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Stiles knows, okay. He knows he can be an asshole and that he talks too much when he's scared to hide the fact that his heart is beating like a rabbit's. He knows he can be rude and that he's a spaz in general with flailing limbs. He knows that technically, he has no place in a pack full of wolves with the occasional fox and coyote and banshee thrown in. He's human and he's very well aware of that, thank you very much, no sense in pointing that out every few seconds. Shit, most of the time he's scared half to death while his crazy friends are off doing something that involves howling and somersaulting around like they're some kind of furry circus acrobats with glowing eyes and sharp claws (he plans on writing a novel on that one day, given that he survives high school. Shut up, it would be totally cool). Mainly, he's just there for research and getting in trouble because for some reason, the entirety of the supernatural world has decided that it's fun to piss off a pack of werewolves by attacking their token human research guy. And yeah, okay, he's not the only smart pack member because there's Lydia, perfect strawberry blonde goddess that she is, and they play off each other like two halves of the same mind sometimes but in the end, when something strange happens, Stiles is the first one to be called and who spends his nights between homework and research about how to take down or appease the next supernatural enemy Beacon Hills has attracted. And for some reason, Stiles loves it.
He's not telling anyone about it, finding it much more fun to complain about the idiocy of angering a fairy (“Sidhe, Scott, they call themselves the Sidhe and of course they're gonna be pissed as fuck if you don't address them like that!”) or unknowingly flirting with a vampire (“For fuck's sake, we need to talk about your life choices, Derek!”) or somehow ending up being drafted into a witch coven (“How the hell did they even find Lydia?! She's a banshee!”). And yeah okay, it's definitely not always fun to rescue his friends from the next creature of the night in a long list of many, especially not when said fairy (Sidhe, he reminds himself, the Sidhe) decides to let loose a damn love spell so he ends up kissing Scott for half a day before Lydia can finally appease it with a self-crafted amulet made of her hair and an acorn (they never talk about it again and Stiles can't meet Kira's eye for a whole week after it happens). Or when said vampire takes Stiles hostage because he's the only one of the pack who doesn't reek of supernatural mumbo-jumbo and is much too close to actually biting him before Scott, Derek and Liam barge into the hotel room (he wonders if all supernatural creatures are so cliché or if it's just a particular brand of crazy) and take the vampire down with a combination of sage and river water. Or when the witch coven refuses to give back Lydia until they find a worthy apprentice and Stiles somehow finds himself volunteering because he's the only one with a spark and knows that's what could calm the witches down (it does and now he gets semi-regular visits from his 'coven mother' who teaches him more about witchcraft because that's the only way that he was allowed to still stay with his pack, so on top of everything, Stiles is now also the resident witch. Or something like that, he still sucks when it comes to more than basic spells).
Yeah, the outcome of their various adventures definitely isn't as fun as movies and books make it out to be but research? Stiles loves it. He gets lost in information and has to to separate the wheat from the chaff because holy sweatpants Batman, there's a lot of nonsense on the internet and do people even think before they claim that trolls can be chased away by pelting them with onion rings? Because that's definitely not how you get rid of a troll infestation. Stiles revels in the fact that when it comes down to it, his research is what helps the pack get shit done in the end, be it lost and scared naiads in the Preserve or a malevolent nightmare that terrorizes half the county. He's the research guy, the guru of knowledge, the almighty...
“We have a situation.”
He flails out of his chair with a yelp and lands on the floor, spread out over three books he needs to return to the library and his calculus homework.
“Ouch! Jesus, don't you ever learn what doors are for?” Stiles rubs the bruised spot on his butt and gathers his limbs not exactly gracefully before getting up and glaring at Derek who watches him with his usual mix of irritation and confusion (it's his default facial expression, really). “My dad is in the know now, you don't have to sneak around. Also he's on patrol tonight, so you could totally have just rang the doorbell. Or texted me, we all know you have a phone and can use it, so...”
“Stiles...” The usual impatient tone, mixed with an eyeroll. Oh, it's serious then.
“A situation, got it.” Stiles snaps to attention, too used to having situations by now to throw a fit. “What happened?”
“Allison disappeared out in the preserve and I can't find Argent anywhere, either. But there are traces of white feathers and what looks like gold, both in the woods and the Argents' apartment...” Stiles frowns while he rights his chair and sits down on it, getting closer to his laptop and closing the tab he had open about the National Democratic Party of Egypt (he got distracted doing his world history homework, okay?).
“How do you know Allison disappeared? Maybe she's just investigating something...”
“And leave her weapons out in the preserve?” Yeah okay, that's weird and alarming. Stiles groans quietly because they just got rid of a bunch of pesky imps. One week of peace, is that too much to ask?
