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Chapter Text

Cornwall, England
August 1999

(***)

The dampness was going to wreak havoc on his arthritis, not to mention the number it was going to do on the cold he'd been trying to shake. He coughed lightly to clear some of the phlegm from his throat, and re-tightened the grip on his rifle. Never let it be said that Leonard Gartner wasn't a man fully dedicated to the Cause. He'd been a loyal soldier to it for over thirty years now, ever since he was a young lad old enough to pick up a gun. He'd sacrificed his youth, a promising accounting career, and even having a family for it. Now, well into middle age, he was thankful he was still able-bodied enough to go on missions like these. After all, someone had to keep the creepy-crawlies in check, and he knew history would look upon fighters like him as one of humanity's greatest heroes.

"Ten minutes."

The time check from the group leader was expected, and Len nodded his acknowledgement. Their group wasn't big, not like some of the larger operations he'd been a part of, but they didn't need big today. No, this mission was more quality over quantity, and five somewhat seasoned Hunters should be more than enough to achieve their goal. Well, that, and the magic user in their ranks. Even now, knowing the woman had helped them several times in the past, her presence sat uneasily with him. She was not like them, a rogue element, a dark druid, a darach,and therefore, prone to doing things that defied the laws of God and nature. That just wasn't right. But Argent had said they needed her, so who was he to argue with the authority of the patriarch of one of the most renowned Hunter families around?

"Does it even matter?" someone - Ian, the rookie - on the team asked. "You can't even tell the time of day down here in these caves. I can barely see past my fucking nose."

Len sniffled. He'd had the same thought, but he'd been around long enough not to question their orders out loud. They'd been descending deep into these caves and tunnels for what felt like hours now. The sounds of the Altantic had long disappeared, and all Len could tell by the cold and humid air was that they'd wandered far enough to probably be near the gates of Hell.

"The creature's powers are tied to the moon," the woman hissed. "The magic binding him is eons old, and that moment of totality, when the moon fully eclipses the sun, is when the animal, not the man or reasonable thought, is most prevalent. It's our best opportunity." She spoke to them as if they were children, condescending and arrogant, and Len barely bit back a disparaging insult. He didn't like her - or anything about her.

"Then let's get moving," their group leader - Sol - ordered. Len had worked with the man before. He was grizzled, but capable, and knew what he was doing. "We shouldn't be far."

They continued marching without protest. Druid aside, they were all professionals, united by a righteous cause, so Len knew they would do what needed to be done at the end of the day. Their flashlights barely prevented them from tripping over each other this far down into the earth, but they managed. They always did. Their journey continued on for another three or four minutes, although the near suffocating darkness made it feel longer. Eventually, they came to an opening, a larger cavern of indeterminate size, and they all stopped.

"Is this it?" Again, Ian.

"Shhh." The druid made a harsh noise, and all flashlights pointed toward her as she slowly approached a semi-collapsed stone well in the middle of the cave. In the impromptu spotlight, she gestured toward the hole and they all listened intently.

Nothing. No movement, no drip of water, not even a whoosh of air. Just a heavy, dank feeling of dread.

Len brought his rifle up just a fraction as he eased his way closer to the well with the rest of the team. They converged cautiously in their usual offensive formation, not knowing what lay beneath, but stopped when the druid started digging through her satchel. Len cast a questioning look at Sol, but with the way their flashlights were positioned, he couldn't make out the other man's expression. What he could make out was the woman pulling something that looked like a glass jar from her bag. But that was neither here nor there. What was of note was the green hue that emanated from within. Len inwardly scoffed, as likely the rest of the team did as well. This was probably more magic mumbo-jumbo.

"Lady, this isn't time for - "

A harsh whisper from the druid cut Ian right off. Whether it was voluntary or not, Len wasn't sure. He didn't want to know. The woman then pointed at the rescue flare tucked in Sol's belt and then at the hole. The message was clear, and while none of them wanted to obey the commands of a magic user, Argent's instructions had been clear: the druid had final say in how they acquired their target. Sol did as he'd been ordered. He pulled the flare from his belt, deftly lit it, and tossed it down the well.

For a fleeting moment, the whole cavern was bathed in an eerie red glow, and Len briefly registered how big the space really was. But then, the light was gone, consumed by the shadows of a hole.

At first, nothing happened - just the muted 'clunk' of the flare hitting the rock walls as it fell. Then, it stopped. After several seconds of complete stillness, hinged on several held breaths, Len caught Sol's subtle signal to advance and they all stepped forward to peer down the well.

In the next second, several things happened at once. The druid started chanting. The cave shook. A roar, soul-shaking, ripped the air. He saw fangs. And glowing red eyes, painted in the crimson light of the dying flare ...

Len blinked.

The air caught in his lungs. Suddenly, he was flying. Thrown. Flung across the cavern until he hit a wall. His rifle landed beside him. He made a grab for it. Several attempts before his fingers wrapped around the barrel. He moved on instinct now. He tried to stand. Muzzle flashes flickered left and right, and spots of yellow light dotted the space. Dropped flashlights. And the sounds - chanting, screams, yells, gunshots - came in and out. He'd hit his head. He couldn't orient himself properly, but he raised his weapon. Fucking creature was out, freed. Where to shoot? His flashlight was gone. He couldn't see anything.

Panic crept up, despite all his years of training and experiences: heart pounding, throat tightening, breath erratic.

Something grabbed him before he could do anything - something strong, around the throat. He cracked his head against the wall again, pushed. He struggled to breathe. His weapon fired. It hit something, or maybe nothing, because he was still choking. Dying.

A growl. So close. So fucking close. And hot, fetid breath ... He gagged and flailed. And then, with a strangled yell, he shot again, over and over, blindly and wildly ... until he couldn't shoot anymore.

Chapter Text

Zaragoza Province, Spain
Present Day

(***)

Feria de Brujería.

Stiles thumbed over the screen of his phone and double-checked the location and dates listed under the bright Spanish banner. He then flicked over to his GPS app and made sure his little blue dot was pulsing where it should on the map. He looked out the windshield at the tiny medieval city up the road, and nodded with conviction.

Yup, he was exactly where he was supposed to be - the small town of Trasmoz.

He smiled triumphantly, surprisingly pleased with himself. In his three decades on this earth, he'd suffered many insults - most of which could be credited to his high school nemesis, Jackson Whitmore's uncreative brain - but no one, not even Jackson himself, could call him a bad navigator.

"Now, let's go see what this witchcraft festival is all about, shall we?" he asked rhetorically. Because, of course he was going to check it out. He'd made the plan to come here weeks ago, and he'd driven all the way out here from Barcelona at the ass-crack of dawn, so what else was he going to do? Take a picture, and go back? Not a chance in Hell.

He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, but just as he shifted his rental into drive, the thing buzzed. Seeing as he was still stopped on the side of the road, he quickly checked the text that'd come in.

'In Girona. Mtg w Allison in 1. Thx.'

Stiles made a sound that was part indulgent and part exasperated, and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Scotty. It's because I'm the best wingman in the world," he said to the phone. It tended to be Scott's stand-in more often than not, and this was one of the 'more often' occasions.

The whole reason he was over here in Europe was because he'd planned the whole thing. Sure, Scott had had the bright idea to come and surprise Allison with a romantic proposal while she was touring here this summer, but the logistics? The plane tickets? The hotels and itineraries? Even Scott's train tickets to Girona? That was all him, Stiles Stilinski, best friend extraordinaire. He hoped he was getting a destiny-changing amount of karma points for this though. Like, if he stood at some heavenly crossroads after his death, and a greater power had to decide whether he came back as a mosquito or a billionaire playboy philanthropist, he better be Tony fuckin' Stark in his next life.

Of course, he didn't text any of that back. He never did. Since the moment Scott had shared his KitKat bar with him in kindergarten, Stiles had always had his best friend's back. He was loyal like that. So, he just gave the text a thumbs up, put his phone back down, and turned his attention to the road again.

Since Scott was off romancing the love of his life, Stiles had a whole week to do Stiles things. And checking out this witchcraft festival had been on his list forever. Not only would it help with some of his thesis research, but he personally found the concept pretty neat.

Trasmoz was a small town of medieval origins, a fact made apparent by the old castle battlements Stiles saw when he angled his head closer to the windshield. As with many villages from that era, it stood at a higher elevation than the countryside around it, like a sentinel, a remnant of a time long past. But what set it apart from other medieval towns was its distinct status of being excommunicated from the church. Stiles had gotten a good chuckle when he'd first read about it: something as petty as a feud with a local monastery over wood and water rights in the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries had led to it being excommunicated by the Pope. But what he loved was that the villagers had embraced this new status. Over time, they'd played up the tales of witches and sorcerers taking refuge within the city's walls, to the point where, today, still excommunicated, they embraced the reputation and hosted witchy event after witchy event.

Stiles grinned as he turned onto a small, cobbled road and saw the silhouette of a witch on a broomstick imprinted on a road sign welcoming him to town. Oh yeah, they owned it alright. And the tourism dollars this brought in would probably keep the schtick going for a while.

He found parking by a rustic looking restaurant. The town was small, but luckily, so was his car, and he squeezed it in between a tree and a vintage-looking Renault. The buzz and foot traffic he saw as he'd driven in was enough to tell him that the fair was well under way, and he was looking forward to just wandering around - soak in the ambience, as they say.

There was just something inherently warm and inviting about the Spanish countryside. Stiles couldn't articulate what it was about it that made it so. Perhaps it was the sedate pace at which the people here lived, or perhaps it was the absence of the loud, everyday pressures of American life. Whatever it was, he just felt something in him unwind and relax as he walked away from his car. And this was him - Stiles Stilinski - he was referring to; he never relaxed!

The people here were friendly too. He wasn't sure if they were locals or visitors - though likely the latter since he'd read that only eighty or so people truly lived here - but those around him smiled as he walked by, some even giving him a nod and a 'Hola' as they passed. He eventually found himself browsing a row of vendor booths at the hustle and bustle of the festival, all lined up along a main thoroughfare, displaying trinkets and charms and talismans of magical, mysterious origins. Stiles browsed them all good-naturedly. He appreciated the fact that this was how the village had made its mark in today's world, how it gained its revenue and thus, its means for survival. But he knew there were things that were a lot richer and more layered to see here.

"Señor?"

"Oh, uh, sorry … ¡Lo siento!" He smiled apologetically as he put down what he assumed was a small scrying mirror back onto the vendor table. His knowledge of Spanish was limited to what he'd learned in high school. And given that that had been almost twelve years ago, to describe it as 'rusty' would've been generous. 'Decayed as a thousand-year-old corpse' seemed more apt. "I was … uh… just looking. Mirando."

The woman on the other side of the table smiled at him, the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth become more pronounced. "Please, look," she said in accented English.

It was a pity language change, but Stiles wasn't complaining. Instead, he returned a grateful smile of his own. "Thanks… Gracias."

See, now, he was all self-conscious because he could feel her eyes following him as he browsed the trinkets on her table. He hated when that happened. And so, he decided to linger for a few more seconds to make it seem like he wasn't bothered before he made a graceful exit.

Except something stopped him.

He paused, hand frozen mid-motion over one of the little knick knacks in the booth. His brows drew together in confusion. Weird.

He had always been the odd kid out back in school, all gangly and spastic, with his uncoordinated limbs, free-range mouthiness, and unchecked wit. It was the main reason why he'd always been good sidekick material, and not so much the main protagonist. But sometimes … sometimes, he'd felt and experienced things that even made him wonder if he was just a completely lost cause.

'That's because you're special, Stiles. You're my special little boy.'

Even his mother's totally unbiased and completely impartial words never really comforted him much as a child, especially when he knew - he just knew - that Mr. Wigglesbottom, Mrs. Rose's cat next door, was sick before Mrs. Rose did. Or that time when Scott had lost his inhaler, and he'd somehow pinpointed exactly where in the Beacon Hills Preserve it had been dropped. And now …

"You like?"

Stiles glanced down at what the woman was referring to, at what his body had involuntarily reacted to - a small, ornate hourglass. The frame wouldn't win any beauty contests, that was for sure. It looked old, the brassy material patinated and dull, with contoured curlicues weaving their way into the base. But what set it apart was green sand inside the pristine glass bulbs, a contemporary color that was such a contrast to the old-world design. He hadn't ever seen that before. Not that he saw lots of hourglasses in his daily life.

He pulled his hand back and smiled apologetically. "Uhh, it's nice, but not for me." Like he'd said, he'd been the awkward one for so long, ignoring and downplaying anything else that would make him more so had become second nature. And acknowledging these weird intuitions definitely fell in that category.

The woman's brown eyes softened in acknowledgement. "See other things?"

At first, Stiles thought she was directing him to the other wares on the table, but then, she gestured in the general direction he'd been headed in and he took that as her giving him a graceful out. He smiled gratefully. "Gracias ...?"

She blinked. Then, "Maria."

"Gracias, Maria. Is there anything you would recommend? Anything I should see."

Maria gave his question some thought, whether translating the words in her head, formulating an answer, or both, Stiles didn't know.

"I'm very interested in local folklore. History. Culture. For my doctorate. Research for school," he supplied.

