Chapter Text
The atmosphere in the back yard is moderately more festive than Stiles would have anticipated. They had just murdered a man, after all, and although an argument could definitely be made that he had deserved it, it made Stiles’ stomach twist just a little bit. The other hunters aren’t really having the same problem. The band has been sent home, but someone had put on some music anyway. Marty Drake had an excellent stereo system and surprisingly good taste in music. The booze is flowing and there are enough appetizers to weigh down the Titanic.
And there are some good things happening, too. Stiles looks up as he hears a shout and sees Ray ushering Sketch through the crowd. He stands out, thanks to his flaming red hair, and the fact that he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. That doesn’t seem to matter a bit to Wednesday, who surprises both Stiles and Sketch by throwing her arms around him and squeezing him tightly. Stiles can see the way her fingers are digging in as she clutches at the back of his shirt. Her face is squinched up like she’s trying not to cry, and Stiles remembers what his father had said at the beginning of this: even the hardest woman could fall in love.
Sketch pulls away a little, far enough to land a kiss on Wednesday’s mouth. Then he looks down at the baby bump between them. “Is – is that – ”
Wednesday nods, and this time a few tears do escape. “Yeah,” she says. “She’s ours.”
Sketch goes to his knees and presses his ear against Wednesday’s stomach. “I can hear her heartbeat,” he says, his voice hushed in awe. He stays there for a long time.
Since everything seems to be under control in that arena, Stiles goes to find himself some food. He hadn’t eaten much in the way of lunch, and – now that he’s thinking about it, he’s been so buzzed on Adderall for the pasty forty-eight hours that he can’t actually remember the last time he ate. He starts loading up a plate with hors d’oeuvres.
“Well done, Stiles,” Sally Stoddard’s voice says at his elbow, and he nearly drops shrimp all over the ground. “No, really, I mean it! I’m impressed.”
“That’s great, Sally,” Stiles says. He adds a few crab legs and then some chicken wings and goes looking for a starch. “Dare I ask how much of this you planned?”
“Not a bit!” Sally gives him innocent eyes and then makes an x over her heart. “Cross my heart. Martin Drake didn’t need my help to be a vicious, conniving bastard. I knew he was ready to take over Henry’s territory, but didn’t bother to encourage or stop him. And as for Lucy Arnelle, well.” She shrugs. “I figured she would either take care of it herself, or she wouldn’t.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Stiles says.
Sally makes a ‘tsk’ noise with her tongue. “Come on, now, Stiles. You know that if I was responsible, I’d be bragging about it. My uncle’s impressed with you, too, by the way.”
“Great,” Stiles says.
“Actually that’s a bad thing,” Sally says. “For you, at least. He’s wondering whether or not it would be worth it to quietly take care of you. Take heart, though; he’s decided against it. Uncle Jim doesn’t really care what people do on other territories, as long as they don’t come tell him what to do on his.”
“Uh huh,” Stiles says. “Is that why he showed us a fake prison?”
Sally grins, clearly delighted. “So you know about that! He’s convinced you’re still in the dark, but I’m not surprised. Yes, if you saw the real one, you’d probably have him taken out back and shot. It’s a nasty place. Though to be fair to my uncle, at least he just kills people at the end of it, instead of paying them off to go attack other territories. Credit where it’s due, hm?”
“Yeah, I’m all about that,” Stiles says. “So what have you got up your sleeve for me next?”
Sally just laughs. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone while you’re at school. You’re more fun when you can devote your entire attention to things.” She picks up a scone and says, “See you at the Conclave, then?”
“I’m not invited,” Stiles reminds her.
“No, but you’ll be there all the same, won’t you?” she asks, and disappears into the crowd.
Stiles is so busy frowning after her that it takes him a minute before he realizes that someone else is frowning after her, too. Annika is standing by the wine and cheese table, scowling like mad in Sally’s direction. Stiles walks over to her and says, “What’s got you looking so pissed off?”
“Ugh, I hate her,” Annika says, her scowl deepening. “Jonas never stops talking about her.”
