Archive of Our Own

Stiles could tell that it was morning. The sun shining on his closed eyelids told him that even though all he wanted to do was turn over and go back to sleep, he would have to ignore that wish, open his eyes and get up. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes as he went from the pleasant warm pink glow that he could see through his eyelids to the actually quite blinding sunshine on his retina’s when he opened his eyes. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the wooden, pallet-like bed, throwing his blanket to one side and pulling on his jeans, jumper and sleeveless jacket.

“Morning,” he said as he entered the kitchen.

His Dad was working on a brace of rabbits so he’d obviously been up for hours before Stiles surfaced. “Morning? Afternoon more like,” he joked as he put the meat into salt water and left it to soak on the side.

Stiles set about cutting some bread and put it with some cheese on a board on the kitchen table for them both to share.

“It’s the reaping today,” his father said somewhat pointlessly because, really, how could any of them forget?

“U-huh,” Stiles replied non-comitantly.

“You need to look your best, son. In case...”he coughed to cover up the emotion. Theirs was a loving relationship, but they were still guys and didn’t tend to show what they were feeling.

“I’ll make sure to scrub myself clean before this afternoon, can’t have me smelling bad whilst the whole town is within sniffing distance!” Stiles joked in an effort to lighten the mood.

They both ate in companionable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Stiles mainly being that of what to cook with the rabbits his dad had managed to catch that morning.

“I’m going to go see what I can forage to go in the stew for tonight. Can’t just have meat and potatoes!”

His dad laughed long and hard at that. It was something he had spent Stiles’ whole life telling him in an effort to make him eat the vegetables that he so detested.

“Ok,” he said as his laughing calmed down. “Just make sure you’re back in time to clean up. I’ll get your Sunday best laid out ready for you.”

Stuffing one last piece of bread and cheese into his mouth, Stiles nodded to his Dad and shoved his feet into his shoes before he headed out the back door.

He spent the morning half wandering about in the forest he knew so well, trying to memorise it even more just in case he had to leave, and half foraging for vegetables. Some of which meant procuring from places not necessarily in the forest, but he was never going to admit that to his Dad. He’d spent a long time after his Mum died trying to do good by Stiles and this was Stiles’ way of helping out.

It wasn’t much longer before he had to make his way back. His Dad was out at work when he got home and, as good as his word, had left Stiles’ Sunday best laid out on his bed (which he had also made for him). Stiles set about preparing the vegetables so that they’d be ready when they got back home and left them in the stew pot for later. He then took up a bar of soap and went outside to the water pump to scrub himself clean.

This was a ritual that they had followed every year since he could remember. Getting ready for the reaping was like getting ready for a funeral. Everyone made sure they were spotless and dressed in their best. It was a weird accolade to the fact that should they be chosen they would then be on television in front of the thousands that watched the Games. Once he’d deemed himself clean enough, he dried off and dressed in his smartest pair of trousers, white t-shirt with a smart shirt over it and put the only decent shoes he still fitted into on, then he was ready to go.

He joined the throng of people heading towards the main square, hi-fiving a couple of his friends and joking along with them to keep everyone’s spirits up the way he’d always done ever since he and his friends had come of age for the reaping. He kept an eye out for his Dad and spotted him near to the back as they all signed in and trooped their way to the roped off area. This was always the point where he switched off. Lydia Martin simpering away on a stage with cameras rolling, playing up to the viewers back in the Capitol and her “may the games ever be in your favour” crud just wasn’t Stiles’ thing. He never could sit still through simpering speeches; they always made him feel even worse, what with the threat of being chosen hanging over them.

He was so busy daydreaming about what food he would eat if they lived in a place where food wasn’t scarce and money not an issue that he nearly missed the male name being called out. He froze as he heard his name, unable to quite believe that it had actually happened. He didn’t move to go to the stage until he got elbowed in the ribs, on both sides. He looked around and saw that everyone was staring at him and those further away were straining their necks trying to work out what was going on.

“Me?” he mouthed, looking around him and seeing everyone nod, most sympathetically.

He slowly made his way to the front, almost tripping up the steps but managing to recover himself just in time. Lydia, all make up and simpering girlishness, clapped daintily as he approached, attempting to get the people gathered to clap too, but no-one else did. He constantly looked back at his Dad as if only the nod from him would make this all real. He didn’t really know what to do whilst on stage so accepted the name card Lydia had pulled from the male bowl, cringed a little when she kissed him on the cheek, leaving a pile of make-up behind, and then just stood there staring at his Dad, the whole thing seeming a bit of a blur. He couldn’t even remember what wise cracking answers he had given to Lydia’s questions, even though he knew he had answered her.

His Dad didn’t break their eye contact. Stiles had a high number of name tickets in this draw so he figured his Dad had been thinking the same as him, that this year it had been more of a possibility. Ever since Stiles’ had turned twelve they’d both been on tenterhooks each reaping and they’d been lucky so far. His Dad nodding to him as he was approaching the stage had helped Stiles be himself more and able to crack jokes as if this wasn’t one of the biggest things that had happened to him his entire life (it was definitely up there with his mother dying). He felt he needed to act fine to help his Dad cope with what was happening. He certainly couldn’t break down whilst his Dad was being so strong and silently supportive.

Stiles stood awkwardly on the stage as the female tribute was picked from the glass bowl. His attention was turned from his Dad to elsewhere when a gruff male voice called out straight after the female tribute was announced.

“No!” It was Derek Hale, battling his way through the crowd he had been herded to stand with. “You won’t take my sister! Laura!”

By this time he had reached his sister and was hugging her fiercely, all the while glaring darkly at Lydia.

“I volunteer!” he said loudly. His stare seemed to dare Lydia to decline.

“Oh how simply wonderful!” Lydia smiled in delight, “Our very first volunteer from District 12!”

She clapped delightedly, as if she expected everyone to join in, but no-one did. Derek extracted himself from his crying sister, looking down and murmuring a few words to her before kissing her cheek and making his way to the stage. His sister immediately ran to the rest of their family stood at the back. Derek stood stiffly on the stage, glaring at Lydia whenever she tried to talk to him or about him, which was constantly so he did a lot of glaring.

It was a massive thing that their district had two male tributes. It was something that had never happened in all the years of the games so they ended up standing on the stage for quite a while. It gave Stiles time to think about how he knew Derek Hale. It took a while but then he remembered him as a dark and moody older pupil at their school. He had kept himself to himself, mostly, but he had always watched them play lacrosse, although he had never joined in, which had always seemed strange to Stiles.

They finally finished their ordeal onstage and had the chance to see their respective families before they had to leave, possibly for good. Stiles tried not to think about that whilst he waited for his Dad. When he came through the door they immediately hugged, for once not caring about showing emotion.

“You remember everything I taught you about hunting and you won’t starve,” his Dad managed to choke out through a couple of coughs to clear his throat and hold back the tears.

“I will Dad, I promise,” replied Stiles, just as affected.

“I’ll be watching and I’ll pray to whatever deities exist that you come through this and come back home. I’ll make sure there’s some good meat waiting for you,” he chuckled slightly, good meat being a thing of the past in this district, and chucked him under the chin with his fist.

Stiles couldn’t answer him. He merely hugged him again as tightly as he could, hoping with all his might that he would be able to make it home. He wasn’t sure about that though. He could hunt, yes, but that was mainly creatures that didn’t realise the arrow was coming. Not other humans that were expecting to kill or be killed.

They didn’t have long together and so it was that they broke off the hug and Stiles was led away to go to the Capitol.

At the train he was put on a carriage with Lydia and Derek and as they sat, mostly staring out the window however much Lydia tried to engage them in conversation, another person entered the carriage.

“Peter! How lovely, meet our two tributes for this year’s Games - Stiles and Derek!” Lydia cooed pursing her lips coyly.

Both Stiles and Derek turned to stare. This was a turn up for the books. Peter Hale had been a citizen of District 12. In fact, he was the only citizen from District 12 to win the Games. He was also Derek’s uncle. He had abandoned his family upon winning and moved to the Capitol. He was now apparently this year’s District 12 mentor for the Games, a fact that Derek obviously hadn’t known. He barely spoke to him the entire train journey, but this didn’t seem to affect Peter at all, he just smiled knowingly at him.

“Isn’t this just brilliant?” sighed Lydia, “District 12 will definitely be on the map now, what with a volunteer that also makes us have two male tributes!”

“Has that never happened before?” asked Stiles, feeling compelled to talk to her seeing as no-one else seemed to be. Plus, talking took his mind off what was actually happening.

“Never!” she replied happily. “This is going to be an excellent Games, isn’t it Peter?”

She deliberately brought Peter into the conversation in order to try and pull some more information out of him and Derek, but it didn’t work because Peter merely nodded and poured himself a whisky. Taking up the gambit, Stiles decides to grill Peter about how he won and why he left their district.

“So, what’s the big secret Mr Winner Man?”

Peter stared at him a moment, as if trying to work out what he was talking about, then took a drink of his whisky to cover up his confusion. It wasn’t lost on Stiles though.

“How did you win the Games?” he asked again in a plainer manner of speech.

“Oh, well, that’s just pure luck with a splash of ability and a dash of wits,” Peter replied before taking another swig of his drink.

“I’ve got wits, think I’ll be alright at that,” Stiles thought out loud, only realising he’d done so when Peter snorted with laughter.

“Stop that. Any one of us can win the Games. And it’s not a laughing matter,” Derek scolded his uncle, these being the first proper words he’d actually said to him since he had come into the carriage.

“Lighten up, nephew of mine, it’s just a game!” sneered Peter in return.

They were interrupted then by food being brought in for them. The amount and the smell took what Stiles had been about to say straight out of his mouth as it hung open in wonder. He’d never seen this amount of decent food. He’d only heard the tales that his Mum and Dad had told him when he was little, of a better time when food hadn’t been so scarce and so hard to come by. When it had been things like truffles that were expensive, not things like sugar and grain and meat.

They were provided with a four course meal. Starting with a creamy tomato soup with fresh bread and butter, followed by roasted lamb with new potatoes, carrots, peas and broccoli. There was a choice of gravy or mint sauce to go with it for extra flavouring. After the main came the biggest chocolate cake Stiles had ever seen and he wasted no time digging in to that. Just when he thought it wasn’t possible to eat more the waiters came out with a cheese board and crackers. He got stuck in; you never turned down a free meal when hunger was your normal state of being.

