Chapter Text
When his alarm went off at exactly four minutes past seven in the morning, the sound that escaped him could not be classified as human. He didn’t know what historians would classify the sound as, but if they heard it, they would never assume it came out of a human’s mouth.
He could feel wetness on his face from where he’d drooled into his pillow while he slept, and reached out blindly with one hand to slap at his night stand, trying to locate the source of the noise so he could shut it off. The aggressive nature of his smacking had him, not only hurt his hand, but somehow catapult his phone off the small table into the depths of his room.
Or like, right beside the night stand, since it was plugged in and thus couldn’t go far.
Peeling open his eyes, he let the sound that had previously escaped him start up again, the low groan of dismay filling the empty room as his eyes slowly focussed on the chair across from the bed. It was covered in clothes, since he was using it as a makeshift wardrobe, only because he was lazy and when he finished doing laundry, he just threw everything onto his chair. He always did homework in the library anyway, wasn’t like he needed his desk, really.
His alarm continued to blare as he stared at the chair, as if doing so for long enough would magically have time reverse so he could get a few extra hours of sleep, but alas, no dice. He had class at eight, and if he didn’t want to be late, he had to get his lazy ass up right now.
But he was so comfy. It was so freaking comfy. The bed may not have been the softest he’d ever slept in, but compared to the mattress he’d had last year, this was a definite upgrade. University beds were not designed to be comfortable, but he’d lucked out this year, and by God, he was going to appreciate it.
No roommate, reasonably comfy mattress, and a dorm room in the dorm closest to the common’s block where the cafeteria and student-run convenience store were. Really, he was living the dream.
Aside from the whole alarm blaring thing. His neighbour would start banging on the wall soon if he didn’t shut it off, the guy was a cranky prick. He hoped he ran out of toilet paper the next time he took a shit.
Was he petty? Absolutely. The pettiest of them all.
He was still lying there contemplating his pettiness when, as predicted, banging sounded on the wall and he buried his face in his drool-stained pillow to let out an aggravated sound.
“I’m up,” he called, pulling his face free and forcing himself to roll over, throwing both feet over the side of the bed and snatching up his phone. “I’m up,” he said again, more loudly, when the banging continued.
Turing the alarm off, his neighbour let out two more angry bangs before going silent. He made a face at the wall and flipped him the bird with both hands more emphatically than was strictly necessary given no one could see him.
Tossing his phone back onto his night stand, Stiles Stilinski rubbed at his face with both hands, inhaling deeply and holding it, wondering if he could make himself pass out. It wasn’t skipping class if he passed out, right?
The only reason he managed to force himself to drop his hands and grab his toiletries was because his dad was paying to get him a good education, and he was not letting that man down. The guy was probably going into more debt than he could afford, even with the scholarship Stiles had managed to snag for the place, and by God he was going to get his education!
Regardless of what the Supernatural community decided for him.
Walking into the communal bathroom, he grunted a good morning to one of his dormmates, who looked just as tired as he did. Stiles couldn’t fathom why, wasn’t like this guy had stayed up all night researching Bunyip. What was a Bunyip? Who knew other than Stiles! Since he’d spent most of the night looking into them.
But did the dude beside him looking half-asleep know what a Bunyip was? No. He probably didn’t. Because he didn’t live Stiles’ life. His stupid, stupid life.
Finishing up before the other dude, who looked like he’d fallen asleep while brushing his teeth, Stiles headed back for his room to get some real clothes on. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but his second class today was one of his criminology courses and they had FBI agents coming in to talk to the class as a whole. Apparently the professor and the new head of one of the divisions were friends or something and he’d managed to convince them to come in and talk to the students.
Stiles found that to be pretty cool, and he wouldn’t have skipped that class for anything—except something life or death, but seriously, for once, things that wanted to kill people could wait for fifty minutes.
His first class was English composition, which was a complete waste of time, but mandatory for graduation. He’d already procrastinated taking it for two years, so he really had to get a move on.
Once he was dressed and as presentable as he could get, he threw his messenger bag strap over one shoulder and headed out, being sure his door was locked despite knowing the thing auto-locked. Satisfied, he turned to push through the door leading to the back stairwell, going down two flights of stairs, and exited the dorm. He realized once outside that he should’ve gone out the front door, since it was closer to the common’s block, but he still had time. Besides, walking around the building would wake him up.
He would’ve preferred a full breakfast, but he’d dragged his feet too much this morning and would be late if he sat down to eat, so he just grabbed a muffin, some yogurt, and a huge coffee before heading out to his first class.
English composition was literally the stupidest thing in the world, in his opinion. Depending on the job, why did anyone need to know this shit? Stiles wasn’t planning on becoming a teacher, or a writer, or any other profession that required a proficiency in writing, so why was English composition a mandatory course anyway?
He was going to solve crime and kick butt. Or something. He hadn’t decided yet, he just knew he wanted to be in a similar field as his dad. Maybe he’d join the FBI, if he could get in. Actually, maybe he could chat with one of the FBI agents who’d be coming by in his next class.
As tired as he was from the research, he was actually pretty stoked for his criminology course. It was interesting on a good day, but with the FBI around? It was probably going to be an absolute banger of a lesson.
Now he was getting excited, and he spent more time watching the clock on his phone than he did paying attention to what was being said. When he was finally dismissed from the class, he hoisted his strap over one shoulder and booked it. He had ten minutes to make it halfway across campus, and he wanted to get a good seat. He usually always did, since he loved this class, but today it was especially important and he had a feeling a few of the girls would try and snag the front row in hopes of being closer to who they were guessing would be a hot FBI agent.
Stiles also figured most of the class who usually bailed might actually show up for this one, and he didn’t want to get stuck at the back when he was usually at the front. The professor knew his name was Stiles, and everything!
Rushing into the building, he had to quickly sidestep a woman exiting it when he almost bashed into her, but just used his years of playing lacrosse to pivot and go through the other door instead, rushing up the stairs to the next floor.
He managed to make it to the large hall in record time, which was exciting for him because he snagged his usual seat in time to see a group of people he didn’t recognize walk in. He’d been right in his assumptions that the skippers would show up, so he was glad he’d hurried to class.
Putting his bag on the seat beside his to save the spot, Stiles pulled his notebook out and opened it to the next page so he could write the date in the top corner. He was trying to keep his notes organized for once, and since his laptop was on its last leg, he didn’t have the luxury of bringing it to class and being all over the place. Copy/paste did not work with a notebook.
