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The Lucky Paw Saloon and Hotel is the place to be for the high rollers and classy types that come through Beacon Hills. When gold was discovered in the hills a few years back, the town boomed up practically over night, and no one was happier than the man who owned all the land, Peter Hale. He demanded that the Lucky Paw be just as flashy and ostentatious as he was, and it is.
The dancing girls and the birds that sing have all the finest plumage, and each one is a lovely sight to behold, indeed. The wood is dark and polished, and the metal fixings shine. The material that covers the cushioned chairs is soft and rich, and the glasses that serve quality bourbon and whiskey are always clean. It's only a certain type of clientele that gets to sit in this fine place, and Stiles is glad to be counted amongst them.
Everyone felt for him after his father was killed; such a good man, gunned down in the line of duty. The former sheriff of Beacon Hills was shot twice in the chest trying to stop some horse thieves who'd come in from the east. As soon as his father went down, both of those rustlers grew bullets through their shoulders and backs on their way out of town, and no one was more surprised at his own natural skill with a firearm than the sheriff's son.
The two thieves were brought to justice that very day, and had their necks stretched in the gallows to satisfy those who loved Sheriff Stilinski. The first law passed by the new sheriff, Derek Hale, was to outlaw all firearms inside the city proper. No one wanted this sort of thing to happen again. Keep your weapons in your homes, he said. We can be a peaceful community. We should never have to lose any of our own again.
Five months later and things are nice and settled. Beacon Hills is a safe place, where people feel comfortable walking down the dusty streets. Women and children can go about their daily business without feeling like they need to rely on rough men to keep them safe, and rough men can relax a little – can live their lives instead of living in fear.
But there's always that one person who refuses to keep to the flock. Who swims up-stream just to be contrary. In this case, this man is the now hard-drinking, reckless gambler, Stiles Stilinski. He had his father taken from him when he was on the brink of manhood, and the entire town has watched him slowly fall apart at the seams ever since. He gambles away all of his father's hard-earned savings, and what he doesn't lose at the poker table, he drinks. He's been in the jailhouse more times than Sheriff Hale himself, and yet always seems in frightfully good spirits whenever he's hauled in.
“You're a cheat, Stilinski,” Jackson Whittmore says, a sour look twisting his otherwise pretty mouth. He slams his cards face down on the table with a heavy, unhappy sound.
“I resent that remark!” Stiles says as he lays his cards out face-up, showing his winning hand. His fifth in a row, to be exact. “I do not cheat. I just utilize all the resources I have at my advantage.”
Stiles turns to wink at Lydia, who's seated next to him in all of her shiny red-haired, heaving-bosomed, rouged-lipped, perfumed glory. Stiles doesn't cheat, not really, but Lydia is brilliant at counting cards, and they may or may not have a system of hand signals worked out – just for when they need it, of course.
“You do what?” Jackson squints through cruel little eyes. “Utilize your what ?” His mouth hardens. “Are you tryin' to make me feel stupid?”
“That would be like me tryin' to make you breathe,” Stiles says with an easy smile. “It would be ridiculous of me to try and make you do something that already comes so natural to you.” Because he's quite drunk, Stiles is currently quite liberal with both the slurs he's slinging and the estimation of his safety in the saloon, which is filled with at least half a dozen people he's taken money from over the past month.
“That's it, Stilinski!” Jackson growls, knocking back his chair as he pushes to his feet. “I'm so tired of your mouth!” His beady eyes narrow even more, and Stiles watches the fingers on his right hand twitch. There are no firearms allowed in Beacon Hills territory, so he assumes Jackson has a knife. Or else is planning on throttling Stiles to death, which he won't put past him.
“That's not what you said last night,” Stiles goads immediately, because he needs Jackson to pick a fight.
“Stiles, what are you doing?” Lydia says as she pushes slowly to her feet, pretty hazel eyes darting between both of the men at the table. “Jackson? Just calm down–”
Jackson, however, is kind enough to be predictable, which has Stiles quickly assuming that he's gambled away all of his whoring money for the next month. Jackson likes to keep a certain lifestyle and everyone knows it, and he doesn't take kindly to people knocking him off course. Stiles isn't really the accommodating sort, though.
Jackson pulls the large Bowie knife out from underneath his jacket, and Stiles pats himself on the back for correctly assuming he was wearing a holster under his waistcoat. Jackson always dresses impeccably, but tonight there was a slight bump. It was weird enough to ruminate on, and now Stiles is glad he did. He hates being caught off guard.
Stiles is fearless as he reaches into his own coat and draws a Colt pocket revolver, which causes a slight panic in the room as people press against each other in their haste to back away from the table. He doesn't hesitate for a moment to press it right against Jackson's forehead, right between his eyes, just as his poker partner lunges forward to stick that knife in him.
Of course, having a gun to his head stops him quick , and he stares at Stiles with wide, wild eyes.
“Go for it, Jackson,” Stiles dares him, a strange little smile on his face. “Let's see who's faster.” The entire saloon goes silent, but Stiles doesn’t notice for the rush of blood in his ears and the very loud hitch of Jackson’s breath.
“Are you crazy, Stilinski?” Jackson hisses through his teeth. He's struggling fiercely with his pride, Stiles can tell. It's fantastic.
“Yeah, maybe a little,” Stiles says. He doesn't move the barrel of his revolver, but cocks his head slightly as if addressing someone else. “Could you help me out here, Lydia?”
“I can't believe you're being so reckless,” she says, a bit of dressing down in her tone, but that doesn't stop her from edging back to the table. “You know the laws here. No firearms.”
“I also know that Sheriff Hale is a pushover.” Stiles smirks at Jackson. “And that he likes me better than he likes this scumbag.”
“Just because Scott is a deputy doesn't mean the sheriff likes you,” Lydia reminds him as she sweeps all of his winnings into a large carpet bag. “It just means he tolerates you.” She doesn't bother separating the cash from the playing cards or wooden chips; she just takes it all.
