Chapter Text
Falling Apart
No one noticed when the young man began silently trudging along the sidewalk, his head bowed and his hands shoved into his pockets. Stiles Stilinski was used to not being noticed by a majority of the population, so the people passing him by and paying no heed meant nothing to him. Mostly. Okay, so he noticed that not even his so-called best friend saw him slip away from the lacrosse field midway through practice and head home alone, but Scott would have been the only one paying attention anyway.
Just not today apparently. Stiles couldn't find it in him to blame Scott for being so preoccupied though. His best friend was absentminded in the best of circumstances, but now the poor guy had to deal with so much. There was the uneven jawline, his furry little problem that caused him to spontaneously howl at the moon, and a borderline suicidal relationship with a huntress of the supernatural, and to top it all off, a new teammate likewise inflicted with curse of the lycanthrope courtesy of the new neighborhood bite-happy alpha. Joy.
The growing werewolf population here in Beacon Hills was the sole responsibility of Derek Hale. Mr. I'm the Alpha Now himself. So, of course, Scott, had to keep an eye on the three new betas to ensure nothing of consequence happened in public. Erica Reyes disappeared like a slinky cat into a dark sports car as soon as the final bell rang, but Isaac Lehey and Vernon Boyd both joined the lacrosse team, neither possessing the control Scott did.
Isaac, at least, was second string, and only had to run drills. Boyd somehow managed to earn himself a starting position during tryouts and had the potential to expose them all if Scott didn't concentrate his efforts on keeping the bulldozer of a man focused on not wolfing out. So, no, Stiles was low on the list of priorities.
Not to mention the incident two nights ago. Treading water with Derek while Scott dined with the enemy, that was the only thing he might be holding a grudge about. And Scott dismissing the call for help when Stiles desperately needed him. His friend came through in the end, pulling both Stiles and Derek out of the water, but he could still be peeved that Scott conveniently forgot the Jeep was still impounded and he had no way of getting home.
Had the situation been reversed, Stiles would have dropped everything to help Scott. He always did. He probably always would, even though his best friend as an asshole. But, that’s what brothers did. And while Stiles was still nursing a bit of a grudge of being abandoned in a pool for two hours holding up a heavy ass alpha werewolf and being harrassed by a giant lizard, Stiles could be gracious and put that aside. He could even forgive being forgotten at the school, muscles aching and arms like gelatin after keeping himself and the sourwolf afloat.
All because Scott said Gerard Argent dropped the grandfatherly act and revealed himself as the snake he was.
There'd been something off about the man since the beginning. To be fair, the unease began when Stiles first heard someone related to Kate Argent was coming for her funeral. It grew when he heard the man bisected a random werewolf in the woods for existing. It festered when the old man wormed his way into the ultimate seat of power as Principal of Beacon Hills High.
Stiles despised being in the same room with the hunter. He hated being called into the office, spoken to like he was someone important, even if Argent complimented on his intellect and near-perfect grades. He was pack-adjacent, and that was as close as being a werewolf without being one, so the old man may as well have flung threats and a broadsword at him.
But threatening Melissa McCall? Stabbing Scott McCall with a knife in the parking lot of the hospital?
Argent may be a seasoned werewolf hunter with a lot of enemies, but Stiles could be cruel, vindictive, and creative when it came to protecting the people he loved. He loved Melissa like a mother. He loved Scott like a brother.
Argent and all the hunters in town just became his personal project. And he couldn't do that sitting from a lacrosse field.
Scott diligently guarded his mother all weekend. He’d had little time for anything else. He’d earned the right to be a little scatterbrained today.
And just like the other night, when Scott drove off and left him, Stiles made his way down the familiar route home. At least this time he wasn’t dripping cold pool water and shivering into the night air the whole way. The same ache made his movements today slow and shaky, and even now his throat was scratchy and irritated. He’d been coughing for the past two days from how much chlorinated water he’d swallowed.
It was disappointing, Stiles decided, to be so easily forgotten. Disappointing, but not unexpected. He was an afterthought in all this supernatural business, easily discarded at times, and as much as it hurt, he just felt tired. He was tired of getting caught in the middle of something and feeling helpless. Tired of being nothing more than an extra consideration to his closest friend, and he was tired of being forgotten by everyone else.
The only good thing about being the afterthought? He was easily overlooked too.
Stiles needed a plan. Argent had one. Probably a better one. He needed one too. He was only good while he was invisible. Who knew how long that would last?
He sighed deeply and tried to shake off the heavy thoughts as he navigated through the quiet streets. He wished he owned another mode of transportation. His baby was indefinitely idled on the Beacon County impound lot as evidence in an ongoing investigation, so that was a no-go, but maybe he could invest in a bicycle or a scooter. Not everyone had werewolf stamina.
