A fanfiction blog. Mainly RoTG, HTTYD, and RoTBTD. Requests are currently closed. As this is a fanwork blog, none of the characters or franchise titles are owned by me. All credit goes to original creators at DreamWorks, Disney, and elsewhere. I only...
Author: Renoku
Rating: M
Warnings: Language, Graphic Depictions, Violence
Word Count: 5,000 (7,000 overall)
Summary:
In the domed country of Santoff Claussen, powers are commonplace. However, there are some that are more dangerous than others, and when someone places a hit on you, you do what you can to survive. Even if the man you love has thought you were dead for the past three months.
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“You said it before you left. I’d wanted to hear it then. Because Jack,” Aster said, his voice as steady as the earth he stood upon, “I’d been prepared to hear you say it every day for the rest of my life.”
«Ao3» (see Ao3 for author’s notes and entire work)
Groundhog Day Jackrabbit Week 2016 - Day 1 - Morning
Author: Renoku
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, Graphic Descriptions, Violence
Word Count: 2000
Summary:
When a reincarnating spirit is found murdered - unsurprisingly, yet still terrible - P.I. Bunnymund has to race to clear the name of his street urchin-turned-informant Jack Frost before the real culprit skips town. But has Jack fallen back into his old ways? Or is he just trying to protect the ones he loves most? Is Aster one of those people? He really shouldn't be thinking about that when there's a murder case to solve.
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This is my submission for Jackrabbit Easter 2016! Honestly have no idea where this is going, so we'll update the summary when it's all completed. (Possible NSFW later? Will update the tags when it's relevant.)
«Ao3» (Please see Ao3 for any author’s notes.)
Jackrabbit Week 2016 - Day 1 - Morning
He woke slowly as the sun rose over the city skyline. If he’d been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly when he’d become aware of himself, but it came after the last memories of his dreams had left him and before he’d opened his eyes. The morning entered through the window and settled at once, focused and heavy, in the corner beside the chest. From there it expanded. It seemed to fill the room with an amber glow, growing with age as slow as the sap of time.
When it reached the sheets they lit up in white fire. He felt his fur begin to warm against the cool linen. First his toes, then his legs and further up his body. It came across him like a breath of hot wind, aged from the past. It pushed through his fur flush against his skin, and, like a breeze, it lifted from him the weight of the sheets, only a fraction, and blew away the final covers of slumber.
His nose twitched. His whiskers quivered. Amidst the sea of soft white fire, he opened his eyes.
“...Damn.”
+++++
He’d been awake through the night. When asked, he’d said he knew nothing and he walked the other way. He avoided the patches of moonlight that broke through the buildings as he weaved through the alleyways in shadow. Barefoot, he did not run, but he kept his hood up and his head down, hiding away his hair and face from the exposure of the full moon.
The gravel cut like glass beneath his hardened feet, sharp and burning. The world was on fire, lit again by the moon. In his chest, his ice pulsed. It filled him with chill atop the molten ground, fought against the baking earth. It rushed through his veins, keeping his soul frozen and secure to his pounding heart.
He kept his breath steady.
Figures moved through the light, and he threw himself to the wall. Hot brick raked against his fingers as he waited for them to pass. Their height gave him pause; they were short, lower to the ground. Perhaps nothing – but no, he couldn’t take the risk. Fast in the approaching dawn, they vanished back into the steep shadows of the city. With a sigh of relief, he pulled away from the wall, leaving behind only a shock of white. Only pattern of ice in the shape of a hand, frightened into being, showed any sign of his presence.
It would be gone by morning.
By the time the sun began to break across the edge of the city skyline, he’d made it back across town. Here, it was safer, or as safe as it could be in Santoff Claussen. The slums of Burgess, they were, dominated by crumbling buildings and populated with the street rats to match. Or street bunnies, as the saying went – at least where Jack frequented.
It was his destination.
He knew the entire city better than his own mind on the best of days, but even then the surroundings of home gave him relief. Despite the familiarity, however, he kept his guard up. Fists clenched in his jacket pocket, ready for anything, because he never knew when—
“Jack?”
He lashed out, the blade of ice already half-formed by the time he brought it up to the boy’s neck. They both froze, adrenaline pumping through their bodies, one through sudden fear, and the other through pent-up paranoia after the night he’d just experienced.
“Jamie?”
Jack stared into the eyes of the boy, and almost immediately his anger disappeared. He flinched away, almost in shame, dropping the blade of ice. It melted to water before it even splashed on the ground.
He reached out for the man, even as he backed away, and grabbed his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Jamie, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t hear you coming and I-“
“Jack. Jack, I’m fine,” said Jamie. “Calm down.”
He took Jack’s arms in his hands, holding him still. “Look at me, Jack,” he said, “Look at me. Hey!”
The final shout brought Jack back to his senses, and their eyes met. As Jack stared back at the boy, the world seemed to grow brighter, only for a moment, and suddenly calm washed over his mind.
Jamie blinked, and he backed away.
“You alright?” he asked. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Jack collapsed back against the half-broken wall of the building behind him, and he let his breath return. Air felt like dust and dirt at it flooded his lungs, and he drank it like shadow. Hot, like the earth, and lighter than the heavy moonlight, he felt peace return. Jamie waited for him to speak, and when he did it came out cracked as ice.
“I- I was in the Venetian District. All night. Delivery.”
He heard Jamie’s sharp breath. “Were you seeing Pitch?”
At that, Jack let out a weak laugh. “No,” he replied, “And I almost wish. But no, I owed someone a favor. Groundhog.
“Groundhog? What were you doing with that sack of-”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m fine. It’s just the district; you know how it is. Like an Escher piece come to life. Set’s me on edge. I’m fine.”
“The monosyllabic repetition is really reassuring me to that fact.”
“No, really, I’m fine. I just need to get to Aster’s.”
Jamie didn’t seem sure. He crossed his arms and hugged himself, probably against the chill of the night, or perhaps because of the being before him, still slumped against the wall. His shoulders hunched up to his cheeks, and he looked off down the alleyway. Jack could hear the thoughts of empathy, at least in their nature.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Let me walk with you.”
Immediately, Jack began to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Go home, Jamie. Get Pippa and round all the kids together. Stay indoors.”
He pushed himself off of the wall, only to have Jamie grab his arm again.
“That doesn’t make it sound ‘fine’,” the boy said. “Jack, what’s going on?”
Jack shrugged out of his grip. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. I have to talk with Aster about it first, understand? Just stay inside.”
“Jack-”
“What part of ‘nothing you need to worry about’ don’t you get?”
“Jack, shut up.” Again, the world seemed to fill with a bright light, and the surge of anger disappeared from Jack’s tired mind. He let Jamie turn him around.
The white glow faded from Jamie’s eyes, as he continued, “If this is anything like what went down with Pitch, I just want to be prepared.”
“It’s not like that,” said Jack. “I promise. Aster just needs to know. And I don’t want to worry about the kits while I’m at it.”
“So what, do you want us to go to Warren?”
“No, just. Stay safe.”
“We always do.” Jamie looked Jack over once more before he seemed to come to a conclusion. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll find Pippa and give her the word. You’ll know where to find this.”
Jack gave a tired smile. He gripped Jamie’s arm in return, and said, “Thanks, kid.”
“Of course.” He pulled Jack in for a hug, and the man breathed in the smell of family and home. He’d be a few days away from it, if this was as bad as he thought, so he tried to imprint it into his mind the best he could.
With the air of anxious conquest despite steadfast determination, they parted, their goals in mind. They said farewell, be safe, and then they both turned. Jack readjusted his hood, making sure it covered his hair, and slunk back into the shadows of the alleyway, avoiding the moonlight that burned like accusation upon the molten earth.
+++++
Aster entered his kitchen with a tranquil mind and a groggy, sleep-sick stomach. A gauze like cotton clogged his head, his eyes half-shut and his ears struggling to stand of their own accord. His fur was matted all down one side, and his now twitched curiously as he searched for the coffee. He shuffled over to the counter, his large feet plodding on the tile. He dragged his paws up to the cabinets as if hung from strings, limp except for where they dangled, shaking in the air.
The room was washed in amber, a tint of vintage sleep filtered over the cluttered morning.
As he drank his coffee, Aster leaned back against the counter and surveyed the mess of his kitchen. The permanent stains of paint splatters crafted their own work of art on the counter edges and scattered in patches across the floor. The small table in the corner held an abstract arrangement in miniature of dirtied mugs of stagnant paint water – which, despite the clear warning of “DO NOT DRINK” in bright red ink, he’d most certainly done so just the night before – and soiled, multicolored rags, hardened with the sharp burning smell of acrylic. His collapsed easel lay desolate in the corner. Dishes piled in the sink. Scraps of half-finished sketches poured onto the floor in a fountain of charcoal and parchment, black streaks smeared across the papers. On the wall, watercolor portraits dripped off of their pages where he’d pinned them up to work. Like melting lilies, they began blurred through a tree-sap lens and slowly came into sharp focus, outlined in thin, spiraled ink.
Aster watched the amber fade as the coffee entered his blood. A growl began to build deep in this throat, and he downed the rest of the drink as if it were something to burn in his throat. Instead, it only gave him a bitter recognition that yes, poor decisions were once again his forte.
His limited palette swirled through his mind; blue, white, purple, and black. As he came into full consciousness, with his paws tightening on the mug clutched in his hand, his ears came alive as well. They pressed flat against his head.
He knew better. He really did.
He turned away from the painting. He’d take it down later, after he’d eaten. Maybe after checking in with the office, see if there was a case. Or maybe after that case, if said investigation truly existed, as he suspected it did, as he always did when his ears felt cold on one side and his tail puffed up like a spout of anger, never from embarrassment, no, nor from shame, and certainly not because of certain paintings, no matter how detailed they were in their depiction of certain winter harbingers. So yes, he would take down the paintings eventually, of course he would, because why would he grace his walls with images of an overblown blizzard-bearer, no matter how witty, shocking, and completely captivating they remained even after these years of knowledge. Of course he’d take them down and put them with the others.
But first, breakfast.
Before he could begin to attempt any excursion for a clean bowl, let alone food, though, a knock came at the door.
Aster paused. A visitor this early, when the world was just beginning to turn from dream to color, grafted into the films of the era of sound past the vintage age? It’d been a few days; of the four people it could be, only one of them made sense.
He didn’t give the paintings on the wall a second thought as he made his way to the hall.
The small entrance to his apartment remained as dim as the morning around him. Each time he saw the doorway at the end, with it’s weathered, peeling surface, the spyhole centered in its body like a target, he couldn’t help the feeling of apprehension. The feeling of news, of expectation, the loss of comfort as he left his home. Would he come back this time? Would the others?
Would he ever see the man again?
Another knock sounded out, and this time came a voice. “Bunny! Wake up, Fluffbutt! We’ve got work to do.”
All pretense of caution flew out the door as Aster threw it open. There, leaning against the frame, in his blue hood and with hair as white as ice, was Jack.
“Morning, Cottontail,” he said. “I’ve got us a case.”
And with those words, he stumbled, and collapsed onto the floor.
(The write a sentence you write 5 prompt) Stiles' face was completely serious, not the joker Derek usually saw, "You died Derek."
Leave the first sentence of a fic in my askbox and i will write the next five.
"I saw you – Gerard’s sword was through your neck and—"
"No," Derek interrupted, rushing forward. He took Stiles’ face in his hands, thumbs gripping his cheeks. He leaned their foreheads together, and for a moment he breathed, hearing Stiles’ heart beating like crazy as he struggled to stay calm. "I’m here, Stiles; I’m real."
(Oh god this was evil like I had to take a moment before writing this how dare you. You’re amazing and I love you.)
Writing Blog(totally leave fic requests there if you want like your choice you do what you do)
Author: :
Rating: G
Warnings: Deadly amounts of fluff
Word Count: 750
Summary:
Derek missed nights like this, moments where the seemingly infinite clockwork throughout the town seemed to slow down just for them.
A/N: This is actually a preview for a work that I won't write for a while, but I really really want to, so hopefully I will. It's also a sort of Steampunk!AU, and Stiles is a yeti. :3 Hope you enjoy! Also, go check out the 12 Days of Sterek blog!
This Frozen Moment
Derek missed nights like this, moments where the seemingly infinite clockwork throughout the town seemed to slow down just for them. When endless time seemed to stop, leaving the hollow arcs of the clock hands just a little bit emptier, and their room just a little closer to bursting with warmth. In these frozen moments, with the snow drifting outside the frost-etched windows and the fire blooming in the hearth, Derek felt the heat in his chest fill his entire body.
It wasn’t the heat of anger, however. He hadn’t felt that in what felt like a long while. The old fury of his life had been swept away by the rivers of gears and heavy metal, a small burden to the great flow of time. He’d learned that the hard way; from the peak of the cycle down to the very abyss he’d felt that anger. But now it only came in flashes, and never because of his past.
Only because of the annoying devil he held in his arms.
Stiles breathed softly, his face buried into the crook of Derek’s neck. The air from his lungs swept across Derek’s skin like a brand, ruffling the fur that crept out from his body. He was still getting used to it, this half-shift. He preferred to keep it beneath himself when he was out in the town, still worried someone would stare, no matter how many nymphs, elves, or other wolves walked around openly.
But when he was with this man – this crazy, stubborn, life-risking asshole – he found his control slipping, and he felt the fangs drop over his bottom as his claws caressed the white fur sprouting from Stiles’ back. He never understood that phrase “soft as snow”. No, he’d had one too many face plants with snow to think of it as “soft”. Stiles’ fur was more like a cloud, only warmer, filled with that same kind of brimming energy that threatened to shock him at any moment. He drug his fingers though it reverently, unable to help his small sigh as his control slipped away with every stroke.
His mind felt blank, focused solely on Stiles asleep I his arms, the man’s back rising with each inhale. He could feel his ears lengthening, the cartilage filing to a point on each side. His nostrils flared, the scent of snow and cinnamon filling his lungs. Holding on to the humanity in his heart, he buried his nose into the hair on Stiles’ scalp, turned white by his transformation. Derek didn’t know which he preferred, the human brown that Stiles wore most of the day, or this side of him that appeared almost just as often. In came more naturally to Stiles, shifting back and forth in the middle of conversations. Derek envied him a little, but he was getting there.
He loved him just the same. So much that it almost scared him, overwhelmed him to the point where his heart picked up speed and his wolf became restless.
Stiles shifted in his sleep. He raised a clawed arm, giant claws, almost like shovels on the ends of his fingers, to curl around the back of Derek’s neck. The man murmured in his sleep, so incoherent that Derek couldn’t hear.
Derek took another breath, and looked into the fire. He could stare at the flames now, unflinching and calm. So much had changed since he’d been thrown off that train. He would never forget, couldn’t forget his family, but he’d found a new one, one that he could keep and be selfish with and hold for as long as he wanted.
Most of them had left earlier, to bring the night to a close in this frozen moment. Derek felt sure that they weren’t on the only ones lost in this space between times, but this was the only place that mattered to him, right now, in front of this fire, with Stiles in his arms.
Somewhere in the town, everywhere, and yet nowhere certain, clockwork chimed. Thousands, hundreds, one – twelve tolls sounded out, hollow and loud and just strong enough to shake through Derek’s chest.
Stiles shifted on top of him. Blearily, his eyes blinked open, brown as whiskey and shining with sleep.
“Sourwolf,” he smiled, and his teeth were sharp in his smirk, a half-grin that stretched the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got no eyebrows.”
Derek smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”
Time started again, as Stiles kissed Derek’s cheek and snuggled back down to sleep.
Author: Renoku
Rating: G
Warnings: Mild Language
Word Count: 8,111
Summary:
“My mother’s Christmas dinner is this evening,” Derek says, and those words really should not have that effect on Stiles’ stomach.
“Mm?” he questions. “Yeah, I’m going to be there, like every year. So?”
Derek closes his eyes, and Stiles swears he can see that blush coming back. He holds his breath again, as Derek inhales deeply.
“I forgot to make anything.”
Stiles blinks.
“Holy shit, she’s going to kill you!” he cries.
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Or: Stiles really wasn't expecting to have to deal with his crush at ass o'clock in the morning to help him get ready for a Christmas party. Well, he wasn't expecting everything else to happen either.
«Ao3» «12 Days of Sterek» «Gonna add ff later because it's acting up...»
A/N: Hey guys! I wrote this for the 12 Days of Sterek event! Please reblog it from there (or here, but preferably there)! This was a lot fluffier than I'd anticipated, but I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays!
Blood Chocolate (so pretentious)
The pounding on the door sounds loud, frantic, and altogether desperate enough that any annoyance Stiles holds at being woken up at five in the morning is replaced by nervous worry. He stumbles down the hall in the dark, flailing for a light switch. He finds it just as he reaches the front door, and the light above him floods the hallway. Stiles curses as spots bloom in front of his vision just before he trips. He pitches forward, his head meeting the front door with an audible thump. Groaning pitifully, he sinks to the floor, tiredly rubbing dark spots from his eyes.
“Stiles?” a voice calls though the door, laced with concern and all too familiar. Stiles recognizes it immediately, even through his now-dulling headache, and he groans even louder. Screw anxiety; now he’s just annoyed. “Stiles, are you alright?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Stiles mutters, and he knows that it’s not nearly quiet enough to escape the hearing of the man outside.
“Stiles,” repeats the voice – and there’s that exasperated deadpan that Stiles knows so well – lacking any of the previous worry. With another exaggerated groan, Stiles pushes himself off the floor and opens the door.
“What the hell do you want at—” he glances back at the hall clock ticking by the kitchen door “—five o’ seven in the morning, Derek?”
The werewolf at least has the decency to look sheepish. Although, that could just be his disheveled, sleep-mussed hair. He definitely still seems to get that unamused glare down. But the more Stiles looks at him – taking in the thin wifebeater, the snow covering his bare shoulders, sprayed through his hair and scruffed-up beard, his flannel plants (no more useful than the wifebeater, and in the dead of winter, really), and—
“Oh my god, are you in your pajamas?” Stiles exclaims. “It’s snowing! Oh my god, Derek, you’re not even wearing shoes! What the hell, you idiot? Come on, get inside—”
With massive amounts of flailing gestures and half-swipes at the snow on Derek’s clothes, Stiles shuffles the man in through to the kitchen, forcing him down onto a chair before going off to find something to dry the werewolf off with. He’s almost surprised to find Derek still in the chair when he returns with a bath towel. The obedience only belies the man’s protests, however:
“Stiles, I’m fine, seriously—”
The younger man interrupts him by wrapping the towel around his shoulders and scrubbing the snow off. Hard. “Listen, Sourwolf. I don’t care if you’re a goddamn werewolf, you still shouldn’t be out in the snow—”
“So? You can still get sick. Remember what happened to Scott last spring—”
“Scott’s an idiot.”
Stiles responds by using the towel to cover Derek’s face. “Don’t talk about your packmates that way. It’s rude. Whatever – the point is, this is not proper weather for going out in your pajamas – and barefoot—”
“I think—” Derek sputters through the cold cloth over his mouth, “I think that my fashion choices—”
“Are very tragic, yes. Not the point. No matter how advanced your special little ‘wolfy healing powers’ are, I don’t think the biological insurance policy includes limbs lost to frostbite!”
“Stiles, would you just—” Derek grabs Stiles by the wrists and tugs the towel down to his lap. His face is flushed red from the scrubbing, dark beneath his stubble, and extremely close to Stiles’ own. “I’m fine,” he says, and his warm breath fans across Stiles’ cheeks. His hazel eyes dart between the human’s, the lingering strains of annoyance fading. He continues, “For now, I need your help.”
Stiles swallows. His breath catches in his throat as he searches Derek’s face. The blush across his skin is fading, but is replaced by the natural warmth that always rests in his body. Stupid werewolves. Of course he’d never get frostbite, probably not even in the Arctic. Screw the light snowfall outside.
Stiles becomes distracted as his eyes dart down to Derek’s mouth, and he wets his own as he looks back up to the man’s eyes. “Yeah?” he says.
Derek’s voice sounds like a low grumble, almost warm in the close proximity. “My mother’s Christmas dinner is this evening,” he says, and those words really should not have that effect on Stiles’ stomach.
Not that he’s really paying attention. “Mm?” he questions. “Yeah, I’m going to be there, like every year. So?”
Derek closes his eyes, and Stiles swears he can see that blush coming back. He holds his breath again, as Derek inhales deeply. The werewolf’s mouth starts to twitch at the corners, and when he speaks through his small smirk, his words are nearly a whisper and his breath brushes over Stiles’ face.
“I forgot to make anything.”
Stiles blinks. Then realization downs on him as is the snow outside had just crashed into a blizzard, and he leaps up as if the blizzard had just crashed through the roof, cold and shocking up his spine and snapping him back to reality.
“Holy shit, she’s going to kill you!” he cries.
Despite himself, Derek laughs. “Not if Laura doesn’t first,” he says as he stands from the chair.
“What are you going to do?”
Derek suddenly becomes serious. He grips Stiles’ shoulders, pulling the man to look him in the face. “I don’t know,” he says. He releases Stiles to gesture around at the world in general. “I was supposed to bring a cake! I don’t know how to bake!”
“That’s a lie,” Stiles protests. “You literally bake all the time, dude. You made that cake for Kira’s nineteenth last month!”
“I don’t know how to bake a three-tiered cake.”
“Wha–” that stops Stiles, but only for a second. “Well,” he says, “did you try ordering in to the supermarket? That – What about that bakery across the street from that Starbucks? You know that one by the school?”
Derek levels Stiles with a flat look. “Stiles, this is my mother we’re talking about.” True. But Stiles remains unimpressed, and eventually Derek groans. “Yes, I did! And I even asked those wedding planners downtown if they had any wrong orders I could take, but no, they’re ‘too good for wrong orders’, and everyone else either can’t make the order in the time or they’re closed for Christmas!”
“Were they those planners that messed up the flower bouquets for Allison’s engagement party last summer?”
“Yes.”
“I hate those guys!”
“Stiles,” says Derek. “Focus.”
Stiles groans, scribing a hand down the side of his face. “Why does it even need to have three tiers?” He means, for other than all the werewolves they have to feed.
Derek scowls. “Laura,” he spits out, as if it answers everything. Which, in a way, it does. “Please, Stiles,” he says – and, is that? Is Derek really begging? He is. “You’re the only other person in the pack that can actually bake and know what he’s doing. I’m not going to Scott or Cora again.”
Both he and Stiles shudder as if on cue, remembering the mess from the lacrosse team’s bake sale in junior year. (Although, it was still up for debate whether or not the Nogitsune Incident had anything to do with that. Either way, they shudder.”
“Or Erica,” Stiles adds. He sighs, running his fingers through his hair again. “Did you try calling Boyd?” he asks.
Something in Derek’s face closes off. Not unlike he’s just thought of something unpleasant; his eyebrows do that thing where they knit together, and his eyes kind of look down, as if… disappointed? Sad, maybe? And it leaves Stiles wondering what trap he’s just verbally stumbled into.
“Did you… not want to help?” Derek asks.
What. “Um, no,” Stiles replies, scratching at his neck and lengthening his words to question Derek’s five-in-the-morning sanity. “I never sad that. Boyd’s just better at baking, you know? He bakes, I cook, and kind of how you all survived high school? Besides, your mom, I mean. But the job would be a lot easier if he were here too.”
Derek doesn’t look up, but Stiles can see some of that weird tension leaving his shoulders. And is it just him, or are the werewolf’s ears turning red at the tips? “Uh,” Derek coughs. “He’s with Erica. When I called.”
Oh. Well. That explained the blushing.
Those two needed serious lessons in proper phone etiquette.
Stiles’ hands come together with a loud clap. “Alright, what’s the plan?”
Derek’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “What?”
“Dude,” Stiles says, “I told you I’m helping you.” Seriously, Stiles is the last person that’s going to resist a Derek in need. “So what’s the plan? Three-tiered cake, sure. I’ve got the pans, I think. And I’m sure I’ve got some – hold on—”
He turns around to rummage through the pantry. He’s aware of Derek staring at him dumbly the entire time, but ignores it as he rambles on.
