Stillane? Yep.

Fic Post: To Have Outlived the Night (Part III)

stillane — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 21:15:06 GMT

Please see Part I for notes and warnings. Part II is here.

The local news covers the showdown at the elementary school and the surviving hunters’ arrests as a bizarre gang war. The unregistered weapons violations alone take up a few pages. He’s not sure who came up with that angle, but it works in the pack’s favor. The Sheriff’s Department takes a special interest in anyone unfamiliar coming through town, and Derek stops catching sight of hunters around every corner. If there are others left, they’re staying under the radar. No new tracks appear around the warehouses downtown, and the tripwires at the old rec center aren’t reset after he disables them.

Things get quiet. It’s the first time since he became Alpha that there’s been no looming threat. It’s… unsettling. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop; if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s to never doubt the world’s supply of crises. More often than not, he winds up prowling around town or the woods like he can walk off the prickle under his skin.

When he comes back to the train station two weeks in and gets hit at the door with the twin scents of Stiles and anxiety, it’s almost comforting. Disaster he can handle.

Stiles is hunched over on one of the old crates on the ground floor, waiting for him. The second he catches Derek’s steps on the stairs, though, he’s on his feet and meeting him at the bottom.

“You realize being here cancels out everything we did, right?” Derek says.

“Yeah, not so much giving a damn right now,” Stiles returns. His hand is fidgeting in the cuff of his hoodie sleeve; as Derek gets closer, it’s obvious he’s been biting his nails again.

“What’s Scott done?” It’s unfair, maybe, given how much he’s grown up in the last year, but there are a limited number of things that can put Stiles in this kind of state, and none of Derek’s pack feel like they’re actively in pain right now. Scott’s the best bet for a slow-burn crisis.

Stiles shakes his head, though. “It’s not… He’s fine. They’re all okay, I think.” He licks his lips. “It’s my dad.”

That’s definitely on the list of those limited things. Derek just hadn’t expected to be involved, in that case.

“He hasn’t touched his backup gun since they fired him.” Stiles swallows. “He’s been carrying it the last two days.”

Derek nods to show he’s listening.

“I followed him to work last night,” Stiles says, “and I wasn’t the only one. The guy I told you about, Sullivan - he was there, too, and he… Look, I know what somebody on the hunt looks like by now, okay? And he’s going to try something.”

“And you’re going to stop it.” Derek wishes that were more of a question.

Stiles’ chin comes up. “With what happened with the Department…” He shakes his head slowly. “There’s nobody watching his back.”

“Where do I fit into this fantastic plan?”

Stiles blinks, like that part was obvious. “I have kind of a long history of getting in over my head when left to my own devices.”

“Scott turned you down?”

“I didn’t ask him.” That determined set is back in his shoulders.

Derek’s beginning to see where this is going. “You don’t want his help?”

“Scott wouldn’t be able to hurt anybody, not on purpose.” Stiles doesn’t flinch. “You would.”

Because Derek’s always good for something in the end. “You’re calling in your favor.”

There’s a sick satisfaction in knowing the world still works the way he knows it does. To his credit, Stiles looks uncomfortable. “If I have to,” he says with conviction. And then he softens. “But I’d rather ask a friend for help.”

He doesn’t mean Scott.

He doesn’t mean Scott, and he’s dead serious. People don’t ask Derek. They demand or they order or they suggest, if they’re feeling somehow entitled, but they don’t ask. Whatever ground they’re on here, it’s nothing like solid.

Stiles’ right hand is wrapped around the railing of the stairs hard enough to turn his knuckles white. If he were a wolf, he’d be denting it. Derek should not be thinking about that.

“This is my dad, Derek. My dad. He can’t…” His mouth is a tight line, and his expression is helpless.

My, what big eyes you have, Derek remembers. Nobody’s looked at him like an answer in a long time.

“He won’t,” he says, before he knows he’s going to.

He grabs his jacket and heads back upstairs without letting himself analyze it too much. Stiles jogs to keep up with him, but doesn’t complain.

“I’m not your weapon,” Derek says over the Camaro’s roof, trying to regain some ground.

Stiles shakes his head, though. “No, I know. With luck, I can get Sullivan on video breaking his parole and he’ll never even know we’re there. I just need some backup.”

He slides into the passenger seat and gives Derek directions, and then doesn’t speak again for the next hour.

Stiles’ dad’s overnight gig is apparently an art museum out in the valley. Derek parks at the closed restaurant down the street to get the lay of the land. The museum entrance is well lit and designed perfectly to make a theft difficult; the parking lot is pitch black and designed perfectly to make an ambush easier than hell.

Derek takes one look at the place and makes an executive decision.

“Stay in the car.”

“What?” Stiles genuinely blinks at him.

“Was that too complicated?” He raises an eyebrow. “Sit. Stay.”

“Look at you, with your ironic deployment of dog jokes.” The humor doesn’t go near his eyes. “No.”

Derek growls, but Stiles refuses to be intimidated and short of leaving him in the trunk, there’s not much Derek can do about it. Doesn’t stop him from thinking longingly of the idea as they circle the perimeter and Stiles fails to move with any kind of stealth, but to be fair, Derek gets the impression he’s trying.

It’s really obvious, then, when Stiles freezes in place. His heart speeds up, and Derek follows his eye line to a car parked a block down the street. “Sullivan’s?” he asks, and Stiles nods.

They’re at the back of the building, facing a set of loading docks maybe a hundred feet away. He can see the red lights of surveillance cameras from here; he can also see that the one above the folding door is out. As they get closer, it’s clear the door itself has a good two-foot gap at the bottom, plenty of room for someone to roll under.

“Who’d you say got your dad this job?”

“An old friend from the Depart… Shit. He’s in on it,” Stiles realizes.

Derek tilts his head in agreement. He can’t hear anyone waiting inside, and nothing happens when he slips under the door with Stiles behind him. He gets a whiff of gun oil heading into the main museum and follows it. Sullivan’s accomplice must have taken care of the internal cameras, too, because no alarms go off.

They’re crossing from a room full of paintings into one with aggressively modern statues when they catch up with Sullivan. He’s waiting by the room’s far exit with a pistol in his hand, posed like the definition of an ambush.

Derek recognizes his own fury right about the time he crashes into Sullivan’s unsuspecting back. The gun goes spinning off into the dark, and he’s dimly aware of Stiles sprinting after it, but mostly he’s focused on getting a good grip on the spineless asshole writhing out from under him.

Sullivan manages to get a hand free and then suddenly there’s a flare of pain in Derek’s ribs and he’s automatically letting go. They wind up crouched face to face with a few feet between them, and the muted floor lights glint on the blade in Sullivan’s hands. Derek’s all but healed already, but he’d rather not shift if he can avoid it and Sullivan’s not going to go down without a fight.

“Shit shit shit,” Stiles says somewhere off to the left, and then there’s a splintering crash and an alarm that could wake the dead.

Sullivan looks back and forth between Derek and the room’s exit, decides it’s not worth it, and takes off for the loading dock. Derek and Stiles are only a few seconds behind him, but his car is right there. There’s no time to do anything even if they could catch him, not with the cops probably on their way. Derek drags Stiles to the Camaro and gets busy retreating at as sedate a pace as he can manage.

“So I think I just destroyed something really expensive and artsy.” Stiles’ eyes are wide. “In my defense, it was also ugly like the mutant spawn of hell.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, trying to listen for sirens behind them.

They all seem to be headed straight for the museum. At the next red light, Stiles clears his throat.

“I know where Sullivan’s staying.” At Derek’s look, he shrugs. “It’s amazing what you can find out when breaking the law is a relatively minor consideration.”

Sullivan’s place turns out to be a trailer in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t any lights on and no sign of his car, and Stiles scrambles out of the Camaro before it’s fully stopped moving. He’s halfway across the yard before Derek catches up with him.

“What are you doing?” Derek hisses, keeping his voice low just in case.

“Getting proof that he’s a parole-violating son of a bitch before he tries again. You got a better plan?”

Derek really wishes he did. This one feels like a disaster waiting to happen.

It’s confirmed when Stiles is reaching for the door handle and Derek suddenly becomes aware that he’s hearing one more heartbeat than he should. Derek holds up a hand and Stiles freezes, but Sullivan’s already walking around the end of the trailer. He’s got the knife out and a mean grin on his face.

“Thought you might be along.” He cocks his head, gesturing between them with the knife. “Now this one I don’t recognize, but you… You look just like your mom, don’t you?”

Stiles straightens, anger pouring off him in waves. “You’re not getting away with this.”

Sullivan actually laughs. “You’ve got no proof, kiddo, not a damn thing that will stand up in court. Trust me on that.” He bares his teeth like a shark. “I’ve heard about you, too. You think anybody’s going to listen to you when I do put a bullet in Daddy?”

Derek is momentarily distracted by the thought of how satisfying it would be to break this man’s neck. He only sees it in his peripheral vision when Stiles moves; by the time his head is turned, the gun from the museum is out of the pocket of his hoodie and leveled at Sullivan.

Sullivan’s face doesn’t change, but Derek hears the trip in his heartbeat. “You going to shoot me with the safety on, kid?”

Stiles’ arm doesn’t waver. He doesn’t even glance at the gun. “Yeah, that always works in movies, doesn’t it? Never hurts to be sure, though.” He shifts just slightly and fires over Sullivan’s shoulder. “Nope, it’s off.”

That shakes Sullivan up. It’s obvious that his calm is cracking, but he’s still aiming for slick conviction. “Come on, now. Little junior lawman like you? We both know you don’t want to do this.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Stiles says in a flat voice Derek’s never heard from him.

It sets something off in Derek’s spine, a little spark of intention that has him shifting into the form that could never be mistaken for human. He stalks forward with a low rumble in his chest.

Stiles just draws himself up straighter in surprise, but Sullivan takes it badly. He gets in one good swing with the knife before Derek grabs his wrist and wrenches until it snaps, and then he flattens himself against the wall and scratches like he can claw through it. He reeks of fear and makes a strangled, high noise when Derek leans into his personal space. It’s immensely rewarding.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles recalibrate on the fly. It’s only a beat before the confidence comes back into his stance. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you left me no choice. Meet my friend, Cujo.”

Derek’s growl kicks up a notch in irritation, but it has the added benefit of making Sullivan piss himself a little. Derek would roll his eyes if it weren’t completely breaking character.

“Yeah,” Stiles continues, “Cujo here, he’s really protective and surprisingly resourceful. Like a big, hairy velociraptor, only better with doors.”

Derek obligingly holds one hand in front of Sullivan’s face and flexes his claws.

“And this is the best part: Once he’s got your scent, there’s pretty much nowhere he can’t find you. You ever see that Mythbusters where they try to get away from the bloodhound? Spoiler alert: nothing doing.” There’s a grin in Stiles’ voice now. It’s full of sharp edges, but Derek will take it. “I don’t actually have to spell out what happens when Cujo catches you, right?”

Sullivan is barely daring to breathe. His eyes flicker from Derek’s eyes to Stiles and then back to Derek’s teeth.

“So here’s how this is going to work,” Stiles says, taking that for an answer. “You’re going to find religion or head for Mexico or join a circus, I don’t really care, but we never hear from you again. And if anything happens to my dad or me… well. No one will hear from you again. Okay?”

Sullivan doesn’t move. Stiles grunts. “You can let up a little there, big guy.”

As soon as Derek takes a step back, Sullivan bolts. Derek blocks his way to Stiles, but he heads in the opposite direction. He doesn’t stop running until he gets to his car somewhere far back in the woods, and then tears out with a spin of tires. If they’re lucky, he’ll get picked up on a traffic violation.

Show and tell over, Derek shakes off the change and works his jaw to get the kinks out. When he looks over, Stiles is staring at his feet, scrubbing one hand through his short hair. The gun is still in the other, hanging at his side.

Stiles blows out a long breath. “So. I think that went well.”

Stiles spends the first half of the drive back taking the gun apart and rubbing all the pieces with the bottom of his shirt. It’s obviously not a new skill, long fingers confident and comfortable with the motions. He catches Derek watching.

“Cop’s kid,” he reminds him, and doesn’t say anything else until he tells Derek to stop before the next bridge. It’s late enough that there’s no traffic. He crawls out of the car and over the barrier to reach the outer edge, and then drops the gun’s parts into the water. He smells like the night air when he climbs back into the passenger seat, and something else underneath that makes Derek uneasy.

He holds off on starting the car.

“I would have done it.”

When Derek glances over, Stiles is staring at his hands. Palm-up and empty, they’re perfectly steady.

“I know.” Derek’s not sure what response he’s supposed to give. It’s just the truth.

“I could have killed him and not even felt bad about it.” The hollow note in his voice is distracting. “I always knew I could do it, if I had to, but I thought… You’re supposed to feel bad, right?”

“There’s not –“

“What does that mean? What does that make me?” Stiles asks, talking more to the dashboard than to Derek, but sounding like the answer is vital.

The familiarity of it hits Derek hard, steals the words from him for long enough to let silence fall again. Something else occurs to Stiles then, judging by the way his head snaps upright.

“Oh, Jesus. My dad can’t know… Whatever else happens, I don’t care, he just can’t ever know, okay?” He links his fingers behind his head, movements sharp and sudden. His neck bows again, and his heart takes off like a horse from the starting gate.

“Stiles…”

“Shit.” One hand rubs over his chest, and the look on his face melts into disbelief. His laugh is ragged around the edges. “This is stupid. God, this is so stupid. People keep dying in front of me and I keep almost dying and this is what I fucking can’t deal with?”

Derek wants to do him the courtesy of ignoring him right now, but his heartbeat is rabbit-fast in Derek’s ears and the feel of him is raking over every nerve Derek has. He’s like a thunderstorm rising fast, or an earthquake coming on.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says, curling over his knees. His breathing hits a hitching rhythm and Derek lays his hand over the frantic rise-fall of Stiles’ back on pure instinct. He gets a low, choked noise in return. He runs his hand up and fits it around the bones of Stiles’ neck and just holds there.

For long, suspended minutes nothing changes. Derek squeezes and releases and can’t come up with a single other thing to do or say, and then the tension seeps out from under his palm. He works his thumb in slow circles until Stiles lets out a shuddering sigh and draws an almost normal inhale after. He should take his hand away, then; he doesn’t.

It’s been long enough that the car’s stopped ticking in the cooler air, and the loudest sound around them is the chirping of the river frogs from under the bridge. When Stiles’ body loosens to a softer curve, Derek finally reaches for the key.

“It makes us strong,” he decides at last, miles down the road with nothing beyond the headlights. Stiles rolls against the headrest to face him. “We do what we have to, and if they’re safe at the end of the day...”

“What happens to us then?” His voice is a soft vibration over the engine.

Derek hates him slightly for asking. Hates himself more for wondering the same thing.

“I’ll let you know when I find out.”

Stiles’ father’s SUV is in the driveway when they get back. There’s a lamp on in the living room, too.

Stiles stares at the house for a long time. The light is gray this close to dawn, and it gives him a resigned, distant look that Derek doesn’t like. Stiles reaches for the door handle without a word and Derek grabs for his arm.

“What are we going to tell your dad?”

He blinks like Derek’s said something unexpected, but some of the blankness melts out of him, at least. “I ran out to the store, I guess. The Jeep broke down and I forgot to charge my phone. You were just driving by.”

There’s a questioning note in that last part, and Derek nods to show he’ll go along. It’s a decent story; he doesn’t have any other explanations on hand that won’t get Stiles in just as much trouble and himself possibly arrested.

“Okay, then,” Stiles says, and gets out of the car.

Stilinski must see them coming up the driveway. He meets them on the porch, and if Derek couldn’t spot the stark terror around his eyes, he might mistake it for anger.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice is hoarse, and Stiles flinches.

Derek watches the mask come over him as he opens his mouth. “The milk smelled funny and we’re out of cereal, so I was going to get some, but the Jeep started making this grinding sound and Derek drove by and saw me but that took, like, hours, and we had to move the Jeep so it wasn’t on the road where –“

Stilinski holds up one hand. “Okay.” His heart rate’s dropping back down, and weariness is settling over his shoulders. “Upstairs. We’ll talk about it after we’ve both gotten some sleep.”

Now that the bullshitting is out of the way, Stiles deflates at the reprieve. He heads into the house with one last look back at Derek, and a grateful little nod once he’s behind his dad’s back.

“Thought you weren’t seeing each other anymore,” Stilinski says when they’re alone, tone neutral.

Derek matches it. “We’re not. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

He’s expecting to see relief, maybe even some kind of triumph. Instead, Stilinski just looks more tired. After a moment, he nods and offers his hand to Derek.

“Thanks for getting him home.” His grip is firm, but not challenging. Solid and comfortable, and it occurs to Derek that he likes this man.

He returns the nod, his eyes tracking to the stairs without his permission. “He’s a good –“ and he can’t finish it, can’t say kid, because Stiles isn’t. Not like he should be. He’s always refused to be what Derek expects.

He realizes he’s been silent too long. Stilinski’s just watching him, though.

“Yeah, he is,” he says quietly.

Derek goes back the next night to check, but there’s no sign of Sullivan at the trailer or near the museum. It’s possible he’s still running like hell. The rest of that night is like a sore tooth that he can’t stop working at, but that much at least was fantastic.

He stays away from Stiles. Keeping his distance is the smart thing to do, Derek knows it, and he’s on a new mission to only do the smart things. None of them can afford otherwise. When Derek cares, he makes mistakes.

He hadn’t counted on Stiles disrupting the plan, but he’s also somehow completely not shocked to find the train station once again smelling like him. Derek doesn’t see him at first, but there’s a flash of movement from inside the train car and Derek follows it.

He’s barely through the folding doors, lips curling involuntarily, when he recognizes his mistake.

The man sitting in the train isn’t Stiles. He’s wearing a lacrosse jersey with Stiles’ number on it; under it, though, is tight black clothing. Derek has half a second to comprehend exactly how fucked he is before something small and sharp sinks into his back and his vision tunnels.

He makes it one snarling step towards the hunter in front of him, but the man just smiles. “Night night.”

He’s shifting forms before he’s fully awake, on his feet before his eyes are open. It doesn’t do him any good. The manacles around his wrists hold, and the chain leading from them to the floor pulls him up short the second he gets upright. At least his hands are in front of him.

The same hunter’s waiting calmly a few feet out of reach. He’s taken off the jersey, but the all black motif and faint air of smug asshole haven’t changed.

“Morning, sunshine.” He smirks. “Well, middle of the night, actually, but who’s counting.”

Derek knows where he is at a glance. The old condemned rec center gym spans out around him in all directions. They must have torn up the wood flooring to bolt his restraints into the concrete, but the rest of the place looks undisturbed. He glances at the second floor balcony expecting more hunters, but there’s only a clutter of old weightlifting equipment.

“Why not just kill me?” He has a hunch he knows. He’s hoping he’s wrong, though.

He’s not. “Now that wouldn’t be very efficient, would it?” The bastard tuts. “No, we’re going to wait right here for the rest of your pack to come charging in.” He holds up Derek’s phone. “I love technology. Don’t you?”

He isn’t stupid enough to have programmed anyone in under their real names, but he doubts it matters.

“With Papa Wolf out of commission, how long do you think it’ll take for us to pick them off?” Derek’s hands jerk unconsciously, and the hunter’s smirk widens. “It’s a chilly night. Maybe we’ll have a nice, big bonfire right here in this old firetrap.”

Derek won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him react further. Hollow victories may be all he gets.

“There’s a nice symmetry to it, don’t you think? Poetic,” the hunter keeps going. “You could even –“

And then there’s a whistle of air and something white and round bounces off his head. His expression melts into confusion, and he drops like a stone.

A voice comes out of the darkness to the right. “More of a limerick guy, myself.”

Derek knows that voice. Stiles jogs the rest of the way over to his side and grins wildly. “Like, ‘These hunters, they each have a gun / I wish they were so much more fun.’” He’s got a lacrosse stick in his hand, but he drops it to reach for Derek’s manacles. “Lame, I know. Sue me later.”

“You hit him with a ball?”

Stiles shrugs. “Hey, you don’t schedule your heroic rescues in advance, you take what you can get.”

Somewhere outside the rear of the building, there’s an explosion, and then a grating reptilian scream. Closer to the front, a scattering of gunshots is followed by Isaac’s roar. He sounds more angry than hurt, at least.

“And that’d be the cavalry. Not subtle, but effective.” Stiles’ fingers brush his wrist around the manacles. “Damn it. They couldn’t just go for handcuffs like normal people?”

There are footsteps headed toward them. Whoever’s coming, Derek doesn’t recognize them and they smell like gunpowder. They’re out of time.

“Stiles. Go.”

Stiles grits his teeth and doesn’t answer. He switches from the manacles to the padlock on the chain running to the floor. It snicks open just as a blonde dressed in black walks out of the corridor, shotgun first. Two others, both men, trail her out a beat later.

Her smile is casual. “It’s almost cute, really. You know what they say about a boy and his dog, Stiles.”

Above them, Derek sees Scott start weaving through the exercise equipment. He catches the shape of a longbow out of the corner of his eye, working around the balcony to get a clear shot at the hunters.

Derek snarls through his fangs to get their attention back on him, but Stiles doesn’t play along. He raises his chin like an idiot. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Oh, we’ve heard all about you. Turns out, radio signals aren’t very secure. Who knew?” she asks flippantly.

And suddenly it all comes together. Why this group never made a move, why they’d never been seen in significant numbers… They’d just had to hang back and let all the others do their dirty work for them, mapping out the opposition and waiting for their moment to strike. He should have seen this coming.

The realization almost distracts him from the flush of anger that washes over Stiles’ face. He knows the instant Stiles opens his mouth that things are about to go sideways.

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing. That whole part where I exhibited some basic human decency and didn’t just leave somebody to die in a fucking elevator shaft? I keep trying to tell everybody: That was not a declaration.”

And then he steps in front of Derek.

“This is.”

The hollow chill that surrounds every shitty thing in Derek’s life settles in his chest. “Stiles.”

Stiles ignores him. He stares the woman down, solid and unblinking. “You want him, you go through me.”

The hunter cocks her head. “Fine.”

Distantly, Derek registers the sound of the shot, the sound of Scott’s scream, the sound of an arrow released. It’s drowned out by Stiles, knocked back a step into Derek and already falling as Derek twists a hand into his shirt.

It’s instinct to drag him to the ground, to hunch over him before looking up for the next attack. The other hunters won’t be far behind.

Except they will. They’re standing frozen with their guns only half raised, and Derek tracks their line of sight up to where Allison holds steady aim. “Put it down,” she says, and there’s steel in her voice.

Nobody moves. In the silence, the dripping of Jackson’s claws somewhere in the shadows and Stiles’ ragged breathing are suddenly deafening. It’s gone silent outside, too, and his pack feels closer.

One of the hunters stares hard at Allison’s face. “You think there aren’t others? You think you can win this?”

“I think I’ll give you three seconds before I drop you next to your boss.”

Another beat, and the men ease themselves into a crouch and lay the guns down. By the time they’re fading into the shadows, Derek’s back to human form.

“Boyd, Jackson: follow them. Erica, pull the arrow and get rid of the body,” he rattles off without looking away from Stiles. The hole in his shirt is so small that Derek’s hand fits over it with room to curl over his ribs, but the ground under him is already staining dark.

“We’ve got this. Take my car,” Allison says, suddenly beside him and handing her keys to Scott, and Derek blocks out the sound Stiles makes when he lifts him.

The ride to the hospital seems impossibly long.

People like to pretend that blood smells like copper. It doesn’t; it smells like blood. It feels slick and warm on skin if there’s enough of it flowing continuously. There’s enough of it, in the back of the car.

The closer they come to the center of town, the more streetlights there are to see by. They paint Stiles’ skin strange shades of orange, but it’s better then the ashen contrast with Derek’s jacket between lights. They catch in his wide, dark eyes and on his lips where he’s mouthing Derek’s name.

He’s afraid. He’s dying, and he’s afraid, and Derek wants to break everything he can get his fingers on because he can’t fix the damage under his hands right now.

“My dad,” Stiles murmurs, barely louder than the tires over the road. “Watch him, okay? Please.”

Derek doesn’t have any more promises to give. He makes it anyway. “Yes.”

And Stiles relaxes, goes that little bit heavier against Derek’s hold, and Derek snarls, “Don’t.”

From the driver’s seat, Scott makes a noise that no one would mistake for human, and then the car is slowing and Derek is already springing for the door handle. He turns toward the hospital and Scott’s blocking his way, only the color of his eyes giving away the wolf. “You can’t go in there.”

Derek moves to slip around him. Scott steps in closer. “If you want them to let you anywhere near him, you need to go right now.”

He’s right. It’s the smart play, and a detached part of Derek is even proud of Scott for seeing that. It doesn’t make it any easier to lay Stiles in his arms and watch him go.

The morgue is private. There’s not much traffic, little chance of him getting caught, and it’s quiet enough that he can focus on a specific rhythm two floors away. He cleans himself up as much as he can, finds bolt cutters in a closet for the manacles, and settles in a dark corner, closing his eyes to focus better.

When he opens them again, Allison is watching him from a few feet away. He tenses automatically, but she only folds herself slowly down to sit on the floor.

“Have they said…” he starts, voice rough to his own ears, but she shakes her head.

“No word yet.”

He nods, and watches her take a slow look around them. She frowns. “You get that this is creepy, right?”

He avoids that one. “How did you know I was here?”

“Erica. She said it’s your favorite place to make friends.” The frown gets deeper.

“Inside joke,” Derek says, even though it isn’t. “Why are you here?”

When she straightens like that, raises her chin just right, he can see the fighter in her. “We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“I don’t think we’re going to get a better time.”

She’s probably not wrong. He nods.

“We’re both going to have enemies after this,” she says. “They don’t have to be each other.”

Of all the people he would have expected that from, he hadn’t seen it coming from her. It’s no secret how little she likes him. “You want an alliance.”

“Before… before Kate,” and he can respect the way she rides through the pain, “things were okay. Your family lived here, and we left you alone. Nobody got hurt.”

“You think we can go back to that?” He doesn’t bother to cover the bitterness.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think we should. We can do better.”

Despite himself, he wonders where this is going. He keeps his mouth shut.

“My family’s been trying to save the world for a really long time. We’re an army against the darkness out there. We go where we need to and we do what’s right, when we follow the code.” She looks him straight in the eyes. “But you want to know what I think?

“I think I don’t care. I think if everybody else wants to tear each other apart, they can go for it. I’m eighteen and I’m in love and I want to wake up tomorrow and not wonder if anyone I care about is going to die. I think you can understand that.”

“I’m not eighteen,” he says. He hasn’t been that young or that innocent for a long time.

She smiles faintly. “That’s not the part I meant.”

He swallows, not thinking about a room two floors away. “And you think you can stop it?”

“No.” Her smile tightens. “But I think we can. Your pack, Scott, the hunters who’ll follow me… Jackson, Lydia, Danny. Stiles. We make a decent team.”

It’s a nice fantasy. “Let me guess who’ll be in charge.”

“Does it matter?” She doesn’t flinch, and her voice doesn’t rise. “Why did you give them all the bite, Derek? The truth.”

“Power,” he says easily, and lets his eyes flash.

She just stares him down, though, waiting.

Go to hell is on the tip of his tongue, but somehow stays there. “Survival,” he grits out, finally.

She nods like she already knew. “So pick the one that means more to you,” she says, and stands up.

It hits him, sudden and painful, that it’s not Kate that he sees in her. It’s Laura.

“Come on,” she says, and deliberately holds out her hand. “Let’s find you something else to wear.”

