Trembling Stars

 

11 years, 7 months and 13 days ago

 

“Are you sure he is the right candidate?” asked a man in a blue pinstripe three piece suit,  walking away. The sounds his leather soled shoes made in contact with the wet asphalt reverberated in the empty tunnel and the lights from the lights made the raindrops shimmer on the outside.

 

“Yes sir. He passed all of the tests,” replied the other man, his stance severe, arms ruler straight by his side.

 

“Fine,” said the well dressed man, “get him and get started.”

 

***

 

“You are shitting me!” exclaimed Stiles. “The CIA!? The Central Intelligence Agency wants me?!” he asked, his arms slicing through the air, “Me?! Genim Stilinski? The ADHD riddled teenager that barely got accepted into his backup college?”

 

The man dressed in a black suit sitting on the ottoman, nodded.

 

“Oh, my god! You are serious,” said Stiles, collapsing on the couch across the living room.

 

“The tests showed excellent results and the effects of ADHD can be successfully mitigated,” said the man.

 

“I have to talk to my dad,” replied the barely-legal teen, “I’d have to say something to my friends.”

 

“No,” replied the man, “the offer expires when I leave. You may contact your father at a later date, but should you chose to come with me, we will notify him in the next 24 hours. You may not contact any of your friends during the training and you may not tell them of your status at any later date. Should you decline the offer, you may not tell anyone about this meeting. Failing to comply, you will be subject to an arrest and will be tried for treason.”

 

“Wow. Don’t you need to breathe?” asked Stiles.

 

The cheek of the man spasmed slightly, as if he tried to keep back a grin. Stiles counted that as a win.

 

“We decided to contact you, because you scored high on all of the tests,” repeated the man. But even before Stiles could ask, he continued, “we include additional questions in SAT questionnaires of potential candidates. Then, we observe the candidates who scored highest on those questions.”

 

“I can’t just leave,” murmured Stiles, “I can’t do that to my father. Or my friends.”

 

The man chuckled. “The father who prefers the work and whiskey over spending time with you. The best friend who leaves you by the wayside. Or the freckled one that bullies you.”

 

Stiles stood up, finger pointing up in the man’s face, “I don’t care who you are, but you know jack-shit.”

 

The man stopped laughing and changed tack, “Stiles, I’m giving you a chance to change the world here, even if just a little bit. To keep them all safe. To keep our country safe.”

 

Present day

 

Thin rivulets of rain water dripped from the man’s fingers. The sign next to him said: “Welcome to Beacon Hills.” The man touched the sign and a lightning struck somewhere in the distance. Raindrops hit his buzz cut head and green army issued canvas clothes did fuck-all keeping the water out.

 

He walked to the house, walked the route he stored somewhere in the back of his mind.

 

An older man than the one he once knew answered the door. “Son?” the man gasped.

 

“Hi, dad,” monotoned the drenched figure.

 

*

 

“Stiles, what happened? Where were you?” asked his father, still the Sheriff, despite almost pushing fifty-five.

 

“I thought you died. I though someone took you and...” he stopped with a choking sound escaping from his mouth, tears down his face.

 

“I wish I could tell you,” spoke Stiles, “but it’s best that you don’t know. I did good though - mostly.”

 

“Where were you?” pushed his father.

 

Stiles shook his head. “Can I sleep here tonight?” he asked instead.

 

His father nodded, sensing Stiles thought that the conversation was over. It was far from over, but for now the Sheriff would let the boy rest.

*

 

When Stiles woke up at 5:40 sharp, the summer sun just started rising and the dawn broke over the pines. He quickly got up and just as quickly stopped when he discovered his dad was already awake (or maybe still awake).

 

“I’m going for a run,” he said.

 

He was met only with his father’s steely gaze. The sound of the door closing as he left the house like a hammer on an anvil.

 

*

 

Runs cleared his head, a wind blowing away the cobwebs.

 

*

 

Stiles sat ramrod straight on the wooden chair in the dining room. “I can’t tell you everything... most of the things you’d want to know,” he said, “but I won’t lie.”

