Chapter Text
It hurt to watch Peter walk away unscathed. The alpha had grunted once, which didn't mean anything to Stiles. But the rest of them seemed to take as their cue to go. Stiles was stunned by both the ease and speed that they left, even Lydia, who was still silenced. In fact, he forgot to remind them because he was so shocked. It seemed way too simple to him that they had accepted his decision so easily. He waited for over an hour for some sort of surprise attack, but none came. With a disbelieving sigh, he deactivated the barrier, snuffed out his little experimental witch-light thankfully without exploding it on accident, and retreated to the house, letting himself into its wards with ease. The ghosts swarmed him, demanding a play-by-play but he shook them off, resealed both familiars, and retired for the night after reviewing the house's security.
One thing Stiles couldn't dislodge from his thoughts was the defeated looks on the werewolves' faces as they left. They seemed too upset for his refusal to have been a small thing to them. More likely they had been planning to ask for something important, which in turn meant big and difficult, and probably life-threatening. He supposed he should be glad he had been operating on basic instincts, without room for compassion. Otherwise he might have agreed only to lose his life for people he didn't know, let alone trust. He didn't trust anyone, not when it mattered, but the point still stood. Still, his gut clenched when he remembered how they had looked. Their eyes had been filled with a sort of desperation mixed with sorrow. They were condemned eyes. He can't shake the soft touch of guilt that settles on everything.
The next day Stiles stayed at the house. He got a call warning him that Isaac's taken a few days of unpaid leave, which he saw coming but doesn't take the edge off the niggling concern he'd begun to cultivate despite all of his efforts to keep his hands clean. The stress alone last night had him sticking his neck out and acting a part but now his returns to the casual, everyday jabs of his housemates are bitter. He shut himself up in the study to rush through the day's office work, then he took the rest of the afternoon to tend to his personal garden and tidy the house. No balls of fur and claws burst out of the woods to attack him, though he fully-expected it given Peter's involvement.
Lucinda and the others catch on fast, except for Boris who's too old and muddled to care. Stiles doesn't eat, which isn't that unusual for him, but it's the first time in a long time that he hadn't simply forgotten because he was busy working on something. No, this time he just doesn't have an appetite. By five that evening, he's had an epiphany about his behavior and he hates it. He decides that while he may not be willing to eat his discomfort, he can at least drink it. He also decides there's more value in spending the evening drunk and studying. So he pours over part of his dusty old spell book collection and reacquaints himself with component magic.
What he did in the backyard had been dangerous and stupid. Relying too much on raw intent to handle a situation was tricky and he was lucky nothing had gone spectacularly wrong like it had the potential to. Using intent to handle the ghosts and their bullshit was one thing because it was literally the only way to interact with them. Only three spells that Stiles knew of were designed to affect spirits, since they were really just bundles of raw energy. It made what he could do all the more special, especially since it was the crux of his power, like a lodestone in a magnetic field. But he'd been lucky his spells had worked, instead of getting blown off-kilter by a stray thought. Since he was certifiably ADHD and prone to having to wrangle his own head into order—case in point: he couldn't get the damn alpha out of his thoughts, for whatever reason—, it was nothing short of a miracle.
It's the loud, insistent pounding noise that gets him. There's pressure behind his eyes and his mouth and throat feel like he chugged bleach. Actually, scratch that, he feels like he did shots of lava. The flavor in his mouth is overwhelming and he gags on principle. Gagging only makes the burn flare up and he hazily comes to the conclusion to add hornet stings to the description. Stiles makes the mistake to voice his discomfort like anything at all that is alive, then immediately regrets it. He now knows it is possible for your own voice vibrating through your head to be painful instead of soothing. Stiles tries to burrow away from the pain by mashing his face into something, ideally whatever he's lying on. He read something about that instinct, but right now even thoughts hurt.
Smooth, cool material of some sort pushes into his face and he barely refrains from sighing in relief. That would only ruin the moment. He opens his eyes to try to make better sense of what basically is sensory overload but which feels like a form of punishment straight out of hell. It's a bad idea. Everything is a bad idea. This is a bad idea, whatever this is. At least Stiles knows enough to know this whole situation could have been avoided. He doesn't know how he knows anything but he decides he is still pretty damn curious. Like a moth to flame.
Stiles has to squint so hard that everything is blur soup, and it hurts, but he begins to work out that he can eventually open his eyes and he is also sprawled out on his stomach on the living room couch. The leather smells sour, like margarita salt and gin. He feels a bit gross, so it's probable that he was sweating. Stiles rolls over to escape the smell and what it's doing to his stomach, and catches sight of the bottle. He drank an entire bottle of Jack Daniels last night. Right from the source if the lack of a shot glass is anything to go by. Stiles is just realizing that maybe he's despicable when the pounding starts back up.
