Chapter Text
He hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. That, or this one particular class was so mind-numbingly boring he was starting to pass out just sitting in his chair. The girl beside him kept letting out huffs of annoyance at his inability to sit still, but it was move around or fall asleep and this teacher was kind of an asshole so he didn’t want to accidentally pass out.
One leg jerked up and down incessantly while he sat there, the chair he was on squeaking slightly so that every movement caused the sound to echo in his skull. He had his cheek resting against one fist, and was tapping a pen continuously against the page of his notebook with the other. His eyes skirted around in an attempt to stay awake, moving quickly between the man droning on at the front, the clock, the girl texting by the door, the one brown-noser who was taking meticulous notes.
He made a mental note to make friendly with that guy so he could grab the notes in case he was still there by the time exam period came around. It would probably be weird for the dude to have him walk over and make small talk after having been there for two months without saying a word to anyone, but he was good at making friendly with people he needed.
Not to say he wasn’t a friendly guy by nature, he’d just stopped bothering to try after seventh grade. It just got depressing when his dad showed up at school and told him time was up. It was easier to just keep everyone at arm’s length as much as possible.
Lonely too, but there was very little he could do about that.
He realized he’d at least spaced out—though hopefully hadn’t fallen asleep—when the bell rang shrilly and he jerked in his seat, knees smashing the underside of his desk. The sound was covered up by the other students quickly packing away their things, the teacher having stopped mid-sentence and not bothering to try and finish what he’d been in the process of telling them.
He’d already assigned their homework, and he’d probably been as eager for the day to end as the rest of them. The teacher actually collected his belongings and left the classroom before half the students did. That was clearly someone who showed up for his paycheck and nothing more.
To be fair, teachers got shit pay, so asking for anything more from them was asking too much.
Stiles Stilinski shoved his notebook into his messenger bag and got to his feet, slinging it over one shoulder and following the other students out of the classroom. They all chatted and laughed with one another, the corridor filling quickly with bodies, but he neatly side-stepped them and offered smiles and nods to people from various classes when they did the same to him.
It was Friday, after all, so everyone was eager to get out and get started on having fun. Stiles didn’t really have anything to look forward to, so his desire to leave was more that he didn’t like feeling suffocated.
Bypassing his locker—he had one assigned every time, but he never stuck around long enough to use it—he headed straight for the door and got outside within seconds. He had to move around a group of Freshmen while they tittered eagerly about their weekend plans and the party one of the seniors in Stiles’ class was throwing, but he ignored them and just made a beeline for the parking lot.
He was halfway there, walking leisurely, when he caught sight of the man leaning against his Jeep and he almost stopped. He managed not to, keeping his pace steady and his expression locked down while he approached him.
“Have a good day at school?”
“It was all right,” Stiles said. Wasn’t like his grades made a difference or anything, at this point he just went to school so he didn’t have to stay home. “How was work?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
Noah John Stilinski was a rather large man. Large in presence, not in body. He was a comfortable 5'11", only one inch taller than Stiles himself, with greying dirty blond hair and pale green eyes. He was almost a contrast to his son, who’d inherited more of his mother’s features, with dark brown hair and amber eyes, but they had similar bone structure and anyone looking at them knew they were related.
It was probably why no one gave them a second glance walking past, chatting with one another and making weekend plans. Stiles knew what his weekend plans would entail, with his father standing there in the parking lot wearing a plain shirt and jeans.
Today was the day.
Looked like he wouldn’t need to make friendly with that one brown-noser after all.
“Where are we going?”
“Moving up the coast,” was the response. “Virginia.”
“Okay. You driving?”
“You can drive.”
“Okay.”
Stiles moved up to the driver’s side door while his father pulled away from it and unlocked it. He had to lean in to unlock the passenger side, since it was an older model that didn’t unlock all the doors, then reached back to unlock the door behind him. He opened the back door to toss his messenger bag into it overtop whatever items his father had crammed in there, and then slammed it shut and climbed behind the wheel. His dad was already buckled in by the time Stiles was shutting his door and starting it up, so they were pulling out in seconds, heading towards the road.
He didn’t bother to check if anyone was following after them, he knew they were. He couldn’t help the stab of disappointment that he wasn’t going to be graduating from this school given he only had a little over a month of high school left. He was positive he wasn’t going to get the chance to go to University at the rate things were going.
It was much harder to pack up and move when university was involved versus middle school and high school. It wasn’t that he was super fond of this school, it was just that this was his senior year and he’d so been hoping he could stick around for longer than two months just once in his life.
Looked like that wasn’t the case, and there was no point griping and arguing about it. He’d long since outgrown fighting with his dad over the constant moving, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. All it would do was cause a rift between them. Or widen the one already there, considering he and his dad weren’t exactly close anymore.
Stiles felt like that was honestly mostly his father’s fault. He wouldn’t tell him anything, he just expected Stiles to follow along, obey blindly. He used to rebel against it, used to fight it, argue, be a little shit about it. All that earned him was his father’s disapproval and the man becoming more protective and suffocating. It was easier to just bow his head and do as he was told, regardless of how much it chaffed.
Regardless of how much it went against everything in Stiles. He wasn’t the submissive type.
His life had been like this for as long as he could remember. Growing up, it was always pack up and move, not staying longer than three months in any given place. Stiles was fairly certain he’d seen more of the United States in his short eighteen years of life than someone who was in their nineties. They’d lived in every State, some more than once, and he’d been to so many different schools he’d lost count.
The only constant in his life was his father, and this Jeep. It had belonged to his mother, a kind and caring woman who’d died when Stiles was too young to remember her. Sometimes he felt like it was better this way. If he’d known her, he’d miss her more. Not that he didn’t miss her, she was his mother after all, but he felt like it hurt less because he didn’t know her as much as he did his father.
Whenever they left, wherever they went, the Jeep followed. His dad used to drive it up until Stiles had gotten his license at sixteen. Since then, they tended to take turns. Stiles was over-energetic at the best of times, so his dad preferred when Stiles was the one driving since it gave him something to focus on. He still drummed his hands on the steering wheel and bounced his left leg every now and then, but it was better than when he was in the passenger seat.
Stiles didn’t know why they always had to move around. He’d stopped asking when he was fifteen and realized he was never going to get a straight answer. Despite the agents that followed them around and reported in to his father, he knew they weren’t in the Witness Protection program—they wouldn’t have been allowed to keep the Jeep, and Stiles would’ve had to change his name every time they moved—but he didn’t know what they were in.
Trouble, apparently, if the way his father was overprotective was anything to go by. He kept insisting he’d tell Stiles one day.
One day.
He’d tell him one day.
Stiles wasn’t holding his breath anymore. At this point, he figured when he was done school, he was going to hit the road on his own. Either he got answers, or he was done. He knew he shouldn’t complain about his life. He’d always had a roof over his head, a parent who cared about him, food in his belly, an education. He knew he was more privileged than other people. But sometimes, this felt like a different kind of prison. He didn’t know anyone outside his dad, not really. He wasn’t allowed to go out alone, he wasn’t allowed to make friendly, he had to be in contact at all times.
It was suffocating. And confusing.
He argued, quite frequently, that he’d probably resent his father less if he knew what was going on, but the man kept his mouth shut and insisted he’d tell him one day.
One day.
Stiles hated those two words. If he had the chance to corner one of the agents, he’d have tried to get answers out of them, but they were under strict orders never to go near him. The few times Stiles had tried to speak to them when his dad had stepped out of the room, they’d backed away from him like he had some kind of contagious disease, looking terrified.
He’d stopped trying by the time he turned twelve. It was hurtful and confusing, and he didn’t need any more blows to his already non-existent self-esteem.
He didn’t know any of the agents by name, but he recognized them whenever they followed them around from place to place, or dropped in to give his father reports. The two in the car behind them had been with them for almost a year now. Stiles knew they’d likely be replaced in the near future, they never tended to stay on longer than a year. Usually it was exactly that before two more would show up, they’d have an overlap with four agents for about a week, and then the two current guards would disappear.
They cycled back around sometimes though. One of the agents who’d been around when Stiles was thirteen had come back around when he’d turned sixteen. It didn’t happen often, but because of his memory, he was pretty good at remembering the agents’ faces.