Once the cheese course had finished it was all cleared away and they were left with coffee and flavoured waters to drink. Stiles plumped for water, feeling decidedly sickly after eating so much. He sipped at it whilst watching the world quickly pass by through the train’s windows. Derek had taken some water too and was still sat in his seat at the table. Lydia poured herself a cup of coffee and asked if anyone else would like one. Peter, who had taken his dinner in his own train compartment, came up behind her and took her up on her offer. He then sat to her right hand side, opposite Stiles and Derek and looked at them pointedly.

“What?” asked Stiles, shifting under the scrutiny.

“You should be nicer than that to your mentor, Stiles,” scolded Lydia, “He’s your link to the outside world once you are in the arena. He will be able to negotiate sponsors and have help sent should you need it.”

“Huh?” Stiles responded, confused and slightly sleepy from all the food.

“Lydia’s right. I am mentor to both of you and you will both need me when you are in the arena. Maybe we should talk about that now? Hmm?” said Peter.

“Well, uh, ok?” Stiles kind of asked, really confused by it all. He had never really paid attention to how the Games worked, preferring the ‘head buried in sand’ approach that helped him to worry that little bit less about being picked. It was backfiring on him now, though.

“There are people in the Capitol that will sponsor a favoured tribute. It means that if they get injured but not killed, or have need of food, they will parachute it in for them. That way they get to watch them on TV longer than they otherwise might.” Derek surprised everyone by explaining this, although he did not remove the venom from his voice that portrayed his obvious dislike of the barbaric Games.

Stiles stared at the place mat in front of him. That whole speech had made the reality of the day come crashing down around his ears again. He wasn’t sure he could cope with talking about it just yet. The food had served as a good distraction. He had even managed to pretend that he was just on a fun trip, like winning a competition. Only this competition would cost him his life. He pushed his chair back, noticing Derek freeze next to him as he accidentally brushed his arm during the movement. Then he left the compartment for his own where there was a bed and clothes such as he would never have been able to afford. There was also a shower. He drowned himself in the warm water, so different to the cold water pump he normally used, then, when he felt like he couldn’t stand up any more, he dried himself off, dressed in a clean pair of jeans, t-shirt and shirt and curled up on the bed. He spent the rest of the journey in this manner, staring out of the window, allowing the enormity of it all to sink in and giving himself a moment of peace to work through the multitude of emotions that the day had brought with it.

It was a long journey to the Capitol and he lay on his bed watching the sun go down and the moon come up, wondering if the people there saw what was happening in the districts they looked down upon. He slept a little, the motion of the train lulling him off to sleep. As the sun rose again the next morning, he stretched himself out, got up and went to his bathroom. He splashed water on his face, cleaned his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair. He was happy he looked alright. He wasn’t too worried about what those watching their TV screens thought of him. He’d had enough time to get his head around the main bulk of emotion and push it back into the dark recesses where he kept all bad or hard to handle emotions. Now was the time to get stuck in. He had to learn to survive. His Dad needed him to come back home.

Their arrival in the Capitol was a blur of flashing lights, rolling cameras and multitudes of faceless people. They were swept along from the station into another building full of opulence and luxury like Stiles had never seen before. This time they were separated. Stiles found himself being poked and prodded by a team of people. They called themselves stylists but he seriously thought they were more like torturers; the plucking of his eyebrows would be where that idea came from. Once they’d stopped clucking around him with all their poking, prodding, plucking, scrubbing and lotioning, they left him standing in the room whilst they fetched his main stylist, Dr Deaton.

Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect of Dr Deaton, but he had assumed that this person would be female, extremely outlandishly dressed in bright colours, made up to the nines and ready to make Stiles look more ridiculous than anyone has ever looked.

“Good Morning, Stiles,” said a deep, calm and most definitely male voice.

Stiles turned from where he had been staring out of the window at the city below and found an unassuming black man, no make-up, short hair that was obviously its natural colour. It took Stiles by surprise and he stood there for a moment with his mouth hanging open staring at him.

“Let’s have lunch first, shall we?” It was a rhetorical question that was followed by Dr Deaton sitting down and motioning for Stiles to do the same.

Even though he’d had a massive dinner and then a huge breakfast, Stiles found his belly rumbling as soon as the word lunch was mentioned. He sat down as motioned and helped himself to the cold luncheon meats laid out with along with bread and cheese and potato chips. They were hard pushed to have potatoes in their stew back home and here he was eating potato chips! He chuckled to himself.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” asked Dr Deaton.

“I’ve never seen so much food in my life. I never really knew what it was like to not feel hunger. Yet here,” he waved his hand at all the food that had been provided for the two of them. “It’s like you have too much. I can’t believe the world is like this!”

“I know,” said Dr Deaton quietly. “We live in an evil world, but we do our best with what we’ve got. Now, we were thinking of dressing you up to match your fellow female tribute, but I guess, we could still match you two. You are from the same district after all.”

“What’s it going to be then?” asked Stiles, “dress us as lumps of coal?”

Dr Deaton laughed. “Not quite.”

It was approaching early evening and Stiles was dressed in a black, skin tight vest top over tight black jeans and black boots. He stared at himself in the mirror. Although they had always had to fight for their food, and often ate less than they needed, he and his Dad had managed to eat some form of nutrition on a daily basis. This, the hunting and foraging he did with his Dad and the manual labour he did for other people as a form of trade for food or medicine, meant that although he was thin and wiry, he had a decent muscle definition that he had never taken any notice of before. The jeans fit snugly around his butt and he was twisted round looking at it in the mirror when Derek was ushered in.

“Oh, uh, hi!” Stiles mumbled embarrassedly when he noticed Derek staring at him.
“I guess we’re wearing the best outfit, it seems to show off our muscles quite nicely!” he continued, flexing his arms and grinning in an effort to defuse his embarrassment.

Derek merely grunted.

It was the first time since being on the train that Stiles had been able to see Derek. He couldn’t help but notice that the outfit suited him much more than it did himself. He had better muscles across his arms and chest and, even when Dr Deaton added the cloaks, they stood out a mile. He couldn’t imagine being able to kill him. He couldn’t really imagine being able to kill anyone, he was kind of hoping that he wouldn’t have to, but deep down he knew that wouldn’t be the case. He’d watched enough of the Games to know that even if you didn’t want to kill a person, in a fight or die situation you were forced to.

The cloak was fun though.

“Oooh, this makes me feel like a superhero!” exclaimed Stiles, swooshing round in a circle.

Derek just glared at him moodily and stood motionless waiting to be ushered to the next part of the Games. It wasn’t long before they were. They were to be taken by horse and carriage from out of the basement of the building they had been prepared in, through the streets and to the Main Square. They stood at the back of the queue with four jet black horses ready to pull them to their fate. The other Districts were all lined up in order, wearing various costumes designed to show off the main resource each provided for the Capitol. Stiles couldn’t help but stare, some of them were so outrageous it was hard not to.

The main doors swung outwards and the sound of the waiting crowd rushed in like a smack in the face. It stunned Stiles and he turned towards Deaton, suddenly petrified.

Deaton squeezed his shoulder and patted Derek’s. “You will be fine, now up you get!”

Stiles didn’t feel like that was true. He clambered onto the open backed carriage and hung onto the side.

“You’re going to have to let go, Stiles,” Deaton told him.

“Nu-uh! I’ll fall off!” he replied as he looked to Derek hoping to see him in the same predicament. He wasn’t. He was managing to balance perfectly without holding on.

Deaton was looking thoughtful. “Let go, I need to see something,” he told him.

Stiles let go and stood with his knees bent slightly and his arms out to his side whilst he wobbled a bit.

“That is not going to work,” Deaton declared. “Hold hands.”

“What?!” The collective gasp coming from both of them.

“Hold hands,” repeated Deaton.

“Oh no, no way!” said Stiles at the same time as Derek said, “Stand up under your own steam.”

Stiles immediately stood upright, planting his feet a bit further apart to help his balance whilst he was straight legged and straight backed with his head held high. He even managed to stay still for a while. Until the horses shuffled about and moved the carriage. Then he grabbed hold of the nearest thing to keep upright - Derek.

Dr Deaton smiled. “Holding hands it is,” he said as he climbed up and lit their cloaks with fake fire to set off the whole coal image he was aiming for. “Now, boys; don’t forget to smile!”

The carriage jolted forward, following after District 11’s, and they entered the streets with their hands clasped and their cloaks seemingly ablaze. The roar from the crowd as they passed by was almost deafening. The fake fire made them look outstanding and it seemed that the crowd couldn’t get enough of it. Stiles hung on to Derek for dear life whilst staring round him. It took a while but soon he was smiling (Deaton’s parting comments sinking in at last) and he even spotted Derek forcing a smile or two as well.

They took their place in the semi circle around the Mayor’s balcony and stood, still clasping hands, as he gave his speech and the crowd all joined in with the anthem of Panem. Neither Stiles nor Derek took part in the singing. Stiles noticed that there was a TV screen and the cameras were constantly showing different angled shots of him and Derek. Taking a peek at the other tributes, he also saw that they were not happy with that at all.

He was glad when the ceremonial stuff was done and they were taken into the training centre and shown to their rooms. They were to sleep now as the next day would be hard work training for what was to come in the arena.

It was a bit like being back at school, being in the training centre the next morning; except for the fact that Stiles wasn’t surrounded by people he knew. Apart from Derek, but he was off to one side staring moodily into the room. Just like school.

It soon became apparent that rather than any specific training this was merely a time for those from the wealthier districts to show off their skills. A large and bolshy one in particular was doing his best to take up all the limelight.

“I’ve been training for years for this, there’s no way any of you will beat me!” he crowed as he threw knives at a target, hitting in or near the centre with each one.

“Pull the other one, Jackson, I’ll totally outwit you,” laughed the female tribute from his district.

“Not if I slit your throat first,” another girl, this one Stiles had heard being called Erica, had come up behind the first girl and got her in a grip with a knife held to her throat.