“Okay. Did you bring the stuff you found?” Derek actually growls at him because of course he has and who needs words anyway,right? Well, excuse Stiles for being used to deal with Scott (“Wait, I was supposed to bring anything?”) and Malia (“Uh, what am I, a dog? Go get it yourself!”) and Isaac (“I have no idea, okay? Just come out here, you have to see it for yourself.”).
“Okay, okay, calm down, Lassie.” At least Derek isn't an alpha anymore, so his trademarked eyeroll and subsequent glare while he hands over whatever he found doesn't really affect Stiles and besides, he's way too used to being glared at by Derek. Really, the first thing Derek ever did was glare at him, so Stiles is mostly glare-proof by now. Mostly. And oohh, Derek does not appreciate the Lassie comment. Stiles just can't help himself and turns to his laptop quickly.
“So yeah, white feathers. They look like maybe goose feathers? They're pretty big. Though I've never heard of kidnapping geese so...” He starts rambling while opening his bestiary file first. It's usually his first stop to find out just what the hell they're dealing with. But feathers aren't really the best lead because he really doesn't believe in demon geese so he looks at the other thing Derek brought. It looks like a little formation of gold, smaller than his thumb and glinting dimly in the light of his desk lamp.
“That's no gold”, he notes with a frown, weighing the little piece of something in the palm of his hand. “Too heavy. And it looks weird, gold doesn't look like this.”
“Then what is it?” Stiles nearly jumps again because holy shit, werewolves and their lack of understanding of personal space. Derek is leaning way too close to him and Stiles can practically feel the hairs at the back of his neck rise slightly and shifts in his seat. Focus.
“Just give me a...” He doesn't even finish the sentence, too absorbed in attacking his keyboard and looking up something on Wikipedia. “Ha! There, found it!”
“Pyrite?” Derek wrinkles his nose a little in confusion and Stiles instantly thinks of bunnies and forcibly pushes that thought away. Yeah, no. No time for that. Instead he nods and waves around the piece of pyrite Derek brought him.
“Also known as fool's gold. It's an iron sulfide, sometimes also called brass, and it was used as...”
“Stiles. Focus!”
“Right.” He blinks, returning to the task at hand. “Okay, so we have goose feathers, fool's gold and kidnapped Argents. You sure Chris is gone too?”
“His apartment is empty and the door was wide open. But yeah, maybe he just went out for groceries.” Another eyeroll. Derek rolls his eyes like a true champ, Stiles knows it firsthand because a) he's why Derek is rolling his eyes 7 out of 10 times and b) because the werewolf is still standing way too close and Stiles gets a good look at his hazel eyes.
“Just asking!” Stiles grumbles and turns away from him to go back to the bestiary file hitting the search option. Yeah, it was a pain in the ass to digitalize the entire thing but Allison and Lydia and Chris helped and even Peter had some advice, so at least Stiles wasn't left alone with the thing and now it's really handy to just search through the thing like this instead of manually going through the manuscripts.
The search results for “feathers” comes up with 54 entries, the search for “pyrite” offers none and searching for “fool's gold” lands them 28 entries about various creatures. Both key words combined still land them 15 entries. Stiles sighs and cracks his knuckles. This is gonna be another long night – at least five of the entries have parts of archaic Latin in them and the others are sprinkled with German, ancient Norse and some sort of Celtic language. Good thing he still has half a six pack of energy drinks left, that should get him through the night.
“Go sit your furry ass down over there somewhere,” he mumbles pushing Derek's face away from his and ignoring the glare and growl he earns himself for that. “I can't concentrate with you brooding over my shoulder.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Derek grits out, clearly impatient. He may not be the alpha anymore but boy, does he have territorial issues. Stiles is actually impressed Derek didn't mark half Beacon Hills by lifting his leg. Though he can turn into a full wolf now. So maybe he did... and that is not a train of thought Stiles wants to get on, thank you.
“Read a book, chase your tail. Do whatever, just let me do my work before you run off again and make things worse.” Derek growls at him again but Stiles is already up to his ears in a archaic Latin dictionary Lydia gave him and jotting down notes on a notepad.
Like always, he loses track of time. Dealing with the parts in archaic Latin is the hardest, German and Norse are almost bearable – he's fighting his way through a strange Celtic description of something when a hand with a steaming mug appears out of nowhere in front of him.
“Holy...!” Stiles nearly flails out of his chair again but there's a solid body behind him steadying him so all he gets is just a little closer to a heart attack (he is convinced he'll die from that one day if the monster of the week doesn't get to him first). “Warn a guy!”
Derek (standing much too close again, they really need to talk about personal space, he's had it with werewolves and their lack of understanding this simple concept) growls at him and replies,
“I called you three times and asked if you wanted coffee. You grunted.” Stiles opens his mouth but closes it again because really, what can he say to that? It's a miracle he reacted at all, he knows of course how he gets when he's researching. Then Derek's words slowly sink in and he blinks down at the mug in front of him, smelling heavenly of coffee.