Stiles nearly chokes on a piece of crab. He’s surprised he doesn’t actually require the Heimlich maneuver. “That’s your brother’s girlfriend?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Annika says. “I guess they exchanged numbers at the Conclave. It was just long distance at first, you know, skypeing and stuff. Then they got into skype sex, and let me tell you, walking into the room and seeing my brother whacking off to that shirtless skank is going to haunt my nightmares for years.”
“Gross,” Stiles says, not because he doesn’t think guys shouldn’t jerk off or because he has a problem with skype sex – Erica would skin him if she caught him slut-shaming anyone – but because Jonas is quite possibly just as much of a psychopath as Sally is. He’s just more violent and less intelligent. “I guess I can sort of see them together. Must be a big deal, huh? Two big families.”
Annika nods and grimaces. “See, after the last Conclave . . . Dad started trying to be a home a lot more. He knew that he had kind of fucked up, and that as much as we were psycho freaks at the Conclave, we were trying to impress him, to make him look good in front of the other families. So he gave Great-Uncle Greger the boot and tried to be around more. I mean, our family has so much territory – a lot of the time he used to go straight from one hunt to another, without coming home in between. But now he always tries to make it home, even if it’s only for a night.”
“Sounds like it should have been good,” Stiles says.
“Yeah. And I thought it was. I mean, he started personally overseeing our training after, you know, we kind of got our asses handed to us. He was good about it though, I mean, he didn’t try to make us feel bad. He took responsibility for it, was like, ‘I haven’t been here so maybe you’re a little behind in some ways’. But Jonas, you know, he hated it. Every little criticism was just . . . I don’t know. He turned into an enormous dickhead. And I know that you thought he already was one, and he was, but this was just . . . he was getting out of control. He’d disappear for days at a time and refuse to tell our parents where he had been. He got arrested twice, once because he got pulled over for speeding and was an enormous ass to the cop, and once for armed robbery. That was, like, a seriously big deal. He just walked into this video game store and decided to take whatever he wanted, and God help anyone who tried to stop him.
“My dad got the charges reduced and he only had to serve community service, but he was furious with Jonas and Jonas was just as furious with him. So around then was when he started dating Sally, and . . .” Annika grabs a glass of champagne and slams it back. “Dad thought that she was a bad influence on him. I mean, she’s such a vacuous twat, and she was encouraging him to, you know, be the bad boy. So he said they couldn’t see each other anymore, not even over skype. Jonas got pissed and just took off, stole the fucking plane, and flew to Massachusetts to see her. They shacked up in some hotel for, like, six weeks. Dad was super pissed, and he got on the phone with Jim Stoddard, and Jim was pissed too, like, you think my niece is a bad influence on your son, well, I think he’s a horrible influence on my niece.”
“Yikes,” Stiles says, just letting her talk. She seems glad to be letting some of it out.
“So Jim cornered him and they sent him to stay with Ariah Nazario for a few months. You know, partly to toughen him up, and partly so he could get some real field experience but he and my dad could both cool down for a while.” She shrugs and reaches for another glass of champagne. “Then my dad got shot, and . . . things changed. Jonas came home, and he was less of a jerk. Dad agreed to let him see Sally as long as he finished his community service and stuck with the training.”
“That’s good,” Stiles says.
“Yeah. I’m glad they settled it and I guess I’m glad that he has a girlfriend,” Annika says, not looking glad at all. “I just wish it wasn’t her. She’s so . . . stupid, ugh.”
Stiles isn’t about to tell her that Sally is actually the opposite of stupid, and he has to wonder how much of all this drama took place with Sally’s active encouragement.
He’s about to say something else when Annika adds, “But I’m glad he’s home. He was just about ready to kill my dad when he left for Massachusetts,” and the connection hits Stiles like a ton of bricks.
“You are barking so far up the wrong tree with that one, you can’t even imagine,” Stella Jones had said about the attempt on Mikael Aronsson’s life.
