#danger danger Cora is a nightmare to have in a kitchen setting

[belovedcorvidarchive2024]

❣ | @intothewildsea :: From Here |

- - -

The gangly man trailed after her, a selection of cooking ingredients stacked precariously in his one arm as he listened to her explain what she planned to do with all this stuff. Rocinante really was listening, mostly - he was also just looking over the label of a bottle of wine he'd pulled from the pantry. It would be a good addition to whatever she was making, apparently. And the rest of it that didn't go in the food? Well... he doubted his brother would miss it too terribly. The lot of it, save the bottle, he abandoned rather unceremoniously on the counter-top. Opening this counted as helping, did it not?

As she gave herself an hour to get everything done, Corazón paused in his half-focused search for a bottle opener, thoughtful. Frowning, he turned and looked over all of the food on the counter - all the vegetables to cut up, and more - then turned back and gave her a sceptical look. Not necessarily a look of doubt, but it was a lot of people to cook for.

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

To Lie Next to You

The four times Stiles accidentally fell asleep cuddling Derek and the one time it wasn’t an accident.

 For @kirjastorotta

 (Read it on AO3 here)

The first time it happened was the night Derek’s world fell apart.

The hospital’s long hallways seemed to stretch into oblivion, a never-ending, winding labyrinth. The glare of the LED lights that hung overhead stung his eyes, the hum of electricity filling in his ears.

Distant voices, the tapping of computer keys, and the beeping of machines did nothing to drown out the voices that ran in his ears—the broken cries, the screams of pain, the desperate pleas.

Every time his eyes shut, the haunting memories filled his mind.

His feet hit the ground with a thundering beat that drummed in his ears, the muddy sludge dragging at his shoes, slowing him down as if he were running in a nightmare.

Smoke and ash filled his lungs as he ran, making him cough and gasp breathlessly. His nose was filled with the bitter scent of ash and the rich scent of burning pine.

A roaring orange glow consumed the building. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured the wooden planks and the frail lace curtains.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin. Beads of sweat glistened in the glow of the fire, his tears burning as they welled in his eyes.

His heart sank into his stomach. He blinked heavily, the tears falling past his lashes and streaking down his cheeks as he watched on helplessly as the fire destroyed the house—his house, his home, and the memories of his childhood along with it. He felt cold, watching the dancing flames devour and destroy everything.

Seared and blistered hands reached out from the windows of the basement, clawing at the earth.

He remembered Laura scream his name, her voice far behind him as he ran into the inferno, sprinting down the hall to where the door to the basement was.

He’d open his eyes and find himself back in the hallway. The smell of charred wood and burnt flesh still haunted him; clinging to his clothes, filing his nose, and following him no matter how far away from the burning house he got.

He sat in one of the chairs pushed back against the wall of the hallway, his face stained with soot and smeared with ash. His hands had been wrapped in bandages, covering the seared flesh of the palms of his hands and his burnt knuckles, evidence of his attempts to save his family—his failed attempts.

He glanced down the hall at one of the doors that had been left slightly ajar. If he strained his hearing, he could hear Laura talking quietly to the nurses, her voice raspy and broken.

She was still being treated for her burns, leaving him alone in the hall.

They’d both heal quickly enough, but for the time being, they had to keep up the illusion that they were human.

Peter would take longer though. He was the only one they’d managed to pull him out of the fire before the house collapsed; his flesh seared, charred and covered in raw sores.

He was comatose; the pain too much for his mind to deal with. Laura had tried talking to him, but he’d been unresponsive.

“He’s healing,” Laura had told him. “It’ll take time, but he’ll heal too.”

Nurses and doctors passed him, talking quietly and casting looks his way—their eyes filled with sorry and pity.

Derek hung his head, unable to look at them. He didn’t want their judgement or their pity, and the last thing he wanted was to look into their eyes and get confirmation that he was alone; his family was dead. It was just the three of them now.

His body was weak and aching.

There was a quiet shuffle of footsteps, slowing in front of him as a pair of scuffed red sneakers came into his field of vision.

He slowly looked up, meeting a pair of fawn-brown eyes that looked at him with a mix of curiosity, confusion and concern.

“You’re Derek, right?” the boy asked.

Derek nodded.

“I’m Stiles,” he introduced himself before quickly adding, “The Sheriff’s son.”

A moment of quiet settled between them.

Stiles shifted, uneasy. “Can I sit with you?”

Derek nodded.

“Are you hurt?” Stiles asked.

“What?” Derek asked, confused.

Stiles nodded towards Derek’s bandaged hands.

“Oh,” Derek said, looking down at his hands. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“What happened?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

“My house was on fire and my family was trapped inside. My sister and I tried to get them out,” Derek answered, his voice weak and breaking. “We were able to get my uncle out, but….”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, predicting how the story ended. “Are you okay?”

“Just a couple of burns,” Derek said dismissively. “They’ll heal.”

“No, are you okay?” Stiles repeated, emphasising his words slightly.

Derek felt tears well in his eyes, his lips quivering as he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. A glistening tear trailed down his cheek as he shook his head.

“They’re all dead,” Derek said, struggling to get his words out. “My mum, my dad, my whole family…”

Stiles didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to; his being there was enough.

He shuffled closer to Derek and leant over the arm rest, leaning against Derek’s side and letting his head rest against his shoulder.

They sat in silence, but their silence spoke volumes more than words ever could.

When Derek’s tears finally dried up and exhaustion took its toll, he let his head fall atop Stiles’, his cheek resting atop the boy’s tousled brown hair.

The two of them drifted off to sleep where they sat.

That’s where Laura found her brother a few hours later.

She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the two of them—Derek, who had never had friends aside from his sisters and his uncle, curled up and fast asleep with someone he’d only just met. The harsh lines of his face were softened by sleep, the smears of soot and ash on his cheeks cleared away by his tears.

He seemed calm—comfortable—and the last thing Laura wanted was to wake her brother now and throw him back into the harsh reality of everything they’d lost. She’d let him sleep for now; let him have that moment of peace.

She shrugged off her jacket and did her best to lay it across the two boys before making her way down the hallway to the intensive care unit where they were keeping Peter.

...

The second time he remembers was one of the nights the pack spent together—movie night.

“I’m pressing play whether you’re ready or not,” Derek called out.

Stiles let out a cry of protest from the kitchen across the hallway, but his voice was muffled.

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion, turning to look at Stiles.

Stiles clambered over the back of the couch, juggling a bowl of fresh popcorn in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other, and a packet of Oreos balanced on top of that. He was holding packets of jelly beans, marshmallows, gummy bears, and sour worms in his mouth.

Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles sank down into the cushions beside Derek, passing him the bowl of popcorn before dropping the packets he held in his mouth into his lap and distributing the snacks amongst the pack.

“Oreos for Erica, jelly beans for Boyd—” Stiles said, passing them to Erica who was stretched out across the other couch, her feet resting in Isaac’s lap and her head lying in Boyd’s. “—and chips for Isaac.”

Isaac muttered a quiet ‘Thank you’ but it was drowned out by Erica’s squeal of joy as she clutched the packet of Oreos to her chest.

He held out the packet of marshmallows to Cora who sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch that the other betas sat on.

“Marshmallows for Cora because she’s soft and sweet,” he teased.

Cora scoffed at the remark but took the packet from him.

“And sour worms for Jackson because he’s a sour bitch,” Stiles said.