“You.. you got me coffee.”
“It's 3 am and you look like you're going to fall asleep any minute.”
“Yeah but... you got me coffee!” He's a little dumbstruck. His interactions with Derek up to this point mainly consisted of mutual sass and maybe some bodily harm inflicted by the grumpiest werewolf the world has ever seen. They're mostly civil, they're pack and Stiles would even go so far as to call them friends because there's no way you can save each other's asses every other week and not become friends somehow. Since Derek is by far the richest member of the pack (if you don't count Lydia, maybe), he's also the one who pays for take out during pack meetings most of the time but as far as Stiles knows, he never brought anyone coffee before. Coffee! That's like, a whole new level of friendship.
Derek doesn't seem to get it. He just looks at Stiles like he's not sure why he even bothers. Come to think of it, that's probably exactly what he thinks.
“So?”
“I... yeah, uh. Good that. Coffee. Nutritious and delicious. Nutrilicous, you could say. Really, yeah...” Derek's exasperated sigh says more than words ever could.
“Just drink it.” Stiles blinks again as the werewolf puts the mug down in front of him, between his laptop and the big dictionary he's been working with. “Did you find anything yet?” Stiles carefully takes a sip of his coffee (perfect temperature, no milk, just the right amount of sugar – he's seriously freaking out internally) and shrugs, running a hand through his hair.
“I've got something about...” He glances at the screen. “... lucharacháns here? Though their description is in Gaelic, I think. I've never heard about them. But if I've translated this correctly, those things live in Ireland and there's some mention of forests or something so maybe...”
“Leprechauns?” Derek interrupts him. “No, Leprechauns keep away from people. It has to be something else.” Stiles blinks. Hits the Wikipedia article on leprechauns and there it is, lucharachán is another name for a leprechaun.
“How did you...?”
“We had a situation with them when I was a kid,” Derek replies and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Stiles tries not to stare at his biceps (and fails but Derek has really nice biceps okay? He's still just a teenage boy, sue him) and hums thoughtfully. “Trust me, leprechauns usually keep away from people, they sure as hell don't kidnap them.”
“Okay, then that one's out. There's this other thing here, a landvaettir? It's a Norse text but I think it mentions something about feathers and gold. And there's a part in German but I haven't come this far yet...” He sips some more of his coffee trying to decipher the German words (seriously, this language, what the hell) until the penny finally drops and he nearly loses his mug in his haste to type something into the Google search bar.
“A kobold!” he exclaims triumphantly gesturing towards his screen wildly and spraying his notes with droplets of coffee. Oops. “That's what it is! A Germanic forest sprite. Explains why Allison disappeared out in the woods?” Derek leans closer, the frown on his face even deeper than before. Stiles has given up on pointing out the lack of personal space and just goes with it, too excited to have found what they're looking for. “They're not always malevolent but they certainly can be if somebody stumbles into their territory.”
“Still doesn't explain why Argent is gone, too.”
“Solidarity? A case of OCD?” Derek gives him The Look (yes, with capital letters, this particular look deserves them) and huffs, clearly annoyed.
“What does the bestiary say?”
“It's in German,” Stiles groans. “I'm no expert okay? But there's... wait, where was it?” He keeps mumbling under his breath while he looks through his coffee-sprinkled notes and points to a particularly unreadable squiggle. “Found it!” He's about to hand Derek the piece of paper when the werewolf simply leans over Stiles' shoulder and grabs his wrist to keep him still. Stiles freezes.
“Uh... dude, a little space?”
“Your handwriting is horrible,” is all the answer he gets to his slightly too squeaky request. Derek doesn't budge, reading the page Stiles is holding while still holding the human's wrist. Stiles can feel the ghost of his breath on his ear and shudders involuntary but Derek pays no attention to him. Fucking werewolves.
“They eat silver?” He shrugs uncomfortably at the question because Derek still hasn't moved.
“At least that's what the bestiary says. Maybe the thing got confused and thought our Argents were real silver?” Derek blinks and straightens as if he hasn't noticed Stiles' nervous shifting at all, all slow and graceful with his serious thinking face on. Now that he thinks about it, he never got an answer from Scott if werewolves can smell arousal. Derek said something about that while they were paralyzed by the kanima but that was a long time ago and frankly, that entire episode is a little fuzzy in Stiles' memory. And whoo boy, the arousal is definitely there, uncomfortably present in the tightness of his pants, just from having Derek a little too close and breathing against his neck and ear.
“If they eat silver...” Derek looks directly at Stiles who snorts out loud.
“Are you trying to tell me that that kobold is gonna eat our resident hunters? Yeah, no way, it can't be that stupid. They're humans. Like, totally awesome and scary humans armed up to their teeth but still humans.”
