Chapter Text
Stiles took a shower that night, and found himself inexplicably thinking about Derek Hale again. That was not a safe place. Nope. Danny was safe, even Lydia, because they were moderately attainable. Derek wasn't attainable. Stiles screamed at the guy, punched him in the face and said—well, he said things. Stiles wouldn’t want to even talk to himself again if he’d said what he’d said to himself…that didn’t make sense.
But then Derek came up to him and—gave him advice? That was weird right? That was definitely weird.
“No, Little Stiles, it’s not okay to stand to attention over Derek-freakin’-Hale, so stop it.” That wasn’t stopping anything. Stiles took matters into his own hands eventually and let the evidence of his attraction go down the drain with the suds from his shampoo. He rested his hands against the shower wall and stared at his bruises for a long moment. “I am so fucked up. Seriously.” Stiles shut the water off with a vicious twist and clambered out of the shower, throwing his towel over his head before wiping off the bathroom mirror to see if he needed to shave.
He wrinkled his nose at the sight of his face. God, I even look like a smart-ass. Stiles wiped the towel through his hair and went to wrap it around his waist when he noticed something—off. There were the typical bruises that were fading, yes but… There, over his navel, was a handprint shaped mark in vibrant, startling indigo.
“What the fuck?”
He blinked, and the mark was gone.
“I’m seeing things,” he reassured himself. “Seeing things.” Stiles shook his head, sending droplets of water all over the bathroom. “Great.”
Stiles was pretty sure hallucinations were something he should mention to Deaton, or his dad, or Scott or possibly Lydia, but for some reason—some part of him was whispering Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea. It left a sour taste in his mouth.
Instead of analyzing this oddity, Stiles went to bed. He had enough shit to deal with without wondering if his inner voice was developing a complex.
***
The next morning Stiles got dressed and checked himself for the handprint, but it wasn’t there. Hallucination. He reminded himself before going down stairs for a bowl of cereal. His dad was drinking coffee, looking at the newspaper with a critical eye when Stiles came in and disturbed the silence with the jangling of cereal into a ceramic bowl.
His dad put the paper down and looked at him, really looked at him. “You know I’m just—I’m just really worried about you. Right?”
Stiles looked at his dad. Finally. They could have the conversation they should have had right after the dust up except—Stiles opened his mouth, and for the first time he could remember, he couldn’t find words. He managed to grunt awkwardly and then dug into his cereal. As he took the first bite, he could swear he felt a hand pressing against his navel, just for a moment.
Then the sensation was gone, and so was his urge to speak to his dad.
The sheriff picked up the newspaper and grimaced. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. We—I know we haven’t talked. We need to talk. Okay? Maybe after school?”
Stiles grunted again.
“Okay then.” John finished his coffee and sighed, turning away from his son with a confused look.
The car ride to school was just as quiet as the last and every time Stiles thought he might speak, he felt that same pressure again. Not real, he thought. Hallucination.
Because his life is already like Halloween on crack, he’s willing to buy into that for at least a few days. At least.
***
Stiles was still in denial about the strange blue handprint that appears on his stomach when Derek decided to call a meeting. Stiles only agreed to go because Deaton seemed to think it’s important and for some reason he’s the only person Stiles doesn’t feel completely insane around these days. Every second with his friends made his skin itch and being around his dad—it’s like a sour taste in his mouth that just won’t go away.
Derek’s loft having been destroyed, the Hale family now occupied a three bedroom apartment downtown. Stiles thought it was Derek’s way of keeping an eye on Peter, because that guy was pretty much villainy on two legs.
Derek is sex on two legs, Stile’s subconscious butted in. Shut up you. Great, now he was talking to himself. Thinking to himself. Whatever.
“Stiles? Are you paying attention?”
Stiles shook his head and looked up from the coffee table which held two copies of National Geographic and a few water stains. Derek was looking at him like he always did, with disdain and a glower. “Yeah, something, something, togetherness.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Not even close.”
“I think someone forgot his Adderall today,” Lydia remarked while touching up her lipstick.
“I did not,” Stiles protested. Actually, come to think of it, he had. Huh.
“Try to pay attention,” Derek admonished. “We held off the most recent threat, but we’re vulnerable now. Even with four alphas in this territory, there’s still the possibility something worse can come along. We have to be ready.” He looked at Stiles very sharply. “How’s the emissary training going?”
“Fine.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t know, because you’re a total douchebag?” Stiles shrugged.
