Chapter Text
Greg Stilinski is having a pretty normal day, all things considered. Slow but productive, with no major emergencies, no unexplained murders, and no animal attacks. It was the best kind of day for a cop: Uneventful.
Greg is just unlocking the front door, wondering what fresh hell of healthy greens and fiber Stiles has set aside for him tonight, when there’s a rustling from the bushes and Isaac Lahey staggers up the steps and collapses at his feet.
“What - Jesus Christ,” Greg mutters, dropping to his knees next to Isaac and reaching for his phone.
Isaac’s blond curls are tangled and matted. He’s literally soaked in blood and there are at least three projectiles (arrows, part of his brain whispers, they’re arrows) embedded in Isaac’s body. When Isaac sees Greg leaning over him he flinches away and curls into himself with a faint moan.
“Hang on kid, I’m calling an ambulance.” Greg says, trying to keep the fury out of his voice. Isaac’s had a rough time of it, and what Greg had wanted to do to Isaac’s father is nothing compared to what he wants to do to whoever did this.
Greg wasn’t expecting a gush of gratitude, but he definitely wasn’t expecting Isaac to uncurl and knock the phone from his hands with a harsh, “No, no, don’t! Mr. Stilinski...Sheriff, please, don’t. Where’s Stiles? Get - get Stiles.”
“What? No, Isaac, we need to get you to a hospital.” Greg says, reaching for his phone – blood loss makes people act real weird sometimes – but the kid reaches up and grabs his hand, hanging on with a grip that’s significantly stronger than anyone who’s lost that much blood should be able to manage.
“No,” Isaac says again. There’s an edge of panic in his voice. “No, I need to see Stiles - his Jeep’s here...where’s Stiles? Get Stiles!”
Greg forces himself to ignore the alarm bells clanging in his head, that an injured kid shot full of arrows somehow desperately wants to talk to his son in lieu of medical attention, but he doesn’t have time for that right now.
“Stiles isn’t here,” Greg tells him, “He’s out with Scott, I promise you can see him later. Just hang on kid.” Greg looks down as Isaac’s hands tighten around Greg’s arm.
“No! No doctors! Just, the arrows.” Isaac says, panting, “Get them out.”
Greg is afraid to pull away lest he make things worse, but the kid needs an ambulance yesterday –and Greg is no medical expert, but he knows this is not the kind of thing he’s equipped to deal with himself.
“Isaac,” he says, as gently as he can, “Listen buddy, I know this hurts and you’re scared, but I really need to call an ambulance for you. You gotta let me go so I can grab my phone.”
“No,” Isaac insists, “No…hospitals. You have to take the arrows out, I can’t…” he breaks off, coughing, a wet, hacking sound that leaves flecks of blood on the sleeve of Greg’s uniform.
“Isaac,” Greg makes his voice firm, “I can’t take the arrows out, you’ll bleed to death. You need to let me get my phone, come on.”
“Can’t - ” Isaac pants for breath, “No, listen, listen, it’s…mountain ash. I can’t, can’t touch them. You have to pull them out, please.”
Greg hasn’t known Isaac all that long, just since Lydia Martin got mauled at the homecoming dance, Mr. Lahey’s death and the associated investigation, jailbreak, and resolution. Isaac was a scared kid, sporting a shiner Greg hadn’t liked the look of when they’d first met. Later, when Isaac had started hanging around with Derek Hale and his crowd, joined first line on the lacrosse team and made friends with Scott and Stiles, he’d been a punk kid in a leather jacket, a gallon of hair gel, and a capital A Attitude. And now he’s bleeding all over Greg’s porch and seems hell-bent on preventing Greg from getting him medical help. Jesus.
“Look,” Isaac is saying, “Look, you have to believe me. I’ll be fine if you just pull the arrows out, but I can’t touch them, look!”
With his free hand, Isaac grabs at the shaft of one of the arrows, the one stuck in his gut. Greg is reaching to stop him pulling the damn thing out when he realizes that Isaac seems to be physically unable to grasp the wood.
“…what the hell is going on here?” Greg asks, his phone temporarily forgotten.
