There was a witch in the woods that bordered the small town of Airedale. Some said that she seduced men and lured them to their deaths, other say that she stole children from their beds and cursed their families. She was feared and hated, but no one in the town was brave enough to drive her away, in fear of her slyness and great power.
It was odd, because when asked, there were very little people who had actually confronted the witch. Or had actually seen her in person. If there was ever a witch at all.
The one thing for sure were the many names that the townsfolk made for the witch. Devil Whore. Satan’s Bride. Consort of Hell. Witch-Bitch. They were ridiculous.
What the people didn’t know was that where there was a witch in the woods, there was was a wolf in the town, listening, waiting. Frankly, Derek was tired of hearing the stories and the names and the horrible slang. He had been on the opposite end of human hatred, and there were seldom cases of happiness or little death.
On the night of the full moon, Derek left his home and wandered near the forest’s edge where no one could witness him changing. Buying the house that was far enough away from the town center and close enough to not become a recluse was perfect for him to let loose whenever he wanted to — that didn’t stop some wandering bodies from trying to spy on his activities.
He shed his clothing and tossed them as close to the back door as possible. The moon illuminated that they landed at least out of sight. The change was easy, as easy as breathing. In a blink of an eye, Derek was closer to the ground, senses enhanced beyond his human body’s capabilities. He could hear the earth moving, other smaller creatures moving, chirping, and breathing. It was always a rush to shift. He wanted to run for a straight day. He kept to the thin trail in the forest, following the moon before turning to follow the tinge of magic.
He had heard about the house being disgusting, built of the bones of those who had trespassed and surrounded by magical snares to keep others away. Spires would be sticking outwards behind the first layer of defense with the heads of different animals to scare the people away.
It was nothing like that. It was a house. A regular house.
Derek stayed within the confines of the trees, close but not too close, and low enough to the ground to remain hidden from view. From his distance, he could count the number of windows — five — and the number of flower boxes sitting under them — four. There was a fifth planter box that was sitting on the ground beneath the final window, possibly waiting to be hung.
This was no house for a killer.
The front door opened, and a bright ray of light shot out into the shadows. The Witch. Something was standing there, no more than an undefined blob. Once they stepped outwards, the wolf could see that it was a girl, her arms crossed and her eyes surveying the trees.
She was not the witch. She wasn’t old enough. Nowhere near what Derek had expected—
“Liza, close the door if you’re just going to stand — Oh.” A man joined the girl, also looking out towards the trees.
Derek froze. The girl’s eyes had stopped. They both did. Right where Derek lay hiding. Unwillingly, a low growl rumbled the air. It took him too long to realize that the noise was coming from him. The man rose his hands, one to fly to the back of his neck and the other in a sort of half wave.
The wolf didn’t wait for the magic to hit him. He left just as quickly as he had arrived.
Four days. That’s how long he waited until going out into the forest again. The moon was no longer full — he didn’t need the pull of it to change — but it still guided him back to the witch.
The house was exactly the same. Simple. Plain. Ordinary. It made the fur on the wolf’s neck bristle at the thought that the townspeople had been wrong about the witch — warlock? — and another shudder that it could all be a trick. Magic had a distinct smell of lightning and Sulphur, in certain circumstances. There were no traces of that anywhere around the house. No tricks. No obvious tricks, he corrected.
Derek kept himself in the same spot as before, this time further into the trees to allow himself the protection of the wood’s girth. Time isn’t something he worried about when he was shifted. He focused on the movement behind the drapes of the windows, confused as to how he couldn’t hear past the walls. Magic.
He wasn’t standing outside of the house for long before there was a rustling in the bushes. Instinct made him jerk towards the noise, hanging low in the event of another predator, especially this close to the house —
Derek couldn’t explain it. His entire body relaxed at the sound of the softer voice, but still moved towards to the bush. No doubt to catch the rather reckless child from falling flat on his face. The bundle of blonde excitement neatly wrapped his arms around the neck of the wolf, petting the fur as though he was some kind of tamed animal. In a sense, he was. Not that he’d ever admit that.
The wolf pushed the child back up to his own feet, waiting until he was secured on the ground before nodding and sniffing for any other injuries. No copper. No blood. There was the soft scent of lavender and lightning. Hesitantly, he stepped back. He didn’t want the wrath of the witch just because his kid couldn’t walk properly.
