#a bunch of water! we get winter survival training as kids but no one went over extreme heat when I was younger

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Man, even if they cured covid tomorrow I would still bring a mask with me in winter. That and a hat is like wearing a balaclava that it easy to take off once inside. Even though I wear n-95s now I’m still going to be wearing a cloth one on top this winter because when it’s -18 degrees Fahrenheit (around -27 for you Celsius people) and you have a cloth mask on my skin feels so much less burning and my throat stings less. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this combination sooner but man, I’m not stopping it this winter

[innocentimouto]

A summary of “Jet”

Looking back at the episode “Jet” is so fascinating. What to talk about, the leader of a bunch of cheerful children is morally questionable, said leader’s response to his trauma was to go and adopt a bunch of other traumatized orphans, leader likes rights activist but is willing to use her to achieve his goals, or maybe he doesn’t like her it’s really unclear, there’s a gentle giant among the cheerful children what’s his story, an archer, a knife user, a swordsboy, someone whose name relates to their facial expression but do we get time with him no, who trained all these, all their clothes look scrapped together and blue isn’t colonizer color in this show, treehouses who built these, police are in the forest does that mean they kill the noncombatant cheerful children, who buries kids do they use specific plants for grave stones

who cooks this is very important stuff to know, how do they know untouchable-at-twelve is vegetarian, how do they hide fluffy caterpillar those trees are bright fall, do they get winter then how do they survive winter, children are everywhere is the leader also a dad, who breaks up arguments and makes them take their medicine, would explain how leader is unaffected by insults or jibes, where do the names come from do they pick it do others pick it, is it because they forgot their names or is it because they can’t bear to hear their names after hearing it screamed as bodies turned to carcasses, why isn’t leader even slightly amazed at savior of the world who disappeared for a century and can’t even hurt a bug hmm

(do kids ask leader later if that’s really savior that yeeted for a century and leader lies and knows this is the culmination of all his experience with deception, this is it, this is where it matters)

rights activist has nice younger sister energy, manly shopper is jealous and insecure but somehow doesn’t play the stay away from my sister card, untouchable-at-twelve doesn’t catch on to the crush, rights activist doesn’t deny crush how many days were they there, also has manly shopper kissed a girl before it’s very important for you to believe that he did, Japanese moon sort of counts let’s give it to him, leader continues to manipulate all three and yet continuously pisses manly shopper off that doesn’t seem intentional, if it is that’s hilarious, leader is only character to ever apologize for rights activist losing her mother that seems special, wait no angry not-soft boi apologizes in the future, toss up which went down worse, complicit in murder of untouchable-at-twelve, or making her complicit in the destruction of people’s homes

(rights activist only offered holy water to one)

so cheerful children all have individual trauma, who’s the emotional support, did leader save them individually or did they run into each other like little leader of independent country in training, police traps why do children not remove them, leader had a planned mission do they ever have time to be kids, how many times do police invade home, do cheerful children go out knowing they may not come back, how do they sleep someone has to be on watch, death by flood, poetic to leader merciful to leader who knows

where is fluffy caterpillar when you need him, poison who made that poison, don’t you know that’s dangerous for children during war, leader flies through the trees does he have another reason to live in the trees, is it something in relation to his village, do spirits like him for protecting this forest, that endangered bear really should visit, leader should not know how magic systems work why does he figure out how to use rights activist and untouchable-at-twelve so quickly, leader beats untouchable-at-twelve, loses to rights activist, rights activist is better than untouchable-at-twelve no yes we stan rights activist

leader is left frozen to tree, police are also left, how does he survive no wait answer me

[growup-thatbeautiful]

drive is out now!! It’s a Post Season Harringrove Hurt/Comfort and I’m pretty proud of it. Read it on ao3 here or below the cut. Likes and comments are very very much appreciated :))

Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.

But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.

He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”

It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.

He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.

Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.

So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.

Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.

At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.

Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.

Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.

He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.

He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.

Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.

The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.

He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.

Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.

But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.

No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.

There are usually soft words.

“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.

“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.

“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.

He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayors blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.

There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.

He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.

They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.

It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.

Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.

He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.

Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.

Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.

Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”

Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other King’s from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.

“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.

“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.

“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.

“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.

“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.

And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to the find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.

But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.

They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.

“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.

He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.

Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.

“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.

“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.

“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”

“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.

“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”

“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”

“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.

“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”

“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“

“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.

“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.

“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”

“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”

“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.

“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.

Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.

“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.

“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”

“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”

“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”

Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.

The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“

<i>Mean to hurt you. Want to hurt you. Mean to let you see how much I hurt. Want to need you.</i>

“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.

“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”

“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”

“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?

“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…

The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.

The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.

Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.

His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.

The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.

They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.

On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.

They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.

Billy leans through Steve’s window and wished that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.

“Night, King Steve.”

“Goodnight, Asshole.”

If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.

He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.

[itgetsdarksometimes35]

Colder Than Ice

Warnings: Non-con, breeding kink, fingering/finger play, loss of virginity, tiny bit of blood, 18+

Word Count: 4,874

Pairing: Dark!Curtis Everett X Reader

Summary: Reader emerges from The Snowpiercer and finds herself in a situation she never thought would come about.

~ indicates a POV change

Prompt #’s: 9,11,13,15,16

This is for @jtargaryen18​ writing challenge. I apologize for being so late, I have been extremely sick. I’m finishing other challenges and after I will do chapter 2 of Love in True Form. Hope you like this update, I’m sorry again.

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The cold air stabbed at your lungs as you inhaled deep. You looked around at the train that had housed you for the past 17 years; the place that had been so kind to you yet neglected others. You were a front passenger, it was true. Spoiled rotten by your rich parents, along with your older brother. Being only 3 when entering the train, you hadn’t known much of anything except the life on a never ending transportation object, one that seemed to go nowhere at all. When the crash came, you were engrossed at a party, none the wiser to the revolution taking place around you. 

You had heard stories of the tail passengers, yet you felt nothing but sympathy. You knew all too well of the harsh punishment due to your brother’s friend, Irwin. He was a guard and would talk almost daily about the cruel treatment he would give the less fortunate passengers.

“They deserve it,” he would say, “Nothing but a bunch of ungrateful, worthless, freeloaders.”

Despite his friendship with such a despicable character, your brother was the kindest man you had ever met. Nothing like your greedy father or the pigs that would display their love to you on the regular. Your brother laughed with the hierarchy, but would hold a glimmer in his eyes that showed he still held a degree of humanity. He was 12 when entered the train. He told you stories of when he would volunteer at homeless shelters with your parents, take in stray animals. It all seemed surreal. A time where your parents dotted on your brother for the kindness of his actions, not the harshness of them. He never explained why your parents had grown so cold like the winter they were trying desperately to escape, but it hadn’t taken you long to figure it out. On land, your family was working middle class, barely had enough for the better things in life after paying for the necessities. However, due to your parent’s loyalty to Wilford, they worked as engineers for him, they were allowed a bump up on the list when the time came for the train’s sections to be assigned. They never worked another day. Neither had you at 20 or your brother at 29. He always said if the train ever crashed that you and him would be useless along with the rest of the front while the tail would take control of the show. You couldn’t help but grow a melancholy smile at your brother’s words, how right he had been. Yet, he won’t be around to see how the world would be, for he passed away in the crash. Majority of the people at the party you had been dragged to had; thrown into the cold abyss when the explosion ripped off one of the train’s sides. Your brother’s last words was a desperate screaming command. 

“Hold on to the railing! Don’t let go!”

You had spun quickly to hold onto the railing along the bar when you saw your parents and brother sucked out. The memory adds tears to your eyes and wipes the smile off your face. The remaining party-goers were badly injured and begging you for help. Aside from a few scratches and a couple sore places, you were fine. You ignored their pleas, a selfish thing but they were too far gone. They’d only slow you down and take the little resources you could scavenge just to die later on. 

You were going to survive. Another thing your brother talked fondly about was his time in boy scouts. He may have downplayed it as a silly thing he had done since age 7, but they were useful tips. Tips that would ensure your survival for a time before conditions became less harsh. You look behind at the rubble before turning around toward the vast horizon of white. You had seen a desolate town a few years ago while in school. The years following showed the town more and more, the snow was melting. If you hurried, you were sure you’d find the town before dark. You had a bag from the party that had a few snacks and a water bottle, complimentary from goodie bags, that could last the night. You could do this.The commotion from behind you had your head jerking back.

 Not too far down you saw figures in dark rags as clothing. They were looking around the carts. You strapped the bag to you and crouched away in fear, beginning your journey. The time for the tail section to hail control had begun, and you had no desire to become part of their revenge raid. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was nothing like Curtis had remembered. It was unforgiving and made his lungs squeeze with the cool burn that comes with every inhale. Him and his people, the scum of the tail, were mostly okay. Majority of them had injuries, but none were dire. The worst of them had already passed. He had emerged from the train and started looking around for other survivors, he purposly strayed from the front. His fellow bunk mates all looked to him and followed like a shadow as he rummaged around for things to aid in their survival. Those who could began to help. 

“Curtis, the sun should be setting soon, we have enough for the night. Do you think we could start looking for a shelter maybe?”

Curtis turned to the voice to find it belonging to a young man, no older than 20. He thinks his name is Jeri. He’s slim from malnutrition and has dusty dark hair with matching eyes. He’s dirty like everyone else and has a nervous waver in his voice, like he’s talking to a god. 

Curtis smiles to try to calm the young man, he’s no god. Far from it, he’d go as far to say. 

“Jeri is it?”

The man’s eyes light up and his head nods feverishly. 

“Y-yes sir! That’s me.” 

Again, Curtis smiles. “Alright Jeri, round everyone up. We’re going to head east.”

Jeri proudly nods a “yes sir” before turning confidently to the crowd behind him, executing his orders. If Curtis could remember the revolt correctly, east is where he saw a lot of water. Water means life. They could use the water  and hunt the animals that went to the source while he strategizes his next plan. They had won the war, the aftermath would be the difficult part. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What you expected to have been hours walking was finally rewarded by a sight in the distance. You saw structures that were only in books you read as a kid. They were houses! You let out a desperate laugh that sounded more like a cry; you had done it! You picked up the pace and were soon greeted by a red wooden door. Different than the metal doors on the train. You knock, despite you knowing, before pushing it open. Inside the tiny house looked just as abandoned as the out, but you saw a previous life inside. A kitchen equipped with an iron stove and fridge; a living room with a makeshift bed and a tiny table. You walked in, shutting the door, and explored a bit more. You found there was one bedroom with a small bed made for a child and nothing more. No bathroom. By what your brother had described, your home had 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. Many homes were said to have countless bedrooms and more bathrooms than one needs, so this building you were in was a shock to say the least. No matter, it would work. Not like you had anyone to live with. You shuffled across the dusty floors before coming back to the entrance, pulling it open yet again. You walked around outside admiring the beauty of the natural world. Icicles melted to dull points and a river in the center of the homes, you counted seven, cracked, revealing water beneath. You were about to turn from the pond when movement caught your eye. You peered in and saw a fish, swimming! You laughed out of joy and amazment, you had found a food source. You saw a smaller pond with no fish inside and a wooden upright “box” next to it. You get closer and pull open the door to see a hole in the middle filing out into the Earth. You may have figured out why there was no indoor plumbing. Your brother called these “outhouses” and he said they weren’t fun to use at night on his Boy Scout camping trips.

Finding the other homes in the same condition as the first, the child room being the only difference, you found none to be better and took residence in the first. The day was giving way to night, so you shut your eyes and dozed off. The next day you promised you would get things done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone was tired. The injured and young were begging for a break, but Curtis knew everyone needed shelter. Food and water was important, but what was it all with no protection? Yona, the girl who had helped Curtis along with her father who had passed in the revolt, was trailing behind with the injured trying to help them keep up. Sarah and Thomas, a couple who lost several children while on the train, were helping the children.

 He glanced between the 3 of them for a while longer when Yona met his gaze. She smiled at him while she cradled an elderly man’s bruised arm. She looked past him and her face flashed with shock. 

She pointed and yelled, “Curtis, look!”

Curtis, along with other survivors, looked ahead. Curtis nearly jumped at the luck they had. It was an abandoned town, with what looked like a pond right in the middle. 

“Come on everyone, just a little bit further. We’re almost there.” Curtis encouraged everyone, including himself. His exhaustion suddenly came all at once, knowing that soon he could get a drink and fall asleep in one of the homes. They were going to be okay. 

They got to the houses fairly fast, everyone picked up speed once they saw their heaven so close. To their delight, it wasn’t a joint illusion, made from their exhaustion. The water was cold but refreshing, he even saw a few fish that he would catch for food. Kyle, a man around Curtis’ age, said he found another pond and an outhouse. This seemed like the perfect place, they could take up camp here for a long time before moving as food became more scarce. As everyone was exploring their new home, claiming houses, some would have to share due to there being only 7 homes, Curtis sat near the pond peering into it. He thought about the past few hours, about the people he lost, what he had gained and if it were even worth it. If humans would even survive. Sure the ones who are alive now be okay, but humanity as a whole? It died on that train, a burden Curtis wore on his sleeves. He knew he caused this extinction. He was just about to get up to pick the house Yona had gone into, she was all he knew, when a scream sounded. 

Curtis immediately jumped up and toward the sound, afraid Yona was in trouble. He got to the first house they passed, the one with the red door. Yona hadn’t been in that one, so who screamed?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had been dreaming about the crash. All was normal, the party, your family was there, everything. Only, when the train’s side ripped open, you were the one sucked out. You screamed for your brother but he couldn’t help, it was too late. As you were falling you saw a bright light. 

You jumped up in the cot you were in, a scream still lingering in your mouth on instinct. It was just a dream. You looked up and was met with 3 men holding lanterns looking at you. You gasped and jumped up, finding the farthest corner from them to hide in. 

“It’s okay, little lady. We won’t hurt ya. My name’s Sam,” The oldest, around 60’s, said. “That’s Ceaphus,” he pointed to a younger guy with glasses, 25 maybe. “And that’s Walker.” The last one had dirty blonde hair, tasseled all to the side. Before anyone could say more, the door was swung open. 

“What happened-”

A 4th man appeared in the doorway. He had a full brown beard, a cap covering his head, and piercing blue eyes. They searched over you, and you covered yourself with your hands. You felt nude under his gaze. 

He followed the movement before breaking his trance and turning to the 3 other men. He nodded his head, a silent press for them to answer his question. 

The old man spoke up. “Oh-erm, nothing Curtis. We came in ‘ere to settle down for the night when we realized her.” All their eyes turned to you. “Ceaphus here called out to her and she screamed but didn’t realize us right away. Reckin’ she was havin’ a nightmare.” 

The man, “Curtis” turned to you again. He talked to Sam like you weren’t there. 

“She one of us?”

“Hard to tell. I’d say no, her clothes look nice, despite being a little dirty, and her face is clean. Though, I didn’t know a lot of people back there, ‘specially the younger ones. I suppose she could’ve washed her face in the pond, stole some clothes.”

Curtis grunted and turned to you. 

“Well?”

You just stared at hm. Too afraid to find your voice, you gulped and nodded your head. 

Curtis’ face hardened and he strode up to you, leaving no room between the wall and your body. Leaving no room between his and your body.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. I can tell by the disrespect you’re a stuck up front section bitch.”

His breath fanned over yours, some of your hair wisped due to the air. 

“N-no! I’m sorry, I was just scared. I am from the tail section. I never really left my bunk, and I kept to myself. I always his behind my hood” You held up your hoodie to sell your lie. “I thought I was the only survivor so I ran to find shelter. I’m sorry.” 

You were damn near tears, afraid of what would happen if your lies were unsuccessful. Curtis held your eyes for a moment longer before releasing you from his body. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Curtis couldn’t lie, he was turned on by how scared you were. You were beautiful and he hadn’t had a woman in years. The control he had over you was driving him mad right then. He also had no idea if you were telling the truth or not, if you’re really from the tail section it would be understandable why you were scared of him. Stories about what he used to do got around, many young people strayed from his gaze. He too didn’t know much of them, unless the children were of his friends, like Tanya with Timmy, he didn’t know them. Yet still, he didn’t believe you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Curtis?”

Yona’s voice caught Curts’ attention as he turned to face the young girl. She looked past him at the girl and her eyes were that of recognition. Curtis turned to the girl and saw the same recognition, only fear was laced in there. They knew each other.

“Yona, do you know her?”

The sound of her voice had Yona peering up to look at Curtis. “Yes. We played together in the front all the time when we were young. Her parents were rich and bought her so many toys.”

Curtis turned to the girl again, her eyes wide with horror looking at Yona. Curtis couldn’t help the grin that crept it’s way to his face. 

“So, you lied to me?” The girl refused to meet his gaze. “Everyone out, I’m going to have a little talk with our...friend.”

Everyone left leaving Curtis and the girl alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were caught red handed. You had known Yona for years, her dad always let her play with the younger kids in the front while he worked. She was always drawn to you, despite being a few years older. She stopped coming by when you were around 18, and you had missed her. This wasn’t how you wanted the reunion to go. 

Curtis shrugged off his coat, revealing several other dirty layers beneath it, and set it on the dusty table in the kitchen. He removed his hat to reveal short brown hair the color of his beard. If the circumstances were different, you’d find him gorgeous. Instead, there you stood, terrified out of your mind, in a corner. 

“So, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Curtis said pulling out a chair and turning it so his arms rested on the back “I want answers. Let’s start easy, what’s your name?” 

You told him while your body started shaking. It wasn’t the cold that caused this. 

Curtis considered this, then pressed on. “You’re from the front. Is there anybody left? Were you part of a group that survived?”

You nodded your head violently before remembering to speak up. “No, I’m not the only one. My family died in the crash, but I found a few people to go with. I was tired so they let me rest while they went out to find food.”

If you lied and made him think people were out there looking for you if things went south, maybe he wouldn’t try anything. Besides, you weren’t completely lying. Sure you weren’t in a group and hadn’t seen any from the front, didn’t mean everyone died. 

Curtis let out a breath before removing himself from the chair, stalking closer to you. He felt along your clothes and his fingers danced up from your stomach to your chest. You took in a sharp breath while he squeezed your right boob. 

He got close to your ear and whispered, “You’re lying.”

The air he caused when he spoke caused goosbumps to rise. 

“No, I’m-”

“Yes, you are. And I hate liars.” Curtis punctuated the word with another squeeze on your boob. 

You whimpered and tried to shrug away from him. Curtis pulled you by your hair with the hand he had used on your chest and brought you closer to his face. You could count every freckle on his face now. 

“How do you know I’m lying? I could be telling the truth.”

Curtis growled, clearly fed up. “How do you think I found out?” Curtis looked you up and down before chuckling a bit. “You’re from the front, if your lips are moving, you bastards are lying.”

Your heart stung at his words, what had they done to him?

Curtis licked his lips before looking you up and down. “Now, I can take you either way. But if you’re good for me, I might just make sure you feel good too.”

You pushed at his chest, desperate at this point to get away from this man. 

Curtis shook his head. “Guess we’re taking the hard way, huh?”

Curtis swung and threw you on the cot. Before you could react, he was on you pulling at your hoodie. 

“No!” 

Your hands flew to get Curtis off you, to stop his wandering hands. He ignored them, stripping you of your hoodie and 2 sweaters and bra. He stopped to gaze at your chest before slowly bringing his hand to touch your bareness. His touch was gentle, as if not to break you, despite his actions. He tweaked at your nipple and gave the other boob the same attention.

 He brought his head down to your neck and started to assault you with kisses and nips every now and then. You were still squirming when he started to hump you thigh, an obvious bulge to represent his excitement in your torcher. He let your nipple free to pull next at your pants. You started kicking when Curtis delivered a blow to your face. 

“Stop”

Tears rolled down your face, there was nothing you could do. You let him remove your pants and your underwear before looking at your slick. You were embarrassed to say it, but you were wet. Years of suppressed hormones, ones you dealt with alone in your room at night, had come flooding all at once to your core when he first started touching you. 

Curtis chuckled above you before dipping a finger in. “This all for me, hon?”

Your hips, contrary to what your mind screamed, bucked into his able fingers. Your body relishing in the way he swirled his finger around your clit in a way you never could. 

“That feel good?”

You shut your eyes and threw your head to the side, embarrassed. Curtis chuckled at your response and presses his finger harder and swirling faster than what you thought was possible. Soon, the coil you’re oh so used to starts winding in that spot. It's stronger than normal and it collapses all over your body in a way you’ve never experienced, it left your whole body shaking. 

With your eyes still shut and head still turned you huff to catch your breath, the small room feel suffocating with the new found heat. 

You feel more movement and you finally open your eyes to find Curtis becoming mouth level with your sensitive heat. You know what he wants. 

“N-no more, p-please..” You again try to plead, but Curtis easily swats your hands away and pulls you closer by your hips and resting your legs on his shoulders. He’s so close you can feel his ever inhale and exhale of breath on your pussy. 

“Mmm, smell so good.” Curtis hums while breathing your scent in. He sticks out his tongue and starts licking up your juices. It feels so good you can’t help the moan that leaves your mouth. He licks at your tiny bud a little longer before putting his whole mouth on you, devouring you. The slopping sounds have your body buzzing and back arching in bliss. The wet sounds coming from below distract you from the finger making it’s way to your hole. 

Curtis puts the pad of his index finger to it and it has you trying to close your legs. You’ve never gotten that far on yourself before. 

Curtis looks up at you through his eyelashes before sucking on your clit harder, leaving you defensless. His finger finds your hole again and slowly starts to enter, eliciting a strained moan from you. The slight burn from the stretch oddly added to the pool that Curtis happily lapped up. He started working that finger in and out og you, your hips desperate to follow the pattern. In, out, in, out. Curtis growled into your core before his opposite hand slapped your hip, a warning to keep still. As you held your weak will, Curtis added yet another finger. This time, you screamed out in pain.

“Stop! Please, it hurts.”

Curtis ignored you for the millionth time and just did scissor motions with his fingers, causing waves in your stomach.

 He sucked harder, he was playing your body like a harp, plucking moans out of you. You made your eyes focus down to see Curtis’ hips grinding the floor, no doubt taking care of his aching needs. The thought sent you over the edge, crying out again. The orgasm seized your body, shaking as each wave calmed into still water. Curtis licked a stripe one more time before removing his fingers, the absence making you clench around air. He brought them to your mouth. 

“Suck.”

You opened your mouth and sucked on his fingers. The saltiness from your release mixed with your saliva before being swallowed around his fingers. 

“Good girl. Now, can you still be a good girl while you take my cock?” The fog from your mind passed as you realized your situation again. Curtis stood up before he started removing the rest of his clothes. You looked up at him and looked to the door. You could make it. 

As Curtis was down to just his shirt and boxers you leapt up and passed him. You had made it to the red oak when a pair of thick arms wrapped themselves around you and pulled you to something likable to a metal wall. 

“Come on now, we both know you can’t get around me.” He ground his hips into your lower back, he was huge. 

He threw you back to the cot and got back on you. He bared his chest to you, a wall of muscle. “The front end isn’t running the show anymore.” He took off his underwear allowing his member to stand at attention. The tip fire red and dripping precum. “It’s time you learned that.” Curtis grabbed your legs, setting them on either one of his hips. You’re slapping at his chest and arms, tears streaming down your face, begging him. 

“Please Curtis, you don’t have to do this please!”

His eyes no longer hold ice, they are dark with lust and a fire is amist within the middle. 

Curtis shook his head and said, “It’s time you learned who is in charge now.” Before shoving himself into you. 

You screamed out in pain, The stretch nothing comparable to his fingers. Curtis is hissing above you, holding himself there. 

“So..tight…Shit!”

He started moving slowly but with harsh thrusts within you. Your walls pulling on him every direction he went. He looked down where your bodies met and you did the same. Blood stained his girthy length but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Been a while since I’ve been with a woman.” He said while picking up the pace, the pain bending into pleasure. “Don’t think I’ve ever been with a virgin.”

Reaching down, he started tweaking your clit, the stimulation helping your third rise of the night. 

“Wanna know how we knew somebody was dating in the tail section?” Curtis looked to you, finding your glossed over gaze. “They would fuck in front of everyone else. The girl would be screaming the guy’s name out, nobody would doubt it. That’s what I’m gonna make you do tonight and every night after. Everyone will know you’re mine.” 

The thought sent a shiver down your back. 

Curtis chuckled while his hips found a better rhythm, one that hit even deeper, if that were possible. “After all, babe, the world is going to need a few babies. I say we get a head start of everyone.” 

If you weren’t so in the moment you’d be crying again, kids was a conversation you never talked about. A topic that never came to mind, you thought you’d die a very happy supportive aunt to your brother and his kids. He was always hitting it off with women on the train. Your heart wrung at the thought. He’d never have kids now. You wish he were here, he’d be able to save you. 

Curtis pulled you from your thoughts with a dip of his head. He opened his mouth and started sucking a nipple in, never once stopping the rhythm of his hips or his fingers. The mixed pleasures had you moaning out loud in Curtis’ ear, earning you a growl. 

“That’s it baby.” Curtis said coming up for air. “Moan for me. Moan my name gorgeous, let them know who fucks you this good.” 

Your third orgasm crashes through you, Curtis’ name leaving your mouth on their own account like a chant. 

Curtis picks up speed on your exhausted body, his head moving up to rest in the crook of your neck to pant and moan your own name. 

“God, you look so good coming around me. Coming all over my cock like a dirty girl. You want me to cum don’t you? Cum all in this pussy, make a mess. Beg. Beg for me to cum in you, beg for me to give you a baby. Do it, now.”

“C-Curtis, please cum inside me. Give me a b-baby, please.” 

“Yeah? You want to have my baby? Fuck, I’m coming! I’m coming so hard!”

Curtis’ hips slammed into one more time before halting inside you, his seed filling you in hot spurts. He pumped himself in you a few more times before pulling out. He looks at your abused soaping pussy before scooping his release onto his fingers and shoving them back in. 

He goes to get his coat and you haizly try to get up again. “Run again and I’ll tie you up and fuck you like the pig that you are.” Curtis said while making his way over to your unstable body, a smirk playing on his face. He knew you couldn’t, especially not in this state. 

He grabs you and pulls you down into the cot with him. He pulls the coat over you both before he pulled your back to his front. His left hand came down to caress your stomach. He nuzzled his face into your hair and breathed in your scent. He smiled before saying,”Go to sleep.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@jtargaryen18​

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S4 Ep10 pt2: Yugi’s Never Ceasing Commute Continues

Last we left off, it was time to eat. Thank you. Thank you, Yugioh. You get me.

Not one of their better spreads, TBH.

No cheese wheels, too. They are truly living in hard times.

(read more under the cut)

Rex and Weevil decided to look for rare cards in the rubble of Arthur Hawkin’s house.

I don’t know why they bothered with this, everything was very clearly exploded and on fire, but youknow, these two just seem to be very hellbent on being bad at life. Just two jokes that are here just to be jokes, wearing these duel disks that they’re not going to use until it’s finally time for them to betray us. Checkov’s jokes.

And I hate to say this but they really are this season’s Bakura.

I know I just said that.

But this show really likes having at least one character that might turn at any moment and stab our protagonist in the back. They like to have at least one at all times there, hovering over Yugi’s oblivious shoulders, with that figurative knife (or literal, in the case of that time when Bakura stabbed himself without nearly any provocation).

In the past, when Bakura was out to lunch, we would have betraying friends like Kaiba, who would go solo in the middle of his own card game and end up throwing everyone in danger, and also Tristan who got full on possessed by the Big 5 and tried to murder everyone, but I guess after 4 seasons they were like “Youknow...I think Kaiba got over it.” and like...you can’t have Rebecca stab us in the back so lets bring Rex and Weevil.

At least their showtime is minimal, because unlike Bakura, who is pretty likeable even when he’s being an asshole, Rex and Weevil never turn off the asshole and are mostly just visual gags stumbling over eachother. Bakura was quite clever and had a bit of depth and mystery, while I don’t think Rex and Weevil are smart enough to even know how to spell mystery.