"Ahh, I understand." She pointed down the road again, this time, angling her finger to the left. "You should see the church. Very nice."

That sounded like the perfect destination for him. For a region that had been excommunicated by the Vatican, and supposedly a haven for heathens, the fact that the locals had still built a place of worship was rather amusing. It was almost like the people hear had said 'Fuck you' to the Church when the edict came, and did as they pleased, regardless of their religious status. He thanked Maria again, this time for the recommendation, and after a couple more pleasantries, continued on his way.

The church wasn't hard to find. After all, the town wasn't that big, and like most medieval villages, it was designed in a circular pattern around its local castle, which Stiles kept half an eye on atop its hill as he made his way around. See? Like he'd said, orienteer extraordinaire!

Yet, as he approached, that identifiably sloped roof and distinct cross in his sights, his steps slowed. Something in his stomach fluttered and a tingle ran up his spine, like an insect having a panic attack along his back. He stopped, just steps away from his destination.

It was happening again: his body behaving one way while his mind wondered what the fuck it was doing. So strange. He'd gone years without this happening - probably not since before he'd started grad school, when he'd quit the FBI program after the first year because he just knew something bad was going to happen to him after he graduated. And now … now, it'd happened twice in less than ten minutes.

Lucky for him, this part of town was fairly deserted, with many tourists sticking to the main thoroughfare. Less witnesses for his peculiarities. So, he took a few seconds to collect himself, focusing on the smooth cobbles, and inhaling a couple of long, slow breaths as his mom had taught him to do when he used to wake up screaming from bad dreams.

When he finally looked up, his breath hitched.

The church was gone. Wait, no, that wasn't right. It wasn't gone gone. Just … it wasn't … it had …

"Holy fucking hell," he muttered.

A church still stood in front of him, only it wasn't the church he'd approached earlier. No, that one had the singular slanted roof and gothic lines of places of worship indicative of this region and its century of origin. What he saw now - with its tiered roofs, wooden walls, and circular turrets - did not belong here. His academic brain went into overdrive. These churches - or at least this stave architecture - should be buried in some archeological site in Scandinavia.

He was just trying to reconcile this realization with reality when an unfamiliar sound echoed in his ears.

His heart thumped.

'He was scared, Mom. And lonely. He was lonely.'

A roar. Resonant and haunting. It left a slight ache in his chest. He could've sworn it'd come from some wild animal. Wounded maybe? Or a warning perhaps? Only -

Stiles turned and looked around him. There was nothing here. No one. Then, he glanced back at the church, and was almost unfazed that the original building was back. Too many weird things in too short a time. He needed a moment - or maybe two - to process them. Until then, this probably wasn't the best place for him. He wasn't in any danger. Deep down, he knew that. But he'd never dug into these types of intuitive feelings before and he didn't intend to start now.

Decision made, he reversed course and made his way back to his car. Disappointing as this road trip had turned out, he wanted nothing to do with whatever was happening here.

(***)

He didn't like the dark. Or the cold. But that was all there was here.

Dark. And cold. And quiet.

Out of nowhere, he heard sound. Someone was here? He looked. But he couldn't see.

Voices. He heard voices.

Then, it got bright. So bright he wanted to cry. To shout. So he did.

Too loud. But this was all he had. His body. His strength. His anger. And his cries.

Stiles sat up and screamed and shouted. Until warm, safe arms hugged him. Until his brain said 'Mom', and he settled.

He sniffled and opened his eyes. He hugged his mom back, and sagged into her.

"Shh, baby, it's just a dream."

"Not a baby," he whined weakly, out of habit. Because he wasn't. He was a big boy now. He was almost five!

"Okay, not a baby. But you're still my baby." She rocked him back and forth a bit. "Did you want to tell me about your dream?"

He buried his face in his mom's pajamas. He didn't want to act like the baby he'd just said he wasn't, but she always made him feel better. "He was scared, Mom. And lonely. He was lonely."

"Who, honey?"

"The man. In the dark."

Stiles felt a hum against his cheek as his mom made a sound. She believed him. She always believed him. See? He knew she would make him feel better.

"What did the man look like?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It was too dark. But I want to help him."

Fingers smoothed over his hair, and he felt sleepy again. "I don't think you can, honey."

He grumbled groggily at that. "They why? Why was he in my dream?"

"That's because you're special, Stiles. You're my special little boy..."

(***)

He hadn't slept well last night - which, not good since this was vacation time and sleep should be of the grade-A, Sandman-approved quality right now. Stiles yawned and blinked blearily as he looked at the culprit of his restless night.

Stupid fucking church and stupid fucking hallucinations.

He hated his life sometimes. He tried so hard to be normal. He was a good friend, the bestest bud Scott could ever have, in fact. He was also an awesome son, though his father would probably argue that fact on principle alone, and he was a somewhat stable, contributing member of society. Why, or why then, did weird stuff have to happen to him?

Now that he'd had a whole night to absorb what he'd seen and heard yesterday, he was convinced there was something about this place, and maybe the church specifically, that was a trigger for what was happening to him. Once upon a time, his mother used to reassure him that he was normal, that he was just sensitive, intuitive, and whatever else mothers said to soothe their children, but after she'd passed away and he'd grown older, he realized she had probably just been humoring him. Like his dad, he had a more rational mind. There were usually logical explanations to things. Like yesterday, for instance. That was probably a minor psychotic episode triggered by some repressed childhood trauma. Granted, he didn't know what that trauma might be, but there was a reason it was called 'repressed', right?

Nothing was happening today though. It had started almost the same way: rising early - albeit exhausted from the restless night - in his small hostel in Zaragoza, driving out here in his tiny rental car, and parking in almost the exact same spot. Even the weather was a carbon copy of the previous day, all sunshine, heat, and humidity, as he'd retraced his steps. Granted, the town was quieter, seemingly more subdued, but he attributed that to the fact that not many of the same vendors were open in the market thoroughfare. Now, here he was, standing exactly where he had stopped yesterday

Nothing. Nada. Diddly.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," he noted to himself. He'd gotten all worked up and lost precious sleep for a non-issue. He heaved out a sigh and started walking. "Okay, well, let's mulligan this shit then."

This time, the church itself remained exactly as he'd initially seen it yesterday when he neared. As with most churches built back in the medieval period, this one displayed the straight lines, geometric arches, and tall pillars of the gothic aesthetic. The more impressive ones of the times had been added to and refined over decades, if not centuries. This one, however, was simple and small, likely due in part to the size of the town, and to the fact that the Vatican had turned its back on it. Why make something nice for someone if they were going to ignore it anyways, right?

Eager to see the inside, he stepped up to the heavy, wooden doors with purpose, but just as he reached out to open them, they creaked open and a petite woman exited the church

"Señor? Hola! You come again?"

Stiles took a fraction of a second to connect the face with the nice vendor he'd met yesterday. That she remembered him was a pleasant surprise. He could only return the action in kind. "Maria! Hola," he greeted her politely. "No, I didn't finish sightseeing yesterday. I came back to finish."

The woman pursed her lips and made a disapproving sound. "No, no, today's no good."

Stiles was a little taken aback. Maria didn't come across as unfriendly. In fact, it was quite the opposite, but he got the distinct impression that she wanted him to head back to his car and get the hell outta Dodge. And that was strange because this place welcomed tourists, especially during the days of the festival.

"Why is today no good?" he ended up asking.

The shorter woman's brows took a serious slant. She waved him closer, and lowered her voice. "Girl died here yesterday. Just outside town. Policìa all around. But I pray for her just now."

Stiles took a moment to digest the news. Death? Here? That was hard to believe considering how celebratory and festive everything had been yesterday. And he'd been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed any police presence. That would explain the quiet pall over everything.

Still, he was curious. "How did she die, if I may ask?"

Maria let out a 'tsk' and crossed herself. "So sad. There was animal attack yesterday."

A chill - eerily similar to the one he'd felt yesterday - ran down Stiles's spine at the answer. That roar, that guttural, haunting sound, still echoed in his ears. It couldn't be … could it?

He didn't voice his thoughts out loud though. It was different when coming from a child, but he'd learned long ago that normal adults couldn't say that sort of stuff without expecting to be looked at differently. "May I ...?" He gestured to the church instead, and hoped he sounded sincere in his intentions. After all, Maria seemed connected to her spiritual and religious side, so it wouldn't be much of a stretch for him to want to say a few words in the church for the recently deceased.

To Stiles's relief, the older woman's lips softened and she stepped aside to let him pass. "You're a good boy," she acknowledged quietly before she continued on her way.

He was hardly a boy, but he'd be lying if he said the words didn't make him preen a bit inside. Must be that repressed childhood trauma again. Lacking validation from a mother figure or something Freudian shit like that. Alone now though, he brushed the thought aside with a huff, pulled open the sturdy wooden doors, and stepped inside.

The interior of the small church was simple and unassuming. The walls were bare, off-white and stone, which accounted for the cool air against his skin, and they boasted a couple of unadorned, square windows on each side. No fancy stained glass masterpieces here. The pews had been recently polished, if the smell was any indication, and they all pointed the way to a rather understated altar at the very end. A few lit candles burned off to his left, which Stiles assumed was where Maria had recently visited, and where she probably assumed he'd go as well, but he was more interested in the dais where the altar stood. There wasn't anything unique or particularly intriguing about it, but for some reason, he was drawn to it. A feeling, or rather, an intuition ... Damn it, he hated when he got like this!

And still, he walked forward, step by stupidly curious step. He'd once thought that if he'd been a cat, curiosity would've killed all nine of his lives by the time he'd hit kindergarten. Definitely by grade one. Yet, here he was, inexplicably pulled by some gut feeling to a very normal looking altar that could've been found in the dozens of small village churches in the region. This never ended well in the movies.

The moment he stepped up to the podium, he knew something was different. It was in how the hairs on his arms stood up, in how the flutter in his stomach became pronounced, and in how his heartbeat seemed to thump heavily in his ears. And the moment he touched the altar itself? Well, that was something different altogether.

The temperature around him cooled. Goosebumps danced along his skin. The slightly musty smell of the church changed. He breathed in earth, rain, and vegetation. The earth spun. Smudges of dark and light blurred. Window. Wall, Window. Wall. Window … He had to close his eyes to remain balanced,

And when he opened them, everything had changed.

He stood in a clearing, grassy and damp. The trees lining the edge of the forest rustled their leaves as a heavy wind whipped through them. It was going to rain soon. He felt it in the electric and pregnant weight of the air. The dark clouds were shifting ominously above, and the mist around him was swirling. Almost like it was alive. This was a far cry from the sunny and dry Spanish countryside.

He should be scared. He should be panicking and screaming and running around looking for help because he did not know where he was or what the fuck was going on. But he wasn't. He wasn't because something - some deep-seated, innate sense hidden somewhere inside him - told him that this was normal, that he'd done this before … been here before.

A high-pitched scream cut through the fog, and instantly, he pivoted, trying to find the source. But it found him before he found it.

A woman - a girl, really - crashed through the trees, tripping and standing repeatedly as she stumbled her way into the clearing. She'd been crying, or was crying still, tracks of mascara trailing down her cheeks. Her clothes were torn, the loose blouse and flowing skirt dangling at odds and ends. But what really struck Stiles was the desperation and fear on her face as she came into view.

She moved as if she hadn't seen him. Her half-falling, half-running gait propelled her away from him, and while the whole situation reeked of danger, he couldn't turn away. He ran toward her.

By the time he caught up to her, they had made their way well into the clearing. He reached out and tried to tell her he was here to help, that he wasn't here to cause any harm, but she gasped loudly, and dodged his hand. Stiles tried once more, this time managing to touch her shoulder gently, and only because she'd stumbled again.

When her brown eyes finally focused on him, and she realized he wasn't who she'd been running from, she calmed a bit. But only a bit. And only for a second. Because before he knew it, she'd grabbed his hand and pulled him along in her madcap dash. He wasn't prepared for the sudden yank, so he tripped and flailed at the action, but eventually, managed to move one leg in front of the other to avoid falling on his face.

And it was a good thing too because he needed his face pointed forward. Otherwise, how would he have seen where they were going? And really, he needed to see where he was going. If not, he would've missed their destination all together.

The building appeared through the mist as if some cinematographer had arranged for its presence as a set piece for some Oscar-worthy movie.The distinct roof design, the wooden walls … he'd seen this before.

The stave church.

Stiles stopped. And stared.

What was happening? Where was he? Why was he here and not back in the idyllic Spanish countryside? He had so many questions and no answers, and his brain was short circuiting trying to make a plausible connection.

The woman tugged at him again, urging him to move. She wanted to get to the church. No secret there.

He moved to comply. After all, maybe when they got to the church, she would settle down enough to tell him what was going on. But just as he took a step, the ground shook, and a sound so loud, so visceral and angry, rend the air. It was enough to send Stiles's heart racing and leave a tickle in his throat from the vibration.

Something was out there, in the forest. Was this what the woman was trying to escape? An animal … a predator?

He wanted to ask, but before he could open his mouth, something crashed through the treeline. It was dark. And fast. And big! Holy God Almighty, was it ever big! At first, he'd thought it was a dog, but no, no, not with that size. It had to be a wolf.

