Chapter Text
The expectations for the morning are as follows: wake, fall back asleep, be forced out of bed and into the shower. Upon exiting said shower and dressing, breakfast would wait for her, and following that, a cheesy photoshoot to celebrate her very first day of public school before being chauffeured to Beacon Hills High School.
Nowhere in these set expectations read: awaken three hours before the alarm, rush to the bathroom, waking the other resident of the loft by tripping over an unpacked box, and vomiting what little dinner was eaten the night before. And yet.
This is where Marcela Hale finds herself.
Hunched over the toilet, one hand clutching at her stomach, the other braced on the tank, tears burning in her eyes as she emptied her stomach contents. A hand rests on her back, warm and broad, and another sweeps her sweaty hair out of her eyes.
“You’re alright, kiddo, let it out,” Derek says softly, repeating it like a mantra, and she shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. Because she’s not alright. Not when she can still see Laura’s blank, cataracted eyes, sunken deep into her hollow face. Her gaping mouth overflowing with black bile as she gasped, screaming silent warnings no one will hear.
She’s shaking by the time she’s finished, chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath, and Derek’s hold around her waist is the only thing keeping her from slumping down to her knees. She leans into him as he reaches out, flushing away her sick. Her mouth tastes like death, like she had been force-fed a cocktail of mountain ash and monkshood.
“Okay?” he asks, and she shakes her head, staring ahead blankly. She feels empty now, depleted. The horror of her nightmare fades, but the ache of something important lost forever remains. Itches like a phantom limb. “Come on, wash out your mouth.” She lets him lead her to the sink, watches as he turns on the faucet, and furrows her brow in confusion when he grabs her toothbrush and paste and holds it out to her.
“It’ll make you feel better,” he assures her, and then, because he is the absolute worst (best), he offers a tired smile. “And you stink.”
She considers, briefly, blowing a breath in his face at the expense of her own life, but thinks better of it. She takes what he offers, trying and failing to ignore how her hands shake. Derek steps back while she gets to work at purging her mouth of the disgusting taste left behind. She regards him through the mirror- the dark circles beneath his eyes, prominent against his pale face. Black hair mussed in sleep, beginnings of a beard shading his jaw.
He hasn’t shaved since they got back from New York. Hasn’t slept properly. The loft is quieter now without Laura. Too quiet. Empty.
She washes out her mouth and splashes water in her face, and when she straightens, it takes her a moment to realize that the faces staring back at her are not the same. Eerily similar, made more so with Mars’ recent decision to chop her once long black hair short to a boyish cut, but there were some differences.
“Feel better?” he asks, and her reflection blinks at his.
“Kinda,” she manages to croak. She clears her throat, shaking her head. “Grow up, Marcela, bulimia is so ‘87,” she quotes, and Derek seems caught between alarm and amusement, but doesn’t reprimand her.
They shuffle out of the bathroom, Derek flicking the light off after them. “Bed?” he asks, and she shakes her head in alarm. “Alright,” he says softly, and leads them to the living room. The lights are turned on, and he sets her on the couch, and before she can protest, he disappears into the kitchen. She hears him moving around, and has half a mind to go after him, not wanting to be alone. But she doesn’t want to seem like a needy child, and so crosses her legs onto the couch and drops her head back into the back rest. Stares absentmindedly at the ceiling. Tries not to feel uncomfortable with her throat bared.
A week ago, Laura would have been the one rubbing her back and telling her to brush her teeth. A week ago, Mars wouldn’t be having vomit inducing nightmares.
Derek returns after what seems like hours, and Mars tries to hide her relief. He carries a mug with him, and her stomach twists at the thought of having to consume anything. He notices.
“It’ll help settle your stomach,” he assures her, holding it out to her. She eyes the steaming cup suspiciously. “It’s tea,” he says dryly, and then, expression softening in memory, “My mother used to make it for us after a bad shift. It’ll help, I promise.”
And she hears no lie in his words. “Talia?” she asks, taking the cup carefully. He nods, but offers nothing else in regards to the famed Alpha. He never spoke of the Hales burned away all those years ago. Laura would tell her some tales. Tales of how the family would celebrate the full moon with runs in the Preserve. Tales of how their younger sister, who would have been Mars’ age now, had “tricked” their uncle Peter into buying her ice-cream every time he picked her up from school.
Mars tries to imagine Peter as anything other than the burned out husk of a man left to rot away in the hospital.
