#whenshewrites

Tommy couldn't take his eyes off the screen, even after the army squad went in to bring Buck out, then to bring Athena out, then to start cleaning up the site. He just stared, eyes occasionally blurring with tears. He wasn't sure where they brought Buck or Athena. Possibly back to decon?

It wasn't until they rolled out the gurney that he flinched, looked away. He left his silent vigil and wandered numbly through the tents, but he didn't see anyone from the 118. LAFD had already dispatched someone to retrieve the bird he'd commandeered after he ignored the fifth call for him to return, and he found himself in the parking lot, realizing he needed to figure out how to get home.

Behind him, there was a muffled, scratching sound. At first he thought it was just a small animal scrabbling around, but he heard it again and realized with a start that this was coming from a person.

He turned, squinted into the darkness. The wheezing sound wasn't far from him. He glanced down and found the source, someone hunched over on the curb.

"Evan?"

Buck raised his head from in between his hands. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was that strange croaking noise, and he buried his face in his hands again.

Tommy squatted in front of him, shook one of his knees as gently as he could. "Evan?"

******

From between his hands, Buck heard Tommy's voice, saying his name. He shook his head in between his fingers, neck too tired, head too heavy. He couldn't lift any part of himself up. Even though he was deemed clear of CCHF, Buck wondered if his organs might just be failing anyway. His insides felt like churning black goo, he thought his esophagus might be ripping itself to shreds. He didn't know eyeballs could be so burnt, so sore, that the body could produce so many tears. Whatever this was, it was so visceral, so painful, that he barely felt Tommy's hand against his knee. He didn't want to move his head again, for fear he might throw up all of this sticky black feeling inside. So he just sat, having screamed himself hoarse in blind rage and upset, unable to move.

Tommy's hand slipped away from his knee, it reappeared on his back. He tried to focus on that instead of the wobbly nausea coursing through him; he felt as Tommy firmly rubbed along his spine.

The nausea won out, and Buck didn't try to resist. He just opened his mouth and let some of the awful feeling spill out between his knees.

******

Tommy ran his hand through Buck's hair, pulling it back away from his forehead. He wasn't feverish, or sweaty. Vomiting actually seemed to free him of something, because at last he lifted his head up.

"Home," he stuttered.

They sat in an Uber with a sickly sweet air freshener; Tommy accidentally put in Buck's loft address when he first called it, but the driver just shrugged when Tommy updated it in the app after they climbed into the car. As soon as the car started moving, Buck leaned against Tommy, slipped his head and shoulders into Tommy's lap, twitching in a fitful sleep.

Tommy supposed that was as much an answer as any to whether or not Buck wanted him there. He stroked Buck's hair again, twisting back stray curls that occasionally bounced against his forehead, so they wouldn't tickle his eyebrows and wake him up.

******

Buck's throat was still raw when Tommy nudged him awake and they let themselves into his house. If it hadn't been so sore, he would have said: do you want to shower first? Take whatever you want from the closet, I can drive you to the station first thing in the morning to drop off your flight suit. And then, if that hadn't made it clear: please stay. Please. The bed is yours if you want it. You can have it to yourself if you need.

Tommy handed him a glass of water, watched him drink it. It helped a little. He rubbed his Adam's apple as he motioned down the hall.

"You can shower first," Tommy answered.

He gulped down another glass of water before getting in the shower. He gargled the warm shower water in between washing himself, tried to say a few words into the shower head. The jagged edges were getting slightly blunter.

Tommy was sitting on the couch, staring off into the distance, when Buck came out in his pajamas. Their eyes met and Buck took a deep breath, hoping that what he was about to say next wouldn't shatter the delicate truce between them. He hoped Tommy would understand why he was about to say what he was about to say:

"Eddie."

Tommy nodded. "I'll go shower. You'd better call him from your phone, though, I'm pretty sure he blocked my number."

Buck's face wrinkled in relief, and in the blur of another wave of tears, he felt Tommy squeeze him tightly before he slipped off.

******

Tommy stood under the hot water, reeling in the day's events. Today put a wall between who he was right now and who he was a few weeks ago. How many times he had promised himself tomorrow: he'd get around to that coffee place he's been wanting to try, tomorrow. He'd finally get started working on that fixer upper car, tomorrow. He'd call Evan and try to explain what he was feeling, tomorrow. He could no longer remember his fear, his jealousy, his hesitations of yesterday. He could only remember today, the fragility of life, the importance of being all in on the present moment.

******

By now it was the middle of the night in El Paso, and nearing early morning in LA. Buck didn't bother checking; it didn't matter.

Heart pounding, he tapped Eddie's name in his phone, heart pounding harder with each ring. It rolled over to voicemail and the throbbing heartbeats burst into light, anxious flutters. He sighed, hung up, dialed again. Ring, heart thump. Ring, heart thump. Ring - and the sound of a very groggy Eddie, "Buck?"

