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He really should have asked for more backup.
It wasn’t like Stiles had a much of choice, especially when the rest of the Pack were too busy hunting down the vampire nest that had been feeding on innocent citizens. If his research aligned with Lydia’s though, vamps were only one part of their current murder spree problem. The discovery of human corpses with huge bite marks on their necks (or their throats ripped open) and almost no blood left narrowed down their leads quite a bit.
But no one could explain why a couple of teenagers were found dead in their bathrooms, lying in their own blood with their eyes gouged out. Without weapons, fingerprints, or any other evidence to go off of, the books and old newspapers confirmed this wasn’t the work of bloodsuckers or serial killers. If anything, it was probably a vengeful spirit. And spirits were fucking hard to get rid of.
It also didn’t help that his dad and the deputies were at their wits’ end. The FBI had already threatened to take over their investigation if one more person died.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, which meant splitting the Pack up to put all this supernatural chaos to rest.
Not that Stiles liked this plan. He hated splitting up. It usually meant more harm done than good when it came to injuries, property destruction, and who knew what else. But with two freaky threats roaming around Beacon Hills, they needed to do something fast. His packmates were all willing to take one for the team, and the fact that Scott agreed to this insane plan said a lot.
For Stiles, that meant being the lucky volunteer to face a ghost’s wrath instead of going on a suicide mission to deal with the bloodsuckers who saw him as a tasty meal. Stiles was still a squishy human with pale skin and fragile bones. He really preferred to stay in one piece and to keep his blood inside of his body, thank you very much.
The rest of the Pack though? They could handle themselves. With Chris and Lydia around to guide the negotiations, things should be fine. Mostly.
That left Jackson stuck with Stiles inside an old, creepy house with the antique mirror they’d been trying to track down. Oh, and the horrendous job to summon a dead girl who wanted to make their eyes bleed.
So far, Mary was succeeding and for a good reason, too.
She just knew all of Stiles’ and Jackson’s secrets. In particular, she knew her two current victims had killed multiple people. Even if they hadn’t done all of that by choice. Even though they both had been under the influence of carrying out someone else’s cruel intentions.
Matt Daehler’s.
The Nogitsune’s.
Still, Mary had no problem taunting them, reminding them about what they’d done. How they needed to pay for their sins, and what better time was there than now?
“Don’t listen to her,” Stiles muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as his eyes burned. “Fuck! Don’t look at her either!”
“I know!” Jackson griped back. He winced and wiped the trail of blood trickling down his face. “How are we supposed to get rid of her again?”
Stiles crawled on his hands and knees, trying to aimlessly feel for something— anything— within the junkyard of a living room they were trapped in to counter the bitch. He knew the salt ring surrounding him and Jackson would keep Mary at bay if she tried anything else. Unfortunately, salt didn’t make them immune from suffering slow, painful deaths. And since Mary had been cremated, that left no other options to destroy her ghost. Which meant they were fucked.
Unless…
“Find something solid to break the mirror.”
“Seriously, Stilinski? That’s your brilliant plan?”
Stiles huffed before forcing his hazy gaze to meet Jackson’s. “It’s that, or she liquefies our eyeballs and the rest of our organs, asshole! Take your pick.”
Jackson sighed loudly. “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I’m not a werewolf lizard with darkvision, super strength and quick healing, that’s why! The odds are kind of stacked against me since I’m bleeding more than you are, and this room has shit lighting. It makes seeing very difficult.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through Stiles’ body, followed by a sharp pain that hit his temples and forehead. Stiles bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, willing for Jackson to hurry the hell up. If he just concentrated on sounds instead of sight, he could hear the rummaging of junk, Mary’s eerie laughs, and—hell no. Something absolutely needed to be done about that right this second.
“Jesus Christ! What’s taking so long? Grab the hideous cuckoo clock off the wall, and chuck it at the damned mirror for all I care. Just make her shut up!”
A rustle, some scrapping against the wall, and then—
Smash!
Stiles’ eyes cracked open, enough so he could see wooden splinters, loose clockwork pieces, and shards of glittering glass scattered across the dingy floor. Perched in front of them was an ornate bronze frame with jagged fragments still attached along two edges.
“Was that the only reflective surface we uncovered in this room?”
“I think so. Now what?”
