Archive of Our Own

Stiles had made peace with it. Truly, he had.

At first, he tried to fight it. When he was a child, he didn’t understand it. He knew his parents became wary every time their thumbs traced the words. He knew his mom teared up every time her eyes read over them silently. He knew his dad’s jaw clicked when his teeth cinched together when he caught sight of the mark.

As a child, he was none the wiser. He kept the words covered, as much of the other kids in his class did, and was blissfully unaware of what they meant. Some of the other kids giggled, talking in hushed voices about their marks. Ms. Jacobs often told them it was rude to ask about them and to avoid discussion about them - they’d have plenty of time to do so when they were older.

But that never stopped excitable 6-year-olds. Heather gushed over the word ‘pretty’ and how it must mean her soulmate will think her pretty as a princess. He heard of another boy laughing about how his said the word ‘howdy’ and how he hoped that meant his soulmate was a cowboy (spoiler alert: Anthony Garcia’s soulmate was not a cowboy but an actress at the local county fair who somehow got wrangled into doing horse rides and took her job very seriously - though she did look the part of a cowboy during her shifts).

Stiles at the age of 6, on the other hand, knew almost none of his words, especially when strung together. He knew some of the basic words like ‘you’ and ‘know’, but none of those words gave him much to go off of. He had attempted to sound some of the other words out, and Ms. Jacobs almost had a stroke when he asked her what ‘prick’ meant. (Looking back, Stiles is mainly proud that 6-year-old him even got that word right.) That was a long day - his parents were red in the face, Ms. Jacobs looked like she was on the verge of tears, the principle looked torn between anger and sadness and neither seemed to be directed at him this time, and every adult - every single one, despite their reaction - told Stiles over and over again not to mention his soulmark to anyone else. He didn’t really get it but he was 6, who was he to argue with the principle and his parents?

It wasn’t until middle school he understood.

By then, at the tender age of 12, Stiles understood what his words meant. Had for a while, but just then he finally understood what they hinted at. His soulmate was going to hate him on sight; he was going to be disgusted by Stiles before Stiles even had a chance to show who he was to the other person.

Stiles went through a phase the next year where he only spoke to someone new if they spoke first. He was terrified he would upset his soulmate by saying a bad joke or something else along those lines. So he refused to speak first.

That only lasted so long as there were too many instances where he had to initiate the conversation first and he too often forgot about the plan that he abandoned it altogether. He figured it didn’t matter much anyway; it wasn’t like it would change the words. They were already printed on his skin after all.

It was around the age of 16 that Stiles finally started to come to terms with the implications of his words and he had made peace with it. On occasion, he thought that maybe they’d be able to work past whatever issues his soulmate had with him, but when even Scott would forlornly glance at his bicep with those big round, pitiful eyes - he knew. So he accepted it!

The first person who told Stiles it wasn’t the end of the world was Lydia Martin. He’d had a crush on her in elementary school, but when her first words to him were “I need the blue crayon” in 3rd grade, he’d not bothered to fixate on it too much. Now, he kinda wished he had the demand of a blue crayon etched on his skin; it’d be an upgrade at the very least.

Then, in sophomore year, Lydia’s boyfriend caught sight of the first part of Stiles’ words. Jackson Whittemore, for whatever reason, decided to draw attention to it, announcing to the hallway at large that ‘even fate couldn’t find someone to put up with him’. Stiles refused to ever go without a flannel or a long sleeve shirt after that.

But one good thing that came out of that whole situation was Lydia. When Stiles had swiftly redirected himself down the opposite end of the hall and ducked into a somewhat empty classroom, Lydia had followed. She stayed quiet, let Stiles collect himself and get a hold of his breathing again, then calmly said, “Fuck fate.”

Two words. That was all. But they felt like the the world’s tightest hug and biggest reassurance. She never offered big puppy eyes, apologies, or grit teeth. No. Lydia Martin offered ‘fuck fate’ and nothing more. And it was exactly what Stiles needed.

After that, Lydia and he had become two peas in a pod - commiserating over their not-so-hopeful words. Lydia’s weren’t as bad, though still quiet damning, and Stiles had told her it was equally likely hers were said in jest. A joke. He offered up her soulmate having a specific brand of sarcasm and humour. He demonstrated the various tones and scenarios such a quip could warrant, each seemingly more absurd than the last. Lydia rolled her eyes, but the quirk of her lips and the far-off look she directed at her wrist wasn’t missed by Stiles.

For Lydia’s sake, he hoped her words were said in jest. That they’d be a joke shared between the two years after their first meeting.

Stiles didn’t have that hope, but he could have it for Lydia.

+.+.+

Now at 20, Stiles mostly ignored his soulmark. Sure, he still stared at it a bit too long when he got out of the shower, and his fingers subconsciously traced the words when he was anxious (which, well, didn’t really help with said anxiety), but he didn’t actively think about it. He was mostly content with the fact that he had yet to meet this person, hoping to put it off as long as possible. Possibly for the rest of his life, if he had it his way.

Instead, he focused on his day-to-day life, embracing the current moment. And with this particular ‘current moment’, he decided he was going to take advantage of the nice weather and walk to his favorite coffee shop instead of driving; get out, stretch his legs, enjoy the weather - seize the day and all that. And, well, while it is true he less so decided to walk there and he was more so forced into doing so, being without other means of transportation due to his car being in the shop for the day, he was still basking in the ambiance of the day and enjoying himself, so it still counted!

