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stereksecretsanta · 6 years

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Merry Christmas, @scientificallyfrostedtrenchcoat!

Hello! I started out with something sweeter, but I reread your requests and decided to go another route. It’s a little dark and bloody, but hopefully sweet? I hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3

—

A Revenge Story

Derek awakens to the slow knitting of bone and muscle. His brain feels raw and exposed as the world begins to swim back into focus. The cold concrete under him, for once, feels comforting, but the harsh blue light from the fluorescents, sting the back of his eyeballs and fires a sharp wave of pain into his skull.

His body feels sluggish and heavy, his mouth is sour and dry. Distantly, he can pick out a faint whispering, something low and foreign that Derek isn’t sure he would understand even if wasn’t concussed. Eventually, enough of the haze lifts that he can flex his left hand.

“Hey, welcome back, big guy.” A familiar voice quips.

Derek groans and tries to roll himself forward towards the bars. A flare of heat explodes into his veins, making him hiss and clench his entire body.

“Take it easy. They gave you quite a beating. You also got two doses of wolfsbane running through your system, so it’s going to be awhile.”

He waits for the burning to subside into a tolerable throb before he stretches one of his hands towards the water bowl near the front door of the cell. Gradually, he pulls it closer to his face and leans over to take a long drink. His vision is clearing but his head is still pounding.

“How long was I gone?” He rasps.

“Six hours.”

“Shit.” Derek glances towards the new empty cell in their row. “Where’s Faye?”

The witchling offers a wan smile. “She’s gone.”

“It’s too soon for them to take another.” Derek forces himself onto his elbow and tries to think against the stream of pain. “We’re supposed to have at least two more days.”

“It wasn’t like Jacob.” His voice tightens with emotion, but he clears his throat to smooth it into something calm and even. “Our kind don’t last long under these conditions. Faye was old and a caretaker, she wasn’t trained to endure this sort of damage, it’s amazing she lasted this long.”

It’s odd to hear those words coming from the boy’s mouth. Stiles hardly looks like an adult, especially with the patchy hint of stubble along his jawline. Out of the sixteen that once shared this block, Derek had not expected Stiles to survive this long. He was lean when they first arrived and a month later the boy was starting to get skeletal. Under the drugs Derek feels his wolf reaching out towards the boy, trying to offer comfort through non-existent pack bonds.

“Stiles…”

The witchling shakes his head so Derek foregoes asking a question he knows the answer to. Instead, he redirects their attention to the plan.

“How long do you need?” He asks, settling himself back onto the ground.

“Need is not the question.” Stiles dries his wet face with the back of his hand. “Rest. I’ll tell you when it’s dinner time.”

–

Derek is startled awake by gurgling noises and thrashing outside his cell. Stiles is kneeling on a guard’s chest, the man’s face mask is pulled up to his hairline, and Derek can see the violent red blush begin to bloom into a rich purple, as Stiles’ long fingers weave tighter around the man’s throat. A few months ago, watching something like this would have soured his stomach, now he can hardly look away. After everything that has happened, Derek feels like he needs to watch, if not for his own sanity for the others who are no longer with them, like Faye.

It doesn’t take very long. There’s one final squeaking attempt to breathe and then the man’s bloodshot eyes roll back, staring blankly into the inside of his skull.

“Nice of you to join the party, big guy.” Stiles says, a little winded. “You wanna grab that keycard so we can get out of here?”

He spies the fallen employee ID near his water bowl and makes quick work of the door lock. The wolfsbane is mostly out of his system but the sudden blood rush combined with adrenaline makes him dizzy. Stiles picks through the guard’s pockets, taking various items.

“Cameras are down but we have ten minutes until the shift change.” Stiles hands him a stun baton and a wallet, before offering up his wrists. “I’ve only got a little juice left but removing the iron could buy us some time.”

Derek frowns at the shackles. There’s a bolt of iron pierced through each of the witchling’s forearms. The skin surrounding the metal looks gray and black in some areas, like the skin and muscle are already dying. While Stiles is clearly more than a human practitioner of magic, Derek’s pretty sure he still bleeds like a human. Removing these might be okay in the short term but wasn’t it better to leave them in?

“C’mon you giant furball, any day now!” Stiles shakes his arms impatiently.

He rolls his eyes and focuses on snapping the bindings off and pulling out the bolts. The metal hisses and the smell of rot steams out of the dark fleshy holes. Derek can see a white slit of bone, nestled amongst decaying muscle. Stiles clenches his jaw, muffling his own screams as, his left arm is worked on. There’s no blood, only a milky green puss that only seems to become more potent the longer it’s exposed to fresh air.

“Thank you.” He sighs, shuddering with relief.

Derek grunts a response, gritting back the need to gag, and quickly shoves the witchling towards the entryway.