Stiles gingerly sat back on his knees and blinked a few times. His eyes didn’t sting or feel like they were on fire anymore. Sure, he might be a little woozy, but he hadn’t puked. His limbs weren’t numb. He could still see, which had to be a good sign. Maybe the worst had passed.
Except if Stiles had learned anything from years of running with wolves, this seemed way too simple. Too sudden. Like there was a catch.
If he listened to his gut instinct, it warned him that this ordeal wasn’t finished yet. Because it was too good to be true for a broken mirror to dispatch a killer ghost. What else were he and Jackson missing? What else had Stiles found and written down earlier this morning when he’d been skimming through the archive of old articles at Derek’s loft? Why couldn’t he remember?
“You smell weird,” Jackson grumbled, scrunching up his nose. “Like you’re scared, tired, and ticked off all at once. What gives?”
“I don’t…this might be the part where things get fun,” Stiles admitted as he rolled his shoulders back. “Something’s definitely not right.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
All too soon, the lights in the room flickered—once, then twice—before completely zapping out.
“I guess that’s your answer.”
“Well, fuck.”
For a moment, everything stood silent and still. A beam of moonlight illuminated part of the room through the bay window.
Then, a moving shadow caught Stiles’ eye. Stiles glanced back at the broken mirror, startled to find a teenage girl with long dark hair in a tattered sundress contained within its frame. His stomach dropped, and his heart raced when she began climbing out.
“Holy shit!”
“Oh my God! This was so not part of the plan!”
Why did every supernatural phenomenon always have a loophole? Now, Bloody Mary stood before them in the flesh, shooting Stiles and Jackson a vicious smile.
White-hot pain suddenly cut through Stiles like a knife, making him cry out and topple to the floor. And yep, Stiles’ eyes were burning and bleeding again. Awesome. How long would it take before everything else inside of him turned into mush?
“Stilinski! Do something!” Jackson roared, sounding part-human and part-reptile.
Wait a minute. Was Jackson losing control of his kanima? A groan, another hiss, and okay, that definitely sounded more like a lizard this time. Oh boy.
“Dude, you gotta hold your ground! Don’t shift!” Stiles shouted back.
“Easier said than done! This fucking hurts!”
“We need something shiny! Another mirror or—”
“We already smashed the only mirror in this room!”
This was just their (bad) luck. They were dead. So, so dead. Would the Pack even find their bodies? Would they feel their bonds linked to Jackson and Stiles grow taut before snapping? Jackson could probably tough things out and hang on for a little longer. But Stiles felt himself slipping downhill fast.
“That’s right,” Mary chided as Stiles moaned and curled up into a fetal position. “This is for your good friend, Allison. Don’t you remember her? You broke her code. You stabbed her in the chest.”
His hands twitched as wet blood stained his fingertips.
Of course Stiles remembered Allison. How could he forget the sickening power that coursed through his veins when he’d commanded the Oni to attack her? Or the way she collapsed into Scott’s arms until her light and life dimmed before vanishing for good? Allison, strong and loyal Allison, was gone. And it was all his fault. For not caring enough. For leaving the door ajar.
“And your mom? If you had just listened to her, she would still be alive.”
“She was sick,” Stiles wheezed, then whimpered as more agonizing pain shot through him.
“You made it worse!”
And maybe he had. During his mom’s last days, she’d grown bitter and angry. Accusing Stiles for so much looking in her direction. For trying to kill her. For existing. It was hard to remember from all those years ago, because all Stiles ever wanted to be was a good son. His mom’s amazing little boy. No matter how much he’d tried, Stiles realized his efforts had never been enough.
“What about sweet Heather? Katashi, your father’s deputies, and all those other innocent civilians. They didn’t deserve to die, but you do.”
A sinister laugh and a growl, followed by the sound of wood splitting apart, and then there was a scream. As soon as Stiles heard it, he knew he was in trouble. His heart pounded as panic quickly seeped in, compressing his lungs and throat like a vise.
“Stiles?! Come on, stay with me…”
Stiles tried to think, tried to form words and yell for help, but all he could do was gasp for air. It felt like he was sinking underwater—deeper and deeper—as if he were drowning in a swimming pool. But now he couldn’t see, his hearing grew more muffled, pain ripped through him, and…and…
*
When he woke up, it was to dim lights, dull aching and warm floatiness.