“What flavors do you want? I’ve got some chocolate powder stuff here, and jug of vanilla. But I don’t think people use that much vanilla in anything really. Especially for werewolves. Do you even like vanilla? I mean, actual vanilla, not that weird flavoring that they put in yellow cake. Or is that actual vanilla too? If it is, then that answers my question, because that’s what you made for Kira, and you at three slices – whatever.” Cutting of train of unfiltered consciousness, Stiles pulls himself out of the pantry, still avoiding Derek’s gaze. “Um, I think there’re definitely some strawberries in the fridge. Unless my dad tried to throw them out again – because he hates fruits, apparently. I don’t understand why, though! He doesn’t even have to cook them! They’re nature’s freaking candy, he really should take what he can. Derek? Are you listening to me?” Stiles knows he isn’t, considering he’s still staring at Stiles like he’s an alien – he should really be used to it by now – so he whips around, ready to snap his fingers.
The sight of Derek’s blazing blue eyes stop him, however.
“Derek?” Stiles asks. The man appears frozen, but then his nostrils flare and his jaw works itself open. Stiles proceeds with the snapping of the fingers. “Derek, you alright?”
Derek’s hand shoots up, grabbing Stiles by the wrist. Stiles definitely does not yelp, not at all. He’s too busy staring at Derek, who tugs him close. Stiles hits Derek’s chest with both hands up, pressed up against the washboard that is Derek’s abs beneath his wifebeater that he sleeps in. Stiles is rigid, and he’s resisting the really strong urge to breath through his nose, because he’s just too close to all that, and long story short it’s probably just really not a good idea.
“Derek?” he squeaks.
The man’s eyes slowly slide shut, almost fluttering, as if in a trance. He takes a deep breath that Stiles feels against his own, expanding against his heartbeat that’s pounding like a freaking cannon. Derek’s grip on Stiles’ wrist tightens for just a moment. When he opens his eyes again, they’re back to their usual shade of weird hazel, and his jaw snaps shut.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice a steady murmur. “For helping me.”
Stiles swallows. “No problem, dude,” he says, and goddamn his voice is shaking. “We’re pack. What flavors do you want?”
Derek takes another breath before releasing Stiles’ arm. He walks past Stiles – who is still very, extremely, stunned – to look in the pantry. “Do you have food coloring?”
Stiles snaps out his quiet moment and looks over to Derek. “Dude, this is me we’re talking about. How else do you think I make my dad’s protein shakes look at least edible? Here—”
He reaches over Derek’s shoulder for the box of different dyes. As he pulls back, Derek turns his face, and his stubble brushes against Stiles’ cheek. He’d been conscious of how close they were, but just hadn’t realized it until he turns with it, his nose just centimeters from Derek’s. A shiver runs down his spine, warmth flooding his face, but he ignores it and quickly steps back. With a nervous smile on his face, Stiles presents the box to Derek.
The werewolf takes it, smirking. Oh, that asshole. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m thinking red velvet top and bottom, and strawberry in the middle?”
Stiles nods, tongue between his teeth. “Great,” he says. “Just one thing: I have no idea how to make red velvet cake.”
The look Derek gives him could be described as incredulous. Stiles, subject to the same expression on a daily basis from literally everyone, prefers to think of it as confused in the face of the awe-inspiring reality that is him, Stiles, and he doesn’t even blink.
“Stiles, Derek says, purposefully slowly – and that’s just condescending. “It’s literally just chocolate cake with red food coloring.”
Stiles gapes. “Are you serious?” he asks. He gasps, clutching at his chest. It couldn’t be – Derek was lying, the stupid, lying werewolf. “But they taste so different!”
“It tastes exactly the same.”
“They what’s the point?” Stiles nearly shouts.
“It’ll look better with green and white frosting,” Derek says, moving to grab the chocolate from the pantry.
“You put that box of powdered lies back!” Stiles cries. “No goddamn way that chocolate is going anywhere near that cake!”
With an extremely put-upon sigh, Derek rolls his eyes and says, “Stiles, you need chocolate to make red velvet.”
“And I need a penis to be considered a man,” Stiles retorts. Look at him, being all sarcastically accepting of gender and life choices in the face of baking crisis. “That’s not how you make it!”
“Fine,” Derek says. He sets down the chocolate and the food coloring on the counter, and then turns to face Stiles with his arms folded. “It’s how I make it. I’ll handle the red velvet layers. You make the batter for the strawberry cake.”
Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for a dew moments, his own hands on his hips. Their pajama-clad standoff finally ends when Stiles huffs, flapping a hand in dismissal.
“Alright,” he relents. “But I’m not gonna call it red velvet.”
Derek smirks. “What’re you going to call it?”
“Abomination. Get the bowls out; I’ll get the flour.”
It’s to the sound of Derek’s laughter that they fall into their work. Stiles takes out the strawberries – blatantly on display in the middle of the fridge, but somehow completely untouched – and reaches for any other ingredients he knows they’ll need. They both are silent as they navigate around each other in the kitchen, comfortable with the same routine they’ve worked out all throughout the past several years as they’ve taken care of the pack. Despite what Stiles had said earlier, Derek wasn’t completely helpless when it came to cooking, and more often than not was his sous chef when Boyd wasn’t available.
Way back when Scott had first been bitten by a rogue alpha, Stiles had told Talia immediately. She’d definitely been surprised when Stiles showed up on their doorstep, said “Hey so you know how you all are werewolves? Well one of your furry asses bit my best friend and now he’s going lunar too, so spill”, and then dumped Scott at her feet with all the dangerous attitude of a sixteen-year-old who thought that they really could have kept the whole wolfy “secret” better than that.
It wasn’t really her fault, though. Stiles had figured it out back when he’d been in middle school with Cora. The only major change was that his dad knew as well – and he hadn’t been that surprised either. (“Well, that explains everything that Claudia had said. Laura, you’re on file duty.”) That, and Stiles was finally allowed to be part of the pack that he’d pretty much been a part of ever since he’d first fallen on Cora’s sandcastle in preschool and ended up with a faceful of grass.
There was a reason Scott had become Stiles’ best friend first, even if his mother had thought that it was good omen and set up babysitting playdates from that moment onward.
Despite the slightly new – and really actually amazing – family dynamic in his life, the only real change of consequence came in the form of Derek Hale.
Oh, and there was all the life-threatening bullshit that had gone down because of that rogue alpha that had bitten Scott, which had somehow morphed into a huge supernatural shitstorm that had lasted well into junior year, but at least they’d gotten new packmates from it, and learned that Scott and Cora were probably really bad at baking things. Shocker. No, Stiles’ problem – what he dubbed the Derek Hale Problem™ – had unfortunately only gotten worse.
Sure, he’d known Derek beforehand, thanks to the several times Laura or Talia had been tasked with babysitting him at the Hale house. And yeah, he’d idolized the guy as a sixteen-year-old, because nineteen-year-old Derek had been such a stoic joy to be around. Honestly, Stiles would have believed that the general werewolf grumpiness clouded around all magical creatures if not for the shining sun that is Talia Hale. Turns out in the end that it had just been a teenage shifter thing, because Cora was the same way. (And Jackson. Douche.)
So Stiles hadn’t known Derek well before joining the pack (officially). Afterwards, though, well, he’d definitely fallen far off the deep end, and not counting that time they’d been trapped in a pool for two hours until Peter had rescued them from the evil clutches of lizard-Jackson. (Actually, that event had kind of led to the problem. Being pressed up against a wet Derek Hale did that to a person.)
The point being, Stiles is attracted to Derek. And no one can really blame him – what with the fact that while he can sometimes be a pretentious asshole, Derek genuinely cares so strongly for his family and friends that it leaves Stiles with his breath caught in his throat and his foot in his mouth. The man’s at his house at five-thirty in the morning to bake a cake for his mother, for chrissake.
And that’s not even mentioning his appearance. Sure, it makes Stiles feel a little creepy when he thinks about Derek objectively, but Derek is hot. Oh god, is Derek hot. Stiles spends more time than he’s willing to admit thinking about the man’s jawline alone, always covered with that five o’clock shadow and sharp enough to cut stone. And don’t get him started on that ass, those shoulders.
Stiles glances over at Derek in his wifebeater, and seriously, he should not be thinking about getting thrown over Derek’s bare shoulders when he’s right next to the man.
He still remembers the first time he’d seen Derek’s eyes flash blue, and just the thought of it takes his breath away. It had been after the first pack meeting when Scott was bitten. He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, but he’d made Derek laugh, and somehow that had made the werewolf lose just a little bit of control. Sideburns sprouting, and eyebrows threatening to disappear; Stiles made him do that a lot. He likes that he’s able to do it, too, that he makes Derek that comfortable. It’s almost as if —
“Stiles!” Derek says, his fingers snapping in front of his face.
Stiles jumps where he stands next to the counter. He’d been staring into the bowl of half-mixed dry ingredients, as if the swirls of flour and baking soda were about give him the answers to the reasons his heart was such an idiot. As if his heart ever really wanted to snap back to reality. He shakes his head.
“Yeah?” he says, blinking over at Derek as his vision refocuses.
“You were really quiet there for a moment,” says Derek, the corner of his mouth quirking a little. “You were scaring me.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait, only grimaces a little. “Sorry, I was thinking.”
Derek grunts. “That’s not reassuring,” he teases. He glances up from where he’s measuring out the cocoa powder – damn him – and quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. “What about?” he asks.
“Hmm?” Stiles says. He looks down at the strawberries on the cutting board and shrugs. “Not much, really.”
Derek snorts. “I seriously doubt that. Come on, what was it?”
“Nothing!” Stiles protests, smiling. “I swear, just… about the pack, really.” Not exactly a lie.
“Yeah?” Derek says. He cradles the bowl in the crook of his elbow as he turns to lean his hip against the counter, and wow, that should not have made Stiles’ face heat up, but it really did.
The man makes a gesture for Stiles to continue – and it’s almost as if he’s actually interested. Well, of course he is, Stiles thinks to himself. They are pack. Derek continues to stir his bowl, watching Stiles intently.
Stiles racks his mind for another near-truth. He’s gotten better at it since he’d learned about the biological lie detectors that occupied most of his waking life (his father included, more or less). See, unlike Cora, Stiles doesn’t admit defeat at the first flash of red eyes.
Perks of being a human, pack or not.
“Just… Christmas tomorrow, and the pack dinner tonight… I’ve gotten used to it. And now that I’m going to the police academy, and taking online classes, I won’t have to leave for another semester somewhere else. I’m… happy, you know?”
Wow, that actually hadn’t been a lie.
Derek nods. “So… you’ve decided to go into detective work?”
Stiles shrugs again, reaching back for the bowl of dry ingredients before he turns to face Derek. “P.I. work, yeah,” he admits. “I’ll probably end up doing shifts down at the station anyway, knowing Dad. And your sister. The point is, I’m definitely staying.” He smirks at Derek. “Were you worried I was going to leave the pack?”
He expects a laugh, but Derek’s face falls almost immediately. “Not once,” he says, and it sounds almost like a vow, so serious that Stiles can’t even respond. Derek places the bowl back on the counter as Stiles gapes. He clears his throat. “Pass the eggs, Stiles.”
“What?” Stiles says dumbly. “Oh, right.”
He passes the carton over, and then glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “Um, you know,” he starts, before he clears his throat. “Uh – I, uh – I just thought, when I was thinking about the dinner tonight, uh. I, uh, I just… I don’t know, it feels really familiar, and—” and why is he still talking? “—I’m just, um. I’m glad you’re here. It makes things different. I like it.”
When he glances over at Derek, he swears he sees something like a blush, but the werewolf just smirks instead. “What’s different? Stiles, I’ve lost count of how many times you and I have been up at the ass crack of dawn, cooking for those idiots after full moons.” As if to prove his point, he passes the carton of eggs back just as Stiles starts to reach blindly for them.
Stiles snorts a laugh, and suddenly he doesn’t feel nervous anymore. “Yeah, I bet it feels worse than a hangover, doesn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Derek says. “But it’s not pleasant.”
“Then why would you wake up early to cook?” Stiles shoots back.
“Who else would keep you from burning down the house?” Derek says, and there’s something in his voice that almost doesn’t sound like a joke. “Besides, I like cooking with you.”
And just like that, Stiles’ face is flushing again. He swallows, turning his attention back to his half-formed cake batter.
There it is: the other change from high school. And Stiles doesn’t just mean ages – yeah, Derek can drink now. Stiles could legally have sex now, if he felt so inclined – and oh god does he feel inclined, if lacking the means to actually go out and obtain sex. Instead, he indulges occasionally in the former. If the werewolves are all gonna feel crappy the morning after full moons, then Stiles is sure as hell gonna join them the best he can. Get possessed by an evil spirit and nearly die a few times and alcohol suddenly doesn’t seem like a major misdemeanor anymore.
But no, the change Stiles is thinking about now is how his huge, obvious, and probably painfully pathetic crush on Derek has become something more than that. More than a crush, he means. No, it had become a force heavier than gravity, drawing stiles closer to the man as if magnetic attraction was just a gentle push and not the reason planets didn’t go flying into the sun. Stiles had flown straight to its core, and it burned the ways stars set the sky on fire, only less distant and quieter than the storm outside.
For a while, Stiles had kept it tight behind his only defense of sarcasm and flannel shirts, but this morning he found it leaking through all the cracks. All of them.
Stupid werewolves and their pajama pants and wrinkled wifebeaters in the middle of winter, with their stupid biceps and crazy stubble.
It was about twenty minutes later – a little after six – as Stiles and Derek are just putting the three pans of batter into the oven when the front door opens.
“Christ, it’s a storm out there,” mutters a voice down the hall, before announcing loudly, “Stiles, I’m home!”
“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says. He closes the oven door and wipes his hands on his pants as his dad walks into the room.
The Sheriff in brushing snow off his shoulders, his boots tracking slush down the hallway. He opens his arms for a hug, still, and asks, “Are you baking? Morning, Derek.” He releases his son to extend a hand towards the werewolf standing by the counter.
“Sheriff,” Derek says, smiling – although Stiles can hear that weird nervousness Derek always gets around his father, no matter how close they are already. The werewolf takes the man’s hand and pulls him into a hug. They pat once, twice, before separating. “Sorry for showing up so early, it was a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency?” the Sheriff repeats, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he looks back at Stiles.
“By threat of Laura,” Stiles supplies.
“Ah,” his father says.
It really does explain everything.
“Hence,” Stiles continues, “the baking. No touching!” He bats at his father’s hand and the Sheriff draws away from the empty bowls still carrying the last drops of batter. He looks mildly affronted. Far too offended, really, for the situation. Almost as if Stiles had just told him vegetables were a genuine necessity in the food pyramid, or some other health travesty in his father’s mind. Or that water was wet. “You’ll get some at dinner tonight,” Stiles says. “Raw batter is bad for you. Salmonella and all that.” He flaps a hand around at the aforementioned bacteria that’s probably floating around in his kitchen somewhere.
Probably.
The front door slams closed again, just as the Sheriff opens his mouth to respond. He apparently changes his mind and says instead, “Malia’s here.”
Not that she needs announcing, as she bursts into the room a second later. Her hair is falling out of the loose bun she’d obviously hastily applied, only to be torn down the moment she sets foot in the kitchen. Frazzled, her hair drops down to the khaki shoulders of her deputy uniform, snow dusting the floor around her, still stuck in the strands atop her head. She sighs as she shakes some more out of it, and then surveys the room before her.
“Sorry I was behind. Someone—” she glares pointedly at the Sheriff “—dropped a stack of files for sorting on my desk just as I was about to leave.”
The Sheriff, because Stiles had to receive his lack of self-preservation from somewhere, only arches an unimpressed brow. “And did you sort them?”
Malia shrugs. “I dropped them with Laura as she was coming in.”
Ignoring the exasperated glare the Sheriff sends her, she zones in on the counter. “Oh, cake!” Before anyone is able to react, she’s stolen Stiles’ bowl of strawberry batter leftovers and started to scoop it up with her fingers.
“Thanks, Stiles!” she says joyfully, before she promptly exits stage left to the living to sit on the couch.
“How come she gets some?” the Sheriff whines, and Stiles would call him out on it, but instead he just rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply, but Derek beats him to it.
“Werewolf metabolism doesn’t get salmonella,” the man supplies. He has a thoughtful look on his face, but there’s this glint in his eye that makes Stiles grin through his surprise. The Sheriff only gapes.
“Werecoyote,” Stiles corrects, and he laughs when his father directs his annoyance towards him.
“Both of you,” the man says, pointing, “are going to be the death of me.”
Derek huffs a sigh, as if he were the oldest in the room, despite his earlier contribution to Stiles’ general campaign for chaos. Honestly, if he didn’t want to be associated with him, he shouldn’t have helped. “Why are you here anyway, Malia?” he asks, like the situation wasn’t completely normal. Then again, she tended to spend most of her free time at the Hale house anyway; more so than the rest of the pack, at least, as she’d bonded with the family she hadn’t known existed for sixteen years of her life.
“Peter was being weird again,” she calls back through the house.
Well, except for when that bonding was mildly psychotic. Ever since they’d found her in the woods a few years ago, Peter had fluctuated drastically between a “hip” parental figure (his words, not Stiles’) and a near-insane overprotective father. His claws made Chris Argent’s arsenal of semi-auto weapons look like toys whenever he felt the need to remind any threats against Malia of their general mortality.
Honestly, if the man ever lost any part of his family, Stiles would fear the apocalypse for the amount of carnage Peter would carry out.
At the sound of the TV turning on, the Sheriff shakes his head. “I don’t know how’s she still awake. She was helping Talia all day before her shift.”
“I’m eating!” Malia shouts. Good argument, Stiles concludes, but if she hadn’t been a were, he’d also be more than a little concerned.
Talia Hale in full-scale Christmas-mode is the stuff of nightmares, and unlike Stiles, Malia is a full-time deputy on top of it. Malia had thought that school after high school was stupid, and while Stiles is inclined to agree with her sometimes, he’d opted to get his background in forensic sciences and psychology at Berkley. On the other hand, Malia had enrolled straight into the police academy, and four months later, was kicking ass alongside Laura and his father, while spending her downtime sorting papers – without the need for extensive math.
Sometimes, when Stiles had been up until around this time in the morning working on an essay for a class he had in an hour, he’d envied her. But he’d be alongside them in a few months, arguably with the same amount of skill now, comparing his training with their general werewolfy/coyote senses.
Man, they were so cool.
Stiles included.
The Sheriff was shaking his head again, only fondly. “Well, I’m hitting the sack.” He raises his voice,” You’d better get some sleep too, Deputy Tate. We’re going back to your house for dinner.”
“Yeah, boss,” comes Malia’s reply. “Got it!”
The Sheriff laughs softly, already backing out of the kitchen. “Wake me up for lunch, would you, Stiles?” he asks. “It was nice to see you here, son,” he says to Derek.
“You too, sir,” nods Derek.
When his father has left, Stiles throws an arm around Derek’s shoulders, and Derek relaxes into his weight. He frowns a little at the human latched to his back, though, and Stiles fights down the urge to blush at their close proximity to each other. Derek’s face suddenly changes, his brows furrowing, and Stiles lets go.
He clears his throat, looking down at his feet. “You alright?” he asks. He glances up at Derek.
The stupid werewolf has another smirk on his face, but he’s nodding. “It was really quiet without you here all semester,” he says, arms crossed as he looks at Stiles. His eyes sweep down for a moment, and Stiles’ mind short-circuits just a little. “I’m glad you’re staying.”
Stiles scoffs. “Dude, where else would I go? We’re pack. Even Lydia’s planning on coming back after school, when she’s able to blackmail half the mathematical world into letting her work on theorems from home or whatever it is she does.”
Derek’s brows furrow again. “You sure you don’t want to go back to a campus?”
“Dude, yes. I couldn’t stand it,” Stiles says vehemently. “God, it was torture, not being able to see everyone. If Lydia didn’t have Danny with her, I don’t know how she’d be able to stand it all the way in New York.”
Derek nods. He leans against the counter again, thinking. “You know,” he starts, “Laura used to want to go to New York. Said she’d take me with her. That was back in high school, though. There’s no way I’d be able to go now.”
Stiles tilts his head. “Why not?”
Derek shrugs, but then he looks back up at Stiles, and there his eyes go again, flashing that brilliant blue. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, as Derek’s mouth curves softly before his eyes fade back to hazel.
He says, “I found something I wanted to stay here for.” His voice is quiet, and it carries across the empty kitchen almost silently, the sound of the television in the other room filling space around them.
Oh god, Stiles realizes, Malia can probably hear his heart right now. And Derek can too, and oh god.
This morning is unraveling everything he’d ever thought he’d known.
Stiles swallows. “So,” he says, way too loudly, “We’ve got about an hour. What do you want to do?”
Derek, always less awkward than Stiles, which, compared to how he was back in high school, is actually fairly surprising, smiles a little. Stiles nearly breathes a sigh in relief when he realizes that they’re letting the moment pass. At least, he is. Derek will probably bring it up later to bite him in the ass.
And isn’t that just a grand image?
“Well,” Derek starts, his smirk getting sharper, “we still need to make the frosting. And there’s a bowl of leftover red velvet batter to eat. That is, if you’re not still worried about salmonella.”
Stiles sticks his tongue out at the werewolf, crossing his arms as he leans his hip against the counter. A cloud of heat releases from the oven, and it drifts over the room. It seems to converge around Derek’s figure, and Stiles swears there’s this haze around the man’s bare arms as they both relax back into the comfort that they’ve found in each other. It feels safe, and the storm outside keeps covering the windows with white, closing them away even further.
God, Stiles is so far gone it’s not even funny.
“That is not red velvet,” he says petulantly, and the smile that comes to his mouth is involuntary. He mock-glares at the bowl, fighting to make his mouth at least a little more serious. “That is blood chocolate cake. Only explanation.”
“So pretentious,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, bitch, it’s fucking cake.”
Stiles gapes. His arms uncross in his surprise, and he stares at Derek. “You ass!” he finally shouts, laughing as he takes a swipe at Derek’s bare arm.
Derek shoves the hand away, but Stiles can see the broad smile still plastered to his face. With ears tipped red, Derek says, “Give me the bowl of blood chocolate, you dork.”
It’s about another hour and a half before the cakes are out of the oven, the frosting has been made and spread across the tower of baked batter, and on the counter stands a display of the absolute most amount of Christmas spirit in the form of three-tiered, green-white-and-red-painted pastry that Stiles has ever seen. Really, if he weren’t so proud of it, he’d probably puke. Going by the look on Derek’s face, he assumes the werewolf feels the same.
He’s standing with his hands on his hips as he looks at their creation. His jaw is slack, but it doesn’t seem to be in amazement. More like he’s just thinking. His hair has traces of flour in it from when he’d suggested they try and clean up a little and Stiles had tossed a handful of powder at him instead. He looks more adorable that way, in Stiles’ opinion.
The man’s forehead suddenly crunches up in scrutiny. Stiles can’t help the small grin on his face at the expression.
“We’re finished,” Derek says all of a sudden, as if it’s the deciding factor.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says. “Thank you, captain obvious werewolf.”
Derek snorts. “You know, just adding ‘werewolf’ to a reference doesn’t make it any more iconic.”
“You laughed.”
Derek shoves Stiles’ shoulder. “Shut up.” He looks around himself now, as if looking for something.
Stiles tilts his head. “What’s up?”
“Where’s my… jacket?”
Stiles barks out a laugh. “Seriously? Dude, you came here in your pajamas. You’re insane.”
Derek look down at himself, at the frosting that’s striped up his bare arms, his color-stained wifebeater, and his rumpled pants. Still barefoot, just like when he walked through the door. Derek look up, a sheepish smile on his face.
“Walking home in the snow’s gonna suck.”
The amusement in Stiles’ chest starts to deflate. “You have to go?”