They encounter and dispatch two more guards. Derek struggles to pull their shoes off while Stiles rifles through their pockets. He collects another wallet, a gun, and a set of keys. They climb a few flights of stairs and push out into an empty parking lot and find themselves nestled deep in an abandoned warehouse district. It’s late…or possibly early, either way the only source of light is a street lamp a few buildings up near, what has to be a main road. Derek pushes all the buttons on the keyfobs until a pair of headlights flash. He turns to grin at Stiles only to realize the boy is staring up at a faint light in the third floor window.

“Stiles, we have to go.” Derek urges, gently pulling his upper arm.

“I don’t think I can.” He says quietly.

“What. What are you talking about? Of course you can, the next shift is going to be here soon!”

“I need to know.” The adrenaline from their escape pulls back and is exposes something calm and cold. “Someone did this to us, Derek. What if they’re doing it to other people? I can’t leave without knowing.”

They watch one another for a moment. Stiles wounds are still oozing. He’s certain the only reason the kid hasn’t passed out yet, under the dual weight of exhaustion and malnourishment, is pure stubbornness. Derek isn’t in much better condition, as the last dose of wolfsbane is still working its way through his system. Every instinct within him is screaming to get them to safety yet he can’t move.

Stiles’ face softens and he places a clammy palm over Derek’s hand.

“C'mon, Derek. Let’s finish this.”

–

They watch the warehouse fire from the ‘comfort’ of a Motel 6. They’re in some shittown in New Mexico. Stiles powers through fifteen tacos and half a pizza before crashing. Derek only manages half that before throwing up, he settles for half a liter of soda and Stiles’ leftover pizza crusts. After his stomach feels more settled, he bundles their trash, grabs a discarded blanket, and settles into a chair to keep watch.

–

He rouses late into the evening to the sound of Wheel of Fortune and the smell of greasy Chinese food.

The witchling doesn’t look as emaciated, his face is a little fuller and the holes in his arms have healed over into angry, purple glossy circles. The scent of infection is gone and replaced by a bitter anxiety and medication. He has freshly washed clothes that look a size too big and smell heavily of cheap detergent. Considering their situation, Stiles is practically a beacon of health.

Derek shifts off the scratchy comforter and stretches his limbs. His spine pops and cracks, sending a blissful relief through stiff bone. For the first time in weeks, he feels normal.

“I guess wolves really are nocturnal.” Stiles smirks over a square takeout box of noodles.

He tosses a bottle of water, Derek catches and drains it greedily while glancing around the room. There’s a variety of snack food and take out spread over the twin bed, and the floor is littered with empty containers and candy wrappers. There’s also a new pair of backpacks and a old worn duffle that smells like the car they stole.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I require more calories than sleep.” Stiles preens at the haul.

“I can see that.” Derek nods towards the devastation of food items and grabs a carton of kung-pow shrimp from the nightstand. “Besides the shopping spree were you able to figure anything out?”

“The last thirteen hours have been enlightening.” Stiles nods slurping another mouthful of noodles. He expects the kid to elaborate, but Stiles idly digs at his food instead. “I want to let you know I appreciate you helping me last night. You had a chance to make a break for it but you stayed anyways.”

“You expected me to leave you after all that?” Derek offers him a small smile, but Stiles is focused on digging for stray peanuts. An odd weight settles between them as the witchling mulls over his next words. “No, you were right, no one else should have to suffer like that.”

The kid gives him a small smile, soft and personal before glancing towards the pile of backpacks. “Look, it’s not much but the black backpack is yours. It has everything you need to get you as far as Sonoma. There’s a bus stop about a mile up. I suggest keeping a low profile until you reach civilization.”

“I don’t understand.” Derek furrows his brows. “What about you? What about the information you stole?”

“I sent it off to an associate to decrypt. I was able to do a little researching on my own. I have a pretty good idea where one of their safehouses is.” Stiles tosses the carton into a trash bag on the floor. “I think I have a thirty-two hour window before they move another shipment.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Sonoma?”

“Nothing, but I said I would be your ticket to freedom, thus Sonoma.” He waggles his fingers in a jazzy fashion. “This is where we part ways, wolfman.”

“You’re cutting me out so you can take on these bastards by yourself?” Derek says incredulously. “You’re still healing!”

“Hey, you weren’t looking so hot with poison in your veins either, pal.” Stiles glares. “I’m not as fragile I as seem.”

“You’re still not up to fighting capacity either.” Derek stabs his chopsticks into the half eaten container. “I’m coming with you.”

Stiles laughs. It’s an oddly boyish sound but lacks real mirth. “Look, spilling a little blood because you’re trying to escape, that’s understandable, it’s excusable. This…this isn’t. This is going to be a revenge story, black cowboy hat, John Wick shit. Not everyone has the stomach for that kind of business.”