They pass deputies at various points in the halls. The cover story is apparently that Scott and Stiles were in the woods and happened to be very unlucky; in the grandest possible sense, it’s even true.

Their worry makes it easy to feel Boyd somewhere close, Erica and Isaac farther away. Neither of them are fond of hospitals.

Jackson and Lydia are holding hands from adjoined chairs in the waiting room. Whatever they are or aren’t to each other at any given moment, apparently they’re still this. Jackson meets Derek’s eyes and nods. Whether that means the other hunters are gone or dead, Derek doesn’t actually care right now.

He’s not prepared for Stiles’ dad to be sitting next to Scott. When he raises his head, his eyes are raw and frightened, and he’s making no effort to hide anything.

“Sir,” Derek says, for lack of anything better. He wishes, suddenly, that he were wearing his own clothes.

Stilinski clears his throat roughly and nods. “Have a seat.”

It’s a strange comfort, being allowed to share this.

An hour passes before he has to move again. The vending machines are visible down the hall, and they make as good an excuse as any. He doesn’t comment when Scott stands and follows him.

They’re contemplating the relative merits of candy neither of them will probably eat when the rhythm he’s been following for hours now slows, stutters, and Derek holds very still until it picks back up. Beside him, there’s the sound of a long breath, and when he looks Scott is watching him.

“He’s still here?” Scott asks softly.

“You can’t hear him?”

Scott shakes his head. “Allison’s the only one I can pick out of a crowd.”

Most heartbeats sound alike from a distance. Stiles’ doesn’t, although Derek can’t explain why. He realizes he’s been silent too long when he feels Scott’s eyes drilling into him. Derek knows what’s coming before he opens his mouth.

“Give him the bite,” Scott says quietly.

Derek doesn’t look at him. “I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” Scott growls, still keeping his voice low. “Bullshit, Derek. You can, and you will, because you are not letting this happen, you can’t… You can’t…. I know he matters to you, you can fake it all you want but I know, and he did this for you. He’s dying for you, don’t you –“

“It won’t help!” He doesn’t realize he’s shouting until the silence settles in after. Down the hall, Stilinski and Mrs. McCall freeze and turn toward him. He focuses on the floor until they go back to talking, and he’s quieter when he tries again. “How long was it before you started healing the first time?”

The understanding rolls through slowly, dragging the fight out of Scott’s shoulders. “It won’t be fast enough, will it?”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

There’s nothing more to say. He buys a cup of coffee and goes back to listening for that specific cadence. Scott follows him back after a while, and this time his posture isn’t warning Derek away.

The cup’s long gone cold in his hands by the time a doctor comes out to pull Stiles’ dad aside. The doctor’s too seasoned to give anything away in her own body language, but the wave of relief coming off of Stilinski would be heavy enough to take Derek out at the knees if he were standing.

Stiles sleeps for the first two days. He’s high as a kite for the next three, and then they start to wean him down from the good drugs. He’s hurting, but more exhausted than anything; once the effects of blood loss and shock fade, he’ll still have a course of physical therapy to get through. They’re optimistic he’ll be okay in the long run, though.

Derek knows most of this second-hand. At first, it’s just more practical to come by at night. Stiles’ father is there during the day, and the others drop by in the evenings after school. It makes sense for Derek to take the night shift, slipping in unnoticed between nurse’s rounds.

It’s on the sixth night that he gets caught. Stiles shifts in his sleep and whines softly behind his teeth when the pain hits, and Derek goes still in the shadows at the corner of the room.

He thinks he’s in the clear until Stiles grins.

“Chair’s over by the window,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes, and he’s out again within a few breaths. There’s no question he knows who’s there with him; Derek can tell just by his tone.

It leaves him unsettled, although it’s hours yet before he can put his finger on why.

He needs a way to keep Stiles as far from all of this as it’s possible to be in Beacon Hills. Stiles will never do it by choice – not when everyone he knows is in the firing line – so Derek can’t give him one. The solution, when it comes to him, is ridiculously simple. It’s even got the added benefit of fulfilling the letter of a promise made.

Stiles won’t forgive him for this. Derek’s paid worse prices for less.

He waits until Stiles is scheduled to be released. Stiles’ dad comes back from the hospital pharmacy, and Derek stops him in the empty corridor a few turns down from Stiles’ room. “We need to talk.”

Stilinski nods, stepping around him. “Just let me get him settled in at home.”

He keeps walking, eyes on the prescriptions in his hand. Underneath the atmospheric disinfectant, Derek can smell the gun oil on him. He’s been armed since Stiles was shot.

“It wasn’t Sullivan.”

Stilinski freezes. “What did you say?” he asks without turning around.

“It wasn’t Sullivan. He had nothing to do with this.”

“And how do you know that, exactly?” Now he does turn, and the air is the shade of still before a bomb goes off.

“Because I know that he’s not a threat anymore.” Derek doesn’t blink. “And because I was there.”

Stilinski’s face hardens. He doesn’t need to ask where.

“Your son has a habit of picking fights that aren’t his,” Derek says. It’s a struggle, not to look away from the man’s expression. “If it means anything, I wouldn’t have wanted him anywhere near this one.”

“The person who shot Stiles was after you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I exist,” he says, and it means something that it comes out more resigned than bitter. Maybe just that he’s tired of being angry.

“This person… Where would I find them?”

Derek gives a shake of his head. “You won’t.” Stilinski doesn’t look like his law-abiding tendencies are going to kick in. Derek keeps going. “There are others who could still be a problem, though.”

“Others. Jesus.” His jaw clenches tighter, and the paper bags in his hand rustle. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

“I think it’s time someone did,” Derek agrees. “I said I’d protect you; I didn’t say how.”

“Protect me.” Stilinski looks almost amused. “That’s nice, son, but –“

Derek lets the change come over his face, eyes and teeth and all. Stilinski doesn’t flinch away or reach for his gun, just stops breathing and stares for a long time. His heartbeat kicks into a new range, though, and the color drains from his face.

“Holy shit.”

Derek shifts back. “That’s only the beginning.”

He keeps his guard up – no one goes out alone, everyone checks in at least once a day, no one gets directly connected with him if they can help it – but there’s every indication the hunters are actually gone this time. With Allison’s last name in play again, there’s a chance any others will hesitate to make a move. It might be politics that saves them in the end after all.

He’s too cautious to say it aloud, but he thinks they might have weathered this particular disaster.

That’s why it comes as such a shock to feel Erica’s agony loud and clear from halfway across town in the middle of an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon. She doesn’t answer her phone, and he doesn’t waste time calling the others.

When the feeling leads him to the trees behind Stiles’ house, his racing heart stutters. It’s sheer confusion, though, that stops him in his tracks at the back yard. Erica is definitely there, and she’s not alone. Lydia’s next to her, both of them relaxed and apparently swapping tips for their next Bio exam.

“What’s going on?” His voice can’t seem to choose between alarmed or bewildered.

Lydia smiles at him sunnily. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees slowly. That much he’s sure of.

“Conveniently, so is Stiles,” Lydia says.

“First window after the garage. You know the way,” Erica continues.

They move away from him in synch, light with the confidence of a job well done. Derek decides that irritation is definitely the emotion to go with. “The idea is to stay away from him.”

“Oh, we know,” Lydia says, and underneath the brightness is a layer of pure fury. “He’s not up to tracking you down yet, and we’re all sick of watching him be miserable. You clearly weren’t ever going to get over yourself, so we fixed it.”

He’s expecting Erica to have the decency to be sheepish, but her arms cross defiantly over her chest. She’s not giving ground, either. The absolute lack of a sudden appearance by the rest of his pack clues him in to how premeditated this must have been.

“How did you fake the pain?” he asks at last, grudgingly impressed. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

Lydia looks at him like he’s too stupid to live. “We didn’t.” She shrugs. “I stabbed her with a barbeque fork until you got close.”

He can’t help staring at Erica. “It’s for a good cause,” she assures him.

The slow, terrifying realization comes over him then: They’ve bonded.

He sighs and crosses his own arms. “I have my reasons.”

“And they’re bullshit,” Lydia says, nodding. “But at least go tell him what they are. You can sort it out with him now or wait until he goes looking for you, but if he tears his stitches you’ll only feel like more of an idiot.”

He remembers a time when they were all afraid of him. Well, when some of them were afraid of him. He tries to tell himself he feels nostalgic for it as he swings up onto the roof, but even he’s not buying it. Besides, giving Stiles whatever closure he’s looking for here isn’t a terrible idea.

Stiles’ window is open. He’s sitting at his desk with his back to Derek, mountains of paper and books covering all available surface area. His hair is a little longer than Derek’s ever seen it, his shoulders are set in a tired line, and the white strap of a sling stands out against the arch of his neck. Derek stops at the windowsill, cataloguing it all.

“Telling my dad was a dick move,” Stiles says without raising his head.

Despite himself, Derek’s lips quirk up at being caught. “You don’t think he needed to know?” It’s the truth, even if it’s not all of it.

Stiles is silent for a minute. “I thought he could fix it, you know, back at the beginning? But then...” He shrugs with just the good shoulder, and winces anyway. “I couldn’t let him try to protect me, not with what was at stake.”

What’s at stake is exactly the problem, Derek thinks. Stiles finally meets his eyes, though, and it’s like he heard anyway.

“I get what you were trying to do. It’s not going to work,” he says levelly. “I keep trying to tell you, Derek, your plans usually suck.”

The smile teasing at the corners of Stiles’ lips is frustrating. Derek can’t pinpoint exactly when he lost control of this conversation, but it’s slipping through his fingers nonetheless. “He won’t let you be involved with this.”

The smile doesn’t fade. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Turns out, though, that he still knows me better than either of us thought.” There’s a note in there, a little rueful, a little awed. “He gets that I can’t leave this alone. Doesn’t like it, but he gets it. He was a cop for a long time, remember? And we both think I’m safer with backup.”

He’d been so sure that he could count on Stilinski to be stronger than Derek in this. “You’ll get killed.” He doesn’t pull the punch, lets it be stark and honest. “You want to leave him alone like that?”

“No,” Stiles says, just as honest. “Alone is the last thing I want anyone to be.”

And just like that, Derek knows he’s going to lose this fight. He can taste it in the panic on the back of his tongue, but he’s never been able to just lie down.

“Maybe I just wanted you out of the way.”

“Maybe it’s a little late to pretend not to give a damn,” Stiles returns gently, and Derek closes his eyes and goes under.

“You weren’t supposed to do this,” he says eventually.

This thing where you get under my skin and then shatter like glass, he means. This thing where you itch and sting and I still can’t find all the pieces to get you out.

Stiles laughs. “It’s not in my lifeplan to get shot again in the near future. For one thing, Dad’s insurance is going to get suspicious eventually.” He turns woeful eyes on his desk. “For another, the homework buildup is ridiculous.”

He goes back to sorting through the stacks on his desk, apparently content to let Derek have his silent breakdown. Derek leans back against the window frame and tries to decide which direction is up. With his guard lowered, it’s easy to spot the circles under Stiles eyes, the lines of pain that haven’t faded from around his mouth yet. He makes a frustrated noise and shifts the sling’s strap an inch higher, rubbing at the skin exposed.

Of all things, it’s that sound that finally gets to Derek. He swings the rest of the way into the room and hovers with no real intention other than to be less far away, to be inside instead of out. Closing the space between them unlocks his ribcage a fraction. His finger reaching for the line of bruised skin on Stiles’ neck eases it a little further, but it’s still not enough until he’s bending down to fit his closed mouth to the same place.

Stiles smells like blood just under the surface, and still like soap and sweat and cut grass.

It’s terrifying, not hiding this weakness. Derek noses along the arch of his spine and over the hollow where it dives into his skull and is careful not to touch him anywhere else. He keeps his intrusion contained to just this necessity.

Stiles sighs quietly. “You have the worst timing.”

It’s not at all what Derek was expecting to hear. “This isn’t the first time I’ve tried,” he says against skin, the only thought that comes to mind.

“Last time, you tried to Pretty Woman us out of being friends,” Stiles corrects him, still gentle.

“It was safer.”

“Probably,” Stiles says, and tips his head back onto Derek’s shoulder like it’s a bone-deep relief. The weight of him is solid, perfectly settled into the curve of Derek’s collarbone. Derek’s arms curl around him of their own accord, carefully and with the chair still between them.

A minute later, Stiles hums tiredly, and Derek realizes he’s falling asleep right there. He’s pliant when Derek pulls him to his feet and over to sit on the bed, but easing the sling off brings him back around. He jolts fully alert when Derek sinks to a crouch between his knees.

“You had to pick the only time since puberty when I could not be less interested in sex?” His eyes are wide and tragic.

“Stiles,” and Derek can’t keep the grin out of his voice, feels it in the lines around his eyes, too. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, okay.” His breath moves Derek’s hair when he talks, their heads bowed close together, and there’s a flash of déjà vu to it all. Derek’s fingers are dragging one sock over a boney ankle when he places exactly why this is familiar. The last time they’d been like this, Stiles had smelled like exhaustion and pain and want, too.

Stiles’ good hand comes up to lie cautiously against the back of Derek’s head, though, and abruptly it’s not the same at all. Under all the rest, Stiles smells like the powder softness of contentment, too weary for happiness but open to the possibility. Derek presses his nose to Stiles’ wrist and breathes that in, and long fingers weave through his hair in reward.

Stiles’ palm slips along Derek’s face and tilts his chin up, eyes searching, and then he leans in until his lips are just shy of Derek’s. “Can I?” he whispers.

It’s the fact that he asks, that he means it, that catches the yes in Derek’s dry throat. It must be all over his face, though, because Stiles’ eyes crinkle into a grin and he closes the gap.

Derek has never kissed anyone like this. It’s careful, warm lips moving against his like an exploration of new ground, slightly chapped and real as they find a new angle, try a new pressure. Derek keeps his eyes open, and the reaction when he brushes his tongue against Stiles’ bottom lip is fascinating. Neither of them breathes until Stiles suddenly remembers to, a shaky exhale rushing over Derek’s mouth.

He feels it when Stiles leans that little bit too far and reminds himself that he hurts. Derek pulls back enough to rest their foreheads together, and Stiles beams at him. “We are going to be amazing,” he breathes.

Derek huffs a laugh and goes back to getting the other sock off. When he’s done, Stiles lies down without protest, curling over on his good side toward the center of the bed, and Derek feels every ounce of his gaze as he crosses to the other side and toes off his own shoes. He stretches out facing the center, too, and there’s a moment where neither of them breaks the silence.

True to form, Stiles finds his words first. “This isn’t some fucked up gratitude thing, right?”

“No.” He leaves out the part where he is both fucked up and grateful. It’s irrelevant.

Stiles groans softly. “Good enough for me. Crash time now.” His eyes are already closing, the words slurring into a yawn. “Guessing that was your game plan, brief diversion into foot fetish territory aside.”

He makes one last nudge across the bed that ends with his head tucked under Derek’s chin. Everything about the move is confident of its welcome, but his heart gives him away. Derek strokes a thumb over his hip in answer, and Stiles relaxes into the real heaviness of sleep like a light switched off.

It’s still early evening. Derek’s not at all tired, but he has no intention of moving. The sun is lazy on its way down, and the bed is comfortable.

They’re not safe. He’s not sure that he believes in safety anymore. At worst, Allison’s plan will fail horribly and leave them all scattered in the wreckage. In this one specific moment, though, he’d rather think that it won’t.

Downstairs, the sounds of running water and the gas stove ticking to life tell him that Stiles’ dad is starting dinner. In a little while, Derek will wake him and they’ll head down. Derek may have to explain his presence; then again, he may not.

For now, he presses his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head and lets himself enjoy this.

We are going to be amazing, he tries out, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

~end~

Fic Post: To Have Outlived the Night (Part II)

stillane — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 21:01:30 GMT

Please see Part I for notes and warnings. Click here to skip to Part III.

You might as well use the front door this time, Stiles texts him late in the afternoon.

When he gets there, the former Sheriff of Beacon Hills answers his knock.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not remotely okay with this. You’re here because, out of all the ways he could be inventing trouble right now, you’re easiest to monitor.”

Derek nods. He’s sure there’ll be more.

There is. “Good. Here are the rules: When you’re together, it’s under my roof. I’m not stupid enough to think I can keep you out of the house when I’m not here, and the damage he can do here is minimal. If his grades slip, you’re gone. If he breaks any more laws, you’re gone. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, fighting not to be surreally amused.

Stilinksi reads his expression, and then nods sharply. His shoulders relax as he turns and heads for the kitchen. “I’m grabbing some eggs for dinner before I head out. Join me.”

It’s not a request, but it’s not hostile, either. Derek follows as much for entertainment value as anything else. Stilinski already has the pan heating and the carton out on the counter. He looks ridiculously domestic in jeans, spatula in hand.

“Scrambled okay?” He waits for Derek’s nod before turning back to the stove. “Oh, and did you kill Kate Argent?”

Derek feels himself freeze. The absolute lack of his breathing is obvious, even over the sizzle of the eggs. There’s no way Stilinski doesn’t notice it. “No.”

Stilinski nods and stirs the pan. “But you knew she arranged that fire, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have a badge anymore, and not many friends left at the department.” He turns to stare straight at Derek’s face. “So if anything happens to my son because of you, you won’t be going to jail.”

It’s the plainest, most sincere threat anyone’s ever made against him. Derek could have this man dead before he hit the floor. His lips twitch involuntarily.

“Something funny?” Stilinski asks calmly.

“You just reminded me of him,” Derek says, and oddly enough, it’s a compliment.

Stilinski sits back and watches him. Derek lets himself be watched.

“Okay,” Stilinski says finally, and reaches for dishes.

When they’re done with the most silently uncomfortable meal Derek’s ever had – and that is a strangely long list – Stilinski leaves a covered plate of leftovers in the fridge before he heads out. It’s a telling gesture, as is the way he frowns and flicks his eyes to the staircase as he’s smoothing the plastic wrap in place.

Derek waits a few minutes after he’s gone to find Stiles in his room. He’s flat on his back on the bed, arms at his sides and eyes on the ceiling.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says without moving.

“Great,” Derek says, and ignores the white knuckles of Stiles’ hands.

Stilinski’s car is gone the next evening. Derek is just as glad to avoid the awkward parental interaction, although the food had been good. He skips the door altogether and heads for Stiles’ open bedroom window. He’d make a point about that, but honestly, if the hunters made it as far as the roof, a pane of glass wouldn’t do much anyway.

Stiles waves when he climbs over the sill, but doesn’t look away from the computer screen he’s glaring at.

Derek glances at it. “I thought Lydia’d finished translating the bestiary.”

Stiles nods, still frowning at the text. “Yep. And now it’s my pain in the ass to deal with. This would be so much easier if they’d just rhymed everything. You know, like, ‘Leprechauns ain’t funny, they’ll kill you for their money,’ or something.”

“You’re… memorizing it? All of it?”

“That’s the idea. It’s slow going, but I figure it’ll be worth it, if only so that when the next big bad shows up I can scream out the right name as it eats me.”

The bed looks like the best option for working space, so Derek spreads the hunters map and notes out and settles in to look for patterns. There might be something about the way the tagalongs and the do-si-dos are never in the same part of town at the same time. Maybe they’re particularly hostile with one another.

He’s trying to put his finger on why that doesn’t quite feel right when he senses eyes on him. Stiles is all the way turned around in his chair, staring like he’s been doing it for a while, and his expression is somewhere between manic and hopeful. Derek braces himself.

“Okay, here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking about the whole feedback loop of doom problem, and I’ve got a plan.”

“Does it involve Kumbaya?” Derek asks with healthy skepticism.

“See, that! That right there!” His flail takes in most of Derek. “There are these moments where I kind of almost like you, and I can’t like you because you’re an evil dick. So it’s either get you to stop having those moments or get you to stop being an evil dick, and while the first one is probably easier, the second one is probably better in the long run.”

He spreads his arms wide like a ringmaster. “Consider this your Evil Dick Intervention.”

This is the problem with Stiles. Violent threats only work about 10% of the time with him and Derek never quite knows what to say the other 90%. Silence only serves as encouragement.

Case in point: “You need a hobby,” Stiles says.

Derek’s left eye twitches without warning. Stiles sees it and nods.

“Yeah, hear me out. Every time things go to shit in this town, I almost die. In the interests of not dying, it would help a lot if everyone would just chill the hell out, right?” His wide eyes are full of anticipation.

Derek’s going to regret letting this play out, he knows he is, but it’s like watching a train crash in slow motion. Stiles keeps going regardless.

“The way I see it, it’s not entirely your fault that you’re kind of destructive and terrifying.” He waves off Derek’s glare. “You’ve got a boatload of issues, I get that, and it’d go better for pretty much everyone if you had some healthy channels to express yourself. You get less cranky, the pack gets less cranky, maybe the hunters get less cranky, maybe we all live to see 30.”

“There are diagram of this somewhere, aren’t there?” Derek asks out of sick fascination.

“Excel is my bitch,” he agrees. “So what we’re going to do is wean you off bloodshed. Like cigarettes.”

“I don’t smoke.” He carries a lighter because it’s practical, not because he has any desire to smell like ashes.

“And that’s both surprising, given your otherwise obsessive adoption of the Traditional Badass Code, and commendable. Your body is a temple.” His eyes do a weird skip over Derek then, too quick to parse. “But I was going more symbolic, there, actually. They don’t make patches for violence withdrawal, so you need another substitute.”

Derek follows the thread back to the beginning. “A hobby.”

“A hobby.” Stiles nods. “Like… macrame, or motorcycle racing, or Monopoly. And those are just the Ms! There is a whole alphabet of fun, non-homicidal activities out there just waiting for you!”

“I’ll get right on that.”

“What, you don’t have time in your busy schedule between ‘copious bleeding’ and ‘perfecting werewolf Blue Steel’?” He takes in Derek’s expression and sighs. “All I’m saying is, this could help. What could it hurt, right?”

When Derek’s face doesn’t change, Stiles sighs again and swivels the chair back around. “Option B: Continue Being an Evil Dick it is, then. Don’t think this is over, though.”

His attention goes back to the bestiary, and his shoulders hunch in as he squints at something. After a while, he clearly forgets Derek’s there and starts mumbling around a pencil about the horrors of Latin declensions. Eventually even that trails off.

“Music,” Derek says into the silence, not entirely sure why.

Stiles hums distracted agreement. “Yeah, I can put something on. Requests?”

“Music is a hobby.”

Another hum, cut short as he whips his head around with a surprised grin. “Yes! Yes, it is. You didn’t have to stick with the Ms, but hey. Progress. You want to start with concert tickets?”

“No,” Derek grits out. “Music is what we did.”

Stile waves encouragement and his grin widens. “Like, in your garage? Because that would explain a lot about the leather jackets, honestly…” He trails off, gazing somewhere into the distance.

“Like at school. My parents signed us up in first grade.”

Stiles blinks once, long and slow. “You… were in the band. The school band. Where there are band geeks – oh my god you were a band geek, weren’t you?”

Derek doesn’t have to take this. “It was an orchestra. Music is good for discipline. We played sports, too, when we got old enough to fake it.”

Stiles is not deterred. “Let me guess, you were a drum guy.” His face does something unholy. “Or, no. Flugelhorn. Tell me you picked the flugelhorn.”

Despite himself, Derek snorts. “The intent wasn’t to encourage hitting things. Or to scar us for life.”

Stiles’ grin mellows but sticks around. “So, what was it? What instrument soothed the savage beast?”

And Derek opens his mouth to say it, and finds gravel in his throat where the word should be. It must show on his face, because Stiles’ expression has sobered by the time Derek finally forces it out. “Violin.”

He’s still expecting a joke, something about how delicate he isn’t, maybe, but Stiles just sits back. “Huh,” he says eventually, and when Derek checks, he’s looking at Derek’s hands.

Stiles has the rare ability to make Derek uncomfortable with silence.

“Laura played the cello. When we needed the money and we didn’t think the hunters were close, we’d play for tips.”

“Bet New York was good for that.” It’s not mocking, just conversational.

He doesn’t know how to explain that New York was just the last stop on the road, that the Hale on his driver’s license had been an act of defiance. “No,” he says in the end. “It wasn’t safe for us to stay in the same place with each other for very long.”

It’s cold comfort to know that he’d been right, that they should have stayed together and on the move. Looking back, that was the first battle he should have fought harder.

Stiles tilts his head. “She took it seriously, looking out for you.” His voice is thoughtful.

Derek hears the criticism in it anyway. “Maybe if she hadn’t she’d still be alive.”

He stares at the floor until Stiles goes back to his reading.

Now that he’s aware he should be looking, the traps in town are easier to spot. The parking garage basement on the east side suddenly has a working surveillance camera system where there used to be dummies in place; the old rec center, abandoned since the new one opened, has tripwires on the doors; three low-traffic warehouses on the south edge of town are seeing a lot more action, judging by the footprints in the dust. The hunters are smart enough to cover their scent, but there’s not much they can do about dirt.

He makes notes on the back of Stiles’ map, adds the betas’ observations when he meets with them, Scott’s when he calls to check in. He’s trying to limit contact between all of them as much as possible for now. There’s no sense advertising anything, not with this kind of scrutiny. If any of the hunters haven’t got the memo identifying Erica, Isaac, Boyd, or Scott, he’s not going to make it any easier.

It leaves him with more free time in the average day than he honestly knows what to do with. He trains, he makes plans that he can’t put into play without provoking an attack, he buys a few books on tactical strategy… When he finds himself making an attempt to straighten up the train car, it’s clear a change of scenery can’t hurt.

The empty Stilinski house is tempting from his cramped seat in the Camaro. He makes it through another hour with Small Unit Leadership: A Commonsense Approach propped on the steering wheel before he gives in. The house is still ridiculously easy to break into, and there’s a perfect reading chair in the living room.

Stiles doesn’t even blink when he eventually walks in after practice. He drops his backpack at the doorway and trudges straight past Derek with a grunt.

“Lydia thinks this plan is hilarious. She keeps waiting until we’re surrounded by large crowds of people to ask targeted questions about our sex life. Which, if anyone asks, is non-existent because I am waiting for marriage.” He keels over onto the couch in a dramatic flop. “Fuck.”

Derek feels for him. Really. “Poor baby.”

Stiles lifts his head from the pillow. “I am Lydia Martin’s sassy bi BFF. How is this my life?” He drops back down. “Again, fuck.”

“I thought you liked spending time with her?” Derek tries for innocent, but he doesn’t try all that hard.

“It is because of you that I am never going to get laid in this lifetime, so you can just stop with the judgments, okay?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “We get clear of the hunters, have a public break-up, and someone takes pity on you in the aftermath. Lydia will get distracted eventually.”

Stiles groans. “Have you met Lydia?” Then he cocks his head. “Wait, have you met Lydia? I mean, aside from the odd homicidal quest here and there, have you ever been formally introduced?”

Derek opens his mouth to answer, but Stiles cuts him off. “Jesus, what am I saying? That’s like offering to hook up gunpowder and gasoline; there would be no survivors.” He shudders.

Derek wonders, idly, which one he is.

“Hell of a lightshow, though,” he says, just to watch Stiles’ wheels spin.

He waits until Stiles gets up to head for the kitchen and then stretches out on the couch. Stiles grumbles satisfyingly when he comes back, but relocates to the chair without staging a real protest.

Small Unit Leadership is amazingly dry. The third time Derek reads the same page without catching any of it, he has to admit it’s not working. He’s got a choice of leaving his stolen spot unguarded to wake himself up with movement, or to rest his eyes for a while.

It’s tempting. The evening light is honey-colored through the curtains, and the house is comfortably warm. He’ll hear if there’s trouble; the last time he slept deeply enough to be a problem, Laura had been in the next room.