The noise behind him was getting louder as more people filed in, and Stiles looked up in time to see Heather walking towards him. Pulling his bag off the seat, he nodded hello to her as she sat down, Stiles putting his bag on the floor by his feet. They weren’t exactly friends, but they’d been in three of the same courses in their first year, and had started chatting. Since then, they’d had an additional five courses together due to being in the same major, and it was nice having someone to bum notes off of if one of them missed class, for whatever reason.
He felt like he could’ve had more of a friendship with her if he wasn’t so fucking busy trying to protect people from home, but this was his life now. He’d survive.
Mostly. Lack of sleep might kill him, but whatever.
“Good morning,” Heather said with a smile, taking her Macbook out of her bag and setting it on the small excuse of a desk the auditorium used.
“Morning,” Stiles replied. “How was your night?”
“Good.” She turned to smile at him. “Went out for pizza with my roommate, and then we watched some horror movies. What about you?”
“I had pizza for dinner too,” he admitted, not mentioning it was a hot pocket he hadn’t even had time to heat up. He’d been too busy to go to the cafeteria and it was closed by the time he’d remembered food was a requirement and not optional. “Then I spent the rest of the night reading.”
“You do love reading,” she said with a light nudge.
Stiles laughed at that, because oh, if only she knew. What he wouldn’t give to watch some horror movies instead of living in one.
They continued to chat amiably for a few minutes while the class filled up. The professor walked in a minute or so before it started, raising one hand in greeting to Stiles, Heather, and the other three regulars who sat in the front row. Heather waved back, but Stiles just nodded a greeting to him.
It didn’t take long for the class to quiet down when the professor clapped his hands together loudly and began to speak. Stiles noticed there wasn’t anyone at the front of the room with him, and wondered if the agents cancelled. That would be kind of a bummer, but he was sure they were busy. If it came down to hanging out in a classroom with the future of the country, or going out to find some sadistic serial killer, Stiles was pretty sure he knew which one he’d rather the FBI be doing.
The professor was still in the process of explaining their upcoming assignment, which he’d discussed at length in previous classes but was obviously recapping for the people who’d been skipping, when the door at the front opened again and he cut off mid-sentence, turning to it.
“Ah, excellent.” He clapped his hands together once. “Welcome, welcome! Come on in.”
A group of three men and one woman in suits walked into the room, all of them looking stony-faced and imposing. Stiles was sure it was all for show, because even agents were normal people too. He was sure they’d thaw out as the hour passed, and he sat up a bit straighter as they were being introduced, eyes raking over them all. He deflated instantly when he noticed who’d been speaking to his professor, the man’s face partially obscured at first, but now clearly visible as he faced the room full of students.
Great.
“Class, I’d like for you to meet Supervisory Special Agent McCall. This is Special Agent Kincaid, Dr. Romero, and Special Agent Hale.”
Seriously, the guy was fucking everywhere.
Stiles slouched back in his seat, annoyed, and the action didn’t go unnoticed. SSA McCall’s gaze shifted to him, and he didn’t look as surprised as Stiles felt he should have. He’d probably asked for the roster before agreeing to come, and now Stiles was stuck listening to this bozo talk for an hour.
He should’ve skipped class after all.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, a kind smile on his face that Stiles knew was as fake as the suit he was wearing. “Glad you could all make it here today. We don’t usually make a habit of coming to impart our wisdom on young minds, but your professor and I go way back, and I thought it might be nice to give everyone here some idea of what might be in your future.” His eyes shifted to Stiles. “Not all of your futures, mind you. Some of you might not hack it in this field. Remember, we are not our parents.”
“Thank God for that,” Stiles muttered. He thought he’d said it quietly enough not to be heard, but one of the agents turned his head ever so slightly, eyes shifting to Stiles.
They stared at one another for a few seconds, Stiles catching the movement, but the agent looked away before long, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Stiles slouched further in his seat and began to doodle in his notebook as SSA McCall began to talk about the job, and how criminology tied into what he and his team did on a daily basis. It took a conscious effort for Stiles not to roll his eyes, and when the agent reminded everyone that being responsible in a job like this was important, Stiles couldn’t hold back his snort.
“Says the drunk who beat on his wife,” he muttered.
Again, he knew he hadn’t said it loudly enough to be heard by anyone except maybe Heather—who was too busy making moon eyes at the agents—but the one on the end, the last one to be introduced, looked over at Stiles again, the movement catching his eye.
Stiles looked up at him, and saw the barest of smiles twitching at the agent’s lips before he faced forward once more.
Frowning, Stiles slowly closed his notebook, setting his pen down and staring exceptionally hard at the guy. He was a good looking dude, Stiles wasn’t going to lie. Tall, toned, high cheekbones, manicured hair and beard. His skin was tanned, his eyes a soft green, and his hair dark. All in all, a fine specimen, and he could understand why Heather was sighing dreamily beside him. Stiles would’ve been interested too, if he was completely delusional.
But this guy was, not only way out of his league, but also an FBI agent and thus not sticking around. No point in trying to date someone who’d be gone in like, four hours.
Stiles tuned SSA McCall out while he stared at the other agent, the man keeping his eyes straight forward. The other two with him looked a little bored and restless, but this guy was standing perfectly still, not moving an inch, like he was used to staying motionless for extended periods of time.
Squinting suspiciously, Stiles lowered his voice so it was absolutely impossible for anyone to hear him, even Heather, and spoke.
“Hello Werewolf.”
This reaction was less subtle, the man’s head snapping in his direction. It looked like he’d had to refrain from flashing his eyes and Stiles rolled his own.
“Relax, I look like I wanna start trouble with you? I don’t need any Hunters knocking on my door for breaking the rules on exposure.”
That didn’t seem to instill him with any confidence, and the agent’s face turned dark, a scowl forming on his features.
Stiles had no idea why he was getting so defensive. He knew the rules, Hunters had come into town a year or so after his best friend had turned into a Werewolf. They’d been after a rogue Chimera and had stumbled upon the Beacon Hills pack instead, wherein they’d explained that the Supernatural world was a secret—which was pretty fucking obvious to Stiles, but apparently not to everyone else in this life. As long as they kept to themselves, didn’t hurt anyone, and made sure not to bring everything to light for the normies, the equivalent of the Supernatural police—aka Hunters—wouldn’t come calling.
Stiles wasn’t interested in getting another visit from them, they’d been scary enough the first time. Mostly because Scott hadn’t registered himself with them, but in his defence—and Stiles’—they hadn’t known there was a Supernatural police to register with. They’d cleared it all up eventually, but it had been a very tense few hours of discussion with the Hunters.
“Do you really think I’d have said anything if I was looking to hurt you?” Stiles asked quietly, kind of annoyed. “Your teeth are sharper than mine, I’m not looking to lose any organs. You know anything about Bunyip?”
That earned him a head tilt and the intensity of the glare lessened slightly.