The rest of the pack snickered.

Jackson levelled him with a glare, snatching the packet from Stiles’ grasp.

“And gummy bears for Der-bear,” Stiles said jokingly, swapping the last packet of sweets for the bowl of popcorn Derek held.

Derek looked at him, unamused, rolling his eyes as he turned away from Stiles and pressed play.

Isaac reached over to the far wall and switched off the lights, letting the room settle into quiet dimness as the movie started.

At some point during the evening, Stiles shuffled over to Derek’s end of the couch and leant against his side—probably reaching over to steal some gummy bears, too entranced in the movie to ask or to realise how close they were to each other.

Derek didn’t notice either, not until the movie started to wind down, when he realised that Stiles hadn’t moved.

Derek craned his neck, looking down at Stiles.

He leant against Derek’s arm, his head resting against Derek’s shoulder, his cheek smooshed against Derek’s bicep and his lips parted slightly as he drew in steady, slow breaths. His eyes were shut, his dark eyelashes fluttering as he dreamt. The now-half-empty bowl of popcorn was balanced dangerously on the edge of the couch cushion.

Derek let out a breathless chuckle, carefully setting the bowl of popcorn aside on the end table. He slid one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and the other under his legs, lifting him up off the couch and carrying him out of the room. He carried him upstairs, pushing back the blankets of the bed in one of the spare rooms and laying him down, trying his best not to wake him.

...

The next time he remembers was the night of the meteor shower.

Derek had laid blankets out across the ground in the front yard. They knew the lookout would be busy with watchers waiting for the meteor shower, but the views from the clearing out the front of the Hale house would be just as good.

It was early autumn; the nights still held their summer warmth and the ground was covered in a sheet of lush green grass that cushioned them as the pack lay down together on the blankets. A cool breeze rolled through the trees, making the humid air more bearable. The damp earth left the sweet scent of petrichor hanging in the air and the clouds had drifted away to reveal the starry sky above.

Stiles brought out the pizza they had ordered, sitting on the blanket to have a picnic under the dying light of the vibrant sunset. Once they were finished and their dinner was cleared away, they all laid back on the blankets, looking up at the dark sky as the stars began to sparkle.

In the shuffle of bodies, Stiles ended up lying next to Derek, his head resting on one of the cushions Erica had grabbed off the couch and brought out to them.

The meteor shower wasn’t predicted for another hour, so they filled in the time spotting the constellations that were charted across the night sky.

Derek turned his head to the side, looking at Stiles as he stared up at the sky in wonder. The dark depths of his dark eyes sparkled, reflecting the stars.

The first meteor came with a burst of blue light, streaking across the sky; followed by another, and another.

The shower lasted for hours, the sky lit up with magnificent shades of blue, yellow, pink and white as the phosphorous tails reacted with the atmosphere. Some broke apart in the mesosphere, exploding like fireworks as small fragments rained down to earth.

It was a mesmerising sight, Derek was almost sad when it was over.

The lights faded, letting the world settle into darkness once again.

Derek stared up at the twinkling starts that filled the inky abyss of the night sky. He heard Stiles let out a quiet sigh beside him as he rolled over, curling up against Derek’s side.

He turned his head to look at the young man.

His eyes were shut and his face was relaxed as his cheek rested against Derek’s bicep. A strand of his tousled hair had fallen forward across his forehead.

Derek reached his free arm across to the young man, careful not to wake him as he gently brushed the strand of hair back from Stiles’ face.

He laid there a little while longer, looking up at the stars and stealing glances at Stiles, feeling a strange warmth settle in his chest and a smile lift the corners of his lips.

...

The next time he remembers was after a fight. There had been so many, he didn’t know who they had fought, only that the pack had come home covered in cuts and bruises, but alive.

Stiles’ knuckles were torn and covered in blood, his hand still grasping the grip of his metal baseball bat. The front of his shirt was shredded, exposing the bloody slashes where their opponent had scratched his chest. The rest of his clothes were splattered with blood—not all of it his.

His pale cheek was bruised, turning all shades of black, blue and purple. The skin had been grazed, flecks of blood covering his cheek. His eyes were heavy as the rush of adrenaline subsided and exhaustion took its toll on him.

Derek watched his movements, his eyes full of worry as they tracked Stiles’ steps as the young man paced back and forth across the room.

Derek was sporting a few injuries: a nasty gash across his stomach, claw marks tearing open his arms, and a cut across his cheek.

His shirt was coloured red, stained with blood. His injured weren’t too severe; he could already feel his tissue stitching itself back together.

He and the others would heal quickly enough—but Stiles wouldn’t; he was human.

Derek sat down on the edge of his bed for a second. He felt fatigue drag at him.

“I just need a second then I’m taking you to the hospital,” Derek told him.

He pulled his torn, bloodied shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

“I don’t need a hospital,” Stiles objected.

“Stiles, you can’t heal like we do,” Derek said firmly.

“I know,” Stiles said dismissively, setting his baseball bat down. “But I don’t need a hospital, I just need a couple of Band-Aids and some sleep and I’ll be fine.”

“Stiles—” Derek started.

“Derek, I’m fine,” Stiles said insistently, stepping over to Derek’s side.

“I’m still taking you to the hospital,” Derek told him.

Stiles threw himself over Derek, knocking him back against the bed and laying on top of him to pin him to the mattress.

“You can’t take me anywhere if you can’t move,” Stiles argued weakly, his face buried in Derek’s chest.

“Stiles,” Derek started, struggling to smother his laughter. “Get off me.”

Stiles didn’t reply.

“Stiles?” Derek said, craning his neck to look at the young man’s face.

Exhaustion had got the better of him; his eyes were shut and his breathing slowed as sleep dragged him under.

Derek let out a soft sigh. He wrapped an arm around Stiles’ back and carefully shifted further onto the bed, resting his head back against the pillows. He wrapped his arms around Stiles, holding him close.

Stiles stirred slightly, shifting until he got in a more comfortable spot and nuzzling his face into the curve of Derek’s neck.

He listened to Stiles’ breathing, letting the slow rhythm put him at ease, soothing him until fatigue wore him down. His heavy eyes fluttered shut as sleep pulled him under.

...

“Are you are about this?” Stiles asked, somewhat hesitant.

“Yes,” Derek said softly, pulling back the blankets and sitting down on the edge of the bed. He looked up at Stiles. “Are you?”

Stiles shifted nervously.

“Yes… No... I don’t know,” Stiles replied. “I’ve never slept with anyone before.”

“Stiles, you’ve been sleeping with me since the day we met,” Derek told him.

“But I’ve never intentionally slept with someone,” Stiles admitted. “I… I don’t know what to do?”

Derek’s brows knitted together as he frowned in confusion. “You lie in bed and go to sleep like you would any other night.”

“But like, how do I lie?” Stiles asked. “Do we snuggle? Do we spoon?”

“You’re over thinking it,” Derek said softly. He reached out and tugged at the front of Stiles’ shirt, pulling him close. He wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist and looked up into his dark eyes. “If you’re not ready, then you can sleep here and I’ll sleep in the spare room.”

“No, I want to sleep with you,” Stiles said. “I’m just…”

“Nervous?” Derek ventured.

Stiles nodded.

“Are you afraid you’re going to kick me in your sleep,” Derek said teasingly.

“I wasn’t but now I am,” Stiles panicked, squirming in Derek’s hold.