Escape. Yes, escape. He understood what the woman was doing now. He had to go, hightail it out of here with his new friend, and find safety behind the walls of that church before they became lunch for freakishly large Mr. Wolf. But then - then, he caught sight of the creature's eyes.

What the…?

They were red. Full-on red. Zoology was far from his field of expertise, but that … that was not normal. Was it?

In the time that the abnormal color took to register, the wolf was on them. The woman beside him must've had the same thoughts as him because she was staring too and hadn't moved. They'd remained where they were, perhaps subconsciously resigned to their fate.

Stiles wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Close his eyes and wait for the end? Scream? Sacrifice himself so at least one of them could get away? He was supposed to be quietly enjoying Spain right now while his best bud went off and got the girl, not running for his life with some damsel in distress in some mysterious, misty forest. All that said, he still stepped between the wolf and the woman in an unconscious gesture of chivarly, and braced.

But -

But nothing happened.

He watched as the wolf stopped in front of them, those eerie red eyes boring into him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled something about not making eye contact with predators like this. They saw it as a challenge or whatnot. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't look away.

And the wolf looked back - teeth bared, breath loud, and eyes unwavering, it looked back… Then, with what sounded like a huff, it turned around and ran back the way it'd come.

Stiles blinked several times, body unmoving, as the creature disappeared from view. His heartbeat still thudded in his ears and he could hear his breath wheezing out of his mouth, so he was still alive. What the fuck was that?

A pull at his arm reminded him he wasn't alone. He turned to face the woman now that the danger had passed. He was met with wide, brown, inquiring eyes on a long, thin face. And without warning, her hands moved to grab his face. Cold fingers dug into his cheeks before he could pull away.

"Szeptun", she said breathlessly. "Szeptun."

She stepped closer to him, uncomfortably close. Stiles moved back, and pulled away from her touch. But she reached out again, and he kept moving backwards. Back … and back … and back…

Until he tripped over his own feet and fell. He landed on something hard, and painfully flat.

He looked around and noticed the plain, stone walls, the square windows, the unassuming altar … he was in the church in Trasmoz again. Fucking hell. He leaned back against the pew on which he'd fallen, and let his body splay bonelessly across the polished surface. He wasn't sure what had just happened and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. In fact, after everything he'd just witnessed, he wasn't sure if it was safe to move right now for fear of being transplanted into lands unknown. Without a sound, he stared up at the small cross affixed to the wall behind the altar and let the minutes tick by.

Chapter Text

The library at the University of Zaragoza was one of the crown jewels of academia in the Aragon region. In its time, it had survived multiple wars - from the Spanish War of Independence to the Spanish Civil War - and several regime changes - from King Carlos III to Francisco Franco. And throughout it all, it still preserved the sanctity of its knowledge behind the beautiful stone walls and classical architecture. It also housed some of the university's original manuscripts, which, given the institution's ecclesiastical origins, was exactly what Stiles had needed.

He wasn't a student here by any means, but he'd wanted access to the library's more exclusive collections, so he'd made a call. His academic advisor back at Berkeley was a pretty savvy woman, who happened to have a lot of international academic connections. He supposed that after teaching at several renowned universities around the world in the last three decades had given her that leverage. And she was pretty cool too. All he'd had to do was explain that he'd wanted to research how the churches in the region had contributed to the evolution of local folklore, and she'd said to give her a few hours to work her magic.

His excuse wasn't too far from the truth either. After a half an hour yesterday of just sitting silently in that church, trying to figure out what the hell had happened, he'd finally dragged his ass back to his car when another patron had walked in. He didn't remember much of the drive back to Zaragoza, being on auto-pilot as he'd been, but he did recall deciding that digging into that church would be a good starting point in getting himself some answers. That was why he hadn't felt too guilty about his small fib when Dr. Goudreau had called back a few hours later and told him his credentials had been cleared for the university library.

Now, as he sat flipping through an old manuscript in the library, beautifully carved columns and glossy wooden shelves all around him, he felt calmer, more centered. He was researching and was more in his element than he had been yesterday.

While a majority of the documents and old folios associated with Trasmoz had been digitized, there were still a few that hadn't been. The ones he was combing through in particular were a couple of them. He'd had the librarian pull them from their special collection, and they were a treasure trove of information.

He'd already flipped through portions that had dealt with the town's feud with the Vatican as best he could tell - his Latin was merely passable, if pressed - but what had piqued his interest was the commission back in the thirteenth century to build the church. That was what had led to him pulling the second document he had on hand, which was a more degraded account of what had been in that space before the church had been built.

And this was where things got interesting. General history noted the expansion of the Church back in medieval centuries as prolific; so much so that to save money, the Vatican had ordered the re-use of old pagan sites to build their churches. What Stiles was learning now was that Trasmoz had been one of their sites. And if there was one thing he'd discovered from his research, it was that a majority of legends and folklore had roots that predated Christianity, from the druids in the British Isles to the Gothi in the Scandinavian regions to …

Stiles paused. Then, he leaned over and pulled his laptop closer. That word the woman had called him - szeptun, he'd heard it before. It wasn't English, but sounded Slavic almost. It - It sounded familiar, like he'd maybe read it somewhere in his research or heard it from someone long ago.

'My mom says I'm special.'

'You are. You're szeptun.'

Polish. It was Polish. At least that was what popped up in his random Google search after trying several spelling variations of it. He chuckled quietly at the irony. He was of Polish descent. And that might explain why it sounded familiar. His mom or dad might have said it in passing when he was young.

But the meaning of it seemed so benign, he noted as he read the translation on the screen. It was simply a name for a holistic healer or a witch doctor, which, in his experience, was historically way more glamorized than it really was. The woman might as well have called him a naturopath.

Still, he couldn't ignore small leads like this. He was sure there were connections between what he'd experienced, and what he was discovering. There usually was. He just hadn't found them yet.

As he pushed aside his laptop, he noticed that his allotted hour was almost up with the borrowed documents. He swore quietly, packed up his messenger bag, and slung it over his shoulder. The last thing he needed was to take advantage of the library's hospitality and cause some kind of incident. Academia was a surprisingly cutthroat world, believe it or not! With the utmost care, he gathered up the documents and made his way back to the special collections desk.

He'd just graciously thanked the librarian when he became aware of it: the strange prickling along his skin. It wasn't like in the village when he couldn't pinpoint what had thrown him off-kilter. No, he recognized this sensation because he felt it when he'd made sporadic Stiles-like outbursts back in high school, or when his study partner had had a crush on him in college. It was a completely human feeling - someone was watching him.

His heart skipped a beat, and his grip tightened around the strap of his messenger bag. He tried to act natural and glance around as he made his way out, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just students and staff scattered throughout, at their respective kiosks or bookshelves, all minding their own business. The normalcy of the whole thing made him panic even more because why …? He focused straight ahead then, and concentrated on retracing his way out of the building as a way of keeping his breathing under control. He didn't need a panic attack in the middle of a very public space right now, and spiraling out with the weird theories his brain tended to create wouldn't help.

After several twists and turns, he made his way out of the building. One, two, three, one, two, three … The counting of his steps helped. He eventually made his way out to the courtyard behind the library, and felt some of his muscles ease. He didn't feel completely safe yet, but hearing the traffic and cars in the streets nearby helped.

He walked toward the sounds, but in his rush, he made a wrong turn and stepped into a narrow dead-end alleyway between two faculty buildings.

Shit. He made a one-eighty, and stopped. He was also sure a high-pitched squeak came out of his mouth, but he would deny that fact on pain of death.

There was a silhouette of a man standing at the mouth of the alley, a very well-built, well-proportioned silhouette, but also, a very ominous and threatening one too. Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe this guy meant him no harm, and was just walking this way, down this deserted alley … to a … dead end.

Okay, yeah, that train of thought didn't go where he'd originally planned.

"H-Hello, uhh, hola," he managed. "I - I'm a tourist. Turista. And uhh, I'm lost. Wrong turn."

He made to walk away, around the man, hang the corner and straight toward the street. But the moment he did, the stranger moved, crowded his space, and before Stiles knew it, he'd been pushed further back into the alleyway, away from prying eyes. But it wasn't like he'd been physically pushed though. No, not even close. The man was quick, moving so fast that Stiles had just involuntarily shuffled back and away. It was a miracle he hadn't tripped over his own feet, but it was also a bit insulting because he felt like a wimpy sheep being herded.

Then, realization set in: he was going to be mugged, wasn't he? He'd heard of this happening to unsuspecting tourists here, but he'd assumed that usually happened in the big cities like Madrid or Barcelona. He started to make a mental inventory of everything in his bag. Other than his passport, he was totally fine with losing everything else if it meant he would walk away from this unharmed.

"Look, you can have - Holy fucking shit!"

The man's eyes … they'd flashed red! He couldn't have imagined that. They flashed fucking red! Like inhuman, not normal, unnatural red! He was sure of it. He scrambled back, as fast as and as far away as he could, until his back was flush up against the faculty building's brick wall.

"You need to leave now." The man's voice sounded guttural, almost like a growl. And … and his English was strangely good.

Stiles brought his hands up defensively. "What do you think I'm trying to do? Just let me pass, so you and your, err, whatever fancy contact lenses thing you have going can go about your business."

The stranger made a frustrated sound that was - swear to God - a growl! "No, I mean you need to leave. This city, this country, this continent. Get as far away from here as you can. You're not safe here, Stiles."

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, and then froze. Huh? What the fuck? "H-how do you know my name?" One would think he would've remembered if he'd ever met a guy with that jawline. Not to mention that scruff. It was just begging to be touched …

Focus!

"Does it matter? He's wanting you dead, and you're lucky I haven't killed you yet. You need to get on the next plane and go home."

Stiles was sure he'd tried several times to mount a response to that revelation. Started, then stopped. Nothing said confident and cool like channeling a hungry fish! "D-Dead? Killed? What the fuck are you talking about, dude?" He poked the other man in the chest, trying to reassert some space and yes, he was fake posturing. Not that it did much good. Because holy shit, the guy was built like a rock. Or stone. Or marble. Like those really nice, naked statues he'd seen last week with Scott. Fuck! "This isn't some James Bond flick. No one's killing anyone, least of all a harmless doctorate student from the States. I study rural folklore, buddy. That's as benign as it gets!"

The man grunted again, exasperated. Seriously, if the guy kept going with the non-verbal schtick, and if Stiles wasn't careful, he was sure he could start a dictionary for those growls and grunts.

"You're not hearing me, Stiles. You need to -" The man stopped, and looked away, as if he'd heard a far away sound. He stayed like that for several uncomfortable seconds.

"Need to what? What do I need to do? Please tell me what I need to do, Mr. Mystery-Guy-Who-Somehow-Knows-My-Name?" The mood had changed from a few minutes ago. Then, he'd been fearing for his life. Now … now, he was just confused, indignant, and just a little bit angry. But more importantly, he didn't feel unsafe, despite not knowing the stranger in front of him. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. God, he did not have this on his bingo card when he woke up that morning.

After another few ticks of not moving, more seconds in which Stiles was graced with the perfect side view of that insane jawline - seriously, how was that even fair? - the other man finally said, "I need to go."

Or at least, that's what Stiles assumed he'd said. The stranger had muttered the words through clenched teeth, as if he'd been in pain. "What? No, we're not done. You can't leave yet. I have questions! So many -"

He was cut off by a flash of those eerie red eyes again. The motion was sudden enough to make Stiles flinch and lean back. And when he composed himself enough to make his case again, the other man was gone. He was alone.

Stiles blinked. How the hell did the guy move so fast? And what the fuck just happened? Had he stepped into some weird dimensional portal and not known it? Because these things that were happening to him? It was pretty fucked up shit.

He stood in the alleyway for a few more minutes. He wasn't sure if he was holding out a small iota of hope that the stranger would return, or if he was just waiting to make doubly sure the man was truly gone. Whatever it was, he knew he'd found more questions than answers by coming to the library today. And there was nothing he could do about it right now.

He huffed a tired breath. Resigned, he started his way back to his hostel.

(***)

"Are you scared?"

His friend didn't answer, so Stiles pretended he said no. He continued.

"I'm not scared either. Mom said there's nothing to be scared of." Actually, it was kind of spooky here, with nothing but the dark, but his mother always told him that being brave meant doing things even though he was scared. And this was him putting on a brave face and trying to help his friend. That was what superheroes did. And he wanted to be a superhero when he grew up. Like Batman!

"I don't know how to help you," he said. "But when I feel sad or scared, Mom always stays with me and I feel better. I can do that if you want."

No answer.

But Stiles took that to mean it was okay to stay. Maybe he could tell his friend some stories. He always liked that! But what story? He didn't have any of his books with him, and it was too dark here to see any of the pictures. "I start school in two… no, three days!" He decided he had stories. "Mom and Dad are taking me. Dad's always working but he says he'll take me to school my very first day. I get to meet new friends. I hope they like me. I don't want to be lonely and have no friends. I have a new Batman lunch box. Mom bought it. And I'm bringing my new batmobile toy. The other kids might want to play with it…"

He trailed off. His friend didn't say anything, but he seemed … better than before. See, he was helping! "You know, I'm going to be a superhero when I grow up. I'm going to help people. My mom says I'm special."