 

“Where were you?” asked his father, again.

 

“Everywhere,” replied Stiles.

 

“What do you mean everywhere? What did you do everywhere?” roared the Sheriff, standing up, his chair crashing on the floor.

 

Stiles didn’t flinch.

 

“I had to bury you,” gasped his father, “I had to bury you, with an empty casket.” Blinking back the tears, “Don’t you dare say, you can’t tell me where were you! I deserve to know! I deserve to know,” the fight leaving him, as he stared into the unmoving Stiles. It felt wrong to him, like the person sitting across the desk, was not his son, not really. He remembered the teenager, full of nervous energy, buzzing with excitement and John could not connect the image of his so to the man colder than the granite counter tops behind him.

 

“They told me I was serving my country,” replied the man, voice neutral. “They told me I was protecting you.”

 

“Who is they?”

 

“The Agency,” said Stiles.

 

“The Agency,” John repeated, “The Agency. Which Agency takes 18 year old kids from their homes and returns them 12 years later?”

 

Stiles looked through the window, “11 years, 7 months and 14 days later,” he replied.

 

“It felt like a lifetime,” said John. “It was a lifetime.”

 

“The CIA,” Stiles replied to the previous question, “I quit. I couldn’t,” he paused, as if gathering strength, “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

 

“What did you do? What did they make you do?” Stiles jumped a bit, unprepared for his father’s arms enveloping him, boxing him in. He put a hand on John’s chest - literally holding him at an arms length.

 

“I fixed things that needed fixing.”

 

*

 

When John returned from the grocer’s, he found Stiles sitting on the deck, his canvas bag on the floor next to his leg.

 

“I can’t stay here,” said Stiles, “I wanted to wait for you to come back, so that I could tell you.”

 

His father was wide eyed, mouth opened, but no sounds came out. When Stiles stood up, he ran towards him, “You can’t, you can’t go. I just got you back,” wailed the man, “no, don’t go, please.”

 

Stiles stepped forward, “I’ll be in the Pleasant Inn, if you need to see me. But I can’t stay here.”

 

*

 

Stiles thought himself prepared. He expected Derek to jump through the window several nights ago even. He even expected to meet him on the first night, when he slept in John’s living room. He had a vague idea of what he looked like. The frown lines cut deeper in his face. The slight grey peppering in his black hair.

 

He forgot the red eyes.

 

“Yes?” he asked, as soon as the figure jumped through the window.

 

“Who are you?” asked Derek, “You don’t smell like Stiles.”

 

“I am Genim Stilinski,” replied Stiles, “and I grew up.”

 

“You changed.”

 

“I did,” was the fixers only response.

 

Derek was soon in a flurry of movement, muscles tensing, releasing preternatural power within. In a blink of an eye, he moved across the room and one grab later had Stiles pinned on the wall. Stiles calmly looked him in the eye and said, “Because we used to be friends,” he chuckled at himself, “I will give you the benefit of a warning, Derek.”

 

Derek looked the other man in the eyes and found nothing. He sniffed the air, expecting to find an all too familiar cloud of fear (and arousal) around Stiles - he instead found a carefully measured dose of nothing. Derek recoiled as if shook by electricity.

 

“Who are you?” he asked, something akin to fear in his voice.

 

“Derek,” said Stiles, his voice cold, “there are things, people, far scarier than you out there.”

 

When he stepped towards him, Derek stepped back and jumped through the window.

 

*

 

The first time John came by the Inn, was two days after Stiles checked in. “When are you leaving town?” asked John standing on the doorstep, in lieu of a greeting.

 

“Leaving town?” Stiles stilled, as if paralysed over the laundry he was folding. “You want me to leave town?”

 

“NO!” yelled John, “but you said you couldn’t stay,” he almost whispered.

 

“I couldn’t stay in your house John.”

 

“When did I became John?” asked the older man, “I used to be dad, daddy-o, I used to be your father. Remember when my house, was your home?”