Derek held him tighter, pulling him close enough that Stiles had to kneel on the edge of the bed, straddling Derek’s lap, in order to stop them toppling over.

“If you kick me, I’ll kick you back,” Derek said as if it were a promise.

Stiles smiled softly letting out a quiet chuckle.

Derek craned his neck, bringing his lips to Stiles’ in a tender, loving kiss.

He felt the tension in Stiles’ body subside, his anxiety washing away as his hands ran up Derek’s biceps, looping around the man’s neck as he laced his fingers through Derek’s raven hair.

Derek weakened his hold around Stiles’ waist, running his hands up Stiles’ side and urging him to arch to his touch.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

His hands trailed back down to Stiles’ hips.

He steadied his grip on Stiles, holding him close as he lay back against the mattress, pulling Stiles down with him.

Stiles broke away from the kiss long enough to let out a breathless chuckle.

“Is this how we’re sleeping tonight?” he said, laughing quietly.

“Uh-huh,” Derek said.

He tilted his chin up, chasing Stiles’ lips. He felt Stiles smile against his lips as he brought them back together again.

Stiles drew back slowly, clambering off Derek and laying next to him. He looked up at Derek lovingly.

Derek rolled onto his side, his pale hazel eyes shimmering in the dim light as he looked at Stiles.

“Okay, I’m not nervous anymore,” Stiles said quietly. “Well, maybe still a little.”

“Do I have to kiss you again?” Derek asked.

Stiles flashed a mischievous smile. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

The corners of Derek’s lips turned up in a smile.

Stiles glanced down.

“Can we…?” His voice trailed off.

“What?” Derek asked softly, coaxing an answer from him.

“Can we cuddle?” Stiles asked.

Derek let out a breathless chuckle.

“Always,” Derek whispered.

He shifted slightly, resting his head against the pillow and holding one arm out, inviting Stiles closer.

Stiles shuffled across the bed and lay down against Derek’s side, his head resting in the crook of the man’s shoulder and one hand laying on Derek’s chest—rising and falling with his steady breaths.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, holding him close. He brushed the ball of his thumb against Stiles’ arm, tracing lazy circles across his pale skin.

It wasn’t long before Stiles’ eyes drifted shut, his breathing evening out as he slowly drift off to sleep.

Derek watched him for a while, a soft smile working its way onto his face.

He let his head roll forward, resting his cheek atop the tousled mess of Stiles’ chestnut-brown hair. His eyes fluttered shut as he settled into sleep.

He remembered the boy who had sat with him the night his world fell apart. Never did he think that they’d end up here, but he was glad they did.

[lotornomiko]

Light Grasping Darkness Chapter Six (of Six. Work safe)

I only tweaked it, but I feel this is the worst chapter out of the story’s six chapters...Maybe someday I will try to go over it, and do a total overhaul....My main complain with going over it NOW< years later, is...i feel like this particular chapter relied more on telling instead of showing. I feel like the quality took a nose dive in comparison to the first five chapters...

Still hoping to someday get the sequel story out!

Mary Margaret had been the one to suggest that they all make themselves comfortable. The others could only agree, what with one look at Emma and the exhaustion she had tried unsuccessfully to keep hidden. She had almost flushed in embarrassment, knowing what a sore sight she must make. With her blonde hair wild and tangled, actually swaying on her feet, with bruises exposed on what skin wasn't covered by the shirt borrowed from Hook. No one was asking why she was practically naked, nor were they asking why certain bruises looked more like bites given in the heat of passion. But Emma knew what they must assume, and it was worse because they were half right. She had had sex with the pirate, had in effect bought them time to do what was needed with her body. They just didn't know that she had enjoyed herself for the most part, that Emma would do it all over again if the choice was presented.

Wildly embarrassed, she pulled free of Mary Margaret's arms, before her mother could stop her. It was a mistake, her body rapidly giving in now that she had exhausted the adrenaline she had been running on for the past hour. With a muted cry, her legs started to give out from under her, and not even Emma's determination and strength of will could let her catch herself in time.

Hook was suddenly there, his arms around her. Righting her fall, holding her steady. Emma knew it was weakness, but she leaned into him anyway. Gratitude flushing through her, Emma pressing her back into his front. For one frozen second, they had that moment, no danger or dire desperate circumstance between them.

And then David was there, the ever over protective father. Not that Emma had much experience with the man in this way. And certainly she had never had a man with her that had made her father feel the need to glare at and threaten. Emma wasn't sure she liked this side of him, and she certainly didn't like the fact that Mary Margaret was once again pulling her from Hook's arms.

"Keep your hand off of my daughter." David spoke in a low, threatening voice, his hands curling momentarily into fists.

Emma gave a side long glance at Hook, expecting the pirate to smirk and say something provocative. Something that would make the situation worse, with lewd comments that weren't all fanciful insinuations drawing David into another brawl. But Hook surprised her, merely giving David a dark glower of his own, jaw clenching noticeably as he took a step back.

"He was just...."

"I know what he was just trying to do." David interrupted Emma, never taking his eyes off of the pirate. Emma frowned, wanting to say something more, not knowing how to diffuse the situation, and feeling oddly compelled to defend the pirate.

Her mouth opened and closed several times, Emma wanting to say that they were wrong about Hook. But was it the truth, or just her mixed up feelings getting in the way? Was Emma already forgetting the events of the day, and a good portion of its night, had all been sent into motion because of Hook's desires? Because he had sought the dagger, and had used it to kill Gold, and she didn't even know why! Had he really just been power hungry like they all had first assumed, or was there something more to it then that?

Emma shifted to turn and look at Hook, her eyes troubled. He looked at her, and it wasn't the Dark One that looked back, nor was it the man she had spent hours having sex with. It wasn't even the agonizing Hook, the pirate simply looking cold. As if he was locking down his thoughts and feelings, hiding his true self behind a wall.

This Hook was a stranger, and this too was their reality. Because they hadn't been friends before this had all started, had actually used and manipulated the hell out of each other while in the fairy tale world. With a thumping of her disappointed heart, Emma realized they didn't know nearly enough about each other, had only that wild passion between them. Without the threat of their life and death circumstances, it suddenly seemed insane to think she could have wanted the chance for more.

Emma had thought she hadn't been confusing lust and love, but now she wasn't so sure. Now Emma was realizing she had been so addled brain by all that had been happening, so mesmerized by the dark seductive beauty that was a cursed Hook, that she had been thoroughly lost in a fantasy that couldn't possible be real. Because here in her parent's apartment, with David glowering, Hook distant, and Mary Margaret holding her, reality was hitting. She was a mother for God's sake. She had commitments and responsibilities, a life of her own. She couldn't, shouldn't be falling for a pirate, wanting something more from him than what they had already shared.

Her feelings didn't give a damn about the couldn't and shouldn't, about the reality of just how unsuitable a partner Hook would make. Her feelings just cared that she had come alive in his arms, that Emma had finally let down some of her walls, to actually feel something primal and wild.

It was extremely tempting, wanting to feel that way again. And if he had allowed just one uncertain emotion to leak into his expression, Emma would have thrown caution to the wind, and gone for him. But he didn't, so she didn't, allowing Mary Margaret to half carry her over to the couch.

Hiding her upset hopefully better than her exhaustion, Emma sank down into the cushions. A blanket was brought forth, Emma using it to cover her legs and half of her waist. She was simply too tired to consider a shower, and to change into her own clothing. Emma had a feeling it would be days before she even tried to get up from this comfortable piece of furniture, her body ready with a petition of aches and pains to make her stay right where she was.