The sound is dampened like it's being made against wood. It's coming from the front of the house. It also makes his head throb agonizingly. Last Stiles checked, the wards were still in place, but somehow someone got onto the porch and knocked on the door. He knows that that is only possible if they mean no harm. That's the only reason why he drags himself upright and staggers to the door. In retrospect he thinks he should have crawled upstairs instead because who's come to call isn't exactly someone he wants to see.
"Stiles!" Isaac is as chipper and loud as a goddamn child. Stiles shushes him, though it comes out as more of a hiss, and merely pushes the rawest approximation of how shitty and upset he feels into his expression before turning it on the wolf. It's enough to make him shrink back. "Sorry."
Stiles doesn't bother to reply. He's too busy hating life for dumping this confrontation on him mid-whiskey hangover. Oddly enough he feels more inclined to just shut the door in Isaac's face than actually go out of his way to attack. He's too relaxed to be able to convince himself he really doesn't trust the wolf, which just adds disappointment to the shit stew churning in his gut and burning out his brain. Instead of giving even a rough facsimile of a response, he glares balefully and waits.
Isaac seems to realize he won't get more acknowledgement from Stiles than hungover bitchfaces so he clears his throat and forges on. What a brave little shit. "I hoped you would be here. Can we, maybe, talk?"
Stiles grunts. "We 'lready 're."
Isaac, to his credit, doesn't bat an eye. "Yeah, but could we maybe do it without a door between us? Maybe in actual chairs? Like we did that night in your kitchen."
Stiles scowls at the memory because it's already been tainted with distrust and false camaraderie. He doesn't owe Isaac anything, really. This is a shit situation and he should just close the door and go get a few waters before heading upstairs to recuperate. He starts to do just that but Isaac's friggin' determined. He cries out a very cliché "wait" just as the door is nearly shut. Stiles knows the drill all too well, but hearing that desperation firsthand is so much different than it is on television or in movies. Despite his every pore screaming at him to make the cut, he pulls the door open enough to meet Isaac's gaze. He doesn't, though, instead closing his eyes against the burn and raising both eyebrows in silent invitation.
"Look, I know you have every reason not to trust me, but I promise I'm harmless," he began without hesitation. "I just really need to talk to you. No one else can really help."
If Stiles hadn't opened his eyes, he might have gotten away with stonewalling the guy. He might be lying in bed nursing a bottle of water. It was the eyes that got him. He let Isaac in, walked into the kitchen on unsteady legs, and immediately went to slump defeatedly at the table. He was so tired and hungover that he couldn't think of a means to defend himself, or even bring himself to care that he was defenseless.
"You look like someone ran you over," Isaac observed, hovering.
Stiles managed to roll his head sideways from where it rested on the pillow of his arms crossed on the table top and peer up at him. "Feel like't."
"You smell like a bar."
Stiles groaned and let his head roll back so his face was shielded from light. "'Cause I drank a bottle of whiskey las' nigh'."
Isaac inhaled sharply in sympathy. He didn't say anything, but he began to shuffle around. Stiles just hoped he would make it quick and painless. Isaac didn't and Stiles was far too unconcerned to track his movements by sound. He drifted, wishing for sleep. He was jolted into focus when something cold and smooth pressed against his cheek. Stiles jumped which would have been disastrous if the cold object had been a blade. Instead he was presented with a bottle of water and a darkened room.
A traitorous sigh of content escaped him before he could wrap his brain around what was happening. From the look on Isaac's face, the guy found his obvious relief amusing. Stiles, being hungover, angry, and confused, felt the compunction to frown. Isaac settled in the seat directly across from him, reached over, and opened one of the bottles. Disappointment slithered through Stiles' gut briefly, observing pleasantries with the nausea in residence, when he thought Isaac was going to take one of the bottles from him, but it was soothed over by confusion and gratefulness when the werewolf just pushed the open water towards him. The first bottle felt amazing against his temple, while the second worked wonders on his throat, mainly by freezing any other sensation away.
He considers the fact that he's still very much alive. Isaac could go for the kitchenware—the whole damn room's a makeshift armory, Jesus, Stiles you're dumb—but he has yet to sprout fur or nasty new hardware. His eyes haven't even flickered. Hell, he could actually pass for a real boy if not for his very real presence at the hullabaloo the other night. Granted, Isaac never wolfed-out or anything so he could still be a regular dude, but there's a lot of incriminating evidence stacked against him. Now that the adrenaline's gone, Stiles has managed to recall some of the minor details he noticed, and from there he's begun to theorize.