The banter went on like that between them all day. They were from the wealthy districts where the Games was more a career move than a thing to be feared. Stiles merely kept to himself, practiced what they told him to when he was told to practice and left it at that. He didn’t want any part of this kind of banter. Plus, the dream of him surviving was slowly dwindling in his mind with the career lot already seeming as if they would be working together. It demoralised him and he just couldn’t put his whole heart into it. If he didn’t know how to throw knives now, he couldn’t see how practicing for a couple of hours would make him be able to hit a moving, human target when he was in the arena. It was scary how good some of the other tributes were and their boasting about it was just sickening.

They finished their training for the day and Stiles went back to the rooms District 12 had been given for the duration of the training. There was a fully laid out dining table in the open plan part of the suite they were in, waiting for them to eat their evening meal. Peter was already sat at it but Stiles took one look and went straight to his bedroom. He didn’t really have the stomach for food after the bile that the day had induced, but had been going to try and eat something because there was no way he could fend for himself in the arena if he was weakened by hunger. Peter Hale at the dinner table was just too much to deal with though.

He went straight to his en suite bathroom and stood over the sink, cold water running, hands clasping the sides as he stared at the water. The motion and sound of the water rushing out of the taps helped him to calm down slightly. He then splashed some water on his face and looked up, staring into the mirror. The only word he could think of to describe the look on his face was haunted. He definitely looked haunted and it could only be the dawning realisation of how the last days of his life were to be spent, as well as the harrowing ideas of how he might die, that had caused him to look so hollow. Even having meagre food rations and next to no money hadn’t made him look like this. He had always looked healthy, rosy cheeked almost because he was always joking and laughing to keep his, and everybody else’s, spirits up.

He jumped and gave a loud shout as he stopped studying his face so closely. Derek was standing directly behind him.

“Dude! What’re you doing creeping up on a guy like that? I could’ve killed you!” Stiles exclaimed.

Derek merely made a non-committal noise and shrugged his shoulders slightly. Then he looked down at the floor then back up at Stiles.

“You’re not your usual self, I came in to see if you’re ok,” he replied. Then, almost as an afterthought he said, “And Peter wants us at the dinner table.”

Stiles picked a towel off the rack and rubbed his face with it, making his hair scruffier than ever.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. It was his way of acknowledging the gesture from his fellow tribute. Someone that would quite likely be capable of ripping him in two with his bare hands once they entered the arena. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat.” He shrugged. “I guess I can give it a go.”

With that they both went to the communal area and took their places at the table.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Stiles,” Peter said as he took a swig of whisky.

“I didn’t realise it was dinnertime yet,” Stiles replied, “I thought we were getting the chance to have some time to ourselves, to rest.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Peter laughed, “You’ve got to eat and then Deaton will be here to dress you for the interviews.”

“Interviews?” Stiles said, as Derek quietly choked on the drink he’d been sipping.

“Don’t you ever watch the Games?” Peter asked incredulously.

“Well, no, not really. It’s completely barbaric. I tend to only see bits of it.” Stiles shook his head hopelessly. “ I’ve never known anyone that’s been forced to take part from our District so I’ve never had an invested interest in it. It just always struck me as an awful thing to do, sitting and watching it when you’re so relieved it’s not you out there.”

“And you, Derek?”

Derek shrugged. “I’d forgotten about that particular part of it.”

Peter gave him an unimpressed look. “Well, you better un-forget. The interviews are tonight and you’re to take part. If you both want to have any sort of a chance of getting to the end of this alive then you need to win the viewers over.”

“How’re we to do that?” Stiles asked. “We don’t have anyone in the Capitol that’s going to be rooting for us.”

“You’d be surprised,” mused Peter. “Deaton really hit the nail on the head with his styling for you during the introductions. You guys have been the talk of the town.”

“How do the interviews happen?” Stiles asked.

“In front of a large studio audience and televised live to everybody at home,” replied Peter matter-of-factly.

Stiles looked down at his plate of chicken. It was nearly an entire chicken and had salad and hot rolls with it. It smelt delicious and was something he would never have been able to sit and eat with his Dad. He knew that he should be eating and had picked at some of it, but the idea of being interviewed in front of hundreds people with thousands more watching on the TV made him so nervous there was no way he’d be able to eat anything now. He pushed the plate away.

“The best thing to do is to play up to the audience. Smile at them, have them eating out of your hand,” Peter told them.

“How?” asked Stiles, genuinely perturbed.

Peter was unable to continue advising Stiles with what best to do (although Stiles got the feeling that he wouldn’t tell him anything actually useful) because that was the moment that Deaton chose to enter the room and chivvy them along to be styled for their interviews. Stiles and Derek had no choice but to follow him over to the seating area where he proceeded to lay out clothes, swapping and changing them as he mused over the two boys and the clothes, deciding what they would be best wearing that evening.

“Are we going to be on fire again?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, I think you are Stiles,” Deaton said smiling at him.

“Well, at least I get to wear the cloak again,” mused Stiles.

“That is where you are wrong,” said Deaton. He then produced a pair of leather trousers and brandished them at Stiles. “Put these on.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, then stared at the leather trousers. He had never seen something so shiny before that was an item of clothing. The mayor’s chain that he wore around his neck was always shiny but Stiles thought that was because it was technically jewellery. Clothes weren’t supposed to shine. Deaton shaking the trousers under his nose made him clumsily grab hold of them and turn to go into his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Deaton asked as he handed a nice, normal pair of jeans to Derek.

“My bedroom,” Stiles replied.

“We haven’t got time for modesty, you’ll have to get changed where you stand,” Deaton told him.

Stiles ‘eeped’ a little and then got changed into the leather trousers as fast as he could; which wasn’t that fast. They were tight fitting trousers that had him hopping about a bit to get both legs into them and then he ended up having to lie down on the sofa to give himself some extra oomph to be able to get them all the way on. It was quite a sight and by the looks of things, it had not escaped Deaton’s notice. Or Derek’s for that matter.

He stood up, embarrassed. “Well, that was an effort! Better not need to take them off any time soon!” he joked and the other two laughed with him.

Peter, luckily, had left the communal area. He seemed to think that once they were with someone else they were no longer his issue.

It was Deaton who took them down to the set that had been erected in the ballroom. Stiles wearing his black leather trousers, tight black vest top and a black silk shirt. Derek had been dressed in snug fitting black jeans and a tight white vest top. Deaton had decided not to add anything more to his outfit as it already showed off his muscular shoulders to great advantage. He had spent a short while explaining how the fire would work on Stiles’ outfit this time and it had the resulting effect of Stiles walking extremely carefully. It must have looked really comical so Deaton had to tell him to walk properly and ensure him that the fire wouldn’t turn on until Stiles did what he’d been taught. Stiles didn’t quite believe Deaton, but he did trust him, so he started to walk more normally and discovered that Deaton had been right all along.

The interviewer, Bobby Finstock, was famous for his outright questioning and his forthright manner. He would not hold back any punches and would always say what he thought. He was working his way through all the tributes starting with District 1 and ending with District 12 so Derek and Stiles had a long wait for their turn. It made Stiles really nervous watching how he dealt with the other tributes as well as watching how they dealt with him. He’d never done anything like this before and could only really think of goofing around in front of his mates as experience he could draw on for it. But that was always him joking around and he wasn’t sure that kind of behaviour would be greeted with the same delight as he got from his friends.

Deaton laid a hand on his shoulder as the last tribute from District 11 stood up and waved to the audience before leaving the stage. “Relax, smile and be yourself, Stiles,” he advised and then steered him towards the stage just as Bobby was announcing his next guest.

“Now, my dear audience, the District you have been waiting for…. District 12!” he paused to allow the audience a moment of cheering and clapping then continued, “Our first tribute from this District is Stiles! Welcome him to the stage everybody!”

The cheer was even louder than when he had announced the District. Stiles stumbled up the steps a bit and then stared out at the audience in wonder, remembering to smile after a couple of moments. Bobby ushered him to his seat and then shouted at the audience to shut up, making them laugh.

“Now that the cheering of your multitude of fans has died down,” he said as there were more giggles from the audience. “I can begin my interview with you! Now, you like to be called Stiles, correct?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, his voice booming out of the mike he had attached to his shirt and making him wince.

“Why is that?” Bobby asked, straight to the point as usual.

“It’s my name,” replied Stiles, pretty much an honest reaction to the question as he had insisted everyone call him Stiles since he was little. The audience roared with laughter and he grinned at them, realising that maybe being himself would be a bonus for him after all.

The interview continued in this strain with Bobby asking him questions that got more and more intimate as they went on and Stiles answering with (what seemed to him) the obvious which gave the audience great hilarity. By the end they were laughing and clapping so much that Stiles had actually started to relax.

“Before I send you on your way,” Bobby said. “Are we going to get to see those amazing flames again?"

"Funny you should say that," Stiles commented. He then stood up, took a couple of steps forward until he was in the middle of the stage then performed a funky little tap move that set the fake flames licking up his calves from the bottoms of his trouser legs.

The audience gasped and then cheered and clapped their approval as Stiles smiled and played up to them, the flames dancing around his legs.

His interview finished and he left the stage with a flourish to tumultuous applause. He was on quite a high when he got backstage, giving Derek a huge grin and a pat on the shoulder as he went by him and then high-fived Deaton. He wasn’t able to go over his interview with Deaton in a blow by blow kind of manner as he really wanted to, being on such an adrenalin rush, because Derek was being announced and Deaton was giving him a couple of pointers and the pep talk that Stiles got before sending him up the steps and out onto the stage.

The audience was still really hyped up from Stiles’ interview and gave Derek a rowdy welcome that included a lot of cat calling and wolf whistles. He stared at them in what was definitely less than his normal glare, but no smile was forth coming, no matter how many times Deaton was saying ‘smile’ back stage where he couldn’t be heard or seen by Derek. Stiles had the feeling he would see a stressed out Deaton for the very first time by the end of this interview.

Derek, meanwhile, had taken his seat and was listening, with ever blackening brow, to Bobby’s first question.

“So, you are Derek Hale, nephew to previous Games winner Peter Hale, correct?”

“Yes,” ground out Derek.

“And Peter is your District’s mentor too. It must have been a happy reunion for you on the train ride into the Capitol?” Bobby continued, flashing a toothy smile towards the audience.

Derek just shrugged. Bobby, not hearing an answer, turned from dazzling the audience to look at Derek, who just glared back.