“Bunyip? You know, it’s like, Australian or something? Eats people? That’s about all I could find online, but apparently there’s one out in Louisiana terrorizing the area my buddy’s going to school in. It’s hard to find stuff about things that don’t exist.” He raised both hands to put air quotes around the last two words, and Heather turned to look at him.
“Did you say something?”
“Nope,” Stiles said, raising both arms high above his head. “Just stretching.”
Heather shrugged and turned back to pay attention to SSA McCall. Stiles kept his eyes on her as he continued to stretch until he was sure she wasn’t paying attention anymore, then shifted his gaze back to the Werewolf.
Dude was still trying to burn holes through Stiles’ skull, but he at least tilted his head ever so slightly towards the door, a clear indicator that they would talk after class. Stiles grinned and let his arms drop, then crossed them over his chest as he slouched in his seat.
The Werewolf was still watching him, but seemed to snap back to the present when he was motioned, and his boss said, “Agent Hale here can give you some more insight on that topic, as it’s his area of expertise.”
Stiles wondered if he’d been paying attention enough to know what he was meant to be talking about, but thankfully he seemed familiar with what, exactly, was his expertise and he started talking to the room at large about how best to track an assailant.
His eyes kept shifting over to Stiles as he did so, probably wondering if Stiles was going to silently make fun of him, too. He didn’t, because Stiles had no beef with this guy, and he actually sounded competent, unlike his boss.
He also had a nice, smooth voice, so that helped.
When he was done with his piece, they went through the other two’s areas of expertise, and finished off the class with another boring monologue from the man of the hour himself. The professor thanked them profusely as the class ended, and since he started clapping, the rest of the class obliged as well, even though Stiles felt like it was a weird thing to do.
Packing away his things, he saw the agents filing out, and tried not to be disappointed his one source of information was disappearing through the door without a backwards glance. Oh well, more research for him tonight, he supposed.
Throwing the strap over his shoulder, he turned to Heather as she carefully put her laptop back in her bag.
“You sticking around campus today, or you heading out?”
“I have work today, so I’m bailing early,” she said, continuing to pack away the various items she’d pulled out. “Should be around tomorrow though. Lunch?”
“Sounds good.” He raised one hand in farewell before preceding her out of the class. “See you then.”
“Bye Stiles.”
He faced forward again and hadn’t even made it two steps out of the classroom when he came face to face with SSA McCall.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“Well, it is a university campus, and this is a university course, so it makes more sense for me to be here than you.” Stiles offered the fakest smile he could and tried to side-step. The agent moved into his path, stopping him.
“How’s Scott?”
“You have his number, ask him yourself. Oh, wait.” Stiles snapped his fingers, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “He blocked you. Totally slipped my mind.”
The older man’s face darkened at those words, since he was perfectly aware of the fact that Stiles was the one who’d helped him block his dad’s number.
Sadly, his best friend was not technologically savvy.
“I’m his father,” he said darkly.
“Well, like you said yourself, thankfully we are not our parents, so Scott’s got a chance in life.”
When Stiles started past him, Rafael McCall’s hand hit him hard in the chest and pushed him back against the wall beside the classroom door, pinning him there. He wasn’t overly violent about it, but he wasn’t exactly soft, either. Stiles was pretty sure his sternum was going to be hurting for a couple hours.
“One day, that smart mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble you can’t get yourself out of,” he warned him, tone absolutely arctic. Stiles could smell the alcohol on his breath, and couldn’t say he was surprised to find out little had changed since the man had been kicked out of his own home years ago. “Tell my son I’d like a word. He knows my number.”
“Did it occur to you he doesn’t want a word?” Stiles asked, ignoring the hand pressing him hard into the wall. “I thought he made that pretty clear when he returned the financial support for university that you sent him. You want to be a good dad? Maybe use those so-called skills of yours and recognize you’re the problem and he wants you to leave him alone.”
Stiles saw the man’s hand rise but before it connected with his face, a loud voice cut through the noise in the corridor.
“Sir.”
Rafe’s hand aborted the hit at the last second, slapping against the wall by Stiles’ head instead as he glared down at Stiles.
“Hayden’s got an update for you on the case.”
“Thank you,” he said, still staring at Stiles. “I’ll be along.”
“She says it can’t wait.”
It was obvious this conversation wasn’t over, but evidently the good Supervisory Special Agent didn’t want his subordinates to know how much of an asshole he was, so he just pushed away from the wall, pressing down unnecessarily hard on the hand against Stiles’ chest so that he grunted at the action, and then turned to walk away.
Stiles rubbed at his sternum as he watched the man’s retreating back, resisting the urge to blow a raspberry after him. It was probably a good thing, because his professor exited the classroom a second later, smiling at Stiles and wishing him a good day.
Responding in kind, he watched his professor continue on down the corridor, following in Rafe’s wake. Rafe himself had already started walking past Agent Hale, who watched him go, turning slightly to keep an eye on him all the way to the end of the corridor until he was out of sight around the corner.
He turned back to nod a farewell to the professor approaching him, and then did the same thing, watching the man walk to the end of the hallway and disappear.
Then he faced Stiles, shoving his hands in his pockets as he slowly approached him.
“I had that,” he informed the agent.
“Clearly,” was the dry response, the other man stopping right in front of him. “And you were going to do what, exactly?”
“Stop his fist with my face.”
The look he got then was intense, like the guy couldn’t believe Stiles had just said that, while simultaneously knowing it was one-hundred percent true.
Stiles just shrugged, still rubbing his sternum. “Not like it’s the first time he’d have hit me.”
“You know each other.” A statement, not a question.
“He’s my best friend’s dad.” Stiles smiled sarcastically. “A drunk and a wife beater. My dad had to help Scott’s mom get Rafe out of the house and to rehab. She told him not to come back until he can love his family more than the bottle. That was eight years ago, so it’s pretty telling.”
The agent just arched one eyebrow and tilted his head slightly to one side, which was just about as clear an admission of the man not having improved since he was kicked out as Stiles felt he was ever going to get. It was obvious he didn’t hit his subordinates though.
Stiles was pretty sure even Rafe couldn’t come back from that.
Though it’d have been funny to see him hit a Werewolf in the face, considering he’d probably just break his own hand.
For a moment they said nothing else, the two of them standing facing each other, the agent with his hands in his pockets and Stiles rubbing his sternum as he leaned back against the wall.
“My name is Derek Hale,” the agent finally said.
“Stiles Stilinski.”
That earned him an eyebrow raise and Stiles just shrugged. Derek didn’t ask, so Stiles didn’t bother explaining.
“You know about the Supernatural.”