She brings the cup to her lips, inhales the scent. Peppermint, she realizes, but the authentic kind. Not the sweet stuff from the candy canes Laura forced them to put on their tiny tree (the tree has since been taken down, and Mars doesn’t find it in herself to miss it). There’s a hint of something more, a spice. Cinnamon? The first sip is hesitant, but upon realizing it wouldn’t scald her mouth, Mars takes a deeper drink. The heat soothes her abused throat, the flavor banishes the horrid aftertaste that brushing her teeth could not.
Derek settles next to her, and she leans into his side as he drops and arm around her shoulders, resting his hand on her head.
“Can we read?” she asks after a moment of silence. She looks up at him, and he arches a brow. “Please?”
Because if she’s left to her thoughts, she knows she’ll fall back to the Morgue. She’ll fall back next to Laura’s body, torn in two and face twisted in permanent terror. Derek seems to realize this, and nods, pulling away from her to reach forward to the coffee table, where numerous books lay stacked and scattered. He grabs one at random, flipping it to see the inside summary, before throwing it back and grabbing another.
“I can’t believe we haven’t started these yet,” he says in disbelief as he settles back next to Mars, and she tilts her head to get a better look at the title. He opens the books to first page, and Mars rests her head on his arm to follow along as he starts.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense…”
The light is off. A sickly white that mutes everything it touches. The cold tiled floor pulls the warmth from her body from her feet. The air is frigid, but still. The walls are lined with silver doors, and in front of her stands a metal table. A form is laid on the table, covered in a white cloth. Black seeps through the fabric, the scent of poison and death stinging her nose.
The morgue.
The cloth falls away, and Mars snaps her head forward, refusing to look at the form on the table.
“Look down.” She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Hot tears burn, slip through the corners of her eyes. “Look. Down."
Her eyes snap open, and laying on the table is Laura. Mutilated, broken Laura, eyes staring up at Mars blankly.
She blinks.
A wave of heat beats against her back as her surroundings fade into darkness. Trees replace the silver drawers, the cold tile giving way to dirt and twigs that dig into her feet. Bright orange light dances around her, causing her shadow to shake and flicker over the forest floor. When it gets to be too much, she finally turns to face it. The Hale House. Flames lick up the side, roaring, but not enough to drown out the screaming from within. The anguished howls . The stench of burnt flesh floats in the air, and Mars takes a step back, only to stumble over something.
She tumbles down, and her surroundings shift. No longer is she in the darkened forest with the blazing Hale House, but rather home. Her home in Brooklyn, the apartment she stayed at with Laura and Derek. She blinks in confusion, and nearly slips as she tries to pick herself up. She looks down, and lets out a startled scream at the crimson liquid, sticky and warm, she sits in. She scrambles away, standing, and lets out another scream. A horrified, anguished scream rips from her throat, and she falls back to her knees, doubling over in despair
Before her lies Derek. Derek, with his heart cut out of his chest and the symbol of her mother’s family carved into his torso.
A dagger, decorated with an ornate hilt, is clutched in Mars’ hand. Blood drips lazily from the blade.
Derek mutters under his breath as he navigates the Camaro through the throngs of teenagers walking aimlessly in the Beacon Hills High School parking lot, and more than once he had to slam on the break because, “what the hell, do these idiots not know how to drive?!”
Mars swallows hard as she looks out the window. Several of the teenagers openly stare as Derek pulls into a surprisingly free space in the front by the bike rack. She wonders if the other kids already know who she is. What had happened to her Laura.
She misses the anonymity of Brooklyn.
Derek huffs in irritation as he stares out the windshield. Mars follows his gaze and finds one Stiles Stilinski standing awkwardly in front of the school. He must notice the Hales staring at him, because he looks up from his phone, and his face goes slack, before looking around animatedly. Mars rolls her eyes when he finally gets the balls to give them a tentative wave.
“You should make new friends,” Derek says bitterly. “Immediately.”
Of course, Derek isn’t Stiles’ biggest fan right now. He had been the one who had the bright idea to go looking for Laura’s body. Not that he knew it was Laura’s, but… It was disrespectful, Mars knows this. Who goes looking for a body in the middle of the woods? Especially when he knows one of his friend’s guardians is missing.
“He’s an idiot,” Mars allows, waving back at him, and a bright smile spreads across his face. “But he’s okay.”
