only my mind is a tardis

This is my writing blog, where I post my... writings. To find fandoms, go to the Fandoms page.

[typewriter-tardis]

There is Something Perfect about that ficlet. There is Something Perfect about your brain. There is Something Perfect about you. In other words, your scisaac ficlet "Something Perfect" is actually something perfect as is your brain and your entire being in general.

ohmygoodness

Thank you so much! That is a beautiful compliment and you are far too kind. (I'm just going to curl into a ball in the corner and melt into a squealing mess of happiness now. Goodbye friends.)

[typewriter-tardis]

Something Perfect

There is something nice about renovating the Hale house, Isaac thinks…

A/N: Yay, look everybody, I’ve written another actionless fluff piece! (Sorry not sorry.)

This is pre-season three, so ignore anything that happens in that season. Also disregard: Jackson leaving, Derek not living in the Hale House, Erica and Boyd being missing, Lydia still not really being in on the whole “werewolf thing,” the Alpha Pack, anything remotely dramatic and/or action centric.

It masquerades as being about renovating the Hale house and about everyone being happy and stuff, but it's actually Scisaac and I'm not sorry. I mean, everyone is happy anyway. But still.

I’ve been sitting on this one for a while (since like, June or something) so it’s pretty outdated, but I kind of liked it. It’s super repetitive and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that but I found the format sort of interesting

There is something nice about renovating the Hale house, Isaac thinks… Something about the way it brings everyone together; something about the arguments over the stupid things like two shades of carpeting or what sheets to buy; something about the impromptu pizza parties they hold when everyone is feeling a bit down; something about the way the house comes together around them, “like magic,” Scott says (“Like several thousand dollars of insurance money,” Derek mutters, “Well spent,” Peter adds).

There is something comfortable about the way the furniture slowly crowds in after the walls are painted (the cause of many a mid-afternoon argument between Peter and Derek over “What color?” or “What shade?” or “What do you mean it will clash with the curtains? What curtains?”) and after the floors are rebuilt (the subject of much scrutiny from Stiles and Scott, who want to be sure socks can slide properly on it); something about the way Isaac feels when he watches them test it.

There is something funny about the way Derek’s face scrunches up when they tell him about the rugs Peter brings home and the lilac-tinted hand towels in the upstairs bathroom; something about the way Stiles looks when Derek brings him back an apron from the store that says “kiss the cook” in pink cursive and gruffly tells him that if Stiles is going to keep getting covered in flour every time he makes them cookies, then he might as well; something about how Erica hangs upside down off the porch roof in a futile attempt to surprise Boyd and instead makes Lydia scream and Jackson swear; something about the look in Peter’s eye when he says he’s going shopping for Derek’s birthday and they way Derek sulkily wears the cardigan Peter brings back because Stiles says he looks good in it.

There is something cute in the way Jackson brings them donuts the first time he shows up on the doorstep, as a kind of “sorry I tried to kill you all”; something in the way Boyd holds Erica’s hand at the end of Old Yeller while she reaches for the tissues; something in the way Stiles hugs Derek when a box of his mom’s old stuff shows up in the basement; something in the way Scott smiles at Isaac when he produces a stuffed giraffe and proudly presents it to him announcing, “His name is Isaac and you’re not allowed to change it.”

There is something painful in Derek’s hesitation to give away the site of Laura’s old room and in Stiles’s whispered, “She’s not coming back, but your pack isn’t going away”; something in the way Scott looks at Allison when she turns up asking for forgiveness for crimes Isaac will not, can not forget, and in the way they hug each other goodbye that day, in the way they almost kiss; something in the way Isaac hates himself for caring about it; something in the way he can’t not care.

There is something comforting about the way Derek offers each of them a room in the house (“It really is bigger than you think,” Lydia muses); something in the way each of them accepts even when they still live somewhere else; something in the way they each slowly bring in the first things that make their rooms distinctly they own (pillows for Lydia, a chair for Jackson, clothes for Erica, a stereo for Boyd, books for Stiles, stupidly adorable band posters for Scott); something in the way the house begins to feel like a home.

There is something touching in the way Scott takes Isaac to IKEA to look for a good shelf for his comic book collection.

There is something stupid in the way they come home with a bean bag chair (“It’s sort of impractical,” Isaac notes, “It’s sort of awesome,” Scott counters); something in the way Isaac can’t say no to Scott to save his life.

There is something sweet in the way Lydia massages Jackson’s shoulders when he says he’s sore after training; something in the way Boyd carries Erica up to bed when she falls asleep in front of the TV on movie night (again); something in the way Derek won’t let anyone near Stiles when he falls off the porch one time and then drives him to the hospital despite Stiles’s protestations, in case he has a concussion (he doesn’t); something in the way Peter always buys a carton of blueberry pie flavor ice cream after someone mentions that it’s their favorite; something in the way Scott comes to sit with Isaac on the porch after a movie in which someone is buried alive, in a freezer; something in the way he hugs him.

There is something wonderful about the way Isaac’s stomach feels; something about  the way Scott’s arms around him sends thrills of comfort through his veins.

There is something ridiculous about how well Stiles and Scott know the lyrics to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie and how well choreographed their dance is; something about the stupid smile plastered across Isaac’s face for hours after it comes on the radio in the kitchen.

There is something thrilling about the way the house looks with the new paint and the new trim and the not-burnt porch; something about the smiles on everyone’s faces when Derek says in an unbelieving tone, “I think it’s actually done” and Peter mutters, “It will never be done”; something about  the way Lydia says, “good,” and smiles; something about the way Scott smiles at him then; something about the way his hand feels in Isaac’s; something about how Isaac realizes that over the course of the summer, he and Scott have become close enough to touch each other like this; something about the way that makes him feel.

There is something beautiful in the way his new room feels; something in the way Scott nods at the wall with the shelves they bought; something in Scott’s proximity and the nervous look in his eyes; something in the way Isaac’s heart flutters and in the words, “Isaac, can I?”; something in the look on his face when he… something in the way he kisses him.

There is something perfect about the way Scott kisses Isaac.

Isaac decides that there is something perfect about Scott McCall.

[typewriter-tardis]

This is pure crack and I'm not even remotely sorry.

Scott wakes up one morning and something's wrong...

Scott rolled over in bed. He groaned once and rubbed at his eyes. Something was off somehow. He couldn’t tell what yet, but something was different... He frowned. He felt… constricted. Like something was holding him around the chest. Weird.

He rolled out of bed and got to his feet, stretching and yawning. It was 9 o’clock on a Saturday. Early for him, but Isaac would already be up.

Scott didn’t bother to pull on clothes as he trotted out into the hall. Isaac wouldn’t care if he was just in a t-shirt and boxers.

He took the stairs quickly, but paused at the bottom. That was weird. Why did jogging down the stairs hurt his chest? He just needed to eat something, he decided, shaking his head.

Isaac was in the kitchen. He could see his back through the doorway, wearing only a shirt and shorts, making something on the stove. Scott called a greeting and started through the door but stopped short at Isaac’s wide-eyed expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worried now.

“Scott, you - you should look in a mirror,” Isaac told him, very slowly. “Like right now.”

Scott frowned. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, moving into the living room to look in the mirror over the fire place.

He froze.

He turned to the left, then to the right, looking at himself in the mirror. Slowly, he reach to his chest and grabbed…

His boobs?

Scott gave a very manly shriek and turned to Isaac. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I’M A GIRL!”

[typewriter-tardis]

Anna's Chemistry Fic

There was this one time when Anna had a bunch of finals coming up and I wrote her a fanfiction for it and...

The familiar VOOSH VOOSH sound comes from your back yard. In surprise, you run to your window. In the shadows, sits a blue box. THE Blue Box. The TARDIS. The door opens and a man steps out, a tall, thin man, with sort of... poofy hair on top. When he steps into the light, the pinstripes are visible and you pinch yourself, just in case -

"Anna? Is that you?" He asks.

"Uh, yes," you tell him, wondering how he knows your name. "Are you... Are you the Doctor?"

"Yes!" He looks pleased. "Yes I am, but I don't think... I think I'm in the wrong time, that's why. Alright. Well, that's alright, I got a message, picked it up on the interwebs, I think you were asking for me?"

"Yes!" you hurry. "Uh finals are coming up and..."

"Ah yes... I remember my school days, finals, yes of course. Well, off we go then!" * "Doctor!" you call from your room, surrounded by papers and notebooks. "I need help with my chemistry!"

"Coming!" he calls back, and in a minute, he pokes his head around the door.  * "Anna, you CAN come out of the library, you know," he tells you. Your voice is muffled by the books surrounding you when you respond, "But I like it in here."

He sighs. "Fine, have it your way. But there's something outside you might like to see..."

After about a minute, you venture out into the halls. You know the TARDIS well by now, can navigate the hallways and can always find the right rooms. You make your way swiftly to the main console room, peering around it to the open door. Outside, it is brightly lit with sunlight, shining floors reflecting light, people milling everywhere, a quiet hum of low voices filling the air,, the walls covered in shelves, the shelves covered in... 

Books.

"Welcome to the Library!" the Doctor tells you.

[typewriter-tardis]

Anna's Birthday Fic

I wrote this for my internet bestie Anna on her birthday (May 3rd), and she keeps telling me to post it, sooo....

Flowers paint themselves over the ceiling in your mind, painting you a garden on the plain white wall. The blues and purples wash away the disappointment of falling out of love, the reds and yellows cover up the dark corners of fear and uninvited change, the greens fill in the emptiness, finally covering the dim crevices and the cracks in the wall. Your tower is bright and welcoming, full of sun and the gold of happiniess.

But every dream must end and you wake into a gray morning. You get up, you get dressed, you eat breakfast, you go out. The world is gray, gray, gray, the sky is gray, gray, gray, the people are gray, gray, gray. Even the fowers are gray, all color stolen from them, sucked into your dream and vacuumed away into the vortex, consumed by the fires there that stole the dreams you thought you'd lost, of someone like you who would see through your cracked spyglass.

And he's closer than you think.  You walk aimlessly, passing one insignificant object after another, one nameles, faceless person after another, passing the fragments of separate realities, patched together into this one, this one that belongs to you. But today, you don't want it. You don't want the gray or the cold or the clouds. You don't want the flowers this life offers. You want the flowers of another world, one brighter than your own, than any you have known. And that world is just around the corner. You hear a noise, a crashing in an alley. Against the voice in your head (telling you, "no, no, stop, don't go down there, you little idiot") , you turn down between the buildings, clutching your bag close, frowning ahead at the shadowy shape there. You skirt a puddle gingerly, tilting your head to the side, curiously peering at what looks like a ... box.  Behind you, the screech of some unidentifiable creature and the sound of bricks breaking sends you spinning around, only to see the entrance to the alleyway blocked! And then he's there, the man I promised you would come. He takes your hand, he tells you "run." You run.