“Well, I guess a little family rivalry adds a bit more spice to your story!” he exclaimed to the audience. There was a spatter of laughter in return.

Obviously worried that he was starting to lose the attention of the audience, Bobby tried a different tact.

“The girls, and some of the boys,” he winked at the camera at that, “are falling over themselves for a look at your strong, muscular body. Do you work out?”

“No,” Derek replied.

“Hear that?” Bobby said to the camera, “It’s all natural!”

The audience laughed, clapped, cat called and whistled again.

Happy that he was winning their interest back, Bobby continued, “So, if you don’t work out, you work hard in the District then?”

“Yes,” Derek wasn’t glaring at him anymore, but he still wasn’t smiling.

“And you must be used to the attention, a handsome young man like you?”

“No.” Derek shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Let’s talk about you and Stiles. Our very first male - male tribute pair from District 12. Very first ever!”

The audience cheered. Derek just looked at Bobby.

“How did that happen?” Bobby asked him.

“I volunteered,” said Derek.

“Well,” Bobby laughed and the audience laughed with him. “We know that, but usually the volunteer has to be the same sex as the tribute they are taking the place of, don’t they?”

“Yes,” replied Derek.

Apparently despairing that he would ever get more than two words out of him, Bobby changed tactic again.

“How is it, being a tribute alongside Stiles?” he asked.

Derek shifted in his seat uneasily and, although he seemed to be trying to think of something to say, wasn’t given time to answer as Bobby jumped straight in with another question.

“We all noticed you both holding hands as the carriages paraded you through the Capitol.”

The cheer at this point from the audience was almost deafening. It gave Bobby the courage to continue. That and Derek’s lack of response.

“Wouldn’t it just be great, dear audience, if our first ever District to give us two male tributes, also gave us a love story?”

The audience cheered again as Derek said, “What?”

“Well, we have hand holding in public and a little birdy told me that you are looking out for our dear boy Stiles much more than a fellow tribute out to kill him should be!” Bobby waggled his eyebrows for effect.

Oooh’s and aahh’s echoed around the audience.

Derek was glaring more than he had since the reaping. “I haven’t...”

“What with the flames from the coal District is it possible that we could have an ignition of a different kind?”

The audience were lapping it up.

“No, I...”

“He’s gone red! There’s no denying it, there are feelings there, aren’t there?” Bobby asked.

“Yes, but...” Derek started to explain what had happened on the parade, but he got no further than this before Bobby interrupted him whilst the audience cheered.

“There you have it, ladies and gentleman, an answer from the man himself!” Bobby stood up, taking Derek’s hand and raising it, forcing him to stand as well.

“Your District 12 tribute, Derek Hale!” Bobby shouted out to the audience as the cheers and clapping continued.

Derek was then leaving the stage, not waving or smiling, although by this stage everyone seemed to be past caring. Derek might not have done anything himself to stir up the audience, but the host, Bobby Finstock, most definitely had. Derek avoided catching Stiles’ eye as he came off the stage. It could have been merely because he was surrounded by Deaton and their other stylists as he came off stage, much as Stiles had been. But the seed had been sewn and Stiles took it as admission that what had been said had some truth to it.

Stiles couldn’t help but think about the time they had been forced to spend together since boarding the train on the reaping day. There hadn’t been anything noticeable to Stiles, but there had been the occasional stare, the fact that he had come to see if he was ok, as well as Derek not complaining at all about having to hold his hand. They had all been things that Stiles had brushed off as just things that Derek had been made to do, but now he couldn’t help but think maybe Derek was doing them because he wanted to and not necessarily because he was being made to. He wasn’t too sure how he felt about that. He wasn’t completely repulsed, but he had never really thought about the future and girls or love or anything like that. Derek’s interview was definitely giving him something to think about.

With Derek being surrounded by people and Stiles being confused as to what had just happened, he decided to head back to their floor without joining in with the frivolity. He headed for the lift, only to find that he’d have to wait as there were a few people using it already. He turned around and looked back. Derek was looking at him. It was the same look as always. The same one that he had worn when he had watched them play lacrosse when they had all been in school back in District 12. He didn’t look angry; more surly, really. Stiles was grateful when the lift pinged and he was able to enter it and cut himself off from the madness. He needed some time alone to think.

All the tributes had that night to sleep and the next morning to prepare and then they were to be taken to the arena for the Games to begin. Stiles had gone to bed straight from the interviews. He had tried to make the most of the time he had in a bed softer than any he had ever slept in, with covers nicer than any he had known, but it hadn’t been possible. Not only was he still extremely nervous about what he was about to take part in and still having nightmares about how he would die, but now he was also worrying about the interview Derek had given and what it all meant. What should have been a night of rest in preparation for the ordeal ahead, turned out to be the least restful night Stiles had ever had.

He entered their communal area that morning with a bit of trepidation. He wasn’t sure, having left without talking to Derek, what he would be like. He also thought that, with them all going into an arena to be pitted against each other, that maybe it would be best if he avoided the whole thing altogether. He would have avoided Derek entirely, if that was possible, but Derek was already sat toying with some breakfast when Stiles left his room.

“Morning,” Stiles said, attempting a bright and breezy voice but actually only managing a bit of a squeak. He couldn’t tell whether that was because it was Derek sat there or because they were all being marched off to their death that day.

Derek’s reply was more of a grunt than a word and then he went back to playing with his breakfast. Stiles sat down and started methodically shovelling food down his throat. He wasn’t hungry and none of it tasted as good as it had before, tasting more like ash than food, but it was likely to be his last proper meal so he was determined to eat it.

As they were eating Peter Hale came in and joined them. “Remember everything you’ve been taught. As soon as you can, get off your stand and run away from the Cornucopia as fast as you’re able. It will be carnage. Head for cover or get yourselves to high ground and then find water. Leave the others to fight it out between themselves.”

Stiles went white as Peter spoke to them. He glanced at Derek to find that he’d paled too.

Not expecting an answer, Peter continued, “It’s time to go. Follow me.”

The journey to the arena was a blur for Stiles. The next thing he really registered, other than the ‘Oh Shit!’ mantra going through his head, was the room he was guided to before being lifted into the arena.

“Remember, run away and find water and high ground,” Deaton told him clasping his arms and hugging him quickly.

He then manoeuvred Stiles onto the platform as the countdown began.

“Good luck,” Deaton told him sincerely as the platform began to rise.

Stiles crouched down as the platform continued to rise. Partly to try and put off the moment when he would see the arena, but mostly to keep himself steady whilst the platform rose.

Finally he could put it off no longer. The platform was in place and he stood up and made himself look around. Straight ahead of him was the Cornucopia filled with all sorts of weapons, food and survival equipment. Dotted around the grass between the tributes and the Cornucopia were random items. About half way there was a rucksack with what looked to be a water bottle in the side pocket. His immediate thought was that he’d be able to grab that before running away. He shifted his stance as he looked around him at the other tributes.

They were glancing from the items in front of them to the other tributes and back again. It was as if they were trying to second guess the moves the others might make. All except Derek. He was staring at Stiles pointedly and when their eyes met he shook his head and glared at him. Stiles looked back at him for a moment in confusion. Then the countdown to them being able to get off their podiums penetrated his brain as it reached its end. Stiles stood frozen to the spot as the rest of the tributes leapt into action.

Peter Hale’s and Dr Deaton’s words were chasing around in his head in the seconds it took him to decide what to do. Glancing back at where Derek had been he saw him disappearing into the trees behind. Stiles knew he should be doing the same, but no-one was paying any attention to that back pack.

He took a deep breath, muttered, “Here goes!” and launched himself towards the Cornucopia.

It was as if the world had been on mute and his movement had pushed the button to turn the sound back on. Screams of injured and dying tributes as well as the yells and grunts of fighting suddenly flooded his ears. It took all his effort not to cover his ears with his hands. Instead he pumped his arms faster to reach the back pack quicker. It didn’t help him enough. Just as he laid hands on the bag and started to pull another boy did the same. He ended up in a ridiculous mini tug of war, neither of them seeming to want to harm the other but both of them wanting the pack for survival. Stiles nearly stopped breathing from the shock of the kid spitting up blood and falling sideways as he succumbed to a knife in the back. It was all he could do to scramble backwards to avoid the one headed for him. It thudded into the ground between his legs and he grabbed it and pulled it out as he rolled to the side and launched himself upwards and forwards towards the bank of trees that had been on his right. He knew the girl with the throwing knives wouldn't just give up, but he refused to look back. He ran as fast as he could, adrenalin and fear helping him to run into the trees faster than he had run for the back pack. A knife whizzed past his ear, nicking him slightly and then he was in the trees. He didn't stop, he kept going through the trees, darting this way and that but constantly moving forwards and away from the clearing that held the Cornucopia and all death and destruction that the citizens of The Capitol so loved to watch.

He ran and ran and ran. Even when the only sounds were his breath coming out of his mouth in ragged pants, his Neanderthal like crashing through the undergrowth and, right at the edge of his hearing, the birds that inhabited the trees. It was their singing penetrating the panic that clouded his mind that made him slow from a mad dash to a gentle jog, then finally a walk.

“Well, that was fun,” he said to the birds as he stopped in a small clearing and looked around.

He was pretty sure he had gone far enough that no-one would jump out at him for a little while, so he settled himself on the floor, leaning against a tree and set about looking at the spoils that had cost him a cut ear. He lay the knife down next to him. It was a pretty decent knife and he knew it would come in handy one way or another. He undid the clips and the drawstring of the back pack and was pleased to find a sleeping bag at the top. Underneath there was rope, duct tape, a small first aid kit (which Stiles was glad to see, the second couple of items he had pulled out reeked of The Capitol wanting some torture to watch and he was not playing ball with that!) and a roll of wire. He was happy with the wire; he would be able to set traps with that. There was a water bottle in the side pocket. He opened it to check inside and discovered that it had no water in, but did have a small bottle with a dropper containing iodine.

“At least I won’t get the trots before I die,” he mused to himself.

With a wry smile and a sudden pang of loneliness, Stiles repacked the bag and got back to his feet. There was no food and no water. He had run kind of slap dash in his panic but he knew one thing, he hadn’t passed by any water source. There had to be one, though, otherwise the birds and the animals he could hear rustling the undergrowth couldn’t survive. He continued walking in the same direction he had been travelling until the light began to fail. He hadn’t found a water source yet but he knew he couldn’t travel through the night.

