#sixspades

“Maybe it was nesting!  Maybe the rain gutters needed fixing.  Maybe she had trouble getting it through customs!  I don’t know what to tell you, Derek, but this isn’t exactly what I expected either.  At least she was nice?  And you’ve gotta admit, her kolaczki are pretty fantastic.”  He was babbling, clearly shaken, and maybe Derek should have cared more about that, but he couldn’t forget that-

“She cursed me.”

Stiles paused, “She wished you luck.”

“Not good luck.  Wording matters with witches.  Or so I’ve been told.”  He eyed the arcane tattoos on Stiles’ hands pointedly.

“Look, so maybe she is baba yaga, but she’s still my babcia, and babcia’s always had kind of a strange sense of humor, but she’s never been mean to me-”  It sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Derek, but Derek found himself distracted.

Had the house been moving?  He looked at the trees, gazed back along their path.  The chicken-house had disappeared, but worse than that, the forest looked entirely unfamiliar.  He took a deep breath of pine-scented air, and tried to remember exactly how long they’d been inside, sipping tea and eating cookies while the old woman watched with her secretive smile and piercing eyes.

“I think we’re in the Shasta national forest,” he finally decided, bringing Stiles’ monologue to an abrupt halt.

“Dude, that’s like fifty miles-” his cell phone was already in his hand, gps active and searching.  For a moment, the map glowed its damning confirmation, then the little device went dead.  “Well, fuck.”

—-

“This doesn’t mean you’re cursed,” Stiles repeated.  He’d repeated it a lot in the past four hours, and the assurance had lost any semblance of validity.  “Curses take will and malice.  She’s got a lot of will, but she just met you and you were actually pretty polite, for you.  Not much room for malice, you know?  She had no reason to curse you.”

Derek tugged his foot a couple more times, but it was solidly lodged in the rotted wood of a log that had somehow been completely hidden by moss.  So far he’d gotten smacked or scratched by dozens of branches, tripped by innumerable roots, coated by smears of tree sap and worse from every surface he’d had the misfortune to touch, and now it looked like he was going to lose his shoe to a termite-infested bear trap of a log.

“No.  Maybe I’m just ‘lucky’,” he snarled, shifting to see if added strength might save the shoe.

“Woah,” Stiles eyes widened a little, the first sign of energy he’d shown in a while.  “Um, you might wanna be careful about your positioning there - this hill’s kinda steep?  Look, maybe if I-”

At the sight of magic glowing along Stiles’ knuckles, though, Derek reared back, roaring, and gave his foot a mighty wrench.  He felt wood and bone both crack, but then his shoe was free and his body was falling sideways, slamming into Stiles who gave a startled yelp before tumbling away down the hill.

Of course there was a creek at the bottom.

Of course it was muddy and cold.

Of course Stiles went in head first before he could slow his momentum, but at least it was shallow enough for him to scramble back out with only a couple of scrapes, soaked to the skin and spluttering.

By the time Derek reached Stiles, his foot had already healed, but it seemed the ‘luck’ wasn’t over.  The pale sky appeared to soften in the gap above the creek, and fluffy snowflakes began to fall like icy cotton nightmares.

Stiles looked up from squeezing creek water out of his hoodie, as a snowflake hit his nose.  “This should be fun.”

—-

“This is not… a curse…” Stiles insisted, doggedly.  His body trembled with cold, and his lips were more bluish than pink, but he continued to stumble along.  “Curses are magic.  I know magic.  I’d feel if there were magic going on.”

Beside him, Derek walked slowly, scanning the forest for any signs of civilization.  They’d tried his cell after Stiles’ had gone dead, but it had only lasted long enough for them to figure they would need to head north, then died just as surely as the other, and no cajoling could get it back on.  “Do you know any spells to call for a ride?” he asked, not really hopeful, but wanting to keep Stiles talking.  It was too cold to be out in wet clothes.

“Could summon an ifrit,” Stiles mumbled.  “Just need to find some Arab ruins and an ibis feather…”

“Not too many of those around here.”  He watched another shiver wrack Stiles’ body.  “How about a spell for dry clothes?”