 

“A lot of things happened,” replied Stiles, who went back to folding his laundry. “I’m going to rent an apartment downtown,” he added.

 

“Okay,” John nodded, “that’s okay.”

 

*

 

“What happened?” asked Scott, on the doorway to Stiles’ new apartment. “You disappear for years and when you come back Derek warns me to stay away?”

 

“You should listen to him,” replied Stiles, closing the door in Scott’s face.

 

He doesn’t respond to Scott’s banging on his door.

 

*

 

Derek watches Stiles from afar, but can’t shake the feeling that Stiles knows he’s being watched. A week later Derek knows precisely where Stiles was, is and is going to be. He stuck to the routine he established on the first day.

 

Derek stalks him on his morning run. He stalks him when he goes to the library, watches him sit in the leather chairs in the reading room, perusing or just staring at the newspapers. He sits across the street, at a Starbucks, no less, watches Stiles order his lunch in a shabby dinner. He watches him sit in the park on the bench staring into the distance.

 

When Stiles left, it hurt him, like he lost a limb. He lost another pack member and despite, or because he was just a human Jackson, Scott and Lydia couldn’t come close. Neither could Allison or Danny. He lost something very dear and what he got back was mangled and wrong.

 

It was two weeks after he came back, that a man in a three piece suit approached Stiles on the park bench. He sat down next to him, Stiles newly permanent ramrod straight posture stiffened even more. Derek saw the man put a thick folded newspaper in between, obviously holding something in the middle. He heard the man say, “You shouldn’t have come back Mr. Stilinski,” he paused, Derek guessed more for the effect than anything else, “your friend is watching, but you no doubt knew that. Good day, Mr. Hale.”

 

Derek flinched and started walking towards the park. He couldn’t believe that Stiles told anyone about his Pack. He felt betrayed and only concentrate enough to hear Stiles telling the other man, that this was the last time.

 

“We’ll see,” replied the man.

 

When Derek reached the edge of the park, both Stiles and the well dressed man were gone.

 

*

 

Stiles disappeared. Derek looked for him and the wolf cried out when he couldn’t scent him out.

 

*

 

He saw Stiles two weeks later when driving past the bus stop. He saw him exiting the bus. The man looked like he lost something. Like he lost a part of his soul.

 

*

 

The pack left Stiles alone. He made sure of it. They still followed him around. They hated the look in his eyes every time the well dressed man returned to Beacon Hills and Stiles’ subsequent disappearance. After the first time, Stiles made sure to call his dad, they all heard a version of the call. His father asking him to stay. Stiles dropping the line.

 

He went away for a week or two. Once he was gone for whole month.

 

Derek waited in his apartment then. He could see Stiles, his bloodshot eyes and a gash that had to be sewn shut on his forehead. Stiles could feel his eyes on himself. “Thank god, I have a thick skull,” he said, without any humor in his voice.

 

It made Derek’s blood boil and he found himself crowding Stiles against wall. The next moment however he was the one pinned and Stiles holding a blade to his throat. “I warned you Derek, don’t, don’t do this,” he whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you. Please. Don’t make me hurt you.”

 

When he stepped away, Derek turned on the balls of his feet his back plastered against the wall. “You betrayed your Pack,” he spat out, “I could hear the man talking to me, how did he knew?!”

 

“I was waiting for this talk,” Stiles replied.

 

“Don’t deflect.”

 

“Director Grimm knows a lot. Knew a lot, even before I joined,” Stiles whispered. “I never talked about any of you,” his voice regaining volume.

 

Derek walked away, “You are out,” said the werewolf.

 

“No,” replied Stiles, and Derek stopped in front of the opened window, “I was out a long, long time ago, you just forgot to make it official.”

 

*

 

“Stiles, listen to me very carefully,” said Derek, “I dislike you.”

 

Stiles snorted, thinking the older man was joking. “Aww, come on, it was just a kiss,” the teen lying on his bed. “I promise to respect you in the morning.”

