Chapter Text
Stiles is in the middle of a case when his father calls him, so it’s only in the following week that he gets home to a sparsely decorated apartment in Sacramento and two voice messages in his answering machine. He kicks his shoes to one corner, presses the play button and makes his way to the double bedroom, loosening the tie around his neck.
YOU HAVE 2 NEW MESSAGES
“Hi, son. Call me back when you can, okay? Love you.”
*BEEP*
“Hey kid, it's me again. I guess you’re not back yet… um… there’s no easy way to say this… Derek died. We’re holding a wake for him tomorrow. After that, Eli’ll be going back to San Francisco with Scott and— …He’s going back with Scott. Call me back when you can, I know you’re busy, but… I thought you’d want to know.”
YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES
Stiles stands beside his unmade bed, half-way through undoing his tie and with a knot in his throat that doesn’t loosen. He blinks a few times, frowning at his bedsheets, then moves into the living room once more and plays the messages again. And again, paying attention to the dates this time. And one more time for good measure. Then he unlocks his personal phone and speed dials his father. The phone rings twice.
“Hey kid.”
Stiles swallows thickly. “How did he—” He clears his throat and sniffs. Shuts his eyes tightly. “What happened?” He finally asks.
x
The full moon shines brightly in the night sky, the woods are noisy with insects and rustling leaves, the wind blows cold and Stiles’ breath blows white steam as he intently walks towards the Nemeton. He looks around and puts his backpack on the damp ground, placing his flashlight inside it and taking a leatherbound notebook out. He opens it and scribbles something in it quickly.
“You didn’t say you were connected to this tree,” a voice, sweet and sharp like fermented apples, calls from the other side of the tree stump.
Stiles startles, involuntarily, but doesn’t stand up. He raises his eyes and shrugs. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No. In fact it may help.”
“Good.” Stiles packs his notebook and stands. “I brought what you asked for.”
“Good,” she echoes. The dark haired, pale woman approaches him slowly, and it makes Stiles think of falling leaves, damp and fungi.
“Are you sure about this? The price of something like this is always higher than we think it’s going to be. This tree will die. You will lose your most precious—”
“I know what the price is. I’m sure. Now can you get on with it?”
She stares at him with pursed lips.
He fidgets, looks at the leather jacket neatly folded in his hands, has to fight the urge to bring it to his nose. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”
“I like you Stiles, you're a smart man. Don’t make me change my mind about you.”
He nods and the woman starts picking up the different herbs, pouches of powders, flasks of dark liquid, and pieces of coloured metal. She places them all around the tree stump and Stiles while mumbling things under her breath. The air goes still, the woods go quiet, no animal or insect makes a noise, not even the wind dares to make a sound. The change is gradual, and Stiles only notices it once the sheer absence of noise grabs his attention. He fidgets again, his clothes rustling loudly against the silence.
“Do you remember what you have to do?” She asks, taking the jacket and placing a handful of mountain ash in his hands.
He nods again.
She puts the jacket over his shoulders, like a mother making sure their child isn’t cold when they step out of the door. Stiles stares, her eyes usually so devoid of emotions betray her, and for just a second, Stiles thinks she cares. “I believe this makes us even, then.” Stiles tries to reply, but his voice gets stuck in his throat, thick with fear and emotion. “I’ll leave you to it.” She starts to walk away and Stiles thinks of moss and rot.
“He’s gonna come back normal, isn’t he? You promise he won’t be all— wrong.”
She smiles at him. “That’s up to you. You get what you pay for, don’t forget that.”
Stiles thinks about Derek, of the numerous times he escaped death; the Nogitsune, the feeling of being trapped and lost; Allison, Boyd and Erica; Scott, Lydia and his father. And then he thinks of his mother.
The ashes flow between his fingers like warm, fine sand on a summer’s day. There’s the smell of the sea, and the sound of waves, the sun piercing his eyelids. The warmth of a hug and bubbling laughter. A rush of adrenaline then the crash of a wave. He feels heavy, like his bones are made of lead. His lungs, as hard and unyielding as metal, stop him from breathing. His heart skips three beats in a row and he’s lost between panic and a heart attack. He feels pins and needles over his limbs, like thousands of ants consuming his flesh. And then there’s nothing for a long while.
x
In a king-size bed, in the bedroom of a luxury apartment, Lydia wakes up screaming in a cold sweat from a nightmare. She reaches to the other side of the bed in an act of reflex, but finds nobody there. She remembers then, that this has been the case for years, so she gets up, walks to her ensuite bathroom and lets the cold water run over her wrists. She washes her face and returns to bed, but every time she closes her eyes the nightmare threatens to return. She picks up her phone, then puts it back down. She feels a desperate need to call Stiles, like she hasn’t in years. But it’s too late. He’s busy. He doesn’t want to hear from her. She’ll call him tomorrow.
x
In San Francisco, Scott unlocks the front door, steps into the dim light of the living room and locks it behind him. It's late and he's tired after a long, difficult day at the shelter. The drive home was uneventful apart from the heavy feeling in his chest he has already forgotten about. In the almost darkness, Scott sees Eli standing by the living room window in his pajamas, facing something in the distance.
"Can't sleep?" He asks.
The boy doesn't reply.
"Eli?" Scott pulls his shoulder back so the boy can look at him. Eli shakes awake, flashing his eyes and ridding himself of Scott's grasp. Scott's eyes flash red in response, then he says, "Sorry, I thought you were awake."
"I must have been sleep-walking again."
Scott looks out of the window. "It was like you were staring at something far away."
"I don't see anything."
Scott tunes into the sound of the house, the water in the pipes, the hum of electricity, Allison's steady breathing from the bedroom. He senses his connection to Eli, still new and only half formed. A connection not by choice, but by necessity, shaped like grief and pain. He squeezes Eli's shoulder once. "It's probably nothing. Is there anything in your mind?"
Eli shakes his head and both know it's a lie. There's so much in his mind, he doesn't know where to begin. It's so overwhelming, it almost fades into white noise by the determination of not thinking about it. "I should go back to bed."
"Okay. You call me if you need anything."
x
The sound of the wind is the first to return, then the crickets, then the frantic, loud beating of Stiles’ heart. He falls to his knees with tears running down his face, like grief and confusion. Like something reached inside him and took from it a little shard of his soul. He manages to get on all fours before being sick on the forest ground. He wipes his mouth, the tears from his eyes and The sweat from his brow with shaky hands and tries to stand. He wobbles, but stays up, then he looks around. The Nemeton is dark and rotten, eaten from the inside by vermin. On top of it lies Derek’s naked form.
Stiles approaches slowly, reaches out to see Derek’s face, to make sure he’s breathing. Derek’s skin is warm and Stiles shakes him gently. “Derek?” He whispers, “Derek, come on…” Derek lets out a pained grunt and Stiles swallows a loud sob. He laughs, a bit frantic at the rise and fall of Derek’s chest. He wipes his eyes with his sleeves again and takes out his phone. It rings several times before there’s an answer.
“I was wondering when you were gonna call.”
“I need your help,” Stiles replies, humorless.
“...What have you done?”
“If I wanted someone to ask questions I’d have called my dad.”
“Is that the way to talk to someone you’re asking a favor from?”
“If anything, you owe me a favor for letting you walk around when you should be behind bars ten times over. Now, are you gonna help or do I have to call someone else?”
“It must be killing you to have to ask me,” the man chuckles.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
“Where are you?” Peter asks, and then there’s a muffled, “The check, please.”
“The Nemeton.”
“I’ll be there soon.”