In all likelihood, his baby would probably already be back in the driveway were it not for the fact that the mechanic working on it at the time hadn’t been murdered by the same giant lizard who trapped him and Derek in the pool. Not that the police knew that. The only lead they had was the paralydic toxins, which trapped the mechanic beneath the car lift, and a cut hydraulic line. And a panicked phone call from Stiles, who’d witnessed it. His baby wouldn’t be out of car jail for a long time because of how deeply this supernatural bullshit was invading his life. Nope. At least he’d get some walking in.
The trek from school to the Stilinski house was a fair one. Not uphill, but not flat either. Considering Stiles rarely ever got any actual field time in lacrosse and his own idea of working out was walking down the stairs to retrieve a handful of peanut butter pretzels and a can of carbonated awesomeness, he felt the burn almost immediately. His dad did offer him rides to and from school, but Stiles knew it was out of his way. Besides, practice would only cut into his work hours, and walking wasn’t that big of a deal.
Except for the stitch in his side. And the ache in his lungs. And the overall pain throughout his entire body. People did this for fun?
… Okay. It was sort of peaceful. Painful, but peaceful.
Rounding the street corner, Stiles tripped over a raised sidewalk and ran into a woman. He groaned, embarrassed, reaching out to catch his balance. Her hand met his. Static ran though the brief contact, but she released him once they were steady.
“I am so sorry,” he said, looking down at his feet. “I swear I know how to walk. Usually. Just… not today. Clearly.”
“Not a problem, kid,” she said, already walking away.
Stiles continued toward the house. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to catch sight of her halfway down the block. Instead, the sidewalk behind him was empty. He hoped he didn’t hurt her. He didn’t think be bumped into her too hard.
The house came into view three minutes later. He heaved a sigh of relief. This walking thing wasn’t so bad as long as he stopped tripping over thin air and into random strangers. And if he could build up some stamina. He was going to have to.
Stiles entered the house. He felt tired but satisfied after the long, peaceful walk. It definitely gave him a lot of time to think. To plan.
The cruiser was still parked in the driveway, so his father was home. It was the first afternoon in almost four days they were both here at the same time. He was almost always gone these days, which was starting to become a disappointing though expected occurrence. It was always a pleasant surprise when his father was home… well, except when Stiles was harboring fugitive werewolves in his bedroom. But thankfully, that hadn’t happened in months, not since Derek was officially exonerated at the very least.
He stepped into the kitchen. His father gave him an odd look, eyebrows raising slightly. He only realized why when they both glanced at the digital display on the stove, showing the time. He didn’t grimace, but it was a near thing.
“Did practice end early?”
Stiles smiled at him haltingly. He probably looked very much like a small child who just got caught doing something naughty. His father only raised those eyebrows higher, giving him the same look he did when Stiles forgot to clear his browser history after researching unspeakable things like body farms or when his dad signed for and opened the shipment of several different varieties of munshood he’d ordered from an occult store in Redding two weeks ago.
The look was both questioning and knowing, not to mention uncomfortable, which was a very frightening combination indeed. Which is why his dad made an awesome sheriff. And why Stiles found it difficult to get away with anything.
“Uh…” Stiles slid his heavy book bag off his shoulder, slouching down into a barstool with a sheepish expression. “Yes?” He inwardly winced at the look he got in return, but only shrugged in response. “For me it did. It’s not like I’m there for anything except to run water bottles or towels to the rest of the team. Besides, by head is killing me.”
“Did you already take something for it?”
Though it was an excuse, Stiles touched a finger to his temple and nodded with a wince. He didn’t have to lie about that, at least. He’d had a persistent headache plaguing him for days. It was milder today, not quite bordering on the migraine it was previously, but still a throbbing pressure. He suspected it was a lingering side effect of the toxic good he’d inadvertently touched at the garage the night the mechanic died. Not the only side effect either, considering there was still some lingering numbness in his hands, which made it difficult to write notes in class.
What a time not to have super healing powers.
It only took Derek a little over two hours to overcome the paralytic, and that little whammy was introduced directly into his bloodstream via a long claw. Stiles, on the other hand, barely got a few drops of it on his hand and ended up paralyzed for half an hour, synapses misfiring like bad bottle rockets in his skull that just made his brain hurt, and was rocking neuropathy in his extremities days later.
Either it affected humans differently or it was a psychosomatic response. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“Stiles?” His dad prompted. “Headache? Did you take anything for it?”
“Oh.” Stiles gave him a winning smile, though it was subdued. He rubbed at his temples with a nod. “Yeah, about an hour ago. No relief yet though.”
“Make sure you take more if you’re still feeling bad.”
