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Stiles swims through the existential reflections of thought, his lungs burning for some kind of air, muscles aching after so long in this deep-dive motion. He's laughing when he finally comes up to breathe, although there's no one around to hear the silvery-chime sound. He only gives himself a second, filling his greedy lungs, before he goes back down, cups his hands against the still-water slow-motion press, spreads his fingers out to feel the billowy flow of it all, propels himself forward in a rounding curve.
Many of his friends don't like this so much, swimming laps, they find it needless and redundant, an underwater ouroboros, and why would you want to let so much subconscious color touch your soul anyway? But he doesn't care. He's always, always loved this, all giddy, floaty, muscle-simmer, a way to get out that excess energy that so thoroughly plagues him.
He climbs back up, plateaus, gasps for breath as the blessed water cascades in dripping rivers down his skin, closes his eyes with a breathless, exhilarated sort of smile, relishes in it.
That is, until he hears a strange creak-thud sound, maybe the door opening, perhaps something else entirely. His eyes flutter open, heart speeding up as his face scrunches in confusion. The tone of the empathetic pool changes, swirls, accepting a new presence, shifting from simple, playful, childish joy, to something more sinister, the ectoplasm dark of it encroaching, shadows stealing away the pastel-rainbow light. He inhales sharply, gaze searching the outer rim of the water with a bubbling, surging dread, as malicious intent makes it thicken, gelatinous, a horrifying juxtaposition, tendrils of it crawling, creeping toward him.
"Fuck," he whispers, crackling, shaken, and squeezes his eyes shut, pushes his mind away from the incremental, heart-pounding fear, shoves it at his loudest, happiest, brightest thoughts, makes himself believe, and swims, slow and steady, toward the shallows, toward the stairs, prays.
He swallows convulsively when his fingertips graze the sludge, tries his damnedest to ignore the horrifying, striking echoes of bilious, perverted, disturbing laughter—he was wrong, before, in thinking this was a complete counter to joy- for all that it may be a counter to his- this is just the twisted, sickening kind of joy a pathological psychopath gets when they're nearing their prey. Which is, just. Y'know.
Fucking great.
The glee of it increases, tries to reach out, ominous giggling, an unsettling mimicry, like a lover trying to hold your hand. Stiles shivers, swallows down a small sound of horror, acrid aftertaste, tears of frustration and building panic collecting on his eyelashes, running down his now burning cheeks. He sucks in a deep, steadying breath, tempers his thoughts, his emotions, wields memories of happiness and laughter like a shield, a sword, slicing through the heart-clenching, gut-churning slush, until it, mercifully, retreats from him.
A grateful, relieved whimper escapes him, before he's taking another wobbly, wavering breath, and continuing on. His progress takes, to his sense, a small infinity, and his jittery, adrenaline-fueled body is cramping and aching, harrowed and harassed by the time he finally gets to the gods damned stairs and climbs the fuck out of the pool as fast as he is currently capable; he shakily crawls along the mosaic floor, the absence of the pool's cocoon making his body feel coated in ice crystals, freezing.
When he feels he's a safe enough distance away he opens his eyes and turns to look back, only to find the hallowed waters nearly completely divested of color, the ink-slop goo having taken over, the last tiny dot of clear, kind emotion, eclipsed even as he watches.
He chokes on a pitiful sound that echoes throughout this wide, open space- acoustics recycling it and repeating it back to him over and over again before the echoes seem to lose their train of thought- snatches his arms around one of the marble pillars to wrench himself up and run, his lungs scorched by his plight, forcing every breath he takes to shorten. The tall, ornate, marble and stained-glass door gets flung open the moment he gets to it, and slammed desperately shut behind him, before he's off, running as if for his life- and that is what he's doing, isn't it? Running for his life, from whoever the hell that had been? Whoever conjured up that much thick, anathema emotion?- through the citadel's halls.