“Well, yeah,” Derek says easily. “I need sleep. And then I have to get ready for tonight.”
Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t want to, because it makes sense. But still, he’s not ready for this morning, this extended moment between the two of them, to end.
“Are you not gonna help clean up? Rude,” he says, and he probably sounds like a brat, but whatever.
“And have a repeat performance of last time?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised and pointedly looking at where this undoubtedly flour on Stiles’ clothes as well. “No thanks.”
“Hey, I did this for you,” Stiles says, grinning.
It must’ve been something he’d said, because Derek’s face suddenly goes soft. His brows relax and his mouth curves in a small smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did. Thanks.”
And with that, Stiles can feel the moment coming to an end. He swallows, and then he nods. He walks beside Derek out of the kitchen.
The floor feels soft beneath his feet, the wood bending with his weight. He can feel the heat of Derek at his side. Silent, they pass the wall clock in the hallway. It reads seven thirty-two.
Funny, it seems to Stiles. It feels strange, walking down this hallway, right now, in this finale to their moment. Somewhere, sometime in the past two hours, something had changed. Stiles can’t tell for the life of him what it is. Sometime between when Derek had appeared on his doorstep, just like he’d done countless times over the past four years, and now, Stiles can feel something in the back of his mind, something he’s just realizing. Approaching it feels almost dangerous, and Stiles doesn’t have the nerve to try. He’s not sure he wants to.
They come to a stop at the door. Stiles hesitates, so Derek is the one that reaches out to turn the handle.
“Oh,” Derek says, looking out at the lawn. “The storm’s calmed down. Huh.”
He almost sounds disappointed. Stiles doesn’t look at him to check, feels too scared to.
“Well,” Derek says, moving forward to step out onto the porch. “I’ll see you tonight. You’ll bring the cake?”
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, finally looking up. “Of course, dude, I’m not a—” The sight of Derek makes him catch his breath. The man looks… sad. His brows are creased deeper now, and his mouth is hanging open a little, his bunny teeth peeking out from beneath his top lip.
And as quickly as Stiles glimpses it, the expression is gone. Derek closes his mouth, relaxing his face into a smile. Even to Stiles, it looks a little strained, awkward.
“Bye, Stiles,” Derek says, and he backs over the threshold onto the porch.
“Derek, wait!” Stiles suddenly says, grabbing the werewolf by the wrist and tugging him around.
Maybe it’s the heat of Derek’s wrist in his hand, or the way he feels a pulse jump beneath his fingertips. Or maybe it’s the way Derek’s eyes snap to Stiles’, wide and shocked and nervous and shining with a flash of what Stiles recognizes as hopefulness. Maybe it’s just that Stiles pulls his head out of his ass and gets that little bit of sense to get over his dumb fears. It doesn’t matter. What matters it that Stiles finally realizes that they’re both idiots.
“You stupid werewolf,” he says, before he tugs Derek back.
Their lips meet harder than he’d expected, because Stiles really hadn’t thought it through, but Derek brings his hands up to Stiles’ neck immediately and tilts his head and – oh, so this is what a kiss feels like. It feels like Derek’s hands against his skin, his breath releasing from his nose against Stiles’ cheek and his chest pressing against Stiles’. It feels like his thumbs brushing along Stiles’ jaw, the way Stiles’ eyes close as Derek’s unshaved stubble scratches and pulls at the skin around Stiles’ mouth. It feels like Derek pressing himself closer to Stiles’ lips as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and they try to connect themselves through more than just where their mouths touch. It feels like years incoming, longer, and Stiles doesn’t want it to end.
But Stiles can’t help himself, and he has to say something, so he breaks off first.
“You weren’t ever doing to say anything, were you?” he asks breathlessly. He feels the heat in his cheeks and thinks he probably looks ridiculous with blushing skin and bitten lips, but Derek’s looking at him with wide eyes shining brilliantly blue and a stunned mouth, and Stiles thinks he looks gorgeous, so finally decides that he can’t look much worse anyway and blinks at Derek as he waits for a response.
The werewolf answers by kissing him again. This time is harder, longer, and Stiles feels Derek’s tongue swipe over his bottom lip and he can’t hold back the small whimper that causes.
He pulls away again and breathes, “You idiot, you should have said—”
Derek cuts him off with another kiss, and Stiles groans, half in frustration and half not.
“I’ve wanted this for years— College was hell— Would you just—”
“Stiles,” Derek says in that tone that Stiles finally realizes is Derek’s weird form of fondness, and why did it take that long? “Shut up and let me kiss you.”
“Wait,” Sties says, and he places a hand on Derek’s chest. “How long have you– How long?”
“Have I been in love with you?” Derek asks, and the words knock Stiles’ heart through his ribs with the sheer amount of earnest honesty in the man’s voice. “Ever since that time in high school when you helped Cora get ready for her first date with Isaac and I realized you would do anything for her.
“Really?” Stiles asks, because of course Derek wouldn’t fall for him because of some badass moment that every other member of the pack has accomplished throughout high school. Of course it’s because Stiles was just trying to be decent person for two of his friends. And then his eyes go wide, because— “That long, really? We could have been kissing for that long!”
Derek blushes, “Well, I mean – I just, uh…”
It’s a good thing Stiles knows him so well. “You just have a really hard time dealing with strong emotions, I get it.”
“I don’t!” Derek protests, but they both know it’s actually true.
Stiles raises a hand to place against Derek’s cheek, the other still around his shoulders. Despite himself, Derek presses his face into the touch, and the tenderness makes Stiles realize everything else. He feels Derek’s heartbeat against his own, the strength of his arms moving to wrap around his waist. He feels the heat between their bodies and their breath that’s clouding before their eyes. He realizes that he really is gone, and that what he’s feeling is love.
“It’s alright,” he says, because it is, and his voice goes soft as he leans back in, eyes fluttering closed. “I like it when you make those weird faces when you’re really happy. And for the record, I’d do anything for you too.”
“Like hold me up in a pool for two hours?” Derek asks. It’s barely a murmur between them.
“Oh god, don’t remind me.”
They kiss again, softer, just barely a breath, and Derek’s arms squeeze Stiles tightly before he starts to let go.
“What? No, wait, where are you going?” Stiles asks. His eyes snap open in surprise, and he fights for a moment to keep his hands on Derek’s shoulders.
“I still have to go home, Stiles,” Derek says, smiling.
“No you don’t,” Stiles says immediately. “I still have some of your clothes upstairs, from…”
Derek raises an eyebrow at him – damn, those Hale eyebrows – and his smile grows wider. “Maybe next time.” –and there sure as hell is gonna be a next time– “I’ll pick you up at three, okay?”
“First date and I’m already meeting the family? Wow, Hale, you move fast.”
“Stiles.”
“And the cake?” Stiles asks, because he’s having too much fun.
“What else?” Derek replies, rolling his eyes. “Get some sleep, Stiles.”
As he starts to walk away, Stiles calls, “You too, crazy mister ‘I-can-walk-in-the-snow-barefoot’. Don’t get frostbite! I prefer my boyfriends with all of their limbs!”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek calls back, and now that Stiles can hear it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over hearing the amusement that clearly paints that statement.
“Love you!”
It’s to the sound of Derek’s laughter that he makes it to the street before he finally turns away, his flannel pants fluttering in the light wind and the snow swirling around his reddened arms.
Stiles watches until the man reaches the third house over before closing the door. He takes a moment, back pressed against the door, just to breathe. His heart is still pounding in his chest, and he can’t seem to get it to stop. It’s like ecstasy is flooding his lungs and he’s breathing smoke through a cloud. The air threatens to burst out of his ribcage as soon as it finishes burning through his heart. A few minutes later, he realizes he has a huge grin on his face that he can’t get rid of, so he pushes off the wood.
He makes his way to the living room, passing by that explosion of color on the kitchen counter. It’s a mess to clean up for later, so he leaves it for now.
In contrast, the living room is dark. Grey light filters through the windows, just starting to brighten with the morning through the snow and clouds outside. The television is still on, but the volume is low. Stiles can see Malia’s sleeping form on the couch in the dark, alight by the dull colors flooding from the TV. He takes a seat next to her feet, careful not to wake her.
It proves useless when she rolls over anyway, blue eyes shining as she blinks herself back to consciousness. They fade back to their usual shade in the dark as she focuses on Stiles.
“You smell happy,” she comments. Stiles can see her nose wrinkle as she rolls over, pushing her face into the couch cushions. “It’s gross.”
Stiles can’t even bring himself to care, because he is happy. He claps his hand down on Malia’s calf, still smiling.
Malia looks up at him again. “Glad you two finally worked your stuff out. It was painful to watch.”
At that, Stiles can’t help but laugh. “Yeah,” he says, still breathless. “I’m glad too.”
Hallmark Channel movies are legitimately terrible like 99% of the time but I feel like there should be a fanfiction challenge where people write fic based on their cable guide summaries. I mean, they’re all so perfect because there are already fics like these, these are some seriously tried and true romance-movie plots, but my point is we need MORE of them like at least one version of each one in every fandom. I mean look at this gold, come on:
Romance blooms between a single mom and an injured firefighter who is renting a room in her home while he recovers.
Neighbors form an unusual arrangement to share custody of a dog, and the pair soon find themselves falling for one another.
A dogged TV reporter finds her own love life changed when she profiles a WWII widow who continues to honor the memory of her Navy pilot husband 65 years after he was declared missing in action. (Come on that one’s a meatball it’s a Steve/Bucky AU without even trying.)
A disgruntled actor discovers life can change in a heartbeat when he accidentally gets into a car accident with a single mother.
A father’s holiday spirit was crushed by an accident when he was a child. WHen his son faces a tragedy, a mysterious man instills in him the courage to find the joy he lost.
Two lawyers visit their siblings over the holidays and find romance in the middle of Christmas Eve chaos.
When a young girl reveals her secret to Santa that she wants a boyfriend for Christmas, she never expects it come true 19 years later! (Jesus get ur shit together Santa get some sort of order management system 19 years is a really unacceptable wait time.)
Jessie has called off three engagments, but when she’s pursued by a new suitor, things get complicated.
A wealthy and successful career woman gets a second chance in life when a magical wish transports her back in time.
Two young people — a successful lawyer whose career is moving fast and a free-spirited woman with a carefree approach to life — meet when they’re stuck in a broken elevator. Despite their very different lifestyles, sparks fly they hit it off immediately. But will love allow them learn to embrace each other’s flaws?
Heaven and earth collide when an angel-in-training is sent down to a community college during Christmas for his first assignment: to help an insecure student realize her true purpose in life. The angel, living as a literature teacher, is also schooled in lessons of life and love as he realizes that dealing with humans is not as easy as it looks like from the clouds.
When a tv show host meets a mysterious stranger, her love life gets an arrow straight through the heart. (That sounds bad tho. Is ur heart bleeding? R u ok?)
A dedicated career woman must lie about having a family in order to land her dream job. She gets the job, but when her new boss moves in next door, she must hire an actor to play her husband and borrow her best friend’s teenage daughter to act as her own child.
A busy career woman discovers the Christmas Spirit after taking over her family’s Christmas tree farm.
A wedding coordinator learns to heal her heart for a second chance at true love.
A woman with a hint of magic decides to move in to a haunted house for a spell. As if that weren’t odd enough for her new neighbors, she also opens Bell, Book and Candle, a wondrous shop full of unique items. Is the neighborhood ‘witch’ the real deal, or does her vibrant personality just have the neighborhood spellbound?
A driven and successful advertising executive from Los Angeles is devastated when she finds out her fiancé has been cheating on her. Leaving him behind, she decides to go on their honeymoon alone—to a breathtaking castle in the Irish countryside. She soon discovers the honeymoon suite isn’t so sweet when everything starts to go wrong, from her lost luggage to her repeated run-ins with the estate’s manager, a handsome outdoorsman with a knack for getting on her nerves.
A young teacher must learn the ways of the frontier to survive her first teaching assignment in the west. (This one has MOUNTIES come on.)
A young professional’s April Fool’s Day pranks come true and change the course of her life.
A disgruntled uptown dessert chef and a brooding downtown baker team up and win the prestigious Golden Whisk competition and eventually fall in love.
Ugly duckling Harold hires a former high school crush to help shed his wallflower approach to romance.
A young businesswoman searches for the ‘Prince Charming’ who swept her off her feet at a masquerade ball.
What happens to three newlywed couples when a clerical error annuls their marriages?
When a baseball player’s lost dog is adopted by a single mom, can puppy love bring them together?
An unlikely pair are forced to work together in the kitchen and end up mixing all the right ingredients for love.
A substitute teacher waiting for his big break finds himself falling for both his new job and a pretty fellow teacher.
So many movies. So many tropes. So many fics we could be having. GIVE THEM TO ME.
A/N: I've been watching too much NCIS. I actually posted this two days ago, but I had really sketchy wifi, and my Tumblr wasn't working enough for me to post things. Hope you enjoy!
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make it make sense (you want clarity) - Chapter 2
Scott and Lydia called the rest of the Pack while Peter dragged him off to the kitchen for first aid.
“Would you just. Hold. Still.” Peter fought to keep Stiles on the barstool while he checked him over.
In turn, Stiles fought as hard as he could to get free. Everything was muted. The loft, Peter’s words, the moonlight flooding through the windows – everything felt like a dream. It had to be a dream, because this reality somehow scared him more than the nightmare.
Peter’s words echoed in his mind.
“Derek is missing.”
With every repetition, an aftershock passed through his body, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Again, he struggled against Peter. Again, Peter stopped him.
“Stiles!” the man exclaimed. “Sit down!”
“I’m fine!” he managed to bite out. “Let me go – where the hell is Derek? Let me go, asshole, I’m fine!”
Peter scoffed, “It’s nice to see you’re just as intolerable when you’re injured as you are when you’re fully functional.”
“Shut up,” Stiles said. “I told you, I’m fine.”
Peter leveled Stiles with an unimpressed look, and pushed the boy back down onto the stool.
“You have multiple bruises, shallow cuts on the back of your legs, and your body temperature is cold enough that if you weren’t shivering, I would be tempted to claim hypothermia. Now sit down, and let me take care of you.”
Stiles hadn’t noticed the itching pain on his legs until Peter had mentioned it. “No thanks, creep,” Stiles replied, but he sat back. “Sorry, but I don’t exactly trust you.”
“While I may not be the… sanest person in the world,” Peter voiced, pulling out a swab and bandages from the first aid kit he’d set on the counter, “I respect Pack. And like it or not, Stiles, you are Pack. For some reason or another.”
“I didn’t realize we were in the same Pack,” Stiles muttered. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable tingling that travelled up his leg when Peter began to clean his wounds. Why couldn’t it have been winter, when he could have worn longer pants?
“I was part of Derek’s when he was Alpha,” Peter explained, wiping the blood from Stiles’ calves. “You were as well.”
“What?” Stiles asked, surprised.
Stiles hadn’t been part of Derek’s Pack. Scott’s, maybe, if only honorably. He wasn’t a werewolf or anything similar. But in Derek’s? Definitely not.
“That was my exact reaction when I realized it as well,” Peter continued wryly. “But it’s true. For some reason, only Derek knows, he accepted you into his Pack.”
Stiles winced when Peter applied the antibiotic. It burned almost worse than the reminder that Derek wasn’t there, except that it faded almost immediately. “He did it without telling me?”
“Pack isn’t exactly rigid and forced, Stiles.” Peter sounded like he was explaining the concept to a child, his voice slow as he continued, “It’s fluid, like blood.”
Peter replied, “Blood of the covenant is thicker than water, Stiles. The Pack is our covenant. Derek considered you Pack, and somewhere, deep in your mind, you considered yourself part of it as well. That’s all we need to make the bond. Tie the knot, if you would.”
“Why does that sound dirty when you say it?”
“When Scott came into his right as Alpha,” Peter continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “Derek bound himself to Scott. I followed suit, because it was a better alternative than falling to Omega.”
Even so, he didn’t sound particularly pleased about the arrangement. Stiles didn’t exactly blame him; Scott was still new to the whole Alpha thing, even six months into it. But it was better than leaving Peter to his own devices.
“And we’ve been Packmates for how long?” Stiles asked. He sounded interested, but in his mind, he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that Derek had accepted him.
“Well, I realized you were part of Derek’s Pack around the time you came to me asking about Paige.” The way he said the name so casually made something twist inside Stiles’ chest, but Peter carried on wrapping bandages around his legs, and said, “But the bond felt strong then, as if you’d been Pack for a while. Almost as strong as Scott’s, actually. But really, that makes no sense, because Scott had accepted you as his own sort of Pack before I’d bitten him, and you didn’t really meet Derek until… after…”
Peter trailed off, but his eyes widened, as if he’d come across an epiphany. His hands froze where they were at Stiles’ calves.
“What? What is it?” Stiles asked from above him, looking down at the man.
Peter’s head snapped up. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the one he got when he was deep in thought.
He blinked. “I don’t know,” he said simply, snapping the bandages with his claws and standing up. He packed up the first aid kit, still speaking. “Make sure to ice those bruises later, and wrap up in a blanket. I have no idea how you’re this cold in the summer, of all times, but it probably has to do with your fugue state.”
“Peter,” Stiles cut in, and the man froze for a moment, “what do you not know? How long we’ve been Packmates? Or what?”
Peter simply shrugged, falling back into motion. “I don’t know,” he repeated, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Peter–”
“Oh look, company!” he said suddenly, closing the box with a light snap!
Stiles turned away, to see Danny and Kira enter the loft. They both were in their sleepwear, Danny looking slightly irritated, but Kira looking wide-awake. When she saw Scott, she smiled, and then her eyes fell on Stiles.
“Stiles!” she shouted, crossing the room in leaps. She crashed into him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. For a moment he swayed dangerously on the stool, but she kept them steady.
“Kira,” he greeted, slightly suffocating in her embrace.
“Oh my god, we were so worried about you,” she breathed in his ear, far louder than a whisper. “We had no idea – I thought the Nogitsune had–”
“Last I checked,” a new voice broke in, “I gave that thing back to your parents. Six months ago.”
Stiles peeked over Kira’s shoulder, and couldn’t help the self-satisfactory smirk that stretched across his face.
“There’s Mister Golden-Locks-of-Love! I just had a dream thinking about you!”
Isaac frowned, crossing his arms irritably. He was wearing a scarf – not a practical one, a fancy one – and almost as well dressed as Lydia. What was it with those two and their constant fashion choices? It was… Stiles wanted to guess around five in the morning, but he wasn’t sure. He fell asleep around three, he knew.
“Please tell me you weren’t sleepwalking with me in your dirty thoughts,” the kid groaned.
Honestly, as if it were anything less than an honor.
“No,” Stiles replied. “I complained about how we should’ve buried the fly spawn of Hell under the Nemeton, but then you had to go and be reasonable and give it away to Mrs. Yukimura.”
“I still don’t know what that all was about,” Danny cut in, “but I’m pretty sure burying it under the tree that gave it its power wouldn’t have helped.”
“See, why can’t you just be nice like Danny, Stiles?” Isaac added.
Obviously, neither of them appreciated being up at the ass-crack of dawn searching for a lanky human. But Stiles’ head was pounding, his legs itched, and he didn’t exactly feel like being there either.
He retorted, “Maybe I’d be nicer if I wasn’t waking up from nightmares about the Nemeton, Wolf Wonder.”
The following silence instantly made him regret his words, as Danny and Isaac both froze like deer in the headlights. Kira finally released Stiles, tension apparent in her stance. Her eyes gazed at him, calculating. In the background, Scott looked up from his phone, as did Lydia, both of their attentions focusing on him. He could feel Peter behind him as well, staring at Stiles as if another bomb had just been set.
Crap.
Crap, crap, crap. He hadn’t meant to worry the Pack like this. They didn’t need to know; it was just one dream.
“You’re dreaming about the Nemeton again?” asked another person, probably the last person Stiles wanted to see, as she entered the loft.
“I – uh…” said Stiles, his voice cracking a little as he tried to think. “Well, that depends – it wasn’t like it was the feature presentation, I mean, it was just – there…”
Malia stepped to the front of the group, caution lining her body. She looked every bit like the coyote that was part of her, gently moving Kira away as she stalked towards her prey. Stiles felt a nervous energy bubbling up in his chest, and began to ramble.
“I mean – I didn’t see any traces of the Nogitsune. Nope. Possession free. I think – I mean, there wasn’t any – well, there was a spirit, I think. I’m a little confused on that part still, cause I just woke up, but no – no demons, just–”
“Stiles,” Malia interrupted, her voice quiet as she studied his face. “You’re not possessed again, are you?”
Stiles really wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to run away, to get something done, all questions regarding his moral and mental sanity ignored.
He really did not want to talk to Malia right now.
“Well – I, um…” he trailed off, mouth hanging open dumbly. Eventually, he just shook his head, ever so slightly.
“I mean,” Malia continued, looking over her shoulder for support, “I wasn’t really there when you were having nightmares, but I remember the Nogitsune. I remember what it did to Oliver, before he knocked us both out. I heard–”
“No, Malia,” Stiles interrupted. Malia wasn’t there; she didn’t know. Stiles swallowed, shaking his head again. “No, I’m not possessed.”
The rest of the Pack, the part that did know what the Nogitsune had done, gazed at him still, worried looks on their faces. He looked past Kira, Isaac, and Danny, to Scott. Their eyes met, and an understanding passed across his friend’s face.
Lydia just watched him, a curious look on her face. She looked eerily similar to Peter, in that way, but then she raised her eyebrows, and Stiles remembered where he was.
“Guys,” he started, “Where’s Derek?”
The effect was immediate. Isaac and Danny both looked away, their eyes avoiding Stiles. Kira turned immediately to Scott, whose face became guilty, just as lost as when Stiles had asked him earlier. He felt Peter move from behind him, the man calling, “I’m going to go put this away,” with the first aid kit rattling in his hand as he left.
Lydia’s mouth curved up in a smirk, and her gaze flicked to Malia.
The were-coyote just looked confused, and Stiles wanted to bet that she didn’t know anything either, but then she opened her mouth.
“No one told you?” she asked, giving a questioning look behind her at Scott. “Derek’s missing. I thought you knew.”
Stiles blinked. “No, I knew that much. Kind of obvious, at this point. I meant does anyone have any ideas where he might be?”
This only made Malia seem even more confused. She glanced back at the Pack, as did Stiles.
Scott was shaking his head in his definition of subtle, while Kira was suddenly tense, gaze flicking between Malia and Stiles. Lydia’s smirk had fallen, but her eyes glittered knowingly at the were-coyote. She nodded, once.
“Lydia…” began Malia, “Lydia said he was somewhere in Mexico, right?”
The Pack all froze, even more than they were before. Considering the fact that they were all part predator, they looked every bit like startled prey.
Stiles was utterly confused, and his gaze fell on Lydia. The girl was the only one who looked just as calm as before, even with the slight frown on her face. She raised her chin, as if in challenge. Stiles narrowed his eyes, feeling something sour bubbling up low in his chest.
“You said you didn’t know anything,” he said, voice quiet. Anger began to feed into his lungs, and he continued, “You said you and Meredith weren’t getting any whispers. No messages, no signs, nothing.”
“I never said that,” replied Lydia coolly. She leaned against one of the cement pillars, eyes locked on Stiles. “I just said it wasn’t an immediate death situation. He’s still alive. At least, as far as Meredith knows. I’m confident he’s not dead, either. I didn’t lie to you, Stiles, if that’s what you’re mad about. You needed to wake up.”
As much as Stiles hated to admit it, she was right. So he swallowed his retort, and leaned back against the countertop.
“Fine,” he relented. “So what are we going to do about it? We have a plan, right?”
Scott stepped forward cautiously, as if Stiles were the wild animal that were about to flee.
“Stiles,” he stated.