Humming softly, Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept walking, a small skip to his step as he bounced on the in-step to the beat of the song stuck in his head. He had walked about a mile so far, the bookshop where he had managed to snag a summer job at and just finished up a shift long since out of sight, and he had probably a little under a mile left of winding sidewalks and crosswalks before he made it to the coffee shop.

As Stiles thoughts over what his caffeine-addicted heart was in the mood for today, he heard a low growl and then a pitiful whine echo faintly from a narrow passage between two buildings. He had just walked by the small walkway, the space barely large enough for someone to walk through let alone much else.

Ignoring his apprehension and instead focusing on his curiosity and concern, Stiles backtracked slowly, stepping cautiously into the opening between the two buildings. He took careful, measured steps and kept an ear out for whatever could have made the sounds from before. He was willing to bet it was some sort of animal, maybe a dog or a cat. It sounded as if they were scared or in pain.

Running through the hundreds of possibilities, Stiles walked further down the passage until it opened up into a larger clearing. It seemed to be a merging point between several businesses on either side, old rickety fire escapes decorating each building and converging at the small open space between them. It didn’t seem the most ideal in the means of fire safety and escaping danger, but Stiles figured it was the best one could do given the cramped nature of the buildings. Most of them were older than any and all residents in town, the fact that they didn’t met any fire safety standards within this decade (hell, maybe not even in this century) wasn’t all that surprising.

Glancing around, Stiles didn’t see anything and was about to retreat, having not heard any new sounds and beginning to think whatever it was had ran off already. But as soon as he took a step back, he heard another whine. It was high-pitched and desperate, seemingly begging despite the lack of words.

Without further thought, Stiles darted towards the sound. What he expected to find was an injured animal, maybe stuck on something or maybe with a broken leg, unable to walk any further. Instead, he found a girl - looking to be around his age - pushed up against one of the walls leading into another narrow walkway on the opposite side of where Stiles himself emerged.

The girl was pinned to the wall and a man was in front of her, holding her against the wall, teeth bared at her in some mockery of a smile while his forearm pressed into her throat. Stiles could barely see half the man’s face and only saw the faintest profile of the girl, her arm and hair the most visible parts of her.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing, man?!” Stiles yelled out. It seemed to work, the man having startled. And when he stepped back, a slick, wet sound accompanying the clatter of footsteps, Stiles saw the blade clutched in his hand.

Oh god, Stiles thought, I’m gonna puke. The knife was dripping, a slight gleam of the light catching the seemingly too dark blood. It was taunting and threatening, making Stiles want to throw up and scream at the same time.

The man narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, his knife already raised once again. In a panic, Stiles reached into his back pocket. The only thing he had on him was a flashlight he’s forgotten to leave at work, the old clunky metal one that barely worked half the time but that he always neglected to replace. If he was being honest, he kind of loved the thing, even if it made his daily adventures into the supply closer feel like more of a horror movie intro than a part of his job. It had character, after all.

He hesitated for only half a second, wondering if he could possibly fight the guy off with the flashlight. It was fairly large and it was heavy as hell being metal, but he felt like he was still outmatched. Instead, thinking on his feet, he went with his next best option. Or, well, the next best Stiles’ Patented Idea option.

He kept his hand in his back pocket, pulling the flashlight up just enough to reach the button but not enough to show it. He clicked the button on it twice, the heavy slide of the worn and ever so slightly rusted metal button sliding back and forth giving off a decent enough sound that was even further amplified in the narrow space.

As he did so, he spoke, hoping the click would still be audible enough but that he could distract the guy, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The man seemed to falter, his eyes jumping to Stiles’ arm that was still tucked behind his back. After a couple of seconds, Stiles realized he’d have to somehow keep the charade up of his flashlight being a gun or he’d have to out himself to being weaponless and pray to god his flashlight was a fair match to the knife in front of him.

Just as Stiles was about to pull out the flashlight and try to surprise the guy in a hastily planned out ambush, a low growl came from behind him. This one wasn’t pained, it was angry and threatening - low and gravelly. It made Stiles shiver ever so slightly and his back straighten out.

In the next instant, Knife Guy was darting to the side, out another entryway, and out into the street, not casting a single look back. Stiles somewhat understood the sentiment after being present for the threatening sound that just came from what he assumed to be the girl now slumped against the wall. But seriously, he just stabbed her and looked gleeful about it - one would think the guy would have bigger balls but apparently he was a coward through and through. Go figure, Stiles thought.

Stumbling forward, Stiles dropped down onto his knees next to the girl, hands already reaching out to see how bad the damage was.

“Holy shit, that growl was impressive dude! Like seriously, you made the guy turn tail,” Stiles said as he slammed down next to her. He froze as he saw a hole at the bottom of her shirt, a dark stain coloring the dark blue shirt a near-black color. “Oh fuck, oh fuck - shit! Okay, uhm, wow, this isn’t- come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

The girl seemed to hesitate, her eyes dancing over Stiles’ form, which - understandable, she did just get mugged or jumped or… whatever the guy was attempting with a knife. Stiles would be pretty hesitant of himself as well. Obediently, Stiles lifted his hands in the air and spread out his fingers, trying to imitate the universal sign of surrendering. He wanted her to know he just wanted to help.

After a couple of stifled, silent seconds passed, Stiles watched as her head cocked ever so slightly, her nostrils flared, and her eyes seemed to narrow. It was odd, almost like one of those police dogs when they were investigating a scene and trying to determine if a certain scent was a bomb or something. It would be funny if she weren’t currently bleeding out.