“Will do,” he agreed readily. “Hey, you still have tonight off right? I was thinking of making a pan of lasagna and some garlic bread for dinner, so it could be a good treat. I haven’t let you have it in a long time. And maybe afterwards. We could have a marathon of epic proportions, because it’s been a while since we’ve done that.” He would have continued, but he caught sight of the hesitant look on his father’s face. His stomach dropped. He knew the answer without being told. “And judging by that grimace, it totally won’t happen, probably because of work issues, and I should just order a pizza, huh?”
“Stiles—”
“No worries, pops,” Stiles grinned. He pushed any disappointment to the back of his mind. “I have stuff to do anyway. I have… homework. I should get started on it. A lot of research needs to be done and it won’t do itself, so I’ll just… get to it.”
And of course, by research, Stiles meant he could completely avoid any and all schoolwork. Any school assignments weren’t due for at least two more days. He’d already written his history report, the economics thing for Finstock just needed proofread, and he couldn’t finish the lab sheet without Danny, which they planned to do in a free period at school tomorrow.
So… the only thing Stiles had to focus on was decrypting the top secret bestiary Scott managed to pilfer from their psychotic new principal, and to come up with a way to expose or otherwise destroy said principal.
All of which Stiles would get to work on once he’d had a nap. He didn’t think he could be productive with his head throbbing like this.
“Have a good night, dad.” He stood, heaving his bag up.
Already halfway up the stairs, Stiles paused when his dad called his name to stop him. He bit down on his lip and turned, face questioning.
Instead of answering right away, his father only beckoned him back into the kitchen. He went reluctantly, sitting back down on the stool with his eyebrows raised as he twiddled his thumbs. His leg jiggled nervously as he tapped his foot in waiting.
His dad studied him.
“Are you okay?”
“Awesome.” Stiles nodded. “I’m awesome, totally awesome.”
Unfortunately, the man didn’t seem convinced of his awesomeness. “You seem… different.” His eyes were searching. “You’ve been quiet. Not just today. For days. Weeks even, Stiles. I’m worried about you.”
Stiles pulled a face. He swallowed, but shrugged. “Some people would consider me being quiet a relief.”
“Yeah, well some people are stupid,” his dad rebutted blithely, and Stiles snorted before he could stop himself, because those words coming from his father’s mouth were the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks. Balm to the soul, right there. He loved his dad. He always knew what to say. “You’re never quiet. I don’t like it. You need to tell me how to fix it, because I’m kind of lost here, kid.”
And what could Stiles tell him? Anything that didn’t involve werewolves and kanimas and hunters would be a lie. Anything that wasn’t a lie would put his dad in danger.
“Nothing to fix,” Stiles told him. He earned himself another look for his effort. He exhaled lightly and shook his head. “Honestly, there isn’t. I mean, Scott kind of ticked me off the other night. He… ditched me.” Lie by omission. He could do that. He could use the truth as a shield too. Wear it like armor. “Spent the night with his girlfriend and her family, ignored me all night. Then forgot me at school when he said he’d give me a ride home. And completely missed the whole point of why I’m mad at him.”
“It’s been hard. Him having a girlfriend and splitting his attention when it’s been just the two of you for so long.”
“You’re assuming he splits his attention.” Stiles scoffed. “Scott has one brain cell, and its name is Allison. If he had a second brain cell…” He thought about it for a moment, lips pulling into a wry smile. “... its name would also be Allison.”
His dad grinned.
“Most the time I don’t mind,” he added, sighing. “Allison is nice. I like her well enough. I only mind when Scott promises me something and…” His knee bounced a little too hard, bumping into the bottom of the counter. He winced.
“Doesn’t follow through?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it some time,” his dad offers. “He’ll outgrow that stage eventually.”
“I know. It’ll all work itself out just as it always does.” He shrugged. “Other than that, nothing new is really going on. See. Nothing to fix here.”
“You’ve been having trouble sleeping.”
Stiles stilled. His breath caught, eyes flicking up unconsciously. He’d been under the impression the long work hours his father taken up meant he hadn’t noticed the change in his sleeping habits. He grimaced a second later, belatedly noting his reaction to the observation was all the confirmation a seasoned interrogator needed to know there was something amiss. Damn. He couldn’t deny it now.
His father knew him too well.
“Nightmares,” Stiles said, mind working quickly. He owned up to that much at least, knowing he wouldn’t have to elaborate much more if he were honest about it. “Just… stuff from the dance. And… I was watching horror movies the other night. Brought up bad memories.”
Red eyes flashed in the back of his mind, and Stiles curled his fingers into his palm, throat going tight. Maybe a little too much honesty. He exhaled through his nose, smiling an easy smile.
“You know how much that genre freaks me out,” he managed to say. “But all of those hot, unattainable women taking on ten foot giant zombies with impossibly large axes, all covered in red dye, corn syrup and dreaded prosthetics are irresistible to me. I can’t help but watch them. It’s an unhealthy addiction.”