The swimming chamber has officially been cordoned off, the pool still stained, tainted, by what had happened earlier this week. Several of the Courts' priests, priestesses, and various other High Council Casters have been working on it, but so far they've had no success in deciphering who caused the change, let alone how to revert it.
When a knock comes at his door just past dawn, Stiles is expecting Scott, maybe, his childhood friend has been checking up on him nearly hourly since the incident, or, perhaps, Lydia and Allison, with any news of the situation- Allison's father being Master and Commander, and the Knight overseeing the progress of the hunt for whosoever "attacked" the prince (Stiles still has second thoughts about that exact wording, and vaguely thinks his father's overreacting, but whatever), while Lydia's grandmother is the High Priestess of the Liminal Faiths, and the Caster at the head of the researching and magical projects regarding the citadel's swimming pool- he is not, however, expecting a Court Lord to just drop on by with some random knight who looks... like a serial killer, basically, what the fuck?
The Lord bows, "The King requested you be put in the care of a... guard, until such a time as the threat against your person is apprehended."
"Isaac," Stiles hisses, and the scowly knight motherfucker raises one thick, overly expressive eyebrow. Stiles ignores him, Isaac just looks like an asshole as Stiles drags him off to the side for a little more privacy. "First of all, dude, no one talks like that anymore, what is wrong with you? Secondly, I don't need a gods damned guard, and you can tell my father I said that when you take-" he waves a flapping hand behind him in the general direction of- "whatshisname away."
Isaac snorts, "I'm not telling his royal highness shit, Stiles. I've got more important things to do than pander to your whining-" Stiles' jaw drops as his eyes narrow in sardonic fury, Isaac shrugs, unbothered, simultaneously backing away from his hold- "besides," he smirks, eyes alight with infuriating mischief, "I have a feeling you two'll like each other."
With that, he turns to sweep out of the room, leaving Stiles with...
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Derek," the knight says, face stony, blank, indecipherable. Stiles wants to punch it. Badly. "Derek Hale."
"Well. You can go. Like, I don't actually need an armed babysitter." Derek's eyes- fascinating, deep-well irises, much like the sacred pool with their swirling, multicolored ethereality- darken, dampen, glare, and Stiles wonders how in the hell a scowl can get scowlier. "And I'm sure you've got more pressing duties, right? So. You know."
Derek folds his arms over his chest, tilts his chin down the barest fraction, and Stiles swears he's taller than this guy, but he just... looms.
"You got any words in there, chatter-box? Or are your lungs a lesson in radio-silence? Can you only say your name, dude, be—" "Don't. Call. Me. Dude."
Stiles blinks, a little taken aback at the ferocity. And then, because he is literally incapable of not :: "Fuck you, dude."
A sub-vocal, eruptive growl, emanating out, ricocheting resonance, the dry-grit of it penetrating and nearly overwhelming until it rumbles down, stops.
Stiles cocks his head, reaching out with his qì to get a feel, a taste, of the other man's. Derek's brows knit at the sensation, and he starts up again, the same ferocious energy of an animal backed into a corner, hackles raised, in that sound; what Stiles can read of his soul all warm-earth, thick-fluff fur, and moonlight, with a rich, sanguine-velvet undercurrent.
Derek bares his teeth, takes a threatening step forward, and Stiles quickly backs off, raising his hands in surrender, because gods be damned if this guy doesn't do scary well.
"Sorry, sorry, I should've asked first, I know, I always do before I think, it tends to be a fatal flaw, but wow. Lycanfae? This is literally the first time I've met—I mean, aren't you guys, like, super reclusive? Tend to stay in the Charmant Realms?"
Derek's whole body twitches, like a badly suppressed flinch.
"I mean," Stiles goes on quickly, trying to avoid another negative, very possibly violent reaction, reminding himself that this guy is a Knight, with swords, "I guess you'd have your own reasons for being in Etoile—which are none of my business! Just like your species was none of my business, and your business is none of my business, but I still suggest you return, uh, to that."