His friend moved a bit beside him. Stiles heard him. Then, out of nowhere, his friend spoke. "You are. You're szeptun."

Stiles grinned. His friend was talking to him! "No, I'm not, Silly. I'm Stiles…"

(***)

Who won the idiot award for the biggest miss ever?

Yup, that's right! He did! Stiles flopped back heavily onto the bed and barely shifted his leg in time to prevent kicking his laptop onto the floor. God, he'd been so blind!

Werewolf. That stranger was a werewolf. He had to be, or at least, some kind of shapeshifter. All cultures around the world had their versions of it - the Lobizon in South America, the Nagual in Mexico, the loup-garou in France, the red-eyed Gwyllgi from Wales, the Wulver from the Shetlands, even Greece and Ancient Rome had their myths about them - and he hadn't been able to connect the dots between that man, the wolf from the forest, the colored eyes, and all the old folktales he'd been researching the last couple of years. Until now. It had only taken two whole days of soul-sucking, immersive research to figure it out. Like he'd said, biggest miss ever!

And while a part of him was cheering 'Yay, werewolves! They're real!', another part was exclaiming, 'Holy fuck! Werewolves? They're real?"

He liked to think he was rooted in logic. He'd trained in law enforcement, and then spent the last several years in academia, so he could say he was reasonable, sensible - though his dad and Scott may beg to differ when he went into his obsessive spirals sometimes. But surprisingly, his brain accepted the revelation without any resistance.

"That's all on you, Mom," he whispered to himself. He knew he had her to thank for the whimsical side of him, even though she'd been gone all these years now. It was comforting, in a way, to know he still held her close in all aspects of his life.

His stomach rumbled just then, as if in agreement.

Ugh, when was the last time he'd eaten? He sat up, and felt around for the phone that had been tossed onto the bed covers. He groaned when he saw the time. It was almost eight. Had he really spent all day hunched over his laptop without eating? This was supposed to be a work holiday - emphasis on the 'holiday'! He was supposed to be out exploring the Spanish countryside, soaking in the culture, and eating the local foods. What a waste of a couple of prime vacation days!

With another lazy groan, he dragged himself off the bed and gathered his wallet, phone, and room key. The hostel was located on a fairly convenient street, and he had access to a variety of restaurants within walking distance. And given the later hour, they should all be open now for dinner.

He found a cozy little tapas place a couple of blocks from the hostel with the best empanadillas he'd ever had. He took his time with dinner, as the locals tended to do here, and tried to keep his mind from wandering back to the questions that had been plaguing him the last two days: Why him? Why had he seen the things he had? Why had that guy tracked him down? Who was he? And would he ever see the man - who was a friggin' werewolf, by the way! - again?

It was well past ten by the time he walked back to his room. He'd just opened the door when his phone buzzed. Pulling it out of his jeans pocket, he noticed that Scott had texted.

'She said yes!!!!!!!'

Stiles grinned. "Of course she said yes, Scotty. No one could say no to your puppy-dog eyes," he told the phone. He took a moment to send back a bunch of celebratory emojis and capped it off with a diamond ring. If nothing else, his main mission here had been accomplished: his best friend had gotten the girl!

"Close the door."

"Jee-esus fuckin' Christ!" His phone clattered to the floor as his heart practically jumped into his throat at the unexpected voice. His eyes quickly scanned the room and honed in on the dark shape atop the unmade bed. "What the actual fuck?!?"

"Close the door."

Wordlessly, Stiles did as he was instructed. Probably not the best or smartest decision he'd ever made, but really, his body was moving on autopilot because his brain seemed to have taken a brief sabbatical right now. Case in point, his hand moved on its own volition and flicked on the room light.

The figure on the bed was turned away from him, and at the sudden onslaught of light, it flinched. Just barely, but Stiles noticed.

"You!" He hadn't meant for the word to come out sounding like an accusation, but it did. Because what else was he going to say? He recognized the set of those broad shoulders and the angled sharpness of that enviable jawline. This guy - this werewolf! - had been occupying his thoughts for two whole days. "We've got so much unfinished business, dude! Like - "

"You're still here."

"Yeah, I'm still here. Why wouldn't I be? I don't make it a habit to blindly follow instructions of complete strangers. Not only that, but I don't respond well to threats. Plus, I paid for this vacation, and no way am I wasting it. Well, more than I already have. Which, by the way, you owe me! You know what a hornet's nest of questions our little meetup stirred? How much time I've wasted digging into you? Too much! And don't even get me started on you! Like you you!" He flailed his hands in exasperation before he bent down and scooped up his phone. Then, he stomped over to the bed, fueled by righteous indignation, and probably a healthy dose of recklessness. Because really? What did he truly know about this situation he'd found himself in, at least in practice anyways? "You're a fucking werewolf, dude! You shouldn't even exist!"

"Neither should you."

Stiles stopped dead at the stoically stated words. And that was when he noticed. "Holy shit! Is that blood? Are you covered in blood? Why are you covered in blood? And sitting on my bed?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Historical revelations, he could handle. Supernatural discoveries rooted in folklore, bring it on. But blood and injuries and potential dead bodies, nuh-uh! Nope. Never. Hard stop.

"Why are you still here?"

Okay, that was not an answer. And seeing as the man … wait, was that an offensive term to a werewolf? Should he be using a different term, like non-human? Cryptid? Supernatural being? Creature of the night? What was the protocol here? He had so many questions! Anyways, seeing as the, erm, werewolf was still sitting upright and being all broody, enigmatic, and mysterious, Stiles could only assume he wasn't injured - or not gravely so. And that had him circling back to his original thought: dead bodies.

"No way, buddy. You can't answer my question with another question here. Not the way this works. You're the one in my room, making a mess of my sheets!" Granted, the room and the sheets were his for only four more days but that was irrelevant right now. It was the principle of the matter! "Some common courtesy would be nice. What were you, raised in a barn?"

By now, he'd walked far enough around the bed to have a decent view of his unexpected guest, and at the question, he saw the slight twitch underneath that really inviting-looking stubble. Oh shit, had that been offensive? It wasn't lost on him that he was in close proximity to a creature that, according to all the cautionary tales, could easily kill him if he made even the smallest misstep. And yet, somehow, some way, he just knew he would be fine. Otherwise, he would've hightailed it for the hills by now. He definitely wouldn't be interrogating with a familiarity that was confusing even to him. "Not meant to be a trick question," he added quietly.

The man looked up and glared at him. Those eyes - with their mix of green, brown, and gray hues - were disconcerting. Stiles almost backed up a step at their intensity before he continued to move closer. Stupid, curious human. "So, are you going to tell me why you're here? Or why you look like you stepped off the set of a horror movie?"

Nothing. Just several more seconds of silent glaring.

Well, Mr. Werewolf obviously hadn't matched wills with the renowned Stilinski stubbornness. "Okay. Let's start with something easier. What's your name?"

Again, his visitor wasn't forthcoming with any answers. Stiles bit his lower lip, at a slight loss. Rare, but it was known to happen. They didn't exactly teach people what to do when a random werewolf showed up in one's room back in school. And so, he took a gamble. He approached the bed - slowly, of course - and sat down on the mattress. Maybe if he showed that he wasn't a threat, that he wasn't literally going to cry 'wolf', the other man would start answering his questions. He made sure there was a respectable distance between them, but at least, they were on the same level physically.

They were both positioned on the right side of the bed, close to the window that overlooked the main street. It gave Stiles something to stare at so he wouldn't feel all awkward entering into another glaring contest. Besides, wasn't making eye contact taken as a kind of challenge or something in the wolf kingdom? And werewolves were part wolf, weren't they? He didn't want that. Again, he wasn't sure how this all worked.

"My name is Stiles, but you already know that. No idea how though." He decided to change tactics. Turning the subject to himself was a viable option.

The body beside him tensed at the words. Stiles didn't see it so much as he felt the shift of the mattress from where he sat.

"Look, I don't know why you're here if all you're doing is telling me to go away and then turning all broody and quiet. I mean, don't get me wrong. The whole look works for you, but it's kinda hard to take you seriously when you show up like some non-verbal creeper on my vacation."

"You're supposed to be gone."

"We've already covered that. I need to leave. Danger, Will Robinson, danger! Yadda, yadda, yadda. I got it. But dude, you can't expect me to believe anything when I don't even know who you are. I may look all squishy and gullible, but it takes more than a few threats to make me trust you. So how about a name?"

Several ticks passed in silence as Stiles waited for an answer. He was thinking he'd have to ask again when he finally heard it.

"Derek."

"Derek," he repeated. He wasn't sure what he was expecting a werewolf to be named, but that wouldn't have been his first guess. It sounded so … so normal. But fitting.

"You don't remember me."

"Hmm?" Stiles looked over at his visitor. Had he heard right? No, he had never met a werewolf named Derek. He would definitely remember if he did, especially with those eyes, that jawline, those shoulders, those arms, and that - that everything! "We've never met."

Derek huffed out a heavy breath and pushed himself off the bed. Stiles braced himself at the sudden bounce to avoid falling over and making an ass of himself.

"You don't need to remember," the man said as he stepped toward the window and looked out. "You do need to leave though."

"About that -"

"Now, Stiles!"

Stiles furrowed his brow. If there was one thing that set him off, it was this: being told what to do. No one, no even his dad, really ever got a handle on how to control him. More times than not, he did things because he wanted to do it, not because someone told him to.

He rose, ready to argue.

But then, Derek placed a stilling hand on his chest, and Stiles froze. He looked down at the hand, then up at the other man, and then, down at the hand again. What was this? Was he going to be mauled by a werewolf right now? He hadn't seen any signs of aggression, but his experience in these situations was a bit lacking. And he knew he was a bit of an acquired taste at times. "Uhh…"

"They're here."

"They? Who?" Stiles pushed forward, wanting to get a better look out the window, only to be pushed back by the hand. And ouch! He backed up a step and rubbed his chest. So werewolf strength? Yeah, that was apparently a thing.

"We need to go."

"What? No, you need to go. This is my room."

To that, Derek made a noise that sounded distinctly like a growl - a real, bonafide growl! God, where was his laptop? He should be taking notes, recording audio and visual details, making annotations! Talk about field research! Dr. Goudreau would be so proud.

"Did you just -"

Stiles couldn't finish his question. Not when the other man flashed those red eyes at him. It was still as disconcerting now as when he'd first seen it in the alleyway. Without warning, Derek slid the window open, and when it stopped partway, he used that werewolf strength of his and forced it off its tracks so the whole pane came off.

"Hey! I had to pay incidentals on the -" The rest of his words were lost as the air suddenly left his lungs. Derek's arms had wrapped around his middle - again, with that insane strength - and before Stiles could protest anymore, he found himself being dragged up and over the sill.

What that fuck? What the fuck. What the fuck! They were on the second floor! He was going to die! Or at least, be badly injured. And he didn't like either of those options. He flailed, hands futilely looking for purchase, and he made a strangling sound as he was pulled closed to Derek's body and out the opening. His stomach flipped and twisted as he fell, and instinctively, he clung like a limpet onto the solidness of his impromptu kidnapper.

The landing was softer than he'd expected. When he'd actually registered they were on solid ground, Derek had already let go of his waist, though Stiles still felt the other man's firm grip above his elbow.

"Run."

If the dramatic jump from his second floor window hadn't pressed the gravity of the situation into him, the panicked and almost desperate look on Derek's face did. Something clenched inside Stiles at the sight, something that wanted to make that look disappear. He didn't know who they were supposedly running from, or why they were being chased, but he didn't like seeing the other man this way. His jaw tightened in determination, and he nodded.

"Let's go."

Chapter Text

The tires of his rental were crunching the rocks of a gravel road before Derek asked him to pull over. 'Asked' was perhaps putting it a bit mildly. 'Ordered' was more accurate. He assumed they were safe now, far from whoever - or whatever - had been supposedly chasing them. And seeing as Stiles had resolutely pulled Derek into the car after they'd escaped the hostel and driven with no destination in mind for what felt like hours now, he was more than happy to stop.

The car idled as Derek reached over, gripped his jaw, and angled his head left and right. Stiles furrowed his brow at the invasion of his personal space - because boundaries! - but he was too confused to say anything … at first.

"Uhh, what are you doing?" His words came out a little slurred since Derek still had his fingers pressed against the side of his face.

Stiles swore he heard his companion sniff the air. Like a friggin' dog! Really? "Derek?" he prompted again.

"I smell blood. You're hurt. Where?"

Stiles glanced down at his left arm. There was a small gash there, probably from when they'd Superman-and-Lois-Lane jumped out a fucking second floor window and he'd flailed against the broken frame, but he hadn't really paid it any attention. The cut was minor enough, and the adrenaline rush of the last few hours had masked the pain long enough for it to clot.

"Just a cut on my arm. It's nothing."

There was little light out here on the rural roads, just the ambient glow from the headlights and the half-moon, but it was enough for Stiles to make out the slight thinning of the werewolf's lips. The fingers moved away, and for a moment, he kind of missed their warmth, their pressure.