He lays the book on the coffee table and closes his eyes.

He wakes up with the smell of smoke in his head. It’s been a while since he had that one. He listens around the house, just to be sure, but there’s nothing out of place.

He hadn’t known what his home smelled like after the fire until he came back to town, but he’d been coming pretty close while asleep for years. From experience, he knows his best method it to replace all of it with the sensory input of whatever place he’s in. Scent is the hardest to convince, so he leaves it for last.

He’d curled into himself while he slept, but one of his hands is pressed against the cushion by his head. It’s easier, with the couch under him being leather. Leather is irregular and imperfect, real in a way cotton never is. He lets his fingertips explore the soothing unpredictability of it.

Stiles’ breathing is slow, deep ins and outs through his mouth. It’s the clearest sound in the room, and Derek tilts his head on the pillow to look at him. He’s asleep. His face is tucked into the back of the chair, and his throat is one long, exposed line in the low light through the windows. He’s sprawled gracelessly, shoulders loose and one hand dangling over the edge of the seat, the other on his belly. His fingers jerk, not content to be still. He shouldn’t look comfortable, but somehow he does.

Derek lies there for a while longer, letting leather and house dust and the sleep-warm scent of another body crowd out the smoke, and then he heads for the kitchen to find dinner.

He’s quiet about it, though. There’s no reason not to let Stiles be.

It’s not all the time. Stiles stays over at Scott’s occasionally, and his father only works half the week. There’s no reason to be on watch those nights.

Stiles’ dad seems to be thawing a little on Derek, although why remains a mystery. The last few nights he’s even seemed almost relieved to have him there, which is both new and confusing.

This time, he waves Derek in on his own way out the door, and Derek watches him stand in the driveway for a long moment before leaving. Derek shrugs off the disquiet and heads upstairs, tracking Stiles by the light and sound spilling out of his open bedroom door.

He finds him sitting cross-legged on the floor with papers and textbooks radiating out in all directions. He’s sucking on his lower lip in concentration and one index finger is absently keeping time with the music coming from his computer. It’s a classical piece, intimately familiar despite Derek not having heard it in years. Massanet’s Mediation, although he’s never caught anyone else so inclined to break the rule of down-bow on it.

Derek sucks in a breath as he realizes why.

Stiles’ head snaps up, and his mouth falls open like he wasn’t expecting him yet. “I found some recordings in the band library at school,” he says faintly, after a moment.

Derek’s vaguely aware of the way Stiles’ eyes follow him across the room, of the tension that sparks through Stiles like a live wire, but he’s more aware of the music. The recording quality isn’t perfect, but his breath falls in line with the phrasing all the same.

“You were good,” Stiles says, surprised and quiet with it.

Derek listens, and refuses to feel the slip of strings under his fingertips. In a little town in Iowa there’s a safety deposit box under a name that isn’t Hale. His violin is tucked in the back; for a while, he thought he’d go back for it, but he knows better now.

The piece ends, and there’s the applause of a small-town audience. The memory of who would have been in the crowd that night makes him close his eyes and try to pick the sound of them out of the rest.

They’d had band practice after school on Thursdays, him and Laura. He’s never been sure whether Kate knew that or not when she picked her moment.

It’s the last track on the recording. Something current with a low, soft voice comes on after, and the vice around Derek’s chest eases a little. “I’ll burn you a copy,” Stiles says, and then flinches at his own word choice.

Derek nods, not trusting his speech yet. Eventually, he crouches over the papers spread on the floor in search of something to break the awkwardness. Most of it looks like homework, but next to a Spanish textbook there’s an open folder with a mugshot paperclipped to the cover.

“One of the hunters has a record?” It’s rare; the ones that are both sloppy enough to get caught and unconnected enough to have charges stick don’t stay in the business long. This could be good news.

Stiles hums distractedly, but his focus sharpens as soon as he spots what Derek’s looking at. His quick slap to shut the file isn’t subtle. “No. No, that’s… something else.”

The evasion is infuriating, all the more so for how raw his nerves are at the moment. “You’re the one who wanted us all on the same page. If there’s more going on here…”

“It’s not… It doesn’t have anything to do with wolf stuff, okay?” He looks at the folder, and then up at Derek. It’s another long, held minute before he seems to come to a decision. “It’s one of my dad’s old cases.”

Derek cocks his head and lets his expression ask for more.

“One of the other deputies when Dad first started here, Sullivan… He was into some really dirty stuff, had a lot of debts to bad people, and Dad brought him up on charges. He’s out on parole. No big, right, but there was this whole thing where he made some threats against Dad way back, and we had a cruiser on watch for a couple weeks. It was a mess. My mom,” and that specific catch in his voice is starting to be familiar, “she freaked out once when I went over to Scott’s without telling her. Drove me everywhere for a month.”

Derek glances away from his face. “You think he’s coming back?”

“Dad thinks so. He kept a copy of Sullivan’s file – which, hey, you’re really not supposed to do – and I found it on his desk yesterday. Put together the rest on my own.”

It’s none of his business, but Derek reaches for the file anyway. Stiles doesn’t fight him over it. Sullivan is a nasty piece of work; it shouldn’t still surprise him how vicious even normal people can be.

“He didn’t tell me.” Stiles keeps his eyes on the floor. “I mean, he might not have told me before, but now… Now I wonder if it’s more like he’s trying to keep the delinquent kid that got him fired out of the way, you know?”

It’s not impossible. Derek’s not a fan of empty white lies. “He cares about you,” he says instead, because that much is just fact.

Stiles doesn’t look any less miserable. “It might be easier if he didn’t,” he says quietly.

Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that. He realizes his hand is going unconsciously for Stiles’ shoulder and checks the movement in surprise. His arm hovers there awkwardly, wavering between following through and backing down.

After a beat, though, Stiles visibly shakes off his mood. He squares his shoulders, and his face settles into determined lines. “Okay, screw this. To the kitchen,” he commands, standing up.

Derek follows him downstairs out of sheer confusion.

Stiles flips the kitchen light on and heads forward like a man on a mission. “There will be cookies. Kind of like ‘There Will Be Blood,’ but with more chocolate chips and less terrifying milkshake analogies.” He’s talking to the inside of the fridge. “Seriously, I couldn’t order a chocolate malt for months. It was awful.”

Derek laughs under his breath and sets the oven to preheat automatically. When he turns around, Stiles is watching him like he’s done a neat trick.

“I grew up in a house, you know,” he says tightly.

Stiles’ expression shifts into something harder to identify. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”

For a long moment neither of them moves. Stiles shakes it off first and goes for a cookie sheet. He slaps spoonfuls of dough onto it with enthusiasm, popping the utensil in his mouth as he heads for the oven.

“You’ll get Salmonella,” Derek warns.

“Honestly, you think any of us are going to get knocked off by something that mundane?” He holds out the spoon. “Live dangerously.”

Derek rolls his eyes and takes it. It’s childish, but he will not be beaten by a lump of dough. Stiles grins like he can read him loud and clear. Derek would like to say something about having eaten far worse things raw, but that’s just inviting a joke that will require retaliation of the physical kind and he doesn’t feel like following through.

He licks the spoon clean just to be annoying and lays it deliberately on the counter. Stiles turns away quickly to check the oven. For a second there’s a hint of something different in the air, but its lost under the smell of the cookies the second Stiles opens the oven door.

It hits Derek then, mouth full of melting chocolate and sugar, how much he enjoys this. He goes still as it also registers that it’s the very first time he’s ever thought of Stiles as a threat.

When the hunters go after Scott on a Friday night, it’s almost a relief.

Stiles’ Biology homework has somehow segued into a discussion of the finer mechanics of werewolf transformation, and Stiles has somehow convinced Derek to shift his fangs repeatedly in the name of science. His jaw is just starting to ache with it when Stiles’ text alert chimes. Stiles takes one look at it and freezes, and Derek goes on alert. “What happened?”

He shoves the phone at Derek wordlessly and scrambles for his keys.

at swings w A. GI joes here.

Derek’s moving for the door when Stiles makes a confused sound. “What are you doing?”

There’s really no point in denying it. “Helping.”

“No, you’re not.” He shrugs into a jacket. “Look, buzzcuts, camo? Sounds more like tagalongs than our nutty nighttime audience. We can’t cross the streams, dude. I’ve got a legit reason to be hanging out with Scott that doesn’t involve him secretly having fangs; you don’t. If they don’t know yet, I’m not giving them a hint.”

As usual, he’s irritatingly right. “Fine. Call if there’s trouble.”

“You’ll hear me screaming like a rabid hyena,” Stiles vows, and then he’s out the door.

The house is conspicuously quiet.

He’s planning to wait on the couch with a book, only he can’t settle. He changes titles three times, gets up to grab a drink from the kitchen, then goes back for a snack. The crawling, uneasy shiver under his skin doesn’t let up. It’s about the time that he realizes he’s pacing the house like a caged animal that he decides to go for a drive instead. The usual pickup is even helpfully gone from its spot in front of the house.

He makes it as far as the Camaro before the shiver turns into a twist in his gut and he knows it’s more than just nerves. Scott’s in real trouble. If they’re lucky, Stiles isn’t yet.

Any hope he’s got for that dies the second he gets close enough to the elementary school to see Stiles’ Jeep in the lot and a familiar pickup blocking it in. There’s nobody in either vehicle, or within eyesight. He parks far enough away and with enough cover that he’ll have a shot at the element of surprise.

He’s barely out of the car, though, when Erica melts out of the shadows behind him.

“You felt it?” he asks, and she nods. She looks nervous, but under control; the last few months have been good for that, at least.

“Boyd and Isaac are doing recon,” she says. On cue, they slip around the school building and head straight for Derek. Both of their faces are grim.

Boyd doesn’t hesitate. “They’re holed up in one of the kindergarten rooms. At least ten of them, mix of the pickup guys and the army types. They’re armed to the teeth and they definitely know Scott’s one of us. Doesn’t look like anybody’s hurt yet, but they’ve got him chained up way better than Allison or Stiles.”

Shit. “Any idea what they’re waiting for?”

Isaac nods. “Reinforcements, and us.”

It makes a twisted kind of sense. Neither group has the numbers to go after an alpha or the full pack on their own terms, but together… It’s a big enough prize to get over their rivalry, apparently.

The how of it doesn’t matter much at the moment. They’re fucked if he doesn’t figure something out before the rest of the hunters join the party. The only plan that’s coming to mind is to go in now, hard. He knows Erica and Isaac and Boyd will follow him; he also knows the chances that all of them will make it back out are low. The chances that any of the three currently tied up and defenseless will are worse.

The sound of an approaching engine gives him the sinking realization that they’re out of time, right up until he recognizes it. Nothing the hunters drive could mimic a Porsche.

Jackson and Lydia get out of the front, faces set in tandem resolve. Danny unfolds out of the back. “It was my night on radio watch,” he says wryly.

And just like that they have a chance.

Between Isaac’s kanima-venom blowgun and the direct application of Jackson’s claws, most of the hunters go down without a fight. It helps that they’re scattered throughout the school on patrol, and that they’re almost as wary of each other as they are of the pack. That last part gives Derek an idea.

There’s one tense moment when it’s down to the last three of them in the room with their hostages, but Lydia’s improvised version of a flash-bang grenade turns out to be extremely effective as a distraction.

Stiles and Allison are both out of their handcuffs before the last hunter has hit the primary-colored carpet squares, apparently having been waiting for their chance. Scott remains shackled in a chair proportioned for a five year old while Allison picks his locks, too.

The others start piling paralyzed hunters in the middle of the room, buzzcuts on the left and the rest on the right. Erica comes in with rolls of scavenged duct tape and they get to work propping tied-up and gagged hunters in convincingly hostage-like poses.

Stiles rubs his wrists. “I’m guessing this is not about taking up a career in performance art.”

Derek snorts. “We need to hurry.”

His team knows exactly what they’re doing, and it only takes a few minutes to finish. Stiles visibly takes it all in - the fact that there are three hunters in camo left untied with unloaded guns, the fact that all of the “hostages” have longer hair - and lights up with understanding

“Oh. Oh, I see what you did there.” He rubs his hands together gleefully. “The classic double cross maneuver.”

Derek’s phone vibrates with the signal from Danny. “Time to go.”

They’re all congregated back at the cars by the time the hunters’ reinforcements arrive at the school. It’s recognizable from the satisfyingly enraged shouting and scattered shots.

“That’s not going to keep them occupied for long,” Allison says, sounding worried.

Derek lets himself smirk. “Wait for it.”

He knows the second Stiles hears the sirens. His open mouth, ready to launch his own questions, wavers uncertainly and then curves into a slow, wicked grin.

Next to him, Scott cocks his head. “You called the cops?” he asks in shock.

Derek shrugs. “Someone told me this is their turf.”

Stiles starts laughing, quietly at first and then so hard his shoulders shake. “Oh, that’s… that is beautiful.” He bounces on his toes, and Derek has all of a half second to brace for it when he flings himself into his space. It’s a quick, there-and-gone hug, and then Stiles is ricocheting off to sweep Scott up next. “I love everything right now.”

Allison meets Derek’s gaze from Scott’s other side. She smiles tentatively, but there’s something thoughtful in her eyes. Derek’s not up for deciphering it tonight. “Keep you heads down for now,” he tells the lot of them, just in case. He gets smirks from Erica and Lydia, half of a salute from Isaac, and a raised eyebrow from the barely-re-clothed Jackson. At least Boyd nods seriously.

Derek snags a hand in the back of Stiles’ shirt and tugs him toward the Camaro. “I’ll drop you off at home.”

Stiles whines, “But the Jeep…”

Derek doesn’t bother to stop towing him along. “Is parked in and currently surrounded by cops.”

“I’m going to wind up explaining this to my dad, aren’t I?” He sounds resigned more than surprised.

“Yep,” Derek says, and shoves him lightly at the passenger door.

He follows Stiles into the house mostly out of habit. He doubts there’ll be more trouble tonight, in any case.

Stiles heads straight for the dining room and the radio there. He flips it on and they listen to the police channels for a while in the low light coming from the single lamp. If the reports flying back and forth are right, there’s a good chance most of the hunters in town are in custody.

They’re both still keyed-up with unspent tension. It works its way out of Stiles in random motions - a leg bouncing under the table, a hand tapping out syncopations against his thigh. He goes to the fridge three times without taking anything out, and finally plunks a glass of juice down in front of Derek absently.

Derek sips at it for lack of anything better to do and watches him with a touch of amusement. “I’d tell you to have a drink, but your dad’s still a decent shot.”

Stiles snickers. “Like you wouldn’t heal. You’re just scared he’ll give you the disappointed eyes when you come over.”

Except if the hunters are out of the way, Derek doesn’t need to be here. He goes still as the thought settles in.

Stiles gets it, then, too. “Huh. I guess this concludes our regularly scheduled programming.” He shuffles awkwardly in place. “Yay?”

And that’s it. Derek should go now. There’s an uncomfortable, unfinished feel to it, though, and for once he knows why. They aren’t even yet. He stalls for time, rubbing over the rim of the glass in thought. A drop of juice collects on his thumb and he absently licks it off.

Stiles’ breath catches, and when Derek looks up his eyes are locked on Derek’s mouth. There’s a warm, salty-sweet hint in the air around him, strong enough that Derek can finally place it. It’s the third time he’s caught that from Stiles, and this time he’s sure. It’s about Derek, for Derek.

It’s an answer to the question at the front of his mind, this honey-on-rock-salt trace that could finally settle their score. He ducks his head and allows a smile, relieved to have an easy solution for a change.

He watches Stiles from under his lashes as he stands and stalks around the table, slipping into character, advance as deliberate and smooth as he can make it. Stiles frowns in confusion and takes a step back for every one Derek takes forward.

“I’ll admit, not the kind of favor I thought you’d go after, but I can work with it.”

“Wha- Hey, no, what are you –“ Stiles keeps backing away from him but his eyes track Derek’s mouth and he licks his own lips.

Derek walks him right into the wall and then some, until there’s an inch between their eyes and less between the rest of them.

“I thought.” Stiles swallows with a dry click. “I thought we agreed you’d stop with the big bad wolf routine.”

“Oh,” Derek says, “but I can be very good.”

Even in this light, he can see Stiles’ pupils blow wider. Derek fits his hands to Stiles’ hips and nudges a knee between his legs in reward. Stiles’ head drops back with a soft whine.

And this, this is not the worst thing Derek’s done. Not even the worst he’s done lately. It’s not a hardship to give Stiles this. He rests his nose in the hollow behind Stiles’ ear and takes a hit of the bar soap and clean sweat and faint grass smell of him, still there under the electric rush of sex.

“My, what big eyes you have,” he whispers against skin.

“Wait, wait.” The roll of his hips into Derek’s says the opposite. His breath hitches when Derek’s thumb slips under his shirt. “Favor?”

Derek traces a knuckle down the trail on Stiles’ belly and gets a low moan for it. He hides his satisfied grin in one collarbone’s hollow. “You don’t think my mouth can cover my debts?”

He’s focused enough on the flush he can taste scattering ever lower that it takes a moment to realize the muscles under his hands have gone rigid.

“No,” Stiles says. Breathes in, and then stronger, “No. Stop.”

When Derek pulls back, there’s no give in Stiles’ expression.

“Whatever it is you think this is supposed to be, whatever it is you think I want, it’s not this. Back off, ” he says, and Derek steps away from him.

Stiles wants, Derek can still feel it coming off him like a hook set between his own ribs, but he’s also not lying. He doesn’t want Derek. Every line of his body is screaming not to be touched.

Derek’s worked hard to be the monster under the bed ever since he realized all the other roles were full, but it never seemed to take with Stiles. That maybe he got there in the end after all hits him like a bucket of cold water now.

Derek backs across to the door slowly and Stiles watches him from against the wall the whole way.

“Find me when you figure out what it is you’d rather have,” Derek says finally as he eases outside.

He listens until he’s out of range, but Stiles never says a word.

They’d planned it out right at the very beginning, how this whole act would end. It needs to be in public, with plenty of witnesses, and the more final, the better.

It’s easy enough to keep his end of the deal. Derek shows up in the school parking lot over lunch hour, and Stiles picks up his cues flawlessly. Stiles’ father’s disapproval, their different lives, and Derek’s emotional unavailability all make loud cameos. It’s a little Hollywood, but not bad considering neither of them has ever had a normal breakup to their name.

The only hitch comes when someone in their audience makes a crack about Stiles not putting out just loud enough to be heard. The color drains from Stiles’ face, and Derek stumbles off rhythm.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Stiles says in the end.

Derek isn’t naïve enough to believe that. He’s not sure if it would even be better if he could.

Go back to Part I or go on to Part III.

Fic Post: To Have Outlived the Night - Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles

stillane — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 20:46:22 GMT

Am I the only one who didn't see this coming?

Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: through 2x08
Word Count: 23,448
Skip to Part II or Part III or read as a single page over at AO3.

Summary: Derek steps away from the window. “You helped me. They took that as a declaration.”

Notes: This is set in the fuzzy, nebulous realm after season 2 ends, but contains no spoilers beyond aired canon. How AU this’ll be by the actual season finale is anybody’s guess. Derek is an alpha here, Jackson’s still a kanima and Lydia is ambiguously awesome.

Beta’d by the fantastic ariadne83. The title is from Two English Poems by Jorge Luis Borges. Please see the end of this page for warnings, if you would like them.

Derek’s options are limited.

His head’s still ringing from the fall; the bones below his right knee are so far gone that they’re not so much healing as starting over; the heavy, drowning feeling in the left side of his chest isn’t going to fade until he can sit upright enough to get the sharp edges of his ribcage aligned. There’s something wrong with his lower back, not enough to keep him from moving but enough to make it agony when he does.

His phone isn’t getting reception down here, surrounded by the sides of the concrete shaft and the splintered remains of the elevator cage itself. He could howl for his betas, but he’s got no way of knowing if there are more traps and no way of warning them if there are. It’s optimistic to think his lungs would be up for it, in any case.

The only way he’s getting out of here is to heal enough to scale the wall to the first floor. It’s maybe eight feet up – an easy jump any other time, and right now it might as well be the moon. He doubts he has the time.

It’s a small miracle that the hunters aren’t on him yet. He hadn’t thought they’d gotten brave enough to set traps in town, but he should have. The Argents hadn’t been subtle about splintering apart like a pipe bomb, and those of them that are left are too busy picking up the pieces to mind the store. The outsiders rushing to fill the vacuum don’t care as much about discretion or collateral damage.

It’s why he’d been out here in the first place. The train station is an open secret these days, and can’t be the pack’s only safehouse when things go to hell; a nice, abandoned construction zone seemed like a decent fallback.

Idiot. They must have had surveillance - the elevator cable hadn’t blown until he’d stepped in to test the electrical hookups – and there’s no way they won’t have noticed.

And suddenly his time is up. There’s an engine getting closer, and then footsteps running in his direction. He claws his way to his feet and sways there. If he’s going down, he’ll take it standing.

The last thing he expects is Stiles’ resigned face staring down at him. “Oh,” Stiles sighs. “Of course.”

Then he ducks back out of view. It isn’t a surprise when his footsteps head rapidly away. It is when they come just as quickly back. Stiles leans over the edge again with his jacket dangling from one hand.

“There’s nothing else that’ll reach. We’ve got, like, thirty seconds here, so chop, chop.”

It’s stupid, but Derek’s not prepared to have another choice. The understanding that if he takes it, it will be obvious exactly how vulnerable he is right now freezes him in place.

Stiles reads his hesitation and shakes the coat at him. “I don’t see anybody else lining up for the job, okay, so drop the deep interrogation of my motives, Kojak, and grab the damn sleeve.”

He does. With help, he even manages to scrabble up onto solid ground without passing out. It’s a near thing, though, and he’s on his knees trying to blink away the dark spots when Stiles’ voice registers again.

“- and holy Jesus that’s rebar sticking out of… I am going to be scarred for life and we really, really need to go now.”

Stiles ducks under Derek’s arm and drags him along until Derek gets enough of a stagger going to contribute. By the time they make it past the construction fence, he can hear trucks closing in on the other side of the site. The Jeep is sitting in the shadow of the tree line, and Stiles shoves him into it with a muttered, “Come on, come on.”

They’re ten minutes down the road with no headlights behind them before Derek manages to ask, “How did you know I was there?”

“These guys aren’t exactly Einsteins, and they like cheap radios. We figured out their frequencies a while ago. It’s mostly like listening to the All Paint Drying, All the Time station, but they started going nuts about this address tonight. I zip over to find your cranky ass in a sling, and here we are.” He gives Derek the side-eye. “You’re bleeding on my seats, aren’t you?”

“It could be you bleeding on them.” As threats go, it’s not his best, probably because he is still losing blood.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek will worry about how little he impresses the kid later.

It’s a mark of how out of it he still is that he doesn’t pay attention to where they are until they’re parked. “Your house?”

Stiles comes around to the passenger side before bothering to answer. “I’m guessing the boxcar motel is out for you tonight. If you’ve got other suggestions, I’m open to them. Otherwise…” He opens the car door at Derek’s reluctant nod. “Yeah, thought so.”

They manage the same awkward three-legged shuffle over to the house, Stiles’ arm tightening around Derek’s waist when they get to the porch stairs.

“Oh my god, I am not thinking about what my hand is currently covered in.”

Now would be a great time for an irritated growl. Derek’s getting on that as soon as he stops wanting to pass out.

Inside the door, they both pause at the foot of the staircase. Stiles whines low in his throat, like he’s getting the short end of the stick here, and then sighs. “The shower’s up there, and this is going to be… yeah. I’d rather hose you down than explain bloodstains on the hardwood.”

He at least looks at Derek for confirmation. That’s something. It doesn’t make the climb up any less hellish, but it gives him the illusion of agreeing to it. They’re both panting by the time Stiles shrugs him off onto the edge of the bathtub. Derek focuses on staying upright while Stiles hauls out an impressive first aid kit from under the sink.

“Gravity and I were not best buddies in my youth,” Stiles explains, catching his look. “So, are you ever going to clarify how you wound up needing my personal Lassie skills?”

“I fell.”

“You… fell? That’s it? That’s what you’re going with? Mr. Toothy Badass himself just tripped and, oops, took a little tumble. Where the latest contestants on Who Wants to Kill a Creature of the Night happened to be watching. Yeah.”

“I fell really far.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Wow. Fire, water, air… You’re, like, one live burial away from having issues with all the natural elements. Remind me not to be anywhere near you when mudslide season hits.”

“Not a problem.”

“Because you’re leaving town?” he asks hopefully.

“Because I’m going back to avoiding you.”

Stiles runs a pointed glance between them and around the small bathroom. “Right. How’s that working out for you again?”

Derek just grunts. It’s not worth putting effort into a reply.

“No, seriously, is it a werewolf thing? For just three easy installments of $9.95, you too can gain claws, confidence, and the inability to plan worth crap.”

A new thought hits Derek. “Your dad isn’t home?”

“No,” Stiles says, face closing right down. His jaw tightens. “He’s doing some contract work with a security company on overnights.”

The Sheriff had always been fair, at least, given all the things he couldn’t know. Derek hadn’t celebrated when he’d heard about him getting fired.

“When do I need to be out of here in the morning?”

“Just stay in my room. He won’t look.” Stiles swallows. “We aren’t exactly talking much right now.”

Sorry isn’t an option, but Derek manages a nod. Stiles fiddles with a roll of gauze for a while and then drops it on the counter to gesture at Derek. “You ready to get on with the process that’s going to haunt my nightmares? Seriously, I think I’m going to have to extract things, and that’s just not in my job description. I’m pretty sure all the first aid classes say to leave stuff in, too, but then every day is opposite day with werewolves, so…”

Derek tunes him out and braces himself for the pain.

He comes to mostly naked, soaking wet on the bottom of the tub. Stiles is standing with his back to him, shirtless and dripping as he finishes turning off the shower overhead. Taking stock, Derek’s lungs are both in working order, and his back has faded down to a persistent ache. His leg’s still out of commission for anything above a shuffle.

Stiles is pale when he hands Derek a towel and helps drag him upright. With distance, the tub looks like a horror movie set, but Stiles doesn’t say anything as they limp down the hall. He steps back once Derek’s on the edge of the bed.

The silence is unsettling, coming from him. “If you’ve got clothes I can borrow, I’ll take the couch,” Derek tries. Even at this speed, he can be gone before anyone else gets through the front door.

Stiles doesn’t play along. He hands over a shirt and sleep pants without comment, and then turns his back like Derek’s got any virtue to preserve. When Derek drags himself toward the door, though, it gets his attention. He lets out a noise of protest and blocks the exit.

Derek does not have the energy for this. “Whatever breakdown you’re having, do it after I get downstairs.”

“Just… Lay down. Sleep, alright?” His eyes flicker over Derek, over the bed. “Some of us aren’t sadistic assholes who get off on watching people suffer, and you… You’re kind of a walking advertisement to wince right now.”

“You once said you’d leave me in the street while I was dying.”

“Well, yeah, but I was frustrated and kidding. Admittedly, maybe not my best comedic timing, but who would really do that?”

“Most people,” Derek says.

Stiles stares at him with his mouth open, like it’s a genuine surprise. “Jesus,” he finally says.

After a beat of silence, he gestures half-heartedly over his shoulder. “I’m going to clean up and then sleep. Downstairs. Yell if you need something.”

He’s out the door long before Derek has any idea what to say.