Derek raised an eyebrow.
Stiles looked around and realized that everyone was staring at him. The twins, Lydia, Scott, Allison, Peter, Cora, Isaac, Danny—everybody. Stiles squirmed in his seat. “What? Jesus, take a picture guys. I can’t be that interesting.”
“You’re acting weird,” Scott said. “I mean, weirder than usual.”
“I’m not acting weird.” He made a face and sunk back into the couch.
“You’re acting weird,” Peter said, deadpanned.
“Yeah,” Cora said. “I haven’t known you all that long and even I think you’re weirder than usual.”
“Gee, thanks.” He felt that pressure again on his navel and that sour taste came up again. “Look, I’m sure this little Rebel Alliance meeting doesn’t really need me. I’m just the chew toy, remember? I’ll see you guys later.” Stiles lurched up from his seat and headed for the door, only to find the solid wall that was Derek standing in front of him, arm outstretched and braced.
“You are acting weird, Stiles,” Derek said. He looked concerned.
Stiles’ stomach knotted and his heart beat went wild. “No I’m not. Are you going to move?”
Derek narrowed his eyes and stared for a very long twenty beats of Stiles’ heart before he moved. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”
Did he look disappointed? Stiles wasn’t sure, but he ignored the feeling of guilt that nearly overwhelmed the sour taste and walked out the door. There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing.
He wasn’t so convinced of that when, walking out of the apartment building he tasted blood at the back of his mouth and felt something warm dripping from his nose. He reached up and found his nose was bleeding. He didn’t have any tissues, but he found a forgotten napkin stuffed in his back pocket and balled it up to stop the flow.
There was a moment of dizziness and Stiles found the ground rushing up to meet him as his heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t fainting, but it felt like he was falling into himself. Like his mind was sinking deep into a dark pit and all he could see was a blue hand coming at him. It was a woman’s hand.
His last thought before the darkness climbed over his head was, I don’t want to be in a horror movie.
***
When Stiles came too, he found himself at the back of a gas station, holding a can of spray paint. There was paint on his fingers. It was blue. He looked up at the gas station wall. He’d painted a spiral on the wall. He had no idea how he’d gotten to the gas station, or where the paint came from. What the hell?
He was just starting to get a grip on where he was when he heard a car door slam behind him and saw the reflection of red and blue lights against the mostly white wall of the gas station. He turned around, gripping the can tighter for a moment before throwing it away from him spastically. Like that was going to make him look less suspicious.
His dad got out of the car, eyebrows raised as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me you aren’t resorting to vandalism now?”
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Get in the car, Stiles. I’ll talk to the gas station owner.”
“Yes, sir.” Stiles wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it scared him. It really scared him. He didn’t really process it when his dad took him home, or even the stony silence when they walked into the house.
“What the hell is going on with you, Stiles?” His dad put his keys down on the table and turned to look at him. “You won’t talk to me, you don’t even ask to go out with your friends anymore. You just sit in your room and brood. Now you’re vandalizing gas stations with that symbol? You have to talk to me Stiles!”
He wanted to, he did, but… he just felt that pressure all over again, and the taste came back. He managed to stutter out, “I—I—I’m sorry.” That was it. That was all he managed to get out.
John shook his head. “When you want to resume being the kid I raised, you let me know. Go to your room.”
Stiles went, because he couldn’t stand to see his dad’s disappointed face anymore. He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. There’s nothing wrong. A voice whispered. You’re just fucked up. Just a stupid fuck up.
Why did that voice have to sound like his mom?
He sat down on his bed, not bothering with the lights. “What’s wrong with me?”
***
After the first blackout, it happened twice more over the course of a week. The second and third time, no one caught him vandalizing anything, because the buildings were empty this time but…Stiles didn’t know how much more he could take. He avoided everyone and just plain stopped going to school. He didn’t know what he did when he blacked out, what if he started hurting people? What if it became more than just vandalism? He didn’t know what to do.
Stiles wanted to tell someone what was going on, but he couldn’t. The strange blue hand wouldn’t let him say a word to anyone.
And then he blacked out a fourth time, except this time, when he woke, he knew something was different. Something had changed. Something…something broke. Stiles went to school the day after he came out of the fourth black out. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. He felt invisible. He no longer felt any compulsion to talk to his friends. He didn’t want to talk at all. He wasn’t sure what he wanted really, but he knew he had to go to school, he had to be as normal as possible.