“Say it louder, why don’t you,” Stiles hissed, waving his free hand urgently for Derek to shush. Did he want the Hunters to come put them on trial for exposing the Supernatural world?!
He got a look for that, and then Derek slowly—and condescendingly, rude!—looked around them at the empty corridor.
Oh. Stiles hadn’t noticed it’d emptied out.
“So do you know what a Bunyip is?” Stiles asked.
“We’re not having this conversation until I’ve had some coffee,” Derek informed him, motioning for him to lead the way. “You buy me coffee, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“You realize I’m a student and unemployed, whereas you’re an FBI agent and probably rolling in cash, right?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
Stiles rolled his eyes so hard his whole head went with it. He threw his arms in the air in defeat, then motioned for Derek to follow him.
Well, if nothing else, maybe he’d get to sleep early for once.
Sometimes—read most of the time—Stiles Stilinski wished he’d stayed oblivious to it all. He envied all the people out there, living their lives, going about their days, not a care in the world. Stiles missed those days for himself, they’d been grand.
Sadly for him, those days hadn’t lasted very long, and while he’d have loved to blame his best friend Scott McCall for the whole mess his life had turned into, considering what happened a few years later, it would be a tad unfair.
But, he blamed him silently anyway. Mostly from a place of love, but also from a place of deep resentment for his lack of sleep all through high school.
That was because before high school, Stiles had lived a very normal life. Maybe not happy, given his mother’s early passing and his father’s penchant to work himself to death, but it had been normal, if nothing else. Just a regular kid with a regular family, nothing weird happening at all.
And then when he and Scott turned fourteen, they’d been out well past curfew—both Stiles’ sheriff father and Scott’s nurse mother had been at work—and had been dicking around in the Preserve. It wasn’t meant to have any wild animals, and in some regards, that was still true.
After all, Werewolves weren’t wild animals. Some of them were still wild though, and that was how Stiles had woken up one day with a Werewolf for a best friend. Scott had gotten bitten by a crazy Alpha Werewolf, and for a few months, it had been a huge amount of trial and error on Stiles’ part to figure out what the fuck was going on with his best friend.
Scott, bless him, was kind of an idiot and thought he was just coming down with something every couple weeks. The ones that coincided with the full moon. Because he was an idiot and thought he was on his period.
It took much too long for Stiles to convince him he was a fucking Werewolf, and even longer for him to investigate how to stop him from going crazy once a month. The problem with mythological beings was that—they were mythological. That meant a majority of the stuff Stiles was finding online wasn’t real. Movies and books and video games, all of them had various lores surrounding them, but nothing was real.
Did a silver bullet kill a Werewolf? Yes it did. But you know what else killed a Werewolf? A regular bullet. Yeah, apparently if a Werewolf got shot in the head, didn’t matter what kind of bullet it was! A lot of the shit online was complete and utter nonsense, and it took entirely too long for Stiles to figure out that Scott needed an anchor.
Thankfully, once that had been sorted out, Stiles’ life was—not normal, but manageable. He had a Werewolf best friend, and he was dealing with it. He had it down to an artform, he got it.
And then a guy he could only class as being his biggest bully for a majority of his life had suddenly turned into a lizard. Not like, a cute little lizard people kept as pets, the kind of large, humanoid lizard of nightmares that looked more alien than anything else.
Of course, said bully realized something was going on with Scott, and had demanded help with his reptilian problem, which was how Stiles got dragged into helping him out, too. That had been a bit more complicated, because another classmate had actually been using some kind of mind-control on the guy and breaking that off had taken way more brainpower than Stiles had given his constant sleep-deprivation.
In the end, they figured it all out. The guy mind-controlling him died—not Stiles’ fault, but he wasn’t sad to see him go—and everything worked out well for Stiles, because he and said bully Jackson Whittemore became friends. It was another year before Stiles found out Jackson was only a dick to him because apparently he was gay and had a crush on him.
Something Jackson hadn’t fully recognized himself until the eleventh grade and had then started avoiding Stiles for a few months before Stiles forced him to sit down and tell him what the fuck was going on. Feelings were hard, so he understood why Jackson had been worried to admit the truth since he hadn’t wanted to risk losing his friend.
And while the Werewolf and Kanima—what Jackson ended up being—was all fine and dandy, and relatively manageable, were things going to stop there? They sure weren’t! Oh no, the universe decided if Stiles was going to have Supernatural friends, he might as well collect the whole set!
Lydia Martin disappeared into the woods for three days and emerged naked and confused, which apparently became Stiles’ problem when she showed up sleepwalking on his doorstep and he had to figure out what the fuck was going on with her. Turned out she was a Banshee.
Jordan Parrish, one of his dad’s deputies, got into a horrific car fire that Stiles had the misfortune of stumbling upon on his way home from a night out with Scott. Stiles had gotten a lot of second degree burns on his hands and first degree burns on parts of his face and neck while trying to save the cop from the burning vehicle.
Parrish himself had exited without a scratch, and missing all his clothing given they’d burned off. So back to the drawing board Stiles went to figure out what he was, which ended up being a Hellhound.
And then, some new kid named Liam Dunbar showed up in town, all pompous and arrogant, thinking he was the best at everything, only to get bested by Scott during lacrosse tryouts and being completely stunned someone was better than him. Which ended up being because he was a Werewolf and had never met another one before, and with Scott being older, he was more experienced. So Stiles had that little terror to train up too, which was at least easier for once because he already knew about Werewolves.
Then Scott’s girlfriend Kira Yukimura turned into a Kitsune—or awakened her powers, whichever, Stiles didn’t know, he was just mad he had to research it.
Then Liam’s best friend Mason Hewitt got turned into a Chimera. How? Stiles didn’t know! He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to get a good night’s sleep for once, which didn’t seem likely.
And all of this nonsense had happened in three years! Three years of Stiles ripping his hair out researching things that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist! That was why when the Hunters came to town a little over a year after Scott’s transformation into a Werewolf, Stiles had kind of been hoping for some sort of guidance, or help with figuring all the shit out. Turned out the Hunters had a database that was maintained in a super secret location but nobody was allowed to know where it was unless they were inducted into the Hunters community. So they basically patted him on the head and said, “Too bad, so sad.”
That visit had come just after Lydia, so Stiles still had many Supernaturals coming out of the woodworks for him to research afterwards.
So after three years of bullshit, and then Mason’s transformation into a Chimera, Stiles had been ready to throw his hands in the air and give up on life before thankfully, mercifully, the town veterinarian Alan Deaton came to his house unexpectedly when some random monster was in town sucking out people’s bone marrow—not a joke, bone marrow was going missing and it sounded not fun—and had admitted he’d been watching them from afar.