"Eddie, it's Bobby."

"What happened?" Eddie's voice wasn't urgent yet, wasn't dismayed. Like Buck, like the rest of the 118, his first instinct was: Bobby has survived too much. We've all survived too much. First Presbyterian, maybe a few months of rehab, he'll be back in the Captain's chair in no time.

Although his throat was no longer burning, Buck could feel his vocal chords starting to swell a little. "Complicated. Not okay."

"Buck. What happened?" Buck could hear a hint of panic now in Eddie's voice.

"Died. Bobby died. On a call. Bad one."

"What are you talking about?" Eddie shot back.

Buck broke into a coughing fit. He checked his hand, just to be safe: no blood.

"Evan?" Tommy was there, brows knitted together, in one of Buck's LAFD t-shirts. He, too, glanced at Buck's hand, relieved by the absence of blood. Buck offered the phone up to him.

******

"Diaz,"

"Kinard,"

"Listen," Tommy interrupted him. "I don't know how soon you can come back, but I'm sure everyone will want to see you. It was a fire in a lab researching novel viruses, and Bobby...Bobby got exposed. There was nothing anyone could do. We thought everyone would make it out okay...but..."

Tommy stopped. Buck's face had slipped, from a sort of concentrated determination into somber reflection, his eyes starting to shine again.

"And everyone else?" Eddie asked. The grogginess was gone from his voice, it sounded as though he were already pulling things out of drawers.

"Alive." Tommy said.

"I'll be there soon," Eddie promised, and ended the call.

Buck was on the sofa, his head back in his hands. Tommy sat, but before he could reach out, ask what he needed, Buck collapsed against him. For all his muscle, for all his height, he looked so small. The quivers running through him were subtle, subdued. Tommy pressed Buck's head to his chest as he let out another wail, ran his thumb along Buck's cheek as the tears fell again.

Tommy wished he knew what to say. He wished there was anything to say, actually, that could help. Dumbly, after Buck had let out the last yell his throat could manage, he whispered to him: "It's okay, it's okay, I'll be here. I'll be right here. I'm so sorry Evan, I'm so sorry."

He hoped that something in there might soothe even the tiniest edge of Buck's grief.

******

Buck was pretty sure he didn't have the energy to throw up again. Even though it felt like that black goo was coming back, he was also pretty sure there wasn't much else in there. He wasn't as numb as he'd been in the parking lot: now he could feel Tommy's hands on his cheek, holding him as his body was wracked with sobs. He heard Tommy's voice again, and a new powerful wave roiled within him, knocking back the stirring black goo. It washed a new emotion over him, and in the middle of this painful, complicated grief, he felt the deepest, purest love rising in his chest.

He lay, feeling the emotions churning in him, immediately guilty at his distraction from thinking about Bobby for even a minute. He's good for you, Bobby's voice echoing in his head. I love you, kid.

"Take a deep breath with me?" Tommy's timid voice mixed in with Bobby's, and Buck followed along with Tommy's soft one-two-three counts. The tumult faded away with each number.

He curled up into a seated position, hoping that would keep the nausea at bay for good.

"You should drink more water," Tommy said, standing to go get it. He returned with two large glasses, and Buck understood they were both for him. He accepted the first and drank quickly to stave off the headache he could already feel coming on. He pressed his palm into his head, trying to rub away the dull ache, then drank the second. Tommy set the glasses on the coffee table. "More?" he offered.

"N-no, I'm alright." Buck held either hand to his temple, trying to push off the stubborn sensation that remained there. Tommy considered him for a moment, then put his hands over Buck's, adding to the pressure. Buck sighed in relief.

******

Tommy couldn't help himself. He tilted Buck's head forward the slightest bit and kissed his forehead. They dropped their hands and looked at each other, the faintest of smiles flickering across Buck's face.

"Thanks," Buck still sounded hoarse.

"You should probably try and get some sleep. I mean - we both should. I can stay...here..." Tommy gestured at the couch.

Buck shook his head and stood to meet him. "Bed," he offered. "You and me." He paused, rubbing his throat. "It has - it has..." his voice cracked like he was fourteen and they both snickered. "This time," he started again, "It has a bed frame."

In bed, Buck wrapped himself against Tommy's body. He still seemed small, as though the shock of losing Bobby had shrunk him just a little. Tommy scratched his hair, Buck reached for Tommy's other hand to weave their fingers together.

That’s where he went wrong.

When he came home that summer, the plan was to surprise his dad and, if he could find him, Scott. Because Stiles hadn’t given up on his childhood best friend. Even if he’d suddenly vanished off the face of the earth and refused to answer Stiles’s calls or texts.

Except, Stiles didn’t get home. He got as far as the crossroad near their house when something hit his car. The thump was so loud, Stiles was sure Roscoe had taken a dent and it had to be a wild animal. Because what the hell else attacked an innocent car in the middle of the night?

