Chapter Text
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They're sort of at a stalemate, and none of them seems to have any ideas on how to break it. Stiles is breathing hard, a little dizzy from all the running and the adrenaline slamming through him. Even the werewolves look winded, exhausted, and still tense. They're all in a semi-circle behind Derek, who's directly facing the witch that's been giving them so much damned trouble tonight. It isn't supposed to be like this – they'd set out just to talk to her, find out what she was up to, ask her politely but firmly to maybe not do whatever it was on the edge of the old Hale property. But either they've spooked her, she has something to feel guilty about, or she just likes making life hell for a bunch of teenagers (and a couple of adults who aren't exactly winning the 'most mature in town' award, if everyone's being honest).
It doesn't matter, really, Stiles supposes. His hands are at his sides, fingers twitching just a little. Erica and Boyd are at his right, still half-poised to pounce and, on his left, Scott and Isaac are bent down just enough to indicate they're ready to charge the woman at the slightest provocation. Derek's in front of them all, looking like he's trying very hard to keep this from going badly (they're still within the Hale property lines, after all, even if it is all just woods out here). The only one Stiles can't see is Peter.
And wasn't this Peter's idea, anyway, come to think of it?
Stiles's fingers twitch a little more at the realization.
The witch is backed up against a little drop-off. It's too straight for her to scale without the use of claws or rope or a ladder, and it's long enough that she can't just turn a corner or hide behind it. She looks a little wild and panicked, but the scorch marks on Isaac's leather jacket and the traces of the burn-in of bright light on Stiles's retinas prove she's not defenseless.
"Look, there's no need for all this," Derek is saying, and it's not his commanding 'I-am-the-alpha' voice he's using, not even a growl; it's the soft, reasonable version of his normal voice, the one that's higher, smoother and younger-sounding than Stiles always expects. "We just want to talk. This is my family's property, and we just want to make sure there's no – "
"You think I don't know what you are?" the witch says, and there's a wavering of her voice that disappears halfway through the sentence. She shakes her head. "All of you? Five beasts, and the odd little boy with the mostly-untapped spark of magic?"
"Hey, I'm not a little bo– " Stiles interrupts before his voice just vanishes, leaving him blinking in surprise. He opens his mouth to protest whatever the hell she just did, but no sound comes out, like he's a television show on mute.
"And we're not beasts," Derek says, holding his hands up in a placating way. "Actually," he says, with a smile that's not entirely for show, "I'd like to offer my thanks for you being the only person who's ever been able to silence Stiles effectively."
"Hey!" Stiles shoots back, but of course, that's silent, too. What the fuck?
"Not beasts?" the witch says, and she laughs, looking younger than Stiles has originally taken her for. She looks like she's maybe just a few years older than Derek, definitely younger than Peter (and seriously, where the fuck is the oldest Hale family member? How was he always so conveniently missing?) "Wolves who've taken lives, who've attacked others?"
"We're usually attacked first," Scott interjects. Stiles is increasingly annoyed that no one else is getting silenced. "We're not all killers. That's not necessarily our nature."
The witch looks at him coolly, then surveys the group. "No, not all of you have taken the life of another, that's true. As for your true nature, though..." She laughs. "Tell you wolves what. I'll leave your property before the sun sets tomorrow. I'm only here to commune with the entity here in Beacon Hills none of you seem to appreciate. No harm intended. It's more of a spirit quest sort of thing. I only need a few hours beginning at dawn, and then I'll leave peacefully and wilfully. But if you pursue me, I will make you regret it, in ways you can't imagine, and not even your Druidic emissary will be able to make head or tail of it right away. But before I go, I have a little gift for you." She looks right at Stiles as she says that last line, and if that gift isn't Stiles's voice, he's going to be so damned displeased.
"You talk of your nature? Insist you're not beasts? Well, perhaps it might surprise you to find what you're really made of, reflected in a form more animal than human."
Stiles looks around. Scott has that confused puppy look, Boyd is stoic as usual, Isaac looks slightly worried, and both Erica and Derek look distinctly unimpressed. "We're freaking wolves," Erica mutters, rolling her eyes, and you know, she's got a point. Stiles has never seen any member of the pack as a full-out, walks-on-all-fours wolf before. He remembers digging up Laura, and Peter's freakishly mutated alpha form of course, but that's it. To be honest, he's kind of curious. Scott will probably look like a brain-damaged dog, or that wolf from the Moon Moon meme that Derek is so not a fan of, if his threats when Stiles has showed him different captioned photos are any indication. Erica probably looks really pretty as a wolf, either silver or a little gold. Isaac's probably small, Boyd probably looks more like a Dire Wolf than anything else. And Derek? Who knows, maybe dark and scruffy?
Before he can decide, the witch sings something (sings? Stiles is so not on board with trying that sort of magic. He'll fail at that, hardcore. He sings in the shower, and in the shower only, and only when he knows his dad is at work) and Derek looks like he's been hit with a mild cattle prod with the way he jerks. The pack all makes an instinctive sort of move towards him, but he holds up a hand. "I'm fine," he says roughly, and the betas and Scott all slink back, looking warily at the witch. "She didn't do anything."
