Work Text:
He fixed his collar in the mirror, smooth jawline distinct under the sharp dark brown fedora. The crisp white undershirt and double breasted brown suit contrasted nicely, if he did say so himself, sharp and clean lines, emphasizing the cut of his shoulders and the flatness of his abdomen.
The door to the boys' bathroom squeaked open and an agitated female voice -- Lydia Martin's -- asked, "Are you done yet?"
He tilted his chin, ran a thumb across the corner of his bottom lip and gave the mirror an approving nod before spinning on his immaculately shined shoes, hefting his short-muzzle machine gun and striding out the door into the halls of Beacon Hills High School.
Lydia was leaning against the lockers, red hair swept back in a pony tail, red sparkly shoes and blue gingham Dorothy-in-Oz dress starched white and considerably shorter than the 1930's movie character. Toto, AKA Lydia's teacup Pomeranian, sat in Lydia's Coach bag. She gaped.
"Stiles?"
"That's Al to you, sweetheart. Capone." He gestured with the Tommy gun to emphasize the mob-related prop (which happened to be all too real).
She looked him up and down appreciatively. "Wow, you clean up nice."
"Don't I, though?" He looked around, distracted. The strains of a pop song blared from the gym. A banner proclaimed, HALLOWEEN PAAAARTY" (get your tricks and treats here kiddies). "That's our theme song, baby."
He extended a crooked elbow, and Lydia took it, her motion causing a whiff of expensive perfume to waft up from her petite form. He barely noticed it, though, his attention already yards ahead, anticipating the gorgeous angel inside. Tonight would be the night he would win her over. He was certain of it.
***
Melissa McCall sighed as she checked her phone for the 37th time in the last 5 minutes for a text from Scott. And yet again, he hadn't sent anything. Which was weird because he'd said he would contact her by 9:00 pm and it was 10 minutes past. He was a prompt kid. He'd even been born on his due date. She flipped her phone shut and wandered over to Sheriff Stilinski, who, like her, was chaperoning the Halloween dance. He had staked out the punch, arms folded across his chest, badge glinting in the flashing lights of the retro disco ball. Melissa assumed he was there to prevent someone from spiking the punch. The loud whiny-sounding band took a break (Melissa liked 80's rock, not the shit that passed for music these days) and she settled next to the Sheriff. He nodded at her and she returned the same. They were friendly. If he hadn't still been in love with his dead wife there might even be a spark there.
Once the pleasantries were dispensed with (Enjoying yourself and this hideous music? Hell no. Yeah, me neither. How'd we get conned into chaperoning this thing again?) she said, "I'm kind of worried about Scott."
"What's up?"
"He's just been ... mopey today. It's not like him. Allison stopped by this afternoon and he didn't even get out of bed to talk to her. When I told him about her visit, he just waved his hand and mumbled that he was tired. There was no panting or grinning or mooning when I mentioned her name. Very unusual. Has Stiles mentioned anything?"
The Sheriff looked concerned. "No, nothing. I would ask him, but every time I talk to him today he answers me in a bad 30's mobster accent and threatens to give me concrete galoshes. It's getting irritating."
The band started up again, then broke off abruptly with discordant guitar chords and stumbling drums. Gunfire erupted, a staccato rat-a-tat-tat that. And in the middle of it all - Stiles, holding an antique, but apparently still working, Tommy gun, a wide grin on his face.
***
Derek dug in the dumpster behind the gym, nostrils twitching as he searched through the foul odors to catch a whiff of the fried chicken that he knew had to be here somewhere. He swept aside about fifty chemistry class blue books - sheesh, didn't Mr. Argyll recycle? - to reveal a white box with a crack down the middle. The remains of someone's fried chicken and cole slaw lay within.
Derek's incisors lengthened and saliva pooled in his mouth. He felt the tug and tickling on his face: the familiar thickening of his cheekbones and forehead and sprouting of extra hair. There was nothing like fried chicken to first bring out the beast within and then satisfy it, for some strange reason. He flipped open the box with one delicate swipe of his pointed index fingernail. He was about to dig in when a spatter of gunfire came from the gym, followed by panicked screams.
He growled, glanced one more time at the delectable feast in front of him, then thrust it aside before leaping to the rim of the dumpster and dashing into the gym on all fours.
***
Earlier That Day ...
Allison's garage, what with all the guns and ammunition and lasers, was normally a pretty awesome place. Not now, though, with half-opened boxes of clothing all over the place.
"Trust me," Allison said, holding the chocolate brown suit jacket to Stiles's chest. "I know Lydia. She'll be unable to resist you in this. Girl has a serious clothing fetish."
"I don't know ..." Stiles said doubtfully. He flicked at a tiny piece of fuzz. "Is that a moth ball? I think that's a moth ball."
"Stiles, look at me," Allison urged. Stiles looked. She seemed earnest. "Give it a shot. What do you have to lose?"
"Certainly not my dignity."
Scott chuffed out a laugh. Stiles shot him a dirty look.