It was a deflection, that’s what it was and they both knew it. Most of their conversations seemed to go down that line lately, filled with half-hearted excuses and misdirection discussion topics. Stiles felt horrible for contributing to this wide, gaping chasm between the two of them, feeling each time as if he were somehow driving a wedge in with finalty. But there was no other way around this unless he wanted to get his father involved with all of this supernatural shit, which he hoped never happened.
Stiles needed to keep him safe. His father was in danger enough as it was being the sheriff. For years, Stiles carefully monitored all of the dispatch radio chatter, dedicated hours to memorizing all of the different police codes that abbreviated specific crimes, incidents, or instructions so he knew what was coming over the scanner. He listened and waited, all the while dreading when someone would contact him with news that something bad happened to his father while out on a call.
Ignorance was the best protection in this instance. Just look at what happened once Stiles knew the truth about werewolves and hunters and cryptic veterinarians. He’d been hunted by revenge seeking monsters, witnessed countless deaths, feared for the lives of everyone around him, and was haunted by unescapable nightmares.
Every day was a new battle. His father was just like him though. He would feel this same need to protect everyone, especially once he knew of Stiles’ involvement in it all. It could get him killed.
And that would kill Stiles.
So no. Not happening.
“Okay.” His father nodded. It was slow and unconvinced, his gaze unwavering. “... You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
Stiles swallowed the guilty thickness lodged in his throat and inclined his head. “Yeah, dad. Of course I do.”
“Anything you’re going through, you can tell me about it,” he added gently, looking strangely earnest. “I won’t judge you or love you any less for anything. “You can come to me if you’re having trouble at school, if you and Scott fight any more, or if you’re just having girl trouble… or boy trouble.” He held his hand up against the automatic protest his words provoked. “Or… or if you want to tell me the truth about what’s been going on with your for the past three months.”
Stiles averted his eyes. He stared down at his hands unsurely. “You’re going to be late for work.” He wasn’t even sure what time his dad needed to go in for work, but surely it needed to be soon. Either way, this conversation was over because he didn’t want to talk about anything else.
He heard a heavy sigh as his father stood, a warm hand settling on his shoulder a second later. He said a quiet farewell as he gathered his effects and a few moments later the front door opened and shut, leaving Stiles miserable and alone.
Moments ticked by in silence as Stiles sat there, listening to the rumble of the cruiser fade down the street. Only when it disappeared entirely did he release a long breath and push himself to his feet. He looked longingly up the stairs, but lingered in the doorway to the dining room.
Case files blanketed the table in neat, overlapping stacks, held open with coffee mugs, pens, and one half-eaten granola bar his father had undoubtedly forgotten about. At least it was a healthy snack, and not one of the chocolate bars hidden in the drawer beside his arm chair he thought Stiles didn’t know about. Every inch of shape had been claimed by reports, photographs, and maps covered in handwritten notes.
Stiles chewed on the inside of his lips. Sorry, dad.
The silent apology carred little conviction. He swallowed the last of his guilt, crossed the room, and slipped his phone from his pocket. His father really should know better than to bring his work home with him if he didn’t want Stiles to snoop.
Three folders had been separated from the others. They stood out to him. One thick. Two thin. His eyes landed on the first tab.
ARGEN, KATHERINE.
Stiles’ eyebrows climbed. Hers was the thickest, of course.
He expected Kate’s file to be big, but not this substantial.
He snapped several photos before flipping it open.
The first pages were recent things. Her death certificate and obituary. The newspaper articles that painted her as a homicidal maniac terrorizing Beacon Hills, covering up her tracks for the Hale tragedy. Then death certificates delated to said tragedy, fire investigation, witness statements. Deeper into the folder the tone shifter. More newspaper clippings. Financial records. Property deeds. Photographs of the burned Hale house. Those weren’t the only photographs.
A faculty picture of Kate Sterling, a substitute teacher at Beacon Hills High School. A picture of a young Derek Hale, vulnerable and smiling, in a car with a very much adult Kate Argent. They weren’t even the focus of the picture. They were in the background, but it was clearly them.
Stiles felt bile rise in his throat. She’d been his teacher? He tore his eyes away, looking at the other pieces of evidence. He filed it in the back of his mind, though.
A timeline stretching back nearly six years.
His father hadn’t just accepted Kate Argent as a perpetrator or another victim. He’d been digging. Looking deep into everything. The margins were filled with scribbled questions and comments. With accusations, too.
Relationship to Hale family? Opportunity before fire?
Missing months after incident. No alibi confirmed.
Seduced youngest son, Derek Hale. Fifteen years old.
Then, in thick black ink across the last page:
She did it. Motive?
Stiles flipped a page. His eyebrow raised. She had more aliases. Silver. Plata. Argento. Argint. All names variants of Katherine. All variations of Argent or Silver. She was wanted for questioning for homicide in two other criminal cases. His father had compiled pages and pages of cases he believed she was connected to. Individuals, families, missing or dead.