Starting with the fact that everyone's eyes had flashed at some point during the lawn affair—only the alpha's, Jackson's and Peter's were different from the others'. The only exception was Lydia, who also happened to be the only one armed. He assumed that meant she was either human, or found a way to keep her eyes from flashing although he can't imagine how when his files read that they reflect light involuntarily. And Stiles had had his own experimental version of a golfball-sized sun hanging around, so there's that. More importantly, glowing eyes is reasonably suspicious enough to cast all the others in the "likely werewolf" category, without the implied admission from Scott and Isaac. And since no one else was visibly armed, he's going to assume they didn't need the insurance.
There was also a lot of inhuman vocalizations and acrobatics which all point to Stiles feeling wonderfully vindicated, upon retrospect, for being so concerned about taking precautions before meeting up with them.
A whole list of things go into hardening Stiles' theories about what Isaac and his friends are, and it all matches up shockingly well. There were clear signs of athleticism, teamwork, eye fireworks, and an actual pack hierarchy, or at least the beginnings of one. In other words, short of actually seeing one of them transform, Stiles was almost dead certain. And feeling very smug about getting it right so far.
Again, Isaac didn't make any moves to attack and Stiles began to think the detail that they needed him might actually hold water. He certainly wasn't giving off any violent vibes or he'd have set off the array set into the very foundations. Since Stiles hadn't warned him—of course not; most of its effectiveness lay in actually catching them in the act—they were left three options. Either, one, Lydia had somehow forewarned him, or two, he could actually sense the spell. Which would be...actually pretty cool. The last option was that Isaac legitimately came in peace. The more Stiles thought of it the more pointed his headache got.
When Isaac still hadn't said anything and the second water was almost empty, Stiles let himself break the silence. "So? What do you want to talk about, wolf boy?"
Isaac grimaced, though Stiles couldn't say why specifically. He thought the werewolf would refuse to answer, but within seconds it was like a floodgate opened up. "Derek's already making plans to move on. Since you embarrassed the hell out of us the other night, he's already looking for others to ask. Most of us are supposed to be packing and concluding our business. Y'know, quitting jobs and paying bills. I'm supposed to resign today. The problem is that I don't want to. I really like my job and my life right now and I don't want to roam the country looking for someone who can help us but its not like I can really talk to the others. Lydia's locked herself into her room and won't talk to anyone. Not even Jackson. Scott's missing Allison almost too much to function, Boyd and Erica stopped being fun to hang out with when they got together, and no one likes Peter so I-"
"Holy shit, slow down," Stiles groaned as the headache returned full force, pushing his fingertips into his temples to create a counterpoint of pressure. "I have no idea who you're talking about, remember? I only know some of your names and some generic facts about werewolves. That doesn't make me an expert."
"Yeah but didn't you find out Jackson and Lydia's names the other night? By the way, how did you do that?"
"Kinda hard to miss when you all start addressing each other feet from me," Stiles supplied drily.
"Okay, but no one said Jackson's name and then poof! you knew it."
"Lydia tried to say it, but as the caster, I was the only one who heard her."
"You mean what you did to her voice?"
"Yep. It's standard to that kind of magic. Like a law of equivalence, except it's more like no matter how powerful the spell, some form of the original will exist no matter what. That's why magic that messes with free will like love spells breaks so much."
"Umm, cool."
Stiles let him puzzle that over for a moment before urging him on. "So, you're supposed to move on, but you don't want to, right?" Isaac nodded. "And you can't really talk to anyone because everyone's doing their own thing." The next nod was hesitant. "Have you considered talking to your alpha? Y'know, actually telling him you're not okay with it."
"Derek? No way. He'd kill me for even thinking of it." Isaac seemed stricken.
So his name is Derek. Stiles' expression darkened with disapproval. "Yeah, he kinda seemed like that kind of guy. Hey, what exactly is his problem?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure he would have ripped my face off if I had taken down the barrier." Really? Did Isaac really not notice?"
"Oh, he's just eternally angry. It's nothing personal."
"Right." Stiles hid his disbelief by draining the first water and starting on the second. "Hey so what exactly do you guys need help with?"
Isaac's face shut down faster than Stiles would have thought possible. That was what revived Stiles' fight or flight response that had dissolved in the time elapsed since the confrontation. For the first time since that night, he felt himself tensing. A weird shudder went through the house, and then Lucinda was standing, winded, in the center of the room.
