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Danny's the first one to notice. Both Stiles' mind and mouth are busy because he's just spent their whole trip back a) detailing all the ways in which Matt is an asshole and b) expounding upon the best ways one might make him regret said assholery, so he's quite happy to blame that for why it takes him such a long time to realise that a) Danny is no longer jogging next to him and b) the Glade looks kind of disturbingly… empty.
"Um," Stiles says. He jerks to a stop, turning back to Danny, who's still only a few steps from the Maze entrance. "Where is everyone?"
"I hope that question was rhetorical," Danny says, striding closer, hands on hips. "You do remember the literal hours we just spent in the Maze together, right? Where I was with you the whole time, listening to you complain about how hungry you were and bugging me to come back early and eat, and then listening to you complain about Matt and bugging me about how I can like him?"
Stiles rolls his eyes, but he's not really listening. Danny's second-favourite thing to do in life is pretend he dislikes Stiles, and Stiles started tuning out his snark about three days into knowing him. He turns in a circle, slowly, and takes in their surroundings. It's a quick rotation. Even though it's just after midday, usually the busiest time of the day, there's no one around—not in the open grassland that covers the entirety of the south of the Glade, not in the visible treeline that bisects the centre of the Glade, there isn't even any movement around the huts to the east, which is just bizarre, because most of the Gladers should be lining up for lunch. Heather is supposed to be out watering her seedlings, but she's nowhere to be seen, and neither is Nathan, who should be tending to the fowl. The sweet, sweet melody of Allison training Mason and the other newbies should be providing a lovely soundtrack for the whole Glade, but it's just so quiet. Far too quiet.
"I don't like this," Danny mutters.
Stiles hums noncommittally, scratching absently at the Mark on his collarbone, the one kind of shaped like a number seven. "Got your knife?"
"You think we're in danger?" Danny sounds surprisingly surprised.
"I think being prepared never did anyone any harm." Stiles draws his own weapon, a wooden club specially carved for him by Danielle once they all learned the hard way to keep Stiles away from blades. He nods at Danny, then falls in behind him as they make their forwards, treading so softly Allison would be crying tears of pride. They slip through the copse of trees on the boundary of their sleeping quarters and weave their way through the mess of hammocks and day beds, and Stiles concentrates really hard on not tripping over anything and drawing unwanted attention. As they edge around the last hammock, they finally have a much better view of the rest of the Glade and—
Danny pulls up short, and Stiles crashes into him.
"Dude," Stiles hisses, rubbing his nose, but Danny just blindly gropes for Stiles' face with his free hand, finally landing on his chin and directing Stiles' gaze to the left.
Where everyone is gathered around the Box.
"What are they…" Danny murmurs. "Something new must've come up."
Stiles bats Danny's hand away, heart racing. He's been in the Glade for over a year. He was the third to arrive, after Allison and Danny. And during that entire time, the Box has never once deviated from a strict schedule—every week they get a delivery of tools and edibles, and every fortnight they also get a new person. And it always, always comes early in the morning.
They just got a delivery of food two days ago, and Mason arrived nine days ago. If it's here again now, then that means—
"Something's wrong." Stiles slings his club into the leather strap across his back and starts forward, covering the distance quickly, pushing his way through the throng in a search for Allison. He finds her at the front of the group, staring suspiciously into the Box, bow strung but held loosely between her fingers. "Hey, what's going on?"
Allison jerks her head forward. "New delivery."
"Of?"
"See for yourself."
Stiles flexes his fists, itching to pull his club back out, but he knows there's no point. Allison wouldn't send him into immediate danger with no warning, and her reflexes are much quicker anyway. She could shoot five arrows into whoever—or whatever—it is and he'd still be trying to untangle his strap.
He creeps towards the Box slowly, craning his head the last few inches and finally managing to make out the shape of two booted feet. His gaze follows them upwards, over muscled thighs, evident even through the baggy canvas pants, across an equally-buff shirtless torso—which he tries not to linger on too much, or Allison would never shut up about it—and finally landing on the guy's face. His eyes are closed, but he's breathing deeply and evenly, and Stiles watches him for a few moments. He seems older than most of the other Gladers, but that could just be an effect of his thick, manly stubble. His arms and chest are also pretty hairy, and as Stiles analyses his body further, he suddenly realises something. This guy is missing something, something everyone else has, something so obvious now that Stiles has no idea how it took him this long to realise.
"No Marks," he murmurs, squatting down to take a closer look. "How do you…" He glances up at Allison. "How does he have no Marks?"
Allison shrugs, her own neck Marks shifting with the movement. "I guess we ask him when he wakes up."
Stiles squints at her. "...you want me to wake him up, don't you."
Allison's eyes widen, but Stiles knows better than to fall for her nefarious tricks. "I wouldn't ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with," she says innocently. "But if you're volunteering… You are the closest, after all."
"And whose doing is that?" Stiles mutters grumpily, edging closer to the guy anyway and shaking out his fingers.