“I mean as you can see, I’m completely fine. Just a little cold and battered, no big deal,” he rushed on, trying to remain oblivious. “Let’s just go home, I’ll get packed, and we’ll be off. I’ll tell my dad we’re going camping, that’ll work. It’s the middle of summer, so he’ll be fine with it. It’s not like we’ll be gone for long, so–”
“Stiles, you’re not going,” Scott interrupted. He was staring right at Stiles, and the tone of his voice left no room for arguments.
Stiles liked to argue though.
“What?” he sputtered. Then he laughed. “Scott, this is totally the wrong time to joke. Seriously, have some tact.”
“I’m not joking, Stiles. You’re staying here.”
Stiles stared. “You – you can’t be serious,” he said. “Guys?”
He looked around at the Pack, but they all purposefully avoided his gaze. Only Scott and Lydia looked at him, and they both had that determined stance that put a sinking feeling in his chest.
“We already have the plan. Isaac, Lydia, and Kira are coming with me. You, Malia, and Danny are staying here,” Scott stated. His voice was matter-of-fact, so unlike how it usually was when he attempted to give a game plan.
It was then Stiles knew that he didn’t have the full story.
“Scott,” he started, “how long has Derek been missing?”
Lydia spoke up, still watching Stiles carefully. “He’s been gone a week, since the last Pack meeting. We’ve known he’s in Mexico for three days, now.”
Stiles’ brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The bomb in his chest wanted to go off, but instead it just fizzed out, and his heart stopped beating. His throat went dry.
Stiles licked his lips, once, and when he spoke, his voice carried with it a dangerous threat.
“Scott. Can I speak to you for a minute?”
Scott hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded. Stiles turned, and stalked for the door that led out onto the balcony.
The summer night air was cooler than most, a gentle breeze washing over the tall buildings this side of Beacon Hills. The half-moon hanging above the town spread a blanket of blue light over the scene, and the quiet rumbles of lone cars on the roads filled the air. Smoke and fire drifted in the wind, the scent of gasoline like ash in Stiles’ nose. The world hit his skin, and the quiet peace of pre-dawn fought against the storm raging in his chest.
The moment Scott closed the door, Stiles rounded on him.
“What the hell, man?” he shouted, brandishing a finger out at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”
Scott must’ve been waiting to unleash as well, because he yelled back, “Because I knew you’d react like this!”
“Like what? This?” Stiles asked, incredulous. “I’m only angry because you freaking lied to me!”
“None of us were lying to you, Stiles!”
“But you didn’t tell me the truth, either!”
“We never told you, because we didn’t think you’d care!”
Stiles fell back. “That,” he said, “is definitely a lie. You all were scared to tell me. I saw all of you in there.” He brandished a finger at the window. “Why?” he asked again.
“Because if you knew Derek was in trouble, we knew you’d freak out and panic!”
“Why the hell would I panic?” he cried.
“Because that’s how Derek acted when you were possessed!” Scott roared, getting in Stiles’ face.
Stiles fell silent. “What?” he asked. “Derek didn’t panic over me.”
Scott looked away, glaring over the skyline of Beacon Hills. “He nearly ripped out Allison’s dad’s throat, multiple times.”
Stiles heard the waver in Scott’s voice when he’d mentioned Allison.
He countered, “Well, yeah, if I’d had claws, I’d probably do the same.”
“He was really worried about you.”
“Yeah, I’d be pretty freaking worried as well if my Pack were in trouble!” Stiles shouted. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Scott, but it has nothing to do with the fact that Derek is currently missing!”
“Derek wasn’t your Alpha!”
Stiles thought back to the conversation he’d had with Peter, but dismissed it. “Yeah, but we’re Packmates, Scott. Derek’s part of your Pack. You know that. That’s why we’re going to find him.”
“You’re staying here, Stiles.”
“Why?” Stiles yelled, spreading his arms out.
“Because you’re too worried about this!”
“Of course I’m worried about him, asshole, he’s part of our goddamn Pack!” Stiles exploded.
All the rage in his chest burning like a furnace suddenly went out with that last exclamation, leaving Stiles with an empty shell beneath his ribs. He breathed heavily, and could just barely feel the beating of his heart.
“I have a right to be worried about him, Scott,” Stiles breathed. “I’m not letting another one of my Packmates get killed. Not again.”
Scott was staring at him, guilt and sadness and grim determination reflecting in his eyes.
“Stiles…” he began, but then trailed off, as if he couldn’t find the words to say.
Stiles’ shoulders slumped. There wasn’t really anything to say. He sat down on the cement window ledge in defeat.
“God, Allison was right,” he groaned under his breath, burying his face in his hands.
“Allison?” Scott suddenly perked up. “What about Allison?”
Stiles went tense for a moment, but then decided it wasn’t worth keeping secrets.
“My dream was about Allison,” he explained, raising his head and resting it on the backs of his hands. He peered up at Scott, exhaustion running through his veins. “I mean it was about the Nemeton as well, sort of, but mostly about Allison.”
“What, so she was there?”
“Sort of,” Stiles murmured. “I think it was her ghost or something. It was like my dreams with the Nogitsune. You know, spirits and things.”
Scott let out a breath. He sat down next to Stiles, and they both turned to face the view of the skyline. They were silent for a few moments, both not saying anything, letting the anger pass before Stiles opened the next file to address.
After a few moments, he finally continued.
“She said I was dying.”
“What?” Scott’s head snapped around faster than even his werewolf reflexes could’ve excused. Stiles did not envy the whiplash that would’ve caused a human like himself.
He continued to look straight ahead as he said, “Well, I don’t think it’s immediate. But she said that my only solution might be to get the Bite.”
“What?” Scott repeated, a pitch higher than the first one.
“I’m not really sure,” Stiles explained. “I was looking in a mirror, and my eyes were killer-Beta blue” –wow, that sounded like a makeup color name– “and then they turned into Alpha red. Then she shot an arrow at me, and I woke up.”
Scott turned to face Stiles fully at that point. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yep,” Stiles sounded, popping the ‘p’. “She also told me to talk to Deaton.”
“Oh,” Scott replied, then sat back against the window.
It said something about their lives that he was taking a threat to Stiles’ life relatively calmly. Stiles wondered absently if this was how he’d taken the news of Derek. Probably, considering how often the man had left town before the Nogitsune.
But they’d changed that in the past six months. They’d started having weekly Pack meetings – sometimes biweekly – and they often came to Derek’s loft and just… hung out. Derek offered the help he could with their homework – he’d gotten his GED in New York – and they all watched movies and played games sometimes. Stiles cooked when he could; he’d learned a few things to keep his dad healthy, and when he didn’t, then Kira tried, usually failed, and had Stiles cook for her anyway.
It all felt like… moving on.
Stiles was honestly surprised that he’d been away from Derek’s loft the entire week, all things considering. Or, well, it wasn’t all that surprising, with him avoiding… Derek…
Scott thankfully broke Stiles’ train of thought by asking, “Are you sure she didn’t say anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said in your dream that you got Alpha eyes, or whatever. That’s not possible. I mean, unless you were to kill me, or some other Alpha.”
“Or if I end up being a True Alpha, like you,” Stiles shot back just as easily.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” said Scott, lying back against the glass.
Stiles turned on Scott, indignant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, I just… I don’t think you would be able to be part of my Pack if you were a True Alpha.”
“You were once part of Derek’s Pack.”
“No,” said Scott, shaking his head as he looked at Stiles. “I was just working with him to take down Gerard, remember?”
“That’s not how Derek took it.”
“Yeah, that was kind of the point,” Scott reiterated.
“Peter said there was a bond and everything. For both of us. I’m pretty sure we were part of his Pack, dude. Besides, there can be more than one Alpha in a Pack. We’ve seen that.”
Scott snorted. “We also know how well that worked out.”
Stiles shrugged. “It seemed to work pretty well, actually. They almost won.”
“Until they didn’t.”
“Because we were better.”
“That’s right, dude,” affirmed Scott. Without looking, they both bumped fists, and continued to watch the horizon.
They worked the way only best friends did, argument already forgotten, or at least put to the back of their minds. After a few more thoughtless moments, however, Scott spoke up again.
“Did she say anything else?”
Stiles thought about it, and decided to leave out the weird confession Allison had given him alongside the death sentence. Not when they were trying to lower the tension.
“Yeah,” he finally answered, frowning. “We talked about how death looked good on her, and how the afterlife was the universe’s best-kept beauty secret.”
Scott laughed, an easy sound from his throat. “Let’s not tell Lydia about it. We need her.”
Stiles grinned. “Yeah, we really do.”
“How did she look?”
Again, Stiles paused, thinking back to his vision of Allison. “She looked good, man. She looked…”
He stopped, thinking back to that dark room in the broken school. He thought about the way Allison had smiled, and laughed. And he thought about the grim determination she held when she’d aimed her bow. The same determination that Scott now brought with him like a charm in his pocket.
“Alive.”
Scott breathed out a sigh, and when Stiles looked over, he saw the faint glimmer of tears in his friend’s eyes.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out for Scott’s hand. “We’ve got this.”
Scott took it, and squeezed Stiles’ hand in his grip. “Yeah,” he replied, swallowing. “Yeah, we do.”
They both turned back to the balcony one final time, watching as the sky began to turn pink.
“You’re plan kind of sucks, Scott,” Stiles finally said, breaking the silence.
Scott’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. “How so?” he asked, sounding almost amused.
“You don’t have a human. What if there’s mountain ash or other supernatural-related traps?”
“We’ve got Lydia,” Scott reminded him.
“So? There are things that we don’t know of that can probably stop Banshees. You need a human, and you aren’t taking Danny, because as much as we like Danny, he has no idea how to fight or defend himself with the rest of the Pack. He has the least field experience out of all of us.”
Now Scott was smiling fully. “That’s why we’re taking someone with more field experience.”
“You mean me, right?”
“No, Stiles, you’re not coming.”
“Scott, come on–”
Scott held up a hand, a move so sudden that it shocked Stiles into silence. “The rest of the Pack is here,” he said simply, standing up and brushing off his pants.
“Oh my god, stop being so dramatic,” Stiles grumbled. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”
Scott only shook his head, heading for the door.
Stiles followed, and called after him, “Who else is coming? The entire Pack is already… here…”
Stiles stopped where he stood, staring at Ms. McCall and his father.
Quickly, he grabbed Scott’s shoulder and hissed, “You called my dad?”
“And my mom,” Scott said, nodding. “They’re Pack. We promised we’d stop lying to them, remember?”
Stiles’ dad stepped forward, arms crossed. “That’s right. Now what’s this I hear about you going to Mexico?”
“Stiles isn’t going,” Scott said, at the same time that Stiles replied, “Derek’s missing.”
The Sheriff cocked a brow and glanced back at Melissa. She nodded to him, crossing her arms. “So we’re finally going to find the kid?”
For the second time in the same night, Stiles felt his insides turn to ice. “What?” he asked, staring at his father. His chest felt like a knife was through it, twisting slow torture into his bones. “You knew?”
“Yeah, I did,” the man answered. “I figured since you were avoiding talking about Derek in general that you wouldn’t want to know.”
“What – That, that’s bullshit!” Stiles spluttered, starting forward. Scott placed an arm across his chest before he could take more than a couple steps, forcing him back. Stiles let loose a snarl, loud enough that the entire room stared.
Lydia spoke up first. “You’ve been avoiding Derek, Stiles? Why?” When Stiles looked at her, it looked as if she were smug about something.
Stiles glowered at her. “That doesn’t matter right now. You don’t have a human going with you.”
“You don’t have an adult either,” Melissa added, eying her son in particular.
“Yeah, what she said,” continued Stiles, gesturing loosely at the woman. “You need me.”
Lydia folded her arms defiantly. “Or we just need an adult human. Two birds with one stone.”
“Who?” Stiles shot back. “Neither of you,” he pointed at the parents in turn, “can take an indefinite number of days off work, and Peter–” Stiles paused, and then shook his head “–I don’t know why I mentioned Peter. He’s not human. Or responsible.”
“I resent that,” Peter said from where he perched on the staircase.
Melissa looked around suddenly, as if realizing they were missing someone. “Where’s Chris? Shouldn’t he be here?”
Isaac held up a hand, looking around hesitantly before answering, “Um… Chris said he didn’t want to… um… he wasn’t available. For this. To find Derek, I mean.”
Stiles nodded, glancing at Scott. His friend had the same understanding in his eyes. Chris wouldn’t want to help the Pack, no matter how much Scott and Isaac counted him as one of them. It was too painful.
Lydia was still smug, though, when Stiles turned his questioning gaze on her.
“We’ve already got that covered,” she answered, glancing at the Sheriff.
“Oh, right!” the man said, jumping a little. “He should be here by now…”
“Who should be here?” Stiles asked, confused.
As if on cue, hurried footsteps began to echo in the hall, followed by a young man rushing into the room.
“Sorry I’m late, I was trying to get dressed and–”
Deputy Parrish paused in the doorway when the Pack turned their ten pairs of eyes on him.
“Amateur,” Lydia sniffed, tapping her heeled boots impatiently.
“Wow,” Parrish breathed, a low whistle sounding from his lips. “There are a lot more kids than I was expecting.”
Stiles snapped out of his shock, and exclaimed, “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Yeah, what’s he doing here?” Malia asked, looking between Stiles and the Deputy, just as confused. Danny and Isaac were surprised as well, if their raised eyebrows were anything to go by.
“I called him here,” the Sheriff explained, giving the Deputy a nod. “After Lydia and Scott told me they needed an escort.”
“To… Mexico, right?” Parrish clarified, still looking around worriedly. His gaze fell on Peter lurking on the stairs, and he swallowed, before drawing himself up straighter.
Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it again to say, “Are you sure he’s… qualified to…”
“To take care of a bunch of werewolves on a road trip?” Parrish asked, stepping in. He shrugged, nodding. “Yeah, I think I can handle it.”
“What – you – he knows?” Stiles spluttered, looking to Scott.
“I told him,” his dad answered. “After the fight with the Oni, in which Parrish was nearly killed, I kind of had to explain what was going on. Scott understands.”
Stiles looked around at the Pack, an ugly feeling building in his chest. “Well,” he stated dully. “Does anyone else have any secrets they’re keeping from me?”
Danny raised a hand. “I’m still dating Ethan,” he said, looking around. “I call him once a week. He’s in Chicago right now, applying at the Art Institute.”
“Well congratulations to Ethan,” Stiles snapped.
“Stiles,” Scott started, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “You can’t come. We asked your dad, and he said–”
“Definitely not,” the Sheriff interrupted.
Stiles protested, “But Dad–”
“No, Stiles,” the man interrupted. “If you won’t listen to your Alpha, listen to me. You are not going to Mexico.”
“But–”
“You promised me, Stiles.”
“And you promised me that we wouldn’t lie anymore,” Stiles shot back. “Why didn’t you tell me about Derek?”
“I tried,” the Sheriff answered. “You were avoiding the subject.”
Stiles opened his mouth, closed it again, and couldn’t find any words to say. Lydia was still looking at him, calculating.
Scott put a hand on his shoulder. “Stiles, stay here. It’s not just about Derek. You’re sleepwalking again. We can’t deal with that in Mexico.”
He knew when he’d been beat. Even if he’d been beat three days ago.
“Fine,” he relented, taking a breath. “I need to talk to Deaton anyway.”
“Why do you need to talk to Deaton?” asked the Sheriff, shifting gears immediately.
“Sleepwalking, Dad. He’s the ‘expert’.” Stiles even put up air-quotes around the word ‘expert’.
What? He went all out when he was irritated.
Parrish clapped his hands, drawing the attention of the entire Pack. “Well, this seems like a good setup. When do we leave?”
Lydia straightened, and just her presence alone was enough to end the conversation. With a sweeping eye over the group, her eyes landed on the Sheriff.
A/N: Too keep it brief: This is my first Teen Wolf fic. It is currently unbeta'd, and you might have better luck with less typos over at FF or Ao3. I personally recumbent Ao3.
This takes place before Season 4, after 3b. I'd been planning on making this a really long oneshot, but the plot got way too long, and I got impatient, so here!
Kate Argent is in this. No biggie. I'm not including any new characters from Season 4, and Chris and Isaac are still in this. Also: BAMF Stiles, Magic!Stiles, Alpha!Stiles (but still human), and Angry!Stiles. Lots of sass. I'm really tired, so that's all my A/N is gonna be. Hope you enjoy!
+=+=+=+=+
“Make up your mind you want clarity. Take what you know and then make it make sense. Just face what you fear and soon it comes clear, your visions are just your defense.”
– Make Up You Mind/Catch Me I’m Falling – Next To Normal
*–_–*–_–*–_–*–_–*
When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see.
Panic flared up in his chest like a bomb, but he diffused it with a quick, practiced inhale of breath.
He could breathe – always a good sign. No matter how much his eyes strained, however, his vision met only solid blackness.
A shiver passed down his spine. A wicked chill seeped through the air, leaking past his skin and straight through to his bones. It swept through him in turn, and it left him alone and vulnerable in the open darkness. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. The icy tracks bled down his skin, raising goosebumps along his flesh.
He released a shaking breath, the sound rustling in the dead silence like paper.
His hands – he could feel his hands. They hung at his sides, wrinkled and clammy. In a rush he gripped his arms. His fingers caught on the soft sleeves of a T-shirt, fisting the clothes desperately in his palms.
Another breath, hesitant and shallow, before the panic began to return.
It started as a buzz in his chest, numbing his heart and lungs as it spread through his body. His fingers went next, the shirt in his grip becoming fat and hard, and then the feeling travelled up his neck.
He floated on the clouds of his breath, before they began to rain. They came faster, building momentum and counting down to the explosion. The oxygen in his lungs struck tinder and set his stomach on fire.
He couldn’t see. Even in this open emptiness, the darkness pressed in like a cage. He felt the bars wrapping around him, his breath becoming trapped, screaming loudly with a cry of ripping paper in his throat.
And then a single drop of water broke the loud silence.
His breath caught in shock, just enough to shut down his heart to a hushed throb. Unease curled in his chest, but it began to loosen its hold, and his face still stung with the numb burn left behind. As feeling trickled down his arms, he raised a hand to his cheek. It came away wet with tears on his fingertips. Cold reverberated down his spine, and another shiver passed through his body. He brushed his hand off on his chest, ignoring the returning pounding of his heart, and looked around himself in the darkness.
Another drop sounded out to his left. He whipped around, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the source. There – somewhere, it came again. The darkness pulsed with it, like a serene ripple in the silence.
He could feel the beat pass through his body, crumpling his papery breath, and he knew it would grow into a tidal wave.
His fingers twitched almost absently, and he weighed his options. There wasn’t much of a debate before he went ahead and took a step.
The moment his foot touched the subliminal ground, the darkness broke apart. It burst beneath his foot, particles of shadow giving away to blinding light. He raised his arms to shield against the fluttering bullets, stumbling backwards. Everywhere his feet touched, the cage broke, and the already open air expanded in another blaze of dark feathers. The fragments of shade swirled around him like ashes, filling his mind with a rushing gale, howling in his ears. His vision flickered between sight and blindness, and he caught a glimpse of the dim world beyond the bars. The space spun in a vortex, ripping at his clothes and skin and hair, and he felt himself being torn away from the light to follow the ghosts into the void. Blood pounded in his ears, and finally, he let loose a scream.
The sound tore from his throat, and it broke the lock. With his voice echoing on the wind, the shadows were sucked away, bleeding off of the world around him like ink and leaving him standing in a world he could see.
Stiles blinked. His vision swam into focus, spots dancing in front of his eyes. The white light dimmed, coming down from its liberated high. When everything finally balanced, the sight softened his pounding head, but only sent his mind reeling back in confusion.
He stood in a school hallway, the one outside of Mr. Harris’ classroom. Above him, the lights were off, the only source of awareness filtering through the small windows. The air felt strange around him, alive and breathing. It raised the hairs on his arms, and he hugged himself close. The dull warmth from his hands did little to stop the trembling nervousness he felt in his bones.
He let his eyes travel over the scene before him. The school looked deteriorated; cracks littered the glass windows on the classroom doors and crawled across the tiled floor. The paint chipped off of the lockers and the brick walls, exposing the dark grey beneath it all. From the ceiling the paper flats sagged, some torn through with dark stains.
Stiles’ eyes fell on the gnarled bark of a branch, twisting out from between the metal struts above. It ended in roots, clawing at the air like a furious animal, frozen in their wooden form for as long as Stiles stared at them. At the sight, his heart stopped and he let his arms fall.
“Aw hell,” he groaned. He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Not this shit again.”
He shoved down the jump of panic in his chest. He figured at this point that he was dreaming, but at least this time it was so blatantly obvious that he knew it as a fact. The motion sensors were still up in his room – he complained about them constantly, but in truth the knowledge of their presence helped his sleep easier at night, conscious that his father would keep him safe.
At that thought, the familiar sharp edge of guilt dug into his ribs, but he shook his head, ignoring it.
It just didn’t make sense. Six months had passed since what Stiles preferred to refer to as “the incident”. No one brought it up anyway, but it was too much to even think about most days, let alone call it what it actually was. Remembering it tormented him; the demon in his mind, under his skin, driving him insane. He remembered the weight of the sword lodged in Scott’s stomach, and how it had trembled with each breath his friend – his brother – took. He relished in the chaos of that moment, the power that had surged through his veins at the sight of pain. He remembered taking control of the Oni, the glory that had lit up his every nerve and set him on fire, and he remembered the sick, wonder satisfaction he’d felt when he’d killed –
Another drop of water echoed throughout the hallway, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.
His fingernails dug into his hair, scratching at his scalp. He hadn’t even felt it when he’d started to hunch over, but now he faced the cracked tile beneath his feet, sweat sucking from his skin with anxiety coating his face.
He took a breath, then another. His entire body shuddered with the motion, but he felt it. He felt the air fill his lungs, felt it leave him again. His heart beat beneath his skin, thumping against his ribs, and his stomach churned with an uneasy nausea. He accepted the dull sickness with relief.
He felt human.
Stiles straightened up once he decided that his vision wasn’t still blurry. The hallway remained dark, but he felt something pulling at him. It felt like a cord strung to his body, tugging once at his chest, then against at his shoulder. The sensation pulled again, pricking at every point on his skin, but not enough to latch on. Stiles eyes searched the dim hallway, as if he could maybe find the severed threads, but he saw nothing.
Drip. There it was.
For a split second, Stiles honestly debated whether or not this was the smartest decision. Of course, six months following demonic possession apparently did nothing to curb curiosity, so he did what came naturally.
He decided ‘screw it’ and started off down the hall.
His eyes continued to scan the building around him. The broken roots of the Nemeton climbed across everything, and he wondered how much of this dream world was the school, and what he would find outside it.
He prayed to god it wouldn’t be anything too traumatizing.
But that was wishful thinking.
Stiles held his breath as he walked past Harris’ – well, the dream version of Harris’ – room. The door stood ajar, and a pale light filtered out into the hallway. He glanced inside, seeing the rows of lab stations and crystal beakers atop the tables.
His stomach rolled when he caught sight of a dark stain on the corner of Harris’ desk. It glistened in the cold light of the room, wet and fresh. Stiles’ eyes followed the trail of it as it dripped onto the floor and dragged across the ground. The crooked splatter continued into the hall, rugged and thick as it traced underneath his feet and scraped against the tile. It pooled outside the men’s bathroom across him, before seeping under the door. A darkened handprint stained the rotting wood, dashed across its surface.
Stiles hurried on, grateful that the lights were off.
The water had stopped dripping for the moment, and the eerie silence was becoming louder than not.
So Stiles drowned it out the best way he knew how: with words.
“Alright,” he began, his voice rough and tired, “We – I am probably going insane. Again. And there is no ‘we’ here, because Isaac trapped the demon-fly in his magic jar of tree-flesh – That… that is a great visual, thank you, Stiles.” He shivered, and licked his lips before hugging his arms once again. “And then he decided to give it back to Kira’s arguably crazy mother, leaving us with a rotting tree stump and…”
Nothing.
Stiles breathed out, glancing over his shoulder.
