Fic: Long Live Us [Teen Wolf] - 3/4
Link to Masterpost ~><~ Link to Chapter 1 ~><~ Link to Chapter 2
Title: Long Live Us
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Jackson, Jackson/Derek, with other implied use-your-imagination ships. Lydia, Cora, Talia Hale, Scott, Isaac. (Okay, this list makes it seem like there's far more romance in this fic; there's not. Most is pre/post-ship or slow-burn.)
Rating: PG-13/Teen
Wordcount: ~25,000
Summary: Some can see him, some can hear him, some can even feel him, but he remains a ghost. Stiles thought he was done with the whole 'half-dead' bit, but a resident evil doer had different plans. Which somehow resulted in Talia Hale as his spiritual Yoda, Derek as his anchor to a life he wasn't living anymore, and Jackson, of all people, as his...something. Canon divergent past season 3.
Warning: While this story contains no dub-con, I do suggest the possibility of an off-scene dub-con type situation. Also, there's some graphic violence and adult language.
A/N: Written for
bigbang_mixup for
tryslora's wonderful mix "The Reckless and the Brave" (which is where my title comes from).
Chapter 3: It's a Vicious Little World
They reach the gravesite, and they're quiet for a long time. Standing at his side, holding his hand, is not half as awkward as Lydia expects. She wants to comment on how it feels like he never left, but other than the way his hand fits around hers, everything feels different. For starters, she doesn't feel like she'll break when he leaves again.
She gives the grave a sad smile, because she knows Allison would approve of that distinction. But Lydia isn't so certain her friend would agree with the other thought, nudging at the back of her mind, but as Allison's decidedly absent, she can't argue.
Lydia looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and she accepts that thought as truth; neither she nor Jackson are the people they used to be, back when they were dating. In both a figurative and literal sense.
There's no going back.
"There was a funeral right after... A private one, right before Mr. Argent left town. If I'd known you were coming back- "
"I didn't want to go," Jackson says.
"Oh."
Lydia swallows hard, because she knows the difference between Jackson being cold and Jackson putting on a mask. And she knows the reason he would never have went to that funeral was because that mask would have slipped.
"Banshee. Should have known what you were," he says, jaw hard, eyes ahead. There's some sort of joke there, but his tone is too frosty. "You only call when someone dies."
"Don't." Her voice is hard, no room for argument, and, after the shit he put her through, she's proud of it. She doesn't need to point out that he never calls her either. Or that it's better that way. "Not in front of Allison."
Jackson shifts his weight. He looks handsome in a button-up and slacks, but there's something lacking in the expression on his face. "I'm sorry."
Lydia closes her eyes, blocking him out for a moment. It's silent, other than the sound of him breathing, birds scattering in the nearby trees. It's early in the day, and she's missing school, but so be it. She's just glad that it's still quiet, even if a part of her had thought she'd be able to sense something here, in this place.
"I knew she was going to die."
Jackson squeezes her hand, and it's better than the spoken apology. It's more Jackson. Still, there's something off about him. He's been different since his death, but this...This version of him is more closed off.
"What happened in London?"
"It was boring," he says, instead of answering. It's a lie, but Lydia tucks it away for later. The mystery can wait.
"Are you with anyone?" he asks.
Lydia can't help the choked laugh that slips out of her. It almost turns into anger, but she holds it back. "Jesus, Jackson," she breathes, and shakes her head. After a moment, she shoots him a look, and she knows he's already aware that they aren't getting back together, that this is a desperate attempt to change the subject. But it's not a very good one.
"I was," she answers. "With someone. He's not...here anymore." The omission comes easily enough, and with it, just a bit of shame. She doesn't want to admit she's watched every person she's fallen for die, even if at least one of them came back.
Jackson snorts, as if he doesn't care. "I half-expected you to take pity on Stilinski, since you've joined their merry band of misfits, but I suppose you still have decent taste."
It hits her hard, and she pulls away. She knows he's trying to insult her, but she doesn't care. He's said worse in the past, when he was hurting, when he was trying to push her away. She used to care more. But the comment serves as a reminder more than anything else, of just how close she is to losing another friend.
She hasn't told Jackson yet.
He senses something because he moves his hand to her shoulder, forcing her to face him. Maybe he hears her heart skip a beat. She isn't exactly sure how the werewolf thing works, despite her research, but there's a touch of worry in his gaze.
"What aren't you saying, Lydia?" he asks.
"You haven't been to see Derek yet." At his frown, she nods her own confirmation. "He'll be able to explain it better, but...I should tell you before you go. About Stiles."
"Derek, you have to trust that Talia has this under control."
Derek stares across the table at the man, as he works. The terrier is still, but alive, half-open eyes on the werewolf instead of its doctor. Deaton goes about his business without looking up, and Derek takes that to mean that, even if the man isn't lying outright, he's still holding back.
"That's not an answer," Derek says, trying to hold down the growl at the back of his throat. "Are you or are you not any closer to figuring out what's wrong with Stiles? Because, to me, it doesn't look like you or my mother are doing much of anything to fix this."
Deaton does look up at that comment, his eyes sharp and commanding, but he keeps his voice calm. "You haven't seen the results you were looking for. That doesn't mean we've been inactive." He glances back down, his tone a notch lighter when he speaks again. "I find it commendable, how dedicated you are to helping Stiles. I didn't even realize the two of you were friends."
Derek doesn't so much as twitch. He wants badly to leap for the man's throat because he's sick of hearing surprise from people. As if he's some heartless monster. As if he doesn't owe it to the human to help. He's not Peter...That thought is enough to turn that anger inward, and Derek loses some of his fire. He may not be Peter, but he's the one who let his uncle have a second chance, who didn't finish him for good. If it had, maybe Stiles' body wouldn't be in a hospital. His mother...His mother had even said as much, when Stiles disappeared that first night. And that memory brings with it enough guilt to make his shoulders hunch, his gaze fall in defeat.
"He's suffering," Derek says.
Deaton sighs. "He's survived worse, and he'll survive this."
"How can you be so sure?"
Deaton shrugs. "Faith in the right people," is his simple answer. Derek wants to snap at him again, but before he has a chance, Deaton is talking, his voice casual, as if they're discussing the weather. "I hear that Mr. Whittemore is back in Beacon Hills. How is your young Beta?"