He didn’t want to attract attention. Except he was attracting attention. His friends were half-convinced he was suffering post-traumatic stress, his father was more than half convinced and Stiles swore every time he turned around he felt eyes on him. The only time he really felt anything like himself was when he sat in front of his computer and dug into translating the book Deaton gave him.
It wasn’t all words either, there were also pictures. Lots of pictures actually, and when he stumbled across that spiral, he took pause. The werewolves meaning was vendetta, but the druids had a different meaning for the spiral. Initiation. Journey. Was this strange blue hand all just a part of him becoming a druid? Maybe. He should ask Deaton but… the thought slipped away and he found himself focusing back on the book, Deaton washed from his mind.
Druid history was fascinating, though Google was proving to have less than stellar translation services in regards to sentence structure, but it wasn’t like Stiles had any friends who spoke Old Gaelic, not even Lydia. How long as it been since I spoke to Lydia?
Just like with Deaton though, the thought slipped away.
Stiles pushed his notes away. Journey. Initiation. Sure. This was all just growing pains. Everything would level out on its own. His friends were just overreacting. There was nothing wrong. He was just changing. Scott changed, Allison changed, Lydia changed. Hell, Danny was a fucking werewolf now. Why couldn’t Stiles change too?
Stiles was just changing. He wasn’t the scared kid from last year, he was going to be a druid. Have real power. Just like Scott. Just like everybody else and no one was going to toss him around like a rag doll ever again. No one was going to hurt him again. No one.
***
The internal change in Stiles was dramatic, and Stiles was always dramatic, and took that change to his wardrobe as well. He was tired of being looked at like a kid. He wasn’t a kid anymore. People had to see that. He showed up at school in a red dress shirt, black slacks and vest and hair slicked back. He even moved differently. He didn’t want to be the flailing awkward kid anymore. He wanted to be dangerous. He wanted to show everyone he could take care of himself.
Lydia raised her eyebrows when she saw Stiles walk into English. “Who taught you how to dress yourself all of a sudden?”
He shrugged. “Thought I’d try something new.”
She pursed her lips. “Looks good.”
“Thanks.” He managed a smile, but unlike his typical smiles which ranged from sly to sweet, this one was downright predatory.
Lydia frowned and then brushed it off with her typical air of indifference but when Stiles’ back was turned she shot a look at Scott who frowned and looked at Allison. The three shared a look of concern but Stiles didn’t notice. Peter was staring at him but Stiles only stared back and flashed that smile before winking. Peter raised an eyebrow and turned to the blackboard.
Stiles opened up War and Peace and started drawing spirals in the margins. Over and over again, spiral after spiral.
Journey. Initiation. Growth. Stiles repeated the words under his breath like a mantra. Everything was going his way. Now he just needed a hot date. A really hot date he could shove in the faces of all those people who snickered at him for being the sheriff’s son, or geeky or weird. Plus, he hadn’t had to take his Adderall in days. He felt more focused than he ever had in his life.
He felt great. What had he been so worried about anyway? There was nothing to be worried about.
After school he finally got his Jeep back out of the shop and while his new sense of style clashed with the powder blue Jeep, he was just happy to have a piece of his freedom back. After a couple days of being studious and well dressed, his dad took it as a new leaf and eased up on the whole surveillance. He drove himself to and from school and even hung out a bit with his friends. He kept going to Deaton for druid lessons.
Deaton took Stiles style change in stride, and seemed pleased the teenager was putting forth more effort in his lessons. It would be years before Stiles was anywhere near Deaton’s own level, but Stiles consumed knowledge like a sponge. He wanted to know everything and he wanted to know it now.
He learned his first real spell; fire starting. He couldn’t start a big fire, but even a small spark was enough. He was just leaving the veterinary clinic when Derek approached him. Stiles had gone out through the back, and missed seeing Derek’s Camaro parked on the street out front.
“So, Lydia said you were dressing differently.” Derek looked Stiles up and down like he was assessing the damage. “I’d say there’s more to it than that though. You smell different.”
“It’s called cologne.”
“No, that’s not it.” Derek shook his head and slowly approached Stiles, backing him against the wall, putting his arms on either side of the teenager to keep him from going anywhere. Derek leaned in and sniffed Stiles neck. “It’s something else.”
Stiles was having lots of conflicting sensations all at once. At the forefront was anger, how dare Derek corner him like this? And…sniff him? That was just weird. Then there was the other part of him saying This is really hot and wouldn’t it be nice if he licked my neck?