Stiles smirks lightly, puffing up like a peacock. “Given how much he likes to handcuff me, I'd say he likes me a little,” he boasts, making sure to keep his eyes on Jackson's face as he speaks. At Jackson's dawning look of resent and disgust, Stiles winks.
“You little shit,” Jackson says through clenched teeth. “I'm going to see you run out of town for this.” His hand tightens around the handle of his Bowie knife, just as Stiles thumbs back the hammer on his revolver.
“No one decides where I go but me,” Stiles says smugly, too busy being full of himself to notice the way the silent patrons of the saloon are suddenly edging away from the table, toward the door. He does, however, notice the way Jackson's eyes widen slightly as he glances over Stiles's shoulder.
“I beg to differ.” The voice comes from right behind Stiles. “Tonight, I decide where you go.” Before Stiles can turn, a big, strong hand reaches out to wrap around the barrel of the revolver, prying it out of Stiles's hand faster than either him or Jackson can track.
“Scott, take care of Jackson,” Sheriff Derek Hale says. “Fine him for pulling that knife. As for you...” He drags Stiles practically off his feet and turns him, shoving him firmly against the wall, face first. Stiles laughs, the sound drunk and a little elated. He watches Lydia slip out of the saloon through the crowd of people, the carpet bag clutched in her greedy little hands. He knows she'll get away clear, and he knows she'd never cheat him out of anything.
“Good evening, Sheriff,” Stiles drawls as he's roughly patted down, but he's not carrying anything else. He doesn't need to. He's an excellent shot, but lousy with a blade. Derek doesn't reply as he yanks Stiles's arms back and secures twin metal cuffs around both of his bony wrists. Stiles winces slightly, because the bruises from the last time he was arrested haven't even had the chance to fully heal yet.
“This is getting to be a common occurrence with you, Stiles,” Derek murmurs. “Ever since we lost your father.” He sighs and grabs Stiles by the arm and starts walking him toward the door. “It's time for you to grow up, or I'm going to have to start charging you for room and board.”
“Just let me share a bed with you and you won't have to charge any extra,” Stiles simpers. He's drunk, sure, but he'd run his mouth like this even if he weren't. Everyone knows Stiles is a little sly, but no one ever said anything while Sheriff Stilinski was still alive. Now, however, comments like that get Stiles more than just sideways glares.
“That's enough of that,” Derek says gruffly, his jaw setting firmly as he marches Stiles toward the small jailhouse just down the street on the corner. He'll spend a night or two there; however long it takes for Lydia to show up and post his bail. No one was hurt, so it's not that big of an issue. Just the sheriff throwing his considerable, well-muscled weight around.
The cells aren't comfortable, not by a long shot. Two wooden walls, and two walls of bars to make a small square, with one tiny, dirty window that Stiles needs to stand on his toes to peek out of, and a hard wooden bench that doubles as a bed. There's a piss-pot in the corner and a hole to shit in if he needs it; all in full, glorious view of the sheriff's desk.
“It's the song, the sigh of the weary,” Stiles suddenly starts singing softly under his breath, as he slumps dramatically against the bars. “Hard times, hard times, come again no more.” He slides his now un-cuffed hands through the narrow openings and lets his arms hang over the one that runs parallel. His head, swimming with alcohol, clangs to a rest against the solid steel, as he stares at the brooding sheriff who's seated at his desk. The only light that illuminates the otherwise pitch black room is the light from the single oil lamp on Derek's desk.
Stiles is quiet for a moment before huffing. He sucks in a breath and continues to sing, this time slightly louder. “Many days you have lingered around–”
“Be quiet, Stiles,” Derek mutters, not even bothering to look up from where he's scribbling away on some paper, probably writing up yet another report about him. Stiles can smell the ink in the air.
“You have no idea how to have any fun, do you, Sheriff?” Stiles says, teasing as he turns to slump down onto the bench with a weary sigh.
“This is a jailhouse,” Derek reminds him. “Not a cotillion. If you want me to have fun, then try to refrain from warming that bench for at least a month. I would be over the moon if I didn't have to drag your drunk, sorry self into that cell at least once a week.” He shakes his head and glances up, pale eyes catching the candle light. “I might even dance a little jig.”
“Well, hell,” Stiles says grinning while giving Derek a wink. “That would be worth it for me.”
Derek's eyes narrow slightly as he holds Stiles's gaze, before dropping them back down to his desk with a heavy sigh.
“What the hell is going on with you, McCall?” Derek asks as he stands in front of the jail cell, arms folded over his dusty, well-worn linen shirt and unbuttoned leather waistcoat. “My own damn deputy behind bars. I usually never get trouble from you.”
“I just wanted to talk to her,” Scott groans. He leans back against the wall and reaches up to scratch at the dried blood on his forehead, left over from where a now-healed wound used to be. “I had no idea their trellis wasn't actually secured to the side of their house...”
“You shouldn't have been scaling it, anyway,” Derek lectures. “Those sorts of romantic gestures are only appreciated in dime novels. The real world doesn't work like that. If her father told you to stay away, then you stay away.”
“He doesn't understand,” Scott says, his eyes big and earnest. “He just won't listen–”
“He doesn't have to listen,” Derek hisses softly as he steps up close to the bars, giving Scott a pointed look. “He's doing us a favor by keeping our secret, and we're doing him a favor by letting him and his family live here. He doesn't owe us anything. You need to stay away from Allison.”
“This isn't pack-related, Derek.” Scott gets to his feet and glares. “You don't get to tell me what to do.”
“Yes it is, and yes I do.” Derek glares right back, his eyes suddenly burning a deep, bright red. “I'm your alpha–” he growls, before clacking his jaw shut, cutting himself off and blinking his eyes quickly back to green. Both Scott’s and Derek's heads whip toward the door as Stiles walks in, looking furious.