The final pages were all about the recent murders. A bit of artful subterfuge with a necklace, and Peter Hale’s revenge spree had been conveniently pinned on the woman already responsible for burning his family alive.
Except…
Evidence planted? Too convenient?
His father was too damn smart.
Stiles didn’t read through it. He could do that later, when he didn’t have a pulsing headache. Plus, there were still two other files to get through.
CORNISH, TUCKER
The mechanic from Armor Tire and Service Center. His eyes skated over the gruesome coroner’s photographs, his fingers shaking as he snapped a few of his own of the report. He didn’t need to read it. He’d lived it.
And finally…
SINCLAIRE, PAUL
Stiles didn’t need to look at this one. He didn’t think it had anything to do with… anything really. He righted the first two, making sure they were as he found them. His father taught him years ago that evidence should always go back exactly where he’d found it. But Kate and the mechanic were things he knew about, things he could use to help the pack, to learn about the kanima. Who the hell was Paul Sinclaire?
“In for a penny…” Stiles muttered. He’d already looked at the others. Looking at one more couldn’t hurt, right? He thumbed the file open.
The photograph of a Utah driver’s license stared back, the man vaguely familiar. He frowned, skimming the details of the police report. His mouth fell open. Oh. No wonder he recognized this asshole.
This was the deputy from the night of the full moon. The one who went there to kill Isaac Lahey. The who almost choked Stiles out. The one Isaac threw into a wall.
Stiles went throught he same routine, taking pictures, though admittedly, he was curious. He hadn’t given much thought what happened to the man after hoisting off the blame to him that night. Apparently, the department confirmed the man wasn’t law enforcement. His uniform was convincing enough, but fingerprints unraveled the lie almost immediately. They matched prints lifted from two unsolved kidnappings, one homicide, and enough open investigations to fill half the folder.
There was even still images from the stations internal hallway security camera. Grainy, a bit blurry with movement. Good enough to identify the moment the fake deputy grabbed Stiles in a chokehold.
Stiles stared at it, lips pulling into a slow smile. My dad is going to evicerate you.
Or he would. If the man ever woke up.
Isaac put the asshole in a coma.
Go baby werewolf.
Stiles closed the file when he was done, ensuring it was just as neatly put back as the other two. He bit his lip, frowning at them in thought.
Two cases in front of him, both connected to hunters. He only knew because he was in the know.
Hunters bled. They left fingerprints and DNA. They bought cars, rented motel rooms, made phone calls, carried bank accounts, and filed taxes. They crossed state lines. They purchased weapons. Hell, Chris Argent, Kate’s brother, sold weapons. He was currently negotiating to sell to the department. But, he too was a hunter, not some monster with vanishing claws and fangs that could be blamed on a cougar.
They were just as dangerous.
They weren’t invisible.
Stiles’ eyes drifted toward the thick Argent file.
Gerard Argent might know everything there was to know about hunting werewolves. Unfortunately, Stiles was raised in the shadow of a sheriff. He knew how to hunt criminals.
And now he had a plan
Sort of. The makings of one anyway.
Ten percent of a plan was still a plan.
Pulling way from the spread of files, Stiles finally made his way to the stairs. He felt good about this. He needed to think more, to sus out the details on the steps of said plan and how to implement it, but he had direction. He could contribute somehow, finally, and maybe be the one to help protect Scott and the others for a change instead of be the one being pushed back by a firm hand and being told to run.
He dropped his bag onto the floor and threw himself down onto his bed face first. He breathed a sigh of relief, sinking down into the comfort of mattress, burying his face into his pillow as he brought his arms around it.
No pizza or lasagna or anything tonight. Suffice to say, his appetite, what little there’d been to begin with, diminished to nothing looking at those photographs. Carnage would do that. So would seeing Kate and Derek, and all it implied. His stomach was a mass of knots now, and his insides rolled up and twisted.
But the conversation with his father still weighed heavy in his mind too. He’d lost his appetite the minute the things grew strained.
Stiles hated this. He hated the lying, he hated the secrecy, and he was beginning to hate that he had to pretend to be fine when he felt like he was falling apart. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet.
“Took you long enough,” a low, female voice, all too recognizable, said from across the room. It was the same voice that more recently preceded violence in some manner, usually to Stiles in particular. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
Stiles sighed into the pillow, pushing his face deeper into the blue fabric. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away. Or maybe she was just a figment of his exhausted imagination.
But then, why would he be imagining Erica Reyes in his bedroom? She was hot, a burning ember of blond hair and brown eyes, but not hot enough to ignite his fantasies. He’d been a one woman man since third grade, even if that was finally getting crushed out of him slowly but surely.
Erica seemed to take an unusual amount of pleasure in his misery lately. She was the only reason he’d been at the garage the night the mechanic died, having stolen a carburator from his Jeep and brained him with it, and now she’d taken to braking into his home to inflict more damage.