He was still waiting on the one agent he could corner who’d actually give him some answers. That would be nice. As it stood so far, no dice. Just him and his dad, driving down the highway towards Virginia to start yet another new life.
Stiles idly wondered if his dad knew how much of a strain this put on their relationship. He must, considering how they were with one another, but it probably wasn’t helped by his dad’s job. Stiles knew it was government-related, but he could work from anywhere. He didn’t have to pick up and relocate every few months like Stiles did. Stiles was always the new kid, he always had to push people away without explanation, had to learn a new school, and figure out where he was in his studies versus what was being taught.
More than once he’d switched schools and was ahead in some classes or horrendously behind in others. It made for choosing electives in his last two years of high school a huge pain in the ass. And now, here he was again, heading to one more school for graduation. He was graduating in just over a month so he really hoped they could stick around long enough for him to achieve it this time.
He’d be pissed if they stuck around for only a few weeks and then took off. He would probably lose his shit, not that it would do any good with his dad. He’d just get manhandled into the Jeep and they’d drive off, like things used to be back when he was younger.
“You’re quiet,” his dad said, Stiles’ focus on the road ahead of him.
“What do you want me to say?” Stiles asked, checking the side mirror before signalling to change lanes. The agents behind him did the same.
Heaven forbid they should be in two different lanes.
“Why don’t we talk about your classes?” his father offered.
“They’re changing as of Monday, so I can’t really talk about them if I haven’t taken them, can I?”
His dad went quiet, evidently recognizing the dangerous water he was treading. “Did you want anything in particular for dinner?”
“Nope.”
Another long, brittle silence. He didn’t know why his dad bothered even trying anymore. He knew what Stiles wanted to hear, and never gave him what he wanted. There was no point in trying to make small talk.
Stiles often wished the radio in the Jeep worked, so they could at least drown out the silence with some music.
“Won’t you talk to me?”
“I’ve got nothing to say,” Stiles insisted, reaching out with one hand to scratch at his left wrist.
“Don’t do that.”
The sharpness in his father’s tone gave him pause, because he didn’t feel as though his words warranted such a heated response, but when he glanced at his dad, he saw him staring at Stiles’ wrist. He looked down at what he was doing and obediently pulled his hand away from his left wrist, putting it back on the steering wheel.
Stiles didn’t know what was around his left wrist. When he was younger, he’d thought it was some kind of weird birthmark, but as he grew older, he recognized it to be something magical. He had a dark brown band around his left wrist, a few shades darker than his natural skin tone, with lighter symbols and sigils interspersed within it.
It itched a lot, which was why Stiles had determined it wasn’t a birthmark early on in life. And sometimes, it ached. When he got really mad, or upset, or basically felt any kind of emotion above and beyond the norm, his wrist felt like it was on fire. Like someone was trying to tear his hand clean off his body. The pain was almost blinding sometimes, and it was one of the fastest ways to get him to calm down.
He used to pass out when he was younger. As he grew older, his pain threshold increased and while it still hurt and could make him black out depending on the emotion, it happened far less frequently than it used to.
Though Stiles attributed that to not having any feelings anymore. Most of the time, he felt like an empty shell, and he often wondered what he would be like if he ever managed to escape the overprotective grasp of his father. Would he even be able to be a real person? Stiles didn’t feel like a real person.
He hadn’t felt like a real person in a long time.
“I told you—”
“Not to touch it,” Stiles cut in, feeling annoyance bubbling in his chest. “Yeah, I know. You’ve only been saying that for eighteen years. I can’t always help it, if my wrist itches, I’m going to scratch it. Or am I not allowed to scratch an itch anymore, either? Does that need to be supervised, too?”
His dad didn’t rise to the bait, obviously knowing this could escalate quickly given they were leaving town, so he said nothing further and just stared out the window while they drove.
It wasn’t a long drive to their new home from where they’d been in North Carolina. About five hours, a little less with Stiles’ lead foot. His dad gave him directions while staring down at his phone, telling him when to turn and how far to go before they finally reached their destination.
The house was small and nondescript, same as all the other houses they’d lived in. Stiles climbed out and slammed the door, moving up to the porch while his dad waited at the bottom of the drive for the agents to show up.
Reaching the door, Stiles tugged it, but it was locked. Predictably. He always checked though, probably habit, by this point. Just making sure no one else was in there.
Stiles turned and headed back for the Jeep to grab some of his stuff. Since he’d started using the Jeep to get to and from school, whenever they had to move, his dad always went to grab it while Stiles was in class and brought it back to the house to pack away their things.
The houses they lived in were always furnished, so it was just a matter of clothes and the occasional knick knacks they picked up along the way. Stiles could comfortably count every belonging he had, and that was a depressing realization whenever he remembered it.
Grabbing his messenger bag from the back seat, he grabbed the duffel that was under it and hoisted it out of the car and over his shoulder, then leaned in to grab the smaller box tucked behind the driver’s seat. He straightened and was heading back for the door when his dad caught up to him and touched his arm.
“Wait.”
“I’m not stupid,” he insisted, continuing up the porch steps and then moving aside.
His dad stood so close to him he was practically on top of him. One of the agents climbed the porch steps and unlocked the door while the other went around back. Both of them had their guns drawn. Stiles just waited, the weight of his duffel growing heavier by the second, but he didn’t put it down. He just stood there while the agents swept the house, like they always did, and then moved past his dad when they both emerged from the front, giving them the all clear.
Stiles headed through the one-story house towards the back and looked into the three rooms available. He always got first dibs, because he’d stopped caring long ago whether taking the master bedroom pissed his dad off or not. This house only had two rooms with beds in them, the last being set up as more of an office, so Stiles snagged the one with the en suite, putting the box down on the bed and then tossing his duffel and messenger bag to the floor.
He knew the agents wouldn’t stick around long. They usually camped out nearby—house next door or across the street—but they didn’t hang out in the house with Stiles and his dad. Probably had to do with those orders of never speaking to Stiles.
He had to wonder if the people who watched him ever resented him. Then again, they could always quit. Wasn’t like Stiles was twisting their arms for them to stick around or anything.
Tilting his head slightly and pausing in his movements, Stiles listened to the two agents and his dad have a brief conversation by the door. It wasn’t loud enough for him to catch what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about the relative safety of the area. When he was sure they weren’t speaking about him, he went back to what he was doing, opening up his box and pulling out some picture frames and a few books.
The rooms always changed, but his layout of personal effects didn’t. He put the picture frame of his mother on his bedside table, with the book he was currently reading beside it. An old school alarm clock and his phone charger went on the other side, and his laptop and other electronics went to the desk in the corner. Once everything was plugged in, he grabbed a set of wireless noise-cancelling headphones and stuck those on before starting up music on his computer.
When he unpacked his messenger bag, he just ripped out all the notes he’d taken so far from his notebook and tossed both the pages and his current textbooks into the trash can under his desk. His dad always got annoyed when he did that, insisting he didn’t know when it might come in handy, but Stiles had an eidetic memory and thus didn’t concern himself with keeping things that were of little importance.
Besides, wasn’t like he needed to get good grades, just passing ones, and he could do that without ever opening a book. University was still off the table, given his life, so keeping books was pointless when he’d just be getting new ones from his new school.
He’d finished unpacking his clothes and toiletries into the dresser and en suite bathroom, and was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling with music blaring in his ears when his door opened. His dad turned the light on, since it had gotten dark at some point since Stiles had laid down, and he moved to stand at the base of his bed.
Stiles knew he was there. His dad knew that Stiles knew he was there. He still didn’t acknowledge him, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. When his dad tapped at his ankle, Stiles let out a slow sigh and reached to pull the headphones down.
“All done?”
“Doesn’t take an eternity to unpack,” Stiles informed him.
His dad just looked around the room, nodding slightly in approval. He hadn’t come in since their arrival and since Stiles had snagged it, he hadn’t had the chance to see it.
“Nice room. Pretty big, looks about two-hundred square feet.”
“Two-hundred and nineteen,” Stiles corrected. “The average bedroom in a house in North America tends to be that size.”
“Right.” His dad looked back at him. “Dinner’s ready. I ordered pizza.”
