Chapter Text
After a great deal of thought, Stiles asks his father and Dr. Deaton to meet him at Chris’ house. He calls Victoria to let her know, and packs up a tray of the peanut butter cookies he had made the night before (Chris’ favorite). After some debate, he asks Jake to wait about an hour before bringing Phil over. Phil wants to apologize to Chris before he leaves with Julien, who’s going to be arriving in town that evening.
Victoria lets him in, gives his cookies the laser stare, and then folds her arms over her chest. “You know, we had a deal, Stiles. I was going to stay with my husband while you found the person who had hurt him.”
Stiles looks at her for a long moment, then says, “I’m sorry, I’m just – distracted by – how did you get a wig that looks so much like your real hair?”
Victoria sighs, looks disappointed, and waves him into the kitchen. She looks pretty much like normal. Her eyebrows have been penciled in, and she’s apparently wearing false eyelashes, too. None of that surprises Stiles particularly. “I bought the wig at a local store and then had my regular hairdresser cut it in the style I wear.”
“Oooh, that makes sense,” Stiles says. He looks up as Allison jogs down the stairs, and gives her a hug in greeting. Derek leans over and rubs cheeks with her.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“Important meeting,” Stiles says. “Dad and Deaton are coming. Where’s your dad at?”
“He is downstairs, probably checking his weaponry for the tenth time today,” Victoria says. “I’ll get him.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says. He sets down the tray of cookies while Allison gets out a pitcher of iced tea and starts pouring drinks for everybody.
Chris comes upstairs a minute later. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, which makes sense given the chilly autumn weather, so the lack of hair on his chest and arms isn’t noticeable. Victoria has apparently drawn in his eyebrows as well, although much more subtly than her own. He doesn’t look bad without hair, but that in combination with the new lines on his face makes it look like he’s aged ten years overnight. He also doesn’t really look at Stiles, just giving him a brief nod before picking up a glass of the tea.
Stiles isn’t having any of that. “Hey, Chris. Are you wearing fake eyelashes?”
Chris glowers at him, which is much more like it. “Eyelashes are important more than cosmetically,” he says. “They protect your eyes.”
“Well, let me be the first to say that you can definitely rock the chrome dome look,” Stiles says, and Chris gives him a withering glance.
Derek glances up as the doorbell rings, and says, “That’ll be Papa Stilinski.”
“Is the rest of the pack coming?” Chris asks, and Stiles can see his hands clenching down on the back of the chair.
“No, I wanted to keep this small, for security’s sake,” Stiles says, “and also, not to freak everybody out,” he adds. He doesn’t think anybody will be happy to hear that Sebastian Stone had a daughter.
Tom comes in, hugs his son, shakes Chris’ hand, and takes one of the cookies. Deaton arrives only a minute later.
“So, to take things chronologically,” Stiles says, “last night, someone showed up at the house to try to kill Phil, in case he knew her identity. That someone was Sally Stoddard.”
Deaton has a politely blank look on his face. Chris blinks and says, “What?”
“Yeah, that was about my reaction, too,” Stiles says. He takes a moment to sum up what had happened the night before, and how he had fit Sally in to everything that had happened. Then he says, “So this morning, while we were all trying to wrap our minds around that, she called and asked to meet me for coffee.”
Several people look at him with open mouths, but Sheriff Stilinski groans and says, “And of course, you accepted her invitation.”
“What can I say? I can’t resist a good cup of coffee,” Stiles says. “So here’s what we learned. The primary things of importance. One: Henry and Rose are definitely dead.” He looks at Chris and says, “You have my condolences. I don’t think recovering their bodies is in the cards.”
Chris grimaces and rubs a hand over his bald scalp. “Okay. I can’t say that I’m surprised. Go on.”
“I did confirm that she was the one behind the events with Ruben Gutierrez, Cora and Liliana Santos, Deucalion, and Eli Whitaker,” Stiles says.
“She just told you all of this?” Tom asks.