“What the hell is goin' on here?” Stiles yells, gesturing wildly at Scott, who's since deflated and is sagging against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he frowns softly. “Why is he in there? Is this seriously happening? He's your deputy.”
“He broke the law, Stiles,” Derek snaps. “Charges have been filed against him.”
“He didn't break the law,” Stiles says snidely, unafraid to step right up into Derek's space. “He broke a fence. With flowers on it.”
“He trespassed onto private property.” Derek says through his teeth. He folds his arms and tilts his head back a bit, not at all comfortable with how quickly Stiles can get him all riled up. He's usually so good about keeping his calm, but not around Stiles.
“What's his bail?” Stiles demands, as he reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a substantial billfold. “I'll pay it.”
Derek shakes his head and rolls his eyes, both at Stiles's insistence at walking around with that much cash on him, and at his thought that money can buy him anything he wants around here.
“No bail,” Derek says, before turning and walking back to his desk. “He's staying until morning because I say so.”
Stiles doesn't hesitate to stalk after Derek, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. Derek's hands ball up tight at his sides. He keeps his temper in check, though having Stiles's hand on him makes his skin crawl hotly in a really uncomfortable way.
“Don't do that,” Stiles says, his jaw clenching tight, and it takes everything in Derek to not put a fist through those pretty white teeth. “It's a stupid move. If people know you're pandering to Chris Argent over your own deputy, who do you think they're going to start respecting more around here? He tried pullin' the same manipulations on myfather, too.”
Derek peers down at Stiles through narrowed eyes, flaring his nostrils like he's smelling something bad. Goddamnit, he's probably not wrong, but what Stiles doesn't know is that this isn't just about the law or politics. Not human politics, anyway.
“This isn't any of your concern, Stiles,” Derek says tersely. He lifts a hand and places it on Stiles's chest, firmly pushing him a step back. “Now, leave. You've actually been blessed with a free day outside of these walls, so I suggest you go and enjoy it. No doubt you'll have an actual reason to be back in here soon enough.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Stiles says. “Scott's my friend and I won't see him treated unfairly just because you're on some sort of power trip.”
“Don't get involved in things you don't understand, Stilinski,” Derek says, warning lacing his voice.
“Stiles, it's fine,” Scott says, having stood from the wooden bench. “I'm fine. Just go.”
Stiles narrows his eyes and looks between Scott and Derek, his expression suspicious, and rightfully so. He puts his hands on his hips and flares his coat back, and Derek groans inwardly the moment he sees the flash of sunlight hitting the metal of the firearm under Stiles's coat.
“What the hell is–?” Stiles begins, but he barely has time to get the words out before Derek has his face smooshed up against the bars of Scott's jail cell.
“Just exactly how many of your father's firearms do you have left?” Derek growls. He wraps one hand around both of Stiles's skinny wrists and keeps them pinned at the small of his back. His other hesitates slightly before flipping Stiles's coat back and tugging the Derringer Navy pistol out of its holster, making sure the hammer is un-cocked before tossing it onto his desk with a sigh.
“Aw, hell,” Stiles mutters, his voice distorted through lips that are currently kissing steel.
“Looks like it's your lucky day,” Scott says with a weak chuckle. “We get to get together tonight after all, just like you wanted.”
Stiles trips over his own feet and stumbles onto the bench as Derek shoves him into the cell. He's just about to protest when a pack of playing cards hits him in the face.
“Ow,” Stiles complains, rubbing his cheek as Scott snickers.
“Play something quiet,” Derek says. “I don't want to have to listen to you two talking all night.”
“Oh, come on, Derek–” Stiles protests.
“Quiet,” Derek says again, both his tone and his expression hard. “If you don't know the definition, the next thing I'll throw at your face will be a dictionary. One of the big, heavy ones from New York City.”
Stiles stays quiet, but Derek can tell he's not happy about it. Stiles plays cards with Scott for awhile before the two of them finally give up and stretch out, and Derek spends more time watching Stiles sleep than he cares to admit.
It's a mistake. Just a very, very bad mistake.
Everything's happening so fast. Lydia's screaming and crying, and Stiles can hear Scott shouting at him from some place very far away. Except it isn't far away, because Scott's grabbing his shoulders. His arms. Scott's pulling Stiles to his feet and yelling his name and there's blood on Stiles's hands. On his face. There's blood all over his shirt and all over the front of Lydia.
Stiles is filled to the brim with swagger and bravado, but he's never been able to back up his threats before. He's never had a real reason to. Not until now. Not until all of the rage and fierce emotions and blank, animal reactions he had when he walked in on Lydia and... Not until they all came roaring out of him when he sees that thing up under her skirt, trying to rut into her.
The twins, Aiden and Ethan, came into town a few days ago. No one knows anything about them other than that they're drifters. Beacon Hills is a small place, and there hasn't been much gold found here since the first time, but what they do have, they're protective of. The twins intimidate and start fights, but they always seem to disappear before either Scott or Derek shows up.
The twins have the look of desperation and murder in their eyes. Like they've killed to survive a thousand times before, and they wouldn't hesitate to do it again. Like they're used to getting everything they want.
Aiden takes a liking to Lydia and Stiles immediately rankles at that. It's not that he and Lydia are an item, much to the disapproving glances and whispers of many of the people in town, who don't like the way the unwed girl keeps time with a man of Stiles's reputation. Lydia is his partner in crime. His second best friend, after Scott. Lydia's his girl, and Stiles doesn't like to share.
Beacon Hills does a good horse trade for travelers on their way out to San Francisco, so when three of Peter Hale's best horses end up torn apart and half-eaten on the night of the full moon, Stiles doesn’t see Derek and Scott for two days. But he does see those twins, and they look smug as hell, and Stiles can't help but shudder. There's just something off about them, like he expects them to have sharp teeth and eyes that glow like demons.