Finally, she nodded, and Stiles quickly moved to wrap an arm around her waist as he pulled one of her arms over his shoulder. The girl wrapped her other arm around her abdomen, a soft groan leaving her lips as Stiles helped pull her to her feet. After they were standing upright, he began the tedious task of guiding them back out the passageway he first came down. It was quite narrow, so he had to walk nearly sideways so he could brace the girl’s weight on his shoulder still.

Once out to the street, Stiles let go of the arm she had thrown around his shoulders and immediately called his dad, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder as he tried to look around and get an idea of where he could take them that was safe.

“Hey, kid, wha-”

“Park Place and 7th. There’s a girl who got stabbed and- and we- she… please just send someone,” Stiles rushed out. The girl who was now leaning a bit heavily into his side was groaning small protests, her words ever so slightly slurred as she gave a half-hearted attempt at dismissing Stiles’ pleas to his father.

“What?” his dad demanded, alarm settling in quickly. “What do you mean, Stiles?”

“I mean,” he said a bit frantically, “that I am currently holding a girl with a stab wound in her stomach and need some help! An ambulance, a paramedic, maybe a police officer or two - someone!”

“Okay, okay - I’ll dispatch my closest guy and call into the hospital. Hang tight and don’t go anywhere.” And with that, his dad ended the call, seemingly to see who was closest and to arrange for an ambulance for the girl who was currently smearing blood all over Stiles’ favorite flannel and becoming heavier by the minute. Despite his concern and desire to help her, he was still quite saddened by the bloodied sight of his flannel - it actually was his favorite. 

The sacrifices one makes being a good person, Stiles thought wistfully. 

“S…” the girl began, pulling him out of his momentarily derailed train of thought, “St… Stiles? You… you’re Stiles?” she asked, her voice a bit uneven but her eyes wide and questioning. She was already fumbling her bloody hand toward her sleeve, trying to shove it away but being mostly unsuccessful. Stiles could only nod dumbly, lost on how she knew him and what she was attempting to do exactly, before he remembered the gravity of the situation and opted to figure out what she seemed to know him at a later point in time. Preferably one that involved less blood (on her part) and anxiety (on Stiles’ part).

He searched around until his eyes landed on the donut shop across the street. It was closed by now since they only opened for the morning, but they did have a couple of small tables out front that he could set her down at to try and keep her comfortable and maybe tend to the wound in the meantime. So, without further hesitation, he began to pull her across the street, eyes darting both ways to ensure no cars were coming while doing so.

The girl - whose name he really should learn, Stiles realized - groaned in pain once more and hunched in on herself as they took the first step off the sidewalk. The shift in stance and imbalance of weight sent Stiles momentarily stumbling. He dropped his phone on the sidewalk and opted to come back for it, not wanting to juggle the girl while trying to lean over to get his phone. 

Swiftly as he could, Stiles pulled them both over to the front of the donut shop. He used one of his feet to pull a chair out and pushed the girl into it as gently as he could. He knelt down and rearranged her so she was leaning back into the chair, the rest of her weight supported by the table next to her. His hands danced in the air a bit frantically, unsure if he should check the wound and try to apply pressure to it or if he should wait since his flannel wasn’t exactly the cleanest and he wasn’t sure if staunching the bleeding was more important than avoiding possible infection.

“Give me one second, I need my phone, Melissa will know what to do,” Stiles said, his hands gripping the girl’s shoulders briefly before he turned to dart back across the street.

He glanced back over to her as he crossed, the sound of nearby sirens beginning to fill the air - thank god - and then searched for his phone. He knows he dropped it just as they began to cross the street but he hadn’t actually seen where it fell to. Staring at the ground and darting his eyes around momentarily, he finally caught sight of the screen glinting off sunlight, the phone having partially slid underneath one of the old Post Office Mail Boxes on the street (Stiles was, like, 85% certain the Post Office had stopped using those things, or at least, had stopped using this particular one).

When he finally retrieved his phone and turned back to cross the street, he heard the thunk of a door slamming shut. Someone from BHPD had finally arrived - Stiles felt a lot more relaxed, seeing as he obviously didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

Jogging across the street, Stiles saw a man knelt down next to the girl in the chair Stiles had propped her against. He seemed fairly young, a newer recruit - someone that must have joined while Stiles was away at school during the year - and he had dark hair and decently tanned skin. If there wasn’t someone possibly-maybe actively dying six inches away from the guy, Stiles would be taking advantage of the opportunity to survey the view. And my, what a nice view it was, Stiles quietly mused to himself.

Pausing right behind the pair, Stiles waved his phone in the air, about to tell the girl he was going to call a nurse and ask about what to do for the stab wound in the meantime, but she found her voice before he did.

“Der, it- it’s him,” the girl said, her voice a bit of a wheeze. She didn’t sound upset or accusing, more in awe. And Stiles was a bit stumped, his eyebrows knitting together as the girl held out a finger towards him and thus caused the man - ‘Der’, he and the girl must know each other - to turn toward him. Immediately, the most beautiful set of eyes Stiles ever had the privilege of looking into narrowed at him. They almost seemed to lighten a bit, the color getting sharper, but it seemed almost threatening rather than ethereal, as the guy took a step towards him and was letting out a low snarl in his direction.

“You fucking prick,” the man hissed out, and Stiles felt his stomach drop - the sharp sting of tears already pushing at the backs of his eyes without preamble or warning. “You are a pathetic excuse of a person, you know that?” 

