for her baby boy.”
His hand clenches around the fry, but he says nothing. The fox continues, “She locked me away inside your head with the very last of her power. She was almost exactly what I needed, but not… quite… right.” The fox reaches out to pat his hand. “You, though. You’re perfect.”
He closes his eyes. The fox says, “She locked me away, but you opened the door.”
“And what’s the plan?” he asks, opening his eyes to glare at the fox. “What the hell has all this been about, bombs and electricity and what the fuck ever else you’ve been doing - what’s the point?”
“Chaos,” the fox says. “And strife, and pain. We’re tricksters. We trick everyone - even ourselves.” The fox pats his hand again. “When is a door not a door? Everyone has it but nobody can lose it. They go together, baby boy.” The fox grips his hand, pulling him across the table, getting right up in his face. “A jar, you told me. And a shadow. Neither was right, so tell me now.” Claws dig into his wrist. “Tell me now.”
He tries yanking his arm away; the claws just go in deeper, cutting him to the bone. “You were born for me,” the fox snarls. “The door is not a door, and everyone has it. Nobody can lose it. You’re the clever one, so clever. So answer the riddle.”
The blood sounds so loud as it drips onto the table, the only noise besides his gasps and the fox’s steady breaths. Not a jar, he thinks. Not a shadow. His arm throbs and the fox slowly lets go, still glaring at him; the fox’s other hand gently curls around his throat, one finger pressing lightly into his pulse.
“You won’t kill me while you’re in here,” he mumbles, wrapping his own hand around the furrows in his wrist.
“What is the one thing neither of us has said?” the fox asks.
He stares into the fox’s eyes and then lets his head fall.
.
The fox carefully settles the boy back into his chair. “Do you remember when you became Stiles?” he asks. “You were nine years old. Your mother had been in the ground for five months. Your father had finally crawled out of the bottle and could bear to look at you again.”
“Please,” the boy whimpers, blood-soaked napkin wrapped around his wrist, head in his hands. “Please stop.”
“Your mother called you her lítið Refr, her sweet baby boy, such a clever boy. But your father - long-suffering, kind - he could not pronounce it, could he?” The fox leans in, resting his chin on the top of the boy’s head. “No, no one but Mama could pronounce her baby’s name - and so you cast it away. But you never lost it, did you? Oh, no no, you didn’t.”
“Please,” the boy begs again, trying to jerk away.
The fox merely tightens his grip, arms around the boy. “Your mother locked me in your head and you became Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” The fox laughs while the boy shudders. “Tell me, Stiles - what name did your mother give you? What name did you cast into the dark, behind a locked door, where you never thought it again?” And he shifts slightly, putting his mouth right next to the boy’s ear, to murmur, “When is a door not a door? What does everyone have and nobody lose?”
“A name,” the boy whispers, voice thick.
“Tell me,” the fox commands, just as softly, “what is mine?”
“Refr,” the boy says.
“Such a clever clever boy,” the fox croons, rocking the boy back and forth in his arms. “Clever like a fox.”
“I don’t understand,” the boy says, bringing his hands up to cling to the fox’s arms. “Please, what do you want?”
“I’ve been locked away for half your life,” the fox says, pulling back and turning the boy’s head so that they are eye-to-eye. “I want only to see the world again. I crawled into your great-grandfather, and his son, and his daughter, and then you - because of a tiny little spark.”
The fox suddenly lets go, lunging away, gesturing to the empty walls around them. “We’re in your mind, Stiles, in the tiny little room where I slept. Your mother didn’t work, or her father, or his - but you, you, clever boy, you were made for me.”
“But what does that mean?!” the boy screams, shooting to his feet and kicking at the table. “What the fuck do you want?!”
“You!” the fox screams right back, once more getting in the boy’s face. “I want a body again. I want to interact through more than a host, I want to breathe and feel and taste. I almost did with your mother, but she refused to go the final step. She refused me, Refr! She refused me and locked me away.” The fox sags down, hanging his head. “She locked me away inside the perfect vessel and forced me to sleep.”