He's not drunk when he grabs Aiden by the back of the collar and jerks his head back, pulling him halfway off of Lydia. He's stone-cold sober when he puts a revolver barrel against his temple and shoots him in the head. He's working off of instinct and protectiveness, and he's not thinking clearly, because Aiden looks like a monster. Lydia's dress is torn and her hair is wild when she squirms out from under his dead weight, and neither one of them can explain why the hole in Aiden's head is smoking.
When Stiles finally looks up at Scott, he swears his best friend's eyes are glowing gold.
“Shit,” Scott gasps, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. With normal brown eyes. “Shit, shit, shit, Stiles, this is really bad.”
“No!” Lydia cries out, her voice breaking as she throws an arm around Stiles's neck and shoves at Scott. “You can't take him! He was just protecting me! He didn't do anything wrong!”
“Lydia, I'm sorry,” Scott says. Stiles can hear the waver in his voice. “It's the law. Murder is murder...” Stiles can see Scott swallowing hard, and he looks down at the dead body just as his friend does. The normal, human dead body.
“It's okay,” Stiles whispers, dropping his gun and holding his hands up a bit. “Just–” He turns to look at Scott, shock written plainly on his face. “It's okay... It's going to be okay, right? Right Scotty?”
Scott's face blanks out as his expression neutralizes. He nods, but even as he's nodding, he's turning Stiles gently and cuffing his hands behind his back. “Don't worry, buddy,” Scott says softly. “We'll figure this out.”
“His brother–” Stiles starts, slight panic rising in his tone.
“Derek's looking for him,” Scott says, clamping an unusually strong hand on Stiles's shoulder. Scott looks at Lydia, but Stiles can't bring himself to. He knows he'll lose it again if he has to see her covered in blood. To see her cheeks streaked with her tears, and her normally proud, defiant, and clever face so distraught.
“I'm going to send Allison up,” Scott says to Lydia with a sigh. “She'll help you run a bath. You, uh... you really need to clean yourself up. Really good, okay? Just... let Allison help. She'll know what to do.”
“Okay,” Lydia says weakly. She half-turns and doesn't even wait for them to leave the room before her torn and ruined dress puddles to the floor at her feet, leaving her in a blood-stained corset, drawers, and stockings. “Stiles?” she says, suddenly turning and grabbing him by the shirt. “Thank you.” She presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and for some reason it makes him feel like maybe things will be okay.
Stiles doesn't remember Scott walking him down the street, but there he is. He doesn't remember Scott sitting him down on the bench inside the cell and taking the cuffs off his hands, but there they are. He doesn't remember Scott giving him a shot of whiskey, but he can taste it on his lips when he comes back to the present.
Killing someone always looks so easy when other people do it. Stiles supposes that's because he's never experienced the aftermath. He's never felt what it's like to be the person to take someone's life away.
Stiles blinks and glances around, drawing in a long, deep breath that fills his aching chest. The blood on his clothes and his hands has long since dried, and the shape and depth of the shadows in the room tell him it's probably been about two hours since he got here. He doesn't see Scott anymore, but he does see Derek.
Derek's looming in the doorway of the jail, and it's only then that Stiles realizes just how big he is. His shoulders nearly fill the doorway, and his hat scrapes the top beam of the frame when he turns to peer at Stiles over his shoulder. It's like Derek's using his own body as a door. It's like he's... it's almost like he's being protective.
“Where's Scott?” Stiles asks, and just the simple act of talking forces out a few hacking coughs. His throat is dry and raw. He must have been crying. How embarrassing. A glass of water appears on the floor just outside of the bars, but Derek doesn't bother actually setting it inside the cell.
“I deputized Chris Argent,” Derek says gruffly, as if he'd rather be saying just about any other words. “He and Scott are out looking for Aiden's brother, Ethan. Until they find him, you're staying in there.”
“What?” Stiles says, nearly choking on a mouthful of water before getting it down. “Why?”
“It's too dangerous for you to be out here.”
“I can handle Ethan,” Stiles says with a scoff, wrinkling his nose as his pride takes a hit.
“No, you can't.”
“Yes I can.”
“No, you can't!” Derek shouts. His emotional shift is so sudden that it startles Stiles, and he drops the glass, shattering it on the floor and getting water everywhere. “You got lucky with Aiden, do you hear me?” Derek continues. “Lucky.”
“Yeah, well, being lucky's my job,” Stiles says with cheek. He forces levity because Derek's intensity is actually starting to scare him.
“This isn't a joke,” Derek says with a glower. “Your life is in danger.” He turns and walks back toward the street entrance, but Stiles's voice halts him.
“You actually care?” Stiles says softly, peering at Derek's back in the dim light. “You actually care what happens to me?”
Stiles can't make much out because Derek's body is silhouetted by the setting sun outside, but he sees his head drop a bit and his shoulders rise up as he takes a deep breath. It warms Stiles inside, but stirs up the butterflies even more.
“I care,” Derek mutters, and walks outside without another word.
Stiles doesn't see Derek for the rest of the night, and it's Scott who lets him out in the morning. He tells Stiles that Lydia has confessed to killing Aiden. That she's tearfully pleaded with the sheriff that it was all in self-defense. That the good people of Beacon Hills are much less likely to work themselves up into a fervor over a pretty, petite dancing girl only trying to protect herself from a drifter, than they would over the son of the former sheriff, with a bad reputation for grinning down the barrel of a gun, turning murderer.
Stiles behaves after that. Because Derek is right; he's damn lucky.
They should have anticipated it. Of course Ethan would wait until the next full moon to make his move. Sure, Ethan knows there's a small pack of wolves in town, but Derek knows crazy when he sees it, and there's nothing sane in Ethan's glassy blue eyes. He's now an omega of the weakest sort, because he's scared and grieving. If losing a member of your pack is like losing a part of yourself, Derek can't even begin to imagine the anguish losing his twin must be causing Ethan.
But everyone has a sob story. Everyone has pain. It's how you choose to handle it that determines what kind of person you are. Or, in their case, what kind of werewolf.