Derek squints his eyes slightly for a moment, like Stiles is the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen, before huffing, shaking his head slightly, and gesturing around them, all-encompassing, expression gone completely deadpan, "I have nothing to return to, seeing as I'm already here."
"I can see why you'd think that, but, I really, really don't need a constant guard. It's been a week since the thing. That... happened. And I've been fine. Nothing creepy or spooky or life-threatening. It was probably just a prank or something."
"Of course, your Royal Highness," Derek says, smiling sharply, all doom-grim grave, with just the slightest jovial lilt. "I'm sure it was all just some joke and we're blowing things out of proportion."
"Cool," Stiles grins, "I'm glad we're in agreement."
Derek's smirking slightly, nodding his head, still seemingly serious. Stiles waits the customary beat, as Derek's eyebrows steadily raise, him staying, stubbornly, exactly where he is, before realizing that the man was being entirely dry-wit sarcastic, and throwing his arms up with a groan.
"Seriously? Come on. Dude... Dude."
"If you keep calling me that," Derek decides, lightly exasperated, mostly annoyed, "I'm going to rip your throat out." He leans forward intimidatingly, lowers his voice, "With my teeth."
"Oh, my—" Stiles seethes through his teeth, entirely too bitter, because, while he realies that the whole point of Derek guarding him is the Knight protecting him from bodily harm, the man still, just a little bit, scares him.
But, apparently, Stiles is too ornery for his own good, because he's already mapping out and conducting plans in his head on annoying the bastard until he gets tired of his shit and fucking leaves. Less, even, out of a sense of not wanting to be a burden on resources, or treated fragile, like a child incapable of looking after themselves, and more out of sheer competitive stubbornness, because fuck this guy. Stiles is an expert in driving even the most sensible people up the wall, and Derek doesn't exactly seem like a sensible person. Seriously, just look at his fucking eyebrows.
And, in that vein: "Fine, Sourwolf."
Derek rolls his eyes exaggeratedly with an irritated groan, and Stiles grins victoriously.
By Derek's fifth day as Stiles' guard, he has been thoroughly and overwhelmingly surprised.
What he knows of the Spiritfae is limited, but the Etoilian King has always been famous for his just, kind, firm way of rule. It's why Derek came here first, after. Both to run away- and he's not so prideful as to call it anything but that, he is a coward, and he knows it- and to give himself over to something. With Paige, Kate, and Jennifer, all, it had become quite clear to him that his own judgment was a terrible thing, never to truly be trusted. But while he couldn't trust himself, trusting anyone else made him feel... sick, raw, dirty. It took everything he had, to come here, fleeting hope beating in his heart that maybe his family, various travelers along the way, and the peoples of Etoile themselves were right when it came to King Noah, and it took even more than that to pledge himself to this Kingdom, his loyalty, and his capabilities as a weapon.
Six star-cycles, it took, to become a respected Knight, acknowledged warrior, and in that time, he'd developed a tentative relationship with this place, a seedling of love for it, despite how entirely different it is from what he's used to. Climbing up the ranks had been like scraping himself to his raw, bare, aching nerves, scouring himself clean, and then remaking himself from the scrap. Becoming friends with his fellow knights was not unlike creating a new, very different type of Pack, his being an Alpha only lending to his ability to lead them, although his friendship with their Marshal, Braeden, was integral to that—without her, his stunted, clumsy emotional state, and his tendency to 'lash out at anything within a 10 mile radius', would've cost his whole unit their lives a dozen times over.
At this point, he had a tacitly amiable acquaintance with the King, and he was more comfortable with himself, settled in his position. Still, he was, more often than not, occupied either on the field, with training, or doing other odd jobs around the borders of Etoile—very rarely was he ever called into the Citadel, and all he'd heard of Noah's son were outlandish, over the top rumors that were too fabricated and grandiose to really pay attention to or put much belief in.
He'd just assumed Stiles would be like a mini-Noah.
Which he is not, at all.