“Stiles,” repeated the other man, his voice severe, “the only reason I’m not going to gut you is because of Scott. The only reason you’re in this pack in the first place, is because of your connection to Scott. Remember this.”

 

*

 

Stiles didn’t want to stay at John’s house because he knew, he knew how his father would react to him not being able to sleep. To waking up with a scream, drenched in sweat, the sounds of cries and gasps and begging echoing in his head.

 

He was never naïve enough to believe the Agency would let him go. He doubted he even hoped for it.

 

His mentor once said, that you only need to start worrying when you can sleep at night. That’s when you become a real monster.

 

Stiles felt sleep come easier and easier.

 

*

 

Chris Argent was not commonly found on the driveway to the restored Hale mansion, but a long time has passed since he was persona non grata. His hunting days long behind him, he recognized that standing in the way of Scott and Allison, will cost him his daughter he stepped aside.

 

Derek, recognizing the sound of his car, met him on the deck. “You may want to sit down,” said Chris.

 

He ignored him and instead ask, “What did you find?”

 

“Genim ‘Stiles’ Stilinski was officially declared dead in absentia 5 years ago. You know this, you were at the funeral,” said Chris.

 

“Chris, I don’t have patience for your games. What did you find?” repeated Derek.

 

“Unofficially, my contact at the mothership,”

 

“Mothership?” Derek asked.

 

“CIA headquarters in McLean,” replied Chris. “Anyway,” he continued, “based on the description, he thinks Stiles was Agent Castell, a black-ops fixer for the NCS, National Clandestine Service.”

 

“Stiles is a spy?” asked Derek, unbelieving.

“I wish,” replied Chris, “fixer is just another word for an assassin. And from what I’ve heard Stiles was, and is, top of the line.”

 

Derek couldn’t believe what Chris was saying. “But Stiles, he couldn’t,” said Derek, “Come on Chris. You are talking about Stiles.”

 

“Derek, you said it yourself. Stiles has changed. Do you want to know what his nickname inside the agency is?” asked Chris.

 

Derek couldn’t care less. He felt like his world was crumbling, he knew something was wrong about Stiles, but nevertheless he didn’t expect this.

 

“They call him the Legion, after the legion of demons,” said Chris, “you should do well to forget about him.”

 

When Chris left, Derek finally sat down.

 

*

 

“Legio mihi nomen est, quia multi sumus.”

 

Stiles flinched and turned away from the door he just unlocked.

 

“Hello, Derek. I didn’t expect you back.”

 

“Is it true?” asked Derek.

 

“I only see one of you,” replied Stiles, “hardly a legion - so no.”

 

“Don’t do that Stiles,” said the werewolf, “just answer me. Please.”

 

“What do you want Derek? We both know the answer to that question.”

 

“Just please, answer me,” Derek pleaded.

 

“Yes, they call me the Legion,” sighed Stiles, “I didn’t chose that nickname. If you were wondering.”

 

Derek left out a whine and sat down on the couch. “Why?”

 

“I did, I do good Derek, that’s why,” replied Stiles, “I know you won’t believe me, but I do good. I take care of bad people Derek. Really bad people, persons who killed whole villages to get blood diamonds, people who would bomb capitals with dirty bombs. I saved lives. Is that so bad? Derek, tell me, is that so bad?”

 

“What about you?” asked Derek, “Who saves you?”

 

“I am a small cog Derek,” said Stiles, with a bitter smile on his face. “I am just a tool and when I break I will be replaced; I made peace with that a long, long time ago.”

 

“Why did you come back?”

 

“I don’t know,” replied Stiles, “I probably shouldn’t have.”

 

Derek headed for the window.

 

“Tell my dad, I said goodbye.”

 

“Your father won’t survive you leaving again,” said Derek, looking through the window.

 

“It will be worse if I stayed.”

 

*

 

Stiles didn’t return in a week, or in two weeks time. Derek kept waiting. Kept going to the bus stop and every time a short haired man with a canvas bag stepped from the bus, his breath stilled for just a fraction of a second.

