Chapter Text
“Goddamnit,” Stiles huffs. He shouldn’t really waste breath to curse considering the amount of running he’s going to have to do to put distance between himself and these crazy werewolves from New York.
“Fucking Derek,” he thinks as he rounds a giant white oak into a cluster of …apple trees? Stiles slows a bit to consider this. He’s been through these woods at least a hundred times in the last 5 years and never once has he seen an apple tree.
“…the hell?” he says and picks up the pace again. Those wolves can’t be far behind and he’s pretty sure he’s leaving a hot trail of Stilinski stink in his wake. Finding the ravine and running in the water would be ideal at this point and with a clutch of fruit trees around him, it can’t be too far –
Stiles makes an undignified noise as he faceplants into the leaves and dirt, the tree root he tripped on jutting up mockingly behind him. An angry growl rips though the night air and motivates him to move. He scrambles up and presses his back to the nearest apple tree. The fall knocked the wind out of him and running isn’t an option just yet unless unconsciousness is his ultimate goal here.
He rubs his dirty palms on his thighs, wheezes, “Fuuuck. Fuck fuck,” and straightens up, determined to give himself three good deep breaths before commencing running for his life again. Above his head and behind him, a claw-like hand slowly becomes visible. On his third breath, the hand grasps a handful of hoodie and overshirt and Stiles is quickly hauled up the tree several feet. A flailing of limbs ensues and another hand –a very warm hand- covers his mouth.
“Shhhh,” hot-claw-hand says, “I am helping you.” They continue to ascend, Stiles’ legs and arms waggling wildly the entire time. About forty feet up, they perch – actually perch – on a thick branch. Something behind Stiles flutters loudly for a few seconds then stops.
“If I remove my hand, will you scream?” amazing-tree-climbing-claw-hand whispers. Stiles, who is all eyes, sweat, and limp limbs at this point, shakes his head.
“Will you make any kind of noise that will give away our location?”
And Stiles, who is also not known for having even a modicum of self-preservation in the face of unknown danger, mumbles into the warm, possibly dangerous, certainly somewhat supernatural palm, “well, I am inherently kinda chatty.” Only it comes out, “mrr, ma maa mooo poo meee puuuuda tchhaay.”
Behind him, claw-hand huffs a laugh and removes his hand. Stiles can hear him lean back against the trunk of the tree.
Stiles clears his throat and stretches his sweaty face. “I –if I turn around, you’re not gonna like, talon the skin off my cheeks are you?”
“Depends on if I like your cheeks …but probably not,” claw-hand says and Stiles can hear the smirk. Oh, so this guy has sass.
Stiles turns then, lips pursed with annoyance, and is face-to-face with –
“You’re just a kid.”
“You are.”
“I am damn near 21 years old.”
Claw-hand-kid chuckles, “Ohhh. Twenty. One. ”
Stiles makes his patented face of exasperation, “How old are you then?”
“Not 21,” Claw-hand-kid says and there’s a lilt to the way he says it that makes Stiles think this kid does not mean he’s younger than that.
Stiles really takes him in then. The boy looks like he might be all of 19, maybe. He’s got shiny black hair that seems to want to stick up but somehow still lies flat against his head. There’s a strange highlight to it, too; purple-red. A long thin mouth, like a slice in his face and cheekbones you could cut yourself on. He’s got a great tan, too, but there’s something off about it. Less like his skin is sunbaked and more like he is …emanating light. He’s fucking glowing. Wasn’t it just Stiles’ luck to be rescued (is that what this is?) by a beautiful supernatural boy, complete with sass mouth, unearthly glow, and mysterious vibe? But worse than that, were his eyes. Not only were they what can only be described as Silver, but they were old. Old eyes. The scary kind of old, like those faeries from two years ago, driven mad by living as humans for 900 years, only …more.
“What are you?” Stiles asks, awed by the warm glow of the boy in front of him. Hotty McOldeyes makes to answer but instead of doing that, he leans forward and quickly turns his head 230 degrees to the left. Just his head. The rest of him is still facing Stiles and perhaps that is not just bile in the back of his throat because weird and gross.
“Shh, they’re coming.” He reaches out, grabs Stiles from his perch. He again leans back against the tree trunk, arms around Stiles’ chest. The wolves, five of them, lope into view a few seconds later.
“This way!” Ivan the alpha barks, and points due east.
“Wait …Scent gets strange here…” Marcus, the tall one, says to the others, “It goes this way but …” and he begins to look around. Stiles feels the boy behind him take a hesitant breath and hold it.
“Marcus you’re wasting time. The scent goes east. The little fuck knows where Hale is and he’s getting away, let’s go.” Ivan and the others sprint away. Marcus moves, then turns and makes three gouges into the tree Stiles and the boy are hiding in before running to catch up to the others.
