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There's a dead man in the Hale house. It isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. But this is the first time it's been personal for Stiles.
This time it wasn't a kanima, or a werewolf, or anything that looked like a monster at all. It's just a man, a seriously fucked up man that could do things other people couldn't, and got his kicks the way no one should be able to. His body's under a sheet by the stairs, blood's starting to seep through the material in patches, sticking it down, making the shape look more human, and yet Stiles can't stop looking at it. He's probably the first person Stiles has ever wanted dead, that he's physically wanted to kill himself, and he should probably feel bad about that, but he doesn't.
When he'd first showed up - or when his victims had started showing up - Stiles had christened him 'The Puppeteer.' Which had struck him as kind of amusing at the time. His real name sounds a lot less like a Batman villain, it's Michael Baines.
Michael Baines is dead. Stiles and Derek are alive.
He looks up, because for all that he knows it to be true, he still has the urge to check, to be certain. Derek's on the phone, in the charred living room, back to Stiles, spine a long line of tension. Stiles can't hear from where he is, but he doesn't think the body's going to be here for long. He thinks Erica, or Isaac, or Boyd will show up and just make it go away.
-
There are so many things Stiles wants to say, but Baines isn't going to let him talk any more - has the power to stop him talking, force him silent. This is so much worse than the kanima, Stiles's body isn't dead weight like this, it has a different driver - one who smashed the window and stole the keys, made his body a jerky, uncoordinated puppet, that's doing whatever Baines wants it to do. Stiles is nothing but an observer now, pushed down where he can only breathe and watch, and claw against the inside, trying to take back something he hadn't even known he could lose. It's fucking terrifying.
Stiles rolls his eyes, desperately, to the side of the room where Derek is. He'd hoped that Baines's power wouldn't work on him. That Derek's strength, or his ability to be an asshole who's physically incapable of doing what he's told would somehow make him immune. But there's nothing in his face but impotent fury, and the line of Derek's body says he can't move any more than Stiles can. Still, Stiles thinks, if anyone can throw off mind-control through sheer force of will then it has to be Derek.
"Oh, don't worry about Derek, Stiles. I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. It's best for everyone if he's kept on a leash, don't you think?"
Stiles doesn't answer that because he can't. The question's rhetorical anyway. Baines just likes the sound of his own voice, and he's made it clear that he has no intention of doing anything but exactly what he wants.
"There's so much concern for you there." Baines drifts through the corner of Stiles's vision, jeans and dark hair, no one that would stand out in a crowd, nothing special at all. He comes to a stop in front of Derek. "I wasn't expecting that. He has a head full of broken glass, you should be flattered. He won't touch you though, he thinks you're too young, too breakable - such admirable restraint should be rewarded, don't you think? If he's going to be shy you'll have to make the first move."
Stiles tries to grit his teeth, tries to shake his head, tries everything. Because he knows too much about what Baines has already done. He's read too many police reports, seen too many of the bodies. He can feel his fingers twitching, jerky and awful, and it's nothing to do with him.
"I think you should kiss him."
It's not a suggestion, no matter how much Baines makes it sound like one. Stiles can feel it under his skin, like water running the wrong way, and he's taking stumbling steps over to Derek, watching his hands clench into fists - and he can see the 'no' twitching under Derek's jaw. But it never comes out.
"Don't pretend you've never thought about it." Baines sounds amused, as if this is the best game ever.
Stiles wants to stab the bastard's eyes out. Because he has his hand on Derek's face, against his will, and Baines has no control over what Stiles can feel. His palm registers the heat of Derek's skin, and the scrape of stubble, the way his jaw flexes in cold, bright rage. Which just tells him that Baines's victims felt everything. They'd felt everything that happened to them. Derek can feel it too, and Stiles isn't sure how to say he's sorry - to say that he doesn't mean this, with his eyes. But he thinks there's just panic there instead. Because Derek looks nothing but carved to pieces when Stiles shifts on his feet and presses his mouth down over Derek's, and Stiles thinks 'fuck you' as hard as he can.