The boy just looks at him, clenching his fists. “That’s not my problem,” he says.
The fox laughs sharply. “Oh, baby boy, yes it is.”
.
“My name,” he says, “is Stiles. Refr doesn’t exist, and hasn’t since you killed my mother.”
“No,” the fox replies. “Refr was just sleeping inside you.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not - I won’t help you. You’re going to kill everyone I love and I’m not gonna help you.”
The fox leans in and murmurs against his lips, “What’s yours is mine. What’s mine is yours. I will love what you love and hate what you hate. I will have your spark. You will have… all that I am.” His hands gently cradle the boy’s face. “We will be together always, lítið Refr, completely as one. Neither of us will ever be alone again.”
Stiles shakes his head. “No.”
“We’ll never be forgotten,” the fox says. “Never left behind or ignored. We’ll be one, completely.” He looks Stiles straight in the eyes. “Don’t you want that?”
“No,” Stiles says weakly. “No, I don’t.”
“You’re lying,” the fox says with a tiny little smile.
“You’ll love who I love?” Stiles asks. “You won’t hurt them?”
“I’ll be you,” the fox says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, “and we’ll be we. For the rest of my life - and I’ll live a very long time.” He smiles. “We’ll live a very long time.”
“But chaos, and strife, and pain,” Stiles says.
“You already cause those without me,” the fox says, a little laugh in the words. “This is just… an upgrade.”
Stiles closes his eyes and lets his cheek rest against the fox’s. “Never alone inside my head again?”
“Never,” the fox promises.
“And what about the oni? Deaton? Will they be able to tell you’re there with me?”
“No,” the fox says. “I won’t be there. You won’t be there. We’ll be.”
Stiles takes a deep breath and pictures his father’s face the day he cast aside the name his mother gave him. “We’ll protect them if something happens?”
The fox nods. “We will be the same, never parted.”
Stiles asks, “And Scott? You won’t hurt him again?”
“Never,” the fox promises.
“What about tricking everyone?” Stiles asks, one hand clutching the back of the fox’s shirt. “That’s what you told Scott.”
“We don’t trick ourselves,” the fox says, “not when it’s important. And this? I can’t trick you about this.” The fox nuzzles in, letting his forehead rest in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “You have to agree, knowing everything. No lies , lítið Refr. No trick and no traps. Just me and just you, here.”
“Us,” Stiles whispers.
“Yes,” the fox murmurs into his throat. “Us.”
.
“Stiles!” Scott shouts, barely outrunning the oni. “Stiles!”
The oni pushes past him and grabs Stiles by the shoulder, spinning him around to stare into his eyes. The rest of Scott’s pack, and Kira, and Sheriff Stilinski surround them, but the oni doesn’t look away, and neither does Stiles.
Finally, the oni lets him drop and vanishes into smoke. “Stiles!” the sheriff shouts, slamming down beside him and turning him over. “Stiles!”
Scott crouches down next to them and looks behind Stiles’ ear, which finally has the same sigil as everyone else. “It’s not…” he says. “The nogitsune isn’t in him anymore? Where’d it go?”
“Dad,” Stiles cries, throwing himself into his father’s arms. “Dad, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got you, son,” the sheriff says. “It’s alright now. I’ve got you.”
.
Their father takes them home, after the hospital, after the interviews. Amnesia, they claim for the official report. No memories after the MRI. For the pack, for Kira and her parents, for Deaton, for Dad - there were glimpses, a few, where Stiles was able to glance out. But he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t fight. Could only scream and beg and plead. Locked inside.
They sleep easily. In the morning, they hug their dad and eat breakfast and lounge on the couch, watching a program about baleen whales. (No school for the rest of the week, doctor’s orders.)
Baleen whales are cool, they think, grabbing their laptop. We should go to the ocean sometime.
We will, they decide.
Parts 2&3 here