Mary Margaret joined her on the couch. David sort of perched on the arm rest, keeping a hand near Emma's shoulder, but his eyes were still set on Hook. The Mother Superior got to work in the kitchen, brewing Emma a cup of tea, which the blonde woman accepted with a grateful smile.

"Thanks." Emma said, watching as the Mother Superior took the seat opposite the couch. She seemed unconcerned of putting her back to the Dark One, smiling soothingly at Emma.

"There's a pinch of magic in that tea." She said, holding up a hand to stave off Emma's alarmed protests. "Just a bit of healing herbs, that will work wonders to soothe and mend your injuries."

Again that embarrassed warmth flooded her cheeks, Emma taking a quick sip of the tea to avoid commenting. She needed the healing, but Emma didn't like that everyone knew, that everyone was making assumptions about the type of injuries she might have.

There was a few minutes of silence in which Emma realized Hook wasn't joining them in the sitting area. He stood on the fringe, a clear outsider looking in. David probably would have attacked him if Hook had tried to come near, his dislikeso apparent, the man in no way ready to welcome the pirate as part of their group.

It was just another reason why Hook wouldn't fit in her life. Her parents didn't approve, David could barely control himself to pretend to be civil. Emma inwardly sighed, but out loud her voice was steady, the woman asking them again to tell the story of what had happened.

What followed was an adventure, Mary Margaret talking about how relieved she had been when David had woken up after Hook had sent him flying into a tree. Emma's father had been beyond livid when he had learned Emma had basically sacrificed herself to give Mary Margaret the chance to get away. And he hadn't even known the nature of the distraction his daughter had tempted Hook with!

Emma realized with shock that David had taken one look at his daughter's disheveled, near naked appearance, and had assumed the worst. Even without Mary Margaret telling him the explicit details of what she had seen Emma do, David had put together a nightmare of a situation. It was no wonder David hadn't been able to control himself, why he had attacked Hook, why he kept on bristling with anger even now. Worst yet, neither Emma nor Hook had explained what really had happened, and unless the pirate chose now to break his silence, David was going to continue to be kept in the dark. For there was no way Emma could talk about what had happened, not to her own father, and not with Hook standing there!

She might have been willing to tell Mary Margaret. She might yet still tell her mother at least some of what had happened. Some but not all, as some things were best kept private. That included her feelings, her wicked wishes, and unrealistic longings.

"It took all the magic dust in the mines, along with nearly all my fairies to mount a working offensive against the evil queens." The Mother Superior was saying, and Emma realized she had zoned out of part of the story.

"But how did you know you were needed?" Emma asked, puzzled and hoping it wasn't something that had already been covered.

"Your mother has friends in high places." David murmured in answer, which only succeeded in confusing Emma more.

Mary Margaret actually chuckled at her daughter's confused look. "Disney didn't get all the details wrong."

"And Cora couldn't shoot down every bird that took flight in the sky." added the Mother Superior.

Emma blinked repeatedly. "Are you saying you can talk to birds?"

"Is that any harder to believe then the magic you've already seen?" Mary Margaret asked with a gentle smile.

"When you put it like that, no...." Emma admitted slowly. So her mother could talk to birds, and possibly furry small creatures. She'd really have to look at Henry's book, study up on the fairy tales that were actually part of her birth world's history.

"It was a relief when we finally got the dagger from Cora." Mary Margaret said, to fill the silence that had formed. "At once we put an end to the command she had given to the Dark One, but it had taken time to catch and subdue the queens."

"How much time?" Emma demanded.

"No more than two hours." The Mother Superior said. "It took time to enchant the collars that would strip the evil queens of all their magic."

"It was even harder to get close enough to put those collars on them!" David added, and Mary Margaret actually groaned at the memory.

Emma glanced at her mother. "Did they hurt you?"

"We're fine." Her mother assured her. "It was nothing the Blue Fairy's magic couldn't heal."

Wondering how much of the Mother Superior's tea her parents had had to drink, Emma looked up at her father. "Where are Cora and Regina now?"

"If they're smart, they'll have crossed the boundary."

"The boundary!?" Emma exclaimed.

"They were given a choice. To stay in Storybrooke without their magic, and face the wrath of the townspeople...or to risk making a life in the outside lands, without memory of who they really are."

Emma couldn't help the shiver that went through her, both choices seeming terrible. How much worse would it seem to Cora and Regina, women who had prided themselves on their magic and power, their ability to bully and terrorize a whole kingdom of people. People who might be quick to repay the favor, now that the strong had become the weak.

"And what will you do with that?" Emma asked, having finished her tea. The Mother Superior looked down at the dagger, actually caressed fingernails over the name carved into the blade. Hook immediately tensed, as though he could feel that touch on his body, which turned Emma's gaze troubled.

"I think it should be up to you." The Mother Superior announced, rising from her seat to walk towards Emma.

"Me?" Emma squeaked out in surprise. This she hadn't been expecting, but it was welcome all the same. "Why though?" The question came out wary, Emma not yet reaching for the dagger that the Mother Superior was holding out to her.

"You did so much."

"We all did." Emma protested. "Every one had a role to play, a part in defeating Regina and Cora."

"True, but you are the Savior. And you sacrificed so much this day." The Mother Superior's reminder was gentle, but it brought the embarrassed heat flooding through her. Emma nearly mumbled something about it not being much of a sacrifice, but a literal biting of her tongue kept her from making such a shameful admission.

"Once again you helped save us." Mary Margaret said, and she shone with how proud she was of her daughter.

"This town would have been lost, ruined under the rule of two evil queens." The Mother Superior added. "Take the dagger, it is yours."

Aware of Hook, his dark gaze not on her, but on the dagger, Emma hesitated. "Can...can you give us a moment?"

"A moment..." Mary Margaret frowned, but David was already shaking his head no.

"That is not a good idea."

In exasperation, Emma grabbed at the dagger the Mother Superior held out to her. "I'll be fine!" She snapped, and practically waved the dagger in her agitation. "With this at my command, he won't be able to hurt me...."

"There are more ways to hurt than just physical..." Mary Margaret murmured.

"I know what I am doing." Emma insisted, and gave her mother a pleading look. "Just let me...look, just five, no ten minutes. That's all I ask."

It was clear they didn't want to, but eventually, under Emma's relentless insistence, Mary Margaret guided a still protesting David out of the apartment. The Mother Superior followed behind them, and then Emma was alone with the pirate.

"So what ARE you doing?" Hook asked, and Emma flushed in response. It figured he'd be the reason behind the cause of her blushing this night. Hook AND the things they had done, together and to one another. Things her parents and the Mother Superior suspected, things they actually felt bad because of.

"Time is a wasting." Hook added when Emma did nothing but fidget in place, her fingers playing with blade in nervous agitation. A sharp hiss issued out of Hook, when she caressed fingers over the inscription in the metal. Emma looked down, and saw his name, his REAL name, engraved there.

"Killian Jones." She said out loud, and felt the magic take hold. Hook seemed to freeze, and for one second the stranger was gone, a frantic, hurt man gazing out in his place.

"Emma, don't." A desperate plea, and one Emma ALMOST listened too. But the power was too much, her need too great. Emma HAD to know, and she realized using the dagger was probably the only way she'd ever get the truth out of Hook.