And if Rex and Weevil end up being good guys and the saviors of the whole show then my sincere apologies, but they are still kind of grating.

Now Rebecca gets a duel monster’s card that has a death threat on it, which is probably the normal way to sign your duel monsters cards in this universe. I imagine every card in Yugi’s deck has a couple death threats on each of them by now. Probably makes them more lucky.

Ya so...

I can forgive this. The people who made this looked at a map of California, forgot that California is roughly the same size as Japan, and were like “I mean, there’s like 50 states, it can’t be that big.”

But here’s the thing about Death Valley. I am a Californian, but I have never been there. This is why.

Death Valley is ASS to get to. Barely anyone lives there. Nothing goes there. You can’t just take a train, you have to drive there by going south past it and then turning around. It’s real round about and just in the middle of nowhere. May as well get there by flying into Las Vegas, and if you are flying into Las Vegas, chances are slim that you will leave that Vacation Town USA to vacation in a literal desert.

Clearly they saw the name “Death Valley” and got super excited but y’all...there’s a reason why we call it that, and everyone who knows about geography or is a Californian is kind of like “um...is Yugi...going to Death Valley???? That city slicker?”

Cuz this is not a normal desert. Normally, a human can survive 3 days without water, in Death Valley you apparently can only survive for 14 hours. It is the lowest point in the US and also the hottest point in the US and the place where the highest temperature was ever recorded on the Earth. And while that heat is only for 5 months of the year...it’s not winter in the show, is it? It’s fairly warm. San Fransisco wasn’t even foggy?

Like even the Death Valley website is like “please don’t leave the main roads and hike during the hot months” because y’all, this park is damn serious. Like this is one of the only National Parks that has not just one, but multiple ghost towns in it.

Don’t get me wrong, Death Valley’s very pretty and very fun I’ve heard, and it has like a very fancy dayspa in it, and if you like geography and like to rough it, then you will absolutely love how freakin weird Death Valley is. So, if you’re safe and know how to pack your gear, you’ll have no problem, but...Y’all, Yugi Muto, who barely survived Pegasus’ island (and only because Mai fed him) is going to just casually go into Death Valley.

In that outfit.

Then, in some barn somewhere (I have NO IDEA where this exchange takes place) Rafael is grilling Arthur only to realize that this is a very pointless conversation.

And in case you forgot Darts exist, he’s still out there, murdering people off for kicks. we’ll just add 20 more to the death count, the internet told me that’s the average amount of people on a fish boat of average size (although sometimes this boat seemed like the size of a shipping container barge but youknow...)

And in case you missed it, I have been doing the death counter wrong so I was 2 people behind--it’s correct now. With the rate this show goes I feel like we might see death 666 eventually. But, yes we did pass 269 so we’ll have to wait another 100, I guess, because it went to some rando on this boat. Nice.

(The highest surface temperature of Death Valley ((not the air, but the ground)) ever recorded, was 201° F.)

(That’s 94° C for those in the back.)

I mean Yugi is part Pharaoh so I guess he just has a strong attraction to really terrible deserts. He’s also half a dead guy so maybe he also just has a strong attraction to being dead.

But I dunno, maybe this is the months of the year where Death Valley is manageable? Maybe? Possibly? We’ll just assume that it is.

Now you can go horseback riding in Death Valley, as you can in any National Park, but it isn’t real normal to ride your horse all the way from San Fransisco. And like you can’t even let your dog off a leash in Death Valley. This is such a bad park for pets!

Also, I found out some fun facts about horse travel, for anyone interested in writing fantasy and wants to know the average speed of a horse.

So a horse can go about 100 miles in a day, but only for one day. If you do 250 miles, the time has to be more spread out since you must recharge your horse. According to some horse-specialist on the internet who does horse marathons from coast to coast, if you have to do 500 miles, then you average about 24 miles a day, accounting for horse-recovery time and assuming it’s a horse that wasn’t bred for super long distances. (this is about a 500 mi horse ride, ps)

The pony express of old, the iconic Wells Fargo, would actually have horse stations along the prairie, where you would trade in your tired horse for a new horse, so that way you would never have to stop going 100 miles in a day. Since Yugi never changed his horse, this ride would have been absolutely ridiculous, and Copernicus the horse, would have stopped somewhere in Gilroy.

But this is a kid’s show so wtv, we’re gonna ignore that.

(reminder that Yugi decided not to unhitch the perfectly serviceable truck and drive away with air conditioning.)

And Yugi really did make Rebecca promise not to tell these much older teens that he took off (something about how he doesn’t want to put more people in danger yada yada, normal Yugi stuff), but the show kind of blames this on Rebecca...but like...she’s 12. This one is on Yugi.

But, if Rebecca were older, maybe she would have done the same thing. Rebecca seems like maybe the type that realizes that when you like an idiot boy, you gotta let them do idiot things, and make idiot mistakes. You can’t just control what your friends do all the time, unlike this crew, which is controlling because that is the only way they keep eachother alive.

So Joey decides to ignore both of the cars right next to him, and just book it to save his stupid ass friend. On foot. To Death Valley. From what the show insisted was just outside San Fransisco.

And I guess that Rafael decided to just let Hawkins go?

Probably because Yugi got on a horse and Rafael was like “of course I know Yugi is chasing me on horseback off the main roads. Of course I know that.” and then he just...let Hawkins walk all the way back...

Hawkins should be dead, but not yet.

So lets check out Death Valley.

So like...again I just think they probably boarded everything and had a rough idea of “America has a bunch of natural canyons, right?” and didn’t realize that the Grand Canyon was soooo far from California.

There are actually canyons in Death Valley but like...I dunno if the art matches that so much? They aren’t nearly as massive as the canyon situation farther East.

Again this was their art choice that they made and it’s...a choice. And they committed to it.

And this bike thing happened?

This tandem bicycle for children lost among the wreckage of Rebecca Hawkin’s home is like a whole “baby shoes, never worn” short story in itself. Rebecca has nooo siblings or parents, right? She has a really old grandpa who is like 80 and doesn’t bike? Just uh...bringing that up...was this tandem bike for her to hang out with Yugi? Does Rebecca even have friends her own age? She already graduated college.

So much inferred by the bike that I know is just here because it’s a funny joke to see Rex and Weevil on a stupid tandem bike.

So I’ve heard about the bike/car/horse paradox before in regards to this season, (it’s one of the few things I knew about this season before going in) so I’m happy to see I’ve recapped enough Yugioh to see it play out.

The paradox being, if Yugi is on horseback, and Rex and Weevil are on a bike, and the rest are in a car, who arrives first?

Apparently the show itself isn’t even sure because Rex and Weevil can keep up with a horse???

Anyway, the correct answer to the paradox is that everyone not in a car is dead for not bringing any water.

Everyone except for Raphael, who probably put a camel pack into each of his shoulder pads.

OH NOW IT’S AN ANIME.

I don’t get why this is happening. But it’s a thing now. Rafael has either literal or metaphoric wings. Bear in mind I thought Pharaoh was Metaphoric for like 14 episodes. These Icarus wings might just be real. Rafael might have been a card this entire time, and I wouldn’t even blink.

Anyway, if this is your first post of mine you’ve seen of this, my apologies, we’re in S4 and this is very confusing. You can read from S1 ep 1 in chrono order by clicking this very handy link here!

[vegetacide]

Tagged

Tagged by @gumnut-logic  :)

1. Would you rather accessorize with scarves or necklaces?

Scarves,  cause I like soft stuff to snuggle and hide my face in.

2. How old were you when you first saw mountains? (Or if you haven’t seen mountains, what do you imagine they’re like?)

Smokey Mountains on a road trip... erm.. in my mid teens I guess...

3. Do you make your bed in the morning?

It a habit I recently started when we first went on lock down to help me get my day started... prior to that.. hell no as I would just be crawling back into them later.

4. What type of stories did you like as a child?

Book wise when I was little.. anything my Dad would read to me at bedtime...As a teenager it was Sci-fi, fantasy and romance and hopefully all in the same book. 

5. What was the most exhilarating experience of your life?

Hmm ...no idea so will pick some at experience at random... sailing through a sun shower in St. Thomas on one of our honeymoon excursions to see sea turtles in their natural habitat. ...

Snorkeling for the first time in the ocean..

Skiing down a winter slope when I was a kid and somehow not managing to kill myself (I suck at skiing) 

First day we brought my daughter home from the hospital.. feels surreal as I sit here to think the 5 year old softly snoring beside me was once sooooo small and it was ONLY 5 SHORT YEARS AGO.  Dude, when they say the little years go by fast.. they weren’t kidding..

Oh.. and of course walking down the isle and somehow not tripping over my feet and face planting in front of my family and friends as I was shaking like a leaf caught in a hurricane having a mild panic attack and worried I was going to fuck up somehow.

Okay, so the last one was more terrified than exhilarating but.. meh...

6. Do you agree with the concept of exotic pets?

Here in North America... if the thing was born in the wild.. it should stay in the wild...unless under the extreme circumstances of animal rescue when the animal can’t be returned to the wild..   If it was breed in captivity and is not on the endangered species list and wont eat you or rip your face off...say like a hedge hog which is oddly enough considered exotic where I am.. then its okay but only if the owner can provide a loving, healthy home.  (wolf hybrids,  tigers, ligers, and other exotic large cats are the exceptions as no one can care for them properly unless specialized training has taken place and you have like a billion acres of land for them...basically any animal that has not been domesticate over hundreds of years ... leave em alone... )

7. Describe your feelings about maths.

Necessary evil...enough said. 

8. When was the last time you finished a book?

Do audio books count? If so.. in March right before lock down.  Listened to a lot of books on my travels to and from work..   Currently I am able to actually pick up a hard copy and I am working my way through Crazy, Rich Asians.   Good book!

9. What’s a small way that you’ve been kind recently?

All the things I have done recently have just been what is expected of a normal human being with responsibilities so I cant really say.. erm.. made an extra meat loaf for my Dad so I know he is eating well... collected his beer bottles for return cause they just started excepting them again.. 

Started making my husband lunch as he was recalled to work... Do his laundry cause he usually does it for himself...

I haven’t really be out much in the world lately and as I said.. basic stuff. 

10. What new hobby/activity have you always wanted to try?

And got to the bottom and I think I fucked this up... oh well.. lmao.. so on to the questions I was supposed to answer...ooopppsss..  gonna leave the other answers above cause I spent the time to write em.. 

Oooh, and now I have to ask questions…

1. If you could go anywhere, where would you go?  

Falling Lakes aka  Plitvice Lakes National Park  in Croatia cause it looks beautiful and would be the closest thing on Earth to being in a fantasy novel..  

2. Favourite pasta shape?  

No favourite shape.. just spoon sized cause spaghetti is messy

3.What do you need to do everyday to keep your mind and body working well?

Wake up... lmao

4. First ever fandom and why? How old were you?

This is a surprisingly hard question to answer as I have loved many things over the years.. I have always loved cartoons going back as far back as I can remember and later in life comic books and anime  so will answer this by first fanfictions  and first community.... 

Well.. first fanfiction i got hooked on reading was for Sailor Moon..age..erm... high school so like maybe grade 9ish..  At that point I had always loved cartoons but Sailor Moon really sucked me in. 

First I wrote and will never see the light of day... Biker Mice From Mars and/or G.I.Joe...cant rightly remember which came first and I am a huge Snake Eyes fan.  

First posted... DBZ I believe under another name.. and ermm.. no, I wont tell. 

First community I joined... Dragon Ball Z on here in fact.. and within the last few years.   I am still a DBZ fan but I jumped the fandom community wagon and joined up with a bunch of Thundernerds and completely fell down the rabbit hole.

And I am being vague about the age for a reason.. lol   

5.Deserted beach or snazzy night club?

Beach! 100% Sand between the toes,  the sound of the water lapping up the shore.. the smell of the salt in the air.. the sun on my back and my sandals dangling from my finger tips.. ahhhh perfection. 

6. Do you find it easier to talk to people online or offline?

Online.. cause there is security in anonymity. 

7. What do you think is the aim in your life? What do you ultimately want to achieve?

Wow.. talk about a soul baring question.. lmao.. I don’t know.. to be remembered and looked back on kindly.   To be better then those before me and to not make the same mistakes.. to be a good mom to my daughter and to not fuck her up to bad. (I answered this one out of order.. meh)   

8. Coolest Thunderbird

....well this one should be an obvious answer. lol

9. What is your absolute favourite topic to talk about?

My interests.. which are vast and varied. 

10. Do you have an embarrassing story to share?

How I fucked up this questionnaire.. lol 

okay so now for questions to ask,..if I understand this right that is what i am supposed to do now... hmm

1. Favourite dessert.

2. What would you rather...fine dining or eating around a camp fire?

3.  Favourite past time outside of here?

4. If you were a video game character, who would you be? Why?

5. Flight or invisibility? 

6. In the case of a zombie apocalypse what would be your escape plan and what would you do to survive? 

7. If you could go on a road trip anywhere in the world.. where would you go and what car would you be driving? 

8. Who would be in the seat beside you? 

9.  What would you rather... watch a thunderstorm or close the blinds

10. What 10 questions would you come up with if you could ask anyone anything?  (Ya, I so cheated there mu ha ha a ha) 

Feel free to answer.. or not. Open to anybody just copy and paste the last 10 questions.. not the whole thing like I did... oops... cause that would be wrong.. Oh and if you made it all the way down here after this long ass ramble .. GOLD STAR FOR YOU!  :) 

[tracle0]

TIME TO TALK ABOUT SUS

This time, by ‘sus’ I mean Glalis. I’ve done posts like this twice before, one about the masks in Glalis and the other one about the radio station in Sonder which you can check out if you want. 

'Hey Trade what even is Glalis it sounds like a made-up word’ well you’re correct, it is. But aren’t most town names made-up words? 

Glalis is an underground town, situated under Sonder. Sonder looks like this: 

And Glalis is underneath that, up until the bit labelled ‘farming area’. It’s bigger than Sonder, obviously, and a hell of a lot darker. Because... underground. 

‘Oh hey that’s neat and all but uh why are they underground if there’s a liveable island right there’ this goes into history buckle up kiddos. 

Glalis was founded in the 13th century. Know what else was happening in the 13th century? There was some climate change, some soil exhaustion, minor things. More importantly, the Bubonic Plague was destroying Europe. This includes England, where Sonder is set. 

Some people - the founders of Glalis - did not like having this disease, so (after checking they were all clean and good and not going to infect the others) they up and left their town, trying to find another new clean place to live. 

Fun little fact - people in those days used to believe that diseases were carried via bad smells, hence in the nursery rhyme ‘ring a ring a roses’ there’s ‘a pocket full of posies’. Glalis founders were no different and were looking out for strong but sweet smells to overpower the stench of disease. 

O hey this cavern down here has a bunch of glowing blue mushrooms that - woah, they smell really really sweet heck man let’s just set up camp down here. 

So they did. And that’s how the grand little underground town of Glalis was born. 

These glowing blue mushrooms are deadly - their spores, if you breathe them in, grow in your throat and suffocate you. But the spores are too heavy to be efficiently airborne, so you literally have to stand next to them and breathe heavily to be infected. They’re harmless as long as you’re wise about them. So they still grow there to this day, carefully sanctioned off and controlled. 

Until I decide on an actual entrance, please assume this image from Undertale is the entrance to Glalis because art is dead and I’m not original sometimes.

‘They’ve only been underground since the 1300s? But you said that they have white hair, evolution doesn’t happen that quickly’ oh hey cool you read my comic sans powerpoint that’s very cool of you. You’re correct in all aspects of that: if they progressed through time like all of us, I don’t know how quickly they’d get white hair. 

Good news for me, Glalis (and by default, Sonder) does not follow linear time. The way I described it is that they’re stuck in a bubble, which bounces through time (and space, but only in the UK, primarily England. It did show up once in Ireland, actually, but let’s just assume England). One day it could touch down in the 1400′s, the next in 2200. As long as there’s land to... land on, it could appear anywhere. And no, the land does not need to encompass where Sonder/Glalis would fit. It could appear on the little patch of grass outside your house. Space is weird.

As a result of the time issue, Glalis citizens could have been underground for thousands of lifetimes already, so I’d say the white hair has reason to be there and it’s not just me making up reasons for my antagonist to have white hair because I couldn’t decide on a hair colour. 

‘Alright, whatever you weeb. You said Glalis was founded in the 1300′s - what about Sonder?’ wow, you’re really asking good questions today, reader, thank you, you make my job easier. 

Sonder came later, in the late 1800s - the era of the Industrial Revolution and stuff. These kids were escaping the horrific working conditions (a bunch of those damn proletariate) and happened to stumble upon Sonder. They went ‘ehhh alright’ and set up shop. 

Obviously, outside time means nothing to Sonder, so maybe they’ve been there for thousands of years - but they arrived after Glalis citizens had started to commonly have white hair. 

It still took about six (nonlinear) months for Glalis and Sonder to first have contact, which was instigated while a party of Sonder people was setting up a farming location and a party of Glalis people were going above ground to harvest some of their crops. It was a big !!!!! fest, but eventually, the two towns sat down and talked through things. 

One major thing they decided on quite early on was the splitting of food. Sonder would grow crops above ground because they enjoyed it and weren’t scared of the germs of the open air and also they had sunshine which is kinda needed for crop growth, and Glalis would rear animals (adding the animals that Sonder bought with them), as there’s a lot more room underground for the animals, and although they like it, animals don’t need sunlight to survive. They would share the food between the two populations, as organised by Sonder. So if one town underperformed in terms of producing food, they’d still get the same amount as the other town, and both would go sort of hungry for a year but wouldn’t starve. 

‘Wow you put a lot of thought into that Trade - why?’ 

Sonder is a big meanie sometimes. 

Also, fun fact, Sonder was a perfectly normal start-up town until Glalis made contact with them. They infected Sonder with the Weird, and Sonder did not know how to react so had to learn from Glalis. 

Glalis was very kind and taught them how to survive the Weird, but they also threw in a few pranks. Rain is illegal in Sonder because Glalis said it was dangerous. It’s not dangerous, but Glalis isn’t going to tell them that anytime soon because it’s hilarious. 

‘Well that’s interesting and all - crows? You mentioned crows? I like crows’ I also like crows they are very cool and also very smart. 

Glalis, coming along in the 1300s as an escape from the Bubonic plague, is a town full of superstition. I’m sure one image you all know from the Bubonic plague era is that of the plague doctor: 

What a cool mask. Well! Glalis saw that and went ‘huh that kinda looks like...’

‘Well, we better be nice to them and they’ll protect us from this terrifying plague.’ 

So they did. And crows, being the smart little nuggets they are, recognised that people in this area, and eventually, people with white hair, feed us, so we like them. 

They’re semi-tame to citizens of Glalis at this point. If you’re in Sonder and you hear a crow, there’s probably an underground visitor nearby. Even in more recent years when Glalis has been struggling with food, they still bring a little bit out for the crows each time. 

So yeah - the crows like Glalis people. Or people who feed them. Or both. 

(awh look he’s smiling for once what a happy kid)

‘That’s pretty neat man. You mentioned masks underground - how did they come to be a thing?’ I have two answers for you, but we’ll go for the one that’s relevant to the story. 

Masks are cool. Next question. 

‘Trade you have to answer it you can’t just put stuff in your book for no reason’ I can and I will so don’t try me. 

‘Alright, fine, whatever. You also mentioned ice skating?’ I vaguely mentioned ice skating in this post yes you are right. Ice skating is quite a big thing underground. 

As seen in the map that yes, was painted, and no, I’m not the best painter but it was fun, there’s a big ol’ lake underground. It’s shaped like a whale and that is deliberate. Does it have meaning? No. I just like whales. 

Anyway, underground = cold place. Cold place = water freezes. Water freezing = ice lake. The lake freezing is a hugely anticipated and celebrated event for Glalis, and midwinter is a time of great joy. Meanwhile, Sonder celebrates midsummer as an indication of the harvest about to start.  

As a result of the freezing lake being so crucial to the culture, most people are good at travelling on ice, because, in winter, it’s a lot quicker to travel across the water than going around it. I would say that soldiers even train on ice because if you can win a fight on the ice you’re a lot more likely to win when not on the ice.

It’s never a big deal though dw dw dw it never comes into play within the book, not even once. Nuh-uh. 

‘Okay so Glalis was cut off in the 1300s roughly - I’ve seen pictures of Andy with a gun and also red hoodie? What’s up with that, that’s too modern and also your book is set in England how did he get a gun’ are you referring to this picture 

Yes? Yes. Cool. 

So yes, Glalis/Sonder jump through time. As a result, people from all different time periods have stumbled onto Sonder. Not many, but a few. Mostly they’re deposited back into their own time when they leave. Sometimes they’re not. 

When they do stumble into Sonder, all dangerous items they have are taken away. Mobile phones are included in this list, due to the fact they literally explode when in Sonder. These items are often stored underground because, once again, more room. 

Sonder and Glalis also rarely visit each other. So although Sonder goes ‘hey don’t touch this stuff okay’ and Glalis goes ‘alright’ they still do it and they know they won’t get caught out. So Andy gets a snazzy hoodie. No, that’s not me reaching for an answer because I gave him clothes before I gave him a home, shut up.

Also in regards to the gun - they were banned in 1997, after the 1996 Dunblane school massacre. There’s every chance that the towns popped down before that point and someone wandered in who happened to have a gun. Heck, farmers are still allowed guns in England, the just have to be careful. Maybe it was a more recent find. 

‘Wow you’ve really put a fair bit of thought into this, you nerd. Can we get one for idk Sonder itself?’ no, the summary for Sonder you get is the actual book. Sam - our narrator, the cool kid feeding the crow in one of the above pictures - spends a lot of time in Sonder and not enough time in Glalis. She records everything she finds out. You can find out with her.

Fun fact: I only like crows as much as I do because of this book

Tag last: (holy heck I have one of these now that’s exciting) @joyful-soul-collector

[dumbledearme]

chapter seventeen—weakness of affection

read Child of Land and Sea here

Act III — Deep Blue Sea

Part II — No man is worth the aggravation. That's ancient history. Been there. Done that.

Somehow the Hunters defeated the men in the helicopter. Andy didn't see what happened, nor did she care. He was gone. She wouldn't see him again. Anthony was gone. Forever. But he couldn't be... dead. He couldn't. She hadn't had the chance to tell him, maybe show him, how she felt. Could it be too late? She had to let him know!

The one called Zoë eyed Thalia. "You," she spat.

"Zoë Nightshade," Thalia's voice trembled with anger. "Perfect timing, as usual."

Zoë scanned the rest of them. "Four half-bloods and a satyr, my lady."

"Yes," the youngest girl said. "Some of Chiron's campers, no doubt."

Experiencing a wave of panic, Andy got up and tried to run for the cliff again. Once more Thalia held her back. "Let me go! Thalia! We need to save him!"

The young Huntress turned toward Andy, her eyes filled with pity. "I'm sorry, Andy Jackson, but the son of Athena is beyond our help." Andy's throat made a terrible sound she didn't recognize. "And you are in no condition to be hurling yourself off cliffs."

Andy struggled to push Thalia away. "Who do you think you are to tell me-"

"I am Artemis," she said. "Goddess of the Hunt."

Grover gasped and hurriedly knelt in the snow, stammering: "Lady Artemis, thank you, thank you... You are so... wow!"

"Get up, goat boy," Thalia snapped. "We have other things to worry about."

Andy knelt in the snow beside Grover and put her hands together in prayer. She silently asked her father to save Anthony, if Poseidon was there could he please, please, save Anthony, that was all she was asking for, that he'd be safe and alive and-

Thalia smacked her across the face. "Put yourself together, Jackson. You can't afford to lose it right now." Her voice softened. "We're going to find him, alright?"

Andy tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Her face burned where Thalia had hit her. But she wasn't angry at her. She wasn't feeling a damn thing but that strange aching in her chest.Was that how a panic attack felt like?

Then Bianca spoke, "Who... who are you people?"

Artemis answered, "It might be a better question to ask who you are. Who are your parents?"

Bianca glanced nervously at Nico. "Our parents are dead," she said. "We're orphans. There's a bank trust that pays for our school, but..." she faltered. "What? I'm telling the truth."

"You are a half-blood," Zoë Nightshade told her. "One of thy parents was mortal. The other was an Olympian."

"Does that mean...?"

"One of the gods," Artemis confirmed.

"Cool!" said Nico.

"No!" Bianca's voice quavered. "This is not cool."

Nico danced around like he needed to use the restroom. "Does Zeus really have lightning bolts that do six hundred damage? Does he get extra movement points for-"

"Nico, shut up!" Bianca put her hands to her face. "This is not your stupid Mythomagic game, okay? There are no gods!"

"Bianca, I know it's hard to believe. But the gods are still around. Trust me. They're immortal. And whenever they have kids with regular humans, kids like us, well... Our lives are dangerous," Thalia explained.

"Dangerous," Bianca repeated. "Like the boy who fell."

Andy held her breath trying not to cry in front of all those people. "Do no despair for the boy," Artemis said as if reading Andy's mind. "I will find the son of Athena."

"Is he alive?" Andy glanced at the goddess.

"He is just gone, child of land and sea. If he had hit the water you would have felt it. Some magic is at work. I do not know exactly how or why, but your friend has vanished."

"What about the manticore?" asked Nico. "It was awesome how you shot him! Is he dead?"

"Hopefully," said Artemis, "he is destroyed. But monsters do not die, young one. They re-form over and over again, and they must be hunted whenever they reappear."

"Or they'll hunt us," Thalia finished.

Bianca shivered. "That explains... Nico, you remember last summer, those guys who tried to attack us in the alley in D.C.?"

"And that bus driver," Nico said. "The one with the ram's horn. I told you that was real!"

"That's why Grover's been watching you," Thalia said. "To keep you safe."

"Grover?" Bianca said. "You're a demigod?"

"Well, a satyr, actually," and he showed her his true feet. Bianca almost fainted.

"You're freaking her out," Thalia said. "Bianca, we came here to help you. You and Nico need training to survive. You need to come to Camp Half-Blood. It's where the half-bloods learn to survive."

"Sweet, let's go!" said Nico.

"Wait," Bianca shook her head. "I don't-"

"There is another option," Zoë said.

"No, there isn't!" Thalia argued.

The two girls glared at each other.

"We've burdened the children enough," announced Artemis. "We will rest here. Raise the tents. Treat the wounded. Bianca, come with me. I'd like to talk to you."

"What about me?" asked Nico.

"Perhaps you can show Grover how to play that card game you enjoy. I'm sure Grover would be happy to entertain you for me."

"You bet!" shouted Grover and he took the boy away.

Everyone went about their business leaving Thalia and Andy alone. "The nerve of those Hunters!" Thalia complained.

Andy nodded. "I'm with you," she sniffed. "I don't trust-"

"Oh, you're with me?" Thalia roared. "This is all your fault! If you had done what I said... What were you thinking going after Thorn by yourself? If we'd stuck together, we could've taken him without these Hunters. Anthony could still be here!"

Andy clenched her fists and stood up. "What did you say to me?" she marched toward Thalia. "You're lecturing me? You've been back for a few days and you think you can boss everyone around because you're what? The daughter of Zeus?"

"I have more experience-"

"In being dead!"

"Listen to me, fishy," Thalia growled. "Whatever happens to Tony, that's on you." She pick Anthony's cap from the snow and threw it at Andy's face. Then she stormed off.

Andy wasn't sure for how long she sat on the snow clutching the Yankees cap against her heart. Eventually, Grover and Nico returned from their walk and Grover fixed Andy's shoulder.

Nico rummaged his pockets for his trading cards. "I've got almost all of them," he told Andy, who ignored him.

"Have you been playing a long time?" Grover made conversation.

"Just this year," the boy said. "Before that..." He knit his eyebrows.

"What?"