He's tall, svelte, his pearly, luminescent skin dusted with perpetual light, the cadence of it as energetic as he, and, at times, just as overwhelming; he's a whirlwind of movement and accelerated thought, always talking, sometimes with the specific intent of grating, or, interestingly enough, deflecting, with a lightning quick wit, that, after adapting to Derek's specific brand of completely deadpan humor, can match his, easy. He's a contradicting force of caustic and gregarious; he knows the name of every Lord, Lady, Knight, Caster, and Servant within the citadel, whether or not he's actually on friendly terms with them, and they are all somehow capable of an annoyed type of indulgence, a camaraderie that doesn't seem borne from his position to any extent—which Derek can kind of understand, it only takes a minute and a half with the boy, really, before you're forgetting the fact that he's a Prince entirely.
He's exceptionally, frighteningly good at reading people, there have been at least seventeen times Stiles has shocked him by doing something subtle and tricky, utilizing his capacity for language and his ingenuity, to, either, get away with something without the other party even realizing he'd done it, or to help, in any vein, those he claimed friends, which were few, but Stiles' loyalty to them was staunch enough, steadfast enough, that Derek sometimes thought he could taste it in the air, for how thick his pinecone scent became with it—and those are only the times he's realized what the boy was doing. It's a little worrisome, wondering how much of Derek's true character he's gleaned, just by being near him for the majority of the day.
Other than learning about, and being vexed and thoroughly frustrated by Stiles, Derek hasn't really done much in regards to guarding him, and, were it not for the fact that Stiles always gets quiet and a little jittery when they're near the swimming chamber, avoids talking about it at all costs, smells of terror when he has to, along with the fact that the sacred pool is still the ink-well sludge of some pervasive, malicious emotion, Derek might've started believing him, about it being an overreaction to a prank.
As it is, Stiles is... getting under his skin. The part of him that's all wolf and instinct and Alpha purrs beneath his skin when they're close, demands he protect and care for and promote happiness, as it does whenever he's near anyone his wolf recognizes as Beta or Pack or something akin to it- a small, burgeoning Pack-bond glowing, ephemeral, in the back of his mind- and the part of him that's just Derek, vaguely, wants to steal all those candied words hiding behind Stiles' teeth with a kiss, wants to discover more of his indescribably incredible mind, wants to watch him grow and flourish and bloom into his own reign, wants to be the one who puts stardust-joy in those autumn-leaf eyes, wants so much.
Too much.
And he doesn't even know if that's a feeling he can trust, should trust, he doesn't know if... Which isn't to say it matters much, since Stiles doesn't seem to like him at all, anyway.
But considering Derek's own, steadily growing feelings, he begins to want, with a wild sort of ferocity, for the perpetrator of that incident all those weeks ago to appear, so he can cut them down where they stand. Not only to have that solid, reality saturated proof that it's over and that Stiles is safe, but also so that he can be done with this, before it gets any worse, before leaving him will become a study in heartbreak.
Derek's noticed that Stiles' resting aura-light tends to be dimmer than most Spiritfae, and he doesn't know if that's something to do with the type of Spiritfae he is, or, perhaps, with the fact that he's lonely.
And that's an odd thing to note, about the Prince of an entire kingdom, living in a bustling citadel that houses hundreds of thousands of noble fae folk. But he is.
Most of those in the citadel are either far too busy to spare even the slightest moment, too young, too wary, too involved in politics for it to be an amicable social interaction, or obligated, which, he can tell, leaves a bitter taste in Stiles' mouth, makes him want to do reckless, rebellious things, makes him want to snap and snipe and be sarcastic in a way that goes over their heads but leaves him vindictively satisfied (more than once Derek has had to pull him away from those interactions, muttering, "What on earth are you going to do with them when you're King?" To which Stiles always responds, "Send them to Scotty, he's nicer than me, and we pinky-swore on it when we were twelve." Derek's met Scott, he's a good guy, and, Derek has to admit, social politics would definitely be in his comfort zone). As for the general populace of the Kingdom, there's a kind of beloved heir vibe that Stiles can't seem to escape unless he's wearing a glamour, and... well. Stiles seems to have nearly as many trust issues as Derek, all suspicious cynic- which, Derek supposes, when you've been targeted for your position ever since you were born, when your own Uncle has tried to assassinate you, claiming to believe that you murdered your mother, the queen (who died during childbirth, for Mab's sake), makes perfect sense- and has just as hard a time making new friends.
