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For long moment, Stiles stands on the roof without moving an inch. It’s like he’s helpless, speechless, caught in a paralysis that takes him too long to shake off. Until he finally remembers that there are others who need his help. Derek. Cora.
Stiles turns around and walks inside, clattering down the stairs. He knows he should hurry, and try to be more quiet, not stomp around like this. Kali and the twins might still be lurking somewhere close by.
Only, why should they be? Scott and Deucalion are long gone. The darach as well. And Isaac and Peter were hopefully able to escape with Cora.
When Stiles arrives at the elevator, Derek is still lying on the floor unconscious. Stiles sinks down on his knees beside him. “Derek?”
He turns Derek over to lie on his back, which isn’t nearly as difficult as expected. Derek’s bulk makes him appear so solid most of the time, Stiles tends to forget they’re almost the same height.
While looking out for his breathing, Stiles reaches for Derek’s wrist, putting two fingers on the radial artery. He exhales with relief as he sees Derek’s chest rise and fall, as he fees his pulse, steady and fast, under his fingertips.
“Derek! Wake up, come on.”
When Derek doesn’t stir, Stiles doesn’t hesitate and slaps his face. Once. Twice. Derek moans and opens his eyes. His pulse grows faster, Stiles can feel it, and he lets go of Derek’s wrist.
Derek looks around for a second before his eyes focus on Stiles. “Where is she? What happened?”
“She took Scott’s mum. And Scott... Scott went with Deucalion.”
~~~~~
“It’s not a mere poisoning,” Deaton says. “It has been caused by supernatural means, and the poison renews itself in Cora’s stomach. I can’t help her as long as the spell is active.”
Cora is lying on the operating table, pale and still. Derek sits beside her, holding her hand. Peter stands at the opposite end of the table with his back to the door. Allison and Chris have already left, and Isaac went with them. They have promised to go looking for the abducted victims as soon as the storm passes.
Stiles is leaning against the working table. A cage with a tiny yellow canary sits next to him. The bird is merrily picking grains from a food bowl. One husk after another drops to the sand-covered bottom of the cage.
“Can’t you break the spell?” Stiles asks without turning his gaze away from from the cage. It’s better to look at the bird – perpetually moving, self-sufficient, preoccupied with its food – than at Cora.
Deaton shakes his head. “I wish it were possible, but I have to admit that it is quite beyond my capabilities. The most sensible action would be to find the source of the spell and disable it.”
“You mean killing the caster,” Derek says.
The canary flaps its wings and leaps onto its perch. Ruffling its feathers, it looks around with beady black eyes.
Deaton clears his throat. Stiles thinks his voice sounds more coolly than before. “That might break the spell, or not. The safe alternative would be to convince the caster to reverse it.”
“What are we going to do in the meantime?” Stiles asks. The bird tilts its head to the side, looking at him. “Is there nothing else we can try?”
“I will dose her with a concoction of herbal agents and pharmaceutical additives,” Deaton says. He is already stirring something in a vial. “Her condition should improve, so she will be able to withstand the mistletoe’s power for a little longer. She might even regain consciousness.”
“Does that mean Ms Blake has been casting the spell?” Stiles asks. But why would she want to kill Cora? So that Derek would be out of the way? To use her as leverage against him?
“It is possible,” Deaon says.
The canary starts preening its feathers. Stiles glances at Deaton instead. “Or maybe it was your sister?” he asks, simply to see him lose his composure. But Deaton seems unfazed.
“That, too, is a distinct possibility,” Deaton replies. “I am afraid I can no longer tell with certainty what Marin is capable of. Now, if you will please excuse me? I will keep trying to find a way to break the spell, but there is currently nothing else I can do.”
A polite but definite dismissal.
Derek lifts Cora to carry her out of the room. Peter follows him closely.
“You should also go home, Stiles,” Deaton says.
Peter, already on the doorstep, pauses to look back at them. “Come on, Stiles. We’ll give you a ride.”
~~~~~
The storm is still raging, but the rain has stopped for the moment. Pools of water have formed everywhere, covering huge parts of the road. The wind is blowing leaves, branches and garbage across the streets. They don’t encounter a single car on their way.
Derek stops in front of Stiles’ house and keeps the engine running. The power for the whole district has been cut, so the street lights aren’t working out and there are only a few windows illuminated by the faint, flickering light of candles or open-hearth fires.
The houses next to theirs are dark and quiet. Stiles can’t recall the last time Mr. Conell wasn’t working late hours in his home office. Mrs. Meyers’ front yard looks all but foreign without the artificial glow of the implemented lights in her garden pond.