“Sure.  Jus’ takes some quarters an’ a dryer…”  He didn’t argue when Derek shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Stiles instead.

—-

“This… s-seems unl-likely.”

Derek had to agree.  The sun was setting and Stiles had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last mile or so, a dead weight against Derek’s back.  To arrive at a clearing with a tiny, well maintained cabin just when Derek was starting to think of trying to build a shelter out of pine boughs was awfully convenient.  He lowered Stiles to the ground, relieved when he managed to stay upright, and took a deep, scenting breath.  

The subtle scent of gingerbread did not relieve his suspicions.

Unfortunately, the scent of Stiles - dull with cold, spiked with the pain of freezing extremities, and bitter with growing anxiety - was far stronger.  

“Is it magic - illusion or something?”  Derek couldn’t hear any heartbeats, or smell any humans around.

Stiles’ hand traced a pattern in the air, and his gaze went distant for a moment, but then he shook his head.  “Too tired… can’t really tell.”  His knees wobbled slightly and Derek managed to get an arm around him before he fell.  “A’ leas-s-t ‘s warmer here…”

It wasn’t, actually.  Derek frowned into the icy spikes of Stiles’ hair, and noticed he’d stopped shivering.  The time for caution had clearly run out.  

He didn’t bother talking as he dragged Stiles up the two wooden steps to the door, then carefully ignored the way that door seemed locked, but opened easily when Stiles’ hand happened to brush the knob.  The scent of gingerbread was stronger here, but it blended pleasantly enough with scents of seasoned wood and beeswax.  Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if the whole place smelled like sewage, with the amenities it offered.  A little iron stove took up one corner, while a shelf across from it held pots, pans, and some promising jars.  In the back of the cabin was a bed - a rustic affair stacked high with quilts, that looked soft and warm… but small.

“Tha’s a hex,” Stiles slurred, staring at a little pattern over the door.

“Yeah, well this is a stove,” Derek countered, ignoring the hex or whatever the hell else might be off about this cabin.  There were logs and kindling already laid neatly in the stove’s firebox and a tin of matches was too conveniently placed on the shelf, but Derek ignored that too, making quick use of both to get the fire going.  He glanced at Stiles.  “Change.”

Stiles managed a soft giggle, not looking up from where he’d slumped beside the doorway.  “ ‘m not the shifter here.”  He sighed, though, and gave a weak tug at the cuffs of Derek’s jacket.  “Sorry…” He giggled again, without any humor.

“Fine.  I’ll help,” Derek tried for gruffly annoyed as he crawled over to Stiles, but fell short of the mark when Stiles’ forehead landed on his shoulder.  It was ice cold, damp with melting snow, which was really explanation enough for the way it made Derek shiver.  He pushed his jacket off Stiles’ shoulders easily enough, but unzipping his hoodie felt more intimate than it should have, and unbuttoning the flannel underneath it was downright awkward.

Removing Stiles’ t-shirt restored a little normalcy, since Stiles’ twitched like a dying squid every time Derek’s hands touched skin, and the resulting escalation in difficulty brought a healthy dose of exasperation back to the whole situation.  It carried Derek through getting Stiles out of his tennis shoes and muddy socks, but couldn’t quite keep him from pausing on the button of Stiles’ jeans.  

“No innuendos,” he grumbled, unfastening the button and zipper as perfunctorily as possible.  He needn’t have bothered with the warning, though: Stiles was unconscious again.  

Fear succeeded where exasperation had failed.  Derek’s hesitation vanished, and he stripped Stiles out of his jeans and tucked him into the bed, laying the wet things out on the floor in front of the stove to dry.  Then he shucked out of his own jeans and henley, crawled over Stiles, and settled himself between the cooler outside wall and the icy man.  Pulling Stiles into his arms got no reaction, but he dragged another quilt over them both and held on.  It would work eventually.  It had to.

“I don’t like your grandmother’s version of luck,” he whispered.  He kept one eye on the fire in the stove, and settled in to wait.