Stiles' father, on the other hand, is the King. Derek never would've associated that with absentee parenting, which seems ridiculous now that he's properly thinking it through, now that he's actually seen it, for himself. He wonders if Stiles even notices how dull, ashen, fog-dreary his aura-light gets- leaking slow and dusty, heavy with his well-hidden feelings- when his father isn't there during meals or meetings where he should be. How, whenever Noah is present, the boy's luminescence takes on pastel, fragmented hues, all cotton candy effervescence, Stiles himself a frenetic onslaught of pragmatism in regards to duties and stress levels and making absolutely sure his father's eating healthy.
Not even the slightest hint of resentment for being so often abandoned.
The Prince's greatest source of socialization tends to come from him doing rounds, harassing his friends whenever possible, and the private tutelage he receives alongside some of the other gentle born teens whose nobility is similar to his (Lydia, Allison, Jackson- the son of some jumped up Lord who only got their title through wealth, and an overachieving bully because of it, as far as Derek can tell- Danny- the son of an ambassador- and Scott, the only exception, not gentle born at all, but, rather, the protege of their teacher, Deaton).
It isn't school in the traditional sense, a group of meticulously selected adolescents and a singular educator in a room for maybe an hour before everyone returns to their responsibilities and duties—of which they have many, despite their youth.
"It's ridiculous, just because she knows I'd be trying to figure it out with science instead of my biological aptitude, or magic, she's refusing to let me into the swimming chamber."
Not enough, apparently, Derek thinks, mildly amused by Lydia- whose desk is overflowing with work she's doing while simultaneously taking neat and precise notes, with a foundation mirror on the corner she's using to call no less than a dozen people, just to have all of them perpetually on hold- begging after yet more work to do.
"Lyds," Allison begins gently, "I'm pretty sure your grandmother said you couldn't go in because you're too young—" "Which is the same as disrespecting my abilities," Lydia decides breezily, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I'm sure your father would let you in."
Allison blinks blankly for a moment, before scratching her forehead with a sigh, "No, actually, he wouldn't, because being around that much negative energy as an Empath would probably physically hurt me. Even if I were decades older than I am now, and he thought I was some sort of goddess or something, he still wouldn't let me near that room with a ten-foot pole."
Lydia makes a kind of tsking sound, shrugging, as Stiles chimes in, "Hey, at least neither of you got a glorified babysitter out of the deal-" which, as much as Derek tries not to let it, does sting a bit, before- "although, to be fair, Sourwolf isn't the worst company." Which, conversely, makes him happier than it has any right to.
Allison, with her proclivity for picking up on any and all emotions in a room, but especially the more substantial ones, flicks her eyes to him for a fraction of a second, raising her eyebrows. He scowls, but his mood is still intangibly giddy, and, in response, her lips just twitch up slightly before she returns to the conversation, which he promptly decides to begin ignoring.
"What happened?" Stiles demands, after barging into the hospital wing, Derek hot on his heels and nearly as worried, for all that he doesn't show it.
Allison's laid out on one of the hospital beds, under starch blankets and cruel chemical lighting, her fair skin a sickly pallor, Lydia sat beside her with a fierce expression on her face, holding Allison's hand in hers, and a healer with ink-spun curls and a kindness in her demeanor checking the comatose girl over, Scott hovering worriedly until Stiles comes in.