Stiles blinked hesitantly, and everything looked fuzzy and weird. That was when he realized he could see again. His vision wasn’t clouded by crimson, and his eyeballs were still intact, which was a fucking miracle on its own.
He took a deep breath, relieved that his lungs seemed to be cooperating now. And he could hear! Stiles could hear the faint sound of trees blowing outside of an open window, voices murmuring and…crying? Huh.
It wasn’t until he leaned back that he felt his body shift and sink into lumpy, uneven cushions.
Stiles turned his head slightly, only to be met with the sight of ugly floral. Which belonged to a familiar rundown couch in the living room of the creepy house. Specifically, the creepy house where he was supposed to track Bloody Mary with Jackson and—oh God! Was Jackson even alive? Was Stiles dead? That would explain so much. Like why he was still in the house but as a resident ghost now.
A small draft swept in, making Stiles shiver with goosebumps and—that couldn’t be right.
He quickly glanced down at himself and noticed his plaid button-down was missing. His very torn and disgusting flannel, covered in blood and sulfur, had disappeared. When did Stiles take that off? Why was his t-shirt strangely clean?
“Stop thinking so hard, or you’re going to bleed.”
Surely it couldn’t be—wasn’t his Pack supposed to be duking things out with vampires right now? But a very solid and reassuring hand squeezed his own. Grounding him. Holding on, as if to drain away his pain.
There was only one person who always did this whenever he got hurt.
“Derek?” Stiles whispered, his voice raw and scratchy.
“Don’t do that again,” Derek responded gruffly, gripping Stiles’ hand tighter.
Definitely not a ghost then. Stiles was still a citizen of the living world. Thank fuck for that.
“I’m sorry? It’s not like I wanted to pass out. Why am I lying on such a hideous piece of furniture?”
“I can always push you off the couch if you want the floor again.”
“Nah. I’m good here, even if this thing smells odd and probably wants to eat me. Guess I gotta take what I can get.”
His lips quirked up when he heard Derek huff a soft laugh. God, how Stiles missed that beautiful laugh. Hearing it again was like music to his ears. His heart stuttered as a surge of warmth flowed through him.
“Glad you’re here, big guy.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not terrible, considering I almost met my impending doom. I’m surprised I can even move. My limbs and organs should be screaming at me, but you know…”
Stiles trailed off, shifting his gaze to note the black lines snake up Derek’s arm.
“I do. More than you think.”
Before Derek could elaborate, solid heels clicked fast and furious on hardwood—getting closer and closer—until they paused at the end of the couch.
“You both are complete idiots!” came the shrill voice of Lydia Martin.
Stiles shot upright and opened his mouth, but groaned when a spell of dizziness hit him full force. Derek immediately reached out, steadying Stiles enough so he didn’t flail onto the floor.
“Easy. I’m right here, Stiles. I’ve got you.”
He knew that. He knew he could rely on Derek to catch him if he fell.
So, Stiles let himself lean into the touch. Let Derek push him back gently against the cushions and place what felt like a squashy pillow under his head. Rough fingers trailed along clammy skin until they grasped Stiles’ right hand again. It was like a light switch had been flipped; the dizziness faded and the soothing floatiness that made Stiles feel calm and safe returned. Sometimes, werewolf powers were pretty amazing.
“Did he just wake up?” Lydia asked, this time softer and with a hint of concern.
“Only a minute ago,” Derek confirmed. “He’s doing better. A lot better than we thought, considering how we found him…”
“So no more internal bleeding. That means the curse is reversing itself—”
“I can hear you both, you know,” Stiles interrupted, even as his eyelids started drooping. “What curse are you talking about?”
“The one that made you and Jackson bleed out on the floorboards, genius.”
His eyes widened, snapping him out of his daze. It wasn’t until Stiles risked a glimpse in Lydia’s direction and really focused that he took everything in. Took in the tangled strawberry blonde hair, a grimy and bloodstained striped dress, and reddish-black marks smudged down Lydia’s cheeks.
It was even worse when Stiles got a better look at Derek.
Derek, who was currently knelt down next to the couch with slumped shoulders, his shirt ripped to shreds and multiple lacerations decorating his neck, arms and part of his torso. Who must have absorbed so much pain already, yet he kept taking more. No wonder he looked so pale and tired.
Stiles felt his stomach lurch, then twist as soon as he saw remnants of dried blood around worried hazel eyes. Eyes that gazed back at him with such anguish and remorse, as if they were trying to convey an apology.