Derek shakes his head. When Mars makes no move to get out of the car, he turns to look at her. “You sure you’re okay to go?” he asks, and she blinks at him. “You can wait,” he offers. “Until after.” The Funeral is left unsaid, but Mars hears it all the same. She looks out. Sees Stiles waiting less than patiently for her and is almost in awe of his audacity. Sees the other students still staring at the car.
And she wants to leave. She wants to go back home with Derek and hide under her blankets. She wants to go back to the loft and curl in her corner chair by their makeshift library and finish reading about the boy-who-lived. She wants to disappear back to Brooklyn, where no one knows who she is.
She wants Laura.
But Laura had wanted her to start school. Wanted her to live a normal teenage life. As normal as one can have with the last name Hale. As normal as one can have with her lineage.
“I need to stay,” Mars says finally, and she can almost feel Derek’s disappointment. “It’s what Laura wanted,” she reminds him, and he sighs, nodding.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
She looks up at him. “Do you…” She doesn’t want to be presumptuous. “Do you want me to stay?” she asks hesitantly, and he blinks in surprise before a smiling tiredly.
“Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” he says, reaching out and dropping a hand on her hair, careful not to muss up her style, which she worked so hard to perfect. “If you want to go, go.”
She nods solemnly, and he drops his hand to her shoulder as she looks to the school again. “I already took all those stupid placement tests,” she mutters to herself.
The school, realizing she never had proper schooling before coming to be with the Hales, insisted on forcing her to take multiple tests over the course of a week to see where they would place her. So while the other students were taking their midterms, Mars was hidden away in the counselor’s office. Also taking tests. They received the results the following week, and Mars was allowed to enroll as a sophomore for the spring semester. No remedial classes.
Laura bought her a box set of The Dark Tower. Derek bought her a record of Albert Hall production of Phantom of the Opera. Lana sent her a switchblade.
“Okay. Okay, I’m going,” she says, voice full of conviction. Derek makes no move to stop her as she throws open the door gets out. He watches with something of a mix of melancholy and pride as she pulls the front seat back and grabs her bag, struggling a bit with the crosse stick sticking out the front mesh pocket.
“You wouldn’t have that problem if you joined basketball instead,” Derek says, voice almost sing-song in his teasing, and Mars bares her teeth at him playfully in reflex. How often they poked and prodded at each other, hoping to get a rise from the other.
“I don’t get to hit anyone the same way in basketball.”
And Derek nods in assent.
“Mars!” Both Hales look to see Scott McCall slide in next to the Camaro, parking his bike at the rack. He blinks at Derek through the window sheepishly before looking up at Mars. “You’re starting today?” He catches sight of her crosse. “And you’re joining the team, awesome!”
Mars smiles. For all that she wanted to hate Scott for being the one to find Laura, she couldn’t bring herself to. Derek, however…
“New. Friends,” he says through gritted teeth, gripping the wheel tight enough that his knuckles go white. Scott, who should not have been able to hear that, deflates. Mars glares at Derek, and is about to reprimand him for his words when she’s cut off by a sharp report of a car horn.
“Jackson,” Scott mutters as Mars looks back to see a small silver porsche waiting for Derek to get out of the spot. Through the window she can see a boy raise a hand in the universal what the fuck gesture. Scott finishes locking up his bike and moves around to wait for her in front of the Camaro. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Stiles rushed forward to meet them. She sees how they bow their head in quiet conversation.
“I should go,” she tells Derek, and he nods, only for his expression to harden as she’s about to shut the door.
“Mars. Leave them.”
“Leave what-”
“Marcela Olivia Hale.” He holds his hand out, and when she throws her head back in frustration, he bites out a sharp, “Now.” When she looks back at him, his eyes flash blue, making it clear he means business.
“No fun,” she mutters, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her pocket knife, a black serrated blade with a black hilt, reaching about five inches when folded out. She drops it in the seat she just vacated. “Happy?” she demands, and he gives her a pointed look. “Really?”
“All of them, Mars.” She growls, and he gives one in return. “Don’t give me shit, you know you can’t have them here.”
She doesn’t answer, and instead brings up her foot and plants it on the Camaro’s low passenger seat, knowing it will irk Derek. Her guess is correct, judging by how he growls low in his throat in a way Mars recognizes to promise pain later. A brotherly headlock/noogie Laura would have had to save her from.
She would have to save herself from now on.