Stiles subconsciously grabbed at his bicep, a small burning warmth tickling his skin as the same words seemed to re-etch themselves into his flesh, reminding him. Taking a step back, Stiles opened his mouth to try and defend himself. The man had already taken another step forward, the snarling growl heightening in volume, and this time for certain, Stiles saw the change in color of the man’s eyes.

Breath hitched, Stiles couldn’t form a response. He was fucked. He was so majorly fucked.

“No, no!” the girl finally protested, leaning forward and fumbling to grab the guy’s arm, a weak attempt at pulling him back. “Not the stab wound, jesus, no. He’s Sti–”

Before she could finish, the arrival of a secondary police car and an ambulance were announced as they pulled around the corner of the street and screeched to a halt. Stiles had been so wrapped up in what seemed to be his inevitable death that he hadn’t even heard the new sirens of either vehicle until they had already pulled up.

“Stiles!”

Stiles looked away from the duo, finding his dad who was darting toward him with two paramedics close on his tail. Stiles obediently fell into his dad’s embrace, listening as the man asked if he was okay, how he found the girl, if he saw who did this, and ten other things. He tuned most of it out, watching as the paramedics loaded the girl up while the officer from earlier held a phone to his ear, eyes glued to the girl now being carried on a stretcher toward the ambulance.

“Stiles,” his dad finally grabbed his attention with a firm shake, “I’m going to need you to give a statement, son.” His dad looked like he was in literal pain, the worry clear as day in his eyes. Stiles felt gently guilty for causing his dad to have that look, but he also couldn’t find it in himself to regret getting involved either. He’d have more guilt if he hadn’t gotten involved.

“I… I will,” he finally responded, “but… not yet. I need to talk to her first.”

Frowning, his dad followed his line of sight until they were both watching the paramedics finish loading up the ambulance. Stiles had to ask first, had to confirm.

+.+.+

Cora Hale.

That’s her name. After the ambulance finally pulled away, the murderous officer (AKA, Deputy Derek Hale, brother of stab wound victim Cora Hale, as Stiles came to find out) in tow, Stiles followed his father into his cruiser and back home. Stiles had argued, insisting his dad could take them back to the station as he undoubtedly had work and paperwork to tend to, but his dad stubbornly declined.

“I need to tend to my son first,” he said evenly, his sharp gaze daring Stiles to argue. Stiles (wisely) opted not to.

Once back at the house, Stiles asked if he could find out who the girl was. He needed a name if he was going to visit the hospital. After the Knowing Look shared between the two of them, his dad agreed. He promised Stiles a name once he finished showering and changing - instructing him to bag his clothes (shoes included, Stiles begrudgingly complied) for possible evidence, though it seemed they both doubted they’d be handing the clothes over. Still, nature of a cop and all that, Stiles did as he was asked.

When he came back, freshly showered, with comfy new clothes, and not as comfy but also new shoes, his dad relayed the newfound information.

“Melissa said she should be fine. Apparently, her sister is a nurse at the hospital too, and immediately took on the case. After a quick debrief, Laura - the sister - declared it was a non-fatal hit and just needed a few stitches. You should be able to go visit her as soon as the next hour,” his dad explained, a curious glint in his eyes as he spoke. Both he and Stiles were questioning the story, knowing it wasn’t that cut and dry. Which was exactly why Stiles needed to talk to the girl - Cora - before he gave his statement.

“And that deputy…” Stiles found himself asking, earning a raised eyebrow from his dad. He ducked his face to avoid giving too much away (which he already did).

“Deputy Hale,” his dad reiterated, “Cora’s brother. Derek.” The sheriff studied his son curiously for a moment, head tilted. “Is there something I need to know, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head but abruptly stopped, sighing. He hesitantly curled his palm around the spot on his bicep, his eyes flitting upwards and latching onto his father’s that were now staring at his hand. Once the two of them met eyes, he gave a simple nod, just a single, sharp jerk of the head downwards.

“Good grief,” his dad mumbled, a hand coming to rub over his face tiredly.

“He thought…” Stiles said, shaking his head a bit. “He thought I- that it was-” he finally cut himself off and fell into silence again, his eyes now trained on a random spot on the wall as he finally let everything sink in.

His dad gave a simple nod. He expected the man to be angry, furious even. He had always had such disdain for Stiles’ soulmark, his eyes filled with despair and pain whenever he saw it. It looked like it physically pained him every time he saw it and Stiles had secretly worried for his soulmate’s livelihood when it came to his father. But he was just… accepting. It didn’t fully excuse the mark, but he knew his dad understood. Knew he wouldn’t be able to properly hold it against Derek with a clear conscious even if he’s hated the words printed on his own son’s skin his entire life.

“Well… guess we should drop by the hospital, then,” Stiles said, attempting to change topics. He wasn’t all that successful.

+.+.+

Knocking on the door, Stiles waited until a voice softly told him to come in. It didn’t sound like Cora’s, but it was female. He could be mistaken, since Cora hadn’t been in the best of scenarios when they originally met, but he was fairly certain the voice belonged to someone else.

Bracing himself, Stiles entered the room, softly shutting the door after he walked in. He trekked into the room until he could see the hospital bed behind the thin, white curtain that previously blocked most of his view. As suspected, the voice didn’t belong to Cora. Instead, he found another woman - this one seeming a bit older than Cora - hovering at the foot of the bed Cora lay in, decked out in scrubs and eyes looking towards Stiles questioningly.

“Stiles!”