Derek narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, well not all of us like to sit on the sidelines, witchboy.” Derek growls. “After a month of torture and seeing all those people be taken to who knows where, I think a little revenge is in order.”

Stiles examines him for a moment, contemplating the lines in his face.

“Are you really sure you want to kick in with me, wolf? It’s a long way down this rabbit hole and it won’t be clean on the other side. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like this is the start of a terrifying relationship.” Stiles grins, eyes bright with mischief.

—-

The first safe house is only a three hour drive away from the motel, hidden away amongst an odd patch of suburbia surrounded by miles of nothing. It’s a little past midnight and the silence coating the cookie cutter houses is oppressive. They park beside a black Ford pick-up and quietly cycle through the stolen keys until one finally works. The interior is sparse, save for a fold-up table and a few matching chairs. The living room has a selection of restraints, tools, and cages. Clearly, this safe house is some sort of makeshift processing area.

Derek hears two slow heartbeats coming from the second floor, and another pair under the floorboards. Splitting up would be efficient but potentially messy. Starting in the basement could be problematic because of the lack of exits, upstairs seems to be their best option.

Stiles takes the room on the left and Derek heads down the hall on the right. Much like the bottom floor, the room is unfurnished. A man is curled up on a barren mattress against the far corner of the room, far from the window. Derek softens his steps, carefully inching closer. The man reeks of cheap gin and copper; medical tape and gauze haphazardly decorate the right side of the man’s neck, all the way down to his bicep. The bandages are stained with varying shades of blood and there’s a sharp sour undertone, buried beneath the stench of alcohol. His wounds are beginning to turn.

Derek nudges the man’s shoulder, uncurling him along the mattress, and exposes a series of scabbed circular bites along his torso. The pattern is unfamiliar but reminds him of leeches.

Down the hall, a muffled scream is quickly stifled by two silenced shots. Stiles appears in the doorway shortly after, gun raised, and gives him a questioning look.

“You wanted to leave one alive, right?” Derek asks quietly, clearing away the weapons under the pillow.

Stiles clicks the safety on his weapon and moves to examine the man for himself.

“You’re more spiteful than I thought.” Stiles’ eyes glitter mischievously. “The venom is already working its way through his body, it’s too late for an antidote. His kidneys will go first, then his liver.” Stiles pulls out some zip ties from his pocket, and begins binding the man’s feet. “Loop his wrists to his belt, leave his cellphone.”

–

They hit a snag, clearing out the basement. The collector’s slowed heartbeat is misleading, she’s not asleep just at rest, thumbing through her text messages and playing solitaire with a deck of cards. Once their feet reach the last step, she opens fire on them. Stiles quickly dodges to the left but Derek is too slow and hot metal pierces into his left shoulder, lodging itself into his muscle but not breaking through to the other side. The next few shots narrowly miss and tear divots into the concrete behind him. Inhuman growling and clanging metal, adds to the chaos of gunshots. Stiles launches himself across the room and pins the woman against the wall before she’s able to reload. Her gun and cartridge clatters to the ground as she struggles against Stiles’ hold.

Derek presses a hand over his wound and finds most of the damage is already healing. He debates trying to fish the bullet out so he won’t have to dig it out later, but they probably won’t have much time after all that noise. He let’s Stiles handle the woman and turns his attention to the person in the cage.

The growling stops as soon as he crouches down, both taking a moment to size the other up. The wild mop of hair and dirt make it difficult to tell what the person underneath looks like. The shifter’s clothes are torn, non-descript, and entirely too big for their frame.

“Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here. Alright?”

Milky eyes glare up at him through the waffled grate. A series of circular, sucker-like mouths with rings of teeth begin to surface under the creature’s flesh; clicking open and closed before diving back under and surfacing in a new location.

“What the–” A wild snarl interrupts him as the shifter begins slamming its face against the side of the cage. Frothy spit and black blood splatter onto the floor as it continues to throw itself towards Derek.

“He’s feral. They’ve probably been feeding him mercury laced-meat, it kills the mind and makes the venom more potent.” Stiles says quietly, settling the now pilant semi-conscious guard back into her chair.

“They’ve been feeding him mercury laced-meat.”

“What, why?”

“It kills the mind and makes the venom more potent. He’ll fight like mad until his body gives out. Perfect for underground fighting rings.” Stiles explains. “I’m pretty amazed you bunch actually caught someone like him. You should be grateful that we’re the ones taking care of you instead of his sire.”

“Go to hell, monster.”

“You first, sweetie.” Stiles chides before turning back to Derek. “You should put him to rest. Whoever he was has already been burned out. He’s just a nerve cluster now.”

Derek frowns but picks up the discarded gun and fires two shots into the shifter’s face.