Hell lot of nothing that still plagued Stiles’ dreams. His nightmares left him shaking in the middle of the night, clutching for air as he gasped awake, tangled in bed sheets and soaked down to the bone with sweat. Stiles hated the suffocating. He hated the lost sensation that kept him under. Dreams inside dreams inside convoluted spaces of blessed wakefulness – at least he’d stopped sleepwalking, and learned how to know the moment he awoke in his subconscious, the moment the Nogitsune was taken away.
Still, looking around at the hanging branches clawing the school apart, Stiles couldn’t help the feeling of dread that filled his gut.
So he spoke again. “I told him just to bury it,” he continued after a breath, “but nooo, Mister Golden-Locks-of-Love had to be all stubborn and logical–” and the rest of the pack had agreed with him anyway “–‘No burying the evil bug under the Nemeton, Stiles. It’ll just attract more messed up mammal-shifters and their freaky reptile cousins.’”
If he were really being honest though, Stiles had to agree. But being possessed by a chaos demon had blown his reasoning instincts to crap. His mind was like a broken labyrinth, crumbling into new patterns with every nightmare or stray dark thought. Even now, he wondered.
Stiles knew chaos. He knew the Nogitsune better than anyone, even before the possession. He breathed chaos. Every single moment of his life was spent rolling with the insane punches. How else did he keep himself from breaking down? Anyone else would have lost their minds the moment the word ‘werewolf’ was instated as part of reality instead of a simple story to scare farmers into keeping a closer eye on their sheep. Anyone else would have collapsed, the maze in their minds obliterated to ruins, twisted into spirals more intricate than Celtic knots in the face of hunters, kanima, kitsune, as they tried hard to keep everything black and white.
Just look at where Allison fell, turned against herself and confused right up until that final night in the snow.
Yeah, Stiles knew chaos. He’d reined it in, though, taken control of his messed up life and filtered through the shades of grey.
Then the Nogitsune had come and unleashed it all, throwing all his bindings into the void.
He was still working on chaining it all back up. He thought it would be easier the second, third, fourth time around. But no, it wasn’t. I never got easier than that. He couldn’t just breathe it away like a panic attack. No, it took a force a hell lot stronger than shallow air to capture all the missing pieces of his soul.
That’s where he tried to draw the line in the sand. He tried to sort between the chaos that was stiles, and the insanity that was the demon. And sometimes, the logic made sense both ways.
Maybe the Nogitsune had still influenced Stiles into suggesting that he bury the capsule, so that it could regain power. Or maybe it had known that no one would believe in Stiles’ judgment, and intended to be delivered to the doorstep of its original summons. There existed an infinity of maybes and possibilities, but if Stiles was truly honest with himself, none of them ever seemed like the right choice.
In the end he trusted the pack – his Pack. That’s what they were now. No longer arguing because of power games and regretted actions, they were able to function as a group. Not that they didn’t argue – Scott was clueless as a leader on the best of days, relying on Stiles and Derek to guide him – but with the period of unsettled peace, they at least were trying.
Somehow, out of all the chaos, they formed their own little base in the maze. They were more than just friends now. They were Pack, and to Stiles that meant a second chance at family, to forgive himself for all the lies and all the pain he’d given them all. He didn’t intend to mess up again, not this time.
He didn’t speak again until he reached the end of the hallway. A set of double doors stood closed in front of him, the metal handles stretched across the dark surfaces like a flare. Stiles glanced around once more, noting the cluster of roots just above him in the corner.
He shivered once more, before taking a breath and pushing the door open. The room beyond was automatically familiar, and yet Stiles felt tension creep up his spine. No way that this wasn’t some sort of trick of his mind, not with how easy the dream seemed to be going.
So Stiles steeled himself, and continued to walk forward into the school cafeteria.
Moving into the open space was like leaping to an altitude leagues above the earth, and Stiles had to pause for a moment as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His ears didn’t pop, but his headspace expanded as if filled with the helium from the Hindenburg itself, laughing him to a high of flammable awareness. If he took a breath, the oxygen in his lungs would ignite, so instead he blinked until the fuel drained away.
The ceiling seemed higher than in reality, the paper tiles arching high above him from the cinderblock pillars lining the walls. Unlike the decimated hallway Stiles had just left, the entire lunchroom was spotless.
More evidence that this was a dream, all sights of pooling bloodstains and clawing remnants of Tolkien-trees aside.
Then Stiles turned to face the tall windows that stretched to the ceiling, and he retracted his previous observation.
A forest of trees pressed up against the glass, as if surrounding the school as an army of vegetation. The tall pines were armed with sharp quills along their branches, and the smaller trees below them bare of their leaves, their twisted branched scratching at the windows.
And at the center of the towering arrangement, seemingly larger than the entire world around it, stood the Nemeton in all of its live, pre-stump glory. Its branches curved up into the air, the same familiar pattern that Stiles recognized from hundreds of Lydia’s manic drawings. It glowed with an eerie energy, and Stiles could sense the desperate hunger radiating from its bark, even through the walls of the school building.
The Nemeton wanted blood, and human sacrifices weren’t enough.
Its winding arms reached up into the night sky outside. The moon shone bright and full, fat and ripe for the taking as the branches curved around its silhouette like the bars of the deadliest cage, ready to lock the moment it found its key. Filtering through the dark rods, the great light from the moon suddenly flickered.
Stiles swallowed, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck. His breath shuddered in his throat and his hands shook.
The sound of a phone ringing scared the shit out of him as it echoed through the cafeteria.
“Holy crap!” he shouted, leaping a foot into the air. He clutched at his chest as his heart nearly gave out, reaching out with his free hand for a support of any kind.
The sound came from somewhere in the middle of the room. Quickly, Stiles made his way to the end of one of the long tables, seeing the light from the phone. When he reached it he blinked.
It was his cellphone.
And the caller ID shone with a grinning picture of a closed-eye Scott.
“Stiles!” Scott’s voice exclaimed the moment he accepted the call. Relief was palpable through the line, as the boy continued to shout, “Thank god you picked up! Where are you?”
Stiles winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. He frowned down at the device, and by extension, Scott’s yelling, before raising it back up to his ear.
Confused, he replied, “Um… I assume my bed? Dream-Scott?”
“Dream–?” Scott cut himself off, before rushing, “Stiles, I’m standing in your bedroom right now. The motion sensors went off and your dad called. Are you dreaming?”
Stiles pulled the phone away again, his heart pounding. “Y-Yeah,” he breathed. “I am. How did you–?”
“Stiles, you’re sleepwalking again.”
No. No, no, no, no, no. No, he was not sleepwalking again. He hadn’t sleepwalked in six months. Six months.
To be fair, in six months, he hadn’t had a dream of the Nemeton either; let alone the whole goddamn thing.
“Shit,” Stiles cursed, taking an involuntary step backwards. “Shit, shit, shit – no, this can’t be happening. Scott, this can’t be happening – not, not again. Shit! Scott, I–” His breath caught in his throat, and he gave a wheezing gasp as he fell to his knees.
He hit the tile floor hard, hands coming up to clutch at his chest as the panic flared up fresh and new once again. It exploded this time, the entire zeppelin in his chest lighting up his paper in his lungs and striking tinder on the bomb. His very heart went numb, a ragged breath pumping dead blood through his body as tears sprung up in his vision.
His dream world went blurry, as the moon outside the window flickered black.
“Stiles!” Scott shouted, his voice dim through the phone, “Stiles, snap out of it! Stiles! Stiles, we’ll find you, just snap out of it and calm down – Just – Stiles–”
The words may have been the angry growls of an animal for all they did to calm Stiles down. No, he kept his heart pounding beneath his chest, too fast to even feel as the panic flared up in every nerve ending of his mind and rendered him useless.
And then he heard a roar, and another voice broke through the cacophony of chaos.
“STILES!”
The feral scream of Derek’s voice shook the school to its roots, and the glass windows shattered in a rain of crystal rage. As his name echoed throughout the room, Stiles’ breath jolted back into his chest, and his body froze.
Scott had fallen silent, the phone lying on the tile next to him. The roar finally faded away, and the moon turned back on, the white light pouring through the empty frames.
“Derek?” Stiles whispered, barely audible to his own ears.
But Scott heard, and he immediately asked, “Derek? What about Derek?” He sounded defensive, guarded, and Stiles blinked in confusion down at the phone.
“You didn’t hear…?”
“Hear what? Stiles? Do you know where Derek is?”
Stiles sat up, and scooped his phone back up to his ear. “What?” he asked, “What do you mean ‘do I know where he is’? We saw him just at the last Pack meeting, didn’t we? Last week?”
“Stiles–”
“Did something happen?” He narrowed his eyes, already anticipating the answer.
Scott was silent for a long moment, but Stiles could hear his breathing through the speaker. He stood up from the cafeteria ground, and looked towards the windows. Glass littered the tile ground, and the branches of the Nemeton looked bent out of place, allowing more moonlight to shine through to the room. Stiles turned his face up to it, still hearing the echo of Derek’s roar in his mind.
“Isaac and Malia are searching the Preserve,” Scott finally answered. “I sent Kira to pick up Danny, and they’re going to look around the town.”
Stiles groaned in annoyance. “Scott, you’re not answering my question. What happened to Derek?”
“Lydia and I are going to look for Peter,” Scott continued as if Stiles hadn’t said anything. “He might be able to help.”
“Scott, you asshole, I swear–” Stiles cut himself off. “Wait– is Lydia with you? Lydia!” he suddenly shouted, “Lydia! Where the hell is Derek?”
“Stiles,” he heard Scott say.
“Lydia! I know you can hear me!”
“Stiles–”
“Scott,” he heard Lydia’s muffled voice over the phone. “Scott, give me the phone.”
“But Lydia–”
“Scott,” and Stiles could hear the biting tone through the dream, “Phone. Now.” Scott must have complied, because next thing, Stiles heard Lydia, saccharine sweet, saying, “Hello, Stiles. Sweet dreams, I hope?”
“Lydia,” Stiles bit back, irritated, “where is–”
“Derek?” Lydia finished. “I can’t tell you that right now, Stiles.”
Stiles gaped at his phone. He felt anger rushing to his face and had to resist the urge to chuck it across the room. Really, Lydia?
“What?” he snapped, bringing it back up to his ear. “What do you mean you can’t tell me?”
“If I tell you, you’ll overreact, which is the last thing we need right now.”
“See, the thing about suspense is that it tends to make people overreact anyway,” Stiles snapped.
He could hear Lydia metaphorically filing her nails on the other line. “Stiles, you’re in a dream. Whether or not you actually do overreact, your mind will start to fill in the spaces for you. And you know what that does to your subconscious?”
Stiles sighed, dropping the phone from his ear once again. Yeah, he knew. What happened was that he got a bear trap biting into his ankle and glass shattering windows while the Nemeton watched over it all.
“Yeah, it all goes to hell,” he finally relented back over to Lydia.
“Exactly,” Lydia replied, as if the entire process should have been obvious. Which it probably was, but Stiles was asleep, so logic was out of the question anyway. “You are currently sleepwalking. Sleep talking, as well. If your subconscious is powerful enough to control you body motor and vocal functions in a relatively catatonic state, just imagine what it would do if aggravated even more.”
A groan left his lips, and he wanted to fall to his ass. But glass was littering the floor, so probably not the smartest decision. Stiles valued his ass, even when asleep.
“Can you–” he stopped, licking his lips, before rephrasing, “How bad is it? Like on a relative ‘eh, we can figure it out when I wake up’ to ‘oh shit, we just lost sourwolf’ scale, how badly should I prepare myself?”
Lydia’s sigh sounded very tired, almost disbelieving. “It’s not an immediate death sort of thing. I’m not getting any whispers from other Banshee. Neither is Meredith. Don’t worry your little dreaming soul over it, Stiles. Just focus on waking up.”
The relief Stiles felt was more solid than he expected. Sure, Meredith may not have been the sanest woman – Banshee – in the world, but she was honest. And she had a better grip on her powers than Lydia, which was for sure. Not that Stiles didn’t trust Lydia or her abilities, but a second opinion from a near stranger was oddly more comforting than a friend’s reassurances in this situation.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Waking up. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
Suddenly, a drop of water echoed throughout the cafeteria. Stiles’ head whipped around, searching the cafeteria for it.
Lydia hummed in approval. “Scott, drive,” she said, muffled over the line as she turned away. She said to Stiles, “Just don’t walk anywhere. If you can’t wake up by the time we find your body, we’ll pull you out of it.”
But Stiles wasn’t paying attention to Lydia’s words at the moment, as another drop of water sounded. There – the doors at the other end of the cafeteria were open, the hallway beyond them dark.
“Lydia, I–” Stiles began. But then another sound snapped through the room, and his words caught in his throat.
A hollow twang of a bowstring vibrated through the room, rippling the dream like a gentle wave, only to be followed by high sound of metal sliding against leather.
“…I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he finished.
“Stiles? What – no, you need to stay where you are–”
“Yeah, you guys will find me. I’ve… gotta go.”
“Stiles–” Lydia’s furious voice cut off as Stiles’ hung up. He silenced the phone and slipped it into his pocket, before facing the empty doorway across the room.
Twang.
Stiles took a deep breath, and started forward. His first step was punctuated by that scraping noise, as light as the wind, and yet as loud as thunder.
He hadn’t heard that sound in six months. Not since that night when Allison drew that final silver arrow from her quiver.
With every step, the glass crunched beneath his feet, until he escaped the light pouring in from the moon. He walked away form the open windows, leaving the crooked tree behind him, and took the leap into the darkness.
It was weird, when he’d separated from the Nogitsune. He’d been able to see two worlds at once. At some points, his mind would switch his vision, and he’d see his friends fighting the Oni. The next moment, he’d be staring at Lydia as she struggled to pull his sickened body through the halls.
Only by coincidence was he able to witness Allison’s death.
He hoped that was the reason, and that it wasn’t just another trick of chaos that the Nogitsune had planted in his mind.
The hallway he emerged into was right outside the locker room. This part of the school looked as decimated as the last, only without the roots clawing their way down from the ceiling. He heard the water dripping from within the room.
Steeling himself, he entered.
Even his dream couldn’t dispel the stench of teenage sweat that permeated the room. Stiles nearly gagged, if he wasn’t already used to it from every moment that he spent in here while awake. The lockers seemed taller in his dream, though, forming a maze deeper into the darkness. Of course, the lights were off, making it all the more difficult. The only source of light was dim, flickering like a weak flame.
Stiles rounded the corner, and saw why.
He faced the sinks lined up against the wall, the molding mirrors all glowing a deep orange, reflecting the light of the melting candle sitting on the edge of the porcelain. The stout lantern dripped wax down its sides, melting into the sink. The candle wavered, throwing the figure before it into a dark silhouette.
A girl sat on the bench in front of the mirrors. She hunched over, staring at the large bow in her hands. Slowly, she reached behind her, drawing an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back, and notched it on the string. For a moment, her hands seemed to freeze, locking up, and the arrow clattered to the ground. Stiles followed it, to see a pile of loose arrows on the floor.
He returned his gaze up to the girl when she plucked the string of her bow. Her gaze seemed lost, completely gone into the middle distance.
Stiles took one look at her hair, how it curled over her shoulder, and the square set of her jaw.
“Allison,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She looked up at the sound of her name. For a moment she looked confused, her brown eyes glowing in the dim firelight. Then she focused on Stiles, and her gaze narrowed. Still, she didn’t say anything.
After a period of silence, Stiles frowned. “So,” he began, wetting his lips, “Are you hear for some sort of significance? Dream symbolism? Omen of death?”
Don’t think about death, he berated himself. Not while he was waiting for news about Derek.
But the word seemed to amuse dream-Allison. She tilted her head to the side, her mouth quirking just a little.
Even with the darkness around her, she seemed so alive. It made Stiles’ heart skip a beat in his chest.
Just for this dream, he could believe.
But then she had to go and ruin it by opening her mouth.
“You’re dying, Stiles.”
Stiles opened his mouth, and then closed it, before gaping again. “I–” he choked out, “What?”
But dream-Allison only smiled again, and her body began to fade. It peeled back like the darkness from the beginning of his dream, folding like paper and dissipating like ink. Her details crumpled like sand as the wind blew her away. With the ghost of her smile, the locker room was empty.
“Death omen it is, then,” Stiles grumbled to himself, stepping closer to the bench.
His foot knocked against an arrow shaft on the floor. He looked down at it, seeing the feathers bent at the end, black as tar. The silver arrowhead glinted in the candlelight.
He approached the sinks. One of the faucets was leaking, dripping the water that he’d heard from the beginning of his dream. He shut it off, and then glanced up into the mirror.
He looked a mess. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. Bags sagged beneath them, red and angry. He looked too much like the Nogitsune; too much like the void.
But as he stared into his eyes, he suddenly leapt back. A startled shout built in his throat, but before he could, he heard the notch of an arrow behind him.
Stiles tore his eyes away from his reflection – his blazing blue eyes – to face Allison.
She stood in the spot he’d just vacated, arrow drawn up to aim at his head. Her gaze was calculating, her face white as a ghost in the candlelight.
“It’s too late for you, Stiles,” she murmured. Her voice sounded distant, not like the Allison he remembered. She sounded cold.
“Funny,” Stiles bit back, his own voice wavering, “coming from the d-dead” – he cursed himself, choking on the word – “girl.”
“You’re too close to them. You’re dying, Stiles.”
In any other situation, Stiles would’ve rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve said that already.”
“They’ll hurt you. Like they hurt me.”
At that, Stiles’ spine went rigid. His nostrils flared, and he glowered at Allison. A sort of rage filled his heart, burning with a newfound courage.
“That’s not true,” he said through gritted teeth. “They didn’t hurt you Allison. I did. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me. Scott tried to protect you. Hell, he’s still wrecked about you. Scott would never have hurt you. None of them would have. You know that.”
Allison didn’t waver. Instead, a fire ignited in her eyes, and Stiles almost smiled if not for the cold fury he found in them. Her anger fought against the candlelight, brilliant and winning.
“They did hurt me,” she bit, still holding the bow steady. “They kept secrets from me. Not just Scott, but my father, Derek, Aunt Kate. You know what they did to me. They’re doing the same to you. You know they are.”
Stiles throat tightened, and he remembered the conversation he’d just finished with Lydia and Scott. Quickly, he shook his head.
No, he wouldn’t bend that easily.
“You sound just as paranoid as your grandfather,” Stiles muttered. “Allison, what they did to you hurt you, yeah. But you moved past that, remember? Sure, you went on a rage and tried to murder Erica and Boyd, and then you helped Gerard kidnap me, but you moved past that. The night you… died – that was you.”
I hope to god that that was you.
“And this,” he continued, gesturing carefully at the arrowhead aimed at him. “This isn’t you. This is dream-you.”
Allison didn’t reply. She stared at him for a long moment.
Finally, she lowered her weapon.
After another moment, she spoke. “Are you sure you’re dreaming, Stiles?” she asked, looking down to replace her arrow on the string.
Stiles frowned. “Yes? I mean, I just look in the mirror, and my eyes are freaking blue, like what’s up with that?”
Allison smiled, and it looked so completely Allison that Stiles almost wanted to cry.
“I’ll give you a hint, Stiles,” she said. “I’m dead, but this isn’t your subconscious speaking to you. I’m not a memory either.”
Stiles folded his arms. “That makes no sense,” he replied. But then he stated, “Prove it.”
Allison’s smile turned sad. “I can’t,” is all she said. “But you are dying, Stiles.”
A shiver ran down his spine. “What does that mean?”
“I can’t tell you that either. There are rules in the afterlife, apparently.”
Stiles snorted. “Now you’re starting to sound like Deaton.”
Allison’s teeth were white, even as a ghost – or dream, whatever she was.
“You look so alive,” he said before he could stop himself.
Allison giggled, more like a startled laugh at the tip of her mouth. “Wow,” she laughed, “What a compliment.”
Stiles couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his face in reply. “Death looks good on you. Ultimate beauty secret right there.”
This time Allison’s laugh was loud, completely open. She deadpanned, “Who knew?”
Stiles schooled his face into a serious expression. “But seriously,” he diverted, trying to get back on track, “if I’m dying, then what am I supposed to do?”
“Talk to Deaton, like I said,” Allison replied. “But also, there is always that option.” She nodded over at the mirror behind Stiles’ shoulder.
He turned around, only to see the blazing blue eyes that stared back. It took a moment, for it to click.
It was as if cold water had been poured down his spine, how quickly the gentle candlelight became filled with tension. Every hair on his body stood on end, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.
“No,” he breathed. “No, that’s not–”
He cut himself off with a choke, as his eyes began to change again. As he stared at his reflection, the blue faded, and his irises bled a deep, burning red.
His reflection changed, and he became the Alpha.
“No, Allison, you can’t” – he whipped back around – “I can’t be that. I can’t become that, you know I–”
But Allison had raised her bow again, and aimed it at Stiles’ head.
“It’s time to wake up, Stiles,” she said, before she let her arrow fly.
*-_-*
Stiles lurched up from the floor, gasping and sweaty, with blue light washed over him.
Immediately, he brought his fingers up to his face, and began to count.
“Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten,” he whispered to himself. Then again, “Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten.”
He repeated the process, his voice shaking and threatening to break in his throat. His pajamas clung to his body uncomfortably, the sweat sticking to his skin. He felt cold. Where was he?
Satisfied, Stiles dropped his hands, and looked around.
He was in Derek’s loft. The high cement ceiling hung above him, supported by the pillars that lined the wall. The large bay windows were behind him, letting the moonlight pour in in blue streams, and in the front, the heavy door was pushed open.
“Stiles?” he heard a voice call from above him.
He turned around from where he sat on the ground. Peter was descending the spiral staircase a look of heavy confusion on his face.
After a moment, Stiles found his voice. “How long have I been here?”
Peter reached the bottom of the steps, and quickly crossed the room to kneel down next to Stiles. “I don’t know – I just woke up. Lydia called, I was just heading out to go look for… you.”
“You didn’t hear the door open when I sleepwalked in here?” Stiles asked, his tone becoming harsh.
Even when half asleep and freaked out, he had half a mind to hate Peter. The other half managed to keep the man tolerable, if only because he wasn’t as insane this time around.
Peter scoffed in response. “That door’s been open all week.”
Stiles quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. He replied, “Derek always keeps that door shut.”
The reaction was immediate. Peter’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring, and he leaned back. Stiles sat up straighter, the question already on his tongue.
“Peter, where’s Derek? I need to talk to him.”
It was true; after that dream, he needed to speak to the man. But Peter only opened his mouth, and no words came out.
“Ah…”
“Peter?” Stiles asked again. “Where is Derek?”
“Um… I don’t–”
“Peter!” Lydia’s voice suddenly echoed from outside the room.
The loud clacking of her heeled boots hitting concrete travelled down the hallway, followed closely behind by Scott’s footsteps. The two came running into view, Lydia’s hair all askew – yet still somehow completely perfect – and Scott’s shirt completely wrinkled, stretched to the side to expose his collarbone. They both froze in the doorway when they saw Stiles.
The boy on the floor broke the silence. “Scott,” he began. “Where is Derek? I need to speak to him.”
Scott swallowed, his voice choking, “I–”
His gaze flickered to Lydia, who in turn delivered a strong glare in Peter’s direction.
The older man took the hint, and cleared his throat. He took Stiles’ by the shoulder, turning him to meet his gaze. The man’s eyes were solemn, and Stiles knew the words before they even left his lips. They felt cold in his mind, like a numb fuse of panic. But hearing them aloud only set it on fire, and Stiles felt Peter’s words crashing like a bomb.
Learning to Live (E. Aster Bunnymund/Jack Frost) - Chapter 8/11
A/N: So… sorry for the long wait? I had a little breakdown about my writing, but I got over that. More information in the ff.net and Ao3 links. But announcement for this work: the next chapter is going to be really long, and there will be sex. Although not smut. There is a difference. Is that a spoiler? Also, the next chapter will be really long and probably really confusing and just really frustrating and a pain to upload because I'll have to go through and put in all the line breaks and you get the idea. Long story short it's going to be around 20,000 words, I predict. I would break it up, but then again, I won't because it needs to all be one chapter. And also Aster's POV is introduced here! But anyways, three more chapters to go! (Then imma post some Sterek. If you ship Jackrabbit, then I can 100% say you would love the Sterek ship. You will all love it.)