This time, it was Cora. She seemed to beam at him with a wide smile. Stiles nervously returned it. He let his gaze skate across the room, but when he made eye contact with Derek, he felt himself falter. Instead of freaking out or running back out the door like he so desperately wanted to, he instead schooled his expression - letting his face go as blank as he could - before refocusing on Cora.

Tentatively, he stepped further into the room, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Uhm, hi,” he said a bit awkwardly. Cora just grinned at him, seeming a bit too happy considering her recent events and overall day. But he wasn’t one to judge (at least, not out loud).

“So, uh, listen, “ Stiles said, his eyes flicking towards the ceiling, unable to meet anyone’s eye, “I’m supposed to give a statement about the uh… the incident but I… I wanted to ask what you want me to tell them. So that it matches whatever it is you’re going to tell them - or have. Maybe you already have, I don’t know, I-... either way.”

When he was met with silence, he finally dared a glance back at the room. Cora had a small frown on her face while the other girl who had beckoned him in - her sister, Laura, Stiles assumed - looked at him curiously, her arms now folded over her chest. Stiles pointedly avoided looking at Derek to see his reaction.

“And why would your stories need to… match?” the other woman spoke up, drawing Stiles’ eyes toward her. Involuntarily, he let out a huff of air - a mock of a laugh. He gestured vaguely with one hand towards Cora.

“I’m, like, 99% sure she doesn’t have a single mark on her stomach now and I can’t exactly tell the police I watched a guy pull a six-inch blade out of her stomach and then her not have an injury to photograph - which they will want to do, I can promise you that. I mean, unless you’re just too my to slice her open again or- I don’t know, that’s why I came here. To ask. So…” Stiles trailed off. The woman got a hardened look in her eyes, her stance rigid, while Cora seemed to study him further.

Stiles groaned quietly, his hands coming up to dig the heel of his palms into his eyes and he bowed his head.

“I’m not- I didn’t- it’s kind of hard to not recognize you’re werewolves when your brother flashed his eyes while trying to decide on how to kill me,” he explained, refusing to look at any of them. “I came to ask to… avoid you having issues with the reports and everything. I just want to make it as easy as possible, however, that is.”

Looking up once more, Cora seemed to relax, a quirk of a smile lining her lips. Her sister seemed to still be studying him but was no longer on the defensive. Instead, she seemed curious, her eyes never once leaving his form, causing him to squirm under the gaze.

“I wasn’t going to kill you.”

Stiles grit his teeth, refusing to look at the person who spoke. Despite the acidic twist in his stomach and the gnawing anxiety clawing at his throat, it was soothing. The voice was soothing and calming and seemed to smooth out all the rough edges. The cadence seemed hard and authoritative, but the tone was gentler than one would assume it to be and it made Stiles want to lean in, ground himself to the person connected to the melodic voice.

Instead, knowing how crazy that sounded, he kept his gaze on Cora and focused on her intently. “You can get my number from Nurse McCall, just- let me know what to tell them, what not to tell them. I have to go.”

Without further explanation, Stiles darted out of the room. If he was in there for any longer he was likely to break down sobbing at some point. He wasn’t sure how he was going to broach that topic but he did take a bit of satisfaction in knowing Derek was unaware of their matching marks as of yet. And the longer Stiles could avoid that, the easier his life would be (or so he kept telling himself).

+.+.+

Cora ended up getting his number from Scott’s mom as he mentioned and texted him. Cora seemed none too shy about divulging the nitty gritty regarding their plan and the details of it. Apparently they would be slicing her open again to allow for photos, but the apparent “stitches” given to Cora by Laura made it easier to pull off since the wound would be expected to be less visible by now. He was instructed to glance off the details of the wound, not hand over anything with her blood on it, and focus on the guy instead. All of which Stiles assumed would be the case and could easily do. 

He gave his statement, keeping it somewhat vague, worked with a sketch artist to try and get a decent sketch of the guy he saw, and that was that. His dad tried to keep it on the down low and avoid further pushing which Stiles sincerely appreciated because even with all the vagueness of his report and his intense focus on the actual suspect, he knew his story was a bit... iffy. He just hoped no one noticed and if they did notice, he hoped they didn’t bother to push the matter.

That had happened three days ago. Cora was still texting him and Stiles was doing his best to respond without actually responding. AKA, ignoring 9 out of 10 notifications from his phone and mentally apologizing ten thousand times a day as a means to repent. It was a system of sorts. But she was apparently still being held at the hospital (protocol, or something, seeing as she obviously had no actual need for being there) and had an abundance of free time, meaning she was texting him quite often and thus making it harder for Stiles to stick to his ignore and repent method. Why she seemed intent on implanting herself into his life, Stiles was still unsure but he was quickly learning to just go with it where Cora was concerned. 

He had been more or less avoiding Cora’s texts and vehemently avoiding the sheriff’s station after that day’s events. In fact, Stiles had attempted to leave the house as minimally as possible. He had called out of work for the rest of the week, with no plans to return until after the weekend, and with almost no pushback from his boss, Mrs. Gievars - who insisted he needed to rest and to take all the time he needed. Which he was happily taking advantage of, going on day three of ‘resting’ and avoiding most other living beings.

Stiles’ avoidance of his phone, sudden anti-social tendencies, and overall absence from the general world is what brought one Lydia Martin marching into his room. All it took was one missed phone call from one day ago and she was walking her positively pissed-off self into his house and telling him off. Loudly.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lydia demanded as soon as she walked in. Her arms were crossed, her lips taut and pulled down ever so slightly. Aside from the small glint of worry in her eyes, she looked angry. Angry with Stiles, specifically.