"I forgot. That's weird." He looked unsettled, but it didn't last. "Can I see that sword of yours?" Andy handed it to him. "Grover said you're the daughter of Poseidon. And the boy who fell..." he hesitated. "Was he your boyfriend?""

Andy shook her head wishing Nico di Angelo would shut up. Then Zoë Nightshade came get her.

The tent of Artemis was warm and comfortable. Bianca was still there, but she looked better, less scared. Finally it hit Andy how weird it was that the hunters were a bunch of young girls.

"Are you surprised by my age?" the goddess asked, again as if reading her mind.

Her throat was still very dry, so Andy just shrugged.

"I could appear as anything I want, but this is what I prefer. I am patron of young maidens. That is, until they get like you."

"Like me?" Andy asked hoarsely.

"Yes. Smitten, silly, preoccupied, insecure. Before they forget themselves, like you did in that cliff."

Andy tried to ignore the word smitten. "I didn't forget myself. Not for a moment. And that's why-"

"You are so angry because of the boy? It is understandable. My Hunters do not welcome boys. They are usually forbidden to have any contacts with the Hunters. That is why Zoë did not hesitate before shooting."

"Well, she could've asked."

Zoë gave Andy a death stare.

"Things are stirring that I have not hunted in millennia," Artemis murmured. "Prey so old I have nearly forgotten. We came here tonight sensing the manticore, but he was not the one I seek. Bianca tells me he mentioned someone called the General?"

Zoë's face paled at the name.

"Yes," Andy agreed. "And he said soon he'd have the most important monster of all – the one that shall bring the downfall of Olympus."

Artemis shook her head. "I've been too slow to see the signs. I must hunt this monster."

"We'll leave right away," said Zoë.

"No, Zoë. I must do this alone."

"My lady-"

"This task is too dangerous even for the Hunters. You know where I must start my search. You cannot go there with me."

Zoë bowed. "As... as you wish, my lady."

"I will find this creature," Artemis vowed. "And I shall bring it back to Olympus by winter solstice. It will be all the proof I need to convince the Council of the Gods of how much danger we are in."

"You know what the monster is?" Andy asked.

"Let us pray I'm wrong," the young girl said. "Now, I called you here, Andy Jackson, to ask you a favor. I want you to escort my Hunters back to Camp Half-Blood. They can stay there in safety until I return."

"What?" Zoë blurted out. "My lady, we hate that place. The last time we stayed there-"

"I know, Zoë. But I am sure Dionysus will not hold a grudge just because of a little, ah, misunderstanding. It's your right to use Cabin Eight whenever you are in need. Besides, I hear they rebuilt the cabins you burned down," Artemis said. "And now, there is one last decision to be made," she turned to Bianca. "Have you made up your mind, dear?"

Bianca hesitated. "I'm still thinking about it."

"About what?" asked Andy.

"They... they've invited me to join the Hunt."

"What? But you can't! You have to come to camp so Chiron can train you. It's the only way you can-"

"It is not the only way for a girl," Zoë said.

"Bianca..." Andy paused. "What do you get by joining the Hunt?"

"Immortality," Zoë answered for her.

"Are you serious?"

"Zoë's always very serious," Artemis guaranteed. "My Hunters follow me on my adventures. They are my maidservants, my companions, my sisters-in-arms. Once they swear loyalty to me, they are indeed immortal... unless they fall in battle, which is unlikely. Or break their oath."

"What oath?"

"To forswear romantic love forever," Artemis said. "To never grow up, never get married. To be a maiden eternally."

"This is not Neverland, lady!" Andy snarled. "You can't go around offering half-bloods immortality-"

"Not just half-bloods," Zoë interrupted. "Lady Artemis does not discriminate by birth. All who honor the goddess may join. Half-bloods, nymphs, mortals-"

"Which one are you?"

Anger flashed in Zoë's eyes. "That is not thy concern. You wouldn't understand. Your heart has already succumb to the weaknesses of affection. The The point is Bianca may join if she wishes. It is her choice."

"Bianca, this is crazy," Andy turned to her. "What about your brother? He can't be a Hunter."

"Certainly not," Artemis said. "He'll go to camp. That is the best boys can hope to do. But you can see him from time to time. You'll be free, however, of the responsibility. Camp counselors will take care of him. You shall have a new family. Us."

"A new family," Bianca repeated, dreamily. "Free of responsibility."

"You can't do this," Andy pleaded.

Bianca turned to Zoë. "Is it worth it?"

"Yes."

"What do I have to do?"

"Repeat after me," Zoë said. "I pledge myself to the goddess Artemis."

"I... I pledge myself to the goddess Artemis."

"Don't do it, Bianca!"

"I turn my back on the company of men, accept eternal maidenhood, and join the Hunt." Bianca repeated the lines. "Do you accept the pledge, lady Artemis?"

"I accept," Artemis said. Bianca looked no different but assured Andy she felt stronger. "Remember your pledge," Artemis warned her. "It is now your life." Then she turned back to Andy. "I know you don't understand, Andy Jackson. You don't have to. You will still get to show Nico di Angelo your camp. And if he chooses, he may stay there."

Andy gave up. "Fine. How are we getting there?"

Artemis closed her eyes. "Dawn is approaching. I'll summon a ride from my brother."

The Hunters started breaking camp. Bianca took Andy's hand and said, "I'm sorry you don't understand. But I really, truly want this."

It was colder and darker and snowier than ever and Andy stood shivering in the snow, still clutching the Yankees cap. The Hunters didn't seem to feel the cold. Thalia and Grover joined her and she told them about her audience with the goddess.

"The last time the Hunters visited camp, it didn't go well," Grover said.

"And Bianca joined them," Thalia said, disgusted. "It's all Zoë's fault. That suck-up, no good-"

"Who can blame her?" Grover argued. "Eternity with Artemis?" he heaved a big sigh.

Thalia rolled her eyes. Finally the sky began to lighten.

"About time," Artemis muttered. "He's so lazy in the winter." There was a sudden burst of light on the horizon. A blast of warmth. Apollo parked his red convertible and got out smiling. He was handsome – so very handsome –, tall and blonde and good humored.

"Wow," Thalia said, giving life to Andy's thoughts. "Apollo is hot!"

"He's the sun god," Nico said, clueless.

"That's not what she meant," Andy whispered, biting her lip.

"Little sister!" Apollo called. "What is up? You never call. You never write. I was getting worried."

Artemis sighed. "I'm fine, Apollo. And I am not your little sister."

"Hey, I was born first."

"We're twins! How many times do I have to-"

"What is up?" he interrupted. "Got the girls with you, I see," and he blinked at the Hunters who seemed unaffected by his godly good looks.

"I need a favor," Artemis said. "I have some hunting to do, alone. I need you to take my companions to Camp Half-Blood."

Apollo raised his hands in a 'stop everything' gesture. "I feel a haiku coming in." The Hunters groaned. "Green grass breaks through the snow. Artemis pleads for my help. I am so cool." And he grinned waiting for applause.

"That last line was only four syllables," Artemis said.

"Was it?" he frowned. "Hmm, what about... I am so awesome. That's five syllables." Andy realized she was smiling like a fool and tried to snap out of it. "Alright, let's see." Apollo said, watching them. "Thalia, Zeus's girl, right?" Thalia blushed. "Used to be a tree, didn't you? You smell like Christmas! And... Andy Jackson. You smell like fish."

Thalia laughed. Andy punched her in the arm, deciding she wasn't that into Apollo after all.

"Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going."

Apollo nodded. He took out his car keys and beeped the security alarm button. The convertible turned into a school bus. "Everybody in!"

"A warning," Artemis told him. "You do not help my Hunters. You do not look at, talk to, or flirt with my Hunters."

Apollo spread his hands. "I know, I know. Hey, where are you off to anyway?"

"Just drop them off, Apollo. Zoë, you are in charge of the Hunters. Do well. Do as I would do."

Zoë straightened. "I will."

Artemis disappeared into the woods and the Hunters pilled into the bus. "Who wants to drive?" Asked Apollo.

"Me!" Nico offered.

"Nah. Too young."

"Oo! Oo!" Grover raised his hand.

"Hmm, no. Too furry." He glanced at Andy. "Too fishy," and laughed at his own joke. "But you, daughter of Zeus. You are perfect for this."

"Oh, no," Thalia shook her head. "No, thanks."

"Oh, yes," Apollo nodded. "You'll be eighteen soon," he informed her. "It's about time you learn how to drive." Thalia seemed unsure. "I know you might think you don't deserve an honor like driving the sun chariot. But it'll be fine."

Thalia tried to protest but Apollo wasn't going to take no for an answer. Thalia gripped the wheel so tight her knuckles turned white. She seemed about to puke.

"What's wrong?" Andy asked.

"Nothing," she lied. She pulled the wheel and drove like a mad person. Andy had a feeling she had her eyes closed. Apollo asked her to go slower, but she shouted she had everything under control. She did not lose speed though.

"Hang a left," Apollo suggested. She jerked the wheel throwing everyone aside. "The other left," he said trying to sound calm. "And a little lower."

Thalia tilted the wheel, her face was chalk white, her forehead dripping with sweat. The bus pitched down and somebody screamed. Maybe Andy. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"Take the wheel," Grover begged Apollo.

"No worries," the god assured him, but he looked plenty worried. "She just has to learn to- WHOA!"

There was a wild light in Thalia's eyes. Camp Half-Blood was right beneath them.

"BRAKE!" Apollo yelled.

Thalia slammed her foot on the brake, and the sun bus pitched forward at a forty-five-degree angle, slamming into the camp's canoe lake.

"Well," Apollo said. "You did have everything under control. I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

[adventuresofalittlehedgehog]

We’re alive!! Just got back from our four day Lares trek to Machu Picchu a few days ago. Man, it’s been a crazy few days. On the first day the tour guides picked us up at around 4 am and drove us to the hot springs. It was so nice, kinda bizarre though with the boiling hot water and the freezing air. We then had breakfast there and drove to our trailhead, where we met the rest of the crew. We hiked for about 8 miles that day entirely uphill, with a break for lunch, before stopping at our campsite at this gorgeous lake. We then had a huge super, all the meals on this trip were huge, even with ten hikers and two guides we couldn’t finish it all. They managed to do it all in just a tiny tent too, which was very impressive. After that we went to bed, it was freezing that night. We were wearing all our winter gear, had down sleeping bags and hot water bottles, and we were still pretty cold. In the morning they woke us up with coca tea though, which was really nice. The second day we hiked up the rest of the mountain, which had an altitude of 4,800 meters. The second day was definitely the most difficult, especially since there was an issue with the water that day. Somehow the drinking water they gave us got gasoline in it, making it undrinkable. No one knows exactly how it happened, the guides said it had never happened before on any of the previous treks. We’re guessing that the tap water they used got contaminated somehow, since that night they had used a kitchen in a small house. But because of all that we didn’t have water for most of the day. It worked out ok though, the cooks had some clean drinking water ready for us at the lunch spot, and even had one of the horsemen run back and bring us some water at the halfway point. The hike itself was beautiful. The mountain pass took us right by these two glaciers called Pitusiray and Sawasiray. Our guide was telling us about this legend that the two glaciers were lovers from two separate towns. Their parents forbid them from being together, so they went up into the mountains and asked Colque Cruz, another glacier, to let them be together. Colque Cruz gave them permission, but they had to stay in the mountains forever. While we were up there we did this traditional coca leaf ceremony asking the glaciers for a wish, it was really beautiful. After the ceremony, we started to work our way back down the mountain. It was pretty snowy, when thinking about this trip I did not think about taking snow into account. One of the hikers we were with got an idea to slide down the snow as a shortcut, so all of us were skiing down the mountain without skis, it was so much fun! Once we got to our lunch spot, the rest of the hike was a lot easier. We spent the night in this farm area, it was really bizarre looking out our tent and just watching a herd of llamas and alpacas pass through. The third day after breakfast one of the local farmers around where we were staying brought some traditional clothes for us to try on and taught us this traditional dance. The guy was super nice, we left him a bunch of school supplies we brought with us to share with the kids around the area, I hope they like them! That day we only walked 6 miles, so it wasn’t too bad. We were out of the Alpine tundra by that point, so it was a lot warmer than the previous days, and it was all downhill. It honestly felt just like the hikes we did back in Oregon to prepare for this. During the entire trek we’d been picking up litter while we were walking, the previous days it had only been a couple bottles, maybe a candy wrapper or two, but that day we ended up picking up three garbage bags full of trash. It was insane, and we only picked up a fraction of what was there, since we simply didn’t have enough room to carry it all. I hope we were able to make a bit of a difference, it was heartbreaking seeing all that garbage everywhere. We were all done hiking by around 1 or so, so we had our last lunch with everyone, said good bye to the chiefs and horsemen, and got back in our van for the rest of the trip. We stopped by this salt mine on our way, and it was really neat! I never really thought about how salt was made, they basically just run water through these caves, then they keep them in pools and let the water evaporate. I’d never seen that much salt before in my life, it almost looked like snow. After the salt mine we drove to this small town called Ollantaytambo, where we hung out and explored until dinner. Then we took a train to this other small town called Aguas Calientes, located right outside of Machu Picchu, and spent the night in a hotel there. The town was super crowded. It turns out the day we planed on going to Machu Picchu, July 7th, was the 11th anniversary of Machu Picchu being declared a World Wonder. So everyone was there to celebrate. We had no idea the anniversary was that day, we had tried planning it so we didn’t go on a big holiday, but there are just so many celebrations in Peru that it’s impossible to keep track of them all. It was kinda jarring going form there being like ten people and a llama around for miles to thousands of people in a tiny town. So to get to Machu Picchu, you have to take a bus from Aguas Calientes, since Machu Picchu is located in the middle of a bunch of mountains. The first bus arrives at 5:30 am, but people start lining up around 1 or 2 in the morning. We were up at 3 am and got to the line around 4, and there was already a huge line. While I’ve never been black friday shopping, this felt a lot like a black friday line. Once the bus got there it was pretty efficient, but once we got up there there was already maybe a thousand people in a huge crowd up there. The place itself didn’t even open until 6 am, and once it did open everyone was trying to get through these tiny doors all at once. All in all, it was very overwhelming. Once we got inside we had to hike again for about fifteen minutes to reach Machu Picchu. It was beautiful, but really crowded. Our guide was telling us that they’re only supposed to let in 5,000 people a day, but many people find a way around that, so there’s probably 7,000 people there a day. The tour of Machu Picchu took us about four hours, the entire time we were only allowed to move in one direction without stopping, besides a few designated rest areas. Again, very overwhelming, but it was really amazing seeing how much of Machu Picchu survived all these years. Our guide was telling us that when the Spaniards arrived, the king saw how they were destroying all the temples and building churches on top of them. So he ordered that the city be abandoned and all roads leading to it be destroyed. And it worked, they never found Machu Picchu. After the tour we headed back to Aguas Calientes and explored the town a bit. There was a huge parade going on for the anniversary, so it was pretty crowded. The town was cute though, very touristy. We then got one last lunch together as a group before taking the train back to Ollantaytambo. Getting on the train was a little terrifying, since there was a huge riot going on at the train station. A lot of people had come from the surrounding area for the celebration, but there wasn’t enough room for everyone to fit on the train. The train has separate cars for tourists and locals, the tourist car being very fancy but expensive, and the local cars just selling as many tickets as possible and having people stand. People were pissed off seeing them let tourists in but not the locals, despite them having already bought a train ticket, so everyone was yelling and pushing when we got to the train station. Once we got on the train everything went pretty smoothly, it was still a pretty scary experience though. Once we got back to Ollantaytambo we took a bus back to Cusco. We got back around 7 pm or so completely exhausted. We then had a bunch of trouble back at the hostel, we tried to get dinner there and they gave us the wrong meal and forgot our drinks, they gave us a pretty bad room and another girl’s bed, it was all pretty stressful after the long day we’d had. The last couple of days we’ve spent just resting. I’m sick again... Got a pretty nasty cold I’m trying to get over... We moved to a different hostel today that has heat, which is super nice. We’re only going to be in Cusco another couple of days, and we’re going to try and take it easy while I’m still fighting this cold. There were a couple sights nearby we’re going to try to visit, but overall the plan is to just rest until we head to the jungle.

[sylvesterelle]

So this started out as emotional word vom about Stiles finding Derek in D.C. in @sterektrashbag‘s ask (peep it here) and somehow turned into 15k of Stiles moving to Washington, Derek working at a museum, and everyone actually working through their goddamn issues (+ David Bowie, glowy magic pack bonds, and a supernatural archive under the Smithsonian).

Could be read as a one-shot, but will probably end up writing two more parts because feelings™.

Read on Ao3. 

Float Until You Learn to Swim

When you’re part of a pack, you’re never really alone. Even when Stiles was at his darkest, locked inside his own head, he knew this, could feel the faintest of threads tied somewhere around his ribcage, each one tugging lightly to remind him that his family and friends were still there, still alive, at least for one more day.

After the Nogitsune, when the world got to be too much and Stiles felt like he was choking on dead air, he took to closing his eyes and pressing the heel of this hand to the spot just under his breastbone, fingers splayed out over his chest until the steady thrumming of the threads drowned out his racing heart.

He never talked about it with Scott or his dad, never asked if anyone else experienced the pack bonds the same way. He told himself it was because it felt too personal, too private, but a voice in the back of his head wondered if it was more than that. If maybe he was afraid to find out what he was feeling wasn’t real - just another thing his brain conjured up to deal with a reality composed of more pain than any 19 year old boy could survive unbroken. That same voice whispered that even if it was real, it was one sided; after all, his packmates were the ones who forgot him. If he asks, it might just mean definitive proof that he needs them much more than they need him.

So he doesn’t ask, and whenever a member of the pack caught him absentmindedly rubbing at his chest he played it off as a bruise, or an itch, or, on one memorable occasion, heartburn.

“This is it Scotty, this is what’s going to get me – not a rogue werewolf or a shapeshifter or, god forbid, a selkie, but the diabolical clutches of acid reflux.” He had moaned, sprawled out on his friend’s bed.

Scott just threw a bottle of Tums at his head and turned back to his homework. Stiles made a mental note to research why Scott even had them around; did the same werewolf healing magic that could heal bullet wounds and fix severed arteries meet its match with common indigestion?

Stiles wasn’t sure if Scott and the other wolves just ignored his repeated excused and chalked it up to Stiles being Stiles, or if his pulse had become so unsteady it was impossible to recognize the tell-tale blip of a lie. That question was also firmly shelved in the ‘do not touch’ corner of his brain.

Real or not, shared or not, it was the bonds that allowed Stiles to even consider leaving Beacon Hills for Georgetown. He had tested them in the days after graduation, driven an hour to the coast to sit in the sand and take a second to just breathe, away from the memories that flooded every corner of Beacon Hills; a moment to let himself get lost in salt air and waves licking at the sand while the threads pulsed steadily in his chest.

On his second try, he drove south to San Francisco, ostensibly to visit the magic shops Deaton had recommended to resupply their wolfsbane stock and pick up the books he needed for summer Spark training. After the latest supernatural shit show, he figured it was time to stop ignoring whatever abilities Deaton said he had – if it was something he could use to protect his pack, then it was worth learning how to control, even if the thought of being something…more than human still left him a little uneasy. Just as at the ocean, the bonds remained strong, radiating warmth through his chest as the miles clicked past on the odometer.

For his final test, he packed up the Jeep with food and water and drove up to Washington. His mother had loved the mountains, the thickness of the forests, how the snow-capped peaks looked reflected in the calm waters of lakes carved by ancient glaciers. His family had a cabin they visited every summer when Stiles was young, a small wooden thing deep in the Cascades next to a crystal blue lake. The sheriff, still a deputy then, would wake him up just before dawn, tackle-box packed and ready, and teach him to fish in the clear waters. There’s a photo still hanging in the entryway of their house from one such morning, a seven-year-old Stiles proudly holding up a sunfish just a little bigger than his palm with his brown hair sticking up as if electrocuted and a gap-toothed grin showing off the two missing teeth he’d lost the week before.

His mom preferred to watch the sunrise from land, cradling a fresh cup of coffee and waving at her boys from her favorite spot on the porch swing. Some afternoons, she would take Stiles out in the old rowboat, dropping anchor in the middle of the lake so they could stretch out and let the sun warm their upturned faces. Even at the deepest point, the water was so clear Stiles could see straight to the bottom and he spent hours swimming deeper and deeper, but never touching the lakebed.

His mother in water was a sight to behold, all crinkled eyes and laughter ringing out as she cannon-balled from the side of the boat, splashing Stiles and twisting gracefully away when he tried to retaliate. She loved to sneak up on John when his back was turned, winking at Stiles and putting a finger to her lips before leaping on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms over his shoulders to pull him under the surface. He would come back up sputtering, Claudia still clinging to his back until he pulled her around, cradling her in his arms and dropping a kiss to her wet forehead before tossing her soundly into the water.

Stiles’ most vivid memories of his mom were from the cabin - the way her dark hair billowed out underwater, how she curled up with his dad under the holey knitted blanket she had made him one Christmas, the sound of her off-key singing as she made waffles for breakfast (Always waffles, never pancakes. His mom claimed pancakes didn’t have personality, but his dad told him she just liked the way syrup pooled in the little waffle wells.).

The first summer after her death, Stiles and John didn’t go back to the cabin. The official excuse was that John couldn’t get the time off, having taken longer and longer shifts at the station to distract himself from the too-empty house and his too-cold bed. Stiles spent most of that first summer at the McCall’s, eating peanut butter sandwiches with Scott in a semi-permanent bed fort in the living room. He didn’t talk about his mom and wouldn’t even if Scott had asked – but Scott never did, just handed him the other half of his sandwich when Stiles finished his own and hugged him when he curled his sticky fingers in Scott’s t-shirt, silently asking for comfort beneath the canopy of sheets.

As the years went on, they stopped mentioning the cabin, stopped making excuses. It was a place inextricably tied up with the memory of Stiles’ mother, a memory that was still too painful, too present to confront head on. But the photo still hung in the entryway, and Stiles occasionally gave it a passing thought, fantasized about running away to the cabin where he could pretend that werewolves weren’t real, that evil was something that only existed in fiction, and that his own hands weren’t washed in blood.

Sometimes, when he thought about where Derek might have ended up (a pastime he pursued more often than he’d like to admit), Stiles imagined he found the cabin, dusty and untouched, and decided to stay. He could picture it so clearly: Derek stretched out on the couch (a lurid orange plaid monstrosity Stiles’ mom loved to pieces) with a book in his hand and a small fire burning in the hearth, a pile of split logs outside where he had spent the day chopping wood for winter. Those times, he could almost swear he felt a phantom spike of warmth in his chest, not quite the tug of pack bonds, but something that felt like it could be. And if the warmth burned a little brighter when Stiles imagined the way Derek would look with a red flannel shirt rolled up over his forearms and bunching around his strong shoulders as he swung an axe, thought a touch too hard about the way his hair would fall on his forehead, thick and soft without product and a little damp from sweat , well, that was no one’s business but his own.

*

Imaginings aside, Stiles had never thought seriously about going back to the cabin. Not until the day of his graduation party, which found him sat on the steps of the back porch while members of his pack mingled with kids from their class and members of Beacon Hills’ finest, the spot under his breastbone burning steady and warm. There was a half-eaten cake and a small stack of presents and cards on a folding table in the corner, and when the sheriff dropped down beside him a moment later, he held a beer in one hand a small brown box in the other.

“That beer for me?” Stiles asked, nudging his dad with an elbow.

The sheriff scoffed. “Keep dreaming, kid.”

He tipped the bottle back once before setting it at his feet, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“I had something I wanted to give you. I’m not sure if it’s the right time, if it will ever be the right time but…it’s yours. It should be yours.” He tapped the box on his knee a couple times before thrusting it at his son.

“I thought we were doing presents later, but I won’t tell if you…” Stiles’ voice petered out as he lifted the lid of the box and saw a braided leather keychain with two gold keys nestled in white tissue paper.

“Dad, what is this?”

The sheriff shifted in his seat. “It’s ah, it’s the key to the cabin. Your mom’s cabin. I know we haven’t been in a long time and that’s probably my fault, but I found it the other day when I was poking around in the attic and I thought, well, I thought you should have it.  I remembered how much you loved that place how much your mother loved-”

The sheriff cut off, clearing his throat.

“Well, anyway, I, ah, I called in a favor from the ranger service up there – had one of the guys go check it out and hook up the water and electricity. He said everything looked good – nothing broken or anything.” He nodded towards the box. “The bigger key is for the front door and the little one is for the boat shed out back.”

He reached over and picked up the key ring, running a finger over the braided fob with a small, sad smile.

“Your mom made this. I don’t know if you remember, but she had this phase where she fancied herself a knitter. Made this really terrible blanket one year –scratchy as all hell and not what you’d call structurally sound, but I used it all the time just to see that proud little smile on her face.”

“I remember,” Stiles said quietly.

“After she moved on from knitting, she started messing around with things like this.” The sheriff lifted the keychain.

“She didn’t get very far with it before…well, before. But she finished this one. I forgot I even still had it.”

John laid them back in the box and rubbed a thumb over his forehead.  

“So uh, I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s yours if you want it. You can take your friends up, or maybe I can get some time this summer…” He nodded once, decisive. “It’s been empty too long, I think. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Stiles looked down at the keys and gently touched one end of the braid.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

He looked over and smiled at his dad, eyes shining with what they both would deny as wetness.

“Thank you.”

The sheriff cleared his throat again. “You’re welcome. Happy graduation, son. I’m ah, I’m very proud of you, and I know she would be too.”

He reached out and pulled Stiles into a one-armed hug, patting him on the back before grabbing his beer and heading towards the food table, a Stilinski man through-and-through in his dislike of emotional confrontation.

“Only one piece of cake dad, don’t think you get a free pass because of emotional manipulation!” Stiles called after him.

The sheriff, as usual, paid no mind.

*

Stiles hadn’t known what to do with the keys. Part of him wanted to leave the party and drive up immediately, the other half shied away at the thought of seeing it again, his heart giving a painful squeeze thinking about his mother’s favorite mug (a lopsided thing Stiles made her) sitting unused in the cupboard or diving into the lake without her splashing in beside him.

So he kept them in the box, stashed in his bedside table as the summer stretched on and he went swimming with the pack, held video game tournaments with Scott, and attended Spark lessons with Deaton.

In the end, his desire to see the cabin again won out over his fear, and as the last few weeks of summer approach, he made the decision to go up. He rationalized that it would be the perfect opportunity to complete his last test of the bonds, but it was also something he knew he had to do for his mom. Claudia had lived too long as a ghost in the house, an invisible weight they refused to acknowledge but affected every part of their lives. His dad had understood when Stiles told him, and quietly agreed that maybe it was time to bring the boxes back down from the attic, stop letting the memory of her languish in the dark.

*

Though Stiles told Scott where he was going, he asked his friend to keep it quiet. It’s not that he wanted to keep it from the rest of the pack, necessarily, but it wasn’t something he thought he could explain. Scott had been there before; had known his mom and heard stories of the cabin, seen the photos and understood exactly how much it meant to Stiles. He had been there after, filled the glaring gap in his summers as best he could with his friendship and his loyalty and his ineffable Scott-ness, and Stiles knew he was the only other person other than his dad who could understand Stiles’ need to return to the cabin alone.

He kept both Scott and his dad in the dark about his the desire to test the pack bonds and make sure that, even a thousand miles away and surrounded by nothing but forest and stone, he would still feel his pack ties thrumming in his chest. Part of him, that quiet, black part that seemed to invade his mind and stop his heart like ice, whispered that if he couldn’t feel them that far away, he wasn’t really pack. That insidious voice told he needed to belong to them so much more than they needed his belonging and when they disappeared, he’d have to confront that he wasn’t pack, wasn’t anything at all - just a fragile, broken boy who believed he could run with wolves.