He may know better when it comes to Allison, but that doesn't mean that he's immune.
Letting out a deep breath, Stiles reaches out a hand, edging it slowly towards the guy's shoulder. He extends his fingers further, just barely brushing the guy's skin—
And suddenly, the guy is awake, very much awake, so awake he's jumping up and roaring in Stiles' face and oh god are those fangs?
Shrieking, Stiles falls on his ass and scuttles away, back towards Allison, who is already standing over him with the tip of her arrow pressed to the guy's jugular.
"Down, boy," she commands. "Or you'll be the next carcass skewered and spinning over our fire pit."
The guy growls, eyes flashing—literally, his eyes literally flash gold, what the hell?!—but he backs down, and Danny and Danielle are immediately on him, wrenching his arms behind his back and dragging him towards the Cage. Everyone parts for them easily, giving them a wide berth, and Allison follows them with her arrow still directed between the guy's shoulder blades.
"There'll be a Glade meeting in two hours to discuss matters further," she calls behind her. "In the meantime, everyone back to your duties."
The crowd scatters almost instantly, and Stiles is left alone with the boxes of supplies that came up with the guy, and the frantic beating of his own heart.
#
Technically, it is Stiles' job to keep the records, to log and distribute their supplies, but that's not the point.
The point is, for once Stiles has no interest in cataloguing whatever new junk's been sent up for them—even though this batch seems to contain some weapons, which is much more compelling than the two-hundred rolls of toilet paper and fifty five packs of biodegradable sanitary pads that arrived a few months ago—and he can't stop thinking about the new guy. His mind is a continuous loop of who-is-this-guy/what-the-hell-were-those-teeth/why-do-I-still-find-him-so-attractive-even-though-he-tried-to-eat-me/hell-that's probably-why-I-find-him-so-attractive/who-is-this-guy-anyway/what-the-hell-were-those-teeth… Etcetera.
It's not very conducive to working.
He sighs, glaring at the pile that just took him seven trips to haul completely into the supply hut. He nudges at the handle of an axe with his boot. It clatters onto its side.
He sighs again. Some motivation would be really nice. Allison will want the weapons asap to use in her training sessions and won't stop passive aggressively reminding him about them until he indexes and issues them. Allison lives for making Stiles promise her things in public, and she'll probably jump on the opportunity to introduce an entire article on the agenda of the Glade meeting just to prompt him into action. No matter that the meeting's actually supposed to be about more important things, like random guy deliveries.
Stiles wonders if the he's said anything yet.
Usually the new arrivals take a few days to remember their names, and that's… that's pretty much all the personal information anyone ever recalls. Stiles has been endlessly fascinated by the memory loss right from the beginning, and he still doesn't understand it, but he's way past trying to. Because how is it that every single person who arrives in the Glade has the exact same kind of memory loss? How is it that they all remember concepts, like the concept of family and community, of language and the measuring of time, of hierarchical structures and social culture, but any specific memories, any events pertaining to anyone's actual life experience, are just… gone? Occasionally, someone might have an intense dream or recall a fleeting image, a flash of memory—the face of an unknown loved one, the scent of something familiar-yet-not—but no amount of soul-searching or meditation or even Stiles' pathetic attempt at hypnotherapy (Allison had fallen asleep instead) can bring forth anything solid, almost like the memories were never there in the first place. Or they've been blocked somehow, by whoever is behind all of this.
Stiles honestly isn't sure which option he prefers. When you don't remember anything, none of your imagined scenarios bring much relief.
His one comfort, perversely, is that everyone in the Glade is in the same situation—which is the one thing Stiles actually does know for sure, because he's the one who has profiles on everyone. The other Gladers would probably stage a revolt if they knew about the depths of his research, but Stiles can't help it. He keeps files of everything, it's part of his job. Anyway, the Glader profiles are only one of his major archives. First, there's their inventory, like food (pre-packaged, livestock, plant life, etcetera), weapons (those sent up through the Box and those they create themselves), and other miscellaneous items (building materials, toiletries, clothing items, etcetera). Second, there's an archive of any information they glean about their environment—the Glade, the Box, the Maze, the Doors, the demons, etcetera. Third, the aforementioned details about everyone in the Glade, including descriptions of physical appearances, significant behavioural data, and illustrations and diagrams of their Marks.
It's just the way his mind works. He needs a way to process everything, to really see all the parts of the puzzle, and keeping files and lists is the only way he knows how to do that. Things in the Glad wouldn't run nearly as efficiently if he didn't do his job properly.
Which, speaking of his job…
Stiles should really start a file on the new guy. If anyone has ever needed a file, it's him. It's probably the most important thing he could be doing right now, much more important than inventory. In fact, Stiles wouldn't be doing his job correctly unless he skipped the Glade meeting and went straight to deal with the guy, get his story and find out what the hell is going on with those teeth.
It's for the good of the Glade, really.
Probably.
