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2020-03-24
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2022-06-08
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11/?
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Cat and Wolf

Chapter 3: Claws Out

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The pain and biting cold that had radiated throughout his body were notably lessened the moment the transformation washed over him.  Enchanted, leather-like fabric knit itself around his body, lending support and warmth against the autumnal air.  It was ridiculously easier to breathe, and the ache was merely background noise; his senses amplified as per usual.

Taking quick stock of himself, he noted that the real, functioning cat ears had remained on his head.  The long, black tail extending from the base of his spine persisted as well, reaching a foot past the length of his legs; the belt he typically sported was strapped at his hips.  If he focused, he realized, the extra appendages would move according to his will, but there was also a sense that they primarily moved independently, similar to the way one’s lungs would ventilate air without prompt.

Hearing the footfalls in the distance reaping ground, he refocused and took off sprinting, relishing in the advantage of his night vision and augmented speed.  It didn’t take him long to realize how much more stable he was as he ran, feeling the way his tail naturally counterbalanced his body as needed, allowing for sharper turns and seamless transitions from quadrupedal to bipedal strides.

It was strange, in a lot of ways, that he actually felt vaguely comforted by the extra appendages, as though he was almost…missing…them before.  Still, aversion to the presence of them was extant when he considered his human form.  That would not be easy to explain, or hide for that matter.

After what felt like fifteen minutes of hard, assiduous running, though, he started to notice the gradual depletion in the energy afforded him by the transformation.  His lungs swelled and collapsed heavily in his chest, progressively easing back into the ragged pattern present when he’d first awakened in the forest.  Realization brought with it tendrils of dread, because he could still hear the treading of his pursuers behind him, weighty huffs of air intermingling, and they had been gaining ground increasingly with each passing minute.

Chat Noir, in his prime, had immense speed and commendable endurance.  His current state was not so fortunate, and broad endurance was more a trait of wolves, who frequently outpaced and took down prey by running them into exhaustion.

As it was, desperation began to settle into his bones with each passing second that he could tell the pursuers were catching up to him.  Plagg’s warning that the transformation would not last rang in the back of his mind and he made a rash decision.

It was a mistake.

He veered left sharply, shooting up into the trees, hoping to cut back and cross the creek, have them lose his trail the moment he managed an opportunity to mask his scent.  But he miscalculated the strength of one of the branches he leapt onto, too preoccupied by planning his route, and felt the wooden appendage crack and give under his weight the second he landed.

A sharp cry of surprise escaped him as he violently tumbled onto the ground for the second time that night, his suit only marginally cushioning the fall.  In the precious moments he was dazedly attempting to gain his bearings, the thundering sound of footfalls managed to reach him, and a wave of panic swathed him as he slowly looked up at his pursuers.

 

 

Derek was not taken as a fool when their prey took an abrupt turn, seemingly looking to throw them off his tail, and followed the scent closely.  Only moments later a crack preceded a cry of surprise, the following sounds indicating their target had an unfortunate collapse.

He picked up speed, covering the remaining hundred meters and darting around the last few trees and roots before finally catching up to their objective.

The pack immediately fanned out around the figure that was slowly picking itself up off the ground, standing upright after a trice.

Upon seeing their prey, uncertainty was mirrored across the gathering.

It was a boy, young by the looks of it, clothed from the neck down in a subtly lustrous black suit that hugged his thin form like a second skin.  Evidence for the preternatural was blatant with the black cat ears pivoting at the top of his head and the long tail that flicked and curled behind him – likely a form of shapeshifter similar to werewolves, but one Derek had never laid eyes on before.

The stench of fear and adrenalin wafted heavily off the boy, and, as he looked up at the surrounding werewolves, enormous sea green eyes became visible, framed by a black mask covering half his face.  His sclerae were a lighter shade of green than his irises—chartreuse then emerald in color—and the slitted pupils only added to the ethereal appearance.

At the sight of the werewolves surrounding him the boy instantly dropped his center of gravity, cat ears flattening on his head and eyes narrowing as a hiss erupted from his throat, sharp canines—fangs—flashing in warning.  His tail whipped behind him, fur standing on end; even the wild blond locks on his head seemed to have puffed up.  His hand reached behind him and retrieved what looked to be a metal baton, which extended to the length of a staff as he brought it before himself defensively; thin fingers ending in sharp claws curled around the weapon.

Responding snarls erupted from the pack, bodies repositioning at the ready for an assault.