The thought made the spot under his chest ache, so he buried the feeling and turned up the volume on the Jeep’s radio as he continued on the winding road north. His mom loved music, used to make these mix tapes for them to listen to on the 12 hour drive up. The sheriff had told Stiles he found her tape collection in the same forgotten corner with the keys, but neither had felt ready to listen to them. But now, in his mom’s car on the familiar drive to her favorite place in the world, Stiles felt like it was time.

Claudia Stilinski had eclectic tastes - she liked classic rock and loved belting out “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” encouraging Stiles to join in from the back seat and poking John until he’d warble along with them. Some days were dedicated to funk, filled with Parliament and Earth, Wind, and Fire; other days, she’d spend hours playing nothing but The Beach Boys’ Greatest Hits. Above all else, Stiles’ mom loved Fleetwood Mac. She loved the ballads and the break up songs and could never, ever sit still when she played them. Claudia listened with her whole body, letting Stiles stand on her toes as she spun him around the kitchen or dancing in her seat with her arm out the Jeep window to feel the breeze while she sang, eyes shut and face turned up in total bliss. John would joke that she would leave him for Stevie Nicks in heartbeat, and every time she’d respond by putting on “Everywhere” and serenading him, lifting their interlaced fingers to press kisses to the back of his hand until he stopped pouting and sang along.

It was Fleetwood Mac that Stiles chose to accompany his pilgrimage, running his fingers over the handwritten label before sliding the tape in and cranking the volume up. Loud enough that it covered even the trademark jangling of the Jeep’s engine; so loud that all he could think about was the words, and all he could do was tighten his grip on the steering wheel and sing along.

But listen carefully to the sound Of your loneliness Like a heartbeat drives you mad In the stillness of remembering what you had And what you lost…

And if Stiles’ sleeve was a little wet where he’d scrubbed it across his face, well, that was no one’s business but his own.

*

It’s easier than he expected. He pulls the Jeep over on the side of the road a few times on the way up, has to press his hand to his chest to reassure himself the bonds are still there and force air through his lungs to stave off the panic attack would overcome him, if he let it. But when he arrives, just before dusk, the bonds are still there and glowing warmly, a silent message of support to offset the nerves coiled in his stomach.

It looks just the same.

The wood is a little more worn than he remembers, the red paint of the deck curling up in small flakes. Tall grasses sway gently where there was once trim lawn and the stones of the path are loose where weeds have pushed up their edges. But the forest is still as tall and vital as Stiles remembers, and if he closes his eyes, listens to the birds calling and wind running through the leaves, he can almost believe himself six years old again, running through the trees with outstretched hands and spinning in circles until the branches blur over his head and he tips over, dizzyingly happy and so terribly alive.

He shoots his dad a text to let him know he’s arrived then steels himself before opening the front door, gripping the leather chain so tightly his knuckles bleed white.

If this was a movie, there’d be rain, he thinks. There’d be rain and that hazy half-light that always precedes a summer storm, rose-tinged air under a clouded sky.

But this isn’t a movie, and there is no rain. Instead, the air is warm and dry and the sunset paints the sky every color Stiles can name, swelling to a deep scarlet where the sun melts into the lake.

She would have liked that, Stiles thinks. How the colors bled into each other, the way they looked reflected in the calm surface of the lake. And that’s the thought that propels him to turn the key and open the door, stepping into the cabin for the first time in a decade.

It’s dark – the blinds drawn and the furniture still covered in the white sheets they’d draped over to ward off dust and dirt through the long winter. Everything not covered bears a thick layer of dust, and when Stiles runs a finger across the hall mirror, he leaves a stark line in the glass.

The cabin feels quiet, suspended. Like all these years, it has been in hibernation, just waiting for him to return. Like it’s been yearning to wake up.

Stiles pauses by the sofa, hovers his hand over the thick sheet. It hits him all at once that this is a place completely untouched by what his life has become. This place has never known werewolves, or magic, or bloodshed. A time capsule of his best memories – of loving, and being loved; of warmth, and freedom, and uninhibited play and joy and everything that has been too far gone from Stiles’ life in the past few years.

The spot beneath his breastbone glows at the thought. Life in Beacon Hills was undeniably settling down – Scott blossoming into his role as Alpha under the tutelage of his mom, the sheriff, and Deaton, and the biggest threat they’d had in months was a group of wayward fairies on a summer road trip to the coast. Maybe…maybe he can have this again. Maybe it’s time.

Stiles grips the sheet and tears it off, revealing the fabric of the couch – the same lumpy, radioactive orange that colored his childhood naps and always brought a smile to his mother’s face. He grins at it like an old friend and, like a spell has been broken, shatters the stillness of the cabin by dashing through the rest of the rooms, ripping off sheets and whooping at the clouds of dust that spin through the air as each new piece of his memory is brought back to full, Technicolor life.

He moves into the kitchen, throwing open the cupboards and running his fingers over the mismatched collection of dishes and mugs, stopping when he touches one mug in particular. He pulls it down and turns it over in his hands, examining the stars and planets painted by a young Stiles, sloppy in his enthusiasm. He smiles, remembering how his mother laughed when he presented it to her. She had crouched down and thanked him with a kiss on his freckled cheek.

“My little starman,” she said, and traced over his moles with a finger. “Look, you’ve even got your own constellations.”

Stiles had giggled as she peppered each spot with kisses and squirmed in her arms, but bobbed his head and grinned when she asked if he wanted to listen to his special song.

Stiles can’t recall the first time it happened, couldn’t say exactly when it became a tradition, but remembers the joy he felt every time his mom would pull out their well-loved copy of Ziggy Stardust. She’d turn on the baby blue record player she’d had since she was a freshman in college and let Stiles guide the tonearm across the grooves, grabbing his hands and spinning him around the room as the song began to play. She’d twirl him out and back in again and again until he was dizzy with it, then she’d pull him back against her chest to hug him tight and sing the chorus in his ear.

There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

he’d like to come and meet us

but he thinks he’d blow our minds.

There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

he’s told us not to blow it

cause he knows it’s all worthwhile.

Stiles smiles bittersweet at the memory, pauses, then places the mug back on the shelf and walks decisively into his parents’ old bedroom. He reaches up into closet, feeling around the top shelf until his fingers brush against a box he pulls down and carries into the living room. With reverent hands, he unpacks the record player and sets it on the kitchen table, plugging the cord in and checking for the glow of the red ‘on’ light. In the bottom of the box rests his mom’s record collection – even though she had everything on tapes at their house in Beacon Hills, she kept the LP’s around. “Think of it as your inheritance,” she had said, letting him flip through their bright covers.

Stiles now cards through them slowly, heart aching as he trails his fingers across the familiar images. He finds the one he’s looking for and pulls it out, sliding the record from the sleeve and setting the cover aside before gently blowing dust from the grooves. He fits it on the platter, places the stylus halfway towards the center and listens to the familiar crackle as the song begins.

Like the cabin, this memory was one almost too tender to touch, and it had been years since he’d last listened to their song. But here, now, as a fresh breeze chases the stale air out of the cabin and warm light falls on the uncovered furniture, it feels right. It feels necessary. And as Stiles roams around the cabin, pushing open the windows and shaking out the blankets on the front porch, he can’t help but sing along, letting his lingering nerves be chased away by the well-loved words.  

Let the children lose it,

let the children use it,

let all the children boogie.

*

Stiles stays at the cabin for two weeks. He checks in with his dad once a day, and sends pictures of the projects he’d started around the house, but otherwise keeps his phone stashed in the Jeep. After that first night, falling asleep on the old couch listening to his mother’s records and wrapped up in the old knit blanket, he throws himself into fixing up the cabin.

He starts by digging out the ancient push lawnmower from the shed and clearing the tall grasses that had shot up in their absence, wiping dirt across his forehead as he digs out stubborn weeds from the stone path. He gets his supplies at the local hardware store, including a can of cardinal red paint to revive the porch, and works long hours in the late July heat, his skin browning in the sun as new flights of freckles appeared on his arms each day. The lean muscle he’d built up running with wolves comes in handy as he hauls the rowboat out to patch and repaint, nails new planks over the holes in the dock, and chops wood until there’s a sizable pile stacked next to the house.

When the heat gets to be too much, he strips to his briefs and dives into the lake, letting the cool water wash the sweat and dirt from his skin before sprawling out on the dock to dry in the sun. In the evenings, he sits on the porch swing, rocking back and forth as he watches the sunset and drinks lemonade from the same cracked pitcher he did when he was a child.

More often than not, he passes out early and sleeps soundly through the night in a way he didn’t believe he was capable of anymore; his tired body and aching muscles gentling him into a dreamless sleep from which he wakes refreshed and calm. On the nights he stays up, he pulls a book from his parents’ collection and sits by the firepit outside, surrounded by the chirping of crickets and the night sounds of the forest. He prefers the books with well-worn pages and cracked spines, like East of Eden and Dharma Bums. His mother had loved stories about America, the love letters to the land, and delighted in pointing out Kerouac’s Desolation Peak in the far ranges, just visible from her spot on the porch.

The longer he stays, the more his mind quiets. There are no intrusive thoughts, no insidious, creeping voices, almost as if the stillness of the cabin has bled into his mind. The excess energy that caused his hands to shake and his thoughts to race unchecked finds an outlet in the physicality of his work, the repetitive movements acting as a kind of meditation that leaves him clear and focused. He feels settled in his skin as his muscles flex and ache, entirely at home in his body and mind. For the first time in years, Stiles feels like himself again. Strong. Unbroken.

On his last night, Stiles sits in the kitchen with the book of runes Deaton lent him and ingredients he’d carefully gathered over the past few days – thistle and clover, blue vervain and St. Johnswort, powdered bark from the trees that ring the clearing and a small handful of mud from the bottom of the lake. He grinds them into a paste, and over every window and doorway, he paints the symbols for luck and protection – not just from living threats, but from wind, fire, rain, and dust. He pours his will into them, declares himself where they lay to ensure that not a breath of the pain that has plagued Beacon Hills can touch this place. Not just because it was a part of his mother, but because it is undoubtedly a piece of himself, too.

When everything is locked up and the Jeep packed for the long drive home, Stiles spares one last look at the porch swing, takes in the fresh paint, lush grass, and clear windows, liberated from dust. The stillness remains, but it’s different now – a quiet born not of stasis, but of peace; the land has finally woken up, and Stiles right alongside it. He closes his eyes and focuses on remembering exactly how he feels in this moment, wanting to carry it with him when he goes.

With a smile on his face, Stiles opens his eyes and backs out the driveway. As he travels down the road towards home, he glances in the rearview mirror, watching as the cabin grows smaller and smaller until it’s swallowed by forest, and all he can see is green.

*

Even with his newfound calm, Stiles spent the entire five hour flight to Washington with his palm pressed against his sternum, eyes screwed up and body tensed as he waited for the inevitable moment when the gentle tugging of the threads would turn too harsh and snap, robbing him of the warmth in his chest.

But, like his earlier tests, it never came.

When the wheels touched down at Reagan National, the quiet thrumming beneath his breast remained. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, letting some of the tension finally drain out of his muscles. He wasn’t alone. He was nearly 3,000 miles from his home and his pack, but he wasn’t alone. He pressed down harder for a moment and was rewarded when the bonds seemed to grow warmer, more insistent, like they were chiding him for being silly enough to think that they’d just leave.

He broke out in a grin, letting his hand drop. He knew the next few months were still going to be hard – he’d still worry about his dad and his friends, still have to deal with the lingering guilt of leaving them, (though his pack had been nothing but supportive, promising to keep his dad on a diet and Skype so much he’d be sick of them), still have to adjust to a new city and living on his own. But the knowledge that he’d still have a physical connection to his pack, a constant reminder that he belonged to someone, somewhere, made the rest seem small in comparison.

Stiles stood up, grabbing his bag out of the overhead compartment and swinging it over his shoulder. His smile remained as he followed the line out of the plane and stepped into the cooler Washington air. Here, burning in his chest, was proof that he had walked through Hell and come out the other side with his pack beside him. Compared to what came before, college would be a cakewalk.

*

Two months in, Stiles was strongly reconsidering that statement. Sure, there was nothing actually wrong, but that didn’t mean things were right, either. His roommate was chill, an aspiring pre-med student who only showed up to shower and sleep, which suited Stiles fine. It was a little quiet, sure, but it gave him more time to work on his magic homework from Deaton or Skype his pack without worrying about fabricating excuses to obscure the more…extraordinary elements of his life.

He liked most of his classes and had been flirting with the idea of double majoring in history and folklore, had a group he regularly met up with for study sessions, and a spot in the local coffee shop he had more or less declared as his. From an outside perspective, things were totally, completely fine.

Which, in itself, was kind of his problem. Everything was just…okay. Stiles had kind of expected college to be, well, more. More wild parties and hook-ups with interesting people, more student protests and campus rivalries and dramatic self-realizations and yeah, maybe Stiles had seen too many coming-of-age movies but still, wasn’t college meant to be more than a daily routine of classes, coffee, and Call of Duty until he passed out and woke up to do it all again?

Maybe if he had been less preoccupied with the whole leaving-the-pack and honouring-his-mother’s-memory internal struggles, he would have had more time to think about what college would actually be like, outside of a vague notion of John Belushi in Animal House. Maybe, just maybe, he would have realized that after the whole supernatural/Hellmouth/death and destruction and possession continual crises that characterized his high school years, college couldn’t help but seem a little…tame, in comparison.

He had hit up the requisite frat parties and induction events with his floor-mates those first few weeks, but inevitably found himself zoning out after just a few minutes, staring into space as he thought about the lore books he had stacked next to his bed, mentally composed essays for his classes, and pondered if the jungle juice had been magically altered or if it was just really, really bad gin.

It was the classic catch-22: he had spent months dreaming of escaping Beacon Hills for a few years of the out-of-control parties and ill-advised hook-ups he imagined constituted the average American college experience, but after all he had been through, he just couldn’t convincingly stir up interest in drinking cheap beer in houses with sticky floors or painting his face to cheer on home football games. It all just seemed a bit…false; unreal in its blatant normality, and Stiles felt like the biggest phony of them all. Eat your heart out, Holden Caulfield.

Stiles’ hang-ups regarding hook-ups were much the same.  It wasn’t that he was unsure about his sexuality - he had firmly come to grips with his bisexuality right around the time he started regularly hanging out with shirtless teen werewolves. It wasn’t lack of confidence or options, either; Stiles knew he had grown into himself over the past few years, and the lingering tan and lean, corded muscles from his summer activities didn’t hurt. He had been approached a number of times since arriving in D.C. and had even gone on a couple dates, but each time Stiles couldn’t help but be struck by the knowledge of just how deep the divide was between their life experience and his own. It also didn’t help that, try as he might, he couldn’t stop comparing potential suitors to a certain impossible standard. Warning kids: prolonged exposure to Derek Hale might be hazardous to your health, and ruin you for literally every other person on Earth.

Scott said he was being melodramatic (the same Scott, Stiles would like to point out, who wrote literal sonnets about how Allison’s hair looked in the moonlight), but even though he felt guilty about it, sometimes, late at night, Stiles almost wished for a supernatural crisis to liven things up a bit. Just a little one – mysterious runes carved in the woods maybe, or a small haunting in the library. God, he’d even settle for just someone to talk to, someone who understood. He had a sneaking suspicion his diminutive Anglo-Saxon Folklore professor was some variety of sprite, but he doubted point-blank asking her to discuss the D.C. ley lines over coffee would go over well.

With all the free time he had not attending parties or participating in wild orgies six nights a week, he was way ahead on his coursework and had practiced the defensive runes Deaton assigned him until he was positive he could do them unconscious, with his hands tied behind his back (less of a descriptive hyperbole than a actual precautionary necessity, considering). After the second week in a row of spending his nights bored and alone in his room, listening to Beirut and falling asleep with his hand pressed against his chest, Stiles decided something needed to be done. Everything around him was just so terribly normal, and yeah, Stiles was man enough to admit that it sucked. He was lonely, and worse - he was bored.

But he’d be damned if he was going to slink home with his tail between his legs (pun fully intended). He was a Stilinki, and he wasn’t about to shame his babcia’s good name by folding like a lawn chair during his first few weeks away from home. What he needed was a project, something to invest in, and an outlet for all that extra energy that, now it was no longer channelled into fighting baddies or keeping Scott out of trouble, was only exacerbating his frustration with the utter monotony of college life.

His answer came on an innocuous white flyer, tucked away behind an army of advertisements for student productions and tutoring gigs on the communal bulletin board in the student center. He had marched down early on his day off, determined to find something that would get him out of his funk. He had been combing through the multi-colored stacks for the better part of the last twenty minutes, discarding the many babysitting and au pair requests (he doubted anyone would take ‘playing pack mom to a bunch of out-of-control teenage werewolves as valid experience) and wrinkling his nose at the recruiting posters for the Hoya sports teams – he’d spent enough years alternately warming the bench and getting pummelled by Jackson to admit that maybe sports just weren’t his thing, thanks.

Just as he was about to give up hope, he found it. Plain black type on white paper, none of the nauseating neon colors or – god forbid – comic sans featured on other posters,  half hidden behind a promo for a beach volleyball tournament (in October. On the East Coast. And people say Stiles is weird). There wasn’t much on it, just the words ‘internship available’ bolded at the top, with ‘Archives Center - National Museum of American History’, an address, and the Smithsonian logo underneath, but Stiles was intrigued. Granted, all he knew about the Smithsonian was what he’d seen in Night at the Museum 2 (and God, he really needed to stop relying on pop culture to guide his life choices), but the untameably nosy part of him squealed in glee at the thought of all the interesting things he could get his paws on working in the archives of one of the largest museums in the country. He pulled the flyer down and checked the address on his phone; if he caught the 33 bus on Wisconsin, he could be there in a half hour.

Stiles ran back to his dorm (still noticeably empty of his roommate. Stiles was half convinced he was dealing with a going ghost, Danny Phantom situation here) and dug through his closet for something interview worthy. He eventually settled on a pair of dark jeans and a white button up that only had one ketchup stain on the sleeve - barely noticable, if he rolled them up. He printed out a copy of his resume, ran a hand through his hair, and was back out the door in less than 20 minutes.

*

Stiles had been to the Smithsonian campus once before – his whole floor had gone as part of the RA’s self-proclaimed ‘bonding’ week, before the poor upperclassman had realized just how little the freshmen truly gave a shit and gave up the ghost. The visit had been on the shorter and more harried side; desperate to keep their attention, his RA had taken a Buzzfeed ‘Top 10’ approach and single-mindedly ferried them to and from the major attractions in the Natural History and Air and Space museums. Stiles had been meaning to return for a more thorough visit, but always seemed to get distracted by something (namely, World of Warcraft and the collected works of Bo Burnham).

Now though, he seriously regretted not returning earlier. Surrounded by sprawling buildings advertising  for exhibitions like Apollo to the Moon and the Last American Dinosaurs and caught in the bustling crowds of people – tour groups in matching t-shirts, laughing children evading their anxious parents, art students sprawled out sketching architectural lines and marble sculptures – Stiles felt better than he had in weeks. All the people, all the excitement, all the action and history and emotion set his veins alight as he walked down the National Mall.

The Museum of American History was a long, stone building under the shadow of the Washington Monument and, as Stiles stood outside taking in the square lines and imposing structure, he couldn’t help but think it looked more like a Vogon battleship than a celebrated museum of history and culture.

Undaunted (though slightly distracted by thoughts of the third worst poetry in the world), he climbed the steps and entered the main hall, making a bee-line for an information desk manned by a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a look of absolute, all-encompassing boredom while deftly spinning a pen between her fingers. Stiles thought he might be in love.

The woman heaved a sigh when she spotted Stiles striding up to her desk, cutting him off immediately. “What’s your teacher’s name? I can call them over the PA system.”

Stiles blinked at her. “Uh…what?”

“Your teacher’s name? Or your high school will work. I can’t get you back with your group if I don’t have a name to page.”

Stiles frowned at her. “Do I really look like a high school student to you?”

The woman paused, looking him up and down before raising an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

If Stiles had to classify it, he’d put her tone somewhere between ‘Sahara Desert’ and ‘fiery pits of Hell’ dry. Yeah, he was definitely in love.

Stiles flushed and rubbed a hand over his already messy hair, wisely deciding to move on. “Uh, my name’s Stiles Stilinski, and I’m actually here about an internship opportunity I saw.” He said, thrusting the flyer at her.

Her eyes widened as she read it. “They’ve actually resorted to flyers? Man, they must really be desperate.”

“Not much interest in dusty old archives, huh?” Stiles joked.

She laughed outright at that. “No, no, there’s plenty of interest. People just don’t tend to…last very long in Archives.”

“Like they only offer short-term internships?”

She shot him an indecipherable look.

“Sure, let’s go with that. Alright, kid –“

Stiles made a noise of protest, but quieted at her glare. He’d seen worse (and her eyebrows were far from the most judge-y he’d encountered), but figured it was best not to antagonize the staff before he’d barely set foot in the place.

“You’re going to head towards the East Wing and look for the bust of Martin Van Buren. Hard to miss – a lot of beard.”

Stiles nodded; he was well-acquainted with that most spectacular set of mutton chops.

“There’ll be a wooden door next to it – just press the intercom button and say your name. I’ll give Boris a heads up you’re coming.” She instructed, handing back the flyer.

“Boris?” Stiles questioned.

“Boris is…I’m not exactly sure what Boris does outside of hanging out in the Archives entrance, but he’s good people. The Archives staff sees a lot of turnover, but I’m fairly sure Boris has been here since the groundbreaking. There’s a pretty lucrative pool on if he’ll ever retire.” She shot him a smirk. “If you make it, come see me – I’ll deal you in.”

Stiles frowned. “Wait, what do you mean ‘if I make it’?”

The girl winked and spun in her chair, effectively ending the conversation.

“Hey, c’mon. That’s – that’s just overly dramatic. I can still see you, you know!” Stiles called, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Without turning, the girl extended her pen in the direction of the East Wing. Stiles huffed and dropped his hands, muttering to himself as he obediently marched off in the direction she had indicated.

Halfway down the hall Stiles spotted the bust of Van Buren (as hirsute as promised) and paused in front of the door it bordered. It was made of fairly worn wood – an anomaly in the stone-bathed hall – but otherwise appeared normal. He pushed the call button on the intercom next to the door and bent down to say his name. The door buzzed open immediately and Stiles walked through to a small, red room with half-panelled walls. One corner was taken up by an iron staircase that spiralled in both directions, and in the middle sat a man with a shock of white hair and wire-rimmed glasses reading a magazine behind a desk. As Stiles approached, the man closed the magazine and laid it on his desk, allowing him to see it was the latest Halloween-themed edition of Country Living. Noticing his gaze, the man smiled and tapped the magazine with his finger.

“I like the antiques section – especially now that I’m old enough to be classified as one myself. I presume you’re Mr. Stilinski?” The man had disarmingly clear blue eyes, and Stiles couldn’t help fidgeting where he stood.

“Stiles is fine. Uh, are you Boris?”

The man nodded. “That I am. It’s wonderful you’ve come, Dr. Saint Cyprian was just speaking about wanting another intern. The last one regrettably left us a few weeks ago after an unfortunate…incident. We’ve had some difficulty finding a suitable replacement.”

Stiles let out a nervous laugh. “Well, I like to think I’m both suitable and good at replacing. A+ replacing, right here.” He mimed finger guns at the man and internally face-palmed. Real smooth, Stilinski. Much professional.

To his surprise, Boris beamed at him. “Oh, I do believe Dr. Saint Cyprian is going to like you. Just head down those stairs there, she should be in her office.”

Stiles thanked him and headed towards the staircase, eager to escape that slightly too-penetrating gaze.

He paused at the edge of the stair, leaning carefully over the railing to judge the distance between him and the ground. He wasn’t worried per se, but those steps were awfully narrow and he had somewhat of a…reputation when it came to grace. He’d be damned if he managed to survive a half-decade of California Hellmouth only to bite it on a staircase, though, so he hiked his bag up on his shoulder, shot a wave to Boris,  and set off into the depths.

After what felt like ages of spiralling almost-doom, but was probably a solid thirty seconds, the staircase ended at another wooden door with ‘Archives’ printed in gold. He didn’t see an intercom, so he rapped twice and waited.

“It’s unlocked!” A muffled voice called from the other side.

Stiles took a second to run a hand over his hair and straighten his shirt before pulling open the door. His eyebrows immediately shot up as he took in the innumerable stacked shelves marching off into the distance, and, standing in front of them, what looked like a gray-haired woman wrestling a lurid purple feather boa into a box on the floor.

She spared him a look as she slammed the top down on the container. “Come on in, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Stiles let go of the handle and moved to step through the door frame. As he did, a shock ran through his body and he let out a yelp, stumbling the rest of the way into the room. He shot the door a suspicious glare, shaking out his arms to regain feeling.

He turned back to the woman, still hunched over the box but now completely focused on the young man, pinning him with a searching look.

Stiles stuttered out a laugh. “Heh, gotta watch out for that static electricity, huh?”

The woman continued to stare. “What are you?”

“Uh, I’m Stiles. I came about the internship ad?”

She frowned at him. “Not who are you – what are you?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Uh, a college student? At Georgetown. I’m studying anthropology and folklore and I heard about an internship opportunity…”

The woman abruptly stood up, crossing her arms and glaring mulishly at Stiles. “Did Mona send you? I told her she’s not getting that tablecloth and she can send whatever snub-nosed little pixie she wants – I’m not handing it over.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped in outrage. “Snub-nosed, who you calling snub-nosed I- what are you even talking about? I don’t know anyone named Mona. And I don’t have the slightest interest in tablecloths or any other dining accoutrement, for that matter! I’m just here about the internship.” He waved the flyer around to emphasize his point.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but her frown lightened a fraction. “Well, you’ve got to be something. That door doesn’t react to just anyone.”

Stiles switched his tactic, sniffing imperiously. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

The woman snorted. “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you. I warded that door myself. It wouldn’t have let you in if you meant any real harm, but you wouldn’t have reacted at all if you were just a human. So what are you? I’m still guessing pixie.”

Stiles eyeballed her suspiciously. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I was slightly more extra than ordinary – why pixie?”

“Button nose and boyband hair, ” she said without missing a beat.

Stiles scoffed. “Alright, ONE, I do not have boyband hair. Two, what is wrong with my nose?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. It’s just, you know, very…” She uncrossed one arm, gesturing in the general direction of his face. “Very.”

“Very very?”

“Verily, very very,” she nodded, resolute.

“So, if you’re not a pixie, what are you? I’m happy to talk about the internship, if that’s what you’re really here for, but I’ve got to know. Some of the artifacts can be…touchy, around the wrong energies.”

Stiles sucked on his bottom lip, deliberating. She looked relatively harmless, with long steel grey hair and enough wrinkles to put her somewhere around her early 60’s, though in Stiles’ experience that didn’t mean much - Gerard was pushing 70 when he met him. He could see what looked like tattooed runes on her knuckles and hands, disappearing into her sleeves. Appearance aside, she hadn’t smote him on sight, which was generally a positive sign, and she worked in a literal government institute dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. Above all, nothing in his instincts, human or otherwise, gave him a bad feeling about her, and he had long since learned to listen to his gut.

Decision made, he stuck out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski, Spark-in-training and member of the McCall Pack in Beacon Hills, California.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I thought Beacon Hills was Hale land.”

Stiles flushed. “It uh, was. Still is, technically, though we haven’t heard from any of them in a while. My buddy Scott was bit by a Hale and he has been…caretaking, if you will.”

She hummed, considering this, before extending her arm to accept Stiles’ handshake.

“Spark, huh? I can work with that. My name is Dr. Olesya Saint Cyprian, but you can call me Rian. I’m the head archivist here.”

“That’s…quite a name.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Glass houses, Mr. Stilinski.”

“…point.”

Introductions made, the woman – Rian – gestured for Stiles to follow her into her office and take a seat across from a desk spilling over with books, papers, and what Stiles was fairly certain was a human skull.