By the time he wakes up, he’s mostly back in one piece. With his head clear, it’s obvious how badly wrong this has all gone. There are boundaries that need reinforcement. He only hears one other heartbeat in the house, and he’s going to make an educated guess based on the early morning light that he and Stiles are still alone. He makes it to the bathroom with only a slight limp, and by the time he’s done there are jeans and a t-shirt laid out on the bed. Judging by the fit, they’re Stiles’ dad’s. Derek’s pulling the shirt on when Stiles sighs from the doorway.

He’s holding up one of the towels Derek hadn’t had the energy to keep track of last night. “I forgot you were born in a barn.”

I was born at home, he thinks. Sixteen hours of labor, and Laura had teased him about being antisocial from the womb. His mother had always called him her shy boy.

“No,” he says instead, smiling with teeth. “But I was raised by wolves.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it and glares. “Impossibly, you’re actually more terrifying when you tell jokes.”

“Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

“Oh my god!” He flails his hands. “Look, you’ve actively tried to kill and/or maim people I care about, so believe me I am not sizing us up for friendship bracelets here.”

Derek may as well ask point blank. “What is it you thought you’d get out of this, Stiles?”

He makes a frustrated noise through his teeth. “What I am getting out of this is the satisfaction of a clear conscience, okay? That’s it.”

He’s telling the truth. “Fine,” Derek says. “I need to get back to the station.”

“You’re going back to the train? Really? You don’t think that’ll be a super obvious target?”

“We’ve got it covered.” He’d chosen it in the first place for its multiple potential exits, every one echoing like an alarm system to the right ears. The pack can be long gone before anyone will ever catch them by surprise.

“You don’t think they’ll storm the castle?”

They haven’t had the balls to go after an alpha alone until now, and even then only when he was injured. “They don’t have the numbers.”

“Where have you been? You can’t walk down the street around here without tripping over a hunter lately.” He frowns. “They’re like tribbles. Scary, armed tribbles.”

“But they’re all from different factions. Think of them like mafias – they work in small groups, usually families, and most of them don’t do alliances.” It can’t hurt to share a little information. “If they’re not loyal to the same big patron family, they’ll be just as happy to fight each other as us.”

“Huh.” Stiles stares at the wall for a minute like he’s slotting this into place, and then shrugs. “Well, far be it from me to prevent your untimely demise twice in twenty four hours. Your clothes are in the bag by the back door. Enjoy your subway cave.”

It feels awkward, unfinished. Derek heads downstairs and Stiles trails behind him, like he’s seeing him out. He grabs the garbage bag on his way to the door, but there’s a brown paper sack on top of it. He’s checking inside when Stiles speaks up.

“It’s a sandwich, not a grenade.” He fidgets from against the kitchen counter. “Scott always gets the munchies after he has to regenerate his spleen or whatever.”

Derek blinks, but there’s nothing that comes to mind to do other than nod.

Stiles waves lazily. “Later, Splinter. See, that’s funny, because you’re fuzzy and live underground and herd a bunch of teenagers around –“

Derek snorts as he walks out, but he can’t help closing the door gently behind himself.

The betas aren’t at the station when he gets back. He didn’t expect them to be.

They still come when he calls, still fight when he tells them to. After everything that’s happened, he’s a long way from their blind trust, but he’s still the devil they know. They’re smart and they’re alive. That was always the goal.

Scott doesn’t come when he calls. He does come when asked about half the time, though. Derek’s starting to realize that it’s possible the most they can aim for is sorting out that other half.

The tunnels are quiet, and the damp tile walls hold scent well enough that he knows no one’s been here since Isaac three days ago.

He needs to get serious about the hunters. They’ve all been following the letter of the code up to this point, but the big families are the only ones that ever enforced it fully. They’re only waiting for an excuse, now, just one toe across the line. If they can drag that toe over, all the better. He has no doubt they’d have had a cover story for the construction site, some way to conveniently explain how he deserved it. It’s just as likely there’d be no one to ask questions in the first place.

The pack can handle itself against an open attack from any particular group of hunters. The trick is in keeping it clear to everyone else that the pack aren’t the aggressors, and avoiding getting picked off one at a time in pitched fights. It’s not an easy trick.

If they can stay alive long enough, the hunters without larger families already backing them will go for easier targets. One of the big names will take an interest in the territory, and Derek might have a window to prove that his pack is stable and quiet. If he’s lucky, the Argents might even get their shit together and reassert themselves; it’s the last thing he’d ever thought he’d be rooting for, but they’re the devil he knows.

That had been his strategy, at least, until he wound up at the wrong end of a six-story fall. Now, he’s not sure they have the choice of being passive. It might be better to hit first and hard and try to keep it quiet.

He feels more like himself these days. It’s a shame. He’d enjoyed being someone else for a while there.

Stiles calls him two days later, just before sundown. “You need to get over here right now. Discreetly.”

“Why would I do that, Stiles?”

“There is a truck sitting across the street with a couple of guys who scream bad news just watching like stalking stalkers and this is so incredibly your fault.”

It’s probably true.

“Wait by the back door. Your window’s too visible from the street.”

Twenty minutes later he’s watching around the edge of the curtains in the Stilinskis’ darkened living room as two hunters stake out the front door. It’s too soon after the construction site to be a coincidence.

“They showed up right after Dad left for the night, like they knew his schedule. How long do you think they’ve been watching me? Why are they watching me?” He’s switched between pacing and gnawing on a fingernail for the full time Derek’s been here. Occasionally, maybe for variety, he does both at the same time. “I mean, what the hell?”

The hunters haven’t made a move to leave the truck. From what Derek can catch of their conversation, they seem to be rock-paper-scissoring for the last Krispy Krème. Derek steps away from the window. “You helped me. They took that as a declaration.”

Stiles runs his hands roughly over his head. “How do I un-declare it?”

Derek keeps silent. Stiles already knows the answer.

His bowed head a second later confirms it. “Shit.”

That about sums it up.

“If they’re watching me, they’ll start looking at everybody around me. Scott, Jackson, Lydia… If they figure out any of them aren’t normal…” Stiles says. If he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like that he’ll draw blood. “What are we going to do?”

“’We?’” It trips out of him.

Stiles’ face shuts down. “Fine, I get it. Me. My problem. Screw you, too.”

Derek watches him pace for a while before he tries again. “Nothing.”

“What?” Stiles asks, head back in his hands.

“Don’t do anything. We stay away from each other, and they figure out you’re not worth their time. Try not to be around any of the others when they’re feeling stupid.”

Skepticism is written all over him. “I’m the original advocate of sticking your fingers in your ears and singing 'til the coast is clear, but you really think that’ll work?”

“I really think I’m getting rid of them soon.”

“Great.” The hands on his hips are just obnoxious. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

It turns out Derek doesn’t have to let him know anything. Hitting first would have gone better if this group of hunters hadn’t bought out an army surplus store’s worth of electronic alarms for the block surrounding their warehouse hideout. Simple reconnaissance gets switched to a frantic dash with one interrupted laser beam.

It’s just becoming clear how utterly screwed the pack’s retreat is – the hunters have the advantages of both rooftop high ground and home turf – when Stiles brakes to a screeching halt in front of them at the mouth of an alley. The betas drag each other into the back without hesitation.

“Why does this always happen on my nights on radio watch? Danny takes turns. This could happen on his nights. Why does it never happen then?” Stiles’ eyes flicker between mirrors, watching for the hunters that he’ll never see coming.

Derek jumps in and slams the door. “Drive.”

“’Drive,’ he says.” Stiles keeps bitching, but the Jeep accelerates. “Do you have any idea how inconvenient it is having to save your asses on a school night? While ditching a tail, I might add.”

Erica looks up from poking Isaac’s bruises and smirks. “You couldn’t have sent Scott?”

Stiles sighs. “A) That hurts me, right here,” he lays a hand on his chest, “and B) it kind of defeats the purpose of keeping under the radar to send Scott towards the guys making a list and checking it twice. Seriously, you all suck at Clue, don’t you?”

“But we’re pretty awesome at Twister,” Isaac says mildly.

“Not bad at lacrosse, either,” Boyd adds from his spot under Isaac.

Stiles opens his mouth, and then gives in to a nod. “Yeah, touché.”

He doesn’t argue when Derek tells him to head for the train, and the only sounds for the rest of the drive are Erica’s huffed laughs every time the boys try to find a better way of arranging themselves.

When they get there, Stiles climbs out like he’s staying with them. Derek blocks his way. “Go home.”

“What? You’re joking.” He searches Derek’s face. “You’re not joking.”

“Go home, Stiles.”

“And, what? Twiddle my thumbs waiting for the next time you and the Pipps need a ride away from certain death?” The set of his jaw is furious.

Derek doesn’t care. He has all the vulnerable spots he needs. The less Stiles is involved, the less of a target he paints on himself, so Derek crosses his arms and waits.

“Fine.” Stiles breathes out angrily, but he gets back in the Jeep. He’s still grumbling about taxi drivers and tips as his lights disappear around a building.

Boyd clears his throat from the doorway. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. Derek heads for the stairs and the frustrating decision of what to do next that waits at the bottom of them.

His phone rings at two in the morning with Stiles’ number on the display.

“What now?” He’s less than pleasant this late. It’s a character flaw.

He gets a distant echo in reply. He’s about to hang up and lament how his life turned into being assdialed by teenagers in the dead of night when a voice comes through. It’s not Stiles’ voice.

“We have something of yours. If you want it back, you’ll be at your old house in an hour.”

His mind races. The best he can do is stall for time. “Who is this?”

The voice chuckles. “Awful loud, isn’t he? Real firecracker.”

“I think you’ve made a mistake. Nothing of mine seems to be missing.” He smiles to make sure it comes through in his tone.

There’s a sound then, father away from the phone. It’s the distinctive whine of electricity charged and released. Derek fucking hates that sound. A half-beat behind it is a choked scream, and that is in Stiles’ voice.

“No, still think you have the wrong number,” Derek says pleasantly, and hangs up.

He allows himself one long breath with his eyes closed, and then he dials Boyd.

That the hunters have trapped the house is a given. Also obvious: they’re armed, they’re dangerous, and they’ll be expecting Derek to bring his betas along.

There’s nothing he can do about any of it. He sends the others to come in separately through the woods and drives up to the front, parking next to where they’ve stashed the Jeep. One of the hunters – balding, broad shoulders, shotgun in hand – is waiting in the open door. He escorts Derek into the living room and then backs away to the far wall.

Stiles is sitting upright in a chair in the center of the space, his arms pulled behind him. There’s duct tape over his mouth, blood from his nose trickling down over it, but his eyes are angrier than they are afraid. That’s good.

There’s another hunter, taller and leaner than the first, standing beside the chair. He has a revolver aimed at Stiles’ head and an air of satisfied control to him, and that’s less good.

The man smirks. “You’re a little early.”

“Traffic’s good this time of night,” Derek says.

The man hums in amusement. “Could have been here even sooner if you didn’t bring your pack. That was stupid, by the way.”

From the frustrated sound Stiles makes, he seems to agree. Derek ignores him and cocks his head, letting through a smirk of his own. “Why’s that?”

“Oh, we were ready for them.”

Derek doesn’t let his eyes flicker to the movement at the window across from him. He’s very careful not to react as the balding hunter standing next to it slumps and is caught, lowered to the floor silently by an arm over the sill.

“Are you sure about that?” Derek asks, and lets himself shift.

The tall hunter turns his gun on Derek, self-preservation instinct kicking in just a little too late. He fires off a shot when a dart hits him in the neck, but his aim’s off and he drops before he can manage another. Isaac slinks out of the shadows of the kitchen doorway. “I like these,” he says, twirling the blowgun through his fingers.

Derek leaves him to his admiration and works on getting Stiles loose. The second the duct tape is off, though, Stiles is talking. “Less fondling your stick, more running. This isn’t all of them.”

“We know,” Erica says as she and Boyd come in through the front door. She’s smirking, but there’s a tension about them both that gets Derek’s attention. “This crew’s down for the count, but they got off a call to somebody.”

“Shit.” He spares a glance for the hunters on the floor, but they don’t have a choice. If there are more of them out there, he can’t take the chance they won’t start an open war over anything further he does here tonight. “Let’s go.”

Stiles gets upright and staggers gamely for a few steps before Derek throws an arm around his waist and drags him the rest of the way to the cars. “Keys,” he demands, tossing the Camaro’s to Boyd. Stiles doesn’t even whine about handing them over, although he does grumble when Derek doesn’t finesse second gear to his liking.

Boyd takes the opposite turn when they get to the main road. Derek watches his mirrors all the way to the Stilinskis’, but no one follows them.

Stiles walks into the house under his own power. He doesn’t question it when Derek follows, and doesn’t seem concerned his dad will be back any time soon. Derek doesn’t push it.

Upstairs, Stiles stalls out for a while, blinking at himself in the bathroom mirror. In good light, the bruising looks minimal. There’s still blood under his nose, but it’s dry; when he grabs for a washcloth, Derek notices for the first time that his knuckles are scraped. He lets him wash his face before shoving him lightly aside. Stiles just perches on the edge of the tub without protest.

The first aid kit is where he remembers it being. Stiles hisses when the alcohol hits his skin, but turns his hands over obediently when Derek goes for the fingernail cuts on his palms.

The room is so quiet that it’s almost startling when Stiles speaks.

“What was on the darts back there?”

Derek reaches for the antibiotic cream. “Jackson gave a donation.”

“Huh.” He watches Derek’s thumb swipe over his knuckles. “That’s… kind of cool, really. Totally the wrong approach, but cool.”

That's irritating as a wasp sting. Derek’s planning to relish the deeply screwed look on that last hunter’s face for a long time. “I’m all ears.”

“You couldn’t call the cops?” he asks likes it’s obvious.

Derek glares. “You never want to call the cops.”

“Putting aside how you know that… I never want to call them when they’re my dad, and when the thing they’re up against is a supernatural shitshow. Asshole kidnappers with guns? Totally their turf.”

There are about a dozen ways Derek can see that ending badly. Beacon Hills doesn’t have a swat team, there’s no subtle approach to the house by car, and no one fully human could make it on foot without being noticed, not with the hunters expecting attack. Stiles could have been dead in the middle of Derek’s living room before the cops got within sight of the front door. The thought makes him uneasy.

Stiles, meanwhile, has moved on.

“So, do you have an actual plan yet for dealing with these guys, or just a general winging-it strategy?”

“Figure out where the rest of them are hiding, take them out.” It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative of waiting for an ambush.

Stiles is not gratifyingly impressed. He gapes for a minute and then snaps his mouth closed. He looks, of all things, pissed off. “Could you knock it off with the Evil Mastermind life plan? Because, honestly, not to be mean here, but you suck at it.”

“No, I don’t,” is somehow what comes out of Derek’s mouth before his brain catches up.

“You fake it awesomely, don’t get me wrong. I mean, I bought it, Scott bought it, your little toothy minions bought the hell out of it.” His movements have gone sharp and clipped, either from anger or from the rest of the night catching up with him. “Thing is, everything made a whole lot more sense once I figured out you’re scared shitless most of the time.”

Derek’s shoulders tighten automatically. He doesn’t have the luxury of fear, and less so the luxury of anyone knowing about it.

Stiles reads his body language and his jaw sets a little more firmly, even as his voice levels out. “I’m not complaining. I just think we’d cut out a lot of unnecessary tension if we could skip directly to the rational, well thought out decision part.”

It’s not actually a bad idea, as much as Derek hates to admit it. He stalls for time putting the kit away under the sink. When he’s done, though, that unwavering look is still fixed on him.

“It’s not… It’s not that simple.” Talking about this is uncomfortable, like picking at a scab. “The pack… magnifies everything.”

“Oh.” And that fast, Stiles’ mood shifts like a train switching tracks. Resolve becomes fascination at whiplash speed. “Oh, crap. It’s a feedback loop.” He bites his lip. “Whatever you’re all feeling, you just keep bouncing it off each other until something spins you out of it.”

Derek nods cautiously. “Close enough.”

“So when you turned everybody, you were freaking out, and then they were freaking out, and then everyone was freaking out,” he says. “That… makes a lot of sense, actually. I’ve been calling it the Magical Douchebag Effect, but this is better. Does it work the other way?”

“What?”

“If somebody starts thinking happy thoughts, does everybody get mellow?”

“Sometimes,” Derek acknowledges. “It’s part of why I went after Scott, why I chose Boyd. They’re calmer.”

“Okay. Okay, then. I can work with this.” Stiles’ face goes very somber. Suspiciously so. “Derek, be the change you want to see in the world.” He shrugs. “Or just the pack. I’d settle for the pack.”

He’s swaying slightly in place. With the anger gone out of him, it’s suddenly obvious that there’s not much else keeping him upright. Derek rolls his eyes. “Enough. Plot later, Machiavelli.”

It’s not a surprise to Derek when Stiles’ knees buckle under him the second he stands up. It is a surprise to Stiles, though, going by the sound he makes when Derek catches him with a hand in the center of his chest.

Stiles blinks. “Hello, adrenaline crash, my old friend. Also, I think maybe tasering is painful. Who knew?”

Derek snorts and pushes him vaguely more vertical. “Bed.”

Stiles makes a noise of agreement and straightens a little further himself. Derek keeps a hand ready to prevent another faceplant attempt, but they make it all the way down the hall without incident. Stiles does sink onto the edge of his bed, though, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Derek ducks out to grab an icepack from the freezer in the kitchen – he’s somehow not shocked that there are plenty in there – and comes back to find Stiles hasn’t moved. He has a hunch he’ll fall asleep like that if allowed.

Sighing in resignation, he crouches and reaches for one of Stiles’ feet. He’s tossing one sneaker to the side when Stiles says, “Thanks. For coming to get me.”

His voice is soft, their heads bowed next to each other. This close, Derek can see his eyelashes smudging into the circles under his eyes, maybe there from the hit earlier, maybe just from weariness. There’s something under his tone, in the scent of him, something subtle and layered that Derek doesn’t recognize.

Derek eases the other shoe off and backs away.

Stiles slumps over onto the bed and curls his legs in with a light moan. “I’m serious about the anger management, though,” he mumbles into his pillow as Derek’s on his way out of the room. “How do you feel about yoga?”

Downstairs, Derek locks the door behind him and heads for the trees behind the house. He doubts they’d try anything else tonight, but it can’t be more than a few hours before Stiles’ dad comes home. It’s easy enough to stay until then.

Scott’s waiting for him in the station when he comes in late the next evening. Derek smells him the second he gets to the door.

There’s no point in holding off until he gets down the stairs, not when Scott can hear him from the top. “You shouldn’t be here.”

As usual, Scott doesn’t seem to care. “You should have called me.”

“To do what? We handled it.”

And now that Derek’s at floor level, he can feel the anger coming off him in waves. It’s not until Scott raises his head and pins him with his stare, though, that the fear comes through.

“He’s my best friend, and you should have called me.”

He ought to look like the reckless boy Derek first met. He doesn’t. It makes Derek’s voice quieter than he intends when he says, “I knew we could get him out without exposing you. We need every advantage we can get right now.”

“Next time –“ he starts, but Derek doesn’t let him finish.

“There won’t be a next time.”

Scott searches his face for a long moment, and then he nods. He heads for one of the tunnels without another word, and Derek chooses to take it as agreement that he’ll keep his head down for now.

He owes Stiles, more than once over; he knows it, and he always pays his dues. With the pack safe for the moment, keeping an eye on him from the end of the street when his father’s away seems like the reasonable thing to do. Stiles doesn’t have to know anything about it.

That lasts until his phone buzzes. Stiles opens with, “Were all the other good lurking spots in town taken?”

“Just passing through.”

“Uh-huh. It’s like a glacial passage, though, right? Because you’ve been doing it for about three hours now.”

There's really nothing to say to that.

Stiles laughs under his breath. “Just get in here. I can turn off some lights, make a blanket fort for you to brood in, if that’ll work.”

When Derek tries the back door a few minutes later, it’s unlocked. “That was stupid,” he calls out.

“It’s only been open for thirty seconds and I figured my new guardian wereshadow had things covered,” Stiles returns, not bothering to look up from the notebook he’s writing in at the dining room table. The whole surface is covered with a scattering of books and papers, and there’s a radio scanner spitting static low and constant from the sideboard.

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls out a chair. Twenty minutes later, he’s on the brink of gnawing his own leg off to stay awake. Outside, there would at least be the rest of the world to keep him busy; in here, there’s only Stiles’ regular breathing and the white noise of the scanner and the leak under the downstairs bathroom sink and they’re all conspiring to lull him. Inspiration hits when he remembers the bookshelves in the living room from his last time here. He heads for them like a lifeline, and grabs the first book that’s familiar.

“Oh, thank god. I was getting contact boredom just being in the same room,” Stiles says when he gets back. He tilts his head sideways to read the title. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

That’s hardly fair. “It’s your book.”

Stiles face softens. “Not mine,” he says quietly. His lips twitch, caught somewhere between smiling and not, and then he shakes it off and clears his throat. “I wasn’t criticizing… Just...” He waves the conversation away.

Derek settles in again at the table without explaining. The background noise of the house is perfect for this. He has to stop for a moment when he realizes that he still hears Aslan in his father’s voice. When he glances up, Stiles is watching him. He looks away quickly, though, and Derek goes back to reading.

He’s a good chunk of the way through the book when Stiles turns around to crank the radio volume up. Someone over the channel is talking about going for a late dinner on Third Street. Derek watches Stiles for a signal that they need to move, but Stiles catches him looking and shakes his head, reaching for his laptop.

He types furiously for a bit, tongue held between his teeth. When Derek leans over his shoulder to look, though, there’s a chart and a map with notations that make no sense whatsoever on the screen.

Stiles nods at his questioning grunt. “Every hunter group gets a Girl Scout cookie name. We keep track of how many of them there are, where they hang out, all that jazz.“ He grins. “If anybody asks, I’m mapping cookie sales in relation to proximity to scouting centers. Trust me, it won’t be the weirdest off-topic topic they’ve seen from me.”

“The ones on the radio are the do-si-dos?” He gets the logic, even if the actual words make him feel idiotic.

Stiles bobs his head. “Yep. They’re the easiest to keep an eye on. They’re always in pairs, they’re nuttier than a peanut butter cookie, and they seem to have a pickup fetish.” He points at another line on the chart. “The tagalongs are the paramilitary types, and the thin mints are the ones who slink around in the black jumpsuits like ninja wannabes. Credit where credit’s due, they really are kind of a bitch to track.”

Derek looks at the map again. Some of it matches up with what the pack’s managed to observe, but some of it’s new information.

Stiles looks back and forth between Derek and the screen. “You want a copy?”

They spend the rest of the night hunched over their own projects, Derek memorizing the map and Stiles working what look like Trigonometry problems. Eventually, Stiles gives up and announces he’s going to bed, and Derek waves him off without looking up.

The tiny map notes all blur together after a few hours, and he settles on the couch with the book instead. Somewhere after three in the morning he lets himself doze for a while, confident he’ll hear anyone trying to get in. When Stiles’ father’s SUV turns onto the block, he slips the book back in place on its shelf and ducks quietly away.

It’s a sad commentary on his life that he feels more rested than he has in a while.

The second night, the door is unlocked and Prince Caspian is already waiting on his side of the table.

Stiles makes it a full hour without starting a conversation. Derek’s grudgingly amused by the fact that he can see it coming a good ten minutes ahead of time just by the abandoned tics Stiles makes in his direction every thirty seconds or so.

“Alright,” Stiles starts, “so we’ve got the bestiary to help us out with the creature feature side of things, but I feel like there needs to be a textbook on hunters, too. And there isn’t. Anywhere.”

He gives a suggestive little head tilt in Derek’s direction, eyebrows up and face open like he’s waiting for Derek to run with this. It feels like being called on in class always had. Derek absolutely does not squirm in his seat uncomfortably.

“You want me to tutor you in Hunters 101?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t see anybody else volunteering. They’re keeping Allison on the need-to-know schedule, and everything they tell her is going to be pretty heavily written-by-the-victors style. We all need to be on the same page.”

It makes sense, at least. It’s still not any easier figuring out where to start. “There are big families, old names that control it all. They mostly stick to the code and stay out of each others’ way. The newer hunters try to catch someone’s attention until they get brought in under one of the old names. It’s very… political.”

“So our little cupboard of Girl Scout cookies are all newer, trying to make their bones by capping a pack?”

Derek nods. “The old families will stay away and play nice, just in case the Argents get their act together again, but unofficially… Taking us out would be a ticket in with one of them.”

“They’re ambitious homicidal jerks. Great. What else?”

“That’s it,” Derek says.

Stiles flails incredulously. “Seriously? Favorite weapons, standard tactics, what the ever-loving hell is in this code that nobody actually follows…”

“I don’t know.” If it’s written down anywhere, he’s never seen it. “They’re not supposed to hunt anyone who hasn’t spilled human blood. There’s more to it, but what the rest is…” He shrugs.

“But how can you not know this? It’s your history, right?”

His first response is anger. He’s making an effort these days to be more productive, though. “What do you know about the War of 1812?”

Stiles looks thrown for all of three seconds. “Us, the Brits, and the National Anthem are pretty much it. Why? Is there a giant werewolf conspiracy at the heart of our country’s founding? Come to think of it, Ben Franklin did look like a fairly fuzzy dude…”

Derek waits him out until the rabbit trail leads all the way back to the right conversation. Stiles bobs his head to show he’s ready. “War of 1812. What?”

“Why don’t you know about it? It’s your history, right?” Derek parrots. It’s possible he’s still a little irritated.

“To be fair, the one day we spent on it in fourth grade was in the middle of my Spiderman phase, and we had those little desks with the pocket in the front so you could read things out of Mrs. Jenkin’s view - I made it all the way through to Unlimited before she caught me. Also, it’s not like it’s hugely relevant to daily life,” Stiles says, and then his expression clears. “Ah. Starting to see where you’re going with this.”

“Hunters, the code… None of it had anything to do with us. We were quiet, we didn’t start trouble… We thought we were safe.” The last part comes out vicious.

“They never taught you how to fight,” Stiles says, like the pieces are coming together. “You’re learning on the fly.”

“Our parents taught us how to be people.” On his worst days, he’s still bitter about that.

The third night, Stiles walks him into the living room and sits down, looking serious.

“This isn’t going to work,” he says, fidgeting.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Look, if you’d rather get killed, fine, but I’m not coming after you next time.”

It’s a depressingly bad lie.

“No, but…” Pain flickers across his face for a second before he gets back on track. “My dad, the trained investigator, he’s going to notice some guy lurking around eventually, and he’s definitely going to have issues with it being a guy he arrested a couple of times. The creepy assholes who keep following me need an excuse for us to know each other that does not involve me being a lightening rod for every supernatural being in town. We need a cover story.”

“So say we’re friends.” It’s a simple enough lie.

Stiles’ expression says otherwise. “I know you don’t exactly cohabitate with ‘normal,’ but seriously? Friends who prowl around in abandoned buildings and have slumber parties and oh goddammit that might actually work.” He’s the first person Derek’s ever seen pull off despairing enlightenment. “I hate my life.”

Derek raises the other eyebrow and waits him out.

Stiles buries his face in his hands. “Love makes you do the wacky.”

“What?” When in doubt, it’s the single syllable that serves him best around Stiles.

“Line from a TV show. Oh god, I’m explaining this to a guy who lives like an Amish man with a leather fetish. Why?”

“TV… That’s the magic box with the people inside, right?” Derek deadpans.

Stiles lifts his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You just like to screw with us, don’t you?”

If Derek’s lips curve up at the corners, nobody can prove it. “Back to your master plan.”

