Chapter Text
"Why do I have to be the one to do it?" the teenager with the spiky brown hair asks as he and two others trudge through the forest.
"Because, Matt, everyone who's on first line had to do it at some point or another. Consider it... initiation," another replies. This boy is significantly more built than Matt and looks more like a J. Crew model than anything else.
"I didn't have to do it, Jackson. I don't recall you–" the other starts, only to be interrupted by Jackson.
"Danny," Jackson hisses with a pointed look towards Matt, who caught on despite Jackson's efforts. Matt glares at Jackson, and then gives Danny an indigent look. At this, Danny just sighs.
"I'll go with you," he offers, and now it's Jackson's turn to look betrayed. Jackson sputters after them as Danny walks in step with Matt, then quickens up to fall in line.
"And don't forget, you have to–"
"I know, I know. I have to knock on the damn door."
They walk in silence for the rest of the trip; they try to ignore the whipping winds and the pits in their stomachs that tell them, "no, you idiots, go back!"
They reach the tall, black gates in what feels like a lifetime, and Matt tilts his head as he realizes that the wind has stopped just outside the Hale Manor. He doesn't seem to be the only one, as Danny says, "maybe we should just go..."
The manor is not as decrepit as their parents used to say it was. Instead, it looks well tended to (at least the garden does) and, unfortunately, lived in. Along the black gates is a border of what appears to be wolfsbane, which is perhaps the only truth to the stories they were told. The outer shell of the building is dark and looks as if someone tried to burn it, but only managed to leave a permanent mark. The lights are on, and that makes the boys feel even more uneasy.
"Nope. Come on, Matt. You gotta prove you're tough enough to be on first line." Jackson pushes Matt forward through the gate that's slightly ajar, and it doesn't feel like a good sign at all. Danny sighs and follows behind him, leaving Jackson to go as well, muttering things that would make a grandmother want to put soap in his mouth.
As they enter through the gates, Jackson scoffs and looks around. "It's not even that scary," he says with bravado that maybe only Danny would be able to see through.
"Well then maybe you should knock on the door," Matt goads, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah okay. I'm not the one who just made first line. I'm captain, remember?"
"As if you ever let us forget," Danny mutters as he takes a closer look at the wolfsbane, careful not to touch anything.
The sound of wheels makes him look up, and it's too little too late before he catches sight of a wheelbarrow racing towards them in the dark. "Jackson! Look ou–"
Danny's attempts to warn Jackson are futile, however, as the wheelbarrow pushes into Jackson, who releases a shout, and causes him to fall into the wolfsbane. Matt flees, and Danny grabs an injured and panicked Jackson and helps him run away as well.
-
"Damnit, Erica!" Stiles cries as he watches the scene from the window of the foyer, and if he had hands, he would be waving them around in distress. "Boyd, please call in your crazy girlfriend!" he says to the large shovel who had also been watching from the floor. Boyd sighs and hops out the door, which opens for him as if by magic (not magic, just some poor butler who got stuck with the job).
Stiles wishes he could put his head in his hands as he hears Erica roll towards the house, complaining the whole way. She comes through the door in a huff and Stiles can feel her glaring at him.
"They were gonna bother Derek and they were poking at the fucking plants! If you think I was just gonna sit there and watch them defile Isaac's hard work, you are sorely mistaken and if–"
"But now the douchebag is going to be coming back with the whole town to complain because knowing my luck, he probably has aconite poisoning!"
"Well good riddance! He deserves it! Besides, no one has come around here for years. No one has the balls for it." Erica sounds as if she would be shrugging nonchalantly, and that just makes Stiles angrier.
"Yeah? And what if they do? For all we know, that guy could've been the Beacon Hills golden boy! He was captain of whatever it is these days, after all. That would definitely set at least someone off, and then they'll come here and see that hey! Those bedtime stories aren't just bedtimes stories! And then they'll try to kill Der– oh god, Derek." Stiles bounds off in a rush up the stairs, leaving Erica to her own devices and, Stiles hopes, feelings of guilt.
Good, he thinks as he turns one of the many corners into one of the many corridors of the Hale Manor. The inside of the house is pleasant, clean, and looks just how it used to. The only difference is the lack of humans and the weird, animated pieces of furniture and other household items.
"Der– Oh, did I interrupt something?" Stiles says with a smirk upon seeing Derek facing himself in the mirror, prodding at his own face. Furry hands (they look more like paws) with claws are pushing the lips of a maw upwards to reveal wolf-like teeth, until Derek turns around and rolls his eyes at the miniature grandfather clock in the doorway.
"No, but I think I have something in my teeth," he says with a teasing grin, which causes Stiles to shudder at the idea of what could get in his teeth, considering Finstock had put soup on the menu for dinner.
"Yeah, well, I'm not helping you out with that. I'm a clock, not a toothpick."
Derek snorts, goes back on four legs, and moves to sit on a large bed that was made for a man, not a large, black wolfish beast. "So Erica–"
"Yes! Erica! Can you believe that?!" Stiles interrupts, hopping over to the bed and using the small steps made of books along the side of it (hey– he's a small clock; he had to make due with what he's got) to climb up and sit next to Derek. Of course Derek already knew about the Erica situation, considering he could hear from miles away and, as everyone knew in the manor, Stiles was not a quiet person... Or clock... Thing.
Derek sighs and shakes his head, but Stiles can't tell if it's out of amusement, shame, or disbelief. "If things go bad, you know I can take care of my–"
"I'm well aware of that, thanks," Stiles says, side-eyeing Derek's claws and teeth, "but it doesn't make me feel any better! What if things go really bad?!"
Derek shrugs. Stiles squawks at his apathy and nearly falls of the bed in his attempt to flail, but Derek's tail quickly wraps around his back and secures him further away from the edge. "Thanks," Stiles mutters, trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach he always gets whenever Derek touches him.
It's been years since they've been human, but Stiles still remembers the way Derek looks, the way his smirks and grins were always wolfish even before the curse. He especially remembers the body that would make even Adonis jealous. Luckily for Stiles, clocks don't blush, so even as he thinks of these things, his skin doesn't go flush the way it used to. Most of all, Stiles remembers hanging out with Derek since he was ten years old. Stiles' father had been the steward of Hale Manor, and Stiles was supposed to take his place when he became old enough.
At first, Derek and Stiles did not get along, as they were constantly fighting over whatever came up. Stiles liked to make fun of Derek's murderous eyebrows and ears that stuck out just a little too much, and Derek liked to point out Stiles' lanky body and weird moles that were pretty much everywhere. But then arguing turned into debating the merits of different authors, and flaws– at least for Stiles– turned into favorite features. Stiles developed a crush on Derek at age 17, but god forbid Derek ever finds out. Then, Stiles figures, everything will be ruined (not that it already isn't, to be honest).
Derek lies down on the bed and looks at Stiles, who just looks back with an eyebrow raised. "What?" he asks.
"You worry too much," Derek says with a yawn and curls into himself, wrapping his tail around his body. Stiles shakes his head, says a small "good night," and gets off the bed, leaving the wolf to his slumber. Well, he thinks, someone has to.