#
To say that Stiles is nervous as he approaches the Cage would be like saying he only kind of dislikes Matt—ie, a massively egregious understatement. He doesn't feel as if he can blamed here, though, surely. Not after having that many teeth that close to his neck.
Squaring his shoulders, he tries to loosen his grip on his papers. Looking calm and confident, that's the key here.
He marches over to Danielle, who's supposed to be standing guard but is instead slumped on a stool outside the cage fast asleep, and pokes her hard in the shoulder, kicking at the stool.
"Hey," he says loudly, refusing to even look inside the cage yet, concentrating on Danielle's admittedly hilarious affronted face, "you awake?"
"What the hell, Stiles," she complains, steadying himself just before she tips over. "What's your problem?"
Stiles grins. "I just like it when you fall for me."
She rolls his eyes. "Dear god," she mutters. "Please tell me you're here to take over and I can leave."
"And those aren't the only tidings I bring." Stiles pauses for dramatic effect.
Danielle gives him the surly look that's somehow both his most and least favourite—most because it's so funny when it's focused on other people, and least because it's freaking terrifying when it's unleashed on him.
"Oh my God, okay, it's just that Allison asked for you at the meeting," he lies. It's probably not actually stretching the truth that much—Danielle always has excellent input, and would be Allison's second-in-command if Stiles hadn't given himself that position first. "She said she really wants you there, because she values you so much and can't wait to give you a big hug."
Danielle doesn't even deign to gift him with a response before grabbing her hunting knife, which he now realises was within arm's reach all along, and walking away.
Which means that Stiles is finally left alone with the guy. Which is good. It's what he came here for, after all, because he's totally… totally brave. Brave and not intimidated in the slightest. If Danielle can fall asleep right in front the guy, armed with only one weapon, he can't be that scary.
Turning to face the Cage properly, Stiles tries to keep channeling the confidence and not seem intimidated but it's a little hard to do.
Somehow, he'd forgotten how imposing the Cage is. They've never had to use it much, it only ever sees any action if someone goes overboard with the moonshine and gets a little too aggressive, and Stiles himself has never even been this close to it. It's much sturdier than it seems from further away. Stiles isn't even sure who made it—he wants to say maybe Garrett and Violet?—but whoever it was did a really good job. The thick shafts of wood that make up the bars look strong and solid, the locking mechanism well designed. Add to that the fact that it's only barely big enough for a person of the guy's stature to stand upright in, and you get a pretty effective temporary lock-up.
The guy certainly looks uncomfortable enough.
Also, still shirtless. Even though the sun has been down for some time now, and the temperature always drops uncomfortably as soon as dusk hits.
Sighing, Stiles puts down his things and wrestles off his outer layer, peeling it over his head and pulling his undershirt back down. Then, carefully, he leans forward and tosses it into the cage.
The guy catches it reflexively. "This won't fit," he says, staring dubiously at it. He sounds much less growly than Stiles had imagined.
"Is it or is it not better than nothing at all?" Stiles says waspishly, busying himself with perching on the stool and organising his papers. When he next looks up the guy has the shirt on, and it's a little short and probably tighter than he appreciates it—the guy, not Stiles, because Stiles appreciates it a lot—but it's serviceable enough. Clearing his throat, Stiles fishes out his quill and dips it into his small travel vial of ink. "So, have you remembered your name yet?"
There's a pause. Then, "Why would I tell you that?"
"Maybe because I gave you my shirt?"
"It doesn't fit," the guy reminds him.
"Okay then, maybe because your name is absolutely meaningless to me or anyone else here, especially considering none of us can anything about who we were before we got here?"
"So it's not—" the guy blurts, before stopping himself. He takes a breath, and finally, finally looks up at Stiles, with eyes far more vulnerable than Stiles could have imagined. "It's not just me?"
Stiles shakes his head. "Nope. Not a single one of us has any memories related to ourselves. Skills, language, conceptualisation, all of that is still there, but anything concerning the outside world or at all remotely personal—"
"Gone," the guy mutters. "And the reason you all have those black Marks? And why I don't?"
"Unknown." If Stiles knew anything at all about the Marks, he'd be able to sleep a million times better at night. He peeks around the back of the Cage to confirm what he thought he saw earlier. "You do have some sort of design between your shoulder blades," he reports, doing a quick sketch of the interlocking swirls as the guy tries to somehow look over his own shoulder and see it, "but it's nothing like I've ever seen before. It doesn't match any of the Marks in my records."
"You don't know much, do you?" the guy snaps, grumpily giving up and crossing his arms instead. "What about this—why can I smell your fear right now?"
"Also unknown, but damn I wish I knew the answer to that," Stiles says, making another notation. "Can you smell my arousal too? They seem to come hand-in-hand."
The guys just rolls his eyes, and Stiles observes him for a few moments. He looks… It's almost as if he's… like he's a caged animal. Like being locked up is true torture, and he should be running free in a field or a forest somewhere. He keeps twitching, obviously hypervigilant, muscles constantly tensing and then finally loosening, only to tighten up again a second later.