“What then?”
“I’m not sure.” Derek took another sniff and then tugged the buttons of Stiles’ shirt open, popping some of the buttons clean off as he did so.
“Hey!”
“Shut up.” He pulled open the shirt and then tugged Stiles’ undershirt out from his pants and looked at the young man’s stomach intently. He leaned down and sniffed. “It’s just—there’s something wrong.”
“You’re delusional.” There was nothing there to look at except the last green vestiges of bruises and a few moles. “And this is weird. Like really weird. Like if anyone saw us this would require a lot of explaining.”
Derek pulled away from him and without blinking grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck. “You’ve been acting weird, Stiles.”
“I’m not acting weird. I’m fine. Everybody changes when they get older. I’m just—growing up. Get used to it.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Growing up means acting like a grown up, not an asshole.”
“Oh, so I’m acting like an ass hole? I suppose you would know then wouldn’t you?”
Derek growled and gripped Stiles more tightly and pulled him close. “What the hell is going on with you, Stiles?”
For a moment, that question knocked something loose that was buried under all that self-assurance and the spiral floating like a barrier at the back of his mind between Old Stiles and New Stiles. He looked at Derek and whimpered, “I don’t know. Derek. I don’t know.”
Derek’s expression softened when he saw the fear on Stiles face. “Stiles?”
Just as quick as the moment came though, it passed. “Just let me go, now.” Stiles counted to three before using his new found skill—he set Derek’s shirt front on fire. The man released him quickly in order to put out the fire. Stiles used the opportunity to make a run for his Jeep.
But Derek was a werewolf and his hand closed back onto the back of Stiles neck before he slammed the slender young man into the side of his Jeep a bit more viciously than he might have had Stiles punched him rather than set him on fire.
Pain overrode New Stiles long enough for Old Stiles to gasp out, “Help me, Derek.”
Derek let go of Stiles and turned him around, looking him in the eyes and again seeing a scared kid. “Stiles?”
“I’m scared, Derek. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Derek swallowed his anger as best he could. “I’m going to help you, Stiles. I promise.” He looked down for a moment, and there it was again, the bright blue hand print over Stiles’ navel. Derek frowned and touched the mark. “What’s this?”
“Stiles? What the hell is going on here?” Sheriff Stilinski interrupted and New Stiles came back in a rush as he pushed Derek away.
“Dad. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Derek straightened and looked at the sheriff. “It really isn’t. Sheriff, there’s something wrong with Stiles. Something really wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Derek.” Stiles straightened out his clothes. The commotion had drawn Deaton to the back door, and Stiles wondered briefly if hadn’t called the Sheriff.
Derek shook his head. “You just asked me for help, Stiles. Don’t you remember?”
“No I didn’t.” Stiles shook his head. “If anyone’s gone off the deep end here, it’s you. Dad, I’m going to go home. See you there?”
“Sure, Stiles.”
Stiles climbed in his Jeep and drove off, Deaton, John and Derek watching. Derek looked at Deaton and quirked an eyebrow. “I can’t be the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with him.”
Deaton frowned. “Stiles…is not himself,” the man agreed.
“Well, not really but he’s better than he was a few weeks ago. I mean—I thought…I don’t know what to think. He hasn’t been himself. I can’t argue with that.” John shook his head.
“Just for a moment back there, he was Stiles again. The annoying, mile-a-minute Stiles and he was scared. Really scared.” Derek took a deep breath. “There was a blue handprint on his stomach. It was there and then it was gone. It was small, a woman’s hand maybe.”
Deaton frowned. “I’ll have to do some research, but I have a horrible feeling this all connects back to our friend the darach.”
Derek shook his head. “She’s dead.”
“So was Peter,” Deaton reminded him. Deaton looked at John. “Keep a close eye on Stiles in the meantime.”
“I will too,” Derek said. “We all should.”
“Do you really think that woman is hurting my son from beyond the grave?” John asked, still somewhat skeptical.
“I truly hope not,” Deaton replied. “But in this town…we should be prepared for anything.”
Derek silently agreed with that assessment and looked the way Stiles had gone. “I have to talk to the pack. I’ll make sure Stiles goes straight home, Sheriff.”
“Uh—thanks, Derek.”
Derek nodded and headed for his Camaro. He hoped this wasn’t more of the darach’s handiwork but…he couldn’t shake the sound of Stiles’ voice as he asked for help. He was terrified. There had to be something Derek could do to help him.
There just had to be.