[typewriter-tardis]

Merlin, What Is Gay?

Arthur is back and Merlin isn't quite sure what to do with him.

A/N: An Arthur reborn drabble-y type thing. Idk. It happened mostly at night so sorry. Actually no, I'm not sorry. I still think it's funny.

"Merlin, what's happening? What's going on? We're under attack, Merlin! Someone is storming the castle – erm, flat – get me my armor!"

"Arthur – Arthur, calm down! It's fine!"

"No it's not, Merlin, there's an attack!"

"No, Arthur, it's called New Years and people set off fireworks, it's fine. They're celebrating."

"Funny way of celebrating."

"Oh my God."

"Um, Merlin? What is this... thing you've given me?"

"Oh that's a takeaway box. It's Chinese food. It's really good, you'll like it."

"Chinese food? What's Chinese?"

"It means something that's from China."

"What's China?"

"Just eat it, Arthur, please."

"Merlin. Where are my clothes?" "On the chair, I put them out, didn't I? How did you not notice them? Seriously Arthur, I don't know how –"

"What, these things?"

"Yes, Arthur. Those things."

"What sort of clothing is this? It looks like.. I don't even know what it looks like but I'm not wearing it. And these shoes! They look like something a woman would wear, get me my boots!"

"Arthur, those are Converse, they're very stylish these days. And trust me, your old boots look a lot more like something a woman would wear."

"Merlin, you want me to touch that thing? What is it? It hums. And it's cold inside."

"It's called a refrigerator, Arthur, it's fine. It keeps food cool."

"A what?"

"A refrigerator."

"Re – fri – ger – a – tor."

"Yes. Now can you get me the milk?"

"Ah! The handle is cold, Merlin! … Wait, which one is the milk?"

"The one in the – oh never mind, I'll get it."

"Merlin, what is this thing?"

"Oh, um, that's a … a magazine."

"A what?"

"Um, nothing."

"Merlin, is this even English? Why is there only one direction? Which direction is that? This doesn't even make any sense!"

"Sorry, but what was that word you just used?"

"Oh it's just some of the local … lingo."

"… Stop smiling at me. You know, I've begun to suspect you do this on purpose."

"Who are you and what have you done with Merlin?"

"I am Merlin, stupid."

"No you're not! The Merlin I know would never wear that!"

"Oh my God, Arthur, put down the spoon and let go – ow!"

"Merlin, what does this say?"

"Honestly Arthur, can you even read?"

"Not when it's all … when it's written like this."

"Arthur, this is a thousand times easier to read than archaic texts written in Old English in the 5th century."

"What is that?"

"What this? It's a rice cooker."

"A what?"

"A rice cooker. You use it to cook rice."

"Well I gathered that but what does it do?"

"It … cooks … rice?"

"…"

"Ow!"

"Ow! Arthur, let go! You haven't even got a sword to fight with!"

"Merlin, I could take you with both hands tied behind my back."

"That sounds like a good sex game."

"… What?"

"Never mind."

"Merlin, what does pornography mean?"

"Well, um … You know, why don't you look it up on the internet?"

"You know I hate that thing, Merlin."

"It's called a computer, and really. Just do it."

"Why can't you just tell me, Merlin?"

"It'll be more fun if you just look it up, believe me."

"But Merlin –"

"Just do it, Arthur!"

…

"Oh – Oh my – Oh my God, Merlin! What is this?"

"That, Arthur, is pornography."

"Oh my God, get it away, it's evil sorcery!"

"Ah ah hot! Merlin! It burned me!"

"Arthur, I thought I told you not to touch the stove top!"

"Ow, that hurts! Ow, Merlin it – Ow!"

"What will I ever do with you?"

"Ow, Merlin, hugging me isn't going to help."

"Shhhh, yes it is."

"Urghhhh..."

"Merlin? Merlin, what is it, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, just … headache."

"No, it must be a curse. Tell me, what do I need to cure it?"

"Advil, just some Advil."

"Where can I find this … Advil?"

"In the cupboard."

"I swear to you, I will travel to the ends of the earth for you, Merlin. I won't let you die –"

"The cupboard, Arthur."

"Ah, yes. Be right back."

"Merlin... What is gay? I'm getting the sense that it doesn't mean happy any more."

"Oh, um, it's … well, it's when a man loves … another man."

"Oh, I see. Like a father and a son."

"Er no."

"Then like friends?"

"Still no."

"Then what?"

"Well, like … Like a man loves a woman?"

"…"

"Oh my god, why are you so difficult all the time? Why do I get stuck explaining all this stuff to you? Do you realize how hard it is to explain more than a thousand years of human history to a king who's been dead for most of it?"

"…"

"Fine, just look up homosexuality on Google."

…

"Merlin, I found out what homosexuality is."

"And?"

"Are we … gay, Merlin?"

"Um, that's an interesting question. I –"

"Merlin, are you awake?"

"No."

"Merlin."

"…"

"Merlin."

"…"

"Fine then, I'll just –"

"No, don't go! Stay … Please?"

"Haha, I win!"

"Shut up and come back to bed, Arthur."

[typewriter-tardis]

Just In Time

"Tessa hissed – actually hissed–at de Quincey, her fangs sliding out. "Get. Back." She snarled the words, her voice–Camilles voice–dangerous and raw." I apologize for the terrible title. It was either that or CACh10 so you have to take what you can get.

A/N: This is somewhere in the middle of Clockwork Angel Chapter 10. I'm hazy myself as to where, but that's not important. It's after they meet Magnus Bane and before they find Nate.

Basically (for those of you who don't remember CACh10): Tessa, disguised as Lady Camille Belcourt, and Will are at de Quincey's house at a party. Will is posing as a Darkling, or human subjugate for Tessa (alias Camille). Trauma ensues.

It's only rated T for the minor violence and because I'm a sissy so I wanted to be careful.

I wrote this at 1 AM, guys, and it was 12 pages written, so bear with me now...

Also I wrote this in August so that's how long it took me to think of a title for it. Don't make fun of me. I suck at titles.

Tessa's eyes scanned the crowd, searching, searching, searching for the familiar inky black hair and angelic features that clearly marked one William Herondale. But "one William Herondale" did not appear and Tessa was growing increasingly peeved. Her "protector" was obviously not doing his job correctly. Vampires surrounded her, subjugates on their arms, their pale faces and sunken eyes turning to stare at her. Tessa realized that Camille Belcourt was probably very rarely seen looking lost and terrified. Tessa wondered vaguely whether those were expressions that Camille's beautiful and hauty face was capable of making. But the point was the William Herondale was nowhere to be seen. And Tessa was angry.

She had just about reached boiling point when a voice at her left ear murmured, "Camille, my love, you look a bit confused." Tessa nearly jumped, but a soft voice in her head purred, It's only Magnus, fool. Tessa rolled her eyes and thought peevishly, Oh, there you are. Decided to show up again, have we?

Magnus took her arm and led her to a secluded corner, where he hustled her behind a potted plant, his face and voice suddenly urgent as he gripped her arms. "You need to get Will out of here."

"What?" exclaimed Tessa. "Why? Where is he anyway? I haven't seen him for ages." The Camille inside of her winced. There were not words that Lady Camille Belcourt was used to uttering. So... déclassé, the inner-Camille sighed. Shut up, you, snapped Tessa.

"Where is Will?" she asked again.

"I saw de Quincey marching him away not long ago, he took him to a room off the hall –"

"What?" snapped Tessa. Magnus cringed. "You let de Quincey, a vampire just take him? Why didn't you – stop him? He'll eat him, EAT him. And it will be all – your – fault." With each word, she whacked Magnus around the side of the head.

"I couldn't – do – anything," Magnus gasped, ducking a last smack. "I, a warlock, could not just snatch a subjugate from under the nose of the host."

Tessa glared. "Well, I can. Will is my – my – subjugate. Now which room did de Quincey take him to?" she asked, peering out from behind the plant as Magnus pointed to a room directly across the room.

Her heart racing (well, her proverbial heart raced), Tessa marched (well, as much as Camille – who glided normally – could march) across the room, anger coursing through her veins (well, as much as it could for someone who didn't have blood coursing through their veins). Being Camille (being a vampire, really) is so un-literary, Tessa thought.

Vampires scattered before her as though each one assumed immediately that they had personally offended her and were about to be made to pay for their wrong-doing. Camille's fiery anger parted them easily and Tessa reached the door with inhuman speed (No pun intended, Tessa thought sarcastically). She tried the knob and flung the door open to revel a semi-conscious Will on a sofa, a small but profusely bleeding slit in his throat, and de Quincey leaning over him, a golden goblet pressed to Will's throat, a thin, sharp, blood-covered blade clutched in his other hand. He didn't even look up as Tessa stood in the doorway.

Camille's scream scratched in Tessa's throat and Tessa heard it as though through a wall of glass. She saw flashes of Camille's memories – prone figures being sucked dry by de Quincey and his cronies – screaming humans tied to chairs – vampires leaning over the pale subjugates with their dead eyes and gravelly gray skin and their unwavering devotion to their masters – and dead bodies of those who de Quincey had... enjoyed.

Tessa felt sick and felt Camille's vampire instincts and her own rage and fear moving her. She practically flew across the floor, throwing de Quincey off a feebly stirring Will. He slammed into the wall opposite and landed on his feet, surprise masking his features. She hissed – actually hissed – at de Quincey, her fangs sliding out. "Get. Back." She snarled the words, her voice – Camilles voice – dangerous and raw.

De Quincey stared, the goblet of Will's blood clutched in his hand. "Camille, I –"

"He. Is. Mine." Camille's sense of pride and property seemed to be taking over. Tessa would never have thought to use those particular words to objectify Will in such a... vampiric way. "I would thank you to leave my subjugate alone, Alexei," Tessa whispered, stressing his name, every shred of her being longing to rip de Quincey to... shreds.

"I apologize, Camille, but I thought maybe just... just a taste," de Quincey was backing away and Tessa realized that she – no, this was strictly Camille – was advancing on him, fangs bared menacingly.

"That," Tessa gestured broadly to the goblet, to the blood on both de Quincey's and Will's shirt-fronts staining Will's bared neck and his shoulder, on his collar-bone, "Was not 'just a taste,' Alexei. And I seem to recall me denying your request for just that earlier, on the grounds that your thirst overcomes you. Obviously, I was correct in denying you 'just a taste,' Alexei. Now please leave us."