–

The interrogation isn’t very helpful and as far as revenge goes, it’s utterly unsatisfying. The woman is too low ranked to know anything useful, her phone is far more viable because of the code sypher. ‘Exotic’ supernaturals are brought to this location and sorted through for private buyers to bid on. Derek can only imagine what other sort of creatures have been drugged and damaged for market, it only makes him feel slightly better about putting this one out of its misery.

“Don’t worry, Wolfman.” Stiles says as he hot wires their new car. “The next one will be better.”

—-

The next one is better.

With the sypher from the phone, Stiles’ contact is able to get a lead on the next big transport. It takes a few days of driving, but they finally catch up with the semi-truck 20 miles south of Odessa, Texas. Derek takes two bullets to the chest, but it’s the first time since they’ve escaped that he feels alive.

Derek keeps the car steady as Stiles shoots out the back tires. The truck struggles to rebalance itself and eventually skids off the road into the desert scrub brush. The doors of the trailer fly open and a pair of disoriented and irritated guards stumble out. Stiles picks them both off before they can go for their weapons. The third manages to pull his gun from his holster but doesn’t get a shot off in time. He hits the bed of the trailer with a heavy thud and slides off the back on top of the other bodies.

Stiles gives a short whoop as he pulls himself back through the window. “Did you see that shit? Triple head shot, baby!”

The show of skill is pretty impressive, but Derek gives him a sobering look, pointedly gesturing to their current situation.

“Don’t even front, Wolfman, you know that was badass.”

They follow the truck off the road and immediately bail out just as the driver and his passenger start firing. A bright flash hits the side of their van, leaving a smoldering basketball sized dent. Derek feels the breath cool in his lungs as the temperature suddenly plummets.

“Magic, they have…magic.” His voice is steady but disbelieving.

He’s gone a second later and there’s a crackling explosion in the distance, chorused by gunfire. Derek uses the distraction to take out the humans. He plunges his claws into one of the guard’s neck, but misjudges his own strength. It’s disturbingly easy to sink his fingers through flesh and muscle. The spray of blood and the immediate overflowing gush is unlike anything he’s felt before. The wolf howls joyously at the successful kill, but the human part of his brain stumbles over the action. By the time he slides his claws out, the man’s head is barely holding on to its body. Only a small chunk of muscle and spine keep it from snapping off.

Derek staggers back, transfixed by the dark glistening of his hands. A sudden swell of pride warms his chest, Derek isn’t sure how he feels about it. He’s killed before, both with his hands and with a weapon, but never anything close to this.

A sharp thud, collides against his chest and shakes him from his reverence. Two more bullets thump against the solid lining of the kevlar vest, blooming more ripples of stinging pressure over his sternum. He races forward, as the guard unloads the last two bullets, missing once and landing final through Derek’s bicep. He guard chucks the empty gun at him, backing up to pull out his side pistol, but Derek upsets the shot and yanks the weapon from the man’s hands.

He feels the wolf rise to the surface of his mind, melding perfectly with his own deadly intentions. They play. Slowly, picking apart the man’s defenses while drawing him closer. They let him get a few hits and watch as he desperately pulls out new weapons, becoming more frantic as each opportunity is stripped and tossed away. This time when they go for the neck, the strength is measured. The crunch of bone echos into their hands and up the forearms.

The kill is clean, contained.

They howl.

It takes a long moment to pull back, to settle back into one flesh. Derek leans against the side of the trailer and slows his breathing. The fighting on the opposite side of the truck has died down. He sorts through the litter of thudding heartbeats until he finds a familiar rabbit-quick pulse. He focuses on that until the ridges on his face smooth and his claws retract. His gums still itch with the phantom pressure of his fangs, but he feels stable. He wipes his hands on his pants, smearing sweat and blood along the already stained material, and gets to work rifling through the main cabin of the truck.

It’s a better haul than their first attempt.

Within a few minutes of searching, he’s already found a laptop, a handful of marked maps, and a ledger. He idly flips through the notebook, looking over more code, lists of dates and other numbers he can’t make sense of. Outside, he can hear soft whimpers under the steady thrum of Stiles’ voice.

“..twisted fuck. Your magic was a gift and this is how you use it? You willingly turn against your own kind, help those fucks sell us for parts, dress us up for slaughter for what? Money!?”

“Don’t…please…” A voice gurgles.

“They put iron in us, do you know what it’s like to be cut like that?” Stiles voice takes on a deeper echo, something ancient…primal. There’s a soft squishing and the druid cries out again. “It aches, like hunger. It festers in the bone, makes you feel heavy and brittle at the same time. Do you know how long we last like that?”

“I had nothing to do with that! I only help with transport.”