This better be a wolfy emergency of some sort.
“Trying to suffocate yourself?” Erica asked. “No? Too bad.”
Stiles sighed again. He was too tired to deal with this shit. He pried his eyes open, turning his head with reluctance. She was parched on his desk, her miniscule skirt riding up her thigh. She did have nice legs, he’d give her that.
“What do you want, Erica?”
Erica pouted her red lips, idly flipping through the book on werewolf lore he’d forgotten to put away. “Someone sounds very unhappy to see me.”
Stiles pulled himself upright unwillingly. His arms were uncooperative, but he managed it after a moment, sitting on the bed as he watched her warily. “I’m very happy to see you. Can’t you tell? Ecstatic. You bring such joy to my life.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “Fine literature you have here.” She snapped the book shut. “Too bad none of it is actually true.”
It was a thick tome. One that focused less on the sensationalized outlook on werewolves and more on the mythology behind them. She’d looked amused reading some of the pages, golden curls bouncing as she shook her head. He’d found some of it amusing too.
“Some of it is,” he countered. “I think it was written by someone who met a werewolf, a real one. But I think they were kept deliberately in the dark about some things, to make sure they didn’t know too much. I only wanted it for the passage on remedies and poisons. I already know the one about using the ashes of Aconitum Noveboracense to reverse any adverse effects from firsthand experience, so it’s probably the most accurate book out of the ones I’ve been able to find.”
Aconitum Nove… what?” Erica wrinkled her nose. “What is that?”
“Monkshood?” Stiles tried. “Wolfsbane? You know, the little flower that can make even the strongest werewolf spew black poison and smell like death?”
Erica stared at him blankly.
Stiles pulled his lips back, not a smile or a grimace, just… what? Scott had barely been a werewolf for a month before he learned this. Stiles wasn’t even a werewolf and he knew about it, about mistletoe, about high voltage electricity and… and too much.
He sighed.
“Wolfsbane is poisonous to werewolves. Depending on the stain, it can rot your insides within a short span of time. Between a week to forty-eight hours,” he explained, because if asshole alpha wasn’t going to take the time to educate his puppies, then Stiles would. “Amputation is one remedy, but only if the poison doesn’t reach your heart, because then you’re just screwed. The fact that you don’t know this makes me question your wolfiness.”
And question Derek’s alpha-ness, but not to his face.
“And let me tell you, I never want to have to be put in a position to cut off anyone’s limbs again, got it?” Stiles pointed a finger in her direction. “Once was more than enough. So, no magic wolfsbane bullets for any of you. Capiche? Hey…” He frowned thoughtfully. “Do you know if your limbs grow back if severed? I always meant to ask Derek that, but probably wouldn’t have answered me anyway.”
Erica’s look of incomprehension lingered. It cleared after a moment too long of processing, and she rolled her eyes again, slamming the book back onto his desk. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in a move that showed off her admittedly impressive cleavage. Which… unfortunately, did nothing for Stiles now that he knew what a monumental bitch she was. Why is it he liked her more before the werewolf makeover?
He rubbed his hand over his head tiredly.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re here? Or did you just come for the werewolf lesson? Because I have more.”
“Derek wants to talk to you.”
“He has my number. It hasn’t changed.”
“In person.”
“The last time Derek wanted to talk,” Stiles spat. “I got dragged to the pool by my ear, attacked by a lizard man, and all of us almost died. Pass.”
Erica stood and advanced. He rose to his feet in an instant, watching her warily. She came to a stop so close to him, he could feel the heat of her body, the soft curves of her breasts pressed against his chest. Her red lips pulled back into a dark smile.
“Still trying to avoid staring?”
“Seriously?” Stiles bit out. He rolled his eyes this time. He nudged her out of the way and sidestepped to give himself some breathing room. “Yes, Erica. You have nice breasts. But frankly, I’ve seen better, so no, I’m not trying to avoid staring at them, I just don’t want to look at them. Have some self-respect.”
Erica gave him a withering look. The quick flex of her hand drew his attention to the long set of claws erupting from her nail beds. Shit.
He backed away as Erica stalked closer. His back pressed against the wall when he ran out of room to move. She crowded him, closing the distance without touching him this time, but close enough he could practically feel the rage pouring off her.
“Is that so?” She asked, voice cold. Her hand fell to the side of his neck. The sharp curve of her claws pressed against his skin, her thumb rubbing a circle against the tender, vulnerable flesh in a way than sent a shiver down his spine. “Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the… what is it?” Her expression darkened gleefully, and she breathed in, clearly enjoying the scent of fear a little too much. “Boy trouble you’re having?”
Stiles took a moment too long to register the words. His heart was lodged in his throat, pulse pounding so heard he could hear it. He blinked once. Then again. His fear steadied into something else, jaw growing tense. He glared at her, unable to come up with a witty comeback.