"Tell me why." She said at last, her voice soft but commanding. "Why you did what you did. Why you went after Gold and his power."

"It was NEVER about his power!" Hook all but snarled. "I just wanted him dead!"

"But...but why?" She asked, doing her best not to flinch in place in response to the way that Hook had shouted at her.

"Why do you think?" He spoke in terse tones. "For revenge."

"Revenge?" echoed Emma, and her mind started to take dark turns, wondering at what Gold could have possibly done to make Hook embrace such a killing vendetta.

"Her name was Milah." Hook's tone softened slightly with the name issued. "She was the love of my life."

Emma's lips had parted in surprise, Hook having said the last thing she had been expecting. Her shock showed, Hook giving her a bitter look. "Is it that surprising, that I could have been in love once?"

Again she turned red, Emma shaking her head no. "What....what happened to her?" She asked, after a few seconds of tense silence.

"Rumplestiltskin killed her." And from there, the whole story came tumbling out, Emma learning about the woman that Hook had loved. The MARRIED woman that he had run off with, and about the coward who had risen to power, and then murdered his cheating wife in a fit of insane jealousy.

Hook kept the tragic past short and to the point, only elaborating when Emma asked him too. She didn't ask nearly enough, frankly too shocked and horrified by what she did hear. She was given a brief history on Hook's quest to find something, anything that could ruin, even destroy Rumplestiltskin. She learned Hook was a lot older than he looked, having spent several hundred years in Neverland. She found out he had returned to the Enchanted Kingdoms just in time for Regina to cast the curse, Hook quickly allying himself with Cora, all in the hope that the Queen of Hearts would one day make good on her promise to bring him to the land that Rumplestiltskin had fled too.

But the single most important, most relieving thing she was told, was that Hook had gone after the dagger without knowing the full repercussions of it's use. That he had been tricked by Regina and Cora, the two allowing him to read a map that would lead to the dagger. They then had pretended not to need him, had gone so far as to knock him out when he had tried to insist on being part of their scheme. They had watched and waited, letting him find and dig up the dagger, and ultimately they had kept Emma and her parents at bay long enough for Hook to stab the cursed blade into Rumplestiltskin's heart.

Hook hadn't gone after Rumplestiltskin because he was greedy for power. It was simply a revenge that had gone horribly wrong, Hook paying a steep price for his hate. Emma couldn't entirely fault him for it, understanding that revenge was a negative but powerful motivating force. And love lost bloody hurt, no matter the circumstances that had it taken from someone.

The painful truth, as awful as it was, became the deciding factor in what Emma would next do. She glanced down at the blade, at his name inscribed there, then bid Hook to approach her. His stiff, awkward way of moving spoke strongly that he was resenting the order, Hook angry that he had been forced to share such a private, personal pain. He loomed over her, his eyes absolutely furious, not flinching as Emma reached up to cup his face, the dagger laying across her lap.

For one moment, she just touched him, staring into his eyes. Now was not the time to speak of uncertain feelings, to wonder if fantasies could be made real. He was angry, and she was tired, and neither could afford to build the other's hopes up. And still Emma had to remind herself of what could not be, to tell herself not to hope that they could have anything more than a quick fling. Lust wasn't love, and Emma was too scared of being burned by the attempt to hope for, to try for more.

Telling herself she would get over this hurtful infatuation, that it had been nothing more than mutual insanity, her voice still broke when she talked. "Take the dagger, Hook." Emma urged. "Take it and be free."

His look of clear surprise was a bitter reward, reminding Emma that Hook didn't know her any better than she him. Emma watched him first hesitate, then snatch at the dagger, as though he feared she would change her mind in the seconds gone by. He stared at the blade, actually closed his fingers around it, then shimmered. Emma blinked her eyes, and found Hook had vanished, and she wasn't entirely surprised that he hadn't bothered with goodbyes or thank yous.

Sighing, she fell back against the couch cushions. The time she had asked for was almost up, and Emma wasn't looking forward to her parent's return. To David's predictable anger over what she had done over the fact she had given up the dagger and set Hook free. But she would endure it, for even a father's anger was a gift to marvel at, to a woman who had almost died and lost everything this night.

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

The End of the first story in the series.....

[thehobbycollector]

The Seer & The Wolf - Ch. 5

Part II – Orynth

             Kestra stood atop the city wall, watching the sunrise paint the Plain of Theralis in blood and gold. A spring wind, warm by Terrasen’s standards, fluttered through her hair, setting the purple and honey locks dancing. Even two months after the siege, the field before her was still churned and torn up, but at least all the bodies had been cleared away. There were still pyres burning on the edge of Oakwald, fueled by the Queen and her Consort, clearing away the last physical remnant of Morath. The other traces of Morath would take longer to wash away: the fear, and pain, and loss. She had worked hard these last ten years to help the people of this city, her city, recover from Adarlan’s initial invasion. And she had continued that work these past two months, trying to help put everything back together. She hadn’t had a chance to think about anything beyond that.

             Everything and nothing was different. Maeve was dead, killed by the Queen of Terrasen and three of Maeve’s own warriors who had, essentially, defected. A healer had destroyed an ancient evil. And somehow, both Kestra and the Wolf had claimed the same kingdom, the same city as home. Had been living in this city for two months now without crossing each other’s paths, even though they had managed several near misses over the length and breadth of the world during the past 100 years. It was incredible. It was absurd.

             Kestra had no idea what to do about it. She had never really given much thought to what she would do if the danger of Maeve was no longer hanging over her head. If she was honest, she had assumed that hiding from Maeve would simply be her life. No matter how often she dreamed of killing her, she had never thought it would happen. She took a deep breath, and let it out, turning away from the wall to head for the steps leading to the street level. She didn’t have time to figure it out right now.

             Even though Kestra had spent these past twenty-five years running an orphanage – Orynth’s Home For Unclaimed Children, affectionately dubbed The Wolf Den – after the battle had ended, she’d found herself managing the Orynth City Guard. No one had appointed her to the position, but when word had come in that Captain Marrin had fallen during the last day of the siege, none of the guards had stepped up, so she’d simply taken over. Temporarily, of course. Though, no one had come to check on the guard, and she had no intention of going to the castle to ask if the current situation was acceptable. Maybe that made her a coward.

             She reached street level and headed towards the barracks as two people flanked her. Cassidy and Payden, twins, were two of her charges at the Den. The guard had lost so many during the fighting that she had started boosting their numbers with members of the Pack – what the kids under her care called themselves. Anyone over the age of 16, who had the appropriate weapons training, had been conscripted into service. She’d had to move them into the barracks too, to make room at the Den for all the kids who had lost their parents during the war. Fortunately, she personally oversaw the training of all of her charges, so she had plenty who qualified.

             “Anything to report from the Den this morning?” she asked the girls.

             “Cora said that three of the new kids had nightmares last night. But your order to pair off the younger ones with the older ones has helped,” responded Cassidy.

             “Good,” Kestra murmured. “Cora works too hard.”

             “Emmet mentioned that a few of the older guards were spouting off at one of the taverns last night,” Payden added.

             “Did he say who?”

             “Wade, Rayden, and Torc.”

             Kestra grimaced. “Those three are a pain in my ass. What were they saying?”

             “The same old anti-Fae bullshit.”

             “Can’t you kick them out of the Guard or something?” asked Cassidy.