And Stiles snaps into it like a rubber band released. “Right. Look, just… I am aware of exactly how this sounds, and believe me I would like to strangle myself pre-emptively here, but try not to get your furry panties in a bunch. Here it is: I think I need to date you.”

“Really.” Derek doesn’t make it a question.

“Well, you… look like that, and my track record for good decision making hasn’t been great in the public sphere, and nobody really knows you well enough to anticipate your brand of crazy, so… I think people might buy it? Briefly?” He winces. “At least people who know us from behind the barriers of disappointed parenthood and creepy stalker binoculars, respectively?”

There is so much wrong with this Derek doesn’t know where to start. Unfortunately, all the tailspin between his ears catches on the way down is, “And you think your dad will take this well?”

“Nope.” He laughs bitterly. “I think he’s going to chalk it up as another of my recent epic fails as a son, but I also think he’ll want to keep the closest eye humanly possible on both of us, which might also stop the hunters from making a move.”

“You’re underage,” Derek tries.

“Dude, you haven’t even bought me dinner yet.” Stiles snorts. “Pretty sure that’s a level of verisimilitude we don’t need to aim for. You can’t get arrested for something you haven’t done.”

Derek doesn’t even have to say it. Stiles’ brain visibly catches up with his mouth. “… and that’s not something I should be saying to a former fugitive of the law. Got it.” And Derek almost thinks he’s given up, until Stiles lets out a slow breath and drops all the humor from his expression. “Look, I’m open to suggestions, but this is all I’ve got.”

Derek crosses his arms. “This is a terrible plan.”

“It really, really is,” Stiles agrees.

Go on to Part II.

There’s one scene in here that might be considered edging around dubious consent. It doesn’t go very far and there is no violence involved, but if you’re sensitive to consent issues, please know that you may want to have a pre-reader or give this one a pass.

There’s also some violence at a couple of completely separate points (although probably less gory than on the show), and a character’s panic attack is observed from the outside.

Because I desperately need to stop picking at this and do real work:

stillane — Sun, 15 Jul 2012 22:28:34 GMT

Anybody willing to be on deck to pre-read and/or beta Teen Wolf fic about Derek and Stiles and their terrible, fantastic, dovetailing issues? It's not quite done - I've got 3 scenes to fill out further, and some obsessive editing to do - but it ought to be there in the next day or so. No spoilers past aired canon, no specific deadline, and likely about to be Jossed to hell on Monday anyway. Also, it's already 20,000 words. I should probably mention that part, right?

So... Bueller?

Apparently, I have a lot of feelings about this. Huh.

stillane — Sun, 24 Jun 2012 20:35:56 GMT

Things I love about Teen Wolf (or, why my summer vacation included a show on MTV set around a bunch of werewolves in high school):

Don't be fooled that this is going to be some well thought-out piece of eloquence. It's pretty much just ramble-y flailing and an overlong treatise on architecture. Also, there are spoilers going up through all aired eps, but nothing beyond them save for personal speculation. Also also, trigger warnings for canonical implied abuse of a minor.

Okay? Okay.

Teen Wolf seems to get compared frequently to Buffy, and there are definitely reasons why that's fitting, but it also reminds me in some ways of SGA. Probably the biggest is the fact that it knows that its protagonist is a doofus. The long, lingering shot of him falling asleep and toppling off a roof, followed by a plaintive, off-screen "Ow"... The classic, despairing "His username is 'Allison?'... His password is also 'Allison?'"... The show is aware of exactly how seriously it can't take itself, but it's also unapologetic when it intends to be serious. It's that odd, meta feeling that underlies the whole thing that maybe makes me like it best. They're not quite breaking the fourth wall, but they definitely like to flirt with it.

Other specific things that I enjoy:

1. The houses. As with a lot of things about this show, they put a hell of a lot more thought into this than you'd really expect.

- The McCalls live in a large, old house, the kind of place that they bought back before Scott turned out to be an only child. It’s a stretch to keep it on a single income, but they stay because it’s their home and Melissa is a damn good mom.

- Even the bones of the Hale house are solid and grand. It's less a home and more a homestead, built to hold and last through generations. It gives the impression that the Hales have been there a long time, and intended to be there much longer. They were the kind of people who stayed.

- The Argents stand out sharply in their new construction. It's got all the shiny upgrades that the modern, successful family looks for - the granite and stainless steel and tray ceilings - and none of the lived-in warmth of the others. It's exactly the kind of place that people who've moved often and anticipate doing it again would choose. Very nice, very tasteful, but ultimately replaceable. Allison's room is the direct contrast to all of this, with its progression from paint choices on the wall early on to carefully personalized decorations later. Allison is very tired of moving.

- Jackson's house is ultra-modern, Isaac's is the definition of blending in, and Boyd's has bars on the windows. I'm dying to see more of the Stilinski house. Every single living space on this show says something about the characters, and I love that.

(Side note: Why is everyone on this show - and TV in general, for that matter - an only child? Scott, Allison, Stiles, Lydia, Jackson, Isaac... You don't actually have to spend the money on other actors; just mention siblings offhand every now and then. Nobody has them unless it's for plot-furthering reasons. It's like family structuring via the Chekhov's gun method.)

2. The cast. They're... yeah, beyond adorable. They're like a big, snuggly pile of rainbows and goofiness. They have behind-the-scenes shots like this...

...and twitter battles about which of them is best suited for mpreg. No, really.

I sort of want to bop Jackson on the head most of the time, but Colton Haynes may be my favorite of all the actors. His twitter is full of his feelings about his character's need to apologize and his delight about cuddling bunnies. Plus, this:

While the polite line between fans and actors/PTBs often gets erased in this fandom - and sometimes stomped over squickily - they seem to all respond gracefully and without condescension. Even the peripheral cast is charming. They just seem like the kind of people that would be ridiculously fun to hang out with. I would invite them to a paleo party without a second thought.

3. The fact that no one on this show is the character they’re supposed to be, save for Scott.

- Derek... Oh, Derek. By the Laws of TV, he should be this angry, powerful cypher, and he just isn't. Instead he's desperate and surly and often achingly young. He wears the standard leather jacket of mysterious badasses everywhere, but he tucks his hands in the cuffs up to the knuckles; he wears sneakers, not boots.

Relatedly, I love everything about the Kate/Derek dynamic. They don't pretend that Kate isn't a sexual predator, and they don't pretend that Derek is immune to fear and shame. He consistently comes across as vulnerable in her presence. This is the last place on earth I'd expect a commentary on the psychology of abuse and abusers, and yet there it is.

The second season really emphasizes what deliberate choices they were making in the first, too. Derek's very clearly different, from the way he holds himself to the way he speaks. He has moments with both Scott and Stiles, though, where he drops the act and feels very Season One Derek. He's wearing the right outfit the right way, and definitely tripping on the power upgrade, but I think even he knows it's not real. There's an overcompensation aspect to it all that's really interesting. I'm looking forward to seeing where he takes this later on, when things go as horrifically wrong as they're inevitably going to.

- Stiles. Just, Stiles. He should be the plucky comic relief, and he is, but he's also the one that gets shit done. He's practical, and competent, and just plain good. He is my very favorite, hands down. I want to use italics for everything about him, basically. What's extra neat is that you can very clearly see his father's influence there. I freakin' adore the Sheriff all on his own, and their relationship on top of that, but the coolest part is that they really are written as father and son. Not just in their interactions with each other, but in the ways that Stiles is so like his dad.

(Side note 2: I used to have the wildest crush on Linden Ashby, no lie. Mortal Kombat is a given, yeah, but does anybody else remember Spy Game? It was on ABC for about 5 minutes back in the day, and he played this awesome ex-spy who specialized in turning anything into a weapon and had a huge thing for his rookie partner, Max. The plots were ridiculous and the whole thing was goofy as all hell, but it was fabulous. *sigh*

So yeah, it's my personal headcanon that Lorne and Max retired and settled down to raise Stiles. He even has her eyes.

Stiles' honorary uncles are a Russian bar owner and a dude who was possibly born in a suit, which never seems weird until Scott mentions offhand that they both smell like a gun locker. And then it all hits the fan with the hunters and Sheriff Stilinski kicks everybody's ass with a paperclip and a ballpoint and Mrs. Stilinski turns out to be both alive and very, very good with explosives. I want that story so much.)

- Allison. Eeee! She caught me completely by surprise with how awesome she is. Again, she's competent and adaptable, and so damn much wiser than you'd expect. I have this instinctive negative reaction to characters having breakdowns and crises in the midst of external turmoil, mostly because I'm sitting there going, "No, seriously, worry about your feelings after you stop the zombie hordes, okay?" It's not that I don't like character development with bonus emoting - emote, my pretties! emote! - I just value practicality above pretty much all else. Allison strikes this fantastic balance between being implausibly controlled and an angsting wreck. She gets tried, she gets traumatized, but she also gets back up, picks up a goddamn weapon, and does what needs doing. I love her so much!

- Scott grew on me! Like a sweet, goofy fungus! I honestly didn't expect to like him very much, based on fic characterizations, but he's adorable. Yes, his priorities suck for... well, all of the first season, and yes, he's inclined to be unthinkingly self-centered in his worldview, but he's got potential. He's written as the stereotypical teenage boy character in a drama series; he only grates so drastically because everybody around him has already realized that they're in a thriller instead. They're gearing up for life and death while he's still prepping for high school soap operas. The world has switched genres on him, and by the second season he's figuring it out. I like where he's headed, at least.

- I went from thinking Lydia was just a little too Mean Girls to ever win me over to being surprisingly fond of her. I'm willing to be convinced on Jackson, but he's going to have to redeem himself a lot. Danny is <3 all the way, OMG. I want to see so much more of the new pack members, and kind of live in terror that Boyd is not long for this world. Even the characters I don't like, I really enjoy the opportunity to not like (Victoria Argent, I am looking at you - but only from a safe distance, and preferably while well armed).

- They get bonus points for also having possibly the most awesome veterinarian on TV. I want to fistbump them for that one.

I love the feeling that they're all growing into this complicated, epic future for themselves. Who knows if they'll get there, but I'm enjoying the heck out of this show right now for what it is.

GAH.

stillane — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 22:09:09 GMT

Because my first PhD committee meeting was this morning (ultimately fine but frustrating as hell along the way), and because the damn state is on fire and my smoke-hating, asthmatic lungs have had me gasping like a stupid goldfish for two days:

I have heard the words "assemble your committee" a lot lately, and every single time I flash to the Avengers and giggle a little bit. (I am secretly 12, and easily amused.) Really, though, the movie!verse team would be the worst academic body ever. I mean, picture these people being responsible for creating a unified, clear plan of study to be completed in a reasonable period of time. Yeah.

First of all, you'd have to get Tony to an actual meeting, and keep him there long enough to discuss anything. Then you'd never know what's a legit suggestion and what's just him being a smartass, because the impossible crap that he's telling you to do might only be theoretically impossible, and therefore totally doable for a guy who reinvents physics for kicks.

Steve would be great, except for the ridiculously high expectations and Disappointed Eyes that would inevitably follow them. He punched Nazis repeatedly, and you couldn't design a decent experimental protocol?

Bruce... Well. You won't like him when he's angry, and the rest of the time he's a biophysicist.

Natasha would eyebrow you to death, and you would still never know what she was thinking. She'd also have no mercy on your schedule, because anything can be accomplished with enough ruthless efficiency. Sleep is for the weak.

Clint would spend every meeting firing rubberband missiles at other members until the very last second, when he'd casually mention the ginormous flaw in your approach that necessitates completely redoing the last six months of work. It would be said with a smirk, but at least he'd buy you a consolation beer in the aftermath.

Thor would be awesome, provided you remembered baked goods. Woe to thee who forgoes Krispy Kreme.

Let's not even get into Fury or Coulson. That way lies madness.

So, how would other fandoms fair? Would Arthur and his knights make you want to staple them to the conference table? Would nightmarish qualifying exams be Lestrade's division? Would Rodney and John manage to remember it's a committee, not a yo-yo?

Come on, distract me. The world owes me giraffe funtiems for this week, and I can't collect until tomorrow. What's the worst fannish academic committee you can come up with? (Or the best, for that matter.)

Neat things!

stillane — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 23:29:55 GMT

I continue to be slow like a glacier and behind on pretty much everything, but here are two very cool bits of fandom which you all may or may not already know about.

First, podfic! erica_schall recorded Practical Adventures and Auspicious Pursuits (a.k.a. the Merlin one with the goats) in English, and then for double awesome points she also did it in German. Both audio versions are up here, and the written translation is here. Her voice is fabulous and the recording quality is amazing and the way she does Arthur's speaking voice alone cracks me right the heck up. My story is now this entirely new thing! In multiple languages! How cool is that? *g*

And second, after much flirtation with Sherlock, eccentric_hat has written fic! This is a big deal, because her writing is always brilliant and lovely, and now it is brilliant and lovely and Sherlock-flavored. There is no bad here. Household Maintenance is a gorgeous look at how Sherlock thinks, and sneakily also at how he feels.

So, yeah. If you haven't already, go check these out, so that you, too can be a-cackle with glee. *g*

Sherlock 2.03 - Round Two (or "Once More, With ALL the Feelings")

stillane — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 07:02:08 GMT

It only took me a week, right? In my defense, it’s been a crazy week.

- Oh, god. I’d wondered for a while now if they wouldn’t take everything right back to the beginning, and then they did. And thus begins Martin Freeman’s complete ownership of just about everything, because damn. There is no point where I don’t believe utterly in his grief. I love the flashes of anger and confusion in among all the sharp edges. I love that John is forever being ambushed by his body’s unexpected reactions to stress, whether it’s his leg in the first episode or his voice here. eccentric_hat brought up a neat point about Sherlock’s battle with his body in 2.02, and I think there’s an echo in John’s stress responses. He’s very, very good at controlling himself in the moment, at using it all to his advantage, but he pays for it in the aftermath. (I have a whole meta document in my head entitled “Ways in Which John Watson Is Such a Doctor” and this is part of it.)

- “Some sort of Death Frisbee?” I will never look at a hat the same way again. Also, incidentally, I have a thing for unconscious physical in-tune-ness, like the pen toss in Series One and the hat catch here. This was very good for me. *g*

- Jim Moriarty. Gah. I feel like I could write odes on how everything about Moriarty that is just slightly off, that doesn’t quite work in TGG, suddenly makes sense after this episode. I’ll probably come back to that at the end, though. For now: the blend of ominous and surreal and funny tones they have going through the heists is a weird choice, but I kind of think it works.

- There’s something subtly different about Sherlock from the moment John asks him if he’s ready before opening the door to the paparazzi. He’s... subdued. There’s a resignation in his interaction with John in the car, and although he’s got his game face on by the time they actually get to court, I think he already knows on some level that this time is for keeps.

- With that particular song in the background, Moriarty is shot in bright sun and light clothes, and Sherlock is shot in dark colors and shadows. Oh, cinematographers/directors, I <3 you.

- There’s a theme of deliberate blindness that keeps coming up here. Sherlock’s whole world, in effect, falls apart because people are willing to ignore what they know to be true in favor of what they either want or fear to be. Kitty the reporter, Donovan, Anderson... they’ve all seen Sherlock do his thing, all know that he’s capable of it, but for various reasons would rather believe otherwise. Everything that Sherlock really despises about people in general is what Moriarty uses to take him down.

- The spider analogy!

- “Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?” I love the comedic timing of that long, indrawn breath. I also love that you just know that John immediately begins listening for the bail details.

- “It’s my face...?” “Yes, and it’s doing a thing.” *dies* Although, to be fair, that was kind of an easy one, John.

- John, what is that tie? Why is that tie?

- Sherlock directs Moriarty to John’s chair, so Moriarty deliberately takes the other one, but Sherlock put the tea set next to John’s chair to begin with. Huh. There’s an iocaine powder joke here, I’m sure of it.

- Strangely, it’s this scene that really brings home how much of Moriarty’s behavior is performance. The distorted expressions, the vocal acrobatics... It’s all larger than life in the context of the pool or even the courtroom, but here the setting is all wrong. It’s somehow twice as creepy, really getting across that everything about him is an approximation of human interaction.

- It was at this point that, the first time through, I felt every tech person I know suddenly twitch simultaneously over the idea of a universal code like that. Heh.

- “I should get myself a live-in one.”

- The Diogenes Club!

- John’s interactions with Mycroft fascinate me. John’s comfortable with Mycroft as an enemy in ASiP, awkward with him as a vague acquaintance in the rest of Series One, and in Series Two is prone to treating him a lot like he does Sherlock, if with less affection. And then there’s their last conversation at the club, when John is back to being an angry soldier in his presence.

- Molly. Oh, Molly. I love that everything about her character that’s been making me cringe since the start suddenly comes together here. It’s so rare that a show can take an element that I dislike this much and retroactively make it matter. What I love most is that it’s not a cheap play to the audience: Molly doesn’t suddenly adopt a new layer of awesome over who she is; Molly is awesome because she’s Molly.

- “You look sad, when you think he can’t see you.”

I’m willing to bet the entirety of fandom has flailed over this by now, but here’s my contribution. I love that it’s John that he hides from, and that this comes back to the running theme of John never quite understanding where the boundaries are between what Sherlock doesn’t feel and what Sherlock doesn’t show. I love that it’s true, that Sherlock is so different here than he was in TGG; all of his flashes of excitement are in front of John, like he’s playing a part. The rest of the time, he’s either resigned or winding himself ever tighter, like the walls are closing in. For all that I want to rhapsodize about Martin Freeman all over the place, Benedict Cumberbatch does a frankly unbelievable job in this, with all these pervasive subtleties that trickle together.

- I love Sherlock’s reaction to Molly, too. I love that he’s honestly thrown by the idea that she doesn’t matter to him. I love that he still manages to put his foot in his mouth, because he always has and it’s never been because he means to. I love how much of him is very like Molly, with his own perpetual brand of uncertainty, and that it comes to the fore here when his usual momentum is disrupted.

- The moments of Sherlockvision have always been interesting, but I’ve just started noticing what’s happening in the background of them. I like that it’s not all flashy computer graphics, but also thoughtful low-tech touches. The busy room becomes just a few people still working (maybe the ones he can’t manage to tune out?), and the lights actually flicker on and off in the transition between inside his head and out.

- Sherlock making John take another cab... I can’t decide whether we’re supposed to think he’s legitimately just so rattled that he throws his usual preferences aside and finds John disruptive, or that this is the start of him trying to get John out of the line of fire.

- On the one hand, Sherlock should totally have learned his lesson about ignoring cab drivers. On the other hand, it’s a neat example of the fact that Moriarty is, in a lot of ways, a ridiculously high-functioning serial killer. Aside from the amorality and general lack of empathy with the rest of the human race, he’s also got this attraction to patterned behavior. He may not have a standard ritual, but he definitely has favorites: aside from cabs, he likes paralytics (both the botulism that he uses twice and whatever the drug in ASiP is), he’s got a thing for snipers, and he ultimately likes setting people up to kill themselves.

- I love spidermonkey!Sherlock, literally climbing the walls.

- Sherlock telling Lestrade that he’s being set up... ouch. He’s not strident or outraged; there’s no protest that he doesn’t have time for this nonsense. He doesn’t even try that hard to convince him, like it’s a foregone conclusion that Lestrade will betray him.

- I love that Sherlock expects the same from John, and that that’s what gets to him. I also love that John doesn’t ever waver, and that he gets this across by being absolutely normal in the face of Sherlock’s drama. Basically, the way he handles the rest of their relationship.

- Once again, kudos to whoever was in charge of cinematography here. Lighting Cumberbatch from below gives him a downright haggard look, especially when he breaks and snarls at John.

- Wow. The fallout for this for Lestrade is really going to suck, isn’t it?

- God, I love Sherlock’s arrest. I love the way he puts on the scarf and coat, like armor before a losing battle. I love that John’s voice radiates helpless fury while his body language is all quiet distress, and that the audience knows damn well that this pretty much guarantees someone is about to bleed.

- “There’s no one to bail us.” I suspect I shouldn’t find this as sweet as I do, but aw. It’s kind of like being each other’s emergency contact, but with unlawfulness. :)

- The running! There is nothing about this that isn’t awesome. Once again, we’re back at the beginning, with the two of them dashing through the city, just them against the world.

- Kitty really, really irritates me. I don’t have a good reason why, but I find her so much more aggravating than even Anderson. I think it’s the smugness. I just really want her to realize that she’s wrong. (I suspect that this is a subset of Someone Is Wrong on the Internet Disease, only with fictional people. I didn't say it was rational, okay?)

- “Just tell him.” Moriarty keeps trying to specifically get John to doubt, and it’s the one part of his plan that never does work. He plays everyone else like fiddles because all of them have something stronger than any loyalty to Sherlock - Donovan her suspicion, Anderson his resentment, Lestrade his duty, Kitty her wounded pride, Mycroft his ambition - but with John, Sherlock always wins.

- The fact that Sherlock plants the doubt himself with Molly - and that he includes her in the list of people he wants John to proclaim his fraud to - is interesting.

- Oh, John confronting Mycroft. That’s John’s “I’m thinking of ways to kill you right now” smile. I can’t decide whether Mycroft’s in on Sherlock’s ultimate plan or not. I think he legitimately did screw up and overshare with Moriarty by accident. Sherlock’s refusal to go anywhere near him could be him knowing Mycroft must be the one who sold him out, or could be him avoiding open contact while covertly working together.

- Mycroft’s - or the government’s, depending - strategy for managing Moriarty is... well, evil, in that it leaves him free to do very bad things and kill people, but also kind of twistedly brilliant. They know they can’t control him, and killing him would just leave room for either fragmentation or the rise of an unknown quantity. Moriarty’s bent on owning the world through crime, basically, and he’s capable of it. And therein lies his downfall: as soon as he gets to the top, it all becomes so easy. He doesn’t have any driving ambition beyond ambition. He’ll eventually destroy himself out of sheer boredom - Sherlock is his last-ditch effort to avoid it - but in the meantime, they’ll know exactly who’s in charge. It’s the kind of plan that Sherlock might make, if he were interested in the global scale. So, you know, Mycroft.

- Sherlock has John meet him in the lab because he needs to know where he is when the call comes in about Mrs. Hudson. It lets him guarantee that John won’t figure it out too quickly, but he could just as easily have sent John anywhere else specific. He chooses to see John instead, even though it means a confrontation with him is inevitable. His whole plan, really, rests on the fact that John will believe that Sherlock is exactly the kind of man who’d put the game before his loved ones. It’s just that little bit more agonizing, when you think about it.

- John leaving like that is officially when my heart hits my shoes, every time.

- The roof is where this Moriarty suddenly comes together for me. This Moriarty doesn’t make sense if you try to look at him like the villain in book canon or other adaptations. He doesn’t want power; he doesn’t want wealth; he doesn’t want control. He wants excitement. Everything he’s ever done has been for stimulation, getting grander in scope as he goes for that next fix that will satisfy him. It makes everything he does in the show fall into line, all the erratic behavior and mania. He’s been saving Sherlock, probably even been grooming him from a distance, and it’s the final crushing disappointment to think that there really isn’t anywhere to go from here. The computer code may be utter crap, but the point behind it stands: there are absolutely no challenges left for him. It’s why Sherlock simultaneously presenting one last, surprise puzzle and a means to answer it that gives Moriarty an excuse pleases him so much.

- I think Sherlock really does believe in the code, and really does think he can fix everything. He’s got an alternate plan in place, of course, but he still thinks he’s going to win, even if he doesn’t survive the event (officially or otherwise). I think he plans to fake his death on the roof itself to let Moriarty think it's over, and the jumping is an improvisation. I also think he genuinely isn’t certain he’s going to survive it.

- And then the phone call... oh. My god. That little laugh because John, John just will not be shaken in his belief. The way they both gesture at the same time. “Well, people do, don’t they?” Because people don’t have archenemies. People have friends; people they like, people they don’t like. People leave notes. God. Ow.

- John screams Sherlock's name from an impossible distance, just like on that first night, but this time he can't save him.

- And from here on out Martin Freeman just owns everything. The way that John says he’s a doctor, but can’t force any authority into it... The way he has to physically crawl that last bit to Sherlock... The way that he stops fighting, when he can’t deny it anymore... He looks like a man whose world has just stopped.

- If Mycroft is in on it, that's actually a pretty decent apology gesture. Considering his most obvious conflict is between his brother and his career, and considering it really can't be good for the latter if the former goes down in the press like this, standing by him now could say a lot.

- John sitting in 221b, barefoot and staring at Sherlock’s chair, is possibly the single most awful visual ever.

- Mrs. Hudson’s rant is perfect.

- John’s speech is where I lose it, every single time. It just... it sounds like a conversation he would have with Sherlock. “One more miracle, Sherlock. For me.” Oh, god. “Just stop it, stop this.” It’s all there, for a minute, in that reflection in the headstone, and then he locks it right back down. Because he’s John Watson, and carrying on is what he does.

- I may be alone, but I like the last shot of Sherlock, stalking John and still looking sad when John can’t see him.

Huh. I really thought I wouldn’t manage to say much beyond "*flail*" about this one. Go figure. Now, back to processing via writing all the fic I can handle, and finally getting to read everyone else’s reactions.

In summary: Is it Series Three yet? Now?

...How about now?

Sherlock 2.03: Round One (a.k.a. coherency is for other people)

stillane — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 06:57:46 GMT

Oh my god. Just, oh my god.

Wow.

I secretly thought there was no possible way this could live up to the buildup in my head. And then it did. Wow. They... just, everybody was impressive as all hell here. Tense and desperate and complicated. And Molly, oh god, Molly. Yes.

Sherlock knows it's over all along, and John never wavers in his faith, and the letter isn't a letter because they somehow found a way to make it even more gutting. God. Martin Freeman, you guys. Martin fucking Freeman.

More later, right? After I scrape my heart and jaw off the floor.

Damn.

Sherlock Squee Central v. 2.01

stillane — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 22:08:52 GMT

There will be much capslocking, incoherent babbling, and gratuitous use of the words "I love ____" ahead. I'm kind of counting it as a win that I've regained the use of full sentences, really.

For me, this was to Series One what "A Study in Pink" was to the unaired pilot, in terms of sudden leveling up in awesome, and considering the complete adoration I have for the first series, that's saying something. The first one was really, really great TV; this was a damn good movie.

- STAYING ALIVE. Ahahahaha. Of all the post-TGG fics written, I never figured the crackfics would be closest to canon. I love that the whole scene has been building on the tension of the soundtrack (strings strings STRINGSSTRINGSSTRINGS), and that this just flips that the bird with glee. I love that, silly as it is, it does actually make Moriarty just that little bit creepier, because it's so damn unexpected that nobody - not us, and not Sherlock and John - has any clue what the hell to do with it. Is the tension over, or is someone about to get shot in the face? WTF just happened here?

- This may be an unpopular opinion - I've been avoiding commentary and spoilers like the plague - but I like Irene as dominatrix. I'm guessing there'll be some grumbling about the whole "But she's an actress!" thing, but it's an interesting translation of her career. Given the historical context, it would be really hard to have her still be an actress here and keep the high-profile-but-still-tawdry connotation of the job from the original without losing the cool sophistication that makes her so neat. Professional dominatrix just works, I think.

- "Where do you think our clients come from?" Eee. We're all the way from, "Do you want me to come with you?" to our clients.

- HI LESTRADE!

- Sherlock with the Blowtorch of Irritation will never not be funny.

- The hat. Heh.

- I really want to know whose idea Sherlock meeting Irene was. I mean, Moriarty's unquestionably using her, but she's also already stalking Sherlock by news reports, so... Hm.

- LESTRADE IN THE CAR. "... and as far as possible, try not to punch him." Hahaha.