Learning to Live – Chapter 8
“Jack! Wait – Who are you?!”
“Name’s Aster. Would you give me a hand?”
“What happened?”
“Sorry, I don’t know sign language, but Jack told me you could hear me, right?”
“Yes, but–“
“The kid fell asleep on the ride here. I didn’t want to wake him, but he passed out earlier. He’d been fine all week, though. Can I set him down somewhere?”
“Yes, of course, on the couch.”
“Ah, there we are. Jackie? You want to wake up now? …Jackie?”
“Why did you bring him here?”
“Jackie, would you wake up, Frostbite? Ah, he told me to come here. I think he had a nightmare, but I’m not sure. But he fell asleep on the bike. It’s just a nap, he’ll wake up – Woah!”
“Gah! Where – where am I? Aster?”
“It’s alright mate, I’m right here. You’re alright.”
“Aster… Sandy? I – I’m sorry that I came here, instead of calling to the office.”
“It’s fine, Jack. Tell me, what happened?”
“I – I’m not sure… when I was passed out…”
“Don’t worry, Frostbite, I’ll help.”
+=+=+=+=+
The ice looked like snow, belying the harsh reality of the white glass. Cold rose from its surface in clouds of dim fog, lit only by the lights hung high above the rink. The metal struts of the ceiling hung like metal branches, the lamps dangling down as electric icicles.
The sound of skates on the ice bit at Jack’s ears more violently than the chill in the air. He shook it off, focusing on the textbook in front of him. His sneakers kicked impatiently at the bottom bar of his stool, his chin propped upon his stiff wrist. The words on the page weren’t making any sense, and then they blurred together. A lock of white hair fell into his eyes.
Irritated, he brushed it away, and sat up to glance at the clock. Another half-hour until closing time. Aster had texted him, saying he’d pick him up. Jack fought the smile that tugged at his lips at the thought of the Australian, not wanting to linger on the distraction for too long. Instead, he stared at the minute hand, until it moved a single digit.
Jack looked back down at the book, and groaned.
He’d been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes.
“Stupid trigonometry…” he muttered under his breath, as he tried to settle back in his seat, “what the hell is a radian anyway…?”
Suddenly a pair of skates slammed down on the table in front of him. He jumped on his stool, grabbing the counter for support.
“Oh! I’m sorry!”
The woman reached out a hand, only halfway, as Jack steadied himself. The young man only beamed up in response.
“I’m alright!” Jack said cheerfully. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” the woman said, “Could you put these skates up? Sorry if I interrupted you…”
“No problem!” Jack replied. “Don’t worry; I needed a break from… math.” He mockingly glared down at the book, before scooping the skates up into his arms.
The woman laughed, her shoulders easing almost immediately. “Thank you.”
Jack hummed in reply, and glanced down at the skates to check the size. He made his way towards the back shelves, finding the correct space among the rentals. The smell of the shoes was dull, overpowered by the disinfectant that he sprayed into each pair before he slid them up into their place. As he returned them, he took out the woman’s shoes, a pair of brown flats.
Around him the shelves were dark, and everything was quiet. But even in the seclusion, Jack heard the scrape of the blades on the ice in the distance. The sound silenced his mind, but made his heart beat loudly in his chest.
He shook himself, and emerged back to the counter. From somewhere else in the rec center, Manny had arrived, and was talking softly with the woman. She was frowning slightly, but Manny smiled and gestured broadly to the rink.
Jack handed the shoes over, looking curiously over to Manny. The woman gave him a grateful smile.
“Thank you!” she paused, and glanced at Manny, “Er… Mr. Moon here was just… um…”
“Mrs. Bennett’s son,” Manny interjected, “Jamie, still wants to practice his skating. He’s been learning how to skate so he can try out for the junior hockey team after the summer is over.”
“Oh,” Jack commented nonchalantly. He shrugged, getting back up on his stool.
“I want you to teach him.”
Jack’s hand slipped on the counter, and he stumbled, nearly falling flat.
“W-what?” he exclaimed, shocked. His ice blue eyes stared wildly at Manny’s face.
Mrs. Bennett rushed, “Oh, it was just a thought. You really don’t have to–”
“No,” Manny broke in again, “Jack here is the finest skater I’ve ever seen. He’s the best person for the job.”
Jack grit his teeth, and bit, “Manny. Why not have an actual instructor teach him?”
“Because none of them are on shift tonight, and Jamie wants to practice.”
“Really, you don’t have to do this – I have to pick up Sophie from her art… class… and it’s a school night, so he really shouldn’t stay any longer in the first place.”
“Nonsense!” Manny exclaimed, louder than was appropriate, “You go pick up Sophie; she’s just upstairs, you know where the classroom is, and Jack will – well, if he doesn’t teach, then he’ll at least make sure Jamie doesn’t hurt himself. Ten minutes at most.”
“Well…” Mrs. Bennett barely graced Jack with a glance, before her gaze drifted over to the rink. “I guess… if it’s only ten minutes…”
Jack looked frantically between the two, feeling the ice sinking in his chest as they spoke. He balled his fists up at his sides, and turned to Manny, the last bit of hope flickering in his words.
“Manny, I–“
“Jack,” Manny cut him off with a stern glance, and the remaining flame was extinguished in the tightening of Jack’s fists.
The young man turned his gaze back down to his textbook. He steeled himself, and then plastered a smile onto his face.
“It’s no problem, Mrs. Bennett,” Jack said to the woman, his forced cheer coming naturally. “Honest.”
The woman seemed to brighten immediately, and she returned Jack’s smile with genuine relief.
“Thank you so much!” she said, already backing up to the door, “I’ll be back as soon as possible, I promise!”
And with those final words, she left the rink.
Jack glared up at Manny, who pretended not to notice. Sighing, Jack closed his textbook and made his way back to the shelves.
As he searched for a pair of skates to fit him, he heard Manny call back from the front.
“You know, if you chose an actual career path, you wouldn’t have to take some of these courses like… Oh, I didn’t realize that level of math existed.”
Jack groaned, “Please, Manny, I already get enough of that from Kozmotis. I don’t need it from you too.”
“I was only reminding you.”
The skates were old, worn, and probably uncomfortable. They probably smelled something terrible as well, but Jack didn’t dare attempt to find out, turning his nose up and away from the boots. He padded back to the front, his socks padding softly on the floor.
“See, you weren’t wearing your shoes anyway. You were hoping for this.”
He ignored the comment, only shooting Manny a glare, before he sat on the stool and brought up his foot. He began to lace on the skates, taking the cracking leather in his hands delicately.
“What career should I go for?” Jack asked spitefully, focusing on his skates.
Manny gave it thought for a moment, before he answered, “Something with kids. You’ve always been good with them. You’d always have a job here, of course. But I still believe you need an education.”
“More than high school?”
“Certainly,” said Manny. “I can’t let you teach the children anything if you don’t have a license. And I don’t intend for you to remain behind that counter the rest of your life.”
“The rest of my life…” Jack muttered under his breath.
A month ago, Jack would have been content to stay with North the rest of his life, helping in the shop and overall feeling sorry for himself. Avoiding what needed to be done. But then North had left. And now…
He went out with Tooth as often as possible, but she’d be leaving at the end of the semester. No – Now he lived with Aster. Across the street, Katherine and Kailash made him lunch at least once a week. Ombric recommended books that he’d never read, and William dragged him into adventures with knights and Fearlings and god knows what else lived in that boy’s imagination.
And Aster…
For the rest of his life he could be content. But with everything changing so rapidly now, he doubted it would last.
“Manny,” Jack began as he pulled his laces tight, “I don’t want to do this.”
“Nonsense!” Manny exclaimed. “Come; I’ll add it to your paycheck.”
“No, Manny…” Jack took a breath, and restarted, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Manny simply beckoned for Jack to come over the counter. With a sigh, the young man complied, swinging his feet up over the booth and wincing when the metal skates scraped on the surface. Manny took his hand, and hauled him over.
Immediately, he swung an arm over Jack’s shoulder as the boy struggled to stand on his skates.
“You have to get back on the ice sometime, Jack. Why not now?”
“Because Sandy said–”
“What did Sandy say?”
With a pause, Jack felt his shoulders slump. “Nothing.”
“Was that a joke?”
“No!” Jack cried, shoving Manny in annoyance. “That’s not funny!”
Manny only chuckled lightly, causing Jack’s frown to deepen. He let his shoulders slump again in a pout, and they reached the edge of the rink.
Deliberately, Manny pushed open the gate.
“Go on,” he ordered softly, gesturing to the ice.
Jack only shuffled awkwardly on his feet. He glanced at the ice, before he looked back up at the large man, panic stricken in his features. His chest burned with the thought of the ice, only to sink further as he saw Manny’s stern determination.
“Manny,” he tried once more, desperate, “You don’t understand. I can’t do this. You weren’t there for those three years; you don’t know what I’m like, what this…” Weakly, he referenced the rink.
He started when Manny’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Jack. But I’m here now, and I want to help you. And whether you believe me or not – this will help you.”
“But Manny–”
Jack’s rebuttal was cut off by the sound of a small cry out on the rink, accompanied by the thunk of a body on ice.
All doubts about the ice left Jack’s mind immediately, and he turned his alarmed gaze out to the rink. In the center of the ice, he saw young Jamie Bennett sprawled across the glass. The boy wasn’t moving.
“Jamie!” Jack cried, and he brushed Manny’s hand away.
He set his foot onto the ice.
By the time he’d glided out to Jamie’s still form, it was too late to turn back. He knelt down next to the boy, and shook him gently.
“Jamie,” he said as calmly as possible, “Jamie, are you alright?”
The boy’s body shook lightly, and at first Jack thought he was shivering. But then the short bursts of laughter left the child’s lips, and brown eyes opened to stare gleefully at Jack’s worried expression.
“Oops,” the boy chuckled, pushing himself up, “I slipped.”
Jack released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then he narrowed his eyes, and shoved the boy.
“What were you thinking? You scared me, kid!”
Jamie only laughed harder when he slid backwards on the ice, and replied, “I was trying to go faster! Did you know that the fastest speed ever recorded on ice was fifty-two miles per hour? That’s amazing!”
Jack met the kid’s fact with a confused look, and said, “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.” He took a moment to look Jamie over again, and once he was satisfied there were no injuries, he asked, “Do you want to skate fast?”
“Yes!” Jamie exclaimed quickly, “The best skaters are the fastest!”
Just then, Jamie slipped again, plopping back down onto the ice. Jack snickered, and helped the boy back up.
“Only if they can keep their balance there, kiddo. You want to join the hockey team?”
Jamie pouted at falling again, and said, “Yeah, but I’m not that good…”
The boy’s lost expression made something resonate in Jack’s chest, and he raised a hand to Jamie’s chest.
“Hey,” he chastised, “You’re on the ice, aren’t you? That’s the first step.” Jamie shrugged, but glanced up at Jack through his bangs, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. Jack smiled, and continued, “How about I help you practice?”
At those words, Jamie’s half-hearted mood brightened, and he was beaming up at Jack.
“Yes, please!”
Jack laughed at the boy’s sudden change. “Alright,” he said, and he took Jamie’s hands in his own.
Jamie skated with a clumsy walk, his skates digging down into the ice with a loud scratch for every step. The ice chipped off in small sprays of crystal. But the boy managed to stand, as Jack led him across the ice.
"Faster," Jack said, a laugh painting his words at Jamie's face, rend and flushed and glaring at Jack in shock. "Come on, you can do it! Faster!"
Jack pulled, skating backwards on the ice. At first Jamie called out, but then his fear melted away. Laughter travelled across the rink, filling the lonely steel rafters with a missing light. And as the two below skated around the ice, the empty spaces all whispered to each other, "Do you feel that? I haven't felt that feeling for more than three years. He's back. He's back. He's back!"
“Faster, Jamie!”
Faster, faster – All Jack wanted was to glide faster, his eyes focused on the boy before him. The rink began to blur, the whispers reaching a crescendo of excitement. And then, the ice fell out from beneath them.
“Jack!” Jamie shouted, as they thumped down roughly on the ice.
A groan left Jack’s throat from the small body that fell on top of his. But then a laugh built in his chest, bursting like a bubble at his lips. Jamie caught it, and soon they were a rolling mess on the ice. Jamie slid off of Jack, breaths heavy, and they stared up at the silent rafters. Their voices filled the rink, echoing throughout the room.
“Jamie! Jamie, it’s time to go!”
The boy sat up at the sound of his mother’s voice, his laughter left in a breath.
“Coming!” He looked back to Jack, and said, “Thanks. Can you teach me again?”
Jack still lay on the ice, breathless. Eyes wide, he nodded. “Of course,” he answered. “Definitely.”
“Awesome!”
He scrambled to his feet, and began to skate to the edge of the rink.
“Jamie!” Jack called after him. “Leave the skates at the counter, alright?”
“Okay!”
Jack heard the skates leave the ice when Jamie stepped off, and then the muttered words of the boy’s mother.
“Did you say thank you?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good,” she said, and then raised her voice, “Thank you so much, Jack! Have a good night!”
Jack only raised a hand in farewell, and remained flat on the ice.
The metal ceiling above him held shadows behind the rafters. The lights of the rink glared down, staining Jack’s vision. He listened softly for the receding footsteps of the Bennett’s. The moment he heard them fade away, he released a breath of relief.
Carefully, he picked himself up. His skates came down firmly on the ice, and he stared around himself. The white surface looked almost like snow, and the lights reflected off of the windows closing in the rink. They looked back at him like mirrors.
Jack stared at his reflection, taking in his appearance. The ratty, beat-up rentals on his feet poised his stance, and he held his arms out at his sides to balance. His white hair fell across his eyes, and he looked down at himself in his blue jacket and brown denim. The cloth clung to him in a cold sweat.
The image looked almost elegant, betraying his pounding heart. He met his eyes in the mirrors, and took in the wide, scared look that they held. His gaze hardened, and he nodded.
Hands shaking, he clenched his fists, and skated to the center of the rink.
| - | - | - | - |
Aster stalked down the halls of the rec center, grumbling about the traffic and the cold breeze outside that had no business being present this late in June. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. Jack made fun of the leather jacket whenever he wore it, because he only wore it when he rode his motorcycle, and Jack had an odd sense of humor.
A small smile pulled at the corners of Aster’s mouth. In the past months with Jack, something had changed. His apartment seemed fuller, obviously. But if Jack hadn’t been there, it would have felt… wrong, somehow. And Aster didn’t want to analyze it, a little scared of it to be honest. Instead, he focused on the present, and how he was affected. He smiled more now, a fact that Katherine pointed out incessantly.
She offered lunch almost every day. Not that that was too different, but now she pushed for Aster to come. If he didn’t, she sent Kailash across the road to bring him. Curse the little sheila; he could never say no to her.
Jack had changed everything. And yet in the back of Aster’s mind, something still bothered him. The smile on his lips faded, as he thought of the unpacked box that still sat in the corner of Jack’s room. The younger man had shoved it away after the anniversary of his mother’s funeral. Aster wanted so much to ask, and he had so many burning questions about her.
He knew it had something to do with the white ice skates, all beat up and broken underneath the picture frame. It had something to do with ice, and why Jack was always reluctant to come to work at the rink.
Which is why, when Aster entered the open room and saw Jack standing in the middle of the ice, he felt more than a small twinge of panic. He felt a damn avalanche.
“Ja–”
“Quiet!” hissed Manny, shooting out from beside the door, and clamping a hand over Aster’s mouth.
“Mmph!”
“I said quiet! Don’t make a sound!”
Aster wrenched the man’s hands off of him, stepping away. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing there, you drongo?” he whispered heatedly.
Manny replied evenly, “What are you doing here, Aster? The center’s closed.”
“I’m here to pick up Jack! I was gonna take him out to di–” Aster shut himself up then, his face screwing into a stiff frown.
For a moment, Manny didn’t speak. Then, his face broke out into a smirk. “You like him.”
“Shut it. You’re worse than Katherine,” Aster sniffed, looking back out to the ice.
“I’m serious,” Manny suddenly dropped his voice even softer. “North will say the same. Don’t hurt him.”
Aster groaned, but Manny cut him off with a glare. So instead, Aster countered, “Then what do you think you’re doing, letting him out on the ice?”
Manny blinked, taken aback. “You know?” he whispered, eyes wide.
For a moment, Aster considered bluffing. But at the horrified tone of Manny’s voice, all his annoyance fell. “No,” he growled lowly, caution on edge. “I just know it has something to do with it. How do you know?”
When Manny answered, his words were solemn, and his eyes glimmered with the memory. “I was there.”
Aster’s fists tightened at his sides, and his anger flared once again. Furrowing his brows, he tried to look intimidating, and hissed, “Then why are you letting him out there? Are you trying to send him into a bloody panic attack?”
Manny shook his head, snapping out of his trance. “No,” he replied, “never.” He took Aster by the shoulder, and steered him towards the rink. “Just watch.”
Aster did.
Jack exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as he stood on the ice. His back curved in, taking his balance forward as he extended his arms. He held his pose, imagining the cold air around him carrying him on the breath of a ghost of three years. Facing the white mirrors surrounding him, he lifted up onto his toes, poised for his beginning.
The opening strains sounded in his mind, a single violin washing over the ice in a somber whine. The note was drawn out as he brought his hands together, arching for the rafters high above. With a single push of his skates, he began.
His blades took him across the ice, slow and graceful in every movement. He weaved a small circuit around the rink, letting the music flow through his body. His legs pumped beneath him, carrying his weight like he was nothing.
He flew, and the ice felt it.
As the music rose in his mind, he felt the cold sweep into the dance. His arms embraced the sensation and drew an image in the air. He painted a picture of magic, as elegant as the fluid motions his body remembered that his mind had somehow forgotten.
Aster sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. He watched as Jack skated backwards, gliding over the surface as if the ground didn’t even exist. With an ethereal grace, the boy caught his balance, picking up speed as he weaved a story with his movements.
“Beautiful,” Aster breathed, utterly transfixed.
But Manny was frozen, rooted to the spot as he stared at the boy. “Do you hear that?” he asked, voice so quiet it barely passed for a whisper.
Aster didn’t spare the man a glance, only replying, “Hear what?”
“The music.”
The sound filled the empty silence, bringing the rafters back to life. Their excited whispers echoed with the harmonious scrape of Jack’s skates on the ice. They heard the orchestra that sped with Jack along the ice, and their very foundation shook with it.
Jack closed his eyes, breathing in heavily as he let his feet carry him, and listened. The music wrapped around his body, encasing him in the bittersweet memories of a memory that played in his mind like an old theater show. It held him close and caressed his form, and it pulled him into his conviction.
He opened his eyes, and saw himself in the mirrors. The rink was empty, and he was a lone figure atop the ice, isolated against the white. Jack felt his bones shudder, and he steeled himself, before sweeping across the arena.
Manny drew in a sharp breath. “No.”
Aster pulled his eyes away from the sight of the boy who danced like a spirit, only possible by the horror that painted Manny’s voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“No,” Manny murmured, before he moved. “Jack, don’t!”
The boy couldn’t hear it; a spike shot in the music, arcing like electricity between the rafters that hung above him. Jack shifted his balance, as the cacophony of noise filled his ears. He swung his leg back, and leapt.
Time slowed. The rafters held their breath, waiting for the world to fall. Jack felt the gravity pulling at his skin, but he kept his eyes open as the world spun around him. The mirrors became a blur, and in them Jack saw only the ice. The violin strings broke, snapping with the force of a brigade of gunfire. The entire symphony fell apart, and like an explosion, the water opened up beneath him, and Jack’s vision went black.
Aster’s heart stopped when he saw Jack fly into the air, yet there was no magnificence in it. Instead, it ended in the crashing of his lungs when his breathing died, and the loud smack of Jack’s body hitting the ice.
“JACK!” he shouted, rushing past Manny and shoving the man out of the way.
He reached the edge of the rink, not even thinking before he clamored onto the ice. Sliding on his feet, he scrambled to the young man’s prone form. His knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed by Jack’s side.
Aster wanted to reach out immediately, but held himself back, hands hovering just over Jack’s body. The man’s face was against the ice, deathly pale and tight. Jack’s jaw locked, as shudders ran through his entire body, leaving him gaunt and breathless.
Terror ran through Aster’s veins at the sight, hearing the quick breaths that Jack took. He recognized the sight, was all too familiar with it from the week prior and didn’t that just send a rushing ache through his gut as he thought of his – no, just Jack, in so much tormented agony. He took in the gaunt expression, and ever so carefully, hands trembling, he leaned forward, his breath catching on his lips.
Jack’s eyes shot open the moment Aster’s hands touched his hoodie, and he gasped a great gulp of air, his entire body seizing up on the ice.
“Jack!” Aster cried, automatically gathering Jack in his arms.
But the boy protested, struggling, and he shoved away, scrambling back on the ice. His chest heaved, the fabric of his jacket stretching over his ribs, and with bloodshot eyes he stared at Aster.
Panic glistened in his reddened eyes, tears threatening to spill over. The stricken look left his gaze as he collected himself, and yet his frantic gasps for air betrayed the broken pain that plagued him.
“A-Aster?” he choked out, finally meeting the man’s gaze.
In his chest his heart pounded hard and hollow, like a broken typewriter, each line of ink punctuated by a high breath. He stared with bleary vision at the man kneeling on the ice before him, and his fists tightened. He shook his head and looked away, his limbs shaking against the cold, both inside and out.
Something inside Aster clenched, and he reached for the boy.
“Jackie, I…” he paused, hovering again. “Can – Can I…?”
Jack’s eyes snapped up to meet Aster’s. Broken worry reflected back at him in the man’s emerald gaze, and for a moment Jack wasn’t sure. He wanted… He wanted to stand up, and walk away, so that he didn’t have to look at Aster. But he only nodded, and when the man’s arms enveloped him, warm and secure and everything that the ice beneath him wasn’t, he buried his face in the crook of his neck. It worked.
Not having to see the sorrow in Aster’s eyes was a relief, because something about it hurt more than it should. Jack breathed in the leather smell of Aster’s jacket, coupled with the sharp smell of the man’s cologne and the scent underneath that was warm and earthy and old like the empty cans of paint the Aster kept in his studio because he was too lazy to be bothered to get rid of them. It smelled like Aster, and it sent a sob bubbling up in Jack’s chest.
“Shh,” Aster cooed, clutching the boy closer as he felt the cry against his shoulder. He carded his fingers through Jack’s hair as his hard gaze stared down at the ice. “It’s alright, Frostbite. I’m here.” He turned his face, to press his nose into Jack’s temple, breathing in.
The man’s chest expanded beneath him, pressing against Jack firmly. He gasped, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just… I’m sor–”
Aster only hummed again, a deep rumble passing through his entire frame. He wanted to pull Jack closer again, to tell him that he had nothing to be sorry for, but he couldn’t do either of those things, so he only repeated, “It’s alright, Jack. It’s alright.”
Jack sobbed again, a flash of fear in his voice this time. “Th-the ice,” he murmured, trying to calm himself, “it – it broke again. I fell through. It – it was so dark.” The last words seemed to cut at his throat, quiet and hesitant.
Aster released Jack, holding him by the shoulders. “Hey,” he said, when Jack let his arms drop too quickly. “Hey, Jackie. Look at me, mate.” He placed his fingers beneath Jack’s chin, and looked the young man right in the eye. “You’re safe, I promise you. Do you trust me?”
Jack nodded, speechless.
“Come on,” Aster said, letting his hand drop. “Let’s get you off of the ice.”
Jack nodded again, and they made to stand up. The younger man rested his weight against Aster, and they made their way to the edge of the rink. Aster nearly slipped once, but caught his balance before Jack could fall. Of course he did, being the one wearing shoes.