"I'm sorry," Derek said.

Normally, Stiles would've brushed apologies like that off - his injuries were often a result of his own clumsiness anyways - but the tone with which Derek had said it, regretful and oh-so defeated, had him wanting to reach out and comfort the other man. He almost did, but managed to stop himself. When all was said and done, they were still strangers, and well, his companion here was still a bloody, bonafide werewolf.

"It's okay," he offered in consolation.

Derek seemed like he wanted to argue back, but in the end, he kept quiet and turned to look out the windshield again. Which, much to Stiles's exasperation, left them back at square one.

"So…" he started as he dropped his hands from the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. "You going to tell me what's going on? I don't know about you, but where I come from, it's only polite to explain to someone why you're jumping them out a second storey window, preferably before you do it so they have a chance to say 'no'."

For a few seconds, all Stiles could see was the outline of Derek's enviable side profile as he stared out at the dark nothingness in front of them. Then, "You still talk a lot."

Hmm, that hadn't been the response he'd been hoping for, but at least it was something. "Okay, let's start there then. How do you know me? I'm sorry but I would remember someone like…like you." He gestured to the whole of Derek's body for emphasis. Because … uhh… yeah.

"You don't remember me." Again with that statement.

"No shit, Sherlock. We've established that. Multiple times, in fact, if your limited dialogue has been lost on you. I -"

Stiles stopped. Derek's head had angled lower as he'd spoken, almost like he was … was disappointed at the answer. Damn it, now he felt bad for not remembering the other man.

"Sorry, dude," he said. And he meant it. "We must've been really young, because I'm usually good at remembering people. Did we meet back in school? Are you from Beacon Hills too? Wait, we had a werewolf in Beacon Hills? And I didn't know about it?"

"You were. Young. You liked something called 'bat-man' back then."

Stiles let out a small chuckle. "I still like Batman. But oh, let's see… I think I was really into him starting as far back as kindergarten. Though, not sure why my mom let me get as obsessed back then. When you think about it, he's a pretty dark character for a five year old. So, what? Were we in the same class back then? Cub scouts maybe? I remember bringing my Batman toys to school and to a couple of cub scout meetings. That's how I managed to meet my buddy, Scotty, by the way. He was a sucker for those toys."

Derek didn't react to any of his babbling - no verbal response, no looking over, nothing - which didn't help Stiles much with his info search. Then, something finally registered with one of Derek's earlier comments.

You were … you liked… Not 'we', not 'us', but 'you'. Singular. As in just Stiles. He started to connect the dots. "Wait! Are you telling me…?" He pursed his lips and looked closely at the shadowed face of his companion. It betrayed nothing. "Just how old are you, dude? You couldn't have been more than a few years older than me when we met back then. I mean, you should totally know who Batman is!"

Derek's lashes fluttered a bit as he glanced down and quickly, back up again. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he finally said.

"Try me."

Stiles watched as Derek's shoulders lifted and relaxed again, as if the other man was taking a deep breath. "It's been over three centuries."

Oh. Three …centuries? Holy fuck. This was vampire-type territory right here, at least according to folklore. Nothing in anything he'd read about werewolves made any reference to that type of longevity. But then again, werewolves hadn't existed until tonight for him. Nothing to do but go with the flow here.

"But I thought werewolves aged. Like normal, y'know. How…?"

"A curse. A darach's curse."

A curse? Of course it was. As if being on the run from an unseen threat with a sexy werewolf who somehow knew him when he was a child wasn't enough, let's throw in an evil curse cast by some dark druid. Sure, why not? Some higher power probably took a gander at his life, and thought, 'Yeah, him, he seems a bit pathetic. His world needs some spicing up', and bam! Yup, this was his life now.

"So, what kind of curse exactly?" he found himself asking. A logical, sound question. All things considered, he thought he was taking everything pretty well.

Derek swallowed, the muscles along his neck tightening in the muted light of the dashboard. He was having an internal debate with himself as to whether he should reveal anything, Stiles was sure of it. Luckily, the side he was hoping would win did.

"A strong one. It trapped me. Frozen. Alone. In the dark. For a very long time."

"It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here. And I'm not afraid of the dark. I can help."

Stiles's heart thudded heavily in his chest at the imagery Derek had painted with his few words. He felt it, easily imagined it, and could almost experience it. "I - I"m sorry. That … That sounds horrible." He swallowed, unsure what else he could say to something like that.

"But you're free now. That's what matters, right?" he continued. His voice had softened. The whole situation sounded like something from the countless tales he'd researched. He couldn't understand, and would probably never understand, what Derek had been through, but he could be sympathetic. Despite his natural inclination toward snarkiness and sarcasm, he was still human.

That telltale muscle twitched again along his companion's jaw. Even though Derek didn't verbally acknowledge his comment, Stiles's brain filled in the blank. Well, wasn't he full of surprises? How - and when - had he become adept at reading werewolf body language?

"Wait, you're not free?" he asked incredulously. "Then how ...? But you're here." He gave the other man a quick poke on the arm for emphasis, but quickly withdrew when Derek threw him a sharp look. "You've been popping in and out of my trip like a bad penny. You can't still be cursed?"

The other man didn't answer right away, which Stiles was getting used to. But he was beginning to pick up on the process now when dealing with a broody werewolf: He just had to wait.

"I am," Derek finally said, voice low, resigned.

Stiles watched his companion closely. When nothing more was forthcoming, he let out a quiet breath. "So it's not just a trap-and-break type curse, like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. There's more to it," he concluded. He wanted more information, more background, but Derek didn't seem like someone who shared their problems easily. But he couldn't ignore that almost defeated set of the man's shoulders, or the perpetual closed-off set of his features. It was as if life had always kicked Derek while he was down, as if nothing good had ever happened to him and no helping hand had ever been extended his way. And that wasn't right. Something in Stiles tightened at the thought. "How can I help?"

Derek's head snapped up at the question. He looked over, his eyes wide and flashing red briefly in the darkness.

Stiles didn't know why but the surprise he saw in that expression saddened him. "I want to help," he added. "But you'll have to give me more details."

Several seconds passed before Derek's posture relaxed. Then, he gestured over to the road they'd just veered off of. "I can show you."

(***)

His friend had been gone for so long. The last time Stiles talked to him, he had just been starting kindergarten. Now, it was Christmas and Stiles was tucked away, all ready for Santa.

But then, he was here again, in the dark, dark place. And he could hear his friend breathing. It was fast. And loud.

"You're back!" Stiles said. He was happy his friend was back. "You were gone a long time. I thought you left."

His friend didn't say anything, but Stiles could still hear his breathing. It was still loud. And it was still fast. Then, he heard voices, far, far away. They were fuzzy voices. And his friend seemed scared.

"It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here. And I'm not afraid of the dark. I can help." He reached out and held his friend's hand.

(***)

"So before, back at the hostel, you said I shouldn't exist. What did you mean?" Stiles took a bite from his pastry and leaned back against the hood of the rental.

He and Derek had been on the road for most of the night, and after driving that whole time, he had reached his limit. He'd silently pulled off the main highway at the nearest convenience stop a couple of hours ago, parked off in a far corner, and promptly fallen asleep. Derek hadn't said anything, and while the fact that a werewolf had sat quietly in the car, watching over him, as he slept, should've kept him awake, it hadn't. With everything that had happened in the last twelve hours - hell, in the last few days! - he was exhausted, physically and mentally.

When he'd woken up, Derek was exactly as he'd been earlier: sitting in the passenger seat, stock still, alert and vigilant, staring out of the windshield. The image of a gruff guard dog had popped into Stiles's groggy head in that moment. It had also been then that he'd noticed the sun had come up, and he could see the blatant marks of blood splattered across the man's t-shirt and face. The leather jacket he'd had on earlier had been discarded and it'd taken almost a whole minute for Stiles to realize that it'd been placed on him as a makeshift blanket. He hadn't dwelled on that revelation for long because in the orange-tinted light, he was more worried about those incriminating bloodstains. They were hard to miss, especially by early morning passersby, if they just so happened to walk around to the side of the store. He'd sat up with a deep breath, and had passed the jacket back with a quiet thanks. He'd missed the warmth and oddly comforting scent of it almost immediately.

He had made no further remark on it though. Even in his sleep-addled state, he had the better judgment not to. Instead, he'd mumbled something about Derek staying where he was so he could buy some supplies from the gas stop and use their facilities.

He'd returned to the car ten minutes later, definitely more awake and arms laden with a couple of hot coffees, bottles of water, some pre-packaged pastries, and a souvenir t-shirt he'd found in the store. Derek had remained exactly where he'd left him. When Stiles had gestured for him to come out of the car, and tossed him the new t-shirt, the werewolf had responded accordingly to everything without protest. He hadn't questioned what Stiles was doing. He'd only taken a look down at himself and had known what he needed to do.

… Which now left Stiles to eat his convenience store breakfast as he watched his companion change. He supposed there could be worse things in life than casually observing an unknown werewolf in a state of undress at the side of a gas stop parking lot while on a spontaneous road trip with said unknown werewolf in Europe. It sure hadn't been on his vacation to-do list though.

Now, through his rather uneventful life - present situation notwithstanding - he'd dated individuals of a variety of persuasions, but none, absolutely none, came even close to looking like Derek. There was a sculpted perfection to the man's body, a mix of angular lines and hard curves, and with the early morning sun casting that fuzzy orange-red light, Stiles was beginning to understand how the Renaissance artists got their divine inspiration. Did all werewolves look like this? He was awed, envious, and aroused all at the same time. How was that even possible?

Just as Derek began to pull on the new t-shirt, he glanced in Stiles's direction, which caused Stiles to quickly turn away. Now wasn't the time to ogle the guy, he reminded himself, cheeks suddenly feeling unexpectedly warm. He grabbed the coffee he'd placed on the rental's hood earlier, took a sip, and … ow, hot, hot, hot! Yeah, not the smoothest move, but at least he managed to swallow with only a pained grunt. Way better than spitting it out all over himself. That was a win in his books!

"You're szeptun."

"Huh?" For the briefest moment, he experienced a flash of deja vu. He couldn't immediately place what it was. Then, he remembered that he'd asked a question earlier, and Derek was finally answering. "Oh, yeah, you know, I looked up that word and there's nothing special about it. It's just a fancy, Polish name for a traditional healer. Just like the typical holistic doctors or a village wise woman. They exist in a lot of rural towns, here and back home." He shrugged, not really understanding how he was supposed to interpret Derek's statement.

His companion had finished putting the t-shirt on - a bold Spanish flag themed one with yellow and red stripes that was just a tad too tight across the chest. Not that Stiles minded. He fought back a smile at the sight. The shirt looked incongruous on the werewolf, since his previous dirtied top was a faded army green and way more low-key. Still, the leather jacket, which held up remarkably well against blood stains, would help with that.

"You're a male szeptun. A whisperer. And a real one too. Not what people 'traditionally' believe as real. That's rare. Perhaps 'once in a couple of centuries' rare. It holds special meaning and it also makes you especially strong," Derek explained, his voice steady and serious.

Stiles blinked and stared back, clueless. That was a lot of words at once from the other man. And he wasn't sure what that meant exactly, especially for him.

Seeing the reaction, Derek made a noise that sounded like a tired huff, and shrugged on his jacket. He paused for a second, looking down at the leather, and then shifting it a bit on his shoulders. His nostrils flared slightly. Stiles assumed he was likely picking up on the scent of dried blood.

Then, as if remembering he had an audience witnessing his little display of vanity, Derek straightened and looked back with a neutral expression. "They can track you," he said. "They've got magic users. Druids. They noticed you."

"There's that 'they' again. You said that back at the hostel. But you never said who they were. And I think I've used Olympic-level restraint in not asking."

Derek held his gaze, those piercing eyes assessing. Really, no person - human or non-human - had any business owning such pretty eyes, but here Stiles was, a point of focus for them. He was a little unnerved, to be honest.

But whatever imaginary test Derek was putting Stiles through in his head, he seemed to have passed because the werewolf decided to elaborate. "Hunters," he said simply.

"Hunters?" That wasn't what he'd been expecting. Frankly, it made sense and no sense at the same time. He supposed, technically, they were being hunted, so … yeah, hunters. But hunters? Why? Then again, he was talking to a werewolf, and he was supposedly some sort of powerful witch doctor, so why not? "Okay, hunters. As in…?" Stiles raised his arms and mimicked the actions of holding a rifle.

Derek's lips thinned as tension crept up onto his face. ""Close enough. They're an organization that believes in the purging of all supernatural beings from this earth. They think we're abominations. They originally hunted werewolves, but they've expanded their portfolio over time to include anything supernatural. Especially the powerful ones. And you, Stiles, are a powerful supernatural."

"But I'm not -"

A sharp look from Derek cut him off.

He took a slow breath and looked down at the coffee in his hand, at the half eaten pastry he'd set down on the car hood. All mundane things that he ate and drank in his very mundane life. Because that was him - mundane, unassuming, unimportant. He was the sidekick, the best friend, the comic relief. He was the one who helped his buddy get the girl, the one planning the trip while someone else presented the engagement ring. Never the main character. Never that.