Scott asks Allison to help, only because he knows that Chris would just as soon shoot both him and Derekas he would Ethan. The Argents are good allies, but that's all they'll ever be for Derek. Never friends. Scott's in love, and it's real, and Derek feels for him because he knows it's going to end messy. What's the old saying? A bird and a fish can fall in love, but where would they live? Derek knows it's a Romeo and Juliet story, but they're just kids. They need this sort of fire to shape their future selves.
Fire's good for that sort of thing. It takes you apart, sure, but it also builds you back up. It hardens you.
Scott talks Stiles into playing cards at the saloon across the way from the jailhouse tonight, instead of at the Lucky Paw where he and Lydia take their rooms. It's all part of the strategy. Scott feeds Stiles drinks so he's pliable and easily-managed, and Allison makes sure Jackson is on his best behavior when he asks Lydia to go for a moonlight walk with him. Best to keep Lydia well away from where Derek knows the action is going to go down. He doesn't want her feeling obligated to even her debt with Stiles by being a martyr.
It all happens according to plan, because some people are mighty predictable. Ethan comes slinking into town when the moon is high. He's half-shifted already, claws and teeth sharp and looking for soft, human flesh to rend. His eyes glow and flash as he searches for Stiles, but he does the one thing Derek couldn't have seen coming. He waits. He crouches in a patch of shadow outside of the saloon and patiently waits.
“Damnit,” Derek curses under his breath from where he's standing, just inside the saloon door. He can smell Ethan outside; his anger and hunger. But he can also smell the patience of a true, experienced predator. Quick and sloppy never gets the job done, and Ethan and Aiden were on their own for too long to be as stupid as Derek hoped they were.
Derek catches Scott's eye, and with a hard line to his mouth, he gives a nod and flicks his eyes toward the door. Get him out, now. Try and shield him as best as you can. Get him across the street to the cell, and I'll take care of Ethan. He can sense Scott's worry, his hesitation, but Scott trusts Derek, and Derek's going to try to never give him a reason to revoke that trust.
“Now,” Derek whispers, and from across the crowded and rowdy room, Scott nods. He makes a big show of it as he pries Stiles from his seat at the poker table, declaring that his friend is too drunk to be throwing his money away. That Scott's going to take him home so he can sleep it off. Derek hears Ethan shift his weight outside, hears his heart-rate accelerate, and smells the perverse joy Ethan feels at the thought of getting to rip apart the human that blasted his brother from this world.
Derek's fingers curl into tight fists, and he sees red at the thought of anyone hurting a hair on Stiles's head.
It all happens in a blur, and Derek curses the sky as he watches things unfold before him. He watches Ethan leap out of the shadows to attack the pair stumbling across the road, Scott holding Stiles up, who's laughing and pink-cheeked and woefully unaware that he's being used as bait. He watches Ethan attack Scott, not Stiles. He watches Ethan throw their whole plan into shambles as Stiles leaps onto Ethan's back to try and stop his best friend from having his throat torn out.
Derek nearly breaks the saloon doors in his haste to get outside, his voice booming as he shouts for Allison. She bursts out of the jailhouse and onto the wooden walk and goes ashen. Her hands shake around her father's rifle as she stares at the pile-up in the middle of the road, and Derek can tell she's not yet confident enough to fire into a brawl like this. Not one so tight. Not when she might accidentally hit Stiles, or worse yet for her, Scott.
A normal bullet won't put Scott down for long, but these aren't any normal bullets. The one Stiles used on Aiden wasn't normal, either, but Derek long ago made peace with the fact that Sheriff Stilinski carried the weapons he needed for any possible threats to Beacon Hills.
Stiles's shoulder is already laid open nearly to the bone when Derek finally pries Ethan off of him, and though Scott is wounded, he's healing rapidly. Omegas are the weakest, and if they can't get a killing blow first thing, then the most they can pray for is a swift death when the other wolf regains his sense.
Derek grits his teeth as he tries to hold back his shift, but it's not easy with the moon so bright and blood on the air. Scott bounds to his feet in no such state of self-restraint, his eyes flashing gold and teeth sharp and shining. “Get Stiles inside,” he snarls at Derek, who doesn't need to be told twice. As much as Derek wants a piece of the omega, he wants even more Scott to have his revenge for the pain caused to his friend.
Stiles's eyes are wide and glassy, and Derek curses the alcohol he can smell on Stiles's breath. It thins the blood and weakens the fight, making it much more likely that Stiles will bleed out. There's a patch kit in the jailhouse, and though Derek isn't sure Stiles's shoulder will ever be perfectly right again, he can at least make sure this doesn't do any real permanent damage.
“Close the door behind us,” Derek barks at Allison as he sprints Stiles inside, straight into the cell. “Water and bandages! Get the kit.” Allison scurries in after him, nodding as she bravely keeps herself as calm as she can.
First things first; she grabs a small burlap pouch out of one of the cupboards kept far away from the sheriff's desk and shoves a hand inside, pulling out a handful of fine black dust as she shoulders the cell door closed behind them with a loud metallic clank. She drops it in a line in front of the door, connecting each of the sturdy wooden beams that hold the bars in place. A faint blue light glows for a moment and then is gone just as quickly as the rowan wood and the mountain ash lock the cell door. It'll keep Derek in, yes, but it will also keep Ethan out.
Allison shoves a wooden box through the bars and onto the bench, and a moment later a bowl of clean water. Without a word she grabs her rifle and rushes out the door, giving chase after Scott, who's running Ethan down. Derek sucks in a deep breath and tries to focus on Stiles, knowing he has no choice now but to trust his deputy and the amateur hunter to do their jobs.
Stiles is shaking in his arms, and when Derek looks back down at him, the amount of blood soaking the front of Stiles's shirt and waistcoat is dizzying.