The driveway leading up to the garage is empty. Stiles’ jeep is still parked outside the hospital, and his father’s car might stand near the school, or at the sheriff station.
On the top floor, where Stiles didn’t close the window all the way this morning, a curtain is fluttering in the wind.
Stiles is still sitting in the passenger seat. He knows it’s time to get out. Time to make himself walk over to the front door. It’s not a long way, twenty yards or so. Average middle-class front yard lawn, nothing special. Stiles should have mowed the grass a couple of days ago, it’s one of his regular duties. His father didn’t say anything, too busy with work to reprimand him. He probably didn't even notice.
“Stiles.”
Stiles cringes. “What?”
Derek sighs and turns off the engine. “Go get your things. You can come with us.”
Stiles blinks at him in surprise, and Derek holds his gaze for a moment before turning his head away.
“Really, Derek? How touching,” Peter says from the backseat. “But you’re not doing him a favor. He’s better off without us."
“Peter is right,” Derek says. His hands are resting on the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead into the darkness of the empty street. “It isn’t safe. But if you want to... you can stay overnight.”
Stiles thinks about it, considers it. Going with Derek and Peter, or staying at home alone. Knowing his dad is imprisoned somewhere, serverely injured, and if they don’t find him in time...
The decision isn’t that hard. “Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”
Peter heaves a resigned sigh and leans back in his seat. “Hurry up, for heaven’s sake.”
To Stiles’ astonishment, Derek gets out of the car as well. “I’m coming with you.”
~~~~~
The power is off, but Stiles’ father has deposited flashlights everywhere. Stiles thrusts one of them into Derek’s hand to hold it for him while he rifles through messy piles of clothes and papers in his room.
“What’s that?”
Stiles flinches and almost drops his laptop. “Dude, don’t scare me like that.”
Derek glares at him and inclines his head toward the chess board that is still sitting on Stiles’ desk.
“Oh. Yeah, well.” Stiles steps closer.
Derek lifts a tagged pawn. “Scott,” he reads, sounding doubtful.
Stiles shrugs. “That was before I knew Deucalion was after him.”
Derek pans the spotlight over the whole board.
“It was only an analogy,” Stiles says. Maybe he should have chosen a better way to explain. If only he didn’t always have to take the most difficult route... maybe his father would have believed him.
Derek finds his own piece, the black knight, and stares at it.
“Er... at least we’re at the same side?” Stiles offers.
“Which piece are you?”
“A pawn?” Stiles stares at the board. “Or maybe not. A pawn can still capture other pieces, but I ...”
He owes Melissa a new baseball bat. He’s going to buy one for her as soon as she’s back.
“The twins are stronger than each of us,” Derek says. “That you’re human doesn’t mean you’re weak.”
“Am I supposed to feel better now?” Stiles asks, but it lacks bite, and Derek merely shrugs, placing the knight back on the board.
~~~~~
Twenty minutes later they’re standing inside the loft. It still smells funny, mouldy from the water, but the furniture has been moved back into place. And at least the power is still working in this part of town.
Peter carries Cora over to Derek’s bed. Derek doesn’t voice a word of protest, not even when Stiles toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed next to her. Instead he covers her with a light blue fleece blanket – where did that even come from – and puts a hand on her forehead, as if he is trying to take her temperature.
Stiles watches him, feeling a vague sadness. “You have to put a hand to her neck at the same time,” he says. “If her forehead is warmer, that means she’s running a fever.”
His mother explained it to him, at some point when he was already going to school. He was measuring up to her breastbone, so when she placed her hands on his forehead and neck, he could easily put his arms around her waist and hold her tightly.
Derek and Peter exchange glances.
“Stiles,” Derek says. “Go to sleep. You can have the couch.”
“In a minute,” Stiles says. At the moment it’s more important to him to watch Cora, count her every breath. She looks so gentle in her sleep. It’s easy to forget she’s a Hale. Yet even Derek was looking harmless, lying on the floor. Vulnerable and human
Cora is breathing more deeply now. Deaton’s esoteric cocktail seems to work.
That gives them time. Hopefully.
~~~~~
Stiles wakes up with hair tickling his lips. He turns his head to the side, screwing up his face to get rid of the moist strands that are sticking to his cheek. An elbow collides painfully with his rips. Stiles curls up on instinct, bringing his back in contact with something warm and solid. He opens his eyes.
Cora is lying next to him, moving restlessly. Her eyes are closed, but her eyelashes are fluttering slighly. The fleece blanket is covering the two of them, although it’s partially tangled between both their legs and no longer covering their feet. Come to think of it, Stiles is not wearing any shoes, and his hoodie – the one he haphazardly put on before leaving his house with Derek – is gone as well.