- THE SHEET. Also, as a side note, we have definitive proof that Sherlock eats and sleeps kind of hedonistically when he's not on an important case. And they have a ranking system for case importance, which John only argues minor details on. Hee.

- EVERYTHING ABOUT THE PALACE SCENE IS AWESOME. I love that Sherlock is sitting in the palace IN A SHEET, scrunching his toes and waiting for John, and that he is clinging to that sheet like a security blanket and still refusing to get dressed on general principle. I love that John is so damned unflappably John here, because batshit insanity just works for him. I love that the second they make eye contact they absolutely lose it. Oh, boys.

- "We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope." *dies*

- I love that Mycroft really obviously regresses to cranky big brother throughout this scene. Sherlock throws him off his game, and does it in Mycroft's element. I wanted to feel like Mycroft's dig about Sherlock's sex life was a little OOC, but no, no, I get it. Little siblings drive you nuts.

- The ashtray. Eee. He's totally showing off, for no purpose other than cracking John up.

- I love that Irene and Sherlock are absolutely deliberately (maybe a little anvilishiously, but I don't care) shown as parallels. She's introduced with a riding crop, first thing. They're simultaneously picking out costumes, regarding them in exactly the same way. She wears his coat, and on a superficial level looks shockingly like a female version of him - slim, cheekbones of death, light eyes, hair pulled up short. Not subtle, maybe, but still cool.

- The alley fight cracks me up.
"I was a soldier. I killed people."
"You were a doctor!"
"I have bad days!" HAHAHAHA.

- "Somebody loves you." I will totally come back to this theme later - because OMG THAT SCENE THAT IS COMING - but I adore the things that Irene reads in John and Sherlock's interactions, and her bluntness about them. Her pattern is to mess with... well, everyone, but she does it by telling the absolute truth. (You know, like Sherlock.)

- On a superficial level, I have always had a thing for the cinematography and style on this show, and that bit with the couch in the field is like really good visual candy.

- "Noises are important. Noises can tell you everything." Oh, show. I love it when you are sneaky.

- John's little "Thank you" to the guy who shoots the smoke detector is perfect. Heh. BAMF!John rules.

- Sherlock freaking the fuck out when John is threatened will never not be amazing to watch. He spends so much time thriving under pressure that the difference is really obvious. Compare the scene with the kid on the phone and the painting in TGG to this one with the safe: both time crunches, both with a life on the line, both with a puzzle to solve. In the first one, though, he's exhilarated, and here he's just terrified. Irene has to give him a hint, even.

- The slow-mo battle scene is just pure porn. It says so much about me that I found that way hotter than the explicitly suggestive drugs-and-riding-crop bit just after, doesn't it? O_o

- Sherlock's room! It's pathologically neat and gloriously geeky - periodic table! - and I'm going to be freeze-framing the hell out of it for research.

- And this is where the original story ends, and where we get to what I love most about this show. Even when you know the original canon, you don't necessarily know what's going to happen here. Sometimes it's subverting canon, sometimes it's taking all the pieces and putting them back together out of order, and sometimes it's just looking at all the familiar sights upside-down. It's always loyal, though, which is so much cooler than if it were slavishly faithful. It's fandom.

- They smack down Mycroft in tandem for getting snippy with Mrs. Hudson! I love that he's so thrown by it, like, "WTF? But, I... Oh. They're actually angry. Okay. Nevermind." Sherlock can snap at her when he's tense and John can act like an entitled brat now and then, but they're her boys. They don't mean it, and she knows it, and god help anyone else that tries anything. <3

- I mentioned it before, but I love the way they're using music so far this series. The violin standing in for Sherlock's voice shows up sooner or later in pretty much every version of him, and it's so effective here. The "God Save the Queen" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" are neat, and the composing-as-emotional-management-tool is a great character note, but the "Auld Lang Syne"... Oh. So much better than words, or silence.

- The Christmas party where all of Sherlock's people gather 'round and Sherlock entertains everyone awkwardly and John's date feels terrifically out of place... I've read this fic. Well, these fics. Hee.

- Molly... *sigh*. Possibly in an attempt to distract my embarrassment squick, I tuned in on Lestrade for a lot of the beginning of this bit. For the record, his facial expression when Molly's coat comes off is hilarious.

- "No! Christmas is cancelled!" *snickers*

- Aaaand back to Molly. This whole scene is just... ouch, all the way around. What kills me is that Sherlock is so obviously trying to be the opposite of cruel, here: he's clearly thinking that she's finally found someone else, and that she is serious about this guy, and that it's okay to tease her about it. He thinks they've finally become friends. He's as bull-in-a-china-shop about it as ever, what with the crack about her appearance, but then, he's also just casually told Lestrade that his wife's cheating and John that his sister's drinking. Normal doesn't exactly apply, is what I'm saying.

What's really interesting is that he's very obviously tempted to just bulldoze along until everyone pretends it didn't happen, and that he stops himself. I love John's little look of surprise. There's this running theme throughout the whole episode of John, for all that he understands Sherlock better than arguably anyone, still not getting just how much Sherlock hides. I'm really hoping that plays out through the rest of the series, although I already fear that ep 3 is going to break me into itty bitty pieces regardless.

- Mycroft and Sherlock in the morgue hallway... Oh. The fact that Mycroft tells him that he can have one cigarette, like this is the one point on which Sherlock has ceded control... The way that Sherlock smokes... The framing of the two of them in profile... "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

- I love that Mycroft doesn't say that they don't care. He says it's not an advantage, but he still includes them in the everyone who can be hurt column. He treats it like a choice. Everything about the way Sherlock relates to emotion comes right back to this school of thought, and it's fascinating to contrast what he'll let himself show in front of Mycroft and away from him. (The reverse, for what it's worth, is just as interesting.)

- They have danger nights. OMG. And it never, never crosses John's mind to choose his girlfriend over Sherlock. He puts up a token protest, but there's never any doubt that Sherlock's going to win out, not on anyone's part.

- ~~I don't know if there's some other significance to it, but the 1895 = Sherlock dies foreshadowing is already ominous.~~ There is, apparently, and it makes me all warm and fuzzy instead.

- JOHN AND IRENE. THIS WAS MY FAVORITE PART OF THE WHOLE THING. I love the parallels to John and Mycroft's first meeting, and the fact that everything is different now. I love that John is so very angry, and that this time it's because of his loyalty, rather than the other way around. I love that Irene calls John on his bullshit right back. I love the examination of gender and sexuality that's been going on the entire episode, but I especially love that right here the sly fanservice jokes about John and Sherlock as a couple are suddenly something else completely. I know there's been some unhappy commentary from the PTB on this subject of late, but the show itself is really, really clear on the idea that this isn't a simple thing. There is no neat little line between types of love in the universe they've drawn here, and that's... well. Yeah.

- AND THEN THE MRS. HUDSON SCENE. To quote Bad Boys II, "Shit just got real." I love that Sherlock imagines her calling for him, because there's no evidence of that, and it is his imagination. I love that he comes in like a bastard because it's the way he reassures her that he's got a plan. I adore the homicidal calculations. You will never convince me that the sound that Mrs. Hudson makes when CIA Guy goes down is not a laugh. She doesn't actually lose it until John gets there and the crisis is over. BAMF!Hudson rocks.

- Bad guy out the window. Unlike Bumbles, CIA Guys don't bounce. Heh.

- "England would fall." There is nothing about that scene that doesn't give me the warm fuzzies, from the way that Mrs. Hudson is a quiet badass to the way that Sherlock understands what she actually needs to the way that John looks at the both of them with hearts in his eyes.

- Irene lays it right out there on the table that she'd like to lay Sherlock right out there on the table, and John isn't staring at her. He's flicking back and forth between the two of them, and making himself hoarse. *snort*

- Moriarty is in London, and neither Sherlock or Mycroft know it. Also, Mycroft is "Mr. Holmes," while Sherlock is always "Sherlock." Huh.

- It's interesting that Sherlock doesn't expect Irene to have an ulterior motive for using his detective skills, and yet still checks for deceit when she comes on to him.

- PLANE OF THE DEAD = creeeeeeepy. I love the callbacks to the Chekov's gun bits at the beginning. Mycroft is "Mr. Holmes" to Irene, too. Hm.

- Sherlock badly needs a hug for about the next 10 minutes of this episode.

- "I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me." WHAT. I CAN'T EVEN. O_O

- Sherlock and the sentiment argument... This is, I think, Sherlock's biggest, longest-running con game. I'm not entirely sure how much of what he says he believes, and how much is sheer anger, and how much is the fact that Mycroft is watching. (And looking stunned, for that matter.) This would be a nail in the coffin of Sherlock's acknowledgement of emotion, except... well, except the entire rest of the episode proves otherwise.

- I love that John bitches about Mycroft never meeting him at cafes, so now they meet at cafes.

- Sherlock wanted to be a pirate. That is all.

- John, honey, you can't lie worth a damn, but I love you for trying. Despite what he tells Mycroft, some part of him knows very well that Sherlock can be hurt by this. The kitchen scene, and everything they don't say there... oh. Oh.

- Those last 15 seconds are improbable and ridiculous and I DO NOT CARE. I love that the whole episode turns the book canon's simple contest with a winner (Irene) and a loser (Sherlock) into an actual relationship. They both win some and lose some, and in the end, it doesn't matter. The fact that he rescues her is proof that he's just as sentimental as she is, which pretty much puts them back on equal ground. We go all the way full circle, and it turns out they're two of a kind after all.

In summary: THIS SHOW, GUYS. <3

Oh, and: I remain unspoiled for everything in the rest of this series aside from episode titles, so for the love of all that is holy, please don't tell me anything. Thanks.

Everything is Sherlock and nothing hurts.

stillane — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 05:25:11 GMT

Oh. My. God. That. I.

I went back and forth between squeaky noises and breathless silence so many times I have vocal whiplash. Damn. Just... just... yeah. I can forgive them the hiatus now. More coherent thoughts later, maybe, but not yet. I have to go watch it again. Right now.

My god, this show.

O_O

If there are comments here, though, maybe assume they have spoilers, yeah?

Hawaii 5-O 1x10 - Hao' Kanaka

stillane — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 05:27:29 GMT

Other people (with actual lives which include fun and no upcoming standardized exams *sigh*) are going to jump on this like a trampoline of awesome but, just to check:

Danny likes them...

1. Smart

2. Sharp

3. Willing to perpetuate acts of violence and/or property damage as meaningful relationship gestures

Yeah. What's there to say, really?

Also, he was completely staring at Steve's ass while talking about Rachel's. This would be after the obligatory pretty-people-stripping-down-to-swim scene in which he gave Steve a long, slow once-over while completely ignoring the presence of Kono in a bikini. That wasn't even subtle, show. I approve.

... And did he really say, "Babe?" Because it sounded like he said, "babe." Right? I mean, right? *blinks*

Plus: I cannot be the only one who found that montage of takedowns inappropriately hot. The closelining... heh. I feel it should also be noted that there are certain strategic moments where the trampstamp makes an appearance in that beach fight. You know, if one were inclined to freeze frame. *whistles innocently*

Fic Post: Make a Move ('Cause I Ain't Got All Night) - Hawaii 5-O, Steve/Danny

stillane — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 04:38:24 GMT

You know it's been a while since fic happened when you have to check back through your tags to remember how you used to format headers. That's just sad, is what that is.

Fandom: Hawaii 5-O
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC-17?
Spoilers: through 1x08, just to be safe
Notes: For leupagus's promptfest 2010, specifically this prompt. Huge thanks to the fantastic lamardeuse, who gets full credit for the fact that this does, in fact, now have the part that was kind of the whole point.

Summary: Danny is about 80% certain that there are deep waters buried somewhere in there.

Make a Move (Cause I Ain’t Got All Night)

Harada down in the motor pool office holds a grudge. Danny has not gotten a car out without offering a kidney in collateral since he brought that one Camaro back with a couple of minor scratches. He’s considered explaining that it could have been a lot worse, what with the whole playing-chicken-with-a-jet thing, but he somehow doubts it would help.

He tries sliding the SUV request form across Steve’s desk at the end of the day casually, hoping it’ll be a non-event.

Steve glances at it and goes back to typing whatever it is he’s been typing. “Harada still hates you, huh?”

That smirk is just uncalled for. Danny’s not sure what Steve has on Harada that he still has access to anything above a scooter, but it must be massive.

“Could we not do this, and say we did? Because I’ve got to go get Grace, and you’ve got a lot of Tetris leveling to get through, and if you could just sign the form, we could get back to that.” Danny’s not hopeful, but it’s worth a shot.

Steve tilts his head vindictively, and sits up very straight. He’s wearing his This Is Serious face. Steve is a prick.

“Alright, Detective Williams. Tell me why you need to requisition an SUV from the overextended depths of HPD? Wouldn’t a compact car be more fuel-efficient? Would you care to explain this to the taxpayers at the next budget review?”

Danny is ten seconds away from sticking his tongue out at him, swear to god. “My parents are flying in for Grace’s birthday next month and I’d like not to have to stuff them in the back of a sports car like aging sardines. “

Steve blinks up at him, and yeah, okay, surprise is always funny on him. “What about the truck?”

And now Danny can feel his eyebrows rise of their own accord. “You’re worse about that truck than I am about my child. You’d really hand over the keys?”

Steve shrugs. “So I’ll drive. There’s enough room.”

“Yeah, because that’s a good plan.” Danny snorts. “It’s bad enough you and my parents will be in the same zip code. You want to shrink that down to a five by five box?”

“You don’t want them to meet me?”

Danny’s anticipating a pissy squint. He gets that blank face instead, the one that makes Steve’s eyes look too damn big for the rest of him. He hates that one.

It’s in the category of the few expressions that Danny still has trouble translating. On the one hand, Steve can haul it out there deliberately just as fast as he does the rest. Danny has seen him play innocent and bewildered with gunrunners thirty seconds before going ninja on their asses.

On the other hand, he loses about ten years and a thousand levels of badass when he looks like that, and Danny’s not as immune as he’d like to be.

“Okay. Fine. They’re flying in on the 27th. You forget, and I make you listen to my dad’s lecture on his bunions one time for every minute we’re late.”

And that’s how it starts.

*******

Steve shows up to work a month later looking almost like a professional. Danny is hesitant to say a professional what, given that the undone shirt buttons and dark suit are more Come, Sex Me Now than Law Enforcement Officer, but there is a shirt with buttons, and more than 50% of them are closed. This is unparalleled in the history of the Steve McGarrett workday wardrobe.

He looks like he pulled up ‘presentable’ in the dictionary and made a checklist. Fuck, it’s Steve; it’s a distinct possibility.

Chin raises an eyebrow in Danny’s direction. “We have an undercover gig I don’t know about?”

Danny makes a show of thinking about it. “No, not ringing any bells. Walk of shame, maybe?”

Because there is no justice, Steve doesn’t ever look like he’s too lazy for a tie. He looks like he just decided against one. A suit tends to make Steve look like the kind of guy who eschews ties as beneath him. A suit also makes him look like the kind of guy who uses words like ‘eschew.’

Currently, he’s looking like he’s about to tell them all to fuck off, if the appearance of Mildly Constipated Face #4 is anything to go by. Didn’t get laid, then. “You can be replaced, you know.”

Kono’s got her head cocked to the side, giving him the once-over. Steve grunts. “You got something to add, Kalakaua?”

Kono shrugs. “Nope, I’m good.” Then she smiles brightly. “Just wondering which restaurant you’re moonlighting at.”

Steve rolls his eyes and retreats to his office, but Danny catches the laugh hiding under his breath. He follows him in for maximum ribbing potential.

“Alright, fess up. Hot date tonight?”

Steve is shuffling papers like he has any intention of doing something with them. “Yes. With your mom.” He stops and winces, catching up to his own mouth, and covers with more shuffling. “And your dad. You can come, too, if you have to.”

Danny snorts and leans against the desk. “Very generous. But yeah, you’re off the hook. Dad decided he wanted the freedom of the open road and rented a car.”

Steve holds two papers up in front of him for comparison, like he’s not just stalling, but Danny is wise to his ways. “You’ve explained that it’s an island, right?”

Danny nods. “I have. He’s a stubborn man, when automobiles are involved.”

But what he’s really thinking is, Huh. Because Steve has been normal until now, clothes aside, and suddenly he looks like somebody stole his favorite grenade launcher. He’s frowning at his paperwork.

Apparently, this is an actual thing, Steve not getting to play chauffer tonight. Danny has no idea why this is a thing, but there it is.

And like a rank amateur, he caves.

“You want to grab dinner with us later in the week? Like, maybe Thursday?”

Steve doesn’t even have the decency to cover his triumphant smirk. Danny senses that he’s just been played.

*******

So, there’s this:

The thing about Steve – the one that it took Danny a while to figure out – is that Steve is never out of control. Danny is pretty sure he’s never actually seen Steve lose his temper.

For all the chaos that Steve perpetuates, every last inch of it is born out of a calculated understanding of how to get what he wants in the shortest possible amount of time. Even the ninja wristlock he pulled on Danny on day one of their partnership – maybe the closest Danny’s ever seen to a legitimate snap – was more like a dog dominance humping the competition than real fury.

It’s not that Steve has anger management issues; it’s that he’s got the patience of a five year old. Steve is a firm believer that the straightest distance between two points is a good smack upside the head.

Danny is about 80% certain that there are deep waters buried somewhere in there. Writing Steve off as simply batshit insane is doing him a disservice; his partner is fully capable of being both batshit insane and terrifyingly complicated at the same time. He’s talented like that.

Steve, though... Steve is a master at not showing shit unless he wants to. He can be caught off guard occasionally, but only in downtime. Danny’s got a sneaking suspicion that the number of people who’ve seen Steve relaxed isn’t that high. He would dearly love to see Steve play poker, if he wasn’t so convinced it would devolve into either nudity or gunfire. Possibly both. This is the kind of thing that happens to them.

All of this is kind of irrelevant, in the day-to-day sense. It doesn’t mean Danny’s got any less chance of developing an ulcer, or that he spends any less time absolutely certain that he’s going to be the poor bastard stuck explaining it all to the Governor when someday one or all of his team sinks the island in a cloud of smoke and multilingual expletives.

The fact that Steve can calmly and rationally decide to pitch a guy into a shark cage does not actually make matters better, is the point.

The other point - the one that is front and center right now - is that Danny has the strangest idea that he might just be on the short list of people who can read Steve, and he’s got no damn clue what’s going on in his head every time the subject of Danny’s parents comes up. Steve is clearly working some kind of angle here, and Danny would feel much better if he knew what it was. Also, if there were no high-grade explosives anywhere within Steve’s access, but one goal at a time.

*******

They manage to make it through an entire week without Steve showing clear evidence of bizarre behavior. (For Steve.) Sure, he waits a whole minute for backup on Monday, and maybe there’s an odd moment where Danny suggests that they try not breaking and entering for once and Steve almost looks like he’s thinking about it, but then he threatens a pimp with a woodchipper on Wednesday and all is right with the world.

There is absolutely no reason why Danny should be more weirded out by the backup than the woodchipper. He knows that. It doesn’t help.

He blames long-term exposure to Steve.

*******

The tie is the final fucking straw.

It’s been a very long day. On the plus side, they’ve got three million dollars worth of heroin in impound, two kingpins in custody, and a pretty sizable chunk of the illegal shipping infrastructure of the state heading for permanent retirement.

On the downside, Kono broke a knuckle on some guy’s face, Chin isn’t talking to anyone until they agree that they will never again include his bike as part of one of Steve’s plans, and Danny is perpetually stuck in the moment when Steve disappeared over the side of a cliff with a drug dealer around his neck and a couple thousand feet of falling in his near future.

Because he’s Steve, of course, he managed to swing onto an overhang and claw his way back up like a fucking gecko while the dealer screamed all the way down, but there were a good thirty seconds there where Danny was seeing a different outcome. He would really like to pretend that he had it together enough to be dreading telling Mary, or feeling bad about that last good shouting match they had in the car, but he didn’t.

Mostly he just thought, No.

He’s spent the last two hours splitting his efforts between the required “So You Want to Catch Bad Guys HA HA HA” paperwork and absolutely not watching Steve be alive in the next room over.

Neither of those is going well. His stack of forms is still threatening to overflow his desk, and he is fairly sure Steve lied when he told the medics that his shoulder was just fine and he was not in any way seeing double.

And then he’s standing in Steve’s office door, completely aware that he’s supposed to be picking his parents up in ten minutes, and not at all sure that he can fake being in a normal headspace to the people who wired his brain in the first place, when Steve finally looks up.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Steve smirks, because smirking is like breathing for him. And hey, look at that, Danny’s back to being glad Steve’s breathing. “Rules to memorize? Buttons to push?”

“Parents to feed,” Danny agrees easily.

Steve goes rigid.

“Shit, that’s tonight.” He’s on his feet in a blink, barely weaving, and tossing a quick glance up at Danny while he rifles through a desk drawer and buttons his over-shirt one-handed. “Sorry, man. Just a sec.”

And then he pulls out a tie.

It’s gray, just solid color with some small print in a lighter shade picked out over the fabric, and he loops it around his neck and under his collar with a deft touch that says he has, in defiance of all evidence, done it before. He goes through the motions quickly and cleanly and comes out with a perfectly even double windsor, no mirror in sight.

And, okay, Danny was wrong. Steve does not look like the kind of guy who eschews ties right now. Steve, as Danny’s eyes are clearly telling him, looks like the kind of guy who runs fucking screaming from ties because they make him look like a junior accountant.

Danny has a sudden vision of his mother asking him why he’s been so mean to this nice boy.

“Jesus christ,” Danny says, and has to scrub a hand down over his face. “Would you stop it?”

Steve blinks at him, and yeah, those circles under his eyes are doing nothing for Danny’s ability to deal with this situation.

This is going to take up the last available row on his Chart of Bugfuck, he just knows it is. (Yes, there’s an actual chart. There are sparkly star stickers added for every new incident. Sometimes the effects of fatherhood are not subtle.)

“Alright, what’s with the Stepford Steve routine?”

He stops making eye contact. “I don’t follow.”

Bullshit.

“Bullshit. You get your Bond on to pick them up, you act like someone shot your puppy when you can’t drag them around the island, you... There’s neckwear involved, here.” Danny waves vaguely at his everything. “Come on, Steve. Level with me: Do you have a thing for my mom?”

Danny holds the serious expression together right up until Steve blinks at him like a goldfish, and then he laughs. Probable head injury and all, Steve catches on quick and snorts. Danny will not be distracted, though.

“So fess up. What’s going on?”

“I like to make a good first impression on all of my squad’s next of kin. Kono and Chin I’ve got covered, so that just leaves you.” Steve grins like he’s kidding, but Danny thinks maybe he isn’t. “I don’t want them to think you fell in with the wrong crowd.”

“Provided you do not actually get me killed or talk me into matching tattoos, I think you’re safe.”

He’s definitely mostly serious this time. “Danny... they’re your parents.” He shrugs. “I don’t want them thinking I’m the asshole who gets their son shot at all the time.”

“You are the asshole who gets their son shot at all the time.” It’s a testament to how strange their lives are that that comes out obscenely affectionate.

Steve half-grins. “Fair enough.”

“You’re also the asshole who tries to get shot first,” he says with the accompanying hand gesture of extreme frustration. “And while you will thereby still be responsible for my future coronary, they do appreciate the thought.”

At some point, it’s become a matter of pride that he’s damn good at finding the other half of that grin.

“Now – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – lose the tie and let’s get out of here. You can hang with my parents on a night when I’m less convinced you’ll faceplant in the appetizers.”

Danny calls his dad on the drive over to Steve’s place to tell him he’s going to have to meet them later. Steve leans back against the headrest at the second stoplight with his eyes closed, and Danny doesn’t drive more carefully the whole way. That would be stupid.

*******

Steve shows up at work on Friday. At least he’s not wearing a suit this time.

Danny has this low-grade, throbbing ache that sets in across his shoulders at the end of every long week. It’s predictable, and persistent. Danny calls it ‘Steve.’

He blames Steve the Muscle Spasm and Steve the Figurative Pain in the Ass both for making him easy prey for Kono. She corners him by the coffeemaker with embarrassingly little effort while he’s busy grumbling about masochistic SEALs and their inability to accept the concept of a sick day.

Kono has the decency to wait until he’s got a cup poured before she springs, at least.

“Party’s at the Boss’ place on Saturday. Are your parents okay with tuna?”

“Yeah, they good with anything. Never even kept kosher,” he says absently, still inhaling coffee fumes. “Wait. What? Grace’s birthday thing was last week, at that place with the creepy fish robots.”

Across the room, Chin twitches slightly at the conference table. Danny always knew he was a good man. Those robots are just disturbing.

Meanwhile, back in the fishless world, Kono looks at him like he’s hopeless. “Your parents are here. We should do something to celebrate. Throw something big.”

“They do not want to be wined and dined like –“

“Come on, they’re tourists. Let them be tourists.” She grins, but softly. “They’re here to see the sights, get some sun, meet the family.”

The unspoken claim in the last one takes all the argument out of him.

“Does McGarrett know about this?” he tries, lamely.

She laughs. “Whose idea do you think it was?”

He sighs. “Right, right. Because I don’t work with a whole team of party people.”

Chin looks up from across the room. “I do love a good disco ball,” he deadpans.

Danny shrugs apologetically. “Okay, half a team. They make up for it in enthusiasm, though.”

*******

This is how he winds up watching the sun hover a foot above a postcard-perfect horizon while his parents, his daughter, his team, and half of the island turn a stretch of sand into a block party.

Danny is expecting the inevitable meeting of his parents and Steve to be a Big Event, caps necessary. In the end, it’s kind of anticlimactic, and kind of not.

Steve has the charm cranked up to 11. Danny’s parents are ‘Mr. and Mrs. Williams’, protests be damned. He shakes each of their hands with a smile, gives them a quick tour of the house, escorts them around the beach like the world’s best host.

If you didn’t know better, you could almost miss that he’s nervous as all hell. For all he’s in his regular cargoes and a t-shirt, he’s carrying himself like he should be in dress blues. He looks like the fate of the free world rests on whether Danny’s dad likes his interior decorating.

Then Rachel’s driver drops Gracie off, and like always Danny’s universe shrinks down to the space she takes up. He’s busy for a while making sure she’s got sunblock and a towel and strict instructions on how not to give him fits by going near the water alone, and he misses Steve’s strategic retreat.

Eventually, though, his mom asserts her grandmotherly right to shoo him away and take over, and he gets his first good look around. Steve’s in a chair on the porch, looking settled in. Danny will get to him last.

He catches sight of his dad and Chin staring at Chin’s spotless-since-Thursday bike, talking with their heads bent over the engine. His dad’s grinning like a kid and telling the story about the time he froze his face solid riding on the turnpike in November with a crack in his helmet - Danny knows the choreography well enough to know exactly which words he’s on at any given time - and Chin looks incredibly entertained.

Kono’s out on her board, along with a handful of other ridiculously attractive and coordinated people with a deathwish. He’s going to pretend that she’s not using her splinted hand. Her laugh carries over the water now and then, easier for him to pick out than it should be.

Gracie camps out front and center, talking her grandma through the architectural wonders of sandcastle creation. Danny’s considering cutting off her access to the home improvement network in the very near future. He has visions of tree house blueprints from hell. He sits down in the chair next to Steve’s on the porch, mouth opening to say as much, and stops.

Steve is honed in on the mini construction site. His eyes track Danny’s mom when she reaches over to brush Grace’s hair back. It would almost look like idle staring, if it weren’t for the lean of his shoulders, one long line of focus down his neck and back.