It was a gamble.

And it succeeded. De Quincey turned quickly and left the room, turning to say to Tessa, "I hope I have not offended you too horribly, my dear Camille. I pray you will forgive me," and he left, leaving the door open a crack. Tessa hurried to it, searching the crowd again, this time for Magnus Bane.

She found him, lurking by the potted plant behind which they had hidden earlier. She met his blankly worried eyes. He nodded once and began slowly winding his way across the room, detouring to deflect suspicion Tessa assumed.

She closed the door and ran to Will, feeling the Change streaming from her like water from a waterfall.

She fell to her knees – finally hers, not Camille's, though she was wearings Camille's ridiculously puffy dress – and gazed at Will's pale face. His eyes were closed and his cheeks were an ashen gray. The would at his throat was a thin cut, but it was still gushing blood. Tessa felt sick.

"Will," she whispered, taking his cold hand. "Will, can you hear me? Please Will," she gasped desperately. She felt for his pulse, and finding it, was horrified to feel how weak and slow it was, like the fluttering of a dying bird's wings. "Oh, Will – I'm so sorry – I shouldn't have let you out of my sight – I," she broke off. Will's eyelids fluttered. "Will! Can you hear me?"

He moaned faintly, trying to lift a hand to his throat. Tessa stopped him, gently clasping his hand between hers. "Will, it'll be alright. Magnus will know what to do."

"Tess," he murmured. "I must be dead."

"What? Why?" Tessa spluttered, confused and feeling her face flushed when he said Tess. At least, she tried to convince herself, you can flush now. At least that's an improvement on being Camille.

"I've got you holding my hand instead of Camille."

Tessa didn't know what to say.

The door slammed open and Magnus Bane stood in the doorway. He have them one glance before diving inside, the door slamming closed behind him. "Mother of God," he said in hushed tones.

"Is it that bad?" gasped Tessa. "Can't you do something, Magnus? Anything?"

"No, it's you, you silly girl. I didn't know you'd changed back. If I hadn't closed the door in time, any number of people would have seen you... well, like this. Not looking remotely like Camille."

"Thank the Angel," muttered Will. "I, for one, am thankful for that."

Magnus ignored this, stepping further into the room. He glanced at Will, whose hand was still clasped in Tessa's.

"Mother of God," he repeated.

"Oh?" asked Tessa, a bit testily. "And what is it now?"

"This time it is the wound," said Magnus worriedly. Seeing Tessa's horrified expression and Will's pained one, he added, "Well, I'm pretty sure I can fix this. I mean, the Darklings can manage almost this much blood-loss pretty well, for humans, I mean."

There was a wee bit too much emphasis on the "almost" for Tessa's liking. She felt Will's hand go limp in hers. Her eyes shot to his face. What little color had been regained was lost. He seemed hardly to be breathing. "Oh God," she gasped. "Will? Will! WILL!" Frantically, she scrabbled for his pulse. It beat weakly under her fingers. "Will," she said firmly. "Please don't die."

"Yes," said Magnus sarcastically, circling the sofa and stopping behind it a Will's head, "Because that works every time."

Tessa ignored him, continuing. "Will, Magnus will save you."

"Oh, I don't know," said Magnus. "I wouldn't be too certain if I were you."

Tessa continued to ignore him and stroked Will's pale cheek gently. "It will be alright, Will."

"As I said, don't be too sure –"

"Shut. Up."

Magnus shut up. And Tessa continued to stroke Will's cheek and hold his hand while Magnus... well, she wasn't sure what he was doing. Some sort of magic.

When he was done, he stood back and sighed. "Well, it's about the best we can hope for at the moment. An iratze would be best, but he's too weak to perform one at the moment. He'll have to wait until you get him back to the Institute for that."

"Can't you do one?" Tessa inquired curiously.

"Oh no. Not me. I am but a mere warlock, my dear. The magic of the iratze is reserved for the Nephilim alone." Magnus laughed bitterly.

"Oh." Tessa wasn't sure what else she could say to that.

"It will be a bit painful when he wakes," Magnus continued, in his usual calm tone. "You'd better wait until he can walk properly before you go out there again. It may take a while. You'd better be the judge of that. I have a feeling that Mr. Herondale here is the suffering-hero type, not the honest-about-the-pain type. Oh, and," he added as an after-though, you ought to tell him he'll have a scar there for the rest of his life. Let him take that as he will. Nephilim seem to take pride in their scars." Magnus walked to the door. "Well," he said. "I'll be outside if you need me. And don't forget to Change back before you leave. It's been a pleasure." He tipped an imaginary hat and squeezed out the door, letting it open only a crack. A blue glow lit the knob and Tessa heard it click locked.

She realized she should have thanked him before he left. Now she seemed ungrateful. She could almost feel Aunt Harriet's horror at her impolite behavior.

Will stirred.

"Will?" she gasped, wide-eyed. His eyes fluttered open. His familiar, yet still strangely startling, blue eyes met hers. He blinked. "How do you feel?" she asked quietly.

"Like... like a cart-horse stepped on my neck. And someone tried unsuccessfully to cut off my head. And then someone tried, a bit more successfully, to drain me of blood –" he broke off. "So de Quincey took a bit more than a taste, did he?"

"Uh, yes." Tessa felt questions bubbling up inside of her. "How in the world did he get you in here? Did he attack you, catch you off guard?"

"No. I let him," offhandedly.

"You... you what?!" Tessa almost shrieked.

Will winced, a hand went to his throat, probing the scar there.

"You'll have a scar there for the rest of your life, Magnus says," Tessa whispered quietly, trying to gauge the reaction in his eyes.

"Oh goody. Another."

His expression, as usual, was impossible to read.

"Yes alright, but why – in heaven's name – did you let de Quincey 'take at taste'? Why, Will? Why?"

"Well, two reasons. For one thing, he would have gotten angry if I hadn't let him. You already refused him once. I guess he just thought I looked tasty." Will grinned and winced, pain shooting across his eyes. His hand clenched Tessa's tightly. "Alright, now it feels like someone is holding a white hot poker to my throat," he said through clenched teeth, his voice shaking.

Tessa wordlessly stroked his hair.

Will's eyes fluttered closed. He stayed silent for a moment before saying, without opening his eyes, "And the other reason is that if I refused it would have looked fishy. They would have figured something was up. A subjugate refusing a vampire a drink, it just doesn't happen. And then they would drag me off and decide that something was up with you, once they discovered your subjugate was a Shadowhunter. I figured that they would either assume you were a spy or someone was spying on you. Either way, that would make you a liability. They would come after you. Then you would drag you away, kicking and screaming, without me to protect you. They don't treat traitors well here." His eyes opened and they were glazed with pain.

"So," Tessa whispered slowly, "Am I to understand that you almost let a vampire drain you of blood because you didn't want de Quincey to – to do – whatever he does to traitors – to me?"

Will was breathing quickly. "Yes," he gasped out and clenched his teeth.

Unsure of what to do now, Tessa squeezed his hand. "You shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have put yourself in that sort of danger for me."

Will squeezed her hand back and, gathering his strength, he said, "I would have been a terrible protector if I hadn't. And anyway, this turned out fine, didn't it?" He tried to laugh and couldn't.

"Oh yes, fine," Tessa snapped, suddenly angry. "Do you just not care about your own safety, William? Because that's what it seems like to me. You're so willing to put yourself in so much danger and to you it's nothing." She glared at his closed eyes.

Slowly, he opened them. "That's an interesting question, Tess." He blinked at her, considering her. "No, I suppose I don't care about my own safety. Thought that's sort of comes with Shadowhunting." Seeing her angry retort coming, he continued, "Though I do realize that my love for danger exceeds that of Charlotte and Henry and Jem." He fell silent.

"Why is that, Will?"

Quickly, "I have reasons."

"You act so nonchalant, like you don't care about anything. You are happy one minute, angry the next, then full of intensity the next, then deep and thoughtful, then happy again. You pull me in, then push me away just as fast." Tessa fell silent. She hadn't meant to say all that. She looked away.

Will's hand lifted shakily to her cheek. She started at the contact, then stilled, gazing into his pain-filled eyes. And it wasn't just the pain of his healing wound. "Tess."

"Yes?"

"I swear, if I could tell you why, I would. But there's no way I can tell you this. It would only hurt you. No," he said quickly, seeing her open mouth. "No, truly, Tess, you must believe me. It would hurt you in a way you can't even imagine. You just have to trust me when I say that I can't tell you why I have to push you away."

Tessa did something then that Aunt Harriet would certainly have frowned upon. It was something that she had never done before, nor had she ever even considered such a forward act.

She kissed William Herondale. On the lips.

Initially, she was almost as surprised as he was. Almost. He gasped against her lips, trying to pull away. Tessa's hand went to his chest and one of Will's hands slid to her face, the other one resting on her shoulder. He pulled her closer to him, murmuring her name – not Tessa, but Tess – into her lips. He tasted of blood and tears, and of rain. Tessa felt suddenly woozy, confused and uncertain, her senses going wild.

Will gasped and pulled away, sharply. "No," he said forcefully. "Tessa, I can't. I just can't."

"Will," Tessa began.

"Please. This can't happen."

"Why not?" Tessa flared up. "Why is it, Will, that you do this? You pull me in, then send me sprawling. Do you just like having women hanging on your arm at all times? Do you just like the feeling of breaking someone's heart?"

"No – no, Tessa –" His voice broke. "I have to – to push you away. I have to protect you," he finished weakly.

"From what? And how is breaking my heart 'protecting' me?" Tessa asked quietly.

A look of intense pain flashed in Will's eyes. "You don't understand."

"No. No I don't. And I never will. Not unless you just explain it to me Will."

"No."

"Why not?"

"No."

"Why. Not."

"Because it could get you killed, Tessa! That's why!" Will yelled, anger flaring in his blue eyes. Immediately he turned away, hiding his face in a pillow. Tessa heard his deep breath as he sighed unevenly. Tessa recognized the sigh of someone trying to suppress tears. Hesitantly, she put a hand on Will's shoulder.

"Will?"

There was no answer.

"Will... please..."

Still, nothing.

"Alright Will. For whatever noble reason you refuse to love me properly, I'll just let you be."

Then, finally, he spoke. "It's not that I refuse to love you."

"What?" Tessa was too startled to process this.

"I love you, Tessa. It's that I can't let you love me." And then it all came pouring out, Will's voice trembling as he told her the whole story... How he had opened a Pyxis and released a demon that had cursed him and killed his sister. "And so everyone who loves me will die. Ella was the first. And I've been afraid to let anyone love me. I've forced myself to push everyone away," Will finished, wiping angrily at what looked suspiciously like a tear.