“Yeah. She was downright chatty. I think she was . . .” Stiles lets out a breath. “She was bragging. She wanted me to know what she had done and how good at manipulating people she was. It’s actually pretty common in serial killers, that’s why they send letters to the police and stuff. Some people theorize it’s because they subconsciously want to get caught, but most people believe it’s just because they crave recognition. They view themselves as geniuses, and they want confirmation from other people.”
Tom manages a smile at this and says, “Well, at least you’re learning stuff in college.”
“Heh, yeah,” Stiles says. “Anyway, the important part. Sally is a sorcerer. She likes to play games. She’s a total psychopath. Does that sound like anyone else we know?”
Deaton goes tense, but nobody else seems to make the connection, so after a brief silence, the veterinarian says, “What are you implying, Stiles?”
“Sally is Sebastian Stone’s daughter,” Stiles says, and Deaton closes his eyes for a few moments. “Taken from him as a hostage to keep him from messing around on the Stoddard territory. Not that this stopped him from communicating with his daughter psychically, pretty much warping her mind from day one. Although I have a feeling that Sally always would have been a psychopath, one way or another. She just might not be as good at it.”
“So this is revenge?” Victoria asks.
“That’s what I said, but no, it doesn’t seem that way,” Stiles says. “Sally just thinks she finally found a worthy opponent to play games with. And she’s not going to stop. Which is why I tried to shoot her. Unfortunately, she was using an illusion so the only thing that got hurt was a hapless building wall.”
Derek glances over at him and squeezes his shoulder. “The only people who know Sally’s parentage are now the people in this room,” he says. “The Stoddards don’t know. Sally killed the person who had arranged everything, and even the people who raised her were never told about her parentage.”
“Jesus,” Chris says. “Maybe you shouldn’t have even told us.”
“Maybe not,” Stiles says. “But you needed to know. You deserved to know.”
Chris’ gaze flickers to him, then away, and he mutters, “Yeah, I guess.” Victoria reaches over and squeezes his wrist, and she looks at Stiles with genuine warmth in her gaze. He figures he’s forgiven for not bringing her Sally Stoddard’s head on a silver pike now.
Tom is looking at Deaton, since Chris doesn’t need more of an audience than he already has. After a moment, he says, “You okay, Alan?”
“I really don’t know,” Deaton says. “I think it will take some time to adjust to this. The idea of Sebastian having fathered a child . . . is truly terrifying, to be honest.”
“No lies detected,” Stiles says.
“So now we know for sure that her family wouldn’t believe us,” Allison says. “And as much as I’d love to implement a more permanent solution, I doubt she’d make that easy for us. So what do you want to do, Stiles?”
“I think we have to wait,” Stiles says. “I know it’s not the optimal solution, and to be honest I flat out hate it, but . . . this game is over. When she starts the next one, we’ll find our chance. Until then, we go back to San Francisco, we watch our backs. I refuse to not live my life because of some psycho.”
“I agree,” Tom says.
The doorbell rings again and Victoria stands up to get it, smoothing her hands down over the skirt she’s wearing. Chris looks suddenly tense and anxious, hands drumming at the table, but he refuses to give into it or ask who else is there. A minute later, she comes in with Jake and Phil in tow. Jake has his arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “Hey, Uncle Chris,” he says.
Chris draws in a breath, but manages to speak in an even tone. “Hey. Tom and Melissa treating you okay?”
“Yeah, they’re great,” Jake says. He nudges Phil in the ribs and says, “Phil had something he wanted to say.”
Phil steps forward, his face creased in misery. “I’m sorry, Uncle Chris. I’m really, really sorry. This is all my fault.”
Chris takes another breath. “I understand,” he says. “I know that your parents were really tough on you. I can’t say ‘it’s okay’, because it’s not, but I appreciate the apology.” He forces a smile. “Victoria will probably give you plenty of chores to make up for it.”
“Oh . . .” Jake looks between the others. “We were going with Uncle Julien, I thought.”
“I figured you wouldn’t really want Phil here,” Stiles says, looking between Chris and Victoria.
“No,” Chris says, surprising him. “I do. Because . . . I don’t want the house to be empty. It would be like . . . admitting defeat. No, if you two want to stay, we’ll be happy to have you.”