But … But the evidence had been piling up on him his whole life, hadn't it? His mom had tried to tell him but his young five-year old brain couldn't process it. All those intuitive decisions and his oddly charmed path in life had pointed toward it, but he'd just pushed it into the back of his mind, ignored it. And now - this. "Fuck me," he breathed out as the realization set in. He slumped back further onto the car. This was all real, wasn't it? He was seriously in the middle of his own fucking supernatural hero's quest, and he'd been willfully blind to it this whole time.

He turned his attention back to Derek, feeling especially vulnerable and lost. He had no choice but to lean on the other man as a guide. Like it or not, he was in this mess, and if it was really as dangerous as Derek had said, he would prefer to come out of it alive. "When we first met, you said 'he' wanted me dead. Who's 'he'? A hunter? Like a Big Boss guy? Why does he want me dead?"

Derek nodded. "Gerard Argent. He's from a prominent hunter family with lots of influence. Hunters respect and follow him. And I don't want to understand why he wants you dead. It's a level of hate I don't care to dig into."

Stiles couldn't figure out if he should laugh or cry. He was just coming to terms with his circumstances, and just like that, he had a nemesis? And not just a run-of-the-mill arch-nemesis either. No, it had to be a xenophobic, megalomaniacal one too? How did that even happen? He shook his head in disbelief. "God, this feels so unreal. I usually read about this kind of stuff, not live it."

"It's real. As real as it can get."

Stiles stared at his companion intensely, just daring him to break out into a laugh and say he was just kidding. But no, he wasn't that lucky. Instead, Derek bent down and picked up his discarded shirt, leaving Stiles to digest that his whole world had shifted off its axis.

Stiles deflated. Then, he watched as the other man started to walk toward the garbage can by the corner of the building, presumably to throw away the shirt. "Wait!" he huffed, grabbed one of the bottles of water he'd put down earlier, and pushed himself off the car. Seriously, years of covering Scott's ass - and okay, his own too - had honed his cover-up skills to a tee.

Derek stopped and turned. Before he had a chance to question anything, Stiles went right up to him, reached down, grabbed the shirt from his hand, and wet a corner of it with some of the bottled water. Then, he leaned in and proceeded to wipe the last few marks of blood from the werewolf's face and neck. At first, Derek flinched and jerked back slightly, but when he figured out what Stiles was doing, he stilled. Stiles may have imagined it, but he thought the other man may have even leaned in a bit.

The silence between them had never been uncomfortable or awkward. In fact, they were eerily in-sync most of the time when it came to their actions, but Stiles was scared that would change, so he was driven to fill the dead air. "Hey, so, can I ask you something?" he prompted as he finished up with the last streak on the side of the other man's face. "Why are you helping me? Why did you track me down and try to warn me off? You met me when I was a kid, and I don't even remember you."

Derek stared at him as he stepped back. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to respond, but nothing came out. Worse though was the vulnerability displayed in that wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar look was doing weird things to Stiles's insides. Ugh, who knew he had a thing for the hard-shell-around-an-ooey-gooey-center type?

Damn it.

Stiles sighed quietly and stepped back. "Look, you don't have to -"

He cut himself off when Derek suddenly tensed. The werewolf's whole body straightened, vibrating, and his head turned to the right, as if he'd heard something. Something was up. Stiles knew it, could almost sense it. This had happened before, back when Derek had cornered him outside the university library.

His pulse quickened. He looked around, wanting to know what had distracted his companion. "What? What is it?"

Derek didn't respond. He didn't even move.

After several seconds of complete stillness, Stiles took half a step forward. "Derek? Are they here? Do we need to go?"

Without warning, the other man moved. So fast that Stiles had stumbled back toward the car before he knew what had happened. He looked at the werewolf, stunned, but somehow, unsurprised by the sight of flashing red eyes and pointed fangs. Derek's shoulders were heaving, as if he was breathing hard and overexerting himself. His hand was out, a universal signal to stay away.

"Derek?" He leaned in, despite the flutter of anxiety in his stomach. He never did take orders well. "If they're here, I need you to get in the car." He stepped back toward the werewolf because yes, he was reckless and walking toward a potential predator with possible homicidal tendencies was perhaps a dumb thing to do, but he also didn't think Derek would harm him. At least not intentionally. Otherwise, given all the opportunities, he'd be dead three times over by now.

"Der-" The breath left his lungs before he could say the rest of the other man's name. He'd been pulled in close, flush up against the werewolf, and held so tight, he was having a hard time breathing. He tensed briefly when his companion buried his face in the crook of his neck, even braced himself in case he was meeting his end by werewolf bite, but when Derek started to inhale deeply, he relaxed a bit.

One. Two. Three…

Stiles counted five whole breaths before the arms around him began slacken. Eventually, the other man let go, and backed off. Stiles blinked, body compacted together as if he was still trapped in that hold. Slowly, he collected himself and consciously relaxed his posture, one muscle at a time until his arms were hanging more at ease by his side.

He stared at the werewolf, confused. "Uhh…"

Derek didn't make eye contact. Instead, he bent down, picked up the shirt and bottled water Stiles had dropped, and headed toward the car. "We should go," he said gruffly as he walked by.

Avoidance and deflection? Sure, he could do that. In fact, he was sure he'd mastered that art. "Yeah, uh-huh," he responded mildly, and then promptly darted toward the driver's side without any protest.

(***)

They drove for another hour in silence.

No, that wasn't exactly true. Derek did break the ride up a bit with his monosyllabic instructions about which direction to go. Other than that, a heavy mood fell over them inside the little car. Stiles wanted to ask what had happened back at the gas stop so badly, but with the way Derek was just staring straight ahead, avoiding all engagement and seemingly on edge, he kept his mouth shut. Which was fucking hard for him given how much he needed to talk. He was just one bad speed bump away from biting off his tongue! He seriously deserved a medal.

To distract himself, he'd turned his attention to the passing landmarks and tried to figure out where they were going. It'd been too dark, and he'd been too ramped up on adrenalin last night to keep track of which roads they'd taken. Based on the signage now though, Stiles estimated they were somewhere in the southwest of the country. He'd seen a sign for Seville not too far back, and he was pretty sure if they would hit Portugal soon if they didn't stop.

"Left. Here."

Stiles threw a glance over at his passenger. "Left? You sure? There's no road there."

"There is."

Just as Derek pointed it out, a small gravel turn-off appeared to his left over the next rise. Stiles steered the car in between the trees and braced himself as they bounced along the bumpy surface.

He felt it before he saw it - that flutter in his stomach and that tingle in his spine. He ground his teeth together to keep his anxiety at bay. There was something nearby, something ... special.

The trees eventually opened up, and the rural road came to a stop in front of an unassuming church. It sat alone out here, in the middle of nowhere, though its brown roof, stone walls, and adjacent cemetery looked well maintained. Parishioners likely came here from a town nearby, by Stiles's estimation.

He pulled the car over onto a small gravel pad without being told, and took a moment to collect himself before he got out. With his senses buzzing, he wasn't sure what he was going to encounter. Past experiences hadn't exactly been a day at the beach. By the time he was ready, Derek had already exited the car and was making his way toward the church. Stiles rushed to catch up.

"What's here?" he asked as he matched his stride with the werewolf. "I can feel something, umm, different about this place."

Derek didn't answer, just subtly angled his head a bit as an indication for Stiles to follow.

Logic dictated he should be wary of walking into strange - and potentially supernaturally charged - places like this with a man he'd met just days ago. But Stiles, for some odd reason, trusted Derek. Call it a gut feeling,intuition, or magic or whatever … he felt that Derek, for all his broody, enigmatic ways, wouldn't put him in any danger. And so, he followed.

As with all churches here, the doors were open. They entered the small building without much pause, and like that time in Trasmoz, Stiles was greeted with the smell of wood polish mixed with the damp, musty scent that was inherent in old stone structures like this. The interior was simple, just some wooden pews, gray walls, and a raised dais with an altar and a small pane of stained glass at the front. And it was the latter that Derek made a beeline for.

"Oh, shit," he muttered under his breath. He had a heavy suspicion as to where this was headed.

"Touch that." Derek pointed to the altar. "It has to be you."

Stiles pursed his lips in consternation. One part of him didn't want to do this again, and the other part was too fucking curious to care. The whole internal debate lasted all of two seconds before curiosity won out. He stepped up onto the dais, and was about to touch the altar when he felt Derek's hand on his shoulder. He glanced down at the solid pressure, and then turned his head to look over at the werewolf. Derek looked back with a nod of reassurance.

Letting out a resigned breath, Stiles turned back to the altar, closed his eyes, and slowly, almost apprehensively, placed a finger onto the polished wood.

Chapter Text

Stiles knew he was by the ocean before he opened his eyes. He could smell the saltiness in the air, and hear the crash of waves in the distance. He was a California boy, and he'd lose all credibility if he hadn't recognized it immediately. But he needed a moment. Using Derek's reassuring pressure on his shoulder as a focal point, he waited for the slight vertigo to pass. Then, the hand was gone, as was the sense of disorientation, and he was forced to open his eyes and figure out where in the world - literally - he'd ended up now.

They stood on a craggy shore, where a gust of wind suddenly whipped by and brought with it a spray of salty sea water. Uneven cliffs loomed above him, blocking out the sun as whitecap waves crashed against the dark gray rocks a bit more angrily than he was used to back home. But the motion suited this place - hard, untamed, and a bit wild.

"Where are we?" he found himself asking.

Derek stepped deftly down from the large slab of rock they'd been standing on. "Cornwall," he said simply.

Stiles felt his eyebrows rise. "England? Are you fucking kidding me?"

The werewolf threw him a glare that had 'Do I look like I'm kidding?' written all over it. Which … fair. This wasn't something to kid about. They'd just traversed across a whole country, not to mention a sea and a channel in the span of a few seconds. This was serious stuff!

Still… holy fucking shit! That just happened! He'd originally thought he'd been dreaming or had some kind of waking vision back in Trasmoz, but teleportation? He hadn't been prepared for that - werewolves, supernatural hunters, witchy powers aside.

"But, how?" As giddy as he was inside, he still needed to know so many things. He followed Derek, hopping off the stone slab as well and dogging the other man's steps as they made their way across a rocky shoreline. He purposely followed too closely, partly because he didn't want to miss an answer in case Derek gave it, but mainly because he gave into the immature need to annoy his companion into responding.

After a minute of skirting jagged rocks, Derek finally stopped and turned to look back at him. "There's a leyline between here and that church in Spain. Those with magic - like you - can use them to travel. A lot of old pre-Christian ritual sites were built on nexus points for leylines that cross-cross the world. Some of those old sites were converted to churches. Some just disappeared into the landscape, like back there." Derek tilted his chin in the direction they'd just come from. "That used to be an old druidic site of worship."

Stiles made a sound of understanding. He knew that. At least, after his research trip to the university library, he knew parts of that story. Derek's explanation filled in the gaps. And it wasn't surprising that Cornwall would be a nexus point of so-called magic. It had always been steeped in a deep well of folklore and … wait… oh, shit! "Dude, it just dawned on me that Merlin could be real! We just lived the evidence!" he blurted out incredulously. Arthurian legends alluded to this region regularly, and most notably, how Merlin, a professed druid, had practiced his magic here. This could be the discovery of a lifetime. Suddenly, he had a hankering to restart his thesis on this topic. Goodbye, two years of research!

Derek's brows furrowed in confusion at his reaction.

Philistine.

Stiles harrumphed and contained his geeky excitement. The werewolf gave up trying to figure him out, and started moving again, which left Stiles to follow. But his brain was firing on all cylinders though as he tried to reconcile what the existence of a real leyline network could mean for the spread of folktales and information around the world. It was such a great foundation to dig into the origins of similar stories between cultures and countries, of how lore traveled from one place to another.

Then, just as a particularly large wave crashed loudly several feet away from them, he remembered something. "That black wolf from three days ago, when I travelled from Trasmoz …That was you, wasn't it?" He yelled to be heard above the deafening surf, afraid Derek wouldn't hear him.

But the other man did because his whole body froze. From behind, Stiles saw his companion's spine straightened and his shoulders tensed.

"That wasn't a dream or a vision. It was real, and that was you," he continued.

For what felt like the longest time, they stood, unmoving, along the shoreline, with Stiles staring at the werewolf's broad back, waves slapping the surrounding rocks with almost a rhythmic pattern.

Then, Derek angled his head slightly so his profile was visible. "There's a leyline between that church and a church in Borgund. Norway. You traveled between the two because the lines reacted to your magic."

"I don't -" Stiles cut himself off. The denial of his so-called 'magic' was still a reflex, and it would take some time before he got over that automatic reaction. He pursed his lips. Derek was doing that whole non-response thing again. The man had deflected before he'd had a chance to ask about the girl. He was catching on to his companion's ways. "You were there. At that church. Chasing the girl." He paused, unsure what he was expecting with his next question. It needed to be asked though. "And the murder in Trasmoz…?"

The muscle along Derek's jaw jumped. But no denial or admission.