“Stupid or not, we can't risk it. Let's go.”
“Go... go where?” Stiles stares at him. “It's 3 am! I'm not going out into that forest at night again, I learned from the last three dozen times, okay? Research guy goes into the woods at night equals research guy gets magically roofied by pissed off fairies.”
“If we don't go now, it might be too late!” Derek is already halfway out the window when Stiles reaches him and grabs his shirt.
“Dude no! Are you crazy? No going out alone! We talked about this!” They did. Several times. With every member of the pack. Does that mean the wolves learned their lessons? Yeah, as if. “At least wait until we find out how to get rid of the thing! And then we call the rest of the pack and go get Argent and Allison.” Derek huffs, loudly, and doesn't move for a moment. Instead, he stares down at his chest where Stiles is still gripping his shirt which technically shouldn't stop the werewolf the way it does. Huh.
“Fine,” Derek finally grits out and gets back inside the room. “What can I do?”
“Uh... what?”
“The faster you find a way to lure that kobold out, the faster we get rid of it and get the Argents back. You've been sitting here for four hours straight, so how can I help?” Okay, it's officially creepy. First Derek gets him coffee and now he wants to help? What the hell? Derek usually just broods in his corner while Stiles does research or just leaves again. He never offered to help before. Not to mention that he actually uses his words, whoa. Stiles is creeped out. Seriously. Creeped out and weirdly fond of Broody McWolf over there. As soon as that second part sinks in, he shakes his head and drops back on his chair. Whoa. Not going there, no siree.
“I guess you can take that encyclopedia of mythological creature lore Deaton gave me and see if you can find the entry on kobolds? I'll translate some more of this.”
Work. Work is good. Research is what he does best, no room for thinking about how bright Derek's eyes are or how warm he felt under Stiles' fingers. So that's exactly what they do, Stiles bent over another dictionary and his laptop while Derek is sitting on the chair next to Stiles' bed and reading through the incredibly old tome on mythological creatures (it weighs approximately a thousand tons and Derek just holds it balanced on his knees like it's just a regular paperback. Fucking werewolves, seriously). At some point, Stiles empties his coffee and mechanically downs his last energy drink. He can't remember falling asleep. But the next morning, he jerks awake to his phone blaring My Milkshake (it's funny okay) with his head resting on the dictionary and a blanket around his shoulders. Blearily, Stiles fumbles for his phone and presses it to his ear, closing his eyes again and grunting as a kind of greeting. He's not really awake yet but Derek doesn't seem to care:
“We're meeting out in the preserve in half an hour. Scott's coming to pick you up.” The line goes dead again and Stiles groans. Derek might not be the alpha anymore but he sure still acts like one...
Yawning widely, he cricks his aching neck (note to self, don't fall asleep at the desk anymore) and looks around his room. Deaton's book is resting on his bed, all traces of Derek long gone. Instead, there's a thermos resting on the chair his nightly companion was sitting in with a post-it taped to it. Coffee, it says. Just that. Stiles blinks, trying to process what he's seeing before letting his blanket slide from his shoulders (and it's the warm and cozy one he keeps in his closet because it was a gift from his mom and some part of him believes that the less he uses it, the longer he can keep her scent clinging to it) and pads over to the chair. It's not his dad's handwriting because dad is working a night shift and he never comes back before 10 am from those. A glance at the clock tells him that it's barely 9 am and that explains why he's so tired, at least. So it wasn't his dad who left the thermos. And the only other person in the house has been Derek.
Stiles blinks. Stares. Then blinks some more. Derek Hale left him coffee. And wrapped him in a blanket before leaving. Okay, he needs to process that.
But first, he downs half the thermos (filled with delicious coffee, just the way he loves it and not even Scott knows how Stiles drinks his coffee) and takes his Adderall before rushing off to take a quick shower and change before the werewolf cavalry comes to get him. He's just stuffing some leftovers from yesterday's lunch into his mouth when the doorbell rings. Scott rambles on about how Derek showed up at his house and gave him some notes (and that's when Stiles realizes that his own notes have been gone when he woke up) and told him to meet him in the preserve later.
“Where is Derek anyway?” Stiles asks as he locks the door and follows Scott to his bike. Scott shrugs and cocks his head to the side like the adorably confused puppy he is and replies,
“He said something about getting milk and cookies? I don't really get it but he also said he needed something of Lydia's...” Wait what? Milk and cookies?
“Do you still have the notes he gave you?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah... here.” Scott hands him the crumpled and coffee-sprinkled notes from last night and Stiles looks down at his own handwriting, here and there with some annotations in the same tidy print he recognizes from the post-it. Derek. He must have stayed up later than Stiles and added his own results to the notes. At the very bottom of the page, Stiles' notes on offering the kobold something to lure it out are underlined twice and Derek has added MILK in all caps as well as sweets maybe? The squiggly line of Stiles' hastily written silver is circled, too.