Stiles remembered clambering out with a curse on his tongue. But he didn’t get three feet before an unrelenting arm wrapped around his neck, something soft was pressed against his nose, and all Stiles knew was black.

-

The point was, he thought he was drunk. There was the sound of music in the air, he could hear voices chattering above his head, and Stiles could’ve sworn the floor was moving. He was drunk. He just didn’t remember how it happened. 

“I’m telling you,” a female voice hissed. “It’s him. They share similar scents and that was his car. Do you really think anyone else drives around a piece of junk that color and model?”

Stiles blinked a few times. Were they talking about his car? Because Roscoe wasn’t a piece of junk and Stiles would fight anyone who said otherwise. And… color? Stiles didn’t even know what color his jeep was. He always thought it was a sort of murky-grey but then again, everything was. Oh god, what if it was bright pink? He’d always heard bad things about bright pink.

“We’ll let McCall confirm it,” another voice said. Male, this time. “But he’s not going to like this.”

“He can not like whatever he wants to. Derek wanted the spastic idiot and do you really want to be the one telling him we chickened out at the last minute?”

Stiles groaned. He didn’t actually mean to, but the sound burst from his lips as his head pounded like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. He heard the sound of a yelp and then a curse, and something soft was pressed against his face again. 

Stiles inhaled sharply before realizing that was a bad idea. His last thought was ‘not drunk’ before he passed out again.

- 

So, Stiles hadn’t had a ‘what a bad idea’ memory in a while, but this was certainly up for the grand prize. Stiles woke up feeling like he’d been ripped apart and put back together again, or maybe run over once or twice by a truck. He smacked his lips together, mouth tasting like cotton, and cracked one eye open.

And squawked, trying to yank backward.

Except he couldn’t, the sound of metal clanged as he realized he was handcuffed to a metal chair. Stiles looked sharply up and his breaths caught as he noticed a figure standing in the shadows across the room. The room— a room— one that was much too small for his liking and empty of anything but a bed and chair.

Stiles tried not to whimper, he really did. But the sound still broke free of his lips and he shied away as the figure stepped forward, fixing his gaze on the floor. Two pairs of boots came into his line of sight. Two pairs of black leather, mud-stained boots, that were almost comically big.

Stiles didn’t think it was a good time to be having such thoughts. But he couldn’t help it.

“Stiles Stilinski,” a male voice said. “I assume?”

Stiles clenched his jaw, glaring at the floor. The boots moved closer.

“Look at me.”

“Fuck off.”

His captor moved uncomfortably close. Stiles took a deep breath and mustered up his best glare, lifting his eyes to meet those of his captor. Except, the second he did, he saw a flash of green and felt like his head was exploding, a startled ‘oh’ leaving his lips.

Because suddenly, he could see everything. 

The grey walls of his room, the dark blue of his jeans, the horrible clash of blue and orange on his t-shirt. His captor stumbled back and Stiles could’ve sworn he heard a snarl, but that wouldn’t be right. Regular people didn’t snarl. Not even soulmates— soulmates.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles said. The guy across from him glared like Stiles had just run over his puppy or something.

And oh shit, his captor looked like a Greek God. Of course, he did, Stiles really shouldn’t have expected anything else. His jawline could probably cut diamonds, his shoulders were literally god-like, and his eyes— his eyes were the prettiest color of green Stiles had ever seen. 

Something strange left Stiles’s mouth and he was pretty sure it was along the lines of, “Sweet mother Jesus.” 

His captor looked murderous, turning on his heel and stamping out of the room. The door slammed behind him and Stiles jolted in his chair, staring at it for a second longer. Then the reality of the situation sunk in and he yanked against the cuffs, a shout rising in his throat.

“Hey, asshole, you can’t just leave me in here! I’m innocent! My t-shirt looks ugly! I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m a growing boy!”

The door suddenly opened again. But instead of his green-eyed captor, a blond-haired woman came in. Stiles stared for a moment, before his mouth fell open.

“Erica Reyes?”

“You remember me?” She said, smirking. Stiles blinked. 

“Oh my god, did you… did you help kidnap me? Dude, that’s so messed up!”

“Oh, relax,” Erica said, rolling her eyes. Which were a beautiful color of brown. Stiles wondered what the hell his eyes looked like. “Clearly, it was a bad idea. I don’t think Derek knows how to react to kidnapping his literal soulmate.”

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Wait, his name is Derek? Snarly-growly-green-eyes is named Derek?”

“Hale. Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles repeated. For a moment, he didn’t know why he recognized that name, but then it hit him like a punch to the gut. “Derek Hale mass-murderer Derek Hale? As in, the one that burned his entire family alive and killed a handful of Beacon Hill’s residents?”

Erica’s smirk faded. Stiles felt sick.

“He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

“If you keep talking like that, he will,” Erica said. “Cause he’s innocent.”