“Who’s gonna keep me prisoner if you die from a heart attack?” Stiles asked, but he threw his legs over the side of the bed anyway and tossed his headphones onto the new desk.
“You’re not a prisoner Stiles,” his father said with a weary sigh, repeating words he’d said over and over for as long as Stiles could remember.
“Mm hm.” Stiles walked past him out of the bedroom and towards the new kitchen, already having memorized the layout of the house despite having only walked through it once.
Falling into the seat closest to the door, Stiles flipped open the pizza box lid and grabbed himself three slices. He started eating before his father even reached the kitchen. When the man sat down across from him, Stiles felt like he looked older. Tired. Worn out.
He wanted to feel guilty for making his dad that exhausted, but he didn’t find it in him. He was perfectly happy sticking around in one place forever, it wasn’t his fault his dad moved all the time.
Most of the time, Stiles felt like it was his dad. They were moving all the time because of his dad. Something about him, about his work maybe, made him a person others wanted to hurt. Stiles was his son, and what easier way to harm the man than to go after his kid? Maybe the better option would have been Witness Protection. At least then, Stiles assumed they’d stick around in some places longer than three fucking months.
“I already made arrangements for you to start school on Monday,” his dad said, grabbing his own slice. “It’s down the street, decently close. Shouldn’t be a problem for you to get there.”
“Never is,” Stiles countered, food tucked into one cheek and eyes on his plate. “Not like I can’t find my way around.”
They ate in silence for a while, Stiles pointedly ignoring looking up at his dad. His wrist burned at the mounting irritation within him and he had to forcibly calm himself down to avoid injuring himself.
When he was finished, Stiles stood up, slapping his hands together, and turned to head out of the room.
“I was thinking we could go out tomorrow,” his dad said before Stiles could exit entirely. “Check out the area, buy some groceries. Don’t know if you noticed, but we passed a diner on our way in. Could grab some breakfast there in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Stiles—”
“I’m pretty tired,” he said, still not turning back to his dad. “I’m gonna turn in for the night.”
“Okay.” His dad sounded defeated again. Stiles didn’t let himself care. “Good night, kiddo.”
“Night Pops.” He started down the hall to his new room.
“I love you.”
Stiles didn’t say it back.
Being the new kid was the worst, especially in small towns. Everyone looked at Stiles like he was a shiny new toy, the most interesting thing they’d ever seen in their lives. They asked numerous questions and pried into a life that Stiles didn’t even know how to share. He gave them details that he could answer, like where was he from—originally, Beacon Hills, California—and what his dad did—worked for the government. He told them hobbies when they asked, talked a bit about sports, about music, the usual stuff. But he couldn’t always answer their questions, which got frustrating when they pushed.
He was polite, for the most part, since he never knew on his first day who would be worth keeping around and who wouldn’t, but by the end of the first week, he had a solid line on who warranted being kept happy so he could stay on their good side, and who he could dismiss without even trying.
It was something Stiles had perfected after years of practice. They never hit the same cities twice, which meant he never hit the same school twice. And with only a month left by now before graduation, it made it easy for him to care less about hurt feelings.
The jocks usually got the most butthurt, especially when Stiles didn’t conform to the status quo. He was meant to worship and fear them, but the level of disinterest he afforded them made it clear they didn’t appreciate his attitude. He couldn’t care less what they did and didn’t appreciate, and they usually left him alone after the first few days.
There was no point in trying to beat someone into submission when it was like beating a dead horse into doing a jump trick. Stiles existed, and that was about all anyone could expect from him.
He did meet one guy he wasn’t too annoyed with. The guy was quiet, and didn’t harass Stiles with inane questions. He also took good notes in class, and grunted whenever Stiles asked if he could borrow his notes up until now so he could catch up. It wouldn’t be hard, he’d read the notes once and be able to return them.
Since the move to a new school, he was about right in almost all his classes barring English and math. English he was always behind on since not all schools read the same books, and math he tended to be ahead in. This was the first time he was behind on math, but he wasn’t worried. His new friend lent him all his math notes, and even let him borrow the books he needed to read for English, along with his notes on those.
Stiles spent that whole first weekend catching up on school. It didn’t take him long to read the two books assigned for the year, and his new buddy’s notes were really easy to read and almost word for word. The guy probably wrote exceptionally fast.
Returning the notes to him on Monday, he thanked him for his help, and figured he’d keep him around for a while, just in case. The guy seemed a bit like a loner, and didn’t look interested in making friendly with anyone, Stiles included, so he was the ideal person to stick with.
It wasn’t until Wednesday that it occurred to Stiles he should probably ask for his name, but he didn’t worry about it. He was sure he’d find out eventually, and while he still didn’t know it by the end of the second week, he didn’t dwell on it. Exams were coming up the week after next, and then Stiles would be done.
And free.
He was in his room listening to music and staring at the ceiling, as usual, when his dad came in to call him for dinner. They were having some kind of chicken stir-fry today, and Stiles automatically spooned mouthfuls of it into his mouth without really tasting anything. In his mind, he counted down the days to his release.
He was eighteen years old, and once he was done high school, his dad wouldn’t be able to hold him hostage like this anymore. Maybe Stiles had depended on him for a majority of his life, but now that he was legal, as soon as he had his diploma, he was fucking gone. He didn’t care where he lived, so long as he was free.
As if reading his mind, his dad set his coffee down, licked his lips, and started moving food around on his plate to grab another spoonful.
“I was thinking we could do something after you graduate,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Go on a trip. Maybe we can convince the guys to follow us to Hawaii, if you wanted to catch some sun, get a bit of surfing done.”
“One in five Americans dies of skin cancer a year, and there are up to four shark attacks per year in Hawaii. I don’t want to be a statistic,” Stiles said, shovelling more food into his mouth. Mealtimes were the most uncomfortable times of day for him, because his dad tried so hard to make like they were normal, but they weren’t.
They just weren’t.
“Stiles—”
“I already told you,” Stiles said, still looking down into his plate, “I’m not sticking around. When I’m done school, I’m gone.”
“That’s not up to you,” his dad said, voice sharpening.
“I’m a legal adult,” Stiles snapped back, keeping the wince off his face as anger surged up in his chest and his wrist burned. “You can’t keep me trapped forever.”
“It’s not safe for you out there. Not yet.”
“Why?” he demanded, throwing his fork down onto his mostly empty plate. “Why isn’t it safe for me out there? Seems safe enough when I head down the street for school. Seems safe enough when we go to the store to buy food. Seems plenty safe enough when I’m stuck alone in this God damn house!”
“Stiles, you need to calm down,” his dad insisted curtly, but the look he cast at Stiles’ burning wrist suggested worry more than anger.
“Just tell me what’s going on!” Stiles insisted, feeling the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. “Dad, I can’t live like this. It’s been years, and I can’t... just tell me. Who are we running from? What do they want from us?”
“I can’t tell you that yet,” his dad said, making the anger inside Stiles spike once more. “When you’re older, one day—”
“One day, one day,” Stiles spat, throwing his hands in the air and inhaling sharply at the stab of pain lancing through his left wrist. He brought it down into his lap, rubbing at it under the table where his dad couldn’t see. “You always say that. One day you’ll tell me. One day this’ll all make sense. One day I won’t want to leave and never look back. Well today’s not that fucking day.”
He stood abruptly from his seat, the chair clattering to the floor behind him, and turned to storm to his room.
“Stiles!”
He ignored his dad and slammed his door shut angrily. Knowing his dad could just open it, he went to the en suite and slammed that door, too. He engaged the lock, and then crouched on the floor, burying his face in his knees and clutching at his left wrist with his right hand. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to rein in his anger, trying to regain control. His fingers were going numb and he could feel fire racing up his arm from his wrist.
His dad was outside knocking on the door, telling him to open it, to just talk to him, to be patient.
It was doing nothing for Stiles’ anger, and his dad probably knew that, because the man went silent before long, and Stiles stayed crouched on the floor in the bathroom, clutching at the markings on his left wrist, and struggling to breathe through the debilitating pain.