"Derek," the guy says suddenly, and Stiles jumps a little. "It came to me about ten minutes ago."
"Okay. I'm Stiles. I'd say nice to meet you, but we both know that's a lie." Stiles writes the name in all caps at the top of the page. "Gotta say, you remembered pretty fast, Derek. I think you beat the record."
"Think anyone here's gonna give me a medal?"
Something about Derek's tone makes Stiles look back at him, and he watches Derek watching Mason as the kid hurries by with an armload of firewood, glancing up to see Derek looking and then speeding up even further.
"What does he think I'll do?" Derek asks, sounding perplexed.
"I dunno man, maybe after my near maiming earlier everyone's just a little twitchy."
He frowns, edging a little closer to the bars. "That was you? Sorry, I wasn't… It's not…"
"It's fine man, I get it." Stiles shrugs, because he's totally got this acting poised thing under control. "Like I said, the desire to throat rip? Not that uncommon around here. I'm just kinda relieved you're, you know. Momentarily physically restrained."
"I'm not really, you know," he says softly, eyes glinting that perfect gold again. "I could break out here in a heartbeat." He reaches out, curls his fist around one of the bars and it creaks in his grip.
Stiles gulps. "Cool… Well, could you maybe not? Just for a little while?"
Derek's grin is a troubling combination of both creepy and hot. Stiles wants to run both away from and towards him. "Maybe," Derek says, unconvincingly.
"Cool," Stiles repeats, not feeling cool at all. "Cool."
#
Stiles doesn't sleep very well that night, and gets up earlier than usual the next morning. The only people really awake at this time are the cooks, making sure the breakfast gruel is ready on time. Stiles wants to go straight to Derek, make sure no one tried anything over night—Derek's pretty much established that he can take care of himself, but Stiles wouldn't put anything past Matt—but he forces himself to go and bathe in the stream first. If Derek can smell emotions, who knows what else he can smell.
Once he's clean enough, he redresses and heads over to the cooks' quarters, poking his head inside the humid hut. "Hello, fellow Glader! What fine sustenance awaits us this beautiful morn?"
Jared sighs. "The same as yesterday, tomorrow, and every day before and after that." He leans over the massive bubbling stockpot, ladles some slop into a cracked wooden bowl and reaches behind him to plonk it on the counter for Stiles. "Take this and please go?"
"Yeah totally, I totally will, because I respect you and everything that you do—but also I need another one."
Jared buries his face in his hands despairingly.
Because yeah, maybe Stiles has tried to get away with having more than one serving once or twice. Because yeah, the gruel is kind of gross and sloppy, and Stiles never wants to truly learn how it's made, but it's food. And Stiles loves food.
"It's not for me!" he adds hurriedly. "It's for the new guy. I've been tasked with hunt-gathering for him."
Jared looks dubious, but Stiles can see the very moment he decides he doesn't really care and it's worth it if means Stiles will finally leave, and shoves another serving at him. "Now will you go?"
"Love you too." Stiles winks, then grabs the bowls and two spoons from the tub near the door and books it for the Cage.
Derek looks like he's asleep when he approaches, but his eyes snap open and his nose twitches interestedly as Stiles gets closer.
"Don't get too excited," Stiles advises. "It smells better than it tastes." He sets his own bowl and spoon down on the stool and approaches the Cage carefully. And then he realises the bowl won't fit through the bars. "Uhh."
Derek just pokes his hands out, reaching impatiently for the bowl, and Stiles has barely passed it over before he's pressing himself against the bars and awkwardly shovelling the gruel into his mouth. His nose wrinkles after the first bite, and Stiles feels a rush of beautiful I-told-you-so surge through him, but then Derek just shrugs, and the rest is gone literally before Stiles can blink.
"Woah," Stiles says, impressed. "Surely that's another record."
"Are you eating that?" Derek just says, eyes on Stiles' bowl.
Stiles hesitates only a second before handing it over. Sydney takes over from Jared soon anyway, and he can probably convince her that he never got his serving. He hands it over to Derek and settles himself on the stool. "So, how was your night?"
Derek's eyebrows raise over the lip of the bowl. He says nothing.
"Uneventful. Excellent."
"Did you think something would happen? And what, I'd attack someone?"
"I hoped you weren't that stupid. Some of the other people here, I know they're that stupid." He pauses. "Did get any sleep?"
"Dear god," Derek mutters. He drops the bowl onto the ground disgustedly. "Of all the memories and customs they could've taken, why did they leave us with small talk?"
"I thought that's all you were capable of," Stiles shoots back, smirking. "That's the longest sentence you've said this entire time."
Derek gifts him with a truly abominable fake smile. "I believe in quality not quantity."
"I bet that's what you tell all the boys."
Derek sighs. "Why are you even here, Stiles?"
"Boredom, I think. I'm not Running the Maze today, Allison and Matt are, and I should be cataloguing all that stuff that came up with you but I—"
"Running the Maze?" Derek asks the question, but his eyebrows demand an explanation.