“Innocent. Innocent? He just kidnapped me!” Stiles said, yanking against the cuffs again. “Probably for murder!”

Erica’s expression turned pinched. Stiles could’ve sworn her eyes turned gold for a second, except he was definitely just getting used to seeing colors for the first time. Because, he reminded himself, he’d been kidnapped. By his soulmate. Resident murdering psychopath Derek Hale.

Erica studied him for a moment longer before sighing. Sticking out her lower lip, she turned toward the closed door. 

“I’m not getting anywhere with him. Would someone send in McCall?”

Stiles’s stomach dropped. McCall? But there was no way. There was no way Scott McCall, his Scott McCall, could be working with a murderer. Scott was a puppy. A literal ball of fluff. He couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to.

Except, when the door opened, it was the boy Stiles had grown up with stepping into the room. Or, it was sort of. Scott’s jaw was sharper, his hair was shorter, and he’d gotten strong. Like, scary-looking strong.

Stiles stared for a moment. Then, Scott moved forward and Stiles tried to pull back. The boy stopped abruptly.

“S-Scott?”

“Hey, man.”

“No way,” Stiles said. “There’s no way you’re here. There’s no way you’re with a murderer. Scott, what the hell happened when I left?”

Scott flinched at that. Erica rolled her eyes and started toward the door, waving a dismissive hand over her head.

“Let me know when you tell him about everything. You know, the Argents, the murders, and the werewolves.”

“The what?”

But she was already gone, the door slamming closed at her back. Stiles looked back at Scott with wide eyes and his previous-best friend was looking at him nervously. Stiles was pretty sure he really was drunk now, or maybe on drugs. Because this couldn’t be right. This wasn’t happening.

“I’d tell you to sit down,” Scott said weakly. “But, uh…”

“Dude. Not fucking funny.”

- 

Between going from graduating college to learning about werewolves, hunters, and finding his soulmate, Stiles thought he would’ve been more prepared to learn that Lydia Martin’s hair was red. But no, that still shocked him. You know, the fact that everyone in Derek Hale’s pack was literally drop-dead gorgeous.

Stiles sat with his knees pulled into his chest on a ratty old sofa. He was surrounded by people he remembered from high school and couldn’t believe this was actually his life. Erica Reyes was a werewolf. Lydia Martin was a banshee. Jackson Whittemore was a snake.

Okay, that one really wasn’t so surprising.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles said, pointing at Lydia and Jackson. “You two are supernatural soulmates.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and Jackson sneered. So maybe Stiles had a crush on her once; a long time ago. He was totally over it now. 

“And you two,” Stiles said, pointing at Erica and Boyd. Then he leveled Scott with his best glare, who shifted nervously next to Allison. “And you, my best friend who betrayed my trust and never told me he was a freaking werewolf.”

Scott winced. Stiles fixed Isaac with a flat look.

“And you’re…?”

“Currently single and colorblind.”

“Great. Four werewolves, a hunter, a banshee, a snake, and this is why I never should’ve come back to town.”

“I’m not a snake,” Jackson said, growling. “Anymore.”

“Oh, you’ll always be a snake in my eyes, Jacky-boy.”

“Actually,” Scott said. “There are five werewolves counting Derek. Six if you count his sociopathic uncle but we don’t usually do that.”

Stiles shuddered, glancing around the room. He couldn’t help but notice it was barrenly empty of anyone other than them. “And said Alpha werewolf is…?”

“Oh, he left,” Erica said. “He doesn’t take surprises well.”

“Great, that’s just great. And he kidnapped me because what, my dad’s a little upset that Derek’s been pinned with a couple dozen murders? Because I really don't think I would’ve been very helpful against that.”

“We had orders,” Isaac said, shrugging. “And grabbing you wasn’t that hard.”

“Hey!”

“Derek kidnapped you because he needed leverage if things went wrong,” Allison said. “There’ve been… a few killings in Beacon Hills. Hunters, we think. Going after all those they suspect are supernatural. And every time Derek tries to get out there and stop them, the cops are called in and he gets chased back into hiding. He’s the Alpha of Beacon Hills, but he can’t protect the town if its own police are working against him.”

“They’re just doing their jobs,” Stiles grumbled. Jackson rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well, people are dying because of them ‘doing their job’, Stilinski. Because of your dad.”

“Keep my dad out of this, slithers.”

Jackson bared his teeth in a snarl. Stiles winced back.

“And stop doing that.”

“The point is,” Boyd said, speaking for the first time. He seemed to have some sort of authority with how everyone went quiet and looked at him. “Derek had his reasons. He wasn’t ever going to do any harm. And it’s true— your dad is getting in the way of all this.”

“He thinks you’re a bunch of criminals, it’s not his fault,” Stiles muttered. Then he looked sharply over at Scott. “Oh my god, does he think you’re a criminal too?”