"Bro," Scott murmurs, hushed, rushing over to the boy as he careens to a halt near the end of the bed. "Mom's doing everything she can, Ally's gonna be alright, she—" honestly, it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself, than anything, but Lydia interrupts him with a sharp:
"No, she isn't. All she may need in order to wake up physically healthy is rest, but she got psychically attacked. Do you have any idea what that entails? What it must've for such a strong Empathic Spiritfae to be felled like this? Do you understand the trauma she must've endured, Scott, do you?" There were tears streaming down her cheeks, blotchy with fury and fear and frustration, and she'd stood from her chair in her ranting, advanced on him until they were barely a breath apart. Scott's face crumpled, wounded and just as scared for the girl lying in the hospital bed.
In a surprising move, he captures Lydia in his arms, folds into her, whimpering, "I do, Gods, I do. But we'll be here for her, we'll help her—she's still alive. We can help her, we can."
And Lydia, shaking, shivering with her own emotions, melts into his hold, lets herself weep—something Derek is sure, were it anyone else, any other situation, she wouldn't have, all of her tempered steel and bubblegum-pop mercury never allowing for such a display.
Stiles, though—he isn't paying attention. His eyes are glued to Allison, breath coming in short, shallow pants, heartbeat accelerated dangerously fast, luminescence a loud, blistering, orange-tinted cloud of rage. "It was the same person, wasn't it?"
The same one who attacked Stiles at the pool, Derek realizes, pressing his palm into the jut of his sword-hilt, bearing down on the growl that wants to escape, reminding himself that the threat, the danger, isn't actually here—though it's hard to maintain that conviction when everything smells sallow and brine, sorrowful with the undercurrent of powerful white magic.
Lydia and Scott untangle themselves, tear-soaked cheeks and muddled expressions clearing with both realization and a vague curiosity.
The healer sighs, bites her lips, looks the whole group of the over, and sighs again, as if resigning herself to something. "I shouldn't be telling you kids this," she says delicately, and Derek can feel Lydia and Stiles' hackles rise, the latter's aura-light boiling toward a darker, deeper ruby. "But... we believe so, yes. From what can be read of their residual qì, the perpetrator is the same."
Stiles' hands clench and unclench, gaze falling from Scott's mother to Allison, before he grits his teeth around a curse and storms out of the room, Scott calling after him mournfully, worriedly. Derek turns on his heel and follows quickly after, remaining steadfast and silent as Stiles sweeps through the halls with purpose; other fae, upon seeing their normally jovial prince looking so thunderous, quickly secreting themselves off so as not to be caught in the crossfire, though many of them flash fleeting looks of confused worry over their shoulders as they go.
It takes Derek far longer than he'd like to realize where Stiles is going, and once he does, ears picking up on the boy's rabbitting heart, nose scenting pinecone growth-rot, poisoned sap, the faerie prince's aura-light disturbed for all to see—he curls his fingers around Stiles' wrist, staying him for a moment.
"What?" Is snapped at him, as autumnal amberine eyes scorch him with a black glare, arm futilely tugging at Derek's vice grip.
"You've been terrified of going anywhere near the swimming chamber ever since the incident—what use will it serve, going there now? Other than, maybe, you giving yourself a panic attack?"
Stiles stops fighting his hold, then, glare incrementally becoming a half confused, half wondering sort of frown, eyes narrowed in contemplation, "You're..." He breathes, soft, trailing off and leaving it there, a tiny strand of incomplete thought, before he shakes his head with a huff, pacing closer so it's less like Derek's holding him back, and more like they're sharing space, Derek's hand around Stiles' wrist a loose point of contact, an anchor. "Look," he murmurs, earnest, compelling, "when it was just me, it was fine—scary, I'm not gonna lie, but fine. I've dealt with this before, odds are, I'll deal with it again—but this is different, these are my friends, my family, okay? And maybe you're right, maybe this will be a futile endeavor, but if there's even a chance that I can do something, anything, I have to try."
Derek searches those honeyed eyes, finds only breathless sincerity and strong-willed determination. He squeezes the boy's thin, fragile wrist lightly before letting go.