Tessa stared blankly at him. Finally, she reached for him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning down to hug him.

Will swore. "No. No! Tessa! This isn't supposed to happen. You need to hate me. You have to hate me!"

Tessa could have laughed. But then again, she couldn't. "Will," she said finally, "You have been at the Institute what – five? – years, desperately trying to make everyone hate you."

"I wouldn't say desperately, it sounds so... weak," Will complained in an attempt at humor.

"And you know no one really hates you. Except maybe Jessamine, but she's just Jessie. That's different."

"I'll say. No wait! You're not saying I've completely failed in making them hate me. They can't stand me. They can't wait to get rid of me," bitterly.

"Will, do you really think that? You can't possibly believe that Charlotte and Henry can actually hate you. Or Thomas and Agatha. You may have tried, Will, but you've failed. And no matter how hard you've tried to make me hate, I never could."

Will closed his eyes in misery.

"You can try to find the demon. Ask Magnus! I'm sure he can do something."

"I'm sure." There was no emotion in Will's voice as he said it.

"Will, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't give up hope."

Will's face quite obviously said that he already had. "I left my family, I killed my sister, I'm doomed to live alone and Gabriel was right when he said I wouldn't live past nineteen. It's true, not least because I shall surely go insane and kill myself before then."

"Will."

He didn't answer, only raised his gaze to the ceiling. He moaned.

"Will, we've been here for a very long time."

"True."

"And I think de Quincey is mad at me."

"Why?"

"For, uh... probably for snarling and hissing at him and kicking him out of..." Tessa looked around them, "His library. Oh and for yelling at him for trying to eat you."

"You hissed at him?" Will sounded amused. "I thought I was hearing a cat."

"Hmmm. As I was saying, we should move. D'you think you can walk?"

"It's possible."

Tessa lifted Will under his arms, he pushed off from the sofa. Even with momentum, he was very, very heavy. Too much muscle. On his feet, he swayed slightly, but assured her that it came from lying down for so long. He took a step, Tessa's arm around his waist, his arm around her shoulder.

He ended up flat on his face on the carpet.

"What the hell was Magnus messing about with my legs for?" snapped Will angrily, pushing himself off the floor. With the help of Tessa, he finally got to his feet.

It took several tries to get him to the door, but once Tessa had successfully Changed back into Camille, they exited the dark library, leaving behind a blood-stained sofa and a blood-encrusted knife, and entering a vampire filled hall, where a crowd was just beginning to gather at the center of the room.

"Aha, I hope we haven't missed anything important," Will murmured, reaching a hand into his pocket where Tessa knew the Phoshor was.

"Just in time," Magnus said from Tessa's right. Will leaned around from her left.

"Just in time," he agreed.

A/N: I'll leave the rest up to your imaginations, dear readers, but I will say that what happens next is much like what happens in the book after Tessa discovers Nathaniel is about to be consumed by London's vampires. A similar battle ensues, however I'm sure Will's involvement is slightly lessened by his blood-loss. As their first kiss has been accelerated, I suppose there is no Attic/Holy Water/Kiss scene. And I suppose the entire rest of the series is rather drastically changed... But whatever.

Thanks for reading this far, and goodbye! Please review. Reviews make me dance with glee. Just a hint :)

[typewriter-tardis]

Imaginary Friend

"After the Fall, John didn't venture outside 221B for exactly one week and five days." John comes up with a new strategy for dealing with Sherlock's... death. But how much is his imagination and how much is not remains to be seen.

A/N: Very loosely based on a post I found on tumblr that I can now no longer find.

It's just my version of that, hope you enjoy!

After the Fall, John didn't venture outside 221B for exactly one week and five days.

Each of those days either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft or both would tap at the door and let themselves in. Each time, they would tell John he ought to keep it locked. Each time, John reminded them that Sherlock might not have his keys when he came back.

Mrs. Hudson brought him groceries, milk and some tea usually. She brought him scones every day at 4 when they were supposed to be having tea together, but he never heated the water. She would sigh and put the kettle on the stove and bring him a scone for the wait and John would eat it in silence, hearing her telling him things.

He wasn't really listening, and she knew it too, but Mycroft told her he needed someone to talk to him. "Talk at, more like," she grumbled, but she did it anyway.

Most of the time, Mycroft came when John was asleep. But he came at 2 PM every Tuesday, stared at John, told him to keep the door locked, and walked out again.

Secretly, John suspected that his therapist was somehow involved.

The first time he set foot outside the door of the flat was to go with Mrs. Hudson to the grave.

And he glared down at the stone, feeling slightly foolish when he begged, "Please don't be dead."

The next time was to visit his therapist, who told him to write about it. It took a while, staring at an empty word document, clenching his teeth, unclenching them, closing his eyes, opening them.

And when he finally began to type something, he heard Sherlock saying in his head, "I'd be lost without my blogger" and he lost his nerve.

It took him 13 tries, 13 empty word documents, including the first one, to finally start, but when he did, he found that, strangely enough, his therapist had been right. It did help.

So eventually, he went back to work at the hospital. He saw Sarah every day, she seemed slightly interested, he couldn't be sure, but he felt strangely unaffected.

He fell into a routine – wake up, go to work, come home, sleep – that wouldn't have been enough if it weren't for the details that made it worthwhile.

On the way home from work, he stopped on the street and looked up, every day, the spot he stood and watched the first time. In his mind, he saw the billowing coat, heard the voice like a recording, "I guess this is my note," and watched the Fall.

The first day he did it, he imagined he saw Sherlock when he got home, sitting in the arm chair, facing the door, in his bathrobe, fingers splayed, pressed tip-to-tip, elbows on the armrests. He was so real that John almost called his name before Sherlock disappeared.

And so the next day, and the next, and the next, when John got to that spot on the sidewalk, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before watching the fall, and when he got home, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking around. And when he did, Sherlock was there to greet him.

Sometimes he apologized first, sometimes explained. Each day, the explanation was slightly different, though after a while, John started to run out of explanations and began to stick to his old favorites. But the apologies didn't take long to perfect. A hug, an I'm sorry, an I missed you, and a John... from Sherlock and a You bloody bastard, a You're an idiot, you know that, an I missed you too, and another hug from John. John made tea then and forgot about the water, until Sherlock asked in a peeved voice, "Aren't you going to get that?" and he did.

It was... Easy.

Sherlock didn't change much after the first few weeks, there was never too much variation in what he said, what he did. Coming from one man's imagination, there weren't thatmany alternatives.

One day, however, it did alter. Just a little bit.

For the first time, Sherlock was asleep on the floor. John wondered at that and supposed that his subconscious was getting bored. Bored. But Sherlock woke up and the apologies started – first with the I'm so sorry, John, then an I can explain, then another I'm sorry.

John didn't wait around to hear the rest. He headed to the kitchen.

"John please, I'm sorry," Sherlock pleaded. My subconscious is really creative today, John thought mildly, ignoring Sherlock and walking to the stove.

As Sherlock hovered behind him, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, eyes darting around the flat, John wondered if he should perhaps call his therapist. Was all this imaginary friend shit dangerous? Behind him, Sherlock was asking questions, did Mrs. Hudson bring him food, did Mycroft come by ("He said he would, he promised he would"), and would John forgive him because even though he shouldn't, Sherlock needed him, needed John and he was so, so sorry.

John listened to his apologies, his pleading, his explanations. But he didn't turn around.

Finally, the water boiled and Sherlock stopped talking. John stared into the space above the stove.

"Aren't you going to get that?" asked Sherlock quietly.

John removed the teapot from the burner.

After that, the Sherlock in John's mind calmed down a bit. He didn't pull any stunts, didn't follow John around. He imagined him sitting in the armchair in his bathrobe sometimes, other times in a suit. He still greeted John at the door though, sad-eyed. Sherlock was oddly stubborn for an imaginary friend: He wouldn't go away when John imagined he did any more.

John worried that that might be a bad sign.

Then one afternoon Sherlock disappeared for a few hours and John sat around, filling out paperwork, doing a bit of blogging. It became a daily occurrence, during John's period of distraction. It was during these Sherlock-less stretches that Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft came by usually.

It became so easy for John to see Sherlock sitting there that he stopped having to try. He didn't even have to close his eyes any more... Sherlock was there to greet him the second he stepped in the door, and John grew accustomed to seeing him there.

Till one day, Sherlock wasn't.

John frowned and made tea, waiting patiently while the water boiled away and Sherlock appeared at his elbow to ask him if he was going to "get that."

He came accompanied by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, wearing slightly more worried than usual expressions. Mycroft blustered, brandishing papers, headlines blaring of "Redemption" and "Fake Idols" and "Sleuths." Mrs. Hudson fretted, waving her hand in front of John's face and wringing her hands.

John made an offended face.

"Oh John," her distress beginning to pique his interest. "Don't you know Sherlock is back?"

John turned slowly to Sherlock, whose mouth was pressed in a severe line.

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Hadn't you noticed?" Mycroft gasped, incredulous and almost lost for words.

"You – You," John stammered. "You can see him too?"

[typewriter-tardis]

Her Way With The Frock

Through the library window, Tom Branson watches Sybil Crawley showing off her new frock to her family, and thinks about his feelings for her.

Tom Branson poked his head around the window frame to peer into the room. He broke into a grin. He couldn't help himself.

In the room, Lady Sybil twirled in her light blue "frock." She pulled out the pant legs to show everyone, her face under the headband aglow with pleasure at her family's surprise and her Granny's horror at the modernity of such an article of clothing.

Branson remembered how Lady Sybil had responded when he asked her whether she thought she would get her way with the frock. She had been momentarily silent and he had hoped she wouldn't take offense that the chauffeur had spoken to her out of turn. But she hadn't. Neither had she taken offense when he handed her the pamphlets about women getting the vote. He had been right to assume that she was a free-minded woman, not controlled by her family's fear of change.

Looking at her now, through the glass of the library, he knew she wasn't contained by the walls and stone of this house.

Branson watched her smile and turn, all grace and glamor. His mind turned a faint shade of blue, just looking at her and her "frock." He liked the way it fell about her hips and flowed around her legs. He tore his eyes away from her midriff and looked at her face. Her smile sent a chill through him. Branson tried to imagine that she was smiling at him.

He suddenly wondered what They, Lady Sybil, Lady Crawley, and the Dowager Countess in particular, would think of him spying on them through the library window, if they happened to look over in his direction, from just the right angle to see around the plant on the table... He pulled back quickly and leaned against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and saw Lady Sybil's image superimposed on top of the bright, brilliant green hills of the estate.