 

Stiles didn’t return.

 

*

 

(New York - 15 months later)

 

The wind was blasting and snowflakes hid in his beard. A man passing by, dropped a quarter in his cup. The homeless man grunted his thanks.

 

Another man, dressed in a cheap suit with a polyester tie approached the homeless man. “Mr. Castell I presume.”

 

“Detective,” nodded Stiles, “what can I do for you?”

 

“A friend told me you could help me.”

 

“And who was that friend?” asked Stiles, tensing.

 

“Chris Argent.”

 

Stiles moved, faster than detective expected him to. When the detective hit the floor, Stiles was already running around the corner. Where two uniformed police officers were waiting for him.

 

“Move,” said Stiles, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

One officer chuckled and Stiles supposed he would too, in his place. A grizzly homeless man, clothed just enough not to die in the winter, threatening police officers. One moved closer to Stiles and he struck. He grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, making the man lose his balance. He struck him in the solar plexus with his knee. Grabbing his gun and pushing the nozzle under his chin. “Don’t come any closer,” he barked to the other, who barely managed to unbutton his holster.

 

“Agent Castell,” said a voice behind him, “put that gun away.”

 

He spun rapidly, dragging the poor officer along. Behind him stood Director Grimm and Mr. Argent. Stiles blinked and then started laughing, maniacally, “I should have know,” he said.

 

“Put the gun down and let the poor man go,” said Grimm.

 

Stiles did as he was told, he was a good cog.

 

The police officer jumped away as soon as Stiles left him go and the other one kicked behind Stiles’ knees making him fall to his knees in snow. He pulled on his hands, cuffing them behind his back. Stiles murmured, “You are a fool, if you think this is going to hold me. You should know better, you made me.”

 

It was then, that Chris spoke up, “They got Derek and John.”

 

Stiles stilled, he directed his gaze to the well dressed man, “You promised.”

 

“I tried to tell you, Stiles. In your line of work, you don’t just retire.”

 

*

 

He was sat in a metal chair, bolted to the ground. A cuff replaced with a slightly longer one, cuffing one of his hands to the chair. The room was otherwise empty and slight water damage made the gray cement green in one corner. There was no two way mirror, and the door that with a lock that clanked loudly when it was shut, made out of steel with only a small wired window.

 

This was not a police holding cell, thought Stiles. His suspicions confirmed a few moments later, when Director Grimm entered the cell.

He circled Stiles and Stiles thought of a lion circling his prey. “What happened Stiles?” asked the man, fixing the knot of his tie, “You were the best we had. What happened to you?”

 

“I started sleeping,” replied Stiles.

 

“Ahh yes,” chuckled Director Grimm. “You only become a monster, after you can sleep every night. You know that a pile of shit, right?”

 

Stiles flinched - he never heard Director Grimm cussing. This had to be bad.

 

“You become a monster, after you killed your first man. After you drilled into a man’s finger to get me the information I needed,” Grimm paused and turned to Stiles, “Stiles you became a monster long time ago. And the sooner you realize that there is nothing you can do to wash the blood off  of your hands, the sooner we can put this behind us.”

 

“You promised, you’d keep them safe,” growled Stiles.

 

“You stopped working for me,” replied Grimm. “But you can help them. We know who has them,” shrugged Grimm, “What do you say, one more mission? It’s only the life of your father and your love on the line.”

 

Stiles nodded, but added “Derek is not my love.”

 

Director Grimm chuckled again and nodded to the camera in the corner. A man came and uncuffed Stiles.

 

*

 

“Javier Sienna,” said Stiles, “Any relation to Herman Sienna?”

 

The man on the other side of the desk nodded, “He was Herman’s brother. We think this was a revenge.”

 

“How did he find me? My father?” asked Stiles.

 

“We think he bought the information and you, despite our best efforts, are a bit infamous,” shrugged the other man, sitting next to him.

 

“Why is the Agency involved? If he only kidnapped my father and friend, the Agency wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” demanded Stiles.