“Did you read them?” Stiles asks Scott as he stuffs the notes into the back pocket of his jeans and climbs behind his best friend (he does not like the bike but since the incident with the naiads, his jeep is at the local garage because for some reason, the lake spirits decided to compensate their fear with beating up a poor and defenseless car). The tips of Scott's ears turn red before he hastily puts on his helmet and hands Stiles another one.
“I, uh. Got kinda distracted?”
“Of course you did.” He's not even surprised anymore.
Stiles briefs Scott on their way to the preserve the best he can and hopes that he won't have to tell the entire thing three more times while the rest of the pack comes in. But as it turns out, Boyd and Erica aren't even in town (apparently, they're using the weekend to get some private time), Lydia is visiting Jackson and Liam is on some excursion with his parents (because they decided that their little puppy ball of rage needs to spend more time with his family). So that leaves them with Isaac (he was the one who first noticed that Allison is gone), Kira and Malia standing on the clearing Derek is waiting for them and the briefing goes well because by now, they're experienced in that kind of stuff, acting like the resident supernatural police force and driving away malevolent creatures from Beacon Hills (or protect the nice ones, Stiles has fond memories of that unicorn and the air sprites, okay?). Derek is the last one to appear but then again, he already knows what's going on. And he has a bag with milk and a pack of cookies. Stiles isn't sure if this falls under his top five Hilarious Moments with Derek Hale but it's definitely a close one because of the petulant look on Derek's face as if he considers it an insult to be seen holding cookies. Pff, Stiles has firsthand knowledge about their former alpha having a total sweet tooth but of course Derek denies it.
“We're going to lure it out with the stuff Derek brought,” Stiles explains to the perplexed rest of the pack. “Kobolds are typically house ghosts in Germanic lore and they're said to like milk and other sweet stuff. And, for some odd reason, silver.” He searches the pack's faces for understanding but only Isaac and Kira get it, Scott and Malia are wearing equally confused expressions. Oh boy, their lost puppy faces will never get old, never ever. While Stiles explains it all again (“This is the dumbest thing I ever heard”, well yeah, Malia, that's sort of the point), Derek continues to look put out while he gets out a silver bowl (complete with the Martin family name engraved, does Lydia know he took it?) from inside the bag too and pours in milk, arranging two cookies in it like a goddamn Master chef. Stiles is half waiting for Gordon Ramsey to come crashing out of the woods to yell about the cookies touching the milk but that of course never happens. Why? Because fun stuff never happens in Beacon Hills, that's why.
Isaac helpfully clears out a circle in the fallen leaves and usual dirt that's at home in a forest, kicking away some more fool's gold that the woods are positively littered with, so Derek can put the bowl in the middle of it. It looks equally stupid and pathetic.
“Now what?” Scott asks with a frown, glancing from the silver bowl to Derek and back again.
“Now we wait,” Derek replies gruffly, so that's what they do.
They split into pairs because obviously, that's the werewolf way to lie in waiting. Kira and Malia disappear together into the woods and Scott and Isaac hide behind a rock formation that's grown over with thick green moss, leaving Stiles standing next to Derek. Because of course he ends up with Derek.
“It won't come if you just stand here,” Derek huffs in annoyance, grabbing Stiles by his hood and pulling him along whichever werewolfy hideout he deemed worthy to wait for a possible deranged forest sprite who may or may not think that people are silver.
“We don't even know if it will come at all,” Stiles grumbles, yanking helplessly at his hood. Stupid werewolves and their stupid super strength. “For all we know, it might not be into milk and cookies and more into scary human hunters.”
“They're not cannibalistic.”
“Well with our luck, they could be! Besides, Allison and her dad aren't kobolds, so technically, it's not even cannibalistic since it probably doesn't eat its own kind and...”
“Stiles.” Derek stops so suddenly that Stiles crashes into him and nearly goes crashing down in a messy flail of too long limbs if it weren't for Derek catching him. He blinks up to the werewolf who flashes his eyes and fangs at him and growls. “Shut up and sit down.” Stiles huffs and drops down on a boulder, glaring at him. He's not intimidated by the eyes and the fangs, okay? He's annoyed. Put out. And tired. Yeah, that's it.
Derek crouches down next to him, eyes focused on the silver bowl that they can see from their vantage point but can't be seen. Stiles looks around to see if he can find the others but of course they're all masters of disguise and blend in perfectly into the woods. And he can't sniff them out, either – all he can smell is the smell of wet woods and some earthy nuance that he long since learned to associate with Derek.
“How do you know it'll show up?” He doesn't look at Derek, instead staying focused on the stupid silver bowl. Mainly, because the werewolf is much too close for comfort again.
“It will,” Derek replies simply. And that's that.
