Chapter Text
The morning comes before Stiles is really ready for it to. He and Cor didn't get very far in the dreamscape. They definitely didn't get the chance to tear anything to pieces. Shame, that.
But the real world is calling with its own set of problems. The first of which he asks his father about as soon as he greets him.
"Yes, I got Heather's family out of town last night. It was pretty easy to do after Deaton so helpfully phoned in that anonymous threat against her judge of a mother. They'll be staying out of Beacon Hills until I can "resolve the issue"."
"Thanks, Dad, you're the best."
"Don't speak too soon. There was still a murder last night. Another sacrifice. Same as the first."
Stiles blanches. "What? But...the position of the trees. I thought Heather would be next. The first victim matched the description of the first guy on the left. Was I wrong?"
"A lot of people match that description, son. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another victim."
"Did he have foofy brown hair or flat brown hair, Dad?" Stiles asks, spastically gesturing at his forehead.
"...Flat…" the Sheriff answers, wondering why that's an important distinction.
"Then it's the first guy. The only other brown-haired white guy in the dream had foof. Heather should have been next."
"Do you think it just skipped to the next one?"
"I don't think so. What did this vic look like?"
"It was a sophomore at the high school. Brent Haskell. Male, red hair and freckles."
"That doesn't match any of the people from the dreams." Stiles shakes his head. "I doubt it can skip a sacrifice. It has to be fifteen sacrifices for the ritual to work. It probably just found a replacement."
"So by saving Heather…"
"I killed somebody else."
"Stiles," the Sheriff says adamantly. "You didn't kill anybody. The psycho committing these murders did. Okay?"
Stiles is thin-lipped and silent.
"Stiles. Okay?" the Sheriff demands.
"Okay," Stiles says harshly. A pause. "I need to see the bodies. Have you seen, Derek?"
Sheriff Stilinski sighs. Probably in distaste of the idea of his seventeen year-old son taking a gander at a pair of corpses. He says, "No. I haven't seen Derek."
Stiles goes rigid. "At all?"
His father's tone softens. "At all, son. Sorry."
"It's fine," Stiles says quickly. "He just needs some space still. I wonder… I wonder if I can sync us remotely. Like bluetooth."
The Sheriff gives him a flat look. "Bluetooth?"
Stiles cringes at his own choice of words and says, "It was a valid idea, okay?"
"But bluetooth, Stiles? Really?"
"Okay, bad comparison, yes. But I'm going to try it. Stop judging me. Here goes nothing."
Stiles closes his eyes; it still helps him concentrate despite their defunct state. He reaches out, searching for Derek like he did the time those Argent fanatics had him tied to a chair. He finds him quickly and knows he must not be far, as promised. He's not quite sure how to go about this since he's usually touching Derek and has a single point to focus on. He figures imagining a single point might do the trick, so he pictures his own hands in his mind's eye and pushes.
It works.
It works and Stiles screams in torment, because it worked.
Wherever he is, Derek is in pain. His roaring cry for help is provided an outlet that it gladly utilizes, when the link comes online, and Derek's agony surges through Stiles' whole body in technicolor, surround-sound clarity.
Stiles' irises flare to red and he stares into his father's face as the Sheriff grips him by the shoulders and demands to know what's wrong.
"Derek," Stiles gasps out. "It's Derek. He's in pain. A whole lot of pain."
Stiles lurches, bends, and convulses under the screaming onslaught coming from Derek, the frantic begging for mercy, the desperate plea to make it all stop.
The door bursts open and it's Melissa, Scott, Allison, and surprisingly, Chris.
"What's happening?" Scott demands.
"Derek!" Stiles gasps. "He needs help, he--"
"Where is he?" Allison urges.
"I don't, I--" Stiles trembles. He has no idea where Derek is. He can't see through Derek's eyes using the link.
Unless he can?
Perhaps it is only Stiles' own doubts that are holding him back. Deaton talked about the importance of his belief in his magic, the effect it will have on things working properly. The fact of the matter is he won't know what is or isn't possible until he just tries. So Stiles grits his teeth, opens his mind to the possibility, believes that their link can transmit sight and then--
And then it can.
The scene before Stiles flares bright white and when the light fades, he's no longer looking at the hospital room. He's looking at the floor of Derek's loft. It's like looking through water, everything is distorted and kind of blurry around the edges. He's not actually Derek, but it's like he's occupying Derek's body with him, just along for the ride, while Derek steers. Everything is clear enough. He can hear Deucalion talking, something about a demon wolf, and he can hear Kali snarl, and he can feel the metal rod shoved through his middle and it hurts, it hurts so bad and then Kali twists and--
Derek screams and his fangs lengthen involuntarily, his claws sprouting and digging into the floor.
Stiles screams and fangs that aren't his protrude from his gums and claws that don't belong to him rip through the sheets of the hospital blanket.
Stiles gasps and suddenly he's back in the hospital room, blind and painless and terrified for Derek.
"The loft. He's at his loft, go, go!" Stiles shouts.
"Call Isaac!" Scott tells Allison.
