#LfaPtCH

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 26 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

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Derek can barely keep his eyes open as they eat, still leaning on Stiles. He keeps expecting to be shrugged off, but Stiles smells content and actually loops an arm around Derek to keep him upright when he lists a little too far and starts tipping over.

Isaac made far too many waffles even for five werewolves and three humans, and even Laura and Cora reach their limits after a fourth helping each.

Derek manages three bites of his third serving before his stomach slips and he rushes to the bathroom, barely able to hold off on expelling the food he’s just eaten before his head is over the toilet bowl.

Someone brushes their hand down his back, offering a bit of comfort as he dry heaves, saliva dripping from his mouth.

Slowly, Derek becomes aware of the person speaking. He isn’t too surprised to find that it’s Stiles rubbing his back, talking quietly as he keeps a steady, grounding pressure on Derek’s back.

“You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Derek doesn’t believe him. How can everything be okay when Derek can’t eat enough to put on weight and Laura is going back to her captors to rescue the child they forced her to have? How can Stiles lie so easily when Derek knows he has seen so many bad things as a deputy?

Stiles helps him stand when he finally stops retching. He wets a washcloth and gently wipes snot and saliva from Derek’s face.

“How are you feeling now?”

Derek shakes his head. He still feels queasy even if there’s nothing left in his stomach. He doesn’t know if the sensation will pass shortly or if he’ll have to stay in the bathroom in case his body decides to eject more.

Peter knocks on the door frame. “Is everyone okay?” he asks, eyeing Stiles with unbridled suspicion.

“Is there any ginger tea?” Stiles pats Derek’s back lightly before rubbing a soothing circle between his shoulder blades. “My mom swore by it whenever my dad or I felt a little under the weather.”

“Just ginger tea?” Peter asks, mischievous. “Not something stronger? She was knowledgeable about a lot of different plants, after all.”

“She was also the Hale emissary before she died.” Stiles sounds hard, like Peter pushed too hard and now he’s trying to hide any hurt behind a shield of anger.

“And your dad became our emissary after,” Peter says with forced lightness. “We—I am so grateful to your parents for the support and kindness they showed my family. I’m sure we can find some ginger tea if you think it will help.”

“What do you say, bud?” Stiles pats Derek’s back gently. “Think ginger tea sounds good?”

Derek nods. He has a faint memory of being sick as a very young child and being given something warm and spicy to drink, but he doesn’t know if that was ginger tea nor does he remember who gave it to him.

He lets Stiles heft him up into his arms and carry him into the kitchen. He could walk but his stomach hurts and he’s tired. Besides, Stiles has a nice scent. Derek buries his nose against Stiles’ shirt and inhales deeply. This smell must be why Peter likes him so much.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickens as Peter trails them back to the table where Erica already has a mug steeping.

“Thanks for supper,” John says, “but it’s way past time to be going to bed.” He yawns widely as if to make his point. “I’ll be back around 4:00. Be ready to go.” He leaves but Stiles stays at the table, watching as Derek takes careful sips from the mug. It definitely is the spicy drink he remembers, and with more life experience, he can definitely taste the ginger in it.

Peter hovers behind Stiles for a few minutes, something distinctly indecisive about his scent.

As soon as Derek finishes drinking the tea, Peter takes the mug and puts it in the sink. Then, he sits next to Stiles, who barely spares him a glance.

“Do I make you nervous?” Peter asks.

Stiles’ scent goes sour. “No,” he replies stiffly. “Why? Are you trying to make me nervous?”

Peter smells sad, as if Stiles said the wrong thing. But how could he? He’s telling the truth as far as his heartbeat and sweat response betray.

And then Derek remembers something about his uncle: he shows his teeth when he’s flirting. Mom used to explain to the men Peter brought home that if they were patient then they would get past the teeth. Not many had enough patience, and the ones that did were meaner than Peter.

Derek looks between his miserable uncle and his equally miserable crush and rolls his eyes at them. Neither of them notice because they’re too busy ignoring each other.

“Peter likes you,” he announces, making them both jump. Peter flushes under Stiles’ sudden stare. “And Stiles likes you too, Peter.”

Stiles blushes hotly too. “I do not,” he protests as his heartbeat blips wildly.

“You do,” Peter says, amazement in his tone. “Even though you think I’m a murderer?”

“I know you’re a murderer,” Stiles corrects, “but I’m not so sure that you’ll keep murdering people aside from the trip you’re about to take.”

Peter lowers his head and closes his eyes. Then, slowly, he lifts his head and opens his eyes. Stiles doesn’t react to Peter’s blazing blue eyes.

“I know the people in New York have hurt your family,” Stiles says softly. “And I know law enforcement has failed you before, but I don’t trust you to come back unscathed. You have to understand; that’s my dad. My only living relative. I can’t lose him.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Peter’s eyes flicker back to human blue, “but I can tell you he’ll have better odds if I go too.”

Derek leaves them at the table and goes to his room. Isaac is sitting at the desk, writing a letter. Derek ignores him and crawls under the bed. He isn’t hiding exactly, but he doesn’t want to be found.

He doesn’t want his sister to go to New York but he does want them to find her daughter.

He also doesn’t want to listen to his uncle awkwardly try to flirt with Stiles. He’d be happy to call Stiles “Uncle” but it’s a little too soon to know if he and Peter even want to date each other.

Attraction doesn’t mean love.

Kate and the hunters have taught Derek that. He remembers things, sights, sounds, smells, and he curls into a tight ball, hands pressed against his ears, trying to block everything out.

“Are you comfortable under there?” Isaac asks, breaking into Derek’s spiraling thoughts. “I mean, I’m sure you are, but don’t you want to be on top of the bed?”

Derek slides out from under the bed and climbs under the covers. Isaac stacks his papers, clicks his pen a few times, and turns off the light.

The bed dips when Isaac gets in, and a few minutes later, he’s settled and drifting off to sleep.

Derek listens to his slowing breathing for fifteen minutes before he’s positive Isaac is asleep. Then he slips out of bed and tiptoes back to the kitchen where Peter and Stiles are still sitting.

“I don’t care what advantage it would give me,” Stiles is saying, low and vehement. “I don’t want the bite.”

“Just think of all the cases you could solve if you had my senses.” Peter sounds passionate, like he truly believes he’s offering the best thing in the world to Stiles and Stiles is too dumb to realize it.

But Derek knows, as does Peter, that not everyone survives the bite. And sometimes, they don’t turn into werewolves at all.

Peter should tell Stiles about all the risks and not just the benefits.

Stiles responds with something biting but Derek doesn’t hear it because Peter suddenly grabs him and drags him into the kitchen by his collar.

“Little pups have big ears,” he says, pulling out a chair and pushing Derek to sit in it.

Stiles glares at Peter. “You shouldn’t be so rough with the people you claim to love.”

“Claim?” Peter snorts. “There is no ‘claim,’ Deputy. I love my family beyond life itself. I don’t need you to tell me how to show it.”

“Then you need to not grab or drag people around like they’re bags waiting for you to move them.” Stiles and Peter glare at each other, and Derek holds his breath, certain that Peter will lash out and Stiles, human Stiles, will get hurt.

Instead, Peter breaks eye contact first. “I’m sorry, Derek,” he says gruffly, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Derek stays quiet. Peter absolutely meant to scare him. What he probably didn’t mean to do was hurt him. There was no reason to grab Derek like that, and he’s glad Stiles pointed it out.

Peter hugs him, smacking a kiss onto the top of his head.

“It’s past time for you to be in bed if you’re going to New York.” Stiles’ tone is icy. He’s still mad.

“Will you stay?” Peter asks. “I’m sure we can find room for you somewhere.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’d better head out.” He narrows his eyes at Peter as if telling him to behave. “I’ll stop back tomorrow to make sure everything is going okay.” He gives Derek a one-armed hug. “Call me if you need anything.” He presses a card into Derek’s hand. “My cell phone is always on, no matter the time. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

Then he gets up, grabs his keys, and leaves. Derek doesn’t wait for Peter to apologize again. He crawls back under the covers in his bed, listening to Isaac’s quiet snores, to Boyd’s deeper ones, his sisters’ gentle whimpers, Erica’s deep breaths, and doesn’t sleep at all.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

When Stiles gets back to his apartment, he finds Kincaid and Ramirez sitting on his front step.

“No offense,” he tells them before they can say anything, “but I’m really not in the mood.”

It may not be  terribly late—only just past 8:00 p.m.—but Stiles is exhausted. Maybe it’s the conversation he just had with Peter Hale. Maybe it’s the overtime he’s pulled the last few days. Whatever the cause, he can feel it in his bones, and he does not want to be dragged into whatever the rookie officers have come to consult him on.

“We just wanted to let you know that the preliminary autopsy on Alan Deaton didn’t find any wounds,” Ramirez says. “Apparently, he just drove into the lake on his own.”

“Or he swerved to avoid an animal,” Kincaid adds.

“I don’t care,” Stiles says. He still believes Peter had something to do with it, but at least he was sort of telling the truth when he said he hadn’t killed Deaton.

“Just thought you should know, sir.”

“If it’s any consolation, we think the FBI agent investigating the connection between the murders and the Hale house fire is a giant douchebag.”

Stiles stifles a laugh. Ramirez is going to be a great officer if she keeps her wits about her and doesn’t let the politics of law enforcement twist her morals. And as long as Kincaid follows Ramirez, and as long as he remains uncorrupted, he’ll be just fine too.

“Anything else?” he asks, key in his lock.

Kincaid blushes while Ramirez makes direct eye contact with him, challenging him to something he doesn’t realize until she follows it with, “We’re together, Thomas and I. We won’t let it affect our work, but we also won’t let it keep us apart.”

“Congratulations,” Stiles says dryly. “But I’m not your supervisor. If you want to make it official, you’ll have to take it up with Sheriff Parrish.”

Ramirez and Kincaid exchange a look of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” Kincaid says. “We’ll let you get back to your evening now. Have a nice night.” He takes Ramirez’s hand and leads her to a powder blue Toyota Corolla that has seen better days parked in front of Mrs. Henderson’s house.

Stiles waves them off and then heads inside. He hangs up his keys, locks the door, and grabs a beer from the fridge.

He doesn’t drink often, too afraid he’ll end up like his dad did right after his mom passed. It had taken almost three years before Dad sobered up enough to pay attention to Stiles again. By that time, it was almost too late to salvage their relationship.

Stiles has been very careful and only consumes alcohol in moderation, but tonight he just really needs a drink to help him digest everything.

He picks up a bottle opener and heads out to his back steps. He flicks off the cap and takes a long swallow.

Peter killed Kate Argent. Of that there’s no doubt. Although, Stiles doesn’t think he’d be any more likely to abstain if he’d found out she was the one who burned his family alive and kidnapped his nieces and nephew.

Peter’s involvement in the deaths of Deaton and Myers is less certain.

And to complicate things even more, Peter keeps flirting with Stiles.

There must be some kind of neon sign stuck to him that attracts crazy—no, Stiles corrects himself quickly, not crazy. Supernatural.

He sighs, finishing the bottle and setting it by his feet. It’s disgusting to him, but that’s why he drinks it. He won’t ever be tempted to empty his fridge if all he has is this cheap swill.

Nudging at the bottle with the toe of his shoe, Stiles idly wonders what effect alcohol has on werewolves. Would they get drunk and recover faster? Or would it not affect them at all?

He could ask Peter, but he doesn’t think that’s the best idea. Peter might just try to bite him.

Why, though? What’s wrong with being human? And more pressingly, would Stiles survive the bite? Mom was a spark, according to Dad. And something else, like Mom or Deaton’s sister, made them unable to be a werewolf at the same time. Talia Hale hadn’t bitten Mom because it wouldn’t have helped.

What if Stiles has inherited the spark from his mom?

Could he accept the bite knowing that it could—would probably—kill him?

No, Stiles decides. Human is what he’ll have to stay. He doesn’t need enhanced senses to know when someone is lying to him. He doesn’t need extra strength to take down perpetrators.

He doesn’t need to be a werewolf.

Stiles yawns widely, jaw creaking with it. He doesn’t need supernatural abilities, but he does need a good night’s rest. Especially if his plans to see his dad and his “team” off to the airport.

It’s a little suspect that everyone trusts this half-baked scheme. Stiles knows they can’t just be going back to New York for a gun competition, but he hopes they don’t end up murdering more people or worse.

Although, if Peter tags along, it seems likely that there might be just a touch of maiming.

Stiles takes his bottle inside to rinse and put with the other recyclable glass.

He brushes his teeth and takes a quick shower to wash off the day.

He sets an alarm, sets up his coffee pot for a few minutes before the alarm, and then lies down on his bed, listening to the building settle.

His upstairs neighbor, usually awake at this time and moving around is absent, so it should be easy to fall asleep, right?

Wrong.

Stiles’ mind is buzzing too much for his eyes to stay shut despite the lethargy pulling at his limbs.

And what is making his mind race? Peter Fucking Hale.

Peter, who flirted like it was a battle that he was going to win by sheer surprise.

Peter, who killed to avenge his family and to protect them.

Peter, who Stiles wonders what he would taste like if he kissed him.

It’s been a long time since Stiles has felt attraction. Just his luck that it’s the local murder-wolf.

Stiles sighs. He’s not getting any sleep tonight. He might as well get up and do something productive, like…like?

Like write out a list of pros and cons for dating Peter Hale.

Con: Peter is a murderer.

Pro: Peter only murders people who hurt his family.

Con: Peter confessed to killing Kate and will likely be arrested and prosecuted over it.

Pro: Peter looks like a good kisser and Stiles hasn’t been kissed in literal years.

Pro: Stiles is bi and Peter is easy on the eyes.

Pro: Stiles is ready for a relationship.

Con: With Peter?

Stiles drops his pen and buries his head in his arms.

Why does he make life so difficult on himself? Why did he have to get suspended—forced vacation, his ass—and why did he have to go back to Erica and Boyd’s house? Why is he even entertaining the idea of dating Peter Hale when there’s overwhelming evidence—and a confession to boot—that Peter Hale kills people?

He doesn’t have an answer. Not even close. He crumples up his list and throws it away.

Then he lies down on his couch and turns the TV to a late night infomercial channel, mutes it, and stares at the screen until his vision blurs enough that he can finally drift off to sleep.

He dreams of teeth and claws sharp enough to tear him apart and used gently to explore more of his body than he’s showed his last three partners.

And if Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck and an uncomfortable hard on in his pants? At least there are no werewolf noses around to detect the shame on his skin before he washes it away with a cold shower.

On his way out the door, he grabs the pros and cons list out of the trash. He scribbles a large “X” over the page, flips it over, and writes one pro: loyal. He crumples the paper again, shoves it deep in the trash can, and then drives to the Boyds’ house.

He’s not going to stop Peter or his dad from going, but he also doesn’t want anger to be the last emotion he shares with them, especially if things go badly. And what the hell, he might as well find out if Peter kisses as good as he looks like he does.

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[1989dreamer]

Seriously?

What the fuck is up with all the bots liking my post about Chapter 26 of LfaPtCH?

Blocked, blocked, and blocked.

If I get one more bot on the post, I'm pulling the post. I don't need that shit on my work.

The story can, as always, be read on my AO3.

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 24 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

Unedited.

Tentative update schedule: every two weeks.

I have a few more chapters and an epilogue planned. I also have a ficlet in this universe I want to write.

Thanks for reading!

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Erica hugs Cora tightly while Stiles hustles Derek past her and to his room. He waits outside while Derek shifts back to human and gets dressed.

“Where’s Derek?” Erica demands before Derek can get his shirt on right side out. “When did you pick up Miguel?”

“Hey, so you’ve been briefed on werewolves, right?”

“Yes? Sort of,” Erica says. “Are the Hales werewolves?”

“Yes, and there’s different kinds of shifts.”

“Stiles Stilinski, if you tell me that the dog you’re supposed to foster is really Derek Hale, I-I’ll—”

“It’s Derek.” Stiles moves away from the door so that Derek can step out into the hall.

He isn’t sure what to expect but it’s certainly not for Erica’s scent to go off, like a coming storm, or for her to waver on her feet, seemingly unresponsive in spite of Stiles’ questioning, “Erica?”

“Epilepsy?” Peter asks from behind them. He moves faster than the rest of them and gently lowers Erica to the ground a few seconds before she starts shaking. Stiles pushes Derek and Cora into Derek’s room.

“Just stay here,” he tells them, turning back to help Peter roll Erica onto her side. “She’s on this drug—it’s supposed to reduce her seizures.”

Derek, Cora under his arm, peers around the doorframe, just watching.

“There’s no time,” Peter says. “She’s not going to make it.”

“What?! Wait, you’re saying she’s dying?���

“Yes,” Peter hisses. “Where’s Laura?”

“How should I know?” Stiles squawks.

Peter wasn’t asking him, though. “She’s probably with Boyd and Stiles’ dad,” Derek says. “They’re supposed to go to New York tomorrow.”

Peter howls, and it is so loud that Stiles, human, covers his ears. Derek and Cora howl too, calling for their alpha.

Laura answers a few seconds later. She’s about two miles away and moving closer fast.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” Peter says. “I hope it’s soon enough.”

Soon enough for what exactly, Derek wonders briefly, thinking, Laura’s an alpha. Erica is dying. He forces back another howl.

Laura barrels into the house just a minute later. She drops to her knees next to Erica. “Why is she dying?” she demands through her fangs. “Does she have a spark?”

No one can answer though, so Laura lowers her mouth to Erica’s side and bites. Erica stops shaking, going limp as Laura pulls back, wiping a smear of blood from her mouth.

A vehicle roars into the yard, brakes squealing as they pump hard. Boyd and then John thunder into the house. Boyd finds Erica in the midst of the group and the sound that comes out of his mouth is heartbreaking. No one stops him from gently lifting Erica into his arms.

“She’s still alive,” Laura says. “She’s going to be a werewolf now though.”

“What happened?” Boyd asks roughly. He shoulders his way into Derek’s room and sits on the bed, Erica cradled on his lap.

“Seizure,” Stiles says. “They said she was dying. I trust them.”

Erica blinks then and sits up. She pats Boyd’s cheek and slides off his lap. She lifts her shirt up, contorting to stare down at the puncture marks Laura’s teeth left. They’re already healing. “What just happened? I was dying?”

“Did you do anything different that would cause a seizure?” Boyd asks. “Your medicine? Something?”

“I don’t know,” Erica says, angry and frustrated. “Maybe it’s the stress from the last few days. Stress causes seizures too.”

“Yeah, but, babe, you were dying.” Boyd is close to tears, and Derek realizes with a pang that he’s upset because he just almost lost his wife. If Laura hadn’t bitten Erica and if the bite hadn’t taken, then Erica would have died.

He puts his hand on Boyd’s tentatively. “Cora and I can help her through her shift and with any questions you both have.”

“What about New York?” Boyd asks. “Am I still expected to go?”

“No,” Laura answers. “But Derek’s right. Normally, an alpha would stay and care for their new beta, but I need to find my daughter. Derek and Cora can help Erica with learning how to deal with things like overwhelmed senses, the sudden need to consume more food, advanced healing—things like that.”

Erica grabs Boyd’s face, pulling him toward her. Derek gently moves her fingers so that she’s not stabbing him with her new claws or squeezing his human face too hard. “I’ll be okay. I will. Go. Bring back that little girl. She needs to be found. I’m alive. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Boyd clings to Erica. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. We’ve got all the time in the world. That little girl doesn’t.” She kisses him. “I love you so, so much, and I promise that I’ll be right here when you get back.”

“We’re flying out tomorrow,” John reminds everyone. “That should give Laura some time to give Erica some pointers on being a werewolf, right?”

“Yeah, yes, definitely,” Laura says. “Although,” she adds quickly, “I’ve never bitten anyone. The hunters wanted to breed werewolves they could control. They didn’t want an alpha like me to amass a pack under their noses. I’ll do my best with what I remember from my mom.”

“I need to go pack,” John says. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours to do more training with the guns with you and Boyd. We’ll take off tomorrow morning around 5:00.”

As soon as he’s gone, Laura helps Boyd support Erica as she walks unsteadily to the kitchen table. Derek and Cora sit across from them. Laura launches into her How-to-Be-a-Werewolf class. None of them notice that Peter has disappeared.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

After dropping the Hales at Erica’s and the drama that unfolded, Stiles needs a break. Too bad he has to finish his shift.