             “No,” Kestra sighed. “Since I’m not officially captain I can’t do much more than I already have.” Which hadn’t been much.

             “What if they go report you to the castle?” Cassidy sounded worried.

             Kestra laughed, “If those three idiots go up to the castle spewing their complaints, they’ll deserve what they get.”

             The three of them entered the barracks of the City Guard as the sun started peeking over the roofs of the city. The barracks was a large square building with an open, center courtyard of packed dirt. Sleeping and bathing rooms on the left, kitchen and smithy in the back, offices and armory on the right. The courtyard was used as the training yard. The weapons master was already barking orders at several guards working through their morning routine. Cassidy and Payden peeled off to start their own morning workout as Kestra headed toward her office.

             When she stepped through the door, she found another Pack member waiting for her. Asher was fourteen, not old enough to enter the Guard, per her orders. But he had still offered up his services, along with most of the Pack over ten. She would have rather kept all the younger kids off the streets, safe at the Den, but she knew if she ordered them to stay home, she would have a tiny riot on her hands. So now, she had a network of pint-sized messengers.

             “Morning, Asher.” She took her sword off her back and set it on the desk, before dropping into her chair. “Bit early for messages, isn’t it?”

             “Morning, Kes. It’s from Lord Darrow,” he passed a piece of parchment to her across the desk.

             “You’re running messages for Darrow now?” she lifted a brow. “How did that happen?”

             “Since Evangeline is officially a Lady now, he pulled her off of messaging and put her in the library for tutoring.”

             “I bet she loved that,” Kestra muttered as she opened the message. During the siege, Darrow’s young ward had proved innovative and invaluable by organizing the kids sheltering in the castle to help run messages and restock supplies for the healers.

             “Not even a little,” Asher snickered.

             Kestra read through the message that was, indeed, from Darrow. Requesting two of her charges as handmaids for Lady Evangeline. She mulled over the request for a moment before pulling out two fresh pieces of parchment, one for a reply to Darrow, the other for a message to Cora. As she wrote she said, “He wants handmaids for Evangeline. Who do you think she would like best?”

             Asher thought it over for long enough that she knew he was taking he request seriously. She finished the messages and waited for his reply. “Rose and Briar.”

             “Why them?”

             “Because if she wants to get in trouble, she won’t have to sneak away from them. They’ll be in the thick of it with her, but also keep her safe. And Rose can help her with her studies, since she’s really smart and reads a lot.”

             Kestra smiled at him and handed him the messages. “That’s what I thought too. Let Cora know I’ll be over tomorrow to evaluate their training.”

             When he had disappeared through the door, Kestra pulled a pile of paperwork toward her and started reading through watch schedules, supply requests, and a myriad of other headaches that went with this position she didn’t have.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Bad Blood - Chapter 6

You can find it on AO3, or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

*****

Derek’s textbooks sit on the kitchen table. Peter doesn’t think they’ve been opened in days. Not since Derek learned about the Argents, and not since Matty left to stay with Satomi’s pack.

Six years, Peter thinks. Six years, and Derek was finally starting to heal, to show just the faintest glimmers of the smiling nephew Peter remembers from before the fire, and of course that’s been ripped away again. And Derek’s not the only one.

Just a few months ago Laura was talking about rebuilding the house. Talking about expanding the pack. Talking about a future like she believed they had one.

And Peter… well, he hasn’t slept through the night in six years, but at least his nightmares didn’t plague him in his waking hours. Now, more and more, he finds himself thinking of the fire. Of the screams. Of watching them all die. Of stumbling down that tunnel, of Cora’s hand slipping from his, and when he turned…

When he turned all he saw was smoke and flames.

They never found Cora’s body, and Peter has never forgotten the sensation of gripping tighter and tighter, and her small fingers slipping through his all the same. One of the investigators told him later that the fire burned so hot in some points in the basement and the tunnels that even bone could turn to ash.

And Peter had let her slip out of his grasp.

Derek and Laura were out that night.

It was only Peter who survived the fire—Peter and Matty.

And Peter has never forgiven himself for that. Why did he let her go? How did he let that happen?

He finds himself looking down at his hands more and more these days, and remembering how they failed him.

His left hand. The left hand of the left hand.

The left hand that failed.

It’s exactly the sort of clumsy metaphor that Peter would turn his lip up at in some pretentious novel, but in real life, he thinks, the sting will never end.

And that’s fine.

He doesn’t deserve for it to ever stop hurting.

***

Peter puts out the feelers to other packs, but he’s not surprised when none of them respond with anything more than sympathy. Packs aren’t structured the way that the hunters are. There is no council, no alliances, not even any formal treaties like in some places in Europe. America is vast, and the few werewolf packs are spread out. Territorial disputes are rare, because most territories are separated by large expanses of unclaimed land. The simple reason that the Argents do most of their killing in Europe is because there are more werewolves there for them to kill. Werewolves are territorial creatures by nature—they originated in the old world, and most remained there. They are reluctant immigrants. They don’t like to leave their homes.

They are reluctant refugees as well.

Satomi Ito and her pack lives close to Beacon Hills, but there is no animosity between her and the Hale pack. Satomi cannot offer the Hale pack reinforcements, but she does offer them sanctuary, and not just for Matty. If they run, Satomi will take them.

The idea of leaving Beacon Hills makes Peter’s fangs itch, and not solely because of his blood ties to the land.

Peter reads the email from Satomi that Laura forwarded him, his eyes stinging a little when Satomi promises there is a place for them in her territory. He closes his laptop and goes outside onto the balcony where he finds Laura sitting on the loveseat, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone’s screen. She sets the phone down when he sits beside her.

“What do you think?” she asks softly.

“I think it’s a generous offer,” Peter murmurs, looking out over the lights of Beacon Hills. It’s not a particularly impressive sight. Beacon Hills is a small town. Peter has always liked that about it.

“That’s not an answer.”

Peter shrugs, and exhales slowly. “I think that our pack is four people, Lulu, and one of them is a nine-year-old human. I think that the fact that Gerard and Kate and Chris and Victoria are all back here now is the definition of overkill. This isn’t about the Code. This is about their pride. This is about them finishing the job they started with the fire.”

Laura makes a small sound of agreement.

“Some of us lived, and that offends them,” Peter says, his upper lip curling in a snarl at the word. “If we run, they’d follow. And that’s not fair on Satomi.”

“Or Matty,” Laura murmurs.

Peter swallows. “Or Matty.”

“So it’s us then?” Laura asks. “The three of us, against the Argents?”

Peter stares out at the lights. “So it seems.”

“And Deaton?”

“Deaton’s an emissary,” Peter says. “Emissaries talk, they don’t fight. And something tells me the Argents aren’t here to negotiate.”

“And even if we beat them,” Laura says, her breath hitching, “what’s to stop other hunters coming for us for that?”

Peter wishes he could lie to her.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “Probably nothing.”

They sit together in silence as the night draws on.

***

Peter is loath to admit it, but it’s almost a relief when he’s woken the next morning by the sound of raised voices. Ah. Teenage melodrama. What a lovely change of pace. He climbs out of bed and pads out of his bedroom and down the steps to the living room.

“And what the hell is going on here?” he asks in his most pleasant tone. It’s a shade removed from his ‘I’m going to kill everyone in this room and not even break a sweat’ tone, and is incredibly effective of his enemies. It’s also incredibly effective on young Scott McCall, the reluctant teenage beta, whose eyes are big enough to swallow universes right now.