Derek squirms at the question. "Still a snake with fur," he bites out.
Jackson...Derek isn't sure how Jackson is, actually. He's had exactly one meeting with Jackson since he's arrived back in town, and it mostly turned into Jackson pointing out everything Derek has done wrong over the past year, including losing his spark. Which Derek doesn't count, because Cora is alive. Leave it to Jackson not to see it that way, to call him useless in his own home. The young werewolf's biting tone left Derek pissed, pissed enough to lead him here, actually. Derek snorts at that realization. He somehow doubts that was Jackson's intention.
"Hmm," Deaton hums, moving back to examining the dog's ribs. "I seem to remember Scott saying you'd helped Jackson after his transition, before he moved away."
Derek scowls, pushing off from the table. On his list of stupid life decisions, Derek rates giving Jackson the bite fairly high, but he feels like pack and...Derek is done with this topic. "Quit changing the subject, and Jackson isn't my Beta. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not anyone's Alpha. Deaton, why aren't you talking to me?"
"Because I asked him to keep you out of this."
Derek freezes at the sound of his mother's voice. He hadn't sensed her presence in the building. He hasn't been able to sense her much at all actually, and it's left him with the uncomfortable feeling that she's more ghost that living, even though he's held her, hugged her, cried against her shoulder. Still, the way she moves, he sometimes doubts she's really there at all, that this isn't some dream.
Her words catch up to him, and he turns. "Asked or ordered?"
Talia doesn't answer. "He's my emissary," she finally says. "We have work to do. Work that doesn't involve you, Derek. You need to leave."
Derek catches a scent and looks over his mother's shoulder to see Cora standing in the doorway, staring at the group with wide eyes, as if she's expecting a fight. As if coming to a decision, she swallows hard and steps forward, holding a hand out.
"Come on, Derek," she says. "Let's go."
He takes the offer, and she pretends not to feel the claws he can't quite control digging into the back of her hand as they walk out.
"I just can't understand how they can see you, but I can't. I was the first one to hear you, ergo, I should be able to see you by now."
Lydia slides onto her bed and lays back, strawberry waves fanning out around her pillow. She neatly crosses her high-heeled feet and folds her hands over her stomach. Stiles thinks her skirt is a bit too short for her to be completely comfortable, but she's Lydia Martin, and she's mastered the art of not caring how much leg she shows her adoring fans.
Stiles wants to crack a joke and ask her about her relationship with her mother, but he sees what she's doing. Without direction, he walks to the other side of the bed and lays down beside her. A part of him wants to remind her that they don't have time for this, but, well, they do have time for this. Because Stiles has zip on his agenda at just this moment, what with Cora running off to find Derek, who was running off to find Talia, who was (hopefully) running off to find Peter...He just can't keep up with the Hales at this moment. Literally, he can't, because he thinks maybe he's the only spirit in existence who's still relying on riding in cars to get places.
"Well, in all fairness, I was kind of invisible to you long before this whole out-of-body experience."
"Not funny, Stiles."
Stiles snorts, but stares up at the ceiling, just like she's doing. "Kind of funny, Lyds." When she doesn't answer immediately, he sighs. "It's not you, okay. I'm pretty sure, the supernatural beings have an easier time seeing this place between, wherever it is I am."
"I am a supernatural being."
"Yes, you're right, but maybe you're still, I don't know, 'new'? Or not supernatural enough?"
"What, because I don't sprout fur and claws, I'm not allowed to see you. It's stupid."
The judgment is passed with finality, and Stiles is certain that arguing any further won't help matters. "Maybe it's me," he says, instead. "You still make me nervous."
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Lydia is smiling, pleased with the answer. "I don't know why," she says, "I don't give you gooey eyes anymore."
Stiles rolls his eyes at that. He absolutely did not get gooey eyed around...Okay maybe he did. It's like a hammer drops in his stomach when he realizes he can put a finger on the day he realized they wouldn't be together.
Lydia hums to herself, as if musing. "It was the day I kissed you."
"Are you a mind reader?" Stiles asks, only half-kidding. He lets the question go, though. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if she developed telepathic powers. She was Lydia Martin, and he fully expected her to grow up to cure cancer by day and fight crime in a fashionable costume by night. But he didn't fantasize about making her fall for him, not anymore. She was right. It was the day they kissed. Everything about that moment was perfect. "There weren't sparks."
"Nope." Lydia pops the word. Bubble burst. "Does that mean you're not in love with me?"
"I love you more like this," Stiles answers, grinning back. He's surprised he doesn't feel disappointed. The old him, he's sure, would have been highly confused and possibly berating new him for laying on Lydia Martin's bed without entertaining the thought of making out with her. "We make an awesome team."
"You can keep up with me," Lydia says, in agreement. "So, if you're not giving me gooey eyes, who have you moved on to? You've been spending a lot of time at the Hale residence recently..."
The question makes him sink through the mattress, but he recovers his focus quickly enough, glad Lydia can't see him flailing his arms as he tries to hold on to a physical form. "I'm not into Cora," he states, a little breathless.
"She's not into you."
Lydia's tone adds an extra, "Boys are stupid," that Stiles can almost hear. He swallows hard, not wanting to continue down her line of thought, because he doesn't want to lie to Lydia about how he's feeling right now. He's been lying to himself enough for both of them. Also, he doesn't want to touch the subject of crushes with a ten-foot pole.
"Stiles, do yourself a favor, and don't wait until it's too late to make a move."
Stiles takes that to mean she's dropping it. He relaxes a bit, concentrating on the touch of her blankets beneath his palms. "Like I did with you?" he says, with a small smile.
"No. We're exactly on schedule," Lydia notes, as if this should be obvious. Then she quiets, just staring up at the ceiling. Stiles feels awkward, turning to stare at her when she doesn't get to look at him. He feels like he's breaking some sort of rule, but he wants to know why she's so sad. "Stiles, can I ask you something?"
"You don't usually ask permission," he says, softly.
Her grin is crooked, fighting a frown. "Do you think it makes me a bad person that I miss Allison more than I miss Aiden?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer, and Stiles isn't sure she wants one. "I cared about him. I did. But this morning, when I took Jackson to visit Allison, it just reminded me of how everything felt like it was caving in when she fell. And when I finally told Jackson about Aiden, it felt different. It didn't hurt as bad."