At least he can check in with Sonya about the wills for Isaac.

Good news at last: Camilla Lahey left everything to her sons. Unfortunately, Cam, Isaac’s older brother, is dead and has been for a decade. Killed in action on his first deployment to Afghanistan, Fortunately, he also had a will and Isaac was the sole beneficiary.

In all likelihood, Lahey senior just never allowed Isaac to see his mail. If he claimed everything in the name of his son without proper authorization, fraud can be proven and Isaac will be considered the first victim and reparations will be made to him before any of Lahey’s other victims.

It feels wrong to take from a family that’s lost so much but Stiles knows Isaac suffered greatly at the hands of his father.

The Hales will have plenty of help getting back up on their feet. Isaac doesn’t have that support. He deserves the help his mother and brother tried to give him.

Stiles just needs Interim Sheriff Parrish and the district attorney to sign off on honoring the wills, and once the house is released from its status as a crime scene, then Isaac can relax for what is maybe the first time in over two decades.

Stiles grabs Kincaid and Ramirez, poor souls, making plans to grab dinner together later. They’ve pretty much wrapped up the case—Stiles even has an excuse he can use for the “animal” attacks  happening—if Peter is done with his murder-spree—a mountain lion. The excuse only works if no more deaths occur. Well, none related to the Hale house fire.

“Did we get a positive I.D. on Myers’ body?” he asks.

“As good as we’re going to get before DNA or dental comes back,” Ramirez answers. “I called his workplace and emailed them a pic of our John Doe’s head. They confirmed that it was him and said he went missing about three days ago. He’s a widower and has no living relatives.”

“Any word on Alan Deaton’s whereabouts?”

Ramirez and Kincaid exchange a flat look. “No,” Kincaid answers this time. “Should there be?”

“No. Maybe.”Stiles sighs. “When Kate Argent was gloating at the vet clinic before Parrish shot her, she implicated Deaton in the scheme to burn down the house out in the preserve.”

“The old vet?”

“Yeah. He used to know the Hales and blamed them for his sister’s death.”

“So he helped Argent burn down their house and kill them?”

“In some way,  yeah.” If Deaton hasn’t left Beacon Hills already, then he probably never will. At this point, Stiles really doesn’t want to find another body. The death toll is already high enough.

“I’ll have to check with the Sheriff to see if we’ve got a BOLO on him.”

“Do you need anything else from us?” Ramirez asks. Kincaid takes on a belated, “Sir.”

Stiles smothers his smile. “No. That should be everything. Don’t forget to turn in your overtime vouchers to Parrish before you leave.”

He receives twin waves before they head out. Stiles waits a few seconds before he goes to the Sheriff’s office to see if Parrish is in.

Parrish is on the phone when Stiles raps on the doorframe. He sticks up a finger.

“Okay. Great. Thanks for your help.” He hangs up aggressively, lifting and slamming the receiver for good measure.

“Do I want to know?” Stiles asks, amused at the show of frustration. His dad had a few days like that behind that desk.

“Probably not but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

Stiles crosses his arms and leans back against the doorframe. He gestures at Parrish when he doesn’t immediately begin talking.

Parrish sighs. “They found Deaton—”

“Alive?” Stiles drops his arms and straightens.

Parrish frowns at the interruption but just shakes his head. “Dead. Apparently he drove off the road into the retaining pond. He’s likely been dead for a few days now since no one saw him since the shooting at the vet clinic.”

“Definitely drowned?” Stiles asks. “Or dead before he hit the water?”

If Parrish says there’s marks on Deaton and that it’s likely he was killed before he went into the water, the Stiles is going to arrest Peter Hale. Hopefully Peter keeps his mouth shut long enough for Stiles to read him his rights. Peter won’t be able to squirm his way out of these charges.

“Deaton drowned,” Parrish says, bursting Stiles’ bubble. “Or, well, there’s no obvious trauma, but we are still waiting on an official coroner’s report.”

“And when will that be done?”

“It’ll be done when it’s done. The coroner has had a higher than normal volume of customers in these past few days.” Parrish stabs a finger at Stiles. “I don’t want you anywhere near this case.”

“You’re the one who shot Kate Argent,” Stiles points out. “I didn’t do anything to Deaton.”

“I don’t care. As acting Sheriff, I’m pulling you off anything to do with the Hales. There’s plenty of other things you could be doing instead.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

Parrish holds up his hand. “It’s my mistake to make,” he says. “I know you’ve worked on this the most, but I don’t want to risk any convictions on misconduct accusations, unfounded as they are.”

“What convictions?” Stiles asks. “Everyone involved in killing the Hales are dead.”

“Murdered,” Parrish corrects.

“No one is going to protest the son of the original investigating sheriff being involved in the renewed investigation.”

“Maybe so, but you’re still off the case.” Parrish opens a drawer and stares at the contents for a long moment before he picks up a time-off request form and flicks it at Stiles.

“What’s that for?”

“I know how hard you’ve been working. I’ve been there. Take a few days off, do some projects at home that you’ve been putting off, come back with fresh eyes. If you can manage to stay away from the Hales during your time off, I’ll see if I can reassign you to their case.”

Stiles stares at him blankly. He wants to say something mean and snippy, but Parrish doesn’t deserve that. He may not like the conditions his boss has placed on him in regards to what he thinks of as his case, but Stiles has to admit Parrish knows him well enough to realize that he’s getting in too deep.

Reluctantly, he fills out the form for three days. Parrish approves it and puts it away.

“Better have something for me to do when I get back,” Stiles says, as much of a confession as he feels comfortable making.

He clocks out and changes into his street clothes. Then, he heads out to the back lot where he parks Roscoe when he has the cruiser.

What is he supposed to do for three days? He has some chores he needs to do but not enough to fill seventy-two hours.

Oh well. He can always just hang out with Erica, satisfy his curiosity over how the Hales are adapting, and maybe try to convince Peter to turn himself in for his crimes. Or convince him to stop killing people. Or see if Peter is still a flirt when Stiles isn’t in uniform.

He’ll go over later. Right now, maybe he should do some of those chores.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 21 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Still not editing before posting.

Still on AO3.

Thanks for reading

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Derek wakes up screaming.

He’d been dreaming that he was back in New York and that she—that Kate—had been torturing him again.

He can still feel the glide of her knife as it skimmed him, the skin peeling back, exposing his twitching muscles.

Without realizing it, Derek shifts into his delta form, scrambling off the bed and under it. He whines high in his throat, more human than wolf.

The lights come on almost immediately, and Laura and Cora crawl under the bed with him while Isaac tries to explain what happened to Boyd and Erica.

With his sisters by his side, Derek shifts back. “Just a nightmare,” he tells them.

Erica sits next to him and pats his back. “That’s okay. You’re okay. We won’t let anyone hurt you anymore.”

Boyd nods his head in agreement, and Derek wonders at the contentment he smells on him.

“You’re safe here,” Erica continues. “Do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

Derek looks at his sisters. “No. Not really.”

“That’s okay too.” Erica lets Derek burrow against her side, seeking comfort. He’s glad that she’s staying behind with him and Cora while Laura, Boyd, and John go to New York.

He is also grateful for the small mercy that he isn’t going with them. He isn’t sure that he would be of any help to them. He wasn’t kept in the same compound. The hunters he ran away from are not the same ones that abused his sisters.

Erica is a solid weight beside him, her arm around his shoulder, the chemical smell of her medication as comforting as her warmth. Secretly he hopes that she and Boyd decide to keep them, even if Laura is technically old enough to be his and Cora’s guardian.

He wants the stability that will come from living in a house, from having actual meals, and if Erica has her way, school. Derek wants all those things, but above all, he wants Laura to find her daughter. He wants to put their damaged pack together, like a puzzle with missing pieces. They’ll be stronger together. Even with Peter—if Peter can escape the murder charges.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?” Erica asks. Derek realizes that everyone else has gone back to bed now. Even Isaac is tucked in, his blanket pulled over his head.

Even though he doesn’t quite feel ready, Derek nods. Erica kisses his forehead.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” she promises. “Do you want me to leave the door open?”

There is a nightlight in the hallway. She’s offering him a source of light so that he can still see. Except she’s forgot that he is a werewolf and doesn’t need the nightlight.

He nods anyway.

Isaac is already blocking the light from the overhead. He won’t mind the nightlight.

Derek watches as Erica switches off the room’s light and leaves the door wide open as she heads back to her room. Then, he climbs off the bed and pads across the hall to his sisters’ room. Laura lifts the blanket and he crawls between them.

In the three years that Kate had him, there was nothing Derek missed as much as his family. He’s glad that he still has his sisters. And if Peter gets away with the murder he’s committed, then he’ll have Peter too.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Ramirez slams her head down on the table, the third time in an hour. Kincaid startles awake from where he was leaning against the wall.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. Kincaid grunts, moving to sit next to her.

Stiles spares them a brief glance before turning back to his work.

The list they’ve been studying isn’t long—only about seventy names—but they’ve been researching each one, trying to match faces with names. So far, they’ve made it through about fifty-five names and all they have is a tree of the deceased, all Hales in some way, and a few of the arson investigators. Most of the paperwork has been signed off by either Stiles’ dad, early in the investigation, or Sheriff Lahey.

The difference is marked.

Where his dad made little tick marks and initialed on every line, Lahey only signed at the bottom of the reports.

“Deputy Stilinski, sir,” Ramirez says, and Stiles lifts his tired eyes to her. “Look at this.”

She thrusts a stack of papers under his nose. Kincaid snores gently, leaning on Ramirez, while Stiles flicks through the papers.

“This is an insurance investigation.” He checks it against the arson investigative report and then checks the signatures on both. The arson investigation has been signed by the fire chief and his dad while the insurance investigation has been signed by Lahey and a new name, Garrison Myers. “Is Myers listed anywhere else?”

Ramirez points at to his name on the manifest. Number seventy himself. “It looks like he joined late.”

Stiles finds Myers’ card tucked away in a box of evidence. “He’s an insurance fraud investigator.” There’s only a number and a slogan on the card. Stiles makes a note to call the number in the morning. For now, he knows they need to call it a night and pack it up.

“Up to driving home?” he asks Ramirez. Kincaid is definitely down for the count, slumbering still. She shakes her head. “Neither am I. We can bunk here for the night and resume the search tomorrow.”

And tomorrow, he fully plans on meeting with the Hale children to see what they know.

Stiles puts the evidence back in its boxes and shoves them onto the shelves while Ramirez gently wakes up Kincaid. They head for the bunk room, and Stiles locks the evidence room behind them.

The bunk room is barely used, many of the deputies preferring to head home after their shifts, so it’s a little musty, but Stiles doesn’t care. He crawls onto the top bunk, Kincaid face-plants on the lower one, and Ramirez flops on the only cot.

Stiles is so tired that he hopes to drift off quickly, but his mind keeps buzzing, zipping from thought to thought in a way he hasn’t had to deal with since college.

Great. Looks like no sleep. He rolls onto his side and tries, unsuccessfully, to organize his thoughts.

Myers was investigating the fire for potential insurance fraud, which makes sense since the arson investigators determined the cause to be unnatural. But, the house was supposedly abandoned, so who would be collecting insurance on it? And how did they link the burned house with the murdered Hales? Why did they think Derek, long thought to be the only survivor, had set the fire and-slash-or murdered his family?

Before his untimely passing, Lahey had implied that he had evidence that Derek was involved. Why? Was he trying to cover something up? Is that why he’d brought in Myers to look into it?

Hopefully Myers will be able to shed some light when Stiles talks to him tomorrow.

And they still need to locate Deaton.

Stiles isn’t holding his breath that the former veterinarian is still alive. Peter Hale is an efficient killer. He’s already proved it three times. What’s a fourth?

When sleep won’t come even after breathing deeply and clearing his mind, Stiles climbs down and heads to his desk. He might as well research Garrison Myers and see if he’s investigated any other cases in Beacon County.

The night shift desk officer, Myrna Walsh, a deputy even greener than Kincaid, nods at him when he drops into his seat and he nods back at her. When his computer is fully booted, he enters Myers’ name and phone number into the Sheriff Department’s search log.

Six cases come back. Four closed and two on-going. The house out in the preserve is closed with a verdict of arson. Guess when the cops find the bodies of ten people with obvious non-fire related wounds, there’s no way to call it an accident, and Myers agreed by closing the insurance fraud investigation in favor of the insurance company not paying out.

There’s a photo attached to the Hale file, and Stiles downloads it, tapping his fingers as he feels an energy spike cresting in his veins.

He opens it and freezes. It’s Lahey in his Sheriff’s uniform, talking to a man. Stiles zooms in on the other man’s face.

It’s definitely his John Doe.

And if the picture is correct, then his dead John Doe is Garrison Myers.

It’s… Stiles doesn’t actually know how to feel about it because on one hand, now he knows who Peter Hale killed, but on the other, more pressing hand, valuable information regarding the Hale murders likely died with Myers.

Stiles saves the picture, labeling the people in it for Ramirez and Kincaid to look at tomorrow. They’ll have to looking into Garrison Myers and if he’s been reported missing yet.

He scrubs at his face, tugging at his hair. “Crap.” He can’t tell if the investigation is going well or not anymore.

It doesn’t feel like it is. It actually feels like Stiles is playing with half of a deck of cards that keeps exploding every time he thinks he makes progress.

“Fuck this,” he decides out loud, muttering angrily to himself. He needs sleep desperately.

Myrna waves him over as he stumbles back to the bunkroom. “Deputy Stilinski?”

“Yeah, Myrna?”

“This came for you today.” She hands him a thick envelope encased in an evidence bag. It doesn’t have a return address, and the flap is already neatly slit.

“Been examined?” He can see where it was dusted for fingerprints. He’s not holding his breath for evidence. It’s been that kind of case.

“Yeah. Nothing useful.”

“Contents?”

“Coded letter. For your eyes only, but I’m sure whoever sent it realized that more than you would see it.”

Hence the code. “Obviously.” Stiles weighs the envelope, the kind important ‘do not bend’ documents are sent in. He shakes his head, heading for the evidence room. He puts on a pair of gloves, grabs some evidence bags, and sits down at the table, spreading out the contents of the envelope.

There are seven pages, written back and front in code, all sealed in Beacon County Sheriff’s Evidence bags and initialed by Detective Benjamin Votsky, the only California state detective who lived in Beacon Hills and operated out of the Sheriff’s Department.

There is also a bagged single sheet of notebook paper with his name on it. Stiles picks it up first.

Deputy Stilinski, it reads, I am writing to you to confess my perceived involvement in a homicide. I want to make it perfectly clear that I knew nothing of what was going to happen nor how my knowledge would be applied to this heinous crime.

It has only recently come to my attention that someone I spoke with nearly five years ago used my answers to her simply fascinating questions in order to perform that most horrible task.

I am not stupid, Deputy. I know I will likely be charged with accessory to murder even though the things we talked about were purely hypothetical—until she went and proved my hypothesis into a theory. Therefore, I have opted to 1) encode the information I am revealing and 2) not reveal myself until I can be guaranteed that I will not be charged with any crimes. The key to the code is simple, Deputy. It’s Mischief in its true form.

Stiles sets aside the page. He has a feeling he knows this person if “Mischief in its true form” is the key. Stiles assumes that the anonymous letter-sender means that the key is actually his birth name.

He finds a piece of paper and writes down in block letters his full birth name, shoving it into an evidence bag and sealing it, scribbling his initials on the seal. He then carefully puts all the pages back into the envelope in its evidence bag and carries it all back to the front desk.

He hands it to Myrna, along with the paper with his name. “Give that to Detective Votsky. That word,” Stiles points at his name, “is the key. Tell him to find me when he’s done.”

Votsky used to be a deputy under Stiles’ dad’s terms as sheriff. He’d made detective right before the shake up, so he’d managed to skirt the firing. He also has a specialty in codes, which is probably why he was given the evidence first.

“Will do. Hey, Stiles?”

Stiles pauses. “Yeah?”

Myrna looks at him kindly. “Get some rest. The case won’t get solved any faster if you’re not able to see something because you’re too tired.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. What else is he supposed to say? He knows he needs sleep. He’s just having trouble shutting off his brain. “Thanks.”

He walks away before Myrna can give him any more futile advice. He knows she means well, but there’s a reason she’s on the front desk now instead of Kincaid.

He climbs back into his chosen bed in the bunkroom, cramming his head under his pillow to block out the snores of Ramirez and Kincaid. Surprisingly, he manages to fall asleep in minutes.

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 20 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

This has been on AO3 for forever, but I’m starting to push to finish this story. Look for chapter 21, coming soon!

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Boyd and John sit at the table long after the dishes have been cleared away. They’re making plans to go to New York, to see if they can find Laura’s daughter.

Laura wants to go too. Derek’s not sure they’d be able to stop her. An alpha on a mission is hard to deter.

He doesn’t feel healthy enough to accompany them—too many hunger pains among other pains.

“It’s decided, then,” John declares suddenly. “I’ll book the tickets. We leave in two days—plenty of time for me to practice my aim. I used to be the best shot on the force.”

“Are you going to be allowed to travel with a firearm?” Boyd asks.

“Disassembled and in different or locked cases, yes, as long as I declare it. You know, there’s a competition out in New York. I might just be registered for it.”

“How many of us are going?” Erica asks. She looks at Laura, Cora next to her, both of them staring at John and Boyd, and then at Derek, hiding behind his sisters.

“John, me, and Laura,” Boyd says. “I’m sorry, Cora, Derek, but I think it’d be better if you stayed behind. Erica?”

“I’ll stay. Someone has to look out for them.”

“Perfect. I’ll get those tickets booked tonight.” John’s smile is broad, happy. Derek wants to warn him about the hunters and what they do to people who oppose them, but he remembers that John was their emissary before his parents were killed. He should know about hunters already.

“Will you be mad that I won’t go?” Derek asks Laura.

She hugs him. “No, I’m not mad. I’d rather you stay here, where it’s safe.”

“I can fight,” Cora interrupts. “Why can’t I go?”

“Because we barely got out last time. In fact, we weren’t even free until that deputy shot Kate.”

“But you’re going back. I want to go back too!”

“No.” Laura doesn’t shout, but her eyes go red, and Cora cowers down, eyes on the ground, neck bared.

Laura lets the red fade away. “I’m sorry, Cora. I don’t want to lose you if the hunters are swarming. I’m not even sure we’ll be able to find my daughter.”

“We’ll do our damndest,” John promises. He yawns, making Erica yawn too. “I need to get back home now.” He picks up his bag, heading for the door. “I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow so that you can tell us about where you were held. How to get in and out.”

“Good night, John.” Erica closes the door on him. She claps her hands, turning to the rest of them. “Early to bed tonight. That way we can be up early.” She shoos Boyd toward the kitchen. “Dishes, honey. The rest of you, teeth.”

There’s only one bathroom and it’s crowded. Cora and Laura keep bumping each other while Derek and Isaac stand back, brushing their teeth in sync.

Next to Isaac, watching his sisters roughhouse reminds Derek strongly of his family when his cousins visited.

He can’t remember if they all were there that day when Kate took him. He should, but he can’t.

“Hey,” he says, spraying toothpaste everywhere. “What happened to our cousins and aunts and uncles?”

“They died,” Laura says sharply. She glares at Derek in the mirror before throwing her now broken toothbrush away. “They came to help us look for you and then our house was burned down, all of us trapped inside.” She stomps away, anger swelling in her wake.

Derek rinses his mouth and brush, setting the brush in a cup labeled with his name. Cora and Isaac finish quickly, too, and Derek grabs Cora’s arm before she can escape to the room she’s sharing with Laura.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“We told you, didn’t we?”

“If you did, I don’t remember. Sorry.” He thinks he should have known, but Kate had broken his bonds, and when they’d left California, he hadn’t been able to sense his family.

Derek curls up on his bed, wondering when he’s going to feel normal. When he’s going to find his even keel, as his Aunt Miriam liked to say. He’d thought the whole time he was in New York that he was going to escape or be rescued and then come back to California to live with his family. He’d thought the bonds were muted with magic, not snapped entirely.

He hasn’t even properly mourned the loss of his family, too bust trying to heal from the damage Kate inflicted.

He covers his face and whines high in his throat. Isaac sinks down onto the bed with him, stroking a hand down his arm. He doesn’t say anything while Derek cries.

Nearly an hour passes before Derek stops sobbing. He breathes harshly through his mouth, nose too clogged to be of use.