“Uh, I hope not?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. If he let himself get distracted, Stiles still couldn’t believe that was her actual hair color. He blinked a few times, shaking his head.

How was this his life?

- 

Stiles found himself standing on the sidewalk outside of the loft. It was some ratty place nestled in the middle of nowhere and he thought he could hear the sound of distant sirens. If he ran, Stiles figured he could get away from all this before someone caught him. But he didn’t really see himself running.

All he wanted to do right now, was take in the sights of everything. The moon was yellow, the stars were bright silver, and the night sky was a mix of black and blue. Stiles didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautiful.

The loft door opened and closed behind him. Stiles glanced back and froze when he saw a familiar Greek God standing a few feet away. Derek didn’t do anything, though, except stand with his hands in his pockets. Relaxing slightly, Stiles turned back forward again.

“It’s uh… really pretty, isn’t it? All the colors.”

Derek moved to his side. Stiles really wanted to look into his eyes— see that stunning shade of green again— but he kept his gaze straight forward instead. 

There were so many colors. Stiles had never realized what he was missing out on until now.

“I don’t know what things I might’ve said that you heard,” Stiles said after a moment. “But I’m sorry. If you uh… you know. Heard me call you a mass murderer and all that.”

“Werewolf hearing is pretty good,” Derek said in soft amusement. It was the third time Stiles had heard his voice and for some reason, that made his stomach flip. Despite himself, he chuckled.

“Yeah, well. Werewolves. That’s a bit more of a shock.”

Derek tensed. Sensing a change of attitude, Stiles backtracked quickly.

“Not like it’s worse, or anything. Just a shock, dude, you know? I mean, imagine learning vampires are real or something.”

Derek didn’t answer that. Stiles spun to face him.

“Oh my god, are vampires real too?”

“No,” Derek said with a huff, meeting his gaze. It was stupid, but Stiles’s breaths left him when he did. And of course, he had no control over his mouth.

“Dude, your eyes are really pretty.”

Derek’s face turned red, the color going all the way to his ears. Stiles clapped his hands over his mouth and blushed too, feeling his face turn hot. 

“Sorry.”

“No, uh,” Derek said, eyes dropping to the ground. “It’s fine.”

“I mean, they are, but—”

Stiles could’ve sworn he heard Derek growl. Just like the first time, except it was a little louder. He thought he saw something red flash in the man’s eyes too. Slowly, Stiles stepped closer. Derek tensed.

“Hey, dude,” Stiles said. “You have other eyes too, right? I mean, Scott’s were gold and Jackson’s were blue…”

Derek looked up, face unreadable. “I don’t think you really want to see.”

“I mean, they’re not scary, right?”

The man didn’t answer. Stiles clenched his jaw, cursing himself, and nearly tried to say something else, when the loft door suddenly slammed open again. Boyd came out, eyes snapping between the two of them, and he fixed his gaze on Derek.

“We’ve got an issue across town. Call for help about hunters.”

Derek cursed and broke away from Stiles’s side. Stiles started after him but Derek turned around at the door, looking conflicted for a moment. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but then ducked out of sight. Stiles deflated and Boyd gave him a sympathetic look.

“Stay at the loft,” Boyd said. “Until we get back.”

“But I could—”

“You’d be better out of the way.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, sitting back on his heels as the door closed again. He glared at it for a second, feeling utterly useless, before turning around again. The nighttime air was quiet this time; no sound of distant sirens.

Then suddenly, Stiles heard a footstep. He spun around right as a fist entered his vision and pain exploded through his head. Stiles stumbled back and tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground hard. 

He didn’t even have a chance to curse before a fist was entering his vision again. Stiles’s head bounced off the cement and for the second time that day, all he saw was black.

It was becoming a habit, it seemed.

- 

Stiles was starting to think people liked restraining him to chairs. 

He woke up with his hands tied behind his back and a whole new wave of pain pounding through his head. He kept his eyes closed this time, trying to feel out his surroundings, but then a hand connected with his cheek, and Stiles’s eyes snapped open as he bit back a cry.

“There you go,” a sneering man said. “Easiest way to wake him up.”

“Easiest way to give him a concussion,” a woman said from the side. Stiles blinked a few times and shook his head, the sting gradually fading as he looked around. His breaths stalled in his throat when he did.

They were in a warehouse of some kind. The ceiling was high and wide, the air was cold and stale. Stiles tugged on the ropes around his wrists before fixing his gaze on the people standing around him. They were all armed, he realized, with guns or knives strapped to their sides and down their legs. It looked like they’d set up camp here, with more piles of weapons tossed to the side.

“You’re hunters,” Stiles said as the realization hit. The woman laughed.

“And you’re a quick one.”

“What the hell do you want with me? I’m not supernatural.”