Just how long was Erica up here listening?
Erica laughed a cruel laugh at his silence. “Aw, no wonder you smell so… disinterested,” she cooed. “Can’t get it up for a girl?”
Another laugh, and then Erica finally withdrew. She reached into her bra, plucking a folded-up piece of paper out. She then leaned forward, trailing her hand down his chest, tugging up the bottom of his shirt. She tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, letting her claws scratches his belly enough to draw blood to the surface without actually breaking the skin. His neck strained as he clenched his teeth, watching her through narrow eyes.
“Go to that address after school tomorrow,” Erica said, pulling away with one last scratch. Don’t be late.” She tossed her curls over her shoulder with a grin. “My alpha doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
Provoking unstable werewolves wasn’t the brightest idea, but Stiles had been doing it long before Erica. He’d taunted Peter Hale. He’d antagonized Derek. He’d tied up Scott and thrown lacrosse balls at him. This? This was par for the course.
Erica paused by the open window. She turned, though was only just enough. He was beginning to see a pattern in the way she moved. The way she sat. It was all deliberate. A conscious effort to show off her figure, to enhance her attributes. She was silhouetted in the glow of the evening light from the window right now. His lips tugged down.
Anyone who ever claimed Lydia Martin, his long time love, was narcissistic and vail, obviously never met Erica post-pite. She’d grabbed the wolf by the tail a ran.
“What are you blathering on about?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Stiles repeated. “The bite.”
“Oh?” Erica scoffed. She flexed her claws again. “I beg to differ.”
“Sure. You get the wolfish attributes.” He shrugged, conceding that point. Her mouth opened, probably to argue with him. He wasn’t done though. “It might change your physiology to a degree. Scott got abs and reflexes. There’s heightened senses, more agility than you ever thought possible, and you can heal from wounds that would leave almost anyone else crippled.”
Erica stood, completely apathetic, examining a claw. “Wow. Compelling argument, Stilinski,” she deadpanned. “I’m going to go now.”
Stiles ignored the interruption, continuing on as if she’d not spoken at all. “But it doesn’t change you as a person. You might go a bit crazy during the full moon, but even then, that’s only one night. So this whole persona you’ve got going on, this bitchy façade with the skanky skirts and the low-cut tops, this coldhearted she-wolf routine who is cruel, seductive, and violent… that isn’t who you are.”
“Oh really?” Erica asked, her smile now sickly sweet. Her eyes flashed dangerously, setting off all the little self-preservation alarm bells in his mind, especially when she began to advance. The iris glowed, a golden hue now surrounding her pupil while the rest of the iris stayed dark brown. She stoped once she was in his face again. “How do you know this isn’t who I always was?”
“... I don’t.”
Erica faltered, only for one moment. The glow faded. Her glare came harshly. “Exactly,” she hissed, running her extended claws down the side of his arm. “No one knows who I am, because none of you ever bothered to find out before.”
Stiles shook his head. “No. That’s not true.” He could admit to not knowing her, but not that he hadn’t tried. “Or have you forgotten the times I reached out? I invited you to lunch almost every week in middle school. I asked you to go bowling because Scott completely sucked at it before he was turned and I knew you rocked at it and could give me some decent competition. I tired to find out who you were, to be your friend, but every time I so much as looked at you, you pushed me away.”
“Oh please,” Erica scoffed harshly, her canines looking sharper than before. She was on the verge of wolfing out. She poked him in the chest, the sharp tips of her claws causing enough pressure to hurt instead of just make his skin crawl. “I knew what you were thinking when you approached me.”
“I doubt that.”
“You didn’t want to be my friend. You can’t lie to me, Stilinski. You just pitied me, the poor little epileptic girl with no friends.” Her voice was as sharp as her claws, mocking and full of bite. Her eyes were sad. “You only wanted to play nice guy because you were the sheriff’s son, so you could pretend you weren’t as pathetic and mean as everyone else.”
Stiles studied her eyes. His jaw lost the tenseness, no longer aching from the strain. He breathed out, slow and calm. He sighed.
“You’re right,” he said.
Erica’s eyebrows drew together. Her transformation stalled, reversing completely in her shock; the nails smoothed out, teeth becoming blunt once again. And her eyes, still dark brown, now shone with an unsatisfactory mix of hurt and triumph. She pulled her hands away, falling a step back. She didn’t speak, seemingly unable to come up with a response.
“You’re right,” he repeated, staring straight into her eyes. “I can’t lie to you. No one can ever lie to you again. At least, not without you knowing.”
Confusion replaced the hurt.
Stiles smiled wryly. “It’s part of the whole werewolf package, the whole passive polygraph thing. I trust your alpha at least taught you that?” He leaned in, eyebrow raised. “You can hear my heartbeat loud and clear now, so I want you to listen to me, Erica, and tell me if I’m lying to you.”