Derek shifted back from his full wolf form to his in-between state, to which the boy visibly recoiled, a low growl resonating from the kid’s throat in warning.  His labored breaths were audible and intermingled with that of the pack.  The alpha stepped forward, watching as the blond matched by taking a step back and releasing yet another feral hiss; Derek addressed the child, “You’re on Hale territory, and I don’t take kindly to trespassers.  Who are you and what is your business here?” he growled, flashing scarlet eyes threateningly. 

The kid’s presence was strangely alluring in a way Derek could not fully comprehend.  And as disarming as the boy looked, there was something to him, an aura of danger, of chaos and decay…the werewolf could not place it.  Now that he was near, he could feel immense power pulsing inside the small body, and he did not like the implications.

Luminous verdant eyes gazed back, appraising the man.  “Anglais…?” (English…?) The boy whispered quietly to himself, looking around again at the surrounding Lycans.  “Ils n’ont pas l’air d'être Akumatisés…” (They don’t look like they’re Akumatized…) he continued under his breath, considering the circumstances.

Jackson’s face morphed in recognition of the language, glancing at Derek curiously.  French.  The boy was speaking in French.  Derek was just about to respond in kind when the boy spoke again, asking, in perfect English, “Where…where is this place?”

A scowl descended on the alpha’s face.  “You’re in no position to be asking questions.  And I’m the one who needs answers, right now.”  Derek was yet unsettled by the way those emerald eyes reflected even the smallest hints of light.  There was no space for pleasantries.  The supernatural shapeshifter before them was a product of potent magic, summoned at the Nemeton no less, and he would be damned if he were to let a potential threat beguile them. 

The blond cocked his head with a scoff.  “I don’t need to tell you anything,” he rebuked.  The bravado of confidence, however, was betrayed by the way his knees and hands shook, the scent of adrenalin and anxiety was still pungent and telling.

“Oh, the cat-boy has sass,” Erica blurted, lips stretched over sharp canines in a cheeky smirk.

The younger male’s face colored at the comment, head whipping around to scrutinize them once more.  “What even are you guys?” came the question, his voice breaking into a higher pitch.  His body language was telling: his form taut, strung so tightly in fear like a cornered animal, agitated, a hairsbreadth away from retaliating.

Which is why when Jackson took a step forward, just too close, mouth opening in what would have likely been a derisive comment, the kid snapped.

The movement was so fast even Derek had trouble keeping his eyes on him.  The boy pivoted on his heel and twisted, hand flicking up while his staff extended and jabbed the older teen in the gut, thrusting his arm forward at the moment of impact to send Jackson hurling backward.

It was mere seconds before the pack descended on the young teen.  Despite this, the cat shapeshifter quickly displayed a combat ability that not only spoke of experience with being outnumbered, but of a prowess wholly unexpected from someone so small.

Silver metal gleamed in the light of the full moon as the staff was expertly twirled around him, delivering swift offensive blows and parrying responding attacks.  The fact that the boy was delivering non-lethal strikes was not lost on them, but the power behind them remained evident.  He progressed quickly, each move serving to disable as well as maintain a distance from the werewolves. 

The betas were skilled themselves, however, each working in tandem with one another in ways they’d previously practiced, which served them well against the surprisingly deft fighter.  Having the rapid healing factor and durability of werewolves played a part as well.  But the young male was quick to regain distance when he was being cornered.

Still, as the fight prolonged, the boy’s movements gradually dropped in velocity, becoming sloppier, more frantic, and taking blows more frequently than originally. 

The blond ducked under a sharp-clawed swipe from Isaac, grabbing hold of his arm and using the teen’s own momentum to flip him over his back, but was unable to pivot in time to defend against one of Erica’s kicks to his side, eliciting a short yelp.  He promptly leaped vertically to avoid a second blow, flipping mid-air to land directly on Scott’s shoulders and pitched backward, kicking his feet forward and sending the tanned male careening forward into Boyd, twisting at the last minute to land in a crouch. 

Derek, who had been closely watching the exchange from the periphery, decided it was time to intervene.  He entered rapidly in between the present chaos and seized the first opening – ripping away the staff from the outstretched arm and reaching around the boy’s shoulders while his back was turned.  His large hand closed around the child’s throat and yanked, effectively slamming the kid into the ground.

A sharp, strangled cry ended in a wheeze, thin fingers clawing at the hand compressing his trachea.  The pack held back the moment their alpha intervened but convened nearby just in case.  Derek’s critical gaze raked the form beneath him, feeling the way the smaller body beneath him quaked in exertion and fright.  Part of him, the human part—the rational part—reeled at the thought of hurting, or even killing, a child; put gently, it was repulsive. 

But a damaged part of him, a small, dark crevasse deep within him that had been jaded from his life of violence, grief, and loss, goaded him to eliminate the potential threat regardless.