 

“Ahh yes,” said Director Grimm, “We believe he is in possession of several vials of modified H1N5. The information we have shows that he will sell the vials to an extremist group called The Liberty Camp, that is opposed to the federal government and is planning a major event in SF region.”

 

“Where is he?” asked Stiles.

 

“We don’t know,” started one of the men sitting on far right.

 

Director Grimm interrupted him, “We caught Hans Vonnegut,” and Stiles’ head shot up, whispers traveling across the room, “his and his brother’s right hand man. We need you to extract the information and act upon it. We are expecting results before this Friday - else we will be forced to carpet bomb Liberty Camp’s enclosure, killing several innocent civilists that have been captured by the LC movement. This gives you 76 hours. I suggest you get started.”

 

*

 

Hans Vonnegut was strapped onto a stainless steel slab, his eyes glued open, a strap of cloth over his groin, otherwise naked.

 

Stiles approached the slab and Hans’ eyes widened even more, he tried screaming around the gag in his mouth. Stiles put a surgical glove on his hand and rolled the chair on the stained linoleum floor closer to the man. “I’m sorry I have to do this,” said Stiles, “I’m breaking my sobriety for you.”

 

“Two years,” his fingers danced across various implements of pain, before stopping on a pair of pliers, “I am a bit rusty, but this really is like riding a bike. I suspect you won’t make this easy on me and just tell me where Javier is, huh?”

 

Stiles moved and removed the gag, Hans spat at his face. “I thought as much,” sighed Stiles, cleaning his face with a tissue.

 

He didn’t replace the gag.

 

*

 

Javier’s compound was deep in the Bolivian jungle. He walked into the room partitioned with steel bars into cells. In one was John Stilinski, in the other there was Derek Hale.

 

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” growled Derek.

 

“Don’t get your hackles up,” replied Javier, “We are several thousand miles away from California. Your pack can’t help you.”

 

Derek looked stunned, “Yes I know about your furry little secret,” he turned to John, “I will kill you for what your son did.”

 

John shook his head, “I don’t know what are you talking about.”

 

“I know,” said Javier, “this is why I brought a little nighttime entertainment for you to watch. This was actually pretty hard to get - I call it Legion’s Top Hits.”

 

He snapped his fingers and a couple of guards wheeled in a television set. “Enjoy,” said Javier, before leaving the room.

 

The picture on the screen flickered to life and it showed a security cam footage of some business building, a man holding a briefcase walked out. Stiles, wearing a cap, but still recognizable to both men, approached the man, pointed the gun to his head and shot him. Taking the briefcase, before disappearing on the edge of the screen. The video was timestamped 10 years ago. John shook his head, and screamed in denial. Derek hung his head.

 

*

 

The video was playing on repeat.

 

*

 

Both of them awoke to the sound of an explosion, followed by sound of a machine gun fire. Another explosion shook the room and making the TV screen fall from the rickety table to the floor in a shower of sparks. Then the lights went out. They could hear an occasional shot and Derek could hear the last gasps of air that followed the screams.

 

About 15 minutes later, or if you asked Stiles 14 minutes and 23 seconds later he entered the room, with a key in his hands. A key that was around their captors neck a few hours ago Derek though. He unlocked his father’s cell and threw the key to Derek. It was too dark for John to see Stiles, but Derek saw the black cargo pants, the black skin tight sweater and the black paint on his face. The green glow of his night vision goggles and the thick strap across his chest holding the assault rifle. He could see the silver briefcase glinting in the slight moonlight.

 

*

 

(Beacon Hills - one week later)

 

Derek met Stiles at the bus stop. Stiles had no bags.

 

Derek took him to John’s house, where the rest of the pack was already waiting.

 

Nobody spoke on the way.

 

*

 

Stiles felt all eyes on him, as soon as he entered the room. Scott was the first to talk, “What,” but Stiles shushed him and held up a finger. He walked to the radio, turned it on and put the volume to the maximum. Next he walked to the TV and repeated the steps. Lastly he turned on the water in the kitchen.