—-

“Shh.  It’s okay.”

Derek had not meant to fall asleep - hadn’t really thought he could, with an arm full of frozen Stiles and a nose full of the smell of wood smoke.  Apparently he was wrong, though, because the sky outside was fully dark, and the man in his arms was warm and conscious and… and stroking surprisingly soothing fingers through his hair.

“Just a bad dream, big guy.  You’re fine,” Stiles continued.  He’d somehow rolled over in the tiny bed, curling around Derek in turn and blocking his view of the stove.  It was a deliberate gesture, oddly protective, and that was the thing about Stiles because no matter how many times fate (and ‘luck’) reminded everyone that he was basically a fragile human, he still chose the role of defender - of flat out knight in shiningly nonexistant armor - wherever his friends were concerned.  

And Derek was his friend.  Possibly more, if he were being honest.  It was easier to be honest in the darkness of a cabin in the woods somehow, easier to admit it was more than friendship that had made him return to Beacon Hills, made him seek out the job at the Sheriff’s department and the place of beta in Scott’s pack.  In his mind, he still liked to pretend they were just comrades in arms, but in his heart… well.  He wouldn’t have sat down to tea with Baba Yaga for just anyone.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.  His nose was level with the hollow of Stiles’ throat, and he let himself breathe in the smell of no-longer-freezing skin - warm and musky with hints of contentment, of home.  

“Nah.  Had a weird dream too.  Something about breadcrumbs and gingerbread houses way out in the woods.”  Derek felt Stiles’ hands brush against his back, gesturing though neither of them could see the gestures.  “Thought I should maybe put more wood in that stove, but then you started growling, so…”  The hands settled on Derek’s skin, gentle and warm.

It struck Derek that he was comfortable in this little bed in this little cabin - more comfortable than he’d felt in a long time.  It didn’t feel awkward or frightening, now that Stiles was awake, but still pressed close against him.  The forest outside was still probably out to get him - the witch’s curse just waiting for him to come out - but here, now, he only felt relaxed.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“Yup.  All better.  No frozen toes to amputate or anything,” Stiles joked.

“This okay?” But this time, Derek let his arms tighten just a little and let his nose brush Stiles’ throat, and Stiles’ reply was softer, understanding.

“Yeah.”  His arms tightened too, returning the embrace they’d never quite shared before.  “I’m feeling pretty awesome actually.”

—-

Morning light was streaming through the cabin windows when Derek woke again.  The room was warm, and Stiles was dressed, sitting on the floor in front of the stove and poking at his cell phone.  When Derek moved, Stiles turned at the sound and smiled back at him.

“You up?”

He didn’t really want to be, but they had a lot of hiking to do today, and probably should start earlier than later.  He nodded, then caught the clothes Stiles tossed to him and started to get dressed.  “Did you find a charger?” he had to ask, noting the light on the cell phone.

“Something like that.  Good news: we don’t have to walk as far as we thought!”  He waggled the device in Derek’s face.

“And the bad news?” He ducked out of the way of the cell phone to tug his shirt on.

“Well…”

The cabin was higher off the ground than Derek remembered.  It was also in the Sheriff’s back yard.  He had a terrible suspicion he’d see chicken feet if he looked underneath, but at the moment, his attention was entirely taken up with the Sheriff and the old woman standing on the back porch watching as he and Stiles emerged from the cabin, probably looking disheveled in ways that could be very misinterpreted.  

“You see?  Now my grandson has no trouble finding a house.  His house has found him, yes?  None of this worry about getting loans or finding a good neighborhood.  A proper witch does not rent a condo.”  She was holding the Sheriff’s arm, which was probably just as well since the man looked about as overwhelmed as Derek felt.  

“You boys should probably come in and have breakfast,” the Sheriff managed, turning to head inside after a last, long look at them both.  Stiles followed quickly, already launching into an explanation and leaving Derek to face his grandmother alone.

“So little wolf, did you have luck?” she asked, one bony hand gripping his elbow tightly to walk with him into the house.