Chapter Text
Something was wrong with Stiles Stilinski. More things than Derek could count - he hated her a bit, and if Laura were here, she would have made fun of him having beef with a high schooler. She would have disapproved of him hitting Stiles, that one time. She wasn't big on violence, Laura. And look where it got her.
Derek missed a step, branches crunching under him. He was far away from the perimeter the Sheriff department set up, thankfully, so nobody had heard it. Still, it won't do to get distracted, not when the woods might have traps in them. Chris Argent was indeed persuaded by his daughter to write off bad debts (it's them who owed Hales, not the other way around). Chris Argent was persuaded, but the head of the family was Victoria.
Derek focused on the air around him. Years living in New York numbed his olfactory sense - a survival mechanism, in the city so big. All other senses became sharper; he took off the noise-reducing headphones and black glasses only when back in California. He finally started to wear sleeveless T-shirts, not having to worry about someone accidentally - or not so - touching him in the crowd. But the sense of smell just didn't work as well as before he took a whiff of his family's charred corpses. New York just killed off what his subconscious hadn't yet shut down. Maybe Stiles would really be better at tracking the Omega than him, if even her human nose found Omega's scent strong enough to be awful. Derek didn't feel it then, and he couldn't find it now, among the naked winter trees or rotting leaves on the ground. He found some mushrooms - he was pretty sure it wasn't yet the season, but there they were, crawling in a spiral around a big old oak tree. He smelled them, and they smelled like regular grocery store mushrooms. But he couldn't smell anything else here, except the tingling of ozone that promised rain.
He gave up. He didn't follow Stiles's advice to go to the Southside, where Beacon Hill's future died after a realty crash in ‘08. He was squatting there, at the abandoned train station. He was pretty sure if he could smell out the Omega there, he would have.
He went to Isaac's house. Not straight there, but to the neighbourhood, keeping to the shadows and staying close enough to catch bits and pieces of useful information from the CSI-types working the crime scene and deputies canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses. He kept his hearing sharp, even after the years in New York City - military-grade noise-cancelling headphones, Laura. He was right again, that depriving one sense won't make it duller - it will save it from strain.
Mr. Lahey drowned. In his own pool. Stiles was right saying that Isaac isn't a suspect yet, even if there's no sign of a break-in. There was a witness who said that Mr. Lahey had a visitor.
That witness was Jackson Whittemore, one of the deputies indicated, talking to another about asshole kids of asshole lawyers. Sheriff himself interviewed him, and the kid gave him the attitude. Sheriff left some time after that - might have received a call from whoever he sent to pick up Isaac.
Derek expected Jackson himself to be long asleep. It didn't matter much to Derek - he liked Jackson even less than Stiles; Stiles refused to be turned - not that Derek offered, but Scott told him what happened between her and Peter. Derek was completely unsurprised Peter would choose her; they were alike. Loving the sound of their voice. Ready to leave you bleeding on the ground, because you might dirty their car seats. Always me-me-me, even when they were saving your life, or ruining your day. In a way, Jackson was the same. But one thing was different: Stiles never sought him out. Especially after.
Jackson, on the other hand, chased Derek down. He thought, now that he knew Derek's secret, now that they killed together, he had a right to be pack. He was owed the bite. Derek told him in no uncertain terms that he would rather bite an Argent than bite a high schooler.
“But I'm already half-turned!” Jackson protested.
He turned back and lowered the collar of his polo, on the back. There were three deep puncture wounds there. About the same size as Derek's fingers.
Derek was unimpressed.
“You can't turn anyone by scratching. This isn't rabies.”
“But I'm having all those nightmares!” Jackson exclaimed, then, probably figuring that it wasn't manly or some teenage stuff, dropped his voice. “Like I'm a wolf, like I'm - I'm Peter. I asked McCall, he said he had the same when he was turned.”
Derek felt pity, looking at him.
“That was because Peter was around. He put those memories in Scott, he made his sleep-walk, he tried to make him hurt people. You do not want anyone to have this power over you, do you?”