In his moment of distraction, Isaac tugs Greg’s hand to one of the arrows, wraps Greg’s fingers around it, and yanks. Isaac convulses and moans - an awful, tortured sound that no teenager should ever have to make ever.
“Shit!” Greg yells, slamming one hand down on the kid’s abdomen, other hand still fisted around the bloody arrow Isaac has just forced him to pull out of a wound against all emergency first aid procedures. Too late, anything he does will be too late to stop him bleeding out, except…
“Better,” Isaac gasps, “look, see?”
Greg watches, hands covered in blood, as Isaac pulls up his t-shirt, shoving Greg’s hand away and –
“Oh holy god, what is this? What – why- ”
The ragged wound in Isaac’s stomach is shrinking as Greg watches, vanishing into unblemished (if still blood-smeared) skin.
Isaac squeezes Greg’s hand, and when Greg meets his eyes the kid gives him an unblinking stare and says, “Please. Sheriff Stilinski, you have to help me. No ambulances, just get the arrows out, they’re…they’re poison, please.”
Greg is still debating making a dive for his phone when there’s a growl from the deepening twilight of the front lawn and something with glowing red eyes and fangs bounds up the steps and knocks him flat on his back.
Greg struggles upright, reaching for his gun now, phone be damned, to find Derek Hale crouched by Isaac’s side and emitting a long, low, continuous growl. He’s got Isaac pulled halfway into his lap, is cradling Isaac’s gangly, bleeding form like a child – or a brother. Isaac has one hand locked around Hale’s left forearm while Hale makes ineffectual grabs at the remaining two arrow shafts.
Greg stares at the two of them in amazement, wondering if he’s going crazy.
“Derek,” Isaac is saying, repeating the name like a mantra, “Derek, Derek, it’s mountain ash, you have to let him help, he’s trying to help.”
Greg moves cautiously forward, hands outstretched to show he means no harm. Hale turns glowing red eyes towards him and, are those really fangs? Greg has got to start listening to Stiles about his diet, because something is clearly inducing hallucinations. Greg is starting to think Stiles might be onto something with that whole organic thing.
“Just here to help,” he says, easing closer, “Hale? You want to explain what’s going on here?”
The red light in Hale’s eyes bleeds away into normal, human hazel and when he looks up at Greg he looks…normal again. When he speaks, his voice is raw and every word is bitten off like it’s painful to part with.
“We don’t have a lot of time here Sheriff, and none of this is going to make sense, so you’re going to need to trust me. Isaac and I can’t touch the arrows, but you can, and if you can get them out, Isaac can heal himself. Right now, they’re poisoning him, and it will only get worse the longer they stay in.” Hale now has one hand cradling Isaac’s head, the other matching Isaac’s white-knuckle grip. Isaac’s breathing is harsh and ragged, and the hand that’s not doing its best to break Hale’s fingers is buried in Hale’s t-shirt and holding on for dear life.
As Greg waivers, uncertain, Isaac turns and vomits up something black and foul smelling. Hale sucks in a quick breath, a muscle in his jaw tensing, then looks up at Greg.
“Please,” Hale says from between clenched teeth, “Please, he’s dying.”
“Okay,” Greg finds himself saying, and it’s against everything he knows, but he’d pulled that first arrow himself, saw the wound heal. That healing wound is actually the most solidly real thing in this surreal night, and from the sound of Isaac’s breathing and the pallor of his skin, they might not have time to wait for an ambulance anyway.
Greg hears Hale’s breath catch, looks up to find Hale staring back at him, stunned, like he’d expected Greg to say no...and that, more than anything, makes up Greg’s mind for him.
“Okay,” Greg says again. He takes a deep breath, kneeling by Isaac’s side, and reaches for the arrow embedded in the kid’s shoulder. He wraps his fingers around the blood-soaked wood and pulls, as carefully as he can, until the point of the arrow comes free with a sickening squelch.
Isaac moans through his teeth and his eyes flare golden for an instant, before he’s collapsing back against Hale, sweat-soaked and panting.
“One…more,” Isaac grits out, skin knitting together smoothly, and turns his face into Hale’s side.
