So we've had a few messages and seen one or two posts about people who haven't received their gifts yet. We realize that yes, it is past the first of the year and that was when we had hoped everyone could post their gifts by as that pretty much ends the holidays (sad but true), but for some people that may just not have been possible.
A few gifters have sent us asks letting us know they've been completely swamped over the final leg of the holiday season, etc, and that there would be a delay on their posting. The people we could give a heads up about this we have, but we ask that if you haven't seen your gift pop up yet that being patient may be beneficial as it could easily be a similar situation, and that on the flip side of this, if you know it will require some extra time to finish up your gift, that you shoot us a quick message, which could go a long way to making sure no one feels forgotten.
Thanks again to all those who have participated, and if anyone should like to make another gift in the event that we end up with a couple people who just fall off the grid completely, (please don't, nobody likes an asshole.) so that we've got a few more pinch hitters, let us know! :)
Written for the lovely thenemeton for the Pack Gift Exchange, sorry it's a bit late!
Set after the end of 3A, and we'll just pretend that some of Alpha Pact never happened. I borrowed some of the dialogue from the show. The second half will be posted soon.
Lydia’s piercing scream broke the silence about ten minutes ago and Derek longs to run to her, to play the shining knight to her damsel in distress. But Lydia is no damsel. Derek learnt the hard way that it is best simply to do as Lydia asks, and if she prefers him to keep out of banshee business, well he’ll try his hardest. It doesn’t stop him worrying though.
“She screams, her puppies run after her, they find a body and everyone is okay,” Peter drawls dryly at his nephew. “Your little red-haired wonder will be fine.”
Derek glares in retort at the use of the possessive pronoun, “Lydia doesn’t belong to anyone.”
“Of course,” Peter rolls his eyes and continues sardonically, “Now stop pacing, you’re giving me a headache.”
Derek doesn’t cease his strides though, backwards and forwards, across the loft. He needs to quell the urge to run. It’s several lengths of the loft later when the door is hauled open, the metal grinding loudly along the concrete and revealing two teenagers. Stiles is visibly panting, looking frantic and Scott is cradling someone close to his chest. Derek’s eyes immediately drift to the bundle in Scott’s arms; to Lydia.
Her head is dangling limply over Scott’s shoulder, eyes closed and hair matted with blood. Derek’s breath catches low in his throat and it takes him a few moments to tear his eyes away from her face. There is a jacket, Scott’s he presumes, pressed tightly against her stomach. It’s staunching the flow of blood from a substantial wound. Her porcelain skin is littered with scratches and then he catches sight of the sickening claw marks across her neck, not deep enough to be fatal if her scarce and shallow breaths are anything to go by.
“What the hell happened to her?” Derek asks, his tone accusing as Scott and Stiles make their way into the loft.
“I don’t know,” Scott punctuates each word carefully, seething with frustration. “We found her in the woods like this. There was no sign of a body but we didn’t really have time to look,” he explains. “I thought I could smell another wolf but I’m not sure. I was too focused on Lydia, I asked Isaac to go and sniff around.”
“Why did you bring her here? Why not take her to the hospital or Deaton?” Derek questions. He motions to the barely made bed on the other side of the loft and follows Scott as he lays Lydia down carefully.
“She’s dying Derek,” Scott replies, hesitating, “the hospital won’t be able to save her and neither will Deaton.”
Derek looks down at her and she seems smaller somehow. And it’s not just the four-inch heels that she’s missing, discarded somewhere in the woods. It’s everything else, he decides. Her sharp words, wit and intelligence. And all the other intricate qualities that make Lydia. He watches as a trickle of crimson blood rolls from her mouth to her chin. A tender brush of his hand and it’s gone.
“So you bought her here to die?”
“No, I don’t know,” Scott answers tersely. “I thought - ”
“They bought her here because you can save her, Derek.” Peter interjects, barely veiling the contempt at his own words.
“Did you?” Stiles asks Scott quietly. “I thought you bought Lydia here because you didn’t know where else to go.” He earns himself a harsh stare from Scott.
“Peter.” Derek doesn’t need to voice his silent plea. How do I save her?
“I’ve heard it’s something only an alpha can do,” Peter begins. “And with good reason. You know normal wolves never abandon an injured member of the pack. They care for it. Bring it food from a kill. They even give it physical and emotional comfort. In a way they can do more than just ease pain, they are instrumental in healing their own.”
“If you’re trying to tell me I can save her, just tell me.” Derek asks earnestly.
A strangled gasp floats up from the bed and Lydia’s eyelids flutter but stay closed. Derek runs a hand through her hair, only snagging on a few tangles. He places the other hand purposefully on her shoulder, his fingers curling tightly against her skin. Derek doesn’t look down. He doesn’t need to see the darkness, see Lydia’s physical pain, seeping into his veins.
“I’m telling you I’ve heard it’s possible.” Peter continues.
“How?”
“It’s that spark of power that makes you an alpha. When you take her pain she draws on the power that provides you with those special gifts. As an alpha you have that bit extra that spark that intensifies the colour of your eyes from a bright yellow into searing red.”
“If I can save her -” Derek trails off at the thought of losing her.
“If,” Peter repeats pointedly. “I didn’t say it works every time. It could just as easily kill you.”
“How do I do it? By taking her pain?”
“And then some. Because there’s a cost –“
“Of course there is.” Stiles blurts out, “there‘s always something with this funky werewolf mojo.”
“Stiles,” Scott hisses, “easy on the sarcasm.”
“I can understand not seeing a downside to this, as you haven’t exactly been alpha of the year, but think about what else you’d be losing.” Peter almost sounds convincing, but Derek can detect the hint of desperation under his steady tone.
“I don’t care about power. Not anymore.” Derek reaches down fumbling for Lydia’s fingers. They are ice cold, but he laces their fingers together regardless. “I care about her.”