Allison slid an arm around Scott's back. He smiled down at her. Oh, gross. Were they going to go all kissy face yet again?
"It's all right, Stiles. You won't be alone. I've already got Scott's outfit all picked out, too."
Scott's smile froze in place. It was Stiles's turn to laugh now. "In that case I will give it a shot."
***
Jackson pulled up to the stoplight, hip hop blaring in the speakers, and took the opportunity to use the rearview mirror to admire how well he had gelled his hair today. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed movement on the sidewalk. Some kid about his age, messy brown hair, shoulders slumped, staring enraptured at the bright yellow fire hydrant. When he reached to unbuckle his belt a shock of recognition slammed into Jackson. What the hell? Scott?
The light changed in that instant and Jackson pulled to the side of the street and jumped out of the car, approaching Scott. "Dude! What are you doing? The cops around here tend to frown on public urination."
Scott looked awful, eyes bloodshot and puffy, face slack, rumpled button down shirt half untucked from his pants, one shoe untied.
"What happened? You look like a kicked puppy."
Scott made a face. "Nothing happened. I was going home and I had to, you know, pee . And I'm not a puppy - I'm a werewolf," he slurred, enunciating the monster name slowly, as though he speaking to a slow-witted child.
"You're drunk," Jackson pronounced, sniffed at his breath, then peered into his eyes. "Or maybe drugged."
"Am not. "
"Whatever, dude. I know the signs." Jackson sighed and rolled his eyes. "Just because you've saved my life five or six times I'm going to do you a favor and drive your freaky ass home right now." Jackson took his arm and steered him toward the Porsche, which sat idling at the curb. "Do NOT pee in my car or I will end you. Understand?"
Scott grunted and fumbled with the door handle before finally getting it open and throwing himself into the passenger seat.
Jackson pulled away from the curb, cutting off some dweeb in a cheap Japanese car with the words STUDENT DRIVER emblazoned on the hood. He glanced at Scott.
"What, did you have a fight with Allison and toke up, or something?"
"I told you, no. We were just ..." And then he turned aside and mumbled something indecipherable.
"What was that?"
"She made me ..."
Jackson made a "made you what?" gesture. Scott cringed. "Try on clothes."
Jackson raised his eyebrows so high that he could practically feel them coming off the top of his head. Then he broke out laughing. "Man, you've got it bad for that girl."
He continued braying with laughter until he pulled up outside of Scott's piece of crap house and Scott stumbled out of the car.
"Hey!" Jackson called. "Go to bed and don't get up for a long time, okay?"
"Okay," Scott mumbled, then looked confused. "But what about ... wasn't there something I was supposed to do tonight?"
"Uh, yeah, at the high school. The dance. But I think you should sleep off whatever you took first, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Scott agreed and slunk off.
Jackson shook his head. Scott was lucky Jackson was such a nice guy.
The Porsche's tires squealed as he took off. Before he had a chance to turn the mp3 player up again his cell phone rang. "Mom" flashed on the display. Jackson's brow furrowed. Weird. Mom never called him unless it was an emergency.
***
"What do you mean you're not going?" Allison said into the phone. She paused from putting the finishing candy apple red touches on her lipstick. Her hair was upswept in an elegant twist and she wore a figure-hugging red 40's lounge singer dress. "We've been planning our costumes for a week."
Lydia's exasperated sigh came through loud and clear. "Jackson has a family thing that just came up - his grandmother is dying of a coma or something. I told him to get out of it but his mother is insisting. Do you believe that?"
"Yeah, that's ... um, why can't you go without a date?" The loud burst of laughter caused Allison to hold the phone away from her ear. "All right then, go with Stiles. I helped him pick out a costume but he doesn't have a date."
"Well," Lydia said, sounding resigned. "I suppose going with him is better than staying home and watching paint dry. Arrange it for me, will you, dearie? Kiss kiss." She hung up before Allison could answer.
Allison sighed. "Sure, Lydia, it's not like I have anything else to do."
***
When she opened the front door her dark eyebrows arched and her lips twisted into that familiar half-grin. "Well, don't you look dapper?"
Stiles felt his shoulder straighten, and his chin lift - preening, just a little. He was wearing the suit jacket that Allison had given him and he knew he looked good. He spun the fedora around his finger. Smooth, Stiles. "Thanks, Mrs. McCall. You're looking quite, um, medical tonight."
She snorted and regarded him like he was an idiot. Which, to be fair, was probably no more than he deserved.
"Scrubs and comfortable shoes probably aren't the most original costume ever - especially since I wear them every day for work - but hey, cheap, easy, and available." She winked at him. "My motto."
An awkward pause, then. Stiles felt his heart kick up a notch. He leaned his forearm on the door frame and opened his mouth to say something when she said, "So, about Scott."
Her tone gave him pause. "Is something wrong?"
"You could say that. He's still in the shower."
"What? He takes four hour long showers! I was supposed to pick him up at 7:00."
"I know. I have to be there soon myself. Chaperone duty," she explained. "Don't worry - I'll make sure he gets there eventually."