Everyone had agreed that Ariah Nazario was probably behind it, and to a certain extent Stiles thinks she probably was involved, but that comment of Stella’s had always bothered him. Peter was the one who had said that maybe they were looking at it too narrowly, that they were assuming it was hunter politics when it could easily have been something more mundane. And what was more mundane than a child acting out against his father?
“Oh, hey, cake,” Annika says. “Fucking finally. Talk to you later, Stiles.”
Stiles is still standing there with his jaw slightly ajar when Derek comes over. He wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist and rubs his cheek over Stiles’ hair, thoroughly marking him while scowling at everyone else. “Your heartbeat skyrocketed,” he growls. “What happened?”
“Nothing, I – you can seriously differentiate my heartbeat from everyone else’s?” Stiles asks.
“Of course I can,” Derek says. “You’re my alpha.”
“Okay then,” Stiles says. “Nothing happened, just, Annika said something that got me thinking. I want to talk to Sally for a minute.”
“Why?” Derek asks.
“Because she loves to brag,” Stiles says. His theory seems sound, but he has to know that he’s right. Accusing Jonas outright would have ugly results, and even if has certain proof, he’s not sure how to go about it. Drake was a lot easier because everyone hated Drake. But Jonas is Mikael’s son, and Stiles doesn’t know how to tell Mikael that his own son tried to kill him.
Sally and Jonas are dancing to ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, and Stiles taps on Jonas’ shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” he asks.
“Go fuck yourself,” Jonas replies.
Stiles walks away, but he isn’t surprised when Sally joins him on the edge of the crowd a few minutes later. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me,” she says.
“I usually don’t,” Stiles says. “I was just wondering whose idea the attempt on Mikael’s life had been, yours or your boyfriend’s?”
Sally’s eyes go a little wide, and then she lets out a peal of laughter. “It was Jonas’ idea, but he didn’t really mean it, not at first. Just, you know, the typical teenaged angst. ‘I’m so angry, I could kill him’ or ‘I should kill him for what he said to me’, et cetera. I got him on the right tracks, more or less. Of course, he still messed up. Poor Jonas. He’s so barely adequate at . . . anything. It really bothers him.”
“It didn’t occur to him that his father might be wearing body armor in a public place?” Stiles asks.
“I told him to go with a sniper and a head shot, but no, he wanted his father to see it coming, if only for an instant.” Sally rolls her eyes.
“Is he going to try again?”
“Probably not,” Sally says. “Not until Mikael pisses him off again, at least. Ah, the spoiling of children by a father who has realized his mortality. It’s rather sweet, actually.”
“You’ve got issues, Sally.” Stiles walks away. He wants a piece of cake. He deserves a piece of cake. So he will have a piece of cake. Actually, he’ll have two. He gets that and an iced tea and sits down in a circle of lawn chairs, as far away from Sally as he can manage. He’s just finishing up eating when ‘Wild Horses’ comes on, and obviously he and Derek have to dance to that. Derek grumbles but allows himself to be tugged out onto the floor. Stiles twines his arms around Derek’s neck, rests his cheek against Derek’s shoulder, and feels some sense of safety return to the universe.
He could probably dance to the next song, which is ‘Single Ladies’, but Derek refuses. He’s saved from the pack when Chris walks over and says, “We’re going to go deal with Marty. Want to join?”
“Yes. Please,” Derek says, in a voice that suggests violence if he isn’t allowed to leave the reception soon.
“Sure, why not?” Stiles asks. The rest of the pack follows, primarily because they don’t want to be left alone with a batch of hunters, most of whom have been heavily consuming alcohol.
Marty is upstairs in his room, playing Call of Duty. He looks up when they come in and shuts the game off. “So are you guys going to keep me prisoner here forever?”
“Should we?” Wednesday asks.
“Hey, don’t blame this shit on me,” Marty says, raising his hands in surrender. “You think I wanted to go through with this? I fucking hate hunting, come on, I could’ve been a NASCAR driver by now, but no, my dad was obsessed with his stupid hunting schemes and Daddy gets what Daddy wants. Until, you know, someone shoots him in the head.”