Stiles reaches out, sliding his fingers between hers. It takes a moment, before he can feel them. A moment longer before he feels her squeezing back. Her eyes are closed down, her long lashes wet.
"When some people leave, it just hurts more," Stiles answers.
Lydia nods to herself. "Which is why you're not going anywhere, Stiles. We won't let you."
"Is that a banshee prediction?"
"It's a banshee demand."
"Bored. So bored. So very, very bored."
Stiles is bored. He announces it to the heavens, multiple times, and only gets glares from Derek, who looks as if he's regretting the newfound ability to hear him. But Stiles quickly realizes the Hale siblings are also bored out of their minds with the current amount of inaction taking place. Well, bored and also looking as if they're on the verge of murder, for some reason that neither of them will discuss in his presence. Before Cora can rip apart the loft, Derek announces they're taking a trip to the warehouse district, where Jackson's been asked to meet them.
It's a short, quiet ride.
Stiles mutters a sarcastic, "Oh joy," when he sees Jackson, already there, sneering at the warehouse entry as if he's discovered a building that's composed entirely of used toilet paper, and the sentiment pretty much summarizes the looks on Derek and Cora's faces.
"The guy's been back in Beacon Hills all of two days, and he's already reminding us of what a douche he is," Stiles comments. "Tell me again why you're bothering with him."
"As long as he's here, he's my responsibility," Derek says, quietly, and parks.
"Why'd you call me here?" Jackson asks, as soon as they get out of the car.
"More space for training," Derek replies. " I want to see what you learned from the pack in London. And you need to let out some of that frustration."
Jackson's face loses its color for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. "Screw you," he snaps.
"As witty as ever," Stiles notes, only letting the comment reach out to Cora.
She grins, but Stiles can tell it's not because she's proud that he's been able to master the art of being heard by every Hale. Her opinion on Jackson was made clear the moment she first met him. And promptly threw him across the loft. The look in her eyes now says she looks forward to doing it again. Which is possibly why she hasn't complained about this little outing.
Since Stiles realizes that the three of them are going to be beating the hell out of one another and calling it 'training', he doesn't think he'll be missed. They don't blink twice when he says he's going to walk around a while. Derek only grunts in reply. So much for being a decent spirit-sitter. Stiles doesn't want to admit to himself that he's kind of disappointed that Derek's focus is elsewhere today, but this works into the plan, so Stiles calls it a win.
It's nearly an hour later when Stiles has a eureka moment and slips through the wall and into the warehouse. Out of instinct he dodges to the right, just as Cora crashes into a pile of wooden pallets beside him. She's in Beta form and wearing that small, feral grin on her face when she spits blood onto the concrete floor.
"Better," she snaps.
She doesn't look at Stiles. Or see him. And Derek's attention is on flipping Jackson over one shoulder. After another moment, Stiles confirms it. None of them can see him.
Stiles fist pumps the air in front of him. Considering the amount of effort that he'd put into being seen, he was surprised at how hard it had been to turn that effort back on himself to achieve full invisibility. He can't wait to tell Talia. Or maybe just show her. She looked proud of him when he told her about the school, showed her how he could touch objects, manipulate them. He wants to see that look again.
Stiles moves closer, preparing for a grand reveal to show off his skills, and possibly crack a Hobbit joke, when Jackson lets out an enraged howl. The other two werewolves go dead still, staring at him, but Jackson only stays on the floor, knees pulled up, head down. His back is rising and falling, his breathing loud.
"We're done for the day," Derek says.
Cora nods along, her expression losing its enthusiasm. "I feel like a run," she says, taking a step back. "Meet you back at the loft."
Stiles thinks he should probably follow her, in case she notices he's not where they left him, but his curiosity keeps him glued to the spot. And he holds tightly to his control, making sure he stays invisible. It's hard, this close to Derek, because he's one who sees him, has always seen him.
Derek passes by, only a few inches from Stiles, and stops in front of Jackson. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches down, his fingertips on Jackson's shoulder.
"We were fine before," Jackson says. He looks up, and Stiles is surprised at how livid his expression is. "We were fine before I left. And I get back, and everything is different."
"Before you left," Derek echoes, as if to remind him. He takes a step away, pulling back his hand. "You left, and you didn't fight to stay. From the beginning, you made it clear that you weren't interested in being mine, or pack. You just wanted the bite, remember?"
"But that was before everything..." Jackson trails off, then lets out a low growl. "Things were different after I died. After I became a wolf. Don't pretend they weren't."
"This isn't me pretending," Derek replies. "This is me regretting. I trained you, Jackson. You were pack. And then you just left as soon as you father suggested it. So don't come complaining to me about everything changing when you're the one who changed it." He took a breath, letting his chin drop to his chest. "You need to go to Scott. You need to ask him to be your Alpha."
Jackson snarls. "Fuck McCall! I don't want him."
"Well you can't want me!" Derek snaps. His jaw tightens, but he's calmer when he bites out, "You shouldn't have come back."
Jackson isn't looking at him any more, back to staring at the concrete. "You want me gone."
Derek runs hand down his face, sighs. "No, Jackson. I just want things to be different."
"Different," Jackson scoffs. "Sure."
They're so quiet that Stiles is afraid to so much as shift, afraid he'll lose his concentration, that they'll know he was here for this. Derek turns without another word, heading for the door. He stops at the entrance, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
"Give Stiles a ride back to my place," he says, frowning like he wants to say more. And walks out.
Stiles isn't sure when he slipped up, but he knows he did. That he's here and present and both the werewolves know he's been listening. He sits down on the floor, next to Jackson, and waits for the other guy to inevitably bitch at him for being too close or looking stupid or ruining his life, the usual Jackson fare. It doesn't happen, and Stiles can't help but think that isn't a good thing.
"Did something happen, when you were in London?" Stiles asks. "Derek said a pack took you in while you were staying with your relatives. Were they...What were they like? Why did you leave them?"
Jackson pretends he can't hear him. Stiles knows he can. He can tell by the way the muscles in his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows a bit too purposely.
"Fine." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Be your usual charming self. Ignore me. See if I care. I'm not that interested in your life, anyway."
But Stiles doesn't get up to leave. He sits, and he waits.
"You're an annoying piece of shit," Jackson finally says.