Stiles should probably hesitate for longer than he does before giving Derek any details. But he doesn't. "See the Walls?" He gestures around them, like Derek would have any chance of not seeing the two hundred foot Walls boxing them in. "They keep us in here, in the Glade, but they also keep the demons out."
"...demons," Derek says skeptically.
"Yup," Stiles says. "They come out at dusk when the Doors close and they're gone again by dawn, when the Doors open again. And beyond the Doors, beyond these Walls, that's the Maze."
"The Maze," Derek repeats.
"Yup," Stiles says. "We've nearly mapped it all, but the Walls are constantly changing. That's what we're doing when we're running the Maze. Charting it, and trying to find a way out."
Derek is silent for a few seconds. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard."
Stiles snorts. Everyone goes through this disbelieving stage. It's natural. Stiles' own had involved yelling, tears and an almost-panic attack. "Oh yeah, and how would you know that when you can't remember anything?"
Derek glares.
Stiles winks.
"This is so ridiculous, you know that, right?" Derek asks. "Mazes and Runners and demons?"
"These are the days of our lives," Stiles says, sagely.
"You are the worst person I've met so far," Derek marvels.
Stiles is flattered.
#
Two hours later, after pestering Derek, getting more breakfast, pestering Danny, getting lunch, and then pestering Harley, Stiles finally drags himself back to the supply hut to get some work done.
The pile of stuff is still sitting untouched on the floor.
Stiles still does not want to go through it.
A lot of the time he enjoys the mind-numbing work, especially when he needs a day off from Running. It's certainly better than cooking or gardening or building and maintaining the huts. Or cleaning. And there's benefits to being the person in charge of their supplies, definitely. He tries not to be too easily bribed, but he is open to certain suggestions, and he gets to look after his friends. He can work at his own pace (mostly), and he even gets the opportunity to work on his other projects, like translating the Marks (a failure—he can't begin to discern their purpose when they don't even seem to have one, and the only Mark susceptible to guesswork is the eye-shaped one most people seem to have on their dominant hand) and trying to find a way to escape (a complete failure—he, Danny and Allison have been through all configurations of the Maze hundreds of times, have looked at all the information again and again, and they still can't figure out what the hell to do to get out).
But sometimes… sometimes, it's too much. Sometimes, the monotony, the lack of answers, the inevitable hopelessness and yearning for a life (a family) he doesn't know stops being a stimulating distraction and instead becomes a depressing reminder.
"Ughhhh," he moans, and throws himself down next to the pile, picking up the first rations box.
It's when he's carefully sorting through the bladed weapons some time later that he sees it—a handle, about the length of his forearm, wrapped in a soft-looking black fabric. It's nondescript, and it's not out of place, but at the same time, it is. He's never seen it before, has no idea what it might be, but he feels… As he's slowly reaching towards it, it feels like he should know what it is. Like it's something he's used before, something—
"Stiles!" someone says from behind him, barging into the hut, and he flails in shock and tips over a pile of arrows.
It's Derek.
Stiles jumps up, dragging Derek further inside, away from the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here? I asked you not to break out!"
"Shut up. There's a problem."
"Duh." Stiles gestures around them, mostly at their situation at large. "Glad you finally noticed."
Derek growls—actually growls—in frustration. "No, I mean something happened."
He pauses meaningfully. Stiles uses his eyebrows to let him know just how much he appreciates meaningful pauses.
"Something's wrong in the—what did you call it? The Maze. With the Runners."
Stiles' breath hitches. "What? Is Allison— What— You can hear that far?"
Derek ignores him. "There was a scream, a feminine scream, and then nothing. I think something happened to your friend."
"Feminine scream, are you sure it wasn't Matt?" he tries weakly.
Derek looks like he wants to shake him. He's utterly still for the first time since Stiles met him, intense and focused, and that alone is enough to convince Stiles of the gravity of the situation.
"Shit," he swears. "Shit, um—shit." He dithers in place for a few seconds, suddenly frantic, his brain unsure how to go switch so quickly from 'sluggish procrastination' to 'get your ass up and help your imperiled friend'. "What do we—"
"I can track them," Derek interrupts, and Stiles can finally take a breath. "But we have to go now."
He turns, whisking away towards the door, and Stiles grabs his arm. "Wait," he says, eyes narrowing. "I don't even know you, how can I be sure this isn't some kind of—"
"Because I don't care."
Stiles throws up his hands. "If you don't care then why are you helping?"
"I don't know, why did you help me?" Derek counters.
"I don't know! I just—" He shakes his head. "Someone is obviously orchestrating all this, right? The Maze, the Glade, the demons? Not exactly naturally occurring phenomena. Someone put us here on purpose, locked us in here, maybe forever. It's us against them, if we don't help each other then who will?"
Derek stares at him. "Have you always been so sentimental?"