“I don’t need supernatural healing to know that’s a lie. The moment I let you have a taste of what I could do your eyes lit up. We’ve found one of your ‘processing centers’, how much would those private buyers bid for me, hm?” Another squish, followed by a crunch. “Where were you taking your shipment?”

“Please…I don’t…”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. There is no spin to this. No one is coming for you and I’m certainly not letting you leave here. Your only options are slow or fast, and trust me…I can be downright meticulous when I want to be.” He vows quietly. “Now, where were you taking them?”

Wet breaths lift through the tension of Stiles’ silence until the druid finally resigns and accepts his fate.

“…there’s a processing warehouse in Barstow. From there they’re either shipped out to LA for international sellers or to the one of the main hubs up in NorCal, bu-but I don’t know which one!”

“Then you can give me all of them.”

It only takes a little more pressing before the man rattles off a list cities. Derek finds a pen in the glove compartment and begins jotting them down on the back cover.

The druid breathing becomes erratic and a low groan of agony pitches into a terrified scream. Copper and burnt cedar color the air as the light from inside the truck’s cabin becomes brighter and brighter. The sweat slick hair on the back of Derek’s neck prickles and struggles to stand. A strange pressure crystallizes, thinning the air in his lungs and making him dizzy. He feels stretched thin and then suddenly the moment shatters, snapping everything back as if nothing happened.

The druid’s heartbeat is sluggish but steady, while Stiles’ is now racing at the speed of a hummingbird’s.

Derek stumbles out of the cab, leaving everything behind and lumbers towards the sound of the frantic beating. The knitted balaclava covering Stiles face is gone, tucked into his back pocket, and his exposed face has taken on an opal-esque glow. His whiskey-eyes are now two pieces of molten gold, constantly churning. The lights fade, taking with it the bruises and hard-set exhaustion, leaving an inhuman luster.

“What did you do?” The man rasps. “Why can’t I…what did you do?”

“I’m repaying you for a friend.” Stiles says, stepping back. “She was old but managed twenty-eight days, let’s see how long you last.”

–

The trailer has three shifters, two mages, and one kitsune. All of the shifters are out cold, but the humans are still awake and bound in iron. The kitsune is struggling to keep conscious. She’s young, probably around college-aged, and not in full control of her abilities– as Derek can see the faint outline of her fox hovering around her. She’s got a deep gouge across her forehead and her right leg has a jagged piece of shin bone exposed.

“Are they dead?” she asks as Derek kneels beside her cage. He nods and for the second time that night, Derek comes face-to-face with something ancient. “Good.”

–

The locks take minutes but shuffling three sleeping shifters and one injured kitsune takes longer than either he or Stiles are comfortable with. They keep the restraints on because, Derek would rather not deal with three shifters waking up and thrashing around as they’re trying to cross into New Mexico. The drive is mostly quiet, save for some soothing attempts at small talk. The older woman’s name is Paula, she’s only been with the group for a few days. Bobby and Kira have been there the longest, three weeks. Paula doesn’t like talking much about what happened, Bobby can’t remember how he was taken, and Kira was mind-whammied at a cafe while she was studying for finals.

Stiles tries to play off this information casually, choosing to fiddle with the radio like he’s looking for something to fit the ‘after rampage’ mood. He can’t hide the slip of Other that slowly gathers in his eyes. Being hunted by humans is one thing. It’s commonplace and expected ever since the old families have fallen. Having your own kind hunt you for profit from humans, is another level of fucked up.

The group says their goodbyes in Roswell. Both Stiles and Bobby think it’s hilarious but Paula looks entirely done with the whole situation. Two of the shifters are from big packs in California and Washington, the Navarros and the Tams. They assure Derek they’ll inform their Alphas and urge them to take this to the Council. Stiles doesn’t seem entirely convinced the Council will do anything, but perhaps having two packs vouch for them might at least save them from any backlash.

Kira is the only one to linger.

“I…remembered something else.” She says quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating group.

Bobby is nearby waiting, not wanting to let her out of his sight until she’s safely on a bus back home. Kira gives him a half smile before turning back to them grimly.

“A few weeks back we were moved from a warehouse to some house in the suburbs. An old man showed up in one of those…newsie caps with some men. They talked to our kidnappers, I couldn’t hear what they were talking about but the man handed him a book with this symbol on it.” She motions for Derek to hand her the pen from the ledger and draws it on Stiles’ palm.

Before she can finish the outline, Derek feels his eyes fill with red and the world contract around a flash of blonde hair and honeyed words. White hot rage clashes with bitter shame as the beast within him howls and snaps its jaws. He can distantly feel the heat from the flames and taste the ash on his tongue. The dread of almost losing everything, everyone sinks in his stomach and he can’t stop the growl that slips through his fangs.

“Derek, you wanna ease up a little there, buddy?” Stiles says lightly.