"You're an spoiled, self-serving asshole. Want to play another round of 'state the obvious'?"
Jackson opens and closes his mouth, as if he's run out of steam. Then he turns and looks at Stiles. "You want to know what happened in London?" he asks.
Stiles blinks in confusion, because he expects the question to be full of anger, but Jackson's eyes are empty and haunted. Stiles knows that look because he's worn it before, but he doesn't like to see it on someone else, even someone he used to profess to hate with all his guts.
Jackson stands up, hands in fists at his side. "I got what I deserved," he answers.
Stiles doesn't ask any more questions.
The paper is wrinkled from drying, the image smudged and messy, but Stiles can't help but smile when he sees his 'drawing' on the refrigerator, a magnetic bottle opener tacking down one corner. It's the triskelion, from his visit to the school. It's days old, so he's not sure where it's been this whole time, but he knows on instinct who put it up.
Stiles reaches out, his fingertips tingling as he touches the sheet. Derek. Derek put this up for him. And Stiles isn't sure why that stirs up a mix of emotions he's not used to feeling.
It feels like he's been here, staying at the loft, for longer than ten days. It's the longest he's ever been away from his father, and guilt feels like broken glass in his stomach when he thinks about how it's probably felt like an eternity for Dad. That guilt only intensifies into shame when he realizes it's not been as terrible as he'd imagined it would be. That first night was agony, and he isn't in a good place now, but it could be so much worse. Being trapped in this between, it's Hell, but maybe Hell's bearable with decent company.
Still, despite the moments that seem normal, the smiles and the jokes, the bickering, he can't take it for much longer.
This will end soon, one way or the other.
Stiles steps away, and there's a sound at the entrance, footsteps and raised voices. Stiles moves out from behind the wall separating the kitchenette from the open floor of the loft.
The voices get louder and something bangs against a wall. For a second, he thinks maybe it's Jackson, who hasn't spoken to him since he dropped him off at the loft yesterday afternoon. Jackson, who was pretending he never said the things he said. Only, Stiles recognizes the voices before he ever sees their owners, and it's not Jackson this time.
Scott bursts into the loft, face flushed with anger, and Derek storms in behind him, grabbing at his arm.
"Don't, Scott!" Derek tries to pull him back. "You don't know what you're talking about!"
Scott's eyes flash to red, and Derek lets go. "Tell me that you didn't know what your mother was up to, Derek. Tell me you didn't know."
Derek's brow furrows in confusion and he holds his hands out in submission. "Scott, you're not making any sense."
"Let me see Stiles," Scott snaps. He turns his head, calling toward the upstairs. "Stiles!"
Stiles is two seconds away from finding the shout hilarious when Derek turns and locks eyes on him. But Derek doesn't call attention to Stiles, doesn't tell Scott he's already in the room. Derek just lowers his eyes.
"What's going on?" Stiles asks.
He gets no answer right away, other than the sound of Scott shouting out again.
"Is he here?" Scott asks. "Is he here with us?" He doesn't wait for an answer, shaking his head. "It's been over a week, Derek. Over a week, and nothing has been done to help him."
Stiles wants to hop to Talia's defense, but the look on Derek's face keeps him quiet. He just stands, watches, listens. A part of him doesn't want to hear whatever it is Scott has to say.
"Isaac and I have been searching the town, searching the woods, for days, trying to find out where Peter is, and Talia hasn't been there. Not once. Either she's not looking, or she's helping to keep him hidden. Which is it, Derek? Because she's not helping, either way. And she can."
Derek's jaw sets and his nostrils flare. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Actually, I do." Scott's eyes narrow on the other werewolf. "You're the one who doesn't know what's going on," he continues, his voice lower. "Derek, I went to Deaton's. Talia was there. I didn't hear much before she sensed me, but I heard enough. She's probably on her way here to lie her way out of it. That's why I need to talk to Stiles. He needs to know she's not trying to help him."
Derek blinks as if he'd just been slapped. "What did they say?"
Scott takes a step closer. "She's not an Alpha. And neither is Peter. But they're both sharing that spark, that power...And if Stiles wakes up, if he wakes up she'll never be an Alpha again."
"Only one of her eyes is red," Stiles says, and almost chokes on the words. He shakes his head. "No...Scott's wrong. Derek, do you hear me? Scott's wrong. Derek, say something!"
"You're wrong, Scott," Derek says, his voice low. He lifts his eyes and they're shining blue and fierce. "You're wrong. She won't come here to deny it. She wouldn't bother. Because she doesn't have to wait long to get what she wants."
Stiles' mouth drops open, but he doesn't get a chance to reply, because the words sink in. Doesn't have to wait long?
"You've been to the hospital?" Scott asks. Whatever fire was lighting his rage seems to be dying out. He looks like he's on the verge of collapse when Derek nods once. "They put him on a ventilator, Derek. Mom says his body is too weak, that sometimes that's why people slip into... He can't breathe on his own anymore." Scott's eyes are bright with tears. "My best friend can't breathe."
Derek can't look him in the eye. "Melissa said it was just a precaution. She said, it's just to make sure he..." Derek loses the sentence and lets out a shallow breath. "I'm sorry."
"I can't lose him." Scott turns away from Derek, and Stiles can see his face. It nearly breaks him, looking into Scott's eyes. "I can't."
Stiles barely notices the movement. Once second Scott is across the room, and the next he's right in front of him. "You can see-"
The words don't get out before Scott has his arms wrapped around Stiles. Stiles throws his arms around Scott just as quickly, almost afraid he'll pull away. "You can see me?" he says again, even though it's a stupid question, because Scott can obviously feel him, and that's all that matters.
Scott's shaking, or at least Stiles thinks he is until he realizes he's the one trembling. "I'm here, Stiles. I'm here, and we're going to fix this, okay?" Scott's voice drops off, almost too low. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Doesn't matter," Stiles assures.
Derek gives him their minute, but it still feels like he's cutting them off too soon. "We need to find her," he reminds them. When his voice returns, it's more urgent. "Scott, we have to find Talia. If she doesn't want Stiles to wake up, there's one way to make sure he never does."
Scott's eyes widen. "His body."
He pulls his phone out. "We can call the Sheriff, get some people on watch at the hospital and..." The phone is already ringing in his hands, and Scott stares down at it, as if confused. "My mom's calling."