“Polish, I presume?” Rian inquired, settling into her chair.

“Got it in one. What’s St. Cyprian?”

“An inside joke – my grandparents selected it when they emigrated from Russia.”

“Oh?”

“St. Cyprian is the patron saint of occultists.”

Stiles barked out a laugh.

“A sense of humour runs in my family, among other things.”

“Things like magic?”

Her smile reminded Stiles of Deaton’s more enigmatic moments.

“Something like that. Perhaps I will tell you later. Now though, we have other things to discuss.” She folded her hands on the desk and leaned towards him. “So you’re truly just here for the internship? No nefarious plans to pillage my artifacts? I can promise you wouldn’t like the consequences, if you tried.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, popping the ‘p’. “Just plain old college credit desired. But if it’s on the table…I’ve finished the books my emissary gave me when I left home and have somewhat been at loose ends. I could use a project.”

He dug his resume out of his bag and handed it to her. “This covers my academic and work history, but in terms of supernatural experience I’ve spent the summer studying basic runes and spells with a local emissary, and have spent the better part of the last few years dealing with everything from kanimas to chimeras.”

He smiled crookedly. “I thought I’d finally enjoy a break with college, but turns out retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m not saying I’m particularly interested in marauding Alpha packs turning up on campus anytime soon, but maybe being around people who understand, getting back into it, just a little, might be…good. For me.”

Rian skimmed his resume then looked at him, considering. She put the paper down and leaned back in her chair. “I’m going to level with you. It’s a bitch trying to keep a non-supernatural initiated intern around - if you’re not in the know, some of the items can be a bit…unsettling. Hell, I’ve been working here for 40 years and sometimes they still give me the willies. Our last intern only lasted two weeks, and I’m sick of training newbies only for them to disappear before they can be of any actual use. Coincidentally, I’ve been needing someone to touch up some of the wards. Old body – can’t do so much of the physical work anymore.”

Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow. From what he’d seen when he walked in, she had more strength than she owned to.

“If you’d agree to take over the wards, along with the standard archive work – returning borrowed items, cataloguing new arrivals, and researching the unknowns – I’d be happy to give you instruction on some of the more…unique objects in the Archives. Officially, we store any items pertaining to the culture and history of America, but unofficially, we have the largest collection of objects and documents relating to the supernatural world this side of the Atlantic – everything from Appalachian yeti clippings to the Salem grimoires.”

Stiles let out a meep at that, eyes going wide.

“We pay minimum wage, and I’d ideally like you here three days a week. You’d get an hour lunch and no benefits, I’m afraid, but I’m happy to sign whatever college credit forms you want and your employee pass will get you special access to all the Smithsonian museums and research centers, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Stiles perked up. “Even the zoo?”

“Full zoo privileges included.”

His resulting fist pump triggered a look on Rian’s face that was remarkably long-suffering, considering the short duration of their acquaintance.

“So, what do you say – still want to work here? It’s not the easiest job in the world, but I can promise you it won’t be boring.”

Stiles grinned - this was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for.

“Sign me up, Doc. I’m in.”

*

After filling in all the necessary forms and promising to return the following week to begin, Stiles paused at the door to the stairs. “Before I go, can I ask two questions?”

“Within reason,” Rian said, rolling her eyes in an exasperated look that was rapidly becoming familiar. Stiles guessed it might be her default state. Or just her default Stiles state. Either or.

“What table cloth is so important that your first thought would be that I was here to steal it? Can it fly like the rug from Aladdin? If so – dibs on riding it!”

Rian snorted. “Nice try. No levitation abilities, I’m afraid, but something even better – it never gets dirty, changes color to suit  the dinnerware, and magically ensures that dinner conversation never includes politics, religion, or invasive personal questions.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “You’ve really got people chomping at the bit for that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Clearly you’ve never been to a dinner party before.”

Stiles wisely moved on.

“Alright, second question: is there a sentient feather boa in that box?” He gestured to the item in question, still lying on the floor where she left it and occasionally shuddering with violent movement.

“Sentient, no; enchanted, yes. It’s from the personal collection of an early 20th century siren who, as I understand it, was particularly popular on the vaudeville circuit. It’s meant to entice the beholder into coming close enough to kiss – or strangle, as sirens have occasionally been known to do. One of your duties will be to catalogue new items like this and store them in the stacks.” She pointed to the labyrinthine shelves behind her.

She laughed at Stiles’ panicked look. “Don’t worry – it’s not dangerous, usually.”

Stiles pulled a face, silently mouthing ‘usually’.

“ I’ll give you a full run down on Monday. In the meantime,” she said digging through the mess on her desk and unearthing a small red leather book, “This contains all the protection runes currently in the archive – water, fire, mold, basic defensive wards, etc etc. Take a look at them over the weekend and we can talk on Monday if you have any questions or are interested in putting your own spin on them. It’s been years since I’ve thought about updating them – perhaps they could benefit from a little modernization.”

She handed Stiles the volume and bid him goodbye. He ascended the staircase and left the museum in something of a daze, mind spinning with the unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome, change in circumstance. His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his stupor. He glanced at the name on the screen and grinned, overflowing with glee. There was an honest-to-god supernatural archive under the Smithsonian and he had a job there – Scott was going to flip his SHIT.

*

In a couple weeks’ time, Stiles had settled into a comfortable pattern. Officially, he worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 10 to 6, leaving in time to make his evening classes. Unofficially, he’d started coming in every free afternoon, staying late into the night researching the more fantastic objects.

It’d taken him a while to decipher Dr. Saint Cyprian’s (“For God’s sake, call me Rian.”) system, but he felt pretty comfortable with it now. Rows were numbered, shelves were lettered (Latin for normal items, Cyrillic for magical), with like items placed together and sorted by year. The hardest part was figuring out what was safe to touch, and which items would react…unfavorably to his Spark. Nothing too terrible ever happened, but after he brushed up against an enchanted punch bowl and spent the next several hours uncontrollably sneezing, Rian taught him how to work runes that would hide his Spark into a pair of archival-standard gloves.  

“There, you’re hypoallergenic now,” she said, patting him on the head before walking away. Stiles sneezed in her general direction.

Like he had in the cabin, Stiles found a comfort in the routine of work. He would start his shifts sorting through the returns, deftly weaving through the maze of stacks to restore every item to its rightful places. The museum used a series of glorified dumbwaiters to transport artifacts to and from visiting academics and historians, while members of the supernatural community had to request a personal visit to examine items. The mess on Rian’s desk was largely composed of such letters, from covens interested in recovering ancestral spells to vampires tracking down old possessions and everything in-between. These visits were always of particular interest to Stiles, eager to interact with magic users and supernatural creatures refreshingly free of any agenda to kill or maim him. In the short time he’d worked there, he’d already met a shapeshifter who worked in b-horror films, a group of dryads studying at Towson he’d made coffee plans with, and a banshee who’d given Stiles her contact information to pass to Lydia. Best of all, though, was finding out that his Folklore professor was not only magic (an actual muse - Stiles felt bad for guessing sprite), but apparently dating his boss. Stiles isn’t sure who was more shocked the first time she came to pick up Rian for lunch and saw Stiles standing there, arms half buried in a magically expanding handbag. His boss had burst out laughing at the twin looks of disbelief on their faces.

“Honestly, how could you not tell the second he walked in to your classroom? The kid leaks power. You’re losing your touch, babe,” she had teased, linking their arms together before whisking her up the stairs.

After all the return items had been set to rights and the day’s requests pulled from the stacks, Stiles started in on the new arrivals. The archives were constantly expanding, new additions appearing daily from estates willed to the museum and items recovered from Smithsonian-funded fieldwork. Before adding them to the stacks, he photographed each piece and created meticulous notes, plugging the information into the newly digitized system he talked Rian into letting him implement (the former archive ‘system’ had been a paper card catalogue. Stiles questioned how they ever endured without him).

But the thing he loved best was when he finished all his other work and he was free to dive in to what he had started thinking of as his pet project – the Land of Misfit Toys. The LMT (“I’m not calling it that, Stiles, and no, you can’t make a sign for it.”) was a massive storage room to the west of the stacks stuffed with unmarked boxes, artifacts long missing documentation, pallets filled with objects originally meant for unknown destinations, and rows of bookshelves bursting with dusty tomes (some of which were bound in…dubious materials. Stiles became more grateful for those gloves with every passing day.). Stiles thought the overall effect was something akin to Gort’s house in the cinematic classic Halloweentown 2, and was obsessed from the moment he saw it.

While he got to handle some interesting items re-shelving and cataloguing – highlights included a stack of racy love letters from a New York senator to his mistress(es) and an honest-to-god sentient chunk of Route 66 – the LMT (“It’s catchy, Rian! And you can pry this label maker from my cold, dead hands IT NEEDS TO BE RECOGNIZED.”) felt exciting, untouched. Stiles had shelved his childhood dreams of being a professional discoverer in the third grade after the sad realization that most things had, unfortunately, been discovered, but looking out at the sea of lost and forgotten objects, he felt the part of him that longed to explore new worlds and unravel the secrets of the universe, the same part that happily spent hours reading about unsolved mysteries and UFO sightings on Wikipedia, buzz with happiness.

It was the best kind of meditation, slipping in his headphones and moving methodically through each box. He’d carefully lift each piece, examining it from all angles, running his fingers over the edges and prying at locks, before tagging and photographing it, taking detailed notes on his laptop so later he could combine the Smithsonian libraries with the power of Google-Fu to recover its history. Stiles spent hours in the LMT, feeling like the love child of Indiana Jones and Sherlock Holmes he always dreamed he would be and feeling a rush of emotion whenever he stumbled upon the identity of a once-forgotten thing. He knew a bit about that – being lost, being forgotten. Maybe that’s why it meant so much to him, why he was so determined to identify every one and give them a place in the stacks, far away from the abandoned room full of forgotten things.

More than once, he’d been jolted out of his Adderall fueled research fugue when Rian turned the lights off on him, closing up for the night. He’d have to scramble to get home and finish his actual coursework, unwilling to let his grades slip even as he spent more and more time at the archives, but Stiles was the happiest he had been since he moved to D.C., and he couldn’t bring himself to regret a second of it.

A big part of this happiness was a result of Stiles’ attempts at befriending the other employees. His first day of work, he came armed with a box of cupcakes (bought, not made – through trial and very messy error, Stiles concluded that dorm hot plates did not lend themselves to confectionary creation).  His first target was Jules, formerly known as Information Desk Girl. From years bugging his dad down at the station, Stiles knew the front desk person was always the one to befriend. Officer Shelley was the first to know every piece of gossip in Beacon Hills and had dirt on all the officers, including the sheriff, and Stiles suspected Jules was no different. In exchange for the pastry and the promise for more in the future, she had started giving him hints on which security guards were cool and which to avoid (Benny and Barry, respectively), which routes to take to avoid the tourists (“Stay away from the Star-Spangled Banner at all costs.”), and what foods in the staff canteen were actually edible (none of them).

Over a series of lunches, with mutually agreed alternating dessert duties, Stiles found out she was working to fund an MA in American history and that her parents were academics (“Seriously, what kind of people name their newborn daughter Jules Verne? The answer is mine, my parents did that. I am not proud of this.” Stiles had nodded solemnly. “Solidarity, my friend.”).

He was fairly sure she was human; since that first day she hadn’t done more than joke about the weirdness of the archives like it was accepted fact, and never brought up anything more magical than whatever new docent she had her eye on (Jules was more than happy to appreciate attractive people of all genders – loudly, and at length). She liked pop culture and snarked like she breathed, and sometimes she reminded Stiles so much of Erica he felt a phantom pain in his chest. Though they were never officially pack, Erica had such an impact on his life (and his skull, if he was counting that one time with his carburettor) that he knew, on some level, they had been tied together, even if he wasn’t aware of it at the time. Painful memories aside, Jules was funny, Lydia-levels of intelligent, able to match Stiles barb for barb, and probably the first real friend he had made in D.C.

*

It was on Jules’ recommendation that he found himself wandering the sculpture garden of the Hirshhorn art museum during his lunch break one day. Stiles doubted he was sophisticated enough to appreciate modern art – he still giggled at anything remotely phallic, Snapchatting the best pieces to Scott with appropriately suggestive stick figures– but when he had gone to meet Jules for their usual Friday pizza and shit-talk, she had waved him off, muttering something about a renegade tour group on the loose in the Power Machinery hall. Stiles shrugged and started to walk away, already mentally planning where he could find a quiet area to eat and maybe grab a nap, but she called him back to suggest he check out the Hirshhorn.

“It’s a big-ass donut looking building, really, you can’t miss it.” She had the glint in her eye Stiles had already learned to be wary of as she leaned forward. “It’s one of the main modern galleries– most of it crap, but there’s one serious work of art you might be able to catch, if you leave now.”

“Even more beautiful than you?” Stiles said, batting his eyes at her.

Jules snorted loudly, startling a passing elderly couple.

“Oh honey, I don’t even come close. Just get yourself to the sculpture garden – we can compare notes later.” She winked at him and smacked his ass, making Stiles yelp as she walked away cackling.

Stiles rubbed his backside – Jules had some serious untapped strength – and headed out towards the Mall. He’d admit it - he was intrigued. He’d found that Jules’ interests more or less aligned with his own, so if she was so adamant he’d like it, to the Hirshhorn he’d go. Plus, it wasn’t like he actually had anything better to do now that his lunch buddy had been detained for the afternoon.

He stopped at the hot dog cart parked outside of the museum and couldn’t stifle a grin when Saul, the owner, asked him if he wanted his usual. He was the kind of cool, adult type person who had a usual. Granted, his usual was two chilli cheese dogs and a Redbull, but he’d take what he could get.

Snacks in hand, Stiles made his way to the garden. He’d noticed the Hirshhorn before – kind of hard to ignore what was essentially a concrete toilet roll in the middle of the National Mall – but had never actually visited. The day was on the cooler side, D.C. a far cry from the paradisal clime of California, but the sun was shining and Stiles had invested in a good wool peacoat with a collar he could turn up against the wind (Lydia had told him he looked like a crap Hemingway. Stiles told her she could fuck off.).

Entering the gardens, he stopped in front of a particularly arresting statue of what appeared to be a car crushed by a gigantic rock painted with a smiley face. He tilted his head and contemplated it for a few moments, then shoved half a hot dog in his mouth and moved on. He wandered around the sculptures as he finished his food, stopping to make a face at a kid who was sticking his tongue out at him from behind his mother’s legs. There were quite a few people milling around the garden, which wasn’t unusual in-and-of-itself, but given that it was the middle of the workday in November, long past the end of tourist season, and the crowd almost entirely composed of mothers and women dressed a touch better than the average museum patron, Stiles’ curiosity was sufficiently piqued.

He paused next to the mother of the kid from before, who was fruitlessly trying to corral the young boy in front of a statue Stiles immediately dubbed ‘Junkyard Tetris’.  

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if there was a special event going on? A friend suggested I come down here at this time, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for,” he asked, politely ignoring the struggle in front of him.

The woman grabbed the back of her son’s shirt, holding him in place as he wiggled to get away, arms outstretched and eyes manic. Stiles got a sudden flashback of the sheriff trying to do the same every time he ventured to take Stiles to a museum, and shuddered at the reminder of the short lived period dubbed the Child Leash of Which We Do Not Speak.

Her son temporarily restrained, the woman looked up and shot Stiles a weak smile, panting lightly from exertion. “I don’t know if it counts as a special event, but there’s a pretty popular tour of the major garden highlights about to begin.”

She leaned towards him with a conspiratorial look, maintaining her grip on her son.“I’m not much for sculpture, but the tour guide…well, he really makes you appreciate the art, if you know what I mean.”

At that, her son shook loose, shouting “Mom likes his butt!” before running and hiding behind Stiles, utilizing him as a human shield against his now beet-red mother.

“Michael Joseph, you get back here right now!” she demanded.

Stiles laughed as he turned and picked the kid up under his armpits, handing him back to his mother. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said, smiling at the woman.

She flushed further and accepted her son back gratefully. “Sorry about that. If you’re still interested, the tour starts in about 10 minutes in front of the Rodin sculptures. There’s usually a crowd – you can’t miss it.”

She smiled back at him before gently pushing Michael towards a picnic table nestled between statues. “Enjoy!”

Stiles thanked her and walked away, spying an empty bench in the sun. From what the woman said and her son pretty much confirmed, the tour guide was probably what Jules had been alluding to. As he settled into the bench and turned his face to the sun, he thought idly that perhaps if the guide really was that attractive, he’d consider getting his number for Jules, or maybe even himself. After all, he had to start getting over Derek sometime, and what better time than the present. With that decided, Stiles reasoned he had a few minutes to relax before the tour began, and let his eyes slip close against the bright sunshine.

Twenty minutes later, he awoke with a start to something cold and wet wiggling in his ear. He flailed off the bench, landing on the ground with a thump. He looked up to see Michael, the kid from before, holding his stomach and giggling on the bench.

“I got you!” He cried. “Wet willy! Wet willy!”

Stiles grimaced and stuck a finger in his ear, trying to clean it out. He hated wet willies, and he and Scott had put a mutual ban on them years ago. Still, he had to admit the kid had chutzpah, and he nodded to acknowledge the successful willy as he got to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Alright kid, you got me. Now, where’s your mom? She’s probably freaking out right now.”

The kid sat upright on the bench and rolled his eyes. “Nah, she’s too busy staring at the tour man. She probably hasn’t even noticed.”

Stiles snorted and held out a hand. “I seriously doubt anyone’s that pretty. Come on, let’s go find her, and you can show me this fantastic tour man.”

Michael hopped down from the bench and slotted his fingers between Stiles’. “Hurry up slow poke,” he said, jerking Stiles forward. “Old people take forever to get anywhere.”

Stiles scoffed, outraged. But before he could respond, he felt an odd sensation bloom in his chest. He raised his free hand to rub against it, frowning. He hadn’t worried about his bonds in a long time – they had remained just as steady and warm in his chest as they had in Beacon Hills, only changing to glow particularly brightly when something good happened, covertly confirmed through his weekly Skype calls with the pack. But this felt different, almost…fluttering. Anticipatory. Like sparks rising from his stomach and pooling beneath his breastbone, resolving into a current that flooded down to his feet and the tips of his fingers.

Stiles frowned and let his hand drop. It was probably just heartburn; he did wolf down (heh) a truly impressive amount of carbs and caffeine. Maybe Michael’s got it right; he’s old now, his body no longer the chilli-dog destroying machine it once was.

He let the thought go as they rounded a corner and spotted a large group of women and a few men circling a melting iron tree with rapt faces. He couldn’t quite see who giving the tour, but he quickly found Michael’s mother looking around frantically near the back. He walked back over to her and smiled at her sigh of relief when she saw her son with him.

“Hey, found this guy wandering around back there.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. A member of the crowd shot him a dirty look and he lowered his voice with a sheepish grin. “Figured you’d want him back.”

His mother shot him a grateful smile. “Thank you – again. Michael’s a bit of a handful, but he’s a really great kid, I swear.”

“Really, it’s no problem. I was pretty much the same when I was his age. I think my dad would call it payback,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. He crouched down in front of the kid in question.  

“Hey little dude, I know this place is awesome and there’s a ton of cool stuff to explore, but try and take your mom with you next time you want to motor, alright? She’ll be excited too, I promise, and I bet if you ask really nicely, she’ll take you to see the woolly mammoths in the Natural History Museum. Deal?”

Michael nodded, and grinned a gap-toothed smile as he reached out to bump Stiles’ outstretched fist with his own.

Stiles stood back up and smiled at the boy’s mother. “Are you going to stick around for the rest of the tour?”

The woman smiled back at him but shook her head. “No, I think it’s best I get this munchkin moving. You should stay though – you haven’t missed much, and it really is pretty interesting. Have a good day, and thank you again.”

Stiles waved goodbye, and turned back to see the crowd had started to move to the next attraction. He didn’t have a clear view through all the bodies, but caught a flash of dark hair leading the group he guessed might belong to the infamous tour guide. He slipped into the back as they crowded around a tall plinth supporting a male figure carved in bronze, striding forward with clenched abs and powerful thighs, but curiously unfinished, missing a head and both arms. Stiles let his eyes drag across the statue as he focused in on the lilting voice carrying over the crowd.

“The Walking Man is an impressionist portrayal of Saint John the Baptist created between 1877 and ’78 by Auguste Rodin, the French artist most famous for The Thinker, The Kiss, and The Burghers of Calais, which you can also see in this garden. The work has been called “profoundly unclassical,” a rough sketch less concerned with the aesthetic beauty of his body than emphasizing the strength and forward movement of the figure, powerfully striding into the unknown.”

A small furrow appears between Stiles’ brows. The voice is relatively high for a man, but not weak; clear and engaging and intelligent, confident in his words. It tickles something in the back of Stiles’ head, a memory he can almost grasp, but slips out of his hands. You need me to survive.

“Saint John the Baptist is introduced in the Gospel of Mark as ‘a voice crying out in the wilderness’ and is sometimes seen as a precursor to the Prodigal Son. The headless state alludes to his martyrdom, orchestrated by the daughter of King Herod who requested his head brought to her on a platter.”

The sensation in Stiles’ chest flares up again, and he rubs the heel of his hand against it as he pushes himself up on his toes, straining to match a face to the voice that won’t stop itching at his memory. He can’t see anything – too many people, too many bodies, like the space is closing in around him.

He looks at his watch and sees he still has 20 minutes left. Enough time to stay and see this through, if he wants. And he wants; there’s something niggling at him, begging to be resolved, and he has never been one to let things alone – has never been able to stop poking his bruises, even when it hurt.

“The statue famously inspired a poem of the same name by Carl Sandburg in 1916, but I’m particularly fond of another, slightly more obscure poem, penned by Peter Cooley in 2014.”

His mind made up, Stiles begins pushing his way forward, elbowing his way through the crowded bodies, the coltish limbs that had been the bane of his high school existence allowing him to alternately slip and shove his way through the ranks while the voice begins to recite.

“But when the body stands here, one foot back,

one forward, the flesh flexed in motion,

there is no movement that is not your own.”

Stiles advances ever closer to the front, chased by a series of dirty looks and muffled “oofs.” He can see more clearly now; can glimpse strong, veined hands carving shapes into the air, illustrating the words.

“You forget your equivocating past

only to recall it the next second.”

Stiles traces up the hands to tanned forearms covered in a dusting of dark hair and broad shoulders filling out a sweater the color of forest moss. His gaze travels higher as his feet carry him to the front and the spot in his chest burns brightly, driving him onward.

“It is essential that he is headless.

Admit it: you’d be staring at his face.”

And suddenly he’s there, he’s made it, and he can hear his voice and see his face, more beautiful than any sculpture he’d ever seen, eyes so clear it feels like gazing into the sky.

“This is our walk between eternities,

The one we think we know, the one we can’t.”

Stiles blinks, and he’s 16 again,  all jittery limbs and so much innocence stunned silent by a thousand yard glare and a jawline like a chorus of angels.

He blinks again, and he sees the wide smile, dimpling into something not quite a beard, thicker and more lush than the stubble he remembers.

Stiles blinks, and his gaze lingers on the hint of crow’s feet, the hair curling gently under his ears instead of short and gelled, as tightly controlled as the rest of him.

Stiles blinks, and he sees the moment of recognition when his nostrils flare and his voice falters, when his eyes search frantically through the crowd before they land on Stiles’ face, and then he doesn’t blink, because for the first time in years, he’s looking directly at Derek and Derek is looking back.

The ball of warmth in his chest bursts and floods into his body, shooting electricity through his veins and igniting every cell until he thinks he can hear them singing as the heat rages and maybe that’s crazy to think but he can’t think, not when he’s standing right there, Derek is standing right there and he is alive and healthy and existing where Stiles is existing and he feels like he’s on fire but God, he’s never been so happy to burn.

Derek clears his throat, breaking eye contact and resuming his speech even as his cheeks flush and he stumbles over his words. Stiles is still staring, not comprehending, too caught up in cataloguing the ways he is so different, yet so much the same. He spends the most time on his hands, counting methodically over and over to prove that he’s not dreaming, this isn’t a dream, this is Derek, a thousand miles from home and shining more brightly than he’s ever seen him.

Stiles tunes back in to hear him dismiss the tour, apologizing for the short run time and promising to return to regular scheduling the following day. Then people are leaving, and Stiles barely notices, doesn’t stop looking as Derek doesn’t stop looking at him until everyone has wandered away and it’s just him and Stiles and Saint John the Baptist, each equally unsure of what to say.

As always, Stiles is the one to break the silence.

“Going to tell me this is private property?” He asks, shooting Derek a nervous smile.

He smiles back, strong and steady. “I think we’re long past that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out, a little stunned by the breadth of his smile, all that pretty directed his way.

It’s quiet again, for a moment.

“Can I hug you?” Stiles blurts out, unsure of his welcome but desperate to ask. “It’s just…it’s been a long time.”

Derek ducks his head, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink. “Yeah, it has. I’m okay with – if you want.” He lifts his arms a fraction, palms turned out, and Stiles accepts the invitation for what it is, stepping into his warmth and wrapping his arms solidly around him.

Derek’s arms come up, gripping him tightly, tethering him, and Stiles feels that spot in his chest burn so brightly his breath stutters with it. Derek keeps him in the circle of his arms but leans back so his eyes can search over Stiles’ face. “Are you alright? I heard your heart-”

Stiles flushes, and ducks back in. “I’m fine,” he answers, voice muffled from where it’s buried in Derek’s shoulder. “Just, um, warm. I’m very warm. You’re very warm. Werewolf thing. Bet you don’t even need a coat, right? Just go a bit furry and you’re set.”

Derek lets out an amused huff over his shoulder, but doesn’t call him out on the blatant lie. He lets go and steps back, though he remains closer than any normal human might stand in the situation. Werewolves have always had smaller personal bubbles, Stiles noticed. He doubted that had changed for Derek in the few years he’s been gone, and suppresses a pang in his chest thinking about when the last time he’d had a hug was; if he was all alone in the city, too.

Heedless of Stiles’ internal meltdown, Derek begins to speak. “It’s reassuring to know you haven’t lost your particular talent for babble.”

“I’d prefer to think of it as a prolonged opportunity for charm and wit, thanks.”

“It’s an opportunity for something, alright.”

“Hey,” Stiles squawks, mildly affronted.

“I never said something bad.” Derek shoots him a small smile, just as devastating as the grin he bore a few minutes ago.

“What are you doing here?” He asks hesitantly. “Were you…were you looking for me?”

Stiles flushes again. “No, no, I didn’t – I didn’t know you were here. I’ve been interning at the Museum of American History, in the archives. Just a couple days a week – I’m a student at Georgetown now.”

“Yeah?” Derek smiles. “That’s good to hear. Georgetown’s a good school. Your dad must be  proud.”

Stiles snorts. “Understatement of the year. I’m pretty sure he’s bought every piece of merchandise they make – we ate off of Hoya branded plates for a week before I put my foot down and rescued the normal ones from the back of the cupboard.”

Derek laughs softly, and Stiles is entranced by the sound. He tries to think of the last time he heard Derek laugh; he’s not sure he ever has. He’s so distracted by the thought, he misses what Derek says next.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked how things were at home. If Scott and everyone…if things were okay.” He looks unsure, and a little guilty. Like he might still feel bad for leaving, even though Stiles knows no one blames him. He needed to, probably should have a long before. They understood that.

“They’re good. They’re safe. Scott is doing his generals at the community college and still planning on going to vet school. Most of his pack is still at Beacon High, so he wanted to stay close.”

“His pack?” Derek questions softly.

“My pack, too.” Stiles hesitates before continuing. “It all just feels so far away sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes gentle and free of judgement.

Stiles continues. “Lydia’s at MIT, no surprise, but she mentioned that Jackson’s staying in London and studying at Imperial, which was a bit of a shocker. Never knew he had it in him. Kira’s taking a gap year and, last we heard, Isaac was still somewhere in France with Chris, probably in his element surrounded by all the other pretentious scarf-wearers.”