Greg reaches for the third arrow and pulls it too. The tips aren’t barbed, thank god for that, so it could have been worse. Greg watches the gaping red of the wound in Isaac’s thigh close itself over and stands up with a sigh. Isaac’s breathing is evening out, some color returning to his face, though he’s still sickly-pale. Hale is leaning over him, forehead pressed to Isaac’s. He takes a deep breath, then looks up at Greg. Greg holsters his sidearm and pushes his front door open.
“Inside, both of you. Now.”
Hale looks unhappy about it, but he hauls Isaac to his feet and walks them both through the door. Greg stops to grab his cell and, as an afterthought, the bloody arrows, then follows them in. His porch is now covered in blood and worse, but it will have to keep.
Inside, Hale is standing in the middle of Greg’s kitchen, holding Isaac up with one arm around his waist. Isaac is listing heavily to one side and looks on the verge of collapse – though still significantly better than when Greg had thought he’d had a dying teenager on his hands. Now Isaac just looks ill and –
“Sit down before you fall down, son.” Greg says, as kindly as he can.
Isaac looks to Hale, and Hale nods, stepping sideways to the kitchen table. Isaac sinks down onto one of the kitchen chairs and hunches over miserably, shivering. Hale remains standing, one hand resting on Isaac’s matted curls, eyeing Greg with caution.
Greg washes his hands thoroughly, grabs a clean towel from a drawer, runs some water over it and tosses it to Hale, tilting his head towards Isaac.
“Can you get him cleaned up?”
Hale takes the towel, but shakes his head and says, “He’s going to need new clothes at this point.”
Greg guesses that’s fair. The wounds are closed, Isaac’s just a godawful mess. Derek hands the cloth to Isaac, who scrubs it half-heartedly over his face and then drops it to lean heavily into Derek, eyes closed and still too pale.
Greg keeps his hands in plain sight and doesn’t make any sudden movements, but he holds Hale’s gaze and asks, “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” Hale says reluctantly, and he looks like it’s killing him to admit it. “He should be fine, I don’t think there was...anything...on the arrows. He should be fine.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I – water, maybe.” Hale says, unbending a little. He glances down at Isaac and grimaces. His expression is an odd mixture – frustration and anger are dominant, but there’s something about the way he’s standing, body oriented protectively towards Isaac...
Trapped, Greg decides, he looks like a cornered animal, tired, pained, and desperate, and Greg remembers that for all Derek Hale is a sometime criminal suspect, he’s also very young, and lost his family younger.
Greg forces himself to relax his stance, holds up both hands in a gesture of good faith and says, “I’ll get some water.”
Hale nods and tracks his every movement as Greg goes about filling a glass from the tap. When Greg returns with the water he hands it to Hale and takes a seat at the chair across the table. The table is between them now, but it still puts him closer to Isaac and he can feel Hale’s whole body tense, reacting to a potential threat; Greg takes care to keep his movements slow, his hands visible. Sitting puts him at a disadvantage relative to Hale; it’s a strategic decision and after a moment the other man snorts and sits as well, scooting his chair close to Isaac’s. He hands the water to Isaac, who drains the glass in seconds and curls over to lay his head on the table, pressed as close to Hale’s side as he can get. Hale lays one arm across Isaac’s shoulders, sheltering, and Isaac relaxes a little.
Greg waits until Hale looks up at him again, then says carefully, “I really should call in my officers – but!” Greg holds up one hand as Hale tenses and Isaac whimpers, “but there’s a lot here I don’t understand and I’m not sure that would be the right move. So. Start talking, Hale. What’s going on here?”
The other man stares back at him, expression unreadable, his free hand clenched against his thigh.
“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I’m not – Isaac and the others were…”
He breaks off as Isaac lifts his head a bit, pushing himself up to whisper, “Derek, he’s Stiles’ dad. There’s no one else, I think we have to trust him. He’ll help Stiles.”
At that Greg almost reaches for his sidearm again, can feel himself kicking into high gear. Not cop-mode, or even emergency-mode, but dad-mode, because something is going on here that he doesn’t understand, but what he does understand is that Isaac Lahey showed up on his doorstep with injuries that should by all rights have been fatal, and Isaac Lahey thinks his son is in some kind of trouble.