“Gee, thanks, Lyds,” Stiles grumbled, burrowing further into his pillows, “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. No, no physical wounds. No, I am not experiencing any symptoms of PTSD or anything like that. Yes, I am 100% a-okay. All systems go. Yep, that’sa me - totally good, nothing wrong here! I am-”

A frustrated huff cut Stiles off. Gone was any and all trace of worry. Now, Lydia was 120% livid with a generous helping of flat-out annoyed. She glared at Stiles, her shoe now tapping an angry pattern into his floor as she glared him into submission. Stiles squinted his eyes but gave in, groaning as he rolled himself into a proper sitting position so he could face Lydia Martin’s wrath head-on and with his full attention.

Raising an eyebrow, Stiles gave a vague wave of his hand to indicate Lydia get on with it. When nothing came, Stiles looked at her expectantly, his second eyebrow climbing to join the first. 

“What is it? What’s wrong with you?” Lydia finally demanded, her foot quieting and her glare losing its hard edge. She was now staring at Stiles as if all the world’s answers would appear if she just looked hard enough - long enough.

“I don’t know what you me-”

“Bullshit. Answer me, Stilinski,” Lydia cut off pointedly. “You’ve been ignoring your phone - even Scott, who texted me acting like a pathetic puppy, by the way. Super annoying. You haven’t left your house in three days. And you’re acting so… pathetic. So what is it?”

Stiles gave a noise of protest at the mention of him being pathetic. Sure, she was right on the money, but it was still rude.

Glancing around his room, Stiles debated on how to broach the subject. He played with the idea of not telling her, but he also knew it was futile. He got away with not telling Scott because he had effectively avoided him. He also avoided going too in-depth with his dad because neither of them were well-versed in talking things out. Lydia, however, was unavoidable. She was a force of nature unlike any the world had yet to see. It was alarming, in retrospect.

Sighing, Stiles looked at his hands, trying to be succinct (which, yea, that should tell Lydia right away just how he feels about this whole situation). “I found my soulmate.”

Silence.

Refusing to break the silence or see Lydia’s reaction, Stiles steadfastly stared at his hands. He hoped to hear the click-clack of Lydia’s shoes exiting his room. He possibly even hoped to hear her groan or sigh in frustration before she told him how dramatic he was being. But he got neither.

Instead, he felt arms wrap around his waist and a head tuck itself against his shoulder. Lydia fit herself against him quickly and easily, offering no words. It wasn’t often they did this. Sure, they nudged one another, shoved at each other, and Stiles was notorious for throwing an arm around every one or grabbing at someone’s shoulders as he spoke. But… this? Hugging? Comforting touches? Intimacy? It was a bit more rare between the two of them.

Lydia and Stiles’ friendship was built on understanding. It was built off of both of them saying ‘fuck this’. It wasn’t built off of tears or one-on-one therapy sessions about how unfair fate was. They never did that. Instead, Lydia dragged Stiles out shopping and berated him for wearing so much flannel and bought him greasy burgers and fries while rolling her eyes and repeating how unhealthy it all was. And Stiles, in turn, shoved Lydia in his car and drove for three hours while playing her favorite music while avoiding whatever it is they were driving away from that day. He snuck into her bedroom at 3 am with a handle of vodka and crappy soda and stayed up until the early morning, listening to her list off the statistics of soulmates and their various outcomes and possibilities for probably the hundredth time.

There was no crying. There were very seldom emotional talks or hugs. They didn’t work like that because it’s not what worked for them. So yea, the hug was a bit weird. But it was also exactly what Stiles needed from the person he needed it from the most.

Lydia finally left about two hours later, and no further words were spoken by either party. Instead, they had somehow slowly moved into the position of Lydia sitting at the foot of the bed with Stiles curled on his side, head in her lap, on the cusp of sleep while Lydia made tiny braids in his hair and unraveled them over and over again. When she left, she fluffed up a pillow before sneaking it under his head while she slipped out. 

Had Stiles been more awake he may have seen the glint of anger in Lydia’s eyes before she left and the determined purse of her lips as she strode out of his room. Lydia Martin was on a mission.

+.+.+

“Cora Hale?”

Cora looked up at the mention of her name. Derek was sitting next to her in a visitor’s chair, eyebrows scrunched as he tuned into the exchange happening just outside the door. It seemed neither of them knew the newcomer.

“Correct,” Laura answered, seemingly waving the person in as there was only a second of silence before the click-clack of shoes sounded against the linoleum. The newcomer must not have posed any threat if Laura waved them in that easily.

The clicking footsteps were soon followed by a somewhat petite red-headed girl. Her hair and makeup were in perfect order, her posture and stance looked like she’d be graded on it later, and her smile was poised and practiced, but sincere. She gave an ever so slightly larger smile to Cora, nodding her head once as she presented a vase of flowers. The vase was filled with yellow roses and a plethora of white baby’s breath. The stems of the flowers were tied together with a large white bow and the arrangement looked stunning as well as expensive. 

Before Cora could even question who the girl was, she was setting the vase down on Cora’s meal tray and pivoting towards Derek. Her head cocked slightly to the side and her eyes scanned him in an assessing manner. After a few seconds, she pursed her lips and looked the older man in the eye.

“Derek Hale, yes?” she asked politely. Derek gave a slow nod, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Good,” she said. And once more, before anyone could question her on who she was or what she was doing there, she promptly slammed a fist into Derek’s shoulder. Despite the girl being short in stature and unassuming in strength, even Cora knew the hit had a bit of a sting to it. If not for the blessing of accelerated healing, Cora was sure her brother would have a large, purpling bruise in just a couple hours from the hit. She felt oddly proud of the girl upon that realization.