"What's the plan?"
Stiles flashes a brief, but overwhelmingly bright, smile at him, "To sneak into an off-limits area and get Lydia that sample she's been wanting since the start, of course."
"Of course," Derek mutters, rolling his eyes.
It's... amazing, watching Stiles so ruthlessly face his fears, for all that it's also incredibly stressful, and he finds himself holding his breath more than once, split between hope that Stiles will manage, and terror that he might not. But they do get a cup full of the now sludge oil-tainted liquid for Lydia, without getting caught, and without any panic attacks, Stiles turning to him in the aftermath with a fiercely proud, satisfied grin blooming on his face, Derek helpless to do anything but smile back, the first smile he'd ever gifted the boy, one that only grew when, upon seeing the expression, Stiles brightened enough to fill the whole gods damned corridor with overpowering, dazzling starlight.
When all is said and done, he ends up leaving both Lydia and Stiles in the girl's study with their sample, thousands upon thousands of books, and an utterly singular focus, making sure to leave at least two knights stood protectively outside the door before going to the quarters within the citadel that the King temporarily provided for him during his employment as the Prince's bodyguard.
That bravery, bull-headed and stubborn and rooted in a selfless sort of loyalty, was an inspiring thing to witness, to say the least, which might be why, after six long, long star-cycles, Derek takes to pen and paper, to write his family a letter. He knows he could just call them, through any remotely reflective surface, but... he doesn't quite know if he's ready for that, he doesn't even know if they'd be.
So, he writes, well into the night, about his life here, about Erica and Boyd and the other Knights in his unit, about Braeden, about Stiles, and, too, about his reasons for not contacting sooner, his insurmountable guilt about the fire that Kate set- while there were no casualties, there so very easily could've been- the damage that Jennifer caused, his own cowardliness and terrible judgment in regards to it all. It's easier to do this, he finds, than it has ever been to talk, and he loses himself in it, not finishing until the sun has already started kissing the horizon.
Which is just as well, he thinks, after sending his letters out and returning to Lydia's study to check on the two teens, both of them very obviously having pulled an all-nighter as well. With a sigh, he paces toward Stiles, gentling a hand on the boy's shoulder, knowing that, as soon as he's aware of Derek's presence, he'll give him something to do.
Lydia sighs heavily at around midday on the third day of their nonstop research stint, pulling away from her microscope and slumping into her chair. Stiles immediately perks up, shooting a wary, worried look to Derek before asking, "What is it?"
She shakes her head, pursing her lips tightly, "They're sick."
Stiles blinks, leans his elbows on the table to stretch forward, scanning the assortment of items before the girl, face scrunching up in confusion before he gives up figuring it out on his own as a lost cause and just says, "Care to elaborate?"
She makes a frustrated noise, gesturing at the microscope, "It's—the reason their attacks are so powerful is because whoever's doing this is sick. An Empathic Spiritfae with Reverse-Empathy Syndrome: instead of being able to feel others' emotions, their own are getting out of control, lashing out whether they want them to or not, until, eventually, their biological aptitude will dwindle down to nothing. It's fatal, nine times out of ten."
Her words hang heavy in the air, Stiles darkening with them, until, finally, "Are you saying they're not doing this on purpose?"
Lydia chews on the inside of her lip, "Honestly? Maybe they aren't, but reverse-empathy syndrome sufferers usually don't create phenomena like this. Whoever this is... their emotions are still..."
Stiles rubs a hand over his face, world-weary, sighs out an agreement, looking so honestly exhausted that Derek nearly winces in sympathy.
"Okay," he decides, and both the teens look to him in surprise, startled by the first word he's spoken in... well, three days, probably. "Why don't we take your findings to the King, or your grandmother, or Allison's father, or all three—see what they can do about it." Derek stands, stalks over to the prince, gives him a hand up, "And then maybe we should all get some sleep."