Branson tried angrily to shake Lady Sybil from his vision.

But she persisted.

He tried telling himself quite firmly that the daughter of an Earl and the Earl's Irish chauffeur would never work. Never. This could end badly, he tried. You'll just break your heart, he warned. You're just an Irish socialist servant, he thought, but he interrupted himself mid-warning.

Soon, that wouldn't matter any more. What was he thinking? Wasn't that his cause? He turned and walked towards the garage with a hint of a swagger in his step.

And anyway, he thought, as he whistled a jolly tune, if she loved me, I'm sure she'd get her way, one way or another, just like with that frock. She was a stubborn and persistent girl, that Lady Sybil, and her image in his mind was as persistent as ever, digging its heels into the rolling hills of his mind. Not that his mind was putting up much of a fight anymore.

This is from a really long time ago, I'm sorry. It's not very good.

[typewriter-tardis]

Behind the Walls

Between the end of Clockwork Angel and the Epilogue- Will suffers from angst when thinking about Tessa and why he can't let her love him.

A/N: Takes place right after Clockwork Angel and before the epilogue. It builds off stuff you learn in Clockwork Prince though, so if you don't know the whole "Curse" story, then you'll get lost. When I wrote this, I was bored. I was also feeling angsty. This is the scandalous love-child of my boredom, angst, and Infernal Devices obsession. Enjoy!

Will glared around the bedroom. The walls were too close together, the bed was too near the door, and the ceiling was too low. He felt confused. Confused and angry. Very angry.

Why couldn't Tessa see? Why couldn't she understand that, yes, he did lie to make himself look bad, but he didn't like to make himself look bad to hurt her. He had his reasons for doing this. Reasons he could most certainly not tell her. And deep down inside, behind the walls he had constructed to keep everyone out, he was still just a small, scared, vulnerable twelve-year-old boy.

But, Will tried to convince himself, he didn't want Tessa to see that. He didn't want her to see his fear or his insecurity, how he needed all of 'this,' the Institute, Shadowhunting, fighting, her to keep him sane, to keep him grounded, and most of all, in a roundabout way, to keep him alive. He tried to convince himself that he wanted her to think he he was strong and invulnerable, that he didn't need anyone or anything, that he didn't need anyone's help. He wanted to think he wanted her to only see that part of him he had carefully constructed for her to not like, the part that would make her turn her back on him forever. The part that would save her.

But really, he knew he was selfish and he wanted her anyway. He knew it could only hurt her in the end, but he couldn't keep himself from loving her. He knew he wanted to finally tell someone why he did the things he did. After so long, he was tired of being hated. And he loved her.

Tessa- her bravery, her brilliance, her kindness and tolerance of his abominable behavior, tolerating him still. He even admired her stolid love of her detestable brother, Nathaniel, despite his selling her out to the Magister and then betraying her once more. He wished he hadn't spoken to her the way he had on the roof. It had been all part of that idiotic charade of frequenting taverns and brothels, the charade of looking bad. She had said as much. Apparently Jem had said as much.

Jem. Another one who he kept so selfishly close, who he could not bear to let go of.

Tessa had called him cruel. And maybe he was. At any rate, it was better that she thought him so. It would be easier if she hated him. But he wasn't sure he could stand it. He had a burning desire to go and kiss her, like he had those two times, to find her wherever she might be, take her in his arms, and, no matter who was watching, kiss her. But he couldn't. Not now and, as it seemed, not ever. It was too late for him to stop himself from loving her, but for her he would have to try.

With an angry moan, Will flung himself onto his bed face down and concentrated very hard on not crying.

[typewriter-tardis]

An Unfair Advantage: Part 3

You remember that bloody handkerchief covered in Will's blood that Tessa stuck in her sleeve? Yeah, that one. It's about to come in handy when Tessa decides to finally figure out what makes Will act so coldly.

Tessa felt the softness of the sheets under her cheek and sighed, rolling over. A loud thump sounded from off to her left, and a very masculine cry followed. Tessa sat up and peered over the edge of the bed. "Will?"

Will stared up at her, wide eyed. "Tessa? What are you doing here?" He looked around the room quickly and, seeming to realize where he was, snapped his head back to look at her. "Were you here all night? Tessa, you know I don't- you shouldn't- I-"

"Will," Tessa interrupted, but he continued.

"What happened last night, Tessa? Why are you here?"

"A-After we got back from the Ifrit Den, Will, I- I shouldn't have. It was wrong, and I know it, but I had to know-"

"What?" Will's voice was dangerous. "Tessa, what did you do?"

She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. If this was how angry he was without even knowing what she had done... What would he do when she told him? "I Changed, Will. Into you." He said nothing, so she looked up at him. He just stared at her, not seeming to understand. "I Changed into you, Will," she repeated, "I saw your memories." When he still didn't respond, she took a deep breath and steeled herself.

"I know about Ella. And the Curse."

Will flinched. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "How?"

"Pardon?"

"How? How did you Change into me?"

Tessa leaned across the bed to the nightstand. Gingerly, she plucked the handkerchief, the blood now dried and turned almost brown, and showed it to Will. He looked at it skeptically, then looked at her with his head tilted. "It was Cyril's, but he must not have used it much before he let you use it to mop up the blood."

"Blood?" Will sounded almost interested.

"Yes, from where Jem hit you."

Will blinked. "Jem hit me? Jemhit me? Are you completely sure?" He shook his head, even as Tessa nodded. "He did, Will. He was angry, you seemed to be mocking his... condition."

Will snorted. "Mocking it, indeed. He's not the only one with troubles." He realized that he had brought them back to the topic of his Curse, and flinched, his face paling visibly. He gulped. "Tessa, you shouldn't have done that."

They both knew what he was talking about.

"Why didn't you tell anyone? All those years, trying to make people hate you... How did you do it without breaking? How did you survive? I saw all the times you looked into the Thames and wanted to jump in, all the times you considered jumping off the Institute roof... Will, didn't you know you could never really make us hate you?" Tessa slid down off the bed and onto the floor beside him.

He sighed, a broken sigh, full of desire and pain and wishful dreams. She remembered the emotions she had felt when she broke into his mind and past the walls he had built to try to keep others out. "So last night wasn't a dream, then?"

Tessa started. "You remember that?"

"If by 'that', you mean you kissing me, then yes, I do remember that. I thought it might have been a dream. A pleasant one, at that."

"The other you would have made a mean comment about that." Tessa wasn't sure why she said it, but it was true. The other Will would have said something mean about her kissing abilities, or possibly insulted her honor. Not, of course, that he didn't have completely noble intentions when he did that, it had only been to protect her after all.

In a last-ditch attempt to regain the last fragments of his carefully built-up shield, Will made a particularly Will-ish remark. "What makes you think I'm not still the 'other Will'?" He tried to glare, but it was too much effort.

"Will," Tessa said, gently, reaching out to stroke his cheek. He shied away like a wounded animal. "Will, I've seen your mind, I've seen you memories and felt your feelings. I know the real you, the old you is still in there, waiting until it's allowed to come out."

"It never will be. The old Will is gone, and he'll never come back, Tessa. He can't." Will shook his head.

Tessa scooted closer to him and reached a hand out to caress his cheek gently. This time she didn't pull her hand away when he tried to move away. "Will, being this angry, hostile version of yourself doesn't stop us from loving you. It may have stopped Jessamine, but the rest of us can still see through you, you know. We know there's more to you than meets the eye. Even the others can, and I haven't even told them what I know. And I won't, I promise, not if you don't want me to," she said, answering his worried look.

There was a pause. Then, "Thank you, Tessa."

Tessa stared at Will, noticing the vaguely unhealthy look of the flush in his cheeks and the way his usually so blue eyes looked almost gray in the dim light shining through the window of his room. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, she searched them to find a sign of the Will she'd seen in Will's mind. What she saw was not the laughing boy in his early memories, but the lost boy she'd seen at age twelve, walking the long road from Wales to England and hiding in his room crying at the sound of his mother and father calling his name.

"Why don't you call me Tess any more, Will?" Tessa asked. There had been something strange about the way he had been talking to her, and now she realized, he hadn't been calling her by his special nickname for her. No one called her Tess, except Will, and, on occasion, Jem. But it was never the same. It didn't hold the same thrill, the same excitement, the same meaning. When Will called her Tess, she thought of the kiss in the attic. She thought of the kiss on the roof. She thought of the first time she had seen him and how she had thought he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen.

He still was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen, but sitting there in front of her on the floor of his room with a confused expression on his face, he wasn't just beautiful. He was tragic.

"I- I don't know." Will paused and took a breath. "Tessa- Tess," his voice broke, "I can't, you know that. I can't let myself love you, because when I do, I can't push you away."

"But I don't want you to push me away!" Tessa cried. "Will, I love you. When you push me away, it breaks my heart, but it doesn't make me stop loving you. I'll never stop loving you, Will. No matter how many time you try to make me."

"Tess, I have to protect you. If you love me, you'll die, just like- just like Ella." Tears began to roll down Will's face. He brushed at them angrily. It had been so long since he had cried in front of anyone.

Tessa leaned forward. "Will," she whispered. "I haven't died yet. And if I do, I want to have loved you first." Gently, with her thumb, she wiped a tear from Will's cheek and took his hand in hers. "Please. Let me."

Will looked away, but Tessa turned his face back to her. When she kissed him, he tried to pull away, but was stopped by the wall at his back. She brought her other hand up to his chest and leaned against him. One hand tangled in his hair, playing with the curls, the other ran down his neck to his shoulder. Will, almost without meaning to, but only almost, brought a hand to the back of her neck. He lifted his other to her back, and pressed her against him. Tessa felt him relaxing against her, and thought how ironic it was that, when they had kissed so passionately before, she had been the one to relax into him, the one to be reluctant at first. She remembered how he had pushed her from him both times and how hollow she had felt after feeling so complete... But now she knew why. All the hollowness and pain had been filled instead with pity and love for Will.

When they broke apart, it was only because a sharp knock on the door alerted them to the existence of the world around them.

"Master Will?" It was Sophie. "Master Will? It's breakfast time! Mrs. Branwell says if you don't get up now, you won't get any food."

Will looked into Tessa's wide eyes as he said, "Alright, Sophie. I'll get up."

"And Miss Tessa, if you want me to help you dress, I can wait in your room until you're ready."

Tessa and Will gasped in unison. "Bu-But," spluttered Tessa, "How in the world did you know I was in here, Sophie?"