“You didn’t want to marry Lucy?” Stiles asks, somewhat surprised.
“No offense, babe,” Marty says to Lucy, “but you’re really not my type. But Jesus you’re a persistent bitch. I couldn’t get rid of you no matter how much of a spectacular douchebag I was.” He sees more looks of surprise and says, “Seriously, did you guys think I’m really like that?”
There’s a long moment of awkward silence.
“Oooooookay,” Marty says. “I guess I should get credit for my acting chops, then.”
Wednesday huffs out a breath. “Congratulations,” she says. “You’re still an enormous piece of shit, but you’re not a murderer. So I guess that we don’t have to keep you prisoner forever.”
“Cool,” Marty says.
“Here’s what you are going to do,” Wednesday says. “Your father’s net worth was about five hundred and fifty million dollars – ”
“Holy shit,” Scott says, nearly choking.
“ – and I know that you were his sole inheritor. So what you’re going to do is take ten million of that, and get the hell out of town. Buy yourself an island somewhere, I don’t fucking care. The rest of it, you’re going to use to establish a trust that you will make me the manager of.”
“I ain’t saying she’s a gold digger,” Marty sings.
“I don’t want your fucking money, Marty,” Wednesday snaps. “I’m going to use it to compensate the werewolves that have been kept in your father’s filthy prison, and their families. How many lives do you think he destroyed? And yeah, I’m going to keep some to finance my hunting enterprises. I’m not going to go out and buy diamonds and yachts, you fuckstick.”
“Yeah, but, ten million?” Marty asks. “That’s like, two percent of my father’s fortune. At least give me ten percent. Have a little sympathy. You had to put up with him for six months; I had to live with him for twenty years.”
It looks like Wednesday might punch him in the face, but she apparently decides it isn’t worth it. “Five percent.”
“Seven point five.”
“Fine, you son of a bitch. But I’m serious when I say to get gone.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Marty says.
Stiles clears his throat. It seems pretty unlikely that Marty will decide to mount some sort of vendetta, but he wants to be sure they’ve made it as unlikely as possible. “In fact, we’ll supervise the acquisition of some property in whatever far-away-from-here country you want. And then we’ll fly you there, and drop you off there. Then your face is going on every terror watch list, Interpol wanted list, and TSA bulletin board that I can get my hands on. If you ever try to enter this country again, you’re going to find yourself in a small room with a bunch of burly guys who are all very interested in strip searching you. Is that clear?”
Marty glances at him, and then nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Tropical paradise good, anal cavity search bad. I hear you. You’re gonna have to wait until after his will has been probated, but I’ll understand if you want me under house arrest ‘til then. Just leave me my Xbox and the number to Domino’s.”
Stiles glances at Wednesday. She nods. They’re both in agreement that it’s about as good as they’re going to get.
“What about the baby, though?” Marty asks, as if this is only now occurring to him.
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “It’s not even yours, Marty.”
Marty’s mouth sags open a little, and then closes. He appears to think about this for a long minute before saying, “Yep, okay, I walked right into that one, didn’t I. To be fair to me, if we have any interest in being fair, I figured Dad had swapped out your birth control. It didn’t occur to me that you might’ve gotten knocked up on your own.”
“Yeah, we’re done talking now,” Wednesday says, and turns and leaves the room without another word.
The others trail after her. Chris shuts the door after her and says he’ll make arrangements to make sure that Marty isn’t left alone before they can get everything settled. They also need to make plans to go up to the prison in West Virginia and make sure that everyone is released and treated for any injuries they might have, and that they’re reunited with their packs and/or families. There’s a lot they need to do, but at this point Stiles doesn’t need to be involved. He’s done what Wednesday asked him to do. Everything from here on out is hunter business.
Wednesday leans against the wall, looking exhausted for several long moments. “You okay?” Stiles asks her.