He was grateful for the sleeping bag as the temperature was already beginning to drop with the light fading. The only problem was, he didn’t want to sleep where he could easily be found and hacked to pieces before morning. He stared about him as he tried to work out what would be best. There were a few bushes that he could probably scrape a small hole under and curl up in, but their branches were quite sparse so his coverage wouldn’t be very good. He looked up, wondering whether he was being watched as he tried to make a decision about where to sleep. He needed to sleep. He had spent the entire afternoon running or walking and had had little rest, let alone food or water.

He found himself staring at a branch. A branch that looked quite sturdy.

“The tree!” he exclaimed, then jumped when the sound made a bird chirrup nearby.

He climbed up to the branch whilst looking further up. He was pleased to see that the branches further on were just as sturdy looking. He climbed as high as he dared and then sat on a branch to remove his backpack. Taking the sleeping bag out, he unrolled it and, with great care, manoeuvred himself inside it. Then he looped the rope around the tree trunk and tied it around his waist to secure him in place whilst he attempted to get some sleep. He put the backpack on again, shifting it upwards to use as a head rest and then closed his eyes hoping to get some rest.

He wasn’t able to sleep as well as he usually did, not that he had been expecting to, but he did manage to doze on and off. It was the dozing that made him take a while before he realised that what he could hear crackling was a fire. He peered into the darkness around him until he came on a brighter part. Concentrating his attentions there he tried to make out what was going on. His first thought was a brush fire, because even he wouldn’t light a fire in the complete darkness when everyone else in the arena was out to kill him.

Unfortunately, there was a tribute that had done just that. Stiles could only listen as the fire attracted a group of tributes. The whoops, teasing and cruel laughter came from voices that Stiles knew to be the career pack. The group consisted of the careers from the wealthier districts where they were trained up for the games. He was forced to listen as they caught the girl that had lit the fire, killed her and then headed right for him as they continued on their search for the weak tributes.

“Why hasn’t the cannon gone off?” asked one that sounded to Stiles like Erica, referring to the fact that a cannon was fired every time a tribute died.

“She must be taking a while to die,” replied another that Stiles thought might be Allison, another career tribute that had been positive she would win when they were strutting around the arena.

“Someone go back and make her dead, I want to hear the sound of the cannon again!” Stiles definitely recognised that voice to be Jackson, the largest of the careers.

“I’ll go,” another voice stated, and Stiles nearly called out in shock.

He managed to hold the gasp in by holding his breath and then gradually letting it out bit by bit. This helped him to not give away his hiding place, which the pack were practically stood underneath as they waited for the cannon sound, as well as helping him to calm his heart rate down slightly. It had spiked when he had heard Derek saying he’d go to ensure the girl’s death.

“When can we ditch mister sunshine?” a girls voice asked as the sound of Derek walking away faded.

“When he leads us to his district’s female tribute,” sneered Jackson. “Calm down Erica, it’s only the first day!” he laughed, obviously enjoying her eagerness for the kill.

Stiles glared into the darkness, affronted by the suggestion that he was the girl in all this. It was Derek that had volunteered in the place of his sister, not him; he’d been picked out fair and square.

Erica was wheedling Jackson and the sound sickened Stiles somewhat. Luckily, the cannon went off and Jackson shushed her before Derek returned and the pack moved on. Stiles hadn’t realised how on edge he had been until he found that relaxing his muscles was actually quite difficult. He stayed sat in the tree trying to process the fact that he was completely on his own and that Derek was running around with the pack who’s main aim was to kill everyone. Then Derek. Then each other.

“I’m screwed!” he told the tree as the morning light started filtering through and he was able to see enough to start packing his things up ready to head off again.

The climb down was always more difficult than the climb up, Stiles wasn’t sure why as he had no fear of heights or climbing up trees, but for some reason, not being able to see his feet on the way down always seemed to frighten him. He reached the bottom and patted the trunk, silently thanking the tree for looking after him for the night, then set off. He didn’t go back the way he had come, which was in the direction of the girl that the careers had killed, nor did he follow the pack. Instead he headed up the slight incline in the hopes that walking uphill would lead him to water. It was easy to go without food, but he wouldn’t last very long if he didn’t manage to find a stream or river.

His trek through the arena on his search for water was monotonous as well as arduous. The sun beat down on him through the trees and, joined with the effort of continually walking, made him hot and sweaty. His thoughts were on anything to do with water as he practically tortured himself thinking of rain and the water pump by his house or the shower that was in his ensuite before he ended up in this forest-like desert.

“If there’s animals and green things there must be water!” he practically yelled at himself as he realised he was going so slowly he might as well be stopped.

“Don’t sit down, don’t sit down, come on Stiles, you can do it!” he kept a mantra up forcing himself to move forwards as if he knew that there was water going to be there.

It was the only way he could keep moving. He knew that if he stopped he wouldn’t be able to get going again so he could only allow himself to stop when he was by water. He didn’t know what time it was or how long he had been moving for. If asked, he wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone whether he was still going straight forwards or just walking round and round in circles. The lack of water was such a big issue for him, not having drunk anything now for nearly thirty-six hours, that he had even completely stopped thinking about Derek, the career pack or even the fact that another tribute coming across him would be able to kill him with ease.

The splash of water as he stumbled into the puddles near a small stream brought life to him quicker than if he had been presented with the biggest chocolate cake with icing on the top and cream in the middle. He was on his knees, hands plunged into the stream before he could even think to be careful. He splashed his face and neck with the nice cool water and this helped clear his head enough to get his water bottle from his pack, fill it and treat it.

He set up his camp in an apple tree next to the stream munching on a fallen apple and picking up the other two good ones that he found. The ones still on the tree were definitely not ripe for picking yet.

‘Just another kick in the teeth from The Capitol,’ he thought wryly.

He packed the two apples away, refilled the water bottle and put that back in his bag too, then he assumed the same sleeping position of the night before and allowed his exhaustion to take him to a slumber far deeper than the one he’d had the previous night.

He wasn’t allowed to sleep for long. He was just starting to dream about winter back home, snuggling up on the couch under a blanket with the fire on, chatting with his Dad. Only it wasn’t normally this hot; they couldn’t afford coal and had to be careful about how much wood they burnt, needing to make it last for the winter - it didn’t matter that he could get more from the woods, it always took too long to dry to be of use. He opened his eyes as his brain started to separate the dream from the reality and saw that there were trees on either side of him completely on fire.

In his fear he tried to leap up and out of his tree, only to remember that he couldn’t because he had tied himself to the trunk again. He fumbled with the knot as a fireball whizzed over the top of his tree and hit the one behind it.

“Holy shit! Fireballs?!” he exclaimed as he scrambled out of the sleeping bag and practically fell down the tree trunk.

He ran away from the stream whilst frantically trying to shove the sleeping bag back in the pack all the while more fireballs whizzed overhead.

“What the hell?!” he asked as he ran whilst looking over his shoulder.

That was the mistake that cost him his leg injury. He was looking back at where the other fireballs had landed and not forward at what was coming towards him. Luckily it didn’t hit him straight on, but it did leave a nasty searing pain in his leg that was causing him to half limp, half drag it onwards as he tried to escape this madness.

“Is it not enough that we have to kill each other?” he practically screamed at the sky when he stopped.

He thought he had reached safety; he was fairly sure that no more fireballs were going to be launched at him because the last of them had landed quite far away from him. He was still heading away from the fire, but had slowed to a walk and was about to check out the injury on his leg when he realised he could hear laughter. It wasn’t that of just one person either. He had run right into the path of the career pack and he didn’t think he’d stumbled upon them by mistake either. It was obvious to him then that the games had gone too quiet and the fireballs were to make the viewing more interesting.

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to out run the pack he did the one thing he thought should help him escape them. He quickly picked a decent tree and began to climb it as fast as his injured leg would allow. He was just in time too, the pack had arrived at the bottom of the tree, jeering at him.

“You can’t escape us that way!” laughed Erica. “Go get him, Jackson.”

Jackson didn’t need telling twice. In fact, he probably hadn’t needed to be told at all as he was already pulling himself into the tree, knife held between his teeth to keep his hands free for climbing. Stiles pulled himself further up, looking at the branches above him. He knew, from doing this back home, that a tree could support his slight weight on the thinner branches near the top, but that he wouldn’t be able to go right to the top and he was watching for the point where he knew he would be able to go no further. He was positive that Jackson wouldn’t be able to follow him up this high, being twice is his size and far more muscular to boot.

A branch cracked and Jackson cursed. Stiles looked down to see Jackson rubbing a cut hand against his top. He looked back up at him and glared, continuing his climb in more of a hurry now that he had something else to be angry about. Stiles was pretty sure that if he hadn’t had the knife in his mouth he’d be telling him how that was his fault and he was going to get him for it. The anger in his face was so prominent that it nearly made Stiles climb further up, but he stopped himself, knowing that further up would mean falling out.

It looked like Jackson hadn’t twigged that yet though. He kept climbing until his hands pulled on a branch that wasn’t able to hold his weight. He’d brought his feet up as he’d grabbed hold of it and the result was the branch bending downwards from the trunk end causing Jackson to slide down it, legs flailing as his feet tried to find a purchase and, in the midst of it all, his knife dropped to the floor. Stiles could only hope that the loss of his weapon would make him give up trying.

He watched as Jackson managed to steady himself on the tree again. He held his breath as he waited to see what his next move would be.

“You can’t stay up there all night!” Jackson yelled up at him angrily and then made his way down to the rest of the pack.

Erica handed him the knife he had dropped.

“Make camp here, we’ll get him when he falls out,” Jackson ordered taking the knife off her and throwing it angrily into a tree.

The thud made Stiles jump. It also made him stop holding his breath. He was safe for now. He repositioned himself on the branch and then stared straight ahead of him; he was sure he’d just seen something move in the tree next to him. He looked down at the pack below. They had all seemingly completely lost interest in him. They were setting up a fire and pulling out food from the packs they carried. Stiles rolled his eyes; of course, the pack obviously had control of all the things left to the tributes at the Cornucopia. They wouldn’t be scrounging in trees for food. Then he thought maybe that was why Derek was with them. He looked over at Derek. He was building the fire, but there seemed to be a tenseness about him. Stiles shrugged it off thinking he must be imagining it.