Manny was waiting for them, and he had the nerve to look angry.
“What were you thinking, Jack?” he exclaimed.
“It – a triple… a triple axel…”
The answer seemed to make Manny even angrier, and he fumed, “A triple axel? Three years without so much as touching the ice, and the first thing you try is a triple axel? Are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you?”
The shouting stunned Jack into silence, and the boy only stared, stricken with tearstains on his cheeks.
But it only threw Aster into a rage.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, you goddamn wanker? You’re gonna bloody let him onto the ice, and you’re not even going coach him or tell him what to practice and you’re just gonna stand there while he’s bloody unconscious on the ground, god knows if he’s breathing or not – Christ, he could’ve died! You’re just goddamn lucky he’s not hurt, you goddamn–”
“Aster,” Jack muttered, clutching at the man’s jacket. “Aster, stop.”
He did, looking over at the younger man, still seething. But the boy only let go, and he hobbled over to the benches in his skates, before sitting down to take them off. After a moment, Aster followed.
Jack didn’t look up when he said, “We need to go to Sandy’s.”
“Sandy’s?” Aster asked, sitting down.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “He won’t be at the office, but you have the address I gave you, right? We’ll just go there.”
Aster nodded, before he paused. “Wait, you want me to come with you?”
Jack glanced up, a smirk playing at his lips. His eyes were dry now, not a hint of his tears in them, if not for the wet tracks on his cheeks. It made Aster nervous.
“Well, you are my ride. I mean…” the boy looked down at the skates, tugging them off. He rubbed his arm across his face, and said, “Would you… come with me? Please?”
“Of course, Jackie. Anything you want.”
Jack scoffed, “Don’t go all overprotective on me now. It was just a little slip up. Completely my fault.” A hard tone covered his words as he spoke, and he stood, skates in hand.
Aster followed him to the back counter, and Manny hung behind them, an odd look on his face.
The Australian sputtered, “A – a little – I’m not overprotective!”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Jack teased, the false cheerfulness laid on thick.
“Jack–“
“Why’re you wearing cologne?” Jack called from the back of the shelves, suddenly changing the subject. “Were you planning on going somewhere special?”
Manny let out a choked kind of sound. Aster shot him a glare, before he folded his arms across chest. “What’re you talking about?”
Jack emerged from the back, and slipped on his sneakers. “Cologne. You don’t wear cologne. And now you’re wearing a lot.” Jack sniffed, and then wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, you’re wearing way too much. Who’re you trying to impress, Kangaroo?”
Aster clenched his jaw, and then let his arms drop. Aw, what the hell – “You,” he stated bluntly.
Jack froze, staring at Aster from across the counter. When he said nothing, Aster clarified, “I was going to take you to dinner. No reason. But now we’re going to Sandy’s, so come on, then.”
Jack stammered, “What?”
Aster only rolled his eyes, trying to match Jack’s earlier mask, despite the fact that he could feel his heart trying to burst out of his chest.
“We’re going to Sandy’s,” he repeated. “Come on.” He reached over the counter and grabbed the strap of Jack’s bag.
He turned around before Jack could reply, and shoved past Manny on his way out of the rink. He ignored Jack’s protests all the way down to the entrance of the rec center, as Jack followed his through the halls.
“Aster!” Jack cried when they’d finally gotten to the road. “Give me my bag.”
Aster only tossed it over, before he stalked to his bike. He swung a leg over the vehicle and tugged on a helmet, then silently held the other out to Jack.
The boy didn’t take it. Instead, he clutched his bag to his chest, blue eyes wide in the early evening. The streetlight next to the road flickered on, washing his white hair in an orange glow.
He swallowed, and then asked quietly, “Aster, are you mad at me?”
The Australian shoved up his visor and nearly snapped his neck to stare at the younger man. “No, Jackie,” he replied. “I’m mad at Manny for being a bloody wanker.”
“But are you mad at me?”
For a moment, Aster was silent. Then, he released a sigh, and dismounted from the bike. He approached the younger man, and held his eyes to meet those worried, scared blue ones the entire time.
“I’m not mad at you, Jack,” he murmured, far closer to the boy than he should have been. “I swear I’m not mad at you. I honestly don’t think I could be at this point.”
“That’s a lie,” Jack said, a weak smirk pulling at his lips. But it fell away quickly as he looked up at the man.
“I’m serious, Jack. I get mad at what you do – what you can do,” Aster lifted his arms uselessly, “but I can never get mad at you.”
Jack held Aster’s gaze for another moment, before he huffed and looked away. A light chuckle escaped his lips, a genuine one, and Aster’s heart pounded again.
“You’re really weird, Bunny” –Aster scowled at the nickname, so much worse than ‘Kangaroo’– “You still want to take me out to dinner?”
Aster blinked. “What?”
“After Sandy’s,” Jack clarified. “I’m hungry enough to go now, but after last week, Sandy wanted me to come to him every time I had…” he trailed off, suddenly quiet again.
Aster only nodded, and replied, “Sure thing, mate. Then let’s get Sandy out of the way, right?”
Jack smiled. “Yeah.”
They both mounted the bike, and Aster started up the engine. As they rumbled down the street away from the rec center, Jack relaxed against Aster’s back, and his heartbeat echoed gently with the older man’s.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now, Jackie,” Aster called over his shoulder.
“’M not,” Jack shouted back.
But as they turned out of the city’s traffic down into Sandy’s neighborhood, Aster felt the man slump against him. He slowed down when he felt Jack’s grip around his waist loosen, a smile playing on his lips. Drifting slowly along the road, he glanced over his shoulder, and continued onwards.
+=+=+=+=+
“Jack?”
“Frostbite? You alright?”
“…I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, Aster…”
“It’s fine. Sandy? We free to go?”
“Jack. You say this is the only time this week?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had any nightmares since the anniversary either.”
“Do you know why?”
“…”
“…I see.”
“Jack? What’s he saying? Sorry, Sandy, what’d you say?”
“Nothing, Aster. We can go though, right, Sandy?”
“Very well.”
“Thanks. Sorry again for bothering you out of the office.”
“No, I’m glad you came.”
“Right. Thanks. Ready, Aster?”
“Jackie, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Aster. Except that you promised me dinner, remember?”
Seeing the Lustful (Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang) - Chapter 2/9
A/N: Sorry for the mildly late update guys! If you follow my personal blog, you've probably noticed that I've been addicted to Teen Wolf lately… I blame Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O'Brien! XD Anyways, thanks to my amazing beta, theowlinsomniac, for working on short notice while she was half brain-dead. She's awesome!
Seeing the Lustful – Chapter 2
"What do you mean you want vacation time?" Roy whined, leaning back in his chair.
Riza sighed, but continued standing firm. Sometime between the morning and lunch, Roy had transformed back into his usual self. He ignored the paperwork piling on his desk and grew tired of dictating his words to the always-busy Mustang Unit. Instead, he decided to take this precious time of the day to complain about anything and everything. For everything from the summer heat, to the boring work, to his lack of sight, he had something to say. If he treated his blindness as a serious disability, he didn't let on, preferring just to use it as an excuse at the most inappropriate moments.
Riza answered, "Sir, the relations with the Ishval community have been proceeding as planned, and the trading post is, for the moment, peaceful. As of now, there are only minor disputes with minimal lone rebels and small bands. The rest of the Ishvalans just want to return to their homeland."
"What does that have to do with vacation?"
"I want to take advantage of the situation, sir."
"But if you go on vacation, then who will take care of me?" Mustang groaned, smirking at his Lieutenant. "I'm more important than free time."
Riza heard the sarcastic note in his voice. "My job is to protect you, sir, not babysit you when you're useless."
Roy twitched slightly at the word 'useless'. He sat up straight, and ordered to the others in the room, "Breda, Fuery, Falman, out. I'd like a private word with the Lieutenant."
The stern tone of his voice caught the men’s attentions immediately, and they complied. Fuery took a stack of papers with him, tripping over himself as he left the office. As they left, Breda shut the door behind them with a small click.
For a moment, Roy only stared at Riza, his fingers now folded before him on the desk. His gaze appeared distant, wavering somewhere between Riza’s eyes and the space in the rest of the room, while Riza only stood, waiting for him to speak.
Finally, he said, "This is unlike you, Lieutenant. What brought this about?"
Riza only nodded to herself, before replying, "Nothing, sir. As I said, I'm only taking advantage of the situation."
"What situation?" Roy asked, his voice carrying no hidden emotion.
"The peace, sir. It’s safer now, if I were to take time off, than later.”
Roy shifted and leaned back in his chair. "Lieutenant, you know as well as I do that there are even more people currently wanting my head than usual. Whatever the papers say, not everyone is happy about the trading post. There are more than a few war fanatics that would rather the borders stay hostile."
"I am aware of that, sir," Riza answered quietly. She glanced down at her feet, knowing the next question.
"Then what would I do if they 'took advantage of the situation'?"
Riza smiled to herself, almost ironically. "Who would attack a blind man?"
At that moment, the phone rang. Roy shot up in his seat and scrambled for it. The phone clattered out of the receiver, and the buzzing of the line emitted from the speaker. Roy grabbed it, and held it to his ear.
"Hello? This is Brigadier General Roy Mustang speaking." He smirked as he recited his title.
Riza could hear the voice on the other line. "Hey, Roy! How're things going up in Central?"
Riza smiled at the sound. Roy beamed, and spun around in his seat, facing the window. "Havoc! How're the legs holding up?"
"They're fine, I guess. Can't really feel them, but they're there. I get women coming in to baby me everyday though, so how can I complain?"
Roy laughed, "Aren't you the lucky one?"
The man waved his hand at Riza, effectively dismissing her, if only for the moment. Riza's breath caught, but she nodded, understanding. Ever since that day three years ago, Roy lived for Havoc's calls. Before that, it was Hughes.
Riza couldn't find it in herself to complain at the moment.
She left the office, to see Fuery seated on the floor, paperwork stacked neatly beside him as he scribbled in the file in his lap. He glanced up at Riza as she exited, and flashed her a smile. The grin faded quickly, however, when he saw her expression.
For a moment, Fuery opened his mouth as if to say something, but then decided against it. Riza looked over at him, and then released a breath.
She asked, "Where are Breda and Falman?"
Fuery glanced up. "They went to file their work while you were talking."
Riza hummed in response. "He's on the phone now."
The man on the ground gave her a curious look, not unnoticed by Riza.
"What?"
"Nothing!" Fuery replied, too quickly.
Riza heard the receiver being set down with a small ding in the office. She opened the door, and looked in.
Immediately she flinched, when she saw Mustang staring directly at her. No… it couldn't be… She shook her head, and entered, a shiver running down her spine. No use dwelling on a false hope, not before she made it to Resembool.
"Any news from Havoc, sir?" she asked, walking into the room.
The man didn't answer, still staring at the door. His brows were creased in thought, and she could see sadness in his expression.
"Lieutenant," he started, "what were you saying about a vacation?"
I – I – I – I – I
The train whistle blew loudly. Riza looked out from under the brim of her cap, her hair hidden underneath. Her brown coat covered most of her body, her usual disguise. Behind her, Mustang trailed, a walking stick in one hand, Black Hayate's leash in the other. He hid his blank eyes behind the dark glasses that perched on his nose.
Of course, the man had to complain: "Why do I have to wear this suit? And why do I have to follow your dog?"
Riza smirked, not sparing him a glance. "You were the one worried about fanatics, sir."
"But who's really going to attack a blind man?"
Riza's scanned the station around them. Steam covered the entire area, billowing out from the trains in great clouds. As they pushed through the crowd, she searched for any signs of danger.
She brushed past a tall figure, and her sharp brown eyes slid over the man's concealed face. Their eyes locked, a bright icy blue gaze from beneath the dark hood. Riza reached for her pocket, and tilted her head only just. The man continued on, as if nothing had happened.
Riza looked over at the General, and released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. "No one sir, you're right."
Roy only grunted, bumping into someone else. "So," he began, reviewing over the plan, "We're spending one week with Havoc, and then coming right back?"
Riza hesitated before answering, "Yes, sir. One week with Havoc is the plan."
And then she'd continue one more day out to Resembool, alone.
The train whistle blew again, louder this time.
"We should hurry, Lieutenant," Mustang commented over the noise. "You wouldn't want to miss your train."
Riza stopped on the station platform, noticing something off about the man's words. But then Roy continued forward, Hayate barking loudly at the people in his path and snapping Riza out of her thoughts.
Dismissing the notion, she hurried to follow Roy, but she couldn't help the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that something was wrong, especially when the train attendant smiled at her with bright, icy blue eyes.
For: jackfrostagain
Author: Renoku
Rating: K
Word Count: 4,333
Summary: My assignment for Jackrabbit Vday 2014! I had jackfrostagain. During Bunny and Jack's argument at the North Pole, Jack breaks down, and flees. Aster follows him, only to find that he may know more about the sprite's heart than he thought he did.
A/N: Happy belated Valentine's Day jackfrostagain! (I totally lurk your blog sometimes, but I never say anything because I'm kind of creepy…) Here was your prompt:
"i'd like some pre-slash hurt comfort ;v; during the scene where bunny brings up the fact that jack has no believers and he looks like he's about to tear up. i'd like jack to properly break down and bunny to do something about it.but if that's too specific, i'd just like anything that's a little bit on the angsty side~"
Here's hoping I got it! I hope you enjoy it (and find it angsty enough~) XD Happy VDay!
What He Thought He Knew
“But none of them believe in you, do they?” Bunny asked as he straightened up, facing the winter sprite.
Jack Frost only glared back, facing the Pooka head on, with the annoyed anger in his eyes bright and just completely welcoming to further attack. With an evil smirk playing at his lips, Aster leaned forward.
“You see, you’re invisible, mate. It’s like you don’t even exist.”
But even as he spoke, the words burned his tongue. He knew what it felt like, so long ago that it was only a memory, but the feeling still weighed in his gut like an egg so rotten the explosion would put his own grenades to shame.
Tooth knew it too, and she quickly admonished, “Bunny, enough!”
So he backed off, but it didn’t stop the smug look he gave Jack as he stood. He would’ve left it at that too, already on top of this argument, satisfied, and ignoring the wound he’d opened in himself. The memory of being alone for millennia and feeling nothing outside of grief and longing for almost an eternity struck heavily against his mind, but he could push it away, content with the sight of the sprite defiant and hurt before him.
And then the drongo had to go and speak up.
“No, the kangaroo’s right.”
Aster sputtered, reeled back into anger, and he stammered, “The, the what — What’d you call me?” He stalked forward, his ears rigid and his entire body tense. “I am not a kangaroo, mate.”
The sprite had the nerve to feign surprise. “Oh. And this whole time I thought you were.” He gave Bunny an once-over, and challenged, “If you’re not a kangaroo, then what are you?”
Before he even took the time to think, Bunny countered, “I’m a bunny. The Easter Bunny.”
“People believe in me.”
The moment the words left his lips, Aster regretted them. But he only deepened his scowl, and tried to harden his gaze into something more superior as he glared into the defiant eyes of the winter sprite before him.
The icy blue pools fell back. Aster bit his tongue when he saw the wall that formed in front of Jack’s eyes, as the boy looked down, just slightly, avoiding Aster’s burning gaze. Tears began to well up beneath them, melting the ice with watery permafrost, ready to harden again. But then Jack blinked, and the wall crumbled.
He took a shaking, fragile breath – Aster’s heart faltered at the sound, his ears flattening back against his skull – and straightened. With a light gust of wind he was suddenly across the room, too for away from Aster with the distance like a chasm between them. The Pooka stood, and his anger fell away at the helpless way Jack’s staff hung at his side, and the boy bared himself to the world. Shame weighed onto Aster’s shoulders, and he reached out a paw towards the sprite.
Jack flinched, even from so far away, and then he returned. Immediately he brought up his staff in front of himself, and took another step back.
The sprite’s eyes flickered to North, and Tooth, and then down to Sandy. “Sorry guys,” he stated, his voice muted even as he tried to hide it. His gaze glanced up at the Moon through the skylight. Then he glared directly at Aster. “Find someone else for the job.”
Aster felt his heart twist painfully, the guilt pressing down on his harder than the past. “Jack, wait!” he exclaimed, but the sprite was already shooting out of the Workshop, tears staining his cheeks.
“Jack!” Aster cried. But it was too late; the sprite was gone.
A bitter taste filled the Pooka’s mouth as he withdrew his arm, and he wanted to curl in on himself, run away, and hide in the furthest corners of his Warren. But before he could even lift a paw to tap against the polished floors of North’s Workshop, the host of the meeting burst:
“Bunny! Look at what you have done!”
The Pooka winced, ears falling flat against his head. “North, mate, I…”
“How are we to defeat Pitch now? Manny says–”
At the mention of their leader, the anger inside Aster’s stomach flared once again. “I give a rat’s arse about what Manny has to say!” he shouted. “We’ve defeated Pitch before on our own, and we’ll do it again, even without that clown’s help!”
“But Bunny, it is Manny’s decision, not yours!” the man protested, advancing with eyes wide and hands spread.
In return, Aster closed the distance to North’s personal space, glaring evenly at the Russian. “Yeah, well Frost went and made that decision himself, in case you haven’t noticed. We don’t need him.”
“I can feel it,” North announced, his voice solemn. “In my belly.”
“You can take your crook gut and shove it up your–”
“Bunny!” Tooth broke in, shoving herself between the two males and pushing them apart. “There’s no point in arguing.” Her wings drooped a little, and she looked, for the slightest moment, scared. Her violet eyes stared up at Bunny, wide and vulnerable. “What are we going to do?”
At this Bunny backed off, lost as well. It was true; they had no plan. But going by experience, they never had a plan. Nevertheless, Aster pushed his uncertainty deep down, to cover over the guilt and memories like a veil.
“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he announced, sounding far more confident than he felt, “We’re going to find Pitch, and we’re going to put a stop to whatever the bastard’s up to before he can start it.”
The tinkling of golden sand rang in his ears, but then Tooth’s worrying returned, capturing his attention. “But where is he? North said he only saw a shadow of black sand–” she broke off to order her fairies, “right mandibular first molar, New York, left maxillary lateral incisor, Rio; don’t wake the dogs – right, North?”
Startled by the break in her conversation, and then put off by the sudden question, North only sputtered out a response. “Yes, yes, of course! It was giant, larger than globe!”
Another sound of golden Dreamsand tinkled through the air, and this time Aster turned to the little man. Hope was beginning to bud in his chest, a dangerous thing so early.
“Sandy, do you know what that black sand could’ve been?” he asked bluntly, refusing to drag it out any longer.
The little man adamantly shook his head, and folded his arms, glaring furiously at Bunny. The small light in the Pooka’s chest suddenly went out, and he backed away, bringing his paws up defensively.
“What, are you still mad about what I said to Frost? Seriously?”
A cloud of swirling sand whirled above Sandy’s head, and a few choice signs materialized into being.
“Mate, I don’t like that tone,” Aster growled, his voice dropping dangerously.
In response, Sandy stamped his foot. Frustrated golden sand blossomed into the air, and the sandman pointed roughly at the open skylight.
Aster couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You want me to go after the drongo? Now?”
The little man nodded quickly, jabbing his finger at the window once more.
Bunny scoffed. “No way, mate. Not on your nelly. I’m going after that sprite just about as much as I’m planning on failing Easter. Which is never.”
“Bunny,” Tooth spoke up, hovering forward, “maybe it’s for the best. Manny did say we needed him.”
The Pooka’s ears shot up in shock. He took a moment, working his tongue just to make sure he could speak, and then managed to choke out, “What – Really? You’re supporting him on this? We have Pitch Black to worry about, and you want me to go make up with bloody Jack Frost? The irresponsible brat’s wasted enough of our time as it is!”
Tooth spoke calmly, “We have time, Bunny. And the more help we have, the better.”
“You’ve got time! I’ve only got three days before Easter!” Bunny protested, gesturing wildly as he fought every instinct he had screaming at him to go make right and undo the shame curled in his gut.
“Bah!” North butted in, “You are always so worried about Easter. Is not big deal anyway; why do you worry?”
At this Aster stood rigid, and cocked his head. “Oh no, mate. We are not starting this now.”
“Of course! So go after Jack, and we will figure out plan here. Quick as bunny, yes?” The man laughed loudly at his own joke, folding his arms and ending the conversation.
“But–”
“Go, Bunny,” Tooth ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll get things done faster anyway if you’re not here… to argue with North, I mean.”
Aster sputtered, looking between the two, and then back down to Sandy. The Dreamweaver only pointed once more at the window, after Jack, just as stubborn as the other two. The last sliver of hope in Aster’s chest disappeared, and the Pooka sighed.
“Fine,” he muttered, tapping his foot against the ground. When the tunnel opened on the hard wood, North began to protest, but Bunny cut him off, “Don’t. Complain about the floor.”
“But,” North stammered, “But where will you look?”
“He’d be in Burgess,” he stated. “Come get me if you need me.”
And with that, he dropped into the hole, making sure to let the tunnel close as smoothly as possible above him.
+=+=+=+=+
He surfaced on the outskirts of Burgess, in the forest, and just missed being trampled by a sprinting group of children.
“Holy–” he cried out, darting into the bushes just as a heavy boot clomped down right where his tunnel had been, and more importantly, his tail.
He took a moment just to control his breathing, wondering if one of the little ankle-biters had seen him. But they ran on, oblivious to the Pooka’s presence, too focused on their game to notice anything else. Their shrieks of laughter carried through the woods, shaking the trees on a breeze.
They headed for the lake, frozen over even this late into winter. Despite the nagging thought at the back of his mind to find Jack and finish what he came for, Aster felt concern for the rascals. This late into spring, the lake could melt any moment. Against better judgment – always against better judgment it seemed to be more often now – he followed them, deciding that if the lake looked safe enough, he’d leave and find Jack. If not… well, they had time.
The sunlight fell through the branches above, the pale light adding an early chill to the air. Bunny felt it bite through his fur, just a little, enough to keep him alert and on his toes. The wind caressed his lithe form as it darted between the trees, keeping to the convenient shadows that came along with the light. He scented the air, catching brief flashes of the children, but then something else.
It smelled like snow, but not the violent, merciless storms Aster associated them with. No, instead it smelled softer, lighter on the wind than the usual blizzards. The scent was clean and clear as crystal, and it felt familiar. It felt like Jack, and it came from up ahead.
As Aster neared the edge of the tree line, he noticed something off about the scent. It felt like a cloud, stifling the clarity of Frost’s usual nature, and yet it burned in his nose like sour earth and rotten eggs. Cautious, he stalked forward, his body falling down into a hunch. He padded forward on all fours, front paws light and ready to make a grab for his ’rangs.
It turned out he needn’t have worried, at least not about the children.
The little runts clambered about the ice, slipping and sliding with no mind to the potential danger. The laughed each time they fell, picking right back up without a care in the world. Aster felt a rush of panic at the sight of a little girl, blonde hair striking in the sunlight, as she fell on her rump, her plastic fairy wings bending awkwardly beneath her. But she pushed up on the ice easily, and with a wide grin that sent relief coursing through Bunny’s veins, she jumped along, only to slip again with another shriek of surprise.
The entire scene only felt right for the appearance of a lone figure standing at the edge of the pond. Jack knelt down on the shore, gazing off into the distance. He caught Aster’s eye almost immediately.
The boy’s shoulders were hunched, and a weary air surrounded him, tired and old far beyond his appearance. His staff was propped against his shoulder, the flat butt of it against the ice. Aster looked closer at the sprite, to see his blue eyes dulled, staring at the children as they played. The sprite blinked, and his head tilted, lost in thought and some emotion that made him seem older than was right on the boy.
Aster suddenly placed the burning scent of salty tears, as one fell from Jack’s cheek, staining the earth just a shade darker. The boy sniffled, and with his free hand he wiped his face, just for a moment before he resumed his lost watch over the children.