Derek glances up for a moment, surfacing from the smoke of his memories. His hand is clenched around Stiles’. Kira’s brow is twinged with concern and Stiles is watching him so intently, Derek wonders if the kid can actually read minds.

Derek loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “You’re sure this was the symbol?”

She nods. “I just thought he really liked the Saints, but after that I started seeing it everywhere. Some of the other people in suits had it tattooed on the inside of their wrists.”

Derek let’s Stiles’ hand slip from his grip and settles back, numbly against the seat.

“So this means something, it’s not just a crazy football cult?”

“It’s an old hunter monicure for the Argents.” Stiles informs, still watching Derek. “Only those associated with the original line use this symbol. The family fractured awhile back. Not many people come across the original line these days, some say they returned overseas to their mother country.”

“I don’t…I’m still really new to all this. My mom–” She frowns, clears her throat and redirects. “My mom’s been around longer, she might know something about all this. She’s got a penchant for gathering information, she’s just not good about sharing it..”

The lights in parking lot flicker and Bobby looks around as if preparing for danger. Stiles chuckles and turns his attention back to a sheepish Kira.

“I’m going to give you the number to a friend of mine. Her name is Satomi, she’s not a kitsune but she’s might be able to help with that.” He says, taking the pen back and scribbling on her palm. “And if your mother breaks the lock on her information storehouse, you can contact me with this number.”

—-

They ditch the van a few hours later for a crappy Volvo from the 90s and find a cheesy nearby ‘inn’ that looks untouched from the 60s. The old woman at the front desk doesn’t even bother to lift her head up from her book, just snatches the money and hands over the key.

The room is surprisingly clean for the shoddy exterior. There’s still a lingering smell of semen, drug sweat, and floral cleaner, but it’s more tolerable than everywhere else they’ve stayed. Stiles immediately collapses on the bed and it takes every ounce of remaining strength not to follow after. He’s tired, both physically and emotionally. His wolf wants to nestle against the boy’s throat and sleep for days. After the last sixteen hours, Derek might let the wolf win.

He just wants to shut his brain off and not think for awhile. He doesn’t want to think about his time in captivity, or tearing a man’s throat out. He doesn’t want to think about what exactly the fuck Stiles’ is because whatever happened in that desert wasn’t like any magic Derek had ever seen before. He certainly doesn’t want to remember the fire or anything to do with that woman or her insane family.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stretches languidly, moaning loudly from the relief of a few cracks and pops. The wolf whines at the invitation of firm belly flesh. Derek busies himself with setting their bags down and barricading the door.

“Will you stop for a minute and come lie down?” Stiles rebukes, loudly thumping the mattress with an open hand. “I feel like I’m being held together by rubber bands and you can’t be doing much better.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you haven’t noticed your eyes have been flickering since we left that UFO diner.”

Derek catches a glimpse of his reflection in a picture frame and sighs. Behind him, Stiles is grinning and smoothing a hand over the empty side of the bed.

“C’mon big bad, time for a well deserved nap before we hit the books.”

“Someone should take watc–”

“Oh c’mon. You’re as dead on your feet. The last time you tried to take watch while you were exhausted you fell asleep ten minutes later.” Stiles scoffs. “I’ll put a ward up as soon as you lay down. We’ll be shocked awake long before anyone tries to break in. Now, would you please get in the damn bed?”

Derek begrudgingly toes his shoes off and settles onto the mattress. The springs groan under his weight and Stiles chuckles victoriously.

“We did good today.” Stiles tells him. “Kicked some ass, got information, saved some people. Networked, that’s always key after a kidnapping.”

“Yeah. We did.”

After all the action from the night before, sharing such a close space without fear or vigilance, somehow feels overwhelming. It’s a strange thing to think about. They’ve been lumped together for over a month. First, separated by metal, then struggling to heal and feel unencumbered in their own bodies again. Laying side-by-side with the potential to touch is almost daunting.

Derek can practically feel time slow and extend. His hand itches to move closer, to brush their arms if only to just see if he–at least the human side, could be near someone again after everything.

In the end, Stiles makes the first move and rolls over, slipping against Derek’s side.

“Stiles…” He grits out, trying to steady the uptick in his pulse.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you wolves are tactile creatures.” He says innocently. “I figured now that we’ve upgraded from torture bros to vengence bros, that’s gotta be closer to pack, right? At least a temporary one.”

The wolf preens in agreement. Derek clears his throat, trying not to let himself get too comfortable when he feels so uneven.

Stiles inches back, glancing up at him. “Maybe…It’s something I might need too.”

The teasing grin has sobered into uncharacteristic nervousness. Stiles is rarely anything short of cocky, especially when he’s being terrifying. Seeing him suddenly so open puts Derek at ease. Heat climbs into the tips of his ears, but Derek ignores it and pulls Stiles down against his side with a grumble.