“Tank,” the child said, incorrectly. Derek was in no form to correct him. The boy looked at Derek, then to his hands to the bush before looking around the area without actually moving his feet from where he was standing. He was an odd one, certainly. The boy made a soft noise, a whine, when he’d found what he was looking for; a small white rounded package with a purple colored stain in the edges of the paper — a sandwich, his nose told him.
The witch was providing food for him.
The thought sent his wolf into something between preening and whining for attention. Derek instead focused on the child, who was now in near-tears over the fact that he had failed to deliver the food without ruining it.
There were many things that Derek couldn’t stand seeing. Fire — thanks to a series of hunters before he’d come to Airedale, trying to flush him out of his den. Troll caves — he’d wandered into one on accident and the smell still haunts him. And children crying.
He pushed at the child’s hand with his nose, making sure that the food wasn’t poisoned or altered in any way — that had happened once before as well — and gently mouthed at the food until the child pulled at the wrappings and allowed the wolf to take it between his fangs.
It tasted horribly of the earth, but it was worthwhile to see the child no longer crying, even beaming that the wolf would even consider eating the food he offered let alone eat it completely. His small hand slipped into the fur on his head, patting softly.
Both the child and the wolf turned to the sound. The girl was back again, she was standing where she had been days before. Everything in her posture said that she was completely willing to storm into the woods to find the boy if there was any doubt to him returning safely.
With the boy’s fingers still in his fur, Derek guided him closer to the break in the tree line. He leaned on the wolf, practically using him as a horse especially with the comparison of their size. When Derek could clearly see the house, and the house could clearly see him, the wolf pushed the boy in its direction. He stumbled — no surprise — but then stood there, looking between the house and the wolf like it was the biggest decision of his life.
The boy held out his hand, grabbing for the wolf with tears threatening to break. No. Derek repeated the word despite moving closer to the boy, the house, and swiped his tongue over the expanse of the child’s palm.
Tears turned into bright, excited eyes as he ran back to the house screaming. The girl hadn’t move, she turned to make sure the boy was free of any injuries before returning to throw her hard dagger-like-glare at the wolf as though challenging him to take another step forward. The wolf didn’t like that, but it was amused at the idea of the girl doing such a thing.
He chuffed, turning back towards the path with the moon and wind at his back.
I hope you like it, Derek heard, long past the house and well into the tree line. The voice, smooth and calm, must have been carried by the wind of his imagination.
When he returned, it came as a surprise that he could hear the shuffling of feet and clacking of metals from within the house. Derek circled the entire property to make sure he wasn’t imagining the whole thing. The house wasn’t that large. It was odd to hear so much activity for such a crowded space and large family.
He made it back around to where he started and the front door opened with no one there to assist it. There it was again: magic. It didn’t smell the same as the child did. This was lighter, something between the ocean and worn wood. He approached the door with all the hesitation he had in his body. Instincts wanted him to move — inside — defend, investigate. Human curiosity told him that it was a horrible idea.
The man passed by before Derek could make the decision for himself. He looked as surprised as the wolf did, looking back twice before saying, “The house likes you,” then walked off.
This was too much of a decision. He remembered how the child had looked the other day when he had to make a choice, and now he understood. Familiarity or something new.
“Come in?” The man was back, this time with a stained cloth thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.
Miraculously, he did. It felt like popping a bubble as soon as he breached the doorway. The wolf shook his head to rid himself of the slight ringing bouncing around. The man made a disgruntled noise that resembled too closely to a bird to remain human or otherwise.
“Sorry. Had I known, I would’ve softened the wards.”
The wolf shook out the sound, the uncanny feeling of being watched. He circled the front room, the walls lined with books stacked on top of books even outside of their homes. It certainly looked like the room was well loved and used. The smell of the pages filled his senses, sending him to another time and place.
“You’re the same wolf as before.” Fact.
Derek narrowed his eyes as though to say: Do you know many wolves? Frankly, he’d be offended both by the idea that he was not the only wolf and that there was another being on his land, his territory.
Stiles was quick, saying, “You’re the only one that I’m aware of, but I still wanted to be sure.”
“Good. My name is Stiles.”
What kind of a name was that? The wolf looked for any sense of a lie, but there was none. No stutter or jump of the man’s heart.
“I supposed I go by other names.” The man circled the adjoining room that was none other than the kitchen, pulling something together in a cup. “Witch Bitch has always been a favorite of mine, but,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “Don’t tell my kids.”