 

When he returned he whispered, “Don’t talk so loud, you never know who’s listening.”

 

This time it was John who spoke, “Where were you?” his voice wavered a bit as he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

 

“The last year? First Miami, then New York. I had to keep moving, stay under the radar. I didn’t want to work for NCS anymore,” replied Stiles, biting his lip.

 

“And before?” demanded Jackson.

 

Stiles shook his head, “I really can’t tell you. It really is for the best.”

 

“Who told you that,” said Scott, “We were your friends and you abandoned us, we needed you and you were gone.”

 

Stiles’ gaze hardened, “Scott, what I did, I did for all of you. I made the world a safer place, even if just a tiny bit,” he shook his head, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, when you had hunter problems, but believe it or not, there are worse things out there.”

 

“And you kill them, you dispose of them, you are the prosecution, the judge, the jury and the executor,” barked Derek.

 

“No. I’m just the executor,” said Stiles, pausing before continuing, “I can’t change how you feel about this, about me, the only thing I can say is, they were bad people.”

 

“You can’t just kill someone, without leaving a mark on you,” whispered Allison.

 

Stiles’ eyes snapped to her, shook his head “No you really can’t.”

 

“How did you find us?” asked the Sheriff, “And what did that guy want from us?”

 

“That man was called Javier Sienna and he wanted revenge for his brother, who I killed when he tried to escape. I found you because Chris,” he nodded towards Allison, “and Director Grimm found me in New York. Javier also stole samples of a virus.”

 

“My father found you?” said Allison, in disbelief.

 

“I don’t know what’s his role in all of this,” Stiles shrugged, “not sure if I want to know.”

 

The pack looked at him, some in awe, but everyone had a look of disbelief.

 

“John, can I stay the night?” asked Stiles.

 

“Son, I’m sorry, but I can’t,” his father choked on his words, “I can’t go through this again. If you stay, then stay. But if you plan on leaving again then leave now.”

 

“I can’t stay,” whispered Stiles, “you saw what happens, if I stay. I shouldn’t even come back, I should’ve just sent home a finger or something.”

 

Derek grabbed him by the shirt, “You are fucking idiot, this is still your home, this is still your father and this is still your pack. Let us help you.”

 

He pulled him closer and Stiles went along, he whispered in his ear, “Let me fix you. Let me,” he wrapped his arms around him and Stiles stiffened. Derek felt him, the smell of tension making him dizzy with the need to help Stiles, “Let me in, please Stiles. Let me.”

 

Stiles stepped away, he turned to his father, steel in his eyes; “You want me to stay, John? Be careful with what you wish for. I’ll stay, for as long as you’ll have me.”

 

*

 

Neither Stiles nor the Sheriff slept that night.

 

*

 

Derek jumped through the window the next day, “Your father told me you aren’t sleeping.”

 

“Well, he isn’t sleeping either,” said Stiles, “where is his cavalry?”

 

“He is going to take his sleeping pills tonight, he asked me to come to you.”

 

Stiles laid on his back, his hands behind his head. Derek had a vision of a younger Stiles, taking the same position after kissing him. He wondered where they would be today if he had Stiles’ courage then.

 

“Javier showed us your assassinations, or at least some,” said Derek sitting on the windowsill, his arms crossed. “Your father turned away after the first kill.”

 

Stiles trained his eyes on Derek and asked, “And you?”

 

“I watched. I needed to see.”

 

He could hear the clock ticking. Derek watched his feet and there was something wrong with this picture. Stiles thought, that for all his big talk of helping fix Stiles, Derek needed fixing most.

 

“Come here Derek,” said Stiles and Derek walked to the bed. Stiles pulled him by the arm, until Derek was lying down, side by side with Stiles. He didn’t let go of his hand. Turning his head, he saw that Derek was watching him, “What do you need Derek?”

 

“I need you to let me help you,” he blurted out.

 

“And if I am beyond help?” asked Stiles.

 

“No one is,” answered Derek.