Phil bursts into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, throwing himself into Chris’ arms.
Jake has to knuckle away a few stray tears, too. “Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t want to go, but he’s my brother. I have to take care of him.”
“And you will,” Victoria says, squeezing his shoulder. Stiles has a feeling that Victoria’s going to have some words with Jake about keeping an eye on his brother. He’s not particularly worried about this being part of some long con – otherwise, Sally wouldn’t have tried to murder Phil – but he can see why Victoria wants to be extra sure.
“Shame we made Julien fly out here all the way for nothing,” Tom comments.
“Well, it’s not exactly for nothing,” Chris says, looking up from where he’s patting Phil awkwardly on the back. “We need to decide what to do about Henry’s territory. It’s still Argent land. Julien and I will talk it over. Sam might be old enough now, though it’s a lot of land to start with. We’ll see what he thinks.”
Stiles nods. “On that note, we’re going to get going,” he says. “I have an epic session with my therapist I need to set up, and a week of classwork to catch up on. Allison, I think we’ll probably just stay here the weekend and head back on Sunday. I’ll talk to you before then, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” she says, and stands up to give them a hug goodbye.
~ ~ ~ ~
Allison calls Stiles the next day to let him know that Mikael and Annika are leaving, if he wants to go down to the airport to see them off. Stiles had asked Victoria the previous day to make sure that they weren’t at their conference, and she had told him that Mikael hadn’t been feeling well and they actually hadn’t seen much of him. Stiles is glad to hear that he’s okay, and that he wasn’t poisoned or anything crazy like that.
He can’t imagine what sort of cookies Mikael would like – he’s so foreboding sometimes that he really doesn’t seem like the cookie type – so he makes some banana nut muffins and brings those instead. Mikael looks at him like he’s from another planet when he hands them over, and Stiles can’t help but laugh.
“Hey.” Annika walks over, glaring at him. “Talk to you for a sec? Privately?”
“Sure,” Stiles says, a little surprised, but not wanting to argue. They walk out of the hangar and stand in the fresh autumn air.
Annika’s quiet for a minute before she starts speaking abruptly. “Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I was a psycho bitch during the Conclave.” She impatiently tucks her hair behind her ear. “Uncle Greger had filled our heads with all this bullshit about getting glory and living up to the family name and how much our dad wanted us to succeed. It’s not an excuse, I just figured I should say I’m sorry and actually mean it. Unlike, you know, when Dad forced me to apologize.”
“Apology accepted, and appreciated,” Stiles says. “And to be honest, my behavior during the Conclave wasn’t exactly exemplary. I was on the defensive and stressed out from being separated from my pack and it might have caused me to behave like a little shit a couple of times. Again, not an excuse, just an apology.” He frowns a little as she fiddles with her hair again. “Look, can I tell you something? It seems pretty obvious to me that you didn’t come with your dad on this trip just because he needed the backup, but because you didn’t want to let him out of your sight. Am I right?”
Annika glares at him, but then looks away, her lower lip trembling. “I can’t . . . stop thinking about what happened,” she admits. “I see it over and over again in my head. I know it happened so fast, but I feel like I should have, could have, done something. And now I’m all like . . . any time there’s a loud noise or something, I get super jumpy, and I just . . . stupid, right?”
“Noooooo,” Stiles says, shaking his head vigorously. “No, that’s the opposite of stupid. That’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and I know exactly how it feels.”
“Yeah?” Annika looks up at him, then quickly away.
“Let me guess: you also keep thinking ‘why is this affecting me so much, I should be stronger than this, there’s no reason to react this way’,” Stiles says, and Annika scowls again. “Yeah, trust me, I know that feeling. I know all those feelings. Believe me, I don’t think I’d be doing any better if my dad got shot in front of me.” He frowns for a minute, thinking over what he’d seen of Mikael recently. “Annika, is your dad okay?”
“I can’t really . . . I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she says.