He managed not to pass out, but it was a near thing. Eventually, he got back to his feet, thighs aching from the position he’d kept for a prolonged period of time. When he exited the bathroom, he half-expected to find his dad hanging out in his room waiting for him.
But he wasn’t. Stiles was alone.
He went to lie on his bed, rolling onto his side, and staring at the mark on his wrist. He slid his fingers along it, back and forth, up and down, trying to figure out what it was supposed to be and why it was there, just as he had been for years.
There wasn’t a lot out there on magic. It was a relatively uncommon thing in this day and age. You couldn’t spit without hitting a Werewolf or a Vampire, but a Spellcaster was different. It was something people were born with, it couldn’t be taught, and it was in high demand. Spellcasters often kept to themselves, stayed hidden, made sure not to call attention. That Stiles had a spell on his wrist, something that kept his emotions in check, something that burned when he had feelings, made him wonder about the person who’d put this on him.
He didn’t remember it happening, which meant he’d been too young to recall it. Given his memory, he knew that meant it had to have been when he was five or younger. Stiles’ memory was a startling thing, and he remembered far more than he cared to. Not enough about his mother, and too much about his father.
The frustrating thing was that he knew his dad cared about him. He knew he was trying to keep him safe from whatever dangers his job had wrought over their heads. But it didn’t mean he should be kept in the dark about it. It didn’t mean he shouldn’t know what they were running from.
His dad kept saying he’d tell him when he was older. How old was ‘older’ at this point? When would Stiles be worthy of knowing why they were running like this? If eighteen wasn’t old enough, then why was twenty? Or twenty-one? Twenty-five? Thirty? What if his dad never told him? What if Stiles just kept trying to run, escape from his comfortable prison that was still a prison, only to be dragged back again and again?
It wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t tried to leave before. He had, many times. The agents were just better. It was frustrating, considering they would help his father keep him in his cell, but didn’t have the decency to speak to him. Only to his father.
Clenching his hands into fists, he buried them both beneath his pillow, his wrist still aching fiercely, and buried his face into the soft material. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but he must’ve fallen asleep because he didn’t remember hearing his door open and he started awake when a hand fell into his hair.
He said nothing, keeping his eyes closed and face buried in his pillow while his dad ran his fingers through his hair. He brought his hand down to the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezed tightly.
“I know it’s hard,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t understand. I’m going to tell you, Stiles. This isn’t a secret I’m going to keep forever. But you have to understand that there are consequences. Once you know, you can never un-know. I don’t want to do that to you. I want to keep you safe as long as I can.”
Stiles said nothing and his dad went back to raking his fingers through Stiles’ hair affectionately. After a long moment of silence, he sighed, and Stiles felt him kiss the top of his head.
“Good night, kiddo. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”
Stiles let him walk out of the room without saying it back.
The week leading up to exams was the pits. Stiles never had to worry about studying, and because he was up to date on everything he needed to know for all the exams he had coming, the revision classes were a complete waste of his time.
His grumpy notes buddy—whose name he’d finally discovered was Adam—seemed almost as bored as Stiles was, though he still took meticulous notes as if he didn’t already know everything about what they were being tested on. Stiles felt like, if he hadn’t shown up when he did, Adam probably would’ve beaten out everyone in the grade.
Unfortunately for him, he had Stiles in his class, and with his eidetic memory, Adam was sadly going to have to settle for second best. Still, he’d likely get Valedictorian given Stiles hadn’t been there long enough for his grades to be considered in that decision.
Small miracles, that.
When school finally let out after the longest, most boring day of his entire life, Stiles couldn’t get out of school fast enough. He moved quickly towards his Jeep in the lot, flipping his keys in his hand, and thought about his plans for the evening. Having no friends and limited entertainment made for very long days, but he’d started a new book the night before that was keeping his interest so far so maybe he’d read that when he got home.
Tossing his messenger bag into the back seat as always, he climbed behind the wheel and headed out of the lot to go back to his new house. He was silently counting down the days in his head to graduation and freedom. Despite the constant one-sided discussions with his dad, Stiles had no obligation to stick around, and if he wasn’t told anything by graduation, he was going to make the agents regret taking on this job because he would run, and run, and keep on running until he finally escaped them.
Easing to a stop at a red light on the mostly deserted street that would turn into the one his house was on, a sleek black Camaro pulled up beside him. Stiles saw it out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t pay any attention to it, eyes on the light and waiting for it to change.
He started paying attention when his door was wrenched open so hard it almost got torn clean off the car.
“What the fuck!” Stiles shouted, but he didn’t get much more out, because he felt claws scraping the skin of his chest and his seatbelt snapped backwards into its slot, having been ripped clean through.
Stiles let out a loud shout as he was grabbed and manhandled out of the Jeep, punching at the guy who was pulling him onto the road.
“What the fuck!” he shouted again. “Let go of me! I said let go!”
The guy didn’t even react to any of Stiles’ attempts to get free, looking around tensely while practically picking Stiles up and tossing him through the open back door of the Camaro. Stiles’ head hit the opposite door and he let out a grunt, but scrambled into an upright position as fear lanced through him. His wrist burned with the emotion, but he ignored it as best he could while he flew for the still-open door.
It almost slammed on his fingers.
He went for the handle, but found it had been removed from the inside. When he turned to look at the other one, he found the same result.
Scrambling into the front, he’d just managed to get into the passenger seat in time to see that that handle was also missing when his captor fell into the driver’s seat. Evidently, he’d been counting on Stiles getting into the front seat, because the second he was seated, his claws were out and at Stiles’ throat.
He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, and his vision was beginning to crackle white with pain and panic. He clutched at his left wrist, breathing hard and trying to focus while the Werewolf slammed his door and stepped on the gas.
Stiles’ vision was swimming from pain, his hand tightening around his wrist, and he struggled to calm himself down. Something exceptionally difficult to achieve, given he’d just been abducted a block away from his house and now had claws digging into his neck. One wrong move, and Stiles was dead. Hell, if they got in an accident, Stiles was definitely dead! And the way the guy was driving made that likely to happen.
“Who are you?” Stiles demanded through gritted teeth, remaining perfectly still while the Werewolf’s eyes darted back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road in front of him. “What do you want?”
The beast said nothing.
Stiles struggled to get his breathing under control, his vision still swimming and his entire arm on fire, spreading up into his chest. He tightened his grip on his wrist, clenching his eyes shut, and tried to calm down, to pull the panic back, to just stop feeling.
It didn’t work. It wasn’t a switch he could turn on and off, and the longer he sat in that car with the Werewolf’s claws digging into the soft skin of his throat, the more he panicked, and the higher the pain levels.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d passed out from this kind of pain, but it had been a long time ago, and as his panic continued to mount, it took the pain levels with it, until Stiles’ eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out, barely feeling the claws digging further into the soft flesh of his neck when his head lolled forward.
Waking up from that wasn’t a pleasant experience. For starters, his mind was in disarray because of the nature of its unconsciousness. He had no idea what was going on when consciousness began to return, and he could feel his cheek pressing against scratchy cotton. Frowning and letting out a groan, he hissed when he tried to push himself up, his entire left arm on fire. It took him a few tries to blink his eyes open, vision swimming slightly before focussing, and he found himself staring down at a hideous flower-printed bedspread.
His muddled brain took a few seconds to process that, wondering when his dad had moved them to a place with flower-print blankets because, what the fuck dad? It wasn’t until the pulsing pain in his wrist demanded his attention that he remembered he wasn’t in one of his many homes and he hastily whipped around, falling onto his back and partially sitting up to look around the room.
It looked like a cheap motel room, with peeling wallpaper, stained carpets, and outdated furniture. The TV was a fucking box, the thing was so damn old, and the twin beds looked like they’d seen better days.
He didn’t focus on the details too much, instead more interested in his captor. His eyes found the Werewolf sitting in a chair that was wedged up against the door, legs splayed and arms crossed. He looked kind of bored, but his green eyes burned into Stiles when he glanced over at him.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The Werewolf just sat in the chair staring at Stiles, and Stiles stayed on the bed watching the beast warily. He didn’t look familiar, and given his appearance, Stiles felt like he would’ve noticed the guy if he’d seen him around. Dark hair, piercing green eyes, stubble, and cheekbones that would make models jealous.