Derek growled, a hand reflexively moving up to grasp at his bicep. “What the-”

“That’s for ruining my best friend’s life and making me deal with his pathetic moping for the past 5 years,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. Derek opened his mouth to try and ask, once more, what the hell she was on about when her hand shot out once again and slapped him roughly upside the head, causing his head to snap forward from the force and another growl to slide out of his throat. “And that is for being an utter moron and not addressing this issue sooner.”

Cora couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. Both Derek and the yet-to-be-introduced girl turned toward her. Derek was scowling while the girl was giving Cora a half-interested, half-curious look. Cora clutched her stomach as she doubled over in laughter.

When she finally pulled herself together, Cora looked up and met eyes with the girl and gave her a wide grin. “God, you’re a fucking bitch,” she said. Derek cut in, mumbling, “I’ll fucking say.” Cora promptly rolled her eyes before meeting the other girl’s eyes again, grin widening as she finished her - rudely interrupted - sentence, “I love it.”

The girl stared, her lips parting ever so slightly as her eyes scanned Cora intently. She seemed shocked, rooted to the spot. When enough time had passed for the silence to become stilted, Cora opened her mouth to begin moving the conversation along, but the other girl seemed to finally kick back into gear.

“The one time Stiles is right…” she says with a long suffering sigh. Her lips twitched upwards, however, and the look she was giving Cora was now more intrigue than incredulity. Cora, in response, stared wide-eyed before giving a shout of surprise.

“Holy shit! It’s you!” Cora breathed. “What’s your name?”

Smiling, the girl responded, “Lydia. Lydia Martin.”

Lydia and Cora took the next couple of minutes to assess the other. Gentle smiles and roaming eyes were the only exchange between the two, both content with committing the moment to memory and examining the person who was meant to be their other half per the laws and declarations of fate. The moment was only broken by Derek shuffling in his chair and clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. This movement seemed to remind Lydia of her initial mission, as she rolled her eyes and her lips turned downwards slightly before she turned to focus back on Derek.

“Right,” she said, as if she was already tired of dealing with him, “you. You need to fix this. Go apologize.”

“Apologize to who and for what?” Derek growled. Lydia gave an unimpressed look in response.

“Stiles. Go makeup and end the moping, I don’t like it when he’s all…” Lydia huffed, her hand flicking through the air absently as if the words themselves were too bothersome to convey. Her answer only made Derek narrow his eyes further. 

Lydia seemed to realize something as she groaned softly, her eyes rolling upwards. Meeting Derek’s eyes once more, she perched her hands on her hips in a condescending manner, giving him a withering look.

“Have you talked to him?” she asked, then shook her head. “Better yet. Has he talked to you? At all?”

Derek frowned, thought momentarily, then shook his head slowly. Lydia frowned and tapped her foot twice, her anger somehow sounding throughout the room with that one action. She eventually sighed lowly and shook her head, as if disappointed.

“Pearce Avenue and Main Street. He works at the bookstore. He’s there until 4.”

After a moment of silence, Derek was stirred into action by Lydia’s pointed look and a scoff from Cora. After exiting the room, he could hear the shuffling of Lydia’s shoes and the soft words being exchanged between the two. Their voices died off the further he got from the room, his mind slowly processing the entire last ten minutes and what the hell Lydia was on about.

For whatever reason, he was listening to her and was making his way to the bookstore off of Main and Pearce. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his own curiosity or due to Lydia’s unnaturally commandeering nature - though if anyone asked he’d say it was the former.

+.+.+

Derek slipped into the bookstore unnoticed. He watched as Stiles thumbed a couple of pages of a book laid out in front of him and sipped from a mug. Derek could smell the leftover coffee in the pot behind the counter and the sickeningly sweet scent of the creamer and syrup added to the coffee. He could also smell the comforting aroma of the books filling the space and the underlying scent of worn leather from the couple of old couches placed throughout the store.

Despite the cloying, sweet scent of Stiles’ coffee, it was a relaxing environment. Derek almost forgot why he was there.

Shaking his head to himself, Derek stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat. When Stiles looked up and met his eye, the younger man froze - going completely still. His eyes widened a bit and he seemed to become apprehensive, a tentative look in his eyes as they darted between Derek’s in a silent question.

“Hi,” Derk said, his voice a bit rough. He cleared his throat once more after a long stretch of silence. “I… came to apologize. For before. It was a misunderstanding but I still acted… rudely. You were helping Cora. And I wanted to- thank you. For helping her. And for the report.”

Derek shuffled a bit. It was more than he planned on saying originally, though his words were just as stilted and sharp as usual. It wasn’t that he was a bad conversationalist, per se, he just didn’t know how to carry a conversation all that well. He often relied on others for that or just hoped they didn’t notice his penchant for nodding in silence, communicating largely through hums and facial expressions.

However, after several minutes passed in silence, Stiles’ quick thumping heartbeat the only noise in the otherwise quiet store, Derek was losing his mind. He usually didn’t give a shit about getting a response or acknowledgement from others but this felt important. He needed to know what Stiles had to say and-… he really didn’t understand why. But he did know that he needed Stiles to respond with something. Anything.

“Are you… going to say anything?” he finally asked a bit roughly, his eyebrows raised in question. Stiles, in turn, went bug-eyed.