Your secret’s safe with me, he would have said. Stiles bobbed his head as though he could understand him regardless of his shape.
“Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help it when someone is practically shouting at me —” Derek took a step back, back towards the door. Stiles sighed. “I’m not good with other people. Clearly. You can go. If you want.”
The house groaned, then the door opened softly behind him. The smell of lightning was bitter, coppery, and overall unpleasant. The house was not fond of Derek leaving so early. Or Stiles.
The wolf moved to the door and Stiles didn’t move at all.
“You’re welcome here,” the witch added softly, Derek halfway out the door. The wolf paused. “Always.”
He didn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything. He moved on into the trees, hearing the moon chastising him the whole way back to the town.
Derek waited three days to go back. He thought he was doing himself a favor. The house, the people were making him feel… different. He fought it. However, the distance became a soft itch under the skin that he couldn’t scratch then slowly turned into a sudden tug beneath his sternum. It wasn’t anything sharp or something akin to panic. A nudge in the right direction, he supposed. He didn’t want to talk to the townspeople anyways. He cut his time in the market, went home, then shifted mid-step into the woods.
As he started to see the light paint of the house, he realized he had left without eating anything for breakfast. Shame. He could hunt if he really wanted to. The front door didn’t open when he approached, but the distinct sound of laughter led Derek to the back of the house.
The yard emulated everything that Derek had seen inside of the house, inside of the children. Everything was light. A windchime, made of some dark metal with various pieces of carved wood pieces that resembled children, rang out a soft melody of the wind. There were several planter boxes that sat in a similar layout as a labyrinth, sprouting several different types of fruit, vegetables, and herbs. The wolf felt content, safe.
Keenan — his cries distinct now — was chasing around different colored butterflies that were leaving light trails in their wake. Derek was still learning to not jerk at the sound of his cries, thinking the worst. He found Stiles then, sharing a look that could only be described as looking as innocent as he could, which wasn’t convincing at all. The man gave a soft shrug.
The wolf stalked forward. Liza was nowhere to be found, but Derek could feel her cold, hard stare in the back of his head wherever he moved, so she was close by. It intensified when Derek sat on his haunches beside the man.
“I didn’t think you’d come back. Certainly not during the day.”
The wolf huffed, and then the small boy decided to pay attention to him, throwing out his hands and abandoning the magical — fake — creatures for the real one sitting in their yard. The boy was trying to say something, the words muddled and incoherent. His hands were talking enough, petting Derek and grabbing his face to press their noses together as though to say: Welcome. I like you. I know you.
A soft growl climbed up his chest, teasing — and the child did it right back.
Stiles started laughing, and Derek just sat there thinking that this was the strangest family in the world. Keenan, having deemed Derek no longer interesting, went back to chasing the butterflies. Beyond him, Derek could see another pair of children.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing them. The wolf knew there were more children in the house, but didn’t go about searching to meet them all.
“Those are the twins,” Stiles sounded beside him. “Zach and Oliver.”
The twins were moving about in the garden. They moved methodically, as one would drop off a piece of fruit or vegetable into a wide basket, the other would be picking one. It resembled a sawing motion of moving back and forth with the only break being to pick up the basket to a new spot to reach the produce better.
Derek moved to the pair easily, both of them pausing in their ministrations to glare at the wolf. He took the basket between his teeth and they moved together seamlessly from trough to trough.
“I think that’s all we’ll need,” the man said from the porch, wrangling in Keenan with both hands to assure the child got into the house in one piece.
The wolf carried the basket back to the porch and set it at the witch’s feet. Stiles paused, but the child did not. Keenan went into the house with no problem. A small smile spread across the man’s lips as he bent to grab the basket, the fresh smell of flowers following him all the way into the kitchen. Derek almost sneezed at the sweetness.
The twins followed soon after their father, one after the other to allow themselves to brush against Derek in greeting and thanks. Their soft satisfied scent lingered as they passed. He circled the porch before lying at the door.
Protecting would be a strong word. A mere action of precaution would fit better. That is, if Derek was a complete idiot. It was unnecessary, this primal instinct to protect, provide, and serve. He buried deep, right next to the blooming seed of what could only be labeled as hope.
Derek even found himself lingering around in the darkest shadows of the night. He did it first because he heard one of the townspeople talk about gathering enough people to storm into the forest. Now, it was because it was too quiet in his home.