Stiles sits up. It’s still dark outside, but a burning lamp is sitting on the desk, shining brightly enough for him to see Cora’s face. On Cora’s other side, somebody lifts their head. Red eyes glower at Stiles, and he yelps in alarm.
“Whoa,” he complains, once he realizes the eyes belong to Derek. “Don’t do that, that’s scary as fuck.”
Before Derek can reply, Cora moans, and Derek immediately focuses on her.
Behind Stiles, Peter mutters something unintelligible.
Wait.
What.
Peter? Behind him?
“Derek,” Stiles says. “What is your creepy uncle doing in bed with us?”
“You wound me, Stiles,” Peter says. “I was guarding your sleep. Not that any of you seem to appreciate it.”
“Oh, shut up,” Stiles says the same moment Derek snaps at Peter, “Be quiet.”
“Yes, shut up, all of you,” Cora says, opening her eyes. They glow faintly in the dark, and she blinks a couple of times. “Why am I here? What happpened?”
“You’ve been poisoned with mistletoe,” Derek says. “Deaton is trying to find a cure. You need to rest, stay as calm as possible.”
Stiles watches them. His hand is itching with the sudden urge to push the sweaty strands of hair from her face. Maybe she’d let him, but he doesn’t think he is entitled to it.
“And what is he doing here?” Cora asks, side-eying Stiles.
“I was wondering about that too,” Stiles says. He has no real recollection of how he ended up asleep in bed Derek’s bed, with Peter Hale snuggling up to him no less.
“The sheriff has been taken,” Derek says. “And there are some things you don’t know yet...”
“Does that mean he’s pack now?”
Derek hesitates. He shoots Stiles a wary glance before confirming her words with a nod. “He helped saving you.”
Cora lifts her hand and rubs her mouth. “Why do I smell like him?”
Dereks eyebrows nearly shoot up to the ceiling. “What?”
“You weren’t breathing,” Stiles hurries to explain. “You weren’t breathing. I had to... had to do something. So...”
How she had been lying there. Lifeless. The image, the memory, grows hazy, and it’s not longer Cora Stiles is looking at, but someone else, a woman with dark hair and shrunken features, skin ethereal in their paleness.
No.
No. No.
Stiles throat feels like it’s constricting. The sensation is familiar. His pulse is skyrocketing, he doesn’t get enough air. He tries to sit up. “I... I can’t”
“Derek,” Peter says, urgency in his voice.
Derek gets to his feet. The next moment he’s dragging Stiles out from between Cora and Peter, pulling him to a stance.
“Panic attack,” Stiles forces out. He doubles over and falls to his knees. He can’t breathe.
One hand cups his cheek, another one the nape of his neck. Derek. Another pair of hands touches his shoulders to steady him. The pressure on his throat slowly eases up, he’s able to breathe again. An arm winds itself around his waist, pulling him up and against a strong, muscular chest. It’s Peter who’s holding him, and Derek – Derek leans in, chest to chest, and nuzzles Stiles’ hair.
“What,” Stiles says, and it comes out more weakly than intended. “What are you doing?”
He starts struggling tentatively. Derek lets go of him at once while Peter merely loosens his hold. Cora laughs softly. Stiles looks at her. She’s lying on her side, watching them. “That’s what happens when you join the Hale pack.”
“But... Isaac never mentioned that,” says Stiles. His head feels like it filled with cotton wool. Airy and... cotton-y. Whether that’s because of the only just averted panic attack, or because of sheer confusion, he can’t tell. He notices belatedly that he failed to free himself from Peter’s embrace.
“Dude,” Stiles says. “You’re being creepy. You seriously need to learn to respect boundaries.” His protest is half-hearted at best.
“You do realize we know when you’re lying, don’t you?” Peter mutters, his lips close to Stiles’ ear.
His words remind Stiles of a night not too long ago, when Peter the psychopathic alpha werewolf had abducted him and offered him the bite. It’s almost impossible to reconcile both versions of Peter, and Stiles doesn’t now whether he wants to.
Maybe.. maybe not right now. Because although this is doubtlessly weird, it’s also... pretty comforting. Very slowly Stiles gives in and relaxes back into Peter’s hold. Peter pulls him closer, and his chest vibrates with a rumbling sound. “That’s better, Stiles.”
Derek growls.
“Oh, come on, Derek,” Peter says. “You know you want to.”
“Want to what?” Stiles asks with a nervous hitch of his voice that he would feel embarrassed about if he had time to think about it.
Derek doesn’t answer.