Stiles pulls away. "We're too late, aren't we?"
Link to Chapter 4
Title: Long Live Us
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Jackson, Jackson/Derek, with other implied use-your-imagination ships. Lydia, Cora, Talia Hale, Scott, Isaac. (Okay, this list makes it seem like there's far more romance in this fic; there's not. Most is pre/post-ship or slow-burn.)
Rating: PG-13/Teen
Wordcount: ~25,000
Summary: Some can see him, some can hear him, some can even feel him, but he remains a ghost. Stiles thought he was done with the whole 'half-dead' bit, but a resident evil doer had different plans. Which somehow resulted in Talia Hale as his spiritual Yoda, Derek as his anchor to a life he wasn't living anymore, and Jackson, of all people, as his...something. Canon divergent past season 3.
Warning: While this story contains no dub-con, I do suggest the possibility of an off-scene dub-con type situation. Also, there's some graphic violence and adult language.
A/N: Written for
bigbang_mixup for
tryslora's wonderful mix "The Reckless and the Brave" (which is where my title comes from).
Chapter 3: It's a Vicious Little World
They reach the gravesite, and they're quiet for a long time. Standing at his side, holding his hand, is not half as awkward as Lydia expects. She wants to comment on how it feels like he never left, but other than the way his hand fits around hers, everything feels different. For starters, she doesn't feel like she'll break when he leaves again.
She gives the grave a sad smile, because she knows Allison would approve of that distinction. But Lydia isn't so certain her friend would agree with the other thought, nudging at the back of her mind, but as Allison's decidedly absent, she can't argue.
Lydia looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and she accepts that thought as truth; neither she nor Jackson are the people they used to be, back when they were dating. In both a figurative and literal sense.
There's no going back.
"There was a funeral right after... A private one, right before Mr. Argent left town. If I'd known you were coming back- "
"I didn't want to go," Jackson says.
"Oh."
Lydia swallows hard, because she knows the difference between Jackson being cold and Jackson putting on a mask. And she knows the reason he would never have went to that funeral was because that mask would have slipped.
"Banshee. Should have known what you were," he says, jaw hard, eyes ahead. There's some sort of joke there, but his tone is too frosty. "You only call when someone dies."
"Don't." Her voice is hard, no room for argument, and, after the shit he put her through, she's proud of it. She doesn't need to point out that he never calls her either. Or that it's better that way. "Not in front of Allison."
Jackson shifts his weight. He looks handsome in a button-up and slacks, but there's something lacking in the expression on his face. "I'm sorry."
Lydia closes her eyes, blocking him out for a moment. It's silent, other than the sound of him breathing, birds scattering in the nearby trees. It's early in the day, and she's missing school, but so be it. She's just glad that it's still quiet, even if a part of her had thought she'd be able to sense something here, in this place.
"I knew she was going to die."
Jackson squeezes her hand, and it's better than the spoken apology. It's more Jackson. Still, there's something off about him. He's been different since his death, but this...This version of him is more closed off.
"What happened in London?"
"It was boring," he says, instead of answering. It's a lie, but Lydia tucks it away for later. The mystery can wait.
"Are you with anyone?" he asks.
Lydia can't help the choked laugh that slips out of her. It almost turns into anger, but she holds it back. "Jesus, Jackson," she breathes, and shakes her head. After a moment, she shoots him a look, and she knows he's already aware that they aren't getting back together, that this is a desperate attempt to change the subject. But it's not a very good one.
"I was," she answers. "With someone. He's not...here anymore." The omission comes easily enough, and with it, just a bit of shame. She doesn't want to admit she's watched every person she's fallen for die, even if at least one of them came back.
Jackson snorts, as if he doesn't care. "I half-expected you to take pity on Stilinski, since you've joined their merry band of misfits, but I suppose you still have decent taste."
It hits her hard, and she pulls away. She knows he's trying to insult her, but she doesn't care. He's said worse in the past, when he was hurting, when he was trying to push her away. She used to care more. But the comment serves as a reminder more than anything else, of just how close she is to losing another friend.
She hasn't told Jackson yet.
He senses something because he moves his hand to her shoulder, forcing her to face him. Maybe he hears her heart skip a beat. She isn't exactly sure how the werewolf thing works, despite her research, but there's a touch of worry in his gaze.
"What aren't you saying, Lydia?" he asks.
"You haven't been to see Derek yet." At his frown, she nods her own confirmation. "He'll be able to explain it better, but...I should tell you before you go. About Stiles."
"Derek, you have to trust that Talia has this under control."
Derek stares across the table at the man, as he works. The terrier is still, but alive, half-open eyes on the werewolf instead of its doctor. Deaton goes about his business without looking up, and Derek takes that to mean that, even if the man isn't lying outright, he's still holding back.
"That's not an answer," Derek says, trying to hold down the growl at the back of his throat. "Are you or are you not any closer to figuring out what's wrong with Stiles? Because, to me, it doesn't look like you or my mother are doing much of anything to fix this."
Deaton does look up at that comment, his eyes sharp and commanding, but he keeps his voice calm. "You haven't seen the results you were looking for. That doesn't mean we've been inactive." He glances back down, his tone a notch lighter when he speaks again. "I find it commendable, how dedicated you are to helping Stiles. I didn't even realize the two of you were friends."
Derek doesn't so much as twitch. He wants badly to leap for the man's throat because he's sick of hearing surprise from people. As if he's some heartless monster. As if he doesn't owe it to the human to help. He's not Peter...That thought is enough to turn that anger inward, and Derek loses some of his fire. He may not be Peter, but he's the one who let his uncle have a second chance, who didn't finish him for good. If it had, maybe Stiles' body wouldn't be in a hospital. His mother...His mother had even said as much, when Stiles disappeared that first night. And that memory brings with it enough guilt to make his shoulders hunch, his gaze fall in defeat.
"He's suffering," Derek says.
Deaton sighs. "He's survived worse, and he'll survive this."
"How can you be so sure?"
Deaton shrugs. "Faith in the right people," is his simple answer. Derek wants to snap at him again, but before he has a chance, Deaton is talking, his voice casual, as if they're discussing the weather. "I hear that Mr. Whittemore is back in Beacon Hills. How is your young Beta?"
Derek squirms at the question. "Still a snake with fur," he bites out.