“Do you want some water?” Isaac asks. Derek nods, and Isaac goes to the bathroom to fill a cup from the tap.

Derek sits up to drink it, and Isaac watches him with a curious look on his face.

“What?” Derek asks when he’s finished the water and set the cup, the one his brush was in earlier, on the bedside table.

“What’s it like being a werewolf?”

Derek pauses, thinking about it. Before Kate, he would have talked about his enhanced senses, the way they can heal minor wounds in seconds and major ones in hours or days, the way pack became attuned to each other, all of them striving to help each other. Now, he doesn’t know what to say. Does he tell Isaac that the hunters aren’t worth the trouble of being stronger, faster, or more resilient than a human?

He opens his mouth to ask Isaac what he means, but Isaac beats him to it, saying, “I guess what I mean is, I might like to become a werewolf someday.”

Derek looks at him curiously. “How do you know that we can turn you into a werewolf?”

Isaac shrugs. “Can you?”

“I can’t. I’m just a beta.”

“What about Laura? You defer to her, so she’s in charge?”

“Yes. She’s the alpha. Only an alpha’s bite can turn others, but,” Derek lifts a finger, “there’s a chance that the bite might not take. When that happens, the bitten dies.”

“How do you know if the bite will take?”

“Before giving the bite?” Isaac nods. “I don’t know.”

                                                                                                                  �� ~ * ~

Stiles brews a fresh pot of coffee while he is on gold with the National Registry of Missing Persons. It’s late, he’s tired, and he still doesn’t know whose body they pulled out of the preserve.

He’s waiting on the okay to talk to Peter Hale, but his lawyer, none other than the famous defense attorney, David Whittemore, is dragging his feet. Possibly because Stiles interrupted his dinner with his visiting son.

Stiles doesn’t care. Jackson Whittemore, real estate mogul, is as unimportant to Stiles now as he was in high school when he was head jock and dating the most popular girl in school until she dumped him for her best friend. Jackson never quite recovered after Lydia’s public breakup, and he’d seemed to blame Scott and Stiles for his misfortune.

God damn, high school never ends, Stiles thinks bitterly.

“Still there, sir?” the NRMP employee asks, and Stiles confirms he is. “Okay, so there’s too many results to go through tonight, so I’ll have to give you an update in maybe a week. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“No, it’s okay. It was a long shot anyway. Thanks.” Stiles hangs up and tries to ignore the welling frustration. Getting angry won’t help anyone. He sinks into a chair, running both hands through his hair and down his face. “Crap,” he says. “What’s next?”

The man’s face is going on a bulletin tonight to run on the early news tomorrow morning to see if anyone recognizes him. His DNA and fingerprints are with the proper departments, but that could take months. Dental has also been sent out, but unless he was local, within a one hundred mile radius, they won’t have an answer back for weeks or months.

All of this can be narrowed down if Stiles can just find who they’re looking for.

He lets his head drop to the table, staring cross-eyed at the grain of the wood.

He is so exhausted, and they’ve only been on this case for two or three days. God, what if it drags on for days.

The coffee machine beeps, and Stiles hauls himself to it to grab a mug. He pours enough milk in it to cool it down, and then drains it in one long swallow.

At this point, coffee is useless. Stiles needs sleep. But before that, a shower. He’s feeling a little ripe right now.

All deputies keep a change of clothes here in case of emergency, and Stiles grabs his on the way to the showers in the basement.

The hot water helps him relax, and he spends a few minutes just letting it soak him.

He thinks again of the man stick on the tree. What if Peter isn’t the only Hale who knows who he is?

Stiles shuts off the water and dries off quickly. Derek spent three years in New York under Kate Argent’s thumb. Laura and Cora were with a different faction. The man obviously had some connection to them all since Peter had killed.

Stiles silences the tiny voice of doubt about Peter’s guilt. The man would have been partially eaten if it were a wild animal, and he wouldn’t have been skewered onto the branch as if a large creature had lifted him and set him there.

Stiles decides he needs to talk to the Hale kids tomorrow. For now, he’s going to go over the Hale fire papers and research every name that ever ended up being associated with it. Sleep is the last thing on his mind even though it’s his body’s only thought.

He runs into Kincaid and Ramirez on his way to the evidence room.

“Acting Sheriff Parish said we were to escort you home,” Kincaid explains, Like Stiles gives a rat’s ass.

He pauses thinking. Six eyes is better than two. “I’ll go home,” he says, “if you help me with something first.”

The rookies exchange an apprehensive look. Stiles takes mercy on them. “I’m working on identifying the body we found out in the preserve. I’ve got an idea that he had something to do with the house fire out that way three years ago.”

“Why do you think that, sir?” Ramirez asks.

Stiles shrugs. “It’s too much of a coincidence. The body was located near the house.”

“So you think this guy set it or something?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t even know his name.”

“But you think it’s in the file on the fire.” Ramirez and Kincaid exchange another look, far less apprehensive this time. They shrug in unison.

“We’re in,” Ramirez says. “I’m guessing you just want lists of names with how they relate to the fire?”

“You guess correctly.”

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 19 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Sorry, no energy to do edits, so still un-edited. I will try to go over it when I can.

Thanks for reading.

On AO3

                                                                                                                      ~ * ~

The room Derek is supposed to stay in still smells of vomit. Now he’s also supposed to share it with Isaac because Isaac’s house is a crime scene, because Isaac’s dad is dead.

“Are you sad?” Derek asks Isaac. He shrugs.

“I miss the way my dad used to be, but it was so long ago that I think I don’t really recall how he used to be.”

“How did he used to be?” Derek has a giant bag of popcorn Boyd bought him on the way back from the hospital when Erica reminded them that Derek was supposed to be putting on weight. He offers some to Isaac, but he declines.

“When I was really little, my mom and dad would take my brother and me on day trips. We went to fairs and parks. We did a lot of cool things. And then my mom got sick and my dad got mean.”

“Why did you still live with him?” Derek asks, thinking of the one uncle who had nearly beat his wife to death. His mother had stopped it even though it was her own brother—not his uncle Peter. Wasn’t there someone for Isaac?

Isaac shrugs again. “Every time I had the finances to move out, my dad would take them. I could have a jar under my bed or a savings account. My dad always took it.”

“Why did you move in with Erica and Boyd?”

“They were going through their foster parent training and trying to get Erica’s epilepsy under control. They didn’t have resources to help me.” Isaac leans back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression. “They still don’t really. I mean, Erica’s in a trial for her meds but there’s still a copay on that. At least they’re done with the classes. But they still run the only shelter in the city limits.”

“What happens to you now?”

“I don’t know. Stiles promised to help me find my mom’s will, if it existed. I could get the house and the money from my dad’s accounts.” Isaac sits up. “If that happens, then I’m going to pay Boyd and Erica back. They could have the house—it’s so much larger than this one—and most of the money if I get it. They can do so much good with it.”

“Would Stiles help us too?” Derek asks. “Our family had money. The hunters might have taken it though.”

“I’m sure he would. Do you want me to ask him?”

“Please.”

Erica knocks on the door. “Sheriff Stilinski is coming over in a few minutes.” She pins Derek with an assessing look. “He wants to talk to you and your sisters, Derek.”

“What about?” Isaac asks.

Erica shrugs. “He didn’t say. Come on, both of you. We’re having an early supper today.”

On cue, Derek’s stomach gurgled. He’s already put on five pounds since coming back to California. He’s also been eating almost constantly for the past few hours. His healing is working much better today, and he hasn’t had any stomachaches so far. It’s a great improvement over yesterday.

John joins them just as Erica sets a plate heaped with mashed potatoes and gravy in front of Derek. He has a dark blue quilted bag slung over one shoulder.

“Perfect timing!” he declares as he shoves the bag at Boyd and presses a quick kiss to Erica’s cheek. Boyd and Isaac also get kisses.

So do, surprisingly, Laura, Cora, and Derek.

John sinks onto a hastily produced chair between Cora and Laura, groaning as his weight shifts off his feet. A plate is placed before him. “Go ahead,” he tells Boyd. “Open the bag.”

Boyd unzips the bag, and Derek freezes, mouth watering almost instantly. Steaks. John brought steaks. Perfectly cooked, still hot steaks.

Erica laughs at the hopeful expressions on their faces, wiping Cora’s chin with a napkin. She hands one to Derek. “You’re drooling, hon.”

Boyd works his way around the table, thumping two big steaks on top of Derek’s potatoes. His sisters each get three while the humans take one apiece, but Derek doesn’t care. He has plenty of food now. No one is being deprived.

He waits for Boyd to sit down again, but Boyd is busy pouring milk and juice. Erica seems just as un-inclined to eat too, busy making small talk with John.

Derek tugs her sleeve. “Can I eat now?” he asks. She nods, turning back to John.

Derek focuses on cleaning his plate, just as happy to pick up the steaks and tear them apart with his hands as he is that Isaac refills his potatoes when he pauses in chewing meat to lick his plate.

Once everyone has finished their first servings, the werewolves already on seconds and thirds, John leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach.

“I have a proposal,” he announces. “I’d like to adopt you.”

Cora drops her fork. “Why?” she demands before Laura can shush her.

“Well,” John says, scratching the back of his head while he chooses his words, “my wife and I always planned to have more children, but it never worked out. I still want to have children again. I want to be useful again.”

“Would we have to call you dad?” Cora asks, still eying John with distrust.

“No. You would call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“What about Laura? She’s too old to be adopted.”

John’s face turns sad even as he smiles fondly at Cora. “You are never too old to find family,” he says. “My wife was adopted when she was twenty-five. We’d been married three years at that point.”

Laura reaches across John to clap a hand over Cora’s mouth. “What about Peter? What happens with him?”

“The investigation is on-going, and I’m definitely not involved, but if Peter manages to not be sent to trial for murder, then I suppose you’d be given the choice to live with him. If he beats the murder rap.”

“Does the Sheriff’s Department know about werewolves?” Derek asks. He thinks they don’t. Stiles hadn’t.

“Collectively? No,” John confirms. “Individually, possibly. No one there now was there when I was. Lahey emptied the ranks and filled them with people he trusted. I’m not sure how Parrish and Stiles managed to be hired.”

Derek scrapes a few more bites of potato and gravy into the center of his plate. He speaks without looking up. “If the people killed are determined not to have been killed by Peter, will he go free?”

John sighs. “Peter admitted, in front of witnesses, that he killed Sheriff Lahey. If those witnesses—” he looks to Erica with a severe frown –“choose to come forward, then it’s very likely that he’ll at least go to trial. No court worth anything will place children with a suspected murderer.”

“Your son is just as much a witness as I am,” Erica snaps. “And he has an obligation to uphold the law. I’d look at him first if any witnesses come forward.”

“John,” Boyd says, “I know you mean well, but you’re still a stranger. Get to know them better before you try adopting them. Let them become accustomed to you first.”

John blinks. “Yes, you’re right,” he finally says after a long pause. “Is there anything I can do right now that would be helpful?”

“You can help me study for my J.E.D.,” Laura suggests.

“Your jed?” Erica asks. “Do you mean your G.E.D.?”

Laura shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

“G.E.D. stands for general education development,” John explains. “I’d be delighted to help you study for it.”

“Can you help us too?” Cora takes John’s second steak, daring him to reclaim it.

“Yes, I can, Cora.” John smiles. “I look forward to it.”

Boyd collects everyone’s plates, setting them in the sink to be washed later. “Is everyone done eating now?” he asks.

Derek is full so he doesn’t ask for more food, but both Cora and Laura accept fourth and fifth helpings.

Erica touches John’s shoulder while Boyd sets out pie and ice cream. “We might need help too.” She looks at Laura and then jerks her head back.

Laura’s annoyance tickles Derek’s nose. Her eyes glow, on the edge of red. “When Cora and I were taken,” she spits, stabbing at her pie, “I was raped damn near every day. Most of the time, I lost whatever baby was conceived. All but one of them. She’s still in New York with the hunters.”

John sits in stunned silence, tears in his eyes.

“We don’t have the resources to go out there and find her,” Erica explains.

“Stop,” John says, putting his hand over Laura’s, squeezing briefly and then pulling back. “Of course I’ll help. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you—any of you.”

Quietly, Laura says, “Thank you.” Then she stands up and marches outside to sit on the porch.

                                                                                                                      ~ * ~

Sonya holds up one finger, on the phone with someone. Stiles waits patiently. Beacon Hills is small but busy. He can understand people calling the courthouse with their inane questions. Finally, though, Sonya is able to hang up.

“What can I help you with today, Deputy?”

Sonya is his dad’s age. It’s weird to have her address him by his title. Then again, Stiles still thinks it’s strange to go into establishments even without his uniform and immediately be called “Sir.” Some days he feels like an imposter in his skin, and other days he revels in the thrill it gives him to be respected.

“I need to see about getting a record.”

“A record of what?”

“A will.”

“Whose will?”

Stiles checks his notes. “Camilla Lahey née Rosen.” He checks them again. “Can you see if her husband, Michael Lahey, had a will too?”

“Are you making the inquiry or are you doing it on someone else’s behalf?”

“I’m making it on behalf of their son, Isaac Lahey.”

“Give me a moment,” Sonya says, typing on her computer.

Stiles drums his fingers on the counter in front of him, studying the clutter accumulated around Sonya. He’s trying to memorize the pattern of the mandala picture taped to the front of her desk when he realizes that she’s been trying to get his attention.

“Sorry.” The apology is arbitrary. Sonya only cares because he’s wasting the precious time she has.

“I found the wills. They’re on the printer, if you’ll follow me.”

She leads him down a long hallway past a few closed offices, signs denoting that the occupants will be back in a month.

Thanksgiving, Stiles thinks. Poor Sonya.

Sonya stops at a behemoth of a machine, plucking the still-warm pages from it as if it will bite her. She efficiently taps the edges together and then sticks them into another part of the machine for it to staple them.

She pauses before she hands them to him. “Are you sure you’re supposed to collect these?”

“Listen, Michael Lahey systemically abused his son in order to control him. I need these wills for Isaac’s sake. I’m not going to look at or read them-put them in a sealed envelope for all I care. These are Isaac’s, but with the investigation going on, it looks suspicious if he asks for them himself. I’m just the middle man.”

Sonya still looks conflicted but she lets the papers go, although she does follow Stiles’ advice and stick them into a Manila envelope, taping over the flap and initialing it.

The relief on her face is evident when Stiles, without checking the durability of the seal, tucks the envelope into a briefcase he brought for this purpose. He thanks her and heads back to his vehicle.

His radio crackles right as he turns the key in the ignition.

“Unit 5, what’s your 20?”

“This is Unit 5. I’m out by the south side of courthouse. What’s going on?”

“We have reports of a 10-79 out in the preserve. Called in by a couple of hikers.”

“Aw shit,” Stiles groans. To Marie he says, “I’m on my way. Anyone else responding?”

“Just you for now, Stiles. Be careful. Whatever caused it could still be there.”

Stiles doesn’t think so. He thinks whatever killed the dead body in the preserve is cooling its heels in the lockup.

He thinks that this is Alan Deaton and that Peter got his revenge.

The whole drive into the preserve, Stiles thinks of the Hales. Of Laura battle weary and still fighting. Of meek Cora who seems afraid to draw attention to herself. Of Derek, tiny, underweight, scrappy. If he were in Peter’s shoes and knew who’d killed his family and hurt those kids, Stiles knows he would do the same things as Peter. Maybe worse. He thinks there wouldn’t have been enough pieces left to find.

Stiles finds the hikers first. A young couple several grades below him at school. Twenty-seven to his thirty-two.

“It’s just up ahead,” Jason Moellers says.

Trish Jenkins nods, adding, “It’s like a wild animal got a hold of it.”

Trish works with tigers at a zoo nearby. Stiles asks her, “Did you recognize the marks it made?”

“No. I mean, maybe?” She sighs. “It was like if a bear and a mountain lion merged to maul.”

Stiles points down the trail toward his car. “There will be other deputies coming. I want you to head back to the start of the trail. Thank you for your cooperation.” He waits until they’re out of sight before he heads deeper into the brush. He finds the body impaled on a low-hanging branch.

It’s not Deaton.

White male, about the same age as Sheriff Lahey, late fifties, early sixties, tall, stocky. Throat ripped out and chest flayed open. Clothing torn to shreds, leaves and debris lining the more superficial wounds like he was chased out here.

Stiles backs away, feeling queasy. He’s positive now that Peter Hale did this. He needs to find out this man’s connection to the Hale fire.

“Who are you?” he asks rhetorically as he grabs his radio. “What did you do?”

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 18 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Un-edited. No time right now, sorry.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Derek sits in a chair by the window. He stares down at a mostly empty parking lot. On the other side of the room, Laura argues with acting Sheriff Parrish about what to do with Peter. Parrish thinks Peter should be locked up. He’s killed two people and would have killed more if Laura hadn’t been at the hospital.

Laura knows Peter’s spree isn’t done. After all, there’s all the hunters in New York to go after. Derek is only here because Laura wants to throw his well-being in Parrish’s face. All Derek cares about right now is that Kate can’t come back and hurt him more.

He turns away from the window and announces, “I want to see her.”

Parrish and Laura pause in their argument.

“What?” Parrish asks.

“No,” Laura tells Derek, “you don’t need to see that.”

“I do,” he insists. “I keep seeing her—Kate—everywhere. I need to know that she’s not going to come after me again.” Quieter, he adds so only Laura can hear him, “I need to know that Peter really did kill her.”

Laura looks like she’s going to say no again, and Derek will have to obey her order, but Parrish stops her.

“We do still need someone to formally identify the body.” He studies Derek critically. “Kate’s niece, Allison doesn’t feel she can adequately identify her because it’s been over fourteen years since she saw her with any regularity.”

“And I’ve seen her almost every day for three years.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Laura asks. “You don’t have to. I could I.D. her.”

“She’s my nightmare,” Derek says. “I need to be the one.” He stands up. “If we can get this over now, please?”

Parrish leads them down into the basement of the hospital and to a large room with double doors and a plate glass window. He taps on a glass window to get the attention of a small woman inside.

She scurries out and starts babbling too fast for Derek to understand—although it might just be because down here and the woman smell strongly of death and it’s making him second-guess his determination to see Kate’s body.

Parrish seems to understand the woman, nodding often and interjecting a few exclamations. When she runs out of breath, Parrish asks her if Kate’s body is ready for viewing.

“It’s been less than five hours since she was discovered,” the woman snaps. “No, she’s not ready.”

“Could she be identified now?”

The woman looks at Derek, her eyes narrowing. “You’re making a child do the I.D.?” She punches Parrish’s shoulder.

“Easy, Doc, Parrish warns her. “Derek Hale spent the most time in Kate’s presence of late, and as such is the best choice to I.D. her.”

Doc still grumbles but she goes back into the room and stalks over to a wall of doors, pulling open on to reveal a sheet-covered body.

“We’re going to stay out here, okay?” Parrish’s hand hovers over Derek’s back, the heat of it only making him more nervous and unsure. Maybe he doesn’t need to see Kate after all. Peter hadn’t lied when he said that he’d “given Kate what she deserved.” Obviously, he meant that he’d killed her.

How he had done it was less clear and not something that Derek was particularly keen to know.

Parrish taps on the window and Doc lifts the sheet.

Kate’s eyes are closed, face slack. She could be asleep, but Derek never saw her so still. Her throat has been ripped out, bone and sinew exposed. She would have died quickly from an injury like that. It is little comfort to him.

Parrish clears his throat, and Derek jumps. “Is that Kate Argent?”

Derek nods, his head spinning. Kate is dead. She’s never going to be able to come after him again.

Freedom feels a lot like shock, Derek thinks, swaying toward Laura. He clings to her, drawing comfort from his alpha.

“Okay, back upstairs.” Parrish pushes them to the elevator. “Get him checked out.”

Laura ignores Parrish’s order and walks Derek outside.

Erica and Boyd are sitting on a bench with their backs to the entrance, a few yards away. Between them, Cora sits, kicking her bare feet up and in arcs. She turns and lets out a happy squeal. She leaps over the back and bounds to them. It’s difficult to walk with Cora hanging onto both of them, but they manage, neither wanting to dislodge their sister.

“How are you holding up?” Erica asks when they all squeeze onto the bench.

“Could be better,” Laura answers. “The new sheriff had Derek I.D. Kate’s body. If she wasn’t already dead, I’d like to kill her myself.”