She reaches in her boot and pulls out another small blade, this time a hunting knife, complete with its sheath - a parting gift from Lana. Derek rolls his head disbelief as she moves to her other foot, and this time pulls out a thin switchblade. Finally, she pulls her bag in front of her and pulls open her front pocket, reserved for her planner, pens, pencils, and up until Derek realized she had it, a spiked brass knuckle. Another parting gift from Lana.
She drops it on the pile and glares at him. “I feel naked now,” she mutters, and Derek doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry for her.
“Is that all of them?” She clenches her jaw, and the porsche lets out another impatient honk as it inches closer to the camaro. She turns her ire to it, and can feel the beginning of a familiar burn around her eyes. “Mars.” Derek’s hard voice brings her back to the present.
“Those are all the knives I could fit on my person,” she says carefully.
He narrows his eyes at her, ever so slightly, searching for a lie. When he finds none, he nods. “Alright.” He pauses, obviously not wanting to leave her with this fracture between them. “I’ll be back when you’re finished with tryouts.” She nods, not moving. Knowing he has more to say. “Call,” he orders, and then clears his throat, voice softening after. “If you need to leave early, just call, okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. I know.” She steps back. Scott waits patiently, and now Stiles has joined him, watching and no doubt wanting to know what just happened between her and Derek. “Bye,” she says, almost awkwardly, and then, right before she slams the door shut. “Love you.”
He blinks in shock through the window, before his expression softens. She turns away to walk to Stiles and Scott, slowing for a fraction of a second when she hears Derek’s soft reply.
“Love you too, kid.”
Stiles is practically bouncing when she reaches them. “We should move,” he says in a rush, catching her arm and all but dragging her away. And it isn’t what she expected his first words to be. What with not having seen or spoken to him since the night they found Laura, but she can’t help but feel… okay with it. Because this means he isn’t going to treat her any different.
“Why?”
“Derek’s in Jackson’s spot,” Scott explains, flanking her other side, looking back and giving another awkward wave. “And Jackson’s an asshole, so we shouldn’t be here for when he gets out.”
The name is familiar to Mars. She frowns, letting the boys lead her to school. “Is he… he’s the captain of the lacrosse team?”
“The very one,” Stiles says pleasantly. “The very one.”
“And he’s dating Lydia?” she goes on, trying to get the facts straight. In the weeks of winter break she spent with the boys after meeting them through the Sheriff, they made sure to fill her in on the social hierarchy of Beacon Hill High School. They also introduced her to lacrosse, and she fell in love instantly.
Stiles makes a face and nods. “And Lydia is this school’s Heather Chandler?” Which kind of terrified Mars, because Heather was a senior when she had all her power, and the idea of a Sophomore having that kind of influence in a school could only spell disaster.
“Who?” Scott asks in confusion, and Stiles makes an offended noise.
“Don’t say that!” Mars quirks up a brow at him, and he steps back in surprise. “Also, don’t do that either, because it’s terrifying how much you look like your brother.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at her scrutinizingly as the three of them come to a stop by the front entrance. “Are you sure you aren’t related?”
She makes a point to not look at him. “I’m adopted, Stiles,” she says, and can’t help but adopt Derek’s dry tone of speaking. Stiles spasms, throwing an arm out at her, and she catches his wrist out of the air before it can hit her. “I’ve said this a million times.”
Stiles sputters, gesturing to her hold on him, and she blinks in confusion before realizing she’s squeezing a bit harder than she needs to, and lets him go. She’d hate to be the reason he can’t play lacrosse - never mind how bad she’s heard he is. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, rubbing his wrist, and narrows his eyes at her.
“You two just really look alike-”
“Oh, look, it’s Lydia!” Scott announces loudly, and Stiles whirls around. Mars exchanges a grateful look with Scott, who shrugs nonchalantly, smiling warmly. No, Mars decides, she could never hate Scott.
“Hey, Lydia!” Stiles greets brightly, and Mars does a double take at the red-headed girl striding up to them. She isn’t dressed in all red, but her hair might make up for it. She’s talking to another girl, and if you ask Mars, she’d say they’re both a bit overdressed for school. Not that this is a particularly bad thing, as it seems to work for them. Neither seem to notice Stiles, or if they do they choose to ignore them, and Mars can’t find it in herself to fault them.