Great, Stiles had gotten kidnapped by a Werewolf model. Super.
When it became clear his kidnapper wasn’t going to say anything, Stiles carefully reached up with his left hand to touch at his throat. He could feel small punctures in his neck, but nothing serious, as if the Werewolf had quickly retreated his hand when he’d realized Stiles had passed out. He glanced down next, poking at the rips in his chest, but the scratches across his torso were barely there. It was clear he’d only been trying to rip through the seatbelt and not actually injure Stiles.
That was good, at least.
His eyes rose back to look at the Werewolf and he found him still staring, making no move to come closer or to speak. Stiles licked his lips, and reached carefully for his pocket. It was empty, which he’d already suspected, but he’d somehow been hoping maybe the Werewolf would’ve forgotten that phones were a thing. By the feel of it, his wallet had been taken, too. His keys had still been in the ignition of the Jeep when he’d been pulled out of it, and his messenger bag had been left in the back.
Stiles literally had nothing but the clothes on his back. Maybe he should’ve felt grateful to have even that, he had no idea what this guy wanted with him, but it probably wasn’t anything good.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Stiles said carefully, trying to gauge the beast sitting in front of the room’s only exit. “I’m not someone important. My dad doesn’t have any money.”
At those words, something weird happened with the guy’s face. His eyebrows lowered and his lips pressed into a hard line, the corners drooping down ever so slightly. He kind of looked constipated.
“You should let me go. You don’t want to do this.”
Still the Werewolf said nothing. Strong silent type, apparently.
Stiles chanced a glance around the room again, taking it in properly this time. There was a bathroom a few steps away from him. It likely had a window he could escape through, but he tried to calculate his ability to get into the room and through the window before the Werewolf caught up to him.
He didn’t like his chances. But that was only if he made a break for it. If he went to the bathroom like a normal person, he might be able to get out before the Werewolf tore off the door. He didn’t know what floor they were on, but given the cheapness of the motel, it probably didn’t have more than two stories and Stiles knew how to land without hurting himself too badly. He might sprain an ankle, but he could still run through that pain. It wouldn’t be nearly as bad as the pain that flared through his wrist every time he felt any form of emotion. If he could run, even just to the front office, he could escape.
“I need to take a piss,” he said bluntly and stood up. He moved leisurely to the bathroom, like he honestly wasn’t concerned about being trapped in a room with an unknown Werewolf, but paused when he heard the chair creak.
He turned to glance over his shoulder and saw the Werewolf stalking across the room after him. He stopped a step away from Stiles, crossing his arms over his muscled chest, and raised his eyebrows when Stiles didn’t move in a clear, “Well? I’m waiting.” sort of way.
“I know how to piss by myself,” Stiles said, moving into the bathroom and starting to pull the door shut.
The Werewolf’s hand grabbed at the edge and pulled it back open so hard that Stiles lost his grip on the knob and almost dislocated his shoulder. Great, now his right shoulder was aching, and his left arm burned. Awesome.
He scowled up at the Werewolf when he planted himself in the doorway, effectively stopping Stiles from reaching out to grab the door again so he could close it. He just kept staring at him, waiting for Stiles to get on with his business.
“You’re not gonna stand there and watch me piss,” Stiles snapped, shoving at the Werewolf to get him to back off. It was like trying to move a wall, the guy didn’t even twitch. “Get out! I need to take a leak!”
The Werewolf raised an eyebrow at him, then pointedly looked over at the window. It was the clearest “Yeah, you’re definitely not trying to sneak out the window” look Stiles had ever seen in his life. Considering the guy had basically said that with one eyebrow and a head tilt, that was talent.
“What do you want with me?” Stiles demanded, making no move at all to use the bathroom. He didn’t need to, anyway. And evidently, the Werewolf knew that. Not a dumb brute, then. Most people hired Werewolves for muscle, they weren’t usually smart. At least, as far as Stiles had ever heard. Not like he made a habit of being friends with Werewolves.
Or anyone, really.
“Look, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not who you think I am. You should just let me go, I won’t sell for anything on the slave market.”
The Werewolf gave him a disgusted look for that, which was interesting. So apparently kidnapping was okay but selling him on the slave market wasn’t? Well, at least he might not end up on the slave market, that was a plus!
“I’m getting really tired of the silent treatment,” Stiles snapped. “You’re taking the whole ‘you have the right to remain silent’ shit a little too literally considering there are no cops here.”
Still the Werewolf said nothing. Stiles felt like he was going to lose patience with him very quickly. Though he at least had some insight. A little bit. Not interested in money, not interested in hurting him, and not interested in selling him. So what was he interested in? Why had he taken Stiles? He didn’t understand.
“I don’t want to stand here all day,” Stiles said dryly.
His captor said nothing—shocking!—but he moved aside so that Stiles could move past him out the door and back into the room. He knew it was stupid, and that he wouldn’t make it, but he had to try anyway. Stiles didn’t know why he was there or what was coming, but he wasn’t going to stick around to find out.
The second he was past the Werewolf, he kicked backwards as hard as he could into the beast’s closest knee, making him stumble, and then bolted for the hotel room door. He’d barely reached it, tossing the chair aside, when the back of his shirt was grabbed and he was wrenched away from it so hard that he got choked by his collar and his shirt ripped.
He was slammed back against the wall beside the door, all the air punching out of his lungs so that he was struggling to cough and inhale at the same time. The Werewolf had one hand flat against Stiles’ chest, pressing him hard against the wall, and as soon as Stiles had enough control of his lungs to take a breath, he opened his mouth.
“Help! Help m—” The hand on his chest moved up to slam against his mouth instead, the Werewolf’s other hand coming up to point a threatening finger in his face in a clear, “Don’t do that, or else!”
Stiles ignored him and grabbed at his wrist with both hands, trying to tug his hand away. It was ridiculous that he was being pinned to the wall by a hand against his mouth, but he already knew Werewolves were stronger than humans were. Still, it hurt his ego quite a bit.
When he shifted, the Werewolf accurately determined that he was about to get kneed in the balls and he moved quickly to pin Stiles fully against the wall with his body, pressing up against him and using his other hand to slam it hard against Stiles’ shoulder, keeping him in place.
Then they stood there. Stiles continued to struggle for a little while, trying to break free or at least shout and make a fuss, but the beast just stood unmovingly and didn’t even flinch when Stiles managed to make blows connect. Honestly, it hurt his hands more than it was probably hurting the Werewolf.
After ten minutes of useless struggling, Stiles finally gave up and sagged against the wall in defeat. The Werewolf waited an additional five before pulling away and taking a step back. He scowled at Stiles, then pointed emphatically at the bed he’d previously been on, his glare hard and cold.
Stiles debated screaming for help again, but he didn’t want to get pinned to the wall for half an hour. It had been painful and uncomfortable, and he had enough experience trying to escape people that he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Now wasn’t the right time to attempt an escape. He’d bide his time and hit back when the opportunity presented itself.
Glaring hatefully, Stiles obediently moved to the bed and fell onto it, trying to keep his temper in check since his arm was beginning to ache again and he didn’t need to pass out a second time today. He looked down at the magic band around his wrist, rubbing at it and wishing it would stop aching. He jumped when the beast was at his side, yanking his right hand away from his left wrist.
“Ow,” Stiles snapped, trying to tug his arm back.
The Werewolf just raised his eyebrows, then looked at Stiles’ left wrist. Stiles looked down at it as well, and wondered why the Werewolf was reacting similarly to his father. He looked back up and glared again.
“I got it, let go.”
When he tugged his arm free this time, the other let him have it back, turning to move back to the door and picking the chair up. He positioned it in front of the exit once more, but before he sat down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Stiles ignored him, still seething, and jerked slightly when something hit him in the cheek.
Turning back to the beast, he saw his eyebrows raised and his eyes lower. Stiles looked down at the bedspread where a small card sat face down. He picked it up and flipped it over, frowning in confusion when he saw it was a driver’s license.
It sported the same picture as the Werewolf at the door, along with a California address. Stiles read over all the information, including birth date and other tidbits, eyes lingering on the name, and wondered why he was being trusted with it.
Derek Hale.