“Alright, just…don’t ever call us vengence bros again. You sound like an idiot.”

Stiles laughs. “What about The Revengenators?”

“Hard pass.”

“How about…” He falters. “Okay, I can’t brain anymore. But when I get four hours of sleep and at least two pizzas in me, be ready for a brainstorming session.”

“I could always smother you in your sleep.”

“Nah. You’d miss me too much. Who else you gonna revengenate with?” Stiles says assuredly, wriggling into a more comfortable position.

The wolf chuffs contentedly, as if this isn’t entirely new territory.

“Shh, you’re brain is too loud.”

“You’re too loud.” Derek grumbles back, only to be shushed again.

Stiles’ hand finally comes to a rest atop his chest. Long fingers idly trace letters and symbols along his ribs, erasing and starting again. It only takes a few minutes to completely relax into the other man’s touch. At one point, Stiles plays out a few games of tic-tac-toe before building out a more complicated design. Derek reciprocates by swooping his thumb gently over the curve of Stiles’ spine and gets a tighter snuggle for his effort.

He slips into a light dose.

“You’ve met them before, haven’t you?” Stiles asks quietly. The haze of sleep quickly evaporates at the question. “You’re a Hale, you’re that Hale.”

Derek stills, his hand sliding away.

Stiles shift onto his elbow and watches the conflict pass over Derek’s face.

Suddenly, his mouth is bone dry and his skin feels too tight. He feels naked under Stiles’ thoughtful gaze.

It’s been years, since the fire and hearing. The case was settled and sealed, the Council ordered the Argents to fracture their line and Kate was to be executed or sent to the Wylds. Derek never knew which they chose, didn’t care at the time so long as he never has to see her again. Despite all this, it didn’t stop people from talking or embellishing. There so many insane rumors about how it had been a lover’s plot to gain the Pack’s land and holdings, and not the machinations of a bloodthirsty predator.

Derek had been lucky enough to have grown out of his familiar baby face. Most people couldn’t remember what happened to that one Hale, who almost burned their entire family.

Now, after all these years, someone knew…remembered.

He waits for the inevitable turn, the scoffing, the judgement. How could you be so stupid? How could you let her into your home? Why didn’t you kill them?

But it never comes.

After what feels like an eternity, Stiles finally smiles and threads his fingers through Derek’s beard. He nearly buckles at the tenderness of Stiles’ touch. A wave of warmth floods into his chest, swallowing up anxiety and doubt. He can feel the pull between them, faint but stronger, the beginning of something precious.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know?” He says fondly. “And to think when they first threw you in that cage, I thought: ‘There’s no way this guy is going to make it. He’s too pretty to be useful.’”He teases.

Derek chuckles softly. “Me? You were the sucker’s bet. Twiggy, loud-mouth. No way you were going to last two weeks.“

“I guess we’re both suckers, since we turned out to be secret badass survivors.” He grins. “So, it looks like this revenge tour just got a little more interesting. How’s about it, Wolfman, you wanna destroy and empire with me?”

“Sure.” He says, curling Stiles closer. “Why not?”

#scientificallyfrostedtrenchcoat #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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rubyredhoodling · 7 years

Text

Some John Wick Shit

“Hey, welcome back, big guy.” A familiar voice quips.

Derek groans and tries to roll himself forward towards the bars. A flare of heat explodes into his veins, making him hiss and clench his entire body.

“Take it easy. They gave you quite a beating. You also got two doses of wolfsbane running through your system, so it’s going to be awhile.”

“How long was I gone?” He rasps.

“Six hours.”

“Shit.” Derek glances towards the new empty cell in their row. “Where’s Faye?”

The witchling offers a wan smile. “She’s gone.”

“It’s too soon for them to take another.” Derek forces himself onto his elbow and tries to think against the stream of pain. “We’re supposed to have at least two more days.”

“Stiles…”

The witchling shakes his head so Derek foregoes asking a question he knows the answer to. Instead, he redirects their attention to the plan.

“How long do you need?” He asks, settling himself back onto the ground.

“Need is not the question.” Stiles dries his wet face with the back of his hand. “Rest. I’ll tell you when it’s dinner time.”

Derek is startled awake by violent thrashing outside his cell. The guard under Stiles’ is slowly turning purple under the weave of his long fingers.

“Nice of you to join the party, big guy. You wanna grab that keycard so we can get out of here?”

Derek spies the bloodied employee ID near his water bowl and makes quick work of the door. The wolfsbane is mostly out of his system but the sudden blood rush combined with adrenaline makes him dizzy. The guard’s eyes finally roll back and Stiles begins to pull various items from the man’s pockets.