He looked back into the other tree and this time he did see something. A boy from another district was staring back at him. Stiles froze in shock. His immediate thought was that he had escaped the brutes camping out below only to climb into the hands of another tribute wanting to kill him, however the boy who he now recognised as Scott from District 11, put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and then pointed at something above Stiles’ head. Wondering what it could be, he glanced up but couldn’t see anything. He looked again at where Scott was pointing and realised that he wasn’t looking far enough over. Sure enough, when he looked again and in the right direction, he saw what Scott was trying to show him.

A nest of wasps was just a bit further up and slightly over from where Stiles was currently sat. He looked down at the careers and noted that they had set up camp right underneath him. He could chop the nest off from the branch with the knife he had and then it would drop on the careers and, hopefully, scatter them. He looked back at Scott and grinned. Then he got his knife out and carefully climbed a little higher until he could reach the branch with the nest hanging off it when he stretched out.

He glanced down again to make sure that his movement hadn’t been spotted by Jackson and his cronies, then looked back to the nest. At that moment one of the wasps was having a little wander around the outside. Stiles gasped; these weren’t just any wasps, they were tracker jackers. These wasps were genetically modified by The Capitol and dropping them on the group wouldn’t just scatter them, it would make the wasps attack them and any stings that they got would cause hallucinations, too many stings would cause death. Stiles almost felt like he couldn’t do it; it just wasn’t in his nature to cause physical harm to others. He had to tell himself that this wasn’t cold blooded murder but merely survival and most importantly, his survival. He steeled himself and then started to saw at the root.

The knife wasn’t very sharp and before long he couldn’t see what he was doing. He left it where it was and sat back on his branch, dozing on and off but mostly off as he waited for the light of the new day to start filtering through so that he could continue with cutting the nest down. He was back up there as soon as the black started to change to grey and he could make out the shapes of the tree and the branches around him. It didn’t take much longer to finish cutting through and then the nest was on its way down to the ground. He didn’t survive cutting it down unscathed, there were a few wasps near the top that escaped the nest and stung him before he could get back to his branch and out of the way. All he could think was that he hoped Scott had managed to get away.

He carefully followed the nest to the ground, making sure to take his time and not get down there before the wasps dispersed. As he made his descent he watched what was happening on the ground. All of the careers had been asleep and they literally did not know what had hit them when the nest landed. They had all jumped up and fled, but some had been slower than the others. The amount of stings that Allison received had her screaming and running in circles trying to swat them as she fled but had no idea what direction she was going in. It wasn’t long before the venom of the multitude of stings had her collapsed on the floor and shortly after the sound of a cannon went off.

Stiles lowered himself to the floor and stared at Allison. He could see the lumps all over her face and hands, neck and arms and it looked like they were moving. He stepped closer and crouched down next to her, tilting his head as he looked closer. The lumps suddenly burst open and spiders came pouring out. They didn’t head towards him, though. They headed the other way and took his attention from the body and to the bow and arrows lying next to her. He slowly reached over and picked up the bow, looking at it as if it were a holy object.

“Run!”

He twanged the string and watched as the vibrations seemed to ripple through the air in front of him.

“Stiles! Run!”

He put the bow over his shoulder to rest against his back pack and reached for the arrows.

“Run, Stiles! Run!”

He lifted the case of arrows up and stared in awe as the sound of bells tinkling seemed to accompany the individual arrows moving against each other. The sound turned into yells of ‘Run!’ and he looked up to see Derek heading towards him, gesturing at him to run away. It was the look on Derek’s face that pierced the fog of hallucination Stiles was experiencing from his tracker jacker stings. It made him get to his feet just as Jackson came crashing through the woods behind Derek. He saw Derek turn and start fighting Jackson, then his survival instincts kicked in and Stiles turned and ran.

Stiles couldn’t tell what time of day it was or even if it was still the same day as it was when he’d dropped the nest on the careers. He tried to get up and found he was too dizzy to stand straight away so he sat and assessed the damage. He still had ripped trousers and a burned thigh, he had a tracker jacker sting on his neck and one on his right hand. That, he reasoned, would be why he couldn't remember much of what happened after he dropped the nest. He had a vague memory that Derek had shouted at him and Jackson had come back and fought Derek, but he wasn't too sure what that was all about. He still had his back pack and, on inspection, the sleeping bag had come away mostly unscathed. It was a bit singed, but still usable.
He sipped some water and poured a small amount onto his burn in an attempt to clean it. Then, feeling like the effects of the sting were fully lifted, he pulled himself up and set off with his newly acquired bow and arrow. He knew now that aimless wandering would just exacerbate the Gamemaker and put him in more danger, so he decided to hunt for some food and then, with some food inside him, he might be able to come up with a survival plan.

He had caught a couple of rabbits with the bow and arrows he’d taken from Erica and was just looking for a decent place to set a small fire to cook them when he came across Scott again. There was silence as they both weighed each other up.

"Thanks, for the, well, back there..." Stiles trailed off.

"No problem," replied Scott, his eyes widening when he saw the rabbits.

“Would you like some?” Stiles asked, lifting the rabbits up.

Scott looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, please.”

They made a small fire and sat together talking about their respective homes and what their lives had been like while Stiles prepared and cooked the rabbits and then shared it all out between them, some to eat and some to save.

“I bet the careers don’t eat like this,” Stiles commented as he ate, fat dribbling down his chin.

“They eat better,” Scott replied.

“How’s that?” asks Stiles.

“They’ve set up camp at the Cornucopia. They have control of all the stores, including all the food.”

Stiles looked at Scott. “All of it?”

“Yes, they have a tribute that guards their camp when they go out searching for us and the other tributes. I doubt they could eat without it.”

They both laughed at this and then Stiles said, “I’ve got an idea.”

Scott looks at him expectantly.

“The careers aren’t going to be able to forage or hunt for themselves, right?”

“Right.”

“So let’s destroy their food source and see what that does to them!” Stiles grinned.

Scott looked shocked at the idea to begin with, but then grinned and nodded at him. They spent the next couple of hours devising a plan of action to implement it. Once they’d worked out the details they headed off. Each to carry out their part. Scott was to distract and Stiles was to destroy. They’d worked out how to distract. Scott was going to set up three fires in three different areas and gradually light them, drawing the group away from the Cornucopia further each time. Once he had drawn them away to the first fire Stiles would then have to deal with the guard and destroy the food. This was the only bit that they couldn’t properly plan. Scott hadn’t been past the Cornucopia for a couple of days so they couldn’t be sure that a guard would still be left there. Stiles sent Scott off cheerily telling him to leave that all to him.

He made his way to the Cornucopia, going in the direction Scott pointed out as he had spent the last few days scouting the arena and had a better idea than Stiles of what direction it was in. Stiles’ running around the arena coupled with the hallucinations he had got from the stings had left him with minimal knowledge of where everything was.

He stopped whilst still hidden in the surrounding undergrowth and trees near to where the careers had piled up all their goods. He could see the tributes of the career pack near the other side of the pile so made himself comfortable whilst waiting for Scott to complete his part of the plan and set the first fire going. They'd decided to use a lot of underbrush to ensure a smoky fire so that it gave them a higher chance of success.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been sat there, the sun had travelled quite away across the sky when he was alerted to the start of the plan by Jackson shouting at the other careers to get their weapons and follow him. Stiles watched them leave then looked back to the pile. They had left a tribute behind, he was sat the other side of the food store watching out across the green. It struck Stiles as odd that he wasn't looking around the whole area, or patrolling it at all. He kept watching as he tried to work out why he wasn't concerned about the store that was piled high behind him. He sat for a long while and was no closer to working it out when he turned to see if the other fires had been lit yet. His eyes caught the areas around the podiums that they had all started off on, what seemed like an eternity ago. The ground around them was all dug up. He thought back to the advice he'd got from Peter Hale and Dr Deaton.

"Explosives!" he whispered to himself excitedly.

He turned and looked back at the stash. Sure enough, there were areas of earth that looked to have been dug up and re-layed. All he had to do now was work out how to set them off. He sat and stared at the goods thoughtfully until he spotted a bag of apples hanging quite far up.

"You'll do just nicely," he whispered to them as he took his bow off his shoulder and reached for an arrow.

He shuffled forward and lined his sight up carefully, knowing that he would lose the arrow used to set the explosives off. He let it fly and it hit the bag, making a hole and making it drop slightly, but not enough to set the apples free. He sighed and reached for another arrow, strung it expertly then focused again. This time it did what he had wanted. The bag split completely and the apples bounced down the pile and onto the explosives below. The first one went off and caused more of the stash to fly into the air and then land on the other explosives which then caused a multitude of noise and destruction.

Stiles was blown backwards in the process and then found that he could only hear a ringing in his ears. He pulled himself upright and looked towards the Cornucopia. He couldn’t see the tribute that had been left behind and couldn’t hear whether a cannon had gone off so he had to get out of there as quickly as he could. He could only see two columns of smoke above the trees, the third fire that Scott should have set either not smoking high enough or Scott hadn’t managed to light it. Stiles didn’t know which it was, but the damage that he had done at the Cornucopia would make Jackson so mad that all he could think was he needed to get out of there and find Scott and make sure he was ok.

The ringing in his ears didn’t stop as he retraced his steps back their agreed meeting place. If all had gone to plan, Scott should already be there and they could make their way to a safer distance from the careers together. Then the idea was to wait out the careers until they turned on each other. He reached the spot in good time, but Scott wasn’t there. He was able to hear birds chirping above him, although the ringing was still in his ears it had become less prominent. He paced up and down, watching the sky and worrying about what had happened to Scott. Eventually he could wait no longer. He headed to the first point where the fire had been set. It was there, burnt down to mere embers, but there were no tributes to be found. Stiles headed straight onto the next one.

“Stiles!” the shout came from the direction of where the third fire should have been set.

Stiles immediately abandoned his search to the second fire and headed straight for the voice that was calling him.

“Stiles! Help!” the call came again.

He picked up his speed and burst through the trees to find Scott entangled in a net, trapping him to the ground. He didn’t look around to see why, he immediately went forward and untangled Scott.

“Scott! Are you ok?” he asked as he pulled him free.