“Yeah. I just need to lie down for a bit.” She inhales slowly and then exhales even more slowly. “Will you do me a favor and take me home?”
“Sure,” Stiles says. “You want a hug?”
Wednesday gives him a look. Then she says, “Thanks, but . . . I might actually fall apart, and I’d prefer not to do that in front of everyone.”
“Okay.” Stiles starts down the stairs with the others behind him. He makes a few quick arrangements to meet the others back at the hotel, then he and Derek drive Wednesday, Sketch, and Izzy back to the Arnelle house. The ride passes mostly in silence. Izzy is leaning into her sister’s embrace, and Sketch can’t keep his eyes off Wednesday’s pregnant stomach.
“Hey, I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?” Stiles says, as he pulls up outside the house.
“Sure,” Wednesday says. Sketch opens the car door and gets out, extending a hand to her. She takes it, but then says to Stiles. “Thanks. For everything. You know.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for,” Stiles says.
~ ~ ~ ~
Nobody wants to stay at the Biltmore, even with Drake now dead. They check out and go back to the Hyatt. After some discussion, Stiles decides to stay in town for a few extra days, just to make sure that everything is taken care of. Derek will stay with him, and the others will leave the next day so they can be back in class on Monday.
Stiles wants to stay long enough to make sure that everything goes smoothly with the werewolves being released from the prison. He thinks it might help some if he and Derek are there, since the werewolves are going to be distrustful of hunters, with good reason. So by noon on Sunday, most of the pack is on a plane back to California.
With nothing urgent to attend to, Stiles checks in with Chris, who says they’re handling things, and then devotes his attention to the school work that Lydia has picked up for him. They have dinner at Ray Parr’s house. He offers to cook, and Ray says, “Don’t mind if you do,” so he makes his classic lasagna for everyone.
He’s surprised when Wednesday shows up, not because she’s there, but because she’s returned to her former look. Her hair has been cut short and dyed black again, and she’s wearing heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick. She’s dressed in a maroon tank top over a black mesh shirt, and black jeans and combat boots.
“Lookin’ good, baby mama!” Sketch chirps, bouncing out of his chair to greet her.
She gives him a look. “Call me that again and I’ll staple your balls to the floor,” she says, and Sketch just laughs and kisses her.
“How’s things back at the old homestead?” Stiles asks her, dishing her up a plate.
Wednesday shrugs. “Gram’s upset. She’s glad Martin’s dead, and glad that I got the territory back, but she doesn’t like Sketch and she doesn’t like the fact that my baby might be a werewolf. I told her that unless she planned to start campaigning against interracial marriage, she needed to take a step back. Now she’s mad at me, but she knows I’m right. She’ll get over it.”
“That’s . . . good, I guess?” Stiles says.
“I spent most of the afternoon with Julien and Sam, and Jim Stoddard,” she says, “which might account for my temper. Sam is taking Henry’s old territory, and I’ve got mine and Martin’s, but both Jim and Julien promised to support me without strings attached, if I needed the help.”
“I’m surprised Stoddard agreed to that,” Stiles says. “He’s not a giving sort of guy.”
“No, but he can see which way the wind is blowing,” Wednesday says. “If I actually need help, he’ll probably find some reason he can’t give it to me. Whatever. Listen, you don’t have to stick around. I know that you’ve got classes and everything.”
“I’m taking a red-eye back tomorrow night,” Stiles says. “And I’ll sleep on the plane so I can make classes Tuesday. Don’t worry about it.”
Wednesday purses her lips, then says. “Okay. Since you’re staying . . . I know I’ve asked a lot from you and I maybe wasn’t as nice about it as I could have been. But could you do me one more favor while you’re here?”
“Shoot,” Stiles says.
“Will you be my best man?”
Stiles grins. “Sure!”
Wednesday actually flushes pink. “Normally there’s, uh, a three-day waiting period after you get your marriage license, but, one of the pack actually works at city hall so they’re going to clear it for me. I just want, you know. God, this is stupid. I want to marry that dork, like, right now.”