Jackson...Derek isn't sure how Jackson is, actually. He's had exactly one meeting with Jackson since he's arrived back in town, and it mostly turned into Jackson pointing out everything Derek has done wrong over the past year, including losing his spark. Which Derek doesn't count, because Cora is alive. Leave it to Jackson not to see it that way, to call him useless in his own home. The young werewolf's biting tone left Derek pissed, pissed enough to lead him here, actually. Derek snorts at that realization. He somehow doubts that was Jackson's intention.
"Hmm," Deaton hums, moving back to examining the dog's ribs. "I seem to remember Scott saying you'd helped Jackson after his transition, before he moved away."
Derek scowls, pushing off from the table. On his list of stupid life decisions, Derek rates giving Jackson the bite fairly high, but he feels like pack and...Derek is done with this topic. "Quit changing the subject, and Jackson isn't my Beta. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not anyone's Alpha. Deaton, why aren't you talking to me?"
"Because I asked him to keep you out of this."
Derek freezes at the sound of his mother's voice. He hadn't sensed her presence in the building. He hasn't been able to sense her much at all actually, and it's left him with the uncomfortable feeling that she's more ghost that living, even though he's held her, hugged her, cried against her shoulder. Still, the way she moves, he sometimes doubts she's really there at all, that this isn't some dream.
Her words catch up to him, and he turns. "Asked or ordered?"
Talia doesn't answer. "He's my emissary," she finally says. "We have work to do. Work that doesn't involve you, Derek. You need to leave."
Derek catches a scent and looks over his mother's shoulder to see Cora standing in the doorway, staring at the group with wide eyes, as if she's expecting a fight. As if coming to a decision, she swallows hard and steps forward, holding a hand out.
"Come on, Derek," she says. "Let's go."
He takes the offer, and she pretends not to feel the claws he can't quite control digging into the back of her hand as they walk out.
"I just can't understand how they can see you, but I can't. I was the first one to hear you, ergo, I should be able to see you by now."
Lydia slides onto her bed and lays back, strawberry waves fanning out around her pillow. She neatly crosses her high-heeled feet and folds her hands over her stomach. Stiles thinks her skirt is a bit too short for her to be completely comfortable, but she's Lydia Martin, and she's mastered the art of not caring how much leg she shows her adoring fans.
Stiles wants to crack a joke and ask her about her relationship with her mother, but he sees what she's doing. Without direction, he walks to the other side of the bed and lays down beside her. A part of him wants to remind her that they don't have time for this, but, well, they do have time for this. Because Stiles has zip on his agenda at just this moment, what with Cora running off to find Derek, who was running off to find Talia, who was (hopefully) running off to find Peter...He just can't keep up with the Hales at this moment. Literally, he can't, because he thinks maybe he's the only spirit in existence who's still relying on riding in cars to get places.
"Well, in all fairness, I was kind of invisible to you long before this whole out-of-body experience."
"Not funny, Stiles."
Stiles snorts, but stares up at the ceiling, just like she's doing. "Kind of funny, Lyds." When she doesn't answer immediately, he sighs. "It's not you, okay. I'm pretty sure, the supernatural beings have an easier time seeing this place between, wherever it is I am."
"I am a supernatural being."
"Yes, you're right, but maybe you're still, I don't know, 'new'? Or not supernatural enough?"
"What, because I don't sprout fur and claws, I'm not allowed to see you. It's stupid."
The judgment is passed with finality, and Stiles is certain that arguing any further won't help matters. "Maybe it's me," he says, instead. "You still make me nervous."
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Lydia is smiling, pleased with the answer. "I don't know why," she says, "I don't give you gooey eyes anymore."
Stiles rolls his eyes at that. He absolutely did not get gooey eyed around...Okay maybe he did. It's like a hammer drops in his stomach when he realizes he can put a finger on the day he realized they wouldn't be together.
Lydia hums to herself, as if musing. "It was the day I kissed you."
"Are you a mind reader?" Stiles asks, only half-kidding. He lets the question go, though. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if she developed telepathic powers. She was Lydia Martin, and he fully expected her to grow up to cure cancer by day and fight crime in a fashionable costume by night. But he didn't fantasize about making her fall for him, not anymore. She was right. It was the day they kissed. Everything about that moment was perfect. "There weren't sparks."
"Nope." Lydia pops the word. Bubble burst. "Does that mean you're not in love with me?"
"I love you more like this," Stiles answers, grinning back. He's surprised he doesn't feel disappointed. The old him, he's sure, would have been highly confused and possibly berating new him for laying on Lydia Martin's bed without entertaining the thought of making out with her. "We make an awesome team."
"You can keep up with me," Lydia says, in agreement. "So, if you're not giving me gooey eyes, who have you moved on to? You've been spending a lot of time at the Hale residence recently..."
The question makes him sink through the mattress, but he recovers his focus quickly enough, glad Lydia can't see him flailing his arms as he tries to hold on to a physical form. "I'm not into Cora," he states, a little breathless.
"She's not into you."
Lydia's tone adds an extra, "Boys are stupid," that Stiles can almost hear. He swallows hard, not wanting to continue down her line of thought, because he doesn't want to lie to Lydia about how he's feeling right now. He's been lying to himself enough for both of them. Also, he doesn't want to touch the subject of crushes with a ten-foot pole.
"Stiles, do yourself a favor, and don't wait until it's too late to make a move."
Stiles takes that to mean she's dropping it. He relaxes a bit, concentrating on the touch of her blankets beneath his palms. "Like I did with you?" he says, with a small smile.
"No. We're exactly on schedule," Lydia notes, as if this should be obvious. Then she quiets, just staring up at the ceiling. Stiles feels awkward, turning to stare at her when she doesn't get to look at him. He feels like he's breaking some sort of rule, but he wants to know why she's so sad. "Stiles, can I ask you something?"
"You don't usually ask permission," he says, softly.
Her grin is crooked, fighting a frown. "Do you think it makes me a bad person that I miss Allison more than I miss Aiden?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer, and Stiles isn't sure she wants one. "I cared about him. I did. But this morning, when I took Jackson to visit Allison, it just reminded me of how everything felt like it was caving in when she fell. And when I finally told Jackson about Aiden, it felt different. It didn't hurt as bad."