“Isaac,” Greg says, leaning forward, tone more urgent than is wise, ignoring Hale entirely, “Isaac what happened? Where is Stiles? Is he in trouble?”
Isaac nods wearily, and Greg looks up at Hale for confirmation, finds it in Hale’s bleak stare.
“Alright,” Greg says, reining himself in with an effort, “Need to know information. I get the feeling we don’t have a lot of time.”
Hale’s lips peel back from his teeth in what might generously be called a smile.
“Fine,” he says, “we don’t have a lot of time, so for Stiles’ sake, keep it together.” He waits for Greg’s impatient nod, then says, “I’m a werewolf.”
Greg watches with horrified fascination as Derek Hale’s eyes glow crimson, as his face ripples and morphs: fangs growing in his mouth, fur sprouting from bare skin. Hale rolls his neck and lifts one clawed hand.
“Exhibit A,” he says, voice a deep growl, then pauses as his face settles back into normal human features. “It’s a long story and very complicated, but what you need to know is that there are werewolves. I’m one, Isaac is another and so is Stiles’ friend Scott.”
Greg finds that he’s pressed himself firmly against the back of his chair, one hand gripping the handle of his gun so hard it feels welded to his palm. He’d been trying to put Hale at ease by giving him some space, but now he finds he’s desperately grateful there’s a table between them because Jesus Christ Derek Hale is a werewolf. He’d been hoping that nonsense on the porch was a hallucination of some sort, a trick of the light. No such luck, it appears.
Greg swallows hard, forces words past fear-stiffened lips. “And Stiles?” His voice is a harsh rasp, but it only shakes a little.
Hale shakes his head, and Greg allows himself to breathe.
“No,” Hale says, “He’s not, but he’s been helping us.” Hale’s expression is oddly pained.
“Helping with what?” Greg asks, so far out of his depth he’s wondering if he’ll ever surface again.
“Hunters.” Hale says, voice tight, eyes flaring red. He doesn’t elaborate, but Greg figures he can guess Hale’s meaning well enough. “We were supposed to be training tonight,” The other man continues, eyes fierce. “Something happened. I was late and by the time I arrived everyone was gone. I – there was a lot of blood. I couldn't – Isaac’s trail was the clearest. I followed it here.”
Greg nods to show he understands, even though he doesn’t really, and leans forward.
“And Stiles was at this training thing?”
Hale looks down at Isaac, shaking his head. “He should have been. The scents were all confused. Isaac,” he says, and his voice is gentle, but there’s an unmistakable note of command in it. “Isaac, I need you to tell me what happened.”
Isaac is looking marginally better, his color somewhat improved. At Hale’s words he takes a deep breath and pushes himself into a shakily vertical position. He spares a quick glance for Greg, but his eyes are on Hale when he answers.
“I was late too,” he says, “I was running, and I was late, and then I heard – I heard people yelling, and…the air felt funny? I got to the meeting place and no one was there, but there was this weird smell…and someone started shooting at me and I ran…” Isaac shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I should have stayed, I should have helped…”
“No,” Hale says, low and fierce, “No, you did the right thing. We wouldn’t have known. I didn’t know either. We’ll get them back, I’ll get them back.” Hale’s dark hair is tousled and wild. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, a hint of desperation in his eyes. Greg has seen that look before - it’s the look a man gets when the whole world is against him, but he’s planning to go down fighting anyway. Time to head that one off at the pass.
“Whoa, hold on there Hale,” Greg says, leaning forward, “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
Hale looks up at him, wary, and Greg says, “My son’s out there. You’re not doing this alone.”
Hale’s expression softens, just a little, some of the lurking panic receding from his eyes. He nods, then he and Isaac both jolt as though shocked and turn towards the front door.
Greg stands, gun in hand, looking from the two werewolves to the entryway.
“What?” He says, “What is it?”
Hale is about to answer when there’s a frantic banging on the door. Hale stands, Isaac close behind him and the three of them move to the door. Greg looks through the spyhole, then jerks the door open.
“Lydia Martin?”