“I feel the same way about Isaac’s dad,” Boyd says. “I’ve been trying to get that bastard put away for over eighteen years now.”

“On the one hand, I’m glad Peter got his revenge. On the other, I’m mad that the humans don’t understand and Peter is probably going to be incarcerated for it.”

“Peter was going to kill Lydia,” Derek reminds Laura. “She’s innocent. If it’d been Allison instead, I don’t think we could have stopped him. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt Peter to have some time where he couldn’t attack anyone.”

“He’s accepted me as his alpha. He won’t randomly attack anyone again.”

“This isn’t helping us,” Erica breaks in. “All this circular thinking. Right now we need to focus on healing you from your trauma.” She pats Derek’s cheek and then repeats the gesture with Cora and then Laura. “Let’s go back to the house. I’m sure you’re all more than ready to eat again.”

“Do we have to give our statements about still since she’s dead?” Cora asks.

“Probably,” Laura says. “That other snake is still alive.” She turns to Boyd and Erica. “Deaton is still alive, right?”

“The old vet?” Boyd shrugs. “Last I knew. Did Peter have a reason to go after him?”

“He called Kate back to town when he realized Derek was here,” Laura says. “If Peter knew that, then Deaton is probably dead.”

Erica stands up and dusts off her hands. “We’ll tell the Sheriff’s Department to look into it. For now, let’s just go home.”

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Stiles thumps his stack of reports onto acting-Sheriff Parrish’s desk.

Once Peter had admitted to attacking Sheriff Lahey, it was much easier to start the investigation as if a pack of dogs had set upon the poor, unfortunate soul. Of course, the only strange “dogs” that had been seen in Beacon Hills lately were the two wolf-dogs Kate Argent had brought with her.

Kate was being blamed for Lahey senior’s death and Deaton, who had gone missing shortly after he’d made bail, was being blamed for Kate’s death.

Stiles suspects that Peter knows exactly where the old vet vanished off to, but Stiles doesn’t want to ask. Peter Hale has gone through enough these past three years.

He’s still healing. All the Hales are.

“We got a positive I.D. on the Jane Doe at the hospital morgue.” Parrish grins at Stiles.

“I thought that body was Kate Argent’s?” Stiles says. “Why’d we need an I.D.?”

“Our next of kin didn’t think she could make a positive I.D. of the body.”

“So who did?” Stiles asks, mind already sorting through the possible candidates. Parrish doesn’t answer. Stiles stares at him in growing horror. “You had Derek Hale I.D. her?” he hisses.

Parrish looks embarrassed and then annoyed. “We needed the I.D. and he offered. He’s spent the last three years with her.”

“Yeah, being horribly abused and mistreated by her. Way to go, Jordan.”

Parrish rolls his eyes. “What would you have done in my place?”

“I don’t know, run a DNA test, compared the results with Allison’s DNA. Yes, it would have taken a lot longer, but at least you wouldn’t have re-traumatized a kid.”

“You mean like you did when you shot him with a taser?” Parrish retorts angrily. “Stiles, you weren’t there. He needed the closure of seeing her dead. So what if he made the I.D. we needed? He got something out of it too.”

“And where is he now?” Stiles demands. “Can you definitely say that he was better off for having seen Kate Argent dead?”

“He’s with Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd now. His sister stayed with him the whole time. He’s fine.”

Stiles shakes his head. He knows what it’s like to put up a front and hide what he’s going through because the sad fact is that people don’t actually care about other people’s problems. “I know you don’t believe that, not after your time in the service.”

Parrish has the good sense to look ashamed. “You didn’t see him, Stiles. You didn’t see the way he was asking for that closure.”

Stiles contemplates that answer. “I suppose so,” he concedes. “What’s going to happen to Peter Hale now?”

If, and it’s a very big if, Peter doesn’t go to jail for Kate’s murder, he’ll have the choice of adopting his nieces and nephew.

“Evidence.” Parrish shrugs. “We listen to what it says. Hey, Stiles, do you think your dad would be amendable to being the sheriff again?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that something you should be asking him?”

“I would but I don’t have his contact information.”

Stiles sighs and pulls out his cellphone. He starts scrolling through his contacts, not really looking for his dad’s number. He still has to apologize for a couple of nights ago, and he doesn’t know what to say. Parrish glares at him when he takes too long to find Dad’s number.

Suddenly, Stiles’ phone rings, an unknown number. He holds up a finger and answers it. “Stilinski.”

“Stiles, this is Isaac. Lahey.”

“Hi, Isaac. How are you doing right now?”

“Well, could be better. I mean, my dad was just murdered because he was helping cover up another murder, but at least he’s not around to keep hitting me.”

Stiles wants to ask how Isaac knows about Peter’s confession, but he remembers that Erica was in the room with them. Of course she would have told Boyd and Boyd would have told Isaac.

“True,” he agrees. “What can I help you with?”

“My dad’s house…what’s going to happen to it?”

“First, it’s going to be processed for evidence regarding your father’s passing. After, if he willed it to you, it’ll be yours unless he had a mortgage that needs to be paid off.”

“No mortgage,” Isaac says. “The house was my mom’s before she died. My dad got the house because they were still married.”

“Did your mom have a will?” Stiles knows his mom did. It’s how he ended up with Roscoe in high school: she’d willed her Jeep to him. Dad got the house.

If Isaac’s mom left him the house, then there had to be a record of it somewhere.

“I don’t know. She died a long time ago.”

“Okay, well, I can look at City Hall. If I can locate a will for your mom, then I can answer your question. For now though, the house is essentially in limbo.”

“Thank you, Stiles. I know you were just doing your job when you came to talk to me about my dad.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, and Isaac hangs up before he can think to ask why he wants to know about the house. In Stiles’ experience, unless there isn’t another option, abuse survivors don’t really like spending time in the spaces where they were abused.

“Your dad’s number,” Parrish prompts, and Stiles doesn’t jump. He does flip Parrish off though.

“I’ll ask him if he wants to run for election, but I’m not going to let this town chew him up again.”

“I wasn’t here three years ago,” Parrish says, hands held up defensively. “I wasn’t part of that campaign. Don’t take it out on me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Stiles sighs, scrubbing at his face. “I just can’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How did Lahey get away with abusing his son for so long? Vernon Boyd told me that he’s been trying to get Isaac away from his dad for almost eighteen years. How did no one notice or care?”

“What about you? Why didn’t you notice?”

Stiles shrugs. “I wasn’t in the same circle as Isaac in high school. I had my head up my ass. I was too busy chasing Lydia Martin to see anything in front of my nose. Isaac suffered because of it. I will do what I can to help him.”

“Commendable,” Parrish remarks. “Are you sure it’s not too little too late?”

“It probably is, but I’m still going to help as much as I can. It’s the right thing to do.”

Parrish sighs. “There’s going to be a scandal when the abuse comes to light. Isaac’s in for a rough ride.”

“He’s got good friends,” Stiles says, thinking again of Erica and Boyd. “He’ll make it through.”

“It’s the Sheriff’s Department we have to worry about.”

Stiles nods. “I wonder what’s going to happen, who’s going to survive the investigation.”

“Not Haigh. He’s out of here as soon as I have the authority to fire him. You’re pressing charges.”

“He didn’t even touch me,” Stiles protests. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Oh, trust me; you can.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles quips dryly. He’s a little worried that Parrish might go power-hungry if he’s allowed to remain as the interim Sheriff. He did suffer the most at Haigh’s hands. Stiles can’t say he’ll be sorry when that sonofabitch is routed, but he knows Haigh is only one of Sheriff Lahey’s lackeys. There are more supporters in the Department and in the community. The man was elected to his position after all.

Parrish sighs, shoulders sinking like a boulder suddenly took up residence on their breadth. “Will you please ask your father if he’d at least consider coming back? Elections aren’t that far out. He’s still got a lot of friends in this town.”

“I’ll ask him,” Stiles says. “I can’t promise anything else.”

“Thank you.”

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 17 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Typical warnings for this story. Thanks for reading. Unedited, will look at later.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Derek wakes up hungry. He rubs at his eyes and then his stomach before he shifts to his haunches. Laura and Cora are both awake but Lydia and Erica are not.

Derek doesn’t think he was asleep for long at all, and he looks to Laura. She shakes her head, gesturing for him to remain silent.

When he tries to listen with his shifted hearing, to see if there are any threats outside of Lydia’s office, he realizes that he can’t. His ears won’t work.

The eclipse simulator must still be running. It feels very much like being back at Kate’s farm in New York: stay quiet so that the hunters might forget about you in their territorial pissing matches. Derek knew a good day from a bad one just by the wolfsbane Kate would use on her bullets.

Right now, he knows it’s a bad day even without the wolfsbane warning. His senses are limited and there is a threat close by.

Derek exams the room, hoping that he finds something usable as a weapon should it come to that. Aside from Lydia’s nameplate, there is nothing. There could be something in the drawers of the desk, but Laura told him not to move. An alpha’s orders still need to be obeyed even if the alpha can’t flash her eyes.

Lydia and Erica should wake up soon, but Derek doesn’t know why they’re asleep in the first place.

Ten minutes crawl by while he tries not to breathe too heavily or shift too much.

His ears pop suddenly, his hearing sharpening. Laura’s eyes glow red.

Lydia sits up with a scream so loud it feels like an arrow has lodged itself in his brain. Erica jerks awake with a gasp, and Cora howls in pain, hands clamped over her bleeding ears.

An answering howl sounds on the other side of the locked door. Derek recognizes it even though it’s been three years.

“Peter?”

Laura shakes her head, but she looks uncertain. “Peter died, remember?”

“Peter left before I did,” Derek reminds her. “I thought everyone was all still alive until I got here.”

“We were taken after the house was set on fire,” Cora says. “We knew Mom was dead because Laura became the alpha.”

“We assumed Dad and Peter had died too,” Laura adds, staring at the door.

“One of us should howl again,” Cora suggests. “If the wolf responds again, then we will know that it is Peter.”

“It is,” Lydia says. She makes eye contact with each of them. “The Sheriff’s Department found a badly burned man within a hundred yards of the still-burning house. No one knew of the Hales. No one knew who he was. And by the time he was brought back to the hospital, he was unrecognizable to even Sheriff Stilinski, who was possibly the only person in Beacon Hills that could have recognized him.”

“What makes you so sure that it’s our uncle?” Laura asks.

“Because he’s healed,” Lydia says as the door bursts inward with no warning. The werewolf is shifted, more beast than man, snout quivering as he breathes in the scents, teeth dripping saliva, claws swiping the air. He focuses on one of them, dropping to hands and feet to lunge forward.

Lydia screams as he charges at her.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Stiles has two deputies flanking him, a shotgun in hand, and the bare information of a patient gone wrong, attacking others at the hospital.

It’s enough to have his blood pounding in his ears, fear and adrenaline bitter on his tongue.

With Sheriff Lahey dead and Haigh still in lock up, Parrish has seniority and is calling the shots as acting Sheriff. Because he’s also still on desk duty while his shooting of Kate Argent is under investigation, the two deputies sent to back up Stiles are the newbies, Kincaid and Ramirez.

The head of the hospital, a medium height man with close cropped hair and a full beard meets them at the entrance, his hand extended.

“Deputy Stilinski, I’m Dr. Geyer. I’m the chief medical officer here.”

Stiles ignores the outstretched hand. There isn’t time for niceties right now. Afterward, he will come back and personally shake the hands of every member on staff if he can do his job quickly and without casualties. “What can you tell me about the situation?”

“We’re in the process of evacuating as many patients as we can. The patient that s attacking the others was last seen heading toward the administration offices.”

“Was anyone there?”

“Lydia Martin was in her office last I knew. I haven’t been able to reach her.”

“What can you tell me about the attacker?”

“He’s a john doe patient. Came in three years ago with third and fourth degree burns over seventy percent of his body. We think he’s a supernatural of some kind since none of his extremities have needed amputation.”

“You don’t know what he is?”

Dr. Geyer shakes his head. “Common theory is werewolf since he’s healed to about fifty percent covered in third degree burns, but he hasn’t reacted to any full moons since his arrival.”

“Why do you think werewolf is the most likely candidate?”

Stiles does not want to deal with super strength and speed and whatever else werewolves have stashed in their supernatural bodies. He doesn’t like his odds of a shotgun against claws and teeth. Especially if the shot does nothing.

“Sometimes it takes years, but werewolves are the fastest natural healers in the supernatural world.” Dr. Geyer pulls out a folder from his coat, thrusting it at Stiles. “If this werewolf is who we think he is, and with how severe his wounds were, it’s a miracle that he’s even alive right now.”

“And why is that?” Stiles flips open the folder, scanning the pages. It’s just stills from a CCTV system. Stiles doesn’t recognize the face, but he thinks he should.

“Because,” Dr. Geyer says, “we think that’s Peter Hale.”

“And why do you think that?” Stiles thinks he sees a little of Derek and the girls in the man’s face. He wouldn’t right away, but with the suggestion, it’s there.

“His dental records aren’t on file and neither is his DNA, but he was found not far from the abandoned house where the Hales’ bodies were discovered, and he himself was burned near beyond recognition. I admit, I didn’t think he was Peter Hale at first. It was your father who claimed that this was Peter. He said it wasn’t a coincidence that he was found nearby the Hale house.”

“But I thought you said it was abandoned?”

“I did.”

“Where did the Hales live then?”

“I am not the person to ask that. Maybe if you talk to the remaining Hales, they may have an answer for you.”

“Noted. Thank you, doctor.”

Dr. Geyer nods before ducking away, heading back into the hospital. Stiles debates sending one of the deputies to stop him, but he decides that they’ve wasted enough time. Peter could have killed half the hospital by now.

He isn’t positive evacuating is the best thing right now. Surely they have other procedures in place to keep the supernaturals from attacking others? Why does the town seem split into those that know about the supernatural and those that don’t, and why is that split in his own family?

Stiles hefts his gun again, motioning to Kincaid and Ramirez to flank him. He vaguely recalls the way to the administrative offices: a combination of his mother being hospitalized for much of his youth and his undiagnosed ADHD. More than once as a wandering eight year old, he’d found himself down the hallway, heading toward what would now be Dr. Geyer’s office.

A sense of time running out makes Stiles start jogging. He’s not worried about the element of surprise; there is no surprising werewolves. Unless you burn their house down around them, his mind supplies. He tucks it away quickly. He can’t afford to be distracted right now. He has two deputies, three kids, Erica, and an entire hospital depending on him.

As soon as he rounds the corner, someone lets out an ear-aching scream. The Hales howl in pain, and the john doe responds in kind, lending credibility to the theory that it’s their uncle. In his peripheral, Stiles notices Kincaid crumple, hands over his ears. Ramirez looks ill, but she presses on, her service weapon held in front, sweeping the hallway from behind him.

In front of them, there is a beast, a creature really, on two legs like a man but without the familiar features. It is large, taller than Stiles, taller even than Isaac and Boyd. Its arms hang low, hand curled almost into paws with wicked claws tipping each not-finger. The face is horrifying, small, beady eyes burning with an intelligence unlike an animal’s and a tapered snout, open to reveal sharp teeth dripping with saliva.

The beast sniffs loudly before slamming against the door it has chosen.

The door caves inward, the lock breaking with no more resistance than if it hadn’t existed at all. The beast pauses, studying the occupants of the room with pointed interest before it charges inside and a no-less startling reprise of the scream sounds.

Stiles runs forward, gun up and pointed at the beast.

His eyes flick over the scene, taking in basic information before he focuses on the beast again.

Lydia and Erica are huddled behind the desk while the Hale kids stand in front of it.

Stiles is simultaneously worried and proud that these children have decided to place themselves before the beast to protect the adults behind them.

The beast is less impressed, crouching down, snarling at them.

“No,” Laura says sharply. “Peter, don’t.”

“Move,” the beast—Peter—snaps. “Let me have her.”

“No,” Laura repeats. “Stop. Change back.” Her eyes glow red, and Peter bows his head.

“But alpha, she’s an Argent.”

“She isn’t,” Stiles says, and Peter pivots, growling at him. Stiles keeps the shotgun trained on his heart. “That’s Lydia Martin.”

“Allison,” Lydia breathes, and Peter turns back to her.

“Allison?” he asks.

“My wife,” she explains. “Allison Argent. Her family disowned her when she married me. She took my name. She’s a Martin now.”

“She’s good,” Cora adds. “Uncle Peter, stop.”

“But Argents. All Argents are bad.”

“Not all Argents,” Lydia says. “There was one other good Argent. Chris, Allison’s father.”

“What happened to him?” Stiles asks. “You said ‘there was’ which means he’s either dead or not still good.”

Lydia’s face shutters but not before Stiles sees the pain deeply writ in her eyes. “Chris was a good man. He was killed on his father’s orders because he challenged their ideology. Not just about same-sex marriage, but also about their policies on supernaturals.”

“Not an Argent?” Peter asks, pointing at Lydia.

“Not an Argent,” Laura confirms.

“Not all Argents are bad?”

“No.”

“Kate Argent is bad?” Peter starts shrinking, his body contorting as his bones snap and change. He starts shaking his head and stops when he doesn’t have a snout anymore. His eyes still hold the same intelligence as before. He’s also butt-naked.

Stiles keeps his gun up as he slips into the room and grabs Lydia’s lab coat. He offers it to Peter, who takes in gingerly.

“Did you do something to Kate Argent?” Stiles asks. The call out had been because of an attack on someone. Stiles isn’t going to cry over Kate Argent but it is his job to find out what happened.

“I didn’t do anything she didn’t deserve.” Peter ties the coat around his waist. He smiles at Stiles, sharp teeth filling his mouth.

“Knock it off.” Laura smacks the back of his head.

“Alpha.”

“Did you attack Kate Argent?” Stiles catches Derek’s full-body shiver and wonders if the boy is cold in here with the AC blasting over them. He’s still small, bones jutting out of his skin. He looks healthier in color but still a long way from truly recovered.

“I didn’t do anything she didn’t deserve,” Peter repeats, also looking at Derek. He snaps his gaze back to Stiles. “Yes. I killed that bitch for what she did to my family. I also killed that incompetent buffoon who mangled the investigation so badly the old sheriff, our emissary, couldn’t save the case.”

“Wait,” Stiles says, gun dropping as he stares at Peter, “you killed Sheriff Lahey?”

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 25 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

Unedited. Also, running into the problem where I think I'm contradicting myself with plot points I've already established. Oh well. They'll get fixed when I go through the full edit after the story is complete.

Fair warning: definitely getting closer to a Stiles/Peter relationship tag. Reminder: Stiles is 32 in this story and Peter is between 28 and 35 (I'll dig through my notes on the ages to double check).

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

After the rundown, Laura takes Erica outside and has her try to learn to shift and control her body as it goes from outwardly human to outwardly werewolf. Cora goes outside too to help while Boyd watches them. Derek stays inside and makes Erica a huge stack of pancakes for the after-training.

He burns the first three before he gets the hang of how long to cook them.

Cora steals a pancake on her way to the bathroom. She’s caked in mud and blood but seems uninjured at the moment.

Laura and Erica come in after her, neither of them bloodied or dirty like Cora. They wash their hands and sit at the table. Boyd comes out of his and Erica’s room and sets a backpack by the door.

Derek sets a plate in front of Laura first and then serves Erica.

“What about you?” she asks, pouring glasses of milk for everyone. “Shouldn’t you be eating something now?”

Cora comes back, hair wet and in clean clothes, and Derek hands her a plate.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“I’m not hungry right now,” Derek tells Erica. He isn’t lying either. He didn’t want to waste any food and had eaten the burned pancakes. They weren’t the worst thing he’s ever eaten—the raccoon that almost killed him is—but he has no desire to eat anything else. “I’ll eat something later when I am hungry.”

“If you’re sure,” Erica says, a look of surprise on her face. Laura points out that Erica can hear Derek’s steady heartbeat, an indication of truth. “I think I’m really getting the hang of this werewolf thing.”

“You really are,” Laura says. “I still feel shitty leaving you alone so soon after your change.”

“I’ll be fine,” Erica assures her. “I’ve got two great substitute teachers who are more than willing to teach me the ways of the wolf.”

Laura snorts into her milk. “Don’t go telling everybody now.” Even though she says it lightheartedly, they all pause, probably thinking about the same thing: hunters.