Stiles reaches out, sliding his fingers between hers. It takes a moment, before he can feel them. A moment longer before he feels her squeezing back. Her eyes are closed down, her long lashes wet.
"When some people leave, it just hurts more," Stiles answers.
Lydia nods to herself. "Which is why you're not going anywhere, Stiles. We won't let you."
"Is that a banshee prediction?"
"It's a banshee demand."
"Bored. So bored. So very, very bored."
Stiles is bored. He announces it to the heavens, multiple times, and only gets glares from Derek, who looks as if he's regretting the newfound ability to hear him. But Stiles quickly realizes the Hale siblings are also bored out of their minds with the current amount of inaction taking place. Well, bored and also looking as if they're on the verge of murder, for some reason that neither of them will discuss in his presence. Before Cora can rip apart the loft, Derek announces they're taking a trip to the warehouse district, where Jackson's been asked to meet them.
It's a short, quiet ride.
Stiles mutters a sarcastic, "Oh joy," when he sees Jackson, already there, sneering at the warehouse entry as if he's discovered a building that's composed entirely of used toilet paper, and the sentiment pretty much summarizes the looks on Derek and Cora's faces.
"The guy's been back in Beacon Hills all of two days, and he's already reminding us of what a douche he is," Stiles comments. "Tell me again why you're bothering with him."
"As long as he's here, he's my responsibility," Derek says, quietly, and parks.
"Why'd you call me here?" Jackson asks, as soon as they get out of the car.
"More space for training," Derek replies. " I want to see what you learned from the pack in London. And you need to let out some of that frustration."
Jackson's face loses its color for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. "Screw you," he snaps.
"As witty as ever," Stiles notes, only letting the comment reach out to Cora.
She grins, but Stiles can tell it's not because she's proud that he's been able to master the art of being heard by every Hale. Her opinion on Jackson was made clear the moment she first met him. And promptly threw him across the loft. The look in her eyes now says she looks forward to doing it again. Which is possibly why she hasn't complained about this little outing.
Since Stiles realizes that the three of them are going to be beating the hell out of one another and calling it 'training', he doesn't think he'll be missed. They don't blink twice when he says he's going to walk around a while. Derek only grunts in reply. So much for being a decent spirit-sitter. Stiles doesn't want to admit to himself that he's kind of disappointed that Derek's focus is elsewhere today, but this works into the plan, so Stiles calls it a win.
It's nearly an hour later when Stiles has a eureka moment and slips through the wall and into the warehouse. Out of instinct he dodges to the right, just as Cora crashes into a pile of wooden pallets beside him. She's in Beta form and wearing that small, feral grin on her face when she spits blood onto the concrete floor.
"Better," she snaps.
She doesn't look at Stiles. Or see him. And Derek's attention is on flipping Jackson over one shoulder. After another moment, Stiles confirms it. None of them can see him.
Stiles fist pumps the air in front of him. Considering the amount of effort that he'd put into being seen, he was surprised at how hard it had been to turn that effort back on himself to achieve full invisibility. He can't wait to tell Talia. Or maybe just show her. She looked proud of him when he told her about the school, showed her how he could touch objects, manipulate them. He wants to see that look again.
Stiles moves closer, preparing for a grand reveal to show off his skills, and possibly crack a Hobbit joke, when Jackson lets out an enraged howl. The other two werewolves go dead still, staring at him, but Jackson only stays on the floor, knees pulled up, head down. His back is rising and falling, his breathing loud.
"We're done for the day," Derek says.
Cora nods along, her expression losing its enthusiasm. "I feel like a run," she says, taking a step back. "Meet you back at the loft."
Stiles thinks he should probably follow her, in case she notices he's not where they left him, but his curiosity keeps him glued to the spot. And he holds tightly to his control, making sure he stays invisible. It's hard, this close to Derek, because he's one who sees him, has always seen him.
Derek passes by, only a few inches from Stiles, and stops in front of Jackson. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches down, his fingertips on Jackson's shoulder.
"We were fine before," Jackson says. He looks up, and Stiles is surprised at how livid his expression is. "We were fine before I left. And I get back, and everything is different."
"Before you left," Derek echoes, as if to remind him. He takes a step away, pulling back his hand. "You left, and you didn't fight to stay. From the beginning, you made it clear that you weren't interested in being mine, or pack. You just wanted the bite, remember?"
"But that was before everything..." Jackson trails off, then lets out a low growl. "Things were different after I died. After I became a wolf. Don't pretend they weren't."
"This isn't me pretending," Derek replies. "This is me regretting. I trained you, Jackson. You were pack. And then you just left as soon as you father suggested it. So don't come complaining to me about everything changing when you're the one who changed it." He took a breath, letting his chin drop to his chest. "You need to go to Scott. You need to ask him to be your Alpha."
Jackson snarls. "Fuck McCall! I don't want him."
"Well you can't want me!" Derek snaps. His jaw tightens, but he's calmer when he bites out, "You shouldn't have come back."
Jackson isn't looking at him any more, back to staring at the concrete. "You want me gone."
Derek runs hand down his face, sighs. "No, Jackson. I just want things to be different."
"Different," Jackson scoffs. "Sure."
They're so quiet that Stiles is afraid to so much as shift, afraid he'll lose his concentration, that they'll know he was here for this. Derek turns without another word, heading for the door. He stops at the entrance, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
"Give Stiles a ride back to my place," he says, frowning like he wants to say more. And walks out.
Stiles isn't sure when he slipped up, but he knows he did. That he's here and present and both the werewolves know he's been listening. He sits down on the floor, next to Jackson, and waits for the other guy to inevitably bitch at him for being too close or looking stupid or ruining his life, the usual Jackson fare. It doesn't happen, and Stiles can't help but think that isn't a good thing.
"Did something happen, when you were in London?" Stiles asks. "Derek said a pack took you in while you were staying with your relatives. Were they...What were they like? Why did you leave them?"
Jackson pretends he can't hear him. Stiles knows he can. He can tell by the way the muscles in his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows a bit too purposely.
"Fine." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Be your usual charming self. Ignore me. See if I care. I'm not that interested in your life, anyway."
But Stiles doesn't get up to leave. He sits, and he waits.
"You're an annoying piece of shit," Jackson finally says.
"You're an spoiled, self-serving asshole. Want to play another round of 'state the obvious'?"