Well, at least he had a name to write down in his revenge book. Not that he had a revenge book, but maybe he should start one up and hope it turned into a Death Note.
When he looked back up, the Werewolf—Derek, apparently—was at the foot of the bed holding one hand out for his license back. Stiles stared at him, then the license, then looked at him again. Keeping eye contact, he flicked the license across the room towards the bathroom.
Derek gave him an unimpressed look, but didn’t go and fetch it. He instead just rolled his eyes like Stiles was being difficult, shoved his wallet back into his pocket, and went to sit in his chair again. He crossed his arms and stared at Stiles, which would’ve been fine, if it wasn’t entirely creepy.
Stiles tried to ignore him as much as possible, looking around for a third time in an attempt to figure out what to do. There was a phone on the table between the two beds, but even from where he sat Stiles could see the line had been cut. The only windows were the one in the bathroom and the one beside the door Derek was camped out in front of. No dice there.
If he could somehow get in touch with his dad, he could send the agents over to kick this wolf’s ass and... well, trade one prison for another, he supposed. At least he had his dad in the other cell. Here he had a cheap motel and a grumpy model Werewolf who seemed averse to using words. It was going to get really old really fast.
He was still trying to do a mental inventory and determine if there was a way out when there was a loud buzz. His gaze shot back to Derek, who shifted to pull a cell phone from his pocket. That meant there was a working phone in the room, he just had to figure out how to get his hands on it.
Derek took his eyes off Stiles to look down at his phone. The buzz had only come once, suggesting it was a text, and Derek read it over silently. When he replied, he only hit one letter—probably ‘K’—and waited. The phone didn’t buzz again, likely because he had the message open, but his face twisted again as it had before into that weird constipated expression. It took Stiles a second to realize it was sadness. Or, an attempt to hide sadness, anyway.
Derek hit another single letter, waited a beat, and then scowled when another text came in, evidently unhappy with whatever was written. Typing back one letter again, he sent it off and put his phone away, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Stiles didn’t hear him cursing, but his expression clearly showed that he was.
Stiles lay down on the bed, tired of staring over at Derek, and instead focussed on the ceiling. He was a lot calmer than he had been earlier, mostly because Derek wasn’t being aggressive and really, nothing was happening. It wasn’t that he had no survival instincts, but more that he didn’t see the point in panicking and hurting himself further when Derek was clearly the middleman. As long as he could get away from him before he reached his final destination, he’d be fine.
So he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew it was late when the room began to darken and his stomach started growling. Derek could see in the dark, being a Werewolf and all, but Stiles hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights as the sun set. He just lay there, wondering if it was possible to die of boredom. He started reciting his favourite book in his head in an attempt to keep himself entertained, almost wishing he was back in class doing revisions. Revisions would be infinitely better than this garbage.
When the hollow ache in his stomach turned into pain, he let out a harsh breath and sat up, Derek not having moved a muscle from his position. Stiles turned to him, only seeing a vague shadow in the darkness, bright red eyes locked on him.
Alpha, then. Awesome.
“I need food,” he informed him. “Unless the goal is to kill me. Which I mean, given the level of entertainment available to me right now, might be the plan.”
Derek didn’t move, suggesting the goal was to kill Stiles with boredom and hunger. Stiles lay back down, grumbling to himself, and then winced when the light flicked on overhead. He scowled and sat back up, seeing Derek striding across the room and opening a small mini fridge in the corner. Stiles had noticed it, but hadn’t given it much thought earlier, assuming it was empty.
Apparently it wasn’t, because Derek straightened and turned to toss a wrap at him. Stiles caught it instinctively, eying it slightly before looking at Derek once more. He’d pulled a second wrap out, likely for himself, and two Cokes. Stiles saw some cold Starbucks coffee drinks, string-cheese, pudding cups and more sandwiches in the small fridge before Derek closed it, suggesting the food had been bought and hadn’t come with the room.
Derek picked his license up while he was over there, then moved to the bed to toss one of the cans of Coke in front of Stiles before returning to his perch at the door.
Stiles didn’t thank him, because he wasn’t going to show any gratitude to a kidnapper. He just set his Coke on the nightstand, unwrapped his wrap, and proceeded to devour it. He drained half the can of Coke once it was open, the carbonation burning his throat, and tore into the rest of his meal.
When he finished and glanced at Derek, the Werewolf himself was still slowly making his way through the food. Stiles knew Werewolves needed to eat almost twice as much as humans did, so he was likely pacing himself in an attempt not to get hungry again too soon. Then again, he’d waited as long as Stiles had to eat, so he was probably already ravenous.
If Stiles was on the menu, he was in deep shit.
“So you like, mute or something?” Stiles asked.
Derek’s chewing paused and he turned to flick Stiles an annoyed look.
Stiles shrugged helplessly. “What? You haven’t said a word to me since we got here, and you won’t tell me why we’re here. You don’t want to sell me, based on your reaction earlier. You don’t want to kill me, or you would’ve by now. You’re not interested in a ransom, considering the look you gave me before. So... why am I here? What do you want from me?”
Derek said nothing, he just kept eye contact and took another bite of his wrap. Stiles was so close to screaming he could hardly stand it.
“Look dude, I am not in the mood for the silent treatment right now. You better start answering my questions or I’ll start screaming rape or something to get attention.”
Derek rolled his saran wrap into a ball, shrugging his shoulders indifferently before tossing the garbage across the room. It made it into the trash, which kind of pissed Stiles off. Derek slapped his hands together, finished off his Coke, set the empty can on the windowsill and took up his previous position of leaning back with his arms crossed and his legs splayed.
Stiles watched his easy, unconcerned movements for a moment, and when he inhaled to scream, Derek didn’t react. Stiles just let the breath out without bothering to let any sound escape him, accurately deducing why Derek didn’t care.
“There’s no one anywhere close to us, is there?”
Derek looked back over at him, seeming bored, but he didn’t say anything. Shocker on that front.
That meant that when Stiles had been screaming earlier, there had been people around to hear him. It was why Derek had shut him up so fast. But now, if they were in a corner room, and the ones beside and beneath them were empty, Stiles could probably scream for a while before anyone else heard, depending on which rooms were currently occupied.
“I’m gonna die of boredom,” Stiles informed him.
Derek gave him a clear, “Cry me a river” look, then nodded his head towards the television. Stiles turned back to the old box, honestly not having thought Derek would let him turn it on, which was why he hadn’t tried in the first place. He cast a look at Derek to see if this was a test, then stood up and headed towards the dresser the TV was sitting on. Derek’s eyes tracked him all the way to the television, and then back to the bed once he’d grabbed the remote.
Stiles turned on the TV and began flipping through the channels. The hotel didn’t seem to have cable, most of the channels he landed on showing static. Some old sitcom was playing on one channel that they had, and another looked like it was in the middle of a porno. Classy.
Eventually, he landed on the local news, and figured that was better than nothing. He tossed the remote beside him, crossed his legs, and leaned his elbow against one knee so he could rest his cheek against his hand. The other played idly with the shoelaces of his closest shoe.
The segment he came in on was boring, mostly talking about the funding for the arts being cut at local schools, and the impending teacher’s strike which might hit during exam period. Stiles sure hoped not, he was already barely going to make it to graduation in this one school as it was, he didn’t need the added delay.
They moved on relatively quickly to sports and the weather, then cycled back around to some protest that had happened earlier in the evening. All boring shit he didn’t care about until the next segment came up and he straightened instantly. Derek tensed at the door.
Because there was a picture of his father on the screen.
“Reports are still coming in hours after the discovery of Noah John Stilinski’s body, with the suspects no closer to being found. Police confirmed the homicide of this government official earlier this afternoon after neighbours called the police to report gunfire. Local law enforcement arrived on the scene within minutes of the call, but were unable to save Stilinski’s life. The names of the other two parties found with him have not yet been released, suspected to have been his detail, but there is still a nationwide manhunt for Stilinski’s only son.”
Stiles felt numb as a picture of himself appeared on the screen. Even in the photo, his eyes looked dead and he seemed just about ready to give up on life, which seemed fitting considering what he’d just heard.