They heard Sophie chuckle. "You weren't in your room, and this was the most logical place for you you to be, Miss Tessa." She paused. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone"

Tessa felt relief surge through her. She wasn't sure that the Institute was quite that much different than the outside world in respects to scandal. "Thank you, Sophie. I will be there in just a few minutes."

"No need to rush." The amusement in Sophie's voice was barely masked by politeness. Her footsteps retreated down the corridor.

Will pulled Tessa to him and kissed her hard on the lips, crushing her body against his. Tessa gasped in surprise, but folded herself into his arms happily. Eventually she had to break away. "We should go to breakfast," she said reluctantly. Her skirt was crushed from sleeping in it and sitting on the floor in it, and she tried futilely to smooth out the wrinkles when she stood. Will remained on the floor. He looked up at her though his thick dark eyelashes, then grinned widely. This was the boy she had first met, but was it the Will of old, Tessa wondered, smiling back down at him.

"I don't want to let you out of my sight," Will said, "Even for just a moment."

"I'm afraid that, if we want to avoid too much suspicion, you must," Tessa said wryly. "I'll see you at breakfast. Do change your shirt. It's wrinkled and it has blood on it."

Will looked down at it with interest and said, "Do you think it makes me look handsomely disheveled? Does that look suit me?" His eyes twinkled, something she had rarely seen them do.

Tessa felt a strange exhilaration overcome her. "Most things make you look handsomely disheveled and almost any look suits you," she told him. Taking a breath and knowing she sounded flirty (and, for once, not really caring), she added, "And you always look handsome."

In a blur of movement, Will was on his feet and pinning her to the door. He pressed against her and whispered into her lips, "I'm so glad you think so." Tessa smiled as he kissed her. She forced him away gently and said, "Alright. Now I really have to go."

Sighing theatrically, Will said, "If you must."

"I must."

"Till we meet again, my lady," Will murmured, kissing her hand. Tessa giggled and retrieved her hand from his grasp. Opening the door, she slid into the corridor. She turned to look at him and was rewarded by his violet-blue eyes gazing back at her. She smiled at him and turned.

"I love you, Tess."

Tessa halted. She turned back to him and looked him directly in the eyes. With conviction, she said, "I know, Will."

[typewriter-tardis]

An Unfair Advantage: Part 2

You remember that bloody handkerchief covered in Will's blood that Tessa stuck in her sleeve? Yeah, that one. It's about to come in handy when Tessa decides to finally figure out what makes Will act so coldly.

Tessa cracked open her bedroom door and peered out. Jem's door was open across the hall, and she could see the light spilling out from it onto the rug. She slid out into the hall. Quietly closing the door, she crept along the wall past Jem's room.

He had his back to the door, holding his violin to his shoulder but not playing. Tessa tried not to look at him. She knew she should talk to him, but she persuaded herself in the split second as she passed his door, that Will needed her more.

Walking the Institute corridors, Tessa tried to steer her mind clear of Will, his tragic history and his memories. But little snippets kept coming back to her... The demon... His sister's dead body... The sickening pain he had felt when he gazed at her... The piercing loneliness that came from shunning those he loved best... And the very thing she didnot want to remember, the look on her own face on the rooftop and the stunned empty feeling he had felt when she had left the roof and he was alone.

Tessa found herself dwelling on that memory as she wandered the halls, found herself reliving it again and again, picturing her own face and feeling the strange relief. He had thought that would persuade her. He had thought she would hate him. Tessa remembered wanting to hate him, if only to protect herself from a broken heart. But it was always too hard. Somehow, no matter how foully he acted towards her, no matter how awful he had been or what insult he had thrown her way, she could never find it in herself to hate him. And now she knew why he had done it, and she forgave him for it. If possible, she loved him even more for it.

And for all his fear and pain and broken-ness, Will was stronger than any of them had given him credit for, for not giving up and for doing it at all.

Though she had only been to Will's room the one time, earlier that day, Tessa re-traced her steps, down the winding corridors, blindly following the hallway till she reached the tower. The door before her stood ajar. A faint light crept around the door. Tessa peered through the crack and saw Will, laying sprawled across his bed.

He tossed and turned feverishly, murmuring things too soft to hear.

And then, "Tessa."

She blinked, almost wondering if he had seen her at the door. But no, his eyes were still half closed, and he still trashed across the bed as though trying to escape a snake's hold.

He was dreaming about her.

Almost involuntarily, Tessa stepped forward into the room. "Will," she whispered. In his drug induced stupor, Will did not or could not hear her.

"Oh, Will," Tessa sighed. She stood at the side of Will's bed and watched him for a moment. Other than the red of his cheeks, his face looked paler even than it had lately, the skin under his eyes almost the same blue-violet as his eyes. His forehead was shiny with sweat. His cheeks were flushed and fiery red.

Tessa sunk onto the bed beside him and stroked his cheek with her cool fingers. Will moaned something about an angel and pressed her hand to his face with a shaking and hot hand.

With her other hand, she reached to feel his forehead to check his temperature. Only then did she realize that in her left hand, she still held Cyril's handkerchief, now stiff with Will's congealed blood. Tessa cringed, remembering why she was there. The handkerchief was flung onto the dresser next to the bed. It landed next to a pile of books. On top was A Tale of Two Cities.

For the second time that night, Tessa wanted to curl up and die.

She withdrew her hand from his grasp and set to pushing him all the way onto the bed. It was hard work, for a thin girl. And Will was no twig. But finally, Tessa had rotated Will's body so his head was on the pillow.

On the floor, she discovered a bowl of water. There was a damp cloth on the floor, flung roughly aside. Cyril must have brought it. And Will must have discarded the cloth in his feverish state. Tessa wetted the cloth and mopped awkwardly at Will's face.

He stirred and groaned.

"Will, shhh," Tessa whispered to him. "It's me, Tessa."

"Tess," he breathed.

Tessa found herself moved by a strange, unrecognizable force. She leaned in and kissed him. He gasped in surprise, but Tessa did not draw back. She entwined her fingers in his black hair and let him reach for hers. He pulled the pins from her hair as he had before, and let it fall over her shoulders. His hands grasped at her curls and tangled in them.

When Tessa had to breath, she pulled back. Will's glazed eyes stared up at her, squinting as though he was trying very hard to understand something. "Tess?" he asked, unsure.

"Will," she answered.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming." Distractedly, he reached for her hand. "But what a dream, better by far... than what I've dreampt before..." He laced his fingers with hers. "Stay with me, let me never wake..." He exhaled slowly.

"This isn't a dream," said Tessa slowly. "If it is, then I wish never to wake as well." She leaned in again and Will pulled her closer. When they kissed again, there was an unreal feeling to it. Tessa wondered if it was really a dream, and she had imagined it all, the Change, Will's memories... What if she were really in her bed in her room, Jem across the hall, not playing his violin.

Jem.

Tessa banished him from her mind.

She pulled back from Will and looked into his starry blue eyes. "Will, I- I have something to tell you- I'm sorry, but I-"

"I love you." Will spoke quietly but firmly. His voice was low and full of emotion.

Tessa gulped. She couldn't say it now, not when he was like this. It would have to wait... But could she survive the night with the knowledge of the curse weighing on her?

"Stay with me."

Those three words were Tessa's savior.

"Yes," she whispered. "Always."

She curled up next to Will, her head resting on the place where his shoulder met his chest. She felt his breathing slowing as he fell into sleep. Tessa closed her eyes. It had been a long, long day. She closed her eyes, half-fearing more images from Will's mind, but they didn't come. Instead, she felt only the calm and relief of sleep as it crept up on her mind.

As Tessa drifted into slumber, she vaguely thought she felt Will's hand on her face, but she couldn't be sure...

[typewriter-tardis]

An Unfair Advantage: Part 1

You remember that bloody handkerchief covered in Will's blood that Tessa stuck in her sleeve? Yeah, that one. It's about to come in handy when Tessa decides to finally figure out what makes Will act so coldly.

Author's Note: This was maybe going to be a continuing thing, but when I wrote it, it was midnight and I was only halfway through Clockwork Prince, so... Maybe a one-shot, maybe longer. We shall see. This is my version of what happened after the ifrit den. Therefore, there is no Tessa and Jem kiss. So if you're looking for Tessa/Jem romance, then you'd better head off somewhere else, cuz it ain't here :)

When Tessa returned to her room, she felt strangely empty, as though her heart had been surgically removed from her chest. She should have followed Jem, she knew. He had stormed off to his room, he had been angry, far angrier than she had ever seen him by a lot. If Jem was angry, he was also hurt. If he was hurt, she should go to him, comfort him, console him, and most certainly persuade him to forgive Will and to know that Will hadn't meant it as an insult. Had he?

No, of course not. Not even Will could be so cruel. Could he?

Tessa cursed herself. How could she even think such thoughts? Will? Never. Not even cold, unfeeling Will could do something so savage, so vicious as to mock the very thing that was killing his friend and blood brother.

But still, she had to wonder, why did he do the things he did? Why did he push everyone away? Why did he pretend to carouse at night and really wander the London streets alone? Why did he act so charming at times and so surly at others? And most of all, why did he kiss her and then push her away? And what did he mean "I can't?"

As those questions became too much for her, her mind bursting, she felt something in her sleeve. It was the handkerchief, still wet with Will's blood. Tessa gulped. That wasn't fair... She had an unfair advantage. Asking Will was one thing, but becoming him, Changing into him, to search through his mind was another. He couldn't even defend himself, but then... He couldn't lie either.

And Tessa had the feeling that Will would lie if asked. If he said anything at all.

Tessa pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. She felt a twinge of guilt and she wondered what Jem would say if she told him what she was thinking about doing, Jem who never asked, but tirelessly continued loving Will even as Will burned every bridge he made behind him.

But Tessa had to know. She somehow felt that Will needed something. Behind his eyes that day after Mortmain left, when Will thought she was dead, his eyes had betrayed him. He had let more through than he had wanted, and she had thought there might be a pain more than that of losing her. There had been an emptiness and a hole, akin to that which she had felt when she became Camille Belcourt for the first time: that of having one's heart ripped out of one's chest.

Tessa gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Then she began to concentrate. She felt the sense of Cyril on the handkerchief, where he had left traces. After all, he had owned it before he had donated it to the purposes of Tessa, cleaning blood from Will's face where Jem had punched him.

Jem.

There was a trace of him there too... Perhaps the term "blood brothers" was a little more literal than she had thought. There were ceremonies, after all, magics and runes binding them to eachother.