“W-what... what was that?” Stiles gasps, one of his hands reaching up to grab at Derek's forearm in a tight squeeze. “What are–”
“Shh,” Derek hushes as he grabs the box and opens it, pulling out a clean rag. “Just try to be still. You're in shock.”
“No,” Stiles says through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut against the pain as Derek peels his ruined shirt off of his shoulder, revealing pale skin streaked with bright red blood. “No, what are– Ow, goddamnit...”
“You were attacked by Aiden's brother,” Derek explains, trying to make the lie clean and simple. “He had a knife. He slashed up your shoulder real good.”
“Wait–” Stiles practically pleads, but hisses and trembles as Derek starts in on his shoulder.
Derek cleans the wound quickly, mercilessly, knowing it's better to cause Stiles a little extra pain now than to risk the infection. Water washes the blood away, and a splash of good alcohol should keep the infection at bay until they can get Stiles to Dr. Deaton. But that won't be until sun-up, at least. Or until Scott confirms that Ethan's no longer a threat.
“No, Derek,” Stiles groans, looking pained and confused and still ghostly-pale and shocked. “Just, wait–” Derek finally looks away from the rough bandaging job he's doing and meets Stiles's eyes, and is surprised as hell when Stiles lifts a shaking hand to his face. “What... what are you?”
Derek blinks and pulls back slightly, but Stiles's fingers still manage to trace over the ridge of his brow and down along the side of his face, where his hair has sprouted. They draw under his cheek, just beneath eyes that Derek only now realizes are burning as fierce and bright as coals.
He's shifted and didn't even realize it. He shifted unconsciously to protect Stiles, and Stiles is staring at him in wonder, not fear. He's still touching Derek's face, and his lips are parted and his breath is catching, and he looks so perfect and broken and beautiful that Derek has to turn away. He swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to shift back to human. It comes easily, from years of practice and discipline, but he's struggling with not pulling Stiles against him and keeping him close until the sun comes up.
“You should be okay,” Derek says, his voice rough. “Until we can get the doc here in the morning.” He opens his eyes and looks off toward the jailhouse door that's still standing wide open.
“Am I–?” Stiles says as he pushes himself up to lean against the wall with difficulty, his hand pressing at his bandaged shoulder. “Did I... see..?” He sighs heavily and lolls his head back against the wall, panting softly. “I swear I saw... but I'm so damn drunk...” He laughs softly, and Derek sags with relief. “There's no way, it's so crazy.”
“Like I said,” Derek reminds gently. “You're in shock. And you are very drunk. There's no sharp teeth, no red eyes–” But the moment Derek says the words, he feels a cold pit in his stomach and he knows he's made a mistake.
Stiles pulls his eyes open and slides them over to Derek, squinting them suspiciously. “I never said what I saw,” he says quietly, his heart beating a bit harder, faster. “Derek... how do you know what I saw?”
Derek's silent. He has to be. He doesn't know what to say.
“Derek,” Stiles says sharply, before hissing in pain and wincing. He lifts a hand and presses it firmly against his shoulder, grunting softly as the blood seeps through the rough bandaging. “I need to be stitched,” he gasps softly, the previous issue momentarily forgotten in light of a more dire problem. “Can you–?”
Derek exhales a heavy breath and nods, grabbing the stitch kit out of the box and handing Stiles the bottle of whiskey he's been using as a disinfectant. “Here, swig on this. Probably best if you're out. I'm not exactly...”
Stiles nods, grimacing as he lifts the bottle to his lips. He doesn't pass out, but he's definitely lost his edge and his fight by the time Derek pushes the needle through his skin. His eyes are glassy as they linger on Derek's face, but he's way too drunk and in shock to notice the subtle black veining in Derek's hands and wrists as he takes a little of Stiles's pain away with each brush of his fingers.
Scott tells Stiles that Ethan was brought to justice just a little ways out of town. That he and Allison caught him and shot him as he was trying to run, the bloody knife still clutched in his hand. Stiles is relieved that he's dead, but he still doesn't trust the story. He doesn't trust the furtive glances Scott, Allison, and Derek give each other whenever he's around. But he can't really trust himself either, can he? His memories are too foggy from drink and pain, and the things he thinks he saw are just impossible, right?
He's so conflicted, that the next few weeks pass in a slight fugue state. He sticks to his routine because it's familiar, but he starts losing money because Lydia is gone more and more often. She's really hitting it off with Jackson, because all it takes is the right woman to chip away at his bravado and make him an almost sort of decent person. Stiles is happy for her, sure, but he's not happy for the way his wallet is steadily lightening.
Less money means less alcohol, and less alcohol means Stiles can't avoid thinking every time he passes the street corner where his father was shot and killed. Or every time he sees Derek on the street, and watches him turn and walk away if Stiles even takes a step near him. He spirals down until Scott catches him, and they finally have it out in the cellar beneath the hotel, because that's where Scott finds him stealing two bottles of rye. Or at least attempting to.
Scott's only failing is his inability to lie, so when Stiles finally calls him out on the glowing eyes and fangs he's finally convinced himself that he saw that night, Scott stutters, and the fight dies on his tongue.
“I always wanted to tell you,” Scott confesses quietly. The two of them are seated on bags of potatoes piled up in the corner, and Stiles is rubbing at his face, his shoulder aching much like it often does these days. “But Derek said it was too dangerous. There are only three of us in this territory; me, him, and his uncle, Peter. If word got out that our pack was so small, others would come and try to take this place from us. It's best if other werewolves think this territory is held by werewolf hunters.”
“Hunters,” Stiles murmurs, squinting as he thinks back. “Allison. Her father.”
“Yeah,” Scott says, surprise in his voice. “How did you–?”
“I might be a drunk, but I'm not as dim as people like to think I am,” Stiles says, bitterly. “I don't need Lydia to help me put two and two together. She's just a little faster at the numbers than me.” He pauses and gives Scott a sharp look. “Does she know?”
“No,” Scott says quickly. “Aside from us, it's only the Argents.”