Stiles takes that as a ‘no’. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”
Annika looks up at him and then huffs out a sigh. “He’s okay, I mean . . . he’s not dying or anything. But the head injury was worse than he made it out to be to a lot of people. He gets these blinding headaches sometimes. And he forgets things. Like, things that we just told him. It’s like he wasn’t listening, even though we know he was.” She fiddles and says, “That’s the other reason I came along. So I could take over as pilot if he had a problem.”
“You’re a licensed pilot, too?” Stiles asks. “Jesus, I really oughtta look into that.” He sees her expression and says, “Sorry. Go on.”
“That’s it, really,” Annika says. “My mom and his lieutenant have taken over a lot of the strategy and stuff, even though physically he’s almost back to normal. But he doesn’t want anyone to know because he’s afraid our borders won’t be secure if people find out he’s not in charge. Because, to quote, people are sexist dicks.”
“That’s not a quote,” Stiles says.
“It’s a paraphrase,” Annika replies. “It’s what he meant.”
“Gotcha,” Stiles says.
“So nobody outside the family knows, and now you, so if other people find out, I’ll know it was you, and I’ll come back to Beacon Hills and feed you your spleen,” Annika says.
“I won’t tell,” Stiles says, “but your threat has been noted.” He stops walking, reaches out and takes her hands in his, gives them a squeeze. “Here, I’ll tell you one of my secrets in exchange,” he says. “I’m claustrophobic. Really, severely claustrophobic. The alpha who came here way back when kidnapped me and left me in the trunk of his car. I was there for two days before my dad found me. That’s what started this whole mess. And I had to have a lot of therapy for how fucked up I was afterwards. I said all the same things. ‘It wasn’t that bad’ and ‘I should be stronger than this’. So I know how it feels. But I also know that your dad wouldn’t want you to keep suffering because of what happened. I’m going to e-mail my therapist and ask her for some names of someone up in South Dakota for you, who you can talk to. Okay?”
Annika sighs. “I guess I can’t stop you from sending it to me.”
“Just think about it. Okay? And put your contact info in my phone.”
Annika accepts his phone when he hands it over and starts putting her name in. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Stiles thinks about it for a minute. “Because I’ve learned a lot about forgiveness and second chances, and good and evil, and how much better things are if I can make friends instead of enemies.” He takes his phone back and says, “Hey, that was kind of profound, huh? I sound like the wise old mentor in a karate movie. Wax on, wax off.”
“You’re such a nerd,” Annika scoffs.
“Oh yeah,” Stiles agrees. “I am a huge nerd. No lie detected. C’mon, you’ve got places to be. Planes to fly. Muffins to eat.”
“Nerds to get away from,” Annika says, but despite the words, a reluctant smile is tugging at one corner of her mouth.
~ ~ ~ ~
Stiles e-mails Gwen ahead of time to ask her to meet him in the courtyard, because he’s been feeling intensely claustrophobic ever since getting back from Wyoming. He also e-mailed her detailing the events of the last week, because he doesn’t want to spend the entire session having to explain what actually happened.
It’s a little chilly, being October, but it’s nice in the sun. Gwen is sitting at one of the tables wearing a cable knit sweater and slacks. Stiles walks up with Derek on his heels; he doesn’t think he’s going to be anywhere out of Derek’s sight for the next three to four weeks. Or months. He’s considering bringing him to classes, even, because he’s been so jumpy in public. “Hey,” he says, sliding into the seat across from her.
“Hi,” Gwen says, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “How have you been holding up since getting back?” she asks, wanting to know how things currently stand before deciding how to handle this.
“I’m a piping hot mess,” Stiles says forthrightly. “I’m barely sleeping, tense and anxious, and super claustrophobic. I had to shower with the door open this morning.”
“At least you’re able to be in the bathroom long enough to shower,” she says. “That seems like a good compromise for now.”
“To be honest, if it weren’t fifty-five degrees out, I would probably stand outside naked and let Derek spray me with a hose,” Stiles says.
“But it is fifty-five degrees, and you were able to control the claustrophobia enough to shower inside,” Gwen points out. “It’s important to know that you can do that, and that there are things you would find more unpleasant. Like being hosed down. Perspective is important.”