Tessa pushed past Cyril and Jem, impatient to reach the dark hair, midnight blue eyes and angelic features she knew she would find. She knew there would be barriers, walls to keep people from seeing him for who he really was, but whatever she had expected, it had not been this.

In front of her, there was stone wall, grey stone towering through Will's mind like the walls of a castle, and keeping her from reaching him.

Oh, Will, thought Tessa, scanning the wall for an opening, What do you have behind there that is so secret and horrible that you will let no one in?

But further on down the wall, there was a crack, there were crumbling stones, as though a cannon had blasted into Will's mental walls and they were slowing coming down.

Tessa scrambled into Will's memories curiously, her mind swimming with a million questions. She began to open her eyes, when it hit, her, the first memories.

And then Tessa saw herself.

She was everywhere, her name floated on the breezes of Will's mind. She stood in the middle of the training room floor, Gabriel's arms around her, and she felt a knife stab into her heart with jealousy. She felt a pain in her hand and saw herself cornered in her dirty small bedroom in the dark sister's house after she had hit him with a jug. She saw Camille Belcourt screaming as Nate slumped tied to a chair. She saw herself rolling as an Automaton swooped downward in the woods in York and felt numbness and horror. She saw herself in a pool of blood next to the fountain in the Sanctuary and wondered if her heart were breaking. Then something she couldn't place, not her, no, but another girl, with Will's dark hair lying on a bed, bloated, swelled, and horrid. The image left her gasping, but Will's memories flew by and she felt herself kissing Will's lips in the attic, felt the soaring sensation, felt the tingling all over her body, then-

Tessa gasped.

A library, a box, the box open, the images flashed by like lightening striking. Then a demon, huge and blue with red, red eyes and a long tail. She screamed. A girl with a seraph blade in front of her. The girl who was dead.

"I banish you."

The demon laughed.

"No," gasped Tessa, hearing Will's deep voice coming from her lips and hearing it crack.

The girl on the ground. The demon looking at her. Tessa opened her mouth to scream, but found she could not, only sink to her knees and let the memory take her.

"It is you father I would destroy, but as he is not here, you will have to do. I curse you. All who love you will die. Their love for you will be their destruction. It may take moments, it may take years, but any who look upon you with love will die of it, unless you remove yourself from them forever. And I shall begin with her."

Tessa heard Will's screaming, heard his mingled with a woman's crying as she bent over the body of the girl, Will's sister, Tessa realized. Ella, Will's mind told her. My sister is dead. Will screams continued, mixing and becoming another girl's screams. Cecily? Tessa wondered, until no, she opened her eyes and realized that she was screaming.

She lay on the floor, curled into a ball, clutching her head in her hands and shaking. She heard a hard knocking on the door, then the rattling of the handle. Thank God she had bolted it.

"Tessa? Tessa? Are you alright?" It was Jem.

"Miss Tessa?" Sophie. "Do you need help?"

"Tessa?" Jem's urgent voice cut through to her very bone. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she gasped, struggling for breath. "Nothing," she said louder. "Just a nightmare, that's all. I'll be fine. No need to worry."

Jem seemed unwilling to go. But Tessa would not allow him to stay. She could not see Jem now.

"Just go. Get some rest. I will be fine."

She stifled her tears, still on the floor until she heard Jem's door shut across the hall. Then she let the tears come, pouring down her cheeks and into her hair which spread out across the floor. She sobbed silently for Ella, for Will's mother, and for Will.

Will.

Will.

Will, who had been cursed to never be loved, who had lived his life as unkindly as possible to keep others safe. In between those spurts of memories, Tessa had been the twelve-year-old Will making his way along the road from the Welsh countryside to the crowded, stifling streets of London. She had seen Charlotte's annoyed face when he had been rude to her and remembered crying about it later. She been him making fun of Sophie and moping about the training room afterwards. She had seen his midnight treks across London and felt his silent tears along the Thames. She had seen the underside of his bed, crying as she heard his parents voices calling his name and felt his pain at leaving them there to mourn his loss as well as his sister's.

And she had felt more than seen the way it felt for Will to shun her, pretend she didn't exist, didn't mean anything to her. And it felt as if someone had wrapped iron chains around her heart and was squeezing them tighter, crushing her heart smaller and smaller until she felt it could only disappear.

Tessa rolled onto her back. She looked at the ceiling.

With a sigh of resignation and pity, she allowed herself to picture Will's face as he had held her in the Sanctuary that night, so long ago it seemed...

That was what she had seen, that fear and raw pain that she had felt. What had the poor boy not felt in the last five years since he arrived at the institute?

Tessa sat up and the blood rushed to her head. How long had she lain there? An hour? Two?

Even one hour was too long. Tessa rose and went to the door.

And she set off into the corridors to find Will.

[typewriter-tardis]

Please write more to Shock Collar. Seriously. I legitimately cannot handle this much awesome without more.

Eeep! Thank you, I'm glad you liked it! Eh, I may write more to it, I suppose. I don't really know if I can think of anything more to write, but... I'll work on it.

[typewriter-tardis]

An Arrangement

Stiles gets hungry and Derek wants bread. Snuggling. 

A/N: I'm sorry. I really am. I wrote it at 1:30 am while eating food because I was hungry and... this is what happens. I am truly sorry. I don't even know what this is.

Stiles woke to moonlight streaming through his bedroom window. He wrinkled his nose. It was 2:39, according to the clock on his bedside table. He could've sworn he was becoming nocturnal. His stomach growled.

"Shh," he told it, but rolled out of bed and padded to the door. The house was silent. Stiles smiled.

Avoiding the creaking parts of the stairs, he descended to the ground floor, heading to the kitchen. He poked around in the cupboards for a few minutes before pulling out a loaf of bread in a plastic bag and opening it. Aha! Pre-sliced. He grinned.

Stuffing a slice in his mouth and grabbing a few more, Stiles returned the bread loaf to its bag and its original resting place and snuck back upstairs, careful not to creak in the hallway either.

He turned the doorknob slowly and slid inside his room.

Derek Hale sprawled across his bed with a casually disheveled air about him.

"Holy Hell," Stiles squeaked, keeping his voice as low as possible under the circumstances. "How did you – Oh. Oh, I see. So you can just climb into my room via the window any time now?" He stalked across the floor to shut the now open window.

Derek nodded and stuck out a hand, empty, palm up.

Stiles glanced at it, then sighed. "You know the conditions."

Derek scowled, but spread an arm out over the pillow next to him.

Stiles smiled like an excited puppy and handed him a slice of bread, crawling across the bed covers to snuggle into Derek's shoulder. Derek sighed, chewing the piece of bread thoughtfully. "I don't know why I put up with this," he said, after a moment.

"You like my company?" Stiles suggested.

"The bread is good."

Stiles snatched what was left of Derek's slice away and glared. "Meanie. Meanwolf. Grumpywolf. Angrywolf –"

"Okay, okay. No need to call names," Derek laughed. "I like your company too, it's just..." He grabbed Stiles's wrist and pulled his hand closer, eating the bread out of his hand. "The bread is really good."

"Fah," said Stiles, but slid his arm around Derek's chest anyway. He paused. "Does this mean you're in a relationship with my bread? Because –"

"Oh shut up," Derek sighed. "I am not in a relationship with your bread! You are so weird at this time of night."

"Not even a little one?"

"No. You're ridiculous."

"Thank you, nicewolf."

"Stop it."

"Fine, touchywolf."

Derek smacked him.

"Ow! … Rudewolf."

Derek groaned and silenced him with a kiss.

A/N: I'm sorry sucky ending I know. I'm sorry.

[typewriter-tardis]

Shock Collar

Stiles goes to Derek's house, Kate is up to her evil tricks, and Sterek ensues. I suck at summaries I'm sorry. I also suck figuring out genres for anything other than angst and romance.

A/N: Um I'm not really sure what this is? Idk man it's sort of weird. It's Sterek. Some angst, some physical suffering, some fluff, some sarcastic!Stiles (which is basically just Stiles!Stiles). Also evil!Kate (which is just Kate!Kate, so yeah). Have fun... I guess.

When the car door slammed, Derek froze mid-pushup. It wasn't a car door he recognized. Too big. It had that distinctive soft sound of a new car, large and sleek. In a flash (quite literally), he was upstairs and peering out the window at the large black car sitting on the forest floor in front of his house...

But it wasn't alone. Not just his black Camaro either.

No. A beat-up old blue Jeep.

Derek cursed under his breath. Stiles. Goddamn him.

And then the voices on the porch.

"You know Derek?" That woman. Derek flinched involuntarily.

"N-No. I was just curious. Y-Y'know, big, burnt-out, empty house in the woods, I-" The stammerer was Stiles.

"Empty, huh? With that... snazzy car parked there?" Her again. "You knew it wasn't empty, kid. Just admit it. So why don't you head on home to mommy and everything will be a lot easier..." Derek heard Stiles's heart beat a little faster, his breathing quicken, then a sharp buzzing noise cut through it and Derek tensed.

"Jesus Christ, what in hell is that?" Derek could picture Stiles, arms flailing, leaping backwards, away from the painfully blue stick, pulsing with electricity. How many watts? Derek didn't want to think about it. He moved.

"Oh, this isn't what's from hell," he heard Her say, humor lacing her voice like poison. "It's what's in there that's from Hell, kiddo. Believe me."

The buzzing again, sharp and quick.

Derek winced, pain and fear shooting through him, not because of the sound of Kate Argent's electrical torture device, but because of Stiles's scream of pure agony. Oh, and the sound of him collapsing to the porch floor, pure. Dead. Weight. Please not dead, Derek pleaded.

"Stop."

Kate blinked, withdrawing her arm from Stiles's throat. She cocked her head at the half-naked Derek standing in the doorway, a smile playing across her lips. "Just checking his vitals," she said.

"You could have killed him," Derek informed her, coldly.

"Could have, not did," she said quickly, latching onto the one word. When he didn't say anything in return, she laughed. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. You dogs can hear human heartbeats, can't you?" She laughed again, shifting her weight to one side.

Derek said nothing.

"So you came out here to brave the... shock for this little boy..." Kate whispered, licking her lips, smiling just the hint of a smile at the word 'shock,' laughing at her own joke.

Still Derek said nothing.

"You actually care about him, Hale?" Kate moved closer to Stiles's unconscious form.

Finally, Derek moved, stepping forward and giving Kate the coldest, hardest look, fire burning in his dark eyes. "Keep away from him."

Kate froze. "Is doggie angry?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "You really do care, Hale. Threatening your life isn't good enough, but finding someone you... dare I say it, love is. You know, another blast will probably," she paused to lick her lips, "finish him off." She reached down towards the half-dead boy on the floor.