Jackson seemed hesitant, then thoughtful, checking Derek out like considering how fast he can kill him after Derek turns him. Then he shook his head.
“You wouldn't do that,” Jackson crossed his arms. “You, ugh, nice. Like McCall.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. Stiles should have heard that; he was sure she would go red in the face and start screaming and waving her hands around at how wrong she found this assessment. He could sympathise. With a fictional version of Stiles in his head. Because Derek was a lot of things - gullible fool, irresponsible, selfish. Reacting, instead of thinking things through. Bad luck. But he wasn't nice.
He could use that misconception, though, because he was also a manipulator.
“That version of me, who could have changed, irrevocably, a person who doesn't even have a right to drink, much less to vote - do you think that version of me would still be nice?”
“But…” Jackson looked hesitant again; for all his bluster, he was just a kid, not much older than Derek was when he got Paige killed. “But my nightmares. They feel so real. Like I really lived it. Stalked the hospital, trailed the woods.”
Derek gestured - may I? - before putting his hand on Jackson's nape. The wounds had felt hotter than the rest of the skin, and pulsing.
“Does it hurt?”
“A bit, yeah.”
Derek pulled the pain out. As the black lines disappeared into his skin, and deeper, he advised.
“I don’t think it’s infected, but I’m not a doctor. If it doesn't look any better in a few days, you better go to the ER. As the wounds heal, the dreams are going to disappear, too. If not, you should talk to someone.”
“I'm not a psycho!” Jackson shook of his hand and ran away.
He never went to Derek afterwards, but Derek dropped by. Jackson did look like he has a better sleep with each time he checked on him. The wound did start to heal, with the snail pace of a human. Derek didn't let Jackson know he visited, only coming back when he slept.
This time, Jackson was wide awake, and scared to see someone appearing in his bedroom, behind his back, while Jackson was furtively peeking through the curtains.
He jumped - although he didn't scream, and, unlike Stiles, he didn't start throwing question after question at Derek, accusation after accusation. Just asked warily.
“What are you doing here?”
“Tell me what you saw tonight,” Derek replied, figuring that was an explanation enough.
“No.” Jackson crossed his arms. “I don't want to, and remember, you are too nice to make me.”
Derek warmed up his knuckles.
“Sure I can't make you,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Are you absolutely sure?”
Jackson swallowed, raising his hands.
“Easy there. You don’t scare me. If - if anything happens to me, my parents will raise hell. Stilinski might be content with keeping her father in the dark? But my parents, my dad especially, will come after you all with pitchforks.”
“Nothing needs to happen to you,” Derek said, claws extending on his right hand. “Remember how Peter put his nightmares into you? Alphas can do more than that. They can extract memories, too. It won’t be painless. Will you go to your parents for help?”
Derek took a step forward.
“Will you explain to them how you almost ditched your family to chase after mine? Will you tell them that you lied to the police, that you’re an accessory to murder?”
Jackson took a step away, his back hitting the windowsill.
“Oh, fuck you,” he said, folding as a house of cards. “I didn’t see anything, okay? That’s what I told the cops. I didn’t see anyone in particular, just - I was taking out trash, okay, and I heard someone knocking, and the door opening, and Mr. Lahey invited someone in - that’s it. I didn’t see the murder, I didn’t even hear him struggle, in the water.”
“That’s what you said to the cops,” Derek noted. “But that’s not the whole truth, is it?”
“It is!” Jackson insisted. “It was dark! I don’t actually care who visits my neighbours late at night!”
Derek cocked his head.
“A lie, huh. You did care. Who did you see?”
“I - I didn’t.”
“Jackson,” Derek said slowly, “you didn’t hear the struggle, you didn’t see the murder, so what did you see in Lahey’s backyard? Because I smell chlorine on you.”
Jackson’s pupils were blown up. He dragged his breath in, boxed now by Derek from both sides.