“Is Stiles coming over?” Boyd asks, breaking the silence. “Is Peter?”

“Maybe?” Erica answers. “Neither of them said anything.” She looks at Laura, who shrugs. “Would it be a bad thing if they did come over?”

Boyd shrugs. “John’s taking Laura and me out for a bit more target practice soon. I don’t trust Peter with you or the kids, and I don’t think Stiles is strong enough to stop him.”

“Peter won’t hurt Erica,” Laura says, her eyes flashing red. Erica and Cora’s eyes flash yellow in response. Derek can feel his eyes light up too. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Betas need to follow their alpha’s orders or risk being kicked out of the pack,” Derek explains. “Besides, you’ve accepted Laura as your alpha, so you’re already pack.”

Erica smiles at him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Mom used to do that when she had to leave for a few hours to attend to alpha business. She hadn’t gotten to do it before Derek slipped out the day Kate kidnapped him, and it was his fault. He’d thought, at thirteen, that he was too old to have his mom scent him so obviously. Now he’s about to turn sixteen and he wants nothing more than for his mom to ruffle his hair, smack a kiss on his forehead, and try to embarrass him by getting him to tell her he loves her so she could say she loves him more.

Derek sniffles, tears streaming down his face. Erica pulls him into a hug, chin against the top of his head, her arms tight around him.

“Things are going to be okay,” she says softly. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to ask for our love.”

Boyd joins them, his arms long enough to go around them both. “You’re family,” he says gruffly. “We won’t let you go.”

“Derek,” Laura says, “no one blames you for what happened.” He shudders. He wants to believe the truth he can hear in her words, but he knows even if Cora was just lashing out earlier, he still believes he caused his family’s deaths. Laura can try to alpha him all she wants, but he isn’t sure he’ll ever believe that he truly didn’t have anything to do with it.

“Derek,” Laura says sharply. “I don’t blame you. I know you’re innocent. I won’t let you be taken from the pack again.” She gently tugs him to her side, wrapping her arms around him. “You are my brother. I won’t lose you again.”

“I love you,” Derek whispers.

Laura chokes back a sob as she says, “I love you more.” For good measure, she runs a hand through his hair.

“John’s here,” Erica says suddenly, and a moment later, Derek hears the squealing brakes of Stiles’ dad’s car.

Boyd kisses Erica and goes to let John in before he can knock. Laura squeezes Derek one last time and then follows Boyd.

Cora begins gathering the dishes, putting them in the sink and running hot water over them. Derek scrubs at the stove, avoiding the still-warm burner in favor of wiping up drops of spilled batter.

Cora grabs his wrist.

“I know I was mad that you wouldn’t let me go to New York with Laura, but I should never have said you helped kill our family. I know you didn’t do it.” Derek tries to pull free, but Cora’s grip tightens. “I’m sorry I said that. I am sorry I hurt you like that.” Abruptly, she lets him go and turns to shut off the water, steam curling up from the sink.

He rubs at his wrist, watching Cora scrub at the plates. She isn’t lying now, but she wasn’t lying earlier either. She truly believed what she said before. Unless…

Maybe Derek wasn’t able to hear her heartbeat earlier?

When he’s low on energy, his body shuts off the wolf senses in order to conserve what little remains, funneling it all into surviving.

He pokes at his stomach, frowning. Maybe he needs to eat more? He is gaining weight but not as quickly as he perhaps should be considering how much he has been eating.

Could he have been hurt by Cora’s words because he thought he heard the truth behind them when he couldn’t hear her lies either?

Before he can over-think it more, he taps Cora’s shoulder. She turns around.

“Apology accepted. Thank you.”

Then, he goes to his room and crawls under the bed, curling up in his human form.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles makes it two hours at his apartment, cleaning a few dishes from days ago, running a load of laundry, and halfheartedly dusting some shelves, before he gets too bored to stay home anymore.

He reasons that he already warned Parrish where he could be found during his forced time off. That’s all the encouragement he needs before he grabs his wallet and keys and drives out to the Boyds’ house.

He parks next to his dad’s Toyota Prius and climbs out. He knows the Hales already know he’s here, so he’s surprised when he’s able to walk into the house unchallenged.

He finds his dad, Erica, Boyd, Laura, and Cora gathered around the kitchen table going over a map of somewhere in New York State. Stiles ignores the pointed look his dad gives him and asks for a glass of water. Erica gets it and then jerks her head toward the bedrooms.

“Derek isn’t feeling up to joining us out here. Perhaps you could sit with him for a few minutes?”

Stiles nods and heads into Derek’s room. The boy is nowhere to be seen at first, but logic and experience tell Stiles that there are few places he could be hiding.

He sets his glass on the night stand and sits on the bed. “I’m here if you to talk,” he says to the empty room.

Derek doesn’t respond, but something bumps under the bed. Stiles waits patiently, forcing his leg to stay still instead of bouncing as it often does all on its own. He traces a line through the condensation on the glass, takes a few measured sips, and counts the lines creased in the wall paper.

About ten minutes after he first sat down Derek finally crawls out from under the bed. He sits next to Stiles and leans against him, bony elbow digging into Stiles’ side.

“I don’t want Laura to go to New York,” he whispers, almost too quiet for Stiles to hear. “What if the hunters get her again?”

“Do you trust your sister enough to know that she can defend herself?”

Derek shrugs. “She got caught before.”

“But was she an alpha?”

“Maybe not when she was taken.”

Stiles wraps an arm around Derek’s thin shoulders, letting him press harder against him. “You don’t have to be okay with her going there,” he says, “but you also can’t stop her. I know you’re scared, but my dad has friends out there. Laura isn’t going to be alone.”

“Should I go too?”

Stiles hugs him, chin resting on Derek’s crown. “No. You don’t have to. In fact, I think Laura would prefer if you didn’t go.”

“Cora wants to go.”

“And Laura doesn’t want her to go either,” Peter says from the doorway.

Stiles jerks upright, fumbling at his waist for a gun he knows he locked in his safe at home. Peter raises an eyebrow at him.

Derek slides off the bed and walks to Peter’s side. Peter hugs him and then picks him up easily, letting his nephew wrap his legs around his waist.

Peter raises his other eyebrow at Stiles, almost daring him to say something. Instead, Stiles pats the bed next to him. Peter tilts his head quizzically, and Stiles nods encouragingly.

Peter sits down, settling Derek on his lap. He doesn’t speak for a few minutes, and Stiles gets the impression that he’s trying to choose his words carefully.

“I know you don’t trust me,” he finally says as Stiles drinks the last of his water. Stiles snorts into the glass and receives a glare in response. “But I do have my family’s best interests at heart.”

“What did Garrison Myers ever do to you?”

Peter looks taken aback at the name, but Stiles doesn’t buy it, raising his own eyebrow in challenge.

“Garrison Myers is Beacon County’s chief arson investigator.”

“Was,” Stiles corrects. “He was the chief arson investigator until someone killed him. Impaled him on a tree branch out in the preserve.”

“And you think I did it?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I know you did,” he says. “Just like I know you killed Alan Deaton.”

Derek shudders against Peter’s chest before peeking up at Stiles. “Deaton is dead?” he asks in a small voice.

“His body was discovered earlier today.”

Peter glares at Stiles, but Stiles doesn’t feel threatened. If Peter really wanted to, he could probably eviscerate Stiles and be halfway to Redding before anyone except Derek realizes it. But Stiles gets the distinct feeling that Peter isn’t interested in traumatizing his nephew any more than he already is.

“Again, you probably don’t believe me,” Peter says, tightly, “but I didn’t kill him.”

“You’re right: I don’t believe you.” Stiles sighs. “But I’m sidelined for the foreseeable future, so I’m not going to investigate you for murder—yet.”

Peter laughs. “There won’t ever be a yet,” he says, and it sounds like a threat and a promise, and Stiles is intrigued.

Why does Peter seem so flirtatious around him? Maybe it’s his cologne? He did finally bite the bullet and buy a bottle of Armani, recommended by his secret high school crush, Danny Mahealani. Maybe there’s something in the ingredients that acts as a natural aphrodisiac for werewolves?

“Why won’t there be a yet?” Derek asks, looking between Stiles and his uncle. He frowns at Peter before tilting his head, as if listening to something.

A moment later, Stiles’ dad knocks on the door and comes in, Laura following closely behind him.

Derek slides off Peter’s lap and goes to his sister, who wraps any arm around him.

“John,” Peter greets, far friendlier and more genuine than Stiles has ever heard him.

“Peter,” Dad greets back, just as jovially. He holds out a piece of paper. “Thought you might enjoy a little competition after your long recovery.”

“What is that?” For a werewolf, Peter isn’t fast enough to accept the paper before Stiles snatches it. “A ticket?” he demands incredulously, glaring at his father. “To New York? Dad, you know Peter’s being investigated for the death of—” He interrupts himself, very aware of the angry alpha werewolf shielding her traumatized brother.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Dad says mildly, gently pulling the ticket from Stiles’ lax fist and handing it to Peter. “Besides, I need all the help I can get. Promised I’d bring home top prize.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone with that act, buddy.”

“We’re not fooling anyone at all,” Dad says a little too sweetly. “There’s a tournament. I need a team. We’re going to bring back top prize. You’ll see.”

“Isaac’s home,” Erica calls from the kitchen, stopping Stiles’ snappy retort. “Isaac’s back?” he asks instead. “I need to talk to him.”

Stiles finds Isaac in the kitchen washing his hands while Cora pours cereal into four bowls on the table and Erica adds milk.

“Isaac, I have some news for you.”

Isaac jumps a little before turning to Stiles with a blank face. “Yeah?”

“I think we can get your house awarded to you. Your dad hid your mom and brother’s wills from you. You were supposed to inherit everything.”

Isaac blinks slowly, as if the information is taking its time sinking in. That’s fine. Stiles can wait. Impatiently, but still, he can wait.

“You mean I’ll inherit the house? It won’t go to the state?”

“There might be some hoops you’ll have to go through to prove your dad purposefully withheld your inheritance, but I’ll do my best to help you with that.”

Isaac looks past Stiles to where Erica and Boyd are standing with their arms around each other. The Hales and Stiles’ dad are huddled around the table not even pretending that they aren’t listening in. “If I get the house,” Isaac says slowly. “Big if. But if I get it, can I give it to you for your foster care?”

“Oh, Isaac.” Erica rushes past Stiles to lift Isaac in a big bear hug.

“Watch your strength,” Laura reminds her, and Erica loosens her grip marginally.

“I hate to break up an informative and heartwarming moment,” Dad says with far more pep than he probably should, “but a few of us have to be up early tomorrow, so I suggest reconvening at a better time to discuss the matter further.

“Should I check if Peter can travel with us?” Laura asks.

“I haven’t been questioned by any police.” Peter shrugs when they all look at him. “Unless someone—” he looks pointedly at Stiles “—has any evidence that makes me a suspect, I am not aware of any issues with traveling out of state.”

“In other words, ‘speak now or forever hold your piece’?” Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“Or at least until I’m actually questioned.”

“Fine. You’re going to New York. Have fun at the gun tournament.” Stiles pauses, thinking, then asks, “How does that work anyway? You being a werewolf with super hearing and guns being damn loud on a human hearing level?”

“Painful,” Peter says, smirking in a way that smacks of a masochistic side. And the wiggling of his eyebrows is far more inviting than Stiles can deal with right now.

“I’m hungry,” Cora says plaintively despite the fact that all four bowls are completely empty and she’s the only one holding a spoon. “When’s supper?”

“You just ate,” Isaac says incredulously. He sighs when Cora pouts at him. “Can you hold on for about an hour while I throw something together?”

“Depends,” she answers. “What are you making?”

“How about waffles?”

She squints suspiciously at him before nodding.

“I’ll help you make them,” Erica offers. “After all, we have a lot of mouths to feed. John, Stiles, do you want to stay for supper?”

Dad immediately sits at the table. Stiles glances at Peter and finds an introspective look on his face. When he notices Stiles looking at him, Peter smiles, and though it’s still edging into lasciviousness, somehow Stiles finds he doesn’t mind.

What the hell, he thinks. Might as well let Peter flirt all he wants. Stiles can take it.

What he can’t take is the traitorous blip of his heart that says it wants to play Peter’s game, that it’s been too long since it last had a worthy opponent.

Stiles sits next to his dad, internally grateful when Derek takes the seat on his other side. Peter sits across from them and grins at Stiles like they’re sharing a secret.

Erica plops large mixing bowls in front of each of them, pouring flour, sugar, baking powder, and buttermilk into them and handing out spoons to stir with while she cracks a couple eggs into each bowl and adds some oil and a splash of vanilla extract, the fancy, expensive, real extract.

Derek leans against Stiles’ shoulder, mixing his batter dutifully. There’s a domesticity to the scene that Stiles hadn’t realized he’d been missing ever since he’d moved out of his dad’s house.

When Peter smiles at him again, Stiles finds himself returning it easily.

The game is on.

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 23 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

Please be aware that the groundwork for a potential Steter pairing is being laid. At this point it is a blink and miss it back and forth, but it will likely get more blatant as we get closer to the end. There was originally no pairing for this story and definitely no Sterek. If Steter actually occurs before the end, that tag and relationship will be added.

No edits again.

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Derek jumps into the passenger seat of Stiles’ patrol cruiser. It still smells like hamburgers in here, and it makes his stomach growl. He waits patiently while Stiles climbs into the driver’s seat and buckles him in. He also rolls the window down for Derek to stick his head out.

They start out heading for the hospital, and Derek sniffs as best he can, searching for his sister’s scent.

“Isn’t Peter in jail?” he asks.

Stiles yells, swerving to the side of the road and putting the vehicle in park. “For the love of God, you can’t just do that!”

“Do what?” Derek shoots him a look of feigned innocence.

“Never mind,” Stiles mutters. “Do you have any clothes or do we have to make a stop somewhere?”

“Um…”

“Noted.” Stiles sighs. “Can you stay as a wolf? We can find clothes for you after we find your sister.”

Derek nods. It makes sense to remain as a wolf in case any hunters other than Kate followed him to Beacon Hills. And Stiles carting around a naked kid can’t be too good for his reputation. He shifts back and then whines because he smells Cora’s scent. Stiles turns into the hospital’s parking lot.

Derek whines again when Stiles slips a harness and leash on him after parking.

“Sorry, buddy, but you’re a K-9 unit today.” Stiles steps out and then gently tugs on the leash until Derek climbs over the center console and drops onto the hot pavement. He pads after Stiles, relishing in the cool grass as soon as they step off the pavement.

Cora’s scent wraps around him, and Derek follows his nose, veering left at the entrance, heading toward an alcove of artfully cultivated flowers.

He stops short when he catches scent of the person sitting next to Cora on a bench tucked under the spread of a nodding row of mottled purple hollyhocks.

“Deputy,” Peter calls warningly.

“Unless you have clothes for him, he stays as a wolf.”

Cora slides off the bench and approaches Derek as if he’s a wild animal instead of her brother. He sits back on his haunches, holding still as she wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him.

“Listen, Peter, I didn’t come to arrest you,” Stiles says, annoyance wafting off his skin. “I’m just here to help locate Cora. Now that we’ve done that, we’re going to head out now.”

“Wait a minute, Deputy,” Peter says.

Stiles freezes, his heartbeat pumping loudly in his chest as his scent sours with sudden fear. “What?”

Peter stands up. He found clothes but they don’t fit, and the material sags as he moves. He hikes up the pants, hooking a thumb into the waistband to hold them up. “They are my family. Surely you wouldn’t take them away from their recovering uncle?”

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Cora whispers into Derek’s fur. Her apology sticks to him and he tries not to shake it off. he doesn’t believe that she’s truly sorry. Why would she say something like that if she didn’t believe it?

Derek looks up at Peter, wondering if he thinks Derek helped burn his house down and kill his family. Then, he realizes, if Peter had believed that at all, he would have already attacked Derek.

“Cora and I talked about her treatment of you,” Peter says to Derek, “and we agree that she was wrong and needs to apologize to you.”

“Which I did,” Cora points out, pulling away from Derek.

“Not sincerely,” Peter replies.

“How are you not in jail?” Stiles interrupts. “You confessed to murder.”

Peter spreads his hands. “Under duress, Deputy. And Kate was mauled by an animal. As you can see, Deputy, I am not an animal.”

Stiles’ lip curls in disgust before he shakes his head, the expression falling away easily. “Well, do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Why, Deputy,” Peter purrs, “is that a hint of concern I sense?”

Peter is mocking Stiles, but Stiles remains undeterred. Derek likes that about him.

“I would like to know that you are safe. Also, much as you probably don’t want to hear this, you will have to undergo a psychological evaluation.”

“Before what?” Peter asks, obviously amused.

“Well, I assume that you’ll want to seek guardianship of your niece and nephew.”

“I would.” Derek cocks his head at the wave of sorrow emanating from his uncle. “But I can’t come through the other side looking as if nothing happened. People will know that I’m not human, and the hunters will come back.”

Kate could come back? Derek whines, dropping low to the ground, hackles raising. On one level, he knows Kate is dead—he identified the body—but on a more visceral, animal level, panic is all he can think about. He whines again, panting, hunkering down as if that will protect him from the memory of Kate.

Peter freezes. “No, Derek, I’m sorry. There are no more hunters. I promise.” His words don’t register, and Derek keeps panting, hyperventilating. He’s going to get the remaining members of his family killed and his alpha has already rejected him, so he isn’t even a part of his pack anymore.

Two hands clamp down into his fur, digging into the ruff around his neck. Derek jerks upright, teeth gnashing, slobber running down his muzzle. He tries to break free from the hands, but they press him back to the ground, and suddenly Stiles’ body blankets his. His scent is a mix of worry and fear and something deeper, something that smells like coming home. Derek cocks his head. Why is Stiles worried? Does he think the hunters are coming back too?

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles says into Derek’s fur. He shifts slightly, moving so that he’s next to Derek. Stiles tugs at him until he lies down and then Stiles rolls him so that he’s curled around him again. “You’re okay. Everything is fine. No one is going to hurt you.”

Derek frowns, still heaving breaths, but already on the other side of his panic. Stiles isn’t worried about the hunters. He’s worried about Derek.

Peter kneels down, hovering a hand over Derek’s head until he dips his head, and then his uncle runs a hand over his head, scratching lightly behind his ears. “Derek, I promise you, no one is going to hurt you ever again.”

Between Stiles’ warmth at his back and his uncle’s truthful words, Derek slowly lets his guard back down and accepts their comfort.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

As soon as Derek stops shaking, Stiles gets him and Cora loaded up in the backseat of his cruiser. Peter stares at him with an intensity Stiles is sort of used to, being a cop and all.

“What the hell,” he mutters to himself, aware that all of them can hear him, can probably smell his decision before he consciously makes it. He opens the door so that Peter can climb in next to his niblings.

Peter had plenty of time to hurt or kill all of them and didn’t. So, either Peter is good or he isn’t seeking revenge right now.

Stiles glances in the rear view mirror, noticing that Peter has somehow squirmed between Derek and Cora and has an arm around each of them.

Derek is still in his wolf form, which is good because Stiles doesn’t need the repeated heart attack a naked kid in his cruiser would cause.

Stiles’ radio crackles, and he swears as he sees Peter’s ears twitch. He grabs it and steps out.

“Any updates on Cora Hale, Unit 5?”

“Cora Hale has been located and is currently en route back to her foster home.” Stiles glances at his car. All the Hales are listening, staring intently at him. It’s a bit unnerving. “Requesting an update on Peter Hale’s confession.”

“No-go,” Marie warns. “Inadmissible. Do not approach or engage.”

Too fucking late for that, Stiles thinks.

“Got it, Dispatch. Will touch base in one hour.” He hangs up his radio and turns so that he can lock eyes with Peter. “I don’t trust you around anyone. I don’t care that you’ll probably get away with it. Just know that I’m watching you, and the moment you slip up, I’ll be there to stop you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Peter leans forward. He smiles at Stiles and the only terrifying thing about it is how seductive it looks. “Promise? Better bring enough firepower to stop a werewolf.”

Stiles points at him, like his dad used to do to him, but Peter just smiles again, and Stiles swears he sees the tip of his tongue poke out. Oh, hell no. Stiles refuses to let Peter try to flirt his way out of a murder charge.

He’s faced down a lot in his time as an officer of the law. He’s probably encountered werewolves before and just didn’t know enough to realize it. Stiles isn’t even a stranger to having suspects flirt with him.