Stiles had been very angry the man hadn’t been watching from up close, because it turned out he was a Druid, and used to be the Emissary of a large pack that had lived in his home town. He didn’t talk about his past much, but he’d ended up leaving to become a veterinarian and the pack he’d been Emissary to had told him he was free to pursue a normal life, if that was what he wanted. Since it was what he’d wanted, he’d eventually ended up in Beacon Hills and had opened his practice there for a quiet life.
It turned out to be not so quiet, but he’d mostly ignored it until it became too difficult. Considering Scott ended up working for him part-time when he was sixteen, and then more often as he continued through high school, a lot of the pack’s bullshitery did, eventually, touch Deaton.
That was why he finally revealed himself to Stiles which, he appreciated, but it’d have been nice if Mr. All-Knowing had actually, you know, imparted some wisdom on Stiles years before so he hadn’t been forced to figure shit out on his own using the world’s least reliable source—aka, the internet.
But, water under the bridge. Stiles and Deaton had started talking more, Deaton gave him a lot of books, showed him a few legitimate sites that were disguised as game mechanic sites, taught him all the stuff he needed to know in order to survive this mess of a life he now had, along with promising to help the pack as much as possible.
And then the kicker came.
Surprise! Stiles wasn’t human either.
At this point, nothing surprised him anymore, but he’d been kind of annoyed to discover that he was some kind of magical being whose powers only manifested in times of great peril. That being when someone he cared about was going to die. Could he control it?
No.
This magic did not seem interested in being controlled.
It probably didn’t want Stiles using it for nefarious purposes.
Like extra sleep.
So nefarious.
Seriously, his magic was a jerk. He’d only really used it four times, twice when Scott was in danger, once when his dad was in danger—and Scott’s mom—and once when the pack as a whole had been in danger. He couldn’t control it, and he didn’t really understand it, but all four times, his magic saved the people he cared about so as long as it kept that shit up, he wasn’t going to complain.
Would still be nice if he could use it for extra sleep though.
Deaton had admitted to not knowing what kind of magic Stiles had used, which meant it was probably very old magic. Something mostly dormant, and dying out, but very powerful. Stiles was all for powerful magic that kept him and his safe, but he also didn’t want to turn into some kind of supervillain.
He’d rock the cape for sure—Edna Mode could suck it, Stiles wanted a cape—but being a villain kind of went against his whole personality so he hoped he stayed on the side of good. So far, he was managing to succeed, though would admit to trying to blow up his least favourite high school teacher’s car with his mind.
Not while he was in it, but like, just so he could blow it up and pay the douche back for being, well, a douche. Sadly, his mind powers didn’t think that cause was a worthy enough one for his magic to come through, so the car remained woefully whole.
Of course, having to save his dad’s life with magic meant Stiles had to tell him everything that had been going on the past few years, which his father had taken surprisingly well, in Stiles’ opinion.
Until Parrish told him the sheriff was sheriff for a reason and had figured out most of the weird shit going on in town on his own. Hadn’t expected his son to be magic, but he’d admitted to Stiles that his mother had always had a knack for being at the right place at the right time, so he wasn’t surprised to learn Stiles had inherited some magic from her side of the family.
And so, for seven fun-filled years of his life, this was what Stiles did. Protected the normies, researched things that sucked people’s eyeballs out of their sockets with suckers on their palms, and had about thirty nightmares a day about all the crazy shit he’d seen in his remarkably short life.
When he actually managed to get some sleep, of course. There was always something new trying to kill someone, such as the Bunyip in Louisiana where Liam was currently going to school.
Did Stiles want Liam to die to a flesh-eating Aboriginal Australian folklore? No. No he did not.
Would he prefer the monster attack people on the weekend so he could get some sleep before classes? That would be quite lovely, actually.
But, all that aside, he had a Bunyip to save Liam from, and a Werewolf with some background on the whole situation, so at least he had that going for him.
Even if he wouldn’t get more sleep that night, but a man could dream!
“How did you figure it out?”
Stiles almost spilled coffee down his front, reaching up to swipe one hand across his mouth quickly and swallowing what he’d been drinking. He wiped at his chin for good measure, turning to look at Derek as the two of them walked out of the coffee shop he’d been bullied into buying the guy coffee at.
Okay, bullied was a bit of a strong word. Blackmailed? Coffee for information? Sure, blackmailed.
Then again, not like it was a hardship. The guy was hot, and he took his coffee black, it had cost Stiles like, three bucks. He’d honestly spent more on his own drink than on Derek’s, had also bought a muffin he’d devoured while they waited for their drinks, and he was pretty sure every girl in the place had collectively sighed at the sight of him.
He wondered what that must be like. Sure, Stiles knew he was cute, but he did not make half the human population lose their collective minds at the sight of him. Derek hadn’t even seemed to notice, so either he was too busy figuring out what coffee to order—because it was extremely important—or he was just so used to it that it didn’t phase him anymore.
Stiles felt inclined to believe it was the latter, no one was that focussed on coffee.
Except maybe him, but Stiles practically breathed the stuff, it was the only way to stay conscious most days.
“Figure what out?” he finally asked, since Derek hadn’t elaborated and had just walked silently along beside Stiles, waiting for an answer.
“That I suffer from a rare condition,” Derek said, tilting his head slightly, as if to remind Stiles they were in public and to keep his voice down.
Stiles wasn’t the one talking about Werewolves in the middle of the corridor! To be fair, it’d been empty, but still! They were outside right now, walking through the quad towards—Stiles wasn’t sure, just walking—so the chances of anyone overhearing them was so slim it might as well be non-existent.
“I mean, you were pretty obvious,” Stiles insisted, wiping at his chin again. He felt like he still had coffee dripping down it, but his hand came back clean. “I was muttering so low even my neighbour didn’t really hear me, and you kept reacting.” Stiles gave him a look. “What, you never learn to blend in?”
“What do you call what I’m doing now?” When Derek smiled, it was decidedly unfriendly, and all teeth. Stiles was pretty sure the guy walking past them in the other direction walked into a pole. Damn, even when he was being malicious, he was hot.
“What if I was prejudiced towards you and your condition?” Stiles asked, taking another sip of his coffee and almost spilling it down his front a second time. Apparently he couldn’t walk and drink coffee at the same time. “You weren’t subtle, and there’s some assholes out there who take issue with your kind.”
“You’re not prejudiced.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t know that.” Stiles rolled his eyes, turning to start down a sidewalk beside Derek when the other man turned. “You thought I was.”
“I have a gun,” Derek reminded him, and Stiles toasted him with his coffee in a ‘touche’ sort of way. “Besides, you were badmouthing McCall, so I knew you couldn’t be all bad. Annoying, maybe, but not bad.”