“Yeah, I’m all about having perspective,” Stiles says with a sigh. “I’m apparently also all about having panic attacks. Like two or three every day. And at least a couple more that I manage to stave off.”
“Do you know what specifically is triggering those?”
“Well, usually I’ll be sitting around minding my own business and then I’ll accidentally start thinking about the fact that there’s a psychopath who wants to play torture games with me like I’m starring in the new Saw movie, and then suddenly I’m hyperventilating.”
“Why does Sally frighten you more than any of the other people you’ve had to deal with?” Gwen asks.
Stiles stops to think about that one for a minute. “I don’t think she does,” he finally says. “I think that I’m just super on edge after everything that’s happened and that’s just . . .” He flaps a hand and continues, “It’s like I’m already constantly on the edge of a panic attack all the time and thinking about her just keeps tipping me over.”
Gwen gives him an encouraging nod. “We can work with this,” she says, her voice confident. “Do you want to start today or do you just want to vent?”
“I don’t . . .” Stiles lets out a shuddery breath. “I’d rather work on it, I mean, I’m going back to San Francisco straight after this appointment and so I’ll probably have to skype my next couple sessions. Besides, I’ve actually done a fair amount of venting.”
“Okay. We can schedule those when we’re done for today.” She presses her hands against the table. “What we need to do is work out the whole mess so thinking about Sally is something you can do rationally. Overall, it’s a disastrous mess. So I think we should break it down and do the hardest part first, so it gets easier as we go. Does that sound like a workable plan to you?”
“Sounds hideous!” Stiles says. “Let’s do it.”
That gets a small laugh out of her. “Out of all of it, beginning to end, I want you to think about the event that bothers or upsets you the most. And then tell me about it.”
“Oh, geez,” Stiles says, and lets out a wavering breath. “There are so many to choose from.” He reaches down to absently smooth down Derek’s fur, feeling a bubble of panic already welling up in his throat. He closes his eyes and forces it back down. He’s been having a lot of nightmares lately, about a variety of things. “Okay. Okay.” Stiles takes a deep breath, hands drumming at the table for a few moments. “So when Ariah took us out into the wilderness to kill us, Ian kicked her ass by way of . . . getting shot a whole bunch of times and then collapsing on top of her. It, um, it was a better plan than it sounds like, I promise.”
“I’ll have to trust you on that, since you and your pack survived it. Why does that bother you?”
“Well, the thing is, Ian is a shapeshifter, right? And he was kinda wearing my face at the time, so I basically got to see myself shot and die.” Stiles gives a shudder. “It shouldn’t matter. I mean, I know it wasn’t me, but I keep . . .”
“You keep what?” Gwen prompts.
“I keep seeing it.” Stiles shudders again. “When I close my eyes, when I’m trying to sleep, in my sleep. I keep seeing myself die.”
“Okay. I’m going to give you some homework on this one. Every time you start to think about it, to see it in your mind, I want you to try to stop and imagine him changing into someone else. Anyone else’s face except you or someone you care about. It doesn’t have to be someone you dislike. Use a celebrity or a stranger. Just someone that won’t upset you so much. But at the end, I want you to imagine him getting back up. Because that’s essentially what happened.”
“Actually he dissolved into dust and then reappeared a few feet away and made a smart remark, but – ” Stiles flaps his hand at her and says, “ – I take your point.”
Gwen nods once. “So try that. Do you want to try it here?”
“Do I want to voluntarily picture myself dying and then attempt to turn it into someone else’s face? Well, no, not really.” Stiles manages a wan smile. “But I will if you think I should.”
Gwen smiles back. “I think it will help, in time. And I think it would help you to try it here, so I can help you through it.”
“Okay.” Stiles rakes both his hands through his hair and then pats the bench next to him. “Get up here, fuzzbucket. I need something to hang onto.” Derek obligingly hops up onto the bench so Stiles can twist a hand into his fur. He closes his eyes and thinks about it, thinks about Ian leaping forward and the sound of the gunshots and the blood going everywhere. He thinks about Ian flickering through forms until he lands on Stiles’ face, the trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. “Okay, shit, I’m freaking out,” he says, feeling that bubble of panic rising up again. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels nauseous. Derek leans in, resting his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, letting Stiles clutch at him.