He sighs, climbing into the driver’s seat and cranking the ignition on. Erica will be glad to get her charges back, and Stiles will be glad to focus on other things, like Garrison Myers’ untimely death. Garrison Myers who died of an animal attack after being stabbed onto a tree.

Stiles glares at the road. Peter killed Garrison Myers. He’s positive. Myers was an arson investigator. He labeled the Hale house fire as accidental when it was definitely arson. Peter is killing the parties responsible for killing his family and abducting his nieces and nephew.

Well. That means Deaton is probably dead too. Stiles finds he’s not as upset about that as he probably should be. Deaton was enigmatic when Scott worked for him, and he was a bastard for what he helped orchestrate against the Hales.

“Should we see if we can order something to eat on the ride home?” Peter asks rather politely.

Stiles frowns. Is he still flirting? He glances in the rear view mirror, just a quick check. Cora is still curled into her uncle’s side, but Derek has pulled away, his head drooping. He still needs to be eating every few hours and remaining in his full-wolf shift is probably burning a lot of Calories, not to mention the fucking panic attack he just had. Yeah, they should definitely get him something to eat. Peter certainly has the caring uncle down pat.

“Yeah, any requests or is The Burger Joint okay?”

Derek perks up a little, letting out a little woof of approval.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, insincerely, Stiles thinks, “but I don’t have any money. I can’t pay you back.”

Stiles finds he doesn’t mind that at all. He shrugs. “No worries. I’m happy to help anyway I can.”

“Even if you’re planning on arresting our uncle?” Cora asks.

Damn werewolf hearing.

“He confessed to killing Kate Argent,” Stiles explains. “In front of a Sheriff’s Deputy and other witnesses. If, and it’s a very strong if, he isn’t arrested for that, then I will leave him alone.”

“And what if I don’t want you to leave me alone?” Peter asks.

Stiles nearly stomps on the brakes. What. The. Fuck. Why is Peter so insistent on flirting with him?

“Your father, once I’d healed enough for identification, would sit with me and tell me all about his son who was coming back to town and how he was going to pick up the investigation where he’d been forced to stop. And I’ll believe in you as long as it takes because your father has faith in you, and I have faith in your father. He was my sister’s emissary after all.”

“How’d Kate Argent die of an animal attack in a hospital equipped with security measures for their supernatural patients?” When Peter doesn’t answer, Stiles sighs. “Look, our interim sheriff pulled the hospital’s security cameras. What’s he going to find?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Peter answers tightly, jaw working like he’s chewing his lies. “I wasn’t there.”

No? Was that when you were attacking Lydia Martin?”

“Why can’t you accept that Kate was a bad person who should have been killed long before she abducted my nephew and killed my family? Why can’t you accept that sometimes an animal happens to kill people?”

“Are you an animal?”

Peter growls.

Stiles isn’t scared. “I don’t know if the responsible parties would have faced justice, but I do know that you shouldn’t have played your hand like that.”

“It took three years,” Peter says softly, “for my surviving family to come home. There’s nothing that can undo the hurt they suffered, but at least it won’t happen again.”

Stiles thinks he understands. If Lahey hadn’t been killed, he would have continued to cover up the murders and likely would have succeeded in pinning it all on Derek. And Kate? Someone like her can only be stopped by death.

He may not like it but Peter’s right: it can’t be undone, but it sure as shit isn’t going to happen again.

With a slightly lighter conscience, Stiles pulls into the drive-thru for The Burger Joint.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 22 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

No edits until story is complete. And no edits on Tumblr stories, only on AO3.

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Derek wakes up briefly when Laura crawls out of bed. She kisses his forehead and leaves.

He wakes up completely about an hour later when Erica calls him and Cora for breakfast.

Erica plunks two bowls in front of them when they sit at the table. She sets a box of Cheerios and a gallon of milk down, handing each of them a spoon. Cora dishes up immediately, splashing milk everywhere. Erica smiles fondly as she wipes it away.

“Derek,” she says a moment later, helping to steady his hand as he tries to pour the mostly-full gallon without spilling, “we never did get you checked out yesterday, so we’re going to have to do that today. Cora, is there anything you want to do today?”

“Go to New York.” Cora scowls sullenly into her cereal. The pang of guilt that twists Derek’s stomach makes him lose his appetite. He never wants to see or hear about New York ever again. Does that make him a bad uncle since his niece is still trapped there?

“Well, we’re not doing that,” Erica says lightly, ruffling Derek’s hair, like she knows what’s going through his mind, “so pick something else.” She starts clearing the table.

“I want to see Peter.”

Erica drops the milk gallon.

“No,” she says over the clatter. She picks it up and shakes it, as if that was her intention all along. “We’re not doing that either.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s in jail.” Erica walks away to signal the end of the conversation. Cora watches her go with narrowed eyes.

As soon as she turns to Derek, he says, “No.”

“Traitor,” Cora hisses at him. “You would help me get to Peter so he can help us in New York except the police were right—you did help burn our house down and kill our family.”

Stunned, Derek can do little more than blink back hot tears as Cora leaves the table, slamming the front door behind her as she stalks out of the house.

For three years Kate had whispered in his ears that she’d only found him because he was too stupid to run when he saw a hunter. She’d never told him about burning his house or murdering his family. She hadn’t even told him that she had Laura and Cora too.

He had never cracked, even after all the torture. He’d never told Kate where he lived or how many family members lived with him.

Cora has no right to accuse him of helping kill his family. She has no right to do that to him.

Furious and crying too hard to see clearly, Derek runs into his room and crawls under the bed. If Cora thinks he betrayed the family, then Laura must think it too.

He’ll be kicked out of the pack, turned into an omega, left to die when the hunters come for him again. Or worse, Laura will send Peter after him.

Derek doesn’t want that. He’s not ready to die. Three years in Kate’s hands and the flight back to California have proved it.

He has no choice but to run away. But where can he go?

He has no family anymore aside from Laura, Cora, and Peter. He doesn’t like the idea of staying here at Boyd and Erica’s, doesn’t want them to get caught up in Peter’s revenge. Besides, Isaac is also living here, and he’s another innocent.

That just leaves Stiles’ place. Stiles is a deputy. He can shoot Peter if Peter comes to kill Derek, and Derek can live in his delta shift and stay with Stiles.

It’s not entirely ideal since Derek knows he’d have to see Scott-the-veterinarian again—that is, if Stiles still wants to adopt a dog. He’ll just have to ask. That’s all.

Mind made up, Derek slithers out from under the bed, sheds his clothing, leaving it folded neatly on top of the nicely-made bed, and then cracks his bones into his delta shift. He shakes himself out, testing his four paws and his center of gravity. The few pounds he’s put on since living at Boyd and Erica’s don’t appear to make much of a difference, but he knows he’s far stronger now than he was a few days ago.

He slinks out of the house, sneaking past where he can hear Erica beginning to wash the dishes from breakfast. Wolves don’t have opposable thumbs, but Derek is learning to master his partial shift and makes it outside easily.

Cora is long gone, and for that, Derek is grateful. He hopes she didn’t truly mean what she said, but he thinks it’s too much to hope for. He’d been too upset to realize if she smelled of anything other than anger. It makes him wonder though, what if, before they died, the rest of his family believed he’d betrayed them?

He doesn’t ever want to know.

Instead, he sniffs the air, points south, and lopes off toward Stiles’ apartment.

It’s not so bad, he thinks, to be Miguel instead of Derek. At least no one hates Miguel. No one blames him for the deaths of his family.

No one wants to kill Miguel.

The whole way to Stiles’ home, it does not occur to Derek that Stiles won’t be there. He pauses when he reaches the building Stiles had taken him to a few days ago, and his police cruiser isn’t in the driveway.

He lets out a huff of disappointment. He’ll just have to wait until Stiles gets home.

Derek settles on the front steps, head on his paws. His nose twitches from Stiles’ next door neighbor’s flowers, but overall he is comfortable. If it takes all day for Stiles to come back, Derek doesn’t care. It feels good just to relax without worrying that a hunter might sneak up on him. It’s also nice, he admits to himself, that he won’t have to hear Cora’s disparaging remarks anymore.

The sun warms his fur and without meaning to, Derek falls asleep, a tight ball of wolf pretending to be a dog, waiting for the rest of his life.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

Stiles jerks awake when a door slams.

“What?” Parrish says nearby. “A wolf or a dog? Ma’am, can you be more specific?” He sighs. Loudly. Stiles blinks the sleep from his eyes and shoots acting-Sheriff Parrish a questioning look. “Yes, I’m sending someone out to deal with it right now. Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. Goodbye now.” Parrish rubs his face.

“Want me to go?” Stiles asks. From the little he overheard, he’d guess one of the Hales—hopefully not Peter—got out and is wandering around in—what did Derek call it, their delta shift?—full-wolf mode. And Mrs. Henderson is Stiles’ next-door neighbor.

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind,” Parrish says. “I know you’ve been working on your case really hard. Maybe a small break could be good.”

“Do I have time to check in with Votsky or do you want me to roll right now?”

Parrish assesses him. “Go,” he decides. “Who knows what rabbit hole will open if Votsky’s got what you need. Oh, and Stiles?”

Stiles pauses halfway down the bunk. “Yes, sir?”

“Good work. With any luck have the case cracked open by this afternoon.” Parrish leaves quickly, and Stiles stumbles to the locker room to grab a five second shower and freshen up a bit.

He makes it out to his vehicle in five minutes flat and heads home.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he pulls into his driveway, but it certainly isn’t Derek Hale in full-wolf mode sleeping on his front steps, butterflies swarming his ears and nose. Stiles takes a minute to snap a few pictures through his windshield before he hauls himself out and marches up to Derek.

The wolf cracks an eye before yawning widely.

“Hey, Miguel,” Stiles says for Mrs. Henderson’s benefit, certain that that Miss Marple wannabe is watching through her cracked kitchen window. He unlocks his front door and ushers Derek inside.

Immediately, Derek makes a beeline for the couch and jumps up, patting at the middle cushion a few times before he flops down with a soft wuff.

Stiles sinks onto the couch next to him, threading a hand into his fur. “Wanna talk about it?” he offers.

Derek yawns, which Stiles takes to mean ‘Not particularly,’ especially as he remains wolf-shaped.

It’s nice just sitting here like this, but Stiles knows he needs to get back to work. Myers’ death isn’t going to solve itself.

“Listen, buddy,” he says quietly. “I know it’s rough right now. Hell, some days I don’t if it gets better, but it does get easier. Now, I need to head back in to work. Think I can drop you at Boyd and Erica’s again?”

Derek whines.

“Fine,” Stiles caves too quickly, “you can come with me, but,” he holds up a finger as Derek peers at him with a hopeful expression, “you’ll have to stay in the kennel. There may be other dogs in there. Behave.”

Derek stretches under his hand, sliding to the floor, nails clacking against the wood as he deliberately strolls to the door.

Stiles laughs, standing upright and shaking some fur off his uniform. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just hold on.”

Derek frowns at riding in the back, and snaps at the belt Stiles buckles around him, but a quick threat of swinging by the Boyds’ place makes him settle.

They make a brief detour through a drive-thru to pick up both of them some food, a nice hamburger with all the fixings for him and a dozen cheeseburgers for Derek.

He digs around in his glove box while he waits for the line to crawl forward and finds a bottle of Adderall. He dry swallows a tab, hoping that it will settle the buzz he can feel crawling up and down his arms, but knowing that it’s likely too late for today.

Derek huffs excitedly when Stiles unwraps and slides the cheeseburgers through the security window for him, wolfing them down so fast Stiles is afraid he might start choking.

The rest of the drive back to the station is uneventful. Derek must be content from the food because he doesn’t protest the collar and leash that Stiles clips onto him. He does balk at the kennel.

“Sorry, bud,” Stiles tells him, cheerily despite the fact that he wants to cave again and keep Derek by his side, “Part of the deal.”

Resigned, Derek lowers his head and pads into the—thankfully empty—kennel. He slumps in a corner and covers his eyes with a paw. Adorable. Stiles snaps a few more pictures and then closes and latches the door.

He heads to his desk to write up a quick report about the wolf-slash-dog outside Mrs. Henderson’s house. It takes ten minutes, and then he heads into the Sheriff’s office to drop it on Parrish’s desk.

Votsky and Parrish are side by side, staring down at a stack of papers spread over the desk.

“Stiles,” Parrish waves at him, “come in. Shut the door.” He points at the chair in front of the desk. “Votsky cracked the code.”

Stiles looks from Parrish to Votsky. “Good news?”

Parrish shakes his head. “Yes and no,” he says, frustratingly. “Whoever wrote the code told Kate Argent exactly how to burn down the Hale house so that it would look like an accident.”

“So we know Kate Argent killed eleven people,” Stiles says. “What’s the bad news?”

“This mysterious code maker implicated Sheriff Lahey in the cover up.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“Isaac Lahey probably won’t get his house even if you can find a will stating that he’s the owner because the FBI is coming up here and seizing it as evidence. If the claims in the code can be substantiated, it’s likely that the house will be sold to make reparations to the Hale children.”

“And what does Isaac get then?” Stiles demands. “Even if we do end up proving Lahey senior’s involvement in the cover up, Isaac is more his victim than the Hales are, mean as it is to say. Isaac’s had to live with his father for thirty years. You can’t take away what could be his only stability.”

“I never said I was.” Parrish glares at Stiles. “Look, you and I both know Sheriff Lahey absolutely had something to do with the cover up of the Hale murders. It’s not our call though. It’s the FBI’s. Stiles, I need you to promise that you won’t impede the FBI. If you do, I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Are you going to fire me if I refuse to make that promise?” Stiles asks. When Parrish doesn’t answer, he scoffs. “Some sheriff you are.” He grabs Votsky’s decoded message and reads it before Parrish can take it back.

It’s a lot of garbage apologies for inadvertently helping Kate Argent kill the Hales. The last line though. Oh boy.

I never imagined that when the sheriff came for me, he would actually promise to hide any perceived involvement—after all, he told me, there are no arrests in electrical fires.

“What are you going to do now?” Parrish asks, setting the paper back on the desk.

Stiles can’t answer right away because he’s shaking and his jaw clenches so tight his teeth creak ominously.

Sheriff Lahey purposefully buried the fact that the Hale house was burned down, and when it got out anyway, he spread the rumor that Derek must have had something to do with it. If Lahey wasn’t already dead… Stiles’ hands clench into fists.

“I’m going to solve Garrison Myers’ murder,” Stiles finally manages to spit out.

Parrish nods. “Understood. Let me know if you need anything.”

Stiles has no intention of doing any such thing. Right now, his goal is to not kill something. He thinks of Derek in the kennel, accused of murder at thirteen and unable to defend himself. And it occurs to Stiles then that he should have called Erica or Boyd to let them know that he has Derek.

He’d better do that now before he forgets again. It’s not like Myers is going anywhere.

He decides to call Erica first—mostly because he’s still positive Boyd hates his guts. Erica answers on the third ring, completely hysterical and incomprehensible.

“What’s going on?” he manages to interject when she breaks off into loud sobs.

“I can’t find Derek or Cora!” she wails. “They ran away!”

“I’ve got Derek,” he tells her. “He’s safe. What’s this about Cora?”

“I turned my back for two minutes and they were gone.”

“Okay, well, I’ll start looking for Cora now. I’ll call you when I find her.”

Rude as it is, he hangs up on her before she can respond. Then, he heads to the kennel. Derek perks up when he opens the door.

“Come on, Miguel. Let’s go find your sister.”

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 8 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Warning: In the first paragraph, Derek mentions an associate of Kate attacking him with the intention of raping him. Derek killed him to protect himself.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Derek barely notices anyone else in the room because all he sees is her. She’s here. She’s going to kill him and nobody can stop her. He knows his eyes are still shifted. He can’t help it because he’s terrified, too scared to shake. He’s can’t even open his mouth again to tell Stiles that he’d ripped out the throat of a man who was trying to fuck him.

“It means he’s spilled the blood of an innocent, yes, killed a human.”

Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek’s, but Derek isn’t looking at him—he’s still watching her. At her feet, a young wolf-shifter whines. The alpha growls lowly, and Derek feels a tug in his chest, a piece of home slotting into an ever-present hole. The alpha is too small to be Mom, so that means…“Laura?”

The alpha barks sharply, an affirmation. Derek finally tears his gaze from her and looks to his sister, his alpha.

What happened to Mom to make Laura the alpha? Why does she have his sister?

What about the other wolf-shifter? A young beta, younger than him he’d bet. Cora?

Laura has been fed well, and so has Cora, while he’s been starved. And he knows, in his bones, that they were stolen to be used as breeding stock.

Intelligent dogs that can understand human commands with minimal training and conditioning. Werewolves at the mercy and whim of hunters.

If Laura and Cora are prisoners like him, and Laura is the alpha now, what happened to the rest of his family? The hole in his chest makes a lot more sense now.

The rustle of John’s clothing is the only warning he gets before Derek is wrapped in another hug. Derek wasn’t aware that he was whimpering, trying to understand that just because he made it back doesn’t mean his family has been okay this whole time.

“I’m so sorry,” John murmurs into Derek’s hair. “We found so many bodies, everyone’s body except yours, Derek.” Derek smells the bitter salt of the man’s tears before they fall in his hair. “I lost jurisdiction quickly and then I lost the election. I never stopped looking for you, never stopped trying to bring you home.”

“My sisters?” Derek asks, looking at the alpha. The beta pads forward, nosing under the alpha’s throat. Both wolves are as dark as Derek when he’s shifted. Their scents are hard to pin down. The hunters must have used magic to shield them. Derek has had experience with that. She likes to mask her scent and then hunt him down, give him a brief taste of freedom before she punishes him for daring to think he could escape.

“We found corresponding bodies, but they were burned beyond recognition. And their teeth had been pulled. DNA was sent to the San Francisco lab but without a familial match, it returned no results.”

Lydia and Allison’s horrified gasps come close to vocalizing the sheer terror and sadness Derek feels knowing that she killed his family, likely shortly after she took him.

“I always knew there was something wrong with you,” Allison says, aiming a venomous glare at her. “I always wondered why my dad kept moving us around after my mom died, but just before we moved the last time, you approached me. The aunt I barely remembered and your first thought was not to gain my trust but to drive a wedge between my father and me. I found you despicable, especially after you tried to have my wife killed.” Allison points at Derek. “It would not surprise me one bit if we find out just how horribly you abused that boy. You can call him a murderer all you like, but I think we’re looking at a victim, at a survivor. If Sheriff Lahey doesn’t uphold your arrest, I’ll find someone who will.”

“My dad is still an the FBI agent,” Scott says. “I’ll call him. I’m sure they will be interested to hear all about how you transported minors, kidnapped minors, across state lines.”

“Did you forget that I have a gun and none of you, not even your deputy, have any weapons?” She raises her big gun and points it at Stiles’ chest. Despite the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, Stiles exudes calmness.

“Do you really think you can get away with killing all of us?” he asks. “Do you think you can pull that trigger before your throat is ripped out?” He steps closer to her, to her gun, and his smile is frightening. “Go ahead,” he says, “shoot me.”

“Fine by me.”

The report of the gun is loud, echoing inside the room and in Derek’s ears.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Stiles flinches, but he already knows Kate didn’t shoot him. He nods his thanks to Parrish, wondering how he knew to show up here. Doesn’t matter. Ask later. Secure the suspect.

Stiles strides forward and flips Kate onto her belly so that he can slip some flexi-cuffs onto her wrists. She remains surprisingly quiet, since Stiles gathered she liked hearing her own voice earlier. Her leg is bleeding from the flesh wound Parrish inflicted. She grunts in pain as Scott wraps it with gauze and medical tape.

“I thought for sure she’d take our cellphones,” Scott says quietly. “I saw her come in and texted Parrish.”

Scott’s hands twisted in his shirt, Stiles remembers. “Thanks, man. That was a good call.” Stiles grabs both of Kate’s weapons and then turns to Deaton. The former vet surrenders Stiles’ taser meekly. Stiles puts a pair of flexi-cuffs on him too.

Parrish is standing in front of Derek, staring at him, holding a familiar piece of paper. “It’s you,” he says in awe.

Derek looks sullenly at him. Stiles thinks it might be because the boy hasn’t recovered from the sound of the shot. He’d actually looked to be in pain when it discharged. In fact, Derek and the girls all are still acting like their ears still hurt.