Derek threw himself forward. Quick as lightning, Kate Argent turned her weapon on him, catching him in the center of his chest, the blue light flaring. Derek dropped like a stone to the ground beside Stiles, white as a sheet, curling into a ball.

"Not so brave now, are you, Hale?" She laughed mockingly. "And nothing to stop me from..." She turned to Stiles, reaching out with with her weapon –

Derek moved so quickly she could barely see it, knocking her hand away and draping himself across Stiles's torso to hide him from her.

"How touching," Kate smirked, humorlessly, jabbing him in the stomach. He doubled over, crawling away from her, from Stiles, still lying helpless behind them.

"I have something for you," she teased, forcing Derek up against a pillar, reaching reaching for the black bag by the stairs he'd missed. She slid a hand inside, her eyes shining with actual excitement. Derek watched her hands, his eyes wide, breathing hard, the pain in his chest and stomach buzzing through him still. She pulled out a circular thing, black, with a clasp unhooked at each end. "Think of it as an early birthday present."

Derek shrunk away.

"Every dog needs a good shock collar," Kate said softly, laying her weapon on the ground. "Oh no," she laughed, watching his eyes follow it and shoving it behind her carefully. "No tricks for you." Reaching up, she slid the collar around his neck, clasping it behind his head. Her hair tickled his shoulders, one of her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach. "If you weren't, y'know, a vicious monster that I'm sworn to hunt down and kill, I'd pity you. I imagine the pain will be... simply unimaginable," Kate breathed in his ear. "But it really is a shame to do this. You're so... fit."

Derek grimaced. "You're not really my type," he managed. "Much as you like to think I go for... bitches," he spat out, "I really don't go for evil ones like you."

Kate pulled back, eyes narrowed. "So that whole sympathy thing, forget I said that." She reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a black remote control.

Derek's breathing quickened. Even a werewolf couldn't heal a hear that just stopped beating. And what would she do to Stiles when he was –

Her finger pressed down on the button and the world went white, his body convulsing, a scream ripping from his lips.

Blackness faded to gray, Kate's face coming into focus, her voice saying, "Aw honey, did that hurt –"

Kate's eyes rolled back in her head as she screamed, body jerking, face contorting.

She fell, revealing Stiles, on his knees, arms outstretched holding that electric thing.

"Holy crap, Derek, that bitch is evil!" he said.

Derek fainted.

The world remained black, but the sensation in his neck told him that fingertips were brushing across his skin. The sound of a human hear beat was loud in his ears, pounding, racing. Stiles was upset.

Stiles.

Derek forced his eyes open. Stiles was leaned over him, his fingers fumbling for the clasp at the back of the shock collar. The pain in Derek's neck redoubled and he moaned.

"Sweet Jesus!" squeaked Stiles, falling backwards onto the porch. He landed on Kate's hand, scrambling away from her, panicked, his heart speeding up "Oh my God, holy crap, what even –" He shoved the weapon further away from her. True to his Stiles-like ways, he couldn't resist a taunt. "Not gonna fall for my old trick, no way." He made a face at her. She stayed still, not a muscle moving. She didn't even seem to be... breathing. "Oh my god, Derek," Stiles squeaked, crawling towards Kate, face white and eyes wider than seemed possible, "Oh my God, is she... dead?" When Derek didn't answer, Stiles whimpered, "Oh God, oh God, I'm a murderer, I killed her, I –"

"Stiles, shut up," groaned Derek, scrabbling at the shock collar with his shaking hands. Panic clawed at his heart – he couldn't get it off – it was stuck – he couldn't – it was stuck – help –

"Stiles, help," he rasped out, ripping at the thing.

"Hey, Derek, dude, leave it alone," Stiles ordered, snatching at Derek's hands.

"I – can't – get it off –" Derek gasped, between breaths. "Help – please –"

"Derek, calm down," Stiles snapped, beginning to panic himself. What if I can't get it off? He'll hyperventilate to death! However much I do not like him, I don't particularly want him to die. Stiles paused, frowning.

"What's wrong? Can you not –"

"I don't even not like you," Stiles said, grinning madly.

"The hell does that mean," Derek, breathed.

"Nothing," Stiles said, reaching around Derek's neck for the clasp. "Hold still," he murmured as Derek squirmed. "Almost off, almost off."

Click.

The collar fell away in Stiles's hands. "There. Done."

Derek panted, hands going to his neck. "Thank you," he whispered, eyes averted. His hands fell into his lap as he fought to keep himself under control.

"Whoa, dude, your neck," Stiles gasped, crawling forward, hand outstretched. "It looks like a burn or something." Derek winced at the word burn. "Sorry," Stiles muttered. He brushed a finer along the neat line on Derek's neck, angry and red, left by the collar.

"What even happened?" Derek asked, raising his eyes to meet Stiles's gaze.

"Before or after you fainted?" Stiles asked tartly.

"I blacked out," Derek snapped.

"Same difference," Stiles grumbled, but ducked his head to hide a smile. He was secretly enjoying this.

"No, not the same."

"Right, sorry, fainting isn't manly enough, or should I say 'wolfy' enough?"

"Shut up. Before."

"Well, I don't know, I was just about to knock when she drove up behind me and..." Stiles gestured wordlessly. "Pulled out this thing?" His voice rose at the end, characteristically.

Derek rolled his eyes, grabbing Stiles's writs and glaring into his wide, brown eyes. "Right, and in between she talked to you, I heard, alright? But why were you here? Did something happen to Scott? Do you need my help? What happened?"

"N-No," Stiles stuttered. "I just... I..."

"What?"

"I needed somewhere to go and I came here," he whispered, looking down and away from Derek's confused gaze.

Derek narrowed his eyes. "You came here? You needed somewhere to go and you came here?"

"Uh, yeah, but obviously that was a mistake." Stiles glared. "So, if you think you're alright, I guess I'll being going," he muttered, not meeting Derek's gaze. He rolled back onto his toes, moving as if to stand.

"I don't know about that," Derek began as Stiles lurched forward onto Derek's chest, who sighed, rolling his eyes. "Told you so," he muttered, moving Stiles off him and using the railing to pull himself up. He shut his eyes tight for a moment, fighting off the dizziness. He had to wonder how Stiles had managed it. He was only human, after all. Derek leaned down to gather the unconscious boy into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest.

Stiles's eyes fluttered open. "What," he began.

"You fainted," Derek said, almost smiling as he staggered through the door of the house and across the threshold.

"Blacked out," Stiles managed weakly.

"Huh." Derek had to pause at the bottom of the staircase to catch his breath, but he made it upstairs (Stiles hardly weighed more that child, unless Derek's perception of weight was skewed... Whatever, he thought brusquely) to the one room on the second floor still strong enough to handle a human's weight on the floor. It was in the front of the house, windows intact, walls blackened, a few holes in the floor. When Derek first went into the room after the fire, he hadn't cared about falling through the floor, had strode into the middle of the floor with careless abandon. But it hadn't given way and plunged him to the floor below. And it had taken a beating since, chairs smashed and fists pounding into it, shots fired through it.

But Derek carried a feeble Stiles across it to a couch in the corner, spectacularly out of place – clean and unburned. He propped Stiles up against the wall. He pulled on a shirt and his characteristic leather jacket and began to roughly drag the cushions from the couch.

"Why are you doing that?" asked Stiles. "It looked perfectly nice to me."

"It turns into a bed," Derek told him shortly.

"Oh," Stiles raised his eyebrows.

"Oh for God's sake," Derek sighed and, slower than usual, pulled out the folding bed.

"There," Derek said, setting the cushions on the sides of the couch-now-bed. "I'm pretty sure neither of us can drive after taking that much voltage." He turned to frown at Stiles. "You shouldn't even be alive," he accused, poking a finger into Stiles's chest. "Even I hardly survived that. And I am a –"

"A werewolf, I know." Stiles shrugged, took a step forward and collapsed. Derek caught him with a sigh and an "oh for God's sake." He dragged him to the bed, slung him on to it and crawled on himself.

Stiles woke with his back against the back of the couch and his face pressed into something that smelled strongly of leather. He bit his lip and, very slowly, raised his head to look at Derek lying next to him. "Holy crap," Stiles muttered, staring wide-eyed at the sleepy face on whose chest he had been sleeping, whose arm was draped around his back and waist. Stiles held his breath, slowly pulling himself upright to look at Derek's peaceful features.

"What are you looking at?" Derek asked, without opening his eyes.

Stiles froze, dropping the hand he had raised without even noticing to touch Derek's face. "Um, nothing."

Derek smiled, eyes still closed. "Your racing heart begs to differ."

Stiles's eyes widened. "That is so not fair. Listening to people's hearts is cheating."

"Want to listen to mine?"

Stiles blinked, then leaned forward hesitantly, angling his head to press his ear to Derek's rising and falling chest. Derek sighed.

Then, "I want you to leave."

Stiles jerked back. "What? You bring me upstairs to your... bedroom – you know I've never really wondered hard enough about where you sleep, I mean I guess I knew you lived here – then tell me to listen to your heart and then kick me out?"

Derek ignored him. "What happened? When I said that, what happened to my hear beat?"

"It..." Stiles squinted, trying to remember. "It sped up?" He frowned. "What does that –"

"When someone is lying, what does their heart beat do?"

Stiles froze. "When they're lying? Oh... Oh."

Derek said nothing but opened one eye, then the other to stare into Stiles's face intently. "So..." He nodded encouragingly.

"So... You... Don't want me to leave?"

"Very good."

When Stiles stayed frozen, Derek snaked an arm around his waist and dragged him closer, settling into the back of the couch and sighing, eyes closed. Stiles kept his head carefully above Derek's shoulder, eyes forced open. Derek stifle a laugh and pulled Stiles's head down onto his shoulder, resting his cheek on the younger boy's head... He breathed in the smell of shampoo and the lingering scent of elecricity...

"Damn it, Kate is still on the porch," Derek groaned.

"Leave it," Stiles warned, snuggling closer into Derek's chest, wrapping his arms around his torso. "We can get her later."

"True," Derek said, smiling.

There was silence under the slow breathing of the two people there.

Then, "Doesn't it get lonely, living her all alone?"

"... Yes. But I have all the ghosts of my family to keep me company," Derek said, a little bitterly.

"Wait, ghosts? Don't tell me those exist too, I don't know if I can handle that."

"No."

"Oh, okay then... Well now that I'm here, you won't need any ghosts, real or not."

"No, I won't."

[typewriter-tardis]

Okay, first actual fanfiction post on here! And it's going to be Sterek. Deal with it.