Really, it serves Stiles right for trying to be nice for once. No wonder he's usually an asshole—he's surrounded by assholes and it's the only language they speak. "Ugh, fine, just grab a weapon and let's go."
"Don't need one, remember?" Derek grins—grins!—at him, incisors bared, and curls the claws of one hand in towards Stiles' face.
"Show off," Stiles mutters, ducking and reaching for his club. He stows it in his back strap, adds two protein bars and a water packet into his pockets, and he's just reaching for a knife when his fingertips brush over the weird fabric-wrapped handle from before. Picking it up, Stiles wraps his fingers fully around it. It fits comfortably in his palm, like it was made to be there, and Stiles feels— he feels—
"Stiles!" Derek hisses from the doorway, looking more and more pissed with each passing moment.
"Yeah, yeah, I just—"
Stiles tucks the handle into the extra holster on his strap and follows Derek out into the Glade.
#
Danny catches them when they're almost at the Maze's northernmost entrance.
"Hey! Stiles, what are you— Stiles!" Stiles hears from behind him, and he cringes and stops, turning to face his friend.
"What are you doing?" Derek asks, slowing down a little. "We need to—"
"Just let me handle this, okay? Before he thinks you're kidnapping me or something."
Derek rolls his eyes but finally draws to a halt too, confronting Danny with crossed arms.
Danny, to his credit, doesn't so much as glance at him, instead keeping his focus on Stiles. "What are you doing? Where are you going with the new guy, he's supposed to be locked up."
"I'm just…" He glances at Derek, who gives the tiniest little headshake. Stiles agrees—explaining will take too long, and Danny either wouldn't believe him or would call him an idiot. Or both. "I'm showing Derek the Maze. Allison asked me to."
"Allison. Asked you." Danny finally looks at Derek, gaze flickering down briefly to Derek's bulging biceps, and Stiles grins slowly.
Oh Danny. Always one to show his hand too early. "Yeah," Stiles says breezily, "I was thinking about showing him the Section 3, you know, with the badlands, but it gets so dusty there. He'll probably have to come back and like, wash in the stream for ages to get all the grime off. What time do you bathe again, Danny? Because that's probably what time he'll be bathing. But only if we leave right now."
Danny, eyes glazed, finally manages to wrench his eyes back up to Stiles'. "You're a terrible person," he says dully, but he pivots and hurries away anyway.
Stiles grins and starts for the Maze again, calling over his shoulder to Derek. "Coming?"
Derek catches up easily, swiping a foot out at Stiles' legs and tripping him over. "You know what that was for," he snaps, when Stiles squawks.
Fair, Stiles thinks, scrambling up and following him inside.
#
The thing about scent tracking, apparently, is that it's not an exact science.
What it is, apparently, is Derek running around in circles, nose twitching as he gets more and more frustrated, while Stiles follows uselessly behind and frets about how late it's getting.
"This is ridiculous," Derek barks agitatedly. "There are scent trails everywhere, and I'm not familiar enough with anyone to be sure whose is whose."
"Derek, seriously, I'm sure Allison's okay, you said yourself, she's super capable. I bet we get back to the Glade, and she's there being amazing, and Matt's unfortunately there being all Matt-ish, and we all sit back and have a big laugh about this."
Derek just glares at him, then turns and jogs down another path.
Stiles huffs, but follows him, despite how every cell is body is screaming at him from moving further away from the nearest Door. "Okay, seriously man, I believe in your super powers, I do, and I'm worried about Allison too but we really need to get back. It's getting dark." Derek says nothing. "Dark, you know, night time? When all the Doors close until the morning, locking you in the Maze? And no one's survived a full night in the Maze at night because that's when all the hideous terrifying demons come out to play, and, oh yeah, kill you?"
"If no one's survived a full night, then how do you know the demons are hideous and terrifying?" he asks, over his shoulder.
"Oh my— it's in the name, Derek! When you hear 'demon', you don't exactly think fuzzy cuddly friend, you think horrific monster killer soul-eater!"
"Well you obviously do."
"Derek, I'm—" Stiles puts on a short burst of speed, catching up with him and grabbing his arm. "I'm being serious. We can't be here tonight. We need to leave. You're the only one who heard what happened, you're the only one with any chance of finding Allison, and you're no good to her dead."
Derek's face goes all frowny. "Fine," he says finally. And pushes past Stiles to head back the way they came.
Stiles lets him.
#
They've almost reached the Door when Derek suddenly perks up. His head jerks around, so fast it's barely visible to the human eye, and between one second and the next he's gone, disappearing at top speed down the next path.
Stiles takes off after him without a second thought, barely clearing the corner just in time to see Derek tear around another one, and he pushes himself to move as fast as possible because if Derek's smelled something then it must be Allison and he must be—
He crashes into Derek's back and goes sprawling, bouncing off him and into a particularly sharp point of the rocky wall.
"Derek, what the fu—" he starts to say, but then movement at the end of the path catches his eye.
It's Matt.
Matt is there, standing less than fifty feet away, right in the middle of the Doorway.