Sea-green eyes stared back at him, watering at the corners and squinting against the effort to bring oxygen into his lungs.  His face was too young, round and innocent, which warred viciously with the dangerous aura he sensed pulsing beneath the child’s skin.

Crashing sounds drew everyone’s attention as Stiles burst through the brush and skidded to a stop, hair sticking up in all directions and looking in a general disarray.  He was sweat-soaked and panting heavily as his amber eyes took in the situation, seeing the pack, then Derek, before finally settling on the person pinned under Derek’s hand.  Seconds trickled by, processing, before Stiles’ eyes widened considerably in recognition, alarm soon twisting his features as he suddenly lunged forward toward the alpha.

The next few moments happened in a blur.

Derek hadn’t even managed to open his mouth to rebuke Stiles when there was a quick shift in the body beneath him.  The boy had somehow tucked his legs up against his chest, planting his heels against Derek’s abdomen in one swift motion, then kicked out, sending the older man flying backwards.

Scott, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson collectively reacted, moving to once again attack when Stiles practically threw himself between the pack and the cat shapeshifter, screaming, “Stop!” at the top of his lungs.  “Don’t hurt him!”

Violent coughing filled the momentary silence following the outburst, the blond boy having turned onto his side, both hands cupping around his abused throat as he desperately attempted to bring oxygen into his body.

Derek was back in seconds, looking like a storm.  “What the fuck are you doing, Stiles?!  Get away from that thing!” he roared, refusing to admit to the thrill of fear that spiked at seeing the Spark near their enemy and channeling the sensation into a more familiar emotion: anger.

Stiles was gulping in lungfuls of air, arms held out to appease his counterparts.  “He’s—Don’t hurt him!”

“He attacked us!” Jackson interjected angrily.

“…We did hunt him down…” came the quiet mutter from Isaac, who shrunk in on himself at the leer the jock turned on him.

“Stiles,” Derek ground out, reaching toward the teen with every intention of yanking the sixteen-year-old out of the way.

Until amber eyes flashed bright in warning, causing the alpha pause.  Stiles was threatening him.  The air around him briefly glistened with magic.  “He’s not our enemy,” the teen gasped, glaring at the Lycan with a stubbornness only Stiles could manage.

At that, Scott shifted back into a human and drew his best friend’s attention, asking, “How do you know?  I thought you sensed something dangerous.”  The confusion was understandable, given the circumstances.  Stiles aggressively drew a hand down his face, exasperated.

“Yes, I did,” he clarified, “Until I actually saw who we’re dealing with.”

“You’re saying you know him?” Scott inquired, looking between his friend and the boy still wheezing beside him.

“Of him.  I know of him, I don’t actually know him personally,” Stiles explained, moving to check on the younger male once he established the pack would not attack.  By then, the Lycans had shifted back into their human forms, which visibly helped to ease at least some of the collective tension.  The kid seemed exhausted, one bright green eye peeking up at Stiles, wary and bewildered.  “Are you okay, Chat Noir?” he asked, earning a shocked expression from the blond.

The teen’s mouth opened to reply when a high-pitched chirping sound resounded from the ring on his right hand.  A look of horror descended on his face, a breathy, “No, not now…” escaping his lips.

Derek’s form loomed over Stiles and the kid, scarlet glare in full strength.  “Explain.  Now,” he demanded, barely managing to restrain his anger.

The flippant response of, “He’s a superhero,” raised some eyebrows and nearly crumbled Derek’s ability to not pummel the Stilinski teen.  It was only the subsequent elucidation that quelled the anger inside the werewolf.  “He goes by Chat Noir and works alongside another heroine who goes by Ladybug.  Normally they’re based in Paris, France…” 

Jackson’s jeering remarks were staved off by Boyd’s heavy hand settling on his shoulder with a choice look.

“Magic is at the core of it and both are essentially two sides of a coin,” he continued, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke, “Chat Noir represents destruction and misfortune, while Ladybug represents creation and good fortune.  There isn’t much more information on the two that I could find…literature on them is pretty rare despite the two appearing throughout history…”  Golden honey eyes quickly assessed the blond next to him, wondering at his youthfulness.  “But I do know that the ring on his finger is called a Miraculous, and that it affords him the magical suit he’s currently wearing.”

Stiles then fully turned his attention back to the young hero and smiled gently, hoping to alleviate some of the blatant anxiety permeating his existence, adding, “And no, we don’t want to take the Miraculous from you, nor are we Akumatized.”