True to Derek's word – for whatever reason, really – the kobold does show up a few hours later. Stiles is bored out of his mind, mumbling curses under his breath while he plays Candy Crush and keeps failing the same level over and over again, when he feels Derek's hand on his thigh and nearly jumps. Only years of experience with this shit keep him from yelling out loud in surprise, instead just turning into a slightly too breathy, “What...?”
“It's there.” Stiles whips around pocketing his phone (ignoring the warmth that spreads through his body from where Derek is touching him) and stares at the creature that is currently bent over the silver bowl curiously. It looks like Dobby the house elf had a love child with a naked cat, all wrinkly and ugly with too big glowing eyes and giant ears and a wispy white beard, dressed in what looks like a tie-dyed shirt with a bright pink belt.
“Oh God, it's a hippie,” Stiles moans and Derek quickly presses a hand to Stiles' mouth to shut him up as the kobold's ears move in their general direction as if it heard them. Stiles panics for all of five seconds because whoa, Derek's touching him again and they're close, close, close, and the stupid kobold possibly heard him but then the creature shrugs and fishes out the cookies to throw them away with a disgusted face. With Derek's hand still pressed to his mouth, Stiles breathlessly watches the kobold down the entire bowl of milk. After emptying it completely, it drops the bowl and does a weird little wiggly dance like it's drunk off its ass (and oh God, it probably is) before it gathers up the bowl in a hug and continues dancing around like it just found the love of its weird supernatural life.
A howl echoes through the woods and suddenly Derek springs into action, leaving Stiles behind dumbfounded and weirded out by both the sudden touching and their newest monster of the week. Of course the werewolves are much faster than him so when he comes slithering back into the clearing, Scott already has the ugly little creature caught by it's neck and pressed against a tree growling at it with the whole alpha eyes and fangs extravaganza.
“Where are they?” Scott demands to know, probably scaring the drunk kobold half to death. It whimpers and squeaks and then says, in a raspy and scratchy voice with a thick French accent (because of course it's French):
“Let me go! I will 'ave your 'eads! I am a mighty kobold!” Scott, ever the angry alpha, growls and shakes the kobold.
“You kidnapped humans! Where are they?” The kobold stares at him with big eyes and shakes his head so fast that his big ears flop back and forth, nearly hitting it in the ugly face.
“They're mine!” it screeches, waving its fists around trying to hit Scott and failing miserably. “Silver and smoky and pretty, they belong to me! My territory 'ere!”
“You bet your wrinkly ass it's not your territory,” Stiles blurts. “This is werewolf area, got it? Now be a good kobold and give us back our pack members.” Chris Argent is not really part of the pack but he's Allison's dad who is definitely pack so he guesses that it's still accurate.
“Non!” There's an explosion of smoke and Stiles coughs while blindly stumbling back and landing on his ass because he slips on wet leaves. There's growling and angry French yelling and then suddenly, something grabs his hoodie and Stiles doesn't need to hear the loud POP to know that the damn kobold just disapparated or whatever the hell it's called when the ugly little thing does it. And because that's just Stiles' luck, it took the only human with it to wherever its hideout is.
Stiles lands on a wet and hard underground with a muffled “oof” and groans. Not because he's hurt (just a bruised ego... and possibly knee, ouch) but because he's so tired of this shit. Would it kill the monster of the week to not grab him, for a change? The kobold rattles off something in rapid French that Stiles doesn't even try to understand and then with another loud POP , he's left alone.
“Hey Stiles.” Or not so alone, okay. Stiles opens his eyes and looks around to see Allison and her dad sit close to him. They're wearing matching expressions of exhaustion but look okay, otherwise. All three of them are in what looks like an underground cave filled with at least three households worth of silverware, topped off with a silver chandelier in one corner. Stiles blinks and sits up.
“I can't believe it actually thinks you're made of silver too,” he mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief. Like, seriously, how dumb is that kobold? “If all kobolds are that stupid, it's no wonder they're so rare...”
“A kobold? Is that what that thing is?” Allison asks before frowning. “It said it needed to prepare for hibernation.”
“They eat silver,” Stiles supplies helpfully, wiggling his brows for emphasis. The Argents share a look and groan in unison. Yeah, Stiles gets it. Of all the things to happen, this is definitely ranking in the top ten of Ridiculous Shit That Happens in Beacon Hills.
“How come you haven't broken out yet?” he asks because seriously, these are the Argents. They're probably deadlier without weapons than your average US marine! Chris huffs.
“It bit us. Its saliva has a paralyzing agent in it, we can barely move.”
“Up until a few hours ago, we couldn't even talk,” Allison adds. Stiles sighs because this is the kanima debacle all over again, except more ridiculous and a lot less scary. But luckily, he's not the one paralyzed this time and he has his phone and an arsenal of spells he was itching to try out since last week anyway.