Matt is there, right in the middle of the Doorway, blocking anyone from going in or out, and he's holding a crossbow.
Matt is there, and Danny is there too, still a few feet inside the Glade on Matt's other side and looking about ready to have a heart attack.
Matt is there, and he's waving the crossbow around and ranting, "—he just showed up, and— and attacked us! Derek did this!"
Matt is there, and he lying, but Stiles isn't really listening to what Matt is saying, because Stiles is following Matt's gestures to the ground in front of him and—
Allison is there.
Allison is there, splayed across Matt's feet, her body lifeless and her hair matted with blood.
"Derek," Stiles says urgently.
"Just unconscious," Derek murmurs back, and Stiles breathes a literal sigh of relief. "Her heartbeat's fine."
Danny takes a small step forward. "Stiles, what's—"
"No!" Matt yells, waving the crossbow around, and Danny hastily backs up. "You always listen to him, right now you're gonna listen to me! That thing," he snarls at Derek, and when Derek snarls right back, making certain to show teeth, Matt pretends not to be intimidated, "It—that— we weren't doing anything wrong! I'm telling you, he appeared suddenly and— and launched himself at Allison, knocked her out, and the only reason we even escaped is because I—"
"Oh, you fought Derek off? You?" Stiles laughs, not even trying to keep the scorn from his tone. "You, the worst student Allison's ever had to try and teach, who she would only let run with her because she didn't trust you with anyone else, who can't even beat Mason in a fight, you saved Allison? From Derek?"
Matt's eyes glitter with rage, and he finally aims the crossbow, very deliberately, at Derek's head. "Shut up, Stiles," he says, finally managing to sound menacing.
Stiles snaps his mouth shut. Baiting works for him, most of the time. It distracts and bides for time, it misleads and misdirects. The downside—it can also incense and make things worse.
And yeah, Allison did say those things about Matt, but she also said that he was strangely, unexpectedly good with one particular weapon.
The crossbow.
Awesome.
"Oh hey, I finally found something that worked. Stiles finally shut his big fucking mouth." He grins cruelly, then turns back to Danny. "We're not letting that thing back into the Glade. We can't. He'll kill us all."
Danny glances at Derek, then at Stiles. "Okay," he says slowly. "But if we just put him back in the Cage—"
"No!" Matt yells. "We can't. I won't let you, we—"
And then, with perfect timing and an distressingly familiar thunking-clunking-grinding sound, the Door begins its slow grind towards closing.
Shit, how did Stiles not even realise it was dusk? How did he—oh god, he and Derek are still pretty far inside the Maze but if they run they just might—
"Shit." Stiles moves towards the Doorway, wrapping a hand around Derek's wrist and dragging him a few steps closer. "Let's just get back—"
"No!" Matt yells again, and this time—
This time, it's accompanied by the sound of the crossbow release.
And a bolt is embedding itself Derek's chest.
And Derek is flying backwards, landing with a sickening thud.
And Stiles is staring at him, horrified, stuck in place, as the blood around the bolt seeps through Derek's shirt so quickly it's like it's moving in fast motion.
And Derek is still finding the strength to yell at him, something, something that looks like, "Go!"
And Stiles—
Stiles doesn't go. At least, not away from Derek. No, like an idiot, Stiles runs towards Derek, dropping to his knees beside him right as the Door rumbles shut, locking them inside the Maze for the night.
"Oh my god," Stiles says faintly, hands fluttering over Derek's form, because where the hell does he even start? "Oh my god, you're— Derek, if you die and leave me here to get soul sucked by disgusting demons all alone—"
"Stiles, stop," Derek wheezes. He puts a hand on Stiles' thigh, squeezing gently.
Stiles stares at it for a few seconds. It doesn't feel like the grip of a dying man. "You're not dead," he says, intelligently.
"No."
"But there's a crossbow bolt. In you. In your body, in your—"
"Lung, I think." Derek grunts, easing himself up into a sitting position. He looks down at the bolt. "I think I need to take it out."
"You're doing a lot of thinking."
"Well, one of us has to."
"Sorry if I'm a little off my game! I heard the squishing sound as it plunged into your chest!"
Derek rolls his eyes. "Fine. Can we just—get it out please?"
"We? No freaking way, I am having nothing to do with—"
Derek wraps his hands around the bolt and yanks it out.
Stiles gapes, and the last vestiges of sun provide just enough light for him make out, through the tears in Derek's shirt, his skin rapidly knitting itself back together, healing over as if nothing ever happened.
There's silence for a few moments.
"Well," Derek says. "I guess that's another one of the superpowers I didn't know I had."
"Good one to have," Stiles says weakly. "I'd be jealous, but I think I'm too traumatised." He clears his throat. "Did you see what happened to Allison?"
"Danny had her," Derek says, which is truly and honestly a relief. Danny would never let anything happen to Allison. "She'll be fine."
"Well that makes one of us," Stiles murmurs. He edges closer to Derek, practically vibrating with nerves, expecting every new shadow to burst into demonhood.