See, the issue here was this: Stiles hadn’t spoken to Derek yet and therefore Derek wasn’t aware of their… connection to one another. This was a comfort to Stiles as it felt like he was able to hide behind the fact. However, he was also at a loss. Because he always thought the words on his bicep were in response to something he said - like a crude joke or a misdirected question or something else stupidly absurd. Sure, they were in response to something he did but not to anything he said. And he suddenly felt overwhelmed.

He could say something just as scathing back to Derek. He could say something common and simple, bank on the fact that Derek won’t notice until later and would have interacted with several other people who said similar things that he wasn’t sure who it was. Or, he could say something… nice.

It wasn’t really a question. Stiles knew he wasn’t one for simple and common - it may start out as a simple ‘hey’ but it would somehow turn into an introductory paragraph about the growing epidemic regarding the black market for organs or whatever else his mind happened to be thinking of in the background. Also, Stiles knew he couldn’t be scathing or rude - not knowingly, at least. Sure, he would be the first to admit he was an ass, a bit of an arrogant jerk, and definitely a major dick - but that was in jest. It was between friends and his dad. He could be sarcastic but he didn’t want to… mar someone’s skin like that either. While he now understood where the words came from, he didn’t want anyone else to have the same damning words and sentiment etched into their skin. Not like him.

Realizing he was a bit of a sap (he was blaming Lydia for forcing him to watch The Notebook every week since sophomore year; the romance and sappiness had leaked out and been absorbed by his traitorous, eclectic personality), Stiles took in a deep steadying breath and willed the next words to be kind.

And, well… no one can ever say Stiles Stilinski is predictable. Because not even he saw the next words out of his mouth coming.

“I don’t think the words to describe you have been created yet; you’re too breathtaking to be confined to words alone,” Stiles said, his voice soft. He paused, breath caught in his throat. It was as if his mind threw out the controls and just… let his thoughts roam free. He didn’t know what was being said until the words had disappeared into thin air. Derek’s wide-eyed stare was the only indication he actually said them.

The two of them stared at one another in complete silence for what felt like hours but what was only a couple of minutes. Finally feeling the weight of the silence, Stiles cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek finally asked, causing Stiles to snap his eyes back over to him. Stiles gave a weak smile and shrugged.

“I… it wasn’t a good time. And I kind of wanted to avoid it. If I didn’t speak to you, you wouldn’t know who I was,” Stiles said, providing yet another shrug. Derek seemed confused and a bit… hurt? His eyes were dancing across Stiles’ face as if looking for both the questions and answers he wanted.

Shaking his head with his lips turned down in the slightest of frowns, Derek finally spoke back up, “You didn’t want me to know? What did I… What did I do?”

Without bothering to respond or try to explain himself, Stiles instead opted to pull down the sleeve of his flannel and roll up the bottom of his shirt sleeve, exposing his soulmark.

‘You fucking prick. You are a pathetic excuse of a person, you know that?’

Derek took in a sharp inhale, his hand coming out to ghost over the words. His eyes were wide, his lips pulled tautly, and he looked pained. Stiles felt a rush of guilt at seeing the expressions and hurriedly pushed the fabric of his shirt back down and readjusted his flannel. He gave a small smile to the other when Derek finally looked him in the eye, an almost haunted look reflecting back at Stiles.

“I get it now that it wasn’t me you hated or were mad at or whatever but-... yea, ya’know, growing up with it I just- I guess I was preparing myself to piss you off? Or to have you… hate me? Or something? I don’t know. I just wanted to avoid it so I kinda… ran,” Stiles explained, his hands waving a bit wildly as he tried to piece his train of thought together. “Sorry,” he added belatedly.

Derek scoffed, startling the younger of the two. Derek was now glaring off to the side, his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive pose as he glared at whatever it was he had his sights set on.

“Sorry?” he repeated, “You? You’re the one apologizing? After I gave you that mark? Jesus.”

Stiles couldn’t help but snort, grinning at the small start Derek gave and the look of surprise he shot Stiles’ way. “It wasn’t like you intentionally did it, dude,” Stiles argued, “I’m sure you would have chosen literally any other words than those. I get it now, though.”

Derek opened his mouth, looking like he was ready to argue against himself once again and demand Stiles see Derek’s error and failure, but Stiles waved it off, a dismissive noise promptly ending the conversation.

Once more, the two lapsed into silence, though it was more welcome than the last bout and more comfortable than stifling. Eventually, though, it had to be broken.

“Can I make it up to you? Starting with a dinner?” Derek asked, “Or coffee? Whatever you want.”

Stiles paused, looking at Derek a bit quizzically. He let a timid yet playful smile curl over his lips, letting the question sink in. After a moment of silence, Stiles had a wide grin painted on his face and he had a challenging look in his eye as he leaned forward on the counter, closer toward Derek.

“Whatever I want, hm?” he asked, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth.

“Whatever you want,” Derek said, his lips twitching in response. 

Humming, Stiles stood back up, straightening his posture and nodding his agreement to the idea. “We could start with dinner,” he murmured, “but I might have another request or two.” Derek simply grinned and gave a half-hearted shrug, seemingly uncaring one way or the next - though his smile indicated he was more than willing to oblige Stiles with his additional requests.

“I think I can work with that.”

+.+.+

True to his word, Derek obliged and tended to the requests without fret. Even when he was asked to dinner with Stiles and his dad and was forced to sit through two hours of mostly silent gun cleaning, a box of wolfsbane bullets precariously left out in the open. The subsequent glares given by the sheriff while at work were just as unsettling but Derek took it in stride.

He could work with this.