"Didn't I?" she says, smirking. It's a far cry from the young woman who looked as panicked and freaked out as the rest of them had felt not two minutes ago, but Stiles figures it's because, really, she's won, as long as she's telling the truth. If she really doesn't mean any harm and really will be gone in under a day's time, Stiles is pretty sure Derek has no intention of harassing her further. He's mellowed out in a lot of ways over the last two years. "Guess you'll see about that. Ta ta, wolves. Sorry, little human, for the voice. Couldn't risk you casting anything, just in case you've learned more than I supposed." She waves her hand, and there's a sensation like cool, clean water running down the back of Stiles's throat. "Remember: don't bother me, and I'll be out of your hair by next sundown." With that, she waves, sings a note that would make the high school choir teacher proud, and disappears with a shimmer.
"What the fuck just happened?" Stiles asks, in perfect unison with Erica, who's giving him an arched eyebrow in response. "Oh thank God, I can talk."
"Of course it was too good to last," Derek says, but his voice sounds weird. Raspy and breathy, like he's just starting to get a good case of laryngitis.
"Are you okay?" Isaac's eyes flick to Derek, but he's mostly still looking around like he's afraid the witch will pop back up, like this was just to lure them into thinking the threat is gone.
"I'm fine," Derek insists, clearing his throat, which doesn't seem to help. "Now let's get the hell out of here. Everyone back home."
The rest of the wolves all share uneasy looks, but they go – Scott and Isaac back towards Scott's place, Erica and Boyd in another direction, pressed close together. Stiles just stands there for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, my Jeep's kind of a walk..." he says, unsure how to proceed. "But, uh, do you want a ride somewhere? The loft, maybe?"
Derek shakes his head, then seems to realize something. "I'm not going to the loft. But I'm not letting you walk through these woods alone right now, either."
Stiles places a hand over his heart, fluttering his eyelids. "Aw, you do care," he says, heading for where he thinks he'll eventually hit his Jeep. It's kind of crazy how his sense of direction's getting better, even out here in the woods at night. Maybe that'll come in handy some day. "You'd rather I not get killed. You know, I take this as a definite sign we're in a better place than we used to be. I mean, it's probably because you don't want to deal with the corpse of the sheriff's son on your family's property, but hey, I'll just pretend it's a sign you care about all the times I've saved your life – I mean, we've saved each other's lives," he amends, seeing the glower on Derek's face when he looks back over his shoulder to find Derek is actually a lot closer behind him than he's expected.
"She couldn't have kept your voice?" Derek sighs. His own voice sounds weirder than it did just a minute ago. "Come on."
They don't talk any more on their way through the woods, and Stiles doesn't notice that Derek looks pale until they're climbing into the front seat of the Jeep. "Dude. Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, making his way along the dirt road and keeping an eye out for shitty conditions. They're not terribly far from the old Hale house, at least, which is the only place Stiles thinks to go, and Derek hasn't told him otherwise.
"Just drive," is the only response he gets, and Derek then ignores him in favor of leaning his head against the window.
"Yeah, all right, fine," Stiles says, shrugging. Maybe it's just the release of the stress of their little altercation, that's all. He tries not to be a little irritated that he's going to have Derek's greasy forehead print on the inside of the glass. He's pretty sure that wouldn't fly in the Camaro, though.
By the time they get to Derek's place – one of them, anyway – Derek looks worse. He stumbles as he gets out of the truck, then basically falls up the stairs. He's still on his knees when Stiles gets around the Jeep and hits the porch. "Yeah, okay, buddy, let's get you inside, maybe get you a bottle of water and peruse the ol' werewolf first aid kit, probably give Deaton a call," he says, getting his shoulder under Derek's arm and hauling him up. He's not nearly as heavy as usual, or doesn't feel like it. Weird. Also weird is that this isn't the first time he's hauled Derek's unhealthy ass around like this. At least Stiles is pretty sure that, this time, he won't be asked to cut Derek's damned arm off. No bullets involved tonight – definite plus.
He deposits Derek on the cleanest surface he can find – the mattress Derek's been using to sleep on, out here – and is grabbing a bottle of water from where he knows a case is stored in the hall closet that's missing a door, when he hears his name being called. He charges back into the bedroom, not knowing what he can do, but only that the tone of Derek's raspy voice is panicked. "Yeah, it's okay, I'm here, what – "
That's as far as he gets before Derek gives him one last pale, worried look, then disappears where he's lying on the mattress. Oddly enough, his clothes are still here. "What the fuck just happened?" Stiles asks aloud, gaping. "Seriously, did Derek Hale just get Raptured in front of me?" He slowly walks over to the clothes that look like they've been hastily laid out, and just before he gets the courage to lift up the shirt and jacket, something moves inside it.
Stiles yelps and scrambles backwards a little. It's not his manliest moment.
He's recovering from the surprise, crouched in a semi-defensive stance, when he realizes that the movement is localized, and heading in the direction of the neck of Derek's Henley. Stiles peers a little closer (because his self-preservation instinct is apparently still out in the hallway, rooting around for more bottled water), and barks a startled little laugh at what he sees: there's a small snout peeking out of the collar, and then a hedgehog wanders cautiously onto the mattress, free of the trappings of Derek's outfit.
"Derek?" Stiles breathes, unable to help the question. The hedgehog stops, turns its head towards him, and makes a little squeaking, snuffling sound. And then, remarkably, it nods.
For the second time tonight, Stiles has no words.