Peter chuckles. His free hand comes up to Stiles’ head and tilts it just a fraction to the side. He leans forward and inahles deeply, his face so close to Stiles’ skin that the flow of air causes him to shiver.
“To scent you,” Peter says softly. “And lick you just a little bit. It’s a common practice in a pack, actually.” His lips graze Stiles’ skin, right under his ear, and Stiles...
Stiles shudders and suppresses a moan. “Stop that.”
Peter doesn’t let go of him right away. “Are you sure? I will, if you ask me to. But you should know – this will make you pack just as the bite would.”
“Licking me?” Stiles voice wavers, and he curses himself.
“Licking you,” Peter confirms. “Marking you. Infusing you with the smell of pack, by every possible means.”
Derek growls again, and there’s a threatening quality to it, a resonance of his alpha power.
Peter sighs. He lets go of Stiles and takes a step back. “I am going to find out whether my nephew’s fridge contains more than milk for cereal and frozen pizza.”
With that, he turns around and walks into the kitchen. Stiles’ cheeks are burning. At least Derek seems equally embarrassed.
“Peter... Peter is...” Derek swallows. “He’s not going to do it again. I’ll make sure of if.”
“Derek is lying,” Cora says. “Of course Peter is going to do it again. If you let him, he’s going to do you.”
“Cora,” Derek says through gritted teeth.
Cora tilts her head to the side. “And I’m starting to believe you wouldn’t mind.”
The gleam in her eyes is decidedly speculative, if not predatory. “Would you like that, Stiles?”
“Cora, stop. Stiles is...”
“I’m what?” asks Stiles.
Derek shakes his head. “You’re human. You don’t know yet how a pack works. Some things are... different for us. Don’t worry, no one is going to make you do anything you don’t want.”
“Are you jealous, Derek?” Cora asks.
“No.”
“Liar”, Peter calls out from the kitchen.
Cora laughs, and it sounds fond. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s turned on and weirded out at the same time. “Are you serious?”
Derek turns his head to look at him. “Stiles...”
“Because if you were...” Stiles wets his lips. “If you were, that would be.... okay. I guess.”
Derek groans. “Don’t say that, or Peter and Cora will never stop teasing you. That’s not how... it’s inappropriate.”
“But fun,” Cora says.
Derek turns toward her. “First we need to stay alive,” he says somberly. “All of us. We need to find a way to cure you and stop Jen.. the darach.”
Stiles takes a deep breath, still more than a little baffled.
Derek’s hand touches his shoulder. “I meant what I said. You’re pack now. You can rely on us. We’re going to help you find your father.”
Stiles doesn’t know why, but he believes Derek. “Does that mean you trust me now?”
Before his eyes, Derek’s face darkens, closes off. Stiles winces. He shouldn’t have said that. How could Derel trust anyone, after Kate Argent, Peter, Ms. Blake?
But this – being part of the pack, or whatever it is – feels right. Even.... the scenting. And licking. Stiles doesn’t know whether to take Peter’s overtures serious. He should probably be more afraid then he is, but for that, it had felt a little too good, if he’s being honest to himself.
Stiles looks at Derek, considering it more closely. He probably wouldn’t mind if Derek wanted to lick him. He’d even return the favor. Maybe.
Derek’s expressions softens a little. Stiles really hopes Derek cannot read minds.
“I trust you,” Derek says.
His words are oddly... nice. Stiles grins at him. “Just for the record, we still don’t trust Peter.”
“I heard that!”
Cora huffs in amusement.
“No,” Derek agrees with a significant glance at Peter, who has come out of the kitchen again to lean in the doorway, arms crossed, and smiles indulgently, like innocence personified. “But for now he’s pack.”
Stiles can live with that. “Okay. Does that mean we can go back to bed and cuddle some more? That was awesome.”
Peter laughs, and Derek, rolling his eyes in good Hale family fashion, cuffs Stiles over the head. “No. Peter’s making breakfast. Go take a shower, I’ll set the table.”
“Domestic bliss, oh, joy,” Stiles says, but he nevertheless starts looking for his stuff while Derek disappears into the kitchen along with Peter.
“Hey,” Cora says from the bed. “Stiles.”
Stiles looks up from his duffel bag. “What?”
“Thank you,” she says. “For... you know what for.”
“For saving your life?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“We’ll find your father,” she says.
A lump is forming in Stiles’ throat, but he swalllows around it. “First we find a cure.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Cora says with a half-smile, and Stiles returns it hesitantly.
Stiles doesn’t need to be able to see through the wall to know Peter is rolling his eyes at them. “Shut up, Peter,” he says, and Cora smirks.
Peter’s chuckle and Derek’s disbelieving snort trail behind him on his way to the bathroom.