Jackson opens and closes his mouth, as if he's run out of steam. Then he turns and looks at Stiles. "You want to know what happened in London?" he asks.
Stiles blinks in confusion, because he expects the question to be full of anger, but Jackson's eyes are empty and haunted. Stiles knows that look because he's worn it before, but he doesn't like to see it on someone else, even someone he used to profess to hate with all his guts.
Jackson stands up, hands in fists at his side. "I got what I deserved," he answers.
Stiles doesn't ask any more questions.
The paper is wrinkled from drying, the image smudged and messy, but Stiles can't help but smile when he sees his 'drawing' on the refrigerator, a magnetic bottle opener tacking down one corner. It's the triskelion, from his visit to the school. It's days old, so he's not sure where it's been this whole time, but he knows on instinct who put it up.
Stiles reaches out, his fingertips tingling as he touches the sheet. Derek. Derek put this up for him. And Stiles isn't sure why that stirs up a mix of emotions he's not used to feeling.
It feels like he's been here, staying at the loft, for longer than ten days. It's the longest he's ever been away from his father, and guilt feels like broken glass in his stomach when he thinks about how it's probably felt like an eternity for Dad. That guilt only intensifies into shame when he realizes it's not been as terrible as he'd imagined it would be. That first night was agony, and he isn't in a good place now, but it could be so much worse. Being trapped in this between, it's Hell, but maybe Hell's bearable with decent company.
Still, despite the moments that seem normal, the smiles and the jokes, the bickering, he can't take it for much longer.
This will end soon, one way or the other.
Stiles steps away, and there's a sound at the entrance, footsteps and raised voices. Stiles moves out from behind the wall separating the kitchenette from the open floor of the loft.
The voices get louder and something bangs against a wall. For a second, he thinks maybe it's Jackson, who hasn't spoken to him since he dropped him off at the loft yesterday afternoon. Jackson, who was pretending he never said the things he said. Only, Stiles recognizes the voices before he ever sees their owners, and it's not Jackson this time.
Scott bursts into the loft, face flushed with anger, and Derek storms in behind him, grabbing at his arm.
"Don't, Scott!" Derek tries to pull him back. "You don't know what you're talking about!"
Scott's eyes flash to red, and Derek lets go. "Tell me that you didn't know what your mother was up to, Derek. Tell me you didn't know."
Derek's brow furrows in confusion and he holds his hands out in submission. "Scott, you're not making any sense."
"Let me see Stiles," Scott snaps. He turns his head, calling toward the upstairs. "Stiles!"
Stiles is two seconds away from finding the shout hilarious when Derek turns and locks eyes on him. But Derek doesn't call attention to Stiles, doesn't tell Scott he's already in the room. Derek just lowers his eyes.
"What's going on?" Stiles asks.
He gets no answer right away, other than the sound of Scott shouting out again.
"Is he here?" Scott asks. "Is he here with us?" He doesn't wait for an answer, shaking his head. "It's been over a week, Derek. Over a week, and nothing has been done to help him."
Stiles wants to hop to Talia's defense, but the look on Derek's face keeps him quiet. He just stands, watches, listens. A part of him doesn't want to hear whatever it is Scott has to say.
"Isaac and I have been searching the town, searching the woods, for days, trying to find out where Peter is, and Talia hasn't been there. Not once. Either she's not looking, or she's helping to keep him hidden. Which is it, Derek? Because she's not helping, either way. And she can."
Derek's jaw sets and his nostrils flare. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Actually, I do." Scott's eyes narrow on the other werewolf. "You're the one who doesn't know what's going on," he continues, his voice lower. "Derek, I went to Deaton's. Talia was there. I didn't hear much before she sensed me, but I heard enough. She's probably on her way here to lie her way out of it. That's why I need to talk to Stiles. He needs to know she's not trying to help him."
Derek blinks as if he'd just been slapped. "What did they say?"
Scott takes a step closer. "She's not an Alpha. And neither is Peter. But they're both sharing that spark, that power...And if Stiles wakes up, if he wakes up she'll never be an Alpha again."
"Only one of her eyes is red," Stiles says, and almost chokes on the words. He shakes his head. "No...Scott's wrong. Derek, do you hear me? Scott's wrong. Derek, say something!"
"You're wrong, Scott," Derek says, his voice low. He lifts his eyes and they're shining blue and fierce. "You're wrong. She won't come here to deny it. She wouldn't bother. Because she doesn't have to wait long to get what she wants."
Stiles' mouth drops open, but he doesn't get a chance to reply, because the words sink in. Doesn't have to wait long?
"You've been to the hospital?" Scott asks. Whatever fire was lighting his rage seems to be dying out. He looks like he's on the verge of collapse when Derek nods once. "They put him on a ventilator, Derek. Mom says his body is too weak, that sometimes that's why people slip into... He can't breathe on his own anymore." Scott's eyes are bright with tears. "My best friend can't breathe."
Derek can't look him in the eye. "Melissa said it was just a precaution. She said, it's just to make sure he..." Derek loses the sentence and lets out a shallow breath. "I'm sorry."
"I can't lose him." Scott turns away from Derek, and Stiles can see his face. It nearly breaks him, looking into Scott's eyes. "I can't."
Stiles barely notices the movement. Once second Scott is across the room, and the next he's right in front of him. "You can see-"
The words don't get out before Scott has his arms wrapped around Stiles. Stiles throws his arms around Scott just as quickly, almost afraid he'll pull away. "You can see me?" he says again, even though it's a stupid question, because Scott can obviously feel him, and that's all that matters.
Scott's shaking, or at least Stiles thinks he is until he realizes he's the one trembling. "I'm here, Stiles. I'm here, and we're going to fix this, okay?" Scott's voice drops off, almost too low. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Doesn't matter," Stiles assures.
Derek gives him their minute, but it still feels like he's cutting them off too soon. "We need to find her," he reminds them. When his voice returns, it's more urgent. "Scott, we have to find Talia. If she doesn't want Stiles to wake up, there's one way to make sure he never does."
Scott's eyes widen. "His body."
He pulls his phone out. "We can call the Sheriff, get some people on watch at the hospital and..." The phone is already ringing in his hands, and Scott stares down at it, as if confused. "My mom's calling."
Stiles pulls away. "We're too late, aren't we?"
Link to Chapter 4