You don’t deserve this.
It should have been me.
This was so, so wrong. Derek and Lydia weren’t supposed to be like this. A big bad wolf and a banshee, looking so fragile. So defeated.
“Oh my God,” Stiles breathed out, horrified. “You’re both hurt!”
“We’re fine,” Derek said, looking away.
That was complete bullshit. How could people be fine when they look like they’ve been to hell and back? Stiles wanted to object, but the thumb stroking the top of his hand made him pause.
“We’ll be fine once all this shit is sorted out,” Lydia agreed. She let out a weary sigh. “It’s been a long night.”
Stiles frowned, his eyes flicking between Derek and Lydia. He might not have any super senses, but he sure knew when they were lying. Or hiding very crucial information. When all else failed, vagueness or evasion were their favorite go-to crutches they used out of nervousness, fear, or both.
Well, time to bite the bullet and reign out the truth.
“You both came to save us,” Stiles stated. He raised his eyebrows when Derek and Lydia whipped their heads up to stare at him. Interesting. “You knew something bad would happen.”
“You’re lucky I have good hearing, and your theory about shiny objects worked.”
“What do you mean?”
Lydia’s lip quivered before she used a sleeve to dab her eyes. “I knew something seemed off about this case. I tried telling Scott, Chris and your dad, but the sound of breaking glass didn’t give us much to work with. Hearing you and Jackson scream did.”
Stiles tensed. “A premonition? Does that mean Jackson’s…”
“He’s fine. He’s in the kitchen giving Scott and everyone else an update as we speak. Yes, the Pack’s also fine. They’re healing up at the vet clinic. They should be here in a half hour with Deaton and Jordan.”
“What do you mean they’re healing up?! Did the vampires attack you guys?”
Lydia pursed her lips together and arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow toward Derek.
“It’s complicated,” Derek explained, sounding resigned. “Their intentions weren’t the worst…until two of them threatened to feed on Chris and Danny. We’ll need to get the complete verdict from Scott, but the vampires shouldn’t be making more visits anytime soon.”
“At least Mary’s gone,” Lydia added, changing the subject. “She didn’t appreciate the taste of her own medicine.”
“Shifters and other supernatural creatures aren’t immune to her powers. Vengeful spirits are considered supernatural, so…”
“Derek found a silver serving tray in this room, and that did the trick. Once Mary saw her own reflection, she melted into a pool of blood near the fireplace.”
Stiles screwed up his face. “Okay, that’s gross. I think I’m done with all things blood for one day.”
“I think we all are.”
A heavy silence fell over the room, giving them a chance to process the night’s events. Because it was a lot. The Pack had been running out of steam for the last week, researching and investigating endlessly. Hitting roadblock after roadblock.
Everything was resolved now, but Stiles’ mind still whirled with more questions. When did Lydia’s clairaudience powers kick in? How did Derek and Lydia escape from vampire duty? What exactly happened once they barged into the house?
The words were ready to slip off of his tongue when Stiles heard a loud crash, followed by some thuds and then yelling (“Seriously?! What the fuck do you not get, McCall?”).
Lydia shook her head and smiled tightly. “Let me make sure Jackson hasn’t damaged his phone, himself, or anything else.”
“I can always take over and give Scotty the rundown—”
“No.”
“But—”
“You’re not going anywhere, Stiles,” Lydia warned, casting him a pointed look. “I mean it. Stay.”
“Excuse you! I’m not a pack dog!” Stiles complained. He tilted his head toward Derek. “This one though…”
“Not a dog,” Derek grunted, rolling his eyes. “Werewolves aren’t dogs.”
But Lydia simply waved them off, clacking across the room again to disappear through the kitchen’s double doors.
That left Stiles alone with Derek. Who still clung on to Stiles like a lifeline. Jesus, how much pain could a werewolf take? If the crazy ghost and her curse had vanished, Stiles should theoretically heal up in no time, right?
“I’m okay,” he reassured Derek. Stiles scooted up on the couch and tried to pull his hand away, but Derek didn’t budge. “Come on, man! You’ve leeched enough pain.”
“You could have died,” Derek answered flatly, glaring at Stiles with his broody eyebrows.
“But I didn’t.”
“It was a close call.”
“Are you actually mad I’m telling you to stop? I hope you haven’t become a masochist or a—”
“Stiles. Shut up.”