Danny investigated Jack McGarrett’s murder, and by extension Jack McGarrett. He knows when he was born, where he grew up, when he got married. He knows when and how his wife died, that his daughter left home at sixteen, that his son hadn’t come back for anything short of funerals in a long time. He knows that there was nobody else to contact as next of kin.

It takes a while, sometimes, to remember that these are things he knows about Steve, too.

Danny’s never been good at not saying things. “You don’t talk about her.”

Steve freezes, just for a second, and then leans smoothly back in his chair and redirects his concentration to the bottle in his hand. To his credit, though, he doesn’t pretend not to get it. “What would I say?”

“Anything.” Danny shrugs. “What was she like?”

Steve looks back at the beach and his lips twitch. “Tolerant.”

Danny laughs. “Yeah, thanks, I’ve met you. She’d have to be.”

A full smile flickers across Steve’s face and then fades. “I don’t...” He shakes his head. “There’s a lot I never asked, you know? I mean... it’s all stupid things, what I know. What her smile was like, what color hair she had.” He pauses, looking for words. “I don’t know who she was, though. What she wanted to do with her life, outside of having Mary and me.”

“Parents are like that,” Danny says, voice low. “I’m sorry I never met her.”

Neither of them says anything for a while.

“She always smelled like the water. Taught us how to swim before we could walk.”

“So you weren’t born half fish, then?”

Steve laughs quietly. “Nah. Didn't even get any webbed toes.”

Danny watches the tension around his eyes and waits him out.

“Dad... he never got over it. I think he just stopped, when she died.” He says it like a confession.

Danny thinks about how well Steve fits here, and how long he was gone anyway. He thinks about the way that Steve only ever talks about his dad from a distance, but with affection all the same.

“I’m sorry I never met him, either,” he says, and Steve stares at him for a long minute, figuring him out. Finally, he nods.

Steve leans back and looks up at where the stars are coming out, and the set of his shoulders is better. He’s warm through his t-shirt when Danny brushes by on his way to grab another drink.

Twenty feet away, Grace and Danny’s mom plan out one more turret for their castle.

*******

Chin, apparently, is due for a beer as well. Danny gets the caps off for both of them.

“Hey. Saw you with Dad earlier,” he says. “I’m surprised he let you go. He’s got to have at least a few more stories to tell.”

Chin shakes his head, though, looking mildly impressed. “Your old man knows his engines.”

“Yeah. Thanks for keeping him occupied. Dad hasn’t been near a bike in thirty years.” He grins. “Now, Mom might kill you when he starts looking at Harleys again, but thanks.”

“Nah. We’re good.” Chin settles back and crosses his arms, and for once it doesn’t look defensive. He stares out at the party like he’s soaking it in. “Haven’t been to one of these in a while.”

He’s saying about fifty words in the silence there, and Danny is suddenly damn glad he went down without a fight on this one.

“Yeah, I’m thinking maybe we make this a regular thing. Keep McGarrett out of trouble once in a while, right?”

The quirk of Chin’s lips says he isn’t buying it, but he nods and says, “Good thinking,” anyway, and they watch Kono coast in on the last few waves before she loses the light.

When he glances over, Steve is down in the sand with Gracie. He’s digging a moat. Leave it to him to think about tactical advantages.

Danny’s mom says something with that look on her face that tells him it was exactly the kind of dry, dirty joke that she loves to make when she wants someone to drop the polite bullshit. The fact that he can hear Steve’s surprised laugh from this far away is just confirmation.

Steve keeps right on looking comfortably blindsided, Danny’s mom keeps right on looking pleased with herself, and Grace starts building a drawbridge.

For the first time in a while, Danny has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.

******

He drops Gracie off at Rachel’s with a kiss, and his parents off at their hotel with a promise to pick them up for breakfast before their flight.

His father pulls him into a hug, slaps his back and hangs onto his shoulders for a beat like he does when he wants to say something but can’t quite. Danny nods, because he gets it, and his dad smiles.

His mother kisses him on the cheek and then holds his face in her hands for a long moment, looking him over.

“This place looks good on you, kiddo,” she says.

He says, “Yeah. Yeah, maybe,” and hooks his chin over her shoulder when he hugs her goodnight. She smells like hyacinths.

It’s still early, by his standards, and his apartment will be quieter than any place he wants to be right now. He winds up back at Steve’s almost without thinking about it, but when he walks in to find his partner standing in the center of his living room with a trash bag, a field of debris, and a lost expression, he thinks he’s made the right call.

“I don’t think your standard plan of attack is going to cut it here, Rambo.”

Steve rubs a hand over his neck and continues to survey the terrain. “This was not in the training manual.”

“And don’t I know it,” Danny says under his breath, and then louder, “How about I grab a bag and you grab a bag and we divide and conquer?”

Steve nods, like he’s thinking it over. “Could work.”

It takes most of a half hour to get everything back in order, but it’s a peaceful half hour. Danny is particularly grateful to whoever brought the paper plates when he’s got the dishes in need of washing together and they all fit in the sink. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Steve walks up next to him.

Danny takes the preemptive strike. “I’ll wash, you dry.”

“Why do you get to wash?”

“Because I don’t trust you with anything more complex than a dishtowel. You’d find a way to turn soap into a deadly weapon.”

Steve tilts his head. “Well, now that you mention it...”

Danny tosses the towel at his head. “Quarterback, my ass. You were such a chem nerd in school, weren’t you?”

Steve grins crookedly. “Never said I wasn’t both.”

He never expected to miss this. If you’d asked him years ago, he’d never have put household chores on the list of things he ranked high up there about marriage, but it gets to him, sometimes. He hates that he only has his own socks to fold, that there’s no one to tell him what the soup needs more of or to stop flipping channels.

It’s nice, this rhythm.

It’s all good, until he reaches up with his forearm to push the hair back out of his eyes and gets caught in the reflection in the window over the sink. It’s full night outside, and the glass mirrors back a kitchen in soft yellow light.

Danny stares back at himself, at the wet line over the front of his t-shirt at sink level, at the faint flush of the skin over his nose from too much sun. At Steve, who is staring at Danny.

He’s been doing that more lately - he’s always done it more than he should - and Danny... Danny is tired of not noticing.

“You’re awfully invested in my continued stay on this island.” It’s not a question, exactly, but it’s a start.

“What, like I’d subject some other place to the Jersey Motherland Lecture Series?” He shrugs, slipping another plate into the drying rack just a little too casually. “I’ve built up a tolerance.”

Danny translates that, allows for the words that Steve edits out, and comes up with an answer he maybe already had.

“Mom thinks Hawaii’s been good for me.”

Steve grunts like he’s barely invested, but Danny can see the upward twitch of his mouth out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ve been thinking too, though, and I don’t think it’s Hawaii.” Danny watches Steve’s hands falter. He wets his lips and toes out a little farther in the water. “I was actually doing pretty shitty before some whackjob hijacked me into a new career pathway.”

And there, there is that look, the one that Danny never sees Steve aim at anyone else. Danny’s not always first to the mark, but he is a goddamn detective. He gets there in the end.

Danny has played it safe often enough that Steve is not expecting him to follow through. That much is obvious from the loose sprawl of Steve’s body next to his, from the way he reaches for the next dish like that’s all they’re going to say.

He turns when Danny moves, though. Winds up with his back to the sink and a question on his face, and Danny brackets him in with an arm on either side. Surprise looks less funny on him, this close.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.” He stares at Steve, waiting for permission.

Steve stares back. “Not unless you want to be.”

“I really, really don’t,” Danny says, and kisses him.

His lips are dry. He tastes like the electric blue alcohol Kono’s friends started mixing after dark, just shy of too sweet. His cheek is warm and rough against the tip of Danny’s nose as he slowly pulls back to see.

Steve’s eyes are closed, mouth slightly open, and he looks like he’s holding himself so still that it hurts. His knuckles are white on the counter edge, and Danny has clearly not been giving Steve enough credit for self-control, if this is what want looks like on him.

Danny nudges between his legs, fits his hips to Steve’s and his hands over his waist. He gets close enough to feel Steve’s breath and says quietly, “Hey. Look at me.”

He does, and his eyes are wide and blue and very clear, and then he’s moving. He slouches down and rolls his hips, and his hands find their way under Danny’s shirt like they’ve got homing signals. He’s right there, and Danny stops having any kind of plan and just goes for it.

It’s overload. It’s the sudden knowledge of what the hollow of his throat tastes like, what frequency his chest vibrates with on a groan, how the calluses on his fingers feel over the skin of Danny’s back.

They’re still fully dressed and upright in the kitchen, and Danny is not at all sure he’ll survive more. It’s very hard to care.

He curls his fingers into the space between Steve’s skin and the top of his pants, runs his knuckles back and forth just to see what happens. Steve’s head goes back against the cabinets with force, and Danny has never hated his bad knee so much as right now.

He gets Steve’s fly undone and lets him step out of his cargoes before he slots their legs together and gets his hand on Steve for real. Steve groans and arches against him, and Danny does it again because he can. Steve lets him set a rhythm, and then a better one, and he keeps time with a litany of Danny’s name. Danny sucks on his neck and his shoulder and the edge of his jaw in reward until his hands twist in the back of Danny’s shirt and his hips buck hard and when he comes, he curls around Danny’s hand like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. His breath hitches once, and again. Danny strokes him through it, feels the aftershocks everywhere they’re touching as he shakes himself apart.

“Jesus fuck, Danny.” He’s panting against Danny’s collarbone, riding the high on down and leaning like his strings have been cut.

Danny shifts him back against the counter because he really needs to see this.

Steve looks he’s been ridden hard and put away wet, and Danny badly wants to try that next. His hair is soaked with sweat. Danny doesn’t make a conscious decision to run his clean fingers through it but then he’s doing it all the same. Steve tilts back into it, eyes closed.

And then he moves his thigh and Danny is abruptly conscious of just how hard he himself still is. Steve picks up on it too, and takes some of his own weight back just long enough to sink to his knees.

His eyes are still glazed over but he keeps them locked on Danny’s all the way down. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. Danny makes a sound that he is sure started out as Steve’s name, braces his hands on the counter and locks his knees.

Steve is good. God, of course he is. His mouth is hot and his tongue is skilled, and the calluses on his hands are perfect here, too. Danny could almost work up some distant resentment, if it didn’t feel so damn good.

He rests a hand on Steve’s neck, needing the contact, and fuck Steve hums around him and keeps humming. His tongue flickers just right and he looks back up at Danny and Danny comes down his throat without knowing he’s going to.

Steve goes down the rest of the way and swallows, breathing shallowly. Danny will never insult the Navy and their training programs again.

He realizes he might have said that aloud when Steve pulls back and laughs against his hip.

They’re a mess, the kitchen is still a disaster zone, and Danny actually, for one wild second while he’s still mostly dazed, contemplates fixing those situations. He’s aware of how not right that is, but he’s been the designated responsible adult for a long time.

And then Steve happens. The bastard stands up, weaving on his feet, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and that’s it for the cutlery. He drags Danny down the hall by the front of his shirt before he can get any more ideas.

He gets them both on the bed, at least, before he mostly gives up on coordination. Danny makes it thirty seconds before he twitches, unsure where to put himself, whether to find his pants or ditch his shirt.

Steve rolls over and throws a heavy arm over his ribs to hold him down. “It’ll still be there in the morning.”

Danny grumbles, “That’s the problem,” but it’s mostly just to be difficult.

Steve pauses like he’s waiting for Danny to do something, and then when Danny doesn’t he goes boneless. Danny is stupidly fond of the smile he’s wearing.

“Shut up or I won’t buy you breakfast.”

It’s a mark of pride that it’s slurred around the edges. Danny grunts into the pillow and closes his eyes. “Pancakes. I’m no cheap date.”

His dad always gets the check anyway. Steve will learn.

He fades out to the sound of the waves on the other side of the walls and the feel of even breathing against his shoulder and the certainty that tomorrow will bring awkward breakfast conversations and overdue housework.

There are worse things.

Psych

stillane — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 05:00:25 GMT

Oh, Psych. Sometimes you hit my embarrassment squick so hard I want to run screaming, sometimes your character inconsistencies drive me downright batty, but that? That right there is why I still love you. Everybody being good to each other, and good at what they do, and skipping merrily down that fine line between wacky hijinks and honesty - that is totally why.

*happy sigh*

Observations on various shows of a Tuesday night persuasion:

stillane — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 21:45:34 GMT

Spoilers abound!

NCIS: Original Flavor

- Tim is looking very smokin' lately. Just sayin'.

- That whole bomb scene = <3. Tim and Tony's little "Look, don't die, okay?" bit is perfect. I love the proud look Gibbs gives Tim when he digs in his heals and then makes with the calm banter after the bomb does not go boom. I also love that the bomb not going boom was actually an accident.

- I love that Ziva quietly, competently sums up the sketchy side of this show's approach to civil rights. For me, it's one of those moments that makes the entire show turn on a dime, just by virtue of acknowledging that they are aware of exactly what they're doing, and what it means in a larger context. For the record, Ziva remains one of my favorite female characters ever. I think this is largely because who she is is not defined by her gender, while still being influenced by it. She's written as a person (which is still a hell of a lot rarer than it should be) and for all that they may have some issues with their characterization of certain personality types of women, when the NCIS writers are on, they are on.

- Speaking of those issues, though: OMG whoever it is in the writing room that has decided that Gibbs goes for "feisty" women, please stop. Just, stop. You keep writing these characters to be foils to Gibbs, which is great in theory, and their actions are really commendable, for the most part, and yet... Every last one of them makes me want to smack them a good one upside the head for a large percentage of their screen time. Jenny, Lt. Mann, and now Lawyer Lady Whose Name I Am Too Lazy to Look Up... All of them. Lawyer Lady is smart! She is tenacious! She is calling everybody on their bullshit! I should be rooting for her really hard and yet still with the slapping urge. I think what it comes down to is that she suffers from the same crappy writing that her predecessors did, with the thing where she isn't allowed to acknowledge her mistakes or doubts, and where her motivations are less about people than principle. They keep trying to write women who are a match for Gibbs, and they get the ass-kicking mentality down okay, but they leave out the vulnerability that makes Gibbs interesting. (Well, except for Lt. Mann, who kind of had the opposite problem, to me. She was solid on paper, but came off as really more bluster than badass in practice. *shrug* YMMV, of course.)

We don't like Gibbs just because he tells the rules to go fuck off when he feels it's necessary; we like him because he is singularly motivated by doing what he feels is right. We also, and this is the important part, like that he takes every failure very, very hard. He's an arrogant son of a bitch, in his own way, but it isn't about ego, and it isn't all that he is. He has depth.

I want Lawyer Lady to have acknowledged that doing things the way she wanted them to could have lead to many deaths. (Because, seriously, that could have gone down very, very ugly, even with them chucking civil liberties by the wayside for a little while. They all got lucky, several times over.) I want her to be torn by the results of playing by the rules, but absolutely clear that the alternative is worse. I want her to be as clearly motivated by moral code as Gibbs, rather than reliant on this weird dogma.

There is so much room to work with the general outline of her. It would be amazing if they could introduce a character who is both completely against our crew and still one of the good guys. I would love a foil for him who champions the importance of the law, who holds it up as not just a mess that gets in the way, but a protective force. I would adore a clever, adversarial relationship that I can buy leading to more. I want someone real, instead of someone plucky. It's kind of sad that they keep reinventing the exact same wheel.

What confuses me is that these characters seem to be created to be wrong in the face of Gibbs' rightness, but they also feel like they're supposed to be sympathetic, or at least incredibly alluring. I get the sense that whoever is behind this actually really likes these women, and expects the audience to as well, but takes that part for granted. Stop assuming I'm on board with the love, here. Show them being awesome, okay?

"Feisty" does not mean you have to be forceful and wrong, show. Write me a character that is confident and driven and not played as a caricature, and then we'll talk. I know you can do it. Ziva and Abby are proof of this.

Um. I'm done ranting now.

And now for something completely different: NCIS: LA

- Wow. They really do play up the gay more and more all the time, don't they? *blinks*

- We now know that G Callen has a healthy gag reflex. I... You know, the jokes just write themselves. For extra bonus fun, watch Sam's (or LL Cool J's - I can't really tell if that was breaking character or not) face during that whole scene. He clearly finds this hilarious.

- Can we have more of Sam in danger and Callen silently losing his shit while pretending not to be losing his shit, please? Because that was a little bit of awesome. The question about the vaccinations was great, and the conversation with Kensi was nicely played.

- Speaking of that conversation: I love that the ghost of Dom was there, and that his name was never mentioned. I don't know whether that was played as written or whether Daniela Ruah is just that good, but somebody deserves kudos.

- And speaking of Dom: The start of this episode seems to imply that they are going to eventually have another agent join the mix. I'm really hoping they're smart enough not to do that, since the whole point of ditching Dom was that they had more cast members than they knew what to do with. *sigh*

- "We've been together longer than most married couples in this town." More and more all the time, folks.

- I have noticed it before, but is anybody else amused by the fact that this version of LA must be the size of a postage stamp, given how fast everybody gets from Point A to Point B? I mean, I know they're a super secret agency offshoot with really cool toys, but I didn't know they had Star Trek-style transporter tech. (And now I kind of want to see the scene where Hettie reveals that one to the crew. Sam's technojoy would be beautiful.)

- What's that flying through the foodcourt? Is it a bird? A plane? No, it's a giant Seal-shaped mother hen! SuperSam to the rescue! *g*

White Collar

- Eee. This entire episode made me squeak with squeaky joy.

- June! Hi, June! You are so cool, and I love it every time you show up.

- Breakfast! That whole scene is grin-worthy, from the total lack of respect for the door to the fact that Elizabeth just calmly offers a bowl. I love that Peter drops the grumbling in about half a second when Neal turns serious, because Peter totally knows when to play with Neal and when to listen.

- I love Elizabeth's giggle attack at Peter having to break out the Mad Flirting Skillz. I love that I honestly thought they were going to go the insecure jealous wife route, and then they took a left turn at Albuquerque. I'm a little less amused that they did eventually go there, but the sweetness of the Peter-picks-up-El scene wins me back again.

- I love Mozzie being quiet and a little heartbroken when things go wrong.

- HighAsAKite!Neal is unadulteratedly adorable and hilarious. He sings! He talks to inanimate objects! He never did pick up that scotch he ordered in the tennis club scene, and it's totally my personal canon that Neal keeps a very, very tight rein on his use of inhibition-lowering substances, because he knows what he's like drunk and it just never ends well. There is table dancing and karaeoke, people. It's not... well, okay, it is a pretty sight, but there are cameras in phones now and blackmail is a dirty thing.

- Peter freaking out with worry just about made the ep for me. Even if we didn't get the super panic that the promo promised (and wow, that's a lot of accidental alliteration), I'm kind of thrilled with the way it went. They have code words! The fact that Neal might go back to prison isn't just a disappointment anymore. Peter's way beyond that stage, and into actual fear.

- Elizabeth continues to be awesome. Full stop.

- And then there was the "No, really, you're kind of it for me" confession in the board room and the Head Pet of Helpless Affection and I uttered actual obscenities of glee. I am not in the least surprised that Peter would break the law for Neal, but Neal clearly is, and just... aw. Seriously, this show. *squishes*

White Collar 1x08

stillane — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 04:21:06 GMT

Things that made me go \o/:

- PETER!!!

- NEAL!!!

- ELIZABETH!!! Elizabeth knows what's going on! Of course she does! Have I mentioned before how much I adore that we actually have a marriage between two bright, successful people on TV and it works? They adore each other! They have a comfortable house, and a dog, and a level of coolness that cannot be rivaled! (And they both look at Neal like they are figuring out the best way to talk him into staying in that comfortable house with them. I'm just guessing, here, but I do not think it would be a hard sell.) ETA: I just looked up the actual title of this episode. Heh. That was not on purpose.

- Neal looked like the whole world had just ended when he thought Peter really was behind it. There were watery eyes. Chess pieces everywhere. This show, guys. *headshake*

- "Just because I don't like guns doesn't mean I can't use one." Okay, I have to fess up that this is one of my favorite hero tropes ever. Blame it on Atticus Finch, IDK. It's some combination of "X is secretly a badass" and my ever-present competence kink, and oh my god was that hot. Ahem.

- Neal being dangerous in general is fascinating. He's excellent at making you forget that he's really kind of one tough customer - seriously, four years in a supermax - and then bam! Angry Neal is a little scary, and he knows it. I loved that tiny moment in the pilot where Neal acknowledges that he's not a fluffy bunny, and that Peter's perfectly aware of it, when he reaches out to pick the debris off Peter's shoulder and waits for permission. I also love Peter's wary confusion while Neal's going off the rails, because Neal isn't like that with him.

- I love Peter asking for Neal's trust underneath even while he's selling him out on the surface. It's gloriously twisty, and Neal goes with it. And then Peter gets that proud little mastermind-y grin going when Neal picks up on the hand Peter's given him to play, and I squeak a bit.

- "Peter is the best thing that ever happened to you, and you're smart enough to know that." I... can't actually add anything to that, to tell you the truth. *blinks*

- THE PANIC ROOM!!! Neal closes the door to save Peter, and Peter opens it to save Neal! I'm still going all O_O about the breathing device thing, because that was so damn blatant it's not even funny. (I was kind of waiting for the dueSouth-style buddy breathing, not gonna lie.) And then Peter looks both ruthlessly pulled together and absolutely freaked the hell out when he hits that switch, because he is ready to go down fighting but omgNeal'snotbreathing and that is really bad. *adores*

- THE BACK PORCH CONFESSION!!! I love that Peter gets to remain a super badass (yay for no retconning!), while still being one of the good guys. I'm not sure whether we can take Peter's recall as gospel (I'm slightly wary that TPTB might still be screwing with us), but I really, really want to. Kate is in on it! Angrysuperspy!Peter from the last scene of the finale came out to play because somebody was using Neal, and Peter was pissed. He went outside FBI channels, while under investigation, and just generally did not play by any rules because Neal was in trouble. He told Kate to stop screwing with Neal's heart. I... just... Wow. You don't even have to try, with this show. Clearly, USA Network loves us and wants us to be happy. *g*

- Incidentally, the ring thing wound up being surprisingly hot. I love when Peter gets to be exactly as clever and manipulative as he can be, and wearing the ring to meet Kate was all kinds of Why yes, I am more dangerous than the alternative. Do not test me.

- Of course Neal is the Knight. Of course. Heh. Never moves linearly, always knows how to work his set patterns against you, and is quite possibly the prettiest piece on the board.

In conclusion: PETER! ELIZABETH! NEAL! Go OT3 of Awesomeness!

NCIS: Original Flavor

stillane — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 04:30:39 GMT

Okay, so, I'll cop to being a few eps behind, but...

Did Tony move in with Gibbs at some point? I'm legitimately asking, because that last scene was not so much, "Hi, I'm here to visit" as, "Hey, honey, I'm home." (Well, if Gibbs would ever let anyone get away with calling him "honey." The mental image of the expression that would provoke is kinda awesome, though.) I mean, with the commentary on dinner, the fact that there was automatically enough for two, the casual tandem plunking down on the couch... Yeah. Very, very married. And... practiced? Familiar? Like they do this every night. Also, totally lacking in the power dynamics that are on display when they're working, the idea of which I adore even from a non-shipping perspective.

(For the record, I am astonishingly flexible about shipping on this show. Normally, I am an OTP girl all the way, but this is one of the few where I just love everybody in big, squishy amounts, in pretty close to any combination or no combination at all. Tony is always going to be my favorite, though, I'll admit.)

That smackdown Gibbs delivered was all kinds of fantastic, I have to say. You knew it was coming, from the minute Gibbs sized up Tony Sr. and Tony Jr.'s reaction to Tony Sr. I figured there'd be some mention of Gibbs' daughter in there, but I didn't see the plague reference coming. I'm always ridiculously pleased when this show remembers its continuity. I also adore the idea of Gibbs silently sitting there really despizing this guy for four years now, without a hint.

Speaking of continuity... Was the story about being left in a hotel at 12 mentioned in another episode? It sounds really familiar.

And finally: Was anybody else waiting to find out that Tony Sr. was spying for somebody? It's TV; whenever a character has an absentee playboy dad, he's always a secret agent. In this case, though, I think it would have been too easy an out; I like my Tony Jr. with unresolved issues and angst. And, you know, domestic!Gibbs. :)

tired wave

stillane — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 01:41:28 GMT

Am back from the Ancestral Home. Have no water due to pipes having burst within the boiler room from cold. Want a shower. Apartment smells like bar due to neighbor's refusal to stop smoking inside, despite landlord's requests. Braved slick roads again only to find local-est Chinese food place closed.

Life hard.

On the plus side, happy-you're-home cats are great, brownies are going to happen, and I intend to call in dead to work tomorrow. There will be laziness, and flist-reading, and fic. *happy sigh*

And on that note, meme:

Ask me one fandom-related question in the comments. This can be fandom specific, general, or about fandom/lj stuff/fic writing/etc. in general.

Just one question, please, but it can (and perhaps should) have sub-parts.

Question can be as wacky as you want. Ask me about tv shows, characters, fanfic in general, fandom issues/meta, anything about any of my stories specifically. Whatever you want.

I give you Odocoileus tealiensis, subspecies Meta.

stillane — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:36:45 GMT

Okay. I don't actually do the straight-out meta thing very often, but this is something I've been thinking about for a while now. I've been holding off because I am possibly the most conflict-averse person in the history of ever, but... well, here goes.

First off, a little disclaiming. I have not seen Torchwood: CoE. While I do have certain opinions based on all the accounts I've seen of it, this post is not actually aimed at the show itself, or even necessarily specific to the reactions that are taking place in response to reactions to that show. (That... might make more sense in a minute. Sorry.) Additionally, while I've enjoyed Torchwood a lot, I've never been particularly vocal about it. So if you're inclined to shout, "But you haven't even watched it!" or "You're not even in the fandom!" you are completely correct.

There aren't any specific spoilers in here, ~~although there might well be in the comments~~ but they're hanging out in the comments.

With all of that junk on what this isn't about out of the way, on with the show.

What this is about is the term 'fannish entitlement', and the uses thereof I've seen lately.

(Just to be clear, the earnest 'I hope RTD dies in a fire!' sentiments are not entitlement; they are batshit crazy. There's a difference.)

The concept of fannish entitlement is an odd one, for me. On the one hand, yeah, there are lines that really, really should never be crossed, and there are people who believe that those lines don't exist. Stalking an actor like a creepy unofficial member of the paparazzi? Entitled. Badgering show writers at cons during their bathroom breaks about how much you thought the B Plot in Episode 42 sucked? Entitled. Showing up at anyone's home, ever? Really, disturbingly entitled.

So, basically, I think there's no question there are definitely entitlement issues between fans and the actual people involved with media production.

What I'm not so sure of is this label being applied to matters between the fans and the show itself.

We don't get to make decisions about the future of the brand, any more than you get to choose whether Coke Classic is going to change its formula next year and ship all over the world as the Newest! Best! beverage since water met ice. We are, however, perfectly allowed to have an opinion on that action, and to voice that opinion both among ourselves and, in the appropriate venues and without going nuts, to the PTB. It's not ungrateful or whiny to do this; it's in the contract.

Yeah, that's right. I said it. The contract.

Media - and television and film in particular - is not by definition pure art. Can it be damned beautiful and transformative? Absolutely. Is it required to be to count as successful? Nope. The fundamental difference is that art is, at its core, about making you feel. There's not any value judgment attached to how it makes you feel; a piece that inspires abject fury is just as worthy as one that fires up every contentment center in your body.