“I definitely want to be there for that,” Stiles says, and Wednesday scowls at him.
So that’s how he finds himself standing at city hall at nine fifteen the next morning, with a busy day ahead of him and a lot of werewolves to rescue. Wednesday is wearing a lacy black dress, and the same combat boots from the day before. Sketch is in a T-shirt and jeans, and he’s got a clip-on tie.
“Just the short version,” Wednesday says, glaring at the justice of the peace.
“Do you have the rings?” the woman asks. She seems completely unfazed by their attire and by Wednesday’s attitude.
“Got ‘em right here!” Sketch pulls a box out of his pocket. To Stiles, in a voice that’s probably supposed to be quiet, he confides, “Cheap as shit, too. We’ll replace ‘em later.”
“Good plan,” Stiles says. He reaches out for Derek’s hand, curling his fingers around it. Derek glances over at him and leans over absently to rub his cheek against Stiles’ hair.
“Do you, Lucy Arnelle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for – ”
“I do,” Wednesday interrupts.
“I’mma let her say the whole thing,” Sketch says, again sotto voce, and Wednesday wrinkles her nose at him.
Now it’s clear that the JP is trying not to laugh. “Do you, Calvin Maguire, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
“I do!” Sketch exclaims, loudly enough that his voice echoes.
“By the power invested in me by the state of Kentucky, I pronounce you man and wife,” the JP says. “You may kiss the bride.”
“She may kiss me!” Sketch says, grinning, and Wednesday swoops in to press her mouth against his. Stiles uses his phone to take a quick picture.
“Just sign here and here – ” the JP says, getting the paperwork organized. “Do you need a name change form?”
“No,” Wednesday says.
“Hells yes,” Sketch says, and Wednesday narrows her eyes at him. “I’m taking your name, aren’t I? Gotta be Arnelles around here.”
Wednesday wrinkles her nose again. “You can if you want,” she says, and Sketch laughs at her. They sign the paperwork and do the name change form, and then they’re leaving the courthouse. “Good, that’s done,” she says, sounding relieved. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, so let’s go.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Stiles is exhausted by the time they get to the airport, and he dozes through the safety briefing. They’re in first class, because Derek always flies in first class. Derek hates to fly, period, but first class makes it a little more bearable.
They’re somewhere over middle America, and the cabin is dim and silent, and Stiles is staring at Derek while he works on a picture of Wednesday and Sketch at their wedding. “Hey,” Stiles murmurs. “You wanna get married?”
Derek glances over at him, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah,” he says.
“Mmkay.” Stiles yawns and readjusts himself so he can lean against Derek. “Probably should wait until I’m out of college, though. And we can’t just do a quick thing at city hall. Do you have any idea what my grandmother would do to me?”
Derek laughs quietly. “If you let her get involved, it’ll be the wedding of the century.”
“No, that’ll be Scott and Allison’s. Nothing we do will top theirs, trust me.”
“Maybe your grandmother can plan theirs and we can sneak out the back and steal the officiant for five minutes.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad plan,” Stiles says, chortling.
There are a few moments of silence.
“You really want to get married?” Derek asks.
Stiles blinks, waking up a bit. “Yeah. Don’t . . . don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do, I just – I know we’re not exactly, you know, traditional, so it wasn’t the sort of thing that I really thought you might want for us.”
“Eh, who needs tradition?” Stiles says. He looks over at Derek and says, “I do plan to, you know, have you and hold you and love you and cherish you, so, as far as I’m concerned we fit the marriage bill pretty well.”
Derek is flushing pink up to the tips of his ears. “Well, when you put it that way,” he mutters.
Stiles leans over so he can press his cheek into Derek’s shoulder. “I don’t think there’s any reason to try to be something we’re not,” he says. “I like us just the way we are. But I would also like us a lot if we were married. So that’s a thing we should do.”
“Okay,” Derek says quietly.
“Okay,” Stiles says, and yawns. A few minutes later, he’s sound asleep in Derek’s arms.
~ ~ ~ ~