“Uh, no? You’re exhausted, Derek. You need to take a break.”
Derek cringed and bowed his head. “I’m fine.”
Such a lie. It was a typical one they always used every time they had this argument. Whenever Derek was poisoned with wolfsbane or mauled by harpies. Or, anytime Stiles was kidnapped by drows or got his ass handed to him by kobolds. Those were incidents they’d learned how to handle and survive.
But this? Where they’d been separated from each other and almost mortally wounded, without a chance to say goodbye? No, Stiles couldn’t let that slide. Not now.
“You’re hurting, and you shouldn’t be. You didn’t…you don’t deserve that. Like ever.”
Something fluttered through Derek’s eyes when he peered up at Stiles, as if he believed those very words. As if he finally felt seen. Sorrow morphed into what resembled a tiny glint of hope and—oh.
That was when Stiles got it. He should have known.
The things they did for each other weren’t out of necessity or just because they were pack. Derek Hale was so much more. A man who looked out for Stiles. Someone who trusted him. Protected and cared for him. Loved him.
Deep down, Stiles knew he shared those same feelings. He loved Derek just as much. How could he not?
“You can let go.”
Derek hesitated, then leaned closer toward Stiles. “You’re sure?”
Stiles licked his lips. Nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah. I want you to heal. If I need…if shit gets bad, I know you’ll be right here.”
“Okay.”
The moment Derek dropped Stiles’ hand, nothing happened. At least, not right away because Stiles didn’t feel any different. Maybe he was too high on wolfy morphine. It could be possible that—
Oh God.
It took five seconds for a rush of sensations to slam back into him. The body aches intensified, his head felt sore and fatigue instantly weighed him down. And yeah, it sucked that this was all part of being an injured human, feeling like he got hit by train. But Stiles knew this was caused by blood loss. From being thrown around, threatened, manipulated…and that probably explained where the sudden guilt came from.
He hadn’t noticed the guilt creeping back in until it felt like a hot tearing force trapped within his chest. Making Stiles feel so weak and worthless for not helping the Pack. Not being prepared. Not trying hard enough to save more people. For letting Derek down and hurting him.
Now, it made sense why Derek hadn’t wanted to let go. Derek didn’t want Stiles to experience any of this. The agony of almost dying, and the hefty burden that came along with it.
Stiles tried not to feel terrified. Tried not to panic or let the anxiety consume him, but it was all too much. Too much to dump onto him in such a short amount of time, and how was he supposed to pull through? There was no way Stiles could get out of this spiral, not when he didn’t know if these overwhelming feelings would ever go away.
But eventually, they dulled.
Things didn’t seem nearly as bad when he had strong arms wrapped around him. One minute, Stiles was lying on the couch and the next, he found himself engulfed by pure werewolf.
Derek pressed up behind Stiles to hold him close. He dipped in to brush his nose and rub his scruffy beard against Stiles’ jawline. Stiles just let himself sag back against Derek, savoring the intimacy. He needed this. A way to stay present. A reminder that it was possible to be forgiven.
Stiles tried to inhale and exhale, but he faltered. Tried again, and instead, he started trembling when unshed tears pricked his eyes. Fighting them only made the tears spill faster until they rolled down his cheeks, one after the other.
A choked sob escaped from him, and a low whine answered back.
Suddenly, Stiles didn’t know what to do. Something inside of him split, then broke open as Derek hugged him tighter. Derek wound his arms around Stiles’ waist and buried his damp face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. Slotting himself like he belonged there.
Because he did.
Derek would always belong with Stiles, even when the world was totally not okay. Even when Stiles was an absolute mess, with a runny nose and shaky sobs racking through his entire body.
It was the way Derek lifted his head and found Stiles’ hand, this time to thread their fingers together, that confirmed a thought Stiles had been wondering about.
“You saw her,” he rasped, his voice cracking. “You heard what she said…when I was…”
“It’s not your fault,” Derek murmured. He pressed a soft kiss against Stiles’ temple. “It never was.”
His breath hitched when he found Derek watching him. Quietly. Patiently. As if waiting for Stiles to challenge those words, ones that no one had ever spoken out loud.
Stiles willingly accepted them because he knew things could be worse. So much worse.
Yet, they were alive. They were here. Stiles and Derek had each other, and that was what mattered most.