He traveled through the trees as a wolf, but stayed hidden there beyond the house as a man. It was risky. Derek didn’t want to expose himself, yet the consistent shifting was already starting to wear on his instincts and behavior. He nearly snarled at a messenger for getting too far onto his property.
The tree line had become his friend, his protector. It kept him hidden, the family hidden. He watched intently as Stiles moved room to room, making sure the children were asleep. He took time with each of them, as though telling them each a story before moving to the next. When the final light went out in the house, Derek sighed.
It hurt — seeing a family like Stiles’. It made Derek remember times of his own family, when he was younger and wilder and… happier. The sounds of his sisters giggling as they ran across the lawn, chased by their brothers, shifted and not. Their mom would be chastising someone, while their dad would be barbequing or talking about something mysteriously-human that had happened in town.
The man jerked, the memories lost. Liza stood there in her glory, silent and eloquently pissed off. There was something bitter lingering around the edges of her that made his nose crinkle and instincts flare up. It was moments like this that he was grateful for packing and changing into the clothes he had brought. It would have saved him from a very awkward conversation with the witch.
“No.” She rose an eyebrow. “Not anymore,” he amended.
He did, but not because she told him to. It was odd, having her there — confusing. He knew she was there, could see her, but everything in his being wanted to not notice. It was hard to focus on her if he didn’t do so intently or stare so hard he could crack a rock in half.
“Are you having an aneurism? Can ‘wolves have aneurisms?”
As far as Derek knew, no. He shook his head.
“Then why do you look like that?”
“You’re…” She stiffened, on edge and ready to run at a moment’s notice. It took a different, more sour scent. “Different.”
Her shoulders sagged. Defeated. “Am I?”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Derek’s eyebrows creased. He opened his mouth to speak, but Liza just sighed and buried her head in her hands, loosing a final, frustration gust of air that was a partial scream. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I get it.”
“Is it hard?” Her face crept out of her hands. “Being a wolf… so close to the town?”
“There are days… I’m not particularly friendly, or known to be, with the people. They respect my space and I respect theirs.”
Derek allowed the silence to settle. But… everything. “They’re ignorant.”
“Humans,” Derek echoed, amused. “They don’t know any better. My father… my father used to tell me that just because someone doesn’t know about something, it doesn’t mean you get to blame them for their uneducated actions.”
Liza clicked her tongue. “He’s quite the scholar.”
He tried not to jerk when a weight pressed on his shoulder. He definitely didn’t move when it was her head instead of her hand or shoulder. Her eyes were open, though closing more and more with each passing blink.
“You’re a good man, Derek. Even better wolf.”
After a few moments, she fell asleep there. Her heartbeat leveled out, and the only thing he could do short of storming into the house was to at least set her on the wide rocker on the porch with the throw blanket and wait for someone to stir, Liza or otherwise. He shifted, trotted off, and waited in his spot near the trees as someone in the house woke — Stiles — and brought her inside.
Thank you, wafted through to Derek, and he realized it had been Stiles who spoke to him the first time when he thought it had been the wind. He nodded towards the house before turning back to the town, then stopped halfway there.
He’d never told Liza his name.
Derek practically lived in the house with how much he visited and accidentally-on-purpose spent the longer nights in the embrace of one of the children. He came over on Thursdays — Picking Day — to help the twins. They developed a new method of moving that cut down their chore time by half. Tuesdays were notoriously known as Game Nights that included various, very magical games that usually ended up with the children riding Derek like a small horse. Saturdays were lounging days that also ended up with some kind of flower in Derek’s fur; and Sundays were spent cooking and prepping food or other creations for the week. It was mainly the day of babysitting since there were too many things that could harm the children in the apothecary and Stiles was already a mess on any other day. It was the one special task he was actually requested to do that he did so willingly and happily.
One Saturday, they were lounging outside and Stiles was just sitting beside him, absentmindedly running his hand through the wolf’s fur, talking about this specific flower that he was “craving”. He said the word all of two more times before Derek had decided: he would finally gather the nerve to return as he was: a man.
The next day, he stood there, pacing for what seemed like hours, and clutching the life out of the valley flowers he had sprinted off to find because Stiles thought they were interesting and could possibly use them —
The door opened, and Derek wholeheartedly expected Stiles to be the one to greet him, but there was no one at eye-level. Several feet below, there were twin faces looking at him with no difference in their gaze.
