Fic: A Thousand Fiery Suns of Angst - Just Press Play (1/3)
Title: A Thousand Fiery Suns of Angst-Just Press Play
Author: bookgodess15
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: All Stiles wants from life is to learn to control his magic, keep his grades up, and not die horribly while saving Beacon Hills from supernatural threats. It's all going pretty well until Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, has to go and ask him on a date. That asshole.
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf & Co.
Warnings: Possible non-sexual humiliation/embarrassment squick. Highlight for details. Stiles makes a naked apology speech to Derek in the school cafeteria. It is of his own free will, there is no laughing/jeering, and Derek does not shame or reject him. However, it's still a scene of humiliation.
Notes: SO MANY THANKS. Thank you, first and foremost, to verity and fleete for all of their hard work on this story, and for pushing me to make it the absolute best it could be. This story literally would not be without them. Thank you also to shinealightonme for teaching me how to tap dance, piscaria for the Latin translations, to maeve100 for sharing my Kelly Clarkson brainwaves, to the teenwolfwriters community for the feedback on Derek, the little_details community for the Game of Thrones suggestions, and to everyone who was in the army of pre-readers I accidentally amassed. You are all the best a writer could ever ask for.
Also, tucked into this fic are references to... well, lots of things. Mostly TV shows and internet things. Feel free to call me out on them.
a thousand fiery suns of angst-just hit play
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Stiles yells, skidding into the dining room and flinging himself into his chair at the table. "Deaton kept me late preparing for Saturday, and oh my God I think my stomach has actually started to eat itself that is how hungry I am. Oh my God, food. Food. Yes yes yes yes-"
He cuts himself off as he stuffs his entire serving of mashed potatoes-a portion approximately the size of his fist-into his mouth.
His father looks up from the paper, eyebrows raised. "Stiles. You're almost forty minutes late."
"Ah knoh," Stiles says through mashed potatoes, and swallows. "I'm really sorry. But, you know, Deaton…"
"You could have texted," his father points out.
Stiles winces. "Uh. Yeah. About that."
"Another one? Are you kidding me right now?"
Well, crap.
"Heh. Good thing we've got that insurance, right?" Stiles tries weakly.
"You can only use it twice a year, Stiles," he father grinds out, one hand on his forehead. "This would be your third."
"Crap."
His father looks up in resignation. "Is there any hope of doing some kind of home repair? Are we talking water-logged, a cracked screen, slightly melted… What?"
"Uh." Stiles grips his plate in case he has to run for it. He's still starving, and if he's going to flee for his life, he's bringing food with him. "The words 'extra crispy' might come to mind."
"Do you want to tell me how that happened?"
"Not really."
"Stiles."
"You asked," Stiles says indignantly.
His father has that look on his face. The 'if I had a TARDIS, I'd go back in time and switch my son out for a different one before we left the hospital' look. Or, you know, he would be thinking that, if he didn't have the worst taste in television ever.
"Deaton thought it would be good motivation for learning control," Stiles mumbles. "You know, with the-bracelet totem thing I'm supposed to be making. So he put an apple on top of my phone and told me to hit the apple with my whole column-of-flames thing, and… well, I hit the apple."
"And the phone," his father sighs.
"And the stool," Stiles adds. "Which isn't so much a stool anymore as it is a pile of ash. Deaton was definitely mad about that. Does that help?"
"No."
"Oh." Stiles forgoes his fork and knife and eats the chicken breast with his fingers.
He pulls the loaf of bread to within grabbing distance.
"I'll get you a new phone after work tomorrow," his father says, in a tone that makes Stiles feel simultaneously very guilty and very, very happy that he isn't going to have to make a break for it with his dinner.
"Sorry," Stiles says.
He really is. It's just that every time he sits down to start on the bracelet, Deaton's instructions of "You'll know which braids and knots feel right for you," make it impossible. He just sits there and waits for his fingers to start moving of their own accord-since that's apparently what he's supposed to do-and his fingers never do. Except to stray over to his laptop to hit the Random button again on XKCD.
"So, other than failing to roast an apple, what else did you get up to today?" his father asks tiredly, changing the subject because he is the best father in the world.
Stiles shrugs. "Nothing. School. Scott has managed to keep himself alive for another day, the cafeteria still has taco sauce instead of ketchup because they think we don't notice-we totally do-Harris still hates me, and I-oh!" Stiles perks up. "So, Deaton was telling me that there's this massive debate right now between the magical peoples of America and, you know, everywhere else, about how to classify magical creatures scientifically. You know how in our normal organization system we have domain, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus and species?"
His father blinks. "Uh. Sure."
So of course Stiles has to then launch into this history of the creation of the scientific naming system, and it's evolution over the decades, and reel off half a dozen examples of each level, before he can even get started on the magical naming system.
"Stiles," his father interrupts, fifteen minutes in. He looks pained, for some reason. "I really have to-"
"No, I haven't even gotten to the cool part! Don't you want to hear?" Stiles asks, face falling.
His father sighs and sits back in his chair. "Summarize, Stiles."
"But you really have to understand the whole scope of it in order to appreciate just how cool this is! Because, see, you'd think that this classification system would be stagnant, right? Like, that's why it was created. But then you have to consider evolutionary relationships…"
Scott pops a fry into his mouth, and then makes a hilariously disgusted face as he chews.
"Seriously," Stiles says, rolling his eyes from across the table. "You know it's not actually ketchup."
"But I want it to be," Scott moans, staring at the orange-red puddle on his lunch tray pitifully.
"I have no pity for you," Stiles informs him. "None. Do you see this face? This is a pity-free face right here."
Scott eats another taco-sauce-covered fry, and makes the face again. Honestly, it's no wonder they're sitting alone in the cafeteria.
"You know insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different outcome?" Stiles asks.
"But the day they finally bring the ketchup back-" Scott levels a fry at him, dripping red-orange gloop. "-I will be the first person to enjoy it."
"If your palate hasn't been completely destroyed from years of eating that orange shit."
"Dude, you have no room to talk. I've seen you eat Cheez Whiz after scooping the mold out of it. Also, Derek Hale is coming over here."
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "And I care… why?"
"Uh, because he's a year older than us, he's somewhat cool, he's coming this way, and he's looking at you," Scott hisses.
Stiles makes a skeptical face and turns to look-only to be faced with Derek Hale making a direct line for their lunch table. There's an easy, confident bounce in his step, the sort that comes from being six feet of tanned, lean muscle wrapped in denim and leather, and when he sees that Stiles looking at him, he smiles.
"Oooookay," Stiles says under his breath, as Derek approaches.
He glances at Scott, who shrugs and eats another fry.
Stiles has never actually spoken to Derek. He knows that Derek is on the lacrosse team with Scott and, like Scott, didn't 'go bro' like most school athletes do when they join up. He also knows that Derek hangs out with his older sister Laura and a kid named Boyd, and that Derek is a Hale and a werewolf.
He actually feels kind of weird not knowing very much about him, considering that he and Deaton also go over to the Hales' a few times a month and are charged with protecting the entire pack. But the Hale children are always kept out of any discussions they have, and Stiles has to wear the protegi the whole time anyway, which is specifically designed to keep anyone from recognizing him.
There's a brief spike of terror in his heart as Stiles wonders if the Hales have somehow found out, and Derek is here to relay a message-but that's impossible. Literally two people in the world know his identity, and both of them would die before giving it up. He's fine. Derek has no idea.
Derek approaches their table and stops.
"Hi," he says.
It takes Stiles a second to calculate the probability that he's accidentally woken up in an alternate universe.
The probability is very low.
"Hey?" Stiles replies, both eyebrows raised now.
"What are you doing Saturday night?" Derek asks, and-
What.
What.
Stiles brain trips over itself and he blurts out the very first thing he thinks of, which is: "That's what you're going to open with? Not, like, 'Hi my name is…?'"
Derek raises an eyebrow. "You don't know my name?"
"Of course I know your name. That isn't the point. The point is that you can't just-" Stiles' brain catches up with his mouth. "Wait, did you just ask what I was doing on Saturday night?"
Because Stiles knows exactly where he's going to be on Saturday night, and it's at the Hale house with Deaton, because Mrs. Hale asked them to come out.
Oh, God. What if Derek does know?
Stiles remembers too late that Deaton had said that werewolves have crazy-enhanced senses that can hear heartbeats and shit, and a second later Derek's frowning at him.
"Uh," says Stiles.
Derek would probably think it was weird if Stiles started doing deep breathing exercises.
"…Why?"
Derek grins, clearly amused. "Because I want to take you out, dumbass."
"Oh, good," Stiles breathes, relief flooding him for approximately half a second. "Wait, what?"
"On a date," Derek elaborates, which, yes, Stiles got that, thank you very much. "There's a drive-in an hour away that's doing a classic horror movie marathon on Saturday. Sound cool?"
Once again, it sucks to be Stiles.
"Yeeeeaah," Stiles says. "Um. Actually, that sounds amazing and I would love to, but… I can't. Sorry."
Scott is staring at him, slack-jawed.
"Oh," says Derek, looking disappointed. "Well, we could do something another time? Are you free Sunday afternoon?"
"No," Stiles lies.
Derek frowns.
Fuck. Werewolves can hear heartbeats. They know when people are lying.
Stiles is so fucked.
"Hey, look dude, I've got a test fifth period that I've really got to study for," Stiles says, diving for the first textbook he can find in his backpack. "Sorry. Talk about this later, okay?"
Derek looks bewildered, and more than a little annoyed.
Stiles slams the book onto the table and opens it to a random page, hunching over it and placing his finger on a line like he hasn't had to do since ever, because he was always the best reader in the class. Whatever. Derek doesn't know that. Derek's never even spoken to him before today.
"What the hell, dude?" Scott demands in a whisper, as soon as Derek leaves. "Why didn't you say yes? I thought you said you were bi?"
Stiles looks up but keeps his body hunched over the book, and when he speaks, he keeps his voice at a whisper. "Okay, Derek and I are two very different types of bisexuals. Derek has a fake ID and a distinct lack of virginity. I have lots of alone time in my bedroom. Do you see why it makes no sense for him to ask me out?"