Stiles nods and is quiet for a few moments, staring down at his clasped hands. “So, you, Peter, and Derek,” he says with a sigh. “You're werewolves.”
“Yeah,” Scott admits with a wry smile. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Stiles says as he pushes up to his feet, throwing Scott a lopsided smile. “Okay, then.”
Two days later, Stiles is three sheets to the wind on pilfered rye and standing in the middle of the street out in front of the jailhouse, bellowing Derek's name. Derek's footfalls are heavy on the wooden slats of the porch, but they don't jangle with spurs like a lot of others' do. In fact, it occurs to Stiles that he's never once seen Derek on a horse. He expects maybe Derek doesn't need to ride, not if he's a wolf.
“I need to talk to you!” Stiles yells, jabbing an accusing finger through the air at Derek, whose face is half-shaded by the wide brim of his Stetson. His arms are crossed and his sheriff's badge catches the sunlight, glinting like a righteous star.
“You're drunk, Stiles,” Derek states. “Go home and sleep it off.”
“What home?” Stiles laughs and throws his hands up, his own cheeks and nose pink from the sun because he lost his hat in a game of faro the day before. “I don't have a home. I lost it all! All my money.” He grins, feeling the self-destruction of total loss and the culmination of grief coming to a head. “Everything is gone. I pissed it all away. And you know what? I don't care.”
Derek frowns and furrows his brow, taking the wooden steps down into the dirt road. “And what do you want me to do about it?” he asks, with just the trace of caution in his voice. For some reason it really pisses Stiles off that he can sense that Derek's worried, but that Derek's mouth is telling a different story.
“Well,” Stiles says with a slightly drunken grin. “I need some place to sleep tonight. So I figure it's either gonna be in that jail cell in there, or it's gonna be in your bed.” Because why not push his luck? It's all run out, anyway.
Derek cracks his neck and rolls his eyes, heaving out a long, heavy breath. The sound of a few ladies whispering and giggling off to the side has Derek snapping his head toward them, eyes narrowing. They all hush up and scurry off, quick as chickens fleeing the cleaver. Stiles snorts.
“Scott has room,” Derek says as he looks back to Stiles. “Get your ass off the streets and stop making a nuisance of yourself.”
“Or,” Stiles says, canting his head and smirking lightly. “You can just arrest me.”
“You haven't done anything arrest-worthy,” Derek says, narrowing his eyes. “Yet.”
“Well, that's not too difficult,” Stiles announces, as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, almost pretty-looking Derringer pocket pistol. It's the only one Derek hasn't taken away yet. It was his mother's.
“Last one!” Stiles calls out as he holds it up for everyone to see, delighting in the way Derek's lips twitch as he slips a skinny finger around the trigger. He wavers on his feet and points the pistol at the sky, sending everyone within several yards around him fleeing off the street and into the safety of the nearby buildings.
“Stiles,” Derek says lowly, taking a step forward and balling his hands into fists. “This isn't funny.”
“Then why am I laughing?” Stiles taunts with a laugh that's edging on manic. He has no idea what he's doing or why he's doing it, but it's like he just needs to be near Derek right now. To be inside that jail cell where it's safe.
“Because you're drunk,” Derek deadpans. “And you're scared.”
Stiles's laughter trails off and his eyes narrow, and he can feel that this is one of those moments people talk about. That moment when you choose to go either one way or the other. One of those moments that can change the entire course of your future. Stiles's finger twitches over the trigger, something he knows Derek just can't have seen because Derek's eyes have been on his the entire time. But Derek moves closer anyway, like he knows. Like he can just sense it.
“Okay, you've made your point,” Derek says, his voice terse and cautious. “Hand over the pistol and there won't be any trouble.”
“How about I just give you the ammunition?” Stiles says. He feels weird and light and free as he suddenly lowers the pistol and points it straight at Derek. “Pistol's no good without bullets, right? How about I just give you the bullets?” He was a man with nothing to lose, is what they'll say about him, in the stories people tell. What a trite and sorry tale.
“What are you trying to prove here?” Derek growls, as he finally catches on to the fact that Stiles's firearm isn't loaded with just any regular ammunition. “What do you want from me?” His eyes flash angrily as he walks straight for Stiles, and coupled with everything Stiles now knows, Derek is even scarier than he ever has been before. Despite Stiles's whiskey-strengthened bravado, he still takes a step back and lets Derek crowd him, chest to chest, as he lowers the gun.
“Give it over,” Derek says with a quiet force behind his voice. Stiles swallows his heart and pride back down before depositing the pistol into Derek's waiting hand. His index finger curls around the side of Derek's hand, sending one of those kinds of sparks through Stiles, the kind you only read about in those fictional romance dime-books printed for ladies.
Lydia's told him about it before, about the way she thinks love feels. Or the way she thinks it should feel. It's not perfect and it doesn't make you sing or float around on clouds. It's intense and a little painful, kind of nauseating and dizzying. Like you're standing on the edge of a wide canyon, but you're not scared to fall because you know someone's there to catch you.
That's kind of how Stiles feels around Derek.
All of a sudden, the fact that he's handing over his mother's pistol and the fact that his father is gone isn't so dire. The fact that he's lost everything he owned and is destitute is sort of irrelevant. It's like he finally feels the burdens of Beacon Hills lifting from his shoulders and he can do anything, now, as long as Derek is around. As sappy and romantic and impractical as it sounds, it's how he feels.
He knows Derek can feel it, too. Or he at least feels something, because he hasn't stepped back, yet, or pulled his hand away from Stiles's. His pupils are slowly dilating and his nostrils flaring, and with an almost violent thrill Stiles notices the blatant way Derek's eyes drop to his mouth when Stiles parts his lips and slowly licks them.