More than human means more senses than humans, right?

Kate hisses as she’s hauled up by another deputy and marched out to the waiting sheriff’s car.

The alpha-wolf growls, pulling Stiles’ attention back to Derek and Parrish.

Parrish has his hand on Derek’s shoulder, a comforting gesture usually, but Derek’s face is stony. It is obvious that he does not want to be touched. Stiles thinks that the alpha is reacting to the boy’s anger.

“Hey, Jordan, step back, would you?” Parrish obeys, taking two small steps back. He keeps his hand on Derek, and Stiles feels his own irritation surging at the stupidity being showcased here. “Step away.” Stiles shoves between them, but unlike Parrish, he doesn’t touch Derek at all.

“Stiles, we need to report this,” Parrish says, excited.

“And you need to listen when I tell you to do something. You were about to have your face chewed off.”

Parrish glances nervously at the alpha. “I thought that was just a large dog.”

Stiles stifles his snort. In what world is a dog that large?

“That’s my sister,” Derek says quietly. “Her name is Laura.”

“Sister?” Parrish squawks. “Derek, buddy.”

Derek glares at him. “No. Don’t tell me they died with the rest of my family.”

The alpha whines, pawing at his leg. It reminds Stiles of how Derek acted when he was all-wolf. It also gives him an idea.

“Hey, Dad, is there any way to keep a werewolf in its full-shift?”

“Delta,” Derek corrects. “The full-shift into a wolf is called the delta shift.”

“Any number of things could be keeping either of them from shifting,” John says before Stiles can reword his question. “Usually, it’s something administered, like poison or electricity.” He stoops next to the unattended beta and digs his fingers into her collar. He tears away a thin strip of leather and tosses it toward a corner, Stiles notes the splatter of blood and yellow petals.

The alpha, Laura, Stiles sees, has a similar band around her throat. Derek removes it for her, grunting in pain as the flowers make contact with his hands.

Almost as soon as the band is gone, the alpha curls in on itself and Stiles stares mesmerized as ebony fur changes into pink and dirty skin. A woman stands where once a wolf was, naked. Her stomach is smooth and her breasts large and Stiles snaps his gaze away sharply, aware that this is a person not an object to examine, no matter how amazing her transformation had been.

“Laura!” Derek embraces the woman tightly, nuzzling at her throat. He pulls back and says, “Cora,” to the beta that is no longer a mid-sized wolf but instead another naked young woman.

“I have spare clothes,” Scott offers, ducking into his office before anyone does anything.

The beta joins the alpha and Derek in their hug. Stiles can see the familial resemblance between them, and it makes him mad all over again that these children had their home burned down around them and were stolen away when they survived. Derek had been abducted earlier according to his missing flyer but if anything he looks worse off than his sisters.

“Here you go.” Scott returns and thrusts folded scrubs at the women (although, Stiles wonders, just how old are they if Derek is only fifteen). “You can use my office or the bathroom to change.”

The alpha heads for the office, the beta and Derek on her heels.

Stiles waits until the door is closed before he marches over to Deaton, who has been seated in a chair dragged away from the row by one of the others.

“What the hell?” Stiles demands. Deaton shrugs, indifferent.

“My sister was killed by a monster like them. I did what I had to. If your father had been killed, you’d understand.”

“No I wouldn’t,�� Stiles says coldly. “Even if my father had been murdered by a werewolf, I still know that the actions of one do not indicate the actions of all.”

“How many?” Scott asks quietly, a dawning sense of terrified understanding on his face. “Alan, how many packs did you sentence to death?”

“At least five packs used to be in this area,” John says. “The Hales, the Smits, the Dauers, the Amoses, and the Tellers. Of those packs, the only survivors are these three Hale children.” John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I was personally called out by each and every one of those packs’ emissaries to investigate. What I found in each case was that a particular hunter clan had targeted each pack.”

“How many people died because of you, Alan?” Scott asks again. “How many innocents killed because you wanted revenge for your sister?”

Deaton doesn’t say anything. Stiles has had enough. Yes the man’s sister was probably killed by a werewolf (he’ll have to investigate that later) but that doesn’t mean all werewolves killed her. In fact, if the other packs were like the Hales, then a majority of them would have been families with children.

Jesus. Three years ago there was a mass extinction and the cause of it is refusing to see his error.

“Stand up,” Stiles commands Deaton.

Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t obey.

“Stand up now. You are under arrest for facilitating the murders of the Hales, Smits, Dauers, Amoses, and Tellers.”

“And what of the beasts who murdered my sister?” Deaton sneers. “Are you going to arrest them as well?”

“Who? The Hales?” Deaton nods. “No. I’m not arresting them. They didn’t have anything to do with your sister’s death.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they are children, victims of your agenda. Now, stand up. If you don’t cooperate, I’m going to add resisting arrest to your charges.”

Finally, Deaton does stand, if a bit awkwardly from the way his hands are still restrained. Stiles shoves him into Parrish’s waiting arms.

This day just cannot get any worse.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

[1989dreamer]

Cover and Chapter 1 of: Looking for a Place to Call Home

Links at bottom of page.

                                                                                                                          -----

The raccoon has been dead for the better part of a week, but it’s food. Derek crunches through the body quickly, forcing it down to settle in his belly. When he’s done eating as much as he can, he pads off the road and into the underbrush.

It is worrisome to him that he didn’t even drag his find away from danger before making himself vulnerable while he ate. It’s even more worrisome that he barely makes it ten feet before he starts vomiting. Okay, apparently week-old raccoon is too much even for a wolf’s digestive system.

Derek manages another ten feet before he collapses, burrowing under a pile of leaves and twigs. He knows if there are hunters in the area, tracking things like him, they will find him. He doesn’t have the energy to haul himself upright, to lay a false trail, or to find a more defensible resting area.

He takes comfort in the fact that he’s nearly home, that he is more likely to be sniffed out by a member of his own pack than to be found by a hunter. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply despite the lingering odor of his sick,

He doesn’t feel safe, hasn’t for three years, but his overtaxed body doesn’t care, and he slips off to sleep quickly. He dreams of raccoons that taste like chicken, each of them taunting him with her voice, telling him just how good of a boy he really is.

Derek wakes up on his back, limbs splayed, his cover disturbed. He pants heavily, still trying to shake his half-dream. Fingers and toes curl as he takes stock of his body. It’s been days since he last shifted, his human form too dangerous to travel as. He’s already seen a few posters with his thirteen-year-old face plastered all over them.

He spends a couple more minutes calming his breathing and making sure his cramping, roiling guts aren’t going to kill him yet. Eventually, he’s sure. There has to be something wrong when he can eat three whole deer off the side of I-5 and not be comatose from too much food.

Once he’s satisfied he’s in full control of his body, and thankfully still alone, he shifts back into his wolf form. Rolling over and standing up is another problem, one he didn’t think he could handle in human form.

He makes it up, shaky and stumbling, tripping over his too-large paws and almost falling every other step. Derek finds a rhythm soon enough—plod three steps, stop to rest for a breath, plod three more steps, rest, rinse, and repeat until his whole body feels numb.

It’s worrisome—“Again, worry, you’ll get gray hairs, Derek, sweetie,” she taunts—that he can’t smell any other wolves. He’s in California—he knows he is, his bones ache with homesickness and the air is soothing it a bit, easing back the tension tight in his muscles. But, he hasn’t come across even another pack. He’d grown up with stories of the trouble-making Teller pack that lived northeast of Hale territory.

Derek has been angling more west than south, but a few spots in the underbrush, yellowed from repeated urination, are too old for him to get a clear scent.

Or, he thinks, heart pounding painfully in his chest, his nose is whacked out, done sniffing mundane trivialities. After all, the only reason he ate the raccoon earlier was because he could smell it.

Derek keeps moving, chewing the fact that he can’t trust his nose at all quickly, like he did the raccoon, praying it doesn’t come back to hurt him more. He is aware that he’s at his limit. He is too tired to protect himself beyond basic measures; hell, he hasn’t even been laying a false trail since he passed through Michigan.

Picking his way through foliage is tougher than he can handle, and after sprawling one too many times from a branch he tried climbing over, he rolls out of the brush and onto the road. The gravel digs into his paws, but he ignores it in favor of pressing on, his path unhindered now. His sense of smell might be diminished but his hearing and sight are just fine…when he can manage to lift his head. Derek knows he’s dying. In either form, his stomach is swollen even when he doesn’t eat. He can barely support himself on four legs, much less two,

He hasn’t started hallucinating yet, but her voice is a constant murmur in his ear and it’s getting harder to ignore it.

Just keep moving, he thinks to himself. His walk isn’t a straight line anymore, his body listing side to side as he weaves all over the road. He barely hears the approaching vehicle over his rough pants, tongue dry and swelled too fat for his mouth. It takes precious seconds for him to realize that the vehicle is coming from behind him, and it takes everything, all of his energy and concentration, to move to the side of the road.

The vehicle passes slowly. Derek stares unseeing, not realizing that it has stopped and is just sitting there. He wavers on his feet, tipping too far forward as he strains to listen for any more motors, but he’s gone deaf now too, ears ringing. He isn’t aware of the ground smashing into his face when he falls: he’s already unconscious.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Deputy Stiles Stilinski has seen a lot of weird and dangerous things in his ten years on the force—many of them related to drunk people; Marie’s Apple Pie Fiasco still ranks a top five—but he’s never seen an emaciated wolf sitting in the middle of a little-used access road. It gets weirder when the wolf stumbles out of his cruiser’s path only to immediately collapse on its face.

Well, he can’t in good conscience leave an endangered animal, especially one that hasn’t been in this state since at least the 1960s, out here to die alone. A wolf deserves more dignity than that.

Stiles sighs. His father is going to really love this story at their weekly lunch. His father always sighs, rubs his face like it physically hurts him, and mutters, “Aw crap, kid.”

It never deters Stiles, his father’s words, because John Stilinski always says, “I’m proud of you, son,” before Stiles goes back to work. Stiles can count on one hand the number of times he didn’t say it, and that is because those are the times Stiles says it first. What? Just because his dad is retired now and raises award-winning roses doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to have love and pride too.

Stiles sighs, rubs his face (though it doesn’t hurt…yet), and mutters, “Aw crap,” before grabbing his CB radio’s mic.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 5, do you copy?”

“Copy, Unit 5, this is Dispatch. Go ahead.”

“Dispatch, I’m out on Access Road 17, and I’m gonna need Animal Control. I’ve got a severely underweight canine-type. I’ve got a muzzle with me but I don’t wanna hurt her any more than she’s already been.”

“10-4, Unit 5. Animal Control has been contacted, ETA is 15 minutes. Just sit tight, Stiles.”

“God bless, Marie,” he says before cradling his mic.

He tries to stay in the car the whole time. Really, he does. But the poor wolf, conked out by the road where anyone could attack while she’s vulnerable, hurts his heart so much that before he knows it, he’s kneeling next to her head, muzzle dangling from his fingers while he strokes the soft fur around her ears.

The wolf huffs a breath but doesn’t wake. Unusual, Stiles thinks. His great-aunt Sarah used to breed dogs, and when he was a child visiting her, he would sneak up on many of the sleeping pooches. None of them slept through a petting like this wolf is doing. It makes Stiles more concerned for her health.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs, carding through her fur again. “We’ll take care of you, make sure nothing else bad happens to you.”

At his words, the wolf’s eyes spring open, blazing electric blue. Stiles inhales sharply, and the wolf snaps her gaze to him. They stare silently for a long moment before the wolf bows her head and bares her neck.

Submission, Stiles thinks. Angered, he wonders if someone tried (and maybe succeeded) to tame this wild creature. He notices her eyes aren’t blue anymore. Curious.

Of course, when he’s got his hand on the wolf’s neck, leaning down for a better look at her now-hazel eyes, fingers splayed wide to convey no harm meant, Animal Control finally shows up, five minutes late.

Isaac Lahey and V. Boyd, two former classmates of Stiles, saunter up to him, Boyd holding a giant dog crate while Lahey wields a noose on a stick. Under Stiles’ hand, the wolf tenses.

“What the hell, Stilinski?” Lahey demands as both he and Boyd stop a few yards away. Stiles is pretty sure he can hit them with a wad of spit if he tries.

Instead, he does the more mature thing and flips them off. Lahey flips him off in return.

“First,” Boyd says, calmly Stiles thinks until he sees the tic in his eyelid, a sure sign that he’s pissed and someone’s about to get it. Since Stiles is the one he’s looking at, Stiles feels optimistic about being the target of V. Boyd’s wrath. “That is not a dog; that is a wolf. Second, you were told to stay in your vehicle until we arrived.”

“First,” Stiles counters, “I said canine-type. Last I checked, wolves were part of the canine family. And second, I was told to sit tight, not where to sit.” He grins, smug, at Boyd’s annoyed frown.

“You gonna let us do our job or what?” Lahey snaps, and the wolf growls lowly. Stiles pets her until she calms enough to stop.

“Just don’t come at her with the lyncher,” he says.

“Lyncher?” Lahey repeats, looking at his weapon with a hurt expression. “It’s called a catcher-pole.”

“Just put the dog carrier down and I’ll get her in it.” Stiles rolls his eyes when Lahey and Boyd refuse. “Look, you can come at her with the lyncher and maybe get bitten, or you can let someone she obviously trusts get her into the carrier without any injuries.”

Boyd glares and drops the carrier. “Come on, Isaac,” he says. “Let’s go check on that coyote den we found the other day.”

“Should we at least make sure the wolf doesn’t eat him?” Lahey asks. “I really don’t want to miss Stilinski getting a bite taken out of him.” Stiles does not like the thoughtful look Boyd gives Lahey.

“I’m not going to be bitten,” he says. He pets the wolf again, running his hand down her spine, cooing softly when she rumbles under his palm. He doesn’t count the knobs of her spine. “Okay,” he says, one last pat to the wolf’s head, “come on, girl. Let’s get you in the carrier so we can take you somewhere safe.”

The wolf growls at him before huffing, almost sighing, and struggling upright to pad, unsteadily, to the carrier. Stiles opens the door, latching it shut behind her. She drops down almost immediately.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, and Stiles doesn’t jump at the suddenness of him popping up by his elbow.

“What?” he grinds out, taking in Lahey’s smug face.

“You, uh, you sure this canine-type’s a little lady?” Lahey sounds like he’s about to burst out laughing. From the carrier, the wolf growls again.

“Sure,” Stiles says, shrugging. “She’s small, more like a female than a male. Even emaciated as she is, a male would be bigger.”

“So, how do you explain her balls?” Lahey doubles over, chortling wildly. Stiles scowls at him, then he looks to Boyd to tell him to control his partner only to find Boyd’s got his hands on his knees laughing silently.

“Fine,” Stiles huffs. :The wolf has balls. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. You gonna help me get him to the vet’s office for a check-up?”

Boyd straightens and nods, serious again. Scary how he can reign in his emotions like that.

“Isaac,” Boyd says, kicking at his partner as he passes him. He double-checks the latch of the carrier. “We’ll have McCall tranq him when we get there. He’ll better know what dose to use.”

Together, Lahey and Boyd get the carrier secured into the back of Animal Control’s van. Before they can drive off, Stiles reaches through the bars of the door, ignoring Boyd’s worried, Stilinski,” and pets the wolf’s muzzle. She—he—whines, nudging at and licking his fingers.

“You’re a good boy,” he says. “I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. You’re going to love where you’re going—water, food, a warm bed.” The wolf licks his palm and then shuffles away to curl in a ball at the back of the carrier. Stiles wants to cry: there’s a chance the wolf will be deemed too far gone for rehabilitation and will be put down.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, clapping his shoulder in comfort, like he knows what Stiles is thinking about, “we’ll take care of him. I promise.”

“Well, let’s go then.” Stiles wipes his eyes (even though they’re dry) and heads to his cruiser. He waits for Boyd to crank the ignition while Lahey closes the back doors of the van from the inside. At least the wolf will have company on the short ride.

He follows the van as it heads for Beacon Hills Vet Clinic near the edge of town.

                                                                                                                       ~ * ~

Cover created using Microsoft Word® and Paintbox®

Images Used in Cover:

Black Wolf

Animal Control Van

Cora Hale (Adelaide Kane)

Laura Hale (Haley Roe Murphy)

Lydia Martin (Holland Roden)

Derek Hale (Tyler Hoechlin)

Allison Argent (Crystal Reed)

Beacon Hills County Sheriff’s Car

Beacon Hills Animal Clinic

Roscoe

Dr. Alan Deaton (Seth Gilliam)

Scott McCall (Tyler Posey)

Stiles Stilinski (Dylan O’Brien)

Erica Reyes (Gage Golightly)

John Stilinski (Linden Ashby)

Triskelion

Vernon Boyd (Sinqua Walls)

Isaac Lahey (Daniel Sharman)

Kate Argent (Jill Wagner)

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 16 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Un-edited. Will look at later. Thanks for reading!

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

As soon as they step foot in the hospital, Derek feels his hackles rise.

Under the medicine and the death, he can smell the musk of a werewolf. He hadn’t smelled it last night, and it’s still fresh.

Laura growls low in her throat, pushing Cora and Derek back. Her eyes go red. The other werewolf is near.

“We need to go,” Derek tells Erica. “It’s not safe for us.” He tries to pull her, but suddenly his strength is gone. Frightened, he turns to his alpha, only to find Laura staring back at him, the same fear mirrored on her human face.

The nurse from last night sees them and hurries over. “Erica, kids, what are you doing here?”

“Derek has a checkup,” Erica says. “What’s going on?”

Melissa takes Erica’s arm and leads her to an office. “We’re in lock down. We have someone running around attacking our patients. We have a call out to the Sheriff’s Station. I need you to stay here while I get the director.”

Laura steps forward. “We can help.”

“No,” Melissa says, “we activated the dampeners. You can’t help us right now. Lock the door behind me.”

As soon as the door closes behind Melissa, Erica locks it. Then, she turns to Laura. “What’s the dampeners?”

Laura picks up a heavy nameplate from the desk, hefting it easily due to her strength. Her eyes glow slightly red, like the dampeners aren’t fully on right now. “What do you know about werewolves?” she asks.

Erica eyes the makeshift weapon with disbelief. “Werewolves?” she says faintly. “Is that how you survive when you should be at least forty pounds heavier?” She isn’t looking at Derek, but he feels her question deep in his chest.

“A lot happens in three years,” he says quietly.

“Like Sheriff Stilinski losing the election to Coach Lahey,” Erica says. “Like this town losing its collective mind today. First the Sheriff’s Station is in distress. And now the hospital is too. And werewolves. What’s next, an abominable snowman?”

“Banshee, actually,” Lydia says behind them. “Welcome to my office.”

For a moment no one moves, and then Laura drops the nameplate, Lydia’s nameplate, back to the desk. “You’re a banshee?” she demands. “Why couldn’t I smell that earlier?”

“Because I wear scent blockers. It’s easier than subjecting the supernatural population to the stench of death and wrongness that I’ve been told I smell like.”

“Why didn’t you say anything when Stiles’ dad was explaining what we are?” Derek asks her.

Lydia frowns. “It’s easy to prove the existence of werewolves. Just flash your eyes, grow some fangs and claws. It’s harder to prove banshees exist. I scream, I hear the dead, and I can find things no one else can, but aside from my altered smell, I appear completely human.”

“Does your wife know what you are?”

“She’s an Argent. What do you think?” Lydia sighs. “She’s the one who helped design the dampeners and the scent blockers because she knows what the hunters look for when they’re searching for victims.”

“So what’s happening here?” Laura asks. “Why did the nurse put us in here?”

“There is a werewolf running around the hospital. He’s already attacked one person. We’re trying to contain him right now. In addition to the dampeners, we’ve activated the eclipse simulator.”

“The what now?” Laura stares at Lydia.

“Right before Melissa put you in here, did you notice you lost your powers?”

Derek nods. So does Laura.

“That’s the eclipse simulator. As soon as we can pinpoint the werewolf’s location within the hospital, we can ‘turn off’ his werewolf abilities and hopefully stop him from hurting anyone else.”

“Who did he hurt?” Laura asks.

Lydia shakes her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Do you know who the werewolf is?”

“No, I don’t, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you anyway.”

“Are you going to turn the werewolf over to the hunters when you catch him?” Derek asks.