Derek lets out a quiet laugh, then reaches out to brush Stiles’ arm, nodding towards the path. They walk slowly through the garden, side by side, the sky still clear blue overhead.

Derek looks over at Stiles a little hesitantly. “And Lydia, are you guys…Did you ever? I know you always -“

Stiles can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. “No. I mean – no. We talked about it and tried, briefly, just because we’d always wonder what it’d be like if we haven’t, but we both knew we make far better friends than we ever would lovers. All those years I thought I was in love with her, I had been obsessed with this impossible, untouchable thing that I had created in my head; an idolized image of everything I thought she’d be and who I thought I’d be if I was with her. I know what she is now - strong, loyal, tenacious, brilliant, and fallible. Human.” He smiles. “She’ s one of the best people I know, and I think I’ll always love her – just not in the same way I originally thought.”

Derek makes a small noise of assent. “I know something about that – building a person up to something they could never actually be. Building yourself up the same way. It’s taken me a long time to see past that. I’m glad you figured it out earlier than I ever did.”

Stiles smiles up at him. “But figure it out, you did.”

Derek laughs, loud and throaty, nudging him with his shoulder. “You don’t automatically sound wiser if you speak like Yoda, Stiles. That’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, then how does it work? Because I don’t foresee myself turning green and running around a swamp in my bathrobe anytime soon.”

“I mean, you’ve always sounded pretty wise to me, maybe you don’t have to do anything at all.”

Stiles flushes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, big guy,” he jokes, trying to hide his reaction.

Derek abruptly stops walking, turns so he can grab Stiles’ elbow and look him directly in the eye with his considerable brows furrowed. “It’s not flattery, Stiles. You got me through so much in Beacon Hills, even though I wasn’t able to appreciate it at the time. Wasn’t able to thank you the way I should have. You saw so much, knew so much, just instinctively understood the things I could barely face, and I don’t think I’d be here now if it wasn’t for you. I didn’t say it then, so I’m saying it now: thank you, Stiles.”

He drops his arm and resumes walking, leaving Stiles shell-shocked in his wake.

He stutters back to life, arms flailing. “You can’t just – you can’t just drop a bomb like that and walk away! What was that?!”

Stiles hurries to follow, catching up in time to see the small smile on Derek’s face.

“A lot’s changed since I’ve last seen you. I’ve changed.”

Stiles snorts, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, understatement. I –“

He opens his mouth to say more, but is cut off by the buzz of his phone. He pulls it out and swears when he sees the time. “Shit, Derek, I have to go. My lunch break ended 10 minutes ago and I really, really don’t want to get fired from this job.” Stiles shifts on his feet, deliberating for a moment.

“Do you – would you want to exchange numbers? I feel like there’s so much to catch up on and I’m still not quite over just seeing you and if I had time we could do it right now, I’d buy you lunch like a proper adult and everything, but I really do have to go.” He grimaces and looks up at Derek, unsure.

Derek just laughs and gently takes Stiles’ phone from his hands. “Of course you can have my number, and I’d love to do lunch, sometime.” He hands Stiles’ phone back. “Text me with yours.”

Stiles beams at him before remembering the time, swearing again as he jogs away.  

Before he can make it out of the garden, Derek calls out to him. “Hey, Stiles, wait up a second!”

He turns to see Derek running up behind him, smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry, I don’t want to get you in trouble but I thought, maybe…what time do you get off? I could come meet you? I know a great diner just down the road - they make a curly fry I’ve been reliable informed will change your life.”

Stiles grins at him, heart glowing in his chest. “Now you’re speaking my language, big guy. I get off at 6. Meet me under the Monument?”

Derek smiles, dimples out in full show. “I’ll be there.”

Stiles waves his goodbye and runs full-tilt back to the archives, shouting an apology at Rian as he comes shooting through the door. And if he spends the rest of the day working with a dopey grin on his face and a new warmth burning in his chest, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

[joylikelemons]

Float Until You Learn to Swim

So this started out as my emotional word vom about Stiles finding Derek in D.C. in  ask (peep it here) and somehow turned into 15k of Stiles moving to Washington, Derek working at a museum, and everyone actually confronting their issues (+ David Bowie, glowy magic pack bonds, and a supernatural archive under the Smithsonian).

Could be read as a one-shot, but will probably end up writing two more parts because feelings™.

Read on Ao3.

When you’re part of a pack, you’re never really alone. Even when Stiles was at his darkest, locked inside his own head, he knew this, could feel the faintest of threads tied somewhere around his ribcage, each one tugging lightly to remind him that his family and friends were still there, still alive, at least for one more day.

After the Nogitsune, when the world got to be too much and Stiles felt like he was choking on dead air, he took to closing his eyes and pressing the heel of this hand to the spot just under his breastbone, fingers splayed out over his chest until the steady thrumming of the threads drowned out his racing heart.

He never talked about it with Scott or his dad, never asked if anyone else experienced the pack bonds the same way. He told himself it was because it felt too personal, too private, but a voice in the back of his head wondered if it was more than that. If maybe he was afraid to find out what he was feeling wasn’t real - just another thing his brain conjured up to deal with a reality composed of more pain than any 19 year old boy could survive unbroken. That same voice whispered that even if it was real, it was one sided; after all, his packmates were the ones who forgot him. If he asks, it might just mean definitive proof that he needs them much more than they need him.

So he doesn’t ask, and whenever a member of the pack caught him absentmindedly rubbing at his chest he played it off as a bruise, or an itch, or, on one memorable occasion, heartburn.

“This is it Scotty, this is what’s going to get me – not a rogue werewolf or a shapeshifter or, god forbid, a selkie, but the diabolical clutches of acid reflux.” He had moaned, sprawled out on his friend’s bed.

Scott just threw a bottle of Tums at his head and turned back to his homework. Stiles made a mental note to research why Scott even had them around; did the same werewolf healing magic that could heal bullet wounds and fix severed arteries meet its match with common indigestion?

Stiles wasn’t sure if Scott and the other wolves just ignored his repeated excused and chalked it up to Stiles being Stiles, or if his pulse had become so unsteady it was impossible to recognize the tell-tale blip of a lie. That question was also firmly shelved in the ‘do not touch’ corner of his brain.

Real or not, shared or not, it was the bonds that allowed Stiles to even consider leaving Beacon Hills for Georgetown. He had tested them in the days after graduation, driven an hour to the coast to sit in the sand and take a second to just breathe, away from the memories that flooded every corner of Beacon Hills; a moment to let himself get lost in salt air and waves licking at the sand while the threads pulsed steadily in his chest.

On his second try, he drove south to San Francisco, ostensibly to visit the magic shops Deaton had recommended to resupply their wolfsbane stock and pick up the books he needed for summer Spark training. After the latest supernatural shit show, he figured it was time to stop ignoring whatever abilities Deaton said he had – if it was something he could use to protect his pack, then it was worth learning how to control, even if the thought of being something...more than human still left him a little uneasy. Just as at the ocean, the bonds remained strong, radiating warmth through his chest as the miles clicked past on the odometer.

For his final test, he packed up the Jeep with food and water and drove up to Washington. His mother had loved the mountains, the thickness of the forests, how the snow-capped peaks looked reflected in the calm waters of lakes carved by ancient glaciers. His family had a cabin they visited every summer when Stiles was young, a small wooden thing deep in the Cascades next to a crystal blue lake. The sheriff, still a deputy then, would wake him up just before dawn, tackle-box packed and ready, and teach him to fish in the clear waters. There’s a photo still hanging in the entryway of their house from one such morning, a seven-year-old Stiles proudly holding up a sunfish just a little bigger than his palm with his brown hair sticking up as if electrocuted and a gap-toothed grin showing off the two missing teeth he’d lost the week before.

His mom preferred to watch the sunrise from land, cradling a fresh cup of coffee and waving at her boys from her favorite spot on the porch swing. Some afternoons, she would take Stiles out in the old rowboat, dropping anchor in the middle of the lake so they could stretch out and let the sun warm their upturned faces. Even at the deepest point, the water was so clear Stiles could see straight to the bottom and he spent hours swimming deeper and deeper, but never touching the lakebed.

His mother in water was a sight to behold, all crinkled eyes and laughter ringing out as she cannon-balled from the side of the boat, splashing Stiles and twisting gracefully away when he tried to retaliate. She loved to sneak up on John when his back was turned, winking at Stiles and putting a finger to her lips before leaping on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms over his shoulders to pull him under the surface. He would come back up sputtering, Claudia still clinging to his back until he pulled her around, cradling her in his arms and dropping a kiss to her wet forehead before tossing her soundly into the water.

Stiles’ most vivid memories of his mom were from the cabin - the way her dark hair billowed out underwater, how she curled up with his dad under the holey knitted blanket she had made him one Christmas, the sound of her off-key singing as she made waffles for breakfast (Always waffles, never pancakes. His mom claimed pancakes didn’t have personality, but his dad told him she just liked the way syrup pooled in the little waffle wells.).

The first summer after her death, Stiles and John didn’t go back to the cabin. The official excuse was that John couldn’t get the time off, having taken longer and longer shifts at the station to distract himself from the too-empty house and his too-cold bed. Stiles spent most of that first summer at the McCall’s, eating peanut butter sandwiches with Scott in a semi-permanent bed fort in the living room. He didn’t talk about his mom and wouldn’t even if Scott had asked – but Scott never did, just handed him the other half of his sandwich when Stiles finished his own and hugged him when he curled his sticky fingers in Scott’s t-shirt, silently asking for comfort beneath the canopy of sheets.

As the years went on, they stopped mentioning the cabin, stopped making excuses. It was a place inextricably tied up with the memory of Stiles’ mother, a memory that was still too painful, too present to confront head on. But the photo still hung in the entryway, and Stiles occasionally gave it a passing thought, fantasized about running away to the cabin where he could pretend that werewolves weren’t real, that evil was something that only existed in fiction, and that his own hands weren’t washed in blood.

Sometimes, when he thought about where Derek might have ended up (a pastime he pursued more often than he’d like to admit), Stiles imagined he found the cabin, dusty and untouched, and decided to stay. He could picture it so clearly: Derek stretched out on the couch (a lurid orange plaid monstrosity Stiles’ mom loved to pieces) with a book in his hand and a small fire burning in the hearth, a pile of split logs outside where he had spent the day chopping wood for winter. Those times, he could almost swear he felt a phantom spike of warmth in his chest, not quite the tug of pack bonds, but something that felt like it could be. And if the warmth burned a little brighter when Stiles imagined the way Derek would look with a red flannel shirt rolled up over his forearms and bunching around his strong shoulders as he swung an axe, thought a touch too hard about the way his hair would fall on his forehead, thick and soft without product and a little damp from sweat , well, that was no one’s business but his own.

*

Imaginings aside, Stiles had never thought seriously about going back to the cabin. Not until the day of his graduation party, which found him sat on the steps of the back porch while members of his pack mingled with kids from their class and members of Beacon Hills’ finest, the spot under his breastbone burning steady and warm. There was a half-eaten cake and a small stack of presents and cards on a folding table in the corner, and when the sheriff dropped down beside him a moment later, he held a beer in one hand a small brown box in the other.

“That beer for me?” Stiles asked, nudging his dad with an elbow.

The sheriff scoffed. “Keep dreaming, kid.”

He tipped the bottle back once before setting it at his feet, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“I had something I wanted to give you. I’m not sure if it’s the right time, if it will ever be the right time but...it’s yours. It should be yours.” He tapped the box on his knee a couple times before thrusting it at his son.

“I thought we were doing presents later, but I won’t tell if you...” Stiles’ voice petered out as he lifted the lid of the box and saw a braided leather keychain with two gold keys nestled in white tissue paper.

“Dad, what is this?”

The sheriff shifted in his seat. “It’s ah, it’s the key to the cabin. Your mom’s cabin. I know we haven’t been in a long time and that’s probably my fault, but I found it the other day when I was poking around in the attic and I thought, well, I thought you should have it.  I remembered how much you loved that place how much your mother loved-”

The sheriff cut off, clearing his throat.

“Dad,” Stiles whispered, voice breaking on the word.

“Well, anyway, I, ah, I called in a favor from the ranger service up there – had one of the guys go check it out and hook up the water and electricity. He said everything looked good – nothing broken or anything.” He nodded towards the box. “The bigger key is for the front door and the little one is for the boat shed out back.”

He reached over and picked up the key ring, running a finger over the braided fob with a small, sad smile.

“Your mom made this. I don’t know if you remember, but she had this phase where she fancied herself a knitter. Made this really terrible blanket one year –scratchy as all hell and not what you’d call structurally sound, but I used it all the time just to see that proud little smile on her face.”

“I remember,” Stiles said quietly.

“After she moved on from knitting, she started messing around with things like this.” The sheriff lifted the keychain.

“She didn’t get very far with it before...well, before. But she finished this one. I forgot I even still had it.”

John laid them back in the box and rubbed a thumb over his forehead.  

“So uh, I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s yours if you want it. You can take your friends up, or maybe I can get some time this summer...” He nodded once, decisive. “It’s been empty too long, I think. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Stiles looked down at the keys and gently touched one end of the braid.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

He looked over and smiled at his dad, eyes shining with what they both would deny as wetness.

“Thank you.”

The sheriff cleared his throat again. “You’re welcome. Happy graduation, son. I’m ah, I’m very proud of you, and I know she would be too.”

He reached out and pulled Stiles into a one-armed hug, patting him on the back before grabbing his beer and heading towards the food table, a Stilinski man through-and-through in his dislike of emotional confrontation.

“Only one piece of cake dad, don’t think you get a free pass because of emotional manipulation!” Stiles called after him.

The sheriff, as usual, paid no mind.

*

Stiles hadn’t known what to do with the keys. Part of him wanted to leave the party and drive up immediately, the other half shied away at the thought of seeing it again, his heart giving a painful squeeze thinking about his mother’s favorite mug (a lopsided thing Stiles made her) sitting unused in the cupboard or diving into the lake without her splashing in beside him.

So he kept them in the box, stashed in his bedside table as the summer stretched on and he went swimming with the pack, held video game tournaments with Scott, and attended Spark lessons with Deaton.

In the end, his desire to see the cabin again won out over his fear, and as the last few weeks of summer approach, he made the decision to go up. He rationalized that it would be the perfect opportunity to complete his last test of the bonds, but it was also something he knew he had to do for his mom. Claudia had lived too long as a ghost in the house, an invisible weight they refused to acknowledge but affected every part of their lives. His dad had understood when Stiles told him, and quietly agreed that maybe it was time to bring the boxes back down from the attic, stop letting the memory of her languish in the dark.

*

Though Stiles told Scott where he was going, he asked his friend to keep it quiet. It’s not that he wanted to keep it from the rest of the pack, necessarily, but it wasn’t something he thought he could explain. Scott had been there before; had known his mom and heard stories of the cabin, seen the photos and understood exactly how much it meant to Stiles. He had been there after, filled the glaring gap in his summers as best he could with his friendship and his loyalty and his ineffable Scott-ness, and Stiles knew he was the only other person other than his dad who could understand Stiles’ need to return to the cabin alone.

He kept both Scott and his dad in the dark about his the desire to test the pack bonds and make sure that, even a thousand miles away and surrounded by nothing but forest and stone, he would still feel his pack ties thrumming in his chest. Part of him, that quiet, black part that seemed to invade his mind and stop his heart like ice, whispered that if he couldn’t feel them that far away, he wasn’t really pack. That insidious voice told he needed to belong to them so much more than they needed his belonging and when they disappeared, he’d have to confront that he wasn’t pack, wasn’t anything at all - just a fragile, broken boy who believed he could run with wolves.

The thought made the spot under his chest ache, so he buried the feeling and turned up the volume on the Jeep’s radio as he continued on the winding road north. His mom loved music, used to make these mix tapes for them to listen to on the 12 hour drive up. The sheriff had told Stiles he found her tape collection in the same forgotten corner with the keys, but neither had felt ready to listen to them. But now, in his mom’s car on the familiar drive to her favorite place in the world, Stiles felt like it was time.

Claudia Stilinski had eclectic tastes - she liked classic rock and loved belting out “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” encouraging Stiles to join in from the back seat and poking John until he’d warble along with them. Some days were dedicated to funk, filled with Parliament and Earth, Wind, and Fire; other days, she’d spend hours playing nothing but The Beach Boys’ Greatest Hits. Above all else, Stiles’ mom loved Fleetwood Mac. She loved the ballads and the break up songs and could never, ever sit still when she played them. Claudia listened with her whole body, letting Stiles stand on her toes as she spun him around the kitchen or dancing in her seat with her arm out the Jeep window to feel the breeze while she sang, eyes shut and face turned up in total bliss. John would joke that she would leave him for Stevie Nicks in heartbeat, and every time she’d respond by putting on “Everywhere” and serenading him, lifting their interlaced fingers to press kisses to the back of his hand until he stopped pouting and sang along.

It was Fleetwood Mac that Stiles chose to accompany his pilgrimage, running his fingers over the handwritten label before sliding the tape in and cranking the volume up. Loud enough that it covered even the trademark jangling of the Jeep’s engine; so loud that all he could think about was the words, and all he could do was tighten his grip on the steering wheel and sing along.

But listen carefully to the sound Of your loneliness Like a heartbeat drives you mad In the stillness of remembering what you had And what you lost...

And if Stiles’ sleeve was a little wet where he’d scrubbed it across his face, well, that was no one’s business but his own.

*

It’s easier than he expected. He pulls the Jeep over on the side of the road a few times on the way up, has to press his hand to his chest to reassure himself the bonds are still there and force air through his lungs to stave off the panic attack would overcome him, if he let it. But when he arrives, just before dusk, the bonds are still there and glowing warmly, a silent message of support to offset the nerves coiled in his stomach.

It looks just the same.

The wood is a little more worn than he remembers, the red paint of the deck curling up in small flakes. Tall grasses sway gently where there was once trim lawn and the stones of the path are loose where weeds have pushed up their edges. But the forest is still as tall and vital as Stiles remembers, and if he closes his eyes, listens to the birds calling and wind running through the leaves, he can almost believe himself six years old again, running through the trees with outstretched hands and spinning in circles until the branches blur over his head and he tips over, dizzyingly happy and so terribly alive.

He shoots his dad a text to let him know he’s arrived then steels himself before opening the front door, gripping the leather chain so tightly his knuckles bleed white.

If this was a movie, there’d be rain, he thinks. There’d be rain and that hazy half-light that always precedes a summer storm, rose-tinged air under a clouded sky.

But this isn’t a movie, and there is no rain. Instead, the air is warm and dry and the sunset paints the sky every color Stiles can name, swelling to a deep scarlet where the sun melts into the lake.

She would have liked that, Stiles thinks. How the colors bled into each other, the way they looked reflected in the calm surface of the lake. And that’s the thought that propels him to turn the key and open the door, stepping into the cabin for the first time in a decade.

It’s dark – the blinds drawn and the furniture still covered in the white sheets they’d draped over to ward off dust and dirt through the long winter. Everything not covered bears a thick layer of dust, and when Stiles runs a finger across the hall mirror, he leaves a stark line in the glass.

The cabin feels quiet, suspended. Like all these years, it has been in hibernation, just waiting for him to return. Like it’s been yearning to wake up.

Stiles pauses by the sofa, hovers his hand over the thick sheet. It hits him all at once that this is a place completely untouched by what his life has become. This place has never known werewolves, or magic, or bloodshed. A time capsule of his best memories – of loving, and being loved; of warmth, and freedom, and uninhibited play and joy and everything that has been too far gone from Stiles’ life in the past few years.

The spot beneath his breastbone glows at the thought. Life in Beacon Hills was undeniably settling down – Scott blossoming into his role as Alpha under the tutelage of his mom, the sheriff, and Deaton, and the biggest threat they’d had in months was a group of wayward fairies on a summer road trip to the coast. Maybe...maybe he can have this again. Maybe it’s time.

Stiles grips the sheet and tears it off, revealing the fabric of the couch – the same lumpy, radioactive orange that colored his childhood naps and always brought a smile to his mother’s face. He grins at it like an old friend and, like a spell has been broken, shatters the stillness of the cabin by dashing through the rest of the rooms, ripping off sheets and whooping at the clouds of dust that spin through the air as each new piece of his memory is brought back to full, Technicolor life.

He moves into the kitchen, throwing open the cupboards and running his fingers over the mismatched collection of dishes and mugs, stopping when he touches one mug in particular. He pulls it down and turns it over in his hands, examining the stars and planets painted by a young Stiles, sloppy in his enthusiasm. He smiles, remembering how his mother laughed when he presented it to her. She had crouched down and thanked him with a kiss on his freckled cheek.

“My little starman,” she said, and traced over his moles with a finger. “Look, you’ve even got your own constellations.”

Stiles had giggled as she peppered each spot with kisses and squirmed in her arms, but bobbed his head and grinned when she asked if he wanted to listen to his special song.

Stiles can’t recall the first time it happened, couldn’t say exactly when it became a tradition, but remembers the joy he felt every time his mom would pull out their well-loved copy of Ziggy Stardust. She’d turn on the baby blue record player she’d had since she was a freshman in college and let Stiles guide the tonearm across the grooves, grabbing his hands and spinning him around the room as the song began to play. She’d twirl him out and back in again and again until he was dizzy with it, then she’d pull him back against her chest to hug him tight and sing the chorus in his ear. 

There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

he’d like to come and meet us

but he thinks he’d blow our minds.

There’s a starman waiting in the sky,

he’s told us not to blow it

cause he knows it’s all worthwhile.

Stiles smiles bittersweet at the memory, pauses, then places the mug back on the shelf and walks decisively into his parents’ old bedroom. He reaches up into closet, feeling around the top shelf until his fingers brush against a box he pulls down and carries into the living room. With reverent hands, he unpacks the record player and sets it on the kitchen table, plugging the cord in and checking for the glow of the red ‘on’ light. In the bottom of the box rests his mom’s record collection – even though she had everything on tapes at their house in Beacon Hills, she kept the LP’s around. “Think of it as your inheritance,” she had said, letting him flip through their bright covers.

Stiles now cards through them slowly, heart aching as he trails his fingers across the familiar images. He finds the one he’s looking for and pulls it out, sliding the record from the sleeve and setting the cover aside before gently blowing dust from the grooves. He fits it on the platter, places the stylus halfway towards the center and listens to the familiar crackle as the song begins.

Like the cabin, this memory was one almost too tender to touch, and it had been years since he’d last listened to their song. But here, now, as a fresh breeze chases the stale air out of the cabin and warm light falls on the uncovered furniture, it feels right. It feels necessary. And as Stiles roams around the cabin, pushing open the windows and shaking out the blankets on the front porch, he can’t help but sing along, letting his lingering nerves be chased away by the well-loved words. 

Let the children lose it,

let the children use it,

let all the children boogie.

*

Stiles stays at the cabin for two weeks. He checks in with his dad once a day, and sends pictures of the projects he’d started around the house, but otherwise keeps his phone stashed in the Jeep. After that first night, falling asleep on the old couch listening to his mother’s records and wrapped up in the old knit blanket, he throws himself into fixing up the cabin.

He starts by digging out the ancient push lawnmower from the shed and clearing the tall grasses that had shot up in their absence, wiping dirt across his forehead as he digs out stubborn weeds from the stone path. He gets his supplies at the local hardware store, including a can of cardinal red paint to revive the porch, and works long hours in the late July heat, his skin browning in the sun as new flights of freckles appeared on his arms each day. The lean muscle he’d built up running with wolves comes in handy as he hauls the rowboat out to patch and repaint, nails new planks over the holes in the dock, and chops wood until there’s a sizable pile stacked next to the house.

When the heat gets to be too much, he strips to his briefs and dives into the lake, letting the cool water wash the sweat and dirt from his skin before sprawling out on the dock to dry in the sun. In the evenings, he sits on the porch swing, rocking back and forth as he watches the sunset and drinks lemonade from the same cracked pitcher he did when he was a child.

More often than not, he passes out early and sleeps soundly through the night in a way he didn’t believe he was capable of anymore; his tired body and aching muscles gentling him into a dreamless sleep from which he wakes refreshed and calm. On the nights he stays up, he pulls a book from his parents’ collection and sits by the firepit outside, surrounded by the chirping of crickets and the night sounds of the forest. He prefers the books with well-worn pages and cracked spines, like East of Eden and Dharma Bums. His mother had loved stories about America, the love letters to the land, and delighted in pointing out Kerouac’s Desolation Peak in the far ranges, just visible from her spot on the porch.

The longer he stays, the more his mind quiets. There are no intrusive thoughts, no insidious, creeping voices, almost as if the stillness of the cabin has bled into his mind. The excess energy that caused his hands to shake and his thoughts to race unchecked finds an outlet in the physicality of his work, the repetitive movements acting as a kind of meditation that leaves him clear and focused. He feels settled in his skin as his muscles flex and ache, entirely at home in his body and mind. For the first time in years, Stiles feels like himself again. Strong. Unbroken.

On his last night, Stiles sits in the kitchen with the book of runes Deaton lent him and ingredients he’d carefully gathered over the past few days – thistle and clover, blue vervain and St. Johnswort, powdered bark from the trees that ring the clearing and a small handful of mud from the bottom of the lake. He grinds them into a paste, and over every window and doorway, he paints the symbols for luck and protection – not just from living threats, but from wind, fire, rain, and dust. He pours his will into them, declares himself where they lay to ensure that not a breath of the pain that has plagued Beacon Hills can touch this place. Not just because it was a part of his mother, but because it is undoubtedly a piece of himself, too.

When everything is locked up and the Jeep packed for the long drive home, Stiles spares one last look at the porch swing, takes in the fresh paint, lush grass, and clear windows, liberated from dust. The stillness remains, but it’s different now – a quiet born not of stasis, but of peace; the land has finally woken up, and Stiles right alongside it. He closes his eyes and focuses on remembering exactly how he feels in this moment, wanting to carry it with him when he goes.

With a smile on his face, Stiles opens his eyes and backs out the driveway. As he travels down the road towards home, he glances in the rearview mirror, watching as the cabin grows smaller and smaller until it's swallowed by forest, and all he can see is green.

*

Even with his newfound calm, Stiles spent the entire five hour flight to Washington with his palm pressed against his sternum, eyes screwed up and body tensed as he waited for the inevitable moment when the gentle tugging of the threads would turn too harsh and snap, robbing him of the warmth in his chest.

But, like his earlier tests, it never came.

When the wheels touched down at Reagan National, the quiet thrumming beneath his breast remained. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, letting some of the tension finally drain out of his muscles. He wasn’t alone. He was nearly 3,000 miles from his home and his pack, but he wasn’t alone. He pressed down harder for a moment and was rewarded when the bonds seemed to grow warmer, more insistent, like they were chiding him for being silly enough to think that they’d just leave.

He broke out in a grin, letting his hand drop. He knew the next few months were still going to be hard – he’d still worry about his dad and his friends, still have to deal with the lingering guilt of leaving them, (though his pack had been nothing but supportive, promising to keep his dad on a diet and Skype so much he’d be sick of them), still have to adjust to a new city and living on his own. But the knowledge that he’d still have a physical connection to his pack, a constant reminder that he belonged to someone, somewhere, made the rest seem small in comparison.

Stiles stood up, grabbing his bag out of the overhead compartment and swinging it over his shoulder. His smile remained as he followed the line out of the plane and stepped into the cooler Washington air. Here, burning in his chest, was proof that he had walked through Hell and come out the other side with his pack beside him. Compared to what came before, college would be a cakewalk.

*

Two months in, Stiles was strongly reconsidering that statement. Sure, there was nothing actually wrong, but that didn’t mean things were right, either. His roommate was chill, an aspiring pre-med student who only showed up to shower and sleep, which suited Stiles fine. It was a little quiet, sure, but it gave him more time to work on his magic homework from Deaton or Skype his pack without worrying about fabricating excuses to obscure the more...extraordinary elements of his life.