Stiles closed his eyes briefly. He hated to admit it but the other man's silence was condemning. He could forgive a lot - the aggressive warnings, the intrusive actions, the evasive explanations - mainly because he realized he actually liked the guy. As in, really liked. There was a vulnerability about the man, a lost and defeated quality that was hidden so well behind that hard facade. Stiles had glimpsed it in a few fleeting, unguarded moments, and they tugged at something inside him. But murder … that was something he had a hard time wrapping his mind around.

Derek seemed to sense Stiles's change in demeanor. He looked forward again, hiding whatever Stiles might've been able to read on his face. "Come with me," he said woodenly, and resumed his course.

With the new revelation, Stiles knew that logically, he shouldn't follow, shouldn't get too close. He was just a few feet away from a murderer. It was dangerous and reckless. But he wanted to know … no, he needed to know - everything. And so, he moved to catch up to the werewolf.

The path they walked was rocky, uneven, and dangerously slippery. He could've easily fallen and cracked his head open on the jagged stones. In fact, he had a few near misses, and it was by sheer luck alone that he made it to their destination in one piece, the destination being an opening in a sheer rock face nestled in a small cove. Stiles eyed the cave warily. This was how serial killers lured their victims into their kill rooms. He'd seen this movie before. He didn't like the way it ended.

Just as he opened his mouth to voice his protest, Derek turned and cut him off. "I know you don't think much of me, but that's okay. I … I don't need you to. But I don't have much time. I just need you to promise me something."

There it was again, that vulnerability. It was flickering, almost unnoticeable and quickly hidden, but Stiles saw it. And it squeezed something in his chest to see it. "What?" he asked.

"Promise me you'll leave after this. Get as far away from here as you can once you have your answers."

"What? Why?"

"Promise me."

Stiles felt like the air had been knocked out of him with the way Derek had said those words: part anger, part plea, and all desperation. He couldn't do anything but nod.

Getting the response he wanted, Derek stepped into the cave. And Stiles, despite the inner back-and-forth he was having with himself, followed.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped through the opening was that the interior was not as dark as he'd initially expected. The ambient light from outside accounted for most of that, but there was something else that caused a muted glow in the small space. He took a few seconds to assess the dark walls and darker tunnel in front of them before he looked down and realized it was the sand on which he was now standing. He bent down and ran his fingers through the fine grains, marveling at the simmering green specks littering the brown. He'd seen this before …

"Witch's sand. It amplifies their magic or something."

Stiles looked up at his companion. "It's … umm, pretty."

Derek stared at him, lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something else. But in the end, he didn't. He just turned and gestured for them to continue.

Stiles rose, brushed his hands on his jeans, and shuffled to keep up. It got darker and damper the further in they went, and eventually, when he was straining to make out the tunnel ahead, they stopped. He looked down and noticed that they were standing on solid rock. The sand had all but disappeared, as had the minimal light he'd been using to keep himself oriented. Absently, he wondered if he'd just walked through the renowned Crystal Cave that was alluded to in the tales of Merlin. If his current situation hadn't turned so serious just before they entered the cave, he would've given into the excitement of the discovery.

"Three hundred years ago, I was imprisoned in here. For murder."

Derek's somber voice shook Stiles from his musings. He looked at the werewolf hard, as if trying to find the lie in words. "Here? Like in this cave?"

The werewolf angled his head at the dark tunnel ahead of them. "Deeper into the cave and into the earth. There's a well down there …"

Stiles shivered at the thought. He couldn't even imagine. "But you had a reason, right? For the murder? Self-defense or something?"

"Murders." Derek's mouth tightened into a thin line as he corrected Stiles. He looked away, as if unable to make eye contact. But he continued nonetheless. "I was young and blinded by grief. Hunters had killed my family and I wanted them all dead. So, I hunted them, and I didn't care who I hurt to do it. By the time the hunters responsible were all gone, I was more animal than man." Derek paused, took an almost audible breath as he recalled the memories. "A farmer and his family found me, took me in. They had a son, a szeptun like you, who knew what I was, what I'd become. But he … he didn't care."

Derek's voice had softened as he spoke, and Stiles picked up instantly on the affection and fondness he heard in the other man's tone as he remembered the farmer's son. He worried his lower lip, wanting to know more - more about Derek's past, more about this family, and more about the son. But he didn't say anything. Derek needed to share this in his own time. And so, he waited.

After a few minutes, Derek turned and met his gaze. And what Stiles saw there, on the shadowed planes of his face, nearly broke his heart. There was loss, pain, hopelessness, and a deep-seeded sense of defeat.

"They let me work on their farm, and I thought that was how I would end my days. I was fine with that. Content even. But a witch found me a few years later, said I'd killed her husband and daughter during my rampage. I - I don't even remember them."

With a will of its own, Stiles felt his arm begin to reach out and offer comfort. He consciously pulled it back down to his side.

"I thought she wanted to take my new family away, so I offered myself up instead. But she said that was too easy. She cursed me, condemned me to live many lifetimes of suffering - one for every life I'd taken - unloved and feared, until I died as the monster I truly was."

This time, Stiles did reach out. He didn't stop it. He didn't want to. He placed a hand on the other man's shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly. He wanted to do so much more, or at least say something to refute everything the witch had said about him, but he wasn't sure if Derek was in a space to listen.

At first, almost unconsciously, the werewolf leaned into his touch, welcoming it perhaps, but then, without warning, he shook him off with a grunt and stepped away.

"Don't. I don't deserve that." Derek's eyes flared red in the darkness at the roughly spoken words, and Stiles backed away involuntarily at the sudden motion. He held up his hands to show he'd meant no harm.

The cavern was filled with the sound of Derek's heavy breaths as he calmed down. As it evened out, and their enclosed space eventually became silent, the werewolf tone had changed - tired, subdued, and resigned. "I terrorized the countryside for years," he said. "I was feral, living in a red haze. Eventually, some magic users in England banded together, and managed to take control of my curse, adding to it by binding and trapping me here, deep in this cave."

Stiles looked deep into the tunnel, a dark abyss hiding secrets that he couldn't really wrap his mind around. What had it been like to be trapped down there? How did one survive? Would it drive someone to madness?

'He was scared, Mom. And lonely …'

"I don't remember much of my time down there. I was in-and-out of consciousness, suspended by the binding spell. Hunters and their dark druid took control of the curse, and freed me almost twenty-five years ago."

'... scared … And lonely …'

Like a light switch, something clicked in Stiles's head. His eyes widened and his pulse quickened. "Holy shit, I used to have dreams when I was about five. I was always sitting in the dark with a man. But I thought … I thought they were just dreams. How …?"

Stiles stared directly at his companion, disbelief making his face slack. Derek stared back, unabashed and unwavering. The steadiness of that gaze was enough of an answer to confirm what Stiles had just realized. No words needed. "Y-You would leave and come back so angry. I'd wanted to help, but you wouldn't let me. And then, you were just … just gone."

"You did help me."

That didn't make any sense. "No, I didn't do anything."

Something in Derek's expression changed. The lines around his eyes softened, and the tightness of his jaw lessened. "Do you know what an anchor is?" He paused, waiting, and at the shake of Stiles's head, he continued. "It connects werewolves with their humanity, grounds us. You became mine all those years ago. Every time Gerard and his rotation of darachs sent me out to kill someone, I kept a piece of my humanity intact by remembering you."

Every time … sent me out to kill someone …

Every time …

The way Derek had said it, so matter-of-fact, so impassive, told Stiles everything he needed to know to answer some of the larger questions banging around in his head. The blood, the murders - the pieces were beginning to come together. "They're controlling you, aren't they? They changed the parameters of the curse and they're making you kill supernatural beings?"

The werewolf broke eye contact at the question, as if looking away would save him from answering.

No, he wasn't going to get off that easily. Not while an angry fire had been lit inside Stiles. He was furious and outraged on the other man's behalf. "How can I help?" he found himself asking.

Derek glared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "You don't."

"Oh, yes, I will."

"No, you won't."

"Watch me." Stiles tilted his chin up stubbornly and took a step toward the other man. One thing Derek would have to learn about him was that if he set his mind to something, if he wanted to do something, nothing short of divine intervention was going to stop him.

For all of his growling and aggressive posturing, Derek actually backed up slightly at Stiles's movement. Then, realizing what had happened - perhaps unconsciously - he reasserted himself. "You're so irritating! Don't you get it? You've already helped. But now, you're in danger. I might not be able to fight back next time, and I could kill you. You need to leave, get away. I don't care how. Use the leylines. Steal a bike. Whatever. Just go home. Get as far away from here as you can."

Stiles arched a brow. "Steal a bike? Really?" he deadpanned.

The werewolf shrugged a shoulder, as if to say that was all he could come up with in the heat of the moment.

"Look," Stiles added, his anger a little more tempered now that he partly got where Derek was coming from. "I'll be fine. I know you'd never hurt me. You … You care about me."

As if on cue, the other man's face changed, eyes flaring red, teeth elongating. Two days ago, that would've freak the crap out of him. Now, however … he wasn't scared. Far from it.

"They've been trying this whole time, haven't they?" he observed calmly. He reached out slowly, until his fingers ghosted over the ridges of the werewolf's forehead. And Derek let him. "Fuck them. Give me some time. I can figure this out. I can break whatever thing they have over you. I know I can."

Derek remained perfectly still. The words - a vow and a promise, more like - hung heavy in the air between them.

And then …

The whole cavern shook with a deafening roar. It threw Stiles off balance and had him bent over, hands covering his ears to stop the ringing. Not that it helped. He was still a little disoriented when he straightened and got his bearings. But the cavern was empty.

Derek was gone.

(***)

Stiles was mad. And he wasn't the regular, run-of-the-mill mad either. He was livid, incensed, like a slow-simmering vat of hot oil just waiting to lash out and burn anyone in the vicinity when it reached its boiling point. And he hoped that the 'anyone' would be one specific stupidly good-looking, and perpetually broody werewolf. Because … really? How does someone tell a person that said person was responsible for his entire sanity and then pull a full Houdini act? Yeah, no, they didn't!

"That idiotic, self-sacrificing, self-important, head-in-his-ass prick," he muttered as he stomped his way back to his rental. He was angry, no doubt. As anyone would be after what Derek had pulled, but there was something else. Normally, he wouldn't feel so invested. No, deep down, he knew there was something else fueling that anger. He just wasn't ready to dissect it yet.

He had managed to navigate his way out of the cave and back to the leyline nexus point without any issues - yay for his expert navigation skills again - and thanks to being a quick study and having traveled twice already via these lines, he managed to figure out how to get back to the church where he'd parked his car with minimal effort. Side note to himself: apparently, a little bit of will and a lot of belief made the whole thing go so much smoother. He filed that away for future use.

The car was exactly where he'd left it, and after insulting Derek's incredibly low IQ a few more times, he got in the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Then, he began his slow and tedious drive.

Academically, he should've gone back to Zaragoza, made reparations to the hostel, packed up his stuff, and headed home. But right now, with his chest clenching and his belly burning, he wasn't even going to consider that. No, instead, he was going to save Derek. He'd made a promise, even if he hadn't explicitly stated it. And he was going to keep it.

For the first time in memory, he let his overactive brain take a backseat, and just drove. He'd suppressed that inexplicable gut feeling, that instinct, for so long that he almost drove himself off the road several times having 'what the fuck are you doing?' fights with himself. The flipside though was that it kept him awake for most of the drive. He was running on fumes really, despite the couple of stops he'd made for gas and quick snacks he'd bought along the way.

The sun was beginning to set when he found himself turning off the main road onto the familiar path leading up to Trasmoz.The town was quieter now, with many of the tourists either leaving or settling down for dinner. But that served him well since he managed to find parking and navigate the streets more easily.

There were a few of the booths he'd seen earlier in the week open, though the vendors seemed to be packing up given the low foot traffic. Stiles saw Maria almost immediately, packing up her wares.

She greeted him with a smile when he approached, as if she was seeing a long-lost friend. Stiles returned her smile with one of his own. It was an easier effort than he would've anticipated given his situation.

"Hola, Maria," he greeted. "I'm just here to -"

"I have," she interjected, and pressed something into his hand. "My present. You take."

He looked down at the object on his palm, and then back at the short woman. Her dark eyes watched him steadily, and the corner of her lips were upturned in an almost knowing smile.

With everything that had been happening the last few days, he didn't question the gesture. Yes, it was a first, and he would likely overanalyze every millisecond of this moment later, but right now, he was under a bit of a crunch. He didn't have the time to over-fixate on things as he normally did, as much as he wanted to. He closed his fingers around the small hourglass and thanked the woman profusely.

She took it in stride and she waved him away, as if she knew he was in a race with the clock.

And he was. He didn't know why, but the nervous flutter in his stomach was telling him that he had to get going and fast. Derek needed him.

The route to the church was familiar, and this time, he didn't stop and hesitate on entry. He opened the heavy wooden door without pause, and made a beeline for the altar. Like his last visit, the space was empty, which was a small blessing given he was way better off doing what he was going to do without witnesses.

As with his trip back from Cornwall, this one went smoothly as well. Either he was getting better at this, or his complete surrender to whatever powers-that-be had been the secret to his leveling up this whole time.