“No,” the man who’d hit him said, stepping forward and catching his chin. Stiles growled and tried to yank away, and the man chuckled. “But apparently, you’re like catnip to them. Want to explain what the Alpha of Beacon Hills wanted with a twig like you, boy?”

“Go to hell,” Stiles said. “Like I’d know.”

“But he didn’t kill or turn you. That has to mean something. Do you know the Alpha, boy?”

“It’s Stiles,” Stiles spat. The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Odd name.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Now, this is the second time today I’ve been kidnapped, and I really just want a nap and a burger. Can we negotiate on that?”

“He’s annoying,” the man said. The woman grinned.

“I think he’s cute.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose at that. He did another sweep of the warehouse and took in their numbers; a handful of hunters, no more than ten. But that might not be all of them, he realized.

“The distraction,” he said. “You really out killing more people?”

“We’re out killing bounties,” the woman said, crossing the room and crouching down in front of him. She had dark brown eyes and Stiles thought they would’ve been more threatening without the color. He didn’t like her smile, though. It was sickly sweet. “You aren’t on that list, but we do have some questions, sweetie. Do you realize what kind of beast Hale is?”

Stiles clenched his jaw. The woman smirked.

“You do. What are you then, the boy who runs with wolves? Or are you newer to this than we’d expect?”

He didn’t answer. She pursed her lips and nodded, pushing herself up again.

“They’re monsters, Stiles, you’ve got to realize that. Genetic mutations. It’s a mercy we’re providing, taking them out.”

“They’re not monsters,” Stiles said coldly. He dropped his eyes. “My best friend’s not a monster.”

Interest sparked in her eyes. The woman tilted her head and then pulled back, whispering something in the other man’s ear. His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted up in disgust, but he nodded after a moment. Stiles shifted uncomfortably and the woman turned back to him with a smile on her lips again.

“You know one of them?”

Stiles knew all of them. His stomach flipped and the color green flashed before his eyes for a second. They weren’t monsters. Scott… Derek couldn’t be. Stiles could’ve laughed at that, how quickly his mindset had gone from murderer to something else. Something else, as if he even knew what something else was.

Except Derek hadn’t wanted Stiles to see his real face, had he? As if it was something to be ashamed of. Like it was something monstrous. 

I mean, they’re not scary, right?

Stiles swallowed hard. 

Another man suddenly came forward, saying something Stiles couldn’t catch to the woman. Her eyes sparked with interest again and she grinned, looking at Stiles with a new expression. His gut twisted uncomfortably.

“You’re the Sheriff’s kid?”

Shit. “What of it?”

“You know that’s why Hale wanted you,” she said. “Imagine if he had the Sheriff’s kid to use as leverage. Oh, imagine if he turned the Sheriff’s kid. What could the law do against him then?”

Stiles drew back. Derek wouldn’t have— that wasn’t the plan. It couldn’t have been. The woman sighed and leaned forward, patting his cheek. Stiles drew away with a snarl.

“It’s alright, kid,” she said. “We’ve got you now.”

Stiles really didn’t think that was a good thing. He watched her turn away and the other man gave him a feral sneer before following. Stiles twisted his wrists in the ropes again and cursed.

But things could be worse, right? Stiles felt like things could be worse.

Suddenly, there was a distant shout and a series of gunshots. The entire room went silent and the shots cut off. Every eye turned to look at him and Stiles swallowed hard, hating himself and everything this day had turned into.

Because yeah, that could be worse.

A howl pierced the air and the room erupted into chaos. 

Stiles cursed and yanked on the ropes binding his wrists together. The warehouse doors suddenly burst open and the air filled with the sound of cocking guns. Stiles yanked sideways with all his might and ended up tipping— he had a split second of realization before he was crashing onto his side with a grunt.

“Sweet freaking Jesus,” he said. The movies always made escape look easier.

Suddenly, there was a yank on his wrist. Stiles yelped and felt something sharp press against his skin. It took him a moment to realize they were claws.

“Hold still,” a voice growled. Derek. Stiles twisted and tried to get a good look, but the man ducked his face away before Stiles could. 

The claw sliced through the ropes and Stiles scrambled forward, pulling himself up. By the time he was on his feet again, Derek’s claws were gone and he was tensed, scanning the room. Stiles glanced over at the chaos to see the others in their beta forms; a flash of golden eyes here, a sharp howl there. Stiles startled as Derek caught his shoulder and tugged him back, away from the fighting.

“Dude,” Stiles said, trying to shake him off. Derek didn’t let go, pulling him toward the other side of the warehouse. Toward another exit, Stiles realized. He yanked harder and stumbled away, rubbing at his raw wrists. “Dude, shouldn’t you be back there helping your pack?”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek groused. “They’ll be fine. You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not some token human, you know,” Stiles said, following after him. He thought he heard the sound of sirens now, which was just great. “I can fend for myself.”