“I was just - trying to help. I went there, yes, but he was already in the water then, sank. I tried to pick him up, with the pool pole, and he - he floated up, but he was already dead. I swear, already dead!”
Derek shook his head.
“Stupid. Did you at least wipe your fingerprints from the pole before you called the cops?”
“I - yes. I did. I'm not a complete moron!”
“Oh,” Derek said. “So who did Lahey invite in, so you went to the backyard to spy on? Who was it, who made you call anonymously and hide you have ever been on the scene? Your father? Mother, had an affair?”
Jackson looked at him in disgust - not because of the implication, because it was completely wrong.
“Your friend? Your… girlfriend. Lydia.”
“No!” Jackson showed him.
He huffed and puffed, but Derek was a werewolf. There was no way he would move if he didn’t want to. And now he wanted to - straight to the hospital. And now Jackson was clutching his T-shirt.
“It can’t be Lydia. She’s in the hospital. She’s in a coma. You know what your psychotic uncle did. You know.”
“You think she’s in a coma. A bite has only two outcomes, it either takes, or a person dies. I told you. I told you that’s why I won’t bite anyone who’s not an adult. And Lydia is not dead, is she?”
“But she obviously doesn’t have your magic healing!”
Derek pursed his lips.
“Peter pretended to be catatonic for months before he lured my sister to this town and killed her. He still pretended afterwards, for me - scars and all.”
Jackson let out a frustrated breath.
“That’s your family shit, you’re all are - off your rocker. Lydia is normal, okay? Why would she kill anyone, especially - a guy she doesn’t even know? Why would she come to him at night? She doesn’t know him, she doesn’t even really know Isaac! I barely know Isaac, except that he allows his dad to beat him up because it’s literally his last living relative - was…”
“You knew?” Derek shook Jackson. “You knew Isaac’s dad was abusing him.”
“Yeah? I mean, I heard him screaming sometimes, stuff throwing around. I am his neighbour, after all.”
“Did you tell anyone? Teachers, police? Someone.”
“It’s not my business, alright? I’m sorry, but I tried to ask Isaac - and he said exactly that! Mind my own business!”
Jackson’s voice was shaking, but his heartbeat was steady. Derek very carefully retracted his claws, and fangs, and closed his eyes for a moment so the redness fades. Alpha, Beta, Omega, he repeated in his mind. Alpha, Beta, Omega. He imagined the shape of the talisman that helped him with transformation, back when he first started having problems with control, with rage, with violence. With the desire to kill. Alpha, Beta, Omega. He remembered its copper scent. It’s heaviness in his palms. How quickly it warmed up.
He let go of Jackson, and when he opened his eyes, he looked like a human again.
“And now you'd better do the same,” Derek threatened. “While I check on your girlfriend in the hospital. If she’s in a coma, she'd better stay there.”
He left, ignoring Jackson’s protestations, him running after Derek, first, then to the garage, for his car, probably. It wasn’t a concern for Derek - there was less than a ten-minute walk at a regular human tempo to the hospital, and he only looked human. He was sure he would arrive before Jackson.
And he did. But Lydia Martin’s room was empty, except for the nurse on call (Melissa McCall), a man Derek saw around before (Lydia’s dad), a deputy taking their statements (woke up earlier that night, screamed their heads off), bits of popped blue balloons, and something - some vague scent that he felt earlier today. At the cemetery? No - he needed to get closer, to recognise it better, but… not when all those people were there.
Jackson finally caught up with him. He saw the deputy at the door of the hospital room, the worry on everyone's faces, and immediately turned to Derek.
“What did you do to her?” he hissed. “I swear, if you hurt her, me and Stilinski set one werewolf on fire, I bet she will be up for one more. Especially since Lydia is involved.”
That was a good idea - Derek got his phone out, ready to text her, but then lowered it. She was with Isaac - and her dad, now. She couldn't exactly help him find Lydia - and, considering Jackson's immediate assumption, might not be willing to, either. He needed someone else - someone with a better nose than him.
He texted Scott McCall.