He found himself in the clearing again, lush and green, just at the edge of the forest. He knew the stave church was just off in the horizon to his left, just a dark shape against the backdrop of the setting sun. But where he needed to go, where he felt compelled to go, was in the opposite direction - into the trees.

"Fuck," he expelled quietly. Did he want to go into the creepy forest just as night was approaching? Hell no. Did he know where he was going? Again, no. Did he have even an iota of sense as to what he was going to do? No, exclamation point. But did he have to because Derek, a man he'd become invested in and perhaps even had come to care for, needed him? Resoundingly, yes.

And so, he jogged his way over to the trees, using whatever fading light there was to avoid tripping over any stray roots and errant rocks. He didn't think he'd ever been so coordinated or nimble his entire life.

Dusky skies soon gave way to a leafy canopy, and as he navigated his way onto a single track trail, the flutter in his stomach became more pronounced, almost to the point where his insides felt knotted. He shivered, both from the chill that skittered down his spine and from the drop in temperature under the thick of the trees. With his body all ill at ease, he could only assume he was heading in the right direction. He took a fortifying breath, and forged ahead along the path.

He heard the voice before he saw anything. It was muffled, breathy, and desperate. He quickened his pace, all the while trying to make out what the voice was saying, who its speaker was, and if it belonged to someone he was supposed to find or just a random hiker in the woods. The closer he got, the more he could make out. The words had a higher-pitch. Female, maybe. And they weren't English. He wasn't a linguistics expert but they didn't sound Norwegian or Sami either. Greek? Latin, perhaps?

He followed the path as it veered sharply to the right, and as he rounded that corner, he noticed the trees here opened up several feet, allowing a bit more of the fading sun through. And it was also to this very place where his intuition had been guiding him.

He stopped abruptly, breath catching.

There was a woman up ahead, sitting, inching back slowly on her hands and feet as if she'd fallen and was trying to move away without any sudden movements. She spoke quickly and harshly with a cracking voice in a language Stiles had no hope of figuring out. But there was a cadence to it, a repetitive intonation that made her words sound like a song, a chant, or … a spell!

He must've made a sound because she spared him a glance. He recognized her then - the woman who'd ran away from the wolf - or rather, Derek - the last time he'd been here. He looked past her to what she'd been backing away from, and was only half-surprised to see the imposing and familiar figure of the very man he'd been chasing halfway across the continent. It made sense: this was an unfinished job, and hadn't Derek mentioned they were hunting down magic users?

He stepped closer to the woman. It was more an impulsive move than a logical one. "Derek," he said evenly, hoping to get the werewolf's attention. He wasn't sure what his plan was, but he did want to make sure the woman was safe. "Derek, it's me," he repeated, hands held up to show he meant no harm.

The chanting stopped, and as he moved farther into the mix, he could hear the woman pushing herself off the ground.

Derek responded with a low growl, its frequency so low that Stiles could feel its vibration in the back of his throat. The werewolf eased closer, out of a shadowed patch, and Stiles could clearly see the red of the other man's eyes and the sharpness of his fangs. He wasn't all there, Stiles realized. He wasn't in control. And what had he called it? Feral?

"Derek, it's me, Stiles. Remember? You said I was your … umm, anchor. It's flattering, and a bit scary. You know … heh … to play that big of a role in someone's life. But I'm - I'm fine with that. Because I like you. I - I care about you. I feel like I know you. Have known you - forever. And I guess that's actually true since we technically met twenty-five years ago." By now, he'd maneuvered himself in between the stalking werewolf and his prey. He made a quick motion to the woman behind him to run. From the soft sound she made, he assumed she understood.

Then, everything happened all at once. Branches cracked. The woman ran off. Derek's body blurred. He moved. So fast. So fucking fast. And Stiles, in that split second, tried to get in the way.

The impact was jarring, so hard that his teeth clattered, and he bit his tongue and tasted blood. He heard something crack. Glass. The hourglass in his pocket. And he was falling, flailing, reacting. He grabbed onto whatever he could of the solid body that had crashed into him. To stop him. Futile? Maybe. But he couldn't let Derek kill her. He'd gone through so much already. No more. He couldn't let Derek hurt anymore. And so, he held on tight, so tight as if his life depended on it.

Oddly enough, the ground wasn't as hard as he'd anticipated. He'd braced for pain, and for the air to be knocked out of him. But once the shock wore off, he realized that he'd turned during the fall, that somehow, through no power of his own, their bodies had twisted, and their positions had reversed. Derek was beneath him and had taken the brunt of the impact.

Any other time, he'd be marveling at the solidness of the muscle under him, but right now, at that moment, all he cared about was the state of the werewolf's mind. He pushed himself up slightly, but was reluctant to get off completely. The more interference he could play for the woman to escape the better.

"Derek?" He looked down at the man beneath him.

The face he saw was very human, though those red eyes that stared back were distant, unfocused. He could see the tightness in the werewolf's features. He'd seen it before, several times, when Derek looked like he'd been fighting some inner demons. His chest was heaving, his body taut. He reminded Stiles of what it felt like to have a panic attack.

And he wanted to help. He wanted to help so badly. He wanted to break whatever control those hunters had on him. He wanted to break whatever curse that witch had cast on him. He wanted so many things for Derek … because he wasn't unloved and alone, and he wasn't a monster. And Derek had … him.

For the better part of the day, he'd been following his instincts, his so-called gut feeling. And now … now, he wasn't sure if it was that or something more selfish, but he leaned down, slowly, gently, and found Derek's mouth with his own. As far as kisses went, it wasn't much. Just a taste, an invitation, but in that touch, something changed. Stiles felt it, and he was sure Derek felt it too. Because a rush of … something washed through his body, much like a surge of relief he usually felt after getting through a particularly stressful exam, and his whole being just relaxed. Every muscle in him seemed looser, unburdened.

He pulled away, a little dazed by the sensation. And when he looked down, Derek stared back with his beautiful, multi-faceted eyes, a sense of wonder evident on his face. "Stiles?"

"Umm-hmm?"

Neither of them moved for a beat. And then …

And then, Derek reached up and pulled him down. This time, when their lips met, it was different. It was hungry, greedy, and carnal. Stiles strained to taste more, opening his mouth and darting his tongue out. He traced the outline of Derek's lips, seeking entry, which the man gave readily. They dueled with each other - mouths, tongues, bodies - giving as much as each of them got. It wasn't until Stiles ground his hips down and a sinful sounding moan escaped him that a drop of sanity entered his brain.

He broke their contact, but not without a lot of willpower. Fuck, when had it gotten so warm here? "Hey," he said breathlessly.

Derek's lips were wet, slightly swollen. His eyes shone and his hair was mussed. God, if he looked as hot and bothered as the werewolf, this could be the beginning of something really special.

"I'm free," Derek said quietly after taking a moment to collect himself. He reached up and ran a finger along the side of Stiles's face. "I can feel it. Thank you."

Stiles tilted his head down until their foreheads touched. "My pleasure. See, I told you I'd save you. That was some real Beauty and the Beast shit I did right there. Never doubt me again."

Derek grumbled lowly in agreement.

Stiles relaxed into the other man, who bore his weight without any effort. He sighed. This was remarkably comfortable for a forest floor. Of course, it helped that there was a well-muscled werewolf beneath him. He could stay here a while.

"So, what happens now?"

And there went Derek, ruining it.

"Well, I could think of a few things." he mumbled. He supposed spending a night having hot naked sex in an unknown forest somewhere in Norway without provisions wasn't the most practical thing to do. He rolled himself off Derek and onto the hard ground. And yup, definitely not as comfortable there. He carefully reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out the pieces of the broken hourglass that had just poked his thigh. There were probably a few grains of green sand in his jeans somewhere, but most of it was long gone by now. He gingerly placed the glass back in his pocket, and made a mental note to dispose of it later.

Then, with a disappointed groan, he pushed himself up and stood. He held out a hand for his companion with a bit of a lopsided smile on his face. "Some pushy dude has been wanting me to go home so I think I'm going to start with that. Want to come?"

Humor crept onto Derek's face and it was a sight to behold. The guy was probably a hundred times more handsome - if that was even possible - when he smiled, and Stiles decided it would be his life's mission to try and make that smile appear as often as possible.

Derek clasped his hand and rose. "Sounds like a smart guy. And I … I think I will."

Stiles laughed. He gestured for the other man to lead the way - mainly because he couldn't see crap now that there was practically no light left. It wasn't exactly the perfect walk-off-into-the-sunset type of happy ending he'd expected for this vacation - in fact, he hoped it was more of a beginning of sorts - but with everything that had happened, it was pretty damn close. He would take it.

Chapter Text

New York, United States
Three months later

(***)

New York was quite pretty at night. There was a quality unique to the neighborhoods just off the Hudson, a checkered history that seemed soaked into its buildings and people. Derek watched in silence as the streetlights of the warehouse district passed by in a procession of dotted blurs. He was in an oddly contemplative mood.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Stiles had said that a couple of weeks ago when Derek had caught sight of a news clip on the younger man's phone. Something about a foreign territorial conflict, if he recalled. He'd remarked about how 'typical' that was, the fight for land, and Stiles had offhandedly quoted that phrase. And it was true: regardless of how advanced technology had become, of how much everyone had, the same fundamental problems still existed. Wars were still fought, disparity and poverty still lingered ... It was as if people had just put new clothes onto the same ugly animal and called it progress.

And it was the same outside the car. The derelict buildings and slumped bodies, stooped and beaten by time and circumstance, still endured. But they eventually gave way to the newly renovated lofts and haute couture, a gentrification that brought an influx of money, and with it, a renewal. Thus, the cycle went. This was as he'd seen it a decade ago, two decades ago, even two centuries ago. The cities had been different, but the people, the situations, they all remained the same.

"We're here."

Derek looked over at Stiles as he shifted the car into park. Even now, months later, he had a hard time believing the other man was here. With him. Sometimes, he wondered if he was still locked away in that well, drifting in and out of that dreamless state, and imagining a life for himself far, far away from that bleak reality. He'd clung onto the concept of him, of Stiles, for so long that he'd almost believed that was the case. And then, he would touch the younger man, sense his warmth, his presence, and go weak with relief in reaffirming that this was indeed real, that he was with Stiles, and that Stiles was with him.

"You sure this is it?" he asked, and stared out at the brick facade of the recently refurbished loft across the street. He honed in on sounds from inside, and made out one steady heartbeat.

"Yup. Some fancy research on my trusty computer along with a bit of fairy dust, and voila! Location verified." Stiles winked to emphasize his apparent prowess.

Derek's gaze lingered on the other man with barely concealed fondness. Sometimes, Stiles used phrases that he could not even begin to understand, but he never doubted the intention behind them. The human was ferocity, stubbornness, and loyalty all rolled into one. He reminded Derek so much of Michal - his farmer's son, all those centuries gone - in the compassion he showed and in the way he lived his life. He'd met a shaman once, years ago, who'd talked about reincarnation before he … died, and while Derek hadn't fully believed in it, Stiles would've been a good case to convince him otherwise.

"Sure you don't want me in there? I can help." Stiles was visually searching him for something. He was observant like that. He supposed the younger man had assumed his pause was from hesitation, which couldn't have been further from the truth. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and he had no second thoughts. Stiles didn't need to know that most of his quiet moments were usually spent marveling at his being there with him.

Derek unbuckled his seatbelt - an affectation really, given he healed so quickly, but it made Stiles happy so he wore it. "I know you can. But I need to do this on my own. Besides, you've already taken care of his druid. That's more than enough."

Stiles shrugged off the compliment. "Just had to drop a word in a local coven's ear about the whereabouts of a certain druid who'd killed one of their members. That was Mickey Mouse." He chuckled. "I just heard myself. Four months ago, that combo of words would've never left my mouth."

Derek gave his companion a lopsided grin. "Careful, or you'll gain a reputation in the supernatural community."

Stiles scoffed at the suggestion. "Bring it. I've got the best bodyguard money can buy."

"You pay me?"

"Yeah, with love."

Derek shook his head good-naturedly at the retort, and basked in the warmth that flooded him at the words. He could get used to this. He could spend the rest of his life getting used to this.

"Hey," the younger man said when Derek opened the door. "You be careful too." His tone was serious now, as was his expression. "If you need help, just signal. I've got your back. Always."

Derek swallowed the lump of emotion that had welled up in his throat. He knew Stiles meant it, could hear it in the steady beat of his heart. And even so, he was caught off guard by it. In response, he leaned over the shifter, and pulled the other man in for a kiss. He wasn't good with words, never had been, but this … this he could do.

When he judged Stiles to be thoroughly dazed, he pulled away and got out of the car. "I know," he replied softly, and closed the door. As he walked away, he heard Stiles burst out laughing.

"We're watching Star Wars when we get home. I need to introduce you to Han Solo," he heard the human say from inside the vehicle.

Derek paused briefly, and smiled. He'd like that. He'd like that a lot. In fact, once he took care of Gerard, he was going to do exactly that. He was going to leave all this behind and start that new life with Stiles, whatever Star Wars was and all.