"You're fine." Derek pulls up his shirt, giving this chest a more thorough inspection, and Stiles nearly gives himself whiplash in his hurry to look away. "We're both fine."
A statement that is, naturally, immediately followed by the most terrifying, terrible sound Stiles has ever heard, from somewhere far too close for comfort. A wheezing, inhuman screeching that makes Stiles want to claw his own ears off.
"Oh my god," he whines.
Derek stands up, reaching out a hand to help Stiles up too. Stiles doesn't even hesitate to take it. "Think you can run? Or did watching me get impaled hurt too much?"
Stiles narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to goad me into surviving? Because if anything was gonna work, that would be it. I am very goadable."
"That would insinuate I care about whether you survive." There's a rustling, Stiles makes out Derek straightening what's left of his shirt. "Which I don't. But if you do, you should follow me away from the all-consuming scent of rot and death. We need to find shelter for the night."
Stiles knows they should go. He knows it. And yet, what he does instead is ask, "Do we though?"
Derek sounds confused when he asks, "Do we what?"
"I mean…" Stiles trails off, not even really sure what he's suggesting, especially since his first response in any fight or flight scenario is usually very much in the flight category. But his gut is telling him… "If we run now, we'll be running all night, and we will get caught."
"So you, what? Wanna fight the demon? In the dark?" Derek's joking.
Stiles is not. "Don't act like you superpowers don't include being able to see in the dark!" he accuses, and Derek's lack of protest confirms it. "Plus, I have excellent night vision."
Derek turns to him, incredulous. "You said we have no chance against a demon. You said that."
"How is running around in the dark any safer than fighting? I'm just as likely to maim myself running into a wall as I am battling a demon. Anyway, I said we had no chance against a demon. That was before we had you."
Derek looks torn. "Even if it is susceptible to my—"
"Scratchy toothy body parts."
"—my enhancements, we don't even know how many demons there are. There's only so much I can do."
"That's where you're wrong," Stiles says, stepping closer to him, willing him to listen. "There's eight sections to the Maze and only one demon in each, if we could—"
"Only one? Is that a guess? Or form of extrapolation? Because if that's all it is, we're not—"
"Derek, there are some things you're better at, right? This, this is my area of expertise. I know this Maze. If we don't try and fight right now, we die."
There's a pause. Then Derek's eyes flash and he growls, flicking out his claws on both hands. "Well, now that you've managed to successfully stall for long enough the demon's almost here anyway." He gives Stiles a soft, searching look, one that feels so out of place in such dire straits. "You better be right."
"I am," Stiles says confidently, even though it's confidence they both know he doesn't feel. "We'll be fine."
#
They're not fine.
The sun has finally gone down, but the moon is almost full tonight, bright and low in the sky, and now that Stiles' eyes have adjusted he's definitely able to see just how gross the demon is—that is, even more gross than Stiles had imagined. It's bipedal and vaguely humanoid, with grey-green skin and a mouth that bursts into four talon-tipped tentacles lined with rows of truly terrifying teeth, and it takes less than a minutes for it to disarm Stiles to and destroy his beloved club. Stiles spends precious minutes scrambling to remain evasive and Derek is on the defensive too, trying to protect and/or rescue Stiles instead of focusing on strategically attacking the demon. Even as the demon corners Stiles and begins advancing on him, Derek's throwing himself into the fray, barely even himself time to heal from the last tussle. He scrabbles with the demon, which hisses at him, and they roll away from Stiles, leaving him standing uselessly on the sidelines. And Stiles—
Stiles refuses to let this happen. It can't. It won't. There has to be something—
Anything at all—
And then he remembers.
The thing.
The thing, the handle thing, the one wrapped in fabric, the one he was drawn to, the one he knows means something, what if—
Yanking his back strap off, he rips the handle thing out of the holster and tosses his strap away. The Mark on his collarbone, the one shaped kind of like a diamond with horns, starts tingling, itching, as he searches desperately for the edge of the fabric.
"Come on, come on, you shitty little—"
The fabric parts. It peels off. His fingers finally touch the cool metal of the handle, and he wills it to work with everything he has.
A blade bursts out, glowing and practically pulsing with power, and Stiles just knows this is what is supposed to happen. This is what he's supposed to do.
"Hey Bucktooth," he calls to the demon, brandishing the sword, fingers molding to the handle instinctively. "Why don't you try cutting those fangs on someone younger and stringier? It'll be worth it, I promise. I'm told I'm delicious."
"Stiles!" Derek yells, sounding distressed, when the demon turns away from him and starts advancing on Stiles. His forehead's bleeding but already healing, and he's panting so hard he can barely speak. "What are you—"
"Derek," Stiles says steadily, catching his gaze over the demon's shoulder, "trust me, okay? I can do this."
Derek's gaze flickers from from the Stiles' face, to his sword, and back to his face. "Okay," he croaks. "Then do it."
So Stiles does.
#