Derek shot him a raised eyebrow. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“I was taken by surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, and Stiles blinked in surprise. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Du- Derek, why are you apologizing?”

Derek didn’t answer, starting toward the door. They were less than five feet away when a gunshot cracked through the air.

Stiles spun around, expecting pain. But it wasn’t aimed for him.

Derek roared in pain, dropping to one knee. Stiles’s heart stopped when he saw the hole in his stomach; the blood already welling. Out of the shadows came the woman, a pistol in hand and a smirk on her lips.

“Aw, Derek,” she said. “Does that sting a little?”

“Kate,” Derek growled, blood splattering his lips. The woman— Kate— stopped a few feet away and smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“You miss me, sweetie?”

Stiles snapped back to reality, shoving himself between them. Kate’s eyebrows shot up and her lips pursed in amusement. 

“Oh,” she said, sounding mockingly disappointed. “Honey, don’t choose sides now. I’ll put the mutt out of his misery and you can go free to daddy. You hear those sirens, don’t you? They’ll be here in a few minutes, I expect. Maybe even less.”

“No,” Stiles said, surprised his voice wasn’t shaking. He’d never actually stared down the barrel of a gun before, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t going to end well for one of them. “You won’t kill him. I won’t let you.”

“Let me?” Kate asked, laughing. Derek made a soft noise behind him and Stiles resisted the urge to turn around. “Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t a fight you’ll win. Tell you what, move aside and I’ll let you take the credit for taking out murderer Hale here. You’ll be the town hero. Think about it.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Oh, but sweetie,” Kate said. “He is.”

Stiles clenched his fists. Kate chuckled. 

“Have you seen his red eyes? Do you know what they look like? People say they’re the color of blood. Alpha eyes resemble the innocent lives they’ve taken, kid. Do you realize what that has to look like?”

Stiles’s heart thudded against his chest. But slowly, he unclenched his fists, staring at her. Because it clicked, then. 

“No,” he said. “I don’t. But you don’t either, do you?”

Kate’s smile faltered. Stiles bared his teeth in a sneer, straightening his shoulders.

“You have no idea what they look like. And you know what,” he said, “I wouldn’t either. Until about twelve hours ago. And you know why that is?”

Kate’s eyes turned hard. Stiles glanced over his shoulder and met Derek’s gaze. He was hunched over, a hand wrapped around his chest as his shirt turned red with blood. His face was half-shifted and Stiles met green eyes. Green eyes— and he thought that was all that mattered.

“You,” Kate said incredulously, drawing his attention back. “You?”

“Guess so,” Stiles said, turning back to her. “Guess I’m the boy that runs with wolves.”

Kate’s lips curled up in a snarl and she raised the gun again. Stiles leaped forward, catching her wrist, and twisted. Kate cried out and the gun clattered to the floor. A wild fist connected with his cheek but Stiles refused to let go, hooking his foot underneath hers and pulling hard. They both went tumbling to the floor. 

Stiles thought he heard Derek shout his name.

He reached over Kate’s head, scrabbling for the gun. She kicked up and caught him in the stomach and Stiles cursed, seeing stars. But his fingers still wrapped around cool metal and he shoved himself away, stumbling to his feet. Kate pushed herself up too and Stiles lifted the gun, a trembling finger wrapping around the trigger.

She went still, looking at him. Then her eyes flashed and she sneered.

“Can you pull the trigger, kid?”

Stiles’s hand trembled. Kate scoffed and stepped forward.

“You’re not a killer.”

“No,” Stiles said, heart in his throat. “Guess I’m not.”

Kate’s eyes flashed in triumph. But then Stiles aimed the gun downward and pulled the trigger twice, and her scoff turned into a cry of pain as she fell to the floor. Stiles stumbled backward and the gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. He kicked it away and turned to Derek, falling to his knees at his side.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles said. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding. It’s bad. Can you heal through this? Derek, why aren’t you healing through this?” 

“Wolfsbane,” Derek said raspily, eyes half-closed. “Like poison.”

“I don’t— I can’t— is there anything I can do? God, Derek, you’re not allowed to die on me.”

“Not here,” Derek said. Stiles tipped his chin up but Derek looked sharply away, teeth bared slightly. Stiles caught a flash of red and stilled. Derek’s chest rose and fell in heaves.

“Hey,” Stiles said softly. “Derek?”

“You don’t want to see.”

“I do,” Stiles said. “I… I do, Derek. Can you show me your eyes?”

Derek didn’t move for a second. Stiles swallowed and slowly, the man turned his face back. His eyes opened to reveal the color of crimson red that glowed slightly in the darkness. Stiles’s breaths caught in his throat and Derek started to turn away, but Stiles reached forward and touched his cheek. 

Carefully, he moved his fingers up, touch ghosting over Derek’s forehead and following the shifted ridges above his eyes. Stiles cupped his palms against Derek’s face and leaned forward, touching his forehead against Derek’s own.