There was a thud and Scott’s answer was cut off by the spear that hit him in the stomach. Stiles didn’t stop to think. His immediate reaction was to send an arrow flying at the tribute that had thrown the spear. It thudded into the boy’s heart and he fell to the ground, dead before he landed. The cannon sounded and Stiles briefly thought that the boy had been called Isaac and he had just killed him, but he pushed the thought aside and concentrated on Scott. He couldn’t dwell on his actions, he had to survive.

“Scott!” he exclaimed as Scott pulled out the spear and fell into his arms. “No!”

Stiles cradled him like he was a small child and stroked his hair as Scott looked up at him.

“It’s going to be ok,” Stiles told him, trying not to sob.

“I’ll be safe now,” Scott told him with a smile that turned to a grimace. “I won’t have to hurt anymore.”

Stiles held him tighter and started to tell him stories about things that had happened to him as he grew up. He chose all the good things, all the things that he thought about to help him through a bad day. His Dad, his Mum, his friends, the things they got up to and the love that they shared. He didn’t know if it helped Scott or not, but it helped him as he sat and cradled Scott until his eyes closed for a final time. It was a long while after the cannon sounded before Stiles moved.

He gently laid Scott down on the ground and arranged him so he looked peaceful. Then he picked some flowers from the surrounding area and laid them on his heart. He turned and looked up, put the first three fingers of his left hand to his lips and then raised them to the sky in a tribute to Scott. With that, he set off to find himself somewhere to sleep.

The antics of the previous day plus the depression Stiles felt following Scott’s death, caused him to sleep deeply that night. He only woke up the next day because the voice of the Gamemaker suddenly boomed across the whole arena.

“Tributes! A rule change: Now there can be two winners but only two from the same district!”

The message boomed out one more time and Stiles, sat in his tree, stared at his surroundings but saw nothing as his brain processed the rule change.

“Derek, I need Derek,” he mused to himself.

The problem with that was that Derek had been part of the career pack. Although, he had turned to fight Jackson when Stiles was stung and trying to get hold of the bow and arrows. He thought about that day more deeply then, trying to remember exactly what had happened. He couldn’t remember much, but it was enough to hope that there hadn’t been another cannon that day. Derek hadn’t been in the pack when Stiles had blown up their food supply, which meant one thing, if he was alive he was somewhere in the arena on his own, and Stiles needed to find him.

He packed up and headed off, thinking that the sooner he did so the more ground he would cover and the sooner he would find Derek. The problem was that he still hadn’t got much of an idea about how big the arena was or where Derek would likely be, so he spent an entire day walking around aimlessly as he looked. With his water bottle getting low and his food run out, he headed to where he could hear running water to refill, thinking also that if it was a stream he might be able to catch some fish.

As much as his hearing wasn't fully back to normal, he was right about the running water. He sat on the riverbank and sipped at the last of his treated water then refilled it from the bank, treated it and put it away for later. As he was reaching around to put it in his bag, he noticed movement on the riverbank to his left. He moved across to investigate.

"Derek!" he exclaimed as he got closer and the movement was more prominent.

Derek had practically buried himself in the mud bank on the side of the stream. With his eyes closed he was practically invisible. Stiles had only spotted him because he had opened them and blinked a couple of times.

Scrabbling away at the mud around him Stiles said, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Jackson and the other careers? What's going on?"

Derek groaned as Stiles tried to lift him up.

"My leg.." Derek replied.

Stiles immediately concentrated on removing the rest of the mud from around Derek's body, paying particular attention to his legs. As the mud was scraped off it started to reveal a very nasty looking slash to his leg.

"Oh that looks bad," Stiles gasped.

"No need to sugar coat it," Derek said, giving him a grimace that Stiles thought might have been a smirk if he wasn't in so much pain.

"We need to get you cleaned up so I can properly assess the damage," Stiles told him.

Stiles then lifted him up so that he was stood supporting his damaged leg and then tried to move him closer to the stream. The noise that was emitted from Derek's throat at the movement was a cross between a yell and a growl and it made Stiles cringe.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! But it's for to be done. If we're to help you get better we've first got to get you clean!"

Derek glared at him. "You can't make me better."

"Now, now! I'll have none of this maudlin attitude!"

“I mean it, I won’t be able to get better from this, it’s poisoned!” Derek was practically yelling by the time he finished.

It didn’t stop Stiles. “I don’t believe you. I won’t believe you. You’d be dead by now if you were meant to be dead.”

He sat Derek down and started vigorously splashing him with water. “This isn’t going to work. Take your clothes off.”

There was no answer so Stiles turned towards Derek to see him staring at him with an odd expression on his face.

“I mean it! I’m not getting anything clean like this, I’m going to have to play mother and wash you and your clothes separately,” Stiles said, attempting to glare at him, but not managing it because Derek chose that moment to wince in pain.

Stiles crouched down next to him. “I never wanted to come here. I certainly never wanted to kill anyone, so I’m sure as hell not going to let you die when I can do something about it.”

Derek opened his mouth as if to speak.

“No, no, no! No more telling me I can’t fix it! My leg’s burnt. All I’ve done is clean it and put up with it and it’s getting better. A little slowly because I don’t have the proper medicine, but it’s still getting better!”

With that he went and started to take Derek’s top off for him. Derek jumped a little when Stiles’ hands touched bare skin.

“You wouldn’t have to put up with my cold hands if you took it off yourself,” Stiles commented, noticing and thinking it was because his hands were cold.

Derek blushed as Stiles took his top from him. Taking it to be shyness Stiles told him to wash whilst he cleaned his top. When he had done he laid it out on a rock in the sunshine and helped Derek back up the bank and out of the mud. Derek seemed to be struggling to breath properly with the effort of moving and Stiles moved in closer to help him, trying to take as much weight as possible off his damaged leg.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered.

It was enough to make a lot of events over the past few days all collide inside Stiles’ head. The way Derek was around him, the way his interview had gone, the vague memory of the hallucinations and Derek telling him to run and turning to face Jackson. He helped Derek into a seated position in the sunshine.

“I’m going to go get some food for us, don’t want to starve,” Stiles said awkwardly.

He left his back pack with Derek then, taking the wire and the bow and arrows with him, went into the woods a bit and set some traps and then moved a bit further in and settled down to watch for possible prey. Whilst sat there he properly thinks over everything that has happened so far. He can’t help but wonder whether Bobby was right and that Derek’s behaviour was down to his feelings for him. He couldn’t quite work out why he would have chosen to side with the careers though. Although, he had then helped him and the gash on his leg must’ve been made by Jackson.

There was nothing coming for him to make into food and sitting brooding about things just wouldn’t do, so Stiles got up and headed back to Derek. There was nothing in the traps either, but he left them there hoping that maybe something would trigger them so that they would have something to eat the next day. It didn’t really help with eating that day though. Derek had been looking really pale and he was weak. He would need to eat to be able to fight the infection.

He returned to the stream to find Derek asleep in the sun. He lay down next to him, leaning up on his arm and looked him over. His stomach flipped a bit as he took in the lean, muscular body and he leaned forward and brushed his hands through his hair to put it back into shape. They stayed this way for a while, Derek sleeping in the sun and Stiles watching over him, bow by his side in case any of the tributes left found them.

He startled when a parachute came floating down to land next to them. It woke Derek up as well and he pulled himself up a little to be able to see what they had been sent. It was hot broth and bread rolls and Stiles could not stop grinning at Derek when he saw and smelt it. There was a note stuck in with it that read ‘Keep it up kids’ and Stiles could only think that maybe he meant him caring for Derek.

“Before we eat we should hide ourselves. Whilst it’s nice being out here in the sun, we’ve been lucky not to be found by the others yet.” Stiles got up and moved over to the rock Derek’s top was laid out on.

“Hey look! This isn’t just a rock, it’s a cave!” he called out.

Picking up the top he returned to Derek and helped him to put it on, then he gathered up all their things and took them inside the cave. Once all their meagre belongings were inside he went back for Derek. He helped him inside, made him get into the sleeping bag and put the back pack behind his head as a pillow. Then he left the cave and found branches that could be construed to be part of the bush near the entrance and arranged them to cover it up. It blocked out most of the light, but there was enough for him to feel his way back over and settle next to Derek.

Once settled, he started sharing the broth between Derek and himself. He shared one roll, soaking it in the broth to make it easier to digest. He was pretty positive that Derek wouldn’t have been able to eat whilst hiding in the mud. When he had shared out about half of the broth he put it to one side for them to eat the next day. He then leant over and fed the last piece of roll to Derek, ignoring his protests. Derek laid a hand on his arm and lifted his head, looking at Stiles with hooded eyes. Stiles’ stomach flipped and, rather than wiping the dribble of broth from Derek’s lips, he closed the gap and kissed him.

He sat back, unsure what his next step should be, and looked to see what Derek made of it. Derek didn’t say anything, he looked at Stiles, laid his head back and then passed out. Stiles made sure that he was in a comfortable position and sighed to himself. He wasn’t sure whether he’d done the right thing, he was confused about how he felt and had no idea about how Derek felt. As he was mulling it over he heard a sound outside. He crept towards the cave opening to investigate and pulled aside some of the branches to go outside once he had decided that it wasn’t the sound of a tribute come to kill them. He discovered that what it had been was another gift from Peter.

Opening the capsule, this one a lot smaller than the last, he discovered that he had been sent sleeping syrup. Unable to work out why Peter had sent them sleeping syrup instead of, say, the medicine that Derek actually needed, Stiles made his way back into the cave, carefully closing the gap behind him. He put the syrup with the broth in a corner out of the way and then curled up next to Derek for warmth whilst he tried to get some sleep.

The next morning they were both woken up to the sound of the Gamemaker and a new announcement. This time it wasn’t a rule change, it was more of a challenge. It seemed to Stiles that the few tributes left all desperately needed something and the Gamemaker had decided to make them all fight for it. The announcement was that there would be something for each district at the Cornucopia at noon that day. There were only five of them left and of that five only two couples could win, according to the previous rule change; either him and Derek or Jackson and Erica, and he could only win with Derek if Derek stayed alive. He began preparing to set out to the Cornucopia immediately.

“You can’t go,” Derek told him.

“Why not?” asked Stiles.