They're out the door in a flash. Chris and Melissa remain behind.
Melissa comes over to wrap her arms around Stiles and hold him to her chest. He's crying and he doesn't even know when that started, but it must have been after the link disconnected, because Derek hadn't been crying.
"What the hell just happened?" the Sheriff asks, dumbstruck and a teensy bit furious about the whole ordeal.
"I've certainly never seen anything like it," Chris says.
Stiles' head jerks toward Chris. "Why are you here exactly?"
"I asked him to be here," the Sheriff says. "To help escort you home since all the werewolves have school. It is a Monday."
"Since when are you and Mr. Argent all buddy-buddy?" Stiles asks petulantly.
"Since you went missing and Chris helped look for you," the Sheriff snaps.
"Oh." Stiles looks properly abashed. "Well, then thank you for being here, Chris."
"You're welcome, Stiles," Chris says diplomatically.
There's a pregnant pause
Whining like a child, Stiles breaks the silence by asking, "Can I go home now?"
"I'll get the paperwork drawn up," Melissa says with a fond smile.
Stiles is out of the hospital in the next half hour.
Allison blessedly shoots her father a text to let them know that Derek is healing fine and there's no sign of the Alphas lingering. They decide they'll regroup at the Stilinskis' house.
Derek is laid out on Stiles' bed, convalescing, when they get there. The first thing he says to Stiles is: "I think I've had enough space…" pausing to grunt in pain, "...if having space means getting impaled."
Stiles laughs hysterically and cradles Derek's head to his chest. "I felt everything," he whispers.
"I know...I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, you idiot. It let me know you needed help. And I learned a new trick. So overall I'd say it was a good thing."
"You synced us...remotely," Derek seems to settle on the word. For all that their bond is nothing like a modern piece of circuitry, everyone has to admit the analogies are apt.
"Yeah..." Reluctantly, Stiles admits, "There's something else…"
Derek gives him a puzzled look that Stiles can't see. Everyone else in the room sees it just fine.
"We'll leave you two alone," the Sheriff says courteously. To the trio beside them he says, "Kids, get to school, you're already late."
"Yes, sir, Sheriff," Scott says humorously and they all shuffle out the door with Mr. Argent and the Sheriff.
Stiles tells Derek about what happened. Derek can offer no real explanation for it, only theorizing that maybe it's able to evolve according to Stiles' will. Heaven knows if that's normal or not. Stiles doesn't really care one way or another. He's simply glad to have Derek beside him again, alive and whole, regardless of the magical or supernatural circumstances.
Derek passes along Deucalion's reason for being there, to threaten him and deliver the apparent message about being the unstoppable "demon-wolf." Stiles scoffs, vowing he'll take him down a peg or two if it's the last thing he does. Derek doesn't like that promise much, but he keeps quiet in favor of not starting another argument just yet.
They lay together for a while, enfolded in each other's arms and enjoying the warmth that the other's presence brings; the sense of completion that can only come when all is right between mates.
A knock comes at the door. It's the Sheriff. He peeks his head in and says, "I'm sorry to break this up, boys, but I've arranged for Stiles to meet with a private tutor today."
"A tutor?" Stiles says, frowning.
"You've got to do something to keep up on your work. The school recommended it. This way you can still complete the school year no matter when you go back. How's that coming by the way? The blindness."
Stiles shrugs. "I have some theories."
Neither John nor Derek particularly like the way he said that.
"Okay, well. Run anything you do by Derek or Deaton first," the Sheriff says. "Derek, you're welcome to stay. Chris has volunteered to stay and I'll be here all afternoon, too."
"I'll stay," Derek says quickly, brooking no room for argument.
"All right. Come on down, then. The tutor's waiting."
Stiles holds onto Derek's arm as they descend the stairs together. As favorable as it would be to have his sight to do any schoolwork, it wouldn't do to have the injury suddenly vanish or for his eyes to glow red in the presence of a stranger. Unfortunately, Stiles will have to remain blind, eyes bandaged, around his tutor.
They reach the living room, where Stiles can hear Mr. Argent and the Sheriff talking to a woman about Stiles "accident."
They stop when he and Derek appear in the doorway.
"Ah, there they are," John says. "This is my son, Stiles, and our family friend, Derek Hale. He's helping us until Stiles' condition improves."
Convenient excuse for having a random twenty-something year-old hanging around. Nice one, Dad, Stiles thinks proudly of his father's cover story. Stiles holds out a hand, hoping the teacher will take it and not leave him hanging there awkwardly.
She doesn't disappoint, gripping his hand gently in a delicate shake. Her tone of voice would indicate that she's smiling as she says, "It's so nice to meet you, Stiles. I'm glad I'll be able to help along with Mr. Hale."
She releases his hands and the shift in Derek's stance would indicate that she's shaking hands with him now.
"A pleasure," she says.
"Nice to meet you," Derek replies politely.
"Yeah, nice to meet you," Stiles echoes. "Uh. What did you say your name was?"
"Oh, I didn't," she says pleasantly. "It's Miss Blake. Jennifer Blake. I look forward to teaching you, Stiles."