 

Stiles didn’t sleep that night either, but Derek lying next to him snoring softly felt okay.

 

*

 

That became a nightly occurrence. Stiles fell asleep for two, three hours at most and usually woke up with a scream, Derek wrapped around him, slowly lowering him back to bed, rubbing soothing circles in his back.

 

*

 

“How many people did you kill?” asked Scott.

 

“I don’t know,” answered Stiles.

 

“How can you not know?” demanded his childhood friend.

 

“When I went to look for John and Derek, there were 16 guards and the leader,” shrugged Stiles, “over the years the numbers pile up, Scott.”

 

*

 

Derek kissed him a month after he came back.

 

It wasn’t a hungry kiss, not filled with lust, but with something bittersweet. Stiles almost wished it didn’t happen.

 

*

 

Five week after he came back, Derek asked him, asked him what he wanted to ask all along, what Stiles expected him to ask, “Why can’t you sleep? You slept before.”

 

“I don’t think you want to know,” answered Stiles.

 

“Try me,” grunted Derek.

 

“Tell me, how much did you see on the tape? Just the assassinations?”

 

“What do you mean just the assassinations?” gasped Derek.

 

“My job had many facets. Not a lot of paperwork, that was a plus,” replied Stiles. “Sometimes I had to get information, by any means necessary.”

 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

 

“Do you know, how a man sounds when you pull out his nails with red hot pliers? How a man sounds when you drip acid on his wounds?” Stiles whispered, “You know you can’t kill him, you can’t even do too much damage, because you can make a man lose his mind. And you don’t want that, not until you get the information you need, at least.”

 

Derek shivered, his vision filled with Kate, electricity and fire.

 

“I needed to do that, to find out where you were, before Javier killed you both,” Stiles shrugged.

 

He looked at Derek, shock written across his face. And something clicked in Stiles’ mind. “I’m not like her.”

 

“Really? How?” gasped Derek, but as soon as the words left his mouth and Stiles’ face shuttered he knew he made a mistake.

 

“Get out,” gritted Stiles, looking away. Derek did, but before he stepped out of the room, Stiles whispered, “I never enjoyed it. Not even when I had to do it on a serial rapist, so that I could find where he stashed a 14 year old girl. But you’re right, I’m a monster - Grimm said so.”

 

*

 

Derek came back that night to find the window locked. John still left him in. He sat across the hallway staring at the locked door to Stiles’ bedroom.

 

Next time Stiles unlocked the door.

 

Derek decided to take that as a sign.

 

*

 

(Beacon Hills - One and a half year later)

 

“Me and Allison are going to have a baby!” whispered Scott.

 

Stiles choked a bit on the beer, he was drinking, the patty he was flipping on the grill fell to the floor. “Really!?” he asked and grinned, “Congratulations! Man we should get you a beer, or no, a whole bottle of vodka.”

 

Scott took in his friend, grinning, flipping burgers on the porch of the Hale house for the fourth of July. Derek fiddling with the fireworks in the background, Lydia and Jackson playing with their kids, and Allison playing catch with them aswell. The ex-sheriff laying in the adirondack chair.

 

He never thought they’d make it, and for a while it looked like they wouldn’t. But they are strong, they helped Stiles and John and even Derek, through the thick of it. Stiles still gets that faraway look in his eyes, but it’s okay, because he always come back. And when Derek wraps his hands around him, Stiles grins and it’s almost like that old grin, that he had as a teenager.

 

“No, I wasn’t even supposed to tell you!” whispered Scott.

 

“Hey, what are you to whispering about,” said Derek, coming to stand next to Stiles. Stiles grabbed his hand and whispered something into his ear. Scott only made the mistake of listening in once and it scarred him for life, but he had a pretty good idea of what Stiles told him. Derek nodded his head and said “Congratulations.”

 

“Dude!” exclaimed Scott and Stiles laughed and wrapped his hands around Derek from behind - like a shield. He showed him his tongue.

 

Yeah, they are going to be okay.