“Fear not, Argents, Stiles here is gonna bust you out in a sec,” he announces with a grin and gets to his feet.
“Don't blow yourself up again,” Argent advises dryly and Stiles huffs at him because seriously, Laurel isn't coming down to Beacon Hills two times a month for nothing, okay?
“That was one time!” What is it with these people and never letting him live down accidentally giving that fire spell too much force? Ugh. Maybe he won't rescue them. Let them see how to escape without him.
He pouts two entire seconds before Allison looks up at him with her nicest Disney princess expression and smiles. Yeah, okay, he's not immune to her puppy face either. Stiles huffs again and rolls up his sleeves, trying to concentrate on the spark inside him. Laurel taught him to harness his own magic power but it's still hard for him (“That's because you're too old,” the coven mother told him that very first time she came for a magic lesson. “Magic is best learned as a child.” So on top of everything, Stiles is apparently also Anakin Skywalker!). But after a few very long minutes, he grasps at the fluttery thing that is his magic and wills it to appear in his right hand. It materializes as a small ball of fire and he fistpumps internally not risking to break his concentration as he directs the fireball towards the entrance of the cave that's closed off with a bunch of boulders.
“You, uh, might wanna shield yourselves somehow,” he tells the Argents and glances at them to see them both shuffling and grunting with the effort to turn away from the entrance. “Well... here goes nothing!” And he throws the fireball directly at the boulders blocking their path.
The good news is, he doesn't blow up himself. The bad news is that the blast from his tiny little fireball (small, but oh my) is so strong that Stiles lands on his ass again and barely has time to shield his face before a rain of silverware goes down on him (he's just glad that the knifes aren't actually sharp but they still hurt, damn). There are grunts and muffled curses from the Argents which means that they're both alive too. Stiles coughs a little because the blast knocked the air out of his lungs and sits up, estimating the damage. It's not that bad, actually. There's smoke hanging in the air from the explosion and okay, maybe the entire cave is a little blackened (also counting the silverware, the Argents and himself) but at least there's no blood or torn limbs anywhere. He considers it a win, really.
“Did you think about how the kobold will probably notice that you blew up its cave?”
“Uh...”
“Yeah, I thought not.” Stiles glares at Argent. He made an exit, okay? That has to count something. He grumbles while reaching for his phone and sighing loudly when he notices the new scratch on the screen. His dad will kill him one day, he's sure of it.
“I'm calling Scott,” he announces and does exactly that. As if on cue, there's a familiar howl from... somewhere and Stiles steps out of the cave to find himself in the woods. Well, that's no surprise since the Preserve is really big. He briefly considers howling back but he's not alone and Argent is already judging him so Stiles stays quiet. Because of course Scott isn't answering his phone. With a sigh, Stiles ends the call and dials Derek next. Who picks up after the very first ring.
“Stiles?!”
“Yeah, it's me. I guess you heard the explosion? That's where we are. No kobold in sight so far but uh... I think it might be a little pissed when it comes back so hurry up and come get us.”
“Are you hurt?”
“A little bruised, Argents are paralyzed. Just hurry up.”
“On our way.” Stiles pockets his phone again and turns back to Allison and her dad.
“The cavalry is coming!” he announces proudly and grins at them. “Told you I'd get you of that hole.”
“'ow dare you!” He lets out a very surprised and unmanly yelp as something hits him from behind and he goes down again, landing face first in a pile of wet leaves, only inches away from some rocks he blew up earlier. “My 'ome! You destroyed it!” Stiles grunts into the forest floor while something continues to hit him in the back with small but surprisingly strong fists.
“F-fuck... off!” He tries to roll around on his back to shake the kobold off but the creature is a lot stronger than it looks. And the next moment, he feels something sharp prick the skin on the back of his neck and cries out. That thing bit him! He's been bit!
His protests are muffled because seconds after the kobold retracts its sharp teeth from Stiles' neck, his tongue goes numb and he can just lie there and roll his eyes angrily because the rest of his body is completely paralyzed. The creature continues to screech insults at him in a garbled mess of English and French and he can't do anything but lie there and grunt in pain at the beating he gets. He knows without doubt that his back will be a canvas of bruises tomorrow. Ugh.
Just when a small groan escapes him because the damned thing hits him in a particularly painful spot, a roar echoes through the forest and there's a whoosh of air after which the weight on his back is gone. Instead, there's more angry French yelling (“Putain! Loup-garou stupide!”), more growling and then the kobold's terrified shriek of “Alright, alright, I'm letting them go! Please don't kill me!”
“Leave this territory and don't ever come back or I'll rip you to shreds personally!” That's Derek's voice. Stiles huffs and grunts but can't even more his head to see what's happening. So he lies there, listening to the kobold swearing to never return again and pleading to at least be allowed to gather his silverware because he needs it for hibernation, just as Allison said.