"Dammit, Stiles! I hate when you do that!"
Isaac jumped, rounding on the interruption like prey cornered. He looked like he was prepared to climb over the back of his chair to get to her. "Whoa my god! What the hell?"
Stiles sat upright in his chair and held his hands out placatingly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to! Isaac, it's okay, she's dead!"
"Oh, well that's a lovely way to put it," Lucinda snipped.
Stiles just cringed. "What? It's true? When have I ever sugar-coated shit like that?" When he noticed Isaac still tensed, watching the discussion raptly, he snapped a little. "Isaac, for fuck's sake, relax. She's incorporeal. She can't directly hurt you and nothing she can do will last long what with your wolf voodoo."
"And what about you?" He asked, voice oddly subdued for a question he was no doubt dying to know the answer to.
Stiles slouched and crossed his arms, tilted his head just so, and wore his unimpressed expression with pride. "I can kill you five ways to Sunday, not including the wards on the house. But I won't if you come in peace. Which I'm sure you already know or why would you be here, in the 'enemy's lair?'" He uncrossed his arms briefly to wiggle his fingers when he said lair, just to provide some much-needed sarcasm.
Isaac seemed to mull that over, running and drumming his fingers over the top of the table. Lucinda had long since huffed off. Stiles let him, opting to rise and putter around lazily, searching the fridge for acceptable foodstuffs. And by "acceptable foodstuffs" he meant liquids. No way in hell was he up for digesting right now. He didn't go for coffee, though, because it had never sat well with him. Not only did it exacerbate his ADHD, but it made him almost disturbingly ill. That said, he still wanted to take away the taste and beat some energy back into his blood, so he snagged a can of soda and another water for himself, and a sports drink for Isaac, without bothering to ask. He accepted it readily, though, if a little distracted and withdrawn.
"Okay now that's just sad," Stiles said as he rejoined him. "I point out my obvious badassery and suddenly I'm diseased, huh?"
"Ah! No-"
"What, afraid I'll zap you with a snap of my fingers if you don't placate me?"
"Stiles-"
"Oh, no no no no no, don't you 'Stiles' me, I know when-"
"I'm not afraid of you, okay?" Isaac barked. He sounded pretty canine, too.
Stiles waited until he had Isaac's attention before grinning, slow and stupid and impossibly wide.
"God, you really are a werewolf," Stiles reveled, more to himself, before cutting off Isaac's hot-headed response. "In that case, trust me a little. Tell me what you need. I can see if I can do anything, then."
"It's not that easy," Isaac admitted. "Derek-"
Stiles' expression darkened, for the second time in minutes. Of course the problem led back this Derek fellow. It seemed like it always invariably did with this pack.
"Derek sounds like a pretty shitty alpha, if you ask me," he interrupted. "He expects me to stick my neck out for a bunch of young, violent strangers, after his brilliant plan to flaunt his overall creep factor like a schmoozing car salesman, and he has the gall to deny me answers? Nuh-uh, fuck that.
"I don't work that way, and I can't think of a damn thing outside of kids' movies that does. So here's what's gonna happen: you're going to give your alpha a message—god, I sound like a Sopranos rerun. You're gonna tell him what I said here, and you're gonna tell him that I demand an explanation before I consider doing anything."
Stiles felt kind of incensed by the end of his rant. It made him want to do something daring and manly, to emphasize his point. So he slammed back about half of his soda and chased it's acidic burn with conciliary agua.
"That's great and all, though I'm not sure if he'll actually answer you, but where would we be able to meet up?" Isaac asked.
"Here, of course. What? Don't give me that look, I hold awesome barbecues. Actually, that's a lie, I've never held one before. But I wasn't always a shut-in and I watched Grill Masters once so it can't be all that hard. So long as you all come under a banner of peace, you'll be fine," Stiles answered readily, if a little self-important. "I'll even provide all the food. Say, the fire pit the night after tomorrow. At seven, sharp."
He refrained from pointing imperiously at Isaac and proclaiming a dire "be there." Barely.
Isaac left soon after, somehow impossibly more happy than he'd been when he'd shown up. Probably because he thought this was a cut-and-dried thing and he wouldn't have to pack up and shove off as per Derek's orders. Somehow that name just felt better when uttered scathingly. Stiles had his suspicions about the relative speed with which Isaac left, all of which were made more pointed when he'd realized what he'd done. He'd caved. He'd let weakness and booze and fucking Isaac Lahey cloud his judgement and the result had been...agreeing to talk about it. Okay. It was still salvageable. He could still turn them down, retain his dignity and pride as someone with good sense. But...still-
Fuck.