Scott shakes his head. "No. I mean, everyone has to start somewhere, right? And it's not like you walk around with a giant V on your forehead."
Stiles gives him a look.
"Except for that one time at Rocky Horror, when you went up on stage and had a fake-"
"We agreed never to speak of that," Stiles interrupts, feeling his face heat at the very memory. "The point is, I want to go out with someone who actually likes me, not someone who heard I was bi and thought he'd take me for a test drive."
"You think he-" Scott doesn't even finish his sentence, just wrinkles his nose and looks in the general direction in which Derek had disappeared.
"Why else would he come up out of the blue and ask me out?"
Scott shrugs. "Maybe he likes you."
"Yeah, and maybe your hand being larger than your face actually does mean you have cancer."
Scott starts to lift his hand.
"Oh my god, Scott, put your hand down."
Stiles is waiting in a line of cars to exit the student parking lot-a business that takes ten minutes on good days and forty on bad days when no one has any meetings, rehearsals or practices to delay them-when there's a knock on his window.
Derek Hale. Of course. And he's wearing sunglasses, now.
Stiles turns down the radio and rolls down the window.
"Can I help you?" he asks, trying and failing to keep his heart rate from speeding up.
"I was wondering if I could catch a ride," Derek says.
"What, to your house?" Stiles says incredulously.
"No, to my car," Derek replies, gesturing down the line of cars. His Camaro is parked about twenty spots down, and stands no chance of backing out for at least fifteen minutes. "Miller let us out late, so I'm going to be the last person out of the parking lot anyway."
Stiles should say no.
"Please," says Derek, in a 'bored now' sort of tone.
"Oh, God-fine. Get in," Stiles says, disgusted with himself and his self control. Or lack thereof.
He tells himself that it's okay, because normally he'd be texting Scott or playing Angry Birds to entertain himself during the After School Traffic Jamapalooza, but he doesn't currently have a phone. What else is he supposed to do?
Derek climbs in, settling his backpack on the floor of the Jeep with a thump.
"So... do you creepily know what my car looks like, or did you wander around until you saw me sitting in the driver's seat?" Stiles asks.
"Everyone knows your car," Derek answers easily. "Between the obnoxious color and the fact that it's thirty years older than everyone else's, it's hard to miss."
"Hey!" Stiles protests, putting a hand on the dashboard. "There is nothing wrong with my car! The color is cool, okay? First, I can always find it in a parking lot, and second, I can call it the Blueberry. Which I do. Plus, it was free, and you really can't beat a free car."
"Your speedometer stops at ninety," Derek says.
"Which would be a problem, if I was using this to try to win drag races. Luckily, I aspire to not be killed before the age of twenty by either a car crash or my father, so I steer clear."
Heh. Steer clear.
Stiles is an artisan of words.
The car in front of Stiles moves a foot forward. A truck still stuck in its parking spot looks like it's about to make a bid to back out and place yet another car between Stiles and his freedom, which is unacceptable. Stiles lets off the brake and hurriedly closes the gap.
"So," says Stiles, "Stalky McStalkerson. What brings you to my perfectly fine and, quite frankly, fucking awesome car?"
"I wanted to finish our conversation from lunch. The one that ended in you lying to me about having a test."
"Oh. My. God. You are actually a stalker."
"No, idiot. But I know you're in gym this semester, which only has one test and it's at the end of the year, and sophomores have gym fifth period."
Stiles blinks. "Whoa. Okay. You're actually kind of not a total moron."
"High praise from King Stilinski," Derek remarks dryly.
"You have to admit, there is a definite correlation between muscle mass and IQ at this school. Except Scott. He doesn't have either, poor guy."
Derek eyes him. Maybe. It's hard to tell with the sunglasses. "You've got muscle under there."
"Dude, I struggle to pick up my backpack on a daily basis," Stiles says. "Also, way to admit you've been checking me out."
"Look," says Derek, as Stiles pulls the car up another foot. "I-I'm not actually a stalker, okay? I like you."
"Yeah. Right," says Stiles, suddenly sour. "I know how this goes, so let me just cut you off. I'm attractive enough that you'd want to have sex with me, but too awkward or weird or annoying to actually date, so you want to feed me some bullshit, take me on two dates, fuck me and dump me."
Derek blinks, looking dumbfounded.
"Yeah, I called you on it," Stiles says. "It's okay. No big. There's plenty of other fish in the sea."
"No, you-Jesus, you're an asshole," Derek says disbelievingly.
"Uh, excuse me? Which one of us was trying to trick me out of my virginity just now-"
"I'm not trying to trick you out of your-fuck, Stiles, I want to date you! I like you!"
"Excuse me for being a little skeptical, considering the fact that up until yesterday we've never spoken," Stiles shoots back.
"We had accounting together last semester," Derek protests.
Stiles pauses. "Oh. Hey. We did. But we've still never spoken!"
Derek shrugs, and Stiles notices for the first time that he looks awkward. Huh.
"You and Scott were in it," Derek all but mutters. "And I… Fuck, can't you just accept that I like you? You're smart and funny and cute. All of the normal reasons that someone would want to date you."
"No, let's go back to the part with Scott," Stiles says. "You don't, like, think that Scott and I are together and you're getting in on some kind of threesome, right?"
"What? No," Derek says, staring at Stiles incredulously. "Seriously?"
Stiles shrugs. He moves up a whole six feet in line, careful to keep the distance between his Jeep and the car in front of him.
Derek sighs. "Okay. Fuck. It's just that you-you were always Scott's partner in class, even though you knew that Polawski didn't give individual grades. And I know you helped him study for all of the tests, and you worked on him with his homework, and gave him your notes and… everything."
"Yeeeah?" says Stiles. "And? Scott's my friend."
"I've never had friends like that," Derek replies, quietly.
That throws Stiles for long enough that he actually misses a car pulling out in front of him-and it's Jackson Whittemore's fucking Porsche, of course it is-and now he's stuck behind another person.
Wonderful.
"Fuck," Stiles mutters, resisting the urge to honk his horn because (a) Jackson will probably get out of the car and kill him, and (b) Stiles' horn sounds like a duck with a head cold.
"Uh," Stiles adds, after a second, when he remembers Derek. "Not you. Jackson Whittemore. That's, uh-that sucks."
Derek looks unimpressed.
Right. Stiles is supposed to agree to date him, now that he's pestered this embarrassing, personal confession out of him.
"…not even Boyd?" he tries weakly. "Don't you two hang out?"
"Only because there's no one else," Derek says, very matter-of-fact. "Boyd would abandon me in a hot second if he got a better offer."
"But, like, never? No one?"
Derek shrugs. "I got tired of pretending to like total morons just so that I could say I had friends."
"But… you don't think I'm a moron," Stiles says slowly.
"You're a lot smarter than you muscle-IQ theory would indicate," Derek replies.
Stiles blinks.
"Wow," he says eventually. "Okay. So that was officially the most convoluted compliment I've ever received."
"You're welcome," says Derek. "Also, cute, smart, funny, etcetera. Like I said before."
"Seriously, though, I don't know what you think is under all these t-shirts."
"Muscle," Derek replies.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. But if this is what you define as being muscled, then I'd hate to know what sort of adjectives you'd use to describe yourself."
"Stiles…" Derek sighs. "Look, I told you why I was interested. Give me a yes or a no."
"Pushy, pushy," Stiles complains.
"Yes or no."
"Oh, look, it's your car!" Stiles says brightly, as he moves the Jeep forward another few feet.
"Stiles."
He sighs, and tries not to slump back in his seat. "Can I get a night to think it over?"
There's a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at war with the warm, spindly web of hope in his chest. He knows that he has to say no, but he can't say it right now. Not like this. Not now.
"Fine," Derek agrees, though he doesn't look thrilled a making the concession. "I don't know what there is to think about, though."
"You'd be surprised," Stiles says. "Now, out. Leave me to my thoughts."
Derek huffs and collects his backpack, but doesn't slam the door of the Jeep when he leaves. Stiles appreciates that. Not even Scott remembers to be gentle with his baby.
Stiles' father presents him with his new phone that night.
"What is that? Is that even a cell phone?" Stiles demands, staring at the veritable brick he's just been handed.
"Yes," his father replies. "It was free, in fact."
"There's no keyboard! How am I supposed to text? Can this thing even text? Where's the camera?"
His father smirks.
"Seriously, Dad," Stiles says, as he pulls out a freaking antenna. "You don't actually expect me to use this."
"Consider it motivation," his father replies, with a disgustingly smug look on his face, "to finish your totem and learn control."
"You are the worst."
"The number for reporting child abuse is on the fridge."
"Don't think I won't call it!"
"You can even use your new phone."
Stiles doesn't call. He goes up to his room and tries to make his stupid totem thing, but after an hour of braiding and knotting, and unbraiding and unknotting, he gives up. Again.
He flops onto his bed with a heavy sigh. Derek pops into his mind for probably the hundredth time since he'd kicked Derek out of his car, but he pushes the thoughts away.
The thing is, there isn't actually anything to think about. Derek is a werewolf. Stiles is secretly a witch, and he needs to stay secretly a witch, otherwise his life and the lives of everyone who knows his identity, are at risk. Stiles cannot date Derek. Even if he wanted to.
Which maybe he does.
Maybe.
Probably.
Who is he kidding, of course he wants to.
"Daaaaaad!" Stiles moans, splayed out on his bed. "My life is hard!"
There's a pause.
"How about a whamburger and some French cries to soothe the pain away?" his father calls back, probably from the living room.
Stiles rolls over to faceplant into his pillow.
He dreams of being tied down as his magic is peeled off of him like skin, every strip slow and white hot. There is blood running from every orifice and above him, old, hewn hands reach down to pluck more power up. When all of his magic has been stolen, he will go into shock and die. There is nothing he can do. He's an uninitiated witch and his magic isn't bound to him yet.
Deaton's best friend had died like this at age fourteen. Stiles has seen the photos and heard the story, and he's had this dream a thousand times.
Usually, the body on the ground beside him is his father, or his mother. Sometimes Deaton.
This time it's Derek. For some reason, his partially-severed head is wearing sunglasses.