“Don't even think about touching the humans again!” Scott growls from somewhere and oh, sounds like the rest of the pack has finally arrived, too.
“Non, non, I promise!” There's some more growling and what sounds like hurried shuffling mixing with the sounds of somebody gathering a whole lot of silverware, until there's another loud POP .
“Allison!” Ah, Scott and Isaac went inside what's left of the cave, then. Malia and Kira seem to have followed them because Stiles can hear Mr. Argent mumble his thanks to them while they probably help them up.
“Stiles, are you okay?” He grunts as an answer to Derek's stupid question because duh, he was just paralyzed and beat up by a Germanic forest sprite. He's humiliated is what he is. A sort of squeal escapes him when he feels warm hands on his torso who turn him on his back and then he's blinking up into Derek's face. Which is way too close. Like, way too close! He squawks a little, unable to properly articulate words, and tries to communicate his sarcastic answer with his face. Does it look like I'm okay, asshole?
“The kobold's saliva paralyzed him,” Allison explains from where Isaac and Scott are helping her stand. “It'll wear off but it's slow.” Derek sighs like he can't believe this is his life now (Yeah, welcome to the club, Stiles thinks wryly) and looks at Scott like he's waiting for orders.
“Isaac and I will take Allison.” Of course they will. “Kira, Malia, do you mind taking Mr. Argent?” Of course they don't. “Derek, could you...?”
“Sure.” Of course he... Wait what?
Stiles yelps as he's being lifted in a goddamn bridal carry by Broody McWerewolf himself. He can't move and hold on or protest, so Derek just tightens his grip on him and turns to face Scott again. Stiles is desperately rolling his eyes trying to communicate to his best buddy that this is decidedly not what he wants but Scott either doesn't get it or ignores him.
“Okay, call me when he's home safely. We'll bring Allison and her dad home.” Stiles can't believe it. How come he always ends up with Derek? He'd suspect Scott of scheming against him but the guy can't keep a poker face to save his life, bless his precious Hufflepuff heart. How he managed to not blurt out that he was working for Gerard Argent for some time is beyond Stiles, really. He does feel slightly betrayed by his best bro, though, because leaving him with Derek all the time? No fair. Because Stiles tries, okay. He tries really hard and being a teenage guy is hard enough without all your friends being able to smell arousal on you (at least he assumes they do until somebody proves him wrong).
Derek starts moving and Stiles is equally mortified and excited about being carried. Embarrassed, too. But he can't help himself inhaling Derek's earthy scent and sighing quietly. It's probably a good thing that it's late afternoon by now and most of his neighbors (mostly nice old ladies) nap around this time of the day, so Derek goes undetected while carrying Stiles into the house (he doesn't even wonder how the hell Derek knows where they keep the spare key, the stupid wolf probably sniffed it out or something). He can hear his dad snoring soundly behind the closed door of the master bedroom while Derek heads straight for Stiles' room like he owns the place. To be fair, the pack does end up in Stiles' house and room frequently but he's still a little confused by how calm Derek carries him there and puts him down on the bed.
Stiles blinks at him because that's all he can do and Derek looks back at him as if he's waiting for some kind of thank you despite that Stiles barely has enough control over his esophagus to swallow, let alone say anything.
“How do you always end up being the one kidnapped?” Derek sighs. Stiles blinks some more and rolls his eyes because how is he supposed to know that? It's not his fault that he's apparently like some sort of catnip for creatures of the night. Derek chuckles as if he can read his mind and shakes his head, a weirdly fond expression on his stupidly perfect face.
“Just... be careful next time.” It's not like he gets kidnapped on purpose... and besides, that lightning elemental was totally not after him but after Kira. And technically, the kobold was mainly interested in the Argents...
“I'll call Deaton to see if he can do something about this.” Derek nods at him to indicate his current state of paralysis. “Stay where you are.”
Hardi-har-har. So funny, really. Stiles gives him a blanks stare and Derek, the little shit, actually grins back at him. Like, fully grins, with his entire stupid face lighting up and his eyes glinting mischievously and showing his adorable bunny teeth and oh, Stiles is so very fucked. Derek pats his shoulder and nods at him, promising to return with an antidote if possible. Then he's out of the window again and Stiles is left alone with his thoughts and the realization that he's stupidly in love with him. And judging from their interactions during the past 24 hours, Derek's either been actively trying to woo him or he's playing a very cruel game of gay chicken.
Either way, Stiles decides that it is ON . He will woo the shit out of Derek once he can move again. Oh yes, there will be wooing of epic proportions going on! Of course, he's going to have to do a whole lot of research on this particular kind of thing because wooing a werewolf is probably no easy task. The corners of his lips twitch very lightly when he can hear more than see Derek climbing through the window again some time later.
It's good that research is what Stiles does best.