She doesn’t think she would look at Stiles either if she had hair that fell perfectly, or full lips perfectly glossed pink, or a walk worthy of the bravest Amazon.
Lydia Martin slows, however, when her gaze falls on Mars. She gives her a once over, eyes narrowed, and picks up the speed once again, tossing her hair over her shoulder dramatically as she goes. It smells like strawberries, and Mars has to stop herself from trailing after the girl.
Stiles squeals, grabbing Mars’ arm and bouncing. “Do you realize what just happened?”
“Your school’s equivalent of Heather Chandler decided I wasn’t worthy to be her Veronica?” Mars struggles to keep the disappointment from her voice.
Stiles throws his head back. “What is it with you and The Heathers today?”
She shrugs, following the boys as they start into the school. “It’s what Derek and I went to see when we went back to New York.”
Stiles goes uncharacteristically silent, and Mars just knows he’s pitying her as he remembers what she lost because of that trip. She turns on him, fist raised, and he jumps back in alarm.
“Don’t get all weird on me, Stilinski,” she snaps, and he squawks.
“I’m not being weird-”
“You were being quiet.”
“Am I not allowed a moment of introspection?” he demands, dropping his arms. “I’m a complex man, Marcela Hale. I have depth and there are times I need to reflect- MARS!”
She launches herself at him, and in a gesture that is purely Derek, wraps her arm around his neck and doubles over with him.
“Call me Marcela again,” she dares, ignoring his flailing, which goes absolutely still when he hears her words. And Mars knows she’s about to have fun.
“Guys,” Scott says hesitantly, and is ignored for his troubles.
“ Marc. Ela,” Stiles taunts, emphasizing the two syllables of her name, and she tightens her hold on him. “Oh come on,” he gasps. “It’s not nearly as bad as my real name-”
A throat clears behind them. “Miss Hale.”
And Mars drops Stiles faster than she would a monkshood bullet. He lands sprawled on the floor, eliciting laughter from around them. Mars glances over toward the laughter, noting a group of boys with crosse sticks hanging out of their backpacks. She recognizes one of them - the one that holds himself like a leader - as the one that honked at Derek.
“Miss. Hale.”
Mars’ head snaps up and her expression goes blank at the sight of Ms. Morrell standing before her. Next to her, Stiles struggles to get to his feet, and without looking down at him she reaches down, grabbing his backpack with a single hand and lifting him effortlessly.
Ms. Morrell frowns at her before turning to the group of boys. “On your way, Mr. Whittemore,” she orders, and the boy in front of the group, scowls. Mars watches him, this boy with a sharp jaw and angry blue eyes that seem to match her own, as he gives her a once over, eyes falling on the crosse in her bag.
“Now, Mr. Whittemore,” Ms. Morrell presses, and the boy stalks away, his entourage following close behind. Ms. Morrell turns her attention back to Mars, brow arched. “Your schedule, Miss Hale,” she says, holding out a slip of paper to Mars. Stiles snatches it away before she has a chance to reach for it.
“Oh, sweet! You have English, History, Chemistry, and Econ with us!” he says in excitement, and Scott leans over to get a look.
“You’re taking French?” he asks incredulously, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Why? We have Spanish!”
“Derek already knows Spanish,” she says, stealing her paper back and shoving it in the pocket of her utility jacket. “He already promised to teach me. It’s redundant to take it.”
“It’s redundant to take it,” Stiles mimics, and dances away from her reach when she makes to hit him again.
“IF,” Ms. Morrell starts, raising her voice and getting the trio’s attention, “you boys share a schedule with her, would you be so kind as to escort her?”
“Sure,” Stiles says absentmindedly. “I mean, yes, ma’am,” he says quickly when she gives him a look that would make the strongest men question their strength. “Come on, Mars,” he says, grabbing her arm and starting to pull her away.
“Marcela,” Ms. Morrell calls out, and Mars clenches her jaw but says nothing regarding the name. “My door is open if today gets to be too much for you,” she says. Mars swallows hard and gives a single nod before letting Stiles pull her away. Scott stays behind long enough to offer a quick apology before rushing after them.
“We were supposed to read Metamorphosis over the break,” Scott tells her.
“Ovid or Kafka?” she asks.
“Kafka,” Stiles answers. When she doesn’t immediately respond, he turns to look at her. “Have you already read…” She shrugs helplessly and he throws his head back in a groan. “Why are you like this?!”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t imagine he’d understand if she ever did.