"No, no." There's a hint of amusement in Baines's voice now. "Make it look like you mean it."
Stiles fights it, but it makes no difference, he can feel his mouth opening, can feel the way his fingertips dig into the back of Derek's neck, pulling him into the kiss. He can feel the hot slide of Derek's tongue, and the invasive rush of his breath, and he doesn't know what to do, because he has no control over any of it.
There's a noise of satisfaction from behind him, a twisted sort of pride in what he's doing that makes Stiles feel sick.
"Isn't he adorable, Derek? He has no idea what he's doing - but he's so willing to learn."
-
Stiles rubs his palm over his mouth again, trying to chase away the phantom echo of stubble and teeth. Trying to get rid of the way it feels bruised and sensitive, and there's an ache in his jaw that he can't quite get to settle. He doesn't know if that's some sort of after-effect of having your body used against your - of having your body taken over. Or whether he's paying for the way Baines had his teeth clenched shut at the beginning. Silent and obedient.
Derek has finished his phone conversation, the phone's tossed down on the table now. But he's still leaning there, palms pressed flat to the wood.
Stiles is sitting in an uncomfortable chair, not smoke or fire damaged enough to be original furniture. He's aware of all his limbs, all at once, in a way he never has been before. His own body feels like a traitor. Every time he moves, he has to remind his jumping pulse that it's ok, he's in charge now. He's making this happen. It's as if he's expecting, at any moment, to end up a passenger again, watching his limbs move without his consent, trying to scream when he can't open his mouth.
He remembers the girl - Bethany - how she'd cried quietly, in an empty, history classroom, and told them how terrified she'd been, how she'd said it had been like the worst nightmare you ever had, only you were awake the whole time.
Stiles hadn't understood. But he does now.
He rubs at his mouth again, tries to get used to his own fingers.
-
"Put your hands on him, Derek, you know you want to."
Derek's hands rise and clamp stiffly round Stiles's waist, strong and blood-warm. His fingers are twitching like he wants to rip something apart, and Stiles can't help but try and tense under him. Because the only thing Derek is touching is him. Stiles wants to say - something, anything. But the words choke in his throat, no way to come out except as cracked little breaths. Derek's eyes lock on his, and then flick away.
"What is it about him? He's really nothing special to look at. Is it his youth? His innocence? Does it appeal to the wolf in you?" Baines says curiously. "Are you separate, or one melded whole? I can't tell past all that rage."
There's the creak of floorboards as Baines moves away.
"Take off his shirt...there's no need to be so careful, he's not going anywhere. There you go."
Stiles wants to jerk away from Derek's hands on his bare skin, where they curve against his ribs, palms too hot - but he can't, Baines won't let him. He's left twitching and shivering, and Derek is staring at a point somewhere near his ear, teeth clenched because he can feel it all.
"Look at him."
Derek's eyes move down, and Stiles is the one who has to look away. He can't - he can't do this. But Baines laughs, and Stiles already knows that he's not going to stop. Stiles can feel the sick, terrified horror crawling up his spine, because Baines has no intention of stopping. He could make him - he could make him do anything.
"He's pretty when he's afraid, isn't he, Derek? Shall we put him on his knees?"
-
In the end it's Stiles who makes his way over to the table, shuffles himself into Derek's line of vision.
Derek's staring at Stiles like he doesn't have any idea what to do with him, like he doesn't understand why Stiles is still here. Because there's nothing quite like some twisted bastard trying to make you the puppets in his mind-control, rape fantasy to make things really fucking awkward. Derek should be angry. Stiles thinks it might be easier if Derek was angry. He's used to Derek's anger, his impatience, his frustration. There's a sort of familiarity to it. It's not exactly comforting but it works for them.
Instead Derek looks exhausted, sickly pale, splintered.
"Where's Scott?" Derek's voice is dry, quiet. It almost sounds normal - or like it's trying very hard to be normal.
"He took Allison home." Stiles is watching his own fingers twitch and jump on the zipper of his hoodie, rather than Derek's face, because he'd wanted to see him, but he hadn't really been prepared for him to look like that. It's just one of the many reasons he's finding it hard to look at Derek, but that's the one he's holding on to right now. "He's coming back to pick me up."