"I—but—" Stiles stammers, and Derek rumbles out a growl, eyes flashing their startling Alpha-red, and the boy's jaw snaps shut, the aura-light swirling all around him flushing the same rosy-hue as his cheeks as he croaks, "Yep. Sure."
When they both turn to Lydia she's already stood, calm and collected and perfectly presentable, watching both of them all too knowingly.
"What?" Stiles asks airily, patting Derek's chest as he backs away a little, seeming to only now realize how close they'd been, Lydia bites back a smile. "What?" He bites out, aggrieved, "Let's go, okay? Let's go, we're going."
"Sure," Lydia purrs, following him out of her study with a barely concealed snicker, offering Derek a wink that he plainly ignores, although a part of him rides the giddy-tide of renewed maybes.
Because it's been obvious for awhile now that Stiles doesn't completely hate him, and he thinks he can be pretty sure the boy isn't going to turn out to be some sort of arsonist or serial manipulator. And. And maybe there's even hope?
After they inform Stiles and Allison's fathers, both men seeming to have an epiphany at the new information, and running off at once, Derek takes a steadily dimming Stiles to his chambers to get some much-needed rest.
"It just feels so wrong," the boy says, when they get there, "not doing anything."
"You've done plenty, Stiles," Derek assures, soft, tempering, and Stiles runs his hands through his hair frustratedly, all movement and hype, a tired, buzzing, incessant sort of energy.
"Not enough," he protests, voice lilting toward upset, the stardust cascade of his luminescence fluctuating precariously, frenetic. Derek, never having been one for words, and too gods damned tired himself, catches Stiles by the waist and drags him to his bed, throwing him down on the plush mattress before shifting, easing into his fur and his paws and his wolf, armor all clattering around him as he morphs, Stiles staring at him wide-eyed and gaping by the time he's done. With a huff, he clambers onto the bed, plops his head and fore-legs on Stiles' chest, curls up around him with every intent of keeping him there, and fucking sleeping.
Stiles makes an odd, choked noise, before finally subsiding, scritching fingers through the fur around Derek's ears almost reflexively, exploratively, and Derek, despite himself, presses into it with a pleased sub-vocal rumble.
"Holy merciful Mab," Stiles breathes delightedly, "you purr."
The rumble increases, cadence going aggressive as Derek lifts his head just enough to glare. Stiles paws at him, cooing a giggle.
"No way, man, you purr, and... you worry about me, and you're funny, and sweet," Stiles' smile, his aura-light, his scent, all of him is bright-tender, cotton candy ambience, and Derek's heart melts, "you're not scary at all, Sourwolf."
Stiles just laughs when Derek's growl goes sugar-sweet again, and increases in power by about ten-fold.
When they both finally manage to get some sleep, their hearts are light, and they're cuddled into each other, impossibly close.
By the time they wake up, the person behind both the swimming pool occurrence and Allison's current state has been apprehended: her grandfather, Gerard. For the time being, he's been arrested, detained to his house with two healers and a unit of Knights appending trial; so far, he hasn't admitted to anything, guilt or lack thereof, and it's all still a bit up in the air, although, with his detainment, the King has decreed that Stiles no longer really needs a guard, and Derek can go back to his other duties.
Which the man does.
Without saying goodbye.
Needless to say, Stiles is not amused.
He thought they'd, maybe, had something? Could've had something? Might've become something? They went from antagonistic snarky to some kind of companionable to something with potential, he's sure. Or he thinks he's sure. Hopes he's sure when he traipses from the citadel to the border-walls to find the stupid Knight with every intention of kissing him silly and asking him out on a formal date.
And maybe it won't go well, he thinks, heart thundering wildly in his chest as he spots shimmery armor, tufts of dark hair, and pale-sea eyes.
Or, maybe, he decides, when Derek spots him, and those eyes widen, a tentative smile blooming on the man's lips, where just a few months ago it would've been a perpetual scowl—maybe it'll go perfectly.