“I am known for my ability to annoy.” Stiles winked at him, and managed another sip of coffee without spilling it all down his front. Score. “I take it Rafe isn’t your bestie?”
“He replaced our previous supervisor,” Derek said, sounding bitter about it. “She was amazing, but she went on maternity leave and never came back. We’ve been stuck with him for almost two years.”
“Not a fan?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the only one who knows how much he likes the bottle.”
“Ah. I could smell the alcohol on him earlier, but he seemed pretty lucid so I figured he’d just taken a swig before the class started. He show up to work drunk?”
“Sometimes. We’ve complained about it, but he’s good at talking his way out of trouble, so our response is usually to stop causing waves and do our job. Whether or not they know the truth and are covering for him, I don’t know, but I get told to shut up and stop causing problems a lot.”
“And there goes all my desires to join the FBI,” Stiles said, turning down another street while they continued chatting. “I hate authority figures who are only in it for the paycheck. My dad’s boss when he first started was like that. Thank God it didn’t last long.”
“What happened?”
Stiles grinned at him. “Dad took his job. Been sheriff for almost my whole life. People love him, because he cares about what he does and the people around him.”
“And you want to be like that too?”
“Yeah man.” Stiles shoved at Derek lightly with a laugh, and had to quickly side-step a woman who appeared out of nowhere. “Shit, sorry!”
She didn’t even turn to glare at him, but par for the course with this place. It was a university campus, people were always walking all over the place and getting in each other’s way.
“So, you born with the, uh, condition, or you catch it?” Stiles asked, looking back at Derek.
The guy was surprisingly tight-lipped about himself, but was more than happy to learn anything and everything about Stiles. While he kept his magic to himself, since he didn’t usually share that tidbit of information with people he’d just met, he answered as many of the other questions as he could. It was a bit overwhelming, if he was honest, because Stiles hadn’t ever met a Werewolf quite like him, but he figured it was more because Derek was making sure he wasn’t a threat.
Which he wasn’t. A threat. Stiles was literally the least threatening person ever. Mostly.
Well... He didn’t want to hurt Derek, at any rate. The guy seemed cool, if a bit weird. Maybe he’d never met a human who knew what he was before, and he was just curious about how that worked.
“Where are we going, by the way?” Stiles asked, since Derek was very clearly leading him somewhere.
“The library.”
“Why are we walking this way then?”
“Because I don’t know where it is.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to ask because...?” Stiles asked, stretching out the last word.
“You were talking too much.”
Letting out an indignant sputter, Stiles pointed a finger at him. “You were asking questions! Where the library was could’ve very easily been one of them!”
Derek just shrugged, but he seemed amused. Stiles wasn’t sure he liked this guy, what a jerk.
Redirecting them towards the library, Stiles tried to get some more information out of Derek about himself, but the guy still wouldn’t open up much. He eventually admitted he was a fairly private person, and Stiles shrugged in response to this. That was fair, the guy worked for the FBI and was a Werewolf. Double the people out to get him, so it was probably for the best he not divulge his deepest, darkest secrets.
“Did you tell the Hunters about the Bunyip?” Derek asked as they made their way through the throng of students rushing to class.
“Yeah, I tried two days ago, but they basically said it hadn’t exposed our world yet and they were busy dealing with something bigger elsewhere. I was told to keep them apprised and they’d send someone out eventually.” He rolled his eyes. “So basically, ‘deal with it yourself if you wanna stay alive,’ but that’s been par for the course with them in my experience.”
“They’re quick to go after people who expose our world by accident, but sit on their asses when people are being killed,” Derek agreed.
Stiles couldn’t have said it better himself.
When they finally reached the library, Derek climbed the steps to the entrance and walked through the doors before pausing and looking around. Stiles stopped beside him and arched an eyebrow.
“Where are your mythological books?”
“I look like a librarian to you?”
“You really want me to answer that?” Derek half-smirked.
Stiles laughed sarcastically at him—seriously, what a jerk—and headed for the front desk. He explained what he was looking for to the lady manning the front and she motioned him towards the stacks.
Great, the stacks. In the basement. Stiles didn’t mind the basement, but the stacks were a bit of a sore spot for him. He’d once been down there looking for a book for one of his classes while listening to music, and the place was called the stacks for a reason. The books were all crammed together on moving shelves that had levers to move them back and forth.
Stiles may have been distracted by his music, and hadn’t checked a row was empty before beginning to crank the lever. There’d been a girl between the stacks trying to find a book, and if she hadn’t been close to the aisle, he’d probably have crushed her.
He wouldn’t have killed her or anything, since the second he felt resistence he would’ve stopped and known something was wrong, but he could’ve severely injured her and had spent a good twenty minutes apologizing to her.
She was not happy with him, and since then, he’d kind of avoided the stacks as much as possible.
But alas, here he was, in the stacks with Derek. He had no idea why they were in the stacks, but Derek just read the legend at the end of each row until he found the one he was looking for. He checked the aisles before cranking the lever—you know, like a smart person—and motioned for Stiles to follow while he walked down the new opening.
He did so, stopping beside Derek when he motioned the books with flair.
“Oh, neat, books about mythological creatures that are totally, absolutely not made up,” Stiles said dryly, giving Derek an unimpressed look.
He got one right back in return.
“Did it ever occur to you that some of these were written by real Supernaturals?” Derek asked, reaching out for one of the books and tossing it at Stiles. He almost dropped it, since he still had his coffee in one hand, but that was mostly gone by now so tipping the cup sideways did nothing.
Considering Derek’s easy tone, Stiles was going to guess no one else was in the stacks. Which made sense, since it was the middle of the day, and the stacks sucked.
“Wait, you mean...” Stiles looked at Derek, then the book, then the shelf.
Derek motioned a few books in front of him. “These authors are all people you can trust,” he said, then pointed at the one he’d handed over to Stiles. “That one is probably one of the most knowledgeable ones you’ll ever encounter. If you see a book written by them, buy it, or photocopy it. The solution to your problem is most likely in that book.”
Stiles turned it slightly so he could look down at the spine, since it’d been upside down in his arms. Satomi Ito. He made a mental note to remember that name. Maybe he’d come back down here one day and photocopy the whole book.
His wallet would weep, since it was ten cents per copy, but well, probably cheaper than buying the book itself.
“Thanks,” he said sincerely, looking up at Derek. “I appreciate the help. I never would’ve thought to check here, most of the books I use are from a Druid back home, so out here I’ve had to stick to the internet.”
“Most of that stuff is nonsense,” Derek crossed his arms over his chest, scowling slightly at the book Stiles held, like the internet had personally offended him and even the thought of it was irksome. “Too many shows and movies about the Supernatural. There are a few legitimate sites, but most of it is just made up.”
“Trust me, I learned that the hard way.”
Derek’s gaze shifted to his face, and for half a second, the corners of his lips twitched, like he was going to smile. Or laugh. Or hell, maybe both.
Before he’d made up his mind though, his phone rang. Derek froze, almost like he’d forgotten what a phone even was and was wondering what the noise was. Eventually, he scowled and pulled it from his pocket, checking the display before wincing and putting the phone to his ear after answering.
“Hale,” he said curtly.
Stiles noticed a distinct shift in the way he spoke depending on what the conversation was about.
And who it was with, he supposed.
In class, and even now on the phone, he was curt, to the point, no wasted words. A man who just wanted to get to the bottom of whatever he was working on and call it a day.
It hadn’t been like that with Stiles. Sure, he’d still been cagey, but he’d made jokes and even maybe kind of laughed at least once. It was like he had a switch he could flip on and off.
Must be nice, Stiles only had one setting, and apparently, it was stuck on annoying.
“Right. I’ll join you shortly.” Derek pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up.
“Duty calls?” Stiles teased.
“We’re still in the middle of a case. It led us here to begin with, so it just worked out your professor wanted to have us in for your class.”
“You heading back to your field office then?”
“Not yet.” Derek put his phone away. “We’ve still got some things to look into.” He eyed Stiles for a few seconds, almost suspiciously. “Why, you need me gone?”
“It was just a question,” Stiles insisted. “I wouldn’t say no to another chat with you. You must know a shit ton more than I do about this stuff, and having someone like you to absorb information from is never a bad thing.” Stiles pulled his own phone out and winced. “But later. I have to get to class.”
He put his phone back, then shifted the large book around so he could put it back where Derek had found it, eyes raking over the names of the authors Derek had said he could trust. He wished he’d noticed the time sooner so he could write them all down, but he would be late to class if he dawdled. He’d have to come back after class to make sure he got them written down so his ADHD didn’t go into overdrive and make him forget literally everything about this conversation.
Would Stiles remember the names of these authors later after such an episode? No he would not. But would he know the exact composition of all the building materials used to create the Parthenon? Absolutely. His brain was fun that way.
“It was nice meeting you,” Stiles said, holding his hand out. Derek looked amused, but shook it anyway. “Thanks for the help, and the info.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“If you’re still in town later, we should grab a bite. I still have questions about being born with the condition. Not prying, just—I like being informed.”
Derek snorted at that, but nodded anyway while pulling his phone out, scowling at what had undoubtedly been a message. “Something tells me you’re more informed than most people.”
“Well, I had to put all this shit together on my own, so I like to think I’m more educated than the average normie.”
Calling regular humans ‘normies’ earned him a look, and Stiles just shrugged. It wasn’t being speciesist or anything. He and his friends were quite literally not normal.
“I’ll try and swing by sometime later,” Derek said, the two of them starting to head for the door to the stairs so they could go back up to the main level and part ways. “If I don’t see you again, good luck with your problem.”
“It’s not my problem,” Stiles insisted on a sigh, pushing through the large glass double doors and into the fresh air. “It’s Liam’s problem that I have to fix.”
“Ergo, your problem,” Derek repeated, smirking when Stiles flipped him off. “Take care, Stiles.”
“See you around,” he responded, waving one hand briefly while watching Derek turn and walk away from him.
Man, what a weird dude. Nice and funny, not to mention sexy as hell, but still.
The way he looked at Stiles was super, super weird.
Stiles rubbed at his forehead with his phone at his ear while Liam continued to rant on the other end of the line, his patience slowly beginning to leave him given he’d spent his whole fucking day—and most of last night—trying to investigate how to kill a stupid Bunyip.
“—and where the hell am I meant to find this magical wattle plant that’s from Australia, Stiles?! Like, mountain ash is great, thanks for the tip on that one, but unless you’ve forgotten, I can’t touch it either! So what am I supposed to do, blow it at the thing?!”
“Look man,” Stiles said, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. “I’m just the research guy. The actual disposing of the big, scary, flesh-eating monster is not my responsibility. Furthermore, I’m not there, so short of me teleporting to you, I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“Help me! Somehow!”
“I did all the heavy lifting, man!” Stiles let his hand drop from his forehead, annoyed. “I figured all this shit out for you. You didn’t have to do anything but complain. I’m the brains, you’re the get shit done. If you want moral support and backup, call Scott. He’s the Alpha, make him fly out to you.”
“But what if it kills me?” Now he sounded like he was whining.
“I’ll grieve forever,” Stiles deadpanned.
Liam went silent for a long moment. “You haven’t been getting much sleep lately, huh?”
“Liam, I haven’t gotten much sleep since I was fourteen years old and my best friend got bitten by a Werewolf,” Stiles informed him, slamming the book he had open shut. “Some days, I feel like death would be a welcome change of pace for me, because at least I’d be unconscious for an extended period of time.”
“I don’t think death and being unconscious are the same thing, Stiles.”
“Whatever.” He stood, pulling the book off the table he was seated at with one hand and beginning to walk towards the stacks with it. “Figure out how to get what you need, stay indoors at night, and attack it during daylight hours. It’s nocturnal, so you’ve got a better chance when the sun’s up.”
“Right,” Liam muttered, clearly still unhappy with this plan. “I’ll see what I can do. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, and good night,” Stiles informed him, then hung up.
He stood in front of the stacks for a second as he stared down at his phone, opening a text message with Scott to fill him in on what was happening. He only had to wait a few seconds before his friend replied saying he’d be on the road in an hour, then put his phone away.
Much as Stiles pretended he didn’t care if Liam got hurt, he really did. He knew Liam wouldn’t bother Scott with this, since he had midterms right now, but Scott was the closest person to help him, and if Liam wasn’t going to keep their fearless leader included, then Stiles would.
He paused halfway through the stacks, holding the book he’d taken off the shelf in both hands, dread filling him.
“Oh my God, am I the mom friend? Oh God, I am the mom friend!” What the hell, how had that happened?
Groaning loudly to himself, he just continued through the shelves to put the book back where he’d found it, thunking his head against the rows of books a moment later and closing his eyes.
Today had been a long day, but admittedly much shorter than it could’ve been if not for Derek’s help. The guy was a bit weird, kind of cagey, and stared at Stiles way too much, but he was smart and he knew things Stiles hadn’t even heard of.
Including the invaluable wisdom he’d imparted on him earlier about which widely publicized books on mythological creatures were actually real. That was helpful as fuck, and while Stiles was planning to come back and photocopy them all eventually—RIP his wallet—he had an early class in the morning so he’d just returned to the stacks after dinner to look into the Bunyip so he could notify Liam.
Derek hadn’t come back since they’d parted ways earlier, but Stiles hadn’t really expected him to. He was on a case, he and his team had probably returned to the hotel they were staying at to discuss next steps. Still, he wished he’d had more time with him. He’d never spoken to another Werewolf, certainly not a born one.
Sure, he’d met a few of them here and there throughout his time here at university, but most of them tended to steer clear of him. One had admitted he smelled like an Alpha, which had him assume all the ones he’d met were Betas and they did not want to fuck with another wolf’s pack.
Stiles himself had no idea how he still smelled like Scott, given he only saw him once every four months or so, but apparently the scent lingered. Derek hadn’t said anything about it, but Stiles also didn’t know if he was an Alpha himself. Besides, it wasn’t like they were friends or anything, so the guy had probably figured he’d help out and then leave. Not like they were doing anything wrong, they were allowed to talk to each other.
Though Stiles still found it weird he smelled like Scott after so long, it was probably a side effect of his magic or something. Maybe it was like, a self-imposed protection for himself. His magic being like, “Hey, you’re a danger magnet, let’s make you smell dangerous so scary things leave you alone!”
Didn’t seem to be working for Liam, but then again, Liam wasn’t a—whatever the fuck Stiles was. He still wasn’t sure, honestly.
He jumped, startled, when he heard a door shut loudly on the other side of the floor and glanced in that direction, listening for footsteps. He heard nothing.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Frowning, he moved away from the shelf and headed back down the row of stacks he was in. He’d made sure the area was empty before calling Liam, and it wasn’t like the place was frequently travelled.
Walking out of the stacks, he looked left, then right, and craned his neck to get a look at the glass door that led to the stairs. The entire wall was made of glass, and it didn’t look like anyone was walking up the stairs, meaning it wasn’t someone leaving, but he didn’t hear or see anyone either.
Feeling a chill race up his spine, he figured he’d lingered long enough and turned to get his things. He was in the process of packing up when a loud bang sounded behind him and he whipped around, heart lodging itself in his throat.
The book he’d been using was lying face down on the ground, some of the pages bent out of shape.
What the actual fuck.
He didn’t want anyone to accuse him of ruining the book when he’d definitely put it back properly, so he cautiously looked around while slowly making his way along the row of shelves. He felt antsy, like someone was watching him, but was sure it was just his imagination.
After all, he’d just been talking about Bunyips with Liam, his mind was probably just freaking itself out for nothing. It happened, he had an overactive imagination—which, really, made sense considering his life.
Reaching the book, he bent down to grab it by the spine, flipping it over and seeing it open on a specific page about a type of Spellcaster. Before he could decide whether to read it, or get the fuck out of there, he heard a sneaker squeak behind him and whipped around.
For a second, he wasn’t sure what happened. Something was—wrong. His chest... it hurt. A lot. And he could feel... wetness. Like water. Water? It was dripping down his front. It was... coming from the hurt.
Stiles looked down. Wow. That was—yeah, that was a wrist and forearm. He was staring down at a wrist and forearm right now. The hand was missing though. That was weird. It was missing.
But then it wasn’t. It was suddenly there, slowly pulling out of his chest, drenched red with blood.
Wait, that couldn’t be right. If that hand had been inside his chest, and it was covered in blood, then that meant the wetness wasn’t water.
Oh. That hand had been inside him. That was bad.
Stiles’ knees crumpled and he fell on his face, the hand in front of him retreating enough that he didn’t land on the person it belonged to.
It... hurt. Like, a lot. More than any other hurt he’d ever felt. Was this what dying felt like? It kind of sucked, it couldn’t be less painful? He’d endured enough pain in his life, couldn’t his death be a bit kinder to him?
His vision began to darken around the edges, and he heard more than saw a pair of shoes moving away from him. Was it getting dark in here? Maybe the library was closing and they’d turned off the lights. They probably didn’t know he was down there.
That was bad, was he going to die down here? Probably. Shit, they wouldn’t find his body for ages. He hoped the old lady who manned the front wasn’t the one to find him, that would suck, he didn’t want her to have a heart attack.
The pain was starting to fade, and his hands felt cold. Was that normal? Probably. Well, he thought so, maybe. He’d never died before, so he didn’t exactly have a baseline for what was and wasn’t normal.
“—iles! Stiles!”
Oh God, the pain was back. Oh, it was back in a horrible way, because someone had grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back.
“Jesu—fuck! Fuck!”
Okay, fuck, that really hurt. He was sure it wasn’t intending to be painful, but there were hands pressing into the gaping wound in his chest, and really, he’d rather death at this point, because man did that hurt.
“Stiles, stay with me! Stay with me, I’ve got you! Yes, this is Special Agent Hale with the FBI, I’ve got a wounded civilian at—”
Wait, was he talking to him? No, that wasn’t for him. He was the wounded civilian. Oh, that made sense. The pain and all. And the blood.
Someone put a hand through his chest. Who would do that?
Also, how? That was like, a lot of pressure. Like, he had a ribcage and someone had just sliced right through it. Like butter.
Could Werewolves do that? Maybe. But the only Werewolf around him right now was Special Agent Derek Hale of the FBI, who was pressing down hard on Stiles’ front with both hands while speaking quickly into his phone.
He was surprisingly calm, considering he was staining his nice suit with Stiles’ blood. It definitely wasn’t a cheap one like Rafe’s was.
“Stiles, listen to me. Hey, listen to me, look at me.”
Moving hurt, he didn’t want to. And everything was dark, how did Derek expect him to look at him when the lights were off?
“Stiles!”
He jerked unintentionally at the way his name was said, because the sound of it had been so commanding. Like an Alpha demanding obedience.
Stiles looked at Derek. His eyes were red, he had fangs in his mouth, and he looked worried.
“Stiles, please, just hang on. Just a bit longer. You can do it, I know you can. Just give them time to get here.”
Time. Stiles didn’t think he had time. He’d have liked to have more time. There was still a lot in life he hadn’t done.
Not to mention someone had stabbed through his chest with their hand. Would kind of like to know who’d done that.
And why.
It was kind of rude.
A lot rude.
Man, wouldn’t time be a great thing to have?
Stiles reached up with one bloody hand, his depth perception going with the way his eyes were losing focus. He eventually managed to find Derek’s cheek, unintentionally smearing blood along his face.
“Time,” he breathed.
How he’d have liked to have more time.
His vision faded further, Derek’s voice got quieter, the pain began to lessen.
Stiles’ chest rose, and fell.
It didn’t rise again.
TBC...