Derek’s visage remained aggravated as he processed the information Stiles had supplied.  He would certainly be asking for more – ignorance to any degree was virtually begging for trouble – but the overview managed to check some boxes.  The title of “superhero” was far too ridiculous for Derek to ever entertain, much less utilize, but considering Stiles’ personality, the firm declaration of such a designation lent to the conclusion that this “Chat Noir” was – at the very least – not a threat.  His appearance being centered in magic, and the nature of his power being that of destruction and misfortune, validated the uncanny aura around the boy.

The quick glance that Stiles shot his way settled something in him.  If nothing else, Derek knew he could trust Stiles’ knowledge and intuition.  At this, he relaxed, if only marginally.

Chat looked between Stiles and the werewolves, appraising them as he slowly, gingerly moved to sit upright, yet uncertain about the whole situation.  His breathing pattern was still jagged and, at this point, rather concerning.  The ring let out another round of squealing beeps.

“Well, now I feel like a huge jerk for attacking him,” Scott said softly, squatting down onto the balls of his feet next to Chat and offering his hand.  “I’m sorry about all that.  We kind of freaked out when you went after Jackson.”

“He probably deserved it, anyways,” Erica added, merely chuckling when Jackson hurled choice curses her way.

After a moment’s pause, Chat accepted the proffered hand and, with his and Stiles’ help, managed to stand on shaky legs.  “What are you guys…?” came the scratchy query.  His voice was soft—partially from the abuse, partially from a strange meekness that had descended on the boy.

“Shapeshifters, Lycans, werewolves,” Stiles supplied, smiling broadly in hopes to disarm the blond.  “Take your pick on terms.  Essentially, we’re supernatural beings.  Well, they are, not me.  I’m human, technically speaking.  We can give you all the details, if you want, but…” He tapered off, watching the way the black cat ears flattened at yet another set of beeps from Chat’s ring, his long tail curling around his legs.

It was abruptly clear that the boy was no longer apprehensive of them, not only so, in any case – and Stiles nearly slapped himself when he realized that Chat Noir was concerned, morose really, because one thing he remembered from his research into the heroes of Paris is that the Miraculous had some sort of time limit, and his identity was at stake.

He raked his brain, hoping to come up with a solution.  It came to him a moment later.

“Glamour!” he practically screamed, startling nearly everyone gathered, Chat included.  His ADHD brain slammed the brakes before reversing to explain.  “I can cast a glamour spell.  To keep your identity hidden… If you – if you want…”

For just a moment, Chat looked up at him with an expression that wasn’t in some way related to pain and worry, ears perking up at the suggestion and something like gratefulness playing at the edges of his eyes.

But that moment passed, and an embittered countenance warped his youthful features.  “I…,” he started, biting his lip in thought.  “Thank you, but – I can’t ask you to do that.  And there’s really no point…”  At his own words, the teen seemed to wither into himself, arms wrapping around himself in a pitiful attempt at self-soothing.

Isaac stepped forward, peeking around Scott’s shoulder to look at Chat, surprisingly forthright for someone so habitually timid.  “We won’t tell anyone…” he assured gently, nervous smile playing at his lips and hands awkwardly tugging at the edges of his shirt.

“We’re werewolves,” Erica supplied cheerfully, making a small gesture at the surrounding pack.  “It’s not exactly public information.  So, your secret is safe with us.”

Hesitance.  The following minutes were met with quiet hesitance broken only by yet another round of high-pitched chirps.  Chat Noir looked like his mind and body were warring with one another.  No one had mentioned it, but physically, the young hero was not looking the best, and that was saying something considering how little of his actual flesh was exposed.  His hair looked damp, shivers periodically racking down his spine, and labored breathing which had taken on a hint of wheezing.

With seconds left for the transformation, Chat wanted some semblance of control.  This was all just so…so wrong…  He was breaking the promise he made to keep his identity a secret.  He was breaking the trust Ladybug and Master Fu had placed in him.  And the thought hurt.  It hurt in a way that was so similar to the corporeal pain coursing his body and yet so different.  Loathing washed over him, an antipathy wholly self-directed.

He wasn’t a hero. 

He didn’t deserve to be one.

…

…He wanted to cry.

Instead, he pressed his chin against his chest, watered gaze fixated on his boots before muttering a, “Claws in”.

Notes:

~ ;3

Someone really needs to hug the sunshine child. And care for him with love. And feed him! Adoption anyone?
*Marinette breaks the door down* "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!!"
~
Stay tuned to see what happens! :D
And let me know how you liked it!! (Yes, that's me unabashedly asking for comments, shoot me) O___o
...
Also, I depended entirely on google translate for the French that Adrien spoke. I speak English and Spanish (attempting to learn Japanese but that's slow going)...not French, soooo...google translate will make a reappearance if at some point French is used again; apologies to any native speakers if it's off!