“Okay, stop for a minute. Open your eyes,” Gwen says.
Stiles does as he’s told, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m with you. Sort of.”
“That’s good. Now take a deep breath.”
Stiles nods and lets Gwen talk him through some of the deep breathing exercises that he uses when he feels a panic attack coming on. “Okay, I can do this,” he says.
“You want to try again?” Gwen asks, careful not to push him.
“Yeah. I want to . . . to make sure I can do it.” Stiles closes his eyes and pulls it up in his mind again. It’s problematically easy. He can still see everything crystal clear. But he manages to keep himself calm while he pictures Ian’s face changing. After a long silence, he begins to giggle, but tamps it down, trying not to sound hysterical.
“Was that a good laugh?” Gwen asks.
“Yeah, I mean . . .” Stiles snickers again and opens his eyes. “I knew if I pictured some random person my logic train would get in the way, so I, uh, I used Bruce Banner. You know, the Incredible Hulk?”
“Okay. And?”
“And Ian would probably be thrilled. I’m . . . shaky. But not panicky. So, you know. I’ll take it. Maybe next time I’ll try Thor.”
“And here I thought it might be Alan Rickman in a vulture hat,” Gwen says, smiling. “Making it amusing or ridiculous is a fine way to rewrite the scene.”
“Okay. I’ll keep . . . keep doing that, then.”
They continue to work on that for about another ten minutes before Stiles feels confident that he can do it at home. He scratches behind Derek’s ears, knowing that Derek can always tell when he’s about to have a panic attack, and will be able to remind him. Then they spend some time going over his panic attack strategies and talking about his claustrophobia.
“I’m just really worried that I’m going to have a panic attack during one of my classes,” Stiles admits towards the end of the session.
Gwen considers this for a minute before saying, “Had you thought about the idea of an actual service dog?” she asks. “It seems like you don’t want to ask Derek to start going with you.”
“No, I do, I just . . .” Stiles turns pink a little as Derek sits up, ears pricking up. “He can’t put his life on hold for me.”
“Well, you don’t actually get to tell him what he can and can’t do,” Gwen points out. “So I suggest the two of you have a discussion about it. He survived high school with you; if he feels like he can manage a couple college classes, that’s his prerogative. But there is still the option of getting a real service dog.”
“I’m not sure I could justify dragging some poor canine into the chaos that is my life,” Stiles says.
“Just think about it,” Gwen says. “We can talk about that more next time. In the meantime, talk to Derek. Okay?”
“Okay,” Stiles says. He says he’ll call for his next appointment and heads towards the parking lot, feeling a little dejected. He knows he’s doing the best he can; he knows that just about anyone would be a mess if they lived his life. But there are times when he really wishes he could wave a magic wand and just fix all his psychological problems.
“I don’t mind going to classes with you,” Derek says abruptly, before Stiles can bring it up. He glances at Stiles and adds, “I like spending time with you. Even if we can’t talk.”
Stiles smiles despite himself. “Sappy much?” he teases Derek.
Derek scowls at him but doesn’t precisely argue. “If I’m sappy, it’s your fault,” he growls.
“Probably,” Stiles says, cheering up. Derek just shakes his head, puts the Jeep in drive, and heads down the road, leaving Fresno and heading back to San Francisco. The drive takes about three hours. By the time they get there, everyone else is back. The apartments are full of noise and light, music blaring, people complaining about their catch-up work.
He spends the next hour making spaghetti sauce to go in the crock pot for a few hours, while Derek and Erica take turns reading to him so he can catch up on some of his class work while he works. The others are in and out. He puts dinner on the table at six thirty, and everyone piles into the kitchen. It’s chaotic and loud and happy, and he sits without saying much for once, just watching.
“What are you thinking about?” Scott asks him.
“I’m thinking,” Stiles says, “about how we’re not going to let anyone take this away from us.”
“Hear, hear,” several people say, and they all clink their glasses together.
~ ~ ~ ~