"Is he ok?" Derek asks, voice gritty like he's finding it hard to talk. Stiles has to snort because that's such a stupid question. None of them are ok.
"No - I don't know - no." He shrugs.
Scott's the reason Michael Baines is a cooling slab of meat in Derek's house. Because Baines couldn't control more than two people at a time. Scott's more protective than anyone gives him credit for, and even if Baines hadn't been doing awful things all over town, what Scott had walked into - but, no, Scott killed a man, and he's not ok. The rest of it they can deal with but Scott - Stiles doesn't think Scott should be alone right now. Sure, he knows that if he takes him home then Scott will worry about him, which will be awful, but Stiles can cope with that if it means Scott doesn't think too much about what he did. Stiles has had a lot of practice pretending he's fine lately, and he's honestly not sure he has any emotion left in him right now.
He picks at his zipper again, ratchets it up and then down. His fingers look oddly bony, knuckles pale.
Derek's not moving, he's just looming to the left of him, frown carved so deep in his face that Stiles thinks it might stay there for good this time. He figures they can't both have some sort of emotional breakdown over this.
"Dude, you look guilty as shit, seriously, evil mind-control guy is dead. We're all fine, the world is a better place. I'm not going to freak out -" Though he is freaking out, a little bit, and Derek can probably hear it, or smell it, but there's something to be said for lying to yourself until it becomes the truth. "I'm going to go home and look after Scott, and be extremely glad that Michael Baines is currently over there smelling like death. Though seriously, I think you should chop off his head, or chop him into pieces, or something, just to make absolutely sure."
Stiles checks Derek's expression, and he thinks he knows him well enough by now to realise that's exactly what he's going to do. Stiles wonders if that's the kind of help Derek needs right now.
"I don't blame you for this you know, or for - for anything that happened, so can we just leave it here? Can we say that it's just one more awful thing that's happened to us and - really, anything that will make you stop looking at me like that." Because that's just making it worse. "I really don't want you to look at me like that any more." They were almost friends, before this, and Stiles thinks it took way too much effort to get there not to keep working on it.
Maybe not now, because Stiles needs - a minute. But at some point.
Derek slides his hands into his pockets, shoulders pulling in, as if he's trying to make himself look smaller, less threatening. Which makes Stiles want to laugh and punch him in the face at the same time. Because he doesn't need - he's not going to feel guilty about Derek feeling guilty, because that's just - that's just not going to end well.
"You got mind-control assaulted too," Stiles says stiffly.
Derek flinches, and that really wasn't what Stiles was going for.
"We both did, but not by each other." Stiles stabs a finger across the room. "By him. He's the reason I don't feel right inside my own skin - and I'm really hoping that goes away, because if I think about it too much I'm going to start freaking out every time I see my own hands." He curls them into fists and takes a breath, because that was more honest than he meant to be, than he'd expected to come out. "He's the reason for all of it. Baines did it. If I'm smart enough to know that then so are you."
There's an awful, heavy silence. Stiles finds his fingers back on the zipper again, they hurt, and he realises absently that's he's been squeezing it tight enough to split the skin on his thumb.
"You know I would never hurt you on purpose." Derek's voice sounds raw, and Stiles looks up, surprised. "No matter what I say, or what people make me do. I would never do that." Derek looks like he's not sure whether saying that was the right thing or not.
"Yeah." Stiles nods, wets his mouth and nods again.
Derek's fingers are so tight on his phone that Stiles can hear the plastic creaking. He's trying to decide whether to reach out, make some sort of attempt to convince Derek that it's ok. But Derek hasn't come close enough to touch since Baines died. He's retreating now, folding into himself like he can disappear into one of the charred corners of his family home.
"Derek?"
Derek stills, and looks straight at him.
"I wouldn't - you know I wouldn't do that to you either," Stiles says. He doesn't know if that helps or not. Derek doesn't really give him anything, so he doesn't know.
He hopes it does.