“Mieczyslaw Stilinski, also known as Stiles, was last seen leaving school in his ‘96 sky blue Jeep at three this afternoon. His vehicle was found abandoned and running one block south of his home. Police suspect foul pla—”
The television turned off. Stiles hadn’t seen Derek move, but he was now standing beside the bed, remote aimed at the screen, and a closed off expression on his face.
Stiles was having a hard time processing what he’d just heard. Because the news was suggesting that his dad was dead. Which was impossible, because his dad couldn’t be dead. Because his dad was a government official. His dad owned a gun. His dad had two agents with him at all times. He was as safe as he could possibly be, there was no way he was dead!
Even as words crashed through his skull, he couldn’t stop hearing the reporter over the sound of his own denials. His dad was dead.
His dad was dead!
Stiles turned to look up at Derek, who was staring down at him with a closed off expression. Stiles felt liquid spill over the lashes of his left eye but he didn’t reach up to wipe it away.
“Was it you?” he asked in a low voice. “Was it you who did it?”
Derek lowered the hand holding the remote, but said nothing. Even now, after what Stiles had just seen on the screen, still he said nothing.
“Answer me, was it you?!” Stiles shouted.
When Derek didn’t reply, Stiles surged to his feet on the bed and launched himself at the Werewolf. He seemed to have caught him off guard, which was probably the only reason he managed to slam Derek back against the wall right beside the window. He got his hands around Derek’s throat, squeezing tightly even while his vision crackled and his entire body felt like it was on fire.
Derek very easily wrenched his hands away from his throat, clenching his wrists tightly and spinning them so that Stiles was the one against the wall.
“Answer me!” he shouted again, feeling wetness on his cheeks, and his mind screaming even while his body started shutting down. He felt like he was on fire, like something in his chest was growing and struggling to break free.
He heard Derek grunt, hand tightening around Stiles’ left wrist to the point where his bones were grinding together, but Stiles didn’t care. He kept trying to hit Derek, to kick him, to hurt him.
“Was it you?! Did you do it?! Why?! Why?! What do you want with me?! Why did you do this?!”
Derek pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back against it hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Stiles’ vision went black for half a second, like he’d passed out, but it crackled back into focus a moment later and he could see Derek’s worried expression.
He still didn’t say anything, but the look on his face was broken, and horrified, and Stiles couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this. His dad was dead?
His dad was dead.
His knees buckled and Derek helped him to the ground, still holding his wrists. Stiles bowed his head and sobbed, even while remembering all the times his father had told him he loved him, and how many of those times he hadn’t said it back.
He was never going to hear those words from his dad again. He was never going to get the opportunity to get over his anger, and to tell his dad that, despite everything, despite how he acted, and what he said, he loved him.
He loved his dad! It was his dad, and he loved him, and he was gone!
“Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded, punctuated by sobs and wishing he could just pass out. The pain emanating from his wrist was nothing compared to the pain in his chest, and he felt like he was dying. Every breath was like a chore, every beat of his heart taking considerable effort.
He wanted to wake up from this nightmare, wanted this to just be a horrible, terrible dream. He wanted to find his dad, tell him he was sorry, promise he’d be patient, that he would wait.
He wanted to tell him how much he loved him. How much his anger had destroyed his ability to express how he truly felt. He was mad, he’d always been mad, but he’d never not loved his dad. He’d always loved him, every day, even when he didn’t say the words back.
His dad was dead. He’d never get to say them to him. Never get to let him know he did love him.
His dad had died thinking Stiles didn’t love him.
“Please,” Stiles sobbed, Derek crouched in front of him, still holding his wrists. “Please stop. Just stop. I can’t do this. Please. Please.”
Derek said nothing, and Stiles just cried. He sat there in a crumpled heap on the ground, crying, and didn’t think he would ever be able to stop.
Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened between sobbing and now, but the next time he was conscious again, his head was leaning against the window on the passenger-side of the Camaro and soft music was playing from the radio. He blinked open his eyes, staring out at the empty stretch of road, and squinted into the darkness.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, since he didn’t know what time it was when he’d woken up in the hotel room, but he turned to Derek and found him staring straight ahead while he drove them twenty over the speed limit down the highway.
They were in the middle of nowhere, as far as Stiles could tell, and the dashboard clock—provided it was accurate—said it was just after three in the morning. Stiles straightened, sniffing once and wiping at his face. It couldn’t have been too long, considering his cheeks were still wet, but they were also surrounded by farmland, which suggested a longer trek than just an hour or so. He could only assume he’d been crying in his sleep.
When Stiles raked a hand through his hair, his neck twinged and he made a face, then reached back to lightly touch at the back of it. He frowned when he felt small pinpricks of broken skin, then shot a look at Derek.
He knew Werewolves had abilities, some of them common and others rarer, but he was starting to suspect he hadn’t passed out from exhaustion. He remembered crying on the floor, and he vaguely recalled attacking Derek again, and then nothing. The wounds at the back of his neck suggested he’d used some kind of Alpha ability to knock him out.
He lowered his hands, and stared down at his wrists, where ugly, dark bruises were already forming. Derek had been holding him tightly enough to break his bones, so it wasn’t surprising he’d have left behind some marks. Stiles closed both hands into fists, watching the tendons move beneath his skin.
“Was it you?” he asked again, because Derek hadn’t answered him.
He didn’t answer now, either. Stiles turned to him, but the most he got was a look out of the corner of Derek’s eye. That could mean anything, and if it could mean anything, it meant it could also be a yes.
“Why?” Stiles asked, voice hoarse. “Why would you—he was a good man,” Stiles insisted, voice breaking. “My dad never did anything to anyone, why would...” He trailed off, feeling the ache in his chest spreading and his wrist burning. He reached down to rub at it, but Derek grabbed his hand before he could manage it, forcing it back into his lap and away from his left wrist.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t get an answer. Stiles didn’t know why he was bothering to ask questions anymore, his companion’s silence hadn’t broken so far, why would that change now?
He wished it would. He really needed something else to think about other than the fact that his dad was dead, likely at the hands of the beast sitting beside him. He wished he had some wolfsbane or mountain ash, or anything really that could help him out of this situation. Sure, the Werewolf might have taken it from him even if he did, but it was possible he couldn’t have touched either of those items.
“You really need to start answering questions,” Stiles informed him, Derek continuing to ignore him, as he’d done all evening.
A few additional minutes into their drive, he noticed Derek looked a little tense. His eyes were shifting back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror, and every now and then, he would increase the speed of the car ever so slightly. He kept doing it gradually, as if hoping Stiles wouldn’t notice.
But he did.
He noticed.
Amber eyes shifted to glance at the speedometer. He was going almost ninety-five miles per hour down the deserted stretch of road, and he suddenly became entirely too aware of how nervous Derek was. Someone was coming after them. They had to be, for Derek to be reacting like this.
Stiles checked that his seatbelt was securely fastened, because the last thing he needed was to fly through the windshield if something went wrong.
“Are we in trouble?” He didn’t know why he was asking his kidnapper that, but Derek’s hands tightened around the steering wheel and he said nothing.
It was an additional tense half hour before Stiles finally saw why Derek looked so nervous. He straightened instantly, having caught it out of the corner of his eye in the side mirror.
Lights. Red and blue lights.
There were cops behind them, catching up quickly. That was why Derek was so nervous. Why he was driving so fast. Because someone had finally caught sight of Stiles, and they were coming after his kidnapper.
Derek let out a grunt beside him, Stiles assuming it was a curse, and turned to look at him. He pressed down harder on the gas, the car shooting forward, but whatever engines the cops had, they were catching up fast.
Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the prospect of freedom right there! They were coming to save him from this crazy, murderous kidnapper! They were right there and closing fast and all Stiles needed to do was help them along. The second they caught up, they could get him away from Derek, get him somewhere safe. He could call—well, he didn’t know. The front desk of the FBI maybe? Or the CIA? He had no idea what agency the agents who’d been with them worked for. He’d never thought to ask.
He’d never thought he’d have to know.
But he’d call someone and give them his name and figure out the next steps. They had to be looking for him, after all. He was missing.