They hold like that, chest to back, for a few minutes. Finally, the boy lets out his held breath and releases Stiles. Stiles doesn’t move, though. He’s spent the last few minutes basking in the boy’s warmth and smell, and now he feels a little dazed. His entire body is relaxed and his head feels fuzzy and he’s a little bit horny too, now that he thinks about it.
“You smell like microwaved sex.” He slurs at the boy and then giggles. He turns his head and sees one big silver-white eye cast down at him suspiciously.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“You, I think,” Stiles showers the boy with a huge toothy grin. In response, the boy makes a strange face that runs a gamut of emotions. The ones Stiles can place are surprise, angst, and another he instantly coins “100% Nope”. The boy stops looking at Stiles and stares east. Stiles stares at his eyelashes for a good two minutes.
“I’m Stilessszz,” he murmurs at the eyelashes.
“You’re high,” the boy says without patience.
“No nono, my name is Stiles.”
The boy makes another face and looks down at Stiles. “That’s …interesting.” Stiles smiles because he can tell the boy means it.
“You can call me Alex,” he says, his voice soft. He stares east again. Stiles tries out the name, mouthing it several times then getting stuck on the end and just whispering “lex lex lex lex lex”.
****
“It’s been like 5 hours since they came by here, pretty sure it’s safe for us to get down now.”
“It’s been 13 minutes and no it is not,” the boy – Alex says. Stiles watches Alex’s pupils dilate to ridiculous size, “I’m not waiting for them to be far enough away. I’m waiting for them to leave. And they have not left yet.”
“Oh,” Stiles whispers. Guess he can’t blame a guy for being thorough but, now that his head is clearing a bit, he really needs to be getting back to Scott and Isaac. By now Kira’s let them know that the wolves didn’t take the bait and follow her back to the warehouse where they are waiting to pounce on them. Instead smelled Derek on Stiles and went fucking ballistic. It’s not at all surprising that Derek managed to piss off a very powerful pack in NYC even though he and Cora were only there for like 8 seconds. But for them to follow him back here to get, what? Revenge? Vindication? Who even knows. Derek’s not been that forthcoming with the story so far – surprise, surprise – and Cora bailed on him somewhere in Arizona, so no one can ask her.
“Not – not that I don’t appreciate the um, lift but, why, exactly, are you helping me?” Stiles still feels dopey and strangely aroused but he needs to get back to his friends and in order to do that he’s got to get this guy to help him down.
Alex continues to stare east. “I’m not fond of werewolves. They were chasing you and you are mostly human. Seems a bit unfair. So.”
Stiles quirks an eyebrow, “Well you’ve renewed my faith in random acts of kind—wait a minute, mostly human?”
Alex smirks, “They’re gone now. We can get down.” He leans forward and turns Stiles toward him. “Hang on to me.”
Stiles is hit with a noseful of warmth and unnff. His other question dies on his lips, replaced by, “Whhhy do you smell like that?” He makes whiny noises into Alex’s shoulder.
“Tighter,” Alex says, ignoring him. Stiles wraps his arms around Alex’s shoulders until his hands meet. He folds them together and squeezes. He shakes his head a couple of times to clear it of the scent-fueled drunkenness he’s feeling. Friends, he thinks, get back to my friends. Worry about sex pollen later.
Alex snakes his arms around Stiles’ waist. He drops his head near Stiles’ ear, “Close your eyes.”
Stiles tries to will away the hard-on that’s forming in his pants, “I think I’m fine like this, thanks.”
“It will hurt if you don’t,” Alex murmurs. Stiles exhales a shaky breath and clenches his eyes shut. There’s a rush of wind and he is pretty sure they are falling to their deaths at about 200 miles per hour. And then they’re safely on the ground.
Stiles cracks open an eye, “Did we just fucking teleport oh my god.” Alex lets go of him and takes a few steps back.
“You should be able to get to your vehicle without injury now. And it might be a good idea to reassess your life choices regarding werewolves. You reek of them and yet, they don’t much like you. That seems …strangely unhealthy.” Alex turns and starts to walk away.
“Wait!” Stiles blurts out. “Do you …do you need a ride somewhere? I could take you. As a thank you. You know. For treeing me to safety.” He’s not sure why he’s saying this now. This was not the plan, Stilinski. The plan was to get back to the warehouse. The plan was to finish helping your friends. Get your head out of your pants.
Alex smiles, “I get around all right. And I get the feeling you have somewhere else to be just now.”
“I do, but…” Stiles doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He DOES need to get his ass in gear and get back to the warehouse because fuck what if that’s where Ivan and his lackeys made off to or shit what if they’ve got Kira now. Alex tips his head to the side and blinks. He walks up to Stiles and quickly runs a hand through Stiles’ ruffled hair. He brings his fingers up to show Stiles the three loose strands caught between his first and middle fingers.
“I’ll find you,” he says and levels a look at Stiles, who nods, turns, and sprints in the direction of the jeep.