“Jackson will have the place staked out. Even if he’s not using it as a base camp any more he’ll be nearby. He’ll turn it into a bloodbath.” Derek reached for Stiles. “He could kill you.”

“I’ll be careful,” replied Stiles.

They argued on for a while until Stiles remembered the sleep syrup. He put his bow and arrows to one side and told Derek that he wouldn’t go. Then he reached for the broth and, forgoing any for himself, put a couple of drops of the syrup in before he turned back to Derek. He settled next to him and smiled.

“Time for some get well soon juice,” he told him in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Derek smiled and obediently opened his mouth so that Stiles could feed him. Not long after, he’s dozed off and Stiles is making sure he’s left him in what comfort he can, with the water bottle nearby should he wake up before Stiles got back. He set off with grim determination and it didn’t take him long to reach the outskirts of the Cornucopia. There was a table set up in front of it with three bags on it. Deciding that he didn’t want to be gone too long from Derek, Stiles went for the dash and grab option hoping that he would be able to grab his bag and get out of there before anyone else could react.

He nearly made it. He had hold of his bag and had got it onto his back when he was hit on the side of the head. He ended up in a fight with Erica, she had come out of the Cornucopia as soon as he had reached the table and taken his eyes off his surroundings and concentrated on his bag. She was surprisingly strong and very vocal about catching him. He fought back, but he wasn’t in a position to be able to use his bow and he hadn’t thought to bring his knife with him. Just as he thought it was going to be the end of him, Erica’s grasp weakened and she gasped, choked and then fell to one side and the cannon sounded.

Stiles saw the female tribute from Scott’s district standing over them with a large rock in her hand. She looked at him and Stiles honestly thought that he had been saved only to be killed by someone else. She didn’t move to hit him though, instead she leant down and helped him up.

“Thank you,” said Stiles.

“Thank you, for Scott. That is my repayment.” She gestured at Erica. “Next time we meet we’re even.”

Stiles nodded dumbfounded and watched as she grabbed the bag for her district and then headed off in a different direction to which Stiles had approached the Cornucopia. He only stared for a while and then he turned and ran. He didn’t stop until he got back to the cave and then he got himself inside and covered up the entrance again, happy to be able to hide away from the arena and all its horrors.

“Where have you been and what did you drug me with?!” Stiles jumped as Derek shouted at him.

“I’m sorry!” he said, moving over to Derek and pulling the bag round to show him.

“You....” Derek’s voice cracked. “You could have died, Stiles.”

“I didn’t, though, did I. Now, let’s see what it is we desperately need.” Stiles then opened the bag and pulled out a small jar.

It didn’t have a label on it, but Stiles was positive it was for Derek. He unscrewed it and then helped Derek out of the sleeping bag. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for either of them. The leg had got worse and the pain was excruciating for Derek but Stiles kept going. He covered the entire gash and then helped Derek back into the sleeping bag. For all the sleep he’d had whilst Stiles had snuck out, he easily fell back to sleep, his arm still around Stiles. Stiles smiled and curled up next to him using his chest as a pillow, then he, too, fell to sleep.

When they woke up the next day Stiles checked Derek leg and found it to be much better than before he had administered the medicine. He lathered another lot on to keep the healing going and then they curled up and went back to sleep. The cave gave them safety they needed to heal, rest and recuperate. It didn’t make the arena and the reality of where they were go away. It wasn’t long before Stiles told Derek that they had to leave, they had no food, and the only way to win would be to rid themselves of the two other tributes that were left.

They packed up and left their shelter, Derek now able to walk without help, although Stiles thought he was being a bit funny about it all. He wouldn’t let Stiles see how it was doing at all now that he felt better; he had even taken the medicine off him and administered it himself. He’d also managed to repair the rip in the trousers so quick glances in that direction didn’t help. Stiles commented on how amazing medicine could be if you had the money for it, but Derek didn’t seem interested in continuing the conversation, which Stiles did find odd, but he shrugged it off, figuring they had more pressing things to be worried about.

As they tracked back to the Cornucopia the sound of a cannon boomed across the arena.

“That means there’s only you, me and one other,” said Stiles. “Do you think it’s Jackson?”

Derek grimaced. “Most likely.”

“We better prepare ourselves for an attack then, seems like he’s worse to face on his own.” Stiles made sure his arrows were in the right place for easy reach and twanged his bow for effect.

“Best get this over with then,” Derek said looking to Stiles for agreement.

Stiles smiled at him. “Yes, we best had.”

They approached the Cornucopia carefully, not knowing where the last kill had happened and not wanting to walk straight into the other tribute and give themselves up on a platter. When they decided that it was safe because there was no movement from inside it, they headed out and salvaged some food from the melee Stiles had caused. It had been a clear day and the night was turning out to be no different. The moon shone down bathing the area in an iridescent light and sparkling on the lake. They headed down to the lake to rest and eat as it would be the best place for them to sit and rest whilst still being able to see if someone was coming.

“That’s Jackson,” Stiles said as they made their way there, fear creeping into his voice.

Derek took his hand and pulled him behind him.

“What’s he doing? He doesn’t look like he’s running at us, he looks like he’s running away from something,” Stiles wasn’t even trying to hide his fear now, if Jackson was running from something he could only think that it must be bad.

“Run!” Derek turns and shouts at him, urging him to turn and run.

Stiles didn’t need telling twice this time. He turned and fled to the Cornucopia, having seen the hell beasts chasing Jackson. He almost fell in his need to get out of their reach, but Derek pulled him up and soon they were at the Cornucopia and Derek was pushing him onto the roof. Unfortunately, that was where Jackson had made a beeline for too. Stiles turned to give Derek a hand up, only to see his eyes turning red and his mouth opening in a snarl full of teeth that definitely weren’t human. Stiles stared, shocked, as Derek turned away from him, body changing all the time, and let out the most terrifying howl Stiles had ever heard in his life.

He wasn’t able to process any of it, though, because he felt someone grab him and lift him up and then he was flung across the roof, all his breath left his body when he landed and through the bleariness of having banged his head he saw Jackson looking over him.

“Look what I’ve got here,” sneered Jackson. “Derek Hale’s girlfriend. He won’t recognise you once I’ve finished with you.”

Stiles pulled himself to his feet and frantically tried to get an arrow onto his bow.

“That isn’t going to work,” came the next sneer.

Jackson was now behind him and grabbed him in a bear hug. Once he had taken Stiles’ arms out of commission he let go slightly, prized the bow out of his hand and flung it off the top.

“Now what are you going to attack me with?” Jackson laughed.

Stiles simply leant forward and dropped down, it took Jackson off balance and over his head so that the bear grip ended and, once Jackson regained his feet, they were face to face again. Stiles had his hands up in fists prepared to fight nail and tooth. He was concentrating so hard on staying alive and staying on the roof that he jumped out of his skin when a very large wolf leapt onto the roof and knocked Jackson to the floor the other side. A mixture of growls and screams could be heard below and it made Stiles cringe and cower, he fully expected this wolf to devour him.

When nothing happened, Stiles looked up. The wolf was staring at him and, as he looked, he noticed that the eyes were no longer red and rather familiar.

“Derek?” Stiles asked incredulously.

The wolf merely approached him, sniffed him, and then jumped off the Cornucopia to the pack below. Stiles watched as he bit Jackson and then roared at the rest of the wolves, his eyes going red again. It was the same eerie howl that he had started off with and Stiles watched as all the wolves gathered before him as if bowing to his will. Derek then shifted back to his human self and Stiles was shocked even more when the other wolves did the same. Each and every one of them was a tribute.

“Scott! Derek! What’s going on?” Stiles cried out in confusion and fear. “What’s happened to Jackson?”

Derek and the others all attempt to find some form of clothing amongst the belongings within the Cornucopia, so Stiles climbed down from the roof to see if he could get an answer. He still wasn’t sure how safe he was, even though Derek hadn’t attacked him when he did Jackson, so he grabbed his bow and arrows and had one ready to string just in case. He sought Derek out and took hold of his arm to get his attention. Dropping it again immediately when he suddenly thought Derek might react badly to that.

“What is all this? You’re a wolf? A werewolf?” Stiles asked him.

Derek nodded.

“What’s happened, why is everyone else like this? How is it your leg was so bad if it could heal itself?!” Stiles pointed at Derek’s arm where Jackson had managed to slice into him with his knife as he knocked him over the side.

“It’s hard to explain,” Derek replied as he sighed and stared moodily at the moon.

“I think it needs explaining!” exclaimed Stiles. “Why hasn’t a cannon gone off for Jackson?”

“Because he’s not dead, merely changing,” replied Derek.

“So he’ll be a werewolf now too?” Stiles asked.

Derek nodded.

“Well, you better get it over with then,” Stiles said and then looked up at Derek to see him looking at him in confusion.

“Well, isn’t that what werewolves do? Kill people and make them part of their pack?”

Derek stepped forward to close the gap between them. “I won’t ever be able to do that to you,” he said as his voice cracked.

Stiles stared at him. “I couldn’t kill you either,” he said quietly. “I mean, I wouldn’t physically be able to do it anyway, what with you being a super human wolfy and all, but also I wouldn’t be able to because, well, my feelings…”

Stiles didn’t have time to finish his thoughts off out loud. Derek pulled him into a kiss that stopped his ramblings. He kissed him back, shyly at first and then with more intensity. He only broke the kiss when he reached the point where he thought he wouldn’t be able to survive without taking a proper breath. He stood looking at Derek and the way Derek was staring at him made him feel as though he was staring into his soul.

“I really wouldn’t be able to kill you now,” Stiles joked to break the heat and the tension that he could feel between them.

Derek laughed and leaned his forehead against Stiles’ as he wrapped one hand around his neck, intertwining it with his hair, and the other around his waist, pulling him in closer.

“I think we’re forgetting something,” Stiles says breathily.

Derek languishly kissed him again before he answered. “What?”

“What happens now?”

“We have an army and we take on the Gamemakers to end this travesty!” Derek replied.

As the others all whooped and cheered, Derek lifted Stiles off his feet and kissed him again. The euphoria of the rebellion and the fact that no-one had really died, plus Derek holding him in his arms made Stiles wrap his legs around him as he kissed him for all he was worth. A self-healing army with teeth and claws for weapons would make short shrift of the arena and anyone that tried to keep them at bay.

Stiles smiled at Derek. “We won!”