They both turned, taking turns to say, “Dad —”
They moved in sync away from the door to allow both Derek in and Stiles to meet him at the door. The man slipped in from the kitchen wearing a ridiculous apron stitched to say: THE MAGIC TOUCH.
“Hi.” Derek shoved the flowers in his direction, looking anywhere but his face because he didn’t know if he could keep his resolve from crumbling if he looked him in the eye for any longer than a second.
“Valley lilies?” Derek nodded. “I asked for these yesterday.” Another nod. “They’re two days travel from here.” Nod. His face was burning, possibly magically induced but even he knew that’d be a lie. Stiles even looked a little red, despite tucking his face into the center of the flowers, smiling. “Thank you.”
All he could do was nod, reduced to absolutely mush at the feet of his smile. “Derek,” he spit out finally. “My name. Derek.”
“Derek. Care to help me?” The man gestured to the kitchen. Like opening a door, the smells hit Derek like a wall. Again, he nodded and followed in his wake.
Stiles practically floated around the kitchen, finding a chipped cup to put the flowers in now before moving them elsewhere, no doubt the apothecary. He flew to the burner, giving the food one final glance before directing the wolf to take the food to the table.
Derek didn’t need to call. The sound of feet sprinting at food-driven speed was enough of a hint that the masses were coming. When he turned, there were four blinking faces, all waiting for food.
Stiles was there beside him to help serve the food, which was gone just as quickly as it had been set down. The man shooed them off to their corners of the house, laughter and a single if-you-hurt-him-I-will-hurt-you look from Liza followed them down the hall.
Derek wasn’t fazed. If anything, it was how they spoke to each other. A hand on his arm pulled him away from washing the dishes and back to the table. “Sit.”
He opened his mouth for some kind of objection, but shrank at the sight of Stiles joining him. He snapped his fingers and two more plates appeared, hot and ready. This is what always surprised him. Stiles’ magic. It tickled his nose at the smell, and on one occasion blinded him. Worth it.
Stiles offered out his fork, with an impressive stab of food sitting on the end, to Derek. And he just about dropped his own utensils and flashed his red eyes.
The wolf gulped. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Stiles smirked. “I’m well versed in werewolf culture, Derek. I know what this means.”
Offering someone food was an intimate event, often only shared with a potential mate at the beginning or end of a courting season. It was to show that the wolf could provide for them, protect them, and with Stiles being the one to offer it to Derek —
“You’re not like other people —” Derek narrowed his eyes and Stiles rolled his. “Physically, but also mentally. Other people would have run away the first day you came looking for me, but you stayed instead. You’re good with my children, Derek. That means the world to me.”
A heartbeat of silence passed. Then two. Three. Stiles broke, “I could do this more traditionally, if you’d like —”
“No,” he cut in. Damn traditions. “This works.”
Derek leaned forward, hand holding Stiles’ still but also feeling the pulse at his wrist. It’s firm, steady rhythm told him everything: this was the man who he wanted and who wanted him in return. He gently took the food from the fork and offered his own portion in return, and Stiles wasted no time in taking that from him.
They took their time from then, eating and talking in waves, but never once growing stale or awkward in any way.
Derek helped him bring the dishes to the wash-bin, growling softly at the idea of him working any more than he already had. Stiles did step in and do the actual washing, which warranted a very sturdy wolf standing at his back trying to pull him away.
The witch held firm, chuckling at the spectacle. “We could have done this a lot sooner.”
The wolf buried his face in the witch’s neck, breathing in the sharp, calming scent of the man. “I didn’t know.”
His hand slipped up and behind into Derek’s hair, just holding him there. “I think I made my thoughts very clear.”
Should I try harder, his voice purred.
The wolf’s chest rumbled too, but he’d deny anything of a purr. “I’m not good with… people.”
Stiles laughed, and the sound made something warm bloom in the center of his chest. “We can work on that.”
There was a witch in the woods that bordered the town of Airedale. He did not seduce people to their deaths. He did not steal children, or curse families, or anything of the sort.
He was fearsome for his great power, but was more so loved for his courage and undeniable idiocy in any situation. He was beautiful with equally beautiful (fearful) children.
The witch’s name had changed through time. Witch-Bitch still stuck, despite their intentions, but the others faded. The trees knew better, singing his name like a savior: Stiles.
With the witch, there was always the witch’s wolf nearby, waiting and watching. He never struck, always the growler. There was never a place where the witch was that the wolf wasn’t.
There was a witch’s family in the woods, and they were there to stay.