Derek frowns at the shackles. There’s a bolt of iron pierced through each of his forearms. Stiles shakes his arms impatiently and Derek focuses all his strength on snapping the bindings off and pulling the bolts out of the witchling’s flesh. The scent of infection mingles with fresh blood but Stiles shudders with relief.

“Thank you.” He sighs.

Derek grunts a response and quickly shoves him towards the entryway.

They encounter two more guards. They’re quickly dispatched and stripped. Two more flights of stairs and they find themselves in an abandoned lot in some nondescript warehouse district. Derek hits a couple of keyfobs until a pair of headlights flashes at the far end of the lot, and starts to jog towards it when he realizes Stiles isn’t behind him.

The witchling is staring up at the light in the third floor window.

“Stiles, we have to go.” Derek urges.

“I don’t think I can.”

“What are you talking about? The next shift is going to be here soon!”

“I need to know.” Panic ebbs from Stiles’ body and is replaced with something calm and cold. “Someone did this to us. What if they’re doing this to other people? I can't leave, not without knowing if there's other places like this."

They watch each other for a moment. They’re barely both standing. Stiles wounds are still bleeding and Derek can still feel the last echoes of wolfbane in his muscles. Every instinct within him is screaming to get them to safety but he can’t move. Stiles tilts his head and lifts his hand out.

“C'mon, Derek. Let’s finish this.”

They watch the warehouse fire from the ‘comfort’ of a Motel 6. They’re in some shittown in New Mexico. Stiles powers through fifteen tacos and half a pizza before crashing. Derek only manages half that before throwing up, he settles for half a liter of soda and Stiles' leftover pizza crusts. After his stomach feels more settled, he bundles their trash, grabs a discarded blanket, and settles into a chair to keep watch.

He rouses late into the evening to the sound of Wheel of Fortune and the smell of greasy Chinese food.

Stiles’ face looks a little fuller and the holes in his arms have healed over into angry, glossy circles. The scent of infection is gone and replaced by a bitter anxiety, considering their situation, it’s a world of improvement. He has freshly washed clothes that look a size too big and smell heavily of cheap detergent. Derek shifts himself off the scratchy comforter and stretches his limbs. His spine pops and cracks, sending a blissful relief through the rest of his body. For the first time in weeks, he feels normal.

“I guess wolves really are nocturnal.” Stiles smirks over a square takeout box of noodles.

He tosses a bottle of water. Derek catches it and drains it greedily while glancing around the room. There's a variety of snack food and take out spread over the twin bed, and the floor is littered with empty containers and candy wrappers. There's also a new pair of backpacks and a old worn duffle that smells like the car they stole.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I require more calories than sleep.” Stiles preens at his haul.

"I can see that." Derek nods towards the devastation and grabs a carton of kung-pow shrimp from the nightstand. "Besides the shopping spree were you able to figure anything out?"

"The last thirteen hours have been enlightening." Stiles nods slurping another mouthful of noodles. He idly digs at his food for a moment. "I want to let you know I appreciate you helping me last night. You had a chance to make a break for it but you stayed anyways."

“No, you were right, no one else should have to suffer like that.” Derek offers him a small smile, but Stiles is focused on digging for stray peanuts. An odd weight settles between them as the witchling mulls over his next words.

"Look, it’s not much but the black backpack is yours. It has everything you need to get you as far as Sonoma. There's a bus stop about a mile up. I suggest keeping a low profile until you reach civilization."

“I don’t understand.” Derek furrows his brows. “What about you? What about the information you stole?”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with me getting to Sonoma?”

“Nothing, but I said I would be your ticket to freedom, thus Sonoma.” He waggles his fingers in a jazzy fashion. “This is where we part ways, wolfman.”

“You’re going to take on those hunters by yourself?” Derek says incredulously. “You’re still healing!”

“Hey, you weren’t looking so hot with poison in your veins either, pal.” Stiles glares. “I’m not as fragile I as seem.”

“You’re still not up to fighting capacity either.” Derek stabs his chopsticks into the half eaten container. “I’m coming with you.”

Stiles laughs. It’s an oddly boyish sound but lacks real mirth. “Look, spilling a little blood because you’re trying to escape, that’s understandable. This...this is going to be a revenge story, black cowboy hat, John Wick, shit. Not everyone has the stomach for that kind of business.”

Derek narrows his eyes.

Stiles stares at him for a moment, contemplating the lines in his face.

“Are you really sure you want to kick in with me, wolf? It’s a long way down this rabbit hole and it won’t be clean on the other side. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

"Well then, this sounds like this is the start of a terrifying relationship." Stiles grins, eyes bright with mischief. "I look forward to rampaging with you, Mr. Wolf."

#Sterek #sterek ficlet #my writing #trying something out #revenge quest #magic!stiles #I don't know what to do with this #but enjoy!

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