“You better arrest me, or somethin',” Stiles whispers, forcing himself to slowly pull his hand away from the gun in Derek's hand. “Because people are startin' to stare at us. And as much as I like an audience–”
Derek grunts softly and takes what appears to be a very pointed and difficult step back, before grabbing Stiles by the upper arm and half-dragging/half-marching him into the jailhouse. Stiles can't help grinning and feels himself blush as he stumbles up the stairs, knowing he looks as awkward as he feels, but he doesn't care. He doesn’t care about any of that.
Derek kicks the front door shut with a booted-foot before stepping over to set the gun down on his desk. He doesn't loosen his grip on Stiles's arm, and uses it to shove him back against the wall. Stiles barely has time to blink before Derek's mouth is on his, filling him with all sorts of warm and inappropriate feelings.
The sound Stiles makes is muffled against Derek's lips, which is a good thing because it's probably a really unseemly and embarrassing whoop of some sort. It quickly dies on his tongue because Derek puts it to better use when he slides his own along it, tangling Stiles's nervous words into a soft, heady moan. Derek tastes clean, no trace of tobacco or spirits, and it's oddly exhilarating to know that Derek doesn't partake. That maybe Stiles can be his one and only vice.
Derek breaks the kiss as suddenly as he started it, leaving Stiles gasping softly, wide-eyed. “Is this what you've been wanting?” Derek breathes against his lips, his other hand grabbing at Stiles's waist, pawing his hips closer.
“Hnn,” Stiles hums. “Yes.” He goes practically cross-eyed as he grabs at the back of Derek's head and snakes in for another kiss, knocking Derek's hat off in the process.
“We can't have this here,” Derek says in the breaths between kisses, when he can manage a word in edgewise around Stiles's lips and tongue. “Not unless we want to have it secret. I can't–”
No one will approve, they both know that. This isn't an enlightened place. It's rough-hewn and tough, and God is just as much of a weapon as any gun. But Stiles has a thought, and while his thoughts and ideas are always a little on the wild side, he thinks maybe Derek might approve of this one. He hopes he will, anyway.
“Then get out of here with me,” Stiles says, breathless. He curls his hand into the front of Derek's shirt, tugging it slightly out of his waistcoat. “Just for a little while. I... I need to get away from this place.”
“Get out of here?” Derek echoes, his eyebrows coming together slightly in concern. “I don't know, this is all so...”
“Come on,” Stiles encourages, his slender fingers dropping down to worry at the top button before tugging it open, leaving Derek looking more disheveled than Stiles has ever seen him. “Just for a time. Just you and me, out in the open. Out where no one is watching. Just take a chance...”
Derek's green eyes cloud a bit, and he's quiet for so long Stiles thinks he might have regrets. But he suddenly feels himself moving, his feet tripping over each other as Derek half-carries him to the cell and deposits him inside.
“You're under arrest for the unlawful carrying of a firearm inside the territory of Beacon Hills,” he says with a little smirk. The heavy sound of the metal-barred door shutting sends a weird thrill through Stiles as he steps back into the center of the cell, head cocked as he watches Derek lock him in safe. “Now, you stay put. I'll be back soon. Don't make a fuss.”
As Derek turns and moves away, Stiles moves up and grabs the bars, pressing his forehead against the cool metal. “Where are you going?” he asks softly, a little hesitancy in his voice.
“I need to go talk to my uncle,” Derek says as he quickly re-buttons his waistcoat and fixes his shirt more respectably. “And then to my deputy. Need to see if Scott is up for acting as sheriff while I take a much-needed holiday.”
Stiles's grin lights his whole face as Derek glances back and meets his eyes. His smile is warm and full of promise, and leaves Stiles wanting so much more as he watches Derek walk out, shutting the jailhouse door behind him with one last lingering look at Stiles.
They leave town that very same night, as soon as the sky starts to darken. Scott, Allison, and Lydia trail out to see them off, waiting at the edge of town where the wild and the civilized meet. Stiles feels his heart twist at leaving them all behind, but he reminds himself that it's only temporary. That he and Derek just need this time for themselves and that they'll be back. Beacon Hills is their home.
Stiles turns in his saddle and looks back at the three of them, giving a smile and a small wave of his hand. They're far enough away that Stiles can't see their faces anymore, but he can see them wave back, and it makes him happy.
“You gonna ride with me, or..?” Stiles asks Derek, who looks so much more accessible now without the shield of the sheriff's star on his chest. Peter gave them this horse with begrudging blessings, and an insistence that they either bring her back in perfect health, or they bring back the equivalent of what she's worth. But she is their only horse, and Derek still hasn't answered Stiles's question about how he plans on traveling.
“Stop worrying so much,” Derek says with a patient huff. “I told you, I had it covered.” He steps up and squeezes Stiles's knee, crooking the fingers on his other hand and bading Stiles lean down for a kiss. It's soft and chaste, but filled with potential, and Stiles straightens up from it feeling like a school boy stuck deep in the throes of his first sweet, innocent love.
Of course, that feeling quickly turns to the sort of filthy, carnal lust that's reserved solely for adults when Derek steps back and quickly strips off his waistcoat and shirt, leaving his very well-muscled chest, arms, and torso bare for all the world to see. Stiles blushes and ducks his head with a laugh when he hears a shrill wolf-whistle and a very inappropriate whoop of approval – Lydia and Scott, respectively, he can tell – echo out over the dirt and dry brush.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks through a grin as Derek quickly pulls off his boots and socks. Stiles firms up his legs and seats his horse more firmly as she starts to prance nervously, and he feels something weird charge the air.
“You'll have to carry my things,” Derek says with an almost feral grin. He hands his clothes and boots up to Stiles, who gives him the strangest look, but stows them in their saddlebags anyway. The moment he glances back, he's hit in the face with a pair of trousers, and a second later his horse rears up and whinnies shrill, before cantering off after the huge black wolf that's running toward the horizon.
“Holy shit!” Stiles yells. He tries desperately to hold on as a hysterical bubble of joyous laughter bursts from his chest, and he and Derek ride off into the sunset together.