“Close your mouth, dear boy,” Peter says. It’s been too long since Peter has felt like anything but a weary husk, or a shivering prey creature huddled in the undergrowth. It’s positively a delight to actually be able to intimidate someone for a change. “You’ll catch flies.”

Scott snaps his jaw shut.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Scott wants to go to a party on Friday night. To hook up with a girl.”

“Not just hook up!” Scott insists, his face flushing indignantly. “I really like her!”

“Oh,” Peter purrs, heading for the kitchen and the coffee machine. “How sweet. Scott, did you miss the part where there are hunters in town, and not only should you be staying away from this loft, but you should be also staying away from anything where you risk losing control and either attacking and killing all of your friends—including the pretty girls—or painting a fucking target on your back for the Argents?”

“It’s just a party!” Scott insists, his face screwed up like a toddler’s. “I won’t lose control!”

“Oh, yes,” Peter says. “It’s just a party. And last week on the field when you almost ripped a teammate’s head off, that was just a lacrosse game, am I right?”

Scott growls, the sound rumbling in his chest in a very inhuman way and not making a case for control in any way, shape or form.

Peter meets Derek’s gaze, and Derek rolls his eyes again.

“Scott,” Peter says, forcing a gentleness into his tone that he doesn’t feel. “It’s dangerous now, for you, and for the people around you.”

Scott huffs, and throws up his hands. “Fine! Fine, I won’t go to the party!”

Peter would be a lot more sympathetic to the boy if he hadn’t been dumb enough to just lie to his face.

He lets it go.

“Good,” he says mildly, and turns his attention to the coffee machine.

When Scott leaves, Derek locks the door after him.

“He’s going to the party anyway, isn’t he?” Derek asks.

“Oh, he absolutely is,” Peter says. “And he’s going to need someone there to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, or that he loses control and slaughters half his classmates.”

He leaves it to Derek to draw the obvious conclusion.

Derek swears under his breath. “I’m going to the party too, aren’t I?”

“Oh, you absolutely are,” Peter says with a smirk. “Have fun.”  

***

John Stilinski’s house is in darkness, except for the kitchen light. Peter lurks on the back porch and stares in through the windows at the man.

Stilinski is sitting at his kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey within reach of his left hand, and his SIG Sauer P220 in reach of his right. He’s a mess. He’s unshaven, and his khaki uniform shirt is unbuttoned to reveal his undershirt. Peter can smell the alcohol seeping out of his pores from the other side of the glass.

He’s an attractive man despite his current state. Peter has always thought so. Stilinski isn’t a young man, and his last decade hasn’t been kind to him. He’s weathered and worn, but he carries it well. Well, most of the time, at least. Tonight might be the exception.

Tonight he looks like a fucking disaster.

When Peter was younger, when he was training to be the pack’s left hand at his Aunt Sarah’s side, he’d had to learn all the hunter families. He’d studied their family trees, their pictures. He’d seen them when he closed his eyes. And maybe he’d even incorporated some of them into his dirtiest fantasies. Janusz Stilinski and Christophe Argent had featured in a lot of those. They were all variations on a theme, where a sneaky and wily teenage werewolf got the drop on two hot older hunters and taught them a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget.

That was before Peter had seen pictures of what men like that had done though. Entire packs slaughtered, with not even the children spared.

The man in the kitchen might have been a fantasy conquest of Peter’s once, and he might look like a tired old drunk now, but Peter isn’t fooled by that either.

John Stilinski is what he’s always been: a killer.

Peter won’t forget that, not even when the sheriff exhales heavily and the sound catches on a sob.

He’s a hunter, and he’s a killer, and that moment of mercy six years ago was nothing but an aberration.

Peter slinks away into the darkness, and leaves the sheriff to his misery.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Baby Daddy - Chapter 8

You can read it on AO3 here, or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

Derek still finds it hard to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. He has fewer nightmares now, and his pack bonds feel stronger than they did before, the frayed fibres knitting together again, but he’s still uneasy. Part of him can’t quite believe that Laura didn’t throw him out of the pack, or worse, for what he did. Part of him feels a twist of hot, sharp anger in his gut when he remembers that she’d known all along. Strangely, it’s easier to be near Peter now. Because Peter is, in so many ways, more dangerous than Laura, but there’s a strange sort of comfort in knowing that if Peter ever kills him, he’ll find the right sort of words to make sure that Derek understands exactly why he’s doing it. Peter is infinitely complex, and yet at the same time he’s incredibly straight-forward. If someone needs killing, then Peter will do the job. Mom always said that Peter was morally ambiguous, but Derek has never seen him as anything other that utterly pragmatic. Morality doesn’t even come into it.

Maybe that’s what Mom meant though.

A weight has been lifted though. Derek can’t pretend otherwise. He’s still ashamed, and guilty, but he’s also relieved it’s out in the open, because Kate is still a threat to them. Wherever she is, Derek knows she hasn’t forgotten her promise to come back and kill them. And Peter knows that now. And Peter knowing makes them safer, doesn’t it? Because Kate might be a monster, but Peter is the left hand of the alpha. He’s a born predator and the fire, it seems, has only made his edges sharper.

It’s all in the open now, and maybe they’re going to be okay.

***

Laura’s scent changes day by day, subtle, warm notes clinging to the familiar ones of alpha and sister and pack, overlaid to make something richer. Notes upon notes, until a melody becomes a symphony. Derek finds himself leaning closer to her at times, just to breathe it in, equally entranced and repelled when alpha and sister and pack somehow becomes want and yes and mine.

He doesn’t remember feeling this way when Mom was pregnant with Cora or the twins, but his pack instincts have been messed up for years, haven’t they?

One night, fighting the urge to plaster himself against Laura’s back and just inhale, he hurries upstairs instead and locks himself in the bathroom.

Even there, under the overriding stench of bleach—why the hell Laura cleaned the bathroom with bleach he has no idea—he can’t seem to escape the scent.

***

“I have a plan,” Peter declares one evening, turning up unannounced with Thai takeout.

Laura’s sitting on the floor going through a catalog full of nursery stuff and baby clothes. She’s circling the stuff she thinks she’s going to need in blue Sharpie. Derek has seen her flick back to the page with the little green dinosaur onesie—complete with soft felt spines down the back—but she hasn’t circled it yet. They lived on the run for so long that anything that isn't an absolute necessity feels almost frivolous.

Laura sets the catalog aside. “What plan?”

“Derek?” Peter asks, holding the bags out.

Derek divests him of them, and carries them into the kitchen to wrangle up some plates and cutlery.

Peter waits until they’re all seated around the coffee table, steaming plates in front of them, before he tells them.

“The house,” he says. “I want to rebuild the house.”

Derek catches Laura’s gaze.

“I don’t know,” Laura says slowly.

“Hear me out,” Peter says. “We have the money, and this loft is no place to bring up a cub. Children need space to run around. Werewolf children more than most. Are you telling me that you don’t want your child to grow up like you both did? Like I did? Running barefoot in the Preserve?”

Derek feels the ache of it in his bones. He also recognises it as pure emotional blackmail.

So does Laura. “What’s your angle?”

Peter gives her an approving smile. “Well, so far we’re all under the radar here, aren’t we? But if the Hale house was to be rebuilt, I imagine that would interest the townspeople a little, wouldn’t it? Might even make the local newspaper.”