“No,” Lydia says. “We have our own system for dealing with dangerous, supernaturally inclined people.”

“Has this werewolf killed anyone?” Laura breaks in. “If they’re in need of an alpha, maybe I could—”

“You couldn’t,” Lydia interrupts. “Even if we could get him to accept you as his alpha, we’d still need him to answer for what he’s done. I’m sorry, I know you’re just trying to help, but I can’t let you.”

A warning bell starts ringing, muffled from behind the dampeners.

“What’s that mean?” Cora asks. “Did they catch the werewolf?”

Lydia nods. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to go out there yet. Right now, security is going to activate the eclipse simulator. Once it’s disabled, then it will be safe to leave.”

“Will the eclipse simulator affect us in here?” Derek asks. Already he can’t hear the siren anymore.

“Yes,” Lydia says again. She sits behind her desk and folds her hands in her lap. “Go on, sit down,” she urges them. “This could take a while.”

The carpet smells like…carpet. Indefinable and dusty. Derek curls up on it, face down, knees tucked under his chest. It’s softer than a lot of the surfaces he’s spent the past three years on, and he’s able to close his eyes and rest while they wait for the eclipse simulator to be turned off.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Stiles pulls into the Burger Joint and parks directly behind the animal control van. Neither Isaac nor Boyd is in the vehicle.

He finds them inside at one of the booths. “Gentlemen,” he says, resting a hand on his holster, the other casually on his hip.

Boyd glares at him. “What do you need, Stilinski?”

“Callie didn’t tell you?” Stiles feigns surprise. Not very well from Boyd’s intensifying glare. “I need to talk to you outside.”

“About your wolf?” Isaac asks accusingly.

“Yeah.”

“Can it wait until we’ve eaten?”

“Actually, it can’t.” Stiles shrugs, smiling.

Boyd swears, throwing down his burger. “What did the wolf do?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing: he hasn’t done anything.” Belatedly, Stiles adds, “And he’s not a wolf.”

“What did he do?” Boyd repeats.

“Outside, please.”

Reluctantly, they follow him out. Boyd swears again when he sees how Stiles parked.

“What is your fucking deal, Stilinski?” Isaac snaps.

“What do you know about the attack on the Sheriff?”

Isaac says, “What attack?” at the same time that Boyd says, “Attack?”

They exchange a quick look of surprise. Unlike his earlier display, Stiles thinks they’re both being genuine.

“You didn’t know?” he asks.

“Know what?” Isaac asks. “That my father was attacked? No. He was fine when I last saw him.”

“And when was that?”

“This morning,” Boyd answers. “Isaac spent the night at my house and then I went with him to his father’s house so that he could get a change of clothes before we went to work.”

“And why did you accompany him to his father’s house?”

“Because,” Boyd begins. Isaac stops him.

“My father is controlling and abusive. Boyd has been working with me to get me out of that house since high school.”

“Fourteen years?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

“Eighteen, actually,” Boyd corrects. “Every time we have things nearly figured out, Isaac’s dad comes out of nowhere and ruins it.”

“I was going to college, so Boyd and I saved up a few grand to get me started. My dad used it to remodel the house.”

“The basement,” Boyd puts in. “He made closets and boxes designed to torture Isaac. Of course, I couldn’t prove it and his dad had him convinced that no one was going to help him.”

Stiles turns to Isaac, noting that he won’t make eye contact. Stiles sighs. “I need to tell you something,” he says, “but I have to do it at the Station. Will you please come in?”

Isaac shakes his head, pale, sweaty. Terrified.

“No,” Boyd says, unnecessary. “Whatever you have to say, you can say here.”

Stiles looks around. Their conversation hasn’t been private by any means, but the lunch crowd is thinning out enough that Stiles doesn’t think he’ll be overheard.

He opens the passenger door of his cruiser, indicating that Isaac should sit. He does, glancing at Boyd in confusion.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this way,” Stiles apologizes. “Your father did not survive the attack.”

“Wait,” Boyd says. “Wait. Michael Lahey is dead?”

Isaac sags immediately, covering his face with his hand. At first, Stiles thinks he’s crying. Isaac reaches blindly and Boyd grabs his hand. Isaac is laughing.

“My dad is dead?” he asks. “Seriously? What kind of fucked up shit is that, Stilinski?”

“Are you joking?” Boyd looks around like he expects the sheriff to pop out from the planters.

Stiles drops a hand onto Isaac’s shoulder, not surprised when he shrugs it off. “It’s been confirmed,” he says, gently.

Isaac freezes. “It’s true?” he whispers. “My dad is really dead?” Stiles nods. “What did he die of? Who attacked him?”

“I can’t discuss that with you outside of the Station.”

“Do you seriously expect Isaac to go to the Sheriff’s Station where he’s suffered abuse not only from his father but from other deputies too?”

Stiles pulls out his notepad. “Which deputies?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Isaac demands.

“I’m going to do everything I can to ensure that you have justice.”

Isaac snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He stands up, pushing past Stiles to stomp toward the van. Boyd puts his hand on Stiles’ arm to keep him from following.

“You chose to come back to Beacon Hills,” he says. “Some of us never got to leave. Don’t push where you can’t go.”

Stiles sighs. “I’m just trying to do my job. If the Sheriff’s Station is too hostile of a meeting place for Isaac, then I’ll need an alternative.” He pauses, studying Boyd’s impassive face. “Look, if you know the names of the deputies who tormented him, please tell me. I am going to do my best to rout them out.”

Boyd looks torn. Stiles can sympathize. “Let me convince Isaac to talk to you. I hope you find your murderer, but I also hope you know Isaac had nothing to do with his dad’s death.”

“I’ll let the evidence speak for itself,” Stiles stills him. He may be positive that Isaac (and Boyd) had nothing to do with Sheriff Lahey’s death, but that also didn’t mean that he shouldn’t work the case without investigating every lead he can find. “Don’t take too long to convince him. I’ll hold off the other deputies as long as I can.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing us a favor.” Boyd snorts at him, like a bull getting ready to charge before following Isaac to the van. Stiles shrugs it off. He kind of had that coming.

His radio crackles when he climbs back into his vehicle.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 5. Go ahead.”

“Unit 5, you need to get to Beacon Hills Memorial ASAP. Unknown subject spotted on the grounds. Potentially armed and definitely dangerous.”

“Copy that, Dispatch. I am enroute now.” Stiles hangs up his radio and turns on his lights. Boyd flips him off when he passes the animal control van. Stiles doesn’t care. Right now, all he can think is Erica was supposed to take Derek back to the hospital for a checkup.

What if the unsub is another hunter come to finish the job Kate didn’t get to?

Stiles steps on the accelerator.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 9 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Warning: Reference to past rape/attempted rape.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Derek sits on the couch, watching as his sisters try to figure out the armholes on the light blue scrubs Scott-the-vet gave them. It worries him that they may have spent more time as wolves than humans (but at the same time he feels a little more grateful that their bodies wouldn’t have been readily available for men like the one he killed to touch them. Especially, since Laura is an intimidating size and despite the wolfsbane collars, both his sisters still had their claws and teeth.

Outside the office, Derek overhears Deaton confess to calling in the hunters. He strains to listen over the rising pounding of his own heart, angered that this man had Derek’s family put to death because he did not know nor care to find out which wolf had killed his sister.

Derek is glad when Stiles arrests the bastard. By then, Laura and Cora are fully dressed.

“We thought you were dead,” Laura growls, voice unsteady, unused to being human.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. The day she had taken him, he had gone to the city park to look for their Uncle Peter, who was feuding with their mother. Peter hadn’t been there—Derek can only assume he returned home and was killed in the fire. “I shouldn’t have let myself be taken.”

When he couldn’t find Peter, he had wandered around, trying to catch his scent. Instead, he’d walked into a maze of emitters—sound beacons used to funnel wolves into traps—that she had left behind. And like a baby, Derek had fallen into it, quickly becoming disorientated and overwhelmed before she’d arrived to shoot him with a strain of wolfsbane he did not recognize. When he woke up again, they were already in the basement of the farmhouse in New York.

“Kate is a hunter,” Cora says quietly. She sits next to Derek and grabs his hand. “Do you know why she did the things she did? Why she took you? Why she didn’t kill Laura or me?”

When Derek doesn’t answer, she continues, “You were bait. The hunters used your abduction to drive the family closer so that they could kill all of us at the same time.”

Derek twists his hand in Cora’s so that he can hold her hand now. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s all my fault. I—” he can’t say anything else or he’ll start crying. It can’t be real that his family, aside from his sisters, is dead, that they’ve been dead this whole time. He’d thought the pain and numbness of his family’s loss had simply been distance—muted because he was drugged and beaten and tortured, not because they were gone.

But why did the hunters refuse to kill the three of them? He knows his sisters were likely stolen to be bred. But, what purpose could he have served the hunters?

The man he killed. The man who wanted to fuck him even though she hadn’t had him fixed yet. He wouldn’t have borne children, but he could still provide some carnal pleasure. Derek is doubly glad then that he has torn the man’s throat out.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Laura says. “None of us did. It’s all on that bitch and that asshole that called her in.”

“Why does he hate all werewolves?” Cora asks. “Why does he want us dead?”

“He’s seeking revenge for his sister,” Derek explains. He thinks that the wolfsbane in their bindings must have limited their hearing in some manner since Deaton had spoken no less than twice about his motives for contacting the hunters. “She was killed by a werewolf and her alpha couldn’t turn her.”

“And he condemned our whole family to death for that?” Cora asks.

Laura clenches her fists. “If I didn’t think I’d be stopped, I would rip his throat out right  now.”

“The humans arrested him,” Derek points out. “They won’t let him get away with this.”

“Being arrested and actually stranding trial are two different things. How can they prove he had anything to do with the murders? There were no bodies left to recover when all was said and done.”

“He admitted to calling the hunters. Isn’t that enough?”

Laura shakes her head. “They may be able to arrest him, but without enough physical evidence, he’ll likely walk free.” She slams a fist into the wall, and Derek ducks over Cora as plaster rains down on them. “He gets to walk away while we’re left to pick up the pieces of our fractured lives. And there is nothing we can do about it.” Laura hits the wall harder. Derek is surprised that despite the noise, none of the adults have come to check on them yet.

“Why can’t we sue him?” Cora asks almost timidly. “Even if he can’t go to jail because of what he did, why can’t we still hold him responsible?”

“If they can’t prove he orchestrated our family’s murder and the murder of the packs around our territory, then no lawyer would even attempt to sue him for those reasons.”

“You can definitely try,” Stiles says, startling them. “I’ll help you.”

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

The Hale children stare at him with blank expressions. It’s creepy. Stiles waits for one of them to move, to tell him either thanks or no thanks.

Derek is the first to look away, and Stiles is surprised to note that he looks relieved.

“Do you have any family that wasn’t…?” Non sequitur, Stiles thinks.

The alpha, Laura, shows her red eyes to him. “They all were killed,” she says shortly. “Besides, I’m over eighteen.”

“Yeah?” She does look it. “By how much?”

Laura blinks and the red fades away.

Quietly, she hisses at Derek and they confer quickly, almost too low for Stiles to hear at all.

“I’m twenty-five,” she declares. Immediately, Derek and the yellow-eyed beta (…Cora?) hit their faces with their open palms.

“You’re almost three years older than me,” Derek grumbles from behind his hand. “That makes you eighteen right now.”

Laura shoots him a look of fury. Stiles watches the exchange silently. Derek huffs and crosses his arms but also bows his head and bares his throat.

“Why do you want to give a false age?” Stiles asks after Laura presses a hand to Derek’s neck. “Does it have something to do with the hunters?”

Laura shrugs. “People listen better the older you are. Would you pay more attention to what a teen says or an adult?”

“I’m a deputy,” Stiles replies, tapping where he normally clips his badge, forgetting that he doesn’t actually have it on him right now. “I’m supposed to listen to everyone equally.”

“But do you?” Laura presses.

Unbidden, guiltily, Stiles recalls how he interacted with Derek earlier. Laura cocks her head, inhaling pointedly.

Stiles ignores her, turning to Derek. He holds out his hand and Derek just stares at it. “I am sorry,” Stiles says as sincerely as he can. Derek’s nostrils flare as he hesitates a moment longer before taking Stiles’ hand. He squeezes briefly and lets go. It’s as much forgiveness as Stiles can expect and more than he thought he would get.

Laura studies them with an odd expression, two parts suspicion, one part distrust, and one part unreadable. “No,” is all she says. Derek sets his jaw and nods resolutely.

Stiles knows he missed a very important piece of the conversation but he doesn’t know what it was. He vows to ask them about it later. Right now, he needs to take them to the Sheriff’s Station so that they can work on closing out this case.

He eyes Derek’s narrow frame, taking in the thin arms and bony wrists hanging out of the sleeves of his borrowed t-shirt. Kate Argent is going to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital to get her leg patched from Parrish’s very definite nonlethal wounding.

Unfortunately, if Derek stays human, he should probably go to the hospital too. In fact, Stiles is surprised that Parrish hasn’t suggested it yet.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, and Derek looks up. “Do you feel up to going to the hospital now?” Since they, in the form of at least Deaton and Kate Argent, have been apprehended.

Derek shakes his head.

“She will be there,” he whispers, “and I don’t want to see her.”

“I don’t blame you, bud.” Honestly, Stiles can only guess at what Kate has done to the boy in the three years she had him, but he knows it wasn’t anything good. After all, Derek ran away from her and contracted worms, likely from eating infected wildlife. “But you might have to go just to make the deputies happy.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to go,” he says, almost plaintively. “They won’t let me eat cheeseburgers.”

“No, I imagine not.” Stiles knows they’ll stick the poor boy on an IV at the least. Considering how underweight he is, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the doctors try to insert a feeding tube. “Unless you can gain about fifty pounds in the next fifteen minutes, I don’t think you have a choice.”

“I could eat a lot of cheeseburgers,” Derek says, haughty.

Stiles laughs at him. “Okay, one, I don’t have enough money to make that happen, and two, your stomach can’t handle that much food.”

Derek crosses his arms and blows a puff of air. Cora drapes herself over his shoulder and noses at the hinge of his jaw.

“Don’t be scared,” she says, and Stiles wonders how old she is. Derek is fifteen (almost sixteen) and Laura is eighteen. Cora looks at least a couple of years younger than Derek.

Derek sighs and lets his sister push him over until there is room for Laura on the couch.

“So we sue the bald guy,” Cora says.

“Deaton,” Derek adds.

“What next? Where do we go? What do we do?”

“We stay together,” Laura answers. “We’re all that’s left. We can’t let anyone tear us apart.”

“It’s a lovely sentiment,” Stiles interjects, “but how are you going to prove that you can provide the care your siblings need?”

Laura growls low in her throat, and the cats and dogs awaiting procedures that require an overnight stay start making a racket. Derek pinches Laura and she stops growling. It takes a few minutes for the cacophony to die down.

“I’m the alpha,” Laura says into the blessed silence. “By definition I need to provide for my pack.”

“Swell. Now, do you have a house or an apartment? Somewhere to sleep and eat? How about a job? What resources do you have?”

Laura’s eyes go red again, but she stays silent this time.

Stiles sighs. “I will help you. You can stay in my apartment with me while you establish yourself. I only have one spare bedroom though, so someone will have to sleep on the couch until we figure something out.”

“Your couch is ugly,” Derek says. “Why do you want to help us?” His eyes turn blue, as if to remind Stiles of the fact that this child has killed a person.

Stiles reaches out a hand to brush over Derek’s hair. “It’s that same part of me that saw you as a wolf and wanted to help you then too.”

The door opens, interrupting them, and Lydia pokes her head into the office. “It’s time to take Derek to the hospital. Besides, I’ sure the Sheriff’s Department will have some questions for the Hales, but they all should be examined. Who knows what Kate did to them.”

“What I’d like to know is why is Derek emaciated but the girls aren’t.”

“Breeding,” Laura answers. “Since males can’t get pregnant, there’s no reason to waste resources on them.”

“She liked me,” Derek says. “It’s the only reason I’m still alive. The bare minimum of Calories allotted enabled me to waste away while still surviving enough to respond to her torture.”

“Her torture?” Stiles repeats. “Kate’s torture?” Derek flinches at her name. And, oh, Stiles gets it. She holds power over him in her name. By denoting her to a simple pronoun, Derek is not allowing the power of her name to affect him near as much as it otherwise would. These children will need psychiatric help.

“Did Allison offer to talk to you at all?” Stiles asks. “She’s a therapist or rather, a psychiatrist.”

“She said she specializes in juvenile trauma cases,” Derek says. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. For now though, let’s get you to the hospital so that we can get you cleared.”

Derek stands up, relying heavily on his alpha. It’s obvious that he’s weaker than he should be, and Stiles thinks that might be the effects of the starvation kicking in again. He must be running out of energy. As far as he knows, Derek has eaten two burgers, two orders of curly fries, and some kibble. No wonder he’s stumbling.

“Okay, enough of that.” Stiles stops Laura and hefts Derek into his harms, the boy’s legs over one arm and his head and shoulders cradled in the other.

As a group, they move through the clinic, heading for the front door, which Cora opens without prompting. Stiles sets Derek in the backseat, pulling the blanket around the boy. His sisters climb in with him, and Stiles swears he sees their veins stand out, black and unnatural, as they rearrange their brother into a more comfortable position.

Stiles gets behind the wheel and pulls out of the lot. He notices Parrish’s car following them, providing an escort. Good. Maybe they’ll get to the hospital faster.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

[1989dreamer]

Broken & Beautiful Updates

Okay, so finally healthy for more than a week in a row! (Back to just my antihistamines.)

I’m still working in my old hometown. I’ll either try to move back if I can’t get a job or (more likely) try and get a job in my current town in a different field than the one I just spent 15 years working in. (No, I’m not bitter at all, what gave you that impression? /s)

But, one good thing to come of not having Internet for basically 4 days out of the week: I’ve been working on Broken & Beautiful! So far, it’s limited to just fixing typos and plot holes, making information cohesive, and other small details.

I do take the physical book that I write the story in with me when I go back to my old hometown and have managed to write two chapters. I have also discovered just a few too many time jumps for my liking (before the pandemic shut down most public spaces, I printed out all of the posted chapters and have been editing as I go. I should be done with it by now, but I’m only up to Chapter Twelve so far). I created a document to track the information I need for fixing missing info (I’m great at statistical planning, not so great at following my own outlines--you should see the outline for All the Memories I Hold Dear and see how it stacks up to the actual story--hint: they could be two separate stories taken from the same outline and I should probably get the outline typed up for my Prompt Series).

So, here are a couple of really cool statistical images that I use to track progress.

First:

This is what I call my page tracker. All told, across three “journal” books, I have 572 pages. Within those 572 pages, I have filled 470 pages. That means I have 102 pages to finally finish the story (or start a fourth book, but I really hope to finish it in this current book).

Second:

This is my chapter tracker. It shows the color of the tag that I use to mark each chapter. The rotation is: Pink, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Periwinkle, Mauve, and Burgundy (which I can’t spell for the life of me, thank goodness for spell check except on Excel).

The columns are: tag color, blank, chapter title, page number for start, page number for end, number of pages each chapter is/will be, and how many pages there are in each book (book one has 190 pages, don’t know where my mistake was that it ended up saying 191).

There are tentatively Thirty-One (possibly Thirty-Two) chapters plus the prologue and epilogue. The average length of chapters is around 15 pages (earlier in my writing it was 20 pages, but I could probably combine chapters and have longer but less chapters).

Not pictured is my section tracker. Each chapter has between 2-7 sections where the perspective jumps from character to character. In the books, I’m just about to start Section 95, but in reality, I’m somewhere between 100 and 110.

Anyway, I’m currently writing Chapter Twenty-Five. I haven’t attempted to type the two chapters I have completed but I have plans to work on that soon. I’m also working on a few different projects that may or may not slow down my progress on B&B.

All told, I’m having fun with this story again and, wishing on all the stars, it’ll be done by the end of this year.

Last image:

This is the book that I’m writing in. Currently, it has a lot of my tags and a sticker on the front that has the title and what chapters and pages are in the book (both incomplete as I’m still working on it).

And no, I haven’t forgotten about Looking for a Place to Call Home. I have one chapter finished and am working on the next, but my energy for B&B has been great so I’ve been working on it while it lasts. Who knows, if I can get B&B done, maybe I can switch gears onto LfaPtCH.