Media is different. When was the last time you walked out of a theater feeling genuinely disgusted with every part of what you'd seen and the entire juggernaut that put it together and thought, Wow, that was amazing. Let's do that again. (Documentaries and based-on-true-story deals don't count, for the purposes of this post. They're greyer territory, and we're pretty much just sticking to the fiction end of the spectrum. Um. Because I said so.)

And that right there, that willingness to do it again, that matters. If you experience the piece once and remember it, art has done its job. If you see one episode of a TV show and remember it until your dying day, but don't watch the next episode, media has failed.

You can pretend all you like that television exists in a vaccum, sealed in with artistic integrity and high ideals. Doesn't make it true.

And we're back to that idea of a contract. Without getting too Rousseau-ian about the whole thing, there's a give-and-take relationship inherent in TV. We give our time and our emotions and our energy (and our spending money), and the PTB give us a show (and many commercials). That show, in the best cases, is woven through with their time and emotions and energy, too, and everybody breaks even or a little better.

Where it gets dicey is when the PTB decide to cut that tie and make the show for themselves, or for a different audience. They're perfectly within their rights to do this, of course; the whole matter isn't actually binding, and they can walk away at any time. The problem is, we're then perfectly within our rights to think this approach is crap, and to say so. We can walk away, too.

As much as we like to write about them, unrequited relationships in real life suck. Giving a part of yourself over and feeling like what you get back is lesser, that's both disappointing and painful. Having that exchange be dismissed or manipulated by the party with power in the relationship? Best case scenario, it makes you seriously unwilling to engage with that party again.

Fandom is all about the talking. We talk when we're thrilled, we talk when we're apprehensive, we talk when we're hungry and in desperate need of caffeine. We talk a lot when we're really, really pissed off. It's what we do. You can certainly be a fan and never discuss the show in question, but if nobody's discussing it, it doesn't have a fandom. (Or, put a different way: What is the sound of one hand clapping? Not a fandom.)

The thing is, I would argue that this is exactly what's special about this format. You don't get this kind of devotion, this kind of love, anywhere else. This relationship, this investment, is what has us learning languages and making costumes and flying cross-country to shake someone's hand. It's what has us writing our own stories, because we want to know what happens outside of the windows we're given.

It's what has us saying, No. You know what? I don't think that was right, and here's why.

That's not entitlement; that's giving a damn.

Fic Post: Bindings (Leverage, gen-ish, PG-13)

stillane — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 22:05:26 GMT

Some time ago, laceymcbain gave me a prompt involving somebody being protective, somebody being competent, and possibly a little banter. This is… kind of that? Only not? Sorry. On the plus side, there may yet be all of those things in the sequels that are looking sort of inevitable.

Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: None, exactly. There is a definite Hardison/Eliot directionality here, though.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 1x12 The First David Job
Warnings: Implications of past torture, non-graphic
Notes: Beta’d by the awesome ileliberte. This picks up from the second-to-last scene of the First David Job, and assumes that a little time passed between it and the last scene. Specifically, one night.

Summary: Eliot, he can twist around like a Rubik’s cube in his head, something to puzzle over without getting too invested in.

There’s a lot Alec’s not thinking about tonight.

He’s not thinking about the day just passed, when he metaphorically salted and literally burned what he’s spent months building.

He’s not thinking about tomorrow, when he’ll cut the rest of it loose, too.

Doesn’t mean he’s not thinking at all. He’s never been able to manage that – not sober, not drunk, not pre-, post- or mid-coital. It’s all about the channeling, deciding which path is fine, which one’s full of fucking dragons and shouldn’t be touched with a goddamn flamethrower.

The thoughts he’s allowing right now look a little like this: What the smirk on the kid behind the desk of this little bitty motel meant when he booked Alec into a room next to Eliot’s; whether the vending machine outside has Coke or Pepsi; how to remember not to bite his cheek because that cut’s not about to heal if he keeps that up; what the Tokyo stock exchange is doing at this hour; how his DVR is full enough that he’s going to have to choose between Psych and Eureka soon; whether Sophie is in Parker’s or Nate’s room right now (either one’s a possibility, and so’s neither).

That’s the background hum. What he’s got playing in the forefront of his head is this: He’s the normal one.

It’s damn bizarre, realizing that you’re standing in for the well-adjusted world. He’s a scifi geek, a kid raised in the system, and the best damn hacker you’ll never meet. He’s not wanted anywhere, because nobody can prove he’s done a single thing, but there are whole countries where he’s not-wanted a hell of a lot. (It’s not like he liked Iceland all that much anyway.)

It says something that the people he spends the most time with these days make him look downright ordinary.

They’ve all got something, every last one of them.

Parker’s got Parker. That’s pretty much enough. He likes her too much to really want to push too hard, though, so mostly he leaves it alone. Tries to let her come to him, tries to keep thinking she will.

Nate’s got his past and his booze, and Sophie’s got Nate. One look at her looking at him tells you that. They both come across as the normal kind of warped until you get to the parts where Nate goddamn napalms everything in his path when the stars are right and Sophie’s jones for a statue shoots her loyalty in the head in a back alley.

Then there’s Eliot. Eliot’s different. Nate and Sophie are simple enough to figure out, Parker’s complicated in ways Alec doesn’t want to mess with, but Eliot he can twist around like a Rubik’s cube in his head, something to puzzle over without getting too invested in.

It makes him fine to think about tonight.

Alec’s Eliot thoughts go like this: If Alec had to pick one of them to tag as Most Likely to Be Not Quite Human, it’s Eliot by a landslide. There’s something freakishly Chuck Norris about the guy, like he took a level in badass somewhere around kindergarten and never got around to remembering normal. Nobody’s invulnerable, Alec knows that, but it’s hard to prove it with Eliot. Nothing ever seems to stick. He’s seen the guy take a punch, he’s seen him bleed, even, but it’s always had that look behind it. That c'mon back smirk, like getting popped was all part of his plan and now it’s his game.

Where it gets interesting, though, is that if Alec had to pick one of them who could walk away and be a regular, nine-to-five, picket fence type, that’d be Eliot, too. Not pretending – they can all do that – but really meaning it. Eliot’s domestic like none of the rest of them. The crazy ninja skills are mostly balanced out by the guy who likes horses and hockey and Earl Grey, the one who brings microbrews and nachos to the office when they watch games.

(Brought. It’s brought.)

Eliot #2 is a dick sometimes in his own right, but in a cut-you-off-in-traffic, leave-dirty-socks-on-the-floor way. He doesn’t go on jobs with them. That’s Eliot #1, and he’s just… untouchable. Best word Alec’s got for it. He’s never seen Eliot drunk or hurt or bone-weary, not either Eliot.

And that’s what Alec’s thinking when he opens the damn door of what’s – surprise! – their connecting bathroom and covers two out of three.

(When are you gonna learn to knock? Nana used to say. Alec’s never been good at staying out of places he shouldn’t be.)

As it is, he has half a glance of Eliot and his blank face and the knowledge that Alec’s slid straight over all lines of guy code to drive him right back out of the room again before conscious thought has shaken itself awake. He’s got the door most of the way back to shut and a hand up over his eyes in full don’t know nothing, didn’t see nothing mode when two things stop him.

The first is the realization that it’s actually true, because Eliot’s got all his clothes present and accounted for and he’s pretty much just standing by the sink doing nothing.

The second is Eliot’s quiet, “Wait.”

The kid at the desk and the soda machine and Sophie’s musical chairs room assignment all shut up for a minute.

It’s surprise alone that gets Alec back through the doorway. Eliot just stands there a second, hands braced on the sink counter and head down. Finally, a muscle in his jaw moves like he’s grinding his teeth and he says, “I could use a hand, if you got a minute.”

There’s a whole scattering of bad jokes that dogpile in Alec’s mind, and it’s a mark of just how damn tired he is that they’re beat to his tongue by the thought that Eliot looks wrong.

“What do you need?” he says instead.

Eliot flicks his eyes over him and back. “‘S easier to wrap ribs with some help.”

Alec blinks, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. But wouldn’t you rather have somebody who –“

“Nate’s good and passed out by now, and I’m not going up to the roof to get Parker.”

Alec lets Sophie’s absence go. “Okay. Just… just give me a second. You have…?”

“Duffle bag.”

Alec ducks out and grabs it, and by the time he’s back Eliot’s standing up straight and his shirt’s unbuttoned and on the counter.

Eliot grabs the hem of his undershirt in his hands, and Alec has just enough time to think, Hey, wait, I can – before Eliot pulls it up and over in one quick move, like ripping off a band-aid. Alec doesn’t know whether to clap or roll his eyes, ‘cause that’s just overkill in the true grit stakes, there.

Eliot makes this sound, though, this close-mouthed, cut-off, hoarse sound, and mostly Alec just winces.

Eliot’s got bruises, purple and red islands marking out territory down his left side and one big dark swath down his right. Alec’s got an Ace bandage and no idea what the hell he should be doing with it.

“How do you want me to…?”

“Just keep it tight and smooth as you can. Let you know if you’re doing it wrong.”

Alec has really got to get a handle on that part of his brain that thinks tension and really shitty innuendo should be BFFs. As it stands, he settles for swallowing back a laugh that leans more toward deranged anyway and pinning the end of the wrap to Eliot’s chest with one hand.

He sobers a second later when he clues in that Eliot’s not flinching away, but he’s not breathing real deep either. The first strip of wrapping goes down a little tighter than he thinks it ought to, but Eliot doesn’t call him on it, so maybe not.

“How many’d they have waiting for you?” he asks offhand, wanting a distraction. They sent six guys for him; he’s wondering where they got a small army on short notice for Eliot.

“One.” Eliot snorts, and winces.

Alec freezes. “One guy? Seriously?”

It’s just hitting him that that wasn’t all that nice when Eliot rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, one guy. Sometimes one guy who knows you’re coming is worse’n a handful who don’t.”

It’s something Alec knew, on the surface. Simple. But. There’s an implication here, and Alec can’t miss it. He’s good with if/thens. Comes with learning to write code early.

Eliot got his ass kicked by one guy who was ready. That guy must have gone head to head with him, kept the fight close enough to fair for Eliot to take him down.

Alec’s not a big fan of luck.

He goes back to wrapping with a neutral hmm, and focuses on what he’s doing a little more.

It’s the lines that he notices first. They’re faint, just thin tracks on Eliot’s belly where the light hits skin that’s just different enough from the rest. If it weren’t for the bruises setting up contrast, they might blend right in.

What gets him, though, is how even they are. Deliberate.

There’s this ragged patch over Eliot’s left shoulder blade, and maybe Alec hasn’t seen many up close before, but he’s pretty sure that’s what gets left behind when you get shot. A jagged line skates over three ribs and bends around to the front. Alec follows it with the next repetition of bandage, covers most of it up on the way.

Three round, smooth marks on his lower back, a streak of raised skin above his left elbow, the dark curve of a burn riding just over one hip… Eliot’s got scars all over, and they’re kind of like trophies, but they’re also kind of like evidence. Testimony for the defense: Not enough. Not always.

Alec is suddenly and deeply uncomfortable. The man in front of him is quiet and worn, and Alec’s well inside the usual do-not-cross line. This is domestic Eliot dressed up in the other guy’s injuries, paying on sins he doesn’t own. Clark Kent wearing Superman’s bruises, if that weren’t a shitty and impossible metaphor.

Alec’s halfway to voicing something incoherent and stupid when he glances at Eliot’s face. Or where Eliot’s face would be, if he weren’t turned away and paying more attention to the wall than the uglyass paisley print deserves. Alec’s got a good view of the long stretch of Eliot’s neck instead, the hair that’s pulled loose to hang over his eyes, and the tight angle of his jaw. No marks there, he notices.

Eliot, it occurs to him, is embarrassed.

The room’s too quiet, no sound but their breathing and the faint swish of a shower down the hall. It would be easy to say something, to cut the tension with a ramble on anything at all, but Alec knows himself. His mouth would walk him right into trouble and out of whatever fragile moment this is where they’re both just standing still.

In the end, he finishes off the last wrap and tacks it in place, bites his cheek and winces when it burns again. His hands skitter around for a second, awkward with nowhere to be, and he waves at the door. “I’ll just…”

Eliot picks his shirt up off the sink counter and folds it in perfect military lines. “Yeah.”

“Shout if you need anything,” Alec says, knowing Eliot won’t.

“Hey, Hardison.”

He looks up, and Eliot’s eyes are steady and serious in the mirror.

“Thanks.”

He nods, a little more solemnly than he intends to. “No problem.”

Alec walks himself out and pulls the door shut behind him this time, lays down on the bed he’s got staked out for the night and tries to sort his head back into the quiet shape he needs.

It’s fine. Just, Eliot’s a little more Die Hard than Terminator. Still a scary son of a bitch when he wants to be.

But.

He doesn’t want this knowledge. Eliot’s not a safe topic anymore, just one more thing he doesn’t want to be thinking about, and his mental boxes are full enough.

Doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, they’re going their separate ways, all of them. Six months, Nate says, and then they’ll talk it over.

And then maybe. Maybe.

He rolls over, and doesn’t wonder who’ll do the bandaging next time.

Post-it notes:

1. Compression wraps are considered a no-no in treating fractured ribs these days, due to the risk of pneumonia from a lack of deep breathing. I took some liberties with medical fact here because I figure that a) Eliot would have had enough broken ribs to know the score and b) he’d favor a quick fix that lets him limp through just long enough until he caves and allows himself the time to recover.

stillane — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 19:03:51 GMT

Okay. So. Got a Star Trek question for you all:

How does one fail the Kobayashi Maru?

It is entirely possible that I'm missing something very obvious here, but... what is it? My Trek background is kind of spotty and strange, a weird combo of cultural osmosis and active pursuit over the years, but it's left me with some bizarrely detailed knowledge in certain areas and some truly crappy gaps in others.

Ergo, the Kobayashi Maru. I get the mechanics of it, I do, along with the ideologies it brings into play. As a storytelling device, it's neat; as a method of gauging cadet responses, also neat. The student in me, though, really wants to know what it means in terms of a grade. At least in this latest movie, this thing isn't set up as just a training exercise, it's actively represented as an exam of some kind. Granted, more of a pass/fail, notes-on-your-report-card type than the standard A through F scale, but still. How do you fail a test that's designed to be failed?

Are there two levels of 'failure' involved here? Bones says that everyone fails it, and I'm assuming that means that for the students, failure entails watching everything virtually crash and burn around you, but it has to be something else from the instructors' point of view, because otherwise nobody would ever get commissioned. Is the simple act of not accepting your helplessness enough, or do you have to do some pretty drastic flaily-hands mid simulation to 'fail'? Like, so long as you don't stroke out or start talking about the Jabberwocky or something mid-battle, is that considered okay?

Which is another question, really... How do you definitively pass it? Is it enough just to keep your head and make rational decisions right up until the end, or is there something else you should do? I know from Kirk's perspective anything less than victory is a failure, but what does everybody else consider 'doing well'? I get that the whole point of the test is a thought exercise for the student, but there has to be some element of it that is actually, well, a test. Otherwise the concept of being able to cheat on it doesn't make much sense. If you can get hauled on the carpet for doing something the wrong way, it stands to reason it can't be a "there are no right or wrong answers" kind of deal.

What I really wonder is, is the very act of coming back and taking this thing repeatedly a failure?

Also, what happened when Kirk failed those other two times?

Feel free to tell me I am full of nonsense and point and laugh at the holes in my Trek canon. Like I said, there might be a really easy answer I'm missing here, but I would go batshit insane if I were being graded this heavily on something this arbitrary.

In other news: meme! Appropriately scifi flavored meme, even!

Inspired by Doctor Who's "Turn Left:" Pick one of my stories and tell me a point in the tale that you'd change -- something tiny or big -- and I'll tell you how that one difference would have altered the course of the entire story.

Everything in my arsenal can be found here, if you wanted to play.

blinks

stillane — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 14:22:39 GMT

Am I just braindead due to the hell that has been this morning after failing to sleep last night, or does this really say what I think it says? That seems rather... abrupt. Did everybody else already know about this? Is there a vid exodus occurring already? Huh.

I have seen Star Trek, and have only this to say:

stillane — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 16:33:17 GMT

How awesome was that?!

Okay, I lied. I have more. Please do not assume anything in here will be new or different, though, because I am possibly the last human on Earth to join this party, and I have no doubt all the cool stuff has already been discussed.

It goes without saying that I badly, tragically need to see it again, but: This movie is tailor-made to fit my narrative kinks. There is time travel! Opposites attracting! Found family! Epic, huge-scale, asskicking coolness! Inside jokes! Explosions everywhere! *glees self into coma*

As with just about anything, the characters are what get me hooked, and oh man, these characters. Kirk is totally what Kirk should be, and fascinatingly uncreepy. If you've been around this journal for more than five minutes, you will have guessed that he is like character catnip for me: A guy with serious heroic tendencies, prone to getting himself into really shitty situations by virtue of being both too damn smart and too damn smartassed, and to having more issues than the New York Times.

And then there's Spock. I... don't have that much to say. He's Spock, only really angry. Quinto is awesome, not least of which because he got more across with just his eyes than most actors manage with a chunk of exposition. And subtitles. And possibly flares. Yes, I did actually giggle in the theater at the end of the Vulcan Big Giant Heads scene. I still can't believe he pulled that off. So. Awesome.

And then there's Uhura. And McKoy. And Scotty, and Chekov, and Sulu the Badass. I'm a little bit in love with all of them individually, and a lot in love with them together. Seriously, competence kink for the win! \o/

I have to admit, I am not JJ Abrams' biggest fan. In general, I like where he starts out with projects, but I don't trust anything with his name attached to have any sort of coherent plan or endgame. At all. Yes, okay, I totally still feel burned by Alias. Despite repeated attempts by people I trust and the undeniable pretty factor, I stubbornly refuse to watch Lost until it's over and the general consensus comes back something other than, "Bwuh?"

Which would be why I am still reeling from the surprise of not only adoring this movie, but adoring it for it's thought. For all the criticism about how it's just an excuse to blow crap up in space (and honestly, I have nothing against blowing crap up in space; it's space, it's not like there's not room for a little exothermic rearrangement), this thing is damned smart. Not necessarily overtly, but what's flashing by in your periphery all the while is really kind of fantastic.

Take the time travel aspect. On the surface, neat gimic; you get to tie the old to the new without stepping on anybody's toes, you get to reset the universe and shake everything up, and you get to introduce an element of uncertainty into the familiar. Beyond that, though... In the whole of space, or even just in the little corner of it close to Vulcan, what are the odds of this Kirk getting tossed out within running distance of Spock Prime? How about the odds that Scotty just happens to be hanging out on the same rock, twiddling his thumbs and trying to resurrect a beagle? Hell, what are the chances that the entire command crew of the Enterprise becomes the entire command crew of the Enterprise?

It's not an accident. It's fate, and in a movie where there is science at the heart of every action, that's amazing. The butterfly that kicks off this hurricane is really more like an earthquake birthing a tsunami, and the timeline still fixes itself. What's even more cool is that nobody talks about it; the characters don't make a big deal about it, most of them likely totally unaware, but the audience is very clearly supposed to see it. It's fantastically meta, and yet weirdly reverent. Which, really, is what you could say about the movie in general.

I've seen a few reviews about how it doesn't get Trek, how it's not scifi enough. I don't see it. Seriously? That's like standing on a beach in Hawaii, sand between your toes and sunset right in front of you, and bitching about how it's not Hawaiian enough because nobody's throwing a luau for you every five minutes. The scifi here isn't on display, it's everywhere. The whole damn universe is scifi, but organically so; it's a world, not a setting.

Seriously, this is destiny as a scientific principle. How much more scifi can you get?

I love that there should, by all traditional rights, be a concern riding through this of what might be changed by giving too much information too early in the timeline, and that it completely gets chucked by the wayside. I love that Spock Prime doesn't even question it, because he is old and peacefully tragic and just too damn practical to waste time on the bullshit of worrying about timelines. There's such a perfect, amused bite me, you cosmic bitch edge to him laying Scotty's own equations in his lap way before he's devised them, and to the Great Vulcan Yenta act he pulls on Kirk and his own baby self. The universe has fucked with him enough, and he's earned the right to fuck with the universe right back.

So yeah. I liked it, just a little bit. *g*</div>

I do have one caveat, though, and it's not about the movie itself.

The fic... On the one hand, there is a growing level of awesome that makes me wriggle with glee. Dude, just like the movie, it's all the fun of Trek, but shiny and new. Badasses! In space! There is no downside here. *g*

On the other hand... I'm hitting the back button a lot, and not for the reasons you'd maybe expect. The punctuation will be fine, the plot will be promising, the characters will all be present and accounted for, things will be exploding with great frequency, but the voices... Dear god, the voices. Is there anybody else who can hear it every time the author is writing Shatner!Kirk, rather than Pine!Kirk? Like, really, really obviously. It's harder for me to hear it with Spock, just because he's Spock, but it's all over Kirk.

Because, see, Pine!Kirk is a bright guy. He may, in fact, be a freakin' brilliant guy, all things considered, but he is never going to be caught dead in a sweatervest discussing his MENSA qualifications, okay? He's the type that you're going to assume has never read a book in his life until he casually gives you a detailed breakdown of why Ulysses is a bunch of pretentious bullshit while simultaneously kicking your ass at the Trek equivalent of MarioCart. He is a stealth genius.

A good bit of what I'm reading is too... proper. I'm not saying Kirk's every other word should be dude or fuck, but you really shouldn't be able to insert a whither or thou anywhere in it, either. This Kirk should not sound like a Victorian in space, is what I'm saying. Above and beyond whatever singular speech quirks Shatner brought to the role, Original Kirk has a much more refined way of saying things, and it fits in with his world. It does not fit into a universe where Kirk starts out by getting into bar fights because shit, what else is there to do on a Saturday night in Iowa?

Also: Lover. *shudders* If this word could be stricken from the English language, I would so be first in line to vote on it. Maybe it's just me, but I don't know a single guy in real life who I could picture using this one with a straight face. Gay, straight, trans, bi... none of them. Jokingly, sure, maybe even campily, but with intent? Hell, I don't know any women who'd refer to their partner this way, either. Possibly the extremely elderly, in the context of scarring the young for life? I don't know, but just... no. A story has to be incredibly fantastic to compensate for even one earnestly-employed lover for me, and I do not think I am alone. Please, for the love of all that is good and ficcy, stop using this word. I beg you. While it may mean what you think it means, it also sounds at best silly and at worst about as purple as Barney the damn dinosaur.</div>

*deep breath*

Okay. I feel better. Rant concluded, and we now return you to your regularly scheduled dose of squee.

Seriously, how terrific was that movie?

Hee.

stillane — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 20:39:29 GMT

Because today - and really, the majority of this week - has completely sucked, I give you this:

news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/06/090603-penguin-poop-video-ap.html

The second half is actually fairly depressing, but the first half... Oh, the first half. You haven't lived until you've stood in a very small office with a bunch of people with doctorates in the sciences who are flat-out crying with mirth.

I love my job.

Can I chalk it up as being timely?

stillane — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 06:19:00 GMT

Coincidentally enough, I've been planning for days to post something about my utterly abysmal response time to comments lately. Heh.

What I was planning to post was something along the lines of:

OH MY GOD LIFE. Is there someone I can tag to step in for a minute? I promise I'll come back and relieve you as soon as I've had a breather. And possibly a nap. In the last month, I have...

1. Visited the Ancestral Home, which is one hell of a production once you add in the dog and the cat and the drive. There is no internet to speak of there, either. This continues to sadden me, even as I try valiantly to drag the parents into the modern age. I am the child of Luddites, I tell you.

2. Been visited by the Mom. Much fun was had, much wine was drunk, and not much work at all was done.

3. Taken tests. Oh, so damned many tests. If there is one thing that is beginning to drive me bonkers about this block, it is the complete and utter lack of organization. I would settle for just knowing when the tests are coming more than a few days ahead of time. We knew about the midterm and final, but "Stay tuned!" really doesn't cut it for the assorted others. Grr.

4. Been working. This has recently involved overnight guard duty (read: preventing small children from attempting to scale the mastodon in the dark) and playing retroactive Easter bunny (Easter dinosaur? Easter early-Eocene lagomorph-like mammal? I don't know. What I do know is, you have not known terror until a pack of three year olds has realized you are the source of the magically-reappearing egg hunt prizes. I'm telling you, they're like tiny, single-minded little heat-seeking missiles.)

5. Ridden the horse, and attempted to rapidly ascend the learning curve where training is concerned. So, funny thing: when they tell you retraining an off-track thoroughbred is a whole new ball game, they are totally not kidding.

6. Submitted the laptop to the Applecare Gods. The best part about describing the horrifying noise your computer is making as, "The sound a rabbit makes when in extreme terror?" Having the guy go, "Oh, yeah, I know what that is. Let me order the parts."

7. Wept for my sad, sad inability to get anything done, thought about getting something done, and then whimpered and went off to passively consume somebody else's done stuff. I am weak. Sorry.

Anyway, feedback. For what it's worth, my position is as follows:

I like feedback. Not because it's validation (although, yeah, I'll totally cop to having my moments of, "You know what, world? So what if I still don't understand the implications of epigenetics on sexual dimorphism in the platypus and I can't recall at the moment just what the differentials for swine pox are. There are people who do not think my brain sucks toads, and it says so right there. Take that!"); not because it's a popularity contest (because, well... Me? Really?); not even because it lets me know what works and what doesn't, what comes through and what I still need to find the voice for.

I like feedback because it's a conversation, whether it's three words or three paragraphs. I grew up in a completely non-fannish family (see: Luddites I Have Loved), in a pretty non-fannish area in general; I didn't meet people who knew what the hell I was(n't) talking about until college, and even then it took me a really pathetically long time to find other fans. The idea of having people to squee or flail or rage with over a TV show still sometimes catches me off guard and makes me feel really, terrifically overjoyed. (The idea of having people on the other side of the world who I can say, "Hey, how was your day?" to also still boggles my mind, btw. How cool is that? *g*)

So, yes. I like comments. Please don't take my crappy response time to them as any indication otherwise; I just tend to put off answering until I have more than the brain of a squirrel to answer with, and that can sometimes take a tragically long time to happen. This kind of comes down to a remark made by a friend of mine a little bit ago. As she put it, "I'm not sure if you're the laziest overachiever I know, or the most over-achieving slacker."

The sad thing is, she's totally right, and she doesn't even know about the whole fandom thing. What's weird is that I don't feel that way about anyone else; I just tend to have totally different standards for myself - as a reader and a writer - than I do for the writers I read, or the readers who read my stuff. Basically, I feel like a complete goon for not answering every comment in the history of ever, despite the fact that I never think twice about someone not answering mine, because hey, they're probably busy. I suck at leaving feedback even on things I love these days, and feel awful about that, too. Just how I roll, I guess.

(I think it comes from a lifetime of being guilted into writing thank you notes for every possible occasion, if you want to know the truth. Right about now my mom is feeling inordinately pleased with her parenting efforts. Damn it.)

Which sort of brings me to the other point: I don't mind if you don't say anything at all, ever. If you've friended me, or just dropped by now and then, or read half of a story and hit the back button so hard your keyboard will never be the same, it's all good. If you want to say hi, feel free; if you want to lurk until kingdom come, I'll help set up the blanket fort. Provided you're not planning to sell pictures to the paparazzi or anything, I'm perfectly cool with pretty much anything that makes you feel comfortable. This is supposed to be fun, on all sides of the equation.

All of which pretty much comes down to this:

I <3 every last awesome, fascinating, sweet, never-a-dull-moment one of you. Just so you know.