A chill runs through Derek.

“You want to draw out the Argents,” Laura says. “By rebuilding our house.”

“I very much want to drew out the Argents,” Peter agrees, eyes gleaming.

Laura frowns. “You want to use us as bait?”

“You make it sound so underhanded, Lulu.” Peter’s smile is as sharp as his gaze. “We’re already bait. But this way we at least get to be prepared for when they might try to snap us up.”

Laura nods slowly, and Derek wonders if she’s aware her hands have slipped to her abdomen. Protective. “What would we need to do?”

“Nothing except pick out floor plans and fixtures,” Peter tells her. “And when they come for us, I’ll be waiting for them.”

“It’s dangerous,” Laura murmurs.

“It’s no more dangerous than doing nothing,” Peter counters. He digs his chopsticks into his pad thai. “We have a small advantage if we set the trap ourselves. Do you still want to be looking over your shoulder in ten years, when you’re walking your child to school?”

Laura is quiet.

“She—” Derek swallows, and tries again. “Kate. She’ll come for us. She won’t ever stop.”

Laura’s gaze is full of sorrow as she looks at him. She presses her mouth into a thin line, and then looks back at Peter. She nods. “We’ll do it. We’ll rebuild the house and draw the Argents back here.”

“And I’ll rip their hearts out of their chests,” Peter says, his eyes flashing blue.

***

One night on the door of the club, Derek tells Boyd that he’s going to be an uncle.

“That’s great, man!” Boyd slaps him on the back, and Derek feels warmth spread through him. “Congratulations!”

Next week, Boyd presents him with a tiny pair of knitted booties.

“Erica made them,” he says with a bashful smile. “She’s learning how to knit.”

The booties are yellow, and a little lopsided.

“They’re so tiny,” Derek says doubtfully. They fit into the palm of his hand.

“So are babies,” Boyd points out.

That’s fair.

Derek tucks the booties carefully into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Tell Erica thanks. That’s really nice of her.”

“No problem,” Boyd says.

Later, when he’s back home, Derek sets the yellow booties carefully down on the coffee table, and thinks about how strange it is that some girl he’s never met knitted these for his sister’s baby. And how long it’s been since he remembered what friends do.

***

Peter was right about their plans to rebuild the house making the local paper. It’s just a small article on the third page, noting that planning permission has been given to bulldoze the remains of the old house, and begin rebuilding soon. There’s a photograph of Peter from before the fire, smiling into the camera. Derek doesn’t know where the paper found it. There are no photographs of him and Laura, but they’re mentioned in the article as being back in town.

Derek doesn’t read the whole thing.

He isn’t sure how he feels about the plan to rebuild the house, and it has nothing to do with letting the Argents know they’re back in Beacon Hills.

His parents and siblings died in that house, along with most of the rest of his pack.

He wonders if he’ll imagine their screams for the rest of his life.

He wonders how loud they’ll be when he’s living on top of their graves.

***

It’s raining when Derek gets to the diner, droplets sliding down the back of his neck and into his shirt. He’s tired and hungry after a long shift at the club, and he managed to step in a puddle on the walk to the diner, and then almost get hit by a car that failed to stop at the crosswalk. He’s really not in the mood to sit around and wait for Laura to finish work, but it was either that or walk the rest of the way back to the loft in the rain.

He pushes open the diner door and scowls as the bells jingle.

Harold the drunk is sleeping in a corner booth, and there’s a guy sitting up at the counter with a bunch of books spread out in front of him taking up all the space like he thinks he owns the place. His stool squeaks as he spins around to take a look at the new arrival, and Derek freezes as the guy’s scent hits him.

Want. Yes. Mine.

The guy can’t be any older than eighteen or nineteen. He’s pale, with mole-spotted skin. He has dark hair spiked up in all different directions as though he’s been dragging his hands through it—Derek feels an irrational surge of heat at the thought of doing the same—large dark eyes, and an upturned nose. He has a wide, generous mouth that at the moment has a pen hanging from it. He’s slim, but not scrawny, and holds himself awkwardly under Derek’s scrutiny, one leg jiggling.

Derek just stares.

“Oh,” the guy says at last, stumbling down from the stool and gathering up all his books. “Sorry. I’m in your way.”

No, Derek wants to tell him, you’re not, but he can’t even open his mouth.  

The guy takes his books and dumps them on a table in the nearest booth. Then he returns to the counter for his milkshake, side-eyeing Derek like he thinks he’s about to rob the place or something, because Derek still hasn’t moved.

Want. Yes. Mine.

His wolf is pushing close to the surface of his skin, and Derek curls his fingers into fists. He feels the press of claws into his palms, and the quick sting as they break the skin. Shit. He’s shifting. He averts his gaze before his eyes flash, and sucks in a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

All that does is fill his lungs with another burst of the guy’s scent, and Derek twitches as he feels his bones start to shift.

He wants. He wants like he hasn’t wanted in years. He wants to grab the guy, and push his face into his throat, breathe in more of his intoxicating scent. He wants to lick the taste of the guy’s salt-skin in a path all the way up the long column of his throat, and make the guy whine and shiver against him in a need equal to his own. He wants to press his mouth against the guy’s, and swallow every needy sound he makes.

His wolf is howling at him to make his move, but Derek is frozen in shock and fighting for control. It takes him a moment to realise that Laura’s come out of the kitchen, and the guy is saying something to her.

“…call 911?” the guy finishes in an undertone that Derek’s not supposed to be able to hear.

“He’s not a tweaker, Stiles. He’s my brother.” Laura says, and raises her voice. “Derek? Derek, are you okay? You’re zoning out there, little brother.”

There’s a lightness in her tone that Derek knows is all an act. She’s worried about him, but she’s also warning him not to shift. Not here, not now. Her tone might be light, but it’s brittle at the same time. Even the guy, Stiles, gives her a dubious look.

Derek pushes his wolf back down, and jerks his chin in a nod.

“Busy night, I guess,” Laura says. “Stiles, this is my brother, Derek. Derek, this is Stiles.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, and raises his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi.”

Derek manages to nod again, and that’s when he realises: the scent. The scent that’s combined with Laura’s, that has him itching to get closer to her. The scent of her pregnancy, and of home, and pack. The scent that even the bleach in the bathroom couldn’t entirely drown out.

It’s his mate’s scent.

“Stiles hangs out here because he has no other friends,” Laura says teasingly.

“Uh, excuse you. I also have insomnia!”

Derek stares at them both.

It’s his mate.

His mate is the father of his sister’s baby.

Laura reaches out over the counter and punches Stiles lightly on the shoulder.

“I have to go,” Derek blurts out.

“It’s raining out there, dude,” Stiles says, his brow creased.

“I have to go,” Derek repeats.

“Der?” Laura calls, but he’s already fled back out into the rain, the bells on the door jingling loudly behind him.

***

Maybe, at one time, Derek might have laughed at how the universe just won’t give him a fucking break. Maybe someone else still would. But if there’s one thing Derek knows for sure, it’s that he doesn’t deserve a break. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness, or a pack, or a mate.

And Laura doesn’t deserve to have a beta, and a brother, who brings her nothing but heartache.

I’m sorry, he writes on a note that he leaves on the kitchen counter.

And then he sets his keys down beside the note, and he goes upstairs and grabs the bag that he never bothered to unpack, and he does what he should have done months ago.

He leaves.