Erica watched him with uncertainty, but she said nothing in protest.
“I never pitied you.”
“You’re lying!”
The response was immediate, the same hurt and triumph present.
“I never pitied you.”
Erica growled at him. “Stop lying.”
“Not until now,” Stiles finished, and she drew back as if he’d physically struck her. His chest ached, a pang of regret swirling as he met her gaze. He gave her just a moment to consider his words before continuing. “I worried for you when you would sit alone. I actually punched Jackson Whittemore in the face back in fifth grade when he made fun of you, which resulted in a lifelong tormentor for me, but I never regretted it. I used to bake cookies and deliver them to your house, with specific instructions to your mother not to tell you who they were from since you sort of hated me.”
Erica took another step back, but Stiles wasn’t advancing on her as she had him. She crossed her arms over her chest now, her shoulders curling in. She looked more like… Erica. This was the girl who glowed with delight in second grade when Stiles gifted her a Catwoman Valentine, the same girl who defiantly told him off for interfering when someone teased her about a seizure.. The same girl who smiled timidly when they were chosen to climb the rockwall in gym just two weeks ago.
Like the girl who read comic books and drew in sketch books and rolled her eyes at all things history related because she despised patriarchal societies. Like the girl he’d wanted to befriend all those years. This wasn’t what he’d been aiming for, but at least it proved the old Erica still existed behind the leather and wolf pelt veneer she’d wrapped herself with.
Stiles rubbed a hand over his head. “Scott accused me more than once of having a crush on you,” he admitted. Her eyes widened, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t that bad, was he? Sure, Lydia fled from him and crushed his soul, but damn. Did he repel everyone? “I just wanted to be your friend though… I always thought we could have been great friends.”
He studied her, biting his lip.
Erica curled her fingers into a fist. He thought he might have been getting through to her. But no. He could see the shoulders stiffen, the narrowing of her eyes. Her chin came up, lips thin. She ruthlessly crushed any aspect of her old personality down and fully donned the she-wolf armor. His heart sank.
“You thought wrong,” she said coldly. “We could never be friends.”
Her body vibrated, a ripple going over her skin. He could almost hear her heartbeat rising with her anger from where he stood, and for a moment, he thought she’d shift completely. She didn’t, but he suspected she wanted to.
“This is who I am, Stilinski. Get used to it.”
And, as if to prove her point, Erica was in front of him in the blink of an eye. She snarled, hand balled up into a fist. She drew it back then let it fly. It collided roughly with his stomach.
Air rushed out of him and Stiles his the wall hard. His lip caught between his teeth, splitting the flesh open. He winced at the pain, both from the blow and from his mouth. Nausea rolled through his stomach. He’d always been squeamish around blood, and the metallic tang on his tongue was almost enough to make him gag.
He saw her move out of the corner of his eye and couldn’t contain his flinch. It was instinctive, a reaction to her hand coming near him, but she was only lowering it. Her face was unreadable when he looked up. He watched her begin to retreat, and was just done.
“I’m glad, you know,” he said, pained and tired, and not able to leave it alone. She paused again, one leg out the window, head turned in acknowledgement. “I’m glad.”
“About what, Stiles?”
Stiles exhaled shakily, one hand pressing against his side. He’d bruise. He bruised like a peach, always, and that was without werewolf strength. He shifted, grimacing through the ache of it, struggling to breathe.
“I’m glad you never accepted my friendship,” he told her, not bothering to look toward the window as he stumbled back toward the bed. “Because I can see now I totally misjudged you from the start. I’m glad you let me see you for who you really were before I actually let myself care about you.”
Stiles didn’t say it to be cruel. She possessed a built in lie detector. She got brutal honesty. Her confidence faltered again. He had a feeling the truth cut just the same as cruelty. He didn’t take it back though. She launched herself from the window. He swallowed thickly, his throat consticting as he made his way to the opening. He spotted her running down the street.
“And Reyes?”
Erica’s pace didn’t slow, didn’t falter. She kept running, straight for the woods. She gave no indication she heard him. He only had past experiences with Scott and Derek to tell him she was listening. He ran his tongue along the split in his lips. It’d stopped bleeding already, but it was swollen and hurt. His resolve strengthened.
“Tell Derek and the rest of your little wolf pack that if anyone enters my home unannounced and uninvited again… it will not be a pleasant encounter and you will regret it.”
Erica disappeared around the street corner.
With a heavy sigh, Stiles closed the window. He locked it for good measure. It wouldn’t keep the wolves out, not yet, but it was better than leaving it open. He crawled back into bed, breath hitching as the movement aggravated his stomach. He rolled onto his side, hugging his pillow close to his face.
Tired, alone, and in pain.
Great way to end the day.