A yearning whine began in the back of Aster’s throat, coiling up through his chest and putting a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to rush out into the open and apologize, an urge he’d only ever felt a few times in his life. But he couldn’t risk the children spotting him, so he stayed back, watching on with his eyebrows furrowed and throat tight.
Apologies or not, he needed to get to Jack. The longer he spent here, the more time they waster searching for Pitch.
Just as he began to formulate a plan, a voice called out from the neighborhood nearby.
“Kids!” shouted a woman, “Time for lunch!”
“Coming Mom!” called back one of the children, the girl with the dark red hair and the white cap, her boots somehow managing to catch a hold on the ice. “Race you back!” she cried to the other children, and dashed off.
With hooting laughs and joyful shouts, the rest of the children followed, darting off of the ice to follow.
But then the last child, the one with brown hair and wide, open eyes, slipped. He thudded down onto the ice, a pained grunt sounding out. Aster winced, resisting the urge to go out and pick the boy up. Jack noticed the fall as well, reaching a hand out. And yet, for some reason, he didn’t move, keeping his feet firmly planted on the shore.
Bunny narrowed his eyes at the sprite, and frowned.
Before he could react, however, the girl called back, “Jamie Bennett, hurry up!”
“C-Coming!” the boy answered, picking himself up quickly. Laughing now, he ran to the edge of the lake, straight towards Jack.
When the boy passed through, Aster could see the breathless pain flash across Jack’s face. He seemed shocked, stumbling back on his feet. But he kept his standing, leaning forward on his staff. The tears in his eyes welled up again, and Aster looked away, unable to stand the bitterness that settled in his heart.
Yes, he remembered that feeling all too well, and the hopelessness that came with it.
When Jamie left, Bunny scented the air once more to check if it was safe. He smelled nothing out of the ordinary, except for the large, looming cloud of depression that surrounded the winter sprite.
Cautious now, so as not to scare Jack away – that was the last thing he wanted, honestly – he emerged from the forest. His paws padded softly on the earth, careful not to snap a twig during his approach.
What should he say? What would he have wanted someone to say to himself a thousand years ago? And then Aster’s ears picked up the sound of Jamie hitting the ice, and he grit his teeth.
“Why didn’t you help him up?”
The Pooka kicked himself, but being the stubborn rabbit he was, schooled his angry gaze onto the sprite as he whipped around. Jack’s eyes were wide and scared for a moment, shocked at the sound of the Guardian’s voice. But almost immediately, his expression dropped, closing off again.
“What are you doing here, Bunny?” he asked, standing up.
He removed his staff from the surface of the lake, and the moment the wood left the ice, a loud crack split the air. The sound sent a piercing chill down Aster’s spine, his ears curling back. He shot his glare at the lake, and then froze. The ice was broken, a deep ridge running across the surface. As Aster watched, the surface began to crumble, opening up to the cold waters beneath. Some of the ice sank into the depths, pushed underneath by the weight of the larger sheets.
The Pooka’s ears fell, and he stammered, “I – you – what was that, mate?”
Jack only twirled his staff, flipping it up to rest on his shoulder. He stood away from Aster, defensive, and his annoyance was clear.
“What do you want?” he demanded. Even as he asked, he began to back up along the shore.
It made no sense, in Aster’s mind. His eyes darted between the now melting lake, and Jack, and then to Jack’s staff. The sprite started to turn away, however, and Aster reacted impulsively.
“Jack! Wait!”
The boy paused. “What?” he asked. His eyes narrowed, and he accused, “If you’re here to convince me to help you, then don’t bother. Find someone else.”
Aster’s ears fell back. He glared at the boy, his temper rising again. The things this sprite did to him–
He stopped, frozen for another moment. “That’s… not it, mate,” he began, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want to think about that right now; he had a job to do. “I came… I came to say that I’m sorry.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and the boy straightened. “What?”
Aster looked down, and shrugged. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have said those things. That no one believed in you, and that… it wasn’t right of me, mate. I’m sorry.”
He looked up again at the sprite, and he found that every word he’d said, he meant them. He attempted to offer a smile, but then stopped.
Jack was crying.
The tears trailed along his cheeks, wet and freezing, and they stained his pale skin with a light sheen. His eyes were rimmed with red and puffy above his cheeks. In his grasp he clutched his staff like a lifeline, and it shook as he tried his hardest to hold it back. His lip was captured between his teeth, biting back the pain.
But the sob escaped anyway, and Jack choked, covering his mouth. The boy fell to his knees on the shore, as frost spread around him on the sparse grass. His staff caught in his arms, hooking around his elbow awkwardly, but he ignored it, sniffling loudly through his tears. In silence, the wind suddenly stopped, and Jack’s small whimpers echoed over the lake.
Aster’s heart felt like a dead weight in his chest, dragging him down through the earth. The sound of Jack’s cries hurt his ears with every pained breath that followed. The Pooka clenched his paws, his blunt claws digging into his fists, and then he released.
“Jack?” he asked quietly, his voice small and hesitant. “Jack, mate, are you alright?”
Of course he wasn’t. Aster took a step, unnoticed in the boy’s self-pity. He took another, and shivered when his paw touched down on the frosted earth.
“Bloody hell…” Aster muttered under his breath. He shifted his balance, to shuffle carefully over the iced ground. He called gently, “Jack – Frostbite…”
He reached the boy, and knelt down next to him. Without thinking about it, he wrapped his arms around the sprite’s shoulders.
Jack went rigid. Frost shout out of his body like a bullet and covered the fur of Aster’s arms. The Pooka winced at the flash of pain he felt, but then ignored it. His shoulders buzzed with a little numbness, and he pulled the boy closer. He pressed Jack’s face into his chest, and breathed, his heartbeat steady as the earth.
The boy in his arms shifted. He took a ragged breath, the air frosting again on Aster’s chest. A pained whine sounded out, muffled in the fur, and he buried it in Aster’s ruff. His body began to tremble, until he sobbed loudly. Aster could feel the freezing tears on his fur, but he only ran his paws down Jack’s back, holding him tight.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Let it out, Jackie, just let it out.”
He whispered these words softly, but his teeth were clenched in discomfort. He glanced down at the small form in his grasp, before looking out over the broken lake.
The black waters washed over the ice, dragging the large platforms underneath the surface. Aster’s whiskers twitched, and he hugged the boy even tighter.
The things this sprite did to him… Something so infuriating it hurt, and yet it gave him a rush of adrenaline, something more than the taste of battle. He’d fought enough battles. He needed the change.
After millennia alone, Aster knew how Jack felt. The feeling of disbelief, of being passed through, as if one didn’t exist… yes, Aster knew that feeling all too well. It felt like ripping heart out and then tearing the ties that bound it to his soul, before fitting it, torn and bloody, back into his chest, where it struggled to work again and function as if death had never happened. He knew those memories as well as the war that ended the Golden Age, and it hurt.
Jack’s sobs subsided after a while, and Aster hugged him tight once more, snuffling his hair, before releasing him.
“I’m sorry…” Jack started, wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeves. His nose was red, odd on his pale face. It looked almost cute.
“Ain’t anything to be sorry for, Frostbite,” Aster replied readily. “We all need a good cry now and then. Best to let it out before it bursts.”
Jack gave a dry chuckle, looking down at his thighs. “We’ll, I’ve been holding that one in for a long time.”
It took a moment, but the boy seemed to connect his words with his mind, and he looked up. Blue frost spread across his cheeks in a rush, cooling down his face in a cold blush.
Aster only tilted his head, and then looked back at the lake.
“So…” he began, his voice a casual drawl, “You were keeping the lake frozen?”
The Pooka saw the sprite nod out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” Jack answered, “it’s a little late for it to stay iced over, but the kids like it.”
Bunny hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll talk with Mother Nature about it; get her to let it stay frozen until the summer?”
Jack’s head snapped up, and he stared at Aster. “You – you mean it?” he asked. Then his eyes narrowed. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Aster let his ears fall in mock surprise. “Really? You think I’d do that to you, mate?”
Jack smiled, belying the red that still rimmed his eyes. “Was that sarcasm?” he teased. “From you?”
“Oh, rack off,” the Pooka said, shoving Jack lightly.
The young sprite laughed as he toppled over, and it became contagious. Aster bent over his stomach as each loud guffaw echoed across the lake.
The two laughed in the world where no one else could hear them, the feeling of mirth building in their chests like a giddy drug. The sound of Jack’s light laughter reached Aster’s ears over his own, and it sounded something close to heaven.
Aster decided he wanted to hear it more often.
They finally settled after a few minutes, Jack picking himself back up from the earth. He took his staff from his lap, setting over his shoulder with an air of ease. He glanced at Aster, and smiled.
“Bunny…” he began, voice quiet. “Thank you.”
Aster returned a small smile, and then opened his mouth to reply, when a loud whoosh of air suddenly burst into the forest.
A giant portal materialized in the air, and North’s sleigh rushed through. With a crack of the reigns, the giant contraption crashed to the earth in what North deemed a normal landing. The wood smashed into the shore, taking the rough landing like a champ, and the reindeer pawed the ground uneasily.
“Trouble at Tooth Palace!” North cried from the cockpit before either of the two spirits could ask. “Hurry!”
Jack and Aster exchanged a glanced. The Pooka nodded, and approached the sled.
When he reached the vehicle, he looked back at the sprite still standing on the shore. Jack gazed at the sleigh, eyes lost, with his staff leaned over his shoulder. Aster knew that stance as well.
“You coming, mate?” he called over.
The young boy snapped out of his thoughts, looking to Aster, with a question in his face. But his expression broke into a large smile, and he nodded. A small laugh leaving his mouth, Jack Frost ran to the sleigh, and climbed in eagerly.
Aster knew a lot of things. He knew the feeling of the sleigh, and how much it made him want to be sick. He knew the feeling of being lost, and alone. But he knew the feeling of hope as well. Smiling, he sat down next to the sprite that was bouncing giddily as North snapped the reigns. What he didn’t know about the boy, well:
He loved the sound of Jack’s laugh, and hated the scent of Jack’s tears.
Seeing the Lustful (Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang) - Chapter 1/9
A/N: Welcome to my new writing blog! In honor (or in spite of) all of this, I have decided to go back and rewrite/edit my old works. Because a year ago, I sucked! It's like watching myself improve with art, but it's easier to change! (In my mind I'm a perfect person… so…)
This is the completely rewritten and revamped version of Seeing the Lustful. It follows the same plot, and I kept most of the scenes nearly the same, although I changed a lot of the writing and details, and I'm adding in a few new scenes as well! (Especially in chapter 3, for those that know what happened there previously.) I plan on updating this once a week, and I'm going to do this with Snow Globes as well, when the time comes.
One final note before we begin: I would like to thank my best friend theowlinsomniac for being my amazing and awesome beta for this fic. She's amazing, and she writes as well (she write for SNK and FMAB), so go check her out! Now, without further ado:
Seeing the Lustful - Chapter 1
The bed felt warm. The sunlight fell through the window, setting the white sheets ablaze along their edges. The dust blew gently through the light, catching the reflection in a peaceful dance. It was peaceful, but it was also early, and it felt it.
The sheets rustled, loud against the near silence of the apartment. Riza blinked in the sudden light as it fell across her face. She stared blankly at the window, her mind empty, if just for the moment. Black Hayate snoozed at the foot of her bed, a warm weight on her feet. Riza looked down at the black fur for a second, and then looked up at the window again, still too asleep to think clearly.
"What…" she breathed quietly, her voice sticky with sleep, "is going on?"
Her eyes traveled to the clock on her bedside table. Five fifty-nine. The second hand moved rhythmically, ticking proud and tall behind the glass face.
Riza's eyes widened in realization just as the minute hand moved.
BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—
She shot her arm out, clapping the top of the bell with her palm. The sound cut off abruptly, filling the room with silence. Her breath released a sigh as her nerves calmed. With a groan, she sat up and stretched, yawning as she blinked sleep from her eyes.
Black Hayate bounced up with a bark, and growled, looking around the room for danger. After checking every corner with his dull vision and sharp nose, he felt satisfied that the area was secure, and crawled up the bed to give Riza a happy slurp on the cheek before plopping himself next to her. He whined, as if asking for her to rest, just a little longer.
Riza chuckled at him lightly and complied, laying back down into her pillows. Over the past few years, the dog had grown large enough that she considered cutting down his food a little, if not for the pouty look that he gave her whenever she tried. She was getting soft – she resolved to herself – with the state of peace that Amestris was in.
The dog burrowed his nose into the pillow. He sneezed, bouncing back in surprise. Riza laughed and patted his head.
"Come on, you big lug. Let's get a move on."
She rolled over to the edge of the bed. A shiver passed through her body as her feet made contact with the cold floor. Wrapping her blanket around her shoulders, she stood and slowly made her way to the small kitchenette in the corner of her apartment.
She set a pot of water to boil in the kettle before shuffling to the door. The morning's paper rested on the ground. Kneeling down lightly, she picked it up.
"Right on time," she murmured to herself, smiling faintly.
She set it on the kitchen table, yawning once again as she reached for a bag of dog food from the counter. Black Hayate fetched the dog bowl, and set it before Riza, barking softly and nudging it with his wet nose. He grinned up at her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Riza smiled, and poured to fill the bowl halfway. For a moment, Hayate only stared at the food, before a long whine left his throat. He whimpered up at Riza, and his eyes blew up, large, mournful, and begging.
The woman sighed. "Fine," she muttered, dumping another cup into the bowl. "You greedy mutt." After putting the food away, she turned back to the morning's paper.
ISHVALIAN TRADING POST FINALLY OPENED TO XING
She smiled; their work was finally paying off, even after all this time.
Riza looked over the edge of the paper thoughtfully. Her eyes caught the sun and the way it fell across the table in the morning light. But even as she stared into space, the room darkened to the point of memory.
Edward Elric sat across from her, eyes fixed on the gun in Riza's hands. As he watched, she took it apart, cleaning it almost instinctively. She'd done it enough by this point. So she listened, as Edward recounted his story. He told of his reunion with Winry, and also Scar's involvement. He spoke of Winry holding the gun that Riza cleaned, angry and hurt, ready to shoot. And how he stood before her, shielding her from harm.
In her memories the exact words were blurred, but she remembered how Edward sounded. She could feel the shame on his voice, how it rolled from him in waves. And then his words reached her ears.
"…it's my fault. I've got no resolve. I only managed to make things worse."
Riza looked down at the gun in her hands, before she replied, "You're just dwelling on this stuff because you made it back alive. You need to stay focused on living. That's how you'll help Winry."
Edward grunted, and lifted his mug of coffee to his mouth. Riza paused for a second, debating with herself.
"How else can you protect her?" she asked. "After all, you love her, don't you?"
In a flash, Edward spat out his coffee and looked up, blushing. He immediately began blurting excuses, his face becoming redder with every word. Riza's smile faded. Silently, she continued to wash the bloody weapon.
"What happened with Scar… I'm sorr –"
The water came to a boil, whistling loudly.
Riza blinked out of her stupor, and looked around her. Black Hayate leapt up, startled at the sound of the kettle, a growl beginning in his throat. The sight of the overgrown puppy with his hackles raised made Riza smile, and she set a gentle hand on top of his head. The low snarl cut off immediately, and he relented. He looked up at Riza, and whimpered in concern.
"It's fine, boy," she reassured him, "I just remembered something."
The whistle became louder, shrieking throughout the apartment. Riza shook her head, and stood.
+=+=+=+=+
Steam rose from the water, pale in the bathroom light. Riza looked down at the shower handle, as it poured from her hair in rivulets. She hugged her arms to her shoulders, brushing the top of the raised scar with her fingertips. The burn didn't hurt any more, hadn't for years, but she could still remember the pain.
"I have a favor to ask, Mustang. Please, burn this off. Deface my back."
Her bangs fell in front of her eyes like a curtain. Then the memories came rushing back.
"Once all of this is over, I'm going to end my life, and remove my secrets of flame alchemy from the world."
His voice rang in her mind, accompanied by the rushing water.
"I can't… I can't afford to lose you."
It had been three years since the Promised Day. Three years since that day when Mustang had seen the Truth. For the past three years, that Truth had blinded him.
Three years ago, Marcoh showed up with the Philosopher's Stone, with an offer to heal Mustang for good.
l - l - l - l - l
"What the hell do you think you're doing Marcoh?" The hospital doors slammed open and Edward barged in. His red coat fanned out behind him like a demonic cape, fluttering darkly as it settled.
Riza started from her position on her hospital bed. The bandages that were wrapped around her neck pulled tight, and she winced, but didn't say a word. Breda and Fuery looked up as well, shuffling the papers in their hands.
Marcoh turned, surprised. His eyes widened, and he tried to hide the small red vial in his coat. "Ah! Edward!" he exclaimed, voice shaking, "I – I thought you were set to travel back to Resembool today."
Edward glared at the doctor, fury shining in his eyes. "I was, but then I happened to see a flash of red when you passed me in the, station." He thrust his hand out to the doctor. "Hand it over, Marcoh! The Philosopher's Stone!"
Marcoh stammered, clutching the bottle closer to his chest. "What – What do you plan to do with it?"
"Destroy it, of course! What else would I do?"
Marcoh sputtered, shocked, and he shook his head furiously. "No! We can't! I want… I want to use it to help people, Edward!
"Help people with the souls of the Ishvalan people you murdered?" Edward accused. His golden eyes narrowed, not even a glimmer of mercy available for the doctor. When the man didn't answer, too ashamed to argue, he gestured again for the vial. "Hand it over Marcoh."
The doctor hunched over, silent, but then he whispered, so quiet that it was barely a breath, "No… never…"
Edward frowned, gritting his teeth as he clapped his hands together. "Fine! Suit yourself, idiot doctor! I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. They don't call me the Fullmetal Alchemist for nothing!"
He pulled his sleeve down, and slapped his hand against his skin. Nothing happened. It wasn't automail anymore; his pale skin reminded him of Al's sacrifice. Edward stared at it in silence, as if just noticing the difference.
"Damn it!" he suddenly screamed, rage painting his voice.
Riza on her bed, not speaking a word as the boy threw a tantrum.
"Damn it! Damn it! Dammit!" he shouted, "Stupid door of Truth and its stupid sacrifice and that stupid little freak! And that stupid Stone I just want to break it and put this away but no you idiot doctor you have to be stupid just like that stupid Truth and it's stupid sacrifice and I oughta punch you in your idiot face!"
Riza saw Roy stiffen on the next bed over, and the Colonel opened his mouth to say, "Fullmetal–"
"Don't call me that!" Edward cried, shoving Marcoh from his seat. The doctor hit the floor with a grunt.
Just then, Alphonse Elric appeared in the doorway. "Edward, why–" he cut off with a yelp as the doctor's chair flew past him, crashing into the wall outside.
Alphonse looked back in, eyes wide and shocked. His face was flushed, as if he'd been running. At his side, a cane dangled from its strap on his arm. "Edward, what is going on? Why did you run away like that?" he asked. "We'll miss out train if we don't hur–" He paused again, noticing Marcoh.
The doctor gazed up at Alphonse nervously, his limbs shaking with anxiety. The Philosopher's Stone lay on the floor beside him, the small vial catching the light like a gem.
Alphonse entered the room, and calmly walked past Edward, who was breathing heavily, looking around for something else to throw.
"Whataya want, Al?" he seethed, not looking at his brother.
Alphonse ignored him, kneeling down beside Marchos.
"Alphonse!" Marcoh breathed, a hidden plea in his voice.
Alphonse put a single finger to his lips, and reached for the small vial on the ground.
Riza glanced at him, and watched as he pocketed the stone. "Alphonse…?" she murmured.
Alphonse didn't respond, and just shook his head. His eyes drifted to Riza.
He winked.
His expression dropped the next moment, and he became stern. "Edward!" He hobbled over to his brother, the older boy furiously punching the wall in his venting anger, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Brother, we're going to miss our train, and I don't think I can run anymore."
Edward's gaze traveled to Al's arm, and then to the cane. His chest fell, and the wild look left his eyes.
"Fine," he muttered, "Let's go." He looked back at Marcoh. "This isn't over, you idiot doctor!" And with those words, he stormed out of the room, his red jacket flying behind him.
Riza breathed a sigh of relief. She shook her head, and then held out a hand to Alphonse, not needing to ask.
The boy only shook his head. "Don't worry, I'll keep it safe," he said, "Remember, I've seen more of the Truth than Edward has." Roy opened his mouth, but Alphonse interrupted, "There's another way for you to heal, Colonel, but I can't show it to you now. I don't have the means yet. Until I do, you'll have to look after each other." He glanced at Riza. "There's always another solution. My brother taught me that. Trust me."
He graced them with a small smile, and then turned away, hobbling out the door after Edward, leaning on his cane as he went.
After a moment, Mustang sighed. "He's right." He turned back to Breda and Fuery, the two still staring at the door in confusion. "Breda, where were we?"
The man sat up abruptly, looking down at the papers in his hands. "Er… Dual-cropping, sir."
l - l - l - l - l
Three years ago.
Riza stared down at the tile while the water turned cold. She gripped her shoulders tighter, grasping the feeling of the scars. She shook her head and turned off the water.
+=+=+=+=+
Riza walked into the room quietly. Black Hayate followed at her heels. Mustang sat at the kitchen table of his apartment, hands folded in a steeple, lost in thought. At the sound of Hayate's paws on the floor, he sat up.
He looked in the direction of the door, his blind gaze stern. "Lieutenant, it's about time you got here," he admonished gently, his voice soft.
Riza smiled, and crossed the room. "I'm behind you, sir." Roy smirked, as Riza moved to help him up.
"I'm not deaf, Lieutenant."
After three years, he knew his blindness well enough to take care of himself. But even so, Riza came by every morning to drive him to work.
"Have you heard the news, sir?"
Mustang smiled sadly. "I assume you mean the trading post? Yes, I've heard. Now I just need to wait for Grumman to retire as Fürher, and then I'll finally be head of this country."
Riza didn't smile at the man's words, knowing he meant them.
They walked through the building and emerged out onto the street. Riza raised a hand to shield her eyes at the morning sunlight. Roy didn't react, and instead stared blankly ahead. Blinking away spots from her vision, Riza glanced over to him. Something was off; she could feel it. But instead of saying anything, she only led the way to the car, waiting for him to say something first.
On the short drive to Central, he suddenly stated, "This world is flawed. To see the world with all its flaws is true beauty." Riza looked at the man, keeping one eye on the road.
"Sir…?" she asked, confused by his blunt observation.
He smiled softly, and leaned an arm on the window. He propped his face up, and for a moment Riza almost believed he could see the building rushing past outside. "I think the Elric's are rubbing off on me. That can't be good." After a moment, he mused, "What do you think they meant?"
Riza frowned. They hadn't talked about that day for the past three years. "I don't know, sir."
Roy sighed, "For some reason, I've been getting restless to see the world. I want to see if anything has really changed. Nothing we do will ever erase the scars of the past, and we can't fix that." He sat up again, and turned to Riza. His dulled eyes stared gently at her, and he asked, "But we can change it, can't we?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Do you think that he would forgive me now?"
Riza hesitated, her breath catching. She thought of the headline from the paper, and another memory flashed in the back of her mind. Maes Hughes smiled at her, his laugh filling her ears. She swallowed, her throat tight.
"Yes, I'm sure he would."
In that instant, everything clicked. Al's words, his promise. The last three years left another scar on Riza's body. She glanced over at Roy, and saw his eyes. Something wistful glimmered in them, and she saw the life still ablaze underneath. But behind that flame, they were still there; somewhere in that blind gaze, she could see the lingering mark.
She saw the creases around his eyes, and remembered when they first appeared. She remembered that day on the battlefield, so many years ago, and understood why he thought like he did. Why he looked so far to heaven, to the head of the country, and to a place where he could find a new vision. She remembered what he called them, his haunted eyes.
The eyes of a murderer.
She turned back to the road. In the rearview mirror, she saw the same eyes on herself. Her hands tightened on the wheel.
It was time to find answers, about that day three years ago.
The rest of the car ride passed without words, and Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye silently planned her trip to Resembool.
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