"Thanks," he said. "I'll go pick up Lydia. See you soon." He gave her an appraising look.
Her face squished up in that cute way it often did when she dealt with him. "Okaaaay. Bye, Stiles."
He gave her a suave nod and spun around, striding down the walkway to the Jeep confidently. When he got in he saw that she was still at the door, watching him like she didn't know quite what to make of him. Oh, yeah. He was the man.
***
Scott stepped out of the shower and ran a towel over his hair. Pausing at the mirror, he picked at a zit on his neck. Then he noticed that he felt good. Like, normal good. Not all muzzy-headed and slow like he had all day, ever since he'd helped Allison clear out her garage this morning. Yeah, that was memorable since she'd handed over a pair of black suit pants that he was supposed to wear with an old-fashioned jacket she'd found in some thrift store - "We'll be a perfectly matched pair - me the singer and you the tuxedoed piano player!" And then she'd smiled that blindingly perfect grin that always reduced him to a puddle of goo. He'd taken the pants from her. Was there anything he wouldn't do to make her happy?
He reached for the pants lying crumpled on the bathroom floor. He slipped them on, and yanked on the zipper, which immediately split. Damn.
After hollering unsuccessfully for his mom for ten minutes he remembered that she was already at the dance. He would just have to handle this himself. Oh, God. He pawed through his closet with all the finesse of a dog burying a bone until he located an old pair of somewhat small but still wearable pants in the back. They were dark gray instead of black but she wouldn't even notice, right?
***
Scott and Allison had just walked in the front gym doors, arm in arm and smiling, when a line appeared between her perfect eyebrows and she said, "Why aren't you wearing the pants I gave you?"
"Uh ...." he said.
Then gunfire erupted and he was saved from answering after all.
***
Now
"All right everyone, just calm down!" Stiles shouted, lowering the muzzle of the Tommy gun to the floor. The screams and gasps quieted to deathly stillness. "Thought that would get your attention. Yeah, that's how I like it - everyone looking at me. Impressed with me, for once." He shook off Lydia's clinging arm and did a slow 360 degree turn, making sure everyone could see him.
Scott and Allison were one of the countless couples gaping at him like he had gone completely, irrevocably insane. He didn't understand why they looked so horrified. He felt great. Absolutely fantastic, as a matter of fact.
"I'm going to do something you're all going to remember for a very long time," he proclaimed. Then he strode purposefully to the punch table, where his dad was shaking his head at Stiles in complete astonishment.
"Son," he choked out. "Don't do something you're going to regret."
"Oh, I won't," Stiles assured him. He then grabbed Melissa McCall around the waist - gorgeous, willowy, intelligent, amazing Melissa McCall - and ravished her mouth with what had to be the most passionate kiss anyone had ever kissed.
That's when the screaming started up again. This time accompanied by growling and roaring and the preternaturally fast zigzagging motion of a wolfed-out Derek, rushing about the gym and generally panicking everyone.
Someone grabbed the back of his jacket with such force that it ripped. In the ensuing panic, he had the brief impression of Scott, followed by Allison and Lydia, before Scott managed to haul him out the side door to the back parking lot.
"Man!" Stiles exclaimed, twisting away from Scott's grasp and taking the jacket off and to examine the rip. "Did you have to tear it?"
Scott bopped him upside the head, knocking the fedora off his head. Stiles immediately felt different. Clear headed. "Oh, God what just happened?"
"You mouth raped my mother, Stiles!" Scott shouted. "My MOTHER!"
"No, no!" He dropped the jacket and put his hands to his head. "I've been possessed!"
The side door flew open, smacking against the wall and letting out a rush of panicked sounds from within the gym. Derek emerged and stalked toward them, changing from a wolfman to a human as he walked.
"Derek," Lydia said. "That sweater is, like, twenty years out of date. Also, you smell like a dumpster."
"That makes sense since I was in that one over there, " he gestured at the nearby garbage, "looking for my dinner. And Allison gave me the sweater."
Allison shrugged. "I gave him a box of Grandpa's clothes."
"Wait," Scott said. "Grandpa? You mean those clothes belonged to that psycho Gerard?"
"And so were the ones you gave Scott and I?" Stiles asked, understanding dawning. At Allison's tentative nod, he cried, "They're, like, cursed or something!"
"You know," Allison said thoughtfully, "He did say never to touch his stuff, now that you mention it ..." She gave a watery smile. "Derek, you should probably take that sweater off right now."
The pile of Gerard's clothes caught fire surprisingly easily. The five of them stood around watching them burn.
"I can't believe I looked for my dinner in the dumpster," Derek muttered.
"The smoke smells like old people," Stiles said.
***
When the patrol cars came screeching around the back of the gym, Scott said to Stiles, "What are you going to tell your dad?"
Stiles swallowed. "That I took some pills from a homeless guy in the park? Think that would work on your mom, too?"
Scott looked doubtful.
***
Peter Hale watched from the woods behind the high school. So, that was what cursed clothing did to teenagers, werewolf or not. Huh. Good to know. He faded back into the shadows, smiling.