Then again, it was his dad who had the detail, so now that he was dead, maybe Stiles didn’t matter anymore. But why kill his dad and take Stiles if this wasn’t about Stiles? If it was his dad Derek was after, he wouldn’t have killed him. So clearly, this was about Stiles. All the moving and the secrets and the protectiveness. Maybe it had always been about Stiles, and not his dad.
That made no sense, though! He went to school! Somewhere public, alone, with no detail. The agents always stayed with his dad.
He didn’t understand!
Derek looked extremely displeased, because his car couldn’t go any faster and the cops were catching up. But there was a fork in the road up ahead, and while the likelihood of the police losing them just because Derek had the option of going left or right was slim, he didn’t want to take any chances. He’d spent the whole evening with this psycho who’d murdered his dad, and he wasn’t willing to risk being stuck with him indefinitely.
Checking his seatbelt was still securely fastened, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Derek’s wasn’t. And there was a fence to their left.
Sure, he was a Werewolf, so the chances of him dying were slim, but Stiles wasn’t interested in killing him—much as Derek deserved it. Stiles wasn’t a murderer, but he was okay with the beast getting injured after what he’d done to his father.
So when they neared the fork in the road, the cop cars approaching rapidly, Stiles grit his teeth, then leaned over towards Derek, grabbed the bottom of the wheel, and yanked it towards himself as hard as he could.
The car turned instantly, Derek’s eyes widening and then he did something extremely interesting.
He slammed on the brakes as the car barrelled towards a post in the fence, but one hand shot up and shoved Stiles back into his seat so hard it knocked all the wind out of him, keeping him pressed back as hard as he could as the front of the car impacted with the post.
As predicted, at the speed they were going, Derek flew straight through the windshield, landing a good few feet from the mangled front of the car. Stiles jerked in his seat so hard that the line of the seatbelt burned against his chest, but not half as much as the places where Derek’s arm had been, trying to keep him from shooting out the window like he had.
He didn’t understand. Why would Derek kill his father, and then injure himself trying to keep Stiles safe?
Doesn’t matter, he thought while he struggled to breathe. Accidents were not fun, and it took him a few seconds to realize the reason his vision was swimming was because the airbag had deployed and there was white powder floating through the inside of the car. Derek’s had, as well, but evidently it wasn’t enough to save someone not wearing a seatbelt.
For a few seconds, Stiles wasn’t sure what to do. He was staring out the cracked and destroyed windshield towards the motionless body in front of the car, one headlight flickering and illuminating Derek’s twisted form.
A few seconds passed, and then a loud grunt of pain met his ears. Derek shifted, struggling to get onto his hands and knees. Stiles could see blood, but he knew Derek would heal in a matter of minutes. He was an Alpha Werewolf. He would heal, and he would be back at Stiles’ side.
But not before Stiles got to the police.
Slapping the airbag away from himself and coughing roughly, Stiles undid his seatbelt and hastened over the partition to the driver’s side. His chest burned from the two lines of heat against his chest, two separate attempts to keep him in his seat, but he forced himself to ignore them and struggled to get the driver’s side door open.
When he did, he practically fell out of the car, wincing and grunting, forcing himself to his feet. He wrapped one arm around his middle, struggling to stop his stomach from roiling over what had just happened. He heard a roar behind him from Derek but didn’t look back, and he stumbled his way to the road.
The cops were close. They would reach him in seconds. He stopped just short of the middle of the road and waved with one arm, the other still around his middle.
“Hey! Over here!”
There were three cars in total. Only one of them was an official cop car, the other two were black sedans. He wondered if they were agents, maybe. Or ghost cars, though they usually also had lights. He didn’t dwell on it as they stopped inches in front of him, one of them passing him to twist to a halt behind him, almost blocking him in.
He felt so relieved when the officer stepped out of his car that he almost collapsed. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he was safe now. These were good people, and they were going to help him. And arrest Derek, hopefully.
“Mieczyslaw Stilinski?” the officer asked, one hand touching his gun.
“Yes, yes!” He stumbled forward a few steps, turning to look towards Derek.
The Werewolf was snarling viciously, having shifted into his Beta form and still struggling to get to his feet, more than a few limbs clearly not cooperating. His eyes were glowing red and he roared when the officer stepped closer to Stiles, closing the distance.
“I think he killed my dad,” Stiles insisted, looking back at the officer and motioning Derek. “He hasn’t said anything, but—”
“Don’t worry, son.” The cop reached him then, putting one hand on his shoulder and offering a small smile. “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.”
People had exited the other vehicles, holding rifles and looking... too normal. They didn’t look like agents or cops. Most of them were in jeans, wearing nondescript jackets and carrying hunting rifles. He saw panic cross Derek’s face, the Werewolf trying to rise, but one of the men aimed and fired.
Stiles let out a harsh exhale, his heart lodging itself in his throat when Derek slumped immediately and didn’t move. He had half a second to feel his gorge rise before another man fired his own gun. It wasn’t until the second shot that Stiles realized they weren’t firing bullets.
It looked like they were firing tranquillizers.
That made sense. Couldn’t interrogate someone who was dead, and if all these men were human, well, they stood no chance against a Werewolf.
Stiles watched them approach Derek cautiously, and fired a third round into him for good measure. Then they got to work quickly, bending down and hoisting the Werewolf up, two of them hurrying to carry him towards the closest sedan while someone else rushed to get the back door open.
He didn’t know why, but something about this felt wrong. Cops didn’t usually wear these sorts of civvies when on duty, and they certainly didn’t carry hunting rifles full of tranquillizers. Had they known Stiles was kidnapped by a Werewolf?
And why had Derek looked so worried? Even in the car, when he’d noticed they were about to crash, he’d tried to protect Stiles from the impact. Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he have tried to get away when it became clear he’d lost Stiles, instead of continuing to look towards him and panic over the cop coming closer to him?
Stiles tensed and turned back to the cop. The man was looking down at what he was doing, and what he was doing—was touching Stiles’ arm, rubbing his thumb gently over the band around his left wrist.
“Finally. It’s been so long, but we finally...” he trailed off, sounding awed.
The words sent a chill down his spine. They didn’t sound like the words of an officer who’d been looking for Stiles for the better part of the day.
They sounded like the words of a man who’d been searching for him for years.
Stiles’ gaze moved to the man’s gun, calculating whether or not he could grab it before the man realized what he was doing. His stomach dropped the second his eyes landed on it.
It was a Desert Eagle. Even holstered, Stiles knew his guns. His dad used to own guns, and he’d seen enough movies to know all the different types there were. While not impossible for a cop to have a Desert Eagle, standard issue were usually Glocks, with the Glock 22 being the most common for law enforcement.
If he had a Desert Eagle, chances were good he wasn’t actually law enforcement.
It wasn’t hard to get sirens put on a regular car. Or to paint it the right colour. Or to get a cop’s uniform. Hell, Stiles had spent enough Halloweens seeing people dressed up as cops, it wasn’t hard to grab an outfit.
Panic was beginning to rise in his chest and he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t just made a huge mistake. If he hadn’t just handed himself over to the people who were after him, instead of escaping the person who’d kidnapped him.
His wrist burned and the cop let out a startled laugh. “It really is you, isn’t it? Your arm is beginning to heat up, I can feel it burning beneath my fingers.”
“Let go,” Stiles said quietly. “My wrist—it’s bruised.” He had to get out of this situation. This was bad, so incredibly bad. Maybe he could kick the guy in the balls and make a break for it before the others could rally.
The problem was: open fields. He didn’t have anything to duck behind if they started shooting tranqs at him, the only thing for miles that he could see was the fences on either side of the road. Nothing else.
No trees, no bales of hay, no houses.
“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”
That was a bad word. Not found.
Have.
Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.
One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.
“Shit, you didn’t get him?” the fake cop asked, moving closer to Stiles even as he stumbled back, his vision beginning to darken.
“I got enough into him. He’ll be out in a second.”
Stiles stumbled and fell, panic clawing at his insides even as pain burned its way down his arm again. He landed hard on his back, forced himself to breathe, and twisted onto his stomach, trying to crawl away. He knew it was pointless. He knew it was futile.
But he had to try anyway.
He only made it to the edge of the road, fingers touching the grass just before the fence when his vision faded entirely and his mind shut down.
He was getting really tired of passing out.
TBC...