“They’re beautiful. Both kinds.”

Derek sighed. 

“But, uh,” Stiles said. “Maybe we should get out of here?”

Quietly, the man nodded. Pulling back, Stiles linked an arm underneath his shoulders and grunted as he hefted the werewolf up. He took a few stumbling steps sideways and nearly lost his balance, but found it at the last minute, starting toward the doorway. One step after another, Derek’s feet shuffling on the floor.

“You’re a fool, kid,” a voice called behind them. Stiles paused and turned around. Kate sneered up from the floor. “You’re saving a monster.”

“No,” Stiles said. “But I am sparing one. Hope you have a good explanation for the police.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Don’t convince me to pull the trigger again.”

Her sneer slipped. Stiles turned and half-carried, half-lugged Derek toward the door. He thought she said something else, but he wasn’t listening this time.

Stiles came outside to the wail of sirens and the sound of echoing voices on the other side of the warehouse. Clenching his jaw, he turned away and started toward the empty street in the other direction.

Derek was unconscious by the time Scott found them. But he was still alive.

And that’s all that mattered.

- 

Stiles flipped through the folder for a third time, scanning the pictures and reports and everything they’d managed to scrounge together. He tried not to shift again in the chair beside the bed; Lydia had already informed him he was stressing everyone out by squirming. And then they’d still ended up leaving because he still couldn’t stop.

His eyes rested on a picture in the corner; one of a younger Derek and flashing eyes against the camera. Stiles studied it, shaking his head.

“Nice.”

“S… Stiles?”

Stiles jumped, nearly spilling the entire contents of the folder onto the floor. Over on the bed beside him, Derek blinked over, and Stiles straightened, grinning widely.

“Dude, you’re awake!”

Derek winced slightly. Stiles blushed and lowered his voice.

“Sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Are we at the loft?”

“Straight from the vet’s office,” Stiles said. “I can’t believe you guys actually go to the vet for an injury. I mean… that’s kind of funny, right?”

Derek blinked at him, raising a brow. Stiles chuckled nervously.

“Don’t look at me like that. It is.”

“What happened?”

“Well,” Stiles said, waving the folder through the air. “The police arrested one Kate Argent for possession of unregistered weapons and murder on three accounts. And once this baby is delivered, we think it’ll be enough to up that charge to…” Stiles’s smile slipped. “Well, a lot more.”

Derek looked confused. Stiles lowered his eyes, shrugging slightly. 

“It might be enough to clear you.”

“What?”

“I mean, I still need to talk to my dad. And he might have to know about some things. Like, werewolfy things, if that’s okay with you. But I think we could figure this out, dude. I think we could clear you.”

Derek stared at him. Stiles licked his lips nervously, glancing back up.

“Is that okay?”

“You did that,” Derek said. “For me.”

“Of course,” Stiles said. I mean, I do have a degree in criminology. And it’d be nice to go to the grocery store without getting arrested, right?”

Derek didn’t say a word. A knot formed in Stiles’s stomach.

“Unless that’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” Derek said, sitting up with a small wince. “It is, of course, it is. I just— why?”

“Because,” Stiles said. “You’re innocent.”

Derek’s face tightened. Before he could say a word, Stiles leaned forward and caught his hand. Derek blinked in surprise and his eyes snapped up to meet Stiles’s.

“I know I don’t know everything about your past,” Stiles said softly. “I mean… you know. But Derek, you’re not what Kate says. Or what any of them say. And I swear to god, if I have to find all the evidence in the world to prove that, I will.”

Derek looked at him quietly. Stiles started to pull his hand away, but Derek held on tighter, fingers intertwining with his own. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, ducking his head. “Maybe I’d do anything for those eyes.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turned red. Stiles chuckled.

“They're pretty,” he said. “Both of them.”

“Even the red?”

“Even the red.”

“And,” Derek said slowly. “If they were blue?”

Stiles blinked in confusion. But, seeing Derek’s face and nervous expression, he found himself nodding. “Blue’s just pretty.”

Derek’s face softened. He tugged on Stiles’s hand and Stiles set the folder aside, moving over to sink down on the edge of the bed beside him. Stiles raised a brow and Derek rolled his eyes, touching his forehead against Stiles’s own.

“Thank you.”

“Oh my god, you are a sap.”

Derek laughed. Stiles hesitated for a moment, before leaning closer and touching his lips against Derek’s own. The first brush was soft; careful. Stiles closed his eyes and hummed quietly, which made Derek growl. Chuckling, he pressed forward a little more, fingers brushing along Derek’s jaw and moving up into his hair. The man growled lower.

It sent shivers down his spine.

Before Stiles had known colors, he’d categorized them as feelings. Green, he thought, was two seconds ago. Red was if things went on for another five minutes or so. But this? This was vibrant. A color he didn’t quite know yet— or he hadn’t yet seen.