He liked most of his classes and had been flirting with the idea of double majoring in history and folklore, had a group he regularly met up with for study sessions, and a spot in the local coffee shop he had more or less declared as his. From an outside perspective, things were totally, completely fine.

Which, in itself, was kind of his problem. Everything was just...okay. Stiles had kind of expected college to be, well, more. More wild parties and hook-ups with interesting people, more student protests and campus rivalries and dramatic self-realizations and yeah, maybe Stiles had seen too many coming-of-age movies but still, wasn’t college meant to be more than a daily routine of classes, coffee, and Call of Duty until he passed out and woke up to do it all again?

Maybe if he had been less preoccupied with the whole leaving-the-pack and honouring-his-mother’s-memory internal struggles, he would have had more time to think about what college would actually be like, outside of a vague notion of John Belushi in Animal House. Maybe, just maybe, he would have realized that after the whole supernatural/Hellmouth/death and destruction and possession continual crises that characterized his high school years, college couldn’t help but seem a little...tame, in comparison.

He had hit up the requisite frat parties and induction events with his floor-mates those first few weeks, but inevitably found himself zoning out after just a few minutes, staring into space as he thought about the lore books he had stacked next to his bed, mentally composed essays for his classes, and pondered if the jungle juice had been magically altered or if it was just really, really bad gin.

It was the classic catch-22: he had spent months dreaming of escaping Beacon Hills for a few years of the out-of-control parties and ill-advised hook-ups he imagined constituted the average American college experience, but after all he had been through, he just couldn’t convincingly stir up interest in drinking cheap beer in houses with sticky floors or painting his face to cheer on home football games. It all just seemed a bit...false; unreal in its blatant normality, and Stiles felt like the biggest phony of them all. Eat your heart out, Holden Caulfield.

Stiles’ hang-ups regarding hook-ups were much the same.  It wasn’t that he was unsure about his sexuality - he had firmly come to grips with his bisexuality right around the time he started regularly hanging out with shirtless teen werewolves. It wasn’t lack of confidence or options, either; Stiles knew he had grown into himself over the past few years, and the lingering tan and lean, corded muscles from his summer activities didn’t hurt. He had been approached a number of times since arriving in D.C. and had even gone on a couple dates, but each time Stiles couldn’t help but be struck by the knowledge of just how deep the divide was between their life experience and his own. It also didn’t help that, try as he might, he couldn’t stop comparing potential suitors to a certain impossible standard. Warning kids: prolonged exposure to Derek Hale might be hazardous to your health, and ruin you for literally every other person on Earth.

Scott said he was being melodramatic (the same Scott, Stiles would like to point out, who wrote literal sonnets about how Allison’s hair looked in the moonlight), but even though he felt guilty about it, sometimes, late at night, Stiles almost wished for a supernatural crisis to liven things up a bit. Just a little one – mysterious runes carved in the woods maybe, or a small haunting in the library. God, he’d even settle for just someone to talk to, someone who understood. He had a sneaking suspicion his diminutive Anglo-Saxon Folklore professor was some variety of sprite, but he doubted point-blank asking her to discuss the D.C. ley lines over coffee would go over well.

With all the free time he had not attending parties or participating in wild orgies six nights a week, he was way ahead on his coursework and had practiced the defensive runes Deaton assigned him until he was positive he could do them unconscious, with his hands tied behind his back (less of a descriptive hyperbole than a actual precautionary necessity, considering). After the second week in a row of spending his nights bored and alone in his room, listening to Beirut and falling asleep with his hand pressed against his chest, Stiles decided something needed to be done. Everything around him was just so terribly normal, and yeah, Stiles was man enough to admit that it sucked. He was lonely, and worse - he was bored.

But he’d be damned if he was going to slink home with his tail between his legs (pun fully intended). He was a Stilinki, and he wasn’t about to shame his babcia’s good name by folding like a lawn chair during his first few weeks away from home. What he needed was a project, something to invest in, and an outlet for all that extra energy that, now it was no longer channelled into fighting baddies or keeping Scott out of trouble, was only exacerbating his frustration with the utter monotony of college life.

His answer came on an innocuous white flyer, tucked away behind an army of advertisements for student productions and tutoring gigs on the communal bulletin board in the student center. He had marched down early on his day off, determined to find something that would get him out of his funk. He had been combing through the multi-colored stacks for the better part of the last twenty minutes, discarding the many babysitting and au pair requests (he doubted anyone would take ‘playing pack mom to a bunch of out-of-control teenage werewolves as valid experience) and wrinkling his nose at the recruiting posters for the Hoya sports teams – he’d spent enough years alternately warming the bench and getting pummelled by Jackson to admit that maybe sports just weren’t his thing, thanks.

Just as he was about to give up hope, he found it. Plain black type on white paper, none of the nauseating neon colors or – god forbid – comic sans featured on other posters,  half hidden behind a promo for a beach volleyball tournament (in October. On the East Coast. And people say Stiles is weird). There wasn’t much on it, just the words ‘internship available’ bolded at the top, with ‘Archives Center - National Museum of American History’, an address, and the Smithsonian logo underneath, but Stiles was intrigued. Granted, all he knew about the Smithsonian was what he’d seen in Night at the Museum 2 (and God, he really needed to stop relying on pop culture to guide his life choices), but the untameably nosy part of him squealed in glee at the thought of all the interesting things he could get his paws on working in the archives of one of the largest museums in the country. He pulled the flyer down and checked the address on his phone; if he caught the 33 bus on Wisconsin, he could be there in a half hour.

Stiles ran back to his dorm (still noticeably empty of his roommate. Stiles was half convinced he was dealing with a going ghost, Danny Phantom situation here) and dug through his closet for something interview worthy. He eventually settled on a pair of dark jeans and a white button up that only had one ketchup stain on the sleeve - barely noticable, if he rolled them up. He printed out a copy of his resume, ran a hand through his hair, and was back out the door in less than 20 minutes.

*

Stiles had been to the Smithsonian campus once before – his whole floor had gone as part of the RA’s self-proclaimed ‘bonding’ week, before the poor upperclassman had realized just how little the freshmen truly gave a shit and gave up the ghost. The visit had been on the shorter and more harried side; desperate to keep their attention, his RA had taken a Buzzfeed ‘Top 10’ approach and single-mindedly ferried them to and from the major attractions in the Natural History and Air and Space museums. Stiles had been meaning to return for a more thorough visit, but always seemed to get distracted by something (namely, World of Warcraft and the collected works of Bo Burnham).

Now though, he seriously regretted not returning earlier. Surrounded by sprawling buildings advertising  for exhibitions like Apollo to the Moon and the Last American Dinosaurs and caught in the bustling crowds of people – tour groups in matching t-shirts, laughing children evading their anxious parents, art students sprawled out sketching architectural lines and marble sculptures – Stiles felt better than he had in weeks. All the people, all the excitement, all the action and history and emotion set his veins alight as he walked down the National Mall.

The Museum of American History was a long, stone building under the shadow of the Washington Monument and, as Stiles stood outside taking in the square lines and imposing structure, he couldn’t help but think it looked more like a Vogon battleship than a celebrated museum of history and culture.

Undaunted (though slightly distracted by thoughts of the third worst poetry in the world), he climbed the steps and entered the main hall, making a bee-line for an information desk manned by a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a look of absolute, all-encompassing boredom while deftly spinning a pen between her fingers. Stiles thought he might be in love.

The woman heaved a sigh when she spotted Stiles striding up to her desk, cutting him off immediately. “What’s your teacher’s name? I can call them over the PA system.”

Stiles blinked at her. “Uh...what?”

“Your teacher’s name? Or your high school will work. I can’t get you back with your group if I don’t have a name to page.”

Stiles frowned at her. “Do I really look like a high school student to you?”

The woman paused, looking him up and down before raising an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

If Stiles had to classify it, he’d put her tone somewhere between ‘Sahara Desert’ and ‘fiery pits of Hell’ dry. Yeah, he was definitely in love.

Stiles flushed and rubbed a hand over his already messy hair, wisely deciding to move on. “Uh, my name’s Stiles Stilinski, and I’m actually here about an internship opportunity I saw.” He said, thrusting the flyer at her.

Her eyes widened as she read it. “They’ve actually resorted to flyers? Man, they must really be desperate.”

“Not much interest in dusty old archives, huh?” Stiles joked.

She laughed outright at that. “No, no, there’s plenty of interest. People just don’t tend to...last very long in Archives.”

“Like they only offer short-term internships?”

She shot him an indecipherable look.

“Sure, let’s go with that. Alright, kid –“

Stiles made a noise of protest, but quieted at her glare. He’d seen worse (and her eyebrows were far from the most judge-y he’d encountered), but figured it was best not to antagonize the staff before he’d barely set foot in the place.

“You’re going to head towards the East Wing and look for the bust of Martin Van Buren. Hard to miss – a lot of beard.”

Stiles nodded; he was well-acquainted with that most spectacular set of mutton chops.

“There’ll be a wooden door next to it – just press the intercom button and say your name. I’ll give Boris a heads up you’re coming.” She instructed, handing back the flyer.

“Boris?” Stiles questioned.

“Boris is...I’m not exactly sure what Boris does outside of hanging out in the Archives entrance, but he’s good people. The Archives staff sees a lot of turnover, but I’m fairly sure Boris has been here since the groundbreaking. There’s a pretty lucrative pool on if he’ll ever retire.” She shot him a smirk. “If you make it, come see me – I’ll deal you in.”

Stiles frowned. “Wait, what do you mean ‘if I make it’?”

The girl winked and spun in her chair, effectively ending the conversation.

“Hey, c’mon. That’s – that’s just overly dramatic. I can still see you, you know!” Stiles called, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Without turning, the girl extended her pen in the direction of the East Wing. Stiles huffed and dropped his hands, muttering to himself as he obediently marched off in the direction she had indicated.

Halfway down the hall Stiles spotted the bust of Van Buren (as hirsute as promised) and paused in front of the door it bordered. It was made of fairly worn wood – an anomaly in the stone-bathed hall – but otherwise appeared normal. He pushed the call button on the intercom next to the door and bent down to say his name. The door buzzed open immediately and Stiles walked through to a small, red room with half-panelled walls. One corner was taken up by an iron staircase that spiralled in both directions, and in the middle sat a man with a shock of white hair and wire-rimmed glasses reading a magazine behind a desk. As Stiles approached, the man closed the magazine and laid it on his desk, allowing him to see it was the latest Halloween-themed edition of Country Living. Noticing his gaze, the man smiled and tapped the magazine with his finger.

“I like the antiques section – especially now that I’m old enough to be classified as one myself. I presume you’re Mr. Stilinski?” The man had disarmingly clear blue eyes, and Stiles couldn’t help fidgeting where he stood.

“Stiles is fine. Uh, are you Boris?”

The man nodded. “That I am. It’s wonderful you’ve come, Dr. Saint Cyprian was just speaking about wanting another intern. The last one regrettably left us a few weeks ago after an unfortunate...incident. We’ve had some difficulty finding a suitable replacement.”

Stiles let out a nervous laugh. “Well, I like to think I’m both suitable and good at replacing. A+ replacing, right here.” He mimed finger guns at the man and internally face-palmed. Real smooth, Stilinski. Much professional.

To his surprise, Boris beamed at him. “Oh, I do believe Dr. Saint Cyprian is going to like you. Just head down those stairs there, she should be in her office.”

Stiles thanked him and headed towards the staircase, eager to escape that slightly too-penetrating gaze.

He paused at the edge of the stair, leaning carefully over the railing to judge the distance between him and the ground. He wasn’t worried per se, but those steps were awfully narrow and he had somewhat of a...reputation when it came to grace. He’d be damned if he managed to survive a half-decade of California Hellmouth only to bite it on a staircase, though, so he hiked his bag up on his shoulder, shot a wave to Boris,  and set off into the depths.

After what felt like ages of spiralling almost-doom, but was probably a solid thirty seconds, the staircase ended at another wooden door with ‘Archives’ printed in gold. He didn’t see an intercom, so he rapped twice and waited.

“It’s unlocked!” A muffled voice called from the other side.

Stiles took a second to run a hand over his hair and straighten his shirt before pulling open the door. His eyebrows immediately shot up as he took in the innumerable stacked shelves marching off into the distance, and, standing in front of them, what looked like a gray-haired woman wrestling a lurid purple feather boa into a box on the floor.

She spared him a look as she slammed the top down on the container. “Come on in, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Stiles let go of the handle and moved to step through the door frame. As he did, a shock ran through his body and he let out a yelp, stumbling the rest of the way into the room. He shot the door a suspicious glare, shaking out his arms to regain feeling.

He turned back to the woman, still hunched over the box but now completely focused on the young man, pinning him with a searching look.

Stiles stuttered out a laugh. “Heh, gotta watch out for that static electricity, huh?”

The woman continued to stare. “What are you?”

“Uh, I’m Stiles. I came about the internship ad?”

She frowned at him. “Not who are you – what are you?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Uh, a college student? At Georgetown. I’m studying anthropology and folklore and I heard about an internship opportunity...”

The woman abruptly stood up, crossing her arms and glaring mulishly at Stiles. “Did Mona send you? I told her she’s not getting that tablecloth and she can send whatever snub-nosed little pixie she wants – I’m not handing it over.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped in outrage. “Snub-nosed, who you calling snub-nosed I- what are you even talking about? I don’t know anyone named Mona. And I don’t have the slightest interest in tablecloths or any other dining accoutrement, for that matter! I’m just here about the internship.” He waved the flyer around to emphasize his point.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but her frown lightened a fraction. “Well, you’ve got to be something. That door doesn’t react to just anyone.”

Stiles switched his tactic, sniffing imperiously. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

The woman snorted. “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you. I warded that door myself. It wouldn’t have let you in if you meant any real harm, but you wouldn’t have reacted at all if you were just a human. So what are you? I’m still guessing pixie.”

Stiles eyeballed her suspiciously. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I was slightly more extra than ordinary – why pixie?”

“Button nose and boyband hair, ” she said without missing a beat.

Stiles scoffed. “Alright, ONE, I do not have boyband hair. Two, what is wrong with my nose?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. It’s just, you know, very...” She uncrossed one arm, gesturing in the general direction of his face. “Very.”

“Very very?”

“Verily, very very,” she nodded, resolute.

“So, if you’re not a pixie, what are you? I’m happy to talk about the internship, if that’s what you’re really here for, but I’ve got to know. Some of the artifacts can be...touchy, around the wrong energies.”

Stiles sucked on his bottom lip, deliberating. She looked relatively harmless, with long steel grey hair and enough wrinkles to put her somewhere around her early 60’s, though in Stiles’ experience that didn’t mean much - Gerard was pushing 70 when he met him. He could see what looked like tattooed runes on her knuckles and hands, disappearing into her sleeves. Appearance aside, she hadn’t smote him on sight, which was generally a positive sign, and she worked in a literal government institute dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. Above all, nothing in his instincts, human or otherwise, gave him a bad feeling about her, and he had long since learned to listen to his gut.

Decision made, he stuck out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski, Spark-in-training and member of the McCall Pack in Beacon Hills, California.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I thought Beacon Hills was Hale land.”

Stiles flushed. “It uh, was. Still is, technically, though we haven’t heard from any of them in a while. My buddy Scott was bit by a Hale and he has been...caretaking, if you will.”

She hummed, considering this, before extending her arm to accept Stiles’ handshake.

“Spark, huh? I can work with that. My name is Dr. Olesya Saint Cyprian, but you can call me Rian. I’m the head archivist here.”

“That’s...quite a name.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Glass houses, Mr. Stilinski.”

“...point.”

Introductions made, the woman – Rian – gestured for Stiles to follow her into her office and take a seat across from a desk spilling over with books, papers, and what Stiles was fairly certain was a human skull.

“Polish, I presume?” Rian inquired, settling into her chair.

“Got it in one. What’s St. Cyprian?”

“An inside joke – my grandparents selected it when they emigrated from Russia.”

“Oh?”

“St. Cyprian is the patron saint of occultists.”

Stiles barked out a laugh.

“A sense of humour runs in my family, among other things.”

“Things like magic?”

Her smile reminded Stiles of Deaton’s more enigmatic moments.

“Something like that. Perhaps I will tell you later. Now though, we have other things to discuss.” She folded her hands on the desk and leaned towards him. “So you’re truly just here for the internship? No nefarious plans to pillage my artifacts? I can promise you wouldn’t like the consequences, if you tried.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, popping the ‘p’. “Just plain old college credit desired. But if it’s on the table...I’ve finished the books my emissary gave me when I left home and have somewhat been at loose ends. I could use a project.”

He dug his resume out of his bag and handed it to her. “This covers my academic and work history, but in terms of supernatural experience I’ve spent the summer studying basic runes and spells with a local emissary, and have spent the better part of the last few years dealing with everything from kanimas to chimeras.”

He smiled crookedly. “I thought I’d finally enjoy a break with college, but turns out retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m not saying I’m particularly interested in marauding Alpha packs turning up on campus anytime soon, but maybe being around people who understand, getting back into it, just a little, might be...good. For me.”

Rian skimmed his resume then looked at him, considering. She put the paper down and leaned back in her chair. “I’m going to level with you. It’s a bitch trying to keep a non-supernatural initiated intern around - if you’re not in the know, some of the items can be a bit...unsettling. Hell, I’ve been working here for 40 years and sometimes they still give me the willies. Our last intern only lasted two weeks, and I’m sick of training newbies only for them to disappear before they can be of any actual use. Coincidentally, I’ve been needing someone to touch up some of the wards. Old body – can’t do so much of the physical work anymore.”

Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow. From what he’d seen when he walked in, she had more strength than she owned to.

“If you’d agree to take over the wards, along with the standard archive work – returning borrowed items, cataloguing new arrivals, and researching the unknowns – I’d be happy to give you instruction on some of the more...unique objects in the Archives. Officially, we store any items pertaining to the culture and history of America, but unofficially, we have the largest collection of objects and documents relating to the supernatural world this side of the Atlantic – everything from Appalachian yeti clippings to the Salem grimoires.”

Stiles let out a meep at that, eyes going wide.

“We pay minimum wage, and I’d ideally like you here three days a week. You’d get an hour lunch and no benefits, I’m afraid, but I’m happy to sign whatever college credit forms you want and your employee pass will get you special access to all the Smithsonian museums and research centers, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Stiles perked up. “Even the zoo?”

“Full zoo privileges included.”

His resulting fist pump triggered a look on Rian’s face that was remarkably long-suffering, considering the short duration of their acquaintance.

“So, what do you say – still want to work here? It’s not the easiest job in the world, but I can promise you it won’t be boring.”

Stiles grinned - this was exactly the kind of thing he’d been looking for.

“Sign me up, Doc. I’m in.”

*

After filling in all the necessary forms and promising to return the following week to begin, Stiles paused at the door to the stairs. “Before I go, can I ask two questions?”

“Within reason,” Rian said, rolling her eyes in an exasperated look that was rapidly becoming familiar. Stiles guessed it might be her default state. Or just her default Stiles state. Either or.

“What table cloth is so important that your first thought would be that I was here to steal it? Can it fly like the rug from Aladdin? If so – dibs on riding it!”

Rian snorted. “Nice try. No levitation abilities, I’m afraid, but something even better – it never gets dirty, changes color to suit  the dinnerware, and magically ensures that dinner conversation never includes politics, religion, or invasive personal questions.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “You’ve really got people chomping at the bit for that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Clearly you’ve never been to a dinner party before.”

Stiles wisely moved on.

“Alright, second question: is there a sentient feather boa in that box?” He gestured to the item in question, still lying on the floor where she left it and occasionally shuddering with violent movement.

“Sentient, no; enchanted, yes. It’s from the personal collection of an early 20th century siren who, as I understand it, was particularly popular on the vaudeville circuit. It’s meant to entice the beholder into coming close enough to kiss – or strangle, as sirens have occasionally been known to do. One of your duties will be to catalogue new items like this and store them in the stacks.” She pointed to the labyrinthine shelves behind her.

She laughed at Stiles’ panicked look. “Don’t worry – it’s not dangerous, usually.”

Stiles pulled a face, silently mouthing ‘usually’.

“ I’ll give you a full run down on Monday. In the meantime,” she said digging through the mess on her desk and unearthing a small red leather book, “This contains all the protection runes currently in the archive – water, fire, mold, basic defensive wards, etc etc. Take a look at them over the weekend and we can talk on Monday if you have any questions or are interested in putting your own spin on them. It’s been years since I’ve thought about updating them – perhaps they could benefit from a little modernization.”

She handed Stiles the volume and bid him goodbye. He ascended the staircase and left the museum in something of a daze, mind spinning with the unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome, change in circumstance. His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his stupor. He glanced at the name on the screen and grinned, overflowing with glee. There was an honest-to-god supernatural archive under the Smithsonian and he had a job there – Scott was going to flip his SHIT.

*

In a couple weeks’ time, Stiles had settled into a comfortable pattern. Officially, he worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 10 to 6, leaving in time to make his evening classes. Unofficially, he’d started coming in every free afternoon, staying late into the night researching the more fantastic objects.

It’d taken him a while to decipher Dr. Saint Cyprian’s (“For God’s sake, call me Rian.”) system, but he felt pretty comfortable with it now. Rows were numbered, shelves were lettered (Latin for normal items, Cyrillic for magical), with like items placed together and sorted by year. The hardest part was figuring out what was safe to touch, and which items would react...unfavorably to his Spark. Nothing too terrible ever happened, but after he brushed up against an enchanted punch bowl and spent the next several hours uncontrollably sneezing, Rian taught him how to work runes that would hide his Spark into a pair of archival-standard gloves.  

“There, you’re hypoallergenic now,” she said, patting him on the head before walking away. Stiles sneezed in her general direction.

Like he had in the cabin, Stiles found a comfort in the routine of work. He would start his shifts sorting through the returns, deftly weaving through the maze of stacks to restore every item to its rightful places. The museum used a series of glorified dumbwaiters to transport artifacts to and from visiting academics and historians, while members of the supernatural community had to request a personal visit to examine items. The mess on Rian’s desk was largely composed of such letters, from covens interested in recovering ancestral spells to vampires tracking down old possessions and everything in-between. These visits were always of particular interest to Stiles, eager to interact with magic users and supernatural creatures refreshingly free of any agenda to kill or maim him. In the short time he’d worked there, he’d already met a shapeshifter who worked in b-horror films, a group of dryads studying at Towson he’d made coffee plans with, and a banshee who’d given Stiles her contact information to pass to Lydia. Best of all, though, was finding out that his Folklore professor was not only magic (an actual muse - Stiles felt bad for guessing sprite), but apparently dating his boss. Stiles isn’t sure who was more shocked the first time she came to pick up Rian for lunch and saw Stiles standing there, arms half buried in a magically expanding handbag. His boss had burst out laughing at the twin looks of disbelief on their faces.

“Honestly, how could you not tell the second he walked in to your classroom? The kid leaks power. You’re losing your touch, babe,” she had teased, linking their arms together before whisking her up the stairs.

After all the return items had been set to rights and the day’s requests pulled from the stacks, Stiles started in on the new arrivals. The archives were constantly expanding, new additions appearing daily from estates willed to the museum and items recovered from Smithsonian-funded fieldwork. Before adding them to the stacks, he photographed each piece and created meticulous notes, plugging the information into the newly digitized system he talked Rian into letting him implement (the former archive ‘system’ had been a paper card catalogue. Stiles questioned how they ever endured without him).

But the thing he loved best was when he finished all his other work and he was free to dive in to what he had started thinking of as his pet project – the Land of Misfit Toys. The LMT (“I’m not calling it that, Stiles, and no, you can’t make a sign for it.”) was a massive storage room to the west of the stacks stuffed with unmarked boxes, artifacts long missing documentation, pallets filled with objects originally meant for unknown destinations, and rows of bookshelves bursting with dusty tomes (some of which were bound in...dubious materials. Stiles became more grateful for those gloves with every passing day.). Stiles thought the overall effect was something akin to Gort’s house in the cinematic classic Halloweentown 2, and was obsessed from the moment he saw it.

While he got to handle some interesting items re-shelving and cataloguing – highlights included a stack of racy love letters from a New York senator to his mistress(es) and an honest-to-god sentient chunk of Route 66 – the LMT (“It’s catchy, Rian! And you can pry this label maker from my cold, dead hands IT NEEDS TO BE RECOGNIZED.”) felt exciting, untouched. Stiles had shelved his childhood dreams of being a professional discoverer in the third grade after the sad realization that most things had, unfortunately, been discovered, but looking out at the sea of lost and forgotten objects, he felt the part of him that longed to explore new worlds and unravel the secrets of the universe, the same part that happily spent hours reading about unsolved mysteries and UFO sightings on Wikipedia, buzz with happiness.

It was the best kind of meditation, slipping in his headphones and moving methodically through each box. He’d carefully lift each piece, examining it from all angles, running his fingers over the edges and prying at locks, before tagging and photographing it, taking detailed notes on his laptop so later he could combine the Smithsonian libraries with the power of Google-Fu to recover its history. Stiles spent hours in the LMT, feeling like the love child of Indiana Jones and Sherlock Holmes he always dreamed he would be and feeling a rush of emotion whenever he stumbled upon the identity of a once-forgotten thing. He knew a bit about that – being lost, being forgotten. Maybe that’s why it meant so much to him, why he was so determined to identify every one and give them a place in the stacks, far away from the abandoned room full of forgotten things.

More than once, he’d been jolted out of his Adderall fueled research fugue when Rian turned the lights off on him, closing up for the night. He’d have to scramble to get home and finish his actual coursework, unwilling to let his grades slip even as he spent more and more time at the archives, but Stiles was the happiest he had been since he moved to D.C., and he couldn’t bring himself to regret a second of it.

A big part of this happiness was a result of Stiles’ attempts at befriending the other employees. His first day of work, he came armed with a box of cupcakes (bought, not made – through trial and very messy error, Stiles concluded that dorm hot plates did not lend themselves to confectionary creation).  His first target was Jules, formerly known as Information Desk Girl. From years bugging his dad down at the station, Stiles knew the front desk person was always the one to befriend. Officer Shelley was the first to know every piece of gossip in Beacon Hills and had dirt on all the officers, including the sheriff, and Stiles suspected Jules was no different. In exchange for the pastry and the promise for more in the future, she had started giving him hints on which security guards were cool and which to avoid (Benny and Barry, respectively), which routes to take to avoid the tourists (“Stay away from the Star-Spangled Banner at all costs.”), and what foods in the staff canteen were actually edible (none of them).

Over a series of lunches, with mutually agreed alternating dessert duties, Stiles found out she was working to fund an MA in American history and that her parents were academics (“Seriously, what kind of people name their newborn daughter Jules Verne? The answer is mine, my parents did that. I am not proud of this.” Stiles had nodded solemnly. “Solidarity, my friend.”).

He was fairly sure she was human; since that first day she hadn’t done more than joke about the weirdness of the archives like it was accepted fact, and never brought up anything more magical than whatever new docent she had her eye on (Jules was more than happy to appreciate attractive people of all genders – loudly, and at length). She liked pop culture and snarked like she breathed, and sometimes she reminded Stiles so much of Erica he felt a phantom pain in his chest. Though they were never officially pack, Erica had such an impact on his life (and his skull, if he was counting that one time with his carburettor) that he knew, on some level, they had been tied together, even if he wasn’t aware of it at the time. Painful memories aside, Jules was funny, Lydia-levels of intelligent, able to match Stiles barb for barb, and probably the first real friend he had made in D.C.