He's neck-deep in his locker, changing out his textbook load and mentally reviewing what they're covering in his classes today and how badly he's going to be able to pay attention to each lesson, when a hand lands on his shoulder. Stiles jumps, drops the book in his hand, and simultaneously tries to raise and turn his head, which results in a painful double-slam against the wall and shelf of his locker.
"Motherfuck!" he spits, yanking his head out of his locker and whirling.
It's Derek, and he's snickering.
"You suck," Stiles tells him, scowling.
Derek's grin widens to show his teeth.
Stiles wonders what they look like when he's gone wolf. He's seen Mrs. Hale do it once, when he and Deaton had helped her track down a rogue Omega that had come through town, and it was pretty cool.
He bets it would be beyond cool on Derek. He bets it might be kinda hot, actually.
"You have AP World first, right?" Derek asks, as Stiles busies himself with retrieving his dropped textbooks.
"The fact that you know that-and that you tell me that after showing up randomly at my locker-is kind of really creepy, dude," Stiles informs him, stuffing books into my bag. "In case you were wondering. My Creep-O-Meter is definitely going off right now."
When he turns back around, zipping his backpack shut, Derek is looking unimpressed.
"Can I help you?" Stiles asks.
"AP World," Derek says, jerking his head in the direction of Stiles' class. "Let's go."
Slightly wary, and slightly excited despite himself, Stiles slams his locker closed and starts off for AP World with Derek at his side.
"Sooooo," says Stiles.
"So?" Derek replies.
"So," says Stiles, one more time, just to be obnoxious.
"Stiles."
Stiles' stomach twists a little. This is where attending the Stiles Stilinski School of Ignoring Your Problems Until They're in Your Face tends to fail him. Maybe he should consider enrolling in the Adrian Harris School of Blame Your Problems on a Hapless Innocent, instead.
"Look," he says. "Dude. You seem really cool and everything, but I can't. And I'm sorry. All right?"
"What do you mean, can't?" Derek asks, eyes narrowing.
Dammit. He totally should have practiced this last night.
"I mean that I can't," Stiles repeats. "Because… I am not interested. And I do not date people I am not interested in. Therefore, I cannot."
"You're lying," Derek says.
Fuck. Fucking werewolves and their fucking super-hearing.
"No, I'm not," Stiles lies, even as his heartbeat speeds up further.
"You were interested yesterday," Derek insists. "Your h-I know you were."
"And then I thought about it, and I decided I wasn't, all right? I'm too busy, I don't even know you, and-and you know what? It doesn't matter what the reason is. My answer is no."
They round the corner and nearly get trampled by a herd of gothic kids. Derek pulls Stiles out of the way at the last second, and brings them both to a stop at the safety of the opposite wall.
"Please," Derek says, and it's not at all like yesterday's 'bored now' please. He actually means it. "Just give me a chance. One date."
Fucking hell. Why can't a non-werewolf person be this interested in Stiles? Why can't Derek, the only person in Beacon Hills to not treat him like a sexual pariah, be a non-werewolf person? Why can't anything ever seem to work out in Stiles' favor?
"No," says Stiles.
"Is it the-the virginity thing?"
"Hey!"
"Sorry!" Derek says quickly. "Sorry, I didn't-just-"
"Oh my God!" Stiles explodes, actually flailing back with the force of it. "Do you not know how to take no for an answer? Is consent, like, a foreign concept? Because clearly you wouldn't recognize it if it was standing right in front of you, butt naked. And hey, gee, there's a thought-maybe this is why you have no friends! I said no, and you're not entitled to an explanation, you-you creepy asshole!"
And, hey, that rant had sort of gotten away from him. Especially considering the way that most of the people in the hallway have stopped to stare at them, and Derek's gone blank-faced and pale.
He definitely should have practiced this last night.
"Just leave me alone," Stiles forces out, and luckily it comes out as words and not vomit, and he turns on his heel and rushes off to AP World alone.
Stiles' magic had manifested a week after the death of his mother. Deaton had started training him immediately, since Stiles was shorting out all electronics within a five foot radius of his person, and one of the very first decrees Deaton had made had been that Stiles no longer had time to play after-school sports.
Two weeks later, Deaton realized exactly how much energy Stiles had when he wasn't burning it off in the school gym three days a week, and quickly produced a solution to the problem. So, while everyone else was playing basketball or running track after school, what did Stiles get to do?
Tap dance.
"Ow, ow, ow," Stiles mutters, hobbling off the tap mat and collapsing into the chair next to it he'd been using for lift. He pulls off his tap shoes, wiping sweat off his face with his free hand, and winces as he stretches his toes. "Can't we just take the cramp rolls out?"
"Sorry," Deaton replies, not looking even a little bit sympathetic to Stiles' toe-cramps.
Stiles makes a face and alternates between stretching his toes and massaging them vigorously.
"Five minutes, and we're starting," Deaton tells him, as he does every day after he's finished putting Stiles through his grueling tap sessions.
Stiles groans, but hobbles off to the bathroom to change clothes and splash his face with water.
Sometimes, when they work extra-hard during a tap lesson and Deaton doesn't have anything intense planned for the rest of the evening, Stiles gets a ten minute break. Today is not one of those days.
Deaton's waiting for him when he comes back with a load of supplies and a familiar book on the counter.
"What are we gonna do tonight, Brain?" Stiles asks.
Deaton raises his eyebrows. "Why don't you tell me?"
Stiles rolls his eyes, but surveys the contents of the table.
There are twelve little glass jars lined up, and a box of assorted nasty, sharp objects-nails, broken glass, needles, and sticks heavily covered in thorns. Beside that is a rack of little bottles, each containing a lock of hair and labeled with a one or two-digit number. Behind all of that is another little glass bottle containing something that looks a lot like blood. The book is titled Domestic Defense: Wards and Charms for Around the House.
"Protection charms?" Stiles finally guesses.
"Quite right," Deaton says, nodding.
"But don't those require…" Stiles makes a face. "Uh. Urine?"
Deaton smiles and hands him another water bottle.
"Right," says Stiles. "And is that blood in the little bottle? I thought blood and urine were on, like, equal levels of power in protection charms. Meaning no additive effects when put together."
"That's correct," Deaton says. "Except for one very special kind of blood."
Special kind of-
"Oh my God," says Stiles, recoiling. "Oh my God, are you seriously telling me that you have menstrual blood in a bottle?"
"We'll have to do a brief purification rite beforehand, to reform its tie to the Hale pack, but yes," Deaton confirms, unperturbed. "The effects of menstrual blood in protection charms are far superior to any other bodily fluid."
Stiles doesn't think the Harry Potter books would be half as popular if J.K. Rowling had written them about real magic.
"I don't even want to know how you get bottles of menstrual blood," Stiles says, trying very hard not to picture the ideas currently flying through his mind.
"If you'll start assembling the jars, please, I'll quiz you over your wards as you work," Deaton says. "There's a pair of protective gloves in the sink."
"Can't we just accept that I'm going to suck at wards forever?" Stiles complains, as he retrieves the gloves from the cupboard. "You said my mom wasn't great at them either. Clearly, Saderquists just aren't meant for defensive magic."
"You can do most of the basic ones, and I promise that the rest will come easily once you finish your totem," Deaton replies calmly.
"Yeah, on like, my deathbed," Stiles says bitterly. "Maybe I'm not meant to have a totem. Is that a thing? Are there witches without totems?"
"None who make it through the initiation rites. It will come to you, Stiles. There's no time limit."
"There's the time limit of my life," Stiles grouses.
Deaton lips twitch in a way that Stiles has come to know means that he's trying not to laugh. "Start filling the jars, please, and take me step-by-step through setting up a northern safety ward."
"Step one: find a witch who can actually cast wards," Stiles says.
"Stiles…"
Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs a fistful of sharp objects. "Okay, first you have to orient the ward to match the direction, imbuing the cardinal directions with the proper elements. Air is north, water is east, earth is south, and fire is west. Once you've done that, you start your rune pattern in a balanced shape. Begin with eihwaz…"
Stiles sits in the passenger seat of Deaton's car. Twelve jars filled with sharp, nasty things, hair, urine, and freaking menstrual blood, rattle gently in their box as the car pulls off the paved main road and onto the gravel drive that eventually leads to the Hale McMansion. Stiles grips the edges of the box. He really, really doesn't want any of the jars to break open.
Stiles fiddles with the ridiculously old and powerful golden bangle he has to wear around his wrist. It's called the protegi. It's essentially designed to protect uninitiated witches when they went out with their teachers, because not only does it make it impossible for anyone to recognize Stiles' person, but it also masks his scent and his heartbeat. The flipside, of course, is that when he's wearing it, he might as well be a Muggle for all the magic he can do.
Stiles doesn't like wearing it. But uninitiated witches are apparently like energy drinks for everyone else, unbound to their magic but still linked enough that the power-siphoning spell results in an excruciating death. So Stiles suffers through wearing the protegi every time he and Deaton go to visit the Hales.
"I think I should get Jedi robes," Stiles says as they drive through the woods. "And refer to you only as 'Master'."
Deaton doesn't reply, but Stiles sees him take in a breath. Probably for patience.
Stiles goes quiet for the rest of the drive. He's supposed to speak as little as possible during these outings, ostensibly because he's the student and he's supposed to be obedient and observing only, but also because there's no magic in the protegi to keep people from recognizing speech patterns, and Stiles' speech patterns are pretty damn distinct. In that he tends to speak. A lot.
When they finally pull up in front of the Hale house, the sun is beginning to set. Stiles carries the jars up to the front door, trailing behind Deaton, and wiling himself to be graceful for once in his life.
He manages not to trip and drop the box. Thank God.
Mrs. Hale answers the door before Deaton can even knock.
"Alan," she says warmly, stepping back to allow him in. "Thank you for coming out-and hello to your apprentice as well. Ben's in the living room, go on in."
Stiles nods as he passes her. She smiles at him, their eyes perfectly level because all of the Hales including Derek's mother are tall. They're also all beautiful-naturally beautiful, in a way that makes them look like they're humanity purified. It's sort of weird that non-humans end up looking like what actual humans spend thousands of dollars trying to achieve.
He wonders if that's an argument for werewolves being a sub-species of humanity, instead of a separate species. Hm.
"Here, let me take that," Mrs. Hale says, and before Stiles can protest she's taking the box out of his arms and leading him to the living room. Halfway there, they encounter Derek.
Stiles' heart forgets to beat. It's only after Derek completely ignores him in favor of his mother that Stiles remembers that he's wearing the protegi and Derek doesn't know who he is.
"I'm going for a run," Derek mutters to his mother, scowling. With his black jeans and his black t-shirt, he might as well have a freaking thundercloud above his head.
"All right," Mrs. Hale says, smiling despite Derek's startlingly good Johnny Raincloud impersonation. "Stay away from the roads and paths."
"I know," Derek snarls.
He storms out of the house, and slams the front door behind himself so hard that Stiles actually hears things rattle on the walls.
"Sorry about that," Mrs. Hale says with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Derek's just dealing with some good old fashioned teenage heartbreak right now."
It's a good thing Stiles is no longer holding the box of jars of sharp things, piss and menstrual blood.
Derek's what?
By the time Stiles opens his mouth to reply-probably with something disastrous and awful-Mrs. Hale is already continuing on to the living room. That's probably for the best.
…Derek Hale is heartbroken over him?
Stiles is still reeling a bit when he reaches the living room. He sits on the loveseat next to Deaton-or, rather, he sinks down into it, because the Hales have the most wonderfully plush furniture ever-and nods to Mr. Hale, who's seated next to his wife on the sofa, their fingers loosely threaded together.
Mrs. Hale wears her wedding ring on the middle finger of her left hand, because she's missing her ring finger. Stiles doesn't know how it happened, only that Mrs. Hale refers to it as her 'lucky finger' and frequently shares affectionate glances with her husband when she mentions it.
"I'm not sure what you'll want to do," Mrs. Hale says to Deaton, her voice calm despite her words. "We don't have anything concrete to give you, just a general feeling of… something else. Something not right. And a strange scent in the air, sometimes."
"Can you describe the scent?" Deaton asks.
Mrs. Hale shakes her head. "Something chemical. Manmade. It would be easier to just share it."
Deaton nods. "Of course. While we're doing that, would you mind if I sent my apprentice around the house to check on the wards? I could tell driving up to the house that they've been weakened."
"Weakened?" Mr. Hale repeats, blue eyes zeroing in on Deaton with new focus. "What does that mean?"
"It means that your concerns are definitely not unfounded," Deaton replies. He shakes his head. "It could mean other witches, possibly working with hunters, or it could mean a variety of magical creatures. I'm not sure at this point"
"It's more likely to be witches, though, isn't it? Elizabeth would have noticed another creature on the territory," Mr. Hale points out.
"She should have, yes," Deaton says, his eyes flickering to Mrs. Hale.
"So what do we do against witches?" Mr. Hale asks.
Mrs. Hale squeezes her husband's hand.
If it's other witches, they could be in trouble. Deaton is excellent at defensive magic, but he only has himself and an apprentice who doesn't even have a totem completed yet. Stiles has never faced off against more than one witch, and he doesn't know how they would fare against an entire coven of witches. How much magic can a coven even generate?
But then Deaton says, "If it's witches, I wouldn't be worried. Any witch with enough power to be a threat would know of our pact, and they would know of me. And they would know that I am not friendless."
So apparently Deaton can totally take down an entire coven of witches.
Apparently this is something Deaton never bothered to mention in the three years that he's been teaching Stiles.
"Can you go and check the wards, please?" Deaton asks, turning to Stiles. "When you're finished, let me know which need attention. After that we'll set the protection charms around the house, and do a brief circle to see if we can sense any specific negative energies around the house."
"Yes," says Stiles, getting to his feet. He waits a beat, turns back to Deaton, and then gives a short bow. "…Master."
Deaton looks very close to face-palming.
Stiles has been checking wards for almost thirty minutes, while Deaton is inside doing his were-Vulcan mind meld with Mrs. Hale, when Derek appears from around the side of the house.
He's lost his shirt somewhere on his run.
And he's sweaty.
Jesus.
Thank God for Stiles' magical bracelet that hides his heartbeat and scent, and thank God for the long plaid flannel that is conveniently hiding his crotch right now.
"My mother says to meet them in the shed when you've finished," Derek informs him, rather sourly.
Stiles nods, and then pulls the ward back to the surface of the house so he can continue studying it. He means to find the place where he'd left off before Derek had distracted him, but before he can he's distracted again by the fact that Derek hasn't left yet.
"So your mom said that you're having love life problems," Stiles blurts out.
Derek's expression is instantly cloudy, with a chance of murder.
"Yeah, fuck off," he snarls, and he starts to stomp off.
"No-just, I'm sorry to hear that!" Stiles calls desperately, almost moving after him before remembering that he has the magical threads of the wards grasped in his hand. "I wasn't gonna make fun of you or anything! Heartbreak sucks. I am a hotel of heartbreak, man, I totally get it."
Derek looks over his shoulder, and there is now only a fifty percent chance of murder.
"Sorry," Stiles apologizes, somewhat sincere but mostly not wanting Derek to be more upset than he already is. "Okay? Change of subject now? I didn't mean to sound like I thought it was funny."
"Well, my family thinks it's real fucking hilarious," Derek mutters, turning back around. His eyes flicker between Stiles and the shimmering wards on the side of the house. "What are you doing?"
"Uh," says Stiles. "I don't know if I'm allowed to tell you that."
Derek's expression becomes pinched.
Stiles tries to come up with something else to talk about, to the person he's definitely not supposed to be talking to in the first place, and fails. But he does want to say something. He knows what it's like when someone's keeping information from him (though there's nothing like "You're a wizard, Stiles!" to take the wind out of your sails). It's pretty much the worst thing in the world.
"I'm not really supposed to be talking to you," he ends up saying.
Derek stares, slightly incredulous.
"But, um," Stiles verbally flails, "uh, we can. If you want. Or if you don't want."
"Are we having a conversation or not?" Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.
"You're the one who isn't leaving," Stiles points out.
Derek rolls his eyes. "You're the one who keeps talking."
"It's a compulsion, okay?" Stiles says defensively. "If people are present, I will talk. It's a sickness, man. If you want me to stop talking, you've gotta leave."
"Fine," Derek says, raising his hands up in the air. "I'm leaving."
"Right. And I'm stopping," Stiles agrees. "See? Compulsion is going away."
"Only you're still talking," Derek says amusedly.
"Oh my God, only because you're encouraging me!"
Derek grins, and disappears around the side of the house.
Across the yard, Stiles abruptly notices that Mr. and Mrs. Hale are walking with Deaton, and boy oh boy, Deaton does not look pleased. This is worse than I-sent-your-stool-up-in-flames trouble. Stiles might even venture to say that this is worse than I-sent-my-tap-shoe-through-your-computer-monitor trouble.
Why does it always have to suck to be Stiles?
Stiles gives Deaton the list of all the wards that need updating, and while Deaton goes off to fix them, Stiles gets to bury the protection charms at strategic locations around the yard. The two youngest Hale children, Cassie and Linus, are very obviously pretending to play outside in order to spy on what Stiles is doing digging around in their yard. They keep moving their game of catch so that they're strategically in view of Stiles every time he moves to plant a new jar.
Stiles is majorly tempted to let them peek for a moment and tell them the craziest story he can think of about what the jars are for-especially because Linus is literally the most adorable six-year-old Harry Potter look-alike ever, with unruly black hair and wide green eyes. If Stiles wasn't already in so much trouble, he probably would have called them over.
Deaton gives him the stink-eye as they set up their circle.
"Poor emotions make a poor circle," Stiles remarks, and then promptly regrets the existence of his vocal cords at the look Deaton gives him. "Okay. Shutting up now."
Luckily, the stink-eye goes away when, halfway through the circle they realize that the Hale McMansion is literally surrounded by the Energies of Death.
(Okay, so Deaton actually calls it 'energies that are fading', but Stiles' name is way cooler.)
"It's the trees," Deaton tells Mr. and Mrs. Hale, as they stare at one.
It's not immediately obvious, but yes, the leaves on the tree are slightly brown and withered. Stiles thinks it's slightly less obvious because all of the other trees bordering the Hale McMansion-and that is a lot of trees-look the same way, so there's no contrast to catch the eye's attention. They're all dying.
"Is it a spell?" Mr. Hale asks.
Deaton shakes his head, running a hand cautiously near the tree's bark but not actually touching. "There's no focus to the energy, nothing that's draining it. I think-" He leans in for a sniff, but then almost immediately jerks his head back.
Stiles and the Hales tense instantly.
"Alan?" Mrs. Hale asks cautiously.
Deaton raises one finger, and a second later there's a tiny flame floating above it. Stiles definitely can't do that. If Stiles tried to do that, he'd end up starting a forest fire. But Deaton can, and he takes his finger-flame and slowly, carefully, moves it toward the bark of the tree.
Two inches away from the bark, the flame goes out.
"The oxygen is gone," Deaton says, withdrawing his finger. The flame flickers back to life. "There's some sort of barrier around the tree, preventing oxygen from crossing."
"But it's not a spell," Mr. Hale confirms.
Deaton and Stiles shake their heads at the same time. It can't be a spell, even Stiles knows that, because if it was there'd be an anchor and this tree has nothing. Not even the slightest trace of a rune.
"I'm not sure what it is," Deaton says. "But it doesn't seem to penetrate too far into the forest-only the trees closest to your house."
Mr. and Mrs. Hale glance at each other.
"I'll start researching it immediately," Deaton promises, letting his finger-flame die out. "And I'll contact a few of my friends as well. In the meantime, try to stay in the house-or at least within the boundaries of the protection charms-as much as possible. I've set a watch on the wards, which will let me know if they start to fail again."
Stiles would have finished off with a "Stay safe," or a "Call me if anything happens," but Deaton just gives one final nod and then leaves. Because he's already in a shitload of trouble, Stiles just nods as well and then hurries after him.
Part 2
Author: bookgodess15
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: All Stiles wants from life is to learn to control his magic, keep his grades up, and not die horribly while saving Beacon Hills from supernatural threats. It's all going pretty well until Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, has to go and ask him on a date. That asshole.
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf & Co.
Warnings: Possible non-sexual humiliation/embarrassment squick. Highlight for details. Stiles makes a naked apology speech to Derek in the school cafeteria. It is of his own free will, there is no laughing/jeering, and Derek does not shame or reject him. However, it's still a scene of humiliation.
Notes: SO MANY THANKS. Thank you, first and foremost, to verity and fleete for all of their hard work on this story, and for pushing me to make it the absolute best it could be. This story literally would not be without them. Thank you also to shinealightonme for teaching me how to tap dance, piscaria for the Latin translations, to maeve100 for sharing my Kelly Clarkson brainwaves, to the teenwolfwriters community for the feedback on Derek, the little_details community for the Game of Thrones suggestions, and to everyone who was in the army of pre-readers I accidentally amassed. You are all the best a writer could ever ask for.
Also, tucked into this fic are references to... well, lots of things. Mostly TV shows and internet things. Feel free to call me out on them.
a thousand fiery suns of angst-just hit play
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Stiles yells, skidding into the dining room and flinging himself into his chair at the table. "Deaton kept me late preparing for Saturday, and oh my God I think my stomach has actually started to eat itself that is how hungry I am. Oh my God, food. Food. Yes yes yes yes-"
He cuts himself off as he stuffs his entire serving of mashed potatoes-a portion approximately the size of his fist-into his mouth.
His father looks up from the paper, eyebrows raised. "Stiles. You're almost forty minutes late."
"Ah knoh," Stiles says through mashed potatoes, and swallows. "I'm really sorry. But, you know, Deaton…"
"You could have texted," his father points out.
Stiles winces. "Uh. Yeah. About that."
"Another one? Are you kidding me right now?"
Well, crap.
"Heh. Good thing we've got that insurance, right?" Stiles tries weakly.
"You can only use it twice a year, Stiles," he father grinds out, one hand on his forehead. "This would be your third."
"Crap."
His father looks up in resignation. "Is there any hope of doing some kind of home repair? Are we talking water-logged, a cracked screen, slightly melted… What?"
"Uh." Stiles grips his plate in case he has to run for it. He's still starving, and if he's going to flee for his life, he's bringing food with him. "The words 'extra crispy' might come to mind."
"Do you want to tell me how that happened?"
"Not really."
"Stiles."
"You asked," Stiles says indignantly.
His father has that look on his face. The 'if I had a TARDIS, I'd go back in time and switch my son out for a different one before we left the hospital' look. Or, you know, he would be thinking that, if he didn't have the worst taste in television ever.
"Deaton thought it would be good motivation for learning control," Stiles mumbles. "You know, with the-bracelet totem thing I'm supposed to be making. So he put an apple on top of my phone and told me to hit the apple with my whole column-of-flames thing, and… well, I hit the apple."
"And the phone," his father sighs.
"And the stool," Stiles adds. "Which isn't so much a stool anymore as it is a pile of ash. Deaton was definitely mad about that. Does that help?"
"No."
"Oh." Stiles forgoes his fork and knife and eats the chicken breast with his fingers.
He pulls the loaf of bread to within grabbing distance.
"I'll get you a new phone after work tomorrow," his father says, in a tone that makes Stiles feel simultaneously very guilty and very, very happy that he isn't going to have to make a break for it with his dinner.
"Sorry," Stiles says.
He really is. It's just that every time he sits down to start on the bracelet, Deaton's instructions of "You'll know which braids and knots feel right for you," make it impossible. He just sits there and waits for his fingers to start moving of their own accord-since that's apparently what he's supposed to do-and his fingers never do. Except to stray over to his laptop to hit the Random button again on XKCD.
"So, other than failing to roast an apple, what else did you get up to today?" his father asks tiredly, changing the subject because he is the best father in the world.
Stiles shrugs. "Nothing. School. Scott has managed to keep himself alive for another day, the cafeteria still has taco sauce instead of ketchup because they think we don't notice-we totally do-Harris still hates me, and I-oh!" Stiles perks up. "So, Deaton was telling me that there's this massive debate right now between the magical peoples of America and, you know, everywhere else, about how to classify magical creatures scientifically. You know how in our normal organization system we have domain, kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus and species?"
His father blinks. "Uh. Sure."
So of course Stiles has to then launch into this history of the creation of the scientific naming system, and it's evolution over the decades, and reel off half a dozen examples of each level, before he can even get started on the magical naming system.
"Stiles," his father interrupts, fifteen minutes in. He looks pained, for some reason. "I really have to-"
"No, I haven't even gotten to the cool part! Don't you want to hear?" Stiles asks, face falling.
His father sighs and sits back in his chair. "Summarize, Stiles."
"But you really have to understand the whole scope of it in order to appreciate just how cool this is! Because, see, you'd think that this classification system would be stagnant, right? Like, that's why it was created. But then you have to consider evolutionary relationships…"
Scott pops a fry into his mouth, and then makes a hilariously disgusted face as he chews.
"Seriously," Stiles says, rolling his eyes from across the table. "You know it's not actually ketchup."
"But I want it to be," Scott moans, staring at the orange-red puddle on his lunch tray pitifully.
"I have no pity for you," Stiles informs him. "None. Do you see this face? This is a pity-free face right here."
Scott eats another taco-sauce-covered fry, and makes the face again. Honestly, it's no wonder they're sitting alone in the cafeteria.
"You know insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different outcome?" Stiles asks.
"But the day they finally bring the ketchup back-" Scott levels a fry at him, dripping red-orange gloop. "-I will be the first person to enjoy it."
"If your palate hasn't been completely destroyed from years of eating that orange shit."
"Dude, you have no room to talk. I've seen you eat Cheez Whiz after scooping the mold out of it. Also, Derek Hale is coming over here."
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "And I care… why?"
"Uh, because he's a year older than us, he's somewhat cool, he's coming this way, and he's looking at you," Scott hisses.
Stiles makes a skeptical face and turns to look-only to be faced with Derek Hale making a direct line for their lunch table. There's an easy, confident bounce in his step, the sort that comes from being six feet of tanned, lean muscle wrapped in denim and leather, and when he sees that Stiles looking at him, he smiles.
"Oooookay," Stiles says under his breath, as Derek approaches.
He glances at Scott, who shrugs and eats another fry.
Stiles has never actually spoken to Derek. He knows that Derek is on the lacrosse team with Scott and, like Scott, didn't 'go bro' like most school athletes do when they join up. He also knows that Derek hangs out with his older sister Laura and a kid named Boyd, and that Derek is a Hale and a werewolf.
He actually feels kind of weird not knowing very much about him, considering that he and Deaton also go over to the Hales' a few times a month and are charged with protecting the entire pack. But the Hale children are always kept out of any discussions they have, and Stiles has to wear the protegi the whole time anyway, which is specifically designed to keep anyone from recognizing him.
There's a brief spike of terror in his heart as Stiles wonders if the Hales have somehow found out, and Derek is here to relay a message-but that's impossible. Literally two people in the world know his identity, and both of them would die before giving it up. He's fine. Derek has no idea.
Derek approaches their table and stops.
"Hi," he says.
It takes Stiles a second to calculate the probability that he's accidentally woken up in an alternate universe.
The probability is very low.
"Hey?" Stiles replies, both eyebrows raised now.
"What are you doing Saturday night?" Derek asks, and-
What.
What.
Stiles brain trips over itself and he blurts out the very first thing he thinks of, which is: "That's what you're going to open with? Not, like, 'Hi my name is…?'"
Derek raises an eyebrow. "You don't know my name?"
"Of course I know your name. That isn't the point. The point is that you can't just-" Stiles' brain catches up with his mouth. "Wait, did you just ask what I was doing on Saturday night?"
Because Stiles knows exactly where he's going to be on Saturday night, and it's at the Hale house with Deaton, because Mrs. Hale asked them to come out.
Oh, God. What if Derek does know?
Stiles remembers too late that Deaton had said that werewolves have crazy-enhanced senses that can hear heartbeats and shit, and a second later Derek's frowning at him.
"Uh," says Stiles.
Derek would probably think it was weird if Stiles started doing deep breathing exercises.
"…Why?"
Derek grins, clearly amused. "Because I want to take you out, dumbass."
"Oh, good," Stiles breathes, relief flooding him for approximately half a second. "Wait, what?"
"On a date," Derek elaborates, which, yes, Stiles got that, thank you very much. "There's a drive-in an hour away that's doing a classic horror movie marathon on Saturday. Sound cool?"
- That sounds fucking awesome. Of course it does. Because:
- This is the first time that anyone has asked Stiles out since the sixth grade, and the person asking him out is stupidly sexy and has a stupidly sexy car, and while Stiles has never exactly thought about what it would be like to kiss Derek Hale in his Camaro, he's sure as hell thinking about it now. Unfortunately:
- Stiles is going to be busy on Saturday night with Derek's parents.
- That sounds kind of dirty. Ew.
- Also, there is no way that Deaton or his father would ever let him date Derek because of the whole secret-identity thing.
Once again, it sucks to be Stiles.
"Yeeeeaah," Stiles says. "Um. Actually, that sounds amazing and I would love to, but… I can't. Sorry."
Scott is staring at him, slack-jawed.
"Oh," says Derek, looking disappointed. "Well, we could do something another time? Are you free Sunday afternoon?"
"No," Stiles lies.
Derek frowns.
Fuck. Werewolves can hear heartbeats. They know when people are lying.
Stiles is so fucked.
"Hey, look dude, I've got a test fifth period that I've really got to study for," Stiles says, diving for the first textbook he can find in his backpack. "Sorry. Talk about this later, okay?"
Derek looks bewildered, and more than a little annoyed.
Stiles slams the book onto the table and opens it to a random page, hunching over it and placing his finger on a line like he hasn't had to do since ever, because he was always the best reader in the class. Whatever. Derek doesn't know that. Derek's never even spoken to him before today.
"What the hell, dude?" Scott demands in a whisper, as soon as Derek leaves. "Why didn't you say yes? I thought you said you were bi?"
Stiles looks up but keeps his body hunched over the book, and when he speaks, he keeps his voice at a whisper. "Okay, Derek and I are two very different types of bisexuals. Derek has a fake ID and a distinct lack of virginity. I have lots of alone time in my bedroom. Do you see why it makes no sense for him to ask me out?"
Scott shakes his head. "No. I mean, everyone has to start somewhere, right? And it's not like you walk around with a giant V on your forehead."
Stiles gives him a look.
"Except for that one time at Rocky Horror, when you went up on stage and had a fake-"
"We agreed never to speak of that," Stiles interrupts, feeling his face heat at the very memory. "The point is, I want to go out with someone who actually likes me, not someone who heard I was bi and thought he'd take me for a test drive."
"You think he-" Scott doesn't even finish his sentence, just wrinkles his nose and looks in the general direction in which Derek had disappeared.
"Why else would he come up out of the blue and ask me out?"
Scott shrugs. "Maybe he likes you."
"Yeah, and maybe your hand being larger than your face actually does mean you have cancer."
Scott starts to lift his hand.
"Oh my god, Scott, put your hand down."
Stiles is waiting in a line of cars to exit the student parking lot-a business that takes ten minutes on good days and forty on bad days when no one has any meetings, rehearsals or practices to delay them-when there's a knock on his window.
Derek Hale. Of course. And he's wearing sunglasses, now.
Stiles turns down the radio and rolls down the window.
"Can I help you?" he asks, trying and failing to keep his heart rate from speeding up.
"I was wondering if I could catch a ride," Derek says.
"What, to your house?" Stiles says incredulously.
"No, to my car," Derek replies, gesturing down the line of cars. His Camaro is parked about twenty spots down, and stands no chance of backing out for at least fifteen minutes. "Miller let us out late, so I'm going to be the last person out of the parking lot anyway."
Stiles should say no.
"Please," says Derek, in a 'bored now' sort of tone.
"Oh, God-fine. Get in," Stiles says, disgusted with himself and his self control. Or lack thereof.
He tells himself that it's okay, because normally he'd be texting Scott or playing Angry Birds to entertain himself during the After School Traffic Jamapalooza, but he doesn't currently have a phone. What else is he supposed to do?
Derek climbs in, settling his backpack on the floor of the Jeep with a thump.
"So... do you creepily know what my car looks like, or did you wander around until you saw me sitting in the driver's seat?" Stiles asks.
"Everyone knows your car," Derek answers easily. "Between the obnoxious color and the fact that it's thirty years older than everyone else's, it's hard to miss."
"Hey!" Stiles protests, putting a hand on the dashboard. "There is nothing wrong with my car! The color is cool, okay? First, I can always find it in a parking lot, and second, I can call it the Blueberry. Which I do. Plus, it was free, and you really can't beat a free car."
"Your speedometer stops at ninety," Derek says.
"Which would be a problem, if I was using this to try to win drag races. Luckily, I aspire to not be killed before the age of twenty by either a car crash or my father, so I steer clear."
Heh. Steer clear.
Stiles is an artisan of words.
The car in front of Stiles moves a foot forward. A truck still stuck in its parking spot looks like it's about to make a bid to back out and place yet another car between Stiles and his freedom, which is unacceptable. Stiles lets off the brake and hurriedly closes the gap.
"So," says Stiles, "Stalky McStalkerson. What brings you to my perfectly fine and, quite frankly, fucking awesome car?"
"I wanted to finish our conversation from lunch. The one that ended in you lying to me about having a test."
"Oh. My. God. You are actually a stalker."
"No, idiot. But I know you're in gym this semester, which only has one test and it's at the end of the year, and sophomores have gym fifth period."
Stiles blinks. "Whoa. Okay. You're actually kind of not a total moron."
"High praise from King Stilinski," Derek remarks dryly.
"You have to admit, there is a definite correlation between muscle mass and IQ at this school. Except Scott. He doesn't have either, poor guy."
Derek eyes him. Maybe. It's hard to tell with the sunglasses. "You've got muscle under there."
"Dude, I struggle to pick up my backpack on a daily basis," Stiles says. "Also, way to admit you've been checking me out."
"Look," says Derek, as Stiles pulls the car up another foot. "I-I'm not actually a stalker, okay? I like you."
"Yeah. Right," says Stiles, suddenly sour. "I know how this goes, so let me just cut you off. I'm attractive enough that you'd want to have sex with me, but too awkward or weird or annoying to actually date, so you want to feed me some bullshit, take me on two dates, fuck me and dump me."
Derek blinks, looking dumbfounded.
"Yeah, I called you on it," Stiles says. "It's okay. No big. There's plenty of other fish in the sea."
"No, you-Jesus, you're an asshole," Derek says disbelievingly.
"Uh, excuse me? Which one of us was trying to trick me out of my virginity just now-"
"I'm not trying to trick you out of your-fuck, Stiles, I want to date you! I like you!"
"Excuse me for being a little skeptical, considering the fact that up until yesterday we've never spoken," Stiles shoots back.
"We had accounting together last semester," Derek protests.
Stiles pauses. "Oh. Hey. We did. But we've still never spoken!"
Derek shrugs, and Stiles notices for the first time that he looks awkward. Huh.
"You and Scott were in it," Derek all but mutters. "And I… Fuck, can't you just accept that I like you? You're smart and funny and cute. All of the normal reasons that someone would want to date you."
"No, let's go back to the part with Scott," Stiles says. "You don't, like, think that Scott and I are together and you're getting in on some kind of threesome, right?"
"What? No," Derek says, staring at Stiles incredulously. "Seriously?"
Stiles shrugs. He moves up a whole six feet in line, careful to keep the distance between his Jeep and the car in front of him.
Derek sighs. "Okay. Fuck. It's just that you-you were always Scott's partner in class, even though you knew that Polawski didn't give individual grades. And I know you helped him study for all of the tests, and you worked on him with his homework, and gave him your notes and… everything."
"Yeeeah?" says Stiles. "And? Scott's my friend."
"I've never had friends like that," Derek replies, quietly.
That throws Stiles for long enough that he actually misses a car pulling out in front of him-and it's Jackson Whittemore's fucking Porsche, of course it is-and now he's stuck behind another person.
Wonderful.
"Fuck," Stiles mutters, resisting the urge to honk his horn because (a) Jackson will probably get out of the car and kill him, and (b) Stiles' horn sounds like a duck with a head cold.
"Uh," Stiles adds, after a second, when he remembers Derek. "Not you. Jackson Whittemore. That's, uh-that sucks."
Derek looks unimpressed.
Right. Stiles is supposed to agree to date him, now that he's pestered this embarrassing, personal confession out of him.
"…not even Boyd?" he tries weakly. "Don't you two hang out?"
"Only because there's no one else," Derek says, very matter-of-fact. "Boyd would abandon me in a hot second if he got a better offer."
"But, like, never? No one?"
Derek shrugs. "I got tired of pretending to like total morons just so that I could say I had friends."
"But… you don't think I'm a moron," Stiles says slowly.
"You're a lot smarter than you muscle-IQ theory would indicate," Derek replies.
Stiles blinks.
"Wow," he says eventually. "Okay. So that was officially the most convoluted compliment I've ever received."
"You're welcome," says Derek. "Also, cute, smart, funny, etcetera. Like I said before."
"Seriously, though, I don't know what you think is under all these t-shirts."
"Muscle," Derek replies.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. But if this is what you define as being muscled, then I'd hate to know what sort of adjectives you'd use to describe yourself."
"Stiles…" Derek sighs. "Look, I told you why I was interested. Give me a yes or a no."
"Pushy, pushy," Stiles complains.
"Yes or no."
"Oh, look, it's your car!" Stiles says brightly, as he moves the Jeep forward another few feet.
"Stiles."
He sighs, and tries not to slump back in his seat. "Can I get a night to think it over?"
There's a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at war with the warm, spindly web of hope in his chest. He knows that he has to say no, but he can't say it right now. Not like this. Not now.
"Fine," Derek agrees, though he doesn't look thrilled a making the concession. "I don't know what there is to think about, though."
"You'd be surprised," Stiles says. "Now, out. Leave me to my thoughts."
Derek huffs and collects his backpack, but doesn't slam the door of the Jeep when he leaves. Stiles appreciates that. Not even Scott remembers to be gentle with his baby.
Stiles' father presents him with his new phone that night.
"What is that? Is that even a cell phone?" Stiles demands, staring at the veritable brick he's just been handed.
"Yes," his father replies. "It was free, in fact."
"There's no keyboard! How am I supposed to text? Can this thing even text? Where's the camera?"
His father smirks.
"Seriously, Dad," Stiles says, as he pulls out a freaking antenna. "You don't actually expect me to use this."
"Consider it motivation," his father replies, with a disgustingly smug look on his face, "to finish your totem and learn control."
"You are the worst."
"The number for reporting child abuse is on the fridge."
"Don't think I won't call it!"
"You can even use your new phone."
Stiles doesn't call. He goes up to his room and tries to make his stupid totem thing, but after an hour of braiding and knotting, and unbraiding and unknotting, he gives up. Again.
He flops onto his bed with a heavy sigh. Derek pops into his mind for probably the hundredth time since he'd kicked Derek out of his car, but he pushes the thoughts away.
The thing is, there isn't actually anything to think about. Derek is a werewolf. Stiles is secretly a witch, and he needs to stay secretly a witch, otherwise his life and the lives of everyone who knows his identity, are at risk. Stiles cannot date Derek. Even if he wanted to.
Which maybe he does.
Maybe.
Probably.
Who is he kidding, of course he wants to.
"Daaaaaad!" Stiles moans, splayed out on his bed. "My life is hard!"
There's a pause.
"How about a whamburger and some French cries to soothe the pain away?" his father calls back, probably from the living room.
Stiles rolls over to faceplant into his pillow.
He dreams of being tied down as his magic is peeled off of him like skin, every strip slow and white hot. There is blood running from every orifice and above him, old, hewn hands reach down to pluck more power up. When all of his magic has been stolen, he will go into shock and die. There is nothing he can do. He's an uninitiated witch and his magic isn't bound to him yet.
Deaton's best friend had died like this at age fourteen. Stiles has seen the photos and heard the story, and he's had this dream a thousand times.
Usually, the body on the ground beside him is his father, or his mother. Sometimes Deaton.
This time it's Derek. For some reason, his partially-severed head is wearing sunglasses.
He's neck-deep in his locker, changing out his textbook load and mentally reviewing what they're covering in his classes today and how badly he's going to be able to pay attention to each lesson, when a hand lands on his shoulder. Stiles jumps, drops the book in his hand, and simultaneously tries to raise and turn his head, which results in a painful double-slam against the wall and shelf of his locker.
"Motherfuck!" he spits, yanking his head out of his locker and whirling.
It's Derek, and he's snickering.
"You suck," Stiles tells him, scowling.
Derek's grin widens to show his teeth.
Stiles wonders what they look like when he's gone wolf. He's seen Mrs. Hale do it once, when he and Deaton had helped her track down a rogue Omega that had come through town, and it was pretty cool.
He bets it would be beyond cool on Derek. He bets it might be kinda hot, actually.
"You have AP World first, right?" Derek asks, as Stiles busies himself with retrieving his dropped textbooks.
"The fact that you know that-and that you tell me that after showing up randomly at my locker-is kind of really creepy, dude," Stiles informs him, stuffing books into my bag. "In case you were wondering. My Creep-O-Meter is definitely going off right now."
When he turns back around, zipping his backpack shut, Derek is looking unimpressed.
"Can I help you?" Stiles asks.
"AP World," Derek says, jerking his head in the direction of Stiles' class. "Let's go."
Slightly wary, and slightly excited despite himself, Stiles slams his locker closed and starts off for AP World with Derek at his side.
"Sooooo," says Stiles.
"So?" Derek replies.
"So," says Stiles, one more time, just to be obnoxious.
"Stiles."
Stiles' stomach twists a little. This is where attending the Stiles Stilinski School of Ignoring Your Problems Until They're in Your Face tends to fail him. Maybe he should consider enrolling in the Adrian Harris School of Blame Your Problems on a Hapless Innocent, instead.
"Look," he says. "Dude. You seem really cool and everything, but I can't. And I'm sorry. All right?"
"What do you mean, can't?" Derek asks, eyes narrowing.
Dammit. He totally should have practiced this last night.
"I mean that I can't," Stiles repeats. "Because… I am not interested. And I do not date people I am not interested in. Therefore, I cannot."
"You're lying," Derek says.
Fuck. Fucking werewolves and their fucking super-hearing.
"No, I'm not," Stiles lies, even as his heartbeat speeds up further.
"You were interested yesterday," Derek insists. "Your h-I know you were."
"And then I thought about it, and I decided I wasn't, all right? I'm too busy, I don't even know you, and-and you know what? It doesn't matter what the reason is. My answer is no."
They round the corner and nearly get trampled by a herd of gothic kids. Derek pulls Stiles out of the way at the last second, and brings them both to a stop at the safety of the opposite wall.
"Please," Derek says, and it's not at all like yesterday's 'bored now' please. He actually means it. "Just give me a chance. One date."
Fucking hell. Why can't a non-werewolf person be this interested in Stiles? Why can't Derek, the only person in Beacon Hills to not treat him like a sexual pariah, be a non-werewolf person? Why can't anything ever seem to work out in Stiles' favor?
"No," says Stiles.
"Is it the-the virginity thing?"
"Hey!"
"Sorry!" Derek says quickly. "Sorry, I didn't-just-"
"Oh my God!" Stiles explodes, actually flailing back with the force of it. "Do you not know how to take no for an answer? Is consent, like, a foreign concept? Because clearly you wouldn't recognize it if it was standing right in front of you, butt naked. And hey, gee, there's a thought-maybe this is why you have no friends! I said no, and you're not entitled to an explanation, you-you creepy asshole!"
And, hey, that rant had sort of gotten away from him. Especially considering the way that most of the people in the hallway have stopped to stare at them, and Derek's gone blank-faced and pale.
He definitely should have practiced this last night.
"Just leave me alone," Stiles forces out, and luckily it comes out as words and not vomit, and he turns on his heel and rushes off to AP World alone.
Stiles' magic had manifested a week after the death of his mother. Deaton had started training him immediately, since Stiles was shorting out all electronics within a five foot radius of his person, and one of the very first decrees Deaton had made had been that Stiles no longer had time to play after-school sports.
Two weeks later, Deaton realized exactly how much energy Stiles had when he wasn't burning it off in the school gym three days a week, and quickly produced a solution to the problem. So, while everyone else was playing basketball or running track after school, what did Stiles get to do?
Tap dance.
"Ow, ow, ow," Stiles mutters, hobbling off the tap mat and collapsing into the chair next to it he'd been using for lift. He pulls off his tap shoes, wiping sweat off his face with his free hand, and winces as he stretches his toes. "Can't we just take the cramp rolls out?"
"Sorry," Deaton replies, not looking even a little bit sympathetic to Stiles' toe-cramps.
Stiles makes a face and alternates between stretching his toes and massaging them vigorously.
"Five minutes, and we're starting," Deaton tells him, as he does every day after he's finished putting Stiles through his grueling tap sessions.
Stiles groans, but hobbles off to the bathroom to change clothes and splash his face with water.
Sometimes, when they work extra-hard during a tap lesson and Deaton doesn't have anything intense planned for the rest of the evening, Stiles gets a ten minute break. Today is not one of those days.
Deaton's waiting for him when he comes back with a load of supplies and a familiar book on the counter.
"What are we gonna do tonight, Brain?" Stiles asks.
Deaton raises his eyebrows. "Why don't you tell me?"
Stiles rolls his eyes, but surveys the contents of the table.
There are twelve little glass jars lined up, and a box of assorted nasty, sharp objects-nails, broken glass, needles, and sticks heavily covered in thorns. Beside that is a rack of little bottles, each containing a lock of hair and labeled with a one or two-digit number. Behind all of that is another little glass bottle containing something that looks a lot like blood. The book is titled Domestic Defense: Wards and Charms for Around the House.
"Protection charms?" Stiles finally guesses.
"Quite right," Deaton says, nodding.
"But don't those require…" Stiles makes a face. "Uh. Urine?"
Deaton smiles and hands him another water bottle.
"Right," says Stiles. "And is that blood in the little bottle? I thought blood and urine were on, like, equal levels of power in protection charms. Meaning no additive effects when put together."
"That's correct," Deaton says. "Except for one very special kind of blood."
Special kind of-
"Oh my God," says Stiles, recoiling. "Oh my God, are you seriously telling me that you have menstrual blood in a bottle?"
"We'll have to do a brief purification rite beforehand, to reform its tie to the Hale pack, but yes," Deaton confirms, unperturbed. "The effects of menstrual blood in protection charms are far superior to any other bodily fluid."
Stiles doesn't think the Harry Potter books would be half as popular if J.K. Rowling had written them about real magic.
"I don't even want to know how you get bottles of menstrual blood," Stiles says, trying very hard not to picture the ideas currently flying through his mind.
"If you'll start assembling the jars, please, I'll quiz you over your wards as you work," Deaton says. "There's a pair of protective gloves in the sink."
"Can't we just accept that I'm going to suck at wards forever?" Stiles complains, as he retrieves the gloves from the cupboard. "You said my mom wasn't great at them either. Clearly, Saderquists just aren't meant for defensive magic."
"You can do most of the basic ones, and I promise that the rest will come easily once you finish your totem," Deaton replies calmly.
"Yeah, on like, my deathbed," Stiles says bitterly. "Maybe I'm not meant to have a totem. Is that a thing? Are there witches without totems?"
"None who make it through the initiation rites. It will come to you, Stiles. There's no time limit."
"There's the time limit of my life," Stiles grouses.
Deaton lips twitch in a way that Stiles has come to know means that he's trying not to laugh. "Start filling the jars, please, and take me step-by-step through setting up a northern safety ward."
"Step one: find a witch who can actually cast wards," Stiles says.
"Stiles…"
Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs a fistful of sharp objects. "Okay, first you have to orient the ward to match the direction, imbuing the cardinal directions with the proper elements. Air is north, water is east, earth is south, and fire is west. Once you've done that, you start your rune pattern in a balanced shape. Begin with eihwaz…"
Stiles sits in the passenger seat of Deaton's car. Twelve jars filled with sharp, nasty things, hair, urine, and freaking menstrual blood, rattle gently in their box as the car pulls off the paved main road and onto the gravel drive that eventually leads to the Hale McMansion. Stiles grips the edges of the box. He really, really doesn't want any of the jars to break open.
Stiles fiddles with the ridiculously old and powerful golden bangle he has to wear around his wrist. It's called the protegi. It's essentially designed to protect uninitiated witches when they went out with their teachers, because not only does it make it impossible for anyone to recognize Stiles' person, but it also masks his scent and his heartbeat. The flipside, of course, is that when he's wearing it, he might as well be a Muggle for all the magic he can do.
Stiles doesn't like wearing it. But uninitiated witches are apparently like energy drinks for everyone else, unbound to their magic but still linked enough that the power-siphoning spell results in an excruciating death. So Stiles suffers through wearing the protegi every time he and Deaton go to visit the Hales.
"I think I should get Jedi robes," Stiles says as they drive through the woods. "And refer to you only as 'Master'."
Deaton doesn't reply, but Stiles sees him take in a breath. Probably for patience.
Stiles goes quiet for the rest of the drive. He's supposed to speak as little as possible during these outings, ostensibly because he's the student and he's supposed to be obedient and observing only, but also because there's no magic in the protegi to keep people from recognizing speech patterns, and Stiles' speech patterns are pretty damn distinct. In that he tends to speak. A lot.
When they finally pull up in front of the Hale house, the sun is beginning to set. Stiles carries the jars up to the front door, trailing behind Deaton, and wiling himself to be graceful for once in his life.
He manages not to trip and drop the box. Thank God.
Mrs. Hale answers the door before Deaton can even knock.
"Alan," she says warmly, stepping back to allow him in. "Thank you for coming out-and hello to your apprentice as well. Ben's in the living room, go on in."
Stiles nods as he passes her. She smiles at him, their eyes perfectly level because all of the Hales including Derek's mother are tall. They're also all beautiful-naturally beautiful, in a way that makes them look like they're humanity purified. It's sort of weird that non-humans end up looking like what actual humans spend thousands of dollars trying to achieve.
He wonders if that's an argument for werewolves being a sub-species of humanity, instead of a separate species. Hm.
"Here, let me take that," Mrs. Hale says, and before Stiles can protest she's taking the box out of his arms and leading him to the living room. Halfway there, they encounter Derek.
Stiles' heart forgets to beat. It's only after Derek completely ignores him in favor of his mother that Stiles remembers that he's wearing the protegi and Derek doesn't know who he is.
"I'm going for a run," Derek mutters to his mother, scowling. With his black jeans and his black t-shirt, he might as well have a freaking thundercloud above his head.
"All right," Mrs. Hale says, smiling despite Derek's startlingly good Johnny Raincloud impersonation. "Stay away from the roads and paths."
"I know," Derek snarls.
He storms out of the house, and slams the front door behind himself so hard that Stiles actually hears things rattle on the walls.
"Sorry about that," Mrs. Hale says with a small smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Derek's just dealing with some good old fashioned teenage heartbreak right now."
It's a good thing Stiles is no longer holding the box of jars of sharp things, piss and menstrual blood.
Derek's what?
By the time Stiles opens his mouth to reply-probably with something disastrous and awful-Mrs. Hale is already continuing on to the living room. That's probably for the best.
…Derek Hale is heartbroken over him?
Stiles is still reeling a bit when he reaches the living room. He sits on the loveseat next to Deaton-or, rather, he sinks down into it, because the Hales have the most wonderfully plush furniture ever-and nods to Mr. Hale, who's seated next to his wife on the sofa, their fingers loosely threaded together.
Mrs. Hale wears her wedding ring on the middle finger of her left hand, because she's missing her ring finger. Stiles doesn't know how it happened, only that Mrs. Hale refers to it as her 'lucky finger' and frequently shares affectionate glances with her husband when she mentions it.
"I'm not sure what you'll want to do," Mrs. Hale says to Deaton, her voice calm despite her words. "We don't have anything concrete to give you, just a general feeling of… something else. Something not right. And a strange scent in the air, sometimes."
"Can you describe the scent?" Deaton asks.
Mrs. Hale shakes her head. "Something chemical. Manmade. It would be easier to just share it."
Deaton nods. "Of course. While we're doing that, would you mind if I sent my apprentice around the house to check on the wards? I could tell driving up to the house that they've been weakened."
"Weakened?" Mr. Hale repeats, blue eyes zeroing in on Deaton with new focus. "What does that mean?"
"It means that your concerns are definitely not unfounded," Deaton replies. He shakes his head. "It could mean other witches, possibly working with hunters, or it could mean a variety of magical creatures. I'm not sure at this point"
"It's more likely to be witches, though, isn't it? Elizabeth would have noticed another creature on the territory," Mr. Hale points out.
"She should have, yes," Deaton says, his eyes flickering to Mrs. Hale.
"So what do we do against witches?" Mr. Hale asks.
Mrs. Hale squeezes her husband's hand.
If it's other witches, they could be in trouble. Deaton is excellent at defensive magic, but he only has himself and an apprentice who doesn't even have a totem completed yet. Stiles has never faced off against more than one witch, and he doesn't know how they would fare against an entire coven of witches. How much magic can a coven even generate?
But then Deaton says, "If it's witches, I wouldn't be worried. Any witch with enough power to be a threat would know of our pact, and they would know of me. And they would know that I am not friendless."
So apparently Deaton can totally take down an entire coven of witches.
Apparently this is something Deaton never bothered to mention in the three years that he's been teaching Stiles.
"Can you go and check the wards, please?" Deaton asks, turning to Stiles. "When you're finished, let me know which need attention. After that we'll set the protection charms around the house, and do a brief circle to see if we can sense any specific negative energies around the house."
"Yes," says Stiles, getting to his feet. He waits a beat, turns back to Deaton, and then gives a short bow. "…Master."
Deaton looks very close to face-palming.
Stiles has been checking wards for almost thirty minutes, while Deaton is inside doing his were-Vulcan mind meld with Mrs. Hale, when Derek appears from around the side of the house.
He's lost his shirt somewhere on his run.
And he's sweaty.
Jesus.
Thank God for Stiles' magical bracelet that hides his heartbeat and scent, and thank God for the long plaid flannel that is conveniently hiding his crotch right now.
"My mother says to meet them in the shed when you've finished," Derek informs him, rather sourly.
Stiles nods, and then pulls the ward back to the surface of the house so he can continue studying it. He means to find the place where he'd left off before Derek had distracted him, but before he can he's distracted again by the fact that Derek hasn't left yet.
"So your mom said that you're having love life problems," Stiles blurts out.
Derek's expression is instantly cloudy, with a chance of murder.
"Yeah, fuck off," he snarls, and he starts to stomp off.
"No-just, I'm sorry to hear that!" Stiles calls desperately, almost moving after him before remembering that he has the magical threads of the wards grasped in his hand. "I wasn't gonna make fun of you or anything! Heartbreak sucks. I am a hotel of heartbreak, man, I totally get it."
Derek looks over his shoulder, and there is now only a fifty percent chance of murder.
"Sorry," Stiles apologizes, somewhat sincere but mostly not wanting Derek to be more upset than he already is. "Okay? Change of subject now? I didn't mean to sound like I thought it was funny."
"Well, my family thinks it's real fucking hilarious," Derek mutters, turning back around. His eyes flicker between Stiles and the shimmering wards on the side of the house. "What are you doing?"
"Uh," says Stiles. "I don't know if I'm allowed to tell you that."
Derek's expression becomes pinched.
Stiles tries to come up with something else to talk about, to the person he's definitely not supposed to be talking to in the first place, and fails. But he does want to say something. He knows what it's like when someone's keeping information from him (though there's nothing like "You're a wizard, Stiles!" to take the wind out of your sails). It's pretty much the worst thing in the world.
"I'm not really supposed to be talking to you," he ends up saying.
Derek stares, slightly incredulous.
"But, um," Stiles verbally flails, "uh, we can. If you want. Or if you don't want."
"Are we having a conversation or not?" Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.
"You're the one who isn't leaving," Stiles points out.
Derek rolls his eyes. "You're the one who keeps talking."
"It's a compulsion, okay?" Stiles says defensively. "If people are present, I will talk. It's a sickness, man. If you want me to stop talking, you've gotta leave."
"Fine," Derek says, raising his hands up in the air. "I'm leaving."
"Right. And I'm stopping," Stiles agrees. "See? Compulsion is going away."
"Only you're still talking," Derek says amusedly.
"Oh my God, only because you're encouraging me!"
Derek grins, and disappears around the side of the house.
Across the yard, Stiles abruptly notices that Mr. and Mrs. Hale are walking with Deaton, and boy oh boy, Deaton does not look pleased. This is worse than I-sent-your-stool-up-in-flames trouble. Stiles might even venture to say that this is worse than I-sent-my-tap-shoe-through-your-computer-monitor trouble.
Why does it always have to suck to be Stiles?
Stiles gives Deaton the list of all the wards that need updating, and while Deaton goes off to fix them, Stiles gets to bury the protection charms at strategic locations around the yard. The two youngest Hale children, Cassie and Linus, are very obviously pretending to play outside in order to spy on what Stiles is doing digging around in their yard. They keep moving their game of catch so that they're strategically in view of Stiles every time he moves to plant a new jar.
Stiles is majorly tempted to let them peek for a moment and tell them the craziest story he can think of about what the jars are for-especially because Linus is literally the most adorable six-year-old Harry Potter look-alike ever, with unruly black hair and wide green eyes. If Stiles wasn't already in so much trouble, he probably would have called them over.
Deaton gives him the stink-eye as they set up their circle.
"Poor emotions make a poor circle," Stiles remarks, and then promptly regrets the existence of his vocal cords at the look Deaton gives him. "Okay. Shutting up now."
Luckily, the stink-eye goes away when, halfway through the circle they realize that the Hale McMansion is literally surrounded by the Energies of Death.
(Okay, so Deaton actually calls it 'energies that are fading', but Stiles' name is way cooler.)
"It's the trees," Deaton tells Mr. and Mrs. Hale, as they stare at one.
It's not immediately obvious, but yes, the leaves on the tree are slightly brown and withered. Stiles thinks it's slightly less obvious because all of the other trees bordering the Hale McMansion-and that is a lot of trees-look the same way, so there's no contrast to catch the eye's attention. They're all dying.
"Is it a spell?" Mr. Hale asks.
Deaton shakes his head, running a hand cautiously near the tree's bark but not actually touching. "There's no focus to the energy, nothing that's draining it. I think-" He leans in for a sniff, but then almost immediately jerks his head back.
Stiles and the Hales tense instantly.
"Alan?" Mrs. Hale asks cautiously.
Deaton raises one finger, and a second later there's a tiny flame floating above it. Stiles definitely can't do that. If Stiles tried to do that, he'd end up starting a forest fire. But Deaton can, and he takes his finger-flame and slowly, carefully, moves it toward the bark of the tree.
Two inches away from the bark, the flame goes out.
"The oxygen is gone," Deaton says, withdrawing his finger. The flame flickers back to life. "There's some sort of barrier around the tree, preventing oxygen from crossing."
"But it's not a spell," Mr. Hale confirms.
Deaton and Stiles shake their heads at the same time. It can't be a spell, even Stiles knows that, because if it was there'd be an anchor and this tree has nothing. Not even the slightest trace of a rune.
"I'm not sure what it is," Deaton says. "But it doesn't seem to penetrate too far into the forest-only the trees closest to your house."
Mr. and Mrs. Hale glance at each other.
"I'll start researching it immediately," Deaton promises, letting his finger-flame die out. "And I'll contact a few of my friends as well. In the meantime, try to stay in the house-or at least within the boundaries of the protection charms-as much as possible. I've set a watch on the wards, which will let me know if they start to fail again."
Stiles would have finished off with a "Stay safe," or a "Call me if anything happens," but Deaton just gives one final nod and then leaves. Because he's already in a shitload of trouble, Stiles just nods as well and then hurries after him.
Part 2