*

It was on Jules’ recommendation that he found himself wandering the sculpture garden of the Hirshhorn art museum during his lunch break one day. Stiles doubted he was sophisticated enough to appreciate modern art – he still giggled at anything remotely phallic, Snapchatting the best pieces to Scott with appropriately suggestive stick figures– but when he had gone to meet Jules for their usual Friday pizza and shit-talk, she had waved him off, muttering something about a renegade tour group on the loose in the Power Machinery hall. Stiles shrugged and started to walk away, already mentally planning where he could find a quiet area to eat and maybe grab a nap, but she called him back to suggest he check out the Hirshhorn.

“It’s a big-ass donut looking building, really, you can’t miss it.” She had the glint in her eye Stiles had already learned to be wary of as she leaned forward. “It’s one of the main modern galleries– most of it crap, but there’s one serious work of art you might be able to catch, if you leave now.”

“Even more beautiful than you?” Stiles said, batting his eyes at her.

Jules snorted loudly, startling a passing elderly couple.

“Oh honey, I don’t even come close. Just get yourself to the sculpture garden – we can compare notes later.” She winked at him and smacked his ass, making Stiles yelp as she walked away cackling.

Stiles rubbed his backside – Jules had some serious untapped strength – and headed out towards the Mall. He’d admit it - he was intrigued. He’d found that Jules’ interests more or less aligned with his own, so if she was so adamant he’d like it, to the Hirshhorn he’d go. Plus, it wasn’t like he actually had anything better to do now that his lunch buddy had been detained for the afternoon.

He stopped at the hot dog cart parked outside of the museum and couldn’t stifle a grin when Saul, the owner, asked him if he wanted his usual. He was the kind of cool, adult type person who had a usual. Granted, his usual was two chilli cheese dogs and a Redbull, but he’d take what he could get.

Snacks in hand, Stiles made his way to the garden. He’d noticed the Hirshhorn before – kind of hard to ignore what was essentially a concrete toilet roll in the middle of the National Mall – but had never actually visited. The day was on the cooler side, D.C. a far cry from the paradisal clime of California, but the sun was shining and Stiles had invested in a good wool peacoat with a collar he could turn up against the wind (Lydia had told him he looked like a crap Hemingway. Stiles told her she could fuck off.).

Entering the gardens, he stopped in front of a particularly arresting statue of what appeared to be a car crushed by a gigantic rock painted with a smiley face. He tilted his head and contemplated it for a few moments, then shoved half a hot dog in his mouth and moved on. He wandered around the sculptures as he finished his food, stopping to make a face at a kid who was sticking his tongue out at him from behind his mother’s legs. There were quite a few people milling around the garden, which wasn’t unusual in-and-of-itself, but given that it was the middle of the workday in November, long past the end of tourist season, and the crowd almost entirely composed of mothers and women dressed a touch better than the average museum patron, Stiles’ curiosity was sufficiently piqued.

He paused next to the mother of the kid from before, who was fruitlessly trying to corral the young boy in front of a statue Stiles immediately dubbed ‘Junkyard Tetris’.  

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if there was a special event going on? A friend suggested I come down here at this time, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for,” he asked, politely ignoring the struggle in front of him.

The woman grabbed the back of her son’s shirt, holding him in place as he wiggled to get away, arms outstretched and eyes manic. Stiles got a sudden flashback of the sheriff trying to do the same every time he ventured to take Stiles to a museum, and shuddered at the reminder of the short lived period dubbed the Child Leash of Which We Do Not Speak.

Her son temporarily restrained, the woman looked up and shot Stiles a weak smile, panting lightly from exertion. “I don’t know if it counts as a special event, but there’s a pretty popular tour of the major garden highlights about to begin.”

She leaned towards him with a conspiratorial look, maintaining her grip on her son.“I’m not much for sculpture, but the tour guide...well, he really makes you appreciate the art, if you know what I mean.”

At that, her son shook loose, shouting “Mom likes his butt!” before running and hiding behind Stiles, utilizing him as a human shield against his now beet-red mother.

“Michael Joseph, you get back here right now!” she demanded.

Stiles laughed as he turned and picked the kid up under his armpits, handing him back to his mother. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said, smiling at the woman.

She flushed further and accepted her son back gratefully. “Sorry about that. If you’re still interested, the tour starts in about 10 minutes in front of the Rodin sculptures. There’s usually a crowd – you can’t miss it.”

She smiled back at him before gently pushing Michael towards a picnic table nestled between statues. “Enjoy!”

Stiles thanked her and walked away, spying an empty bench in the sun. From what the woman said and her son pretty much confirmed, the tour guide was probably what Jules had been alluding to.  As he settled into the bench and turned his face to the sun, he thought idly that perhaps if the guide really was that attractive, he’d consider getting his number for Jules, or maybe even himself. After all, he had to start getting over Derek sometime, and what better time than the present. With that decided, Stiles reasoned he had a few minutes to relax before the tour began, and let his eyes slip close against the bright sunshine.

Twenty minutes later, he awoke with a start to something cold and wet wiggling in his ear. He flailed off the bench, landing on the ground with a thump. He looked up to see Michael, the kid from before, holding his stomach and giggling on the bench.

“I got you!” He cried. “Wet willy! Wet willy!”

Stiles grimaced and stuck a finger in his ear, trying to clean it out. He hated wet willies, and he and Scott had put a mutual ban on them years ago. Still, he had to admit the kid had chutzpah, and he nodded to acknowledge the successful willy as he got to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Alright kid, you got me. Now, where’s your mom? She’s probably freaking out right now.”

The kid sat upright on the bench and rolled his eyes. “Nah, she’s too busy staring at the tour man. She probably hasn’t even noticed.”

Stiles snorted and held out a hand. “I seriously doubt anyone’s that pretty. Come on, let’s go find her, and you can show me this fantastic tour man.”

Michael hopped down from the bench and slotted his fingers between Stiles’. “Hurry up slow poke,” he said, jerking Stiles forward. “Old people take forever to get anywhere.”

Stiles scoffed, outraged. But before he could respond, he felt an odd sensation bloom in his chest. He raised his free hand to rub against it, frowning. He hadn’t worried about his bonds in a long time – they had remained just as steady and warm in his chest as they had in Beacon Hills, only changing to glow particularly brightly when something good happened, covertly confirmed through his weekly Skype calls with the pack. But this felt different, almost...fluttering. Anticipatory. Like sparks rising from his stomach and pooling beneath his breastbone, resolving into a current that flooded down to his feet and the tips of his fingers.

Stiles frowned and let his hand drop. It was probably just heartburn; he did wolf down (heh) a truly impressive amount of carbs and caffeine. Maybe Michael’s got it right; he’s old now, his body no longer the chilli-dog destroying machine it once was.

He let the thought go as they rounded a corner and spotted a large group of women and a few men circling a melting iron tree with rapt faces. He couldn’t quite see who giving the tour, but he quickly found Michael’s mother looking around frantically near the back. He walked back over to her and smiled at her sigh of relief when she saw her son with him.

“Hey, found this guy wandering around back there.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. A member of the crowd shot him a dirty look and he lowered his voice with a sheepish grin. “Figured you’d want him back.”

His mother shot him a grateful smile. “Thank you – again. Michael’s a bit of a handful, but he’s a really great kid, I swear.”

“Really, it’s no problem. I was pretty much the same when I was his age. I think my dad would call it payback,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. He crouched down in front of the kid in question.  

“Hey little dude, I know this place is awesome and there’s a ton of cool stuff to explore, but try and take your mom with you next time you want to motor, alright? She’ll be excited too, I promise, and I bet if you ask really nicely, she’ll take you to see the woolly mammoths in the Natural History Museum. Deal?”

Michael nodded, and grinned a gap-toothed smile as he reached out to bump Stiles’ outstretched fist with his own.

Stiles stood back up and smiled at the boy’s mother. “Are you going to stick around for the rest of the tour?”

The woman smiled back at him but shook her head. “No, I think it’s best I get this munchkin moving. You should stay though – you haven’t missed much, and it really is pretty interesting. Have a good day, and thank you again.”

Stiles waved goodbye, and turned back to see the crowd had started to move to the next attraction. He didn’t have a clear view through all the bodies, but caught a flash of dark hair leading the group he guessed might belong to the infamous tour guide. He slipped into the back as they crowded around a tall plinth supporting a male figure carved in bronze, striding forward with clenched abs and powerful thighs, but curiously unfinished, missing a head and both arms. Stiles let his eyes drag across the statue as he focused in on the lilting voice carrying over the crowd.

“The Walking Man is an impressionist portrayal of Saint John the Baptist created between 1877 and ’78 by Auguste Rodin, the French artist most famous for The Thinker, The Kiss, and The Burghers of Calais, which you can also see in this garden. The work has been called “profoundly unclassical,” a rough sketch less concerned with the aesthetic beauty of his body than emphasizing the strength and forward movement of the figure, powerfully striding into the unknown.”

A small furrow appears between Stiles’ brows. The voice is relatively high for a man, but not weak; clear and engaging and intelligent, confident in his words. It tickles something in the back of Stiles’ head, a memory he can almost grasp, but slips out of his hands. You need me to survive.

“Saint John the Baptist is introduced in the Gospel of Mark as 'a voice crying out in the wilderness' and is sometimes seen as a precursor to the Prodigal Son. The headless state alludes to his martyrdom, orchestrated by the daughter of King Herod who requested his head brought to her on a platter.”

The sensation in Stiles’ chest flares up again, and he rubs the heel of his hand against it as he pushes himself up on his toes, straining to match a face to the voice that won’t stop itching at his memory. He can’t see anything – too many people, too many bodies, like the space is closing in around him.

He looks at his watch and sees he still has 20 minutes left. Enough time to stay and see this through, if he wants. And he wants; there’s something niggling at him, begging to be resolved, and he has never been one to let things alone – has never been able to stop poking his bruises, even when it hurt.

“The statue famously inspired a poem of the same name by Carl Sandburg in 1916, but I’m particularly fond of another, slightly more obscure poem, penned by Peter Cooley in 2014.”

His mind made up, Stiles begins pushing his way forward, elbowing his way through the crowded bodies, the coltish limbs that had been the bane of his high school existence allowing him to alternately slip and shove his way through the ranks while the voice begins to recite.

“But when the body stands here, one foot back,

one forward, the flesh flexed in motion,

there is no movement that is not your own.”

Stiles advances ever closer to the front, chased by a series of dirty looks and muffled “oofs.” He can see more clearly now; can glimpse strong, veined hands carving shapes into the air, illustrating the words.

“You forget your equivocating past

only to recall it the next second.”

Stiles traces up the hands to tanned forearms covered in a dusting of dark hair and broad shoulders filling out a sweater the color of forest moss. His gaze travels higher as his feet carry him to the front and the spot in his chest burns brightly, driving him onward.

“It is essential that he is headless.

Admit it: you’d be staring at his face.”

And suddenly he’s there, he’s made it, and he can hear his voice and see his face, more beautiful than any sculpture he’d ever seen, eyes so clear it feels like gazing into the sky.

“This is our walk between eternities,

The one we think we know, the one we can’t.”

Stiles blinks, and he’s 16 again,  all jittery limbs and so much innocence stunned silent by a thousand yard glare and a jawline like a chorus of angels.

He blinks again, and he sees the wide smile, dimpling into something not quite a beard, thicker and more lush than the stubble he remembers.

Stiles blinks, and his gaze lingers on the hint of crow’s feet, the hair curling gently under his ears instead of short and gelled, as tightly controlled as the rest of him.

Stiles blinks, and he sees the moment of recognition when his nostrils flare and his voice falters, when his eyes search frantically through the crowd before they land on Stiles’ face, and then he doesn’t blink, because for the first time in years, he’s looking directly at Derek and Derek is looking back.

The ball of warmth in his chest bursts and floods into his body, shooting electricity through his veins and igniting every cell until he thinks he can hear them singing as the heat rages and maybe that’s crazy to think but he can’t think, not when he’s standing right there, Derek is standing right there and he is alive and healthy and existing where Stiles is existing and he feels like he’s on fire but God, he’s never been so happy to burn.

Derek clears his throat, breaking eye contact and resuming his speech even as his cheeks flush and he stumbles over his words. Stiles is still staring, not comprehending, too caught up in cataloguing the ways he is so different, yet so much the same. He spends the most time on his hands, counting methodically over and over to prove that he’s not dreaming, this isn’t a dream, this is Derek, a thousand miles from home and shining more brightly than he’s ever seen him.

Stiles tunes back in to hear him dismiss the tour, apologizing for the short run time and promising to return to regular scheduling the following day. Then people are leaving, and Stiles barely notices, doesn’t stop looking as Derek doesn’t stop looking at him until everyone has wandered away and it’s just him and Stiles and Saint John the Baptist, each equally unsure of what to say.

As always, Stiles is the one to break the silence.

“Going to tell me this is private property?” He asks, shooting Derek a nervous smile.

He smiles back, strong and steady. “I think we’re long past that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out, a little stunned by the breadth of his smile, all that pretty directed his way.

It’s quiet again, for a moment.

“Can I hug you?” Stiles blurts out, unsure of his welcome but desperate to ask. “It’s just...it’s been a long time.”

Derek ducks his head, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink. “Yeah, it has. I’m okay with – if you want.” He lifts his arms a fraction, palms turned out, and Stiles accepts the invitation for what it is, stepping into his warmth and wrapping his arms solidly around him.

Derek’s arms come up, gripping him tightly, tethering him, and Stiles feels that spot in his chest burn so brightly his breath stutters with it. Derek keeps him in the circle of his arms but leans back so his eyes can search over Stiles’ face. “Are you alright? I heard your heart-”

Stiles flushes, and ducks back in. “I’m fine,” he answers, voice muffled from where it’s buried in Derek’s shoulder. “Just, um, warm. I’m very warm. You’re very warm. Werewolf thing. Bet you don’t even need a coat, right? Just go a bit furry and you’re set.”

Derek lets out an amused huff over his shoulder, but doesn’t call him out on the blatant lie. He lets go and steps back, though he remains closer than any normal human might stand in the situation. Werewolves have always had smaller personal bubbles, Stiles noticed. He doubted that had changed for Derek in the few years he’s been gone, and suppressed a pang in his chest thinking about when the last time he’d had a hug was; if he was all alone in the city, too.

Heedless of Stiles’ internal meltdown, Derek begins to speak. “It’s reassuring to know you haven’t lost your particular talent for babble.”

“I’d prefer to think of it as a prolonged opportunity for charm and wit, thanks.”

“It’s an opportunity for something, alright.”

“Hey,” Stiles squawks, mildly affronted.

“I never said something bad.” Derek shoots him a small smile, just as devastating as the grin he bore a few minutes ago.

“What are you doing here?” He asks hesitantly. “Were you...were you looking for me?”

Stiles flushes again. “No, no, I didn’t – I didn’t know you were here. I’ve been interning at the Museum of American History, in the archives. Just a couple days a week – I’m a student at Georgetown now.”

“Yeah?” Derek smiles. “That’s good to hear. Georgetown’s a good school. Your dad must be  proud.”

Stiles snorts. “Understatement of the year. I’m pretty sure he’s bought every piece of merchandise they make – we ate off of Hoya branded plates for a week before I put my foot down and rescued the normal ones from the back of the cupboard.”

Derek laughs softly, and Stiles is entranced by the sound. He tries to think of the last time he heard Derek laugh; he’s not sure he ever has. He’s so distracted by the thought, he misses what Derek says next.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked how things were at home. If Scott and everyone...if things were okay.” He looks unsure, and a little guilty. Like he might still feel bad for leaving, even though Stiles knows no one blames him. He needed to, probably should have a long before. They understood that.

“They’re good. They’re safe. Scott is doing his generals at the community college and still planning on going to vet school. Most of his pack is still at Beacon High, so he wanted to stay close.”

“His pack?” Derek questions softly.

“My pack, too.” Stiles hesitates before continuing. “It all just feels so far away sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes gentle and free of judgement.

Stiles continues. “Lydia’s at MIT, no surprise, but she mentioned that Jackson’s staying in London and studying at Imperial, which was a bit of a shocker. Never knew he had it in him. Kira’s taking a gap year and, last we heard, Isaac was still somewhere in France with Chris, probably in his element surrounded by all the other pretentious scarf-wearers.”

Derek lets out a quiet laugh, then reaches out to brush Stiles’ arm, nodding towards the path. They walk slowly through the garden, side by side, the sky still clear blue overhead.

Derek looks over at Stiles a little hesitantly. “And Lydia, are you guys...Did you ever? I know you always -“

Stiles can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. “No. I mean – no. We talked about it and tried, briefly, just because we’d always wonder what it’d be like if we haven’t, but we both knew we make far better friends than we ever would lovers. All those years I thought I was in love with her, I had been obsessed with this impossible, untouchable thing that I had created in my head; an idolized image of everything I thought she’d be and who I thought I’d be if I was with her. I know what she is now - strong, loyal, tenacious, brilliant, and fallible. Human.” He smiles. “She’ s one of the best people I know, and I think I’ll always love her – just not in the same way I originally thought.”

Derek makes a small noise of assent. “I know something about that – building a person up to something they could never actually be. Building yourself up the same way. It’s taken me a long time to see past that. I’m glad you figured it out earlier than I ever did.”

Stiles smiles up at him. “But figure it out, you did.”

Derek laughs, loud and throaty, nudging him with his shoulder. “You don’t automatically sound wiser if you speak like Yoda, Stiles. That’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, then how does it work? Because I don’t foresee myself turning green and running around a swamp in my bathrobe anytime soon.”

“I mean, you’ve always sounded pretty wise to me, maybe you don’t have to do anything at all.”

Stiles flushes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, big guy,” he jokes, trying to hide his reaction.

Derek abruptly stops walking, turns so he can grab Stiles’ elbow and look him directly in the eye with his considerable brows furrowed. “It’s not flattery, Stiles. You got me through so much in Beacon Hills, even though I wasn’t able to appreciate it at the time. Wasn’t able to thank you the way I should have. You saw so much, knew so much, just instinctively understood the things I could barely face, and I don’t think I’d be here now if it wasn’t for you. I didn’t say it then, so I’m saying it now: thank you, Stiles.”

He drops his arm and resumes walking, leaving Stiles shell-shocked in his wake.

He stutters back to life, arms flailing. “You can’t just – you can’t just drop a bomb like that and walk away! What was that?!”

Stiles hurries to follow, catching up in time to see the small smile on Derek’s face.

“A lot’s changed since I’ve last seen you. I’ve changed.”

Stiles snorts, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, understatement. I –“

He opens his mouth to say more, but is cut off by the buzz of his phone. He pulls it out and swears when he sees the time. “Shit, Derek, I have to go. My lunch break ended 10 minutes ago and I really, really don’t want to get fired from this job.” Stiles shifts on his feet, deliberating for a moment.

“Do you – would you want to exchange numbers? I feel like there’s so much to catch up on and I’m still not quite over just seeing you and if I had time we could do it right now, I’d buy you lunch like a proper adult and everything, but I really do have to go.” He grimaces and looks up at Derek, unsure.

Derek just laughs and gently takes Stiles’ phone from his hands. “Of course you can have my number, and I’d love to do lunch, sometime.” He hands Stiles’ phone back. “Text me with yours.”

Stiles beams at him before remembering the time, swearing again as he jogs away.  

Before he can make it out of the garden, Derek calls out to him. “Hey, Stiles, wait up a second!”

He turns to see Derek running up behind him, smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry, I don’t want to get you in trouble but I thought, maybe...what time do you get off? I could come meet you? I know a great diner just down the road - they make a curly fry I’ve been reliable informed will change your life.”

Stiles grins at him, heart glowing in his chest. “Now you’re speaking my language, big guy. I get off at 6. Meet me under the Monument?”

Derek smiles, dimples out in full show. “I’ll be there.”

Stiles waves his goodbye and runs full-tilt back to the archives, shouting an apology at Rian as he comes shooting through the door. And if he spends the rest of the day working with a dopey grin on his face and a new warmth burning in his chest, well, that’s  no one’s business but his own.

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by Guest Contributor on The Prepper Journal.

Editor’s Note: This post is another entry in the Prepper Writing Contest from Michael Wilhelm. If you have information for Preppers that you would like to share and possibly win a $300 Amazon Gift Card to purchase your own prepping supplies, enter today.

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What you need to know about me is that I believe that violence is crap and being unprepared is stupid…I know what actions need to be done to provide for and keep my family safe… and I’m willing and able to perform those actions. But most of all, I expect you to do the same. No one has to do everything…but everyone must do something….It’s better to light a candle than to curse the dark.

WHY I PREP

My interest in prepping started nearly 20 years ago as a volunteer firefighter. During heavy snow and rain storms, the area my station serviced could become isolated from the rest of the district for days. This was mainly due to downed trees and power lines, flooded roads or heavy snowfall that made the roads impassable.

During these events, electrical power and phone service for the area could be out for days, we were basically on our own. As the station officer it was my responsibility to provide emergency service to the surrounding community, knowing that there would be no backup support. If someone was injured, got sick or if a house caught fire I was the person everyone was looking to, to take charge of the situation and provide not only the first response but likely the only response. So I had to have my station geared up and my firefighters trained up to do it all.

To ensure the station could support my crew. I had food, water, and extra fuel stored at the station. I had the district install a heavy-duty military grade generator that was large enough to provide more than enough power for the entire station.

It was in prepping the station that got me thinking about how well I was prepared for a prolonged emergency as home. I remember during an earthquake drill, discussing with my crew how the area could be cut off from the rest of the world for weeks. My station was geared up, but what about our homes? How would our families survive?

Originally my prepping efforts centered around the gear needed to respond to an earthquake, “the Big One”. I bought a generator, purchased extra canned goods, flashlights, batteries, and up scaled my personal trauma kit.

As a volunteer firefighter I had a “regular job” that had nearly an hour commute. The long commute to work got me to thinking about what would I do if the quake happened while I was at work. How would I get home? If I had to walk how long would it take? What route would I take? If it was to take more than a day did I have the necessary gear in my car to make such a trek?

So I put together an emergency car kit for each of our vehicles. At first it was just some beef jerky, an old pair of pants and a tee-shirt and a bottle of water in small day pack. Over the years I have refined my emergency car kit to support a two-day walk during the winter (worst case scenario).

Additionally, in considering the lack of warning that comes with an earthquake I started to become more aware of my everyday surroundings. Imagine you’re at the mall or in a school or at the movies, or in a downtown high-rise. Suddenly the place started to shake and before its done shaking, all the lights go out and you find yourself in darkness with a bunch of frightened people. And all you have to help you to survive is what you have in your pockets.

Again this got me to thinking about what I could carry on my person that would help increase my odds of survival, short of a backpack full of survival gear.

So I thought about what tools I could carry in my pocket that would help my chances of immediate survival. Here’s what I came up with:

Flashlight – It not only can help you see in the dark. It can also be used signal for help.

Knife – A cutting edge is a basic survival tool dating back to went people lived in caves. You may have to cut your seat-belt!

Lighter – The ability to make fire is another basic survival tool. It can provide warmth and comfort and also a means of signaling for help.

First Aid – I carry a small packed size first aid kit. You never know when you or someone you’re with will get a cut.

As with my emergency car kits this to has evolved. Today I don’t leave the house without the following:

Flint & steel fire starter

BIC Lighter

Small Multi-tool

Emergency blanket

Military chemical fire starter

Small LED flashlight

Couple of Wet-Ones hand cleaners

$5 in quarters

2) Antibacterial hand wipes

Pepto-Bismol tablets

Several different size bandages

A piece of mole skin

Tylenol extra strength tablets

Sterile wipe

Aleve tables

Carmex lip balm

Tube of Neosporin (Now you know why I always wear cargo pants)

This may look like a lot to carry around, and at times it is a pain. But after carrying these items in two pocket organizers for over 10 years I feel naked and vulnerable without them. These items go with me anytime I leave home. I also carry a 1911 Colt .45ACP Combat Commander and 14 rounds of ammo, my reasoning is…I would rather carry a gun and never need it than need one and not have it. For me a gun is just a tool that has a specified purpose that there is little or no substitute for.

When my daughter was a little kid I put an “Ouch-Pouch” and a flashlight in her school backpack. One day the power went out at her elementary school and she was the only person with a flashlight. So she got the job of escorting classmates to the restroom. To this day (she’s now 26) she still cares a flashlight along with a knife, a means to make a fire and an ouch-pouch.

To “be prepared” means that you not only have the tools and supplies at hand to help you survive but you also have the knowledge and skills that will aid in your survival. I my option everyone should learn how to start and maintain a fire without matches, should take a first aid class, and how to tie at lease 5 knots

So what are emergency kits and how are they different from survival gear? Damn good question. Below is my definition of both.

Emergency Kit

Emergency Vehicle Survival Kit

We have two types of kits, home and car, both are geared up with items focused on what we would need after a major earthquake.

Emergency Car Kit: Our car kits are packed with items that you would need if we had to walk for two days in the snow to get home. We purchased military style patrol packs and filled them with items like water, food, a change of clothes, matches and fire starter, a first aid kit, a poncho, emergency blanket. Each of our Emergency Car Kits contains over 50 items.

Emergency Home Kit: Basically an emergency home kit contains enough food, water and medical supplies to keep you and your family safe and feed for a minimum of 3 days (72 hours). Depending on the size of your family this could be a kit the size of the medium day pack or as big as a full size backpack.

Survival Gear

Over time our emergency home kit has morphed into survival gear. We have amassed enough food, water and supplies to support Janice and I for 6 month period at our home in Mukilteo and enough to support are needs for a year in Ocean Shores. Not counting food, our survival gear at Mukilteo consists of over 250 items. Not counting food our survival gear at Ocean Shores consists of over 5000 items. If you think about what you would need for your family to survive a year without the means to be resupplied it’s a lot of stuff.

Survival gear priorities are based on the “prepper” mantra of Bullet, Bandages & Beans (The Three B’s).

Bullets: Meaning security, the ability to defend yourself and protect your family and resources. Having all the gear in the whole won’t save you if you’re not able or willing to keep it from being taken. So firearms and ammo are the common solution for protection. The general rule on firearms is that you need two basic types, a rifle and a hand gun. The rifle is for making contact at a distance. The hand gun is for when things get up close and personal.

Bandages: Meaning anything to do with protecting your health. We have both first aid and medical kits. Our first aid gear is a system based on a model used by the army. The first aid you carry is only used for when you are injured. You do not use your first aid kit on others, everyone carries their own. Our medical supplies are more geared for treatment. We have meds, suture kits, trauma dressing, and the means to perform minor surgery and to treat broken bones.

Beans: Meaning food and anything that has to do with preparing food. The challenge with food is to making sure that don’t spoil before you need it. We have elected to purchase prepackaged survival food buckets. In general each bucket has enough food to provide one adult 2000 calories a day for 30 days. The buckets are vacuum sealed and have a 25 year shelf life. For the most part to prepare the food only requires heat and water. Additionally we have an ample supply of canned goods.

One of the most important aspect of having emergency kits and survival gear is to make sure the stuff is ready when you need it. Buying a bunch a food and survival stuff and putting it in contained and shoving it on shelf in your garage and forgetting about it is just a false sense of security. On a regular basic you need to inspect, resupply and upgrade your kits and gear. I do this annually. In March around my birthday, I go through all the car emergency kits. I cycle out the water, check food for expiration dates, upgrade or add new gear, and check batteries for signs of corrosion. The car kits I put together 10 years ago are gone. Over the years I have upgraded all the gear to include the packs and clothing. In September, around 9/11, I inspect our survival gear and both locations. Given the amount of gear we have this that’s the better part of a weekend, at each home but the peace of mind is well worth it.

The secret to being prepared is to be proactive. It like anything in life you only get out of it, what you put into it. Besides having the gear and knowledge needed to survive, more importantly you need to develop a Family Emergency Plan (FEP). There are several sites and the internet that can help you with this developing a plan. Our plan is very detailed and I review it with the family at least once a year. Developing a FEP is a great exercise in discovering how prepared you and your family is for an emergency.

The bottom-line, if you’re not prepared you can’t help yourself nor can you help your family.

The post To Prep or Not to Prep appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag